The Soul Catcher - Alex Kava [1]
Marlene Haney for helping me keep things in perspective and then, of course, helping me “deal with it.”
Sandy Rockwood for insisting you can’t wait for the finished product, which in itself is always a much-appreciated pat on the back. Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids while I’m on the road. I couldn’t do what I do without the peace of mind you provide. Rich Kava, retired firefighter and paramedic as well as cousin and friend, for listening, encouraging, sharing your stories and always making me laugh.
Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, for letting me vent despite my good fortune.
Richard Evnen for witty repartee, kind and genuine words of encouragement and a friendship that includes pretending I know what I’m doing, even though we both know otherwise. Father Dave Korth for making me realize what a rare gift it is to be a “cocreator.”
Patricia Kava, my mother, whose undeniable strength is a true inspiration.
Edward Kava, my father, who passed away October 17, 2001, and who was surely a cocreator in his own right.
And last but certainly never least, a “from the heart” thank-you to Debbie Carlin. Your spirit and energy, your generosity, your friendship and love have made an amazing difference in my life. I will always feel blessed that our paths have crossed.
Beware the soul catcher
Who comes in a flash of light.
Trust not a word.
Meet not his eye.
Lest he catch your soul,
Trapping it for all eternity
In his little black box.
—Anonymous
CHAPTER 1
WEDNESDAY
November 20
Suffolk County, Massachusetts,
on the Neponset River
Eric Pratt leaned his head against the cabin wall. Plaster crumbled. It trickled down his shirt collar, sticking to the sweat on the back of his neck like tiny insects attempting to crawl beneath his skin. Outside it had gotten quiet—too quiet—the silence grinding seconds into minutes and minutes into eternity. What the hell were they up to?
With the floodlights no longer blasting through the dirty windows, Eric had to squint to make out the hunched shadows of his comrades. They were scattered throughout the cabin. They were exhausted and tense but ready and waiting. In the twilight, he could barely see them, but he could smell them: the pungent odor of sweat mixed with what he had come to recognize as the scent of fear.
Freedom of speech. Freedom from fear.
Where was that freedom now? Bullshit! It was all bullshit! Why hadn’t he seen that long ago?
He relaxed his grip on the AR-15 assault rifle. In the last hour, the gun had grown heavier, yet, it remained the only thing that brought him a sense of security. He was embarrassed to admit that the gun gave him more comfort than any of David’s mumblings of prayer or Father’s radioed words of encouragement, both of which had stopped hours before.
What good were words, anyway, at a time like this? What power could they wield now as the six of them remained trapped in this one-room cabin? Now that they were surrounded by woods filled with FBI and ATF agents? With Satan’s warriors descending upon them, what words could protect them from the anticipated explosion of bullets? The enemy had come. It was just as Father had predicted, but they’d need more than words to stop them. Words were just plain bullshit! He didn’t care if God heard his thoughts. What more could God do to him now?
Eric brought the barrel of the gun to rest against his cheek, its cool metal soothing and reassuring.
Kill or be killed.
Yes, those were words he understood. Those words he could still believe in. He leaned his head back and let the plaster crumble into his hair, the pieces reminding him again of insects, of head lice burrowing into his greasy scalp. He closed his eyes and wished he could shut off his mind. Why was it so damned quiet? What the hell were they doing out there? He held his breath and listened.