The Soul Hunter (9 page)

M
onday morning came early, on the heels of two nights of demon-visitation insomnia. But this is not the sort of thing you complain about out loud. Normal civilian people do not have problems like that. And they think you’re batty if you do. So I painted a smile on my face and greeted the plumber as though I were fresh-as-a-daisy rested and happy to see him.

His name was Paulie. Of Paulie’s Pretty-Quick Plumbing Repair. When I opened the water heater closet, he let out a whisde of admiration.

“I never seen one so clean before.” He reached out and touched it gingerly, as though it were a rare work of art. “You just buy this or something?” He squinted at the Whirlpool emblem. “But it looks pretty old.”

I pictured myself at Twelve-Step group.
Hi. My name is Dylan. I spent an hour and a half cleaning my water heater yesterday.

“It came with the house,” I said. “I don’t know how old it is.”

He hiked his pants up and squatted down. “Let’s take a look,” he said, “see what the problem is.”

He shined his flashlight into the hole and reached up in there while I busied myself making tea.

“Can you tell what’s wrong with it?” I asked.

He was fully prone now, in the water-heater worship position, his hand way up inside its belly.

“The line’s pinched off,” he said at last. “It can’t get no gas.”

“That would explain why the pilot won’t light,” I said, nodding.

He looked up at me, puzzled. “You try to move it or something?”

“The water heater? No. Why?”

“The line’s pinched off,” he said again.

I pictured a length of rubber tubing with a kink in it. “Can’t you just straighten it out?”

“Line’s copper. It don’t pinch by itself. Looks like it got pinched off moving it. Or something.”

“It’s a metal line?” I asked.

“Copper. And it’s pinched off. Like someone took pliers to it.”

“I doubt pliers were necessary.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Can you fix it?”

“Have to replace it.”

“The whole thing?” I tried not to panic as I calculated the cost of a new water heater.

“Naw, just the line. Take ten minutes.” He scooted himself upright and went out to his truck, returning with tubing and a blowtorch and a box of tools.

A blowtorch and a gas line didn’t seem like a safe combination to me, so I went into the bedroom to pack for my day. I had office hours in the morning and a senior seminar to teach from two to five. A brutal day in the salt mines for an academic. We try not to work more than an hour or two a day if we can possibly help it.

I got my books together and twisted my hair into an emergency up-do. There was no way I was taking another goose-bumping, toe-bluing shower. I grabbed my swim bag and returned to the kitchen just as Paulie was dusting himself off.

He handed me a business card. “Might want to give my brother a call.”

I looked at the card. Randy’s Right-Now Rodent Removal.

“I think I got rid of them,” I said.

“Take a look.” He shined the flashlight under the water heater and, sure enough, there were the little brown pellets again. I peered behind the water heater. The monsters had chewed through my Cool Whip top.

“They love plastic,” Paulie said. “Best favor you could’ve done ’em. They use it in their nests.” He picked up his clipboard and began writing my invoice.

He tore the sheet off and handed it to me. Eighty-five dollars. For twenty minutes of work. I was in the wrong business.

“Rats are like roaches. You see one, he’s got a whole bunch of buddies,” he said.

“You think it’s rats? Or mice?”

“What difference does it make? You got ’em living in your kitchen.”

I took the card.

“Good point.”

The campus was buzzing when I arrived. Students crisscrossed in front of me as I lugged my stuff up the stairs to my office. I dumped it all in a heap in the hallway while I jammed my key in the lock. Someone had taped a note to my door. I grabbed it and stuck it in my mouth, gathering my stuff again to lug it across the threshold.

I threw it all down and reached for my tea mug, then headed out to the kitchen area. First things first. On the way, I opened the note.

My boss wanted to see me. Immediately.

I stuck my head in her office as I passed by.

Helene Levine glared at me over black, half-moon glasses. “Come in and shut the door.”

“I was on my way for tea.”

“Coffee for me,” she said. “Black.”

Helene is very bossy. Everyone is terrified of her. I adore her.

I fetched our refreshments and settled myself into an ancient armchair, crossing my feet on her desk.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“The police were here this morning.”

I tried not to look too alarmed.

“And?”

“And they were asking about you.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Was it Detective Jackson?”

She checked her notes. “And someone named McKnight. Charming, delightful conversationalists, both of them.”

“I haven’t met McKnight. But Jackson,” I gestured with my tea mug. “That dude has all the warmth and charisma of a box of rocks.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do I need to know?”

“What did they ask you?”

“They wanted to know how long you’ve been here, how well I knew you. What I thought of you. Whether you were well liked on campus. Things of that nature.”

I took a sip of my tea. “What did you tell them?”

“I answered everything in your favor, if that’s what you’re wondering. I painted you the saint.”

“Doesn’t sainthood usually involve flaying? Or being burned alive? It’s always some dreadful, medieval way to die. Slowly.”

“Stop stalling. Are you in trouble again?”

My problems last year had involved a patient of mine, Eric Zocci, a student who’d come for therapy at the school’s clinic, and who had later flown off a twelfth-floor balcony to his death. The entire mess had landed squarely in Helene’s lap. Though I’d been
cleared of any wrongdoing, I still don’t think Helene has forgiven me. She runs the place like a general. She does not like surprises. Especially surprises that involve lawsuits and police departments and indictments. Things of that nature.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. In danger, maybe.”

She waited.

I braced myself and told her about the ax. I left out the lumberjack part and the swimming and the wet footsteps. And the water heater line with the kink in it. And Axl Rose. I didn’t see any reason to make myself out to be completely unbalanced. The ax was bad enough.

“Is it your ax?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know?”

“Why is everyone obsessed with this point? Do you own an ax, Helene?”

“I own two. One belonged to my grandfather.”

“Was he an outdoorsy type?” I asked.

“Who ever heard of a Jewish outdoorsy type? He was an accountant.”

“Why do you have his ax?”

“Why not? The point is, I know whether or not I own an ax.”

“You live in a high-rise. When do you chop wood?”

She took a sip of coffee and gave me a withering look. “Why would anyone leave a bloody ax on your doorstep?”

“How would I know, Helene?”

“Was this the ax that killed the girl in the paper? The one they found in the car?”

“I think so.”

“And your fingerprints are all over it.”

“Yes.”

“Do they think you did it?”

“I don’t think so. They said they have a suspect. Someone
besides me. Jackson came by with a bunch of mug shots yesterday. He said they’d have an arrest by the end of the day. He didn’t mention that to you?”

“He didn’t say anything about arresting anyone else. He just asked questions about you.”

“That must have been disquieting.”

“I’m getting used to it.”

“I think he believes I know who did it.”

“Well, do you?” She folded her hands and looked squarely at me.

“Of course not. I do not personally know any ax murderers. And if I did, I would have said so by now. Do you really think I’m going to keep something like that to myself? Come on, Helene.”

“Well,” she waved her hand dismissively “I had to ask. I thought maybe it was a patient of yours or something.”

Hey. That hadn’t dawned on me.

“Your luck hasn’t been too good lately,” she was saying. “You seem to have a knack for attracting problem cases.”

I smiled a sardonic thanks.

“Did you know the girl? What was her name?”

“Drew,” I said. “Drew Sturdivant. I didn’t know her.”

“Wasn’t she a student?”

I nodded. “But not here. She goes to El Centro. Went to El Centro.”

I drank some tea.

“Did you tell them anything about last year?” I asked, hoping she hadn’t. “Jackson and…what was the other guy’s name?”

“McKnight. Of course not. I’m on your side, remember?”

“I forget sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd. What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About the girl? And the ax? Aren’t you going to try to find out how that ax ended up on your front porch?”

I stirred my tea. “I was hoping the police would do that.”

“They probably will. But unlike me, they’re not on your side. And they don’t share your motivation. If it was one of your patients, you’re liable.”

I shrugged. “Maybe they’ve already arrested the guy.”

“Have you called Jackson today?” she asked.

“I’m avoiding Jackson. Why would I call him?”

“He’s got your fate in his hands. I wouldn’t make an enemy out of him if I were you. I’d become the man’s best friend.”

She had a point.

“Or try McKnight,” she said. “He seemed nice.”

“Nice? A DPD detective?”

“They’re just doing their jobs, Dylan.”

I nodded, conceding the point.

“His first name is Mike. He left me his number.”

She wrote it down for me.

“Mike McKnight,” I said. “Okay. I’ll call him after class.”

“And look through your client files,” she said as I left. “That would make the most sense.”

She was right. The first thing I’d learned from Helene, years ago in our first clinical supervision session, had become a slogan, almost, over the years. “Never forget,” she’d said, “that you’re working with unstable people. Unstable people do unpredictable things.”

I put in a message for Mike McKnight and left to teach my class.

Unstable people do unpredictable things. Indeed.

I
n the SMU counseling clinic, the catalog of unstable people runs the gamut. And I’m not talking about the patients. Aside from me—with my obsessive-compulsive inclinations and possible auditory and visual hallucinations—there is Marci, the office manager, whose savage mood swings hold us all in quaking fear of committing even the tiniest paperwork transgression; John Mulvaney, whose profound personality limitations finally disqualified him from seeing patients at all; and Kay-Ann, our eating disorder specialist, who lives on bagels and cream cheese and never, ever goes anywhere without a bag of peanut M&Ms, a pack of cigarettes, and a generous supply of chewing gum. Sugarless, of course.

I could go on. Suffice it to say, we are not an impressive bunch.

Our patient diagnoses are typical of a college population. Boyfriend problems, girlfriend problems, loads of anxiety, panic disorder, bipolar disorder, depression ranging from mild to severe to psychotic, the full list of eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia, binge-eating, purging, laxative abuse, and any other noxious way to disrupt the simple act of dining), abuse of and addiction to a wild variety of substances—everything from beer to prescription drugs to Elmer’s glue. And good old-fashioned homesickness. Lots to choose from.

I started with my active files. There were about thirty of them
in my drawer at the moment.

A close inspection, word by word, of every single one of my files yielded exactly zippo. I had no patients with homicidal ideation, no patients who were experiencing angry outbursts or violent fantasies. No patients who had mentioned Drew Sturdivant or anyone like her, or who had any known connections to El Centro College. I’d have to find out the name of her hometown. Maybe someone went to high school with her or something. In my previous year’s trouble, I’d run across two students who were having recurrent Peter Terry dreams. But he had apparently stayed away from this group of kids so far. I saw no hint of him in the files.

My next step was to move to my archived files, which were stored electronically as well as warehoused in boxes somewhere. State regulations require that counseling records be kept for seven years. Which is a lot of files in a clinic the size of ours.

To get to my archived files I had to get past Marci. I crossed my fingers and prayed for a depressed phase. She was much easier to deal with in that incarnation. Downright limp, in point of fact. Her manic swing was the dangerous one.

One glimpse of Marci and I knew I was in luck. She wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back in a messy, greasy bun. Her sweater was wrong-side out, and she wore tube socks and Birkenstocks with her dress instead of her regulation L’eggs panty hose and navy, round-toed pumps.