Mind Switch
Page 1
MIND SWITCH
Mystery by Lorne L. Bentley
Kindle: 978-1-58124-266-9
ePub: 978-1-58124-290-4
©2012 by Lorne L. Bentley
Published 2012 by The Fiction Works
http://www.fictionworks.com
fictionworks@me.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my wife Iris Bentley whose professional editorial efforts turned a stream of disjointed words into a smooth flowing novel; and to my lifelong friend, Paul Vignola, who in this effort and in many others provided sage advice and continuous encouragement. He will never be forgotten.
Prologue
Christmas Season 2010
Isolation—vulnerability! The scene was unsettling. He shivered uncontrollably even though Florida’s early morning temperature was already in the low 70’s. Stillness washed over him. Directly in front of him was a huge, barely illuminated, white sheeted metal warehouse containing several wide truck openings and a single pedestrian door. He briefly thought about trying to access one of the accordion doors, but he knew instinctively that it would be locked. He was expected to enter through the pedestrian door; that, of course, was the unstated plan. Having no alternative, he complied.
As he entered, just above the door a single low watt bulb focused on a bank of four switches to his right. One by one he flicked the switches. Each switch activated a battery of lights illuminating a quarter of the warehouse. The ceiling fluorescent lights gradually shed light on hundreds of appliances stored in perfect geometric rows. When one quarter of the warehouse was brightly lit, the lights for the second segment started to come to life. They abruptly stopped. He hit the last two switches again, but half of the warehouse remained dark and hidden. Of course, he thought, the additional switches would not work; that was also part of the precise plan for him.
Now he just waited for his hidden adversary to emerge out of the darkness. How much life did he have left? It was beyond his control. All he knew was that he would be dead in a few minutes; and he had willfully and in all respects fully accommodated his murderer.
With the seconds he had remaining, he reflected on the past few weeks, recognizing that he had been encased in a fast moving kaleidoscope of changing scenes and planned events. He now understood that he had really never been in control.
He wondered when and how it all had first started.
Chapter 1
Fall 2010
No moon lit the Florida night. Thick relentless fog swept silently across the flat landscape, softly blurring the sharp shapes and identities of downtown buildings as it progressed. A sleepy pet owner gently guided his aging toy poodle toward the base of a spiraling rosewood tree, hopeful that it would finally be an acceptable spot for his picky canine companion, when he noticed an unnaturally brilliant light escaping into the gray night from a large window above.
It was the third night in a row in which he had observed the intense light. Strange things going on up there, he thought, but it’s none of my concern, none of my concern indeed. As the tiny animal finished his final business of the late night, it released a strange combination of a harsh whimper and a low growl. He looked up at his master while frantically pulling the leash in the opposite direction from the source of the unnatural light. The owner looked down, fully appreciating the wordless canine message. “You’re right, it’s time to go home, my little ancient one, nothing out here involves us, nothing at all.” The elderly man took one last look at the strange, almost supernatural light as he turned to go home, still very curious but fully satisfied that it was best not to linger any longer.
Inside the building, less than fifty feet from the wandering path of the nocturnal pet owner, a solitary figure, oblivious to the outside world, was absorbed in deep deliberation. Directly in front of the figure, a labyrinth of binary decision trees spun out in various directions, consuming virtually every vacant inch of a well-worn slate blackboard. Two halogen lights illuminated the complex calculations as brilliantly as the morning sun would in less than two hours.
The individual’s emotions could no longer be contained. “It’s time,” the solitary figure cried out in uninhibited exhilaration, “It’s time!”
Neurons fired, adrenalin surged, stomach acid churned. In splendid unison, the gut and mind fired unambiguous signals; the prospective killer viscerally and intellectually knew it was time to strike! Act, was the bland, emotionally untainted word that the future killer had carefully selected to euthanize the imminent slaughter.
The act had been flawlessly calculated; every possible contingency had been identified and thought through methodically. Even outliers, as the executioner chose to name those factors which were highly improbable but remotely possible, had been seamlessly incorporated. The future killer had just completed the final steps of its design; each possible outcome had been constructed with the impeccable precision of mathematical certitude. White chalk represented the plan’s critical flow path; less probable consequences were coded in blue.
The killer, possessing an I.Q. exceeding 160, and a perfectionist as well, would accept no error or miscalculation. Tomorrow will be the day, the prospective killer thought in glee; all requisite ev
ents will start to unfold at that time.
The individual did not relish the prospect of that which was going to happen to this laid back and somewhat innocent community, but rationalized that is sometimes the unfortunate byproduct of accomplishment. But, after all, there was no need to feel remorse, or pity. In the end, others would have to accept the blame, certainly not me.
With that closing thought, the future killer felt totally at ease and whatever modicum of conscience that had previously existed was now buried beneath the deepest recesses of the brain. The fledgling killer delighted over the prospect that the methodology employed was going to be interesting, creative and ultimately very effective. Smaller minds would not penetrate the puzzle that was about to unfold. It is curious, the killer mused, that others would consider the act that of a murderer, but that would occur only in the eyes of those who did not understand the primeval need for total self-activation, regardless of the process employed to get there.
Local papers would employ the term “murderer” repeatedly in each of its editions; weekly magazine digests would expand on that theme, describing it as an insane carnage. The term Marvel was much preferred to “murderer” by this superior individual since murder was only a slice of the complex fabric that was about to be woven before this sleeping city’s eyes. An all encompassing smile traversed The Marvel’s face, “Let the games begin!”
At that moment The Marvel noted the rustling of fall leaves just below the living room window. The Marvel simultaneously spotted an elderly man briskly walking his small dog down the sidewalk. The Marvel picked up a 32 caliber pistol from the nearby end table and took deliberate aim at the head of the man. Then in a change of heart, abruptly shifted the gun’s sighting to the little canine, and very slowly and deliberately started to pull the trigger.
Chapter 2
The slightest hint of perspiration appeared on Fred Harris’ forehead. He hoped they didn’t notice. He casually glanced around the room, but fortunately the others weren’t looking at him; they were intensely focused on the face-up cards next to each player. As Fred concentrated intensely, gradually he relaxed, and the slightest hint of a smile appeared, subtly betraying his good fortune. He had spent many of his adult years observing and analyzing the subtleties of human emotions as well as the myriad attempts to hide and camouflage them—even his own. That understanding gave him a distinct advantage in his daily work, and even in the execution of his weekly poker games with his lifelong friends.
The first week in December was by mutual agreement the group’s final poker night for the calendar year. Since the players were limited to four, they had created a unique version of the game which would accommodate a smaller group. As was their practice on this final night, each hand’s bidding limit had been increased from the traditional gentlemen’s level of one, to the more serious gambler’s threshold of ten dollars. Fred had an ace up his sleeve, so to speak. He had grown to understand the governing poker psychology of each of the players sitting around him; better yet, over the ten years that they had been playing, he grew to recognize the subconscious signals they unknowingly revealed to him on each poker night.
The four of them had been friends since high school; more than a decade had passed since they had attended their last algebra class together and celebrated their joyous release to freedom. Since then, weekly poker games kept their competitive spirits refreshed and their friendship reinforced.
Tonight was Fred’s turn to host the group’s last game of the season. The thud of the slamming front door momentarily broke his concentration. His wife of three delightful years walked briskly into the room, having just returned from her weekly bridge game with the wives of the husbands seated. Maureen peered over Fred’s head, squeezing his shoulders affectionately while observing the gradual unfolding of the final game of the night. Her brilliant red hair draped over his chest, her soft breasts pressed suggestively against his upper back. For a second time he momentarily lost concentration. Exercising pure will power, he shifted his attention back to the upturned cards in the center of the table—a king, a queen and a deuce, all in different suits.
Fred had been the first to start the betting; he continued to increase his bet each subsequent round while closely observing the reactions of his opponents. His friends checked on each turn. To Fred this was good news; it meant that none of them had matched the visible cards, thus making a pair or higher. Knowing their tendencies, he didn’t believe for a moment that they were constraining their bets in an attempt to lure him into an unwise raise.
He glanced around the table, scanning his competitors for subtle yet telltale signs. Ernest James, an amiable rotund man, consistently stroked his left eyebrow when he had a good hand. John Stevens, tall and lanky and a mathematical genius, traditionally rubbed his nose when he was satisfied with the card that he had drawn. Bill Cole characteristically displayed an artificial smirk whenever he bluffed. Unlike the famous cartoon displaying dogs playing poker and exposing their good hands through wagging tails, Fred remained totally stoical while holding the best or worst of cards.
Across the table, Ernest’s hands were nowhere near his eyebrows; John’s nose was undisturbed, while Bill displayed a half-grin. Fred held a ten and a three, not even a lousy pair. But based on what I observe around me, he thought, my odds are good, in fact, very good.
Then Fred experienced a deep chill permeating each segment of his body. He looked down; his hands were shaking violently. Somehow he felt he knew with absolute conviction the cards held in his opponent’s hands and it wasn’t based on his refined ability to read their subliminal signals. Fred mentally discarded his new and strange feelings immediately.
At the end of the final bet, all the players showed their hole cards. Fred won with his single ten high. Fred was doubly blessed—he had also earned the privilege of being the high winner for the calendar year. Maureen kissed him on the back of his head as he pulled in his winnings, softly murmuring in his ear, “My goodness, this seems to be your lucky night, sweetie,” she purred, suggestively. Fred knew it was time for the party to break up.
“What are you going to do, psychoanalyze me again?” Fred asked, referring to her strong psychological background. Maureen just smiled, but she had issued a clear signal that it was time for the guests to leave.
Bill, no longer smiling, mechanically shook Fred’s hand as he exited into the humid Florida night. The rest mumbled as they left, none of them close to understanding how Fred could win so much and so often.
After they were gone Fred turned to his wife and said, “Maureen, I predict a great end to what has already been a very good year for us. And by the way, weren’t you suggesting a second treat for me this evening?”
Maureen smiled seductively, as she started up the stairs. “I guess it’s time for your psychoanalysis, honey.” In less than a moment Fred was trailing her.
Chapter 3
George Schultz basked in the brilliant glow of financial success. In an indecently short time he had amassed a small fortune; in fact, he thought, I have a shit load of money and that doesn’t even begin to describe its full breadth. Most of Schultz’s money was diversified in over a hundred stocks that he had personally explored and selected. His choices were heavily concentrated in the small capitalization segment of the market, creating an extremely high risk in the event of a severe market downturn in that sector. However, Schultz certainly didn’t trust stock brokers to make informed decisions for him; in fact, he didn’t trust anybody for anything. As far as he was concerned, delegation was for cowards, the faint of heart and for those with insufficient brain power. If he made a mistake in life, at least it would be his mistake entirely, not that he often made errors. At any rate, his significant company earnings would easily subsidize any losses he might encounter in the market.
He knew more than any of his subordinates about his company’s diverse operations, although he reluctantly conceded that they did have complex innate talents that he did not share. That, he rationa
lized, was simply the luck of a quirk of nature. His talents were earned by hard work, creativity and a never ending life long discipline. Few in this world have those composite talents, he mused, at least not to the degree that I have perfected, molded and modulated them; I fully deserve everything I get.
He turned around his name plate so that he could clearly see the message that he wanted anyone entering his office to appreciate. That simple process always gave him an unequaled rush. The plate rested on the corner of his eight foot, highly lacquered and polished rosewood executive desk. It said PRESIDENT. No name—just the word president in bold, real gold letters embossed over a highly polished rosewood background containing the same exotic wood grain as that embodied in his desk.