Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9

by Jordan Castillo Price

  Camp Hell cafeteria. The early days, before security was tight. Stefan leaning in to whisper in my ear in a tantalizing whiff of Aqua Net and cigarettes. “While I was getting dressed after my physical today, that annoying little doctor left the room to take a call.” He hiked up the hem of his black turtleneck and flashed the top of his stretchy draw-string skull pants. A pilfered KY tube protruded from his waistband. I gawked, and my mouth went dry. “After dessert, let’s go share a soda.”

  I couldn’t tell you what was on the dinner menu that fateful night, only that I could barely choke it down over the lump in my throat. Anal was new and uncharted territory for me. Not because I was a late bloomer—I’d been swapping hummers and hand-jobs since I was fourteen—but because I’d never had the privacy.

  Or maybe because, up until that point, I’d simply been unwilling to fumble through something so potentially fraught with embarrassment with anybody else. But Stefan? Back then, I would have trusted him with my life.

  I was literally shaking by the time he met me in that nasty, rank stairwell. I tried to hide it from him, but obviously he knew how nervous I was. He took my face in his hands and kissed me, and murmured, “It’s okay, I promise,” as he stroked my mohawk stubble. “How about this: you do me.”

  It seemed like the less potentially painful option of the two. I agreed, and the two of us set to work attempting to embark on this new and strange frontier. Strange for me, at least. Stefan was nearly eight months older, and judging by how unruffled he was about the whole undertaking, I presume I wasn’t his first. Either that, or he’d had more online access and a better opportunity to figure out what went where.

  We sank to our knees, awkwardly, still kissing. But when he realized we were covered in cigarette ashes, he stood back up and brushed them off in disgust…even though he was probably the one who’d left them there. “We should probably stand.”

  “Okay.” I unhitched my belt. “So, like, from the back, or…?”

  “Why not?” He handed me the KY and said, “Some on you, some on me,” then dropped his ashy skull pants to his knees and turned to grasp the railing. It was industrial, metal, a series of pipes and joints. Thick layers of flaking paint, black on top, green underneath, and below that, rust. I’ll never forget the sight of his hands in cheap silvertone skull rings clutching the chipped rails.

  Despite my abject terror over the likelihood that I’d mess everything up, my body was raring to go. It had more to do with hormones than the actual situation. I lubed my own dick—it was like jerking off with hand lotion, an activity where I was already proficient—and then pushed a slippery finger inside him. And that was new. Because any time I’d done that with someone before, it was nothing more than spit and some teasing. But this time, I meant business.

  I attempted to prod myself in. It was a no-go. “More KY,” he told me. I picked up the tube and dropped it again. Twice. Somehow, he managed not to sigh. And somehow I kept it up. Eventually I pushed in. Floundered. Slipped out.

  “The farther apart you set your feet,” I said, “the more I have to bend my knees.”

  “If I don’t get a good stance, you’ll be scraping me off the bottom of the stairwell.” He kicked out of his pants, naked now from the waist down, planted himself more firmly, and said, “Okay, do it.”

  There were ashy flecks in the lube. I tried not to think about it. Because I was a badass, and it took more than a little dirt to bother me. Besides, had I really expected to de-virginate myself in a cushy waterbed strewn with rose petals? The filthy, reeking stairwell was definitely more my speed. I got my bearings and shoved in, and he made a sound that was a lot like pain, and somehow between the two of us, we managed to force a rhythm. Once we found that groove…things suddenly got really good.

  “God,” I huffed into the back of his neck. “Fuck. I’m gonna….”

  “Not yet.”

  “So tight.”

  “Not yet. Think about something gross.”

  I hammered into him harder. “So fucking tight.”

  “Pretend you’re banging that fat chick who’s in love with you.”

  I snorted out a laugh—and even that wasn’t enough to give me some staying power. Before I knew it, I’d sown my wild oats. Two minutes, tops, and Stefan was barely even hard. Without comment, he scavenged the ash-covered KY from the floor, squeezed the rest of the tube into his hand, and finished himself off. While he put his pants back on, I stood there like an idiot, looking around for something to wipe myself off with. I was grossly unprepared—the story of my life. Everything was grease and ashes. I tucked myself away, squishy and wet, and wiped my hands on my jeans.

  “So, uh, that was pretty good. Right? I mean, uh, mostly.”

  Stefan replied with a wicked raised eyebrow—one that hinted at the possibility of a repeat performance, though next time, I’d damn well better step up my game—and strode out of the stairwell.

  I tagged along behind him. “Next time, I’ll last longer,” I claimed, with a cockiness I absolutely didn’t feel. “It’s been a while since I fucked someone.”

  The time was ripe for the comment, A while, as in never? But the dig went undug. Because as we rounded the corner, we found ourselves face to face with none other than…the fat chick. The part about her being in love with me…that was just an expression. Right? I swallowed nervously and said, “Hey, Darla.”

  What initially tipped her off, I’ll never know, not without asking, and even I wasn’t dumb enough to tear open that old wound. Darla had looked at me. Looked at Stefan. And then looked down. I remembered the precise moment when her expression shifted and her eyes went hard. It was when she said, “Your pants are inside out,” and her voice was colder than the coils on the pop machine.

  Funnily enough, the memory of her voice wasn’t actually the one that chilled me the most. It was the sparkle of triumph in Stefan’s eye.

  Chapter 15

  Darla turned her back to me and began jabbing at the flatscreen, clearly annoyed. To think, I’d almost asked her opinion about Stefan. Not only would she have bitten my head off, but chewed it up, spat it out, and sworn at it a few times for good measure.

  Talk about dodging a bullet.

  There was no time to bask in my relief, though. The landline on my desk gave a startling ring and the various lights on it began to flash in a pattern that undoubtedly meant something important. I picked it up cautiously. “Hello?”

  “Vic?” It was Laura. “I tried getting hold of you on your cell.”

  I pulled out the new phone and glared at the screen. It unlocked. But since I had no idea where to find the mute setting, let alone see if it was on or off, I put it away again. “Sorry, uh…new technology. Still working out the kinks.”

  “Are you available to come to my office?”

  Sure, if I could find it. “On my way.”

  I had to backtrack four times, but I did eventually find Laura Kim’s office on my own. There were file folders on the floor, a tape dispenser too, and she was glaring at a supply cabinet as if it had optical face recognition. “I need you to double check this area.” She indicated the cabinet with a sweep of her hand.

  “Okay.” I looked at it. And then I realized how completely unsatisfying that probably was, so I approached, and looked at it harder. Nothing. “Am I looking for anything specific?”

  “I feel an…aversion to it. Are you getting anything like that?”

  Given that Laura Kim actually was a medium, I shouldn’t be quick to discount her “impressions.” However, Laura was also completely freaked out by her recent psychic categorization, and taking her level of stress and the sensitive nature of her job into consideration, chances were, she was also paranoid. Justifiably so, but still. A false alarm would not surprise me.

  But, with the same patience I use when Jacob has me smell the creamer ten times and then swear on a stack of bibles that it hasn’t gone bad, I dutifully drew down some white light, centered myself, and looked.

 
Nothing.

  “All clear.”

  I’d given her the most decisive cop-delivery possible, but she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Are you sure? Because I’ve noticed that I’m leaving stuff on my desk rather than putting it away, and that work habit is totally not me.”

  “Right.” I gave the cabinet another scan. “Could be that it’s just an awkward height.”

  Her eyebrows drew together.

  “I can give it a metaphysical once-over just to be sure. I’ll just grab the salt and—”

  “Stop right there.” Laura tapped something into her watch and said, “Patrick, I’ll need sacred salt in my office, and….Vic, anything else, incense? Candles?”

  “Florida Water, if you have it.”

  Of course they had it. They were the FPMP. They knew the heebies and jeebies were really real.

  Shortly, Patrick arrived with the props. He carried the ritual items on a tray so as not to contaminate anything, and he set it on Laura’s desk. As he turned to go, he gave me an eyebrow wag that conveyed, Oh my God this is so totally cool.

  “Do you need me to leave the room too?” Laura asked.

  I considered sending her out, but no. It was better for her to see that mediums should take death with a grain of salt. Literally. Because if you get your head in a rut, ruminating about ghosts and dying and hauntings, you won’t be any good to anyone. “Stay. And…I’ll talk you through the process.”

  It went against everything I’d trained myself to do—all the minimizing, obfuscating, and downright lies—to tell someone else what was really going on when I did my thing. I guess all the “sharing” I did with Jacob had worn down my resistance. As the director of the FPMP, Laura might be an awfully risky person to confide in. But she was also too distressed to leave in the dark.

  “So first, you center yourself. If you know about chakras, think about them. If you believe in God, pray. Doesn’t really matter which flavor you lean toward. It’s all about the focus.” I drew down the white light, then looked at the room again. Pretty much the same. But I knew myself well enough to know I was juiced up, and if there was anything to be seen, I’d see it.

  “Next you take the salt, and you activate it.” I grabbed a stiff pinch and pulled down the white light. The salt lit up to my inner eye. “Some folks insist on using the left hand, some say a prayer. I have no idea why salt holds energy, but it does. I…I see it. So once your salt is ready….”

  It would be more dramatic to scatter it, but a lot harder to clean up. I sprinkled it in a neat line, then dusted off my palms.

  “Do the same with the Florida Water.” Another pull, and it was activated too. Whether the herbal ingredients held a vibration or the scent just focused my will, I couldn’t say. “It smells like cheap cologne, but it works.” I twisted off the cap, partially blocked the opening with my thumb and shook out just a few drops. Messy, and now my fingers smelled like cloves. I considered telling her a spray bottle actually worked fine, but I suspected that wouldn’t be ritual enough for comfort. “Feel any different now?”

  Laura stared hard at the cabinet, and said, “I can’t tell.”

  “Yeah. It can be slippery. Plus, your furniture wasn’t haunted to begin with—not that I’m throwing stones. We have our loft blessed every month, whether it needs it or not.” Together, Laura and I gazed at the non-haunted cabinet as I loosened my grip on the light, and allowed it to settle back to its default level. “Nonphysical energy…well, it’s really a thing. And if you’re a medium, somehow, through whatever personal filter you have, you’ll know.”

  “Will I? Because it feels like I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “Look, I’m willing to throw salt all day long. But you’ll be better off in the long run learning to handle the energy yourself.” Lame, I know. I did sincerely want to help Laura, but the fact was, I couldn’t be with her twenty-four hours a day to keep the spirit world from testing her boundaries.

  I was in the elevator when I thought of something that actually could protect her day and night. Faun Windsong’s ugly necklace. All I’d need to do is get hold of…oh. Wait. I pulled out my phone—it really was nice and thin—and sent Crash the message, Do you still have that beaded shaman necklace I gave you?

  He texted back, Thanks to the fire, it’s in necklace heaven now. Want me to find you another one?

  There wasn’t “another one.” That clump of feathers, beads and twine had been fashioned from sacred Native American relics and a few hundred years of prayer. Never mind.

  You sure? I’ve got connections.

  Maybe. But so did I. And mine were certified psychics.

  I headed back to my office. Carl was standing outside in the hall talking on his phone, and he turned away from me as I passed by in the universal “don’t bother me” signal. Inside, Darla watched the flatscreen as a blocky African American guy in a suit wandered through the haunted office. I sat down at my desk. The chair was too high, but trying to crank it down only made it recline. I woke up my monitor with a jiggle of my mouse. It brought up a password screen. And since I hadn’t the faintest idea what my password might be, I damn near gave up my whole budding idea as worthless. But then I remembered my phone.

  Unlocked with a scowl. I tapped an icon I recognized as a browser, and lo and behold, a search bar popped up.

  Nice.

  I’m not sure how many results Bert Chekotah’s name pulled up, but the very first one was underlined in blue, so I tapped it to send him a message. Something else with a progress wheel opened, and began to play a little electronic sound. And since it would be way too mortifying, even for me, to hand my phone to one of my colleagues and say, “Make it stop,” I sat there and pretended whatever I’d just done was entirely intentional.

  After a few seconds, the chimes cut off, but before I could breathe a sigh of relief, Bert Chekotah appeared onscreen. At first, I thought it was just a pixelated selfie, but then it moved. And by the time I realized what I’d done, it said, “Detective Bayne?”

  Damn it. Now I’d have to talk to him.

  Chapter 16

  Bert Chekotah looked just as calm, cool and collected as he had the last time we’d chatted. He looked just as carelessly handsome, too. His black hair was boyishly wind-tousled, his skin was tan, and the few days of wispy beard growth he hadn’t bothered to shave formed a rakish natural goatee.

  “The necklace of protection,” I said curtly. “I need to make one.”

  “That’s smart. There are spirits all around us—in every living being, yes, but other things too. Rocks and water and all of the natural world. Most of them don’t care about us one way or another. But some of them mean us harm.”

  Rocks. Sure. “So how do I go about it? Take apart an old rug and…is it braided? Macrame?”

  “There is no pattern for making a personal amulet—you’re not knitting a sweater.”

  “Then how did you make the one you gave to Fau…uh…Katrina?”

  “It was a process.” Damn it, his answer sucked already. “First, I removed myself from the distractions of day-to-day life to commune with Spirit. I fasted, I drummed, and I prayed. How long? I’m not sure. Days. Maybe a week. When I walk with my ancestors, I see time is a modern construct with no true meaning.”

  Funny, I was acutely aware of the passage of time—I wanted to hang up on him five minutes ago. Carl rejoined us and sat beside Darla. I swallowed my natural loathing of Chekotah and settled in to hear what he had to say.

  “I searched for materials among the things I owned, items of power I’d collected over decades. I prayed over each piece, and listened for the spirits to tell me how to bind them all together. I sacrificed my most precious possessions, irreplaceable things of great value, filled with history and culture, to rework their power into a circle of protection.”

  Fantastic. It took me multiple attempts to re-lace my shoes without getting everything all twisted around. But maybe Crash could source some raveling prayer rugs for me—and maybe Carl w
ould research how to knot them back into something helpful.

  Was I learning to delegate…or was I out of my comfort zone and itching to get back to the murder?

  “What’s most important,” Chekotah said, “is that the whole time you’re making the amulet, you hold your focus. Your energy as a shaman. That’s what binds the power.”

  I sighed.

  He said, “Sometimes the best path is rocky.”

  “So what I need to do is drop everything, say a bunch of prayers, find some random crap laying around and throw it together. Is that what you’re saying? Wing it? ’Cos that’s what it sounds like. And frankly, I have no idea how you manage to brush up against ghosts as much as you do without ending up as some dead guy’s wetsuit.”

  Chekotah had zero reaction to my annoyance. Why should he? That guy was slicker than an ashy tube of KY. I was just a minor intrusion on his charmed life. “Some people claim the body is a just a vessel,” he said, “but it’s more than that. It’s the physical part of you, and your spirit knows it. A ghost might try to claim your body, but it’s like putting on someone else’s shoes. You can force your feet in, but they don’t feel right.”

  Like Jennifer Chance’s ghost fingers poking through Richie’s stubby fingertips. I shuddered.

  “Matter of fact,” he said, “I do remember the first time I spiritwalked. It wasn’t scary. Confusing, maybe. But not scary. It was my cousin Max’s funeral. He shot himself in the leg cleaning a gun, and bled out before the ambulance showed up. Probably drunk, but who knows? He was a year older than me, seventeen. A quiet kid, the type you don’t really notice but who’s always there in the background. During the wake, I was out back behind my uncle’s garage with our friends, passing around a joint—a sloppy way to lower your defenses—and I was just stoned enough that I didn’t think much of it when Max joined the circle and waited for a toke. But when I tried to pass it to him, he couldn’t take it.