“The bird Murray thinks no one else knows about. No pets, remember? Not even birds. But I’ve overheard him talking to that thing—sound carries out on the back porch with the kitchen window open—and it seems like the only friend he’s got. It would be a shame if the jerks in charge made him choose between his bird and his home. But they’re just a bunch of soulless, capitalistic corporate drones, so you can’t expect them to show a guy an ounce of understanding. Especially if you violate the letter of the law on the almighty lease agreement.”
“That was no bird, Boswell—it was a human laugh.”
“It’s a myna bird, it can mimic things just like a parrot. Now me, I’d rather have something that couldn’t repeat anything incriminating. After all, who knows what the government will decide to subpoena? Maybe I’d have a songbird. Or at least something nice to look at. Then again, either way, you get the satisfaction of lining their cage with newspapers and watching them shit on all that propaganda the press is shilling these days—”
“Forget about the bird. What more can you tell me about the entity in this room?”
“The woman,” he said, as if daring me to downplay, minimize, or contradict him.
Instead, I nodded and said, “The woman.”
My agreement seemed to satisfy him. “I don’t know who she was. The rental office won’t say who lived here before, so other than the junk mail, I’ve got nothing to go by. And it’s not like I’m willing to leave an electronic breadcrumb trail by searching. Oh, theysayyou’re protected by VPN...anyway, whoever the ghost woman was, she comes and goes. Her presence was strong just then—I know you felt it too—so it’ll be a while before she shows up again.”
Figuring I shouldn’t let the apartment burn down, I snuffed out my candles and eased my mental hold on my white balloon. By the time I pinched out the fourth flame, the first candle had cooled enough to bag without dripping wax everywhere. “You’re sure it’s a bird?” I said. Because Boswell was so busy worrying about umpteen common things, I could see him missing something that should actually alarm him.
“Sure I’m sure. Everyone thinks Murray is a misanthrope and a hoarder, and that’s why he won’t let anyone into his apartment. But the real reason is he’s worried they’ll take his bird away.”
Haw-haw-haw.
The floor was covered in catnip and salt, but there was nothing to be done for that before the cops stepped in, not unless Laura wanted to send in an emergency cleanup crew and call even more attention to the scene. I couldn’t help but think I’d failed the victim, whoever she was. But at least I could fulfill my original mission and get Boswell onboard with the FPMP.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “If I’m a medium, and you and I both saw something in the bedroom, it stands to reason….”
Understanding dawned. Boswell stared at me for a long moment, then nodded solemnly. “You’re saying I’m psychic?That’s a tough pill to swallow, yes indeed. I’m a natural skeptic. I pride myself in sticking to the facts.”
“Obviously.”
“But it wouldn’t be the first time sensationalistic news propaganda held a grain of truth.”
“If you’re certified psychic—and I’m willing to sign off on my part of the assessment based on what I’ve already seen—the folks I work for can help you get a handle on your talent. Where you take it from there is up to you.”
Boswell considered this, then said, “Fair warning, I don’t sign any contracts without running them by a lawyer first. And not just any lawyer, either, but a guy who specializes in seeing through legalese and jargon.”
“Lawyer up.”
He nodded decisively. “Fine. I’ll peer beneath the surface and see how the government sausage is made.”
“Well, you know the way.” I pivoted toward the door.
“Not so fast—I’m not going anywhere without Simon.”
The cat?
Great. “Listen, I’ve got a coworker who’s a big time cat lover. We’ll get her out here, she can set a trap—”
Boswell ignored me, strode into the kitchen, and exclaimed, “Look, there he is!”
Sure enough, the scrawny gray tabby was peering through the kitchen window. It eased back a ways when Boswell came to throw it open. Huh. Normally windows in apartments like that couldn’t be opened without the jaws of life, thanks to all thecoats of paint on the woodwork. “Hi, Simon, it’s your pal, Noah. Long time, no see! I sure missed you, buddy. C’mon, now, don’t be scared….”
Boswell patted himself all over and pulled out a crinkled baggie…mostly empty.
The cat dropped back off the outdoor sill and shied toward the porch rail.
“This is your fault,” Boswell told me. “You made me spill it.”
“You’re doing it all wrong—cats don’t respond no matter how hard you pester.” My half-dozen cat sitting episodes had apparently made me an expert. “They come when you spike their curiosity and then ignore them completely.”
And since the cat was still there, it was at least mildly interested.
