Read Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) for Free Online Page A

obscuring her eyes. To my utter horror, I blushed.
    "I've looked better," I said. Oh Jesus, that sounded SO arrogant . She snorted and walked past me, entered the gym through the turnstile and never looked back. Smooth, Callahan. Really smooth.
    I walked to the car feeling self-conscious. I got in the Chevy, turned over the engine, popped in a George Jones cassette and crossed through two open parking spaces before heading towards Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I passed an old woman in a VW, a black Volvo station wagon, and a man reading the newspaper in a red, wide-body Ford truck.
    The light at Laurel Canyon was tricky; it took a long time to change. I was humming along with the music, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. The red truck pulled up behind me. I finished my drink and waited.
    The light changed. I drove straight on ahead, past the rear parking lot of the department store. The truck waited a moment and followed. I stiffened. Don't be paranoid. The guy is waiting for his wife to get out of the damned mall.
    I went right, then right again into the next lot. The truck drove past without turning. In the rearview mirror, I saw a large, tanned forearm with a tattoo on it. I caught reflecting sunglasses and close-cut blond hair. It was no one I recognized.
    The truck went to the next driveway, turned in, and meandered towards the side entrance. Then I backed out of the parking space. Feeling foolish, I turned around and drove back towards Laurel Canyon. The truck did not follow, but the driver definitely watched me drive away, his face impassive behind mirrored lenses.
    I crossed Laurel again, re-entered the parking lot behind the gym, and headed back to Victory. I checked the rearview mirror every few seconds. The red truck did not follow. As I passed the gym it suddenly occurred to me yet again that my face was on a billboard, thirty feet high. I was a minor television celebrity for Christ's sake. So what if someone recognized me? I laughed out loud at my own foolishness. Still, I'll admit I glanced in the rearview mirror on and off for a few more minutes.
    I saw private clients in a quaint, middle-class area originally developed by denizens of the entertainment industry who worked in and around Universal Studios. It is still called Studio City. I rented a small two-room office in a nondescript, gray office building on Chandler. I pulled into the parking garage below the building, trotted up the stairs and went in through the back door.
    The small one-person office with waiting room was furnished in beige and forest green colors. It was designed to feel as comfortable as an apartment. A crowded wooden bookshelf dominated in the waiting room. I found an Isaac Perelman CD, put on the stereo. I gathered myself, and then opened the outer door. A brunette woman, wearing purple clothing, sat quietly, reading Premier Magazine . She looked up and smiled.
    "Hello, Janice."
    "I heard the music."
    "Good. Come on in." I sat in my rocking chair, and Janice assumed her customary position on the smaller couch. "How was your week, Janice?"
    She did not make eye contact. "It was okay. You know."
    "Actually, I don't know. Why don't you fill me in?"
    One tear.
    "You're crying, Janice. Are you feeling sad?"
    "Yes."
    Wait. Give her a moment . I kept my face impassive and eyes kind. After two very long minutes, she spoke again.
    "The dream is back."
    "Does that surprise you?"
    "I don't know. I guess I thought that since we had talked about it, since we kind of understood it, maybe . . ."
    "Maybe it would stop happening."
    "Yes."
    "Did you write it down, as we had discussed?"
    "Yes."
    "Read it to me," I said. "If something has changed, even the smallest detail, we want to know about it."
    But it hadn't changed. A dark man with movie-star looks would creep in the window and force himself upon her. She would resist, but ultimately enjoy the experience. The dream was an unconscious attempt to deal with sexual neurosis, and was a fairly common