Phobia KDP (17 page)

An hour passed, and Herne shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The air was still and humid, offering no relief from the sweltering heat that seemed to envelope the entire town. Perspiration soaked through his white tee-shirt, and he wondered if Morales shared his discomfort.

Herne’s stomach growled insistently, but he ignored it. Instead, he hunched over his steering wheel, staring at the Nissan so intently that his eyes watered.
He’s waiting for someone,
Herne thought.

The sun, just beginning to fade in the sky, blinded him momentarily. He heard Morales start his SUV and pull away. Herne turned the key in the ignition and inched his car forward. The streets were empty. He had no idea who Morales had followed.

If he followed anyone at all,
Herne said.
Perhaps he was just observing a building. Watching for someone in particular.

Herne pulled in the space Morales had vacated. From his driver’s seat he had a clear view of The Hurricane Police Station.

Was he watching us?
Herne thought. Serial killers were often fascinated by police work, and even showed up at crime scenes and press conferences.

Morales, Herne decided, definitely deserved closer attention.

Adrenaline pumping through his system caused him to feel alert, despite the warmth of his bedroom. Thoughts of his next patient filled his mind.

He’d driven by Cheryl Brandt’s home earlier that day, monitoring the neighbors and checking her lifestyle. This was not his first visit to Cheryl’s street, but he thought it would be his last. He had learned everything he needed to know. She had no boyfriend. No close friends. She never received unannounced visitors.

Cheryl lived in a small apartment in Carlisle. Unlike Hurricane, where neighbors knew each other and gossip was still spread over white picket fences, Carlisle was large enough that faces blurred in the sea of people. Some of the residents might remember or even get friendly with a neighbor or two. But most of the families were too busy to do anything other than nod at the person who lived next door. Because of this, no one thought twice about seeing a stranger’s face. It would be easy for him to blend into Cheryl’s neighborhood. He was ready. He knew what he had to do.

But it would have to wait. Right now he needed to prepare for sleep, though he felt too anxious for slumber. The sun still blazed outside, and he could almost feel the heat of its rays pulsating through the window and baking his body. He tossed and turned in his small bed beneath a crisp, white sheet.

Some days were like this. The light from the sun interrupted his body’s normal biorhythms. He’d been fighting his biology for years. Sleeping during the day and waking at night was the life of a third shift worker. But unlike many people, The Healer had never really adjusted to the unusual sleeping schedule.

Every once in a while his body would struggle against sleep, a struggle made even more difficult by the desperation in his heart. Unless he fell asleep before nightfall, he’d get no sleep at all. Yet trying to force himself to sleep was almost counterproductive, resulting in him feeling even more awake.

He searched his mind for a distraction. A pleasing thought that would lull him into a peaceful slumber before dusk streaked the sky.

Cheryl. He’d plan his session with Cheryl.

Her apartment was the best place for her therapy. Patients generally felt most comfortable in their own surroundings. And despite her fear of water, The Healer guessed she had running faucets. Most people with phobias tried to appear normal to others.

During his visits to the neighborhood he’d noticed an old woman in her building was a bit of a busybody. He’d have to take a little extra care to remain unseen. One witness could unravel his entire plan. He couldn’t expect the general public to understand his therapy, and he wasn’t ready to reveal himself to the world. Not yet. Not when he had so many patients left to heal.

As he drifted off to sleep, he envisioned a trickle of water dripping from the bathtub faucet. Perhaps Cheryl’s therapy would be more effective if it were slow.

The crispy sesame chicken, its sauce sweet, left an unpleasant sour aftertaste in Bethany’s mouth as she ended her uneventful date. She tried to hide her disappointment at the lack of spark between her and Patrick, and she wondered if the clatter at Woo’s Garden, which prevented any meaningful conversation, was to blame. Although they’d tried to chat above the clink of silverware and the din of other patrons, the stilted conversation had left Bethany bored, her thoughts focused on the chores left undone in her home.

She shook his hand firmly when they walked out of the restaurant, then turned and headed for her car. Her eyes constantly moved as she scanned the area for potential attackers who might have hidden behind dumpsters or parked vehicles.

Her reaction to the hand on her shoulder was automatic, trained into her by hours of self-defense drills with Sensei Robert. She leaned her body backwards and jabbed hard and fast with her elbow, smashing the groin of the person behind her.

Bethany glanced back, ready to run, as the man crumpled to the ground.

Patrick lay curled in the fetal position on the pavement, a deep groan escaping his lips. A piece of paper with his phone number fluttered from his grasp.

The scent of gasoline wafted toward Bethany as a nearby car drove away, and for a moment she wondered if the driver had witnessed the event.
If I had been attacked, no one would have stopped to help me,
she thought.
No one ever helps a victim.

But she wasn’t a victim. Not this time.

As she reached down to grab Patrick’s hand in apology, she realized she felt no remorse for the agony that she had caused him.

Instead, she felt satisfaction.

Those long hours of training had been worth the time. The sweat. The pain.

She felt strong and capable.

For the first time ever, Bethany felt a glimmer of hope. Hope that one day she would live a normal life. A life without fear.

Herne checked the phone book for Morales’ address. He drove to the private investigator’s home, parking his truck a block away. The sun faded in the sky until darkness overtook the street, hiding the maple trees and cracked sidewalks in black shadows cast by the moon.

Morales lived in a small duplex in one of the older neighborhoods of Hurricane, where the houses were sided with vinyl and the yards were dotted with brown because the residents didn’t want to pay for the water to revive their dying grass. It was a neighborhood of young, working class families or old, fixed income couples. A neighborhood where people began or ended their lives.

Light shone through the windows, but Herne sensed no real movement.
He’s in for the night,
he thought.

He told himself that it would be better to return at another time, when the house was empty and he could poke through the trash and sift through the mail. He told himself that Morales was probably asleep in front of the television, and that it was best to just call it a night.

But he knew he was just making excuses. Excuses so he’d have permission to slake his thirst.

He didn’t bother to analyze his thoughts. He just turned the key in his truck and drove, trying to empty his mind of the death and fear that circled his dreams.

Twenty minutes later he sat on a stool in a Carlisle bar. He surveyed the crowd through the thick veil of smoke that enveloped the room. Two women—a blond and an Asian—danced together by the jukebox, their hands fumbling across each other’s breasts and stomachs. They kissed each other deeply, the Asian girl sucking on the other’s tongue as if it were a sweet lollipop. The men at the bar watched them with their eyes wide and their penises half erect, trying not to distract the girls from their alcohol-induced passion. The other women in the bar ignored the couple on the floor, either jealous or embarrassed or bored.

He didn’t care about the dancing women.

All he cared about was the whiskey in his glass and the cigarette in his hand. The harsh smoke burned his lungs, but he didn’t gasp or choke. He’d stopped coughing years ago, when cigarettes were as vital as the air he breathed. During his time in Philadelphia, he’d chain smoke one coffin nail after another, lighting them off each other. Like a former classical pianist who always remembers the notes to Mozart’s Requiem, the melody of smoking cigarettes had never left his soul.

The sultry jazz music seemed out of place in a bar that featured cowboy hats and line dancing, but it fit the mood of the crowd. Everyone seemed to move a little slower, a little smoother. Candlelight flickered around the room, creating a beauty in a place where beauty was rarely found. The scent of smoke and whiskey and sour beer had soaked into the ragged wood of the bar and tables.

He looked at the women on the dance floor again. The blond’s shirt was cut low, and her ample breasts threatened to spill out and expose themselves. The Asian bent her head. Her tongue slipped out and licked the crevice of the blond’s cleavage.

But he didn’t feel aroused until he took a sip of whiskey and felt the smooth liquid slide down his throat. The taste and sensation grabbed his attention. The women could do nothing for him. Liquor was his turn-on.

It’s only temporary,
Herne thought.
It’s just a temporary fix. I’ll be sober again soon. Very soon.

But even he could hear the lie in his mind.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tucker sat at his desk, cradling his face in his hands as he stared out the window. The Saturday morning sun had started to peek over the mountains, painting the sky a fiery blood orange. The stubble on his face scratched his palms. He pulled a bottle of aspirin from his desk and crunched on two of them, not bothering to wash them down with coffee. The thought of his wife caused his headache to worsen.

He’d never been unfaithful during the fifteen years of their marriage. He’d been tempted—hell,
everyone
was tempted—but he’d never strayed. Not even after the miscarriage, when Elizabeth seemed to shut down her emotions. He tried to comfort her after it happened, but she only pushed him away. It was as if she couldn’t stand his touch. Couldn’t stand to feel his hands on her body or his lips on her skin. And now, even though two years had passed, she still maintained a cool distance from him, as if it was
his
fault they couldn’t have children.

It’s enough to drive me fucking insane,
Tucker thought.

Saxon walked in the door and he turned his attention to her.

“No news,” she said. “Neither Miller nor Johnson were able to locate him. They checked all the bars in Hurricane.”

“Dammit,” Tucker growled.

“Where do you think he is?” Saxon said.

Tucker was about to answer when he heard Sheila’s voice come across the intercom. “Um, Chief? Here comes Art. He’s crossing the street and headed this way.”

“That bastard better have a good explanation for his disappearance,” Tucker said.

Herne walked through the door, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. A day’s worth of grunge coated his body, and his stubble almost matched that on Tucker’s chin. He wore his standard outfit—blue jeans and a white tee-shirt. But the shirt was stained with something that looked like blood, and his jeans had a rip in the knee.