Other Half (PsyCop book 12)

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “You did,” Jacob said. “You were little. But I was maybe ten, so I remember. He brought us these giant Hershey bars. And Mom got really mad, yelled at him, and threw them in the garbage.”

  That didn’t sound like the Shirley I knew. “Anti-sugar phase?”

  Jacob shook his head sadly. “You think you can buy them with candy? That’s what she said. At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. But over the years I pieced together that he had money.”

  “Lots of money,” Barbara said. “He was loaded.”

  “Grandma put him through college—even grad school. But she refused to give our dad any help at all—not a single cent.”

  This was a prime example of how biological families aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I’d always figured Jacob was descended from generations of healthy, well-adjusted, loving people. Turned out they were just as screwy as everyone else.

  Jacob said that since his uncle was estranged, he hadn’t even thought about tracking Fred down for the sake of a wedding invite. But now that Grandma was declining?

  Barbara shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to get ahold of Uncle Fred even if I wanted to. After all, if he wanted a relationship, he should’ve made some effort to reach out.”

  Effort was right. Being part of a family was a heck of a lot more work than I’d ever imagined.

  14

  WHILE JACOB’S GRANDMOTHER was no fun to be around—even at the best of times—seeing her out of her gourd truly sucked. I wished I could say something to comfort Jacob, but empty platitudes would do more harm than good. All night long, we were crammed together on a mattress a lot smaller than we were used to. And though I felt valiant about not complaining that he’d mashed me into the wall so hard I was practically flat, in the grand scheme of things, I wasn’t particularly helpful.

  As I was climbing over him the next morning, attempting to unflatten myself, my gaze fell on a folded sheet of paper on the dresser—the “fun” date assignment from Pastor Jill. You know things are dire when an assigned date sounds good. But did it really need to be scrapbooking?

  As a rule, I don’t engage in anything one would call a hobby. They seem awkward and pointless, and the opposite of relaxing. “Say, Jacob…maybe there’s another option on this list that’s not quite so…soccer mom. This workshop on taking better pictures with your phone that might not be too bad—I’m told I shoot pictures like I’m documenting a crime scene.”

  “But that wouldn’t give us an excuse to go through the basement.”

  True.

  We parked ourselves at the kitchen table with our coffees and Jacob smoothed out the paper between us. He scanned the list with a frown and said, “Basket weaving? That’s really a thing?”

  “I’ve always wanted to try basket weaving!” Jacob’s mother said as she scuffed into the kitchen, adorable in a pink terrycloth robe.

  I didn’t know how I’d ever deal with it if she turned out to be anything other than a normal Midwestern mom.

  Shirley joined us at the table and exclaimed over all the “fun” activities. I think she was wishing she could come with us—and while I would’ve gladly given her my spot, I suspected that wouldn’t fly with the pastor.

  Eventually we came back around to the scrapbooking class. Not only did it sound better than basket weaving…it was the only thing that gave us a good reason to paw through the basement and scare up an old photo album to use.

  I envied people who got to do things like scrapbooking just for the sake of doing them, and not to dig up dirt on their future in-laws. I hated being cagey around Jacob’s parents, and it was a relief to finally head over to the class.

  Happy Crafts was a massive hangar of a building filled with inexplicable goods, from pom-poms to pool noodles. There were paints to make old things look new, and new things look old. There was an entire wall dedicated to scissors. And there was a gaggle of middle-aged, blonde-haired Wisconsin women staring at Jacob and me as if we’d just parked a flying saucer beside their SUVs and minivans.

  Once I got a load of the place, I’d just as soon have turned around and walked right back out. Too bad Jacob was in my way—though when he said, “We’re here for the scrapbooking class,” even he sounded vaguely intimidated.

  The women fluttered apart like a startled flock of blonde sparrows and made room for us smack dab in the middle of the table. So much for my usual M.O.—lurk around the fringes and leave early when no one’s looking. Not only would we be directly across from the teacher, but all the other students were way more interested in us than they were in their glue sticks and gel pens.

  “We don’t see fresh faces in our group that often,” the instructor said. She seemed pleased, I think…or maybe she was just humoring us. “Let’s all go around and introduce ourselves. My name is Sue.”

  We introduced ourselves, and the rest of women all said their names, which I promptly forgot. There were a couple of Heathers, though the group was so homogenous that within moments I couldn’t tell you which ones they were.

  Sue eyed a photo album tucked under Jacob’s arm and said, “And I see you brought some family photos along to work on your family tree?”

  The album in question had been prized form a teetering stack that smelled like mothballs. Jacob had gone for an old one, hoping that a few frozen moments might help him make sense of things.

  Sue looked to me. Specifically, to the way I was standing there empty-handed. “And what about you, Vic? Are the two of you…related?”

  “We will be, as of next week.”

  A couple of the women looked scandalized at that, but the rest of them were just relieved to know what our deal was. Sue seemed fine about sharing her passion for scrapbooking with a couple of gay guys, but it looked like she wasn’t about to let me coast by on Jacob’s work. “The tree is more meaningful when it’s your own roots. If you’ve got some pictures on your phone we can print them up on our photo printer.”

  “I don’t think anything I’ve got on here would work.”

  “You’d be surprised at what kinds of pictures make for the best layouts. Let’s see your camera roll—I’ll help you pick out some good ones.”

  Most guys would worry about flashing good ol’ Sue a dick pic. But I’ve never shot one, myself, since anything I put in my phone goes straight into the FPMP database. The majority of my shots were of locales where I’d spent time funneling white light and throwing salt. Not that my camera lens could pick up on a ghost, even if one were still there to see…but I felt like I should keep some kind of record.

  I could show her that my photo albums were filled with a bunch of empty rooms, but it would be a lot easier to just produce some random people. “I’ve got my pictures in the cloud,” I said. I’m not a hundred percent sure what that means, but she seemed to buy it. Sticking my phone under the table so none of the Heathers could see, I sent a quick text to a co-worker who owed me a favor.

  Veronica Lipton was an undercover specialist at the FPMP. She was also the owner of three spoiled cats. And on the rare occasion when she was out on assignment and her sister couldn’t come stay with them, their care fell to Jacob and me. The cats had actually grown pretty fond of us, and they hardly ever clawed our furniture anymore (now that we knew to cover anything important in bubble wrap and double-stick tape). Still, they made for pretty good leverage when I wanted something.

  I thumbed in a quick text: Need a dozen plausible family photos ASAP.

  She replied, 5 min.

  Either that meant someone in her department was really on the ball, or she already had a contingency plan for this and just needed to dig up the folder. That was kind of creepy. But also pretty darn convenient.

  “They’ll take a few minutes to download,” I said.

  “That’s just fine,” Sue said. “It’ll give me time to show you the new papers we have in stock.”

  She rolled out a sheaf of papers, an armload of pens, a wad of ink pads and, yes, several pots of glitter. I’d been wonde
ring why the class was free, but now it was pretty clear that the whole point of it was to sell us a bunch of ridiculous stationery.

  Jacob picked out his background pretty quickly. Either he really liked it or he’d chosen at random. I did the same. In keeping with the “family tree” theme, everything was some variety of woodgrain or leaf—basically the same—but the Heather on my right made a big deal out of helping me pick different “scales” of print for my accents, while the one across from me tried to educate me on complementary colors.

  By the time I had my pile of supplies assembled, my phone dinged, and I found a new folder in my files marked family. Inside was a variety of shots, from portraits to candids. Some were digital. Some were older.

  I tried not to think too hard about the kid who appeared in a few of them—the kid who was clearly supposed to be me. Had they hired a model and styled the scene to look three decades old, or just usurped some other person’s past for me to claim as my own? I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with either scenario…but at least it would get Sue off my back.

  Once she helped me print out my pictures—that kid was really eerie—I found my seat and let my Heather help me cut things out.

  Sue was already going on about how to divide up the page and where to put the lettering, but Jacob was obviously way more interested in the photo album than he was in the lesson. He tried to pry a shot from the acetate sleeve, and his Heather said, “Don’t force it out if it’s stuck. You’ll peel off the emulsion.”

  Jacob was so focused on the photo, I’m not sure he even heard her.

  I forgot about the strangers standing in for my family and craned my neck to get a look at what Jacob was peering at. My first impression was that it felt a lot like the pictures Veronica had sent me—oddly colored and old-fashioned, from a decade where men side-parted their hair with brilliantine and women allowed it. The focus of the photo was the car, which took up most of the frame, though the guy beside it stole the show.

  “Is that your dad?” I said. “He looks just like you.” Albeit a heck of a lot younger, though I didn’t mention that.

  “That’s him—and the Cutlass Supreme. He loved that car.”

  “And your mom?” Off to one side, a sassy looking girl with a snub nose and waist-length, honey-brown hair had a cigarette in one hand and a toddler on her opposite hip. “Holy crap, that’s you.”

  I’d seen plenty of Jacob’s baby pictures, but there was something about this one—unposed, unscripted, a slice of life that felt so natural and real—that my heart hurt to think that a few initials in some quack’s journal was making Jacob wonder if his whole history was a lie.

  He tried again to peel up the plastic overlay, but no dice.

  His Heather said, “Ope, don’t tear it—just put the whole page on the copier. The color copies come out real nice.”

  But it wasn’t what we could see that Jacob was focused on…but what we couldn’t. “It’s folded in half.”

  “That’s funny,” his Heather said. “There’s plenty of room on the page for the whole thing.”

  All the Heathers stopped inking their stamps, sticking their glue dots and scalloping their edges…and turned their eyes to Jacob. Their leader, Sue, had been doing her best to not make a big deal out of two gay guys crashing the scrapbook party, but even she couldn’t resist the intrigue. “Hang on there,” she said. “If it’s stuck, warm it up with the heat gun first.”

  All the Heathers held their breath while Sue carefully wielded the mini blowdryer, and the scent of warming plastic mingled with the pervasive smell of markers. Someone produced a scraper with a rounded edge, and Jacob worked it underneath the sheet protector. There was a brief sound of something tearing, a shocked intake of breath, and then all at once, the photo peeled free.

  On the back? Two more guys—just teenagers, really—with side-parted hair.

  I’m not sure what the Heathers expected to see, but whatever it was, they seemed pretty disappointed that it wasn’t anything more lurid. They went back to their sticking and stamping and scalloping while I leaned in to get a closer look at the photo. One guy looked even more like Jacob than his dad did. “Is that your uncle Fred?”

  “Must be.”

  “And the other kid?”

  “No idea.”

  “Turn it over,” my Heather said. “People use-ta write names on the back.”

  And sure enough, there it was, in faded cursive.

  Jerry

  Shirley

  Baby Jacob (snerk)

  Freddie

  Norman K

  I was connecting dots before I fully realized what was going on. The logic ran something like this….

  Even the handwriting looks old. You don’t see too many guys named Norman anymore. Since they put his last initial, he must not be related. Have I ever met a Norman before? It seems like I might have.

  By this time, I’d flipped the photograph front side up and zeroed in on the kid next to Jacob’s uncle. While teenaged Fred was smirking, arms akimbo, the picture of confidence bordering on arrogance, his buddy had his arms crossed and a scowl on his face that belonged on a guy twice his age. In fact, he’d already developed some impressive frown lines.

  Impressively familiar.

  My stomach churned as if realization dawned on my body first before it fully hit my brain. I knew what the K in “Norman K.” stood for. Why? Because he’d been at Camp Hell.

  Not as a fellow inmate…but as the director.

  ***

  The rest of the scrapbooking class was a blur in which I used every last technique in my arsenal to stave off a raging, full-on panic attack. I visualized a tranquil sunset. I counted my breaths. I even slipped in a set of earbuds, claimed I was just getting into the scrapbooking groove, and cranked some binaural pulses to try and calm myself the fuck down.

  It worked, kind of…in that I was able to cut out photos of strangers who looked vaguely like me, stick them on a page and douse them with glitter without making a complete spectacle of myself.

  Meanwhile, I struggled to find a reason why the guy in the photo couldn’t be Director Krimski. The Krimski I knew back then was in his late forties—so he’d be what, sixty-something now? A few years younger than Jacob’s folks.

  No matter how I tried to second-guess myself, it still fit.

  And there was no mistaking those piercing, deep-set eyes.

  Under any typical circumstance, Norman Krimski would intimidate the hell out of me. He was the one who locked us in our rooms like inmates—who fired the instructors, replaced the normal orderlies with savage bullies, and used us all as guinea pigs. Any one of those things would leave a mark. But it was the ghost in his office that really scared me.

  Krimski’s official story was that Director Sanchez had retired.

  I knew different.

  There was only one instance where I’d seen what was left of Sanchez, but once was plenty—face red, eyes bulging, clawing at the garrote around his neck. Back then, I hadn’t known a repeater was nothing more than trapped energy, an etheric stain. Then again, I guess it’s hard to tell whether you’re dealing with a mindless repeater or a potential possession until it’s way too late.

  I did my best not to spiral down a loop of experimentation and possession, to just focus on the task in front of me and stop stray rhinestones from sticking themselves to the hairs on the back of my hand—but the class seemed to stretch on forever. Apparently, though, it wasn’t just my perception of time dragging on. The hour-long class was half an hour past its scheduled stopping point with no end in sight. It was actually a relief when Jacob got an irate text from Barbara reminding him we were supposed to be at the nursing home.

  Fifty bucks later, dragging along a sparkly trail of glitter, we headed out to the car. I fully expected Jacob to call me on the panic attack, and I’d been trying to figure out how to break the Camp Hell connection to him without him completely disowning his parents. Was it possible Jacob didn’t notice my panic? I guess I
forget that he isn’t actually empathic. While I’d been quelling my freak-out, he’d been busy ruminating on his own concerns.

  He frowned and said, “Why would my dad have been in that journal, and not Uncle Fred? Unless the milkman is my grandfather’s spitting image, it’s pretty plain they’re from the same genetic stock.”

  “No idea.” I unlocked the glovebox and pulled out the journal. We’d both worried over it so many times it fell right open to the critical page. I scanned the penciled letters as if I was looking for Fred’s initials, but what I was really searching for? NK.

  And there it was.

  I already knew Norman Krimski was a True Stiff—Stefan had told me so. But seeing it there in black and white was still a major jolt to my reality. There were no siblings or children listed, but who knew if the list was even complete, since Barbara wasn’t on it—Uncle Fred, either. Try as I might to forget about Krimski—to leave him in the past where he belonged—I was starting to suspect he wouldn’t stay put forever.

  Another thing that bothered me was the total lack of context. We knew “who” was part of Kamal’s experiment…but we didn’t know “why.” Were they breeding Human Shields? What purpose could there possibly be, if telepathy hadn’t been officially discovered yet? That thing Jacob did when he went red and veiny in the etheric plane—when the lights flickered and the habit demons quaked—maybe that was the whole point of whatever it was Kamal was trying to achieve.

  But without wringing an answer out of him, we might never know.

  15

  I WAS STILL scanning and re-scanning the initials on the page when Jacob said, “Maybe at the nursing home, you could distract Barbara.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get her out of the room. Just for a few minutes.”

  “Whoa, hold on. You want some privacy to put the thumbscrews to your grandmother?”

  Jacob glared at the dash. “I might not get another chance.” When I was too stunned to answer right away, he soft-pedaled with, “I just want to ask her a few questions that Barb doesn’t need to worry about.”