“I’ll send someone to keep an eye out for him,” I told Haskel. F-Pimp was good at being nosy, and if he did come back for another try, a black-suited agent asking him a few random questions should be enough to prevent him from committing birdicide.
Boswell had been lurking on the stairwell in a beanie cap pulled down low and an oversized pair of dark sunglasses. “That was the infamous Z Sledge?” he asked. “Protein powder and supplement stacks—he’s exactly like I pictured him.”
Well, I’d give Boswell one thing, he was observant…maybe that was the silver lining of paranoia. Or maybe he wasn’t even paranoid. Just a realist. Either way, once I got him in the FPMP system, I’d be free to focus on Sarah.
We followed him back to HQ so he didn’t get cold feet. The ride was mostly quiet, both Evelyn and me digesting what we’d seen…though my stomach was still iffy from its latest go-round with the SPECs. As we pulled into the underground ramp, Evelyn sighed and said, “That mailman will probably walk free, won’t he?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Evelyn shook her head. “If I were in Sarah’s shoes, I don’t know if I’d want my fear back.”
Me neither. Though I supposed it was Sarah’s decision to make.
We headed up to processing with Boswell where he’d subject himself to several hours of admin and come out the other end a certified psych. Evelyn and I could’ve watched the ordeal through a one-way mirror, but I felt like I owed it to the guy to stay in plain sight.
“Are you okay?” Evelyn whispered as a friendly technician ushered him to his seat.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Let’s just say I’m no fan of psychic testing.” My own intake had been innocuous enough—the specific word I’d used at the time waslame—but once I was firmly in Camp Hell’s clutches, the experiments took a darker turn.
“Just breathe,” Evelyn murmured.
Right.
The tech was an earnest young woman in a lab coat with a badge announcing her as NP—non-psychic. It made sense since strong psychs can transmit as well as receive, and you wouldn’t want to contaminate your readings. “We’ll start with some baseline vitals,” she said pleasantly, and held up a blood pressure cuff.
Boswell eyed it skeptically. “I refuse to consent without a Faraday cage.”
The tech blinked. “I don’t…know what that is.”
Boswell sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get it over with.”
Evelyn leaned in and explained, “Taking a baseline is an important first step in any science. We need a clean ‘before’ for the ‘after’ to mean anything.”
I nodded. It made sense. Though Boswell didn’t.
It was a struggle. But eventually the tech got her reading. And then one of our most notorious hard-hitters breezed in.
Dr. Santiago was a very outgoing, very expressive, and very busty psychiatrist. She was also very telepathic. I noted hername tag with her psych level was innocuously half-hidden behind her lapel…with ample cleavage mere inches away, pretty much ensuring no straight man would bother worrying about her badge with her gazongas right there for the ogling.
“Welcome to the FPMP,” she said grandly. “Don’t worry about these tests, they’re just a…how you call it, formality?”
Of course, she knew the word just fine. Rumor had it she spoke four languages. But her persona was carefully honed to let folks feel superior so she could get under their guard using any means necessary. Boswell’s normal state of being was flustered, though, so I couldn’t tell if she was making any headway.
Santiago planted herself across the table from Boswell, picked up a set of cards, and shuffled them like a blackjack dealer. No aces here, though. The faces were circles of simple colors—red, blue, yellow. She dealt, and Boswell guessed. There were hits—with only three colors, there was a good enough chance of guessing right—and there were misses. And no doubt the test results would go on Boswell’s record. But given that Santiago was the one administering the test, I doubted they were testing him for any colors.
Did it beat being pumped full of psyactives and locked in a room with a dead woman’s wig? I dunno. At least at Camp Hell, I knew when something was nefarious.
“I’m sure he’s doing fine,” Evelyn told me. Which just goes to show how useless empathy can be. Yeah, I was nervous. Not for Boswell’s sake—but for mine.
It took the rest of the afternoon to walk Boswell through his initial psych screening. He did a little bit of everything, but no single test took all that long. If he were here because we thought he had a talent like telepathy or clairvoyance, this would just bethe start of it all. He’d be guessing cards till they were coming out of his ears.
But mediumship is…special.
And I’d already given him a grade. Four—one step lower than my official five. High? Yeah, the highest rating I’d ever doled out. This guy not only saw ghosts, he saw repeaters. My hope was that with the right guidance—or the right meds—he could stop seeing surveillance in his Cheerios.
“Okey dokey!” Santiago said brightly. “Go sign some papers with Janet and you are all done.”
“That’s it?” Boswell looked askance at the carafe on the table. “Aren’t you gonna offer me any refreshments?”
