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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MIND PREY
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1995 by John Sandford.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 1-101-14749-0
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Contents
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
1
THE STORM BLEW up late in the afternoon, tight, gray clouds hustling over the lake like dirty, balled-up sweat socks spilling from a basket. A chilly wind knocked leaves from the elms, oaks, and maples at the water’s edge. The white phlox and black-eyed Susans bowed their heads before it.
The end of summer; too soon.
John Mail walked down the floating dock at Irv’s Boat Works, through the scents of premix gasoline, dead, drying minnows and moss, the old man trailing behind with his hands in the pockets of his worn gabardines. John Mail didn’t know about old-style machinery—chokes, priming bulbs, carburetors, all that. He knew diodes and resistors, the strengths of one chip and the weaknesses of another. But in Minnesota, boat lore is considered part of the genetic pattern: he had no trouble renting a fourteen-foot Lund with a 9.9 Johnson outboard. A driver’s license and a twenty-dollar deposit were all he needed at Irv’s.
Mail stepped down into the boat, and with an open hand wiped a film of water from the bench seat and sat down. Irv squatted beside the boat and showed him how to start the motor and kill it, how to steer it and accelerate. The lesson took thirty seconds. Then John Mail, with his cheap Zebco rod and reel and empty, red-plastic tackle box, put out on Lake Minnetonka.
“Back before dark,” Irv hollered after him. The white-haired man stood on the dock and watched John Mail putter away.
When Mail left Irv’s dock, the sky was clear, the air limpid and summery, if a little nervous in the west. Something was coming, he thought. Something was hiding below the treeline. But no matter. This was just a look, just a taste.
He followed the shoreline east and north for three miles. Big houses were elbow to elbow, millions of dollars’ worth of stone and brick with manicured lawns running down to the water. Professionally tended flower beds were stuck on the lawns like postage stamps, with faux-cobblestone walks snaking between them. Stone swans and plaster ducks paddled across the grass.
Everything looked different from the water side. Mail thought he’d gone too far, but he still hadn’t picked out the house. He stopped and went back, then circled. Finally, much farther north than he thought it would be, he spotted the weird-looking tower house, a local landmark. And down the shore, one-two-three, yes, there it was, stone, glass and cedar, red shingles, and, barely visible on the far side of the roof, the tips of the huge blue spruces that lined the street. A bed of petunias, large swirls of red, white, and blue, glowed patriotically from the top of a flagstone wall set into the slope of the lawn. An open cruiser crouched on a boat lift next to the floating dock.
Mail killed the outboard and let the boat drift to a stop. The storm was still below the trees, the wind was dying down. He picked up the fishing rod, pulled line off the reel and threaded it through the guides and out the tip. Then he took a handful of line and threw it overboard, hookless and weightless. The rat’s-nest of monofilament drifted on the surface, but that was good enough. He looked like he was fishing.
Settling on the hard bench seat, Mail hunched his shoulders and watched the house. Nothing moved. After a few minutes, he began to manufacture fantasies.
He was good at this: a specialist, in a way. There were times when he’d been locked up as punishment, was allowed no books, no games, no TV. A claustrophobic—and they knew he was claustrophobic, that was part of the punishment—he’d escaped into fantasy to preserve his mind, sat on his bunk and turned to the blank facing wall and played his own mind-films, dancing dreams of sex and fire.
Andi Manette starred in the early mind-films; fewer later on, almost none in the past two years. He’d almost forgotten her. Then the calls came, and she was back.
Andi Manette. Her perfume could arouse the dead. She had a long, slender body, with a small waist and large, pale breasts, a graceful neckline, when seen from the back with her dark hair up over her small ears.
Mail stared at the water, eyes open, fishing rod drooping over the gunwales, and watched, in his mind, as she walked across a dark chamber toward him, peeling off a silken robe. He smiled. When he touched her, her flesh was warm and smooth, unblemished. He could feel her on his fingertips. “Do this,” he’d say, out loud; and then he’d giggle. “Down here,” he’d say…
He sat for an hour, for two, talking occasionally, then he sighed and shivered, and woke from the daydream. The world had changed.
The sky was gray, angry, the low clouds rolling in. A wind whipped around the boat, blowing the rat’s-nest of monofilament across the water like a tumbleweed. Across the fattest part of the lake, he could see the breaking curl of a whitecap.
Time to go.
He reached back to crank the outboard and saw her. She stood in the bay window, wearing a white dress—though she was three hundred yards away, he knew the figure, and the unique, attentive stillness. He could feel the eye contact. Andi Manette was psychic. She could look right into your brain and say the words you were trying to hide.
John Mail looked away, to protect himself.
So she wouldn’t know he was coming.
ANDI MANETTE STOOD in the bay window and watched the rain sweep across the water toward the house, and the darkness coming behind. At the concave drop of the lawn, at the water’s edge, the tall heads of the white phlox bobbed in the wind. They’d be gone by the weekend. Beyond them, a lone fisherman sat in one of the orange-tipped rental boats from Irv’s. He’d been out there since five o’clock and, as far as she could tell, hadn’t caught a thing. She could’ve told him that the bottom was mostly sterile muck, that she’d never caught a fish from the dock.
As she watched,
he turned to start the outboard. Andi had been around boats all of her life, and something about the way the man moved suggested that he didn’t know about outboards—how to sit down and crank at the same time.
When he turned toward her, she felt his eyes—and thought, ridiculously, that she might know him. He was so far away that she couldn’t even make out the shape of his face. But still, the total package—head, eyes, shoulders, movement—seemed familiar…
Then he yanked the starter cord again, and a few seconds later he was on his way down the shoreline, one hand holding his hat on his head, the other hand on the outboard tiller. He’d never seen her, she thought. The rain swept in behind him.
And she thought: the clouds come in, the leaves falling down.
The end of summer.
Too soon.
ANDI STEPPED AWAY from the window and moved through the living room, turning on the lamps. The room was furnished with warmth and a sure touch: heavy country couches and chairs, craftsman tables, lamps and rugs. A hint of Shaker there in the corner, lots of natural wood and fabric, subdued, but with a subtle, occasionally bold, touch of color—a flash of red in the rug that went with the antique maple table, a streak of blue that hinted of the sky outside the bay windows.
The house, always warm in the past, felt cold with George gone.
With what George had done.
George was movement and intensity and argument, and even a sense of protection, with his burliness and aggression, his tough face, intelligent eyes. Now…this.
Andi was a slender woman, tall, dark-haired, unconsciously dignified. She often seemed posed, although she was unaware of it. Her limbs simply fell into arrangements, her head cocked for a portrait. Her hair-do and pearl earrings said horses and sailboats and vacations in Greece.
She couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t change it if she could.
With the living room lights cutting the growing gloom, Andi climbed the stairs, to get the girls organized: first day of school, clothes to choose, early to bed.
At the top of the stairs, she started right, toward the girls’ room—then heard the tinny music of a bad movie coming from the opposite direction.
They were watching television in the master bedroom suite. As she walked down the hall, she heard the sudden disconnect of a channel change. By the time she got to the bedroom, the girls were engrossed in a CNN newscast, with a couple of talking heads rambling on about the Consumer Price Index.
“Hi, Mom,” Genevieve said cheerfully. And Grace looked up and smiled, a bit too pleased to see her.
“Hi,” Andi said. She looked around. “Where’s the remote?”
Grace said, unconcernedly, “Over on the bed.”
The remote was a long way from either of the girls, halfway across the room in the middle of the bedspread. Hastily thrown, Andi thought. She picked it up, said, “Excuse me,” and backtracked through the channels. On one of the premiums, she found a clinch scene, fully nude, still in progress.
“You guys,” she said, reproachfully.
“It’s good for us,” the younger one protested, not bothering with denials. “We gotta find things out.”
“This is not the way to do it,” Andi said, punching out the channel. “Come talk to me.” She looked at Grace, but her older daughter was looking away—a little angry, maybe, and embarrassed. “Come on,” Andi said. “Let’s everybody organize our school stuff and take our baths.”
“We’re talking like a doctor again, Mom,” Grace said.
“Sorry.”
On the way down to the girls’ bedrooms, Genevieve blurted, “God, that guy was really hung.”
After a second of shocked silence, Grace started to giggle, and two seconds later Andi started, and five seconds after that all three of them sprawled on the carpet in the hallway, laughing until the tears ran down their faces.
THE RAIN FELL steadily through the night, stopped for a few hours in the morning, then started again.
Andi got the girls on the bus, arrived at work ten minutes early, and worked efficiently through her patient list, listening carefully, smiling encouragement, occasionally talking with some intensity. To a woman who could not escape thoughts of suicide; to another who felt she was male, trapped in a female body; to a man who was obsessed by a need to control the smallest details of his family’s life—he knew he was wrong but couldn’t stop.
At noon, she walked two blocks out to a deli and brought a bag lunch back for herself and her partner. They spent the lunch hour talking about Social Security and worker compensation taxes with the bookkeeper.
In the afternoon, a bright spot: a police officer, deeply bound by the million threads of chronic depression, seemed to be responding to new medication. He was a dour, pasty-faced man who reeked of nicotine, but today he smiled shyly at her and said, “My God, this was my best week in five years: I was looking at women.”
ANDI LEFT THE office early, and drove through an annoying, mud-producing drizzle to the west side of the loop, to the rambling, white New England cottages and green playing fields of the Birches School. Hard maples boxed the school parking lot; flames of red autumn color were stitched through their lush crowns. Toward the school entrance, a grove of namesake birch had gone a sunny gold, a brilliant greeting on a dismal day.
Andi left the car in the parking lot and hurried inside, the warm smell of a soaking rain hanging like a fog over the wet asphalt.
The teacher-parent conferences were routine—Andi went to them every year, the first day of school: meet the teachers, smile at everyone, agree to work on the Thanksgiving pageant, write a check to the strings program. So looking forward to working with Grace, she’s a very bright child, active, school leader, blah blah blah.
She was happy to go to them. Always happy when they were over.
WHEN THEY WERE done, she and the girls walked back outside and found the rain had intensified, hissing down from the crazy sky. “I’ll tell you what, Mom,” Grace said, as they stood in the school’s covered entry, watching a woman with a broken umbrella scurry down the sidewalk. Grace was often very serious when talking with adults. “I’m in a very good dress, and it’s barely wrinkled, so I could wear it again. Why don’t you get the car and pick me up here?”
“All right.” No point in all of them getting wet.
“I’m not afraid of the rain,” Genevieve said, pugnaciously. “Let’s go.”
“Why don’t you wait with Grace?” Andi asked.
“Nah. Grace is just afraid to get wet ’cause she’ll melt, the old witch,” Genevieve said.
Grace caught her sister’s eye and made a pinching sign with her thumb and forefinger.
“Mom,” Genevieve wailed.
“Grace,” Andi said, reprovingly.
“Tonight, when you’re almost asleep,” Grace muttered. She knew how to deal with her sister.
At twelve, Grace was the older and by far the taller of the two, gawky, but beginning to show the curves of adolescence. She was a serious girl, almost solemn, as though expecting imminent unhappiness. Someday a doctor.
Genevieve, on the other hand, was competitive, frivolous, loud. Almost too pretty. Even at nine, everyone said, it was obvious that she’d be a trial to the boys. To whole flocks of boys. But that was years away. Now she was sitting on the concrete, messing with the sole of her tennis shoe, peeling the bottom layer off.
“Gen,” Andi said.
“It’s gonna come off anyway,” Genevieve said, not looking up. “I told you I needed new shoes.”
A man in a raincoat hurried up the walk, hatless, head bowed in the rain. David Girdler, who called himself a psychotherapist and who was active in the Parent-Teacher Cooperative. He was a boring man, given to pronunciations about proper roles in life, and hard-wired behavior. There were rumors that he used tarot cards in his work. He fawned on Andi. “Dr. Manette,” he said, nodding, slowing. “Nasty day.”
“Yes,” Andi said. But her breeding wouldn’t let her stop so curtly, even with a ma
n she disliked. “It’s supposed to rain all night again.”
“That’s what I hear,” Girdler said. “Say, did you see this month’s Therapodist? There’s an article on the structure of recovered memory…”
He rambled on for a moment, Andi smiling automatically, then Genevieve interrupted, loudly, “Mom, we’re superlate,” and Andi said, “We’ve really got to go, David,” and then, because of the breeding, “But I’ll be sure to look it up.”
“Sure, nice talking to you,” Girdler said.
When he’d gone inside, Genevieve said, looking after him, from the corner of her mouth like Bogart, “What do we say, Mom?”
“Thank you, Gen,” Andi said, smiling.
“You’re welcome, Mom.”
“OKAY,” ANDI SAID. “I’ll run for it.” She looked down the parking lot. A red van had parked on the driver’s side of her car and she’d have to run around the back of it.
“I’m coming, too,” Genevieve said.
“I get the front,” Grace said.
“I get the front…”
“You got the front on the way over, beetle,” Grace said.
“Mom, she called me…”
Grace made the pinching sign again, and Andi said, “You get in the back, Gen. You had the front on the way over.”
“Or I’ll pinch you,” Grace added.
They half-ran through the rain, Andi in her low heels, Genevieve with her still-short legs, holding hands. Andi released Gen’s hand as they crossed behind the Econoline van. She pointed her key at the car and pushed the electronic lock button, heard the locks pop up over the hissing of the rain.
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 33