Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel

by Alex Hughes

  “How are you doing?” I asked from the cubicle entrance.

  She grunted and continued keying through line after line of computer text. She didn’t turn around, but sadness and shame leaked out of her in a steady stream.

  “I packed enough for a week, so I don’t need to get anything else after work,” I said, probably too casually. “Don’t leave without me, okay?”

  Her fingers paused on the keys for a long moment. “Still not leaving me?” Even her voice sounded like the weight of the world was sitting on her chest.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  After another long moment, her fingers started up again. “I’ll be working late tonight.”

  “Okay.” I took a long, deep breath of relief. “That’s fine.”

  I spent the next few hours back in the interview rooms, my head finally in the game. Perp after stupid predictable perp, all convinced they were smart enough to fool the system, none of them succeeding. When the last one was done and I had a moment to look up, it was nine thirty.

  I put things away, grabbed some stuff, and went to find Cherabino. She was typing away furiously, disturbing images flashing on the screen one after another. I announced myself, but she didn’t look up.

  I stood behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. “Cherabino.”

  She looked up. “What?”

  I pretended not to see the dried tear tracks on her face. “It’s half past nine and time to go.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ve got to do this.”

  I reached over her and hit the save button. Then I hit the power button, turning the whole complexity completely off.

  She glared at me as the screen cut off. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s not going to get done tonight, and you’ll do better with some rest.” I tried to be firm without giving away the fact she looked like shit.

  For one long moment she looked up at me, the anger turning vulnerable, and not about anger at all.

  I broke the moment by handing her her favorite jacket. “It’s time to go.”

  CHAPTER 20

  She handed me the keys. After a moment, I took them, not saying anything, and started the drive to her house. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted me behind the wheel; I drove carefully and stuck to ground-level roads, determined not to mess this up. Next to me in the passenger seat, Cherabino was more and more quiet as her mind screamed louder and louder. I was trying hard to stay in my own head, thank you very much, so I couldn’t see any of her thoughts exactly, just the wake they made as they swam around her head.

  She flashed angry and sad, angry, shameful, and sad over and over again, to the point where sitting in the same car with her—and having her mind so loud to me without any good reason—was turning torturous.

  I cut the car off and got out as quickly as I could. Then, steeling myself, I turned back and opened her door for her. She got out and went into the house, putting one step in front of the other while she wrestled with something I couldn’t see.

  She did stop to pick up the newspaper from her front doorstep, which I took as a good sign. Inside, she paused as I closed the door. The sadness—now pure sadness—intensified.

  “Why don’t you take a shower? You might feel better,” I suggested, as much to get her out of the immediate area as anything else. I’d talk to Paulsen in the morning, call Kara, make a fuss. Tonight I needed to calm down. Cherabino was upset enough for both of us.

  “I can put a couple TV dinners in to cook,” I offered. That was about the limit of my domesticity, but I’d do it, and gladly, if she’d take the damn sadness away from me. I was starting to want to cry again, and damn it, men don’t cry. We just don’t.

  She nodded, and I could feel the decision solidify through the pain. And she walked away, away to the back of the house, and the sadness faded until I could think again.

  I heated up two dinners from the freezer—both bought at my insistence, since she apparently wasn’t raised to use the microwave at all—and brought them back into the living room. I was proud of myself; I even remembered the place mat things so her fancy coffee table wouldn’t get scratched. And forks. And water—ice water—because she said it was healthier. I figured we’d do a proper TV dinner night, veg out in front of stupid television and eat, and later maybe she would fall asleep in my arms again.

  I was seated and all ready to go when she emerged from the bedroom. Wearing a thin black robe. Which didn’t hide much. I was brought back to myself only by the desperate, determined pain coming off her in waves.

  I pulled my eyes back to the coffee table by force of will alone. “Um, I don’t—”

  “Shut up,” she said, moving forward all at once. Somehow she ended up straddling my lap, her nose to mine. Then she kissed me. She kissed me, aggressively, forcefully, desperately—and suddenly I was right there with her; I wound my hands through her hair and kissed her back with years of repressed desire. With every contact of skin to skin, my mind overlapped a little more with hers, and I could feel her desperation. And I was swept away with it, with how good she felt, the silky texture of the robe, the soft firmness of her skin under it.

  I tumbled her back on the couch, changing positions to me on top, and her desire skyrocketed. I could feel it, and as I kissed a long trail down her neck…I let go of the last of my barriers, intending to make this sweeter for both of us—and stopped cold. It wasn’t my face she saw in her mind. It was some blond man’s. Peter, she thought.

  “Hold on.” I stopped completely and forced her face to tilt up to look at me, trying to make her see me.

  But she used some judo move to flip me over onto the floor, just missing the coffee table—it was unexpected and hurt, bad—only she ended up on top of me. In exactly the right places, groin to groin; okay, I could work with this, the back of my head said. I could definitely work with this, with her hips moving exactly like that….

  I moved my hands up to bracket her arms, and the skin-to-skin contact put me back in her mind. I hadn’t pulled away. I hadn’t closed down.

  Her shame from the station today clawed at her, and the shame mixed with her fear, her very real fear that she would be alone forever, that Peter was gone and she’d never find anyone else like him, that this sex would be the only sex she’d get for years, that she needed (she needed Peter, but he wasn’t here; he’d never be here) and I felt so good, and the shame (how could he say that? how in hell could he say that? it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true!) and (didn’t Peter love her anymore? God, she missed him, she missed him!) the feel of my body under hers, and some very explicit images….

  She leaned in for a very hot kiss, flavored with the images, and then her shame and the desperation rode her again, and I pulled away. I looked into her eyes, seeing the very face of my fantasy, and cursed myself for a fool. Because I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let her do this, not like this, not out of shame and guilt and desperation. Not when it wasn’t, wasn’t anything to do with me. When she’d regret it with every ounce of her later. I—I just, too much, couldn’t do that to her. Wouldn’t. Not to her.

  And I wouldn’t do it to me, not again, not fuse myself even short term to somebody who didn’t want me, who’d cry and scream and vomit and try to get away, get me out of her head at any cost—I wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t worth it.

  I pushed Cherabino off, not gentle, because I couldn’t be gentle, not then, and her elbow hit the coffee table with a crack. I could feel the pain racket up my own arm like an ice bath, and I saw myself reflected in her eyes.

  “What in the hell?”

  I scooted back from beneath her and set her aside. I put at least three feet between us, and tried to breathe.

  She just stared at me, like she didn’t understand, as something lacy peered out over the top of the half-undone robe. I cursed myself as a fool a hundred times, but my resolve didn’t change. I shook my head, and tried to find a sitting position on the floor that approached comfort.


  “No,” I said. “Not like this.”

  I could feel the blow as my rejection hit her like a slap in the face. Her jaw set then, and she stood up. Her anger swelled as she walked past me into the bedroom until it was louder than the slamming door. And for the next hour, I listened to her mind as the rage cooled, and solidified, as her tears dried and she decided she would hate me until the sun exploded.

  When she made that decision, I got up from the floor, pieced together my mental walls, and made a phone call. Then I walked out the front door.

  I was halfway down the road to the bus stop before Bellury caught up with me. I cursed him for showing up so quickly, I cursed myself for calling him, and then I cursed some more, for the drug I couldn’t have. But, finally, I got in the car.

  “Bad night, huh?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. Finally he turned on the radio, quiet sad music filling the car.

  It was a long, long ride.

  CHAPTER 21

  Swartz was early, with a pot of coffee already set out in front of him, two cups prepared. Mine would be two degrees shy of cold by now, which would make it taste as good as it was going to. Bellury had called him late last night, despite my protests, and somehow Swartz had talked me into coffee and the early-morning meeting at the Y. I was here. Far too early. And so was he. But I wasn’t happy about it.

  I slid into the booth across from him and grabbed for the coffee. My shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world were crushing me down. Cherabino hated me. She hated me. I had no idea where to go from here. No idea where to start.

  Swartz let me sit for about thirty seconds before grilling me. “So, what are you grateful for this week?”

  “Puppies. Sunshine. Rainbows.” I gulped down the remainder of the cup of licorice coffee and set it down like a shot glass. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and settled back in the booth. “It’s not been a good week.”

  Swartz looked at me with the same expression as an entomologist with a new variety of creepy-crawly—interested, fascinated, but also disgusted. Finally he said, “You’ve already used puppies. You’ll have to come up with something else.”

  I put my head in my hands and thought. The kiss with Cherabino flashed into my head with the force of a freight train. It was hot. But I couldn’t…. I actually wasn’t grateful at all, because now she hated me, I couldn’t even get my drug, and my life sucked. “Gummi worms,” I finally spat out. I don’t think I’d used gummi worms yet.

  “Gummi worms?” Swartz said, condemnation flooding his voice.

  I looked up. “Yes, gummi worms. They jiggle. They’re sticky, and they’re fun to eat. I like gummi worms. I guess I’m grateful for gummi worms.” I paused. “Good enough?”

  Swartz sipped from his cup. “It will have to be. You don’t have a grateful bone in your body today, boy, do you?”

  I leaned forward to pour more awful coffee for myself, trying to decide how offended I could really afford to be. About the time I’d decided, not really, he moved on to the question I’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask.

  “How are you?”

  I knew if I gave him an obvious answer he’d be pissed. I leaned back in the booth, my arms going to both sides in an effort not to look any more defensive than I could help. “I’m crappy. How are you?”

  “Doing better. Only one craving this week, hardly a hiccup. Even giving up smoking hasn’t been that big of a thing. Now, you.”

  I snorted. “I’ll never give up smoking. Not in a hundred thousand years.”

  Swartz gave me a look.

  I gave up and crossed my arms. “Cherabino and I are fighting. There’s a trail of dead bodies all over the city that may or may not belong to some guy who’s going to attack us in a warehouse in a week or so—a guy we can’t find—and Paulsen has cut me out of the conversation with the Guild. Me! When I was the only reason they’d talk to the police in the first place. I choked through talking to Kara…for what? Nobody’s listening to me!”

  “We’ll get back to Paulsen. Why are you fighting with Cherabino?” Swartz took another sip of the coffee.

  “She’s fighting with me!”

  “What did you do?”

  I picked the cup up and put it down several times. He kept looking at me, calmly, until I had to tell him the truth, the whole truth, just to get that patient, knowing look out of his eyes.

  “She threw herself at me last night,” I admitted to the cup. “Very forcefully. And imbecile that I am, I turned her down. Flat. What an idiot, right—Cherabino, stacked up to here—” Swartz cut me off with a gesture. I took a deep breath and finally looked up. “It wasn’t me. She didn’t even want just me. She wanted the anger to stop, for her husband not to be dead, she wanted a hundred things, and, fucking a’, not a single one of those was me and you can’t lie to a telepath. Not like that.” I glared at him. “Frankly it’s a real wilter.”

  Swartz sat back, for all the world looking like a proud papa trying not to smile.

  “It’s not funny, okay?” I said, about ready to hit him or attack him with an imaginary spider or something, anything, to get the smirk off his face.

  The owner of the coffee bar arrived just then, with another huge ugly pot of the nasty licorice. He set it down in front of us without commenting on anything he’d overheard; we’d been meeting here too long for him to blink at anything I had to say. “Enjoy,” he commanded, then left, heading back to the empty bar.

  I took a deep breath and looked up, meeting Swartz’s eyes directly. “Look. You’re going to say something, right? So say it.”

  He leaned forward, putting his hand on top of mine. “I’m proud of you.”

  I yanked my hand back like it was on fire. “What? What in the hell right do you have to say that to me?”

  “You had integrity,” Swartz said. “You didn’t let a woman you respect turn you into an object. You made her respect you. Even though your balls were screaming at you to do a horizontal limbo. You said no. That makes you a man.”

  “But—”

  Swartz looked me in the eye. “I’m not saying in different circumstances you should do the same thing. I’m just saying, you did good. Here. Now, you drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.”

  And, in the next half hour, as we talked about the deal with Paulsen and how I could fight for my respect back, I slowly felt something inside me relax a little. Swartz said I did good. And he sounded like he’d meant it.

  I wondered how I could get him to keep meaning it. And I wondered how in hell I was going to keep Cherabino safe from Bradley with her hating me so badly I couldn’t get near her.

  That morning I sat at the bus stop for an endless time, the bus late and getting later. I used the pay phone to call the department and let them know I was going to be late.

  “There’s a Kara on the other line,” Bellury said. “Claims she needs to talk to you.”

  I made a disgusted sound and the defeated commuters around me looked up, going back to their magazines when I shot them a look. I didn’t think they knew I was a telepath, or they would have been a lot more hostile.

  “Go ahead and connect us,” I told Bellury. A couple clicks came over the line.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “It’s Kara.”

  “Oh,” I said eloquently.

  A long, awkward pause.

  Kara spoke first, with a brash tone that grated on my nerves. “I’m calling for two reasons. One, to let you know we still haven’t found Bradley. We will tear this city apart on our end, but any help you can give us is appreciated. I’ve gotten permission to do whatever it takes, which includes waving jurisdiction. If you need something…”

  I tightened my grip on the metal pay phone divider. Finally. “I need the full list of teleporters/telepaths. Also the list of telepaths who might also have any talent—any talent at all—for telekinesis,” I told her.

  The old man sitting on the hard bus stop gave me a look and moved to the opposite end. I smiled at him br
oadly. Nothing here to see but us telepaths. Now he was watching me like he thought I was going to steal his wallet. Great. I turned my back.

  On the phone, Kara paused. “Why?”

  “Do I have to explain everything? There’s no hard proof against Bradley for anything right now, up to possibly an assault on me if they allow the vision as evidence—unlikely. I need to be able to exclude the other possibilities by hand if we’re going to get any traction. Him running looks suspicious—but I want him going down for murder, not evasion, when he’s caught. I want to be able to prove it, Kara. Work with me here.”

  “Why telekinesis?”

  “Somebody held me down in the vision using it. Bradley was right in front of me, but there’s no guarantee it was him actually using it, I suppose. Neil’s throat was crushed. Maybe it was a heavy brick, but I don’t think so. If we can find another associate who’ll talk, another connection, maybe we can find Bradley. Maybe we can put the son of a bitch away for good.”

  She sighed. “If you swear to me the list will stay in your department and not go anywhere else—even to the water cooler—I’ll courier it to DeKalb police headquarters this morning.” Hell of a lot of politics to get that released to an ex-Guild guy; Kara must be more of a heavyweight than I’d realized. And she was actually throwing that weight around for me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It will stay quiet—Homicide and my boss only.”

  “You don’t work for Homicide?”

  “Long story. You said there was something else?”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “Yes. I thought you would want to know I set the wheels in motion long before your lieutenant made the call to my boss. She’s started a great deal of political pressure on the higher-ups, and I’m getting caught in the middle. I would appreciate it if you would actually trust me going forward—I can take care of it my own—”

  “Look, Kara, not my—”

  “And the least your lieutenant could have done is talk to me herself before she started going up the line. I could have done a lot more good for you, but you had to go and—”