As attractive as ruining the arrogant shrink was, it wouldn’t do anything to solve Mark Lupoldi’s murder or stop Celia, no matter how much I’d like to see Tuckman hoisted by his own petard. But perhaps I could use all that as leverage. . . . If he shut the project down, Celia might dissipate before more damage was done, though I didn’t have much hope on that score; this poltergeist defied so many of the Philip experiment’s conclusions and theories and I wasn’t certain what would happen, but I was sure that the project had to end. Now I just had to find Tuckman and push him to do it.
I poked about some more, made more calls, and checked a lot of papers; then I went looking for Gartner Tuckman in earnest.
It took several hours to track Tuckman to a regional psychological association dinner in a downtown hotel. They were still in the cocktails and chitchat phase of the meal, so I had some chance of getting Tuckman—who had turned off his cell phone—into a discreet corner for our conversation. I had a little trouble with the dining room staff, but I raised a ruckus until one of the organizers deigned to take my card in to Tuckman and ask him to see me. I cooled my heels in the lobby for about fifteen minutes before Tuckman came out.
He was wearing a suit and looking spiffy and a little pissed off. I made him come to me. When he stopped and glared at me I flicked up the folder full of reports I’d typed, holding it between us where he couldn’t ignore it. He gave it a disdainful glance, then transferred the look to me.
“What did you call me out here for?” he demanded.
I felt cold with my disgust. “The sooner I give you this, the sooner I’m shut of you,” I replied. “You lied to me, Tuckman. I thought I’d been pretty clear about the fact that I don’t like to be made a scapegoat or played for a sucker.”
“I have no idea what—”
“Save it. You don’t have a saboteur, you never did, and you know it. You used the heightened phenomena as an excuse to call me in and create cover for your financial misconduct and the way you’ve lied about your experimental goals.”
“We do have a saboteur!”
I was very calm on the outside. If I bit off my words a little, it was only to stop myself from screaming at him. “No, you don’t. The people with the opportunity don’t have the skills or the motive. Those with the skills and motive don’t have the opportunity. Your own protocols guaranteed that and your recordings prove it. I have checked and double-checked every physical possibility and there is none. Your phenomena are real. What’s faked is your books, so you don’t want the grant committee breathing down your neck and checking the financial statements too closely. Reviews are, what, next month?”
He tried to brazen it out. “Ms. Blaine, you seem to have a prejudice that is making you unable to complete your assignment as required. I’m afraid I’ll have to fire you.”
“Go ahead. I’ll march in that room and tell your professional colleagues all about your current experiment, the manipulations, the inadequate screening of participants, the equipment swaps and sell-offs. Your reputation can’t stand another hit and enough of your associates know about your previous experiments and your interesting bookkeeping to take the accusation seriously. I doubt there are many people in that room who don’t know the real reasons you were laid off from the University of Washington. Tell me—what happens to a psychologist who falls from professional grace? Do they disbar you? Tar and feather you? Or do they send you to jail?”
I fixed his gaze in mine, unblinking, and let him stew. He was uncomfortable but tough and stared back at me.
“You pushed things too far this time, Tuckman. One of your incipient psychos bloomed into a full-blown killer.”
“No,” he answered, but his voice was soft and unsure, his eyes shifting.
“Yes. You’ve created a breeding ground for psychopaths with your permission and empowerment scenario—you selected them personally. You told them they could make ghosts and move things with the power of their minds and then you proved it to them and let them see what they could do. One of them made a ghost, all right. You never thought one of them was going to go that far, did you? Or maybe it was you. You came pretty close once before. A couple of years ago you put a subject in the hospital—”
“It wasn’t me! It was one of them.” The ghostly green snakes that seemed to dance around Tuckman’s head in the Grey had turned inward, squeezing around him like tentacles and turning a sickening yellow green. Was that panic? I pushed on.
“So you said last time. And I suppose you’ll say the same thing this time when one of your current subjects gets arrested for murder and says the ghost did it. You are an accomplice to that. You made a little pressure cooker with your handpicked group of unhappy, messed-up people, and one of them turned out to be a psychopath just waiting to happen. And you introduced him or her to a whole pool of potential victims with a handy excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do to them. I’ve been hip-deep in these people’s lives for ten days—closer than you, I’d bet—and everything I see tells me one of them killed Mark Lupoldi. And used your damned poltergeist to do it.”
Tuckman went white, his dark villain’s eyes widening with shock.
“You gave them permission and you put the weapon in their hands. One of them used it. There’s nothing else that could have done it. One of them used the same power that levitated that table through the observation room window to throw Mark against a wall hard enough to crush his skull—”
He shook his head. “No. No, no, no . . .”
I pulled him down into a chair and sat next to him, putting my face close to his and glaring at him until he met my eyes. I talked fast and low.
“Shut it down, Tuckman. Even if you don’t believe Celia killed Mark, this damned thing is off the rails. I called around—Ken’s lucky his legs weren’t broken. Ian’s got two cracked ribs and Cara one, plus the stitches from last week. It took a couple of sutures to put Patty’s ear back together, too, and everyone else has cuts and burns from the lights that exploded. No one picked up that table and threw it. No one shorted the wires in the light board. No one made the temperature in the room drop and no one touched the stereo. You gave them permission and power to hurt one another and they did. But you have the power to pull the plug. So pull it.”
“No. I won’t do it. This won’t happen again—it can’t.”
“It will! It will get worse as it’s kept on getting worse. It started with petty theft and pinches and throwing things. Now you have broken windows and people in the hospital. Can’t you see where this is headed? Are you going to wait until one of them is a red smear on the damned observation—”
“That’s enough!” He stood up and stared down at me. He was breathing too fast, swaying, white-faced, and the people at the table outside the dining room turned to look at us. I got up and stood still in front of him, as still and quiet as I could manage, letting my face go neutral and my voice slide back to normal.
“It’s a flawed experiment, Dr. Tuckman. It was a mistake. A miscalculation. If you shut it down now and clear off the paperwork that makes me and my contractor look like thieves, you can return some of the grant money and no one will look too hard at what you’ve done. So long as no one gives them a reason to.”
He turned a hopeful frown on me, licking his dry lips. He sank back into the chair and I sat down beside him again. It gave me the chills to do it, but I put my hand on his nearest forearm. Glutinous chill oozed up my arm and I stifled a shudder.
“I won’t give them a reason to look if you shut this down now. If you do what I’m telling you, I won’t have to defend myself from charges of theft and I won’t need to give these reports to the police or your department chair. Just shut it down. Say there was a flaw in the protocol—write one in if you have to. Say it was a mistake. I know it’ll be embarrassing, but a little pride isn’t worth someone’s life. It’s just a mistake.”
I saw him swallow it. His posture straightened and the glaze of fear left his eyes. “It’s flawed. I’ll shut it down.
I’ll take care of it—the papers, the team. I’ll call them and tell them we’re done.”
I took my first decent breath in hours. Nodding, I said, “Good.” I stood up one more time and put the envelope of reports in his hand. “These are your reports—they’re confidential and no one else has seen them. Just write a check for my fee and we can call this done.”
He looked at the bill, then glanced up, frowning as if he were confused. “I’m not going to pay this. You didn’t do the job I hired you for.”
My mouth fell open in sheer surprise. “You have the biggest brass ones. . . . Tuckman—do you understand any of what I just told you? You’re a thief and a liar and I can prove it. Do you think that’s the only copy of my report? We have a contract for the investigation of a possible saboteur. I’ve proved there is no saboteur but you. Contract satisfied. If I need to call my lawyer, I’ll have to tell her the whole truth about this—that’s covered in the contract, too. You want to hear that in court?” I jerked my head back toward the dining room. “You want them to hear it?”
He glared. Old villain eyes again.
I sighed. “Don’t even try, Tuckman. I have the cards. You don’t. Shut it down, now.”
He dropped his gaze and pulled his checkbook from his pocket.
I left with his check in my purse. Tuckman was still looking at the reports. “A flaw. An oversight . . . ,” he muttered, trying to convince himself it really was just a mistake.
TWENTY-TWO
May be it somehow knew I was working for its destruction, or maybe it was just in a bad mood, but I spent much of Thursday night under attack by the poltergeist. Small objects in the Rover pinged against my head and face as I drove home. Flinching almost put me into the rail on the viaduct and I got a moment’s vertiginous view of the waterfront below before I corrected my path back into the lane.
At home, I had never regretted my collection of books and funky objects until now. A dining room chair rushed at me like an angry dog as soon as I walked into the condo. A pair of bronze bookends soared off the shelf and came for my head. I yanked a bit of the Grey around myself and dodged, taking most of the impact on my shoulders.
Chaos ran back and forth in her cage, agitated by the activity. As I moved toward her, a hardbound book winged past me and crashed into the wall nearby. She’s a tough little creature, but I doubted she’d have much of a chance against flying books. I snatched her from her cage and shielded her with my body as I ran for the bedroom. The phenomena followed me from room to room.
I put Chaos in the bathtub and rushed back into the bedroom. I dodged missiles while I dragged every heavy, pointy, or hard object out of my bedroom. I piled most of them in the hall closet and closed it, wedging the door shut. The objects rattled against the door until I moved away. I hauled the most dangerous objects out of the living room and stuck them in my mostly empty kitchen cupboards, tying the doors closed before I returned Chaos to her cage. It appeared she’d be safe enough if I wasn’t near her. Celia only had a connection to me, not my pet, but I still stacked pillows and cushions all around her cage before I ran back to my bedroom and closed the door. I slept in fits, roused by small objects throughout the night, but the ferret was fine in the morning and the poltergeist seemed to have wound down a little.
I called Solis first thing in the morning, and he insisted I meet him at Le Crepe—a business diner on Second—rather than discuss Tuckman’s project over the phone. So, of course, once we were seated at the same table, he was silent and inscrutable. His narrowed eyes and blank expression might have been caused by exhaustion and insomnia as much as thoughts or judgments reserved to his own mind, but I couldn’t tell. I was nursing coffee after my bad night and feeling no more sociable than he.
I glanced past his shoulder to the midmorning lull on the street outside. “How’s the investigation going?” I asked.
“Still open. Tell me what happened on Wednesday.”
“I can’t tell much—I don’t understand it myself—but Tuckman’s shutting the project down.”
“Why?”
“The protocols were flawed—that’s why things went awry. People have been hurt and it’s just too risky. The details don’t make a lot of sense, but the end result is that Tuckman is shutting it down. I still have a little follow-up to do with the participants, though. I thought I’d better let you know I’m not quite out of your hair yet, but I’m on my way.”
“I’d prefer that you left this to me.”
I sighed and lied. “Solis, I’d love to, but I have a job to do, too. Whatever’s wrong with Tuckman’s project is probably a common thread between our investigations, but I’m not going to just assume that and put the baby in your lap. I’ve been cooperative with your investigation—a little more than I had to be—so you’ll just have to bear with my presence in your view a little longer. Unless you have grounds to lock me up.”
It was his turn to sigh. “All right. What do you think these cases have in common?”
“Well.” I paused to put my thoughts into sanitized order, restraining an urge to say things I knew he would write off. “I’ve been looking at these people and at the situation Tuckman’s created and I think he’s either pulled in or precipitated a psycho. I think what happened to Mark Lupoldi was caused by something and someone in Tuckman’s project. It appears that the incidents Tuckman considered sabotage are just other symptoms of this individual at work. He deliberately picked a group of people with slightly unstable personalities and lots of problems, bound to develop tension in an environment where he encouraged them to believe they could do some pretty strange things and get away with it. Psychology’s not my field but I imagine that in that kind of environment, if you’ve got an individual who’s on the edge of psychopathic or psychotic behavior, they might find the last step all too easy to take.”
Solis looked down at his own cup and nodded slowly. “That may be true, but my concern is still only the discovery of the killer.”
“Do you have a suspect? I have a few.”
He grunted. “Evidence makes a case, not suspicion. I’d like to find those keys or the method . . . I agree Dr. Tuckman’s project is involved and I’ve looked very hard at his subjects and assistants. Tell me who you suspect.”
I told him and he raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He refused to give me any response in kind. So much for sharing information. Returning to my office was a walk through the Grey without even trying. As I crossed Pioneer Square, ignoring phantom traffic and the tipped layers of time, something winged into the side of my head, brushing my temple and yanking out a strand of my hair.
I whirled, looking for the culprit, and spotted a dilapidated man in greasy, filthy clothes sitting on a bench nearby. He held his hands open, a crooked cigarette fallen to the wet ground in front of him, and stared at me with wide eyes. I bent, looked around, and spotted a cigarette lighter—a Zippo-type with a metal case—lying against the building beside me. As I crouched to pick it up, I glanced through the deeper Grey at the lighter. A thin filament of yellow energy was fast fading from it, drawing back like the tail of a snake vanishing into a bolt-hole.
I glanced around, catching sight of a fleeting yellow haze, glittering with flecks of red and slices of silvery time. I picked up the lighter and flicked it into flame. The bit of Celia peregrinated around the square as if it had no interest in me at all. And maybe it didn’t this time, but its presence near me was worrisome. I’d spent too much of the previous night dodging books and household objects. They’d all had a small yellow thread of Grey energy reeling from them. Given the violence of Wednesday and the previous night, I was surprised at this minor display.
I took the lighter back to the bum on the bench.
“This yours?”
He stuttered and fumbled, fearful and uncertain how to answer. Then he blurted, “I dint trow it etcha! Hones’! It jus’ kina . . .”
I nodded with a rueful smile. “I know. It just got away from you. They do that.” I looked do
wn at the crumpled cigarette in the gutter between us and shot another quick look for Celia, but the thing had moved away. “That yours, too?”
He looked down and his face fell to the verge of tears as he saw the mud-soaked cigarette. “Yeah,” he moaned.
I dug into my pocket for the change from my coffee and handed it to him with his lighter. “Take care of this. Don’t lose it, OK?”
His eyes glowed and he offered me a snaggle-toothed grin on a raft of fetid breath. “I will. I will! Tank you, Miss. God bless you!”
I backed away, starting for my office again with a shrug and a mumbled “thanks.” Sliding on the mucky cobbles, I hurried on through the October thickness of ghosts.
I was going up the stairs when my cell phone jiggled on my hip. I snatched it and answered.
“You have to do something.”
“What? Excuse me, Dr. Tuckman, but we closed this case last night,” I answered, shoving the phone under my jaw as I unlocked my office door.
“Yes, I know. But something must be done. You seem to be the one who understands this thing—”
“No, Tuckman. You understand it. You just don’t want responsibility for it.”
“Ms. Blaine!”
I reminded myself that his check hadn’t cleared yet and heaved a sigh. “What’s the problem?”
“Celia is bedeviling the subjects.”
“ ‘Bedeviling’? Just how badly are they being pestered?” Maybe the relative calm around me now was the reflection of Celia’s action elsewhere. I threw my things on the floor behind the desk and sat down.
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