Vampire King, Part Three

I actually managed a nap. You sleep when you have to sometimes.

            I tried to eat. That didn’t go so well—half of a half of a sandwich. I checked my phone. Nothing from Rachel. Sundown in an hour. I’d slept longer than I expected.

            Dudovich called me. “I’ll pick you up in 25 minutes. If you have to pee, do it now.”

            I left a message with Clifton Page. Then I set my phone to vibrate and went to the bathroom.

            Twenty minutes later I was in front of my building as Dudovich pulled up in an unmarked car.

            “We’re on for six hours.” She was wearing a thick Kevlar vest. “The park’s closed. There are three other cars. Ever use night-vision goggles?”

            “You’re turning out the lights too?” I sniffed. The car smelled of cigarettes and stale hamburgers.

            “No, but they might. Got a cross and a stake? I’ve got an extra handgun.”

            “Yes, yes, and no thanks.” I’d never fired a pistol in my life. I’d have better luck throwing the silver bullets at any vampires that came my way.

            “Have it your way.”

            Fifteen minutes we were parked on one side of the park about a hundred years from the field house as the sun went down. “It’s just like watching a cheating husband at a motel.” Dudovich unsnapped her seat belt. “Except with more chance of getting killed.”

            I thought of one cheating husband case where I’d almost gotten killed. “Yeah. Right.”

            “You need to wear this.” She reached over into the back seat and hauled up a Kevlar vest just like hers, with the word POLICE on the back and front.

            I struggled into it. “Vampires don’t usually shoot.”

            “But cops do. And bullets go everywhere. Do you need me to help you?”

            “Got it.” I struggled with the Velcro straps until I could barely breathe.

            The first hour passed relatively quickly. We didn’t talk much. Saw no movement. The gate was locked to keep civilians out. The radio reported a vampire attack on the south side. Then time slowed down as darkness crept across the grass. I almost jumped when my phone shook.

            Hoping for a text from Rachel, I yanked it from my pocket. But it was Clifton Page, a single word: “Yes.”

            That meant he had information. But I’d have to wait until the shift was over. I texted “THX” and put the phone away.

            “Your girlfriend?”

            I couldn’t restrain a sigh. “We’re on a break.”

            She blinked in the dark. “Sorry.”

            I shrugged. “It happens.”

            Dudovich looked out her window. After a moment she said,  “My husband’s out of town.”

            Husband? Wait, what? “Uhh, I’ve got my eye on this girl at the copy shop. But thanks.”

            She snorted. “Calm down. I just meant we could have coffee afterward. Or catch a drink. If you need to talk. You’re no good to us if you’re depressed about your girlfriend.”

            “Sorry. Let’s see what happens.”

            She nodded.

            After another moment she said, “He’s been out of town for three months.”

            What the hell? I had a hard time picturing the tough cop I’d known for years sitting down to dinner at home with an adoring husband.

And I had a much more difficult time realizing that Elena Dudovich might actually want to hook up with me.

So I said the first thing that popped into my confused head: “I didn’t know you were married.”

            “Yeah.” She hit a button to roll down her window. “I’m not sure I am right now. Three months. Being a cop is tough on a marriage. Half the cops I know are divorced, and the rest are cheating. Forget it.”

            I was about to check my phone, hoping for a message from Rachel, when all the lights around the park went dark.

            “Shit.” Dudovich grabbed for her night vision goggles and handed a pair to me.

            The dashboard radio blared with comments from the cops around us. Hughes wasn’t at the park; Hawkins was in charge. He ordered everyone to stay put and watch.

            The clock in the car said 9:27. “Seems early.” I fumbled with the goggles.

            “Maybe he’s got an important staff meeting. Shut up and look around.”

            Everything looked green through the goggles, just like in the movies. I swung my eyes around, looking for movement. I could smell grass and flowers outside. Also dog poop.

            I could only see the front door from an angle. It looked motionless and solid. Then—

            The window on the side facing us shifted. A bird or a bat? Maybe. I tried to zoom in. “Check that window closest to us.”

            “Hang on, hang on ...” As we watched, the window clearly opened out from the top. “Got movement on the north window. Repeat, the north window.”

            “Hold positions.” Hawkins’ voice was steady.  “Wait for it to come out.”

            I was happy to wait.

            Three seconds passed. Four. Five ...

            Then the screen burst out from the window frame and a body dived through the opening like Batman.

            “Move in.” Somehow Hawkins sounded calm, while I was glad I hadn’t had anything to drink for four hours. “Take him. Be careful. In that order.”

            We popped our doors. Dudovich unsnapped her holster and went for the fence. She could probably climb over it in two seconds, but I was pretty sure I’d end up trapped on top, so I ran for the front gate, my stake and my cross in my windbreaker.

            I met Dmitry and Sharpe as the swung the gate back—they had a key—and stayed well behind them as they charged forward. Dudovich was over the fence, on the ground, her weapon in both hands as she approached the shadowy figure on the grass.

            He stood motionless, arms at his sides. Waiting.

            Flashlights illuminated his body. Asmodeus had a long face and a nose like a hawk. He wore a tight leather jacket and bloodstained jeans.

            Dudovich stood right in front of him, pointing her weapon at his chest.

            “Freeze, vamp!” Hawkins’ voice thundered across the grass, shaking the swings on the playground. “Dudovich, take him out!”

            The vampire king lifted a hand. “Wait.”

            His voice was loud. But it was suddenly overwhelmed by a howl around the playground.

            Dudovich backed away, her pistol shaking. Asmodeus stayed planted on the grass. He smiled, his fangs bright and sharp.

            I looked over my shoulder. Oh no.

            Outside the fence stood a horde of vampires. Their eyes glowed in the night. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

            “Trap!” I spun around on the grass. “They’re here! It’s a trap—”

            The vampires surged forward, through the gate, over the fence, laughing and roaring with glee. The cops backed up, coming together in a tight line, and started firing their weapons.

            Some vamps fell, silver bullets in their chests. One cop was too slow. His Kevlar vest got ripped apart, even as the rest of the cops showered the vampires with bullets.

            I was behind the line. My feet shaking. Oh god, oh god, I was going to die and I couldn’t even call Rachel. Who was going to tell her? What would they say?

            Then the vampire king’s voice rose above the shouting and the gunshots. “STOP!”

            And all the vampires halted.

            Their fangs still glimmered in the darkness, but they dropped their arms, panting. And waiting.

            The cops used the pause to press fresh clips into their weapons. Hawkins pointed his pistol straight at Asmodeus.

            The vampire king smiled. “Look at them. Waiting. Do you really want to kill me?”

            The park was silent. Except for my pounding heart, which I was sure everyone in ten miles could hear.

I glanced at Dudovich. She held her handgun high. Straight at the vampire king’s heart.

Hawkins kept a finger on his trigger guard. “We can’t let this go on. You know that.”

“They obey me.” Asmodeus pointed at the vampire throng. “Without me to give orders, they’ll run rampant over your city. You need me to keep them under control. Unless you want chaos.”

            Hawkins seemed to hesitate. So I watched Dudovich. I trusted her instincts. If she backed down—

Then a blast of light from the sky illuminated the playground, and a wave of wind pushed me to my knees on the grass. I saw Dudovich struggle to keep her legs straight.

A loudspeaker blared: “Chicago Police! On the ground! Everyone!”

A helicopter hovered twenty feet overhead, the wind from its blades flattening the grass.

Asmodeus leaned back, staring up into the sky. His legs were firm, like a statue mounted in the ground. He lifted his arms.

Screams of fury rose from the throng of vampires. Then they charged forward, plunging through the gate, climbing over the fence, howling with bloodlust in their throats.

Bullets from the chopper above slammed into the dirt. I dropped flat and wrapped my arms over my head. Get them, get them ... just don’t shoot me ...

I heard Asmodeus laughing. I risked a look up.

The vampire king stood tall. The rest of the playground looked like the floor of a slaughterhouse. Not that I’ve ever seen an actual slaughterhouse. But blood suddenly drenched the grass.

Bodies lay flat on the ground—most of them cops, trying to evade the gunfire from the sky.

The vamps screamed in rage, whirling around, looking for humans to kill. I saw one of them pounce down on a cop, fangs flashing. The cop rolled, fumbling for his pistol. He managed to push it up into the vampire’s chest and yank the trigger—but not before the vamp ripped his throat with its fangs.

They slumped over, both of them dying. Damn it. What the hell—

Then more gunfire burst from outside the fence. I rolled over, gasping for breath.

A SWAT team burst through the gate, with big assault weapons perched on every shoulder. “Everyone down!” That came through a bullhorn. “Everyone down!”

I lay flat on my back, looking up at the stars. A trap. A double trap. Hughes. That bastard. Why wouldn’t he—

Gunfire spattered around me. I rolled over again, trying to stay low. Bullets seemed to be flying everywhere. Even if they weren’t made of silver, bullets from an assault rifle could still knock a vampire over. But did the SWAT team carry wooden stakes?

Over my shoulder I still heard laughter. Goddamn it, did that mean ...

I peered over my arms. Asmodeus, the vampire king, stood in the center of the carnage. Bullets nicked his arms and shoulders, but none of them seemed to do any damage.

Then I saw Dudovich. She was on one knee, her handgun high. “Over here, asshole!”

Asmodeus swung around. “You cunt. You can’t—”

Dudovich hit the trigger and shot her entire clip at the vampire king.

“Bitch!” Asmodeus staggered, but he didn’t go down, even with more than dozen bullets in his chest. “You have no idea, do you?”

Dudovich stumbled back, ejecting her clip and fumbling for a fresh one. “Come and get me, you big dick. If you think you can.”

Asmodeus lunged. He covered the ten feet between them in less time than I took to grab my stake from my windbreaker.

Then he was on top of Dudovich, snarling like a rabid dog.

Dudovich hammered the butt of her Glock at his head. She kicked, swearing. Asmodeus laughed as he clutched her neck.

He leaned down, jaws wide, and clamped his fangs around her throat. Blood spurted across her chest.

Dudovich shrieked—the first time I’d ever heard her scared. Then Asmodeus leaned down to suck her blood like a thirsty, greedy hound. “Yes … yes … I will drink your blood, every sweet drop. I’m going to drink you up ... mmm … oh, your blood tastes so good—”

Dudovich squirmed, trying to fight. “F-fuck … fuck … fuck you …”

“Yes, you like it, don’t you?” Asmodeus licked at her throat. “It’ll be over soon. And your blood will live in me—”

“Hey, Asmodeus!” I was right behind him, my arm shaking. “Or whoever you are. Take this, you bastard.”

I slammed my stake into his back.

Asmodeus lurched back, screaming. I pushed as hard as I could, and then I jumped away.

He whirled around. “You! You ...” He reached out, his hand a claw.

I had my cross. Would it stop him? I held it up. “Stay back, asshole! The power of Christ—”

“You, you can’t ...” He stumbled. “You can’t ... I can’t ...”

Asmodeus dropped to the ground. “Oh … ohhh … you’re going to … all going to … to …”

Then he was gone. A pile of putrid dust on the ground. Right next to Dudovich.

”Officer down!” I crouched next to Dudovich. “Officer down!” I pressed my hands on the wound in her neck. But the blood kept flowing, all over my fingers, down into the grass. Her face was pale. Her arms shuddered.

Dudovich’s eyes stared up into the sky. Her lips curled in a smile, or maybe a snarl. She gasped once, and tried to look at me.

Then her head drooped over and sagged on the grass,

Two cops pulled me off her. I leaned over on the blood-soaked grass and tried not to puke.

I failed. But I did manage to cry.

Daylight streamed in through the window behind my dining room table. I stared at my coffee.

            My phone buzzed. Now what? Hughes or Hawkins calling me downtown? I wasn’t ready for that now.

            But it was Rachel. So I picked up. “Uh, hi. You okay?”  

            “I’m at a McDonalds. First place I could get a decent cup of coffee and decent wi-fi. And I’m checking out the news sites, and there’s all this stuff about a police shootout and ...” She took a deep breath. She might have sipping her coffee. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

            “I’m fine.” That was something.  “But Dudovich is dead.”

            Silence. Then: “Shit. I’m so sorry. I mean, I didn’t exactly like her, but ... shit. Never mind. Shit! I always say the wrong thing.”

            “It’s okay.” Hearing her voice was good. “She, uh ... she killed the vampire king.”

            “Oh god, Tom.” I listened to a gulp. “I’m coming home. I can be there in—”

            “No!” My arms trembled. “Stay away. Stay out of the city. The king is dead, but ... I don’t know what’s coming.”

            A text came in from Clifton Page. Urgent. I ignored it. Talking to Rachel was more important.

            “So, are you still with that squad?”

            My arms shook. “I don’t know. Dudovich ... She was the only one I trusted.” Oh, hell, what if I met her husband at the funeral? But I couldn’t even think about that right now.

            “So what happens now?”

            “I don’t know. You were right. I’m not one of them.”

             Rachel sighed. “Look, I have to go. LeAnn’s going to wonder if I’m ever coming back.”

            Me too. “Take care.”

            “You too.”

            She cut the call. I stared at her photo on the phone. Then I sipped my coffee.

            The phone buzzed again. I picked it up.

            Hawkins. “Jurgen? It’s me. Are you still in?”

            “What’s going on?”

            “We’ve got new intel. Get on down here.”

            Was I really still part of the Silent Force? I wasn’t sure. But I finished my coffee and stood up.

            I couldn’t quit now.

###

Assassin's Prey

Chicago P.I. Tom Jurgen is on the track of a mysterious assassin killing off members of a wealthy family one by one—a murderer who can walk through walls.

Assassin's Prey, Part One

The frail chain reached its limit behind the hotel room door. “Who are you?”

            “Dean Toller? My name’s Tom Jurgen.” I shoved a business card through the gap. “Your mother’s attorney hired me to find you.”

            “Jesus Christ.” A hand jerked my card away. “Hang on—how do I know my mother hired you? Who the hell are you?

            I hadn’t actually met his mother. “The attorney’s name is Peter Halloway, Halloway and Associates. You can call him.” I stepped back. “It’s okay. I can wait.”

            The door closed. Then it opened wide. “Okay. Quick.”

            Dean Toller was older than me, a man in his sixties with a balding scalp. He wore sweatpants and a gray T-shirt, and the whole room smelled as if he hadn’t slept or showered for days. “My mother, you said? Marilyn?”

            “You disappeared. Ignored her calls. She was concerned. What’s going on?”

            “Concerned?” He snorted. “Right.”

It was a standard hotel room—king-sized bed, two long dressers, a big flatscreen TV, and a chair that Toller sank down into with a sigh. A bottle of red wine sat on the table near his elbow, half empty. Or half full, depending on your perspective.

            Toller peered at my card, then dropped it onto the desk. “Who are you again?”

            Tom Jurgen. Ex-reporter. Now a private detective. Marilyn Toller’s attorney had called me this morning. He promised my usual hourly rate to locate Dean Toller, who’d dropped out of the family’s sight a week ago. He offered a bonus if I could find Dean within 24 hours.

            With enough information from the attorney, I’d managed to track Dean’s credit card to a hotel in downtown Chicago. Whatever he wanted to get away from, he apparently wasn’t willing to endure less than a four-star hotel. So this looked like an easy job, except that the family wanted me to make contact first. Marilyn Toller didn’t necessarily want to talk to her son. She just wanted to know where he was.

            I could put up with a little bit of family drama for the sake of my internet bill.

            The sheets on the bed smelled like day-old nachos. “I’m a private investigator. Your mother’s attorney hired me to find you. I’m only supposed to request that you call her. So I can go now—”

            “No.” Toller jumped up, as if ready to race me to the door to keep me there. “You don’t—she doesn’t understand. If you found me . . . oh god.”

            My feet shifted. “Is there a problem? I can’t—I mean, I have to report that I’ve talked to you, but I can’t force you to do anything. I can communicate a message, but—why are you hiding?”

            “It’s happening.” Dean filled his glass. “First Brent, then Randall. I don’t know who’s next, but I don’t want it to be me. Just tell my mother—I don’t know. Just get out.”

            “Fine.” I was happy to go. “Have a good night.”

            He gulped his wine. “Yeah.”

            Then the floor began to vibrate beneath my feet. What the hell? The wall behind one the dressers started to shimmer, a mixture of silver light and black clouds.

            Toller dropped his glass. “No. Wait. No !”

            The wall dissolved, and then . . .

A ninja. Shaped like a female, dressed and hooded in black, she walked through the wall—and through the dresser, as if it didn’t exist. Or she didn’t.

She whirled around like a dancer, and then she stopped, facing Toller. She held a slender white blade in one slim hand.

Dean Toller shook his head. “No. No, please don’t—“

She thrust her blade straight into Dean Toller’s chest.

            Someone screamed as I ran for the door. Maybe Dean, maybe me. But as I grabbed for the lock I forced myself to look back over my shoulder.

            Dean was sprawled on the carpet, rocking back and forth, his blood mixing with the red wine on the floor. The ninja waited until he stopped moving, and then she leaned down to yank her dagger out of his body.

Dean was dying. Her work was finished.

The ninja gazed in my direction. “Who are you?”

            I pressed my back against the doorknob. I’m a P.I., not a superhero. But I had to ask—“Who are you?”

            “They call me Asha.” The killer slipped the dagger back into her black robes. “Don’t get in my way.”

            “Absolutely not.” I waved a hand. “I’ll stay far, far away, okay, Asha? Is that what you said?”

            “Just stay away.” The wall shimmered, and then she was gone.

           

I’m not Sam Spade, lying to the cops about the Maltese Falcon. I spilled my guts to the Chicago PD, and eventually they let me go.

They didn’t believe my story about a ninja who walked through walls, of course, but they had no reason to think I was the killer. The attorney backed up my story, insisting that I’d never had any previous contact with Toller or his family. And I was obviously too shaken up to do a good job of lying.

So they cut me loose and I drove home.

            Rachel was waiting in my apartment. I’d called her, because he’s my upstairs neighbor, my girlfriend, and she helps me on my cases. And she’s at least somewhat psychic. “Tom, you idiot! What the hell?”

            I opened a beer from the kitchen, sat down, and told her everything. I’ve seen murders and their aftermath, but it never gets easy. I was shaking by the end. “It was just—he was scared. And then he was dead. And all I could do was run.”

            Rachel squeezed my hand. “Good for you. I want you to run as fast as you can when stuff like that comes up.”

She’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she usually punches or jabs me, but tonight she was worried. And curious. “Through the wall, huh?”

            “Yeah. Ever heard of anything like that?”

            Rachel has lots of contacts in Chicago’s psychic/paranormal/supernatural community. “I can ask.”

            “Not yet. I hope I’m not going to—”

            My phone buzzed. Peter Halloway. Damn it. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? Peter Halloway. Look, we’re very sorry about what happened tonight. We didn’t—I should have told you about what . . . had the potential to occur.”

            Yeah, you should have. “You mean you knew someone might walk out of a wall and kill Dean Toller?” My voice might have risen a little.

            “Two members of Marilyn Toller’s family have been, well, murdered in recent months. Under strange circumstances. That’s why Mrs. Toller was concerned. And why we hired you. You have a reputation for, uh—”

            “Strange circumstances.” Like vampires, demonic possession, invisible assassins, and the occasional dragon? “Yeah. Well, you’re right. You should have told me.”

            “I apologize. And I understand if you don’t agree to this, but Mrs. Toller would like to meet with you tomorrow to discuss the case.”

            I stifled a groan. I wanted to finish my beer, maybe drink some of the whiskey that I keep for special occasions and emergencies, and go to bed.

            I’m not very brave, but I’m persistent. Some people say stubborn. I looked at Rachel. “Fine. What time and where?”

Marilyn Toller lived in a mansion in Arlington Heights, a posh suburb north of Chicago. Peter Halloway met us at the front door at 11:30 the next morning.

Halloway was tall, balding, and wore thick glasses over big ears. “Mr. Jurgen. Thank you for coming. And you are . . .” He smiled at Rachel.

            “This is my associate, Rachel Dunn.” They shook hands. “She also has experience in, uh, strange circumstances.”

            “And keeping Tom out of trouble.” Rachel nudged my shoulder as we walked into the front hall. “Sometimes.”

             The air smelled of candles and incense. A young girl, 11 or 12 years old, sauntered down the stairs in jeans and a T-shirt. “Hi, Peter.”

            “Hi, Janice.” He smiled. “We have to talk to your aunt now, okay?”

            “Fine.” She was tying hair back. “I need some breakfast.”

            “It’s in the kitchen.”

            “Okay.” She headed off down a hallway. “Sorry about Dean.”

            “Her niece,” Halloway murmured. “Good kid, though.”

            Marilyn Toller waited for us in the dining room. She had long silver hair and wore dark glasses, even though the sky outside was cloudy. Her son had died last night. She nodded silently as Halloway introduced everyone.

Her grandson Allan, in his twenties, looked up from his phone and nodded at me, looking both resentful and nervous. Mrs. Toller’s sister-in-law Emma stared at the table, her arms trembling.

            A maid served coffee. Mrs. Toller took her glasses off and rubbed her sleepy red eyes. “Mr. Jurgen. And Rachel? Is that your name? I’m—going to be as brief as I can, and Peter can fill out the details later. Suffice it to say . . .” She took a breath. “My son is dead. I can’t even talk about that right now. But two months ago my brother Brent was murdered in his home. Late at night, alone, the doors were locked—”

            “I was out of town.” Emma blinked, her eyes watering. “New York. I should have . . . I don’t know.”

            Mrs. Toller patted her hand. “It’s okay, Emma.” She cleared her throat. “The police couldn’t find any evidence of forced entry. Or anything left behind. Brent was—” She glanced at her sister-in-law. “I’ll let Peter fill you in on the details. In any event, three weeks ago my nephew Randall disappeared.”

            “Not my son.” Emma spoke quickly. “I mean, it’s horrible enough, but—”

            “My sister Angela’s child.” Mrs. Toller sighed. “She died of cancer several years ago. At any rate, Randall was found in a motel on the south side of Chicago, again locked up, no struggle to get in.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss.” Weak words, but all I had. “Did the police make the connection? I’m sure they will now.”

            “I’ve communicated with the Chicago police.” Halloway nodded to me. “Last night, as you know, and since then. They’ll be sending detectives up here this afternoon to discuss the case. Because the circumstances are so, uh, mysterious, we wanted to get your take on it first.”

            Everyone looked at me. Rachel nudged my leg under the table.

            “I’m not sure how much I can contribute.” I sipped some coffee. “The killer—” Mrs. Toller flinched. “I’m sorry. But it was a woman, dressed in black like a stereotypical ninja from the movies. She walked straight through a wall to get into the room where your son was hiding. She . . . she said her name was Asha.” I tried not to shiver. “She let me go.”

            Mrs. Toller adjusted her dark glasses on her face. “I’m very glad you’re all right, Mr. Jurgen. Peter? You’ll send him a check with a large bonus right away. Regardless of what we decide today.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Halloway made a note on his phone.

            Rachel had pulled her laptop out. “I did a little research. It’s what I do.” She swung the computer around. “The name ‘Asha’ pops up on the internet as a sort of assassin for hire, but it’s not one person. More like a group of them, using the same name.”

            I leaned over her shoulder. Mrs. Toller peered at the screen.

            ASHA—The Guild of Assassins. A cartoon ninja dominated the top of the page. Drop-down menus were headed “About Us,” “History,” “Warnings,” “Equipment/Gear,” and “Contact Us.”

            Allan laughed. Mrs. Toller’s grandson. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “This is bullshit! Do you know how many sites like this there are on the internet?” He held up his phone. “You can find hitmenforhire.com and everything like that in two seconds! These people are scamming you!”

            “Allan . . .” Mrs. Toller scowled. “I’m sorry, but—”

            “No, he’s right.” Rachel closed the laptop. “Not that we’re scamming you. The ‘Contact Us’ link takes you to a porn site. But Asha is a thing. Whoever, whatever she is, you’d better pay attention to her. And Tom.”

            Rachel is so hot when she’s working. But I couldn’t tell her that now. “My best advice is to notify everyone in your family about the danger. Nobody should be alone. That’s going to be difficult, obviously—”

            Allan lurched up. “I’ll be in my room. With the door wide open.” He stalked away.

            Mrs. Toller and Emma glanced at each other. Then Mrs. Toller stood up. “I’m sorry. I need to rest. Peter? Will you please talk to Mr. Jurgen about—about everything else?”

            He nodded. “Of course.”

            Everything else? I glanced at Rachel. She nodded, letting me know that she’d picked up more than anyone was saying.

           

Rachel and I moved into the living room. Broad with a high ceiling, bookcases lined the walls filled with books that looked like they’d actually been read at least once, not purchased from a dealer to make the owner look literary.

Halloway opened a folder filled with the details that Mrs. Toller hadn’t wanted to talk about. “This is about the murders. They were both stabbed to death, but no knife was found at either scene. I have pictures—”

            “No thanks.” I’d seen too many crime scenes as a reporter and as a P.I. I hadn’t liked it then, and I hated it now. “I have to ask, though: Why was Dean hiding out? What made him scared?”

            Halloway sigh. “I don’t really know. Brent—Mrs. Toller’s brother—did send an email right before he dropped out of sight. He sounded paranoid and confused. He was sure someone was watching him. Dean . . . I just know that Mrs. Toller was concerned. She’s not in good health.”

            “Okay.” Maybe that would come up later. “Let’s talk about the money.”

            Halloway blinked. “Whatever your rates are, I’m sure—”

            Oh hell. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I mean.” I hesitated. But Halloway seemed to know my reputation. “Look, vampires want blood. Zombies want brains. Some people just want their dead children back.” I stifled a shudder at that memory. “But that’s not what these murders are about, right?  I imagine Mrs. Toller is at least somewhat wealthy. So who stands to inherit?”

 “Sorry.” Halloway opened a new folder. “You’re right. Mrs. Toller’s estate stands at about 20 million dollars. The money is held in a trust. Since her husband Arthur’s death 12 years ago, her brother Brent was the chief beneficiary. They didn’t have children of their own, so there are various codicils spelling out how the funds are to be distributed between her sister and her sister-in-law and nephews and her one niece, Janice. You saw her just now. She’s been living here since Randall’s death. The other one is Elias Knowles, the son of her sister Meghan Milhouse. They live in Michigan, but she’s been out of touch with the family for some years.”

            I’m a not hard-boiled detective, but I used to be a crime reporter, and I learned the Woodward and Bernstein rule: Follow the money. So I had to ask the question: “So—and I’m sorry to ask this—if Mrs. Toller died today, where would the money go?”

            Halloway flinched. “Uhh . . . well, right now, the majority would mostly go to Meghan, and then to her son Elias, although the other codicils would remain in effect.”

I was going to need a family tree to keep all of this straight.  “Have you contacted her?”

            “I’ve left messages.”

            Damn it. I was going to have to go on a road trip. “Where in Michigan?”

            “Uh, Grand Rapids?” He scrawled out an address and phone number on a Post-It note. “Here.”

            “Thanks. The other thing . . .” I tried to phrase this diplomatically. “So what’s the problem between Mrs. Toller and her sister Meghan?”

            Halloway’s back grew stiff. “I don’t know if I can discuss that. I only hired you—”

“Fine.” I stood up. “Let’s go, Rach.”

“Can we get lunch somewhere?” She straightened her jacket. “I’m starving.”

“Wait! Wait . . . “ Halloway groaned. “All right. Marilyn’s husband Arthur was once married to her sister Meghan. They divorced. What happened . . . I don’t know all the details. Suffice it to say, they’ve been estranged for twenty years.”

Shades of Ross McDonald. Of course, the Lew Archer novels I’d read as a teenager never featured ninjas who could walk through walls.

A maid knocked on the door. “Mr. Halloway? There’s lunch.” She nodded at Rachel and me. “Mrs. Toller says you can stay in you want. Nothing fancy.”

            I glanced at Rachel. Her head shook just enough.

            I stood up. “If it’s all right, I think we’ll just get going. I’ll be in touch.”

            Halloway shook my hand, then Rachel’s. “All we really want is to understand where this . . . the threat is coming from. We don’t expect you to confront it. Mrs. Toller is, well—she may appear calm right now, but she doesn’t need any extra stress.”

            I nodded. “Me neither.”

            In the car I glanced at Rachel. “Did you get anything?”

            She snapped her seatbelt. “There’s something funny going on around there. I don’t know exactly what it is, but there was energy in that house. And it’s . . . struggling.”

            I turned the key. “Are they safe?"

            Rachel gazed out her window. “I think so. For now.”

Assassin's Prey, Part Two

Back in my apartment I made myself a sandwich and then called Meghan Knowles’ number. No answer. I left a message.

            Rachel was upstairs, checking her email. So I followed the link she’d sent me to the Guild of Assassins website.

            It looked like a promo for a video game. A couple of cartoon ninjas in black with buttons at the top. I clicked “History.”

           

Since time immemorial, rulers and merchants and their families have needed assassins. Professionals skilled in the art of death. An assassin moves unseen, leaving no trace. Often their work is undetected. An enemy falls—is it poison or a natural death? A dagger in the night—murder or suicide? Vanishing—is the victim dead, or just missing?

            Assassins serve a just purpose, ridding the world of those who are not worthy to lead. Look at our rich history . . .

The Guild took credit for the death of Alexander the Great, Rasputin, President McKinley, and Steve Jobs. I was surprised David Bowie wasn’t on their list.

But as Allan had shouted at the table, it was all bullshit. Rachel had told me this morning she was going to display the website just to show that Asha had a presence on the internet—that I wasn’t completely making her up. But the website had more.

             A thin black line lay at the bottom of the page. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking closely. But Rachel had spotted it. I clicked.

            A black screen came up. One word: ASHA. And then a password field.

            I stared at the screen. Did I really want to go forward with this? I’d watched Asha—whoever she was—kill a man in front of me. Now I was searching for a killer who could walk through walls and apparently strike anywhere she wanted.

            Of course, I didn’t have a password. Unless . . .

            I called Rachel. “What? I was going to take a bath!”

            At 1:30 in the afternoon? Whatever. “Sorry. Any chance of getting a password for Asha?”

            “What?” I heard water running in the background, but that wasn’t why she was pretending not to hear me. “You really want to meet her?”

            “No, but . . . I have to do something.”

            “Really?” She groaned. “Look, I’m trying not to be one of those girlfriends who’s always telling her hero boyfriend to stop fighting crime and become an accountant or something before they get killed, but . . . your funeral better not be on a Thursday, because I have a pottery class that day.”

            “Today’s Thursday.”

            “I haven’t signed up yet.” Rachel dropped her phone, and the water stopped. “Let me get dressed and I’ll be right down.”

            I tried not to let the image of Rachel naked by the bathtub distract me. Tried and failed. “Uh, take your time.”

Twenty minutes later Rachel was tapping at my computer. She was in a fresh T-shirt and yoga pants. I tried not to stare.

            “I have friends you don’t want to talk to.” She tapped at my keyboard. “This might work. Don’t ask me.”

            The black faded to gray. The word ASHA stayed in the same place on the screen. Beneath it lay another field labeled simply REQUEST.

            “You have some interesting friends.” I tried to keep my fingers from trembling as I typed one word: “Information.”

            Another field opened beneath it: EMAIL.

            I used one of the accounts Rachel helped me set up to send emails at least somewhat anonymously. The screen went to black.

            “So, okay, I guess.” I shrugged. ”You can go back to your bath. Or take one here if you want.”

            “You wish.” She punched my shoulder. “Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”

            “Got it.” I switched over to check my email. No response.

So the next morning—Friday—I called Halloway to confirm that he’d pay for my expenses to drive to Michigan.

            I half-wanted him to turn me down. But he said okay, even when I told him I’d be taking Rachel and maybe staying overnight. He sounded nervous, but not because of the expense. “Mrs. Toller is on bed rest. The doctors are concerned, but I think she’s fine. She only wants—yes, Janice, just a moment! She only wants answers. But be careful. If this Asha is real—”

            “I’m a total coward. If anything comes up, I’ll run away and then call you.”

            Rachel met me at my Honda with an overnight bag in her hand. “Road trip! I brought all the CDs we need.”

            “Just help me with the GPS.” I started up, and we were on our way.

            Three hours and four Johnny Cash albums later, I parked half a block down from Meghan Milhouse’s house. “I never knew you liked country music that much.”

            “Johnny Cash isn’t country, he’s classic.” She unbuckled her belt. “Don’t worry. I’ve got lots of Elvis for the trip back.”

            “Can’t wait.” I stretched on the sidewalk and then headed up to the house. I just hoped someone was home.

            The door opened right away. A guy in his thirties in a blue T-shirt and cutoff shorts peered out through the screen door. “If you’re a Jehovah’s Witness or Mormons? Sorry.”

I showed him my card. “Elias Knowles? I’m working for your aunt, Marilyn Toller. This is Rachel, my associate, May we come in?”

            Elias peered at the card. “You’ve been sending us all of those emails, right? You and Halloway?” He tossed the card on the floor. “Go to hell.”

            I glanced over my shoulder. But the sun was bright and the front yard was clear. “We need to talk. Really.”

            He looked past me at Rachel. In her leather jacket, tight jeans, and boots.

 “Uh, who are you?”

            “I’m Rachel.” She smiled. “Can we come in?”

            It worked. I tried not to feel too jealous as Elias led us into the kitchen.

“Look, I know Dean is dead.” Elias slumped in a chair. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with us. Mom and Marilyn haven’t talked in years.”

            “I know some of the story.” I sat down. The kitchen smelled like fish and frozen pizza. Rachel perched on a chair next to me.

            “Then you know. . .” He looked up. “Wait a minute. Why should I talk to you at all? I don’t know you.”

            I nodded. “Yeah. So all I can tell you is that I’m working for your family to try and find out what happened to Dean. And Brent. And Randall. You can call Peter Halloway, or your aunt if you want. Mostly I’m just here to warn you that whoever killed them might be after you and your mother next.”

            “What?” Elias jerked his chair back. “That’s crazy.”

            I stifled a laugh. “Sorry. I’ve been accused of being crazy too many times to count.” I leaned forward. “So I don’t know what to tell you. Someone seems to be targeting your family, though, and I’m trying to figure out how to stop her.”

            “Her?” He blinked. “What are you talking about?”

            Oops. “I just mean—I saw the killer two nights ago, and—”

            A voice bellowed from the front door: “You saw who killed Dean?”

            I whirled around. Rachel clutched my arm.

            Meghan Milhouse stood in the kitchen door. She looked like a younger version of her sister Marilyn, her hair shorter and her shoulders tense. She wore a white pantsuit and had a thick briefcase slung over one shoulder.

            She dropped the briefcase on the floor. “Who the hell are you? Elias?”

            “He’s the guy trying to email us!” Elias jumped up. “He’s some private detective from Chicago, he says he’s working for Marilyn—”

            “Get out!” Meghan pointed at the door. “I don’t want to hear from Marilyn! I’m sorry about Dean, and Brent, and . . .” She leaned against the refrigerator. “Oh god. I can’t talk to her.”

            I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. No psychic signals.

            I was on my own. So I stood up. “Ma’am, I’m Tom Jurgen. I am a private detective, like your son said, and I’m investigating the murder of your nephew in Chicago. I only came here to talk.”

            “About what?” Meghan opened the refrigerator and yanked out a bottle of wine. “I sold a house today! I don’t need Marilyn’s money!”

            “Mom . . .” Elias opened a cupboard and pulled out a glass. “Just sit down. Let me help you.”

            Meghan glared at us. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need Marilyn getting into my life.” But she sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. “Why are you here?”

            “You may be in danger.” I sounded like a TV private eye. “It appears that someone is targeting members of your family.”

            “And you’re going to protect us?”

            God, I hoped I wouldn’t have to. “Like I just told your son, I’m basically here to warn you. I’ve seen the killer. And, well, you’re going to find this hard to believe, but she can walk through walls.”

            Meghan Milhouse rolled her eyes. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

            I was used to that. “Just be careful. Call me or Peter Halloway if anything . . .”

            I stopped. The same high-pitched hum was shaking the floor. Rachel and I looked at each other.

            I grabbed her arm. “Run.”

            Meghan laughed. “What are you talking about?”

But Elias looked nervous as the hum got louder. “Mom, maybe we should—”

Then the refrigerator door started to shimmer. Just like the dresser in Dean Toller’s hotel room. I pointed. “It’s her. Run!”

Meghan stared as Asha walked into the kitchen, all in black.  

Asha’s eyes zeroed in on me from beneath her hood. “You again.”

I managed a nod, my heart hammering inside my chest as Rachel and I backed away. “Who are you working for?”

She silently drew a knife.

Elias and his mother were already running for the front door. Rachel was there first, holding it open for them. I was behind them—not because I’m brave, but because they looked like they’d run me down if I got in their way.

A knife flashed by my head, close enough to slice some hair off my scalp. I ducked and ran, slamming the door behind me. Maybe going through another barrier would slow Asha down.

Rachel had the Honda’s doors open. I darted around the front and slid into the driver’s seat like I was trying to steal second base. Rachel pushed Meghan and her son into the back seat as I started the engine.

We were racing down the street before Rachel had her door closed. “Slow down, you idiot! You’re not James Bond on the Autobahn!”

No. Daniel Craig wouldn’t worry about soiling his underwear. I tapped the brake, trying to catch my breath. We’d only reached the end of the block. I looked in the rearview mirror.

“No sign of her.” Rachel was twisting around in her seat, trying to buckle in while checking out the house behind us. “Maybe she can’t operate without walls.”

I fastened my own belt. “Everybody okay back there?”

“Where are we going?” Meghan’s face was pale.

I didn’t know. Back to Chicago? Was anyplace safe?

“Uh, Jurgen?” Elias was breathing hard. “I think I’m bleeding.”

I swung my head back as far as I could. Yeah, blood all over the upholstery. Apparently Asha’s blade had caught Elias in the shoulder. Damn it. “Does anyone know where—”

But Rachel had her smartphone out. “Siri, where is the nearest hospital?”

So Asha wasn’t perfect. That was good news.

            And Elias was okay. Aside from some blood loss—and he actually apologized about the blood all over my back seat—Asha’s blade hadn’t done any serious damage. He’d need some rehab for his shoulder, but he’d recover.

            Meghan Milhouse was furious.

            “How could you lead her to my house? What are we going to do now? Can she get in here? How are we going to be safe?” People in the waiting room were staring at us. “This is a nightmare.”

She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, sighed at the inevitable NO SMOKING sign, and put them away. The whole room smelled of lemon-scented air freshener. 

            I glanced at Rachel. “Any ideas?”

            “How should I know?” She was just as shaken as me, but she did a better job of hiding it. “It looks like she can’t go outside, but we can’t all live in the park. And she probably won’t hit a target in a public place. Maybe the family can hang out at the mall.”

            Great. “What about your friend? The one who gave me Asha’s password.”

            She tapped a finger on her knee. “She’s not actually a friend. I’d owe her, and I’m not sure I want to.”

            Meghan looked ready to leap forward and throttle her. “For Christ’s sake, she tried to kill my son! And you’re worried about owing someone a favor?”

            Rachel’s worst glares can melt glass. “You don’t know what kind of favors she asks.”

            Before I could warn Meghan to back off for her own safety, Elias walked slowly into the waiting area, his left arm in a sling. “Hi, mom. They gave me some . . . “ He grabbed a chair, his legs shaking. “Some painkillers. Can we get out of here?”

            Meghan jumped up and grabbed him in a hug. Rachel and I went out to the hall to give them some privacy.

            Rachel sighed. “I can try. At least I can find out if she’s going to ask for my soul or anything.”

            “Don’t do that.” I grasped her hand. “I’m thinking about taking a pottery class.”

            I expected Rachel to punch me. Instead she laughed. “Don’t worry, asshole. We’re not getting rid of each other that easy.”

            My phone buzzed. Halloway. “I got your message. What’s going on?”

I leaned against a wall, suddenly tired. Driving all morning, plus the terror of another attack. “So the assassin tried to kill Mrs. Toller’s nephew Elias. He’s wounded, but he’s okay. Meghan Milhouse is pissed. And we don’t know where to go.”

            “Bring them here. We’ll protect them. Mrs. Toller has hired security guards. You’ll be safe.”

            I doubted that. But I didn’t have a better option. “I’ll see if I can talk them into it.”

Assassin's Prey, Part Three

Six hours later we were back at Marilyn Toller’s mansion.

            Mrs. Toller was flanked by two big guards in bulletproof vests watching the driveway “Elias! Oh my god . . .” She wrapped her arms around her nephew’s shoulders, even though he flinched in pain at her hug. Then she stepped back. “Hello, Meghan.”

            “Hello, Marilyn.” They didn’t hug. “Long time.”

             Halloway greeted us in the foyer. “Glad you’re okay. And you . . .” He nodded to Rachel. “This seems to be getting complicated.”

            We sat around the same table in the dining room. A guard in black stood near the door. At least he wasn’t armed with an assault rifle. A maid served drinks—wine, beer, and Halloway had a scotch. Allan came down to join us, scowling, and ordered a whiskey neat. Mrs. Toller’s niece Janice grabbed a Coke and ran away. Elias drank soda water.

            “Mr. Jurgen.” Marilyn Toller looked through her dark glasses. “What can you tell us?”

            I sipped my beer. “Like I said before, the killer is some kind of ninja named Asha. We managed to escape her in Grand Rapids, so she’s not invulnerable. But—”

            “I can’t believe this!” Meghan pounded the table. “After all this time? I was making a good life on my own. I don’t need your money, Marilyn! I sold a house today. I sold two this year, and I’ve got a good line on two more—”

            “Mom.” Elias grabbed her hand. “Just chill out. All right?”

            Marilyn Toller sighed. “Meghan, I’m sorry about . . . about everything. But this is a crisis. Can we please just concentrate on the problem? I don’t want to watch everyone in my family die before I . . . before it’s too late.”

            The maid marched in from the kitchen. “Mrs. Toller? Should I serve dinner now?’

            Marilyn lowered her head, “Yes, Sadie. Please.”

            Dinner was a choice of steak and fish. Rachel’s a vegetarian, but she ate the salmon and didn’t glare at me for choosing steak. Marilyn and Meghan were civil, and Elias chatted with Allan about video games. Janice came late and mostly played with her tablet.

            Sadie served coffee with a dessert of raspberry cheesecake. Then Halloway nudged Rachel’s elbow and looked at me. “Can we talk?”

            “Uh, sure.” Marilyn and Meghan were suddenly laughing together. Allan was drinking more whiskey, and Elias was helping Janice with whatever game she was playing on her tablet.

            In the living room Halloway pulled a chair over to the couch. “So what do you think?”

            I’d had six hours in my Honda to think through the case. “Here’s the thing—Asha’s taken out the younger members of the family, one by one, starting with Brent two months ago. Randall was killed three weeks ago. Dean, two days ago. And she came after Elias today. So . . . .why is Asha speeding things up?”

Halloway lowered his head. “Mrs. Toller is dying. She has stage four cancer. Two months, maybe three.”

            Oh god. Rachel and I looked at each other. “I’m so sorry.”

            Halloway nodded. “Yes.”

            We were silent for a moment. Mortality. It hits everyone.

            But I had more questions I had to ask. “You said that Marilyn Toller’s estate is worth, what? Something like 20 million dollars? What if someone wanted all that money, and started getting everyone out of the way? Starting with the youngest, then going up the tree. So nobody’s left when Marilyn Toller dies? Her sisters, her nephews, until nobody’s left.”

            Halloway shook his head. “No. This can’t be right.”

            A scream burst from the dining room.

            Oh hell.

            Usually I run away from trouble, but I couldn’t just now. I headed for the dining room, Rachel right behind me. “Don’t do anything stupid, all right?”

            It might be too late for that. But I appreciated the support.

            The dining room was a bloodbath.

            Allan was on the floor, clutching his stomach as blood seeped out across his shirt. Elias slumped over the table, gasping.

            One security guard was clamping a linen napkin over a gash in his wrist. The other flailed a black baton around, then dropped to the floor, bleeding from a wound in his leg.

            Meghan leaned over her son, screaming. Emma sank back in her chair, her arms slack, waiting for whatever was coming.

            Asha stood in the center of the room, spinning like a dancer again, her blades flashing around her body.

            Marilyn Toller sat in her chair, her arms stiff.

            And Janice—12 years old—waited in her seat with a smile on her face.

            “Wait!” I plunged into the room. “Asha, no!”

            The assassin turned. “You are not my target.”

            Thank god. “You don’t have to do this!”

            Her eyes glittered beneath her black hood. “I have a contract.”

            “From who? Just tell us? Who hired you?”
            Janice giggled.

            Halloway staggered in behind us. “What’s going on? Is this . . . her?”

            “Janice . . .” I glanced up at Asha, trying to keep my voice steady. “Did you do this?”

            “Well, yeah.” The little girl laughed. “How else am I going to get the whole trust fund?”

            “Oh my God.” Marilyn Toller clutched the edge of the table. “Janice? You?”

            “I’m sorry, auntie.” Janice giggled again. “But not really. I would have waited, but then your doctors came and I didn’t have that much time. And your will is so complicated.”

            Asha stopped twirling. “So who first? Remember our agreement.” She had knives in her hands, ready to kill. “Fifty percent.”

            Janice nodded. “That’s fine. Start with—”

            “Wait!” Marilyn Toller reared up. “No more! Peter!”

            Halloway looked ready to drop from terror. “Y-yes, Mrs. Toller?”

            “I want you to draw up a new will for me. Right now.” She gazed at me and Rachel. “You two will witness it.”

            I nodded, staring at Asha. “Okay.”

            “I leave my entire trust fund to Janice. Every fucking cent.” She leaned down on the table. “You can have it all, you little bitch. Just leave the rest of my family alone.”

            Janice jumped up. “Yay!”

            “Marilyn . . .” Emma pushed her chair back. “You can’t mean that! You can’t—She killed Brent! She killed Dean—”

            “I want this to end!” Marilyn Toller jabbed a finger at Asha. “When it’s done, you will go away and leave my family alone!”

            Emma dropped back into her chair, sobbing. “No . . . no . .  .”

            Halloway ducked out, then returned a moment later with a yellow legal pad. “Here.”

            Asha looked at Janice. The young girl nodded. Then Asha sheathed her knives. The wall behind her shimmered. Then she was gone.

           

We had a hard time explaining everything to the paramedics and cops. Allan needed surgery, but Elias was only suffering from a fresh wound in his arm. The two security guards seemed more embarrassed than hurt.

            Janice played a game on her tablet as everyone tried to deal with the mess.

            An hour later Rachel and I sat in the living room with Emma and Mrs. Toller. Meghan had gone to the hospital with her son.

            Halloway looked at the new hastily-scribbled will. “I should get this notarized. But it will stand up. Do you really want to do this?”

            Mrs. Toller groaned. “No. But what else can I do? I needed to stop this. I just never thought . . .”

            Emma patted her knee. “You did the right thing. To make it stop.”

            “But I . . . I’m sorry, Emma, you deserve so much more . . .” She slumped over. “I’m so tired.”

            “It’s okay.” She glanced up at Halloway. “I wasn’t depending on the trust fund anyway. Let her have it.”

            The door opened. Janice stood in pink pajamas. “Auntie? I’m going to bed now.”

            Marilyn Toller pulled herself up. “Janice? Let me tell you something.”

            Janice cocked her head. “What?”

            “Pretty soon you’re going to learn things.” She took a deep breath. “For the rest of your life you’re never going to know if anyone likes you or loves you. You’re going to be lonely. And you’ll always have to live with knowing what you did to get this money. That might not seem like much now, but I can promise you, you’ll wish you hadn’t done this.”

            Janice giggled. “But I have the money."

            Marilyn Toller sighed. “Go to bed, Janice.”

# # #