The Soul Hunter

by Melanie Wells

  “Do you have a copy of the tape at your office?”

  “The interrogation tape? Sure.”

  I scooted my chair back and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  One perk of the job is that chaplains get real offices, not just cubicles. For privacy, I guess. Martinez’s office is not unlike mine. He has more books than he knows what to do with. His desk is tidy, the pending business of the day stacked in neat little piles. His coffeemaker is a spotless stainless steel number, extra coffee cups sitting beside it, along with a variety of sweeteners. The coffee cups were clean and unstained, unlike every other vessel I’d seen in this building. A crucifix hung on one wall. Photographs of children were everywhere, a dozen or so little versions of himself, framed and propped up where he could see them. Three kids appeared as a group more often than any of the others—two beautiful dark-skinned, brown-eyed boys, and a little pig-tailed girl, who was always between them. I wondered if any of the children were his. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be married. He didn’t wear a ring.

  He reached onto one of his shelves and pulled out the tape, then walked me down the hall to a conference room and shut the door behind us. He put the tape in and turned on the TV.

  I picked up the remote and fast-forwarded to the end, starting the video where the howling began, letting it roll with the sound off. We sat back and watched again as Jackson and Martinez backed away from Pryne, who threw himself against his chains and collapsed. We waited a few more minutes as the officers scrambled to get the situation under control.

  “We’re almost there,” I said.

  We watched together as Pryne was strapped to the gurney and rolled out of the room.

  And then the screen went black.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “I guess that’s the end.”

  “No, there was more. The tape rolled for another ten minutes or so. What happened to the rest of it?”

  “They probably stopped the copy as Pryne left the room. The interview was over at that point. Why?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. I thought I’d seen something at the end of the video.”

  “Want me to call A-V and see if they still have the original?”

  “That would be great.”

  He stepped out and made the phone call, returning a minute later with a fresh cup of coffee. I was still nursing my tea.

  “No dice. They erased it already.”

  I sighed. It was probably just as well.

  “What happened at the lake?” he asked.

  I looked at him, trying to decide whether to trust him. Not that he wasn’t a trustworthy person—he didn’t have that vibe about him at all. I mean, whether to trust him with my own vulnerability. Whether to expose the weird reality I’d found myself in the middle of or, alternatively, to lie through my teeth and maintain some reasonable facade of normalcy.

  I opted for a toned down version of the truth, telling him about the day two summers ago when I’d met Peter Terry at Barton Springs in Austin, and about selected bits of the chaos that had followed.

  “You think this guy’s the one watching Gordon Pryne?” Martinez asked me.

  “Put it this way,” I said. “I think Gordon Pryne thinks Peter Terry is watching him. And somehow Gordon Pryne got wind that I’ve met him.”

  He took a sip of his coffee. “This is some creepy stuff.”

  I nodded. “And where’s Yaya when we need her?”

  He smiled. “Talking to St. Jude. I told you.”

  “Well, she’d better talk fast,” I said. “’Cause the way this is going, we’re going to need the help.”

  An airplane roared overhead. As we watched the plane bank to the right over downtown, I noticed the contrails had faded above us and the X had dissipated into the afternoon sky.

  “What did you say he’s in charge of?” I asked.

  “Lost causes.”

  I raised my paper cup and we toasted. “To St. Jude.”

  29

  David Shykovsky had graduated summa cum laude from Sugar Pie School, so even though he wasn’t speaking to me, he’d done his homework assignment and checked on the autopsies of Drew’s father and husband. By the time I left Martinez, David had left me a message on my work line and faxed over the reports. I called to thank him, but of course he didn’t pick up. I drove over to the office to get the pages off the fax machine before anyone else saw them. No need to let my colleagues in on the drama du jour. I had enough reputation problems already.

  I fixed a cup of tea and let myself into my office and sat down at my desk. I reached over to my bookshelf and flipped on the stereo, letting the sound of Vivaldi into the room. Listening to classical music was a new affectation for me, and one I’m a little iffy about. Mainly because I sometimes worry I’m starting to get stodgy. Teaching at a university is a bad enough influence on me. Scholars are not fun-loving, if you get my drift. Everyone is just so serious and self-important. As if our work is actually crucial to anyone’s existence but our own. As though we’re discovering how to make fuel from orange peels or inventing air conditioning in a can or saving the Giant Panda. Well, there are probably academics somewhere doing things like that, but nobody in my department, that’s for sure.

  Classical music and university life—either one of them, if you’re not careful—can, I believe, be the death of an otherwise vital, interesting personality. While you’re not paying attention, they eat away at your citizenship in the culture, one snobby little bite at a time. Pretty soon I’d be hosting poetry readings and using bird as a verb, if I didn’t watch out. I’d already tanked my social life, which had been on a slow dive since I’d signed up for graduate school a couple of presidential administrations ago.

  I reached back and flipped the station until I heard a boot-scooting Bruce Robison song that made me want to go dancing. Much better. I snapped my desk light on and spread the papers out in front of me, reading every word of each report.

  When the events were considered separately, both men had died unremarkable deaths. Both were involved in one-car accidents, late at night, while driving alone. Toxicology on both men was negative. Neither had been using alcohol or any other drug that might impair their ability to function. Neither man had any history of brain injury or seizures. Both had perfect night vision.

  David had also managed to scare up police reports from the accidents, both of which took place on the same two-lane road outside of Vidor, Texas, which is a dinky speck of a town in East Texas, not far from the Jesus commune. Vidor, as its one claim to infamy, is reportedly one of the last remaining cesspools of Klan activity in Texas. This fact, though repugnant in a gut-level, visceral way, did not seem relevant to matters at hand. Except that, to me, Vidor has always seemed a dark place. I’m sure there are many fine people there, but as is usually the case, the icky ones are the ones everyone talks about.

  Both men had immaculate driving records. Neither had been speeding at the time of their accidents. Both cars had left skid marks suggesting a sudden swerve off the road and into a tree. The reports speculated they’d fallen asleep while driving or perhaps swerved to miss an animal. Both reports reached the same conclusion. Cause of death: multiple organ trauma. Manner of death: automobile accident, single car.

  The men, of course, had much more in common than the circumstances of their deaths. Both were related to Drew Sturdivant. And to Brigid, her fruity mother who worked as a psychic in Louisiana and never answered her phone. Of course, as far as I knew, the men had never met one another. Drew’s father had died years before Drew even met her husband.

  I skimmed the reports again, thinking I’d just run up against a dead end. It had been a wild hunch, anyway.

  And then I saw the time of death. Both men had died at 3:30 a.m., according to broken dashboard clocks. 3:30 a.m. exactly. Over nine years apart. On the same road. Three thirty is Peter Terry Hour at my house. That’s when he likes to show up and crack open my sanity and watch it spill out all over th
e floor, just for the fun of it.

  This could be a coincidence, I guess. And for a less paranoid person under less surreal circumstances, that would be the logical conclusion here. But I am indeed paranoid. And this was no ordinary situation. It was spooky as hell, so to speak. And getting spookier by the minute.

  I tapped my pen on the paper and tried to think.

  “You look as though you’re engrossed in something of great importance,” a voice said.

  I turned to see Harold Lansing standing in my doorway. Harold is a colleague of mine. He specializes in developmental psychology, so he spends a lot of time with little kids. He’s always wearing Kermit the Frog neckties and bright yellow shoelaces, anything to set the kids at ease. He’s got stuffed animals and Tootsie Rolls in his office and usually walks around with a kazoo in his pocket, just in case. He’s into the kids way more than he’s into the research, which makes his work much more quirky and interesting than most of my colleagues’.

  I like Harold a lot. He’s a bright spot in an otherwise deadly dull department. He’s also the head of my academic committee. Which means Harold is currently the prime target of my campaign to get John Mulvaney removed from said committee.

  I promptly hopped up and ushered Harold into my office, clearing off a chair for him.

  “Cup of tea, Harold?”

  He shook his head no and sat down. “Save the genuflect, Dylan.”

  My heart sank. “You talked to Helene.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “She suggested we give Mulvaney the boot.”

  “And?”

  “And I agree, but it’s really not possible.”

  “Oh, come on, Harold. Anything’s possible if you just believe.”

  “Nice try, Dylan, but I’m fresh out of fairy dust. The only person who can get John Mulvaney removed from your committee is John Mulvaney. He’d have to excuse himself.”

  “That’s the rule?”

  “It’s more than a rule. It’s the way it is.”

  “But why? It doesn’t make any sense. John Mulvaney couldn’t evaluate the work of a seven-year-old—”

  “Dog. I know.”

  “Then what’s the point of having him evaluate me?”

  “It’s university policy, Dylan. Three-year reviews are done by the tenured faculty of the department. Period. Everyone is subject to the same rules. If we had the unfettered right to kick idiots off committees, the body count would outnumber the survivors, my dear. We’ve got people on committees that can’t part their own hair, much less evaluate anything more complicated than a drive-through menu.”

  “I’m sunk.”

  “You could…” he hesitated.

  “What? Could what?”

  “You could try to get Mulvaney to write a letter stating that he’s not in a position to evaluate you. That might work. It’s a softer approach.”

  “He’d never agree to it.”

  “You’d have to sell it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way to a man’s heart is through his ego.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “Make him feel important.”

  “You want me to inflate that already gargantuan ego? He’s liable to pop. Think of the mess.”

  “Think about it. John’s work is experimental. Yours is obviously clinical. Appeal to that. Make him think he’d be lowering himself to evaluate work that’s done with real people. Better yet, make him think he can’t spare the time. He loves to think he’s busy.” Harold cackled. “You’ll have to break your rule and call him Dr. Mulvaney, though. You know how he is about that.”

  “I’m starting to feel faint.”

  Harold laughed and stood up. “And ask Helene to bake the man a pie. Just in case the other avenue to a man’s heart is through the stomach, as the saying goes.”

  “That’s actually a good idea. I saw him in the mall the other day eating with two hands. It was disgusting.”

  “Better make it a cobbler, then. They’re bigger. Helene’s got a great blueberry number. And don’t forget the ice cream.” He chuckled again and walked out.

  I put in a quick call to Helene, who agreed to show up with a cobbler tomorrow morning, true champion that she is. I wrote myself a note to pick up a gallon of Blue Bell.

  My conspiracy strategy in place, I turned off the radio and looked again at the pile of notes in front of me, not sure where to begin. Did I even want to go down this road? What did two car accidents in East Texas have to do with Drew Sturdivant’s murder, anyway?

  I pawed through my notes and found Brigid’s number again. It was worth one more try.

  Jesus must have decided to cut me a break, because Brigid answered on the first ring. “Serenity,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Serenity,” she said again.

  “Uh, okay. Serenity. Right back atcha.” I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for someone named Brigid?”

  “I am Brigid,” she said regally, though she had a twang in her accent you could drive a tractor through.

  “Oh, hey. I’m glad I caught you. I’m Dylan Foster. I called you a couple of times.”

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  “Great. You got my messages, then.”

  “I have received no messages.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you said—”

  “Not of the kind you are referring to.”

  “What other kind is there?”

  “How may I be of help to you, my child?”

  “Uh, okay. I guess we can start with that. I’m looking into the murder of your daughter.”

  “We’re all daughters of the earth, Miss Foster.”

  “Right. But I’m talking about your own, personal daughter. You do have a daughter named Drew Sturdivant. Right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, see, it’s just that I saw this letter you wrote her and I was wondering what you meant when you said you needed time to think it over. What did you need to think over?”

  I thought I heard her take a quick breath. “You saw the letter?” she said.

  “I have it right here in front of me.”

  Her voice stiffened. “I don’t recall writing anyone named Drew any letters.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “She tracked you down a couple of years ago. After you abandoned her in East Texas with your sister when she was just a helpless little kid? Right after her dad was killed? Your husband? The one that died in a car accident at 3:30 a.m. on Stringer Road? Right outside of Vidor, Texas? You do remember that, don’t you?”

  She hung up.

  Even as the words flew out of the gate, I knew they were a mistake. I’d tried to lasso them before they got away. I really had. But my unruly tongue, along with my temper, is one of my. Top Ten Terrible Traits. I have about a 30 percent success rate, I figure.

  I dialed her again.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said when she picked up the phone. “Thank you for taking my call.”

  “Miss Foster, I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

  I’d gotten this woman’s phone number out of the book. Maybe she was just a run-of-the-mill scam psychic that worked under the name Brigid. Maybe there were lots of psychics named Brigid. I decided to try a curve ball, since I was pitching a losing game so far.

  “Must be my mistake. I’m very sorry to disturb you. It’s just that, well, see I must have gotten the wrong Brigid. Someone gave me your number. You don’t know anything about Anael watches, do you? I mean, Drew, the girl I’m talking about, had a poster in her room for that brand of watches. I thought she’d gotten it from you.”

  Silence.

  “Brigid?”

  “Could you spell it?”

  “A-N-A-E-L.”

  The line went dead.

  I dialed again. She picked up, but hung up quickly without saying anything.
/>   I dialed again. She didn’t pick up this time. Neither did her answering machine. I decided to let it ring. Indefinitely. Now that I knew I had the right Brigid, I was prepared to wait until hell froze over for an answer. Me and ol’ Adlai Stevenson. Sometimes when you’re facing down the enemy, you just have to fold your arms and wait it out.

  It only took a hundred rings or so.

  “This is harassment,” she said.

  “This is important.”

  “Miss Foster, why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Your daughter is dead, Brigid. She was nineteen years old and someone killed her with an ax. Don’t you care what happened to her?”

  “I thought they caught the guy.”

  Ah. Base hit.

  “They’ve arrested someone. A man named Gordon Pryne. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Who is Anael?”

  Silence.

  “Brigid?”

  “I thought you said it was a brand of watches.”

  “You and I both know it isn’t a brand of watches.”

  “Who told you about Anael?”

  “Drew did. Indirectly.”

  “I didn’t know Drew knew about Anael.”

  “Do you know what that means? ‘Anael watches’?”

  “The Watchers are watching. Always watching.” She made a little choking sound, and then sniffed loudly. It sounded to me like she was crying.

  “Brigid? Stay with me here, okay? Who is Anael?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Do you know anything about her father’s death?” I asked. “And her husband’s? It seems like there were a lot of coincidences—”

  “Drew’s father was a terrible man,” she snapped. “And that husband of hers was just disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. She never should have married that man.”

  “I didn’t get the impression she had much choice.”

  “It was those Jesus people. They made her.”

  “The ones you left her with,” I reminded her.

  “I didn’t think it would be like that. I thought she’d be safe.”

  “From what?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “From what, Brigid? The Watchers? Anael?”