The Vampire Shrink kk-1

by Lynda Hilburn

  The first thing I noticed when I got off the elevator in my office building a while later was a bulging manila envelope propped against my waiting room door. I picked it up, tucked it under my arm and unlocked the doors leading to my reception area and then to my office. I sat down at my desk and inspected the package. There was nothing unusual about it – no address on the front, no postage or writing of any kind. Inside the envelope was some kind of light-blue fabric with extensive stains on it. My gut cramped and goose bumps appeared on my arms. I had an immediate bad feeling and picked up a pencil to lift the cloth out of its container. I’d seen enough cop shows to know about not contaminating evidence, and my intuition told me that I was in possession of something awful.

  Using the pencil to spread out the fabric on top of my desk, I could see it was one of those flimsy gowns they use in hospitals, the ones that never close in the back. The stains looked and smelled like blood.

  Blood. Hospital gown. My mind went straight to Emerald. Would she have worn this kind of garment?

  No. Get a grip. There must be hundreds of explanations for this item turning up in front of my door. It probably had nothing to do with Emerald at all. Just a case of someone leaving the package at the wrong place.

  Even though I tried hard to delude myself, none of the rationalisations were working and I began to feel nauseated. The smell of the package reminded me of my dream, and I unconsciously reached up to touch the wound on my neck, which I’d covered with a Band-Aid. I had the unpleasant realisation that if I didn’t get to the bathroom in ten seconds, I’d throw up on the floor. I made a mad dash and reached the toilet just in time to lose my morning coffee.

  Feeling hot and cold at the same time, my stomach completely empty, I went over to the sink and swished some water around in my mouth. It was a good thing I always carried a toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash in my purse. I stared into the mirror and reaffirmed Alan’s earlier assertion that I did indeed look like death today. Sometimes even the best makeup job wasn’t enough. Having such fair skin was a blessing most of the time because I always looked younger than I was, but today I had definitely crossed the line between ivory glow and anaemic pallor.

  I shuffled back into my office and rummaged through my briefcase, searching for the business card Alan had given me, and called the number. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Stevens.’

  ‘Alan, someone left me a bloody hospital gown.’

  ‘Kismet? Is that you? What about a hospital gown?’

  ‘Somebody left a package containing stained blue fabric at my office. Since Emerald disappeared from the intensive care unit, that’s too big a coincidence, don’t you think? Can you come over and look at it?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t touch anything. I’ll alert the local police and we’ll be right over.’ He hung up without saying goodbye.

  I fished the dental hygiene products out of my purse and scurried to the bathroom, where I brushed and swished until I felt almost normal, then headed back to my office.

  I sat at my desk, scrutinised the bloodstained material, and wondered again what I’d got myself into. I’d spent the last week bouncing back and forth between fear, confusion and arousal and I was exhausted. I didn’t think I’d been of help to anyone, and I certainly hadn’t done myself any good.

  Staring at my calendar, I realised I hadn’t checked my messages, so I punched in the retrieval code for my business voicemail and found several. The first was from Ronald, asking if we could reschedule his appointment because he’d been up all night searching for Emerald. It was a good thing he couldn’t make it because he’d be due at the same time the police would likely arrive and I hadn’t even taken that into account. In fact, I’d totally forgotten I had a client coming: another indication of my impending mental breakdown. I made a note to return his call later.

  I paused the messages and scanned my appointment book to make sure I hadn’t neglected any other important business, tapping my pen on the desk. Fran, my seventy-six-year-old UFO abductee client, was scheduled in this morning for her long-standing appointment, but it wasn’t going to work today. One of Fran’s challenges was a deep distrust of authority figures. I could only imagine what would happen if the police were still here when she arrived. Fran, who weighed no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, had been known to start screaming and flailing at the sight of a uniform, which usually guaranteed problems with whoever was wearing the offending garment at the time. Yes, I was definitely going to reschedule Fran.

  After Fran was Spock. His real name was Henry Madison, but he got very upset if anyone called him that. He lived in a perpetual Star Trek episode, even going as far as having his ears surgically altered to be ‘Vulcan’. He had his costumes tailor-made and shaved his eyebrows so he could draw on the ‘correct’ ones. Interestingly enough, Spock hadn’t come to therapy for any of the reasons one might assume. He’d come because he wanted to explore his poor choices with women. He just couldn’t seem to find the woman of his dreams. He suspected mother issues. I thought that was only the tip of the iceberg.

  Continuing with the messages, up next was my daily reminder from Brother Luther about the current state of my immortal soul. He usually gave me a portion of the sermon-of-the-week, and kept his remarks very general and impersonal. Today’s message had a different tone. He sounded agitated, and he talked a lot about being ‘washed in the blood’, and made a comment about being a warrior for God. He ranted on until the allotted message time ran out and was cut off mid-tirade. That was the first time one of his messages caused me to feel uncomfortable, and, in light of the other events of the morning, I considered whether or not I needed to tell the police about Brother Luther, too.

  CHAPTER 8

  Within an hour, my office was inundated with police officers and forensics specialists. They bagged up the manila envelope and its contents, confiscated the pencil I had used to move the cloth around, and were in the midst of seeking clues by crawling inch-by-inch along the hallway in front of my waiting room door. Alan stood next to my desk, silently observing the investigation and writing in his ever-present notebook.

  A bulky female officer approached me. She was big the way that a weightlifter is big, not fat, but solid and muscular. She must have been six feet tall. Dressed in a no-nonsense dark-blue trouser-suit, she appeared to be in her late forties, and the years hadn’t been kind. Her grey-streaked hair was cut very short in a style that required little upkeep, and the lines in her face had formed themselves into a continuous scowl. I guessed she’d been someone for whom high school had been hell, and she’d taken the Gold in the Olympic Holding a Grudge competition. Not someone I’d want to mess with, even if she hadn’t been wearing a gun at her hip.

  She marched purposefully over to me and snarled, ‘You Dr Knight?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gazing up at her, I suddenly felt six years old, called to the principal’s office.

  ‘Lieutenant Bullock. I need to get your statement.’ She pointed with her thumb back over her shoulder. ‘Let’s go over there.’

  I nodded. We walked to the couch and sat, and I told her everything about finding the envelope, taking out the bloody blue gown and calling Special Agent Stevens. She stopped writing and observed me, waiting, I supposed, for me to say something else. When I didn’t, she prompted, her voice deceptively even, ‘I understand you have a missing client?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not able to respond to that question.’

  ‘Why is that, Dr Knight?’ She lowered her head ever so slightly. ‘You’re the one who called us.’ Her voice became very quiet and controlled.

  Feeling the chill of her frosty gaze, I swallowed loudly and cleared my throat. ‘Under the rules of confidentiality, I’m not able to discuss whether someone is or isn’t a client. I called Special Agent Stevens because finding a package containing a bloody anything is out of my area of expertise. I thought it might be something he could deal with.’

  She held my eyes for a moment. ‘Why would someo
ne leave a bloodstained hospital gown in front of your door, Doctor?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  She gave an unfriendly smile. ‘Do you know Emerald Addison?’

  I sat silently, keeping my face pleasantly neutral.

  She moved closer and locked eyes with me. ‘I know Emerald Addison is your client. You’re obstructing a police investigation by refusing to cooperate. I’ll need copies of the records you have on her friends who are also your clients,’ she demanded, her voice getting louder.

  I tensed. ‘Lieutenant Bullock, I can only repeat what I’ve already said. I’m unable to respond. I’m bound by the rules of confidentiality.’ And Emerald really isn’t my client.

  She bolted up off the couch. ‘You’re starting to piss me off, Dr Knight.’

  Whoa. A cop with an anger issue – what a surprise. I met her gaze. ‘That isn’t my intention, Lieutenant. I’m bound by my professional obligations, just as you are.’

  She made a growling sound, paced around in front of me, then stopped and bent down so that our faces were inches apart. She whispered loudly, ‘If the blood on that gown matches the blood of the missing girl, you’re going to have a lot more questions to answer. Maybe you didn’t just find the gown. Maybe you had it all along. Maybe you’re hiding something. Maybe I’ll get a court order to force you to give me your records.’

  Every time she said the word ‘maybe’ she accented and elongated the first syllable, allowing each repetition to rise in pitch.

  My heart pounded in my chest and I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead. First Bryce, now Bullock. No one had ever got in my face and threatened me that way before, and I still wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Since I didn’t know what to say, I said nothing. That appeared to make her even angrier. I knew she couldn’t force me to divulge information, and I assumed she knew that, too.

  ‘Wilson,’ Lieutenant Bullock said to the tall, lanky policeman hovering next to her, ‘make sure you get all the good doctor’s contact information. I want to be able to find her day or night.’

  ‘I have it,’ he said, giving me cold eyes.

  She squinted at me and snapped, ‘Don’t leave town.’

  Then, like a fiery comet pulling meteorites in its tail, she left, taking all the officers with her.

  Alan came over, sat next to me on the couch, and patted my hand. ‘Now you know why her nickname is “Bull”.’

  I flopped back against the cushions, letting my shoulders slump. My mouth was so dry it took me a couple of attempts before I could speak. ‘What just happened here? All I did was find something and call it in. I was being a model citizen. Why am I suddenly a suspect?’

  ‘You’re not, not really. They’re all freaked out because they haven’t been able to solve any of the recent murders or find the missing girl. This is the first lead they’ve had in days. Lieutenant Bullock is taking this case very personally because she knew the first murder victim – he was a friend of hers, and she’s a very loyal person. Don’t let her get to you. I’ll try to run interference.’

  ‘What about the gown?’ I angled my head in his direction. ‘Do you think it was Emerald’s? Why would someone bring it to my office?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yesterday after Emerald was admitted to the hospital, I was hanging around in intensive care, hoping to catch a glimpse of her after they cleaned her up. My persistence paid off because during the transfusion, the nurse walked away for a minute and I took a good look at Emerald. The gown in the envelope was exactly the same as the one she was wearing in the hospital. Now, whether or not the blood is hers, only the lab guys can tell us, but my money’s on the likelihood that it is.’

  He studied his notebook, absently flipping through the pages, then gave me that serious eye-contact he was so good at.

  ‘You were the one who brought Emerald to the hospital, so maybe giving the bloody gown to you was a message. Can you think of anyone who’d want to communicate something to you that way? Any unusually psychotic clients? Anyone wanting to hurt you? Have you received any threats? You said Bryce and his sidekick broke into your office. What about them?’ He chewed on the end of his pen, observing my face expectantly.

  As soon as he mentioned Bryce and Raleigh’s visit, fear invaded my brain, but I wasn’t sure how much more I could tell Alan – how much I could trust him. If I implicated Midnight in the investigation, that was definitely a breach of confidentiality. I decided to fall back on an old therapy technique: when in doubt, say nothing. I wasn’t actually lying if I simply withheld information. Therapists are required to be discerning. But I did take note that my comfort level with bending the truth had expanded. I mentally added that to my list of things to worry about later.

  I kept my expression relaxed and called on my Inner Sociopath. ‘No. I don’t understand any of this. I can’t imagine it has anything to do with me. Do you think Emerald is still alive?’

  He studied the carpet. ‘I wish I could be more encouraging, but if they’ve drained her blood again, it doesn’t bode well. I’m hoping we can find out more tonight.’ He lifted his eyes to mine. ‘Are you still up for visiting The Crypt?’

  Damn. I’d forgotten all about that. Maybe I could catch Tom at his conference and make sure he wasn’t planning to stop by my house. I wasn’t inclined to let him use my office part-time anyway, and I knew better than to be alone with him and a bottle of wine.

  ‘Yes, I guess so. I’m not sure what good it will do, but since I’m involved now, I can’t just walk away.’ And I had to admit I was curious about the place. Right. Who was I kidding? I was curious about Devereux. Imagining the possibility of getting another glimpse of the platinum-haired fantasy object, I drifted off for a few seconds, indulging in a brief R-rated mental interlude.

  Sensing Alan’s eyes on me, I shook myself out of my daydream and wondered what the FBI profiler had seen on my face to cause the eyebrow-elevated, semi-suspicious expression he wore on his.

  I was about to enquire as to the meaning of that expression when I got a strong intuitive hit that he thought I was hiding something. I simply knew the gist of what he was thinking and feeling. Just my usual. Daydreaming about Devereux must have distracted me from my mental stress-a-thon long enough for me to sense the subtle layers and become aware of Alan’s energy. It did seem that my ability to psychically know things worked best when I wasn’t consciously trying to use it. Yeah, that was helpful. Or maybe it was more accurate to say it worked best when I didn’t get in the way.

  It didn’t seem possible that Alan could know anything about my interest in Devereux, so his flash of distrust had to have something to do with Emerald. But it really didn’t matter what he thought, because I wasn’t hiding anything. Not really. In fact, I’d never felt more ineffectual and clueless.

  Besides, even if he somehow did know about the contents of my fantasy, it wasn’t any of his damn business anyway.

  He opened his mouth to speak and I stood, surprising him. The best defence is offence. I’d had just about enough intrigue for one morning. I turned to him, straightened my posture, and checked my watch. ‘I have a client coming soon, so I need to get ready. Thanks for contacting the police and handling everything – I really appreciate it. I’ll see you tonight.’

  He remained seated for a few seconds, his face still registering confused surprise.

  Shit. Now he really thinks I’m up to something. He’s sending out wave after wave of questions. I should’ve just asked him why he was staring at me that way. Now I’ve turned it into some big, strange deal. Why does he make me so nervous?

  He finally stood slowly, his eyebrows contracted into a V, and offered a tight smile.

  ‘Yeah, tonight, sure. See you then.’

  He walked to the door, glanced over his shoulder at me once and left.

  ‘Well,’ I said out loud, ‘I certainly handled that with finesse and style. Let’s hear it for the Queen of Mixed Messages.’

  I forced myself to turn my attention back to work and
settled in at my desk, intending to grab hold of anything even remotely normal, anything I felt competent to handle.

  As I sat there, I remembered that I’d forgotten to tell the police about the phone calls from Brother Luther. It was probably just as well I hadn’t, because it was most likely nothing. I’d been so caught up in the drama of the last few days that I was getting paranoid. Plus, telling Lieutenant Bullock something that might prove to be a false alarm was the last thing I intended to do.

  Since Ronald had cancelled his appointment and I’d rescheduled Fran, I had some time to myself before Spock was due for his session. I tried writing some case notes but kept getting distracted and staring out the window. I decided to stroll over to the nearby 16th Street Mall, a pedestrian-friendly outdoor shopping area in the heart of downtown Denver, and pick up some office supplies along with a bit of much-needed protein.

  I roamed around the mall for a while, checking out the window displays, and then made a beeline over to my favourite food cart. I didn’t normally buy food off quirky carts in the middle of shopping malls, but one of my clients had raved about the quality of Maria’s breakfast burritos, and because I was a fan of Mexican food, it was a no-brainer that I’d go and sample the goods.

  Because I’d emptied out the contents of my stomach before the police arrived and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten before that, it was definitely time to refuel. As I gave myself a quick internal lecture about needing to take better care of myself, my mouth was already watering in response to the heavenly aromas wafting from the gastronomical oasis. The charming young man standing at the cart was Juan, Maria’s son, and we were on a first-name basis.

  ‘Doctor Kismet! What’s it gonna be today? Spicy or mild?’ he teased as he scooped steaming scrambled eggs into a soft tortilla. Juan told me that he could tell what kind of mood I was in by the amount of hot peppers I asked for in my burrito. He called it Burrito Psychology.