Phobia KDP (2 page)

Herne said nothing, his gray eyes cold and hard as he met Tucker’s earnest gaze.

“She also happens to be our mayor’s niece,” Tucker continued. “So good ol’ Mayor Harvey is really laying on the pressure. He’s even made a few threats. Nothing violent, of course. That fat bastard doesn’t have the balls to approach me like a man. Instead, he says he’ll use his power and money to drag my name through the mud if I don’t find her killer.”

“And you’re worried about that? I doubt a little mudslinging from the mayor will damage your popularity,” Herne said.

Tucker lowered his voice. “It’s not just that,” he confessed. “The folks in this town rely on me to keep them secure. They want to go to bed at night without locking their doors. They want to think it’s safe to leave their kids in the fucking car while they run into the store. They all live in this little protected bubble, and this crime is going to bust it all to hell. If I don’t do something about it—if I don’t catch the killer soon—I’ll have widespread panic on my hands. And no one will ever feel safe again. No one in this town will ever fucking trust me again. And trust is important between a police chief and his town, Art.”

Herne shook his head. Underneath the table he gripped his thighs with his thick fingers, trying to maintain control. “You don’t need me, Rex,” he said. “You can handle this on your own.”

“I’ve handled homicides before,” Tucker said. “We had a case a few years ago when a guy took out a big insurance policy on his wife and then drowned her in Marsh Lake. But I’ve never seen shit like this, and I know you solved some fucked up stuff in Philadelphia.”

“When I left, I had plenty of open cases on my desk.”

“I’ve got me, one lieutenant, two officers, and a dispatcher who took the job so she’d be the first to know the local gossip. You’re the most experienced person in this town.”

“I can’t do it, Rex.”

“It won’t be anything official. We could hire you as a consultant. I know you could use the extra cash.”

“No. Never.” Herne slid out of the booth and stood up, clenching his muscles so Tucker wouldn’t see his quiver of excitement. He needed to leave. Needed to be alone to slow the beat of his heart and the pulse of his emotions. He turned toward the door.

Tucker exhaled softly. “I’m calling it in, Art.”

Herne stopped and faced his friend. “What?”

“The favor. I’m calling it in.”

They stared at each other as memories flooded Herne’s mind like a scattering of photographs faded by sunlight. On summer break their freshmen year of college, they shared a bottle of illicit whiskey in Tucker’s basement. Best buddies having a little fun on a typical Saturday night. Walking a street in Hurricane, on their way to meet Tucker’s girlfriend—who would later become his wife—they saw the unmistakable glow of flames a few blocks away. The old brick bakery was on fire. They ran to it, knowing that the building was really a shelter for battered women. Once there they found a thin, long-haired man in the parking lot, holding a lit Molotov cocktail while screaming the name of his wife. Two more unlit homemade frags sat on the asphalt.

When the man saw them, he threw the bomb against the building and charged at Herne.

Herne pounded at the man’s face until his fist pulverized bone into tiny shards. Through a red haze of fury, Herne only saw the face of his sister—his sweet, young sister—beaten to death in her teenage years by a jealous boyfriend.

Tucker pulled him away into the night as sirens sounded in the distance. The man spent years in reconstructive surgery, and he never looked anything less than a monster. The brain damage he suffered made it impossible for him to identify his attackers.

It nagged at Tucker’s conscience and he had wanted to confess. But Herne knew that his uncontrolled attack would destroy a future career in law enforcement. He remained silent and Tucker kept his secret.

And now, in Shady Hill Diner twenty years later, Tucker was finally calling in that favor.

Herne returned to his seat. He knew Tucker suffered from more than one sleepless night because of their secret. He met his friend’s eyes and nodded.

Tucker slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is Amanda Todd’s address. She was found by the cleaning woman in her bed this morning.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Herne said.

Tucker hesitated, and for one brief moment Herne thought his friend might change his mind. Might let him off the hook.
Please, God
, Herne thought,
please let this pass by me.

But Tucker just nodded and walked out the door.

Herne continued to stare at his coffee cup, not noticing when Sherry dropped the check on his table. Like the man on his deathbed who sees his life flash before his eyes, Herne’s mind tumbled through the homicides he’d investigated in Philadelphia. A drug deal that went sour. Two toddler girls found naked in a dumpster. A battered woman whose husband hit her one too many times. Bar fights, gang hits, and hookers who chose the wrong john. He’d fallen into each case like Alice down the rabbit hole, immersing himself in the dark world of violence and hopelessness, a world that meant drinking from the bottle and eating the tiny cakes—and almost losing himself in the process. His wife, Maggie, was the only person who could pull him out of the chasm.

Maggie was gone now. There was no one to be his anchor in the swirl of poisonous fear that enveloped a murder case. No one to rescue him from the hole.

It had been three years since he’d investigated a homicide. Three years since he’d even seen a murder, although part of him knew that he might have seen dead bodies during that first year after Maggie’s death, when booze and drugs and darkness consumed him. Those days, his time was split between seedy bars, dark alleys, and cheap hotel rooms. He might have seen a body that year. But in his haze of misery, he’d been able to ignore it.

Herne’s hands shook as he pulled out his wallet and counted money. Four bucks for breakfast, plus another two for a tip. Maggie had worked as a waitress during college, and she always insisted on generous tips. It was a habit he continued even after she was gone.

His feet felt heavy as he walked to his truck, knowing that it wasn’t Amanda Todd’s murder—or his promise to help—that weighed on his soul. Part of him wanted to investigate the case.
Wanted
to lose himself in the magnetic pull of an unsolved murder, where the death and blood and tragedy would be frightening enough to temporarily overshadow his own fears.

CHAPTER TWO

Herne stood in the doorway of Amanda Todd’s bedroom and breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and the musky odor of fingerprint dust mingled with sweat. He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the Animal Control officer whose thick fingers held a stick with pinchers, like a giant set of tongs. He and his partner—a red haired woman in the same uniform—eased behind a rattlesnake, intent on its capture.

Instead of watching the scene, Herne simply stood with his eyes closed, trying to devour the fear in the room. Years ago, when he hunted down his sister’s murderer, Herne absorbed all the pain and terror that belonged to her when her boyfriend ended her life with the weight of his fists.

Feeling the victim’s agony was his only method of catching a killer.

His nostrils flared as he breathed, trying to reach into himself for the emotions that must have flowed through Amanda during her last moments of life. But the noise and clatter in the room made it impossible to concentrate.

Herne opened his eyes and watched as the Animal Control officer snagged the snake’s neck. The reptile’s tail whipped through the air as the burly man dropped it into the plastic cage held by his female partner.

Tucker brushed past him and stepped into the bedroom, and Herne followed. Paul Lee—Hurricane’s Medical Examiner, county coroner, and the town’s only physician—stood just inside the door, his back pressed against the bedroom wall.

“I hate snakes,” Lee said. His almond eyes squinted as he glanced around the room. “I hate ‘em.”

“Just a common Timber rattlesnake,” the Animal Control officer said.

“Where did the killer get these damn things?” Tucker asked.

The Animal Control officer shrugged. “Anywhere. You can find ‘em in the mountains around here. Hell, grab a couple and you can breed ‘em yourself. There’s nothing special about these snakes. Although they usually don’t attack unless provoked.”

Herne moved toward Amanda’s bed. He clenched his hands and his breath came short and fast. The noise and light in the room seemed to dim, as if her body were spotlighted on a dark stage. He forced himself to walk rather than run to the bed.

She was curled in a puddle of vomit, the foul liquid only a slightly darker color than her nightgown. Gray duct tape, its edges neatly cut, wrapped around Amanda’s ankles. Her wrists were bound in the same manner. Three pairs of puncture wounds, red and inflamed, dotted her swollen legs.

The smooth backdrop of the white satin sheets did nothing to soften the horror of the scene. Amanda’s blue eyes, wide with fear, stared without seeing, their beauty tainted by death. Her soft blond hair twisted in a matted nest and framed her face, a few strands spilling across her cheek. Herne moved closer, wanting to brush aside those wisps of hair and give Amanda one last caress from mankind. But he kept his hands by his side, knowing others needed to examine and photograph her.

“Would the snakes have attacked if she’d been struggling? Screaming?” Tucker asked.

The Animal Control officer shrugged. “Possibly.”

“She wouldn’t have struggled,” Herne said. “Not at first.”

“If I were covered in snakes, my ass would have been struggling,” objected Tucker.

Herne shook his head. “What’s the first thing you do when confronted by a snake? You freeze. You don’t move a muscle. Amanda was educated and her family is local. She grew up in this town. She must have spent some time in the woods and fields around here, if only during her childhood. This couldn’t have been her first encounter with a snake.”

Herne paused, his gaze sweeping over the heavy draperies and antique armoire. He walked to the gas fireplace, its stone mantle the centerpiece of the room.

“The snakes were provoked. Probably with this.” He snapped a latex glove on his calloused hand before grabbing the decorative metal fire poker from its brass stand beside the fireplace.

In his mind he heard Amanda’s muffled screams. Felt the panic in her chest as her killer, a figure in black, prodded the snakes that slithered across her body. Herne bowed his head, drowning in the feeling of powerlessness. The naked vulnerability of a victim.
Yes,
Herne thought.
The fire poker was the instrument he chose to taunt and tease the snakes, provoking them into a frenzy.

“Lieutenant,” Herne called.

The woman who approached him moved with the casual grace of an athlete. The androgynous style of Hurricane Police Department’s blue uniforms and her short, black hair only accentuated her femininity.

“Herne, this is Lieutenant Kathleen Saxon,” Tucker said. “She’s my second in command, and she was the first on the scene.”

She nodded to Herne and her cold glance swept over him. Then she turned to Tucker. “You called, Chief?” she asked.

“
I
called you,” Herne said.

She stiffened her body and looked at him with rebellious eyes. He could almost feel their heat and he wondered about the source of her animosity.
Is it a reaction to men,
he thought,
or to
me
?

“Saxon, meet Artemis Herne. He’s consulting on this case. Nothing official, but I expect you to cooperate with him. Whatever he needs.” Tucker’s tone was almost pleading.

Her head moved an inch. Just enough of a nod to be considered assent.
She feels the need to be tough in a man’s world,
Herne thought. He’d seen it often among the female cops in Philadelphia. Surrounded by testosterone-driven males, they’d resorted to the same sexist and dark humor that pervaded every police department. Not content to be strong women in a man’s job, they’d done everything possible to prove that they were as masculine as their male colleagues.

“I need this bagged and tagged,” Herne said as he held up the poker. “The killer may have handled it.”

Saxon grabbed the poker with a gloved hand and briskly walked away. Tucker sighed.

“She’s a good cop. Great instincts and no fear,” Tucker said. Herne noticed a tinge of pride in his friend’s voice, and he wondered if Tucker thought of himself as a mentor.

“She didn’t seem happy about my presence,” Herne said.

“She thinks male cops are chauvinistic pigs,” Tucker responded.

“They usually are,” Herne said.

Tucker nodded. “I fucking know it,” he said.

They turned their attention to Lee as he bent over the body. His rotund belly, encased in a pale blue golf shirt, hung over the top of his blue jeans. The doctor ran his fingers through his sleek black hair and said, “I’d guess ten snake bites. Maybe a few more. Jesus, I hate snakes.”

“So you’re certain it’s the snakes that killed her?” Herne asked.

“I won’t know until I get her back to my office. But given her appearance, I’d say it’s extremely likely that she suffered systemic toxicity induced by snake venom. She probably got dizzy and nauseous, then vomited the pile of puke you see. She eventually died from either respiratory distress or heart failure.”

“Not a quick death,” Herne murmured.

“Probably thirty minutes or so. It takes time for the poison to work on the human body,” Lee said. “It has to get in the system, get pumped through by the blood. Rattlesnake venom is basically a nerve toxin. It has to get into all the body’s nooks and crannies. But once it’s there, you’re a dead man.”

Herne watched as Lieutenant Saxon continued to collect evidence, his fingers twitching vicariously as she dropped an empty wine glass into a paper bag. Another officer, Daniel Johnson, joined her, twisting his thin fingers and tapping his foot as he stood at her side, his gaze averted from Amanda’s body. Herne knew the final member of Hurricane’s Police Department, Officer Travis Miller, stood outside, his broad shoulders preventing reporters from entering the house. The local news had already sent TV crews. It would be a matter of minutes before more reporters arrived.