The Soul Reader: A Novel of Suspense

By Gerard D. Webster

The Soul Reader is the exciting sequel to Gerard Websters award-winning debut novel, In-Sight.

The two people Ward McNulty most wished he could forget were the woman he once loved and the man he still hated.

He succeeded sometimes by smothering their memory under mounds of activityhis physical rehabilitation, looking for a job, and staving off foreclosure. But try as he might, it was always therejust under the surface, like smoldering embers embedded in layers of ash, needing only a breath of oxygen to burst into flame. And thats exactly what happens one sunny Saturday afternoon, when Carrie Hope unexpectedly breezes back into his life.

It is a year after his fathers murder when Carrie asks Ward to assist her in writing a book about the North Beach Project, the money-laundering scheme that led to his fathers death. Ward initially turns her down. He knows that reopening the investigation would be dangerous for three reasons. First, it could cost them their livesthe identity of the man behind the scheme remains a mystery, and he would do almost anything to keep it that way. Secondly, it may cost Ward his very soul if he gets sucked back into the vortex of hatred and revenge that he has just escaped. And finally, Ward does not know if he or Carrie could survive falling in love and hurting each other yet again.

But when Carrie decides to pursue the investigation without him, Ward is faced with a difficult choice: he can allow her to go it alone and possibly get killed or he can join her in hopes of being able to protect her. Wards uncanny insight might give him an edgeand allow him to see the evil coiled in the jumbled foliage of the North Beach Project before it has a chance to strike. He decides to collaborate with her on the book, but on his terms, and thereby launches a series of events that span the globefrom Colombia to Romeand make Ward and Carrie the target of the most dangerous assassin in the western hemisphere, a man known only as Culebra.

It is in seeking justice that Ward discovers mercyand loveonce again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449720513

Gerard D. Webster

Gerard D. Webster’s debut novel, In-Sight, has won several awards for fiction. The Soul Reader, his second novel, is the exciting sequel to In-Sight. Mr. Webster has been a Peace Corps volunteer, a soldier, an addictions counselor, and a father. He lives with his wife, Anne, in Jacksonville, Florida.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jacksonville, Florida

The two people Ward McNulty most wished he could forget were the woman he once loved and the man he still hated. He succeeded—sometimes—by smothering their memory under mounds of activity; his physical rehabilitation, looking for a job, and staving off foreclosure. But, try as he might, it was always there just beneath the surface like smoldering embers embedded in layers of ash, needing only a breath of oxygen to burst into flame. And that’s what happened one sunny Saturday afternoon, when Carrie Hope breezed back into his life.

He was busy packing at the time, sitting on the floor in a corner so he could get up, if he had to, by bracing himself against the walls. On one side of him was a cardboard box, and on the other was a stack of papers and books, his cane and a plastic trash bag between his outstretched legs. He plowed through the mound of material in front of him, depositing the most meaningful into the box and discarding the rest into the trash bag, occasionally glancing at the remnants of his prior life scattered about the twelfth-floor river-view condominium.

The only islands of furniture on his sea-blue carpet were a beanbag chair, one floor lamp, and a small, round dining room table with two matching chairs. Light filtered in from the expanse of glass balcony doors overlooking the St. John’s River and the Jacksonville skyline beyond.

Ward looked down at the notice in his hands, the latest reminder that he was a total failure. First the accident, then the scandal, and a week ago—foreclosure papers. Only thirty-four and already a failure.

The doorbell rang. Before he could grab his cane and push himself to his feet, it rang a second time.

Ward? He recognized Carrie’s voice. Ward? Are you in there?

The doorknob rattled. Ward struggled to his feet and then hesitated. If I don’t answer, maybe she’ll go away. He heard the deadbolt turn and mentally kicked himself for not getting his key back. He leaned even more heavily on the cane as the door swung open. Carrie took two steps into the apartment and then stopped when she saw him, like an intruder who’d just set off an alarm. Her lips parted, and he heard her suck in a sharp breath.

Oh … I didn’t know you were home.

She looked as beautiful as ever. The blond hair styled in a perky cut just barely brushing her shoulders contrasted beautifully with her silky-smooth café con leche skin and soft brown eyes. For a second, he was almost glad she still had his key. He wagged his cane. Sorry. I don’t get around as fast as I used to.

For a moment she stared at him as if he were a stranger. Finally she said, You look awful! Are you all right?

Ward brushed strands of uncombed black hair out of his face and then let his hand drift down to the three days’ growth on his cheek. I wasn’t expecting company.

"You’re so thin, she said, looking pointedly at his unshaven face and uncombed hair. You look like a strand of badly frayed rope."

Ward looked down at the T-shirt and jeans hanging on his frame like sails with no wind. It’s the rehab, he explained. Treadmill and all. Besides, I feel better with the weight off. My back doesn’t hurt as much. He couldn’t help looking her up and down. She hadn’t changed at all—except for the way she dressed now. Instead of figure-enhancing business suits and the high-heeled shoes that caused male-neck-strain-syndrome, she wore a simple yellow blouse, printed skirt, and leather sandals—an enticingly innocent look. Ward choked back a compliment and looked away. Better to not encourage her—or himself. Come on in. He stood back and motioned with his cane. Have a seat—if you can find one.

Carrie entered the condo like someone testing the thickness of ice on a winter lake. She looked around at the scattered boxes, the disorganized piles everywhere. Are you moving?

Foreclosure, he explained. He hobbled to one of the kitchen chairs, swept a jumble of socks and underwear off it, and motioned for Carrie to sit. Tilting the other chair to dump its contents on the floor, he carefully lowered himself while using the cane for support.

Foreclosure? Carrie sat down hard in the other chair.

Yeah. Lot of that going around lately. After the paper fired me … and the accident … well, let’s just say it’s been too long without a paycheck. Carrie’s brown eyes misted over. He could fall into those deep, dark pools and drown and not mind at all.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Are you okay?

I’ll be fine, he waved the lie off like a fly. It’s not that bad. You’ve probably forgotten how empty it already looked after we broke up. He forced what he hoped looked like a smile. That emptied out half the stuff, y’know. As she looked around, he tried to make a joke. There’s something to be said for the minimalist look.

Do you need a place to stay? She blushed. Not like before—

He interrupted to save her. No. Mom’s asked me to move in with her. The old homestead is pretty lonely now that Dad’s gone. I actually think it’ll be better for both of us.

That’s good, Carrie nodded. "I hate to think of you … either of you … all alone."

Thanks.

Silence. They both looked down at the maze of his scattered belongings, caught in a conversational blind canyon.

Carrie spoke first. You never returned my calls.

Ward grimaced at the accusatory tone. There was nothing left to say.

She looked away—toward the balcony windows and the Jacksonville skyline. It wasn’t about us, she said when she turned back. That’s not why I called.

Why, then?

Well, for one thing, it would have been nice to know you were still alive.

Okay, Ward retorted. Now you know. I’m alive. What else?

Carrie’s eyes welled with tears. I didn’t come here to fight.

Now he remembered why he didn’t return her calls. It seemed like all they ever did was fight. Whenever they were thrown together, they were like two cats scrapping over the top perch on a fence.

He apologized. Sorry. I don’t want to fight, either. He watched her face, looked into her eyes. She was softer, gentler than he remembered, the sharp corners of her newswoman personality rounded off and sanded smooth. So, he asked, what did you want to see me about?

Carrie paused and, as she drew in a breath, it seemed she transformed herself back into Carrie-the-news-anchor about to fire away with interview questions. I wanted to talk to you about the North Beach Project.

North Beach? The North Beach Project had started the chain reaction that ended with his father’s murder. Initially, Ward had supported the project—an ambitious plan to turn Timuqua Island from a kind of redneck Riviera into an exclusive island resort. When he learned the financial backers were underworld types who wanted to use the project to launder money, he tried to back out. But—he learned the hard way—you can’t simply back out of a venture with vultures. Within days, he was crippled in an accident, framed for DUI manslaughter, and accused of using drugs. It had cost him everything: his job, his reputation, and Carrie. What about it? Suspicion unraveled from the back of his mind like a loose thread from a frayed shirt.

I got a call from Manor House, Carrie explained. They want me to write a book on it.

Ward’s eyes locked on the ceiling as he searched his memory’s files. Manor House … wholly owned subsidiary of … what major publisher? Manor House Publishing?

Yes, she nodded. They offered me a contract … and a six-figure advance.

Ward whistled at the amount. That’s a lot of money for a first-time writer, isn’t it?

Carrie nodded. "Yes, but I was the reporter who covered the story on Channel Five News. Besides, they think it’ll be a good seller—since it’s been such a high-profile story and all."

High-profile was a gross understatement. The story had everything the media loved: dirty politics, scandal, drugs, money laundering … Ward’s thoughts ran down the line of descriptive phrases used to hook the public on the story. The media had bannered it all in the headlines—along with his formerly good name—for as long as they could.

As if she could read his thoughts, Carrie spoke up. I came to see you because I don’t feel comfortable writing it.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Then don’t. That pot’s already been stirred enough.

Carrie blinked and sat up straight. That’s not what I meant.

Ward tilted his head at her like a dog that doesn’t understand its master. What, then?

"I meant I wasn’t comfortable writing it alone. I was hoping you’d help me with it. She held up a hand. Hear me out. No one knows more about the North Beach Project than you. You’re the one who tried to warn me about it, remember? Everyone who was anyone in Jacksonville was all for it. Only you and your father knew something was wrong. She lowered her eyes. I’m so sorry about what happened to your dad. Maybe if I’d listened to you sooner…"

That wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine. I came to terms with it a long time ago.

But the very mention of his father brought it all back. Dan McNulty had been a longtime resident of Timuqua Island; when the powers that be decided to use eminent domain to force the residents out of their homes, his father fought back. However, the project’s financiers were the type of men who were used to having their way. They certainly weren’t going to allow one old man organizing a peasants revolt to interfere with their plans. At the thought of his father’s murder, Ward felt the anger welling up in him like magma in a volcano. He quickly changed the subject before it could erupt.

What else?

Well … she searched for the words, "I’m not a writer. You’re the writer. I was a TV newswoman. I wouldn’t have any more idea of how to write a book than I would a computer program."

Writing is writing, Ward said. There’s not really that much difference between a news story and a book. All you have to do is tell people what happened.

I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Carrie said. "Manor House doesn’t want a rehash of the old news stories. They want to know not only what happened—but why it happened and who was behind it. They’re looking for us to reopen the investigation."

Ward shook his head.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Why not?

Because, he paused for emphasis, "it’s dangerous."

Disappointment flashed across Carrie’s features.

Look, he continued. The reason why the police investigation didn’t lead anywhere was because all the key witnesses either disappeared or died—rather suddenly, too. I agree that there’s more to North Beach than meets the eye, but I have a bad feeling about turning over that rock, Carrie. You might just find a rattlesnake underneath it.

Carrie studied his face.

You’re afraid.

Yes, Ward admitted. I guess you could say that—but not for myself. He leaned forward in the chair and rested both hands on the cane so he could look her directly in the eye. "I’m afraid for you. It’s already cost my dad his life—and we know of at least five other people who died because of their involvement in North Beach."

She appeared to process what he was saying.

The North Beach Project was a colossal failure, he said. It’s over now—nothing more than a bunch of abandoned homes and torn down buildings on a tiny island. The best thing to do is to leave it alone. What I’m really afraid of is that if you stick your nose into it, you’ll get hurt—or worse.

The corner of Carrie’s mouth upturned in a barely discernable smile.

So, she said, "you’re afraid for me. That’s sweet of you, but I think I can take care of myself."

Ward exhaled in exasperation.

I’m not trying to be ‘sweet,’ Carrie. I’m trying to keep your pretty little head from being mounted on some drug lord’s trophy wall!

Don’t you think you might be overreacting?

Overreacting? You think I’m overreacting? Enrique Galarza was the most powerful drug lord in Colombia—and they got to him. Johnny Reddick and Trenton Koehl both thought they were untouchable—and they got to them, too. Do you think for one second they’re going to let you get too close and live to tell about it?"

Carrie batted back tears.

"You’re making it sound like they were all murdered, she complained. Trenton Koehl died in a plane crash …"

Right. And Johnny Reddick was shot by a jealous mistress. Both of them within a couple of weeks of my father’s murder.

You think it was a conspiracy? she asked, barely hiding her disbelief.

You think it was just a coincidence? Ward shot back. "Enrique Galarza is killed by rival drug lords, Koehl dies in a plane crash, Reddick is shot by his mistress, and David Schoenhauer disappears into thin air—all within two weeks of the project collapsing upon itself. Do you really believe that it was all coincidental?"

Carrie swept a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear and shook her head.

No, I guess not. But to me, that’s all the more reason to get to the bottom of it. She leaned forward and searched his eyes intently. I said I didn’t feel comfortable doing it alone; but that’s not the only reason I asked for your help.

This seemed to be somewhat of a confession for her.

Oh? he asked. What’s the other reason?

Carrie seemed to gauge her words carefully before she spoke. Again Ward sensed she was trying to be honest—without hurting his feelings.

I need your help on this. I really do. But I also thought … well … that this might help you get back into writing again. Not a column … but a book. And it might help you in other ways too …

What other ways? He had a sense of where this was going, and he didn’t like it—not one bit.

Well, Carrie took in the empty condo with a sweep of her arm, maybe it could help you avoid foreclosure. I’m willing to split the advance and the royalties with you—fifty-fifty. It could be just the thing to get you back on your feet.

Ward leaned back in his chair and placed the cane across his thighs. He breathed in slowly to keep his anger in check.

"I don’t need—nor want—any charity."

This isn’t charity.

What do you call it then?

Please, Ward, just listen to me. I really need your help on this. What I’m talking about is a business relationship … a full partnership.

Ward studied the cane on his lap. She really was trying to help him, he knew. Her motives were mixed, but basically good. Nevertheless, it didn’t make it any less dangerous—or painful.

Look, he said, I’m not ready to rip that wound open again. I’m just now recovering from the accident. And I haven’t gotten over what happened to Dad yet.

Carrie huffed out of the corner of her mouth and blew a stray strand of blond hair out of her face. Ward was familiar with the gesture. She did it whenever she was frustrated.

So, she said, I take it your answer is no.

That’s right: my answer is no.

She seemed to be debating whether to push him further.

I understand, she said.

Thanks for thinking of me, though. Ward tried to sweeten the bitter rejection.

Well, then, Carrie said as she stood. Thank you for your time.

The suddenness of her gesture unnerved him. He wasn’t expecting her to terminate the conversation—or her visit—so quickly; but the way she said it transmitted the hurt she felt.

Ward pushed himself up from the chair and faced her.

It’s been nice seeing you again, he offered. No matter what the excuse.

Carrie shot him an accusing look.

I wasn’t the one staying away, she said.

Ward looked down. It was true, he knew. He was the one who didn’t return phone calls.

Carrie stepped closer.

Just so you know, I’ve missed you, Ward. A lot.

Involuntarily, Ward took a step back and almost tripped over the chair. He caught himself by bracing the cane behind him and then looked up to see if Carrie had noticed. Given the impish smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she had.

Sorry, he said. You almost swept me off my feet again.

Nice to see I still have that affect.

Ward suddenly felt the need to change the subject.

Well, he said. I guess you’ll be telling Manor House ‘thanks—but no thanks.’ I hope that doesn’t screw up your plans.

Carrie blinked in surprise.

Not really, she reverted back to her news-anchor-in-charge mode—the one who’d sacrifice anything or anyone for a headline. I just wanted to give you the chance to collaborate with me on the book … if you wanted to.

Ward measured her words for a second before the meaning hit him.

You mean you’re going ahead with it?

"I said I wasn’t comfortable writing it alone, Carrie said; not that I wasn’t capable."

Ward was amazed that she could so easily find some insult in his meaning. He caught the tone of indignation but decided to confront her anyway.

Didn’t you hear a word I said, Carrie? This is dangerous.

She eyed him evenly—a poor attempt at staring him down. It never worked before. Ward was surprised she still tried it.

You know me. Have you ever seen me back off a story because it was too controversial—or dangerous?

No, he admitted. I haven’t.

"And I never thought I’d see the day when you’d back down either," she added.

Ward shook his head. She must be desperate to try to shame him into cooperating with her.

Things are different now, he said. "I’m different."

I can see that.

Ward shifted his weight and leaned more heavily on his cane—as if it would give him support for what he was about to confess.

My priorities have shifted. The things that used to be so important to me just aren’t that important anymore.

"How about the people who used to be important to you?" she asked.

Ward paused and looked down while he considered his answer.

That’s just it, he said when he looked back up, "they’re more important than ever. I used to love things and use people. I think I’m finally learning to love people and use things."

Carrie searched his eyes. When Ward didn’t look away, she seemed to accept his answer at face value.

If that’s true, I think it’s a nice change. I like it.

So, Ward said, "since you know I care about people so much, why don’t you leave this thing alone? I’d hate to see anything happen to you."

For an instant, he thought he saw her resolve melting away … for an instant. Then it was immediately replaced by that irritatingly rock-hard determination of hers.

Look, Ward, I appreciate the concern, but I really didn’t drive all the way across town to get talked out of this. I just wanted to give you an opportunity join me on it … if you wanted to. The fact is, I already have a contract from Manor House. I’m committed. If you’d like to collaborate—great! If not, then that’s okay, too. I just thought it might help you get back in the game again—writing—only a book this time instead of political columns …

So, he said, you’ve made up your mind to go it alone.

Yes, if I have to. Only it would be better—and more fun—if we did it together.

Ward searched her face for the bluff he hoped was there. Not finding it, he made one last attempt to wean a concession from her.

Promise me one thing, he said.

What’s that?

That you’ll at least think about the risks involved before you jump into this.

He watched as that familiar lopsided smirk crossed her face.

Okay, she conceded. On one condition.

What?

That you’ll at least reconsider before turning it down.

Ward pondered it for all of a split second.

I guess that’s fair.

Good. You still got my number … at the house on Riverside?

Ward nodded.

Good, she said again. Call me if you change your mind. I’ll do the same.

Okay, he mumbled.

Ward walked her to the door. Before she left, Carrie stood on her toes and gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek—not at all the kind of kiss they used to share. It took all his will to keep from returning it more seriously.

It was good seeing you again, she said.

You, too.

With that, she turned and left. Ward’s chest felt as hollow as an empty oil drum. Carrie was walking out of his life … again … and he was letting her do it. .

After he closed the door behind her, Ward retreated to the dining room, sat on the chair, and ran his hands through his hair. Seeing her again—even after all these months—dredged up long-forgotten feelings from the depths of his soul. Their intensity surprised him. He’d almost convinced himself that he had gotten over her; but now he knew—that was just his head lying to his heart.

Carrie was as beautiful as ever; but Ward saw more than just her physical beauty. Despite the image of a hard newswoman she tried to project, Ward saw a softness that was not there before, an empathetic warmth emanating from her.

On the one hand, he knew he couldn’t work in close company with Carrie. He was too vulnerable to her right now. It just wouldn’t be right. How could he—in good conscience—place himself, and maybe her, in danger of falling in love again? How could he even consider initiating a relationship with Carrie—or with anyone for that matter—knowing what he did about himself. It wouldn’t be fair to her. In that regard, the best thing to do would be to let her go.

On the other hand, he still cared about her … about what happened to her. And if Carrie were determined to pursue the North Beach story on her own, she’d be putting her life in danger. Ward knew there was more to the story than what had come out so far, but the very idea of digging up the past repelled him. Every time he thought about what had happened—about his father’s murder—he felt himself being pulled back into the black hole of anger and hatred. He dared not approach the edge of that vortex for fear of getting sucked back in and never escaping. Every fiber of common sense in him screamed to let it be, leave it alone … lest he be consumed by the evil that pervaded the North Beach Project.

Frustrated, Ward reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the compact mirror his father had given him. He flicked it open with his thumb, held it up to his face, and squinted. It was the first time he had looked in the mirror in days. He frowned at what he saw. His outward appearance could not have been that pleasing to Carrie—not with the mussed hair and three-day-old beard. But it wasn’t his outward appearance that concerned him most. It was what he saw underneath it … rippling just under the skin like something growing, eager to break out. And his eyes! He saw it in his eyes, too. The light was still there, thank God; but along with it was a shadow—a familiar darkening that filtered the light as storm clouds obscure the sun. Not totally dark—as on a moonless night—at least not yet. And he knew what it all meant: he was regressing—slipping back into anger—and fear. He knew if he let it go too far, allowed the anger and fear to grow to hatred and revenge, the light in his eyes would go out—leaving only black, lifeless sockets. Ward couldn’t let that happen. Not again. He couldn’t go back to what he once was—an empty shell of a man with no life, no light in him.

But … to do nothing? It meant leaving Carrie to fend for herself. And he knew—no matter how tough she thought she was—she wouldn’t be able to navigate the dark labyrinths of the North Beach scandal by herself. Sooner or later, without help, she’d fall victim to the evil, too. At least, he reasoned, he might see it coming. The gift he and his father had shared was at once a curse and a blessing. A curse because it colored his relationships with others forever—especially with those he loved most. A blessing because it allowed him to see the evil coiled in the jumbled foliage of life—and maybe take action before it had a chance to strike.

Aw, nuts! he exclaimed in disgust as he snapped the mirror shut and thrust it back into his shirt pocket. He didn’t know what to do—and he knew he couldn’t figure it out all by himself.

Ward placed his hands on his knees and bowed his head.

Lord, he prayed, You know I’ve screwed up plenty in the past—and hurt a lot of innocent people doing it. But I’m in