In the Flesh. Rita Herron

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      J ENNY BREWED a pot of coffee, then accessed her work files and skimmed through them.

      She had several seriously disturbed patients, and two weekly group therapy sessions—the first, a group of obsessive-compulsives; the second, a group of sex addicts. She combed through the members of the sex addicts group, but nothing stuck out as suspicious. One man was addicted to porn, and had sought therapy because his boss had threatened to fire him for viewing it at work. One female was a nymphomaniac, one man was obsessed with having sex in public, and two others had various fetishes.

      Moving on, she looked through the other patient files, studying the notes she’d taken during their private sessions. Two names tickled her conscience.

      Clyde Anson and Jamal Rakely.

      Clyde was a masochist and had been forced into therapy by the courts for assaulting a woman. His preference toward asphyxiation sex made her uneasy—the killer had strangled his victims. He fit the profile in other ways, as well—he was in his mid-twenties, had been raised in an overly religious home by an overbearing mother and had been abused.

      Jamal Rakely also raised her suspicion. During a domestic incident he’d turned violent, had lost control and strangled his wife, but his attorney had pled him out on an insanity charge. His history: Jamal had witnessed his father murder his mother when he was five.

      Her cell phone rang, and she startled, sloshing coffee on her skirt. She yelped, grabbed a napkin and dabbed at it, then jumped up and retrieved the phone. A check of the caller ID box showed Dr. Solaris, her mother’s doctor at CIRP. A knot tightened in her stomach.

      “Dr. Solaris, this is Jenny Madden.”

      “Hi, Jenny. You visited your mother this morning?”

      “Yes, I always do on Sunday. Is she all right?”

      “Yes, she’s resting now.”

      Jenny frowned. “Are you sure? Sometimes after I visit she becomes agitated.”

      “Actually she’s been sleeping all afternoon. But the reason I called is that I’ve phoned Dr. Zovall several times requesting he fax me your mother’s files, and he hasn’t sent them yet. Have you spoken with him recently?”

      That was odd. “No, but I can give him a call. Have you tried his cell number?”

      “Yes. I’ve left messages. Anyway, he’s probably tied up with another patient, but I wanted you to know that I’m going to proceed and conduct a full and extensive evaluation this week. It’ll include a gambit of tests, complete blood work, tests for physiological conditions, chemical imbalances, MRI, cat scans and neurological tests.”

      “Good. I expected you would want to conduct your own tests. And frankly, after all these years and her lack of progress, I think it’s time.”

      “You voiced your concerns to Dr. Zovall?”

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t imagine he was happy about you pulling her from his treatment.”

      “No, not at first. But he cares for my mother and wants what’s best for her, so he finally agreed that she should see someone else. I think he feels guilty for her lack of progress.”

      A noise outside jarred her, and she peeked out the window but saw nothing suspicious. Antsy, she walked through the den to the kitchen and checked the back door. A stray cat slithered through the yard, jumped on the trash can and the lid rattled.

      Sighing, she silently chided herself.

      “I’ll call you when we learn the results.”

      “Good. And if you need me at any time, you have my number.” She hesitated. “I understand this change may be unsettling for Mom.”

      “Don’t worry,” Dr. Solaris said. “I’ll take good care of her. We have some new treatments that are working well with other patients. Hopefully your mother will respond positively, as well.”

      “I hope so, Doctor.”

      She hung up the phone, but another noise out back startled her, and when she glanced through the window her heart raced. A man was skulking across the backyard, his face hidden in the shadows.