The baggage claim at O’Hare Airport at 10:30 p.m. was quiet. A man sat on the edge of a luggage carousel in a corduroy blazer sipping a Starbucks, watching people scan the belt in search of their suitcases. Two giggling women pulled their bags off the carousel and staggered next to each other while looking for the taxi stand sign. A family with two sleepy children stared at a big monitor, looking for their flight information.
I was wearing a red necktie, as instructed by my client. She didn’t want me to hold a sign announcing the name of the person I was picking up. I stood in front of the slowly rotating, almost empty carousel for flight 743 from Boston and waited.
A man and a woman trudged to the carousel, and the man leaned over to heft a bulky suitcase off the belt. The woman sighed and patted his arm, and they turned, looking up at the signs to tell them where to go.
A teenager walked up to me, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was about 16, with curly black hair, in a denim jacket and jeans. He pointed at my necktie. “You my ride?”
“I’m Tom Jurgen.”
He frowned. “I’m supposed to ask for a password.”
“Scarecrow.”
The kid smiled. “Right. And I’m King. Except my name is really Ross. Ross Beneditti.”
“Hi, Ross.” I glanced at the carousel. “You have any luggage?”
He pulled at the backpack strap. “Just this.”
“Let’s go.”
We walked to an elevator, descended, and made our way to the day parking lot.
“Nice flight?” I asked.
Ross shrugged. “I guess.”
I spotted my Prius “That way.”
Like the baggage claim, the garage was quiet and almost empty as we walked between cars. Bright lights in the ceiling cast long shadows in every direction. A car near the exit honked its horn impatiently. Doors slammed in the distance.
Behind a car ahead of us something moved. Before I could put out an arm to stop Ross, I heard a voice behind me. “It’s them!”
I stopped. Over my shoulder I saw the guy who’d been drinking Starbucks by the luggage carousel.
When I looked forward again, two men were standing in front of us. One of them held a handgun.
Oh hell.
“Okay, Ross,” said the one without the handgun. He was tall, balding, in a nylon windbreaker. “Come with us.”
Ross froze. He looked at me.
What was I supposed to do? I only had pepper spray in my jacket. Could I get it before the other guy shot us? “Who are you?”
“Ross is coming with us,” the tall guy said. “Don’t be a stupid hero or anything.”
The guy with the gun—short, shaped like a barrel—just stared at us. Mostly at me.
Damn it. I was supposed to do something. But what? Rachel would kill me if I got shot. “What’s this all about? People know I’m here—”
“Shut up!” The guy with the handgun looked nervous. “Let’s just go.”
“It’s okay.” Ross took a deep breath. “I got this.”
I glanced at him as he let his backpack slip from his shoulder. “What?”
He smiled. “Brace yourself.”
The guy with the gun took a step back, lifting his weapon. “Don’t do anything—”
Ross lifted his arm, palm out, and held his breath. Then he pushed his hand forward—
And the short guy with the gun flew backward, feet off the ground, and slammed against a minivan behind him. He dropped his gun and slumped to the concrete, groaning.
The tall guy reacted right away, reaching under his windbreaker. But I grabbed my pepper spray and blasted him in the face before he could get whatever he was reaching for, and before Ross could repeat his trick. He doubled over, choking, clawing at his face as he coughed and gasped for air.
A shout behind us made me turn. The guy from the carousel was running through the row of cars, but he didn’t seem to have a gun in his hands. I tapped Ross’s shoulder and pointed. “Come on.”
We ducked our heads as we scrambled between the rows of vehicles until I spotted the Prius. “Over here.” I clicked the lock control and pulled the door open for him, then darted around to slide into the driver’s side. Ross threw his backpack into the back and yanked his seatbelt as I backed up, turned, and veered toward the exit.
“Who were those guys?” I checked my rearview mirror. A dark SUV was wheeling around a row of cars, driving too fast for safety. I pressed the accelerator, praying I didn’t hit any cars. Or people.
“My aunt can explain when we get there.” He twisted his neck to look behind us. “Can you go faster?”
I bit my lip hard as I zoomed toward the exit gate. Slamming the brake, I almost hit the barrier with my windshield, and then I was fumbling in my pocket for the parking ticket and a credit card. The SUV was coming.
Window down, I fed the ticket into the slot and then jammed my Mastercard into the payment slot. THANK YOU read the display, and the barrier began to rise. I left the credit card and hit the gas, and the rail scraped the roof as the car lurched forward.
“They’re still behind us. Haha! They hit the rail.” Ross laughed as he turned back around. “How far to the hotel?”
“Not close enough.” Fortunately the traffic around the airport was light, and I found the on-ramp to the Kennedy Expressway without colliding with anything.
I merged into the traffic heading downtown, the pounding in my chest starting to fade. I wasn’t getting paid enough for this.
My client—Helena Snowe—had called me at four this afternoon to pick up her nephew from the airport. Why she needed a private detective wasn’t clear, but it sounded like an easy job. All I had to do was show up wearing a red necktie and take the kid to her hotel downtown. I wished I’d told her I was too busy.
“What’d you shoot that guy with?” Ross was looking out the window at the lights around us. “Don’t you have a gun or something?”
“Pepper spray. Nobody told me I’d need a gun.” Not that I would have shot anybody. I carry my Glock sometimes, but I’ve never had to fire it at a human being. Thankfully. “What was that thing you did?”
“It’s, uh—hey, I think that’s them.” He lurched around again. “Yeah. Their windshield’s broke. They’re coming up fast. Can you go faster?”
“Just because I’m a P.I., doesn’t mean I can drive like The Fast and The Furious.” Goddamn it. I wouldn’t even be able to call Rachel before I got killed. Of course she’d just yell at me, but still—
I yanked the wheel to the right, cutting across the center lane as horns blared at me from all sides. I could see the dark SUV coming. I looked for an exit, hoping I could lose them and hide in the neighborhood streets.
But the SUV came up behind me hard. Its bumper pushed against the trunk, and I struggled with the wheel to keep the car going straight. They swerved and hit me again, jarring my teeth as the Prius jerked sideways onto the shoulder, kicking up gravel as I tried not to hit the barrier on the side.
I looked at Ross. “Can you—do something?”
He was watching the SUV. “I guess. Let me—” He closed his eyes and held up both arms, palms raised to the ceiling. One deep breath, then another. The SUV was right beside us. I could see the gunman glaring at me.
Then the SUV lurched to the left. A car in the far lane honked, slamming it brakes and shooting over around it, narrowly avoiding a collision as the SUV bounced off a barrier and started to skid on the pavement.
Then it disappeared in the traffic behind us as I gunned the accelerator again. After three miles I caught my breath and eased up on the gas, letting the car slow to the speed limit.
“Are we going to get there soon?” Ross asked. “I’m hungry.”
A valet at the Hotel Venetian off Michigan Avenue took my keys and pulled away in the Prius. An elegantly dressed woman behind the front counter confirmed Ross’s identity, made a call, and then gave him a passkey. She looked me over. “And this gentleman is with you?”
A nice quiet elevator took us to the 21st floor. We turned the wrong way down the hall at first, but found the right door at the end of the other hall. Ross slid the passkey in and opened the door.
A slender Black man in an Oxford shirt and a necktie met us before the door was fully open. “Hello, Ross. Make yourself at home. Mr. Jurgen? My name is Chad. Please make yourself comfortable. Have a drink. I’ll get Mrs. Snowe.”
The suite was big—bigger than most houses. Long sofas, plush armchairs, a TV that covered one wall, a full bar in one corner, a kitchenette off to the side, and four bedrooms that I could see.
Ross dropped his backpack on the floor and sat on a sofa, pulling out his phone. I went to the bar and poured myself a whiskey. I don’t usually drink hard liquor, but after almost getting killed on the Kennedy, my nerves needed a break.
Drink in hand, I took out my own phone to text Rachel. I gave her the hotel’s name so she’d know where I was, and mentioned that I’d had some “excitement” getting here. Her response: Wake me up when you’re home. Don’t do anything stupid.
Chad came back. “Mrs. Snowe.”
Helena Snowe, in her 70s, had silvery hair and a stony face. Silver earrings. A necklace with a small glittering diamond dangled over her crisp white blouse. She made me think of a prime minister from some faraway mountain nation.
She walked first to Ross, who was playing a game on his phone. “Ross. I’m glad you’re here.”
He put down his phone, stood up, and gave her a stiff, formal hug. “Hi, Aunt Helena.”
“Mr. Jurgen.” She turned to me. “I apologize for the unpleasantness in bringing my nephew here. You’ll be compensated above what we agreed on.”
She’d already sent me money this afternoon, but I wasn’t going to turn her down. “Thank you. I guess there was a reason you hired me instead of just ordering an Uber.”
A hint of a smile lifted her lips. “You have some experience in—unusual matters.”
That was true. “Yes. I’m not a bodyguard, though. One of the men had a gun.”
“He was really good, Aunt Helena,” Ross said. “He knew what to do all the time.”
I felt an unexpected surge of pride at Ross’s praise. “Thanks,” I said. “I was actually scared to death. And Ross did most of the work.”
“Would you like to know what’s happening?” Helena asked. “I can explain.”
What I wanted was to go home to Rachel and go to bed. But I can’t kick the compulsion to ask questions. It helped me when in my past life as a reporter and it still gets me in trouble now.
“Sure.” I knew I’d regret this.
“Please have a seat.” She sat next to Ross. I took a seat in one of the big chairs and sipped my whiskey.
Helena folded her hands in her lap. “We belong to a family of wizards and witches.” She waited for my reaction.
“Okay.” I set my glass down. “You know about me. You know you’re not the first witches I’ve encountered.” Not to mention vampires, demons, and the occasional giant killer chicken.
“So you understand that we want to keep a low profile in the modern world. Even though they don’t hang or burn witches anymore, people tend to be—uncomfortable with us. We’re not looking for attention.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
Ross went back to playing his phone game.
“Our side of the family is located in the East,” Helena went on. “Another branch of the family is centered in the Pacific Northwest. We’re—not exactly at war, but we have different ideas about how to do business. We’ve sparred with each other for years. We finally came to a decision, and it involves Ross.”
Ross looked up and sighed. “I haven’t said yes yet.”
“I know.” She patted his shoulder. “Neither has she. This is just a first step.”
“She?” I asked.
“Ross is here to meet a young woman from the other side of the family. If everything goes well, they could unite our two branches, and things would be better for everyone.” Helena smiled.
I looked at Ross. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen. Seventeen next month.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s 17. She’s pretty—we’ve talked on Zoom and stuff, and—”
“This is just preliminary,” Helena cut in. “No one is asking either of you to make any decisions right now. This is just a first visit to see if there’s any future there.”
It sounded like that miniseries about Queen Victoria I’d watched with Rachel a few months ago. “Well, good luck.” I finished my drink. “I don’t have much experience with teenage romance, so I can’t offer any advice for either of you. My girlfriend would say I don’t have much useful experience with romance at all, so . . .”
Before I could get up, Chad reappeared with a phone. “Mrs. Snowe? For you.”
Her eyebrows rose. “One minute.” She took the phone and headed into another room.
I looked at Ross. “You’re okay with this?”
He groaned. “Yeah. I mean, I never said I’d marry her or anything. Honestly, I think it’s just a way for them to avoid dealing with their real problems. But if it keeps them happy for a while? I’ll go along with it. And she’s kinda cute.” He grinned.
“Who were those people trying to kidnap you?”
“Oh, them. Yeah.” Ross shook his head. “I guess there are some of the family on both sides who don’t want this to happen. They think it’s surrendering, giving up power, or something. I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of weird relatives.” He shrugged.
“Every family does.” Witches can be scary, but family politics can turn ugly. “What kind of magic can you do?”
He grinned. “Mostly just the push thing you saw. A little levitation. Fire. They say they’ll teach me spells when I’m older. And—” He stopped as he saw his aunt returning.
Helena was frowning. “You can go, Mr. Jurgen. Wait—Chad? My checkbook.”
“Is everything all right?”
She glanced at Ross. “Everything’s fine. The meeting tomorrow morning has been postponed, Ross. I’ll let you know when it’s rescheduled.”
“Great. I don’t have to get up early.” He stood up. “I’m hungry. Can I order room service?”
“Go ahead.” She took a checkbook from Chad and hastily scrawled out a check. “Here you are, Mr. Jurgen, and thank you again. And my apologies. Again.”
The check was double what she’d already paid me. The noble type of P.I. you see on TV would have turned it down. I’m the type of P.I. with bills to pay, so I folded it up and put it in my wallet. “Thank you, Ms. Snowe. If there’s nothing else?” I stood up.
“Have a good night. Chad?”
He walked to the door and held it open for me. I paused. “Good night, Ross. Nice meeting you.”
Ross was scanning the room service menu. “Yeah. Thanks. Same here.”
I nodded to Chad. “Have a good night.”
Chad nodded but said nothing. He didn’t look like he was expecting the night to get any better.
Rachel had an early morning class—she’s studying for a psychology degree—so we only saw each other for a few minutes the next morning. Just enough for some coffee and a brief rundown of last night. “Sounds crazy,” Rachel said, filling her travel mug. “At least she paid you extra.”
“Yeah, that almost makes up for me almost getting killed.” I shrugged. “At least it’s over. I wonder about the kids, though.”
“They’ll figure it out. They’re teenagers. When I was 16—you may not want to know.”
“Oh, I want to know.” I looked her over. Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes, slender and gorgeous. She’s also kind of psychic, which makes for an interesting combination. “Everything.”
“Maybe later.” She punched my shoulder, hefted her laptop bag, and headed for the day. “Have a boring day!”
I bent over my cereal. “I hope.”
After breakfast I went into my office. It was lonely without Rachel on the other side complaining about website redesigns and other graphic chores, but I focused on work. I had a fraud case that promised to be nowhere near as scary as last night’s shenanigans.
My phone buzzed at 11:15. Helena Snowe. What now?
I answered. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen.” She sounded tense. “I have a problem.”
“Is Ross all right?” Maybe the kidnappers had tried again, or he’d blown up the suite with magic, or—
“He’s fine. It’s the girl. Christine. She’s—missing.”
Uh-oh. “Kidnapped?”
“Possibly. We’re not sure. She wasn’t on her flight last night. I was told that she’d missed her flight and was coming in this morning. I just got a call that she arrived at Midway—we purposely arranged for them to fly into different airports, for security—but she went into a restroom and didn’t come out. The people sent to bring her in were both men.”
“Not P.I.s like me? Just family members?”
“Apparently. The Graves—that’s the family, Graves—were in charge of their own arrangements bringing Christine here. I’m meeting with them in an hour to talk things over. I’d like you to come, if you’re available.”
I was very available. “I can certainly join you. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be—I do a lot of missing persons work, if that’s what it is, but if it’s a kidnapping, well, I got lucky last night because Ross was there. I’m not exactly the dad in those Taken movies.”
“You can identify the men from last night. That might be useful, if they show up.”
Maybe. I didn’t want to face them again, but I didn’t want to admit that to a client. Especially one who was willing to pay me. “I’ll help you as much as I can. Where is the meeting?”
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