Sharp: A Mindspace Investigations Novel

by Alex Hughes

  There was a short silence over the phone, and my emphatic words started cooling into fear.

  Finally he spoke. “That would be a good reason to hack a classified file. And the records say you only took one, and one for a guy in your territory and likely connected to the investigation you’re discussing. Don’t make a habit of this, am I clear? But I’ll handle the issue on our end.”

  I swallowed.

  “Adam?”

  “Yes?”

  After a short pause: “You might call me next time, you know. The FBI has a history of cooperation with local police departments.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Had he really been looking at me for a job? Had I failed to screw it up yet somehow? This seemed surreal.

  “Okay. Well, as it happens, I’ve seen that file before. The name of the guy you’re tracking is Sibley. Blair Sibley. A British expat with specialized military training who was dismissed from service under circumstances the British government won’t talk about. He has a . . . tendency toward ligature strangulation and knife work, and has employed that tendency in situations well outside his job description, even in the special ops circumstances he was operating in. My guess is he finally killed someone innocent or political enough they had to get rid of him. He was in Los Angeles for about ten years, and recently settled in Atlanta somewhere, we believe as the result of a direct call from Fiske. The association between them is there, but as near as I can tell, loose. Sibley still takes a number of jobs separate from their association, and Fiske gets the group rate for most of his jobs. A symbiotic relationship if ever there was one, but in my opinion, if you continue in the vein you’ve been tracing, you have the wiggle room to take down Sibley without tipping the department’s hand. It’ll have to be done carefully. I’d appreciate updates and coordination before you make a move.”

  “That’s fine. Wait, what’s your number?”

  “I’ll have a card sent over by courier so you can’t lose it in the walk between Bob’s desk and yours.”

  “Wait. Again, sorry, how did you know it was me? Bob never said . . .”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? Keep me updated, please.”

  I stood staring at the telephone handset, the sound of the dial tone echoing from it. He’d hung up on me.

  I walked to the secure printer in a sort of daze, and forced myself to read through the information.

  My eyes flew over the pages with increasing disbelief. He’d given me the highlights, pretty much everything I needed to know. But there—at the end of the file—labeled with Jarrod’s compliments, was a list of the cases Sibley was attached to—a long, long list that spanned several states. And a note: If you take down this guy, I’ll buy you a beer.

  * * *

  Swartz was still at the hospital, still out of reach of any visit I could safely make for days yet. Worse, the nurses wouldn’t let me talk to him, or Selah, or anyone. They did say a medic was there, but they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me anything more.

  It was driving me nuts, not seeing him. It was like a gaping hole in my chest, this itchy queasy feeling . . . and my mind kept playing Cherabino, Cherabino’s discomfort at me in her head, that kiss, Paulsen’s anger and near promise I would lose my job, and Swartz, Swartz sick, Swartz dying with me not able to do anything.

  The day passed in a blur and Bellury dropped me off at the apartment, and I kept seeing that vision, that horrible vision where I was on the street, alone, nobody, crawled back into a vial of Satin too big to hold the world. Without Swartz, what was the point? Without this job, how in hell would I stay sane?

  My street looked dirty all of a sudden, the chipped dirty concrete steps of my old building like a curse. The chipped facade of the building, a building intended to hold office dwellers and stress rather than people. A building I’d lose when Paulsen fired me.

  I glanced behind me to see the tailpipe of Bellury’s old car turn the corner. Then I went back down the steps and down the street. A streetwalker called to me from the corner, the same one who’d been there for weeks, dirty blond, lewd, and desperate. She called out again, but that was a drug I couldn’t take, one that would eat me from the inside, bind us together, and destroy us both. Part of me regretted that intensely; another person, another body, another mind and pleasure sounded like perfection, like the best drug in the world, but . . . I’d stick to what I knew. I’d stick to something that wouldn’t destroy anyone but me.

  So I walked, and walked, my coat turned up around my face, while my brain played back the vision, alone, alone. Five long city blocks to the bus stop, past the liquor store, the big glaring neon-lit liquor store, the only drug in the world Bellury’s test wasn’t designed to pick up.

  I found myself inside the store, picking out a bottle of bourbon, the expensive kind, the smooth kind that warmed you all the way down. I passed other, desperate customers, one normal-looking couple, and a stocker boy. I got to the register—and realized I didn’t have any money, that I’d hamstrung myself or let the department hamstring me for just that reason.

  Paulsen was probably going to fire me anyway.

  So I stole into the clerk’s mind and told his brain I’d already paid.

  I was halfway down the sidewalk home, precious bottle in hand, when I realized . . . If the watcher had shown up then . . .

  My hands shook, and the terror, the outright terror of what I’d done, of what I’d sunk to, hit me. I threw the bottle as far from me on the street as I possibly could, the glass shattering like my entire life.

  I barely made it back to the apartment in one piece, and huddled, shivering, in my bedroom with the Mindspace blocker on so Cherabino couldn’t see, couldn’t see how low I’d come.

  It took me hours to even think about sleeping.

  CHAPTER 17

  Saturday and Sunday found me either on service projects—I invited myself to the AA project, even—or sitting in the hospital parking lot, as close as I dared go. I talked to Selah twice. I talked to Swartz once, on the phone. He could barely form words.

  The medic was supposed to go on Sunday, and from the phone calls I made, he did. No one could give me any more updates, though, and Selah stopped answering the phone.

  That afternoon, I invited myself to Bellury’s house, where he set me to cleaning out his garage, hours and hours of backbreaking dirty work.

  I was grateful.

  * * *

  Monday midday, Cherabino looked up for the third time from her paperwork. “You’re brewing again.”

  “Ummph,” I said miserably.

  “I’m getting the edge of that, you know.”

  “Sorry.” I tried to shield, and failed. The telepathy was working fine, but I lacked the motivation to do anything right now. I settled deeper in my chair, a dark depression settling in on me.

  After a moment, she sighed and turned all the way around. “Fine. Let’s go through this again. Is there anything you can do to help him?”

  “No.”

  “And his wife—Selah’s her name, correct? Does she need anything?”

  “No. Half the NA chapter’s there doing errands for her and sitting by his bedside. The medic’s already done what he can do. And the hospital . . .”

  “You said you can’t go back to the hospital. How absolute is that?”

  “Pretty damn absolute. It’s a hospital. People die in hospitals—it’s a nightmare for a telepath, and my brain is as stressed as it can be right now. If he’s not actually dying, I have no business being there. And even then, I’m risking everything to go in for ten minutes.” I had an appointment to see the medic later. In the meantime, there was nothing I could do; the hospital said he was stable.

  “Well, then.” She sighed again. Looked at her paperwork, before stuffing it in a file. “Get your raincoat. We’re going out.”

  I stared at the desk in front of me.

  “No, seriously, get your raincoat.”

  I sighed and got my raincoat.

  * * * />
  We were halfway there, rain making the world streaky and the anti-grav unstable, before I thought to ask where we were going.

  “Gun range,” Cherabino said. “The one across the street is down for maintenance, and the outdoor range is useless in this weather. Fortunately this is a firearms-friendly town, and the department got us a group deal.”

  I looked out the window, too miserable to really care. “You’re going to practice, then.”

  “You are.”

  That made me look up. “I don’t need to use a gun, I’m a telepath.” I hit her mind with a prick of instant pain, to prove my point. My head responded with a tiny burst of light and reaction pain; much less than I’d expected.

  “Stop that.” She built up her walls again. “Guns make loud sounds and great smells. Plus they’re a big component of the certification I think you can qualify for without much trouble—maybe a PI license, or a special type-four deputy A. Plus you obviously need to get the stress out. There’s nothing like plugging a hole in a target to do that.”

  “If you say so.”

  She pulled into the parking lot of the low building labeled INDOOR RANGE, stopping way, way too fast in this weather. I was thrown forward against the seat belt with an “oof.”

  She stared at me, anger coming from her now. “Stop it with the poor-me act. Seriously. You’re not the only one who’s dealing with death; half the guys in the department have parents old enough to have serious medical problems. Plus we’ve had three deaths in the county this year on the job. It’s less than last year, but think about it. Three families whose daddy or mommy isn’t coming home. It’s crappy, and it’s not anything anybody wants to deal with, but it’s part of life. You need to rage, you need to get drunk, you need to go out and do something stupid, I understand. But this passive thing. You can’t do it. You can’t afford to give in like this.”

  “Don’t lecture me. Really. That’s Swartz’s job.” I got out, closing the car door behind me hard. It was raining, a steady stream of icky nastiness, the first burst of clouds heavily laden with pollution and worse things; I huddled inside the raincoat and hustled to the sidewalk under the dubious awning.

  She put the car in park and followed, cursing steadily under her breath.

  The low building looked like any dark beige old store in the area, dirty and faded from years of sun. The sign, PATTY’S GUNS AND INDOOR RANGE, could barely be read, it was so old and sun-faded, even under the too-thin green awning, which was unraveling in places. I could smell the pollution in the air, or maybe I was smelling my own anger.

  Cherabino caught up to me. “I’m—”

  “Shut up. If we’re going to do this, let’s get it over with.” I’d never held a gun in my life, but if it would get her off my back I’d do it and gladly. Plus there was a point to distraction—that’s something they emphasized in the program. You felt like crap, you wanted to fall off the wagon, you found something useful to do. Something not dangerous. Something that wouldn’t get you in trouble and regrets later.

  I pushed open the door and walked through. And immediately felt out of my element. Guns, endless racks of big guns, small guns, and even the occasional crossbow, lined the walls. Things that looked like Cherabino’s cop-issue pistol. Things that looked like the rifles taken out by hunters. Things that looked like neither, and both. All lining the walls four high and filling glass cases like you’d find at a fine jewelry store. And judging from the tags, the guns were just as expensive.

  The proprietor, a gruff overweight woman with a square jaw and an intricate Celtic tattoo on her arm, nodded at me when I came in. “First time? What are you here for?”

  Cherabino pushed by me, and the woman’s demeanor changed. “Ah, he’s with you. Looking to shoot another rifle? I’ve got a new Ruger bolt-action tactical model. . . .”

  “No, this time we’re just using the range,” Cherabino said, holding up her pistol wrapped in its holster where the woman could see it. “I’ll buy the ammunition and rent a couple of hearing-protector sets.” Her sensei emphasized respect in these situations, and she was happy to pay for ammo she didn’t need to show that respect. Besides, she needed to pay rent on the space she was using; it was only fair.

  The woman nodded and produced two boxes as if by magic, one smaller, that clunked against the counter behind the glass display case. The other, a larger one that opened to reveal two sets of large headphone-looking things, the kind that covered the entire ear.

  Cherabino paid and ushered me to a smaller door in the back of the shop, something I hadn’t even noticed before she’d pointed it out. We were in . . . sort of an air lock, a space between two doors. She made me put on earplugs and the clamshell things, and then we were off through the door.

  It looked like a scene from the movies, only dirtier. Stalls like horse stalls from a barn were lined up in a row, guys with guns pointing at the concrete wall thirty feet away, the paper targets set up.

  The first crack hit me in the confined space, and it took everything in me not to hit the deck. That was a bad sound. A dangerous sound, a sound that crawled into the back of your head where the survivor lived, and told you to run. When I’d heard that sound on the streets at a lower decibel, people had died.

  Cherabino pulled me over to the first stall. Three more cracks hit the space, two higher, mostly dampened by the ear protection. Those didn’t make me do more than flinch. But the last—another dark, deep crack like the world blowing apart—made me want to run. Hide.

  Cherabino said something to me, but the sound was lost in the space. She repeated herself louder, but I still couldn’t hear; instead I listened in through the Link, the words behind the words.

  She demonstrated how to load and unload the gun, the cartridge snapping up and in, the upper part of the gun sliding forward to indicate a bullet in the chamber. She made me repeat the motions, loading, unloading. I handled it gingerly, all the time struggling not to flinch every time I heard that dark, deep gunshot crack.

  “It’s a gun,” Cherabino said, me hearing most of it through the Link. “It’s not going to bite you. I mean, gun safety is good—watch the end of it—but it’s not going to do anything you don’t tell it to. You don’t have to be so cautious.”

  She took the gun back and set up a paper target, the mechanism carrying the thing all the way down the range away from us. “Loosen up, enjoy this.”

  Meanwhile the whoomp, crack, crack of the gun range kept burrowing into my brain, telling me to be somewhere, anywhere else.

  “Adam.” She brought my attention back to her and away from the line of tough-looking men and woman, only some cops; the rest for all I knew about to shoot me dead on the spot. “Adam.”

  “What?”

  “Pay attention.” She demonstrated the correct double-handed stance. “Watch your hand; with a semiautomatic like this one, the top of the gun will pop back and it’ll get you if you aren’t watching. There’s a kick.” She adjusted her stance, and for the first time I could see the muscle tension behind the movement, like she really was expecting it to hit her hard. Then she squeezed the trigger three times.

  When she pulled the target up, there was a tight cluster in the center body. Kill shots.

  She reset and handed me the gun. “Your turn.”

  My hands shook and I tried to brace myself for whatever kick she was talking about.

  “Loosen up,” her breath came by my ear.

  The shot went wide, nearly hitting another guy’s target down the range. The gun had leaped in my hand like a rabbit on speed.

  Cherabino was all too close, the warmth of her body tangible as she adjusted my hands on the gun, my arms in front of me. “Now try to hit the target this time, if you can.”

  Something about the comment hit me like a burr on the butt, and adrenaline was already pouring through my system. Just to see if I could, I stole into her mind in careful degrees, control shaking, and “borrowed” her gun skills, the muscle memory she’d built over years o
f practice, the skill that was sitting on the forefront of her consciousness. I was rewarded with the headache of the century, pounding pain and brief flashes of light, but I did it. I actually did it. The skills sat in my head like a foreign lump, and, squinting through the pain in concentration, I sank into them.

  I shot—and hit the target. To the right of center, but I hit it nonetheless. I squeezed off another round, and another, the shells flying off the gun and onto the floor as the gun made that strangely visceral crack in the small space.

  I shot a perfect card the next time, almost as good as Cherabino. But the next was all misses, as her memory fought with my reality. I shot another card, and another, inconsistently, and finally stepped back, my head and arms aching. Despite everything, I was smiling like an idiot. I’d done it.

  All those exercises and all the pain were finally worth it. The telepathy was coming back.

  “Good shooting,” Cherabino said, with a satisfied smile, and handed me the broom to clean up my shells from the floor.

  As we returned the gear to the gruff lady behind the counter, I realized I hadn’t thought about Swartz in an hour. Part of me was suddenly guilty, and the rest oddly relieved.

  “Now let’s get you some food. Then back to the station. I’ve got an appointment with the district attorney I have to make.”

  * * *

  On the way back in the car, Cherabino let the silence sit while my head pounded dully. Finally I broke it.

  “Are you serious about keeping Jacob away from the Guild?”

  Her conflicted emotions darted around like a school of fish fleeing a predator. “Is that even possible?”

  “If we’re careful.” I had done my research, and with a tag in my head—I poked around to make sure Stone wasn’t there—with a tag in my head and under unnamed debt, I was happy to do anything to keep the Guild from getting what they wanted. “If he’s careful. His medical condition will help us at the moment—reasons for people to be coming and going, reasons for him not to mix with the regular kids.”