I walked back to my car near Gini Jertz’s house. Inside I called her.
“No, I haven’t heard from him.” Her voice was ragged. “Chris is asleep. For now. I tried to give him some soup, but he threw it in my face. At least it wasn’t hot.”
“I visited the church. The assistant pastor, Andrew Catret—”
“Andy.” She grunted. “He’s not—I don’t like him. I’ve heard stories about . . . women.”
At least it wasn’t young boys. “He was a little help. I’ve got a few ideas. I’ll be in touch.”
I actually had one idea. But maybe it would lead to something else.
A few minutes—well, more than a few—searching Chicago real estate records using my smartphone found me Pastor Ames’ home address. It’s not that hard if you know how to do it.
I called Rachel to tell her where I was going. I always do that—usually—because I never know what I might run into and I want someone to know where to start looking for my body. “I might be late for dinner at this point.” It was 3:20, and the late November sky was starting to get dark.
“Good thing salad can’t get cold. Or burn. You’re doing the dishes.”
I grinned. “Love you.”
She snorted. “I’m punching you in my mind.”
I made one more call to a friend who knew more about exorcism than I did, and made an appointment to meet him later. Then I started the car.
I found the Ames house and parked down the street. I remembered what Catret had told me about Barbara Ames being in poor health. I took several deep breaths as I walked back up the street and up three steps to the porch.
I rang the bell. Waited.
A woman in her fifties, in jeans and a blue sweatshirt, pulled the door open and peered at me through the screen. “Yes?”
I held my card up. “Mrs. Ames? I’m Tom Jurgen. I was with Andrew Catret when he called you earlier, looking for your husband? Could we talk for a moment?”
She leaned forward to check out the card. “Just a moment.” The door shut in my face.
Three minutes later it opened again, and she pushed at the screen door. “Andy says he didn’t give you this address.”
“I found it online.” I stepped inside. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ames—”
“I’m starting to get worried.” She led me into a small living room. “He hasn’t called. He didn’t call Andy either. Can I get you some coffee, or . . .”
I’d have enough coffee for the day, and I didn’t want to have more and then ask to use her bathroom. “Maybe some water?”
She disappeared into another room and came back with a crystal glass filled with water and ice, and a mug of steaming hot tea. “Thank you.”
I couldn’t see any obvious disabilities, but that didn’t mean anything. “Health problems” could cover any range of illnesses, and for right now that was none of my business. “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that—well, your husband went out today—”
“For an exorcism.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he told me before he left for the church. I believe—I mean, we’ve been married for 37 years, and I’ve seen and heard lots of weird stuff.”
Well, this saved time. “Like what?”
“Casting out demons. Grappling with Satan. That sort of stuff.” Her arm trembled as she sipped her tea. “I mean, I know sometimes it’s just people with mental health issues. Or epilepsy. A—procedure can make them feel better. For a while.”
I nodded. “The young man I saw today? It looks like a real possession. I’ve seen them.”
She nodded back. “He told me a little. He knows it’s dangerous. But he always feels like he has to do something.” She tapped a nervous foot on the floor.
“So where would he go? If he didn’t come . . . here?”
She closed her eyes.
I waited.
“Her.” Her eyes opened. “He keeps saying it’s over. Sometimes I believe him. But I know it’s still going on.”
Barbara Ames sighed and looked at a framed photo hanging on the wall. A man in his fifties, balding, with thin glasses and a trim goatee. “I could never have children. There was—a condition, and I got treated, but after that . . .” She shrugged. “But Frank—he loved—loves me—but after a few years . . .”
As a P.I., I hear lots of confessions. It’s never easy.
She grabbed a tissue from a box on the table. “This is one of my good days. Some days I can’t even get out of bed. Frank takes care of me. He won’t even talk about getting a nurse. But he—there’s someone else. And a daughter. He . . . spends time with them. He swears there isn’t anything more, but you know?” She shook her head. “You can tell.”
Damn it. But I had to ask. “Do who she is? Where she is?”
Mrs. Ames wept. I sipped my water.
She blew her nose. “Her name is Karen Routh. They named the girl—Jenna. I don’t know where they live.”
“All right.” I stood up. “I’m really sorry to bother you like this, Mrs. Ames—”
“Just tell him to come home.” She picked up her teacup and gazed at it as if she wanted to mash it to pieces. She finished her tea and set it down. “I need him. After all this time, I still need him here.”
“I understand.” I’ve met lots of couples with complicated relationships, and a P.I. learns to never judge. “Thanks for your help.”
I met Neal Simmons in a bar called Revelations. The busty redhead behind poured me a Heineken and winked at me. “Good to see you again, Tom.”
“Hi, Charli. Where’s Luther?” I took a sip. The cold beer felt good running down my throat.
“Oh, he’s at some retreat in Florida. I’m in charge now! Yippee!”
I dropped some money on the bar. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Neal sat at a table in the back. We shook hands.
Neal Simmons was a retired Catholic priest, African American, and a close friend of the ex-priest who owned this place. “How you doing?”
“Fine. Not fine.” I perched on a bar stool. “It’s a case. Exorcism.”
“Ah.” He sipped his scotch. “Do tell.”
I laid it out as if I was writing a client report. “I can try tracking down the girlfriend, or the daughter. I’m just not sure how much time I have. The kid is getting worse.” I’d called Gini Jertz again after parking down the street, and heard Chris moaning and cursing in the background.
“So here’s the thing.” I sipped my beer. “Do I really need to get Pastor Ames back to finish the exorcism? Or can anyone do it?”
“Hmm.” Neal closed his eyes for a moment. “Well, in the church, exorcisms are only to be performed with approval from higher up. An archbishop, and sometimes a council. Of course, theologically, anyone can cast a demon out, but in the practical sense, it’s very difficult. The demon will attack you, say anything it can to make you question your faith. It sounds like your pastor has reasons to doubt his own faith.”
“Yeah.” Like I said, I’d managed one exorcism. But it hadn’t gone well. “What about our mutual friend?”
Neal chuckled. “He’s on a retreat in Florida.”
“Yeah, Charli told me.”
“He’s probably lying on the beach and drinking Mai-Tais.” He shrugged. “Be fair. He deserves it.”
Yeah. “He won’t be back soon, though. Right?”
“Charli’s running the bar. Kristoff is her assistant manager. So far . . .” He glanced over my shoulder. The bar was crowded, the jukebox was playing Steely Dan, and everyone seemed happy. “She’s doing a good job.”
Okay. I was rapidly running out of ideas. And Chris was getting worse. “Do you have any experience with . . . ?”
“Oh, no.” Neal raised both his hands. “I’m out of the game. Even if I did try it—without authorization—I’ve never done one, never even assisted at one. My faith is, well, pretty secure, even after everything I’ve seen, even after all that Luther has told me about. But I’m not equipped. I’d do more harm than good.”
I sighed. “Fair enough. Can I pay for your drink?”
He smiled. “I already paid Charli. But thanks for the offer.”
My phone buzzed as I slid off the stool. Unknown number. Telemarketer? “Hello, Tom Jurgen speaking—”
“Jurgen!” A hoarse voice, angry. “Stop bothering my wife!”
Huh. “Pastor Ames?”
“You heard me! Don’t come near my wife again or—”
“Wait a minute.” I leaned against the table. “You left Gini Jertz’s house in the middle of an exorcism. Where the hell are you?”
A young blond woman next to my shoulder looked over at the word “exorcism.” She was cute. I winked and turned away from her. “Pastor Ames? Are you there?”
“You just can’t . . .” Ames gasped. “Oh God. Oh my God.”
I hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. “Pastor Ames. Please. Chris needs your help. His mother needs your help. Where are you?”
He groaned. “Okay. Okay. There’s—here’s the address.”
I called Rachel. Again. “Now what?”
“I’m visiting the exorcist pastor and his girlfriend.” I’d just parked next to her apartment building. “Maybe I’ll just pick up a sandwich on the way home.” If I ever got home.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, we’ve got plenty of sandwich stuff here. Just get home today, all right?”
“I’ll try.”
In the vestibule I found the name “K. Routh” next to a buzzer. I pressed it and gave my name. Karen Routh buzzed me in.
Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a six-story building. Karen Routh had black eyes and long black hair in a ponytail, and she was dressed in a red plaid shirt like a lumberjack. Early 40s. “Hi.” Her voice was shy. Embarrassed. “He’s right here.”
Pastor Ames sat on a couch, his thin glasses next to a glass of red wine on a coffee table stacked with magazine likes Christianity Today and Today’s Evangelical. He wore a white shirt buttoned at the collar and a loose necktie. “You’re Tom Jurgen?”
“That’s right.” I handed him a card. “What happened at Gini Jertz’s house?”
He shuddered and picked up his wine. “I met with the boy. I started the ritual. It takes time for the demon to assert itself. It tries to hide. Finally it came out. That’s when. . .”
He lowered his head. “I remembered him. I recognized him. I—I knew him. It. The demon. It killed a woman before. Years ago.” He rubbed his forehead. “I couldn’t save her.”
I glanced at Karen Routh. “Is your daughter—”
“She’s with her—my ex-husband.” She slumped down next to Ames on the couch. “Why don’t you sit down? Would you like some wine?”
Relationships can be complicated. As a P.I., I know that better than most. “I’m fine. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Ames put his glasses on. “It was 15 or 16 years ago. She was just a kid. Maybe 25? Her parents brought her in. Libby. Anyway . . .” He sighed.
“She was on drugs, but that wasn’t the problem. I mean, yeah, it was a problem, but it was pretty clear that she was possessed. Violent, cursing, speaking Latin—it sounded like Latin. So we took her home, restrained her on her bed so she wouldn’t hurt herself—or us—and I started.”
Karen stroked his arm as he sipped some wine. “It was . . . hours. Most of a day. She struggled, she cursed, she spit at me, she . . . soiled her bed. Sometimes she slept, for a few minutes at a time. By the end I was exhausted, but the demon was still strong. Then, just when I thought I was getting it out, right when it seemed to be weakening, she leaned back her head and it told me its name—a scream . . . Belphegor.” His voice was a whisper.
I’d have to ask Neal later. If there was a later. “Then?”
“Then—she died.” He took off his glasses again and rubbed his eyes. “Her heart gave out. The drugs . . . and the demon. The parents didn’t blame me. The police and the paramedics didn’t believe anything I told them. The restraints—they asked questions about those, but after the exam, and then the autopsy, they just decided that her heart had given out from long-term drug abuse. They didn’t blame me.” He put his glasses back on and stared into nowhere. “But I did.”
Now I wanted a glass of wine, but I didn’t dare ask for it. “That must have been . . .” Horrible? Traumatic? I let my voice trail off, not wanting to say the wrong thing.
Sometimes my job is more like a psychologist than a detective or a reporter. Those times could be the worst.
“This morning, at Gini Jertz’s house, when I started . . .” He shook his head. “It was after an hour or so in, and Chris was cursing me, swearing so viciously—and I felt him. It. Belphegor. And I—I ran.” He finished his wine. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . .”
He dropped his glasses on the floor and buried his face in his hands, crying.
Karen stroked his shoulder. She looked up at me, her eyes angry. “I don’t really know who you are or why you’re here, but Frank has been through enough. He’s been here all day, like this. He slept most of the afternoon. You can’t—please don’t ask him to do anything more.”
I took a breath. “You’re right, ma’am. Pastor Ames, I can’t force you to do anything.”
Ames looked up and pulled a long red handkerchief from a back pocket to blow his nose. “I understand.”
“It’s just . . .” I spread my hands. “Chris is still there. And Mrs. Jertz is still frightened. And I don’t know anyone else who can perform an exorcism. I know people, I tried.” I didn’t want to bring up the one I’d performed myself. Not the same situation. I’d try it again if I had to, but—
“I said I understand.” Ames lurched up. “Where’s my coat? I think I left my books in the car.”
“You shouldn’t drive.” Karen rose to her feet. “Not after—”
“Fine. You drive.” He glared at me. “Let’s get going.”
“Wait—” She grabbed his shoulder. “You don’t have to—”
Ames kissed her. “Yes. I kind of do.”
We fetched the books from his Nissan, and I drove in my Prius. Night. Clouds. No moon or stars.
“She told you, didn’t she?” Ames sat with his arms folded. “Barbara.”
“It is how I found you. Sort of.” I hadn’t really “found” Ames. Sometimes you just ask enough questions that someone calls you with what you’re looking for.
“Karen is a great, strong woman. Jenna is a lovely girl. Her ex-husband is actually a good father to her. And Barbara is a good wife. And me . . .” He groaned softly. “I’m a pastor. I’m supposed to be a spiritual leader, a man of god.” He shook his head. “I try to keep my faith, but sometimes it doesn’t make any sense.”
Welcome to my world. But I kept my mouth shut as I made my way back to Gini Jertz’s house. Ames prayed the rest of the way.
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