The Alchemist's Girasol, Part Three

My phone buzzed at 8:37 the next morning. Alex Portland was inviting me to FaceTime. I hit “accept” and her face popped onto the small screen.

            She was wearing a mask and also a face shield that made her eyes look bigger without her glasses, and pushed her hair flat. I could see medical monitors behind her. “Tom?” Her voice was a whisper. “I’m with grandpa right now. He wants to talk to you.” She turned away for a second. Then—“I mean, he can’t really talk much but he was saying your name over and over again. And ‘ring.’ We have to be quiet.”

            “Okay.” I leaned the phone next to my monitor.

            “Grandpa? It’s Tom Jurgen—” The view swung around, and now I saw Zach Staley. Thin gray hair, pale forehead and cheeks, a blue-and-white hospital gown loose around his neck.

            “Hello, Mr. Staley.” I waved a hand. “How are you feeling?”

            He sat forward, his head trembling on his thin, veiny neck. “R-inn,” he grunted. “Rin. Ring? Ring! Ring!”

            “Shh.” Alex’s shush quivered. “Stay quiet, grandpa.”

            “Ring.” He lifted a hand and pressed two fingers around his ring finger. “Ring!”

            “Ring.” I nodded. “Dustin has it. What about it?”

            He gasped for breath and lay back, his eyes fluttering. For a second I thought he’d dropped off to sleep—or worse. Then Staley lurched forward. “Bad,” he whispered. “B-baddd.”

            “The ring is bad?” 

            His face bobbed up and down. “Bad. Baa . . .” He lay back again, and then his hand rose again. This time he swung it up and down, his fist clenched, in a stabbing motion. He did it three times, then slouched back and closed his eyes.

            “Uh-oh.” Alex sounded nervous. “I’d better—” She hung up.

            Okay. I set my phone next to the keyboard. Probably a nurse coming into the room. Maybe Alex would call back. 

            “What was that?” Rachel sauntered into the office in sweatpants and a T-shirt, a mug of coffee in her hand.

            “My client and Alex. Something about the ring, but he wasn’t very clear.” I pantomimed the stabbing motion. “That, and ‘bad.’”

            “Whoa.” She sipped her coffee. “Like I said, I got vibe from it. Or him. But it didn’t feel like anything dangerous.”

            The phone buzzed. Alex. “Is he all right?” I put it on speaker so Rachel could hear.

            “He fell asleep. But his heart monitor brought the nurse, and I got kicked out. I hope they let me back.”

            “So what do you think he was trying to say?”

            “I don’t know.” She sighed. “When I came in, he was watching the news. Channel Seven? Just the usual stuff. Politics, and COVID, and a fire on the south side. Then something about a murder came on, and right at the end he jumped up and pointed at the TV. Then he started saying, “jur,’ ‘jur,’ and I figured out he meant you.”

            “It was the murder that set him off?” 

            “Seemed like. I don’t know how much he’s really aware of, you know?” 

            “Yeah.” I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. “Well, thanks for calling. I’ll let you know if I find anything more out.”

            “Thanks. Oh, I forgot to tell you—I was looking through some of Grandpa’s stuff last night after you left? And he had a file about the ring, who made it, where it came from, like that. Some stuff he dug up from the Internet and other places, I guess. I’ve got it, so I’ll send it over to you. Maybe it’ll help?”

            “More information is always better. Thanks.” I gave her the address, and we hung up. 

            “What now, shamus?” Rachel cocked her head.

            I turned to my computer. “Stabbing murder? Guess I’ll check the news.”

            She went to her desk and put on her noise-cancelling headphones. I got myself some more coffee and hit the news sites. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for—a 22-year-old man had been found stabbed to death in a park on the northwest side. Police were looking for his girlfriend. 

            Most of the stories were brief. The victim’s name was Mario Long. He’d been found by a Parks District worker early this morning. The cops had ID’d him easily enough, and his family said he’d been out with his girlfriend last night. Her name was Leesa Angsten, but she wasn’t home when they went to her address. 

            Other details about the killing were sparse. The story was only a few hours old, of course, but I figured the police were withholding some stuff to hit the suspect with, once they found him—or her.

            Why did this set Staley off? 

            I found the TV story. Less than two minutes long, just a shot of the entrance to the park and a path maybe leading to the site of the death, and then a CPD officer quickly laying out the facts. “—And we’re not necessarily looking at the girlfriend as a murder suspect,” the woman said at the end. “We just have some questions for her.” She turned away.

            A reporter shouted, “Is it true that the switchblade was in the victim’s hand? Could he have—” The spokesperson waved a hand, but before the report cut off I could the reporter asking, “—done it himself?”

            Done it himself? I noticed that, despite what Alex had said, neither the Channel Seven reporter nor the spokesperson had actually said the word “murder.”

I needed more coffee.

            My phone buzzed a few hours later as I was running another background check. This guy had at least two drug convictions, so chances were he wasn’t going to get a job offer, but I wanted to be thorough. I put down my coffee and answered the phone. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Sam Hogarth.” The voice was hoarse and raspy, as if someone smoked a lot of cigars “They forwarded your message. I’m retired. My son-in-law runs the business now.”

            “Thanks for calling me back.” I glanced over my shoulder. Rachel was at work. “It’s about an item you sold to Zachary Staley in 2019, a fire opal ring?”

            “Right. I looked it up. Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t keep my hands in. Don’t get me wrong, Elliot’s smart, but I still . . .” He coughed. “Okay. I bought it at an estate sale in 2012. It was part of collection the estate—Harkness—purchased from a French collector in 1996. .I kept stuff on and off display for a couple of years until Staley bought some of it. The ring was part of a lot supposedly from Rulcanetti, an Italian alchemist in the 18^th century.”

            An alchemist? Interesting. “Do you know anything about this, uh, Rulcanetti?”

            “The estate had a pamphlet. Let me . . .” Another cough. “No one knows his real name, or when he was born, or much about him. He lived in Florence for 10 years until he disappeared in 1799, and he left behind a bunch of unfinished manuscripts that his son burned because he thought they were blasphemous. But there was a bunch of other stuff too, rings and necklaces, bracelets and tiaras and stuff, and the son sold them. Some of them got picked up by a Frenchman, and they stayed in the same family until a collector bought them in 1956. He named it the Alchemist’s Girasol, and engraved Rulcanneti’s name inside the band for provenance.”

            “Anything unusual about the ring?”

            Another cough. I hoped he didn’t have the virus. “I do remember one thing—there was Rulcanetti’s name, but there was another word engraved on the other side that looked older, harder to see, engraved on the other side. Latin—obedio. I looked it up. It means ‘obey,’ or ‘comply.’”

            Huh. “Do you know why Mr. Staley was interested in it?”

            “He liked stuff associated with the supernatural. I’ve sold stuff to him off and on before. I don’t know how much he believes in the stuff, but he’s always after it. He just bought it online. We’ve got a great website, you should check it out. I mean, the description of the ring had most of what I just told you, so if he was interested in alchemists or Rulcanetti or opals from Italy, that might have been it.” He coughed again.

            “Right.” Lots of these things are magical, Rachel had said. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Hogarth. You should, uh, maybe get that cough checked out.”

            His chuckle was gravelly. “Got tested yesterday, I’m waiting for the answer. That’s why I called you back, something to take my mind off stuff.”

            “I hope everything turns out okay.”

            We hung up. Rachel took off her headphones and rubbed her ears. “Anything going on?”

            “That was Hogarth. The ring came from a 17^th-century alchemist named Rulcanetti.”

            She snorted. “Sounds like a pasta dish.”

            “Yeah. But someone engraved the Latin word for ‘Obey’ inside the band.”

            “Hmm.” Her eyebrows rose. “What are you thinking?”

            “I’m thinking I need to know more about Rulcanetti.” 

 

“Delivery!” The voice was clear and sharp through my phone.

            Alex’s package, probably. “Leave it there, I’ll be right down.” I stood up. “Be right back.”

            “Don’t forget your mask!” Rachel called.

            “I never forget my mask!” I grabbed one from the table next to the front door. Almost never. 

            It was Alex Portland’s package. A thin envelope with my name and address on it, and a manila file folder inside. The tab was marked “Fire opal ring.” I dropped it in front of my computer. 

“Lunch?” Rachel stood up. “I didn’t eat breakfast.”

            “Most important meal of the day. Maybe later.”

I started leafing through the file. Some of it was printed from a Wikipedia page, of course: “Rulcanetti (fl. 1790s) was the name used by an Italian alchemist and esoteric author whose identity is unknown and still debated.” It described him as educated in the ways of alchemy, architecture, science, and languages, a collector of rare jewels, and author of at least two published books, one on the Catholic church the other on the Kabbalah. Neither existed today in print or online. The article speculated on his real identity, sketched out a few possible encounters with notable Europeans after his 1799 vanishing act, and noted that other manuscripts he’d left behind were burned by his family, like Hogarth had said.

Other documents had been photocopied or scanned from books and articles. A few pages supposedly translated from his book on the Kabbalah, but it could have been in the original Italian for any sense it made to me. Some short biographical sketches that mostly rehashed what Wikipedia had said, or been the source for the piece. A few pages from a graphic novel that appeared to be a pornographic fanfic about Rulcanetti and other alchemists, which I didn’t investigate. 

            When Rachel came back 20 minutes later I was staring at the last document. Not a photocopy or scan—it looked like it had been ripped from a book with a library stamp at the bottom of the page. Tsk, tsk. “What’s that?” 

            I leaned back. “Around the time he disappeared, there was a string of stabbings in Florence, and a couple of suicides. Some of the people who died were Rulcanetti’s rivals. And this one guy—” I leaned forward to peer at the name, which I couldn’t pronounce—“a history professor at the University of Florence, has a letter from an 18^th-century doctor who claims he saw Rulcanetti order a man to tie a hangman’s noose around his neck and step off a balcony.”

            Rachel leaned forward to read the letter, translated from 18^th-century Italian. “Wow. That’s—not even the weirdest thing we’ve ever heard of. If it’s right.” She grimaced. “But what does it mean? Like you said, Dustin’s just using the ring to get laid and bigger tips—”

            “This is what I’m afraid of.” I pulled up a list of articles about recent unsolved stabbings in the city. The kind last night from the news today. The guy under the dumpster a few days ago. And two more in the last three weeks—a man in a locked car, and a woman in a parking lot. 

With a sigh, Rachel pulled her chair from her desk on the other side of the office and skimmed the stories. “Okay. Okay. You think Dustin’s a serial killer?”

            I shook my head. “It could be a coincidence. I could be reaching at straws. It could be we’ve just been through so many supernatural shenanigans that I’m seeing them everywhere. But Staley knew all this, and maybe that’s why he got so upset this morning at the hospital over that news story about the stabbing. I don’t know.”

            Rachel slugged my shoulder. Gently. “Looks like you’ve got some work to do.”

            I moved toward the computer. “Starting with Dustin.”

 

I spent the early part of the afternoon digging into Dustin Sailer’s background, which maybe I should have done that first. Alex had mentioned that he’d “disappeared.” Actually, he’d done four years in a California jail for assault, and two years’ probation on an unrelated drug charge. Neither of which proved he was a serial killer, of course. 

            I finally ate lunch at 2 p.m. after Rachel nagged me. “You always get cranky when you’re hungry.” So I ate a sandwich, trying to think of my next step. Actually, hoping I could think of some way to avoid it. But nothing came.

So back in the office I tapped Rachel on the shoulder. “I’m going to call Sharpe. You want to listen?”

She sighed and hung her headphones over her shoulders. “Sure.”

            Detective Anita Sharpe and I worked together mostly on cases involving Chicago’s vampire community. Fortunately, the vamps were laying low during the pandemic, so we didn’t have too many problems there. She tolerates me more than most cops do, which doesn’t mean she’s happy to hear my voice on the phone.

            “Jurgen? What now?” She sounded more tired than impatient. Being a Chicago cop can wear you out.

            “Lovely to hear your voice as always, detective. Are you staying safe from the virus?”

            “Safer than you if you’re wasting my time. What the hell do you want?”

            I took a deep, calming breath. “Stabbings. Kid in a park, Mario? Guy under a dumpster, guy in a locked car, a few more—”

            “What about it? Get to the point.”

            “Did they kill themselves?”

            I imagined her blinking in confusion. “All of them? How should I know? What’s going on?”

            “It’s just a theory I’m working on right now. Has anyone been arrested? Did you find Mario’s girlfriend?”

            She groaned. “None of my cases. But okay, you hear things. Just not from me.”

            “Not a chance.” I waited.

“They found the girl. She doesn’t remember anything. It’s weird, like everything’s a blank between going out with Mario and then coming home at 1:00 a.m. The others? The only thing—and you didn’t get this from me, remember?—is that all the knives were switchblades, and when they could get prints, all they got were the victims. It’s only on two cases, though. The rest of them couldn’t lift anything.”

            Not surprising. Prints are harder to lift in real life than on TV. “That’s interesting. Okay, thanks for—”

            “Hang on a goddamn minute! What’s going on?”

            I hesitated. “If I told you it’s a serial killer, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”

            “What? First you’re saying it’s suicides, now you tell me it’s a serial killer? Make up your mind, Jurgen.”

            “That’s the problem.” I rubbed my eyes. “It’s both.”

Another groan. “I’m going to stop answering when I see your name.”

I almost couldn’t blame her. “Look, I’ll tell you when I have anything concrete. Or I won’t find anything and then I won’t bother you again.”

            “Works either way for me. Hi to Rachel.” Sharpe hung up. 

            “Hi!” Rachel called. “Nuts. You could have told her I was here.” She punched my shoulder.

            “Sorry.” Sharpe liked Rachel a lot more than she liked me. Which wasn’t unusual. “What do you think?”

            “You’re asking me? I’m a psychic, not a hotshot P.I.” She hit my shoulder again. “What are you going to do?”

            I rubbed my shoulder. “First put an ice pack on my arm. Then . . .” I wasn’t sure. I knew I should call Alex Portland. Maybe she’d ask her grandfather—my client—what I should do. But the way he’d gotten upset this morning, I wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

            It’s just that my other idea was worse. 

The Alchemist's Girasol, Part Four

So naturally I went with the bad idea.

            “Seriously?” Rachel crossed her arms to glare at me. “You’re just going to ask him?”

            “It’s what I do.” I shrugged. “Reporter? Detective? It’s all about asking questions. And sometimes running away.”

            “Yeah.” She dropped her arms. “Okay. I’m coming with you. He can’t zap both of us with his ring at once. I hope.”

            I’ve learned not to argue with Rachel about stuff like this. Or anything, really. “At least you can stop me from leaving any more $40 tips.”

            Which was how we ended up back at the Twisted Tavern again that night. 

            We went early, before it got too crowded on a Thursday night. Dustin wore a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, and we spotted the ring on his finger as he set beers in front of us. “Good to see you guys again.” He gave Rachel a wink.

            “Yeah.” I set some cash on the bar—for our beers, and a reasonable tip. “Got a minute to talk?”

            Puzzled, he glanced down at two guys at the other end. “Let me check. Just a minute.”

            We watched Dustin refill their glasses. Then he returned. “What can I do for you?”

            “That ring.” I pointed. “Your uncle didn’t give it to you. You stole it.”

            “And we know what it does,” Rachel added.

            Dustin blinked. “Damn it.” Then he yanked the ring from his finger and slammed it on the bar. “All right. Take it. Zach’s an asshole anyway.”

            Wait, what? This was too easy “You’re just giving it back?”

            “Why not?” He rubbed his finger. “I mean, it was fun for a while, but it’s not worth any trouble. Do you guys want another beer or something?”

            “Hang on.” Rachel cut in. “How did you figure out what the ring could do?”

He leaned back, thinking. “I asked the manager for a night off. I think I said something like, ‘Can you give me tomorrow night off?’ and she just said yeah. It was weird. Then a customer started leaving me a lousy tip, and I said, ‘Come on, give me a little bit more,’ and he did.” He glanced up and down the bar and lowered his voice. “It was a couple days before I tried it on a girl.”

            I was surprised—and a little impressed—that Rachel didn’t reach across the bar to break his fingers right then. Instead she grabbed the ring, slipped it on a finger, and smiled. “Ooh. Feels warm. Okay.” She pointed it at Dustin. “Tell us what you used it for.”

            His eyes grew blank, and he spoke slowly. “A night off from work. A bigger tip from a jerk. A girl named Trish. Free tacos from Taco Joe. A girl named Ellen. A free cab ride—”

            “Wait a minute. What about . . .” I held Rachel’s arm. “What did you do with it last night?”

            “A big tip.”

“Nothing else?” No murder?

“I gave it to Rick.”

             Huh? “Who’s Rick?”

            Again, slowly. “My friend. Rick Vance.”

            Rachel and I looked at each other. Then Rachel took the ring off, and I stuffed it into my pocket. “Who’s Rick Vance?”

Dustin rubbed his head. “What? Uh, he’s a waiter down the street. He comes in every night or so for a brandy.  I never charge him.”

            Brandy. I’d seen him. “He wears a black cap? Knit? Leather jacket?”

            Dustin nodded, puzzled. “That’s him.”

            “So you lend him the ring sometimes?”

            “Yeah. How do you—” He hesitated, looking at Rachel. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I let him take it sometimes. So what? He always gives it back.”

            I didn’t exactly want to tell him his friend was a serial killer. Especially since it was still mostly speculation. Okay, more than a little, but nothing I could take to the cops or to court. 

            “Don’t tell him about this when he comes in.” I stood up, my beer untouched. “Come on.”

            Rachel got up as Dustin spread his hands apologetically. “Tell Zach I said sorry.”

            “He’s in the hospital. Stroke.” 

“Oh. Nuts.” Dustin sighed. “Well, have a good night.”

             In the car Rachel buckled her belt. “Now what?”

            I planted my hands on the wheel, but didn’t strap in. “We wait for Vance.”

 

Rachel argued. Then she stopped talking to me, which was worse. We sat next to each other, watching the bar’s entrance, for an hour and a half.

            “How long?” Rachel scratched her nose. 

            I checked the car’s clock. “Just until closing time.” Another 20 minutes.

            She sighed. “Glad I didn’t drink any of that beer.”

At least she was talking to me again. After a minute she asked, “So what’s your plan?”

That’s what we’d been arguing about. “Like I said, I just have to know.”

“Then what?”

This time I didn’t answer. Mostly because I didn’t know.

A few minutes later I spotted him—leather jacket, black knit cap, black mask. This time I saw he was wearing gloves. 

I opened my door and pulled up my mask. “You can wait here—”

“Like hell.” She pushed her door open. “I have to go to the bathroom now.”

The bar was more crowded. I hoped that meant no one would overhear us. Vance sat at a corner, his gloves next to his brandy, his mask down, talking to Dustin. Who was shaking his head and looking nervous.

“Rick Vance?” I eased between him and a guy chatting with friends while watching TV.

He turned his head. “Yeah?”

“I’d like to talk to you about the ring.”

Dustin backed away.

Vance picked up his brandy. “What ring?”

I held my hand up. “This.”

The ring was on my finger. Rachel was right—it felt warm. Powerful. 

Vance blinked. Rachel stood behind him, a hand in her jacket pocket on her stun gun. In case something went wrong.

The ring pulsed on my finger. I licked my lips under my mask. “What did you do last night?”

He looked into my eyes. “I made a guy stab himself to death.”

“How many people have you done it to?”

His eyes clouded for a moment. “Five.”

“Why?”

Vance’s lips slowly curled into a vampiric smile, while his eyes stayed dead. “Try it yourself.”

The ring seemed to tighten around my finger, burning against my skin. My heart started rising, faster and harder. I shivered.

            Then Rachel leaned around Vance and punched me. Hard. I jostled the guy behind me, then jerked forward, catching my breath. “Sorry.” I twisted the ring off my finger and nodded to Rachel. “Thanks.”

            “I thought I’d have to hit him, not you.” She crossed her arms. “You okay?”

            “Hey!” Vance grabbed for my hand. “That’s mine! Give it back—”

            Rachel yanked at her pocket. He froze as the stun gun pressed against his butt. I guess she didn’t think the electrodes would penetrate his leather jacket. “What the hell?”

            “Don’t make me press the stud on this.” Rachel grinned. “I’m not sure how much it hurts.” 

Dustin came up. “Hey, settle down. Don’t make me call the cops.”

            The guy behind me, and his friends, were looking at us, along with a few other people. “Yeah, let’s go.” I slapped some money on the bar for Vance’s brandy.

            Outside we waited as a car rolled by. With a deep breath I slid the ring on again. Rachel moved away from Vance, next to me. Probably in case she had to stun my ass.

            Vance glared. “Now what?”

            I held the ring out. Again it seemed to wrap itself around my finger with a warm pulse. I cleared my throat. “You got a knife on you?”

            He reached around for his back pocket. I winced as the switchblade snicked open.

            “No. Put it away.” Another deep breath as I tried to focus. “Go home. Call the police. Tell them what you did. All of it.”

            He stepped away. Without a word he turned and headed up the street.

            I pulled the ring off and resisted the urge to hurl it into the shadows. Someone might find it. Instead I handed it to Rachel. “You keep it. Until we can give it back.”

            “Or throw it into the fires of Mt. Doom.” She watched Vance until he crossed the street. “You really think the cops will do anything to him?”

            I shook my head. “I’ll call Sharpe, but even if his knife matches the other ones . . . I can’t see a way for them to make any serious trouble for him. But I had to do something. Get it on the record. If he goes on and kills someone else . . .” I shuddered at the thought. Maybe the ring had given him a taste for blood? Or sparked an urge he already had? Would I be responsible for any murders he committed on his own from here on out?

            Rachel took my hand. She can’t read minds, but she could see my face. “At least you didn’t make him do it himself.”

            “It crossed my mind.” I’d staked vampires and sent demons back to hell. And yeah, I was indirectly responsible for some human deaths, which kept me awake too often. “Cold-blooded murder, though? Not my style.”

            “I would have had to zap you.” She patted her jacket. 

            “You would have enjoyed it, right?”

            I could see her smirk through the mask. “You know me too well.”

            “It’s why we haven’t killed each other.”

            “Yet.” She turned to the car. “Let’s go home. I’ve got two more episodes of The Queen’s Gambit to watch.”

 

Rachel and I watched Alex put the ring back into the case and lock it. “Safe and sound.” She sighed through her mask. “Thank you.”

            I’d worked on Staley’s invoice this morning, but in the end he owed me so little after the retainer than I marked it “paid’ before emailing it. I hoped Rachel didn’t find out—although she does the same thing with her clients sometimes.

“How’s Mr. Staley?” Rachel asked. 

            “Better today. Especially when I told him you got the ring back.” She held up a thumb.

            “Did you tell him, uh, everything?”

            Alex shook her head. “Just that Dustin gave it back without any trouble. He closed his eyes for a minute or two, and I thought he feel asleep, but then he looked up and said something like, ‘Good.’”

             I sighed with relief. “Yeah. Well, thanks for your help.”

            “No problem.” She began to reach a hand out, then stopped and laughed. The three of us awkwardly bumped elbows. 

            I lingered in the room while Rachel and Alex chatted in the hall. The cat walked around my feet, sniffing at my legs. My eyes drifted down the shelves—the bell, the bowl, the tea set, along with a small bronze horse, a wooden cup, a silver thimble—but my eyes went relentlessly back to the ring. Locked behind the glass.

            My hand trembled. My fingers twitched. I lifted my arm without thinking about it and pressed my hand against the glass, staring at the ring. 

            “Tom?” Rachel in the doorway. “You coming?”

            I jerked my hand back. “Y-yeah. Coming.” Trumpy followed me to the door.

            She held my hand as we walked to the car. “I saw that. Was it calling to you? Your preciousss?”

            “Shut up.” I squeezed her fingers. “But . . . yeah. Good thing you’re here.”

            “You got that right.” She kissed my cheek. 

            I smiled. Still thinking about the ring.

Not Today

This is a story I originally posted in 2017 or so. It takes Tom to a dark place emotionally, but I recently realized that I wasn't being honest about Tom's actual emotional state. So I went back and took it a little lower. Don't worry, he'd going to be fine.

Not Today, Part One

I poured some Cheerios into a bowl. Then I remembered I was out of milk. I hadn’t been to the store in a week. Or outside my apartment, for that matter.

So I sprinkled some tap water over the cereal and ate breakfast over the kitchen sink.

I managed to make coffee, although I wasn’t sure why I bothered. 

I staggered to the dining room table without spilling the coffee very much, then sagged into my chair and opened my laptop.

User name, two tries. Password, two tries. Email password, one, two, three tries.

Eleven emails. Seven spam, two bills, two potential clients.

I deleted them all. 

So that was done. I sipped my coffee. Now what? The day stretched out ahead. 

A shower? I was in my bathrobe and shorts, but a shower felt like too much effort to invest in another day spent on my couch watching TV.

I set my cup down next to a half-filled prescription bottle and found the remote. What to watch? Rachel would be mad if I got ahead of Game of Thrones without her. I checked all the Twilight Zone episodes I’d been watching. But the opening sequence was starting to make me dizzy.

So I just clicked through the channels until I found The Beverly Hillbillies. That was quality TV. 

I muted the sound and picked up the prescription bottle. It had my name: Tom Jurgen. And the name of the drug, which might as well have been in ancient Etruscan. I knew it was a strong painkiller. A doctor had given it to me after I’d been fighting a vampire. 

I’d been looking at the pills for the last three or four days. Today I opened the bottle. Poured the little white pills into a pyramid on the table. And stared at them for a long time.

Then I picked one up. Stared at my palm. Opened my mouth. Just one, I thought. And maybe a few more.

I swallowed. Then I took another one. Then one more. After a while I lost count. Despite the coffee, my eyelids were drooping. So I took a few more, one at a time, and laid back and pulled an afghan around me, and adjusted a pillow around my head. The room grew dark.

Maybe one or two more.

 

I woke up in a hospital bed, an IV in my wrist and guardrails on either edge that looked like prison bars. Not the first time I’ve woken up in a hospital. At least I wasn’t trapped in a hotel room with no exit.

I sat up, confused. “H-hello?”

“You jerk.” Rachel lifted a fist to slug my arm. Her normally hazelnut eyes blazed as red as her hair. “I come downstairs after you don’t answer five calls, and you’re passed out on the couch with pills scattered all over the place and Green Acres on the TV. Green Acres? What the hell is that, anyway?”

Rachel’s my girlfriend. She lives upstairs from me, and she helps me out on my cases. She’s kind of psychic. I’m not entirely sure why she likes me, but we’ve been together for a long time. 

“The nurses said I can’t actually hit you.” She lowered her fist. “But I should.”

“Yeah.” I sat back. 

Vampires . . . monsters . . . last week we’d watched a murder . . . and before that . . . Dudovich . . . I’d killed a dragon . . . a demon possessed Rachel, but I’d managed to set it free . . . the Rain Killer . . .

I might have fallen asleep again. When I blinked my eyes, Rachel was still standing over me, holding my hand.

Why was she still here? She’s young, gorgeous and smart. She deserved better than a washed-up ex-reporter turned private eye who could barely cover the bills, and who constantly dragged her into situations where she was likely to get killed.

“I’ll be fine.” I dropped her hand. “You can go home.”

“Oh no.” Rachel laughed. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Tom Jurgen.”

I was too tired to argue. 

A doctor strode into the room. Tall, African-American, with the usual stethoscope around his shoulders. “Hello, Mr.—” He glanced at a tablet computer. “Is it Yurgen or Jurgen?”

I get that a lot. “Just call me Tom. This is Rachel. She’s my, uh . . .”

“I’m his girlfriend.” Rachel crossed her arms. “Anything you say to him you can say to me. Right, Tom?”

            I nodded. “Listen to her.”

“Well, I’m Dr. McGee.” He started, of course, by taking my blood pressure and listening to my heart. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Just . . . tired. What happened?”

He nodded. “You weren’t responsive when Rachel called 911. There were significant amounts of a prescription painkiller found in your apartment.”

“I might have . . . uh, taken some.” My throat was dry. “Could I have a drink of water?”

Rachel shoved a plastic glass into my hand. “Here.” 

Dr. McGee went back to my chart on his tablet. “There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with you. High blood pressure, exhaustion, a little dehydration, some of these enzymes are a little high . . .” He looked up. “Do you have a high-stress job, Tom?”

I laughed. Maybe too long. After ten seconds Rachel grabbed my shoulder. “Shut up, you idiot!”

“Sorry.” I caught my breath. “Yeah, you could say that. I’m the guy they call when monsters are around. Vampires and zombies and creatures that walk in the night.”

Dr. McGee nodded. “I see.”

I lurched up in the bed. “I’m not crazy. Ask Rachel. Call Detective Elena Dudovich—” No, damn it. She was dead. “Anita Sharpe at the CPD, she’ll tell you—except she won’t. Nobody believes me. Nobody believed me around the Rain Killer! Nobody believes me now! Nobody cares!”

“Tom . . .” Rachel slugged my shoulder. Gently, for once. “You’re wrong. Not about the vampires, and other stuff, but I believe you. Lots of people believe you.”

The room was spinning. “I know. I know. Sorry.” I rubbed her hand.

“He’s not really crazy.” She patted my head. “A jerk sometimes, but . . . I saw it all too. The vampires and all the rest.”

Dr. McGee nodded. “I’m going to prescribe some medications. And I’d like you stay here at least tonight.”

I sank back. “Fine. Whatever.” I was going into the psych ward. The loony bin. Maybe I should have been there all along.

He nodded again, and glanced at Rachel. “For what it’s worth, I’ve seen strange things too. Neck bites, claw marks I can’t explain So I don’t think you’re crazy. But you need to rest and relax.”

“I’m sleeping a lot lately.” I shrugged. “But it doesn’t help.”

“Do you dream?”

I tried to think. “No. It’s all black.”

Maybe that meant something. I didn’t know what. I didn’t know what was going on anymore. I wasn’t sure I cared. Sleep was the only way I could stop thinking about things.

“The nurse will be back with some medications. They’re for blood pressure and stress. Try to get some rest.” Dr. McGee glanced at Rachel. “See you soon.”

What the hell? Was he hitting on her? A young handsome doctor hitting on . . . a young hot redhead? I couldn’t blame him. But I was probably overreacting. I slumped down in the bed and closed my eyes.

“You idiot!” Rachel leaned down over the bed. I felt her breath on my face. “Tell me you didn’t just try to kill yourself.”

“Uh . . .” I shook my head. “I’m just . . . . tired.”

She didn’t believe me. I didn’t blame her.

She lurched up. “Well, that’s too bad. Because I’ve got bad news. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but—”

“You’re breaking up with me.” I closed my eyes. 

“No, you dummy.” She stroked my arm, and then kissed my forehead. “But if you ever do anything like this again, I will hurt you.” 

I nodded. “Okay. I’m . . . sorry.”

“Yeah.” She squeezed my hand. “I’ve got to go. Work, you know? I’ll be back.”

I smiled. “I hope so.”

 

I woke up the next morning, hungry. For the first time in four days. My brain felt fuzzy, and at first I thought it was just from sleeping through the night. Then a nurse came in with a cup of pills.

            I took them. Maybe they’d work. Anything was better than sitting on my couch watching The Beverly Hillbillies and trying to get up the nerve to take the pills.

            I realized that was an improvement on my mental state from yesterday.

            So I ordered breakfast. It was like room service. I ate eggs, bacon, hash browns, sausage, and watery coffee while watching the news. The drugs they’d given me seemed to be working already. I didn’t even shout at the footage from the latest White House press conference.

            Then Carrie Burke walked into the room.

            Carrie was Rachel’s friend. She hated me.

            “Hi.” I perched the bed up and turned the TV down. “Nice to see you.”

            “Yeah.” She sat down in the chair next to my bed. Carrie had long dreadlocks and dark skin. “I need your help.”

            “Did Rachel mention I’m possibly having a nervous breakdown?” I could feel my blood pressure rising again. “Why are you here? You hate me.”

            “I don’t hate you.” She sighed. “Okay, there was a time when I just thought Rachel could do better. I didn’t know—”

            “Yeah.” I wanted to throw my lukewarm coffee at the window. “She deserves someone better. I get that. Go home.”

            Carrie stood up. “I don’t know what Rachel sees in you, but that’s not my problem. The voarkla’s back.”

            Oh god.

            The voarkla was a monster from another dimension. The first time I’d met it, years ago, it had come through a portal created by a computer engineer trying to use quantum computing to speed online connections.

            The voarkla had killed at least three people before being banished to its own world again. If it was back—

            I threw the sheets off. “What about Ponto? Pontoval?” Oops. I flung the sheets back. “Sorry. Can you help me find my pants?”

            “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Carrie smirked.  “But don’t worry, Pontoavallian’s not here.”

            I lay back on the bed and pulled the sheet back. “So what do you want?”

“I don’t know how much you remember.” 

I remembered it all. The voarkla, like a wolverine with more teeth and a worse temper. And Ponto, a little wheesling. Pontoavallian . . . 

I forced my muggy mind to think. “The goddess who came through . . . her name was Lionna. She said she was going to close our world off.”

            “Well, it didn’t work.” Carrie stood up. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for your help.”

            My heart pounded. “I didn’t help you at all.”

            “Yeah, you did. I needed Lionna’s name.” She reached down to pat my hand. “You just need to take care of yourself now. For Rachel.”

            “Okay.” I was suddenly tired again. “I guess.”

Not Today, Part Two

When I woke up, Rachel was there again. She was reading a book. 

            I rubbed my eyes. “You been here long? Carrie was here.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel shook her head. “I told her not to, but—”

            “The voarkla’s back.”

            “Not your problem.” She stuffed her book in a bag. “Let someone else handle it.”

            I sat up. “Who else knows about the voarkla? The cops? Carrie’s great, but she’s not exactly a ninja—”

            “Goddamn it, Tom!” Rachel looked like she wanted to pound her fist on my chest. “You don’t have to solve every problem in this city! Let somebody else be the hero for a change!”

            She lurched around, leaning over the windowsill. Maybe she was crying.

            “I’m sorry.” My voice was a whisper. “I’ll just stay here.”

            “I just want . . .” Rachel stared out the window. “I want you to be better.”

            “Yeah.” I nodded. “Me too.”

 

Once Rachel was gone I turned on the news. By the time lunch came—a decent cheeseburger and onion rings, and more watery coffee—I’d found reports of two killings by the voarkla. 

            The first time it came to this reality, it had somehow roamed through computer networks, bursting out of screens to slash its prey. Now it seemed to be moving directly through wifi. A man playing Pokemon Go had been attacked by some kind of animal near the Lincoln Park lagoon.  A woman just walking down the beach, talking on her smartphone, was killed by a beast that came out of nowhere and then ran back into the trees. Police were looking for a rabid coyote.

            I didn’t have my laptop. But I managed to climb—okay, fall—out of bed, find my pants, and snag my phone without a nurse or doctor catching me. 

            I spent half an hour looking up every news report of the killings, and every other report of attacks by strange creatures in the last 24 hours. 

            Two more people had been mauled by the voarkla, but survived. A man walking a dog early in the morning—the dog was dead, but the man was in the hospital. Maybe in a room near me. The other victim, an elderly woman, had fought off the voarkla with a cane. She was braver and tougher than me.

            I sipped the last of my coffee. I was feeling better now, but I didn’t know if I was feeling the effects of the drugs or just adrenalin. Was this PTSD? Was I going to crash when it was all over?

            I didn’t care. Right now I felt alive again. I had something to do.

            Of course, I was still stuck in the hospital. And I knew I wasn’t in any shape to leave.

            So I did the only thing I could think of.

            “Jurgen?” Detective Anita Sharpe of Chicago Police Department never sounded happy to hear from me. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

            “Wait, what? Did Hughes—”

            “No, your girlfriend. She called me last night. She’s a spitfire, that one.”

            I groaned. “Yeah.” I couldn’t blame Sharpe for not wanting to piss Rachel off.

            “Here’s the thing.” I was suddenly sleepy. Maybe the adrenalin was wearing off. Or the drugs were kicking in? “Those murders—the lagoon? And the beach? They’re from a creature from another dimension called the . . . the voarkla.”

            “The what? I’m only in charge of vampires. Are we going to have to set up another squad or—Jurgen? Are you there?” 

            The hospital room swam around me. “Be careful. It’s dangerous. I sent it back once . . . well, I didn’t do it by myself, but it got sent back, and now it’s here again, I don’t know why . . . ohh . . . ohh . . .”

            “Jurgen?” Sharpe shouted into the phone. “What the hell is going on?”

            I gasped. Heart attack? Panic attack? “Tell Rachel . . . tell her . . .”

            I looked up at the window. The sun streamed through the blinds.   

And the voarkla was outside. Laughing.

I dropped the phone. Okay, I was going to die. But I grabbed the control wrapped around the arm of my bed and pressed the call button. “Help!” I shouted. “Help . . .”

 

Dr. McGee took my blood pressure again. “That’s better. How do you feel?”

            “Fine.” I glanced at the window. The voarkla was gone. “Just peachy.”

Rachel stormed into the room in a gray T-shirt and black shorts. “What the hell? You can’t just sit and watch bad TV like everyone else? What’s wrong with you?”

“He’s okay.” Dr. McGee checked my heart with his stethoscope, although I had the feeling he was only doing it to keep Rachel from asking more questions. “It looks like just a panic attack. You just need some rest, Tom. No more watching the news.” 

He gazed at Rachel. Was he checking out her legs? “Try not to let him get upset.”

“Have you talked to him at all?” Rachel glared at me. “It’s your fault if I miss this deadline.”

“I’ll let you talk alone.” Dr. McGee left. I didn’t blame him.

Rachel sat down. “I get a call from that cop, Sharpe? She said you were dying.”

“You called her yesterday.” I sipped some water. “She’s a little scared of you.” I managed a grin.

“I hope so.” Rachel stood up and started circling the room. “Look, we’ve been together, what—three years? Four? That’s longer than my last two boyfriends combined. How long were you married?”

I tried to figure out where this was going. “Three years. I think. What does this have to do with—”

“Just tell me what’s going on with you! I can take it. I just want to know . . .” She stopped, facing away from me. “I just need to know.”

I watched her breathing slowly, and tried to think of the right answer. “The voarkla’s back. I think it came back for me. I saw it right here—”

“That’s not what I mean. And you know it.”

Yeah. We could deal with the voarkla. But Rachel meant . . .

I closed my eyes. “I just don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Rachel didn’t move.

“I’m tired of all this.” I rubbed my forehead. “Dudovich is dead. I almost got you killed last week. Jesus Christ, you got possessed by a demon! I got abducted by aliens. We watched a woman stake her husband. A little girl sent an assassin to kill everyone in her family. I just can’t deal with it anymore.”

I lowered the bed all the way down. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

She swung around. “You can’t do this to me! You offered to marry me once! Okay, I don’t want to get married, but if I did—”

I held up my hands. “Okay, okay! Just leave me alone. All right?”

Rachel stalked to the door. “Is that what you want? Really?”

No. I couldn’t imagine never seeing Rachel again. “No. Please don’t go.”

I was crying. Damn it. What the hell was wrong with me?

“You asshole.” Rachel walked back and leaned down over my bed. “Shut up. Stop weeping. I’m here. I’m here . . .”

            “Yeah . . .” I drifted off. 

Not Today, Part Three

I woke up in darkness. Someone had turned all the lights off and closed the blinds. I heard Rachel snoring softly in a chair, the book in her lap. 

            Late sunlight flickered through the blinds. Maybe I hadn’t missed ordering dinner.

            I picked up the TV remote, turned the sound down, and started clicking through the news broadcasts.

            Weather. Shootings and robberies. The president’s latest tweets. Then—

            “Another strange animal attack on the city’s north side near the lakefront.” 

            I brought the bed up. The story was sparse on details. The reporter stood with Lake Michigan behind her. All she did was regurgitate the official story, although she did quote a few witnesses, who described the attack as “gruesome” and “bloody.” The victim was in a nearby hospital, expected to recover.

            Oh hell. I picked up my phone. Somewhere I had Carrie’s number from years ago. I scrolled down. Rachel stayed asleep.

            Carrie picked up. “What? Why are you calling me?”

            “It’s still out there. Attacking people. What are you doing about it?”

            “I’m trying to find Lionna! Look—” her voice trembled. “I have to get off. The voarkla knows I’m looking for it—”

            She hung up. 

Fine. I dropped the phone on my bed. Let Carrie handle it. Not my problem. All I had to do was take some medicine, order another cheeseburger and a salad for Rachel, and maybe tomorrow I’d get to go home. 

But if the voarkla was looking for Carrie—

“Rachel?” I picked up my phone. “Where does Carrie live?”

“What?” She lurched forward, dropping her book. “I just dozed off! What are you talking about?”

“The voarkla. She thinks it’s coming after her. She’s in danger. We have to do something.” I punched numbers on my phone. 

“She’s at—give me a minute . . .” She dug into her bag. “What’s going on?”

“The voarkla!” I slumped, weak again. A moment ago I’d been ready to pull my IVs out, jump out of the bed, grab my pants, and go into the battle. Now I could barely move.

I was useless.

            Damn it, damn it, damn it . . .

            My phone buzzed. “Yeah?” Anita Sharpe.

            I didn’t remember actually finding her number. But I managed to talk. “You’ve got to send someone to . . . uh . . .”

            I held my phone up. “Tell her the address. Please.”

            Rachel took my phone. “Anita? This is Rachel. I don’t know what’s going on, but . . . okay. Here’s the address. Carrie Newton. Thanks.”

            She shoved the phone back at me. “She’s sending someone. Now you just sit back and calm down, damn it.”

            I nodded. “Yeah. Right. I was going to order dinner. And a salad for you. And . . .”

            My eyes flickered at the window. “Pull up the blinds.”

            With a groan, Rachel yanked on the string. Then she jumped back. “Shit!”

            The voarkla perched outside, its sharp teeth grinning.

            My body went stiff. It wasn’t trying to kill Carrie. It was hunting me.  

            I took a deep breath. Maybe one of my last. But as depressed as I’d been a few days ago—a few minutes—suddenly I wanted to live at least five more minutes.

            I grabbed for the call button.

            Then the glass broke. It shattered across the room.

            “Rachel!” I rolled over, punching at the bed control. “Get out, get out!”

            The voarkla jumped through the window and roared, its jaws wide. I grabbed a pillow—the only weapon I had—and thrust it at its face. I kicked as hard as I could, trying to scramble away.

            Rachel jumped up. “What the—”

            She threw her book at the voarkla, and then she was at the door, yelling for help. She’s no damsel in distress, but she knows when to call for the cavalry.

            I somehow managed to shift the guard rails on my bed down. I hit the floor with a hard bump and swore. I couldn’t exactly roll under the bed’s wheels. All I could do was try to keep the voarkla busy while it tried to kill me. Maybe Rachel could get away. 

            The voarkla drooled on my hospital gown. The claws in its hands looked sharp. 

            I was ready. Not really, but what else could I do? I lifted my arms, shielding my face. “Come and get me, you asshole. Just try it.”

            The voarkla lunged—

            And then everything froze.

            The voarkla hung in the air above me. But I could move. I rolled away, gasping as my heart pounded.

            Rachel stood at the door, her mouth open, her hand high. But paralyzed.

            One shard of window glass floated inches above the tile. I flicked a finger at it. It didn’t move.

            Was I dead? 

I sat up. My heart slowed down. Maybe this was my near-death hallucination. I waited for the white light. 

Instead a woman appeared before me. I’d seen her before.

She was tall, with dark skin, and she wore a long gray robe. Her feet were big and bare on the tile.

Lionna. The goddess from the other universe.

She looked around, then zeroed her eyes on me. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Yeah.” I slumped on the floor. “Tom Jurgen. It was a while ago.”

She walked—no, she glided—across the floor. 

I managed to sit up on my elbows. “Ponto—Pontoavallian? Is he okay?”

Lionna smiled. “Yes. I know you.”

Great. I looked over at Rachel, still motionless at the door. “Look, you can do what you want with me. I don’t care. Just let her get away. That’s all I’m asking you. And if you can . . .”

I wiped an arm over my eyes. “Just say hi to Ponto for me, will you? He might remember me.”

The room went dark. Okay, this was it. I took a deep breath.

“Pontoavallian says hello.” The words floated in the air. “He wishes you well.”

I blinked. What?

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered. Then harsh light flooded the room. 

Rachel was shouting at the door. The voarkla was gone.

But I was still alive.

Not today.

I slumped down and fell asleep.

 

They sent me home the next day, with a prescription for anti-depressant meds and the name of a psychiatrist.

            Rachel walked me to her Prius. “You are taking a few weeks off. I can’t do this again.”

            “Is Carrie okay?” I managed to buckle myself up.

            “She’s fine. She says hi.” She started the car. “Actually she said ‘Tell that asshole hello. You’re still too good for him.’”

            I put a hand on her arm. “Why are we here?” I had to ask. “I mean . . . not the car, not the hospital. Just . . . you and me.”

            “Right now, you ask me this?” Rachel pounded the wheel. “Christ, I sound like Yoda.” She sat back in her seat. “All right, I’m just going to say this once, so listen, all right?”

            I braced myself for bad news.

            Rachel stared through the windshield. “I had . . . okay, a lot of boyfriends when I was younger. I’m not going to say how many, but don’t get the idea I was some kind of a slut.”

            I shook my head. “Of course not.”

            “Most of them were liars.” Rachel sighed. “They played games, and I never knew where they were coming from before I figured out how to read people. Then I didn’t date anybody for a long time. When I met you . . .” Her lips curled in a smile. “Well, you know I’m kind of psychic.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I remember that.”

“I could sense that you were—reliable. It’s what I was looking for.” 

            Then she straightened up in her seat. “All right? Are we done?”

            “Yeah.” Actually, I’d always thought Rachel was the dependable one. “Thanks.”

            “Just shut up and let me drive.” She peered in her rearview mirror. “Let’s go home.”

 

***

Séance video

This is me, reading the first part of my most recent story, Séance.