Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  “Dammit,” she muttered. “It gets me every time.” Head down, searching for her pen, she heard Cullen sigh.

  “Emily was like that too. Jumpy.” He’d already sprung to his feet, heading for the door. Protocol required him to stand outside anytime that alarm bell sounded. Proof he was out there, harmless. Not in here, doing God knows what to her. “I promised I’d protect her, but … ” Before he closed the door behind him, Cullen snuck a look back at her, his eyes more gray than blue today. “I couldn’t.”

  ****

  “So, how’s it going, Clare?” The worst hour of the week began. Supervision with Fitzpatrick. He crossed his leg, revealing the pale, hairy skin between his sock and his pant leg. Clare smiled to disguise her disgust.

  “Fine.”

  “I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks.” She watched in horror as he extended his small hand to pat her forearm. “You can talk to me. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of it,” she offered. “I’ve never worked in this kind of place before.”

  “Prison is not for everyone. You’ve got to have solid boundaries. Rock solid.”

  She nodded, knowing her boundaries were more like Swiss cheese. Mr. Taylor guaranteed that the moment he told her thirteen-year-old self she made him hard. “I’m working on it.”

  “Are you?” His lips curled up over stained teeth. “I’m aware it’s been a problem for you in the past. During your postdoctoral fellowship.”

  Clare swallowed, then removed the burgundy scarf she’d laced around her neck that morning. Suddenly, she felt way too hot. “That was not the issue. As I explained to HR, I was sexually harassed by one of my clients. I don’t think it’s fair to criticize my boundaries when somebody else clearly violated them.”

  “Of course not, Clare. But sometimes we give people permission—unintentionally, I’m sure—to cross the line. Ted Bundy said that, you know. That he could spot his victims a mile away. They invited him.”

  Clare wished she had a gun to put a bullet in Fitzpatrick’s skull. Or maybe just in the soft, doughy flesh of his stomach. She pushed the thought away, recoiled from it—where did that come from? “Actually, I believe Bundy’s exact words were, ‘I have known people who radiate vulnerability.’ But we’re not taking advice from a serial killer, are we?”

  A deflated Fitzpatrick fiddled with his tie. “Shall we talk about your clients?”

  chapter

  seven

  liars

  Levi still hadn’t answered my question. “Clare Keely?” I reminded him as we walked side by side down Stockton toward the Embarcadero. But he told me one thing that made all the difference. If it means you’ll trust me, you can carry the gun, Texas. It was jammed uncomfortably in the elastic of my sweatpants.

  Another exasperated sigh. “She was a shrink at San Quentin back when Cullen first got there.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s all I know.”

  “I call BS, but I’ll let it slide. For now. How much further?”

  Levi stopped to look at the map on his phone. “Less than half a—” A siren cut him short. Then the blur of a police car, followed by two more just like it. “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think we should pick up the pace a little. Looks like they’re heading to the same place we are.” He tugged at the straps of his backpack, cinching them tighter.

  I didn’t answer, just started jogging, and Levi matched my pace. Fast. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was running from something. My mother. Skinny. Ginny’s lifeless face in my dream. “Damn. You are an athlete,” Levi huffed, in between breaths.

  We both slammed the brakes when we saw it. At least five police cars, arranged helter-skelter on the Embarcadero.

  “Give me the gun,” Levi whispered. There wasn’t time to protest. Besides, the way my day was going, I’d end up in a jail cell, booked on a weapons charge. “And let me do the talking.” I rolled my eyes hard at him. Typical boy. He didn’t realize the talking meant nothing. I zeroed in on the first car. It was the listening that mattered.

  “208, do you copy?”

  “This is 208.”

  “Additional reports of a 415-2 in progress at Pier 39 Embarcadero.”

  “10-4. We’re on scene now.”

  I started typing 415 police code into Google, when Levi interrupted. “It’s a disturbance call.”

  “How do you know?” Levi raised his eyebrows at me, as if the answer was obvious.

  “I just do, okay?”

  “That’s a lot of police cars for a disturbance.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  A few officers milled near the entrance to the Hard Rock Cafe, talking. I walked in their direction, pretending to study the statue of a crab at the center of the sidewalk. But Levi yanked me back, pulling me onto a bench facing the doors.

  “Hey,” I said, a little too loudly.

  “Don’t make a scene.” His voice was low but insistent. A growl.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Then stop acting so suspicious,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “It’s after 3 in the morning. We’re suspicious by default.”

  “Fine, but you’re making it—”

  “Shh.” I hushed Levi and put my head against his shoulder. Unbelievable. Even after roughing up Skinny and running half a mile, he still smelled good. Like leather and soap. “Just pretend we’re taking a moonlit stroll.” He groaned but didn’t move away. The rise and fall of his chest soothed me like the push and pull of the beach tide.

  None of the officers noticed us. Yet. But I could only make out a few words.

  “ … anything?”

  “Nothing … where did … him?”

  The officer pointed down the pier, toward the storefronts concealed in darkness. “You really think … Cullen … ?”

  I stabbed Levi with my elbow. “Did you hear that? They said Cullen—Cullen! As in Cut—”

  Levi’s mouth felt warm and wet. And it was on mine. Why is Levi kissing me? For a heartbeat, that was all I could think. Like there was a short circuit in my brain. Then I noticed the way his stubble tickled my lips. How he tasted like butterscotch. Even when I realized the why, I didn’t want him to stop. But he did.

  “Excuse me, sir. Miss?” A flashlight spotlighted the space between our faces. The officer at the other end nodded. “Evening—or should I say, morning? I’m Officer Whitlock, SFPD.”

  “Can we help you with something?” I didn’t sound as believable as I hoped. Luckily, Levi saved me.

  “Is it morning already? I guess time flies when you’re uh … ” He cocked his head toward me, exchanging a conspiratorial grin with Officer Whitlock.

  “Fooling around?” Whitlock offered.

  “Something like that.” Levi chuckled, but the officer didn’t laugh. That boys’ club smirk had morphed into a hard line.

  “Well, son, did you happen to notice you were in the middle of an active police investigation?”

  “No?”

  “Is that a question?”

  I stood up, dragging Levi by the arm. “I think what he means is we were just leaving.”

  “Not so fast.” Officer Whitlock whipped out a small notebook, gesturing for us to sit. “I’ve got a few questions for you lovebirds. You don’t mind, do you?” As if we could answer honestly. “Could I get your names?”

  Levi remained mute, leaving me no choice. “Samantha Bronwyn. B-R-O-N-W-Y-N.”

  “And what about you, Romeo?”

  I nudged Levi. “Flynn. Flynn Ryder. R-Y-D-E-R.” Thank God Officer Whitlock glared at me. That glare held me together, my laughter trapped safely inside. I knew Flynn Ryder. Tangled was the last Disney movie I’d seen before I declared myself too old to crush on a
cartoon hero. Lying made Levi stupid or brave. I couldn’t decide which.

  “What brings you to Pier 39?”

  “We were looking for my—” Levi squeezed my hand, and I stopped talking.

  “For the sea lions,” he finished for me.

  “Hmm. I see.” Officer Whitlock may as well have extended his finger and screamed, Liars! “And where are you staying?”

  Levi and I spoke simultaneously. “The Westin St. Francis.”

  “A youth hostel downtown.”

  “Well, which is it?” Liars!

  “We’re staying separately,” Levi said. “We just met last night. Did something happen out here?”

  Officer Whitlock closed his notebook, apparently satisfied with our fabrications. “A passerby reported a girl screaming. Hear anything like that?” We both shook our heads. “Have you two seen this man?” He unfolded a piece of paper and held it up for us. For the second time that night, I was face-to-face with the two-dimensional likeness of Clive “Cutthroat” Cullen.

  Levi took the paper in his hand, and for a moment, I wasn’t certain what he would say. “I wish we had, Officer. I wish we had.”

  chapter

  eight

  found

  Well, that was interesting,” I said, following Levi toward K-Dock, home of the sea lions. Some small part of me—miniscule as it was—still expected Ginny to be there, leaning against the wooden rail, the wind blowing her hair back.

  “About that kiss,” he mumbled. “That cop heard you. He was coming over, and I just—”

  “Couldn’t resist a Texas girl?” I laughed at my own joke and watched his cheeks pink just a little. Let him think that kiss—my sixth in total, eight if you counted truth or dare—was something to apologize for. Now I knew why Ginny had told me to stop at five. Save the next one for college, for a real man, she’d said. “Seriously, though. You’re such a guy. I can’t even believe that is what’s on your mind right now.”

  Levi smirked. “As opposed to?”

  “For starters, I didn’t realize you were a Disney fan, Flynn. What were you, like eighteen, when that movie came out?”

  “I was sixteen. But my sister was younger. She watched it every day for a month. That and Aladdin. I guess she had a thing for thieves with a heart of gold.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To visit your sister? And why did you lie about your name?”

  Levi didn’t like those questions. His expression stayed flat, but his jaw clenched. “My sister is in jail.”

  “Oh.” Why? The obvious question, but I picked my spots. “That sucks.”

  “And my name is on a need-to-know basis.”

  “So Ginny needed to know? Is Levi Beckett even your actual name?”

  Without answering, Levi pointed out toward the water. It was so dark I couldn’t see where the sky ended and the ocean began. “Sea lions.”

  I nodded. Their fat, slippery bodies formed a huddled mass, barely visible on the floating dock, but the barking gave them away. “Did you know they can live up to twenty-five years in the wild? It was in Ginny’s guidebook.”

  “I’m sorry she’s not here.” He sounded sincere, but unsurprised.

  “Do you think that was her screaming?”

  He shook his head no. “Most people are unreliable witnesses. It was probably some drunk idiot running amok.”

  “The passerby or the screamer?”

  He chuckled. “Both, most likely. I have an idea. Can I see your phone?” I fished it out of my pocket and handed it to him. He opened my texts and dialed the unfamiliar number. Frat-boy Marco. Whoever he was. “Let’s just see if we hear it ringing.”

  I thought of Ginny’s phone buzzing in the bathroom stall, those flies buzzing in my dream, and I shivered. “You really need a jacket, Sam.”

  “I’m not cold.” Marco didn’t answer. And the phone didn’t ring. Only the water whispered, telling me something I didn’t want to hear.

  “What’s that?” Levi walked toward the bench at the far end of the dock. It faced out toward Alcatraz. Another spot Ginny marked with a double heart. A must-see. “Isn’t this yours?”

  And just like that, my letterman jacket—BRONWYN, STATE CHAMPIONSHIP BASKETBALL 2016—was found.

  ****

  I sat on the bench—numb—staring out at Alcatraz’s flashing beacon with my jacket folded next to me, just the way we discovered it. “Do you think anyone has actually escaped from there?”

  “Doubtful,” Levi answered from behind me. He was pacing. “But the Anglin brothers and Frank Morris … their bodies were never found, so I guess we can’t say for sure.”

  “You know a lot about San Francisco.”

  “I used to live here. When I was a kid.”

  “Before the farm?”

  He nodded. “A lifetime before.”

  “We have to tell the police,” I said, for at least the third time in the last five minutes. “Something bad happened to Ginny.”

  When the silence stretched between us, long as the night itself, I reached for the jacket. “I’m going to find Officer Whitlock. To tell him everything.” I’d never heard such a scornful laugh. “I’m glad this is so funny to you, Levi. Or whatever the heck your name is.”

  “It’s not funny. It’s the complete opposite of funny. But that guy Whitlock is a complete buffoon. He has no idea who he’s dealing with. He can’t help you.”

  My shock-frozen heart cracked, and I felt the thaw coming again. “Then who can?” Inside my pocket, my phone beeped. I knew better than to hope. All I felt was dread. Brushing a tear from my cheek, I forced myself to look. “It’s Marco again.” I read the text aloud.

  There are worse things than murder. Do you believe me now, Clare?

  “Clare?” Levi repeated. “It says Clare again?”

  Jacket in hand, I walked away from Levi. “This sicko has Ginny. And I … I can’t just do nothing.”

  “Sam, wait.” I heard him running to catch up to me. “I’m a cop.”

  chapter

  nine

  volume b

  I stood under the shower, letting the water—as hot as I could stand it—pound my head until I felt clean. Skinny, Levi, Officer Whitlock, Cullen, Marco, all of them circled the drain and went under. Then I slowly adjusted the temperature. Cool. Cold. Icy. My favorite post-game ritual. The best way to soothe sore muscles. But tonight, it just made me feel human again.

  There are worse things than murder. On the taxi ride back to the hotel, I’d wondered aloud what it meant. What could be worse than ending a life? “You’ll have to ask Clare,” Levi quipped, when I’d asked him. My frustrated sigh had forced a second answer. “It’s easy to say there are worse things when you’re the one doing the ending.”

  I wrapped myself in a plush Westin St. Francis bath towel and faced the steamed mirror. A swipe of my hand, and there I was. Samantha Bronwyn. This time, I studied my face. Catalogued my parts. Long, honey-colored hair. Wet. I ran my comb through it, letting the drops waterfall down my chest. Eyes so blue my mother said the sky lived inside of me. Freckles on either side of my nose that darkened in the summer like cinnamon sprinkles. Yep, me alright. I felt so changed, I expected a stranger. Maybe it was the gun on the counter—another peace offering from Levi. For a cop, he’d been quick to surrender his service weapon.

  I slipped on jeans and a tank top and sat on the edge of the tub. All I could think of was my mother. By my calculations, she’d be arriving in about four hours on the first plane from AUS to SFO. But I was stuck on something else. How annoyed I’d get every time she sent me searching through her ancient set of encyclopedias, when we had the whole world at our fingertips. Why do cows have so many stomachs? Where do rainbows come from? How do fireflies glow? Now I understood the reason she’d made me dig through those relics. When the information you needed could chang
e everything, uproot the entire life you carefully planted, you didn’t want it to come with the push of a button. You wanted to have to work for it.

  I typed Clare Keely, psychologist into the search bar. There wasn’t much, just a letter dated January 17, 1997, and addressed to the California Board of Psychology.

  Dear Members of the Board:

  Please be advised I have decided to permanently surrender my license to practice psychology in the state of California. This decision has been prompted by the investigation of my license by the Board. By virtue of this letter, I understand that I may not render psychological services to any individual in any capacity in California. I agree that I may not rescind this letter, and the effect of this letter is permanent …

  So Levi told the truth. Clare Keely was a psychologist—but obviously not my mother. My mom never even cracked a self-help book. And she’d scoff with unbridled enthusiasm any time Dr. Phil came on.

  There was one more name that demanded searching. I wish I could’ve opened volume B for Beckett and leafed through the pristine pages until I found what needed finding. Instead, I typed.

  ****

  As quiet as a mouse, I opened the door and padded out into the bedroom. The television chattered at a low volume. Levi lay on the bed, on top of the covers, remote in hand, fast asleep. He’d changed clothes since I’d been in the bathroom. His jeans were folded over the top of the desk chair, his boots side by side beneath it. Something about his hair mussed to one side and his feet in white ankle socks made him seem a lot less mysterious. Boyish, even. On his right shin, two bruises. My handiwork. A little further up, a sliver of olive skin between his T-shirt and his shorts. Pathetic, Sam. You’re turning into Ginny.

  “Levi?” Last chance to stop me. His lack of response indicated tacit agreement.

  In the light of the early morning, his backpack looked different too. Ordinary. Just like the ones slung over the shoulders of most of Bellwether High. I opened it.

  Zip ties.

  Four T-shirts, size XL. Two with the APD logo. Austin Police Department, just like he told me.