PsyCop 5: Camp Hell

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “Seriously? I mean, you can’t just happen to say it to yourself….you know, in passing?”

  She gave me a hard look.

  “I’m trying to help her,” I said.

  “And I’m making sure that I give her the same respect that I’d give someone with top-notch health insurance. Patient information is confidential unless your warrant says otherwise.”

  “That whole conversation we had yesterday—didn’t it mean anything to you?”

  “Of course it did. Look, if I see her again, I’ll give her your card.”

  “Right. Like she’s gonna follow up on that.”

  “I tell her there’s something in it for her? Maybe she will.”

  I stared at Gillmore, hoping that she might cave in. She stared right back. An ER nurse hovered to one side with something for her to sign. I decided I didn’t want to keep her from patching people up just for the sake of a staring contest, so I dug out a couple of business cards and handed them over. “You keep one, too. In case you see her again, and just happen to accidentally dial my phone number and tell me to drop by for some coffee.”

  She pocketed the business cards, gave me a “yeah, right” expression, then turned toward the nurse and went on with her work.

  Zigler and I decided that a trip to the cafeteria was in order, since we weren’t doing anything in the ER that we’d struggled so hard to obtain clearance for except potentially keeping someone from a timely blood transfusion by blundering between them and the staff.

  Besides, it was really loud in there.

  Zigler stirred his coffee with a thin plastic stirrer. I took an individually wrapped plastic spoon instead. I had a lot of sugar to dissolve in the bottom of my cup. “So you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in partition eight?” he said.

  “What, you think my story’s going to change when I get some caffeine in me?” I sipped. It needed another sugar. I’d stayed up way too late the night before.

  “You didn’t go all the way in. You stayed in the entryway.”

  If there was a ghost in there, it’s not like I had to be standing on top of it to get a reading. Was that what it meant, to be fifth level? I’d never seen a definitive list of what various level mediums could or couldn’t do—maybe because ghosts weren’t like flash cards. They weren’t just circles or squares, red or blue or yellow. “That kid in there…I didn’t wanna be slimed, okay?”

  “We’ll go back later. Take another look.”

  I stared at his notepad from my seat across the table. I couldn’t read it upside down, but Zig was staring at it like it was some kind of talisman. He reminded me of Jacob, smart and bullheaded, and unwilling to stop chewing at something when he thought he was right. I wondered if Zigler was a shield, too. Or just an average guy.

  “What about the homeless lady?” I asked him.

  “What about her? Did you get a good look at her?”

  Not really. She’d been on a gurney, covered with a blanket. I couldn’t have pegged either her height or her weight, and the homeless are notoriously difficult to pin ages on. Besides. My eyes had been on the cloudy black thing more than on her. I shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “We could canvas, try to find her, but with no name and no description other than the fact that she was brought in by EMTs yesterday, it’ll be nothing but a waste of time, and we both know it.”

  Time in which we could be watching the same repeaters doing the same shit, over and over and over. I pinched the bridge of my nose and reminded my internal faucet that I’d like the remote viewer watching me to eat shit and die.

  “What was that blood alcohol content again?” I asked Zig.

  He glanced at his pad. “Point one eight.”

  I gave a low whistle. No wonder she was on wheels. Walking’s a challenge at point one five. “What I don’t get is how she ever got hooked on drinking at all.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Cause and effect. Let’s say she’s got some mediumship talent. She senses something paranormal. She doesn’t like it. And every time she hits the bottle to try and get away from it, things only amp up. We might be stupid, but our bodies aren’t. Eventually she’d have to figure out that booze is a psyactive.”

  “No it’s not.”

  Zigler and I both stared at one other like we’d each sprouted a second head. “It is,” I said finally. Because I have such snappy comebacks.

  “You trained, what, fifteen years ago? You must be working off old research. If anything, alcohol has a neutral to negative effect on talent. The results are similar to motor skills tests. Alcohol eventually dampens down psychic talent, if you consume it at a high enough level.”

  Okay, if I kept on denying that booze was an antipsyactive, he’d only start rattling off actual figures: rates and percentages and all that meaningless BS.

  I let him think that he’d had the final say on the matter, and I stewed on it. And I really had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that at the moment, he reminded me an awful lot of Jacob, since that’d probably give him the willies. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and I made a beeline for the restroom.

  It was clean enough, and luckily, empty. I ducked into a stall and dialed my cell.

  “Sticks and Stones.”

  “Oh good, you’re there.”

  “Well, I tried setting out a tip jar and letting everyone use the honor system so they could shop here whether I was around or not, but that didn’t really work out so hot.”

  I sighed before I could stop myself. One of these days I’d be prepared for a conversation with Crash. I just wasn’t sure when that’d be. “Alcohol,” I said. “Is it a psyactive or not?”

  Silence on his end. Or, more accurately, breathing, and the sound of a radio playing in the background, and a cash register. I wondered if maybe we were experiencing some kind of cell phone weirdness where I could hear him, but not the other way around, when finally he answered. “So that’s what the other night was all about. Which effect were you aiming for? I thought you were asking me about uppers.”

  “I…was.”

  “So why’d you go all frat party on me?”

  “You told me to. You told me there was a bottle of vodka in your freezer.”

  “Well, yeah. Because you were freaking out. I thought a stiff shot or two would calm you down. I didn’t think you’d drink half the bottle and pass out in my bed.”

  I sighed again. Damn it. “Could we not go into details on the phone? Just answer me. Alcohol. Psyactive?”

  “No, not really. Not anywhere I’ve ever read.”

  But it was. It had to be. Lisa told me so, and Lisa’s always right. “Okay, thanks.” I hit disconnect before Crash could provide any additional detail about my proudest moments to the FPMP wiretappers. I called Lisa, figuring she might be willing to talk about it since it was more of a Psych-school question than a si-no, but I got her voice mail and hung up.

  Zig and I went back to see if the Haunted Partition was between patients yet. Unfortunately, Doctor Gillmore’s assessment about mid-week ER traffic didn’t pan out, and every time someone was wheeled out of there, the second it was wiped down, someone else was carted, carried or dragged in.

  “Take one more look,” Zig said. “The guy in there now, he’s just laying there. He won’t mind.”

  “He’s unconscious….”

  “Like I said.”

  I peeked through the curtain. It was a middle-aged Caucasian, hefty. Very still, but his heart rate monitor seemed to be beeping regularly. Gillmore was waiting for some test results, and meanwhile, she’d gone to check someone else. I had five minutes, maybe more. But I still didn’t care to go snooping around an unconscious guy. “With my luck, I’ll knock his IV out.”

  “There’s a clear path, right there. Come on. I really think there’s something about this partition.”

  The waiting room was packed, and it didn’t look like the exam areas would empty out anytime that day, so I figured I’d just go in t
here again, look around, and then Zig and I could try Plan B. Or whatever letter we were on at that point.

  I looked both ways to make sure there weren’t any medical personnel running toward the partition, and I slipped in. The fabric walls did nothing to block out the sounds of the room beyond. If anything, it was worse being inside the enclosure and hearing all the noise without being able to see the source. I reminded myself that when I heard ghostly voices, the sound wasn’t being processed by my actual ears, and I did my best to listen.

  Nothing.

  I squeezed past the heart monitor and the fabric wall, and slipped behind the exam table. It was a tight fit. A bigger guy wouldn’t have managed. Still nothing. I could tell Zig there was nothing to see.

  As I touched the exam table to avoid tripping over an extension cord, a chill raced up my arm. I touched the stainless steel surface to make sure the table wasn’t just positioned under a weird vent, but no. The table itself wasn’t cold. I looked around. Nothing. I squinted, hard. Still nothing. Damn it.

  I managed to ease out without pulling the guy’s plug or knocking anything down, and I told Zig, “Okay, maybe. But I’m not getting much. A cold spot.”

  “Really?” He seemed awfully pleased with himself. “You’re sure.”

  “I said there was a cold spot.”

  “No visual. No verbal.”

  Like I’d be able to hear squat with all the beeping and rattling and crying and screaming. “What do you want me to say?”

  Zig grabbed me by the arm—the first time he’d ever touched me—and hauled me over to the opening of the partition. “Show me where, exactly.”

  More touching from the other side, this time a shove from a no-nonsense nurse who barked, “Excuse me,” and then gave me a filthy look. She looked at a chart on the foot of the exam table, then shot a syringe into a shunt on the IV.

  I backed off. “We can’t do this while there’s a patient in there.”

  “We can’t afford not to do it.” Zig stepped in close and lowered his voice. “Forty percent. What if he dies because we didn’t get a better look at that cold spot?”

  “Not the stats again.”

  “Why can’t you see it? Does that mean it’s weak?”

  I shook my head.

  “Or maybe that it’s strong,” he said, too damn stubborn to give it a rest, “and it’s making itself invisible to you on purpose?”

  “It’s a cold spot, Zigler. How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

  A passing nurse glanced at us, then looked away quickly. Zig stared at me, pop-eyed and stunned. Once he got over his surprise, his expression hardened. “How you got certified at level five is beyond me.”

  -TWENTY FIVE-

  I left Zigler with his damned notepad and went in the hallway to cool off. The whole conversation about alcohol was still bugging me. I would’ve assumed Zig had read a bad article or had his wires crossed, what with all the papers and journals he tries to keep up with. But Crash was a Psych himself. And he’d actually agreed with a cop’s opinion for a change.

  I was wearing a groove in the linoleum by pacing back and forth in front of a water fountain when a hospital security guard approached. He was as tall as me, and a lot wider. Great. Now I’d have to deal with some flunked-out cop who thought he could prove himself by kicking a PsyCop out of the hospital. “What?” I snapped.

  He held out a cell phone. “Agent Dreyfuss wants to talk to you.”

  A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with cold spots. I’d been at LaSalle less than two weeks, and already the FPMP had maneuvered their own men into place. Suddenly I felt like a real moron for biting Zig’s head off. With the FPMP breathing down my neck, I needed all the friends I could get.

  I held the stranger’s phone to my ear, careful not to press it against my cheek. “Hello?”

  “Detective Bayne?” asked a calm, female voice. The Asian secretary, what was her name? Something really white. Lauren? Laura. “I’ll connect you to Agent Dreyfuss.”

  There were a couple of clicks, and then the man himself came on. “You’re still at LaSalle looking for hay, huh?” he asked me. “How’s that going for you?”

  “Fine,” I lied.

  “Good. Glad to hear it. How’s about an afternoon of coffee, conversation, and minimal chances of being stuck with a hepatitis-laced needle?”

  I’d rather take my chances with the needle stick. But Jacob was eager for me to talk to Doctor Chance, so I figured I should take Dreyfuss up on his offer—although I probably shouldn’t act so excited about it. “I dunno,” I said, and I wondered what I could ask him for that wouldn’t seem out of character. He’d materialized ten grand like it was nothing. More cash? It would make for a good escape fund. “I might need…cab fare.”

  “You drove with Zigler, I suppose. Well, I’m sure Ben would be happy to play chauffeur. Just say the word.”

  Oh, great. I’d just succeeded in setting myself up for a really awkward car ride. “I mean, I’m short on cash,” I clarified. So smooth.

  Dreyfuss thought about that for a second, then had a hearty laugh at my expense, which made me feel like even more of a dope. “Understood, Detective. Take care of some more of these cold spots, and there’ll be a nice envelope waiting for you at the end of your shift.”

  Ben creeped me out less than Officer “Andy,” but only slightly less. I searched for some details to remember about the turnoff to the FPMP underground lot, but there wasn’t much to take note of. I finally settled on a lamppost across the street, then glanced in the sideview mirror and counted back. Four from the last intersection. That would have to do.

  We went up the elevator, and Laura looked up from the big, curved desk. “Hello, Detective. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “I’m fine.” I wasn’t. Lately I’d been sweating at the drop of a hat, but the inside of my mouth was bone dry at the first sign of stress. I felt in my pocket for a piece of gum, and my hand brushed my holster through my sportcoat. I was carrying again, and no one seemed very worried about it. Which worried me.

  Laura showed me into the waiting room where Dreyfuss was hovering around the coffee service. “Having your house fumigated?” he asked me.

  My stomach clenched up. What was he talking about now? Bugs? I was so sick of games. “Not that I know of. Why—should I?”

  “Ha ha, that’s a good one. I was just curious where you spent the night. I suppose you’re welcome to sleep wherever you want. We’re all adults here. It’s a free country.”

  Was it? I jammed a stick of gum into my mouth and fought a wave of anxiety-induced nausea.

  “If you’re keen on a little vacation, I could set you up with a couple of first-class tickets. Where are you looking to go?”

  I wondered if the remote viewer cued him in to the “let’s go to Canada” conversation I’d had…or rather, that Jacob had with me, when his dick was stuffed down my throat. I chewed my gum harder, and noted that my jaw ached. It would give me great satisfaction to stick that gumwad under the rim of some expensive piece of furniture when Dreyfuss wasn’t looking, but that would only be inviting a clairsentient to come along and use it to get a bead on me.

  “No travel plans at the moment,” I said. “Y’know. New house and all.”

  “Well. You need anything, you know who to call.” He smiled. His teeth were very white, and very even, at odds with his shoulder-length hair that looked like it needed a good combing, and probably a trim. “You really wowed me on your last visit. I think it’s time I initiate you into the inner circle.”

  “How many babies will you need to sacrifice?”

  “You’re too much! C’mon, let’s mosey on into my office.”

  We went down a short hall and through another doorway. Whether this was actually his office, or whether it was some kind of test, there was really no way for me to know. It occurred to me, just as he pushed the door open, that I might find something behind it with Camp Hell associations. Something like an empty desk
. Or something like….

  Ghosts.

  Movement flickered on either side of me in my peripheral vision, and the cold felt like I had just opened the big beer cooler at the corner store. I expected my breath to puff out of me in a visible cloud. It didn’t, of course. But it felt like it should have.

  Dreyfuss said, “I thought it might take a few more visits to bring you around to my way of thinking. What was it that made you change your mind?”

  Crap. Why did he have to keep talking to me? The more he chatted, the more obvious it would be that I was uncomfortable—incredibly fucking uncomfortable. “Richie looked pretty good,” I said. Which was the truth. He did look good. He seemed genuinely happy, too. “I figured if he was okay with the FPMP, then I might want to reconsider. Not that I’ve made up my mind yet, or anything. Where is Richie, anyway? You didn’t send him swimming in the Chicago River in concrete shoes when I said I would come over today, did you?”

  “Richie’s fine, just fine. He’s working in the basement today. Should we go down and say hello, just to put your mind at ease?”

  The basement—did he engineer that on purpose? And how dangerous would it be for me to tell him to fuck off? “Uh, no. That’s fine. Just checking.”

  Dreyfuss walked over to his desk and bent across it. He pushed a button on his phone. “Laura? You want to dial Richie’s cell for me and put him on?”

  “Of course, Agent.”

  The thing flickering in the peripheral vision on my left resolved itself into a repeater getting shot. Bullets took him in the thigh, the hip, the shoulder. That last one spun him around, and he sprayed blood. I turned and tried to find somewhere else to look. I think I looked casual enough. Another repeater ducked a bullet only to catch one in the throat. Great. I really wanted to see that.

  My eyes went to Dreyfuss. He had on jeans and a T-shirt today, and a loose hooded sweatshirt, unzipped and hanging open. No gun. Not unless he had an ankle holster—and who wears ankle holsters anymore? They’re practically impossible to reach, and you’ll probably get kicked in the face while you’re trying.

  “Richie says there’s a cold spot in here. I have him bless the room every Monday, but according to him, they still stick around. Now, I’ve got no way of checking up on him, but it seems to me that if he was trying to make himself look good, he’d tell me the problem was all gone. What’s your take on that?”