GhosTV #6
Summary:For the past dozen years, Victor Bayne has solved numerous murders by interrogating witnesses only he can see—dead witnesses. But when his best friend Lisa goes missing from the sunny California campus of PsyTrain, the last thing he wants to find there is her spirit.
Disappearing without a trace in a school full of psychics? That's some trick. But somehow both Lisa and her roommate have vanished into thin air. A group of fanatics called Five Faith has been sniffing around, and Lisa's email is compromised.
Time is running out, and with no ghosts to cross-examine, Vic can't afford to turn down any offers of help. An old enemy can provide an innovative way to track Vic's missing friend, and he enters into an uneasy alliance—even though its ultimate cost will ensnare him in a debt he may never manage to settle.
Summary:
Everyone enjoys peace and tranquility, and Victor Bayne is no exception. He goes to great lengths to maintain a harmonious home with his partner, Jacob. Although the cannery is huge, it’s grown difficult to avoid the elephant in the room…the elephant with the letters FPMP scrawled on its hide.
Once Jacob surrendered his PsyCop badge, he infiltrated the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program. In his typical restrained fashion, he hasn’t been sharing much about what he actually does behind its vigilantly guarded doors. And true to form, Vic hasn’t asked. In fact, he would prefer not to think about the FPMP at all, since he’s owed Director Dreyfuss an exorcism since their private flight to PsyTrain.
While Vic has successfully avoided FPMP entanglement for several months, now his debt has finally come due.
Original Review February 2024:
It's been too long since I read the first 5 entries in Jordan Castillo Price's PsyCop series, I've listened to those 5 over the course of time since first discovering this series but I had yet to go back to continue on with Vic and Jacob's journey. It was a case of "in the mood for Christmas holiday cheer" that halted my first reading and time just never seemed to be on my side since. I don't do resolutions but I do make a few goals every January and one of my goals for 2024 was a Reading Bucket List, returning to Price's PsyCop series was near the top so when I finished my last After Christmas Holiday Read I felt compelled to start the Bucket List reading with Vic and Jacob. So glad I did. I must admit that due to a few spring holidays and blog theme reads I probably won't finish the series now but it won't be years until I return either, hopefully not even months, perhaps weeks but no more than that.
Onto GhosTV.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!! There have been dark elements throughout the series so far but there was just something about GhosTV that really made those dark elements even darker. Perhaps it was Vic and Jacob's determination to find out what happened to Lisa and the personal draw that highlighted those dark times or maybe it was Vic's learning and exploring his astral talents that heaped on the creep or maybe it was certain characters and their natural creepiness that spoke bleaky volumes. Whatever it was, I gobbled it up like a kid gorging on their first trick-or-treat haul.
Vic and Jacob-what can I say? I love the beginnings of a relationship when we get to watch the parties learn and navigate their similarities and differences, watching the chemistry ignite. Having said that though I have always been pulled toward series that follow the same couple so that we can go from those first discoveries to established routines, being comfortable with status quo yet not losing the fire that ignited their beginnings. Vic and Jacob are somewhere in the middle of that journey, off the charts chemistry yet comfy with same old, same old.
The paranormal elements that the author brings to the table are so well developed that you almost believe you are living in the world of PsyCop where all that "out there" factors is a way of life known to all, even those that sneer down at Vic and those like him. On the flip side of the details-feel-real coin, the author doesn't mire the story down with so many intricacies that it reads like a paranormal101 college course. A delicate balance over a fine line of fiction/reality tug of war to be sure but a perfect balance for this reader.
I didn't go into any details of the case the duo is investigating so as not to spoil the story for any who like me are just discovering or returning to the series. Just know that it's amazingly fun and full of all kinds of yum to keep you on tenderhooks and hungry for more.
Spook Squad #7
Original Review October 2024:
I don't know how I'm doing it but I've managed to space out my reading of PsyCop after the initial few entries about 4 years ago. Don't get me wrong, it has nothing to do with my like or dislike of the series because frankly I FREAKIN' LOVE VIC AND JACOB!!! Covid messed with my reading mojo and this is the first year it is even remotely close to pre-pandemic levels which means my TBR list has grown exponentially in the years between, so "spacing series reads" has become a necessity I'm afraid.
So onto to Spook Squad.
After GhosTV I thought the author might give the pair a little rest from the macabre . . . okay I didn't really expect that but there was a bit of hope on my part they might get to do some downtime partying or vegging(which I think would suit their inner peace better) but alas mayhem called.
I don't want to spoil too much for those like me and are a bit late to the PsyCop party so details will be minimal. Jacob has traded his PsyCop badge for the FPMP(Federal Psychic Monitoring Program) to do some undercover work, if you will, to discover any secrets lurking behind closed doors. Vic tries not to think of the FPMP any more than necessary but the exorcism he owed Director Dreyfuss from their interactions in GhosTV must be paid. When Vic enters the halls of the FPMP he finds more than he expected and it ain't all good(that he expected😉).
Honestly, I think I'll begin to wrap this review up before I spill too much. The most deliciously enticing way I can express the freaky joy this entry brought me is this: I'm a sucker for some good old fashion mayhem of the creepiest kind and the "spook" in Spook Squad only hints at said maniacal mayhem Vic finds behind a simple favor owed exorcism. I know, there's probably something wrong with me but I gotta say it: YUMMILICOUSLY YUMMY!!!
Spook Squad has returning characters, good, bad, and at times a bit indifferent, but each one plays a part, none are page filler. It's some of these returning/recurring cast members that make this series one to be read in order. As much as I would love to continue on it'll probably be after the holidays/early(hopefully) 2025 before I return to Vic and Jacob's world but I look forward to it and the hungry anticipation I'm forcing upon myself will only heighten the enjoyment as it had done with GhosTV and now Spook Squad.
GhosTV #6
Chapter 1
Sunshine, fresh air and junk food. I told myself I could enjoy those things— or that’s the line I was feeding myself, anyway. This was the reality: my underwear was soaking wet and my head was ringing; I’d taken one too many Auracel and spun around a few too many times. If I was careful, really careful, the best I could hope for was keeping the chimichanga and the fried Snickers bar from making a reappearance.
I wasn’t obligated to talk to any dead people. I supposed that was something to be thankful for.
I did, however, feel somewhat obligated to talk to Jacob’s sister, Barbara. But only somewhat.
“…scored two goals during the first half of the game. You’d think the coach would have been proud, right? Instead, he said Clayton wasn’t a team player. That he didn’t pass the ball.”
“Must run in the family.”
Normal sounds, like screaming children, screaming adults, and the general wall of screaming humanity, continued on. But the conversation Barbara and I were diligently attempting to have fell down dead between us.
It belatedly occurred to me that I’d spoken aloud.
“I mean, uh, that’s what I like about Jacob. If he’s good at something, he doesn’t stand around waiting for someone else to take a turn at it. That’s fine for little-league soccer, maybe, but when it’s life or death, you want the best guy on your team to step up to the plate.” Okay, I was mixing baseball metaphors with my soccer, but I really didn’t know shit about soccer.
I risked a glance around the side of my cheap plastic sunglasses toward Barbara. She was watching me, which made me want to squirm—despite my damp underwear. Over at the Gut Scrambler, or whatever they were calling the latest ride that neither Barbara nor I were willing to be strapped into, Jacob and Clayton disembarked. They were quite the pair, all flushed cheeks and smiles. They stopped to peer at a bank of monitors that snapped shots of all the scream-laughing riders getting scrambled like a bunch of eggs.
“Aw, jees, he’s gonna talk Jacob into…” Barbara stood and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Clayton. You do not need a ten-dollar picture of yourself on that ride. I took plenty of pictures today with the phone.”
Clayton set his jaw, and holy shit, I hadn’t really seen it when I’d met him last November—but now that he was half a year older, I totally did. That was Jacob’s stubborn-look. In spades.
Genetics can be kinda creepy.
“Tell ’im he’ll wreck it on the log flume,” I muttered.
“You’ll get it wet on the log ride, and then what? You want to be stuck carrying that thing around all day?”
A tinge of bewilderment touched Clayton’s mulish expression. Jacob said something, maybe a promise to stand in line another half hour, ride again and get a photo on the way out. He probably didn’t want to be stuck carrying the thing around all day either—but he also had only one nephew, and as far as he was concerned, kids were made for spoiling.
Jacob and Clayton approached without the photo. One small success. Although I wouldn’t have minded being the photo carrier; it would’ve excused me from riding rides.
“I wanna go on King Chaos,” Clayton whined. He had exactly two modes of speech: whining, and bragging.
Our small group milled for position, and before I could drop to the rear, Jacob looped an arm through mine and pulled me against his side. “What do you say, Vic? You choose the next one after that.”
“I’ll, uh, keep my eyes open.” The list of rides I could actually stomach was pathetically small. Fast spinning and Auracel didn’t mix well. The act of getting strapped into anything and my own demons didn’t mix well, either. Even thoroughly potted on Auracel, I had no desire to ride through long, dark tunnels where God-knows-what might pop out. And my legs were too long for those teacup things. That left log rides. I tried to tell myself they were fun, but it seemed like every time my underwear finally dried off, I ended up sitting on one of those wet seats again—plus, as the tallest guy there, I was always the one to get nailed in the face with the funky, chemical-laced water. But at least it didn’t look like I was too wussy to ride anything.
The contraption Clayton was angling for was some mad scientist experiment that took a row of people and whipped them upside down like they were riding around inside a big bicycle pedal —though in addition to the “you must be this tall” sign, there was also a maximum height.
Yes.
“Gee, sorry,” I said. I was a good two inches taller than the sign, and even Jacob would need to seriously slouch to fake his way through it.
Clayton turned plaintive eyes toward his mother, who said, “Not in your wildest dreams.”
A train pulled up beside us with lots of fake steam and recorded clanging, and Jacob looked at it, and then at me, and raised his eyebrow.
Clayton whined, “I don’t wanna go on that stupid—“
Barbara said, “Give Uncle Jacob and Vic a break for ten minutes, okay? We’ll get some popcorn.”
“I dunno why they wanna go on that stupid….”
I climbed onto the emptiest train car, with only one other rider in it who was staring out at the amusement park and keeping to himself. “Thanks, Barb,” Jacob said. He gave his sister and nephew a little wave. Clayton gave me the evil eye in return. I hoped psychic ability didn’t run in Jacob’s family like stubbornness did.
Without much thinking about it, I sucked white light and put up a barrier between myself and Clayton’s scowling face. I didn’t really feel the power—not like I would have if I weren’t on antipsyactives—but psychically shielding myself was second nature to me by now, like blowing on my coffee to lessen the scald factor or positioning myself upwind of a rotting corpse.
Jacob eased an arm around me and said, “I’m really glad you came.”
I didn’t see why, but I did my best not to sigh or roll my eyes. I’d figured it wouldn’t kill me to sit there for a day and zone out on meds if this family time meant that much to him. “Long as you don’t mind me being a spectator.” I hadn’t realized the buckles and straps would trigger a restraint-reaction from me. I told myself it was just a seatbelt, but my subconscious didn’t buy it, and I ended up bowing out before the spiral flingy upside-down coaster got going.
It was easiest to say the Auracel wasn’t sitting right. In theory, sharing your burdens should make them lighter. But in practice, I hate watching it register on Jacob’s face when he catches me in a Camp Hell flashback.
The train chugged through some Mardi Gras section that looked like a cartoonist’s vision of pre-Katrina New Orleans, and then a stand of palm-looking trees that had absolutely no business growing in the suburbs of Chicago. Jacob pulled me closer and nuzzled my hair. “Next time we both get a day off at the same time, you pick. Anything you want to do.”
I leaned into him. It felt risky, like someone might pop out of the fake woodwork screaming for his autograph, the famous Jacob Marks, darling of the local media—and there he’d be, rubbing up against some guy. But people you see on TV look different in person. Over the airwaves, they’re taller, tanner, younger, and more coiffed. And people were accustomed to seeing Jacob in a suit instead of a sloppy, faded T-shirt and cargo shorts. He’d grown his hair out maybe an inch, and while it had started its day immaculately combed, the whirling and scrambling and whipping around and splashing had left it no better off than mine—and given the relative failure of my most recent haircut, that was saying a lot. For today, at least, Jacob was just a regular guy.
A hot as hell regular guy who was breathing in my ear, but a regular guy, nonetheless.
“You can be my slave for the day,” I suggested.
“Really?” he purred, directly into my ear. I’d been kidding—but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. “What’ll that entail? Feeding you?” His breath was warm on my cheek. “Bathing you? With my tongue?”
“I don’t know yet. Gotta keep you on your toes.” No doubt about it—between Jacob and me, he’s got all the testosterone. And yet, maybe he really would get off on the idea of waiting on me hand and foot—and tongue—like that. Problem was, experimenting in bed was kind of like riding amusement park rides. Sure, they were fun, but sometimes you rued the day you ever got in that line.
A big-kid ride roared past us and the wall of scream trailed along in the wake of the metal cage full of freshly flung people. Jacob and I watched. Horror and delight, all mingled together.
I wondered if I would’ve liked rides—if my life hadn’t been…my life.
“So how’re you hanging in there—really?”
“It’s uh…I dunno. It’s fine.”
“You had a look.”
I shook my head. Sometimes I got really sick of myself. “I’ve always got a look. Never mind. I’m having fun.”
We chugged through a really artificial-looking garden, with flowers in colors you never see in nature planted in rows with military precision. Popcorn bags and paper cups drifted against the planter and mounded around the bases of the garbage cans that were set in every few feet, with yellowjackets swarming their swinging lids.
“It’s too bad about the Auracel. Remember those swings?” Jacob nodded at an older strip of rides with much shorter lines than the new, popular attractions. The swing riders were achieving liftoff as they spun in a big circle. “They had those back when we were kids.”
“Did they?”
“Sure. Those, and slides, and bumper cars, and wooden coasters.”
“And funhouses.” I couldn’t be sure if I actually remembered being in a funhouse or if I’d just seen one on TV. My patchwork brain likes to keep me guessing.
“Now it’s all how fast and how far you can fall.” Jacob pulled me against him tighter. “Don’t let me say that in front of Clayton. I probably sound as old as my dad.”
I gave his knee a squeeze. King Chaos loomed up ahead of us. Cripes. I was glad I was too tall to ride. It looked like a stiff neck with Valium written all over it, even from the ground. The train tooted and chugged and pulled up to the spot we’d first climbed on. Jacob turned to give me a hand down, and then didn’t bother letting go of my hand. This was unusual for him. He’s not really into public displays of affection. But he was having a sentimental kind of day.
Barbara and Clayton both stood and walked over. Clayton said, as if we were all talking about whether the clouds would turn to rain, or if we’d prefer pizza to burgers, “This kid Tyler at school says that faggots are perverts and they should all be put in jail.”
Barbara went white. I let go of Jacob’s hand not because I gave a rat’s ass what an eleven-year-old snotnosed punk thought of me touching his uncle, but because I wanted to attempt to catch his mother if she fainted.
“Clayton Joseph,” Barbara barked. She sounded like Jacob telling a crackhead to drop his weapon. “You apologize this very second.”
“But that’s what he said.” Clayton’s whine cut through my head like a dentist’s drill. “I’m not making it up.”
Barbara put her face directly in her kid’s. “You are old enough to know when you’re repeating something that will hurt somebody’s feelings.”
“Barb.” Jacob sounded…I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe he sounded like I did when things went south—not like I’d been expecting anything better, but maybe I’d held out a glimmer of hope that it didn’t necessarily need to be all that bad. He sounded weary. “Clayton’s going to hear things. I’d rather he heard them from me.”
He put his arm around Clayton, and what a relief, the kid didn’t flinch. I suspected he might not be at the point where he really got what sex was even about, not deep down in his balls.
I might’ve noticed other boys “that way” when I was his age, but come on. Back then Teen Beat was full of boy cheesecake, and I was assailed by images of smooth chests, long, feathered hair and limpid, dreamy-eyed smiles at the checkout line every time I grabbed a pack of gum. And maybe I was just ahead of the curve in that department—or maybe you’d have to be dead not to notice.
Jacob walked Clayton toward the snow cone stand while I jammed my hands in my pockets and wandered in a holding pattern, and Barbara dug around in her purse as if she might unearth the answer to all our problems there, if only she looked hard enough. Instead she found some clear lip gloss, the kind with the sponge tip applicator, which she applied with a vengeance.
“It’s not like it’s news to him that Jacob is gay,” she said. “We’ve always been upfront about it.”
My wet underwear clung to me like a trick who’d worn out his welcome. “Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know who this ‘Tyler at school’ person is.”
“Does it matter? I mean, if it’s not him, it’ll be someone else. Right?”
Barbara spotted a bench covered in cartoon characters and sat down hard. I hovered behind her. Ten yards away, Jacob handed Clayton a green snow cone. The kid took it and gave it a lick, all the while looking daggers at us. At me. The snow cone vendor handed Jacob another one. Red. Jacob caught my eye and pointed at his blindingly red snow cone as if to ask me if I wanted one. I shook my head.
“It’s nice of you to sit out all the rides so that Clayton can be with Jacob. He idolizes my brother, you know. It probably doesn’t seem like it, what with that outburst.”
“No, I um…” I perched on the back of the bench and my wet underwear rode up my ass. “He’s probably, uh, y’know.” Damn it. Words were so useless sometimes. I did my best to figure out a way to say he was just being especially bratty because some fag was monopolizing his uncle—without coming out and using those exact words. “He probably feels…things…more intensely. Because they’re so close.”
She gave me a sideways look, one of those zingers where I totally saw Jacob around the eyes, the type of look he’d give me when he knew I wasn’t being polygraph-level truthful with him. Then she sighed and re-settled her purse in her lap. “Yeah. Probably.”
“I’m not so big on rides anyway.”
Another Jacob-ish look, a notch or two more analytical. “Is there some medical reason…?”
“No, uh…not exactly.” Was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder medical? No doubt. But I’d been diagnosed by my backstabbing ex, and not a real doctor—although Stephan was technically a health care professional nowadays. The whole thing made me want to break out in a cold sweat. “Maybe.”
“Huh.” She found a pair of sunglasses in her purse, blew the lint off the lenses, and put them on. “I always pictured Jacob with someone a little more athletic.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Jacob and Clayton had taken the long way around the food court, and they approached the bench, Clayton with green-tinged lips, Jacob with a wicked red mouth. Jacob stopped a couple of steps back and Clayton shuffled forward. I’d figured he was going to ask his mother for something, but then I realized he was aimed, more or less, at me. Neither one of us cared to initiate eye contact.
“I’m sorry I said something rude about gay people,” he said. There was no inflection in the sentence, as if he’d read it, poorly, from a teleprompter.
“Yeah, uh…” what was I supposed to say? Apology accepted? You’re forgiven? How queer. “That’s okay.”
The tension was thick enough to cut with a spork, but then, as if nothing had just happened, Clayton suddenly brightened, turned to Jacob and said, “If we can’t go on King Chaos, can we ride the Scrambler again?”
Spook Squad #7
CHAPTER 1
I often wonder what I might have done with my life if I’d never become a cop. There was this kid who sat behind me in fifth grade. His name is long gone from my patchy memory, but I do recollect two things about him. One, he annoyed the hell out of me by wiggling his foot against the leg of my chair all day long. And two, he knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up: a garbageman. Not in an ironic kind of way, either. Careers in sanitation fascinated him. He drew pictures of garbage trucks like other kids drew rocket ships or unicorns. On trash day, he would set his alarm early so he’d be waiting there in the alley to get a glimpse of his heroes. If you gave him a box, he wouldn’t make something useful out of it like a car or a teleporter. He’d make a dumpster.
When I hear the pneumatic wheeze of a garbage truck’s air brakes, I occasionally think of this kid, whatever his name was. I wonder if he ever did manage to live the dream, or if his parents talked him into being an accountant, or maybe a doctor.
At one point in my prepubescent life, I had aspirations of joining the military. Not because I’m pro war, and certainly not because I’m good at following orders. I suspect my subconscious was grooving on the idea of being dumped into the plastic bag with a few dozen other little green army men and losing myself in a tangle of arms, legs and rifles.
Real life being as disappointing as it often is, my chosen career (or the career that chose me) turned out to be a continual display of territoriality and machismo rather than teamwork. Other than my partner, Bob Zigler, I’ve never really grown comfortable with anyone at the precinct. The feeling is mutual. Sometimes the evidence of exclusion is subtle, like when conversation ebbs as I cross the threshold. Sometimes it’s overt, like finding every last pen gone from my desk when the fully stocked supply room is a hell of a lot closer to everything else, and Zig’s desk is untouched.
It says something about how awkward things were that I preferred being at a crime scene to reporting back to the station and dealing with all the other cops. This aversion to groups probably started early. I grew up in group foster care with a rotating stream of snotty kids—troubled kids, I know now. I’m sure they acted like they did not because they were inherently jerks, but because they’d been starved, beaten, and molested, or at the very least, neglected. Sure, we had toys, but they were nasty second hand toys. Naked dolls. Games with missing parts. Dirty plastic action figures with the paint rubbed off.
One thing I don’t remember attempting to play with is a jigsaw puzzle. I’m sure we must have had them, probably with a good handful of pieces missing from each one. But I couldn’t dredge up any specific memory of putting together puzzles.
Maybe eventually I’d get the hang of it, although probably not tonight. It was already past six—and while I’d been focused on my project, the cannery had grown dim.
“I’m home,” Lisa called from the foyer. My heart did a little relief-flip every time I heard her say that. Even now. All these months after we coaxed her out of the greedy clutches of PsyTrain.
“I’m in here.” My voice was phlegmy from staring so hard I’d forgotten to swallow.
Lisa tracked in melted snow and frowned down at the dining room table. “You’re not done with that thing yet?”
To be fair, it might be my first jigsaw puzzle…as far as I knew. “I didn’t realize there was a time limit.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Lisa tousled my hair and went back to hang up her coat. “Me and Jacob gave up after the first hour. But you’re still at it. Thought you said those guys aren’t your type.”
Judging by the box lid, the puzzle seemed like it should have been fun. It featured male dancers with bare chests, bulging muscles, sparkly bowlers, clingy slacks, bow ties fastened around bare necks, and ginormous baskets. Yeah, not my type. But kitschy and stupid in a way I could appreciate. Figuring out which tab fit into which hole was a welcome distraction from the way I’d spent my day: figuring out which vehicle must be covered in minute traces of a distressed murder victim’s blood.
Cops need a solid chunk of time to unwind when they clock off. I hadn’t been actively searching for something to deaden my brain after work. It just happened to be there. Jacob’s gym pals had presented him with the goofy gift at his private retirement party—the one that guys on the force weren’t privy to—along with a card that read, We’re puzzled that you’re retiring. Don’t go soft on us!
Lots of people were puzzled. Not me, though. I knew exactly which carrot Regional Director Con Dreyfuss had dangled in front of Jacob to get him to join the FPMP, and more importantly, which stick he’d subtly suggested might beat Grandma Marks to death.
I tried and rejected yet another piece. “They’re all skin-toned or black.” Maybe I should have started with something easier, like a bouquet of differently-colored flowers. As it was, I’d been staring at one particular dancer, a guy with a dorky come-hither look on his face, for the better part of an hour. There was a big puzzle-shaped hole in his gut where his six pack should have been. You’d think I could spot a set of washboard abs without much problem. But with masses of spray-tanned skin cut into jigsaw pieces, the body parts eventually started to blend.
Lisa turned on an overhead light and joined me at the dining room table. The puzzle and I had been monopolizing the tabletop for a while now, but none of us actually ate there anyway, since meals happened on the coffee table and TV trays. Usually the big table was home to books and newspapers. Now the books were on the floor and the papers in the recycle bin…and somehow, inadvertently, I’d ended up with a new hobby.
All it took was a critical need to unwind and a major life change in my partner that neither of us had seen coming.
Lisa and I sat together and stared down at the die-cut cardboard pieces, and eventually she found a piece of someone’s thigh and clicked it into place. And then a smoky bit of background. And then an oiled shoulder. All the while, I continued searching for my abs. Then she found three nondistinctive gray background pieces, one after the other. Click, click, click. “Are you using the sí-no?” I finally asked.
She looked up, startled. “No. Why would I…?” She laughed and cuffed me on the arm. “That would take all the fun out of it.”
Right. Fun.
I was trying to finesse a not-quite-right bellybutton into position when the doorbell made us both jump. Since the cannery’s bell was meant to be heard over the drone and clang of heavy equipment, its chime wasn’t exactly what you’d call melodic. You don’t want to be caught holding a hot cup of coffee when it goes off.
I collected my sidearm before I answered, not because I’m a paranoid nutcase, but because I’m a realist. Since I wasn’t expecting anybody, I’d need to be prepared for the possibility that some whacked-out anti-Psych had decided to visit—with a shotgun. But it turned out this time my caution was unnecessary. Yes, my visitor was scary. But at least her gun was holstered.
“Is Jacob here?” Carolyn asked.
“Uh, no. He’s…” I glanced at my watch. Nearly seven. Ideally he’d be home by now, but no big surprise that he wasn’t. “Not yet.”
“I figured. I didn’t see his car out there.”
Oh. Here I thought she’d been looking for him—not looking to avoid him. I stepped aside and let her in.
“So he left some stuff in my car.” Carolyn began dropping things on the catch-all table beside the front door. A leather-bound notebook, some fancy pens, an MP3 player. I considered mentioning that maybe she should stay awhile, since Jacob would be really glad to see her. Unfortunately, I sensed her reply might be phenomenally awkward, given that she can’t whitewash the truth like the rest of us can. She’d probably considered mailing his effects—I know the idea would have crossed my mind—but that would seem too weird. Easiest to engineer the drop-off while Jacob was at work. She seemed eager to rid herself of his things and then bail, but when Lisa drew up beside me to see what was going on, Carolyn paused, cocked her head, and looked Lisa up and down. “Are you just visiting,” Carolyn asked, “or do you still live here?”
“For now,” Lisa began, while in my panic I talked over her and said, “It’s really not a problem. We have plenty of room.” Because I’d been through too damn much to get Lisa back, and I wanted to keep her right where I could see her. I didn’t want Carolyn fucking that up with any inconvenient truth. “All kinds of room.”
Carolyn looked pointedly around the foyer, then said, “Room, but not many walls. That’s not exactly an ideal situation for three adults.”
Now, Lisa and I may not possess the type of talent where we could feed thoughts back and forth without other people being any the wiser. But we can read each others’ body language like a front page headline. Lisa shifted forward slightly. So did I.
As if that wouldn’t just pique Carolyn’s curiosity.
Hey, I said Lisa and I were in synch. Not that we were adept at steering a conversation. Carolyn strode past us like we’d just told her there were warm brownies in the living room that needed eating. Lisa and I turned away from each other. I shrugged. She sighed.
“How long have you…?” Carolyn’s voice seemed overloud against the hardwood and brick. “Whose idea was this?”
We followed her into the main room and shot guilty glances at the big blue dome-shaped tent in the corner. Yes, it’s not something you see every day. But if it worked for the three of us, who was Carolyn to make us feel like a bunch of weirdos?
I’m not even sure who’d suggested the tent. Just that after Lisa spent a few weeks on our couch, there’d been an edge to the “I should probably find my own place” discussion that sounded pretty serious to me. And Jacob’s tent was going to waste rolled up in the basement.
And if you have a room big enough to hold a living room set, a dining room set, and an entertainment center with space left over for a four-person tent…why shouldn’t you pitch it? “It’s just a privacy thing,” I said. “Not a fashion statement.”
Carolyn glanced up at the loft, where we’d be able to see down over a room divider with ease, and then looked me over to see if I was being truthful. Apparently she was satisfied; she didn’t challenge me on it. But she did subject Lisa to additional scrutiny. “Are you running from something, is that what this is? Or did something happen in California that nobody’s talking about? Because the three of you troop out there, and when you get back, suddenly you’re playing living room adventurer and my partner hands in his—” she broke off and turned away with her hand clasped against her mouth, and I realized with a sudden and awkward certainty that I was about to see hard-assed Carolyn Brinkman cry.
“I’m not running,” Lisa said. Unlike me, she wasn’t moved to awkwardness the minute anyone teared up. But exactly like me, she’d seen way too much weird shit at PsyTrain to sleep without a nightlight…and she didn’t like to discuss the big, fat, ectoplasmic mess any more than I did. “And I’m not bothering anyone either. If Victor don’t want me here, he’ll say so.”
“I do want you here.”
“So don’t be judging me.” Lisa punctuated her statement with a ghetto-tastic side-to-side head move that made me realize I was seriously outclassed in this discussion.
“Is that what you think this is about?” Carolyn snapped back. “I’m not judging you—I’m worried. You lost your PsyCop badge, you skipped out on PsyTrain, and you’re sleeping in a tent in your ex-partner’s living room. Does that sound healthy to you?”
“I’m no quitter,” Lisa said—and she was even bringing out the big ammo now, the no-finger, which she proceeded to wag in Carolyn’s face, bangle bracelets jingling. “Don’t you ever call me a quitter.”
“I’m not—”
“I got suspended helping you people. And PsyTrain is none of your business.”
Although Carolyn was about as white bread as a person can be, Lisa’s “talk to the hand” posture didn’t daunt her. In fact, instead of backing off, she took an even closer look. “How many carats are those diamonds?” she said.
Since Carolyn doesn’t do her shopping at SaverPlus like Lisa and I do, she doesn’t realize that the best one can hope for at the second floor jewelry counter is rhinestones and crystal. Lisa’s idea of adornment is big plastic sunglasses and a little diary-type key she wears around her neck. She buys her bling from spinner racks, not glass cases. Even so, she backed off from Carolyn, startled—and she took her hand and its bangle bracelets with her. But instead of educating Carolyn on the ways of the budget conscious shopper, she said, “What does it matter to you?”
“Four carats? Five?”
Carats? Right. I was fully aware that Lisa had answered the question with a question to dodge Carolyn’s built-in polygraph—but before I could ponder why she would suddenly feel defensive about wearing costume jewelry when everyone knew it was fake, the front door banged open.
Jacob. Great timing.
“Carolyn?” He dashed into the living room as if he was in danger of missing her—as if he didn’t stand between her and the only escape route. “I just left you another message.”
Carolyn turned and looked at him coolly, though an unshed tear still glittered in her eye. “I know.”
His shoulders sagged, though so imperceptibly I was probably the only one who’d noticed. His impeccable suit, his carefully honed physique, even his ramrod posture, everything about Jacob was rigid, controlled perfection. A man of steel…but not inside. I’ve never wanted to be an empath—too damn confusing—but at that moment I could have really used the insight, ’cos it was a real struggle to figure out how emotions had tanked so fast. Here Lisa and I were contentedly fitting pieces of half-naked cardboard men together, and before I knew it, the atmosphere was soupy with anger, frustration, resentment and hurt. The stupid part was, we were all on the same damn side.
“Look,” Jacob told Carolyn. “What I’ve been trying to get you to hear is, there’s no reason we can’t keep working together.”
“Other than the fact that you retired.”
“Come on, think about it. You’d help a lot more people if you would—”
“No, Jacob. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t help more people, I’d help a different kind of people. If I followed you to the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program, I’d be looking out for Psychs—and it would be a hell of a lot more dangerous than what I’m doing now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. The majority of my perps are single guys, acting alone. Once we find them, once they’re charged and arraigned, they’re not my problem anymore. You’re dealing with big, organized groups. They’ve got money behind them, they’ve got widespread religious support, and worse than that, they’ve got their fears that one day all the NPs will wake up in a slave state where they do nothing but bow down and serve their evil psychic overlords.”
I don’t know how she got that sentence out in a single breath, and I think she didn’t either. She stopped and blinked, and then the thought occurred to me that Carolyn didn’t really have much of a knack for hyperbole, thanks to her talent keeping tabs on her truthfulness. And then I realized she wasn’t exaggerating.
That’s how Carolyn actually thought the Non-Psychs saw us. And it scared the crap out of her.
“My daughters aren’t even in high school yet. They need their mom.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I can’t work with you. Not at the FPMP.”
“If there is a threat out there, don’t you want the best Psychs in the world on your team? Besides, you’re overestimating your opponent. They’re not nearly as organized as all that. Tell her, Vic.”
How was I supposed to make Carolyn feel better when I’d just answered my door with a Glock in my hand? “Uh, I don’t know. Safety in numbers?” It was the best I could do, at least to Carolyn’s face.
“More like a bigger target,” she said.
This was so not the way I’d hoped Jacob’s reunion with Carolyn would play out. I said, “Listen, it’s late. We’re all tired. I can order us some pizzas and maybe once we eat, we’ll all be thinking straight.”
“Actually,” Jacob said, “I need to put in a couple of hours at the firing range. Night training. You want to come with? I can make a call, see if there’s room—”
“I’ve just put in a ten-hour day,” Carolyn snapped. “Now I’m going home. To my family.”
Jacob looked to Lisa and me to see if either of us would tag along. I could definitely use the practice, especially at night. The Fifth Precinct requires one firearms session a year. That’s right: one. Since I’m not an overachiever, initially I didn’t put in any extra time on my own. Not until I failed my first recertification—and you only need to hit seventy percent of the targets to pass that thing.
I should have jumped at the chance…but I didn’t want the FPMP to think I was easy.
Jacob looked to Lisa. She said, “Actually, I already have plans.” She gave a sheepish shrug. “Sorry.”
Carolyn didn’t call her out on these purported “plans,” so they must have existed. The awkwardness between the four of us was thick enough to cut with a spork, but at least Lisa was no longer going Jerry Springer Baby Momma on Carolyn, and Jacob wasn’t tooting the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program’s horn. I gave the ropy muscles at the back of my neck a couple of squeezes, said, “Well, I guess I’ll go see if Crash wants pizza,” and turned to retrieve my phone from my overcoat.
“Vic,” Jacob said. I tensed, because I really thought I’d successfully weaseled my way out of that awkward conversation without resorting to an untruth, but I didn’t bolt when he reached toward me. I was prepared for a caress, or maybe a hug, some sort of attempt to entice me to stay and keep trying to convince the girls we were all still one big, happy family. But instead he just plucked something off the back of my shirt and handed it to me.
It was a puzzle piece with a tacky smear of jelly on the back of it. I turned it photo-side up. Fake tan flesh-tone—and it looked suspiciously like a set of washboard abs.
Once upon a time if you told doctors you heard voices, they'd diagnose you as schizophrenic, put you on heavy drugs, and lock you away in a cozy state institution to keep you from hurting yourself or others.
Nowadays they test you first to see if you're psychic.
The PsyCop series by Jordan Castillo Price features frazzled psychic medium Victor Bayne and his smokin'-hot boyfriend, Jacob Marks. Fifteen years ago, Victor studied at Heliotrope Station, one of the original residential psychic training programs in the U.S. The only thing he learned in that facility was how to be a better liar.
Now he's part of an elite PsyCop unit. Solving murders should be a snap when you can talk to the deceased. But since no one's ever given him a lucky break when they were alive, why would they start now ?
Nowadays they test you first to see if you're psychic.
The PsyCop series by Jordan Castillo Price features frazzled psychic medium Victor Bayne and his smokin'-hot boyfriend, Jacob Marks. Fifteen years ago, Victor studied at Heliotrope Station, one of the original residential psychic training programs in the U.S. The only thing he learned in that facility was how to be a better liar.
Now he's part of an elite PsyCop unit. Solving murders should be a snap when you can talk to the deceased. But since no one's ever given him a lucky break when they were alive, why would they start now ?
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price writes paranormal sci-fi thrillers colored by her time in the Midwest, from inner city Chicago, to various cities across southern Wisconsin. She’s recently settled in a 1910 Cape Cod near Lake Michigan with tons of character and a plethora of bizarre spiders. Her influences include Ouija boards, Return of the Living Dead, “light as a feather, stiff as a board,” girls with tattoos and boys in eyeliner.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who’s plagued by ghostly visitations. And her quirky, sweet, magical series The ABCs of Spellcraft is sure to make you smile.
SMASHWORDS / BOOKBUB / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
GhosTV #6
Spook Squad #7
PsyCop Series
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