The Soul Catcher (17 page)

J
ustin pretended to sleep. The converted Greyhound bus was finally quiet, the rumble of the engine and tires a welcome lullaby. Thank God! No more fucking “Kumbaya” songs. Getting through that wacky “praise the Lord” and “Yahweh rules” at the too-long prayer rally had been bad enough. But Justin knew his head would surely explode if he had to listen to that crap for the three-hour bus ride home.

He had reclined his bus seat just far enough back that he could keep a half-closed eye on Brandon and Alice. They were sitting together one row behind him and across the aisle. The interior of the Greyhound bus was dark except for the track lighting on the floor, like little-bitty runway lights. He could barely see Alice’s silhouette, her head turned to look out the window. She had kept that same pose since they left D.C. Even when the rest of the bus had been wailing at the top of their lungs, he could see Alice’s lips move only when she occasionally looked back. Otherwise she kept staring out the window. Maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of Brandon, either. Hey, he could hope, couldn’t he?

With the seat reclined, he could watch Brandon a little easier. Justin kept his eyes on Brandon’s hands. The guy better keep those fucking hands off Alice. Once in a while, in the light of oncoming cars, he caught a glimpse of his face. Contentment. Fucking contentment, like he didn’t have a worry in the world. It still pissed Justin off that Brandon had rammed his way into the bus, practically shoving him aside and plopping down in the seat next to Alice as if it were marked his. The bastard took anything and everything he wanted without ever thinking of asking.

Justin heard the whispered murmurs before he twisted around and noticed Father coming from his private compartment in the back of the bus. Rumors were that it included a bathroom and bed for Father to catch up on his rest. Now, as he walked slowly up the aisle, holding on to the backs of seats to keep his balance, Justin couldn’t help thinking the man looked pretty ordinary in the shadows of the dark bus. What? The guy walked on water, but he had to hang on for a short trek down a bus aisle?

Justin kept his head pressed to the back of his seat, shifting slightly, so no one would think he was fully awake. He even snorted a little under his breath, a sound he had heard himself make other times in a half-conscious state.

Through the slits of his eyes, he could see Father stop, standing right at Justin’s head. His dark features made it impossible for Justin to tell through half-shut eyes whether or not the man was looking down at him.

Then he heard him whisper, “Brandon, go sit with Darren up in front for a few minutes. I need to talk with Alice.”

Brandon got up and obeyed without a word. Justin wanted to smile. Good, the bastard won’t be bothering Alice for a while. Maybe Father had noticed Brandon’s obsession with Alice. After all, he preached about celibacy being necessary in order for all of them to fulfill their mission. It was bullshit, of course, but he had witnessed the punishment imposed for disobeying. A couple who had gotten caught the first week Justin came to the compound were still being ostracized by the others.

“Alice, I wanted to commend you,” Justin heard Father say, though his voice was hushed. “You did an excellent job recruiting young people to come to the rally.”

“Justin and Brandon helped.” Alice’s voice was a whisper, but Justin’s radar seemed to be picking it up. He loved that soft, tender, sweet voice of hers. It sounded like a bird’s song, the words melodic, no matter what she said.

“That’s just like you to give some of the credit away.”

“But it’s true. They did help.”

Father gave a laugh that Justin didn’t recognize. He tried to remember if he had ever heard the man laugh.

“Do you have any idea how special you are, my dear girl?”

Justin smiled, glad that someone else noticed that important fact. Except Alice didn’t seem happy—the look on her face was almost a grimace. Too much modesty? She certainly needed to learn how to take a compliment, especially—what the hell?

Now, he could see what had quieted Alice. In the faint light of oncoming traffic, Justin could just make out Father’s right hand on Alice’s thigh. Justin kept his head against the seat but opened his eyes for a better look. Yes, the bastard’s fingers were sliding in between Alice’s thighs, moving their way up to her crotch. Shit! What the hell?

He felt a cold sweat wash over him, and a panic hammered in his chest. He looked back up at Alice’s face and this time she noticed him watching. She gave just a slight shake of her head, a definite “no.” At first, he thought it was meant for Father, but the man seemed fixated on the route his hand was taking. So the “no” was for Justin.

Fuck! Everything on her pained face told him she didn’t want what was happening, and yet she was telling him not to interrupt?

Shit! He had to do something. He couldn’t see Father’s hand anymore. It was too dark again, the stream of traffic having passed. But from the movement of the man’s shoulder, Justin figured he must be digging into her. Maybe by now, he had his goddamn hand down the front of her pants.

Justin laid his head back. He had to do something. Fuck! He needed to think. Suddenly he decided. He jerked and twisted, flaying his body back and forth in the seat, faking a nightmare as best he could. Then he slammed his body forward and yelled, “Stop it! Don’t do it!”

It was enough to wake everyone, and several people hung over or around their seats to look. Justin shook his head and rubbed his eyes and face.

“Sorry, everybody. Bad dream, I guess. I’m okay.”

He glanced at Father. The man was staring at him, the anger easily visible in the dim light. As he stood, he scowled down at Justin, holding that pose as if wanting everyone to witness his disapproval. How could he justify being angry about a nightmare? Of course, no one else would know the real reason for his anger. But Justin didn’t care if anyone else knew. He was just glad the pervert had stopped. He simply shrugged at Father. Then he shifted in his seat away from that piercing and condemning stare, mumbling an apology to the zit-faced dittohead sitting next to him.

Finally, he heard Father turn, but Justin waited until he heard the click of the back compartment’s door before he looked over at Alice. Her face was turned to the window again, but, almost as if reading his mind, she glanced at him over her shoulder and again slowly shook her head, only this time she didn’t look pained. This time, she looked worried, and he knew he was probably in a whole lot of trouble with their leader, their so-called fucking soul caretaker. How could he take care of their souls when he couldn’t even keep his fucking hands to himself?

SUNDAY
November 24
The Hyatt Regency Crystal City
Arlington, Virginia

M
aggie checked her watch again. Her mother was fifteen minutes late. Okay, some things never changed. Quickly, she chastised herself for the thought. After all, her mother was trying to change. Her new friends seemed to have had a positive influence on her. There had been no drunken bouts or botched suicide attempts in more than six months. That had to be a record, yet Maggie remained skeptical.

Her mother rarely left Richmond, but lately she was traveling some place new every other week. Maggie had been surprised to get the phone call last night and even more surprised to find her mother had been calling from the Crystal City Hyatt. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been to the District. She had told Maggie she’d come for a prayer meeting or some such thing, and for a brief moment Maggie had panicked that it was the prayer thing she was being invited to. Now Maggie wondered why she thought having breakfast with her mother would be any less awkward. Why hadn’t she just said no?

She sipped her water, wishing it were Scotch. The waiter smiled at her again from across the restaurant, one of those sympathy smiles that said, “I’m sorry you’ve been stood up.” She decided if her mother didn’t show, she’d order bacon, scrambled eggs and toast with a tumbler of Scotch instead of orange juice.

She refolded her napkin for the third time when all she wanted to do was dig the exhaustion from her eyes. She had only gotten about two hours of sleep, fighting images of Delaney’s head exploding over and over again. God, she hated funerals! Even Abby’s innocent acceptance of her father’s death hadn’t stopped Maggie’s memories from leaking into and invading her sleep. The nightmare that finally convinced her to stay awake was one of herself, tossing handful after handful of dirt into a dark hole. The process seemed endless and exhausting. When she finally looked over the edge, she saw the dirt quickly turning to maggots scattering and crawling across her father’s face, his wide eyes staring up at her. And he was wearing that stupid brown suit with his hair still combed the wrong way.

Maggie blinked and shook her head, willing the image out of her mind. She looked for the waiter. There was no sense in putting off the Scotch. Just then she saw her mother come in the restaurant door. At first, Maggie glanced right by her, not recognizing the attractive brunette dressed in a navy coatdress and bright red scarf. The woman waved at Maggie, and Maggie did a double take. Her mother usually wore absurd combinations that confirmed how little she cared about her appearance. But the woman approaching the table looked like a sophisticated socialite.

“Hi, sweetie,” the imposter said in a sugary tone that Maggie also didn’t recognize, though there was a familiar raspiness, a leftover from a two-pack-a-day habit. “You should see my room,” she added with an enthusiasm that continued the charade. “It’s huge! Reverend Everett was so kind to let us stay here last night. He’s just been so good to Emily, Stephen and me.”

Maggie barely managed to utter a stunned greeting before her mother sat down and the waiter was at their table.

“Would you ladies like to start off the morning with some juice and coffee or perhaps a mamosa?”

“The water’s fine for now,” Maggie said, watching her mother, waiting to see if she would take the waiter up on his invitation to drink before noon. Time of day had never stopped her in the past.

“Is this tap water?” Kathleen O’Dell pointed to the glass in front of her.

“I think so. I guess I’m not sure.”

“Could you please fetch me a bottled water? Spring water from Colorado would be good.”

“Colorado?”

“Yes, well…bottled spring water. Preferably from Colorado.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see what I can do.”

She waited until the waiter was out of sight, then she leaned across the table and whispered to Maggie, “They put all kinds of chemicals in tap water. Nasty stuff that causes cancer.”

“They?”

“The government.”

“Mom, I am the government.”

“Of course you’re not, sweetie.” She sat back and smiled, smoothing the cloth napkin into her lap.

“Mom, the FBI is a government agency.”

“But you don’t think like them, Maggie. You’re not part of…” She lowered her voice and whispered, “The conspiracy.”

“Here you are, ma’am.” The waiter presented a beautiful, crystal stemmed water glass filled to the brim and garnished with a wedge of lemon. His efforts were only met with a frown.

“Oh, now, how do I know this is bottled spring water if you bring it to me already in a glass?”

He looked at Maggie as if for help. Instead, she said, “Could you bring me a Scotch? Neat.”

“Of course. One Scotch, neat, and one bottled spring water in the bottle.”

“Preferably from Colorado.”

The waiter gave Maggie an exasperated glance, as if checking for any other demands. She relieved him with, “My Scotch can be from anywhere.”

“Of course.” He managed a smile and was off again.

The waiter barely left before her mother leaned over the table again to whisper, “It’s awfully early in the day to be drinking, Maggie.”

Maggie resisted the urge to remind her mother that perhaps this was a tendency she had picked up from her. Her jaw clenched and her fingers twisted the napkin in her lap.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she offered as an explanation.

“Well, then some coffee might be more appropriate. I’ll call him back.” She started looking for the waiter.

“No, Mom. Stop.”

“Some caffeine is just what you need. Reverend Everett says caffeine can be medicinal if not abused. Just a little will help. You’ll see.”

“It’s okay. I don’t want any coffee. I don’t really even like coffee.”

“Oh, now, where did he run off to?”

“Mom, don’t.”

“He’s over at that table. I’ll just—”

“Mom, stop it. I want the goddamn Scotch.”

Her mother’s hand stopped in midair. “Well…okay.” She tucked the hand into her lap as if Maggie had slapped it.

Maggie had never spoken to her mother like that before. Where the hell did that come from? And now, as her mother’s face turned red, Maggie tried to remember if she had ever seen her mother embarrassed, though there had been plenty of times in the past that would have justified such a response. Like making her daughter drag her half-conscious body up three flights of stairs or waking up in a pool of vomit.

Maggie looked away, watching for the waiter, wondering how she’d get through an entire meal with this woman. She’d rather be anywhere else.

“I suppose that dog kept you awake,” her mother said as if there were no dark cloud of the past hanging over their table.

“No, actually it was my government job.”

She looked up at Maggie. There was yet another smile. “You know what I was thinking, sweetie?” As usual she conveniently changed the subject, a tactical expert at avoiding confrontation. “I was thinking we should do a big Thanksgiving dinner.”

Maggie stared at her. Surely, she must be joking.

“I’ll cook a turkey with all the trimmings. It’ll be just like the good ole days.”

The good ole days? That must be the punch line, but from what Maggie could tell, her mother was serious. The idea that the woman even knew which end of the turkey to stuff seemed incomprehensible.

“I’ll invite Stephen and Emily. It’s about time you met them. And you can bring Greg.”

Ah, no punch line. But definitely an ulterior motive. Of course, why hadn’t she seen that one coming?

“Mom, you know that’s not going to happen.”

“How is Greg? I miss seeing him.” Again, Kathleen O’Dell continued the charade as if Maggie hadn’t spoken.

“I suppose he’s fine.”

“Well, the two of you still talk, right?”

“Only about the division of our mutually accumulated assets.”

“Oh, sweetie. You should simply apologize. I’m sure Greg would take you back.”

“Excuse me? What exactly should I apologize for?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“For cheating on him with that cowboy in Nebraska.”

Maggie restrained her anger by strangling the cloth napkin in her lap.

“Nick Morrelli is not a cowboy. And I did not cheat on Greg.”

“Maybe not physically.”

This time her mother’s eyes caught hers, and Maggie couldn’t look away. She had never told her mother about Nick Morrelli, but obviously Greg had. She had met Nick last year. At the time he had been a county sheriff in a small Nebraska town. The two of them had spent a week together chasing a child killer. Ever since then she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind for very long, a task made more difficult now that he was living in Boston, an A.D.A. for Suffolk County. But she was not even seeing Nick, had insisted, in fact, that they have little contact until her divorce was final. And, despite her feelings, she had not slept with Nick. She had never cheated on Greg, or at least not in a legal sense. Maybe she was guilty of cheating on him in her heart.

Never mind. It wasn’t any of her mother’s business. How dare she claim that she had some secret access to Maggie’s heart. She had no right. Not after all the damage she had done to it herself.

“The divorce papers have already been drawn up,” Maggie finally said with what she hoped was enough finality to close the subject.

“But you haven’t signed them yet?”

She continued to stare at her mother’s concerned look, puzzled by it as much as she was uncomfortable with it. Was her mother sincerely trying to change? Was she genuinely concerned? Or had she talked to Greg, discovered he was having second thoughts and agreed to some secret alliance? Was that the real reason behind this good ole Thanksgiving plan?

“Whether we sign the divorce papers or not, nothing will change between Greg and me.”

“No, of course not. Not as long as you insist on keeping that government job of yours.”

There it was. The subtle but oh-so-effective jab to the heart. Much more effective than a slap to the face. Of course, Maggie was the bad guy, and the divorce was all her fault. And, according to her mother, everything could be fixed if only Maggie apologized and swept all the messy problems out of sight. No need to solve anything. Just get them the hell out of sight. After all, wasn’t that Kathleen O’Dell’s specialty? What you don’t acknowledge can’t possibly exist.

Maggie shook her head and smiled up at the waiter who had returned and deposited in front of her a tumbler of amber, liquid salvation. She picked up the glass and sipped, ignoring the frown on her mother’s new and carefully made-up face. Indeed, some things never changed.

Her cellular phone began ringing, and Maggie twisted around to pull it out of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Only two rings and the entire restaurant was now joining her mother to frown at her.

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“Agent O’Dell, it’s Cunningham. Sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning.”

“That’s fine, sir.” This new apologetic Cunningham could easily start to grate on her nerves. She wanted her old boss back.

“A body’s been found on federal property. District PD’s on the scene, but I’ve gotten a request for BSU to take a look.”

“I’m already at the Crystal City Hyatt. Just tell me where you need me to be.” She could feel her mother scowling at her. She wanted another sip of Scotch, but set it aside.

“Meet Agent Tully at the FDR Memorial.”

“The monument?”

“Yes. The fourth gallery. The District’s lead on the scene is…” She could hear him flipping pages. “Lead is a Detective Racine.”

“Racine? Julia Racine?”

“Yes, I believe so. Is there a problem, Agent O’Dell?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Okay then.” He hung up without a goodbye, a sign the old Cunningham was still in charge.

Maggie looked at her mother as she wrestled into her jacket and peeled out a twenty dollar bill to leave for the breakfast she hadn’t yet ordered.

“Sorry. I need to leave.”

“Yes, I know. Your job. It tends to ruin quite a few things, doesn’t it?”

Rather than even try to find the correct answer, Maggie grabbed the tumbler of Scotch and drained it in one gulp. She mumbled a goodbye and left.