This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PHOBIA
All rights reserved.
Published by Firestorm Editions
Copyright © 2012 by C.A. Shives.
Cover art by Indie Designz
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
First Printing: May, 2012
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition: May, 2012
To the Love of my Life
CHAPTER ONE
Cleaning toilet scum and smutty ashtrays was not Camilla Diaz’s lifelong dream. But after marrying a deadbeat husband and raising two children—one dealing crack while the other whored herself for twenty bucks—Camilla spent her days elbow deep in other people’s shit.
It’s an honest living, she thought as her thick, soft-soled orthopedic shoes padded silently on the oak stairs. Honest, but disgusting.
Not a single strand of hair escaped from the tight knot on her head as she carried the tools of her trade: old rags, Clorox bleach, lemon-scented furniture polish, and scrub brushes with long plastic handles and thick bristles. Camilla’s knees, encased in support pantyhose designed to minimize varicose veins, cracked as she climbed the staircase. She knew the house was empty. On Saturday mornings Amanda kept a standing appointment with her hair stylist, no matter how bad the hangover.
Amanda was one of Camilla’s regular customers. On the first Friday night of every month, the young attorney held a party, known among the local residents as “Amanda’s Monthly.” Hurricane, Pennsylvania, boasted a population of less than four thousand, not counting cattle and horses, and Amanda’s parties fed the gossip of the town. Bingo at the Grange Hall and karaoke at Harold’s Tavern were the only other competing social events.
Those lucky enough to be invited to Amanda’s small but extravagant parties—usually local business owners, politicians, and others who counted themselves among Hurricane’s social elite—were treated to imported caviar and smoked salmon canapés, Cuban cigars, and 2000 Chateau Margaux Pavillon Rouge. Despite the upscale appearance, Camilla disliked cleaning Amanda’s house. It left her feeling dirty, as if she’d bathed in polluted pond water.
When Camilla reached the first floor, she heard a faint sound. She paused and stood motionless, straining to hear the noise. The rattle, like that of a baby toy, continued for just a moment before the house was again filled with silence.
Camilla shrugged. Perhaps the air-conditioning needs repaired, she thought. As she pushed open the master bedroom door, Camilla noticed movement on the bed. She first thought she’d interrupted a romantic moment between Amanda and a man. The bundle on the king-size poster bed moved with the sensual rhythm of lovers entwined. Before she turned her head away, Camilla glimpsed bare skin. Embarrassed, she started to leave the room, until she saw a snake curled on the mahogany vanity table.
It watched her with glittering eyes. The snake lifted its tail, sending vibrations through the air. Camilla heard the noise of the rattles, a low-pitched sound that hummed with the rhythm of a tribal band in the midst of a ritual dance. Rattlesnakes. The same rattling noise she’d heard earlier while climbing the stairs.
She suddenly noticed that the room seemed filled with snakes. They crawled in and out of drawers, coiled around the bedposts, slithered behind the curtains. Camilla looked at Amanda again, ready to call out a warning. With a clarity aroused by panic, she realized that Amanda was alone and unmoving on the bed. The socialite’s body was curled in the fetal position, and her red satin nightgown twisted around her waist, exposing her smooth white buttocks. Wispy strands of blond hair fell across her open, unseeing eyes, and the agony of her last moments had contorted her face from beautiful to disfigured. Gray duct tape bound her hands and bare feet.
Two large snakes wrapped themselves around Amanda’s body. One slid between her legs, twisting itself across her thigh and knee. The other slipped its head into Amanda’s open mouth.
Self-preservation was strong in Camilla. She didn’t bother to scream. She simply turned and ran.
Depending on the cook behind the counter and the waitress who took his order, Artemis Herne never knew if his eggs would be delivered cold, runny, or rubbery. But one thing was always certain at Shady Hill Diner: the home fries were leftover potatoes from the previous night, whether they’d been baked, boiled, mashed, or au gratin. Despite this oddity, the diner did brisk breakfast business. Small towns like Hurricane didn’t have a lot of options. The other homestyle restaurant was Ed’s Place, where the only patrons were Ed’s family and travelers who didn’t know better. Woo’s Chinese Garden, Sal’s Pizza, and The Sandwich Station opened at lunchtime. These facts made Shady Hill Diner the best place for a morning meal, even if the eggs were sometimes so undercooked that regular customers had dubbed them “salmonella scramble.”
Like many small town restaurants, the diner had its own unique décor. Green vinyl covered the seats and chairs, the occasional small tear repaired with a piece of duct tape. The top of the tables were scarred by slips of the knife and fork. Even the tile floor’s spidery cracks and missing chips seemed to enhance the atmosphere rather than diminish it.
Three customers sat at the counter. A man dressed in a white button-up shirt methodically cut his chocolate chip pancakes into bite-size pieces, poured syrup over his plate, and then stabbed the morsels with his fork as he read the newspaper. The other two wore faded blue jeans and muddy work boots, and they wiped sweat and dirt from their brow with thin paper napkins as they shoveled buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy into their mouths.
To Herne, Shady Hill Diner felt shabby and worn compared to the small bistro his parents had owned during his childhood in Philadelphia. The scent of greasy bacon overwhelmed Herne’s olfactory senses, unlike the delicate aroma of prosciutto that was served with Eggs Benedict at the bistro. But despite its meagerness, the diner gave one thing to Herne that his parents’ restaurant had never been able to provide: a slice of homemade peanut butter pie.
He gulped the last of his hot coffee and signaled the blonde waitress, Sherry, for a refill. The tinkle of the bell above the door announced a new customer, but he didn’t look up from his cup. A few years ago, when his instincts had been sharper and his life had been more valuable to him, he might have bothered to assess the newcomer. But not now.
The tall, lean man walked through the restaurant, drawing nods and smiles from the other patrons. Chief of Police Rex Tucker slid into the seat across from Herne, resting his lanky arms on the table and nodding to Sherry when she held up the coffee pot.
Tucker inspected Herne’s plate, poking a finger at the remains of his cold home fries: a few round slices of potato tainted orange with leftover cheese. “Au gratin?” he asked.
Herne grunted.
“Jesus, I see you’re in a great mood,” Tucker said.
Sherry brought Tucker’s coffee, slipping it onto the table with the slick moves of a seasoned waitress. Her short, black apron stretched across the extra weight in her middle, telling tales of too many slices of Shady Hill’s homemade pie. She refilled Herne’s cup and tipped him a wink, letting her gaze linger on his broad shoulders and bald head. He’d started shaving his scalp in his youth after learning the hazards of long hair during a fight with two gang boys, and then, when he started to bald in his thirties, he decided to keep the look. As Sherry strutted back to the kitchen, her generous hips undu
lated beneath her tight black skirt, as if waving an invitation.
“Never did understand what women find so appealing about you,” Tucker grumbled.
Herne shrugged. “Must be my rugged good looks.”
Tucker snorted. Herne knew his crooked nose—broken more than once—and thick neck were far from the classic masculine profile most women admired. He suspected he attracted women because he was unavailable to them. Everyone always wants what they can’t have, he thought.
The two men drank their coffee in companionable silence. Tucker drummed his fingers on the scarred table, so Herne knew his friend had something on his mind.
“We don’t get many murders in Hurricane, you know,” Tucker began.
Herne nodded. After his parents died during his first year at The University of Pennsylvania, Tucker, his roommate, invited Herne to his hometown of Hurricane that first summer. The relaxed pace of the town—slower and quieter than the speed of the city—appealed to Herne. And when the time came to look for a place to settle down after leaving the Philadelphia police force, he drove to Hurricane and never left.
He’d been a resident of the town for only a few short months, but Herne still knew that most of the deaths in Hurricane were either the natural kind or an accident. Sometimes, every once in a while, domestic violence turned deadly or a drunk driver killed an innocent victim. Hurricane was not a place career criminals called home.
“A cleaning lady found a body today. Murder. And it’s damn ugly,” Tucker said, his angled jaw clenched so tightly that the tendons popped on his thin neck.
Murder. The word thumped in Herne’s ears like the beat of a bass drum, matching the quickening thud of his heart. Realizing he was holding his breath, he exhaled slowly, burying his emotions beneath his clenching stomach. He forced himself to shake his head. No matter how strong the pull of police work, it was a road he promised himself he’d never travel again.
“Just listen,” Tucker said. “The victim is Amanda Todd, a Hurricane resident. She worked as an attorney in Carlisle. She’s done a few high-profile cases. At least, as high-profile as they get in Carlisle. Remember the teacher who pulled out his cock and waved it at a student? She defended him.”
Herne said nothing, his gray eyes cold and hard as he met Tucker’s earnest gaze.
“She also happens to be our mayor’s niece,” Tucker continued. “So good ol’ Mayor Harvey is really laying on the pressure. He’s even made a few threats. Nothing violent, of course. That fat bastard doesn’t have the balls to approach me like a man. Instead, he says he’ll use his power and money to drag my name through the mud if I don’t find her killer.”
“And you’re worried about that? I doubt a little mudslinging from the mayor will damage your popularity,” Herne said.
Tucker lowered his voice. “It’s not just that,” he confessed. “The folks in this town rely on me to keep them secure. They want to go to bed at night without locking their doors. They want to think it’s safe to leave their kids in the fucking car while they run into the store. They all live in this little protected bubble, and this crime is going to bust it all to hell. If I don’t do something about it—if I don’t catch the killer soon—I’ll have widespread panic on my hands. And no one will ever feel safe again. No one in this town will ever fucking trust me again. And trust is important between a police chief and his town, Art.”
Herne shook his head. Underneath the table he gripped his thighs with his thick fingers, trying to maintain control. “You don’t need me, Rex,” he said. “You can handle this on your own.”
“I’ve handled homicides before,” Tucker said. “We had a case a few years ago when a guy took out a big insurance policy on his wife and then drowned her in Marsh Lake. But I’ve never seen shit like this, and I know you solved some fucked up stuff in Philadelphia.”
“When I left, I had plenty of open cases on my desk.”
“I’ve got me, one lieutenant, two officers, and a dispatcher who took the job so she’d be the first to know the local gossip. You’re the most experienced person in this town.”
“I can’t do it, Rex.”
“It won’t be anything official. We could hire you as a consultant. I know you could use the extra cash.”
“No. Never.” Herne slid out of the booth and stood up, clenching his muscles so Tucker wouldn’t see his quiver of excitement. He needed to leave. Needed to be alone to slow the beat of his heart and the pulse of his emotions. He turned toward the door.
Tucker exhaled softly. “I’m calling it in, Art.”
Herne stopped and faced his friend. “What?”
“The favor. I’m calling it in.”
They stared at each other as memories flooded Herne’s mind like a scattering of photographs faded by sunlight. On summer break their freshmen year of college, they shared a bottle of illicit whiskey in Tucker’s basement. Best buddies having a little fun on a typical Saturday night. Walking a street in Hurricane, on their way to meet Tucker’s girlfriend—who would later become his wife—they saw the unmistakable glow of flames a few blocks away. The old brick bakery was on fire. They ran to it, knowing that the building was really a shelter for battered women. Once there they found a thin, long-haired man in the parking lot, holding a lit Molotov cocktail while screaming the name of his wife. Two more unlit homemade frags sat on the asphalt.
When the man saw them, he threw the bomb against the building and charged at Herne.
Herne pounded at the man’s face until his fist pulverized bone into tiny shards. Through a red haze of fury, Herne only saw the face of his sister—his sweet, young sister—beaten to death in her teenage years by a jealous boyfriend.
Tucker pulled him away into the night as sirens sounded in the distance. The man spent years in reconstructive surgery, and he never looked anything less than a monster. The brain damage he suffered made it impossible for him to identify his attackers.
It nagged at Tucker’s conscience and he had wanted to confess. But Herne knew that his uncontrolled attack would destroy a future career in law enforcement. He remained silent and Tucker kept his secret.
And now, in Shady Hill Diner twenty years later, Tucker was finally calling in that favor.
Herne returned to his seat. He knew Tucker suffered from more than one sleepless night because of their secret. He met his friend’s eyes and nodded.
Tucker slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is Amanda Todd’s address. She was found by the cleaning woman in her bed this morning.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Herne said.
Tucker hesitated, and for one brief moment Herne thought his friend might change his mind. Might let him off the hook. Please, God, Herne thought, please let this pass by me.
But Tucker just nodded and walked out the door.
Herne continued to stare at his coffee cup, not noticing when Sherry dropped the check on his table. Like the man on his deathbed who sees his life flash before his eyes, Herne’s mind tumbled through the homicides he’d investigated in Philadelphia. A drug deal that went sour. Two toddler girls found naked in a dumpster. A battered woman whose husband hit her one too many times. Bar fights, gang hits, and hookers who chose the wrong john. He’d fallen into each case like Alice down the rabbit hole, immersing himself in the dark world of violence and hopelessness, a world that meant drinking from the bottle and eating the tiny cakes—and almost losing himself in the process. His wife, Maggie, was the only person who could pull him out of the chasm.
Maggie was gone now. There was no one to be his anchor in the swirl of poisonous fear that enveloped a murder case. No one to rescue him from the hole.
It had been three years since he’d investigated a homicide. Three years since he’d even seen a murder, although part of him knew that he might have seen dead bodies during that first year after Maggie’s death, when booze and drugs and darkness consumed him. Those days, his time was split between seedy bars, dark alleys, and cheap hotel rooms. He might have seen a body th
at year. But in his haze of misery, he’d been able to ignore it.
Herne’s hands shook as he pulled out his wallet and counted money. Four bucks for breakfast, plus another two for a tip. Maggie had worked as a waitress during college, and she always insisted on generous tips. It was a habit he continued even after she was gone.
His feet felt heavy as he walked to his truck, knowing that it wasn’t Amanda Todd’s murder—or his promise to help—that weighed on his soul. Part of him wanted to investigate the case. Wanted to lose himself in the magnetic pull of an unsolved murder, where the death and blood and tragedy would be frightening enough to temporarily overshadow his own fears.
CHAPTER TWO
Herne stood in the doorway of Amanda Todd’s bedroom and breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and the musky odor of fingerprint dust mingled with sweat. He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the Animal Control officer whose thick fingers held a stick with pinchers, like a giant set of tongs. He and his partner—a red haired woman in the same uniform—eased behind a rattlesnake, intent on its capture.
Instead of watching the scene, Herne simply stood with his eyes closed, trying to devour the fear in the room. Years ago, when he hunted down his sister’s murderer, Herne absorbed all the pain and terror that belonged to her when her boyfriend ended her life with the weight of his fists.
Feeling the victim’s agony was his only method of catching a killer.
His nostrils flared as he breathed, trying to reach into himself for the emotions that must have flowed through Amanda during her last moments of life. But the noise and clatter in the room made it impossible to concentrate.
Herne opened his eyes and watched as the Animal Control officer snagged the snake’s neck. The reptile’s tail whipped through the air as the burly man dropped it into the plastic cage held by his female partner.
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