The teenage boy squirmed on sheets soaked with sweat. A bicycle chain held by a small padlock held one ankle to the foot of the bed.
“Get out of here!” His voice was a howl. “Let me go! Let me go!”
A lamp shook next to his bed. A ceiling fan swung in wide circles overhead beneath a broad light fixture.
His mother lurched forward. “It’s okay, Chris. He’s here to help. His name is Tom.”
Chris glared at me. His eyes were red—filled with blood. “Screw you, Tom! Get away from my mother! Don’t you touch her! I know what you want to do with her! Motherf—”
She pushed me back and slammed the door as Chis kept yelling: “Don’t you fucking touch my mother! She’s mine! Only I get to do that! Stay away from her! Stay away . . .”
We headed back down the hall into the kitchen. Gini Jertz poured a mug of coffee. “I’m—sorry. For all that. It’s just so—obscene.” She grabbed a napkin to wipe her nose. “I don’t know what to do.”
Yeah. I sat down. “So how can I help you?”
She tossed the napkin at a wastebasket. Missed. Then picked up another one. “Chris—he’s 16. He was always fine. A little rebellious. Like most teenagers? After Roger . . . left me a while ago for some little . . .” She sighed. “Anyway, one day I found Chris ripping out the pages in his Bible. The one he got when he was confirmed at church.” She groaned. “I thought it was drugs. I took him to doctors. They put him through tests. They couldn’t find anything.”
She scooped some sugar into her cup. “So I went to my pastor for guidance. He’s from our church. Two blocks away. We used to go there every Sunday, me and Chris, and—well, Roger. My ex-husband.”
Gini Jertz paused. “That doesn’t matter. But I tried to keep it up. It was fine, until a few days ago. But Chris kept getting worse. So I talked to Pastor Ames, and he came here and talked to Chris. He said he was . . . possessed.”
“Okay.” I’ve dealt with demonic possession more than once. For some reason, demons and vampires and other supernatural phenomena seem to find me, ever since I was a reporter and now that I’m a private detective.
Tom Jurgen. That’s me. Most of my business comes from the usual wandering spouses and workers comp claims, but some of it—maybe too much—leads me toward the paranormal.
What can I say? It’s a niche.
“So then what?” I sipped my coffee.
“I didn’t believe him, but Chris got worse. So he came here today, and started things. He was the one who locked the chain to keep Chris in the bed. Chris, he fought him like a dog, but he finally he got the chain tight and lock shut—and then he started reading from his book. And then—he—he ran away . . .”
Wait, what? I leaned forward. “He just left? Before he was done?”
“Yes.” She dropped her head. “He ran. And he left Chris—there in the bed . . . like you saw him just now.”
I had to ask—and not just for marketing purposes. “How did you find me?”
“What?” She looked up. “I went on the internet. I mean—it all sounds crazy, but you sounded like someone who understood, uh, stuff like this.”
Yeah. I sometimes wish I didn’t.
“Can you help Chris?” She picked up her cup and stared at me across the edge, her eyes tight. “I mean—find Pastor Ames? So he can finish it off?”
“I can try.” I hid a sigh. “I’ll need some information.”
I called Rachel as I walked down the street toward the church. “I won’t be home for lunch.” It was 2:30. Good thing I’d eaten a hearty bowl of Cheerios this morning.
“You’d better be home for dinner, jerk. It’s your turn to cook. What’s going on?”
“Well . . .” I looked up at the sharp spire at the top. “It’s an exorcism. Half an exorcism.”
“What the hell? Are you getting into trouble again?”
“I hope not. If I do, I’m counting on you to get me out of it.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Don’t do anything stupid. I mean, stupider than usual. I’ll make a salad.” She hung up.
Rachel’s my girlfriend. She’s got short red hair, deep hazelnut eyes, and vague psychic powers. Plus, she makes a great salad. Why wouldn’t I love her?
I opened the church door. A young African American man sat working a crossword puzzle at a desk inside.
“Hi!” I smiled. “I’m looking for Pastor Ames?”
He shook his head. “Not here. You can talk to the assistant pastor. Andrew Catret.” He pointed a pen over his shoulder. “Second door left. He might have someone inside.”
“Thanks. I can wait.” I headed down a short hall. Second door—a tall elderly woman hobbled through, walking precariously on a four-pronged metal cane. She glanced up at me with a grunt. I swerved to one side to give her room. Then I knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
Andrew Catret was younger than me—early 30s, maybe—with thick black hair and a round nose. He sat in a wheelchair behind a small desk, a laptop open and a cup of Starbucks close to his hand. “Yes? How can I help you?”
I dropped my business card on the table. “Tom Jurgen. I’m working for Gini Jertz, down the street? I’m trying to find Pastor Ames.”
Catret peered forward. “Pastor Ames is—he’s not available right now.”
“So where is he?” I sank down on a chair.
“I don’t know.” He he rolled his chair back. “He went for an appointment. He hasn’t come back. What’s your business here?”
“I’m a private detective.” I pointed at my card. “Gini Jertz’s 16-year-old son is apparently possessed by a demon. Pastor Ames came to her house earlier today to perform an exorcism, but then he ran away. Ms. Jertz’s son is still fighting a demon, and she needs Pastor Ames to come and finish.” I waited.
If exorcisms were unusual in his church, Catret didn’t show it. “All right. Yes, Francis—Pastor Ames—told me he was going to Ms. Jertz’s house to help her son. He didn’t say it was an exorcism, but he said it would probably take all day. I haven’t heard from him.”
“Maybe you could call him?”
He blinked. “I suppose—I suppose I should.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, scrolled his contacts, and put the phone on speaker.
One buzz. Two, three four—“Hello, this is Pastor Francis Ames, I can’t take your call right now, so please leave a message and I’ll respond as soon as possible. Peace and prayers.” Beep.
“Frank—uh, Pastor Ames? It’s Andy. I’ve got, uh . . .” Carter glanced at my card. “A man named Tom Jurgen here in my office looking for you. Something about that, uh, procedure you were conducting. If you could call me back—”
I leaned forward. “Or please call me directly, Pastor Ames. This is Tom Jurgen. Ms. Jertz is very concerned about her son.” I gave my number.
Catret looked irritated as he hung up. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you. I’ll be touch. You can show yourself out.”
I stayed put. “Was that his cell phone? What about his house?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to upset his wife. She’s not in good health.”
“You don’t have to upset her. Maybe he’s there. If not, you could just ask her to call me.”
He bit his lip. “Fine. Don’t interrupt this time.” He punched a second entry for Ames.
The phone buzzed. Twice. “H-hello?” A woman’s voice quivered a little. Maybe she was waking from a nap.
“Mrs. Ames? It’s Andy Catret. Is Francis there by any chance?”
“Oh, Andy? No. I thought he was at work. Is something wrong?”
“No, no.” Catret shook his head impatiently. “It’s just that he went out to, uh, counsel a member and he’s not back yet. I thought maybe he, uh, might have stopped home for an early lunch with you.”
“No. I haven’t heard from him.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
Catret held up a hand, warning me not to speak. “Well, could you ask me to call me if you hear from him? There’s nothing wrong, we’re just curious.”
“I will.” She hung up without anything else.
Catret sat back and crossed his arms. “Again, I don’t think there’s anything else I can do for you, Mr. Jurgen. Is that all?”
Not yet. “Has Pastor Ames conducted a lot of exorcisms?”
He frowned. “It’s not like what you see in the movies.”
I nodded. “I’ve witnessed a few myself.” I’d even conducted one, though he probably wouldn’t believe me.
Catret gripped the wheels on his chair. “Then you know it’s a tough process. Maybe Pastor Ames just needed a break.”
He’d run away without explanation, according to Gini Jertz. That sounded like more than quick trip to Starbucks. “Where does Pastor Ames live?”
Catret shook his head. “I’m not telling you that. I don’t want you bothering Barbara.”
I stood up. “I understand. Thanks for your time.”
Catret nodded. “God bless.”
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