The Soul Catcher

“Feared?” Maggie looked suddenly interested, leaning in, elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. “Why do you automatically say feared? Why not because they believed so strongly in their cause? Isn’t that the reasoning behind most of these groups?”

A waiter delivered Gwen’s glass of chardonnay and she thanked him. She wrapped her hands around the glass and set the wine swirling. “At that age they don’t necessarily know what they believe. Their opinions, their ideas are still easily molded and manipulated. But boys usually have a natural tendency to fight back. There’s actually a physiological reason for that.”

Gwen sipped her wine. She didn’t want to sound like she was lecturing Maggie on something she already knew, but her friend seemed eager to hear more, so she continued, “It’s not just their higher levels of testosterone, but boys have lower levels of the neurotransmitter serotonin. And serotonin inhibits aggression and impulsivity. That could explain why more males—especially adolescent males—than females carry through with suicide, become alcoholics or shoot up school yards as a way to solve their problems.”

“Also why their first instinct when trapped in a cabin with an arsenal of guns would be to think they could impulsively shoot their way out.” Maggie sat back and shrugged. “Which brings me back to the same question, why lie down and die?”

“Which brings me to my same answer.” Gwen smiled. “Fear. Someone may have had them convinced they had no alternative.” Gwen watched as Maggie cradled the Scotch. “But you already knew most of that, didn’t you? Come on, now, I’m not telling you anything new here. Why did you really call me for dinner? What do you really need to talk about?”

The silence continued longer than Gwen normally allowed.

“To be honest—” Maggie grabbed the menu again and avoided Gwen’s eyes “—I’m really, really hungry.” But she glanced over the top and managed a tense smile at Gwen’s frown. “And I needed to be with a friend, okay? A living, breathing, wonderful friend whom I absolutely adore.”

This time Gwen got a glimpse at Maggie’s deep brown eyes. They were serious, even a tad watery, which was why she went back to hiding them behind the menu. Gwen could see she was trying to cover up a vulnerability that had slipped too close to the surface; a vulnerability that the tough Maggie O’Dell worked hard to keep to herself and harder to conceal from others, even from her living, breathing, wonderful friends.

“You should try the hickory burger,” Gwen said, pointing to the menu.

“A burger? The gourmet is recommending a burger?”

“Hey! Not just any burger, but the best damn burger in town.” She saw Maggie relax. The smile genuine now. Okay, so Gwen would pull and prod next time. Tonight they would eat burgers, have a couple of drinks and simply be living, breathing friends.

CHAPTER 13

He needed to sit. The haze seemed thicker this time. Had he taken too much of his homemade concoction? He needed it only to enhance, only to help him see beyond the dark. He certainly didn’t need this. He needed to sit. Yes, sit and wait for the haze to move from back behind his eyes.

He’d sit and concentrate on his breathing, just as he was taught to do. He would ignore the anger. Wait. Was it anger? Frustration, maybe. Disappointment, yes. But not anger. Anger was a negative energy. Beneath him. No, it was simply frustration. And why wouldn’t he be frustrated? He honestly thought this one would last longer. She had certainly tried. And he was almost sure that on the third time he had seen it. Yes, he was quite certain he had seen the light behind her eyes, that glimmer, that flash, that moment of life escaping the body, just as she drew her final breath. Yes, he had seen it and he had come so close.

Now it would be days, maybe even a week before he could try again. He was running out of patience. Why the fuck did she have to give in so soon? One more chance was all he needed. He had been so close. So close that he didn’t want to wait.

He gripped the book and let the feel of its leather binding soothe him. He sat on a hard bench in a dim corner of the terminal, ignoring the screech of hydraulic brakes, the endless clacking of heels rushing, bodies shoving—all of them in such a fucking hurry to get where they were going.

He closed his eyes against the lifting haze and listened. He hated the noise. Hated the smells even more—diesel fuel and something that smelled like dirty wet socks. And body odor. Yes, body odor from the assholes who abandoned their cardboard homes in the alley to venture in and beg for pocket change. Worthless assholes.

He opened his eyes, pleased that his vision was clearing. No more haze. He watched one of the worthless assholes by the vending machines, checking the return slots for change. Was it a woman? It was difficult to tell. She wore everything she owned, layer after filthy layer, pant cuffs dragging behind her, adding to the slow motion of her absent shuffle. Her ragged and stretched-out stocking cap gave a crooked point to her head and made her dirty blond hair stick out like straw. Such a coward. No survival instinct. No dignity. No soul.

He lay the book in his lap and let it fall open to the page where he had left his homemade bookmark—an unused airline ticket, creased at the corners and long expired. He needed to let the book calm him. It had worked before, the words offering guidance and inspiration, even direction and justification. Already his hands grew steady.

He pulled his shirt cuff down over the caked blood. She had scratched him good. It had hurt like hell, but nothing he couldn’t ignore for the time being. He’d wash his hands later. Right now, he needed to feel some sense of completion and validation. He needed to calm the frustration and find some reserve of patience. Yet, all he could think about was having come so close to his goal. He didn’t want to wait. If only he could find a way so he didn’t need to wait.

Just then the pointy-headed loser stuck her smelly, gloved hand in his face. “Can you spare a dollar or two?”

He looked up into her smudged face and realized she was quite young, maybe even once attractive underneath that dirt and smell of decay, of rotten and sour garbage. He searched her eyes—clear, crystal blue and, yes, there was light behind them. No hollow look of despair. Not yet. Maybe he didn’t need to wait, after all.

CHAPTER 14

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

The cold wind pricked at Maggie’s skin, but she continued running, welcoming the sensation. Delaney’s death had triggered a swell of emotions that she hadn’t anticipated, that she wasn’t prepared to deal with. And his funeral had released an avalanche of memories from her childhood, memories she had worked long and hard to keep safely behind a barrier. The battle to contain them left her feeling numb one minute and angry the next. Amazing that both emotions could be so exhausting. Or perhaps the exhaustion came from keeping them concealed, shoving them down away from the surface, so that no one could witness how easily she could feel nothing one moment and explode the next. No one, that is, except Gwen.

Maggie knew her friend could sense her vulnerabilities, despite Maggie’s effort to hide them. It was one of the curses of their friendship, a comfort as much as an annoyance. Sometimes she wondered why the hell Gwen put up with her, and at the same time, she didn’t want to know the answer. Instead, she was simply grateful for this wise, loving mentor who could take one look into her eyes, see all the turmoil, sift through the hidden wreckage and somehow manage to inspire strength and good from some reserve Maggie hadn’t even known existed. And tonight Gwen had been able to do all that without a single word. Now, if only Maggie could hold on to that strength.

When she first became a criminal profiler she thought she could learn how to compartmentalize her feelings and emotions, separate the horrors and images she witnessed as part of the job from her personal life. Not that Quantico taught them such a thing. But since she had done it all her life with the unpleasant memories and images of her childhood, why wouldn’t she be able to do it with her career? The only problem was that every time she thought she had the technique down pat, one of those damn compartments sprung a leak. It was annoying as hell. Especially annoying that Gwen could see it no matter how hard Maggie tried to hide it from her.

She picked up the pace. Harvey panted alongside her. The big dog wouldn’t complain. Ever since she had taken him in, he had become her shadow. The pure white Labrador retriever had become a bit overprotective with her, jumping at sounds that Maggie never heard, barking at footsteps whether they belonged to the mailman or the pizza-delivery person. But then Maggie could hardly blame him.

Last spring the dog had witnessed his owner being violently kidnapped from their home, by a serial killer named Albert Stucky, who Maggie had already put in jail once and who had escaped. And though Harvey had put up a good fight, he hadn’t been able to stop the attacker. For months after Maggie had taken him in, he looked out the windows of Maggie’s huge Tudor home, looking, waiting for his owner. When he realized she wouldn’t return, he attached himself to Maggie with such a protectiveness that she wondered if perhaps the dog was determined not to lose a second owner.

What would Harvey think if he knew, if he could possibly understand, that his previous owner had been taken and killed simply because she had met Maggie? It was Maggie’s fault that Albert Stucky had taken Harvey’s owner. It was one of the things she had to live with, one of the things that caused her nightmares. And one of the things that was supposed to have its own little compartment.

Her breathing came in rhythmic gasps, timed to the pounding of her feet and the beat of her heart, which filled her ears. For a few minutes her mind cleared, and she concentrated instead on her body’s basic responses, its natural rhythms, its force. She pushed it to its limit, and when she felt her legs strain, she pushed harder, faster. Then suddenly, she noticed Harvey favoring his front right paw though he didn’t dare slow down, forcing himself to stay alongside her. Maggie came to an abrupt halt, surprising him with a tug of the leash.

“Harvey.” She stopped to catch her breath, and he waited, cocking his head. “What’s wrong with your paw?”

She pointed to it, and he crouched to the ground as if preparing for a scolding. She gently took the big paw in both her hands. Even before she turned it over she felt a prick. Embedded deep between his pads was a clump of sandburs.

“Harvey.” She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a scold, but he cowered closer to the ground.

She scratched behind his ears, letting him know he had done nothing wrong. He hated having these things pulled out, preferring to hide and endure the pain. But Maggie had learned how to be quick and efficient. She grabbed the clump between her fingernails, instead of fingertips, and gave one quick yank. Immediately, he rewarded those same fingers with grateful licks.

“Harvey, you need to let me know about these things as soon as you get them. I thought we agreed that neither of us would play hero anymore.”

He listened while he licked, one ear perched higher than the other.

“So do we have a deal?”

He looked up at her and gave one sharp bark. Then he climbed to his feet, ready to run again, his entire hind end wagging.

“How ‘bout we take it easy the rest of the way?” She knew she had pushed it a bit too hard. As she stood and stretched, she could feel a cramp threatening her calf. Yes, they’d walk the rest of the way, despite the wind chilling her sweat-drenched body and making her shiver.

A bulging orange moon peeked from behind a line of pine trees and the ridge that separated Maggie’s new neighborhood from the rest of the world. The houses were set far back off the street with enough property and landscaping between them to make it difficult to see the next-door neighbors. Maggie loved the seclusion and privacy. Though without any streetlights, darkness came quickly. It still freaked her out a bit to run after dark. There were too many Albert Stuckys out there. And even though she knew he was dead—that she’d killed him herself—she still sometimes ran with her Smith & Wesson tucked in her waistband.

Before she got to her long circular driveway, she saw a glimmer of windshield. She recognized the spotless white Mercedes and wanted to turn around. If he hadn’t seen her, she might have done just that. But Greg waved from the portico, leaning against its railing as if he owned the house.

“It’s a little late to be out running, isn’t it?” This was his greeting, which sounded more like a scolding, and she found herself flinching instinctively, just as Harvey had earlier. The gesture represented a microcosm of their relationship, which had been reduced to instinctive survival tactics, and Greg still wondered why she wanted a divorce?

“What do you need, Greg?”

He looked like he had stepped off the pages of GQ. He was dressed in a dark suit, with sharp creases she could see even in the moon’s dim light, not a wrinkle in sight. His golden hair was moussed and styled, not a strand out of place. Yes, her soon-to-be ex-husband was certainly handsome, no question about that. She knew he must be on his way home from dinner with friends or business associates. Maybe he had a date, and immediately she wondered how she would feel about that. Relieved, was her quick and easy answer.

“I don’t need anything.” He sounded hurt, and she saw him shift to his defensive stance, another survival tactic in his own arsenal. “I just thought I should check up on you.”

As they got closer, Harvey started growling, his signal that warned of any stranger on their property.

“Good Lord!” Greg backed up, only now noticing Harvey. “That’s the dog you took in?”

“Why are you checking up on me?”

But Greg was now preoccupied with Harvey. Maggie knew he hated dogs, though while they were together he had made excuses that he was allergic to them. Seemed the only thing he was allergic to was Harvey’s growl.

“Greg.” She waited until she had his attention. “Why are you here?”

“I heard about Richard.”

Maggie stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. When one didn’t come, she said, “It happened days ago.” She stopped herself from adding that if he was so concerned, why did he wait until now.

“Yeah, I know. I did hear about it on the news, but the name didn’t ring a bell with me right away. Then I talked to Stan Wenhoff this morning about a case I’m representing. He told me about what happened at the morgue.”

“He told you about that?” Maggie couldn’t believe it. She wondered who else he had told.

“He was just concerned about you, Maggie. He knows we’re married.”

“We’re getting a divorce,” she corrected him.

“But we’re still married.”

“Please, Greg. It’s been a long day and a long week. I don’t need any lectures. Not tonight, okay?” She marched past him to the front door, letting Harvey lead, so that Greg moved out of the way.

“Maggie, I really did just stop to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” She unlocked the door and hurried to reset the buzzing alarm system inside the entrance.

“You could be a little more grateful. I did come all this way.”

“Next time, perhaps you should call first.”

She was ready to close the door on him, when he said,

“That could have been you, Maggie.”

She stopped and leaned against the doorjamb, looking up at him and into his eyes. His perfect forehead was creased with concern. His eyes startled her with flecks of dampness she didn’t recognize.

“When Stan told me about Richard … well, I …” He kept his voice low and quiet, almost a whisper, and there was an emotion in it she hadn’t heard for years. “The first thing I thought of was, what if it had been you?”

“I can take care of myself, Greg.” Her job had been an ongoing debate in their marriage—no, argument was a better word. It had been an ongoing argument between the two of them for the last several years. She wasn’t in the mood for any “I told you sos.”

“I bet Richard thought he could take care of himself, too.” He stepped closer and reached to caress her cheek, but Harvey’s growl cut the gesture short. “It made me realize how much I still care about you, Maggie.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. Damn it! She didn’t want to hear this. When she opened her eyes, he was smiling at her.

“Why don’t you come with me. I can wait while you get ready.”

“No, Greg.”

“I’m meeting my brother, Mel and his new wife. We’re gonna have a nightcap at their hotel.”

“Greg, don’t—”

“Come on, you know Mel adores you. I’m sure he’d love to see you again.”

“Greg.” She wanted to tell him to stop, that she wouldn’t be meeting with him and Mel probably ever again. That their marriage was over. That there was no going back. But those watery gray eyes of his seemed to replace her anger with sadness. She thought of Delaney and of his wife, Karen, who had hated Delaney’s career choice as much as Greg hated hers. So instead, she simply said, “Maybe some other time, okay? It’s late and I’m really wiped out tonight.”

“Okay,” he said, hesitating.

For a minute she worried that he might try to kiss her. His eyes strayed from hers to her mouth, and she felt her back tense up against the doorjamb. Yet in that moment of hesitation, she realized she wouldn’t resist the gesture, and that revelation surprised her. What the hell was wrong with her? There was no need to worry, however. Harvey’s renewed growl cut short any attempt at intimacy, drawing away Greg’s attention.

He scowled at Harvey, then smiled back at Maggie. “Hey, at least you don’t have to worry about security with him around.”

He turned to leave, then spun back around. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, pulling a clump of torn and wrinkled papers from his jacket’s inside breast pocket. “These must have blown out of your garbage can. The wind was nuts today.” He handed her what she recognized as several ripped ad inserts, stuffers from her credit card statements and a notice about her Smart Money magazine subscription. “Maybe you need tighter lids,” he added. Typical Greg, practical Greg, not able to resist the chance to correct or advise her.

“Where did you find these?”

“Just under that bush.” He pointed to the bayberry along the side of the house as he headed to his car. “Bye, Maggie.”

She watched him wave and waited for him to get inside, predicting his routine of checking his reflection in the rearview mirror, followed by one quick swipe at his already perfect hair. She waited until his car was down the street and out of her sight, then she took Harvey and rounded the garage. Instantly, the lights rigged to the motion detector came on, revealing the two galvanized steel garbage cans, lined up exactly where she kept them, side by side, securely against the garage wall, each can with its lid tightly intact.

She glanced through the pieces of crumpled paper, again. She shredded the important stuff, so she didn’t need to worry. She was always careful. Still, it was a bit unnerving to know that someone had bothered to go through her garbage. What in the world had they hoped to find?

CHAPTER 15

Washington, D.C.

Ben Garrison dropped his duffel bag inside the door of his apartment. Something smelled. Had he forgotten to take out the damn garbage again?

He stretched and groaned. His back ached, and his head throbbed. He rubbed the knot at his right temple, surprised to find it still there. Shit! It still hurt like a bitch. At least his hair covered it. Not like he cared. He just hated people asking a lot of goddamn questions that weren’t any of their business to begin with. Like that yappy old broad on the Metro, sitting next to him. She smelled like death. It was enough to make him get off early and take a cab the rest of the way home—a luxury he rarely allowed himself. Cabs were for wusses.

Now all he wanted was to crawl into bed, close his eyes and sleep. But he’d never be able to until he knew whether or not he had gotten any decent shots. Oh, hell, sleep was for wusses, too.

He grabbed the duffel bag and spilled its contents onto the kitchen counter, his large hands catching three canisters before they rolled off the edge. Then he began sorting the black film canisters according to the dates and times marked on their lids.

Out of the seven rolls, five were from today. He hadn’t realized he had shot so many, though lack of lighting remained his biggest problem. And the lighting around the monuments was often too harsh in places while too dark in certain corners. He usually found himself in the dark corners and shadows where he hated to risk using a flash, but did, anyway. At least the cloud covering from earlier in the day was gone. Maybe his luck was changing.

There was so much left to chance in this business. He constantly tried to eliminate as many obstacles as possible. Unfortunately, dark was dark and sometimes even high-speed film or that new infrared crap couldn’t cut through the black.

He gathered the film canisters and headed for the closet he had converted into a darkroom. Suddenly the phone startled him. He hesitated but had no intention of picking it up. He had stopped answering his phone months ago when the crank calls began. Still, he waited and listened while the answering machine clicked on and the machine voice instructed the caller to leave a message after the beep.

Ben braced himself, wondering what absurdity it would be this time. Instead, a familiar man’s voice said, “Garrison, it’s Ted Curtis. I got your photos. They’re good but not much different from my own guys’. I need something different, something nobody else is running. Call when you’ve got something, okay?”

Ben wanted to throw the canisters across the room. Everybody wanted something different, some fucking exclusive. It had been almost two years since his photos of dead cows outside Manhattan, Kansas, broke the story about a possible anthrax epidemic. Before that, he had been on a roll, as if luck was his middle name. Or at least, that was how he explained being outside that tunnel when Princess Diana’s car crashed. Wasn’t it also luck that put him in Tulsa the day of the Oklahoma City bombing? Within hours he was there, shooting exclusives and sending photos over the wires to the top bidders.

For several years afterward, everything he shot seemed to be gold, with newspapers and magazines calling him nonstop. Sometimes they were just checking to see what he had available that week. He went anywhere he wanted and shot anything that interested him from warring African tribes to frogs with legs sprouting out of their fucking heads. And everything got snatched up almost as quickly as he could develop the prints. All because they were his photographs.

Lately, things were different. Maybe his luck had simply run dry. He was fucking tired of trying to be in the right place at the right time. He was tired of waiting for news to happen. Maybe it was time to make some of his own. He squeezed the canisters in his hands. These had better be good.

Just as he turned for the darkroom again, he noticed the answering machine flashing twice, indicating a message other than Curtis’s. Okay, so maybe Parentino or Rubins liked the photos that Curtis didn’t want.

Without emptying his hands, he punched the messageplay button with his knuckle.

“You have two messages,” the mechanical voice recited, grating on his nerves. “First message recorded at 11:45 p.m., today.”

Ben glanced at the wall clock. He must have just missed the first call before he came in.

There was a click and a pause, maybe a wrong number. Then a young woman’s polite voice said, “Mr. Garrison, this is the customer service office at Yellow Cab. I hope you enjoyed your ride with us this evening.”