Gargoyles, Part Four

Detective Parker—her first name was Tia, I learned—looked me and Rachel over skeptically. “I almost believe you,” she told Rachel. “Him? I’ve heard about this guy from the Chicago cops.”

            “Yeah, he’s got a flaming rep with them.” Rachel kicked me under the table to keep me quiet. “But he’s telling the truth. We all saw it.”

            Parker groaned. “Yeah. So this guy you saw—the bald-headed guy—stole the gargoyle that Harvey had in the shed? And sicced a live real gargoyle on you to make sure he could snatch it?”

            I nodded uncomfortably. “That’s what happened. I didn’t have time for a video.”

            “And Geoff Long? What about him?” She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. 

We were in an interrogation room, the kind with a big sheet of one-way glass on one wall that looked like a mirror on our side.

            I shrugged. “He killed Lawrence Raymond. Maybe he was trying to steal the other three gargoyles from him. I don’t know why.”

            Parker frowned, looked from me to Rachel, then stood up. “Get out. Don’t come back until you’ve got a story that makes sense. One without killer gargoyles.”

            Adrienne was waiting for us in the hall. She looked pale and tired. “Galen’s in the hospital. He’s trying to talk them out of rabies shots. There’s some kind of fever. Do gargoyles carry rabies?”

“I’ll look into that.” Tomorrow, maybe. Right now all I wanted to do was go home for dinner and a few beers. 

But I couldn’t do that yet. “Where did you say the other gargoyles heads are?”

“Wisconsin. We’ve got a lake house. Mom says they’re all safe there. She checked.”

“Wait—your mother’s there right now?”

“Yeah, the cops said it was okay. She wanted to get away and—” Her face froze. “Oh shit.”

Yeah. The old man had gone after Harvey’s gargoyle. The other three might be next. “Call her. She should get out of there.” I looked at Rachel. “You want to Uber home or come to Wisconsin with me?”

She sighed. “You got more bullets for that thing?”

I packed my jacket pocket, hanging down heavily. “One more magazine.”

“We’ll need it the way you shoot.” 

“Hey! I hit that thing twice!”

“Simmer down. You shoot just fine.” She looked down the hall. “Let me go to the bathroom first. So much for dinner.”

“I’ll text you the address,” Adrienne said, her phone to her ear. “Mom? Yeah, look, I think you should get out of there . . .”

 

The Raymonds’ lake house was in Lake Geneva, a Wisconsin resort town about 80 miles north of Chicago. We made the drive in a little over an hour and met up with Carla Raymond at a Burger King just outside. She’d taken her daughter’s advice to get out of the house, but she wasn’t happy about it.

            She was seated in a booth with an empty coffee in front of her, and started shooting questions before we all sat down. “What am I doing here? What exactly is going on?” She paused to look at Rachel. “I’m sorry, you’re—?”

I introduced her Rachel, and they shook hands briefly before she turned back to Adrienne. “Is Galen all right?”

            “He’s fine,” Adrienne said. 

            “Good.” She paused, as if catching her breath. “Then what’s going on? What did you mean about Larry’s gargoyles?” 

            A 20-something manager watched us from behind the counter, and I knew we’d have to order something or leave soon. I was ready to eat, despite my nerves, but I had a feeling Burger King wasn’t anyone else’s idea of an acceptable dinner under the circumstances.

Adrienne shook her head, trying to stay calm. “They’re—I think they can come to life. If you saw the thing that attacked Galen, you wouldn’t want to get anywhere near it. If that man is really after the gargoyles, I think we should head back home now and let him take them.”

            Mrs. Raymond’s frown was fierce. “No. Not after—everything. I want to know what’s going on, and I want to see it myself.” She sighed and patted Adrienne’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Adri. You can go home if you want—”

            “Hell, no.” She slid out of the booth. “I want to see this through. Right?”

            “Right,” Rachel said, pushing me out of the booth. 

I would have put it off a while, maybe had a Whopper and some fries while planning our strategy, but I knew Rachel wasn’t going to let me. I did buy a large coffee, hoping the manager would stop glaring at us. He didn’t. 

Adrienne drove her Accord, and Carla Raymond climbed into a big Jeep, and Rachel and I followed in our Prius for several miles out of the city, away from the resorts and restaurants, until the road was lined with dark trees and our headlights were the only source of illumination guiding our way.

Mrs. Raymond turned, Adrienne followed, and we headed down a short gravel driveway until the Jeep stopped in front of a garage.

The house was almost as tall as the trees surrounding us, with a wide porch, high windows, and a rustic aura. A soft yellow bulb glowed next to the front door, and a few lamps glowed inside.

Mrs. Raymond started toward the porch steps. Rachel held out an arm. “Wait.”

Adrienne looked at her. “What?” 

“She’s right.” Mrs. Raymond was staring at the windows. Shadows darted back and forth inside the house.

“What is it?” Adrienne peered. “We had raccoons that one time—”

“It’s not racoons,” Rachel said. “It’s—something bad.”

“She’s psychic,” I told them. “She knows what she’s talking about.”

Adrienne looked Rachel up and down, skeptical. Rachel cocked her head and smiled. “Truth.”

After a moment she nodded. “Whatever.” Mrs. Raymond was already heading for the garage. We followed. 

Inside she was unlocking a tall steel cabinet next to a black BMW. She reached in, and a moment later she had a long shotgun in her hands. 

“It’s my house,” she said, loading bullets into it. “Whatever’s in there, I’ll take care of them.”

I slowly took out my handgun. “Me too, if it gets to that.”

She looked at the Glock, smiled, and chambered a round with the traditional snick-snick sound I’d heard in a hundred movies. “Looks like we’re ready.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “I’m staying far back from you people.” 

I put Donald back in my holster as Adrienne joined Rachel behind us. 

Mrs. Raymond unlocked a door, and we crept inside quietly. We were in a mud room next to the kitchen, dark, but a lamp in the room beyond gave us enough light to avoid bumping into each other. 

Mrs. Raymond kept the shotgun barrel low as she led us across the kitchen. Then we passed through a dining room, making our way around a long chestnut table with eight chairs, and made our way into the living room.

A tall lamp in the center of the room burned with a white-hot bulb, the lampshade missing. My eyes stung from the glare. I blinked, and when I got my vision back I saw Mrs. Raymond standing in front of a plush sofa.

Two of the gargoyle heads sat on it. 

Adrienne gasped. “It’s like a horror movie.”

“Which ones are they?” I asked.

Mrs. Raymond bent down “John and—George, I think. I don’t really know them.” She peered into the eyes of one. “I think this is—”

            Adrienne gasped again. Mrs. Raymond jerked up.

            The old man was walking in from a hallway, carrying the last of the gargoyle heads. He wore a long black coat, with his hood pulled up over his bald head. His boots clunked heavily on the hardwood floor.

            He stopped, stared at us, and groaned. Then he bent down to set the gargoyle head on the floor. “You people shouldn’t try to stop me.” The same foreign accent.

            “What the hell’s going on?” Mrs. Raymond lifted the shotgun. She didn’t point it directly at him, and she kept her finger away from the trigger, but it was intimidation enough. “Did you kill Larry? Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

            “I am taking what’s mine.” He folded his arms across his chest. “These magnificent beasts belong in my house, not yours. My family!”

            “Who are you?” I was next to Mrs. Raymond, my hand ready to reach for Donald under my arm, but I didn’t want to take it out just yet. Too many guns could raise tensions too high.

            He sighed again. “My name is Klaus Geier. My ancestor sculpted these with their own hands, from old German clay that belongs to my home. I’m taking them back.”

            “Wait, wait.” I went back through my memory. “These were sculpted by, wait—Sabina Mundt. In Bavaria, in the 14th century. That’s your ancestor? She disappeared. After her father was murdered.”

            He smiled, as if impressed by my knowledge. “She moved and married. To Anton Geier. She never sculpted another gargoyle. But she never forgot.”

            Geier. Guy. Guy-a. Geier. That’s what Long was saying. I wondered if I would ever have figured it out without Geier standing in front of me.

            “We bought these legally,’ Mrs. Raymond said. “Larry was very careful about that—”

            “They belong to my family!” Geier stomped a foot. “They’re coming home with me!”

“Did you kill my father?” Adrienne. Her voice was quiet. Sharp as a razor.

His eyes flared. “No. It was that idiot Long. I only told him to find out where they are, but he panicked. He only got part of what I wanted, names and places that didn’t mean anything, but when Raymond tried to fight him, he—yes, he killed him. The idiot. I had to find out who Galen was, where this place is—”

“Why did Long even work with you?” I asked. As long as Geier was in the mood to talk, I wanted to keep him monologuing as long as possible. It was better than facing the gargoyles again. “Did you have something on him?”

Geier smiled. “He bought a relic from an old church, bones from a saint. Totally illegal, from a friend of mine. He could have gone to jail. That made it easy to manipulate him, that and the images I showed him of my children.”

            “Just so you could get your hands on these guys?” I looked at the three gargoyle heads. “Are you some kind of wizard, Klaus?”

He nodded, the hood slipping back for his bare scalp. “It’s from far back in my past. They hanged the mother of the woman who carved these for witchcraft and murder—”

“Sabina Mundt, yeah. So she didn’t just carve these heads—she implanted them with actual demons? That you can control?”

His smile darkened. “There’s a fifth gargoyle. One that I still have. He does my bidding, yes, as long as he’s close. But now I have these—my children.” He looked down at the heads on the couch. “Now they’re coming home with me.”

Mrs. Raymond raised her shotgun. “No, they’re not.” Her hands were steady. 

Adrienne darted forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, don’t—”

“He was my husband!” Her finger trembled for the trigger.

Geier stared at her, glanced at me and Rachel, and then shook his head. He lifted a hand and said something in German. Or maybe Latin, I didn’t know. Rachel grabbed my arm.

Three gargoyles emerged from the hall behind him, snarling and drooling. 

Geier shouted, pointing at us, and they charged forward.

Mrs. Raymond stumbled backward, staring at them, the shotgun drooping. Adrienne reached down for it, trying to protect her mother from the creatures surging at us.

I had the Glock in both hands, trying not to shake at the sight of the gargoyles’ claws. Geier backed away, still shouting at the creatures. I didn’t want to shoot him, so I stepped back, aimed at the closest one, and squeezed the trigger. 

I hit its chest, and it staggered, growling. Then it started for me again, arms raised, claws stretching out for my face.

I fired again as Rachel shouted something, and then the shotgun boomed, rattling the room and pummeling my eardrums. I saw Adrienne, the shotgun in her arms, staring at  another gargoyle doubling over, roaring in pain as blood gushed from its torso. 

Our shooting didn’t scare gargoyle number three into slowing its attack. It scrambled over the sofa and clamped its claws into Adrienne’s arm, digging through her shirt, drawing blood as she yelped and fought to drag the shotgun back up. 

I gritted my teeth and fired at the creature’s head, blowing a chunk of its skull off. 

My stomach lurched, and I was glad I hadn’t gotten that burger I wanted earlier. I managed another shot that missed, and then Adrienne got to the shotgun’s trigger and blasted the thing’s leg.

The first one I’d shot came at me again, and I got it in the face, which made it stop for a moment, its body heaving as black blood dripped from its wounds onto the hardwood floor Then Rachel grabbed my arm and pointed.

“The heads!” I could barely hear her, half deaf from all the shooting, but she was jabbing her fingers at the sofa. “Get those!”

I saw Geier raise his arms, shaking his head wildly. “Nooo!” his lips said, the scream desperate. “No!”

My wrists trembled as I turned the Glock toward the sculptures. Biting my lip, I squeezed the trigger, and the first gargoyle head shattered.

The creature Adrienne had shot in the leg suddenly fell back, screeching, and toppled over on the floor.

Geier lunged forward, trying to snatch the heads from the sofa, but I fired again and destroyed the next one, and another gargoyle dropped. This one curled up on the floor, shaking violently, and suddenly vanished, leaving nothing but a blotch of blood on the floor and a shadow that faded in less than a second.

Mrs. Raymond had the shotgun again, but Geier was clutching the final gargoyle head. Instead of shooting at it, she turned the weapon around and slammed its butt into the gargoyle’s face, breaking off its nose and gouging its stone cheek.

Adrienne grabbed for the head, fighting Geier, and Mrs. Raymond leaned back, hefted the shotgun, and slammed the butt down on Geier’s skull. He shrieked and fell back, holding his bald head and cursing while the final gargoyle staggered toward the two women, hissing in rage.

Mrs. Raymond fumbled with the shotgun, her daughter helping her, and got it pointed at the creature as it lunged at her. The shotgun roared again, driving another bullet into the thing’s torso, and I aimed and fired my Glock at the sculpture. I shot it twice, breaking it into a dozen shards and a pile of gray dust.

The last gargoyle vanished. Geier lay on the floor, gasping and cursing. He pounded a heel. “My children! You killed them! They were mine!”

I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”

“Fine.” She patted my arm. “Good shooting.”

“Thanks for telling me what to shoot at.” I ejected the magazine—one shot left—reset the safety, and put Donald back into his holster. Then we turned to help Adrienne and her mother.

“I’m all right,” Mrs. Raymond said. “I’m all right. Adri, are you—are you—”

“I’m okay.” Adrienne ran her fingers through her hair. “Jesus, that was—crazy.”

On the floor, Klaus Geiger groaned and cursed in German.

Mrs. Raymond looked down as if she wanted to spit on him. Then she shoved a piece of broken gargoyle with her toe. “This couch is ruined. And those stains probably won’t come out.”

“Sorry about the mess,” I said. “And destroying your husband’s gargoyles.”

She rolled her eyes. “I never liked them anyway,” She looked down at Geier, slumped on the floor.  “What do we tell the police?”

I looked at Adrienne. “Good thing we’ve got a lawyer handy.”

 

The cops found Geier’s car a few miles away, parked off the road, with Ringo and another head locked in the trunk. Geier was in the hospital, being treated for a concussion and other injuries, with a mental health watch thrown in for good measure after the paramedics heard him rambling and ranting about how we’d murdered his children.

            At the local police station I was questioned by Detective Carson, a heavyset, skeptical cop who needed a shave and more of an open mind.

            “Gargoyles.” He looked up from his notes. “Wasn’t that a movie?”

            “I never saw it.”

“Then what’s this all about? What was so important about those statues?”

We’d had a few minutes in the house to get our stories straight. Since the killer gargoyles had vanished when we destroyed the sculptured ones, leaving nothing behind, we decided to leave them out. It went against my usual policy of telling the police everything, but it simplified the narrative. 

            “Geier thought they rightfully belonged to him.” They’d given me a cup of lukewarm coffee, and I took a swallow. “When we found him in the house, he got violent. Especially when we decided to put an end to it all by destroying the heads.”

            He looked at something on his computer screen. “There were more than just those three shots fired.”

            “It got a little crazy.” I shrugged. 

            “And he killed Geoffrey Long, too?”

            “I saw him at the house.” I could say it with utter sincerity, because it was true. As far as it went. “I told Detective Parker in Skokie.”

            “Yeah, I talked to Parker.” His eyes crinkled. “She thinks you’re too much of a smartass for your own good.”

            “My girlfriend says the same thing.” Rachel wasn’t with me. I hadn’t seen her since we drove to the station, guided by a patrolman. “Is she okay? She really didn’t have anything to do with this, we were just going to go out to dinner afterward—”

            “She’s fine.” Carson crossed his arms on the table between us. The familiar mirror sat behind him. I wondered who was watching. 

 I picked up the paper cup, then set it down empty. “Could I have some more coffee, please?”

            Half an hour later they let me go. Rachel was waiting with Adrienne out in the hall.

            “What took so long?” Rachel was annoyed. “Were you a smartass again? I’m hungry.”

            “I was hungry hours ago.” I looked for a soda machine. “Is your mom okay?” I asked Adrienne.

            “She’s waiting in town. We’re going back to Chicago.” She held out a bottle of water to me. “I just stuck around in case I had to help you get out. And keep Rachel company.”

            “Thanks.” I took a long gulp of water. “Did they give you any trouble?”

            “Not much. People know mom here, and they heard about dad. And there weren’t any actual gargoyle corpses to see, so right now it’s just a home invasion, and the facts are pretty obvious.”

“I hope so.” I looked at Carson’s door. “Maybe we should get out of here before he changes his mind, though.”  

            “You want to come with us and get food?” Adrienne asked us. Mostly Rachel. “It’s a long drive back to Chicago.”

            “Sure,” Rachel said. I nodded.

            Out in the car, Rachel asked me, “Do you think they really bought it?”

            “I think they’d like the real story even less.” That would be a strong reason to let it go. “And if Geier starts raving about his children, they’ll assume he’s crazy and lock him up in a mental ward.”

            “It’s not exactly that simple.” Rachel was studying psychology, after all. “But yeah. I just hope we’ve seen the last of them.”

            Adrienne flashed the lights on her car. I waved and started up. Dinner was the more pressing issue now.

            “I was thinking,” Rachel said. “While I was waiting for you . . .”

            “Yeah?”

            “Geier said he had another gargoyle head.” She grinned. “What do you think? Pete Best?”

            The drummer Ringo replaced. “Maybe. Or maybe Stu Sutcliffe.” I know my Beatles history.

            “Nah. Pete all the way.” She punched my arm.

            I wondered where he was. Could Geier manipulate him, restrained in his bed in the mental ward? I hoped not. 

            But I kept an eye on the rearview mirror as we headed down the road.

 

# # #

The Book of Pythiaxe

 The search for a client’s missing daughter takes Tom Jurgen on the trail of a dangerous demon.

The Book of Pythiaxe, Part One

I knocked on the door a little harder than I usually do. It opened a few seconds later. “Y-yes?”

            I held up my card. “Olivia Siegel? I’m Tom Jurgen. I called? It’s about your roommate, Marcy.”

            Olivia let me in. Short, in her 20s, she wore jeans and a blue sweater. She looked me over nervously. “What’s going on? Like I said, I haven’t seen Marcy in three days—”

            “Her parents hired me. She sent them some—disturbing emails right before she dropped out of sight.” 

I looked over the living room. TV, books and magazines, empty soda cans, a cat box in the corner. “Three days? So the last time you saw her was Sunday?”

            “Yeah. She left around two o’clock. She was meeting some friends. She didn’t say who.” Olivia fidgeted, uncomfortable. “Look, I already talked to a cop. This isn’t like Marcy, but I really don’t know—”

            “Could I see her room?”

            She hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess.”

She led me down a short hall to a closed door. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend or anything. Her parents hired a private detective?”

            They’d called me late last night. David and Marian Pratt, in Oregon. The police weren’t taking the case seriously, they insisted. The cops didn’t care about the strange emails Marcy had sent them right before she disappeared. And they’d heard of me—my stupid tendency to keep my mind open about the strange and the supernatural when it reared up in the cases that found me.

 

The emails:

 

I’m going away for a while. There’s someone I have to meet. He’s calling me. 

 

Mom, dad, I love you. I’ll think of you always.

 

Don’t worry, I want to do this. No one is making me do anything. Only Miskal can stop me now.

 

            Disturbing, yeah. Two from Saturday night, the last one on Sunday morning, just hours before she’d left. She wasn’t answering her phone. 

            “We could come out,” David Pratt said, “but we don’t know what to do about finding her, except bother the police, and they don’t think it’s anything.”

            “This just sounds weird,” Marian Pratt told me. “Who’s calling her? Who’s Miskal? I tried looking it up online, but all I could find was some stuff about demons and witches and black magic.”

            That made my spider senses tingle. Okay, I don’t actually have spider senses. My girlfriend Rachel is psychic, but I’m just a P.I. who’s run into too many demons and witches and other supernatural stuff in my so-called career. This sounded straight up my alley, for better or worse.

            “What’s Marcy like?” I asked them. It’s good to know something about the personality of the person you’re looking for.

            A pause. Then: “Independent, I—” her father said, but  his wife interrupted him. “Wild. Defiant.”

            “Has she ever done anything like this before?” 

            “No,” said her father, but again Marian Pratt cut in: “In high school she stayed out all night many, many times.”

“A few times,” David Pratt said.

“We grounded her for a week. Then a month.” She sounded like a judge pronouncing sentence. “She just kept doing it.”

            “I wish she’d stayed here,” David Pratt said. “But she was dead set on getting away—”

            “She wanted her ‘freedom,’ she said.” She sounded like she disapproved of the concept.

            “Please find her,” Marcy’s father said. 

            So here I was at Marcy’s apartment, interrogating her roommate, about to search her bedroom.

            “Her parents were concerned that the police weren’t doing enough,” I told Olivia. “And I have some experience with cases like this. The bedroom?”

            The blinds were drawn, and Olivia flipped on a light. The bed was neatly made. No underwear or clothes on the floor. A clock radio was blinking on the bedside table next to her pillows, along with a small lamp, a pile of markers in all colors, and one medical textbook. Marcy was a nurse, and so was her roommate.

Inside the top drawer I found some prescription bottles, mostly expired, mostly antibiotics and antidepressants. Some old receipts for mail-order purchases, a plastic bag full of weed, and, okay, a purple sex toy that Olivia didn’t see and I didn’t examine.

            The closet was full of clothes, of course, along with a box of older textbooks and two suitcases, which suggested she hadn’t packed for a trip. The dresser drawer contents were equally ordinary—shirts, slacks, sweaters, socks, underwear, another toy shoved in back under a book of erotica and a half empty box of condoms. An envelope with $500 was taped to the bottom of one drawer. Emergency money that she hadn’t taken with her.

            DVDs and a small TV sat on top of the dresser, along with another pile of books. Textbooks, bestsellers, one Stephen King, and an older book on top  with no title on the spine.

            I pulled it out. The book was bound in leather or a good imitation, and the title on the cover was in a language I didn’t recognize. Latin? Sumerian? Klingon?

            On the back was a stamp: 

 

Lair Books

Books, charms, candles, crystals, and more

 

The address was in Northbrook. We were in Evanston.

I showed the book to Olivia. “Have you seen this?”

She shook her head. “No. What is that? I don’t—we’re roommates, but we’re not really close friends. I mean, we work at the same hospital, and I try to be friendly and everything, but . . .”

I opened the book, flipping through the pages. Halfway through, on page 71, I found a piece of paper folded over. Like the cover, the words in the book weren’t in any language I recognized, and neither was the writing on the paper. It looked like a poem, in black pen, with some words crossed out and some parts just blank, as if the writer didn’t know what he or she wanted to say. 

I held it next to the open page. It looked as if the writer had been copying a passage, but trying to make changes in the wording. 

I gave the paper to Olivia. ”Is this her handwriting?”

She scrunched her eyes. “Maybe? Let me see something.” She ran away, and I renewed my search.

Olivia came back with a Post-It note. “This is a grocery list from the garbage.” I could see tomato sauce on one corner. I held it next to the page from the book.

“Looks the same,” Olivia said. “The way she makes the T?”

“Yeah.” I gave her the Post-It, put the page back in the book, and turned to see if I’d missed anything. 

“What’s she like?” I asked. Her roommate might have a different take on Marcy than her parents. A more recent one, anyway.

Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know. We aren’t really best friends, like I said. She didn’t have a lot of boyfriends that I ever saw. We work in different departments, so we don’t see each other at work much. But she seems kind of, I don’t know—bored.”

“With her job?”

Olivia shrugged. “With everything.”

Sometimes that’s a sign that people want to make a radical change. Like running away. I nodded. “Well, thanks for your help.”

“I hope she’s okay.” She led me to the door. “Will you call me? Or have her call me, or something?”

“Absolutely.” I only hoped I’d have good news.

 

Out in my car I called Rachel. My girlfriend. She’s psychic, and helps me with my cases, except lately she’s been busy, studying psychology on top of her regular job as a graphic designer. 

“What?” She sounded frazzled.

“Do you think you could look up whatever you can find on a demon called Miskal? Or maybe it’s not a demon, I’m not sure.”

            “Sure,” Rachel snapped. “I’m not doing anything except writing a paper on ethics in patient relations, designing an experiment with mice, redesigning a website, and, I don’t know, trying to remember if I’m hydrated enough. I’ve got practically nothing to do.”

            “Great, thanks. Love you.” I hung up before she could call me a jerk, although I think she managed to send it telepathically. 

 

Lair Books was in a small town square with trees and sculptures in the center, between a Mexican restaurant and a sunglasses shop. A high, broad awning cast a shadow across the entrance, and crystals and candles glowed in the big front window. The door’s sign said COME IN . . . IF YOU DARE, over a schedule of their hours.

            I dared, opening the door and stepping inside. 

            The shop was dark, with thick rafters overhead and Oriental rugs over a hardwood floor. I waited for my eyes to adjust until I could make out tables and shelves holding candles, jewelry, incense sticks and holders, various oils, bronze lamps, bottles of holy water, Harry Potter wands, and other “magical” items. An assortment of knives and daggers hung in a glass case. Racks of robes and T-shirts stood next to a small dressing room door. A doorway in back opened into a room crammed with towering bookcases along each wall.

            Two women were looking at candles on a shelf. “This one?” She held a dragon with a wick coming out of its tail. “You like it?”

            “I don’t know. This one?” The other one pointed to a unicorn. “I like the color.”

            At the counter a man with a gray beard in a black T-shirt sat on a stool, looking at his phone. “Help you with something?”         

            “This book.” I set it on the counter. “It came from here. Do you remember selling it?”

            He opened the front cover, turned it over and saw the stamp on the back, and then opened it to the title page. “Let me get Warren.” He leaned forward and pressed a button underneath the counter. “I’m Leo, by the way. I own this place.” He looked embarrassed to admit it. 

            “Tom Jurgen.” I showed him a card.

            “Private detective?” Leo’s eyes narrowed nervously.

            “The girl who bought this book has disappeared.” I showed him one of the photos the Pratts had sent me. Marcy had short black hair and wide blue eyes, with a small nose and a sharp chin. She was 5’10”, although you couldn’t see that from the picture—tall enough to play basketball, although her parents said she hated sports and preferred dancing. 

“There’s a piece of paper with something she wrote tucked inside.” I opened the book and showed it to him. “I’m just trying to find out if it has anything to do with where she went.”

            He looked at the paper, confused, and shook his head. Then a young man emerged through the door in the rear. “Yeah, Leo?”

“Warren? Can you help this guy with a book?” Leo seemed relieved to hand me off.

            “Sure.” Warren was Black, in his late 20s, in a denim vest and jeans. “What are you looking for?”

            I held out the book. “A woman named Marcy Pratt bought this here. Do you happen to remember her?” I showed him her picture.

            He nodded. “Yeah, I know her. Not her name, but she’s here a lot. Come on.” He pointed to the back room.

            The two women came to the counter with the dragon candle and some incense. “We’ll take this.”

I followed Warren as Leo started ringing up the sale.

High bookcases lined the walls in back, looming down over thick armchairs. David set the book on a small table in the corner, next to a coffee urn. “Help yourself,” he said, then started walking down a row of bookcases, one finger up, until he found a gap. 

“Right here.” He tapped the edge of the shelf. “She bought it a few days ago or so.”

“Good memory.” 

“It’s not too busy back here. Most people want enchanted amulets and rings of power, not books.” He grinned. “Plus, she’s cute.” 

“You’ve seen her here before? A lot?”

He thought. “A couple of times for a few months. I noticed her. Didn’t hit on her or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” He frowned. “I have no idea where she is if she’s missing, all right?”

I nodded. “I’m worried it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

I glanced around at the books. “Demons.”

I expected him to laugh. Instead he sighed. “We got a lot of strange people in here. Some of them believe in demons. Sometimes I’m not sure they’re wrong, you know?”

I knew. “What kind of stuff was Marcy interested in?”

“Witchcraft. Wiccan for Beginners type stuff.” He pointed to a shelf near the doorway. “She was here the other day with Dr. Cody, he was pointing out some books for her.”

“Doctor? From the hospital where she worked?”

“No, no.” Warren shook his head. “He’s a professor. Lance Cody. Teaches religion and folklore and stuff at the college.”

“What college? Northwestern?”

“Hastings College. It’s outside town. Small, liberal arts, business, that kind of stuff. He comes in here sometimes to look over our books for this folklore class he teaches. That’s what he says, anyway.”

“Does he come in with Marcy a lot?”

“Just that one time a few days ago, like I said. That I know about, I mean. He was helping her find something, I didn’t hear exactly what she was looking for. But she bought that.” He pointed at the book.

“What’s the name? What language is that?”

“It’s, uh, Aramaic, I think. The Dead Sea Scrolls language? It means . . .” He looked at the cover. “’Beyond the Columns,’ I think.”

“You read Aramaic?” I asked skeptically.

He laughed. “I remember it from the catalog. I just had to look at the letters to be sure.”

I picked it up. “So he works at the college, you said?”

“Yeah. He lives in town, I think. Not far. He usually walks.”

“Thanks.” I took a step toward the doorway, then turned back. “When you said, ‘That’s what he says,’ about books for his folklore class—what did you mean?”

Warren hesitated. “Just—he special orders some weird stuff. I can’t always make out the titles, they’re in all different languages, but some of them are about ancient rituals, and the pictures have—well, witches being burned at the stake, and other stuff. Gross. Doesn’t seem like school material, you know?”

All too well. “Thanks again.”

The Book of Pythiaxe, Part Two

  

Lance Cody lived in a bungalow four blocks from the bookstore. I found it with a little internet sleuthing in my car—I sent him a direct message on three social media sites, and he responded within 15 minutes. I rang his doorbell, and he answered right away.

            Cody was in his 30s, with blond hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. “Are you Tom Jurgen? What’s going on?”

            “It’s about this book.” I held it out to him. “And Marcy Pratt.”

            Inside he offered me tea. His living room was large, filled with books, armchairs, paintings, and a long sofa. And more books.

 He sat in an armchair, the book on a coffee table next to our tea.

            “You were with Marcy Pratt when she bought that book,” I said, seated on the sofa.

            He leaned over to look at the cover. “Yes.” He was wary.

            “How do you know her?”

            “I teach a night class on folklore. It’s an extension course. I do it mostly for fun, and to meet people.” He shrugged. “You know, just to stay in touch with the community.”

“How did you end up helping her buy that book?”

            He sat back, thinking. “We were talking about spells in class one night. The kind they use in fairy tales and fantasy novels, and she was curious about other kinds.”

            “What other kind?”

            “She was interested in, uh, transformation. Metamorphosis. The old myths.”

            “Is that what the book is about?”

            He opened it up. “‘Breaking the Pillars,’” he read. “Or something like that. I’ve heard of it, but I can’t read it, obviously.” He started turning the pages.

I glanced around. The books on the shelves around us all looked well-read. Some were textbooks, a lot were the classics you’d expect an English prof to have—Dickens, James Joyce, Jane Austen, Doris Lessing—and others, along with works of criticism. Some had titles I couldn’t make out, faded or in languages I’m not fluent in. I know a little Spanish, but not enough to decipher some of the titles running down the spines. Other languages I just didn’t recognize.

            Cody held up the sheet of paper. “What’s this?”

            “I was hoping you could tell me.” I set my cup of Earl Gray down. “I can’t read the language. Warren at the bookstore says it’s in Aramaic. Some of the words are missing. Do you have any idea what that could be?”

            He frowned. “Not Aramaic, but maybe Chaldean. I recognize a few words here and there . . .” He bent over the table. “This is ‘water.’ This means ‘fire.’ Those are easy. This . . .” He shook his head. “Might mean ‘call for.’ Or ‘summon.’”

            “Like summoning spirits?”

            He shrugged. “Maybe.”

            “How well do you know Marcy?” I asked. “What’s she like?”

            He cocked his head. “Smart. Curious. A little impatient—she wanted to skip through things, get to the good stuff instead of really getting to know the material. She took lots of notes, different colored markers for different names and topics. She was a little obsessed.”

            “Why did she buy this book?”

            Cody looked at me, then looked away. “She was interested in ancient rituals.”

            He’d said that just a minute ago. “What kind of rituals?”

            “Summoning spirits, like you said. The kind with power. Wild magic, that sort of thing.”

            “Demons?”

            He cocked his head. “I don’t think of them like that, but yes.” He seemed embarrassed to be talking about it, but he went on. “Over the centuries, cultures developed rituals—spells, if you like—for summoning gods and spirits for strength, wisdom, empathy, sexual performance—”

            “And this book tells you how to do that?”

            Cody looked down at the cover. “I can’t read it, of course. But I’ve heard about this book. Studied other writers who have read it, ancient and modern. Some say it’s bullshit, or superstitious gibberish, but the older ones, who took spells seriously, have written that this is a source of powerful magic. If you know what you’re doing.”

            Oh-oh. “Does Marcy?”

            He shook his head. “Of course not. She was just curious. This isn’t the original book, anyway, it’s a reproduction, so it was only 30 dollars.”

            A bargain, but it still sounded ominous. “Does the word ‘Miskal’ mean anything to you?”

Cody’s eyes flickered, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so. What is it?”

“Something from an email.” I glanced around the room, trying to think of what to do next. Was this book and the note even important? For all I knew, Marcy had gone to Vegas with a boyfriend to get married, and ‘Miskal’ was his ex-girlfriend’s name.

Cody closed the book, with the paper sticking out. “I think I know where there’s another copy of this. An older version, more accurate.” 

That pulled me back. “Where?”

“Bibliotheca Davonia. It’s a specialized library. It’s not part of the college, but I have, uh, privileges there. It’s out of town. I could take you.” He stood up.

I picked up the book. “Okay. Do you have a car? I should follow you. I wouldn’t want you to get stranded in case I have to go off somewhere else.” 

He nodded. “Makes sense. Give me a minute.” He started picking up our tea.

“I’ll wait outside.”

Yeah, I didn’t want to leave him behind—or worse yet, have to take him with me—if this library gave me a lead. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure I trusted Cody. I had the feeling he knew more about the book than he was admitting to me. And he seemed a little too willing to help me find a random student.

Out in the car I called Marcy’s roommate. “Was Marcy taking a class in folklore at the college?”

“Yeah, Wednesday nights. She loved it. She thought the teacher was hot.”

Huh. “Did she talk about what they were studying? Did she have any homework?”

“Uh, no. I mean, she was in her room reading a lot. I heard her reading out loud sometimes, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Not that I stood at her door listening, I mean,” she added quickly.

“All right. Thanks.”

“Are you getting close to finding her?”

It had been an hour, but if this was TV, I’d already have solved the case. “Not yet. Thanks again.” I hung up.

Cody came out of the house, tugging a jacket through his arms. He waved. I made a quick call to Rachel. “Anything on Miskal?”

She groaned. “Just the usual garbage from Google. I called a few people.” Rachel has a lot of friends with supernatural experience—wiccans, séance hosts, demonologists. “Oh, and I wrote two sentences on my ethics paper. Yay me!” She hung up.

I’d be in trouble later. I texted her my location and plans, just in case, then started my car and waited for Cody to back down his driveway.

 

Bibliotheca Davonia had once been a church, with stained glass windows on either side of the front door and a high steeple on top. The red paint on its walls was faded and chipped, but the steps leading up to the front door looked sturdy enough.

            Two cars were parked on a gravel lot to the side. Cody pulled his Nissan up beside them and got out. I parked next to him.

            “This is it.” He led me up the wide front steps and pressed a button next to the broad doors. A faint buzzing told him to pull, and we went inside.

            A woman in a wheelchair sat behind a desk. She had white hair and glasses, and wore a brown pantsuit that looked tailored and pricey. The room was dark, with a low ceiling and a hardwood floor. Twin gargoyles stood guard on either side of a pair of doors with frosted panels hiding whatever was beyond them.

            She set her computer mouse to one side before looking up. “Yes? Oh, Lance! What brings you here again?”

            So he was a frequent visitor? “Hi, Sydney,” he said. “It’s about this book. It’s a reprint, but you have the original, don’t you?”

            Sydney looked me over, as if I owed hundreds of dollars in overdue fines. “And you are?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I gave her my card. “I’m looking for a young woman who bought this book with Mr. Cody a few days ago. She was trying to copy something from it.”

            I opened the book and showed her the paper. She tilted her head, and her lips moved silently as she read to herself. 

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

            Sydney looked up quickly. “Just a minute.” She tapped at her keyboard and scribbled on a Post-it note. “Let’s go see.” 

She turned her wheelchair and rolled out from behind the desk. Reaching behind one gargoyle, she pressed a switch, and the doors slowly opened toward us like the entrance to a dungeon.

            The library looked bigger inside than out, like the TARDIS in Doctor Who. Tall shelves packed with books rose from the black-and-white tiled floor like monoliths on either side of a central aisle. Lamps along the walls cast light and shadows, and three skylights far above let the gray afternoon sky add a little illumination through the clouds. A gallery on the second floor looked down, its books looming ominously over us.      

            Sydney rolled her wheelchair briskly forward. Three-quarters of the way down the room she swung to the right, wheeling her way between the towering bookshelves. The space was narrow; Cody and I had to follow in single file, like cave explorers in a tight crevice. 

She stopped and leaned forward, her arm out. Then she frowned and looked at her Post-it. “It should be here.”

A gap between books suggested something was missing. Cody reached around me to pick up the book next to it. “Anatomies of—something,” he said, looking at the dusty cover. “My Latin’s rusty.”

“Put it back.” Sydney snatched the book from him. “That’s how things get lost.”

“Is that what happened?” I asked. ”Or did someone check it out? Do you do that here? Is it that kind of library?”

She sighed. “I’ll have to look.” She started backing up her wheelchair. Cody and I retreated.

We made our way up the aisle and back to the outer office. Sydney opened a drawer and pulled out a spiral notebook. 

“You don’t keep the borrowing records on the computer?” I asked. 

“We don’t have many people borrowing things.” She flipped the notebook open. “Some of the traditional ways are still best.”

“It must have been taken recently. The space would have settled it between the books.”

Sydney smiled. “You’d be surprised.” She ran a finger down the page. “Here we are. Herman Weiss.” She squinted. “Only a few days ago.”

“When, exactly?”

“Monday.”

The day after Marcy had disappeared. “Do you have his address?”

Sydney sighed. “I can’t just give out—”

Cody interrupted. “I can find where he lives.” 

I blinked. “How?”

“He’s, uh, in my class. The one with Marcy.”

I was getting more and more suspicious of Cody, but I tried not to let it show. “And you have his address? With you?”

“Yeah.” He held up his phone. “I can pull his student record. I mean, I’m not supposed to, but—”

“Hang on a minute.” I turned to Sydney. “Thanks for your help.” 

I led Cody outside. The afternoon was getting cooler, and I zipped my jacket as he looked at me expectantly.

“Look, you don’t have to tag along,” I told him. “This is my job.”

“I want to.” He glanced over his shoulder at the stained glass window, as if Sydney might be standing inside trying to listen. “Herman Weiss is—well, sort of odd.”

“Odd how?”

“A group of students—including Marcy—were getting together after class at different houses. Herman was one of them. He was always asking about spells. Like Marcy. Rituals for talking to animals, communicating with the dead, that sort of thing. He’s harmless, though,” he added quickly. “Friendly with everyone.”

I wished Rachel were here. She’s psychic, and she can pick up vibes easier than I can. But I still had the feeling there was something he was holding back. 

I sighed. “I’ve got to be honest, Lance—”

“Leonard.” he shifted on his feet, embarrassed. “It’s, uh, Leonard. Lance just sounds more badass.”

“Leonard.” It fit him better than Lance. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I trust you, Leonard. You’re very, very interested in a woman who’s just your student. A young, attractive student—”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that! I never—nothing like that happened. I was surprised when she asked me to go to the bookstore with her. I’m afraid that Herman might be—I don’t know. Into something he can’t control.” He looked away from me.

“Like what?”

“Some of these rituals can be dangerous. I mean, even if there aren’t any actual demons—there are drugs to take, candles and incense and other stuff that could start a fire or fill up a place with smoke, and some of these rituals can really mess with your head. Herman’s a nice guy, but he could get pushed into stuff that’s not safe, by—by a girl like Marcy. Or somebody.”

That tracked reasonably enough. Even if Cody wasn’t telling me everything—and I was pretty sure he was still holding back—keeping him nearby might be more useful than trying to send him home. 

“You can come if you want,” I said. “What’s his address?”