Phobia KDP

by Shives, C. A.

  “Fourteen of Lochhead’s patients had regular three o’clock appointments. Another sixteen occasionally had appointments at that time. And that’s just for the past three months. If you go back twelve months, at least sixty or seventy different people had one or more appointments scheduled at that time,” Herne replied.

  “Christ. His next victim could be any of them.”

  “No. Just the ones with phobias,” Herne said.

  “We need his patient files, goddammit,” Tucker said.

  “Have Frey ask for it again. Maybe this time Lochhead will give it to us. In the meantime, we need to warn as many of these people as we can,” Herne said.

  There was another moment of silence. Finally, Tucker said, “I’ll call Saxon. We’ll meet in thirty minutes at my office.”

  The phone clicked as Tucker hung up. Herne thought about the victims. Three o’clock appointments. Three o’clock. Something nagged at his memory. It flashed so quickly—just a passing thought—that it was gone before he could remember it.

  He scowled as he stared down at the appointment book again, feeling the weight of the forgotten memory.

  Herne passed four state cops as he walked into the police department. The station was redolent of coffee and sweat and excitement, the odors swirling through the heavy air in the rooms. Tucker sat at his desk, his head cradled in his hands. He looked up at Herne with bloodshot eyes.

  “The state boys have been trying to contact all of Lochhead’s three o’clock appointments,” Tucker said. “We’ve gotten in touch with about half of them. We’re telling them to leave their houses and get somewhere safe. At least for today.”

  “That’s a start,” Herne said. But he couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. There were too many patients—too many potential victims—who had not been contacted.

  “Unfortunately, Lochhead had patients from everywhere: Carlisle, Chambersburg, Hurricane, even Philadelphia. Some of his entries are nothing more than a first initial and a last name. It’s taking a long time to find everyone. Too fucking long.”

  Saxon walked into the office and spoke to Tucker without looking at him. “Do you have an assignment for me, Chief?”

  Tucker nodded and handed her Lochhead’s appointment book and a typewritten list. “Here’s a list of the appointment times for the patients with just a first initial. See if you can make heads or tails of them.”

  She nodded and spun on her heel, her back straight and stiff as she walked out of the office.

  “She seems uptight tonight,” Herne said.

  Tucker buried his head in his hands again. “She’s pissed at me,” he said.

  “Does she have a reason to be angry?”

  Tucker nodded and met Herne’s gaze. His eyes were bleak. “Things with Elizabeth haven’t been so great lately, Art,” Tucker confessed. “We’ve been growing apart. And Saxon, well, she kind of looks up to me.”

  “I never thought you were the kind of man to take advantage of women,” Herne said.

  Tucker held up his hands. “I’m not! I didn’t. We didn’t do anything. But it’s hard not to be tempted when there’s a beautiful woman who adores you. And she fucking made an actual pass at me one night. It was hard, but I turned her down. But I guess I might have let her know that someday my no could possibly become a yes. And I guess she’s pissed that it’s taking me so long to make up my mind about it.”

  “Will you do it?” Herne asked, surprised to feel the tension in his shoulders. Tucker and Elizabeth were his closest friends. The only anchor left to keep him from drifting into the abyss. Tucker’s affair would change Herne’s life, too.

  He felt a mild sense of shame at his selfishness.

  But he held his breath as he waited for Tucker’s answer.

  “I don’t know. I hope not.” Tucker stared at his desk for a moment before raising his head to meet Herne’s eyes. “And don’t give me that shit about love and marriage and commitment, Art. You and Maggie had something special. Not every couple has that type of bond. That type of relationship. I don’t want to hear any of your sanctimonious shit.”

  “I’m not going to say anything,” Herne said. I’m in no position to start casting stones, he thought.

  Tucker stood quickly. “We’ve got more important things to worry about. We need to warn any potential victims, and right now we can’t identify half of them. Hell, it’s fucking sunrise. For all we know The Healer has already killed again.” Tucker sighed. “We have to warn Lochhead’s three o’clock patients. One of them is The Healer’s next victim.”

  Herne shook his head. “We need to find The Healer,” he said. It’s not about the victims anymore. Now it’s about the killer, he thought.

  “It doesn’t feel like we’re any closer to nailing this guy,” Tucker said.

  “We’re closer. I know it.” Herne could almost taste The Healer’s name on his lips.

  Herne closed his eyes, allowing the hum of the air-conditioner to block out the extra noise in the police station. He sat motionless, trying to find the fleeting memory that escaped his grasp. Three o’clock. What happens at three o’clock? It’s the time he gets intimate with the victims. The time he crawls into the janitor’s closet and sits, listening as his victims spill their darkest secrets, hearing their fears. He gets excited—maybe even aroused—as they describe the terror and fright that pervades their lives. In The Healer’s mind, it’s like a show. Like an independent film in which he plays a key role. Perhaps he even munches some popcorn or Junior Mints or even a sandwich while he listens…

  Herne’s eyes snapped open. The napkins in the corner of the closet. The epicure cookbook purchased with Barlett’s Familiar Quotations.

  “I know him,” Herne said.

  “What?” Tucker asked.

  “I know The Healer’s face.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The terrors of the night ended with sunrise. The Healer splashed his face with cool water and brushed his teeth with sweet mint toothpaste, forcing himself to complete the task even though he had to steady his hand to keep from quivering with excitement. It felt like it had been so long—though only a week had passed—since his last “session” with a patient. The morning’s anticipation felt like long, slow foreplay that crested slowly toward its peak.

  Darrell Pike was unsurprised by his erection.

  He chose his clothing carefully. His patient today was special, and he wanted everything perfect. The very nature of her fear meant this would be his most intimate therapy session, and he hoped his skills as a healer surpassed even his own expectations.

  He dressed in black pants, black shoes, and a black shirt. In his pocket he carried black gloves. His reflection in the mirror looked like that of a bad man. The kind of man who robbed banks, raped women, and killed children. An evil guy.

  It was exactly the impression he was trying to create.

  Four hours of phone calls. “This is what happens on Saturdays,” Tucker grumbled as he paced the floor of his office. His leather holster creaked with each step, adding music to the thump of his feet on the hard wood. “People get all fucked up on Friday night, and then they pass out cold until Saturday afternoon. Jesus.”

  Saxon sat at Tucker’s desk, speaking softly into the telephone receiver. Herne sat rigid in a chair, his hands pressed against his legs. There was nothing he could do until Saxon found The Healer’s real name, so he sat motionless. The tiniest movement—the smallest flutter of a finger—and his impatience would explode. He forced himself to contain his emotions. Every muscle felt taut. Every nerve sung.

  “Got it,” Saxon said, slamming the phone on the desk. She held up a paper with The Healer’s name and address.

  Herne leapt from his chair, snatched the paper from her hands, and ran out the door.

  Butch wagged his furry tail. It was almost noon and the dog knew the routine. On Saturdays in the summer months, Bethany put her dog in the backyard and made herself a cold lunch. Then she joined him outside on the patio
for their afternoon meal.

  Butch watched her with happy eyes. She knew he looked forward to the yard where bunnies and birds teased his instinct to hunt. Bethany gave him a pat on the head, running her hands over his coarse hair.

  “Let’s go, pooch,” she said to her canine guardian. She and her dog wandered to the kitchen together, where she disabled her security system before letting him into the fenced backyard. Despite the dog’s thick fur coat, he seemed happy to run through the almost unbearable summer heat.

  Bethany reset the alarm—double-checking to ensure it was armed—before climbing upstairs. After lunch, she wanted to practice a new move Sensei Robert had shown her, and she needed to change into exercise clothing.

  In her bedroom, she removed her pants and shirt before slipping a short terrycloth robe over her practical cotton undergarments. A mirror hung on her closet door. She stood in front of it and began braiding her hair.

  She noticed a quick movement in the mirror. Her heart thumped in her chest and she whipped her head around, staring at the open doorway that led from her bedroom to the hallway. The entire house was silent. She saw no one.

  Clutching her throat, she turned back to the mirror, laughing nervously at her own foolishness. It’s nothing, she thought. Just your imagination.

  Then she saw it again. Just a flicker of movement in the corner of the mirror.

  She turned and faced the doorway. He stood there dressed in black, like the worst of the bad men in her nightmares.

  Bethany tried to shriek. Tried to scream. But her voice caught in her throat. Only the smallest of squeaks, almost inaudible in the still room, escaped her throat.

  She heard Butch barking in the yard and her heart sank. The animal that was meant to protect her was outside, while she was caged inside.

  He drove to The Healer’s house, the sense of urgency forcing him to press his foot on the gas. Tucker followed in a squad car, the lights flashing.

  Herne wanted to get to the house first. He wanted to stand in the home of the killer. He wanted to look around the rooms and feel what The Healer felt. He needed to know the man’s fears.

  Tucker stayed on Herne’s tail as they both pulled into The Healer’s driveway. Herne walked toward the house, a nondescript two-story covered with brick and vinyl siding. The landscaping was fastidiously neat but not ostentatious: simple bushes and a manicured lawn. The neighborhood homes displayed cracks in driveways, faded paint, and roofs with missing shingles. A few curious residents—senior citizens in various states of decay—stepped out of their homes to observe the commotion. Herne could almost smell their peppermint candies and arthritis cream.

  He stopped walking when he felt Tucker’s lean fingers circle around his arm.

  “You can’t go in there, Art,” Tucker said.

  “I’m going in, Rex.”

  Tucker tightened his grip, and Herne flexed his bicep in response. Man to man. Muscle to muscle.

  “Saxon’s getting a warrant. We can’t go in until she has it.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Herne said. He looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon. He could be killing his next victim right now.”

  Tucker’s gaze didn’t waver. “What if you go in there and find enough evidence to convict him? And what if the judge throws out the evidence because our search is illegal?”

  Herne said nothing. He understood Tucker’s viewpoint. Even sympathized with his friend. But he couldn’t stop the urge to step inside The Healer’s house. The need to know the killer propelled him like a drowning man swimming toward the water’s surface.

  “If that happens,” Tucker continued, “the only evidence we’ll have is the three o’clock appointments and some fucking hearsay from you.”

  I take a thirty minute break around three o’clock. Those were the words spoken to him by the clerk at The Sandwich Station. A clerk who would buy a copy of Larousse Gastronomique. A clerk who chattered to Herne about The Healer case, his voice peppered with excitement. The kind of excitement known only to people who get a little thrill from death.

  Herne had taken sandwiches from the hand of Darrell Pike, the clerk at The Sandwich Station. He had eaten sandwiches made by a killer. Even now, his stomach rebelled at the thought. He tasted bile in his mouth.

  “I can’t wait,” Herne said through clenched teeth. “I have to get in there now.”

  Tucker shook his head again. “Not this time, Art. Not this time.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. Herne’s stomach rolled again when he heard Tucker’s next words. “Sergeant Frey? I need you to meet me as soon as possible.”

  Her heart pounded so hard that she heard it thumping in her ears. Bethany’s mind flooded with a red haze of panic. She stood and faced him, unmoving. Then she glanced at her closet.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said. He held a gun in one hand and a little black box in the other.

  A Taser, Bethany thought. Her mouth went dry with fear.

  “I know you, Bethany,” he said. “I’ve watched you. You’re a trained martial artist, aren’t you? Practically a black belt. And you’ve got weapons tucked around your house. I’m sure you’re hoping to get a chance to use them, but I’m not going to let that happen. Put your hands on your head.”

  She hesitated and he waved the gun at her.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Bethany. Maybe I’ll take it easy on you—maybe I’ll have some pity—if you follow directions like a good little girl. Now put your hands on your head.”

  Don’t give him control, Bethany thought. You’re dead if he gets control.

  But panic and terror thundered in her ears, so she lifted her hands and placed them on her head. She felt the cold of her air-conditioner against her bare legs. Even though she wore a robe, the exposure increased her sense of vulnerability. All that training was for nothing, she thought. I’m helpless. She almost sobbed at the wretchedness of her fear.

  “It wasn’t easy getting into your house, Bethany,” he said. “Fortunately, you’re a creature of habit. You know, it’s smarter to change your routine a bit. Be less predictable. Otherwise, the bad guys will figure out your schedule.”

  She pressed her fingers against her head, trying to keep them from trembling.

  “I only had to watch you for a month to realize that every Saturday afternoon you put your dog in the yard while you make lunch. Getting your keys was a cinch, since you leave them in the locker at your karate school. You don’t really think those little locks can stop someone like me, do you?”

  Bethany felt vomit rise in her throat. She wanted to hold her hands against her ears and block out his voice—wanted to cover her body from his eyes—but she stayed motionless.

  “And learning the code for your alarm system wasn’t difficult at all. I only needed a pair of binoculars and a crack in your curtain. I probably watched you punch in that code at least five times. It was really too simple in the end. Wait for your dog to get fenced in the backyard, then slip into your house.”

  He watched me, she thought. Indignation mixed with her fear. He spied on me.

  “Now turn around,” he ordered.

  She hesitated again, then obeyed. She could hear him moving behind her. She felt him get close, so she waited for an opportunity. When his breath, smelling of mint, grazed the back of her neck, she jabbed his stomach with her elbow. She heard his guttural grunt. She spun and smashed his nose with her fist, using every muscle in her body to power her punch. His hands dropped and she swept his leg with her own so he fell to the ground.

  She stumbled as she ran toward the bedroom door. But before she reached the hallway, she felt a jolt of electricity through her body, stiffening her limbs. Her muscles clenched and seized. Her limbs froze, but in her mind she could hear the hum of the voltage. When he released her, she fell limp to the ground. He was beside her in a second, wrapping tape around her wrists. By the time her head cleared, her hands were bound.

  “Well, that Taser certainly is a handy
gadget, isn’t it?” he asked. “I never would have used my gun on you, Bethany. How can I heal you if you’re injured or dead? I have big plans for your therapy, but I need you alive.”

  He grinned as he grabbed for her arms. “It wouldn’t help you at all if I waited until you were dead to rape you.”

  Herne sat in the passenger seat of Tucker’s squad car, his eyes intent on the side mirror. Saxon had not yet shown up with the search warrant.

  “A watched pot never boils,” Tucker said, his mouth set in a grim line.

  “What if the judge won’t give it to her?” Herne asked. His voice was hoarse with fear. He needed that warrant. He needed to get into Darrell Pike’s house.

  “He’ll give it to her,” Tucker said. “Judge Slade wanted to help me last time. I fucking know it. He just couldn’t for some reason…” Tucker trailed off, and he sat in silence for a moment. Then he continued. “If she doesn’t show up in thirty minutes, I’ll start making some phone calls of my own.”

  “Thirty minutes?” Herne’s voice choked with frustration. “Are you trying to make sure that someone else gets killed?”

  Tucker’s eyes flashed. “Goddammit, Art,” Tucker said. “I want this fucker as much as you do. But I’m not going to let him go free on a technicality. You can work outside the law if you want, but my hands are tied. We need a warrant first.”

  Herne said nothing. He spied Saxon’s car in the side mirror. He was by her vehicle door before Tucker left his car.

  “I passed Sergeant Frey on my way here,” Saxon said. “Looks like he’s headed this way.”

  “Did you get the warrant?” Herne asked.

  Saxon nodded.

  Herne turned and strode to Darrell Pike’s door. He knocked once and counted to two. He heard Tucker’s voice behind him.

  “Goddammit, Art, don’t—”

  The cracking sound of Herne kicking Pike’s front door interrupted the rest of Tucker’s words. Herne strode into the house.

  “Call Miller and Johnson. Have them block off the scene. I don’t want anyone coming in or out of here,” Tucker told Saxon.