The Collector

“What’s the matter, David?”

Velvet didn’t have a hint of an accent. Though her parents had immigrated, she’d been born in Orange Country and was American through and through. She looked at him anxiously. Her eyes dropped to the newspaper.

“Oh, my God!” Her law book fell to the floor as she stood. “Oh, my God. I have to call Sam.”

David closed his eyes, hearing Velvet’s bare feet on the kitchen tile as she raced for the phone inside. His whole life wasn’t just crashing down around him, he told himself. It wasn’t.

He didn’t wait for Velvet to get off the phone. He wasn’t going to fight Sam for her attention, not now. Back in the bedroom, he dressed quickly. Within a few minutes, he was driving like a demon, weaving through traffic on the 55 Freeway to reach the empty carpool lane. He was alone in the vehicle, but didn’t worry about being pulled over in the black Aston Martin he drove at breakneck speed. David Gospel paid for posh dinners at fund-raisers for important candidates to local and state office. He didn’t pay for anything as mundane as a speeding ticket.

When he arrived home, he found his wife waiting in the front room. Meredith rose to her feet from the sofa, a mousy woman who looked as if she were trying to make herself disappear, she was so thin. On the glass coffee table, she had the morning paper opened to Mimi Tran’s photograph.

“It’s not what you think,” she said in that whisper of a voice.

Over the years, David had come to realize it was her voice he hated most—more than her Bible-thumping or her thinning brown hair, or even that stick figure she preserved like some prima ballerina. Her voice grated in its softness. It seemed to say, Don’t pay attention, I’m not here, I won’t disturb.

“David?”

He ignored her, instead heading for the stairs. The house had been designed around its fabulous view of the main channel and a sweeping staircase with its railing made entirely of Lalique crystal. But the beauty was lost to him now as he headed for his office, his wife at his heels.

“Listen to me, David. You’re wrong! You’ve been wrong all along! Please, David—”

He shut the office door in her face. His wife made some feeble attempt at a knock, but even in anger she couldn’t manage the strength for a decent pounding. Him, he would have used both hands. Knock the fucking door down!

There’d been a time when Meredith could give as good as she got. But that all changed after she found God. These days, his wife was nothing more than a dried-up Puritan of a woman. A fanatic.

He grabbed the remote control off his desk and gunned it at the mirrored wall across the office, punching in the code. Immediately, a section slid open, revealing a hidden room behind the glass.

Gospel Enterprises had many businesses under its corporate umbrella, including a security company specializing in safe rooms or “panic rooms,” a place sealed off from the rest of the house where clients could wait out a home invasion until the police or on-site security arrived on the scene to save the day.

David’s room had a very special purpose. The place was more like a giant walk-in vault. Inside, he could control temperature and humidity. Hell, he could house the fucking Mona Lisa here if he had to, probably under better conditions than the Louvre and its conga line of tourists.

Inside the vault room, he punched in yet another code, this time using a keypad on the wall just above the built-in wooden cabinetry, one of five such keypads in the room. A velvet-lined drawer slid open, the kind often used to house expensive jewelry. David’s held a much different collection.

He stared down at the clay tablet written in a script adapted from cuneiform, one of the oldest written representations. This particular tablet dated back to the seventh century B.C., but the story from ancient Sumeria was far older. The Epic of Gilgamesh was, in fact, the oldest written story on Earth.

There was a heated debate in archaeological and linguistic circles concerning whether the epic was composed of eleven or twelve clay tablets. Many translations didn’t include the twelfth tablet, considered by some to be an independent story, or perhaps more of a “sequel.” But David knew better. He was staring at a missing thirteenth tablet, one he had purchased for his collection through the efforts of people like the now very dead Mimi Tran.

A necklace lay to the right of the tablet. It was a beautiful piece, the unstrung beads placed in a half circle around a central crystal, jewelry purported to have belonged to the goddess Athena herself. In this light, the gems appeared a deep blue. But he knew how easily the crystals could change to a bloodred.

The central stone, the Eye, looked more like a milky, raw diamond the size of a peach pit. In the low light, it had a lovely blue sheen. Like flaws, bits of metal floated, trapped inside. Several strands of wire had been wrapped around the crystal, creating a pendant that could hang from a necklace. It stared up at him, clouded and unseeing.

He felt himself shaking. There was little in this world that David feared. Normally, it was matters beyond the physical realm that held his imagination. But his son—Owen’s capacity to completely fuck up—could grab David by the throat and bring him to his knees.

Leaving the drawer open, he stepped out of the vault. He dropped onto the leather couch of his office and stared at the mirrored opening, the remote still in his hand. Inside that vault waited some of the greatest treasures the world of the occult had to offer. Precious pieces he’d carefully brought together, willing to meet the price of the greediest tomb raider.

David was not a young man. It had taken forty-two of his sixty-plus years to gather his collection. The tablet, of course, was the centerpiece, a map that had led him to the Eye of Athena. In Mimi’s hands, he’d seen that dead crystal glimmer to life. And there were other treasures mentioned in the thirteenth tablet, gifts that, according to legend, had been given to Gilgamesh by the wild man Enkidu, magical objects Mimi Tran, with Sam Vi’s connections in the illegal trade of artifacts, had vowed to help David find.

But now Mimi was dead.

“Fucking Owen,” he said, cursing his son.

The problem, of course, was that this had all happened before. Another woman, a psychic, just like Mimi. Seven years ago, the police had come to David’s door with a search warrant. They’d turned the place upside down, looking for their evidence, finding nothing. David had made damn sure of it….

Owen had been eighteen years old—old enough, David had hoped, to cover his tracks. But no. He had found Owen sitting next to the spa in back of their Newport home, acting for all the world as if nothing was wrong.

Only, the kid had been licking blood off his fingers.

Instinctively, David knew the blood wasn’t Owen’s. Unfortunately, there’d been a hell of a lot of it. The asshole had tracked it through the house…his car had been filthy with it. The cleanup had been a bitch.

Luckily, David had discovered his idiot of a son before the cops could get their hands on him.

Seven years ago, David had thought he was in the clear, siccing his bulldog lawyers on the city, threatening to sue whoever had the balls to point the finger his way. Shit, he’d brought down more than one career in that battle.

And now the nightmare was starting all over again? No way. No fucking way.

There came another tap at the door, the sound so meek he would have missed it if the room hadn’t been perfectly quiet. With a sigh, he punched in the code to shut the mirrored door to the vault.

“Come the fuck in, Meredith.”

Like a good servant, she opened the door and let herself in, leading with her offering: a tray holding a martini glass and shaker. Jesus, the woman had timing.

She gave him a nervous smile. “I thought you might like a drink.”

“Really.” His wife didn’t drink, but she was good at peddling the stuff. Especially at times like this. She was the family’s anesthesiologist, dispensing her drugs to numb away the world.

She moved soundlessly to put the tray down on the glass coffee table before the leather sofa where he sat. She poured the martini from the shaker into the glass and sat down, leaving plenty of space between them.

“You’re wrong about Owen.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress over her knees and folded her manicured hands neatly on her lap. In another life, Meredith had sported designers like Prada. These days, her simple print dresses looked more like something she’d picked up at Wal-Mart.

“Owen has made mistakes,” she continued, “but we’re his parents, David. We need to forgive and forget. He’s different now, a changed man since his missionary work.”

She didn’t dare look at him as she spoke. Instead, she stared ahead, giving him a view of her profile. His wife had a perfect nose, courtesy of a plastic surgeon. Again, another life…the one they’d lived before Owen.

David knew all parents wanted to believe the best of their child. He himself had fallen into that trap. He’d given Owen every advantage, right? What more could he have done?

But then comes the day when a parent realizes the truth. Their world falls apart, and the truth hits them square between the eyes.

For David, a master collector, that day had come long ago. The day he’d finally realized that his son, his perfect and beautiful little boy, had started a collection of his own.

Owen had been ten years old. It still turned David’s stomach, a thought of those bloody bits and pieces he had found buried in the tin box out in the rose garden. When he’d confronted Owen, the kid had just stared up at him with those strange, unblinking eyes.

Even after that, David made excuses. He told himself it was just some silly mistake, those bloody pieces. He had tried to share a few stories, and the boy had become confused. David and Meredith discussed the situation with Owen’s psychiatrist, someone they could trust to keep a secret. The doctor had concurred. His son wasn’t dangerous. Just misguided.

Dr. Friedman explained that David’s temper didn’t help. But there David might disagree. Beating the crap out of Owen may not have helped his son’s condition, but is sure as hell made David feel better.

For a while, it seemed as if things were going to be okay. Until the day Owen turned eighteen and the cops showed up at their door asking about Michelle Larson.

“Where is he?” David asked now, not touching the drink.