Phobia KDP (30 page)

He reached out to her then and she responded in kind, wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t cry. Didn’t weep or gnash his teeth. He just rested his head on her shoulder, pressing his eyes into her neck.

It was the first time she had touched a man other than her husband in a long time, but the sensation wasn’t strange or uncomfortable.
It almost feels good,
she thought.

The heat of his body—hard against her own softness—penetrated her clothing and her face flushed from the warmth. His thick fingers gripped her arms tightly. In the back of her mind she wondered if she’d have bruises the next day. But she didn’t move and neither did he. They simply sat together, her holding him and him holding her.

A few moments later Tucker walked into the room. Herne looked up from Elizabeth’s shoulder, pulling away from her slowly. Tucker was expressionless as he held out another piece of paper. It was a note from The Healer.

In the harsh light of morning, Herne sat in Tucker’s office and examined the photo that arrived with The Healer’s note. Hank Jackson’s head—his face resembling a basketball—filled the picture.

“If his face had ever returned to normal, there would’ve been stretch marks on his cheeks,” Herne commented.

Tucker grunted in response.

Herne looked again at The Healer’s note. It was only a photocopy. The state cops had the original note, and they were combing it for fingerprints and fibers.

“The state cops ran an analysis on the note and found nothing unusual about it,” Tucker said. “The only information they gleaned was that it’s printed with an inkjet computer printer. Everyone and their mother has a fucking inkjet printer.”

Herne stared at the paper, trying to fall through the page and into The Healer’s mind. He imagined The Healer sitting at a desk, hunched over the keyboard of a computer. He probably wore gloves while he typed, the latex protecting his fingerprints in case he accidentally touched the page during the printing process. After the note was printed, The Healer sifted through his photos. He probably had a stack for each victim. He’d carefully select the perfect one to send to the cops. The one that showed the truth behind his victim’s fear.

The phone rang and Sheila answered it, breaking Herne out of his reverie. He shifted in his chair, sweat pooling behind his knees despite the blast of cold from the air-conditioner. Tucker’s morning meal, a breakfast sandwich from Shady Hill Diner, sat untouched on his desk. Herne’s stomach turned at the greasy aroma of the half-cooked bacon.

“Frey told me that the photos of the victims were also printed with an inkjet photo printer. So our boy is probably taking his pictures with a digital camera. Of course, half of the world owns one of those, too.” Tucker sighed. “Read me that fucking note again,” he demanded.

“
The fear of death is more to be dreaded than death itself,
” Herne read.

“Jesus. Do you think The Healer really believes that?” Tucker asked.

Herne shrugged. “He seems to, doesn’t he?”

“But what the fuck does it mean?”

“He forces his victims to confront their own fears. He makes them face the terror. He cures them with death.” Herne paused. “But has he faced his
own
fears?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Tucker asked, running his lean fingers through his short, brown hair. “I’m not a fucking head shrink. If you want to know what the hell is going on in this sick fucker’s head, why don’t you ask Elizabeth? You don’t seem to have a problem going to her when you need her.”

Herne carefully folded the copy of The Healer’s letter and placed it in his pocket, his heart thumping. He’d been wondering when Tucker would bring up the subject of Elizabeth.

Herne met Tucker’s stare with cool eyes. “Is this something we need to talk about?” he asked.

Tucker opened his mouth, as if preparing to speak. Then he closed it and shook his head. “No. It’s not.”

“Good,” Herne said. “Elizabeth and I are friends. Nothing more.”

He could almost hear the ring of falsehood in his words. Something had changed between the two of them when Elizabeth held him in her arms. Though they’d only clung together briefly, Herne had felt the electricity sing between them. Even now he remembered the softness of her body beneath his hands and the sweet scent of melons and cucumbers she wore on her skin. He didn’t want to face the truth. He wasn’t ready to accept the attraction between him and his best friend’s wife. So he lied.

“After all these years of friendship, Rex, do you honestly think I’d do something so foul?” Herne asked.

Tucker sighed. “Of course not, Art.” He bowed his head and stared at his shoes. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me lately.”

Herne said nothing. He’d seen the sidelong glances between Tucker and Saxon. He noticed the way the lieutenant stood close to him, closer than necessary. And he also knew that his friend had never been unfaithful to his wife.

But have you been thinking about infidelity, Rex?
Herne thought.
Is that why you’re so quick to look at others with distrust?
Herne knew that just the guilt of temptation created a shame that would eat away at Tucker’s heart. He knew it because he felt the same way.

A quick flash of memory arose in Herne’s mind: Elizabeth’s dark eyes and soft smile. He felt his throat close, and he swallowed hard. He knew, in his own mind, he was as culpable as Rex suggested. He had never laid a hand on his friend’s wife. But he had coveted her.

He returned his attention to The Healer. “Where’s Saxon?” he asked.

Tucker looked startled. “Saxon? I don’t know. Why the hell should I know?”

“I thought you might know her whereabouts because she’s your lieutenant,” Herne said.
Not now,
he thought.
Now is not the time to discuss your guilt, Rex.

“Oh.” Tucker paused. “I think she was going to go to Lochhead’s office and apply a little pressure.”

“It won’t help,” Herne said. “Lochhead’s a prick.”

“I know,” Tucker said. “But she wanted to try. She thought her feminine powers of persuasion might work a little better than your strong arm techniques.”

Herne shrugged. “It’s possible, I guess. It’s certainly worth a shot.”

“Do you need her for something?” Tucker asked.

“I wanted her to research this latest note from The Healer. It doesn’t really matter where the quotation originated, but I’m curious.”

“I can call her,” Tucker said.

Herne shook his head. “I’ll do it myself. The bookstore is only a short drive.” The child in him, the part that spent every waking moment wrapped in horror and death, wanted to get lost for a brief period of time amid rows of paperback books.

Tucker nodded and touched his fingers to his forehead as Herne left the office.

People never realized that private investigators were really nothing more than glorified researchers
, Morales thought. Maybe they didn’t thumb through dusty tomes on library bookshelves. Maybe their tools—high-powered binoculars, miniature cameras, listening devices, and lock picks—were less academic. But it still boiled down to the same thing. Research.

Morales sifted through the bits of paper he’d retrieved from the trash. Garbage told him a lot about a person. He learned about a person’s habits. Preferences. Desires.

Searching through trash meant discovering private information, like social security numbers and birthdates and even a pet’s name.

They say that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,
Morales thought.
And they’re certainly right about that.

He gathered his loot and hurried back to his Nissan. He still had work to do before sunset.

Frances’ owlish eyes watched Herne as he entered the door to Pages of Print. He met her scrutiny with a stare of his own, noting that her muumuu was covered in a print of tropical fish. The cat was nowhere in sight, but he could smell the acrid evidence of nearby litterbox. “Back so soon?” she asked. “Need another textbook?”

“Not this time,” Herne replied. “I’m looking for
Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations
.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I actually don’t have any in stock right now, sweetheart. But I can order one for you.”

“No, thanks,” Herne said. There was a big bookstore in Carlisle, but it was too far to drive. Herne would have to find the information he needed on the Internet.

“I had no idea that book was going to be such a big seller. Had I known, I would have ordered more copies.”

Her words reverberated in his head and Herne spun to face her. “Big seller? How many have you sold?”

“Two in the past few months. And believe me, sweetie, that’s unusual. It’s a classic reference, but there’s just not much of a demand for it in Hurricane. Those are the first copies of that book I’ve sold in about five years.”

Herne wanted to fly at the woman and shake her until the answers he needed spilled from her jowls. But he tried to keep his emotions even and controlled. “Do you remember who purchased them?” he asked.

Frances nodded. “The most recent one was sold to a young woman in a police uniform. She was very attractive, despite her short hair.”

Saxon
, Herne thought. “What about the other copy? Do you remember the person who bought it?” He clenched his fists tightly. It was possible—likely, even—that The Healer had purchased a copy of the book for his own reference.
Please,
Herne thought,
please remember.

“That one was a little longer ago,” Frances admitted. “To tell you the truth, sweetheart, I can’t remember anything about the buyer.”

“Man? Woman?” He couldn’t stop the impatience from creeping into his voice.

“I think it was a man,” Frances said.

“Can you look it up on your computer? See if he paid with a credit card?”

Frances gestured at her calculator, a cheap plastic large button model. “
That
is my computer,” she said. Her grin revealed crooked teeth, stained yellow. “I’m a small operation.”

“Do you keep any type of records? Credit card slips? Copies of receipts? Anything?” His teeth clenched with desperation.
So close,
he thought.

“Does this have to do with The Healer?” Frances asked. She fluttered her hands in front of her ample chest. “I’ve read about this in the paper. You’re helping Chief Tucker, right? Is that what this is about? The Healer?”

“It’s possible. I need your records.”
Now,
Herne thought.
I need them
now.

“Just a moment, sweetie.” Frances’ hands continued to flutter, like two chubby butterflies with spasms. “Wait right here.” She walked through a door behind the counter and left Herne alone in the store.

Herne fought the impatience that boiled inside him.
Hurry,
he mentally urged her. He wanted to pace. He wanted to fidget. But instead he remained completely still, his emotions coiled tightly in his gut.

A few moments later she returned, carrying four shoeboxes. She opened one for him.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m a very small store. I don’t even have any employees. So I don’t have much of a need to keep detailed records.”