The Soul Hunter

by Melanie Wells

  I pasted a reasonably genuine smile on my face. “Hi,” I said, as sweetly as I could manage.

  John studied me dully, his face flushed and sweaty.

  “Hello, Dr. Foster.”

  “Hi,” I said again.

  I’d decided that leaving out the nomenclature entirely would avoid the Dr. Mulvaney situation.

  “I was wondering if you had a minute. I know you’re busy.” (I pictured Harold cheering me on.) “But I’d like to talk to you for a second. If you can break away from your work.” I held up the cobbler. “I brought snacks.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “What snacks?”

  “Cobbler,” I said triumphantly. “With Blue Bell ice cream.”

  “Just a minute.” He closed the door in my face.

  I put my ear to the door and listened while he shuffled around again. John acts as though his research is top-secret, Nobel-caliber stuff. I think he really believes he’s doing something important in the universe with his little rat-maze experiments.

  He cracked the door again. “Okay.” He held out his hand for the cobbler. I think he actually meant to take the dish and leave me in the hallway empty-handed, if you can believe that.

  I clutched the cobbler and took a little step backward. “I thought we could sit down for a minute. If you’re free.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I know. I’m really sorry. It’ll just take a minute.”

  He looked at the Tupperware longingly.

  “Helene made it. It’s, uh…” I searched my memory “some sort of blueberry situation, I believe.”

  He looked back inside his office, then back at me. He was weakening. I could feel it.

  I then heard myself jabbering like a set of wind-up teeth. “Boy, I need a break like you wouldn’t believe. Don’t you? Man, oh man. I worked like a mad woman today. Academic life is really hard, don’t you think? People don’t understand the workload, I tell ya. They think we just sit around all the time and teach a class here and there when we get around to it. But it’s tough. Overworked and underpaid. Yep, that’s us.” I smiled again. I tried to make this one seem more sincere.

  He hesitated, then stepped back and opened the door all the way.

  I followed him over to his desk and started to put the cobbler down. John walked past me and left the office, the door standing open behind him. I stood there, mute, and watched him go. The man had the social savvy of a dead lizard. On his good days.

  I pushed some papers out of the way and set the cobbler and ice cream down while I waited for him to come back.

  It was freezing in his office, as usual. I walked over to Ozzie and Harriet and looked inside. The rats were curled up together in a ball. They looked up at me and sniffed, their little pink noses twitching. I shuddered, remembering my last encounter with a rat.

  “Sorry, you guys,” I said out loud. “It was nothing personal.”

  I walked the rows, past mice and rats until I got to a cage with a rabbit in it.

  I leaned in over the top. “Hi, sweetie. How ya doing? Do you know my friend Melissa?”

  The rabbit hopped over to me and stood on its back legs. It was a beautiful velvety gray, lop-eared and soft. I checked the tag on the aquarium.

  “Hi, Eeyore,” I cooed. “What’s he got you doing? Nothing hard, I hope. Are you learning the maze?” I reached in and scratched its ears.

  “They’re not pets.” John’s voice came from the doorway.

  I pulled my hand back quickly and turned around. “Sorry, John. It’s just that someone gave me a—” I stopped myself as I saw the “John” register. Strike one.

  “You’ll screw up my research if you treat them like pets,” he said in his thick monotone. “They don’t need any affection.”

  “Aw, c’mon. Everyone needs affection. Don’t you think?”

  “That’s a myth,” he said. “A myth that propagates sentimentality. Animals need attachment only in the earliest stages of life. When they are unable to meet their own physical needs.”

  “What about Ozzie and Harriet over there?” I pointed. “They look pretty affectionate to me.”

  “They’re a mating pair. Otherwise, they’d be in separate pens.”

  “Great names, by the way. Ozzie and Harriet. I used to love that show.”

  “I didn’t name them. Someone else did.”

  “Oh.” I resisted the urge to call him a heartless twit and instead said, a little too brightly, “How’s the research coming, anyway?”

  John stood there with his hands in his pockets and launched into a monologue about rodent brain activity and repetitious behaviors. I tried to look interested, but truly, it was impossible. As I tuned him out and watched his lips move, the droning of his words clunking along without me, I felt a little sorry for the rodents. They had to listen to it all day. They probably lived for the maze. At least when they were running for the cheese, there was something to look forward to.

  Still talking, he eventually made his way over to the desk and removed something from his pocket. It was a large spoon, which I assumed he’d just retrieved from the kitchen. He opened up the cobbler, pried the lid off the ice cream, and then started eating, alternating bites, straight out of the containers, his face stuffed full, his mouth still chewing as he took each new bite.

  “S’good,” he said, through a mouthful of goo.

  I took a step toward the door. Committee or no committee, I couldn’t watch this massacre without losing my stomach entirely. Already I was doomed to spending the remainder of my life without blueberry cobbler. I felt myself starting to gag.

  “Well, I should be going,” I choked out.

  “I tht ywntd ttlk abt smthg,” he mumbled.

  “It can wait,” I said, still backing up. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay, Joh…uh, I mean…yeah, okay. See you tomorrow. Thanks a lot.”

  I fled the office, pulling the door shut behind me and leaning against it to collect myself. I took a few breaths, trying to settle my stomach.

  Marci was gone for the day by now. When my head had stopped spinning, I walked over to her desk and wrote John a chirpy “thanks for the great visit, hope you enjoyed the cobbler” note, then stuck it in his box and left, grateful for the cold air that hit my face as I stepped out of the building into the night.

  My truck was parked across the campus near my office. As I started my walk up the tree-lined center avenue, hands in my pockets, my cell phone rang. I checked the number. It was David.

  “I’m so glad you called,” I said breathlessly.

  “Hello, Dylan.”

  “You only call me Dylan when you’re mad.”

  “Hurt, would be more accurate. I’m not great at mad.”

  “I’d rather you get mad and speak up than keep up the radio silence. If you’d talk to me, at least then I’d know how to respond.”

  “I don’t like having to point out the obvious, Dylan.”

  “What’s obvious? Point it out.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “The one at your house at ten at night. Remember him?”

  “Martinez? Nobody. He’s a cop. He was dropping something by my house. You completely misinterpreted the situation.”

  There was a long silence. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.

  “We have to eventually.”

  “Actually, we don’t. That’s the beauty of being an adult. It’s one of life’s big bonuses. We can just walk away from the whole thing and never talk about it at all. Ever.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why did you call if you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Just passing along some news. I talked to Linda Fortenberry again today.”

  “And?”

  “The baby was probably the boyfriend’s. Blood types match, anyway. DNA will take a while.”

  “That makes sense, I guess. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Sure.
”

  Another long pause.

  “Talk to you later,” he said.

  “Come on, David. Don’t do this. Can’t we just—?”

  “I need some time. I’ll call you.” He hung up.

  I threw my phone in my purse. The night was crisp. Dallas’s polluted air seemed less noxious than usual, and the stars were as bright as city stars can be, high above the copper-roofed dome of Dallas Hall. Live oak trees hugged in the view like a picture frame and the thin, remaining layer of snow crunched under my feet. I felt for a minute like I was walking inside one of those snow globes, when all the white is settled on the bottom. Everything is still and serene, right up until the moment someone picks it up and shakes it, unleashing the storm.

  I stepped into the parking lot and kicked a remnant of ice off my boot.

  I started my truck and flipped on the dome light, then fished in my bag for my notebook and paged through until I found the address I wanted. Now was as good a time as any. I had nothing better to do.

  I pulled off the campus and eased my truck onto Daniel Avenue and into the traffic. Arlington was about twenty-five minutes from here. If the conversation was quick, as I expected it to be, I could make it there and back and be home to play with Melissa by nine.

  32

  I pulled onto Patrick Finnigan’s street and pulled over a few blocks away from his house.

  I cut the headlights and made myself think about Drew Sturdivant, picturing her driving down this street on a dark night, on her way to see the boy that was no man and not much of a boyfriend either. I tried to put myself in her place for a few minutes. I wanted to see Finn through her eyes, not through any preconceived notions I had. I was hoping the view would clear for me, that my perspective would widen enough to see what I was looking for.

  Obvious answers are so distracting sometimes.

  I found myself wishing, once again, that I’d bought that gun Detective McKnight had recommended. Who knows if I’d have the guts to use it? Still, I felt naked and unprepared. If Drew’s boyfriend was what I thought he was, I’d have felt better packing a .38.

  My phone rang, startling me and quickening my heartbeat. I said hello without looking at the number, hoping for David, but of course it wasn’t him. It was my little friend Christine Zocci. Christine has the best Jesus radar of anyone I know. She practically sings with the angels. She always seems to know when I need to hear a friendly voice.

  “Hey, Punkin,” I said brightly.

  “My mommy said I could call you if I wanted to.”

  “I’m glad she did, sweetie. What are you guys doing up there? About to have supper?”

  “They’re having macaroni.”

  “They are? What are you having?”

  “I don’t like macaroni.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I used to like it, but I don’t anymore.”

  “Oh. Well, things change, don’t they?”

  “Did you use your lunchbox today?” she asked.

  “I didn’t use it today, but I used it Friday. Everybody was jealous.”

  “Why didn’t you use it today?”

  “I didn’t take my lunch today. Did you?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “I had carrots, apples, and Fritos. I like Fritos.”

  “I like Fritos, too.”

  “And Cheetos,” she said.

  “Puffy or hard?”

  “Hard,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The puffy ones are yucky.”

  “Hey, guess what?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “I got a bunny rabbit.”

  Christine squealed. “You did? What’s its name?”

  “Melissa. She has red hair like I do.”

  “Does she have long ears?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a fluffy tail?”

  “A big, fluffy tail and great big feet. Her ears are real long and soft.”

  “Where did you get her?”

  Hm. It seemed inappropriate to explain to a five-year-old that I’d gotten my bunny from a murdered girl. “A friend of mine gave her to me.”

  “Does she like carrots?”

  “She does. And apples. Just like you.”

  “I only like crunchy food.”

  “Is that why you don’t like macaroni?”

  “It’s not crunchy. Mommy wants to talk to you.” The phone clattered as she dropped it and ran off to do something more interesting.

  “Dylan?”

  “Hey, Liz. Christine cracks me up. What’s with the crunchy food?”

  “She started that a few weeks ago. Her entire diet consists of carrots, apples, and Fritos.”

  “And Cheetos.”

  “Right. She just added those. I can’t get her to eat anything else.”

  “How long will this last?”

  “She seems committed. Hasn’t eaten one Spaghetti-O since the first of the year.”

  “It’s not a New Year’s resolution, is it?”

  “I hope not. She’s five years old.” She covered the phone and yelled at the boys to leave the cat alone, she doesn’t want a haircut. And could they please get out of the dryer, it was time for supper. “My kids are so weird. Do you think that’s me?”

  “What about, like, hot dogs and French fries?”

  “Not crunchy. Believe me, I’ve tried it all.” She covered the phone. “What, honey?” I heard her say.

  Then back to me. “Christine wants to know if you said you’re sorry.”

  “To who?”

  “She didn’t say. She just…hang on a second.”

  Christine came back on the phone.

  “What is it, Punkin?”

  “Miss Dylan, when you hurt someone’s feelings, you just need to say ‘Oopsie, I’m sorry.’ And then give them a kiss.”

  “Really? That’s all there is to it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay. I’ll try that.”

  And then she was gone again. Liz came back on the phone.

  “Did you get that?” she asked.

  I laughed. “What a simple formula. If only I’d known all this time. Think of the trouble I could’ve avoided. Ask her how she knows I need to say I’m sorry to someone.”

  Liz covered the phone and shouted the question. “Her angel told her,” she said to me.

  “Earl? Is he still the one?”

  “There’s only one, Dylan. It’s always been Earl.”

  “Well, tell her I’ll try it. Earl always knows.”

  “Maybe I can get him to talk her into eating like a normal person again.”

  “It’s worth a try. He’s the only one with any influence.”

  We talked a few minutes more. It calmed me down and reminded me that I had more to live for than a redheaded bunny rabbit and a boyfriend who wouldn’t speak to me. The Zoccis were as close to family as I was getting lately, especially since my own family had begun to implode.

  I said my good-byes, gathered my courage, tossed out a quick prayer for luck, and finished the short drive to Finn’s house. I parked in the driveway and rang the doorbell.

  I stood there a few minutes in the dark. The porch light snapped on and I could feel someone looking at me through the peephole. I tried to look nonthreatening.

  The door swung open. A skinny young man of maybe twenty-five was standing there in baggy khakis that bunched up around his sneakers. His T-shirt said, “Rehab is for Quitters.” His long, black hair was pulled into a tidy ponytail.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I waved. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. I’m Dylan Foster. I’m a friend of Drew’s.”

  He squinted at me. “Dylan who?”

  “Foster.”

  “I never heard of you before.”

  “I hadn’t seen her in a while.”

  He stared at me without saying anything.

  “Can I come in?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  “Sure.” He backed away from the door an
d let me walk past him into the plain, little house.

  “Want some Ramen noodles? I was just about to eat.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll only be a minute anyway. I don’t want to interrupt your supper. I probably should’ve called first.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He led me into a small living room, which was dominated by a huge, new, flat-screen television set. The only furniture in the room was a sagging couch, a coffee table, and a big brown recliner—the kind my parents had when they were still happily married. Before Watergate. It was that old.

  Sparse as it was, the room was neat. There was no guy-litter lying around. None of the beer cans or newspapers I’d expected. The carpet was old but clean. There were no rings of sticky residue on the coffee table. I didn’t smell cigarette smoke or dirty laundry. In fact, the place smelled faintly of Pine Sol. A magazine rack by the recliner held a few magazines. The one in front was Rolling Stone. The current issue.

  I sat on the edge of the recliner. Finn took the couch.

  “How did you know Drew?” he asked.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” I said. “I’m a college professor.” I figured that might suggest enough of a connection to satisfy him.

  “I miss her,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “How long had you guys been seeing each other?”

  “A few months. She was kind of screwed up, but she was a really nice kid.” He looked down at his hands. “I miss her.”

  “What do you mean, screwed up?”

  “Kinda mad all the time? And sorta…like, unpredictable.”

  “How?”

  “She was all up and down. Happy one minute. All mad the next. Sometimes, she’d just start crying for no reason.”

  “Had she always been like that? Did she ever say?”

  He nodded. “Since she was little. Up and down. Like a roller coaster.” He laughed. “She didn’t even like roller coasters. I didn’t mind too much, though. She never really got mad at me.”

  “Did she ever say whether she’d been to a doctor for her mood swings? Had anyone ever diagnosed bipolar disorder? Anything like that?”

  “You mean like a shrink or something? Her parents don’t believe in medicine. They’re real…” He looked around the room as if searching for the word. “Conservative,” he said at last.