I woke up feeling like someone had poured cement into my skull, let it dry, and was now slowly chipping away at it with a pickaxe. A heavy, dull pickaxe.
After 20 minutes or so, I managed to stumble into the bathroom. I immediately threw up, brushed my teeth, took a shower, then threw up again. I brushed my teeth again and swallowed four Tylenol. They stayed down.
Back in the bedroom I found a big purple bruise on my left arm that I didn’t have yesterday. I pulled on a T-shirt, and then I had to take a five-minute break before struggling into my jeans. I didn’t even try to tie my shoes.
My clothes from last night were on the floor. At least I hadn’t puked in the bed, although the garbage can was right next to my pillow. The door to the closet was wide open for some reason, but I couldn’t drag anything from my memory to explain why.
I made it to the kitchen, where I decided I couldn’t deal with cereal. I poured myself some coffee, took a deep breath to steel my nerves, and slowly trudged to the office.
I sank into my chair. “What time is it?”
“Eleven thirty-something.” Rachel swung around in her chair. “You were out 14 hours. I spent half the night making sure you didn’t vomit in the bed. I didn’t want you to choke on your own puke. Or have to change the sheets.” She glared at me.
I hung my head. “Sorry. I don’t know—what happened.”
“Oh, I know what happened. How do you feel?”
“Nothing a shotgun blast to the head wouldn’t—” I stiffened.
Oh hell. I remembered.
The closet in the bedroom. We keep a handgun on the upper shelf. “Did I—”
Rachel stared at me as it started to come back. “Yeah. You tried to get Daffy.” Daffy Duck is our name for the Glock I bought last year.
She crossed her arms. “Good thing you dropped the box on the floor and I heard it, and you were too drunk to get the key in.”
“Shit.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead, reminding me that my left arm ached. I pulled up my sleeve to show off the bruise. “Is this . . .”
“Yeah.” Rachel sighed. “I hit you. I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
“No, I’m . . .” I closed my eyes again. “Damn it.”
Rachel walked over to me. “You okay?”
“No.” I’d tried to kill myself once before. With pills. Rachel saved me that time too. I’d taken antidepressants and seen a psychiatrist for months after that. “Damn it.”
“Take it easy. And listen to me.” She crouched in front of me. “It wasn’t you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just shut up for a minute.” She planted a hand on my forehead. “Okay.” She grimaced. “It’s gone.”
“What? I took a bunch of Tylenol—”
“No, you idiot. The demon.”
I blinked. “Demon?”
Rachel sighed. “You were late, and I called you, and there was something in your voice. I could feel it.”
“Through the phone?” Rachel’s psychic, like I said, but it doesn’t usually work long distance, as far as I knew.
She rolled her eyes. “Have long have we been together? I can see inside your head whenever I want.”
“Really?” That was scary news.
She snorted. “Not really. But maybe I’ll start working on it.”
“Okay.” Good to know. “You could tell I was—possessed—when you called me?”
“I knew something was wrong. Aside from being drunk. Which isn’t like you anyway.”
That was true. Aside from the occasional beer, I rarely drink, and I don’t have that many beers in an evening when I do. The last time I was really drunk was probably when my marriage was falling apart, and that was 15 years ago.
I searched my aching head for memories of last night. “I don’t remember coming home.”
“Yeah, you were pretty out of it.”
“I don’t remember trying to . . . get the gun, either.”
She looked away from me. “Well, you weren’t anywhere near close to getting inside the box. I don’t think you could have loaded it. But still . . .” She shook her head. “You said you were going to kill yourself. So I hit you. Hard.” She rubbed her hand as if it still stung. “You called me a bitch, and a lot of other things. I kept telling myself it was the demon, but still—” Her face got tense. “I was scared. And mad.”
“I’m sorry. Even if it was the demon, I—”
“Don’t. I don’t care. I can’t—” She looked away from me. “This just happens too much. Demons, haunted houses, vampires, it’s just—hard for a girl to take sometimes.”
“I know.” We’d almost broken up over it once.
She looked at my arm. “So I hit you. And it felt—good.”
I nodded. “Can’t blame you. And thanks for not letting me kill myself.”
Rachel sighed. “I don’t have any backup plan. This is it. You’re it.” She punched my arm. Lightly, but I winced. “Just remember that, would you?”
“I’ll try.”
She patted my bruise. “Did you eat anything?”
“Not yet. Maybe when my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s in free fall. Where is it now?”
“I’m not telling you where Daffy is.”
“Good. But I meant the demon.” It would be nice to blame all this on something else.
She put a hand on my forehead again. “No idea. It was there most of the night. Until about four o’clock. That’s when I went to sleep.”
“What kind of demon is it?”
Rachel closed her eyes. “Something angry.”
Most demons are angry. “Anything else?”
She thought for a moment. “Frustrated. Needy. Full of resentment.”
Resentment—they talk about that at A.A. meetings. Wait a minute—”Phillip.”
“What? Who?”
“Phillip. With two Ls.” I turned to my computer and ignored the pounding in my head to bring up the file I’d started on him. “He was at the meeting last night. He was leading the meeting the night before. And he was at that meeting four years ago.”
I showed her what I had, including the one photo I’d found of him on Facebook. “And last night he came up to me—wait, I think he came up to me four years ago. Yeah, he gave me that card, but last night he touched me. And the night before he touched Kempton.”
“And four years ago?”
I shook my head. “Maybe. I don’t remember for sure. But he was there.”
“Is that such a coincidence? Lots of people go to meetings for years. Lots of people relapse.”
“They don’t jump in front of buses.” I rubbed my scalp. “Or try to shoot themselves for no reason.”
She tilted her head. “So you’re thinking that’s what happened four years ago? That guy was possessed by a demon who just wanted to kill someone? Anyone? A random stranger?”
“What did the demon in me want?”
“I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Yeah. It’s not like it talked to me, but it definitely wanted to do something destructive. Or self-destructive. You were on your way to getting your ass kicked when I walked in that bar.” Rachel smirked.
“That I remember. I owe you two.”
“Oh, you’ll pay. Double. Maybe triple. But what now?”
I slumped in the chair and rubbed my eyes. “First I’ve got to call my client. Then . . .”
She looked suspicious. “Then what?”
“How do you feel about going to an A.A. meeting tonight?”
Jenna Kempton was relieved when I told her Luke hadn’t gone to a bar last night. “Maybe it was just a one-time thing,” she said. “I’m just glad you were there to help him.”
I didn’t say anything about Phillip or the demon. I just wished her and Luke luck, then hung up and took a long drink of water. Hydration is key when you’re hung over.
Then I had to figure out which meeting Phillip would be at. In the end I decided to take the direct approach.
“Hi, Phillip? It’s, uh, Tom. From the meeting last night?”
“Oh, hi, Tom!” Phillip sounded delighted to hear my voice. “How you doing today?”
“Not great. I, uh, relapsed last night.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” It sounded like a reflex, something he’d say without thinking. “But it happens, you know? The thing is to get right back to it and go to a meeting.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. You going to any meetings tonight? I don’t know where to go.”
“Sure! I’m going to be at St. Agathe’s church, 7:00 p.m. See you there?”
“Seven o’clock, got it. Thanks.” I hung up.
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