Free Phobia KDP by C.A. Shives Page B

attackers the privacy they needed.
    Before she left her car, she turned her neck and glanced through each window. She looked for movement. Shadows. Anything that might reveal a stranger hidden from her sight.
    After a few moments, Bethany felt safe. She left her car and walked briskly to the building, looking over her shoulder in case someone was following her.
    It never hurt to be careful.

    The thud in Herne’s head beat like the thumping bass from a ghetto gangster’s car. Sheila stared at the stubble on his face and the stains on his jeans and white tee-shirt. The red-haired dispatcher didn’t favor him with her usual crooked smile. Instead, she wrinkled her nose as he walked by her desk.
    He almost stumbled as he entered Tucker’s office, but managed to catch himself before he fell.
    Tucker looked up from his desk, his thick brows knitted together in a scowl. “Where the fuck have you been, Art?” Tucker asked. “You haven’t answered your phone. You’re never home. I haven’t heard from you since our fucking barbecue this weekend, and it’s fucking Tuesday!”
    “I’m a consultant on this case. I’m not your paid bitch,” Herne snarled.
    Tucker stepped close and sniffed, his large nostrils flaring. “You fucking reek, Art. You stink of booze and cigarettes. Where the hell have you been?”
    Falling through the hole, Herne thought. He said, “Carlisle. I’ve been in Carlisle.”
    “You’ve been in a bar,” Tucker said. His tone was accusing.
    Yes, Herne thought. And not just one. When they kicked me out of the first bar, I went to a second. Then a third. I woke up in a dingy hotel room this morning, and I don’t know how I got there.
    “You picked a hell of a time to fall off the wagon,” Tucker growled.
    The guilt welled so deep that Herne feared he would drown in it. But he simply met Tucker’s angry stare with his own stony gray eyes. “I’m not your whore, Rex. I’ll do as I please.”
    It was not their first fight. Years of friendship meant that they had occasional disagreements. Only two of those arguments had ended in physical blows. And their shared memories and affection for each other always triumphed. Usually, their fights began and ended quickly. Herne wondered if this case would cause a permanent rift in their relationship.
    He could smell the booze on his own body and breath. The odor seemed to seep from his skin. He grabbed at his head, fighting away the memories of his trip down the hole. His visions of pool tables, ashtrays, and painted women were blurred by shadows of smoke and an amber haze of whiskey.
    He swore that he’d never touch another drop of liquor again.
    It was a familiar promise. One he had broken many times in the past.
    Saxon walked into the office, glanced at the two men, and paused. She held two pieces of paper in her hand.
    “What is it?” Tucker snarled.
    “Another note from The Healer. And a photo.”
    She handed over the letter and laid the picture on the table. “ Do the thing we fear, and the death of fear is certain, ” Tucker read. “Saxon, find out what you can about that quotation.”
    They all looked at the photo. It showed nothing more than a rectangular pine box amid some wild ferns.
    “What the fuck is that?” Tucker asked.
    Herne felt his chest tighten. “A coffin,” he replied, his body so tense that his words were almost gasps.
    Tucker stared at his friend. “Jesus, you’re morbid.”
    Herne felt a flood of anger. “You brought this on me,” he said. “You brought me this case. Buried me in it. So don’t criticize me for becoming what you wanted.”
    “Don’t blame me for your fucked up issues,” Tucker said. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”
    No one to blame but yourself . Tucker was right. And Herne knew it. He alone carried the guilt and the responsibility of bad choices and wrong decisions.
    Herne sighed, his anger dissipating.
    “Fuck,” Tucker said, examining the photograph. “It is a coffin.”
    “A