The Ax-Lover

Searching for an escaped murderer, Tom Jurgen stumbles into an exorcism that may end in disaster.

The Ax-Lover, Part One

“Thanks for meeting me here.” Gina Ward stood up as I walked to the table in the back of the bar. She was young—late 20s—with dark brown hair and studious glasses. “I don’t usually go to bars, but I really needed a glass of wine.”

            “I meet clients everywhere,” I told her. “I don’t have an office like TV P.I.s. They’re expensive.” We sat down. “What can I do for you?”

            “It’s just that I have to do this on my own time.” She waved for a server. “It’s okay for me to do it—I worked on overturning convictions when I was an intern. But this is pro bono. And it’s kind of—unusual? Lauren said you were good with that.”

            Lauren DiBello was an attorney at one of Chicago’s top law firms. I’d worked with her before. And sometimes the cases were indeed unusual. “That’s fine.”

            A waitress walked up. I ordered a beer. Gina had a white wine next to her laptop. She opened it up and turned it to show me the screen.

            “Charlie Shore was convicted of murdering his wife and son with an ax.” I saw a mug shot of a bearded man with bleary eyes. “That was 13 years ago. There’s a confession, but he says he doesn’t remember writing it. Or committing the murders. He says he was possessed by a demon.”

            I don’t know if she was expecting me to laugh or walk away. Instead I shrugged. “Well, they do say possession is nine-tenths of the law, don’t they? Is that a defense?”

            She picked up her wine with a skeptical look. “Lauren says you have experience with that. She didn’t say anything about your sense of humor.”

           I smiled. “Probably wise. So he’s trying to get the conviction overturned? After 13 years?”

            “He contacted us after seeing my name online. One of his friends in prison had his conviction overturned. The firm agreed to look at the case, and gave it to me.” She laughed. “I’m new. Anyway, we might have had grounds on inadequate defense. The public defender barely put up a case. There was no physical evidence—he was home at the time, very drunk, possibly too drunk to move, and no blood on him. And the defender apparently never even considered an insanity defense, with Shore saying he was possessed by a demon. We might have had a shot—I might have had a shot.”

            “Might have?”

            She sighed. “He escaped from prison. Now, no matter what happens, even if I could get him a new trial, he’s going back. When they catch him.”

            Life isn’t an episode of The Fugitive. I wondered if she’d ever watched it, or at least seen the movie. “So you want me to find him? Isn’t that the, what, U.S. marshals?”

            She shook her head. “No, I want you to find someone else.” She tapped a few keys on the screen. I saw images of newspaper articles, and a small picture of a middle-aged man, balding, with a clerical collar.

            “When I met with Charlie, he was obsessed with—aside from getting out—this guy. Nathan Blackburn. He was a minister in town when the murders took place, and he apparently told Charlie he’d perform an exorcism to get the demon out of him.” She sighed, annoyed. “It never happened. He kept saying the first thing he was going to do when he got out was find Blackburn and make him do the exorcism. That’s where I think he’s going.”

            I sat back and drank some beer. “So if I locate him, I might find your client?”

            “And then I can make sure he turns himself in and doesn’t get shot. That’ll help. A little.” 

            The bar was dark and quiet. Music from a jukebox played softly. Gina sighed and closed her laptop. “I can send all this to you. If you want the case. There isn’t much money—we can get some reimbursement from the state for investigation, but it’s not much, and if they’ll even do it now that Charlie escaped . . .” She shrugged.

            I crossed my arms and looked at her. Young, idealistic. Cute. “This is important to you.”

            She finished her wine and waved an arm for more. “I’m new at the firm. You have to do a lot of the shit work just to stay there, and you don’t get noticed if you just give up when shit happens. Sorry. It’s been a long day.” Her wine came, and she gulped at it. “Good thing I don’t have court tomorrow.”

            “That’s it?” 

            She glared at me. “What? All right.” She crossed her arms. “I like working on wrongful convictions. It’s a total blast when you can free someone who really didn’t do it. It doesn’t happen very often. I thought—” She paused for a deep breath. “Well, it’s probably not going to happen now, I know that. I just don’t want to give up. It won’t look good, and—I went to law school so I could help people. I know, I know.” 

She shook her head and laughed. “In a couple of years the only thing I’ll care about is bringing in fat rich clients and racking up billable hours for the firm.” She shook her head. “But I’m not ready for that yet. Right now, I still want to do something I can feel good about. Even if it’s just making sure Charlie doesn’t get shot by some sheriff somewhere.”

            I nodded. I became a reporter because I believed telling people what they had a right to know. I became a private detective—well, that happened because some people didn’t want me telling anybody about the things I’d seen, vampires, monsters, and the like. I had to make a living.

            But I know what it’s like to want to do some good in the world.

            I finished my beer. “Send me everything you can. I’ll see what I can do.”

            Gina looked surprised. “Okay. Thanks.”

            “It’s what I do.” I smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

Rachel was watching a reality show about cruise ships in the Bermuda Triangle when I got home. “Get a case?”

“Pro bono.” I sat down beside her. “No money. Expenses, maybe.”

           “The great detective.” She slugged my arm. “Get a real job.”

           “Ouch.” I leaned back. “It’s for DiBello. I owe her.”

           “Good thing I’ve got tons of work this week.” Rachel’s a graphic designer. She leaned her head on my shoulder. “There’s curry in the fridge.”

           “In a moment.” I stroked her hair. 

            “What does DiBello want?”

            “It’s for one of her associates, actually. Gina Ward. Young.”

            “Cute?” She shot me a warning look.

            There was no safe answer. “I’m looking for an exorcist. An escaped murderer is looking for him too.”

           She groaned. “Can’t you just get a normal who-poisoned-grandma-in-the-conservatory  case just once?”

          “I wish.” 

          We watched the show. Two crew members got into a fight and started throwing chunks of pineapple at each other.

            “You think there’s anything there?” Rachel nudged me. “In the Bermuda Triangle?”

            I shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. To us, for that matter.”

            “True that.” She sat up. “I want ice cream.”

            I was hungry too. We ate, watching TV until we went to bed.

The Ax-Lover, Part Two

The next morning I started looking over the material Gina Ward sent me. First, the murder of Marlene and Charlie Shore Jr. 

They’d lived in a small town called Phalia, on the west side of Illinois, near the Mississippi River. Someone had taken an ax to their bodies in the middle of the night—first Marlene, asleep in bed, then Charlie, nine years old, who’d apparently rushed to her bedroom to find out why she was screaming. There were crime scene photos. I didn’t look at them.     

            Neighbors heard the screams and called the police. Shore was drunk and unconscious on the sofa downstairs when they showed up. The police took him in and got a confession in less than two hours. A quick trial, 20 years to life. Case closed.

            Except there was no blood on his clothes, no sign of bruises or defensive wounds on his body, and no ax anywhere in or around the house. 

            The public defender focused on the missing ax, but the D.A. had a signed confession. Shore went to prison.

            I had a photocopy of the confession, scribbled in Shore’s sloppy handwriting:

 

I, Charles J. Shore, do confess that I murderred my wife Marlene and my son Charlie junior. I was really drunk. I don’t remember doing it. I remember going upstairs. I got up and went upstairs. Something in my head was telling me to do it. I think it was Satan. I went upstairs and I don’t remember anything after that, exept Marlene was in bed and she was all bloody, and Charlie was there on the floor and he was all bloody and nobody was moving, just liying there. Then I went back downstairs and drank some whiskey and passed out. 

            Signed.

            Charles J. Shore

 

            I think it was Satan.

            A  lot of murderers blame Satan when they get caught. Maybe they really do hear voices. Charlie Shore was blackout drunk. I didn’t really blame the cops. There was no reason for them to think anybody else had done it. 

            Still, I wondered about the lack of any blood on Shore. And the missing ax.

            The file had two short newspaper articles from the Phalia Press—one when the murders were committed and Shore was arrested, and one when he was convicted and sent to prison. The second one mentioned Shore saying during sentencing that he’d been possessed by the devil, but that didn’t make any difference to the judge. 

            Then I had notes from Gina’s conversations with Shore, mostly on the phone, but once in prison. He’d written a letter to the firm, and someone assigned it to Gina. The first conversations were short, just the basic facts. When she visited him in prison she recorded their talk. I skimmed the transcription.

 

Ward:  . . . You told your lawyer about the, uh, being possessed?

Shore: Yeah. I tried to make the demon come out. It did one time, and he called for the guards. 

Ward: And you think the demon made you kill your wife and son?

Shore: Yeah. (Long pause) Sorry.

Ward: It’s all right. Take your time.

Shore: I just don’t remember it, you know? I told them that. I don’t remember doing it. I must have, but maybe I didn’t? I don’t know.

 

Later Shore started talking about the exorcist.

 

Shore: So there’s this guy, Reverend Blackburn? I read in the paper he did a, an exorcism on a kid. I wrote him a letter. 

Ward: Did he come see you?

Shore: One time. He said he could feel the demon or whatever it was. He said he could help me. But he never came back. They wouldn’t let him. I wrote him 20 letters. I tried to call him, but he wouldn’t take my calls from prison. I thought he could help me! He said he’d help me!

Ward: You have to stay quiet. Or the guard will come again.

Shore: He said he’d help me! (Pause) I just want to get this thing out of my head. I don’t even care about being here. I just want it out.

 

Gina’s notes included the fact that Shore’s public defender had died nine years ago, so she couldn’t talk to him, but the D.A.’s office had let her look at the cae files, sparse as they were. No mention of any “demonic possession” defense. 

Her last talk with Shore was two days before he escaped. According to her notes, Gina told him to be patient while she prepared the paperwork. He only talked about Blackburn.

Then he climbed a prison fence that needed repairs and ran away. Video cameras caught it, but the guards were too slow, and Shore got away. That was three days ago. He hadn’t been seen since.

Well, he wasn’t my problem. The state troopers or U.S. marshals or whoever could worry about him. I moved onto the material about Nathan Blackburn.

Gina had found two newspaper articles. One, from about 15 years ago, was a short piece from the Phalia Press with the headline, “Local Minister in ‘exorcist’ dispute.” According to the story, a mother had taken her 11-year-old daughter to Blackburn for an exorcism, and her ex-husband accused them both of child abuse. Blackburn had been arrested for child endangerment. The single quote in the story from him was, “I was only doing my duty as a minister to save this child’s soul from devilish torture.” There was no follow-up story to tell me how the case worked out, or whether the little girl was all right.

The second was a longer article from a regional paper two years later—a month or so before the murders. Blackburn was retiring, the article said, after 27 years with the Phalia Methodist Church, a career marked by controversy for his grim, fire-and-brimstone preaching, community activism against local businesses he considered sinful—like a video store with an “adult” section in back—and conducting the occasional exorcism. The reporter strongly hinted that Blackburn’s retirement hadn’t been 100% voluntary.

That’s all Gina had found on him. I went to work.  

Rachel walked into the office an hour later carrying a mug of coffee. “Don’t talk to me,” she said, sitting down at her computer. “I’ve got money to make.”

I nodded. “Someone’s got to pay the rent.” 

She sipped her coffee. “How’s the exorcist hunt coming?”

“I found his mother.” I pointed at the screen. “She’s 87, lives in a rest home in a town called Harper, about 50 miles from Phalia. That’s where the murders happened.”

“Cool. How’d you find her?” She tapped some keys to start up her computer.

“Detective work.” Real estate records could tell you a lot. In this case they’d told me that Adele Blackburn had owned a house near her son Nathan’s church, and that she’d sold it four years ago. I called the real estate office that handled the sale, and a friendly agent told me she’d moved to Harper. I couldn’t find any records of her buying property there, and at her age it made sense that she might have moved into some kind of care facility. There were only two in the town. I found Adele Blackburn on my first try.

“What about the son? The reverend?” Rachel was opening folders.

“Nothing. He dropped out of sight after he retired. I couldn’t find any death notice for him, so presumably he’s still alive somewhere. I figure the best bet is the mother.”

“Have you called her? Or . . .” She turned in her chair.

I shrugged. “She’s not going to give up her son to some stranger on the phone. It’s better if I see her in person.”

Rachel sighed. “How far is it?”

“About two hours. Maybe three.” I braced for her to hurl something at me.

Recent cases of mine had been intense. I’d gone to a small town in southern Illinois and ended up being chased by a serial killer. I still had nightmares about that, although prescriptions were helping. Then Rachel had been trapped in another dimension with monsters and carnivorous trees. We were both still feeling a little skittish about being away from each other. 

“I’m probably not even going to see the ax murderer,” I said. “I just have to warn the minister. They’ll probably capture him before I even get there, it’s been three days.”

After a moment Rachel sighed. “Okay. Be careful. Call me. Run if you see anything dangerous.”

“Words to live by. Literally.” I picked up my phone to call Gina Ward.

The Ax-Lover, Part Three

P.I.s spend a lot of time in their cars. It’s not usually car chases, just tedious stakeouts or long boring drives. Harper was about 150 miles west of Chicago, almost to the Mississippi River. I listened to classic rock mixed with news as I drove, along with as much talk radio as I could stand. 

            I pulled into town in the middle of the afternoon. I got gas and used the bathroom at one of the two gas stations along the main road, went to the Burger King across the street for something to eat, called Rachel to let her know I’d arrived safely, then checked my GPS. 

            The Harper Care Home had a small parking lot between its two wings. Sliding doors ushered me to the front desk. I could see a dining area and lounge to the right. 

            A young Black woman smiled up at me. “Welcome to Harper Care Home, how may I help you?”

            “Yes, I’d like to visit Adele Blackburn? My name is Tom Jurgen.”

            She looked me over. “Are you . . . family?”

            “No. It’s about her son. He isn’t in any trouble,” I added quickly. “I just—need to contact him.”

            Her eyes were suspicious, but she picked up her phone. After a moment she said, “Ms. Blackburn? Hi, it's Bridget from the front desk? There’s a Mr. Tom—Tom Jurgen? Here to see you. He says it’s about your son. No, he says there isn’t any trouble. He says.”

            After a moment she nodded and hung up. “Ms. Blackburn will see you in the lounge. You can wait there.” She pointed.

            I sat in a heavily upholstered chair next to a gas fireplace. Hotel room prints of nature scenes hung on the walls between bookcases holding hardback and knickknacks. An old man napped in a corner.

            Adele Blackburn emerged from a side hallway five minutes later. She had thin brown hair covered with a scarf and glasses, and she used a walker to make her way slowly across the floor. 

            She stopped in front of me. “Jurgen?”

            “Yes, ma’am.” I stood up. “Tom Jurgen. I’m from Chicago.”

            She dropped into a chair next to me. “I’ve been to Chicago. Lots of times.. She peered at me through her glasses. “Now, what is this about my son?”

            “I’m a private detective.” I gave her my card. “I’m working for a lawyer who’s been representing a man named Charlie Shore. He was in prison, but he escaped a few days ago, and she’s concerned he might try to contact your son Nathan.”

            “Prison? What’d he do?” Her eyes narrowed.

            “Murder. He may want—he’s said in the past, and recently, that he wants your son Nathan to perform an exorcism on him.”

            Adele Blackburn looked at me, as if I might be making fun of her. Then she sat back and crossed her arms defiantly. “Nathan does good work. They didn’t believe it. They had him arrested. He got thrown out of his church, his own church that he practically built himself. All he ever did was help people who asked him. And everybody turned on him. Except me.”

            “Ma’am, I’ve witnessed exorcisms.” More than one. “I know what they’re like. I’m only trying to make sure Nathan is all right. If Charlie Shore comes here looking for him—”

`           “The murderer?”

            “He says he was possessed when he did it. He knew your son somehow, wrote to him. We think it’s possible he might try to contact him, or come here, looking for help for his exorcism. I’m only here to let your son know to be careful if he hears from Shore.” I stopped.

            She closed her eyes, as if falling asleep. Then they opened again, blinking, and she sighed. “You’ll have to tell him yourself. We don’t—he doesn’t talk to me anymore. You’ll have to go out there to see him.”

            “Go out where?”

            She waved an arm in a vague direction. “Just outside town. He’s got a church, his own church, but I don’t know what kind of things he says there. North out of town, take the first left, go about 20 miles . . . It’s just a house. A big farmhouse.”

            More driving. “Well, thank you, Ms. Blackburn.” I stood up. “I’m sure there’s no trouble. I just need to talk to him.”

            She shook her head. “Whatever. Tell him . . . say I said hello.”

            I nodded. “I will.”

 

Following Adele Blackburn’s directions, I took the main road north, turned left, and drove about 20 miles. I spotted a big house off the road, went past, found nothing further on except a gas station in the middle of nowhere, then turned the car around and headed back to the house.

            Up a long driveway I parked in front of a tall red house with a barn sagging next to it, trees all around. A minivan, a pickup truck, and a blue Honda were parked in front. I walked up to the door and knocked.

            A young Black man in jeans and a Blackhawks jersey looked out at me. “Ye-es?”

            “I’m looking for Nathan Blackburn.” I showed him my card. “My name’s Tom Jurgen.”

            He stared at the card for a long time. “Okay. I’ll see if Reverend Blackburn can see you.” He closed the door, leaving me on the porch.

            I waited. Five minutes later the door opened again. “Mr. Jurgen? I’m Reverend Blackburn.”

            He was heavyset, with broad shoulders and a thick belly pushing at a buttoned sweater. A silver cross hung around his neck. His head was mostly scalp; his face had sharp eyes. I could see a little resemblance to his mother. 

            “Hi.” After a moment, when he didn’t invite me inside, I said, “I’m here because a man named Charlie Shore may try to contact you. He’s an escaped murderer. He, uh, apparently wanted you to perform an exorcism—”

            “Charlie.” Blackburn frowned. “Yeah, I know him.”

            “He escaped from prison three days ago. I don’t know if it’s possible he could get here, but I know he was obsessed with getting you to perform an exorcism for him. The police are looking for him, so if he shows up—”

“Come in.” Blackburn pushed the screen door open. 

Inside the young man in the jersey closed and locked the door behind us. “This is Stephen,” Blackburn said. “One of my assistants.” He led me past a dark living room into the kitchen, a narrow room with dirty dishes in the sink and an ancient refrigerator in the opposite corner. “Coffee?” 

“Sure.” I didn’t know what he had in mind, now that I’d told him about Shore, but maybe he knew something that would help the marshals find him. I was glad I’d called Rachel to let her know where I was, though.

A skinny blonde woman in cutoff shorts and a black turtleneck came in through a separate doorway. She had a rose tattoo on her leg. “Reverend, he’s asking for more—oh.” She saw me and shut up.

“Hannah, this is Tom Jurgen.” He smiled, pouring coffee into a cracked mug. “Hannah is another one of my assistants here. Cream? Sugar?”

“Black.” We sat down. Hannah left, but Stephen stood by the door, arms crossed.

“What do you do here?” I lifted my mug. “If you don’t mind me asking.”        

“I’m retired.” Blackburn spooned some sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “I was excommunicated by my church, but I wanted to still be of service, so I came here to Harper. I—counsel people. Help them spiritually. It’s a small group—it’s a small town—but I like to think I help them. In a small way.” He smiled. “How did you find me?”

“Your mother gave me directions. She says to tell you hello.”

He didn’t respond. 

“Have you been in contact with Charlie Shore?” I asked. 

“He sent me letters. One just last week. He sounded very distraught. A man in need of help.”

“You’ve performed exorcisms?” I looked at him over the top of my mug.

“Several. More than 20.” He nodded with satisfaction.

“Have they always been successful?”

Blackburn’s eyes darkened. “Some can’t be saved. Some don’t want to be saved. They reject help even when it will help them.”

“Did you try with Charlie Shore? When you visited him?”

“They wouldn’t let me. The guards.” He blew on his coffee. “I tried to speak with the demon, and Charles started shouting. Or the demon started shouting, really. And then the guards took me away. I was barred from coming back.”

“So he wrote you letters after that?”

“Lots.” Blackburn sipped his coffee. “But I couldn’t help him. Not while he was locked up.”

“Has he—”

A tall man at the door interrupted me. In his 60s, with a face scarred by sunburn and weather, he wore suspenders and a blue shirt rolled up to the elbows. He carried a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Reverend? He’s, uh, he’s asking for you.” His eyelids were droopy, and he leaned to one side, as if he’d been drinking from the whiskey all afternoon.

Blackburn sighed and pushed his chair back. “All right, Jason.” He stood up. “Come on with me,” he said to me. “You’ll want to see this.”

I stood, uncertain. Stephen’s eyes targeted me with suspicion. I followed Blackburn, led by Jason, and Stephen followed us.

He led me up a staircase that creaked under every other step, to a second floor with half its lights burned out. A shotgun leaned next to a closed door, a sealed box of cartridges unopened on the floor next to it. Jason turned a doorknob, and Blackburn motioned me to join him.

Candles burned on a dresser, and a lightbulb flickered overhead. One door peeked into a bathroom. The room was bare except for a king-sized bed with posts at its four corners. 

Charlie Shore was tied to the bed.

The Ax-Lover, Part Four

Shore wore a pair of jeans, barefoot, and a white T-shirt soaked with sweat. His wrists and ankles were raw from the plastic ties holding him down. His hair was tangled, his face stained with dirt and blood.

            Hannah sat next to the bed with a damp towel in her hands. She tried to wipe Shore’s face, but first he twisted away from her, then turned back and lunged, teeth bared like a wolf trying to bite her. She jumped back with a yelp.

            I stepped back. “What the hell?”

            “He came here two days ago.” Blackburn gazed down at Shore. “I’ve been trying to cure him ever since.”

            “What—How did he get here? The prison—”

            “I brought him.” Jason closed the door. “He’s—we were friends. Before he went to prison. He came to my house. Begging, crying. I had to help him.” He took a swig of whiskey from his bottle.

            “So you’re doing the exorcism?” I looked at the bed.

            Shore’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. For the moment he was still, but his muscles stayed tense, like he was ready to start pulling at his restraints without warning.

            “I’ve been trying.” Blackburn sighed and sat on a chair. “This demon is tough. Tenacious. He calls himself the Ax-Lover. He’s fighting.”

            “Shouldn’t you have a doctor here? He’s bleeding. Feverish.”

            “No outsiders.” He stared me up and down. “But you know Charlie. And you seem to understand exorcism.”

            “I’ve been—involved in a few of them.” I actually performed one myself, once. It worked, but mostly because I got lucky. “This seems dangerous.”

            “It’s always dangerous. Satan is the father of lies. He’ll do anything to keep control.”

            “Also, you’re harboring a fugitive. That’s dangerous, too, if they find him here with you.”

            Blackburn snorted. “I’m battling the powers of Satan, demons who can twist minds and devour souls. State troopers are the least of my worries.”

            I looked around. Jason was standing at the doorway, tdhe bottle of whiskey at his feet now.  “You know he’s got to go back to prison, don’t you?”

“There’s a worse kind of prison,” Blackburn said. “The prison of the mind. And the soul.”

            Shore suddenly lurched up from the bed. Hannah jumped. 

            “Filth!” Shore shouted. “Filth in your mouth, filth on your shoes, filth in your filthy soul! Pour it out! Spew it on me! I revel in it! Your spit, your vomit, your sperm, all of it! Give it to me!”

            “Satan.” Blackburn stood up. “You have no dominion here. In the name of our savior Jesus Christ, I order you to leave this place. In the name of the Father, the Son, and—”

            Shore—or the Ax-Lover—laughed. “You want it! You’re hungry for it! The filth, the filth from the earth, from the dirt! From the dirty body! You!” His face jerked toward Hannah. “You take it, all of his filth, don’t you? You take it everywhere, anytime! You—” He leered at Stephen. “You want her, don’t you? You dream of licking her body, her sweat, her hair, her snot—”

            “You are cast out!” Blackburn lifted the cross from his neck and thrust it at the bed. “In the name of the Holy Spirit, in the name of almighty God, go back to the depths you came from! You will hear and obey—” 

            “Who’s that?” Shore’s eyes locked on me. “New flesh? Fresh blood? I know what you want. What do you want? You want it bad—you want all our filthy secrets, our deep perverted thoughts, everything they know, everything you know—”

            “Out, Satan!” Blackburn pushed the cross at Shore’s face. Shore growled and stretched his neck, trying to bite at Blackburn’s hand. “Back to hell!” He jerked the cross away, letting it swing in his fingers as Shore’s teeth clenched. “In the name of the Father! In the name of the Son! In the name of the Holy Spirit!”

I edged toward the door, hoping Jason would move out of the way. He stared at me, his eyes dull and glassy. He was drunk, but not too drunk to punch me if I tried to get around him.

“He’s running! He’s scared!” Shore’s voice rang across the room. “He knows! He knows all the secrets! Don’t let him tell! Keep him quiet! Or I’ll tell your secret, Jason!”

Jason took a stumbling step toward the bed. “What s-secrets?” 

“Don’t engage,” I told him. “Don’t let him in.”

“You want to know?” Shire laughed. “You want me to tell? All of you?” He looked at Hannah. “The whore?” Then at Stephen. “You and your dreams? You—” At me. “And your girlfriend. What’s she doing while you’re—”

This had happened once before, and it almost ended badly for Rachel and me. I wanted to tell him to shut up. I wanted to slap him, choke him, but I knew better. Arguing with a demon is an invitation to possession. I turned away.

“And you?” Shore gazed at Jason. “Drunk. Drugs. And worse. A whole lot worse—”

“Shut up!” Jason shouted. He swung around and pushed on the door, stumbling out into the hall. 

“Satan, I order you,” Blackburn repeated, “in the name of our savior Jesus Christ, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy—”

“Your secrets, father!” Shore screamed. “The desires seeping through your soul, the ache in your belly, your mother, your mother’s—”

“Get out!” Blackburn shouted back. “Leave this man! Leave him in peace! The Lord God commands you! Jesus Christ commands you! You have no power here! Only the Lord has power, and it’s by His will that I cast you out! I cast you away, Satan! I cast you away!”

The door banged behind me. I turned.

It was Jason back. Carrying the shotgun. 

Blackburn glanced over his shoulder. “Put that away.” His forehead was sweaty. “We’re getting close. It’s a delicate moment. Stephen, get it from him.”

“Make him shut up!” Jason lifted the shotgun to his shoulder. Stephen froze.

“Jason.” I held up a hand. My heart was pounding, but that’s never been enough to shut me up. “That isn’t helping. Put the gun down. Your friend needs help.”

 “Make him stop!” His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was raw. “He’s not my friend! Just make him stop!”

Before anybody could move or speak, the room started to shake, as if a cold, fierce wind was roaring through it, chilling our faces, cutting through our skin to freeze our bones. Hannah sank to the ground and wrapped her arms around her bare legs. Blackburn took an involuntary step away from the bed, breathing hard. Stephen stood over Hannah protectively.

Jason looked up at the ceiling. “What is it?” I could barely hear him over the rushing wind.

Then the bed began to rise in the air.

My reporters’ instincts kicked in, and I pulled my phone out. The bed was six inches off the floor and rising higher, the sheets swirling in the wind. Shore struggled against his restraints, and Blackburn was shouting at him—I heard “Holy Spirit” and “Jesus,” but the rest disappeared in the stormy air. Shore howled, his face red and twisted. 

Jason let the shotgun tip toward the floor as he leaned against the wall for support, shading his eyes from the wind. My legs trembled as I fought to stay upright and keep my phone pointed at Shore and the levitating bed. 

It was a foot off the floor now, rocking side to side, with Shore tumbling from one edge to the other, held by the restraints around his wrists and ankles. His head sagged, tongue dangling out, bloody and bitten, dripping blood over his chin and neck. His eyes rolled back in his head. His face was almost black, and his chest heaved as if he was fighting for air.

Blackburn kept preaching, his words almost a chant. I looked at the door. Jason couldn’t stop me, if I could stay on my feet and rush past him. But I wanted to keep shooting this. I wondered what Rachel would say if the cops found it next to my dead body—

Then the bed fell. It hit the floor with a loud thunderclap, and I almost dropped my phone. Blackburn bent forward, holding the edge of the bed as he gasped for breath. 

The air was still and silent. After a moment the ringing in my ears started to fade, and I heard the sound of ragged breathing from everyone—Hannah on the floor, Stephen standing over her, Jason near the door, and Shore on the bed.

I stepped forward to point the camera at him. His face, twisted and black a moment ago, was pale now. His hair was streaked with sweat. His breathing was shallow.

Blackburn slowly straightened up. He put a hand on Shore’s wrist, as if checking for a pulse. “Praise God,” he murmured.

“Is it—is it over?” Hannah asked.

Looks like,” I said. I zoomed in on Shore’s face, focusing on his glassy eyes, then dropped the phone in my pocket. “He probably needs a doctor now.”

Stephen helped Hannah stand up. Blackburn let go of Shore’s hand and bent over his face. “Charles? Charlie? Are you awake?”

“Uhhh . . .” Shore groaned. He blinked, then lifted his head. “Wh—what happened? Am I . . . Reverend?”

“Satan is gone.” Blackburn planted a hand on his forehead. “Blessed be God.”

Shore looked around. “Why am I tied up? Who—who are you?” He peered at me. “Do I know you?”

“How much do you remember?” I asked. 

“I remember . . .” He closed his eyes. “Oh hell. Oh God. Oh no.” His head dropped back. “I was in prison. I was . . .”

He pushed his head up again. “It was—it wasn’t—I didn’t—I didn’t—wait.” He swallowed. “Wait, I remember. I remember now. I remember it. I remember—” He looked past me. Toward the door. “Jason?”

Standing in the doorway, Jason held the shotgun, pointed at Shore’s head. 

“Yeah, Jason is in here.” His smile was wide. “Thank you, Reverend. That one was almost used up anyway. And I’ve been here before. Remember, Charlie?”

Jason laughed.

The Ax-Lover, Part Five

“It was you,” Shore whispered. 

Blackburn lifted an arm. “No . . . no. It—it jumped?”

“Demons look for a new host right away.” I was staring at Jason, my throat suddenly dry as ashes. “You were waiting for that, weren’t you? He asked a question. That let you in.”

“Damn it.” Blackburn’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t do it again. I’m just—”

“Don’t worry, Reverend.” Jason—the demon—grinned. “You won’t have a chance to try again.”

“It was you,” Shore repeated from the bed. “Coming down the stairs. You had the ax over your shoulder. You smiled at me. It was you.”

“It was what?” Jason smirked. “You always knew it. You kept it locked away, you tried to keep it in the dark. I showed you in your dreams. I showed you when you wrote that confession, but you pretended you didn’t remember. You didn’t want to see it. You didn’t want to remember it with my eyes.so you pushed it away, back in your head, deep, as deep as you could. But it was still there. It was always there.”

Shore lowered his head and began to sob.

I took a breath. “So you killed Charlie’s wife and son. Not Jason, you. The Ax-Lover.”

Jason laughed again. “Yes. You’re very smart. You’re a coward, you’re weak, you need your woman to save you, but you are smart.”

I nodded. “All true. So you left Jason that night and jumped into Charlie? Why?”

His eyes zeroed in on me. “What better torture? Let him suffer for killing his wife and child, his beloved wife—who he beat bloody, especially when she fought back—and his child—also hit, over and over as he cried and begged and said he was sorry, sorry for whatever he’d done wrong. It was the whiskey, he thought, but it was really him. Something in the blackness of his soul.” Jason sneered in Shore’s direction. “It was calling me.”

I stared back at him, my mind spinning. Part of me wondered if any of this could help Gina Ward’s case to get a new trial for Charlie Shore; most of me wondered what I was going to tell Rachel if I managed to get out of this alive. 

“You can run, Jason.” My heart was pounding again, harder than before. It’s dangerous to engage with a demon, but I had to do something. “Far away. No one will ever believe us.”

“Yeah, I’ll be out of here soon.” His eyes darted around the room at each one of us—Stephen, Hannah, Charlie, Blackburn, and finally me. “One of you should stay to tell them. Charlie. He’ll live with it forever. Even without me, he’ll be in hell for the rest of his life.” He lifted the shotgun. Pointed it at Blackburn. “You first, Rev. Thanks for ripping me out of that loser—”

“Hey Stephen,” I interrupted. “That box of shells next to the shotgun—that wasn’t opened, right?”

“Huh?” Stephen shook his head, as if he couldn’t hear me, his face a mixture of confusion and terror. “Uh, no, it’s not, it’s . . .” His voice trailed off. 

“Is that gun even loaded?” I asked.

Jason blinked. Then, laughing, he pointed the barrel at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger.

The shotgun boomed, blowing plaster from the ceiling over our scalps and shoulders. Okay, bad deduction on my part, but while the shotgun jumped in Jason’s shaky hands I plunged forward, tackling him to the floor. 

Stephen was on top of me in a split second, and Hannah right after. Stephen pried the shotgun from Jason’s fingers while Hannah and I pounded his face and body desperately with our fists, Jason growling and kicking at us.

Stephen finally pulled the shotgun out of Jason’s hands and shoved it across the floor. “Do you have any more of those plastic ties?” I asked, digging my knee into Jason’s stomach as Stephen grabbed at his flailing arms. 

Hannah scampered to the bed and came back with a cardboard box full of restraints in plastic bags. She ripped at them with her teeth, and Stephen and I managed to get Jason’s arms and legs tied while he thrashed and cursed us.

He rolled on the floor as we backed away, panting. “Filth!” Jason shrieked. “Scum lickers! You love the filth, you roll in it! You’ll come to me again! You want it, you ache for it—”

“Shut up.” Stephen kicked him in the jaw.

“H-help?” That came from Shore, on the bed. Hannah looked at Blackburn. “Reverend?”

He nodded. “Cut him loose.” He groaned. “Thank the Lord.”

“I helped a little,” I said, waiting for my pulse to slow. I pulled out my phone as Hannah started slicing the plastic ties around Shore’s wrists and ankles with a Swiss Army knife. “There’s your next customer.” I started tapping digits. I wanted to call Rachel, but first things first. “Yeah, we need an ambulance here for an escaped prisoner—”

“No!” Shore shouted. “I can’t go back there!”

“Sorry.” I felt sympathy for the hell he’d been through, but I couldn’t see any way around it. I gave the operator our location and hung up. “I’ll call your lawyer, Gina Ward,” I told Shore. “Maybe she can help.” Maybe. I wasn’t optimistic. But I was still alive, and not possessed by a demon, so that was something.

 

A guard opened the cell door. “Your lawyer’s here. And your girlfriend.”

            Uh-oh. I stood. The cell was about nine feet square, with one window high in the corner looking out into the starless sky. I couldn’t imagine spending a night on the cot I’d been sitting on, waiting for Gina Ward.

            She walked in with a smile. “Are you okay?”

            I nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

            Rachel was right behind her. “Good. Because you’re in trouble when we get home.” She kissed me on the cheek.

            “Am I going home?” I sat on the cot.

            Gina nodded. “There may be a hearing, but you called it in, so you get points for that. I mean, they could argue that you should have called it in the minute you got there, but I don’t think they’ll want to spend a lot of time on that. They’ve got Charlie, and they’re still trying to decide if there’s anything to charge the others with.”

            “What about Jason? He killed Shore’s family.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Not sure how I’m going to argue that. He’s in the psych ward for observation overnight. At least.”

            “What about Blackburn and the others? Are you representing them?”

            “No, thank God.” She laughed. “His mother sent a local lawyer over. The police are trying to figure out a way to combine ‘harboring a fugitive’ with ‘illegal restraint.’ I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that.” She shook her head. “In the meantime, you’re free to go.” She turned and waved to the guard.

            “Does he at least get a reward for finding an escaped fugitive?” Rachel asked. “I’m losing half a day of work here.”

            “Huh.” She cocked her head, thinking. “I’ll have to check into that.”

            “What happens to Shore now?” I stood up.

            She sighed. “He goes back to prison tomorrow. I’ll do what I can, but ‘demons in my head forced me to escape and find an exorcist’ doesn’t have much case law to support it.” She shrugged.

            “Maybe it’ll show up on a Law and Order show sometime.” I took Rachel’s hand. “I think my car’s back at Blackburn’s house.”

            “I’ll drive you.” Gina winked at Rachel. “She told me a lot about you on the ride here.”

            Wonderful. “I’m sure she’ll have a lot to say to me on the drive home.”

            Rachel elbowed my ribs. “You got that right. Jerk.” But she kissed me again. “Glad you’re okay.”

            Walking down the row of cells, we passed Blackburn. He was on his knees, praying, but he looked up, then stood when he saw me. “Jurgen? Thank you.”

            I nodded. “I’m glad Shore is okay. Will they give you a shot at Jason?”

            He chuckled. “I don’t know. If they do, I’ll try my best.”

            We shook hands through the bars. “Good luck.”

            Out in the parking lot at Gina’s car I opened the door for Rachel. “Stop for dinner on the way home? I’m hungry.”

            “You’re just trying to get out of cooking on your night, aren’t you?”

            “Maybe. Gina?”

            She nodded. “Sure.”

            “Good. Order something pricey. I can add that to my expenses, at least.”

            Gina laughed. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

Gina Ward called me a few weeks later. “The sheriff’s department found an ax in Jason’s barn, and they managed to scrape some DNA off it, even after all these years. It’s a match.”

            “That’s good.” I switched my phone to speaker. “Rachel’s here.”

            “Hi, Rachel! Anyway, Jason’s been hospitalized ever since the demon left Charlie and took him over. I don’t know if they’re going to bother to charge him or just keep him confined. I’ve filed motions to vacate Charlie’s conviction and commute his sentence.”

            “What about the escape?” Rachel asked.

            Gina sighed. “Yeah. I’m going to argue it was due to the prison’s negligence, because the fence was damaged, and in light of new evidence, yada, yada, yada. We’ll see how it goes.”

            “I hope he finds some kind of relief,” I said. “Being possessed for years has got to be hell. No pun intended.”

            “Plus, believing he killed his family,” Rachel said. “He’s going to need a ton of therapy.”

            “Well, maybe we can sue the state for wrongful conviction.” Gina sounded cheerful. “Always look on the bright side, we say at the firm.”

            “Good luck,” I said. “Call me if you have any cases that pay actual money next time.”

            She laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

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