Mind Switch
Authors: Lorne L. Bentley
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
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
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 events 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
Marve
l 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.