Phobia KDP (32 page)

As usual, the scent of frying bacon and hot coffee filled the diner. His stomach clenched. Even Maude Jameson’s homemade blueberry pie seemed unappetizing.

He analyzed each piece of the puzzle in his mind, turning it over as he methodically chewed his food. Morales and his silver SUV. An SUV that might have been outside Amanda Todd’s house. Lochhead was the only direct connection to The Healer. Each victim had been his patient. Morales had the skills and the ability to stalk a victim. But why was he following Saxon?

Herne tightened his jaw. He was working a puzzle with missing pieces and the frustration caused him to grind his teeth.

“That’s a hell of a snarl you’re wearing,” Tucker said as he slid into the seat across from Herne.

“I’m thinking,” Herne said.

“Well, it makes you look like one grumpy bastard.”

Herne didn’t reply. He wanted the news from Tucker—wanted the results from Johnson and Miller’s search at Pages of Print—but he wasn’t going to beg for it.

Tucker sighed and motioned to Sherry for a cup of coffee. “They spent nine hours last night sorting through the receipts at Gallows’ bookstore. It was a dead end.” Tucker handed him a small slip of paper. It was a receipt for the sale of
Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations
and
Larousse Gastronomique
, dated April fourth. The Healer had paid cash for both books.

“According to Frances Gallows, that second book is a cookbook. It’s been around for years, and apparently is a cult favorite for fucking foodies.”

“I know.” Herne’s father had kept a copy in his kitchen at home.

“We can’t seem to catch a break,” Tucker said. “I asked Gallows if she could remember anything else about the guy who made the purchase, but all she said was that he was Caucasian. That’s not much help since the only non-whites in Hurricane are Mr. Woo from the Chinese restaurant, our Medical Examiner Paul Lee, and The Kellers on Oak Street.”

“And Robert Morales,” Herne said.

Tucker leaned forward, his eyes sparking. “And, by the way, when the fuck were you going to tell me that this guy is following my lieutenant around town?”

“You talked to Saxon.”

“Of course I talked to Saxon,” Tucker said. “And I’m wondering why I didn’t hear about this from you.”

“I didn’t have any solid evidence on the guy,” Herne said. “I still don’t.”

“Saxon could be in danger,” Tucker growled. “Don’t you think that’s a good enough reason to tell me about this?”

“She’s not in danger,” Herne said.

“And how the fuck do you know that?”

“Because she doesn’t have a phobia,” Herne said.

“Then why the fuck is he following her?”

Herne looked his friend in the eyes. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Tucker met Herne’s gaze. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the diner, a scent that seemed to hang in the tension between them. After a moment, Tucker shook his head and stared down at the table.

They sat in silence as Herne picked up his fork and continued eating. His throat was so tight that he could barely swallow his food, although the creamy potatoes seemed to melt on his tongue.

Tucker added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to his coffee. Behind them, two women, a redhead and a brunette, chattered about their lives. They were soccer moms, the type who organized church socials and PTA meetings. Their cotton shirts and khaki pants were the unofficial uniform of Hurricane housewives.

“I’d never tell him the truth about it,” the brunette woman said. “Why should I?”

“Won’t he be upset if he finds out?” the redheaded friend asked.

“Well, I did think about telling him when I first started doing it. But then so much time had passed that it didn’t seem worth the argument.”

“I’m certain my husband would notice if I switched his regular coffee for decaf,” the redhead said.

“You’d be surprised. It’s just like that commercial. No one can really taste difference. I’ve been doing it to Jack’s coffee for years.”

A few minutes later the women paid for their breakfast and left. Tucker looked at Herne. “Jack Marshall would be pissed as hell if he found out his wife was serving up decaf coffee,” he said. “I won’t say anything. Jack’s an asshole anyway. But his wife better be careful about who’s listening to her conversations.”

Herne felt his blood run cold, and his fingers stiffened around his fork. He pushed his body up from the table in one explosive moment and started to run for the door.

Tucker grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked.

“The Healer,” Herne gasped. “I think I know how he’s doing it.”

Bethany stood in the middle of her bedroom, empty suitcase in hand. She chewed on her bottom lip.

According to the news reports, The Healer was killing Peter Lochhead’s patients. And Lochhead had been Bethany’s therapist for years.

Bethany’s instincts—the survival instincts she depended on to keep her safe—were telling her to run.

But where will I go?
she thought. Her parents had retired to Arizona. They lived in a small retirement cottage and her mom would welcome her with open arms.

Bethany closed her eyes. Flying to Arizona meant leaving her guns and her dog behind. It meant staying in a home with open windows. No security system. Flimsy locks.

Almost paralyzed with fear at the thought, Bethany’s eyes snapped open.

The killer always strikes on Saturday,
she thought.
Maybe I can just spend the night somewhere tonight.

She considered the possibilities. Maybe her co-worker, Joyce, would be willing to host a houseguest. Or perhaps she could stay in a hotel.

But hotel security was notoriously lax. Bethany had read stories about single women attacked in hotel rooms by staff or other guests. And Joyce was unlikely to have solid locks or a security system on her door.

Bethany slid her empty suitcases under her bed. She’d already taken every precaution in her own house. The safest place for her was at home.

“I think The Healer is someone listening in on your sessions,” Herne said.

Lochhead stood in the middle of his waiting room, a sheaf of papers in his hand. His receptionist’s desk—usually tidy—was piled with files. Cardboard boxes filled with books sat on the soft carpet.

He raised an eyebrow. “Eavesdropping? That seems impossible.”

“What about your phones? An intercom system? Perhaps Sarah heard your sessions.”

“Our phones don’t work that way,” Lochhead said. “Sarah could only hear me if I pressed the intercom button. And I was always very careful.”

Tucker glanced around the office. “Where is Sarah? Did you let her go already?”

“No,” Lochhead replied. “I wanted her to stay another week or so. She managed the office funds, and she handled patient appointments and files. I needed her to help me tie up the loose ends. But she decided to quit.”

“Why?”

Lochhead shrugged. “She said she was scared of The Healer. It doesn’t matter. Sarah wasn’t listening in on my patient conversations. She’s weak, you know. The kind of girl that bends to everyone else’s needs. She doesn’t have the will to commit these murders. She’s not strong enough to even help
plan
these murders.”

Herne thought about the grim line of Sarah’s lips after her romp with Sergeant Frey.
She’s stronger than you think
, Herne thought.

“It might be possible someone planted a bug in here,” Tucker said.

“A bug?”

“A listening device. Maybe a former patient. Or perhaps even a current patient. Or maybe the janitor or cleaning crew. If there’s a bug in this office, we need to find it. I’m calling a tech team in.” Tucker grabbed his cell phone and dialed, while Lochhead stood watching him.

For the first time, Lochhead looked completely defeated. “If someone’s been listening in on my patient sessions, my reputation will never recover from this.” He looked at Herne, his eyes bleak and worried. “I’m completely fucked.”

He didn’t need his surveillance skills to spot them. They were obvious.

Every time Robert Morales turned around, he bumped into a cop.

But he wasn’t nervous until he saw the team of technicians. Three men and one woman walked down the hallway and entered Lochhead’s office. They wore matching blue shirts with “Thomas Tech” stitched above the left breast pocket. Each carried a black plastic case.

What are they looking for?
Morales thought.
Fingerprints? Fibers?

He continued to stand unnoticed in the corner of the hallway, watching as the tech team closed the door to Lochhead’s office.

“Practicing for a stake-out?” The voice that came from behind him—the deep rumble of a man who smoked too many cigarettes—caused Morales to jump. He turned and faced Artemis Herne.

“Just curious,” Morales said. He wondered if Herne had heard the squeak in his voice. He shoved his hands into his pocket to steady them and leaned against the wall, trying to appear casual.

“You’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes,” Herne said. “You must be very curious.”

“I don’t often see this much action at work.”

“You’re the private investigator in this building, right? Robert Morales.”

Morales held up his hands. “Guilty,” he joked.

Herne didn’t smile. “I imagine you see all kinds of action in your business,” he said.

“Not really, I’m afraid. Most of my clients are trying to catch their cheating spouses.” He started to relax as the words flowed from his mouth. Up close and personal, Artemis Herne was nothing more than a man. A big man with an intense gaze. But still just a man.

“So I guess you must be an expert in surveillance. You probably learn all kinds of nasty secrets.”

Morales shrugged. “Just the kind you’d expect to find in my business. I don’t get to catch any real bad guys. Just husbands and wives who chose the wrong person to screw.”

Herne nodded and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He turned to leave.

Morales knew it would be smarter to let Herne go. But he couldn’t resist a final question. “Say,” he called out, “what’s it like catching
real
bad guys?”

Herne stopped and turned around, meeting Morales’ gaze with his gray eyes. “Fun,” Herne said. “Lots of fun.”

Morales realized he’d been a fool to think of Herne as just a man.

Herne was a hunter. And he was in search of his prey.