Chapter 5

The office occupied by Dr. Edmund Protius was on the second floor of the West Valley Police Building. It was, by design, more comfortable and less formal than those of the police officials. The desk was an antique of deep-shined cherry wood. It held a calendar, an oversize ashtray, a cup full of pens and pencils, and framed photos of the doctor's wife and two children.

The chairs were comfortable creaky leather. The colors of the office were masculine and designed to relax the visitor - muted brown and maroon. On the wall were prints of seascapes and rolling meadowlands.

There was no psychiatric couch, the books on the shelf were not medical texts, no white-enamel drug cabinet marked this as the office of a doctor. It might have been the work space of a smalltown banker, or a real estate man who specialized in middle-class homes.

It was difficult to be ill at ease in the relaxing atmosphere of this office, but Sgt. Brian Kettering was managing it.

The detective prowled the room, touched the books, studied the prints, peered out the window at the patch of green in the park next door. He lit a Marlboro, drew in a lungful of smoke, cleared his throat.

Dr. Protius, meanwhile, leaned back comfortably in the burgundy leather high-backed swivel chair and waited for him to speak first.

"This is probably a mistake," Kettering said. "I'm just taking up your time."

"Sure you are. What of it? That's what the city pays me for. Why don't you sit down before you wear out my carpet."

Kettering dropped into one of the chairs with a weary sigh. Protius swiveled to face him.

"What's on your mind, Brian?"

"You remember when I saw you in the hall yesterday?"

"Uh-huh."

"You asked me how things were at home, and I told you fine?"

"I think that was your description. Also 'beautiful.'"

"I lied."

"That so?"

"Things are a mess."

"Ah." Dr. Protius placed his fingertips together and pursed his lips.

"Do you have to do that wise-doctor pose?" Kettering said.

"Sorry." Protius unpursed his lips and leaned back, folding his hands across his chest.

"I slept with another woman last night." Kettering got the words out in a burst and waited. "Not my wife."

"Is that supposed to shock me or something?" Protius said at last.

"I don't know."

"I've been working with cops for five years. Marital hanky-panky is not exactly foreign to my ears."

"Okay, so you've heard it before." Kettering sulked.

"Or do you want me to give you absolution? Hey, I'm not the chaplain. Just what is it you're looking for, Brian?"

"I don't know," he said again. "Last night I had the feeling what I wanted was for Mavis to get mad. Yell at me. Throw me out. React somehow. I don't think she gave a damn where I was or what I was doing."

Protius said nothing.

Kettering cleared his throat again. "Anyway, it's not the problem at home that brings me here. I can handle that. And it's not the business yesterday with that knife artist."

"So what are you doing here, Brian?"

"It's the thing on my door."

"On your door," the doctor repeated.

"Something like the shape of a man. Only not a man. In red."

"Red paint?"

"I guess."

The doctor prompted him gently. "In the shape of a man, you say."

"Sort of a man. Only not really. Ugly. Ominous." Kettering ground out his cigarette and looked into the serious eyes of the doctor. "Something weird is happening to me, Ed."

"You're sure it wasn't gang graffiti? We're starting to get more of that junk in the Valley."

"No, nothing like that. I just wish it were. This was a message meant for me. Personally."

"How do you know that?"

"I can't answer that. I just know."

"Okay. Tell me what you felt when you saw it."

"I felt like ... it found me."

"What found you?"

Kettering started to answer, closed his mouth. Finally he said, "I don't know. Something."

"What did you almost say?"

"Nothing. Just foolishness."

"Let me be the judge of that, okay?"

"When I was a kid I had a ... I guess you'd call it a personal boogeyman. I called it ... aah, this is silly."

"Come on, Brian. You've made it this far. Let's hear the rest of it."

"I called it the Doomstalker." Kettering faced the doctor, challenging him. "Some imagination, huh?"

Protius ignored the question. "Where did it come from?"

"An uncle of mine used to tell me stories about it."

"He gave it the name?"

"I don't remember if it was him or if I did after my father ..."

Dr. Protius waited ten seconds before saying, "After your father what?"

"He died."

"Mm-hmm."

"I, uh, I saw him die. Sort of."

"Tell me about it."

"You've got time?"

"I've got as much time as you have."

Kettering lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, coughed, put it out. He leaned back in the chair and fixed his gaze on a spot above the psychiatrist's head.

"Actually, I don't remember all that much. It was a church picnic. You knew my father was a minister?"

Protius nodded.

"I was at the picnic with my mother and my sister Jessie. I was six years old ..."

Protius listened without comment as Kettering spoke haltingly about the long-ago summer day. He told of being sent home with the message for his father. "... I was in a hurry to get back to the picnic. I remember I ran all the way home, but even before I got there I started feeling funny ... scared."

"Scared of what?"

"I don't know. There was no reason. But I remember feeling that something really bad was going to happen."

"And did it?"

"Yeah. My father died. And I saw it. I think."

"You think?"

"Everything gets hazy after I went up on the porch. It's like a dream I can almost remember, but not quite."

"Tell me as much as you can remember," said the doctor.

Kettering shrugged. "There isn't much more. There were voices. My father sounded ... different than I'd ever heard him. He was swearing, and he never swore. I mean, he was a minister."

"You said voices. Plural."

"Did I?"

"How many voices?"

"Two." Kettering looked at him sharply. "How did I remember that?"

"Who was the other voice?"

"I don't know."

"Close your eyes. Try to hear it again."

Kettering closed his eyes, opened them almost immediately. "It's no use. I don't remember."

The doctor pinned him with his sharp gray eyes. "Was it the voice of the Doomstalker?"

One eyelid twitched just before Kettering gave a loud, unconvincing bark of laughter. "How would I know?" He sobered. "Doc, I told you the Doomstalker was just a name I put to a story told by my uncle."

"Right. And the thing on your door, is that a made-up story?"

"No."

"So what's the connection?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me."

"It doesn't work that way, Brian. All I can do is try to help you remember what you already know."

"For that you went to twelve years of medical school?"

"Something like that."

The two men sat without speaking for several minutes.

Kettering moved as though to rise. "I guess that's it. Thanks, Doc."

"Sit down a minute."

Kettering obeyed, surprised at the sudden authority in the doctor's voice.

"How have you been feeling physically?"

"Fine. Well, I've had headaches lately. A little trouble sleeping."

"Starting when?"

"I don't know. About a month ago."

"Anything special happen then?"

"No. Well, things got a little chilly between Mavis and me. No big thing, just the usual husband and wife stuff."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing I can think of."

"Nothing related to your childhood in Indiana?"

"Nah. I've got no connections to Prescott. Haven't even thought about the town in a long time."

Dr. Protius shook a Salem out of the pack. He leaned forward across the desk. "Got a light?"

Kettering dug a book of matches out of his pants pocket. As he handed the matchbook across the desk, his right hand began to quiver, then to shake violently. The matchbook fell to the desk. Kettering grabbed the wrist with his left hand and held on until the other steadied.

"What was that?" Protius said.

"What was what?"

"Come on, Brian, don't fuck around with me. That tremor. Do you get it often?"

Kettering looked down at his hands, rock steady now. He spread his fingers and turned the hands over, studying their backs. "It's nothing," he said. "Just nerves."

"Oh yes? And where did you get your medical degree?"

Kettering picked up the book of matches, struck one, and held the flame steady for him. "That's a nasty habit. You really ought to quit."

Protius lit the cigarette and inhaled. "I will if you will."

The two men sat in silence for another thirty seconds. Telephones jangled softly in the other offices. From outside the window came the muted roar of a leaf blower. The air conditioner sighed.

Finally Dr. Protius spoke. "I'd give you odds there's some connection between your current problems and what happened when you were six."

"If anything really happened," Kettering said.

"You have some doubts now?"

"Hell, Doc, I have nothing but doubts. There's a lot I don't remember, and the little I do remember is like something photographed through a distorting lens."

Protius leaned across the desk and fixed him with a sharp gaze. "Do you want to remember, Brian?"

"Sure, if it will help."

"I can't guarantee, but it might. Are you willing to try hypnosis?"

"I don't know. I don't like the idea of losing control."

"It's not like that. You've been to the lectures about hypnotizing witnesses to help them remember details."

"Yeah. I guess I never thought about it being done to me."

"Well? What do you say?"

"Would you be the one to do it?"

"Yes."

"I'll have to think about it, Doc."

"Do you want something for those headaches and that ..." He pantomimed the shaking of Kettering's hand. "... attack of nerves?"

"No thanks. I don't like to take pills."

"Whatever you say. You know where to find me."

Kettering stood up. "I wish I could tell you our talk made me feel a whole lot better."

"You don't?"

"Nope."

"So take a couple of aspirin and call me in the morning."

Kettering grinned at him. "Thanks, Doc. You tried."

He walked out of the office with Protius frowning after him.