Phobia KDP (9 page)

He saw Tucker crease his brow with worry. But Herne just turned his back on his friend and walked toward Patty Cotton, his eyes focused only on the cigarette in her hand.

There was no trail through the woods and Emmert stumbled each time his foot struck a rock or exposed root. He panted with exertion and fear, and sweat mingled with his tears as they moved deeper into the trees.

The Healer wore a baseball cap with the bill pulled low to hide his features. He was certain no one was watching them in the secluded woods, but it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.

The afternoon sun blazed in the sky, and The Healer felt some pressure and a little tinge of fear at the sight. The task before him would take some time, and he knew that daylight was limited. He urged Emmert faster through the trees and brush.

Emmert scratched his face on a branch and cried out as blood spilled down his cheek. Suddenly, in front of them was a clearing in the woods.

The open area was small, just a patch of grass and ferns among the trees, and in it rested a plain wooden box with a hinged lid, the size of a coffin. The pine wood was so fresh that The Healer could smell it.

“I’m not a craftsman, unfortunately,” The Healer said. “Please pardon my amateur attempt to make your casket.”

Emmert spun around and fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “No,” he begged. “I’ll do anything.”

“Tell me about it,” The Healer demanded.

Emmert looked up, his eyes questioning. A bubble of mucous popped in his nostril and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“You want to live, don’t you?” The Healer asked.

Emmert nodded.

“Then tell me about your fear. You hate tight spaces, don’t you?”

Emmert’s breath came in short hitches. He moaned softly.

“Do they make you panic?”

“I… I can’t breathe,” Emmert said.

“Of course you can breathe,” The Healer said contemptuously. “You just
feel
like you can’t breathe, right?”

Emmert nodded again, eager and compliant.

“But it’s not real. This fear you have is something you create in your own mind.”

Emmert hung his head.

They stood in silence for a moment.
Doctor and patient
, The Healer thought. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the mingled scents of the raw pine wood and the musky odor of fear that seeped from Emmert’s pores.

It was time to complete the therapy.

“Get in.” The Healer used his gun to gesture toward the wooden box.

“No,” Emmert said. “I can’t.”

“We’re going to conquer your fear, Charles. I promise.”

“I can’t. I won’t be able to breathe in there.”

“I’ll make you whole again. You must face your fears.”

“Why are you doing this?” Emmert screamed. He began weeping again, his sobs thick with tears and terror.

“Because it’s the only way to heal you. It’s the only way to make you whole. Now get in.”

“I can’t,” Emmert wailed.

“I promise you’ll get out of the box. You won’t stay in there forever,” The Healer said.

Emmert looked up, his eyes hopeful again.

“I promise, Charles. You won’t be in there long.”
You’ll get out as soon as the police find you
, he thought.

Emmert glanced at the box and hesitated.

“Either get in or I’ll shoot you right now, on the spot,” The Healer said impatiently, aware of the sun’s low position in the sky. “And I won’t make your death quick. I’ll blow off your balls and let you bleed until you die.”

Emmert moved slowly toward the box, like a child reluctant to take a bitter medicine.

“It’ll be over soon,” The Healer crooned. “Very soon you’ll be a free man.”

Emmert sat in the box as if it were a canoe, his hands gripping the sides.

“Lie down.”

Weeping, Emmert obeyed.

In one swift movement The Healer flipped closed the lid of the box and sat on it. Emmert pounded at the wood, his panicked screams muffled by the thick pine.

Using a small hammer and nails he carried in the pocket of his pants, The Healer sealed the box. He stood back and listened as Emmert’s fists flailed against the wood. His shrill cries were buried in the box.

The hot sun cast long shadows over the coffin. The Healer walked away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bethany drove her small car around the parking lot, searching for a space close to the entrance. It wasn’t laziness—she didn’t mind walking—but the closer spots were more secure. Women abducted from parking lots usually had poor judgment. They forgot to park under streetlights at night, or they parked in a remote corner of the lot where seclusion gave rapists and attackers the privacy they needed.

Before she left her car, she turned her neck and glanced through each window. She looked for movement. Shadows. Anything that might reveal a stranger hidden from her sight.

After a few moments, Bethany felt safe. She left her car and walked briskly to the building, looking over her shoulder in case someone was following her.

It never hurt to be careful.

The thud in Herne’s head beat like the thumping bass from a ghetto gangster’s car. Sheila stared at the stubble on his face and the stains on his jeans and white tee-shirt. The red-haired dispatcher didn’t favor him with her usual crooked smile. Instead, she wrinkled her nose as he walked by her desk.

He almost stumbled as he entered Tucker’s office, but managed to catch himself before he fell.

Tucker looked up from his desk, his thick brows knitted together in a scowl. “Where the fuck have you been, Art?” Tucker asked. “You haven’t answered your phone. You’re never home. I haven’t heard from you since our fucking barbecue this weekend, and it’s fucking Tuesday!”

“I’m a consultant on this case. I’m not your paid bitch,” Herne snarled.

Tucker stepped close and sniffed, his large nostrils flaring. “You fucking reek, Art. You stink of booze and cigarettes. Where the hell have you been?”

Falling through the hole,
Herne thought. He said, “Carlisle. I’ve been in Carlisle.”

“You’ve been in a bar,” Tucker said. His tone was accusing.

Yes,
Herne thought.
And not just one. When they kicked me out of the first bar, I went to a second. Then a third. I woke up in a dingy hotel room this morning, and I don’t know how I got there.

“You picked a hell of a time to fall off the wagon,” Tucker growled.

The guilt welled so deep that Herne feared he would drown in it. But he simply met Tucker’s angry stare with his own stony gray eyes. “I’m not your whore, Rex. I’ll do as I please.”

It was not their first fight. Years of friendship meant that they had occasional disagreements. Only two of those arguments had ended in physical blows. And their shared memories and affection for each other always triumphed. Usually, their fights began and ended quickly. Herne wondered if this case would cause a permanent rift in their relationship.

He could smell the booze on his own body and breath. The odor seemed to seep from his skin. He grabbed at his head, fighting away the memories of his trip down the hole. His visions of pool tables, ashtrays, and painted women were blurred by shadows of smoke and an amber haze of whiskey.

He swore that he’d never touch another drop of liquor again.

It was a familiar promise. One he had broken many times in the past.

Saxon walked into the office, glanced at the two men, and paused. She held two pieces of paper in her hand.

“What is it?” Tucker snarled.

“Another note from The Healer. And a photo.”

She handed over the letter and laid the picture on the table. “
Do the thing we fear, and the death of fear is certain,
” Tucker read. “Saxon, find out what you can about that quotation.”

They all looked at the photo. It showed nothing more than a rectangular pine box amid some wild ferns.

“What the fuck is that?” Tucker asked.

Herne felt his chest tighten. “A coffin,” he replied, his body so tense that his words were almost gasps.

Tucker stared at his friend. “Jesus, you’re morbid.”

Herne felt a flood of anger. “You brought this on me,” he said. “You brought me this case. Buried me in it. So don’t criticize me for becoming what you wanted.”

“Don’t blame me for your fucked up issues,” Tucker said. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

No one to blame but yourself
. Tucker was right. And Herne knew it. He alone carried the guilt and the responsibility of bad choices and wrong decisions.

Herne sighed, his anger dissipating.

“Fuck,” Tucker said, examining the photograph. “It
is
a coffin.”

“A coffin in the woods,” Herne said. “Look at the trees in the background.”

“We need volunteers,” Tucker said. “We’ve got to search the woods and mountains around here.”

Sheila entered Tucker’s office wearing her usual outfit of pleated jeans and a floral blouse. “Betty Emmert just called to report her husband missing,” Sheila said. She ignored Herne, as if his appearance offended her. “She hasn’t seen him since Saturday morning.”

Herne didn’t bother to look at Tucker. He simply walked out the door, knowing his friend was behind him.

Morales sat behind the steering wheel of his SUV, holding a map in his hands so a passerby would think he was a lost motorist. He watched the woman leave through her front door, locking it securely behind her.

She slid into her car and slowly left her driveway, carefully maneuvering the vehicle into the empty residential street. She didn’t even glance his way as she drove past him.

He wasn’t going to follow her today. Instead, he was going to watch her empty house.

It’s important to cover all your bases during surveillance
, he thought to himself.
I’ll just keep a watch to see what type of visitors she gets during the day.

He dropped the map and reached for his coffee cup, preparing for a long morning.

As he sipped the dark brew, he thought about Amanda Todd. The TV was full of news about her murder, and he’d watched every newscast intently. So far there was no mention of his Nissan. But he knew it was very likely that someone had spied his vehicle on her street. He should have been more careful, but he hadn’t realized the risks.

Morales chewed on his bottom lip, ignoring his coffee as it grew cold. He wondered how much time he had before the big plainclothes cop started sniffing at his trail.