Phobia KDP (20 page)

“That’s it. I’m filing harassment charges.” Lochhead scowled, knitting his thick, dark eyebrows together in the center of his forehead.

“You’re no longer a suspect,” Herne said.
But I’d still like to wipe that smarmy grin off your face,
he thought. His fingers twitched at the idea of his fist colliding solidly with Lochhead’s face. For a brief moment he was transported back to eighth grade, when he punched the nose of William Marsh, the wealthiest kid in his prep school. William sat behind Danny Moncyzk in History class, and throughout the hour he’d flick the Jewish boy’s prominent ears with his index finger. Danny just sat, red-faced, while William casually tormented him. Herne grew tired of watching the abuse, so one afternoon on the playground he smashed William’s nose with a quick jab.

William never bothered Danny again.

Herne was suspended from school for two days. His father, after hearing the story, patted him on the back and then returned his attention to the sauce simmering on the bistro’s stove. Although his father never uttered a word about the incident, Herne knew that the pat meant he was proud of his son’s actions.

 Lochhead’s voice broke through Herne’s reverie. “Now that you guys have crossed me off the list, maybe you’ll get started on finding the
real
bad guy,” he said.

“Is Cheryl Brandt a patient of yours?”

“That’s none of your business,” Lochhead replied.

“I don’t really need your answer,” Herne said. “I already know you were her therapist.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Lochhead asked.

Herne paused, wanting Lochhead to feel the full impact of his statement. “We found her dead body this morning.”

Lochhead’s eyes widened. “Yes, Cheryl was one of my patients,” Lochhead said, scowling. “Fuck. This is not good news.”

Herne imagined Lochhead saw visions of his patients running in fear from his office door.
And that’s exactly what will happen as soon as the media finds out about the connection between Lochhead and The Healer’s victims,
Herne thought. “Did she have a phobia of water?”

“I can’t reveal that information,” Lochhead sighed. “Patient confidentiality.”

“I didn’t really need your answer to that question, either,” Herne said.

Lochhead narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t need me to answer your questions, then why are you asking them?”

“I thought I’d give you one more chance to help us out. To be a nice guy.”

“I’m a professional,” Lochhead said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you think I’m nice or not.”

No,
Herne thought.
You probably don’t. You want people to think that you’re smooth and attractive and a man of refined tastes. But it makes no difference to you if they think you’re nice or not.

Despite his dislike for the therapist, Herne could empathize. Like Lochhead, he didn’t give a damn if people thought he was nice, either.

“I need to know who has access to your files,” Herne said.

“I told you. No one. I’m the only one who has a key, and I lock the cabinet when I leave the office.”

Herne glanced at the file cabinet again, a cheap metal version that could be purchased at any office supply store for fifty bucks.

“Anyone with a screwdriver could get into your files,” said Herne.

Lochhead stiffened. “Are you suggesting my files aren’t secure?”

Herne met his gaze. “For someone who’s so damn concerned about patient confidentiality, your system is less secure than the free sample tray at Costco.”

“I resent that remark.”

“I resent you.” Herne felt his temper simmering below the surface, so he simply turned and left the office. He paused by Sarah Coyle’s desk. As usual, the receptionist wore an oversized blouse and sturdy skirt.
Designed to hide her skeletal appearance,
Herne thought.

“Have you seen anyone unusual hanging around the office? Anyone odd or strange?” Herne asked. He smiled, trying to appear charming, but his grin felt strained and false.

Sarah rolled her eyes upward, then met Herne’s gaze with a tight grin. “This is a clinical psychology practice,” she said. “
Everyone
is odd.”

Lochhead stared out his window, watching the parking lot below. It was over. His life was over.

He’d been dismissed from the practice in Philadelphia. And now a crazed serial killer was ruining his life.

“I might as well get a job washing dishes,” he said aloud. Soon the media would learn that each of The Healer’s victims had been his patient. Once the news was out, Lochhead knew he’d never see another patient again. Not in this town. Maybe not in any town.

“I’m ruined,” he whispered, hunching over his desk.

He allowed himself a few moments of self-pity. Then he straightened up.

He knew how to keep secrets. He knew how to keep his mouth shut, and he knew how to show the world the face he
wanted
them to see. If he closed his practice soon and moved to another town, he might still escape unscathed. He might be able to leave it behind him.

The congealed chicken noodle soup plopped out of the can. Herne stirred in some water and turned on the burner. Although his parents’ bistro had given him the taste for gourmet food, he lacked his father’s skill and patience for creating culinary masterpieces. After Maggie’s death, he relied mostly on restaurant meals, take-out pizza, and canned soup. The height of his cooking ability was scrambled eggs.

Herne grabbed a sleeve of saltine crackers from his cabinet and mindlessly munched on a few. A fresh bottle of Jack Daniels sat on his kitchen table but he was forcing himself to wait. Another hour and then he could have a drink. And if he made it through that hour, he might try to wait another. And then another. It was an exercise in willpower that had helped him get sober the first time.

But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to work now.

He gritted his teeth and stared at the bottle, trying to force away his desire to crack the seal and pour the drink into a tumbler. He could feel his will bending to the siren song of the whiskey.

Then the doorbell sounded. He wiped his forehead—he wasn’t surprised that it was coated in perspiration—and walked to the door, grateful for the distraction.

Lori Sims, reporter for TV News 4, stood on his front porch. She wore the traditional uniform of a news anchor: a slim fitting skirt and a professional but feminine white blouse. Her lips had been painted with red lipstick and every blond hair on her head was perfectly coiffed. A cameraman stood behind her, his lens directed at Herne’s face.

She thrust a microphone toward his mouth. “Artemis Herne,” she said with the same expressive vocals owned by every TV reporter in America, “we understand that you’re consulting on The Healer case with the police. Have you made any progress?”

“No comment,” Herne said.

“Do you have any idea why the killer refers to himself as The Healer?”

“No comment.”

“So far he’s claimed three victims. What’s the link between these three people? Why did he choose them as victims?”

Herne stepped forward. “Turn off your camera,” he said.

She waved a manicured hand at the cameraman, who lowered his camera.

“If I give you some information, you have to say it’s from an anonymous source.”

She nodded. “I’d love to get any kind of information at all. The state cops won’t say anything.”

“We think he calls himself The Healer because he’s some type of physician. Maybe a nurse or a veterinarian. But definitely someone in the medical field.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she said.

“You owe me one,” he said.

“You got it,” she responded.

She walked back to the news van, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk.

He’d given her false information, but the lie served a purpose. He’d now established a relationship with Lori Sims. It was the symbiotic, parasitic relationship of media and cops. They might use each other during this case. They might not. But he wanted her on his side.

As he heard the news van drive away, he twisted off the whiskey bottle cap.

Willpower had failed him again.

The photos of the victims flashed across the screen. Amanda Todd. Charles Emmert. Cheryl Brandt.

Lori Sims, TV News 4 reporter, stood outside of the Hurricane Police Station. She spoke to the camera.

“The simple life of Hurricane residents has been rocked by the presence of a serial killer in this sleepy little town. The killer has claimed the lives of two people from Hurricane. He’s also killed one woman in nearby Carlisle.”

The camera zoomed in on Lori’s face until her head almost filled the entire television screen. “The killer refers to himself as The Healer. An anonymous source says The Healer may be a medical professional of some kind, such as a doctor or a nurse. No one knows for certain his motive behind these grisly murders, and no one knows how many people he will kill before the police finally catch him.”

Bethany pressed a button on her remote control and the television went blank. Although the hour had grown late, she slipped out of bed and walked downstairs to her living room. Butch, her German Shepherd, followed at her heels.

She checked the security system. The red light told her it was armed and active. She walked to the front door and checked the locks. The deadbolts were all secure.

She wandered through the house, making a mental note of the weapons she kept stashed in her home. The revolver taped underneath the kitchen table. The knife tucked between the sofa cushions. The baseball bat beneath her bed.

Bethany spent thirty minutes checking and rechecking the locks, the security system, and her weapons. The news report about The Healer had shaken her. There was a killer in their midst. A horrible, cruel killer.

Bethany had no intention of becoming one of his victims.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The scent of gunpowder quelled the sweet aroma of honeysuckle vines that crawled around the fence outside of Herne’s property. He stood in line with the old oak tree, fifty feet from the paper target pinned to a bale of straw. Herne emptied his .45 into the target shaped like the silhouette of a man, each pull of the trigger a satisfying squeeze. He dropped the empty magazine to the ground. The ear plugs dulled his hearing, so he felt—rather than heard—Tucker approach from behind.

He slid a loaded magazine into his gun and turned to face his friend.

“Nice shooting,” Tucker commented.

Herne squinted at the target. Seven in center mass, one in the shoulder, two in the head. A good round.

Herne was tired of waiting. It was Tuesday and he was waiting for a note from The Healer. He was waiting for Cheryl Brandt’s autopsy results. He was waiting for Saxon to finish a background check on the cleaning service in Lochhead’s building.

Waiting. Herne was tired of waiting.

He didn’t bother to ask Tucker if there’d been any news. He knew his friend would have already revealed any new information.

Tucker ran his fingers through his brown hair. “I’ve been thinking about this all night, Art,” he said.

“
All night
?” Herne asked bitterly. “Try all week. All month. Every waking moment.” Herne turned back to his target. “Glad to know you’re not losing too much sleep over this, pal.”