Alex Kava - The Soul Catcher

Im a firm believer in sharing credit and giving thanks, so please be patient, as the list seems to grow with each book. Many thanks to all the professionals who so generously gave of their time and expertise. If Ive gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, blame me, not them. My appreciation and respect go to the following experts:

Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, my crusader, my creative partner and my common senseyou are truly the best.

Dianne Moggy for your patience, your focus and your wise counselyou are a class act.

The entire crew at MIRA Books for their enthusiasm and dedication, especially Tania Charzewski, Krystyna de Duleba and Craig Swinwood. Special thanks to Alex Osuszek and an incredible sales force that continues to surpass goals and records I never dreamed to be reaching, let alone surpassing. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to be part of the team and not just the product.

Megan Underwood and the experts at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc., once again, for your unflinching dedication and unquestionable expertise.

Philip Spitzer, my agentI will forever be grateful for you taking a chance on me.

Darcy Lindner, funeral director, for answering all my morbid questions with professional grace, charm, directness and enough details to give me a tremendous respect for your profession.

Omaha police officer Tony Friend for an image of cockroaches that Im not likely to forget.

Special Agents Jeffrey John, Art Westveer and Harry Kern for taking time out of your busy schedules at Quanticos FBI Academy to show me around and give me some idea of what its like to be a real FBI agent and profiler. And also, thanks to Special Agent Steve Frank.

Dr. Gene Egnoski, psychologist and cousin extraordinaire, for taking time to help me psychoanalyze my killers and not thinking it strange to do so. And special thanks to Mary Egnoski for listening patiently and encouraging us.

John Philpin, author and retired forensic psychologist, for generously answering without hesitation every question Ive ever thrown at you.

Beth Black and your wonderful staff for your energy, your unwavering support and your friendship.

Sandy Montang and the Omaha Chapter of Sisters in Crime for your inspiration.

And once again, to all the book buyers, booksellers and book readers for making room on your lists, your shelves and in your homes for a new voice.

Special thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, especially the following:

Patti El-Kachouti, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, LaDonna Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava, Nicole Friend, Annie Belatti, Ellen Jacobs, Natalie Cummings and Lilyan Wilder for sticking by me during the dark days of this past year as well as celebrating the bright ones.

Marlene Haney for helping me keep things in perspective and then, of course, helping me deal with it.

Sandy Rockwood for insisting you cant 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 Im on the road. I couldnt 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 Im 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.

WEDNESDAY
November 20
Suffolk County, Massachusetts,
on the Neponset River

E ric 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 quiettoo quietthe 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 hadnt 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 Davids mumblings of prayer or Fathers 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 Satans 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 theyd need more than words to stop them. Words were just plain bullshit! He didnt 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.

Water dripped from the pump in the corner. Somewhere a clock ticked off the seconds. Outside a branch scraped against the roof. Above his head, a crisp fall breeze streamed in through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of pine needles and the sound of dry leaves skittering across the ground like the rattle of bones in a cardboard box.

Its all thats left. Just a box of bones.