The Vampire Shrink (16 page)

“I choose Fictional Creatures for five hundred dollars, Alex!”

Propping my feet up on the chair that had recently been vacated by the firm hindquarters of the oddest FBI agent I was ever likely to meet, I raised my coffee cup in a solitary toast to the memory of his tight jeans exiting my kitchen and loudly sang the theme song from
Jeopardy
!

In my best Alex Trebek voice I said, “These bloodsucking, undead denizens of the night have taken over the rational minds of the populace of Denver.”

I pretended to press an invisible button on the table. “What are
vampires
?”

Alex again. “Yes! Our new winner is Dr. Kismet Knight, formerly a respected psychologist, now a permanent resident of Denver Psychiatric Hospital.”

I sang the theme song again, applauded myself, and heaved a huge sigh.

“I
definitely
didn't get enough sleep.”

Transfixed by the streaks of color floating across the morning sky, I stared out the window and drank my coffee. It was exactly one week ago that Midnight walked into my office for the first time, and since then my life had turned into a cliché-ridden afternoon-matinee horror movie in which I was apparently playing a lead role.

I'd fantasized about having more excitement in my life, and I must have inadvertently rubbed some genie's bottle, because I'd definitely gotten my wish. Unfortunately, it fell under the category of “be careful what you ask for because you might get it.” If I were half as smart as I thought I was, I'd cut my losses and run. I could refer Midnight and Ronald to other therapists and just go back to my regularly scheduled programming. No harm, no foul. Only a madwoman would purposely visit a dance club allegedly run by vampires—vampire wannabes, of course—or listen to fantastical stories told by deluded FBI agents.

Then I tried to imagine never seeing Devereux again, and my midsection clenched up. Definitely not a desirable option as far as my body was concerned.

Because there's nothing like being wired and sleepy at the same time, I decided to have one more cup of coffee and jot down some notes for my book. Agent Stevens's fertile imagination had given me lots of ideas for chapters, and I'd have to remember to ask him for permission to use the material he'd shared with me. He wasn't a therapist, so there were no confidentiality issues. Maybe I'd even give him credit in the finished manuscript.

The first thing I noticed when I got off the elevator in my office building a while later was a bulging manila envelope propped against my waiting-room door. I picked it up, tucked it under my arm, and unlocked the doors leading to my reception area and then to my office. I sat down at my desk and inspected the package. There was nothing unusual about it—no address on the front, no postage or writing of any kind. Inside the envelope was some kind of light-blue fabric with extensive stains on it. My gut cramped, and goose bumps appeared on my arms. I had an immediate bad feeling and picked up a pencil to lift the cloth out of its container. I'd seen enough cop shows to know about not contaminating evidence, and my intuition told me that I was in possession of something awful.

Using the pencil to spread out the fabric on top of my desk, I could see it was one of those flimsy gowns they use in hospitals, the ones that never close in the back. The stains looked and smelled like blood.

Blood. Hospital gown. My mind went straight to Emerald. Would she have worn this kind of garment?

No.
Get a grip.
There must be hundreds of explanations for this item turning up in front of my door. It probably had nothing to do with Emerald at all. Just a case of someone leaving the package at the wrong place.

Even though I tried hard to delude myself, none of the rationalizations were working, and I began to feel nauseated. The smell of the package reminded me of my dream, and I unconsciously reached up to touch the wound on my neck, which I'd covered with a Band-Aid. I had the unpleasant realization that if I didn't get to the bathroom in ten seconds, I'd throw up on the floor. I made a mad dash and reached the toilet just in time to lose my morning coffee.

Feeling hot and cold at the same time, my stomach completely empty, I went over to the sink and swished some water around in my mouth. It was a good thing I always carried a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash in my purse. I stared into the mirror and reaffirmed Alan's earlier assertion that I did indeed look like death today. Sometimes even the best makeup job wasn't enough. Having such fair skin was a blessing most of the time because I always looked younger than I was, but today I had definitely crossed the line between ivory glow and anemic pallor.

I shuffled back into my office and rummaged through my briefcase, searching for the business card Alan had given me, and called the number. He answered on the first ring.

“Stevens.”

“Alan, someone left me a bloody hospital gown.”

“Kismet? Is that you? What about a hospital gown?”

“Somebody left a package containing stained blue fabric at my office. Since Emerald disappeared from the intensive care unit, that's too big a coincidence, don't you think? Can you come over and look at it?”

“Yeah. Don't touch anything. I'll alert the local police, and we'll be right over.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

I fished the dental hygiene products out of my purse and scurried to the bathroom, where I brushed and swished until I felt almost normal, then headed back to my office.

I sat at my desk, scrutinized the bloodstained material, and wondered again what I'd gotten myself into. I'd spent the last week bouncing back and forth between fear, confusion, and arousal, and I was exhausted. I didn't think I'd been of help to anyone, and I certainly hadn't done myself any good.

Staring off into space, I realized I hadn't checked my messages, so I punched in the retrieval code for my business voice mail and found several. The first was from Ronald, asking if we could reschedule his appointment because he'd been up all night searching for Emerald. It was a good thing he couldn't make it, because he'd be due at the same time the police would likely arrive, and I hadn't even taken that into account. In fact, I'd totally forgotten I had a client coming: another indication of my impending mental breakdown. I made a note to return his call later.

I paused the messages and scanned my appointment book to make sure I hadn't neglected any other important business, tapping my pen on the desk. Fran, my seventy-six-year-old UFO abductee client, was scheduled in this morning for her long-standing appointment, but it wasn't going to work today. One of Fran's challenges was a deep distrust of authority figures. I could only imagine what would happen if the police were still here when she arrived. Fran, who weighed no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, had been known to start screaming and flailing at the sight of a uniform, which usually guaranteed problems with whoever was wearing the offending garment at the time. Yes, I was definitely going to reschedule Fran.

After Fran was Spock. His real name was Henry Madison, but he got very upset if anyone called him that. He lived in a perpetual
Star Trek
episode, even going as far as having his ears surgically altered to be “Vulcan.” He had his costumes tailor-made and shaved his eyebrows so he could draw on the “correct” ones. Interestingly enough, Spock hadn't come to therapy for any of the reasons one might assume. He'd come because he wanted to explore his poor choices with women. He just couldn't seem to find the woman of his dreams. He suspected mother issues. I thought that was only the tip of the iceberg.

Continuing with the messages, up next was my daily reminder from Brother Luther about the current state of my immortal soul. He usually gave me a portion of the sermon of the week and kept his remarks very general and impersonal. Today's message had a different tone. He sounded agitated, and he talked a lot about being “washed in the blood” and made a comment about being a warrior for God. He ranted on until the allotted message time ran out and was cut off midtirade. That was the first time one of his messages caused me to feel uncomfortable, and, in light of the other events of the morning, I considered whether or not I needed to tell the police about Brother Luther, too.

CHAPTER 8

W
ithin an hour, my office was inundated with police officers and forensics specialists. They bagged up the manila envelope and its contents, confiscated the pencil I had used to move the cloth around, and were in the midst of seeking clues by crawling inch by inch along the hallway in front of my waiting-room door. Alan stood next to my desk, silently observing the investigation and writing in his ever-present notebook.

A bulky female officer approached me. She was big the way that a weight lifter is big, not fat, but solid and muscular. She must have been six feet tall. Dressed in a no-nonsense, dark-blue pantsuit, she appeared to be in her late forties, and the years hadn't been kind. Her gray-streaked hair was cut very short in a style that required little upkeep, and the lines in her face had formed themselves into a continuous scowl. I guessed she'd been someone for whom high school had been hell, and she'd taken the gold in the Olympic Holding a Grudge competition. Not someone I'd want to mess with, even if she hadn't been wearing a gun at her hip.

She marched purposefully over to me and snarled, “You Dr. Knight?”

“Yes.” Gazing up at her, I suddenly felt six years old, called to the principal's office.

“Lieutenant Bullock. I need to get your statement.” She pointed with her thumb back over her shoulder. “Let's go over there.”

I nodded. We walked to the couch and sat, and I told her everything about finding the envelope, taking out the bloody blue gown, and calling Special Agent Stevens. She stopped writing and observed me, waiting, I supposed, for me to say something else. When I didn't, she prompted, her voice deceptively even, “I understand you have a missing client?”

“I'm afraid I'm not able to respond to that question.”

“Why is that, Dr. Knight?” She lowered her head ever so slightly. “You're the one who called us.” Her voice became very quiet and controlled.

Feeling the chill of her frosty gaze, I swallowed loudly and cleared my throat. “Under the rules of confidentiality, I'm not able to discuss whether someone is or isn't a client. I called Special Agent Stevens because finding a package containing a bloody anything is out of my area of expertise. I thought it might be something he could deal with.”

She held my eyes for a moment. “Why would someone leave a bloodstained hospital gown in front of your door, Doctor?”

“I have no idea.”

She gave an unfriendly smile. “Do you know Emerald Addison?”

I sat silently, keeping my face pleasantly neutral.

She moved closer and locked eyes with me. “I know Emerald Addison is your client. You're obstructing a police investigation by refusing to cooperate. I'll need copies of the records you have on her friends who are also your clients,” she demanded, her voice getting louder.

I tensed. “Lieutenant Bullock, I can only repeat what I've already said. I'm unable to respond. I'm bound by the rules of confidentiality.”
And Emerald really isn't my client.

She bolted up off the couch. “You're starting to piss me off, Dr. Knight.”

Whoa. A cop with an anger issue—what a surprise.
I met her gaze. “That isn't my intention, Lieutenant. I'm bound by my professional obligations, just as you are.”

She made a growling sound, paced around in front of me, then stopped and bent down so that our faces were inches apart. She whispered loudly, “If the blood on that gown matches the blood of the missing girl, you're going to have a lot more questions to answer. Maybe you didn't just find the gown. Maybe you had it all along. Maybe you're hiding something. Maybe I'll get a court order to force you to give me your records.”

Every time she said the word “maybe,” she accented and elongated the first syllable, allowing each repetition to rise in pitch.

My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead. First Bryce, now Bullock. No one had ever gotten in my face and threatened me that way before, and I still wasn't sure how to deal with it. Since I didn't know what to say, I said nothing. That appeared to make her even angrier. I knew she couldn't force me to divulge information, and I assumed she knew that too.

“Wilson,” Lieutenant Bullock said to the tall, lanky policeman hovering next to her, “make sure you get all the good doctor's contact information. I want to be able to find her day or night.”

“I have it,” he said, giving me cold eyes.

She squinted at me and snapped, “Don't leave town.”

Then, like a fiery comet pulling meteorites in its tail, she left, taking all the officers with her.

Alan came over, sat next to me on the couch, and patted my hand. “Now you know why her nickname is ‘Bull.'”