Phobia KDP (35 page)

Herne heard it all in her voice. The despair. The longing. The hopelessness.

“Goodbye,” he said.

He closed the door firmly behind her.

He had work to do.

Herne looked through Lochhead’s scheduling book with a yellow highlighter pen, outlining each victim’s appointment. Many were marked only with the patient’s first initial and last name, making his task more difficult. Three hours passed before he finished a year of Lochhead’s schedule.

A glass of whiskey sat, untouched, by his hand. Leftover pizza grew cold and thick with congealed grease on the table. Herne only focused on the book.

As he highlighted the entries, he didn’t look for a pattern. Didn’t look for any type of clue. He just flipped through the pages one by one, making long marks in bright yellow ink.

Once he finished, he closed the book. Then he closed his eyes.

Empty your mind,
he thought.
Find the pattern.

He opened his eyes and started flipping through the pages. On January fifth, Cheryl Brandt had a three o’clock appointment. Amanda Todd had been penciled in for three o’clock on March second. On the twentieth of June, Tom King’s appointment was scheduled at three o’clock.

It wasn’t one hundred percent—Amanda Todd had a two o’clock appointment in February, and Cheryl Brandt was scheduled for nine o’clock in March—but it was enough to be solid in Herne’s mind.

Herne picked up the phone and called Tucker.

“Dammit, Art,” Tucker said into the phone. “It’s the fucking middle of the night. What the hell is going on?”

“I have Lochhead’s appointment book.”

There was a rustle of noise as Tucker shifted positions. Herne heard Elizabeth’s voice, groggy with sleep, in the background. For a fleeting moment he imagined her dark hair spread across a white pillow.

“How the fuck did you get that?”

“It just landed in my lap.”

Silence met this statement. “It won’t be admissible in court,” Tucker said.

“I know. But it’s the only lead we’ve had in a while.”

“So what’s the news?”

“All of The Healer’s victims had a three o’clock appointment with Lochhead.”

“Three o’clock?” Tucker asked.

“There must be something special about that time,” Herne said.

“How many other people have three o’clock appointments?” Tucker asked.

“Fourteen of Lochhead’s patients had regular three o’clock appointments. Another sixteen occasionally had appointments at that time. And that’s just for the past three months. If you go back twelve months, at least sixty or seventy different people had one or more appointments scheduled at that time,” Herne replied.

“Christ. His next victim could be any of them.”

“No. Just the ones with phobias,” Herne said.

“We need his patient files, goddammit,” Tucker said.

“Have Frey ask for it again. Maybe this time Lochhead will give it to us. In the meantime, we need to warn as many of these people as we can,” Herne said.

There was another moment of silence. Finally, Tucker said, “I’ll call Saxon. We’ll meet in thirty minutes at my office.”

The phone clicked as Tucker hung up. Herne thought about the victims. Three o’clock appointments. Three o’clock. Something nagged at his memory. It flashed so quickly—just a passing thought—that it was gone before he could remember it.

He scowled as he stared down at the appointment book again, feeling the weight of the forgotten memory.

Herne passed four state cops as he walked into the police department. The station was redolent of coffee and sweat and excitement, the odors swirling through the heavy air in the rooms. Tucker sat at his desk, his head cradled in his hands. He looked up at Herne with bloodshot eyes.

“The state boys have been trying to contact all of Lochhead’s three o’clock appointments,” Tucker said. “We’ve gotten in touch with about half of them. We’re telling them to leave their houses and get somewhere safe. At least for today.”

“That’s a start,” Herne said. But he couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. There were too many patients—too many potential victims—who had not been contacted.

“Unfortunately, Lochhead had patients from everywhere: Carlisle, Chambersburg, Hurricane, even Philadelphia. Some of his entries are nothing more than a first initial and a last name. It’s taking a long time to find everyone. Too fucking long.”

Saxon walked into the office and spoke to Tucker without looking at him. “Do you have an assignment for me, Chief?”

Tucker nodded and handed her Lochhead’s appointment book and a typewritten list. “Here’s a list of the appointment times for the patients with just a first initial. See if you can make heads or tails of them.”

She nodded and spun on her heel, her back straight and stiff as she walked out of the office.

“She seems uptight tonight,” Herne said.

Tucker buried his head in his hands again. “She’s pissed at me,” he said.

“Does she have a reason to be angry?”

Tucker nodded and met Herne’s gaze. His eyes were bleak. “Things with Elizabeth haven’t been so great lately, Art,” Tucker confessed. “We’ve been growing apart. And Saxon, well, she kind of looks up to me.”

“I never thought you were the kind of man to take advantage of women,” Herne said.

Tucker held up his hands. “I’m not! I didn’t. We didn’t do anything. But it’s hard not to be tempted when there’s a beautiful woman who adores you. And she fucking made an actual pass at me one night. It was hard, but I turned her down. But I guess I might have let her know that someday my no could possibly become a yes. And I guess she’s pissed that it’s taking me so long to make up my mind about it.”

“Will you do it?” Herne asked, surprised to feel the tension in his shoulders. Tucker and Elizabeth were his closest friends. The only anchor left to keep him from drifting into the abyss. Tucker’s affair would change Herne’s life, too.

He felt a mild sense of shame at his selfishness.

But he held his breath as he waited for Tucker’s answer.

“I don’t know. I hope not.” Tucker stared at his desk for a moment before raising his head to meet Herne’s eyes. “And don’t give me that shit about love and marriage and commitment, Art. You and Maggie had something special. Not every couple has that type of bond. That type of relationship. I don’t want to hear any of your sanctimonious shit.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” Herne said.
I’m in no position to start casting stones,
he thought.

Tucker stood quickly. “We’ve got more important things to worry about. We need to warn any potential victims, and right now we can’t identify half of them. Hell, it’s fucking sunrise. For all we know The Healer has already killed again.” Tucker sighed. “We have to warn Lochhead’s three o’clock patients. One of them is The Healer’s next victim.”

Herne shook his head. “We need to find The Healer,” he said.
It’s not about the victims anymore. Now it’s about the killer
, he thought.

“It doesn’t feel like we’re any closer to nailing this guy,” Tucker said.

“We’re closer. I know it.” Herne could almost taste The Healer’s name on his lips.

Herne closed his eyes, allowing the hum of the air-conditioner to block out the extra noise in the police station. He sat motionless, trying to find the fleeting memory that escaped his grasp.
Three o’clock. What happens at three o’clock? It’s the time he gets intimate with the victims. The time he crawls into the janitor’s closet and sits, listening as his victims spill their darkest secrets, hearing their fears. He gets excited—maybe even aroused—as they describe the terror and fright that pervades their lives. In The Healer’s mind, it’s like a show. Like an independent film in which he plays a key role. Perhaps he even munches some popcorn or Junior Mints or even a sandwich while he listens…

Herne’s eyes snapped open. The napkins in the corner of the closet. The epicure cookbook purchased with
Barlett’s Familiar Quotations.

“I know him,” Herne said.

“What?” Tucker asked.

“I know The Healer’s face.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The terrors of the night ended with sunrise. The Healer splashed his face with cool water and brushed his teeth with sweet mint toothpaste, forcing himself to complete the task even though he had to steady his hand to keep from quivering with excitement. It felt like it had been so long—though only a week had passed—since his last “session” with a patient. The morning’s anticipation felt like long, slow foreplay that crested slowly toward its peak.

Darrell Pike was unsurprised by his erection.

He chose his clothing carefully. His patient today was special, and he wanted everything perfect. The very nature of her fear meant this would be his most intimate therapy session, and he hoped his skills as a healer surpassed even his own expectations.

He dressed in black pants, black shoes, and a black shirt. In his pocket he carried black gloves. His reflection in the mirror looked like that of a bad man. The kind of man who robbed banks, raped women, and killed children. An evil guy.

It was exactly the impression he was trying to create.

Four hours of phone calls. “This is what happens on Saturdays,” Tucker grumbled as he paced the floor of his office. His leather holster creaked with each step, adding music to the thump of his feet on the hard wood. “People get all fucked up on Friday night, and then they pass out cold until Saturday afternoon. Jesus.”

Saxon sat at Tucker’s desk, speaking softly into the telephone receiver. Herne sat rigid in a chair, his hands pressed against his legs. There was nothing he could do until Saxon found The Healer’s real name, so he sat motionless. The tiniest movement—the smallest flutter of a finger—and his impatience would explode. He forced himself to contain his emotions. Every muscle felt taut. Every nerve sung.

“Got it,” Saxon said, slamming the phone on the desk. She held up a paper with The Healer’s name and address.

Herne leapt from his chair, snatched the paper from her hands, and ran out the door.

Butch wagged his furry tail. It was almost noon and the dog knew the routine. On Saturdays in the summer months, Bethany put her dog in the backyard and made herself a cold lunch. Then she joined him outside on the patio for their afternoon meal.