Phobia KDP (23 page)

Elizabeth talked about Maggie, reminiscing about her sweet laughter and kind heart. But her words weren’t tainted with the sugary sweetness of a memorial. One of the best things about Elizabeth, one of the things Tucker loved so much, was that she spoke the truth about people, alive or dead. It was
her
truth. It wasn’t candy-coated.

Tucker leaned back in his chair as Herne told the story—a story they’d all heard many times—of Maggie rescuing an abandoned baby bunny from a nest in their yard. Elizabeth focused on him as if she’d never heard the story before. She smiled in the right places and chuckled at the end. Then the conversation moved to Maggie’s siblings and Herne’s limited contact with them.

“They blame me, I think, for her death,” Herne said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Elizabeth said.

Herne looked at her, his eyes dark. He said nothing.

Elizabeth switched the talk to Maggie’s sense of fashion. Her classic clothing always bore an accent of the latest style without looking too young or too trendy. Maggie’s uncanny eye for fashion always meant that, no matter what the occasion, she was the best dressed in the room.

“It’s not easy being outshined by a woman every time you’re in a room with her,” Elizabeth laughed. “But Maggie made it impossible to hate her for it. She never seemed to realize how gorgeous she looked.”

Herne nodded. “She always thought
you
were the most beautiful woman in the room,” he said.

Elizabeth smiled. “That’s why Maggie was so lovable. She spent more time thinking of others, and she so rarely thought of herself.”

Tucker saw the flicker of pain that crossed Herne’s face. He almost stepped in. Almost stopped the conversation. But then Elizabeth started reminiscing about the Las Vegas vacation the two couples had taken together, and Tucker saw Herne relax again.

As the evening wore on, Tucker decided to slip into the house. He wanted to check the score of the baseball game, make a quick phone call, and slip into bed. The Healer case had exhausted him more than he cared to admit. As he pulled off his socks and reached for his cell phone, he glanced out the window. Herne and Elizabeth sat on the patio, drinks in their hands, laughing softly together. Tucker was certain that neither of them had noticed his absence.

He blamed it on the katydids.

The Healer’s slumber had been deep. So deep and restful that he might have made it through most of the darkness in peaceful oblivion. Then the chirp of the katydid pierced his dreams, and his eyes awoke to the night.

Now, with the lights blazing in his room, he huddled in his corner. The soft carpet rubbed the soles of his feet as he pulled his knees up to his chest. He tried to focus his mind. To think of something—anything—other than the darkness that threatened to seep through his window and spill into his room.

It was the same game he had played many nights as a child. He’d try to create a distraction in his mind in hopes that he wouldn’t notice the dark. Sometimes he’d do complicated math equations. Other times he’d try to predict what his mother would serve for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the next day. Many times he’d think about Claudia Brody, the prettiest girl in his school.

But his mother’s meals had died with her and Claudia Brody had moved away to Texas their first year of high school.

So he thought about his favorite patient.

Meek. Not traditionally beautiful, but her fear was palpable. It came off her body in waves. In his mind, her fear made her beautiful.

He’d noticed her before he even started his work, but he’d been saving her. Her therapy would require a serious effort on his part. He would need to get very involved with the patient, more so than ever before, so he had delayed her treatment until he’d become more experienced. So far his therapy was a success. Amanda Todd. Charles Emmert. Cheryl Brandt. Not only had he healed them of their fear, the police were no closer to catching him than they’d been that very first day. But he didn’t feel quite ready to carry out his very personal session with this special victim. He still needed more practice. More experience. He wasn’t ready yet. But soon. Very soon.

He moved his body so that all of him was bathed in the bright light of the lamps. Thoughts of his next therapy session had
almost
blocked out the darkness. At least for a few moments.

But then he saw the night outside his bedroom window, and he clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to quiet his sobs. He’d tried so hard to stay quiet as a child. If his father heard even a whimper, he’d come into The Healer’s room.

He’d drag The Healer out of the room and into the hallway, his dirty fingernails digging into the soft flesh of the young boy’s arm.

The Healer would see his mother, her eyes wide, as his father pulled him into the kitchen. The scent of the evening meal often still lingered, the oil from his mother’s fried chicken coating the air with grease. She always wore a plain housedress, a shapeless shift with a floral print that hid her lean body, with her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. He’d seen it loose and flowing once, so he knew it was straight and so long that it almost reached her waist.

Once his mother had reached out and tried to grab him as his father dragged him through the kitchen. She tried to pull him to the safety of her bosom. But his father just slapped her hand away with his own beefy palm and snarled. “He’s my son,” his father said. “I’m in charge of disciplining him.”

His father would grin, his eyes glittering, and somehow the piece of spinach or pepper that stuck between his front teeth would make him seem all the more frightening. The Healer could see the spittle that gathered in the corner of his father’s mouth.

Then his father would drag him to the cellar door. And The Healer—then just a boy—would scream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It had become a familiar scene in Herne’s life. He, Tucker, and Saxon sat in the station office, The Healer files spread across the desk. It was Friday afternoon. In less than twenty-four hours, Herne knew The Healer would kill again.

Saxon stood up and paced the length of the room. As she passed Herne, he noticed the slightest aroma of a musky perfume. He was certain it was the first time she’d worn a scent other than her honeysuckle soap and he wondered why she’d chosen to wear it that day. When she spoke, her tone was thoughtful. “Ginch said that Lochhead had a problem with his office door a year ago. Maybe The Healer snuck in and made copies of his files at that time. Maybe he’s been planning these murders for a year.”

“If that’s the case,” Tucker said, “these files are a dead end. We have no way of knowing who might have been in the building a year ago. There are no security cameras and no one who keeps records of people who come and go. There’s no fucking guest register. It’s fucking hopeless.”

“We have to try,” Saxon insisted.

Tucker waved his hand. “Feel free to give it a shot,” he said. His voice was cold and callous.

She drew back, as if he slapped her. Then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the office.

“She won’t find anything,” Herne said.

“I know. But she wanted to try.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“So? Who the fuck cares? This whole thing is a waste of time. We’re no fucking closer to catching this guy than we were the day of Amanda Todd’s murder.”

“Do you still have Miller watching Morales?” Herne asked.

“No, goddammit, I don’t. I know you think he’s our best suspect, Art, but I’ve only got two officers and one lieutenant. I just don’t have the people to keep a man on Morales all the time.”

“Did you tell Frey about him?”

“Of course,” Tucker said. “But he just waved me off. He doesn’t think that ownership of a silver SUV constitutes a need for twenty-four hour surveillance. And for once, I’m inclined to agree with the son of a bitch.”

“Morales was also staking out the PD.”

Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “You said he was parked on this street. You said you couldn’t tell who he had under surveillance.”

“But he
might
have been watching the station. Watching us. You.”

“Not good enough, dammit.”

“He uses surveillance techniques on a daily basis. He’s probably got plenty of tools for breaking and entering. It’s likely he’s got enough skills to slip in and read Lochhead’s files.”

“So does the teenager I arrested last month for breaking into the First Assembly of God church on Catharine Street.”

Herne swallowed hard, fighting the anger that rose in his throat. “Don’t you want to catch this guy?” he asked.

“Of course I want to fucking catch this guy,” Tucker said. “But I don’t have enough men to keep an eye on a suspect who hasn’t even done anything suspicious. If you want to dig deeper into Morales, Art, you’re going to have to find a way to do it on your own.”

On your own.
Strangely, the words were comforting. The only way Herne knew how to catch a killer was on his own.

“We’ve got a bigger fucking problem right now,” Tucker said. “The Healer is due to kill another victim tomorrow. And I don’t think it’s likely that we’re going to catch him before that unlucky person ends up dead.”

Herne remained silent. The deaths of The Healer’s last two victims—Charles Emmert and Cheryl Brandt—burdened him with their weight. These were the deaths that he couldn’t prevent. The deaths that wouldn’t have come to be if he’d been able to catch the killer.

The force bore on his chest like a heart attack, heavy and numbing. There was only one way to ease the pressure. “I’m making a call,” Herne said. He pulled out his cell phone and punched some numbers.

“We’re at the PD now,” he said into the phone. “I’m ready.” Herne snapped his phone closed.

“What the fuck is that about?” Tucker asked.

“If we can’t catch this guy, we’re at least going to protect the public.”

He handed the photos to the redheaded woman, noting her crestfallen expression. It was always the same. They wanted him to catch the cheating wife or the drug-abusing spouse. They wanted photographic evidence to prove their suspicions.

And they were always disappointed when their suspicions were confirmed.

They cling to hope,
he thought. But he knew better. Hope was nothing more than a pipe dream for folks who refused to help themselves.

But now his clients and business were finished. He had earned a paycheck. Enough to get him through another week of bills. Enough to give him time to focus on his other project.

The papers spread across his desk, the ones from Peter Lochhead’s office, contained symbols and numbers he couldn’t easily decipher. Morales had finished high school and he knew how to read, but he had forgone higher education to pursue a career in security. He struggled with complicated math and unfamiliar terminology.

The papers were photocopies. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to read all the pages while in the therapist’s office. Getting caught would mean jail, and only stupid people got caught. So he made copies to read on his own terms. Now it was time to sort through the pages and determine how to use the information to his advantage.

Just a little while longer,
Morales thought,
and I’ll be ready to make my move.