The Mind’s Eye

by Perry Prete

  Also by the Author

  The Ethan Tennant Series

  The More Things Change

  All Good Things

  The Things That Matter Most

  Highway 7: 4 Dark Tales

  The Mind’s Eye

  Perry Prete

  A division of 10361976 Canada Inc.

  300 Central Avenue West

  Brockville, Ontario

  K6V 5V2

  Toll Free 1-800-563-0911 or 613-345-2687

  http://www.sandspress.com

  ISBN 978-1-988281-31-5

  Copyright © 2017 Perry Prete

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover concept and Design by Kristine Barker and Wendy Treverton

  Edited by Alyssa Owen

  Formatting by Renee Hare

  Publisher Kristine Barker

  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction by the author. Characters, names, places and circumstances are the product of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any relation to any persons, alive or deceased, place, location, event or otherwise is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  1st Printing November 2017

  2nd Printing June 2018

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  Submissions

  Sands Press is a literary publisher interested in new and established authors wishing to develop and market their product. For more information please visit our website at

  www.sandspress.com.

  November 13

  Paige walked along the sidewalk, the heels of her high-cut boots clicking on the concrete. The weather was unseasonably warm for mid- November with the sun high in the cloudless sky. As much as she enjoyed the sun, she looked forward to the snow and the frigid temperatures. With Christmas only a month and a half away, she had always wanted to have all of her shopping done before December. It was a habit she had inherited from her mother and her grandmother before her. In every way, she was her mother's daughter. Even as a young girl, she would purchase her gifts for friends and family weeks in advance. It was difficult for her to keep them a secret sometimes, she wanted to tell family and friends before Christmas day what she had found for them. The anticipation of seeing them open their gifts was as much joy for her as it was for the person opening the package.

  She stopped in front of the windows of the local shops, examined the displays and decided whether or not to enter. Like her mother, Paige loved the locally owned small boutiques for unique items that her friends and family cherished. Handcrafted gifts were so much more personal than the mass marketed items found in chain stores.

  She turned and continued down the sidewalk, carrying her bags in both hands with her backpack strapped securely over both shoulders. "One more," she thought. Of course, she said that more than three stores earlier. "Only one more."

  At one of the local bakers, she spotted the custom, handmade chocolates, those tiny morsels that included flavoured centers; she knew her mother would love them. She entered the boutique shop, and her senses were overwhelmed with fragrant aromas of freshly baked treats. Standing in line, Paige looked through the display glass to the delicacies beneath. The heat from the stone oven at the back of the store gave off a distinctive warmth that reminded her of an old wood stove. As she waited, she selected a white sample box of assorted chocolates for herself to make sure they would be good enough to present to her mother as a Christmas gift.

  She left the shop with the sample pack in one of her bags. The boutique clerk had given Paige a free sample that she was savoring as she left. As the chocolate melted in her mouth, the bags in her hands swung freely as she felt the joy of a sunny late fall day. The sun cast tiny shadows beneath her as she walked. The chocolate and soft, creamy caramel swirled together in her mouth. She had found the last gift and pre-ordered the large gift pack of two dozen hand-dipped chocolates for pick up only days before Christmas. It wasn't even December yet, and Paige's shopping was completed.

  She was feeling good, almost elated at the thought that she was free of the pressure of any more Christmas gift shopping. What she had in the bags she was carrying would be wrapped and labelled tonight then squirrelled away at the back of the hall closet.

  As she strolled along the sidewalk, a man casually followed behind her from a discreet distance. With a backpack slung over his left shoulder and his ball cap pushed back far on his head with earbuds dangling from both ears, he was a man like any other, a man who would not stand out from the crowd. He carried himself as if he was just out for the day. He received nothing more than a passing glance as he passed others on the street. He had picked her out of the crowd almost an hour earlier and kept his distance as he watched her buy gifts.

  Before Paige had found the bakery, she had been trying on a few clothing items for herself in the department store, he quickly ducked into the washroom and changed his clothing from the set he carried in his backpack in case she was getting suspicious.

  A few blocks further down the street, Paige swung her bags by her side as she neared the parking lot. Holding the bags high, she skipped sideways between the cars instead of the taking the long way down the aisles. As Paige approached her car, she doubled up the bags in one hand then pulled the keys from her purse with her free hand and pressed the remote to unlock the doors. She opened the rear driver's side door and casually tossed the bags onto the back seat. She closed the door, opened her driver's door then felt a hand on her back push her forward, snapping her neck back, causing her to fall headlong into the roof section along the open door. Her face smashed into the rigid roof support. The cartilage at the bridge of her nose fractured, blood spurted outward and back into her throat. She tasted blood and unknowingly spit blood across the roof to the asphalt on the far side of the car. The attacker pulled her hair back, then slammed her face against the car again. She put her arms up to stop the onslaught and coughed as the blood rushed down her throat. Her eyes were already starting to swell shut and couldn't see what was about to happen. She blindly placed her arms in front of her hoping they would find the roof or door. Instead, her hands found nothing but air as her face once again hit the doorframe. Paige lost consciousness and crumpled to the asphalt.

  The man opened the back door, picked her up from under the arms and tossed the helpless girl into the back seat. He felt something, something disturbing, he turned quickly and looked up. He scanned the apartment building to the one side of the parking lot, seeing nothing, he slammed the car door, found the car keys on the ground, climbed into the driver's seat and simply drove away.

  December 22

  "...with a high of only minus three by midday. Dress warmly. I had to spend ten minutes scraping off my car before coming to the station this morning, and it felt a lot colder than minus three. Give yourself a few extra minutes to clean the car and expect a slow drive into work. City ploughs are working hard but don't expect the roads to be clear until sometime this afternoon. Kalee has all the morning news and weather at six, coming up in ninety sec..." Paul Hammond slammed his open hand over the clock radio to silence the annoying voice of the morning deejay. He didn't care for Kalee and the news at six or how fucking cold it was going to be. Even though the room had the same darkness as a black hole in space somewhere in the galaxy, he covered his eyes with his forearm. Paul had discovered long ago he needed the room as dark as possible to sleep after working the night shift. And right now, he wanted to sleep a few more minutes but knew if there were that much snow, he would be pushing it for a time.

  Paul reached down and scra
tched his scrotum. Instead of feeling an erection, he was flaccid again. He missed the days when he would wake up with an erection. In the last few years, the only way he could get an erection was with the help of pharmaceuticals that weren't covered by his benefit plan. Not that he needed to have an erection, Paul couldn't remember the last time he needed to take medication to help him get hard.

  Paul whipped the covers off and immediately felt the cool air on his body. He hated sleeping with pajamas, T-shirts or anything for that matter. Paul hated winters, hated the cold, hated working in the cold, the snow, and freezing temperatures only made it difficult as hell to do his job. Paul walked to the bathroom with his eyes closed, the same walk he had made every morning for the past fifteen years since he purchased the house. He sat down on the toilet, eyes still closed and peed. Paul felt as if he could fall asleep if he had to pee any longer. His head kept bobbing as he attempted to remain awake. Opening his eyes, he was looking down and noticed he had a grey hair mixed in with his black pubic hair. "Damn. Seriously? I'm getting grey pubes. Great." He reached down and tried to single out the one grey hair and excise it from the rest of the mass of curly hair and pulled. Paul let out a whimper as he yanked out more than just the one grey hair. He examined the one grey hair to determine if it belongs with the rest of them or was some alien parasite. He let the hairs fall between his legs and land in the toilet bowl water. Paul blindly reached behind and flushed the toilet.

  He waited a few minutes for the toilet to finish refilling before he started the shower while he waited, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom wall. First, he questioned why a single man needed a full-length mirror in the bathroom. Secondly, since he was never married, he didn't give a shit what he looked like. Or so he thought. Paul looked at himself in profile and grabbed his stomach. There was enough excess for both hands to grab a large roll of skin and jiggle. "Fat, middle-aged, thinning hair and grey pubes. Ladies will be lining up to be getting some of this."

  Stepping into the shower, Paul washed with his eyes closed, hoping this technique would give him the extra rest he needed. He tried this method every morning, and it failed each time.

  After a quick breakfast of oatmeal, Paul filled his thermos with coffee unplugged his two cell phones, one personal and the other his police-issued Blackberry, pocketed them, laced up his black running shoes (he refused to give into adulthood) he always wore with his suits, donned his parka, turned off the lights to the tiny porcelain Christmas tree in the hall and opened the front door. It was only six-forty-five, and it was still dark out. The winter blast of cold air hit him hard. "Fucking God damn fucking cold fucking winters." He swore out loud knowing full well the neighbors couldn't hear his rant over the howl of the winds. He tromped through the snow to the driver's door, dropped his thermos in the snow, walked around to the trunk and keyed the remote. The lock clicked, but the trunk failed to raise, "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." He swiped his arm across the trunk and pushed the snow to the ground. The snow filled his cuff and made him swear even more. He flung his arm trying to force the snow from inside his cuff. Like most of his efforts, this too was met with failure. Forcing the trunk lid open, snow from the back window slid down and into his trunk. "Fuck." Paul knew this day was starting out bad and could only get better from here. He pulled his battery- operated leaf blower from inside his trunk and slammed the lid closed. Paul squeezed the trigger and aimed it at his car and watched the snow that had accumulated on his car overnight get swept up into the blowing snow. When he was done, he popped the trunk again and tossed the leaf blower inside. Yanking the driver's door open, Paul climbed inside, slammed the door closed and sat with his eyes closed, shivering. He pushed the "Start" button bringing the engine to life. He flipped on the seat warmer and set it to high. Paul let his head fall to the steering wheel. "I hate winter." There wasn't anyone to hear him complain but he felt better for saying it.

  Paul unzipped his parka and squirmed to loosen the jacket's grip around his body, so that he could drive. Paul moved the lever to "D" and pulled out of his driveway. The snow was deep, and his tires were pulled in the ruts left by cars that went down his street before him. There weren't many cars on the road at this hour. He was sure a huge percentage of the department's office staff would be late or just not show up. The weather was simply too miserable to risk the drive.

  Up ahead, the light turned amber. Paul released his hold of the accelerator and touched the brakes. The pedals pulsated against the constant pressure he was applying as the anti-lock brakes prevented him from sliding through the intersection. He put his hand across the passenger seat to grab his thermos and prevent it from falling to the floor and felt nothing. He looked across the seat and remembered exactly where he left it, in the snow beside where his car was in the driveway. After he came to a stop at the light, he punched the steering wheel. The driver of the car beside him turned to look at him, and Paul gave him a friendly wave and then stared straight ahead. "Fuck." Lately, he had come to swear a lot and speak aloud when he was alone. And Paul was alone a lot. Other than work, he seldom went out or hung out with his friends or guys from work. They all had girlfriends, wives, kids and he didn't fit in anymore.

  He pulled away from the intersection and made his way carefully to the station and arrived just a little after seven. Paul stomped his feet as he entered the front door and shook the snow from his jacket. He waved to the dispatchers behind the glass wall, they waved back and used his access card to gain entry to the restricted area. In the men's room, he opened his locker, retrieved his Glock handgun, made sure it was clean and loaded and affixed it to his belt. He secured the combination lock and spun the dial to the number "14". It was a habit he got into in high school when he was bullied. Paul would set the combination lock to "14" and if the lock wasn't as he left it, he knew to be wary of what may have happened if he opened his locker door. He convinced himself he wasn't paranoid. Paranoid people imagine other people are watching them, following them. Paul just wanted his privacy.

  That was a long time ago, but the habit followed him his entire life. Before Paul could grab a coffee, he sat at his desk, booted up his laptop, then went to the break room where one of the dispatchers joined him. Wanda was a short, good-looking, middle-aged woman who loved to know everything about everyone. If Paul needed to know something going on at the station, he went to see Wanda. "Did you hear what one of the snow plough operators found this morning?" she stirred her coffee and never made eye contact with Paul.

  "Just got in. What happened?" Paul placed a plastic lid on his disposable cup. He hated the office coffee; it always tasted weak like they used twice as much water or half the coffee grounds. That was why he brought in his thermos every day, except today.

  "The guy was ploughing along McKinnon Boulevard and looked in his rearview and thought he saw a stiff leg or an arm or something mixed in with the snow bank. He stopped the plough, took a look and called it in. Uni's are on their way now. You want lead on this one? My bet is that some a-hole tossed an old mannequin in the garbage and it ended up in the snow bank." Wanda still had her headset on. It didn't matter if she was on break or lunch, that headset was never off her head.

  "Sure. My workload is pretty light right now, and I haven't had a homicide in what," he paused, "maybe over a year. Christ. I'm due I guess. I'll grab a coffee, tell the Captain I'm taking a four by four. No way in hell I'm driving my car in this shit."

  "I'll talk to the Captain before I assign the call and tell him you can have a lead on this."

  "Thanks, Wanda. I owe you."

  "Don't thank me. Like I said, I'm laying odds it's a mannequin."

  Paul took a large mouthful of coffee, refilled his cup and replaced the lid. He made his way to the back of the building and signed out the keys for one of the SUV unmarked vehicles.

  As Paul booked into service, his service cell phone rang. He tapped the Bluetooth button on his steering wheel and turned up the volume. Before he could answer, Wanda bega
n to speak, and her voice filled the car through the radio speakers, "Paul, the uni's on scene said it was definitely a body. Scene's been secured; Captain said you've got lead. Oh, you've got help on this one."

  "Help?"

  "Workload is light all around. You'll find out when you get on scene." The line went dead.

  Paul drove the rest of the way in silence as the SUV cut through the snow. The snow hit hard towards the windshield as the wipers failed to keep the snow from piling up around the edges. Paul turned up the heat and fan in an attempt to keep his vision clear. The hidden grill lights failed to cut through the driving snow and blinded him each time the white and blue LED's flashed back against the snow. He deactivated the grill lights and slowed his speed. It didn't matter if he wasn't the first on scene so long as he arrived in one piece.

  Paul kept the music off. Instead, he listened to the police radio blare out calls all over the city, mostly minor motor vehicle accidents. Regardless, the weather kept the uniformed officers busy. Paul turned the corner onto McKinnon Boulevard and saw the group of cruisers and other forensics teams standing around. He pulled in close to the other cruisers and turned his grill lights back on. As he put the SUV into park, he saw what Wanda meant by "Help".

  Detectives Dan Levy and Ken Simmons were already standing outside in the cold. Their parkas pulled up high around their heads protecting them from the wind and blowing snow. They were speaking with what Paul assumed was the plough operator as he was the only one dressed in yellow and reflective tape. All three were shifting their weight back and forth and stomping their feet trying to create kinetic energy for heat.

  Paul opened the door to the SUV, and the wind almost whipped the driver's door from his hand. He stepped out of the truck and had to force the door closed against the wind. He flipped the hood up and zipped the front to just under his chin. He made his way over to where Dan and Ken stood speaking with the plough operator. As he arrived, the plough driver excused himself and went to sit in the cab of his truck to get warm.