Phobia KDP

by Shives, C. A.

  Herne walked into the small living room, noting the worn, threadbare furniture. There were no decorations, no photographs, no personal mementos. Plain, white curtains hung limply over the spotless windows. The room was bare except for a sofa, a coffee table, and a television.

  Herne stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of the man he had stalked for so long, trying to sense any emotions captured by the room. The faint odor of bleach hung in the air. But otherwise, Herne felt nothing.

  This was not the room he exposed his secrets, he thought.

  “Spread out,” Tucker said. “Look around. Let’s see if we can find any clue about his next victim.”

  As Saxon started for the kitchen, Herne walked toward the hallway. The bedroom, he knew, was The Healer’s sanctuary. There he’d find the hidden truths of the man.

  But Sergeant Frey’s cold voice commanded attention before Herne stepped out of the living room. “What the fuck is going on here?” Frey asked.

  “We’re searching for evidence,” Tucker said. He stood tall and straight and lean, his hands hanging loose by his sides.

  “And you got a warrant for this?”

  Tucker nodded.

  “On what grounds?”

  “We found evidence to suggest that the owner of this house, Darrell Pike, spent some time in a closet that allows for eavesdropping on Peter Lochhead’s office.”

  “We also know that Darrell Pike’s schedule fits with the time of the killings. Pike never works on Saturdays.” Herne’s fingers twitched with impatience, but he kept his voice even.

  “My favorite aunt never works on Saturdays,” Frey said. “That doesn’t make her a goddamn serial killer.” He glanced around the house. “What evidence do you have that Pike was hanging out in that broom closet?”

  “The timing fits. And there was a napkin,” Herne said.

  “A napkin? Does it have his DNA on it?”

  “We’re checking on that,” Tucker said.

  “Jesus. There’s barely enough evidence to justify a search through the database, much less an arrest.” Frey shook his head. “Any good lawyer can get this shit thrown out of court. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Then get out,” Herne growled. His whole body ached with the desire to move. He could no longer contain his impatience. He wanted quiet. He wanted to get to work.

  Frey opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut before stalking out the door.

  “What a fucking toxic bastard,” Tucker said.

  “Chief. I found something.” Saxon carried a bulk package of duct tape in her gloved hand. Five rolls were missing from the package of a ten.

  “Suggestive,” Herne said. “But not solid. Keep looking.”

  Herne moved to the bedroom. It was smaller than his own and everything—the curtains, bedspread, carpet, and furniture—was white. But the room didn’t feel institutional despite its stark color.

  “Jesus. He sure likes lamps,” Tucker said, his voice coming from behind Herne’s shoulder.

  Six different floor lamps sat in a semi-circle around one corner of the room, as if Pike tried to illuminate that small spot with all the brilliance of the sun. Herne glanced at the ceiling light fixture and noticed that all three bulbs were 100 watts, much more than necessary in such a small room.

  He walked over to the lamps, which varied in size and shape. Herne pulled the shortest one toward him and examined the bulb. It, too, held a 100 watt bulb.

  Herne knelt in the middle of the semi-circle, the fibers of the carpet soft beneath his calloused hands. If all the lamps were on, Herne thought, I’d be in the brightest spot in the room. He closed his eyes until he saw sparks of white dancing in the darkness of his eyelids. He imagined the heat of the bulbs warming his flesh, the light roasting his face until his eyes burned from drips of salty perspiration.

  This was where The Healer lived. This was where he kept his secrets.

  “What the hell do you think is the deal with all these lamps?” Tucker asked.

  Herne opened his eyes. “He’s scared.”

  “Scared of what?” Tucker asked.

  “He’s scared of the dark.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Tucker asked.

  Herne paused, glancing at the semi-circle of lamps on the floor. “These lights illuminate his fear.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  He dragged her across the floor, the rug rubbing burns on her tender skin. When she struggled, he zapped her with the Taser again, stunning her briefly, before throwing her on the bed and taping her hands to the hard maple headboard. Another piece of tape covered her mouth. She felt paralyzed, her arms immobile and her legs still against her blue quilt. The red haze of panic that filled her mind made it impossible for her to think clearly.

  “Well, now you can’t punch me.” He touched his bleeding nose, flinching as he pressed against his nostril. “I’m pretty sure you broke it, Bethany. And that doesn’t make me happy. But at least the unpleasantries are out of the way. Now it’s time to get started on business.”

  He grabbed her leg. She almost screamed as his fingernails, sharp and streaked with his own blood, dug into her skin. She twisted away from him, moaning through the tape.

  He grinned. “I know your fear, Bethany,” he said. “I’ve heard all about it.”

  She couldn’t prevent the groan that escaped her as she looked to the bedroom door. Safety was close. Just out the door. Just outside. She could almost feel the sunshine on her face. She yearned and strained, desperate for sanctuary, the agony of being unable to reach freedom almost unbearable.

  “You won’t escape. Not today. It’s time to face your fears, my dear. Torture. Beatings. Rape. That’s your fear, right?”

  Images of her deepest, darkest personal terrors—the things that kept her awake at night, sweating with fright and panic—flashed through her mind. He might burn her body with cigarettes. He might sodomize her repeatedly. He might cut her open and pour salt into her wounds. He might cut off her toes and force her to eat them. She opened her mouth to scream, but the tape muffled her cries. In her own ears, her ineffectual gasps sounded faint and powerless.

  He reached for her leg again and she tried to scramble away from his hand. The touch of his flesh made her gag behind the tape that covered her mouth. She tasted sweat and tears and vomit.

  “I’ve never raped a woman before, Bethany. Honestly, it’s not something that really appeals to me. They say rape is a crime of power. Well, they’re wrong. True power comes from healing. And that’s all the power I need.” He looked down at her body and grinned. “But if raping you is the only cure for your fear, I’m willing to try it. I’m a therapist, you know. I have to do what’s best for the patient.”

  He reached down and massaged his penis through his pants. Pure terror, hot and white, seared through her mind and electrified her body. She struggled against the bonds that held her hands tied to the bed. She twisted and turned her wrists until the tape rubbed against raw, bleeding flesh. She didn’t notice the pain. And the tape did not loosen.

  “You’ll notice I didn’t tie your feet,” he said. “That’s because we’re going to start with the rape. I have the whole thing planned. Your whole treatment. It’s impossible to really treat fear unless you have a plan.” He paused. “That was my father’s mistake.”

  His words just blurred in her ears. Dread squeezed her heart as she contorted her body, trying to escape, trying to free herself. The headboard shook with the force of her arms as she rattled at the bonds that held her.

  “We’ll start with the rape, and then move on to the beating. And you’ll be an active participant. We’re going to exchange ideas, just as if I were your therapist and you were sitting on a couch in my office. You’re going to tell me about all of it, Bethany. All of your fear.”

  She moaned again, and he moved toward her. “Yes, you’re going to tell me about it. And then it’s going to happen.”

  A quick, cur
sory search revealed nothing, so they began to methodically and carefully examine Pike’s home.

  To Herne, every hour that passed felt like water draining from a bucket. By late afternoon he was a man parched but drowning in the sea. Surrounded by Pike’s personal life, he was unable to find that one drop of information that would satisfy him.

  He turned his attention to a cardboard box that was tucked in the back of the closet. He sifted through Pike’s personal records, a mishmash of old utility bills, and tax records. Some of the papers, yellowing and wrinkled, were twenty years old. Dust scattered through the air when Herne shook them, filling the closet with the musty scent of age. The small pile in the box bespoke of the man’s simple life. Pike didn’t use credit cards, The Sandwich Station was his only employer, and he paid his taxes on time each year.

  Flying under the radar, Herne thought. Smart. Never draw attention to yourself.

  “Maybe we have the wrong guy,” Tucker called out as he walked toward the bedroom. His lean shoulders slumped and his mouth was set in a grim line.

  “No,” Herne barked. The circle of lamps had solidified it in Herne’s mind. Darrell Pike was The Healer. And he was out doing his job at this very moment.

  Then Herne saw it. Tucked between an electric bill and an old phone bill hid a manila envelope with “Therapy” scrawled across the flap.

  He dumped the contents on Pike’s floor. Photographs spilled from the envelope, many of them the same as those that had been included with The Healer’s notes.

  Amanda Todd, her unseeing eyes wide and terrified. Cheryl Brandt, her face obscured by the water that covered it. Charles Emmert’s coffin, silent and still amid the trees.

  But not all the photos showed the victim’s death. Some of the snapshots included the victim alive, walking down the street or sitting in a restaurant. Surveillance photos, Herne thought. He watched them before he healed them.

  And then he saw a photo of someone new. Someone who might still be living.

  A memory tugged his mind, and he thought back to the woman in The Sandwich Station. He only remembered her because of her vigilance. She seemed on edge, as if ready to run at the first sign of danger.

  He thumbed through the photos, looking for one that would help identify her.

  He saw a snapshot of her walking from a shopping center. A sign reading “Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Training” hung on the door behind her. The woman in the photo—the woman he needed to find—carried a gym bag and wore a white martial arts uniform, a brown belt tied around her waist. Her face, flushed and sweaty and almost beautiful, was half turned from the camera.

  Herne grabbed the photo and slid it into his pocket. He returned the rest of the pictures to the envelope and then pulled a DVD from his pocket. It was a copy of the video feed from his surveillance camera in Lochhead’s office. Herne slipped the DVD into the envelope, too. A final piece of evidence to help ensure a conviction.

  Herne carefully replaced the envelope between the electric bill and the phone bill. Then he went in search of Tucker, who stood in Pike’s bedroom, staring at the circle of lamps. The dejected slope of his friend’s shoulders made him appear hunched and tired.

  “We need to find Lochhead,” Herne said. He heard the lie in his own voice. A lie designed to divert their attention.

  Saxon shook her head. “He’s gone. I stopped by his office yesterday and everything’s been cleared out. I double-checked his house, and it was empty, too. He took off.”

  “I’m going to look for him,” Herne said. “He might be our only hope of identifying the next victim.” Lies. Lies. Lies, he thought.

  Tucker growled. “Saxon just told you that he’s gone. How the fuck do you plan on finding him?” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re going someplace else. Where the fuck are you really going, Art?”

  “I told you, I’m going to find—”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Art. I want to know where you’re going. We’re doing this by the book, goddammit.”

  “If you wanted it done by the book, Rex, you shouldn’t have called me. You can’t let me loose when it’s convenient for you and then tighten the leash when you’re done with me. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Goddammit, Art. You’re not going to make me feel guilty about this.”

  You know nothing about guilt, Herne thought as he met Tucker’s stare. Then his throat closed and he couldn’t speak. All he could see was the black bag that carried Maggie’s body and the voice of the fire chief.

  A mouse or a rat. It gnawed through the smoke alarm wires. It started a fire and, unfortunately, disabled the alarm system, too.

  They said it was a terrible accident. The odds were one in a million, but it was possible. Horribly possible.

  But Herne knew the truth. Four days after Maggie’s death, on the day of her funeral, he had received a call. The call had been muffled and the voice disguised. But he heard the message, loud and clear.

  Revenge, Herne. Revenge.

  It could have been someone trying to scare him after reading about Maggie’s death in the newspaper. It could have been a whacko with nothing better to do than torture the soul of a grieving man.

  But Herne knew the truth in his gut. The person behind the voice on the phone had murdered Maggie.

  Herne wouldn’t have carried the guilt—wouldn’t have felt responsible for his wife’s death—if the killer were a criminal he’d imprisoned for a legitimate crime.

  But part of him feared that Maggie’s murderer was someone he had purposely wronged. Someone who got a little more justice than they deserved. He’d planted drugs on a woman who beat her kids so she’d get a stiffer sentence. He’d destroyed evidence that would have provided an escape loophole for a rapist. And before he arrested a man who beat his dog to death, he kicked the man’s ribs until they cracked.

  So Herne carried the burden of guilt. Guilt that his personal brand of the law had brought down the hand of justice on his own life, and had executed Maggie in a swift and harsh punishment.

  Herne had nothing left to say to Tucker. After Maggie’s death, he answered only to his own conscience.

  As he walked out of Pike’s house, he heard Tucker call out, “Don’t make me regret this, Art. Don’t make me regret asking for your help.”

  Why not? Herne thought bitterly. Why shouldn’t you feel regret, too?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Her covered mouth made every breath difficult. So she stopped struggling and instead laid silently, focusing on the air as she inhaled and exhaled through her nose. It was the same type of breathing she did while meditating before karate class and it calmed her mind. The panic didn’t completely leave her body, but it subsided. Her vision was no longer blurred and red with fear. She saw his face clearly. She knew him. Recognized him.

  In the fluorescent light of The Sandwich Station, his tousle of blond hair and friendly grin had been handsome. But now, in her bedroom, his wolfish smile looked vicious. Sadistic. Evil. No longer handsome, his face appeared dark and scary.

  And Bethany was, indeed, scared.

  He reached for her, his eyes on her breasts. Fear swelled in her throat and her breathing quickened. Bethany pulled her knees toward her chest, as if to shield her body with her legs. He grinned as if amused by her actions, and reached out to grab her ankle.

  Her leg shot out in a kick, the kind her Sensei had forced her to practice over and over again. Her heel—hard and round—connected with his groin.

  He howled in pain, his screech almost animal in its shrillness. His body bent forward as he grabbed himself. She knew her kick hadn’t been enough to immobilize him permanently. And when she saw him start to straighten his body, the fury in his eyes sent a shot of panic through her heart.

  She twisted her body around to angle for another kick, waiting for him to move again. In her mind she was back at karate school, practicing drills. She could see herself in the dojo. She could smell the sweat and hear the shouts of her fellow students. An
d she heard the lesson her Sensei had taught her when she was just a yellow belt.

  “This isn’t a sanctioned karate move, Bethany,” Sensei Robert had said. “And if you ever end up in court for using it, I’ll deny that I taught it to you.”

  He made her stand still as he lunged toward her, playing the part of the angry attacker. “It’s all about timing,” he said. “Be patient. Pick the right time. When your attacker is coming toward you, watch his feet. Wait until his front foot is planted firmly on the ground. Then, in that brief instant, strike his knee with a sidekick. The pressure of his foot against the ground acts as reverse leverage. If you’re lucky and your aim is good, you’ll break his knee.”

  When The Healer moved toward her again, she waited until his foot struck the ground. Then she thrust her heel forward.

  Her aim was true. The strength of her kick snapped his knee and sent him stumbling backwards. He screamed with pain and reached out to grab himself, but he wasn’t quick enough. His head collided with the corner of Bethany’s bedside table as he fell to the ground. Then he lay motionless.

  Bethany felt a surge of triumph, followed by another wave of fear. She knew he could wake up at any second.

  The Healer’s gun rested on the floor. Bethany twisted so her legs came off the bed, whimpering as the tape around her hands dug into her flesh. She tried to grasp the weapon between her feet, but it was too far away. Tears slipped down her cheeks and moistened her skin. Her mind screamed with frustration.

  She had no choice. No other options. Bethany rotated her hands and arms, trying to escape her duct tape bonds, mindless of the raw pain that scraped her wrists.

  He dialed information on his cell phone and asked for the phone number of Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Combat School.

  Herne could almost feel the time slipping away.

  The operator connected his call directly, but a recorded message answered the phone. The school was closed on Saturday.