A civilian would take that for a total non sequitur…and a Psych bound by umpteen confidentiality agreements would pretend to do the same. But Fred Marks gave me a shrewd look instead.
And then he looked even more like Jacob.
“What can you tell me about Dr. Kamal?” I asked.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve heard that name.” His tone was easy, but his wheels were clearly turning, wondering exactly how much he could say.
Maybe it was naive of me to trust him just because he was the spitting image of my husband. But he was family, after all. I said, “I had my own run-in with Kamal, but I’m guessing yours happened a few years earlier, so it might provide some much-needed perspective.”
“That big project of his? There’s not really much to tell—I was nothing more than a statistic. My psychic potential never amounted to anything.”
I wrestled with the urge to let things drop—nothing to see here, folks—but whether or not Fred had talent, I suspected he at least knew what he was bred to be. Him…and, therefore, Jacob. Whether Jacob would be able to handle that knowledge, I didn’t know. And me?
I’d have to be strong enough for both of us.
“The potential Kamal was looking for…what exactly was it?”
“Telekinesis.” The look on my face must’ve been pretty priceless, because he added, “Moving things with your mind.”
“I’m familiar with the term.” I was also well aware that TKs were the unicorns of the psychic rainbow. My initial reaction was disbelief. Back at Camp Hell, Movie Mike got a killer headache from sliding a stupid penny across the table. And Mike was the only telekinetic I’d ever seen actually move something.
But I’d run across a few True Stiffs in my time…one of whom was Patrick Barley.
The Assassin.
What if Patrick not only trained to hold a weapon…but to be a weapon? Dread filled my belly as I wondered if good aim was the only reason the Marks family annihilated their competition at cornhole.
Cautiously, I said, “I’m guessing you’ve….endured your fair share of psychic tests.”
“Actually, I’d say failed is the word you’re looking for. Big waste of time. And about fifteen, twenty years ago, they stopped testing me altogether.”
When Kamal landed himself at Camp Hell. I dry-swallowed. “Those tests of yours. What did they entail?”
“Nothing your typical ten-year-old couldn’t handle.”
“As in…carnival games?”
Fred seemed surprised. “Sometimes. Yes. Was that how you trained to be a PsyCop—with games?”
“Not exactly.” Not unless being locked in a room with a dead body was your idea of fun. “So, those games of yours…what was the point?”
“The military wanted to develop an elite anti-landmine crew—psychics who could sense the mines, maybe even deactivate the charges remotely. I know, it sounds far-fetched nowadays, what with all the current research into the field of Psych—but during the Cold War, newer and deadlier mines were being created all the time, and Dr. Kamal was convinced he’d stumbled into some ingenious way to defuse them without any loss of life.”
My relief at stammering out a passable ad lib marriage vow? That was nothing compared to the relief of hearing Fred’s news. Whether Jacob was a dormant telekinetic or a True Stiff—I’d still need some time to piece together that particular puzzle—he hadn’t been bred to take lives…but to save them.
And his Uncle Fred seemed like a genuinely nice guy.
“What about your kids?” I asked. “Do the men in black still run them through a gauntlet of tests every year?”
Fred’s easy smile slipped. “I never had kids.” Neither had Leon—possibly because of his arm—so if both Fred and Leon had been chosen for the experiment, the generation of TKs Kamal had been hoping to cultivate from either of them had never come to be. “Whenever I met someone who was gung-ho about having a family, I’d hear my mother’s voice telling me, You’d make a terrible father…and I’d find a way to sabotage everything.”
So, that remark about Jacob making a terrible husband hadn’t been aimed at Jacob after all. “I suspect your mother said the things she did because she was dealing with some serious issues of her own. But Jerry and Shirley are two of the nicest people I know. And I think you should take advantage of the wedding to try and mend fences. Plus, I’m sure Jacob would love to properly meet you.”
Fred might have been leery of wearing out his welcome, but if ever there was a time to bury the hatchet with the rest of the family, it was now. I added, “Shirley wouldn’t have invited you if she didn’t want you to come. And Jerry is beside himself with joy, so what better time to reconnect?”
Better now than at the funeral. At least at the reception they could avail themselves of the open bar.
38
THERE WAS ONLY so long we could linger around the church to give Crash and Red time for their “zhuzhing”, and eventually we had to head over to the supper club.
Unfortunately, when we walked through the door, it seemed like all the time in the world wouldn’t have been nearly enough.
The banquet room that had seemed comfortingly simple upon my initial inspection now looked cold and stark. And everything on the tables, white on white, blended together—all but several towering weedy-looking bundles of greenery. It looked like a prison wedding, if such a thing existed, and even the most talented stylists we knew couldn’t make it right.
And there was no one to blame but me.
Jacob is well accustomed to my inclination for austerity, but judging by the way he tensed at my side, even he was taken aback. But before he was forced to lie through his teeth and tell me everything looked great, Crash called over to Red, “They’re here, hit the lights!”
And with the flip of a switch, the barren expanse of a banquet room transformed like magic.
Tiny white lights played across the tables and walls, some solid, some gently twinkling. They threaded through the greenery, which just moments ago looked like so much yard waste, but had morphed into something trendy and sleek. And while the overhead lights were off, it was only mid-afternoon, and ambient daylight from a few high windows lit the rest of the room well enough that it didn’t provoke my typical panicky gut reaction to the dark.
By the time our guests filtered in behind us, my heart had stopped hammering enough for me to unclench. Kill enough lights and most anything can come across as romantic.
The reception turned out to be surprisingly normal. No one complained about the seating arrangement, our requisite slow-dance was excruciating, and the relish trays were truly a thing of beauty. Who knew pickled green beans could be so addictive? I was scoping the room to see if any of the other tables had failed to notice how good they were and see if I could insert myself when Jacob snagged my attention. He led me out onto the dance floor and eased a hand around my waist, and I fell into position reluctantly. “We had our big awkward dance already,” I said, but without much steam behind the complaint. I’d never gone to a dance with a date, after all—certainly not with a guy—so I might as well try to enjoy the experience of sharing a voluntary dance with my husband, if only to say I’d done it. Not done it well, by any means. But people cut you a certain amount of slack on your wedding.
“I just wanted to make sure I actually got to see you at some point tonight,” Jacob murmured in my ear. “How are you holding up?”
“Fueled by pickles and adrenaline. You?”
“Good.” He leaned his temple into my cheek as we swayed on our postage stamp of real estate. “More than good. I can’t imagine anything more…perfect.”
I turned to see where Jacob’s attention had wandered and found Bill Kaiser trotting across the banquet room, heading right for us. “It’s the owner,” I told Jacob. “And he’s awfully nervous.”
Kaiser halted at the edge of the tiny dance floor like it was made of lava, and then proceeded to look profoundly awkward. Because he’d never seen two guys dance
together? Or because he had some unwelcome news to deliver?
Possibly both.
I never thought I’d be loath to disengage from a public slow-dance, but I could hardly enjoy pressing up against Jacob while someone stood five feet away wringing their hands. I pulled away reluctantly and approached the hovering man with cop-like brusqueness. “Mr. Kaiser. Anything I can do for you?
Not gonna lie…I got a kick out of him thinking I was the boss.
He dithered for a moment, blanched, then said, “I think you and your husband will need to come see for yourselves.”
Worst case scenario, the kitchen was on fire and we’d all be evacuated. But even if that happened, we could order a mess of pizzas and relocate the gathering to the Markses’ backyard. But given the absence of smoke and alarms, it didn’t look like the impromptu pizza party would be a go. Our check had cleared…so I couldn’t imagine what it might be. “You didn’t forget the vegan option, did you?”
“No, no, of course not. The artichoke linguini is all ready to go.” He paused at a final doorway and gave a pained smile. “It wasn’t our fault at all…though maybe we could have noticed the issue while there was still time to correct it.”
“Correct what?”
With an apologetic wince, Kaiser whisked aside a curtain to reveal a godawful train wreck of a wedding cake.
I wasn’t sure how it had anything to do with anything…until it registered that since ours was the only wedding reception at Kaiser’s that night, the cake monstrosity was ours.
“I’ve called the baker about the mix-up—she’s awful high-strung—but the other reception has already cut the cake. Your cake.”
“So we’re stuck with…this?”
“I’m real sorry.”
The changeling cake was a triple-tiered beast, big and ungainly, with that ridiculous “naked” frosting that made it look like someone with a massive sweet tooth had absconded with all the icing. “Can’t you just put some frosting on it?” I asked Kaiser.
“But…isn’t it supposed to look that way?”
Jacob said, “If you knew that much, then how did you even notice it wasn’t our cake?”
“Well obviously, it’s the topper.”
There hadn’t been a cake topper in our original plan, just a simple mound of piped flowers. Straight couples had a gazillion hetero bride-and-groom toppers to choose from. We had four—three of which would need to be special ordered.
We leaned in for a closer look at the couple on our cake.
Two brides. Huh.
Jacob settled a hand on my shoulder. “I know, I know…you had one preference—normal buttercream—and everything else was negotiable. Well, aside from the raisins. But is it really so bad?”
I pried off the brides and a hunk of cake came with them…but frankly, unless you were really searching for a bald spot, you wouldn’t know it.
Well…at least I wasn’t the one who’d screwed up. I shot Crash a quick text, and moments later, he and Red joined us in the kitchen. Red gave a low whistle. “That is one sexy cake.”
And given that he doesn’t do sarcasm…he must’ve been sincere.
No doubt his boyfriend would soon set him straight. But instead of the scathing remark I expected, Crash patted his belly and said, “Since it’s clearly bursting with eggs and butter, Red can only eat it with his eyes. I, however, will make sure his piece finds a good home.”
Before I could pipe in with my low opinion of the frosting, Jacob said, “There was a mix-up with the cake topper. Can you work your magic?”
“No problem,” Red said. “We’ll add some botanicals and it will look perfect.”
It seemed awfully early to start dinner, but either the guests had skipped lunch or they normally ate at six, because when servers rolled out the buffet trays, they lined up to wait eagerly with their plates. Even Jack Bly, who normally approaches mealtime with the same enthusiasm I feel about driving through repeaters. I peered over his shoulder and said, “Are you putting pasta on your plate?”
“Bethany’s given me a new motto—everything in moderation.” He and the yoga lady locked eyes, and I was practically scorched by the explosion of pheromones. I could only imagine how powerful it must feel to an empath. Whatever carbs he might consume, I had the feeling he’d enjoy working them off later.
The meal went off without a hitch. A true foodie might have pointed out that we could get a much fancier dinner in Chicago—but apparently Kaiser’s chefs really knew their way around a big hunk of beef, and nobody was complaining. I must’ve been hungrier than I thought, or maybe those pickled green beans weren’t really all that filling, because by the time the obligatory toasts came around, I was neck-deep in a food coma. Uncle Leon—with surprisingly good comedic timing—offered up a story about the time they nearly lost me at the farm implement store, and Maurice offered some heart-warming, if meandering, insights about following your dreams.
While he rambled on, the light through the windows began to fade, and the twinkle of the fairy lights intensified. I watched the nearest bulb wax and wane as within its tiny glass tube, the filament pulsed with light. Don’t get me wrong, I was stupidly grateful for the kind words—especially coming from my stand-in father, though Maurice made for a much more relaxed parent than Harold ever was. But something about that tiny pulse of light was dragging my attention back to my conversation with Uncle Fred.
The one where he felt the urge to define the word telekinetic.
Back when Jacob and I forced Dr. Kamal’s ghost through the veil, the lights in the pharmacy were blinking like a Christmas tree. I’d taken note of it at the time—but it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder why. Maybe I figured it was some kind of fallout from the nonphysical entities. Or maybe a side-effect of the GhosTV.
What if it wasn’t?
I shifted my gaze to the crowd. A disproportionate number of them were certified Psychs, which was part and parcel of our vocation. And a few of them were equally talented, but undocumented.
And then there was Jacob’s family.
Back at PsyTrain, I’d scanned a roomful of Psychs under the range of a GhosTV, and they’d all lit up with talent. Jacob had been the only True Stiff, pumped up and coursing with red energy. But by its very nature, PsyTrain wouldn’t have recruited any Stiffs, so no wonder he was the only one. If I could get a GhosTV-powered look into this room? Quite possibly he’d have some competition.
If only I could figure out how to unlock my mediumship. Not just for the sake of keeping out possessions—which would be a pretty big deal in itself—but the other oddball things I’d managed to do once or twice under duress…then never managed to accomplish again.
If only I could help my new husband.
If I weren’t so limited, I could’ve spoken to his grandmother in the astral when she was too stubborn, or too confused, to give us a good answer. I could figure out if Uncle Fred had only failed his testing because Kamal was looking for the wrong thing. Hell, I could reach through the veil and get some answers from Kamal himself. But I’d spent so much of my life trying to dumb down my own talent, I couldn’t figure out how. Without a psyactive drug or device, I was still a one-trick pony.
Jacob’s hand fell across the back of my neck and he gave my shoulder a squeeze. He leaned in and whispered, “Time to cut the cake.” What a relief to have something to focus on other than my own insecurities. “And keep in mind, people will be taking pictures.”
“Are you saying I should save my eye-rolling for later?”
“Just giving you fair warning…though if you want something good to think about, feel free to imagine what I’d rather be doing when I’m feeding you the cake.”
True to his word, Jacob gave me a look hot enough to set the decorative weeds ablaze as he tucked a morsel of cake into my mouth, though I had nowhere near enough confidence to lick it from his fingers with an equal amount of sex appeal.
Not in front of the parents.
I will say this for the mistaken ca
ke—it tasted pretty darn good, though Crash had to explain persimmons to me several times…and I still wasn’t quite sure I could picture them in the produce aisle. There was plenty of cake to go around, given the size of the thing, so we encouraged everyone to help themselves to seconds. Crash was actually on thirds—and I’d never known him to have much of a sweet tooth, but Red brought out the side of him that was willing to dial back the snark and eat lots of cake. Although he did sound plenty acerbic when he muttered, “I knew telling you to keep from pawing at yourself was too much to ask.”
A flesh-covered handprint lay smack in the middle of my right sleeve—though how I’d managed to press the back of my left hand to it was is anyone’s guess. But if there’s a perk to my job as a federal agent, it’s that I now own a multitude of decent black suits. Thankfully, I’d had the foresight to bring a couple of spares.
Since everyone now had a persimmon cake sugar-high or was tipsy on brandy old fashioneds, they were less likely to shoot an incriminating photo of my hand. I hit the can, scrubbed off the makeup as best I could, then headed out to the car to grab another jacket.
The fireflies were done sparking for the night, but the cicadas were in full chorus. Up here in the hinterlands, there’s a vast solitude to nighttime that you don’t get in Chicago. And while it was peaceful, I fortified myself with white light anyway. Just in case. Because nothing kills solitude like getting ambushed by a ghost.
I beeped open the Crown Vic and traded my foundation-christened jacket for a new one from a garment bag on the back seat. But as I was switching over the boutonniere, a phone rang…and not my phone, either.
It was coming from the glovebox…where we kept the burner phones.
39
MAYBE IT WAS the unaccustomed solitude, or maybe the fact that I was already hoarding white light. Or maybe I’d just seen too many slasher flicks where the call was coming from inside the house. Either way, at the sound of the ringer, my blood went cold.
It’s probably nothing more than a dumb robo-call saying my car warranty has expired.
Other Half (PsyCop book 12) Page 24