The Soul Catcher (14 page)

Washington, D.C.

B
en 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 message-play 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.”

The film canisters slipped to the floor and scattered in different directions while Ben grabbed the countertop. He stared at the answering machine. No cab company on this planet called its passengers to see if they enjoyed their ride. No, it had to be them. Which meant they had moved from crank calls to watching him. And now they wanted him to know they were watching.

Washington, D.C.

B
en 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 message-play 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.”

The film canisters slipped to the floor and scattered in different directions while Ben grabbed the countertop. He stared at the answering machine. No cab company on this planet called its passengers to see if they enjoyed their ride. No, it had to be them. Which meant they had moved from crank calls to watching him. And now they wanted him to know they were watching.

J
ustin Pratt waited outside the McDonald’s rest room. Who’d think the place would be this busy at this time of night? But where else were kids supposed to hang out? Shit! What he wouldn’t do for a Big Mac. The smell of French fries made his mouth water and his stomach ache.

He had carelessly suggested to Alice that they grab a bite to eat. Even before her nose crinkled and she gave him that exasperated look, he knew she wouldn’t agree. That was one of the things he admired: her unflinching self-discipline. Yet, at the same time, what would it hurt to have one fucking cheeseburger?

He needed to watch his language. He glanced around again. It was becoming a habit for him to check that no one could hear his thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? He was creeping himself out.

He couldn’t believe how jumpy he was. It was as if he had no control over his body or his thoughts. He scratched his jaw and combed his fingers through his greasy hair. He hated taking timed showers. The water never got warm, and this morning his two minutes were up before he could get the shampoo out of his hair.

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest to stop his fidgeting. What was taking her so long? He knew part of the jumpiness had to be withdrawal from nicotine and caffeine. No cigarettes, no coffee, no cheeseburgers—Jesus! Was he out of his fucking mind?

Just then, Alice came out of the rest room. She had tied back her long blond hair, revealing more of her smooth white skin and her pouty lips, lips cherry-red without the aid of any cosmetics. When her green eyes met his, they sparkled, and she smiled at him like no one had ever smiled at him before. And once again, none of what he had given up mattered, as long as this beautiful angel continued to smile at him like that.

“Any sign of Brandon?” she asked, and immediately Justin felt wrenched from his temporary fantasy.

“No, not yet.” He stared out the window, pretending to watch.

Fact was, he had forgotten about Brandon, and even now, didn’t care if he showed up. He couldn’t figure out how the hell his brother, Eric, had been such good friends with the guy. Brandon wasn’t anything like Eric. In fact, he wished Brandon would just sorta disappear off the face of the earth. He was sick of him and his macho Casanova, oh-look-at-me-I’m-so-cool attitude. He didn’t care if he was supposedly some precious Father-in-training.

Justin also couldn’t understand why Brandon had to tag along everywhere he and Alice went. The guy could have any girl he wanted. Why couldn’t he leave Alice the fuck alone? Except that Justin knew Father insisted members never travel anywhere alone. And since Justin wasn’t a full-fledged member yet, anyone with him would still be considered traveling alone.

Eric had attempted to explain all the rules and crap to him, but then Father sent Justin out into the woods for almost a week. Father had called it an initiation ritual, and Eric hadn’t argued with the man. Although Justin still wasn’t sure what camping out, sleeping on the ground and eating cold canned beans had to do with being initiated into anything.

Luckily, he had wandered into Shenandoah National Park, and some campers ended up taking him in—fed him pretty damn well, too. He worried he had put on weight instead of looking the emaciated, frightened fledgling that Father had hoped would return. Unfortunately, when he got back, Eric was gone, off on some top-secret mission that no one could tell him about. He hated all the cloak-and-dagger shit. It felt as goddamn stupid as it sounded.

Alice scooted into a corner booth to wait. Justin hesitated. He really wanted to sit next to her. He could use the excuse that he needed to watch for Brandon, but Alice was already doing that, watching so intently he found himself hating Brandon for drawing away her attention.

Justin slid into the booth on the opposite side. He surveyed the restaurant, checking to see if anyone cared that they take up a booth when they hadn’t ordered anything. The place was filled with late-night customers getting their Saturday-night junk-food fix. It was long past dinnertime. No wonder his stomach ached. The bite of Ginny’s pretzel was all he’d had since lunch. And not like that gummy rice and beans they fed him would last, despite it feeling like it stuck to the inside walls of his stomach. How the hell did they eat that crap day after day? And since they were on the road, today’s ration had been served cold. Yuck! He could still taste it.

Realizing it might take a while, Alice wiggled out of her jacket. Justin followed her lead, trying not to stare at her incredible tits. Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking how hot she looked in that tight pink sweater.

She reached into her jacket pocket and brought out the bulging leather pouch, clumping it down on the table and making the quarters chink against one another. Justin thought about asking if they could, at least, get a couple of Cokes. She had used only one quarter for the phone call that seemed to be a big part of their mission. But then Alice had left just a short message, some weird code about a cab ride.

Justin didn’t try to figure it out. Truth was, he didn’t much care about the group’s politics or religious beliefs. Or even their travel arrangements, for that matter. He simply wanted to be with Alice. Not like he had any place better to be.

He had been gone almost a month, and he doubted that his parents gave a fuck that he wasn’t around. Maybe they hadn’t even noticed he was gone. They certainly didn’t seem to care when Eric left home. All his dad said was that Eric was old enough to screw up his own life, if that’s what he wanted to do. But Justin didn’t want to think about them. Not now. Not when he was sitting across the table from the only person who had ever made him feel like he was someone special.

Alice smiled at him again, but this time she pointed over his shoulder.

“Here he is.”

Brandon slid into the booth next to Alice, taking up too much space and squeezing Alice against the wall. She didn’t seem to mind, but Justin felt his hands clenching into fists, so he kept them in his lap under the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” Brandon muttered, though Justin knew he didn’t mean it. He knew guys like Brandon said “sorry” like some people asked “how are you?”

Justin examined the tall redhead, who reminded him of that dead actor in all those rebel movies—James Dean. Brandon’s head pivoted, his eyes looking everywhere except at the two of them. Justin glanced over his shoulder. Was Brandon worried someone had followed him? It sure as hell looked like it. His eyes kept darting all over the place. If Justin didn’t know better, he’d think Brandon was high on something. Except that was impossible. Brandon pretended to be a rebel, but he wouldn’t dare cross Father. And drugs were forbidden.

“We need to get back to the bus,” Alice politely and quietly instructed them. “The others will be waiting.”

“Give me a chance to catch my breath.” Brandon saw the pouch of quarters and reached for it. “I could use something to drink.”

Justin waited for Alice to scold Brandon in her soft, strict way. Instead, she stared at his hands. Then Justin noticed what had stopped Alice. Brandon’s left knuckle had something caked on it. Something dark and red that looked an awful lot like blood.