Dr. Ian West

“Where is she?”

“She’s safe, Dr. West.”

I palm the edge of the table to hold myself upright. It’s not relief; I’m well aware that Shaver could be lying, that he’s an expert in manipulation, especially with his practiced, conveyed emotions.

No, it’s desperation. I’m desperate to believe him, regardless of it all.

“Now, your reading—”

“Fuck your reading. I want to know where Porter is.” Strength renewed, I look into his eyes, unyielding.

Unaffected, Shaver tilts his head, more curious about my reactive state. “Don’t you want to know why, Dr. West? That would be the more logical question in order to obtain the object of your desire more promptly.”

My knuckles turn white against the dark trim. “I don’t have to ask.”

“Ah. That’s right. You read people. You already have the answer. Shame you didn’t figure it out sooner, though.”

I round the table and barrel toward Shaver, getting close enough to smash his face. My fists ache, clenched tightly at my sides, as I restrain from doing just that.

Shaver’s lips tip into a devious smile. “I envy your emotions,” he says. “How does that anger feel?”

Teeth gritted, heart thundering, I force myself to move back. The maddening truth is that Shaver wants control, and by losing mine, I’m serving him all the power.

“Very impressive,” he says, his accent grating my already frayed nerves. “So let’s press on. There’s something important I need to know before we can…help one another.”

My eyes seal closed. I count to three before I open them, centered. “What?”

“How do you see your cup, Dr. West? Half full, or half empty? Her life depends on your answer.”

It takes my last well of restraint not to end him right here. “She’s not a part of this.”

He doesn’t waver. No fear that I’ll make good on my macho display. “Of course she is. She’s been the center of it from the start. Now, have a seat, Dr. West.” He turns to face the table. “We don’t have long, and there are rules you need to understand.”

The thing about psychopaths: they have to feel in control.

Every fiber of my being revolts against giving Shaver what he wants, but for Porter, to know that she’s safe… I take a step back. Then take another step away. I unclench my hands, allow blood flow to temper my anger and murderous thoughts.

I want to drag him over the table and beat the answer out; nothing would give me greater pleasure than causing him physical pain. But I seat myself across from him and breathe slowly, evenly. “You had Porter taken to ensure my testimony.”

“Insurance in this matter is utmost important,” he says. “Why else would you take the stand and testify to my being insane?”

Of course, I asked myself this very thing. I weighed Shaver’s egotistical nature with the fact that he does suffer antisocial pathologies. I’m out of practice in dealing with patients on a one-on-one basis. I recognized the threat, yet in my own vain way, I assumed it was solely directed toward me, and not anyone else.

Porter is an extension of me. Shaver saw this. She is his bartering chip.

“You testify in three days,” Shaver continues. “Once you complete your task, I’ll have proof that Porter is well and alive delivered to you.”

“No. I want that now, and once I testify, I want her released.”

He tsks. “I can’t do that, Dr. West. See, you could just as easily retract your testimony. The case needs to be over, the jury ruling in my favor. Then your world will be made right again.”

Bargaining with a madman is a practice in idiocy. And it’s dangerous. This won’t end well. He’s smart enough to know that I can retract my statement at any time. Either before or after the trial. Inciting unethical practices (extremely) on his and his attorney’s part. With proof of Porter’s abduction, a whole lot of damage would follow.

He has no plans to set Porter free.

That’s not his MO. Before Tillman, there were no bodies.

My thoughts fight not to go there, but I know it in my bones. Porter will never be seen again. Her body never found.

I’m slipping into a dark place with this realization. I school my features not to show just how terrified I am. This might be my only chance to glean information from him—information that can save Porter.

“Three days,” I say, my voice raw. “Then why five cups, Shaver? You’re a methodical man. That just doesn’t line up.”

His gaze tics over my face, searching for my angle. “The Five of Cups has always haunted me,” he says. “But it never appeared in any of my readings until the first day of the trial. The gypsy said the cloaked man would be my salvation, and there you were. Cloaked in your shroud of grief. And there Porter was, your full, overflowing cup.” He shakes his head. “So much history, so much waste.”

“You’d be a fool not to exploit it,” I supply.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “I don’t want to go to prison.” He straightens his suit leisurely, as if he’s not on trial for murder.

“You could choose not to kill and mutilate women,” I say, mocking. “That’s always a good insurance policy.”

“You hide behind sarcasm. That must get exhausting. Here’s the truth, Dr. West: It is immaterial to me whether I behave well or ill, for virtue itself is no security.” A beat. “Do you know what that means?”

An annoyed scoff. “I know that quote doesn’t belong anywhere near you.”

“No, it belongs to the people, and it’s a testament to the savageness of our poorly executed justice system. What John Adams stated is a truth so deeply ingrained in our culture, every last citizen fears the police and court. We are not innocent until proven guilty. You above all should know this. You’re a trial consultant. You’re a part of the corrupt practice of this institution. You select juries to assure wins for your clients. Your colleagues violate privacy, and expose secrets.” He sits forward. “And you assume to judge me. Who is really in the wrong?”

We have left reality. “I don’t care about your opinions. I don’t care about your absurd justifications, or butchering of quotes. Answer the fucking question.” You sick, demented bastard.

“You didn’t look inside the cups, did you? Because if you had, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

My blood ices. My eyes close as I force the words out. “What’s in the cups?”

I’m out of my depth. I have to find a way to bury my emotions. Emotive reaction won’t result in getting Porter back. My fear is his nectar of life.

“Did you know that blood doesn’t evaporate?” he asks. His gaze lingers on my face, analyzing me. “You have to add an anticoagulant, and you have to use a precise mixture to use evaporation as a timer. Very old-school, but then I enjoy a more vintage approach.”

It hits me with a sick dread. Porter’s blood…

My voice is low, guttural. “Her blood? Her fucking blood is in those cups? What did you do to her?”

All attempts at controlling emotions are officially the fuck gone.

“Nothing compared to what I’m going to – oh, so – enjoy doing to her if you try to cross me in any way, Dr. West.”

Fuck it. I push the table. Hard. I remove the obstacle between me and the psycho. I’m in front of Shaver and peering down at him, mind lost. My fist makes contact with his face. Pain webs through my knuckles. But I grab his collar and strike again. I keep pounding, the smack of wet blood fueling my fire, until the pain numbs.

Hands are on me. I’m ripped away. My back hits the wall. One of the guards locks his forearm across my chest as I struggle, mindless, to get at Shaver.

In the chaos, Eddie arrives and convinces the guard to release me, but the cuffs go on. “Is that necessary?” Eddie demands.

The officer stares at my blood-stained hands and says, “It’s not that I haven’t wanted to do that very thing, Dr. West. But I’m sorry. I have to put you in holding.”

“Dammit.” Eddie scrubs his hands down his face. “All right. Just hang tight. Let me work it out.”

There’s nothing to work out. I glance at Shaver, bruised, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, and know that I’ve officially sentenced Porter to death. I’ll be locked away. I’ll be removed as an expert witness from the trial.

Chest heaving, I nearly crumple to the floor. “I tried,” I hear myself say. And I did try to contain the rage—but it’s been an active, simmering volcano for three years. On the cusp and ready to blow.

For months after Mel died, I envisioned hunting down that driver and beating him to a bloody pulp, then running him down with a car. I became fixated on that idea of justice. And now, all I can say is that, when faced with an actual villain—one where I can deliver punishment myself—the top blew.

Years of suppressed violence roared to the surface.

Shaver became the center of evil in the world that keeps taking and taking.

As the officer escorts me out of the room, I find and hold Shaver’s eyes.

“Revenge feels good, doesn’t it?” Shaver tries to bait me. “You have a pocket full of righteousness, Dr. West.”

“Don’t respond to that,” Eddie counsels. He’s already acting as my attorney.

Yeah. I’m going to need a good one.

* * *

Inside holding, I have time to think.

Too much time.

Which, admittedly, we don’t get enough of that pure solitude in life. Where every electronic is removed, out of reach. When all we have is the quiet, and time. And thoughts.

I relive the past few hours in a haze. Porter’s apartment. Shaver. Seeing myself over him. Blood. I bury my head in my bruised hands, going over it again. The cups—five cups. Shaver has a purpose for me, and it’s bigger than getting him acquitted on an insanity defense.

I know this, because he told me a story about a gypsy and a Tarot card. Which I have no idea if it was even true, but he’s fixated on this card and it’s meaning. It’s vital to him; so there has to be something I’m not seeing.

I laugh, a mocking, self-loathing laugh that encapsulates my uselessness. I haven’t seen Shaver coming from day one. My arrogance made sure of that.

I go over the events again, fingers gripped in my hair, willing the answer from my fucking skull. A pocket full of righteousness.

What the hell does that mean…?

I stand up and pat my slacks, then check my jacket. A ribbon of hope curls through my apprehension as I pull a slip of paper from my inseam pocket. As I unfold it, I realize Shaver’s baiting was more than just to get a reaction. He needed me to get close enough.

To the cloaked man of the Five of Cups.

He should be wary of trusting fools. The system he’s invested in has already betrayed and failed him once. He sees only what is lost. For this reason, his mourning will never end, even when a shiny new cup has been presented to him. In order to accept this new vessel, he must follow the path that sets his adversary free, forsaking his principles. Blood was spilt for his consuming grief. A sacrifice made for his future. A love that will heal. He will either take the new journey, embrace it and drink to prosperity—or the rest of her blood will spill.

PS - Three days. Three cups that will run dry. You’ve already lost so much, Dr. West. Don’t waste the last two.

Son of a bitch. I ball the note and pitch it at the cement wall. My body sags against the bench. My knuckles throb from every punch delivered to that sadistic bastard, and it feels good.

Shaver delivered a Tarot reading to me, after all. He’s won every round. I could spend hours analyzing his words, getting inside his head…but the only thing I can focus on is Porter. If I don’t take the stand and declare him insane—god—he will bleed her.

So fine. I swear on the Bible and stand before the court and announce he’s innocent of murdering Devin Tillman.

What then? At the end of the trial, Porter is suddenly set free? All evidence of her abduction wiped clean? Hardly. Shaver made a reference to how good revenge feels…knowing damn well that I’ll deliver that vengeance to him in a heartbeat.

A clang rebounds around the cell, and footfalls sound, coming closer. The officer who locked me inside opens the door. “You’re free to go.”

Eddie stands on the other side, hands tucked into his pockets. He looks weary. By the time I get my items back from holding, I’m feeling the same way.

Once outside, the fresh fall air hits my face. I inhale deeply, cleansing my lungs of the musty courthouse jail. “How did you spring me?”

Eddie guides me toward his BMW. “I made a deal with a devil.”

“Oh. You too?”

He whirls around, features rimmed in anger. “This isn’t a joke, Ian. You had Mia hack the courthouse security system and initiate the fire alarm to get Shaver out of court. Porter has been taken…and we don’t even know by whom, or what is happening to her. You punched a man amid his trial in the fucking courthouse.” He turns away, walks a few feet, then comes back at me. Finger pointed in my face. “I’m taking you to your office and then I’m getting my ass back in court. Can I trust you not to break any more laws today?”

Damn. When did Edward Vince Wagner grow a set. “You think I care about laws right now? What should I do? Call the cops? What do you think the police will do?” I step in front of his car door to block him. “What, Eddie? They won’t even declare her missing until the twenty-four hour mark, and by then…”

I can’t finish my thought. I don’t know what tomorrow holds for Porter, and that makes me feel so damn helpless my chest tightens.

He releases an exasperated sigh. Drives a hand through his hair that is already disheveled, as if he’s been repeating that action for the past hour. “After the trial is adjourned today, I’ll help. I’ll do what I can. But I can’t be a part of anything illegal.”

My head snaps back. As a lawyer in the DA’s office, I get where he’s coming from. But what I don’t get is how he can be so cavalier about Porter—about not doing everything in our power to find her.

“How did you get me out?” I demand this time.

His gaze drops to the asphalt. “It was Shaver.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told Smigel that he fell down a flight of stairs during the evacuation. I paid off the two guards to go along with his story. Shaver didn’t look too bad once he was cleaned up.” He shrugs. “Happens more than you think.”

“Falling down stairs, or defendants getting the shit beat out of them?”

He glares at me. “Payoffs.”

Yes. It does happen. But not to Eddie. He’s a walk-the-line prosecutor. He’s never had to manipulate the system…until today. For me. “I owe you one.”

He huffs derisively. “Damn straight you do. But just…” He trails off, finally looking me in the eyes. “I care about Porter, too. I don’t want to see her hurt. I know you don’t trust authorities.” He frowns. “But getting them involved is your best bet if someone has taken her, Ian. That’s my two cents.”

I nod to appease him, but Eddie doesn’t know the details yet. There’s more to weigh here than just the black and white. When the cops fail to find her, just like they failed to find Mel’s hit-and-run driver, then Shaver will make me pay.

And Porter will suffer for my failure.

“All this is so wrong,” he says, shaking his head. “You need to be cautious. Shaver isn’t playing with a full deck.”

I blink. A realization dawning. “What did you just say?”

“I’m saying, this is going to blow up in all our faces—”

“No, you said Shaver’s not playing with a full deck.” I walk around his car and open the passenger-side door. “Let’s go.”

Shaver isn’t insane. He’s intelligent and meticulous, and he’s definitely playing with a full deck—a deck of Tarot cards.