Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9 Read online

  Internal Affairs.

  I stared dumbly at the placard above the magnetic reader while my stomach bottomed out and a new sheen of perspiration erupted on my forehead. Internal Affairs Suite: 300-310. Ten whole rooms to torture and interrogate anyone pathetic enough to fail their polygraph on their first day on the job. As my vision started to tunnel, the door opened and a pair of women in dark suits strode through in the midst of a conversation.

  “…but when my husband tried to get him to turn down the TV….” She trailed off, glanced at the keycard in my hand, then stepped aside to hold the door open. “Were you going in?”

  Everything is totally normal. “Sure. Thanks.” I hurried through before they could ask why I was drowning in sweat. I found myself in a normal-looking hall and not a dungeon, but I wasn’t about to underestimate the damage that can be done in a normal-looking room. I suddenly regretted not reading my intake forms more carefully. Yes, I’d agreed to let the FPMP monitor me, but what other rights had I ceded? Could they detain me? Reprogram me? Lobotomize me?

  When the door to room 302 opened, I nearly jumped out of my skin. And then I realized the man behind it was Jacob.

  “They got you too?” I said.

  He gave me a look I knew all too well—I saw it whenever I said something that made no sense whatsoever outside my own mind—and then he said, “That depends what you mean by they.”

  I tapped the words Internal Affairs on the placard.

  Jacob cut his eyes to the words, then back to me. “Let’s not have this discussion in the hall.”

  “What difference does it make?” I whispered urgently. “This whole place is bugged. And monitored. And crawling with telepaths. And to top it all off there’s a whole suite of Men in Black with the sole task of invading every last corner of my…um….”

  Room 302 was not home to any sort of torture chamber. It was just an office with a broad wooden desk, some filing cabinets, and a computer—beside which was a framed photo. Of Jacob. And me. Looking somewhat stiff in front of his parents’ kitschy Thanksgiving decorations.

  As the realization dawned on me that this was Jacob’s office, Jacob’s job, he handed me a wad of tissues to mop the sweat off my face and said, “The sooner you accept that there is no them anymore, the easier it’ll be.”

  “Wait—you’re IA? Since when?”

  “Since Dreyfuss found out Burke’s murder weapon was FPMP issue. What did you think the Oversight Division was—and, logically, what other department would handle that investigation? You’re acting as if I’ve kept it a secret from you all this…are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

  My knee-jerk reaction was to claim to be fine, but I doubted anyone would believe that. He pulled out a chair for me, but instead of sitting, I circled around it. “This was a huge mistake.”

  “What was?”

  “All of it.” I backed myself against the wall to ward off any potential threat, and scrubbed at my face with my hands. My hairline was even damper than my palms.

  Jacob perched on the edge of his desk, calmly projecting both authority and empathy. “It’s just your nerves talking. You didn’t make the decision to come here lightly—we both know it—so don’t jump to any conclusions. Give it some time. Then whatever doesn’t work itself out, whatever concerns you have, we’ll figure out how to deal with them.”

  He was good; I almost bought it. But I recognize the tone he takes to defuse a situation that’s about to go nuclear, and he was using that tone on me. “You know what it is?” I said. “I got cocky. Working here as an advisor, dealing with Dreyfuss, I thought I knew the lay of the land. But he’s gone now, jumped ship. And Laura might’ve been privy to all his machinations, but when it comes right down to it, she can’t protect me. I’m too vulnerable here. To think otherwise was pure hubris.”

  “We need another signal. One for when I want to kiss you.”

  The fact that he was suggesting an expansion of our repertoire without touching the back of my arm meant no one was listening in on us…as far as he knew. At the moment, anyhow. But watching? Great, another reason to feel like my whole life was on display. “Listen,” Jacob said. “you’ve got this. You do.”

  “But?”

  Jacob sighed. “But the reason I asked HR to send you down was that something came up and I need to stay late. If there was any wiggle room at all….”

  I waved away his big-eyed concern-face. “No, I get it. We’ve never had the type of job we can just walk away from when it’s inconvenient, neither of us. I’m a big boy, I’ll manage.”

  He tossed me his keys. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “No, don’t worry about it.” I peeled myself off the wall and headed for the door. “Bad enough I’ve got you inventing new hand signals. I’d be really miffed if my presence here reflected badly on you.”

  As I made my way back to the cannery, Jacob’s car felt disconcertingly empty without him in it. After my first official day as Agent Bayne, I was a jumble of emotions. Sorting them through might’ve been the adult thing to do, but I was perfectly happy to sweep all my racing thoughts under the carpet where they belonged.

  Falling asleep isn’t usually an issue for me—it’s staying asleep that’s the tricky part. But I was still laying there counting ceiling tiles around midnight when Jacob finally got home. He came upstairs, hung up his suit, and climbed into bed beside me.

  When I didn’t roll over and ignore him, he reached across me and turned on the reading lamp so we could have the chat we’d both avoided, face to face. I whispered, “I thought I knew what to expect at the FPMP, but now it’s obvious I should’ve looked a little bit harder before I leapt.”

  “You’ll figure out the job. But I need to know that we’re okay. I didn’t realize we should’ve had a bigger talk about my position until I saw the look in your eyes.”

  “You know I trust you, right?” I pressed my palm over his heart, stroked his chest hair against the grain, then smoothed it back down. “But I’m not the same person I was at Camp Hell, or the police academy, or even at the Fifth Precinct. If you’re IA, your clearance level must be…. Anyway, I have no idea what’s in my permanent record, but whatever it is, I don’t want you mucking through it before I’ve even had a chance to see it myself.”

  “I wouldn’t—I can’t. Everything we do in Oversight is under the microscope. We can’t just investigate our coworkers for kicks. If I wanted to pull up the history of someone’s records, I’d need a damn good reason.”

  That was a relief. I was mollified. Somewhat. “Change sucks. And even though the Fifth Precinct was basically a sham, at least I knew what to expect there. At the FPMP, everything I thought I knew is being turned upside down.”

  “You know me.” Jacob pulled me against him more firmly. “And I know the score. I guarantee that once you learn the ropes, everything will click, and you’ll be happy there.”

  Happy? That seemed awfully ambitious. Awkwardly useful, though? I supposed that would be a step up.

  Chapter 4

  My new approach was to have zero expectations. If I came at the job without any preconceived notions, I couldn’t be blindsided. The next morning, while Jacob headed for Internal Affairs, I reported to Laura Kim—or her old desk, at any rate. Nerdy Horn-Rimmed Glasses was at the helm. I’d really need to start thinking of him as Patrick. Not only were his new glasses big and round, but for all I knew, he could read my mind.

  “Just a sec,” he told me as he punched and re-punched some numbers into a very complicated multi-line phone. And while he was distracted, I snuck a look at his badge. Patrick Barley, Operations Coordinator, NP. What a relief—both the fact that I had a handy reminder of his name, and that he wasn’t a telepath.

  Patrick punched the keys harder and held his breath, then flinched when a weird tone sang through the lines. He shook his head and hung up. “Nothing’s more discouraging than a steep learning curve,” he said, “especially when you’ve been at the same job as long a
s you can remember. It’s like everything’s different in a zillion ways I never expected. Hopefully once I figure out the phones I’ll feel a little less overwhelmed. So, how’s it going with you?”

  “About as good as can be expected.”

  He called up a schedule on the computer and checked it. “Director Kim carved out a half-hour block for you. Wow. Most people don’t get more than ten minutes.” Very carefully, he keyed in a few numbers, held his breath, and with great relief, said, “Agent Bayne is here. Um…hello? Darn it….”

  He pushed another button and the phone lit up and started beeping like R2D2 on steroids. While he tried to figure out which button was which, the door to the stairwell opened, and Laura called over from it, “Don’t hit the green one, Patrick, I’ve never figured out what it’s actually supposed to do. You’ll need to unplug it and plug it back in now. And don’t worry, it took me at least three days to stop hanging up on people.” She swung her attention to me. “Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to go over.”

  She led me back to her office, which was actually not that far away. Which didn’t really seem possible…unless we’d just traveled through a wormhole. She keyed us in. When I got a load of the paperwork on her credenza, I saw she wasn’t kidding about the amount of ground we’d need to cover. She said, “I’ve broken down the agency into talents and levels. On-site agents here, off-site here. I’m thinking the NPs will be the best place to start. Do you agree?”

  “Hold on, back up a step. Start what?”

  “Testing for mediumship potential. If I took anything away from the whole Jennifer Chance experience, it’s that mediums are ticking time bombs just waiting to be possessed.”

  “I don’t know that I’d go so far as to call it a…I mean, it would take a really determined, uh….”

  “We take great care to ensure our classified information stays classified. It’s hard enough to keep our own people screened. But if God-knows-what can just float right through the door….”

  It wasn’t really that easy. Ghosts can latch onto specific people, but unless their emotional attachment to that person is pronounced, they tend to get stuck to the spot where they died. “Possession is pretty rare. The chance of lightning striking twice seems pretty far-fetched.”

  She nailed me with a serious look and dropped her voice low. “I reviewed the incidents that led up to FPMP National seizing our research. Richie’s tip-off wasn’t the one that triggered them—he had a reputation for jumping to weird conclusions. But apparently, I also gave them a call. And not just me, but another agent, too.”

  “Oh.”

  Dreyfuss had made it sound like all I’d need to do was check for activity, walk the rounds, salt the repeaters, then prop my feet on my desk and call it a day.

  Guess I wasn’t working for Dreyfuss.

  “I’ve checked all the records I could access,” Laura said, “and I didn’t find any incidents of mediums who ranked in any other talent. So chances are, anyone with hidden mediumship potential, on paper, is NP. It’s your responsibility to figure out who’s at risk.”

  And here I’d almost been worried I wouldn’t have enough to do.

  “Richie’s office has been freshly redecorated, supplies are available if you’d like to perform any ritualized clearing, and if you need any additional equipment or furniture, let Patrick know.

  “Okay.”

  “As much as it pains me to have anything nonphysical anywhere in the building, I’ve sealed Con’s old office and left it intact. It’s just as he left it after FPMP National came and took his files and his tuner. He mentioned you saw three spirits there—is that right?—so you’ll have access to use them as a tool in your screenings.”

  “Okay.”

  “Agent Hinds is available for whatever you need—that’s Carl—and a medium from our Indianapolis office has been reassigned to assist you in developing the new mediumship testing protocol.”

  “O…kay.” Another medium?

  “She’s the one who Jennifer Chance…” Laura shuddered. She couldn’t even bear to say the word possessed. She rallied herself and said, “Agent Davis has eight years in the Program, but you’ve tested higher—not to mention your experience in law enforcement—so I’ve appointed you as the ranking agent on the team. Anything else?”

  “Not that I can…think of.”

  Laura’s phone blipped, and she hit a button—not the green one. “Go ahead, Patrick.”

  “Agent Davis is here,” he said.

  “Perfect timing. Buzz her in.” Laura paused a moment, then added, “Type your security code, then top row, third button from the left.”

  Good thing I was only expected to write the rulebook on mediumship. If I had to learn that phone system, everyone might as well pack it up and go home.

  The agent who joined us was about my age. Caucasian. Auburn hair, probably dyed, and heavy-handed on the makeup and sparkly jewelry. Black-suited, and phenomenally serious. Certain people just have a look about them—you can spot them here and there, at gas stations and in checkout lines—like they fully expect to have a shitty day, and if it hasn’t happened yet, by golly, they’ll make sure they’re disappointed before the sun goes down. This woman was clearly ready for something to piss her off. And when she took a look at me, she got her wish.

  “Victor Bayne,” she said, with palpable loathing.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Heliotrope Station doesn’t ring a bell? Come on, how hard can it be—there were only four of us in the medium track. Or did huffing propellant kill all the important brain cells?”

  “Agent Davis,” Laura said calmly, “bear in mind that Agent Bayne is your team leader, and any personal issues you may have shouldn’t affect your professional demeanor.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” she muttered. But I wasn’t paying attention, because I’d assembled and reassembled my reality so many times over the past twenty-four hours, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover there were gaps in my memory where people used to live.

  Four mediums. Richie and me, Faun Windsong and….

  Holy crap.

  Dead Darla had lost some serious weight.

  * * *

  “This shirt doesn’t make me look fat, does it?”

  The top in question was a Hot Topic goth girl number—all limp ruffles and cheap polyester, the sort of thing you could find at any mall back then—with a neckline that plunged halfway down to Dead Darla’s navel. And the way she aimed her cleavage at me, it was obvious the last thing she was showing off was her shirt.

  It was a mild autumn day, during my first week at Heliotrope Station. The four mediums, Darla and me, Faun Windsong and Richie, were trooping through the Graceland—not Elvis’ estate, but the cemetery on Clark Street where all the big shot Chicago royalty were buried. The group of us dawdled along behind our group leader, Miss Maxwell. Half my mind was on fending off Darla’s attention, but mostly I was busy scoping out the place for ghosts.

  “I love graveyards,” Darla cooed. She couldn’t reach my ear, so she settled for my shoulder. “Don’t you?”

  “I guess they’re pretty cool.”

  Maxwell herded us all toward a freshly dug grave covered in Astroturf and wilting flowers. In her previous life, Miss Maxwell had been a nun. I tried to envision her in a habit, but between her poofy dark hair and shoulder pads, I couldn’t quite conjure the image. She wasn’t exactly Joan Collins—too gangly, too Midwestern—but since she used to be a nun, she was accustomed to being obeyed. “Come on, people. Don’t straggle. We’re not here for the sightseeing. There’s serious work to be done.”

  We gathered around the grave, and Maxwell pulled out a compass and showed us how to find magnetic north. “You turn the compass in your hand until the red needle lines up—see?—and then you know where to set your first ritual candle.”

  Richie had been paying about as much attention to the proceedings as I was. Which was to say, he was standing there with his toes pointing toward each other, swing
ing his arms back and forth and staring at a sparrow perched on a nearby headstone. But when he realized what the compass was, he went still and said, “What does the needle point to?”

  “Magnetic north,” Faun Windsong told him. She loved repeating what Maxwell said. Why, I never knew. It wasn’t as if all the brown-nosing would earn her a raise.

  Even repeated, I thought, the concept would sail right over Richie’s head. So it surprised me when he said, “Then if you found north and started walking in that direction, eventually you’d get to the North Pole, right?”

  Maxwell had always insisted no question is a stupid question, so she gave it some actual thought before she answered, “Eventually, yes. But it would take a very long time.”

  “Where do I get a compass?” Richie asked. “Can I have yours?”

  “What business do you have at the North Pole,” Darla sneered. “Were you going to try and find Santa?”

  “No fair! Miss Maxwell, she’s stealing my idea.”

  Maxwell cut in, “All eyes on me, folks. Remember, we’re here to learn, not track down Santa.”

  Technically, I was there to enjoy my freedom from the Cook County Medical Health Center and sleep in a private room with three squares a day, but I didn’t want to jinx my good fortune by saying so.

  Faun Windsong helped set the candles at the cardinal points. “Now position yourself at the north point of the circle,” Maxwell said, “and clear your mind. Remember, all belief systems are valid. You need to use the approach that makes the most sense to you.”

  With a wicked gleam in her eye, Darla made the heavy metal sign of the horns and said, “Hail Satan.”