PsyCop: GhosTV Part 7

Chapter 6.

While Jacob dealt with the airline, I called Betty at the Fifth Precinct and let her know I needed a few personal days since I was taking a little trip-which undoubtedly seemed shifty, since I'd just called in sick-and then I set about getting my s.h.i.t together. Since I didn't have any kind of instinct about what to bring with me, I watched Jacob pack for California and brought one of whatever he brought.

I'd always figured if I visited the West Coast I'd bring shorts and sungla.s.ses-not a suit and a sidearm.

"Leave your Florida Water here," Jacob told me. "It won't make it through security. It looks too much like mace." I stared down at the Blast o' Mint container that Zigler had painstak-ingly refilled. "So...I can bring a Glock on board, but I can't bring some scented water."

"Airport security is what it is. They understand what guns are; if we go through the right channels, we can carry. But explaining an exorcism...let's just say I can't imagine that'd go down very well. Besides, I'm sure they have Florida Water at PsyTrain." I stared at my tiny exorcism kit. I had no idea I'd become attached to it. "What about salt? I can bring salt on board, can't I?"

51.

Jacob glanced up from the undershirts he was folding and gave me a look.

"What," I said, "I can't?"

"Any substance that looks iffy stands the chance of getting us grounded."

"You've got to be kidding me! It's...it's salt!" Jacob smoothed the clothes into his garment bag, then turned toward me and planted his hands on his hips. He was practically as wide as the king-sized bed between us. "How many times have you been through airport security?"

I paused as if I needed to count, and then after a moment, said, "Never."

"Then take it from me-keep your Auracel in your checked luggage, don't put mysterious granules, powders or liquids in your pockets, and make sure you don't have any holes in your socks so you don't feel dumb when your shoes are going through the X-ray machine." I went through my pockets. A vinyl tie from the previous day's training was coiled in one of them. I left it where it was. I might need it in California, and if they had a problem with it, they could keep it. It was disposable.

At least I'd be able to bring my pills, though I wasn't exactly sure which ones I should carry in my luggage, and which ones would be better off in my stomach. I went through my nightstand and pulled out some bottles. Valium? No-brainer. I swallowed one dry. Auracel?

That was a tough call. Being trapped on a plane for four hours with a ghost, and me with no exorcism gear, would suck.

Getting off the plane and not being able to see something scary creeping up on us would suck worse. I threw the bottle into my bag.

"Don't take all of them with you. In case your pills get confiscated."

52.

"Cripes, we're law enforcement. Doesn't that cut us any slack?"

"Roger Burke was law enforcement, too."

I sighed heavily, retrieved the Auracel, and dumped half the pills out on my nightstand. Then I did the same with my Valium.

The only item of interest left in my drawer was a bottle of lube. I held it up. "I don't suppose...?"

Jacob's mouth turned up at one corner. "Security'll have a field day with that."

I put the lube away.

It was when Jacob pulled into long-term parking that I started to get nervous. Because long-term parking implied that he and I might be out in California for a while-that maybe something really was wrong.

That I wasn't just the scrawny kid on the back of the bus freaking out over the car accident no one else could see.

People traveling for business as opposed to pleasure are easy to spot. They walk with purpose from point A to point B. They don't stop to consult every flight schedule sign, then look around as if they woke up in the airport with no idea of how they'd gotten there. They don't have a half-dozen screaming kids to corral.

Jacob seemed to know where point B was, or in this case, Terminal 2, from our choices of 1, 2, 3 and 5, so I followed his lead. We each had one of those slick rolling suitcases-obviously he'd had an extra that I could borrow-and he was able to maneuver his case with our garment bag rolled on top like it was weightless.

I managed to keep from getting mine stuck on the moving walkway.

Everything at O'Hare International Airport is reflective. Gla.s.s. Mirror.

Chrome. I kept catching glimpses of the two of us in our suits and sungla.s.ses, half a head taller than everyone around us, striding along

53.

like we had an appointment at the Pentagon to rid the world of an alien threat-and I had to admit, it was pretty d.a.m.n cool.

Security at the gate seemed to be geared for much longer lines than it was processing. A guy behind a podium checked I.D.s, then the pa.s.sengers shuffled, boarding pa.s.ses in hand, through a snaking maze of stanchions linked by nylon belting. Jacob handed his badge and boarding pa.s.s to the podium guard who said something into a two-way radio-indiscernible even from our end-and another security guard came out of an official-looking door and nodded to us both.

"Detectives," she said pleasantly, and she led us to the special express-lane I'd seen pilots using.

I got to go through the pilot door. Cool. I did my best to look grim, since cool guys take special treatment like that as a given.

The guards at the pilot door had a different demeanor to them than the regular guards. Most of the airport security seemed robotic and terse, like they were having a bad day, and that bad day had begun in 2002. But the express-lane guards were relaxed. They made eye contact. They smiled.

I figured they had seniority.

Jacob and I showed our service weapons and they didn't even flinch.

We were on the list. It was expected.

Our luggage went through an X-ray machine, though we weren't asked to take off our shoes, not like the woman in the sun hat with the beach-ball figure who was struggling to get back into her sandals ten yards away from us. "Looks like rain," one of the guards said to Jacob, who glanced out the window and said, "Could be." And of course neither of them gave a s.h.i.t-it was more like a macho-guy way of saying, "I'm okay, you're okay."

In the regular-people line, more pa.s.sengers scrambled in their stock-ing feet to capture their luggage from the stream that poured out of

54.

the X-ray machines, and to make sure no one else dipped into their basket of car keys and change.

A female guard handed Jacob his carry-on with a smile. Jacob stacked the garment bag on top, and my carry-on emerged. The guard handed it to me-same smile she'd given Jacob. Like she thought I was cool.

I'd caught a glimpse of us walking together in the chrome, the gla.s.s, and the mirrors. I was having a good hair day, finally. And we did look cool. Both of us.

We strode together toward the door that led to the terminal, and I felt like maybe together, Jacob and me, we could get ourselves to PsyTrain, kick some a.s.s and take some names. Or at least figure out where Lisa was.

But then a noise rose above the crowd murmur, radio crackle and conveyor belt hum-a whine-and I turned to see a couple of airport security guards who'd been talking to each other without a care in the world, now startled, with a German shepherd between them scrab-bling at the linoleum. The dog let out another high-pitched whine.

It was looking right at me, ears p.r.i.c.ked, tail wagging.

The whole group of guards on the VIP line who'd been smiling, chatting, acting like human beings-every one of them froze.

"I left the Florida Water at home," I told Jacob. "I swear." The biggest VIP guard caught up to us in long strides while we'd paused to see what the noise was about. "Detectives, if you could step over here."

"I'll bet he smells the gunpowder," Jacob said, low in my ear, as we turned to face the guards. "Their sense of smell is incredibly accurate-a thousand times better than a human's."

We walked back to the guard station, pulling our carry-ons behind us.

I didn't feel nearly as cool anymore. The German shepherd's tongue

55.

lolled out, and he pranced in place beside the handler, who was holding the leash short. The dog's toenails skittered against the floor.

"Sorry for the delay," said the woman who'd smiled at us. "We'll just need to check your carry-ons."

Jacob said, "It's probably our service weapons."

"Detective? Please, place your luggage on the counter." Jacob draped our garment bag over the counter, and he and I both hoisted up our carry-ons. The dog whined again. Its big brown eyes were trained directly on my face.

"I should probably take off my sidearm," I said, figuring that obviously La.s.sie would be more interested in the gun than me if I separated the two of us.

The female guard picked up a clipboard and started scribbling into a form. "Do you have any substances to declare?"

"Substances."

"Medications, pills, inhalers?"

"I'm getting out my wallet," Jacob told the now-alert guards as he pulled out his badge. He reached behind the shield and pulled out his tiny paper PsyCop license and handed it to the big guy. "We can't miss our flight."

I patted down my pockets to see if maybe a stray half-tab of Auracel had stuck to the lining. "I have prescriptions...but not on me. I checked them in."

The big guard cleared his throat and the other guards looked to him.

He cut his eyes meaningfully to Jacob's PsyCop card. I wondered if it would help if I added that I had one of those, too.

The female guard looked from the tiny white card to her clipboard,

56.

and back to the card again. The guards, all four of them, were so still, I don't even think they were breathing. I know I wasn't.

"Sorry for the delay," the woman said, once she'd weighed the pros and cons of detaining us. "Please make your way to the ter-" The dog woofed. Its tail was going like a windshield wiper cranked to the highest setting, and it stared at me as if I had a giant T-bone steak for a head.

"Drop it," the handler said, quietly, even though there was nothing to drop. The dog touched its a.s.s down to the flooring, then stood right back up again, gave a piercing whine, and started digging like it was trying to put a hole right through the linoleum.

The handler looked to the woman with the clipboard for guidance.

She blanched, pulled out her two-way, and said, "Code sierra bravo at Terminal 2." Those weren't police codes. I would've recognized those.

Indiscernible words crackled back. She glanced at us, then looked away fast. "Clearance nine. Yes. Over."

The tension between the guards was thicker than day-old coffee.

They must have all understood the static-and they seemed to be communicating solely with their eyes. The big guy positioned himself between Jacob and the door to the terminal and said, "Sorry for the inconvenience. We'll need you to step in back. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll get you on board."

Jacob pitched his voice low and casual. And he didn't fool any of us.

"Start what?"