Free Phobia KDP by C.A. Shives

talking to Miller. She was almost hidden from his view by the police officer’s broad shoulders and thick back. But she saw his glance and smiled in return. A little too gleefully , he thought.
    “So I hear you’re working on the Amanda Todd murder,” Patty said. “That must be exciting.”
    “There’s nothing exciting about murder,” Herne said, although he knew he was speaking a lie.
    Her back stiffened and she turned to glance back at her friends, who had been watching the exchange with interest. “Well, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”
    “Likewise.”
    She returned to her friends, a scowl on her face.
    “They’re going to spread some ugly gossip about you now,” Elizabeth said in his ear. Herne almost jumped. He hadn’t realized she had moved behind him.
    He shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said.
    “Even Rex knows that public relations is part of being a cop.”
    “I’m not a cop.”
    “Yes, you are, Art. And you know it.” Elizabeth glanced at the glass of whiskey in his hand and he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. But she said nothing.
    Saxon walked through the back gate. Herne watched her easy movements as she strode toward Tucker. Her graceful limbs seemed out of place in her starched blue police uniform.
    “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Elizabeth asked.
    “Yes,” Herne responded.
    Elizabeth looked at his face searchingly. Herne sensed sadness in the smile she offered, and he wondered about its source. But another guest called her away before he had time to ask about it.
    Herne walked to Tucker and Saxon, who had moved to a more private corner of the yard. Saxon nodded when she saw him. Herne sensed the lieutenant had mellowed toward him, but she was still reticent in his presence.
    “There are a couple of reporters hanging around the front yard,” Tucker said. “I’m going to send out Saxon to warn them that they’re on fucking private property.”
    “You have to expect the media to be dogged about this. There aren’t a lot of homicides in Hurricane. Especially homicides committed by snakebite,” said Herne.
    “The Healer’s note was leaked to the press,” Saxon said. “They’re looking for confirmation.”
    “Shit,” Tucker said. “How did they find out about it?”
    Saxon shrugged. But they all knew. Herne whistled a brief snatch of I Heard It Through The Grapevine . It was the way of life in Hurricane.
    “What do they know?” Tucker asked.
    “They’ve got the text of the note, and they know it was signed ‘The Healer.’ Should I confirm?” Saxon asked.
    Tucker sighed. “Go ahead.”
    “By the way,” Saxon said as she turned to leave, “the quotation in The Healer’s note is attributed to Michel de Montaigne, a French essayist,” she said.
    “So what does it fucking mean?” Tucker asked.
    “At this point? Not much,” Herne replied.
    “Are you feeling okay?” Tucker asked, glancing at the glass in Herne’s hand.
    Herne nodded. “I’m fine. Just fine.” He heard the falseness of his voice, and knew his friend had heard it, too.
    The odor of cigarette smoke wafted through the area, and Herne noticed that Patty Cotton had lit a Marlboro. She stood alone by the side of the yard. The gray scent of tobacco made Herne’s muscles ache. He could almost taste the ashen smoke and feel its burn in his lungs. No one ever really quits , he thought.
    He saw Tucker crease his brow with worry. But Herne just turned his back on his friend and walked toward Patty Cotton, his eyes focused only on the cigarette in her hand.

    There was no trail through the woods and Emmert stumbled each time his foot struck a rock or exposed root. He panted with exertion and fear, and sweat mingled with his tears as they moved deeper into the trees.
    The Healer wore a baseball cap with the bill pulled low to hide his features. He was certain no one was watching them in the secluded woods, but it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.
    The afternoon sun blazed in the sky, and