The Soul Hunter

by Melanie Wells

  “The Watchers are always watching,” she said.

  “I know. You told me that already. Is that who you wanted to save her from?”

  “All I ever wanted was for her to be safe.”

  “Well, she wasn’t. Do you know what happened in East Texas? On Stringer Road at 3:30 a.m.?”

  “I believe they both fell asleep. Happens all the time,” she said.

  “On the same road? At exactly the same time of night? And they both happened to be related to Drew Sturdivant? And to you?”

  “Possibly the supernatural was involved. Did you ever think of that, Miss Foster? That the universe may not be what it seems?”

  “All the time.”

  “You can’t pin that on me. I was nowhere near that road.”

  “I didn’t suggest you were.”

  “Well you can’t. I was nowhere near that road. I can prove it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Calm down. No one’s suggesting you were involved.”

  “Besides, Drew’s death is completely unrelated.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know. I do.”

  “Okay.”

  She was definitely crying now. “I’m asking you to leave me alone. I can’t talk about any of this. I won’t.”

  “Why? Is it dangerous?”

  “Everything’s dangerous.”

  And she hung up.

  30

  When I got home that night, my power was on and my water heater was working. Melissa was sleeping comfortably in her hutch, and there were no rats dying under my kitchen sink. If my answering machine light hadn’t been on, it would have been a clean entry. I pushed the button and fished a pad and pen out of a drawer, waving away the stench of obligation I always feel when I see that stupid red light blinking at me.

  My father had called again, livid that I’d be missing Kellee’s baby shower in June. I’d seen it coming, of course, but this was a longer rant than I’d expected. I pushed replay and timed the message. Over three minutes. He was pretty mad. I should probably call him back.

  Mending fences with my dad, a girl could get electrocuted. I just wasn’t up to it at the moment. My life was scary enough already. I pushed “erase” and moved on.

  The only other message was from Detective McKnight, who had returned my call and wanted me to call him back at my earliest convenience. I called him up on his cell phone, which turned out to be a big fat mistake.

  “Detective, this is Dylan Foster. Returning your call?”

  “All due respect, Dr. Foster, you want to tell me what exactly you were thinking? I mean, I’d really like to know. Just for my own personal knowledge.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You can’t just up and visit a suspect in a murder investigation. Not without authorization. Do you understand what we’re trying to do here? I mean do you have any understanding at all of what you’re messing around with? This is a murder investigation. You are not an investigator on this case. We have a dead girl and a solid suspect. We’ve got the suspect in custody. He already has a thing for you. I don’t need you traipsing in there and—”

  “Wait a minute, Detective. Slow down. I didn’t just decide to go see him on a whim. It’s not like I don’t have anything better to do with my time. I had permission.”

  “Who authorized it?”

  “Detective Martinez,” I stammered. “I didn’t know I was breaking a rule or anything. I’m sorry.”

  “Martinez authorized it?”

  “Check the log. He signed me in.”

  “He should have checked with me first.”

  “Okay, fine. I understand that. Completely. Could you please take that up with him instead of yelling at me?”

  “I will,” he said. “At the first opportunity.”

  He was starting to calm down now. Maybe he’d just needed to let off some steam. I seem to be good at that—triggering the explosion. It’s like a gift.

  “Why did you want to see Pryne?” he asked.

  “He asked for me. It wasn’t the other way around, believe me.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s okay. I should have told you. I didn’t think about it, I guess. My mistake.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just that we’re getting so close to nailing this guy. I don’t want anything screwing it up. No offense.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “PES has preliminaries.”

  “PES? I forgot what that is.”

  “Physical Evidence Section. Forensics. Fibers on the body are consistent with fibers on a jacket we took from Pryne’s apartment. Denim and fleece.”

  “You think he had the jacket on when he killed her?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Was it bloody?”

  “No.”

  “Had it recently been washed?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It will. When we know the whole story, it will all make sense. It always does. Probably he had something on over it. An overcoat or something. There are still some fibers we haven’t accounted for.”

  “But you haven’t found the overcoat.”

  “We will.”

  “What about the gloves?”

  “We’ll find those too.”

  Another optimist. Where do these people get it? I’d like to try a bottle, please.

  “What about time of death?” I asked. “Any news on that?”

  “Between 6:30 and 7:30.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was seen with the complainant at 6:30. And the ax showed up on your doorway at 7:30. According to your statement. He made a drug buy at the Circle Inn at 8:25.”

  “The Circle Inn? That dump on Northwest Highway?”

  “Rent-by-the-hour, day, or week. A real pigsty. Pryne’s residence at the time of the murder.”

  “Didn’t he go to see Maria Chavez at 5:30?”

  “Yeah. Busy night.”

  “How far is it from the Circle Inn to Critter Cars?”

  “Two-point-seven miles.”

  “Does he have a car?”

  “No.”

  “How’d he get there and back so fast?”

  “Must have caught a ride. We’re looking into that.”

  “He must’ve had a car to get from Critter Cars to my house. How far is that?”

  “Five-point-four miles. Driver must be the guy he’s working with. We’ve got some leads.”

  “More drug dealers?”

  “You doubting our case, Dr. Foster? You know something I don’t?”

  “There are just some things that don’t fit for me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that he put Drew’s body in the trunk of a car.”

  “So? He didn’t want anyone to find it until morning. Bought himself a little time.”

  “But he never does that. He didn’t conceal evidence in any of his other crimes. He just blows in, ruins someone’s life, and then leaves. Why the sudden concern for secrecy?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to go back to prison. He’s an escaped convict. Anyone spots him, he’s in a van on his way back to Huntsville in twenty-four hours. Murder like this? He’s looking at the death penalty. With his record.”

  “He’s not exactly the kind of guy that thinks that far ahead, detective. Especially if he was on a meth high. Is that what he bought at the Circle Inn?”

  “What are you saying? That he didn’t do it? All our evidence points to him. Everything.”

  “Okay. Go back to the car lot. How’d he get the body past the dog? The dog comes at seven, right?”

  “How do you know about the dog?”

  “I talked to Kay Basieri.”

  McKnight swore under his breath. “Who else have you talked to?”

  “Brigid.”

  “Brigid who?”

  “Drew’s mother. She doesn’t use a last name.”


  “Drew’s mother’s name is Alison.”

  “Alison Sturdivant is her aunt. Her mother’s name is Brigid. She lives in Louisiana. She’s a psychic.”

  “The Sturdivants aren’t her real parents?”

  “Didn’t they tell you that?”

  “They wouldn’t see me,” McKnight said. “They said they didn’t have a daughter. Insisted that their only daughter had died two years ago.”

  “When Drew divorced the husband, right? It’s called shunning. They shunned her. It’s a Jesus commune thing. Isn’t that sick?”

  “What, exactly, have you been doing, Dr. Foster? That you know more about this investigation than I do?”

  “I just…asked around,” I said, suddenly realizing I’d gotten myself into trouble again.

  “Well, could you stop it, please? And leave the investigating to the investigators in this case? I mean, we are professionals. We’ve done this before. Once or twice. For crying out loud.”

  “Don’t you want to know what she said?”

  “Brigid? No, I don’t. I’ll talk to her myself.”

  “Do you want her phone number?”

  “I do not. I think I can find a phone number without your help.”

  “You might want to look into the car accidents.”

  He swore again. “What car accidents?”

  “Drew’s ex-husband and her father both died in single-car accidents on the same road in East Texas. At 3:30 a.m.”

  “The same day?”

  “No. Nine years apart. I don’t think they even knew each other.”

  “Well, what’s it got to do with anything, then? It’s just a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so. Brigid sounded really suspicious when I asked her about it.”

  I heard him dig around on his desk, swearing again. “Okay,” he said finally. “What’s her number?”

  I told him. “She probably won’t answer the phone, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “I sort of made her mad.”

  Swearing again. “What did you go and do that for?”

  “It was an accident. I lost my temper. A little bit.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s one of my worst qualities. Top ten, for sure. Why don’t you just have someone pay her a visit? I bet you’d find out more in person anyway.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” he said. “Anything else I should know?”

  “I think Drew was into angel worship.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. I just think it’s important.”

  “That’s all the stuff on her headboard, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What language is that?”

  “Hebrew.”

  “Did you find out anything about Anael watches?”

  “Anael is the angel of the second heaven. He’s in charge of Fridays.”

  More swearing.

  I kept going. “He’s one of the Watchers in the book of Enoch. ‘Watches’ is a verb, not a noun. I thought it was a brand of watches, too.”

  McKnight sighed. “Can you write it all down and e-mail it to me? Save me the aggravation?”

  “Sure,” I said. “How much detail do you want?”

  “Summarize.”

  “Okay. I’ll have it for you tomorrow. What about the boyfriend? What’s-his-name. Finn. Did you talk to him yet?”

  “He’s clean. Solid alibi. No priors.”

  “Anything interesting in the autopsy?” I asked.

  He paused. “Nothing of note.” Another pause, and I noticed, a rapid subject change. “What did Pryne want?”

  “He wanted me to get the spirits to stop watching him.”

  McKnight chuckled. “Did you do it?”

  “Not yet. I’m working on it, though.”

  “Right. Let me know when you’ve got that done, will ya? I’ll see you get a commendation or something. Man’s a nutcase.”

  “Detective, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think he did it? Really? Bottom line?”

  “Yes. Absolutely no question in my mind.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Nine times out of ten the most obvious answer is the right one.”

  “The Occam rule.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Occam’s Razor, it’s called. Occam was a thirteenth-century philosopher. French, maybe. I forget. He developed this idea that in complex situations, barring the supernatural and the incredible, the simplest explanation is usually true.”

  “Well, he’s right. I just didn’t know it had a name. The evidence is lining up, Dr. Foster. It always does. Especially in a case like this, where the complainant knew the killer.”

  “That reminds me, detective. I keep forgetting to ask—was Drew sexually assaulted before she was killed?”

  “Nope.”

  I thanked him for his time, apologized again for intruding on his case, and we said our good-byes.

  I hadn’t realized until that phone call how much information I’d gathered. McKnight was right. I’d been poking my nose around where I had no business doing so. Naturally, I had no intention of stopping now.

  I’d promised McKnight a summary of my findings. I typed them up, all nice and neat, leaving out all references to Peter Terry, and printed an extra copy for myself. I made myself a to-do list for the next day. I called David one more time. Once again he didn’t pick up.

  I left him another contrite message, then started to get ready for bed. I wanted to make it an early night. I needed the rest.

  I got undressed and started the bath water, then took off the necklace David had given me for my birthday. I fingered the moonstone, thinking about how thoughtful he’d been to go to all the trouble to find this necklace for me.

  I’d mentioned to him once, months ago, that I liked moonstones. I love the opaque white—translucent without being transparent.

  He’d known, of course, about the other necklace I have that was made by Rosa Guevera. The one I’d gotten that day at Barton Springs. To take the trouble to track down a moonstone necklace by the same designer—it was such a David thing to do. So thoroughly thoughtful and sweet. David’s extra-mileness knocks me over sometimes.

  I hated that I’d made him mad. I hated that I’d neglected him even the teeniest little bit. He deserved better. I didn’t blame him for being tired of dealing with me. I was pretty tired of dealing with me too.

  I turned the stone over and looked at the workmanship. I’d probably never meet Rosa Guevera, but I felt like I knew her. And I could feel the connection with my mother when I wore Rosa’s jewelry. My mother had given Rosa her start. And this is what I had to show for it.

  I ran my finger along the silver back of the stone and felt the ridges of Rosa’s mark: RG, with a little symbol next to it.

  I squinted and flipped on the nightstand light, holding the necklace close to the bulb. For the first time, I noticed the symbol next to Rosa’s initials.

  It was an ankh.

  31

  I was up early and standing at the door in the cold when they unlocked Bridwell Library the next day. I wasn’t sure how Rosa Guevera fit in, but it didn’t take much time to connect the ankh to the rest of the story. The ankh is an ancient Egyptian glyph for magical protection. And according to angelic lore, it was also Anael’s symbol. Whether this meant he flew around with one around his neck or what, I had no idea. Eli had said something about Anael’s association with the Anakim—the Wearers of Necklaces. And now there it was, in plain black and white.

  With Anael in charge of the demon pit, I could only guess that Drew had somehow begun to call on Anael, in some way that felt comforting to her, to protect her from the Peter Terrys of the world. Whether she’d met Peter Terry personally, I still didn’t know. But the girl had enough inner demons to colonize a small village in hell, so I figured it was likely their paths had crossed at
some point.

  I felt myself slipping into another fit of sadness for her, but shook myself out of it quickly. Mondays are teaching days for me. Like it or not, I had no choice but to drill a hole through my preoccupation with Drew’s fate and pay attention to more immediate matters.

  I packed up my stuff, shouldering my resolve as I slung my book bag onto my back and trudged through the cold to the other end of campus. I spent the rest of the morning with my office door closed, prepping for class and returning work-related phone calls and e-mails for the first time in almost a week. Lunch was quick—a cheeseburger from Jack’s (milkmaid thighs be damned)—followed by a few student appointments.

  My class was lively that afternoon, the debate sharp and stimulating. I felt grounded by the time I left, like I’d stepped back into reality from the other side of that stupid magnifying mirror. It was good to be behind my eyes again, inside my own skin, if even for a few hours.

  I stopped by Helene’s office after class.

  “It’s over there,” she said, pointing.

  She’d brought the cobbler in an insulated Tupperware thing that zips around a rectangular lidded pan. Leave it to Helene to have the good gear.

  I picked up the cobbler. “It’s still warm.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  I unzipped the cover and tipped the lid. The smell was intoxicating. Rich and buttery.

  She looked up at me over her glasses. “It won’t work unless you stuff your lousy attitude into that big leather bag of yours. You know that, don’t you? Without that, it’s just dough and fruit.”

  I sighed. “The man brings out the worst in me. He truly does. Every time I look at him, I’m just overcome with hostility.”

  “Well, try and contain yourself this one time. It’s in your own best interest.”

  “I will. Believe me. I’m going over there right now.” I turned to leave. “And Helene?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Go.”

  I made a quick trip to the grocery store across the street for a half-gallon of Blue Bell Country Vanilla ice cream, the pièce de résistance. Then gathered it all up and made the trek across the campus to the clinic.

  I took a breath and knocked on John’s office door.

  I knew by now what to expect. There was the startled scoot of the chair, the scrambling and shuffling of papers, and the plodding walk across the room. He opened the door a crack.