Chapter 2

I decided to lower my mental barriers for a moment and tune in on my new client, a decision I immediately regretted as I was overwhelmed by a wave of angry emotions….

If that fucking cunt is screwing that fucking Jack Nelson, I’ll fucking kill both of them…

There was more in that vein, but I slammed my barriers shut in disgust. Take it from me, now that you know one of my dirty little secrets—most people have minds like cesspools. If anybody ever says to you that they wish they knew what someone else was thinking, trust me when I tell you that their wish is so far beyond stupid that it’s off the charts—after all, who wants to go swimming in a cesspool? I’ve been afflicted with the curse of telepathy all of my life, and it isn’t a lot of fun. In fact, it very nearly drove me crazy for the first decade of my life, and it wasn’t until puberty set in that I finally figured out how to build a sort of barricade to shield myself from the thoughts of others. I’ve never told my secret to a living soul, although my Great-Aunt Ida guessed that there was something “different” about me. She was always the black sheep of the family because she claimed to be psychic and did indeed have occasional flashes of intuition about things—including bits of information that couldn’t be explained in a rational manner.

Aunt Ida had taken me aside when I was very young and explained to me that she knew that I was somehow different and that I would be better served if I never revealed that fact to a living soul. “Look at me,” she had said. “Everybody in the family thinks I’m crazy, and all because I made a few claims about being psychic. Take it from me, Quentin, being openly different is not a good thing.”

It was good advice, and some innate instinct of self-preservation enabled me to heed it. Which was why I’d kept my mouth shut, even as a child, and that’s a good thing, as I’d probably have been locked up in a loony bin by now had I told anybody.

I was so distracted by this train of thought that I missed something my client was saying. “Sorry,” I said, “could you repeat that?”

“I was asking when you could start on the job?”

“I’ll drive down to Starke this evening and have dinner at the restaurant where your wife works. Can you recommend an inexpensive motel?”

“The Starlight Motel is supposed to be cheap but clean—it’s right there on 301.”

“All right, then. I’ll have a full report ready for you in a couple of days. Meanwhile, I have your cell phone number if something urgent turns up.”

“Okay. I guess I’d better get to work then.”

We shook hands and I walked him to the door, after which I put the ‘Closed’ sign in the front door, turned out the lights, and left by the backdoor after setting the alarm and securing the lock. I walked across the small backyard to the privacy fence, opened the gate, and entered the backyard of my house. My office is in a former residence situated on Blanding Boulevard in the Cedar Hills section of Jacksonville, and I live in a house located on the opposite side of the block facing a street running parallel to Blanding.

I had lavished a great deal of time, effort, and money on remodeling the house. The first thing I’d done was to enclose the double carport and turn it into an actual two-car garage. I also added a master suite upstairs over the garage, moved into it, and gutted the rest of the house right down to and including all of the non load-bearing interior studs. Then I rebuilt the interior of the house, changing the room sizes and layout to suit myself. It had taken me almost five years to finish the job, and what had once been a small fifties tract house was now an extremely comfortable home.

Fresh from the shower, I pulled on a pair of khaki pants and a muscle tee and stepped into a pair of deck shoes. It wasn’t necessary to pack, as I kept an overnight bag ready at all times, and, with that in hand, I grabbed the case holding my laptop and cameras, retrieved my gun and shoulder holster, and went downstairs to the garage.

My one indulgence in life is a ten-year-old pony car—its outward appearance was as plain and nondescript as myself, but under the hood is another matter. The Ford Interceptor engine and drivetrain were virtually new, very powerful, and immaculately maintained. In a pinch, I could get away from anything in one hell of a hurry if necessary.