Phobia KDP (33 page)

Herne checked his watch. It was Friday evening. Six o’clock. In less than twenty-four hours another victim of The Healer would die. Herne felt the pressure of time weighing on his back like a yoke on an ox. He inhaled deeply. Even his lungs felt crushed by anxiety and impatience.

Tucker and Saxon were in Lochhead’s office watching the contracted tech team sweep for listening devices. Herne had stepped outside the building, hoping a cigarette would alleviate his angst. He leaned against the brick wall with a nonchalance that belied the twisting of his gut. The smoke from his cigarette seemed to hang like a cloud over his head, suspended in the summer air that was thick with heat and humidity.

He knew the tech team would find the camera he installed. Everyone would believe the camera belonged to The Healer. And, if they ever found The Healer, Herne might be able to produce evidence to confirm this suspicion.

In the past, when necessary, Herne had been able to produce all sorts of evidence.

People walked the streets, although fewer than might have been seen earlier that day, when the offices and small stores were still open. By this time, especially on a Friday, most people had hurried home. Some were settling in on their sofas, a box of take-out pizza on their coffee table. Others were dressing and primping for a night on the town, perhaps at a Carlisle restaurant or bar. Downtown Hurricane was not a weekend hotspot.

Beside Herne stood Travis Ginch, a lit cigarette between the handyman’s lips. He nodded to Herne, still reticent, but more relaxed than before. The handyman had lowered his guard just a bit. Enough for Herne to feel the difference between them.

It’s the cigarettes
, Herne thought.
Like smoking a peace pipe together.
The shared habit united them in a way that conversation could not. They bonded over their socially stigmatizing addiction, metaphorically thumbing their noses together at self-righteous non-smokers while inhaling deeply on their coffin nails. They knew that their kind was becoming extinct and their numbers were dwindling. They were quickly becoming the last of their species, dinosaurs of self-destruction. The knowledge created an instant camaraderie.

The techs started to leave the building, passing by Herne as they carried their equipment. Herne stopped the one in charge.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“Yep,” the tech guy said. He showed Herne a small camera. It was the one Herne had planted in Lochhead’s office himself. The one that had yielded no results. “We found this camera.”

“Any listening devices? Anything that would allow someone to overhear the conversations in that office?”

The tech guy shook his head. “Nope. No bugs. No tape recorders. No listening devices. Except for that video camera, the place was clean.”

Herne nodded and turned away, taking one last drag from his cigarette before smashing it beneath his boot. It was time to rejoin Tucker and Saxon inside the building.

As Herne started toward the door, Ginch spoke. “I heard the commotion earlier. All these men. Thought I’d come up and check it out.”

Herne turned to face Ginch, but said nothing.

“They say this killer targets people who were patients of the therapist in this building,” Ginch continued. “Peter Lochhead.”

Herne nodded. “That’s what we think.”

“Those guys were in here looking for bugs in the shrink’s office?”

Herne saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. We think The Healer might somehow be listening in on Lochhead’s sessions with his patients.”

Ginch spat on the ground. Herne waited. Finally, after another moment passed, Ginch said, “Well, there’s a way to hear everything that happens in that office. And you don’t need a fancy listening device to do it.”

Herne’s toes tingled with a surge of excitement. He swallowed hard. “How?”

“The broom closet. The one down the hall. There’s a vent inside and you can hear everything in the next room as clear as day.”

As he opened the closet door, Herne knew that someone had been making themselves comfortable amidst the brooms and cleansers. An industrial mop and bucket had been shoved to the side, and two paper napkins littered the corner of the closet. A small space had been cleared, just large enough for a man to stand and sit without worrying about bumping a bottle of Ajax. Herne didn’t even have to turn his shoulders to avoid the tall broom handle that leaned against the wall. There was plenty of room for him to pass.

A single bulb, worked by a long chain, hung from the ceiling of the closet. Herne pulled the chain and the room was bathed in bright light. The bulb was an unusually strong wattage for a closet fixture.

Tucker and Saxon sat in Lochhead’s office. Herne hadn’t told them about the closet. He wanted to see if he could overhear their conversation, and he feared that telling them about this experiment would cause them to talk softer or louder than normal. So he just stood there in secret, waiting to hear their voices as the institutional scent of disinfectant assaulted his nose. As he waited, breathing softly, he realized that every word they spoke was audible.

“Stop. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Saxon’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but Herne heard each syllable. By some strange trick of acoustics he could even hear the rustle of her pants and the creak of Tucker’s holster when they moved.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Tucker asked.

“No,” Saxon said. “We’re just going to forget about it.”

“I can’t forget it,” Tucker said.

Herne didn’t want to hear more. He had all the answers he needed. Anyone hiding in the closet at the right time would have known the intimate details of Lochhead’s patient sessions.

“Dammit,” Herne hissed. How many times had he passed this closet? Ten? Twenty? And he never thought once about investigating it.

Herne walked into Lochhead’s office. He saw the frown on Saxon’s face and the guilt in Tucker’s eyes when he entered the room.

“The Healer’s been sitting in the closet next door, listening to every word that’s said in this room.”

“Fuck,” Tucker said, jumping up from his chair. He nodded to Saxon. “Start talking to yourself,” he said.

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “And what exactly am I supposed to say?” she asked.

“Just recite a fucking poem or something.” He followed Herne out into the hall.

They entered the closet together. Inside, with the door shut, they heard Saxon’s voice through the vent as she recited, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…”

Tucker shook his head. “Fuck. We’re going to need to tell Frey about this.”

“He’ll dust it for prints,” Herne said. “Maybe he’ll find something.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” Tucker said, glancing sideways at Herne. “If The Healer’s been sitting in here all this time, why would he put a video camera in Lochhead’s office?”

Herne stood motionless. His mind whirled with a thousand excuses. But he couldn’t bring himself to utter the false words.

Tucker turned away. “Maybe The Healer wanted to hear
and
see his victims. How else would he find out what his victims looked like, right?”

“Right,” Herne said. He heard the lie in his voice.

And he was certain that Tucker heard it, too.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It was past dinnertime, and Herne’s stomach gnawed with hunger. But the computer blinked at him, reminding him that there was footage of Lochhead’s office to watch.

The camera had been removed by the tech team, so only a few hours of recorded video would be stored in the computer’s memory. Herne knew the killer hadn’t slipped into Lochhead’s office and stolen his patient files. He knew the killer had been sitting in a closet and eavesdropping on therapy sessions. There seemed to be no reason to watch the last of the video.

But the blinking computer taunted him and Herne hated unfinished business. Hated loose ends. So he hit the “Play” button and let the video roll as he poured himself a drink.

He glanced at the screen occasionally as he sipped his whiskey and lit a cigarette. His stomach clenched again, demanding food. He wandered to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The shelves were empty except for a carton of eggs, a pat of butter, and a block of cheddar cheese with two small patches of mold.

As he heated the butter on the stove, Herne cut away the mold and sliced the cheese. He cracked three eggs into a mug with “The Grand Canyon” printed on its side, added some water, and whipped them into a froth. The melting butter started to brown, its aroma filling the room with sweetness.

A few minutes later he slipped his scrambled eggs and cheese from the pan and onto a plate. Balancing the plate and a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand, he slid into his desk chair just in time to see a fleeting movement on the video of Lochhead’s office.

He dropped his plate on the table with a clatter and paused the video. The office looked empty. But he was almost certain he had seen a quick flash on the computer monitor.

He rewound the video, seeing the blurred shadow of a figure as it moved around the office. The shadow danced across the room, unrecognizable at a high speed.

Herne stopped rewinding and began to play the video again.

The man in the video moved quickly, as if he were familiar with the room. Herne recognized him. It was Robert Morales.

Morales walked to the file cabinet and pulled a little black leather case from his pocket.

Lock picks
, Herne thought.

For the first time in weeks, Herne’s grin was genuine.

Soft strains of jazz music came from the office of Robert Morales. Herne stood outside the private investigator’s office—his nose just a few inches from the door—staring at the wood grain. Inside was the man who entered Lochhead’s office. The man who had rifled through Lochhead’s files. The man who had followed Saxon home.

Herne hadn’t gone to Tucker. Not yet. He first had to find out the truth for himself.

He didn’t bother to knock. He simply opened the door and entered, passing quickly through the waiting room.

Robert Morales looked up when Herne walked into his office. He held a ham and cheese sandwich in his hands, and a slice of tomato slid out of it and landed on the folding table with a soft plop. A slideshow of expressions crossed Morales’ face. Curiosity. Recognition. Fear.

Herne was gratified to see the fear.

Morales sat straight in a cheap folding chair. “Can I help you?” he said. A bite of sandwich filled his mouth and his words were muffled.

“Do you remember me?” Herne asked.

Morales nodded. He swallowed his food with an audible gulp. “Yes.”

“Do you have anything to tell me?”

Morales paused. “No.”

“Wrong answer,” Herne snarled. “I know you’ve been in Peter Lochhead’s office. I know you’ve seen his files.”

“I… I…”

Herne slammed his fist against the desk and leaned in close to Morales. He smelled onion and mayonnaise on the man’s breath.

And fear. He smelled the fear, too.

“How many people have you killed?” Herne asked. “How many people do you plan to kill?”

“No one!” Morales said. “I swear. I didn’t kill anyone.”

Herne changed tactics. “Why are you following cops?”

“What?” Morales’ eyes darted back and forth as if looking for escape.

“I saw you,” Herne growled. “You were following Lieutenant Saxon. You followed her home.”

“I… I…”

“How many people have you killed?” Herne shouted. “Who’s next on your list?”

“No one.” Morales pleaded with his eyes. “I swear. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were watching Amanda Todd. You watched her and you killed her.”

“Yes. No. I didn’t kill her.”

Herne stopped abruptly, towering over Morales. He couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face. This was the first morsel of satisfaction he’d felt during this case. Morales squirmed like a rat in a trap.

In Herne’s trap.

Herne noticed the private investigator’s fast and hard breathing. Morales’ eyes bulged wide. He held his hands up as if to ward off evil.

He’s scared of me,
Herne thought. He grinned again.