Phobia KDP (38 page)

Why not?
Herne thought bitterly.
Why shouldn’t you feel regret, too?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Her covered mouth made every breath difficult. So she stopped struggling and instead laid silently, focusing on the air as she inhaled and exhaled through her nose. It was the same type of breathing she did while meditating before karate class and it calmed her mind. The panic didn’t completely leave her body, but it subsided. Her vision was no longer blurred and red with fear. She saw his face clearly. She knew him. Recognized him.

In the fluorescent light of The Sandwich Station, his tousle of blond hair and friendly grin had been handsome. But now, in her bedroom, his wolfish smile looked vicious. Sadistic. Evil. No longer handsome, his face appeared dark and scary.

And Bethany was, indeed, scared.

He reached for her, his eyes on her breasts. Fear swelled in her throat and her breathing quickened. Bethany pulled her knees toward her chest, as if to shield her body with her legs. He grinned as if amused by her actions, and reached out to grab her ankle.

Her leg shot out in a kick, the kind her Sensei had forced her to practice over and over again. Her heel—hard and round—connected with his groin.

He howled in pain, his screech almost animal in its shrillness. His body bent forward as he grabbed himself. She knew her kick hadn’t been enough to immobilize him permanently. And when she saw him start to straighten his body, the fury in his eyes sent a shot of panic through her heart.

She twisted her body around to angle for another kick, waiting for him to move again. In her mind she was back at karate school, practicing drills. She could see herself in the dojo. She could smell the sweat and hear the shouts of her fellow students. And she heard the lesson her Sensei had taught her when she was just a yellow belt.

“This isn’t a sanctioned karate move, Bethany,” Sensei Robert had said. “And if you ever end up in court for using it, I’ll deny that I taught it to you.”

He made her stand still as he lunged toward her, playing the part of the angry attacker. “It’s all about timing,” he said. “Be patient. Pick the right time. When your attacker is coming toward you, watch his feet. Wait until his front foot is planted firmly on the ground. Then, in that brief instant, strike his knee with a sidekick. The pressure of his foot against the ground acts as reverse leverage. If you’re lucky and your aim is good, you’ll break his knee.”

When The Healer moved toward her again, she waited until his foot struck the ground. Then she thrust her heel forward.

Her aim was true. The strength of her kick snapped his knee and sent him stumbling backwards. He screamed with pain and reached out to grab himself, but he wasn’t quick enough. His head collided with the corner of Bethany’s bedside table as he fell to the ground. Then he lay motionless.
Bethany felt a surge of triumph, followed by another wave of fear. She knew he could wake up at any second.

The Healer’s gun rested on the floor. Bethany twisted so her legs came off the bed, whimpering as the tape around her hands dug into her flesh. She tried to grasp the weapon between her feet, but it was too far away. Tears slipped down her cheeks and moistened her skin. Her mind screamed with frustration.

She had no choice. No other options. Bethany rotated her hands and arms, trying to escape her duct tape bonds, mindless of the raw pain that scraped her wrists.

He dialed information on his cell phone and asked for the phone number of Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Combat School.

Herne could almost feel the time slipping away.

The operator connected his call directly, but a recorded message answered the phone. The school was closed on Saturday.

Herne felt the dark pull of despair. He could call Tucker and tell him about the photograph. Working as a team, they’d be able to find the owner of Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Combat School much faster than Herne on his own. But involving Tucker would also mean involving Frey and the state police. It would mean losing control of the investigation. And it might mean never facing The Healer. Never ridding himself of the demon that had invaded his mind.

He didn’t invade you,
Herne thought.
You
invited
him.

Herne wanted to face The Healer alone.

He needed help from someone with resources. Someone not connected to the police. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Lori Sims at TV News 4.

“Art,” she said smoothly. He could hear the smile in her voice. “Got some breaking news for me?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’ll give you the scoop if you’ll do me a favor.”

“What’s the scoop?” she asked.

“The favor first,” he replied. “I need a home phone number for the person who owns Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Combat School in Carlisle.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

Just hurry,
Herne thought, as he hung up the phone.

She could hear Butch barking outside, the insistent bark of an animal who knows something is wrong. She wondered if her neighbors heard it. Wondered what they would think about it. She was not the type of person to leave her dog in the yard for hours at a time. In fact, she rarely let him out for longer than ten minutes. She felt safer when he was by her side.

If only he were here now
, she thought, glancing down at Pike who remained unconscious on her floor.
Butch would have torn his arm off.

She had no friends. Her only plans for the day had been to phone her parents in Arizona, and her mother wasn’t even expecting her call. There was no one to miss her. No one to notice that she was gone.

Panic coursed through her veins, and she struggled with her bonds. She pulled and tugged with her hands until her wrists were too numb to feel the agonizing pain of the tape digging her flesh. But nothing happened. She gritted her teeth and sobbed, tears clouding her vision. She wanted to scream out her disappointment and anger, but she could only grunt through the tape that covered her mouth. Feeling impotent, she shook the headboard with the force of her frustration, rattling the wooden slats like a gorilla shakes his cage.

She realized the mistake of her actions—the noise and the rattles—when The Healer stirred.

“Unlisted phone number,” Lori Sims said, “but here’s his address.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I owe you one.”

“You said you had some news,” she said.

“I do. Right now our beloved police chief is searching a house in Hurricane for evidence.”

“Whose house?” Lori asked.

“I can’t reveal that information,” Herne said. “But it’s on Waverly Lane.”

“Got it,” she said. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Thanks for the info,” Herne said.

He drove to the address provided by Lori Sims, a small Cape Cod home in a new neighborhood. The man who answered the door wore only a pair of blue jeans. His clean shaven chest was ripped with hard muscle. Only his hooked nose prevented him from being classically handsome. He met Herne’s gaze with his own brown eyes.

Whenever two men met for the first time, Herne believed that in that initial split second they each assessed the other and mentally asked the question:
Could I take him in a fight?

But with this man, the owner and operator of Gorman’s Karate and Tactical Training, Herne didn’t feel as if his machismo was being assessed. Robert Gorman stood straight and tall, as if confident he would win any fight.

“Robert Gorman?” Herne asked.

The man nodded.

“I’m Artemis Herne. I’m working with the Hurricane Police Department.”

“I know who you are,” Gorman said. “You’re investigating The Healer, right?”

Herne nodded and held out the photo from Darrell Pike’s closet. “Do you know this woman?”

Gorman glanced at the photo, recognition crossing his lean face. “That’s Bethany. She’s one of my students,” Gorman said. “Is she in danger?”

“I hope not,” Herne said. “But I need her address.”

Gorman nodded. “I’ve got some basic student records here at the house. I’m certain I have her address.”

He opened the door wider so Herne could enter his home. Decorated for the athlete, a heavy bag and speed bag hung from the living room ceiling.

“Bethany’s a good student,” Gorman told Herne as they walked through the house. “She’s not technically great, but she’s got heart and determination. If The Healer gets too close to her, he might be in for a surprise.”

He flipped through neat and organized files, then scribbled Bethany’s phone number and address on a sheet of paper.

Herne’s fingers trembled in anticipation. Worried Gorman would see and misinterpret their tremors, he grabbed at the paper and quickly turned to leave.

“Bethany’s a sweet girl,” Gorman called out. “I hope she’s okay.”

Me, too,
Herne thought. But as the sun fell in the sky, he was starting to doubt that he’d find her alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The hot pain jolted him awake. Pike sat straight and agony seared his leg again. He looked down at his left leg, twisted underneath his body, and he could see a bit of white bone poking out from behind his knee. He turned his head and vomited, and the movement created another lightning bolt of pain.
Jesus. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
The words tumbled through his mind as he screamed again.

Bethany watched him, her eyes glittering. He thought she might be smiling beneath the tape on her lips.

He tasted grit in his mouth. The grit of panic that he usually tasted at night. He touched his hand to the knot on his head and withdrew it to find blood. He grabbed his gun from the bedroom floor and waved it at her. “Shut up, bitch!”

Pike looked outside, relieved to see the sun still shining in the sky. It wasn’t night yet. He still had time. He used his arms to push his body.
Maybe I can stand on my good leg,
he thought.

But the fire in his knee dropped him to the floor again, and his screams were songs of frustration and pain.

He tried again to stand, but each time the pain sent him back to the ground. He couldn’t walk. Couldn’t even hobble. He could only drag himself across the floor one inch at a time. And each and every moment the light faded in the sky. Already the falling sun just kissed the top of the horizon, ready to slumber for the night.

Darkness. It would soon overtake him. Panic blurred his mind. His injury made it impossible for him to get to his car before nightfall. It would take hours just to crawl down the stairs. By the time he reached Bethany’s front door, the black of night would be outside. Waiting to suffocate him. Drown him. Choke him. He’d never survive.

The phone rang and he almost reached for it. He thought about talking to the person on the other end of the phone. Confessing it all. The unknown of police capture seemed trite in comparison to spending the night in Bethany’s bedroom.

He shook his head.
You fool,
he thought.
The police will lock you up in a cell. They might throw you into solitary confinement, where the only light is the tiny sliver from beneath your door. It would be like the cellar again.