Followed

by Mark Lukens

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Renee. I’m going to get caught up on some paperwork.” He had almost an hour before the first patient of the day.

  Phil entered his office which was down the short hall that led off of the door from the waiting room. The two doors on the left hand side down from the receptionist area led to two smaller offices that Phil was using as storage right now—he kept those doors locked and they had no nameplates on them. The only door on the right hand side led to the large office, the only office with windows that looked out onto the half-acre of tropical Florida vegetation at the end of their little medical plaza. The door at the end of the hall led out to a small employee parking area.

  The other two offices could be home to other psychologists if Phil ever wanted to team up with others and split the lease and expenses, but for now he was doing well enough on his own.

  He closed his office door and went straight to his desk which took up one end of the room. The walls behind his desk were lined with bookcases that held rows of books, knickknacks, a stereo system, and a small flat screen TV. He set his briefcase down on the little table behind his desk and turned on his desktop computer, letting it warm up.

  He looked across his large office to the seating area on the other side of the room. An overstuffed couch and two recliners surrounded a low and massive coffee table. The plate-glass windows in the distance looked out onto the green wall of tropical plants. He found the view relaxing, and he hoped his patients did, too. Around the room there were other small tables and pieces of furniture with knickknacks, pottery, and houseplants on them. Cathy had decorated his office for him, utilizing her artist’s eye. She even hung a few of her paintings up, both of them subdued flowery pastels that had an almost abstract feel to them.

  Yes, he was able to relax a little now that he was back at work. The guy who had followed them home in the pickup truck still bothered him, but being back in his office, back to the day-to-day routine, somehow made everything feel somewhat normal again, not the Twilight Zone episode that this weekend had been.

  But the one thing that really bothered him now was that the nightmares had come back. It had been such a long time since he’d had them.

  He didn’t want to think about that. Those nightmare images were from his old days—he’d changed so much since then; he was a completely different person now. He believed that the mind was a powerful thing, and you could create the person you wanted to be if you tried hard enough.

  Phil turned the stereo on behind him. It was already loaded up with a playlist of songs from the early 90’s, a lot of grunge rock. The songs might not seem relaxing to most (and he certainly didn’t play this music when his patients were in here), but they instantly brought Phil back to his college days, back to when he and Cathy had met.

  He opened his folders and got to work.

  • • •

  The day flew by, and after a quick bite from the lunch he had packed for himself that morning, Renee was at his half-open door with a soft knock. “Dr. Stanton, your one o’clock is waiting in the lobby.”

  “Thanks, Renee. You can send him in.”

  Phil had looked over the forms Carlos filled out a few weeks ago. Carlos was here because of problems with anxiety and depression, the evil twins of the mental health world, seemingly diametrically opposed, but somehow linked together. At least half of his patients came to him with one or both of these conditions. Carlos wasn’t seeing another psychologist and had never seen one before. He had no primary doctor. He took no medications and seemed to be in good health. He was thirty-eight years old. This rudimentary information gave Phil a starting point when meeting a patient for the first time.

  Moments later Renee was back, opening the door all the way. “Dr. Stanton, this is Carlos.” She let Carlos in and then left, closing the door softly.

  Phil was already standing, already walking towards the new patient. He didn’t reach a hand out in greeting in case the patient had contact issues, and he didn’t crowd a new patient without knowing how extensive his or her anxiety was. He always let the patients make the first move, trying to make them feel comfortable right away.

  But since Carlos had extended a hand, Phil felt obligated to shake it. Carlos had a firm handshake, way too firm, trying to crush Phil’s hand. But Phil passed that off as some kind of defense mechanism, Carlos’ way of compensating for feeling vulnerable in this situation. Most patients felt vulnerable coming to see him, especially at first when they were encouraged to open up and reveal their deepest secrets.

  Carlos was Phil’s height of five foot eleven, and probably around the same weight, but Carlos was put together more solidly, made up of more wiry muscle and harder edges than Phil was. The man looked strong, and he’d already showed off that strength with his handshake.

  Phil gestured at the seating area. “Please, take any seat you want.”

  Carlos didn’t respond; he just walked towards the seating area. Phil didn’t have a “doctor’s chair,” and he let his patients select the couch or one of the chairs. No couch for Carlos, he sat down in the chair closer to the windows.

  Something bothered Phil about Carlos, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was Carlos’ overly strong handshake, or the way he sat down in the chair, or maybe it was just his posture and confident demeanor. Carlos didn’t seem like someone who was anxious or depressed. Of course he could be suppressing those feelings in public. Carlos sat rigidly in the chair, somehow relaxed but tense at the same time. His small dark eyes darted around, taking the whole office in with a few glances. His dark curly hair was cropped close, almost buzzed short. He seemed like he’d spent time in the military, or in some other institution of forced orderliness—like prison.

  “Thanks for seeing me so quickly,” Carlos said.

  Phil nodded. “Of course.” He scolded himself inwardly for feeling uneasy around Carlos; he was sure it was the lingering effects from this crazy weekend—and his hangover probably wasn’t helping—but he needed to get a hold of himself and focus on his patient.

  “I don’t really know what to say,” Carlos said.

  “Let’s just talk a little bit,” Phil said. He sat in the chair across from Carlos, his leg crossed casually over the other, his leather-bound notebook on his lap. But he kept the notebook closed for now. “This is just the first session. Let’s not let it get too formal. We’ll just talk a little, get to know each other.”

  “Dr. Phil Stanton,” Carlos said like he was rolling Phil’s name around on his tongue. “Dr. Phil. Do you get a lot of teasing about that?”

  A bad joke from Carlos, possibly a mean-spirited joke. Maybe another means of Carlos trying to retain control of the situation.

  “Maybe behind my back,” Phil answered, trying to remain serious, showing Carlos that he was no pushover and that he wasn’t going to be intimidated by Carlos’ show of virility and dominance.

  And then Phil smiled, even chuckling a little, showing Carlos that everything was still fine between them, no hostility yet, nothing to get riled about . . . just two men sharing a joke.

  Carlos didn’t laugh. He was still glancing around, still sitting rigidly in his chair like a coiled spring. He was silent for a long moment.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Phil asked. “Coffee or tea. A soft drink? A bottle of water?”

  “No thanks.”

  And that was it, Carlos didn’t say any more. His dark eyes were on Phil now, not looking away or glancing around at the office.

  Phil tried to get the conversation going again. “Well, Carlos, are you from around here?”

  “I’ve lived here in Florida for a while now.” A pause, and then: “I used to live in Oregon.”

  “I lived in Oregon, too,” Phil said.

  “Small world.” Clipped words from Carlos.

  “Yeah,” Phil added, still struggling to keep the conversation going. “I grew up there.”

  Carlos didn’t reply; he just stared at Phil.

  “Beautif
ul place,” Phil said. “Rains a lot, but I miss it sometimes. I miss the mountains.”

  Carlos still didn’t say anything.

  Phil needed to change the subject, move things in a different direction. “What do you do for a living?” he asked even though he’d seen Carlos’ occupation on his forms.

  “I’m in sales,” Carlos said in a flat tone.

  For some reason Phil thought Carlos was lying. If Carlos was in sales, Phil wondered how good he was at it—he didn’t seem very friendly or talkative. In fact, a few things didn’t seem to be adding up already. Carlos was supposed to be here for anxiety and depression problems, but Phil hadn’t seen any classic signs of either one of those disorders. Of course Carlos might be guarded right now, acting different deliberately, perhaps embarrassed about being here and needing help. But something still felt off about Carlos.

  “Sales,” Phil said, nodding like that was the most interesting thing in the world. “What kind of sales?”

  Carlos let out a long sigh but didn’t answer the question.

  He doesn’t want to answer because he doesn’t have an answer. Because he’s lying.

  “What about hobbies?” Phil asked, pivoting to another subject. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

  “I like to kill people.”

  NINE

  Phil

  For a moment it felt like Phil couldn’t breathe. His heart hammered in his chest. His head was beginning to throb again. His skin felt tingly and clammy. He shifted in his chair, trying to mask his shock. He was a professional, and he needed to act like one.

  Carlos hunched forward in his chair, showing the first signs of interest and excitement now. His eyes were still right on Phil—never wavering. He looked mean, not like a coiled spring anymore, but more like a coiled snake now, a poisonous one that was ready to strike. “Can I ask you something, Dr. Phil?”

  Phil didn’t overlook Carlos’ sarcastic use of his name. But he still needed to remain stoic and professional. He needed to find out why Carlos was testing him. “Sure, Carlos. Ask anything you want. That’s why you’re here. I want us to get everything out in the open.”

  Carlos seemed even more excited, but also a little fidgety and nervous. He was nearly trembling with . . . what? Anticipation? “Have you ever seen anybody tortured?”

  Phil was shocked again, but he sat very still, one leg still crossed over the other, his notebook still balanced on his lap. Even though he tried to show no outwards signs of it, he was starting to get a little scared. Yet he held Carlos’ gaze and answered his question. “No, I haven’t. Why would you ask that?”

  Carlos closed his eyes for a moment. He exhaled a long, slow breath as he opened his eyes and looked right at Phil. “When I say torture, I mean the kind of torture that can be drawn out for days. It’s good if you can be someplace where you won’t be disturbed, where screams won’t be overheard.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Carlos?”

  “That’s just the physical torture,” Carlos continued like Phil hadn’t spoken. “Then there’s the mental torture, too. A victim waits, never knowing exactly when the pain will start. When the pain will stop. For instance, you could strap a man to a chair in a dark room. You could wheel a cart of tools into that room and leave it right next to the man so he could see every tool on that tray: the knives, the hammer and nails, the pliers, the blow torch. That man could wonder what each tool is going to be used for, and on which part of his body that tool is going to be used. He could wonder how long this will take. Will it take hours? Days? Weeks?”

  Phil didn’t say anything. He let Carlos keep going while he tried to figure out why Carlos was saying all of this. Was Carlos dangerous? Was he just putting on a show? And then Phil began to get an icy feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach as a thought occurred to him. Was Carlos the man who had been driving the pickup truck Saturday night? Was he the one who had followed them home?

  But that had happened only a few days ago. Carlos’ meeting had been set up a few weeks ago.

  However, Renee had told Phil that Carlos had sought him out specifically as a psychologist. Maybe Carlos had been setting this up for a while, and he’d been waiting on that side road on Saturday night, knowing they were traveling down that road, waiting to pull out in front of them.

  But why?

  “And you don’t have to use any of those tools right away,” Carlos continued, getting more and more animated. “That’s the beauty of it. You could remain in the shadows just watching this bound and helpless man as he stares down at the tools, waiting and waiting. Soon the man would begin begging. Soon the man’s mind would begin to crack.” Carlos smiled at Phil—an evil little grin. “Have you ever tortured someone like that, Dr. Phil?”

  “Of course not, Carlos. Why would you ask something like that?”

  “Have you ever killed anyone, Dr. Phil?”

  A flash of his recent nightmares ran through Phil’s mind—for a split second he saw Dolores. He saw her blood-spattered face, her mouth moving as she tried to tell him something.

  Phil pushed those thoughts away. He had let Carlos’ little game go on too long now. He stood up. “No, I haven’t killed anyone,” he said.

  “You sure about that?”

  Phil glanced at the door and then looked back at Carlos. He wanted to keep an eye on Carlos. He wondered if he could make it to the door in time if he had to. Phil suddenly felt old and slow, he felt soft and weak compared to Carlos. He wondered if Carlos had a weapon on him, a knife or a gun.

  “Please excuse me,” Phil said, trying to control the waver in his voice. “I need to talk to my receptionist for a moment.”

  Phil expected Carlos to jump to his feet, protest, and then attack. But he remained seated, and he actually sank deeper into his chair, as if relaxed now. “Sure. Take your time, Dr. Phil.”

  Phil walked to the door, afraid he would be attacked from behind. He felt that twitchy kind of fear as adrenaline coursed through him. He felt like a man hurrying through a thunderstorm, afraid of a lightning strike at any second.

  But a few seconds later he was out in the hallway, and then he was in the receptionist area. Carlos hadn’t followed him.

  Renee could tell right away that Phil was scared. “What’s wrong?”

  Phil kept his voice low. “This patient is very disturbed.”

  “Oh my God,” Renee whispered. Her eyes darted past Phil to the doorway that led out to the hall.

  Phil was tempted to turn around and look, but Renee’s eyes hadn’t widened in fright.

  “Did he try . . . I mean, did he do anything?” she asked.

  “No. He’s just talking right now. Making threats. Acting aggressively. Just be ready to call the police if you hear me yelling.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go back there.”

  That idea was tempting, but he needed to get Carlos out of his office. “I need to let him know that I can’t help him. I need to let him know that he needs to go somewhere else.”

  But what Phil really needed to do was find out why Carlos was here, find out what he really wanted.

  You know what he wants.

  Phil pushed that voice away and looked at Renee. “I need you to come knock on my door in five minutes. Tell me that I have an urgent phone call. Then I’m going to pretend to take it and tell Carlos I have an emergency to attend to.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in five minutes. I’ll have my cell phone with me in case . . . you know, if I need to dial 911.”

  “Good. Thanks, Renee. Sorry about this.”

  She touched his forearm, her hand lingering there for a moment too long, her eyes locked on to his. “It’s not your fault. Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Phil walked back down the hall and entered his office, ready to confront Carlos and ask him why he was here.

  Carlos wasn’t in his office.

  Phil glanced around—there wasn’t anywhere for Carlos to hide. He was about to step back in
to the hall, but something on the coffee table in the seating area caught his eye—a white envelope that hadn’t been there before.

  Carlos had left something behind.

  Phil hurried over to the seating area and picked up the envelope. It was small, the size of a notecard. There was no writing on it. It wasn’t sealed. Phil opened it up. He pulled out the card inside and flipped it open. There was one sentence typed on the inside.

  He went back to his desk and sat down, reading the sentence over and over again, trying to understand.

  There was a soft knock at his door. Phil jumped up and slid the notecard into his pocket.

  “Dr. Stanton?” Renee asked in a nervous voice. “You have an urgent phone call.” She entered his office and then stopped abruptly, looking around.

  “He’s gone,” Phil said.

  “How? I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Must’ve gone out the back.”

  Phil marched past Renee at the door, out into the hall. He headed for the back door. A moment later he was outside in the employee parking area.

  Renee had followed Phil, but she stayed at the door, keeping it open.

  Carlos wasn’t anywhere in the parking area. There was no white pickup truck.

  Phil hurried over to his Lexus and checked it out. The windows weren’t shattered, the tires weren’t flattened, there were no scratches dug into the black paint. And there were no other white envelopes or notecards stuck underneath the windshield wipers. No, Carlos had already said what he wanted to say on the notecard in his pocket, everything reduced down to that one sentence typed on the card.

  He walked back to Renee. “You didn’t see what kind of vehicle Carlos was driving, did you?”

  “No. Sorry. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Phil entered the building and Renee closed the door. “What am I supposed to do if he comes back?” she asked.

  Phil wasn’t so sure Carlos was coming back—he had delivered his message. But that didn’t mean that Phil wouldn’t be seeing Carlos again very soon. “Just call the police,” he told her as he went back to his office.