Mind in Chains by Bruce Perrin

Author:Bruce Perrin [Perrin, Bruce M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mind Sleuth Publications via Indie Author Project
Published: 2019-11-04T06:00:00+00:00

9:21 PM – The St. Louis FBI Field Office

My head snapped around toward the television. Apparently, in the 10 or 15 minutes since I had last looked, most of the crowd had departed. The hotel had cleared some of the chairs from the floor in front of the stage, creating a space where Conroy could mingle with a few of his well-wishers and patrons. But the individual I saw standing next to him was neither. It was Sister Constance.

I looked back at Marte, expecting her to find someone to escort me from the building. But as if reading my thoughts, she said, “They’re fully manned, so I’m sticking here until I’m called. You can stay and watch the TV if you want.”

“OK,” I said simply, not wanting to talk over anything that might be coming through her earpiece.

I turned to the television. The camera was apparently positioned in the back of the ballroom. Dozens of rows of empty chairs appeared between it and the cleared area near the stage. The camera shot swept to the back of the room where I saw a set of double doors and several rally-goers. One of them looked a great deal like Greenwood, but if so, that was hardly surprising; she would be interested in Conroy’s message. They were being hurried out by a police officer. He closed and positioned himself in front of the doors after the last one had left.

The shoulder of someone in a blue jacket appeared, and the television shot lurched. A hand flashed across the picture. It shifted to the floor in a series of jerky images of carpet and door threshold. The cable station cut to a female reporter standing in a hallway.

“End of my video,” I muttered without thinking.

Marte glanced at the picture on the TV. Her gaze moved to my face, her lips pressing together tightly. She raised a hand, palm up, and with a single curl of her fingers, waved me to her side of the table without a word. Her hand went back to her earpiece as her attention apparently shifted to a communication.

As I positioned myself beside and slightly behind her, I was amazed by the quality of the picture on the computer monitor. It was not the dark, grainy video from a car or shoulder camera, but rather, a high-resolution, color image.

The shot zoomed in on Constance and Conroy, a lump rising in my throat as the details became clearer. Conroy was wearing a thick, black vest, his hands handcuffed in front of him. There was a small, blinking light on the vest near his right shoulder. Two wires—one white, one red—crisscrossed in front so that they would have to be cut to remove the garment. A thick, leather band, perhaps a dog collar, circled Conroy’s neck. Constance’s right wrist was handcuffed to the band. In that hand, she held a short, red cylinder, her thumb pressed down on its top.

“A dead man's switch,” Marte said softly. “If the signal between the

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