The Vanishing by Gary Brown (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📕

a sound, Krebeck thought as he unscrewed the silencer from the barrel, disassembled the weapon, and returned each section to the knapsack. He turned off the phone, placed it in the gym bag, and picked up his belongings.

He stopped periodically as he descended the tower, being careful not to draw attention to himself. Both the fireworks display and the commotion over the horrific crash provided substantial cover for his exit. Upon reaching the base of the tower, he walked down the service road to the van, threw the bags on the passenger seat, and drove out of the parking lot. As he rounded the corner, he saw the frenzied commotion at the fractured barrier half a mile down the hill. When he had reached the site of the crash he stopped, rolled down his window, and motioned to a young man with spiky green hair and tattered jeans standing at the side of the road. The youth walked over to the van.

“What’s going on?”

“You didn’t see it? Man! Some dude in a Porsche just did a half-pike off the cliff. Totally did himself in.”

“Is anybody alive down there? Have the police been called?”

The kid shrugged. “Some guy called it in on his cell phone. No point, though. Ain’t no way anybody could have survived that drop. Gotta be almost three hundred feet to the bottom.” The kid sighed. “What a way to go.”

“Yeah. Guess you never know when your ticket’s gonna get punched.”

“Damn straight.”

The faint sound of sirens from approaching emergency vehicles rose in the distance.

Krebeck rolled up his window and glanced in his mirror as he drove off. Thick smoke continued to pour up the cliff. As he continued down the canyon road, he pulled over on the narrow shoulder to give the police cars and fire trucks plenty of room to pass.

He turned on the radio, tuned in a jazz station, turned up the volume. Trumpets blared to the classic sound of Glen Miller’s, ‘In the Mood’.

He strummed his fingers to the beat. “Goodnight, Dr. Prescott,” he said quietly. “Sweet dreams.”

At the foot of the canyon road, he rounded the corner and disappeared into the night.

7

FIVE YEARS LATER

AT SEVENTEEN MINUTES past six, Claire closed the door behind her last patient of the night, Walter Pennimore, an accused child molester now living a life of seclusion. He had been granted his freedom, despite Claire’s written objection to the parole board. His reporting condition required he attend two sessions per week with her, during which she delved into the most perverse corners of his mind and attempted to exorcise the demons that troubled him. Claire knew they were not demons at all, but an irrational hunger that needed to be sated; the deliberate actions of a man-wolf released into a wilderness of naïve prey.

Leaving the clinic after a session with Walter always left Claire feeling uneasy. The underground parking lot, three levels deep, was accessible from the main elevator. High-tech security cameras monitored her every step from the lobby to the parking area. Claire’s car was parked on the lowest level, L3. The security guards at the gated entrance to the lot always kept a faithful eye on the monitors, which added to her sense of protection. But the knowledge that Claire harbored about patients like Walter Pennimore and their unpredictable state of mind made her acutely aware of the monsters within the men. All the video cameras and security guards in the world would be of no help to her if one day one of them should snap.

Claire watched the bright green numbers on the elevator display panel change as it descended to the third floor. She jingled her car keys nervously, twirled them in her hand, then interlaced them between her fingers. As the elevator came to a stop, her silver-brushed reflection dissolved with the separation of the doors.

The third floor was a restricted area, reserved only for clinicians and doctors. Though well lit and electronically monitored, Claire was afraid to be there alone. It bothered her that despite repeated requests, a building as secure as the Mendelson Clinic had never installed a key card system to further restrict access to the floor. Anyone could simply get on the main elevator, press the third-floor button, and gain immediate access to the staff parking area. Like Claire, many of the doctors working at Mendelson were psychiatrists dealing with high-risk patients. Though no doctor had ever been attacked at the clinic, Claire certainly did not want to be the first. As she approached her car, she pressed the remote control on her key chain and disarmed the alarm. From the short distance, a chirp-chirp sounded.

“Doctor Prescott?”

Startled, Claire wheeled around. Walter Pennimore stepped out from behind a black Lexus parked in the space next to the elevator doors. At six feet, four inches, he was a large man with thin, slicked back salt and pepper hair, thick horn-rimmed glasses and a quiet but unsettling presence. He loomed in front of her, the bottle-thick lenses of his glasses doing little to help his myopic condition. He squinted at Claire. His abnormally pale complexion appeared jaundiced under the hard glow of the mustard-yellow ceiling lights. In his hands he held his crumpled jacket. He fidgeted with it as he walked towards her. Claire gasped, stepped back, and accidentally dropped her keys on the pavement.

“What are you doing here, Walter?” she asked. “This area is off limits to patients.”

“I know,” Walter replied. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Doctor Prescott. I just wanted to tell you how thankful I am. You know, for spending so much time with me and all.”

“That’s all right, Walter,” Claire replied, trying not to let her welling fear speak for her. “I’m just doing my job as your parole officer and the state board have instructed me to do.”

Claire looked past Pennimore to the panic alarm mounted on the wall beside the elevator entrance.

“I know that,” Walter continued. He shuffled closer. “But you’re the only one I’ve ever