Free Killer Career by Morgan Mandel

blinding pain shot from his skull to his eyes. His temples
throbbed.
    “Oh, God, stop,” he yelled, pounding his fist on the desk. The
pain worsened. The mouse and mouse pad fell to the floor. They could
lay there forever, for all he cared. The way he felt now no money in
the world could force him to reach down and pick them up.
    Damn his head. Why must he live with this curse? He’d tried
everything to get relief, but nothing lasted. The antacids controlled
his ulcer. Why couldn’t he find something strong enough for
headaches?
    Four years ago, he’d submitted to a battery of medical tests to
ferret out the root of his problem. When they’d come back negative,
the internist offered one final suggestion. “You could try
hypnotism.”
    Tyler’s forehead broke into a sweat at the thought and he glared at
the doctor. “I’m not mentally ill. I know your type. You’re
incompetent and can’t do your job, so you make up excuses. You’re
lucky I don’t sue you.”
    He scraped back his chair to conclude the appointment. No one would
say he was crazy. Furthermore, he wouldn’t let anyone mess with his
mind.
    The doctor shook his head and gave him a pitying look.
    The action infuriated Tyler. He glared at the doctor. “You’re
nothing but a quack.”
    “Follow my suggestion. It’s all you have left.”
    “I’ll see you in hell first,” Tyler said, turning away.
    “Your life is already hell,” the doctor’s voice followed, as
Tyler retreated down the hall.
    How dare he say that. A psychiatrist was out of the question. Not for
a second would he relinquish control of his mind. He knew what quacks
could do to a person, planting false memories and suggestions.
    He’d suffer the rest of his life if he had to. The headaches always
passed. Yes, they hurt, but the alternative was worse.
    Tyler never doubted his decision to reject the doctor’s
suggestions.
    Still, at weak moments like this, when his head pounded, his vision
blurred, and his stomach cramped, he’d kill for relief.
    How ironic that he owned so much yet couldn’t enjoy it. How could
he when any moment another attack might grip him? Damn that doctor.
He should have done his job right.
    A nagging voice inside of him said he could still consult more
doctors, but what if they agreed with the first? If there was
something major wrong with him, he’d rather not know.

 
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    After finally getting to sleep in her own bed Sunday night, without
the smell of Dade’s aftershave distracting her, Julie was ready for
Monday. The deluge began a few blocks from the downtown Chicago
commuter train station. Umbrella-less, already in “In Between
Land,” three blocks between the train station and her office, she
had no choice but to continue on.
    The wind, a mighty alien being, buffeted her slight figure, treating
it like scrap paper. Buckets of cold water poured onto her head, face
and eyes, over her clothes and into her shoes. Dodging puddles, she
raced the remaining way to the office.
    Once inside the building, she breathed a sigh of relief, followed by
a shiver, as a frigid blast of air conditioning hit, plastering her
wet blouse and skirt to her skin. Water squished in her shoes.
    In front of the elevator, she found Dade, once again the early bird.
In one hand, he carried a dripping golf umbrella. With the other, he
held the door open. At sight of her, his eyes widened.
    Her breasts were taut and cold, pressed tightly against the flimsy
fabric of her wet silk blouse. How much did he notice? Probably too
much.
    It was only Dade. She’d known him for years. He’d seen her in all
sorts of clothes, even his own shirt. It didn’t matter, right?
    “Don’t say it,” she said. “I look like an entrant in a wet
tee shirt contest. The worst part is, since I don’t have any cases
up today, I didn’t even bring a suit coat to warm me up. It wasn’t
supposed to rain, was it?”
    Dade shook his head and smiled. “I’m surprised at you, Julie.