PsyCop 6: GhosTV

by Jordan Castillo Price

  Clayton, however, had an impressive audience of four—now rapidly swelling to six, as Jacob and I hauled our chairs along and got them set up. So many family members, we made up our own cluster.

  Barbara was the only one who seemed particularly into the game—not that the older generation didn’t dote on Clayton just as much as she did. Just that Jacob was a lot more interesting, seeing as how they only got to visit with him a handful of times each year. I shook Jerry’s right hand and Leon’s left as I sidled past them, gave Barbara a stilted wave and tried to tell myself the annoyed look she was giving me was only due to the angle of the sun in her eyes, and then I parked myself next to Jacob’s mom.

  Shirley’s purse was so big, it took up as much space as a human being—a large one. She shifted it so I could get my chair right beside hers, and she slung her arm around me and squeezed when I sat down. “So…uh, who’s winning?” I said.

  “I have no idea.” She leaned back to size me up. “Well, don’t you look handsome today. Did you do something different to your hair?”

  “Just a haircut.” The first couple of times I’d hung out with Shirley, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. “…but too bad you’re not a woman. Because I was hoping for some additional grandchildren, since Clayton’s not exactly the most lovable boy.” Except, the “but” never came. Shirley actually liked me. Weird, but true.

  She dug into her massive shoulder bag and found a can of Pepsi, somewhat cold with a bit of tissue stuck to it, and handed it to me. I took it from her, cracked it open, and swallowed a long pull. “No, not just your hair. There’s something more.”

  Was the sense of self-satisfaction I’d acquired by successfully manhandling a creepy bad guy showing through? Maybe. “Stand up,” she said. “Let me take a look at you.” I felt myself blush, but I stood, and kind of shrugged. Shirley gave me a good once-over, then patted the seat of my lawn chair again. I sat, and pressed the cool can to my now-warm cheek. “You keep yourself in such good shape, too. Do you run?”

  I might lie about running to a casual acquaintance, but not to Shirley, so I answered, “Not if I can help it.”

  She laughed. I really enjoyed her laugh. “Don’t let Barbara hear you say that.”

  She looked back at the soccer field as if the thing she’d just said made perfect sense. I stared at her profile for a few seconds, and then finally said, “Why?”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Why shouldn’t I let Barbara hear?”

  Shirley scanned the field, then took a covert glance over her shoulder in her daughter’s general direction, and finally leaned toward me.

  “She’s always been so sensitive about her weight. If the only reason you’re so slim is a good metabolism, she’ll be jealous, and…well, I suppose you don’t know how she can be. Let’s just say you don’t want to get her started.”

  I slipped on a pair of plastic sunglasses and stole a look at Jacob’s sister through the dark lenses. She’d stood up, hands cupped around her mouth, bellowing, “Run, Clayton!” Sure, she was big-boned. But so was everyone in the Marks family. The “athletic” remark being caused by jealousy? Craziness. The thought that anyone in their right mind would find anything in me to be jealous of was totally insane.

  Barbara sat back down with an annoyed harrumph, which then put Jacob in my line of sight. Frankly, as far as I was concerned, I had only one thing anyone could possibly be jealous of—my man. Great hair, killer bod, mind like a steel trap, great in bed, and those phenomenal, expressive dark eyes. He gazed out onto the field with a look in those eyes I didn’t really get to see much. It was soft around the edges, a faraway gaze. Very serious. It looked hot on him—but no big surprise there. Jacob wears so many looks well. But I supposed, having grown up with him, Barbara was immune to all of that. I guess it was always possible she resented me being in her brother’s life, maybe subconsciously, because she thought there’d be less of him left over for her now that I was around.

  Shirley pulled her digital camera out of her handbag and showed me a picture of Jerry and Leon on the small viewfinder. They were outside somewhere with lots of leafy stuff in the background, holding up a three-foot catfish between them.

  Families. Never a dull moment.

  Youth soccer matches don’t last all that long, which I previously had no reason to know. Less than forty-five minutes after we got there, the game was over. Everyone had driven more two hours for the privilege of watching Clayton run around and kick the ball a couple of times, so Jacob suggested we extend the get-together by heading out for pizza. Since Jacob and I had skipped lunch in an effort to catch at least some of the game, and since my appetite was still voracious from my astral adventures, I found the prospect of some pizza very welcome, indeed.

  I had my hand resting beside me on the seat of the car as we drove to the pizzeria, and Jacob surprised me by dropping his big hand on top of it and meshing our fingers together. Jacob’s just not a hold-hands-in-the-car kind of guy. Not that it bothered me or anything.

  Just that I noticed.

  The intensity that he focused on the road with seemed unusual, too. Traffic in Wisconsin was a walk in the park compared to Chicago streets, but the way Jacob had his eyes glued to the car in front of him, you’d think we were navigating the Loop during rush hour in freezing rain. His jaw worked, like he had something to say, but wasn’t quite sure how to say it. Had Barbara said something nasty about me to him? I didn’t think so—she’d seemed so focused on the game. Maybe something about the game, then? Something about Clayton, something about kids…holy hell, Jacob didn’t want kids now, did he? He must realize that neither of us was ever home. We’d already determined we weren’t even home enough to consider a dog.

  And whether I was home or not, I’d be the world’s most pathetic father. Shit, I so didn’t sign up for kids….

  “I’m really glad we came today,” he said. And I held my breath for several tense seconds waiting to see what the “but” in that statement might be. It was a lot like talking to his mother, though. There was no “but.”

  The pizza parlor was empty at mid-afternoon except for us, and a few retirees sharing a newspaper. The waiters shoved together a couple of tables for us. I ended up sitting between Uncle Leon and Jacob.

  Leon’s spirit arm, though visible, simply rested on the table beside his silverware. I could handle that.

  Once the pizzas came, and I’d helped myself to a third piece, and a fourth, I did notice Barbara looking at me through narrowed eyes. I looked right back at her and asked if she’d like another slice. You’d think I was offering her a drowned kitten. Huh. Shirley’d been right.

  That whole “athletic” bullshit had more to do with Barbara’s own issues than it did with me. And to think, I’d nearly started working out over it.

  Somewhere around my fifth piece, my favorite jeans started to feel a bit tight. I set the crust down and I watched the vacant tables around us begin to fill as the early dinner crowd trickled in.

  “I’m glad you’re all here,” Jacob said. I was looking out at the parking lot through the window, where someone had left their dog in the car, a little yippy dog with a bow in its hair that was showing its teeth to everyone with the audacity to walk past the vehicle. But then his tone struck me as particularly serious. And I realized he was holding my hand yet again. At the dinner table. With his entire family there.

  “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought…a lot of thought…actually, lately I can’t think of anything else. And given the way certain…things…have come to pass….” he squeezed my hand and looked at me.

  I stared back at him. Jacob didn’t get tongue-tied, not him. So whatever it was he was trying to spit out—I wasn’t sure I even wanted to hear it.

  “It hasn’t been an easy decision, but I really think it’s for the best….”

  I squeezed his hand, hard. He caught my eye again and nodded. What I’d meant by that squeeze was, what the heck? But he took it as a show of sup
port.

  “I’m going to retire.”

  Stunned silence. Everyone’s face froze somewhere along a spectrum that ranged from shock to confusion. My expression must have registered all of the above. Retire? Jacob? Sure, he had his twenty years in…but he’d never mentioned anything about retirement. The guy’s whole life was about trapping dirtbags in their own webs of lies and making sure they couldn’t bother decent people anymore. His whole life was about being a PsyCop.

  Once his family picked their jaws up off the floor, they congratulated him. But it didn’t seem to me that their hearts were really in it.

  Soon after that, Barbara and Clayton broke off from the group to head back home. Clayton was worn-out and cranky, and besides, they’d just seen us a week ago. Leon left after that. He played cards on Saturday. I tried to imagine playing cards one-handed, and came up blank. That left Shirley and Jerry. The four of us sat together in silence for a while. I glanced at Jacob. He had a very Claytonesque expression on his face. “Did something happen?” Shirley said.

  Jacob’s eyes tracked back and forth as he filtered through…what?

  PsyTrain? Was the stretched head what had made him come to the conclusion that it was time to throw in the towel? Because I guarantee, stretched heads were a once-in-a-lifetime type of phenomena, and Psychs with enough power to do something like that were few and far between.

  “I just don’t want to keep pushing it ’til I’m totally burned out. That’s all.”

  Jerry and Shirley glanced at each other, then looked at Jacob again. “If there’s anything I can do to help,” Jerry said, “you just let me know. Anything.”

  Jacob looked at them, each of them, and then said, “You lock your doors at night. Right?”

  They both gave a shrug that said maybe, maybe not. It was my turn to stare. Seriously? They didn’t lock their doors? Where did they think they lived, Candyland? Jacob worked his jaw a few times and said, “I need you to start doing that. Promise me?”

  The patented Marks family stubbornness flared up in Jerry, who said,

  “You’re the one living in the country’s murder capital, not us—” Shirley cut him off. “Fine. I will make sure the doors are locked. Every night.” She stood, and hoisted her massive handbag onto her shoulder, then kissed Jacob on the temple. “I promise.” She lingered with her hand on his tense shoulder for a moment, and then she and Jerry said their uneasy goodbyes, and Jacob and I were alone.

  While we sat there at the empty table staring each other down, a waitress came to see if we needed anything else. When neither of us responded to her, she backed away.

  “Damn it, Jacob,” I said, when I couldn’t keep it inside me one second longer. “You could have maybe, I dunno, discussed this with me first.”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t know for sure. Not until…” he planted his elbows on the red-checkered plastic tablecloth and buried his face in his hands, took a few breaths, then raked his fingers through his hair and met my eye. “I didn’t know for sure until I saw them.”

  “Who?”

  “My family.”

  Obviously, I was missing something. Something big. Because other than a few dirty looks from Barbara that hadn’t particularly fazed me, I thought we’d all been having a pretty good time. Jacob caught my hands, both of them this time, including the scabby one that had leaked ectoplasm all week, and said, “Who’s the next Five Faith going to be? We don’t know, do we? But look at me—all these years I’ve been representing my precinct, I’ve been in the paper, on TV.

  And look how easy it would be to track down my sister, my parents, Clayton. They’re less than four hours away.”

  “Yeah, but…why is Five Faith freaking you out now? They weren’t even the ones screwing with your email. They weren’t the ones stealing people at PsyTrain.”

  Jacob squeezed my fingers together so hard it hurt. “But what if it had been? I worry about them targeting you, me…but face it, we can protect ourselves. My mother? My grandmother?” He shook his head.

  “I can’t let that happen.”

  “And so that’s it? You’re gonna take your pension and…what? Build a model train set in the basement and putter around the yard?” I was shocked at how sickened I was by the thought of Jacob declawed and defanged. I thought I’d loved him for who he was as a person. I had no idea I was so attached to who he was as a cop. Surprise, surprise.

  He almost smiled. “Could you actually see me turning into a househusband?”

  Actually, I could…and I didn’t like what I saw. I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “No.” He squeezed so hard I needed to pull my hand free for fear of bleeding on him. He released my hands like he hadn’t realized his own strength. Which I’m sure he hadn’t. “I might not be safe at the Twelfth Precinct anymore, but that doesn’t mean I just roll over and surrender. I couldn’t.”

  “Okay,” I said, relieved. “Just as long as you don’t—”

  “So that’s why I’m signing on with the FPMP.”

  I waited for the rimshot, the point at which he’d break into his big, contagious smile, cuff me on the shoulder, and say, I really had you going there.

  Except that point never came.

  Nope, Jacob looked completely earnest. Painfully so. And I realized, as I stared deep into his eyes, that I hadn’t been seated next to Lisa on that flight back to Chicago so that I could catch up with her. I’d been put there so Dreyfuss could start working on Jacob. So he could drop a few carefully selected notions into their conversation—ideas that would make Jacob fear not for himself, or even for me—but for his family.

  I could argue, remind Jacob that the FPMP was tapping our phone.

  That they assassinated people, for crying out loud. But Jacob had that mulish expression on him that told me I’d be better off biding my time, since any argument now would only make him dig his heels in deeper.

  I stood, and picked up the check. “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s get going.” It was gonna be a long ride home.

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  About the Author

  Jordan Castillo Price writes and produces the PsyCop novels from her home in rural Wisconsin. Since she shed her day job, she no longer needs to endure embarrassing staff inservices like the one in which Sando makes Vic do a million wristlocks. Though she imagines you never know when a wristlock might come in handy.

  About this Story

  Since Camp Hell came out, I’ve been trying to do more hands-on research when I write a book. Very little pulls me out of a story quicker than reading a section where the author could have added some realism with only a small amount of legwork, or even a trip to Wikipedia. Especially if they’ve just mundane facts they could have easily researched, and they made them up instead, and got them dead wrong.

  I re-discovered an old friend of mine who’d had a career as a forensics tech since last we knew each other. I badgered her for a good long while to try to get an idea of how crime scenes are treated.

  Interestingly, some of the things she said around the specific questions, such as the fact that most people couldn’t handle hearing about the crime scenes, really informed the Vic/Jacob relationship, and I think said a lot about how they get along well because they understand each other on a level that a civilian wouldn’t. Her descrip-tions of sketching the scenes gave rise to the part in the story where Vic draws the astral door without knowing it.

  And I need help with the more mundane aspects of the storytelling, too! Another friend has two pre-teens in Wisconsin soccer, so I totally picked her brain about what happened at soccer games, if it would be plausible for Clayton’s team to play in Beloit in June, and how people acted at the games. There are these plastic red and yellow penalty cards the ref keeps in his pockets. They’re shown to the kids when they’ve broken rules, and I really wanted to include a yellow card, but explaining what it was seemed to bog down the action too much, so I dropped that idea. T
hat part where no one’s actually paying attention to their kids playing soccer and they’re all knitting? That doesn’t really happen; I just took artistic license to show what a special little snowflake Clayton is. Plus it seems whenever I go somewhere, there’s someone completely oblivious to their surroundings, knitting.

  I often add in details like that just to amuse myself.

  Some aspects of the story I figured out via first-hand research. I took a day-long meditation retreat to get some ideas for PsyTrain—and believe me when I say everyone there was nice! But Vic needs to be dis-gruntled and roll his eyes at everything so you’re seeing it all through his annoyed filter. There was one woman who went into a thing about her gluten intolerance that probably would have at least drawn an eye-roll from Vic…but I swear the gluten-free spelt cookies already featured prominently in the plot before I enjoyed her company.

  I actually even looked for some spelt cookies so I could enjoy the fi-brousness, but alas, I couldn’t find any. I ate something called Chunks of Energy Carob Spirulina, figuring Vic wouldn’t put something called spirulina in his mouth without vociferous protest…but, it wasn’t bad.

  Kind of like an herbal crispy rice treat. Then again, I don’t mind hippy food. I’m not Vic. (I would’ve spewed over that bone in the salmon.) Beautiful ◊ Mysterious ◊ Bizarre fiction by Jordan Castillo Price

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  Sleepwalker

  Daniel Weber (“Web” to his friends) was a promising young biology student on the fast track to a prestigious grad program. That was a year and a half ago. Now he’s working a dead-end security job and living in his cousin’s two-flat. Thanks to the mysterious George, he’s got gaps in his memory too big for his pocket notebook to fill.