The Soul Hunter (2 page)

I thought I’d gotten all the education I needed a year or so ago, starting with an innocuous decision I’d made to go to a cold spring pool on a hot summer day. I’d found myself standing in the gaze of the red-hot eyes of hell and discovered, quite by accident, that I’d caught the attention of the universe somehow. But not the kind of attention you want, if you get my meaning.

I’d looked evil in the eye that day and faced it down in the weeks that followed, more out of necessity than anything else. It certainly had nothing to do with bravery or spirituality or any quixotic sense of adventure I might have had. I’d just found myself in the target zone, so I’d fought when I had to, ducked when I could, and run when I couldn’t think of anything else to do. And I’d eventually gotten out of the whole mess with a good-sized dose of grit, some help from the Almighty, and a couple of trips to Chicago.

It began this time, as some of my least intelligent moments do, in front of the mirror. It was the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday and
I was feeling the need for self-examination, I suppose. Some misguided ritual to mark the passageway to the other side of my thirties.

Magnifying mirrors were invented by Satan, I’m convinced. No human I’ve ever known could spend any time at all in front of a magnifying mirror examining pores and eyebrow hairs without coming away from there with a toxic sense of shame and self-doubt.

On this occasion, I committed the additional catastrophic error of looking at myself from behind. In a department store dressing room. Under fluorescent lights. While trying on bikinis. In winter.

To my dismay, stuck right there on the back of my formerly firm legs were my mother’s thighs. My mother’s Texas milkmaid thighs.

I work hard to stay in shape. Though I am an academic, and most of the professors I know are thoroughly slovenly in their personal habits, I have resolutely risen above the fray. I am non-lumpy. I have fitness goals. I have completed a triathlon.

And I absolutely refuse to let my rear end slide south toward my ankles.

So the dismay I felt at that moment under the lights was genuine. I could not have been more surprised.

Now, all women know the steps to combat body-image trauma. Men would do well to memorize the procedure too. This sort of handbook-type information, if utilized correctly, could cut the divorce rate by a third, I’m convinced.

The first step, of course, is to shop. Preferably for expensive fitness gear that will encourage you to work out with renewed vigor and dedication. Or, if you choose to punt on self-improvement, an alternative is to shop for a new and fetching outfit that disguises the body part in question.

I went for the fitness gear. I swim regularly, but those endless
laps in the pool were not warding off the impending thigh disaster. Though I have to say, my arms looked pretty smokin’.

The answer here was shoes. I needed running shoes. Now.

The second step is to call a friend, or perhaps an evolved squeeze or spouse, and complain. Qualified and well-trained personnel will assure you that you look like a couple million bucks and that you’re just in the middle of a psychotic break.

Let’s go get double-hot-chocolate lattes, they’ll say.

Which is step three.

Step four is to roll your sad little self out of bed the next morning, strap on your new gear, and get yourself to the gym. Most individuals hit the wall after steps one or three.

I intended to complete the entire process. I was not going down without a fight.

Since I was already at the mall, I abandoned my bikini search and marched myself straight to the sporting goods store, squaring my shoulders against the heady smell of chocolate chip cookies as I passed by Mrs. Fields.

I had momentum. I was feeling good. I was on it.

And then I ran into John Mulvaney.

John Mulvaney is a colleague of mine—a fellow psychology professor at Southern Methodist University. A full citizen in the sometimes moldy and pretentious world of academic clinical psychology. That is the entire extent of our common ground.

That, and the fact that we both believe deeply that he is a genuinely pathetic human being.

We’d crossed paths the year before in a bizarre incident that left me with a strange mix of pity and loathing toward the man. And a powerful urge to avoid him.

In this instance, avoiding him was impossible. I literally bumped right into him.

He was turning away from the cash register at Mrs. Fields, hands loaded with a half dozen greasy warm cookies, a soft
drink, and a vanilla milkshake. He had a smear of chocolate on his upper lip.

I pasted on a fake smile. “Hello, John.”

“Dr. Foster,” he said back.

“You can call me Dylan, John.”

“I prefer the title,” he mumbled.

We went through this silly little ritual each time we spoke. He had never once gotten a “Dr. Mulvaney” out of me.

His eyes firmly fixed on the ground, he sucked hard on his milkshake straw, coaxing a thick clot of ice cream into his mouth. He chased it with an enormous bite of cookie.

I watched with raw disgust, fighting the urge to wipe the chocolate off his lip.

“Well,” I said. “Nice seeing you, John. Have a good afternoon.”

I turned to leave. I got a good twenty yards into my escape before he called out after me.

“I’m going shopping,” he said. “I need a sweater.”

I turned and stared at him. Was this merely a social-skills debacle on his part or had he gone insane?

Incredibly, he kept talking.

“And then I’m going to see a movie. The new art film. At the Inwood.”

“Okay, John. Have a good time.”

Why do academics love art films? And why was John Mulvaney telling me about his afternoon plans?

I shot him a little wave and walked away. Rapidly. I made it this time. A clean exit.

I bought myself some nifty high-tech running shoes, after a fairly intriguing ritual of rolling up my jeans and walking barefoot in front of the sales person so she could see what my feet do when I walk. I pronate, apparently.

And then I initiated step two and called my evolved boyfriend.

“David Shykovsky,” he said.

“I hope you know the correct answer to this question.”

“What question is that, Sugar Pea?”

“What do you think of my legs?”

“Ah. Let’s see. Many men would fail this test. But not me.” Darling man.

“The correct answer,” he said, “if I recall from years of answering this sort of question miserably in other, less crucial circumstances with other, less fabulous women, is that your legs, like the rest of you, are perfect. Wonderful. Sublime.”

“Flabby?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good man.”

“Why?”

“No reason. Want to meet me for a double-hot-chocolate latte?”

“I’m working, babe.”

Rats. So much for step three.

“Funeral today?”

“Nope. Body coming in.”

“I don’t know how you do that job.”

“I don’t know how you do yours either, Professor. At least my patients are mentally stable.”

“Your patients are dead.”

“Exactly. I don’t talk to them. I don’t worry about them. I don’t listen to their problems. I just drain ’em and dress ’em.”

“That’s so gross.”

“I prefer to think of it as a necessary art.”

“How do you figure?”

“You try to make a ninety-seven-year-old dead person with no teeth look like they’re forty years younger and in deep, peaceful repose. It’s not easy.”

“I could see that. Are you still taking me out tonight for a surprise birthday supper?”

“Check.”

“Italian food?”

“Check.”

“White tablecloths?”

“Check.”

“Expensive wine?”

“Midlist, I’d say.”

“Death business been slow?”

“Check.”

“How about six thirty?”

“You’ll be late.”

“Seven?” I said.

“Check. See you at seven thirty.”

“Check.”

We hung up. David Shykovsky is an enigma to me. Delightful man. Smart. Charming. Good-looking. Adores me.

Owns a funeral home in Hillsboro.

I can’t quite get past that last part.

I spent the rest of the afternoon, a rare sunny Saturday in January, embarking on my new Thigh Recovery Program. Lunges, squats, weights, and a three-mile run. Take that, milkmaid.

I’d be lucky if I could walk the next day.

After my workout, I showered, stared at my thighs some more—I swear they looked better—and then spent a good half hour primping for my dress-up, pre-birthday date with David. All in all, a pretty high-end day for me.

I was smack in mid-primp when I heard something at the front door. It was a knock of sorts. More of a thump, actually. Or a clunk.

I heard a car pulling away from the house. Maybe I’d missed UPS or something. Maybe it was a pre-birthday present!

Twinkling with anticipation, I threw on a robe and scooted to the front door, checking the peephole.

I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

Something slid across the wood and smacked heavily onto the floor of the entryway, catching my baby toe under its end.

I let out a little scream—a mixture of pain and indignation—and looked down to see what had fallen into my house and onto my foot.

It was an ax.

I couldn’t see it clearly against the hardwood, so I reached down and picked it up, then flipped on the light.

My hands were red. Why were my hands red?

I turned the ax over in my hands.

The ax was red. Had it just been painted?

I looked over at the light switch. A handprint was smeared in red on my wall. My handprint.

I squinted at the blade.

There was hair on the blade.

I dropped the ax, my eyes widening as it thwacked heavily to the floor.

I slid to the floor, my back against the wall.

That ax was covered in blood.

And that, of course, was the moment I knew I’d made my first mistake.

T
he first of many, it turned out. I do believe, looking back on it, that the entire episode just struck me dumb—dumb as a stump, to be exact. I just sat there, rooted to that floor, my front door standing wide open, the cold night air rushing in around me.

Eventually, I did manage to lean over and stare at the ax, this time being careful not to touch anything. I could see my handprints on the handle, perfectly imprinted where I’d grabbed it.

I peered at the blade again, squinting at the little tangle of hair. The hairs were short—maybe four inches long—mangled like Brillo and stuck to the jagged edge of the blade. The hair looked to be a bright auburn red. A white chip of something clung to the blade. A rush of nausea hit me.

The slam of a car door and footsteps on the sidewalk shook me out of my stupor. I scrambled to my feet, bracing myself against the wall as I stood, leaving another angry smear on the pale yellow paint. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and slapped the light switch off.

I leaned against the door, breathing hard, my heart knocking against my ribs, my brain screaming at me.
Idiot
, it screamed.
Run
.

The footsteps stopped on my front porch.

I held my breath.

“Dylan?”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The doorknob rattled.

“Dylan!” he said again, sharply this time.

I reached down and grabbed the ax, stepping slowly away from the door.

He knocked. Loudly. “I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

I finally recognized the voice.
Idiot
, my brain said to me again.

“David?” I said out loud.

“Dylan?”

“Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me. Let me in.” He rattled the doorknob again.

“Is anyone out there?”

“I am. I’m out here. Let me in.”

“Are you alone?”

“Of course I’m alone. What do you think, I brought a date? I’m here to pick you up.”

“Is anyone in the yard?”

“I am. I’m in the yard. Let me in.”

“I’m not opening the door—not until you check.”

“No one is out here, Dylan. It’s just me. Open the door. It’s, like, ten degrees out.”

“Go look on the sides of the house. And in the back. And check behind the Burkes’ bushes.”

I waited while he walked around and searched the yard.

“All clear, Sugar Pea. Come on, babe. Open the door. I’m freezing out here.”

I shifted the ax to my left hand and opened the door.

David stepped in and flipped on the light, sucking in a quick breath as he got a look at me.

“Sweet Moses,” he said, and began to move toward me.

I backed up and raised the ax with both hands, stupid and wild with fear. I must have made a strange apparition. My white bathrobe was smeared with blood. My hands were smeared with
blood. My wall and light switch were smeared with blood.

He stopped and held his hands up.

“Dylan. Come on, Sugar Pea. Settle down. It’s me.”

“It’s you,” I repeated.

“It’s me. Everything’s okay. Put the ax down, honey.” He spoke as though talking to a child. Or to a frightened pet.

I dropped the ax, the handle slapping to the floor.