Maggie O'Dell Collection, Volume 1: A Perfect Evil ; Split Second ; The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

  He should have been grateful that the guard had let him keep his hands together instead of locking them at his waist to each side. He knew his captors had misread his polite behavior, perhaps even thought he was harmless. Though not entirely harmless—he rattled the shackles on his ankles, reminding himself they were there, readjusted himself in the chair. He needed to stop squirming. Why couldn’t he sit still?

  As soon as the woman entered the room, Eric had felt a wet chill sweep over his body. She had introduced herself as a doctor, but Eric knew better. The woman was small, well dressed, about his mother’s age, but very attractive. She carried herself with confidence and ease despite the high-heeled shoes she wore. He found himself watching her legs as she crossed them, making herself comfortable in the steel folding chair. She had smooth, firm calves, and from what he could see of her thighs, she was really nothing like his mother.

  She was explaining why she was here. He glanced at her mouth, but he didn’t need to listen. He knew exactly why she was here. He had known the second she walked in the door.

  She was the woman clothed with the sun. Her reddish-blond hair had been a dead giveaway. It circled her face like the rays of the sun. Of course, she would possess warm green eyes and a quiet, captivating manner, a polite and hypnotic voice and a body that could distract and tempt. Father Joseph had outdone himself this time. He had sent a vision straight out of John’s description of the Apocalypse. Had he honestly believed Eric wouldn’t recognize her?

  Sweat trickled down his back. Her voice hummed in his ears, the words no longer separate but strung together as melody—Satan’s death song, lovely and mesmerizing. He wouldn’t let it hypnotize him. He wouldn’t let her draw him in and incapacitate him. But she was good. Oh, she was clever with that kind smile and those sexy legs. If Brandon’s visit hadn’t prepared him, he may very well have been taken into her web, ensnared before he realized what the true purpose of this visit really was.

  Click, click—his fingernails picked at the metal. One of them was bleeding. He could feel it, but he kept his hands in his lap, pretending to be calm, pretending the fear wasn’t clawing inside him, ripping at the walls of his stomach and trying to race up his throat to strangle him.

  He looked into her eyes, saw her smile and quickly looked away. Was that her secret weapon? If she couldn’t hypnotize him with her voice, would she use her eyes? He wondered how she might kill him, and his eyes scanned the length of her, looking for bulges in her clothing.

  The guards would have allowed her in with anything she cared to conceal. They would want no part of the mess, even if they were able to stop her. After all, Father had told them the woman clothed with the sun had special powers, according to the gospel of John, St. John the Divine, Revelation 12:1–6. She was light. She was dark. She was good and evil. She was a messenger of Satan and could disguise herself easily.

  Suddenly, Eric remembered a newspaper article Father had read them just months ago. No member was allowed newspapers or magazines. There was no need when Father took the burden upon himself to relay those news items that were relevant and from sources that could be trusted.

  But now Eric remembered the story of a foreign diplomat who had been visiting the States from some evil empire. Eric couldn’t recall the country. The diplomat had been slain in his hotel bed and reports were that the woman who killed him did it while straddling him, waiting for him to come and then slitting his neck. Father Joseph had used it as an example of justice being done. Was that where he had gotten the idea of sending this woman?

  Eric noticed her tapping the pencil, the eraser smacking the notepad—the notepad, a decoy left on the table, not a single note scrawled on it. The pencil had been freshly sharpened, its lead a dagger’s point. He could distinguish some of the words that came out of her mouth, words like help and cooperate. He knew better. He refused to be sucked in by her code words. They could just as well have been words like kill and mutilate. He knew their true meaning.

  Tap-tap, tap-tap—he watched the pencil and tried to ignore the panic squeezing the air out of his lungs. The room felt smaller. Her voice droned on. Tap-tap, tap-tap. His heart pounded in his ears. Or was that the pencil?

  He made himself look into her eyes. He had cheated Satan once before. Could he do it again?

  CHAPTER 45

  Gwen shifted in her chair and recrossed her legs. Pratt was watching her again, staring at her legs. The horny bastard wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Had she misread his initial reaction, that look of absolute fear in his eyes when she entered the room? If it hadn’t been fear, what the hell had it been? Had she been wrong about him wanting to survive, wanting to find a safe haven?

  He hadn’t answered a single one of her questions. Instead, he looked everywhere except into her eyes, as if she were Medusa and doing so would turn him to stone. Or did he simply hate psychologists? Maybe the kid was sick of shrinks or didn’t trust any authority figures. Yet deep down she wondered if the real reason for his distraction, for his avoidance, was because he was worried she wielded some sort of power he couldn’t stand up to.

  If their theory was correct, Eric Pratt had been manipulated and controlled by someone other than himself for some time now. He had been a puppet willing to kill and be killed. Perhaps that someone—the Reverend Joseph Everett, most likely—still had a strong hold on him, despite Eric being locked away. But something had made the boy spit out that cyanide capsule. Self-preservation had won. She needed to follow her instinct. And she needed to believe his instinct to live was stronger than his fear of Everett.

  “You are a survivor, Eric. That’s why you’re still here. I want to help you. Do you believe I can help you?”

  She waited, tapping out her impatience with the pencil against her notepad. The kid seemed mesmerized by the motion. She tried to remember the reports she had glanced at, whether or not toxicology had shown any drug use. Yet that was what he reminded her of; some spaced-out coke-head. If he’d look at her, she might be able to tell from the dilation of his pupils. Was that why he kept his eyes away from hers?

  “You don’t need to be in this all alone, Eric. You can talk to me.” She kept her voice low and soft, careful not to sound like she was addressing a small child. She didn’t want to insult him. And if he was afraid, she needed to convince him he could trust her. Right now that looked like a dim prospect.

  She noticed drops of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. A glimpse into his eyes made her wonder if he was even here in the room with her. An annoying clicking came from under the table. This would be a wasted trip, she realized, and she thought of all the billable hours she had rescheduled back at her office.

  Then she accidentally dropped the pencil.

  His chair screeched as he lunged for the floor. The leg shackles clattered and his body flew so quickly, all Gwen saw was the streak of his orange jumpsuit. Her own impulse was to dive for the pencil, as well, sending her chair tumbling behind her. But she was too late. He had beaten her to it. She scrambled on hands and knees, trying to get to her feet. But just as she heard running footsteps and locks sliding open, she felt her head jerked backward.

  He was sprawled on the floor but had managed to grab a handful of her hair before she could pull away. He yanked her hard, throwing her off balance. He yanked her again, and she slammed against his chest. All she could see were three sets of shoes come sliding to a halt. That’s when she felt the pencil at her throat, the sharp point pressed against her carotid artery, threatening to penetrate through flesh and veins. And, despite the fear that shot through her, the first thing that came to mind was how stupid she had been to have sharpened the pencil just that morning.

  CHAPTER 46

  Tully kept his Glock aimed at the kid’s head. At this angle, it would be a clean shot. He could do it, but would the bastard’s jerking muscles still plunge the pencil into Dr. Patterson’s neck. Shit! Why hadn’t he thought of that damn pencil?

  “Eric, come on now.” Morrel
li was trying to talk sense to the kid. From the crazed look in Pratt’s eyes, Tully knew there would be no talking him out of anything. But Morrelli continued. “You don’t want to do this, Eric. You’re in enough trouble. We can help you, but not—”

  “Stop it! Shut the fuck up!” the boy yelled, and yanked Dr. Patterson’s head back, exposing her neck even more.

  His cuffed hands only allowed him to hang on to a clump of her hair with one hand, keeping her close to him while his other hand held the pencil, its razor point pressing into her skin. So far Tully could see no blood. But one good shove, and he knew it would be a major gusher. Jesus!

  Tully tried to figure out the doctor’s position without taking his sight off Pratt. One of her legs was twisted under her body. One hand had instinctively shot up to grab at her assailant’s arm, and she kept her fingers tightly grasping the sleeve of the orange jumpsuit. Pratt either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That was good. She had some sense of control, though she was holding on to the arm that held her hair and not the pencil. He glanced at her face. She seemed calm and steady. But then her eyes caught his, and he could see the fear. Fear was good. Panic was not.

  “What do you want us to do, Eric?” Morrelli tried again.

  It was obvious he was bugging the hell out of the kid, but at least he was keeping him distracted. Tully was impressed with Morrelli’s demeanor, hands quietly at his side, despite two men with guns drawn on either side of him. He talked to the kid as if he had a jumper on a ledge.

  “Just talk to us, Eric. Tell us what you need.”

  “Eric,” Dr. Patterson said quietly, “you know you don’t want to hurt me.” She said it slowly—making a noticeable effort to say the words without moving or swallowing—but she managed it without a trace of fear.

  Tully couldn’t help wondering if she had been through this before.

  “No, I don’t want to hurt you,” Pratt answered. But before any of them could relax, he added, “I need to kill you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tully saw Morrelli shift just slightly, and he hoped to God the prosecutor wasn’t thinking of doing something stupid. He glanced at Dr. Patterson again, this time trying to draw her eyes to his. When she did, he gave her a slight nod, hoping she would understand. She watched him, keeping her eyes on his face, then finally moving her gaze down the length of his arm and to his trigger finger.

  “Eric.” Morrelli had decided to try one more time. “So far there’s no murder charge against you. Only weapons charges. You don’t want to do this. Dr. Patterson only wants to help you. She isn’t here to hurt you.”

  Tully focused his aim and kept it steady. His finger wanted to squeeze now. He waited, checked Dr. Patterson’s grip on the orange sleeve.

  “She’s Satan,” Eric whispered this time. “Can’t any of you see that? Father Joseph sent her.” He adjusted his grip on the pencil, puncturing the skin and drawing blood. “She’s come to kill me. I need to kill her first.”

  Tully heard Burt’s safety click off. Shit! He couldn’t signal the guard with Morrelli standing between them. Instead, he found Dr. Patterson’s eyes again. She was ready despite the fear. He gave her another slight nod.

  “I have to kill her,” Eric said, and something in his voice told Tully he meant it. “I have to kill her before she kills me. I have to. I don’t have a choice. It’s kill or be killed.”

  Tully saw her fingers tighten on the orange sleeve. Good. She was getting a better grip. He watched her fingers while still looking down the sight of his Glock. Then suddenly she yanked downward and hard. Pratt didn’t let go of her hair, and the motion caused her head to twist down and away from the pencil. Tully wasted no time. He squeezed the trigger, shattering Pratt’s left shoulder. The boy’s fingers opened. The pencil dropped. Dr. Patterson slammed an elbow into his chest, causing him to release his grip on her hair. She scrambled away on hands and knees. In seconds, Burt was on Pratt, smashing his face against the floor. The angry guard had a huge black boot pressed on top of Pratt’s bleeding shoulder and a gun to the kid’s temple.

  “Easy, Burt.” Morrelli was at the guard’s side, keeping him in line.

  Tully hesitated before going to Dr. Patterson. She remained hunched on her knees, sitting back on her feet as if waiting for the strength to stand. He knelt down in front of her, but she avoided his eyes. He touched her cheek, cupped her jaw and lifted it gently, to get a good look at her neck. She allowed him the examination, now watching his eyes and gripping his arm as though she didn’t want to let go.

  He wiped the drops of blood away. The puncture had only broken the skin.

  “You’re gonna have a hell of a bruise, Doc.” He met her eyes and looked for the fear he could see her already stowing away. Or trying to, anyway.

  “We should get you to an emergency room,” Morrelli said from behind them.

  “I’ll be fine,” she reassured Morrelli while giving Tully a quick and restrained smile before she pulled away from him, removing her hand from his arm. She didn’t, however, resist his help as she climbed to her bare feet. Sometime during the scuffle she had lost both shoes.

  “She’s Satan, she’s the Antichrist. Father Joseph sent her to kill me,” Pratt was still yelling. “Why can’t any of you see that?”

  “Get him the hell out of here,” Morrelli told Burt, who swung the kid up to his feet and shoved him along, pushing harder when Pratt began to mutter again.

  Tully picked up the folding chair and brought it over for Dr. Patterson. She waved him off, looking around the room in search of her shoes. Tully saw one and crawled under the table for it. When he stood up again, Morrelli was on one knee placing the other shoe on the good doctor’s foot, holding her ankle and looking like Prince Charming. It only reminded Tully how much he didn’t like this guy or guys like him. Morrelli turned to him, staying on his goddamn knee and gesturing for the other shoe. Tully surrendered it.

  However, when he glanced at Dr. Patterson’s face, she was watching him and not Morrelli.

  CHAPTER 47

  West Potomac Park

  Washington, D.C.

  Maggie stopped at the drinking fountain and took long, slow gulps. The afternoon had turned unseasonably warm for November. She hadn’t been far into her run when she peeled off her sweatshirt and knotted it around her waist.

  Now she pulled the sweatshirt loose and wiped the dripping sweat from her forehead and the water from her chin as she scanned the surroundings. She looked up and down the Mall, watching for the woman she had talked to earlier, who had given her a long list of instructions but failed to include a single description of what she looked like.

  Maggie found the wooden bench on the grassy knoll overlooking the Vietnam Wall, exactly where the woman told her it would be. Then she put a foot up on the bench’s back rail and began her leg stretches, something she seldom did after running, always feeling like she didn’t have time. But this, too, had been requested, as well as the strict instructions to wear nothing that would give her away as a law enforcement officer: no FBI T-shirts, no bulging holsters, guns or badges, no navy-blue. Not even a baseball cap or sunglasses.

  Maggie wondered—and not for the first time—what good it would do to talk to someone so paranoid. Chances were, she’d get some delusional perspective, some skewed vision of reality. Yet she felt fortunate that Cunningham and Senator Brier had found someone willing to talk. An aid in Senator Brier’s office had tracked the woman down, and although she had agreed to meet Maggie, she had insisted on remaining anonymous. The cloak-and-dagger game didn’t bother Maggie. As long as this woman, an ex-member of Everett’s church, could provide a view of Everett that Maggie knew she’d never find in any FBI file. And certainly a view she’d never get from her mother.

  High school kids outnumbered tourists, scattered all along the sidewalks, hiking up the Lincoln Memorial steps and winding around the bronze sculptures of the Korean Veterans and Vietnam Women’s Memorials. More field trips. Wasn’t that why Emma Tully had
been at the monuments the other day? November must be prime time for school field trips, though the educational significance seemed to be lost on most of them. Yes, other than the students there were very few tourists.

  Then Maggie saw her. The woman wore faded blue jeans, too loose for her tall, thin frame, a long-sleeved chambray shirt and dark aviator sunglasses. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and Maggie could see that she wore little, if any, makeup. A camera hung from her neck and a backpack from her shoulder while she stopped and reached with paper and pencil to do a rubbing against the Wall.

  She looked like any other tourist, a family member completing her journey and paying homage to a loved one, a fallen soldier. The woman took three rubbings before she came over and sat on the bench next to Maggie. She started pulling out of her backpack a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a bag of Doritos and a bottled water. Without a word, she began eating, looking out over the park and watching. For a minute, Maggie wondered if she had been wrong about this being her mysterious contact. She took another look at the tourists at the Wall. Was it possible the woman had changed her mind and not come?

  “Do you know anyone on the wall?” the woman asked without looking at Maggie while she sipped her water.

  “Yes,” Maggie answered, expecting the question. “My uncle, my father’s brother.”

  “What was his name?”

  The exchange was casual, an everyday occurrence between two complete strangers sitting on a park bench in front of the one monument that seemed to touch every American’s life somehow. An everyday exchange and yet so very clever. No way to mistake the details of this question.

  “His name was Patrick O’Dell.”

  The woman seemed neither pleased nor especially interested and picked up her sandwich again. “And so you are Maggie,” she said with a slight nod, taking a bite and keeping her eyes on a game of tag that had broken out between several of the teenagers up on the hill.