The Archer

A mysterious archer is killing people around Chicago. Tom’s latest case seems to point straight to him—but will he become the killer’s next target? 

The Archer, Part One

He sat in darkness, looking down into the park, his eyes gleaming. Waiting.

            The bow was loose in his hand. He held the arrow ready. He breathed slowly, silently. Expectantly.

            Drifting clouds obscured the stars over the top of the trees. The sliver of the moon slid into view, then dissolved, then slipped back, as if afraid of being discovered.

            The grass below him was thin and patchy, worn through by the hundreds of feet that passed through the park every day. Children, mothers, nannies, joggers, dogs—people. People like a blight on the earth, carelessly shredding the world layer by layer, ignoring the damage, mindful only of their own coarse needs and desires. In a rush to nowhere, on an aimless path that led only to oblivion in the end. Every step they took carried them closer to the grave. Under the same dirt they were in such a hurry to race over.

            The signal from his watcher came. He peered through the darkness. There. Walking through the trees. A man. Young, cocky, wearing a loose jacket, trudging step by step, in no particular rush, but with purpose. On a road to someplace. A destination only he cared about.

            The archer smiled. He notched the arrow and pulled back the string, feeling the power of the bow in his body. He locked his eyes on his target, and let out a long breath.

            The arrow flew.

            The man dropped. His body flailed, blood already surging from his chest. Had he seen it? Did he even know what was buried in his chest, rapidly drawing the life from his body? Or was the darkness already falling in around him as he struggled for breath, for one last breath before sinking into the darkness . . .

            The archer waited 30 seconds. Then he dropped his bow to the ground, slipped from the tree, and made his way into his own darkness.

 

I poured my coffee, sat down with my cereal, and opened the paper. 

Rachel raced into the kitchen. “Late, late, late.”

            I pointed to the counter. “There’s your travel mug, next to your lunch.”

            She grabbed them both. “Okay, I’ll stay married to you. For now.”

            “Another day’s reprieve.” I lifted my arms. “Hooray?”

            “Yeah, we’ll see about tomorrow.” She punched my arm. “Go investigate something, gumshoe.”

            “Have a good day! Give good therapy!” I called as she slammed and locked the front door. Then I went back to the newspaper. 

These days I read it mostly for the comics. Lately I didn’t want to read too much about whatever chaos was happening in Washington. Today the front page was about the latest crime spree: ARCHER STRIKES IN LEWIS PARK.

            Lewis Park?

I scanned the story. Yes, Lewis Park. On the North side. A man had been shot in the chest with one of the Archer’s signature arrows, a titanium shaft with an arrowhead of bronze. The victim was a young father of two, apparently taking a shortcut home after getting off his usual bus two blocks over. He was the Archer’s fourth victim in two weeks. 

            I’d been at Lewis Park last night.

            My latest client, Lynda Fowler, had hired me a few days ago to follow her husband, Gregory. “He goes out at night, takes walks—that’s what he says,” she told me in a coffee shop near her house in the Ravenswood neighborhood. “I don’t know—I don’t think he’s having an affair, but he’s really vague about what he’s doing. I’m afraid he might be, I don’t know? Doing drugs or something?”

            She was in her 30s, with black hair and red stone dangling from her left ear. Nervous. I took her retainer and told her I could start that night. That was four days ago.

            I waited outside their house that night until she texted me that her husband was taking a bath. The next night he stayed in as well. But last night he told Lynda he was taking a walk at 7:30 and left. 

            I followed him on foot. Fowler was 40, with graying hair, and he walked quickly, not like he was in a hurry but like someone accustomed to getting places as fast as possible. We walked for several blocks, past houses with families watching TV inside, then along a street with taco restaurants and shoe stores and convenience stores, and finally to a small park.

            A metal fence circled the park, with a sign identifying it as Lewis Park and warning that the park closes at 10 p.m. I followed him in but had to hang back so he didn’t spot me, and at that point I lost him. The sky was cloud covered, the lights were sparse, and the park was silent. Losing people happens. I cursed silently for a few moments, then headed back for the front gate, hoping he didn’t take a different exit. 

            Fowler emerged from the park an hour later, looking around, but he didn’t notice me sitting at the bus stop across the street. He made his way up the street, slower now, as if he was tired. I followed, but it was clear after two blocks that he was on his way home, and I gave him more of a lead until he turned on his street and made his way to his door. 

            My feet were aching. I watched him go inside, then returned to my car where I could sit down, gulp some water, and make my way home. Rachel was watching reality TV and I had a beer from the fridge.

            Now I was wondering just what exactly I’d been doing last night. I sipped my coffee, ate some cereal, and forced myself to think rationally. 

            Fowler hadn’t been carrying any archery equipment with him. Could he have stashed it in the park ahead of time? Maybe, but the Archer had struck at three different parks before this. Fowler would have had to plant his gear, commit the murder, then go back afterward to pick it up with the police swarming the area.

            No. He couldn’t be the Archer. Could he?

            I finished the paper and my cereal, and took my coffee into the office, where I did paperwork and sent emails on some of my other cases. At 9:05 I called my client.

            “The kids are at school.” She sounded out of breath. “Did you follow him last night?”

            “Yes, I did.” I chose my words carefully. “He walked about two miles, and then he went into Lewis Park. He stayed there until about nine, then came home.”

            “Right, he looked a little tired. —Wait. Lewis Park?”

            “That’s right.”  I waited.

            “Wait. What are you saying? You don’t think—”

            “I think we need to talk to your husband about his walks.”

            “Because—no. He can’t be that guy. I don’t believe it.”

            “I’m not saying that. For what it’s worth, he didn’t stop to pick up a bow and arrow on the way. But he was in the park last night. He might have seen something. We have to talk to him.”

            Lynda Fowler was quiet for 10 seconds or more. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right. We don’t have to—are you going to call the police?”

            I should, but I hesitated. “Let’s wait to see what he says.”

            “Okay. Thank you.” She sniffled, as if she’d started crying. “Why don’t you—tonight. At six. Before dinner. Oh God, the kids . . .” She gulped, catching her breath. “I’ll take care of it. What am I going to say? I’ll think of something. I suppose.”

            We confirmed the time, and then hung up. I’d just yanked the rug out from under her life, and not in the way she was expecting. I hate doing that.  It’s part of being a P.I. sometimes, but it’s never fun. Then I texted Rachel to let her know I’d be late for dinner. Fortunately it was her turn to cook.

 

“You want me to come with you?” Rachel asked when she called me later. 

            “I don’t think you have to.” Rachel is at least somewhat psychic, which helps me when a case turns toward the supernatural. But this didn’t seem like one of those. No ghosts or vampires, just a possible connection to a serial killer terrorizing the city. Nothing to worry about.

            “Okay, but if get an arrow through your head, I don’t want to wait to read about it in the morning paper.”

            I grinned. “Aw, you really do care.” 

            “Yeah, I’m thinking of upping the payout on your life insurance. Be careful.”

            “I don’t think he’s the Archer. But I’m always careful.”

            Rachel snorted and hung up.

            So at 5:45 I was sitting on a chair in the Fowlers’ living room. Their children—two daughters, nine and 12—were upstairs doing homework, or more likely hiding at the top of the staircase trying to listen in. 

            Lynda Fowler clutched her hands nervously. She was on her second glass of wine, and her husband wasn’t home yet. I had a beer that I’d barely sipped. She was trying not to look at me, as if afraid I’d spring more bad news on her.

            She flinched when we heard the key in the front door lock. “It’s him. Maybe—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

            A briefcase dropped in the front hall, a closet door opened and shut, and then Greg Fowler was in the living room. “Hi, Lynn, how was—” Then he saw me. “Excuse me?”

            Lynda stood up. “Greg, this is Tom Jurgen. He’s a—a private detective. I hired him.”

            Fowler frowned. “What the hell?”

            “Sit down.” She put a hand on his arm. “We have to talk.”

            He stared at me. “Let me get a drink.” He went into the kitchen.

            He came back a moment later with a glass of scotch. “What is this, an intervention or something?” He sat next to his wife on the sofa. 

            “You were taking these walks,” Lynda said. She looked at me, then back to him. “I got—well, I didn’t know what you were doing. I was worried. I was scared. What were you doing?”

            Instead of answering her question, he looked at me again. “You were tailing me?”

            “Last night.” I nodded. “You went to Lewis Park.”

            Fowler’s face went stuff. “So what?”

            “The Archer killed someone there last night.”

            He turned to Lynda. “What are you saying? You think—you think I’m the Archer?”

            Lynda’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She looked at me desperately.

            “Why were you there?” I asked. “What did you see?”

            Fowler blinked. He took another drink, staring in my direction, but his eyes didn’t focus on me, as if he was thinking of something far away. He set his glass down and planted his hands on his knees.

            “Let me make a call.” He reached into his pocket.

            Who? Was he calling the Archer? Would I be in the paper tomorrow for cracking the case? I nodded slowly.

            He found a number on his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. There’s this guy here asking about last night. About—you. know. What?”

            We watched as he listened intently for a moment. “Yes. Yes. No. Yes . . .”

Then, suddenly, Fowler shot to his feet. His face was red now, his eyes wide, his mouth curled like a snarling wolf. “Abilosh!” 

            Huh? I took a step toward him as Lynda stared up, confused and frightened.

            Fowler shoved my chest, and I stumbled back, off balance. I managed not to fall, but by that time he was dashing to the door, laughing like a deranged clown, and by the time I reached the door he was across the front yard and sprinting down the street.

            I tripped on the porch steps. Then I chased him, running as hard as I could, but he was too far out in front. After half a block I realized I didn’t know which way to turn, and I wasn’t sure my chest could take the pounding. I gasped my way back to the house, promising myself to start working out more, and found Lynda Fowler talking to her two daughters. 

            The younger one was crying. The 12-year-old was trying to calm her, but she looked just as upset. They didn’t pay any attention to me as I stood in the living room, and eventually I took my seat again and started an internet search as Lynda walked them into the kitchen for ice cream.

            She came back 10 minutes later. “I didn’t know what to tell them. What—what happened?” She’d been trying to hide her fear from her daughters, but now she was on the verge of letting the panic come flooding out.

            I shook my head. “He got away. I don’t know.” I patted the sofa, hoping he’d dropped his phone. No luck. 

            “What was that—Avilosh? What was that?”

            I showed her my phone, wishing I’d brought Rachel with me. She’s good with things like this—talking to nervous wives and calming them down, and also sensing the presence of demons. Which is what we were now dealing with.

            “Abilosh is a demon,” I told her, nervous about her response as she stared at the image on my screen. “He’s frequently pictured with a bow and arrow. He has roots in ancient Europe, and . . .” I let my voice trail off as Lynda Fowler stared at me in disbelief.

            “Demon? What are you talking about?” She glanced toward the kitchen, hoping her daughters weren’t listening.

            This could be tricky. “I’ve encountered some—supernatural beings occasionally.” More than just a few, but this wasn’t the time for a full recitation. “This may be one of those times.”

            She didn’t believe me. But she was desperate. “We have to find him.”

            “We should call the police.”

            Lynda shook her head. “You saw him. He’s not—not acting right. They might hurt him. We have to find him first.”

I was pretty sure the police would write me off as crazy anyway. They usually do. Once I had more information, or once I had Greg Fowler in front of me, I’d think about bringing them in. “Can you track his phone?”

She got her own phone out. “Just a minute . . . It’s a few blocks from here.” She showed me the intersection. “I don’t think there’s anyone there we know.”

“Okay. We’ll wait a few minutes to see if he stays there. Does he have a computer at home?”

“There’s a laptop.” She got up and returned a few minutes later, setting it down on the coffee table. We opened it up, but there were no folders conveniently named “Abilosh” or “Archer.” I did a search, and neither one came up. 

The younger daughter came out of the kitchen. “Is Daddy home yet?”

“Not yet, darling.” Lynda stood and scooped her daughter up in her arms. “Why don’t you go look for his phone?” she told me. “Take the laptop with you. Call me if you find anything. Please.”

I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

The Archer, Part Two

I found Fowler’s phone 20 minutes later, in a garbage can near the intersection of three streets a half mile from his house. I texted her with the news. She texted back: I think I know someone who can help you. I’ll send you his number.

Back home Rachel could tell something was wrong as I threw the locks on our door. “What happened?”

“Ever heard of a demon named Abilosh?”

“Oh no.” She turned the TV off. “I knew I should have come with you.”

“That would have helped.” I got myself a beer and told her the story. 

She kicked my leg. “You couldn’t just be risking your life looking for a serial killer? Now there’s a demon?” 

“Hey, I don’t go looking for this stuff. It finds me.” I gulped some beer. 

“You going to call the police?”

“Not yet. Not until I have something more solid than the name of a demon.”

She grimaced. “So what’s next, Sherlock?”

“I’ve got his phone and his laptop. And the wife has the name of a friend of his who’s into the occult. Someone he used to. Play D&D with, I guess. I’ll start with him.”

“Solid plan.” Rachel leaned back and turned the TV back on. “I’m working tomorrow, but I’ll be home. I’ll help when I can.”

“Thanks.” It was easier when Rachel was a freelance graphic designer and she could just take off with me whenever she wanted to. Now that she’s a therapist with office hours three days a week, taking her along on cases was a lot more complicated. But she was happy, and we were making more money, so I couldn’t complain. 

Rachel watched reality TV until 10:30 while I searched Fowler’s laptop and phone. I couldn’t get into his email on either device, and I didn’t find anything that seemed linked to the Archer. I found games, tax stuff, do-it-yourself home repair PDFs, and, of course, some porn, including a folder with photos of his wife that I only glanced at before Rachel could catch me. I quit at 10:30 when Rachel turned to the news. “I want to see the weather tomorrow.”

“Why?” I closed the laptop. “You’re staying home.”

“I want to go to yoga before my first client.”

“You could use your phone.”

She jabbed me with her elbow. “Okay, smart guy, I like the girl who does the weather, all right?”

“Wait!” I pointed at the TV. 

An image of a bow and arrow framed footage of a park entrance. The chyron underneath read: ARCHER STRIKES SECOND NIGHT. The news anchor solemnly told us: “The serial killer dubbed ‘The Archer’ has struck for the second time in as many days, Chicago police report, with the latest victim found in a north side park just an hour ago.”

I stopped listening because I was trying to work out the timing. Fowler had run from his house at around 6:15 or 6:30. The victim had been discovered—the reporter on the scene to say that someone had called it in at nine. That meant Fowler could have been involved somehow. And I’d let him go.

Rachel felt my mood darken. She reached for my hand. “Not your fault.”

“Yeah, probably.” I didn’t believe her. Or myself. “Maybe he’s not even involved, maybe it’s something totally different, maybe . . .” I shut up. Damn it.

 

I woke up the next morning in a toxic mixture of guilt and dread: guilt that I hadn’t somehow stopped Fowler before the murder, and dread of the murders that were coming next. Rachel was already out at yoga. I stayed in bed, wallowing in self-pity for five minutes, then forced myself to get up and get back to work.

            My client called at 8:30. “Have you heard anything? I mean—I don’t know. I heard about the shooting last night. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

            “I’ll call that name you gave me last night,” I told her. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

            Then I called Brian Bayard—a college friend of Fowler’s, someone he’d played Dungeons and Dragons with, a guy with an interest in the occult, according to Lynda Fowler. 

            I introduced myself. I didn’t tell him much about what had happened to Fowler, just that Fowler had mentioned a name that sounded like Abilosh and that the only reference I could find seemed to be connected to a mythical demon. Did Bayard know anything that might shed some light?

            “I don’t know.” I heard him flipping pages. “I don’t think it’s in any of my manuals here. It’s been a while since we played, it was mostly in college. Once a year or so, maybe, we get together for a game, but—you know who you should ask? Irina.”

            “Irina? Who’s that?”

            “She plays with us. Her and one other woman, the rest of us are guys. It’s nothing sketchy, we don’t hook up or anything. We’re just friends.  Irina—you know, I don’t think I even know her last name? Anyway, I got her number here.”

So I called Irina.

“Abilosh?” She had a faintly European accent, but she didn’t waste any time questioning my interest—or my intentions. “Yes, I am familiar with that demon. What do you want to know about him? Wait—maybe you should come to my house. I have things I can show you.”

I wasn’t that thrilled by the idea, but if a demon really was behind the Archer’s rampage, I wanted all the information I could get as soon as possible. “Where do you live?”

Fortunately she was in the city. She told me to be there at 11. 

Rachel came back from yoga and I told her about my appointment with Irina. She grimaced. “Is she hot?”

“I have no idea. You want to come?”

“You know I can’t. Darn. I like going out to interrogate people with you about demons.” 

“It’s not exactly an interrogation. I don’t think.”

“Just so long as it’s not a seduction.” She peered down her nose at me.

 I grinned. “It’s cute you can still be threatened by other women.”

“I haven’t saved your life this many times to lose you to some tramp with an exotic name.” She went to her desk, muttering. 

 

The house in West Rogers Park was small, crammed up next to houses on either side. I rang the doorbell, and a moment later a woman opened up. “Tom? Irina. Welcome.”

            Inside the living room was dark, full of bookcases crammed together like the houses on the street. A lamp cast shadowy light from a table in one corner. A cat napped on top of a sofa, and a computer sat on a table between two stuffed bookcases. 

“Something to drink? Coffee, tea? Water? Vodka?” Irina was younger than I expected. In her 20s. Her hair was blonde with streaks of pink. Her blouse was unbuttoned and I could see her black bra. She wore sweatpants with a yellow stripe down to her ankles, and no shoes. I worried what I’d have to tell Rachel about her.

“Just some water.” I took a seat on the sofa, trying not to disturb the cat, and she disappeared, returning with a tall glass of water, ice, and a lemon. “Thanks.”

“So.” She perched on the folding chair in front of her computer. “You want know about Abilosh.”

“My client’s husband shouted that name right before having some sort of episode,” I told her, more or less truthfully. “We don’t know where he is right now.”

“And you really think he was talking about a demon?” She tilted her head, smiling.

“I don’t know. But I need to check it out. What’s your experience with demons?”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “It is a family thing. My mother, she was—not a witch, but she worked with some of the supernatural arts. Sometimes dark arts. It ended badly for her, but I have her books—” She spread her hand around the room. “And what she taught me.”

“Including demons?”

She giggled and stood up. After standing in front of the bookcase next to the sofa for a moment, she pulled a leatherbound volume down and sat next to me. I tried to keep my eyes on the book and she flipped through the pages.

“Here.” She pointed to a photo.

It was painted on fabric, like part of a tapestry: An image of a man in long robes and a hood, holding a bow as tall as he was, an arrow as long as a spear notched in it, and a small animal like a ferret perched on one bony shoulder.

Underneath ran a few line of text explaining that Abilosh was a little-known figure from the folklore of Gaul around 900 B.C.. who was said to terrorize villages that refused to pay him tribute in gold. He usually hunted in the winter or early spring, vanishing for the rest of the year, and was accompanied by a forest animal who helped him spot his targets.

“I have more.” Irina suddenly had a stack of books beside her. “Here is Abilosh in Germany.” She showed me a photo of a small part of a tapestry. Abilosh was more dwarflike, and had a tail, but he still had his bow ready to shoot someone.

There were more books and pictures, but not much new information until Irina opened her laptop. “Here is something new,” she said, tapping keys. “Last year in France, someone started shooting arrows at people and demanding money to stop. The name Abilosh was mentioned in some of the news articles. Look!”

I peered at the screen. All but one of the articles was in French, which I haven’t read since high school, but a British paper ran a short piece. Four people had been killed by an unknown assailant using a bow and arrow, all in local parks in a small town in Central France. Authorities had received a note demanding 50,000 Euros, but defiantly refused to consider paying. At the time of the article, the killer hadn’t been caught.

“Huh.” I wondered if the Chicago police knew about this. Maybe I should call one of the few cops who’d actually talk to me. But then I’d have to explain things. They probably wouldn’t believe I was just acting as a concerned citizen. 

“Well, thanks.” I stood up. I wasn’t sure how this would help me find Fowler, but—

“Wait.” Irina put a hand on my arm. “It is interesting—someone else was asking me about this demon just a few weeks ago.”

Huh? “Who?”

“His name is Danny. Dan Gabler. We are friends. Not ‘friends.’” She giggled. “We play D&D and trivia together, with others. He came over and asked me about this demon, he didn’t say why.” She shrugged. “Do you think it means something?”

“I wish I knew.” We shook hands, and she started buttoning her blouse as I was leaving.

Out in my car I called Lynda Fowler. “Do you know someone named Dan Gabler?”

“Danny? Yeah, I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s a friend of Greg’s. I think—what does he have to do with this?”

“I don’t know yet. Do you have his number? Do you know where I can find him?”

The Archer, Part Three

Dan Gabler worked at a sporting goods store in Evanston. A co-worker in a T-shirt with the store’s logo pointed me toward his section, which included tents and camping gear, but I saw archery equipment on the wall beyond. Gabler, 30ish with a mustache, greeted me with a too-friendly smile in front of a family-size tent with a gas grill in front of it. “Hi! How can I help you?”

            I showed him my card. “You’re a friend of Greg Fowler, right?”

            He blinked, surprised. “Yeah, right. College friends. What’s going on?”

            “Have you heard from him in the last few days?”

            Now he grew guarded. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

            “He’s missing. His wife is worried. Have you talked to him or heard from him?”

            “No. Not for months.” He shook his head. “What’s going . . .” He let his voice trail off before repeating the question a third time.

            “A few weeks ago you asked a woman named Irina for information about a demon named Abilosh. Can I ask why?”

            Gabler’s eyes flickered. He suddenly looked over my shoulder, then around his, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. But customers were sparse in the middle of the day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Really?” 

            A long moment passed. Gabler looked uncomfortable. Finally he sighed. “Uh, come here.”

            He unzipped the tent. It was roomy enough to sleep a family of four, according to the sign outside listing its features and price, and once we were inside it was big enough for us both to stand upright, even though Gabler was taller than me.

            “Okay.” Gabler zipped the tent back up. “Uh, about two weeks ago this guy comes into the store asking about archery stuff. He wants to hunt deer in Wisconsin. I tell him the season’s not until the fall, but he doesn’t care, he says his boss told him to get this stuff.”

            “His boss.”

            “Yeah. Except it sounded like he said something else, like ‘Abilosh,’ and I said what? And he said, ‘No, boss, my boss’ and then he got nervous and shut up. But I was pretty sure I heard him right.” Gabler nodded at me. “I thought it was a little weird, but you get every kind of people here, you know? The survivalists are the worst. Anyway . . .” He paused. 

“He buys the stuff, and I’m ringing him up and he takes out his and calls someone. ‘I got everything,’ he says, and he’s talking about all the stuff, and when he hangs up I say, ‘Calling the boss, huh?’ And he looks confused, and then says, “yeah, yeah,’ like he forgot he said ‘boss.’” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s it.”

            I’m pretty good at spotting when people are lying. He sounded a little as if he was making up the story on the spot. “What made you call Irina?”

            He sighed. “It sounded like something from D&D. Dungeons and Dragons? I play with her sometimes. And Irina knows about this stuff, all right? She believes in magic and stuff. So I called her, and she looked it up in her books and told me some stuff, and then I forgot about it. Until—you know.”

            “The Archer murders.”

            He nodded. “I wanted to call the police, but my boss wouldn’t let me. If it was him, and he bought the stuff from our store, it looks bad, you know? That’s what he said, anyway.”

            “Is there security footage?”

            “It was weeks ago. It gets erased every 10 days.”

            “What was his name? What did he look like?”

            “He was tall, kind of skinny.” Gabler rubbed his chin. “A beard. He was wearing sunglasses. His name was, uh, let me think . . .” He closed his eyes. “Burnham. Something Burnham.”

            “And you haven’t heard from Greg Fowler at all?”

            “What does he have to do with this? No, like I said. Not since before Christmas.”

            I nodded, looking him over. I wished Rachel was with me. 

            “Burnham” I thought for a moment.  “Could it have been . . . Dean Burnham?”

            “Dean! Yeah, that’s right.” Gabler nodded vigorously. “His first name was Dean.”

            I’d picked the name at random. It wasn’t as good as having Rachel, but it worked sometimes.

            “Thanks.” I unzipped the tent opening.

A woman with her baby in a stroller gave us a suspicious look as we got out of the tent. “Well, I’ll have to think about it, but thanks for showing me the inside!” I said loudly. Gabler just stared at me, and I left. 

Out in the parking lot I sat in my car and called Lynda Fowler again. “I just talked to Gabler, and he says he hasn’t talked to your husband since before Christmas. He told me a story about a guy in his store a few weeks ago buying hunting gear. Bow hunting.”

“Ohh . . .” I heard her swallow. “What does this have to do with Greg? And this Abilosh guy?”

“I don’t know yet.” Yet. That was me being optimistic. “I’ll be in touch.”

Now what? I sat in the car, thinking. Just as I was on the verge of sketching the outline of an idea, my phone buzzed. Lynda Fowler.

“You said—you said Danny hasn’t talked to Greg since Christmas?” She sounded puzzled.

“That’s what he told me.”

“That’s wrong. I’m sure Greg heard from him a couple of weeks ago. Maybe two weeks?”

Two weeks. The same time frame that “Burnham” had purchased his archery supplies from Gabler. His story had fallen apart in 10 minutes. Maybe instead of going home for lunch I should go back inside and—

Before I could complete my thought, the door of the sporting goods store flew open and Danny Gabler trotted across the sidewalk into the parking lot. A moment later he was in a red Nissan, backing up.

“Gotta go,” I told Lynda quickly. “I’ll be in touch.” 

“What—” But I had to hang up. 

Gabler made a right turn out of the parking lot. I followed. He headed south on Ridge and headed into Chicago, into a middle-class residential neighborhood pretty much like the one where the Fowlers lived, and just a few miles away. 

            I parked half a block down the street and used my phone to look up the address. The house was owned by Cory Enterprises, which turned out to be a small packing and shipping store based in Evanston, owned by Andrew Cory. 

            In a few minutes I found out that Andrew Cory had served in the Army, been honorably discharged, then run a string of small unsuccessful businesses over the years. He didn’t have any social media that I could find, and not much of an internet footprint. 

Was he the Archer? I didn’t have any real evidence to believe it. It was suspicious that Gabler would run immediately to him after I asked him about Abilosh. But I didn’t have enough to take to the police. Even the cops who knew me and tolerated my stories about supernatural beings committing unspeakable crimes would be skeptical if my only evidence was a vague connection to an ancient European demon. 

I texted Rachel to let her know where I was, and then waited. I was hungry, and I found a half-empty box of stale granola bars in the back seat. They tasted like sawdust, but they were better than nothing. 

After 20 minutes Gabler left. I stayed, watching the house, hoping for a look at Andrew Cory. I drank a little water, not wanting to need a bathroom break soon, and kept the radio on at a low volume to help me stay alert.

After an hour and five minutes a Subaru van pulled out of the driveway. I couldn’t get a good look at the driver, but I started up and followed. 

The driver wasn’t alone. Another person sat in the passenger seat. Male or female, I couldn’t tell. I tailed the van for several miles, back up to Evanston, until it stopped in front of a self-storage building on Dempster Road. The passenger door opened.

Greg Fowler got out. 

I still couldn’t get a good look at the driver. I noted the address and the time, and waited. 

Fowler came back outside 15 minutes later, carrying a long nylon bag slung over one shoulder. He slid it into the back seat, climbed back in, and buckled his belt as the van went off again.

Again I followed. Whoever was driving didn’t spot me as we swung south and made our way back to Chicago. By now the afternoon shadows were getting long as the sun sank down in the west. The Subaru drove around for an hour and a half, wandering through the neighborhoods, pausing sometimes in front of a park or playground, as if the driver was looking for someplace he hadn’t found yet. 

Finally he stopped in front of a small park across the street from a high school. Teenagers lingered in the parking lot, but the street was sleepy and quiet. The passenger door opened and Fowler slipped out.

The car kept going down the street. Fowler walked over to the park’s gate.

I left my car next to a fire hydrant, expecting a ticket that I hoped my client would pay for, and made my way after him. He was passing a bench when I called, “Greg!” 

Fowler turned, and for a moment he didn’t seem to recognize me. Then his eyes twitched, and he started backing away, his face a mixture of confusion and fear. “N-no,” he stammered, shaking his head. “No!”

He turned and ran. I chased him. A mother with two kids collecting leaves nervously gathered her children to her. I didn’t. blame her, but I didn’t have time to reassure her right now.

Even though I don’t work out as often as I should, I managed to catch him before he reached the fence on the other side of the park. I grabbed at his arm, and he stumbled and stopped, gasping for breath. “Abilosh,” he grunted. “Abilosh . . .”

“Who is it?” I asked, holding his arm even though he wasn’t struggling or trying to get away. “Is it Cory? Andrew Cory?”

His eyes grew wide. “Cory? Cory?”

“Yeah, you were at his house.” I let go of him. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t run. He just nodded, staring at me. “Y-yeah, I’m, uh, f-fine—" 

And then a sharp shock of pan stabbed my leg, like a lance or a dagger. Or, I realized as I collapsed on the grass, an arrow.

For a moment I couldn’t see anything. The pain had me writhing and shuddering as I groaned. I tried to scream but my throat closed up. Was the arrow poisoned? Nobody had reported that. Maybe the cops kept that covered up.

I rolled over and managed to look up. I saw the sky, gray clouds drifting toward the south, and Fowler, worried. Not because of me. My head sagged, and as my eyes swam and started to grow dark. I tried to blink, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of a man in a dark red hood drooping over his eyes. He reminded me of someone I’d seen recently. Just today, maybe.

My last coherent thought was, Rachel is going to kill me. Then the pain took over and I passed out. 

 

I woke up in shadows. 

            My leg still throbbed. I tried to reach down for it, but I realized my hands were tied with duct tape. I blinked a few times until my eyes cleared.

I was in a basement, with gray cinder block walls and rusty steel I-beams in the ceiling. An old refrigerator stood in one corner, a washing machine and dryer in another. Stairs led upward, but the upper floor seemed as far away as the top of the Sears Tower. Or the Willis Tower, they call it now. 

I struggled to sit up on the ratty sofa they’d plopped me on and looked down at my leg. Someone had tied a towel around my right thigh, above the knee. The towel was blue but stained with my blood. I smelled rubbing alcohol, as if they’d tried to disinfect it before bandaging me up. After shooting me. 

             I closed my eyes. Yeah, Rachel was definitely going to kill me. 

Rachel. She could track my phone. Except, I realized as I squirmed around, I didn’t have my phone. And I hadn’t texted her with an update since leaving Cory’s house. But at least I’d texted her his address. I relaxed a little. 

            I wondered why the Archer hadn’t just killed me and left me in the park. I was grateful, yeah, but still curious. Curiosity. It made me a good reporter and at least a decent detective, but I tried not to think about what it did to the cat. 

            My leg hurt. I tried shifting it on the sofa, but nothing helped. What time was it? How long was I unconscious? Maybe Fowler and the Archer were out hunting more prey. Maybe they’d left me here to starve. I wished I’d eaten more than those stale granola bars.

            I dozed. My leg throbbed too much to let me sleep, but the shock and the fear were trying to knock me out. My head drooped and my eyelids sagged, and snatches of chaotic dreams streamed through my brain, mostly a mixture of flying arrows and sneering vampires, along with my mother looking disappointed and Rachel shaking her head in disgust. After a while I dreamed the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, but then I realized that wasn’t a dream and I opened my eyes.

            I saw sneakers, then jeans. Then a mustache. Dan Gabler. 

            He crossed his arms and sighed. “You asshole.”

            I groaned and tried to sit up. “You shoot me in the leg, and I’m the asshole?”

            “You could have stayed out of it. Why’d you have to come after me?” He sat on an unsteady wooden chair. “You could have just gone home.”

            I couldn’t resist arguing, even thought it might have been smarter to keep my mouth shut. “Greg’s wife hired me to find out what was going on. You asked Irina about Abilosh. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to connect the dots.” Rachel says I’m like one of those jokers on her reality shows who can’t shut up. She could be right.

            He sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It could be over by tomorrow. If they just—” He shook his head.

            “Who?”

            “Never mind.” He shook his head. “You just don’t know what you got yourself into.”

            “Are you Abilosh?” I asked.

His eyes went wide. “Abilosh? Hell, no. Abilosh is just a tool. He’s under control. Or he was, until now.”

            What was he talking about? “Then what’s—"

            I stopped, hearing a door from above, and then more feet on the stairs. Big boots, then long legs and big feet, and finally a face: grizzled cheeks, sandy hair in a crewcut, and narrow, bloodshot eyes. He reached the basement and stared at me, arms crossed, like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.

            Gabler stood up. “Andrew, take it easy. Tonight, everything will be over—”

            “The hunt is never over.” He smiled. “The hunt is in my blood.”

            “Andrew Cory?” I looked between them. “What’s going on, Dan? Who is this guy?”

            “He’s my uncle.” He looked as angry at Cory as he was with me. 

            “And he’s the Archer? Abilosh? What’s going on?”

Gabler stared at his uncle, who ignored him. Finally he looked away. “He’s always been a hunting buff. He didn’t do any hunting himself, oh, no, but he collects books about hunters in history and mythology, that sort of stuff. One day about a month ago I went to check on him because he wasn’t answering his phone, and he was passed out with his face in some old book. I guess he got it from some rare book dealer. He was on the page about somebody called Abilosh, and when he woke up, he was—different.”

            “Abilosh called me,” Cory said in a low voice. “He knows his own kin.”

            “I don’t know” Gabler shrugged. “But after he was awake and moving around again, he told me to get him hunting supplies. Hunting people was all his idea. All of it. I called Irina, because she knows a lot about this supernatural stuff, and she told me about Abilosh. That gave me the idea to—well, anyway I figured I better do what he said before he hurt me. He’s pretty scary now.”

Cory seemed to loom over the entire room, but mostly he was glowering at me. “What about Fowler?”

            “Abilosh calls for a hound,” Cory said. “To flush out the game. It is required.”

            “He told me to find someone and show him the book,” Gabler said. “Greg was just handy—I’m sorry about that, but it’s not my fault.”

            “Enough!” Cory—or Abilosh—jabbed a finger at me. “It’s time to finish this.” 

            “You don’t have to,” Gabler said, nervous. “Tonight could be the payoff—”

            “A hunter never leaves wounded prey.” He sounded determined. “I will finish it.”

            “Can’t you just do it here? You don’t need to—”

            Cory swung around and grabbed Gabler’s throat. “I guide the hunt! Not you!” He squeezed. “I will finish what I began,” he growled.

            “All right, all right!” Gabler pulled away, gasping. He lifted his head. “Greg!”

            More footsteps on the stairs. Greg Fowler. His eyes were glassy, his lids drooping, as if he were drugged, but I thought I saw something like regret on his face. As if he was sorry I’d gotten shot. 

“Get him upstairs and back in the van,” Gabler said. “Go with Abilosh. Wherever he wants. I have to stay here and—” He stopped, looked at me, and shut his mouth.

“What’s tonight, Dan?” I asked. “Something happening?”

“After tonight this can all be over. If they want it. If they pay.” He looked like he wanted to say something more, and then he looked angry at himself for saying anything. “Just take him! Go!”

Fowler shuffled forward slowly as Gabler found the duct tape and slapped a strip over my mouth. Then he pulled me off the sofa by my shoulders. 

I’m not exactly John Wick, so there wasn’t any way I could fight. I tried to be as limpy and awkward as possible, but they got me up the stairs anyway.

We made our way down a short hallway. I tried to take in the rooms we passed so I could to identify the place later, if I had a later, but my head was swimming too much from the effort of climbing the stairs through the throbbing pain in my leg. I stumbled down three steps into a garage and leaned against the van I’d followed, and then Fowler jammed a canvas bag over my head. I heard a door open, and then I got shoved inside.

“Stay on the floor,” Gabler ordered.

For the moment I was happy to lie down, too weak to think about doing more than curling up and whimpering. Then the van started to back down ad driveway. When it started bumping over rough pavement and potholes all I could think about was finding a position that wouldn’t give me even more bruises over my body. I worried about what Rachel would say when she saw me. And I worried about my chances of her ever seeing me again.

The Archer, Part Four

When I opened my eyes, the van wasn’t moving and I saw only darkness. A stab of pain in my leg reminded me where I was. 

            A car door opened. I felt a cool breeze on my scalp. “Come on,” a voice growled, and when I didn’t move, hands grabbed my legs and pulled. 

I yelped and tried my best to cooperate, and then my feet were on gravel and I was leaning against the side of the van, my head spinning. Night had fallen, and I saw stars trying to peer through the clouds overhead.

            Cory—Abilosh—stood in front of me, his dark red hoodie covering half his face. He held a bow in his hand, and I saw a quiver full of arrows hanging from one shoulder. Fowler stood behind him, swaying on his feet, eyes drifting aimlessly.

I saw trees, and then I saw tombstones and a mausoleum on a hill. A cemetery. This couldn’t be good. 

“This is the hunting ground,” Cory said. “Miles from anyone who might interfere. I am the hunter. You are the prey.”

I flashed on that short story, “The Most Dangerous Game.” It was a movie too. But being a demon, Abilosh probably wasn’t a big reader or movie buff. “This isn’t very sporting, is it? I’m wounded.”

“I’ll give you time.” The van was parked by the side of a dirt road. He pointed. “I will walk 500 paces down that road. Then I will count to 500. You may hide, or try to fashion a weapon, or pray for a quick death. It’s up to you.”

“And if you don’t get me? You’ll let me go? We’ll go find a tavern and laugh over a tankard of ale?” 

He glowered at me. “If you can escape me? Or be the better hunter?” A hollow laugh. “Yes, then you can go. With my blessing.” 

I didn’t need Rachel’s psychic powers to know he didn’t mean it at all. He didn’t believe I could get away, and I wasn’t sure I believed it either.

I looked around. “Where’s Gabler? Your nephew?”

“He had—business.” Cory spat on the ground, as if the idea of business tarnished the purity of his precious hunt.

I looked past him at Fowler. “So he drove? Or did you let Cory have his body back to get here? Is he going to hunt me too?”

“Usually this one is my hound. He signals me when the prey is close. I don’t think I need that for you. He will remain and ensure you don’t try to take my vehicle.” He patted a pocket. “I have the keys you need. You can’t get them from him.”

I looked into his eyes. I had so many questions. Too many. But if I could get him talking I’d buy a little time to think of some way out of this. Maybe. “How did Abilosh—”

“Enough!” Cory waved an arm. So much for that idea. “It’s time, Tom Jurgen. Get going.” He pointed a finger toward a tombstone. 

So I was never going to find out how Cory had gotten possessed by Abilosh. But I had bigger problems at the moment. I took a step, almost fell, and hobbled forward in the direction of the nearest mausoleum. Cory watched me, then turned and started walking down the road. The journey of five hundred steps starts with just one. One, two, three . . .

I took a few more steps myself, but I wasn’t going to get far enough. I needed to try something different. 

I staggered toward Fowler. “Greg.”

Fowler looked at me, then turned his eyes away. 

I couldn’t attempt a full exorcism on him. I mean, I’ve seen them performed, and I did one once, but not while someone was actively trying to kill me. I’d never be able to stay focused. I had to break through to him somehow.

“Greg.” I took his shoulders in my heads and leaned forward, trying to peer into his eyes. “You don’t have to follow him. You don’t have to do—”

He shoved me. I staggered back, fighting to stay up. “Greg.” I swayed on my feet. “Remember Lynda? Remember your wife? Your kids?” What were their names? “Your daughters—they need you.”

His eyes twitched, staring at me.

“You have a family, Greg, a family! Don’t forget them! Don’t let him make you forget—"

Fowler sagged against the side of the van, closing his eyes. He planted his hands over his ears, trying to block me out. I stepped forward and grabbed for his pockets. 

He had to have a phone on him. I hoped. 

For a moment he didn’t react. Then he swung an arm and punched me in the face. 

It was awkward and didn’t have much strength behind it, but it made my ears ring. He was slow, though, and I grabbed his arm and yanked, twisting his wrist as hard as I could.

Fowler stumbled forward and hit me in the chest with his other fist. I grunted, stepped back, and then slugged him in the stomach. He gasped and doubled over, toppling to the grass. 

Then I jumped on him, trying to knock the wind out of him while my hands scrambled over his pockets. I pulled everything out—keys, wallet, a pen, and finally found his phone. 

Fowler kicked at my wounded leg. I yelped, rolled off him, and crawled away, snatching the phone as I forced myself to stand up. Fowler was in a crouch, catching his breath. 

I turned and ran as fast as I could up the hill away from the van.

The pain in my leg made me want to shriek with every step, but I clenched my teeth and kept going, aiming for a mausoleum about 50 yards away. I looked back, but Fowler was still by the car, looking confused and unsure of what to do without Cory—or Abolish—to give him orders. 

I fumbled with the phone. It needed a code, but there was an emergency button at the bottom of the screen. I jabbed a finger at it as I reached the granite wall of the mausoleum. “Hello? Hello?”

“911, what is your—”

“The Archer is trying to kill me!” I knew I sounded crazy but I could only hope the cops would check out any call they got. “I’m in a cemetery, I don’t know where, my name is Tom Jurgen, and the Archer—”

An arrow flew by the side of my head and slammed into the stone behind me. I saw Cory running, sliding another arrow from his quiver, and I hobbled as fast as I could before he could shoot another one. “He’s shooting at me! Help me, help me!”

I threw the phone as far as I could, hoping the police could trace it before Cory found it. Then I scooted around the granite building. It had a sliding gate that was closed, but when I pulled on it, the gate slid aside, creaking with rust. I stumbled inside and shoved it back, then clamped my fingers around the bars, holding it closed.

Cory appeared. Smiling. “You’re making this too easy.” He pulled back his bowstring, just a foot from the metal bars. “But this is appropriate. Get ready to—”

Desperate, I reached through the bars and grabbed the arrow, shoving it away from my face before Cory could release it. He growled and tried to pull it out of my hand, but I held on, grabbing it with both hands, struggling with Cory until he gave up and backed away. “Fine. Keep it.” He reached back for his quiver.

Then Fowler came charging around the side of the building. He was moving faster than I thought he could, but his eyes were clear and his face was tense, as if he’d somehow gotten free of whatever demon was possessing him, at least for a moment. 

He tackled Cory to the ground. Cory roared, hitting him, and Fowler tried to wrap his hands around his throat, but Cory was squirming and kicked him. Fowler groaned, rolling around on top of him, battering at Cory’s face with his fists. Cory pushed him off, cursing, and started rising again.

Then I stabbed him in the back with the arrow.

Cory howled. He swung to me, and I pulled the arrow out and shoved it into his stomach and twisted. I didn’t want to kill him, but I was in pain and scared and I didn’t much care how badly I hurt him as long as he stopped trying to kill me. 

He lurched forward, trying to bring his bow up. I hit him in the face, and I felt his nose bend, and his blood over my fist. He yelled again but staggered back, and Fowler kicked at his legs. Cory fell down, swearing.

I dropped to my knees, panting, but I made my way forward. I pressed the point of the arrow into Cory’s throat. “You gonna stop?” My voice was raspy. “You gonna settle down?”

Cory swallowed, then nodded.

I looked over at Fowler. “Greg? You okay?”

He stood up, shaking. “I’ve got to got to get out of here.” He stumbled a few steps back. “Before it comes back. I’ve got to . . .” He turned and ran back toward the road.

I watched him go, sitting next to Cory. Keeping the arrow at his throat. I bit my lip, fighting to stay conscious. If I fell asleep again, he’d probably kill me and get away. 

I looked down at him. “Abilosh?”

Cory shook his head. “N-no. He’s gone. Don’t kill me.”

“Stay there.” I didn’t trust him. “Just stay there and let’s wait for the cops.”

 

Rachel looked down at me in the hospital bed. “That’s it. I’m quitting my job. How else am I supposed to keep you safe? Jerk.” She punched my shoulder.

            “Don’t quit,” I murmured sleepily. “We need the insurance.”

            The Evanston police had shown up faster than I expected. Cory lay motionless on the grass, but I still held my arrow at his neck. 

            I told them everything. Of course they assumed we were all crazy. The guy terrorizing the city was a demon archer and a possessed henchman? Cory helped me by suddenly starting to rave and rant about Abilosh’s vengeance as they slung him on a stretcher and carried him down to the ambulance. 

            I called Rachel from the hospital. She’d tracked my phone to the park where Cory had shot me, and she’d been talking to the Chicago PD when my call came. She reached Evanston Hospital five minutes before the cops, just long enough to make sure I wasn’t going to die and then explain how she was going to make me suffer when we got home. It was a relief when the detectives showed up.

            One of them knew me: His name was Cruz, and the other was a woman named Perez. Cruz shook his head. “Jesus Christ, how the hell did you end up mixed up in this, Jurgen?”

            I shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

            I told them the whole story. When I finished, Cruz sighed and Perez shook her head. “You were right,” she told her partner. “He is crazy.”

            “Hey.” Rachel stiffened. “He’s my husband. I tell him he’s crazy at least once a day.”

            “You have my sympathy,” she told Rachel.

            “What about Greg Fowler?” I asked. I’d heard that the cops had found him lying in the gravel under the van, trembling, unable to speak, as if he’d gone catatonic.

“They’re talking to him down the hall. What I hear, he’s not saying much. Still in shock, or whatever. His wife’s with him.”

            Oh-oh. She wasn’t going to be happy with me. Not that I could blame her. But I probably wasn’t going to get paid. “And Gabler?”

            The two cops looked at each other. “Someone’s been demanding the city pay $1 million to stop the Archer. We thought it was probably a hoax, but we set up a sting tonight. You’ll find out who we caught in the news tomorrow.”

            Gabler. That made sense now. I nodded. “Glad you caught him.”

            “It wasn’t hard.” Cruz reminded me to come down to make a formal statement once I got discharged, then left.

            Rachel made me sit up to fluff my pillow. “You okay? Need more pain pills?”

            “Not right now.” I closed my eyes. “Just give me a few minutes. If I fall asleep, you can—”

            “Mr. Jurgen?” Lynda Fowler’s voice.

            She stood at the door, uncertain, looking at me and Rachel, as if deciding whether to speaking or run away. Finally I nodded. “Come in.”

            Rachel put a hand on the safety rail, ready to jump between us if she planned to scratch my eyes out or something. “I’m sorry,” I said. “For whatever it’s worth, I’ll testify that your husband attacked Cory and saved my life. Something in him must have broken free at the last minute.”

            Her eyes were red, and she clutched a tissue in one hand. “Are you okay?”

            My leg still hurt, along with other parts of my body, and Rachel’s status remained uncertain. But I didn’t want to add to her worries. “Yeah. They gave me stitches and antibiotics. And a sandwich. I’ll be here tonight at least. Maybe tomorrow.” I tried to force a reassuring smile. She was trying to be nice. “How about Greg?”

“He’s starting to talk like himself. He says—he wanted me to check on you. To make sure you’re okay.”

            “Tell him I’m fine. Tell him thank you.”

            She nodded. “Yeah. I hope you feel better.” She looked at Rachel. “I’m, uh, Lynda Fowler—”

            “I’m Rachel. Tom’s wife.” She looked Lynda over sympathetically. “How are you doing?”

            Lynda sighed. “I don’t know. It all feels so weird.” She wiped her nose with the tissue. “I—I should get back.” She turned. “Good night.”

We watched her go. “You should probably refund her retainer,” Rachel said. “She hired you to help her husband, and you ruined his life.”

            “I didn’t ruin it, his so-called friend Gabler did that. Not to mention Abilosh.” I sighed. “But yeah, you’re probably right.” I leaned back and closed my eyes. “You don’t have to stay.”

            For a moment I thought she’d leave. Then she pulled a chair over to the bed and picked up the remote. “Let’s see what’s on TV.”

            I smiled and went to sleep. 

            

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