Chapter Twenty-Seven
AS BOSWELL GAPED in disbelief, Sarah snapped open her seatbelt and hopped out of the rocking van with a moaning Posy Simon cradled against her belly. “Wait,” I said, “you have no car, no phone, no nothing. Where will you go?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Sarah might have claimed she didn’t know what happened in that bedroom, but she knew Sledge better than anyone. She was the key to IDing that ghost—I was sure of it. And once she was in the wind, good luck finding her again. “Listen, I can help you.”
All that earned me was a scoffing noise as she strode off the grassy shoulder and onto the sidewalk, heading for Belmont.
I had a longer stride. Plus I wasn’t wrangling a freaked-out cat.
I could have told her I wanted Sledge put away just as much as she did.
That without her testimony, he could very well walk, since defense attorneys were eager to get any psychic evidence thrown out.
I could have appealed to her sense of duty, or security, or even revenge.
But what came out of my mouth was, “I can get you a clean change of clothes.”
And surprisingly enough, it stopped Sarah in her tracks. “Fine. But keep your stinky perfume to yourself.”
Finally—Sarah was on board.
Unfortunately, Boswell wasn’t.
We were only a few dozen yards away, but by time we got back to the van, Boswell was gone. And he’d left in a hurry, with the driver side door open. “He can’t have gotten far,” I said, as curious drivers slowed to gawk from the exit ramp.
Sarah shrugged. “Just leave him and call an Uber.”
It was tempting. But I couldn’t deny that Boswell was not just any medium, but a high-level talent. He was my responsibility. Like it or not. “I’m not leaving without Boswell.”
With an eye-roll, Sarah climbed into the van. Her cat made a plaintive sound.
I slid into the driver’s seat and looked down at the dash.
All the numbers were covered in black electrical tape.
Because, of course they were. But the keys were still in the ignition and the automatic transmission was easy enough to shove into gear—easier than slamming it into neutral through a vengeful ghost, anyhow.
I rolled us off the shoulder and we did a slow circuit of the block.
I’d thought Boswell had given us the slip, but Sarah spotted him by an overpass…
well, she spotted his shoes, but thankfully he hadn’t shed them in some paranoid attempt at avoiding tracking, and they were still attached.
He was wedged behind a utility box covered in graffiti, muttering to himself. The air reeked of hot asphalt and exhaust.
“Come on out,” I said. “You’ll end up with tetanus before you shake your surveillance.”
“Who cares about surveillance when my van is haunted?”
“Your van’s not haunted. It just rolled through the wrong place at the wrong time. And we took care of the situation. You felt it—I know you did. The spirit’s gone. The van is clean.”
Clean-ish, anyhow.
Boswell was as freaked out as anyone in their right mind would be (oddly enough, though, Sarah wasn’t) but he couldn’t deny that we’d set things right.
They say it’s hard to prove the absence of something, but when a haunting is put to rest, a certain quiet equilibrium takes its place.
It’s as much thanks as I can hope for sometimes. And I never take it for granted.
Boswell must’ve sensed it too—the quiet after the storm. That’s what I was telling myself. But when I herded him toward the van, he stopped dead in his tracks, pointed to Sarah, and said, “I’m not going anywhere with her! My van was never haunted before—not until she got in!”
“Your van’s not— Look, you drove through a ghost, okay? Nothing to do with Sarah.”
Boswell eyed me like I was utterly stupid. “How could it not be? She’s the ghost in the bedroom.”
Sarah rolled down the window and called over, “What’s the holdup?”
“She’s obviously not the ghost,” I said. “She’s still alive.”
“You keep on telling yourself that,” Boswell said. “But I know what I know. Oh, I’m used to people writing off what I say. But then you find out they are putting tracking devices in cereal boxes. And they are recording heartbeats through your smart watch. And the FPMP is real.”
Wait, there were tracking devices in cereal boxes? Never mind.
“I’m not going anywhere with that woman—alive, or dead.” Boswell turned on his heel, fully intending to walk away. He was so convinced of his own delusions that he was willing to shed the van he lived in, along with everything he owned, to get away from Sarah.
Exactly like she was doing to stay one step ahead of Sledge. You would think there’d be some common ground between the two of them. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t see it.
I was at a crossroads. Do my job—do what no one had ever done for me, bring Boswell in and get him the support he clearly needed. Or stick with Sarah, and pay for it later.
Well…it wouldn’t be the first black mark on my permanent record. Plus, HQ knew how to find Boswell’s van. I’d bring him in later.
As Boswell sped off in his van without a backward glance, I called for backup, and soon a standard F-Pimp Lexus pulled up.
I’d been expecting a random driver, and was surprised to see Jacob, and Evelyn, too.
Apparently, Jacob was still hoping to test drive her tech.
Hopefully she’d honored my request to fend him off…
although I knew how persuasive Jacob could be. If by persuasive, you mean relentless.
This was good, though. Because time was running out for me, and pretty soon the apartment would be an official crime scene.
I had to get back there myself for one more look, but I wouldn’t trust any random driver with Sarah.
She was too skittish, too slick. Between Jacob’s laser focus and Evelyn’s empathy, though, I knew Sarah was in capable hands.
“Listen to me,” I told Sarah, “that’s not just another agent in that car—it’s my husband. And he is the smartest, most capable guy I know. If anyone can keep you safe from Sledge, it’s him.”
When I told Jacob I was gonna Uber back to grab the car I’d left behind at the apartment, he locked eyes with me, and there was the smallest of pauses before he said, “Okay. I’ll see you at the office.”
He knew it wasn’t about the car—anyone could go grab it—but he trusted me enough to play along. Even if he didn’t know the details.
And then Evelyn scrambled out and said, “I’ll ride with Vic.”
“That’s okay,” I said, “I got this.”
“But I’m really allergic to cats.”
So was I, but Posy Simon was well-contained.
More likely the smell of cat pee didn’t appeal.
Jacob looked puzzled by Evelyn jumping ship, but I wasn’t gonna make a whole thing of it and give Sarah any reason to take off.
“Get Sarah situated,” I told him as I ordered the Uber. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Jacob hated not being in on the plan. But he had my back, and with a curt nod—and maybe an overlong eye-lock—he relented and whisked Sarah off to the FPMP.
As the ubiquitous black sedan disappeared into traffic, Evelyn let out a long, slow breath as she tapped frantically at the inside of her own wrist. “Psychopaths are exhausting.”
“Sarah’s a psychopath?”
Evelyn flushed. “Oh, sorry, I….” A sheepish shrug. “Obviously, that’s not a clinical diagnosis.”
“But she seemed so normal. In her old pictures, at least.”
Evelyn studied me for a long moment, weighing her words. “Well, a psychopath won’t go walking around with a sign that says, Look at me, I’m dead inside. Lots of them are plenty smart, and they learn how to mimic normal behavior early on. They can even be surprisingly charming.”
Hard to picture Sarah charming anyone. Though she had managed to charm Sledge. Lucky her.
Evelyn said, “That’s what I meant by masking, and it’s just what it sounds like. A veneer hiding a true self that’s only concerned with the person’s own wants and needs, with no regard for anyone else.”
I supposed that might explain Sarah’s flatness. If she wasn’t actively performing, trying to figure out what the social situation called for, she’d default to a pretty minimal state.
“What you’d really need to watch out for is jealousy,” Evelyn said.
So. A psychopath and a sadist walk into a bar…and pick up an unsuspecting woman, take her home and kill her? Then they part ways…and the psycho comes back for her cat? No doubt I’d seen weirder things. But that scenario seemed pretty far-fetched.
The Uber was quiet, save the driver chattering on about the upcoming game and listing a bunch of random players on his fantasy football team. He let us off by the government-issued black sedan. But I made no move to climb in. “You want to take another look at the apartment,” Evelyn guessed.
“I’m that obvious?”
“It just makes logical sense.”
Maybe so, or maybe I was an open book. I didn’t generally analyze how any given situation made me feel.
If pressed, I’d say I felt confused, worried, and maybe a little bit desperate.
“My gut is telling me Sledge is guilty. But since the repeater couldn’t tell me one way or the other, I have no way of proving it. ”
“And repeaters can’t talk?”
“Sometimes they do, but they’re nothing more than a broken record. Even if I could hear this one…she’s just screaming.”
Evelyn shuddered.
I glared in the general direction of the courtyard. “It’ll be out of my hands soon enough. Once Chicago’s Finest show up—”
“Then let’s grab one more look,” Evelyn said decisively. “Because that way you can at least know you’ve done all you could.”
We headed up to the apartment. No cops—yet. But my Florida Water was empty and my salt was mixed with dried catnip, scattered on the floor.
“Do you see something?”
I shook my head.
“Oh. You felt…apprehensive.”
I’ve always been one to keep my thoughts to myself, and hide them behind a generic scowl.
But I’d known more than my share of empaths—it’s the most common psychic talent—and I appreciated that Evelyn was willing to tell me what she was picking up instead of silently judging me for it.
“It’s frustrating, is all. There was a time when I was wading through so many ghosts, I could barely scrape ‘em off the bottom of my shoe. But then I need to see one….” I shook my head.
“I feel pissy with Jacob for not being Carl. For not packing my bag, filling out my report, wiping my ass. But even with all the preparation in the world, I’d probably still come up blank. ”
“And now, even Mood Blaster has let you down,” she said somberly.
“It’s just a kid’s game,” I said, though of course, both of us knew that hardly did it justice.
“I know my SPECs didn’t do much for you last time.” Evelyn reached into her purse and pulled out the simple black case. “But maybe we can try them again.”
Back at the hotel, there’d been nothing for them to help with.
But there was definitely something in the apartment bedroom.
As much as I wanted to discount Boswell and second-guess myself, the luminol proved it.
I was hesitant to use any tech by National—especially after I’d made Jacob promise he wouldn’t.
But my mediumship was no big secret. And while Evelyn might be privy to my feelings, I could be vague about anything I “sensed” through the SPEC’s lenses.
I slipped them on. Slightly heavy at first, but easy to adjust to, just like before.
I ran a finger along the rim and came to the small button, then toggled it on.
I must’ve been steeled for a jump-scare involving a screaming murder victim covered in blood.
But there was nothing but the closet door.
“I made some tweaks based on your feedback,” Evelyn said. “You normally run at ten hertz. I blended in a theta component at about 6.8–7 Hz—just enough under-alpha to widen your pickup without making you feel loopy. Activate it with another tap whenever you’re ready.”
I wasn’t expecting much. But when I tapped the button, the SPECs went from unobtrusive to annoying. Nothing obvious, but instead of a binaural pulse I couldn’t actively hear, I now picked up a subtle whine, one that was somehow pitched both high and low. This must be what tinnitus felt like.
The whine wasn’t even loud, but it was insistent, like a mosquito I couldn’t swat.
I let a breath out slow. Disappointed, sure, but mostly in myself for expecting the tech to make the hard part easy.
I should’ve known better. I did know better.
Still, I’d wanted the SPECs to snap the repeater into focus and give me something I could damn well use.
The pitch crawled from my ears into my balance, tilting the room by a degree or two. Not dizzy, just off—like I’d stood up too fast and forgot the part where blood follows. I blinked hard and planted both feet wider on the salt, like that could pin me to the floorboards.
And then a woman smacked into the wall beside me, howled a silent scream, and dove through the closed closet door. She didn’t make a sound, but I’d seen her clear as day. And even though her face was covered in blood, I’d know it anywhere.
It was definitely Sarah.