by C. A. Shives
Tucker nodded. “Make it a double, Art. I need to relax.” He cast his glance over the empty pizza boxes on the chipped wooden table. “Don’t tell me I missed another one of your home cooked meals,” he said.
“Saxon and I have been working since this afternoon. We just took a break for dinner. If I’d known you were coming, we would have saved you a slice.”
“Fuck you, Art,” Tucker said. Herne knew that Tucker’s profanities had many different meanings. Sometimes he was angry. Sometimes he was sad. In this case his use of fuck you was designed to be affectionate. “You wouldn’t have saved a slice if I’d been starving to death. I know how much you love your pizza.”
Herne poured the Jack Daniels for Tucker, trying to ignore the saliva that spilled into his mouth at the sharp scent of whiskey. He squeezed the glass tightly to prevent his hands from shaking as he passed his friend the drink. Just hang on a little while longer, Herne thought. One day at a time.
It was the mantra chant of every twelve step program. And to Herne the words sounded hollow.
Tucker pulled out a kitchen chair and sank his lean frame onto the hard wood. “Christ, it’s hot in here. When the fuck are you going to get central air-conditioning, Art?”
“When you pay for it, Rex.”
“Fuck you. So, did you two come up with anything?”
“Lee called,” Herne said. “He confirms a total of eleven snake bite wounds on the victim, and estimates the time of death to be about ten in the morning. He says there are no other signs of physical or sexual assault.”
“Any leads?”
“No boyfriends or significant others. We interviewed a few of her friends and colleagues. Everyone agrees that there was no one special in Amanda’s life. She didn’t even have any close friends. She had plenty of acquaintances and lots of business associates, but no one who knew much about her daily life. A few folks suggested that she was liberal with her sex life, but not a single person admits to ever being intimate with her.”
“And none of the neighbors saw anything strange?”
Herne glanced at Saxon. After meeting with Lochhead that afternoon, Saxon had gone to interview Amanda Todd’s neighbors. The Lieutenant pulled a small notebook from her breast pocket and flipped through the pages.
“No one saw anything unusual the night or morning of Amanda Todd’s death,” Saxon reported. “However, her next door neighbor claims to have seen an unfamiliar silver SUV parked across the street during the last month.”
“Every day?” Tucker asked.
Saxon shook her head. “She couldn’t pin it down exactly, but she says the truck was there at least twice a week. I checked with the other neighbors. No one claimed it, and no one else saw it.”
“Silver SUV,” Herne mused. “What about a make or model?”
“No luck. The neighbor was an old woman. Practically ancient. Her eyesight was bad and her hearing was worse. She says color is the only thing she knows about cars. She did say the SUV was a boxy type with square edges, not rounded in the front or back.”
“Something older,” Herne said. “Or maybe utilitarian.”
“It’s not much,” Saxon admitted.
“Silver is the most popular color for vehicles,” Herne said.
“Jesus,” Tucker said. “So all we have is a fucking silver SUV that might have been parked on Amanda’s street? That’s fucking great.”
“What about the snakes? Any leads?” Herne asked.
Tucker shook his head. “Johnson checked for sales of snake handling equipment. Cages, tongs, whatever kind of shit snake handlers use. Nothing. You can buy that shit on the Internet.”
“Did anyone take a good look at the rattlers?”
“I talked with a guy at Animal Control. He says these snakes are common around here. Anyone could have taken a hike in the woods and gathered up a few.”
“Seemed like there were more than a few at Amanda’s house.”
“Actually, there were only ten. In fact, the Animal Control guy said they all could have come from one snake’s litter.”
“So he captured two or three snakes and then waited for them to breed,” Herne said.
“Except female rattlers only breed every few years. So our guy was either very lucky, or he’d been planning this for a fucking long time.”
“He was planning this,” Herne said.
“Jesus.” Tucker gulped whiskey from his glass. He stood and paced the floor, his thin body taut with energy.
Herne leaned against the refrigerator, his head bowed. Ice cubes clinked against the side of his empty glass, but he didn’t bother to refill it. He didn’t want club soda. He gripped his glass tightly, feeling its cool, smooth surface beneath his fingertips. He forced himself to resist the urge to press it against his forehead, which was suddenly coated with perspiration.
“What about the psychologist?” Tucker asked. “Did you two see him today?”
“He won’t say a word,” Saxon said through gritted teeth. “He says it’s all confidential and that he won’t talk without a court order.”
“That’s probably the truth,” Tucker said.
“He’s smarmy,” Saxon said.
“Smarmy?”
“Overconfident,” Herne offered. “He didn’t appear at all nervous or anxious, the type of reaction even innocent people have when they face a badge. He was smug. Almost superior. As a teenager, he probably crashed at his buddies’ houses just so he could sleep with their sisters.”
“A total bastard,” Saxon said.
“You sure seem to hate this guy,” Tucker remarked. “Any reason other than his superiority complex?”
Saxon shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it. I just thought he was an asshole.”
Herne knew the reason Saxon disliked Lochhead. Though they had not questioned the therapist about his personal life, Herne sensed that Lochhead was the type of man who used women and then discarded them, tossing them aside like they were a stained pair of underwear. Strong women like Saxon always took a dislike to men like Lochhead.
“So did he kill Amanda?” Tucker asked.
Herne drummed his thick fingers on the top of the kitchen table. Though Amanda’s terror was sharp and crisp in his mind, the killer was still just little more than an undefined shadow. “It’s possible Lochhead is the killer,” he said. “On one hand, he’d have to be incredibly stupid to murder his own patient, especially given the nature of this crime. Amanda’s phobia, although commonly known, was still something that would point directly at him. On the other hand, he is a smug bastard. It’s possible he thinks he’s smarter than us, and his superior intellect will keep him squeaky clean.”
“How intelligent is he?” Tucker asked.
“Not very,” Saxon mumbled.
Herne shrugged. “We only spoke for a few minutes, but I’d say above average. Probably not Mensa material, though. He’s got a serious ego and a thing for the ladies. He spends a lot of money on his image, and he likes his women young and sexy. I don’t think he’s married, and it’s unlikely he’s even in a serious relationship. He’s hiding something, too. Something personal. He’s hiding something about himself from the world.”
Saxon turned to Herne with one eyebrow raised. “I find it hard to believe you got all that from our one meeting.”
Herne met her eyes. “I did.”
Tucker reached for the file of papers as Herne excused himself. He walked down the hall to the bathroom as Saxon said to Tucker, “What’s his deal?”
Herne paused at the bathroom door, curious to hear his friend’s response.
Tucker’s voice growled. “What do you mean?”
“He acts like he’s in pain all the time.”
“He is in pain,” Tucker said. “He didn’t want this case.”
“Then why did he agree to be a consultant?”
“He did it as a favor. For me. I asked him because Art has a way of understanding people. He gets into their heads and feels what they feel. He identifies
with the victim.”
“With the victim?” Saxon asked. “He seems less like a victim than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Tucker answered. “But I think it has something to do with his wife’s death.”
Not wanting to hear more, Herne walked into the bathroom. The door clicked behind him and he sat on the toilet, cradling his head in his hands. His stomach retched and the sour taste of club soda filled his mouth.
He is in pain. The words echoed in his head.
But Tucker didn’t know the truth. Didn’t know the whole story. It wasn’t Maggie’s death that caused the sharp ache that followed him everywhere, like a shadow that remained even in the dark. It wasn’t her death that lingered in his mind and filtered into his dreams. It was her screams.
CHAPTER SIX
Bethany flipped the two deadbolts on her front door, checked again to make sure they were secure, and then punched her security code into the electronic alarm.
As she moved through the house she glanced at all the furniture. Her small chairs had backs so low that it was impossible to rest against them. The thin cushions provided minimal padding against the slender metal frames of the sofa. The doors had been removed from the closets and all the larger cupboards, leaving only wide, gaping spaces. The décor seemed modern—almost avant-garde—but was, in fact, carefully calculated. In one glance she could immediately see if someone else was in the room with her. There was no place for a man to hide.
She dressed in simple pajama pants and a tee-shirt for bed, choosing clothing that would allow her plenty of movement for escape if she needed to run from an attacker in the middle of the night. She patted her dog, Butch, on the head before sliding into bed. He thumped his tail twice in acknowledgment of her affection before resting in his spot by the bedroom door. Anyone who tried to enter would encounter a large German Shepherd.
Feeling almost secure, Bethany slipped beneath her soft, blue quilt. She remained stiff and alert, listening for the sound of intruders breaking into her home. Her body tensed at every creak of the house.
As she did every night, she wondered how long it would be until exhaustion overcame her anxiety and she’d be able to sleep.
It was three o’clock in the morning. Unlike normal people, who awakened from their slumber with the same slow struggle of a fat man hiking a mountain path, he jerked awake suddenly, his eyes wide and tearful in the darkness.
He’d fallen asleep that evening around eight o’clock, when the sun started to fall from the summer sky. In the light of day he’d been at peace, able to close his eyes and fall asleep under the comforting illumination.
But, as it did every night, his body betrayed him. Some horrible twist of genetics and biology caused him to need only six hours of sleep. And every day, like clockwork, he awoke before the sun rose.
He woke to darkness.
He wheezed as he stumbled through the house, turning on light switches until the rooms were bathed in brightness. Tears streaked his cheeks and he moaned, the tremors so violent they shook his body like a sapling in a thunderstorm.
He cursed his fear, wishing he could sleep during the night and awake in the morning. But he had to go to bed while the sun still shone in the sky. If he waited until darkness fell, his panic and terror would prevent him from sleeping at all.
He went to the corner of his room—the one illuminated by five lamps with 100 watt bulbs—and curled on the carpet, his face pressed into the nubby white lint. He could see the window and the blackness outside, like a dark fog that threatened to envelope him. His hand open and closed, seeking comfort in his soft teddy bear, Mr. Wiggins, that had long ago been lost.
“You don’t need this pansy toy,” his father had said as he tossed Mr. Wiggins into the barbeque grill, its flames almost licking the wooden posts of the front porch. “Teddy bears are for babies.”
He wailed and ran to his mother’s arms, but even her soft chest and gentle scent of rose petals had not comforted him.
That night, the night Mr. Wiggins was burned, had been one of the worst.
Herne stood at the window in Tucker’s office, staring at the gas station across the street. Fliers for spaghetti dinners, yard sales, and handyman services fluttered on the weathered door. Oil and antifreeze stained the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. A car drove up to the fuel pumps and then pulled away, and another rolled up in its place. Neatness and order, Herne thought. He barely heard Tucker’s words.
“He must have known Amanda,” Tucker said. “We need to check with her friends and family again.”
The police station was almost quiet. Johnson and Miller were off on patrol and no calls had come through the switchboard for almost an hour. Like many small town police departments, the building was old and worn. Long ago, during colonial days, it had served as a jail and a courthouse. Now the thin windows and walls contained one jail cell, the dispatcher’s room, the Chief of Police’s office, a small kitchen, and a large common area with two desks—one for Saxon, and one for the two officers to share. Spidery cracks etched the plaster walls, and the air in the building was tainted with the smell of mildew, as if it had once flooded and never completely dried.
Herne had spent a lot of time in different police stations. To him, they all smelled the same. Like leather and dust and sweat and fear.
But mostly fear.
Three days had passed since Amanda Todd’s murder and even the media had grown tired of hearing “No comment” from Tucker. The only call that Tuesday morning had been a tirade from the mayor, asking about progress on the case.
From Herne’s spot in Tucker’s office he could see Sheila, the dispatcher, as she sat at her steel desk. The department’s phone was in her hand, but her chubby fingers gripped the receiver lightly and her shoulders slouched in a relaxed curve. She’s talking to a friend, Herne thought. Sheila’s red hair, styled in curls that hugged her thick jowls, hid her face from Herne’s eyes. She dressed in clothing that failed to flatter her stout frame: pleated blue jeans, a voluminous floral shirt, and canvas sneakers.
“The crime lab finally reported back,” Saxon said. “Nothing unusual. There are a few fibers and hairs that might be useful if we ever find a suspect.”
“We will find a suspect,” Tucker growled. “Hell, if this keeps up, I might frame someone myself. Maybe fucking Mayor Harvey.”
Sheila walked into the room carrying a bundle of mail. The gold wedding band on her chubby finger glinted as she handed the stack of envelopes to Tucker.
“Thanks, Sheila,” Tucker said.
“I took care of all the bills,” Sheila said before walking away, her sneakers creating a slight squeak as she shuffled across the vinyl floor.
Tucker flipped through the mail, stopping at a plain white envelope marked Personal.
“I hate this shit,” he said. “You get all excited when you see this type of letter, thinking it’s a sexy note from an ex-girlfriend or something. Then it turns out to be a fucking credit card application.”
He tore open the envelope savagely and a photo fell to the floor. As Tucker reached for it, Herne barked, “Stop!”
Amanda Todd’s eyes stared up at them from the picture, her mouth sealed with gray duct tape. The close-up shot revealed only her face.
“Son of a bitch,” Tucker exclaimed. He dropped the envelope on the table, left the room, and returned a few moments later wearing latex gloves. He unfolded the letter that accompanied the photograph.
“He who fears he will suffer, already suffers from his fear.” He paused, reading the letter silently again. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a quotation of some sort. Something famous, I guess,” Herne said.
Tucker looked at Saxon. “Find out.”
She nodded.
“Did he sign the note?” Herne asked.
Tucker nodded. “He signed it The Healer.”
“The Healer?” Saxon asked.
“He thinks of himself as a medicin
e man. A physician. A shaman,” Herne said.
“What fucking disease does he think he’s healing?” Tucker asked.
“Fear,” Herne said. “He heals fear.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charles Emmert slid behind the steering wheel of his SUV. Although it was a little early for lunch, he’d worked up an appetite during his Saturday round of golf, and his mind was full of thoughts of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green peas swimming in buttery sauce. He turned the key in the ignition and cool air blasted from vents, drying the beads of perspiration that dotted his forehead.
Emmert adjusted the golf clubs in the passenger seat. The large SUV had plenty of room for all his golf gear, as well as sufficient space for his ample belly. He’d purchased this particular vehicle because it was the biggest on the market, and small cars made it impossible for him to breathe, sending panic into the blood that pumped through his veins. His therapist called it claustrophobia and encouraged him to face his fears by occasionally taking the elevator or driving his wife’s Toyota Prius.
But Emmert refused. He was retired now, and his days of meetings in tall office buildings and long commutes to work were over. He could drive a monster-sized vehicle and avoid elevators if he wanted. That was the point of retirement. To finally have the time and money to do whatever he liked.
As he reached for the steering wheel, he felt cold metal on the back of his neck. The voice in his ear, silken and smooth like chocolate pie, said, “Drive.”
Emmert felt his bladder go, and warm urine soaked his pants. “Take my wallet. My keys,” he stammered. “Whatever you want. Just take it.”
The face behind him wasn’t quite visible in the rearview mirror, but Emmert heard the man’s sigh. “I don’t want your money, Charles. And I don’t want your vehicle. Although this certainly is a nice SUV. Large. Plenty of space. I bet you like that.”
