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of striking, hitting, destroying that which must be destroyed, was serious. There was a lot at stake. He must collect the gifts. It was time.
    The primary show should have been on the road, and so far all he’d done was drop one boy from the roof. What the hell was he thinking?
    He knew there was a much grander plan.
    No, there was no more time. He needed to start collecting the spirits—now. He had received his orders.
    He stuck the long shiny blade down into the sheath sewn to the inside of his pants. His breathing was shallow, just as it always was when it was time.
    His arrival in Harlem would kick things into high gear. First he would observe his comrade in action. Then he would stalk him. The next time his comrade struck, he’d be there; he wouldn’t miss out. Spirit and flesh were sometimes uneasy companions.
    He knew his invasion would not be welcomed at this time, because his comrade hadn’t finished his own personal agenda. That was too bad. Time was of the essence. His comrade dabbled in flesh, but he excelled in spirit.
    He looked at his biceps before pulling on his jacket. There they were: the faces of the ones already collected poked out all along his biceps and forearms. Their eyes stared at him. Some of them blinked at him.
    Looking at them reminded him of faces with pronounced facial features poking out through a balloon, sort of as if a mask were being stretched over them—only it was his skin that provided the covering.
    The faces writhed in the agony he had caused. Desolation, fear, and uncertainty peeked out at him. Sometimes they cried, particularly the very young. It was useless; they weren’t going anywhere.
    There was even one who always sneezed.
    It didn’t matter. It was a trap not of the usual making. They were contained in a spiritual housing, one from which they would never be released.
    He thought about the death of Randi Burlingame and the missed opportunity to add him to his spiritual residence. This angered him because Randi Burlingame had been of high esteem. He could not miss again. He was the collector.
    Quickly he grabbed his jacket, putting it on so he wouldn’t have to look at them. He didn’t want to look at them anymore just now. At times some of them spoke.
    Sometimes they cried out in unison, wanting to be free. But only on a specific occasion, if someone had the sight to see. That reminded him: he had a visit to make. Sometimes those with the sight to see saw too much.
    Today the residing spirits held their tongues. Soon he would add more to them.
    And as soon as he made his visit, she would know his name.

5
    T hat night Lonzo and Monica sat at their desks in the Harlem precinct station. Monica leaned back in her chair with her feet up on the desk. Lonzo sat running his hands through his long dreadlocks.
    â€œAll right,” Monica said. “Let’s go over everything we have.”
    â€œWe did.”
    â€œThen let’s do it again.”
    Monica was exasperated with Lonzo’s attitude. He was getting on her last nerve. He glared at her, then shot up out of his seat, pacing the floor.
    â€œWe have a sixteen-year-old dead boy. And we’re clueless as to why he’s dead, because we have no motive.”
    Lonzo twirled in a circle and then threw his arms wide open in stage-show fashion. “Oh, and we have our star witness Sinead Watson, who, between wheezes, doesn’t know a thing outside of the body hitting the ground in front of her.” He took a bow.
    â€œWe ought to be able to use that, don’t you think?” he said rather nastily.
    Monica didn’t answer the question.
    Instead she said, “And we know for a fact that Randi has an ice princess for a mother.” That took the air out of his sails.
    He gave her a long, puzzled look. “Get a grip, Monie. The lady was grieving. Anyway that has nothing to do with this.”
    Monica swung her feet from the desk. “It has everything to do