The Soul Hunter (16 page)

What was Peter Terry up to? I’d articulated it for the first time to myself when I said the words to Maria. Peter Terry was hunting souls. But why Nicholas Chavez? And what did that have to do with Drew Sturdivant? There was no doubt in my mind now that Peter Terry was connected to Drew’s murder. Somehow. The link to Maria Chavez and her son was too strange to be coincidental. With or without Willie the homeless person’s weird prophecy about Maria’s help arriving tonight.

And what was I supposed to help her with, anyway? Protecting her son? How exactly did one go about protecting a five-year-old from a spooky demonic white dude with a slash on his back who enjoyed twisted practical jokes like breaking water heaters while wearing a lumberjack outfit and inserting his name into “Jesus Loves Me”?

“What a sicko,” I said out loud.

My phone rang. I checked the clock. It was almost ten thirty. Who would be calling at this hour?

“Hello?”

“Did you see this coming?”

“Hey, Guthrie.”

“Why is it that the worst specimens are the ones who insist on replicating themselves?” he said. “Have you noticed that? Ever been to a truck stop? Or, like, the state fair?”

“How did you find out?”

“They sent me a T-shirt.”

“World’s Greatest Uncle?”

“It should say brother, for starters. Kellee and her room temperature IQ.”

“It’s about forty-five degrees in my house right now.”

“My point exactly.”

“There’s nothing to do but make peace with it, Guthrie.”

“Why does this bother me so much? I’m an adult.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Happy birthday, by the way. I forgot. As usual.”

“So did I, almost.”

“What is this? Thirty-six?”

“Thirty-five.”

“We’re old.”

“Speak for yourself. How’s Cleo?”

“She left.”

“Left? What do you mean, she left?”

“I mean she put her clothes in the new red Volvo I bought her and drove away.”

“She left you?”

“Is there another kind? Leaving is leaving.”

“Cleo left you.”

“Only after I asked her to.”

“What happened?”

“What didn’t happen? We never should have gotten married in the first place.”

I tried not to act relieved. One negative, critical person in the family is enough, and since I’d had no success in changing my personality, Cleo had to go.

“I’m sorry, Guthrie. Really. I am.”

“Liar. Besides, don’t be. I can’t stand pity.”

“There’s a difference between pity and empathy,” I said.

“Okay. Feel my pain. Someone needs to.”

I heard him rattle ice in a glass. Guthrie was a gin man.

“Where are you?”

“At the club. She’s at the house picking up the last of her stuff.”

“Don’t drive home, okay? Not if you’ve been drinking.”

“What makes you think I’ve been drinking?”

“Guthrie.”

“Okay. I’ll get a ride.”

“Promise me.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You got kicked out of scouts.”

“So did you.”

“Not the point.”

“Okay. I swear on my golf clubs.”

“Better. Did she take the cats?”

“Are you kidding? The woman’s not an idiot. We’ve had those cats for half a decade and they still can’t find the litter box.”

I laughed. “Well, at least you won’t be by yourself. Is this just a separation? Or what?”

I heard him order another gin and tonic. “Or what, probably.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Tough week,” was all I could muster.

“A little. What about you? Anything happening down there?”

“Not much.”

“I heard you guys got snow and ice coming.”

“It’s already started.”

“Sticking?”

“Yep.”

“You got chili stuff?”

“Absolutely. Picked it up on the way home tonight.”

“You make good chili.”

I smiled. “We could play poker and listen to old records if you were here.”

“And think up baby names.”

“You going to be okay?”

“I’m always okay.”

“Call me tomorrow and check in.”

“You’re not therapizing me, are you?”

“No. Sistering. You’re my brother. I love you.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever said that to me before.”

“I’m trying to improve my personality and become a nicer person.”

He laughed. “Don’t. I can’t handle too much change at one time.”

We said our good-byes and hung up.

Sometimes at the end of my day, I take inventory. Add up the good, the bad, and the ugly. Most days are at least a little more good than bad. And ugly doesn’t happen too often.

Today had been an ugly day.

On ugly days, I sometimes go see a sad movie and have a good cry later in the bathtub. I skipped the movie this time. I
filled the tub, grateful at least for the hot water, squirted in some eucalyptus bath oil for the sinus headache I knew would follow my tears, and sank into the sadness. I cried into my bath water until I couldn’t cry anymore. For myself, for Drew Sturdivant, for Maria Chavez, for Nicholas, and now for my brother. Whose crummy marriage was coming apart around him and leaving him with a houseful of cats he didn’t like.

And then I blew my nose, took some decongestant and some aspirin, and tucked myself in, hoping Scarlett O’Hara was right. Tomorrow had to be a better day.

I
t might have been, too, if my telephone hadn’t rung in the middle of the night. At 3:42 a.m.

It was Maria Chavez.

“He’s here,” she said, whispering.

“Who? Who’s there?” I strained to hear her answer. “I can’t hear you, Maria. Who’s there?”

“Gordon Pryne,” she whispered.

“What are you calling me for? Hang up this minute and call 911!”

“I’m looking at him right now,” she said.

I flipped on my nightstand light and sat up. “He’s not inside the house, is he? Is he standing right there or something? Does he have a knife?”

“He’s outside. In the driveway.”

“What’s he doing in your driveway?”

“Skating,” she said.

“With skates?”

“No. Just sliding around on the ice. Playing.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“Can he see you?”

“If he can, he’s not showing it. He’s just…skating.”

“How did you know he was out there?”

“Nicholas told me. He woke me up and said Daddy wanted to know if he could come outside and play.”

“Geez.”

“I called the police.”

“Jackson and McKnight?”

“911. They’re sending a squad car. But with the ice…”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Of course not.”

I made a mental note to buy myself a gun tomorrow. “I’m going to call Jackson and McKnight. I’ll call you right back.”

“No! Don’t hang up! Don’t leave me. Please.”

“Okay. Okay. Hang on.”

This would probably have been a good time to know how to use the handy-dandy, three-way calling feature on my expensive local telephone service. But instead, Maria had to wait while I got my cell phone and dialed Jackson. I held a phone to each ear.

“Detective,” he said in a groggy voice.

“It’s Dylan Foster.”

“What’s wrong?” He was alert now.

“Gordon Pryne is at Maria Chavez’s house. I’m on the phone with her right now.”

“How do you know Maria Chavez?”

“Did you hear what I just said? Gordon Pryne is at her house. In her driveway.”

“Did she call it in?”

“Yes, but I think it’s taking them a while to get there. I have her on the other line. What should she do?”

“Ask her if her doors are locked.”

“Maria,” I said, “are your doors locked?”

“Of course. But that didn’t stop him before. He could break a window.”

I repeated her answer to Jackson.

“Does she have a gun?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

I heard him knocking around for something. “Address?” he said finally.

“Maria, what’s your address?”

I repeated her answer to Jackson.

“What’s her number? I’ll call her directly.”

I repeated the question to Maria.

“No! Don’t hang up.”

“He can just beep in, Maria.”

“I don’t have call waiting. Please don’t hang up,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to be here by myself.”

I repeated what she said.

“I’ll call you back,” Jackson said, and hung up.

“What’s he doing now?” I asked Maria.

“Still skating.”

“Where’s Nicholas?”

“He’s right here. He fell asleep in my bed. I don’t think he ever woke up completely.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No.”

“What’s Pryne doing now?”

“He just fell down. He’s trying to get up, but it’s very slick out there. He just fell again.”

“That could be helpful.”

“Here they come,” she said. “I can see the squad car at the end of the street.”

“Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

“Does he see it?”

“He just did.” She paused. “He’s crawling toward the edge of the driveway. To the grass.”

“Do they see him? Are they there yet?”

“He made it to the grass. He’s standing up. He’s trying to run.”

“Which way?”

“To the back of the house.”

“Is your yard fenced? Is your gate locked?”

“No. There’s no fence.” She started to cry. “Maria, listen to me. You have to stay calm. Where are the police now?”

“Still coming down the street. They’re going so slow.”

“Can you see him?”

“No. He got his footing on the grass. He’s going to the back of the house.”

“Is your bedroom door shut?”

“Yes.”

“Locked?”

“It doesn’t have a lock.”

My cell phone rang. “Hang on, Maria.”

“Detective?”

“Are they there yet?” Jackson asked.

I heard Maria scream. “He just broke a window,” she said. “I heard a window break.”

I told Jackson what was happening.

I heard the crackle of static as Jackson repeated my description into a radio.

“Maria, is there a dresser or something?” I said. “Something you can push in front of the door?”

“I can’t move,” she said.

“Maria, push something in front of the door. Now.”

I heard her struggling with something while I told Jackson about the window.

“They just pulled up in front of the house,” she said. “They’re getting out of the car. Something’s coming in on their walkie-talkies. They’re talking to someone. Is that Jackson?”

“I think so.”

“Where is he now?” Jackson asked.

“Maria, do you know where he is?”

“No. I can’t see him.”

“Do you hear anything in the house?” I asked.

“No.”

I repeated her answers to Jackson.

“Tell her I’m on my way. Tell her do not, I repeat, do not leave the bedroom until I get there. Which window is her bedroom window?” Jackson said.

I asked Maria and then relayed the information to Jackson.

“Tell her to stay in the bedroom,” he said, “away from the windows, down low. I’ve got more cars on the way.”

I repeated his instructions. “Is Nicholas sleeping near the window?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to wake him up. I don’t want him to get scared.”

“Okay. That’s good. Just stay calm.”

“They’re there,” he said. “Two more cars. Three more on the way.”

“Maria, some more cops just got to the house. Just stay put, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Did you move something in front of the door?”

“A chair.”

“What kind of chair? Not a little one?”

“A wing back. I can’t move the dresser. It’s too heavy.”

A wing back. Not heavy enough.

She started to cry again. “Someone’s pounding on the front door.”

“Who? Is it the police?” I asked.

“I can’t tell.”

I asked Jackson if the police were at the door.

“Maria, it’s the police. Jackson just told them you weren’t going to answer. Did it stop?”

“Yes. Where are they? Did they go around back?”

“Detective, did the police go to the back of the house?”

“They’re surrounding the place. He’s gone.”

“Are you sure?”

He spoke into his radio again.

“They’ve got someone on every side of the house,” he said.

“Are you sure he’s not in the house? What about the broken window?” I asked.

He spoke into the radio again. Then back to me, “Looks like he threw a rock through the kitchen window. Hole’s not big enough for a man to fit through.”

“Are you positive?” I asked.

He spoke into the radio again.

“Affirmative. Footprints confirm it. He walked right past the window. Didn’t even stop.”

I repeated this to Maria.

“Where are you?” I asked Jackson.

“Two miles away,” he said. “McKnight’s on his way to your place.”

My place. Pryne was headed my way. I hadn’t even thought of that.

“Is he the only one?” I asked, suddenly envious of all the squad car activity at Maria’s house.

“No,” he said. “Do not answer the door until you hear a confirm from me. To anyone.”

“Okay,” I said. Then into my other phone, “Maria, are you still there?”

“Still here,” she said.