A Deadly Compulsion Read Online Free Page B

on reflection, later...much later, he had decided that it was the accumulation. The sickness he had steeped himself in finally backed up like effluent in a blocked sewer pipe, overflowing to envelop him, impregnating him with the stink of evil that he had willingly and voluntarily immersed himself in.  Every time he looked in a mirror, he saw the thin, white line across his throat; the scar of a wound that had almost killed him and had made him question his motives.  He was no paladin-style knight errant with a need to joust at windmills in quixotic fashion.  In the end, he had been more practical and selfish than to put false honour and devotion to duty above his own life.
    It was in therapy – after he had walked away from it all – that he had been able to look in from the outside and detach himself from that dark place.  He found that he could talk through the pain and grief that his ability had brought knocking at the door, and eventually make the first faltering steps towards rehabilitation and a new beginning.  The despair had slowly dispersed like a tropical depression moving on, its fury spent and clear skies brightening the horizon.  With the light, he had started to care if he took another breath; had stopped relying on booze and sleeping pills, to become less fragile and insecure.  But the years of trying to think himself into the minds of homicidal psychopaths and sociopaths had taken its toll; chased out the optimism and light-hearted spirit of youth to leave an open sore of fatalism that ulcerated in the depths of his psyche, stubborn to heal, but now dormant; no longer active.  To his chagrin, he found a part of him, that he despised, still missed the hunt and the ultimate satisfaction of closing in and shutting down the operations of crazed human beings, whose mission was to snuff out members of the society that they lived among.  Jim now had the same kind of problem as an alcoholic, who would always be one, even though not drinking.  He knew that it would only take a single shot to put him back to square one; just a tempting cocktail of files, photographs and the methods employed by a killer to be placed in front of him, and he would slip into the mode that had almost fused his mind.
    He had fought the urge, and his depression.  With time, and from the ashes of indifference had risen a faltering flame of hope; one that he wanted to nurture, not extinguish.
    After recovering from what he had come to accept as being a minor breakdown, friends in London had cajoled Jim into flying across the pond for a change of scene.  The intended short break in the UK had not only been an aid to his convalescence, but had also given him new direction and purpose. Over a decade later, he was still in Britain, which he now considered to be his home.  How he had fallen into his current line of work was just pure luck.  But he was making big bucks, or pounds, so wasn’t complaining.
    Jim was now a PR man, spin doctor and image-maker all rolled into one.  He stayed anonymous, consciously avoiding the rub-off celebrity status, not courting fame as other guys like Max Clifford had , and seemed to thrive on, until they themselves were put under the microscope and found wanting.  He turned individuals and companies around, finding the edge that they needed to realise a greater success in their respective areas of endeavour, over the competition.  It was a shallow but safe harbour, in which he had established an outlet for his unique powers of understanding the human condition.
    The trill of the phone snapped him from his reverie.  He stared at it as though it was road kill, but did not move, content to let the answering machine take the call:  ‘Hi, this is Jim Elliott.  I’m tied up at the moment, but if you leave your name and number, or a message, I’ll get back to you’ , his recorded voice said to the caller.
    “Jim, it’s Laura…Laura Scott.  I need to talk to you.  You have my York number.