Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

Oh, God, she heard! She heard me coming, his mind cried. He stood silently, motionlessly, his skin prickling with fear. A strange feeling rushed over him. It was the first time he had ever had this feeling, but he recognized it immediately as one his patients had so often described.

Suddenly, everything seemed exaggerated, out of proportion. The dim little bulb in the kitchen seemed to flood the entry with brilliance. His heart was pounding so loudly, it was setting off explosions in his ears. His breath was gusting in and out with the whooosh of a tornado.

The garrote in his back pocket bulged out grotesquely from his hip, like a third leg. Fragmented thoughts pierced his mind like daggers. Marla can hear me. She knows. She knows I’m here to kill her. Bang! Whooosh! Bang!

He shook his head to exorcise the feeling. Get hold of yourself, he thought. She cannot hear your breath, your heartbeat. She does not know. You are becoming as psychotic as your patients. Settle down. It will all be over soon.

He breathed in and out slowly, deliberately, until the explosions were only dull thuds beneath his suit coat. If there were another way, I would take it, he told himself. But there is not. Marla has given me no choice. I must kill her tonight.

He took two silent steps to the wrought iron divider at the right, which separated the entry from the living room.

Wait! I hear voices, his mind screamed. She has someone here to protect her. She knows! He held his breath and listened. Oh, thank God! It’s the television. Marla is watching television.

He pulled himself up to the divider and pressed his face against the cold latticework. He rolled his left cheek to the metal to scan the far right wall of the living room. Through the darkness, he could see the open doorway there, as a rainbow of light danced on the wall of the hallway. Yes. The voices were from the television set in the den at the end of the hallway, he assured himself. He put his weight back onto his heels, pulling his face from the divider.

If only she hadn’t threatened to turn me in to the authorities tomorrow. I abhor violence. I am not a killer, but she is making me kill. If I don’t, she will tell... who? The State Board of Psychiatrists? The American Medical Association? The police?

She will tell them I forced her into an affair on the guise of it being therapy for her problem. And they will believe her! How better could I dispel her fear that she was turning homosexual, than to show her she could still enjoy a relationship with a man. Oh, they will believe her, even thought it is not true — not true...

Our affair did not begin until after her third session, after I had already evoked her cure. But they will believe her, and they will take away my license, my livelihood. I cannot let that happen.

Silently, he crept around the divider and tiptoed into the living room. The sounds from the television set in the den grew more distinct, as he moved closer to the hall doorway. Near the center of the room, he crouched low to feel his way past the coffee table he knew was there. He heard the sounds of applause from the television and reflected that he himself deserved this praise for his stealthiness.

He straightened up, after he passed the table, took another step.

Squeak!

Oh no! he thought! She heard the floorboard! She heard me coming! He stood frozen a long moment. She must not have heard me over the television, he decided.