The Soul Catcher Page 15

  Their small two-bedroom bungalow in Reston, Virginia, was a far cry from the two-story colonial they’d lived in in Cleveland. Caroline had insisted on keeping the house, and now Tully wondered if Emma would ever want to come back here after spending Thanksgiving vacation in her old room. Only recently had this house begun to feel like home, though it had been almost a year since they’d made the move. No matter how much he complained about this parenting stuff, he couldn’t imagine what this house, the move, the new town and new job—what any of it would have been like without Emma.

  Thanks to his daughter, the house didn’t have that bachelor look or smell to it, though, as Tully weaved his way through the living room clutter to the kitchen clutter, he wondered if there was a difference between bachelor clutter and teenager clutter. Maybe what he liked was having some feminine things around, even if the pink lava lamp on the bookcase, the purple Rollerblades sticking out from under the sofa or the smiley-face magnets on the refrigerator were not his style.

  “Hey, Dad.” As he stepped through the front door Emma appeared. He didn’t kid himself. It was the power of pizza that drew her, not his lovable presence.

  “Hi, sweat pea.” He kissed her cheek, a gesture she tolerated only when they were alone.

  She wore her headphones wrapped around her neck, a compromise that had taken much drilling and constant reminders, but was well worth it, although he could still hear the music blaring. The music, however, he couldn’t complain about, since he still enjoyed some head-banging rock ’n’ roll once in a while, only in the form of the Rolling Stones or the Doors.

  Emma got out the paper plates and plastic cups that they had agreed long ago would be part of any take-out treat. What was the use of having someone else prepare the meal if you still had to wash dishes? As he scooped up pieces of pizza and watched her pour their Pepsis, he wondered when would be a good time to broach the subject about the dead girl.

  “Kitchen or living room?” she asked, picking up her plate and cup.

  “Living room, but no TV.”

  “Okay.”

  He followed her into the living room, and when she decided to sit on the floor, he joined her despite his thigh still being a bit tender. It reminded him that Agent O’Dell never once mentioned or complained about her scar, a memento from the legendary serial killer Albert Stucky. Although he had never seen it, Tully knew from rumors that the scar crossed the length of her abdomen, as if the man had tried to gut her. Now he and O’Dell had something in common. Tully had a scar of his own, a constant reminder of the bullet Albert Stucky had put into him last spring as he and O’Dell tried to recapture him.

  The bullet had caused some damage, but he refused to let it stop him from his daily ritual run. Lately he hated to admit that it qualified more as jogging than running. That one bullet had messed up a lot of things, including his ability to sit cross-legged on the floor without feeling the muscles sting and pinch. There were some things worth a little pain, and having pizza on the floor with his daughter was one of them.

  “Mom called,” Emma said as if it were an everyday occurrence. “She said she talked to you about Thanksgiving and that you were cool with everything.”

  He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t cool with everything, but then Emma didn’t need to know that. He watched her swipe a strand of long blond hair from her face to keep it away from the strings of cheese that hung from the pizza slice.

  “Are you cool about spending Thanksgiving in Cleveland?” he asked.

  “I guess.”

  It seemed like a typical Emma response, a hint of indifference mixed with that you’d-never-understand-anyway shrug of the shoulders. He wished someone had told him long ago that he’d need a degree in psychology to be a parent of a teenager. Maybe that’s why he enjoyed his job. Figuring out serial killers seemed like a piece of cake compared to figuring out teenage girls.

  “If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.” He gulped his Pepsi, trying to replicate the art of indifference that his daughter seemed to have perfected.

  “She’s got it all planned and stuff.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I just hope she didn’t invite him over.”

  Tully wasn’t sure who the new “him” was in his ex-wife’s life. Maybe he didn’t want to know. There had been several since their divorce.

  “You have to understand, Emma, if your mom has someone new in her life, she’s probably gonna want to include him for Thanksgiving.”

  Jeez! He couldn’t believe he was defending Caroline’s right to screw yet another guy. Just the thought made him angry, or worse, lose his appetite. Two years ago his wife decided one day that she was no longer in love with him, that the passion in their marriage was gone and that she needed to move on. Nothing better to destroy a guy’s ego than to have his wife tell him she needed to move on and away from his passionless, unlovable self.

  “What about you?”

  For a minute Tully had forgotten what exactly they had been talking about.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What will you do for Thanksgiving?”

  He caught himself staring at her, then grabbed for another piece of pizza, feeling his indifference slipping. Yet he couldn’t help but smile. His daughter was worried about him spending Thanksgiving alone. Could there be anything more cool?

  “Hey, I’m planning on a full day of fun, sitting in my underwear watching football all afternoon.”

  She frowned at him. “You hate college football.”

  “Well, then maybe I’ll go to the movies.”

  This made her giggle, and she had to set her Pepsi aside so as not to spill it.

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  “You, go to the movies by yourself? Come on, Dad. Get real.”

  “Actually, I’ll probably need to work. There’s a pretty important case we’re working on. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  He pulled the photocopy from his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Emma.

  “Do you know this girl? Her name’s Virginia Brier.”

  Emma took a careful look, then set the copy aside and began on another piece of pizza.

  “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, she’s not in trouble.” Tully felt a wave of relief. It looked like Emma didn’t recognize the girl. Of course he had been crazy. There had been hundreds of people at the monuments Saturday night.

  But before he could relax, Emma said, “She doesn’t like to be called Virginia.”

  “What?”

  “She uses Ginny.”

  Jesus! The nausea grabbed hold again.

  “So you do know her?”

  “Actually, Alesha and I just met her Saturday when we were on the field trip, but yeah, she was there Saturday night, too. She sorta made us mad, because she was flirting with this boy Alesha really liked. He was really cool and he seemed to be having a good time with us until that reverend guy fawned all over Ginny.”

  “Hold on a minute. Who was this boy?”

  “His name’s Brandon. He was with Alice and Justin and the reverend guy.”

  Tully got up and went to where he’d left his windbreaker. He started pulling everything out of his pockets and finally found the pamphlet he had picked up blowing around the FDR Memorial. He handed it to Emma.

  “Is this the reverend guy?” He pointed to the color photograph on the back.

  “Yeah, that’s him. Reverend Everett,” she read off the pamphlet. “Except they were all calling him Father. Seemed kinda creepy. I mean it’s not like he’s their dad or anything.”

  “It’s not that weird, Emma. Catholics call priests Father. It’s sort of a title, like pastor or reverend or Mr.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t like they were using it as a title. They really were all talking about him as if he were their father, ’cause he’s their leader and like he knows what’s best for them and stuff.”

  “This Brandon guy, did you see him go off w
ith Ginny?”

  “You mean like to be alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dad, there were like tons of people. Besides, Alesha and I left before the rally thing was over. It was so lame, all that singing and clapping.”

  “You think you might be able to give a detailed description of Brandon?”

  She looked at him as if realizing for the first time there might be some connection to the questions about Ginny and his job as an FBI agent.

  “Yeah, I guess I could,” she said, her indifference changing to concern. “I thought you said Ginny wasn’t in trouble.”

  He hesitated, wondering what to tell her. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, and chances were she’d hear about it soon on TV. No matter how much of a protective father he wanted to be, he couldn’t protect her from the truth. And she’d be upset with him if he lied.

  He reached across the floor and took her hand, then said, “Ginny’s dead. Someone murdered her Saturday night.”

  CHAPTER 32

  MONDAY

  November 25

  FBI Academy

  Quantico, Virginia

  Maggie stole a glance at Agent Tully as they watched Agent Bobbi LaPlatz scratch several pencil lines. Magically the face on her sketch pad developed a thin, narrow nose.

  “Does that look close?” she asked Emma Tully, who sat beside her, hands in her lap, her eyes examining the line drawing.

  “I think so, but the lips aren’t quite right.” Emma glanced at her dad, as if waiting for him to comment. He only nodded at her.

  “Too thin?” LaPlatz asked.

  “Maybe it’s the mouth, not the lips. You know, like he never smiled. He sorta had this…um…frown, but not like he was mad. Just maybe like he was too tough to smile.” She flipped her hair back and gave her dad another glance. “Does that make sense?” she asked, turning back to Agent LaPlatz, her eyes darting back to check Tully’s face before returning to the paper.

  “I think so. Let me give it a try.” And LaPlatz’s hand went to work, making quick, short movements. A line here, one there, transforming the entire face again with her simple number two pencil, a magic wand with teeth marks embedded in its sides.

  Maggie could see Tully had that worried indent in his forehead. She had noticed it earlier, even before he now started rubbing at it as if he could make it disappear. Earlier when he stopped by her office he seemed more than just worried. Disoriented was the best word Maggie could come up with.

  His daughter, Emma, had never been to Quantico before, and this morning, unfortunately, was not going to be one of those fun tours to see where Daddy worked. Emma seemed to be handling the situation just fine, but Tully was still fidgeting. His toe kept tapping. When he wasn’t rubbing the indent off his forehead, he was pushing up the bridge of his glasses. He remained silent, saying not a word since Agent LaPlatz had sat down. Once in a while his eyes strayed from the face materializing on the paper to Emma’s. Maggie watched as his fingers found a paper in his breast pocket and he began an accordion fold. His fingers worked without the aid of his eyes, as if on a mission of their own.

  Maggie had a good idea why her normally laid-back partner looked like he had been injected with caffeine. It wasn’t just that Emma had known the dead girl, but that she had also been at the rally Ginny had supposedly attended. Some rally held at the monument Saturday evening. This was probably why he had been on edge at the crime scene and at the autopsy. Was Tully wondering how close Emma had come to being the killer’s target?

  “How’s that?” LaPlatz asked.

  “Close. Is there any way I can see it in color?” Emma looked back at Tully again, as if waiting for an answer from him.

  “Sure.” LaPlatz stood. “Let me scan it into the computer. I like to use the old-fashioned method first, but if you think we’re close, we can let the computer mess around with what we have.” She started for the door with Emma alongside of her, but turned just as Tully was getting to his feet to follow. “Why don’t you two wait here,” LaPlatz said casually, but her eyes looked from Tully to Maggie.

  When Tully looked like he might still follow, Maggie put a gentle hand on his arm. He looked down at it, a sleepwalker suddenly waking.

  “We’ll wait here,” he said, and watched the door close before sitting down again. Maggie stood in front of him, leaning against the table, studying him. He didn’t seem to mind. If he even noticed. He was off somewhere else, if not in the other room with Emma, then back conjuring up that horrible murder scene.

  “She’s doing an excellent job.”

  “What?” He looked up at her as if only now realizing she was still there.

  “Emma might be providing the only clue we have as to who this killer is.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He rubbed his jaw, pushed up his glasses for the tenth time.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Me?” This time there was surprise in his tone.

  “I know you’re worried about her, Tully, but she seems to be okay.”

  He hesitated and took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “I just worry about her.” Back went the glasses. The hands found the pamphlet again and the folds began in the other direction, putting new creases in a picture of a man’s face. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a clue how to do this parenting thing.”

  “Emma’s a brave, smart girl, who came here today to help in a murder investigation. And she’s doing a great job while remaining calm and diligent. Judging from that alone, I’d say you’ve done a damn good job with her.”

  He looked up at her, met her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Yeah? So you don’t think it’s totally obvious that I’m winging it?”

  “If you are, it’ll be our secret. Okay? Hey, didn’t you tell me once that there are some things, some secrets, that only partners should share?”

  Finally a real smile appeared. “I said that? I can’t believe I would ever encourage secrets or withholding information.”

  “Maybe I’m becoming a bad influence on you.” She checked her watch and started to leave. “I need to go rescue Gwen from Security. I’ll see you in the conference room.”

  “Hey, Maggie?”

  “Yep?”

  “Thanks.”

  She stopped at the door and gave him a quick glance over her shoulder, just enough to check his eyes, and was immediately relieved to see that deer-in-the-headlights daze gone. “Any time, partner.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Gwen Patterson hurried up the steps of the Jefferson Building. As usual, she was late. Kyle Cunningham and BSU hadn’t called her in as a consultant on a case for more than a year. She knew this time it was probably only at Maggie’s request. In fact, it had been such a long time since her last visit to Quantico that she almost expected to be strip-searched at the guard hut. But apparently Maggie had seen to it that her credentials had been updated and kept on file. She stopped at the counter to sign in, but before she picked up the pen the young woman sitting at the computer stopped her.

  “Dr. Patterson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here you are.” The woman handed her a visitor’s badge. “I do still need for you to sign in with your check-in time.”

  “Yes, of course.” Gwen signed the sheet as she noticed the badge. It had her name printed on it—Dr. and even Ph.D. at the end—instead of the standard Visitor. Okay, so Maggie was trying hard to make her feel at home. Gwen still wasn’t convinced, though, she’d be much help with the investigation.

  That Cunningham had even agreed to Maggie’s request for Gwen to be a part of the case meant he was feeling desperate. He usually didn’t call in outsiders. In the early days, yes, but not now, not since the FBI had come under considerable scrutiny. Gwen knew Cunningham well enough to detect a hint of desperation in his voice yesterday when he called. He had asked if she would share her new research and expertise. Her response was that he had some amazing agents in his Behavioral Science Unit, including Maggie, who could tell him just as much, if not more, about
the criminal workings of the adolescent male’s mind. She told him she wasn’t sure she could add much to the investigation.

  “As an outsider, you might be able to point out things we’re missing,” he countered. “You’ve done that with some of our cases in the past. I’m hoping you’ll be able to work your magic on this one.”

  Flattery. Gwen smiled as she clipped on her badge. The man could be charming as hell when he wanted to be. Then she read the words on the badge under her name and immediately frowned: Member, Special Task Force.

  Task force. Gwen hated the term. It reeked with bureaucracy and brought to mind visions of red tape. Already the media had trounced every tidbit of information that had been released on this case, hounding poor Senator Brier from outside his apartment to the Capitol. When Gwen checked her office this morning for messages, her assistant, Amelia, had already received calls from the Washington Times and the Post wanting to know about Gwen’s involvement. How the hell did they find out these things so quickly? It had been less than twelve hours since Cunningham had even called her.

  Supposedly, it was one of the reasons they were meeting at Quantico instead of in the District. The murder of a senator’s daughter—let alone having it occur on federal property—warranted a federal investigation. Yet, it surprised Gwen that Cunningham had been asked to head the task force. Now she wished she had been able to get ahold of Maggie last night. Her friend may have answered some of the questions Cunningham wouldn’t.

  “Gwen, you’re here.”

  She leaned around the counter to find Maggie coming down the hall. She looked good, dressed in burgundy trousers, matching jacket and a white turtleneck sweater. Only now did Gwen notice that her friend had finally put back on some of the weight she had lost last winter. She looked more her athletically trim but strong self rather than the emaciated waif Albert Stucky had driven her to become.

  “Hi, kiddo,” Gwen said while she managed a one-armed hug, her briefcase and umbrella occupying her other arm.