PsyCop: GhosTV Part 39

As I stood in my bedroom wondering which drawer I might have shoved my baseball cap in, a tangle of c.r.a.p on the top of the dresser caught my eye instead. I hate clutter. It lurks there in your peripheral vision and hides the nasty supernatural stuff you'd rather be able to avoid. Jacob's usually the culprit behind clutter, however, this particular offense was mine.

Faun Windsong's necklace had twisted up with one of the nylon ties from the wrist restraint training in the pocket of my blazer. It sat there like a tangled jumble of trash you'd spot in the gutter grate after a big storm. We'd be going right by Sticks and Stones on the way 364.

to the expressway, since it was easier to hop on 90 from there than it was up by our place. If I shoved the necklace in a drawer, I'd probably forget it even existed-so I might as well drop it off.

It seemed like a plan. Until we actually got there, and realized every parking spot within five blocks of the store was taken. Jacob's mood had been subdued all morning long, and though the idea that I actually seemed interested in spending time with his family had raised it up a couple of notches, the l.u.s.ter wore off a little bit more with each time he circled the block.

On the third revolution, I'd finally untangled the nylon tie from the necklace-although I found myself somewhat carsick from looking down. I shoved one in each pocket of my flannel shirt to keep them from getting tangled up again, and then I called Crash to see if he could meet us out front before Jacob ground his molars down to a powder.

It rang five times, and then his voicemail picked up.

Weird, the store should be open. I waited a few seconds, and tried again.

Voicemail.

I checked the time. Five after eleven. Maybe he was with a customer...but now we were running the risk of being late for the game, especially if we hit any snags by the tollbooths.

A car in front of us slid into a parking spot, and Jacob made a sound of annoyance deep in his throat. I tried Crash's phone one more time-voicemail-and then I said, "f.u.c.k it. Let's just go. We'll stop on the way back."

"No."

I glanced over my shoulder at Lisa in the back seat.

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She gave me an exasperated look that conveyed, Look, pal. How shouldIknowwhy?It'snotcalledsi-no-WHY.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, then double park and I'll run it upstairs. I'll be in and out in two minutes."

Jacob flicked on the hazards. "Fine."

Hopefully, I really would be in and out in two minutes. Crash was probably dying to hear about the California trip. Dying to see Lisa.

I wished he could have come along with us, but in a sense he was married to his store, and if he wanted to do anything social during the day, he'd have to close up shop and take a financial hit-and probably alienate his regulars who wouldn't take too kindly to walking up all those stairs for a Fast Luck Money Drawing candle only to find "closed" scrawled on the door in chalk.

I saw the door was ajar as I rounded the landing-which was good, because I'd been starting to think that maybe Crash wasn't answering his phone because he'd gotten lucky-so lucky that his good time had extended all night, all morning, and right though store hours-and that I'd be setting myself up for a really awkward moment of, "Hey, Vic, this is...what's your name, again?" And there was no doubt that whoever'd been rocking Crash's world would be very, very athletic.

But, no. No awkward moment with a nameless trick, not today, at any rate. Incense was burning, the radio was playing, and the fake dollar bills that hung from the ceiling on fishing line fluttered silently as I shouldered open the door. I was just about to call out, "What, you don't answer your phone anymore?" when I saw the top of a head through a gap in the shelving, and realized Crash actually had been with a customer the whole time.

They were talking, and as I drew closer I could pick out the customer's voice through an ebb in the music on the secondhand boombox.

"...don't believe in evil, like Christians believe in evil. But there's still darkness in the world..."

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Ugh. I'd had about as much New Age philosophy as I could handle at PsyTrain. I'd be glad to ditch the ugly necklace and...oh, f.u.c.k. The guy had a knife.

And I recognized him, even from the back-his hair was all tangled, and there was lint stuck in it. His knife hand shook. It was the same guy I'd seen there the other day. Same time, come to think of it. The regular who was always buying curse deflections-Crash had said that guy creeped him out. He should have listened to his gut. "You should thank me," the creep said, and his voice was getting louder, and edgier. Crash, I now saw, was filling a plastic bag with the money from his register.

Where was Miss Mattie? Then again, even if she was there, what could she have done? I reached for my sidearm and patted empty flannel. Great. The one time a gun would do me any good and I was unarmed. Call for backup, then. I went for my phone.

"Money is so, so dirty," the creepy guy said. His voice was a little sing-song, in a pretend-friendly sort of way. Gooseflesh sprang up on my arms from the mere sound of it. "They don't call it 'filthy lucre' for nothing. It's a stain on your karma. Don't you get it? I'm saving you from the darkness...wait a second-you're not holding out on me, are you?" Crash's arm trembled as he extended the bag to the guy, who didn't move to take it. It did seem like a really paltry amount of bills there in the bottom of the bag. Given the utterly dismayed look on Crash's face, I'd guess that was the whole register. s.h.i.t. "Don't you know that lying blackens your soul? When you speak an untruth, the one you hurt the most...is yourself."

I really didn't like the way his voice was pitched-and the way his knuckles went white as his grip tightened on the knife, either. It was a kitchen knife, not a fighting knife. Whacked-out schizos with kitchen knives are a h.e.l.l of a lot more dangerous than hardened criminals who just want to get the money and get out.

As I chose the most covert path back to the stairwell so I could call 367.

him in, I heard him say, "Do you suck c.o.c.k?" Conversationally, almost-the way he'd observed that Crash cut hair. "You look like you'd be good at it." And that was when I realized I couldn't wait. Not for a patrol car. Not even for Jacob, who was right outside. From where I stood in relation to the creep, he was ripe for a chokehold, but since I was one of Chicago's Finest, a chokehold would only end up getting me sued. Normally, my reaction to that would be, fine-sueme. But I'd recently done half a million wristlocks on my buddy Sando. From every conceivable position.

I'd always figured training maneuvers couldn't possibly carry over into real life. Perps move faster than trainers. Perps are actually trying to hit you, and to run. They're holding real weapons. But I'd never accounted for the fact that I'd be looking at my friend on the opposite end of that real weapon, and that my own adrenaline would be sky-high.

"You'd hold back on that too, wouldn't you?" the creep said. "You think you're better than me? What makes you so-" Right hand, wrist, left hand, chin. I didn't need to execute a chokehold when grabbing someone from behind by the chin and yanking their head back to throw them off-balance was totally whitelisted. Sando had even encouraged me to master the chin maneuver, since it works best when the perp is shorter. And so far they've all been shorter.

Snap, snap, pop and twist. Fulcrum-wow, I even got the fulcrum in place-and the smelly-looking guy was face-down on the floor before I'd even hollered, "Police-drop your weapon."

The tone of my voice was enough to make him think some thick-necked beat cop had caught him in the act. Sure, I was unarmed, and I was wearing my Converse All-Stars, a T-shirt under an old plaid flannel, and my favorite pair of jeans, but seeing as how his face was mashed into the floor, he didn't know that. I planted my knee between his shoulder blades and got him trussed up with my nylon 368.

tie, and then I turned my attention to Crash. "Are you okay? Did this a.s.shole hurt you?"

Crash shook his head slowly from side to side. I think it was the first time I'd ever seen him speechless. I was glad he wasn't hurt.

Otherwise I might need to "accidentally" punch the creep in the neck.

Five or ten times. My sciatic nerve twinged hard as I straightened up, and my hand was bleeding again. All in all, though, I felt pretty d.a.m.n pleased with myself.

I called in the robbery attempt, then immediately called Jacob to let him know what was going on. So much for the soccer game-but that was the way it was, being a cop. I'd caught on pretty fast that sc.u.mbag criminals had no respect whatsoever for my social life.

Jacob and Lisa both left Jacob's car where it was, and thundered up the stairs. "Are you okay?" Jacob asked Crash, and then me. We said we were. Then he looked down at the creep, considered him for a moment, and asked me, "How are those nylon cuffs, anyway?"

"Not bad."

I glanced back at Miss Mattie's closet door, but I didn't see the telltale flutter of the paper Saint Anthony fan. It didn't make logical sense to me that she'd just stood by while a paranoid schizophrenic who'd gone off his meds threatened her little Curtis with a knife. Then again...if the si-no was something that existed outside Lisa, something that was more than a simple channel to her inner knowing...when she asked about the necklace, someone out there had told her what to do with it. Guardian angels, she'd called her contacts, when she saw them in the astral. I didn't think Miss Mattie would mind the Judeo-Christian connotations of that term-though, like everything else in the world of Psych, I imagined it was also incredibly subjective.

Crash made his way around the counter, caught me by the upper arm, and turned me to face him. When he draped his forearms over my shoulders and pressed himself against me, he did it so deliberately 369.

that I was relieved Lisa and Jacob were both there-because if he'd mashed himself on me like that while we were alone, I might have gotten the wrong idea. He c.o.c.ked his head to one side and stared me in the eye for a second or two, then put his mouth to my ear and whispered, "Can I take back every single time I've ever teased you about being a wimp? 'Cos I'm not ashamed to admit when I'm wrong."

"Yeah, well." I took a step back to put some distance between us, but it didn't work. His body flowed with mine, and somehow he managed to use the motion to fit us together even more tightly. "Good thing all your friends are cops," I said.

"Not all my friends." He pressed his cheek to mine, and tilted his head slightly, so his skin brushed against mine. The bristle of his stubble dragging over my jaw sent a fresh bolt of gooseflesh down my arms. "Just the hot ones."

370.

Chapter 42.

The cops who showed up to collect the creep were not particularly hot, but they were efficient-and they didn't realize I was a PsyCop, either. Just a detective. I let them think that. They'd probably hear about it later and kick themselves for not sneering at me, but for now, it made the afternoon a h.e.l.l of a lot easier.

Lisa decided to stay with Crash, which I was glad for. But she told us that if we left right away, we'd make the second half of the game.

And also that we should go.

So, we went.

Being exposed to the full force of the si-no was definitely going to take some getting used to.

We arrived in Beloit at the end of halftime, just as the players were straggling back out onto the field. Parents sat on the sidelines in folding chairs. A typical kid's cheering section must have been one person strong. His mom. And most of the moms weren't even looking up. They were talking to each other, or talking on their cellphones, or reading books, or even knitting.

Clayton, however, had an impressive audience of four-now rapidly swelling to six, as Jacob and I hauled our chairs along and got them set up. So many family members, we made up our own cl.u.s.ter.

Barbara was the only one who seemed particularly into the game-not that the older generation didn't dote on Clayton just as much as she did. Just that Jacob was a lot more interesting, seeing as how they 371.

only got to visit with him a handful of times each year. I shook Jerry's right hand and Leon's left as I sidled past them, gave Barbara a stilted wave and tried to tell myself the annoyed look she was giving me was only due to the angle of the sun in her eyes, and then I parked myself next to Jacob's mom.

Shirley's purse was so big, it took up as much s.p.a.ce as a human being-a large one. She shifted it so I could get my chair right beside hers, and she slung her arm around me and squeezed when I sat down. "So...uh, who's winning?" I said.

"I have no idea." She leaned back to size me up. "Well, don't you look handsome today. Did you do something different to your hair?"

"Just a haircut." The first couple of times I'd hung out with Shirley, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. "...b.u.t.toobadyou'renot awoman.BecauseIwashopingforsomeadditionalgrandchildren, sinceClayton'snotexactlythemostlovableboy." Except, the "but" never came. Shirley actually liked me. Weird, but true.

She dug into her ma.s.sive shoulder bag and found a can of Pepsi, somewhat cold with a bit of tissue stuck to it, and handed it to me. I took it from her, cracked it open, and swallowed a long pull. "No, not just your hair. There's something more."

Was the sense of self-satisfaction I'd acquired by successfully manhandling a creepy bad guy showing through? Maybe. "Stand up," she said. "Let me take a look at you." I felt myself blush, but I stood, and kind of shrugged. Shirley gave me a good once-over, then patted the seat of my lawn chair again. I sat, and pressed the cool can to my now-warm cheek. "You keep yourself in such good shape, too. Do you run?"

I might lie about running to a casual acquaintance, but not to Shirley, so I answered, "Not if I can help it."

She laughed. I really enjoyed her laugh. "Don't let Barbara hear you say that."

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She looked back at the soccer field as if the thing she'd just said made perfect sense. I stared at her profile for a few seconds, and then finally said, "Why?"

"What's that, dear?"

"Why shouldn't I let Barbara hear?"

Shirley scanned the field, then took a covert glance over her shoulder in her daughter's general direction, and finally leaned toward me.

"She's always been so sensitive about her weight. If the only reason you're so slim is a good metabolism, she'll be jealous, and...well, I suppose you don't know how she can be. Let's just say you don't want to get her started."

I slipped on a pair of plastic sungla.s.ses and stole a look at Jacob's sister through the dark lenses. She'd stood up, hands cupped around her mouth, bellowing, "Run, Clayton!" Sure, she was big-boned. But so was everyone in the Marks family. The "athletic" remark being caused by jealousy? Craziness. The thought that anyone in their right mind would find anything in me to be jealous of was totally insane.

Barbara sat back down with an annoyed harrumph, which then put Jacob in my line of sight. Frankly, as far as I was concerned, I had only one thing anyone could possibly be jealous of-my man. Great hair, killer bod, mind like a steel trap, great in bed, and those phenomenal, expressive dark eyes. He gazed out onto the field with a look in those eyes I didn't really get to see much. It was soft around the edges, a faraway gaze. Very serious. It looked hot on him-but no big surprise there. Jacob wears so many looks well. But I supposed, having grown up with him, Barbara was immune to all of that. I guess it was always possible she resented me being in her brother's life, maybe subconsciously, because she thought there'd be less of him left over for her now that I was around.

Shirley pulled her digital camera out of her handbag and showed me a picture of Jerry and Leon on the small viewfinder. They were outside 373.

somewhere with lots of leafy stuff in the background, holding up a three-foot catfish between them.

Families. Never a dull moment.

Youth soccer matches don't last all that long, which I previously had no reason to know. Less than forty-five minutes after we got there, the game was over. Everyone had driven more two hours for the privilege of watching Clayton run around and kick the ball a couple of times, so Jacob suggested we extend the get-together by heading out for pizza. Since Jacob and I had skipped lunch in an effort to catch at least some of the game, and since my appet.i.te was still voracious from my astral adventures, I found the prospect of some pizza very welcome, indeed.

I had my hand resting beside me on the seat of the car as we drove to the pizzeria, and Jacob surprised me by dropping his big hand on top of it and meshing our fingers together. Jacob's just not a hold-hands-in-the-car kind of guy. Not that it bothered me or anything.

Just that I noticed.

The intensity that he focused on the road with seemed unusual, too. Traffic in Wisconsin was a walk in the park compared to Chicago streets, but the way Jacob had his eyes glued to the car in front of him, you'd think we were navigating the Loop during rush hour in freezing rain. His jaw worked, like he had something to say, but wasn't quite sure how to say it. Had Barbara said something nasty about me to him? I didn't think so-she'd seemed so focused on the game. Maybe something about the game, then? Something about Clayton, something about kids...holy h.e.l.l, Jacob didn't want kids now, did he? He must realize that neither of us was ever home. We'd already determined we weren't even home enough to consider a dog.

And whether I was home or not, I'd be the world's most pathetic father. s.h.i.t, I so didn't sign up for kids....

"I'm really glad we came today," he said. And I held my breath for several tense seconds waiting to see what the "but" in that statement 374.

might be. It was a lot like talking to his mother, though. There was no "but."

The pizza parlor was empty at mid-afternoon except for us, and a few retirees sharing a newspaper. The waiters shoved together a couple of tables for us. I ended up sitting between Uncle Leon and Jacob.

Leon's spirit arm, though visible, simply rested on the table beside his silverware. I could handle that.

Once the pizzas came, and I'd helped myself to a third piece, and a fourth, I did notice Barbara looking at me through narrowed eyes. I looked right back at her and asked if she'd like another slice. You'd think I was offering her a drowned kitten. Huh. Shirley'd been right.

That whole "athletic" bulls.h.i.t had more to do with Barbara's own issues than it did with me. And to think, I'd nearly started working out over it.

Somewhere around my fifth piece, my favorite jeans started to feel a bit tight. I set the crust down and I watched the vacant tables around us begin to fill as the early dinner crowd trickled in.

"I'm glad you're all here," Jacob said. I was looking out at the parking lot through the window, where someone had left their dog in the car, a little yippy dog with a bow in its hair that was showing its teeth to everyone with the audacity to walk past the vehicle. But then his tone struck me as particularly serious. And I realized he was holding my hand yet again. At the dinner table. With his entire family there.

"I've been giving it a lot of thought...a lot of thought...actually, lately I can't think of anything else. And given the way certain...things...have come to pa.s.s...." he squeezed my hand and looked at me.

I stared back at him. Jacob didn't get tongue-tied, not him. So whatever it was he was trying to spit out-I wasn't sure I even wanted to hear it.

"It hasn't been an easy decision, but I really think it's for the best...."

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I squeezed his hand, hard. He caught my eye again and nodded. What I'd meant by that squeeze was, whattheheck? But he took it as a show of support.

"I'm going to retire."

Stunned silence. Everyone's face froze somewhere along a spectrum that ranged from shock to confusion. My expression must have registered all of the above. Retire? Jacob? Sure, he had his twenty years in...but he'd never mentioned anything about retirement. The guy's whole life was about trapping dirtbags in their own webs of lies and making sure they couldn't bother decent people anymore. His whole life was about being a PsyCop.

Once his family picked their jaws up off the floor, they congratulated him. But it didn't seem to me that their hearts were really in it.

Soon after that, Barbara and Clayton broke off from the group to head back home. Clayton was worn-out and cranky, and besides, they'd just seen us a week ago. Leon left after that. He played cards on Sat.u.r.day. I tried to imagine playing cards one-handed, and came up blank. That left Shirley and Jerry. The four of us sat together in silence for a while. I glanced at Jacob. He had a very Claytonesque expression on his face. "Did something happen?" Shirley said.