Read Online Phobia KDP by C.A. Shives - Free Book Online

stout frame: pleated blue jeans, a voluminous floral shirt, and canvas sneakers.
    “The crime lab finally reported back,” Saxon said. “Nothing unusual. There are a few fibers and hairs that might be useful if we ever find a suspect.”
    “We will find a suspect,” Tucker growled. “Hell, if this keeps up, I might frame someone myself. Maybe fucking Mayor Harvey.”
    Sheila walked into the room carrying a bundle of mail. The gold wedding band on her chubby finger glinted as she handed the stack of envelopes to Tucker.
    “Thanks, Sheila,” Tucker said.
    “I took care of all the bills,” Sheila said before walking away, her sneakers creating a slight squeak as she shuffled across the vinyl floor.
    Tucker flipped through the mail, stopping at a plain white envelope marked Personal .
    “I hate this shit,” he said. “You get all excited when you see this type of letter, thinking it’s a sexy note from an ex-girlfriend or something. Then it turns out to be a fucking credit card application.”
    He tore open the envelope savagely and a photo fell to the floor. As Tucker reached for it, Herne barked, “Stop!”
    Amanda Todd’s eyes stared up at them from the picture, her mouth sealed with gray duct tape. The close-up shot revealed only her face.
    “Son of a bitch,” Tucker exclaimed. He dropped the envelope on the table, left the room, and returned a few moments later wearing latex gloves. He unfolded the letter that accompanied the photograph.
    “ He who fears he will suffer, already suffers from his fear. ” He paused, reading the letter silently again. “What the hell does that mean?”
    “It’s a quotation of some sort. Something famous, I guess,” Herne said.
    Tucker looked at Saxon. “Find out.”
    She nodded.
    “Did he sign the note?” Herne asked.
    Tucker nodded. “He signed it The Healer.”
    “The Healer?” Saxon asked.
    “He thinks of himself as a medicine man. A physician. A shaman,” Herne said.
    “What fucking disease does he think he’s healing?” Tucker asked.
    “Fear,” Herne said. “He heals fear.”
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Charles Emmert slid behind the steering wheel of his SUV. Although it was a little early for lunch, he’d worked up an appetite during his Saturday round of golf, and his mind was full of thoughts of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green peas swimming in buttery sauce. He turned the key in the ignition and cool air blasted from vents, drying the beads of perspiration that dotted his forehead.
    Emmert adjusted the golf clubs in the passenger seat. The large SUV had plenty of room for all his golf gear, as well as sufficient space for his ample belly. He’d purchased this particular vehicle because it was the biggest on the market, and small cars made it impossible for him to breathe, sending panic into the blood that pumped through his veins. His therapist called it claustrophobia and encouraged him to face his fears by occasionally taking the elevator or driving his wife’s Toyota Prius.
    But Emmert refused. He was retired now, and his days of meetings in tall office buildings and long commutes to work were over. He could drive a monster-sized vehicle and avoid elevators if he wanted. That was the point of retirement. To finally have the time and money to do whatever he liked.
    As he reached for the steering wheel, he felt cold metal on the back of his neck. The voice in his ear, silken and smooth like chocolate pie, said, “Drive.”
    Emmert felt his bladder go, and warm urine soaked his pants. “Take my wallet. My keys,” he stammered. “Whatever you want. Just take it.”
    The face behind him wasn’t quite visible in the rearview mirror, but Emmert heard the man’s sigh. “I don’t want your money, Charles. And I don’t want your vehicle. Although this certainly is a nice SUV. Large. Plenty of space. I bet you like that.”
    “Please,” Emmert said, his voice squeaking. “You can have whatever you want.”
    “I want fulfillment,