The Soul Catcher Read online

  ALEX KAVA

  THE SOUL CATCHER

  This book is dedicated to two amazing women—

  fellow authors, wise mentors, treasured friends.

  For

  Patricia Sierra

  who insisted I stay grounded, focused and on track

  then nagged me until I did.

  And for

  Laura Van Wormer

  who insisted I could soar

  then gave me a gentle shove in the right direction.

  In a year that asked more questions than provided

  answers, just having the two of you believe in me

  has meant more than I can ever express in words.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  EPILOGUE

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m a firm believer in sharing credit and giving thanks, so please be patient, as the list seems to grow with each book. Many thanks to all the professionals who so generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, blame me, not them. My appreciation and respect go to the following experts:

  Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, my crusader, my creative partner and my common sense—you are truly the best.

  Dianne Moggy for your patience, your focus and your wise counsel—you are a class act.

  The entire crew at MIRA Books for their enthusiasm and dedication, especially Tania Charzewski, Krystyna de Duleba and Craig Swinwood. Special thanks to Alex Osuszek and an incredible sales force that continues to surpass goals and records I never dreamed to be reaching, let alone surpassing. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to be part of the team and not just the product.

  Megan Underwood and the experts at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc., once again, for your unflinching dedication and unquestionable expertise.

  Philip Spitzer, my agent—I will forever be grateful for you taking a chance on me.

  Darcy Lindner, funeral director, for answering all my morbid questions with professional grace, charm, directness and enough details to give me a tremendous respect for your profession.

  Omaha police officer Tony Friend for an image of cockroaches that I’m not likely to forget.

  Special Agents Jeffrey John, Art Westveer and Harry Kern for taking time out of your busy schedules at Quantico’s FBI Academy to show me around and give me some idea of what it’s like to be a “real” FBI agent and profiler. And also, thanks to Special Agent Steve Frank.

  Dr. Gene Egnoski, psychologist and cousin extraordinaire, for taking time to help me psychoanalyze my killers and not thinking it strange to do so. And special thanks to Mary Egnoski for listening patiently and encouraging us.

  John Philpin, author and retired forensic psychologist, for generously answering without hesitation every question I’ve ever thrown at you.

  Beth Black and your wonderful staff for your energy, your unwavering support and your friendship.

  Sandy Montang and the Omaha Chapter of Sisters in Crime for your inspiration.

  And once again, to all the book buyers, booksellers and book readers for making room on your lists, your shelves and in your homes for a new voice.

  Special thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, especially the following:

  Patti El-Kachouti, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, LaDonna Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava, Nicole Friend, Annie Belatti, Ellen Jacobs, Natalie Cummings and Lilyan Wilder for sticking by me during the dark days of this past year as well as celebrating the bright ones.

  Marlene Haney for helping me keep things in perspective and then, of course, helping me “deal with it.”

  Sandy Rockwood for insisting you can’t wait for the finished product, which in itself is always a much-appreciated pat on the back. Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids while I’m on the road. I couldn’t do what I do without the peace of mind you provide. Rich Kava, retired firefighter and paramedic as well as cousin and friend, for listening, encouraging, sharing your stories and always making me laugh.

  Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, for letting me vent despite my good fortune.

  Richard Evnen for witty repartee, kind and genuine words of encouragement and a friendship that includes pretending I know what I’m doing, even though we both know otherwise. Father Dave Korth for making me realize what a rare gift it is to be a “cocreator.”

  Patricia Kava, my mother, whose undeniable strength is a true inspiration.

  Edward Kava, my father, who passed away October 17, 2001, and who was surely a cocreator in his own right.

  And last but certainly never least, a “from the heart” thank-you to Debbie Carlin. Your spirit and energy, your generosity, your friendship and love have made an amazing difference in my life. I will always feel blessed that our paths have crossed.

  Beware the soul catcher

  Who comes in a flash of light.

  Trust not a word.

  Meet not his eye.

  Lest he catch your soul,

  Trapping it for all eternity

  In his little black box.

  —Anonymous

  CHAPTER 1

  WEDNESDAY

  November 20

  Suffolk County, Massachusetts,

  on the Neponset River

  Eric Pratt leaned his head against the cabin wall. Plaster crumbled. It trickled down his shirt collar, sticking to the sweat on the back of his neck like tiny insects attempting to crawl beneath his skin. Outside it had gotten quiet—too quiet—the silence grinding seconds into minutes and minutes into eternity. What the hell were they up to?

  With the floodlights
no longer blasting through the dirty windows, Eric had to squint to make out the hunched shadows of his comrades. They were scattered throughout the cabin. They were exhausted and tense but ready and waiting. In the twilight, he could barely see them, but he could smell them: the pungent odor of sweat mixed with what he had come to recognize as the scent of fear.

  Freedom of speech. Freedom from fear.

  Where was that freedom now? Bullshit! It was all bullshit! Why hadn’t he seen that long ago?

  He relaxed his grip on the AR-15 assault rifle. In the last hour, the gun had grown heavier, yet, it remained the only thing that brought him a sense of security. He was embarrassed to admit that the gun gave him more comfort than any of David’s mumblings of prayer or Father’s radioed words of encouragement, both of which had stopped hours before.

  What good were words, anyway, at a time like this? What power could they wield now as the six of them remained trapped in this one-room cabin? Now that they were surrounded by woods filled with FBI and ATF agents? With Satan’s warriors descending upon them, what words could protect them from the anticipated explosion of bullets? The enemy had come. It was just as Father had predicted, but they’d need more than words to stop them. Words were just plain bullshit! He didn’t care if God heard his thoughts. What more could God do to him now?

  Eric brought the barrel of the gun to rest against his cheek, its cool metal soothing and reassuring.

  Kill or be killed.

  Yes, those were words he understood. Those words he could still believe in. He leaned his head back and let the plaster crumble into his hair, the pieces reminding him again of insects, of head lice burrowing into his greasy scalp. He closed his eyes and wished he could shut off his mind. Why was it so damned quiet? What the hell were they doing out there? He held his breath and listened.

  Water dripped from the pump in the corner. Somewhere a clock ticked off the seconds. Outside a branch scraped against the roof. Above his head, a crisp fall breeze streamed in through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of pine needles and the sound of dry leaves skittering across the ground like the rattle of bones in a cardboard box.

  It’s all that’s left. Just a box of bones.

  Bones and an old gray T-shirt, Justin’s T-shirt. That was all that was left of his brother. Father had given him the box and told him Justin hadn’t been strong enough. That his faith hadn’t been strong enough. That this is what happened when you didn’t believe.

  Eric couldn’t shake the image of those white bones, picked clean by wild animals. He couldn’t stand the thought of it, bears or coyotes—or maybe both—growling and fighting over the ripped flesh. How could he endure the guilt? Why had he allowed it? Justin had come to the compound, attempting to save him, to convince him to leave, and what had Eric done in return? He should have never allowed Father’s initiation ritual to take place. He should have escaped while he and Justin had a chance. Now what chance was there? And all he had of his younger brother was a cardboard box of bones. The memory brought a shiver down his back. He jerked it off, opening his eyes to see if anyone had noticed, but found only darkness swallowing the insides of the cabin.

  “What’s happening?” a voice screeched out.

  Eric jumped to his feet, crouching low, swinging the rifle into position. In the shadows he could see the robotic jerks of the others, the panic clicking out in a metallic rhythm as they swung their own weapons into place.

  “David, what’s going on?” the voice asked again, this time softer and accompanied by a crackle of static.

  Eric allowed himself to breathe and slid back down the wall, while he watched David crawl to the two-way radio across the room.

  “We’re still here,” David whispered. “They’ve got us—”

  “No wait,” the voice interrupted. “Mary should be joining you in fifteen minutes.”

  There was a pause. Eric wondered if any of the others found Father’s code words as absurd. Or for that matter, wouldn’t anyone listening in find the words strange and outrageous? Yet without hesitation, he heard David turn the knobs, changing the radio’s frequency to channel 15.

  The room grew silent again. Eric could see the others positioning themselves closer to the radio, anxiously awaiting instructions or perhaps some divine intervention. David seemed to be waiting, too. Eric wished he could see David’s face. Was he as frightened as the rest of them? Or would he continue to play out his part as the brave leader of this botched mission?

  “David,” the radio voice crackled, channel 15’s frequency not as clear.

  “We’re here, Father,” David answered, the quiver unmistakable, and Eric’s stomach took a dive. If David was afraid, then things were worse than any of them realized.

  “What’s the situation?”

  “We’re surrounded. No gunfire has been exchanged yet.” David paused to cough as if to dislodge the fear. “I’m afraid there’s no choice but to surrender.”

  Eric felt the relief wash over him. Then quickly he glanced around the cabin, grateful for the mask of darkness, grateful the others couldn’t witness his relief, his betrayal. He set the rifle aside. He let his muscles relax. Surrender, yes of course. It was their only choice. This nightmare would soon be over.

  He couldn’t even remember how long it had been. For hours, the loudspeaker had blared outside. The floodlights had sprayed the cabin with blinding light. While inside the radio had screeched on and on with Father reminding them to be brave. Now Eric wondered if perhaps it was a thin line that separated the brave and the foolish.

  Suddenly, he realized Father was taking a long time to respond. His muscles tensed. He held his breath and listened. Outside, leaves rustled. There was movement. Or was it his imagination playing tricks on him? Had exhaustion given way to paranoia?

  Then Father’s voice whispered, “If you surrender, they’ll torture you.” The words were cryptic, but the tone soothing and calm. “They have no intention of allowing you to live. Remember Waco. Remember Ruby Ridge.” And then he went silent, while everyone waited as if hanging by a thread, hoping for instruction or, at least, some words of encouragement. Where were those powerful words that could heal and protect?

  Eric heard branches snap. He grabbed his rifle. The others had also heard and were crawling and sliding across the wooden floor to get back to their posts.

  Eric listened, despite the annoying banging of his heart. Sweat trickled down his back. His fingers shook so violently he kept them off the trigger. Had snipers moved into position? Or worse, were agents getting ready to torch the cabin, just as they had done in Waco? Father had warned them about the flames of Satan. With all the explosive ammo in the storage bunker beneath the floorboards, the place would be a fiery inferno within seconds. There would be no escape.

  The floodlights blasted the cabin, again.

  All of them scurried like rats, pressing themselves into the shadows. Eric banged his rifle against his knee and slid down against the wall. His skin bristled into goose bumps. The exhaustion had rubbed his nerves raw. His heart slammed against his rib cage, making it difficult to breathe.

  “Here we go again,” he muttered just as a voice bellowed over the loudspeaker.

  “Hold your fire. This is Special Agent Richard Delaney with the FBI. I just want to talk to you. See if we can resolve this misunderstanding with words instead of bullets.”

  Eric wanted to laugh. More bullshit. But laughter would require movement, and right now his body stayed paralyzed against the wall. The only movement was that of his trembling hands as he gripped the rifle tighter. He would place his bet on bullets. Not words. Not anymore.