Christopher Moore - Secondhand Souls

Meanwhile Mrs. Korjev was quarrying carrots from a display, holding up one after another for Sophie’s consideration.

“No,” said Sophie.

“This one?”

“No, not big enough.”

The market owner stood at his scale, watching the systematic destruction of his carefully arranged carrot display with muted alarm, one eye twitching slightly.

“You want broccoli?” asked Mrs. Korjev.

“Is there orange broccoli?” Sophie asked.

“Green broccoli is good for you, make you strong, like bear.”

“But it’s not vegan.”

“We put on Cheez Whiz, make vegan for you.”

“Okay, broccoli,” said Sophie.

Sophie moved behind Mrs. Korjev, skipped around the corner, and yipped like a trod-upon Chihuahua.

“Hey, Shy Dookie.”

Instead of finding a new crowd of shoppers, Sophie stepped into a cleared space, a bubble of quiet, and in it stood the man in yellow.

“That’s not my name,” said Sophie.

“That’s my name for you,” said Lemon.

“Eat shit and die!” Sophie shouted.

Mrs. Korjev came around the corner like a mother bear, spotted Lemon, put her hand on Sophie’s shoulder.

“Sophie, is not nice to say. What you say to gentleman?”

“Pleeeeeease,” Sophie said, grinning at Lemon, unafraid.

“Know something, Shy Dookie, you ain’t the Big D no more. You ain’t shit.”

“You better be careful,” Sophie said.

Perplexed, Mrs. Korjev started to pull Sophie away. “You are nasty man,” she said to Lemon. “She is little girl, she not know better. You—you should know better.”

“Yeah?” said Lemon. He held out his hand to Mrs. Korjev, fingers spread, then closed it in front of her, like a starfish closing over a mollusk. Mrs. Korjev gasped, and collapsed on the spot. Sophie screamed, leaned on the fallen matron’s shoulder, and screamed some more. The crowd closed around them, their cell phones beeping for 911.

Sophie looked up to see the man in yellow strolling away. She made the same hand-closing gesture at him that he had just made to Mrs. Korjev. He looked back and said, “You got nothin’, Shy Dookie.” Despite the commotion and her own screaming, Sophie heard him as if his lips were pressed against her ear.

Rivera loaded shotgun shells into a riot gun, one by one, at the counter of his store. The shades were pulled down, the sign turned to CLOSED. He hadn’t opened the store, or even cleaned up since Cavuto had been killed here. There were still books shredded by gunfire and a bloodstain on the floor.

He had collected two soul vessels on his calendar, easy finds, and they were tucked safely into the trunk of the brown, unmarked Ford parked out front. The plan was to pick up Baptiste and his soul vessels, then ride shotgun, literally, as they went to Minty Fresh’s store, then Carrie Lang’s place, and picked up their inventory. They’d take them all to a vault storage facility that people used for storing fine art and furs in the Hayes Valley, near City Hall. Ultimately, Baptiste would photograph each item, and his wife would post them to sell on the Internet. They would retrieve them for shipping as they sold—those details were not really worked out—the key was to get all the soul vessels they controlled out of reach of the Morrigan and this mysterious man in the yellow Buick. Once the souls were secured, and Charlie Asher got his daughter out of town, they’d move on the Morrigan.

Rivera pushed the last shell into the shotgun, then slipped on a knife-resistant vest that he had borrowed from the county jail, feeling a little silly. He had two bullet-resistant vests of his own, but they weren’t going up against assailants with guns. His Beretta 9-mm was in a shoulder holster, and the smaller Glock on his ankle. As he put on a sport coat, one he’d had tailored especially for hiding tactical gear, his phone buzzed. Baptiste.

“Are you ready?” Rivera said by way of greeting.

“Hello,” said Baptiste. “Yes, I am ready, Inspector, I have all of the soul vessels, even the one stolen from the hospice the day you were there.”

“You found it? How?”

“Well, that is why I am calling. It—well—it is speaking French and walking around.”

Rivera, armed and armored for battle, his plan arranged to the minute, and steeled by anger and the desire to avenge his friend, felt unprepared for this conversation.

“I don’t think I follow,” said Rivera. “It’s, what, one of those talking dolls?”

“In a manner of speaking. I think she is what Audrey referred to at the meeting as a Squirrel Person. I can see her soul glowing in her chest, and it is Helen, she remembers me, but, well, she is knee-high and has the head of a cat. And hands”—whispering in the background—“the hands of a raccoon.”

“And you think it’s your Helen?”

“That’s what she says.”

“Well, you can’t sell her on the Internet.”

“No, that would be wrong. We are friends.”

“How did you find her?”

“She came to me, when we were leaving the meeting at the Buddhist Center. She forced her way into my car.”

“How did she force anything if she’s not even knee-high?”

“She is very insistent.”

“Audrey will know what to do. We’ll take Helen back to the Buddhist Center after we leave Carrie Lang’s pawnshop.”

“She doesn’t want to go there. She says they are all mad. She says we must help the cheese monster.”

“The cheese monster?”

“Yes, that is what she says. I think. Her French is—she is working on her French. The monster who wants cheese , she says.”

“Did you call Audrey?”

“No, I called you.”

“Well, find a way to get Helen to the car. Put her in a box or something. Even with another stop, we should be able to get the souls in storage before dark. I’ll call Audrey.”

“Very well, but she heard what you said and she says she will not get into a box.”

“Do your best,” said Rivera. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He disconnected then called the Buddhist Center. Voice mail. He couldn’t really have a uniform unit run by the Buddhist Center to check on her. He was pretty sure there wasn’t even a radio code for “cheese monster in distress.” If they ran out of daylight, then the Helen creature could just stay with Baptiste. Or Minty Fresh. Or Charlie Asher. Just not him. He was not going to go into mortal combat tomorrow worrying about a cat-headed lady talking in French about a cheese monster.

You gave us life, but you gave us no voices!” He waved his spork menacingly, only inches from her face.

Audrey lay on the floor in the parlor, her feet and hands duct-taped, surrounded by Squirrel People, many of whom she didn’t recognize except for the miniature hospital scrubs they wore. There were more than she had made, many more. Over a hundred.

“What’s the matter with you, Bob? If you needed supplies, all you had to do was ask.”

“Ha!” said Bob. “Don’t call me Bob. That is my slave name. I now remember my name from before, when I was a man. I am Theeb the Wise!”

“Theeb! Theeb! Theeb!” the People chanted.

“Hey, you guys can talk,” Audrey said. She felt she really should have been more frightened, but being menaced with a spork by a fourteen-inch-tall megalomaniac in a beefeater’s uniform seemed too absurd to be frightening. Especially when she had collected and sewn his parts together herself. “What did you do?”

“We have collected our bodies from markets across the city, parts from Chinatown, from animals who died in the road, from trash bins. We have taken these unwanted parts, and we have made new People. We have stolen the souls from the Death Merchants and with the Book of the Dead we have given them voices.”