The Vampire Shrink (39 page)

Well, almost nothing. With help from the police, I made it out of my house and into my office later that morning. As soon as I stepped off the elevator, I knew something was wrong. Not only did my intuitive radar system send up a warning, but my regular senses shifted into overdrive. I'd learned from recent and past experience not to ignore those kinds of signals.

I walked slowly along the short hallway between the elevators and my waiting room, steeling myself for what I'd find. That usually closed door was now open, and a horrendous stench wafted from my inner office.

I set my purse and briefcase against the wall opposite the entryway, gingerly pushed the waiting-room door open with one finger, and discovered that the main door was not only open; it was off its hinges, lying on the floor in front of my desk.

All the chairs and tables in the waiting area had been overturned, some of them broken, and everything was coated with a dark reddish-brown substance. On the wall someone had scrawled, in childish print in that same horrible color, “i will not suffer a witch to live” and “you will be washed in the blood.”

As bad as that was, my intuition told me it was only the prelude to the main concerto.

Holding my breath, I picked my way through the debris to the doorway of my office and surveyed the scene.

Compared to the condition of this larger room, the mess in the waiting area had been child's play. Perhaps that wasn't an inaccurate diagnosis of the perpetrator's developmental level.

I shuddered out the breath I'd been holding.

Someone had taken a knife—clearly a honking, huge knife—to all the couches and chairs, slashing wide gashes through every cushion. Then, just to make sure the destruction was complete, the furniture had been tumbled over and liberally daubed with more of that reddish-brown stain.

All the files in my locked file cabinet had been shredded and strewn around the room. Some appeared to have been partially burned, which explained one small portion of the odor, and the metal file cabinet itself was oddly twisted, as if supernaturally strong hands had pulled it apart. The drawers in my desk were open, and they, along with the top of the desk and my computer, were saturated with what could only be sticky-looking pools of congealed blood. The stunted artist hadn't spared the walls in this room either. Scrawled across all four were various obscenities, threats, and a few phrases I vaguely registered as coming from religious sources.

Actually, I recognized everything that was written on the walls because I'd heard it all before. Brother Luther had screamed every word of it at me in one or another of the enraged messages I'd saved in my voice-mail system.

As astounding as the damage was in both rooms, I still couldn't figure out the source of the ghastly smell. Had Brother Luther broken into my office and left a dead animal? Excrement? If it had been him, he must be a very large, strong man. Or maybe he brought somebody with him. In any case, the destruction was violent, thorough, and personal. I wasn't sure how much good it would have done, but I should've told the police, or at least Alan, about the telephone threats right after they started. Maybe Brother Luther, if he really was responsible, had done something similar before. He might even have a police record. Hindsight is always crystal clear.

I scanned the room again for the cause of the smell and noticed that the door, which had been torn off its hinges, was lying strangely on the floor—not flat but at an angle, as if there was something underneath.

My stomach tightened, and my heart pounded. My brain gave me a high-speed presentation of all the worst-case scenarios I could imagine.

I moved slowly and carefully through the debris, not wanting to disturb any more of the evidence than necessary, and knelt down near the dislodged door. A wave of nausea hit me. I lifted up one corner, which was all it took for me to discover the source of the smell.

A slender young male lay underneath—deathly white, clearly no longer alive, and drenched in blood. I guessed he'd been there for several hours.

Startled, I pushed the door off of him and jumped when it bumped into a still-upright end table, sending the lamp that had miraculously survived the onslaught crashing to the floor.

I was still staring at the unidentified young man when I heard someone gasp. “Dr. Knight! What happened? Are you okay? Oh my gawd! That's Eric!”

I turned so quickly I lost my balance and went down hard on my butt in a puddle of thick blood.

Midnight and Ronald had scheduled another joint appointment, and they were right on time. We all stared at one another for a few endless seconds, and then Ronald stepped forward, offering his hand.

“Let me help you up, Dr. Knight.”

Midnight had locked both hands over her mouth and was standing rigid, eyes wide.

I accepted Ronald's help to rise and moved away from the young man Midnight had identified as Eric. The apprentice who'd crafted the little knives for blood swapping.

After helping me up, Ronald went back to Midnight. He put his arm around her and stroked her hair, but she didn't respond.

I noticed a fine trembling in her body. One of the first signs of shock.

“Ronald, would you help Midnight out to the hallway, please? I need to go out there and make some phone calls.” I kept my voice as calm and normal as possible.

He understood what I hadn't said, and pushed Midnight gently in the direction of the door, holding her by the shoulders to keep her from stumbling or tripping over the chaos on the floor.

Once out of direct sight of her friend's body, Midnight lowered her hands away from her mouth and began to cry silently, her head on Ronald's shoulder.

I left them huddled together long enough to retrieve my purse and fetch my cell phone. The expressions on their traumatized young faces were heart wrenching, and I wished they'd been late for their appointment—that I'd been able to meet them out in the hall instead of involving them in more psychotic madness.

But ruminating about what should have been didn't do any of us any good. I joined them and rested my hand on Midnight's arm. “I'm sorry, Midnight, but the police are going to want to talk to you and Ronald since you knew Eric. Why don't you sit down and relax until they arrive?”

They both nodded and lowered themselves to the floor.

I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, taking a moment to sort out my emotions. Oddly, though, instead of feeling frightened or upset, I felt calm. I'd been making the assumption that all of the terrible things that had happened—Emerald Addison's death, my kidnapping, and everything else—had something to do with the vampire community. I'd finally started to believe there were supernatural forces at work, that somehow the vampires were involved. It was almost a relief to come to the realization that I had a garden-variety psychopath on my hands. No doubt this serial killer had abusive childhood experiences, linked with religiously instigated guilt and shame. I'd hazard a guess he wasn't fond of women either. Classic. Textbook. A mentally defective, wounded child acting out in the most hideous ways.

Now,
that
was something I knew how to deal with.

How convenient that he seemed to have taken a personal interest in me.

I walked down by the elevator and dialed 911 on my cell phone. I explained there'd been a death in my office and returned to the other end of the hallway, where Midnight and Ronald were sitting to wait for the police to arrive.

The calm before the storm.

I glanced down and noticed my clothes were trashed. Again.

My bloody cream-colored pantsuit was a miserable reminder of the night I'd spent in the mausoleum. Since I didn't have any spare clothes to change into, I had little choice but to ignore the psychic flashbacks and distract myself by thinking about ways the police could use me as bait to catch the killer. By the time they arrived, I'd concocted some creative and audacious scenarios in which Super Psychologist would save the day.

I heard the
dings
of the elevators just before the doors opened, and I instinctively moved a few steps in that direction. A dozen uniformed officers swarmed out, followed by a forensics unit.

At the tail end, preceded by heavy footsteps, came a familiar voice. “Well, well, Dr. Knight. We meet again.”

Lieutenant Bullock strolled over to me, clasped her hands behind her back, and walked around me in a circle. The edges of her mouth were quirked in a grim sort of smile. She raised her eyebrows when she noticed the large, messy bloodstain on my pants.

“Up to your ass in blood once more, eh? Or should I say twice more, since I last saw you? I heard about the cemetery deal, and your influential friend making sure you didn't have to go through normal channels. Oh yes. Why so surprised? I make a point of keeping track of ‘interesting' people, and you, Dr. Knight, strike me as very … ‘interesting.' Funny how often death follows you around.”

She ran her fingers through her short graying hair and shifted her attention to Midnight, then Ronald, then back to me. She pointed at the couple huddled on the floor. “I'll send some officers to begin their interviews and to get preliminary details from you. Then, after I do my job inside, I'll be back.” Her smile brightened. “I'm going to handle your statement. Personally.” She took a couple of steps toward my waiting-room door, then partially turned, her face devoid of emotion. “Don't go anywhere.”

She pivoted and strode into my office, bellowing out orders to the officers already inside.

Surprise in his voice, Ronald said, “Wow, that policewoman really doesn't like you, Dr. Knight. What did you do to piss her off?”

I almost responded by saying, “What do you think I did to piss her off?” but caught myself before giving the automatic therapy reply to a patient's question.

Instead, I shrugged. “I honestly don't know. Something about me bothered her from the first moment she laid eyes on me. Maybe I remind her of someone else.”

“Or maybe she knew you in a past life?”

I turned toward the voice and was grateful and relieved to see Alan approaching. He covered the short distance between us quickly and put his arm around my shoulders.

“I couldn't believe my ears when I heard the address of the homicide on my scanner. What happened? Did one of your clients go berserk?”

“No. Someone broke in and destroyed my office.”

He tightened his grip on my shoulders. “Well, your trusty FBI agent is always here for you. Who died?”

The shoulder resting against him relaxed. “A friend of Midnight's. A boy. One of the other vampire apprentices.”

“This is a vampire thing?” He unceremoniously dropped his arm, leaped away, sprinted off into my office, and left me with my mouth hanging open.

So much for being here for me.

I sighed and backed up against the wall to wait for whatever Lieutenant Bullock had in store.

True to her word, she sent officers out to interview Midnight and Ronald, and a detective to talk to me.

The detective politely asked questions that I had only one answer for:
I don't know.
With each similar response from me, he appeared more frustrated.

I couldn't blame him for being skeptical. This was the third police interrogation I'd participated in during the past week, and even I had trouble believing that I had no worthwhile information to share.

How had I managed to involve myself in so many situations where I felt like a chess piece being moved around on some cosmic board by unseen hands?

Somebody had obviously delivered the blood-covered material in the manila envelope. All I did was open it and report it to the police. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't purposefully lost my memory, strolled away from the Crypt, and crawled into a disgusting mausoleum to take a nap in an occupied coffin. And unless I'd been abducted by aliens, causing me to have missing time, all I had done this morning was come to my office.

All the same, I realized my protestations of unaware innocence might be wearing pretty thin for the authorities right about then.