by Blake Pierce
So she’d reached out to Dr. Higdon, a therapist she had heard about last year during a case involving a suspect who had used her to get over a series of irrational fears.
“I appreciate you meeting with me so quickly,” Avery said. “I was honestly expecting to have to wait a few weeks.”
Higdon shrugged as she sat down in her chair. When Avery took a seat on the adjacent couch, the feeling of becoming a living cliché only intensified.
“Well, I’ve heard of you a few times just through news stories,” Higdon said. “And your name has come up when new patients have come in, people you’ve apparently crossed paths with in your line of work. So I had an open hour today and figured it would be nice to meet you.”
Realizing that it was unprecedented to get an appointment with a respected therapist just two days after making a call, Avery knew not to take the appointment for granted. And, never having been one to beat around the bush, she had no problem getting to the point.
“I wanted to meet with a therapist because, quite honestly, my head is just a mess right now. One part is telling me that healing is going to come from time off. Another part is telling me that healing is going to come from productivity and familiarity—which leads me back to work.”
“I know just the briefest of details about the healing you’re looking for,” Higdon said. “Could you elaborate?”
Avery spent ten minutes doing just that. She started with how the last case had unfolded and then ended in the death of her ex-husband and her would-be fiancé. She breezed over the part about moving away from the city and the recent fallout with Rose, both at her apartment and their run-in at Jack’s grave.
Dr. Higdon started asking questions right away, having taken down handwritten notes the entire time Avery had been talking. “The move to the cabin by Walden Pond…what made you want to do that?”
“I didn’t want to be around people. It’s more isolated. Very quiet.”
“Do you feel that you heal better both emotionally and physically when you’re on your own?” Higdon asked.
“I don’t know. I just…I didn’t want to be in a place where people had the ability to come by and check on me a hundred times a day.”
“Have you always had problems with people concerned for your well-being?”
Avery shrugged. “Not really. It’s a vulnerability thing, I suppose. In my line of work, vulnerability leads to weakness.”
“I doubt that’s true. In terms of perception, probably—but not in the actual state of things.” She paused for a moment here and then sat forward. “I won’t try to dance around topics and subtly lead you to the key points,” she said. “I’m sure you’d see it for what it was. Besides, the fact that you can admit to a fear of vulnerability tells me a great deal. So I think we can get directly to the point here.”
“I’d prefer it that way,” Avery said.
“The time you spent alone in the cabin…do you believe it’s helped or hindered your healing?”
“I think it’s a stretch to say it helped, but it made it easier. I knew I wasn’t going to have to deal with the onslaught of well-wishers to constantly check in on me.”
“Did you try reaching out to anyone during that time?”
“Just my daughter,” Avery said.
“But she rejected all of your attempts to reconnect?”
“That’s right. I’m pretty sure she blames me for her father dying.”
“If we’re being honest, that’s probably true,” Higdon said. “And she’ll come around to the truth on her own time. People grieve differently. Rather than escaping it all in a cabin in the woods, your daughter has chosen to assign blame to an easy source. Now let me ask you this…why did you resign from your job at all?”
“Because I felt like I’d lost everything,” Avery said. She didn’t even have to think about it. “I felt like I’d lost everything and failed at my job. I couldn’t stay because it was a reminder of how I wasn’t good enough.”
“Do you still feel that you aren’t good enough?”
“Well…no. At the risk of sounding conceited, I’m very good at my job.”
“And you’ve missed it over the course of these last three months or so, right?”
“I have,” Avery admitted.
“Do you feel that your desire to return there is just to fall back into what your life was once like or do you think there might be some actual progress to be found there?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. But I’m getting to the point where I think I have to find out. I think I have to go back.”
Dr. Higdon nodded and scribbled something down. “Do you think your daughter will react negatively if you went back?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Okay, so let’s say she wasn’t in the equation; let’s say Rose couldn’t care less if you went back or not. Would you have any hesitation?”
The realization hit her like a brick to the head. “Probably not.”
“I think you have your answer right there,” Higdon said. “I think at this point in the grieving process, you and your daughter can’t let one another dictate the way the other grieves. Rose needs to blame someone right now. That’s how she’s dealing…and your strained relationship makes it easy. As for you…I want to say returning to work might just be the thing to help push you along.”
“You want to?” Avery asked, confused.
“Yes, I think it makes the most sense, given your history and track record. However, during all of this time alone, isolated away from everyone, have you ever had suicidal thoughts?”
“No,” Avery lied. It came easily and without much regret. “I’ve been low, sure. But never quite that low.”
Yes, she had omitted her near-suicide. She had also not mentioned her package from Howard Randal as she had recounted the last several months. She didn’t know why. For now, it simply felt too private.
“That being the case,” Higdon said, “I don’t see the harm in returning to work. I do think you should be partnered with someone, though. And I know that could be touchy given who your last partner was. Still…you can’t be released into high-stress situations on your own so soon. I’d even recommend you do some light work first. Maybe even desk work.”
“I’ll just be honest…that’s not going to happen.”
Higdon smiled thinly. “So do you think that’s what you’ll do? Will you see if returning to work helps to get you over this self-doubt and blame?”
“Soon,” Avery said, thinking of the call from Connelly two days ago. “Yeah, I think I just might.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck,” Higdon said, reaching over to shake her hand. “In the meantime, feel free to call me if you need to hash anything out.”
Avery shook Higdon’s hand and left the office. She hated to admit it, but she felt better than she had in weeks—ever since she had finally found a routine for exercise and sharpening her mind. She thought she might be able to think a little more clearly and not because Higdon had uncovered some profound hidden truth. She had simply needed someone to point out to her that although Rose might be the only person left in her life outside of work, that did not mean that her fear of how Rose viewed her should dictate what she did with the rest of her life.
She drove toward the nearest exit to head back to the cabin. She saw the high-rise buildings of Boston off to her left. The precinct was about a twenty-minute drive away. She could head that way, pay everyone a visit, and be given a warm welcome. She could just pull the Band-Aid off and do it.
But a warm welcome was not what she deserved. In fact, she wasn’t sure what she deserved.
And maybe that was where the last remaining bit of hesitation came from.
***
The nightmare she had that night was not a new one but it did present a twist.
In it, she was sitting in a visitation room in a correctional facility. It was not the one she had sometimes visited Howard Randall in, but something much larger and almost Greek-look
ing. Rose and Jack sat across the table, a chessboard between them. All of the pieces remained on the board, but the kings had fallen over.
“He’s not here,” Rose said, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Your little secret weapon is not here.”
“Just as well,” Jack said. “It’s about time to learn to solve some of the bigger cases on your own.”
Jack then passed a hand over his face and in the blink of an eye, he looked the way he did on the night she had discovered his body. The right side of his face was awash in blood and his face had a sort of sag to it on the right side. When he opened his mouth to speak to her there was no tongue in his mouth. There was just darkness beyond the teeth, a chasm where his words came from and, she suspected, where he wished her to be.
“You couldn’t save me,” he said. “You couldn’t save me and now I have to trust you with my daughter.”
Rose stood up at that moment and started walking away from the table. Avery stood with her, certain that something very bad would happen if Rose got out of her sight. She started to follow her but could not move. She looked down and saw that both of her feet had been nailed to the floor with enormous railroad ties. Her feet were shattered, nothing but blood, bone, and chunks of flesh.
“Rose!”
But her daughter only looked back at her, smiled, and waved. And the farther away she got, the bigger the room seemed. Shadows came spilling from every direction, descending on her daughter.
“Rose!”
“It’s okay,” said a voice from behind her. “I’ll watch over her.”
She turned and saw Ramirez, holding his sidearm and looking into the shadows. And as he so gallantly chased after Rose, the shadows started coming after him.
“No! Stay!”
She pulled against the spikes in her feet but to no avail. She could only watch as the two people she had loved the most in the world were swallowed by the darkness.
And that’s when the screams began, pouring out of the shadows, Rose and Ramirez filling the room with cries of agony.
Still at the table, Jack pleaded with her: “For fuck’s sake, do something!”
And that’s when Avery jolted upright in bed, a scream building in her throat. She turned her bedside lamp on with a trembling hand. For a moment, she saw that enormous room spread out ahead of her but it slowly dissipated with the light and wakefulness. She looked to the still-new cabin bedroom and, for the first time, wondered if it was ever going to feel like home.
She found herself thinking of Connelly’s call. And then of Howard Randall’s package.
Her old life was haunting her drams, sure, but it was also invading this new isolated life she had tried building for herself as well.
There seemed to be no escape.
So maybe—just maybe—it was time to stop trying to escape it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Once she’d stopped the heavy drinking during the more desolate stretches of the grieving process, she had slowly replaced her alcohol intake with caffeine intake. Her reading sessions would often consist of two cups of coffee with a Diet Coke in between. Because of this, she’d started to develop minor headaches after several weeks if she went without coffee for more than a day or so. It wasn’t the healthiest of ways to live but certainly better than drinking herself into despair.
That’s why she found herself in a coffee shop after lunch the following day. She’d gone out for groceries primarily because she’d run out of coffee at the cabin and, having only had a single cup that morning, needed a quick fix before getting back to the cabin and finishing out the day. She had a book to finish reading but also thought she might head out into the woods for another try at deer hunting.
The coffee shop was a trendy local place, with four people huddled down behind their MacBooks throughout the shop. The line at the counter was long, even for such an early afternoon hour. The place was abuzz with conversation, the whirring of machinery behind the counter, and the soft volume of the TV at the waiting end of the bar.
Avery got to the cashier, ordered her dirty chai with two espresso shots, and took up her own place at the waiting area. She passed her time by looking at the small corkboard filled with fliers for upcoming local events: concerts, plays, fundraisers…
And then she noticed the conversation beside her. She did her best not to seem obvious that she was eavesdropping, keeping her eyes turned to the events board.
There were two women behind her. One was in her mid-twenties, wearing one of those Baby Bjorn baby slings that wrapped over around her chest. Her baby napped restfully against her chest. The other woman was a bit older, drink in hand but not quite ready to leave the shop.
Their attention was turned to the TV behind the counter. Their conversation was hushed but easily overheard.
“My God…have you heard about this story?” the mother was saying.
“Yeah,” the second woman said. “It’s like people are finding new ways to hurt one another. What kind of sick mind do you have to have to even think about something like that?”
“Looks like they still haven’t found the creep,” the mother said.
“They probably won’t,” the other woman said. “If they were going to catch this guy, they would have something by now. Jeez…can you imagine the poor guy’s family, having to see this on the news?”
Avery’s attention was snapped when the barista called her name and handed her drink over the counter. Avery took it and, now facing the television, allowed herself to watch the news for the first time in almost three months.
There had been a death on the outskirts of town one week ago, in a rundown apartment complex. Not just a death, but a pretty blatant murder. The victim had been found in his closet, covered in spiders of varying varieties. Police were working on the assumption that the act had been intentional, as half of the spiders there had been kinds that were not native to the region. Despite the abundance of spiders at the scene, only two bites were found on the body and neither had been venomous. According to the news, so far, the police were working on the assumption that the man had been killed by either strangulation or heart attack.
Those are two pretty different causes of death, Avery thought to herself as she slowly started to turn away.
She couldn’t help but wonder if this was the case Connelly had called her about three days ago. A case with a very unique twist and, so far, without any real answers. Yeah…this is probably the one, she thought.
With her drink in hand, Avery headed out the door. She had the rest of the afternoon ahead of her but she was pretty sure she knew how it would go. Whether she liked it or not, she’d probably be looking quite a bit at spiders.
***
Avery spent the rest of the afternoon getting familiar with the case. The story itself was so morbid that she didn’t have a problem finding a variety of sources. When all was said and done, she found eleven different reputable sources that told the story of what had happened to a man named Alfred Lawnbrook.
Lawnbrook’s landlord had entered his apartment after rent had been two weeks late for the umpteenth time and had known something was off right away, Reading it, Avery couldn’t help but parallel her recent experience with Rose and her landlord and, quite frankly, it creeped her right the hell out. Alfred Lawnbrook was found stuffed in his bedroom closet. He had been partially draped in at least three different spider webs, with two different bites—bites that, as the news report in the coffee shop had said, were not overly harmful.
While an actual count was not possible, an educated guess as to how many spiders had been found at the scene was somewhere between five and six hundred. A few of them were exotic and had no business being in an apartment in Boston. An arachnologist had been called in to assist and pointed out that she had seen at least three species that were not native to America, much less Massachusetts.
So there’s intention, Avery thought. And a lot of it. That much intention points to the likelihood that this guy will strike again. And if h
e’s going to strike again in the same way, it should be possible to trace him and take him down.
The coroner’s report stated that Lawnbrook had died of a heart attack, likely from the fear of the situation. Of course, with no one having been at the scene during the murder, there were numerous other scenarios that could have played out. No one could know for sure.
It was an interesting case…if not a little morbid. Avery did not fear much, but large spiders was certainly on the top of her list of Things She Could Do Without. And while there had been no images of the scene revealed to the public (thank God), Avery could only imagine what it had looked like.
When she was filled in, Avery stared out of the back window for quite a while. She then went into the kitchen and moved quietly, as if she was afraid she might get caught. She pulled out the bottle of bourbon for the first time in months and poured herself a shot. She took it quickly and then grabbed her phone. She pulled up Connelly’s number and pressed CALL.
He answered on the second ring—pretty quick for Connelly. Avery supposed that said a lot, all things considered.
“Black,” he said. “I honestly didn’t expect to hear from you.”
She ignored this formality and said, “So, this case you were calling me about. Was it the one involving Alfred Lawnbrook and the spiders?”
“It is,” he said. “The scene has been combed over repeatedly, the body has been scrutinized, and we just have nothing.”
“I’ll come in for it,” she said. “But just this one case. And I want to be able to do it on my terms. No over the shoulder hand-holding just because I’ve been through a rough time. Can you see to that?”
“I can do my best.”
Avery sighed, resigned to how good it felt to be needed and to know that her life would soon feel like her own again.
“Okay then,” she said. “I’ll see you at the A1 tomorrow morning.”
