The Soul Hunter (30 page)

David had also managed to scare up police reports from the accidents, both of which took place on the same two-lane road outside of Vidor, Texas, which is a dinky speck of a town in East Texas, not far from the Jesus commune. Vidor, as its one claim to infamy, is reportedly one of the last remaining cesspools of Klan activity in Texas. This fact, though repugnant in a gut-level, visceral way, did not seem relevant to matters at hand. Except that, to me, Vidor has always seemed a dark place. I’m sure there are many fine people there, but as is usually the case, the icky ones are the ones everyone talks about.

Both men had immaculate driving records. Neither had been speeding at the time of their accidents. Both cars had left skid marks suggesting a sudden swerve off the road and into a tree. The reports speculated they’d fallen asleep while driving or perhaps swerved to miss an animal. Both reports reached the same conclusion. Cause of death: multiple organ trauma.
Manner of death: automobile accident, single car.

The men, of course, had much more in common than the circumstances of their deaths. Both were related to Drew Sturdivant. And to Brigid, her fruity mother who worked as a psychic in Louisiana and never answered her phone. Of course, as far as I knew, the men had never met one another. Drew’s father had died years before Drew even met her husband.

I skimmed the reports again, thinking I’d just run up against a dead end. It had been a wild hunch, anyway.

And then I saw the time of death. Both men had died at 3:30 a.m., according to broken dashboard clocks. 3:30 a.m. exactly. Over nine years apart. On the same road. Three thirty is Peter Terry Hour at my house. That’s when he likes to show up and crack open my sanity and watch it spill out all over the floor, just for the fun of it.

This could be a coincidence, I guess. And for a less paranoid person under less surreal circumstances, that would be the logical conclusion here. But I am indeed paranoid. And this was no ordinary situation. It was spooky as hell, so to speak. And getting spookier by the minute.

I tapped my pen on the paper and tried to think.

“You look as though you’re engrossed in something of great importance,” a voice said.

I turned to see Harold Lansing standing in my doorway. Harold is a colleague of mine. He specializes in developmental psychology, so he spends a lot of time with little kids. He’s always wearing Kermit the Frog neckties and bright yellow shoelaces, anything to set the kids at ease. He’s got stuffed animals and Tootsie Rolls in his office and usually walks around with a kazoo in his pocket, just in case. He’s into the kids way more than he’s into the research, which makes his work much more quirky and interesting than most of my colleagues’.

I like Harold a lot. He’s a bright spot in an otherwise deadly
dull department. He’s also the head of my academic committee. Which means Harold is currently the prime target of my campaign to get John Mulvaney removed from said committee.

I promptly hopped up and ushered Harold into my office, clearing off a chair for him.

“Cup of tea, Harold?”

He shook his head no and sat down. “Save the genuflect, Dylan.”

My heart sank. “You talked to Helene.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“She suggested we give Mulvaney the boot.”

“And?”

“And I agree, but it’s really not possible.”

“Oh, come on, Harold. Anything’s possible if you just believe.”

“Nice try, Dylan, but I’m fresh out of fairy dust. The only person who can get John Mulvaney removed from your committee is John Mulvaney. He’d have to excuse himself.”

“That’s the rule?”

“It’s more than a rule. It’s the way it is.”

“But why? It doesn’t make any sense. John Mulvaney couldn’t evaluate the work of a seven-year-old—”

“Dog. I know.”

“Then what’s the point of having him evaluate me?”

“It’s university policy, Dylan. Three-year reviews are done by the tenured faculty of the department. Period. Everyone is subject to the same rules. If we had the unfettered right to kick idiots off committees, the body count would outnumber the survivors, my dear. We’ve got people on committees that can’t part their own hair, much less evaluate anything more complicated than a drive-through menu.”

“I’m sunk.”

“You could…” he hesitated.

“What? Could what?”

“You could try to get Mulvaney to write a letter stating that he’s not in a position to evaluate you. That might work. It’s a softer approach.”

“He’d never agree to it.”

“You’d have to sell it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his ego.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “Make him feel important.”

“You want me to inflate that already gargantuan ego? He’s liable to pop. Think of the mess.”

“Think about it. John’s work is experimental. Yours is obviously clinical. Appeal to that. Make him think he’d be lowering himself to evaluate work that’s done with real people. Better yet, make him think he can’t spare the time. He loves to think he’s busy.” Harold cackled. “You’ll have to break your rule and call him Dr. Mulvaney, though. You know how he is about that.”

“I’m starting to feel faint.”

Harold laughed and stood up. “And ask Helene to bake the man a pie. Just in case the other avenue to a man’s heart is through the stomach, as the saying goes.”

“That’s actually a good idea. I saw him in the mall the other day eating with two hands. It was disgusting.”

“Better make it a cobbler, then. They’re bigger. Helene’s got a great blueberry number. And don’t forget the ice cream.” He chuckled again and walked out.

I put in a quick call to Helene, who agreed to show up with a cobbler tomorrow morning, true champion that she is. I wrote myself a note to pick up a gallon of Blue Bell.

My conspiracy strategy in place, I turned off the radio and looked again at the pile of notes in front of me, not sure where to begin. Did I even want to go down this road? What did two car
accidents in East Texas have to do with Drew Sturdivant’s murder, anyway?

I pawed through my notes and found Brigid’s number again. It was worth one more try.

Jesus must have decided to cut me a break, because Brigid answered on the first ring. “Serenity,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Serenity,” she said again.

“Uh, okay. Serenity. Right back atcha.” I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for someone named Brigid?”

“I am Brigid,” she said regally, though she had a twang in her accent you could drive a tractor through.

“Oh, hey. I’m glad I caught you. I’m Dylan Foster. I called you a couple of times.”

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Great. You got my messages, then.”

“I have received no messages.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you said—”

“Not of the kind you are referring to.”

“What other kind is there?”

“How may I be of help to you, my child?”

“Uh, okay. I guess we can start with that. I’m looking into the murder of your daughter.”

“We’re all daughters of the earth, Miss Foster.”

“Right. But I’m talking about your own, personal daughter. You do have a daughter named Drew Sturdivant. Right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, see, it’s just that I saw this letter you wrote her and I was wondering what you meant when you said you needed time to think it over. What did you need to think over?”

I thought I heard her take a quick breath. “You saw the letter?” she said.

“I have it right here in front of me.”

Her voice stiffened. “I don’t recall writing anyone named Drew any letters.”

“But you just said—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“She tracked you down a couple of years ago. After you abandoned her in East Texas with your sister when she was just a helpless little kid? Right after her dad was killed? Your husband? The one that died in a car accident at 3:30 a.m. on Stringer Road? Right outside of Vidor, Texas? You do remember that, don’t you?”

She hung up.

Even as the words flew out of the gate, I knew they were a mistake. I’d tried to lasso them before they got away. I really had. But my unruly tongue, along with my temper, is one of my. Top Ten Terrible Traits. I have about a 30 percent success rate, I figure.

I dialed her again.

“I’m very sorry,” I said when she picked up the phone. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“Miss Foster, I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

I’d gotten this woman’s phone number out of the book. Maybe she was just a run-of-the-mill scam psychic that worked under the name Brigid. Maybe there were lots of psychics named Brigid. I decided to try a curve ball, since I was pitching a losing game so far.

“Must be my mistake. I’m very sorry to disturb you. It’s just that, well, see I must have gotten the wrong Brigid. Someone gave me your number. You don’t know anything about Anael watches, do you? I mean, Drew, the girl I’m talking about, had a poster in her room for that brand of watches. I thought she’d gotten it from you.”

Silence.

“Brigid?”

“Could you spell it?”

“A-N-A-E-L.”

The line went dead.

I dialed again. She picked up, but hung up quickly without saying anything.

I dialed again. She didn’t pick up this time. Neither did her answering machine. I decided to let it ring. Indefinitely. Now that I knew I had the right Brigid, I was prepared to wait until hell froze over for an answer. Me and ol’ Adlai Stevenson. Sometimes when you’re facing down the enemy, you just have to fold your arms and wait it out.

It only took a hundred rings or so.

“This is harassment,” she said.

“This is important.”

“Miss Foster, why won’t you just leave me alone?”

“Your daughter is dead, Brigid. She was nineteen years old and someone killed her with an ax. Don’t you care what happened to her?”

“I thought they caught the guy.”

Ah. Base hit.

“They’ve arrested someone. A man named Gordon Pryne. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Who is Anael?”

Silence.

“Brigid?”

“I thought you said it was a brand of watches.”

“You and I both know it isn’t a brand of watches.”

“Who told you about Anael?”

“Drew did. Indirectly.”

“I didn’t know Drew knew about Anael.”

“Do you know what that means? ‘Anael watches’?”

“The Watchers are watching. Always watching.” She made a
little choking sound, and then sniffed loudly. It sounded to me like she was crying.

“Brigid? Stay with me here, okay? Who is Anael?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you know anything about her father’s death?” I asked. “And her husband’s? It seems like there were a lot of coincidences—”

“Drew’s father was a terrible man,” she snapped. “And that husband of hers was just disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. She never should have married that man.”

“I didn’t get the impression she had much choice.”

“It was those Jesus people. They made her.”

“The ones you left her with,” I reminded her.

“I didn’t think it would be like that. I thought she’d be safe.”

“From what?”

She didn’t say anything.

“From what, Brigid? The Watchers? Anael?”

“The Watchers are always watching,” she said.

“I know. You told me that already. Is that who you wanted to save her from?”

“All I ever wanted was for her to be safe.”

“Well, she wasn’t. Do you know what happened in East Texas? On Stringer Road at 3:30 a.m.?”

“I believe they both fell asleep. Happens all the time,” she said.

“On the same road? At exactly the same time of night? And they both happened to be related to Drew Sturdivant? And to you?”

“Possibly the supernatural was involved. Did you ever think of that, Miss Foster? That the universe may not be what it seems?”

“All the time.”

“You can’t pin that on me. I was nowhere near that road.”

“I didn’t suggest you were.”

“Well you can’t. I was nowhere near that road. I can prove it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Calm down. No one’s suggesting you were involved.”

“Besides, Drew’s death is completely unrelated.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know. I do.”

“Okay.”

She was definitely crying now. “I’m asking you to leave me alone. I can’t talk about any of this. I won’t.”

“Why? Is it dangerous?”

“Everything’s dangerous.”

And she hung up.

W
hen I got home that night, my power was on and my water heater was working. Melissa was sleeping comfortably in her hutch, and there were no rats dying under my kitchen sink. If my answering machine light hadn’t been on, it would have been a clean entry. I pushed the button and fished a pad and pen out of a drawer, waving away the stench of obligation I always feel when I see that stupid red light blinking at me.

My father had called again, livid that I’d be missing Kellee’s baby shower in June. I’d seen it coming, of course, but this was a longer rant than I’d expected. I pushed replay and timed the message. Over three minutes. He was pretty mad. I should probably call him back.