The Soul Catcher (35 page)

J
ustin couldn’t believe his eyes. Compared to the rest of the compound, Father’s small cottage looked like a fucking palace. There was a fireplace and expensive leather chairs. Bookcases were filled with books, something members were not allowed to own or keep, except for a personal copy of the Bible. The walls were covered with framed artwork and the windows with flowing drapes. A bowl with fresh fruit, another rare commodity, sat on a hand-carved sofa table. Next to the bowl was a can of Pepsi. Shit! Alice had led him to believe that junk food was like the Antichrist or some fucking thing.

He sat in one of the leather chairs, waiting as he had been instructed to do by Cassie, Father’s personal assistant. He should have been nervous about being asked here—no, summoned. That was the word Darren had used when he came to get him. Had to be Father’s word. Not likely an idiot like Darren would come up with a word like that all on his own.

He could hear Father’s voice in the room next door, Father’s office. He couldn’t hear another voice, though it was obvious Father was having a conversation with someone. He had to be on the phone. Another surprise. Had to be a cellular phone, since there weren’t any fucking phone lines running into the compound.

“I don’t like the sounds of this, Stephen,” Father was saying.

Yeah, he had to be on the phone, ’cause Justin wasn’t hearing Stephen answer.

“How could this have happened?” Father asked, sounding impatient. He didn’t wait for an answer. “He made a big mistake this time.”

Justin wondered who’d fucked up. Then he heard Father say, “No, no. Brandon’s being taken care of. Don’t worry about him. He won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Brandon? So it was the golden boy who fucked up? Justin smiled, then caught himself. There could be cameras.

He tried to sit still, but his eyes kept pivoting around at the amazing surroundings. Office, bedroom, huge fucking living room. He knew Father even had his own bathroom. Now he wondered if the man had a fucking whirlpool bath and…Oh, shit. He hadn’t even thought about it before—the man probably had toilet paper. Not just toilet paper but that white, soft, cushiony stuff. And no way was he restricted to two-minute showers. The thought had Justin raking his fingers through his hair. At least this morning he had gotten all the shampoo out before the water shut off. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of it. But he would never get used to brushing his teeth without water. The antiseptic taste of that generic paste stayed with him throughout the day.

“Justin.” Father entered the room without a sound, no footstep, no warning. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and dark trousers that looked freshly pressed.

Justin jumped at the sound of his voice, then automatically stood, wondering if he would need to sit on the floor now. Hadn’t Alice told him that Father’s head had to be above everyone else’s? Or did it not count when no one else was around to see? Shit! He wished he had talked to Alice before coming.

“Sit down,” Father said, pointing to Justin’s chair. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you since Saturday night.” He sat in the leather chair facing Justin’s.

He watched the reverend’s face, looking for signs of anger or that scowl he had perfected, the one that could turn men to stone and probably make women sterile. Who knew what powers this guy possessed. But, instead, Father’s face was calm and serious but friendly.

“I know you must be confused by what you think you saw on the bus coming back Saturday evening.”

Oh, shit! He was actually going to make them discuss this. Justin shifted, making the leather of his chair crackle. “I was sorta half-asleep,” he attempted.

“Yes, I thought perhaps you had been. That’s why I think you may have misunderstood what you saw.” Father sat back and crossed his leg with his right ankle resting on the knee of his left leg, making himself comfortable yet looking in complete control. “You know, Justin, I must constantly test all my followers. Just one among us who shows weakness could destroy us all.”

Justin nodded, pretending to understand this bullshit.

“It’s not something I enjoy, and sometimes my tests probably look odd to those who don’t fully understand. But no one can be exempt. No one, not even sweet, dear Alice.” He folded his hands together as if trying to decide whether or not to proceed. “There are things you don’t know about Alice. Things no one else knows.”

Justin had to admit he didn’t know much about Alice’s past. She never talked about it or mentioned her family, even though she was always trying to get him to talk about his. It had taken days of probing to finally get her to tell him she was twenty years old, three years older than he was. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t even know where she had grown up.

“Alice was a very troubled girl when she came here. Her parents had thrown her out of the house. She had nowhere else to go. I took a special interest in her, because I knew there was such good inside her, wanting to come out. But there were things she has done in her past, things that…well, all I will tell you, Justin, is that she has been used to receiving anything she wanted in exchange for sexual favors.”

Justin felt a knot twisting in his stomach. Father’s eyes were searching his, making sure Justin understood what he was saying.

“I know it’s hard to believe.” Father seemed satisfied with what he saw and sat back, shaking his head as if he, too, still couldn’t believe it. “Looking at her now and seeing what progress she’s made, yes, it is so hard to believe what a slut she was.”

Justin caught himself from grimacing at the word. He blinked and swallowed hard. His mouth had gone dry and suddenly the room had grown much too hot. He remembered that tight pink sweater Alice had worn Saturday and how inappropriate he thought it was. Then he remembered her shaking her head no the entire time Father had his hand in her crotch. But there had also been such a pained look on her face, almost a sort of fear in her eyes. Had he imagined all that? Or had she simply been afraid of failing Father’s test? Jesus!

“So now you understand the manner of testing I must use with Alice. It’s so important to make certain that she has grown beyond that lifestyle, that she isn’t continuing to lead other members into temptation. That she recognizes she has so much more to offer. That’s also why I put her in charge of recruiting, so that she can experience successes from using her other talents and not just her body.”

Justin didn’t know what to say. Father was watching him, waiting, but what the hell kind of response did he expect?

“You must never speak of this, Justin. It must never leave this room. Do you understand?”

“Sure. No, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Alice. It would devastate her to realize that anyone knows. Can I trust you, Justin?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean…yes, you can trust me.”

“Good.” He smiled, and Justin couldn’t remember Father ever smiling at him. It actually felt pretty good. “I knew you could be trusted. You’re a good man, just like your brother, Eric.” He sat forward, suddenly serious. “I knew you were special, Justin, when you survived my test.”

Justin stared at him, looking for signs that the man knew he hadn’t really survived but had spent the time with some campers. But Father was serious, his eyes warm and friendly.

“You must never repeat this, Justin, not even to your brother, but I knew from the day you stepped onto the compound that God had sent you.”

“Sent me?”

“Yes. You’re not like the rest. You see things, know things. You’re not easily fooled.”

Maybe the man honestly could read minds. Justin swallowed and nodded.

“You were sent by God to play an integral part in this mission, Justin. God sent you to me as a favor. You are a blessing.”

Justin wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t help feeling…Hell, he couldn’t help feeling special. He had never heard Father say such things to anyone else.

“That’s why I want you to join the ranks of my warriors. I have the feeling you will be a very special warrior.” He leaned even closer and lowered his voice. “I need your help, Justin. There are those who would like to destroy me, even here within our ranks. Are you willing to help me?”

Justin didn’t know much about Father’s warriors, except that they did get special treatment, rewards. Eric was a warrior and took great pride in the title. Justin tried to remember if anyone had ever told him they needed him before. It felt good. It felt damn good.

Father was waiting for an answer.

“Yeah,” Justin said, and found the answer came quite easily. “Yeah, I guess I could help.”

“Good. Excellent.” He smiled and slapped Justin on the knee, then sat back in the recliner. “Brandon and I are taking a group to Boston for initiation. I’d like you to go, too.”

“Sure, okay.” He had no idea what he was getting himself into, but maybe it was a good idea to be away from Alice for a while. Just to think and sort through everything Father had told him. Besides, he really was kind of excited about this. Eric would be so proud when he heard the news. “About Eric,” he said, “any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Could be any day now,” Father said. But his eyes suddenly drifted off to look out the window, as if his mind had wandered somewhere else.

John F. Kennedy Federal Building
Boston, Massachusetts

W
hen the guard told Eric Pratt he had a visitor, Eric knew Father had sent someone to kill him. He sat down next to the thick glass partition and stared at the door on the other side, waiting to see who his executioner would be. His best friend, Brandon, walked through the door, stopped to be patted down by a guard then waved a hello. He sat in the yellow plastic chair and scooted as close as allowed to the barrier. Brandon was clean shaven, his wild, red hair wet with some sort of gel, combed and plastered to his head. He smiled at Eric as he picked up the telephone receiver.

“Hi, buddy,” Brandon said, his voice muffled, though he sat right across from him. “They treatin’ you okay in here?” His eyes flicked everywhere except to meet Eric’s, and right then, Eric knew. It was Brandon. Brandon had come to deliver his death warrant.

After those first days of questioning when Eric refused to answer any questions, they had thrown him into solitary confinement. What they hadn’t realized was that they were giving him exactly what he wanted—to be left alone. After months of being surrounded by people, of not being able to go anywhere without a tagalong, the solitary confinement was a reward, not a punishment. But he wouldn’t dare tell Brandon. That would only give his friend more reason to want him dead.

“I’m fine,” Eric said, not caring that his tone probably didn’t back up his words.

“Heard the food in here is worse than the crap we eat every day.” Brandon laughed, but it was a manufactured one.

Had he forgotten that Eric would be able to recognize it as such? Did he really believe he could dupe him into exchanging confidences? Oh, Father was good. Of course, he would send Eric’s best friend to do the job. What sweet poetic justice, like sending Judas to betray Jesus, or rather, Cain to slaughter Abel.

“The food’s okay.”

Brandon glanced around, then leaned close to the glass. Eric stayed put, sitting straight-backed in the hard plastic chair. This was it. But how…how would he choose to destroy him?

“What the hell happened out there, Eric? Why didn’t you take the pill?” He kept his voice hushed, but there was no mistaking the anger. Eric had expected nothing less than anger. And no matter how honest he tried to be with him, Brandon would never understand, because
he
would not have hesitated. Brandon would have swallowed ten cyanide capsules for Father. And now he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to kill his best friend, whose only sin had been that he wanted to live.

“I did take it,” Eric offered as a weak defense.

It was the truth, or at least part of the truth. Besides, hadn’t Father taught them that it was okay to lie, cheat and steal as long as the end justified the means? Well, the end was now Eric’s own survival. Then he realized something for the first time. How stupid of him to not realize it sooner. Neither Brandon nor Father had any idea what had happened after the shoot-out. They had no idea what the agents had asked him or what he had told them. How could they? All they knew was that he was still alive and in the midst of the enemy.

But maybe they didn’t care about what had happened. They certainly didn’t care about him or it wouldn’t have taken this long for Father to send someone. No, the only thing they cared about was what he might confess, though there was nothing he could say. What could he tell them? That Father had tricked them? That he cared more about guns and his own protection than he did about his own followers? And why would the FBI care to hear about that?

“I don’t get it,” Brandon whispered. “Those capsules are supposed to be enough to drop a horse.”

Eric looked into his friend’s eyes. He could see Brandon didn’t believe him. His friend’s jaw was taut. One hand clenched the phone, the other was a fist on the small ledge.

“Maybe mine didn’t have as much,” Eric said, continuing the lie. “Lowell packs dozens of those. Maybe he didn’t pack enough into the one I got.” But even Eric wasn’t convinced by his own emotionless voice.

Brandon looked around again. Two seats down a large, greasy-haired woman began to sob in loud, sloppy gulps. He leaned even closer to the glass, and this time he didn’t bother to hide the anger. “That’s bullshit!” he spat in a low, careful voice.

Eric didn’t blink. He didn’t answer. He could be silent. He had done it for two whole days while prosecutors and FBI agents screamed into his face. He continued to sit quiet and straight, telling himself, commanding himself not to flinch, while his heart pounded against his rib cage.

“You know what happens to traitors,” Brandon whispered into the phone. Those same eyes that only moments ago couldn’t meet Eric’s were now holding him, pinning him to his chair with their hate. When had Brandon’s eyes become so black, so hollow, so evil? “Look for the signs of the end,” Brandon said, “and just remember, this could be the day.”

Then Father’s messenger slapped the phone’s receiver into its cradle. He shoved back the chair, its metal legs screeching against the floor. But he walked out with his usual calm, cocky strut, so that no one else would notice that he had just personally delivered Father’s curse of death.

Eric should have felt relief that he had survived Brandon’s visit. Instead he felt sick to his stomach. He knew what Father was capable of doing. The man seemed to have special powers. In the past, there had been members who had left, all of them traitors. No one left without being a traitor. Eric had heard plenty of stories, and then there were the ones he knew firsthand.

The most recent one to leave was Dara Hardy. She had given the excuse that her mother had cancer and Dara wanted to spend her last days with her. But Father insisted that if her story had been true, Dara certainly would have taken him up on his generous offer to bring the ill woman to the compound. Never mind that Father didn’t allow any medications and preached that doctors were a selfish indulgence. After all, he alone could heal and would take care of his members. Dara Hardy left. Exactly one week later, she was killed in a car accident. Her mother died without Dara at her bedside.

Eric wondered what freak accident they would use with him. Would another prisoner accidently scald him in the shower? Would more cyanide find its way into his food? Or would a guard come into his cell late at night and make it look like he had hanged himself? One thing he knew for certain; his killer would be someone he least expected. Just as his messenger of death had been his best friend. How could he survive in this snake pit of the enemy and constantly be looking over his shoulder?

But it wasn’t his enemy who wanted him dead. It was the man who, even as he killed Eric, would still claim to be his savior, the redeemer of his soul. No, he had that wrong—the owner of his soul, not the redeemer. Because that was the price Father charged all his followers in order for them to come into his fold. Their soul.

For the first time, Eric felt grateful that Justin was dead, reduced to a cardboard box full of unidentifiable bones. At least Father could no longer pull the two brothers apart, make them wage war against each other like he had with so many other family members. And, perhaps, just maybe, he had not had time to steal Justin’s soul. If that was true then Justin was, indeed, the lucky one.