Hugh Howey - The Shell Collector

“Wait. He did what?”

“He showed me the foot rubbings for the slugs. Each one was unique. But I figure he just—”

“How did he show you the inside of the torus?”

I took a deep breath. My heart was racing from the long day and the coffee and the confrontation. “He cracked them open,” I said. “Which he never would’ve done if they were real, right? I mean, forget the value of the things. He’s a collector. If those were real—”

“Maya, you still have the shells, right? Tell me you have the shells.”

I rest a hand on the bathroom counter. My hair is mostly loose from my clip, is hanging around my face. “I told you, he… the shells. He had me look inside—”

I hear Cooper take a deep breath and let it out. I imagine him still at his desk, working all night in the pale glow of that solitary lamp, and now he’s probably pushed back from his desk, is running his hand up through his hair.

“So he destroyed our best evidence right in front of you,” Cooper says.

I don’t say anything. I just study myself in the mirror. The room spins around me.

“Look, it’s okay,” he says. “Just come to my office when you get back in town. Bring the wire. That might be enough to get a search warrant. And you may have spooked him into doing something dumb. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay. He’s a crafty guy. If he wasn’t, we’d have nailed him by now. Get some sleep. We’ll regroup when you get home.”

“Okay,” I say. I appreciate him trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t dent how idiotic I feel. “See you soon.”

“G’night, Maya.”

The phone clicks.

I check the time and debate calling my sister, who loves hearing about my fuck-ups and is great at making me feel better about them. I decide it’s too late. I run a bath instead, letting the water run hot enough to throw up steam. I’m about to step in when my phone rings. I answer immediately, expecting Agent Cooper or possibly even Henry.

“Hello, Maya?”

Ness. It’s crazy that I recognize his voice. “How did you get this number?” I ask.

“The internet. You’re listed, you know.”

I wiggle out of my pants and underwear and test the water. Scalding hot. I get in anyway.

“What do you want?” I ask. “It’s late.”

“I was calling to see if you were coming back tomorrow. To look at that journal some more. I need to let the outer gate know.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think I got what I need.”

“Okay.”

There’s a long silence. Like he wants to say something else but doesn’t know how. I don’t allow myself to care or be curious. I just slip down until my shoulders are submerged, only my head and the hand holding the phone out of the water. I can feel the tension melt out of my muscles and joints in the hot water.

“I was thinking,” Ness says.

I wait.

“You used to do those shelling columns. And you’ve obviously got a story you’re working on about me. And you’re curious about those shells you brought over—”

“The ones you destroyed,” I say.

“So I was thinking maybe I could show you where they came from. Give you a shelling angle to your story. I think… I think I might be ready to share some of my secrets. My shelling secrets.”

I start to ask if by “secrets” he means how he forged the shells, but something even worse pops out of my mouth. “Did you kill Dimitri Arlov?” I ask.

“What—? No. Are you serious? Absolutely not. He was… a very good friend. Absolutely not.”

“Did you know that he stole from you?”

“No. I didn’t. And… you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” I say.

“Okay,” Ness says. “But you’ll have to trust me. Come spend a week with me, and I’ll take you shelling. I’ll show you… where they came from. I think I want people to know.”

“You’ll show me where those lace murexes came from?” I ask, making sure I understand.

Ness hesitates. I wonder what he means by letting people know, what he means about sharing his secrets. Does he know the feds are closing in on him? Does he think he can save himself with a confession or by appealing to the press or to the public? Is he that desperate?

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ll show you where the laces came from. Give me a week of your time, and I’ll give you the story of a lifetime. I promise.”

“You’re doing what? ” Henry asks me.

“I’m going back up there,” I tell him. “For one week. And you’re sitting on my cable.”

Henry gets off my desk, and I unplug the charger for my laptop, wrap it up, and shove it in my bag.

“What do you mean, you’re going back up there? We’ve got to get your second piece out next week. We’re running part one again on Sunday. Everyone wants to know when you’re getting to Ness.”

“Sounds like she already got to him,” Dawn says from her desk.

I flip her the bird.

“This is bigger than that piece,” I tell Henry. I lower my voice to a whisper. Everyone in the newsroom is watching us. “This is front page. Real news. I’m telling you. Have I ever been wrong about these things?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

I check my email one last time. Nothing that can’t wait. I shut down my computer.

“If you leave here without telling me what in the hell’s going on, you won’t have a job when you come back.”

“I won’t need this job when I come back.” I turn and walk past Margo’s desk toward the elevator. Margo smiles and wishes me luck. I don’t ask her what she means.

Henry hurries after me. We both know the other is bluffing: he won’t fire me and I won’t quit.

“Do you hear yourself right now?” he asks. “You’re the one who didn’t want to go in the first place. Is this the feds? What’re they investigating? You’re not fucking him, are you?”

I whirl around at Henry and point a finger at him. He nearly crashes into me. “I’m not fucking him,” I say. “Ness Wilde is exactly who I thought he was. His family stands for everything wrong in this world, and he sits on his private estate where everything is fake, nothing is real, and he sits in the middle of these… these shells within shells, and he is working on something awful. I’ve seen a glimpse of it. I mean—Henry, he has these trees that don’t belong there. Palm trees. Thousands of them. He’s totally messed up. His driveway is a freaking fortune in crushed shells.”

“That’s why we have to run these stories, Maya. The one on his grandfather is brilliant. It sounds just like him. Living alone, buying up land that he knows will be beachfront one day—”

I shake my head. “No. I told you, you can’t run that piece. Promise me. We skip to his father.”

Henry crosses his arms. I place a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to bring you the piece of our lifetimes, Henry. I swear. I can feel it. You’re the one always saying that real journalism is dead. Dead as the seven seas. Well, this is the kind of story that will bring it back to life .”

“I need more than that, Maya. C’mon. Give me something. A hint. A headline.”

I hesitate. If I had the shells, I would show him those. And then I remember I have something a fraction as good. I dig my phone out of my bag and bring up the image gallery, sort through the recent pics. I find the one of the three lace murexes sitting on my kitchen counter. It’s the pic I sent to my sister as a gag.

When I show Henry the picture, his eyes widen. “So he bought you,” he whispers, his voice dripping with disappointment.