Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  “Is slow immersion therapy the kind used most often?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Although there are some therapists who try to accelerate the process.”

  “Really? What kind of acceleration?”

  “Total, immediate immersion. It’s like taking someone who’s frightened of heights and dangling them from a rooftop. Not a good idea.”

  “It doesn’t work?”

  “I imagine it could work in some cases,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I’ve never heard of a really successful case. Even if the patient does overcome their initial phobia, they generally end up with some other type of psychological issue that needs addressed.”

  “I imagine they’d have some trouble with trust after that,” Herne said. He stood to help Elizabeth clear the dishes, piling their bowls and plates in the sink. “So what do you think of immersion therapy?” Herne asked.

  “I think there are better ways to treat patients with anxiety,” Elizabeth said. She paused, her hand on a dishtowel. “In fact, I think it’s downright cruel.”

  As Herne drove home he tried again to understand The Healer. He thought about his afternoon with Elizabeth, and her insight into immersion therapy. He tried to concentrate on the information she had provided, but it wasn’t her words that replayed in his mind. Instead, the image of her delicate ankle seemed burned in his memory.

  The Healer listened closely to every syllable, wanting to hear the meaning behind her statements.

  “I guess I’m afraid of drowning,” Cheryl said. “Water can be so dangerous. Just ask anyone who’s been trapped in a flood. Or been the victim of a raging hurricane. I don’t want to drown! Don’t you think that drowning is a terrible way to die?”

  He noticed a bit of gorgonzola cheese on his finger. A leftover from breakfast. Its creaminess felt slick against his skin as he wiped it on the hem of his shirt.

  “Every time I get near water, I just think about what it would be like to drown. I imagine being swallowed by the liquid as if it were a horrible monster. Can you imagine what it would be like, Dr. Lochhead? Doesn’t it sound terrible? Your lungs would start to burn with the need for oxygen, but you can’t inhale. And the worst part of it all is that no one would hear your silent struggles.”

  He was surprised to feel his own throat close up in response. As quietly as possible, he inhaled deeply.

  “You understand what I’m saying. It’s so frightening.” She sighed. “I know it’s because of my parents. They died in a boating accident. I’ve told you that before, right? I know I have to face their deaths first, before I can deal with my fear of water. It’s just so hard. But I’m really trying to deal with it. In fact, I really think I’m coping better these days.”

  You’re not coping, he thought. You’re a victim of the fear in your life.

  The chair scratched against the floor as Cheryl stood. He turned his attention back to his hands—a little bit of cheese still remained beneath his fingernail—as he listened to her footsteps leave the office.

  A few moments later he watched her from the window as she left the building. Her baggy clothes and baseball cap could not hide her attractive features. She’s pretty, he thought. But even pretty people need to face their fears.

  As she walked out of his sight she glanced at the sky, as if checking the clouds for signs of rain.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Herne drove his truck into the parking lot. There were no spaces available, so he waited as a man, dark and brawny, crossed the lot and jumped into his silver SUV. As the man drove away, Herne slipped into his parking space.

  He called Saxon as he climbed the stairs to Lochhead’s office, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the old building.

  “I need you to run a plate for me,” he said. He heard her gusty sigh.

  “Give it to me,” she said.

  At least she had stopped arguing with him about every request. “Pennsylvania tags. AVT 756.”

  “Say again,” she said.

  “Alpha. Victor. Tango. Seven. Five. Six. It’s a silver SUV.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Got it,” she said. Other women might have asked questions, but Saxon just hung up the phone.

  He glanced at the Omega diving watch that Maggie had given him the first summer they learned to SCUBA dive. It was just a few minutes until one o’clock. Lochhead would be finishing his lunch.

  Herne didn’t bother to glance at Sarah Coyle when he entered the waiting room. She stood up and held out a hand—her fingers so thin they looked like creased paper on bone—but he ignored her protest. He opened the door to Lochhead’s inner office.

  The therapist sat at his desk, a sandwich in his hands. The pungent odor of feta reminded Herne of his high school gymnasium.

  Lochhead glanced at Herne, finished chewing his bite, and said, “I want a lawyer.”

  “Why? Do you think you need one?” Herne asked.

  “This is the third time you’ve been to my office. As far as I’m concerned, this is police harassment.”

  “Surely, Dr. Lochhead, you see our reason for questioning you. Both of the victims were your patients. At this point, that is their only link. Obviously, to properly investigate this case, we need to explore this link thoroughly.”

  “You’re not coming here to investigate,” Lochhead said. “You’re coming here to accuse.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Herne said. “I just want to know where you were last weekend.”

  “If you’re not accusing me, then why do you need me to provide an alibi?”

  Herne shrugged. “If we can eliminate you as a suspect right away, it makes things easier on us. So what were you doing on Saturday afternoon?”

  Lochhead leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “I was out of town.”

  “Can anyone verify this?”

  “Sure. Plenty of people.”

  “Care to give me more details?”

  “I was in Dover, Delaware, all weekend for a wedding,” Lochhead said.

  “Who was getting married?”

  “My college buddy’s daughter.”

  Herne calculated. Dover was a three hour drive from Hurricane. “You didn’t leave Dover all weekend?”

  Lochhead shook his head. “I left my office Friday at four o’clock as usual, and drove straight to Dover. Once there, I attended almost every function, including the rehearsal dinner on Friday, the wedding and reception on Saturday, and a brunch on Sunday.”

  “What time was the wedding?”

  “Six o’clock. It was an evening wedding with a nighttime reception. My buddy spent a fortune to make sure his little girl’s day was perfect.” Lochhead sneered at Herne. “Would you like me to give you some details that you can verify? The reception featured champagne and a string quartet. The caterer served crab cakes, shrimp cocktail, lobster tail, prime rib, and smoked salmon. And, of course, Daniel made sure he included wine from some of the best French vineyards, as well as plenty of Johnnie Walker Blue. Do you honestly think I’d miss an event like that?”

  Herne thought about his own wedding to Maggie. She’d worn a simple white dress that had been hand sewn by her mother for less than fifty dollars. They’d served a cold buffet of sandwiches and potato salad at the reception, which was held in her parents’ backyard. Rain had cut short the party, since the small living room couldn’t accommodate all thirty guests. He and Maggie had made love that night in a local motel as they listened to the sound of raindrops splatter against the roof. It was the best memory of his life.

  “In my experience, there’s always plenty of downtime during a wedding weekend,” Herne said. “Is there anyone who can vouch for your presence after the rehearsal dinner on Friday until the Saturday wedding? If not, that’s almost a full day unaccounted for.”

  “If you must know, I was in the presence of a young lady during the later hours, both after the rehearsal dinner and after the wedding.”

  “Can I have her name?”
Herne asked.

  “Actually, it was a different woman each evening. And, to be honest with you, I don’t exactly remember their names.”

  Herne raised an eyebrow. Lochhead’s pride in his conquests reminded him of a teenage boy. What are you compensating for? Herne thought.

  Lochhead’s smug grin filled his face. “They were a weekend tryst. Weddings certainly have a way of making women feel romantic, don’t they? I wouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t take advantage of the situation, would I?”

  “Were they guests at the wedding?”

  “I believe so,” Lochhead said. “Although I’m not sure both of them were on the guest list. They may have come to the wedding with their current boyfriends.” Lochhead grinned again. “We didn’t do a lot of chatting.”

  “What’s the name of your college friend?”

  Lochhead wrote something on a piece of paper and passed it to Herne. “His name, address, and phone number,” the therapist said. “I have nothing to hide from you.”

  Herne nodded and turned to go. He knew it would be a dead end, but at least it might help eliminate Lochhead as a suspect.

  “By the way, Detective,” Lochhead said. “If you show up in my office one more time, I’m going to file harassment charges against you. And how do you think your lovely wife would have felt about that?”

  Herne pivoted on one foot and stared at Lochhead. Did the therapist know something about Maggie’s death?

  They stared at each other, both men refusing to break eye contact.

  No, Herne thought. He’s just mentioning Maggie to show that he did his research. He knows who I am.

  As Herne walked out of the office, he heard Lochhead chuckle. But he doesn’t really know me, Herne thought. If he did, he wouldn’t be laughing.

  Lochhead sat in his chair, his back ramrod straight and his nostrils flaring as he inhaled and exhaled. He had almost felt the heat of the intensity in Artemis Herne’s gray eyes. Lochhead knew the man would dig deep into the life of anyone tied to the murders. No secret would be safe. He’s like a damn badger, Lochhead thought. Relentless.

  Every day Lochhead carefully cultivated his fuck ‘em attitude and polished his image. He calculated every word he uttered, every gesture he made, and every stitch of clothing he wore. To the world, he was a womanizer with a taste for young ladies.

  And it was true. Like the best of con artists, he portrayed a realistic image because he had chosen a visage that was, indeed, genuine. Lochhead was a womanizer. And he preferred them young, taut, and energetic.

  Unfortunately, not even the most nubile of girls could get Lochhead’s penis to stand at attention. He’d tried a few times to have sex the normal way. He’d met a few girls that made him feel almost excited. But those times had always been failures. And then one girl, so drunk she could barely stand, said that trying to fuck his limp cock was like trying to fuck a raw hotdog. He slapped her so hard her skull bounced off the headboard of the bed.

  After that he stopped trying to fuck girls. Instead, he just fucked with their heads. He plied them with alcohol and drugs until their memory of the night was nothing more than a hazy blur. And then the next morning, when they asked what happened the night before, he’d make up stories so they thought he was a champion lover.

  And sometimes, every once in a while, he’d hire a girl to play out his fantasy. The whore would struggle and scream and say “no,” and Lochhead would fuck her.

  It was the only way he could do it. The only way he could get hard enough.

  But he wore the mask of an experienced womanizer for the rest of the world. It was a mask he carefully donned every day. A mask that protected him.

  And he feared Artemis Herne was going to tear the mask from his face.

  The woman who sat across from Morales reminded him of his third grade teacher, Miss Heberling. She’d been his most frightening teacher, her moods unpredictable. On good days she’d been vivacious, her red hair almost a halo of energy as she pushed the class into activities and games. But on the bad days her mouth snarled at every student who asked a question, and she’d scream with demonic viciousness. Every morning when Morales arrived at school, he checked Miss Herberling’s clothing. If it was pressed and clean, it would be a good day. But gravy stains and rumpled shirts meant bad days. Very bad days.

  The woman in his office was having a very bad day.

  “That bastard is using drugs,” she said. “I know he’s snorting cocaine up his big, fat nose.” She clasped her hands in her ample lap, and Morales noticed a mustard stain on her skirt. He could smell the grease on her breath, a scent that told tales of potato chips and nachos and fried doughnuts. Yes, this woman was having a very bad day.

  “What would you like me to do?” Morales asked.

  “Find out if he’s using drugs,” she said. “I need solid evidence, like photographs or video. I’m going to divorce that son of a bitch. And if I can prove he’s using drugs, I’ll take him to the cleaners. He’ll be paying me so much alimony, he won’t even be able to afford crack.”

  Morales wanted to hurry her through the paperwork. She had to sign the standard agreement and provide him with a retainer. She hesitated when he told her his hourly rates. And he sat silently, appearing calm and collected, as she slowly read through the contract.

  But once the agreement was signed and the check was in his hand, he almost pushed her out the door.

  He had other business that needed his attention—personal business—and he was impatient to get started on it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Herne sat in the driver’s seat, the windows of his truck closed tightly as the air-conditioner blew cold against his face. He’d been stuck in stopped traffic for just ten minutes, but it felt like ten days.

  On the radio, Johnny Cash sang about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die.

  Herne thought about the deaths he had seen. The deaths he had caused.

  He’d drawn his weapon a dozen times during his first year with the Philadelphia PD. By his second year on the force, he had shot and killed two criminals. One of them, a teenage kid with a bad drug habit, died at Herne’s feet.

  He saw the realization of death in the boy’s brown eyes. He saw the mixture of dread and fear.

  Herne faced death many times during his career. Druggies who died from overdoses, gang members who died from gunshot wounds, drunks who died in car accidents. They all wore the same expression when death beckoned. Their eyes revealed their emotions of panic and excitement and terror.

  He wondered what they saw when they crossed over. A bright light? Pearly gates?

  Or just darkness. Nothingness. Emptiness.

  The ring of his cell phone broke into his thoughts. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, and he turned up the air-conditioner until it felt frigid.

  “I’ve got the news on your SUV,” Saxon said.

  “Give it to me,” Herne said.

  “It belongs to a Robert Morales. He’s forty-one, Hispanic, divorced, and the father of a seven year old girl. He’s self-employed as a private investigator.”

  “A private dick? That’s interesting.”

  “Most of his clients are husbands or wives trying to catch a cheating spouse. He apparently spends a lot of time doing surveillance.”

  Traffic began to creep forward. Herne lifted his foot from the brake and let his truck inch along the highway. He glanced at the car next to him and saw the impatient scowl of a businessman. The man had a Blackberry in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He drove with his knee on the steering wheel and rarely looked up through his windshield.

  Just another rodent in the rat race, Herne thought.

  “Anything else?” Herne asked.

  “Yes. Morales’ office is just down the hall from Lochhead’s practice.”

  “Great work, Lieutenant.” As soon as he said the words, Herne bit his tongue. She’s going to think you’re patronizing her, he thought.

  He was surpris
ed to hear her amiable response. “Thank you. Do you need anything else?”

  “Not right now.”

  After he hung up the phone, Herne realized that Saxon never called him by his name. In fact, she never called him anything at all. Not Artemis. Not Art. Not Mr. Herne.

  At least she doesn’t call you “Asshole,” he thought.

  The mellow voice of George Jones filtered through the radio, singing about a man who loved a woman until the day he died. Herne gripped the steering wheel and stared at the bumper of the car that crept ahead of him, focusing his eyes on the vehicle’s red brake lights until his entire field of vision appeared tinted crimson.

  Bethany hated blind dates. They presented a whole range of possibilities for assault, attack, and rape.

  But Janice, her co-worker, had insisted. Janice was the only woman in the whole tax office who was nice to her. She was the only one who invited Bethany to lunch or chatted with her in the break room. Janice didn’t know about her fears. And Bethany wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

  So she agreed to go on a blind date. If I take enough precautions, Bethany thought, I should be safe.

  And she had taken precautions. Plenty of them.

  She and her date, Patrick, had spoken on the phone. Bethany used a public pay phone for the call because she didn’t want Patrick to know her home phone number. They had agreed to meet at Woo’s Garden, the Chinese restaurant in Hurricane. It was a busy location. There would be plenty of people around. Parking was available on the street, so she could safely walk to her car after the evening was over. She planned to park it at least a few blocks away so her date would not be able to identify her vehicle. If he knew what type of car she owned, he could find her and attack her in the future. And just in case he followed her, she had smeared some mud over the license plate to obscure the letters and numbers.

  Bethany was prepared with her standard accoutrements. A canister of pepper spray hung from her keychain. She wore a gaudy ring on her right hand; its purpose twofold. Its thick metal and big stone would act as makeshift brass knuckles if she needed to defend herself. Moreover, the ring hid a tiny pepper spray canister that she could operate with the tip of her thumb.