The Soul Catcher (52 page)

M
aggie knew she should get up and go to sleep in her bed for a change, but to do so would disturb Harvey’s huge snoring head, which was nestled in her lap. So she stayed put. The old La-Z-Boy recliner had become a sort of sanctuary. It sat in her sunroom, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over her backyard, though there wasn’t much to see in the dark. The moonlight created dancing shadows and skeletal arms waving at her, but thankfully no wisps of fog ghosts tonight.

She wished she could erase from her mind the visit to her mother’s, like rinsing out a bad taste from her mouth, but the Scotch wasn’t cooperating. It wouldn’t stop the memories. It couldn’t fill that goddamn hollow feeling. And for some reason, she kept hearing that voice, over and over again in her head.

Your father was no saint.

Why in the world had her mother made up such a lie? Why did she want to hurt her?

Memories kept replaying in her head, some in slow motion, some in short, quick flashes, others in painful stings. Her mother had been with so many men, so many losers, bastards. Why then would she insist on putting Maggie’s father in that same category? What kind of cruel joke was she trying to play? Was this something Everett had planted? Something he had convinced her mother to do? Whatever the reason, it managed to bring the walls—those carefully constructed barriers—crashing down, and now the flood of memories wouldn’t stop.

Maggie sipped her Scotch, holding it in her mouth and then letting it slide down her throat as she closed her eyes and relished the slow burn. She waited for its heat to warm her and to erase that tension in the back of her neck. She waited for it to fill that hollow gap deep inside her, though she knew it would need to travel to her heart to accomplish that feat. Tonight for some reason the pleasant buzz had simply made her feel a bit light-headed, restless and…and admit it, damn it. Restless and alone. Alone with all those goddamn memories invading her mind and shattering her soul piece by piece.

How could her mother try to take away, to tarnish, the one thing from her childhood that Maggie still held so dear—her father’s love? How
could
she? Why would she even try? Yes, perhaps she was slow to love and trust, quick to suspect, but that had nothing to do with her father, and everything to do with a mother who had abandoned her for Jack Daniel’s. Maggie had done the only thing a child knew how to do. She had survived, making herself strong. If that meant keeping others at arm’s length, then so be it. It was necessary. It was one of the few things in her life she had control over. If people who cared about her didn’t get that, then maybe it was their problem and not hers.

She reached for the bottle of Scotch, then paused when its neck clinked against the lip of the glass, waiting to make sure her movement and the noise hadn’t disturbed Harvey. An ear twitched, but his head stayed solidly in her lap.

Maggie remembered her mother telling her after her father’s death that he would always be with her. That he would watch over her.

Bullshit! Why even say that?

And yet, she knew she should have found some comfort in the thought that her father was still with them somehow, perhaps watching. But even as a child she remembered wondering that, if her mother truly believed that, why then had she acted the way she had? Why had she brought strange men home with her night after night? That is, until she moved her recreation to hotel rooms. Maggie wasn’t sure what had been worse, listening through the paper-thin walls of their apartment to some stranger fucking her drunk mother or being twelve and spending the nights home all alone.

That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger.

So now she was this tough FBI agent who battled evil on a regular basis. Then why the hell was it still so difficult to deal with her childhood? Why were those memories of her mother’s drunken bouts and suicide attempts still able to demolish her and leave her feeling vulnerable? Leave her feeling like the only way she could examine those memories was through the bottom of a Scotch glass? Why did visions of that twelve-year-old little girl tossing handfuls of dirt onto her father’s shiny casket remind her of how hollow she felt inside?

She thought she had risen above her past long ago. Why did it keep seeping into her present? Why could her mother’s words, her lies, crumble away that solid barrier she had created?

Goddamn it!

Somewhere deep inside, Maggie knew something was broken. She hadn’t ever admitted it to anyone, but she knew. She could feel it. There was a hole, a wound that still bled, an emptiness that could still chill her, stop her in her tracks and send her reaching, searching for more bricks to build up the wall around it. If she could not heal the wound, perhaps she could at least seal it and keep it off-limits from anyone else, maybe even herself.

She knew about the syndromes, the psychology, the inevitable scars from growing up with an alcoholic parent. How a child could be left feeling there was no one to trust. Happiness was as elusive as the fleeting moment of the parent making promises one minute and then breaking them within hours. The child learns not to trust today, because tomorrow his or her world could be turned upside down again. And then there were the lies. Jesus! All the lies. This was just another one. Of course it was.

She sipped her Scotch and watched the moonlight bring shadows to life in her backyard, while the memories, the voices kept coming.

Like mother, like daughter.

No. She was not like her mother. She wasn’t like her at all.

Her cellular phone suddenly began chirping inside her jacket pocket. Only now did she remember she had unplugged her regular phone, in case her mother felt some need to call. Maggie stretched to grab the jacket off a nearby stand without disturbing Harvey, whose eyes were open but whose head was still claiming her lap.

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“Maggie, it’s Julia Racine. Sorry to call so late.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Racine was the last person Maggie wanted to talk to right now.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice uncommonly humbled. “Do you have a few minutes? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, it’s okay.” She petted Harvey, who closed his eyes again. “I haven’t made it to bed yet, partly because my dog’s oversize head has taken up residence in my lap.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Jesus! Racine.”

“Sorry.”

“If that’s what this conversation—”

“No, it’s not. Really, I’m sorry.” Racine hesitated, as if there was something more on the subject she wanted to add before going on. Then she said, “I’m in deep shit with the chief. Senator Brier wants my ass kicked off the force because of those photos Garrison managed to get in the
Enquirer.
”

“I’m sure things will cool down as soon as we figure out who is responsible for his daughter’s death.”

“I wish it was that easy,” Racine said, only this time there was something different about her voice. Not anger, not frustration. Maybe a bit of fear. “Chief Henderson is seriously pissed. I may lose my badge.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say. As much as she disliked Racine and questioned her competency, she knew this was harsh.

“To make matters worse, that asshole Garrison called me.” The anger returned. “He said he has some photos to show me that might help the case.”

“Why would he suddenly want to help?”

Silence. Maggie knew it. There had to be something in it for Garrison. But what?

“He wants something from me,” Racine admitted, going from fear to anger to embarrassment.

“He wants something like what? Sorry, Racine, but you’re not getting off that easy. What does he want?”

“He wants photos.”

“What photos could he possibly want from you?”

“No, he wants to take photos
of
me.” Racine let the anger slip out.

“Oh, Jesus!” Maggie couldn’t believe it. No wonder Racine sounded like an emotional wreck. “And why would he think that’s possible?”

“Cut the crap, O’Dell. You know why he thinks it’s possible.”

So the rumors were true. The stories about Racine exchanging favors weren’t just crude locker-room talk.

“Does he realize we could already have him arrested for obstructing a police investigation?”

“I told him.”

“And?”

“He laughed.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. I’ll talk to Cunningham. You talk to Henderson. Let’s bring him in.”

“I’m in enough trouble, O’Dell. If Garrison is bluffing—”

“If Garrison’s as arrogant as I think he is, and he does have something, then we’ll just convince him it’s in his best interests to share that information.”

“And just how do we convince him?”

“I’m gonna give Cunningham a call. You talk to Henderson and call me back. Let’s bring this asshole in.”

Maggie hung up the phone, put the Scotch aside and felt a renewed energy. Gently she nudged Harvey awake. Suddenly, she found herself grateful for bastards like Garrison.

M
aggie knew she should get up and go to sleep in her bed for a change, but to do so would disturb Harvey’s huge snoring head, which was nestled in her lap. So she stayed put. The old La-Z-Boy recliner had become a sort of sanctuary. It sat in her sunroom, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over her backyard, though there wasn’t much to see in the dark. The moonlight created dancing shadows and skeletal arms waving at her, but thankfully no wisps of fog ghosts tonight.

She wished she could erase from her mind the visit to her mother’s, like rinsing out a bad taste from her mouth, but the Scotch wasn’t cooperating. It wouldn’t stop the memories. It couldn’t fill that goddamn hollow feeling. And for some reason, she kept hearing that voice, over and over again in her head.

Your father was no saint.

Why in the world had her mother made up such a lie? Why did she want to hurt her?

Memories kept replaying in her head, some in slow motion, some in short, quick flashes, others in painful stings. Her mother had been with so many men, so many losers, bastards. Why then would she insist on putting Maggie’s father in that same category? What kind of cruel joke was she trying to play? Was this something Everett had planted? Something he had convinced her mother to do? Whatever the reason, it managed to bring the walls—those carefully constructed barriers—crashing down, and now the flood of memories wouldn’t stop.

Maggie sipped her Scotch, holding it in her mouth and then letting it slide down her throat as she closed her eyes and relished the slow burn. She waited for its heat to warm her and to erase that tension in the back of her neck. She waited for it to fill that hollow gap deep inside her, though she knew it would need to travel to her heart to accomplish that feat. Tonight for some reason the pleasant buzz had simply made her feel a bit light-headed, restless and…and admit it, damn it. Restless and alone. Alone with all those goddamn memories invading her mind and shattering her soul piece by piece.

How could her mother try to take away, to tarnish, the one thing from her childhood that Maggie still held so dear—her father’s love? How
could
she? Why would she even try? Yes, perhaps she was slow to love and trust, quick to suspect, but that had nothing to do with her father, and everything to do with a mother who had abandoned her for Jack Daniel’s. Maggie had done the only thing a child knew how to do. She had survived, making herself strong. If that meant keeping others at arm’s length, then so be it. It was necessary. It was one of the few things in her life she had control over. If people who cared about her didn’t get that, then maybe it was their problem and not hers.

She reached for the bottle of Scotch, then paused when its neck clinked against the lip of the glass, waiting to make sure her movement and the noise hadn’t disturbed Harvey. An ear twitched, but his head stayed solidly in her lap.

Maggie remembered her mother telling her after her father’s death that he would always be with her. That he would watch over her.

Bullshit! Why even say that?

And yet, she knew she should have found some comfort in the thought that her father was still with them somehow, perhaps watching. But even as a child she remembered wondering that, if her mother truly believed that, why then had she acted the way she had? Why had she brought strange men home with her night after night? That is, until she moved her recreation to hotel rooms. Maggie wasn’t sure what had been worse, listening through the paper-thin walls of their apartment to some stranger fucking her drunk mother or being twelve and spending the nights home all alone.

That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger.

So now she was this tough FBI agent who battled evil on a regular basis. Then why the hell was it still so difficult to deal with her childhood? Why were those memories of her mother’s drunken bouts and suicide attempts still able to demolish her and leave her feeling vulnerable? Leave her feeling like the only way she could examine those memories was through the bottom of a Scotch glass? Why did visions of that twelve-year-old little girl tossing handfuls of dirt onto her father’s shiny casket remind her of how hollow she felt inside?

She thought she had risen above her past long ago. Why did it keep seeping into her present? Why could her mother’s words, her lies, crumble away that solid barrier she had created?

Goddamn it!

Somewhere deep inside, Maggie knew something was broken. She hadn’t ever admitted it to anyone, but she knew. She could feel it. There was a hole, a wound that still bled, an emptiness that could still chill her, stop her in her tracks and send her reaching, searching for more bricks to build up the wall around it. If she could not heal the wound, perhaps she could at least seal it and keep it off-limits from anyone else, maybe even herself.

She knew about the syndromes, the psychology, the inevitable scars from growing up with an alcoholic parent. How a child could be left feeling there was no one to trust. Happiness was as elusive as the fleeting moment of the parent making promises one minute and then breaking them within hours. The child learns not to trust today, because tomorrow his or her world could be turned upside down again. And then there were the lies. Jesus! All the lies. This was just another one. Of course it was.

She sipped her Scotch and watched the moonlight bring shadows to life in her backyard, while the memories, the voices kept coming.

Like mother, like daughter.

No. She was not like her mother. She wasn’t like her at all.

Her cellular phone suddenly began chirping inside her jacket pocket. Only now did she remember she had unplugged her regular phone, in case her mother felt some need to call. Maggie stretched to grab the jacket off a nearby stand without disturbing Harvey, whose eyes were open but whose head was still claiming her lap.

“Maggie O’Dell.”

“Maggie, it’s Julia Racine. Sorry to call so late.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Racine was the last person Maggie wanted to talk to right now.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice uncommonly humbled. “Do you have a few minutes? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, it’s okay.” She petted Harvey, who closed his eyes again. “I haven’t made it to bed yet, partly because my dog’s oversize head has taken up residence in my lap.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Jesus! Racine.”

“Sorry.”

“If that’s what this conversation—”

“No, it’s not. Really, I’m sorry.” Racine hesitated, as if there was something more on the subject she wanted to add before going on. Then she said, “I’m in deep shit with the chief. Senator Brier wants my ass kicked off the force because of those photos Garrison managed to get in the
Enquirer.
”

“I’m sure things will cool down as soon as we figure out who is responsible for his daughter’s death.”

“I wish it was that easy,” Racine said, only this time there was something different about her voice. Not anger, not frustration. Maybe a bit of fear. “Chief Henderson is seriously pissed. I may lose my badge.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say. As much as she disliked Racine and questioned her competency, she knew this was harsh.

“To make matters worse, that asshole Garrison called me.” The anger returned. “He said he has some photos to show me that might help the case.”

“Why would he suddenly want to help?”

Silence. Maggie knew it. There had to be something in it for Garrison. But what?

“He wants something from me,” Racine admitted, going from fear to anger to embarrassment.

“He wants something like what? Sorry, Racine, but you’re not getting off that easy. What does he want?”

“He wants photos.”

“What photos could he possibly want from you?”

“No, he wants to take photos
of
me.” Racine let the anger slip out.

“Oh, Jesus!” Maggie couldn’t believe it. No wonder Racine sounded like an emotional wreck. “And why would he think that’s possible?”

“Cut the crap, O’Dell. You know why he thinks it’s possible.”

So the rumors were true. The stories about Racine exchanging favors weren’t just crude locker-room talk.

“Does he realize we could already have him arrested for obstructing a police investigation?”

“I told him.”

“And?”

“He laughed.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. I’ll talk to Cunningham. You talk to Henderson. Let’s bring him in.”

“I’m in enough trouble, O’Dell. If Garrison is bluffing—”

“If Garrison’s as arrogant as I think he is, and he does have something, then we’ll just convince him it’s in his best interests to share that information.”

“And just how do we convince him?”

“I’m gonna give Cunningham a call. You talk to Henderson and call me back. Let’s bring this asshole in.”

Maggie hung up the phone, put the Scotch aside and felt a renewed energy. Gently she nudged Harvey awake. Suddenly, she found herself grateful for bastards like Garrison.