Chapter 41

If anyone deserved some TLC, it was Darla. The dead didn’t bother her—she’d been conversing with them all her life. But the thought that an assassin had been among us seriously freaked her out, so Jacob and I figured there was plenty of room in the cannery for a guest, especially since the cats were on their way out. Darla declared it was much cooler than “that douchey hotel room,” a.k.a. the suite that probably cost the FPMP a cool grand a week, if not more. But I had to admit, swaddled on the couch in Jacob’s robe, with her makeup smeared off and a gray cat stretched across her thighs, she did seem like she belonged.

These days, now that Crash has a car, he has a tendency to stop by on the spur of the moment. When I called him to see if he knew of any natural remedies for Darla’s peeling, bleeding lips, he offered to bring something over. And even with his inscrutable boyfriend along, there was still plenty of elbow room for everyone. Even when Lipton and Garcia dropped by, too, and decided to linger. Because surveillance specialist Garcia swore up and down that the cannery was not bugged, and he and his cat-loving colleague were dying to gossip about their time living in safe houses. Which were basically cheesy motels paid in cash, but as the two of them were still alive, they’d evidently done their job.

As Jacob ordered a mess of Chinese takeout, Red hunkered down in the corner for a deep discussion with Agent Lipton, and Darla unabashedly checked out Crash’s butt, it occurred to me that I couldn’t have imagined a weirder intersection of people at the cannery’s first impromptu party. But the FPMP agents were cool with my past and present friends, everyone was fully aware that Jacob was my boyfriend and I saw dead people…and no one was giving me the stink-eye.

Maybe I actually belonged, too.

The doorbell blared and everybody flinched—Agent Lipton actually went for her sidearm—and we all shared a nervous chuckle as Jacob expounded on the cannery’s industrial history. Give him half a beer and he’d probably start bragging about the ghost who sold it to us. And why not? This crowd could handle the truth.

I headed for the door with a few twenties I’d scraped up, and was surprised to find Bob Zigler on my doorstep. Not because we were out of touch—I’d just texted him a few hours ago on my somewhat recharged phone—but since he’d always been so uneasy around me, it was a surprise to find him seeking me out in person. We stared at each other for a moment, as if neither of us knew what to say if we didn’t have anything rehearsed. Then he noticed the cash and said dryly, “What, you think I’m taking bribes now?”

I cocked my head toward the hall and said, “C’mon in, Zig, we’re not heating the whole neighborhood.”

He stomped off his shoes, stepped out of the bitter wind, and closed the door behind him. “This shooting you had me look up…just wanted to make sure it was actually you.”

“How’s that? You got any other ex-partners snooping through police business?”

“Maybe not. But since when are you a perfect speller?”

“That would be my new auto-correct.” How do people deal with noticing so many mundane details? Not only had my old partner deduced my writing was different, he’d come to check on me in person and make sure I was okay. He’d probably already eaten—he and his wife were sticklers about mealtime—but I invited him to join us anyway. “Why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while? There’s Kung Pao Chicken on the way.”

For a moment, it seemed like he might take me up on the offer, but the spark of interest quickly snuffed itself. “Comfortable” was never a term I’d use to describe Bob Zigler, but he’d been on edge ever since the basement full of twitching corpses. The human body can only stay at high alert for so long—I should know—and Zig’s level of anxiety had burned through all his reserves. The poor guy was graying faster than a white tube sock in a load of black T-shirts. And while I’d claim no responsibility for the zombie debacle, part of me couldn’t help but acknowledge that if he’d never partnered up with me, he wouldn’t have had to endure it. 

He slipped an envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. It felt substantial. I thumbed it open and pulled out several printouts. Police report. News clippings.

Triple-Shot’s shooting hadn’t been covered up by the FPMP, because it had taken place before the organization even existed. Not because there was genetic manipulation and human experimentation going on, either. The building’s prior occupant was in the publishing industry, magazines and the like, with the location picked for its proximity to the Tribune and easy access to railway distribution. Back when I was still in high school and too self-centered to care about the news, one of their employees got himself fired by skimming a few Jacksons out of petty cash. Took umbrage. Walked back in with a snub-nosed revolver, marched up to corporate, and took aim at the CEO. Unfortunately for Triple-Shot, security was right on his tail. 

Ex-cop.

Bang-bang-bang.

The thing about lethal force is that we’re trained to dish it out, but not to pick up the pieces afterward. The guy who pulled the trigger was doing the job he’d been hired to do, and in fact might’ve saved more than one life that day, if Triple-Shot’s grudge went beyond a single target. But the guard was so dismayed by what he’d done, before the officers on duty could take his statement, he put his gun to his temple and used it one more time.

Where? In the basement boardroom.

“Damn, Zig. You just shed light on two of my biggest problems. I should double what I’m paying you.”

“Sure. I’ll add a few more zeros to the check. So, anyways…I should get going.”

“Hold on,” I said, and he paused, but avoided my eyes. “Are you okay? Really okay?”

He might’ve wanted to simply agree. But after he sorted through a few responses, eventually he settled on, “I’ll get by.”

As I stood on the stoop and tracked his receding tail lights to the end of the block, it occurred to me that I’d feel better having Zigler somewhere I could keep an eye on him. Okay, and probably I was just worried about being saddled with yet another co-worker who had a scary secret agenda. But I really did think his talent was going to waste. I said to my phone, “Text Laura…uh, Director Kim…and tell her Bob Zigler should be the new Patrick.”

“And direct or come on teller Bob Zigler Shimby the new cat sick,” the phone replied cheerfully. “Ready to send?”

“Wait, what?”

“I’ll send it.”

The phone made a sendy sound, and I sighed. Note to self: no voice-to-text outside in the wind. Luckily Laura was smart. She’d figure it out.

The food showed up, and I lugged it back in and rejoined the party. The white cat with the black ear—the one who’d been staring at me all week? I saw Agent Lipton slipping him a pinch of rice. I would’ve thought a cat would prefer chicken, or maybe shrimp, but what did I know? A single week as a cat owner hardly made me an expert, though I did figure out the turds were easier to scoop if you let them firm up before you started digging around the litter.

I meant to rib her about the food thing, so it surprised me that when I did finally corner her alone, what I ended up saying was, “My partner Carl seemed pretty worried about you.”

“My God, I need to call him and tell him I’m okay. And my sister. And my annoying trainer.”

“So…Carl. You and him…?”

The suggestion struck her as funny. “Carl? God no, he’s my sponsor.”

It took me a few seconds to realize she was talking about Alcoholics Anonymous. Just goes to show how much I still had to learn about the world of sobriety. Whatever she got from those meetings, they must’ve been working for her. When Jacob cracked open his secret Wisconsin twelve-pack stash of Spotted Cow, she opted for coffee.

By the time we cleared the plates and rounded up the cats into their carriers, Darla had passed out on the recliner, and Crash declared that he and Red had “eight million” things to do at Curious Curios and they’d better get going. Given that he wasn’t the sort to indulge in a white lie to spare my feelings and take a polite leave, I suspected they really were swamped…except they didn’t look stressed out about their new business venture. All around, in fact, there was an ease about them I couldn’t help but envy. Especially the way they seemed to communicate with nothing more than a few lingering glances and the shadow of a secret smile.

We’re all creatures of habit, I suppose. I left the bedroom door ajar to keep the cats from pestering us, even though I’d just helped load the carriers into Veronica’s car. And I held my tongue even though, before he headed back home, Garcia reassured us that no one was listening in.

I shrugged out of my holster, and Jacob took my bandaged hand in his. Blood had seeped through the gauze. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to urgent care?”

I gave my hand an experimental squeeze. “No, it’s clotting.” I’d be fine, so long as I didn’t need to shoot at anyone else that night. I couldn’t claim to be well-versed in all the mechanics that made a gun fire, but I suspected my sidearm wouldn’t be much use until I had Agent Watts give it a good once-over, anyhow.

Jacob didn’t release my hand immediately. He considered it a long moment, then slowly, reverently, lifted it to his lips, which he skimmed across my fingertips. Then he furled my fingers gently, and pressed the knuckles to his cheek. “I used to think you were pretty cavalier about ghosts. And then I met Darla.”

A sick chill ran through me. “Let’s hope I’m never blasé about anyone using me as their hand puppet.”

Jacob stared at my bandaged palm for a while, then said, “I thought Jennifer Chance was gone.”

That made two of us. I shook my head.

“Death should be final,” he insisted.

“I gave up a long time ago yearning for the way things should be.”

“But if Chance is still out there, she could be anywhere, right? Watching. Listening. Waiting….” He cut his eyes to the door, then nudged it closed with his foot. “It’s like those cats. We’d be so careful about every last thing we did around them, but the second we let our guard down, they’d be on the countertop scarfing the leftovers.”

Here I thought he’d draw an analogy to the hole they’d clawed into the back of the sofa. I toed off my shoes, eased Jacob back onto the bed so we were facing each other. Softly, I traced the stubble on his jawline while I searched his dark eyes. “Look,” I told him, “I won’t blow smoke. I respect you too much to feed you a line just to make you feel better. Someday I might get a better handle on this whole mediumship thing, but for right now, all I can do is go with my gut. And my gut’s telling me Jennifer Chance isn’t lurking around like a determined cat outside the bedroom door. The veil between life and death has held up since people crawled out of the primordial soup. It must be pretty sturdy.”

Before he could ruminate any more on his worries, I pressed my mouth to his and parted his lips with my tongue. Not to shut him up, not exactly. But to stop him from rehashing things we had no control of and even less understanding. Chance hadn’t come charging out of the afterlife to haunt us out of nowhere. We’d been groping around in the dark, Darla and me, and our blundering had given her the opportunity to grope back.

I rolled onto him and forced my knee between his legs, pinning his hands to the bed as I did. He grunted his approval into my mouth. I realized I was relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I was glad he comprehended how serious this whole ghost business was. I’d think Jacob had issues if he was still as gung-ho about ghosts as he used to be. After a certain point, though, even the most ardent Psych groupie’s gotta know when to say when. But I was glad the ghosts didn’t continue to haunt him long after they’d retreated past the veil. Compared to Zigler, he was fine. At least if there wasn’t any rustling plastic to contend with.

“We’re fine,” I told him, and kissed him again, harder. Difficult to say who I was trying to reassure: him, or me. I sucked down a fresh batch of white light and bathed the two of us in its radiant power. It wasn’t strong enough to make us spark where we rubbed together, but there was an extra kick to the tingle we shared.

We wrestled our way out of our pants. Somehow it seemed too vulnerable to strip all the way down with a guest right downstairs, even if she was dead to the world beneath an afghan covered in cat fur. I only had one functional hand, and it was currently being used to hold me up. But Jacob was eager enough to take care of both our dicks. He lined them up together, one in each fist, and everything went silent but the breathing as we humped ourselves into a satisfying rhythm. I lost myself, not only the tightness of his grasp, but the look in his eyes, sublimely intelligent, adorably serious, and deeply aroused.

If I was concerned it took a ghost sighting to get a rise out of Jacob, I needn’t have worried. The promise of taking a load to the belly—or anywhere else, for that matter—was enough to keep him interested. “So,” I ventured, between the huffing and puffing, “think you’d still be hot for me if I stopped letting ghosts commandeer my writing hand?” Most likely I just meant to think that question, but the discerning part of my brain was busy trying to get my balls to brush against his fingers.

“Don’t underestimate the power of your bad-boy scowl to hijack my attention.” Jacob shifted his grasp, and oh yeah, there it was. The brink. Beckoning surely enough to excuse me from the obligatory eye-roll I’d normally need to reply with. I fucked his fist harder, watched him watching me while I peaked. So focused. So serious. So vulnerable and open.

I spilled, and Jacob’s breath caught. His mouth froze half open, eyes locked on mine. He went rigid all over and rode his peak just a few seconds more. Connected. Not through our subtle bodies, and not entirely through our physical shells either, but through our minds, and our hearts.