The Soul Catcher (49 page)

M
aggie knew as soon as her mother called her “Mag-pie.” It had been her father’s nickname for her. One her mother had adopted, but only when she was drunk. Instead of a nickname, it had become a signal, a warning, a grate on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

She stared at her mother, but the woman didn’t flinch. Her hand stayed firmly planted on the front doorknob. God! She had forgotten how good her mother was at this game. And how god-awful she was, because she let the emotion rule and carry her away—the emotion of a twelve-year-old. Suddenly, she found herself pacing the short length of her mother’s living room.

“How could I have been so stupid to believe you?” Maggie said, annoyed that her lower lip was quivering. A quick glance showed no change in her mother’s face. That perfected combination of puzzlement and innocence, as if she had no clue what Maggie was talking about.

“I have an appointment, Mag-pie…and lots of packing to do.” Even her voice had not shifted, not even a notch. There was still that sugary cheerfulness that came with the alcohol.

“How could I have believed you?” Maggie tried to ward off the anger. Why did this always feel so personal? Why did it seem like a betrayal? “I thought you stopped.”

“Well, of course, I stopped. I stopped packing to talk to you.” But she stayed by the door, hand still planted—maybe she hoped if Maggie didn’t leave, she could simply escape. She watched Maggie pace from one end of the room to the other.

“It was the tea,” Maggie said, slapping her forehead like a child finally getting an answer to a quiz. She snatched up her mother’s glass and took a whiff. “Of course.”

“Just a little something to take the edge off.” Kathleen O’Dell waved it away, a familiar gesture that reminded Maggie of some form of alcoholics’ absolution.

“To take the edge off? For what? What did you need to take the edge off of? So you could get through one goddamn visit with your own daughter?”

“A surprise visit. You really should have called first, Mag-pie. And please don’t swear.” Even that tone, that Pollyanna tone, grated on Maggie’s nerves. “Why are you here?” her mother asked. “Are you checking up on me?”

Maggie tried to slow down, tried to focus. Yes, why had she come? She rubbed a hand across her face, again annoyed that there was a bit of a tremor in her fingers. Why did she have so little control over her reaction, over her body’s response? It was as if the hurt little girl inside of her came to the surface to deal with this, because the adult woman had not yet found a sufficient way.

“Maggie, why are you here?”

Now her mother had come back into the room, suddenly anxious for an answer.

“I needed to…” She needed to remember the investigation. She was a professional. She needed answers. Answers her mother could provide. She needed to focus. “I was worried about you.”

It was her mother’s turn to stare. Suddenly, Maggie wanted to smile. Yes, she did know a thing or two about playing games, about the power of denial or in her mother’s world, the power of pretend. Her mother wanted to pretend one drink to take the edge off was not a fall off the wagon? Well Maggie could pretend she was simply worried about her, afraid for her safety, instead of looking for answers about Everett. That was what brought her here, wasn’t it? The investigation and trying to solve it. Of course it was.

“Worried?” her mother finally said, as if it had taken this long for her to formulate a definition for the word itself. “Why in the world would you be worried about me?”

“There are some things about Reverend Everett that I don’t think you know.”

“Really?”

Maggie saw suspicion slipping in past the bewilderment. Careful. She didn’t want her to get defensive. “Reverend Everett is not who he seems to be.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”

“No, but I did some research and—”

“Ah, research?” her mother interrupted. “Like a background check?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, keeping her voice calm and steady now. The professional kicked back into gear.

“The FBI has always hated him. They want to destroy him.”

“I don’t want to destroy him.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“Mom, I am the FBI. Please, just listen to me for a minute.” But her mother was fidgeting with the living room blinds, wandering from one window to the next, shutting each and taking her time. “I’ve talked to others who have told—”

“Others who have left the church.” Another interruption, but still with that annoying distracted cheerfulness.

“Yes.”

“Ex-members.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you simply can’t believe a word they say. Surely, you must know that.” This time she looked at Maggie, and there was something in her eyes, an impatience Maggie didn’t recognize. “But you’d rather believe them, wouldn’t you?”

Maggie stared at her again. Her mother’s mind was already made up. Nothing Maggie could say would change what she believed or didn’t believe. No surprise there. What exactly was it that she had expected to find out? Why had she come? It wasn’t likely her mother had any damning information about Everett. To warn her mother, perhaps? Why did she believe her mother would suddenly listen to anything Maggie had to say or to advise? This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have come.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said out loud, and turned to leave.

“Yes, you’d rather believe them, strangers you’ve never met before.” Her mother’s tone was no longer cheerful, a cruel sarcasm edging in. This, Maggie recognized. This, she remembered. “Not like you would ever believe me. Your own mother.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” Maggie said calmly, facing her mother and trying to ignore the change, not only in her mother’s tone but even in her gestures—nervous swipes of fingers through her hair. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a tumbler or bottle and finding the tea glass. She grabbed it and emptied it in one gulp, satisfied and not realizing it had been Maggie’s glass by mistake.

“You never believed in me.”

Maggie continued to stare at her. How could the insertion of one little word like “in” make such a world of difference? “I’ve never said that.”

But her mother didn’t seem to hear her. She was going back around the room, opening the window blinds that she had just shut, one after the other. “It was always him. Always him.”

She was ranting, and Maggie knew it was too late to have any semblance of a conversation with her now. But she had no idea who she meant by “him.” This was a new rant. One she didn’t recognize.

“Maybe I should go,” Maggie said, but made no attempt to leave. She only wanted to get her mother’s attention. But her mother was no longer listening. No longer paying attention. This was a mistake.

“It was always him.” This time her mother stopped in front of her, facing her with accusation. “You loved him so much, you have nothing left for any of the rest of us. Not for me. Not for Greg. Probably not even for your cowboy.”

“Okay now, that’s enough.” Maggie wouldn’t put up with this. It was ridiculous. The woman didn’t know what she was even saying.

“He was no saint, you know.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Your father.”

Maggie’s stomach took a plunge.

“Your precious father,” her mother added as if she needed clarification. “You always loved him more. So much love for him that there was never enough left for the rest of us. You buried it all with him.”

“That’s not true.”

“And he was no saint, you know.”

“Don’t you dare,” Maggie said, immediately disappointed to find the quiver return to her lower lip.

“Dare to tell the truth?” Her mother managed a cruel smile.

Why was she doing this?

“I need to leave.” Maggie turned toward the door.

“He was out fucking his girlfriend the night of the fire.”

It was like a knife had been thrust into her back, stopping her in her tracks, making her turn to face her mother again.

“I had to call her house,” she continued, “when the fire department’s dispatcher called looking for him. Everyone thought he was up sleeping in our bed, but he was in her bed. Her bed, fucking her.”

“Stop it,” Maggie said, but it came out as a whisper, because all the air had suddenly been sucked out of her.

“I never told you. I never told anyone. How could I after he went out that night, ran into that burning building and died a fucking hero.”

“You’re making this up.”

“He got her pregnant. She has a son. His son. The son I never could give him.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you making this up?” Maggie said, trying to keep the twelve-year-old hurt little girl from surfacing, though in her head, her voice sounded exactly like a child’s. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I was protecting you. Yes, I lied then. But not now. Why would I lie now?”

“To hurt me.”

“To hurt you?” Her mother rolled her eyes, the sarcasm having overpowered any other emotion or response. “I’ve been trying to protect you from the truth for years.”

“Protect me?” Now the anger began to unleash itself. “You call moving me halfway across the country protecting me? You call bringing home strange men to fondle me, protecting me?”

“I did the best I could.” The eyes were darting around the room again, and Maggie knew she had said what she wanted to say and was now looking to retreat, searching to escape.

“You lost a husband that night. But I lost both my parents.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I lost both my father
and
my mother. And what did I get in their place? A drunken invalid to take care of. A drunken slut instead of a mother.”

The slap came so suddenly, Maggie didn’t have time to react. She wiped at the sting and was more unnerved by the tears already dampening her cheek.

“Oh, Jesus! Maggie.” Her mother reached for her and Maggie pulled away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, don’t.” Maggie raised a hand in warning. She stood straight, avoided her mother’s eyes. “Don’t apologize,” she said, allowing one more swipe at the tears. “This was the perfect response from you. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

Then she turned and left, making it to her car, managing to drive through the blur before stopping at the entrance to I-95. She pulled off on the side, killed the headlights and switched on the car’s flashers, shoved the emergency brake into place, left the engine running and the radio blaring while she let the sobs pour out of her. While she gave in and let those damn leaky compartments burst wide open.

G
wen needed to slow down, but she gulped the remainder of her wine, anyway. She could feel Tully watching her from across the small round table with a polite look of concern while he fumbled with his spaghetti and meatballs.

He had chosen a lovely Italian restaurant with crisp white tablecloths, candles in every window and an array of wait staff that treated them with a kind and friendly manner, then screamed at each other in Italian as soon as they got behind the swinging kitchen door.

She had barely touched her fettuccine Alfredo with fresh cream sauce and portobello mushrooms. It smelled wonderful; however, right now the wine and its anesthetizing effect was all she wanted. She needed something to wipe away the feel of that pencil stabbing into her throat and the desire to kick herself for being so stupid. She was beginning to understand why Maggie resorted to Scotch so often. Maggie had a much longer and more grisly list of images to wipe out of her memory bank.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “You probably should have left me in my hotel room. I’m afraid I’m not very good company tonight.”

“Actually, I’m used to women not talking to me at the dinner table.”

It wasn’t at all what she expected him to say, and she found herself laughing. He smiled, and it only then occurred to her how awful this afternoon must have been for him, too.

“Thanks,” she said. “I really needed to laugh.”

“Glad I could help.”

“I certainly messed up this trip. We didn’t get anything.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Pratt thought that Father Joseph sent you. He said it. That’s more than we knew before, and it may be all we need to connect him and the others to Reverend Joseph Everett. It will be a wasted trip, though, if you don’t eat something.”

He smiled at her again, and she wondered if he wanted to forget about this afternoon as much as she did. He was still looking at her as if expecting an answer.

“If you’d like, we could go somewhere else, if this isn’t quite what you had in mind,” he offered.

“Oh, no, this is fine. It smells wonderful. I’m just waiting for my appetite.”

She hadn’t told him she helped herself to a glass of champagne while she changed for dinner. The hotel had mistakenly sent up a newlywed basket to her room. When she called down to the front desk, the clerk was so embarrassed, he insisted she keep and enjoy it, that they would send another to the intended couple. Well, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy all of it. The basket included massage oils and an assortment of condoms. She’d have to settle for the champagne and chocolates.

She watched Tully wrestle with his spaghetti, mutilating it into small pieces instead of wrapping it around his fork. It was painful to watch.

“Mind if I show you how to do that?” she asked.

He looked up, saw what she meant and immediately turned red. Before he could answer, she slid her chair over, so that she was sitting next to his right arm. Without making a big deal or fuss, she gently put her hand over his, barely getting her fingers around his large hand in order to show him how to hold his fork.

“The secret,” she said, while reaching across his lap and taking his other hand, “is in the spoon.” She nodded for him to pick up his spoon in his left hand. “You pull just a little spaghetti with your fork to release it from the pile, and then you wrap it, slowly in a smooth gentle motion, against the bowl of the spoon.”

She could feel his breath in her hair and could smell the subtle scent of his aftershave. His hands complied with her every command, and it surprised her how good they felt against her own palms. When the task was complete, she let go, sat back into her chair and scooted to her side of the table, all the while avoiding his eyes.

“Mission accomplished.” She pointed to the perfectly wound spaghetti still on his fork. “You’re a quick learner.”

He hesitated, then brought it to his mouth. He tried the process again while he chewed, lifting his fork to show her when he managed it on his own. This time their eyes met and neither of them looked away until one of the wait staff interrupted, offering to refill their wineglasses, which Gwen accepted. She was sure it was probably a good idea to also anesthetize the unfamiliar arousal she was suddenly feeling.

With this glass of wine, she did manage to eat some of her fettuccine and even clean up her half of a cannoli dessert. Through coffee and during a long cab ride back to the hotel, she found herself telling Tully about her practice and the old brownstone she was restoring, while he told her about Emma and the trials and tribulations of raising a fifteen-year-old girl. She hadn’t realized he had custody of his daughter. Somehow his being a devoted single father only completed the annoying image she already had of him as the perfect Boy Scout.

At her hotel door, she invited him in for a glass of her complimentary champagne, sure the Boy Scout wouldn’t accept and that she was safe. The Boy Scout accepted. Before she poured the champagne, she turned to him, needing to say what she had avoided saying all evening.

“I need to thank you,” she said, meeting his eyes and holding him there, so he couldn’t joke his way out of this. “You saved my life today, Tully.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your help. You have really good instincts, Doc.” He smiled at her, obviously still uncomfortable with taking any of the credit. Okay, so he was going to make this difficult.

“Could you just let me thank you?”

“Okay.”

She came to him, stood on tiptoe and still had to tug on his tie to bring him down to her height so she could kiss his cheek. As she did this, she noticed that his eyes were now serious. Before she pulled back, his mouth caught hers in a gentle but passionate kiss that was no longer about gratitude.

She rocked back on her feet, feeling a bit out of breath and staring up at him.

“That was unexpected,” she said, surprised that she was feeling light-headed. It had to be all the wine.

“I’m sorry,” he said, restoring her image of the Boy Scout. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you don’t need to apologize. Actually, it was…it was quite nice.”

“Nice?” He looked wounded, and she smiled though his eyes were still serious. “I think I can do better than nice.”

In two steps he was kissing her again, only this time it wasn’t long before his mouth refused to be confined to her lips. Gwen leaned against the back of the sofa and her fingers slid across its texture, looking for something to grab hold of while Tully continued to convince her that he could, indeed, do better than nice.