Mind Reader

SHE KNOWS A CHILD’S LIFE IS IN DANGER BUT NO ONE BELIEVES HER—INCLUDING HIM.

HE KNOWS SHE’S A FRAUD AND IS DETERMINED TO PROVE IT.

THEY KNOW THEY MUST SEEK THE TRUTH AND IT CAN SET YOU FREE . . . OR KILL YOU.

Caron Chalmers is an empath.
 
A mind reader cursed with imaging only victims.
 
She sees what they see, feels what they feel, endures what they endure and has since she was seven.
 
But even with all the sensory perception and insights, sometimes she fails to save victims in time.
 
Sometimes she interprets the signs wrong—and a year ago, she did exactly that.
 
She messed up, and a victim died.
 
Caron nearly died with her.
 
Her “gift” shut down.

Now it’s back.
 
There’s
 
another victim—this time a child—and because of the mistake made last year and the shut-down, her police contact isn’t willing to stake his career on her accuracy.
 
Yet he can’t dismiss her years of successes, so he calls in help from a private investigator, Parker Simms:
 
a man with a past as bleak as Caron’s and a specific agenda of his own:
 
to prove Caron Chalmers is the fraud he believes her to be.

In a hostile alliance, Caron and Parker seek the truth . . .
 
and discover a labyrinth of lies and deceptions that require skills and experience they have, and trust in each other they don’t but must somehow find before the child becomes another victim lost.
 
Trust that carries costs—steep costs.

The situation becomes desperate.
 
Time for the child’s survival grows short . . . and for Caron and Parker, who must live with the consequences of missteps and wrong moves, the unthinkable happens:
 
Stakes that couldn’t get any higher soar—for the child
and
for them.

Praise for MIND READER

“This is not a book to be begun at midnight.  As tightly controlled a mystery/thriller as I’ve read in a long time.  Not to be missed.”
 

– Heartland Critiques

 
“I loved this thrilling, suspenseful, and emotionally moving story–from the first page, I was hooked!”
 

– Rendezvous

“A powerful new author.  A strong, emotional story of real people.  Will worm their way into your heart and stay there.”
 

– The Talisman

“A tense, action-filled story of suspense that will keep you turning the pages.”

– Affaire de Coeur

“Victoria Cole [Hinze/Barrett] writes with a fresh ingenuity and intensity that will make readers eagerly anticipate future works.”
   

– Romantic Times

“A story that turns your blood hot–and cold–by turns.   Plenty of chills, plenty of thrills.”

– Nora Powers

MIND READER

by

Vicki Hinze

This is a work of fiction.
 
Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner.
 
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
©
1993 by Vicki Hinze

All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever, including information storage and or retrieval systems, without the express written permission from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Mind Reader,
©
1993, Vicki K. Hinze

Mind Reader
 
by Vicki Hinze, then writing as Vicoria Cole, was first published as a mass market paperback by Silhouette July 1993.

Cover Design:
 
Magnolia Leaf Press

Photo Credit:
 
dreamstime.com

DEDICATION

To my parents: Victor Sampson & my guardian

angel, Edna Sampson, the most gracious woman I’ve

ever known. And to my husband, Lloyd, and our

children, Ray, Mike & Kristen. Thank you all for

loving me...anyway.

Chapter 1

It was about to happen again.

She knew it. Sensed it. Smelled it as distinctly as she smelled the freshly brewed coffee in her kitchen. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The images forming in her mind were as vivid and real as
the chips in the porcelain tabletop in front of her. As real as the steam rising from her coffee cup. And because they were real, dread and cold fear clawed at her stomach. She
knew
what would come next, and yet she was powerless to
stop it.

Rain pelted against the window of her apartment. Caron stared at the flattened drops beading on the pane, wish
ing she could force the image away.

Then it was too late for wishing. The image was there. The image of a little girl, eight, maybe nine, with shoulder-length brown hair and wide green eyes that were almost black with fear—more fear than any human being
should ever know.

Caron swallowed hard. Where was the girl now? The lighting was dim, everything was blurry. Focusing all her
energy and concentration on the girl and her surround
ings, Caron tried to sharpen the image. But a sense of betrayal grew strong, then stronger and stronger, until Caron
couldn’t get past it to pick up on anything else. Acid
churned in her stomach. She began to shake, then to shudder. It was happening again—just as it had with Sarah!

Caron clenched her muscles, fighting the resentment she
felt at her life once more turning topsy-turvy, spinning out of control—and fighting the guilt that came with the resentment. From the time she was seven, she had considered the images confusing, a curse, because even then she hadn’t seen ordinary people. She had seen victims.

And Sarah James’s case had proven Caron right; she was
cursed. That case, a year ago, was the last she’d helped Sandy with, and after it, everything had changed. After nineteen years, the images suddenly had stopped.

Now they were back.

Why did she have to go through this again?
Why?

The need to hear someone’s voice—anyone’s voice—hit
her hard. Caron sent the phone a desperate look. She could
call Dr. Zilinger, her analyst, or her aunt Grace—anyone but
her mother. Her mother never had understood why
Caron didn’t just “ignore” the images, and all the explanations in the world hadn’t convinced her mother that
Caron could no more ignore them than her mother could
have ignored the pain of childbirth.

A sense of urgency seeped through Caron’s chest. Sandy.
She had to talk to Sandy. She grabbed the phone and dialed.

It seemed to ring forever, but he finally answered, “Yeah, Sanders here,” he said.

His familiar gruff voice helped ease the lump from her throat, but the tightness in her chest remained. “Sandy.” Why, after all this time, was talking to him so difficult? “I’m on my way to your office. We have to talk.”

“Caron?” He sounded surprised.

She supposed he
was
surprised. It had been nearly a year
since her last call. “Yes, it’s me.”

“What’s wrong?”

His wary tone held fear, a fear she’d felt before and had hoped she’d never feel again. But now she was. The re
ceiver in her hand grew sweat-slick. The words choked her.

“It’s happening all over again.” Her voice cracked. She
slumped against the counter and held on.

 
“I’ll come to you. Where are you?”

 
“No.” She was scared stiff, but she couldn’t lean on him,
or on anyone other than herself. If nothing else, she’d
learned that. Her temples were pounding. Rubbing circles on the left one, she forced her eyes open. “No, I’ll come to
you.”

She slid the receiver back onto the hook, her hand shaking. She should have been stronger and not deluded her
self into believing that the images would never come back.
But she hadn’t. Now she would have to fight this battle the same way she’d fought all the others—alone.

Caron grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

Outside, she dipped her head against the rain and ran, dodging murky puddles and dark patches of soft, squishy
mud. Water gushed along the curb to the drain and
splashed down with a hollow
thunk
somewhere beneath the street. She took a giant step over the water and climbed into her Chevy. Then while the engine warmed, she tissued the
raindrops from her face.

The images were back. When they’d stopped, she’d felt naked without them. The way a man must feel when he discovered he was going bald—at the mercy of his body,
helpless.

She tossed the soaked tissue onto the floor mat. Seeing
the images
was
like that. She was helpless to stop them. No matter how much she wanted just to teach her students, just
to be normal, she was reduced to suffering the empathy pains and the emotional upheaval of the victims, and to
wondering,
Why me?

A crash of thunder shook the car. A bare-limbed oak tree
to her right became the image of a dark-haired man with a stubbly chin and wicked green eyes. He belched, and the smell of beer nearly gagged Caron. Lightning flashed, a
little sizzle rent the air, and then, as quickly as it had come,
the image disappeared. Shaking, Caron rolled down the window an inch. Rain and fresh air rushed into the car on
a chilly gust. The wind whistled and whipped at the craggy
oaks lining the scrap of lawn in front of the apartments.

The limbs looked like sneering gargoyles, twisted, gro
tesque and menacing.

“God, help me,” Caron whispered. “I’m suffering a
landslide.”

A horn sounded in a long, steady blast from in front of the corner store across the street. Her stomach muscles clenched. Seeking solace in common, ordinary things, she gripped the steering wheel hard and watched the wipers
sweep the windshield, click at the base, then sweep back
again. The store’s illuminated yellow sign flickered as the
power fluctuated. It read “2 Liter Cokes $1.29.” A car sped
past, kicking up a spray of water, and a kid hung out the
window yelling at a second guy who was getting into his car.
“Hey, Bobby, come on, man!”

She didn’t know either boy, but at that moment she knew their thoughts and feelings. Knew them physically. Bobby
was late for the basketball game. David, the one hanging
out the window, was ticked that he was missing the tip-off.