Phobia KDP (12 page)

The Healer shook his head and tried to erase the memories. Tried to force away his fear. Tried to swallow his terror.

It’s just the night
, he thought.
It’s just darkness. Other people survive in it.

But not him. Never him.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, rocking back and forth. His body was bathed in the bright light of the lamps that encircled him. He almost felt safe in their luminescent beams. Almost.

Then he glanced at the window and he felt it again, the choking panic of dread. The suffocating fear.

No, there was no time to gloat. No time to enjoy his success.

It was time to be afraid.

The television reports were sensational, of course. TV News 4 reporter Lori Sims created a tale of murder and violence, and Herne heard the thin thread of fear that weaved its way through the story.

“Violence has invaded our quiet little town,” Lori Sims said to the camera. She stood at the edge of Abe’s Woods, the light from the camera illuminating the trees in the background. “Charles Emmert’s dead body was found in the woods today. He’d been buried alive in a wooden coffin. Last week Amanda Todd was the victim of a horrific murder, her life stolen by the poisonous bite of a Timber rattlesnake. These two innocent people were murdered at the hands of a killer known as The Healer. The police have no leads, and the questions remain: Who is The Healer? Why did he kill these people in such a horrifying manner? What drives this crazed madman? And does he plan to kill again?”

Herne clicked the remote control and the television screen went dark. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the coffee table, his half empty glass beside it. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the dark smoke, feeling it burn his lungs and enjoying the sensation.

Herne snubbed the cigarette out as he closed his eyes, lulled to sleep by the horrifying news cast and the numbing effect of whiskey.

But Maggie invaded his dreams. She came forward in a thick cloud of black smoke, her hands reaching for him through the darkness. It was all filtered in red, as if he were wearing red glasses. And somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he knew the red was cast by the lights from fire trucks and ambulances, their siren song just background noise in his dream.

Suddenly his wife screamed. He saw her in the house—their house—her white hands reaching out through the window, grasping the fresh air outside. She screamed his name over and over again, alternating between cries of pain and horrible, deep sobs.

Don’t breathe
, he wanted to shout.
Don’t breathe
.
I’ll save you
.
I’ll save you
.

But he was paralyzed. Unable to move. He fought against this, the curse of nightmares, but his dream body refused to respond. He felt a firefighter grab his arm and he tried to fight. Tried to reach his wife as she continued to cry his name.

He heard every syllable she uttered. Heard every dry sob from her body despite the sharp whine of sirens and the whoosh of the fire hose.

She screamed his name one last time in his dream before he jerked awake, his shirt soaked with sweat. He reached for his glass and gulped the remaining whiskey. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette.

Outside his window, Herne saw darkness. No sirens. No red lights. Everything silent. He was alone.

And terrified.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tucker leaned back in his swivel chair and propped his size eleven shoes on his desk. He wore the uniform of a cop—navy pants and blue shirt. The monochromatic colors seemed to elongate his lanky frame.

Herne shifted on the uncomfortable folding metal chair, a manila folder on his lap. His denim jeans clung to his legs, and perspiration stained his white tee-shirt. The window air-conditioner did little to alleviate the sticky heat that hung in the room or the scent of sweat that coated their bodies.

“It has to be Lochhead,” Tucker said. “Both of the victims were his patients. Who else would know about their fears?”

“According to Amanda’s mother and Emmert’s wife, their phobias weren’t exactly a secret.”

Tucker dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair, causing it to stand up in jagged spikes. “But the killer calls himself ‘The Healer.’ I’m sure that’s exactly how Lochhead thinks of himself.”

“As do lots of people. Doctors. Nurses. Priests. Crazy psychotics who go around murdering innocent people. I’m not certain Lochhead is our guy. He
might
be our guy, but I’m not ready to make an arrest.”

“It seems obvious to me. Day of death for both victims was a Saturday. Seems to suggest that the killer works during the week, don’t you think?”

“Millions of the people in this country work Monday through Friday,” Herne said.

“Well, if it’s not Lochhead, who is it?”

Herne shrugged. “Could be anybody, I guess. Maybe someone in his building who saw his patients coming and going. Maybe someone who got a little bit obsessed with Amanda Todd and Charles Emmert. Maybe Amanda and Emmert were lovers, and a jealous boyfriend murdered them both.”

“Seems farfetched,” Tucker said.

“And Lochhead killing off his patients is a more realistic scenario?”

Tucker shrugged in response and turned his attention back to the file on his desk.

Saxon walked in carrying a small stack of papers. Her short black hair fell over one eye. “I did the background on Lochhead,” she said.

“What’d you find?”

Saxon slid into the empty chair beside Herne, favoring him with a nod. Herne noticed the faint scent of honeysuckle when she moved, reminding him of Maggie’s favorite perfume. For one instant he felt a sharp pain in his gut. His fingers twitched—the junkie in him automatically wanting a drink and a smoke—and then the pain was gone.

“He finished his doctorate degree at the University of Maryland in 1990. He joined a Philadelphia group of therapists for a few years before moving to Hurricane and opening his own practice. He has no family. His parents are both dead and he was an only child. He does have an aunt in Texas, but the two of them haven’t spoken in years.”

“What kind of hours does he keep?” Tucker asked.

“His office is open Monday through Friday, from seven in the morning until about four o’clock.”

“Odd hours,” Tucker commented.

“Lochhead told me that most of his patients prefer daytime hours,” Herne said. “By the time evening arrives, it’s too late for them. They’re self-medicating in a bar somewhere.”

Saxon nodded. “The receptionist said the same thing, but it still seemed odd to me. I pushed her a bit, and she claims Lochhead does his own self-medicating after the office closes.”

“Drugs?” Tucker asked.

Saxon nodded her head. “And booze. And young ladies.”

Tucker leaned back in his chair and exhaled a satisfied sigh. He wore a smug grin as he glanced at Herne. “He’s definitely our guy,” he said.

“There’s more,” Saxon said. “I tracked down one of Lochhead’s former partners in the Philadelphia practice.”

“Yes?” Herne leaned forward, sensing her news was important. He forced himself to remain calm and still.

“Lochhead didn’t
leave
the Philadelphia practice. He was fired.”

“Why?” Tucker asked.

“Unorthodox therapy. He had a female patient with, uh, sexual issues. According to the partner, Andrew Parkinson, the patient was unable to relax around men. She couldn’t trust them and had a fear of intimacy. Because of this, she could never achieve an orgasm. Lochhead was her therapist.”

“How did he treat her?” Herne asked.

“He had an affair with her. Rumor says it was consensual. He just seduced her.”

Tucker snorted. “That horny bastard,” he said.

“When his superiors discovered what had happened, they demanded an explanation. He denied having intercourse with his patient, but admitted to ‘sexual acts.’ He claimed he was using immersion therapy to treat the patient.”

“Immersion therapy?” Tucker asked.

“I didn’t get specifics, but the basic philosophy of immersion therapy seems to be forcing the patient to face the fear. Lochhead claimed that the patient’s sexual involvement with him allowed her to deal with her fear of intimacy.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Tucker said.

“Anyway, aside from being totally unorthodox, Lochhead’s behavior was also unethical,” Saxon said. “No formal charges were brought up against him, but he was asked to leave.”

“What happened to the patient?” Herne asked.

“What?” Saxon stared at him blankly.

“The female patient. The one Lochhead had an affair with. Did she learn to be intimate with men? Did his treatment work?”

“I don’t know,” Saxon answered, annoyance flashing in her blue eyes. “Does it matter?”

Herne shrugged. “Not really. I just wondered if Lochhead’s method of therapy was successful.”

“Good job, Lieutenant,” Tucker said, standing up behind his desk and offering his hand. “Top notch work.”

Herne watched Saxon blush at Tucker’s statement.

She caught Herne observing her and turned away as if embarrassed. Yet, for some reason, Herne thought it wasn’t
his
scrutiny that had made her self-conscious.

He twisted the information about Lochhead in his mind, trying to make the pieces fit together. It all seemed too simple.

“Does Lochhead own a silver SUV?” Herne asked.

Saxon flipped through her notes. “No,” she said. “He owns a red Mercedes Benz and a black Cadillac Escalade.”

“We don’t know that the killer is driving a silver SUV,” Tucker said. “All we have is some old woman who saw that vehicle in Amanda Todd’s neighborhood. For all we know it was a fucking teenage boy with a crush.”

“I’d still like to find that SUV,” Herne said.

“I think it’s pretty fucking obvious that Lochhead is our guy,” Tucker said.

Herne sighed. Tucker’s stubbornness felt heavy in the small room. “Could be him,” Herne said. “It’s possible. But I’m still not certain.”

“What makes you think that Lochhead isn’t the killer?” Tucker asked.

Herne shrugged. “Just a feeling I have about it, I guess. Lochhead is slick. But his transgressions are obvious. He’s a womanizer. Maybe a sex addict. Anyone who spends a little time with him knows that he likes girls. Even his secretary knows it.”

“So?” Tucker asked.

“Someone who carefully plans crimes with this much attention and detail isn’t going to draw attention to himself by getting fired from his job. He wouldn’t take the risk. He doesn’t want to be center stage. No, I’m not convinced that Lochhead is our man.”

“So I guess we should look for the most normal person in town,” Tucker said.

“At this point, that may be our best bet.”

A soft glow of purple and orange streaked the horizon. Sunrise. Dawn had finally arrived.

The Healer stood at the window, watching as the sun erased the darkness, pushing it back to the far corners of the earth. He felt as he did every morning. Renewed. As if the bright rays cleansed him of his sins.

But, as always, a nagging sense of doom lingered in the back of his heart. Just as most men knew the sun would always rise, The Healer knew it would always set.

For now, however, the tremors had ended and his fear was gone. It was time for him to get to work.

Unfortunately, it was not time for him to do the work he did best. The work he loved. No, The Healer had to create the illusion of a hard-working, honest man. It was the only way he could continue to do his
real
work in private.

He turned away from the window and went to brush his teeth in the pink bathroom, using mint-flavored toothpaste to cleanse his mouth of the bitter taste of fright and pain. He combed styling gel through his hair and grinned at his reflection. He was The Healer. He was better and smarter than all the doctors in the world. He didn’t treat symptoms of a disease. He treated the
cause
. And his patients were
always
healed in the end.

CHAPTER TWELVE