The Soul Catcher (42 page)

G
wen shifted in her chair and recrossed her legs. Pratt was watching her again, staring at her legs. The horny bastard wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Had she misread his initial reaction, that look of absolute fear in his eyes when she entered the room? If it hadn’t been fear, what the hell had it been? Had she been wrong about him wanting to survive, wanting to find a safe haven?

He hadn’t answered a single one of her questions. Instead, he looked everywhere except into her eyes, as if she were Medusa and doing so would turn him to stone. Or did he simply hate psychologists? Maybe the kid was sick of shrinks or didn’t trust any authority figures. Yet deep down she wondered if the real reason for his distraction, for his avoidance, was because he was worried she wielded some sort of power he couldn’t stand up to.

If their theory was correct, Eric Pratt had been manipulated and controlled by someone other than himself for some time now. He had been a puppet willing to kill and be killed. Perhaps that someone—the Reverend Joseph Everett, most likely—still had a strong hold on him, despite Eric being locked away. But something had made the boy spit out that cyanide capsule. Self-preservation had won. She needed to follow her instinct. And she needed to believe his instinct to live was stronger than his fear of Everett.

“You are a survivor, Eric. That’s why you’re still here. I want to help you. Do you believe I can help you?”

She waited, tapping out her impatience with the pencil against her notepad. The kid seemed mesmerized by the motion. She tried to remember the reports she had glanced at, whether or not toxicology had shown any drug use. Yet that was what he reminded her of; some spaced-out coke-head. If he’d look at her, she might be able to tell from the dilation of his pupils. Was that why he kept his eyes away from hers?

“You don’t need to be in this all alone, Eric. You can talk to me.” She kept her voice low and soft, careful not to sound like she was addressing a small child. She didn’t want to insult him. And if he was afraid, she needed to convince him he could trust her. Right now that looked like a dim prospect.

She noticed drops of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. A glimpse into his eyes made her wonder if he was even here in the room with her. An annoying clicking came from under the table. This would be a wasted trip, she realized, and she thought of all the billable hours she had rescheduled back at her office.

Then she accidentally dropped the pencil.

His chair screeched as he lunged for the floor. The leg shackles clattered and his body flew so quickly, all Gwen saw was the streak of his orange jumpsuit. Her own impulse was to dive for the pencil, as well, sending her chair tumbling behind her. But she was too late. He had beaten her to it. She scrambled on hands and knees, trying to get to her feet. But just as she heard running footsteps and locks sliding open, she felt her head jerked backward.

He was sprawled on the floor but had managed to grab a handful of her hair before she could pull away. He yanked her hard, throwing her off balance. He yanked her again, and she slammed against his chest. All she could see were three sets of shoes come sliding to a halt. That’s when she felt the pencil at her throat, the sharp point pressed against her carotid artery, threatening to penetrate through flesh and veins. And, despite the fear that shot through her, the first thing that came to mind was how stupid she had been to have sharpened the pencil just that morning.

G
wen shifted in her chair and recrossed her legs. Pratt was watching her again, staring at her legs. The horny bastard wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Had she misread his initial reaction, that look of absolute fear in his eyes when she entered the room? If it hadn’t been fear, what the hell had it been? Had she been wrong about him wanting to survive, wanting to find a safe haven?

He hadn’t answered a single one of her questions. Instead, he looked everywhere except into her eyes, as if she were Medusa and doing so would turn him to stone. Or did he simply hate psychologists? Maybe the kid was sick of shrinks or didn’t trust any authority figures. Yet deep down she wondered if the real reason for his distraction, for his avoidance, was because he was worried she wielded some sort of power he couldn’t stand up to.

If their theory was correct, Eric Pratt had been manipulated and controlled by someone other than himself for some time now. He had been a puppet willing to kill and be killed. Perhaps that someone—the Reverend Joseph Everett, most likely—still had a strong hold on him, despite Eric being locked away. But something had made the boy spit out that cyanide capsule. Self-preservation had won. She needed to follow her instinct. And she needed to believe his instinct to live was stronger than his fear of Everett.

“You are a survivor, Eric. That’s why you’re still here. I want to help you. Do you believe I can help you?”

She waited, tapping out her impatience with the pencil against her notepad. The kid seemed mesmerized by the motion. She tried to remember the reports she had glanced at, whether or not toxicology had shown any drug use. Yet that was what he reminded her of; some spaced-out coke-head. If he’d look at her, she might be able to tell from the dilation of his pupils. Was that why he kept his eyes away from hers?

“You don’t need to be in this all alone, Eric. You can talk to me.” She kept her voice low and soft, careful not to sound like she was addressing a small child. She didn’t want to insult him. And if he was afraid, she needed to convince him he could trust her. Right now that looked like a dim prospect.

She noticed drops of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. A glimpse into his eyes made her wonder if he was even here in the room with her. An annoying clicking came from under the table. This would be a wasted trip, she realized, and she thought of all the billable hours she had rescheduled back at her office.

Then she accidentally dropped the pencil.

His chair screeched as he lunged for the floor. The leg shackles clattered and his body flew so quickly, all Gwen saw was the streak of his orange jumpsuit. Her own impulse was to dive for the pencil, as well, sending her chair tumbling behind her. But she was too late. He had beaten her to it. She scrambled on hands and knees, trying to get to her feet. But just as she heard running footsteps and locks sliding open, she felt her head jerked backward.

He was sprawled on the floor but had managed to grab a handful of her hair before she could pull away. He yanked her hard, throwing her off balance. He yanked her again, and she slammed against his chest. All she could see were three sets of shoes come sliding to a halt. That’s when she felt the pencil at her throat, the sharp point pressed against her carotid artery, threatening to penetrate through flesh and veins. And, despite the fear that shot through her, the first thing that came to mind was how stupid she had been to have sharpened the pencil just that morning.

T
ully kept his Glock aimed at the kid’s head. At this angle, it would be a clean shot. He could do it, but would the bastard’s jerking muscles still plunge the pencil into Dr. Patterson’s neck. Shit! Why hadn’t he thought of that damn pencil?

“Eric, come on now.” Morrelli was trying to talk sense to the kid. From the crazed look in Pratt’s eyes, Tully knew there would be no talking him out of anything. But Morrelli continued. “You don’t want to do this, Eric. You’re in enough trouble. We can help you, but not—”

“Stop it! Shut the fuck up!” the boy yelled, and yanked Dr. Patterson’s head back, exposing her neck even more.

His cuffed hands only allowed him to hang on to a clump of her hair with one hand, keeping her close to him while his other hand held the pencil, its razor point pressing into her skin. So far Tully could see no blood. But one good shove, and he knew it would be a major gusher. Jesus!

Tully tried to figure out the doctor’s position without taking his sight off Pratt. One of her legs was twisted under her body. One hand had instinctively shot up to grab at her assailant’s arm, and she kept her fingers tightly grasping the sleeve of the orange jumpsuit. Pratt either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That was good. She had some sense of control, though she was holding on to the arm that held her hair and not the pencil. He glanced at her face. She seemed calm and steady. But then her eyes caught his, and he could see the fear. Fear was good. Panic was not.

“What do you want us to do, Eric?” Morrelli tried again.

It was obvious he was bugging the hell out of the kid, but at least he was keeping him distracted. Tully was impressed with Morrelli’s demeanor, hands quietly at his side, despite two men with guns drawn on either side of him. He talked to the kid as if he had a jumper on a ledge.

“Just talk to us, Eric. Tell us what you need.”

“Eric,” Dr. Patterson said quietly, “you know you don’t want to hurt me.” She said it slowly—making a noticeable effort to say the words without moving or swallowing—but she managed it without a trace of fear.

Tully couldn’t help wondering if she had been through this before.

“No, I don’t want to hurt you,” Pratt answered. But before any of them could relax, he added, “I need to kill you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tully saw Morrelli shift just slightly, and he hoped to God the prosecutor wasn’t thinking of doing something stupid. He glanced at Dr. Patterson again, this time trying to draw her eyes to his. When she did, he gave her a slight nod, hoping she would understand. She watched him, keeping her eyes on his face, then finally moving her gaze down the length of his arm and to his trigger finger.

“Eric.” Morrelli had decided to try one more time. “So far there’s no murder charge against you. Only weapons charges. You don’t want to do this. Dr. Patterson only wants to help you. She isn’t here to hurt you.”

Tully focused his aim and kept it steady. His finger wanted to squeeze now. He waited, checked Dr. Patterson’s grip on the orange sleeve.

“She’s Satan,” Eric whispered this time. “Can’t any of you see that? Father Joseph sent her.” He adjusted his grip on the pencil, puncturing the skin and drawing blood. “She’s come to kill me. I need to kill her first.”

Tully heard Burt’s safety click off. Shit! He couldn’t signal the guard with Morrelli standing between them. Instead, he found Dr. Patterson’s eyes again. She was ready despite the fear. He gave her another slight nod.

“I have to kill her,” Eric said, and something in his voice told Tully he meant it. “I have to kill her before she kills me. I have to. I don’t have a choice. It’s kill or be killed.”

Tully saw her fingers tighten on the orange sleeve. Good. She was getting a better grip. He watched her fingers while still looking down the sight of his Glock. Then suddenly she yanked downward and hard. Pratt didn’t let go of her hair, and the motion caused her head to twist down and away from the pencil. Tully wasted no time. He squeezed the trigger, shattering Pratt’s left shoulder. The boy’s fingers opened. The pencil dropped. Dr. Patterson slammed an elbow into his chest, causing him to release his grip on her hair. She scrambled away on hands and knees. In seconds, Burt was on Pratt, smashing his face against the floor. The angry guard had a huge black boot pressed on top of Pratt’s bleeding shoulder and a gun to the kid’s temple.

“Easy, Burt.” Morrelli was at the guard’s side, keeping him in line.

Tully hesitated before going to Dr. Patterson. She remained hunched on her knees, sitting back on her feet as if waiting for the strength to stand. He knelt down in front of her, but she avoided his eyes. He touched her cheek, cupped her jaw and lifted it gently, to get a good look at her neck. She allowed him the examination, now watching his eyes and gripping his arm as though she didn’t want to let go.

He wiped the drops of blood away. The puncture had only broken the skin.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a bruise, Doc.” He met her eyes and looked for the fear he could see her already stowing away. Or trying to, anyway.

“We should get you to an emergency room,” Morrelli said from behind them.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassured Morrelli while giving Tully a quick and restrained smile before she pulled away from him, removing her hand from his arm. She didn’t, however, resist his help as she climbed to her bare feet. Sometime during the scuffle she had lost both shoes.

“She’s Satan, she’s the Antichrist. Father Joseph sent her to kill me,” Pratt was still yelling. “Why can’t any of you see that?”

“Get him the hell out of here,” Morrelli told Burt, who swung the kid up to his feet and shoved him along, pushing harder when Pratt began to mutter again.

Tully picked up the folding chair and brought it over for Dr. Patterson. She waved him off, looking around the room in search of her shoes. Tully saw one and crawled under the table for it. When he stood up again, Morrelli was on one knee placing the other shoe on the good doctor’s foot, holding her ankle and looking like Prince Charming. It only reminded Tully how much he didn’t like this guy or guys like him. Morrelli turned to him, staying on his goddamn knee and gesturing for the other shoe. Tully surrendered it.

However, when he glanced at Dr. Patterson’s face, she was watching him and not Morrelli.