by C. A. Shives
He blamed it on the katydids.
The Healer’s slumber had been deep. So deep and restful that he might have made it through most of the darkness in peaceful oblivion. Then the chirp of the katydid pierced his dreams, and his eyes awoke to the night.
Now, with the lights blazing in his room, he huddled in his corner. The soft carpet rubbed the soles of his feet as he pulled his knees up to his chest. He tried to focus his mind. To think of something—anything—other than the darkness that threatened to seep through his window and spill into his room.
It was the same game he had played many nights as a child. He’d try to create a distraction in his mind in hopes that he wouldn’t notice the dark. Sometimes he’d do complicated math equations. Other times he’d try to predict what his mother would serve for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the next day. Many times he’d think about Claudia Brody, the prettiest girl in his school.
But his mother’s meals had died with her and Claudia Brody had moved away to Texas their first year of high school.
So he thought about his favorite patient.
Meek. Not traditionally beautiful, but her fear was palpable. It came off her body in waves. In his mind, her fear made her beautiful.
He’d noticed her before he even started his work, but he’d been saving her. Her therapy would require a serious effort on his part. He would need to get very involved with the patient, more so than ever before, so he had delayed her treatment until he’d become more experienced. So far his therapy was a success. Amanda Todd. Charles Emmert. Cheryl Brandt. Not only had he healed them of their fear, the police were no closer to catching him than they’d been that very first day. But he didn’t feel quite ready to carry out his very personal session with this special victim. He still needed more practice. More experience. He wasn’t ready yet. But soon. Very soon.
He moved his body so that all of him was bathed in the bright light of the lamps. Thoughts of his next therapy session had almost blocked out the darkness. At least for a few moments.
But then he saw the night outside his bedroom window, and he clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to quiet his sobs. He’d tried so hard to stay quiet as a child. If his father heard even a whimper, he’d come into The Healer’s room.
He’d drag The Healer out of the room and into the hallway, his dirty fingernails digging into the soft flesh of the young boy’s arm.
The Healer would see his mother, her eyes wide, as his father pulled him into the kitchen. The scent of the evening meal often still lingered, the oil from his mother’s fried chicken coating the air with grease. She always wore a plain housedress, a shapeless shift with a floral print that hid her lean body, with her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. He’d seen it loose and flowing once, so he knew it was straight and so long that it almost reached her waist.
Once his mother had reached out and tried to grab him as his father dragged him through the kitchen. She tried to pull him to the safety of her bosom. But his father just slapped her hand away with his own beefy palm and snarled. “He’s my son,” his father said. “I’m in charge of disciplining him.”
His father would grin, his eyes glittering, and somehow the piece of spinach or pepper that stuck between his front teeth would make him seem all the more frightening. The Healer could see the spittle that gathered in the corner of his father’s mouth.
Then his father would drag him to the cellar door. And The Healer—then just a boy—would scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It had become a familiar scene in Herne’s life. He, Tucker, and Saxon sat in the station office, The Healer files spread across the desk. It was Friday afternoon. In less than twenty-four hours, Herne knew The Healer would kill again.
Saxon stood up and paced the length of the room. As she passed Herne, he noticed the slightest aroma of a musky perfume. He was certain it was the first time she’d worn a scent other than her honeysuckle soap and he wondered why she’d chosen to wear it that day. When she spoke, her tone was thoughtful. “Ginch said that Lochhead had a problem with his office door a year ago. Maybe The Healer snuck in and made copies of his files at that time. Maybe he’s been planning these murders for a year.”
“If that’s the case,” Tucker said, “these files are a dead end. We have no way of knowing who might have been in the building a year ago. There are no security cameras and no one who keeps records of people who come and go. There’s no fucking guest register. It’s fucking hopeless.”
“We have to try,” Saxon insisted.
Tucker waved his hand. “Feel free to give it a shot,” he said. His voice was cold and callous.
She drew back, as if he slapped her. Then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the office.
“She won’t find anything,” Herne said.
“I know. But she wanted to try.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“So? Who the fuck cares? This whole thing is a waste of time. We’re no fucking closer to catching this guy than we were the day of Amanda Todd’s murder.”
“Do you still have Miller watching Morales?” Herne asked.
“No, goddammit, I don’t. I know you think he’s our best suspect, Art, but I’ve only got two officers and one lieutenant. I just don’t have the people to keep a man on Morales all the time.”
“Did you tell Frey about him?”
“Of course,” Tucker said. “But he just waved me off. He doesn’t think that ownership of a silver SUV constitutes a need for twenty-four hour surveillance. And for once, I’m inclined to agree with the son of a bitch.”
“Morales was also staking out the PD.”
Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “You said he was parked on this street. You said you couldn’t tell who he had under surveillance.”
“But he might have been watching the station. Watching us. You.”
“Not good enough, dammit.”
“He uses surveillance techniques on a daily basis. He’s probably got plenty of tools for breaking and entering. It’s likely he’s got enough skills to slip in and read Lochhead’s files.”
“So does the teenager I arrested last month for breaking into the First Assembly of God church on Catharine Street.”
Herne swallowed hard, fighting the anger that rose in his throat. “Don’t you want to catch this guy?” he asked.
“Of course I want to fucking catch this guy,” Tucker said. “But I don’t have enough men to keep an eye on a suspect who hasn’t even done anything suspicious. If you want to dig deeper into Morales, Art, you’re going to have to find a way to do it on your own.”
On your own. Strangely, the words were comforting. The only way Herne knew how to catch a killer was on his own.
“We’ve got a bigger fucking problem right now,” Tucker said. “The Healer is due to kill another victim tomorrow. And I don’t think it’s likely that we’re going to catch him before that unlucky person ends up dead.”
Herne remained silent. The deaths of The Healer’s last two victims—Charles Emmert and Cheryl Brandt—burdened him with their weight. These were the deaths that he couldn’t prevent. The deaths that wouldn’t have come to be if he’d been able to catch the killer.
The force bore on his chest like a heart attack, heavy and numbing. There was only one way to ease the pressure. “I’m making a call,” Herne said. He pulled out his cell phone and punched some numbers.
“We’re at the PD now,” he said into the phone. “I’m ready.” Herne snapped his phone closed.
“What the fuck is that about?” Tucker asked.
“If we can’t catch this guy, we’re at least going to protect the public.”
He handed the photos to the redheaded woman, noting her crestfallen expression. It was always the same. They wanted him to catch the cheating wife or the drug-abusing spouse. They wanted photographic evidence to prove their suspicions.
And they were always disappointed when their suspicions were confirmed.
They cling to hope, h
e thought. But he knew better. Hope was nothing more than a pipe dream for folks who refused to help themselves.
But now his clients and business were finished. He had earned a paycheck. Enough to get him through another week of bills. Enough to give him time to focus on his other project.
The papers spread across his desk, the ones from Peter Lochhead’s office, contained symbols and numbers he couldn’t easily decipher. Morales had finished high school and he knew how to read, but he had forgone higher education to pursue a career in security. He struggled with complicated math and unfamiliar terminology.
The papers were photocopies. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to read all the pages while in the therapist’s office. Getting caught would mean jail, and only stupid people got caught. So he made copies to read on his own terms. Now it was time to sort through the pages and determine how to use the information to his advantage.
Just a little while longer, Morales thought, and I’ll be ready to make my move.
Herne shifted his feet, his shoulders hunched. He disliked being in the public eye. I would have made a great hermit, he thought. But the media was a tool that could be used to shape and guide a police investigation. And it was a tool he planned to use to his full advantage.
Thick, black mascara coated Lori Sims’ eyelashes, and her lips were painted a bright red. Her cameraman hoisted the video recorder on his burly shoulders and stood ready, his round face impassive. They gathered in Tucker’s office, using the plain gray wall as a background.
“Thanks for this interview,” Lori said, grinning at Herne.
Tucker, standing in the back of the room, snorted loudly. Lori eyed him before flashing another brightly whitened smile at Herne. She touched his shoulder with a manicured hand, and leaned in so close that her breast brushed his arm. He could smell the fresh mint on her breath, and he wanted to step away from her intimate presence, but he forced himself to remain still. Her voice took on the quality of a conspiratorial whisper, though her words were audible to everyone in the room. “Can you tell me anything off the record? Do you have any clues at all?”
“I’m not speaking off the record today,” Herne said.
Lori shrugged and stepped away, her face a mask of professionalism. “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said. She nodded to the cameraman, and a red light started blinking above the camera lens.
Tucker stood with his arms folded across his chest. He remained expressionless as Herne spoke to the camera.
Herne didn’t try to camouflage the coarse tone of his deep voice. He knew it made his statements sound grave and official. “The police are following up on some leads, and we expect to make an arrest very soon. However, we do want to issue a warning to Hurricane residents. The Healer seems to strike on Saturday. We urge all residents to be extremely cautious tomorrow. Do not make contact with strangers. If a stranger approaches you, do not engage in conversation. Exercise caution when you’re entering and leaving your home. Lock your doors and don’t open them to unfamiliar people.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Herne,” Lori Sims said into the microphone. “Is there anything else we need to know?”
Herne nodded and stared straight at the camera, feeling a tiny thread of satisfaction worm through his heart with his next words. “Yes. Although all the victims seem to be unrelated, there is one common link. They were all patients of Peter Lochhead, a therapist who operates out of an office on Oak Street. If you are a patient of this particular psychologist, we urge you to be extremely cautious. Even those individuals who were former patients of Peter Lochhead should be on the alert for anything or anyone who appears remotely suspicious.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Herne, for this important public service. The citizens of Hurricane will rest easier tomorrow, knowing you’re on the job.” Lori Sims waved her hand, signaling to the cameraman. He lowered the video recorder and began packing up his equipment.
Lori looked at Herne again and her smile softened from a professional news reporter to that of a relaxed woman. “I really appreciate this interview. Is there anything I can do to repay you? A drink, perhaps?”
Herne shook his head. “Sorry, Miss Sims,” he said. “But we’re pretty much working around the clock to catch The Healer. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time for socializing.” And you wear too much makeup, he thought.
“Maybe some other time,” Lori said, placing a hand on his arm. “After you catch The Healer.”
“Maybe.” Herne glanced at Tucker, who continued to stand at the back of the room. When the reporter had packed up her microphone and left with the cameraman, Tucker finally stepped forward.
“You’re going to send a panic through this goddamn town,” Tucker said. “I’ll bet Lochhead will be pissed.”
“Good,” Herne said. “Let him feel some of the heat.”
“Our phone’s going to ring off the hook. Anyone who’s ever stepped foot in that building will be calling.”
“Sheila can handle it,” Herne said. “That’s her job.”
“Jesus.” Tucker ran his hands through his hair. “This is going to send the town into chaos.”
“They had to be warned, Rex,” Herne said. “Someone had to tell them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The entire building seemed still and empty, quiet except for the hum of the air-conditioner. Herne’s footsteps sounded hollow as he passed Lochhead’s office and walked to Morales’ door.
The lock on the door was solid. More substantial than the one Morales used for his house. Herne knew his bump key wouldn’t open it. Instead, he pulled out a case of picks and went to work on the lock, his ears alert for the sound of approaching footsteps. He didn’t expect to hear or see anyone on a Saturday evening, but he hurried anyway.
The tumblers fell with a satisfying click, and Herne entered the private investigator’s office. He didn’t bother to turn on a light, since the sun still shone through the west window. The small, institutional waiting room contained only a few metal chairs and a side table with outdated copies of Sports Illustrated. Herne walked quickly to the inner office. A man with secrets, he thought, keeps them away from the public eye.
A dim overhead light illuminated the space. The room contained nothing more than a folding table, folding chair, and locked file cabinet. Herne detected the faint odor of leftover pepperoni pizza. The sparseness of Morales’ home was echoed in his office.
Herne used his picks on the cabinet, opening the drawers with ease. Inside were manila folders, each neatly labeled with initials.
He opened one. Morales’ barely legible handwriting was scrawled across a few sheets of yellow paper from a legal pad. He had noted his client’s name, the subject’s name, and details about the case. He also kept a log of his hours, plus a copy of the invoice he sent to his client. Herne noticed that Morales padded his bill. The only items in the file were some photographs of a short, fat businessman in a passionate embrace with a scantily clad young woman.
Herne continued to open the files, finding more of the same. Cheating spouses seemed to make up the bulk of the private investigator’s cases.
He slipped the files back into their place and sat, staring at the drawer. Nothing. This isn’t the guy, Herne thought.
Then he noticed a file marked with the initials AT. He pulled it from the drawer and opened the folder.
The file contained no paperwork. No notes or log of hours. It only held a variety of photos. Women, men, children. All of them unfamiliar. All except one.
Amanda Todd.
A wave of excitement shot through Herne’s gut, so strong his fingers trembled and the photo of Amanda slipped from his grasp. He had evidence. Solid evidence that Morales was connected to the first victim.
It wouldn’t convict the private investigator in a court of law. It wasn’t even enough for a search warrant. But, for the first time in weeks, Herne felt a flash of hope. He was almost ready to drop his weight into Morales’ world.
He needed to fi
nd a way to get photographic evidence of his own.
Dinners at Tucker’s home were no longer fun and enjoyable. A tension hung over the table, caused by thoughts of The Healer and memories of victims. They did not eat much of their meal. Elizabeth’s spaghetti tasted sour to Herne, although her sauce was rich and sweet. He washed down a bite of food with a sip of whiskey, rolling the caustic liquid over his tongue to chase away the bitterness in his mouth. They talked of police work.
Herne picked at his food as if the weight of his fork exhausted him. As Tucker had predicted, Herne’s news interview had sent a wave of panic through Hurricane. Residents stopped at the police station, demanding information. The phone rang constantly, its jangling noise tortuous by mid-morning. Herne’s constant tension racked his body with fatigue.
Although it was Saturday night, no one had yet reported a death. But Herne knew that someone, somewhere, had already been a victim of The Healer’s therapy. He and Tucker were just killing time until a body was discovered.
Elizabeth remained thoughtful and silent, too. She prodded her spaghetti with her fork, consuming very little. Her garlic bread lay in torn bits that she scattered around the edge of her plate.
Herne choked down another swallow of his food. He’d failed. The Healer had killed again, and he’d been unable to stop him. Like Maggie, Herne thought. I can’t save anyone.
When Tucker’s cell phone jingled, all three of them turned to stare at it.
Tucker answered the phone, barely speaking. Herne didn’t bother to look up from his plate. He knew what the call was about.
“Who’s dead?” Herne asked when Tucker hung up the phone.
“Do you have to be so brutal?” Elizabeth asked before Tucker could answer. “Don’t you have any sympathy?”
Herne’s eyes, dark and desperate, met Elizabeth’s pleading gaze. “Sympathy won’t help me find The Healer,” he said.
