Chapter 30

“I told you,” Alisha said. “I told you Dr. Hinman was still around. Ain’t none of us even looking at that fan on the video. We’re all watching the papers. And yet, there you go. Plain as day. The fan’s moving.”

Jibben said, “That’s quite the leap of logic. Why would Dr. Hinman be behind any of this?”

“Seriously?” Alisha shook her head. “We just brought in all his stuff. Who else would it be, Mickey Mouse?”

Jacob said, “It would make sense for Dr. Hinman to dedicate his life to researching telekinesis if he thought he might possess the ability himself.”

Alisha cut her eyes to me. “Too bad we can’t just ask him.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I said, taking no pains to hide the annoyance in my voice. “Because Hinman’s ghost is not here.”

Jibben said, “This is certainly interesting, but let’s not jump to conclusions. After all, Dr. Hinman was working with very limited resources and technology.” He gestured dismissively at the homemade devices scattered around the room: a pendulum, a lava lamp, a fan. “Just because telekinesis was eventually proven, that doesn’t mean his methodology was sound.”

Alisha said, “But something’s got it in for you, Doc. You’re a walking target, and I don’t know it’s even safe to be in the same room with you. Would it really kill you to say you’re sorry?”

“For what?” Jibben asked, exasperated.

“You just said his methods weren’t sound. Would you like it if someone said that about you?”

Jacob, being Jacob, felt the need to get the squabbling under control. “The fact remains that Agent Bayne—whose ability is extensively documented—noted a transfer of energy between himself and Dr. Jibben. Whether it bears any relationship to the accidents, we don’t know. But if there is some sort of telekinetic backlash in play, it’s in our best interest to find out. Especially since we don’t know how much longer we’ll be trapped down here.”

I’d be glad enough to just cover Jibben in bubble wrap and let sleeping dogs lie. Any pushback on my part would undermine Jacob’s authority, though, so I kept that thought to myself.

Alisha chose a chair as far away from Jibben as possible, sat herself down, folded her hands, and began to pray. “Dear Dr. Hinman. If you can hear me, know that if we did anything to offend you, we’re truly sorry—”

Her Act of Contrition wouldn’t do us any good unless Hinman’s ghost was in the room, but I supposed it couldn’t hurt, either. And at least it might make her feel better.

But Jibben was apparently none too keen on Alisha’s lack of scientific method. He interrupted her with, “We need to do a proper experiment on the Rotation Indicator. As much as our circumstances allow. First, we eliminate the possibility of air currents influencing the Indicator. For that, I propose we create a shield with the Saline Transference Environment.”

Oh, right. The fish tank.

“Then, we need a control group. Each of us taking a turn at influencing the rotation should suffice.”

Which would put Jacob right in the line of fire. I kept my expression as blank as possible. I’d told him not to flex—he’d promised me he wouldn’t—but I wasn’t so sure he could control the impulse. The desk fan was physical and Jacob’s talent was etheric…but what about the things that straddled both planes? The floors that prevent ghosts from falling through to the center of the earth—or the clothes they’re wearing while they wander through their afterlives?

What about GhosTVs?

“I don’t see the point in testing Agent Marks—” I began.

And Jibben immediately disagreed. “He’s the most valuable control subject here. A verified Agency NP, and a certified PsyCop Stiff.”

“It’s not like we got something better to do,” Alisha said, and I knew that if I pushed any harder, I’d only make us look like we had something to hide.

“It’s fine,” Jacob said decisively, all calm deliberation. “I’m happy to do it. For science.”

We’d bagged up the Saline Transference Environment and its contents earlier in our haste to stop the fluid from evaporating. Jacob and I unbagged it carefully. Though all the saline had leaked out, it was heavier than it looked, due in no small part to the metal frame, which held the glass in with crumbling putty. “We got this,” I told Jacob—while with my eyes, I said, Please tell me we do.

“Don’t worry,” Jacob said softly as we sidled over to the work table. “It’ll be fine.”

Nothing about the last twenty-four hours had been fine. But at least we had an understanding.

Following Jibben’s instructions, we set the tank on its shortest side with the bottom facing us and the open side against the wall, enclosing the fan on all sides and making sure it was draft-free. We set up one of the office chairs in front of it, locked the casters, and marked the floor with duct tape to ensure the chair didn’t budge. It was a good two yards away from the fan—and I very nearly mentioned that when Movie Mike was sliding his pennies around, he’d always done so from close range, close enough to reach out and physically touch them.

Since I didn’t actually want Jibben’s experiment to pan out, I opted not to mention it.

“We’ll start with shorter sessions,” Jibben said, “and increase if needed. Ninety seconds should do it. Agent Marks, you focus on moving the Rotational Indicator while the rest of us observe from different angles.”

With Jacob in the hot seat, everyone faced the tank. My flashlight beam was steady. So was the emergency lantern. I’d prepared an argument that any motion in the fan blade was meaningless if all four of us were watching it—but it wasn’t necessary.

The fan did nothing.

I took my turn—more nothing—and so did Alisha. And when Jibben finally took a stab at it….

Anticlimactic. Even for me.

Jibben said, “Well, I wouldn’t take these results as definitive proof one way or the other regarding telekinetic abilities. Hinman’s methods were primitive even for his time. Without proper controls or accurate measurement tools, it’s impossible to draw conclusions from this exercise.”

I suppressed a relieved exhale.

Alisha still looked miffed on the late researcher’s behalf. “Maybe you just didn’t try hard enough.”

Jibben said, “I gave it my best effort. But you need to keep in mind that while Luther Hinman had many interesting theories, his methods left something to be desired.”

“Oh yeah? Then why were you so bossy about getting all his stuff into containment? You must’ve thought it was worth something.”

Jibben took in the scattered paraphernalia by the light of the emergency lantern on his lap and sighed. “That was before I saw the equipment. Don’t worry, we’ll still subject it to a thorough assessment, but I’d be shocked if we found anything useful. Hinman strikes me as a well-meaning man who unfortunately lacked the proper resources to realize his ideas. Earnest…but harmless.”

The last word was barely out of Jibben’s mouth when the lantern bulb popped with a sound like a gunshot, and our best light source winked out.

“Get him away from the fish tank,” I snapped, and Jacob hauled Jibben’s chair backwards. Alisha was already halfway across the room, crouching like she was under fire. The room was mostly dark again, lit only by my flickering flashlight.

And inside the fish tank, the fan blade was spinning so fast the blades were a blur. Whatever sound it might’ve made was blunted by the glass, just like any breeze it might’ve kicked up. The soundless, windless aspect just made the sight of it that much weirder.

Jibben pointed a twitching hand at the fan. “That’s not my doing. I wasn’t even thinking about the device.”

“But you were reacting to the light bulb,” Jacob pointed out.

I said, “That’s the thing about psychic abilities. They can be a lot like breathing. The more you think about it, the more complicated it all gets.”

Jibben shook glass out of his sleeves, though whether or not it helped at this point was anyone’s guess. “That might explain the Rotational Indicator. But what about the bulb?”

Before anyone could float a theory on that, Alisha spooked us all with a startled yelp. “We got water coming in!”

I found her with my flashlight beam, then swung immediately to where she was pointing at the floor. Wet footprints crisscrossed the room—our footprints—along with tracks from the casters of Jibben’s office chair.

“Find the leak,” Jacob said urgently. “But don’t panic. We’ve got plenty of gel pads to stop it from spreading.”

The flashlight flickers were definitely not helping, though if Jibben’s untrained TK ability was at fault, yelling at the guy to quit it wouldn’t do us any good.

I scanned every wall—but the floor at the baseboards was dry. Even by the door. I thought back to the water bubbling up from the break room sink. “Is there a drain in here?”

“I don’t recall,” Jibben said nervously. “That’s something I should know. But I can’t picture it now.”

“Start shifting crates,” Jacob said, and I handed Alisha my flashlight, which kept right on flickering.

Working fast, Jacob and I started in the center of the room and worked our way out, sliding crates away from the middle of the room, but not all the way against the walls, so we could keep an eye on the seams where the walls met the floor.

A few minutes later, we were left with a ring of jumbled shipping crates…and no floor drain.

Jibben said, “In all likelihood, it was dark, someone tipped over a water bottle, and everyone tracked through it before we realized the floor was wet.”

Under normal circumstances, I’d have to agree. Back in the cannery, when a random wet spot on the kitchen floor freaked both of us out—more the hassle of getting a plumber out there than the fear of a walking corpse—and the culprit turned out to be nothing scarier than a dropped ice cube.

This circumstance, however, was anything but normal.

I took my flashlight from Alisha and gave the room another once-over, keeping an eye out this time for water bottles. But the only bottles to be found were lined up on one of the work tables with caps firmly in place.

I turned the beam to the floor again, searching the perimeter again for any seeping water we might have missed. Nothing, nothing and nothing. But when my light fell on one of my own footprints, I noticed an odd glint. It was already evaporating—nothing so strange about that in this heat—but the edges of the print had the telltale whitish rim you get in winter from tracking sidewalk salt into the house.

The center of the print was still damp. I knelt and prodded a fingertip into the moisture, then gingerly touched my tongue.

Salt.

These prints weren’t water. They were saline.

And the bags from the transference environment were still sealed up tight.