Phobia KDP (40 page)
Authors: C.A. Shives
Herne smashed the hall light—a single bulb encased in a globe—with the broom, raining shards of glass over his head. Then he fired his gun and shattered the ceiling light in Bethany’s bedroom. The entire house fell dark.
The Healer’s cry startled Herne. It was immediate and shrill, like a torture victim enduring his first round with a dull knife.
Then Herne heard a noise that caused his heart to seize. The strike of a match.
Fire.
He ran into the bedroom, his gun drawn. He saw the flicker of light, the tiniest of flames, in the corner of Bethany’s closet. The outline of Pike’s body was barely visible. Herne pointed his gun.
“Pike,” he said, hoping the quiver in his voice was perceptible only to him. “Come out slowly.”
The only response was sobs and the strike of another match. Another flame. Herne saw The Healer lighting candles. The sulfuric odor of burnt matches filled the closet. He had to stop Pike. Quickly.
“Come out,” Herne said again. “Come out and we’ll turn on the lights.”
Another match. Another flame. Herne was running out of time.
He moved toward the closet, gun drawn and directed at Pike. Though the candle flames were small, he could feel their heat. They seemed to warm him—to inflame him—until a thin sheen of perspiration blanketed his forehead.
The outline of Pike’s face flickered in the dim candlelight. Herne knew who he was, of course. The clerk from The Sandwich Station. But seeing him now, in this setting, still jolted him. Just a little bit.
Herne walked closer.
Pike saw Herne moving toward him. They were coming for him at last. But he was too busy lighting candles. Too busy trying to chase away the darkness. He had no time to act. He could do nothing else.
And then Herne was almost upon him. Standing right in front of him. His face close. His hands outstretched. And Pike remembered all those times his father had reached for him, pulling him away from safety, forcing him into the darkness.
“No,” Pike moaned, throwing up his hands. “No, Daddy. I’m scared.”
The candles fell from his fingers and tumbled to the floor of the closet.
Herne saw the candles fall. One of the candles extinguished, but the other two continued to burn. A flame touched a red silk scarf that lay atop a pile of clothing, and the fabric ignited. The clothes flared quickly, feeding the fire.
Herne grabbed for Pike again, and The Healer struggled with him. “Please, Daddy,” Pike repeated, sobbing. He grabbed Herne’s arm. “Please don’t make me stay in the dark alone.”
The fire flamed brighter. Herne could feel his own panic rising as the heat scorched his skin. He tried to pull away from Pike, but the man gripped him with strength amplified by panic.
Herne had no time. Bathrobes and fuzzy slippers blazed in the closet. Dark smoke swirled around them, filling the air with the odor of smoldering cotton and melting plastic. He coughed, his lungs begging for fresh air, and his eyes felt like ashes. He had to move quickly.
Herne yanked his arm from Pike’s grasp and used the butt of his gun to smash him on the head. Pike slumped back into the closet, unconscious.
Herne glanced at the fire. It had grown too large for him to stamp out with his foot. He turned and ran to Bethany. Smoke filled the room, creating a fog of white and gray that scorched his lungs.
Her eyes widened with fear, and her breath came in short, quick gasps. He saw the panic starting to form in her eyes, and he tried to calm her. Tried to reassure her. Prayed she didn’t hear the tremble in his voice.
“I’m going to get you out of here. You’re going to be safe,” he said, working to ignore the voice in his head. The voice that said,
You couldn’t keep your wife safe.
The Healer had wound the tape around Bethany’s hands multiple times. The thick bond resisted his hands. Herne tried to bite through it with his teeth, but it was too strong.
He pulled the tape from her mouth. “I have to go downstairs,” he told her.
“Don’t leave me,” she begged. The helplessness of her voice pierced his heart.
“I’ll be back,” he promised. “I won’t leave you here.”
He felt the flames from the closet on his back as he ran out the bedroom door and down the carpeted stairs. Thick smoke hung in the hallway, moving slowly like a dark molasses that would smother them with its viscosity. The house fire detectors began to wail, sounding like the cry of emergency sirens.
For a moment he was transported back to night Maggie died. He tried not to remember the heat that blistered his skin. The smell of the charred flesh that burned his nose with its harsh odor. The swirling red lights of the fire trucks.
And then he reached the bottom floor of Bethany’s house, where the smoke had not yet pervaded. His mind cleared and he breathed deep, glad to be away. Glad to have escaped the burning room, even though he knew he had to return. He would have to walk back into the smoke to save Bethany. And his hands shook uncontrollably.
He ran to the kitchen and pulled open drawers, seeking a knife. The first contained nothing but potholders. The second held dishtowels. Finally, on his third try, he found a butcher knife.
He ran back up the stairs and into the smoke that felt weighted with heaviness. He could barely see through the black cloud, but he fumbled through the room until he reached her bed. Fear squeezed his heart as the smoke choked his lungs. Though his fingers trembled, he used the knife to cut through her bonds. He couldn’t see her expression, but he heard her gasping and coughing.
Herne gathered Bethany into his arms and pulled her from the bed. Together they stumbled out the bedroom door and down the stairs. She leaned against him as they walked out the front door, gasping in the fresh air. Herne heard the sirens of fire engines in the distance.
They stumbled a few yards from the house before they both tumbled into the grass. She lay on her side, coughing, her head buried in her hands. Herne stood and looked at the house, his heart thumping as he watched the flames lick the roof. He knew Pike was still inside.
For a moment Herne thought about facing his own fear. His own memories. His own guilt. He thought about returning and entering the fire. Trying to rescue The Healer.
Then he thought about his wife, whose own death was a mix of flames and ashes.
And as he saw the dark smoke curling into the night sky, Herne turned his back on the house. He would not battle the fire tonight.
Perhaps
, Herne thought,
perhaps tonight will be the night The Healer finally heals himself.
EPILOGUE
“I heard some news about Lochhead today,” Tucker said as he twirled Elizabeth’s spaghetti around his fork.
Herne raised an eyebrow in response.
“He opened a practice in Frederick, Maryland.”
“He’s still in therapy?”
Tucker nodded. “But he no longer practices as a clinical psychologist. Instead, he’s a sex therapist.”
“He’ll probably be successful,” Herne said, shaking his head.
A crisp autumn breeze from the open window cooled the room. Herne noticed Elizabeth wrap her arms around her body to ward off the chill.
She saw him watching her and held up the wine bottle, a silent offering. Herne shook his head in response. “One is my limit these days,” he said with a small smile.
“I’m glad,” she said.
Me, too,
he thought. Too many drinks and he might lose control. Too many drinks and he might show Elizabeth the envelope he’d forced Morales to surrender. The envelope that contained surveillance photos of Tucker and Saxon.
What will I tell her when she asks what I’ve found?
Morales had asked.
Herne had been tempted. Tempted to manipulate Elizabeth for selfish reasons. If she knew Tucker was guilty of infidelity, she would leave him. Elizabeth, alone in the world, could cause Herne great heartache.
Or great pleasure.
Tell her your investigation was inconclusive,
Herne ordered the private investigator.
For now, he would bury the truth with the rest of his secrets.
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