The Soul Hunter

by Melanie Wells

  Had I walked into a trap by picking up the ax? Was he trying to frame me for something? Had someone been murdered with that ax the night before? Horrible thought. And if so, what could that possibly have to do with me?

  I did another flip turn, hoping again to catch a glimpse of the other swimmer. We must have turned seconds apart. I could sense the turbulence in the water behind me, see the steam billowing, but couldn’t catch sight of anyone.

  I switched sides, breathing to my left, thinking I might get a glimpse over the other shoulder. I still couldn’t see anything, but I could tell the other swimmer was keeping up with me.

  Kicking hard to give myself some speed, I increased the length and turnover of my strokes, pulling all the way through, brushing my hand against my thigh at the end of each stroke. Another wall. Another turn, another streamline. Coming up for my first stroke, pulling a hard breath of cold air. Kicking faster. Six beat kick.

  The other swimmer was racing me, it seemed. Or chasing me.

  I took a breath, put my head down, kicked hard, and threw my shoulders into my stroke, sprinting to the wall. I grabbed the gutter and stopped, sucking wind and turning to look behind me.

  No one was there.

  My wake was still coming into the wall, rolling little waves of clean blue water. But no one glided to the wall beside me. I ducked back under the water, looking for another pair of legs. Nothing. Underwater, I could see about halfway down the pool, though not all the way to the other side. As far as I could tell, the pool was empty.

  I pushed off the wall again, and switched to breaststroke, popping my head up and looking around at each breath. A full fifty meters, back to the other end of the pool. And no sign of the other swimmer. I took a breath and let myself sink to the bottom of the pool, looking around again.

  I pulled myself out of the water and sat on the icy tile on the edge of the pool, steam rising off my wet body. I yanked my goggles off and squinted into the fog. I could see only a few yards ahead, but the pool was silent. I couldn’t hear anyone else in the water.

  I pulled my feet out of the water and stood up on the deck, my arms crossed tightly. I couldn’t see anyone else on the pool deck. I couldn’t see into the water through the steam.

  By that time, my hands and feet were blue with cold. I’d be better off back in the pool. But the chill I felt had little to do with the freezing air. I was not getting back in that pool.

  I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me, running on tiptoe the full length of the pool deck and down the steps and into the natatorium, grateful for the warm, humid air that hugged me as I stepped inside.

  I was ridiculously relieved to see other swimmers in the indoor pool. The slap, slap of their arms against the water comforted me.

  I turned around and looked through the door at the sidewalk outside. I could see my wet footsteps leading from the pool, down the steps, and into the natatorium. The rest of the view was uninhabited. Downright barren of life. Even the grass was dead.

  I sat and watched the swimmers a while, analyzing their strokes. A couple of them were good swimmers. Better than me. I made a mental note to add stroke drills to my workout in addition to my new Thigh Recovery Program. I didn’t know anyone in the pool, so decided to hit the shower. The locker room was empty, though one locker was open and had a swim bag sitting beside it. Even the presence of the bag—evidence of human life— felt better to me than nothing.

  I peeled off my suit, my skin goose-bumped and cold, grabbed my shampoo, and headed for the shower. I almost sang with joy as I stepped under the hot stream. I could feel myself calming down, my mind clearing as I experienced my first real warmth in twelve hours.

  I was losing my mind. That, at least, was obvious. Someone else got in and out of the pool without my seeing them. That’s what happened, probably. It’s perfectly logical and ordinary. You, on the other hand, I told myself firmly, are a lunatic. A fruit loop, wacko, nut-ball.

  Whoever had been in that pool, I was not going to let them ruin this perfectly sublime shower. I soaped, I rinsed, I soaped again. I warmed myself up and rinsed myself off, thrilled at the simple luxury of hot water as it ran through my hair and over my sore, grateful muscles.

  No more outdoor swims for me until spring.

  I finished my shower, my skin glowing red, and got myself made up and blow-dried. I didn’t look too dreadful, considering I’d had no sleep. Not bad for my first day as a thirty-five-year-old. I threw my sweater over my head and pulled on my jeans.

  On my way out of the locker room I ran into Duke, the pool manager. Duke is a large and intimidating Cajun with fewer than the normal allotment of teeth. He is territorial, a bulldog of a man who likes to kick people out of his pools for the tiniest little violation. He randomly invents violations.

  For some reason, Duke had taken an early liking to me. I am proud to say the SMU pool is one of the few things I have never been kicked out of. A rare streak of non-rule-breaking behavior on my part.

  “Morning, Dr. Foster,” he said. “You up bright and early this Sunday. Morning.” His speech had an odd limp to it. Must be a Louisiana thing.

  We exchanged pleasantries for a minute. I always ask about his wife. He always pats his enormous stomach and tells me she’s trying to kill him with her fried chicken.

  “Not working, though,” he said. “She can try. But she gonna have to use more than an old yard bird to get rid of me. No sir. Not rid of me.” He laughed, cracking himself up with a joke he’d told a thousand times.

  “Listen, Duke. Did you happen to see anyone in the pool with me this morning?”

  “Outside? No, no, honey. No one else dumb enough to swim outside on a day like today. You done lost your mind doing that.”

  “Are you sure? I’m positive someone was swimming behind me.”

  “Not like I watched you the whole time. But I’m telling you, no one else dumb enough to swim outside today. You the only one.”

  “Thanks, Duke. That’s quite a compliment.”

  “You a professor, Doc, but you might not be too smart.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” I turned to leave. “Say hi to Mrs. Duke for me.”

  I decided to take another look at the pool on the way back to my truck. I walked back up the steps and onto the pool deck, wondering what I’d been thinking to swim outside today. Duke was right. I’m a professor. But I might not be too smart.

  The steam covered the surface of the water, but it was still and the air was silent. The pool was clearly empty.

  I walked the entire circle around the pool. As I passed the starting blocks, I noticed something.

  Footprints.

  Wet footprints leading from the pool toward the back gate. There were only a few, diminishing in clarity as they got farther from the pool.

  I leaned down to look at them. They looked like ordinary footprints. No claws or hooves or extra toes or anything.

  They must have been made just moments before. They were still puddly.

  I straightened and looked around. Still, I saw no one. There was no movement in the parking lot. No cars starting themselves ominously. I squinted at the back gate. It was padlocked.

  “Hey!” The voice behind me nearly frightened me out of my sneakers.

  I turned to see Duke walking across the deck toward me. “You not thinking of jumping back in, now, Doc, are you?” he said.

  “No, I was just looking at these footprints.” I pointed down.

  They were gone. The blasted prints were gone. They could not possibly have dried that fast.

  “There were wet footprints here a minute ago,” I said.

  Duke stopped beside me and looked down. “Don’t see any prints, Dr. Foster. I’m telling you, no one else swimming outside today. No one but you. And you might need a little rest. Or something, maybe.”

  “Yeah. I might need a little rest,” I said. “This time I’m really leaving. Have a good Sunday, Duke.”

  “And a good Sunday to you, Dr. Foster. Goo
d Sunday.”

  I stalked out to my truck, freezing the whole way and berating myself for failing to bring a coat with me. I threw my bag into the back and squeezed in past that stupid Hummer. My truck started with a glorious rumble.

  I didn’t know whether to be scared, angry, or confused. All three were appropriate, I suppose. Was it Peter Terry again? Or was it just my imagination sneaking up on me?

  My cell phone rang somewhere in the muffled darkness of my purse. I fished for it and said hello.

  “Good morning, Sugar Pea.” It was David.

  “Am I glad to hear your voice.”

  “Been missing my wit, charm, and fantastic personality?”

  “That, and I’ve had a strange morning.”

  “Couldn’t have been weirder than last night.”

  “Nothing could be weirder than last night.”

  “Well, whatever’s happened, it’s about to get worse.”

  “Why?” I said, dread creeping into my voice.

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  “No. Why?”

  I heard him rattle the newspaper.

  “Page two, Metro. Co-ed Discovered in Car,” he read.

  “What was she doing in a car that got her in the paper?”

  Even as I asked it, I knew what he was going to say. I could hear it in his voice. I closed my eyes.

  “She’s dead, Dylan,” he said. “And it looks like she was killed with an ax.”

  5

  Her name was Drew. Drew Sturdivant. She was nineteen years old.

  “Is there a picture?” I asked.

  “Short hair. Maybe four to six inches long. Cut kind of choppy. Darker at the roots.”

  “Can you tell what color it is?”

  “It’s a black and white photo. Probably brown or red. It’s her, Dylan.”

  “What else does it say?” I asked.

  He read me the article.

  Drew’s body was found inside the trunk of a car, which was parked at a used car lot on Harry Hines Boulevard. She was identified as a local exotic dancer, employed by Caligula, a men’s club, also on Harry Hines Boulevard. In her daytime life, she was a student at El Centro College, which is part of the local community college system. A preliminary report from the Dallas County medical examiner’s office suggested manner of death to be murder, cause of death to be “blunt force trauma with a sharp ax-like instrument. Multiple blows.”

  I felt my stomachache return.

  The police were investigating leads, David was saying. The paper listed a number for a tip line.

  “Do you think I’m one of the leads?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question. Of course I was one of the leads.

  “Have you heard from the DPD?” he asked.

  “The Jackson Five? Not yet, but they’re probably waiting for me at my house.”

  “Yeah. I tried your home number first. Where are you, so early on a cold Sunday morning?”

  I told him my swimming story with the wet footprints, finishing with the weird garage door lumberjack incident from the night before.

  He whistled. “You win the contest for the worst twenty-four hours.”

  “Drew won that one, I think.”

  “Yeah. Some prize.”

  We were silent for a minute, sharing an odd, intimate connection to this real-life girl, a living, breathing human person who had gotten up yesterday morning like she did any other day. And had died at the business end of an ax.

  I fought to keep the image out of my brain. I didn’t want it there. But my mind, attracted by some sort of morbid magnetic field, would not cooperate. I could see it happening in front of me, playing out in vivid, full-blown, Fujifilm detail. I felt the most profound sadness for her.

  “You must be exhausted,” David was saying. “Want to come out here?” He lived about an hour south of town. “Hide from the posse and get a little rest? I could make you tomato soup and Cheetos. Served up with a cold Dr Pepper. Cold milk and Oreos for dessert. Your favorite.”

  A nap on David’s couch and a babysitter lunch sounded absurdly luxurious to me.

  “I’d love to, but I couldn’t sleep on a bet, I don’t think. I’m too wound up.”

  “How about dinner then? We need do-overs for last night. I owe you midlist wine and a white tablecloth.”

  The white tablecloth jarred my memory. I groaned. “I’m supposed to have lunch with my dad today. And his horrible new wife Kellee with two e’s.”

  “They’re in town?”

  “They flew in for lunch. Their version of a birthday present.”

  “Happy birthday. Sorry. I should have said it when you picked up the phone. I was focused on the paper.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. Happy birthday, cha cha cha. My birthday’s the last thing on my mind.”

  “I didn’t get to give you your present. I was going to give it to you at dinner last night.”

  I brightened. “What did you get me?”

  “Do you really want to know? Or do you want it to be a surprise?”

  “Hm. I think I’ll take the surprise. I’m going to need some cheering up later. I can tell from here.”

  “Do they let you bring wrapped gifts into Lew Sterrett Justice Center?”

  “Very funny. Hey. Maybe I need a lawyer. Do you think?”

  “I’d get one, if I were you.”

  “I don’t know any lawyers. I’ve always been so proud of that fact.”

  “What about the Pink Ice Queen Lawyer from last year?”

  “She works for the university, I think. SMU is going to fire me if I keep getting accused of crimes…” I mused, almost to myself. “I gotta get myself out of this.”

  “What time is lunch?”

  “Twelve thirty. After church.”

  “Your dad goes to church?”

  “No, me. I go to church.”

  “Are you still going?” he asked.

  “To church or lunch?”

  “Either.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost nine thirty. I could make the early service. At the very least, I’d have somewhere to hide from the Jackson Five for a few hours.

  “I really can’t get out of lunch. And I probably need a Holy Spirit spanking before I spend any time with Dad and Kellee.”

  “Want to leave dinner open?”

  “That’ll leave you in limbo all day.”

  “Don’t mind.”

  “Pining for me, I hope.”

  “Pining. Yes. Absolutely. And worrying,” he promised. “Lots of worrying.”

  “Good. That makes me feel better, actually. I’m needy today.”

  “Understandable. Call me if anything comes up.”

  I threw the phone in my purse, and then remembered how I was dressed. I looked like a homeless person. My jeans were ripped, my sweater old and pilled, and I had on my favorite ratty pair of thrift shop Converse All Stars. The red canvas ones. From, like, 1977. When Jimmy Carter was president.

  Jesus didn’t mind, I’m sure, but I think the people around me were a little taken aback. My church is pretty casual, but I was stretching even those limits today. I tried to cover up the hole in the knee of my jeans with my purse at first—a fringed leather version of a fig leaf, I guess—then gave up and focused on the service. It was about truth, handily enough, which it turns out is your best defense against evil. Nifty little fact to know. At least I had truth on my side.

  Church ended at ten thirty. Time to face the DPD. I headed home.

  No cruisers were waiting there for me. Detective Jackson had left a message on my machine, however. He wanted me to call when I got in.

  Stalling seemed good. I erased the message and threw my purse on the bar stool, then tossed my swim bag into the bedroom and emptied it out onto the bed. I could see my breath almost, it was so cold in my house. I kicked the on-switch on my space heater, then lit the gas heater in the bathroom, holding my hands over the blue flame for warmth. I hung my wet bathing suit on the shower curtain. It would probably freeze st
iff hanging there.

  My house is almost a hundred years old. Built when the only central heat in Texas was the kind that came from the sun. Other than my state-of-the-art oil-filled space heater, the ancient gas wall unit was the only source of heat in this part of the house. Between the two of them, they did a fairly passable job most of the time.

  Striking the match reminded me of my hot water situation. Fighting off a level of rage completely disproportional to the problem at hand, I took my matches into the kitchen and stared at the water heater. I leaned in and listened hard for that annoying knocking sound it makes when it’s doing its job. All I heard was dead, stubborn silence.

  “Light,” I said, as though that would help.

  I held out my hands, rattling the matchbox and waving my fingers at the Whirlpool insignia. “In the name of Jeeeeesus,” I said in my best TV evangelist voice, “I command thee to light. Give thine heat to mine water.”

  I waggled my fingers some more, entertaining myself with the absurdity of it all. Still, if Peter Terry could blow the blasted thing out, why couldn’t God show up just this one teeny-weeny time and cut me a break?

  Whatever His reasons, He wasn’t saying. I was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way. I assumed the position and struck a match. As I reached inside the skin of the beast, I noticed for the first time the drippy rust stains that ran down the sides.

  It is a rule in the universe that one should never look at an appliance too closely. Especially an artifact generations removed from the moment of examination. Layers of sticky filth concealed what I suspected was formerly white paint. Or porcelain. Or whatever they made water heaters out of in the Stone Age. Maybe it was like a tree. A ring of filth for each year. I could probably saw it in half and find out how old it was.

  I blew out my match, unfolded myself, and retrieved my giant, industrial-sized bottle of Zep Orange Industrial Degreaser—invented by God, by the way, not Satan. I cracked open a brand new roll of Dawg Blue Mastiff Industrial Strength paper towels. I was armed and dangerous.

  In military terms, what happened next is known as “mission creep”—starting off with one discrete task and allowing it to expand exponentially into an amorphous monster of a project. This is what happens on Saturdays when I run errands. Running out and getting some milk turns into throwing an impromptu dinner party because the produce at the grocery store looks so fabulously fresh, and besides, they have the most wonderful organic, grain-fed beef tenderloin, and wouldn’t it be nice with some roasted potatoes and a mango salad? And, of course, I’ll need new placemats, but I like chargers instead of placemats, and I think Pier One is having a sale…