Free A Deadly Compulsion by Michael Kerr Page B

ever attempt to ensnare an unsuspecting potential victim, Gary was rising to leave the Shangri-La Bar on Massachusetts Avenue with his chosen and suitably doped-up prey when two things happened that were to bring about his downfall.  A work colleague of the now spaced-out young man came over to them and struck up a conversation, and the intended mark, unsteady from the effects of three screwdrivers and the drug, fell on his ass, hitting his head on the corner of the table, which resulted in a deep gash to his forehead that bled profusely.
    A small crowd gathered around the trio, and Gary slipped through their ranks and left the bar.  Later, in ER, Kenny Tighe’s wound was found to be superficial, requiring just four sutures.  But the symptoms of the powerful hypnotic sedative prompted a call to the DCPD.  Subsequent results of his blood works showed that he had ingested a formidable amount of Rohypnol, a drug flagged with the police department and FBI as being that which the killer who had been tagged the Hypnotist habitually used on his victims.  This had been the breakthrough that they’d needed.
    Kenny had been a veritable gold mine of information.  Once sufficiently compos mentis, he had given agents a comprehensive description of the man who had solicited and then drugged him.
    “He told me his name was Gary,” Kenny said, “and that he had a brownstone in Georgetown, and drove a red Porsche.”
    To have freely given Kenny those facts in conversation was a sign of arrogance and overconfidence.  Meeker had assumed that Kenny would not survive the evening to repeat anything he was told.  The printout from the Department of Motor Vehicles listed all red Porsches in the District of Columbia, and only one was registered to an owner with the Christian name Gary.  The address was in Georgetown, and the fax of the drivers licence photograph was shown to Kenny, who immediately and with no doubt or hesitation identified it as being of the man who had accosted him in the bar.
    They surrounded Meeker’s house.  Armed agents covered the front and rear, while an assault team wearing body armour and led by Jim broke in the front door and swept the premises with the aid of flashlights, due to the power having been cut by Meeker, who had removed the fuses from the box in the basement.
    In the master bedroom, Special Agent Ed Shelton, followed closely by Jim, checked the recesses and then stooped to look under the bed.  Nothing.  Ed walked over to the built-in closet that ran the length of the wall and slid open a mirrored door.
    The knife blade was driven into Ed’s throat, twisted, and withdrawn in an instant.  Ed dropped both his handgun and flashlight as his legs buckled.  He collapsed onto the floor with blood jetting from his left carotid artery, appearing as black as tar in the low light.
    Not immediately sure of what had happened, Jim searched for a target.  The stainless steel Colt Python suddenly weighed heavy in his sweating palm.  It was cocked, the six-inch barrel following the beam of his flashlight.  In the darkness to his left, a more solid, Delphic form overshadowed the gloom and flew at him, emitting a cry of rage that sounded guttural and less than human.  Jim swung the pistol, fired, and the blinding muzzle-flash burned into his retinas as a stinging sensation lanced his throat.  He staggered backwards, lost his balance and fell, coming to rest with his back up against the foot of the bed.
    A break in the night cloud cover allowed a pale shaft of moonlight to pierce the window and reflect off the raised knife’s blade, giving Jim a target.  He fired again, once...twice, and heard a wet, gurgling moan, just before a body thudded to the floor over his outstretched legs.
    Cones of light danced around the bedroom as assistance arrived.  One beam found and steadied upon the upper body of Gary Meeker.  He was dressed in black, his eyes staring unblinking into the brightness.  He was now no