Phobia KDP (8 page)

“What fucking disease does he think he’s healing?” Tucker asked.

“Fear,” Herne said. “He heals fear.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Charles Emmert slid behind the steering wheel of his SUV. Although it was a little early for lunch, he’d worked up an appetite during his Saturday round of golf, and his mind was full of thoughts of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green peas swimming in buttery sauce. He turned the key in the ignition and cool air blasted from vents, drying the beads of perspiration that dotted his forehead.

Emmert adjusted the golf clubs in the passenger seat. The large SUV had plenty of room for all his golf gear, as well as sufficient space for his ample belly. He’d purchased this particular vehicle because it was the biggest on the market, and small cars made it impossible for him to breathe, sending panic into the blood that pumped through his veins. His therapist called it claustrophobia and encouraged him to face his fears by occasionally taking the elevator or driving his wife’s Toyota Prius.

But Emmert refused. He was retired now, and his days of meetings in tall office buildings and long commutes to work were over. He could drive a monster-sized vehicle and avoid elevators if he wanted. That was the point of retirement. To finally have the time and money to do whatever he liked.

As he reached for the steering wheel, he felt cold metal on the back of his neck. The voice in his ear, silken and smooth like chocolate pie, said, “Drive.”

Emmert felt his bladder go, and warm urine soaked his pants. “Take my wallet. My keys,” he stammered. “Whatever you want. Just take it.”

The face behind him wasn’t quite visible in the rearview mirror, but Emmert heard the man’s sigh. “I don’t want your money, Charles. And I don’t want your vehicle. Although this certainly is a nice SUV. Large. Plenty of space. I bet you like that.”

“Please,” Emmert said, his voice squeaking. “You can have whatever you want.”

“I want fulfillment, Charles. Satisfaction. Can you give that to me?”

“Satisfaction?” Charles asked, his voice holding a light of hope that he might have something to offer. “What type of satisfaction?”

“A Nobel Prize would be a great start,” the man said.

“I can’t give you that,” Charles gasped, all thoughts of hope fleeing from his mind.

“I know you can’t. But you can give me the next best thing.”

Emmert sobbed, pressing his face into his hands.

“You can give me the satisfaction of helping you,” the man said.

Emmert continued to weep. He didn’t think about his wife. Or his mistress. Or even his three children, all grown and living their own lives. He only thought that his retirement had been much too short.

“Please,” he begged. “I have lots of money. We can go to the bank. I’ll give you any amount you want.”

“I know you have plenty of money, Charles. I can tell by your big fancy SUV with the leather seats and the satellite radio. You’re probably used to buying your way out of trouble, right? That’s what people with money do. But I’m not here for your money,” the man said. “I’m here to heal you.”

A few of the guests sought refuge from the heat in the cool air-conditioning inside Tucker’s home, but most mingled beneath the Poplar trees in the backyard, cold beers or sodas in their hands. Tucker stood at the charcoal grill, wearing a red apron and flipping burgers with the flair of an experienced line cook. Herne knew his friend’s expertise came from working three summers of his teenage years in the kitchen of Shady Hill Diner.

Elizabeth and Tucker threw a summer party every year. Despite the gloom and fear that hung over Hurricane, Elizabeth insisted on having the barbeque. “It’s tradition,” she had said, her dark eyes flinty with determination.

Many of Hurricane’s residents now mingled in Tucker’s backyard, their initial discomfort replaced with the easy laughter that came from margaritas and wine. The atmosphere was almost festive.

Tucker’s party included everything a summer barbeque required: burgers, hotdogs, and plenty of booze. But Elizabeth always added her special touch, like crab stuffed mushrooms instead of cheese and crackers for an appetizer, or noodles with spicy Thai peanut sauce in place of a standard pasta salad. And the Tuckers had more than just Old Milwaukee in the cooler. Guests had their choice of a full range of domestic and imported beers, the bottles icy cold and dripping with condensation. In addition, a fully stocked bar in the kitchen showcased a cornucopia of liquor and mixers.

It took one small moment for Herne to fall from grace. A few minutes after arriving at the party, Herne walked into the kitchen. The bar held shiny bottles of liquor, and Herne stared at the whiskey until he thought he might drown in the amber liquid. He reached for the same inner strength he always summoned in times of temptation. He gathered it, like a ball in his gut, and tried to turn away from the bar. But each time his gaze left the whiskey bottle, Amanda Todd’s unseeing eyes would flicker in his mind. He felt the panic that had electrified her muscles and screamed in her mind. His own soul, so completely joined with Amanda’s, screamed for the protective blanket of booze.

Herne couldn’t resist. So he poured himself a drink, stood in the yard, and made the promises of a junkie.
Just a sip
, he thought.
One small glass
.

It was an empty promise. And he knew it.

When he swallowed his first mouthful of the smooth liquid, he felt his nerves tingle and awaken, as if they’d been slumbering like Rip Van Winkle. His body clamored for another sip. Another taste. He knew its thirst would never be quenched.

Maybe this time will be different
, he thought.
Maybe this time I’ll be able to have just one drink
.

Herne stood at the side of the yard, drink in hand, leaning against the privacy fence that surrounded Tucker’s backyard.
Hate fences
, Maggie had called them. No one spoke to him, although he noticed a group of women eying him from across the yard. They were all roughly forty years old, probably divorcees, and their curious glances were almost predatory.

The scent of sizzling hamburger caused Herne’s stomach to clench. The sun’s heat beating on his face magnified the odor of charred meat. Herne turned his back to the grill and breathed deeply, but he only inhaled the humidity that soaked the air. He drank from his glass, seeking relief in the bourbon.

He spied Elizabeth walking toward him, and when he glanced at the ground, for just a moment, he thought he saw a snake at her feet. He almost leapt forward to protect her. Then his mind cleared and he saw it was nothing more than a garden hose, its slender body coiled by a flower bed. He shook his head and gripped his glass, forcing a smile on his face as Elizabeth glanced at him. He wanted to enjoy himself, but his heart squeezed every time he turned his thoughts away from Amanda Todd’s murder case. It seemed like years since he’d felt unburdened, although it had only been a week.

He laughed inwardly at his foolishness. He hadn’t been unburdened, not even before Amanda’s murder. Hadn’t been free. He looked at the liquid that swirled in his glass, its color orange like fire in the night, and thought,
I won’t ever be free
.

Elizabeth wore a light, white dress that seemed to flow around her body like a gossamer web, occasionally skimming her skin as she moved through her guests and offered beverages and food. She stopped at the group of divorcees and glanced his way when they spoke to her. She shook her head and moved away from them, and he saw the women look at him again.

“They wanted to know if you’re dating anyone,” Elizabeth whispered as she glided past him. “Be careful. That type of woman is a shark.” Her grin was playful as she passed, leaving behind a soft, fruity scent that reminded him of cucumbers and melon.

He saw one of the women break away from the group and approach him. He looked for an escape route. He’d never been skilled at flirtatious banter. He had wooed Maggie with honesty rather than romance, and it was his good fortune that she appreciated his stoicism.

These days, single again, he saw the approving looks of the women he met. But his nights had not yet become so lonely that he needed a companion to hold. He could still function, even thrive, on his loneliness.

As the woman drew closer, Herne tried to move away. But a rotund bald man blocked his path. She stepped in front of him and held out her hand.

“Patty Cotton,” she said. Her ash blond hair had been dyed to cover the gray, and Herne was certain her blue eyes were the result of colored contact lenses. But her grip was firm when he shook her hand, and the straight line of her back and the crooked line of her nose spoke of confidence and character.

“Artemis Herne,” he said.

“I know who you are,” she replied with a smile, and Herne absurdly expected her to bat her eyes. “You’re quite well known around here.”

“Am I?” he asked, his glance darting to the picnic table where five children sat, eating hotdogs with relish. For a moment he glimpsed another snake, its body twisted beneath a child’s foot, until he realized it was nothing more than the beige strap of a woman’s handbag. He looked at Patty, trying to hide the tremors in his hand.

“Of course you are,” she simpered. “Hurricane is a small town. We don’t have a lot of handsome bachelors.”

“I’m not a bachelor. I’m a widower.”

Her eyes widened and, momentarily, the smile left her face. Then she leaned forward, her body so close and intimate he could smell the stale cigarettes and vodka on her breath. “I know,” she said. “And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” He wondered why the woman continued to talk to him.
Just leave me alone
, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Elizabeth talking to Miller. She was almost hidden from his view by the police officer’s broad shoulders and thick back. But she saw his glance and smiled in return.
A little too gleefully
, he thought.

“So I hear you’re working on the Amanda Todd murder,” Patty said. “That must be exciting.”

“There’s nothing exciting about murder,” Herne said, although he knew he was speaking a lie.

Her back stiffened and she turned to glance back at her friends, who had been watching the exchange with interest. “Well, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”

“Likewise.”

She returned to her friends, a scowl on her face.

“They’re going to spread some ugly gossip about you now,” Elizabeth said in his ear. Herne almost jumped. He hadn’t realized she had moved behind him.

He shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said.

“Even Rex knows that public relations is part of being a cop.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Yes, you are, Art. And you know it.” Elizabeth glanced at the glass of whiskey in his hand and he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. But she said nothing.

Saxon walked through the back gate. Herne watched her easy movements as she strode toward Tucker. Her graceful limbs seemed out of place in her starched blue police uniform.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes,” Herne responded.

Elizabeth looked at his face searchingly. Herne sensed sadness in the smile she offered, and he wondered about its source. But another guest called her away before he had time to ask about it.

Herne walked to Tucker and Saxon, who had moved to a more private corner of the yard. Saxon nodded when she saw him. Herne sensed the lieutenant had mellowed toward him, but she was still reticent in his presence.

“There are a couple of reporters hanging around the front yard,” Tucker said. “I’m going to send out Saxon to warn them that they’re on fucking private property.”

“You have to expect the media to be dogged about this. There aren’t a lot of homicides in Hurricane. Especially homicides committed by snakebite,” said Herne.

“The Healer’s note was leaked to the press,” Saxon said. “They’re looking for confirmation.”

“Shit,” Tucker said. “How did they find out about it?”

Saxon shrugged. But they all knew. Herne whistled a brief snatch of
I Heard It Through The Grapevine
. It was the way of life in Hurricane.

“What do they know?” Tucker asked.

“They’ve got the text of the note, and they know it was signed ‘The Healer.’ Should I confirm?” Saxon asked.

Tucker sighed. “Go ahead.”

“By the way,” Saxon said as she turned to leave, “the quotation in The Healer’s note is attributed to Michel de Montaigne, a French essayist,” she said.

“So what does it fucking mean?” Tucker asked.

“At this point? Not much,” Herne replied.

“Are you feeling okay?” Tucker asked, glancing at the glass in Herne’s hand.

Herne nodded. “I’m fine. Just fine.” He heard the falseness of his voice, and knew his friend had heard it, too.

The odor of cigarette smoke wafted through the area, and Herne noticed that Patty Cotton had lit a Marlboro. She stood alone by the side of the yard. The gray scent of tobacco made Herne’s muscles ache. He could almost taste the ashen smoke and feel its burn in his lungs.
No one ever really quits
, he thought.