Demon Lover, Part One

It wasn’t the kind of case I ever wanted to take. But it wasn’t one I could turn down.

            “She’s mine.” Katrina Briggs held out a copy of the court order. “I have legal custody. But Webb took her from school yesterday, because they didn’t get the notice or something.  And I don’t know where he is. But . . .”

            She was in her early thirties, with short brown hair and eyes bloodshot from crying. “I’m just so scared.”

            So here I was. Standing in front of a door, with nothing but a piece of paper to protect me.

            My Taser had broken a few years ago, and it had never been much help anyway. So I had my smart mouth and my wits. I was probably doomed.

            I pressed the bell.

            After thirty seconds, I pressed it again.

            After ten seconds, the door opened—just enough for the chain behind it. “Yeah?”

            I saw only a jaundiced yellow eye and a thin mustache. “Robert Webb?”

            “Who the hell are you?” His voice was a low growl.

            “Tom Jurgen.” I pushed a card through the door. “I’m a private detective, and I have a copy of a court order giving custody of Nikki Webb to Katrina Briggs. If she’s inside, you’re in violation of that order, and I can call the police right now. Or we can do this quietly.”

            The door closed. Then it opened again.

            Webb was six feet tall, with a jutting chin and thin cheeks. “You want her? Come in and take her.”

The apartment was small but tidy, except for a pizza box lying on the floor next to a pile of empty water bottles. A curtain hung over one wall, as if hiding an inappropriate poster.

A nine-year-old girl sat on the couch, clutching a stuffed elephant, staring at the TV. Spongepants Squarebob, or something like that. But she wasn’t really watching. She looked as if she just hoped we’d all go away.

“Nikki?”

She didn’t answer.

“Nikki!” Webb’s voice stomped a foot on the carpet. “Talk to him!”

“Hold on.” I pulled my phone. “I’m not trying to scare you. Just—talk to your mother for a minute, okay?” I pressed a button.

Katrina Briggs picked up. “Hello?”

“It’s me. She’s right here.” I handed the phone to Nikki. “Talk to your mother.”

“Bitch.” Webb folded his arms. “Lying, cheating—”

“Just be quiet.” I folded my arms too, trying to look like something who could take him.

I wanted to run. Most of my work is trailing cheating spouses and workers comp fakers. And, okay, the occasional vampire. It’s a living.

Nikki’s face trembled. “What? What about . . . okay.” She rubbed her nose.

A black bruise stained her cheek, just below her left eye.

Nikki stood up. “She wants to talk to you again.”

I took the phone. “I think we’re good.”

“Whatever. Just . . . bring her home.”

I slipped my phone back into a pocket. “Let’s go, Nikki. It’ll be all right.”

“You asshole.” Webb threw my card on the floor. “I’ll remember this.”

I took Nikki’s hand. “Did you do that to her? Her eye?”

“I fell.” Nikki squirmed. “I hit my face on the door. I’m just clumsy sometimes.”

Webb patted Nikki on her head. “It’s okay, kid. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, daddy. I love you.” But she didn’t look back as we walked to the door.

“This isn’t over.” Webb snarled before closing the door.

Katrina Briggs grabbed Nikki the minute we walked into the condo. “Oh my god. Oh my god . . .”

            Nikki let her mother hug her, then pulled away. “Hi, mom.”

            “What’s that?” Katrina pointed at the bruise. “Did he hurt you?”

            “I hit a chair.” She looked into the living room. “Can I watch TV?’

            “I’ll get you some ice cream.”

            Nikki planted herself in the biggest chair and hit the remote. I followed Katrina into the kitchen.

            The apartment was small but comfortable. The kitchen was tight, but it had a door that Katrina closed just enough to hear Nikki if she wanted anything.

            “What happened?” Her voice was a hoarse, frightened whisper.

            “There wasn’t a problem. But . . .” I hesitated. “It wasn’t a chair. Before, she said it was a door. I’m pretty sure he hit her.”

            “Goddamn him.” She slammed the freezer door.

            “He said it wasn’t over. He said he’d see Nikki soon.”

            “Oh god.” She started scooping ice cream. “What do I do? I can’t exactly move. I have a job, I have . . . she has school. Her friends.”

            This wasn’t exactly my area of expertise. But I have handled a few stalkers. “There are lots of legal protections. But in the end . . . I don’t know. If he’s dangerous—”

            “You have no idea.” She shuddered.

           

Back home at 10:30 p.m., I looked in my refrigerator.

            I had half a six-pack of beer. I’m not allowed to drink beer because of the medication I take for depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I keep it for Rachel.

            I opened a bottle of water and went to the dining room table to check the email on my laptop.

            Two possible new cases. And a lot of spam. One email from my mother, asking whether I was coming for Thanksgiving.

            Why was I waiting? I picked up my phone and called Rachel. “You home?”

            “Where else would I be? How’d that child snatch work out?”

            Rachel lives upstairs. She’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes, and sort of psychic powers. “I got the kid out. She’s home with her mother.”

            “Good.”

            “He hit her.” I kept seeing the bruise below Nikki’s eye.

            “Oh.” Rachel paused. “Did you thrash him to within an inch of his life?”

            I tried to laugh. “How long have you known me?”

            “So, no.” She sighed. “What now?”

            “I don’t know. Right now, the job is over. But he said it’s not finished.”

            “You can’t solve every problem in the world, you know.”

            “I guess.” I sipped my water. “See you tomorrow?”

            “You want me to come down now?’

            “No, that’s all right.” I stretched. “Thanks.”

            “Always here. Except for 10:30 tomorrow, I’ve got a meeting with a client—”

            “Love you.”

            Rachel hesitated. “Yeah. Same here.”

So I spent two blissful days doing boing P.I. work—background checks, fraudulent workers comp claims, tailing a cheating spouse to a seedy motel, the bread and butter of a private investigator’s job. Not very glamorous, but at least I wasn’t dealing with vampires, werewolves, or angry ghosts.

            Then Katrina Briggs called me again, weeping, at 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. “She’s gone again! I don’t know what to do . . .”

            “Okay, okay.” I’ve listened to clients sobbing, and I never know what to say. “What happened?”

            “We’re at my sister’s. In Wheaton.” She gulped. “And he just showed up.”

            “Have you called the police?” They could help more than I could.

            “Yes, but . . . it’s more complicated than that.”

            It always is. “What do you want?”

            “I can’t.” She coughed. Not over the phone. Can you meet me? At my apartment.”

            That beat driving down to Wheaton in rush hour traffic. “Of course. Can I bring an associate? She works with me.”

            “Whatever.” Katrina sniffed. “Two hours?”

It was more like three hours, but Rachel and I met Katrina in her condo.

Katrina’s sister Meghan opened the door. She had long brown hair that matched Katrina’s short cut, and she looked us both over as if checking us out for evidence of drug use. “Who are you?”

“Tom Jurgen.” I held out a card. “And this is Rachel. She works with me.”

            Meghan looked at the card. “I hope you can help.”

            “Meg? Is that—” Katrina shouted from inside.

            Meghan let us in and locked the door.

            Katrina sat on the couch, rubbing her eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

            “How much is this guy charging you?” Meghan planted her hands on her hips. “If this is some kind of scam—”

            “Shut up!” Katrina pounded one fist on a cushion. “He’s the only one who can help me!”

            “We’ll do what we can.” I stood next to a chair. “What happened?”

            Katrina rubbed her eyes. “He was just there. Inside the house—”

            “The door was locked.” Meghan glared as if everything was all my fault. “And there he was. That bastard.” She sank down onto the couch, but far from her sister. “Why you ever married him, I don’t know.”

            “Not now, Meg.” Katrina grabbed at a box of tissues. “Okay?”

            “Let’s focus on the facts.” I stayed standing, with Rachel next to me. Her vaguely psychic power could pick things up that I couldn’t. Which is why I wanted her here.

            Plus, I like having her around.

            “What happened?” I looked at Katrina, waiting.

            She blew her nose. “I only hired you because your website said you do things with, uh, unusual cases?”

            “That’s right.” Oh hell. Was Webb a vampire? Or something else? “I’ve handled all sorts of problems that most people wouldn’t believe.”

            Meghan snorted. “Get ready.”

            Katrina shot a glare at her sister. Then she sat up, straightened her shoulders, and looked at me. “The thing is? I married a demon.”