Poltergeist

CHAPTER 17

Monday morning my headache had abated but I woke up feeling tired nonetheless and wished I had been drinking to justify feeling so hung-over—at least then I'd have felt I deserved it. My morning run seemed to be uphill all the way and the air was thick and unpleasant. The ferret demonstrated a degree of ire at being returned to her cage that is more commonly seen in goofy Japanese cartoons, so at least I went on my way chuckling at her expense.

I hung out in the PNU Psychology Department office until Denise Francisco showed up for work. She took a look at me as she ducked into her desk and dropped a large, black canvas purse on the floor with a thump.

She avoided eye contact. "Tuck isn't in yet," she said. She snatched a lumpy blue coffee mug the size of a walrus off the desktop and headed back out the door. I followed her.

"I've seen all of Dr. Tuckman that I care to for a while," I said. "I came to talk to you.”

Still thirty going on nineteen, she was wearing a short, flippy skirt over her pudgy hips with several layers of too-tight tank tops under a black denim jacket. If she hadn't been wearing cherry red Dr. Martens she would have scurried, but no one scurries in midcalf mosh boots. She whisked into another doorway that turned out to be a break room. She snatched the coffeepot off its warming plate and cursed loudly and creatively as the merest gloop of black, overboiled coffee oozed into her mug.

"Thirteen paralytic virgins and a partridge in a rutting pear tree! Who drank all the coffee already! You people suck, do you hear me? You S-U-Q-Q, suck! You couldn't give a blow job in a wind tunnel! If manners were makeup, you'd need plastic surgery first! Homeless winos put their hands on their wallets and cross to the opposite side of the street when they see you people coming!”

A voice floated out from somewhere deeper in the warren of offices: "Keep goin', Frankie. My abs need the workout.”

She bent over—almost exposing more than the stiff black net of her trendy petticoat—and scrabbled through a cabinet beneath the coffeemaker. "Goddamn it," she muttered. "They got the hazelnut." She straightened and glared at me. "Do you drink coffee?”

I blinked at her. "Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. "Starbucks?”

"Only when desperate.”

"What did you want to talk to me about?”

"The project. Terry said you worked on it for a while. I need to know more.”

She shoved her massive mug at me. "Get this filled with hazelnut coffee that doesn't taste like crude oil and I'll tell you anything.”

I looked at the cup, then looked back up at Frankie. "No.”

She pouted. "No? Why should I tell you anything if you won't do something for me first?”

"Because I can just sit and watch you have a coffee jones until you give in and it costs me nothing, whereas filling that portable black hole of a mug will cost me twenty dollars and a half hour of time I won't enjoy in the least.”

She stared at me and poked the tip of her tongue out to flicker over her top lip like a snake tasting the air. Then she huffed and turned away, saying, "I'll be right back.”

She marched off into the warren and I heard the laughing voice yell briefly before she returned with the mug half full.

"OK," she announced. "I can stand to shackle myself to this job for about half an hour now. Or until Tuck gets in." She rolled her eyes. "Whichever. C'mon. Back to the pillory.”

Frankie slurped some coffee and headed to the Psych office with me in tow.

"You don't seem too. . pleased with this job," I hazarded.

"Oh, God, no," she replied, sliding back behind her desk. "I only came because of Tuckman. I used to be one of his grad students at the University of Washington—I thought he glided across water like eiderdown. Tells you what a big dope I was, huh?" She slurped coffee at every conversational turn.

"Anyhow, so, when Tuck got the chop at the U, I was still trying to finish up my thesis, so I transferred here to follow him and the project. I helped him set up the room and the protocols, and I'm still typing up his project reports, but. .”

"I heard that coming. But what?" I asked, leaning on the counter.

"I have learned to my sorrow that Dr. Gartner Tuckman is a particular variety of dickweed that grows in the slimiest of swamps composed of rotten, overinflated ego. He is—to be delicate about it—a manipulative, unethical jerk who slants his protocol to get the result he wants. Fie only got the offer here because PNU was too starry-eyed about him to see he thinks this school is a second—no— a third-rate babysitting service for spoiled brats too stupid to get into a 'real' college. And he's got too big an ego to realize how lucky he is that no one spilled the beans about why he left U-Dub in the first place.”

"And why did he?" I prompted, not because I had to, but because it was obvious she wanted me to and I didn't mind playing along a little, so long as she was talking.

"Technically it was a cutback, but really they were looking for a reason to get rid of him without looking like big idiots. His last couple of projects were major money pits. He's got a magic touch for making money go places it shouldn't and getting away with it, but his last projects at U-Dub didn't clean up so well and they both got buried because Tuckman's favorite thing is manipulating his subjects—and his assistants—into going way too far for safety or good sense. He likes to push people and he sets up experiments that push them to push others. People got hurt, but Tuck was able to blame some of the assistants and the participants and get away with it—mostly. Everybody on the review board must have known he'd been playing fast and loose with the cash and messing up his subjects, but they didn't have enough proof to do anything but unload him at the first opportunity. Which they did.”

"And he took up where he left off when he got here?”

Frankie nodded. "Pretty much. He always wanted to try this ghost thing. At first I was all for it—I thought it would be kind of neat—but it's not. It's crap. And he's not being straight with anybody. He's doing the same bad things.”

"How so?”

"OK, you understand this experiment is a really dangerous idea. Tuck's got this bunch of kind of wacky people thinking they can levitate stuff and make things appear out of thin air. This was supposed to be PK by committee, remember, but Tuck's stopped emphasizing that little detail. He's letting them think they have the power individually as well as collectively. Can you imagine what's going to happen to them when this project breaks up? He's got these guys thinking they can do anything—like they're all Superman or something—that the rules of the normal world don't apply to them. You know what we call people who think like that? We call 'em psychopaths. The whole thing's just creepy and I don't know what he thinks he's going to show, but I'm betting it'll be nasty—'cause with Tuck it always is.”

"Then why are you still here?”

"Because I now owe PNU for my graduate program. So I took this job and—naturally—they put me in the Psych Department, where I have to see Mr. Ego every day except Friday. I'm trying to get a different job, but there isn't anything available midterm. Unless someone dies.”

"You know, Tuck thinks someone is sabotaging his project. . ”

She giggled and drained the coffee mug. "Well, it's not me. I'm trying to make sure no one gets hurt if I can help it. That's why I volunteer to clean up the room for him—so I can see if he's changed anything. I wouldn't put it past him to electrify the chairs or something like that if he thought it would get him a novel reaction or push his subjects just a bit further. So I check for stuff every time I do the room. So far, so good. Although, you know, I heard he's got a theft problem.”

"Really?”

"Yup. His poltergeist is a magpie. Likes shiny things. Steals people's keys and loots the women's purses. Always has, from day one. I was kind of surprised he just let you have those keys since he'd be in six feet of deep-fried trouble if they got lost.”

"How much trouble would he be in if he lost an assistant?”

"Depends on how he lost him," she chortled. "You mean, like, quit—no problem. You mean, like, dead—not so good.”

She didn't know. "Do you read the paper or watch the news?”

"As infrequently as possible—I don't need any more nightmares than I got out of Tuck the past few years. Why?”

"Did you know Mark Lupoldi?”

"Tuck's special effects guy? Sure.”

"He was killed last Wednesday. He didn't make it to the session.”

Frankie's jaw dropped open. "You're kidding. Right?”

"No. The cops are looking into it.”

"Holy. . shrimp basket. For real?”

"Real as it gets.”

Frankie gaped and started shaking her head. Then she stopped and stared into her coffee cup. She didn't look up when someone entered the office, but I did. A lanky gray-haired man in a sweater stood in the doorway holding a coffee mug almost as large as hers.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. I was bringing Madam Frankie coffee. Before she decides to have my head boiled in it. Is she in here? I thought I heard her…”

I pointed over the counter. "She's a little upset.”

He gave me a cockeyed smile. "She can't be too upset—she's not swearing." He looked over the counter. "Oh. Oh, no. That looks bad.”

"A friend of hers died.”

"Oh." He went behind the counter and crouched down next to Frankie, pouring the coffee into her mug with care. "Brought you coffee, Frankie. Hello. Earth to Frankie. Time for verbal abuse—it's Starbucks.”

"You brought me Starbucks. .?" she muttered.

"I know how you love to complain. So. I hear you're feeling like crap…”

"I don't feel like crap. I feel like the lowest trilobite fossil ever ground up and dumped on a roadbed in Tumwater under half a ton of tar.”

"That good, huh?" He glanced up at me. "I've got her. She'll be all right.”

Frankie exploded in tears and crammed her face against the man's shoulder. He looked startled, but waved me away.

I felt strange about leaving. It was my fault she was upset. But she wouldn't have felt any better about it tomorrow when it came from Solis. At least tomorrow she would see it coming.

I found a dry place to stop and make a phone call to the Danzigers. I wanted to double-check Frankie's story about Tuckman's exit from UW with Ben. As amusing as her version was, she had an axe to grind and that tends to color people's statements. But the Danzigers didn't answer their phones and I had to leave messages.

I didn't like the odd sensation in my gut. Maybe I was starting to get premonitions or something, though that seemed unlikely. Still, what I knew about Greywalking I'd come by largely through the worst kind of bumbling firsthand experience, so I might be wrong. I hoped not.

I had an appointment to talk to Wayne Hopke at one thirty and plenty to keep busy with until then.

Wayne Hopke lived on an old forty-foot powerboat that smelled of cigarettes, beer, and citrus-based organic cleaner. The boat was moored on the canal near the Ballard locks and Hopke had come out to greet me on arrival with a big grin on his face and a brew in his hand. He was, as Cara had said, a likable old sot who felt the loneliness of retirement and chased it off with conversation and cold ones as often as possible. Though he'd been fully retired from the army for a while and was approaching seventy, he was still sinewy and wore his white hair in a military buzz cut. The rest of his appearance had gone civilian—blue jeans, deck shoes, and a loose sweatshirt.

He launched into his background and his reason for joining the project with gusto—he'd been bored—and rambled on for quite a while about life in and after the army, draining several beers as he did. But the alcohol didn't seem to dull his wits any. He knew to the exact minute when he'd joined the project, what he thought of it all, and who'd done what when. He was the least judgmental and the most relaxed of the whole group. He seemed to have no discomforts or rancor with anyone and he believed in the project wholeheartedly.

He didn't quaver or qualify anything and he liked it all just fine, thank you.

Whenever he finished off a beer, he crushed the can flat and tossed it toward a box of empties before opening the fridge for a fresh one. A minuscule yellow thread seemed to unreel from him behind each flung can and tangle in a pale haze over the box.

One of the crushed cans made an abrupt veer and flew toward me. I ducked and knocked it aside.

Hopke glanced up. "I am so sorry. That's been happening more and more lately.”

I waved it off, though I tried to keep an eye on the thin haze of Grey energy that floated peripatetically about the cabin, sending tiny tendrils toward us like test probes. "I'm getting used to it.”

The boat heeled and pulled at the mooring lines with a creak. The sudden motion and the smell in the cabin forced me to swallow hard and dig my feet into the floor. Several books from the built-in shelves arced lazily into the air, defying gravity, and tumbled past my head.

Hopke scrambled to pick them up and stack them on a table. "Damn. Celia's getting frisky lately.”

"Is this unusual?”

"Not entirely, but it's more frequent since last week or so. Celia's always been a bit of a troublemaker. I think she took my keys this morning—it's a good thing I'm not planning to go anywhere, because I haven't found them yet. I hope she didn't toss them overboard.”

"That would be inconvenient.”

"It surely would.”

"All right," I said, resettling myself. "As long as we're on the subject, let's go back to yesterday, OK?"

“Sure.”

"Why was yesterday's session so much different than the others?”

"Well, it's Mark.”

"Excuse me," I said, putting up a hand to forestall him. "Are you saying that you think Mark's death is related to the events of yesterday?”

"Yes, I am. I think Mark's with us. Or at least the energy came from Mark in some way. Maybe because we were thinking of him or something like that, but whatever it is, you can't deny that yesterday's session was different and the only thing that had changed was that Mark was dead.”

"How do you explain the rise in phenomena before Mark's death, then?”

"Natural progression. We've been working on it, getting better at it. Putting in all our effort.”

"The change was very sudden, though. Do you think you're all contributing equally to the phenomena or is there something else going on?”

"If you mean fakery, I'd have to say no. We're all on the level. But I suppose it's possible that one or two people might be just better at it than others, or working just a touch harder. All teams have their workhorses—someone who leads the way or pulls a little harder to encourage others.”

"Who would that be, in your estimation?”

Hopke laughed. "Oh, that I don't know. Celia's mighty fond of Ken, but that doesn't mean he's got anything special to do with it. She used to have a bit of a soft spot for Cara, too. I must say, I was surprised Cara got hurt. She's a bit chilly at first, but she's not a bad gal. I suppose it was just an accident because we were all upset—Mark was a good guy and we all liked him, and if he's with Celia, he wouldn't hurt Cara deliberately.”

He paused to think, then went on, frowning. "All our sessions have been very pleasant up till now. But I know there's some hard feelings here and there—Dale's a jealous one and Patty's easily upset—so maybe we did it to ourselves. .? Huh. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

"Yeah, it does. Aside from Dale and Patricia, are there other. . hard feelings in the group?”

"Well, the kids are kind of funny. I'm sure they don't think an old fart like me knows what they're up to—your average twenty-year-olds think they invented sex themselves—but I've seen that sort of thing before. It's been the cause of more sorrow and stupidity than drinking and driving.”

"What about Mark?”

"I'm not following you.”

"Did any of the group have a problem with Mark or a reason to hurt him? You suggested Mark might be 'with' Celia. Would he have reason to be resentful or angry?" I was pretty sure it wasn't the ghost of Mark Lupoldi who'd thrown the brooch, but Hopke's ideas might point in an interesting direction.

"Mark was the easiest guy you ever saw. If he had a problem with you, he'd say something, maybe make a joke about it, but he wasn't the resentful type or mean. If anyone had a problem with Mark, why would they take it out on Cara? Unless you think Celia killed Mark, which is ridiculous.”

"Is it?”

"Celia's made up of a bit of all of us, and since none of us would hurt Mark, why would Celia?”

Another can lofted and smacked into my skull.

"You OK there?" Hopke asked, leaning toward me.

I rubbed my head. "Yeah. It wasn't much.”

"Good thing the can was empty.”

I nodded and wanted to wrap this interview up and get out before Celia got any more "frisky.”

"I've just got one more question. You said you wanted something to do, but why choose this particular project?”

"Well, I've lost plenty of friends over the years and I still wonder if there's more to all of this than just struggling in the mud and the blood and the—the poop. You should pardon my language.”

"I've heard worse.”

Hopke nodded and went on. "See, I just want to know what's out there after this, if there is anything at all.”

"You're a braver man than I," I commented in all truth.

"I doubt that. You seem like a pretty gutsy gal.”

"Maybe, but I'm not sure I want to know what happens after this.”

He finished another beer. "You may change your mind when you're my age.”

I doubted it, but, then, Hopke didn't know what I knew.

"Are you satisfied with what you've learned so far?" I asked.

"So far, I guess I am. I still want to know more, but I feel a little better having some idea that we're not entirely powerless in this world and maybe not in the next.”

I stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Hopke. You've answered all my questions.”

"Already?" he asked, standing himself. "That hardly took any time at all." He gave me a hopeful smile. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for a beer?”

I shook my head, smiling back. "I can't. Thank you for the offer, though.”

He walked with me to the edge of the boat and handed me over the side. As I started to turn, something shiny whizzed past my head and plopped into the water. Its passage made my head throb again.

"Oh, damn," Hopke groaned. "Those were my keys. Well, I guess I'll be fishing for them.”

I stared down into the murky green water of the marina. "How deep is it? Can you get them back?”

"Probably. The canal's shallow right here, 'cause this bit used to be the bay." He looked back into the water and picked up another can of beer from a cooler on the aft deck. "Well, better get started with the fishing. And you know how beer and fishing go together.”

I wished him good luck with the key-fishing and left him trolling a heavy magnet for the steel key ring and sipping beer. I kind of liked Wayne Hopke and I thought it was too bad that he probably wouldn't learn much about life after death from this experience. He'd have to pick it up when he got there, and I hoped that wouldn't be soon.