Chapter 4

To say Clayton was underwhelmed by our rule-setting the next morning would be putting it mildly. He didn’t go so far as to say “duh” when we told him not to let anyone in—no matter what kind of sob story they might have. But we stopped emphasizing how convincing con artists can be when he asked if he was allowed to go to the bathroom without a lifejacket and a helmet.

Not for the first time, I was glad for the cannery’s haunted reputation. Any grifter going around with an unlikely story about being stranded (and an empty gas can just to prove their point) would hopefully think better of knocking on that battered old door.

We headed downtown together, since the plan was for Jacob—and all the other over-competitive federal agent types—to shuttle to the airport from the FPMP. The drive to HQ was pensive, but we’d made our inflatable bed, and there was nothing to do now but lie in it.

We don’t go in for the mushy stuff in front of our fellow agents, but I did let my hand linger on his when I manhandled his roller bag out of the back seat. “Have fun at your thing,” I said sincerely. “Clayton and I will manage just fine.”

Jacob’s gaze lingered on mine, and the corner of his mouth quirked. “A couple of years ago, I don’t think either of you would’ve even considered the arrangement.”

Just goes to show how responsible I’ve become. “Yeah, well, let’s hope Barb doesn’t make a habit of foisting the kid off on us. At least not with zero advance notice.”

I don’t think I looked too sappy as I watched the shuttle pull out of the garage, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t touched by the fact that Jacob trusted me not to emotionally scar his favorite kid.

Speaking of whom…I sent a quick text to Clayton to make sure everything was okay. Three dots appeared in the reply. They pulsed a while. Pulsed some more. And just when I’d convinced myself that the cannery had fallen down around his ears, a thumbs-up appeared.

Well…it was proof of life, at least.

I proceeded to do my sweep of the building. It felt weird emptied out, with most of the agents either off for the weekend or on their way to the “friendly” competition that, for some unknown reason, people like Jacob enjoy. The techs who monitor the monitors were around, but they were quiet sorts who kept to themselves. Aside from the three repeaters in Con’s old office and a maintenance guy refilling the water coolers, I was pretty much alone.

It was peaceful. Dare I say, even nice.

And while it might seem like a perfect time to try and dredge up my permanent record and sneak a peek, I was under no illusions that I was truly flying solo. There were cameras everywhere—and probably cameras trained on the cameras, too. Continual surveillance was a given. And I suppose my acceptance just goes to show what you can get used to, if you’re exposed often enough.

A quick check of the lab, and I’d be back to the cannery in no time. Maybe I could even pick up a pizza—kids nowadays still liked pizza, didn’t they? Not that I thought I’d score any brownie points, mind you. I was just looking for an excuse to try the new pizza/burger/taco joint I’d passed on my way to work.

The FPMP labs were in a sub-sub (sub?) basement of the old industrial building, buried way down deep—all the way down below the parking garage, and the busy city streets, skimming the neighboring railyard. Not only was it the most isolated spot in the building, but I’d wager it could withstand a nuclear blast.

No dank walls, cobwebs or weird mildew smell here. The halls were well-lit, for a basement, and the atmosphere was controlled to the nth degree. Temperature, humidity, everything within a very rigid set of parameters. The elevator opened into a lobby that was pleasantly bland and modern, like most of the agency decor—though the overt security presence was unique to this floor alone.

Upstairs, you could get where you wanted to go with a swipe of your badge. But down here, there was an actual security checkpoint with a level of surveillance somewhere between an airport and a prison. First, a set of keycard doors lets you through a wall of thick, reinforced glass. Then a radio wave scanner takes a stunningly unflattering snapshot—one that renders you digitally naked. Finally, said picture is scrutinized by a human pair of eyeballs. Typically, one belonging to a guy that’s heard the “naked machine” joke way too many times and responds with a forced smile that’s more of a wince.

It takes a certain kind of person to do security work. Plenty of ex-cops go into private security once they’ve had enough of the force. But, me? I’d rather chew pennies. The vigilance-boredom combo would drive me to drink within a week. And I don’t even like booze.

I didn’t personally know the Saturday guy, if this even was the regular Saturday guy, but this one checked all the usual boxes. Tall. Broad. Phenomenally stoic. There were no guns allowed in the lab, which was fine by me. As I submitted my exorcism kit to his inspection and surrendered my service weapon, I scanned the guy’s name badge and realized he sounded familiar. Not because I’d met him in the lunchroom, either…but sometime in my own murky past.

Darnell Thompson, NP, was an African American man around my age with a shaved head, a neat goatee, and the typical coiled earpiece tucked behind his ear. His black suit was as impeccable as his posture, and while he might be a handful of inches shorter than I was, I had no doubt he could not only deadlift me, but toss me across the tasteful lobby without breaking a sweat.

A typical FPMP security type. But the cant of his eyebrows…the shape of his ears….

“Third grade,” I blurted out as I stood inside the Naked Machine with my arms raised above my head.

Darnell’s eyes flicked up from his monitor. Zero recognition.

“Mrs. Smith,” I helpfully supplied.

Darnell ignored me and continued working through whatever checklist the guards were supposed to perform. The weekday guys aren’t quite as thorough—they see me once a week—but I couldn’t say the same for Darnell. So I patiently waited until he gave me the all-clear.

“McKay School?” I added.

Darnell gave his head a single shake. “Sorry, Agent. I don’t really remember.”

A chill fingered its way down my spine as I wondered if he’d been left with gaps in his memory as one of Dr. Kleinman’s patients. But before I could suggest hypnosis, he said, “We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Single parent, you know how it is. I been to five different grade schools, so….”

Right. And I’d been held back the next year, so it was likely we hadn’t known each other long enough for me to make much of an impression. I resorted to naming some neighborhoods, hoping to ring a bell. “Brighton Park? Archer Heights?”

“Yeah, we lived around there for a couple of years when I was a kid but….” Darnell shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

Electromagnetic locks clicked as he granted me passage to the inner sanctum. Once I was on the other side of the safety glass, I remembered an incident that would surely jog his memory. One morning, a weaselly kid named Jason Gorecki begged the teacher for a hall pass and was told in no uncertain terms it would need to wait until after the Pledge of Allegiance. I dunno how many boxes of Sunny D Jason had sucked down that morning--more than an eight-year-old’s bladder could hope to contain. Soon it was everywhere. Running down the kid’s pants. Creeping across the floor. And pooling in the rounded depression of the molded fiberglass seat.

Surely, Darnell would remember that.

But when I turned back to the glass, he was busy dutifully stowing my sidearm in a safe, and I felt weird about insisting he remember me. Or maybe the pee story just seemed a bit too intimate to holler through several inches of double-paned safety glass—whether or not the facility was pretty much deserted.

Still, as I started my usual sweep of the underground laboratory, my mind kept wandering back to how strange it was for someone not to remember me. Even if they’re not entirely creeped out by the knowledge that I talk to dead people, the height never fails to make a lasting impression. Frankly, it’s a wonder the FPMP has managed to keep me off the radar all these years. But I supposed that before my growth spurt, I was just another random kid with scraped elbows and a shitty head for math.

The lab seemed even emptier than the rest of the building, with banks of computers running in a dimmed room to a low electronic hum, and the various offices darkened for the weekend. The only living things being experimented on were of the plant variety, and apparently they did just fine with the occasional mist from an automated irrigation system.

As basement psychic research labs went, it was all fairly innocuous. Or it would have been—except for the cold storage room where, back in our early days at the Agency, Jacob and I had wrangled Jennifer Chance’s flailing corpse.

Whenever I swept the lab, that was where I’d start—and once I got it out of the way, I was free to meander up and down the hallways without worrying that her ghost was creeping around behind me. Since National made off with Chance’s body, thankfully, my encounters with cold storage had been blessedly uneventful.

Even so, when I pushed open the thick metal door and found something moving inside, I may have suffered a mild heart attack—at least until I registered that the guy in the lab coat on the stepladder was very much alive.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Don’t you know this area is restricted? People can’t just traipse in and out of here, y’know.”

“I’m Agent Bayne,” I flapped the ID on my lapel in his general direction, “and I’ll be out of your hair just as soon as I do my job.” I don’t generally take a tone with people right off the bat—but accusations of traipsing were serious business. Especially when I’d rather be anywhere but the FPMP morgue. I eyed the vault he was standing by and said, “What is it you’re doing in here, anyhow?”

“Double-checking the temperature gauges. Though why they’re mounted so high is anyone’s guess.” He climbed down from the step and gave me an appraising once-over. He was maybe 5’7” on a good day, Caucasian, forty-something, with a shock of messy dark hair and glasses that didn’t quite sit right on his face. “So, you’re the infamous fifth-level medium. Howard Jibben.” He gave me a cursory handshake…then wiped his hand on his lab coat the moment we disengaged.

Ah. That Howard Jibben.

No, I’d never met the guy, but if anyone was infamous here, it was him—and to say his reputation preceded him would be putting it mildly. Howard Jibben, the night manager of the FPMP lab, was notorious among my fellow agents, who referred to him as Heebie Jeebie. As someone who heard “Spook Squad” every time I darkened the doorway of a murder scene, I could commiserate. But I couldn’t help being a medium, while he could’ve avoided the nickname by simply being less abrasive. It wasn’t just his tics and twitches and his tendency toward OCD that made the name stick, it was his tendency to talk down to everyone.

He scowled at my badge and said, “We haven’t been formally introduced, but I’m familiar with your work.”

He said the word work like he was being generous.

I didn’t take it too personally. Not only did I have it on good authority he spoke to everyone that way, but the thought of me penning the scientific literature on mediumship continued to amaze me, too. Hoping to get off on the right foot, I gestured toward the step stool and said, “I can grab that reading for you.”

He looked as if I’d just offered him a dead lab rat. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s far too risky.”

I cut my eyes to the two-foot safety hazard. “I think I can manage to avoid an accident.”

Jibben’s eye ticced. “Accidents are simply a manifestation of one’s lack of perceptiveness—the individual’s lack of ability to assess and react to their surroundings. Maybe you’ve heard of the Risk Compensation Theory? It suggests that people adjust their behavior based on the perceived level of risk. The safer one feels, the more risks they’re likely to take, often leading to harm. I always maintain a balanced perception of my environment, neither too safe nor too dangerous, ensuring I act optimally.”

An awfully long-winded way of calling me careless, if you ask me. “Fine, suit yourself. I’ll just make my rounds and be out of your hair.”

“Rounds? What rounds?”

“The rounds I make every week,” I said. He twitched. “To make sure we’re clear of nonphysical entities.”

I’d used the technical term for “ghosts” in an attempt to make myself sound official. Jibben was clearly unimpressed. “You can’t be intending to walk around the lab by yourself—entirely unescorted.”

Sure I could. Who knows? I might even traipse. “Look, I’ve gone through the lab every week for the past couple of years now, so I think I can handle myself. I’ll even be sure not to take any undue risks while I’m at it.”

“That’s not it. There’s nothing we’re working on at the moment that should present a hazard. I’m more concerned about you contaminating our studies.”

It was tempting to say, How do you like this for contamination? and fling a handful of salt on the floor just to be petty, but I had to get back home to Clayton, so I didn’t have time to pick a fight. “I’ll be in and out before you know it, and I won’t touch a thing.”

“Physically, maybe not. But it’s your electromagnetic field I’m worried about.”

So—it was gonna be one of those days. The kind that made me wish I was still with the Chicago PD. “I promise, I’ll keep my field to myself.”

“You may think it’s all a big joke, but I guarantee, it’s quite real. Every individual carries a unique electromagnetic signature—like a fingerprint, but for one’s bio-field. Over time, as individuals work within a specific environment, particularly one as sensitive as this lab, a mutual adaptation occurs. The person becomes attuned to the lab’s particular electromagnetic landscape, and the lab, in a sense, gets acclimated to that individual’s bioelectromagnetic emissions.”

“Then it’s a good thing I do this every week. Now, if you don’t mind….” I turned on my heel.

“Wait!” he said. I paused. “I’ll come with you. Just let me make sure our new arrival is at temperature, and we’ll be on our way.”

His tone was entirely matter-of-fact. But the words new arrival sent a chill straight down my spine. “What new arrival would that be?”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. FPMP National finally released the body of Jennifer Chance.”