The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

Tully shot a look at O’Dell. Had Racine finally figured out they hadn’t told her something? Before either of them could answer, Racine continued, “Since we have some time, tell me about this guy from what we’ve learned so far. I have to get out there and start looking for this fucking psycho. You guys are the profilers. Tell me what I’m supposed to look for.”

  Tully relaxed, almost sighing. O’Dell hadn’t flinched. She was good, impressive. They hadn’t known each other for very long, but he did know that O’Dell was a better liar than he was. He’d let her have the first shot at Racine’s question.

  “Everything so far points to him as being organized.”

  Racine nodded. “Okay, I know about organized versus disorganized. You can save me the textbook stuff. I’m after specifics.”

  “It’s awfully early for specifics,” O’Dell told her.

  This time Tully could tell O’Dell was not just being difficult with the detective; she was being careful. Maybe too careful. They owed Racine something.

  “I’d say he’s between twenty-five to thirty years old,” Tully said. “Above-average intelligence. He probably holds a regular job and appears to be socially competent to those who know him. Not necessarily a loner. Maybe even a bit arrogant, a braggart.”

  Racine flipped open a small notebook and was jotting the information down, though what he was giving her could be considered classic textbook generalities, exactly what she had said she didn’t want.

  “He knows a thing or two about police procedure,” O’Dell added, obviously deciding it safe to divulge some of what they knew. “Probably why he likes to use handcuffs. Also, he knew how to ID-proof a body and that delaying her identity might delay us in identifying him, too.”

  Racine looked up. “Wait a minute. What are you saying? That he could be an ex-cop or something?”

  “Not necessarily, but he could be someone who knows a thing or two about crime scenes,” O’Dell said. “With some of these guys, it’s a fascination. It’s part of the cat-and-mouse chase. What they know about police procedure could be from cop shows or even suspense novels.”

  Tully watched. Racine seemed satisfied and continued writing. At least the two women weren’t trying to contradict or outdo each other. For the moment, anyway.

  “His posing the body is significant, too. I think it’s something more than just gaining control or some sense of empowerment.” O’Dell looked at Tully to see if he wanted to venture a guess. He motioned for her to go ahead. “It’s possible,” she continued, “that he wanted only for us to admire his handiwork, but I think there’s something more to it. It may be symbolic.”

  “You said at the crime scene that it may have been to alter the scene, to throw us off.”

  “Oh my God, Racine! You mean you were actually listening to me?” This time the women smiled at each other, much to Tully’s relief.

  “Those circular indentations in the ground mean something, too,” Tully reminded them, “but I have no idea what. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Oh, and he’s left-handed,” O’Dell added as an afterthought.

  Both Tully and Racine stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

  O’Dell walked back to the body and pointed to the right side of the girl’s face.

  “There’s a bruise here along her jawline. Her lip is split in this corner. Even bled for a short time. It’s her right side, which means, if he was facing her, he hit her from left to right, probably with his left fist.”

  “Couldn’t he have used the back of his right hand?” Tully asked, trying to play out the possible scenarios.

  “Maybe, but that would be more of an upward motion.” She demonstrated, swiping a backhanded motion toward him. He could see what she meant. A person’s natural tendency would be to start with the hand down and to bring it up and across. “This injury,” O’Dell continued, “looks like a direct hit. I’d say a fist.” She balled up her left hand and swiped again, this time straight in front. “Definitely, a left fist to the right jaw.”

  Throughout this demonstration Tully noticed Racine watching quietly, almost with awe or perhaps admiration. Then she went back to her notes. Whatever it was Tully had noticed in Racine’s expression, it had been lost on O’Dell. She hadn’t been paying any attention. But then she was like that when anyone seemed to be amazed by her. Most of the time, she drove him a little nuts with her anal-retentive habits, her hotshot tactics or her tendency to overlook procedure whenever it was convenient to do so. However, this—her ability to be impressive and not take note or make a big deal of it—this was one of the things he really liked about her.

  “One thing,” O’Dell said, addressing Racine, “and I really am not just saying this to bug the hell out of you. This is not a one-time thing. This guy’s going to do it again. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find that he may have already killed before this. We really should check VICAP.”

  The morgue door swung open behind them. All three of them jumped, spinning around to find Stan Wenhoff, his ruddy complexion pale. He held up what looked like a computer printout.

  “We’re in for a hell of a mess, kids.” Stan wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “She’s the daughter of Henry Franklin Brier…a goddamn U.S. senator.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Everett’s Compound

  Justin Pratt felt an elbow poke his side, and only then did he realize he had dozed off. He glanced at Alice, who was sitting beside him, cross-legged like the rest of the members, but her head and eyes were facing ahead, her back straight. Two of her fingers tapped his ankle, her polite way of telling him to stay awake and pay attention.

  He wanted to tell her he didn’t give a fuck what Father had to say tonight or any night, for that matter. And after last night he wished that Alice didn’t give a fuck, either. Jesus! He was so tired. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, just for a few minutes. He could still listen even if his eyes were closed. His eyelids started to droop, and this time he felt a pinch. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, digging a thumb and index finger into his eyes. Another elbow. Jesus!

  He glared at her, but she didn’t flinch from her appropriately adoring attention on Father. Maybe she liked what the guy did to her last night. Maybe she had really gotten off on it, and what Justin thought was a grimace had actually been her expression of orgasm. Shit! He was just tired. He needed to stop thinking about last night. He sat up straight and folded his hands into his lap.

  Tonight Father was going off on the government again, a favorite topic of his. Justin had to admit that some of the stuff the man said did make sense. He remembered his grandfather telling Eric and him stories about government conspiracies. How the government had murdered JFK. How the United Nations was really a conspiracy to take over the world.

  Justin’s dad had said, “The old man had a couple of loose screws,” but Justin loved and admired his grandfather. He had been a war hero, getting the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving his whole squad in Vietnam. Justin had seen the medal, as well as the photos and letters, one from President Lyndon Johnson. It was pretty cool. But it was all stuff Justin knew his dad despised. Probably another reason Justin loved the old man—they had something in common: neither of them had ever been able to please Justin’s dad. Then his grandfather up and died last year. Justin still felt pissed at him for leaving him. He knew that was a fucked-up attitude. It wasn’t his granddad’s fault, but he missed the old man. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, especially after Eric left.

  He knew Eric missed Granddad, too, even if he was too much of a macho-shithead to admit it. Less than three weeks after the funeral, Eric dropped out of Brown University. That was when all hell broke loose at home.

  “Excuse me, am I boring you?” Father’s voice boomed across the room.

  Justin sat up, but he was already sitting about as straight as he could. He felt Alice gripping his ankle, so tight her fingernails dug into his sock and skin.

  Shit! He was in trouble now. Alice had warned him that daydream
ing during Father’s talks could lead to punishment. Oh, what the hell. So what if he sent him out into the woods again. Maybe this time he’d just take off. He didn’t need this shit. Maybe he could meet up with Eric somewhere else.

  “Answer me,” Father demanded as the room grew quiet. No one dared turn to look at the guilty one. “Do you find what I say so boring you’d rather sleep?”

  Justin looked up, ready to take his punishment, but Father’s eyes were staring off to Justin’s left. And now the old man sitting next to Justin began to fidget restlessly. Justin could see the man’s callused hands wringing the hem of his blue work shirt. He recognized him from the building crew. No wonder the poor guy was dozing. The building crew had been working around the clock to remodel Father’s living quarters before winter, which was ridiculous if all of them were to be moving to some paradise soon. Surely others on the crew would speak up and remind Father of the long hours they’d been working. But instead, everyone remained silent, waiting.

  “Martin, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I guess I—”

  “Stand up when you address me.”

  The members all sat on the floor during the meetings. Justin couldn’t figure out why the hell Father was the only one who got a chair. Alice had tried to explain that no one’s head should be higher than Father’s when Father spoke. Justin would have laughed out loud at that had it not been for the somber, almost reverent look on her face.

  “We have traitors in our midst,” Father bellowed. “We have a reporter trying to destroy us with ugly lies. This is no time for any of us to be caught sleeping. I said stand!”

  Justin watched the old man untangle his legs and crawl to his feet. He could sympathize with the guy. After three hours, he, too, had problems with muscle cramps. The old guy reminded Justin of his grandfather, thin and small, but wiry. He was probably stronger and younger than his weathered skin suggested. He shot a look at Justin, then looked away quickly, reminding Justin that he shouldn’t be watching. Out of the corner of his eyes Justin could see the others with their heads obediently facing the front of the room and their eyes cast down.

  “Martin, you’re wasting everyone’s time. Perhaps instead of offering an explanation, you need a reminder of what happens when you waste everyone’s time.” Father waved to the two bodyguards, and the men disappeared out the back door. “Come here, Martin, and bring along Aaron.”

  “No, wait…” Martin protested as he made his way to the front, stepping carefully around the members who sat in an unorganized fashion on the floor. “Punish me,” Martin said, weaving his way, “but leave my son out of this.”

  However, the fair-skinned, blond Aaron was already making his way to Father’s side. Justin figured him to be about his age, only small and wiry like his dad, and strangely eager to assist Father.

  “Martin, you know there are no fathers and sons here. No mothers and daughters. No brothers and sisters.” Father’s voice was back to its calm, soothing tone. “We all belong to one unit, one family.”

  “Of course, I just meant—” Martin stopped when he saw the guards return, carrying what Justin thought was a huge, long hose.

  Then the hose moved.

  “Shit!” he said under his breath, then quickly glanced around, grateful no one had heard him over their own gasps. Because what the guards carried between them was the biggest fucking snake Justin had ever seen.

  He stole a glimpse at Father’s face while everyone else returned to silence. Father was smiling, watching the crowd’s reaction and nodding as if in satisfaction. Suddenly, Father caught Justin’s eyes and the smile turned to a scowl. Justin looked away, lowering his head as well as his eyes. Jesus! Was he in trouble now? He waited for his name to be called and realized his heart had begun slamming against his ribs. In this fucking silence would the sound betray him?

  “Aaron,” Father called instead, “I want you to take this snake and place it around Martin’s neck.”

  There were no gasps, only more silence, as though the entire room of people was collectively holding its breath.

  “But Father…” Aaron’s voice sounded like a small boy’s, and Justin cringed. Stupid kid. Don’t show weakness. Don’t show him you’re scared.

  “Aaron, I’m surprised.” The reverend’s voice was soft and sweet, and it made Justin cringe even more. “Didn’t you come to me just last week and tell me you were ready to become one of my soldiers? One of our warriors for justice?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Stop your sniveling, then, and do as I say,” he yelled, causing everyone to jump at the change in his tone.

  Aaron looked from Father to Martin and then at the snake. Justin couldn’t believe the kid was considering it. But what choice did he have if he didn’t want that fucking snake around his own neck? Surely, this was only a test. Yeah, that was it. Justin didn’t know much about the Bible, but wasn’t there some story about God telling a father to kill his own son? Then at the last minute God stopped the guy. That had to be what this was.

  Justin took a deep breath, but no relief seemed to come with his sudden realization. Instead, all he felt was Alice’s fingernails digging deeper into his ankle.

  Aaron took hold of the snake. Martin, who had stood tall and firm all this time, began to sob, so violently he shook as Aaron and one of the guards wound the snake across the old man’s shoulders and neck.

  “We must not be caught sleeping,” Father was saying, his voice calm again as though this was just another one of his instructive lectures. “Our enemies are closer than you think. Only those of us who are strong and obey the strictness of our rules will survive.”

  Justin wondered if anyone was listening to Father’s words. He had difficulty hearing them over the pounding of his own heart, while he watched the snake squeeze and Martin’s face swell, turning crimson-red. The old man’s fingers clawed at the snake as panic overrode fear.

  “All it takes is one person,” Father continued, “to betray us, to destroy us.”

  Justin couldn’t believe it. Father wasn’t even looking at Martin. Surely, he’d call it off any second now. Wasn’t this enough of a test? The old man’s eyes started to roll back in his head, his tongue hung from his mouth. His head would explode. It was going to fucking explode all over the place.

  “We must remember…” Father stopped and looked down at the puddle forming around his shoes. Martin had peed his pants. Father lifted one foot, his face contorting with disgust. He waved to his guards. “Remove the snake,” he said, as if only because he didn’t want his shoes soiled any more than they already were.

  It took both guards and Aaron to pull off and unwrap the snake. Martin collapsed where he stood. But Father continued as though this had only been a minor distraction, stepping over Martin’s body and turning his back to him as the old man crawled away.

  “We must remember there are no loyalties, no bonds except for the greater good of our mission. We must free ourselves from petty desires of the material world.”

  Father seemed to be addressing a specific group, especially one woman, who sat in front. Justin recognized her. She was one of the entourage that the reverend kept close at prayer rallies, one of the group of about a dozen members that was bused in for the meetings. They all still lived and worked on the outside and had not yet entirely joined the community. Alice had explained that these were people with important ties to the outside, or ones who had not yet fully proved themselves to Father.

  As the meeting ended, Justin watched Father go to the woman, giving her both his hands to help her stand and hugging her. Probably feeling her up and getting in a few extra squeezes. Justin couldn’t help thinking she looked like one of his mom’s country club friends, wearing a navy dress and that bright red scarf.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was at this time every evening that Kathleen O’Dell still craved a tumbler of bourbon, a stirred—not shaken—martini or even a snifter of brandy. She stared at the tray with the porcela
in gold-trimmed pot and watched as Reverend Everett poured a cup of hot tea for her, Emily, Stephen and himself. All the while, she couldn’t help thinking how much she hated tea. It didn’t matter if it was herbal, spice or served with lemon or honey or milk. Just the aroma made her want to gag.

  The tea reminded her of those first weeks from hell when she quit drinking. Father had stopped by her apartment several times a week, generously giving of his precious time to brew for her a pot of his special tea made from leaves shipped from some exotic place in South America. He claimed it had magical powers. Kathleen swore it made her hallucinate, causing painful flashes of bright light behind her eyes. That was before it made her stomach rock violently. Each time, Father stood patiently over her, telling her how God had different plans for her, or more precisely, telling the back of her head while she vomited her guts into the toilet.

  Now she smiled up at him as he handed her a cup, pretending this was exactly what she craved. She owed this man so much, and yet he seemed to ask for so little in return. Pretending to enjoy his tea seemed a small sacrifice.

  They all sat in front of the roaring fireplace in the soft leather chairs Father had received from a wealthy donor. Everyone sipped the tea, and Kathleen put the cup to her lips, making herself do the same. There had been little conversation. They were still a bit stunned from Father’s powerful performance. No one doubted the need for Martin to be taught a lesson. How dare he fall asleep.

  She could feel Father watching the three of them, his diplomats to the outside world, as he called them. Each played an important role, assigned tasks that only he or she could deliver. In return, Father allowed them these private meetings, gracing them with his time and his confidences, both rare and special commodities. He had so many obligations. There were so many people who needed him to heal their wounds and save their souls. Between weekend rallies and daily lectures, the man had little time to himself. So many pressures, so much to expect from one person.