THE MIND'S EYETHE MIND'S EYE
by David Laderoute
 1998 - All Rights Reserved



  [ David Laderoute graces our site for the first time with a deliciously dark 
  cross-genre tale of telepathy and justice. ]


  I arrived at the hospital just a little too late. Just like I knew he would, 
  Rob Daniels turned and paced right into the path of a gurney being wheeled 
  past the nurses' station. The thing nearly tipped, threatening to spill a 
  gut-shot girl with a greasy punk hairdo onto the floor. Rob backed off, 
  scowling at the pair of orderlies pushing the girl towards surgery.
  "Rob, are you okay?" I called--a needless question, because I knew damned well 
  he'd be okay. Just like I'd known, a good half-hour earlier, that this whole 
  little vignette would happen exactly this way.
  He straightened the Toronto police badge dangling from his jacket pocket. "Hi, 
  Jen. Yeah, I'm fine." He raised his voice a notch. "No thanks to the freakin' 
  angels of mercy, though!"
  One of the orderlies tossed him the finger, without looking back.
  Without thinking, I said, "Sorry...."
  He looked at me, his walrus-face still half-caught in a glare. "About what?"
  Oops...I shook my head. "Never mind. So, anyway, what's so important you had 
  to drag me out of bed?"
  A tired smile lifted his moustache. "You mean you didnt know ahead of time I 
  was going to call?"
  I guess my glance was a little too quick, because the smile wavered. I hadnt 
  foreseen the call, but his sidelong reference to prescience rattled me. And I 
  wasn't sure why. Prescient episodes hit me often enough, almost always in 
  fore-reference to something inconsequential--like the time I foresaw breaking 
  a vase my mother had given me. It happened, sure enough...a shame, but hardly 
  a disaster. 
  I covered my discomfiture by smiling back. "Yeah, well, I answered it anyway." 
  So change the subject again. "So whats this all about?"
  The smile vanished like a light flicked off. "In here," he said, and led me 
  down the hall, through the customary hospital-reek of smells sterile and 
  septic and into one of the rooms.
  Two beds. One was occupied.
  A boy, maybe ten, maybe twelve years old. Handsome, or he seemed it, anyway, 
  under the bandages. Too thin, though. Malnourished. Scars, old and new. A 
  street kid, probably....
  Then it hit me, what this was about.
  I looked at Rob. "The Piper, right?"
  He nodded.
  Shit. First the prescience. Now this.
  The Pied Piper was a monster...a brutal serial killer who preyed on Torontos 
  swollen population of street kids. His nickname, coined by the media, alluded 
  to the fact that no matter how many warnings the cops spun onto the streets, 
  he still managed to somehow lure his young victims to secluded spots, and then 
  rape and strangle them.
  Eighteen, so far, boys and girls both. And--as far as the news reported, 
  anyway--there were no leads, no physical evidence, not even anything useful 
  from other paranormals involved in the case.
  "He was staggering down Danforth," Rob said, "when he got swiped by a car. 
  Just another doped-up street kid, the paramedics thought. Then they put away 
  their guns and started looking close at his injuries." He ran a hand through 
  thinning hair. "Sexual trauma, signs of strangulation...it fits the m.o. Which 
  means either the Piper screwed up or he was interrupted. Hopefully the latter, 
  because were looking for witnesses right now. In the meantime, though...." He 
  looked at me.
  I looked away.
  Ordinarily, Id jump at a high-profile case like this. But Id never worked 
  with kids before. That was a whole empathic field on its own. More than all 
  that, though, I just didnt know children. The way my life had evolved, kids 
  just hadn't ever figured into it. Somehow, the thought of bringing them into 
  it now, in the person of this boy...well, the idea made my stomach tighten 
  down to nothing.
  I shook my head. "Look, Rob...you should try Rachel Chin. Shes the best 
  empath I know, and shes worked with children--"
  "We already did. Shes in Ottawa, tied up with the Supreme Court, expert 
  witness or something. And, before you ask, no other paras are available, 
  either."
  I searched his face instinctively, but there was no judgement there. That was 
  one of the things I liked about Rob. To him, paranormality was just another 
  part of the business--another investigative tool, like forensic pathology or 
  ballistics or DNA serotyping. That attitude was rare at best, and not just 
  among cops. Almost a generation had passed since the genome folks had 
  unravelled the genetic basis for paranormality, making it something scientific 
  and understandable. But most people nonetheless put paranormality on par with 
  voodoo and seances--except scarier, because it really worked and never mind 
  all the limitations and controlled conditions required. Add to that the fact 
  that all paranormals were women and all the macho baggage that brings 
along....
  Rob really was a gem. To him, it was just business.
  This time, though, business wasnt reason enough.
  "Rob...Im sorry."
  "Look, Jen, I know you havent had much to do with children--"
  "Try nothing."
  "Fine. Nothing. But, look--we have to assume the Piper knows this ones still 
  alive. So we need to move fast, before this bastard either gets away or kills 
  again to make up for losing one." He leaned towards me, his round face a study 
  in the word please. "The truth is, Jen, the medias getting bored with this 
  case. People just dont stay interested in street-kids. It wont be long 
  before the department pulls the plug. Then itll all just be so much more city 
  noise, and I'll be pushed on to the next criminal flavour-of-the-day. We need 
  this break."
  I looked at the boy. AIDS orphan, probably. With the social safety net just 
  tatters, there were lots of those. Probably HIV positive himself.
  What a waste.
  I puffed out a sigh. "There's a good chance, you know, I wouldn't be able to 
  do much for you."
  "All you have to do is try." Smelling victory, he added, "That's all any of us 
  can do. But, hey, who knows? It might be what makes the difference."
  I thought again about tonights prescient episode, about my stomach, then 
  looked at the boy again. One last sigh, then I threw gut wariness out the 
  window. What the hell. Anyway, Id just got over the flu, so my body chemistry 
  was probably still a little screwed up, leaving me hypersensitive.
  Besides, the cops paid well for murder consults and the rent was coming due.
  "Alright," I said. "But no guarantees, got it?" 
  The walrus smiled again. "Thanks, Jen."
  Yeah, hypersensitive. That's all.
  #
  Dana Harzberg looked up from her pocket nurse and said, "Jennifer, I wish you 
  wouldnt do this."
  As a Certified Attending Physician, Dana was as familiar as any non-paranormal 
  could be with the methods--and dangers--of deep readings.
  "Im not any happier about this than you are, Dana." I lay down on the gurney 
  that had been placed beside the boys bed. "But its got to be done, so lets 
  call your objections officially noted and carry on. Okay?"
  "Fine. But Im telling you right now, children are very different from adult 
  subjects. So if I think things are getting out of hand, Im bringing you back 
  up." She gestured at a syringe of epinephrine.
  "Just dont flinch, okay? Remember that Ill be at level four." I tried to 
  look confident. "That deep a reading gives me a lot of control."
  Dana curled her lip most eloquently, said, "Uh-huh," and pricked an IV tube 
  into my arm, starting a saline drip. Then she fiddled with the pocket nurse 
  that would monitor my vitals, plugged the cables from it and the IV controller 
  into her palm-top computer and turned it on.
  "When did your period end?" she asked.
  Rob made an uncomfortable sound. "Look, if you two want some privacy--"
  "Oh, Rob, sit down and shut up. I need you here as a witness." I turned back 
  to Dana. "Two weeks ago yesterday."
  She entered that and some other things into the computer. The IV controllers 
  little peristaltic pump began to whirr, feeding a mixture of hormones and 
  RKT--a derivative of the beta-blocker popranolol--into the saline reservoir. 
  Immediately, my hands and feet tingled and went cold. I made myself more 
  comfortable, grabbed the boys thin wrist, and waited for Danas signal.
  She frowned at the computers display, then said in a voice like wind through 
  a long, steel pipe, "Okay, Jennifer. Whenever youre ready." 
  I relaxed, centred...then, like a diver off of a high board, plunged down 
  through the levels.
  A swirling kaleidoscope of distorted, nightmare images slammed into me, 
  flinging me about like a leaf in a gale. I fought for orientation, but the 
  storm of twisted shapes and figures was overpowering--a Bosch nightmare, 
  brought to frenetic life. I finally resorted to bulling my way through, 
  tearing apart the encroaching images at their seams. All at once, they 
  vanished. A wave of disorientation swept over me....
  ...then I was washed in bright sunlight. I blinked, glanced around. I stood on 
  a manicured lawn, among deep pools of shade thrown by scattered trees. But it 
  was utterly silent. Even the wind tossing the leaves made no sound.
  I paused, catching my psychic breath, while a distant, analytical part of me 
  recited: first layer, superficial echoes of trauma; second layer, protection 
  through fundamental denial and withdrawal. Right out of the textbook. 
  Somewhere, I should find a more explicit metaphor....
  There. The boy sat on a swing, eyes cast skyward. I walked over, deliberately 
  stepping between him and the sun.
  No surprise. I cast no shadow; my hand wouldnt ruffle his hair. In this safe 
  place his mind had created, I didnt exist. Just the grass, the trees and the 
  sun, all idealised to the point of plasticity. But no bruises, no pain, 
  nothing that hurt.
  I walked on, glancing back at the too-peaceful scene. Then I was back among 
  the trees, and lost sight of him--
  I was lying in a bed. Someone was holding my wrist. There were other people in 
  the room. But it was blurred, unreal, just another fitful dream.
  Next layer, basic motor-sensory functions. Off to the side, not quite 
  accessible at this level, were the essential autonomous functions. It was 
  I/him now, an assemblage of us both. I/he was beneath the upper protections, 
  but this layer was just mechanics. There was nothing to learn here. I/he kept 
  going, down....
  I/he screamed.
  There were monsters here, repeats of some of the things in the most 
  superficial level. But now they were far more vivid than those in any adult 
  mind the I-part had encountered. And they were aware. They could see me/him, 
  and they were hungry. They lurked under the bed, lurked in the closet, lurked 
  just outside the bedroom door...and they were in the hall at the top of the 
  dark stairs and down in the cellar and behind the shower curtain and they were 
  EVERYWHERE--
  I/he surged forward, through this uppermost layer of subconscious. The I-part 
  was furiously erecting controls along the way, afraid that these terrors might 
  sympathetically dredge up old Jennifer-childhood nightmares. Those, I/he may 
  not be able to control at all.
  Deeper still. The monsters faded into a pervasive fog behind us. I/he 
  hesitated.
  The fog darkened, thick with trauma. In an adult mind, this was where the real 
  dangers would begin. The he-part resisted going any further, afraid of 
  exposure to something from which his mind sought, in its elemental wisdom, to 
  protect him. But if the identity of whoever had done this was anywhere, it was 
  in there. Give up now, and the killing would continue.
  No more time. The I-part drove towards the darkness, dragging the he-part on, 
  into the lower depths of the boys subconscious mind.
  I/he melted, melded, became we.
  A man loomed over us, a black silhouette haloed by searing light. We tried to 
  move, but he was kneeling on our chest. We could barely breath, his weight 
  crushed, pressed us down...we tried to push him off, to move, to breath, but 
  he raised his fist and slammed it down, BANG our head rang like dropped metal 
  pans and the world flashed green. We tried to cry please dont please stop but 
  we couldnt and then he was pulling at our clothes....
  The nightmare memories went on and on, playing themselves out, while the part 
  that was the emotional me separated a fraction and cried in sick guilt and 
  helpless outrage.
  But the flip-side, the distant, analytical me shouted in outrage of its own, 
  appalled at this self-indulgence. This wasn't just a chance to wallow, 
  commiserating in the boys horrific memories; this was a chance to learn. I 
  disengaged myself from boy a little further, enough to gain an external 
  perspective, then wiped my mental tears and...watched.
  Eventually, the pattern I sought resolved itself. The memory sequence was much 
  more than a linear progression of images. Each portion of it carried along 
  other memories, and those carried still others, in a branching network 
  infinitely more complex than the most intricate of spider-webs. I forced 
  myself to see past the memory of the rape itself, and into the branches 
beyond.
  There were so many...what was I looking for?
  No...not what. Where! Where was this happening?
  I pushed deeper into the web. It was...a room. And the room was connected, in 
  turn, to a multitude of memory-images. But that one, there, of stairs; it led 
  up, into a hallway...which led to a door...and into another room, with a 
  stove. The stove had a clock, and a--no! Ignore the stove. It was a 
  kitchen...and now I could see the path I wanted. A kitchen in a house, a large 
  house, in a yard, behind a hedge. A house number...? No, we hadnt seen any. 
  Fine. We were in a car, with this man, driving down a street. Hed given us 
  some money, and promised more if wed...no, ignore that. Look for...there. A 
  sign...with a street-name....
  The pressure of denial swelled to an intolerable level. I had all I was going 
  to get, without doing permanent harm. A man, in a house, on a street, with a 
  name.
  No, wait. Not quite all.
  First, this man. We only saw his face in splintered glimpses, but that was 
  enough. He was horrible, an evil cartoon-thing of bulbous eyes and thick, 
  rubbery lips. Distorted by memory, no doubt, but I burned every line and 
  blemish of it into the me-parts memory anyway, so that it would not, could 
  not, be forgotten.
  The other thing was harder to find. It finally turned up, a tiny bundle 
  discarded in a far, dark corner. The boys identity, his memories, his own, 
  unique world-view....
  ...his name.
  On the way back up, I paused before the swing in the silent park. Tears 
  streamed down the boys face, because something terrible had reached into 
  this, his safe place, and hurt him so very badly. I wrapped my arms around him 
  and whispered, "Oh, Kevin."
  He stiffened and drew back. Our eyes met. 
  For a little while, he wasnt alone.
  #
  "Jennifer, what colour is this light?"
  "Blue. Now its red."
  "Good. How do you feel?"
  "Uh...fine. Usual light-headed feeling...." My tongue felt twice its normal 
  size.
  "How is she?" Rob asked from somewhere off to one side.
  "I think shes alright," Dana grouched without looking up from the pocket 
  nurse. She entered something in her computer, then turned it off. "Jennifer, 
  what happened in there?"
  "Oh, Dana, its so bad--" I began, but Rob stepped forward.
  "Jen, did you find out anything we can use?" 
  I turned to him and opened my mouth to say, yes, I know where this son of a 
  bitch is--
  --but bit off my own words.
  The police werent going to catch him.
  It wasnt a feeling, or an opinion; it was a fact. I didnt know why theyd 
  fail to get him. There was no context, no explanation--just an isolated 
  fragment of certainty, like a snapshot. But there was no doubt. I just knew 
  it, in the same way that I knew I was lying on a gurney in Sick Kids hospital 
  in Toronto.
  Prescience.
  Again.
  I fumbled for something to say. "Uh...I...."
  Dana frowned. "I dont think shes completely recovered yet. Lets give her 
  some more time."
  That was fine by me. I needed time to think. Rob closed his mouth and nodded.
  "Okay. I could use a coffee, anyway."
  After theyd gone, I looked at Kevin. The bastard who had done this was going 
  to get away with it.
  Shit! It wasnt right...!
  No...wait.
  A thought drifted by, just out of reach. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to 
  ignore the dentists drill whining behind my eyes. What was I thinking...?
  What I knew was that the police werent going to catch him. But that didnt 
  mean he was going to get away with it.
  A man, in a house, on a street with a name.
  I knew what I was going to do. And this time, prescience had nothing to do 
  with it.
  #
  I peered through the darkness, dithering. This had to be the right house. A 
  few of the others were close, but none fit as well with the one in Kevins 
  memory. A red sandstone Victorian that said old money. I glanced around, 
  taking in the graffiti and wind-stirred trash. Well, maybe this was old money, 
  once. Now it was just old. 
  I checked the elastic band holding the pneumatic syringe on my right forearm. 
  The sequential doses of RKT and epinephrine that filled its cylinders werent 
  tough to get, if you knew the right people. Neither had any real street value. 
  But RKT was meant to be used clinically, for focusing and boosting paranormal 
  abilities--not on the fly, without doctors like Dana watching over things. Id 
  meant it as a sort of insurance, or maybe a psychic placebo. In reality it was 
  more likely to kill me, than to be of much help. 
  But it didnt matter. I wouldnt need it. Thered be nothing to this. I 
  stepped out from the shadows under the hoary old elm, took a deep breath, and 
  walked up the cracked flagstones. 
  I thought again about calling the cops, and again decided no. Prescience might 
  sometimes be short on the "why" or "how", but the "what" was always accurate. 
  If I called the cops without being sure of the house, theyd start poking 
  around the neighbourhood. And that might be the very reason they wouldnt get 
  him. No. This was better. If I could corroborate what Id learned in Kevins 
  memory with a man in this house, then that might change my prescient mind--I 
  hoped. And if not...well, then Id tell Rob what I knew, and just hope for the 
  best.
  Front door. A siren wailed from off towards the Toronto sky-scape, and I 
  glanced that way. A misty childhood memory drifted by...that same city 
  skyline, brightly lit against the night sky. Huh. Not anymore. These days, 
  except for a few strobing anti-collision lights lit for the benefit of 
  airplanes, the buildings were just dark shapes, like blackened teeth sprouting 
  from smog-hazy, twilight gums.
  The siren stopped, and silence pooled back around me. Okay, just knock, see 
  who answers. If its him, make an excuse, leave. Thats all.
  I raised my hand, knuckled it. Hesitated, then tapped it against the door.
  Nothing. Then a thump, and a hall light clicked on. A pause. A head passed 
  across the glowing rectangle of window. Another pause. My stomach did a slow 
  roll.
  The door opened.
  I was facing a woman, thirtyish and tall, with a brunette page-boy framing a 
  square, almost masculine face.
  A woman...?
  She peered over the door-chain. "Yes?"
  Uh.... My mind raced. Finally: "Is your husband home?"
  Oh, what a stupid thing to--
  "My husband?" She frowned. "Who can I say is calling?"
  "My names Jennifer. Jennifer Platt." My mind whip-sawed from side to side. 
  "I...I found a wallet today...and it might be his, it had this address in it, 
  and...well, Id like to show it to him."
  Christ. That was so pathetic.
  She beamed a long, searching look at me. I focused hard on looking benign and 
  casual and forcing myself to not fidget. Finally, she shrugged. 
  "Come on in. Hes upstairs. Ill go get him." She unlatched the chain and 
  pulled the door open.
  The hallway was lit by a single fixture. There were stairs up, a closed door 
  at the far end, and an open one to the left that led into a living room 
  flickering blue with TV light. I stepped onto the mat, but no farther.
  "Thank you," I said, regaining some composure. "Im sorry to trouble you, but 
  I was on my way home from work, and thought--"
  "Thats alright," she said. "Ill be right back." She padded up the stairs, 
  her socked feet silent in the mangy tan shag. "Honey, someone to see you...!"
  I took a few deep breaths while she was gone, clearing my head. Okay. When he 
  comes down, take a GOOD look. Reach for the wallet, then say, oops, left it in 
  my car. Be right back. Out the door, and gone. No problem.
  Another breath and I tasted the ghosts of old dinners. No problem? Yeah, 
  right. Tell my still-rolling stomach that. After this, stick to the paranormal 
  work and no more of this detective nonsense.
  I smiled. Jennifer Platt, detective. Yeah. Well, Ms. Platt, if youre a 
  hotshot detective, what can you learn from the scene? Hmm. Okay. Shoes by the 
  door. Sneakers, pumps, and sandals. So, Watson, the perpetrator obviously is 
  none other than....
  Huh. Sneakers, pumps, sandals. The pumps were peach-coloured, a little 
  scuffed. The sandals were definitely a womans. The sneakers, well-used and 
  grubby, were small... mens sixes, no more...again, probably a womans.
  Maybe I should try reading her. Risky, but I could probably do a brief level 
  one without attracting any--
  Oh...shit.
  Shed been as quiet coming down the stairs as she had been going up. Except 
  now she had a gun.
  "Well, Jennifer Platt," she said, "Im afraid my husband cant come to the 
  door right now."
  "I--"
  She shook her head. "Dont. Dont say anything. Just go. That way." She 
  stepped down another step and jerked the gun towards the living room.
  I took a step, stopped.
  "Look--"
  "NOW!"
  I backed into the living room and found myself surrounded by tatty, mismatched 
  furniture. A dark arched doorway framed a cheap metal dining room set, all of 
  it lit TV-blue. The woman followed me, the gun waving with her steps.
  "Look," I said, "I just came to--"
  "Oh, the wallet. I know." She raised the gun until the sight bisected her eye. 
  "You can drop the bullshit. You came here to spy. For the police."
  I swallowed, shook my head. "Listen." I swallowed again. "Theyre--"
  "--not anywhere nearby. Pretty stupid coming here all alone."
  How the hell did she know that--?
  Oh, shit again. She was a paranormal.
  Which explained the long, searching look shed given me at the door while I'd 
  concentrated on just seeming harmless. Like Id thought only seconds later, 
  level one was barely noticeable.
  She gestured with the gun again. "Sit down."
  I glanced around. A chair beside me. I sat.
  "You read that boy, the one that got away," she said, nodding. "I knew he was 
  going to be trouble. I knew it, I TOLD YOU!" I jumped, although her last 
  words, nearly shouted, didnt seem to be directed at me.
  She shook her head. "Doesnt matter." She frowned. "So why you? Why not the 
  police?"
  I opened my mouth. But what could I say?
  "Youre hiding something," she went on. "Youre hiding something, I read it, 
  and I WANT to know what it IS!"
  I was hiding lots of things, but I guessed she was talking about the syringe. 
  It'd been in the back of my mind, but probably too deep to read at level one.
  Abruptly, she shrugged. "It doesnt matter. I do know you came expecting to 
  find a man. And thats good."
  "Good...?"
  "Uh-huh. I live here alone."
  "Alone? But...."
  And that was the answer.
  The man in Kevins memory didnt exist. Hed been planted there by this woman, 
  overprinting her own image. That explained the cartoon-evil face. It was a 
  caricature, something shed manufactured. It told me again how strong she was. 
  As I understood it, memory alteration was, at best, a transient thing. But 
  shed made it stick. 
  It also explained why the police wouldnt catch him.
  There was no him to catch.
  I looked at her, trying to ignore the blackness of the muzzle. She gazed back, 
  her dark eyes hard as flint.
  "Its you," I said. "Youre the Pied Piper. Youre the one whos been killing 
  those children--"
  "NO!"
  I jumped again.
  "Ive never hurt anyone!" She leaned forward. "I tried to help those poor 
  children. Really, I did."
  I didnt believe her, of course, but nodded anyway. "Okay. Do you know who has 
  been killing them, then?"
  "My father."
  "Your father."
  She nodded. "Thats right. He always hurts children. Always."
  "I see." I glanced at the gun. "Wheres your father now?"
  She lifted a finger, tapped her head.
  "Right here."
  I stared.
  "You see...my father, hes been hurting children for a long time," she said, 
  starting to rock slightly. "He...he hurts them because it makes him feel so 
  strong, so...so powerful. And hes still doing it, even though he...hes 
  dead." Her voice collapsed into breathy sobs. "Even though hes dead, 
  he...hes still hurting them."
  Psychotic. Completely psychotic. Combine that with her paranormality and I 
  couldnt have made up a more dangerous predicament. I opened my mouth, but 
  couldnt think of anything to say.
  "Do you know what the worst part is? He makes me help him. Me, I only want to 
  help these poor children. Theyre dying out there on the streets, from drugs 
  and AIDS and all kinds of things. And nobody gives a shit." She smiled 
  suddenly. "Except me. I care."
  I nodded. "Im sure you do. But--"
  "I DO! I KNOW YOU DONT BELIEVE ME BUT I DO!" She was half-standing now, both 
  hands clamped around the gun. She took two ragged breaths, three, and bile 
  surged acid-acrid in my throat. In an instant, the gun would explode in my 
  face....
  But she sat back down and resumed the sweet-sweet smile. "I really do care. My 
  father, though...." Her face darkened and she shook her head. "He makes 
  me...makes me do things to them. He makes me hurt them, and I cant stop 
  him...Ive never been able to STOP him."
  I took a shuddering breath. My life depended on what I said here. Try 
  something innocuous....
  "Whats your name?"
  Her turn to stare. "My...? Its...Mary. Why?"
  "Maybe I can help you, Mary."
  "Help me...?"
  I forced my eyes up from the gun, to hers. "I can help you stop your father, 
  Mary. Stop him from hurting anymore children."
  A puzzled frown creased her face and the gun wavered. "How could you stop 
him?"
  "By taking you away from him, Mary. So he cant hurt you, or make you hurt 
  anyone else."
  The gun wavered a bit more. "You can do that? Make him go away?"
  I nodded. "With some help. But first you have to give me the gun."
  "Give you.... Oh, no. No, I dont think so."
  "Its alright, Mary. Give me the gun, and then well get you some help." I put 
  out my hand. "Give it to me, and well get you away from your father."
  Her eyes flicked over to my hand, and her face softened. My hand was a way out 
  for her, all she had to do was take it--
  Something on my upraised arm glinted in the blue TV light.
  The syringe.
  Marys eyes went crystal-hard.
  "YOU LYING BITCH!" She jumped to her feet and jammed the muzzle of the gun 
  into my face. "You didnt come here to help me, you came to DRUG me and to 
  KILL ME!"
  "Mary, NO--"
  Her other hand snapped up in front of me.
  "Give it to me," she said.
  "Mary, please--"
  "GIVE IT TO ME!"
  My eyes never left her finger, bloodless-white around the trigger. I pushed up 
  the sleeve of my jacket, felt for the syringe, pulled it out from under the 
  elastic. For one wild second, I thought of plunging it into her hand and just 
  hoping for the best. But the first injection, the RKT, wouldnt have any 
  effect before she could pull the trigger and blast my head to bloody bits. I 
  finally just handed it to her and she snatched it away.
  "Its time to decide what were going to do with you, Jennifer Platt. Id like 
  to just let you go. But my father...." She shook her head. "Im sorry."
  Her finger tightened. In another second, my world was going to end.
  I didnt plan it...didnt even think.
  Just drove my hand up and snapped my head to the side. Mary reacted 
  reflexively, yanking the gun back and--
  There was heat and a flash and a loud metallic CLICK, and something whumped 
  past my ear. But I wasnt after the gun. My open palm connected with the 
  syringe instead, driving the needle back against its stop. The pneumatic 
  cartridge hissed, pumping the RKT into my hand. I kept going, sideways now, 
  crashing against the table beside me and sprawling onto the floor.
  Mary screamed something and fired again. The shag beside my arm puffed up a 
  cloud of carpet-fibres and dust. I dove, crawled, heading for the gloom in the 
  dining room, expecting a hammer blow in my back, pain exploding, breath blown 
  out of me, then darkness swirling up as the bullet tore through me....
  Click-WHUMP, splinters flew from the door-frame as I stumbled through, 
  click-WHUMP into the floor, Oh God I couldnt move fast enough, she was right 
  behind me click-THUMP into the carpet click-CLANG-WHIRR off a metal 
  dining-room chair thats it dead end I spun she was silhouetted against the TV 
  glow just feet away the gun centred on me as I lifted a hand gone ice-cold 
  numb lifted it so slooow....
  ...brushed her leg....
  ...linked.
  She was strong. But now I was stronger. I rode the crest of the RKT wave deep 
  into her mind, level three, four...five....
  Motor-sensory, the blade-sight planted in the middle of Jennifer Platts face, 
  finger squeezing the trigger, hammer rising, falling--
  We jerked the gun aside flash-click-THUMP, the muzzle-blast swept Jennifer 
  Platts hair but the bullet smacked into the wall behind her.
  We lowered the gun.
  Father screamed, his face no longer cartoon-evil, just drink-flushed and 
  rage-contorted, the way wed seen it so many times, late at night, crashing 
  into our room, kneeling on our chest, we could barely breath, his weight 
  crushing, pressing us down, and we tried to push him off, to move, to breath, 
  but he raised his fist and brought it down, BANG our head rang like dropped 
  metal pans and the world flashed green. We tried to cry please dont please 
  stop but we couldnt and then he was yanking, pulling, tearing off our 
  clothes....
  Mother dead, gone, whatever. No one to trust. We ran, lived on the streets, 
  sold our body under the cold neon, until the police found us, took us, brought 
  us home.
  Then did it all over again.
  No one to trust, but father always there. Finally, we watched them bury him, 
  came back to the house that was ours now and here he was, waiting. Children, 
  ugly, ugly little children had to suffer, he said, because thats what 
  children did. They suffered.
  Back onto the streets, he took us to the kids who had no one to trust, to the 
  kids who sold their bodies under the cold neon.
  They suffered, they all suffered....
  No one to trust.
  No one....
  Until now.
  Mary could trust Jennifer Platt.
  Absolutely.
  Trust her to withdraw, to leave her alone in her mind.
  Trust her, to let her put the gun into her mouth.
  Trust her, to let her pull the trigger.
  #
  "Stupid stupid STUPID!"
  "Say it again, Rob."
  "Stupid!"
  I nodded. The movement still hurt, but then, I was only a day out of the 
  RKT-induced shock.
  Not meant to be used that way, without buffers and stabilisers, Dana had 
  lectured. Practically poison. Boy, was she right.
  Rob leaned on the bed-rail. "Promise me, Jen, that next time you let me do the 
  cop stuff!"
  "I promise. 
  He sighed, long and slow. "Well, as it turns out, the physical evidence from 
  the house definitely ties her to the boy. We even found some...um, 
  prosthetics, and things, that she used to simulate the rapes." He shook his 
  head. "That probably wont definitely tie her to any of the other victims, but 
  I dont think its going to matter. So, barring any recurrences, this damned 
  Pied Piper case is finally closed."
  "Im glad."
  "So am I." He shook his head. "Christ, a woman. I never would have thought a 
  woman.... She must have been pretty screwed up."
  "She was."
  "Huh. Well, lucky for you. If she hadnt flipped out totally and decided to 
  blow her brains out when she did--"
  "Rob, Id...Id like to rest. Okay?"
  He sighed again. "Yeah, sure. Ill see you later."
  "Later. Okay."
  "Rob?"
  "Huh?"
  "Is Kevin still in the hospital?"
  "Yeah, I think so. Community and Social Services is looking for a foster 
  placement for him. Why?"
  "Just wondering. Thanks."
  He opened his mouth, then shook his head, closed it, and left. 
  I sank back onto the pillow.
  If she hadnt blown her brains out....
  I could have stopped her. I should have stopped her....
  But I remembered the last thing Id felt before Id left her mind. 
  Gratitude.
  There was finally someone she could trust, someone who would let her have 
  control over her own life, even if it was only for one, final instant.
  I thought about Kevin. Fostered and forgotten, hed just end up on the streets 
  again. 
  Suffering under the cold neon.... 
  No. That was something I could, would try to stop.
  I queried the directory on the bedside phone, got it to search out the number 
  for Community and Social Services. As it worked, I thought about Mary...and 
  again, about Kevin.
  What was it Rob had said?
  "...what we all have to do is try..."
  The phone beeped, ready. I reached for it....
  Stopped.
  I still didnt know kids.
  But that could change.
  I pressed 'DIAL'.



    Dave Laderoute lives in Thunder Bay, Ontario, with his wife, Jackie, three 
    children and an equal number of the obligatory writer's cats. In real life, 
    he's a regional manager with the Ontario Geological Survey; writing is only 
    a part-time obsession. "The Mind's Eye" is his eighth published story, 
    giving rise to the delusion that he can now write--and actually expect 
    someone to publish--a novel. But, then, doesn't every writer worth their 
    word-processor...? 
