by C. A. Shives
He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of pine and trees and grass. He felt sweat bead on his forehead, and he imagined Emmert in the box, screaming and gasping and crying as the sweltering heat turned the pine wood into a primitive oven. Then Herne felt a hand on his chest, and his eyes snapped open.
“Jesus, Art,” Tucker hissed. “You were starting to fucking walk to that box. We have to wait until she’s done with her pictures.”
Lee arrived a few moments later, cursing as he stepped into the clearing. Pools of sweat stained the armpits of his yellow shirt. “Never been a woodsman type,” the doctor said. “My wife, she loves hiking and rock climbing and kayaking. I prefer to sit and read a book.” He patted his ample belly. “Guess that’s why I carry around this spare tire.”
The doctor glanced at the coffin, his dark eyes widening. “Jesus. I hope that’s not what I think it is. No one’s opened it yet?”
Herne shook his head. “We wanted some photos of the scene.”
“What if the person inside is alive? What if they need medical help? You should have opened it,” Lee admonished.
“There’s no one alive in that coffin,” Herne said.
“How do you know that?” Lee asked.
“There’s a small hole about the size of a penny drilled into the side of the coffin. An air hole, we think. We put a stethoscope up to it and listened for signs of life. There wasn’t a single fucking sound,” Tucker said.
Herne hadn’t needed the silent stethoscope to tell him that the body inside the coffin was dead. He had felt the certainty of death the moment he walked into the clearing.
Miller carried a crowbar to Tucker, his heavy feet treading on the packed dirt. “Thought you might need this, Chief.”
“Good thinking,” Tucker said. He looked at Herne. “Shall we?”
Tucker slipped the tip of the crowbar under the lid and pushed. Herne stood and watched, imagining how each 4-penny nail driven into the wood helped to seal Emmert’s fate. Like music in the woods, the satisfying thud of pounding nails mingled with his victim’s muffled screams would have filled The Healer’s ears.
It took just a few minutes to pry off the pine lid.
Inside the box lay Charles Emmert, his eyes closed and his hands by his side. His body, bloated from death, seemed to match the quiet of the surrounding trees. Even the birds had fallen silent.
“My first guess is dehydration,” Lee said. “He’s got the classic appearance. Cracked lips, wrinkled skin, sunken eyes.”
“How long did it take for him to die?” Tucker asked.
“Hard to say exactly, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been in that box since Saturday. Most of the time, with no water at all, people will be dead in four days or so. And it’s been uncommonly hot this summer. He would have been on his way to dehydration by Sunday. Wouldn’t have been a pleasant way to go, but it probably wasn’t violent, either. In the end it might have even been peaceful.”
Herne leaned in to examine the coffin. Deep scratches scarred the inside of the pine lid, thin grooves almost the width of a pencil. A broken house key lay next to Emmert’s body. Herne grabbed the dead man’s hand. The tips of his fingers looked like meaty hunks of blood, and most of his fingernails had been torn away.
Tucker whistled. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“He tried to scratch his way out with his key. When that didn’t work, he used his fingernails,” Herne said.
Herne glanced at the body again. He imagined the man inside the makeshift coffin, his breath coming out in panicked gasps of terror. The pine box almost—but not quite—suffocating him with its tightness. Every so often a surge of energy, fueled by fear, would give him the strength to claw at the lid of the coffin until his fingers were nothing more than raw, bloody bones. And the agony of his mutilated flesh would have been muted by his terror. Eventually he would pray for the end. The end of his life. And it would take so long, a small eternity, to finally arrive.
No, Herne thought. There was nothing peaceful about this man’s death.
CHAPTER TEN
Morales pulled his SUV into his garage. His house, warm from the summer sun, smelled faintly of rotting garbage. He’d forgotten to take out the trash.
He’d spent all day watching that woman. He followed her to work. To the gym. To Shady Hill Diner for a cup of coffee. He’d seen nothing useful. Nothing to help him finish his job.
Surveillance was tiring work. The constant alertness created a state of almost hyper awareness. He had to be diligent about watching the woman without allowing her to spy him or even sense his presence. As a result, Morales felt as if all of his muscles had been contracted for hours.
Once in the safe anonymity of his home, where he no longer needed to hide and camouflage himself, he finally relaxed. He checked his messages, annoyed to discover that his ex-wife, Roz, had called again.
“Claudia wants to come visit you,” Roz’s voice said. “But it’s not going to happen. I’m not letting you near her, you deadbeat shit.”
Morales slammed his fist on the answering machine, silencing the voice of his ex-wife.
“Someday,” he muttered. “Someday that bitch is going to get it.”
He wasn’t ready to claim his daughter yet. He had more things to accomplish. But soon, after a few more preparations, she’d be living with him instead of his crazy ex-wife.
He glanced out the window and noticed the sun just touching the mountains. Morales had time for one more chore before evening, so he gathered the trash and carried it out to the curb.
Kick. Punch. Kick again. The drills seemed endless. Sweat poured down Bethany’s face and stung her brown eyes.
“He’s coming for you,” her karate instructor, Sensei Robert, shouted. His sinewy muscles flexed beneath his shirt. “He’s coming for you now.”
Kick. Punch. Kick again.
Her Sensei held up his hand, his brown eyes serious. “You’ll soon be a black belt, Bethany. I need to see the intensity. The drive. The power behind your moves.” He tossed away the pad he’d been holding and rolled a mannequin toward her. Known as “Torso Bob,” it was the soft plastic figure of a man atop a weighted stand, designed to take punches and kicks from martial artists. The expression on Bob’s face was an angry scowl. Bob looked as if he wanted to rip Bethany’s heart out.
“Bob’s coming for you,” Robert shouted. “He’s ready to attack.”
Kick. Punch. Kick again. Bethany felt a pain in her hip as she kicked at Bob’s face.
“Aim for the kneecap. The eyes. The nose. Go for his vulnerable spots. The ones that will bend to your will. The spots that will break with your pressure. Use your power. Your core and your legs. Remember, as a woman you have a lot more strength in your legs than your arms. If you have to fight, use it all. Everything you’ve got.”
Kick. Punch. She could feel the strength flowing through her body.
“Faster. Harder. You may have only one split second in which to act. You need to be quick. Strong.”
Kick. Punch. She felt herself weakening.
“Take him down! Take him down!” Robert screamed.
In a flurry of kicks and punches, Bethany ran for the mannequin, attacking with all the strength in her body. Bob tumbled to the ground.
She looked at her Sensei, her face flushed with triumph.
In that moment, Bethany—so plain that she was overlooked by almost everyone—was beautiful.
He knew they found the body. He heard it on the news. But there was no time to gloat. He’d awoken to the night.
He sat in the corner of his room, illuminated beneath the circle of lamps. His hands shook as he stared at the window. Outside darkness enveloped everything, like a black blanket threatening to suffocate his world. He buried his head in his hands, whimpering and hearing his father’s voice.
“Sissy,” his father said. “Little baby. Scared of the dark. You aren’t a son of mine.”
Panic coursed through his veins as he tried to shake away t
he noise of the past. But it came through the light and hit his heart. He felt his father’s contempt.
Each night, when the dark spilled through his windows, The Healer saw the jagged edges of his father’s face. He remembered the pale moonlight, and the white shimmer it cast across his father’s bristled brown whiskers. The Healer felt the spray of his father’s spit every time the old man snarled, his face almost close enough to kiss.
“Sissy. Baby. Pussy.”
The Healer, barely seven years old, would curl in his bed. He wrapped his arms around his body protectively, squeezing his eyes shut. Like a lab monkey, he feared eye contact would only worsen the situation. He tried to hold back the sobs that threatened to spill from his lips.
His father would reach for him, wrapping his thick fingers around his son’s slender wrist.
“You’re coming with me, boy. We’re going to get this fear out of you.”
And The Healer would struggle against his father’s strong grip, a grip that left dark bruises on his arm. He’d dig his small heels into the thin, worn carpet of his bedroom as his father pulled him out into the hallway. Sometimes The Healer would reach out and grab something—like the cool, smooth doorknob—and hold tight, trying to prevent the inevitable. But his father would shake him like a dog shakes a rag, rattling his head until he’d bite his tongue from fear.
The Healer shook his head and tried to erase the memories. Tried to force away his fear. Tried to swallow his terror.
It’s just the night, he thought. It’s just darkness. Other people survive in it.
But not him. Never him.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, rocking back and forth. His body was bathed in the bright light of the lamps that encircled him. He almost felt safe in their luminescent beams. Almost.
Then he glanced at the window and he felt it again, the choking panic of dread. The suffocating fear.
No, there was no time to gloat. No time to enjoy his success.
It was time to be afraid.
The television reports were sensational, of course. TV News 4 reporter Lori Sims created a tale of murder and violence, and Herne heard the thin thread of fear that weaved its way through the story.
“Violence has invaded our quiet little town,” Lori Sims said to the camera. She stood at the edge of Abe’s Woods, the light from the camera illuminating the trees in the background. “Charles Emmert’s dead body was found in the woods today. He’d been buried alive in a wooden coffin. Last week Amanda Todd was the victim of a horrific murder, her life stolen by the poisonous bite of a Timber rattlesnake. These two innocent people were murdered at the hands of a killer known as The Healer. The police have no leads, and the questions remain: Who is The Healer? Why did he kill these people in such a horrifying manner? What drives this crazed madman? And does he plan to kill again?”
Herne clicked the remote control and the television screen went dark. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the coffee table, his half empty glass beside it. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the dark smoke, feeling it burn his lungs and enjoying the sensation.
Herne snubbed the cigarette out as he closed his eyes, lulled to sleep by the horrifying news cast and the numbing effect of whiskey.
But Maggie invaded his dreams. She came forward in a thick cloud of black smoke, her hands reaching for him through the darkness. It was all filtered in red, as if he were wearing red glasses. And somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he knew the red was cast by the lights from fire trucks and ambulances, their siren song just background noise in his dream.
Suddenly his wife screamed. He saw her in the house—their house—her white hands reaching out through the window, grasping the fresh air outside. She screamed his name over and over again, alternating between cries of pain and horrible, deep sobs.
Don’t breathe, he wanted to shout. Don’t breathe. I’ll save you. I’ll save you.
But he was paralyzed. Unable to move. He fought against this, the curse of nightmares, but his dream body refused to respond. He felt a firefighter grab his arm and he tried to fight. Tried to reach his wife as she continued to cry his name.
He heard every syllable she uttered. Heard every dry sob from her body despite the sharp whine of sirens and the whoosh of the fire hose.
She screamed his name one last time in his dream before he jerked awake, his shirt soaked with sweat. He reached for his glass and gulped the remaining whiskey. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette.
Outside his window, Herne saw darkness. No sirens. No red lights. Everything silent. He was alone.
And terrified.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tucker leaned back in his swivel chair and propped his size eleven shoes on his desk. He wore the uniform of a cop—navy pants and blue shirt. The monochromatic colors seemed to elongate his lanky frame.
Herne shifted on the uncomfortable folding metal chair, a manila folder on his lap. His denim jeans clung to his legs, and perspiration stained his white tee-shirt. The window air-conditioner did little to alleviate the sticky heat that hung in the room or the scent of sweat that coated their bodies.
“It has to be Lochhead,” Tucker said. “Both of the victims were his patients. Who else would know about their fears?”
“According to Amanda’s mother and Emmert’s wife, their phobias weren’t exactly a secret.”
Tucker dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair, causing it to stand up in jagged spikes. “But the killer calls himself ‘The Healer.’ I’m sure that’s exactly how Lochhead thinks of himself.”
“As do lots of people. Doctors. Nurses. Priests. Crazy psychotics who go around murdering innocent people. I’m not certain Lochhead is our guy. He might be our guy, but I’m not ready to make an arrest.”
“It seems obvious to me. Day of death for both victims was a Saturday. Seems to suggest that the killer works during the week, don’t you think?”
“Millions of the people in this country work Monday through Friday,” Herne said.
“Well, if it’s not Lochhead, who is it?”
Herne shrugged. “Could be anybody, I guess. Maybe someone in his building who saw his patients coming and going. Maybe someone who got a little bit obsessed with Amanda Todd and Charles Emmert. Maybe Amanda and Emmert were lovers, and a jealous boyfriend murdered them both.”
“Seems farfetched,” Tucker said.
“And Lochhead killing off his patients is a more realistic scenario?”
Tucker shrugged in response and turned his attention back to the file on his desk.
Saxon walked in carrying a small stack of papers. Her short black hair fell over one eye. “I did the background on Lochhead,” she said.
“What’d you find?”
Saxon slid into the empty chair beside Herne, favoring him with a nod. Herne noticed the faint scent of honeysuckle when she moved, reminding him of Maggie’s favorite perfume. For one instant he felt a sharp pain in his gut. His fingers twitched—the junkie in him automatically wanting a drink and a smoke—and then the pain was gone.
“He finished his doctorate degree at the University of Maryland in 1990. He joined a Philadelphia group of therapists for a few years before moving to Hurricane and opening his own practice. He has no family. His parents are both dead and he was an only child. He does have an aunt in Texas, but the two of them haven’t spoken in years.”
“What kind of hours does he keep?” Tucker asked.
“His office is open Monday through Friday, from seven in the morning until about four o’clock.”
“Odd hours,” Tucker commented.
“Lochhead told me that most of his patients prefer daytime hours,” Herne said. “By the time evening arrives, it’s too late for them. They’re self-medicating in a bar somewhere.”
Saxon nodded. “The receptionist said the same thing, but it still seemed odd to me. I pushed her a bit, and she claims Lochhead does his own self-medic
ating after the office closes.”
“Drugs?” Tucker asked.
Saxon nodded her head. “And booze. And young ladies.”
Tucker leaned back in his chair and exhaled a satisfied sigh. He wore a smug grin as he glanced at Herne. “He’s definitely our guy,” he said.
“There’s more,” Saxon said. “I tracked down one of Lochhead’s former partners in the Philadelphia practice.”
“Yes?” Herne leaned forward, sensing her news was important. He forced himself to remain calm and still.
“Lochhead didn’t leave the Philadelphia practice. He was fired.”
“Why?” Tucker asked.
“Unorthodox therapy. He had a female patient with, uh, sexual issues. According to the partner, Andrew Parkinson, the patient was unable to relax around men. She couldn’t trust them and had a fear of intimacy. Because of this, she could never achieve an orgasm. Lochhead was her therapist.”
“How did he treat her?” Herne asked.
“He had an affair with her. Rumor says it was consensual. He just seduced her.”
Tucker snorted. “That horny bastard,” he said.
“When his superiors discovered what had happened, they demanded an explanation. He denied having intercourse with his patient, but admitted to ‘sexual acts.’ He claimed he was using immersion therapy to treat the patient.”
“Immersion therapy?” Tucker asked.
“I didn’t get specifics, but the basic philosophy of immersion therapy seems to be forcing the patient to face the fear. Lochhead claimed that the patient’s sexual involvement with him allowed her to deal with her fear of intimacy.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Tucker said.
“Anyway, aside from being totally unorthodox, Lochhead’s behavior was also unethical,” Saxon said. “No formal charges were brought up against him, but he was asked to leave.”
“What happened to the patient?” Herne asked.
