Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  Five pairs of boxer jocks. Brand: Under Armour.

  The silver-and-gold police badge he’d shown me to prove himself. Apparently, he’d earned it just a few months ago after completing the academy.

  Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, a razor, shaving cream. Where was it? And by it, I meant anything incriminating. Anything to explain what I’d read.

  Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. A pocket stun gun. Ginny’s mom had given her one just like it to carry in her purse.

  A bottle of Xanax. Prescribed to Kate Beckett. My mother had the same white bottle in her sock drawer for years. I’d discovered it once by accident. And every time I’d snoop, it was still there. Still full. Just like this one.

  A book. A journal? A logbook? Thick with notes and newspaper clippings. When I opened it, a photograph—yellow with age—fluttered to the ground like a dead leaf. I picked it up and examined it. Three people. A mom. A dad. And a little boy, who looked a lot like a toddler version of the one in my hotel bed.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Levi snapped, snatching the picture, then the book, from my hand before I could explain myself.

  “You must think I’m really naïve. Oh wait—inexperienced. That was your word, right? A real inexperienced, small-town hick.”

  “So that gives you permission to rifle through my stuff?” Levi slipped the photo back between the pages, shut the book with authority, and returned it to his backpack. He sat on the bed, head in his hands, brooding.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I demanded.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Really, Levi? You want me to say it? Fine. I googled you. You’re on administrative leave. For bribery. You’re not even supposed to have a badge anymore, are you?”

  “So Google knows everything now?”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “No. It’s true. But it doesn’t really tell you anything, does it? What if I said I googled you? I looked at your Facebook page. Your Insta-whatever.”

  “Gram.” A half-smiled slipped through. Still, I felt irked with myself for hoping he’d been that curious about me. “Dork.”

  “I learned a lot about Samantha Bronwyn. Superstar athlete. Smart, but not too smart. Basketball scholarship to Baylor in the fall. Part-time job at Clare’s Couture—small-town nepotism at its finest. Single. Slutty best friend.” I kept quiet, denying him his reaction. “Arrested for minor in possession of alcohol at age sixteen. Charges dismissed.” How did he know that?

  “That’s not on Facebook.” I narrowed my eyes at him until I vaguely remembered Ginny’s drunken post about our lucky jailbreak. Which was really my mom’s doing—the sheriff had a little thing for her. Like a lot of men in Bellwether. Not that she ever expressed interest. Your father was the only man for me, she’d said once when I pried. “Never mind. Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you here.”

  “My point is—”

  “I get your point, Officer Beckett. But you have some serious explaining to do.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. Can we order breakfast first? My lips get a lot looser with a short stack of pancakes in me. I’m guessing you already know that though, since you googled me.”

  ****

  Levi and pancakes. Pancakes and Levi. I tried to stay mad, but the sight of him stuffing one mountainous bite after the other—whipped cream, syrup, strawberries, the works—it made for a losing battle. I nibbled on a slice of toast, but everything tasted wrong. Like the sour stench of Skinny’s mouth had seeped into my tongue.

  “Ready to talk now,” he announced, wiping the final smear of whipped cream from his lips. “And for the record, I didn’t lie. I just omitted unnecessary information.”

  “I’ll be sure to enter that into the record, Officer. Off the record, it’s the same as lying. And I’ll be the judge of what’s unnecessary.”

  “Duly noted.” He muted the television, propped a pillow behind his back, and fluffed the other one for me, patting the spot next to him. “Let’s start over. My name is Levi Beckett. I’m twenty-one years old, and I’m a rookie police officer in Austin, Texas. I was recently placed on administrative leave for offering another officer a bribe—my first month’s salary to be exact—to keep my sister out of jail. I’m supposed to turn in my badge and service weapon on Monday. What else would you like to know?”

  “Better,” I said, sitting at the foot of the bed opposite him. I pulled the pillow onto my lap. “Nice to meet you, Levi. I have a few questions.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Why is your sister in jail?”

  “Short answer: burglary and drug possession.” I frowned at him.

  “Okay, long answer it is. We bounced around a lot as kids and got into trouble. I went to the Junior Police Academy. She went to juvie, and she’s been in and out ever since.”

  I laughed. “Junior officer, huh?” In front of his wide grin, he raised his middle finger.

  “Alright. Why are you here? And why did you follow me?”

  “I told you. I can’t resist a damsel—”

  “There’s a stun gun in your backpack, so you can spare me the Prince Charming routine, Flynn.” I held up my cell phone. Austin Police Department, my newly entered contact, on the screen. “You have five seconds to tell me the truth—the whole truth—or I’m calling your bosses. I’m pretty sure they’d want to know about your little zip-tie arrest last night. It wasn’t exactly by the book.”

  Levi’s smile dampened. He ran his hand through his hair. “Don’t freak out, okay?” I nodded, but that meant nothing. Inside, my freaking out was well underway. “I think Ginny is in big trouble. Really big. But so are you. I—” Levi’s mouth hung open, as if I’d pressed pause. Then, he grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. I spun around just in time to see the image that stonewalled him. The mustached face of a middle-aged man. Not a frat boy. Not even close. Under him, a caption: Murdered SFO employee identified as 41-year-old Marco Guzman.

  Police have identified the body discovered yesterday at the Candlestick demolition site as that of SFO employee Marco Guzman. Guzman was employed by SFO since 2014, as a member of the custodial staff. He was last seen by airport staff early yesterday evening but did not complete his shift. Police have not disclosed the manner in which Guzman was killed, but have indicated escaped-prisoner Clive Cullen is a person of interest. Cullen may be driving Guzman’s black Chevrolet Silverado, which has been reported stolen. Investigators suspect Cullen replaced or removed the license plate to avoid detection. SFPD are asking anyone with information about Guzman’s death to contact police headquarters immediately.

  “Holy shit, I was right.” I heard Levi, but his voice sounded strange, far away. Like we were playing telephone with tin cans. Ginny and I tried that once when we were bored … and a little tipsy. Levi pulled off his gym shorts—Under Armour, I muttered—and tugged on his jeans and boots. “Sam? Sam? Samantha!”

  “What?”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Um, I think so. You said you were right.”

  His hand squeezed my shoulder. It was the only thing I could feel. “I said a few other sentences too.”

  “A few other sentences? Oh. Sorry.”

  “Whoever took Ginny made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” I kept repeating things, but I couldn’t stop.

  Levi’s head nodded fast—so fast it seemed disconnected, unattached—and I almost laughed. “I think he meant to take you.”

  “He?” You’re doing it again, Sam.

  “Cullen.”

  october 10, 1996

  Since her run-in with Ramirez, Clare avoided the yard whenever she could. Leave it to Fitzpatrick to assign her an errand that sent her directly through it. Messing with her probably. Pushing her to the limit just because he could. Watching her squirm. But
Clare, clever girl, had a trick. She fixed her eyes on her destination—the hunk of concrete that was West Block—and silently sang the song she’d heard on the radio that morning. Hey, Macarena. It was one of those awful-but-catchy tunes that stuck like a burr. When she was thirteen, Mr. Taylor’s hand between her thighs, Olivia Newton John or Rick Springfield had always gotten her through it.

  “All want me … can’t have me … come … dance beside me.” Clare hummed a little, sang a little, chuckling at the irony of the lyrics. It was a private joke, a private screw you. Sort of like the times she’d channeled Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical.” Mr. Taylor’s voice, dripping with lust, faded to background noise. Instead, Olivia’s husky crooning. Clare’s therapist called it disassociation. Fine, if you wanted to be technical about it. Clare preferred to think of it as an essential distraction. Survival. If her mind went somewhere else, refused to participate, it didn’t really count, did it?

  Halfway to West Block and almost to the chorus, Robocop flagged her down. With his signature glasses perched atop his head, he was barely recognizable. Chestnut brown and flecked with green, his eyes softened him, smudged his edges a little. Clare considered commenting, but thought better of it. Don’t encourage him.

  “How are you, Dr. Keely? It’s been a while.”

  She nodded. “A few weeks. I’m steering clear of the yard for a while.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Did you hear about Ramirez?” He barely paused for a response, like he couldn’t wait to tell her. “His transfer didn’t go through. He’s getting out of Ad Seg next week. I figured you’d want to know.”

  Clare’s rage hovered close to the surface. It only took a flick—the strike of a match—to ignite. But she couldn’t let Robocop see it. It would scare him, or worse, he’d draw in like a moth to her flame. “Is there someone I can talk to about this?”

  ****

  Clare knocked and knocked again. But Lieutenant Bonner didn’t look up from his Grisham novel, so she let herself into the half-opened door. She offered the most genuine fake smile she could muster—then, a flip of her hair. Clare wasn’t above using her powers for her own benefit. Sometimes her curse could be a blessing.

  “Can I help you?” He kept one pudgy hand inside the book to hold his page. The other fondled the ends of his mustache.

  “I’m Clare—uh, Doctor—”

  “I know who you are. You testified at Arturo Ramirez’s disciplinary hearing last week.” He sounded utterly unimpressed.

  “Right. That’s me. I actually just heard he might not be transferred, and I wondered if you could tell me why.” The lieutenant smirked at her the way some men did, like a cute, harmless, little thing—a toy poodle, barking at the passing cars from the window.

  “We had some concerns about your credibility, Ms. Keely.” Doctor, you prick. “After all, Clive Cullen is your therapy patient, is he not?”

  “I’m not sure what that has to do with my credibility.”

  “You portrayed him in quite a positive light. I, for one, just don’t buy he wasn’t the instigator. Need I remind you, his nickname is Cutthroat.”

  “There were other witnesses. I’m sure their statements matched mine.”

  “Glad you brought that up. There were two inmates sitting at the picnic table, and they didn’t hear Ramirez say anything to you, much less anything of a sexually explicit nature. Perhaps you misheard him.” The lieutenant opened his book, a not-so-subtle hint. “Besides, I’ve been told Cullen’s got a way with the ladies. You wouldn’t be the first to take his side.”

  Beneath Clare’s surface, that flame was licking higher and higher, coloring her neck a vibrant red. “I know what I heard.”

  “Ms. Keely, if I may offer a piece of advice.” She felt his eyes laser focused on her chest, sights on the low point of her V-neck sweater. “Young women do best in this environment when they tone down their appearance. A little less makeup. A little higher neckline. Draw a bit less attention to yourself if you want to be taken seriously.”

  “It’s Doctor Keely.” It was the only thing she had left to cling to, her last shred of dignity.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, Doctor. I’ve got a runaway jury to attend to.”

  october 15, 1996

  Clare arrived early that morning, her head still spinning from Cullen’s sixth session the day before, Manic Monday. That’s what she called it now. She’d hardly slept—three hours at most—but she wasn’t tired. Her whole body awake, nerves buzzing like she’d downed a shot of espresso. Usually she slogged through a three-mile run before breakfast. Today, she’d done five at an all-out sprint.

  She ignored the red eye of the answering machine, blinking since last night. Lizzie probably wanted to meet up for coffee, but she couldn’t fake it with Lizzie. Is Lisa’s stepdad into you? What a perv! Lizzie had whispered to Clare post-slumber party when they’d woken first, surrounded by a tangle of girls in sleeping bags. Lizzie wasn’t like most people—Clare’s mother, for starters—trudging through life, eyes closed. Lizzie paid attention. And when she’d ask about Cullen, which was a given, Clare wouldn’t say the words business as usual. Because Lizzie would counter bullshit.

  Clare couldn’t explain it but chapter five in her Humanistic Psychology textbook—Maslow, circa 1960—came close, describing the peak experience as rare, deeply moving, exhilarating, and oceanic, generating an advanced perception of reality. Oceanic. She’d written that down. That’s how it felt when a client had a breakthrough. But not just any client. Him. And she didn’t know why.

  There had been others. The heroin addict who shot up so many times he’d nearly lost his arm. The rebel-without-a-cause teen who took out an entire family with one drunken ride. And now, Cutthroat. Serial murderer. Serial seducer. Incubus. Whatever he was, Clare held her breath and dove down deep, not coming up until she reached the bottom. Oceanic. But she knew what Lizzie would say. What Neal would say. Her therapist. Her mother, if she cared enough to ask, which she didn’t. Not then. Not now. Not even a Why is Mr. Taylor picking you up on a school night again?

  Breathe, Clare. Breathe. Focus. She sprinted up the concrete staircase to her office, hoping the effort would still her mind. It had come unlooped, unloosed like a spool of thread. She had to reel it in before her session with Dumas at 9 a.m. Cullen wasn’t the only one making breakthroughs. Dumas was off suicide watch and had endured their last session—a whole fifty minutes—without getting glassy-eyed. Definite progress.

  Clare’s mind paused. Suddenly. Finally. Her door was slightly ajar. She felt certain she’d closed it, locked it. But Manic Monday had a way of leaving things undone. Her, for instance. Especially yesterday, the way Cullen saved his best for last. One foot out this very door, but doling insights like breadcrumbs she wanted to follow and gobble.

  “I’m beginning to understand why,” he’d told her, while putting on his jacket and preparing to leave. It was still wet from the rain, and she’d watched the drops puddle on the floor.

  “Why what?” she’d asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

  “Why I killed her.” Pointing to the clock hanging above her head, he’d added, “Guess I’ll save it for next time.” Clare had nodded against everything in her being.

  But she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Cullen’s why seemed like the un-gettable get.

  She sighed—maybe she had left the door open after all. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t be happy with her if anything came up missing. You’re responsible for your belongings, he’d ranted on her first day. Whatever you bring in here, lock it up, or be sure to bring it out with you. Pens, umbrellas, glasses. Hell, even your goddamn lipstick. MacGyver’s got nothing on these guys. They can make a shank from a paper clip.

  A quick scan of the room, and everything seemed intact. Relieved, she tossed her purse on her desk, and that’s when she saw it. A note. Typed and addressed
to her. Before she picked it up, she wrestled with the thought—hope?—that it came from Cullen. And with that, a thousand questions, but only one that mattered. What would she do with it? She whispered the first line aloud. Then she went silent and still, like she always did. Hiding like a bunny in the tall grass, Mr. Taylor’s voice in her head, though she’d called him Rodney by then. Just relax and let it happen, Clarie. You want this. You like this.

  Dear Dr. Keely,

  Consider this a warning. Mind your own business or we’ll mind it for you. We wouldn’t want to have to carve up your pretty face. Your boyfriend wouldn’t like that. Tell him we promise not to be greedy. We’ll leave your neck for him.

  Sincerely,

  Your friends

  Clare glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting Fitzpatrick to be there. Or Ramirez. Gotcha, he would say with a jack-o-lantern grin, locking the door behind him. But there was no one. She balled up the note in her fist and stuffed it deep in the pocket of her khaki trench. She wanted to burn it. Boyfriend. That word stuck to her. Worse than all the other words, as ugly as they were. She knew what it meant—who—it wasn’t even a question. This was the kind of thing that happened when you were cursed. I haven’t done anything wrong. She’d said that before. At her postdoc. After her divorced, father-of-two client had sent her roses. I didn’t treat him any differently. No, I didn’t encourage him. Nobody bought it. And they certainly wouldn’t buy it here. From the mouth of Lieutenant Bonner, she was too pretty to be believed.

  And she had no one to blame but herself. Clare ran through the list—all the shouldn’t haves. I shouldn’t have talked to Cullen that day on the yard. I shouldn’t have written a report on Ramirez. I shouldn’t have complained to the lieutenant. And worst of all, I shouldn’t have told anybody what happened, much less Cullen.

  Clare had known it was wrong, even as she’d said it. But she’d ruminated about it all weekend, how she could tell him first thing, before they started their session. You know, they decided not to transfer Mr. Ramirez. Robocop warned her Cullen might be in danger from the EME with Ramirez returning to the main line. It seemed only fair he know. But if she was honest with herself, she wanted an ally, a partner in outrage. It was an offering, and he’d given something in return. Something big. That hint of a why.