Phobia KDP (24 page)

Herne shifted his feet, his shoulders hunched. He disliked being in the public eye.
I would have made a great hermit,
he thought. But the media was a tool that could be used to shape and guide a police investigation. And it was a tool he planned to use to his full advantage.

Thick, black mascara coated Lori Sims’ eyelashes, and her lips were painted a bright red. Her cameraman hoisted the video recorder on his burly shoulders and stood ready, his round face impassive. They gathered in Tucker’s office, using the plain gray wall as a background.

“Thanks for this interview,” Lori said, grinning at Herne.

Tucker, standing in the back of the room, snorted loudly. Lori eyed him before flashing another brightly whitened smile at Herne. She touched his shoulder with a manicured hand, and leaned in so close that her breast brushed his arm. He could smell the fresh mint on her breath, and he wanted to step away from her intimate presence, but he forced himself to remain still. Her voice took on the quality of a conspiratorial whisper, though her words were audible to everyone in the room. “Can you tell me anything off the record? Do you have any clues at all?”

“I’m not speaking off the record today,” Herne said.

Lori shrugged and stepped away, her face a mask of professionalism. “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said. She nodded to the cameraman, and a red light started blinking above the camera lens.

Tucker stood with his arms folded across his chest. He remained expressionless as Herne spoke to the camera.

Herne didn’t try to camouflage the coarse tone of his deep voice. He knew it made his statements sound grave and official. “The police are following up on some leads, and we expect to make an arrest very soon. However, we do want to issue a warning to Hurricane residents. The Healer seems to strike on Saturday. We urge all residents to be extremely cautious tomorrow. Do not make contact with strangers. If a stranger approaches you, do not engage in conversation. Exercise caution when you’re entering and leaving your home. Lock your doors and don’t open them to unfamiliar people.”

“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Herne,” Lori Sims said into the microphone. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

Herne nodded and stared straight at the camera, feeling a tiny thread of satisfaction worm through his heart with his next words. “Yes. Although all the victims seem to be unrelated, there is one common link. They were all patients of Peter Lochhead, a therapist who operates out of an office on Oak Street. If you are a patient of this particular psychologist, we urge you to be extremely cautious. Even those individuals who were former patients of Peter Lochhead should be on the alert for anything or anyone who appears remotely suspicious.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Herne, for this important public service. The citizens of Hurricane will rest easier tomorrow, knowing you’re on the job.” Lori Sims waved her hand, signaling to the cameraman. He lowered the video recorder and began packing up his equipment.

Lori looked at Herne again and her smile softened from a professional news reporter to that of a relaxed woman. “I really appreciate this interview. Is there anything I can do to repay you? A drink, perhaps?”

Herne shook his head. “Sorry, Miss Sims,” he said. “But we’re pretty much working around the clock to catch The Healer. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time for socializing.”
And you wear too much makeup,
he thought.

“Maybe some other time,” Lori said, placing a hand on his arm. “After you catch The Healer.”

“Maybe.” Herne glanced at Tucker, who continued to stand at the back of the room. When the reporter had packed up her microphone and left with the cameraman, Tucker finally stepped forward.

“You’re going to send a panic through this goddamn town,” Tucker said. “I’ll bet Lochhead will be pissed.”

“Good,” Herne said. “Let him feel some of the heat.”

“Our phone’s going to ring off the hook. Anyone who’s ever stepped foot in that building will be calling.”

“Sheila can handle it,” Herne said. “That’s her job.”

“Jesus.” Tucker ran his hands through his hair. “This is going to send the town into chaos.”

“They had to be warned, Rex,” Herne said. “Someone had to tell them.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The entire building seemed still and empty, quiet except for the hum of the air-conditioner. Herne’s footsteps sounded hollow as he passed Lochhead’s office and walked to Morales’ door.

The lock on the door was solid. More substantial than the one Morales used for his house. Herne knew his bump key wouldn’t open it. Instead, he pulled out a case of picks and went to work on the lock, his ears alert for the sound of approaching footsteps. He didn’t expect to hear or see anyone on a Saturday evening, but he hurried anyway.

The tumblers fell with a satisfying click, and Herne entered the private investigator’s office. He didn’t bother to turn on a light, since the sun still shone through the west window. The small, institutional waiting room contained only a few metal chairs and a side table with outdated copies of
Sports Illustrated
. Herne walked quickly to the inner office.
A man with secrets,
he thought,
keeps them away from the public eye.

A dim overhead light illuminated the space. The room contained nothing more than a folding table, folding chair, and locked file cabinet. Herne detected the faint odor of leftover pepperoni pizza. The sparseness of Morales’ home was echoed in his office.

Herne used his picks on the cabinet, opening the drawers with ease. Inside were manila folders, each neatly labeled with initials.

He opened one. Morales’ barely legible handwriting was scrawled across a few sheets of yellow paper from a legal pad. He had noted his client’s name, the subject’s name, and details about the case. He also kept a log of his hours, plus a copy of the invoice he sent to his client. Herne noticed that Morales padded his bill. The only items in the file were some photographs of a short, fat businessman in a passionate embrace with a scantily clad young woman.

Herne continued to open the files, finding more of the same. Cheating spouses seemed to make up the bulk of the private investigator’s cases.

He slipped the files back into their place and sat, staring at the drawer. Nothing.
This isn’t the guy,
Herne thought.

Then he noticed a file marked with the initials AT. He pulled it from the drawer and opened the folder.

The file contained no paperwork. No notes or log of hours. It only held a variety of photos. Women, men, children. All of them unfamiliar. All except one.

Amanda Todd.

A wave of excitement shot through Herne’s gut, so strong his fingers trembled and the photo of Amanda slipped from his grasp. He had evidence. Solid evidence that Morales was connected to the first victim.

It wouldn’t convict the private investigator in a court of law. It wasn’t even enough for a search warrant. But, for the first time in weeks, Herne felt a flash of hope. He was almost ready to drop his weight into Morales’ world.

He needed to find a way to get photographic evidence of his own.

Dinners at Tucker’s home were no longer fun and enjoyable. A tension hung over the table, caused by thoughts of The Healer and memories of victims. They did not eat much of their meal. Elizabeth’s spaghetti tasted sour to Herne, although her sauce was rich and sweet. He washed down a bite of food with a sip of whiskey, rolling the caustic liquid over his tongue to chase away the bitterness in his mouth. They talked of police work.

Herne picked at his food as if the weight of his fork exhausted him. As Tucker had predicted, Herne’s news interview had sent a wave of panic through Hurricane. Residents stopped at the police station, demanding information. The phone rang constantly, its jangling noise tortuous by mid-morning. Herne’s constant tension racked his body with fatigue.

Although it was Saturday night, no one had yet reported a death. But Herne knew that someone, somewhere, had already been a victim of The Healer’s therapy. He and Tucker were just killing time until a body was discovered.

Elizabeth remained thoughtful and silent, too. She prodded her spaghetti with her fork, consuming very little. Her garlic bread lay in torn bits that she scattered around the edge of her plate.

Herne choked down another swallow of his food. He’d failed. The Healer had killed again, and he’d been unable to stop him.
Like Maggie,
Herne thought.
I can’t save anyone.

When Tucker’s cell phone jingled, all three of them turned to stare at it.

Tucker answered the phone, barely speaking. Herne didn’t bother to look up from his plate. He knew what the call was about.

“Who’s dead?” Herne asked when Tucker hung up the phone.

“Do you have to be so brutal?” Elizabeth asked before Tucker could answer. “Don’t you have any sympathy?”

Herne’s eyes, dark and desperate, met Elizabeth’s pleading gaze. “Sympathy won’t help me find The Healer,” he said.

“You’re a hard man, Art,” she said.

Misunderstood,
he thought.
They never understand me. They don’t understand that my sympathy for the victim is what makes me so hard.

He turned away from Elizabeth’s downturned mouth, the shame shredding his heart. If she knew the truth—if she knew that other people’s terror was the only thing that kept his own fear from overwhelming him—she wouldn’t look at him with sadness anymore. Instead, her expression would be one of horror and disgust. She wouldn’t understand.

So Herne turned to Tucker instead. “Who is the latest victim?”

“Tom King,” Tucker said.

Elzabeth’s fork clattered to her plate. She gasped. “Oh no.”

“Who’s Tom King?” Herne asked.

“Susan King’s husband. He works in the sales department of Bowdin Tools. I went to school with Susan. They live in Carlisle.”

“What was his fear?” Herne asked.

Tucker’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “If the crime scene is any indicator, it looks like Tom King was afraid of the dentist.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The state cops barely noticed Tucker and Herne as they slipped past the yellow police line. The Kings lived in a large, two-story home in a new Carlisle neighborhood. The housing development was filled with large houses and tiny lawns. These new developments had been appearing on the outskirts of Hurricane, too, and to Herne’s eye the houses lacked character. All seemed to be cut from the same mold. He imagined a factory line of giants, working to create these cookie-cutter structures as if they were dollhouses. Every yard was small, green, and neatly trimmed.
Those lawns are barely large enough for a charcoal grill
, Herne thought, shaking his head. Not that any of the homes had a charcoal grill in sight. The new developments made sure that the residents followed a strict set of rules. Toys, bicycles, gardening tools, and even grills were not permitted outdoors for longer than a twenty-four hour period.

But all the rules and regulations had not prevented tragedy in the neighborhood. They had not kept The Healer from gaining entry.

Nor had Herne’s warning—crafted carefully for Channel 4 News—stopped The Healer.

It’s useless,
Herne thought as he glanced at the scene outside of Tom King’s home.

Residents lined the street to watch the parade of cops and crime scene techs. The onlookers clustered together in groups. They murmured to each other, their voices a small hum in the air. Some of them held hands. Moms grasped their children tightly to their bodies, as if giving them even an inch of freedom would allow evil to invade their suburban lives.
Subconsciously seeking comfort,
Herne thought.

Chief Greiner stood outside with a group of his own men. Tucker and Herne stopped to speak with him.

“Frey won’t share a shred of information,” Greiner complained. “He’s holding onto evidence. The bastard almost wouldn’t let me in to see the crime scene. And he’s refusing to let anyone else take photographs.”

“He’s not going to fucking shut me out,” Tucker said, stomping toward the house. Herne followed.

They entered through the kitchen, which was decorated in a country style favored by many small town housewives. Painted wood objects and soft plaids seemed to dominate the room. Scented candles sat on almost every surface, filling the air with conflicting aromas of sweet and spicy odors. Herne noticed Saxon and Lee standing beside the refrigerator.

“Does Frey know you’re here?”

Saxon nodded. “He tried to make us leave, but I reminded him this was supposed to be a cooperative effort. The sanctimonious prick gave us five minutes to examine the scene.”

“Where’s the wife?” Herne asked.

“The state cops took her away,” Saxon replied. “She found her husband’s body when she came home from shopping. She was hysterical.”

Herne turned to the Lee. “Did you get a chance to examine King’s corpse?”

Lee nodded. “Just a quick glance. By the time Rex called me, this place was already swarming with cops.”