Alex Kava - The Soul Catcher

She shifted her back closer to the wall. How long would it take to bend her knees? To shove against the wall and get to her feet? Even with them tied together, she could do it. But how long would it take?

He was checking the camera’s sight, tilting the tripod’s platform to adjust the camera’s angle. Maggie tried to ignore his preparations, his ritual, trying not to be alarmed by his calculating calm, by his steady and intent hands. Instead, her mind raced. Her eyes darted. Her damn arm throbbed and so did her heart, filling her ears with the constant thump, threatening to dismantle her thought process.

“I’ll go down in history for sure,” Garrison mumbled, adjusting shutter speed, assessing, then twisting the camera’s lens. Focusing, making another change. Readjusting the aperture. Checking again, preparing.

Maggie edged her knees up toward her chest, quietly, slowly. Garrison was too involved to notice, at times his back to her, blocking her view of the camera. He seemed lost in his process. He was quickly becoming the invisible cameraman.

“No one has attempted this. A self-portrait along with a fleeting soul caught on film…all in the timing.” His voice continued, his words becoming a sort of mantra of encouragement to himself. “And the angle,” he said. “It’s definitely the timing and the angle. Oh, yes, I’ll be famous. That’s for sure. Beyond my wildest dreams. Beyond my mother’s dreams.” He was caught up in the process, forgetting his victim, or rather reducing her to just another subject, waiting-hopelessly waiting to become a part of his bizarre process.

But Maggie wasn’t waiting. She scooted her feet up, straining to be quiet, straining to pull them up as close as possible. Just a little more. Close enough. Yes, she could reach the clothesline. But not the knot. She shifted her weight and a pain shot through her arm, stopping her, almost bringing her to tears. Damn it!

She checked on Garrison. He was unwinding the cable, untangling it as he marched back to the counter. Jesus! He was almost ready. She tried for the knot again, her fingers reaching, her wrists scraping against the metal of the handcuffs. If she could get her feet free she might have some defense when he came at her, ready to strangle her. With the pain throbbing in her arm, she knew consciousness would be difficult to hang on to. She couldn’t let him get that far. She couldn’t let the clothesline even get around her neck, or else-or else she would be gone.

He stood at the counter, the air bulb of the release cable in one hand. Maggie watched him pick up the gun in his other hand. Her entire body froze. He wasn’t going to use the clothesline. Was he actually considering the gun, instead?

He turned to face her. Her knees stayed at her chest. Her fingers stopped at the knot. It didn’t matter that he noticed. It was too late. He was ready. And suddenly the rest of her body had become as paralyzed as her right arm. Even her mind came screeching to a halt.

Without a word he walked toward her, carefully dragging the cable. He stood directly in front of her, hovering over her, less than a foot away. He looked back at the camera, checking the angle. He readjusted the cable in his hand, positioning between his thumb and index finger the small plastic bulb-the gizmo that with one quick squeeze would click the photo.

He was ready.

“Just remember,” he told her without taking his sight off the camera lens, “front-page exclusive.”

Before she could move, before she could react, Garrison lifted the gun barrel to his right temple. Both hands squeezed, trigger and air bulb in morbid unison. Maggie closed her eyes to the spray of blood and brain matter hitting her in the face, splatting against the wall. The sound of the camera’s shutter got lost in the explosion of the gun. The smell of discharge filled the air.

When she opened her eyes, it was just in time to see Garrison’s body thump to the floor in front of her. His eyes remained open. But they were already empty. Ben Garrison’s own soul, Maggie decided, had left long before this, long before his death.

MONDAY

December 2

Washington, D.C.

Maggie waited outside the police chief’s conference room. She leaned her head against the wall. Her neck still ached, even more than the shoulder she had in a sling. Tully sat quietly next to her, staring at the door as though willing it to open, ignoring the newspaper he had spread out on his lap. The front-page headline of the Washington Times spoke of yet another new and improved piece of airport security equipment. Somewhere below the fold was a sidebar story about a photojournalist’s suicide.

Tully caught her glancing at the newspaper. “ Cleveland Plain Dealer kept Everett’s suicide below the fold, too,” he said, as if reading his partner’s mind. “Probably would have made top headlines if there had been photos to go along with the stories.”

“Yes.” Maggie nodded. “Too bad there were no available photos.”

He gave her one of his looks, the raised brow and the unconvincing frown. “But there were photos.”

“Unfortunately, they’re considered evidence. We certainly can’t release photos that are considered evidence, right? Aren’t you always trying to get me to play by the rules?”

At this, he smiled. “So this evidence is being stored in a proper place?”

She simply nodded again, sitting back and adjusting her sling. It was her own personal attempt at justice-that Ben Garrison’s horrifying images would not win him the notoriety he so longed for. A notoriety that he had become so obsessed with that he had even been willing to include himself as one of those horrifying images.

“Have you heard from Emma?” Maggie asked, a transparent attempt at getting Tully to put an end to the subject of evidence, of photos and film canisters that remained safely stashed in her file cabinet back at her Quantico office.

“She’s staying an extra week with her mom,” he answered, folding the newspaper and willingly abandoning the subject along with the newspaper next to a pile of outdated Newsweek s on the table beside him. “She invited Alice to stay with them. She wanted to invite Justin Pratt, too.”

“Really? What did Caroline have to say about that?”

“I don’t think Caroline would have cared. The house is huge, but I said no boys allowed.” He smiled as if he was glad he had some say. “Didn’t really matter, though. As soon as Justin heard about Eric, he wanted to be in Boston.”

“So there are actually some happy endings to this, after all?”

As the words left her mouth, Maggie saw her mother coming down the hall. She was dressed in a conservative brown suit, wore heels and makeup and was drawing a few looks from police officers in the hall and doorways. Her mother looked good, in control, not at all like some lost soul, and yet Maggie felt her muscles tense and her stomach knot.

“Hello, Mrs. O’Dell,” Tully said, standing. He offered her his chair and she sat next to Maggie with only a nod to her daughter and a quiet “thank you” to Tully.

“I think I’m gonna get some coffee,” Tully said. “Can I get a cup for either of you?”

“Yes, please,” Kathleen O’Dell said with a smile. “With cream.”

He was waiting. “Maggie? How ’bout a Diet Pepsi?”

She glanced up at him and shook her head, but caught his eyes to show him she appreciated the gesture. He simply nodded and started down the hall.

“I’m not sure why you’re here,” Maggie said, looking straight ahead, following her mother’s lead.

“I wanted to be here to put in a good word.” Then as if she remembered something, she set her purse on her lap, opened it and removed an envelope. She hesitated, tapping it against her hand. She set the purse back down. More tapping. Then she handed the envelope to Maggie with only a glance.