The Soul Catcher (39 page)

TUESDAY
November 26
Boston, Massachusetts

F
rom his corner suite at the Ritz-Carlton, Ben Garrison could see the Boston Common in one direction and the Charles River in the other. The lush suite was a long-overdue reward to himself and hopefully a good-luck charm for more good things to come. Not that he was superstitious, but he did believe that attitude could be a powerful tool. There was no harm in a few rewards and props now and then to boost that attitude. It made all the crap he had to deal with worthwhile; crap like crank phone calls and cockroaches. Small stuff compared to what he had dealt with in the past.

He remembered several years ago living out of a leaky one-man tent in a smelly, rat-infested warehouse in Kampala, Uganda. It had taken him months to learn Swahili and gain the locals’ trust. But it paid off. In no time, he had enough explicit photographs to break the story about a mad scientist luring homeless people from the streets of Kampala for his radical experiments.

Ben still had several of those photos tacked up on the walls of his darkroom. In order to feed her family of five kids, one woman had allowed the so-called scientist to remove her perfectly healthy breast, leaving a scar that looked like the asshole had chopped it off with a machete. An old man had sold the use of his right ear, now mutilated beyond repair, for a carton of cigarettes.

Ben had chosen a slow-speed black-and-white film to bring out the textures and details with natural side lighting. When he developed the prints, he had used high-contrast-grade paper to accentuate the dramatic effect, making the blacks dense and silky and the whites blindingly bright. Through his magic, he had managed to transform those hideous scars into art.

He was a genius when it came to catching hopelessness, that flicker of despair that, if he waited long enough, would always reveal itself in his subjects’ eyes. All it took was patience. Yes, he was truly a master at capturing on film the whole spectrum of emotions, from terror to jealousy to fear and evil. After all, the eyes were the window to the soul, and Ben knew he could one day capture the image of the soul on film. Patience.

At the time, both
Newsweek
and
Time
had been working on the mad scientist story, but neither of them had photos, not ones like Ben’s. His reward to himself after selling those photos for a nice chunk of change had been a week on a yacht with some waitress whose name he couldn’t remember. He did, however, still remember the cute rose tattoo on her tight little ass. Even had a photo of her on his darkroom wall, or rather a photo of her tattoo.

That was back in the days when kinky sex gave him a rush and kept him satisfied for a while. But there wasn’t anything that could equal the rush of these past several weeks.

Of course, the best rush of all would be to see the Reverend fucking Everett’s smug face when he finally got a visit from the FBI. Surely, even Racine and her bunch of Keystone Kops would make the connection and soon. Although if and when the feebies attempted to raid Everett’s precious compound, there probably wouldn’t be much left to investigate. If Everett truly believed he was in danger of being arrested, Ben knew the good reverend’s blind little sheep would be prepared for a suicide drill, like during the raid on that shitty little cabin on the Neponset River.

He had heard about the cyanide capsules from an ATF agent who had been on the scene. Couple more drinks and the guy probably would have given Ben more details. But mentioning the capsules had been enough. Besides, he had seen them firsthand when he spent two days inside Everett’s little compound, that concrete barricade that looked more like a prison than the utopia Everett professed it to be.

He’d also discovered that Everett had enough explosives to blow a nice-size hole in the Appalachian Mountains. The crazy thing was, Everett didn’t have the explosives for some terrorist attack. Just like the stockpile at that cabin in the woods—no complex, intricate conspiracy takeover. No, not at all. Instead, it was all for protection, all to protect his fucking fortress if anyone dared try to come in and take away his flock. It would be sort of a cross between Jim Jones’s purple Kool-Aid and Timothy McVeigh’s fertilizer bomb. What a mess the feebies would have to clean up. And boy, would they have some explaining to do. Probably make Waco look like a cakewalk.

That’s if the FBI even made it past all of Everett’s booby traps. The asshole had the entire woods filled with Viet Cong-like surprises. Ben couldn’t help wondering if his making shingle-nail pipe bombs and chemical-burn grass rags were a few of the reasons the guy had gotten kicked out of the military. Oh, but for good measure, the thoughtful reverend had posted what he probably believed to be disclaimer signs outside the area. Signs that said stuff like Survivors Will Be Prosecuted and Step Beyond This Point Only at Your Own Risk.

It was when Ben had seen the signs that he’d made the decision to gain entrance as a pathetic lost soul rather than as a renegade journalist sneaking through the woods. Weeks before he began his pathetic lost soul’s charade, he had muddied himself up like the Three Hills tribe of Mozambique had shown him, covering every inch of his body with a paste mixture, surprised that he could still remember its basic recipe. Even Everett’s ex-World Wrestling Federation bodyguards hadn’t seen him sliding through the tall grass and blending in with the tree bark. He had learned a lot that visit. The main thing had been that no one could sneak in—or out, for that matter—without getting his fucking head or leg blown off.

Ben checked his wristwatch. He had plenty of time. From what he had overheard at the District rally Saturday night, Everett’s boys wouldn’t be ready yet for a few hours. He decided to call down to room service. Maybe even check out the whirlpool bath. He’d enjoy himself, reward himself for a short time, then get back to work.

John F. Kennedy Federal Building
Boston, Massachusetts

G
wen Patterson watched Agent Tully wrestle their suitcases out of the taxi cab’s trunk while the driver stood beside him. He was directing Tully, just as he had when he picked them up at the airport in Boston, pointing with a gnarled right hand, his excuse for not lifting the cases himself. Tully didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he simply asked for a receipt while he dug in his trench coat’s pockets, pulling out a wad and separating dollar bills from other crumpled receipts and a couple of McDonald’s napkins.

Gwen waited, her patience wearing thin. She wanted to snap open her handbag and pay the fare herself. It would be quicker. It was bad enough she was wasting two days, volunteering her services to the bureau and to Kyle Cunningham. Why was it that her colleagues wrote books and garnered interviews with Matt Laurer and Katie Couric? She wrote a book and what did she get? An interview with an adolescent killer.

She reached for her overnight case, but Tully snatched it away.

“No, I’ve got it,” he insisted, tucking it under his arm while he wrapped the strap of her laptop computer’s case around his other shoulder and grabbed his duffel bag.

Rather than argue with him, she led the way up the steps, letting him pass her at the last stretch so he could shuffle the bags and still open the heavy door. She wondered if he was overcompensating after Maggie had pointed out that perhaps the two of them couldn’t do this trip without being at each other’s throats the entire time. Whatever his reason for all the chivalry, Tully had been nothing but polite since they boarded their flight for Boston.

Maggie had assured Gwen time and again that Tully was one of the good guys, a smart, decent agent who wanted to do the right thing. Maggie always added that he was simply a little green, having spent much of his short time with the bureau behind a desk in Cleveland. But that his instincts and his motives were genuine. Yet, there was still something about the tall, lanky agent that rubbed Gwen the wrong way.

What she did know was that his polite, Midwestern manner grated on her. Perhaps he seemed too good to be real. Too honest. Too much of a Boy Scout. The kind of guy who would never drive over the speed limit or have one too many drinks. The kind of guy who went out of his way to open doors for women, but couldn’t remember to keep his dollar bills in a money clip or take time to shine his shoes. Maybe that was why she insisted on ruffling his feathers, pushing his buttons. Maybe she wanted to expose that calm, polite, naive Boy Scout’s facade, rip it just a bit and see what was underneath, discover what he was really made of. Had too many years as a psychologist made her cynical?

“Dr. Patterson?”

Gwen and Tully stopped and looked up at the man leaning over the second-floor railing. When he realized he was right, he bounded down the stairs with an athletic gait. Gwen knew immediately, before any introductions, that this had to be Nick Morrelli, the man who managed to make Maggie O’Dell blush at just a mention of his name. And now Gwen could understand why. He was more handsome than Maggie’s description, the epitome of the cliché tall, dark and handsome, with a strong square jaw, warm blue eyes and dimples when he smiled.

“You must be Nick Morrelli,” she said, offering her hand as he got to the bottom of the steps. “I’m Gwen Patterson.”

“And I’m Agent R.J. Tully.” Tully had to reshuffle the bags to free a hand, nearly dropping her overnight case in the process.

“Here, let me take one of those,” Nick said, helping Tully peel the laptop case’s strap from his shoulder. “District Attorney Richardson is still in court, so you’re stuck with me. I’ll take you upstairs. We can put your bags in a safe place. Why don’t we take the elevator.” He led them farther into the lobby to a bank of elevators and pushed the up button. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” Gwen said. She hated small talk, but Nick made it seem as if he was genuinely interested, so she humored him. “Not much of a lunch, so I hope you have some good coffee waiting for us.”

“There’s a Starbucks across the street. I’ll send someone out. What would you like?”

“A café mocha would be lovely.” She smiled at Nick as he held the elevator door open and let her squeeze past him. As she did so, she noticed Tully watching her, and from his frown, she knew exactly what he was thinking. But she didn’t care if he was disgusted by her shameless flirting. The least she could get out of this trip was a good cup of coffee.

“How about you, Agent Tully?”

“Just regular coffee is fine,” he said, in what almost sounded like a grumble. Gwen watched him lean against the far corner of the elevator car with his eyes glued to the numbers above the door. What happened to the polite Boy Scout?

Now Gwen did the same—watched the numbers light up, one floor at a time—suddenly uncomfortable with the tension between the two men and feeling somewhat responsible.

“How’s Maggie?” Morrelli asked without taking his eyes from the numbers above the door.

“She’s good.” She waited for him to ask more, but he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable asking for more information with Agent Tully sulking nearby. She glanced at Tully and wondered if he knew about Nick and Maggie. Although, what was there really to know, since Maggie herself didn’t seem to know what to do with the handsome assistant district attorney?

With Nick being in Boston and Maggie living in Newburgh Heights, Virginia, the two of them had little opportunity to spend any time together. It had been months since they had seen each other. Months since Maggie had even mentioned him. Even knowing that he’d been assigned this case and that Gwen would be seeing him today, Maggie had barely acknowledged the fact. Hadn’t even given Gwen any messages to relay.

Gwen knew Maggie’s divorce from Greg was dragging on, and that Maggie had purposely kept things from progressing with Nick, or as she would say, “getting messy.” But there was something more, something her friend was keeping to herself. Why did Maggie insist on doing that? She had real problems with intimacy but refused to see it. Instead, she called it professional distancing and used her career as an excuse to keep everyone in her life at a safe distance.

“He’s had only one visitor since he’s been here,” Nick was telling them, and Gwen forced herself to refocus on the reason for their trip. “He’s refused to talk to a public defender and hasn’t even made his one phone call.”

“Who was the visitor?” Tully asked.

“I’m not sure. D.A. Richardson is personally handling this case. I haven’t been involved until now, so I don’t know all the details. I think the kid—the visitor—checked out as a college friend of Pratt’s.”

The elevator’s doors opened and Nick held them again for Gwen to pass. Tully stayed for a moment, leaning in the corner of the elevator car, then trailed behind them as though he didn’t need anyone’s help, keeping his distance while Nick led them down a busy corridor. She hated how men played their territorial games, especially in the presence of a woman. If she hadn’t been here, they’d be exchanging football scores and pretending to be old buddies.

“How did he know he was here?” Tully asked, now catching up with them.

“Excuse me?”

“How did the college friend know Pratt was here if Pratt hadn’t made any phone calls?”

Nick slowed and glanced at Tully over his shoulder. The look on his face told Gwen Nick wished he had had more time to equip himself with the details of the case. She found herself wanting to defend him and at the same time wondered if Tully ever tried to make a good first impression.

“Good question. I can find that out for you.” Nick finally said. “Here we are.” He pointed to the door at the end of the hall.

This time Tully was on the right side, grabbing the handle before Nick had a chance and opening it wide for both Gwen and Nick. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes at him. It would probably only encourage him.

“We’ve got him ready to see you,” Nick explained, “but if you’d like to take some time to unwind—”

“No,” Gwen stopped him. “Let’s go ahead.”

He led her down another hallway to a door where a uniformed guard stood.

“Agent Tully and I will be watching from next door,” Nick said, pointing to another door. “Burt, here, will be right outside, so you start feeling uncomfortable or want to stop and get the hell out, just say the word, okay?”

“Thanks, Nick.” She smiled at him, hoping to relieve his concern. “I know the drill, so don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

She did know the drill. She had interviewed numerous criminals, tougher, cruder men than this boy. She slipped out of her London Fog trench coat, unsnapped her watch, plucked off her earrings and pearls, placing the items in her handbag, then surrendered the coat and handbag to Nick. She checked her suit jacket and unlatched a gold pin of a dove from her lapel. Nick opened the handbag for her, and she carefully placed it inside.

After inspecting her skirt and shoes and buttons, making certain there were no sharp edges, she bent down to her overnight case and pulled out a plain yellow legal pad—no wire spiral notebooks—and a simple number two lead pencil. She had learned the hard way that the simplest pen could be dismantled in seconds, its insides used to pick the lock of even the best set of handcuffs.

Finally prepared, she took a deep breath and nodded to Burt to open the door. Yes, she knew the drill. Don’t show any signs of vulnerability. Let him know immediately that she wouldn’t be intimidated by any of his bullshit, crude comments or lewd glares. However, when the young man sitting across the wooden table looked up at her, Gwen saw something that threatened to unravel her calm more than any obscene gesture or wolf-call whistle. What she saw in Eric Pratt’s eyes was pure, undeniable fear. And that fear seemed to be directed at her.