He returned his attention to The Healer. “Where’s Saxon?” he asked.
Tucker looked startled. “Saxon? I don’t know. Why the hell should I know?”
“I thought you might know her whereabouts because she’s your lieutenant,” Herne said. Not now, he thought. Now is not the time to discuss your guilt, Rex.
“Oh.” Tucker paused. “I think she was going to go to Lochhead’s office and apply a little pressure.”
“It won’t help,” Herne said. “Lochhead’s a prick.”
“I know,” Tucker said. “But she wanted to try. She thought her feminine powers of persuasion might work a little better than your strong arm techniques.”
Herne shrugged. “It’s possible, I guess. It’s certainly worth a shot.”
“Do you need her for something?” Tucker asked.
“I wanted her to research this latest note from The Healer. It doesn’t really matter where the quotation originated, but I’m curious.”
“I can call her,” Tucker said.
Herne shook his head. “I’ll do it myself. The bookstore is only a short drive.” The child in him, the part that spent every waking moment wrapped in horror and death, wanted to get lost for a brief period of time amid rows of paperback books.
Tucker nodded and touched his fingers to his forehead as Herne left the office.
People never realized that private investigators were really nothing more than glorified researchers, Morales thought. Maybe they didn’t thumb through dusty tomes on library bookshelves. Maybe their tools—high-powered binoculars, miniature cameras, listening devices, and lock picks—were less academic. But it still boiled down to the same thing. Research.
Morales sifted through the bits of paper he’d retrieved from the trash. Garbage told him a lot about a person. He learned about a person’s habits. Preferences. Desires.
Searching through trash meant discovering private information, like social security numbers and birthdates and even a pet’s name.
They say that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, Morales thought. And they’re certainly right about that.
He gathered his loot and hurried back to his Nissan. He still had work to do before sunset.
Frances’ owlish eyes watched Herne as he entered the door to Pages of Print. He met her scrutiny with a stare of his own, noting that her muumuu was covered in a print of tropical fish. The cat was nowhere in sight, but he could smell the acrid evidence of nearby litterbox. “Back so soon?” she asked. “Need another textbook?”
“Not this time,” Herne replied. “I’m looking for Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I actually don’t have any in stock right now, sweetheart. But I can order one for you.”
“No, thanks,” Herne said. There was a big bookstore in Carlisle, but it was too far to drive. Herne would have to find the information he needed on the Internet.
“I had no idea that book was going to be such a big seller. Had I known, I would have ordered more copies.”
Her words reverberated in his head and Herne spun to face her. “Big seller? How many have you sold?”
“Two in the past few months. And believe me, sweetie, that’s unusual. It’s a classic reference, but there’s just not much of a demand for it in Hurricane. Those are the first copies of that book I’ve sold in about five years.”
Herne wanted to fly at the woman and shake her until the answers he needed spilled from her jowls. But he tried to keep his emotions even and controlled. “Do you remember who purchased them?” he asked.
Frances nodded. “The most recent one was sold to a young woman in a police uniform. She was very attractive, despite her short hair.”
Saxon, Herne thought. “What about the other copy? Do you remember the person who bought it?” He clenched his fists tightly. It was possible—likely, even—that The Healer had purchased a copy of the book for his own reference. Please, Herne thought, please remember.
“That one was a little longer ago,” Frances admitted. “To tell you the truth, sweetheart, I can’t remember anything about the buyer.”
“Man? Woman?” He couldn’t stop the impatience from creeping into his voice.
“I think it was a man,” Frances said.
“Can you look it up on your computer? See if he paid with a credit card?”
Frances gestured at her calculator, a cheap plastic large button model. “That is my computer,” she said. Her grin revealed crooked teeth, stained yellow. “I’m a small operation.”
“Do you keep any type of records? Credit card slips? Copies of receipts? Anything?” His teeth clenched with desperation. So close, he thought.
“Does this have to do with The Healer?” Frances asked. She fluttered her hands in front of her ample chest. “I’ve read about this in the paper. You’re helping Chief Tucker, right? Is that what this is about? The Healer?”
“It’s possible. I need your records.” Now, Herne thought. I need them now.
“Just a moment, sweetie.” Frances’ hands continued to flutter, like two chubby butterflies with spasms. “Wait right here.” She walked through a door behind the counter and left Herne alone in the store.
Herne fought the impatience that boiled inside him. Hurry, he mentally urged her. He wanted to pace. He wanted to fidget. But instead he remained completely still, his emotions coiled tightly in his gut.
A few moments later she returned, carrying four shoeboxes. She opened one for him.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m a very small store. I don’t even have any employees. So I don’t have much of a need to keep detailed records.”
Inside the box was a scattered pile of carbon copied receipts. Each receipt was handwritten and contained the title of the book, the price, the total sale, and the method of payment such as cash or credit card. If the customer paid by credit card, a copy of the credit card slip was stapled to the handwritten receipt.
“Are they in any particular order?” Herne asked. His stomach clenched as he looked at the jumble of paper.
She shook her head. “Not really, sweetie. I mean, they’re sort of organized by month. I think this box contains the first couple of weeks in May.”
“And do you have any idea when you sold your first copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations? Not the one that went to the female police officer, but the other copy?”
Herne knew the answer when he saw the bleak look on her face. He picked up his phone to dial the police station. He would need some help.
He’d left Officers Miller and Johnson at Pages of Print to thumb through Frances Gallow’s shoeboxes of receipts. He had another chore to complete.
There was no sign of Morales’ Nissan at his home or office. Herne took a gamble and drove down Main Street. There was the silver SUV, parked a block from the police station. This time Herne pulled in a few cars behind him. It was risky to sit so close, but he thought Morales was unlikely to notice him among the other vehicles.
Herne could see the private investigator’s head through the windows of the cars in front of him. After a few minutes, Herne realized that Morales’ sight was fixed solidly on the front door of the police station.
Is he watching all of us? Herne thought. Or just one of us?
A few minutes later Saxon walked out of the station doors and slid into her patrol car. She eased the car out of the parking lot.
Morales let two cars pass before he followed her.
Herne did the same.
As the three of them continued their private parade down Main Street, it became obvious that Morales was intentionally following Saxon. Herne kept his eyes focused on the Nissan, trailing the red taillights like a bloodhound on the scent. He had no intention of losing Morales in the traffic.
Saxon turned onto Breezewood Drive and they followed.
She drove a few more minutes before pulling into a newer residential neighborhood. Most of the homes were split levels of varying sizes with large backyards.
The residents drove economy model Fords and Chevys, more trucks than cars. Half the driveways were paved, and the other half were gravel. Chain link fences with “Beware of Dog” signs decorated the landscape. Although Herne had never been to Saxon’s home, he guessed this was where she lived. It was exactly the kind of neighborhood that a Hurricane lieutenant might be able to afford as long as she didn’t buy extravagant cars or exotic vacations.
As Saxon pulled into the driveway of her home, Morales drove past and turned the corner. Herne pulled into Saxon’s driveway just as she slipped out of her car. She glanced up when she saw him walking toward her, the surprise registering on her face. The stones in her driveway crunched beneath his feet, and when fear and concern crossed her face, he felt guilty.
“What are you doing here? Is everything all right?” she asked.
For a brief moment he considered his approach. But he thought it would be foolish to be anything but blunt. “There’s someone following you,” Herne said.
“Following me? Who?” She looked around, her head swiveling on her neck like a toy marionette.
“It’s Robert Morales, the private investigator who has an office in Lochhead’s building.”
“The one who drives the silver SUV,” Saxon said.
Herne nodded. “Good memory,” he said. “He’s been watching the PD. And today he followed you from the station to your home. He drove on, but I think it’s a safe bet that he’s parked nearby.”
“How do you know he’s following me?” Saxon asked.
“Because I’ve been following him,” Herne replied.
“Is he a suspect?”
“That depends.” Herne looked straight at her eyes, his gaze steady. “I need you to answer a question. It’s an uncomfortable question. But I need an honest answer.”
Saxon opened her mouth to speak. Then she closed her mouth, swallowed hard, and nodded. Herne could see the tension in her shoulders.
“Do you have a phobia?” he asked.
Relief filled her face and her shoulders relaxed. I didn’t ask the question she expected, Herne thought.
“No,” she answered.
“You don’t have any fears at all? Heights? Dogs? Spiders?”
Saxon shrugged. “Heights make my stomach kind of queasy,” she said, “but I wouldn’t call it a phobia. I don’t have any problems climbing ladders or walking over bridges.”
Herne’s eyes narrowed. “Is there any other reason a private investigator might be following you?”
Saxon shook her head. “No. Nothing.”
But Herne saw the crimson blush that spread across her pale cheeks—so red it looked like a sudden onset of rosacea—and he knew she was lying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They never loved her. Not the way she loved them. And this time, she was going to make him pay.
Sarah Coyle would have sacrificed everything for her man. She would have given up her career. Her family. Even her life.
She remembered the first day she worked for Peter Lochhead. Charming and suave, he had reminded her a little bit of a young Sean Connery. Showing her the desk and files, his hand had grazed her arm, his spicy cologne filling the air with masculinity.
Sarah fell hopelessly in love with him.
She longed for him. Every time he walked into the room, she caught her breath. Her body ached whenever he called her name. She often had to force her trembling fingers from reaching out to stroke his hand or his smooth chin.
Her passion was rewarded with only small smiles and polite gestures. She’d hold her breath and turn pleading eyes toward his face every time he held the door open for her, but his gaze never met hers. His attention was always engaged by something else—a cell phone or a newspaper or an umbrella—and never focused on her.
A year passed before it finally became clear that he would never love her, despite her loyalty and faithfulness. The affection he gave her was little more than a nod, like a pat on the head for an enthusiastic puppy. Barely an acknowledgement.
And then Sergeant Christopher Frey entered the room with a self-assured swagger like that of a young Paul Newman.
Sarah stood in her small kitchen, her hands clenched in tight fists, the tips of her fingernails pressing into the flesh of her palms. Christopher Frey.
He didn’t love her, either.
And she wanted to find a way to make him pay for it.
The video feed played but Herne saw nothing new in Lochhead’s office. An empty waiting room. A lonely file cabinet. Neither Sarah Coyle nor Sergeant Frey had again appeared on the camera.
Herne sipped the whiskey in his glass, barely noticing the feel of the liquid burning his throat. A few weeks ago, at Tucker’s barbeque, the taste of the whiskey had been sweeter than chocolate pudding. It had aroused his senses better than any drug or any woman.
But now, only a short time later, the booze was nothing more than his everyday fix. It had become a habit, just like the cigarette that burned in his ashtray. The scent of the stale smoke clung to his clothing and permeated his furniture.
They were just habits. Habits he wouldn’t really notice until they were taken away from him again.
Miller and Johnson still worked at Pages of Print, dutifully thumbing through shoeboxes in search of a receipt for the sale of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. Herne wouldn’t have been much use to them. Too many cooks spoil the broth, as his father used to say. So instead he watched the video feed of Lochhead’s office. It gave him something to think about. Something to occupy his mind so that all those other thoughts—the ones about Maggie and booze and Elizabeth—could be shoved away.
He shifted in his chair, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he hunched forward.
I’m getting old, he thought. I probably need more exercise.
He glanced down at his belly, which strained against the waistband of his jeans. He’d probably added ten pounds to his frame since Maggie’s death. It wasn’t much, but it was starting to show on his normally lean stomach.
He stubbed out his cigarette, set the computer so it would record the video feed in Lochhead’s office, and pushed away from the table.
Maybe I’ll get some exercise. I’ll take a walk, he thought. He glanced at the empty Jack Daniels bottle on his kitchen counter. I can at least walk to the liquor store.
The soft glow of his lamps offered no comfort. He sat, bathed in their light, his knees pulled up to his chest. Tears seeped from his eyes and splashed on his cheeks as he whimpered softly.
Memories flooded his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut. In his mind he saw his mother. Her hands clasped between her breasts and her eyes sad.
He had wept the tears of a young child, words spilling from his mouth through the snot that coated his lips. “No, Daddy. No. Please. Please. No.” His teeth chattered with terror, each of his words punctuated with the click of enamel.
His father shook him with such force that his head felt as if it flopped limply on his neck. “Stop blubbering,” his father hissed. “You’re upsetting your mother.”
The cellar door groaned open, like a mouth yawning wide.
The Healer could still feel the quick jerk on his arm—always expected, yet a surprise every time. His fingers flew out, brushing against the rough whiskers on his father’s face. And then down the wooden stairs he’d tumble, thumping against each step, and falling into the darkness of the cellar. The dirt floor smelled earthen and musty, and he tasted the grit in his mouth.
He’d scramble to his feet quickly, his hands reaching out for the bright light that spilled through the open cellar door.
But before he could start climbing the stairs—before he had time to move—the door would slam shut with a final bang. Only the thinnest sliver of light remained visible beneath the cellar door.
He would crawl up the stairs, moving as quickly as he could on the uneven steps. He feared his noise would awaken all the creatures that scurried around in the cellar, but his terror drove him forward.
When
he reached the top of the stairs, he’d press his face against the bottom of the door, trying to look into the brightness. Soaking up the light with his eyes. Reaching his fingers through the crack to touch safety.
And then, in the cruelest of motions, his father would place a long, wooden board along the bottom of the door and block all the light.
And The Healer would scream.
Just as he screamed now.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Herne poked his breakfast with his fork. Two eggs, scrambled, with a side order of potato pancakes made from the previous night’s mashed potatoes. Herne detected just a hint of garlic in his potatoes. Someone at Shady Hill Diner had gotten fancy yesterday.
As usual, the scent of frying bacon and hot coffee filled the diner. His stomach clenched. Even Maude Jameson’s homemade blueberry pie seemed unappetizing.
He analyzed each piece of the puzzle in his mind, turning it over as he methodically chewed his food. Morales and his silver SUV. An SUV that might have been outside Amanda Todd’s house. Lochhead was the only direct connection to The Healer. Each victim had been his patient. Morales had the skills and the ability to stalk a victim. But why was he following Saxon?
Herne tightened his jaw. He was working a puzzle with missing pieces and the frustration caused him to grind his teeth.
“That’s a hell of a snarl you’re wearing,” Tucker said as he slid into the seat across from Herne.
“I’m thinking,” Herne said.
“Well, it makes you look like one grumpy bastard.”
Herne didn’t reply. He wanted the news from Tucker—wanted the results from Johnson and Miller’s search at Pages of Print—but he wasn’t going to beg for it.
Tucker sighed and motioned to Sherry for a cup of coffee. “They spent nine hours last night sorting through the receipts at Gallows’ bookstore. It was a dead end.” Tucker handed him a small slip of paper. It was a receipt for the sale of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations and Larousse Gastronomique, dated April fourth. The Healer had paid cash for both books.
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