Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  She hadn’t told him her phone number or address, and she had no intention of revealing them tonight. But Bethany was determined to act as normal as possible. Janice was her only friend at the office, and Patrick was Janice’s cousin. If Bethany made a mistake during the date—if Patrick caught a hint of her fears—she might lose her only friend at work.

  She chose her outfit carefully, wanting to look as if she were prepared for a date while still wearing clothes that made her feel safe. She opted for casual sneakers in case she needed to flee from an attacker. Her khaki pants and short-sleeved shirt were both plain and comfortable. Nothing was too loose or flowing, which could trip her if she had to run. Nothing was too tight, either, since snug clothes would restrict her movements if she needed to defend herself.

  She tied her long hair in a ponytail and, satisfied with her appearance, prepared to meet her date.

  Daniel Gray reminded Herne of the typical college jock, though the crinkles around his blue eyes and the extra weight around his midsection indicated that his school days had faded as surely as his hairline. He invited Herne into his home, which was tastefully decorated with dark wood and even darker fabrics, giving the home a masculine atmosphere. The faint odor of cigar smoke hung in the air. Expensive cigars, Herne thought.

  “My ex-wife had the place done in frilly shit, like ruffles and pink feathers,” Gray said as he led Herne into the den. “After she left, I had an interior designer redo the entire thing. The designer was gay, of course, but everything turned out pretty cool. Nothing homo about it.”

  Herne looked at a statue that sat in the corner of the room. At first it appeared to be nothing more than an abstract swirl of metal. Then, like an optical illusion, it almost seemed to be two men in an embrace. Herne blinked, and the statue became a twist of metal again. He smiled to himself.

  “So you came all the way from Hurricane? I’ve only been there once, back in college. I went home with Peter during Thanksgiving. Cute little town,” Gray said.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions about Dr. Lochhead and the weekend of the wedding,” Herne said.

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” Gray asked, his bushy brows knitted together.

  “What makes you ask that? Is he the kind of guy who would do something wrong?”

  Gray’s hearty laugh bespoke confidence, but Herne detected an underlying emotion. Nervousness.

  “No, of course not. But we all have our failings. Our appetites…” Gray trailed off.

  Herne waited for him to continue, wondering if Gray might reveal a secret insight into Lochhead. He felt himself growing impatient, and his teeth clenched with his desire to urge the man to speak. Herne tightened his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching down Gray’s throat and pulling out the words the man had censored. But then he saw Gray shake his head, and Herne knew the gate had been closed.

  “I mean, Peter’s not the kind of man who would kill someone or anything,” Gray said. “But he might, you know, make a pass at some underage girl or something.”

  “Does he have a taste for young ladies?” Herne asked.

  Gray was silent. Again, Herne had to resist the impulse to shake the words out of the man. Instead he waited patiently, hoping for an answer. But a mask fell over Gray’s face, and he asked, “So what do you want to know about Peter?”

  “I’m curious about the weekend he was here for your daughter’s wedding,” Herne said.

  A smile crossed Gray’s face, showing even, white teeth. As far as Herne could tell, the teeth were real. Probably cost a fortune in orthodontics, he thought. He touched his own incisor with his tongue, crooked since high school when he got kicked in the mouth during football practice.

  “Cordelia’s wedding,” Gray said. “It was great. My little girl had the perfect day.”

  “Peter Lochhead was invited to all the events, like the rehearsal dinner and brunch?”

  “Of course,” Gray said. “He and I have been buddies for years. Best buddies. Why, he’s Cordelia’s Godfather.”

  “Did you notice him with any women during the weekend?”

  “Sure. Women always flock to him.” Gray shook his head with a little chuckle. “Even when we were in college, Peter always had an easy time attracting girls. He was an academic and I was a football player, and he still got more pussy than I did.”

  “Can I get the names of the women he was with during the wedding weekend?”

  Gray hesitated. “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “I need to confirm his alibi for the weekend,” Herne said.

  “His alibi? What’s he accused of?”

  “He’s not accused of anything,” Herne said. “But he is a suspect in a murder case.”

  “Murder? Peter would never murder anyone.”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind helping me confirm his alibi. I need the names and addresses of the women he might have been involved with during that weekend.”

  Gray went to his Rolodex. “I have to look up some of them,” he said. “They were mostly Cordelia’s friends.”

  So Lochhead likes them very young, Herne thought. Young enough to be his daughter. To Herne, a younger woman was like drinking a glass of Riesling. She might be sweet to taste, but she would never compare to the mellow richness of a mature red wine.

  A few minutes later Gray handed Herne a piece of paper with the names and addresses of four women. “These are the ones I saw him with,” he said. “I don’t know which ones he actually took back to his hotel room.”

  Herne thanked Gray and left. Two of the girls lived in Dover. He’d start with them.

  “You haven’t seen him all day?” Tucker asked.

  Saxon shook her head.

  “Sheila!” Tucker shouted. “Have you heard from Art?”

  Sheila walked into Tucker’s office. She fanned herself with a manila folder and paused just a second in front of the window air-conditioner. “Nope, Chief,” she said. “Haven’t heard a peep.”

  “What the hell could he be doing?” Tucker asked.

  “It’s Friday,” Sheila responded. “Maybe he decided to quit early and have a drink.”

  Have a drink. Tucker knew that Sheila might be right. He pressed his temples with his thin index fingers. His headache felt as if someone were banging on bongos in his skull.

  He had brought this on himself. Had brought it on Art. He knew his friend’s mental health was unstable. Asking Art to consult on this case had been like pushing his friend’s self-destruct button.

  Tucker had sent his best friend careening into chaos. And it hadn’t been for a noble cause. It hadn’t been to catch a killer or save future victims.

  Tucker had wanted to save his own ass from the fire. He’d wanted to avoid Mayor Harvey’s wrath and guard his reputation as Chief of Police.

  He’d sacrificed his friend to protect himself.

  If it’s guilt that’s causing these damn headaches, my fucking brain is going to explode soon, Tucker thought.

  He looked up at Sheila. “Call Miller,” Tucker said. “I want him to check the local bars and liquor stores. Ask if anyone’s seen Art.”

  Sheila walked out of the room, and Tucker turned to Saxon. “If that bastard’s buried in a bottle, I’ll break his fucking neck,” he said, his voice hoarse with worry.

  She reached out and touched his arm gently. He looked at the concern in her eyes.

  The guilt is going to fucking kill me, Tucker thought.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When the apartment door first opened, Herne almost asked the young girl to fetch her mother. The petite brunette with the pigtails looked like an adolescent. Then Herne noticed her low-cut shirt, her mini skirt, and the sexual way she leaned against the door frame, as if to give him the best view of her cleavage. Tiny lines appeared around the corners of her mouth. The “girl” was older than she appeared. And a heavy smoker, too, Herne thought.

  “Can I help you?” Tricia Weller simpered.

  “My n
ame is Artemis Herne,” he said. “I’m with the Hurricane Police Department.”

  She eyed him up and down, the tip of her tongue snaking out to touch her bottom lip. “A real cop? Yummy. Why don’t you come in?” She opened the door wide so he could step into her home.

  The apartment was almost smaller than the living room of his house, with nothing more than a loveseat and a twin bed for furnishings. The room was decorated in a beach theme with jars of sand and seashells. The medicinal scent of patchouli oil filled Herne’s nostrils, reminding him of hippies and bongs and incense.

  The room had no air-conditioning, and two box fans hummed as they pushed air around the room. Every so often the breeze rustled Tricia’s skirt, exposing the lower curve of her buttocks. She motioned for him to sit on the loveseat. “Want a beer?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I just need to ask you a few questions about the weekend of Cordelia Gray’s wedding,” Herne said.

  Tricia threw back her head and let out a loud, raucous laugh. “That was one hell of a party,” she said. “Cordelia’s old man is loaded. Made all his money in real estate, I think. Anyway, she took him for all he was worth. I mean, Cord got everything she wanted, including a designer dress, reception at the fancy country club, and crab cakes for dinner. Of course, she always was a spoiled little brat. She loved to throw around Daddy’s money. But the wedding was really something. She outdid herself this time.”

  “Do you remember a guest named Peter Lochhead?” Herne withdrew the therapist’s photo from his pocket. It was a picture Saxon had secured during her background check.

  As Tricia reached for the photo she bent forward, giving Herne a close look at her cleavage. When she stood up again, she angled her body so the breeze from the fan fluttered her skirt. Herne glanced away.

  “I remember him,” Tricia said as she examined the picture. “Hell, I spent the night with him on Friday.”

  “All night?”

  She shrugged. “Pretty much. My boyfriend was one of the groom’s ushers so we got invited to the rehearsal dinner. That’s where I met Peter.”

  “What happened after the dinner?”

  “Well, the boys decided to take the groom out for one last drink as a single man. I’m pretty sure they went to the titty bar. So Peter and I went out for a drink together.”

  “How long did you stay out?” Herne asked.

  “It was past midnight,” she giggled.

  “And was that it for the night?”

  “No. We went back to his hotel room, and, well, you know…” Her voice trailed off and she arched her back and licked her lips. Herne had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat.

  “What time did you fall asleep?” Herne asked.

  “Sleep?” She giggled again. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, since you’re a cop and all…”

  “We’ll keep it off the record,” Herne said with a wink, his stomach churning in disgust.

  “We did all kinds of drugs, you know. Peter said he was a doctor.”

  But not the type of doctor that can easily get his hands on pills, Herne thought.

  “Anyway, he had lots of different stuff. So we didn’t sleep at all. We just drank champagne, took pills, and danced.” She shrugged.

  “What time did you leave his hotel room?” Herne asked.

  She placed a finger on her chin, as if thinking carefully. “I don’t remember exactly,” she said. “Before the wedding began, because I had to go home and help my boyfriend find his tuxedo. But it was definitely afternoon. We tried to order breakfast from room service, and they told us they were only serving lunch. That’s one of the reasons I left to go home. I was really craving some pancakes.”

  “Did you see Peter at the wedding?” Herne asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I saw him before the ceremony started. I asked him for a few more pills—you know, so I could have a little fun that evening—and he gave them to me.”

  That clinched it. Lochhead had been in Dover around noon when he tried to order breakfast from room service. And he had been at the wedding by six o’clock. The only way he could have returned to Hurricane, nailed Emmert in his homemade coffin, and returned to Dover in time for the wedding was with a time machine.

  Herne knew Tricia’s statements would need to be confirmed. Someone would talk to the hotel’s room service, and someone would check that Lochhead had actually been at the wedding ceremony.

  But Herne had a feeling that Lochhead’s alibi was solid.

  And if that was true, Herne’s only lead had just reached a dead end.

  Morales spent a lot of time spying on other people. Most of his clients were angry husbands or wives, and the job involved tailing and watching spouses as they engaged in torrid affairs. Sometimes it required little more than one night on the town with his camera. Other times he had to follow the subject for days or weeks just to catch a clandestine kiss. But he always caught them in the end.

  So his surveillance skills came in handy when he wanted to know if the other offices in his building were vacant. Some of the businesses ran like clockwork. Every weekday at five, six, or seven o’clock, the office would be empty. Others, like his own, kept less traditional hours. The dentist sometimes performed emergency procedures in the evening. Tax season meant the CPA next door worked on Saturdays and Sundays, too.

  The room he entered today was a therapist’s office, and it always closed by four o’clock. It was located at the end of the hallway by the stairs, so it was easy to slip in without being observed. The shades had already been drawn, shielding him from the outside.

  He inhaled deeply as he sat in the receptionist’s chair and opened a file drawer. Part of him—the part that was raised to be a law-abiding citizen—hated himself for committing this crime.

  But another part of him got a little thrill from it all.

  After the drive back from Dover, he arrived in Hurricane at seven o’clock, just fifteen minutes before Morales left his office building. Now that Lochhead had been cleared of suspicion, Morales was Herne’s only lead.

  Herne sat in his truck, watching as the private investigator drove away in his SUV. Herne counted to ten and then followed.

  Morales drove down Main Street. Herne’s pickup was a big and black Ford, practically nondescript in a town where almost everyone drove some type of utility vehicle.

  Morales traveled for only a short distance before he parked on the side of the road and turned off his engine. Herne continued to drive past, making a loop around the block and then cutting through an alley so he could see the edge of the Nissan. Herne parked his truck, the hot summer air coating his skin as he rolled down the window. It was obvious the private investigator was on a stakeout. But who was he watching?

  It could be anyone, Herne thought, looking around. Main Street was home to the Police Station, Shady Hill Diner, the Animal Shelter Thrift Store, and numerous residential apartments. A few people traveled on the sidewalk: a woman pushing a baby carriage, a child on a bicycle, a group of laughing teenagers. The woman paused underneath the shade of an oak tree, stopping to sip water from a bottle. Herne watched Morales, but the investigator did nothing to indicate which subject he was trying to observe.

  An hour passed, and Herne shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The air was still and humid, offering no relief from the sweltering heat that seemed to envelope the entire town. Perspiration soaked through his white tee-shirt, and he wondered if Morales shared his discomfort.

  Herne’s stomach growled insistently, but he ignored it. Instead, he hunched over his steering wheel, staring at the Nissan so intently that his eyes watered. He’s waiting for someone, Herne thought.

  The sun, just beginning to fade in the sky, blinded him momentarily. He heard Morales start his SUV and pull away. Herne turned the key in the ignition and inched his car forward. The streets were empty. He had no idea who Morales had followed.

  If he followed anyone at all, Herne said. Perhaps he was just observing a building. Wa
tching for someone in particular.

  Herne pulled in the space Morales had vacated. From his driver’s seat he had a clear view of The Hurricane Police Station.

  Was he watching us? Herne thought. Serial killers were often fascinated by police work, and even showed up at crime scenes and press conferences.

  Morales, Herne decided, definitely deserved closer attention.

  Adrenaline pumping through his system caused him to feel alert, despite the warmth of his bedroom. Thoughts of his next patient filled his mind.

  He’d driven by Cheryl Brandt’s home earlier that day, monitoring the neighbors and checking her lifestyle. This was not his first visit to Cheryl’s street, but he thought it would be his last. He had learned everything he needed to know. She had no boyfriend. No close friends. She never received unannounced visitors.

  Cheryl lived in a small apartment in Carlisle. Unlike Hurricane, where neighbors knew each other and gossip was still spread over white picket fences, Carlisle was large enough that faces blurred in the sea of people. Some of the residents might remember or even get friendly with a neighbor or two. But most of the families were too busy to do anything other than nod at the person who lived next door. Because of this, no one thought twice about seeing a stranger’s face. It would be easy for him to blend into Cheryl’s neighborhood. He was ready. He knew what he had to do.

  But it would have to wait. Right now he needed to prepare for sleep, though he felt too anxious for slumber. The sun still blazed outside, and he could almost feel the heat of its rays pulsating through the window and baking his body. He tossed and turned in his small bed beneath a crisp, white sheet.

  Some days were like this. The light from the sun interrupted his body’s normal biorhythms. He’d been fighting his biology for years. Sleeping during the day and waking at night was the life of a third shift worker. But unlike many people, The Healer had never really adjusted to the unusual sleeping schedule.