The Soul Catcher (12 page)

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.

H
e 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 laid 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.

H
e 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 laid 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.