The Soul Catcher

About the Author

ALEX KAVA dedicated herself to writing in 1996, having had a successful career in PR and advertising. Praised by critics and fans alike, Alex Kava’s Maggie O’Dell novels, A Perfect Evil, Split Second, The Soul Catcher and A Necessary Evil, have all been New York Times bestsellers as well as appearing on bestseller lists around the world.

Also by Alex Kava

A NECESSARY EVIL

AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

SPLIT SECOND

A PERFECT EVIL

The Soul Catcher

Alex Kava

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to two amazing women—fellow authors, wise mentors, treasured friends.

For

Patricia

Sierra who insisted I stay grounded, focused and on track, then nagged me until I did.

And for

Laura Van Wormer

who insisted I could soar, then gave me a gentle shove in the right direction.

In a year that asked more questions than provided answers, just having the two of you believe in me has meant more than I can ever express in words.

Beware the soul catcher

Who comes in a flash of light.

Trust not a word.

Meet not his eye.

Lest he catch your soul,

Trapping it for all eternity

In his little black box.

—Anonymous

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’m a firm believer in sharing credit and giving thanks, so please be patient, as the list seems to grow with each book. Many thanks to all the professionals who so generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, blame me, not them. My appreciation and respect go to the following experts.

Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, my crusader, my creative partner and my common sense—you are truly the best.

Dianne Moggy for your patience, your focus and your wise counsel—you are a class act.

The entire crew at MIRA® Books for their enthusiasm and dedication, especially Tania Charzewski, Krystyna de Duleba and Craig Swinwood. Special thanks to Alex Osuszek and an incredible sales force that continues to surpass goals and records I never dreamed to be reaching, let alone surpassing. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to be part of the team and not just the product.

Megan Underwood and the experts at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc., once again, for your unflinching dedication and unquestionable expertise.

Philip Spitzer, my agent—I will forever be grateful for you taking a chance on me.

Darcy Lindner, funeral director, for answering all my morbid questions with professional grace, charm, directness and enough details to give me a tremendous respect for your profession.

Omaha police officer Tony Friend for an image of cockroaches that I’m not likely to forget.

Special Agents Jeffrey John, Art Westveer and Harry Kern for taking time out of your busy schedules at Quantico’s FBI Academy to show me around and give me some idea of what it’s like to be a “real” FBI agent and profiler. And also, thanks to Special Agent Steve Frank.

Dr Gene Egnoski, psychologist and cousin extraordinaire, for taking time to help me psychoanalyse my killers and not thinking it strange to do so. And special thanks to Mary Egnoski for listening patiently and encouraging us.

John Philpin, author and retired forensic psychologist, for generously answering without hesitation every question I’ve ever thrown at you.

Beth Black and your wonderful staff for your energy, your unwavering support and your friendship.

Sandy Montang and the Omaha Chapter of Sisters in Crime for your inspiration.

And once again, to all the book buyers, booksellers and book readers for making room on your lists, your shelves and in your homes for a new voice.

Special thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, especially the following:

Patti El-Kachouti, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, LaDonna Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava, Nicole Friend, Annie Belatti, Ellen Jacobs, Natalie Cummings and Lilyan Wilder for sticking by me during the dark days of this past year as well as celebrating the bright ones.

Marlene Haney for helping me keep things in perspective and then, of course, helping me “deal with it.”

Sandy Rockwood for insisting you can’t wait for the finished product, which in itself is always a much-appreciated pat on the back.

Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids while I’m on the road. I couldn’t do what I do without the peace of mind you provide.

Rich Kava, retired firefighter and paramedic as well as cousin and friend, for listening, encouraging, sharing your stories and always making me laugh.

Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, for letting me vent despite my good fortune.

Richard Evnen for witty repartee, kind and genuine words of encouragement and a friendship that includes pretending I know what I’m doing, even though we both know otherwise.

Father Dave Korth for making me realise what a rare gift it is to be a “co-creator.”

Patricia Kava, my mother, whose undeniable strength is a true inspiration.

Edward Kava, my father, who passed away October 17, 2001, and who was surely a co-creator in his own right.

And last but certainly never least, a “from the heart” thank-you to Debbie Carlin. Your spirit and energy, your generosity, your friendship and love have made an amazing difference in my life. I will always feel blessed that our paths have crossed.

CHAPTER 1

WEDNESDAY November 20 Suffolk County, Massachusetts, on the Neponset River

Eric Pratt leaned his head against the cabin wall. Plaster crumbled. It trickled down his shirt collar, sticking to the sweat on the back of his neck like tiny insects attempting to crawl beneath his skin. Outside it had gotten quiet—too quiet—the silence grinding seconds into minutes and minutes into eternity. What the hell were they up to?

With the floodlights no longer blasting through the dirty windows, Eric had to squint to make out the hunched shadows of his comrades. They were scattered throughout the cabin. They were exhausted and tense but ready and waiting. In the twilight, he could barely see them, but he could smell them: the pungent odor of sweat mixed with what he had come to recognize as the scent of fear. Freedom of speech. Freedom from fear.

Where was that freedom now? Bullshit! It was all bullshit! Why hadn’t he seen that long ago?

He relaxed his grip on the AR-15 assault rifle. In the last hour, the gun had grown heavier, yet, it remained the only thing that brought him a sense of security. He was embarrassed to admit that the gun gave him more comfort than any of David’s mumblings of prayer or Father’s radioed words of encouragement, both of which had stopped hours before.

What good were words, anyway, at a time like this? What power could they wield now as the six of them remained trapped in this one-room cabin? Now that they were surrounded by woods filled with FBI and ATF agents? With Satan’s warriors descending upon them, what words could protect them from the anticipated explosion of bullets? The enemy had come. It was just as Father had predicted, but they’d need more than words to stop them. Words were just plain bullshit! He didn’t care if God heard his thoughts. What more could God do to him now?

Eric brought the barrel of the gun to rest against his cheek, its cool metal soothing and reassuring.

Kill or be killed.

Yes, those were words he understood. Those words he could still believe in. He leaned his head back and let the plaster crumble into his hair, the pieces reminding him again of insects, of head lice burrowing into his greasy scalp. He closed his eyes and wished he could shut off his mind. Why was it so damned quiet? What the hell were they doing out there? He held his breath and listened.

Water dripped from the pump in the corner. Somewhere a clock ticked off the seconds. Outside a branch scraped against the roof. Above his head, a crisp fall breeze streamed in through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of pine needles and the sound of dry leaves skittering across the ground like the rattle of bones in a cardboard box.

It’s all that’s left. Just a box of bones.

Bones and an old gray T-shirt, Justin’s T-shirt. That was all that was left of his brother. Father had given him the box and told him Justin hadn’t been strong enough. That his faith hadn’t been strong enough. That this is what happened when you didn’t believe.

Eric couldn’t shake the image of those white bones, picked clean by wild animals. He couldn’t stand the thought of it, bears or coyotes—or maybe both—growling and fighting over the ripped flesh. How could he endure the guilt? Why had he allowed it? Justin had come to the compound, attempting to save him, to convince him to leave, and what had Eric done in return? He should have never allowed Father’s initiation ritual to take place. He should have escaped while he and Justin had a chance. Now what chance was there? And all he had of his younger brother was a cardboard box of bones. The memory brought a shiver down his back. He jerked it off, opening his eyes to see if anyone had noticed, but found only darkness swallowing the insides of the cabin.

“What’s happening?” a voice screeched out.

Eric jumped to his feet, crouching low, swinging the rifle into position. In the shadows he could see the robotic jerks of the others, the panic clicking out in a metallic rhythm as they swung their own weapons into place.

“David, what’s going on?” the voice asked again, this time softer and accompanied by a crackle of static.

Eric allowed himself to breathe and slid back down the wall, while he watched David crawl to the two-way radio across the room.

“We’re still here,” David whispered. “They’ve got us—”

“No wait,” the voice interrupted. “Mary should be joining you in fifteen minutes.”

There was a pause. Eric wondered if any of the others found Father’s code words as absurd. Or for that matter, wouldn’t anyone listening in find the words strange and outrageous?

Yet without hesitation, he heard David turn the knobs, changing the radio’s frequency to channel 15.

The room grew silent again. Eric could see the others positioning themselves closer to the radio, anxiously awaiting instructions or perhaps some divine intervention. David seemed to be waiting, too. Eric wished he could see David’s face. Was he as frightened as the rest of them? Or would he continue to play out his part as the brave leader of this botched mission?

“David,” the radio voice crackled, channel 15’s frequency not as clear.

“We’re here, Father,” David answered, the quiver unmistakable, and Eric’s stomach took a dive. If David was afraid, then things were worse than any of them realized.

“What’s the situation?”

“We’re surrounded. No gunfire has been exchanged yet.” David paused to cough as if to dislodge the fear. “I’m afraid there’s no choice but to surrender.”

Eric felt the relief wash over him. Then quickly he glanced around the cabin, grateful for the mask of darkness, grateful the others couldn’t witness his relief, his betrayal. He set the rifle aside. He let his muscles relax. Surrender, yes of course. It was their only choice. This nightmare would soon be over.

He couldn’t even remember how long it had been. For hours, the loudspeaker had blared outside. The floodlights had sprayed the cabin with blinding light. While inside the radio had screeched on and on with Father reminding them to be brave. Now Eric wondered if perhaps it was a thin line that separated the brave and the foolish.

Suddenly, he realized Father was taking a long time to respond. His muscles tensed. He held his breath and listened. Outside, leaves rustled. There was movement. Or was it his imagination playing tricks on him? Had exhaustion given way to paranoia?

Then Father’s voice whispered, “If you surrender, they’ll torture you.” The words were cryptic, but the tone soothing and calm. “They have no intention of allowing you to live. Remember Waco. Remember Ruby Ridge.” And then he went silent, while everyone waited as if hanging by a thread, hoping for instruction or, at least, some words of encouragement. Where were those powerful words that could heal and protect?

Eric heard branches snap. He grabbed his rifle. The others had also heard and were crawling and sliding across the wooden floor to get back to their posts.

Eric listened, despite the annoying banging of his heart. Sweat trickled down his back. His fingers shook so violently he kept them off the trigger. Had snipers moved into position? Or worse, were agents getting ready to torch the cabin, just as they had done in Waco? Father had warned them about the flames of Satan. With all the explosive ammo in the storage bunker beneath the floorboards, the place would be a fiery inferno within seconds. There would be no escape.

The floodlights blasted the cabin, again.

All of them scurried like rats, pressing themselves into the shadows. Eric banged his rifle against his knee and slid down against the wall. His skin bristled into goose bumps. The exhaustion had rubbed his nerves raw. His heart slammed against his rib cage, making it difficult to breathe.

“Here we go again,” he muttered just as a voice bellowed over the loudspeaker.

“Hold your fire. This is Special Agent Richard Delaney with the FBI. I just want to talk to you. See if we can resolve this misunderstanding with words instead of bullets.”

Eric wanted to laugh. More bullshit. But laughter would require movement, and right now his body stayed paralyzed against the wall. The only movement was that of his trembling hands as he gripped the rifle tighter. He would place his bet on bullets. Not words. Not anymore.

David moved away from the radio. He walked toward the front window, his rifle limp at his side. What the hell was he doing? In the floodlight, Eric could see David’s face, and his peaceful expression sent a new wave of fear through Eric’s veins.

“Don’t let them take you alive,” Father’s voice screeched over the static. “You’re all heroes, brave warriors. You know what must be done now.”

David kept walking to the window as though he didn’t hear, couldn’t hear. Hypnotized by the blinding light, he stood there, his tall, lean figure wrapped in a halo, reminding Eric of pictures he had seen of saints in his catechism books.

“Give us a minute,” David yelled out to the agent. “Then we’ll come out, Mr. Delaney, and we’ll talk. But just to you. No one else.”

He saw the lie. Even before David pulled the plastic bag from his jacket pocket, Eric knew there would be no meeting, no words exchanged. The sight of the red-and-white capsules made him light-headed and dizzy. No, this couldn’t be happening. There had to be another way. He didn’t want to die. Not here. Not this way.

“Remember there is honor in death,” Father’s voice came smooth and clear, the static gone now, almost as if he were standing in the room with them. Almost as though he were answering Eric’s thoughts. “You are heroes, each and every one of you. Satan will not destroy you.”

The others lined up like sheep to the slaughter, each taking a death pill, reverently handling it like hosts at communion. No one objected. The looks on their faces were of relief, exhaustion and fear having driven them to this.

But Eric couldn’t move. The convulsions of panic had immobilized him. His knees were too weak to stand. He clutched his rifle, hanging on to it as though it were his final lifeline. David, zeroing in on Eric’s reluctance, brought the last capsule to him and held it out in the palm of his hand.

“It’s okay, Eric. Just swallow it. You won’t feel a thing.” David’s voice was as calm and expressionless as his face. His eyes were blank, the life already gone.

Eric just sat there, staring at the small capsule, unable to move. His clothes stuck to his body, drenched in sweat. Across the room the voice droned on over the two-way radio. “A better place awaits all of you. Don’t be afraid. You are all brave warriors who have made us proud. Your sacrifice will save hundreds.”

Eric took the capsule with shaking fingers and enough hesitation to make David stand over him. David popped his own pill into his mouth and swallowed hard. Then he waited for the others and for Eric to do the same. The calm was unraveling in their leader. Eric could see it in David’s pinched face, or was it the cyanide already eating its way out of his stomach lining?

“Do it!” David said through clenched teeth. Everyone obeyed, including Eric.

Satisfied, David returned to the window and called out, “We’re ready, Mr. Delaney. We’re ready to talk to you.” Then he raised his rifle to his shoulder, taking aim and waiting.

From the position of the rifle, Eric knew without seeing that it would be a perfect head shot, without risk of wasting any ammo on a bullet-proof vest. The agent would be dead before he hit the ground. Just as all of them would be dead before David’s rifle ran out of ammunition and the mass of Satan’s warriors crashed through the cabin’s doors.

Before the first shot, Eric lay down like the others around him, allowing for the cyanide to work its way through their empty stomachs and into their bloodstreams. It would take only a matter of minutes. Hopefully they would pass out before their respiratory systems shut down.

The gunfire started. Eric laid his cheek against the cold wooden floor, feeling the vibrations and shattered glass, listening to the screams of disbelief outside. And as the others closed their eyes and waited for death, Eric Pratt quietly spit out the red-and-white capsule he had carefully concealed inside his mouth. Unlike his little brother, Eric would not become a box of bones. Instead, he would take his chances with Satan.

CHAPTER 2

Washington, D.C.

Maggie O’Dell’s heels clicked on the cheap linoleum, announcing her arrival. But the brightly lit hallway—more a whitewashed, concrete tunnel than a hallway—appeared to be empty. There were no voices, no noises coming from behind the closed doors she passed. The security guard on the main floor had recognized her before she displayed her badge. He had waved her through and smiled when she said “Thanks, Joe,” not noticing that she had to glance at his name tag to do so.

She slowed to check her watch. Still another two hours before sunrise. Her boss, Assistant Director Kyle Cunningham, had gotten her out of bed with his phone call. Nothing unusual about that. As an FBI agent she was used to phones ringing in the middle of the night. And there was nothing unusual about the fact that he hadn’t awakened her with his call. All he had interrupted was her routine tossing and turning. She’d been awakened once again by nightmares. There were enough bloodied images, enough gut-wrenching experiences in her memory bank to haunt her subconscious for years. Just the thought clenched her teeth, and only now did she realize she had developed a walk that included hands fisted at her sides. She shook the fists open, flexing her fingers as if scolding them for betraying her.

What had been unusual about Cunningham’s phone call was his strained and distressed voice. Just one of the reasons for Maggie’s tension. The man defined the term cool and collected. She had worked with him for almost nine years, and couldn’t remember ever hearing his voice being anything other than level, calm, clipped and to the point. Even when he had reprimanded her. However, this morning Maggie could swear she had heard a quiver, a twinge of emotion too close to the surface, obstructing his throat. It was enough to unnerve her. If Cunningham was upset about this case, then it had to be bad. Really bad.

He had filled her in on the few details he knew, still too early for specifics. There had been a standoff between the ATF and FBI and a group of men holed up in a cabin somewhere in Massachusetts on the Neponset River. Three agents had been wounded, one fatally. Five suspects in the cabin were dead. One lone survivor had been taken into federal custody and sent to Boston. Intelligence had not nailed down, yet, who the young men were, what group they belonged to or why they had stockpiled an arsenal of weapons, fired on agents and then taken their own lives.

While dozens of agents and Justice Department officials combed the woods and the cabin for answers to those questions, Cunningham had been asked to start a criminal analysis of the suspects. He had sent Maggie’s partner, Special Agent R.J. Tully, to the scene and Maggie—because of her forensics and premed background—had been sent here into the city morgue where the dead—five young men and one agent—were waiting to tell their tale.

As she came to the open door at the end of the hall, she could see them. The black body bags lined up on steel tables one after another, looking like a macabre art exhibit. It almost looked too strange to be real, but then, wasn’t that the way so many recent events in her life had been? Some days it was difficult to distinguish what was real and what was simply one of those routine nightmares.

Maggie was surprised to find Stan Wenhoff gowned up and waiting for her. Usually Stan left the early morning call-ins to his competent and able assistants.

“Good morning, Stan.”

“Humph.” He grunted his familiar greeting as he kept his back to her and held up slides to the fluorescent light.

He would pretend the urgency and stature of this case weren’t the reason he had crawled out of bed to be here, when his normal method would have been to call one of his assistants. It wasn’t that Stan would want to make certain everything was carried out by the book as much as he wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to be the point man for the media. Most pathologists and medical examiners Maggie knew were quiet, solemn, sometimes reclusive. However, Stan Wenholf, the chief medical examiner for the District, loved being in the limelight and in front of a TV camera.

“You’re late,” he grumbled, this time glancing over at her.

“I got here as quickly as I could.”

“Humph,” he repeated, his fat, stubby fingers rattling the slides back into their container to signal his discontent.

Maggie ignored him, took off her jacket and helped herself to the linen closet, knowing there would be no invitation issued. She wanted to tell Stan that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here.

Maggie looped the plastic apron’s strings around her waist. She found herself wondering how much of her life had been dictated by killers, getting her out of bed in the middle of the night to hunt them down in moonlit woods, along churning black rivers, through pastures of sandburs or fields of corn? She realized that this time, she might actually be the lucky one. Unlike Agent Tully’s, at least this morning her feet would be warm and dry.

By the time she returned from the linen closet, Stan had unzipped their first customer and was peeling back the bag, careful that any contents—including liquid contents—didn’t fall or run out. Maggie was startled by how young the boy looked, his gray face smooth, having never yet experienced a razor. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Certainly not old enough to drink or vote. Probably not old enough to own a car or even have a driver’s license. But old enough to know how to obtain and use a semiautomatic rifle.