Free Kill Process by William Hertling Page A

sounds bad.”
    “I’m married. I’m not going to date the guy. He’s just fun to flirt with.” She turns and takes a long drink, draining the martini.
    There were guys like that in my distant past, the false confidence they exuded a siren call to some deep flaw in my personality. Rage runs through me, my blood hot and pounding in my ears. I can find out who he is, this prick on the other side of Emily, and I can kill him.
    Something triggers in my mind, and I realize I’m in a danger zone. Ever since my ex-husband, there’s something wrong with me. It’s not only the anxiety and PTSD symptoms, but something different inside that allows, or maybe even requires, me to go out and kill people.
    With the feeling of vertigo over a bottomless chasm, I see that the difference between me and a thug on the street is premeditation, data gathering and analysis. I’m not a random killer. Does that make me better or worse? I’m not sure.
    Either way, it’s terrifying to reach the point where I am now, to know all the time that I can kill people. All that separates anyone from life and death is a few hours of my time in front of a computer.
    I don’t want to be broken, yet I am. I’m only sane to any degree because of my ability to compartmentalize, and the belief I’m doing some good. If I save even one woman, it’s worth everything.
    “You’re in your head again,” Emily said. “Get out of there.”
    Emily recognizes my thousand-yard stare for what it is. She knows nothing of the killing, of course, but she understands my demons.
    She puts a hand on my knee, gentle and kind, telegraphing the touch so I know it’s coming. “Tell me about something, anything.”
    I sip my drink and tell stories about the office, picking the funniest moments of the week, those things I know Emily will laugh at, that I remembered especially to tell her.
    *     *     *
    When Emily tries to order her fourth gin martini, slurring noticeably, I cut her off.
    “Don’t,” I say. “I need to get up early tomorrow. I want to go in a bit.”
    Emily takes a long moment to process my words. “I don’t want to leave. Come on, have one more.”
    I quit after the first drink. Maybe at a quiet restaurant with Thomas or Emily I might order a second. At a busy place like this, surrounded by unknown quantities, I’m not willing to risk the loss of control associated with a state of actual inebriation. Earlier, I was jealous of her carefree ability. Now, with her judgement eroded, I’m slightly glad I have my limits. Just slightly.
    “Did you drive?”
    She shakes her head. “Uber.”
    “Let’s go,” I say. Suddenly everything feels too loud, too hot, and I want to be gone.
    Emily pauses, then nods. “I’m going to use the ladies’ room.”
    “I’ll wait for you out front.” I sling my bag over my shoulder.
    She nods and leaves.
    I plot my way toward the exit, scanning ahead, not coming within arm’s reach of anyone, keeping an eye on any men too close to my path.
    As I close in on the door, I see a woman in her twenties arguing with the doorman. She tries to grab for her driver’s license, he holds it up high.
    I don’t even need to hear what they’re saying. The playful smile on his face, the way he leans in, suggests he believes he’s flirting with her. The set of her shoulders tells me she’s angry and afraid and wants out.
    I reach inside my bag.
    He glances at the license again. “Hey, you live in those new apartments off Belmont. My friend lives there.”
    “Can I have my license please?” She still has her hand out, trying to reach her license, but he’s somewhere north of six feet and sitting on a tall barstool, and she’s a few inches over five feet. She glances around for help.
    The problem is the doorman is the authority here. That’s what she wants, somebody who can force this guy who holds her license hostage to give it up, yet the very person she should be able to go to for help is the one causing the