The Soul Catcher (11 page)

G
inny Brier could barely hear the clapping and singing from down below. Dried leaves crackled underneath them and a twig poked into her thigh. But all she paid attention to was Brandon panting in her ear as he fumbled with her blouse buttons.

“Careful, don’t rip any,” she whispered, which only seemed to make his fingers more urgent and reckless.

The back of his neck was wet, but she continued to caress him there, hoping it would calm him, though she liked how hot and bothered she could make him. She wondered if perhaps he hadn’t done it in a long time or something. That would explain his fumbling. Or was he nervous they’d get caught? Did he worry that reverend guy would get mad if he found out? Actually, that was what turned Ginny on even more. She liked that this incredibly cool guy, who had been staring at her all evening, had come up behind her, taken her hand and led her around the back of the monument.

The sharp glare of the monument’s lights didn’t reach up here in the wooded area just above and behind the granite wall. If she listened closely, she could hear the waterfall below. But instead, she concentrated on Brandon’s heavy breathing. He had finally gotten through the button obstacle course and was ready to start on her bra. Suddenly, in one quick and rough motion, he grabbed the bottom of her bra and simply shoved it up over her breasts. She almost protested until his mouth devoured her and made her forget.

She reached down and undid his belt buckle, undoing the snap and his zipper in a smooth, almost expert motion. But he didn’t wait for her. He was taking himself out while pushing her back into the leaves. She tried to slow him down, whispering in his ear and rubbing his back and shoulders.

“Slow down, Brandon. Let’s enjoy this.”

But it was already too late. He hadn’t even made it all the way inside her when he exploded. In seconds he lay limp on top of her. More panting while he tried to catch his breath, drowning out Ginny’s exaggerated sigh of disappointment. Then he sat up, wiped his wet hair off his forehead and pulled his zipper up, all as casually as if he were getting dressed in the morning. Ginny felt as if she had become invisible. Why were the cute ones always the quick triggers and the insensitive shitheads?

“That’s it?” She unleashed her disappointment. She no longer cared if anyone heard her, though her voice couldn’t compete with the waterfall, the Reverend Yacky-Yack and the mind-numbing clapping.

He finally looked at her, his brown eyes black and empty in the shadows. It felt worse than being invisible. His look made her feel dirty. She pushed her bra back into place and tried to pull her skirt down, noticing that he had ripped the crotch of her underwear.

“You klutz.” She showed him the damage. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. What do whores like you usually do afterward?”

She stared at him, stunned by his words. She needed to hold on to her anger, because without it, she would start to be frightened.

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” Two could play this word game, only his response this time came without words as his fist slammed into her mouth. Ginny fell into the leaves, grabbing at her jaw, and felt the blood trickling down her chin. She crawled out of his reach. Her anger was quickly replaced by fear.

“Leave me alone, or I swear I’ll scream.”

He laughed, then threw back his head to the stars and laughed louder, as if to prove no one would hear. And he was right. The singing below only made his laughter sound like a piece of the harmony.

He picked up her purse, wiped his hand over it to clear the debris and tossed it to her.

“Don’t forget to button your blouse before you come back down,” he told her, his voice suddenly calm and polite, almost solemn but so distant it gave her a chill. How was he able to do that? How could he disconnect like that? And so quickly.

She grabbed her purse and scooted farther away, leaning against a tree as if for protection. Without saying anything more, he turned and left, taking the same path they had used to come up.

Down below, she could hear a woman’s voice replace the good reverend’s, but Ginny didn’t pay attention to the words. Pretty soon there was more singing, even louder now, gaining volume as the night went along. They were singing something about coming home to a better place. What a bunch of losers.

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. God, how stupid she had been this time. She bet that Justin guy wouldn’t treat a girl like this. Why was she always choosing the wrong ones? The bad-boy types? Maybe she did it simply because she knew it pissed off her dad and embarrassed the hell out of her soon-to-be step-mom. Not like they cared about her, only about their public images, their precious reputations. They screamed at each other in private and made cow eyes at each other in public. It was pathetic. At least she acted on her real emotions, her real feelings, wants and needs.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her. Did Brandon have a change of heart? Maybe he was coming back to apologize. Then she realized he had taken the path at the opposite end. She jerked around, scrambling to her feet and squinting into the dark.

Something moved. Something in the shadows. Oh, jeez! It was only a branch.

She needed to get the hell out of here before she scared herself to death. She reached down for her purse. Something whipped in front of her, a glowing cord that looped over her head. It pulled tight against her neck before she could grab at it.

Ginny tried to scream but it came out as a gasp, stuck in her throat. She choked and gulped for air. Her hands and fingers clawed at the cord, then clawed at the hands that held it. She dug her fingernails into skin, ripping at her own flesh, and still couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t keep it from tightening even more. Already she felt herself slipping to her knees. There were flashes of light behind her eyes. No air. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet kicked, then slipped out from under her. Now her neck bore all the weight as her body dangled on a single cord.

She couldn’t regain her balance. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Her knees wouldn’t work. Her arms flayed. Her fingers dug even deeper into her own skin, but nothing helped. When blackness came, it came as a relief.

G
inny Brier could barely hear the clapping and singing from down below. Dried leaves crackled underneath them and a twig poked into her thigh. But all she paid attention to was Brandon panting in her ear as he fumbled with her blouse buttons.

“Careful, don’t rip any,” she whispered, which only seemed to make his fingers more urgent and reckless.

The back of his neck was wet, but she continued to caress him there, hoping it would calm him, though she liked how hot and bothered she could make him. She wondered if perhaps he hadn’t done it in a long time or something. That would explain his fumbling. Or was he nervous they’d get caught? Did he worry that reverend guy would get mad if he found out? Actually, that was what turned Ginny on even more. She liked that this incredibly cool guy, who had been staring at her all evening, had come up behind her, taken her hand and led her around the back of the monument.

The sharp glare of the monument’s lights didn’t reach up here in the wooded area just above and behind the granite wall. If she listened closely, she could hear the waterfall below. But instead, she concentrated on Brandon’s heavy breathing. He had finally gotten through the button obstacle course and was ready to start on her bra. Suddenly, in one quick and rough motion, he grabbed the bottom of her bra and simply shoved it up over her breasts. She almost protested until his mouth devoured her and made her forget.

She reached down and undid his belt buckle, undoing the snap and his zipper in a smooth, almost expert motion. But he didn’t wait for her. He was taking himself out while pushing her back into the leaves. She tried to slow him down, whispering in his ear and rubbing his back and shoulders.

“Slow down, Brandon. Let’s enjoy this.”

But it was already too late. He hadn’t even made it all the way inside her when he exploded. In seconds he lay limp on top of her. More panting while he tried to catch his breath, drowning out Ginny’s exaggerated sigh of disappointment. Then he sat up, wiped his wet hair off his forehead and pulled his zipper up, all as casually as if he were getting dressed in the morning. Ginny felt as if she had become invisible. Why were the cute ones always the quick triggers and the insensitive shitheads?

“That’s it?” She unleashed her disappointment. She no longer cared if anyone heard her, though her voice couldn’t compete with the waterfall, the Reverend Yacky-Yack and the mind-numbing clapping.

He finally looked at her, his brown eyes black and empty in the shadows. It felt worse than being invisible. His look made her feel dirty. She pushed her bra back into place and tried to pull her skirt down, noticing that he had ripped the crotch of her underwear.

“You klutz.” She showed him the damage. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. What do whores like you usually do afterward?”

She stared at him, stunned by his words. She needed to hold on to her anger, because without it, she would start to be frightened.

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” Two could play this word game, only his response this time came without words as his fist slammed into her mouth. Ginny fell into the leaves, grabbing at her jaw, and felt the blood trickling down her chin. She crawled out of his reach. Her anger was quickly replaced by fear.

“Leave me alone, or I swear I’ll scream.”

He laughed, then threw back his head to the stars and laughed louder, as if to prove no one would hear. And he was right. The singing below only made his laughter sound like a piece of the harmony.

He picked up her purse, wiped his hand over it to clear the debris and tossed it to her.

“Don’t forget to button your blouse before you come back down,” he told her, his voice suddenly calm and polite, almost solemn but so distant it gave her a chill. How was he able to do that? How could he disconnect like that? And so quickly.

She grabbed her purse and scooted farther away, leaning against a tree as if for protection. Without saying anything more, he turned and left, taking the same path they had used to come up.

Down below, she could hear a woman’s voice replace the good reverend’s, but Ginny didn’t pay attention to the words. Pretty soon there was more singing, even louder now, gaining volume as the night went along. They were singing something about coming home to a better place. What a bunch of losers.

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. God, how stupid she had been this time. She bet that Justin guy wouldn’t treat a girl like this. Why was she always choosing the wrong ones? The bad-boy types? Maybe she did it simply because she knew it pissed off her dad and embarrassed the hell out of her soon-to-be step-mom. Not like they cared about her, only about their public images, their precious reputations. They screamed at each other in private and made cow eyes at each other in public. It was pathetic. At least she acted on her real emotions, her real feelings, wants and needs.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her. Did Brandon have a change of heart? Maybe he was coming back to apologize. Then she realized he had taken the path at the opposite end. She jerked around, scrambling to her feet and squinting into the dark.

Something moved. Something in the shadows. Oh, jeez! It was only a branch.

She needed to get the hell out of here before she scared herself to death. She reached down for her purse. Something whipped in front of her, a glowing cord that looped over her head. It pulled tight against her neck before she could grab at it.

Ginny tried to scream but it came out as a gasp, stuck in her throat. She choked and gulped for air. Her hands and fingers clawed at the cord, then clawed at the hands that held it. She dug her fingernails into skin, ripping at her own flesh, and still couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t keep it from tightening even more. Already she felt herself slipping to her knees. There were flashes of light behind her eyes. No air. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet kicked, then slipped out from under her. Now her neck bore all the weight as her body dangled on a single cord.

She couldn’t regain her balance. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Her knees wouldn’t work. Her arms flayed. Her fingers dug even deeper into her own skin, but nothing helped. When blackness came, it came as a relief.

Downtown
Washington, D.C.

G
wen Patterson transferred the strap of her briefcase to the other shoulder and waited for Marco. She squinted into the dimly lit pub, the antique gas-flamed lanterns and candelabras preserving the historic atmosphere of the saloon. This late on a Saturday evening Gwen knew Old Ebbitt’s Grill would be free of all the politicos who usually hung out there, which would make getting a booth possible and would please her friend, Maggie O’Dell, who seemed to hate the political atmosphere of the District.

Ironically, the very things about the District that Maggie hated, Gwen thrived on. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere more exciting and loved her brownstone in Georgetown and her office overlooking the Potomac. She had lived here for more than twenty years, and though she had grown up in New York, the District was her home.

Marco smiled as soon as he saw her and waved her down the aisle to where he was standing.

“She beat you this time,” he said, and pointed to the booth at the end of the aisle where Maggie was already seated, a glass of Scotch on the table in front of her.

“Not like this is a first.” She winked at Maggie, who was always on time. Gwen was the late one.

Maggie smiled, watching Marco fawn over her, helping her with her coat, even taking the briefcase. He started to hang it from the brass hook beside their table, then thought better of it and leaned it carefully and safely inside their booth.

“What are you carrying around these days?” he complained. “Feels like a load of bricks.”

“Close. It’s a load of my new book.”

“Ah…yes, I forget that you are now a famous author as well as a famous shrink to the pundits and politicos.”

“I’m not sure about that famous-author part,” she told him as she smoothed her skirt with both hands and scooted into the booth. “I doubt that
Investigating the Criminal Mind of Adolescent Males
will make it onto the
New York Times
bestseller list anytime soon.”

Marco’s massive eyebrows rose, along with his hands, in mock surprise. “Such a large and weighty subject for such a small and beautiful woman.”

“Now, Marco, every time you flatter me like that I end up ordering the cheesecake.”

“Sweets for the sweet. Seems appropriate.”

This time Gwen rolled her eyes at him. He patted her shoulder and headed off to greet a pair of Japanese men waiting at the door.

“Sorry,” she said to Maggie. “We go through this every time.”

“It must pay off. He gave us the best booth in the place.”

Gwen sat back and took a long look at her friend. Maggie seemed pleasantly amused by the whole charade. Maybe it was simply the effects of the Scotch, because when Maggie had called earlier, she had sounded depressed, almost pained and stricken. She had told Gwen she was in the city and wanted to know if she had time for dinner. Gwen knew her friend had to be working. Maggie lived in Virginia, almost an hour away, in one of the District’s ritzy suburbs. She seldom drove into the city for recreation, least of all on the spur of the moment.

“How did the book signing go?” Maggie sipped her Scotch, and Gwen caught herself wondering if this was her first. Maggie noticed. “Don’t worry. This is my one and only. I need to drive home later.”

“The signing went well,” she said, deciding to bypass an opportunity to lecture Maggie about her newly acquired habit. The fact was, she worried about Maggie. She rarely saw her anymore without an accompanying glass of Scotch. “I’m always surprised how many people are interested in the strange and twisted minds of criminals.” She waved down a waiter and ordered a glass of chardonnay. Then to Maggie, she said, “I’ve been cabbing it all day, so I get more than one.”

“Cheater.”

Gwen was relieved that Maggie could still joke about it, especially after their last dinner together when Gwen had suggested Maggie needed the Scotch more than she wanted it. Gwen had gotten off with only a glare that told her to butt out. Useless, really. Maggie was stuck with her friendship, and with it—whether she liked it or not—came a buttinsky maternal instinct that Gwen couldn’t even explain to herself.

Gwen was fifteen years older than Maggie, and ever since the two met, back when Maggie was a forensic intern at Quantico and Gwen a consulting psychologist, Gwen had felt a protectiveness toward Maggie that she had never experienced before. She had always believed she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. But for some reason she became the proverbial mama bear, ready to claw the eyes out of anyone who threatened to hurt Maggie.

Now Gwen shoved her menu aside, ready to play psychologist, friend and mother. She hadn’t learned how to separate those roles. So what if she never did. Maggie could use someone to look after her, whether she believed it or not.

“What brought you to the city? Something at headquarters?”

Maggie worked out of Quantico in the Behavioral Science Unit and rarely made it to FBI headquarters at Ninth and Pennsylvania Avenue.

Maggie nodded. “Just got back from visiting Ganza. But I was out at Arlington before that. Today was Agent Delaney’s funeral.”

“Oh, Maggie. I didn’t realize.” Gwen watched her friend, who was doing an excellent job of avoiding Gwen’s eyes, sipping her Scotch, rearranging the cloth napkin on her lap. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

It came too quickly and too easily, which for Maggie meant “No, of course not.” Gwen waited out the silence, hoping for more. Maggie opened her menu. Okay, so this was going to take some pulling and prodding. Not a problem. Gwen had a Ph.D. in pulling and prodding, though officially her certificate called it a Ph.D. in psychology. Same difference.

“On the phone, you sounded like you needed to talk.”

“Actually, I’m working a case and could use your professional insight.”

Gwen checked Maggie’s eyes. That’s not what she meant earlier on the phone or she would have said so. Okay, so if her friend wanted to talk shop and put off the real stuff, Gwen could be patient. “What’s the case?”

“The standoff at the cabin. Cunningham wants a criminal profile of these guys, so that we might connect them to whatever organization they belong to. Because six young men certainly didn’t do this on their own.”

“Right. Yes, of course. I read something about that in the
Washington Times.
”

“And the criminal psychology of adolescent male minds is your new specialty,” Maggie said with a smile that Gwen recognized as pride. “Why would six teenage boys put down their guns, take cyanide capsules and then lie down and wait to die?”

“Without knowing any of the details, my first reaction is that it wasn’t their idea. They simply did what they were told or instructed to do by someone they feared.”

“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.