Free The Soul Hunter by Melanie Wells Page A

Cool Whip top.
    “They love plastic,” Paulie said. “Best favor you could’ve done ’em. They use it in their nests.” He picked up his clipboard and began writing my invoice.
    He tore the sheet off and handed it to me. Eighty-five dollars. For twenty minutes of work. I was in the wrong business.
    “Rats are like roaches. You see one, he’s got a whole bunch of buddies,” he said.
    “You think it’s rats? Or mice?”
    “What difference does it make? You got ’em living in your kitchen.”
    I took the card.
    “Good point.”
    The campus was buzzing when I arrived. Students crisscrossed in front of me as I lugged my stuff up the stairs to my office. I dumped it all in a heap in the hallway while I jammed my key in the lock. Someone had taped a note to my door. I grabbed it and stuck it in my mouth, gathering my stuff again to lug it across the threshold.
    I threw it all down and reached for my tea mug, then headed out to the kitchen area. First things first. On the way, I opened the note.
    My boss wanted to see me. Immediately.
    I stuck my head in her office as I passed by.
    Helene Levine glared at me over black, half-moon glasses. “Come in and shut the door.”
    “I was on my way for tea.”
    “Coffee for me,” she said. “Black.”
    Helene is very bossy. Everyone is terrified of her. I adore her.
    I fetched our refreshments and settled myself into an ancient armchair, crossing my feet on her desk.
    “What’s up?” I asked.
    “The police were here this morning.”
    I tried not to look too alarmed.
    “And?”
    “And they were asking about you.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
    “Was it Detective Jackson?”
    She checked her notes. “And someone named McKnight. Charming, delightful conversationalists, both of them.”
    “I haven’t met McKnight. But Jackson,” I gestured with my tea mug. “That dude has all the warmth and charisma of a box of rocks.”
    “You’re avoiding my question.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    “What do I need to know?”
    “What did they ask you?”
    “They wanted to know how long you’ve been here, how well I knew you. What I thought of you. Whether you were well liked on campus. Things of that nature.”
    I took a sip of my tea. “What did you tell them?”
    “I answered everything in your favor, if that’s what you’re wondering. I painted you the saint.”
    “Doesn’t sainthood usually involve flaying? Or being burned alive? It’s always some dreadful, medieval way to die. Slowly.”
    “Stop stalling. Are you in trouble again?”
    My problems last year had involved a patient of mine, Eric Zocci, a student who’d come for therapy at the school’s clinic, and who had later flown off a twelfth-floor balcony to his death. The entire mess had landed squarely in Helene’s lap. Though I’d beencleared of any wrongdoing, I still don’t think Helene has forgiven me. She runs the place like a general. She does not like surprises. Especially surprises that involve lawsuits and police departments and indictments. Things of that nature.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. In danger, maybe.”
    She waited.
    I braced myself and told her about the ax. I left out the lumberjack part and the swimming and the wet footsteps. And the water heater line with the kink in it. And Axl Rose. I didn’t see any reason to make myself out to be completely unbalanced. The ax was bad enough.
    “Is it your ax?” she asked.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “Why is everyone obsessed with this point? Do you own an ax, Helene?”
    “I own two. One belonged to my grandfather.”
    “Was he an outdoorsy type?” I asked.
    “Who ever heard of a Jewish outdoorsy type? He was an accountant.”
    “Why do you have his ax?”
    “Why not? The point is, I know whether or not I own an ax.”
    “You live in a high-rise. When do you chop wood?”
    She took a sip of coffee and gave me a withering