by C. A. Shives
Every once in a while his body would struggle against sleep, a struggle made even more difficult by the desperation in his heart. Unless he fell asleep before nightfall, he’d get no sleep at all. Yet trying to force himself to sleep was almost counterproductive, resulting in him feeling even more awake.
He searched his mind for a distraction. A pleasing thought that would lull him into a peaceful slumber before dusk streaked the sky.
Cheryl. He’d plan his session with Cheryl.
Her apartment was the best place for her therapy. Patients generally felt most comfortable in their own surroundings. And despite her fear of water, The Healer guessed she had running faucets. Most people with phobias tried to appear normal to others.
During his visits to the neighborhood he’d noticed an old woman in her building was a bit of a busybody. He’d have to take a little extra care to remain unseen. One witness could unravel his entire plan. He couldn’t expect the general public to understand his therapy, and he wasn’t ready to reveal himself to the world. Not yet. Not when he had so many patients left to heal.
As he drifted off to sleep, he envisioned a trickle of water dripping from the bathtub faucet. Perhaps Cheryl’s therapy would be more effective if it were slow.
The crispy sesame chicken, its sauce sweet, left an unpleasant sour aftertaste in Bethany’s mouth as she ended her uneventful date. She tried to hide her disappointment at the lack of spark between her and Patrick, and she wondered if the clatter at Woo’s Garden, which prevented any meaningful conversation, was to blame. Although they’d tried to chat above the clink of silverware and the din of other patrons, the stilted conversation had left Bethany bored, her thoughts focused on the chores left undone in her home.
She shook his hand firmly when they walked out of the restaurant, then turned and headed for her car. Her eyes constantly moved as she scanned the area for potential attackers who might have hidden behind dumpsters or parked vehicles.
Her reaction to the hand on her shoulder was automatic, trained into her by hours of self-defense drills with Sensei Robert. She leaned her body backwards and jabbed hard and fast with her elbow, smashing the groin of the person behind her.
Bethany glanced back, ready to run, as the man crumpled to the ground.
Patrick lay curled in the fetal position on the pavement, a deep groan escaping his lips. A piece of paper with his phone number fluttered from his grasp.
The scent of gasoline wafted toward Bethany as a nearby car drove away, and for a moment she wondered if the driver had witnessed the event. If I had been attacked, no one would have stopped to help me, she thought. No one ever helps a victim.
But she wasn’t a victim. Not this time.
As she reached down to grab Patrick’s hand in apology, she realized she felt no remorse for the agony that she had caused him.
Instead, she felt satisfaction.
Those long hours of training had been worth the time. The sweat. The pain.
She felt strong and capable.
For the first time ever, Bethany felt a glimmer of hope. Hope that one day she would live a normal life. A life without fear.
Herne checked the phone book for Morales’ address. He drove to the private investigator’s home, parking his truck a block away. The sun faded in the sky until darkness overtook the street, hiding the maple trees and cracked sidewalks in black shadows cast by the moon.
Morales lived in a small duplex in one of the older neighborhoods of Hurricane, where the houses were sided with vinyl and the yards were dotted with brown because the residents didn’t want to pay for the water to revive their dying grass. It was a neighborhood of young, working class families or old, fixed income couples. A neighborhood where people began or ended their lives.
Light shone through the windows, but Herne sensed no real movement. He’s in for the night, he thought.
He told himself that it would be better to return at another time, when the house was empty and he could poke through the trash and sift through the mail. He told himself that Morales was probably asleep in front of the television, and that it was best to just call it a night.
But he knew he was just making excuses. Excuses so he’d have permission to slake his thirst.
He didn’t bother to analyze his thoughts. He just turned the key in his truck and drove, trying to empty his mind of the death and fear that circled his dreams.
Twenty minutes later he sat on a stool in a Carlisle bar. He surveyed the crowd through the thick veil of smoke that enveloped the room. Two women—a blond and an Asian—danced together by the jukebox, their hands fumbling across each other’s breasts and stomachs. They kissed each other deeply, the Asian girl sucking on the other’s tongue as if it were a sweet lollipop. The men at the bar watched them with their eyes wide and their penises half erect, trying not to distract the girls from their alcohol-induced passion. The other women in the bar ignored the couple on the floor, either jealous or embarrassed or bored.
He didn’t care about the dancing women.
All he cared about was the whiskey in his glass and the cigarette in his hand. The harsh smoke burned his lungs, but he didn’t gasp or choke. He’d stopped coughing years ago, when cigarettes were as vital as the air he breathed. During his time in Philadelphia, he’d chain smoke one coffin nail after another, lighting them off each other. Like a former classical pianist who always remembers the notes to Mozart’s Requiem, the melody of smoking cigarettes had never left his soul.
The sultry jazz music seemed out of place in a bar that featured cowboy hats and line dancing, but it fit the mood of the crowd. Everyone seemed to move a little slower, a little smoother. Candlelight flickered around the room, creating a beauty in a place where beauty was rarely found. The scent of smoke and whiskey and sour beer had soaked into the ragged wood of the bar and tables.
He looked at the women on the dance floor again. The blond’s shirt was cut low, and her ample breasts threatened to spill out and expose themselves. The Asian bent her head. Her tongue slipped out and licked the crevice of the blond’s cleavage.
But he didn’t feel aroused until he took a sip of whiskey and felt the smooth liquid slide down his throat. The taste and sensation grabbed his attention. The women could do nothing for him. Liquor was his turn-on.
It’s only temporary, Herne thought. It’s just a temporary fix. I’ll be sober again soon. Very soon.
But even he could hear the lie in his mind.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tucker sat at his desk, cradling his face in his hands as he stared out the window. The Saturday morning sun had started to peek over the mountains, painting the sky a fiery blood orange. The stubble on his face scratched his palms. He pulled a bottle of aspirin from his desk and crunched on two of them, not bothering to wash them down with coffee. The thought of his wife caused his headache to worsen.
He’d never been unfaithful during the fifteen years of their marriage. He’d been tempted—hell, everyone was tempted—but he’d never strayed. Not even after the miscarriage, when Elizabeth seemed to shut down her emotions. He tried to comfort her after it happened, but she only pushed him away. It was as if she couldn’t stand his touch. Couldn’t stand to feel his hands on her body or his lips on her skin. And now, even though two years had passed, she still maintained a cool distance from him, as if it was his fault they couldn’t have children.
It’s enough to drive me fucking insane, Tucker thought.
Saxon walked in the door and he turned his attention to her.
“No news,” she said. “Neither Miller nor Johnson were able to locate him. They checked all the bars in Hurricane.”
“Dammit,” Tucker growled.
“Where do you think he is?” Saxon said.
Tucker was about to answer when he heard Sheila’s voice come across the intercom. “Um, Chief? Here comes Art. He’s crossing the street and headed this way.”
“That bastard better have a good explanation for his disappearance,” Tuck
er said.
Herne walked through the door, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. A day’s worth of grunge coated his body, and his stubble almost matched that on Tucker’s chin. He wore his standard outfit—blue jeans and a white tee-shirt. But the shirt was stained with something that looked like blood, and his jeans had a rip in the knee.
Herne’s breath reeked of whiskey, but his gaze was cold and sober.
“You know what today is, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes darting back and forth between Tucker and Saxon. “Today is Saturday. It’s his day to heal. Today the doctor is in.”
Cheryl Brandt’s home was only a few short blocks from the Carlisle art gallery where she worked as curator. Her neighborhood was mostly office buildings, cheap restaurants, and some old three-story homes that had been converted to apartments. Few trees dotted the sidewalks. Most had been removed when the city widened the street to accommodate extra traffic. The air was scented with pizza and fried chicken, so pungent he could almost taste the grease.
Entering her home was easy for him. Although Cheryl had locked her apartment door, it was nothing more than a basic lock on her doorknob. No bolt. No chain. Opening the door was as simple as slipping his credit card through the crack.
He wore sneakers so his footsteps were silent as he crept through her home. It was as he expected: covered in floral fabrics and ivy wallpaper. A woman who takes no time to adorn her own body must focus her need for beauty somewhere. In Cheryl’s case, he realized, she centered her aesthetic attention on her home.
He noticed that she didn’t have any plants. Living plants would require water. But a small cluster of framed photographs, mostly of an older man and woman, decorated a shelf with an ivy scroll carved into the painted wood. He looked closely and saw the family resemblance between Cheryl and the woman: the same pert nose, the same blond hair. Her parents, he thought. The Healer imagined the couple as they succumbed to their watery deaths, opening their mouths to scream, only to feel the weight of water as it rushed into their lungs.
Her bedroom door was slightly ajar. He’d watched her movements often enough to know that she was a late sleeper, generally awakening after nine o’clock. It was only eight.
He slipped into her bedroom and stood at the foot of her bed, watching her with the cool precision of a surgeon about to cut into a patient. Her blond hair lay in loose waves around her face. Long lashes grazed her pale cheeks. She was beautiful.
He reached down and grabbed her blankets, which were nothing more than thin cotton sheets, worn with age. With a slight tug he pulled them aside to expose the top of her foot. Then he tapped her toes with his gun.
The Glock 9mm was the same he had used to heal Charles Emmert. Years ago he had spent a night in Pittsburgh, hanging in seedy bars and meeting acquaintances. By the end of the evening he had acquired the gun, a Taser, some police-quality Mace, and an assortment of illegal drugs from a white kid dressed as a gangster.
Cheryl shifted in the bed and sighed. He tapped her foot again.
She sat straight up and looked at him, her eyes wide.
“Make a sound and you’re dead,” he said, waving the gun in her face.
She clamped her mouth shut and grabbed at the blankets, pulling them to her chin. She exposed her white panties—the only garment she wore other than a small pink tee-shirt—as she curled up her knees and pressed her back against the headboard. “What do you want?” she whimpered.
“It’s not what I want, Cheryl,” he said. “It’s what you want.”
“What?” she asked. Her teeth began chattering, and he could barely understand her stammers. “What are you talking about?”
“You want to be healed. To be free of your fear. I’m here to give that to you.”
She opened her mouth again. But before she could utter a sound, he slapped a piece of duct tape across her lips.
“There’s really not much of a need for chat,” he said. “I’ve heard everything you have to say on the subject. You’ve been very honest and direct in your therapy sessions. Now stand up,” he commanded.
Behind her tape he could hear sobs. Tears slipped from her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She gasped beneath the tape, gagging and gurgling in her throat.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Just breathe through your nose. Inhale… exhale…”
She continued to stare at him.
“Get up,” he said again.
She shook her head, moaning through the tape that held her lips together.
“Would you prefer I put a bullet through your head? I promise, Cheryl. When this is all over, you’ll be thanking me. Now stand up.”
She looked at him, but there was no hope in her eyes. Head bowed, she swung her legs off the bed and stood.
“Turn around. Face the bed.”
She did as he demanded. In a few swift moves he had her hands and feet neatly bound with tape. She swayed for a moment and then crumpled to the floor.
He left the gun on her nightstand and hoisted her over his shoulder like a bulk bag of fertilizer. He guessed that the small door off her bedroom was a bathroom.
He was right.
The bathroom wasn’t roomy, but it would do. It smelled of baby wipes and Lysol spray, reminding him of the maternity ward of an old hospital. His shoes left imprints on her fluffy lavender rugs, and he made a mental note to shake out his footprints before he left. Her feet dangled in the air, and as he swung her body around to dump her into the tub, they struck some boxes of baby wipes. The boxes clattered to the floor. He dropped her unceremoniously into the bathtub, where she flopped like a fish on a pier. Her eyes were huge with panic.
“Just calm down,” The Healer said, unable to hide the irritation in his voice. He thought, Why are they all so reluctant to be healed?
She ignored him. Or maybe didn’t hear him. She continued to thump around in the tub, as if she were trying to throw her body out of it.
He turned the knob on the faucet. A small stream of water, barely more than a trickle, hit her foot. Her breath came short and quick, and the tape muffled her scream so it sounded like an animal screech. She thrashed her body, twisting and turning it in the slippery fiberglass.
Worried that the neighbors might hear the sound of her thumps in the bathtub, he tried to soothe her.
“It’s going to be fine,” he said. “When this is all over, you won’t be afraid of water.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. He knew panic had clogged her ears. She continued to flail in the tub.
He sighed and turned the knob on the faucet so the water flowed faster. If she wasn’t going to appreciate the process of her therapy, there was no point in prolonging it.
He stepped back into her bedroom and turned on her stereo, choosing a hip-hop station and cranking up the volume. Perhaps the music would disguise the sounds of her thumping. If not, maybe the neighbors would assume she was dancing. He sighed again. He’d hoped to spend some time enjoying Cheryl’s therapy. But now he was forced to speed through it. He had to be gone before someone called the police to complain about the noise.
He returned to the bathroom, where she still writhed in the tub. She lay on her back and her contorted movements splashed water on her face. He heard her gag and gasp through the tape as she inhaled water in her nose. Puddles dampened the bathroom floor, their glimmer reflecting Cheryl’s terror.
He could see her energy had drained and her movements had grown weaker. The water almost covered her stomach. Strings of blond hair, wet and slick, were plastered across her cheek. The moisture soaked through her shirt and underwear, and he could see the outline of her nipples and the patch of hair between her legs.
Her struggling slowed until it almost stopped. Her movements were nothing more than the occasional thrust of her hips. He leaned over the tub and pressed a hand against her breast, holding her body still. She stared at him with wary eyes and her nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, as if trying to inhale every last molecule of precious oxygen.
“Isn’t
this what you want, Cheryl? To be free of your fear?”
She shook her head and tried to speak, but he pressed harder against her chest. Her body slipped deeper into the water and her eyes widened. She tried to struggle again, but he held her firmly in place.
“It is what you want, even if you don’t know it. I’m The Healer. You’re the patient. I know what’s best for you.” He paused, watching the water rise. By now it had reached the bottom of her chin. “If you want to conquer your fear, you must face it. This is the only way. It will all be over soon.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Herne pushed his tuna melt around with his fork, uninterested in the dry fish and processed cheese. Across from him sat Tucker, alternating bites of his potatoes—sliced and fried on the grill—with bites of his hamburger. Every third time Tucker chewed, his lips would separate just enough for Herne to see the mash of food in his mouth. He averted his eyes and glanced at Sherry as she dashed back and forth across the restaurant with a coffee pot, her ample hips swishing beneath her polyester pants.
Customers packed into Shady Hill Diner on Monday afternoon. This was the day everything was fresh. On Monday, the potatoes weren’t yesterday’s leftovers and the burgers had been shaped into patties that morning. By Friday, those burgers were chopped and turned into chili, and the potatoes were recycled five different ways. The food would still taste good, but it would lack Monday’s fresh flavor.
So folks in Hurricane liked to go out to lunch on Monday to break up the doldrums of the day. The scent of sizzling grease and frying meat drew customers into the diner’s doors.
The counter was lined with people eating sandwiches and potatoes. A few sipped coffee while sampling the pie, the only thing at Shady Hill Diner that was made fresh every day. Maude Jameson, a Mennonite widow, was paid to make the pies in her kitchen every morning. Technically, the kitchen in her farmhouse wasn’t approved for commercial baking. But no one in Hurricane was going to call the Health Department on Maude. She made the best blueberry crumb pie in town.
