Other Half (PsyCop book 12)

by Jordan Castillo Price

  11

  MY CAST WAS the last bit of business that couldn’t wait until after the wedding, and now that it was safely moldering in some biohazard bag at LaSalle General, there was nothing stopping us from heading up to Wisconsin bright and early the next morning.

  The countryside we drive through to get to Jacob’s folks’ house is riddled with dead zones, and cell service is patchy at best. I’d been scouring the couples workbook in hopes of coming off even remotely like a normal human in front of Pastor Jill, and it occurred to me that my cell service should be cutting out anytime soon. It didn’t, though. Which probably meant it was talking to its own special satellite.

  So they could spy on me.

  And yet, even I had to admit, its reception was awfully good.

  Despite the fact that I was free from random pop-up “roaming” messages, the Wedded Bliss PDF was still fairly inscrutable. I was supposed to map my family relationships on two axes: closeness and flexibility. I’d settled on Mama Brill and Harold as my “family” even though my memory of them was fairly spotty. Either I was with them longer than any other foster parents, or the tweens and early teens were just a formative time.

  Or maybe it was their parenting styles. Harold was strict, though not entirely rigid. I’d successfully bargained with him for a reduction in punishment by acting phenomenally contrite…and why I’d dug up the backyard to begin with, I’ll never know. And Mama Brill might be somewhat unpredictable, but she was full of helpful advice, like, “When you want to understand someone, try putting yourself in their shoes.”

  Unfortunately, I’d walked a mile or two in the shoes currently paining Jacob. And I knew what it felt like to wonder—with good cause—if your whole life was a lie.

  Jacob’s folks lived on a tree-lined street of unassuming split-level homes. Lawns were broad, basketball hoops hung from most every garage, and the lawn furniture never got stolen. We pulled up in front about fifteen minutes earlier that we should have, so Jacob must’ve had the pedal to the metal the whole trip. And when we climbed out of the car, he popped the trunk and began unpacking with such ruthless single-mindedness that half our bags were on the lawn by the time his parents came out to greet us.

  He shoved a small suitcase into my arms, which I took without thinking—and then promptly dropped when my left hand cramped. It was a soft-sided vinyl case that should’ve survived a drop to the lawn. But apparently the zipper had other ideas. It split open, spewing socks and underwear and pajamas.

  “I got it,” I said hastily, with a spike of panic as I worried a bottle of lube might burst forth for all to see…followed by a wash of disappointment when I realized we hadn’t even bothered to pack any. Not that I planned on getting hot and heavy just down the hall from Jacob’s parents. But this was our wedding—it was the principle of the thing.

  “Go get the laundry basket,” Shirley told Jerry, then attempted to help us by carrying a tiny valise made to stack on top of a bigger bag. “So many bags—I guess you’ve never stayed over more than a day or two.”

  “Is that a problem?” Jacob said.

  “Of course not, you know we love having you. You’ll just be cramped in that little room, is all.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m used to sleeping on the barest sliver of mattress.”

  “Are you sure we can’t put you up at the B&B? Our treat. And Marilee does a real nice breakfast with fresh scones and blackberry jam she cans herself—”

  “Mom,” Jacob said. “Remember the B&B incident.”

  I only realized this wasn’t code for some Marks family vacation debacle when Shirley gave a little gasp and said, “I’m so sorry Vic. I should’ve realized.”

  Jacob read my blank look and said, “The B&B in Missouri. Roger Burke.”

  Oh…that incident. Chances of me getting kidnapped again were hopefully pretty slim. I hadn’t even bothered to add B&B’s to my repertoire of things to freak out about, and frankly, Dr. Gillmore’s recent story about the nosy owners and the lavender were a lot more disturbing. Or maybe it was lilac. “Don’t worry about it. We didn’t want to squander the chance to spend quality time with you guys. That’s all.”

  There was a lot of fretting followed by even more ineffective helping. “Where is your father with that basket?” Shirley said, and bustled inside with another tiny bag.

  We glanced up at the big bay window on the front of the house. Jerry and Shirley were framed by white lace curtains. Jerry was on the phone—a cordless landline handset—and he was stooping down to let Shirley listen in.

  Jacob didn’t seem to notice. His laser focus was turned inward, trained on that damn journal. “I think I’m getting cold feet.” I must’ve looked a little panicked, because he hastened to add, “About the journal. Vic…what if it turns out they were actively involved?”

  “Maybe we should just ask them and get it over with.” We’d managed to scrounge a photo of Kamal from The Clinic—a photo of the photo from the wall in the Director’s office, but it was good enough. Those cameras on our federal-issue cell phones were pretty darn good. “Show them the picture of Kamal and ask.”

  Jacob worked his jaw a few times. His dentist had been making noises about him wearing a night guard, but I could see that now was not the time to suggest that maybe he should take the plunge. “Do we really want to play that card right now? Then we have nothing to fall back on.”

  “It’s either that or pretend we’re just here for the wedding, then drop it on them later. Look at how betrayed you feel over the thought that someone might have had an ulterior motive, once, way back before you were even born. Your folks are good people. You know they are. And if they find out this whole trip was basically an investigation…?”

  Jacob flexed his jaw muscles a few more times, then sighed. “Maybe I should just level with them.”

  There was no “maybe” about it. You’d have to be completely oblivious not to notice Jacob was utterly miserable. There’s only so far the “wedding jitters” excuse would fly.

  His gaze had turned inward again, hugging a piece of luggage to his chest. I eased it away from him—mostly with my right hand—set it on the lawn, and took his hand in mine. “Your parents love you. It couldn’t be more obvious. It’s easy to take it for granted.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I must’ve read it in the PDF. Anyhow, let’s stop torturing ourselves and hear their side of the story.”

  “Okay. And, Vic?” He squeezed my fingers gingerly, as if he wasn’t quite sure which hand I’d broken now that the cast was off, then lavished a look on me that was poignant enough to flatten an empath. “You know how much I love you, right?”

  “Oh, so you’re keeping up with the PDF after all. Chapter three: verbal expressions of affection.”

  “Vic….”

  I squeezed back. “Of course I know. Why else would I suggest making it official?”

  Seeing him suffer took a toll on me. It wasn’t even noon yet, and already I was exhausted. Playing Spy vs. Spy was bad enough at work. I didn’t want to do it with my family and friends. I hated manipulating Crash to get to Dreyfuss, and I hated spying on Jacob’s parents even more. I’m not a manipulative person.

  Passive-aggressive? Sure. But that’s a totally different thing.

  Coming clean would be a huge relief. We’d just have a little sit-down with the parents, voice our concerns in a non-confrontational way, and listen to their side of the story. If we were lucky, it could turn into a bonding moment that left everyone feeling closer.

  I squatted down to pick up our stuff while Jacob tried to convince the suitcase zipper that it wasn’t really broken after all. My attention was on my underwear when Shirley came back outside. When I looked up, it was to see if she’d brought the laundry basket. What I noticed instead was that she was fidgeting weirdly with the hem of her top and that her voice sounded strained when she said, “Jacob? Come sit down. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  A
fresh cascade of socks hit the grass.

  Shirley retreated to the narrow front porch where a trio of white resin chairs looked out onto the lawn. Jacob sat down in a daze while I hastily scooped up a stray pair of underpants and jammed it into the pocket of my windbreaker as I hurried over to join them.

  Shirley sat and fidgeted some more, plucking at nonexistent lint, then sighed and said, “Don’t be mad—we were waiting to see how things panned out before we said something—”

  “Oh God,” Jacob muttered, while dire notions fell out of my mind like socks from a wrecked suitcase, each one worse than the last.

  But before I got down to the scenario where everything I knew and loved was nothing but a nefarious experiment, Shirley steeled herself and said, “It’s Grandma Marks. We moved her to a nursing home last week.”

  Jacob sagged into the chair so hard the resin creaked and scrubbed a hand across his face. Most people would read it as concern for his grandmother. But I knew he was thinking, Thank God it’s something normal. Because I was thinking the exact same thing. He said, “What happened—and why couldn’t she just stay in her apartment? I thought she had plenty of help.”

  “She fell.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Nothing’s broken—and that’s a relief. She’s been getting shots for osteoporosis and I guess they worked, but—”

  “Did she sprain anything? Hit her head?”

  “No, Jacob. Physically, she’s fine.”

  That didn’t sound good. Nursing homes are expensive, and you don’t put someone there for nothing. Jacob met my eyes, and I asked what he couldn’t. “And mentally?”

  Shirley glanced toward the house, where a glimpse of Jerry could be seen through the picture window, still fielding the phone call. “She’s an old woman,” Shirley non-answered.

  Pushing ninety-one, to be exact, but everyone figured she’d make it to a hundred on sheer spite. Grandma Marks was Jerry’s mother, and she’d outlived all the other grandparents by over a decade. According to the stories I’d heard, Shirley’s late mother was the sort of grandma who knit afghans and baked cookies. Jerry’s mom was the one who complained that no one ever visited…after she drove everyone away with her negativity and criticism.

  It was after one of Clayton’s soccer games, half a year into my relationship with Jacob, that I slipped up and told Shirley I thought Grandma was giving me the evil eye. I’d expected to hear I was imagining things, so it surprised me when instead, Shirley shrugged and said, “She never much liked me, either.”

  Here, now, sitting on a porch beside a lawn riddled with socks, I could tell it wasn’t Grandma that Shirley was worried about—it was Jacob’s dad. She said, “I don’t know if Grandma will be in any state to come to your ceremony. I’m sorry, Jacob. Because I think it was something she needed to see. You, Vic, a real church wedding….”

  Jacob gave his head a rueful shake. “I doubt it would’ve mattered. Just more evidence that Lutherans are basically heathens.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Isn’t that what she is?”

  “She’s Catholic,” Shirley said.

  “Very Catholic,” Jacob added.

  Shirley shook her head in disgust. “And the old woman’s never forgiven me for refusing to convert. How could I, what with the way they view women, and the priests with their weird celibacy rules—uh…you’re not Catholic, Vic, are you?”

  “I’m open-minded,” I said. It was better than admitting that the more dead people I encountered, the less I understood anything.

  12

  EVIDENTLY, I’D BEEN under the impression that all flavors of Christianity were essentially the same. It was an understandable assumption. None of my foster families had been churchy. And while Mama Brill kept a bathtub Madonna in the backyard, it was flanked by a Ganesh and a couple of Buddhas. At Camp Hell, I’d learned about a whole spectrum of religious practices, from Vodun curses to speaking in tongues, so most middle-of-the-road Christians seemed pretty tame in comparison.

  Once we got our bags inside—though I can’t say for sure all our socks made it—we lingered around awkwardly while Jerry fielded phone calls, until eventually we were able to duck out for our appointment with Pastor Jill. Who would’ve thought going to premarital counseling would actually be a relief? But at least now I understood why Shirley kept pushing the B&B option. Not because they had anything to hide, but because they were stressed out from dealing with Jacob’s grandmother and didn’t want us underfoot.

  On our way to the church, we passed a gas station that sold cheese curds and bait. Someday I’ll get used to that. Plus the fact that there wouldn’t be winos dozing in the church pews. Steeping in the easy, small-town atmosphere, I wondered if maybe our conspiracy theories were a touch paranoid. As we parked, I floated the thought, “Maybe we should go to the B&B.” Jacob shot me a look, and I said, “Unless the wallpaper is covered in trout and there’s a massive TV console in the room, it won’t remind me of my little vacation with Roger Burke and Jennifer Chance. We’ll just need to make sure the owner doesn’t get too clingy.”

  Jacob’s shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what’s worse anymore—knowing, or not knowing.”

  I was so busy scrambling for a way to console him that the tap on the passenger window nearly shot me through the windshield. I pulled my neck twisting around, only to find Pastor Jill waving at me. The window framed her like a computer monitor—one we couldn’t shut off with the click of a mouse. Not without flooring it and driving away.

  I powered down the window and said, “Uh…hey.”

  “If it isn’t my favorite Chicago couple,” she said brightly. “What a beautiful spring day for our antepenultimate meeting!”

  I must’ve looked like I had no idea what to do with my face, because the pastor took pity on me and said, “Third from last. You’d be surprised at how often you can sneak that into common conversation.”

  “We’ve been looking forward to finally getting to meet with you in person,” Jacob lied.

  Pastor Jill’s grin widened. “Me too. Don’t get me wrong—online meetings are super convenient. God’s really outdoing Himself with all the amazing technology these days. Well, Him and the inventors. There’s just something about a good, old-fashioned, face-to-face meeting, though. You can pick up so much more in person than you can through the computer.”

  Oh crap. Was this woman an empath?

  She didn’t seem to be reacting to my sudden gut-twisting spike of anxiety…so, hopefully not. Even I, with zero psychic empathy, agreed that there was a certain something to be gained from physical proximity. But that was due to the sorts of clues and impressions I picked up doing homicide investigations. Which, I’m sure, was nothing at all like marital counseling.

  Hopefully.

  Another thing about meeting in person—just dealing with the physicality can be unexpectedly weird. When I climbed out of the car, I realized that Pastor Jill was barely five feet tall. I towered over her awkwardly, willing my spine to compress and bring me down to a feasible human height, but I probably just looked like my posture was lousy. And then I reminded myself that in her line of work, she read people just as much as I did, and she’d probably make something out of the fact that Jacob was nearly as tall as I was, and he always held his head high.

  No doubt, that “something” would be entirely correct. Which only made it worse.

  Was it too late to jump into the car and high-tail it back to Chicago? Maybe I’d been able to bury my true feelings and present a normal face to the world—okay, normal-ish—but now? Hell, the more I trained with the FPMP, the more I learned about psychology and body language, the more I realized I wasn’t fooling anyone. We’d sacrificed any hope for a normal wedding to dig up family dirt, and now I was going to blow our one and only chance to do it by acting like a headcase.

  Then again…I pretty much am a headcase.

  I squared my shoulders as best I could and followed the pastor inside.

&nb
sp; I felt like I was doing pretty well. At least until I shoved my hand in my pocket and encountered a wad of fabric that felt way too big to be a sock.

  The church building was fairly plain, with lots of stone outside and lots of wood inside. The pastor’s office was in the lower level, which was even more modest than the main floor, with linoleum underfoot and walls of painted cinderblock. I recognized the wall behind her with its basement-gray paint job and harsh fluorescent lighting, but a fuller view of the room revealed that it was hung all over with snapshots and mementos. The photos—parishioners, I guess—featured happy, smiling people doing all sorts of things together, from singing to softball. And there were enough children’s drawings to decorate a whole fleet of refrigerators.

  Instead of lecturing us across a desk like a couple of kids facing off with the principal, Pastor Jill led us to a cluster of more comfortable-looking seating, a love seat and a few chairs. It looked pretty cozy. At least until Jacob parked himself on the love seat and looked at me expectantly, and I realized that our gauntlet of scrutiny had already begun…starting with where I opted to sit.

  I’d normally pick the chair with the best view of the door. It’s a cop thing. But instead, I plunked down beside Jacob and gave his knee an awkward pat.

  The pastor smiled. Evidently, I’d chosen right. And, bonus…it would camouflage the bulge in my pocket that I highly suspected was a pair of underwear.

  Pastor Jill said, “I thought we’d go through the exercises on family today. That way, if Jacob has any questions, he’ll have direct access to the people he needs to talk to while you’re up here.”

  At my side, Jacob shifted. I could practically feel the queasy anticipation thrumming through couch cushions as his gears started turning.

  Pastor Jill then turned to me and her bright smile softened. “And, Vic, I did see your answers on the initial questionnaire, so I know exercises like this—questions that presume you even had a stable family unit at all—can seem pretty pointless. But keep an open mind. Someone taught you adulting, even if it’s not obvious who that might have been. Teachers, counselors, even characters in TV shows or books. When you answer the questions, just tell me whatever’s on your mind, even if whatever comes up seems like a total non-sequitur.”