The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

  CHAPTER 19

  SUNDAY

  November 24

  The Hyatt Regency Crystal City

  Arlington, Virginia

  Maggie checked her watch again. Her mother was fifteen minutes late. Okay, some things never changed. Quickly, she chastised herself for the thought. After all, her mother was trying to change. Her new friends seemed to have had a positive influence on her. There had been no drunken bouts or botched suicide attempts in more than six months. That had to be a record, yet Maggie remained skeptical.

  Her mother rarely left Richmond, but lately she was traveling some place new every other week. Maggie had been surprised to get the phone call last night and even more surprised to find her mother had been calling from the Crystal City Hyatt. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been to the District. She had told Maggie she’d come for a prayer meeting or some such thing, and for a brief moment Maggie had panicked that it was the prayer thing she was being invited to. Now Maggie wondered why she thought having breakfast with her mother would be any less awkward. Why hadn’t she just said no?

  She sipped her water, wishing it were Scotch. The waiter smiled at her again from across the restaurant, one of those sympathy smiles that said, “I’m sorry you’ve been stood up.” She decided if her mother didn’t show, she’d order bacon, scrambled eggs and toast with a tumbler of Scotch instead of orange juice.

  She refolded her napkin for the third time when all she wanted to do was dig the exhaustion from her eyes. She had only gotten about two hours of sleep, fighting images of Delaney’s head exploding over and over again. God, she hated funerals! Even Abby’s innocent acceptance of her father’s death hadn’t stopped Maggie’s memories from leaking into and invading her sleep. The nightmare that finally convinced her to stay awake was one of herself, tossing handful after handful of dirt into a dark hole. The process seemed endless and exhausting. When she finally looked over the edge, she saw the dirt quickly turning to maggots scattering and crawling across her father’s face, his wide eyes staring up at her. And he was wearing that stupid brown suit with his hair still combed the wrong way.

  Maggie blinked and shook her head, willing the image out of her mind. She looked for the waiter. There was no sense in putting off the Scotch. Just then she saw her mother come in the restaurant door. At first, Maggie glanced right by her, not recognizing the attractive brunette dressed in a navy coatdress and bright red scarf. The woman waved at Maggie, and Maggie did a double take. Her mother usually wore absurd combinations that confirmed how little she cared about her appearance. But the woman approaching the table looked like a sophisticated socialite.

  “Hi, sweetie,” the imposter said in a sugary tone that Maggie also didn’t recognize, though there was a familiar raspiness, a leftover from a two-pack-a-day habit. “You should see my room,” she added with an enthusiasm that continued the charade. “It’s huge! Reverend Everett was so kind to let us stay here last night. He’s just been so good to Emily, Stephen and me.”

  Maggie barely managed to utter a stunned greeting before her mother sat down and the waiter was at their table.

  “Would you ladies like to start off the morning with some juice and coffee or perhaps a mamosa?”

  “The water’s fine for now,” Maggie said, watching her mother, waiting to see if she would take the waiter up on his invitation to drink before noon. Time of day had never stopped her in the past.

  “Is this tap water?” Kathleen O’Dell pointed to the glass in front of her.

  “I think so. I guess I’m not sure.”

  “Could you please fetch me a bottled water? Spring water from Colorado would be good.”

  “Colorado?”

  “Yes, well…bottled spring water. Preferably from Colorado.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see what I can do.”

  She waited until the waiter was out of sight, then she leaned across the table and whispered to Maggie, “They put all kinds of chemicals in tap water. Nasty stuff that causes cancer.”

  “They?”

  “The government.”

  “Mom, I am the government.”

  “Of course you’re not, sweetie.” She sat back and smiled, smoothing the cloth napkin into her lap.

  “Mom, the FBI is a government agency.”

  “But you don’t think like them, Maggie. You’re not part of…” She lowered her voice and whispered, “The conspiracy.”

  “Here you are, ma’am.” The waiter presented a beautiful, crystal stemmed water glass filled to the brim and garnished with a wedge of lemon. His efforts were only met with a frown.

  “Oh, now, how do I know this is bottled spring water if you bring it to me already in a glass?”

  He looked at Maggie as if for help. Instead, she said, “Could you bring me a Scotch? Neat.”

  “Of course. One Scotch, neat, and one bottled spring water in the bottle.”

  “Preferably from Colorado.”

  The waiter gave Maggie an exasperated glance, as if checking for any other demands. She relieved him with, “My Scotch can be from anywhere.”

  “Of course.” He managed a smile and was off again.

  The waiter barely left before her mother leaned over the table again to whisper, “It’s awfully early in the day to be drinking, Maggie.”

  Maggie resisted the urge to remind her mother that perhaps this was a tendency she had picked up from her. Her jaw clenched and her fingers twisted the napkin in her lap.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she offered as an explanation.

  “Well, then some coffee might be more appropriate. I’ll call him back.” She started looking for the waiter.

  “No, Mom. Stop.”

  “Some caffeine is just what you need. Reverend Everett says caffeine can be medicinal if not abused. Just a little will help. You’ll see.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t want any coffee. I don’t really even like coffee.”

  “Oh, now, where did he run off to?”

  “Mom, don’t.”

  “He’s over at that table. I’ll just—”

  “Mom, stop it. I want the goddamn Scotch.”

  Her mother’s hand stopped in midair. “Well…okay.” She tucked the hand into her lap as if Maggie had slapped it.

  Maggie had never spoken to her mother like that before. Where the hell did that come from? And now, as her mother’s face turned red, Maggie tried to remember if she had ever seen her mother embarrassed, though there had been plenty of times in the past that would have justified such a response. Like making her daughter drag her half-conscious body up three flights of stairs or waking up in a pool of vomit.

  Maggie looked away, watching for the waiter, wondering how she’d get through an entire meal with this woman. She’d rather be anywhere else.

  “I suppose that dog kept you awake,” her mother said as if there were no dark cloud of the past hanging over their table.

  “No, actually it was my government job.”

  She looked up at Maggie. There was yet another smile. “You know what I was thinking, sweetie?” As usual she conveniently changed the subject, a tactical expert at avoiding confrontation. “I was thinking we should do a big Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Maggie stared at her. Surely, she must be joking.

  “I’ll cook a turkey with all the trimmings. It’ll be just like the good ole days.”

  The good ole days? That must be the punch line, but from what Maggie could tell, her mother was serious. The idea that the woman even knew which end of the turkey to stuff seemed incomprehensible.

  “I’ll invite Stephen and Emily. It’s about time you met them. And you can bring Greg.”

  Ah, no punch line. But definitely an ulterior motive. Of course, why hadn’t she seen that one coming?

  “Mom, you know that’s not going to happen.”

  “How is Greg? I miss seeing him.” Again, Kathleen O’Dell continued the charade as if Maggie hadn’t spoken.

  “I sup
pose he’s fine.”

  “Well, the two of you still talk, right?”

  “Only about the division of our mutually accumulated assets.”

  “Oh, sweetie. You should simply apologize. I’m sure Greg would take you back.”

  “Excuse me? What exactly should I apologize for?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “For cheating on him with that cowboy in Nebraska.”

  Maggie restrained her anger by strangling the cloth napkin in her lap.

  “Nick Morrelli is not a cowboy. And I did not cheat on Greg.”

  “Maybe not physically.”

  This time her mother’s eyes caught hers, and Maggie couldn’t look away. She had never told her mother about Nick Morrelli, but obviously Greg had. She had met Nick last year. At the time he had been a county sheriff in a small Nebraska town. The two of them had spent a week together chasing a child killer. Ever since then she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind for very long, a task made more difficult now that he was living in Boston, an A.D.A. for Suffolk County. But she was not even seeing Nick, had insisted, in fact, that they have little contact until her divorce was final. And, despite her feelings, she had not slept with Nick. She had never cheated on Greg, or at least not in a legal sense. Maybe she was guilty of cheating on him in her heart.

  Never mind. It wasn’t any of her mother’s business. How dare she claim that she had some secret access to Maggie’s heart. She had no right. Not after all the damage she had done to it herself.

  “The divorce papers have already been drawn up,” Maggie finally said with what she hoped was enough finality to close the subject.

  “But you haven’t signed them yet?”

  She continued to stare at her mother’s concerned look, puzzled by it as much as she was uncomfortable with it. Was her mother sincerely trying to change? Was she genuinely concerned? Or had she talked to Greg, discovered he was having second thoughts and agreed to some secret alliance? Was that the real reason behind this good ole Thanksgiving plan?

  “Whether we sign the divorce papers or not, nothing will change between Greg and me.”

  “No, of course not. Not as long as you insist on keeping that government job of yours.”

  There it was. The subtle but oh-so-effective jab to the heart. Much more effective than a slap to the face. Of course, Maggie was the bad guy, and the divorce was all her fault. And, according to her mother, everything could be fixed if only Maggie apologized and swept all the messy problems out of sight. No need to solve anything. Just get them the hell out of sight. After all, wasn’t that Kathleen O’Dell’s specialty? What you don’t acknowledge can’t possibly exist.

  Maggie shook her head and smiled up at the waiter who had returned and deposited in front of her a tumbler of amber, liquid salvation. She picked up the glass and sipped, ignoring the frown on her mother’s new and carefully made-up face. Indeed, some things never changed.

  Her cellular phone began ringing, and Maggie twisted around to pull it out of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Only two rings and the entire restaurant was now joining her mother to frown at her.

  “Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Agent O’Dell, it’s Cunningham. Sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning.”

  “That’s fine, sir.” This new apologetic Cunningham could easily start to grate on her nerves. She wanted her old boss back.

  “A body’s been found on federal property. District PD’s on the scene, but I’ve gotten a request for BSU to take a look.”

  “I’m already at the Crystal City Hyatt. Just tell me where you need me to be.” She could feel her mother scowling at her. She wanted another sip of Scotch, but set it aside.

  “Meet Agent Tully at the FDR Memorial.”

  “The monument?”

  “Yes. The fourth gallery. The District’s lead on the scene is…” She could hear him flipping pages. “Lead is a Detective Racine.”

  “Racine? Julia Racine?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Is there a problem, Agent O’Dell?”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  “Okay then.” He hung up without a goodbye, a sign the old Cunningham was still in charge.

  Maggie looked at her mother as she wrestled into her jacket and peeled out a twenty dollar bill to leave for the breakfast she hadn’t yet ordered.

  “Sorry. I need to leave.”

  “Yes, I know. Your job. It tends to ruin quite a few things, doesn’t it?”

  Rather than even try to find the correct answer, Maggie grabbed the tumbler of Scotch and drained it in one gulp. She mumbled a goodbye and left.

  CHAPTER 20

  Everett’s Compound

  at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains

  Justin Pratt jerked awake at the sudden blast of music, almost falling off the narrow army cot. Had he done so, he would have crashed on top of several members stretched out in sleeping bags. He knew he should be grateful to have a cot in the cramped sleeping quarters that housed almost two dozen men. After his probationary period—whenever the hell that ended—he was certain he would be on the floor with the rest of them.

  It wouldn’t matter, with the little sleep they were allowed. And then to wake up to that god-awful music over the loudspeakers. It sounded like an old scratched LP of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” No, he shouldn’t complain. He needed to remember to be grateful. At least, until Eric got back. Then they could figure out what to do together. Maybe they could hitchhike to the West Coast. Although he wasn’t sure how they’d survive without a fucking dime. Maybe they could go back home. If only he could convince Eric. He wouldn’t leave without Eric.

  He rubbed the blur from his eyes. Shit! It felt like he hadn’t even slept. Out of habit, he looked at his wrist before he remembered that the expensive Seiko watch his grandfather had given him was gone. It had been just one of the hedonistic material things confiscated for his own good. Like knowing what time it was would fucking send him straight to hell.

  Now Justin wondered if perhaps the real reason Father didn’t allow them to keep anything of value was to make them dependent on him. And they were. For everything. Everything from that buggy rice to the scraps of newspaper they used as toilet paper.

  “Get up, Pratt.” Someone shoved his shoulder from behind.

  Justin felt his hands ball up into fists. Without looking, he knew it was Brandon. Just once he’d like to slam a fist into that smug, arrogant face. Instead, he pulled a clean pair of underwear and socks from the clothesline in the corner. Brandon had been good enough to share it with him, because it seemed that even something like a cheap piece of fucking clothesline was a rare commodity around this place. The socks were still damp, which meant that once again his feet would be cold all day.

  He took his time dressing while the others scurried to get in line for the showers. From the small, single-paned window, Justin could see the line forming. It curved all the way around the concrete building’s corner. He combed his fingers through his greasy hair. Fuck it! Maybe he could sneak in a shower later. He was tired of waiting in line after line. Besides, he was starving, and his stomach reminded him with a rumble that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.

  Justin headed for the cafeteria, looking around as he walked across the compound. That’s what they called it, a fucking compound. The only other time he had heard someone refer to a place as a compound was on a cable special about the Kennedy family and their estate; an estate that they called a compound. So, of course, when Eric had told him about the compound, Justin had imagined something similar with servant cottages and horse stables and a huge mansion. But this place looked like army barracks—stark, metal and concrete buildings surrounded by trees and more trees, secluded in the Shenandoah Valley.

  Piles of brush and uprooted trees were stacked on the south side where they had bulldozed and cleared just enough land to set up their compound. It didn’t seem very organized, either. Wells hadn’
t been dug deep enough and many of the buildings didn’t have plumbing. There certainly was never enough warm water. And hot water? Forget about it.

  The whole place looked temporary, and Justin had heard rumors about Father building a new compound somewhere else, some paradise he was promising everyone. But after last night, Justin wasn’t about to trust the asshole or anything he said. The pervert was a fucking hypocrite. Not like he had trusted him much before. Trust was a rare commodity with Justin. He should have known from his first week that the guy was nothing but a fraud.

  That first week, Eric had taken him to what Father called a cleansing ritual. All of those who attended had to write down their most embarrassing moment, as well as one of their deepest fears. They were supposed to sign the papers, too.

  “No one else will see these confessions,” Father had assured them in his smooth, hypnotic manner. “The signatures are strictly an exercise for you to own up to your past and face your fears.”

  The folded papers were then collected in a black, square metal box. Justin had been asked to collect them and told where to set the dented box, back behind Father’s huge wooden chair. A chair that looked more like a throne and was flanked by his Cro-Magnon bodyguards. At the end of the evening, Father brought out the black box with all those confidential secrets. He threw a single lit match into the metal container, setting the confessions on fire. There had been sighs of relief, but Justin couldn’t help noticing that the black box no longer had a dent in it.

  Later, when Justin told Eric about the miracle of the disappearing dent, his brother had practically snapped his head off.

  “Some things require faith and trust. If you can’t accept that, you don’t belong here,” his brother had told him in a pissed-off tone he had never used with him before that night. Justin remembered thinking that Eric sounded like he wasn’t just trying to convince him. That maybe he was trying to convince himself, too.

  Justin took a shortcut to the cafeteria, hopping over some sawhorses and wandering through a maze of stacked lumber and archaic construction equipment. He couldn’t help thinking that a couple of pairs of Father’s solid-gold cuff links could probably buy a small new forklift that would put the old John Deere tractor with the front loader and rusted plow hitched behind out of its misery.