Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “Everyone else figured the weed just hit me harder than normal. Of course, they talked some shit about it, but pretty soon the subject changed and no one paid it any more attention. But I could still see Max. Standing there, quiet, trying to be part of the group. Just like when he was alive.

  “I wanted to believe it was all in my head. Grief playing tricks on me. But later that night, once my mom was passed out by the TV, I went back by Uncle’s place and snuck into the yard. I didn’t think I’d find anything, but there he was, sitting in an old lawn chair. My cousin Max. Looking at me. Sad.

  “I said to him, you know you’re dead, right? Not sure why I chose those words—maybe the ancestors were guiding me. He hung his head and looked embarrassed. He didn’t want to believe me, but we’d known each other our whole lives, and he knew I was way smarter than him. We argued about him being dead for a while, but eventually I made him see the truth.

  “And then he said, Bert, I’m scared.

  “I said, what’s there to be scared of? Looks like the worst already happened.

  “Come with me, he begged. Like he always did, when he was too shy to do something by himself. And when it happened, I did it without thinking. I reached for his hand, like I did when we were kids, and everything shifted.

  “The world of spirit—you know it? Looks just like our world, but only the shell. You know you’re there ’cos it feels like a dream. I was young and cocky, didn’t know enough to be afraid.

  “Even when my cousin pulled back and sank into my body.

  “Do you know how lucky I was? Max was lonely and scared and confused, but he wasn’t malicious. If he was, things could’ve been so much worse. Don’t be a dumbass, I told him, and I yanked him back out. I don’t think he even knew what he’d just done. I walked him over to the veil—which was out by the rotten tree stump where we used to throw knives, but not really there. The closer I got, the more everything felt like a dream. Because the world of spirit isn’t like the physical world. Going deeper has nothing to do with location or distance.

  “He said he was scared. And I said, whatever’s in there, it’s gotta be better than hanging around your yard forever.

  “Come with me? he said.

  “And I told him I was right behind him.”

  No big shock to hear lying had always come easy to Chekotah, but it wasn’t worth getting in a dig. Not when he was telling me something I could eventually use to figure out my own shit.

  After a long silence, he said, “After that, I started hanging out on the reservation. My mom always avoided it—my dad was there with his other family—but I was sixteen, and what could she do to stop me? I told the shaman everything, and he said he would mentor me. A couple years later, the Ganzfeld reports came out, and the rest…? Well, back then, in that first crop of certified Psychs, the sky was the limit. You know how it was.”

  Hardly. But I wasn’t about to volunteer anything that personal to the likes of him.

  It took a few jabs to hang up, but I managed to do it without video-calling anyone else. It didn’t occur to me that I might not be the only one who didn’t appreciate Chekotah’s ability to end up in the right place at the right time until Darla piped up. “Maybe the sky was the limit for him. My reality was a big glass ceiling.”

  I tried to imagine a job where my particular skillset was in high demand, but other than homicide investigator, I came up blank. “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “Maybe now. But I waited tables for nearly eight years before I finally caught a break and got a call from the FPMP.”

  I suspected her gender didn’t have much to do with it. Back then, any police department with the budget would’ve been thrilled to have a fourth-level medium on the team. The more likely problem would’ve been getting through the physical screening at her old weight—hell, even I’d struggled with the chin-ups—but I was smart enough not to go there. Before I could open my mouth and say something I’d surely regret, a text from Jacob popped up.

  Need you in the lab ASAP.

  I texted back, On my way.

  “That’s my other investigation,” I told everyone. “Gotta go.”

  “Sure,” Darla said, “no problem. Carl and I are doing just fine without you.”

  Did it count as a passive-aggressive reply when it was dripping with so much sarcasm it practically left a residue behind? Since I knew there wasn’t nearly enough time to get to the bottom of that particular dig, I pretended to take it at face value, and headed off to the section of the FPMP I don’t normally deal with: the underground. Not just a simple basement, but three whole levels of basement.

  All the way down to the parking lot, the stairwell, the bulletproof glass doors that made a sucking sound every time they glided open on their hermetically sealed tracks, I drank down white light like an alcoholic during happy hour. There was no broad curve of a grand wooden desk at the lab; anyone who showed up there would know where they were going, and they wouldn’t have time to look at fancy decorating or sip coffee. Just a small desk with an armed security guard who looked like his sense of humor had been surgically removed.

  Jacob was waiting at the guard station for me, looking handsome, and official, and full of existential dread. (Okay, so he had a furrow between his brows and the set of his shoulders looked stiff. But I’d learned to speak his body language pretty darn well.) He lit up when he saw me with a quiet sort of relief, and told the guard, “This is Agent Bayne.”

  Bored, the guard motioned toward the card reader. I scanned my ID. “Top clearance,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  Once we were out of earshot, I asked Jacob, “Whatever we’re doing down here—don’t you have enough clout to make it happen somewhere aboveground?”

  “Without alerting a bunch of people to what we’re looking at? No.”

  I felt a twinge of recognition. “Are we heading where I think we’re heading?”

  “Parsons’ autopsy is done. I figured we should hear the findings together.”

  “And just when I hoped I could end my day without a trip to the morgue.” Although I supposed I should be relieved he hadn’t summoned me to the polygraph suite.

  We headed into the lab and passed their obsessively labeled supply cabinets, some small windowless offices, and a room that looked to my untrained eye like a bunch of people raking mulch. The latest and greatest in Psych research? It would take a lot more than that to surprise me.

  Chapter 17

  My official ID carded us into the morgue, which looked different with people in it. Last time I’d seen the place, the entire lab had been cleared, and there was nobody home but the thawed corpse of Jennifer Chance in a chemical bath draped with plastic. Now there was someone scrubbing down a table, and someone looking into a microscope, and someone else dictating notes at a phone. And while they were all covered in protective lab gear and I couldn’t see much, other than their eyes above their surgical masks, they struck me as real people—living people—and that made everything a hell of a lot less creepy.

  One of the masked and swaddled lab workers broke away from his computer and came over to join us. When he spoke, I recognized him immediately. Dr. K was the only Russian immigrant I’d met so far at the FPMP.

  “Agents. So sorry for your loss. Always sad to lose one of your own.” Sad? It honestly hadn’t occurred to me. I plastered on my blankest cop-face. It was the best I could do. “Now let’s get you covered up so you don’t ruin your nice suits.”

  Any protective gear worn in the lab was to prevent contamination of the body, not the workers’ wardrobes. But I didn’t bother calling him out on it and telling him I knew the score, and I hadn’t lasted as long as I had in homicide by being squeamish. I donned the surgical gown, the mask, the hair cover and the gloves. Jacob did the same. And once we were wrapped up good and tight, Dr. K led us across the wide room, to a plastic-covered shape on the far dissection table.

  I peered under the plastic. “Looks like you recovered…most of him.”

>   “The parts that weren’t too far into the machine. We have technicians looking for the rest.” Oh. Now the mulch made a lot more sense. “It will take time. But his organs were intact—mostly—and I can say with pretty good certainty, we found the cause of death. If we have any new findings, I reserve the right to change my mind. But for now?” He picked up a massive file folder and pulled out a bagged and tagged round of ammo. “This entered from the front, passed through the ribcage and the heart, and lodged in the second thoracic vertebra.”

  Yeah, I’d have to agree, the murder weapon seemed pretty cut and dried.

  “Can I use your restroom?” Jacob asked.

  “Sure,” said Dr. K. “Right down that hall.”

  I stood there awkwardly with the good doctor while we waited for Jacob, figuring we shouldn’t go over anything too important without him there. “So,” Dr. K said.

  “So,” I replied.

  “I have some ideas about the tuner,” he said quietly. “Whoever took my notes…they couldn’t erase my brain.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t brag about it in mixed company. I’m sure they’ve got their ways.”

  “If I do put something together, maybe you could take a look at it and let me know if it works.”

  It was really tempting to tell him I still had a GhosTV. Hell, I would love to leave it on his porch, ring the doorbell and run. But it was too dangerous, so instead I just said, “When the time comes, tell Director Kim you need me to check a body. I’m sure she’ll spare me.”

  Jacob rejoined us, walking with purpose. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Now, for the interesting part.” Dr. K yanked down the plastic with a certain amount of showmanship. There was “Andy” in all his glory. Very dead. With a Y-incision on his chest, and the top of his pointy head sawed off. Plus some extra attention to the bullet wound to the side of his sternum. “The incision in the entry wound was already present. Whoever shot him tried to retrieve the bullet.”

  I cut my eyes to the evidence bag. “I take it they couldn’t.”

  “We had to saw into the bone to get it out.”

  Jacob checked his phone and said, “Vic, you got this? I need to take a call.”

  “Sure.” The word wasn’t even out of my mouth and he was halfway out the door. What was up with him—planting bugs in the lab? If so, he should’ve given me a heads up so I could be more distracting. I turned back to Dr. K and said, “Assailant shoots Parsons, tries to retrieve the ammo, and when that doesn’t work, says screw it and throws him in a chipper. Sound about right? And when someone tries that hard, I’d bet that’s one damning piece of evidence.”

  Dr. K nodded. “We’ve made arrangements for Ballistics to prioritize their analysis. But I thought I should let Internal Affairs know…is Agent Marks okay?”

  Jacob had ducked around the corner, out of our direct line of sight. But a couple of unfortunately-placed glass doors reflected him like a funhouse mirror. He wasn’t tucking away any new listening devices—at least, I hoped not—and he most certainly wasn’t taking a call. He was leaning up against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m fresh from Homicide,” I explained to Dr. K. “But not him.”

  “And Agent Parsons was one of ours. I understand.”

  He didn’t, though. Not really. Because Agent Parsons might have been “one of ours,” but he was also our prime suspect for an information leak that would bring a bunch of unwanted attention to the FPMP. Strange that my sympathies were with the FPMP when I knew damn well Psychs had undergone all kinds of illicit testing. Maybe because I was worried the fallout would affect people like Laura who weren’t even involved back then, and the guilty parties would be unscathed.

  When Jacob rejoined us yet again, Dr. K had more fun facts about Andy’s body. Estimated time of death, an old fracture to his collarbone, and the contents of his stomach. His last meal had been a burger and onion rings washed down with a Diet Coke. We were welcome to see it, if we liked. We took a pass.

  On our way back up to the parking lot, I considered asking Jacob if he wanted to stop for a burger and some onion rings on the way home, but I suspected the joke was a little too morbid. We paused at his car, and I said, “I drove, but…you gonna be okay? I could probably leave my car here. You looked a little green, back there.”

  He worked his jaw for a couple of seconds, then said, “Just…tell me there’s nothing in my car.”

  “Your gym bag’s right there.”

  “Vic….”

  “For real?” I said. He looked pretty serious. “Okay. Sure.”

  I glanced in. Nothing but us tube socks. But since a cursory look wouldn’t be particularly reassuring (and since, lately, he could sense when I was actually manipulating white light) I planted my feet, centered myself, and drew down the power. The car was clean. I even had him pop the trunk. Nothing. “All clear. I promise.” I leaned in and whispered, “Besides, you’re not the one who’s gotta make sure nothing gets inside you without sweet-talking you first. I am.”

  Grudgingly, he climbed into his car, and each of us made our separate way home. When I got there, a blenderful of ice was waiting for me, and not because Jacob was making smoothies. I changed into sweats and washed potential morgue cooties from my hands, then joined him at the kitchen counter. He put the blender on low. We burn through fewer of them that way—and, trust me, it’s easily as loud as high is, just a different pitch.

  Jacob rearranged the knives in the butcher block a time or two, then said, “You know the way you look when something triggers you about Camp Hell? I always figured it was bad, but now I finally get it in my gut. That plastic in the morgue—that milky, whitish, semi-opaque plastic. I heard it. And then it was like…I could practically feel Jennifer Chance’s dead body squirming in my hands.”

  Damn it. All this time with Jacob, I’d been training myself to handle his overzealousness. Not his vulnerability.

  “Not only that,” he went on, “but the chemical smell, the chill of the air conditioning, the background sound of the ventilation system whooshing like someone whispering in your ear—”

  “Jacob, stop.” I had no idea what to do with his distress. I fit myself against his back and pressed my cheek into the meaty slope of his trapezius. “She’s gone,” I promised. “I felt her go.” Only the highly evolved could pass back through the veil, souls like Miss Mattie, people with a higher calling. But for the ghosts like Chance who were fueled by obsession and vengeance, it was a one-way ticket. “Where she went, there’s no coming back.”

  He fed the rest of our ice into the blender, and I held him. I wished there was more I could say. But I’d tried telling Bob Zigler to forget about the moving corpses—it was unlikely a person would see anything quite so fucked up more than once in their life—but as far as I knew, Zig was still meeting with a therapist once a week to try and sleep through the night. Plus, the chances of stumbling across something that would leave a permanent scar did seem perilously high in the FPMP’s employ.

  Since I was having no luck finding words, I turned Jacob around in my arms and pressed my mouth to his. If anyone got what it was like to be terrified, it was me. But judging by my total non-reaction in the morgue, in this particular instance, I could be the brave one. I squeezed him hard, and kissed him harder, and he opened his lips to my tongue, because he always did. Maybe the feel of the bio plastic did bring up a strikingly vivid memory. But there were so many more memories he and I shared, together.

  I took his face in my hands and said, “This is our home. You’re safe, I’m safe, everyone we love is safe. We’ll keep it that way, you and me. We can do it. I believe in us. Okay?”

  He pressed his forehead briefly to mine. “Okay.”

  And sure, he was mostly humoring me, but I figured he was pretty good at the “fake it till you make it” game. At least until we were getting ready for bed, and the rustle of the plastic shower curtain nearly sent him into orbit. I wanted to pretend I didn’t see, but his jump
startled me so badly, my toothbrush nearly ended up in the toilet.

  When I climbed into bed beside him, he was clenched up all over and glaring at the ceiling.

  “Twelve tiles across and fourteen up,” I said. “But it doesn’t hurt to count ’em a few more times to be sure.” I pulled up the covers and rolled toward him, facing him on my side, and settled my hand on his chest. My eyes defocused, and I imagined colorful spinning chakras, deep down in his ribcage. They’d be big and ponderous, like the heavy machinery where lawn waste was processed. Difficult to maneuver, but phenomenally powerful.

  “No one could have helped me get rid of Jennifer Chance but you,” I told him. “And if I had to do it myself, I would’ve been fucked. So feel good about that, if you can.”

  He nodded once. But he didn’t look all that mollified.

  I almost suggested he read a few pages to help him doze off, but then I caught a glimpse of his latest drugstore paperback and thought better of it. Even with the title hidden under a box of tissues, the murder house on the cover made it plain that his current read would be a shitty lullaby. He always goes for the most gruesome crap he can find—says he likes the fact that everything works out in the end—but tonight, I suspected he might lose himself in the pages just a little too much.

  I hugged myself against him and tried to will my drowsiness into his body. But if there’s a psychic talent capable of making that happen, it’s not part of my repertoire. “We’re safe here,” I reminded him.

  He counted a few ceiling tiles, then said, “Maybe here, now. But I’m starting to question how safe we are in this world.”

  Jacob was so used to being the strong one. It might seem like I’d revel in the turnabout when he finally got a stiff dose of reality. But no. It actually broke my heart.

  Chapter 18

  Try as I might, I wasn’t able to force myself to stay awake long enough to give Jacob the reassurance he deserved. I was running on a sleep deficit of gigantic proportions. And when it was time to head off for our next round at the FPMP, not only was he the first out of bed, but he got the coffee brewing while I was still knuckling sleep out of my eyes. I’d like to think that meant I was approaching my workday well-rested, but frankly, I wasn’t much fresher than when I’d gone to bed.