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?”