Alison Darby - Headhunter

Peter Parkin was born in Toronto, Ontario and after studying Business Administration at Ryerson University, he embarked on a thirty-four year career in the business world. He retired in 2007 and has written seven novels, the last five with co-author, Alison Darby.

Alison Darby is a life-long resident of the West Midlands region of England. She studied psychology in college and when shes not juggling a busy work life and writing novels, she enjoys researching astronomy. Alison has two grown daughters who live and work in the vibrant city of London.

It was one of those days when the silence was deafening. Those days were rare, but there was clearly something in the air today. Perhaps he was being too sensitive this morning; perhaps he was sensing things that didn't exist except inside of his overactive brain. But the commuters on the subway were extra quiet; the breakfast grabbers at his favorite coffee shop seemed subdued - as if they knew a secret that he didn't. He felt left out.

Jeff Kavanaugh walked along King Street West toward his office building at 207 Bay Street. Bay and King intersected and his office was right on the corner. A short walk from the longest street in Toronto, and indeed the longest street in North America: Yonge Street. Jeff loved heading down to Yonge Street at lunchtime - the buzz was overpowering and it always gave his body a surge of adrenaline to finish out the afternoon. By noon he was usually mind-numb. Ready for a nap. His work consisted of mental overdrive - interview after interview, report after report. Enough to suck the life out of anyone, but particularly someone like him whose brain was always working at full speed. It never shut off - sometimes he wished it would.

But there was something in the air. The people brushing past him on King Street had their heads down. Maybe they always had their heads down, Jeff wasn't sure. Had he never noticed before? He always walked erect, head up, looking straight ahead. Confident, perhaps even a bit arrogant. But that was Jeff. Arrogant, intelligent, curious, ambitious. To a fault sometimes. Four hours sleep a night on average, but fresh as a daisy when he awoke. Always ready to take on the day, or anyone who got in his way.

Jeff glanced up at the gleaming towers surrounding him. It was a beautiful July morning - a typical Toronto summer day; hot and humid and it was only 9:00 a.m. This was the one thing that Jeff hated about Toronto. The summer weather was insufferable - fine if you were sitting at home in shorts and a t-shirt, but not so fine if you had to work for a living. And at thirty-five years of age, Jeff still had to work for a living. But he loved working - just not on days like this. He'd rather be up at his cottage on Moon Lake. That was his escape - well, not really an escape. He always took his laptop with him just in case he got the urge to work. And it was rare that he didn't get the urge. But at least he could laze around half-naked while working, and then dive into the lake if he got too hot.

He reached his fingers up to the stiff collar of his white Givenchy shirt and slid them around inside, wiping away the relentless sweat. It didn't make much of a difference - he'd have to do this every few minutes until he reached the air-conditioned refuge of his office at 207 Bay. But wiping away the sweat made him feel better, seemed to stretch the collar making his neck more free to move.

He studied the faces of the other poor souls he passed - flushed and dripping. But all of them with their heads down. What was it about today? Was he imagining this? Was his brain hallucinating, playing tricks on him? It seemed surreal.

Jeff was psychic. That was another aspect of his mind that drove him a bit crazy sometimes. Or as some would refer to it - 'sensitive.' It was powerful, and sometimes he paid attention to it and sometimes he just ignored it. And sometimes it just wasn't there at all. It came without warning and disappeared without apology. It was weird, and it had become progressively stronger as Jeff aged.

He slid his fingers through his thick brown hair. It was moist with sweat, and seemed thinner than it usually did. Probably just the humidity, but he knew that he'd probably be bald by the time he was fifty. He took after his father. In more ways than just thinning hair. He was moderately tall, about six feet high in dress shoes. His eyes were blue, and he had a rugged face; kind of bohemian in a way, but attractive in its own right. His biggest assets were his eyes - penetrating and gentle at the same time. His eyes could disarm any adversary in a boardroom - either by intimidation or kindness. Whichever tactic suited the situation. And he had a swagger that would make anyone take notice. Little did they know that the swagger was caused by a back injury from the days when he played high school football. But even if the swagger wasn't a genuine blue-blooded natural extension of his personality, he knew he had swagger in his brain. So the overall package fit who he was as far as he was concerned. All in all, Jeff felt good about who he was.

He walked into the lobby of his building and squeezed his way into the elevator along with a half dozen others. He pushed the button for the ninth floor, and then glanced around at the other riders. He didn't recognize any of them - he noticed that the elevator was destined for four other floors after his.

Suddenly his body shivered - not a cold kind of shiver, but a scared kind. It started at his ankles and rose quickly to the top of his head. He blinked as his eyes went blurry. The people in front of him were distorted in his vision now. Bobbing heads. He looked up above the elevator door and stared at the floor display. They seemed to be stuck on the sixth floor but he could tell that the elevator was still moving.

The door slid open and he gently pushed his way out, excusing himself politely to the bobbing heads. He took one more glance at the floor display and it still showed 'six.' Yet he recognized his floor and the reception desk. He was clearly on the ninth floor. He made a mental note to remember the number 'six' today. Something of significance would involve that number, he was sure of it. Maybe he'd land a big deal worth six figures? He hoped.

"Good morning, Jeffy. You look devilishly handsome as usual today!" Cathy Ricketts, the receptionist, smiled at him in her usual perky way. She was cute, no doubt. And Jeff had dated her a couple of times. He knew he shouldn't have - not smart to be too close to the people you worked with. But he had found her hard to resist. She was just too cute. Trouble was, he knew she always hoped that another date was just around the corner and he just wasn't interested in her that way. Right now he wasn't interested in anyone that way. He was glad that he hadn't gone to bed with her - that would have made things really complicated. Both times had just been dinner. Innocent stuff.

"Good morning to you, too, Cathy. And you look good, too. You're always the first one I see in the morning here, and the last one I see when I leave. How special is that, eh?"

She couldn't wipe the smile off her face. Jeff found that smile of hers infectious. It made him smile too, to the point where he felt like a goofy kid. But Cathy was a nice way to start the day. He liked her. She was one of the office sweethearts to be sure.