“I was a confederate soldier in my last life,” announced one of the patients.
Crap.
But the other patients ignored the guy and he shut up. Kevin retreated to his office and buzzed Will’s office.
It took a minute, but Will answered, sounding a little shaky. “I’m here.”
“You okay, big guy?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Sorry about the picture.”
“Forget it.”
“Daniel Hatch is sitting out there complaining to himself. Ready for him?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Give me three minutes, then send him in.”
28
Pete Banning cruised by Colonel Wallis Tilton’s house, knowing that Mickey had installed a box earlier in the day. There was no way he would try to get himself invited into Tilton’s house—the old shitbird would go on guard instantly. They had developed a mutual understanding back when they were both at Fort Charles: They hated each others’ guts. Tilton was Army, but high on the muckety-muck scale, treated more like royalty than a mere colonel. They called him the Silver Eagle, like he was some sort of superhero or something.
Tilton was a hero with a white hat who was always sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong. He didn’t approve of Project Tingler or any other ops that dealt in mind control, and he must’ve been the beloved of somebody in D.C., because he was always there, a big thorn in the ass. Pete was pretty sure he didn’t know much detail about any of the experiments, but he did know basics. Captain Nedders once told him that Tilton was ballast, likening him to a Republican congress keeping a Democratic president from getting too free with everybody’s money. Whenever anything was entirely in the hands of one party, things went in one dumper or the other. You had to have some ballast. Pete didn’t agree, but he respected Nedders’s opinion.
That, and the almost sure fact that Tilton had friends in high places had kept Pete from engineering an accident for the old silver bird. In rank, Pete had only been a chief and Tilton a colonel, but there was way more to both of them, and they both knew it.
Pete considered another drive-by, but it was obvious somebody was home, so he cruised toward Felsher Hill instead. “I wonder what you’re going to see, Silver Shitbird. Or what you’ll hear, or taste, or smell.”
Maybe he should have had Mickey install the bug, but Mickey was just a faithful old mutt who didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. And Pete really wanted to see the Tilton’s, too, no way could Mickey be trusted to put in a camera. No, if he wanted it done, he had to do it himself, when the Tiltons were away from home. But should he even try? That was the question. Tilton played the true-hearted innocent, but if he was that innocent, he wouldn’t have lasted. Chances were good his place was fully protected with alarms and cameras. Maybe the old man even swept his place for bugs.
Never let your lust loose. That’s how you’ll fuck yourself up. He could practically hear Nedders’s voice spouting the words. He’d said that a lot over the years. Lust was Pete’s personal Achilles heel, and though he hated hearing it, he listened because he knew Nedders was right.
He reached the hill and parked then walked past lesser electronic receivers and unlocked the cage surrounding the Caledonia Cable dish. Within, he walked around it, touching it, admiring it, getting turned on as hell. He worked a little animal magic at the hidden keypad, set it for delay, then walked around the dish, sparkling white, huge, powerful, beautiful, again. Finally, he started to reach for his cell to call Jennifer Labouche for a little breast enlargement session, but realized that was just the sort of lust Nedders was talking about. He’d thoroughly disapprove of his calling his assistant away from the phones during office hours. It wasn’t professional. What the fuck. He climbed the short ladder and stood on the smooth white dish, then unzipped and took care of his lust himself, white on white. Then, carefully, he used a white linen handkerchief to wipe up the evidence, which was, as always, enough to strain a scumbag. He folded the monogrammed kerchief and took it with him back to the truck, knowing how much he’d enjoy watching Jennifer massage the congealing contents into her breasts.
29
You realize Elfbones has never had sex with a woman who wasn’t drunk or charging him for it.
You’ve checked the records on this item?
Yes, sir. At the age of thirteen, having shown an ability for gymnastics, he went through a phase of autofellatio.
Mickey, putting the finishing touches on the McCobbs’ cable setup, cringed. Autofellatio was a fancy word, but he could figure it out; whoever was watching him knew that he used to like to rub off on the backseat of his parents’ car. It horrified and humiliated him to know they knew about that. At least, when he was really limber and did the other really twisted thing a few times, he’d locked himself in his bedroom closet and done it in the dark. They wouldn’t know about that. Nobody did.
Have we been keeping track of his movements this month?
Yes, sir. Every movement has been recorded.
Have you reviewed the tapes?
Yes, sir.
Anything more suspicious than usual?
No sir. Movements remain normal, but thought processes are becoming more and more suspect.
We may not be able to trust him much longer. It may be time to take action.
Shit. They knew he was thinking of talking to the shrink. I’M NOT GOING TO TALK TO THE SHRINK! He thought it long, loud, and hard.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. McCobb asked.
He spun and stared at her. “Yes.”
“You were still as a statue.” She gazed at his embroidered name. “Mickey, would you like to have a little drink with me?” She held out a greenish glass full of red stuff.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t drink on the job.”
The elderly woman laughed. “Dear, it’s just V-8 juice with a little cayenne to give it bite. There’s no vodka in it. Go on, take it. It’s good for you. It’ll put a little color in your cheeks, and if you don’t mind my saying so, I think that’s just what you need.” She sipped from an identical glass. “Mmmm.”
“Well, okay. Thanks.” He picked up the remote and followed her to the sofa. She sat down and patted the cushion next to her. “Have your V-8 and show me how to work this new remote.”
Mickey obeyed and explained all the buttons. “It’s really a lot like the old one, but you get lots more channels on your new cable box,” he finished, and clicked through a few channels. “Here’s The Chuckles Channel. My boss is really proud of getting this one. It’s like Comedy Central but more family oriented.”
Mrs. McCobb raised an eyebrow. “You mean this channel doesn’t show anything like South Park? Nothing vulgar?”
Mickey smiled. “Exactly. Most of our more mature customers are very happy with this channel. They have clean stand-up comedians, and run some old shows like The Honeymooners and Red Skelton. ”
“That’s a pity,” Mrs. McCobb said, looked sour. “Dan and I love South Park. Red Skelton bored me when I was young, and still bores me. I know most old farts like shows like that, but we don’t. And I don’t know what anybody sees in The Honeymooners. Oh, they could get away with all that abuse Gleason’s oafish character heaped on his wife back then, and think it was funny, I understand that, but why it’s still revered in this day and age, I’ll never know. Any man who treats his wife like that deserves to have his balls cut off and fed to him!” She winked and added, “With fava beans and a nice Chianti.”
“Uh, well, you still get Comedy Central, ma’am.”
She smiled, looking like a sweet little grandma again. “I should hope so. What else have you got there?”
“Well, you get more feeds of HBO—”
Our operative is examining him now. She’ll report to us later.
“Are you sure you’re all right, dear? Would you like another glass of juice?”
“Uh, no, ma’am. Thanks.” The old lady was one of them. He couldn’t let on he knew.
By rote, he talked about the new channels and gave her the pamphlet, surreptitiously glancing around. At first sight, the interior of the house seemed as nice and normal as the outside, but when he looked at the paintings and knick-knacks, they were pretty suspicious, not what old people should have. Some of it was naked art. Not porn, but naked. There was a reclining naked lady that looked a little like the nude drawing of young Rose in Titanic, and a moderny sculpture of a man and woman holding each other. There was a framed drawing of a grinning lady skeleton wearing a flower-laden hat. It wasn’t the kind of thing somebody’s granny should have out when the grandkids came to visit.
“Do you like that, Mickey?”
“What?”
“You’re looking at Florita. That’s what I call her.”
“It’s, uh, different.”
“It’s a famous El Dia de los Muertos drawing. A copy of it, anyway. Dan and I found it in Santa Fe. Isn’t she wonderful? So dead, but so full of life!”
The subject is becoming confused.
Yes sir, that’s exactly as we expected. If he doesn’t bolt, she’ll take him to the bedroom to show him the erotic art. Then she’ll let the dog out and we can watch his reaction.
Mickey stood instantly. “Mrs. McCobb, I’m late for my next appointment. The booklet I gave you will tell you anything else you need to know. Or you can call the office for help anytime.”
“Thank you, dear. Come again.”
He could feel her eyes on him all the way down the walk.
30
“You sure you don’t want to come over for dinner tonight, Will?” Kevin locked the front doors of the office.
“No, thanks. I’m bushed. I’m just going to the drive-through at CharPalace and eat junk food in front of the TV and go to bed.” Will took a deep breath of ocean air. It was past seven and a pleasant coolness infused the breeze. “It seems like it should be dark out by now.”
“Give it another month.” Kevin looked at him. “Come on, follow me back to our place. You can’t live on burgers and fries and Lord knows what else you put in there. That stuff will kill you. We’re having salad and grilled chicken.”
“Thanks, but I’m in the mood for comfort food, not anything that’s good for me.” He smiled tiredly. “And you just want me to come over and see your ghost. You must be almost as tired as I am.”
“Well, I’m ten years younger than you.”
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
“Not ten.”
“Will Banning, straight men aren’t supposed to care about their age.”
“Wait’ll forty’s looking at you. You’ll care.”
“Thirty’s looking at me and I hate it. But at least Gabe is older than both of us!”
Will laughed. “At least we have something to be thankful for. Is he home already? Or did you come in together?”
“Together. Do you think I’d go back to the house by myself and risk seeing that thing?”
“I knew it. You want me there to tell you there isn’t a ghost. Well, there isn’t.”
“You haven’t talked to Gabe. Won’t you believe it if you hear it from him?”
“Look, I believe you. I know you two experienced something. I just don’t believe in ghosts.”
“You will once you see it.”
“Let’s hope it’s all gone. You want me to drive you across the street?”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “Drive me across the street? And you’re porking out on greasy burgers? Will, honey, you’ve got to change your ways before you grow love handles or stroke out.”
“I’ll think about it. See you at eight.”
Kevin groaned. “Another day like today coming up.”
“We’ll get through it.”
Will climbed in his car and pulled out after Kevin crossed the street. He was ravenous—there’d been nothing around to snack on after he lost his lunch—so he headed straight for CharPalace. The thought of food was the only thing that kept him going.
31
Freud, Rorschach, and Jung danced impatiently around the bulging white CharPalace bag Will had placed on the coffee table while he changed clothes and grabbed three small paper plates and two bottles of icy dark beer from kitchen. When he reentered the living room, the trilling and chirpy question-like little meows began in earnest. Freud looked him in the eye and brushed his cheek against the rolled-closed top of the sack. “No touching,” Will said, giving the cat the evil eye. Freud knew the words and backed off an inch, talking his head off, not his natural rather demanding nasal meows, but mimicking the adorable trills and chirps of his brothers. Freud was the smartest of the bunch, an Einstein of a cat, and he knew what Will could and couldn’t resist.
He grabbed the remote, flicked the system on and sat down on the sofa behind the bag. The cats gathered, sat at attention, six golden eyes staring, three tongues daintily licking cat lips, salivary glands activated by the scent of hamburger. Pavlov had dogs. Will had cats. “Okay, you guys, let’s find something to watch.”
Golden eyes pleaded, and it would have given Will perverse pleasure to cruise the stations while making them wait, but he was too hungry and immediately switched on the news. Then decided he didn’t want to hear any news and put on a Simpsons rerun. Much better. Hamburgers. Mmmm . . .
He opened the bag, telling the cats to back off. Reluctantly, they did, eyeing the three plain kid’s burgers Will unwrapped. Normally, the cats ate cat food, and merely hoped for a treat or two when he ate, but not when it was CharPalace. As he tore up little patties, one on each paper plate, he wondered if it was the smell of the burgers or the sight of the plates that clued them in. Probably the latter reinforced the former. Doesn’t matter. He placed a little plate in front of each cat and they went to work, not waiting for him to unwrap his own double deluxe cheeseburger or dig out his fries. That was okay.
Opening a beer, he settled down and stuffed himself, shamelessly scooping catsup onto his fries, picking melted cheese off the paper wrapper, and drinking the second beer before he was through. The cats finished up and nosed Will’s leavings. Freud ate half a French fry, and Jung chewed on the edge of one of the buns shucked from the baby burgers, then all three joined him on the couch and began the bathing frenzy that always preceded sleeping off their food. Will thought about getting up and tossing the trash, but only got as far as stuffing it into the bag and balling it up. He left the buns out for later tearing and tossing—when he went to CharPalace, even the birds got a meal.
He sat back and put his feet on the table, not bothering to surf for something else to watch. What a day. Daniel Hatch was worse; evidently, his penis was now singing songs. Its favorite was “It’s a Small World After All,” which was a menace to mental stability in the best of times. Daniel kept asking if Will could hear it. Fortunately, he couldn’t, but he still had to make an effort to keep the tune from starting up in his own head.
Other longtime patients ranged from normal (whatever normal was for each individual) to severe worsening of symptoms and displays of utterly new ones. At lunch, when Will told the cop he’d heard only a couple ghost stories—meaning Lara Sweethome’s and Kevin’s—that had been true. By the end of the day, he’d heard two more. One of his paranoid schizophrenic patients, who had been in remission, spent half his session telling voices in his head to go away, go away. Another, a depressive, was now hearing voices for the first time. A histrionic who’d been in good shape spent her time babbling about dead bodies under the house, something about ancient Indian burial grounds, and a hellmouth in her garage. His diagnosis, which he didn’t voice was: Too much Buffy. He suggested she lay off the horror novels and movies and try some lighter stuff.
The entire day had been like that, and from what Kevin had told him about calls for appointments, tomorrow would be no different.
Freud had stealth-invaded his lap and Will idly scratched behind his ears. The purring commenced and Will dozed off.
32
Lara Sweethome spent the after
noon and evening in a delightful Valium daze, using music to help control her mood. She chose beautiful movie scores, sweeping, swelling romantic music from Doctor Zhivago, Gone With the Wind, Lawrence of Arabia, Titanic, and others. CDs were one of the few special luxuries she indulged in, and her player held six hours’ worth. In the evening, she watched a video, City of Angels, a romance with Meg Ryan and Nicolas Cage. Cage usually looked rodenty to her, but in Angels, he looked beatific. She loved to watch the angels standing on the beach at sunset, or on skyscrapers. It moved her and somehow made her feel safe. She hoped she had a guardian angel that would help keep her mother’s spirit at bay.
Once or twice, she heard footsteps on the stairs, and once, the sound of the bedroom door closing, but the sounds were mild and muffled and she felt safe enough to go upstairs and sleep in her bedroom that night. Bless you and your pills, Dr. Banning.
33
“Age before beauty,” was what Kevin told Gabe when they’d arrived home. Big bad Gabe took the hint and went in first, not showing any fear except for the frantic way he slapped on the foyer light.
The place was quiet, deserted, just like it had been that morning, but both of them started turning on lights all over the house. To hell with the electric bill. Without talking about it, they decided not to discuss yesterday’s phantom visitor, and went about almost normally. Gabe was pooped, and usually he’d collapse on the couch and find some sports to watch on TV while Kevin made dinner, but tonight, he stayed in the kitchen and made salad. They ate at the tiny breakfast table there instead of in the dining room that opened into the dreaded living room.
After the dishes were washed and put away—Gabe always helped with that, but tonight he took his time and didn’t bitch—Kevin reluctantly said, “Want to watch television?”
Gabe tried to look unconcerned about going into the living room. “You know, we’ve got that nice big tub with the jets in the bathroom. What do you say to a good soak and maybe a massage afterward? I’m stiff and sore.”
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