by C. A. Shives
“What?” Saxon stared at him blankly.
“The female patient. The one Lochhead had an affair with. Did she learn to be intimate with men? Did his treatment work?”
“I don’t know,” Saxon answered, annoyance flashing in her blue eyes. “Does it matter?”
Herne shrugged. “Not really. I just wondered if Lochhead’s method of therapy was successful.”
“Good job, Lieutenant,” Tucker said, standing up behind his desk and offering his hand. “Top notch work.”
Herne watched Saxon blush at Tucker’s statement.
She caught Herne observing her and turned away as if embarrassed. Yet, for some reason, Herne thought it wasn’t his scrutiny that had made her self-conscious.
He twisted the information about Lochhead in his mind, trying to make the pieces fit together. It all seemed too simple.
“Does Lochhead own a silver SUV?” Herne asked.
Saxon flipped through her notes. “No,” she said. “He owns a red Mercedes Benz and a black Cadillac Escalade.”
“We don’t know that the killer is driving a silver SUV,” Tucker said. “All we have is some old woman who saw that vehicle in Amanda Todd’s neighborhood. For all we know it was a fucking teenage boy with a crush.”
“I’d still like to find that SUV,” Herne said.
“I think it’s pretty fucking obvious that Lochhead is our guy,” Tucker said.
Herne sighed. Tucker’s stubbornness felt heavy in the small room. “Could be him,” Herne said. “It’s possible. But I’m still not certain.”
“What makes you think that Lochhead isn’t the killer?” Tucker asked.
Herne shrugged. “Just a feeling I have about it, I guess. Lochhead is slick. But his transgressions are obvious. He’s a womanizer. Maybe a sex addict. Anyone who spends a little time with him knows that he likes girls. Even his secretary knows it.”
“So?” Tucker asked.
“Someone who carefully plans crimes with this much attention and detail isn’t going to draw attention to himself by getting fired from his job. He wouldn’t take the risk. He doesn’t want to be center stage. No, I’m not convinced that Lochhead is our man.”
“So I guess we should look for the most normal person in town,” Tucker said.
“At this point, that may be our best bet.”
A soft glow of purple and orange streaked the horizon. Sunrise. Dawn had finally arrived.
The Healer stood at the window, watching as the sun erased the darkness, pushing it back to the far corners of the earth. He felt as he did every morning. Renewed. As if the bright rays cleansed him of his sins.
But, as always, a nagging sense of doom lingered in the back of his heart. Just as most men knew the sun would always rise, The Healer knew it would always set.
For now, however, the tremors had ended and his fear was gone. It was time for him to get to work.
Unfortunately, it was not time for him to do the work he did best. The work he loved. No, The Healer had to create the illusion of a hard-working, honest man. It was the only way he could continue to do his real work in private.
He turned away from the window and went to brush his teeth in the pink bathroom, using mint-flavored toothpaste to cleanse his mouth of the bitter taste of fright and pain. He combed styling gel through his hair and grinned at his reflection. He was The Healer. He was better and smarter than all the doctors in the world. He didn’t treat symptoms of a disease. He treated the cause. And his patients were always healed in the end.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She pulled a pre-moistened napkin from the plastic box and cleansed her neck with long, slow strokes. By the time she reached her shoulders, the wipe was almost dry. She reached for another.
It usually took Cheryl Brandt about ten baby wipes to clean her entire body, depending on how much care she took to get in every nook and cranny. Some days she cleaned between each of her toes. Other days she just gave her feet a quick swipe.
But she wasn’t a dirty person. She’d even had a boyfriend once. He’d held her and kissed her—even touched her most private parts—so he must have thought she was clean.
But her old boyfriend’s fumbling touches hadn’t taken her most precious gift. Cheryl was still a virgin. And it wasn’t because she was ugly or unattractive. Men often said she was beautiful, and she knew that her blond hair and pert nose were the envy of many women. But every time a man approached her, she turned away. She didn’t want to give away her precious gift. Not yet. Not until everything was perfect. And it wouldn’t be perfect until she was cured.
Billy, her old boyfriend, had left when she refused to take a shower with him. Cheryl never saw him again. And that’s when she made her first appointment with her therapist.
She scrubbed her armpit with a fresh wipe, contemplating the stubble of hair. Another day, she thought. I can probably wait another day until I shave. For Cheryl, shaving meant a mess of lotions, baby wipes, and towels. It was a hassle that she preferred to avoid until absolutely necessary.
After she finished wiping her body clean, Cheryl reached for an aerosol can of dry shampoo. Similar to the type used on hospital invalids, the powder was designed to be sprayed in the hair and then brushed out. Cheryl finished her cleansing routine by rubbing rose scented body lotion on her skin to mask any lingering odors.
She dressed quickly in clothing meant to disguise her figure and repel men: an oversized shirt, baggy jeans, and old tennis shoes. She tied her hair in a ponytail and pulled a baseball cap on her head, angling the brim downward to hide her long lashes and blue eyes. Her reflection in the mirror stared back. Despite the frown on her face, Cheryl’s eyes held a glimmer of hope. She had an appointment with her therapist today. Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day he helped her.
Herne sat behind the wheel of his black Ford pickup truck, his eyes never leaving the brick house on the corner lot. The street was lined with old oak trees that towered over the cracked sidewalk. It looked like every other street in Hurricane, dotted with modest homes and large yards, and an American-made vehicle in every driveway. Barbeque grills rested on wooden decks and kids’ bicycles leaned against shed doors. Patio chairs sat on front porches, where their owners would relax and wave to the passing neighbors while drinking Coors or Budweiser or Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Tucker had driven to Philadelphia to follow up on Lochhead’s past. Saxon was checking on some of the other businesses in Lochhead’s building. Herne was following a lead of his own.
He could feel the fear of the victims. Even after death, their terror cut through his chest. But understanding the victims wasn’t enough. He needed to crawl into the killer’s head.
He wanted more information. And there was only one place to get it.
But when he thought of visiting Elizabeth alone, the corner of his eyebrow twitched with an uncontrollable muscle spasm.
He touched his brow and continued to stare at the house. He knew she was inside. Although everything seemed silent and still, he could almost sense her presence.
His cell phone rang, startling him out of his reverie. Paul Lee, the Medical Examiner, spoke to him through the phone. “The chief told me to give you a call about any results from Emmert’s autopsy,” he said.
“What was the official cause of death?” Herne asked.
“Dehydration. His tongue was cracked, his skin was scaly, and his organs were almost like paper. The guy was bone dry.”
“And he was definitely alive when he was put in the coffin?”
“The injuries on his fingers were made before death, and they’re consistent with the bloody marks on the lid of the coffin. I’d say he was trying to claw his way out.” Lee paused. “Jesus. It sounds pretty grotesque.”
“Any idea what time he was put in the coffin?”
“That’s a tough one. You’re basically asking me to guess how long it took for Emmert to die of dehydration. Under normal circumstances it could take up to five or six days, although it can happen i
n less than two. It depends on how hydrated the person was in the beginning. Most of us actually walk around in a constant state of mild dehydration, we just don’t realize it.”
“Really?” Herne asked.
“Yep. That’s why you should always drink eight glasses of water a day.”
“I thought that was a myth.”
“Well, it’s not a bad idea. Anyway, Emmert’s initial state of hydration, his age, his fitness level, his perspiration output—all those things are factors in how long it takes to dehydrate. And that doesn’t include outside influences like temperature.”
“So what’s your best guess?”
“Best guess? He was put in that box on Saturday morning. Or afternoon.”
Herne thanked the doctor and hung up the phone. Saturday. Just as they had suspected.
Herne turned his attention back to Tucker’s house, his finger touching the quiver in his eyebrow. This would not be the first time he and Elizabeth had been alone together. Tucker’s status as Chief of Police meant he was often called away from a meal because of an emergency, even if the crisis was nothing more than some kids fishing illegally in Paver’s Creek. If Tucker left for duty during a Saturday evening, Herne remained and continued the meal with Elizabeth. They were friends.
He mentally shook his head, chiding himself for acting like a silly school girl. The thud of his truck door must have alerted her that someone was outside, because she opened the door just moments after he knocked.
A smile crossed her face and she reached for his arm. “Art,” Elizabeth said. “Come in.”
This was one of the things Herne liked about Elizabeth. She didn’t act surprised that her husband’s best friend showed up on her doorstep on a Thursday afternoon. Instead, she seemed to be expecting him.
Her dark hair had been pulled into a loose knot. A few hairs escaped and fell around her eyes, softening her appearance. Her white skirt skimmed her hips and ended at her knees, displaying the curve of her calves. The outfit was a far cry from her usual casual garb, which typically consisted of oversized shirts and cargo pants splattered with stains of clay and paint. Herne found his eyes drawn to her ankles, delicate and fragile against her brown sandals.
“Did I interrupt you? Are you getting ready to go to work?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not today,” she said. “And I have no other plans. You know me, Art. I don’t have many friends.”
Herne knew that Elizabeth’s favorite pursuits—pottery, sculpture, books—were solitary activities. Aside from Tucker’s annual barbeque, he never saw her socialize with anyone other than her husband and himself. He wondered, for the first time, if Elizabeth was lonely.
“I guess you’re used to seeing me in pants, right?” She gave a little twirl, showing off the flare of her skirt. “I just thought I’d try dressing a little nicer today. It’s easy to fall into a rut, you know?”
“I know,” Herne replied, but he was only commiserating to be polite. He had a hard time imagining Elizabeth in a rut. She was so passionate about so many things that he sometimes imagined he saw fire in her eyes.
“Do you want something to drink?” Elizabeth asked. It seemed as if her question were automatic. The same kind of question she’d ask any guest. But as soon as the words left her mouth, he noticed a brief flash of disappointment cross her face, and she cast her eyes downward. She’s afraid I’ll ask for booze, he thought. He felt a pang of guilt, somber with the knowledge that his drinking had caused her distress.
“I don’t need a drink,” Herne replied, lying to her.
“Would you like something to eat? Have you eaten lunch?”
Herne shook his head. “I’m fine, Elizabeth.” He felt an undercurrent of electricity between them. A small buzz. Nothing more. It made him uncomfortable and excited at the same time. Part of him knew that a spark had always existed between them, but it was a flame they tempered with respect and love for Tucker. It had never before been anything other than a passing surge of heat that flashed for the briefest of moments.
“Well,” she said, “I was just getting ready to eat lunch. Come into the kitchen with me.”
A pot of tomato soup bubbled on the stove and a grilled cheese sandwich sizzled in a frying pan. The smell made Herne’s stomach growl. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Elizabeth asked. “I can easily make another sandwich.”
Herne’s stomach rumbled again and he grinned sheepishly.
“I’ll assume that means yes,” Elizabeth said as she reached for the loaf of bread.
“I actually came to ask you a few questions,” Herne said. “Not to score a free meal.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re hungry, Art,” Elizabeth said. “I hate to eat alone.” She buttered the bread before opening the refrigerator door and retrieving the cheese. Her nimble fingers quickly unwrapped the plastic from the thin white slices of provolone, cheddar, and Swiss. A three cheese sandwich.
“So what do you want to ask me?” Elizabeth said.
“I’m curious about immersion therapy,” Herne said. “What can you tell me about it?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth said. “It’s something we learn about in school, of course. And it’s something we hear about and maybe try once. But it’s only used in certain types of treatment. And not everyone approves of it. Generally speaking, it’s fairly uncommon.”
“So it’s unorthodox?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Elizabeth admitted, dropping a pat of butter into the frying pan. “Many reputable therapists use it regularly. But in my opinion, and the opinions of others, it can be a dangerous tool.”
“So what does it involve?” Herne asked.
“That depends. There are different types of immersion therapy. But in general, it involves exposing the patient to the situation, object, or event that causes them fear. The theory is that repeated exposure in a safe environment will eventually alleviate the anxiety.”
“So it’s only used on people with phobias?”
“No, not just phobias. Anxiety,” Elizabeth said. “Sometimes panic disorders. I’ve heard of it being used to successfully treat the fear of heights, claustrophobia, and even a fear of spiders. Virtual Reality immersion therapy has shown some promise for treating Post Traumatic Stress Disorder patients, particularly veterans.”
“Virtual Reality?” Herne asked.
“Rather than forcing the patient to experience a ‘live’ version of their anxiety, therapists are now using a computer generated ‘virtual reality.’ It’s effective in many cases.”
Elizabeth opened a cabinet and pulled out plates and bowls. Herne recognized them as pottery she had crafted herself. They reminded him of her own essence formed as sensual swirls of emotion that she had woven through her art.
She slid the grilled cheese sandwich onto a plate and placed it in front of Herne before dishing out a bowl of tomato soup. He noticed her fingernails were short and jagged, and her cuticles looked raw against her white skin. She’s been biting her nails, Herne thought.
The creamy red soup was speckled with fresh ground black pepper and garnished with homemade croutons. “Sorry this isn’t gourmet,” Elizabeth said. She sat in the seat across from him after placing her own bowl and plate on the table.
“It looks gourmet to me,” Herne said. “Everything you cook is wonderful.” He ate a bite of his sandwich, allowing its buttery, cheesy taste to roll over his tongue. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a grilled cheese sandwich. He was tempted to dip its corner into his soup, just as he’d done as a child.
“I’m sure it’s nothing like the food your parents prepared in the bistro,” Elizabeth said.
“Good food doesn’t have to be fancy,” Herne said. “It’s just a matter of taste.”
Elizabeth held her spoon in her hand, twirling it around in her bowl until red waves of soup crested on the rim. “I guess I just needed comfort food today,” she said.
Herne glanced again at her jagged nails. She sa
w him looking and pulled her hands from his sight, folding them in her lap.
“Why?” Herne asked.
Elizabeth’s smile was thin and her tone was final. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
They ate in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. The kind that usually occurs only between close friends or lovers.
“Does immersion therapy involve just thrusting the patient into the situation that causes anxiety?” Herne asked as he finished his last swallow of soup.
“There are different styles of immersion therapy. Different techniques. Slow immersion therapy involves gradually exposing the patient to the stimulus.”
“Let’s say I’m afraid of snakes,” Herne hypothesized. “What would my therapy involve?”
Elizabeth’s smile was grim. Herne knew she understood the reason he asked about snakes.
“Well, your treatment would depend on the therapist, the extent of your phobia, and other factors. But in general, a slow immersion therapy treatment would start with you holding a photo of a snake.”
“That’s it?” Herne asked.
“In the beginning,” Elizabeth replied. “Once you were comfortable with that situation, the therapist might put you in a room with a caged snake. Eventually, he would move the caged snake right next to you. As your therapy progressed, you might reach in the cage and touch the snake. Some people wouldn’t make it much past that point, and that’s usually fine for the average anxiety patient. Others will go as far as holding or handling the snake.”
“Sounds risky,” Herne commented.
“It is. Trust is a very important part of immersion therapy. Both the therapist and the patient must have complete control of the situation at all times. That’s a key element in getting the patient to relax.”
“How long will this process take?”
“That depends,” Elizabeth said. “There are too many factors to really say. It could be just a few weeks if the anxiety is relatively mild and the patient is receptive to the therapy. On the other hand, some patients are never cured.”
