Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

nightmarish admission blew in like a hurricane. She closed her eyes tight, but all she could see was the hooded man on top of her, his skin hot and sweaty on hers, the skull ring on the fist that held the knife, the twin rubies glowing as brightly as the two eyes under the hood—
    "Julia, look at me."
    She opened her eyes, shivering, her tears cool on her cheeks.
    "It's natural for you to be scared," Dr. Forrest said. "It gets easier. Accepting is the first part of healing. From here on, we go forward."
    Julia nodded. Forward.
    "Now you're ready to embrace the whole truth. But we'll have to go slowly."
    Julia began putting away the memories, the emotional trauma of the session, as if they were notebooks filed in mental cabinets. She needed to gather herself and go meet the demands of reality. She was behind on her work, and the paper's deadline was this evening. And the police were supposed to come by her house to dust for fingerprints.
    She bent down to get her purse and stopped with her hand on the strap. "What about the drawing?"
    "Let's not worry about the drawing right now." Dr. Forrest walked to stand beside Julia's chair. "I think you have enough to sort out right now without thinking about that. In fact, I believe it would be best if I kept it for you. At least for a week or two, until you're ready to face your recent problems."
    Julia clutched the purse into her lap. She wasn't sure she should let the paper go. The police might need it to prove that the Peeping Tom had illegally entered her bedroom. It likely had his fingerprints on it.
    But how would he know about the pentagram, about "Jooolia"?
    Maybe Dr. Forrest was right. The drawing had caused her nothing but worry. If she were rid of it, maybe she could get on with her healing. Out of sight, out of mind.
    She opened her purse and handed the folded paper to Dr. Forrest. The therapist smiled, her gray eyes almost mirthful. "You're going to be just fine, Julia. You're going to be perfect."
    Julia closed the purse, the wooden box still buried under Kleenex, hairbrush, wallet, cell phone, and keys. She would keep the ring secret until the next session.
    "Time heals all wounds, Julia," said the doctor.
    Time, and maybe the band-aids and salve of hope. And faith, if she could find any.

 
     
    CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
     
    Rick O'Dell came by Julia's desk after lunch, his confident smile a counterpoint to her dark mood.
    "So, how was the vacation?" Rick asked. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie carefully askew. He was eating a donut, nibbling it like a fastidious mouse.
    "Refreshing." Julia glanced back at her computer screen.
    "You look like you hardly slept a wink. Who was the lucky guy?"
    Certainly not you, Mr. Stud-In-Your-Dreams. My private life is none of your business.
    She controlled her annoyance. "Look, Rick, I'm way behind. I've got four articles to get done by deadline."
    "Touchy. Don't you want to hear the latest on my Satanic sacrifice theory?"
    Julia's fingers froze over the keyboard. She swiveled her chair, forgetting her resolve to be indifferent to him. "Actually, I was kind of wondering about that."
    "You've still got it in you. Once you get a nose for the crime beat, you never lose it."
    "Rick, I'm strictly features now. Don't worry about me trying to take your job."
    Rick laughed, the confident boy wonder with two press awards on his desk. "I just got a copy of the medical examiner's preliminary report. Ritualistic markings, made with a blade. No fingerprint match, unfortunately. The victim is still unidentified. Autopsy showed traces in the system of morphine and—get this—belladonna."
    "Belladonna?"
    "Yeah. Also known as 'witch bane.' Long associated with black magic and Satan worship. It's taken as a hallucinogenic substance, even though it's actually a poison."
    "I know what belladonna is. Hand of Glory, and all that. So what killed him, the wounds or the poison?"
    "From what they can tell right now, he probably was just getting a decent buzz on when the knife fell the first time." Rick stuffed more of the donut in his mouth, crumbs dribbling down his chin. He wiped his hand on his pants. "If he was lucky, he was dead before they chopped off his head."
    "You're saying 'they.' Any evidence that this wasn't the act of a lone psycho?"
    "Who cares about evidence? This story is sweet."
    "Is the daily onto it?"
    "Don't you read the papers?"
    "Not if I can help it."
    "They're strictly soft-selling it. The cops are feeding them a line