Phobia KDP (36 page)

Butch watched her with happy eyes. She knew he looked forward to the yard where bunnies and birds teased his instinct to hunt. Bethany gave him a pat on the head, running her hands over his coarse hair.

“Let’s go, pooch,” she said to her canine guardian. She and her dog wandered to the kitchen together, where she disabled her security system before letting him into the fenced backyard. Despite the dog’s thick fur coat, he seemed happy to run through the almost unbearable summer heat.

Bethany reset the alarm—double-checking to ensure it was armed—before climbing upstairs. After lunch, she wanted to practice a new move Sensei Robert had shown her, and she needed to change into exercise clothing.

In her bedroom, she removed her pants and shirt before slipping a short terrycloth robe over her practical cotton undergarments. A mirror hung on her closet door. She stood in front of it and began braiding her hair.

She noticed a quick movement in the mirror. Her heart thumped in her chest and she whipped her head around, staring at the open doorway that led from her bedroom to the hallway. The entire house was silent. She saw no one.

Clutching her throat, she turned back to the mirror, laughing nervously at her own foolishness.
It’s nothing,
she thought.
Just your imagination.

Then she saw it again. Just a flicker of movement in the corner of the mirror.

She turned and faced the doorway. He stood there dressed in black, like the worst of the bad men in her nightmares.

Bethany tried to shriek. Tried to scream. But her voice caught in her throat. Only the smallest of squeaks, almost inaudible in the still room, escaped her throat.

She heard Butch barking in the yard and her heart sank. The animal that was meant to protect her was outside, while she was caged inside.

He drove to The Healer’s house, the sense of urgency forcing him to press his foot on the gas. Tucker followed in a squad car, the lights flashing.

Herne wanted to get to the house first. He wanted to stand in the home of the killer. He wanted to look around the rooms and feel what The Healer felt. He needed to know the man’s fears.

Tucker stayed on Herne’s tail as they both pulled into The Healer’s driveway. Herne walked toward the house, a nondescript two-story covered with brick and vinyl siding. The landscaping was fastidiously neat but not ostentatious: simple bushes and a manicured lawn. The neighborhood homes displayed cracks in driveways, faded paint, and roofs with missing shingles. A few curious residents—senior citizens in various states of decay—stepped out of their homes to observe the commotion. Herne could almost smell their peppermint candies and arthritis cream.

He stopped walking when he felt Tucker’s lean fingers circle around his arm.

“You can’t go in there, Art,” Tucker said.

“I’m going in, Rex.”

Tucker tightened his grip, and Herne flexed his bicep in response. Man to man. Muscle to muscle.

“Saxon’s getting a warrant. We can’t go in until she has it.”

“We’re wasting time,” Herne said. He looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon. He could be killing his next victim right now.”

Tucker’s gaze didn’t waver. “What if you go in there and find enough evidence to convict him? And what if the judge throws out the evidence because our search is illegal?”

Herne said nothing. He understood Tucker’s viewpoint. Even sympathized with his friend. But he couldn’t stop the urge to step inside The Healer’s house. The need to know the killer propelled him like a drowning man swimming toward the water’s surface.

“If that happens,” Tucker continued, “the only evidence we’ll have is the three o’clock appointments and some fucking hearsay from you.”

I take a thirty minute break around three o’clock
. Those were the words spoken to him by the clerk at The Sandwich Station. A clerk who would buy a copy of
Larousse Gastronomique.
A clerk who chattered to Herne about The Healer case, his voice peppered with excitement. The kind of excitement known only to people who get a little thrill from death.

Herne had taken sandwiches from the hand of Darrell Pike, the clerk at The Sandwich Station. He had eaten sandwiches made by a killer. Even now, his stomach rebelled at the thought. He tasted bile in his mouth.

“I can’t wait,” Herne said through clenched teeth. “I have to get in there now.”

Tucker shook his head again. “Not this time, Art. Not this time.”

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. Herne’s stomach rolled again when he heard Tucker’s next words. “Sergeant Frey? I need you to meet me as soon as possible.”

Her heart pounded so hard that she heard it thumping in her ears. Bethany’s mind flooded with a red haze of panic. She stood and faced him, unmoving. Then she glanced at her closet.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. He held a gun in one hand and a little black box in the other.

A Taser,
Bethany thought. Her mouth went dry with fear.

“I know you, Bethany,” he said. “I’ve watched you. You’re a trained martial artist, aren’t you? Practically a black belt. And you’ve got weapons tucked around your house. I’m sure you’re hoping to get a chance to use them, but I’m not going to let that happen. Put your hands on your head.”

She hesitated and he waved the gun at her.

“Don’t fuck with me, Bethany. Maybe I’ll take it easy on you—maybe I’ll have some
pity
—if you follow directions like a good little girl. Now put your hands on your head.”

Don’t give him control,
Bethany thought.
You’re dead if he gets control.

But panic and terror thundered in her ears, so she lifted her hands and placed them on her head. She felt the cold of her air-conditioner against her bare legs. Even though she wore a robe, the exposure increased her sense of vulnerability.
All that training was for nothing,
she thought.
I’m helpless.
She almost sobbed at the wretchedness of her fear.

“It wasn’t easy getting into your house, Bethany,” he said. “Fortunately, you’re a creature of habit. You know, it’s smarter to change your routine a bit. Be less predictable. Otherwise, the bad guys will figure out your schedule.”

She pressed her fingers against her head, trying to keep them from trembling.

“I only had to watch you for a month to realize that every Saturday afternoon you put your dog in the yard while you make lunch. Getting your keys was a cinch, since you leave them in the locker at your karate school. You don’t really think those little locks can stop someone like me, do you?”

Bethany felt vomit rise in her throat. She wanted to hold her hands against her ears and block out his voice—wanted to cover her body from his eyes—but she stayed motionless.

“And learning the code for your alarm system wasn’t difficult at all. I only needed a pair of binoculars and a crack in your curtain. I probably watched you punch in that code at least five times. It was really too simple in the end. Wait for your dog to get fenced in the backyard, then slip into your house.”

He watched me
, she thought. Indignation mixed with her fear.
He spied on me.

“Now turn around,” he ordered.

She hesitated again, then obeyed. She could hear him moving behind her. She felt him get close, so she waited for an opportunity. When his breath, smelling of mint, grazed the back of her neck, she jabbed his stomach with her elbow. She heard his guttural grunt. She spun and smashed his nose with her fist, using every muscle in her body to power her punch. His hands dropped and she swept his leg with her own so he fell to the ground.

She stumbled as she ran toward the bedroom door. But before she reached the hallway, she felt a jolt of electricity through her body, stiffening her limbs. Her muscles clenched and seized. Her limbs froze, but in her mind she could hear the hum of the voltage. When he released her, she fell limp to the ground. He was beside her in a second, wrapping tape around her wrists. By the time her head cleared, her hands were bound.

“Well, that Taser certainly is a handy gadget, isn’t it?” he asked. “I never would have used my gun on you, Bethany. How can I heal you if you’re injured or dead? I have big plans for your therapy, but I need you alive.”

He grinned as he grabbed for her arms. “It wouldn’t help you at all if I waited until you were dead to rape you.”

Herne sat in the passenger seat of Tucker’s squad car, his eyes intent on the side mirror. Saxon had not yet shown up with the search warrant.

“A watched pot never boils,” Tucker said, his mouth set in a grim line.

“What if the judge won’t give it to her?” Herne asked. His voice was hoarse with fear. He needed that warrant. He needed to get into Darrell Pike’s house.

“He’ll give it to her,” Tucker said. “Judge Slade wanted to help me last time. I fucking know it. He just couldn’t for some reason…” Tucker trailed off, and he sat in silence for a moment. Then he continued. “If she doesn’t show up in thirty minutes, I’ll start making some phone calls of my own.”

“Thirty minutes?” Herne’s voice choked with frustration. “Are you trying to make sure that someone else gets killed?”

Tucker’s eyes flashed. “Goddammit, Art,” Tucker said. “I want this fucker as much as you do. But I’m not going to let him go free on a technicality. You can work outside the law if you want, but my hands are tied. We need a warrant first.”

Herne said nothing. He spied Saxon’s car in the side mirror. He was by her vehicle door before Tucker left his car.

“I passed Sergeant Frey on my way here,” Saxon said. “Looks like he’s headed this way.”

“Did you get the warrant?” Herne asked.

Saxon nodded.

Herne turned and strode to Darrell Pike’s door. He knocked once and counted to two. He heard Tucker’s voice behind him.

“Goddammit, Art, don’t—”

The cracking sound of Herne kicking Pike’s front door interrupted the rest of Tucker’s words. Herne strode into the house.

“Call Miller and Johnson. Have them block off the scene. I don’t want anyone coming in or out of here,” Tucker told Saxon.

Herne walked into the small living room, noting the worn, threadbare furniture. There were no decorations, no photographs, no personal mementos. Plain, white curtains hung limply over the spotless windows. The room was bare except for a sofa, a coffee table, and a television.

Herne stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of the man he had stalked for so long, trying to sense any emotions captured by the room. The faint odor of bleach hung in the air. But otherwise, Herne felt nothing.

This was not the room he exposed his secrets
, he thought.

“Spread out,” Tucker said. “Look around. Let’s see if we can find any clue about his next victim.”

As Saxon started for the kitchen, Herne walked toward the hallway. The bedroom, he knew, was The Healer’s sanctuary. There he’d find the hidden truths of the man.

But Sergeant Frey’s cold voice commanded attention before Herne stepped out of the living room. “What the fuck is going on here?” Frey asked.

“We’re searching for evidence,” Tucker said. He stood tall and straight and lean, his hands hanging loose by his sides.