The Collector

6

Most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job. He’d wake up to Pink Floyd’s The Wall pulsing on the Bose sound system and do a set of push-ups right there on the cabin floor. Afterward, he’d head into the galley and blend up a protein drink. He liked Ultra Megaman. That shit put on muscle like nobody’s business.

Rocket wasn’t into steroids. He’d seen too many guys go nuts on the stuff. Why the hell take the risk when he could get the same results with diet and exercise? Hell, he’d read just about every book printed on nutrition. Not to mention the stuff on the Internet.

Oh, yeah, Rocket was living the life. He’d watch the sunrise on the deck of his fifty-five-foot schooner, dialed in to CNN on his laptop while powering down his drink. The sun sparkling on the water in Newport Harbor—now that was something. Imagine, Paul Rocket—ex-Special Forces, ex-mercenary—enjoying this slice of paradise. Afterward, he’d hit the gym. He had a membership at Gold’s. All courtesy of Mr. David.

Mr. David was a great man. Travel, money…hell, anything Rocket ever wanted, he just had to ask.

Like he said, most days, Paul Rocket had a kick-ass job.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

He stepped into the art gallery and looked around at the bizarre shit hanging on the walls. The black-and-white photographs showed a bunch of naked bodies twined together so that you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended. Looked like a bunch of dudes, too. People actually paid money for this crap?

As he crossed the open room, men and women scurried out of his way like so many rats. At six foot four and 265 pounds, Rocket was used to that. His father had been a huge Samoan asshole who’d left his mom when Rocket was only five and his younger brother still in diapers. But at least he’d passed on his gene pool. Rocket had a tattoo of a cobra on the back of his shaved head but he preferred Armani suits and Bruno Magli shoes. People didn’t expect that, a man like Rocket dressing with class.

He looked around at all the rich boys and girls. This was the OC. To these folks, Rocket was an alien life form.

The thing was, today Rocket wasn’t the muscle. He was the babysitter.

He saw Owen leaning over some babe in the corner of the room. This one was skinny and blond and could barely stand despite the noon hour. Shit, was that dress made of red rubber? And there was Owen, getting an eyeful.

Rocket couldn’t figure the kid out. He looked so normal, charming even. But Rocket knew better.

He could tell the exact moment Owen knew he was coming up behind him. The kid had radar for that sort of thing. Rocket wondered sometimes if he had superhearing or something because of his eyes. Sometimes nature did things like that—took a little in one area and made up for it in another.

Rocket had been in Special Forces before he’d fucked up in Nicaragua and gotten his ass kicked out of the military. He’d been working for Mr. David ever since. Important people like Mr. David needed security, and Rocket was the best. Only—despite all his training—the kid had gotten the jump on him a time or two.

He’d mentioned it to Mr. David once. How quietly the kid could move. Mr. David had only laughed, saying that Owen was just like his creepy mother.

Mr. David didn’t care much for his wife. It was the only thing Rocket couldn’t respect about the man.

For Rocket, family was key. His mom lived with his baby brother, Anthony. Anthony was a cop and had a great wife and two daughters. Mom loved looking after those girls. They lived in Cincinnati, and Rocket always made a point to fly out and visit whenever he could.

He sent money, too, Mr. David making it possible for him to help out. Those girls, they were going to college. Rita, the oldest, she could probably go to Stanford or some shit like that. The kid had brains.

That’s why Rocket could understand what Mr. David was doing, protecting his son. A man had to take care of his own, right?

When Owen had first started acting weird, Mr. David pulled Rocket off security and asked him to start watching the kid full-time. Rocket was a little ashamed that he hadn’t always gotten the job done the way Mr. David meant. Sometimes the best Rocket could do was make sure the kid didn’t get his ass thrown into one of those foreign jails.

But those seven years roaming the globe…Mr. David had been happy with the kid’s progress. And Owen did seem different since they returned from his “missionary work” abroad, especially around Mr. David. But that only made Rocket suspicious. He wondered if it was all an act.

If maybe he should warn Mr. David.

But then things had quieted down. Mr. David had Owen working in the family real estate offices—if you called what the kid did work. And Rocket had his schooner docked in Newport Harbor.

He just hoped this didn’t turn out like that time in Nicaragua.

Owen smiled now, his eyes zeroing in on Rocket through the yellow lenses of his sunglasses.

Owen was tall, with blue eyes. Handsome, even. And he dressed like a million bucks. Every once in a while, he even gave Rocket a little fashion advice.

But there was something in that face. It had to do with his eyes. The boy didn’t blink. Some weakness in some muscle…he wore sunglasses all the time because his eyes could get damaged from outside dust and debris. He had to constantly put in drops to keep his eyes lubricated.

But it always struck Rocket as a little creepy how he could just stare and stare at you. Like now.

Sometimes, he’d get this expression on his face. Rocket had seen that look before. In Nicaragua, he’d worked with mercenaries, soldiers willing to work for just about anybody if the money was good. There’d been this one guy, the kind that liked the blood and gore a little too much.

Rocket knew some of the things the kid had done. Mr. David had filled him in when he’d first asked him to look after Owen, not wanting Rocket to go into this thing blind. They’d had the kid seeing a psychiatrist and taking pills. But Mr. David told Rocket he was the extra peace of mind. So Rocket stayed at the kid’s side while they’d toured around the world, working for different religious organizations.

His opinion? You could stuff that kid in a fucking monastery for the next ten years and Owen would still come out all wrong.

But then, maybe Mr. David knew what he was doing. The boss was smart. Hadn’t he graduated from some big-name school? Mr. David had made Gospel Enterprises what it was today, taking the family company to the next level. He knew what he was up against with Owen. And people could change, right?

“Rocket, my man,” Owen said. “I didn’t think art was your thing.”

“Mr. David needs you back home.”

Whenever he talked to Owen, he never called Mr. David “your father” or “your dad.” It was always “Mr. David.” Rocket made a point of it.

“Really? How incredibly boring.” He turned back to the blonde in the wild dress. Really, the only thing holding that girl up was tight rubber and the wall. “Sorry, darling. Looks like I have business to tend to.”

“Come on, Owen.” She played with his tie, using it like a leash to pull him closer. “I thought we could have some fun together.”

Rocket had an idea of what Owen thought was fun. He didn’t know what kind of shit the girl was into, but she should be happy if Owen gave it a pass.

“Next time, sweets,” he said, giving her a light peck on the lips.

Owen sauntered ahead, leaving Rocket to follow. Rocket didn’t mind. Actually, he preferred never turning his back on him.

Owen stopped in front of one of the photographs near the gallery entrance. It took Rocket a minute before he realized the woman in the photo was the girl still holding up the wall, the one in the rubber dress.

Only, in the photo, she wasn’t wearing clothes. She was wrapped in cellophane.

In the photograph, she held one end under her foot as the plastic twined around one of her thighs and up her torso, just like a snake on a branch. She was holding the other end over her face, with her tongue pressed against the cellophane as if she were licking it.

Rocket turned away. He’d seen a man killed in just such a way, suffocated with a plastic bag over his head.

“What do you think?” Owen asked, staring up at the photograph. When Rocket didn’t respond, he laughed. “Not to your liking?”

Owen reached out and traced a finger over the girl’s mouth, where her lips pressed against the plastic wrap. “I bought it for my office. Spent a bloody fortune on it.”

Standing behind Owen, Rocket looked at the photograph again and shook his head.

What a piece of shit.

It’s just like he’d thought this morning when Mr. David called: this was going to be one hell of a day.