Phobia KDP by C.A. Shives

pulled a small notebook from her breast pocket and flipped through the pages.
    “No one saw anything unusual the night or morning of Amanda Todd’s death,” Saxon reported. “However, her next door neighbor claims to have seen an unfamiliar silver SUV parked across the street during the last month.”
    “Every day?” Tucker asked.
    Saxon shook her head. “She couldn’t pin it down exactly, but she says the truck was there at least twice a week. I checked with the other neighbors. No one claimed it, and no one else saw it.”
    “Silver SUV,” Herne mused. “What about a make or model?”
    “No luck. The neighbor was an old woman. Practically ancient. Her eyesight was bad and her hearing was worse. She says color is the only thing she knows about cars. She did say the SUV was a boxy type with square edges, not rounded in the front or back.”
    “Something older,” Herne said. “Or maybe utilitarian.”
    “It’s not much,” Saxon admitted.
    “Silver is the most popular color for vehicles,” Herne said.
    “Jesus,” Tucker said. “So all we have is a fucking silver SUV that might have been parked on Amanda’s street? That’s fucking great.”
    “What about the snakes? Any leads?” Herne asked.
    Tucker shook his head. “Johnson checked for sales of snake handling equipment. Cages, tongs, whatever kind of shit snake handlers use. Nothing. You can buy that shit on the Internet.”
    “Did anyone take a good look at the rattlers?”
    “I talked with a guy at Animal Control. He says these snakes are common around here. Anyone could have taken a hike in the woods and gathered up a few.”
    “Seemed like there were more than a few at Amanda’s house.”
    “Actually, there were only ten. In fact, the Animal Control guy said they all could have come from one snake’s litter.”
    “So he captured two or three snakes and then waited for them to breed,” Herne said.
    “Except female rattlers only breed every few years. So our guy was either very lucky, or he’d been planning this for a fucking long time.”
    “He was planning this,” Herne said.
    “Jesus.” Tucker gulped whiskey from his glass. He stood and paced the floor, his thin body taut with energy.
    Herne leaned against the refrigerator, his head bowed. Ice cubes clinked against the side of his empty glass, but he didn’t bother to refill it. He didn’t want club soda. He gripped his glass tightly, feeling its cool, smooth surface beneath his fingertips. He forced himself to resist the urge to press it against his forehead, which was suddenly coated with perspiration.
    “What about the psychologist?” Tucker asked. “Did you two see him today?”
    “He won’t say a word,” Saxon said through gritted teeth. “He says it’s all confidential and that he won’t talk without a court order.”
    “That’s probably the truth,” Tucker said.
    “He’s smarmy,” Saxon said.
    “Smarmy?”
    “Overconfident,” Herne offered. “He didn’t appear at all nervous or anxious, the type of reaction even innocent people have when they face a badge. He was smug. Almost superior. As a teenager, he probably crashed at his buddies’ houses just so he could sleep with their sisters.”
    “A total bastard,” Saxon said.
    “You sure seem to hate this guy,” Tucker remarked. “Any reason other than his superiority complex?”
    Saxon shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it. I just thought he was an asshole.”
    Herne knew the reason Saxon disliked Lochhead. Though they had not questioned the therapist about his personal life, Herne sensed that Lochhead was the type of man who used women and then discarded them, tossing them aside like they were a stained pair of underwear. Strong women like Saxon always took a dislike to men like Lochhead.
    “So did he kill Amanda?” Tucker asked.
    Herne drummed his thick fingers on the top of the kitchen table. Though Amanda’s terror was sharp and crisp in his mind, the killer was still just little more than