Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

Five minutes till my mother came back with her thoughts, nine till I had to answer…The full significance of what was happening hit me. Someone’s life hung on what I sent. If Sara had set the clue, she’d found a perfect way to get revenge for the White Devil’s death. In effect, I was being turned into a murderer.

The woman woke in the late evening, without a clue where she was.

“Come on, girl,” she said, her Texan accent at odds with the whimsical decor of Wilde’s. It claimed to be the city’s premier hotel for the discerning gay traveler but, as far as she was concerned, lime-green net curtains and pink-and-white-striped wallpaper were several steps too far down the road to Reading Gaol.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she remembered. “I’m in London-according to the incomparable William Cobbett, the Great fuckin’ Wen.”

She got up and went into the bathroom. A large, old-fashioned bath took up most of the room. For someone who was over six feet, that didn’t leave much room for other functions, even if she had kept her weight below the 140 pound mark. As she straddled the toilet, she recalled what had happened earlier in the day. Her publishers had taken her out to lunch, during which her editor had made it very clear that they wanted to sign her up for at least another four books.

“Talk to Lenny,” she’d said. Her agent would know how to squeeze every last drop of money out of them. When her editor, a youngish guy with an earring, went off to the john, she’d spoken to her publicist.

“Lavinia, honey, you gotta get me outta this hotel. Yeah, I know it’s supposed to be the coolest place in town, but it is definitely not my kind of cool.” She listened as her publicist reminded her about the interview she was scheduled to give at Wilde’s the next morning.

“Oh, well, all right, but just tonight. I’d rather stay in a motel than this crummy dump.” She held up a hand. “No, honey, I know you don’t have motels in London. No, you don’t have to come along. I can handle the Times journalist. With one hand tied behind my back.” She had three university degrees, in subjects ranging from English literature to computer science, but she liked to play the Southern belle, lesbian version. She knew that people always paid more attention to your jugs than your certificates. In her case, that meant a lot of attention. Even her ever-so-gay editor couldn’t keep his eyes off them.

Blinking, she gave the bath and its clawed feet a cursory inspection. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d brought herself to climax in one when she was touring books, but she really preferred the shower. What was it with the Brits and their baths? How the hell were you supposed to get clean, sitting in water you’d just made dirty? She turned the regulator up as far as it went, and stepped into the torrent. After ten minutes, the last of her jet lag was well on its way to the departure lounge.

She decided she’d hit a club. As she got dressed in her standard evening wear-boot-cut, slim-fitting black Levi’s and matching shirt with polished quartz buttons, custom-made for her-she thought about the book she’d read on the plane. She knew she’d met the writer at one of the mystery conventions-was it Madison, Wisconsin? — but she was having trouble recalling what he looked like. Why was it that Brits thought they could write American characters? Then again, there were several American crime writers who imagined they could write Brits. The hero she’d shared her journey with was one hell of an asshole, even by real-life FBI standards-and that was saying something. She got hit on all the time by serving cops and special agents, who thought she should get some firsthand knowledge of their business, even though she made no secret of her sexuality. Anyway, she was at a loss as to how sucking their dicks would provide insight.

She sat at the dressing table, her thighs crushed against the underside of the drawer. The mirror was in the shape of a large male head with an extravagant quiff that spread halfway up the wall. Anything that covered the pink-and-white stripes was fine by her. She applied her usual light foundation and bright scarlet lipstick, leaving her eyelashes and the surrounding area untouched-if they ain’t looking at your titties, they’ll be looking at your mouth, one of her few male lovers had told her. Eyes were off-limits for most men, and hair was just a distraction. That was why she kept her blond locks short and unshowy.

The author made sure there were several copies of her novels on the table in the adjoining sitting room. The journalist in the morning wasn’t likely to fall for such blatant product placement, but the photographer would appreciate it. She stood her latest work, Slim Pickings on the Pecos, against a pile of the others. The jacket showed a lowering red sky over the river of the title. It was a good job, better than her publishers back home had done. They preferred a busty blonde with a come-and-fuck-me-boys look, even though her heroine, Detective Dusty Jaxone, was average in looks and size. That was why she was popular as hell, especially with women readers who were sick to the front teeth of smart-ass medical examiners and kickass private eyes.

It would soon be midnight. Time for a cocktail before she went out. With any luck, she’d be several sheets to the wind by the time she hit the dance floor. One thing to be said for Wilde’s was that it listed the best lesbian and gay clubs in its information pack. She phoned room service and ordered a pair of margaritas. They ought to keep her axles greased.

A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door.

“Is that room service?” she said, overemphasizing the drawl because she knew the Brits loved it.

“Yes, madam,” came a deep voice.

The bestselling author went to the door and opened it, thinking as she did that it would have been a good idea to look through the spy-hole first. But, hell, it was only room service, and they’d moved faster than a rattlesnake’s tail.

When she saw the misshapen face outside, the smile vanished from her lips faster than the Sacramento Mountains sucked down the evening sun.

The e-mail from my mother duly arrived. I read it and realized that she hadn’t come up with an answer, though she did point out a couple of things I’d missed. Set with a capital s was the ancient Egyptian god of disorder, and in a cryptic crossword, that could suggest that letters or words had been mixed up-fair enough, and that was the reference of “set” that had been at the tip of my tongue, but it didn’t get us much further. More interesting was Fran’s reading of “by the westernmost dunes”-she wondered if the use of “by” could mean “next to,” and that therefore we shouldn’t be looking for the most western beaches such as Cornwall in England, but those in Devon, the only county next to Cornwall. Again, fair enough, but what was I supposed to send Flaminio/Doctor Faustus? I had no choice. It had to be Katya, even though her only connection was the dead critic named Alexander.

Heart thundering like a bass drum, I logged on to my e-mail program. At exactly eleven fifty-nine there was a chime and an e-mail arrived from next is who? — the sender’s new address. I hit Reply and sent the Bulgarian’s full name. Then it struck me-what was going to happen next? Would Sara, or whoever had set up the clue, answer immediately, or was I going to have to spend the night monitoring the news? In the rush toward the deadline, I hadn’t considered the time after it. I stood up and stepped away from the laptop, but kept my eye on the screen. Screw the guy in the room underneath, I needed to walk. I only got halfway toward the discolored wardrobe when I heard the chime. The bell had tolled. Was someone about to die?