Mind Games by Carolyn Crane

Mind Games heroine Justine Jones isn’t your typical kick-ass type – she’s a hopeless hypochondriac whose life is run by fear.

She’s lured into a restaurant, Mongolian Delites, by tortured mastermind Sterling Packard, who promises he can teach her to channel her fears. In exchange, she must join his team of disillusionists – vigilantes hired by crime victims to zing their anxieties into criminals, resulting in collapse and transformation.

Justine isn’t interested in Packard’s troupe until she gets a taste of the peace he can promise. Soon she enters the thrilling world of neurotic crime fighters who battle Midcity’s depraved and paranormal criminals.

Eventually, though, she starts wondering why Packard hasn’t set foot outside the Mongolian Delites restaurant for eight years. And about the true nature of the disillusionists.

Mind Games: Chapter One

FROM 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. “Greedy, stupid, and paranoid, with two suitcases full of undocumented cash,” he hisses. “Forgot what a perfect mark your pop was. Probably my easiest ever.”

I stare, shocked, as he exhales oniony breath. Then he slides his fat tongue up over his lip, revealing its slimy underbelly, adding grossness to insult. My heart races, and my head tingles dangerously. But I straighten up and smile, like he’s this buffoon. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s hiding fear and horror. I spend my whole life hiding fear and horror.

“There were ten suitcases of cash,” I lie. “You didn’t know because you’re an idiot.” The deadish way he peers at me gives me chills; I want desperately to escape. The bartender starts placing drinks on a tray. I smile and continue. “We hardly even missed the
two.” Another lie. The truth is that Foley’s scam helped to destroy what was left of our family.

A hand on Foley’s shoulder; it’s the handsome restaurateur. “Those drinks for you?” He doesn’t wait for Foley’s answer. “I’ll have Chuck bring them out to your table. On the house. Sorry about all this.” He gestures toward me. Me!

With an oily smile, Foley pushes off the bar.

“I wasn’t bothering him,” I protest. “He came up to me.”

“I know,” the restaurateur says, watching Foley cross the large, dim dining room. “I know.”

Some men are handsome in a sculptural, symmetrical way, but the restaurateur’s good looks come from imperfection: bumpy, maybe once-broken nose, crudely shaped lips, a sort of rough-and-tumble allure you can feel sure as gravity.

“Forget him.” He draws closer, and I become acutely aware of my pulse pounding. “I want to talk about what I can do for you, and what you can do for me.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say. “My boyfriend and I are just finishing up.”

“You’re fine?” He looks at me hard— looks into me, it seems. “What about the vein star problem?”

How does he know? “What about it?” I ask.

He smiles, all radiant self- possession. “I’m the one who can cure you.”

“Cure me of what? Anxiety or vein star syndrome?”

“Both. I can give you your life back.”

I regard him carefully. He has to be a highcap. My guess is he read my thoughts back there and wants to con me. Still, I have to ask. “What’s the something I do for you?”

“You’d work for me.”

“Doing what?”

“Does it matter? Is there anything you wouldn’t do to be free?”

I know a Faustian proposition when I hear one. “A lot of things. I’m not that desperate.”

“You were desperate ten minutes ago. You’ll be desperate again.” He fixes on my eyes. Slow smile. He’s like this handsome maniac.

“I’m used to desperate, buddy. Desperate’s my factory default. But thanks anyway.”

I return to our table to find Cubby digging into dessert. He protests about my paying, of course. I say, “You paid for the last ten meals and I can’t buy you one congratulatory dinner?”

He tilts his head. “Thanks, Justine.”

“Well, congratulations to you, Cubby.” I don’t tell him about the drama up at the bar; it’ll just remind him how messed up I am. I glare over at Foley and his victims.

“It was kind of you to stick your neck out when it wasn’t even your problem.”

Crime is everybody’s problem; that’s what I’m thinking. I spear a nutty, gooey cluster with my fondue fork and dip it into the melted chocolate. “Mongolian Fondue,” I say. “Very authentic.”

Cubby beams at me like I said something clever. He always thinks I’m cleverer than I am.

For More Information

Carolyn Crane lives in Minneapolis with her handsome husband and two daring cats. She enjoys reading and running and loves animals of all kinds. For more than a decade she’s made her living as a freelance writer. This is her first novel. You can learn more about Carolyn Crane at: www.authorcarolyncrane.com