“Vic,” Jacob said quietly. I looked back over my shoulder. “You’ll get more out of him without me there.”
Talk about a conversation I had no desire to revisit—though Jacob didn’t remember having it the first time. “I’m not any good at batting my eyelashes to try to build rapport with my witnesses. It doesn’t work, seeing as how they’re usually dead. Besides, you take better notes than I do.”
I knocked. Lyle let us in, and then got flustered because he only had one chair to offer, the computer chair from his desk. “Just pretend I’m not here,” Jacob said, and he strolled over by the window so I could sit down and look Lyle in the eye while I interviewed him.
Lyle perched on the edge of his bed. His lamps and accessories were all Ikea. The bed was made, the surfaces of the dresser, desk and nightstand were all clear, and the scent of Gray Flannel hung in the air. Nothing bad, as far as smells go. Just something that would undoubtedly live in my brain forever after as “that smell from PsyTrain.” I leaned forward, planted my elbows on my knees, did my best to arrange my face like a warm and caring person might, and said,
“Something you told me last night—I was hoping you could expand on it.”
He swallowed, and went a bit blotchy. “I really have no idea….”
“You said Five Faith was responsible, and that they were targeting someone by going after Lisa, Karen and Debbie.”
“Not Debbie. Oh, hell, no. Debbie would never…this was before Debbie disappeared too.”
Debbie would never what? I was itching to ask, seeing as how whatever this thing Debbie would never do was, Lisa had apparently done it. I pitched my voice to sound as casual as I could, even though I felt like a big fake. “Then just satisfy my curiosity.” I smiled. I was so out of practice it almost hurt. “What was this first theory of yours, the one that doesn’t fit because Debbie would never….”
“She’d never let Bert get in her pants, is what.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Maybe students get starry-eyed about the power and the prestige, they’re naive, and they’re so blown away by his Indian shaman thing—but Debbie was too grounded to get sucked in by all of that. Just goes to show you, I’ve seen way too many episodes of Law & Order. Dreaming up this whole convoluted thing where Five Faith gets back at Bert for being a heretic by offing the women he’s slept with one by one.”
We had no proof that anyone had been “offed.”
And also…what was that Indian necklace doing in Debbie’s shower?
It’s complicated
—that’s what she’d told me. Maybe she didn’t buy into the Chekotah Fan Club. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t take him for a spin out of boredom, or isolation, or a sense of camaraderie. Or the desire to get back at Faun Windsong.
Faun Windsong. Who was head over heels for Bert Chekotah.
“How long have Chekotah and, uh, Katrina been an item?”
“Ever since I got here.”
“Then when did he have time to be dating these other women?”
“Who said anything about dating? I just said they were sleeping together.”
“And then Katrina, what? Turns a blind eye?”
“Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” I think he just barely stopped himself from calling me “girlfriend.”
“So if Five Faith wanted to get at Chekotah by going after someone he was seeing, why wouldn’t Katrina have been at the top of their list?” Lyle looked baffled. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re saving her for last.”
His laptop gave a little chime. “That’s breakfast. We need to go; the vegan sausage tastes pretty nasty when it gets cold. Sorry I couldn’t think of anything more useful.”
We stood, and Jacob, who was already standing, got to the door first.
As he opened it, Lyle put his hand on my forearm and said, “Could I talk to you alone for a sec?”
Jacob gave me a raised eyebrow as if to say,
See? I told you one-on-one would’ve been better.
“I’ll be right in the hall.” I didn’t think I could handle knowing any more of PsyTrain’s dirty little secrets, but I supposed I didn’t have any choice but to hear them. After Jacob closed the door behind him, I turned toward Lyle with my arms crossed and said, “Okay. What else?”
“Well, I…was wondering if you wanted to get together for a drink after my shift. Five thirty? Happy hour at El Dorado across the street?” Whoa. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Oh. My. God. You’re not gay.” Lyle’s blotches turned fuchsia. “I’m so sorry, I totally misread—”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, I am, but…I’m seeing somebody.” More nervous laughter. “Thank God. That would’ve been beyond awkward! So you’re seeing someone in Chicago, so what? It’s just a drink.”
“And I’m on duty. I don’t punch a time clock at five and call it a day.” He let out a huffy sigh, crossed his arms to mirror my stance, and gave me a “you’re such a partypooper” look.
“Sorry,” I said lamely, and turned toward the door.
“Well, if you change your mind and decide you’re up for a quickie, you know where to find me.”
Once I got out of the room, I’m not sure why I was more relieved—that Jacob was still in the hallway, unabducted, just as he promised he would be, or that I was no longer alone with Lyle “quickie” Peters.
No one said a word on the way to the fancy staff dining room, but I couldn’t tell if it was everyone who felt awkward, or just me.
We paused outside the dining room, and Lyle turned to look at us as if he couldn’t fathom why we weren’t charging into the room to load up on sprouted wheat bagels and fair trade coffee. “You go on ahead,” I said. “We’re right behind you.”
Lyle headed into the dining room and started pouring coffee.
“So?” Jacob asked. “What did he have to tell you in private?”
“He invited me for drinks. It wasn’t my place to out you, so I just kept it vague and told him I was seeing somebody.”
“Oh.” Jacob smirked. He didn’t look nearly as threatened by my potential date as astral Jacob would have been. “I was hoping he’d dish some more dirt.”
I wasn’t sure I could handle any more dirt—especially when it was Lisa getting dirty. Lisa. And Chekotah. I know, I know, Lisa’s a grown-up and, if it was even true, I was sure she had her reasons. But the thought of Chekotah putting the moves on her for a little side action made me want to clock him in the face.
Which would make breakfast pretty interesting.
“So we look at Chekotah?” Jacob said.
The boyfriend is always the logical place to start, and yeah, we did need to take a better look at Chekotah. Maybe we’d see something in light of our new perspective—but did I think it’d point to him sleeping his way through PsyTrain and driving off his conquests before they could tattle to Faun Windsong? No. In fact, I didn’t think he had any idea what was going on. He’d seemed upset when we arrived, and genuinely distressed when he heard Debbie was gone too.
“And keep an eye on Katrina,” I said. “She might be a lot of things, but she’s not stupid. Maybe she’s not as oblivious as Lyle thinks.”
Jacob and I were the last ones in the dining room. Three seats were open: one by Lyle, one by the bookkeeper, and one by Faun Windsong.
Katrina. Whatever. Although I was seized by a profound urge to get to know the bookkeeper better, it was easy enough to identify my avoidance for what it was, and I sat beside Katrina. Jacob took the seat next to Lyle. The bookkeeper was on his own.
Breakfast was served family style, with a big cauldron of oatmeal being passed around each table. One look at the glistening, slimy surface brought back the memory of ectoplasm so sharply that I nearly regurgitated yesterday’s spelt. I took a banana instead. The sticker on the peel proclaimed that it was organic in extra-smug letters. I put it back and decided that maybe I’d try the oatmeal after all. After I scooped it into my bowl, I topped it with a big squirt of honey, then drowned it in enough cinnamon to exorcise an evil spirit. Not bad.
I dragged my spoon through the bowl and watched as the beige oatmeal-colored layer eased shut behind the spoon, and then, a moment later, the cinnamon-colored layer. And I wondered if maybe they had huevos rancheros across the street. Lyle would know. I did my very best not to look at him, in case he’d interpret that as an invitation for a “quickie.”
I ended up looking at the final empty seat, and I said to Faun, “So, where’s your guy?”
“My guy?” She laughed. “You’re so funny.” Real laughter, or head-exploding laughter? Sounded like actual amusement, not nerves or awkward release. “
My guy
is spirit walking.” Was that like astral projecting? It seemed like it would be—but if it were, wouldn’t she have just said “astral projecting,” since she’s the big expert? My head hurt. “Does he…spirit walk…often?”
“On the solstices and equinoxes, of course.”
Oh yes, of course.
“And whenever he needs guidance from our ancestors.” Most of her ancestors were haunting castles back in Europe, but I’d pointed that out enough times at Camp Hell that it was apparent she was determined to let it roll off her back. I did glance at Lyle then, over at the next table. He was spooning raw sugar onto his oatmeal, smiling to himself. Maybe he really was on to something in regards to Katrina’s obliviousness.
“Is there a ritual, or…?”
“Absolutely. Shamanic tradition is rich in symbolism and ritual.” The narcissism was killing me, but I forced myself to sound normal and prompt her with, “Such as?”
“Fasting. Drumming. Chanting.”
“Peyote?”
“No.” She looked down her nose at me as if I couldn’t possibly have said something more juvenile. “He’s Seminole.” Gee, I wasn’t as up on my Native American traditions as the chick who used to call herself Faun fucking Windsong even though she was fifteen sixteenths as lily-white as me. Imagine that. I slashed into the oatmeal with my spoon. Not eating it. Just funneling my aggression.
“Summer solstice isn’t ’til next week,” I pointed out.
“He’s trying to figure out what happened to Professor March.”
“By burning sage in her room?”
“Not in her room—I don’t see how that could affect evidence, but you said not to touch anything, so we didn’t touch anything. He’s in our room.”
“Our” room? They lived together on campus? Quite the happy couple.
Or were they? Did Faun say the words
Professor March
with a hint of cattiness, or was I imagining it because I’d seen that necklace hanging in Debbie’s shower? Maybe the three missing women had nothing to do with a bunch of bible-thumpers, and everything to do with the fact that they’d known Chekotah in the biblical sense…and then Faun Windsong found out, and one by one, arranged for them to take a permanent hike.
I must have been looking at her funny, even with that expressionless face I’ve cultivated over the years, because she said, “Our room is a very sacred space.”
I almost laughed. But the knowledge that Bert Chekotah had been stepping out of their “sacred space” to stick it to Lisa left me entirely unamused, which killed the laughter dead in my throat. I stabbed my oatmeal a few more times before the other Psychs at my table started looking at
me
funny, and then I decided that eating would probably be my best bet. It might not be pleasant, but I was pretty damn hungry—and at least it would keep my mouth busy so I didn’t say something I’d regret.
When I looked down into the bowl, four oatmeal-and-cinnamon colored slashes looked back at me—oozing shut, but definitely there. Not only that, but they spelled out two letters.
TV
I stirred the word out of the oatmeal and pushed the bowl away.
• • •
While I had no definitive proof that “spirit walking” and astral projection were the same thing, I suspected there were only so many types of psychic phenomena in the world—not necessarily six, like the government’s got printed on all their pamphlets and brochures.
But few enough that it didn’t surprise me when the same mojo went by a different name. And what interested me about astral projection was this: if I could catch Chekotah while he was astral, I might be able to get him to really spill his guts in that same sort of radical honesty Jacob displayed while he floated the ridiculous theory that there was a better ass than his somewhere out in the world. Judging by my prior two trips, if I did manage to drag Chekotah into an astral conversation, I’d probably remember it just fine—and if I was really lucky, he wouldn’t.
Jacob thought it was a good plan. When I told him I wanted him to watch over me while I was doing it, he thought it was an even better plan. But even though slipping out of my flesh suit would be the best way for me to take advantage of Chekotah’s spirit walk, the knowledge that my right arm had suggested turning on the GhosTV wasn’t sitting very well. “I was thinking about trying it without the help of the TV set,” I told Jacob.
“Any reason in particular?”
Because I wanted to rebel against my oatmeal. “I just thought I might have a little more control over snapping back into my body if I needed to.”
“But that’s why I’ll be here. I can always wake you up. And besides, since when can you just decide you’re going to astral project and fly right out of your body? I thought it was the type of skill that takes people whole lifetimes to perfect.”
“I won’t know until I try.” I took off my shoes and jacket, removed my holster, loosened my tie and sat down on the bed.
“Do you want a drink? Something weak, like a hard lemonade.”
The itchy hunger-like feel at the back of my tongue told me half a tab of Valium would not be unwelcome…but supposedly most drugs made it harder to project, not easier. “It’s fine. All I need to do is say the magic words—just resting my eyes.”
I closed my eyes and folded my hands on my stomach, sighed, and tried to remember what it had felt like to project. Floaty. Foggy. Stuck in a ball pit. I lay still and thought about the sensations, tried to feel those feelings somatically. I remembered…but I didn’t feel them. I tried harder, and harder still. Nothing. “How long has it been?” I said, finally.
“Twenty minutes. No luck?”
“Zilch.”
“Here, I have an idea.” A computer made its “ta-da” startup noise, and then there was the quiet sound of a new keyboard clicking. I kept my eyes shut so as not to undo my twenty minutes of effort. “I’ll read a guided meditation for you. Maybe that’ll help.”