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 as 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, swinging 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.”

Maxwell went pale. “Young lady, Satan is nothing to joke about.”

“Who said I was joking?” Darla asked breezily. “If all belief systems are valid, why can’t I worship Satan? That’s what Satanists do, right?”

“Be very careful with forces you don’t fully understand. You’ll endanger your soul.”

“My soul? That’s about as believable as Santa Claus.”

“There’s new science every day supporting the theory that the personality is not merely a function of your brain activity. Death is much more than a ceasing of electrical impulses. The five of us are here because we all have the potential to sense things that are beyond the current scope and understanding of science. Whether or not there is currently empirical evidence of the soul, it would be very reckless of you to endanger yours.”

Darla rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. Whatever. But what about Santa?” She made the devil horn sign again, and said, “Hail Santa.”

“This is no laughing matter.” Miss Maxwell shook her head sadly. “I’ll pray for you, Darla. Hopefully that will be enough.”