Sia

A routine search for a missing daughter leads Tom Jurgen to a cult where people can fly, a stolen magic goblet—and an old girlfriend.

Sia, Part One

“Is everybody in? Is everybody in? Is everybody in? The ceremony is about to begin.”

—Jim Morrison

Sia stood in the center of the circle, holding hands with a man on one side and a girl—Dawne, my clients’ 20-year-old daughter—on the other. They held hands with three others.

            Sia knelt on the hardwood floor. The rest of us—15 or so, counting me—watched as she lit a red candle next to gray pewter goblet.

            Then she stood up and pulled her T-shirt off. 

            In a moment they all were naked. Dawne laughed. 

            Sia lifted the goblet and took a deep gulp of whatever was inside. Then she passed it to the man next to her—his name was Adam, African American, young and slim. The goblet went around the circle to Dawne, who gulped the last of it, and then Sia set in on the floor.

            They crossed arms to join hands again, and closed their eyes.

            “Icarus.” Sia’s voice was a whisper, but we all heard it. “Lift us up. Give us the gift of flight.”

            Sia’s feet rose from the floor. One inch, two inches . . . 

            The rest of them rose too. Dawne giggled. The woman beside her opened her eyes and looked down with a gasp. 

            They let go of each other’s hands and floated up toward the cabin’s rafters. Dawne kicked her feet, laughing, soaring up and then around the room. A short guy spread his arms like wings, following her.

            Around me the others gazed up, enviously. Maybe tomorrow, a woman muttered behind me. Our turn.

            I kept my eyes on Dawne. Not because she was naked, but because I was trying not to focus on Sia. 

It had been a long time since I’d last seen her.

Then someone or something rustled behind me. I looked over my shoulder.

Then all hell broke loose.

Sia, Part Two

No gates, no fences. Just a sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY.

I drove up a gravel driveway and parked in front of a large, long log cabin. 

A woman opened the door. She wore cutoff shorts and a white Donald Duck T-shirt. “Hi! I’m Jenny. Are you lost?”

            “I hope not.” I took my sunglasses off. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m looking for Dawne Etterling?”

Her parents had hired me yesterday. They hadn’t heard from Dawne for more than month, ever since she’d texted them that she was heading up to Wisconsin with some friends. 

“Dawne?” Jenny cocked her head. “Yeah, I think she’s back in the garden. Do you want to see her?”

             “Yes, please.” I closed the door and picked up my phone to call Rachel. My girlfriend. “I’m here.” I like to let her know where I am when I’m working on a case.

            “Great. I’m working. Big project.” She’s a graphic designer. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, vaguely psychic powers. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

            “Who, me?”

            Rachel snorted. “Jerk.”

            I followed Jenny around the cabin. In the wide yard behind the house a dozen or so people worked in a long garden surrounded by a low chain-link fence. They were pulling weeds, turning over dirt, digging potatoes from under the dirt and yanking tomatoes from tall stalks, tossing them into separate baskets, next to radishes and raw onions. Stalks of corn grew at the far end.

            In the distance I saw apple trees, their branches swaying in the breeze. Not ripe yet. But soon. 

            Jenny led me to the fence gate. “Dawne? Someone here to see you?”

            A young woman turned from a stalk of tomatoes. She wore jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. Brown hair cut short, dirt on her arms. She brushed her hands off. “Hello?”

            “Hi, Dawne.” I recognized her from the photos her parents had sent me. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective from Chicago. Your parents hired me to find you and make sure you’re safe.”

            Finding Dawne hadn’t been especially hard. The Etterlings had pointed me toward her Facebook page, which had links to a farm in Wisconsin called Icarus Farm. A lot of her friends had the same connection. It took only a few minutes to get the location on Google Maps.

            “I can’t force her to leave,” I told them on the phone. 

            “We just want to know she’s safe,” Marina Etterling told me. “My husband can’t drive, and I can’t leave him. Just make sure she’s okay. Ask her to call us.”

            Dawne blinked at me. “I’m fine.”

            “They haven’t heard from you in a few weeks.” I pulled out my phone, entered my password, and found the Etterlings’ number. “Would you mind calling them?”

            She looked around, nervous. Would she refuse? Insist on calling in private where no one—including me—could hear her? But she took the phone.

            A woman in shorts and a blue bikini top stood up from a rip in the ground and dropped a potato into a wicker basket. “Tom? Is that you?”

            Oh hell. “Hi, Bridget.”

            Bridget Sullivan. She had short pale blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, and although her face looked a little longer and her eyebrows seems darker, she was still as lovely as she’d looked when I met her in college. 

            “It’s Sia now. I changed my name. I changed—a lot of things.” She hugged me. “It’s good to see you, Tom.”

            “Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Dawne’s parents—I’m a private detective—is it all right if she calls them? To tell them she’s okay?”

            “Of course.” Bridget—Sia—smiled. “We don’t allow cell phones here at the farm, but it’s fine. Go ahead, Dawne.”

            Dawne took the phone and stepped away, pressing the number. 

            Sia watched for a moment, then looked at me. “So how’ve you been Tom? You’re a P.I. now? What happened to journalism?”

            “Yeah, about that . . .” I hesitated. “That didn’t work out so much.” Mostly because I kept trying to report on supernatural phenomena that my editors wanted me to ignore. But I wanted to avoid my whole life story. “What about you? This is—different.”

            She shrugged one bare, tanned shoulder. “I found something better. It took a long time. I guess we’ve both been through some changes, huh?”

            Dawne came back. “They want to talk to you.”

            “Mr. Jurgen?” Marina Etterling’s voice shook. “Is she really okay? Are you sure?”

            “She seems fine. Everything here seems safe.”

            “All right.” She sniffed. “If you can—ask her to come home? Just for a visit?”

            “I’ll try.”          

            “Thank you.” She hung up.

            “I’m fine. Really.” Dawne looked back at the garden. “I should get back to work.”

            I nodded. “Go ahead.”

            Sia put a hand on my arm. “Stay for dinner, Tom. We have an interesting ceremony we do every night. You’ll enjoy it.”

            It would give me more time. To assess Dawne’s safety. And, okay, to see Bridget. Sia. Assuming it wasn’t some kind of trap. I’ve had too many cases where something innocuous turned into something terrifying. “Great, thanks. I’d love to.” I tapped my phone. “Let me just call my girlfriend.”

            “Right.” She grinned. “And if you feel like helping out in the garden for a while? We can always use an extra pair of hands.” She looked at mine.

            I swallowed. “Of course.”

So I was at DePaul University, studying journalism and working on the student newspaper. The editor sent me out to review a student production of Marat/Sade. It’s about the Marquis de Sade in an insane asylum, staging his own play about the assassination of some guy called Jean-Paul Marat during the French Revolution. It’s a weird play by itself. The production took it to new depths. 

            I took notes, and afterward I got invited to a cast party. Maybe they thought it would help with the review, even though my notes were pretty positive. At the party I spotted the woman who’d played Charlotte Corday, who stabs Marat in his bathtub. She was pumping beer from a tap.

            I walked up and grabbed a cup. “Hi. You were great tonight.”

            “Oh?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Thanks. Or is this just about the nude scene?”

            Of course it was about the nude scene. “No, no. I just thought your performance was great. I’m Tom. I’m doing the review for the paper.”

            “Oh.” She sipped her beer, her blue eyes peering at me over the top of the cup. “What’d you like? Be specific.”

            “Your singing.” She did have a wonderful voice. “And, okay, the nude scene.”

            She groaned. “I’ve been eating salads for weeks to get ready for that. I could really use a hamburger right now.”

            I could take a hint, even then. “You want to get something to eat?”

            Bridget took a long gulp of her beer. “Sure.”

“So was she your first one?” Rachel interrogated me on the phone as I sat in my car.

            Not exactly. “Let’s just say the first one when I wasn’t worried about someone’s parents coming home.” Or one time in a graveyard, but I didn’t want to go into that.

            “Okay. Now?”

            My relationship with Rachel is sort of complicated. We live together. We’ve both said the L word, but neither of us are in any hurry to get married. I’ve got an ex-wife, and Rachel has commitment issues. And we both understand that. 

            That doesn’t mean we don’t get jealous sometimes.

            “Now?” I shrugged. “I have to stay here for dinner. Maybe overnight. My job is to make sure Dawne’s all right.”

            “No, I mean . . .” She sighed. “Just tell me what happened? Just a little. I don’t want all the gory details. Unless you want mine.”

            “Uh, no.” I tried to think back. “The usual, I guess. We, uh, hung out a lot. It got intense for a few weeks. Then we started arguing. Bridget was always getting ready for a new play, and I was always working on stories for the newspaper. This was before I started seeing monsters, but . . .” I shuddered. “We didn’t have a lot of time for each other. But it was pretty amicable when we ended.” One last night in my apartment. Then a kiss, and she was gone. “I saw her a few times on campus, and in plays, and sometimes we chatted. But today is the first time I’ve seen her—or thought about her—in years.”

            Like I said, Rachel has somewhat psychic powers. But after all this time together she didn’t really need those to tell when I’m lying. Apparently she believed me. “Fine.”

            “I’ll call you. And really, this is just business. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

            “Hah!” Rachel snorted. “I always worry about you, jerk. Get home safe, or we’re going to have words.”

            I smiled. “Love you.”

            “Shut up. Me too. Don’t forget that.” She hung up. 

So I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and plucked tomatoes from the vine for a few hours until the sun started to set.

            The group was pretty diverse—mostly young people, African American, Hispanic, tall, short. One Asian guy had a big butterfly tattoo on his bare chest. And they were friendly, asking my name, coaching me on how to pluck the tomatoes without bruising them, talking about how they’d gotten here.

            They liked working with the land. Getting their hands dirty. Leaving behind the city and starting over.

            I managed to get next to Dawne. “I love my folks, don’t get me wrong.” She carefully placed a tomato into another wicker basket. “I just needed something different. I was majoring in marketing, and that just seemed so meaningless after a while. The climate is changing, the world’s going to hell, and I don’t have it in me to become an activist, going to protests and getting arrested, you know? I just wanted to get out of the whole system.”

            “Yeah.” That came from a guy named Carlos next to her. “Sometimes you have to get out. Just for a while, maybe? This is better.”

            “What drew you here?” I twisted my wrist the way I’d just been taught to free the tomato just right.

            “I connected with Sia on her website.” Carlos paused for a drink of water. “It just sounded cool.”

            I glanced at Dawne. “You too?”

            She smiled. “You’ll see. After dinner.”

Dinner was vegetables, rice, lentils, and fruit. Rachel, a vegetarian, would have approved. We sat at long tables lit with candles. Dawne sat across from me. Sia was at the head of the table in a T-shirt and shorts. She offered a short grace before we started, ending with, “. . . And we welcome our visitor, Tom, an old friend of mine from Chicago. Make him feel welcome.” She winked.

            A woman next to me asked me about the Lincoln Park Zoo. The man on the other side told me stories about fishing in Michigan. Dawne chatted with her friends, not looking at me.

            We shared fruit for dessert. “How do you know Sia?” the man, Gilbert, asked.

            “We were friends in college.” I bit into a banana. “I was in journalism. She was in theater. Pretty good, too.”

            “Yeah, she’s very—theatrical.” Gilbert grinned, looking at her. “We love her.”

            The woman—Gina—nudged my arm. “Do you have to go? You should stay for the ceremony.”

            “What’s the ceremony?”

            Gina smiled. “You’ll see.”

Sia, Part Three

We moved the table aside and spread into a circle. Sia brought out the candle. And the goblet.

            She spun around on bare feet. “It’s time.”

            The sun was down. Shadows clung to the walls.

            “Tonight?” Sia looked across the group. “Got to take turns fairly. Carlos? Adam?” She called out more names. Finally, Dawne. They joined hands, and then Sia knelt to light the candle.

            In a moment the six were all naked, sipping from the goblet.

            Then they rose into the air.

            Oh wow. 

            “Yes!” Dawne shouted. She collided with Adam. “Sorry. This is so wonderful!”

            A short guy just hovered at the tallest point of the ceiling, his eyes closed, his bare feet twitching.

            Sia circled them, humming softly to herself. Carlos hung next to the wall, as if uncertain, but his eyes were wide as he stared down to the hardwood floor. 

            Around me the others gazed up, enviously. Maybe tomorrow, a woman muttered behind me. Our turn.

Then someone or something rustled behind me. I looked over my shoulder.

A man pushed through. He wore a black leather jacket and boots. 

And he carried a handgun.

He darted forward, skidding across the floor on his knees. He kicked the candle over and grabbed the goblet. Jumping up, he waved his weapon toward the ceiling. “This is mine!”

Screams erupted as the group around me flung themselves back, ducking down. The flyers above struggled to stay aloft. 

I crouched, covering my head. Oh god, oh no, oh no, oh no . . .

            Yeah, I’m a coward. Especially when it comes to handguns. 

            “Minas!” Sia’s voice trembled. “Go away!”

            “I will. Bitch!” His handgun roared.

            I rolled to one side, risking a look upward. I tried to find Dawne first, but all I could see was Sia. Rocking back and forth in the air. The others sank down slowly, bending their knees until they hit the floor. Sia stayed up, gasping.

            Minas—whoever he was—ran, pushing his way to the front door. He kicked a woman, knocked a man’s head with the butt of his weapon, and staggered outside into the darkness.

            I forced myself to stand up. Follow him? Hell no. Not until I knew what was going on.

            The nude flyers settled on the floor, shaking, looking for their clothes. Sia floated down slowly, landing on her bare feet, her body trembling.

            I raced to Dawne. “Are you okay?”

            “I—I—I . . .” She curled up, coughing. “I think I’m fine . . .”

            I patted her shoulder. “Good. Get dressed. We’re getting out of here.”

            Then I went to Sia. 

            She staggered and almost fell, until I grabbed her shoulders. “Sia! Bridget? What just happened? Who was that?”

            Sia gripped my arms. “Just wait.” 

Everyone calmed down. Eventually.

            Sia offered another prayer, and slowly everyone’s heartbeats retuned to normal. Except mine. But there were questions:

            “Who was that?” someone shouted. “There was a gun? Are you all right? When can we fly again?”

            Sia waved her arms. “No one’s hurt! That was Minas, he’s—an old—not exactly a friend anymore.” She glanced at me. “Not like Tom. He’s a good friend. Right?” She reached for my hand.

            “Maybe.” I squeezed. Hard. “We have to talk.”

            “Give me a minute.” She pulled away. “Let’s sit down, everyone. Remember why we’re here.”

            I knew why I was here. Not to get involved in some conflict between an old girlfriend and a boyfriend with a pistol. But I kept my mouth shut.

            Eventually the people stood up moved out, murmuring to each other. Maybe tomorrow . . . not sure I can stay here . . . where are you sleeping tonight?

The cabin, seemingly bigger on the inside than it looked, held lots of bedrooms. I saw Dawne slide in behind two women, and then I heard the lock click.

I turned around, trying not to shake on my legs. “Okay, Bridget. Sorry, Sia. What’s going on?”

She waved a hand. “In here.”

In the kitchen she pulled open a refrigerator door, yanked out a big jug of cider, and poured two tall glasses. “This is only for Sundays. And emergencies.” 

I took a sip and swallowed. Nice and cold, with a kick. “Okay. What’s the deal?”

“Minas is—was—my boyfriend for a while.” She gulped. “A year ago. But he was crazy. Abusive. I had to leave. I already started setting up my farm here, but he didn’t know about it. I was always afraid he might find me. I guess tonight he did.”

I pulled up a stool. “Where did it start?”

“Oh, what do you think?” Sia looked ready to slap me—which for a moment reminded me of Rachel. “I quit college, I spent a long time trying to figure things out. A lot of drugs, a lot of books, meditation, yoga—finally I came out of it. Right after my parents died. They owned all this land up here. And the house, but I made it bigger. More bedrooms. I started building the garden. Drawing people in. People who understood that we could have a better place out here—”

“Oh, come on, Bridget!” I slammed my glass down, spilling cider on the table. “You guys can fly! A man with a handgun came in here to steal that cup! Look, I’m just here for Dawne. Sorry.”

Sia leaned forward. “Won’t you help me, Tom? Please?”

“M-maybe.” I turned my face toward her. “What do you want?”

“Find Minas. Please?” She kissed my cheek.

I managed not to flinch. Or respond with a kiss of my own.

Bridget hadn’t been my first girlfriend—or lover—but she was one of the most serious and intense. At least until Rachel. (My ex-wife? Not the time to go into that.)        

            I squeezed her hand. “One condition?”

            She carefully pulled away. “Maybe.”

            “Ask Dawne to come back to Chicago with me. Wait!” I held up a hand. “She doesn’t have to stay. But her parents really want to see her.”

            Sia stared at me. For a moment I was afraid she’d kick me out. Then she nodded reluctantly. “I’ll go talk to her.”

            “I’ll try to find Minas, then. What’s his real name?”

            She leaned back in her chair, as if she didn’t want to remember. “Branden. Branden Morris. I can send you whatever I remember.”

            I finished my cider. “Okay. Thanks.”

In the car, after midnight.

            Dawne dozed beside me, her seatbelt tight. She hadn’t argued about going home, even though she insisted she’d be back in a day or so. Not my problem.

            She sat up abruptly and grabbed a bottle of water from the cupholder next to her. “How much longer?”

            “About an hour.” I’d stopped for coffee at a gas station. I hoped it would keep me awake until we both got home.

            “It’ll be good to see mom and dad.” She gazed out the window into the lights buzzing by us on the interstate. “Dad had a stroke. Mom’s taking care of him.”

            “Mm-hmm.” I tapped the brakes as a motorcycle veered around us. “What’s it like? Flying?”

            “Oh.” She leaned back, a smile on her face. “It’s like being high, except you’re not high. Except—” She giggled. “You are. And when Sia chooses you, it’s like you’re the best. I mean, she tries to be fair, to let everyone have their turn. I think she might have picked me tonight because you were there.”

            “What’s in the cup? Some kind of potion?”

            “Just water. I think it’s the goblet that does it, not what’s inside.”

            That made sense. I finished my coffee. “Do you know anything about that guy? Minas?”

            Dawne shook her head. “Sia’s focused on the now. Not the past.”

            “What about the future?”

            She shrugged. “Who knows?”

Sia, Part Four

I dropped her off at her parent’s house. Marina Etterling was waiting, even though it was 2 a.m. “Dawne! Dawne . . .”

            They hugged and kissed. I got away as fast as I could, promising to call in the morning. At home, Rachel was still up at 2:30, watching a reality show in a T-shirt and panties. “So?” She crossed her arms, glaring at me. “Is she still hot? Did you kiss her? Answer the second question first. Or whatever.”

            I kissed her. “Yes. No. You sort it out. Let me get a beer.”

            Rachel snorted, and punched my shoulder. “Glad you’re home.”

            I opened a beer, exhausted. I’d called her before leaving, but now I told her everything. She listened with the TV on mute. Two real housewives started a catfight in a swimming pool. I tried not to be too distracted.

            “Now what?” She finally turned the TV off.

            I finished my beer. “So now I go to bed. Tomorrow I have to find Minas. Or Branden. I’m having trouble keeping names straight.”

            “What’s she like?” Rachel stood up and planted her hands on her hips. “Your old girlfriend?”

            I hesitated. But I try to tell the truth to everyone—the cops, and especially my girlfriend. “Kind of hot. But strange. She was always strange. That’s what . . .” Oops. “I mean, ordinary girls are boring.”

            “You got that right.” She grabbed my arm. “Come on, honeybunch. Let’s get you to bed.”

I slept late the next morning—8:30. After a shower and a bowl of Cheerios, I carried a mug of coffee into my office and sat down at my computer.

            A few emails from other clients. I answered them promptly—a paying client is always a priority, and most were relatively simple cases of workers comp violation, adultery, and/or embezzlement. I shot Marina Etterling a quick message to see how things were going.

Then I went looking for Branden Morris. Minas.

            Rachel staggered into the office in a short bathrobe, with her own mug of coffee. She kissed the top of my head. “You okay?”

            “Fine.” I squeezed her leg. “You?”

            She swatted my hand away. “Don’t get any ideas, jerk.”

            “Who, me?” I grinned, and went back to work as Rachel fired up her own computer.

            Minas, aka Branden Morris, wasn’t that hard to find, thanks to the internet and a few tricks of my own. He owned a house in Evanston—with a low tax rate—and had a website called Minas.com that offered “Happiness, enlightenment, and Joy” to anyone who signed up for his newsletter. Mostly it seemed to sell books and sign people up for seminars. Sample titles: “Find Your High Path,” “Reach For the Clouds,” and “Stars in Your Eyes: How to Fly Upward to your Destiny.” The books were moderately priced at $12.99 or so. The seminar cost $399. Seats were filling up soon—don’t delay!

            I finished my coffee and picked up the phone. “I have to call her. Do you want to listen in?”

            “Hell, no.” She tapped some keys without turning around. “Talk to your old girlfriends on your own time. I’ve got work to do here.”

            Mad or not? I couldn’t tell. So I took my phone and my mug into the kitchen, filled up my coffee, and called Bridget. Sia.

            The rule about cell phones had apparently been suspended. At least for Sia. “Tom?” She picked up on the first buzz.

            “How are things going up there?” 

            “Fine! Stuff getting cleaned up. People working in the garden. Everyone pretty much calmed down.” She lowered her voice. “But I need that goblet. If we can’t fly . . . everyone will leave.”

            It’s like being high, Dawne had said. I wondered how it would feel, but I wasn’t sure I could ever trust myself to try it. “So, I have an address for Minas. It’s in Evanston.”

            “Great!” She hesitated. “Will you come with me?”

            What? “Wait a minute. He had a gun.”          

            “He won’t shoot anyone with it! I don’t think it was even loaded. There was nothing up in the ceiling, no splinters on the floor. Blanks, maybe?”

            “I don’t care.” If he had blanks, he probably had real bullets. “You said he was abusive—”

            “So I can’t go there alone!” I heard a fist pounding on something. “But I have to get the goblet back. These people are all I have. Please, Tom? Come on, for old time’s sake?”

            Damn it. “Let me talk to Rachel.”

            “Thanks.” She sniffed. “Uh, who’s Rachel?”

“My girlfriend. And you really don’t want to meet her when she’s mad.” I was already nervous.

“Okay. I’m getting into my car right now. Send me the address.”

            “Wait a—” But Sia hung up.

            Great. Now I had to talk to Rachel.

Sia, Part Five

For once Rachel didn’t insist on coming with me. “Whatever.” She didn’t look up from her computer. “Just text me when you’re there. I’m busy.”

            “Okay.” I stood at the door for a moment. “Love you.”

            She sighed and turned. “Me, too. Just go. And come back. It’s your turn to make dinner.”

            “Right.” I left.

            Up in Evanston I parked down the block from Minas’ house and called Sia. “I’m here.”

            “Ten minutes. The traffic is terrible.”

            I chuckled. “Always. Don’t park right in front. Let me know when you’re here.”

            Twenty minutes later a red Subaru parked on the opposite side of the street. Sia sat behind the wheel. I waved her over and popped the locks. 

            She slid in next to me. “Where is he?”

            “Two houses back there.” I sipped some Starbucks. “What are you going to do?”

            “I’m going in there and get the goblet back.” She was in a red sweatshirt, black jeans, and sneakers. She still looked sexy. Damn it.

            I grabbed her arm. “He’s got a gun.”

            “He won’t shoot me.” She pulled away. “I know him. He’s all talk. You’ll be fine.”

            I’d heard that before. It never turned out well.         

            We walked down the sidewalk. Up to the house. Three steps up to a narrow porch, flowers growing in ceramic pots. Sia pushed a doorbell button.

            We waited. One minute. Two. “This is typical,” I said. “He might not even be—”

            The door slammed open. Minas stood behind the screen door, in jeans and a gray unbuttoned shirt. 

            I hadn’t gotten a good look at him last night. He had a beard and bushy eyebrows, and broad shoulders. Plus a hairy chest, although I hadn’t seen that when he’d burst into the room to seize Sia’s goblet.

            “You.” He smiled. Then he glanced at me. “Who the hell are you?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” At least he didn’t seem to be armed now. “I’m a—a friend of Sia.”

            “Right.” He pushed the screen door in our faces. “You might as well come in.”

            I stepped through first, ignoring my usual habit of holding the door for a lady. We followed Minas into the living room.

            Three people sat on the floor, in various states of undress. A young Asian woman in black shorts and a white sportsbra, a middle-aged white man in boxers, and another white guy in his 20s pulling a T-shirt over his bony shoulders.

The goblet sat in the middle of an oriental rug.

The middle-aged guy stood up, buckling his belt. “Uh, Minas? I’m going now. Thanks for the, uh . . .” He looked up at the ceiling. Nine feet high. “Thanks.”

            “Fine, Herb.” Minas smiled. “Tonight. Seven o’clock. If you want to fly again.”

            He staggered through the door. “Yeah. Tonight.”

            It’s like being high. 

Sia smiled. “Hey, you guys. I’m Sia. Who are you?”

The skinny white guy looked up. “Uh, Grady.”          

The Asian woman frowned, pulling a gray sweatshirt over her shoulders. “Scarlette. Or just Scar. Whatever.”

Sia smiled wider. “You can come up to Icarus Farm. Both of you. We work the land. We eat good food. We enjoy the sun. And we fly.” She raised her arms like wings. “Every night.”

            Minas glared at Sia, both of them still clutching the goblet. “Go away. You can have your little commune, growing vegetables and sleeping on cots. But the goblet is mine. Just get out. Now.”

Sia stepped toward the goblet. “It’s mine, Minas. You’ve had some fun. Now I’m taking it back.”

            “You?” He blocked her. “No. You stole it from me. Bitch.”

            Wait, what? “Okay, where did that come from? Who does it belong to, really?”

            Minas blinked at me. “Who are you? Her latest boyfriend? Stay out of this.”

            I would have laughed if I wasn’t utterly confused. “Not exactly. Tom Jurgen. Just an old friend.”

            “Then shut up, Tom.” He bent down to grab the goblet. “This is mine again.” 

            Sia grabbed it. For a moment it was a stupid game of adult tug-of-war.

            I tried to get between them. Minas kicked my shin, hard. I yelped—a manly yelp, but still a yelp—and backed off. 

Sia punched his shoulder and Minas dropped the goblet, cursing. He bent down, reaching for it just as Sia grabbed for it.

Then Scarlette—or just Scar, whoever she was—jumped on top of Sia, pummeling her back with her fists. They all fell to the carpet.

            Grady just stood back, confused. 

            Minas clawed at Sia’s shoulder. I bent down and rolled the goblet away, then grabbed at Scar. Trying not to be too inappropriate, but under the circumstances . . . 

            Scar reared up. “You asshole!” She swung a fist at me. I ducked.

Then Grady leaped up, the goblet in his hand. “Yes! I’m out of here! Good-bye, motherfu—”

“No!” Sia leaped up and kicked Grady’s ankle. He fell over. The goblet dropped from his hand and rolled into a corner.

For a moment the room was filled with gasping and moaning. I lay on my back, trying to catch my breath. Sia’s legs lay on top of me.

Minas sat up, groaning. “Everyone stop!” He leaned toward a cabinet. “That belongs to me!” 

Oh, hell. Was he going for his handgun? 

            Grady limped to the door. His hand slipped on the doorknob. “Okay, okay! I just thought—”

            He punched through the screen door and ran. 

            I scrambled across the floor to the goblet. Get it, get it, get it—

            Scar snatched it up. “Wow. This is heavy.”  She held it in both hands. Lifted it to her lips, but it was empty. “Maybe—”

            But Minas had his handgun. “Set it down, Scar.”

            She handed it to me. “Here. Take it.” She backed away, hands up.

            I took it. Scar was right—heavier than it looked. But Minas’ handgun looked bigger up close too. I remembered that it had apparently been filled with blanks last night, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk that now. And even a blank cartridge can do a lot of damage at close range.

            Still—I’m not brave, just stubborn. And curious. It had made me a good reporter. And it might make me a dead private eye.

            “Where did this come from? Really?” I hoped my voice didn’t shake too much.

            “He stole it.” Sia jabbed a finger at Minas’ face—making sure to step away from the pistol’s snout.”

            “Me? We stole it! Together.” His eyes were red with anger.

            “From the Oriental Institute. At the U of C.” Sia backed next to Scarlette. “It’s from Mesopotamia, wherever that is.”

            Great. “So it doesn’t really belong to either of you.”

            “You want to argue about it?” He waved the handgun at my face. “Put it down!”

            “Tom.” Sia shook her head. “Don’t be stupid. Give it to him.”

            Thank god. I held the goblet out. “Take it.”

            Minas lowered his pistol. “All right. Now get—”

            Scarlette grabbed his arm. The one with the gun. Oh hell.

            Sia’s eyes went wide with fear, but instead of jerking away she clutched Minas’ other arm, pulling for the goblet. Minas dropped it, trying to bring his gun hand up while Scarlette twisted his wrist.

            That left me. Damn it.

            I lurched forward and slammed a fist at Minas’ face. It hurt. It hurt my hand, at least, but Minas dropped his pistol and Scarlette kicked it away. 

            “Goddamn it!” Minas kicked at Sia’s legs. “Bitch! Slut! Liar—”

            Sia slapped his face. I tossed the handgun on a couch, safely out of reach, and kicked the goblet under a chair. Then I yanked on Minas’ collar. “Shut up. No one talks to my ex-girlfriend like that.” I took a step back. “Now calm down—everyone!—or I’m calling the cops and letting them sort this all out.”

            My heart was pounding. I felt full of testosterone—mixed with terror. Fortunately Minas staggered back against the cabinet, breathing hard. “It wasn’t even loaded.”

            That didn’t make me feel any better. “We’re going. Don’t follow us.”

            “And don’t come back to my farm.” Sia gripped his arm. “We’re going to start investing in shotguns.”

            “This isn’t over.” Minas glared at all three of us. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

            “You’re right.” I bent down for the goblet. “It belongs in a museum.”

            Sia stepped toward me, furious. “You don’t mean—”

            “This is going back.” I tucked the goblet under my arm. “Maybe you can try to steal it again, but if you do, don’t call me the next time you get into a custody battle.”

            “But I need—” She looked at Scarlette. “You know what it’s like, don’t you? You flew.”

            She nodded. “It was great. I’d like to do it again. Sometime.” Scarlette put a hand on Sia’s arm. “Maybe we can find another way. Where’s this farm of yours again?”

Shipping the goblet back to the Oriental Institute anonymously was tricky. I had to go to the nearest Office Depot for packing materials, then drive out to a far suburb to a Mailboxes-R-Us and pay cash, using a made-up return address that the nice young woman behind the counter didn’t pay any attention to. 

I told her I was on a road trip and had forgotten to drop this off for a friend. I wore a hoodie and a pair of reading glasses I’d bought at Walgreens two towns away to hide my face. At least I didn’t resort to a fake mustache.

            Rachel was cooking dinner when I got home, exhausted from all the driving—and the events of the day. It wasn’t her turn to cook, but all she said when I told her the whole story was, “Really? ‘This belongs in a museum’? Who are you, Indiana Jones?”

            “Bullwhip and all. Or maybe bull—something else.” I gulped on a beer. 

            “Don’t go messing with whips unless we’re in the bedroom.” She kissed the top of my head. “So . . . how’s Bridget? Or Sia, whoever she is?”

            “Mad at me. Everyone at her commune wants to fly. I don’t know how many will stay if they can’t, but . . .” I shrugged. “She’ll survive. Somehow.”

            My phone buzzed. The Etterlings. But it was Dawne.

            “Hi, Tom.” She sounded cheerful. “Thanks for helping out yesterday. I just wanted to let you know I’m going back up tomorrow. There’s still lots of work there. But I’ll call mom and dad every day. It’s all good.”

            I hoped so. But I had to say—“You won’t be able to fly. That’s, uh, gone.”

            “Oh.” She paused. “Well, I still want to help. They’re good people.”

            I wondered what Scar and Sia were up to. “Good luck.”

            “Thank you. Mom says to send her your bill.”

            “I will. Thank you.”

            “So . . .” Rachel set a pot of ravioli in front of me. “Is she still hot?”

            What was safe to say? Nothing. So I decided on the truth. “Yes. But it was a long time ago. Hey, at least she’s a vegetarian.”

            She laughed. “You got a thing for us vegan girls, don’t you, jerk?”

            I grinned. “One in particular.”

            “Let’s eat.” She sat down. “New season of ‘Sex Education’ starts tonight. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Sia, Part Six

My phone buzzed the next morning. I was alone in the office. Rachel was still in the shower. 

            “Hey, Tom.” Sia’s voice was a sexy whisper. “You doing okay?”

            “Y-yeah.” I gulped some coffee. “You? Anything from Minas?”

            “Not yet. Like I said, we’re going to start taking care of ourselves up here. Did you—do it?”

            The goblet. “Yeah. I sent it back. Sorry.”

            She sighed. “You were probably right. Hardly anyone left after I . . . told them.” She sighed again. “We just had dinner last night, and sang, and went to bed.” She giggled. “Scar says hi.”

            Yeah. “Just hope you’re doing okay.”

“It was good seeing you, Tom.” She took a deep breath. “Come up any time. Bring your girlfriend if you want.”

“Maybe.” Memories flooded my mind. I tried to push them back. “Take care.”

###

Cyborg

The client’s husband used to be an ordinary security guard. Now he’s dead—and his arm and leg have been replaced with machines. Tom and Rachel search to find out the hidden secrets behind his transformation from human into—something else.

Cyborg, Part One

I’ve never liked visiting the morgue. Dead people give me the creeps.

            I stood next to Virginia Bryght as the pathologist unlocked the drawer. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Here goes.”

            He turned the handle, opened the door, and slowly slid the drawer back. A body lay covered in a stiff white sheet.

            The pathologist—his name was Dr. Stans, an African American man with round glasses—reached for the top of the sheet. “Okay?”

            Mrs. Bryght nodded. She was in her late 30s, skinny, with short blond hair and bloodshot eyes.

            Dr. Stans slowly tugged the sheet back.

            First the head. Part of the head, at least. A plastic cap covered the skull and half his face. Some kind of ocular implant sagged from his right eye.

            The right side of the body below was a machine. 

More metal covered his shoulder, and his right arm. And his hip and right leg. At least as far as Dr. Stans was willing to pull the sheet down.

A small scar curved along his chin. He wore cargo pants and a boot, and a black T-shirt. A gold earring in his left earlobe.

            Mrs. Bryght sighed. “Yes. That’s my husband. Eddie.”

            I stared at the hardware. “Is that stuff real?”

            He shrugged. “As far as I can tell. I’m not an engineer or anything, but there’s real mechanical stuff there. Not just a cosplay.”

            I pulled out my phone. “May I?”

            Dr. Stans looked at Mrs. Bryght. “I shouldn’t, but . . .”

After a moment, she nodded.

            The door opened behind us as I snapped some photos. A tall Latino man in a long black jacket stepped inside. He reached into a pocket and flashed a badge. “Detective Delgado, CPD. What’s going on here? You’re not supposed to allow—”

            “Damn it!” Virginia Bryght stomped a foot. “I told you, I don’t want the police involved in this! He wasn’t shot, they just found him . . . found him . . .” She choked back tears. 

            “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Stans shrugged. “It’s the kind of thing I have to report.”

            Delgado pushed me away, then stared at the body. “What is this?”

            “As far as I can tell?” Stans started pulling the sheet back up. “It’s some kind of a cyborg. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I mean, yeah, I’ve seen lots of stuff—hip replacements, shoulders, knees—but this isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen. A full body—or a half-body—replacement?” He shook his head.    

            Delgado looked at me. “And what the hell are you doing here, Jurgen?”

            I’d never met him before, as far as I could remember, but lots of cops know me—for better or worse. Tom Jurgen, ex-reporter, now a private detective. And I tend to draw all kinds of the wrong cases.

            I look across the table. “Mrs. Bryght is my client.”

            She nodded.

            “How did he die?” Delgado crossed his arms.

            Stans shoved the body back inside the drawer. “We haven’t done a full autopsy yet. Because of all the uh, hardware. It looks like the heart gave out, maybe because of the strain of the mechanical implants. So, not homicide.” He looked at Delgado. “Okay?”

            “Still makes it our business.” He glared at me. “Okay, Jurgen. Take a look. Keep it quiet. But keep me informed.” He reached into a pocket and shoved a card at me. Then he shot a glance at Dr. Stans. “Don’t show that to anyone.”

            “But . . .” He looked at Virginia Bryght. “Ma’am?”

            She shuddered. “That’s fine. For now.” She rubbed her hands and looked at me. “Can we talk?”

We sat in the hospital cafeteria. It was 2:30 p.m. or so. I drank coffee. She dropped a teabag into a cup of hot water.

            “They called me.” Her voice was quiet. Controlled. “They found him in an alley somewhere in Chicago. I had to come in and—identify him.”

            “He had an ID with him?”

            She shook her head. “Three months ago they found our car in a ditch. Midnight, about halfway home from work. It was wrecked. Totaled. Airbag exploded. But no Eddie. I did a missing persons report, but nothing happened. They thought he’d faked the accident and just left. But Eddie wouldn’t . . .” She sipped her tea. “I guess they thought he fit when they, uh—found him. The scar on his chin, his earring. They described him to me. Even the, uh—stuff. It sounded . . . satanic.” She bit her lip. 

            I sipped my coffee. “So you called me.”

            “I started looking around for private detectives when the police stopped looking after a few days. They were nice, but . . .” She bit her lip. “Then when they called me and told me what he—what happened, you know, what he looked like? Then I remembered that it looked like you take—” She glanced around the cafeteria. 

One family was laughing. Another kept their heads down, talking in quiet whispers.

I nodded. Monsters, vampires, psychic phenomena. It’s my niche, apparently. “Unusual cases. I get that a lot.”

Virginia Bryght rubbed her face, fighting back tears. “I don’t trust the police. They stopped looking for him. Is that bad?”

            “There are some I trust. I’ve never met Delgado.”

“Anyway, can you . . . help me?”

“I’ll try.” I wasn’t sure where to start. “What does your husband do for a living?”

            “Eddie’s a security guard.” She sniffed. “Was, I guess. Goddamn it.” She blew her nose on a napkin. “I’m sorry. It was G17 Security. He was in the Army, an MP. He tried to be a cop, but he flunked the exam. But he was okay with security work. He wasn’t a jerk about it.” 

She tossed the napkin away. “He was going to take the exam again. He was studying. He would have passed. Maybe not in Chicago, but in the suburbs. I mean, we live in Elmhurst.” She grabbed another napkin. “It’s just, they found him here, in an alley somewhere, and they called me . . . sorry.”

            She leaned down sobbing. I had to wait, wishing for something to say.

            Then she leaned back. “I just don’t understand.”

            “Right.” I folded my arms. “You said you didn’t want the police involved?”

            “They don’t care about him!” She pounded a fist on the table. “They just sent an email when he flunked the exam! That guy, that guy Delgado? He doesn’t care! He just wants to keep it covered up! That’s all they ever want!”

            The quiet couple glanced over at us. 

            Okay. Maybe she was a conspiracy theorist or something. But she had a right to be confused. And angry. 

            I finished my coffee. “Fine. I’ll look into it as best as I can. We have to, uh, discuss some details—”

            She yanked a checkbook from her back pocket. “How much to start?”

Dr. Stans reluctantly agreed to another viewing of the body after Virginia Bryght talked to him to okay it. “You ready?”

            “Go ahead.” It was Rachel. My girlfriend. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and vaguely psychic powers. Plus, she’s pretty hot. Although she wasn’t happy about me calling her to come look at a dead body in the morgue. “Why can’t you take me on normal dates?” 

            She looked around the cold, lifeless room. “Huh. Just like on TV.”

            “Not really.” Stans unlocked the drawer. “Sometimes we use video. When people don’t want to be in the same room.”

            “This is Dr. Stans. Doctor, this is my associate, Rachel Dunn.” “Associate” sounds so much more professional than “girlfriend.”

            “Hi.” He opened the door and pulled back the body. “Let me—”

            “No, wait.” Rachel lifted a hand before he could peel the sheet back. “I don’t need to see it. Just let me . . .”

            She closed her eyes, arms at her sides. One deep breath. Two.

            Then she nodded. “Okay. Close it up.”

            Dr. Stans frowned. “What was that?”

            “We’ll let you know.” Maybe. “You all right?”

            Rachel grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”

            Out in the hall she leaned against a wall. “Yeah, Magic. Mostly tech, but some magic. It’s sort of draining away.”

            “They found the body this morning. Maybe whatever animated it is fading.”

            Rachel nodded. “Probably. Can we go home now?”