Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  Herne could almost feel the time slipping away.

  The operator connected his call directly, but a recorded message answered the phone. The school was closed on Saturday.

  Herne felt the dark pull of despair. He could call Tucker and tell him about the photograph. Working as a team, they’d be able to find the owner of Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Combat School much faster than Herne on his own. But involving Tucker would also mean involving Frey and the state police. It would mean losing control of the investigation. And it might mean never facing The Healer. Never ridding himself of the demon that had invaded his mind.

  He didn’t invade you, Herne thought. You invited him.

  Herne wanted to face The Healer alone.

  He needed help from someone with resources. Someone not connected to the police. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Lori Sims at TV News 4.

  “Art,” she said smoothly. He could hear the smile in her voice. “Got some breaking news for me?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll give you the scoop if you’ll do me a favor.”

  “What’s the scoop?” she asked.

  “The favor first,” he replied. “I need a home phone number for the person who owns Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Combat School in Carlisle.”

  “No problem,” she said. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Just hurry, Herne thought, as he hung up the phone.

  She could hear Butch barking outside, the insistent bark of an animal who knows something is wrong. She wondered if her neighbors heard it. Wondered what they would think about it. She was not the type of person to leave her dog in the yard for hours at a time. In fact, she rarely let him out for longer than ten minutes. She felt safer when he was by her side.

  If only he were here now, she thought, glancing down at Pike who remained unconscious on her floor. Butch would have torn his arm off.

  She had no friends. Her only plans for the day had been to phone her parents in Arizona, and her mother wasn’t even expecting her call. There was no one to miss her. No one to notice that she was gone.

  Panic coursed through her veins, and she struggled with her bonds. She pulled and tugged with her hands until her wrists were too numb to feel the agonizing pain of the tape digging her flesh. But nothing happened. She gritted her teeth and sobbed, tears clouding her vision. She wanted to scream out her disappointment and anger, but she could only grunt through the tape that covered her mouth. Feeling impotent, she shook the headboard with the force of her frustration, rattling the wooden slats like a gorilla shakes his cage.

  She realized the mistake of her actions—the noise and the rattles—when The Healer stirred.

  “Unlisted phone number,” Lori Sims said, “but here’s his address.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you one.”

  “You said you had some news,” she said.

  “I do. Right now our beloved police chief is searching a house in Hurricane for evidence.”

  “Whose house?” Lori asked.

  “I can’t reveal that information,” Herne said. “But it’s on Waverly Lane.”

  “Got it,” she said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Thanks for the info,” Herne said.

  He drove to the address provided by Lori Sims, a small Cape Cod home in a new neighborhood. The man who answered the door wore only a pair of blue jeans. His clean shaven chest was ripped with hard muscle. Only his hooked nose prevented him from being classically handsome. He met Herne’s gaze with his own brown eyes.

  Whenever two men met for the first time, Herne believed that in that initial split second they each assessed the other and mentally asked the question: Could I take him in a fight?

  But with this man, the owner and operator of Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Training, Herne didn’t feel as if his machismo was being assessed. Robert Gorman stood straight and tall, as if confident he would win any fight.

  “Robert Gorman?” Herne asked.

  The man nodded.

  “I’m Artemis Herne. I’m working with the Hurricane Police Department.”

  “I know who you are,” Gorman said. “You’re investigating The Healer, right?”

  Herne nodded and held out the photo from Darrell Pike’s closet. “Do you know this woman?”

  Gorman glanced at the photo, recognition crossing his lean face. “That’s Bethany. She’s one of my students,” Gorman said. “Is she in danger?”

  “I hope not,” Herne said. “But I need her address.”

  Gorman nodded. “I’ve got some basic student records here at the house. I’m certain I have her address.”

  He opened the door wider so Herne could enter his home. Decorated for the athlete, a heavy bag and speed bag hung from the living room ceiling.

  “Bethany’s a good student,” Gorman told Herne as they walked through the house. “She’s not technically great, but she’s got heart and determination. If The Healer gets too close to her, he might be in for a surprise.”

  He flipped through neat and organized files, then scribbled Bethany’s phone number and address on a sheet of paper.

  Herne’s fingers trembled in anticipation. Worried Gorman would see and misinterpret their tremors, he grabbed at the paper and quickly turned to leave.

  “Bethany’s a sweet girl,” Gorman called out. “I hope she’s okay.”

  Me, too, Herne thought. But as the sun fell in the sky, he was starting to doubt that he’d find her alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The hot pain jolted him awake. Pike sat straight and agony seared his leg again. He looked down at his left leg, twisted underneath his body, and he could see a bit of white bone poking out from behind his knee. He turned his head and vomited, and the movement created another lightning bolt of pain. Jesus. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. The words tumbled through his mind as he screamed again.

  Bethany watched him, her eyes glittering. He thought she might be smiling beneath the tape on her lips.

  He tasted grit in his mouth. The grit of panic that he usually tasted at night. He touched his hand to the knot on his head and withdrew it to find blood. He grabbed his gun from the bedroom floor and waved it at her. “Shut up, bitch!”

  Pike looked outside, relieved to see the sun still shining in the sky. It wasn’t night yet. He still had time. He used his arms to push his body. Maybe I can stand on my good leg, he thought.

  But the fire in his knee dropped him to the floor again, and his screams were songs of frustration and pain.

  He tried again to stand, but each time the pain sent him back to the ground. He couldn’t walk. Couldn’t even hobble. He could only drag himself across the floor one inch at a time. And each and every moment the light faded in the sky. Already the falling sun just kissed the top of the horizon, ready to slumber for the night.

  Darkness. It would soon overtake him. Panic blurred his mind. His injury made it impossible for him to get to his car before nightfall. It would take hours just to crawl down the stairs. By the time he reached Bethany’s front door, the black of night would be outside. Waiting to suffocate him. Drown him. Choke him. He’d never survive.

  The phone rang and he almost reached for it. He thought about talking to the person on the other end of the phone. Confessing it all. The unknown of police capture seemed trite in comparison to spending the night in Bethany’s bedroom.

  He shook his head. You fool, he thought. The police will lock you up in a cell. They might throw you into solitary confinement, where the only light is the tiny sliver from beneath your door. It would be like the cellar again.

  He could not take that risk.

  He glanced at Bethany. She struggled with her tape, but he could see that her bonds still held. The switch for the light on her bedroom ceiling was beside the closet. Her bedside table held three candles—plain thick pillar candles—and a pack of matches.

  Slowly, he crawled until he reached the three candles and matches on her bedside table. Holding them in one hand, he pull
ed his body toward her closet. In one massive effort, he screamed and pulled himself up to flip the light switch on Bethany’s wall, ignoring the searing agony that ripped through his leg. The overhead light flickered on, bathing the room in brightness. For a moment he felt a flash of relief, and he rested on the floor, panting with fatigue and pain. But when he glanced outside the window, he could see the evening shadows. Panic colored his vision and he looked around wildly. He had to find a safe haven.

  He pulled himself closer to her closet using his arms and his one good leg, and his mind screamed with the excruciating suffering that burned through his body. I might never walk again, he thought. All of this crawling may have damaged my leg permanently.

  He thrust open the closet door. He needed to be in a corner, tucked away. As far away from the darkness as possible. On his belly, like a snake, he reached in the closet and pulled out a few pairs of her shoes to make an empty space in a corner.

  He grunted with the exertion as he crawled inside and curled in the space he’d made, screaming again as pain ripped through his broken leg. He started sobbing.

  A whimper—the sound of a wounded animal—escaped him.

  Bethany watched The Healer’s actions. He had obviously forgotten about her. She didn’t understand why he struggled to reach the candles on her table nor why he crawled into her closet.

  Then she heard him whimper, and she understood everything. She knew he was afraid. The one thing Bethany understood was fear.

  Bethany lived outside of town, not quite halfway between Hurricane and Carlisle. The modest brick house sat on a large property with few shrubs or bushes. No place for a burglar to hide, Herne thought.

  When he pulled into her driveway, he immediately noticed the dog, a purebred German Shepherd, barking wildly in the fenced yard. Its white teeth, bared and sharp, were almost bright in the night.

  Although the sky was dark, Bethany had four exterior lights on posts outside her home. They illuminated almost the entire yard, as well as a sign that read “This House Protected By Casanov’s Security System.” It’s amazing that Pike managed to get to someone so careful, Herne thought.

  He didn’t need to ask a professional psychologist to identify Bethany’s phobia. Her home security advertised it like a billboard.

  Herne ran to the front door. Three deadbolts secured it. He jiggled the locked handle, then walked around the house, searching for easier entry.

  When he reached the back, he saw light shining from the second floor. It was the only lit room in the dark house. The brightness shone through the window like a beacon.

  Herne’s mind flashed to the lamps in Pike’s home. He thought about fear. He thought about darkness.

  And he knew The Healer was still inside Bethany’s home.

  He ran around the house, looking for a way inside. Bethany was well prepared for intruders. Even the windows were almost impenetrable. They were narrow, high off the ground, and covered with black iron bars.

  Herne went back to the front door, examining the locks. He had no choice. He pulled out his .45 and started shooting them.

  Pike heard the gunshots. Something must be happening. Someone had come. Someone was playing hero. But they weren’t here to rescue him. No, they were here to rescue her.

  He wouldn’t be able to outrun someone. Not with his broken leg. He would be captured. Placed in solitary confinement. Locked in the dark.

  He pressed his head into his hands and let out a wail.

  Herne heard the noise, an almost childlike cry. He slowed his footsteps, knowing it would be foolish to underestimate The Healer at this time. It was possible—barely possible—that the Healer had issued the wail to entice him. To snare him. To make him move too quickly.

  The house was dark, but moonlight and Bethany’s exterior lights illuminated the rooms. It only took a few moments for Herne’s eyes to adjust.

  He glanced around at the low furniture, so minimal and sparse. The closets without doors were almost empty. They held only the barest of necessities: a broom, a vacuum cleaner, and a few small boxes.

  Herne crept through the house. A predator in seek of prey. His mind searched for ways to make Pike feel vulnerable. For tactics to scare The Healer into a mistake.

  Fear. Darkness.

  Herne grabbed the broom from the closet and shattered the light bulbs in the room, jagged fragments of fragile glass showering the floor. When every bulb in the room had been destroyed, he started moving through the rest of the house.

  Pike heard the breaking light bulbs. It was a sound he knew well. He kept a stockpile of bulbs in his own house, and he had broken a few during his lifetime. He knew the noise. Knew what was happening. Whoever was downstairs was destroying all the light.

  If I have to leave this room, Pike thought, I’ll be forced into the darkness.

  Pike wailed again, his primitive screech resonating through the house. Then he sobbed as he held the pack of matches closer to his chest.

  Herne finished with the light bulbs on the ground level. He crept up the stairs, casually holding the broom in his hand. He knew The Healer was upstairs. Afraid. He could almost feel the fear pouring from Pike’s body, waves of it washing over him.

  The bedroom door was open. Herne moved toward it and peeked inside, angling his body so he could see into the room without exposing himself. It was possible, Herne knew, that Pike had a gun.

  He noticed that the single ceiling light was the only one in the room. Bethany was on her bed, her hands taped to the headboard. She met Herne’s gaze, and he saw fear in her brown eyes but not panic. For that he was grateful. A panicked woman would be harder to handle. Harder to save.

  That’s why I’m here, he thought. To save a woman. To save this woman. I’m not here for The Healer. He is Tucker’s job. I’m here to save her.

  And he almost believed it.

  For just a moment Bethany thought a second person had come to kill her. The eyes of the man in her doorway looked cold and hard, like an angry god that passes judgment without mercy.

  Then she saw his gaze soften when he looked at her, and hope rose in her chest.

  Please let this nightmare be over, she thought.

  Herne smashed the hall light—a single bulb encased in a globe—with the broom, raining shards of glass over his head. Then he fired his gun and shattered the ceiling light in Bethany’s bedroom. The entire house fell dark.

  The Healer’s cry startled Herne. It was immediate and shrill, like a torture victim enduring his first round with a dull knife.

  Then Herne heard a noise that caused his heart to seize. The strike of a match.

  Fire.

  He ran into the bedroom, his gun drawn. He saw the flicker of light, the tiniest of flames, in the corner of Bethany’s closet. The outline of Pike’s body was barely visible. Herne pointed his gun.

  “Pike,” he said, hoping the quiver in his voice was perceptible only to him. “Come out slowly.”

  The only response was sobs and the strike of another match. Another flame. Herne saw The Healer lighting candles. The sulfuric odor of burnt matches filled the closet. He had to stop Pike. Quickly.

  “Come out,” Herne said again. “Come out and we’ll turn on the lights.”

  Another match. Another flame. Herne was running out of time.

  He moved toward the closet, gun drawn and directed at Pike. Though the candle flames were small, he could feel their heat. They seemed to warm him—to inflame him—until a thin sheen of perspiration blanketed his forehead.

  The outline of Pike’s face flickered in the dim candlelight. Herne knew who he was, of course. The clerk from The Sandwich Station. But seeing him now, in this setting, still jolted him. Just a little bit.

  Herne walked closer.

  Pike saw Herne moving toward him. They were coming for him at last. But he was too busy lighting candles. Too busy trying to chase away the darkness. He had no time to act. He could do nothing else.

  And then Herne was almost upon him. St
anding right in front of him. His face close. His hands outstretched. And Pike remembered all those times his father had reached for him, pulling him away from safety, forcing him into the darkness.

  “No,” Pike moaned, throwing up his hands. “No, Daddy. I’m scared.”

  The candles fell from his fingers and tumbled to the floor of the closet.

  Herne saw the candles fall. One of the candles extinguished, but the other two continued to burn. A flame touched a red silk scarf that lay atop a pile of clothing, and the fabric ignited. The clothes flared quickly, feeding the fire.

  Herne grabbed for Pike again, and The Healer struggled with him. “Please, Daddy,” Pike repeated, sobbing. He grabbed Herne’s arm. “Please don’t make me stay in the dark alone.”

  The fire flamed brighter. Herne could feel his own panic rising as the heat scorched his skin. He tried to pull away from Pike, but the man gripped him with strength amplified by panic.

  Herne had no time. Bathrobes and fuzzy slippers blazed in the closet. Dark smoke swirled around them, filling the air with the odor of smoldering cotton and melting plastic. He coughed, his lungs begging for fresh air, and his eyes felt like ashes. He had to move quickly.

  Herne yanked his arm from Pike’s grasp and used the butt of his gun to smash him on the head. Pike slumped back into the closet, unconscious.

  Herne glanced at the fire. It had grown too large for him to stamp out with his foot. He turned and ran to Bethany. Smoke filled the room, creating a fog of white and gray that scorched his lungs.

  Her eyes widened with fear, and her breath came in short, quick gasps. He saw the panic starting to form in her eyes, and he tried to calm her. Tried to reassure her. Prayed she didn’t hear the tremble in his voice.

  “I’m going to get you out of here. You’re going to be safe,” he said, working to ignore the voice in his head. The voice that said, You couldn’t keep your wife safe.