The Vampire Shrink

CHAPTER 8

Within 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 weightlifter is big, not fat, but solid and muscular. She must have been six feet tall. Dressed in a no-nonsense dark-blue trouser-suit, she appeared to be in her late forties, and the years hadn’t been kind. Her grey-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 got 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”.’

I flopped back against the cushions, letting my shoulders slump. My mouth was so dry it took me a couple of attempts before I could speak. ‘What just happened here? All I did was find something and call it in. I was being a model citizen. Why am I suddenly a suspect?’

‘You’re not, not really. They’re all freaked out because they haven’t been able to solve any of the recent murders or find the missing girl. This is the first lead they’ve had in days. Lieutenant Bullock is taking this case very personally because she knew the first murder victim – he was a friend of hers, and she’s a very loyal person. Don’t let her get to you. I’ll try to run interference.’

‘What about the gown?’ I angled my head in his direction. ‘Do you think it was Emerald’s? Why would someone bring it to my office?’

‘I don’t know. Yesterday after Emerald was admitted to the hospital, I was hanging around in intensive care, hoping to catch a glimpse of her after they cleaned her up. My persistence paid off because during the transfusion, the nurse walked away for a minute and I took a good look at Emerald. The gown in the envelope was exactly the same as the one she was wearing in the hospital. Now, whether or not the blood is hers, only the lab guys can tell us, but my money’s on the likelihood that it is.’

He studied his notebook, absently flipping through the pages, then gave me that serious eye-contact he was so good at.

‘You were the one who brought Emerald to the hospital, so maybe giving the bloody gown to you was a message. Can you think of anyone who’d want to communicate something to you that way? Any unusually psychotic clients? Anyone wanting to hurt you? Have you received any threats? You said Bryce and his sidekick broke into your office. What about them?’ He chewed on the end of his pen, observing my face expectantly.

As soon as he mentioned Bryce and Raleigh’s visit, fear invaded my brain, but I wasn’t sure how much more I could tell Alan – how much I could trust him. If I implicated Midnight in the investigation, that was definitely a breach of confidentiality. I decided to fall back on an old therapy technique: when in doubt, say nothing. I wasn’t actually lying if I simply withheld information. Therapists are required to be discerning. But I did take note that my comfort level with bending the truth had expanded. I mentally added that to my list of things to worry about later.

I kept my expression relaxed and called on my Inner Sociopath. ‘No. I don’t understand any of this. I can’t imagine it has anything to do with me. Do you think Emerald is still alive?’

He studied the carpet. ‘I wish I could be more encouraging, but if they’ve drained her blood again, it doesn’t bode well. I’m hoping we can find out more tonight.’ He lifted his eyes to mine. ‘Are you still up for visiting The Crypt?’

Damn. I’d forgotten all about that. Maybe I could catch Tom at his conference and make sure he wasn’t planning to stop by my house. I wasn’t inclined to let him use my office part-time anyway, and I knew better than to be alone with him and a bottle of wine.

‘Yes, I guess so. I’m not sure what good it will do, but since I’m involved now, I can’t just walk away.’ And I had to admit I was curious about the place. Right. Who was I kidding? I was curious about Devereux. Imagining the possibility of getting another glimpse of the platinum-haired fantasy object, I drifted off for a few seconds, indulging in a brief R-rated mental interlude.

Sensing Alan’s eyes on me, I shook myself out of my daydream and wondered what the FBI profiler had seen on my face to cause the eyebrow-elevated, semi-suspicious expression he wore on his.

I was about to enquire as to the meaning of that expression when I got a strong intuitive hit that he thought I was hiding something. I simply knew the gist of what he was thinking and feeling. Just my usual. Daydreaming about Devereux must have distracted me from my mental stress-a-thon long enough for me to sense the subtle layers and become aware of Alan’s energy. It did seem that my ability to psychically know things worked best when I wasn’t consciously trying to use it. Yeah, that was helpful. Or maybe it was more accurate to say it worked best when I didn’t get in the way.

It didn’t seem possible that Alan could know anything about my interest in Devereux, so his flash of distrust had to have something to do with Emerald. But it really didn’t matter what he thought, because I wasn’t hiding anything. Not really. In fact, I’d never felt more ineffectual and clueless.

Besides, even if he somehow did know about the contents of my fantasy, it wasn’t any of his damn business anyway.

He opened his mouth to speak and I stood, surprising him. The best defence is offence. I’d had just about enough intrigue for one morning. I turned to him, straightened my posture, and checked my watch. ‘I have a client coming soon, so I need to get ready. Thanks for contacting the police and handling everything – I really appreciate it. I’ll see you tonight.’

He remained seated for a few seconds, his face still registering confused surprise.

Shit. Now he really thinks I’m up to something. He’s sending out wave after wave of questions. I should’ve just asked him why he was staring at me that way. Now I’ve turned it into some big, strange deal. Why does he make me so nervous?

He finally stood slowly, his eyebrows contracted into a V, and offered a tight smile.

‘Yeah, tonight, sure. See you then.’

He walked to the door, glanced over his shoulder at me once and left.

‘Well,’ I said out loud, ‘I certainly handled that with finesse and style. Let’s hear it for the Queen of Mixed Messages.’

I forced myself to turn my attention back to work and settled in at my desk, intending to grab hold of anything even remotely normal, anything I felt competent to handle.

As I sat there, I remembered that I’d forgotten to tell the police about the phone calls from Brother Luther. It was probably just as well I hadn’t, because it was most likely nothing. I’d been so caught up in the drama of the last few days that I was getting paranoid. Plus, telling Lieutenant Bullock something that might prove to be a false alarm was the last thing I intended to do.

Since Ronald had cancelled his appointment and I’d rescheduled Fran, I had some time to myself before Spock was due for his session. I tried writing some case notes but kept getting distracted and staring out the window. I decided to stroll over to the nearby 16^th Street Mall, a pedestrian-friendly outdoor shopping area in the heart of downtown Denver, and pick up some office supplies along with a bit of much-needed protein.

I roamed around the mall for a while, checking out the window displays, and then made a beeline over to my favourite food cart. I didn’t normally buy food off quirky carts in the middle of shopping malls, but one of my clients had raved about the quality of Maria’s breakfast burritos, and because I was a fan of Mexican food, it was a no-brainer that I’d go and sample the goods.

Because I’d emptied out the contents of my stomach before the police arrived and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten before that, it was definitely time to refuel. As I gave myself a quick internal lecture about needing to take better care of myself, my mouth was already watering in response to the heavenly aromas wafting from the gastronomical oasis. The charming young man standing at the cart was Juan, Maria’s son, and we were on a first-name basis.

‘Doctor Kismet! What’s it gonna be today? Spicy or mild?’ he teased as he scooped steaming scrambled eggs into a soft tortilla. Juan told me that he could tell what kind of mood I was in by the amount of hot peppers I asked for in my burrito. He called it Burrito Psychology.

‘Better leave out the peppers today, Juan. I’ve had a rough morning.’

He gave me a big, friendly smile, displaying perfect white enamel. ‘Let me give you a couple of jalapeños on the side. I get the feeling that your day’s about to change. Juan knows these things.’

I smiled back at him and paid for the food. ‘See you later.’ As I left, I noticed that Juan’s usual fan club – a crowd of giggling teenage girls – had swooped in on him the moment I walked away. After my bizarre morning, watching them flirt felt good. At least some part of the world was still normal.

Food in hand, I sauntered down the mall and found a seat on a small wall enclosing an unwieldy sculpture of a cowboy-hat-clad man atop a bucking bronco. Another sports symbol, no doubt. Denver idolised its football team. Maybe I should write a book about the psychology of spectator sports addiction. Or maybe not. I already seemed to have enough enemies without stirring up the local Neanderthals.

I sat there, thoroughly enjoying the melt-in-the-mouth taste of Maria’s masterpiece, and began to catch snatches of conversation coming from two women sitting at a folding table a few feet away from me. A little sign next to the table proclaimed ‘Psychic Tarot Readings’.

‘No, that’s not going to happen. He’s not for you. Let go of him,’ said the woman facing me. She was spreading out tarot cards on a colourful tablecloth decorated with astrological symbols. Rings adorned her fingers, her long fingernails were painted sparkling silver and an intricate tattoo decorated the back of her right hand. She wore a bright-red dress with a shiny black vest and her long grey hair flowed down into a pile in her lap.

The woman sitting with her was less than happy with her reading, because she sprang up, almost knocking over her chair, and yelled, ‘That’s bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s my soulmate and you’re wrong.’ She stomped off, muttering to herself about quacks and phoneys.

I didn’t want to embarrass the tarot reader by letting her know I’d overheard the exchange, so I focused on my burrito, finishing up the last few tasty bites. The sound of laughter caught my attention and I raised my head to find the woman staring at me, making hand motions, inviting me to come to her table.

‘If you’ve finished your breakfast come on over. I’ve been waiting for you.’

I scanned the area to see who she was talking to and when I couldn’t find anyone else in the vicinity, I pointed to myself. ‘Me? No thank you. I don’t believe in fortune-telling.’

She kept smiling at me and I had to admit I was impressed by her sales technique. Let people think that you had information just for them and they’d probably sit down and hand over some greenbacks. It was basic psychology.

‘No charge. Just come and listen for a few minutes. If what I have to say doesn’t resonate, you can call me names and walk away.’

Hmmm. This approach must work or else she wouldn’t keep using it, but I couldn’t see how she’d make a living by giving people the option of not paying. She had me, though. My curiosity was piqued. I wiped my hands on a napkin, folded up the paper that’d held the burrito, and carried it over to the trash can.

The tarot-reader was still staring at me, shuffling her cards, waiting.

Curious, I walked over to her table. ‘Why would you want to read my cards for free? That can’t be a very good way to make money.’

‘It’s not my job to worry about where the money comes from. I just follow my intuition and everything seems to work out perfectly. Come on, sit down. I’m Cerridwyn.’

Well, why not? My life had been so weird for the last week that this just fitted right in. Why not let a tarot-reader in the mall tell me that I’d win the lottery, or that I was Cleopatra in a past life? How much more bizarre could it be than my morning so far?

She stopped shuffling the cards and handed them to me. ‘Just move the cards around, any way you wish. Put your essence into them.’

I shuffled, her amused but intense gaze never leaving me. Her eyes were a deep, dark purple – living amethyst – and they were surrounded by a network of fine lines that were exaggerated when she smiled. Clearly she smiled often. At first I’d assumed she was old because of her grey hair, but sitting close to her, I could see she was much younger, maybe not even forty.

She reached out for the cards and I stopped shuffling and gave them to her. She inhaled a deep breath, closed her eyes for a few seconds, reopened them, and began laying out the cards in a specific pattern. She gazed into my eyes. ‘You have been chosen. From this time forwards nothing will ever be the same for you.’

Well, that was nice and vague. It was right up there with ‘You’ll meet a tall, dark stranger’.

She chuckled. ‘How did one so young become so sceptical?’

Oh, goodie. Another mind reader.

She studied the cards and declared, ‘I see you surrounded by men. Two of them will offer you love, one brings danger. But he is only a messenger of the larger darkness. Your refusal to see the situation as it really is will put you and those you care about at risk.’

What?

She was quiet for a few seconds, unfocused eyes staring off into the distance, then she smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, you are playing with the vampires.’

I must have let my mouth fall open, because she started laughing. ‘You’re surprised that I know?’

‘Yes. I do work with people who believe they’re vampires. You’re very good.’

‘But you don’t believe?’

‘No, of course not.’

She seemed to think that was very funny, because she put one hand on her chest and laughed for a few seconds. ‘I envy you your journey. If you’re brave, your life will become extraordinary. Even as stubborn as you are.’

I let the stubborn comment pass. ‘What do you know about the vampires?’

‘I’m very psychic. I’ve always been aware of nonhumans – not only vampires – and of a growing darkness that’s pure evil. There are a few places in the world where this evil is manifesting. Denver is such a place. You’re to play a key role. Even more important, you’re to learn to love and be loved. You’ll find the courage to open your heart.’

Cerridwyn certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Pure evil in Denver? Nonhumans?

‘Well, I have to say that I was expecting a canned prediction and you’ve been very creative. I want to pay you for your time.’

She reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her expression suddenly serious. ‘There is danger tonight. It’s too late for the young woman you seek. Don’t be afraid of your own abilities – they will save you.’

The burrito churned in my stomach. I was afraid to ask what she meant by the comment about the young woman, so I just sat there staring at her.

‘I hope this reading was helpful to you. Come and see me again when you’re ready to ask the right questions and to hear the answers.’ She reached into a pocket in her shirt. ‘Here’s my card. Call me when you find that courage. Remember that nothing comes to you without your invitation, even if you don’t realise you’re sending it.’

What invitation? What the hell is she talking about?

She handed me her business card, gathered her tarot deck back into a pile and wrapped it in a red silk scarf.

I fished in my pocket for some money, pulled out a $10 bill, set it on the table as I stood and said, ‘You’ve frightened me.’ I was surprised to hear those words come out of my mouth because it wasn’t like me to share my feelings with strangers – or with anyone, for that matter.

‘Good. Being frightened will help you pay attention.’

She palmed the money, tucked it into her pocket and closed her eyes.

I took that as a dismissal and walked back to my office, replaying her words in my mind. The logical part of me tried to take charge, reminding me that there was no solid research to back up the validity of most psychic readings. The majority of so-called readers were frauds. I had to admit that Cerridwyn sounded authentic, but most of her feedback had really only been cosmo-babble, and the strange feeling in my midsection was simple indigestion.

But the instinctual part of me ignored all that and reminded me of the story of ‘The Three Little Pigs’, and the one little pig who built his house with bricks. What was my unconscious trying to tell me? Was there really a big, bad wolf out there who could blow the house down?