Mind Games
Authors: Carolyn Crane
Packard sets out wineglasses, and soon Shelby and Helmut arrive bearing plates piled with skewers of colorful vegetables and fat scallops.
Packard opens a bottle. “Ouzo okay?” He seems to be addressing me.
“For what?”
Packard gives me a stern look. “We’re celebrating.”
Shelby scoots a chair up next to mine and raises her glass. “I will toast to you, Justine,” she says. “May the targets never see you coming.” We laugh and clink and make more toasts. I’ve never belonged to a squad or a club, especially not a secret one like this.
As we dig into our food, I have this crazy sensation that I’m finally home. I smile at the thought. And then I chuckle. And then we all just burst out laughing.
It’s exhilarating, just laughing around the table. I have this brief sense of us as supervillains from a B-rate thriller. Except we’re more like crime fighters—if there were crime fighters who got their superpowers from being really neurotic, and used them as part of a bizarre and marginally ethical program of criminal rehabilitation.
I gaze across the table and catch Packard staring at me, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. …
For Mark
First and foremost, I would like to thank my teacher, Ian Leask, for giving me so much of his wisdom on how to actually write a novel. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew, Marcia Peck, and Teresa Whitman for their tireless readings and brilliant feedback on this manuscript throughout the long haul.
Special thanks to my agent, Cameron McClure, for jumping on this book—and for her strong vision and refusal to settle for easy fixes. I’m grateful also to Juliet Ulman for fighting to buy this novel, and to my wonderful editor, Anne Groell, whose insights and ideas greatly strengthened this text. In fact, I feel lucky to be partnered with all the folks at Spectra—I am honored and blown away by the quality and professionalism of your copy edits, cover art, and support.
So many people have been allies on my adventure through the writing wilderness: my Tertulia pals, the folks in the English Literature and Creative Writing programs at the University of Minnesota, Ian’s group of scribblers, and all my writing groups ever.
I’m also eternally grateful to my many blogger pals, whose smart, lively discussions continually deepen my love and understanding of this genre.
Heartfelt thanks to my mom and dad and sisters for all their love and support through the years and a home full of books.
Finally, and most important, I want to thank my husband, Mark—the love of my life, and the greatest manuscript critiquer, creative partner, friend, and helpmeet a girl could ever have.
OneF
ROM WHERE WE SIT
I have the perfect view of Shady Ben Foley, dining on the other side of the lavishly decorated Mongolian restaurant. He’s with an innocent-looking young couple—a pretty girl with dark ringlets and a wholesome blond country-boy fellow. Do they not get what he is?
The last time I saw Foley was maybe fifteen years ago—I was a teen and he was a middle-aged man in drawstring pants, mowing his lawn and ripping off my family. He’s grown paler and thicker, but I recognized his sharp little nose and peering eyes the instant I saw him out on the street.
My boyfriend, Cubby, pulls a hunk of meat off his skewer. He’s been a good sport, letting me drag him here to basically stalk a man. He smiles, all dimples and short blond curls. “Kebabs is a weird food,” he says.
“Definitely.”
Cubby glances over his shoulder. “Maybe he’s reformed.”
“A man like Foley doesn’t reform.” I glare across the room; judging from his victims’ body language, Shady Ben has maneuvered himself into a power position. Con men are experts at that. “I have to warn them.”
And this is when I feel it—the sensation of prickles raining over my scalp, followed by a suspicious twinge
in my head.
No!
I think.
Please let it not be happening right now!
“Justine, is something wrong?”
I put down my napkin. “I have to say something.”
“It’s not your job to save them,” he says.
“But I have to try.”
A wave of wooziness suggests my blood pressure’s dropping.
It really is happening
, I think with some shock. My condition, known as “vein star syndrome,” is the proverbial ticking time bomb in the head. Once you’re past the point of vascular rupture, no medical attention can save you.
This strange clarity comes over me and I decide not to tell Cubby. If these really are my last minutes, I want to spend them warning these two innocent people, like I wished somebody had warned my family.
I stand and stroll deliberately across the expanse of candlelit tables and Oriental rugs. Hopefully it’s not too late.
Time slows as I round one table and then the next. Details take on a dreamlike aura: the snake charmer music, the scents of curry and cinnamon, the painted horse heads and bejeweled scabbards along the walls.
I come up behind the empty fourth chair at their table, gripping the back for support.
“Ben Foley,” I say. “Remember me? Justine? From Pembroke Pines?” I can practically feel the blood cascading through my head.
Foley gives me this blank look, then exchanges bewildered glances with his young friends.
“Don’t act like it’s not you.” I take a centering breath to slow my heart rate, thereby extending my precious minutes of consciousness. That’s the sort of thing Mom would’ve suggested.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not Ben Foley.”
I turn to Foley’s companions who regard me with suspicion.
“Around fifteen years ago, your pal here”—I enunciate his name with
oomph
—“Mr.
Ben Foley
, swindled my dad. He gained his trust, then robbed him. Whatever you have going with him, stop it. Don’t trust him.”
Shady Ben has been shaking his head vigorously this whole time. “I’m sorry. You have the wrong guy.”
“I don’t have the wrong guy.” The pinpoint sensation at the crown of my head increases. How much time do I have? Ringlets Girl shifts nearer to Foley, as if to protect him. Can she not see I’m trying to help her?
“My name is David DelFino,” Foley says. “You want to see my driver’s license?”
“As if that would prove anything.”
They all seem to be focusing on something behind me, and I turn to see a tall, strikingly handsome man approach. There’s a molten quality to his movements, like a leopard walking loose. His hair, the brownish red of an old penny, curls down over his ears, but the oddest thing is the look he gives me.
I’m medium-pretty, and this is not a look you give a medium-pretty girl. It’s almost like he
beholds
me, full of awe—as if there’s something miraculous about my appearance. What does he see? I’ve heard of people looking beatific in their last moments of life—is that it? My pulse elevates; the
whooshing
in my ears is nearly deafening.
But then again, nobody else seems to think I look beatific. I decide he must have a highcap mutation of some sort. He’s a highcap telepath or maybe a highcap medical intuitionist who sees what’s happening—not like that could help me now. Cubby doesn’t believe in highcaps, but I do. I just wouldn’t trust one.
Briefly the man tears his attention away from me and addresses the table. “Everything okay here?” He’s the manager, maybe the owner.
“Case of mistaken identity,” Foley crows.
My entire scalp tingles. “Save yourselves,” I tell Foley’s victims. Surely I read the situation right; surely they’re victims. I turn back to the restaurateur, whom I still appear to have in my thrall. “Don’t worry; I won’t bother anyone anymore.”
I make my way back across the dining room to Cubby, who smiles up at me. “How’d it go?”
I take my seat, wondering if my field of vision is dimming, or if it’s just the candlelight. I feel like I should say some last words to Cubby, but we’ve been dating for only two months. Though I really, really liked him.
“Oh, no. You have that look on your face,” he says.
“What look?”
His shoulders slump. “Please tell me you’re not obsessing about that bursting vein thing again. You are, aren’t you?” Cubby sighs. “We just went through one of these this morning.”
I feel like I might cry. “This is different. There’s this pinpoint sensation …”
“It’s always different,” Cubby says. Cubby’s led a charmed life, and when you meet him, you understand that he will continue to lead a charmed life. His luck and good looks and carefree happiness are like forces of nature.
“It’s really happening,” I whisper.
“Okay, well … Justine …” He gazes at me solemnly. “Do you think you might have time for dessert before you depart for the hereafter? The chocolate fondue looks excellent.”
I exhale indignantly. “You know, even hypochondriacs die of horrible diseases. Sometimes they even die of the horrible diseases they fear the most.”
Cubby’s expression darkens. He knows who I’m talking about—my mom, dying of vein star syndrome after years of not being believed. I put my hand to my head where the tingles are strongest.
“It’s anxiety, Justine. Think about it—you were just in a stressful situation. And wouldn’t you have collapsed by now if a vein actually had ruptured?”
“Maybe it’s a tiny rupture.”
Cubby just stares at me. Then our waitress appears and he turns to quiz her on the fondue, as though I’ve been prattling on about nothing.
There are four stages my boyfriends—really, all my friends—go through: concern, ridicule, disdain, and finally flight. Cubby, I realize with a sick heart, has just graduated to disdain. I touch my head. Actually, the pinpoint sensation has lessened. The tingles linger, but yes, it could be anxiety.
The waitress describes the meltiness of the chocolate, eyes shining. Like most waitresses, she’s charmed and excited to be waiting on Cubby. For the trillionth time I wish I could be free of fear, even for just one day.
Why can’t I be normal?
I have many pathetic pastimes. One of them is what I call an aspirational shopping trip, where I’ll go to this exclusive coat store and find the most beautiful coat to try on and walk around in, relishing its snuggly, elegant construction. Thanks to my low retail wages and my sky-high medical debt, of course, I can never actually have such a coat.
I can never actually have Cubby, either—he’s an aspirational boyfriend. Because soon the episodes of health anxiety, the panicked phone calls, and the midnight treks to the ER will outweigh whatever he sees in me. And now I’ve ruined our night out, which was supposed to be a celebration for his being named top salesperson at InfiniVector Systems. He sold the most business operations and assets integration software of anybody in the entire company.
He excuses himself for the rest room and I take the opportunity to go up to the bar to pay the bill. It’s the
least I can do—not that I can afford it. I’m praying my card clears when Shady Ben Foley sidles up next to me and loudly requests another round for his table. The bartender turns to his wall of bottles and Shady Ben turns to me, drawing in a breath like he’s inhaling my scent.
