Meeting of Minds, Part One

“How can I help you, Mr. Jurgen?”

            Professor Horace Garn set my business card next to the laptop on his desk. Outside his narrow window in the Williams Archway building, students walked to class across the campus in the rain. Some ran.

            In his 50s, Garn had thin, steel-gray hair receding up his scalp. His office was stuffed with bookshelves that looked like someday they might topple over and prevent him from ever leaving.

            “I’m a private detective.” It said so right on my card. “It’s about one of your students, Ashley Moore.”

            He frowned. “She’s not in any sort of trouble, is she? She’s one of the best students in the department.”

            “She’s disappeared.”

            Garn blinked behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

            “She left for your seminar Tuesday night and didn’t come home.” I’d talked to Ashley’s roommates. They’d gotten worried—Ashley didn’t have a boyfriend and never stayed out without calling someone. Her mother lived in California. Disabled, she couldn’t come out right away, so she’d called the Chicago PD and started looking for P.I.s in the city. I don’t know why she settled on me, but she sounded close to panic, so I agreed to take the case.

            “First, was she at your seminar Tuesday night?” This was Thursday morning.

             Garn leaned back in his chair. “Yes. Of course.”

            “Did she leave alone?”

            He hesitated. “I don’t remember. Students leave in groups. I don’t usually notice who goes with who.”

            “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

            A shake of the head. “No. Nothing.”

            “What’s the subject of the seminar? Her roommates were a little vague.”

            “It’s . . . more of a discussion group than a formal seminar.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “We explore historical events from the viewpoint of the ordinary people involved. It’s a fascinating meeting of minds.”

            Uh-huh. I wished I’d brought Rachel with me. As a psychic, she can pick up lies and omissions better than me, but I was pretty sure Garn was hiding something. “This discussion group meets once a week?”

            “Twice, but—” He took off his glasses. “Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

            “Could I sit in tonight?”

            “No.” That was firm. “It’s a private group. Invitation only. My wife and I are very clear on that.”

            Garn’s wife, Marjorie Shutter, was a sociology professor at the same university. I’d looked them both up. “Dr. Shutter is involved with the group?”

            “We have the same interests.” He planted his glasses firmly on his face. “If there’s nothing else?”

            I had lots more questions, but I decided to take a different approach. “Not right now. Thanks for your help.”

Back in my Honda I called Ashley’s apartment. One of her roommates picked up. Eva. “Do you know where Dr. Garn holds his seminars? And what time?”

            “It’s uh—I think she said it was in Reynolds Hall. Around 6:30. I don’t know what room. Is she all right? Do you know where she is?”

            “Not yet.” I thought about Garn. “What did she tell you about the seminar?”

            “Not much. I guess they wanted to keep it all—secret? Maybe for the research. I’ve got this one prof who makes us sign NDAs for every experiment we do.” Eva was a psych major. “But she’d always come back kind of tired. Strung out? She’d go right to bed.”

            “How long has she been going to the seminars?”

            “A couple of months. She was excited that he asked her. Garn’s a pretty big deal in the history department.”

            I’d checked his CV. Multiple degrees from Harvard, dozens of books, and he’d even been featured in a short-lived series about ancient Mesopotamia on PBS in the 1990s. “I can see how he might be intimidating.”

            “Yeah, Ashley was scared about flunking his class last quarter, but he gave her an A for her final paper and she got completely drunk.”

            I remembered the fun of college—and the stress. “Thanks for your help.”

            “I hope she’s okay.”

            Me too. We hung up.

            I called Rachel. “I’m going back to college.”

            “Oh god.” Rachel’s my upstairs neighbor and my girlfriend—again. We’ve been through a lot. “This isn’t some mid-life crisis thing, is it? Are you signing up for New Age Philosophy 101? Because if you are, I’m not sure we’re speaking anymore.”

            I laughed. “No, just hanging out on campus like a middle-aged stalker. It’s the case I told you about.”

            “Getting anywhere? You need me to help?”

            “Not right now.” It was close to lunchtime. “I’m heading home, but tonight I have to come back to stake out a lecture hall somewhere.”

            “Sounds exciting. Any monsters yet?”

            “Not so far.” My cases tend to veer toward the supernatural. Maybe this one would be different.     

“I’ll come with. If you want.”

            “Okay.” I liked that. “Meet me around 5:00?”

            “It’s a date. But not really a date, you know.”

            We have a strange relationship sometimes. “Got it.”

I worked on some other cases through the afternoon. Got to pay the rent. At 4:45 Rachel opened the door. She has a key. “We ready to go?”

            Rachel has red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she was wearing loose jeans and the Harvard sweatshirt she’d picked up at the Salvation Army years ago. “We’re going to a college, so figured I ought to wear something scholarly.”

            “That looks great.” I closed my laptop and grabbed my jacket. “Everything okay?”

            “Finished one marketing page, got two more tomorrow.” Rachel does graphic design. “This will be a nice change of pace.”

            “I hope so.”

            We headed down Lake Shore Drive to the university. I had to park a few blocks away, so we walked and found a bench in the middle of campus to watch Reynolds Hall.

            The rain had stopped. Students sauntered down the walkways, checking their phones if they were alone or holding hands if they had a friend—or both. I held hands with Rachel for a while, not talking, just enjoying the breeze through the trees.

            At 6:15 we were getting ready to head into Reynolds, pretending to be clueless adult students and ask everyone we could where Professor Garn’s seminar was held. But my phone buzzed. Eva, Ashley’s roommate.

            “Mr. Jurgen? I just got a call from Ashley. She’s—she sounded sort of crazy.”

            Uh-oh. “Crazy how? Where is she?”

            “She asked me to come get her. She’s at the library. Outside it. I can get there in a few minutes, but—”

            I didn’t know the campus that well, but I figured I could get there before Eva. “I’m on campus now. I’ll meet you there.”

            “What’s up?” Rachel looked at my phone as I tried to pull up a map.

            “Ashley’s roommate. She says Ashley’s at the library. Which is . . .” I peered across the quad. “That way.”

            We walked fast. The library was across the street—a big gray castle surrounded by grass and benches, a fountain spurting high streams of silvery water in front of the wide main row of steps leading up to its gates.

            Ashley’s mother had emailed me some pictures, so I spotted Ashley sitting on a stone bench. She had big eyes and black hair in a ponytail, and she was watching the water rise and fall as if meditating. Rachel and I took a seat where we could keep an eye on her. I didn’t want to approach her without Eva.

            For someone who’d sounded crazy on the phone, Ashley sat calmly, her hands on her lap, her head tilted toward one shoulder. Or maybe she’d fallen asleep. I glanced at Rachel. “Can you sense anything?” Rachel’s psychic.

            She rolled her eyes. “Not from here.”

            “Just thought I’d ask.”

            “You think this is one of your usual-unusual cases?”

            I’d been hoping not. But I do seem to stumble into supernatural doings. I’m not sure whether I attract them or something in the spooky realm has it in for me. Either way, it’s warped my career. Cost me my job as a reporter, one marriage—and almost lost Rachel.

            I squeezed her hand. “We’ll see.”

            She punched my shoulder. Lightly. “I guess we’re in this together.”

            Eva showed up a few minutes later, jumping out of an Uber. An African American woman in her twenties with short curly hair and white jeans. We stood up.

            She nodded but kept heading toward Ashley. “Ash? Are you all right?”

            Ashley’s head jerked up. “Uh . . . hi. I’m, uh . . .” Her head swung around. “I’m at the library. I’m all right.”

            “Eva?” I’d met her at the apartment yesterday. “It’s me. This is Rachel.”

            “Hi.” Eva sat down next to Ashley. “You called me. Where you been?”

            “I don’t . . .” Ashley blinked. “Wow. I just want to go home.”

            “Ash . . .” She stood up. “This guy’s Tom Jurgen. He’s a private detective. Your mom hired him to look for you.”

            “Oh.” She looked up and smiled, embarrassed. “I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

            Then she slumped over, half-conscious. Eva caught her, and Rachel swung to the other side to hold her up.

            “I’ll get an Uber.” Eva pulled out her phone.

            “Can we come back too?” I looked around, but we weren’t attracting any attention. Yet. “I’d like to ask her some questions. If she can stay awake.”

            “I guess.” She tapped her phone.

            I knelt in front of Ashley. She wore a suede jacket and a pink blouse with stains from ketchup and coffee. A necklace dangled around her neck, holding a small moon-shaped charm with an S-shaped line running from top to bottom, as if it could separate into two halves. Her breath smelled as she hadn’t brushed her teeth in a day or so.

            I looked up at Rachel. “Anything?”

            She nodded, her eyes wide. “Oh yeah.”

Back at the small apartment Ashley lay on the couch, eyes half-open, breathing softly.

            Eva brought her a cup of tea and tried to help her sit up. “What’s wrong with her?”

            First things first. “I have to call her mother.”

            The phone rang four times before she picked up. “Mrs. Moore? It’s Tom Jurgen. Ashley is safe. She’s back in her apartment. She’s sleeping.”

            “Oh my god. Oh my god.” Mrs. Moore sounded close to hyperventilating. “Is she all right? What happened? Let me talk to her!”

            “She seems fine. Let me see . . .”

            Ashley was sipping the tea with both hands, her eyes glassy. “Who are you?”

            “Your mother wants to talk to you.” I hit speaker. “Mrs. Moore?”

            “Ashley?” Her voice rose. “Ashley, is that you?”

            “M-mom?” She looked around the room, as if she didn’t know where the voice was coming from. “It’s me, mom. I think so. I’m just . . . so tired.”

            Her hands trembled. Eva caught the cup before it fell on the floor.

            “I love you, Ashley!” Mrs. Moore took a deep breath. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

            “I love you too, mom.” Ashley closed her eyes. She sagged against Eva’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m okay. Just . . . give me a minute.”

“We’ll have to call you back.” I couldn’t imagine what her mother was feeling right now. “I’ll have her checked out by a doctor. But she’s safe.”

            “Thank you. Thank you . . .” She choked a sob before hanging up.

            Eva picked up the teapot. “Just drink this.”

            I motioned Rachel toward the kitchen. “Give us a minute?”

            “Whatever.” Eva held the cup for Ashley.

            The kitchen didn’t have a door, so we huddled near the sink. “So?”

            “There’s—something inside her.” Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “And it’s angry.”

            Something—“A demon?” We’d both had enough of demons lately.

            “No.” She shook her head. “I think it’s asleep right now. That’s why she could call Eva.”

            But it could wake up at any time. Damn it. Why couldn’t I get just one simple wandering daughter case without running into a denizen from Hell, or at least one of its suburbs?

            Back in the living room Ashley managed to set her teacup down, with Eva helping. Then she sank forward, burying her face in her hands.

            “Ashley?” Eva nudged her. “You all right?”

            Her head jumped up. She looked around the room, blinking, and took a deep breath. After a moment, she lurched to her feet, the necklace swinging across her pink blouse.

            “I’m fine. I just need to . . . give me a minute.” She took a step forward, one shin hitting the table in front of her, and then she spun. “That’s my room, isn’t it?”

            “Uh, yeah.” Eva moved the teapot. “Are you—”

            “I’m fine!” She staggered into a bedroom. “I just have to—”

            She slammed the bedroom door. Then the front door opened.

“Hi, Eva. I’ve got a lot of studying to do, so don’t—” Another young woman, her hair cut close to her scalp, dropped a backpack on the floor and pulled a leather jacket from her shoulders. “Hi. Who are you?”

            I hadn’t met the third roommate yet. Jenn? “Tom Jurgen.” I didn’t have time for the full intro. I wanted to check on Ashley. “Rachel, you tell her—”

            “Ashley’s back,” Eva said. “But she’s sick or something.”

            “Well, I’ve got a chem lab tomorrow, so—Ashley? Where’ve you been?”

            Ashley was standing in the bedroom doorway.

She held a small handgun in her fingers.

Eva started to stand up, but she dropped back when she saw the pistol. “Ashley? What the hell—”

“Shut up.” Her voice was hoarse and angry as she stalked froward. “Get out of my way.” She shoved Jenn in the chest and darted into the hall.

            I glanced at Rachel. “I’m going.”

            “Just don’t be an idiot.” She punched my shoulder.

“I’ll try not.” Then I followed her.

Ashley pounded down the stairway in the hall, jumping down the steps two or three at a time. By the time I reached the front door of the apartment building she was running down the street.

Maybe I could catch her. Or maybe she’d shoot me. And Rachel would be mad.

            So I trudged back upstairs. “She got away.”

            Rachel rolled her eyes. “She had a gun, jerk.”

            “That’s why I let her get away.” I leaned against the door, letting my heart slow down. “Why does she even have a gun?”

            “What?” Eva laughed bitterly. “Do you all hear the news? A guy was shot down the block from here two weeks ago—and women get raped around here all the time.” She looked like she wanted to kick something. Maybe me. “I’ve been thinking about getting something myself.”

            “Uh, who are you again?” Jenn was sitting on the couch next to Eva, her shoes off. “And what was that?”

            “Ash is sick. Or something,” Eva glared at me. “Right? Should we call her mom? Or the police?”

            “Not yet.” I looked at Rachel. “We’ve got to find out where Garn’s seminar is. He’s mixed up in this. Somehow.”

            “Professor Garn?” Jenn looked up. “Reynolds Hall? It’s on the 4^th floor.”

            I stared. “Are you sure?”

            “Uh, yeah.” She pulled her bare feet under underneath her. “Ash told me she’d rather walk up four flights than wait for the elevator. You’re really a detective? Cool.”

            “Mom wanted me to be an accountant.” I motioned to Rachel. “Let’s go.”