Mind Games by TJ Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

mind. 
     
     
     
    Whenever Cameron watched Sarah, he’d call her his “Sarah Shine.” Now, at five years old (a fact which she was very proud), Sarah would play with her plastic kitchen set, and Cameron would stomp down the hallway like the Giant fro m Jack and the Beanstal k – her favored bedtime story.
    As Sarah pretended to bake her magic beans, Cameron would stomp closer, banging on the walls with his palms.
    “Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum. I smell the girl who stole the golden goose.”
    He planted his feet in her bedroom doorway and puffed out his chest.
    “Where is it? Tell, me. Where is my golden goose?”
    Sarah turned from baking and tucked her blonde hair behind her ears.
    “No,” she said. “I haven’t seen this goose. Golden or otherwise.”
    Jen’s nightly story times had greatly expanded Sarah’s imagination into a fervent swirl of ideas and questions.
    “Where is it then? ” The giant stomped his feet . “I demand to know. I can no longer make my golden scrambled eggs without it.”
    “I see,” Sarah stated, “You’ll just have to start eating something else for breakfast. Your problems do not interest me, Giant. Return in two days time and ask me again.” She grabbed the wooden spoon from her cooking pot. “Maybe your goose will turn up then.”
    “WHAT? I cannot wait that long. I must find the goose. Now!!”
    Cameron rushed towards Sarah and she screamed in delight. He chased her around her mini kitchen, and she grabbed her plastic frying pan, holding it as a shield with arms extended.
    “No beans for you, Giant. You haven’t earned them.”
    Cameron cleared the plastic kitchen toys off Sarah’s little table with the strength of his brawny character.
    “I’ve already enjoyed Jack as a snack. That makes you desert!!”
    He jolted towards her.
    Sarah’s feet were especially ticklish.
     
     
     
    A decade later, as father to a ten-year old Sarah, Cameron became one of the best CSI photographers in the Bay Area, aiding to solve many homicides with Detectives Amy Hart and Vince Hogan. Among these cases, the night of the Fred Stefani investigation at 1265 Maple Street stood out in Cameron’s mind.
    As he drove home that humid July night, Cameron relived the horrors of Stefani’s underground secrets. The twisted shrine compiled of newspaper clippings and maps proved Stefani’s obsession with violence. Cameron remembered how he’d bashed in the drywall with the sledgehammer to discover a rainbow of colored cords leading down, down, down to a mazelike labyrinth.
    During his drive across the city, towards home, the night waned on. It was now almost 3AM when Cameron’s face hit the pillow next to Jen.
    Then, the bedroom landline rang.
    Jen rolled over and groggily answered the call. “Hello?” 
    “How soon can you get down here?” The bank manager, George Stevens, was on the other line.
    “Why? What happened? What’s wrong?”
    “There was an attempted robbery. We need to talk damage control.”
     
     
     
    With bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep, Jen changed clothes, washed her face, and drove to the bank.
    Mr. Stevens greeted her at the main entrance then guided her towards the hallways to the vault elevators as they talked.
    “Jen, I’m not going to lie to you. Tonight could have been disastrous.” His loafers squeaked as they walked. “The intruders made it downstairs to the vault hallway, which means they passed through at least four layers o f you r security system.”
    Mr. Stevens’s loafers stopped in front of the elevator that led down to the vault level. Jen entered a complex password, and the doors opened, revealing two small pools of blood on the elevator floor.
    Mr. Stevens continued, “As you can see, two guards were injured. They were sent to the emergency room. One of them is in critical condition. This is very bad for us.”
    “I know sir.”
    “The safety of this bank…”
    “Yes, I know. It’s my responsibility. Look, George, you’ve approved my security