PsyCop 6: GhosTV

by Jordan Castillo Price

  I glanced at Jacob, who shrugged. Good to know I wasn’t the only one who’d never heard of it.

  “What level?” I asked.

  “We don’t rank our students according to level,” Chekotah snapped, and again I felt like I’d somehow managed to pogo on his very last nerve. “That’s for the government to do.”

  “You know what I’m thinking?” Dreyfuss said, again in his we’re-all-pals-here voice. “Directly upstairs, there are a couple of bedrooms just like these, exact same configuration. Right? Makes sense for us to stay in those.”

  “But the student rooms are nowhere near as spacious as the staff—”

  “It’d really expedite this whole thing.”

  Chekotah closed his eyes and composed himself for a moment. Even with everyone playing nice, it looked like our visit was sucking all the energy right out of him. Maybe he needed to go stand behind the red screen.

  While Chekotah went back to his office to break the news to Lyle that he’d need to get two different rooms ready for us, we cooled our heels in the cafeteria and waited for the students we’d displaced to clear out. Again, I kept my eyes open for something that would set off my Camp Hell alarms, and again I discovered I had nothing to worry about. The PsyTrain cafeteria had framed “inspirational” posters on the walls, and potted plants the size of small trees in the corners. Nothing fancy, but not the cafeteria of a government institution, either.

  Dreyfuss bought us each a Coke from the machine without bothering to ask Jacob or me if we wanted one. Jacob popped the tab on his while I was considering not drinking mine out of sheer stubbornness, but then I decided I could probably use the calories. Especially since I’d refused the pretzel.

  “So, they don’t score the talent here,” Dreyfuss said. He was so good at striking up a conversation. What a shame that skill was wasted on someone like him. “Then again, even the regular schools around here probably grade report cards with self-esteem-building words of encouragement and animal stickers.”

  “Speaking of numbers,” Jacob said, probably figuring he’d make the most of it if Dreyfuss insisted on chatting. “What’s this Five Faith?”

  “Been around for a few years now. At first they were moderate, perfectly reasonable—that’s how all good cults start out. And then they turned weird.”

  “They’re made up of five faiths?” I asked.

  “No, nothing so egalitarian. Buddhists, Jews and Sons of Islam need not apply. Only Christians who’re fed up with the way their own church handles the whole Psych issue. Very bible-centric. Heavy on Old Testament smiting. The ‘five’ refers to five senses—as God intended. So they’ve determined by poring through the English translation of the Latin translation of the Aramaic bestseller of 500 B.C.”

  “What’re they gonna do?” I said. “Make converts stand outside holding protest signs while they hand out religious tracts?”

  “High-level medium in Florida went kaboom two years ago? That was Five Faith.”

  “Wait,” I said, in an attempt to figure out how Dreyfuss was spinning it. “I thought you said they were Christians.”

  “So was the Spanish Inquisition. And I’m not talking about the John Cleese version.”

  Jacob had pulled up some articles on his phone and started to scan through them. “They don’t seem to have a big presence in the Midwest.”

  “And if I have my druthers,” Dreyfuss said, “I’m keeping it that way.

  They had their eye on a hunk of property in Skokie—but they were mysteriously outbid. Hopefully they’ll decide Chicagoland real estate’s too rich for their blood and go away. But given the tenacity of religious fanatics, I somehow doubt it.”

  Lyle appeared in the cafeteria doorway looking somehow odd, in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “Okay. Your rooms are ready.

  I’ll show you, uh, where they are.” Fidgety.

  We stood and filed out behind him, and piled into a retro-looking elevator all full of mirrors and Spanish-style trim. Once the doors squeaked shut and we were all stuck breathing each other’s air, I noticed he was wearing aftershave. Fresh aftershave, like he’d just put it on. I tried not to look too puzzled, since everyone could see everyone else in all those mirrors, and I like to keep my bewilderment to myself when I can help it.

  The second floor hall was a carbon copy of the first floor hall, except there was a window at the far end instead of a door. Stucco walls, moderately tacky carpeting, and more black metal lighting fixtures than you could shake a stick at. Lyle strode to the doors of the rooms directly above Lisa’s, pivoted, and started talking in a long rush.

  “Okay, so, these are your rooms. I had the linens changed but there wasn’t enough time to shampoo the carpets like I’d normally do. We have a wired Internet connection beside the desk, wireless network—

  password is nirvana—and basic satellite on the TVs. Thermostat’s beside the door. Fresh towels in the bathroom. Basic soap and shampoo are by the sink—not tested on animals, of course—but if you need anything else, our visiting herbalist will be here in the morning, and she’d be able to help you.” He stopped suddenly, as if the speech he’d prepared for us wasn’t done but he’d suddenly drawn a blank, and he was unable to go on.

  “I don’t know about you,” Dreyfuss said, “but I’m dying for a little power nap. Flying always wears me out.” Flying, pilot. Real cute.

  He slipped around Lyle and peeked into the first room. “This one’s got the extra bed in it. I’ll take the solo room, since the ex claims I snore.”

  He held his hand out. Lyle stared at it for a moment, nonplussed, then fumbled a key out of his pocket. “Wake me up if anything interesting happens,” Dreyfuss said, and headed into his room.

  “Wait,” Lyle said.

  Dreyfuss backed up and gave him a raised-eyebrow “what now?” look.

  “What about the crate? It’s taking up the whole lobby.”

  “Oh, that’s Detective Bayne’s. Just have it brought up to his room.”

  Chapter 11

  Our room was small—but small doesn’t actually bother me. The bedroom in my old apartment barely held my bed, a single dresser and a nightstand. I’m not too crazy about clutter, though, and too many pieces of furniture were vying for position in this particular room.

  The walls and bedspreads were seafoam green, like the countertop of a faded diner. A full-sized bed hugged each wall, which left the dresser that the second bed had displaced in front of the window. I was fine with that. I’d rather have a view of a dresser, even one with a big mirror such as this one, than a set of bars. The smell of vinegar-based cleaner and burnt sage lingered in the air.

  I was too keyed up to know if the place felt good or not, in the way that Sticks and Stones felt good—but it definitely didn’t feel psychically stained, like Dreyfuss’ office. That was vaguely comforting.

  Jacob helped one of the security guards from downstairs wedge the gigantic crate into the gap between the beds while I ducked into the bathroom doorway to avoid being flattened. The guard had to crawl over the bed and pull the dolly along behind him. The green bedspread pulled back and revealed a floral print sheet set so brightly colored it made my eyes hurt.

  Once the guard left and closed the door behind him, Jacob gave the room a final once-over, then looked at me. “You okay?” I nodded.

  He indicated the crate with a jerk of his chin. “Any idea what that is?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are we alone here?”

  I glanced under a lampshade as if a radio transmitter would be conveniently located there for me to demonstrate for him. No such luck.

  It was just a lampshade. “I doubt it.”

  “I don’t mean it in that way.”

  Oh. I was still experiencing some residual queasiness, but that was more from my flight in the Learjet—and my proximity to Dreyfuss—than from my current state of medication. The last Auracel I’d taken, back at the amusement park, was long gone from my system. I looked around to se
e if a hippy ghost in tie-dye might have been lingering on the sheet set, camouflaged by the barrage of color. Nothing there but the pillow. “Other than your standard crosswalk-repeaters at the major intersections, I haven’t seen any dead since we got off that plane.”

  “I was concerned, since this used to be a TB hospital—”

  “And they run a Psych training facility here? Cripes. Was the local Indian burial ground unavailable or what?”

  “Bert says it’s clean.”

  “Bert the Director—who you happen to be on a first name basis with.

  Since when?”

  Jacob swung himself over the garish bed so he could talk to me face-to-face without leaning around the crate. “Remember I told you a shaman helped me out when Hugo Cooper was sticking to me after his execution?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s him. Bert Chekotah.”

  My drug-deprived brain struggled with the image of the attractive guy in the gray linen suit shaking an eagle feather over Jacob. Shouldn’t he have been wearing beads? And pelts? And buckskin chaps? Maybe I was thinking of the Village People. The knowledge that he and Jacob knew each other in a professional context was comforting to me—

  surprisingly so—since Chekotah was young, and good-looking, and undoubtedly more athletic than me. I hadn’t realized that the idea of Jacob bartering his way into PsyTrain with sexual favors was even a thought I’d been entertaining.

  “Vic?”

  “Uh…right. The shaman. Yeah, I remember.” Of course the word shaman set me to wondering about that other talent Chekotah had mentioned when we’d asked what Karen Frugali was, since I wasn’t particularly clear on what either of those talents actually were. I was about to ask Jacob what sort of talent he thought either of those words meant, in terms I could understand, when Dreyfuss’ voice rang out from the bathroom.

  “Knock knock!”

  I flinched, and whispered, “Maybe we can push that crate in front of the bathroom door when we go to sleep.”

  Jacob leaned over the foot of the bed and opened the door. There Dreyfuss was, framed in the doorway, holding a toothbrush. “If you take it into your head to dip this in the toilet, just remember. You never know when you might be on Candid Camera.”

  “Just make sure it gets my good side when I’m using the facilities,” Jacob said. He said it cop-faced, which I took to mean that he wasn’t trying to convey any actual mirth.

  Dreyfuss hung his cheerful purple toothbrush from a holder on the wall. “Your bags were already loaded on the commercial flight by the time I got to O’Hare, otherwise I would’ve had my men on it—but like I said, you need anything, just say the word. I’ll put in a call.”

  I glanced at the crate, but either Dreyfuss didn’t notice, or he was taking his sweet time about mentioning it just to piss me off.

  Dreyfuss pulled the scrunchie from his hair, tucked it in his pocket, and gave his temples a quick rub. His hair spread over his shoulders in a bunch of corkscrew curls. “I guess if no one needs anything from me, I’ll turn in for the night so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning.”

  Jacob cleared his throat. I looked at him. He indicated the crate with his eyes.

  I supposed if Dreyfuss wasn’t going to volunteer what it was all about, it really was my responsibility to ask. I just hated that he was making me do it. I almost prefaced it with a long-suffering sigh, but managed to curb it. “What about this thing?”

  “I told you at the airport I’d make it worth your while. What, you didn’t believe me? Don’t you always come away from our negotia-tions with a little something extra for your troubles?”

  “What is it?” Jacob asked.

  “I’d tell you…” he turned toward the door to his room, “…but then it would spoil the surprise. The combination is Detective Bayne’s birthday.”

  “But there’s no room to—” I tried to say, but Dreyfuss talked right over me.

  “I’ve got some phone calls to make before I hit the hay. I’ll leave you two to plan out your investigation. You’re the detectives, after all. I’m just a glorified paper-pusher.”

  He closed the bathroom door, which left Jacob and me alone with the crate. Would a normal person be excited? Would they start dreaming up what sort of luxury item or major appliance might be lurking inside to bribe them into accepting that the FPMP was not so bad after all…so long as you didn’t value your personal privacy. Hard to say.

  Sometimes I could manage a pretty good approximation of a normal person’s reaction—but now wasn’t one of those times.

  “I don’t want it,” I said.

  Jacob pressed himself against my back, which at first I took for him trying to move me out of the way. Not that there was anywhere for me to go; I was trapped, with a mattress on either side and a monster crate in front of me. Then his hands slid around my stomach and he pulled me back against him, this wall of warm solidity, and I felt myself sag into him before I’d even consciously decided it was okay to relax.

  Damn, he felt good.

  “Look first, before you decide.”

  “But that’s the thing.” My voice sounded tired, even to me. “If I look, I’m gonna want it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No. I do. I’m sure of it.” I felt Jacob’s forehead press against the back of my skull. His breath was warm through my hair. I drew the strength to put words to my thoughts from the feel of him breathing me. “You saw the big pretzel. You know how he manipulates people.” It was wide open for Jacob to try to ratchet down my anxiety by saying something like, “You can fit one hell of a pretzel in that thing,” but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he thought for a moment, and he said, “You’re better off knowing than not knowing. You need to be able to weigh all your choices so you know what you’re getting into, so you can go in with your eyes open.”

  “I don’t want to owe him anything.”

  “He never said you would, did he?”

  “So far, just an exorcism—but I’m sure there’s wiggle room for him to tack some extras onto my bill somewhere down the line. I wish he’d just be straight with me. There are too many angles to this thing. Too many ways it can turn out bad.”

  He held me for several long moments, and then he said, “There’s got to be some reason he shipped it all the way to California.”

  “There’s a reason he does everything. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Look.” Jacob turned me around so that we were facing each other, with a displaced dresser to one side and the crate on the other, and a mattress behind each of us. “After Heliotrope Station, the thought of anyone recruiting you for your talent makes you shut down. I get it. But what about the Fifth Precinct? That turned out okay, otherwise you never would’ve stuck with it this long.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to screw that up.”

  He worked my forearm through the sleeve of my jacket with his thumb. “Then you need to look. Because hiding your head in the sand isn’t helping anything.”

  I glanced at the crate. The gunmetal gray plastic was pebbled with texture, with a few scrapes showing on one of the sides right around doorknob-height. The corners and edges were chased with metal, and the whole thing had a strap around it that closed with a barrel lock.

  I tried to picture myself opening it up, but I’d gotten myself worked up to the point of imagining a one-way ticket back to Camp Hell, or somewhere worse. Somewhere they weren’t just trying out random meds to see what would happen to Psychs’ brains. Somewhere they damn well knew…and they used them to manipulate us like a bunch of drugged-out puppets. “I can’t.”

  He kissed me. It was gentle, something I felt more in his goatee tickling my upper lip and my chin than on my mouth, and he said softly, “Then I am.”

  He turned, keeping one hand anchored on my arm, and thumbed the barrels to 0-2-2-3. The lock clicked open.

  “So…you actually do know when my birthday is,” I said. And there, it was me trying
to cut the tension, not him.

  “Of course I do. I’d just lost track and the date snuck up on me.” He glanced down at the open lock. “Are you doing this with me?” I couldn’t. I shook my head.

  “Are you going to stop me?”

  Was I? It didn’t feel like it. I was paralyzed. I gave my head another curt shake that could be interpreted as a no.

  Jacob popped a couple of clasps, top and side, and gave the crate a wiggle. It stayed shut. He ran his fingers along the closed seam, found a clasp on the bottom he’d missed the first time around, and snapped it open.

  A dark crack appeared. The front of the crate separated. It didn’t open on a hinge like a door; it pulled off like the lid of a big shoebox standing on its side. Before I could see anything, Jacob demanded, “What the…?” as if the case could talk back to him.

  And given some of the things I’d seen over the last few years, I really hoped it couldn’t.

  “It’s a TV set,” he said. “An old one.”

  I half-heard that last part over a great whooshing in my ears, because the apathy and avoidance I’d so carefully maintained over the mammoth crate came crashing down like a thrill ride at the amusement park, and my heart was pounding so hard I felt like my blood was going to burst through my veins and squirt out my ears. The lid was blocking my view. I took it from Jacob a lot more calmly than I felt, and held it there to one side of me while I looked.

  I’d been expecting the GhosTV.

  I was wrong.

  Chapter 12

  The TV set inside the crate was decades older than the GhosTV I knew.

  It was a seventies model in a more elaborate wooden console, with sparkly brown fabric covering the panel that hid the speakers.

  Even though it was definitely not the set from the motel room in Missouri, my heart kept on pounding as if it knew something I hadn’t quite admitted yet. Like it remembered that even though the original GhosTV was in an evidence locker in St. Louis, Roger Burke and his cronies had cobbled together more than one GhosTV. And it was pretty sure I was currently looking at one of those “extras.”