Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9

by Jordan Castillo Price

  My voice had been level. Mostly. But she had to drop my gaze. “Sorry. I was thinking about the early days. Before Krimski took over and fired Maxwell and all the other instructors, and locked us all in our rooms. After that I was just focused on getting out of there. Anytime I wasn’t filling out standardized tests, I was cranking out job applications.”

  “How? Where?”

  “I dunno,” she said, “the job office. The career placement guy.”

  I remembered no such guy. Then again, I trusted Darla’s memory of certain years much more than I did my own.

  She dropped the matter, turned toward the black case, and popped it open. I must’ve been expecting Richie’s prayer mat and white candles, because I was surprised to see a colorful spread of crystal hunks instead. Each stone was about the size of a fist, nestled in a foam compartment. Darla lifted out the tray, and beneath that were a dozen vials in their own cushy cubbies, winking like the jewels in one of her elaborate necklaces.

  She motioned to the array of glittery objects and asked, “Do you have a preference?”

  “I, uh, never really had much luck with crystals.”

  “Maybe you haven’t found the right one yet.” She turned back to her array and held out her hand above them, focused, like she was testing the vibrations they emitted. And maybe she was. She picked out a craggy hunk of amethyst and anointed it with one of the bottles. “Gem elixirs.”

  I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

  “Do you hear them?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “No, I didn’t think so. Even though you can talk to the dead, you seem mostly visual.”

  “You can hear them? The crystals?”

  “I can, when I shift my attention there. They’re kind of like background noise. The quartz on my nightstand lulls me to sleep. And the stones with veins of impurities have all kinds of funky texture to their voices.”

  “Are they…alive?” When she looked at me sharply, I added, “Dumb question.”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t think they’re technically alive, or sentient.” She hefted the amethyst and stared into it. “How can I put it so it makes sense to you? If they were visual, they’d be more like a series of mirrors catching a ray from the sun and bouncing it into a dark corner.”

  White light. Energy.

  The connection sparked between two of my most stubborn neurons, and suddenly I understood the gemstone concept neither Crash nor Miss Mattie had been able to push through my thick skull.

  “I think the crystalline structure of salt does the same,” she added.

  If she kept going, my brain was going to get too big for my head. It would crack open and puff out like those cans of refrigerator rolls Jacob pretends he doesn’t like. “Pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, well.” She cracked a grin. “Can’t say it doesn’t feel good to have someone treat me like I know what I’m doing for a change.”

  She held up her amethyst hunk and gazed into it. If I were on psyactives or within the vicinity of a GhosTV, I’d know for sure if she was filling with white light. Even without seeing it, though, I strongly suspected she was. I triggered my own download mechanism, breathed deep, stilled myself, and pictured the beam of pure positive energy pouring in through the big target on my forehead.

  Once I was topped off, I took a look around me. No ghosts. No mysterious not-quite-alive critters, either—at least, not that I could sense. Hallowed ground? I wasn’t sure whether the belief of generations of parishioners built up like a dozen coats of paint on a stuck window jamb, or if the only thing that really mattered was what went on inside my own head.

  “Now tell me about the guy you want to reach,” Darla said.

  “Andy Parsons. An FPMP spy who tailed me at the Fifth Precinct. Turned up in an industrial wood chipper with an agency bullet lodged in his spine.”

  “Gotta hand it to Chicago. They never fail to outdo themselves in the gruesome murder department.” She sat on the bench beside her case of rocks, cradled the amethyst in her cupped hands, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Andy, Andy,” she muttered. “What can you tell us about your murder? Andy, Andy, Andy…I’ll bet you’re pretty pissed off about it. Andy, Andy…you gonna let somebody get away with that?

  I wasn’t exactly skeptical—hell, I knew that Darla could hear ghosts—but I also knew Andy’s spirit wasn’t in proximity. I also knew that when I dealt with that esoteric membrane that separated life from death, my subtle bodies slipped apart and left my physical shell with the lights out and nobody home. So if Darla was actually able to speak, I wasn’t quite convinced of the accuracy of any messages she might receive. As if she somehow knew I was entertaining doubts, her eyes snapped open.

  Milky white cataracts covered her iris and pupil. Startled, I staggered back a few steps.

  Darla exhaled.

  In the beam of stained light eking through the windows, her breath curled like cigarette smoke with cold.

  “Nobody realizes who’s pulling the strings,” she said. In her own voice. Well, of course it was her own voice, it was coming from her vocal cords, her mouth. But still…I was never entirely sure, when push came to shove, how far the metaphysical could hijack everything we know to be true. “Laura Kim thinks she understands, but she doesn’t know the half of it.”

  “FPMP national?”

  When I spoke aloud, Darla’s head swiveled, and her cloudy eyes set me in their sights. “No, worse. Someone who’s not accountable to anyone because they wipe out every last trace of their activities. Before the FPMP, there was a group. I ran across them when I was studying for my assignment at the Chicago PD. No clue who they are.” Darla smiled grimly. It looked nothing like her usual impish smirk. “But they were all over you, Victor Bayne.”

  My heart started pounding so hard, I could barely hear myself speak. “Why? What did they want?”

  “Let me go,” Andy said. “It hurts.”

  “Not until you help us. You got yourself killed and I’m trying to figure out how—you could at least do your part.”

  Darla twitched as if Andy was struggling against her, but she was too strong for him, and eventually he settled down. “Fine. I figured I should know how dangerous you were if I was supposed to be shadowing you. Digital records were crap, so I took a trip to archives and went through the paper. Your files go way back. And not everything made it through the scanner.”

  “What did you find?”

  “You had your share of ghostly sightings. They started when you were twelve.”

  That early? Damn.

  “Funny thing was, the detailed records started even earlier than that.” Andy’s words curled from Darla’s lips on tendrils of frost. “The other psychs I tracked had nothing but a history of immunizations and hospital stays before the Ganzfeld research went public. You? Since you could talk, they ran you under the microscope every single year—as if they were looking for something specific. I wonder why.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Dreyfuss told me to leave it alone. And after that, your physical paperwork mysteriously disappeared.”

  Fucking Dreyfuss. “You said they had me tested. Who are they?”

  “According to your records, Social Services.”

  I recalled the suited guy in my headshrinker’s waiting room, and my heart tripped over itself.

  “Yeah,” Andy said through Darla’s mouth. “I don’t buy it either. In my experience, the real Social Services has more important things to deal with.” The sentence ended in a weird chatter, and I realized Darla’s teeth were clicking together and her nose was red. I felt an unexpected pang of non-psychic empathy for her. The bone-chilling effects of goopy ectoplasm-hand were bad enough. I couldn’t imagine holding that death chill inside me.

  As much as I wanted to know every last detail of what Andy had on me, it was obvious Darla wasn’t physically up for an extended interrogation. I cut to the chase. “So, you were the one sending accusations to the press.”

&nbs
p; “And look where it got me. Someone had a plant with the news outlet—FPMP national? Or the group who’s been keeping an eye on you all these years?” Darla shrugged stiffly. “Even though it was anonymous, somehow they figured out it was me.”

  Did they really? Or did they just know whose printer it came from? “Did you see who shot you?”

  Darla jerked her head from side to side. “It was dark.” Of course it was. “But I’d bet my Sammy Sosa home run ball it was the Assassin.”

  A chill raced down my spine. It had nothing to do with the deathfrost coming from Darla, and everything to do with the memory of Roger Burke planting the fear of the Assassin in my brain. Once I convinced myself Laura Kim was not the Assassin’s secret identity, I’d chalked the whole thing up to a tall tale from Burke.

  And now Andy was telling me the mythical Assassin was real.

  Not only that, but their bullet could’ve come from the FPMP armory.

  Darla’s head started to tic, and clear snot drooled from her nose. Beneath her lip gloss, her lips had taken on a bluish tinge.

  “Tell me something that’ll help me ID your killer,” I demanded. “Anything at all.”

  “It was dark,” he repeated, and Darla’s voice had gone funny, clipped, like she couldn’t hold on to him much longer. “But the last thing I did was answer a summons from—”

  Darla sucked in a rattling breath, then started to twitch.

  “Who?” I shouted in her face. “Who?”

  She spasmed a few more times, then shuddered. And when I figured it was all my own fault for questioning Andy about my own records instead of his stupid murder, Darla wheezed out the words, “Laura Kim.”

  Darla seized up and went stiff, and emptied her lungs in one great, frosty gasp. And then the shivering began in earnest. “Get out of here, Andy,” I shouted. “Go.”

  But her eyes were already clearing.

  She sucked air, then started panting as if she’d just sprinted to the corner and back. Then she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth to try and get the shaking under control. I was right there beside her. I wrapped her in my arms and pulled her frigid face to my chest, and tried to will my body warmth into her. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  She grumbled a little. But she didn’t pull away.

  “That was amazing,” I told her. “You did great.”

  “So now you’ve got your shooter?”

  The diplomatic reply I was searching for was too long in coming.

  She shoved off me, and snapped, “He didn’t know, did he? Damn it. Does anyone have a tissue?”

  Carl edged out of the shadows, not with a gun in his hand…but a handkerchief. He was trying to play it cool, but his eyes were showing white all around. Not like he was scared of being caught—more like he was scared of the freaking dead guy talking through his office mate. His whole arm was shaking when he handed Darla the hankie. Once she took it, he abandoned all semblance of casual acceptance, and crossed himself.

  I had to admit, although Darla’s performance had left me feeling somewhat inadequate, it was a big relief for someone else to be the scariest member of the team for a change.

  Chapter 32

  If there’s one thing Jacob approaches with extreme caution nowadays, it’s tracking the whereabouts of Laura Kim. It didn’t matter that he was absolutely correct when he pegged her for Roger Burke’s shooting. He couldn’t afford to ever get it wrong when it came to pointing the finger at the director.

  Three of us were crowded behind the desk. Jacob scrolled through a bunch of files on his monitor. Beside him, Darla cradled a cup of jasmine tea to her chest while I hovered over his shoulder. “Here we go,” he said, “parking garage footage.” On camera, Laura strode to the best parking spot in the garage and climbed into her gleaming Lexus. There was a timestamp in the corner. “Andy left just after noon, but Laura was here for another six hours. Even if she didn’t go straight home, according to the lab, he was already dead by then.

  Darla said, “And do we know where Director Kim was when Colleen Frank took a dive?”

  Jacob pulled up a shot of Laura eating lunch.

  It was pretty telling that he happened to have it at the ready.

  “Just for the sake of playing devil’s advocate,” I said, “we’d need to consider the fact that if Laura wanted to get rid of someone—I seriously can’t even believe I’m entertaining this—she probably wouldn’t pull the trigger herself. She’s the director. She’s got agents for that.”

  Darla’s wheels were turning. “You could pull all her correspondence…if you made it look like we thought she was the one at risk.”

  “Or…” Jacob looked at me thoughtfully. “You could see what your new pal knows.”

  I drew a blank.

  Jacob said, “Isn’t that the whole reason you’ve been cozying up to Patrick Barley? To get an in with Laura?”

  “If this is what an in looks like, I’d hate to be on the outs.”

  Jacob warmed to his idea. “He’s got access to all of Laura’s calls, hasn’t he?”

  “He’s got access to lots of things,” I agreed. Trying to question him without it coming off as an interrogation would be a challenge, but I did owe him a trip to the shooting range. It occurred to me as I texted Patrick that I was using him. I felt kind of bad about that…but not bad enough to refuse to do it.

  We met up at the range after work. Patrick greeted me with, “Ready to make some paper targets feel sorry they were ever born?”

  As we checked in, I was surprised to find Agent Watts was still there, looking no-nonsense and grim. In the field or on an investigation, sure, we clocked in some crazy long hours. But Watts started her day at the range well before the crack of dawn. Her job fell into the “important but not urgent” category. I couldn’t fathom why she was putting in twelve-plus hour shifts. Maybe she worked a split shift. Or maybe she was saving for a new Beretta.

  “If it’s not the Fifth Precinct,” she said coolly. Probably annoyed that I hadn’t returned a single one of her emails. Or even opened them, for that matter.

  “You said I needed to practice. So here I am.” I grabbed the sign-in sheet. “Which shooting stall?”

  “Gallery’s full,” she said. “But I’ve got an opening in our precision analysis suite.”

  Gee, that didn’t sound intimidating at all.

  She led Patrick and me to the part of the building where all the expensive tech lived, the specialized gear that really separated our agency from the boys in blue. The soundproofing must’ve been phenomenally thick, but even so, distant sounds of detonations carried through to the hallway. Sometimes in my old apartment, I heard my downstairs neighbor watching movies as I made my way up the stairs. He had a thing for those old war flicks. Creepy how much the real guns sounded like something as innocuous as a TV set.

  Watts led us into a long, narrow room with electronics hanging all around the single shooting stall. “This firing system will analyze your stance, and automatically suggest better foot placement. Tonight we’re working on multiple rounds. We’re not conserving ammo, here. In a life and death situation, you fire as many as it takes. Aim for the chest and keep shooting until the threat is removed.”

  Patrick took in the room, and said, “The targets seem a lot closer than they do in the regular stalls.”

  “Stance and accuracy go hand in hand,” Watts told him. She handed two full magazines to each of us. “This should be enough for our analysis. Just follow the automated cues.”

  With that, she left the room.

  “Well, this is embarrassing,” Patrick said. “I thought we’d each be in our own stalls. Now you get to see my crappy aim up close.”

  “I’m the last one to throw stones.” I checked my magazine—still full—then snapped it back into place. “You want to go first, or should I?”

  “You go. Maybe I can pick up some pointers.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  Patrick took off his glasses
and gave them a quick polish before putting his safety glasses over them. When Jacob’s cheaters were sitting on the coffee table, I noticed they distorted the objects behind them. Patrick’s didn’t. Must’ve been a different sort of prescription.

  Once our hearing protection was in place too, I stepped up to the stall. As I positioned myself, I reflected that maybe the shooting range wasn’t the best spot to pick Patrick’s brain, seeing as how conversation was pretty much impossible. Instructions flashed on a readout, and I followed them. Weaver Stance, Power Point, Kneel. Multiple shots. Reload, and repeat. All around me, mechanical eyes recorded and the brains behind them quantified the precise level of shittiness in my technique.

  I emptied the second magazine, same as the first, seventeen rounds, three new positions. When that was done, the instructions went dead.

  I stood from the kneel I’d been instructed to assume, and jostled against Patrick. I’d been so focused, I’d forgotten he was even there. And even so, the target at the far end of the gallery didn’t look particularly impressive. I’d hit the body mass, but my precision was pretty sad. In most shooting situations, you don’t get thirty-four chances to stop your target.

  I slipped off my headphones and said, “I think after all this scrutiny we deserve to treat ourselves. Did you have dinner plans?”

  Patrick cocked his head like he was surprised I’d initiated off-duty contact, then shrugged and said, “I do now.”

  I honestly wasn’t trying to stare, but it only took a couple seconds for me to reload, and then there was nothing else to look at but the poor target who got inadvertently kneecapped, twice, before Patrick’s wild shots finally put the paper guy out of its misery.

  Afterward, I suggested deep dish pizza. Not only was it a great opportunity to indulge, since Jacob frowns on me consuming so much cholesterol in one sitting, but those things take a good forty-five minutes or more to get to the table. That would give me plenty of time to see what he knew about Laura.

  “I wasn’t so sure how I felt about two sessions in one day,” Patrick said, “but I think it reinforced some of the pointers Agent Watts gave me this morning.”