The Soul Catcher (36 page)

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.

“Y
ou don’t know it’s the same Joseph Everett,” Tully said from the doorway, watching O’Dell’s fingers fly over her computer keyboard.

“Unlikely that there are two Reverend Joseph Everetts in the Virginia area,” she said without a glance, but he recognized that anxious tone in her voice, and he couldn’t help thinking, “Here we go again.”

He became a little nervous whenever O’Dell got that tone in her voice and a certain look in her eyes, like she was on a personal mission. The last time it happened, the two of them ended up in a burning house with O’Dell saving his life—
after
he took a bullet to his thigh.

He was relieved, however, that they might actually have some answers. And also relieved that Emma had gotten through the morning. O’Dell was right. Emma was an incredibly brave and smart girl. And before Agent LaPlatz volunteered to drive her back to Reston High, he embarrassed his brave, smart daughter with a hug and told her how proud he was of her.

Tully watched as O’Dell brought up some sort of document and began scrolling through it. He looked over at Dr. Patterson, who sat in the overstuffed lounge chair O’Dell had managed to squeeze into her small office. There had been several late nights when he had found his partner curled up and asleep in it. All of their offices in BSU were small, but O’Dell had a knack for organizing, using every inch of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and little cubbyholes to keep piles off chairs and off the floor, so that even with the lounge chair, her office looked cozy but not overcrowded. Not like his own, which reminded him some days of a storage closet with walking paths to his desk.

Dr. Patterson had removed her heels, and Tully watched absently as she made herself comfortable, tucking her legs underneath her. In doing so, she hiked up her skirt. She had great legs. Trim ankles. Firm, smooth thighs. Jeez! What the hell was wrong with him? He looked away as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Usually Gwen Patterson bugged the hell out of him. There seemed to be nothing they agreed on. The last time he and O’Dell were working late, they stopped at her huge Tudor in Newburgh Heights, where Dr. Patterson had been dog-sitting. The three of them decided to order takeout. If he remembered correctly, he and Patterson had gotten into an argument over Chinese or pizza, debating each food’s nonnutritional value. Of course, she was supposed to be the expert, being a so-called gourmet cook. Yeah, she irritated the hell out of him. Didn’t mean she couldn’t have great legs, though. Maybe thinking about Caroline over the weekend had simply reminded him—

“Here’s something.” O’Dell interrupted his rambling thoughts. “It’s a court document. It’s old—1975. That’s over twenty-five years ago. Everett would have been…what do you think…in his twenties?”

“We don’t even know yet if Everett is involved.”

“Cunningham must think so or he wouldn’t be sending you and Gwen to Boston to interview the lone survivor. And he didn’t hesitate when I asked to arrange a meeting with someone from Everett’s organization. Maybe even an ex-member. In fact, he told me he’d call Senator Brier and see if he had any connections.”

O’Dell kept her back to them while she read. Dr. Patterson was ignoring the two of them, rolling her shoulders and slowly massaging her temples—perhaps some relaxation routine she was used to doing to unwind. Tully found it distracting as hell. He finally gave in and came to O’Dell’s side to look at what she had found.

“Not like a trip to Boston will do much good,” Tully said. “The kid wasn’t willing to talk at the cabin when we had him scared out of his wits. I can’t imagine he’ll spill anything now after he’s had a nice warm place to sleep and three square meals.”

“What makes you think that fear can be the only motivating force to get a suspect to talk?” Dr. Patterson asked without disturbing her temple rubbing.

Now that Tully was out of her line of vision he could safely steal a glance at her shiny, strawberry-blond hair. The woman was definitely attractive. Suddenly, she turned to look up at him.

“No really, what makes you think fear is the only way to go?”

“Fear’s usually what works best on that age group,” he told her.

This time O’Dell looked over her shoulder. “Isn’t that exactly what you told me the other day, Gwen?”

“Not exactly. I said fear most likely made them think they didn’t have an alternative when their natural instinct should have been to fight. But from what I understand, this boy spit his cyanide capsule out. Which would tell me that fear might not be a motivating factor for him.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Tully said, and realized he was already feeling defensive. Why did she do that to him? He wasn’t a defensive kind of guy. But now both Patterson and O’Dell were waiting for an explanation. “I know you think spitting the cyanide out could be a sign of him wanting to stick around to fight. But maybe he was simply scared to die. Isn’t that possible?”

“Whoever convinced these boys to take cyanide certainly would have convinced them that they would be tortured and killed if taken alive.” Dr. Patterson was no longer relaxing. Even her legs had come out from under her. “That this boy was willing to take that chance tells me that he’s looking for and hoping for a safe haven.”

“Really? You can tell all that even before you’ve met the kid.”

“Okay, you two.” O’Dell put up her hands in mock surrender. “Maybe I should be going to Boston with you, Gwen.”

“You need to talk to your mother,” Gwen answered, keeping her eyes on Tully as if planning her next offensive.

“You promise you two won’t kill each other?” O’Dell smiled.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Gwen said, smiling at O’Dell. However, O’Dell seemed to be waiting for confirmation from Tully.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, now anxious to change the subject, because even though Patterson made him defensive, she hadn’t realized her skirt was still hiked up to her thighs. He turned back to the computer screen. “What did you find?”

“I have no idea if it’s the same Joseph Everett, but at twenty-two years of age and from Arlington, Virginia, it could very well be. He was charged with rape. The nineteen-year-old girl was a second-year journalism student at the University of Virginia.”

The phone suddenly rang, and O’Dell grabbed it. “O’Dell.”

Tully pretended to read the computer screen, trying to keep his attention away from Patterson.

“What makes you think that?” O’Dell asked, then waited. Whoever it was hadn’t given much of an explanation. O’Dell frowned as she said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

She hung up the phone. “That was Racine,” she said, swiveling her chair back to the computer. “I’ll print out copies,” she told Tully as she hit the print icon, listened for the printer to groan into action, then started closing down the Internet site. “She thinks she has something I need to take a look at.”

There was an emphasis on “she thinks” and enough sarcasm to prompt Tully to try again. “What is it with you and Racine?”

“I told you. I don’t trust her.”

“No. You told me you didn’t like her.”

“Same thing,” she said as she whipped two copies from the printer tray, handing one to Tully and folding the other for herself. “Any chance you could check if this is our Joseph Everett before you leave?”

“Sure. If he has a criminal conviction for rape, it’ll be easy to track.”

“Unfortunately, this is all we’ve got.” She held up her copy. “There won’t be any other documents. The girl dropped the charges.” She put on her jacket, then stopped and looked from Tully to Gwen. “Everett must have been good at instilling fear, even back then.”