Chapter Thirty
I WONDERED IF the office would notice if I tipped the guy off a bridge. It would be so easy. I’d just tell him it was the perfect spot to dump his pee….
“That’s a very interesting theory,” Evelyn said. She must’ve sensed my anger. “But until we can prove it—”
Boswell talked over her. “It’s the only thing that makes sense! What else could fly under the radar and slip away at a moment’s notice? What else could conveniently show up no matter how I hid my tracks? it makes total sense—it’s an inside job. Literally.”
Of all conversations for him to spy on, lucky me, the one he hears is the one where we find the repeater of a living person. “You’re not haunted by yourself.”
“You only say that because my ghost is outsmarting you.”
“No, I say that because it’s not how this works.”
“You just want to string me along. First comes the diagnosis. Then comes an offer I can’t refuse. Next thing you know, I’m strapped down to a lab table with electrodes coming out of my head.”
Why was it that this line of reasoning seemed perfectly logical in my own mind…and completely batshit coming from Boswell? The only real difference was that I never said any of it aloud.
He was still carrying on. “You can get rid of ghosts—you did it right in front of me in the van. So don’t go claiming that you can’t!”
“I could—if the situation wasn’t entirely different. I’m trying to help, here.”
“You want to help? Do me!”
“Look, the type of ghost I can get rid of is your freaking consciousness. Even if I could pull it out of you and send it packing, you’d be worse off than when you started.
Nothing but a shell.” An oblivious shell that went around doing whatever the hell it pleased…
and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered exactly how many mental problems could be chalked up to missing pieces.
“Besides, I spent what was left of my kit getting rid of the accident guy in the van.”
Boswell blinked. “Oh. Why didn’t you say so?” He closed the kitchen window. “Let’s go get more supplies.”
Finally. I couldn’t feel Sarah’s repeater, not like Evelyn could.
But I’d be glad enough to put some distance between me and it, regardless.
It’s a sorry day when I’m eager to get back to F-Pimp HQ.
We headed out to the sound of daytime TV in the hallway…
and a raised voice that carried through the stairwell.
One I recognized as the old man downstairs, Haskel.
“You need to leave right this second or—”
I cleared the stairwell door just in time to catch a certain mailman with his foot wedged in Haskel’s apartment door. The security chain was on. But Sledge was pumped up enough to flex it open.
“Is there a problem?” I asked in my threateningly bored cop-voice.
“He threatened to twist off Agatha’s head! Animal cruelty—that’s got to be a felony.”
Unfortunately, unless Sledge actually did anything, it was only harassment. Still, I flashed my federal ID—and maybe a glimpse of my shoulder holster in the process. “Is that correct, you’ve made a threat?”
With a lazy smirk, Sledge took a step back and raised his hands in mock surrender. “I was just kidding around.” Right. Like when you put Sarah through the closet door. “People can be so…sensitive.”
I said, “You don’t live here anymore, Sledge. Your presence could be construed as trespassing.”
He held up a coupon for a local sub shop with a smeared address. “I was making sure Mr. Haskel gets his mail.” Sure. “I guess no good deed goes unpunished.”
I gave him my blandest stare—this drives people nuts—but now that Evelyn had named his emotions for me, it was clear he was enjoying our little standoff.
When it was finally broken by the chime of a cuckoo clock somewhere in Haskel’s apartment, he said, “I’m late for the gym. So, can I leave, or am I under arrest?”
“You’re free to go. I suggest you do.”
He sauntered past with a smirk, which I met with a blank stare. The thought of snapping some cuffs on him made me nostalgic for my old job. Once he was gone, Evelyn let out a shudder and Haskel unchained his door. “He’ll be back,” he said. “He thinks I told you something…he knows it!”
“I’ll send someone to keep an eye out for him,” I told Haskel. F-Pimp was good at being nosy, and if he did come back for another try, a black-suited agent asking him a few random questions should be enough to prevent him from committing birdicide.
Boswell had been lurking on the stairwell in a beanie cap pulled down low and an oversized pair of dark sunglasses. “That was the infamous Z Sledge?” he asked. “Protein powder and supplement stacks—he’s exactly like I pictured him.”
Well, I’d give Boswell one thing, he was observant…maybe that was the silver lining of paranoia. Or maybe he wasn’t even paranoid. Just a realist. Either way, once I got him in the FPMP system, I’d be free to focus on Sarah.
We followed him back to HQ so he didn’t get cold feet.
The ride was mostly quiet, both Evelyn and me digesting what we’d seen…
though my stomach was still iffy from its latest go-round with the SPECs.
As we pulled into the underground ramp, Evelyn sighed and said, “That mailman will probably walk free, won’t he? ”
“It’s a possibility.”
Evelyn shook her head. “If I were in Sarah’s shoes, I don’t know if I’d want my fear back.”
Me neither. Though I supposed it was Sarah’s decision to make.
We headed up to processing with Boswell where he’d subject himself to several hours of admin and come out the other end a certified psych. Evelyn and I could’ve watched the ordeal through a one-way mirror, but I felt like I owed it to the guy to stay in plain sight.
“Are you okay?” Evelyn whispered as a friendly technician ushered him to his seat.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Let’s just say I’m no fan of psychic testing.” My own intake had been innocuous enough—the specific word I’d used at the time was lame—but once I was firmly in Camp Hell’s clutches, the experiments took a darker turn.
“Just breathe,” Evelyn murmured.
Right.
The tech was an earnest young woman in a lab coat with a badge announcing her as NP—non-psychic.
It made sense since strong psychs can transmit as well as receive, and you wouldn’t want to contaminate your readings.
“We’ll start with some baseline vitals,” she said pleasantly, and held up a blood pressure cuff.
Boswell eyed it skeptically. “I refuse to consent without a Faraday cage.”
The tech blinked. “I don’t…know what that is.”
Boswell sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get it over with.”
Evelyn leaned in and explained, “Taking a baseline is an important first step in any science. We need a clean ‘before’ for the ‘after’ to mean anything.”
I nodded. It made sense. Though Boswell didn’t.
It was a struggle. But eventually the tech got her reading. And then one of our most notorious hard-hitters breezed in.
Dr. Santiago was a very outgoing, very expressive, and very busty psychiatrist. She was also very telepathic.
I noted her name tag with her psych level was innocuously half-hidden behind her lapel…
with ample cleavage mere inches away, pretty much ensuring no straight man would bother worrying about her badge with her gazongas right there for the ogling.
“Welcome to the FPMP,” she said grandly. “Don’t worry about these tests, they’re just a…how you call it, formality?”
Of course, she knew the word just fine. Rumor had it she spoke four languages.
But her persona was carefully honed to let folks feel superior so she could get under their guard using any means necessary.
Boswell’s normal state of being was flustered, though, so I couldn’t tell if she was making any headway.
Santiago planted herself across the table from Boswell, picked up a set of cards, and shuffled them like a blackjack dealer.
No aces here, though. The faces were circles of simple colors—red, blue, yellow.
She dealt, and Boswell guessed. There were hits—with only three colors, there was a good enough chance of guessing right—and there were misses.
And no doubt the test results would go on Boswell’s record.
But given that Santiago was the one administering the test, I doubted they were testing him for any colors.
Did it beat being pumped full of psyactives and locked in a room with a dead woman’s wig? I dunno. At least at Camp Hell, I knew when something was nefarious.
“I’m sure he’s doing fine,” Evelyn told me. Which just goes to show how useless empathy can be. Yeah, I was nervous. Not for Boswell’s sake—but for mine.
It took the rest of the afternoon to walk Boswell through his initial psych screening.
He did a little bit of everything, but no single test took all that long.
If he were here because we thought he had a talent like telepathy or clairvoyance, this would just be the start of it all.
He’d be guessing cards till they were coming out of his ears.
But mediumship is…special.
And I’d already given him a grade. Four—one step lower than my official five. High? Yeah, the highest rating I’d ever doled out. This guy not only saw ghosts, he saw repeaters. My hope was that with the right guidance—or the right meds—he could stop seeing surveillance in his Cheerios.
“Okey dokey!” Santiago said brightly. “Go sign some papers with Janet and you are all done.”
“That’s it?” Boswell looked askance at the carafe on the table. “Aren’t you gonna offer me any refreshments?”
Santiago glanced at the clock. It was late. “Cafeteria is closed—but we can find you something.”
Grudgingly, Boswell followed Janet out while Santiago smiled vapidly. As soon as the door shut behind him, her shoulders sagged. “Ai! Talk about annoying. He just kept repeating numbers in his head, over and over and over. Eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine.”
Great, now I’d have ’em stuck in my brain, too. Presumably Santiago was spared the earworm as she was too young to get the reference. “So, he’s paranoid?” I asked.
“It wasn’t a psychiatric screening.” She gave an eloquent shrug. “The only conclusion I make is that he thought his mind was being read.”
Because…it was.
“Bring him back tomorrow and I will try to get him into therapy.”
“Try?”
“Well, I can not force him, can I?”
Wrist restraints sprang to mind…and then I berated myself for thinking that in front of a telepath. And then I was horrified by what else I might start imagining. Not that I’ve ever personally been into bondage. But we did have a DVD that featured a set of fuzzy handcuffs.
I bid everyone goodnight and headed down to the garage—and once there, I saw Jacob’s car was gone.
So much for carpooling. I pulled up a rideshare app—cripes, did every single app on my phone really need to update every single day?
—and I fantasized about taking a long, hot shower and being free from Sledge, and Boswell, and whatever Sarah had left behind at the haunted apartment.
Just me…and Jacob.
Who’d totally missed out on all the good stuff. I was glad he hadn’t seen me toss my cookies, though. He’s overprotective. It’s simply his nature. He doesn’t give me credit for being fully aware of my own limits, and sometimes, it’s easier to fly solo than to deal with his concern.
I was jabbing at my download button, trying to make it step up the pace, when a certain van pulled up and the passenger window rolled down. “That little performance was enlightening!” Boswell called across the dash.
I looked up and raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Now I know exactly how I’ll rid myself of this ghost.”
Normally, I’d chalk up his assertion to more incoherent ramblings.
But I’d just rated the guy a fourth level medium…
and the possibility that, with some training, he could exorcise a piece of himself was disturbingly real.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty,” I said, as casually as I could.
“It’s a major pain in the ass when an exorcism backfires. ”
“Then I’ll just need to be careful.”
Damn it. “Don’t go off and do anything stupid.”
Affronted, Boswell said, “I am the epitome of caution!”
“But you’re venturing into new territory without a roadmap. At least wait until you have the lay of the land.” And until Dr. Santiago could stabilize whatever else was misfiring in his brain.
It was a good argument, but Boswell’s wheels were turning.
He was about to take the idea of self-exorcism and run with it—right off a cliff.
I said, “Let’s grab some dinner and discuss this.
My husband knows more about psychic shielding than anyone.
” I didn’t mention that for Jacob, it was innate.
But if I couldn’t make Boswell see reason, maybe Jacob could.
“I suppose I am a bit peckish.”
Bingo. I started thumbing out a text: Meet me at Domingo’s….
“But if you broadcast my location, all deals are off.”
“Fine. No names.” I did want to give Jacob some heads-up. I’m bringing our friend.
A single word reply. Can’t.
Huh. Everything ok?
After a brief pause, a thumbs-up emoji appeared.
“Is he being held for ransom, or is he always that vague?”
“Stop reading over my shoulder,” I snapped, but the damage was done. Because Jacob was never vague. And now I had an image of him duct taped to a chair while a guy in a ski mask sent me emojis.
Or worse…a guy in a black suit from National who was loading him into an unmarked van.
If Boswell insisted on exorcising himself, I decided, it wasn’t my problem. “Forget about dinner,” I said, “I gotta get home.”
I turned back to my phone. Cabs were sparse this far from the Loop. The nearest Uber was 20 minutes out. And it would take me at least that long to sign out a company car.
“You need a ride?” Boswell asked.
And so we embarked on yet another trip in the pee-filled van.