The Collectors (Karma Police Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Collectors

  Dedication & Copyright

  The Collectors

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Want to Know What Happens Next?

  Author's Note

  FREE BOOKS!

  See What You've Been Missing

  About the Authors

  — dedicated to anyone who has ever been afraid to jump —

  THE COLLECTORS:

  KARMA POLICE BOOK THREE

  SEAN PLATT

  &

  DAVID WRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about the book to help us spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting our work.

  eBook Edition v 1

  April 10, 2016

  Copyright 2015 Collective Inkwell

  www.CollectiveInkwell.com

  PROLOGUE

  I wake up in a chaos of light, sound, and movement.

  Someone is violently shaking me.

  A man’s voice, commanding: “Chelsea, Chelsea, wake up!”

  I open my eyes, gasping for air in shallow hitches, desperately attempting to fill my lungs with air.

  My eyes are blurry, my burning throat is sour with vomit, and my face is sticky with sickness. My head feels like someone’s been at it with a hammer.

  I can barely keep my eyes open or focus on the man’s face. I turn, frantically searching for something to help me catch my breath. I see others in the room, a woman and a teenage boy standing over the bed, staring down at me, concerned, scared.

  While I’m not pulling in any of Chelsea’s memories, I can piece together that this is her family, and they’re trying to save her.

  What happened?

  Her mother is clutching the phone and half yelling into it. “She’s awake, but she doesn’t look good. Please, hurry.”

  My heart is racing, head swimming as I continue to gasp, unable to properly breathe.

  What the hell is happening?

  Chelsea’s father sits me up, maybe trying to help clear my throat.

  Our eyes meet, and for a moment I can focus enough to note his palpable fear, the fear and love of a parent powerless to save his child.

  Just when I think I might be catching my breath, everything goes black.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  I wake to the sound of chimes coming through a speaker.

  I reach out, fumble with the unfamiliar phone, find a way to kill the alarm.

  The phone’s calendar tells me it’s Tuesday morning, meaning I’ve missed an entire day since waking up late Sunday evening/early Monday morning as Chelsea. I’m not sure where I go when my host sleeps, passes out, or dies. It’s as if I cease to exist until I rise in another body. Do I sleep when they do? If so, what part of me is sleeping? It’s not as if I have a physical body — that I know of — which needs rest.

  Can a soul sleep?

  I sit up, wondering how I can learn what happened to Chelsea. I don’t even know her last name, so it’s not like I can search on the Internet. But as I catch my reflection in the mirror above the dresser, I realize that I won’t need to search far.

  I’ve woken as Chelsea’s brother, high school freshman, Billy Caldwell. As his brain fills me in, I’m surprised to learn that his father is famous, a Christian self-help author named Jack Caldwell, esteemed for, among other things, books on raising children who won’t succumb to today’s many evils.

  Hmm, wonder how he’s taking this.

  Billy’s brain fills me in on a few other things, chief among them: Chelsea is still alive, lying in a coma in the hospital. Billy’s mom, Susan, is staying with Chelsea while Dad stays home to look after Billy. I also know that Chelsea left a suicide note. It simply said:

  I’m sorry I let you down.

  I’m startled by three sharp raps on the door.

  Billy’s father opens it, already dressed in a handsome suit.

  “Come on, champ. I’ve got a meeting. I need to drop you off early.”

  “Okay,” I say, getting out of bed. Billy’s body is tired, likely exhausted from the previous day’s emotional turmoil. I’m surprised his father is sending him to school just one day after his sister tried killing herself, but as Billy’s memories surge forth, I see that Jack Caldwell expects a lot from his children. While Billy did stay home yesterday, there was never any question that he’d be back at school today.

  I look around the room. I’ve woken in at least a dozen teenage boys’ rooms since I’ve been body jumping, and Billy’s is, by far, the neatest. Hell, it’s neater than nearly anywhere I’ve woken: designed with an OCD-like compulsion towards sparsity and cleanliness. The perfectly organized walk-in closet looks like a shrine to orderliness, filled with mostly look-alike school uniforms: pressed khakis, starched shirts, six pairs of identical polished black shoes.

  I get dressed, run some water through Billy’s thick blond hair, and brush it back. As I stare at my reflection, I wonder why I’ve woken in this body. Am I being given a chance to save Chelsea, or am I expected to kill someone?

  **

  Billy’s father doesn’t say a word on the way to school. At least not to me. Instead, he’s on the phone with his agent, Waylon Carter, discussing “the situation” with Chelsea.

  From what I can gather, nobody has figured out why she tried to kill herself or what she was apologizing for in her suicide note. And I don’t think Jack told the police anything about the note. I get the feeling that this was at Waylon’s suggestion, though I’m not quite sure why, since most of their conversation is almost in code, Jack not wanting to say too much in front of me.

  I wonder what he’s hiding. Does he know what Chelsea was apologizing for? Am I here to find out?

  Jack stops the car in front St. Paul’s Academy. The posh-looking school seems more like a college campus than any high school I’ve been in, with a large brick main building with stone pillars, a spacious courtyard with trees, walkways, and fountains where kids are already hanging out before the morning bell. Another three smaller buildings are pocked around the courtyard, and at the far edge of the sprawling campus looms a large and admittedly gorgeous cathedral.

  Jack tells Waylon to hold on. Then he leans over, plants a kiss on my forehead, and says, “Have a good day, Billy.”

  “You too,” I say, slipping out of the midnight-blue Porsche Panamera.

  I watch Billy’s father drive away, off to do whatever it is he’s doing to take care of “the situation.” I wonder if he’s at all afraid that his daughter might die. I sure couldn’t tell from his call. It was mostly about getting to the bottom of what happened, finding out and controlling the information before it leaked. Maybe he’s afraid a suicide attempt will ruin his reputation as a good Christian parent who tells other people how to raise their kids.

  Billy’s memories of his father are fuzzy. I get the impression that he’s a good man, but extremely busy. But not by any neglectful levels. He still makes time for the important th
ings — like Billy’s tennis tournament last summer.

  I wander the campus, waiting for Billy’s memories to give me direction. School doesn’t start for another forty minutes, and I’m not even sure which class he has first.

  I sit down on the fountain’s edge and stare at the coins along the bottom.

  I dig into my pockets, but can’t find any change to buy a wish.

  Figures.

  I search Billy’s backpack, find his iPad, pull it out, and peruse his books. I smile in recognition of a few authors I recall: Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, and Phillip K. Dick. I remember some of the stories I’ve read and feel some nostalgia looking over the titles. But then that feeling is replaced with a hollow sorrow as I realize the memories I have of these books aren’t mine — I have none of my own — but instead belong to my previous hosts.

  Maybe I can read a bit before school starts and make my own memories.

  I pick a book by Stephen King and Peter Straub — The Talisman — and click on it. It opens to the first page, meaning that either Billy hasn’t read it yet, or he’s already finished and the book has reset to the starting point. I’m not familiar enough with iPads or the various reading apps to know. I start reading the tale of Jack Sawyer.

  About ten minutes in, the story is broken by a girl’s voice. “Billy?”

  I look up to see two girls, a blonde and a redhead, approaching me, both wearing matching uniforms — blue dresses and white shirts — but they somehow manage to find a way to express themselves. The blonde is wearing a floral headband, beaded with tiny silk flowers and matching rosebud earrings; the redhead has a scarf that looks like it probably belongs to her mother, even though she owns the look. Both of their backpacks are plastered with buttons.

  I’m drawing a blank on their names.

  Shit.

  “Hey,” the blonde says, “how’s your sister doing?”

  Are they Chelsea’s friends? They do look a bit older than freshmen. I’m not sure how to answer. I don’t want to give out any private information, or make “the situation” any worse than it is for Dear Ol’ Dad.

  The redhead says, “I’m surprised you’re even here today.”

  I nod. “Yeah, me too.”

  “How’s Chelsea?” the blonde asks again. There’s something about her piercing blue eyes that I don’t like — an iciness inside them.

  I try to shake my suspicions and give the best possible answer. “She’s still in the hospital. Hanging in there.”

  “We’re so sorry,” the redhead says. She seems slightly more sincere than the blonde.

  “What did you hear?” I say. “I mean, how much is out there?”

  The girls trade an uncertain glance. Then the redhead opens her mouth. “Well, we heard she’s in a coma. But … ”

  “What?” I ask.

  The blonde says, “Well, some people are saying she tried to kill herself.”

  She says it almost as if looking for confirmation, so she can be among the First To Know.

  She stares at me, but I don’t confirm or deny. “Well, people love to talk about stuff they don’t know.”

  “So, it isn’t true?” the redhead asks.

  “We don’t know what happened, but we’re hoping for the best.” I figure that’s the safest thing I can say for both Chelsea’s privacy, and for Billy’s standing at school whenever he returns to his body.

  The blonde doesn’t seem to like this response. She gives me a fake little smile, leans forward, puts her hand on my shoulder, and makes her eyes overly large and artificially sad. “Well, I hope she feels better.”

  But I don’t believe a word.

  The girls leave, and I decide to find another spot before more people I don’t know approach me.

  I find a spot behind the library and am just about to dive back into my book when I hear a male British accent.

  “Billy?”

  I look up to see a friendly face, Pete Arber, who I recognize as Billy’s best friend since sixth grade.

  Pete has long brown hair with blue and red highlights. He’s fiercely flamboyant and very open about his bisexuality. This makes him someone that Jack Caldwell doesn’t approve of. He hasn’t quite forbidden Billy from being friends with him, but he has threatened it enough times that Billy’s afraid of the eventual day when Pete does something that Jack doesn’t approve of.

  “What are you doing here?” Pete sits beside me and puts a hand to his mouth before I can answer. “Seriously? Your dad made you come to school today?”

  “It’s okay. It’s better than sitting at home not being able to do anything.”

  “You could be at the hospital, with your mom!”

  “Yeah, well I guess Dad felt school was more important.”

  “What a cunt.”

  I laugh.

  Pete laughs, too.

  “So, how is she? Any word?”

  I have a flash of Billy texting Pete yesterday from the hospital, updating him. I don’t think anything has changed since then.

  “Nothing new.”

  “Shit, that sucks. I’m sorry.”

  I stare out at the courtyard, watching kids hanging out, throwing footballs and Frisbees, carefree, laughing, going about their lives oblivious, or blind to, Billy’s suffering.

  “It’s okay. She’ll get better,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to convince myself or Pete.

  We sit in silence for a moment. I feel uneasy because while Billy and Pete are best friends, I don’t have enough of their shared history to turn an awkward quiet into something comfortable. I feel a need to fill the air with something, but don’t know what to say. So I opt for silence instead.

  Pete is fidgeting, sitting cross-legged and bouncing his knees like he wants to say something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if I should say anything.”

  “What?” I ask, leaning forward.

  He folds his hands, covers his mouth with a deep, dramatic sigh, and finally meets my eyes.

  “What?” I ask again.

  “You’ve got to promise that you won’t do anything crazy.”

  “What is it?”

  “Promise first.”

  I promise.

  “You know how people have been calling your sister a slut the past couple of weeks, but we didn’t know why?”

  I nod, even though Billy’s memories haven’t filled me in on this yet.

  “Have you heard anything about a video?”

  “Video? What video?”

  “That your sister was in?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think so.”

  “What video?”

  “You’ve got to promise that you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I already did.”

  “And promise not to be mad at me.”

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “For not showing you sooner.”

  “Showing me what?”

  He reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out his phone, flips through some screens, then holds it to his chest, meeting my eyes.

  “You promise?”

  “Yes!” I say, grabbing the phone.

  I look down at the screen and see that the video is titled, high school cam slut spreads for me.

  My heart racing anxiously, I press play.

  The video shows Chelsea sitting in front of a webcam in a dark room. She’s wearing a light gray tee, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks uncomfortable. There’s no audio, but I can tell she’s typing something.

  I look up at Pete. “What is this?”

  “Keep watching,” he says, looking away as if he can’t stand to see me watching it.

  Chelsea takes off her shirt.

  She’s sitting there in her bra, staring at the screen, but there’s nothing seductive about this. Her eyes are wet like she’s holding back tears or had just finished crying. Her lips are quivering. Her jaw is sticking out, almost, but not q
uite, defiantly.

  My stomach feels like I’m in a jostled boat.

  What the hell is this?

  Chelsea shakes her head.

  A long pause where she watches the screen. Someone must be giving her instructions. Maybe that’s why there’s no audio; whoever recorded this deleted their part in this sick little film.

  She wipes her eyes then takes off her bra. She starts fast but stops halfway as if instructed to go slower, to be more playful.

  She slows down, removing it more teasingly, then reveals her breasts.

  Another long pause.

  Another head shake.

  Then she plays with her nipples.

  The sickness in my stomach grows. I don’t want to see any more. But at the same time, I feel like I have to — I need to see what happened to Billy’s sister.

  After history’s longest minute, the camera pans down. As Chelsea removes her shorts, I return the phone to Pete.

  “I can’t watch any more. What the hell is this? And where did it come from?”

  Pete takes the phone and slips it back into his pants pocket as if he’s ashamed to own it.

  “Someone uploaded it to a porn site a couple of weeks ago. Kids started sharing it. A few even posted it onto her Facebook page, along with nasty messages calling your sister a slut and stuff, before she removed her page.”

  “A couple of weeks ago? And you’re just telling me now?”

  “I didn’t find out about it until last week, and what was I supposed to say, ‘Yo, I saw your sister in a porn video?’”

  “It’s not a porn video! Someone obviously made her do this. You can tell by her expression. Does it look like she’s enjoying it?”

  “Hey, believe me, Billy, I’m the last person to judge! And even if she was enjoying it, even if she sent this to a boyfriend and was 100 percent compliant, that doesn’t give anyone the right to post it on a porn site, or any of these fuckers the right to judge her.”

  “We’ve gotta get this taken down! She’s a teenager for God’s sake!”

  “She’s eighteen. And dude, the Internet is forever. Even if you take it down at this site, the person who did it, or hell, anyone who downloaded it, can upload it to a thousand more sites just like it.”