PsyCop 5: Camp Hell

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “Or you could do the smart thing, and let Officer Andy drive you to my office. ‘Cos my staff medium says there’s a cold spot in here. And it would be a very lucrative thing for you to explore that temperature drop in a little more detail.”

  That’s it? He wanted me to scope out a ghost for him? I’d had visions of experimental drugs and tripped-out machinery, and wrist restraints, and maybe vivisection. Checking a room for ghosts seemed too damn simple.

  Then again, who else could really do it but me?

  “Lucrative…how?”

  “Five big. Cash money. Not bad for a couple hours’ work, wouldn’t you say?”

  My heart pounded in my throat. Had Roger Burke been encouraging me to do this thing for Dreyfuss, or trying to scare me in the opposite direction? I thought hard. Whether Burke had been trying to or not, he’d seriously freaked me out.

  So I figured he was trying to keep me away from Con. And I did the opposite.

  “Ten,” I told him. After all, I didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic.

  I gave the phone back to good ol’ officer “Andy,” and he led me to his cruiser.

  It’d been a few years since I had my own squad car. They were a lot nicer inside now, sleeker and more rounded—but smaller too, and I needed to tuck my elbows in to keep from brushing against “Andy.”

  I didn’t talk, and either did he, which was good. I was too busy being hung over, and fuming at the way Dreyfuss had laid out every plan I could possibly think of. Except the “afternoon delight” contingency. Even the thought of Crash bent over that bed of his with his jeans pulled down and his naked, tattooed ass pointing right at me couldn’t flush out the brainworm those two words had planted in my gray matter.

  “Andy” took surface streets to the North Loop, where he slid into an underground parking garage I could probably drive by a dozen times without ever noticing. Heck, I’d probably still miss it now, if I came back to look for it.

  Maybe there was a spell on it, or a ritual, or whatever you want to call it. Some psychic skin to make you look the other way. I turned up my internal faucet and strengthened my silver full-body condom, even though the effort nauseated me.

  I followed “Andy” to the elevator. He waited for me to get in first. I imagined him shooting me in the back, my blood spraying against the mirrored back wall. But there was no gunshot. He came in behind me and pressed five, the top button, and the door closed.

  No music piped into the elevator; the only sound was the quiet whoosh of the car sliding on cables. I imagined the elevator dropping. Five floors. It wouldn’t be much, in the movies. But in real life? No doubt it would leave me a quadriplegic.

  The elevator door opened. “Andy” stepped out, then sidestepped, so I’d have to fall into place beside him. Through my overcoat, I pressed my palm against the reassuring shape of my Glock. Nice to know there was no trust lost between “Andy” and me.

  The Fifth Floor of the Nameless FPMP Building was the epitome of elegance that Stefan’s high rise was trying (and failing) to be. Lights were low and cool. The desk cut a striking curve around an empty space punctuated by tall plants and a few classy pieces of wall-mounted and individually lit sculpture. I didn’t have words for the paint colors. Orange, but not bright, sort of gold; a green, or maybe a gray, but bluish. Something else not quite black; a metal with hints of red.

  Good thing I never wanted to be an interior designer. I’d need to learn a whole new language.

  An Asian woman in an immaculate black suit looked up from behind the desk. She wore dark-framed glasses, which looked like they were only decorative, something to add to the severity of her suit. She stood and pushed open a door that looked like it was part of the paneling. “Follow me.”

  She led us into a comfortably large room. It wasn’t a waiting room that a dentist or a car dealership might have; there wasn’t a single dog-eared magazine to be found. Instead, a tea set rested on a silver tray—probably real silver, with two pots, a bowl of sugar cubes, a creamer, and a bowl of something that looked suspiciously like chocolate curls. Jeez.

  “Agent Dreyfuss will be a few minutes,” said the secretary. “Help yourself to coffee or tea. My name is Laura. If you need anything, let me know.”

  Asian-lady didn’t look like a Laura, any more than the computer tech support guy in New Delhi struck me as a plausible Jason. But Laura spoke flawless English—she’d been the one patching me through to Dreyfuss all those times; I recognized her voice—so maybe Laura really was her name.

  As much as anything there was real, and not just a slick veneer plastered over a scary group of ruthless spies.

  I wished I could sink down into one of the deep leather chairs so I could stop trying to ignore the quiver in my knees, but “Andy” didn’t sit, so neither would I.

  Instead of traditional art, framed magazine covers decorated these walls, each one featuring a famous psych. I recognized Marie Saint Savon in her rustic, tweedy outfit, with her single gray braid hanging over one shoulder. I could name the other psychics, too. Uri Geller gazed out in a dramatically lit shot with one hand furled under his chin. Jeanne Dixon faced a 1960s press conference in a jaunty pillbox hat. Edgar Cayce smiled down at me in that reassuring way of his, as if to tell me that sometimes you just had to take things in stride.

  Unfortunately, I’d already tried burying my head in the sand, and this was where I ended up.

  The door hinges were so well-oiled, the floor so solidly anchored, that I didn’t hear Constantine Dreyfuss until he sucked in a great big breath and let it out with a whoop. “It’s cold out there, huh?”

  I did my best not to look as if he’d just scared me half out of my skin. He stood just inside the waiting room door in a bunch of layered sweats, wiping his nose on the hem of his outermost sweatshirt. “Nothing like a good run to get the heart pumping.”

  Pretty much any other thing I could think of was preferable to a run. But I kept my mouth shut.

  Dreyfuss turned to the tea set, fished a sugar cube out of the bowl with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “So.” It sounded like Tho, since he was talking around the sugar. “You need anything to get started? A beer maybe? A little….” He raised his fingertips to his mouth in a pot-smoking gesture, and made a puffing noise.

  “Cripes—no. Where’s your cold spot?”

  “You don’t beat around the bush, do you? Are you positive that you’re a government employee?” He gave the sugar cube a few loud crunches, then swallowed. “You haven’t even touched the java.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  “You sure? It’s pretty awesome.” He poured himself a cup. The smell made my mouth water. I glared at him.

  Dreyfuss took a sip, added some cream, took another, and then a long swallow, followed by an, “Ahh.”

  I tapped my foot.

  “You sure you don’t want any? What else’ve you got to do while we’re waiting for the staff medium to join us?”

  Oh, great. Their own guy was coming to keep tabs on me. What level, I wondered. And how pissed would he be that I’d been called in to double-check his work?

  Dreyfuss sipped and sighed, and wandered past Marie Saint Savon’s magazine cover. “Too bad Marie kicked the bucket,” he said. “There’s never been another medium like her, before or since.”

  I stared at a blank spot on the wall. Dreyfuss might be able to force me to work for him, but there was nothing that said I had to be buddy-buddy about it.

  “You ever been to France, Detective? No, I imagine not. Wouldn’t it be cool to visit her grave, get her take on the whole spirit world now that she’s on the other side? I wonder if you’d need a translator.”

  “No one knows where she’s buried.” Sonofabitch, he’d baited me into a conversation. I reminded myself to stop talking. But I’d already made eye contact.

  Dreyfuss was smiling. “Of course someone knows where she’s buried. It’s not as if she buried herself. I specialize in information, Detective. If you wante
d to visit with Marie, I could make that happen.”

  “What I want is for the FPMP to leave me alone.”

  “I’m talking realistic wants here, not pie in the sky. As long as psychs exist, the FPMP—”

  He stopped talking when the silent door swung open. I’m sure that whatever he was going to say, it would’ve been a crock of shit, anyway.

  A guy stepped into the room, probably my age, but male pattern baldness had done a number on him and left him with only a ring of hair from ear to ear, so he looked older. And familiar.

  He looked from Dreyfuss, to “Andy,” to me, to Dreyfuss again, and gave a timid smile.

  I knew that smile.

  “Einstein?”

  He spun around to face me and nearly overbalanced. “Why’d you call me that? No one’s called me that in years.”

  My God. It was him. He’d been a thin, wimpy, soft-shouldered guy in his youth, and now he was a pudgy, bald, middle-aged guy. His eyes were the same, though. So sincere, you suspected you could make him cry by teasing him about his Velcro-fastened shoes…if only he was smart enough to know you were making fun of him.

  “It’s me. It’s Vic. Victor Bayne.”

  Einstein blinked, and furrowed his brow.

  “From Heliotrope Station. C’mon, man. There were only a few of us mediums. You and me, Faun and Darla.”

  His eyes went wide and he smacked himself in the forehead with his palm. “Hardcore Vic? You’re kidding me!”

  Shit.

  Einstein rushed over and grabbed my hand. He pumped it up and down so vigorously, I almost forgot to be embarrassed about him dredging up that old name. Nowadays, the only thing “hardcore” about me was the DVD selection next to my bed.

  “Wow, you look really good.” He held on to my hand, but pushed me back to arm’s length. “You’ve got all your hair and everything. And you’re wearing a suit!”

  From anyone other than Einstein, that would’ve been an insult. But he didn’t really have the capacity to differentiate between one of Jacob’s tailored suits and my bargain-rack specials. He just knew I had a job where I couldn’t show up in jeans and high-tops.

  “I’m a detective.”

  He gave his trademark giggle, heh-heh, and memories hit me in a rush. Stefan and me, imitating that goofy little laugh of his. Him going along with it—laughing right along with us, because at least it meant we were paying attention to him. That we knew he existed. “Whoa, that’s so neat. Just like TV, huh?”

  “We spend more time on paperwork than they do on TV.” God damn. I was such a fucking prick when I was young. “I guess I should call you Richard.”

  “Richie. What about you?”

  “Vic’s fine.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try to remember.”

  Yeah, me too.

  I did end up having that cup of coffee. Or three. And not because Dreyfuss offered, but because it felt so good to see Richie. Of everyone at Camp Hell, I never would’ve thought he’d be someone I’d reconnect with. That it would feel so good to see him outside that razor wire fence, well-rested and well-fed. Well-paid, too, according to him. He told me he drove a Lexus, and had a vacation home in Michigan.

  Constantine Dreyfuss didn’t leave the room while we caught up. In a way, I was glad. It’s not as if I would’ve thought he wasn’t listening in anyway. “Andy” was a nonentity.

  I reached for my coffee and my phone rang—Jacob’s ring. I figured I’d let it go to voice mail, but both Richie and Dreyfuss gave me an “are you gonna get that?” look.

  “I’ll just take it in the, uh….” I pointed to the lobby.

  “Of course,” said Dreyfuss. He’d probably hear both my end of the conversation and Jacob’s anyway, if not at that very moment, then later on in instant replay. But I guess we were keeping up the semblance of privacy.

  I went through the soundless door and snapped open my phone. “Hey.”

  “Listen. I don’t like the way things have been between us lately. Can we….” Jacob sighed, his breath distorted over the receiver. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I’ve run out of ideas. I just want things to be good again.”

  I glanced around the lobby. It was empty, just me and the low lighting, and the giant swoop of the desk. “Me too.”

  I heard phones ringing in the background. I could picture Jacob at the Twelfth, near his battered desk, or maybe the industrial, double-decker coffee pot. “When are you coming home?” he said.

  “I’m not sure. Not late, I don’t think.”

  “Maybe we could go somewhere. A movie.”

  “Sure, whatever you want.” My environment wasn’t giving Jacob any clues as to my location. I suppose it sounded enough like a hospital, at least the quiet pocket of stillness you’d find here or there, that it didn’t prompt him to ask. I figured it wasn’t the best time to bring it up. “I’ll try to call if I’m going to be too late.”

  I looked around again. Still nobody but me and the plants. And probably a giant electronic listening device—and maybe a psychic one, too. “I love you.”

  Heck, I was sure they’d already heard that from me, and worse.

  “You too.”

  I disconnected, and stared at the phone for a second before I slipped it back into my pocket. Then I patted my gun again to assure myself that it was still there, and went back to see what Dreyfuss wanted me to do.

  -SEVENTEEN-

  I had to sign something before I could access the part of the building where the cold spot lived. It was only a single sheet of paper. Something about its brevity frightened me.

  Signing it would bind me to complete confidentiality, the breech of which was a felony, and could be punishable by up to twenty years in federal prison. No doubt an ex-cop wouldn’t last nearly that long. Which led me to wonder what Roger Burke would say if he could see me now, staring at this thing and trying to imprint the legal jargon on my shoddy memory.

  We left “Andy” in the room with the framed magazine covers and went through a door in the opposite wall. Richie schlepped along beside me as if it was no big deal to work in such a top-top-secret facility. And I noted he wore loafers now, rather than gym shoes fastened with hook-and-loop tape.

  “Did you ever get a handle on your talent?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I remember it was pretty strong sometimes—but wild, almost as many misses as hits.”

  I shrugged. Evidently the evasiveness I’d groomed for talking in front of Carolyn the Lie Detector was useful in more situations than just that; I couldn’t say how much Dreyfuss knew about my capabilities. I scored plenty of hits on the force. But I never gave a lot of detail as to the mechanism by which I saw the ghosts. For all anyone knew, I was sensing and extrapolating, not seeing all the dead people as if they were right there in front of me.

  And that “wildness” Richie was referring to was a bunch of false impressions I’d seeded through my time at Camp Hell to make sure my level tested no higher than Five. It was easier than you’d think. Point in the wrong direction, switch the gender around, mangle the method of death, that sort of thing.

  I never repeated the ghosts verbatim, either. Didn’t want anyone to know I heard specific words.

  “They know more about mediumship now,” said Richie. “They say electricity can make it confusing. Like the spirits are some kind of electricity themselves.”

  “Really.”

  “I felt the cold spot when someone backed into the wall and accidentally turned off the lights. D’you think that’s why they used to do séances in the dark, back in old-fashioned times?”

  “I dunno, Richie.” I suspected he was referring to the Victorian table-rapping phenomena. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that electricity hadn’t been around quite yet. At least, not in handy wall sockets.

  Dreyfuss opened a conference room door for us, and I followed Richie in. A transparent man was seated at the table, but about one foot to the right, as if the furniture had moved
, but he hadn’t. He pushed the muzzle of a Beretta under his chin and fired. The recoil threw the weapon from his hand as the back of his head exploded. He disappeared, and reappeared again, seated at the table with his head intact and his Beretta in his hand. He wedged the muzzle under his chin.

  I pretended I hadn’t just seen that, and tried to figure out where to look so that I didn’t have to watch it a dozen more times while I worked on getting us out of that room.

  “I was gonna bring a candle,” Richie said. He patted down the front of his sweater as if maybe he’d brought one along with him and just forgotten about it. “No windows. We won’t be able to see when Agent Dreyfuss shuts off the electricity. We should have a candle.”

  “S’okay, I’ve got a flashlight.”

  “Electric?”

  “Uh, no. Battery operated.”

  Richie smiled. “That should work. Shouldn’t it? That’s different from electricity, right?”

  Crap, was it? I’d never taken any science beyond biology. “A flashlight’s never interfered with my talent.”

  “I should have a flashlight.” Richie looked at Dreyfuss. “Will you get me a flashlight?”

  “No problem. Go get Andy’s.”

  “No, I mean, my own. I want my own agency-issued flashlight.”

  Dreyfuss pointed at him and winked. “You got it, pal. No later than the end of the week.”

  Richie beamed, then went back into the lobby to divest “Andy” of his cop-flashlight.

  “It’s nice to see him gainfully employed,” I said quietly as the door whispered shut behind him.

  “I don’t have any complaints. Except that I wish his talent were stronger. He’s maybe a high Two, a Three on a good day if we shut down the electricity to the part of the building he’s sniffing. Could you imagine how much lighter the workload would be for a Five? It’s a salaried position. Sweep the building, call it clean, and you’re done for the day.”