Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  “What kind of security do you have around here?” Herne asked.

  Ron stared at Herne for a moment, as if assessing the question, and then chuckled. “Wasn’t sure if you was pullin’ my leg or not,” he said, “but it looks like you’re serious. The only security I got around here is my old hound Rosie, and she’s about as deaf as a stone.”

  “So it’s possible that someone could’ve snuck in here last night or early this morning, stolen two hives, and driven away without you ever knowing?”

  “It’s possible,” Ron said. “But who the hell would want two bee hives?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “No. Absolutely not.” Judge Steven Slade sat behind his big oak desk, surrounded by stacks of papers and thick books. His voluminous black robe hid the corpulent body beneath its folds. A large globe trimmed in brass stood in the corner of the room, its presence an ostentatious display of knowledge and worldliness.

  By Monday morning, the bee suit and missing hives had revealed no new information. “We’re not any closer to finding this fucking guy,” Tucker told Herne. “Our only choice is to try and cut him off at the pass. I’m going to ask Slade for a court order to open up Lochhead’s patient files. It’s our only hope.”

  Tucker had gone to visit the judge—who’d once been married to Elizabeth’s cousin—in his chambers. He’d hoped that their history together might lend credence to his cause. But the former familial relationship did not affect Slade’s sympathy.

  Tucker persisted. “If we don’t know which of Lochhead’s patients are suffering from phobias, we’re going to find more dead bodies. And that’s not going to look so fucking hot when it’s election time, is it?”

  “Are you threatening me?” Slade’s brown eyes sparked with anger. He pointed a pudgy finger at Tucker’s chest. “What exactly are you implying, Rex?”

  “You’ll have the blood of his victims on your hands, Steve,” Tucker said.

  “You don’t have enough evidence to open Lochhead’s files. You’re talking about invading the privacy of hundreds of people. The kind of people who often see a therapist just because they’re looking for someone who will keep their secrets confidential. I’m going to need something more than this one link between all the victims.”

  “It’s the only link between the victims,” Tucker said.

  “Not so,” Slade replied. “All of them lived in Cumberland County. All of them had an intense phobia. Most of them were single.”

  Tucker rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Steve. Are you really going to give me that shit?”

  “Dammit, Rex,” Judge Slade said. “I’m bound by the law. Can’t you see that?”

  “No wonder your wife fucking left you,” Tucker said. His hand itched with the urge to punch his former friend. “You’re a jackass. You were a jackass even when we were in high school.”

  Slade’s upper lip curled in a snarl, his thick jowls quivering. “We both know Julie left me because she was busy fucking half the town. Hell, she probably fucked you, too.”

  Tucker’s back stiffened. “You know that’s not true,” he said.

  Slade sighed, running his hands through his hair, which had started to prematurely gray before he finished college. “Look, Rex. We’ve got history. I don’t want this to turn ugly. But I can’t give you this court order. I just can’t. So don’t ask me again.”

  Tucker turned on his heel and left, his shoulders taut with anger and his stride long. When he reached the outside of the courthouse, he exhaled and bowed his head. He’d failed.

  The radio sounded in his pocket. A fight had broken out at Breezewood Trailer Park. Two men, their nerves on edge from too many beers and too much time in the summer sun, had started throwing punches during a card game. Even though a serial killer ran loose in Hurricane, the wheels of daily life continued to grind. Tucker slid into the seat of his squad car. He still had a job to do.

  Morales followed a blue Chevy Blazer down Main Street and north on Route 12.

  Herne followed Morales.

  The private investigator was tailing the Blazer, and Herne kept them both in sight. The Blazer—driven by a businessman in a cheap suit—stopped at three residential houses and one apartment building. He’s probably in sales, Herne thought.

  But as they continued driving, Herne realized their next stop was not a residential home. They were headed for Harold’s Tavern.

  The Blazer pulled into the parking lot of the bar and Morales followed. Herne drove past the tavern before stopping to park on the side of the street. Then he observed the action in his side mirror.

  Almost simultaneously, the businessman and a chubby blond girl in a red Fiero left their cars and started walking toward Harold’s Tavern. They embraced passionately before slipping into the bar.

  Herne watched as Morales surreptitiously snapped pictures of the couple with a small camera.

  He’s working a case, Herne thought. He’s just doing business.

  Morales pulled out of the parking lot a few minutes later.

  Herne didn’t follow. Instead, he sat in his truck and stared at the door of Harold’s Tavern, trying to summon the will to drive away.

  The clerk in The Sandwich Station rattled off the ingredients of his sandwich special. Usually Bethany declined, preferring roast beef and Swiss on rye. But today the sandwich sounded mouthwatering: turkey breast, smoked cheddar, and cranberry salad on a sourdough roll. It reminded her of Thanksgiving. She decided to order it and was rewarded with a gleaming smile from the clerk. Her muscles tensed; handsome men rarely smiled at her. But then he turned away to prepare her sandwich, and all was normal in the world again.

  As the clerk stacked turkey on her roll, Bethany glanced at the other customers in the convenience store. The young man in the business suit appeared engrossed with the cell phone in his hand. He tapped it with his finger, alternating between scowls and grins. The only other customer was a woman with long hair, a tie-dyed shirt, and a broomstick skirt. She wore Birkenstock sandals on her feet.

  Bethany decided to engage in a little “mental martial arts practice,” as Sensei Robert called it. In her mind she analyzed the strangers, assessing their weak points. The young man leaned on one leg, his feet fairly close together. The woman shifted her weight from one foot to the next, as if impatient with the wait.

  Bethany envisioned her attack in her mind, as if a movie of her body in motion played out for her. She would swiftly kick the man’s left knee—the one that held all his weight—and finish with a heel to his groin after he rolled to the ground. The woman, who stood slightly behind Bethany, could probably be finished with nothing more than an elbow strike to the nose. Once the blood started flowing, it was likely the woman would crumple to the ground and remain there. As for the sandwich clerk, Bethany noticed that he tended to plant his feet firmly when he stepped, much like the confident, strong step of a former athlete. Her only hope would be to snap his knee with a kick whenever his foot was firmly planted on the ground.

  She glanced around the room, seeing the carnage in her mind’s eye. The important thing, she thought, is to always be aware. Always be alert.

  Getting caught off guard was the worst thing that could happen.

  The pimply teenage boy in the courtroom didn’t bother to act remorseful. He wore jeans with gaping holes in the knees, and a tee-shirt featuring a heavy metal band stretched across his skinny torso. His dark, shoulder-length dreadlocks hung over his eyes. He peered through his hair at Judge Steven Slade’s stern gaze.

  “I know I was speeding, Your Honor. But I was late for work, and I really need this job.”

  “Did you tell that to the police officer who gave you the ticket?” Slade asked.

  The teen shook his head. “No, Sir.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?”

  The boy met Slade’s eyes. “Well, honestly, I just don’t like cops.”

  Under normal circumstances—when Slade felt like a god handing down punishment—he would have ch
astised the teen. But with that statement, the boy reminded him of a different time. A time when the moral high ground seemed like the only path. A time when the truth was black and white, and the heart was free of guilt.

  Slade threw back his head and laughed. For just a moment, his own culpability was pushed away.

  Later, when he would have to face himself in the mirror, the shame would return.

  Slade wanted to help the police catch The Healer. Like every citizen, he feared innocent victims would continue to die at the madman’s hands. He worried another one of Lochhead’s patients would find their worst fear realized.

  But Slade had another fear, too. A fear more powerful than any other.

  He feared his secrets, the ones he had revealed to Peter Lochhead in private therapy sessions, would become public. If the residents of Hurricane learned that their beloved small-town judge had a special affection for young boys—the kind of affection that involved removing clothing and taking photographs—they’d show him no mercy. He’d be arrested and thrown into prison with the same men he’d sentenced while on the bench. And some of them were the type of men who wouldn’t hesitate to rape him. Or even kill him.

  So he decided to be lenient, reducing the teen’s fine to just ten dollars. Because Slade knew that one day he’d have to pay for choosing his own fate over that of the victims who would die at The Healer’s hands. He’d have to face his own judgment. And he wondered if God would be as merciful.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Elizabeth sensed that Herne stood on the other side of the door. She didn’t bother to glance through the peephole. Herne’s knock, authoritative yet hesitant, was familiar.

  She said nothing as he stumbled through the foyer and into the living room, reeking of whiskey and cigarette smoke. A splotch of liquor stained his white shirt, like a wound that seeped on his clothing. He wore a day’s worth of beard and a pair of dark sunglasses. An unlit cigarette hung between his lips. When he opened his mouth to speak, it dropped to the floor, unnoticed.

  “Rex,” he said, his voice gruff and his words slurred. “Where’s Rex?”

  “Out on a domestic violence call,” she said. “He’ll be back soon, so sit down and wait.”

  Herne sank into the tweed sofa as Elizabeth walked to the kitchen and prepared a pot of coffee. She knew, of course, that coffee wouldn’t help to sober him. But she wasn’t quite sure what else to do. When she had first seen Herne—his bloodshot eyes, his trembling hands—she had wanted to reach for him and offer comfort. And she knew nothing good would come of those actions. But she had to do something, so she made coffee.

  He took the steaming mug she offered, the shake in his hands almost gone. The rich aroma of the coffee seemed to awaken him, as if the scent contained caffeine.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Elizabeth asked,

  “It’s Wednesday,” Herne said. “Wednesday evening.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Well, we haven’t gotten a note from The Healer. Every Tuesday, like clockwork, that bastard sends us a little note and a photo to remind us that he’s the one in charge. Every Tuesday. Without fail. Well, it’s Wednesday, Elizabeth. Where’s his note?”

  “How does he send it?”

  “What?” Herne looked at her, his eyes bleary and red. Compassion poured into Elizabeth’s heart.

  “How does he send it to you? Postal service? Carrier pigeon? Telepathy?”

  “Good ol’ U.S. of A. Postal Service,” Herne said.

  “Maybe it got lost or delayed in the mail.”

  “Maybe,” Herne said. He sounded unconvinced.

  “Maybe he’s done killing,” Elizabeth said, trying to sound hopeful. “Maybe he’s in prison for something else. Or maybe he was in a car accident and died. Or perhaps he’s just finished. Perhaps he’s healed everyone he needs to heal.”

  “Maybe.”

  Elizabeth could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Would that be so bad?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it be a good thing if The Healer stopped killing?”

  Herne spoke, his words sounding slow and careful. “It would be good that no one else would die at his hands,” he said.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth agreed.

  “But it would also mean that we’d probably never get enough evidence to catch the guy. And I want to catch this son of a bitch with every shred of my soul.”

  “I see,” Elizabeth said.

  “All this pain and misery. He dragged me into this. Made me feel this. And now someone’s going to pay.”

  Elizabeth didn’t know if Herne was referring to The Healer or her husband. She didn’t have the courage to ask.

  Herne buried his face in his hands. “It eats at you. Gnaws at you. And it’s not a dull ache. It’s a sharp, bitter agony that feels like a knife twisting in your gut.”

  He reached out to her then and she responded in kind, wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t cry. Didn’t weep or gnash his teeth. He just rested his head on her shoulder, pressing his eyes into her neck.

  It was the first time she had touched a man other than her husband in a long time, but the sensation wasn’t strange or uncomfortable. It almost feels good, she thought.

  The heat of his body—hard against her own softness—penetrated her clothing and her face flushed from the warmth. His thick fingers gripped her arms tightly. In the back of her mind she wondered if she’d have bruises the next day. But she didn’t move and neither did he. They simply sat together, her holding him and him holding her.

  A few moments later Tucker walked into the room. Herne looked up from Elizabeth’s shoulder, pulling away from her slowly. Tucker was expressionless as he held out another piece of paper. It was a note from The Healer.

  In the harsh light of morning, Herne sat in Tucker’s office and examined the photo that arrived with The Healer’s note. Hank Jackson’s head—his face resembling a basketball—filled the picture.

  “If his face had ever returned to normal, there would’ve been stretch marks on his cheeks,” Herne commented.

  Tucker grunted in response.

  Herne looked again at The Healer’s note. It was only a photocopy. The state cops had the original note, and they were combing it for fingerprints and fibers.

  “The state cops ran an analysis on the note and found nothing unusual about it,” Tucker said. “The only information they gleaned was that it’s printed with an inkjet computer printer. Everyone and their mother has a fucking inkjet printer.”

  Herne stared at the paper, trying to fall through the page and into The Healer’s mind. He imagined The Healer sitting at a desk, hunched over the keyboard of a computer. He probably wore gloves while he typed, the latex protecting his fingerprints in case he accidentally touched the page during the printing process. After the note was printed, The Healer sifted through his photos. He probably had a stack for each victim. He’d carefully select the perfect one to send to the cops. The one that showed the truth behind his victim’s fear.

  The phone rang and Sheila answered it, breaking Herne out of his reverie. He shifted in his chair, sweat pooling behind his knees despite the blast of cold from the air-conditioner. Tucker’s morning meal, a breakfast sandwich from Shady Hill Diner, sat untouched on his desk. Herne’s stomach turned at the greasy aroma of the half-cooked bacon.

  “Frey told me that the photos of the victims were also printed with an inkjet photo printer. So our boy is probably taking his pictures with a digital camera. Of course, half of the world owns one of those, too.” Tucker sighed. “Read me that fucking note again,” he demanded.

  “The fear of death is more to be dreaded than death itself,” Herne read.

  “Jesus. Do you think The Healer really believes that?” Tucker asked.

  Herne shrugged. “He seems to, doesn’t he?”

  “But what the fuck does it mean?”

  “He forces his victims to confront their own fears. He makes them face the terror. He cures them with death.” Her
ne paused. “But has he faced his own fears?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” Tucker asked, running his lean fingers through his short, brown hair. “I’m not a fucking head shrink. If you want to know what the hell is going on in this sick fucker’s head, why don’t you ask Elizabeth? You don’t seem to have a problem going to her when you need her.”

  Herne carefully folded the copy of The Healer’s letter and placed it in his pocket, his heart thumping. He’d been wondering when Tucker would bring up the subject of Elizabeth.

  Herne met Tucker’s stare with cool eyes. “Is this something we need to talk about?” he asked.

  Tucker opened his mouth, as if preparing to speak. Then he closed it and shook his head. “No. It’s not.”

  “Good,” Herne said. “Elizabeth and I are friends. Nothing more.”

  He could almost hear the ring of falsehood in his words. Something had changed between the two of them when Elizabeth held him in her arms. Though they’d only clung together briefly, Herne had felt the electricity sing between them. Even now he remembered the softness of her body beneath his hands and the sweet scent of melons and cucumbers she wore on her skin. He didn’t want to face the truth. He wasn’t ready to accept the attraction between him and his best friend’s wife. So he lied.

  “After all these years of friendship, Rex, do you honestly think I’d do something so foul?” Herne asked.

  Tucker sighed. “Of course not, Art.” He bowed his head and stared at his shoes. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me lately.”

  Herne said nothing. He’d seen the sidelong glances between Tucker and Saxon. He noticed the way the lieutenant stood close to him, closer than necessary. And he also knew that his friend had never been unfaithful to his wife.

  But have you been thinking about infidelity, Rex? Herne thought. Is that why you’re so quick to look at others with distrust? Herne knew that just the guilt of temptation created a shame that would eat away at Tucker’s heart. He knew it because he felt the same way.