Free The Truth Collector by Corey Pemberton

for all the cuts.”
    “Something to remember me by.” Then she reached for him. “I need to talk to you. This is serious.”
    “Come on, Paul.” They walked away and left her in the street. Malcolm held his hands together, unable to stop the bleeding. It seeped out of him no matter how hard he tried to staunch the flow – just like his hopes of getting out of this without wearing an orange jumpsuit the rest of his life.
    Paul guided them through the final stretch of the alley, checking behind him every few seconds. Finally their shoes found soft earth, and Paul looked back one last time. “That was weird. I guess she scrammed.”
    “Maybe she just really wanted to get some action,” Malcolm said.
    Paul shrugged. “Maybe. Or she just really wanted our money.”
    “What money?”
    They both laughed at that. It was all they could do to defy the polluted, garbage-strewn wasteland that lay in front of them. On the other side of the strand the riverbank fell off into blackness. Water slapped against the shore, pulled by a current and churning an endless stream of sludge. They dodged glass shards, rocks, and used needles as they made their way onto the strand.
    “Ever been out here?” said Paul.
    “Hell no. Why would I ever come out here?”
    “I don't know. Maybe for a case or something. They call this place Junkie Beach.”
    Malcolm nodded. He was watching the hunchbacked vagrants and travelers further up the riverbank. Most of them traveled alone, combing the beach like sand crabs that only emerged from the waves in the middle of the night. But some of them sat congregated around a makeshift fire. It wasn't wood that burned, but some other industrial substance. They inhaled the fumes, laughing as a wine bottle made its way around the little circle.
    “You bring your gun?” said Paul.
    Malcolm shook his head. “It's not exactly… legal. I didn't want to risk it. We have enough heat already.”
    “So we just go up there and ask those fine gentlemen if they know a guy named Craig?”
    Malcolm produced a picture of a man wearing glasses and a business suit. “This should help. I took this from Fielder's office. If they know him they'll tell us. I have a way with that, remember?”
    Paul shook his head and started to walk. “You know, that woman didn't look like a hooker. And what's the deal with her clothes? It looked like something showgirls wore a hundred years ago. She wasn't showing enough skin.” His words broke up when they passed the first vagrant on the riverfront. He looked up at them, but the curiosity in his eyes faded quickly. He turned his attention back to a fishing line that he'd dangled into the water. Malcolm and Paul moved on.
    “She didn't act like a hooker either,” Paul continued. “Way too pushy. But she seemed familiar. I've seen her somewhere before. I remember faces. Maybe at a show or my cab or –”
    “Or the park,” Malcolm said. “Where we talked to Miranda and her friend.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I'm pretty sure she was the woman feeding the squirrels.”
    Paul gasped. He stopped walking and held up his hands in little fists. “Why didn't you say something, man? You were just going to let that slip by ?”
    “I didn't want you to freak out.”
    “Yeah? Well I'm already freaked out. I'm freaked the hell out. Why would she be in that little podunk town and then back in Lemhaven? Why would she be right where we are?”
    Malcolm shrugged.
    Paul grabbed his shoulder and turned it back to the alley. “We have to go back. We gotta find her, man.”
    Malcolm pointed down the strand. “I think that's our man.” Their eyes settled on a man pacing up and down the riverbank. He held a garbage bag and looked out at something in the water – something they couldn't see – and shivered in the warm night. The white dress shirt he wore shined in the moonlight, only half-buttoned and spilling out of a pair of gym shorts. He was barefoot, but walked across rocks and all