Phobia KDP

by Shives, C. A.

  “According to Frances Gallows, that second book is a cookbook. It’s been around for years, and apparently is a cult favorite for fucking foodies.”

  “I know.” Herne’s father had kept a copy in his kitchen at home.

  “We can’t seem to catch a break,” Tucker said. “I asked Gallows if she could remember anything else about the guy who made the purchase, but all she said was that he was Caucasian. That’s not much help since the only non-whites in Hurricane are Mr. Woo from the Chinese restaurant, our Medical Examiner Paul Lee, and The Kellers on Oak Street.”

  “And Robert Morales,” Herne said.

  Tucker leaned forward, his eyes sparking. “And, by the way, when the fuck were you going to tell me that this guy is following my lieutenant around town?”

  “You talked to Saxon.”

  “Of course I talked to Saxon,” Tucker said. “And I’m wondering why I didn’t hear about this from you.”

  “I didn’t have any solid evidence on the guy,” Herne said. “I still don’t.”

  “Saxon could be in danger,” Tucker growled. “Don’t you think that’s a good enough reason to tell me about this?”

  “She’s not in danger,” Herne said.

  “And how the fuck do you know that?”

  “Because she doesn’t have a phobia,” Herne said.

  “Then why the fuck is he following her?”

  Herne looked his friend in the eyes. “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Tucker met Herne’s gaze. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the diner, a scent that seemed to hang in the tension between them. After a moment, Tucker shook his head and stared down at the table.

  They sat in silence as Herne picked up his fork and continued eating. His throat was so tight that he could barely swallow his food, although the creamy potatoes seemed to melt on his tongue.

  Tucker added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to his coffee. Behind them, two women, a redhead and a brunette, chattered about their lives. They were soccer moms, the type who organized church socials and PTA meetings. Their cotton shirts and khaki pants were the unofficial uniform of Hurricane housewives.

  “I’d never tell him the truth about it,” the brunette woman said. “Why should I?”

  “Won’t he be upset if he finds out?” the redheaded friend asked.

  “Well, I did think about telling him when I first started doing it. But then so much time had passed that it didn’t seem worth the argument.”

  “I’m certain my husband would notice if I switched his regular coffee for decaf,” the redhead said.

  “You’d be surprised. It’s just like that commercial. No one can really taste difference. I’ve been doing it to Jack’s coffee for years.”

  A few minutes later the women paid for their breakfast and left. Tucker looked at Herne. “Jack Marshall would be pissed as hell if he found out his wife was serving up decaf coffee,” he said. “I won’t say anything. Jack’s an asshole anyway. But his wife better be careful about who’s listening to her conversations.”

  Herne felt his blood run cold, and his fingers stiffened around his fork. He pushed his body up from the table in one explosive moment and started to run for the door.

  Tucker grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked.

  “The Healer,” Herne gasped. “I think I know how he’s doing it.”

  Bethany stood in the middle of her bedroom, empty suitcase in hand. She chewed on her bottom lip.

  According to the news reports, The Healer was killing Peter Lochhead’s patients. And Lochhead had been Bethany’s therapist for years.

  Bethany’s instincts—the survival instincts she depended on to keep her safe—were telling her to run.

  But where will I go? she thought. Her parents had retired to Arizona. They lived in a small retirement cottage and her mom would welcome her with open arms.

  Bethany closed her eyes. Flying to Arizona meant leaving her guns and her dog behind. It meant staying in a home with open windows. No security system. Flimsy locks.

  Almost paralyzed with fear at the thought, Bethany’s eyes snapped open.

  The killer always strikes on Saturday, she thought. Maybe I can just spend the night somewhere tonight.

  She considered the possibilities. Maybe her co-worker, Joyce, would be willing to host a houseguest. Or perhaps she could stay in a hotel.

  But hotel security was notoriously lax. Bethany had read stories about single women attacked in hotel rooms by staff or other guests. And Joyce was unlikely to have solid locks or a security system on her door.

  Bethany slid her empty suitcases under her bed. She’d already taken every precaution in her own house. The safest place for her was at home.

  “I think The Healer is someone listening in on your sessions,” Herne said.

  Lochhead stood in the middle of his waiting room, a sheaf of papers in his hand. His receptionist’s desk—usually tidy—was piled with files. Cardboard boxes filled with books sat on the soft carpet.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Eavesdropping? That seems impossible.”

  “What about your phones? An intercom system? Perhaps Sarah heard your sessions.”

  “Our phones don’t work that way,” Lochhead said. “Sarah could only hear me if I pressed the intercom button. And I was always very careful.”

  Tucker glanced around the office. “Where is Sarah? Did you let her go already?”

  “No,” Lochhead replied. “I wanted her to stay another week or so. She managed the office funds, and she handled patient appointments and files. I needed her to help me tie up the loose ends. But she decided to quit.”

  “Why?”

  Lochhead shrugged. “She said she was scared of The Healer. It doesn’t matter. Sarah wasn’t listening in on my patient conversations. She’s weak, you know. The kind of girl that bends to everyone else’s needs. She doesn’t have the will to commit these murders. She’s not strong enough to even help plan these murders.”

  Herne thought about the grim line of Sarah’s lips after her romp with Sergeant Frey. She’s stronger than you think, Herne thought.

  “It might be possible someone planted a bug in here,” Tucker said.

  “A bug?”

  “A listening device. Maybe a former patient. Or perhaps even a current patient. Or maybe the janitor or cleaning crew. If there’s a bug in this office, we need to find it. I’m calling a tech team in.” Tucker grabbed his cell phone and dialed, while Lochhead stood watching him.

  For the first time, Lochhead looked completely defeated. “If someone’s been listening in on my patient sessions, my reputation will never recover from this.” He looked at Herne, his eyes bleak and worried. “I’m completely fucked.”

  He didn’t need his surveillance skills to spot them. They were obvious.

  Every time Robert Morales turned around, he bumped into a cop.

  But he wasn’t nervous until he saw the team of technicians. Three men and one woman walked down the hallway and entered Lochhead’s office. They wore matching blue shirts with “Thomas Tech” stitched above the left breast pocket. Each carried a black plastic case.

  What are they looking for? Morales thought. Fingerprints? Fibers?

  He continued to stand unnoticed in the corner of the hallway, watching as the tech team closed the door to Lochhead’s office.

  “Practicing for a stake-out?” The voice that came from behind him—the deep rumble of a man who smoked too many cigarettes—caused Morales to jump. He turned and faced Artemis Herne.

  “Just curious,” Morales said. He wondered if Herne had heard the squeak in his voice. He shoved his hands into his pocket to steady them and leaned against the wall, trying to appear casual.

  “You’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes,” Herne said. “You must be very curious.”

  “I don’t often see this much action at work.”

  “You’re the private investigator in this building, right? Robe
rt Morales.”

  Morales held up his hands. “Guilty,” he joked.

  Herne didn’t smile. “I imagine you see all kinds of action in your business,” he said.

  “Not really, I’m afraid. Most of my clients are trying to catch their cheating spouses.” He started to relax as the words flowed from his mouth. Up close and personal, Artemis Herne was nothing more than a man. A big man with an intense gaze. But still just a man.

  “So I guess you must be an expert in surveillance. You probably learn all kinds of nasty secrets.”

  Morales shrugged. “Just the kind you’d expect to find in my business. I don’t get to catch any real bad guys. Just husbands and wives who chose the wrong person to screw.”

  Herne nodded and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He turned to leave.

  Morales knew it would be smarter to let Herne go. But he couldn’t resist a final question. “Say,” he called out, “what’s it like catching real bad guys?”

  Herne stopped and turned around, meeting Morales’ gaze with his gray eyes. “Fun,” Herne said. “Lots of fun.”

  Morales realized he’d been a fool to think of Herne as just a man.

  Herne was a hunter. And he was in search of his prey.

  Herne checked his watch. It was Friday evening. Six o’clock. In less than twenty-four hours another victim of The Healer would die. Herne felt the pressure of time weighing on his back like a yoke on an ox. He inhaled deeply. Even his lungs felt crushed by anxiety and impatience.

  Tucker and Saxon were in Lochhead’s office watching the contracted tech team sweep for listening devices. Herne had stepped outside the building, hoping a cigarette would alleviate his angst. He leaned against the brick wall with a nonchalance that belied the twisting of his gut. The smoke from his cigarette seemed to hang like a cloud over his head, suspended in the summer air that was thick with heat and humidity.

  He knew the tech team would find the camera he installed. Everyone would believe the camera belonged to The Healer. And, if they ever found The Healer, Herne might be able to produce evidence to confirm this suspicion.

  In the past, when necessary, Herne had been able to produce all sorts of evidence.

  People walked the streets, although fewer than might have been seen earlier that day, when the offices and small stores were still open. By this time, especially on a Friday, most people had hurried home. Some were settling in on their sofas, a box of take-out pizza on their coffee table. Others were dressing and primping for a night on the town, perhaps at a Carlisle restaurant or bar. Downtown Hurricane was not a weekend hotspot.

  Beside Herne stood Travis Ginch, a lit cigarette between the handyman’s lips. He nodded to Herne, still reticent, but more relaxed than before. The handyman had lowered his guard just a bit. Enough for Herne to feel the difference between them.

  It’s the cigarettes, Herne thought. Like smoking a peace pipe together. The shared habit united them in a way that conversation could not. They bonded over their socially stigmatizing addiction, metaphorically thumbing their noses together at self-righteous non-smokers while inhaling deeply on their coffin nails. They knew that their kind was becoming extinct and their numbers were dwindling. They were quickly becoming the last of their species, dinosaurs of self-destruction. The knowledge created an instant camaraderie.

  The techs started to leave the building, passing by Herne as they carried their equipment. Herne stopped the one in charge.

  “Find anything?” he asked.

  “Yep,” the tech guy said. He showed Herne a small camera. It was the one Herne had planted in Lochhead’s office himself. The one that had yielded no results. “We found this camera.”

  “Any listening devices? Anything that would allow someone to overhear the conversations in that office?”

  The tech guy shook his head. “Nope. No bugs. No tape recorders. No listening devices. Except for that video camera, the place was clean.”

  Herne nodded and turned away, taking one last drag from his cigarette before smashing it beneath his boot. It was time to rejoin Tucker and Saxon inside the building.

  As Herne started toward the door, Ginch spoke. “I heard the commotion earlier. All these men. Thought I’d come up and check it out.”

  Herne turned to face Ginch, but said nothing.

  “They say this killer targets people who were patients of the therapist in this building,” Ginch continued. “Peter Lochhead.”

  Herne nodded. “That’s what we think.”

  “Those guys were in here looking for bugs in the shrink’s office?”

  Herne saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. We think The Healer might somehow be listening in on Lochhead’s sessions with his patients.”

  Ginch spat on the ground. Herne waited. Finally, after another moment passed, Ginch said, “Well, there’s a way to hear everything that happens in that office. And you don’t need a fancy listening device to do it.”

  Herne’s toes tingled with a surge of excitement. He swallowed hard. “How?”

  “The broom closet. The one down the hall. There’s a vent inside and you can hear everything in the next room as clear as day.”

  As he opened the closet door, Herne knew that someone had been making themselves comfortable amidst the brooms and cleansers. An industrial mop and bucket had been shoved to the side, and two paper napkins littered the corner of the closet. A small space had been cleared, just large enough for a man to stand and sit without worrying about bumping a bottle of Ajax. Herne didn’t even have to turn his shoulders to avoid the tall broom handle that leaned against the wall. There was plenty of room for him to pass.

  A single bulb, worked by a long chain, hung from the ceiling of the closet. Herne pulled the chain and the room was bathed in bright light. The bulb was an unusually strong wattage for a closet fixture.

  Tucker and Saxon sat in Lochhead’s office. Herne hadn’t told them about the closet. He wanted to see if he could overhear their conversation, and he feared that telling them about this experiment would cause them to talk softer or louder than normal. So he just stood there in secret, waiting to hear their voices as the institutional scent of disinfectant assaulted his nose. As he waited, breathing softly, he realized that every word they spoke was audible.

  “Stop. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Saxon’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but Herne heard each syllable. By some strange trick of acoustics he could even hear the rustle of her pants and the creak of Tucker’s holster when they moved.

  “Are we ever going to talk about it?” Tucker asked.

  “No,” Saxon said. “We’re just going to forget about it.”

  “I can’t forget it,” Tucker said.

  Herne didn’t want to hear more. He had all the answers he needed. Anyone hiding in the closet at the right time would have known the intimate details of Lochhead’s patient sessions.

  “Dammit,” Herne hissed. How many times had he passed this closet? Ten? Twenty? And he never thought once about investigating it.

  Herne walked into Lochhead’s office. He saw the frown on Saxon’s face and the guilt in Tucker’s eyes when he entered the room.

  “The Healer’s been sitting in the closet next door, listening to every word that’s said in this room.”

  “Fuck,” Tucker said, jumping up from his chair. He nodded to Saxon. “Start talking to yourself,” he said.

  Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “And what exactly am I supposed to say?” she asked.

  “Just recite a fucking poem or something.” He followed Herne out into the hall.

  They entered the closet together. Inside, with the door shut, they heard Saxon’s voice through the vent as she recited, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…”

  Tucker shook his head. “Fuck. We’re going to need to tell Frey about this.”

  “He’ll dust it for prints,” Herne said. “Maybe he’ll find something.”

  “One thin
g I don’t understand,” Tucker said, glancing sideways at Herne. “If The Healer’s been sitting in here all this time, why would he put a video camera in Lochhead’s office?”

  Herne stood motionless. His mind whirled with a thousand excuses. But he couldn’t bring himself to utter the false words.

  Tucker turned away. “Maybe The Healer wanted to hear and see his victims. How else would he find out what his victims looked like, right?”

  “Right,” Herne said. He heard the lie in his voice.

  And he was certain that Tucker heard it, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It was past dinnertime, and Herne’s stomach gnawed with hunger. But the computer blinked at him, reminding him that there was footage of Lochhead’s office to watch.

  The camera had been removed by the tech team, so only a few hours of recorded video would be stored in the computer’s memory. Herne knew the killer hadn’t slipped into Lochhead’s office and stolen his patient files. He knew the killer had been sitting in a closet and eavesdropping on therapy sessions. There seemed to be no reason to watch the last of the video.

  But the blinking computer taunted him and Herne hated unfinished business. Hated loose ends. So he hit the “Play” button and let the video roll as he poured himself a drink.

  He glanced at the screen occasionally as he sipped his whiskey and lit a cigarette. His stomach clenched again, demanding food. He wandered to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The shelves were empty except for a carton of eggs, a pat of butter, and a block of cheddar cheese with two small patches of mold.

  As he heated the butter on the stove, Herne cut away the mold and sliced the cheese. He cracked three eggs into a mug with “The Grand Canyon” printed on its side, added some water, and whipped them into a froth. The melting butter started to brown, its aroma filling the room with sweetness.

  A few minutes later he slipped his scrambled eggs and cheese from the pan and onto a plate. Balancing the plate and a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand, he slid into his desk chair just in time to see a fleeting movement on the video of Lochhead’s office.