Reign in Hell

Tom’s search for a former colleague leads him to a plague of demons and takes him straight to Hell—literally.

Reign in Hell, Part One

Chip Shannon sat at the bar, a half-empty glass of beer in front of him as he typed his last text message on his smartphone.

            The bartender, a tall woman in a black T-shirt, watched him in the mirror. Shannon knew she was suspicious of him. He’d stumbled inside, tripped on a chair, and hauled himself up on a bar stool, breathing hard. But he’d managed to speak coherently when ordering his beer, even though his mind was racing, and paid right away with a ten-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change.

            He paused, his fingers trembling. He had only one chance—and maybe not much time left. 

            Only one person might believe him. Shannon gulped some beer and hit “send.” Then he muted the ringer.

            He always kept a notebook in his back pocket. Old habit, even though he had a tablet computer slung over his shoulder. He scribbled some words, wrote a name in big capital letters, and tucked the paper inside his phone’s case. 

            “Hey?” Shannon stood up. “I’m out. Thank you.” He left his phone on the bar, next to beer, on top of a twenty-dollar bill.

            She smiled. “Have a nice night. Hey, wait!” She pointed. “You almost forgot that.”

            Shannon shook his head, feeling tired. “A friend of mine will pick it up tomorrow.”

            The bartender shook her head. “We can’t be responsible for personal property left here. It’s on the door.”

            He finished his beer. “If he doesn’t come tomorrow, throw it out. But if he does come, please give it to him. It’s important.”

            She picked up the phone and turned it over in her hand, maybe wondering if it was a bomb. “Who’s the friend.”

            “His name’s Tom.” Shannon lurched for the door. “Tom Jurgen.”

I don’t look at my phone the instant I wake up. I usually hit snooze on the alarm two or three times, roll over, curse, and head to the shower while Rachel snores softly. 

            Then, breakfast. Cereal, coffee, and the morning newspaper. I skim the headlines, read the comics, and switch to my laptop for other stories. 

            I’m in the office Rachel and I share by 7:30 or so. Then I check my email, review my to-do list, and drink some more coffee.

            Then I look at my phone for messages.

            I had a text. I don’t usually wake up to the buzzing noise of text messages on my phone, so I’d slept through this one. It had come in at 1:37 a.m.

            TOM—RETRIEVE MY PHONE AT MACLENNON’S BAR ON CLYBOURN. PASSWORD IS 1494. LOOK AT PICTURES. YOU’LL UNDERSTAND.  

            It was from Chip Shannon.

            We’d worked together years ago at the Chicago Tribune when I was reporter. He was younger than me, a solid reporter and a top writer. That was before I got fired for insisting that the stories I wrote about vampires and other monsters were true, no matter how crazy they sounded. 

Nowadays I’m a private detective, but he stayed on. I hadn’t seen his byline lately, though I looked for it all the time.

            I reread the message. We hadn’t communicated with each other in a long time. But I still have a reputation for finding the unusual—or having it find me. 

            YOU’LL UNDERSTAND. Did that mean he’d stumbled across something supernatural?

            I sent a message back: YOU ALL RIGHT?

            I didn’t get an answer.

Rachel came in to the office around 8:30, in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a mug of coffee. “Hi, there.” She leaned down to kiss my neck.

            For a moment I forgot all about Chip Shannon. Rachel’s my girlfriend. She has red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she’s sort of psychic. But she didn’t need psychic powers to spot the website on my computer screen.

            “You’re looking for bars first thing in the morning?” She punched my shoulder. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

            I had the MacLennon’s website on my screen. A nice smooth wooden bar, dozens of craft beers on tap, a row of premium whiskeys and vodkas on a shelf. Blurred shots of customers. A neon sign from the street.

            I showed Rachel the message. She stared at the name. “Who’s Chip Shannon?”

            “I worked with him at the Trib.” Shannon was freelance now, like a lot of reporters who didn’t survive the purges when the internet started chopping up print media. I’d found dozens of articles by him on various websites. He’d been a crime reporter like me, but now he mostly covered business issues—with the occasional look back at an unsolved murder or robbery or mysterious occurrence. So we had something in common.

            I’d sent him a message on the “Contact Me” link in his latest story, something about small business owners nervous about tariffs and the economy. I checked his Facebook page. He was married to a cute young blonde named Sherry, and listed credits from a dozen top news sites—including the Chicago Tribune online edition.

            I sent him a friend request. It couldn’t hurt.

            MacLennon’s opened at noon. Most bars will hang onto credit cards and other misplaced property for a short time, but I wanted to make sure it didn’t get thrown away. I called the number. 

            “MacLennon’s, how can I help you?” The voice was female.

            “Hi, I know you’re not open yet, but my name’s Tom Jurgen. A friend of mine left his phone in your bar last night, and he asked me to pick it up.”

            “Right.” She sounded irritated. “We’re not supposed to turn things over to anyone but the owner. But Jen said the guy was pretty insistent.”

            “I got a text from him this morning. It seemed important.”

            “All right.” The woman yawned. “Get here at noon. Bring some ID.” She hung up.

            I looked at Rachel. “Want to hit a bar?”

Reign in Hell, Part Two

“This is what you’ve done to me.” We stood outside MacLennon’s at 12:04. “I’m hanging out in bars at noon.”

            “You said you wanted to come.” I was glad, though. She might be able to pick something up from the phone, though she’s better with people than objects most of the time.

            Plus, I like having her around.

            The barroom was long and dark, with Irish memorabilia all around because every other bar in Chicago has to have some Irish flair no matter who owns it. It’s apparently a city law. Already two customers were seated at the bar, one drinking beer and the other contemplating a shot glass of whiskey in front of him.

            An African American woman came out of the back room. “Hi.”

            I perched on the edge of a stool. “Tom Jurgen. I called?”

            She peered at my ID. “I guess.” She leaned beneath a cash register that looked like something from the old west, and came up a moment later with an iPhone with a Post-It on the cover with my name. “Like I said, this isn’t standard. Tell your friend he can’t do it again.”

            “I will.” I hoped. “What was he like last night?”

            “I wasn’t here. Jen said he came in looking drunk, but he drank his beer and paid for it like everyone else. Then he just sat at looking at his phone before he left it here.”

            “Thanks.”

            “You want anything?”

            It was a little early for beer, but spending some money seemed only polite. “A Coke? Two?”

            Rachel nodded and hopped up on a stool next to me. I opened the case, and a scrap of paper fluttered down.

            CHECK PHOTOS AND VIDEO, the note read.

            The phone vibrated in my hand. Incoming call—HOME. I let it go, then tapped in the password Chip had given me. 

            I saw 12 missed calls and two voicemail messages, all from home. But before calling back, I hit the photo gallery icon.

            I’d seen most of the images on his Facebook page. Lots of wedding pictures. Chip in a tux and Sherry in a wedding dress, plus bridesmaids and groomsmen, and other brides and grooms from other weddings. Plenty of nature shots. Some “What I had for lunch” photos. A few that looked like they’d been taken by accident. No porn (thank god). I scrolled down, down, down . . .

            Then I found it.

            At first I couldn’t figure out what I was seeing. I turned the phone, looking at it from other angles, held it close, then pulled it away.

            Rachel saw it first. And gasped. She doesn’t gasp easily. “It’s a demon.”

            Fiery red eyes, a wide jaw, multiple rows of jagged teeth. Yellow skin pulled tight around a bony skull and shoulders. 

            Blood dripping from its chin.

            “You’re sure?”

            Rachel slugged my arm. “I’ve been possessed by demons, remember? I’m sure.”

            Our Cokes came. I dropped a twenty on the counter between them. “Thanks.” Then we stood up, Rachel wobbling in her sneakers. “Let’s get out of here.”

            The phone vibrated again. I ignored it.

In the car—my new Acura—we looked at the photo again, then at a few more. The same demon, or maybe a different one, it was hard to tell, and then two images of a group, three or more. They looked like they were dancing in a circle around a fire. 

            Then we went to the videos.

            Again, wedding videos, party videos, walking-through-the-woods-holding-hands videos, followed by—

            “Ugh.” Rachel turned her face away.

            A circle of demons, howling and laughing, danced around the fire. But in the middle of the fire . . . might have been something human. Once.

            The figure screamed. I still didn’t have the sound on, and I was glad, but I could see his or her throat contorted as the neck twisted around, eyes searching desperately for help.

            My breakfast was in danger of rising again. I shut it off. “You okay?”

            “What do you think?” Rachel didn’t even slug me.

            I gritted my teeth. “I have to look at the others.”

            She nodded and turned her face toward the street.

            The second video was just like the first. Dancing, howling, fire—demonic dogs biting the human victim. It was only 20 seconds, but I barely made it through the first five.

            The third and last video was somehow worse.

            It didn’t have a human victim being tortured. Just a dozen or more demons, fighting each other to run forward toward the phone, laughing and waving hands with claws.

            I turned the sound up as low as I could to hear it. Rachel put her hands over her ears.

            They were screeching, braying like bloodthirsty wolves. But I could make a few words out:

            “—coming! Let us through! We are coming—”

            The video ended abruptly, as if someone had closed a door on them. 

            I dropped the phone in my lap and caught my breath until I was sure my breakfast was safe. But I still needed a few minutes before I could speak.

            I risked a look at Rachel. “Did you—get anything out of that?”

            She shrugged. “Just what you saw. Demons torturing humans. And they’re coming.” She punched my shoulder. “What the hell was your pal up to?” 

            “No idea.” Now I knew how the cops felt whenever I reported something crazy. 

            The phone buzzed. This time I could hear it, but I waited again until the buzzing stopped. Then I took a swig from the water bottle I had in the car, and a deep breath, and searched Chip’s contact list for “Home.”

“Chip? Where the hell have you been?” Sherry sounded feverish. “I’ve been calling and calling—”

            I broke in. “This isn’t Chip. My name’s Tom Jurgen. Chip and I used to work together at the Trib.”

            “Uhh . . .” I heard her swallow. “What are you doing with his phone? Where is he?”

            “Chip left his phone at a bar last night and texted me to come pick it up. I—uh, I don’t know where he is right now.” I could imagine—maybe—how anxious she had to feel.

            Her voice tightened. “Who are you again?”

            “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. Like I said, we used to be reporters together, but I haven’t heard from him in years until last night. But he apparently had a reason to contact me.”

            Sherry took a moment to process that. “What reason?”

            “Can we meet?”

            “Oh god.” I heard a sob. “I guess. Here’s our address.”

            I started the car. 

            They lived not far from us, in North Lincoln Park. Rachel felt better by the time I found a parking space, but she slammed the door as we got out. “I don’t ever want to look at that again.”

            “Me too.” We rang the buzzer on the apartment building.

            Sherry looked as if she’d been up for days. She wore sweatpants and a loose tank top, and her hair was frazzled. “Come on—hi.” She blinked at Rachel. “I’m Sherry.”

            “Rachel.” They shook hands. “I work with Tom.”

            “What’s going on?” She looked ready to cry again.

            I wished I knew. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

            She stumbled across the carpet into the living room, where a bigscreen TV mounted on the wall ran a silent CNN. A cat on the sofa watched us with suspicion.

            Sherry sank down and grabbed a glass of water from a table littered with magazines and crumpled tissues. “What do you want? What’s going on? Where is he?”

            We sat down. I tried to start from the beginning. “When did you hear from Chip last?”

            “Yesterday morning.” She grabbed a tissue. “We had breakfast. I had to go to work. I’m a, a paralegal.” She blew her nose. “He worked from home. In there.” She pointed at a bedroom door, half-closed. “We kissed, and I left.”

            “How did he seem?” Rachel leaned forward.

            “Excited. The way he always is when he thinks he’s got a good story. A little nervous, but he’s always like that too.” She gulped her water. “What did he tell you?”

            “Not much.” There was no way I was going to share his photos and videos. “Do you know what story he was working on?”

            Sherry shook her head. “He writes so many stories, I can’t keep up. Insurance, health care, mom-and-pop stores, drug companies. And I try to listen, but I’ve got too much to handle at work. He did . . . wait a minute . . .”

            She sank down. For a moment I was afraid she was going to fall off the sofa. Then her head jerked up. “He said something about a doctor. I think his name was Morley. I don’t know. But he definitely wanted to talk to him about something. I don’t know what.”

            The cat jumped on her lap and started purring. Sherry stroked its back, crying softly.

            Rachel and I glanced at each other. She shrugged. Which meant that Sherry wasn’t hiding anything. She was genuinely upset. Terrified.

            And she hadn’t even seen the videos.

            I waited while Sherry pulled herself together. But I had to ask: “Can we take a look at his computer?”

            She wiped her eyes. “I don’t know. He doesn’t even let me see what he’s working on.”

            “It might help me find him. And figure out what’s going on.”

            “Okay.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Go ahead.”

            The bedroom/office was packed with boxes and filing cabinets. I took the chair in front of the desk while Rachel leaned behind me. 

            “A gentleman would let me sit down.” She slugged my shoulder. “Should I start searching?”

“Not yet.” I powered the computer up. “I may need you to hack his password.”

But Chip’s iPhone password was the same as the one he used for this computer, a Dell that looked several years old. It was slow, but eventually his desktop came up, and I started looking around.

Chip’s desktop was more organized that mine. I found folders on most of the big Chicago-based businesses—Sears, McDonald’s, Walgreens, and others. Small businesses too. I clicked on a few at random and found files of research and stories he’d written. 

No folder named “Demons,” though. 

So I started methodically searching each one, in case he’d hidden demon-related information where it wouldn’t be obvious.

Bored, Rachel started searching the boxes, starting with the ones dated most recently. “Any porn?”

“Not so far.” Everyone has porn on their computers—I’m a private detective, I know these things—but I wasn’t looking for it and hoped I didn’t stumble on any. After checking every file dated this year, I went to his web browser and checked out his bookmarks.

Most of them were related to his work. I looked at his Facebook and LinkedIn pages, found nothing, and then started running down the list. Again, bookmarks for Chicago companies he reported on, along with professional associations he belonged to, plus the usual assortment of personal-interest sites—TV shows, antique dealers, birdwatching, comedy, and the like. I started checking out every single one. The exciting life of a private detective. Even when you’re hunting for demons. 

Rachel crossed her legs on the floor, sorting through paper files. “It’s mostly just printed copies of his stories and his research. Like he wanted to have physical copies in case his computer died. Hey, here’s one—”

“Wait.” I got to “Antiques,” which seemed odd, considering the only antique in the apartment seemed to be Chip’s computer. I clicked the link—

—and found a webcam of what looked like a throng of reptiles sleeping on top of one another like snakes. What the hell?

Then one of them lurched up. Not a snake.

A demon.

I leaned back. I knew the demon couldn’t see me—I hoped—but my cowardly impulses took over. The demon snarled, revealing rows of long, jagged teeth, then attacked the demon sleeping next to it.

In two seconds, they were all awake, battling each other. Just like in the video on Chip’s phone. I didn’t have the headphones on, and I was glad, because I was pretty sure I didn’t hear the howling and biting and gnawing of demon flesh that must have filled the air—wherever it was. 

            “Yuck.” Rachel stood behind me. “What the hell is that?”

            “Exactly. Hell.” I checked the URL at the top of the screen. No site name, just a string of numbers and symbols. I opened a Word document and did a copy-paste. “Can you find out where this is from?”

            “Maybe.” Rachel’s a graphic designer, but she knows more than she should about the dark side of the internet. “Right now?”

            I clicked off, then found Chip’s email server. Maybe I should have started there. I sent the document to my email, then started skimming his subject lines. “What did you find?”

            “This.” She held out a folder. The handwriting on the tab said, “Moreland Research,” with a date just a week ago.

            At first I didn’t see the connection. It was a collection of internet articles on someone named Charles Moreland, a tech consultant specializing in quantum computing. I know less about quantum computing than I know about brain surgery, but it was pretty easy to tell that Moreland was a quack—his quotes in the articles were full of technobabble that would have gotte a Star Trek script writer fired.

            But Chip had circled one quote in red: “With these opportunities, we may be able to peer into other universes, other dimensions—where humans don’t exist, but maybe angels or demons thrive.”

            “Huh.” Moreland might be a crackpot. But if there was any connection between his research and the “Antiques” bookmark . . .

            “Keep looking.” I turned back to the computer.

            “Aye-aye, captain.” Rachel’s been helping me with my cases long enough to know that you can’t give up just because you find one lead.

            A half-hour later we were finished. Only the Moreland lead looked worthy of checking out.

            “Did you find anything?” Sherry was drinking coffee and working on a laptop, apparently trying to work even though her eyes were red and she had a pile of used tissues on the couch next to her. 

            “Maybe.” I didn’t want to make any promises. “We’ll be in touch if we learn anything.” I handed her my card. “Call me if you hear anything.”

            She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “Thank you.”

Reign in Hell, Part Three

Back at the apartment I got Cokes for both of us. In the office Rachel started tracking down the website while I worked on researching Charles Moreland.

            “Don’t you have work to do?” I glanced over my shoulder. “I mean, thanks, but you mentioned a landing page and—”

            “Well, you’re not getting paid for this either.” She tapped her keyboard. “And if we’re looking for demons from another dimension, the LP can wait a day or so.”

            I swigged my Coke.

            Moreland Research had a website. The cover page showed row of computer servers, with an image below of a 60ish guy with gray hair, a round nose, and a thin beard. The top line read MORELAND: SEEKING NEW ANSWERS.    

            The page was full of more techno-nonsense. I got the idea that Moreland was selling advanced data services for sales, marketing, and PR, with a side order of health care and HR. Maybe Rachel could make sense of it, but it flew right past me, and I know a little bit about AI and SEO.

            So I clicked on “About Us” to find out more about Charles Moreland.

            Born in New York, went to Yale, graduate degrees in various computer-science related fields from CalTech. Worked for Microsoft and Oracle, then at different IT consulting firms until founding Moreland Research three years ago. Why did he move to Chicago from the West Coast? No indication that I could see.

            The website only listed two other people: Victoria Moreland, with a degree in computer engineering from the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign and another impressive résumé of tech work. The photo showed a woman in her thirties with short black hair and sharp eyes behind glasses. Maybe his daughter, probably not his wife.

            The other staffer was David Mahoney, similarly degreed and talented. He was from Ireland.

            Then I went to the web. Moreland showed up pretty quickly, once I separated him from the other Charles Morelands on the internet. 

            He was 63. No wife mentioned, but Victoria was definitely his daughter. It looked like he’d been fired from Oracle, but I couldn’t get any juicy details. I kept looking—LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter, and some other social media sites. Nothing but marketing materials. A few reviews, ranging from five stars to “Stay far away.” That’s typical, though. I try not to do a vanity search on myself too often, but when I do, I get a wide spread of sentiments from clients—from “He saved my life” to “He’s an idiot.”

            I leaned back and stretched. “You got anything?”

            Rachel grunted. “The demon site is hosted offshore. I’m trying to dig through whatever source code I can find, and some of it looks like it might link to the Moreland site, but I can’t be sure.”

            I sighed. “Thanks. Keep digging.”

            I dug some more too, looking up whatever I could find about Victoria Moreland and David Mahoney. They turned out to be married, their wedding date a year before Moreland had founded his company. Did that mean anything? Maybe not.

I realized I’d been putting off the obvious, again. So I took a deep breath and a swig of Coke and picked up my phone.

“Moreland Research, how may I help you?” The voice sounded you, female, and slightly bored.

“Charles Moreland, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moreland is unavailable right now. May I take a message?”

“When do you expect him back?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I really don’t know. Message?”

“How about Victoria Moreland?”

“Vickie? Let me see . . . please hold.”

A moment passed. Two. Then: “Vickie Moreland.”

“Hi, Ms. Moreland.” I’d planned my approach. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. My friend Chip Shannon was apparently doing some research into Moreland Research, but he’s dropped out of sight, and I’m concerned. Can you tell me if you’ve had any contact with him?”

She hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr.—Jurgen? I don’t think I’ve heard of any Chip Shannon. What kind of research was he doing here?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Like I said, he dropped out of sight right after calling me. There were some—disturbing videos on his phone.”

Rachel swung in her chair. 

Vickie’s tone grew guarded. “What kind of videos? What is this? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

I turned my phone to speaker. “No, no, not at all. I apologize. I’m just worried about my friend. I wanted to speak with your father, but he’s apparently unavailable, too. The videos were . . .”

I glanced at Rachel. Go ahead, she mouthed.

Yeah. Might as well put the truth in the lead. “The videos are demons. Fighting each other. I can’t tell where they came from, but Chip had them on his phone and a link on his computer, and he called me, because . . .” She didn’t know me, or my reputation for getting involved in supernatural doings. “You can look me up. I know about this stuff.”

“Wait a minute . . .” I heard fingers tapping keys. “Okay, there you are. Wow, there’s a lot of stuff about vampires and zombies and stuff. You look like some kind of crackpot.”

I’d heard that before. “Hang on a minute. What’s your email address?”

I picked up Chip’s phone, accessed his email account, and sent the photos and video to Vickie. Then I used my computer to send her a link to the other website. “You should see these soon.”

“I’m busy here! I don’t have a lot of time to—okay, wait. You’ve got 30 seconds, and then . . .”

She fell silent. 

After a moment: “Okay, this could just be bad CGI. Or at least fairly good. What are you—”

“Check out the link. Tell me if you recognize it.” I waited. 

A full minute passed. “Hello?” She’d either hung up, or—

“It worked.” Vickie gasped. “David! Come in here and look at this!”

Rachel and I shared a glance. “I think she sees it.”

Moreland Research was on the northwest side of Chicago, in a small gray building next to a vacant lot. We parked across the street in front of a Mexican restaurant. The smell of burritos and salsa made me hungry. Maybe later.

            The receptionist inside, a young Asian woman, looked at my card and made a call. Rachel and I had barely made ourselves comfortable with magazines—ComputerWorld, Fast Company—when the door opened. “Mr. Jurgen? I’m David Mahoney.”

            He had brown hair and thick hands. I introduced Rachel—he checked her out in her T-shirt and jeans and boots, of course—and he led us through a cubicle maze where workers tapped their keyboards and talked in whispers. At the back he knocked and opened a door marked “Victoria Moreland.”

            Vickie Moreland scowled as we entered. The sun shone through the blinds behind her desk. She had short black hair and glasses, like in her profile pic, and a round nose like her father’s in his profile picture. “Mr. Jurgen. Are you working for someone?”

             “Chip Shannon is a friend of mine. He’s disappeared, after sending me what I sent you. I don’t need a client to investigate. And I’m not looking for any money from you.”

            “That’s right.” She crossed her arms. “Since you’re here—”

            “You invited us here.” Rachel sat.

            Vickie narrowed her eyes. “You’re—who?”

            “Rachel.” I sat too. “She’s my associate.”

            David stood behind us, as if guarding the door.

            Vickie sighed. “I asked you because it looks like you might have some expertise that can help me.” She opened her desk draw and pulled out a checkbook. “Is $500 enough as a retainer?”

            I tried not to blink. “It depends on what you’re retaining me to do.”

            David took a step forward. “Vickie—”

            “My father has disappeared too.” She scribbled on the check. “Last night sometime. He was . . .” She tore off the check. “David, can you explain?”

            David pulled up a chair and took a breath. “I’ll try. Uh, Charles is sort of an investigator too. But he was looking into—using quantum computing to—try to find other dimensions.”

            “He got fired from Oracle for hijacking their systems for his research.” Vickie sat back. “He tried the same thing at Microsoft before that, but he managed to resign before getting terminated. So he came here, because I live in Orland Park, and set up this.” She spread her hands around the office.

            “Wait a minute.” I leaned forward. “Rachel’s the computing expert, but even I know you can’t mount a quantum computing operation in a storefront like this.”

            “Yeah.” David looked at Rachel. “We’re not CERN. We outsourced some of our work to other sites, but Charles used—other tools.”

            What kind of tools? “Wait.” I shook my head. “What was he investigating?”

            David and Vickie looked at each other, as if daring the other to answer first. Finally Vickie sighed. “Hell.”

            I waited. Until I realized that she wasn’t just swearing. “You mean—”

            “He became obsessed with demons.” David ran a hand through his black hair. “And angels, but mostly demons.”

            “It started a long time ago.” Vickie sighed. “My mother, uh, died when I was 14. I went to live with my aunt here. I didn’t talk to him for a long time. Then he wanted to start a company here. It was totally legit.” She glared at us, as expecting an argument. “Helping companies with SEO and CRM—mostly small companies, but we do good work here.” She pointed at her computer monitor. “I can show you the sales figures, the testimonials—”     

            “What about the demons?” Rachel turned to David.

            He looked at the floor. “He kept working on that. Like I said, obsessed. When he couldn’t use actual quantum computing, he went to, uh—” He glanced at his wife. 

            “Alternate sources.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. 

            Uh-oh. “What kind of sources?”

            “I don’t know. He’s very—secretive about it. I didn’t really know what was going on until a few days ago, when he was holed up in his office for 12 hours. I knocked on the door, and . . .” 

            She shoved her chair back. “It’s better if I show you.”

Reign in Hell, Part Four

Moreland’s office was next to Vickie’s door. She opened it with a fob, the kind I used to start my new car. Vickie went in first.

            The lights were dark. Burned-out candles sat on half-empty bookcases, the books piled on the floor. The blinds on the windows were shut tight. A candelabra sat on the desk next to a computer monitor, an empty pack of cigarettes sitting at the base. Two ashtrays were filled with cigarette butts and ashes. An oriental rug covered most of the floor

            “This is it.” Vickie leaned against the side of a bookcase and flicked a light switch. “What I found yesterday. He was already gone.”

            Rachel moved behind the big metal desk and leaned down to tap some keys. She looked up at the monitor, then down under the desk. She pressed the power button. Then she pressed some other buttons, and hit a few more keys. The computer hummed to life.

            I slid behind her. “What have you got?”

“I’m going to need some passwords.” She looked up at Vickie. 

            “Wait a minute.” David closed the door behind him. “There’s too much proprietary information there—”

            “Shut up, David.” Vickie joined Rachel behind the desk. “Here. And here. And—here.”

            Rachel giggled as she hit the keys. “Okay, here’s something. And this. Wait, who’s this?”

            David, behind her, leaned and planted a hand on her shoulder. I tried not to overreact. Rachel could take of herself if he misbehaved, but I’m still a guy with a girlfriend. I waited.

            “She’s the one.” David pointed. “That site. We had all kinds of traffic coming in and out of there for the last few days. Our customers got mad—it was clogging everything up—wait!”

            Too late. Rachel clicked the link. I slipped behind her to watch the screen—and to keep David honest. Vickie crowded next to me.

            Q SERVICES—A TOTAL SOLUTION. That was the headline at the top of the page. Beneath it, an image of a middle-aged woman with black hair streaked with gray, leaning back in a black pantsuit. 

            QUERELLE was her name apparently. Below that, the usual links: Who We Are, What We Do, Our Team, and Contact Us. Then one for “Q Insiders.”

            Rachel clicked the button.

            Fortunately for us, Moreland had saved his password. 

            His Insider page had links to business functions. Rachel clicked on one and found a list of clients—but those required another password, and Moreland hadn’t saved these.

            David pulled his hand away from her shoulder. “I don’t think we should let these two look at this information—”

            “We can’t see anything anyway.” Rachel kept clicking.

            “Even the names of our clients are confidential.” But Vickie didn’t move to stop her. 

            “We don’t care about clients.” I pointed. “That one.”

            “Way ahead of you, shamus.” She clicked on a file named “QPortal.”

            Password protected. Damn it. I looked at Vickie. “Any ideas?”

            “I still don’t think—”

            “Shut up, David.” Vickie pushed Rachel’s chair back to open the top desk drawer. “He’s not the type to write things down, but maybe . . .”

            Rachel tried a couple of obvious possibilities, like Vickie’s name in various versions, puns on “quantum” and the like, while Vickie and I searched the desk.

            Then Rachel shifted back to Moreland’s desktop and started clicking thorugh files while Vickie and me—and eventually David—went through the drawers. He kept murmuring protests about Moreland’s privacy, but Vickie ignored him. 

            Of course, Rachel found it first. In a file called “Victoria,” he kept a document named “Alpha.” It contained a long list of passwords. 

“Yahoo!” Rachel pumped her fist. “Let’s see what we’ve . . .” She scanned down the page and found the word Qport23al.

“Not very imaginative.” But Rachel copied it, went back into the Q Services website, and pasted it into QPortal link.

The next page had a series of links. Rachel clicked the first one:

A barren landscape. Jagged cliffs in the distance, sand and rock up close. For a moment it looked like a still image, but then I saw the sand drift in a soft breeze. A red sun hung low on the horizon.

Rachel went back and clicked the next link. 

This showed a man, naked, bleeding, chained to a wall. Thin ribs and a sunken stomach. His head rolled back and his lips moved: HELP ME.

It was Chip Shannon.

“What the—” I fought back a surge of nausea before I could vomit my breakfast all over the desk. “What the hell was your father doing?”

“Oh god.” Vickie looked at David. “Did you know—what did you know?”

“You know how he’s been!” David shook his head. “It’s been weeks since I’ve been able to get him to focus on work. If this bitch got into his head—”

Rachel sighed as they argued, and clicked another link.

Clouds in the sky. A calm blue sea underneath. Birds spinning in the air—until Rachel zoomed in.

Not birds. Angels.

Male and female, naked like Chip, but smiling as the wings on their shoulders adjusted to the warm currents. Two of them flew to each other and kissed. Others circled around them, gazing down at the ocean or up into the sky, spreading their arms and lifting their heads as if they were singing—

Rachel backed out of the link. “This one is bullshit.”

“But that was Chip.” I focused on breathing, One, two, three . . .

I leaned down and planted my elbows on the desk. There were more than ten links on the screen. I took the mouse from Rachel and clicked another one.

This was the howling demon site. Right now they were somewhat quiet, sitting cross-legged, heads down, a few of them kicking or elbowing the demon next to them.

Then a head popped up, right in front of whatever camera was watching them. Its red eyes were wide as a pair of soccer balls, and its fangs dripped with spit. It howled, punched a fist, then jumped back, its arms and legs whirling like whips.

In an instant, the rest of the demons were awake too. Screaming, jumping up and down, clawing at each other—they didn’t care if they were hurting each other. Blood spurted. All they showed was rage.

Just like before.

Vickie and David were still arguing. “I’ve been trying to keep this place going!” His face was getting red. “I didn’t know what he was up to, locked in here all day while you were running the business—”

“Someone had to!” She lurched back and took a breath, running a hand through her black hair. “Look, you two—what’s going on here? Yeah, my father was trying to contact—something. And I guess he did it. If any of this is real.”

“We know demons are real.” Rachel had been possessed more than once. My fault, but she didn’t hold it against me. Most of the time. “But those angels are definitely bad CGI.”

“Wait a minute.” Vickie grabbed my arm. “What are you talking about? Yeah, my father was trying to contact—something. And I guess he did it. But—where is he?”

David slid behind the chair to hold Vickie’s shoulders. “We’ll figure this out, Vick. Hold yourself together.”

I stood up, wishing for some water. “We’ve got to find Chip. And figure out how Querelle is accessing other dimensions. Unless this really is some sort of scam to milk your father out of his money—”

“Money?” Vickie snorted. “We’re running on fumes here. I’m checking the floor for nickels and dimes.”

Rachel sighed. “This is going to take a while.” She leaned forward. “Give me some space. And some water. Maybe a sandwich. I missed lunch.”

“David, do it. Whatever they want.” Vickie staggered against the desk. “Just, you know—find my father.”

Ninety minutes later I looked up from my phone. The demons were quiet again. I had the link to Chip. He was sleeping, sagging against the chains. I forced myself not to look too long.

            I looked up. “Uh, sorry. Anything?”

            “What do you expect?” Rachel jabbed her fingers on the keyboard. “Like I said, the whole site is hosted offshore. Maybe Russia or Eastern Europe. Geography is my weakest Jeopardy!category. I think I can get a phone call to Querelle, but that means risking this whole computer getting hacked and burned.”

            I stood up, my legs unsteady from crouching too long. “It’s a tech company.” I looked at David. “You must have a few laptops they can spare.”

            Vickie lurched up and stalked from the office. David followed her. A few minutes later they came back, a laptop in her arms. “Here.” She set it on the desk. “We’ve got a dozen different accounts on 20 different modems, so we can let this one burn if we have to.” She wiped a hand across her forehead. The office was warm, and we were all kind of sweaty. “Use this password.” She dropped her phone on the desk.

            “It should have all the virus protections.” David watched as Rachel opened the lid and booted it up. “I suppose we can afford a new one if they don’t work. Maybe.”

In a few minutes, she’d set up to access QServices, and Moreland’s account. “Okay, here goes.” She shut down Moreland’s computer and tapped a few keys on the laptop. “Setting up a Skype connection.”

            Vickie leaned over my shoulder. David stood at the door, as if guarding it from the other employees—or keeping them safe from the office.

            At first the screen was blank. Rachel adjusted the sound. After a few moments, we made contact—a young blond woman with a puzzled look on her face, as if she’d never had to take a Skype call before—or any kind of call. “Hello, this is, uh, Q Services? How can I—may I help you?”

            “This is Tom Jurgen, calling from Charles Moreland’s account.” I tried to hold my voice steady. “I need to speak with Querelle.”

            “I am not—let me see—” Her accent was Italian. Her hair fell over her face as she leaned down to tap her keyboard. “I am sorry—your name again?”

            Vickie pushed me to one side. “Victoria Moreland. My father is Charles Moreland, and he’s spent thousands of dollars with your service. We want to talk to Querelle, right now.”

            “Uh, please wait . . .” The screen froze. 

            I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”

            She shrugged. “Beats working in the office.”

            Two minutes passed. Three. Then . . .

            A woman popped onto the screen. Her face was thinner than in her profile picture on the home page, and her hair was mostly gray. She wore a black blouse and a long gold necklace that dangled on her chest.

            “Yes?” She smiled. “I’m Querelle. How can I help you?”

            Vickie leaned in. “Where is my father, you bitch?”

            “Oh.” Querelle tilted a shoulder. “He’s right here. Give me a second . . .”

            The screen split. To one side, Charles Moreland sat in a chair. A throne, really, made from huge black bones. Dinosaurs? Demons? Whatever. He wore a blazer spattered with blood, and a loose tie loose pulled to one side. His blue shirt was streaked with sweat.

            Demons danced around him.

            “Dad?” Vickie grabbed the edge of the screen. “Dad! Are you there? What’s going on?”

            “V-Victoria?” He leaned forward, peering at something in front of him. “Is that you?”

            “Dad?” Her voice was a hoarse shout. “What are you doing there? What’s going on? What are those—things?”

            Moreland sat back, crossing a leg over his knee. “They obey me.”

            “Dad!” Vickie pounded the desk hard enough to shake the laptop. “Get out of there! This is crazy!”

            “This is where I belong.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t find your mother. Now I’m in Hell. But it’s better here . . .” He spread an arm. “Look at them. They worship me.”

            Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven? I shuddered.

            Querelle closed the split screen. Moreland disappeared. Vickie groaned and lowered her head, sobbing.

            “We’re done now.” Querelle moved a hand forward to quit the connection.

            “No, we’re not!” Who was shouting? Oh, yeah. Me. “Wait a minute!” 

            Rachel clutched my arm. Querelle paused and flicked her eyes across the screen. “Who are you?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I lurched up. “You’ve got my friend Chip in chains. Maybe Moreland wants to be there—”

            Vickie shrieked. “No! Get him out”!

            I hoped we could. Somehow. One problem at a time. “What’s he doing there? How did he get there? And Moreland? What the hell are you doing?”

            “Hell.” Querelle licked her bottom lip. “That’s what I’m doing. Do you want to come and see?”

             Rachel punched my shoulder. Hard. “Don’t answer her.” She shot her fingers across the keyboard. “I can shut this down—”

            “No!” Vickie grabbed her hand. “Then we can’t get him out of there! Stop!”

            “Bitch. You don’t understand.” Rachel swatted her away. “I think I can—wait, wait—Oh, goddamnit, Tom. . .”

            Too late. I clutched the edge of the desk, my body shaking. Oh no. Oh hell—

Reign in Hell, Part Five

I’ve traveled to alien dimensions before. It usually feels like a seizure, shaking my body and twisting my nerves, cold air rushing through my body. I gasped, waiting for it to be over. Rachel . . . Rachel . . . Rachel would get me out. Somehow. 

            I tumbled on a bloodstained floor and fought to sit up. My legs shook. My shoulders shivered. I rubbed my eyes. My neck was stiff.

A demon yanked at my leg.

I twisted and kicked. My heel hit the demon’s face, but it didn’t stop him. He leaned down, jaws wide, ready to take a chomp out of my skinny ankle.

“Tom?” Chip Shannon leaned down, blood leaking down his arms from the shackles on his wrists. “Oh, god, help me . . .”

“I’m trying!” I kicked again. The demon grinned at me, fangs dripping with drool.

            Then a voice thundered: “Stop!”

            The demon froze. I looked up. 

Charles Moreland peered down from his throne, his eyes as red as the demons. “They obey me.” He smiled.

“W-what are you doing here?” My voice cracked. 

He sighed, “I was looking for my wife in Heaven. I couldn’t find her, so I came here.” He looked past my shoulder.

I turned, and saw a horde of demons thronged behind me. Most were sleeping. A few were eying me and Chip hungrily, whipping long tongues around their lipless jaws.

What were they? The decayed, corrupt bodies of sinners sentenced to Hell? I didn’t even believe in God, much less Heaven and Hell—although I’ve got an open mind about Satan.

I looked back at Moreland and relied on my reporter’s and detective’s instinct to keep asking questions. At least until the demons had me for lunch. “So what do you want?”

Moreland sat down. “I’ve only been here a few days. Maybe I’ll lead them back into the real world. Or send them back one by one to possess human souls. I still don’t know everything they can do. But they’re desperate to get out.”

I knew the feeling. “How did you bring Chip here? And me?”

“You were watching the feed. That was easy. Your friend somehow found the feed, so he was connected. That took a little more work before we could pull him here.”

Oh god. What if he brought Rachel? I had to end this somehow. Fast. 

Unfortunately, my superpowers begin and finish with asking questions. So I kept it up. “We? You and Querelle? What’s she doing?”

 “She said I could be powerful here.” He shrugged. “This is what I was trying to find—a portal to other dimensions. When I gave up on finding Laura . . .”

Despair. It’s an irresistible impulse, and the devil feeds on it. “Wait, think! What does Querelle want? What if she’s just using you?”

He grinned. “What if I’m just using her?”

“Why isn’t she here?” 

Moreland tilted her head. “We’re working together. She wants to explore—”

“Then where is she? What does this place do to you?” I looked at Chip. Then back at the demon horde. 

Maybe—

“Are you going to turn into one of them?” I jabbed a finger. 

It was just an idea. Maybe the wrong one, maybe a bad one. But Moreland tilted his head, as if he hadn’t thought about it before. He was a scientist. They like asking questions too. If I got his attention . . .

I felt dizzy, so I kept asking questions: “How long have you been here? What do you eat? What do you drink? What if they turn on you? What if—”

“Shut up!” Moreland stood up again, wiping a hand across his forehead. His jacket and shirt were soaked with sweat. “I’m in charge here! These creatures listen to me!” He swung a finger. “RISE UP!”

The demons woke. Most of them, at least. They jostled each other, snarling, ready to fight. Some of them turned to gaze at Moreland—and me.

“They will rip you apart if I tell them to.” Moreland leaned down. “Show a little respect.”

Frankly, they didn’t seem that interested in Moreland. A fight broke out, and suddenly dozens of the demons were struggling with each other, their fangs flashing, claws slashing, arms and legs swinging in every direction as they built a pile of tangled, bleeding bodies. None of them dead, though. Still twitching—ready to get back up and join the battle.

Maybe some would obey Moreland. Most just looked like they wanted to go crazy with each other. And, okay, Maybe me.

I stumbled to my knees, already exhausted after being here only a few minutes. I was hot and thirsty—this was Hell, after all—and close to giving up. Just like they wanted me to.

But my question had apparently stabbed a little doubt into Moreland. He stalked toward me. “You can’t die here. No matter how hungry or thirsty you get, you can’t starve. They can eat the skin off your body, break all your arms and legs, snap your spine, and you’ll never—”

“I get it, I get it!” I leaned back to look up at him. “Eternal torment. That’s sort of the mission statement of Hell, right? Just ask Querelle—who really rules in Hell?” I managed a weak smirk at the rhyme. “I sort of remember a guy called Satan.”

Behind me I heard the demons shouting with rage. I didn’t want to look back.

Chip struggled to lift his head. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to—do this to you . . .” His eyes closed. He couldn’t die, but he could apparently pass out.

Moreland stomped a foot. “We’ll settle this, asshole. Querelle!”

I slumped on the ground. Hard dirt, smelling like a toilet. Moreland stomped his foot again. “Querelle!”

The ground rumbled beneath me. I lurched up. Chip’s head dangled. Blood seeped from half-dried wounds in his neck. I tried to turn around. Querelle? Would she save us? Or condemn us to more torture? I almost didn’t care. Almost.

But it wasn’t her.

I blinked, then closed my eyes. Blinding fire burned my eyelids. I covered my head. Okay, okay, maybe this was it. Even if I didn’t die. Ever. I thought about Rachel, my mother, my brother and his kids, my father—he’s dead—and Chip. And then Rachel again. 

A thunderous voice boomed in my ears. I couldn’t make out any words. I went fetal, trembling. This couldn’t go on forever, could it? I hoped not, even if it meant—

Then I was falling. As if the ground had ripped open beneath me. Falling into a cold dark void, my body shaking, tumbling head to foot, until—

“You jerk!” Rachel slapped my face. “Open your eyes! Talk to me! Or I swear to god—”

            I grabbed her arm before she could hit me again. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

            She kissed my forehead. “Asshole. I was worried!”

            I rolled over on the rug. Chip lay next to me, his breath shallow. Someone had dropped a blue couch cushion over his crotch.

            “Hi, Tom.” He shifted his body with a groan. “Good to see you again.”

             “Yeah.” I sat up. “You okay?”

            Behind him, David was doing CPR on Moreland as Vickie clutched his wrist. “Come on, come on, come on,” she chanted. “Come on, dad, come on—”

            “We could see you.” Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the laptop. “We couldn’t hear much. Then there was this burst of light, and it just went black. For a minute I thought the thing was fried, but it’s still working.”

            “What about Querelle?”

            She shook her head. “Gone. The feed’s just down.”

            Paramedics arrived a few minutes later. One team looked at Chip and me, the others went to Moreland. Chip asked for water—he was probably dehydrated. I wasn’t injured, except for a few bruises.

            One of the paramedics took Vickie to a corner of the room. They talked in whispers, and Vickie started to cry. 

            The other paramedics stopped working on Moreland. 

            Chip gulped some water and managed to stand up, although the paramedics insisted on putting him on a gurney. I managed to convince Buck, a young African American paramedic, that I was okay to go home on my own, and after taking my pulse and flaring a penlight in my eyes, he clapped my shoulder. “Get some rest. And lots of water.”

            The other crew pulled Moreland’s body through the door. Vickie followed him. 

David looked at Rachel and me, his face pale. “You need to leave. I’m sorry.”

            Suited me fine. Rachel helped me through the office and out to the car.

            “I’ll drive.” Rachel snapped her seat belt. “So what happened?”

            I shuddered. “I think I saw Satan.”

Back at the apartment I took a shower, drank a lot of water, then opened a beer and told Rachel everything.

            “Wow.” She folded her arms. “You talked them down? You silver-tongued devil.”

            “I wasn’t thinking, just talking.” I sipped my beer. “If it hadn’t worked, I’d probably still be there.”

            “We would have found some way to get you out. Vickie was in a frenzy.” She sighed. “It’s too bad. I mean, Moreland sounds like a nut—a dangerous one. But it sucks to lose your dad.”

            “I know.” I’d lost mine years ago, and I still dream about talking to him.

            My phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s, uh, Dave Mahoney.”

            Uh-oh. Was he calling to chew me out? File a lawsuit? I tried to stay calm. “How are you and Vickie holding up?”

            “She’s pretty—ruined. Wrecked. I just wanted to call and tell you we’re sorry. She actually told me to call you. For all the trouble.”

            “No problem.” I was lying, but—“I’ll send that check back. I didn’t really do any work for you—”

            “No, you got kidnapped, and it was Charles’s fault. Keep it.”

            I wasn’t sure I’d cash it, but that was generous. “Can I ask one question?”

            David sighed. “I guess.”

            “How did Vickie’s mother die?”

            Long hesitation. “She, uh—committed suicide. I think that Charles didn’t—he was abusive to her. Vickie doesn’t talk about her much.”

            I nodded. Maybe that’s why Moreland ended up looking for her in Hell. “None of my business, but thank you.”

            “Thank you.” He hung up.

The phone buzzed again almost immediately. Chip Shannon. “Hey, Tom. They’re letting me out of the hospital. Thanks for getting me out of—there.”

            “Is your wife okay? She was pretty frantic. But she was a big help.”

            “She’s here.” I heard her voice. “She says thanks too.”

            “What were doing on Moreland? Did you know about—the demons?”

            “Hell, no.” He laughed. “I’m going to think of that place every time I say ‘hell’ now. No, I was just checking out the business, because it seemed fishy—doing quantum computing from a storefront on the west side? I got a tip from one of his clients. Anyway, one thing led to another—you know how that goes—”

            I chcuckled. “Too well.”

            “—and I accidentally logged into the Hellcam or whatever they call it. I knew I was in trouble, and I thought of you. You still have a reputation, you know.”

            Rachel smirked. I sipped my beer. “Yeah. Should have been an accountant like my father.”

            “Whatever. Let’s get together sometimes. Not in Hell.”

            “Definitely. To both.”

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