54
IT WAS DÉJÀ vu back in the office with Special Agents Manning and Brent. He had the computer all set up and ready to go; we were just waiting on the rest of our little party. “I’m sorry Zerbrowski can’t make it, he’s a hoot,” Brent said.
“Hoot?” I said, and smiled.
“Don’t mind him, he likes to remind me that he’s from the backwoods and I’m a city girl,” Manning said. She’d gone from black pants, jacket, and a white button-up to navy blue pants, jacket, and a pale blue button-up—a daring use of color for FBI. Brent was still in brown on brown. Either it was the same suit, or he had bought them in bulk. He also still looked like he should be back at college trying to decide if he really wanted to be an FBI agent or pursue that computer career.
“Yeah, Zerbrowski is a hoot, but his kids had a dance recital tonight. He’s damn near a psychic null, so no reason for him to watch me use my mumbo-jumbo on the videos when he won’t be able to sense anything.”
“I’ve got a little girl, too,” Brent said. “I like the idea of Zerbrowski with two of them.”
“He’s got a boy and a girl; both of them are in dance,” I said.
Manning said, “I’m surprised you called your psychic gift mumbo-jumbo; most practitioners take offense at the term.”
“I’ve been in the business working with police longer than most of the practitioners. I’ve had my abilities called a hell of a lot worse than mumbo-jumbo.”
“It’s true that Captain Storr was one of the first to see a use for psychics with nonstandard abilities.”
“Yeah, we were sort of a pilot program.”
“The great experiment, that’s what one of the instructors at Quantico called Storr’s use of you in investigations,” Brent said.
I frowned at him. “Hmm, okay, yeah, I guess so. Who are we waiting on again?”
“Why, do you have to meet Jean-Claude later?”
“Not exactly, more an ongoing attempt to have a life and a career.”
She gave me a tired smile. “I understand that. When my kids were teenagers I’d be away so long that they looked like strangers to me. When did you get to be four inches taller, that kind of thing.”
“I can’t imagine trying to do this with kids,” I said.
“I was lucky, my husband worked from home part time and was Mr. Mom full time.”
“My wife and I are still at that fighting-about-whose-career-comes-first point.” Brent frowned. “I’m sorry, that was oversharing.”
“Did you sleep at all last night?” Manning asked him.
“I don’t . . . maybe two hours.”
Manning turned to me. “He was working long distance with our tech crew trying to trace the origin of the videos. Some of the items in the room make them believe it’s still being filmed here in the United States, if we could just figure out where.”
“I think it’s here, too, and I don’t have anything but a gut feeling to go on,” I said.
“Or maybe we all hope it’s here, because that makes them easier to find,” Manning said.
“And catch,” I said.
She smiled, but she looked tired, too.
“Why didn’t you sleep?” I asked.
“Going over all the files we have on this, so I’d be fresh to look at the films with you today.”
“I was out doing zombie stuff all night. I managed to grab a few hours this afternoon, but I guess we’re all behind the sleep curve,” I said.
There was a brief knock at the door. Manning said, “Come in.”
A woman came through the door, smiling. She looked so young she could have been one of Cynric’s classmates, except for the FBI suit skirt that no self-respecting teenager would have worn unless forced. She was wearing a round Peter Pan collar and a little chain with a heart on it; I hadn’t seen either since college, and the blouse had been on a student teacher. Straight brown hair was fastened back behind her ears with a barrette. She wore no makeup except for light pink lip gloss and was still delicately pretty with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were big and pale brown like Bambi’s. Maybe it was the eyes that made her look so young?
“This is Agent Teresa Gillingham, Marshal Blake,” Manning said.
I got to my feet and held out a hand to Agent Gillingham’s offered one. The moment we shook hands I knew she was another practitioner, which was politically-correct-speak for psychic. I didn’t know what flavor she was, but whatever she was it tingled all the way up my arm.
She withdrew her hand with a little laugh. “Wow, they told me you were psychically hot, but that was something.”
“Agent Gillingham,” Manning said with reproach plain in her voice.
“I know we were supposed to hide what I was, so Marshal Blake would be more likely to use her gifts without hiding from the FBI psychic, but she knew I was another psychic the moment we shook hands, didn’t you, Marshal?”
“Yeah, your energy’s pretty obvious, too.”
“What kind am I?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not even going to try to guess?”
“No.”
She looked at me a little like Manning had; maybe it was FBI training? “You’re no fun, not to even try.”
“You’re not the first agent to tell me that.”