Mind Switch

By Lorne L. Bentley

Fred Harris, a Southern Florida police lieutenant, is faced with two mass killings. Despite political pressures to seek an accelerated conviction, Fred believes the crime is more complex than it first appears. His investigation leads him to an ominous downtown organization staffed with extraordinary personnel, each possessing exceptional extra sensory abilities. Fred has to cope with a headstrong superior, a staff that doesn’t support him, and a wife who has fallen victim to dark, secretive moods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Jul 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781581242904

Book preview

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 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 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 rationalized, 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.

When he first told his new receptionist, Donna Lang, five years ago, that he desired an appropriate name plate when he moved into his new office, she had unprofessionally ordered one less than one half the dimensions of that which currently graced his desk. Worse yet, it said, GEORGE SCHULTZ. In no uncertain terms he told her that he didn’t want to be called George, or even Mr. Schultz; he wanted to be called president because that was what he was—the president of Analysis Unlimited, or as he preferred to call it, AU. It was a title he had rightfully earned through hard and creative work and he wanted it to be recognized by all those that entered his office. He added dismissively, after only her second day on the job, if she didn’t understand his requirements to the letter, she could find another job and she could find it now! Schultz did not suffer fools easily. She humbly said, Yes, sir. Betraying not an ounce of emotion, she walked briskly out of his office. Within 24 hours he had exactly the plate that he wanted.

Lately he hadn’t been feeling quite right physically. Sleep was becoming hard to come by; recently he had been late for work. He was just too tired to make it to the office without trying to tease out another hour’s sleep. He hated this tired state. First, because it revealed a mortal weakness in him which he certainly did not want anyone else recognizing; second, some of his subordinates in his absence might attempt to make executive commitments that were his prerogative alone. Fortunately, he had recently come up with what he hoped would be a solution.

Shifting mental gears, he opened his desk drawer and pulling out his most recent contract, he turned to the first page summary detailing the conditions of the agreement as well as the total dollar amount to be awarded to his firm. He had no substantive competition for the unique work his organization performed; better yet, his customer base permitted him a great deal of leeway in the latitude of what he could charge. The opportunistic environment of the war against terrorism had permitted him a great deal of contractual freedom. Satisfied, he put the contract back in the drawer and placed his feet on his desk. In his mind’s eye he started imagining more and more money rolling in and thought, damn I’m good, I am really good!

Chapter 4

Damn, Shit, Damn! Harry Ford was aggravated; today’s frustration capped the culmination of a solid year of pandering to ignorant customers that he didn’t care a shit about. He was weary of the forced false smile, the artificial optimism and the pleasantries that he was required to project each and every day. He slammed his fist down hard and repeatedly on the well worn red and white Formica kitchen table that he had recently purchased for eleven dollars at the local Goodwill store. As he pounded, his anger magnified. In his mind it was no longer a table before him but it had become the lifeless, flattened, and broken face of his last customer.

He had just returned to his aging trailer at Jed’s RV Luxury Resort just off Fruitville Road. It was almost 5:30 p.m., the sun was starting to settle over the Gulf of Mexico, and he had just a few minutes ago, finished with the last of his pain-in-the-ass customers. She was a totally stressed out, highly demanding middle-aged bitch who had proven to be his most perplexing client of the entire year. After expending over a useless hour with her, he determined that any additional consumption of his precious time was just not worth it. In his frustration he virtually threw her out of the office, but only after he had collected his full fee. Unfortunately, his advertisement read, Your money fully refunded if you are not satisfied. Try and get it, he thought. Ethics was the last thing in the world that Ford worried or even thought about.

Ford took a cold dark German beer out of the refrigerator. Ford liked his beer dark and cold, real cold. He had set the temperature of the refrigerator almost down to the level of the freezer compartment. As he pulled off the cap, bubbly foam poured out, rapidly sliding down the slick bottle, finding its final destination on his new blue striped shirt. That made him even madder; he struck the table one more time. Damn bitch! he cried out, assigning the full responsibility for the overflowing beer directly to her.

He never drank at work; his self imposed daily allotment of eight beers didn’t start until the evening. Some uninformed people, he reflected, might classify him as an alcoholic but he knew better. As far as he was concerned, if you can hold your beer you are no drunk—not in anybody’s classification. At any rate, once he consumed the eighth beer, that was it—no more for that day. He had his values, sparse as they might be, but he was rigid about that one. Of course, when the weekend came, he generously increased his daily allotment, often losing track of the tally, but, hell, that was his reward for what he had to put up with all week long. Predictably he would often fall asleep in front of his twelve inch TV, and not wake up until morning. But he was always cold sober when he woke up.

In his business he could only string people along so long. He was actually quite good at his trade; but some people, steeped in personality defenses and psychologically constrained by a rabid fear of losing control, could not fully open up to him. For these people, he ended his counsel after one visit while charging as much as he could pluck out of them. If he anticipated future success after his first meeting with the client, he was often able to add on several additional sessions and the greenbacks would start to flow in. He advertised via one source—the yellow pages. He secured a half page ad under Hypnotism and a second smaller ad in another part of the directory.

Ford had been living in the park for the past five years, and he felt totally at home in his six-hundred square foot containment. The park offered only two models, one with a single bath and bedroom, and the other with an additional half bath. The square footage was the same for both; the additional bedroom space was chiseled out of the limited living room area. Ford was a bachelor and resigned to stay that way for the balance of his life; so the single bedroom and bath met his needs perfectly, now and forever.

Another prime advantage to his living in the park was that it was generally populated by transients. He didn’t want any nosey neighbor closely observing his movements over an extended time; his contact with other park guests was purposely kept to a minimum. He boldly placed bright red no trespassing signs on each side of his trailer. In order to keep his low profile, he never participated in the free morning coffee, the social hour, or any of the numerous weekly volleyball and tennis matches that the park offered free of charge. He regretted the lack of physical competition, since despite his alcoholic indulgence, he had religiously kept in superb shape since his graduation from high school fifteen years ago. Harry knew without a doubt that he still could take on all competitors in any of the sports that he had participated in during his high school years and still be victorious, even though he had to admit to himself that he was starting to get somewhat long in the tooth.

Unfortunately, he could not risk exposure in any form for fear that he would become too well known. In his private life he wanted to remain alone, and he had taken elaborate steps to make sure he was. In fact, he avoided the park offices, even sending in his monthly rental payments by mail. As a result, most of the park management had no idea what he looked like. He even used a different name from the one he used in his business, reducing the possibility of anyone tracing him to his home.

Ford rented an office space about three miles from his home. It was there that he conducted all of his business. All of his mail was delivered to his office address under his correct name. Since the resort owned the land in which his trailer was parked, he never had to worry about the county linking him to a property tax; and fortunately his home state of Florida had no state income tax. He provided the IRS bastards with his business address as his home address; and they didn’t give a shit as long as they promptly obtained his yearly donation to the freeloading bureaucrats of America.

Some people look like one would imagine they should for the life’s profession they choose. So did Fred—jet black hair, a hint of silver threads creeping out at his temples, heavy pitch black eyebrows, deep sunken eyes, and a delicate goatee trimmed with perfection to a point so narrow and sharp, it almost looked as if it could be used effectively as a weapon. His eyes were a brilliant penetrating blue, wide and overpowering. The tone of his voice was soft, at times almost inaudible, but always commanding. All of his physical features reinforced the persona which he sought to project—a powerful, but gentle man, all-knowing and certainly one to be trusted always and under all circumstances.

Ford offered permanent solutions to the constant stresses of a modern, competitive society—weight reduction, stress release, elimination of the smoking habit, and the curbing of bad tendencies in general, whatever they might be. He developed a fairly quick test to determine potential hypnotic success. Generally the test worked well; if his customers failed the preliminary test he quickly walked them to the door. Time is money, he often said; and time could either be on your side or against you. If the test was successful, he would move his subject on to a deeper hypnotic trance stage. The test was not absolute, but it presented a fairly accurate gauge of a person’s hypnotic openness.

His last customer had been the exception to the rule. She had passed the test quickly; but no matter how hard he tried, she was not able to progress beyond the lightest hypnotic level. She would have made a perfect pigeon in all other aspects, he reflected, but unfortunately that was not to be. Well, he thought, tomorrow is another day; and at any rate I have a much bigger objective than plucking a few limited coins out of these rich old broads.

As Ford pondered once again on the frustrations of the day, he removed his stained shirt and deposited it and a half of cup of Tide into his rusty washing machine. With one hand he turned the dial to normal wash, with the other he finished off his third beer of the evening.

He entered his living room-kitchen combination, and walked to his TV, turning on Fox news. He had lost his remote two years ago but that didn’t matter since Fox was the only channel he ever watched. A busty female meteorologist exclaimed that a severe cold spell was moving in rapidly from the west. It had already deposited two feet of snow in New Mexico with freezing temperatures occurring there and in most of the northern country. Ford yelled out to an empty trailer, Who gives a shit? It doesn’t snow down here!

One of the commentators accused former President Clinton of being responsible for the Iraq war. Ford applauded. He didn’t know how Clinton could have been responsible since it occurred after his watch; but if Fox news suggested it, it must have been fact. Ford often talked out loud when he watched the news; he certainly liked the sound of his voice more than that of the bitches he had to endure as clients all week long. Oh, well, he thought, the week is over. He gulped down another beer, already forgetting if it was number three or four.

Chapter 5

Howard Slivers was walking rapidly to an unknown goal and destination. As he glanced at his watch, he thought, time certainly has passed by quickly. In fact, he suddenly realized, it has been over three hours since I left work. Where have I been? Why can’t I remember? I’m only 49, is it possible that I already have advanced dementia? No, can’t be, no way, none of my medical tests showed any signs of it. But where have I been? I’m walking up Main Street, but where in hell am I going? And why am I rushing, am I late for something?

Ah, there’s Mrs. Harrison walking towards me; she’s one of my very best customers. Hello, Mrs. Harrison, you certainly are looking great today! As she passed, he observed that with just a minor compliment, Mrs. Harrison lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually, she really looked haggard but a few white lies don’t do anybody any harm. At least it certainly made her feel better and maybe that is my real purpose on earth, to make people feel better. Whatever else I might be, I certainly am a kind, caring and altruistic person, he thought.

Wait a minute, I know what I have to do; I have to get my wife a birthday present. She would be really upset if I forgot it like I did last year. First I have to do something, something really important; and then I will definitely get her an expensive gold bracelet. She will like that; and after I do something I’ll call and tell my secretary that I won’t be returning to the office today. I’ll take Irene out to an early expensive candlelight dinner and present her with the bracelet. She will be delighted; I bet she thinks I’ve forgotten. Suddenly, Jim felt better. No, I can’t have dementia, he thought, I clearly remembered Irene’s birthday.

* * *

Without forethought, Slivers mechanically entered the rotating door of the County Bank. Slivers observed an older woman walking toward him. There’s Mrs. Sellers; I’ve known her since my PTA days at Gulf Gate School. Hi, Mrs. Sellers, how are your children? Good? That’s fine, have a great day, come by and see Irene and me sometime. Now make sure you do!

Let’s see, when I finish here I have to remember to call my secretary, and then get Irene that bracelet. Okay, now I remember what I have to do!

Less than a minute later, Jim committed the first crime of his entire life—vicious, unemotional, unrelenting cold-blooded murder.

Chapter 6

It had been a full two days since his last poker game of the season. Fred Harris was experiencing the joy of life as he and Maureen’s first cousin, Judy Mason, strolled Sarasota’s downtown streets on a warm sun-splashed afternoon. Fred enjoyed the companionship of Judy, mostly because he suspected she reminded him so much of Maureen. Both had shining red hair, petite bodies, and upbeat, optimistic personalities which somehow could surface regardless of the nature of an event. But unlike Judy, Maureen, on rare occasions, could withdraw for extended periods, during which time her mood became dark and incommunicative. It was a characteristic he never understood.

Maureen’s cousin had arrived yesterday from Colorado. Maureen couldn’t get off from work, so she asked Fred to show her favorite cousin the town. Judy had never been to Florida before; and since this was Fred’s day off, Maureen felt it would be a perfect time for him to show her cousin the sights. Maureen knew that Fred was proud of his birth city and welcomed an opportunity to show it off at any occasion, even though he feigned an air of disdain when she suggested it.

The temperature hovered in the mid 70s; a hint of fresh, invigorating salt-filled sea air blew in from the west, gracefully animating freshly planted palm trees bordering downtown sidewalks. Above, Fred glanced at frothy, snow white clouds filling the early December sky. Golden sea gull wings, reflecting the afternoon winter sun, peppered the landscape. In a just a few hours, Fred thought, the underbellies of those same clouds would form an atmospheric mosaic of deep purples, brilliant oranges and crimson reds bridging the entire horizon, in one of western Florida’s famous sunsets.

As people walked by them, Fred caught fragments of their statements.

Daddy, I can’t wait to get to Disney World tomorrow.

Great, son, and what do you want to see most?"

Nancy, I don’t appreciate your buying that outfit; money doesn’t grow on trees, you know!

No more candy for you, Jane, you want to be sick?

Fred smiled. Each person was encased in their own world with their individual problems and goals. Then suddenly Fred detected a new almost muted voice, a seemingly disembodied voice. The time has come, the time has come.

Fred looked around him; at the moment, there was no one within fifty feet of them. He realized that the voice was not being generated by an external source that somehow it seemed to have developed from within. Fred sensed a dim foreboding but forced himself to laugh it off as well as that of his imagination playing voice games with him. What is the matter with me, he thought? Everything is going great in my life.

Shifting emotions, he muttered to Judy, God, life is great; it’s great to be alive this year, this month at this moment in this town, in this universe. Judy smiled, seemingly enjoying the leisurely stroll as much as Fred was.

Young mothers were proudly parading their newborn in all parts of the downtown section. Baby carriages were opened to their maximum to ensure that each child obtained his or her daily allocation of vitamin D. Christmas music softly filtered out from downtown stores, bringing feelings of goodness and nostalgia of days gone by. Fred remarked that it sounded as if Gene Autry for the billionth time, over several generations, was voicing in song the Horatio Alger accomplishments of one lowly, red-nosed reindeer.

They both remained silent for the next few minutes as they continued up Main Street in the direction of city police headquarters. Both were unaware of the horror that was starting to unfold just 100 yards up the street from them.

Chapter 7

Alfred Long was immersed in an uncontrollable rout. Every payday, without exception, he deposited, always in person, his bi-weekly check in the County Bank. He could have much more easily transferred his check electronically or dropped it off in the outside depository, but Alfred had a hidden motive. Betty Kies was one of several clerks manning teller cages every Friday afternoon. Alfred was happily married, so his thing with Betty was certainly not an affair; it could hardly even be classified as an acquaintance. But Betty was extremely attractive, the type of woman that men lust for and wished they had married twenty years earlier, had circumstances not altered their life’s path.

Betty invariably smiled at Alfred and greeted him with, How are you doing, sweetie? When she finished his transaction she would discreetly reach under her cage, gently put her hand on his and say, Now you be good, do you understand, and if you’re not good please, please be careful, honey! Her hand would softly linger on Alfred’s for just a titillating instant before she let go and moved on to the next customer.

Alfred knew that some people in this world, most likely including Betty, were simply social touchers. Touching was just their special and innocent way of communicating with the world. Deep down Alfred knew that, but whenever he entered the bank at 4 p.m. every other Friday, he predictably moved to the extreme left side of the bank of teller cages waiting patiently until the line in front of him cleared so he could spend one glorious moment with Betty. In the past, tellers with no waiting customers would signal him to move to their cages so that he could be served more expeditiously; but by now they all knew of his hidden objective. Some people would consider his behavior very foolish for a happily married man, fifteen years Betty’s senior, who had never entertained a thought of asking her out. But for Alfred, that single concentrated moment of happiness, replicated every two weeks, was well worth it.

Finally, Alfred was next in line and he prepared to smile as he always did when he greeted Betty and say, as he invariably did, How’s my best girl? That greeting was as personal as Alfred ever got and ever would get. Had he said anything more intimate than that, he would have become totally embarrassed and worse yet, with his strict moral structure, he would be on the teetering edge of committing some terrible type of verbal adultery. In fact a year ago he had changed his greeting from, How’s my girl, to How’s my best girl? And the first time he uttered it, he had stuttered so badly that Betty had to ask him twice what he said. With its slight modification, he had used that same trite greeting from the third time he spoke with Betty almost two years ago. Normally his smile would be returned and Betty would respond, "How are you doing, sweetie?"

This time, however, her hackneyed response never came. This day, as Alfred slowly advanced to her cage wearing a large grin, Betty greeted him with a face frozen in terror. When Alfred was with Betty, his concentration was total; all other inputs to his sensory system were turned off. Alfred was mystified, What’s the matte—

Before he could complete his sentence, Betty dropped down out of sight below her cage. Alfred was dumbfounded. Had he not brushed his teeth, not used his underarm deodorant this morning, was a piece of his morning’s soybean sausage still stuck in his teeth; what the heck was going on? Maybe, he thought, God forbid, Betty had suffered a heart attack or a stroke. Stretching as far as he could on his toes, he peered over the cage and observed Betty sitting on the floor with her head between her legs, her arms wrapped protectively around her body.

At that moment in suspended time, Alfred became more bewildered. He experienced a sharp pain in the left side of his back. Instantly his shirt felt damp. He looked above at the bank’s sprinkler system plumbing. No water dripping from there, he thought, so where the hell is it coming from? Shifting his orientation, he tried to locate the source of his pain. He pulled open his suit coat, and felt his back. Bright red liquid appeared on his hand. What the hell! he muttered out loud. His prevailing thought was, damn, this is a brand new shirt, it will be ruined forever and my wife will be really pissed. Then his confusion amplified. His peripheral vision recognized rapid movement behind and to the right of him. With disbelief, he for the first time recognized that someone not more than twenty feet away was aiming a large gun directly at him. Like all mammals, Alfred was born with an instinctive self-preservation capability manifesting in the form of fight or flee. Alfred knew that fight was out of the question since the indisputable advantage had to be assigned to the stranger holding the large gun. But he had been the county high school champ in the 100 yard dash not that many years ago, at least it didn’t seem that long ago, and he knew instinctively that he could make it to the front door, and once there he could