The Soul Hunter by Melanie Wells Read Free Book Online Page B

tenderloin, and wouldn’t it be nice with some roasted potatoes and a mango salad? And, of course, I’ll need new placemats, but I like chargers instead of placemats, and I think Pier One is having a sale…
    This is mission creep. It is generally a bad idea.
    Ignoring my better instincts, I hosed down the sides of the water heater with Zep and tried to swipe my paper towel over the surface. The paper towel stuck in the goo. I resisted the urge to vomit. I squirted it down again and went to get the vacuum cleaner.
    Since I am obsessively tidy—I prefer the term
obsessive compulsive “inclination”
to
obsessive compulsive “disorder”
(much less damning)—I have a state-of-the-art vacuum cleaner. It has hoses. It has attachments. It has brushes and nozzles and a tiny little needle-nose device for use in corners. I can practically do surgery with my vacuum cleaner. Or pick up a bowling ball. Whichever the situation calls for.
    I wrestled the python tubing, assembled my weapon, and plugged it in, peering under the water heater and plotting the demise of the filthy little archaeological site under there. And then I saw something even more alarming.
    A hole in my wall. Behind the water heater. Leading into the poorly insulated space behind the closet.
    And pellets. Little brown pellets. Lots of little brown pellets.
    Nowhere in the Bible, that I’m aware of, are rodents mentioned as minions of spiritual scourge. But I am convinced that had there been an eleventh plague in Egypt, if the flies, frogs, and boils had failed to convince, God would have sent mice. Hoards of nasty little crawling filthy gnawing mice. And rats. To chew into grain sacks and nest there, leaving their foul little droppings behind as presents. That would have been the fatal blow.
    Maybe Pharaoh knew the mice were next. Maybe that’s why he caved after the whole Passover-death thing.
    I dropped my vacuum hose with a clatter and yanked open the pantry door. Labels stood at attention on my shelves, spices alphabetized, soup cans grouped into categories by ingredients and use (broth or cream-based, for meals or for cooking).
    My pantry was immaculate.
    And it had mice. There was the evidence, right down there in the corner. Mouse droppings.
    At this point, my obsessive inclinations may have bordered on a disorder. I admit that. I should probably have dropped the entire matter and gone to a Twelve-Step group.
    Instead, I started flinging things out of my pantry, letting out little shrieks of indignation each time I spied evidence of the beasts. A chewed hole in my brand new box of Premium Saltines. A rip in the cellophane around my spaghetti. Little brown pellets behind my carton of Hefty Handle-Tie garbage bags. Gnaw marks in my neatly folded environmentally correct, brown, recycled-paper grocery bags.
    I broke off periodically to scour the water heater and squirt more Zep Degreaser on it.
    In the midst of this madness, I lost all track of time. When the phone rang, I was on my knees, with my can of Comet and my antibacterial cellulose sponge with the green scrubby thingy on it, disinfecting the pantry floor.
    I whipped my head around and stared at the phone, then peeled off my rubber gloves and picked up the receiver.
    “Hello?”
    “Where are you?”
    I looked at my watch. It was one fifteen.
    “I sort of lost track of time, Dad,” I said.
    “Well that’s just rich, Dylan. Here Kellee and I fly all the way up here to honor you on your birthday, taking time out of our very busy schedules. On our one day in the week to be together. Kellee is sitting here with this beautiful gift that she wrapped herself…”
    What is she, a five-year-old? She wants a parade for wrapping a gift?
    “What do you want to do, Dad? Reschedule? Or I can be there in twenty minutes.”
    “We flew up from Houston, Dylan. We’re here. We have a table. We’re waiting for you.”
    My dad is a heart surgeon. Possibly in need of his own services. He sounded like he was about