Unlike most detectives in books and on TV, I don’t have an office—or a secretary. They’re expensive. So I usually meet my clients in coffee shops or their workplaces. Sometimes at their homes. Like today.
I met Becky Osher and her husband Ryan in their small house north of Chicago. Their 8-year-old son was at school.
“We need to show you something.” Becky led me through the house to the living room. She was short and plump, with brown hair tied back in a ponytail. “Ryan! It’s Tom Jurgen. The detective.”
Ryan came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He shook my hand warily. “Thanks for coming. Coffee?”
I let him bring me a big mug from the kitchen and sat down as Becky hooked a laptop into their TV. Ryan picked up the remote. He was thick and husky, with a thin beard, but he looked like he wanted someone else to take control of things. He pressed a button. “Okay. Yeah. This is it.”
In a big sunny park, Becky threw a Frisbee with a small red-haired child. He wore loose shorts and a Chicago Cubs cap two sizes too big for his head. He jumped up for the big blue disk sailing through the air.
“That’s Stevie.” Becky plopped down next to Ryan on the couch. “This was last Saturday.”
“Catch it, mommy, catch it!” Stevie laughed. The Frisbee hit the ground. Becky ran up and snatched it off the grass, and then she grabbed Stevie up in a hug and whirled around, laughing.
“There.” Ryan paused the video. “Next to that tree.”
A red-haired man in jeans and a dirty sweatshirt, peering around the thick tree trunk. His face wasn’t very clear, but I saw a bony jaw and wide ears.
“That’s Kirk Hess.” Becky’s voice was tight. “He’s Stevie’s father.”
I stared at the plasma screen. “You’re sure? The picture’s not very clear.”
“She’s positive.” Ryan turned off the video.
“Stevie doesn’t know yet. I’m afraid . . .” She shivered. “I don’t want him in my life.”
Child custody . . . absent father . . . stalking . . . I thought about the angles. “So he hasn’t tried to contact you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him in nine years.”
I nodded. “Okay. I can probably locate him. You’ll want a lawyer to handle the rest, but I’ll need—”
“Here.” Becky picked up a manila folder from the table in front of her. “This has everything I know. His last job, his mother’s address—he moved back in with her when we broke up. And . . .” She dropped the folder on my legs. “I’ve got pictures. A few. If you need them. I can email them to you.”
“You still have pictures?” Ryan rocked back on the couch. “Geez. I thought—”
“I couldn’t just burn everything!” She closed her eyes, fighting tears. “Stevie might want them. Someday.”
“Yeah. Of course.” He patted her arm. “It’s all right.”
I felt like I should go wait in another room. But after a moment, Ryan looked up at me.
“It was at Leafview Park,” he said. “A few blocks from here.”
“I appreciate your being organized.” I picked up the folder and stood up. “I’ll get right to work.”
“Oh, and here’s a check.” Becky wiped her eyes and managed a smile. We’d discussed fees on the phone.
“Thank you.” I wrote out a receipt. “I should be able to get back to you in a few days. Like I said, you should have a lawyer ready.”
Child custody cases are messy. But I’ve had worse. Vampires, homicidal shapeshifters, demons . . . I was almost happy to have a normal human case for once.
* * *
Becky Osher called two days later, out of breath and scared. “I just saw him again.”
“Okay . . .” I gulped my coffee. “What happened?”
“This morning. I was driving Stevie to school. He was two blocks away from our house! Have you found anything?”
I was in my apartment, my laptop on the dining room table as I doublechecked the information I’d gotten. Looking for some hole. But there wasn’t one. “There’s a problem.”
“Oh, God. What?”
“Kirk’s dead.”
A short pause. Then: “What the hell?”
I clicked on a brief newspaper article on a local news website. “It was a car accident, seven months ago. Did Kirk have any brothers, or a cousin—”
“Just a sister. And I know it was him! I lived with him almost two years. Damn it! Are you sure?”
I had PDFs of the obituary, the police report, and the death certificate. Everything lined up with the information Becky had given me.
Which meant this wasn’t a simple stalking case. Damn it.
“I’m going to check out a few . . . alternatives.” No point in freaking her out yet. “In the meantime, be careful.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I heard her pound something with her fist. “What are you talking about?”
I leaned back in my chair. “Well, is it possible he faked his death for some reason?”
Becky snorted. “Oh, please. He’s not that smart.”
“Then . . .” I had to say it. “Listen, I’m not a kook, but I’ve had some experience dealing with, uh, supernatural stuff. If Kirk is really dead—”
“Are you serious?” Becky’s voice rose. “I mean . . .” Then she seemed to absorb the idea. “Okay. He’s dead. A ghost, a zombie, whatever. What do I do?”
I used to be a reporter. I’m used to editors, cops, and lawyers telling me I’m crazy. But once people accept impossible things, they sometimes listen. “Like I said, you need to be careful. I just need to check out some possibilities. Don’t get close to Kirk if you see him again.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. Just—please call me when you know something.”
“I will.”
“This is a nightmare.” She hung up.
I’ve been called tenacious. Also a stubborn asshole. But part of being a good reporter—or a detective—is knowing who to call when you need help.
So I called my friend Rachel. “Are you home? Can I come up?”
“What?” She yawned theatrically. “Sure. Just let me just get this handsome, muscular sailor out of my bed and on his way. Go away, you! Scat! Back to your boat!”
Joking. I hoped. “I’ll be right up.”
Rachel’s a graphic designer. She lives in the apartment upstairs in my building.
Red hair and hazelnut eyes, she’s psychic, at least a little. She knows magic—a little. And she’s my girlfriend—at least a little.
It’s a complicated relationship.
I knocked. Rachel opened the door right away. “Hi, Tom. What’s going on?”
She was in cargo shorts and a camouflage sweatshirt, her feet bare. I tried to remember the case I was working on. I’m a professional. “I need some help.”
She smirked. “You got another weird case?”
“You know me too well.”
“Okay, come on in. I’ve got coffee.”
Inside she poured me a cup of coffee and then sat down on the floor, crossing her feet in some kind of yoga position. “So? What’s the deal?”
The coffee was strong and hot. I sat on a chair and next to the table and tried not to stare at her legs. “It could be just an insurance scam, but there are other possibilities.”
She shifted around on her oriental rug. “Do tell.”
I hesitated. “Do you know anything about necromancy?”
Rachel giggled. “You get me hot when you use big words.”
“I’m talking about bringing people back from the dead.”
“I know.” She sat forward, serious for the moment. “It’s bad magic. Hard to control. Are you talking about zombies, or what?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I still wanted to hope this was all just an insurance scam. “There’s a guy stalking my client. He’s supposed to be dead. I’ve got a few leads, but I want to hit all the bases.”
“Uh-huh.” Rachel patted my leg. “And you want me to do what?”
I’d been thinking about this for the last few hours, ever since I’d realized that Kirk Hess was supposed to be dead. “How could he come back? And what do I have to do to send him away?”
“Huh.” Rachel picked up her cell phone. “It’s not exactly my area of expertise, you know? I guess I can talk to a few friends.”
Rachel has friends with even weirder lives than mine. I slurped the last of my coffee and set the cup down. “Thanks. I have to go make a visit.”
She paused in mid-scroll. “Right now?”
“I’ll buy you dinner later.”
“It better not be pizza again.” She gazed at her contacts list. “Okay, this one might help. Hey, where are you going, anyway? A graveyard?”
“Scarier.” I stood up. “The dead guy’s mother.”
* * *
Lulu Hess’s small west side house was surrounded by a narrow lawn thick with dandelions and weeds. A small battered Subaru sat in a driveway next to the side door. I walked up two steps onto the porch and rang the doorbell. And waited.
Two more rings. Maybe the doorbell was broken. I knocked.
The door opened right away.
Tall and skinny, in jeans and a gray T-shirt, Kirk’s mother looked me over with a grimace on her face. “You’re Tom Jurgen?”
I’d called ahead. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks for seeing me.”
Her living room was filled with candles. Also photos of her son. I recognized Kirk from the handful of photos Becky had emailed to me, but the room was filled with framed images of him.
One red candle burned in front of a large photo of Kirk in the corner, like a shrine, surrounded by some personal items: a belt buckle, a pocket knife, and a silver ring.
Lulu sank down onto a couch. She had short stringy gray hair and teeth stained with nicotine. A long coffee table held a stack of true crime paperbacks, a pack of cigarettes next to a full ashtray, a half-empty jug of red wine, and an empty glass. “Oh, I’m sorry. Drink?”
I’d learned a long time ago, working as a reporter, never to turn down a cup of coffee, a glass of water, or anything else that a potential source was willing to offer. It helped build rapport. I perched on the edge of a chair. “Whatever you’ve got.”
“Just a second.” She hopped up and darted into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with a tiny juice glass. “This is clean.”
“Thanks.” I sipped the wine cautiously and restrained my gag impulse. “Nice.”
“Nice and cheap.” Lulu poured herself a drink and sat back. “What can I do for you, Tom Jurgen?”
“Like I said, it’s about your son.” I wanted to phrase this carefully. “There have been some questions about his death.”
“I hope they’re going after those asshole friends of his.” She lit a cigarette. “They’re why he got killed.”
“What friends?”
“Martin. And Pablo.” She exhaled smoke. “Not a ‘gang’ gang, I guess, just a couple of punks. I told Kirk not to get in with them, but he started up with them when he was sixteen or seventeen. Breaking into houses, stealing liquor, all that stuff. At least he never got caught. His sister Lori was a lot worse. Hanging out with, you know . . .” She leaned forward, her voice a raspy whisper. “Those black kids.”
I kept my face neutral. I wanted Lulu to talk to me, and an argument wouldn’t get me anywhere. “Is she here? Kirk’s sister?”
“She’s down in Florida. With some weird friends.” Lulu poured some more red wine into her glass. “Look, I don’t mean anything. I’m not a racist or anything like that. It’s just . . .”
She hung her head down. “Their father—he ran off. I’m on my own here. I did the best I could. It wasn’t easy, you know? You know?” She gulped the wine down. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
I gazed at the burning red candle in the corner. “Can you tell me about Kirk’s accident?”
“Well, he was out doing something with those morons.” She shook her head. “You got kids?”
I shrugged. “No.”
“Well, you know what they’re like. Even when they’re grown up. They never listen.” She stabbed her cigarette out. “You want to find out how he died? You go talk to Martin. Martin Castille. He’s the crap friend. You want drugs? He’s the guy to go see. Pot, meth, all that stuff. I tried to keep my boy clean. Lori too. She’s okay now. She calls me mostly every Sunday, and she comes home for Christmas and Easter. Some years.”
I looked around the room. Lots of images of Kirk, but none of a sister.
Lulu lit a new cigarette and looked up at the ceiling. “Kids. You do your best. At least I still got my Lori.” She sat up and stared at a big photo of Kirk on the TV. He looked sort of handsome, with thicker dark hair than I’d seen in any of Becky’s pictures, and dark eyes like an owl in the night. “I just want him back.”
The smoke was making me nauseous. I stood up. “I’m sorry about all this. And I appreciate your time.”
She took a big swallow of wine. “No problem. Hope it’s a help. You need anything else?”
She looked ready to fall asleep, or maybe just pass out. She didn’t want more company, and I’d learned all I could from her. Except . . . “Can you tell me where I could find Martin Castille?”
* * *
“There are all different ways of bringing people back from the dead.” Rachel was on my phone as I sat in my Honda, parked in the small parking lot in front of the convenience store where Martin Castille worked, about five miles from the Osher household. “That’s what my friend Carrie says, anyway. Are we talking about ghosts or actual bodies?”
Clouds littered the mid-afternoon sky. I rubbed my eyes. “This one was picked up on video. Does that make a difference?”
“Maybe. It used to be you couldn’t get pictures of vampires because of the mirrors, but digital cameras changed that. Are you getting anywhere?”
“I don’t know.” I could see Martin at the cash register—or at least, a man who matched Lulu’s description. Tall guy with a gold earring and the thick arms of a bodybuilder in a tight T-shirt. But he seemed cheerful as he rang up customers with cases of beer or big bags of Doritos. Watching them made me hungry. “I’m following a lead.”
“Dead people don’t have anything to lose.” Rachel’s stereo played Black Sabbath in the background. “You be careful, all right? I want you back here sometime. Don’t be stupid.”
“Me? Never.”
I didn’t know how long Castille’s shift was. The store was open 24 hours. He could be here all day. I took a deep breath and checked the Taser in my windbreaker.
I pushed the car door open. Maybe I could just saunter into the store and buy some Doritos. And a six-pack of beer. And ask Martin how long he’d worked there, and what else he did in his spare time, and if he knew a guy named—
Kirk Hess.
He was standing next to a garbage container at the side of the shop. Red hair, jeans, and a dirty sweatshirt. Just like in the video.
Okay. Ghost or zombie? A ghost couldn’t hurt me, right? And a Taser would shock a zombie—I hoped—if that’s what he was.
I crossed the parking lot, my feet feeling like heavy wood. “Kirk?”
His head jerked toward me. His eyes were gray and blank, as if he didn’t really see me. I had Becky’s pictures on my phone. Kirk was younger in them—smiling, laughing, scowling. Now he looked gaunt, like a scarecrow. Confused. But the same guy.
“I’m a friend of Becky.” I peered at his eyes, looking for some flicker of recognition. “You remember her? Becky?”
He blinked. Just once. “B-b-beck . . .”
I stayed back, ready to zap him with my Taser and run. But I had to at least try talking. “Why are you here?”
He leaned back. “You—you . . .”
Me? He didn’t know me, so that didn’t make any sense. Until I started to turn around, and a fist hit the back of my head.
I staggered forward, red stars swimming in my eyes. “Uh, what . . .” The big glass window in front of the door was slick, but I managed to stay on my feet and turn around, grunting as I tried to keep my stomach from lurching upward. “Hey, I’m trying—”
It was Castille. “What the hell is . . .”
Then he looked past me. “Kirk?”
Kirk stared back. Still no sign that he recognized his friend. Or even really saw anything.
“Martin!” A man ran up behind him. He wore a leather jacket and a black baseball cap. “Who’s this guy?” He shot me a glare that said he’d had no problem mashing my face into compost.
“M-Martin.” Kirk’s lips curled in a grisly smile. “Mar-tin?”
“Oh, holy . . .” The leather jacket guy reared back. “Is that—”
Castile ignored him. “Yeah, Kirk, it’s me.” He took one step forward.
I tensed, hoping to run for my car. But Castille stopped. “Okay, Kirk.” He backed away, as if he’d suddenly decided diplomacy might be smarter than fighting. “Just tell me where it is.” He lifted a hand. “Come on, Kirk, tell me!”
I looked between the two of them. “Hey, Martin?” My voice shook. “You know, uh, he’s—”
“Shut up!” Castille lurched around me and grabbed Kirk’s sweatshirt. Kirk looked confused, but Castille clung to the collar, his arm shaking. “Come on, you son of a—”
Kirk moved faster than any of us expected, slamming his big left fist against Castille’s jaw.
Castille yelped and tumbled against me, knocking me against the glass. Kirk wheeled around, almost falling over, and then he lumbered around the corner of the store, his feet clomping on the concrete like a rampaging bull.
“Goddamn it!” The leather jacket guy chased him.
“Son of a bitch.” Castille spit on the concrete. “Get him! Get . . .” Then he remembered me. “Who the hell are you?”
Lots of answers flooded my mind, but I didn’t think he’d listen to any of them. So I said the only thing I could think of that might make him slow down before he took out his frustration on my face. “You know Kirk is dead, don’t you?”
Castille rubbed his hand across his cheek. A bruise was already darkening. “Of course I do. Pablo?”
The leather jacket guy—Kirk’s friend Pablo, apparently—returned from the behind the store. “He’s gone. Again.”
“Goddamn it.” He wiped a hand on his jeans. “Get this guy out of here. I still got to finish my shift.”
“Come on, asshole.” Pablo yanked on my windbreaker.
I let him pull me across the parking lot as Castille went back inside the store. “Wait a minute. Can we just talk?”
“About what? Who the hell are you, anyway?” He shoved me against a random car. “You ought to just get out of here now if you’re smart.”
Courage is not my middle name, and nobody’s ever accused me of being smart. Stubborn, yeah, according to any number of editors and cops. And Rachel too, for that matter. Although I like to think it turns her on.
“I’m a private detective.” I held my hands up. “Tom Jurgen, I’m trying to find out what’s going on with Kirk Hess.”
“Kirk’s dead.” He glared at the corner of the building. “You just said that. I told you to get out of here.” He lifted his fist.
“Wait! Let me ask you one question.” Sometimes that worked. Sources would hesitate before throwing me out—or hitting me—if they thought I was ready to leave them alone.
Pablo lowered his arm. “What?”
“Why was Kirk here? What’s Martin talking about? And why is he stalking his old girlfriend?” That was three questions, but still . . .
Pablo blinked. “He has a girlfriend?”
That was one question too many. “A long time ago. What does Martin want from him? Why is he back?”
Pablo shoved my chest. “Get out.”
I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. I climbed into the Honda and left.
* * *
So what did Castille want from Kirk? And did it have anything to do with Becky?
Back home I went to my laptop and checked Martin Castille on the internet. His name popped up in a few articles. Arrested in connection with running a meth lab, charges dropped for lack of evidence. Questioned in a marijuana bust but apparently never charged. Scored a winning touchdown on his high school football team 11 years ago. Probably not relevant.
Rachel knocked on my door, carrying her own laptop. “How’s the ghost hunting?”
“I saw him for real. So did two of his friends.”
“Well, there are a couple of possibilities.” She sat down and opened her laptop. “If he’s a zombie, somebody brought him back. He doesn’t have a lot of free will, but he might have some memories, and if the zombie-maker doesn’t have a tight leash on him, he could get loose and start looking for reminders of his past life.”
That sort of fit, but I wanted to listen to everything. “What else? Do you want a beer?”
“Of course. Well, if he’s a ghost, he could have been called by a medium, or else he’s stuck here looking for something specific before he goes on to the next world. His ability to interact with this world would be limited—thanks.” She sipped the Heineken.
I thought about the bruise on Castille’s jaw. “Probably not a ghost.”
“Ancient necromancers brought back the dead using big fancy rituals with talismans and spells and that sort of stuff. I got this mostly from Wikipedia.” She clicked a page on her laptop. “They’d keep stuff from the dead guy, sometimes his clothes or body parts. Generally they’d do it with someone who’s just dead. After about a year they’d try bringing back a spirit instead of a body.”
“Charming.” I sipped my own beer. “How do you get rid of it?”
“Find the person who brought it back, make him stop the spell. Or if it’s a zombie, a shot to the head, if George Romero had it right.” She chewed her lower lip for a second, looking almost worried. “What’s going on, Tom?”
I started to explain when my cell phone buzzed. Becky. Or actually her husband.
“Mr. Jurgen?” Ryan sounded rattled. “We haven’t seen Kirk today, but now there’s a car outside our house. There’s a guy with an earring who looks like he took too many steroids, and another guy in a leather jacket.”
Damn it. This was my fault. I’d told Pablo about Kirk having a girlfriend.
Ryan was a client. I had to be honest. “They’re friends of Kirk’s. He came after them a few hours ago, and I was with them, and I told them—”
“Wait, wait!” He cut in before I could finish confessing my stupidity. “That means Kirk’s not just looking for Stevie, right?” Relief came through his voice.
“Maybe not.” Okay, I’d explain later. “Where are Stevie and Becky now?”
“She’s got him downstairs, watching videos. We can keep him inside all night, his bedtime’s in an hour. Are these guys dangerous?”
Castille had hit me from behind. And Pablo didn’t seem like any kind of a pacifist. “Just keep an eye on them. You can call the police anytime and tell them they’re watching you, and they’ll come out and get rid of them. His name’s Martin Castille.”
“Martin—Castille. Got it.”
I couldn’t just sit here, though. I looked at the clock on my wall. “I’ll be out there in half an hour, and I’ll talk to them. Call me if anything happens.” I hesitated. “And definitely call the police if they come up to the house.”
“Oh, God.” His voice shook. “What the hell is going on? I’ve got a gun upstairs, should I—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said quickly. A weapon could make the problem worse, fast. “But—do whatever you need to do. Just be careful and stay out of their way if you can.”
“All right. Thank you.” He hung up.
Thank you? He wouldn’t be saying that tomorrow morning. I’d be lucky if they let me keep the retainer.
“I’ve got to go.” I handed Rachel what was left of my beer.
“What is it?” She stood up. “Do you want me to come? Where are we going?”
I held up a hand. “No. Really. I’ll be all right, but if I have to worry about too many people it’ll just get too complicated.”
She crossed her arms, and for a moment I was sure she was going to argue with me. Or just slug me. Rachel doesn’t like people trying to protect her—and most of the time she didn’t need it. She could probably handle a ghost or a zombie.
But meth dealers, possibly armed? I didn’t want to find out.
So she dropped her arms, gave me the finger, and then leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Don’t get hurt. Jerk.”
“Number one on my mission statement.” I grabbed my jacket, checked my Taser, and left while I could still feel her kiss on my face.
* * *
I parked in the Oshers’ driveway to make sure Castille saw me. Then I called Ryan from my car.
“I’m going to go talk to them.” I was proud of how my voice didn’t shake. “If they’re still here after ten minutes, call the cops. If I wave, call the cops. If they get out of the car, call the cops.” I swallowed. “Basically, if they don’t leave—”
“Call the cops. I got it.” He almost laughed. “Be careful.”
I got out of the Honda. I was sure the entire block could hear my heart pounding as I walked down the driveway toward Castille’s car.
They watched me walking across the lawn. When I got close, Pablo rolled down his window. “What are you doing here, man?”
“You need to get out of here.” Again, my voice didn’t flinch. Maybe I was getting good at bravery. Or faking it. “The family in there is going to call the cops.”
“We’re waiting for Kirk,” Castille barked, keeping his eyes on the street. “You said—”
“Please forget what I said.” I jammed my hands in my jacket so they wouldn’t see my fingers shaking. “These people don’t have anything to do with your business.”
“You don’t know anything about our business.” He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “We won’t bother anyone. We just need to talk to Kirk for a few minutes.”
“Even though he’s dead?”
Castille jerked his head toward me. “I don’t care about dead or alive. If he can tell me what I want to know—”
“Martin?” Pablo pointed a finger. “Over there.”
Oh, hell. I stepped back from the car and looked down the street.
Kirk stood in the middle of the road, in the same clothes, the same blank eyes staring straight ahead.
Castille pushed his door open.
I waved my hand toward the house. Call the cops! Right now!
Many things happened at once.
Pablo got out of the car. He glanced at Kirk, then he looked at me. “What is this?”
Castille marched down the street. He had a pistol in his hand. “Kirk! Where is it?”
Then the door of the house opened. I expected Ryan with his own handgun, but instead it was Becky. Her face was pale, but her shoulders were high and straight, as if she was tired of being afraid as she stepped down onto her lawn.
Kirk saw her. He took a halting step forward.
“Come on, man!” Castille waved his pistol. “Just tell me where it is!”
“Kirk!” Becky screamed. “We broke up! Go away!”
Kirk lifted his head, ignoring Castille. “B-b-beck . . .”
Castille cursed and whirled around, waving his weapon at Becky. “Give me what I want, Kirk, or else—”
The gun went off.
Of course he missed her. He was twenty yards away, and even the best shot on the police force can’t hit a target at that range firing with one hand. Plus, he might not even have meant to pull the trigger.
Becky dropped to the ground, covering her head. Ryan ran out of the house, but at least he didn’t have his own gun. He just skidded to a stop next to his wife and shielded her with his body.
And then Kirk was running. Like before, faster than I figured any undead thing could move. But he was down the street and on top of Castille before I could think about grabbing for my Taser.
“Kirk! What—” Then Castille was flat on his back on the trunk of his car, shrieking like a dog being mauled by a lion. Kirk hit him over and over again, groaning with each punch.
I took a step forward. Maybe my Taser would stop him, or at least slow him down. But Pablo grabbed my arm. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s your friend.” I pulled my arm free. “What’s Martin looking for?”
“He had fifty thousand dollars in cash!” Pablo stared at the scene. “Then he got hit by a car! It belonged to us! It’s ours—”
Right. Money. I lifted my Taser. “So you can drive away right now, but they’re going to get you pretty soon anyway. Or you can stay here and argue with your pal after he’s done with Martin.”
I felt like Clint Eastwood. Except he probably never worried about soiling his underwear when confronting a bad guy. Pablo backed away from me.
Castille’s face was bloody, but at least Kirk wasn’t ripping out his throat. He just kept hitting him, like a metronome, one-two-three . . .
I raised the Taser. “Kirk! Stop it! Kirk—”
“Daddy!”
Stevie. An 8-year-old red-haired boy in pajama bottoms and a Snoopy T-shirt, running across the front yard toward Ryan, his arms flailing. “Daddy! I’m scared!”
Becky reared up. “No, Stevie! Get back in the house!”
“Mommy!” Stevie jumped between them, his hands searching for their arms. “Mommy!”
Kirk stopped. He stood up, blood on his fists, and stared at the little boy, his eyes alive for the first time.
He lurched forward. Stopped. Took another step.
Stevie was crying. “Mommy, mommy . . .”
Becky stood up. Ryan tried to pull her back down, but she pushed his hand away. “Kirk!” Her voice was a scream. And a threat.
I gripped my Taser with both hands. Castille’s pistol sat on the street. Pablo was—I glanced back. He was running away down the street. Good for him.
But Becky was walking toward the dead man, her shoulders stiff. “For Christ’s sake!” She shouted loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. “It’s over, Kirk. We’re done! Go away!”
He cocked his head, as if he didn’t understand. But he took a step back. “B-beck?” He clenched his teeth. “Beck—Becky?”
“Go away, Kirk.” She stopped, one knee trembling. “It’s over. Just leave me alone. Okay?”
He groaned. “Stevie . . . Stevie?”
“He’s fine!” She whipped a glance at me, and I headed close to her, ready to shoot Taser darts into Kirk’s chest. Would that even stop him? But she held a hand up, and I waited.
She forced a smile at him. “Stevie is okay. He’s beautiful. You can see that. I’ll tell him everything. But Kirk . . . you need to go.”
Kirk nodded. “Y-yeah.” Another step back, and he looked down at Castille. For a moment I thought he’d stomp his head, but instead he just leaned down, opened his mouth, and unloaded a stream of spit on Castille’s head.
Castille rolled over. “Urrgh . . .”
Kirk lifted a hand. A wave. Then he swung around and ran. At the end of the block, he was gone.
* * *
“Thank you.” Becky shoved a mug of coffee at me. “I don’t know what we would have done.”
The cops were gone. Castille was locked up, and Pablo was—somewhere else. Possibly in Wisconsin by now. And Stevie was asleep.
I rubbed my eyes. “I’m sorry.” The coffee tasted good, and I needed it, but I had another stop to make. And a phone call. I stood up.
“Wait.” Ryan came out of Stevie’s bedroom. “You’re not going, are you?”
“Ryan, Becky . . .” I had to be honest. “I screwed up. I told Castille that Kirk was looking for you. Not by name, but, well . . .” I shrugged. “He wouldn’t have shown up here if I’d kept my mouth shut. I am—very sorry. If you want your check back . . .”
I might have trouble with the rent this month, but maybe Rachel would let me sleep on her couch in exchange for washing dishes.
Becky followed me to the door. “But—he’s really gone?”
I hoped so. “I don’t think he’ll come back.”
She forced a smile. “At least I got to tell him off one last time. And I got to—oh, shit.” She turned away from me. “At least I got to see him—one last time. I thought . . .”
Ryan looked at me, then he was next to her, and I could only lean against the door as she sobbed.
“I’m sorry, Ryan, I’m so sorry!” Becky cried. “It’s just—he doesn’t mean anything, he’s only this one guy, this one stupid, stupid guy . . .”
Ryan kissed the top of her head. “I know, babe. I know. It’s all right.” He stroked her shoulders. “I’m right here.”
I reached for the doorknob. Ryan nodded to me. “Thanks, Tom.”
Becky whispered something. Ryan laughed and patted her head. “Yeah. Be sure to send us an invoice.”
“Right.” I opened the door. “Good night.”
* * *
I pulled up in front of Lulu Hess’s house twenty minutes later. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the street. Rachel was already there in her dusty Prius.
“You think it’s her?” She slammed her door.
“It makes the most sense.” Castille and Pablo hadn’t seemed to really know what was going on. They only wanted to know where the money was.
That might be a good motive for bringing Kirk back from the dead, but they wouldn’t know how to do that. And they’d seemed completely oblivious, not caring how Kirk had come back as long as they could somehow get their cash.
But Kirk’s mother obviously had a stronger reason for bringing him back from the grave.
We walked up the tangled lawn to the porch. I knocked on the door.
Lulu pulled the door open right away. Her head swayed from side to side as if she’d just woken from a long drunken nap. “Yeah? Oh. It’s you again. It’s late.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. It’s Tom Jurgen. I was here earlier today? This is my associate Rachel.”
“Hi.” Rachel smiled.
Lulu pushed on the screen door to let us in.
The candles around the room were burning bright. Either she liked the atmosphere, or she hadn’t paid her electric bill in a few months. Another big bottle of red wine sat on the table.
Lulu sank down on her couch and poured herself a full glass. “What’s this about?”
I looked through the shadows. The red candle in the corner still burned, throwing soft flickering light over the photo of Kirk and his possessions around it. I pointed. “Over there. Take a look.”
Rachel took a step forward. “I can feel it. Oh, yeah.”
“Don’t get too close!” Lulu reared up, spilling wine on her jeans. “That belongs to me!”
“Right!” Rachel backed away slowly. “I get it.”
Lulu dropped back down on the couch. “You can’t just come in here. This is my home. You just get out!” She drained her glass and pounded the table with her fist. “Now!”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Kirk.” I used my best voice, low and nonjudgmental, the one I used to use on reluctant sources as a reporter.
“What about him?” She snatched her glass up. “He’s my boy! What do you know about him? Do you have any kids?”
She’d asked that before. I shook my head. “No.”
“Then you don’t know what it’s like.” She leaned back on the couch. “To lose one of them. Years and years and . . . all that. You try. You’re bringing them up, and they don’t listen, but you try and you keep trying, and then . . . then someone hits them in a car, and all of that . . . it’s like none of it ever happened.”
“But you can change that.” Rachel was standing behind me. “Right?”
“I got some books.” She waved a hand at a bookcase. “My girl Lori gave them to me. She’s got some weird friends down in Florida. Deep in the swamps, you know?”
Most of the shelves held pictures of Kirk, but a few books lay stacked on the bottom. Rachel knelt down and began pulling volumes out onto the floor.
“True Secrets of Voodoo?“ She laughed. “Trash. The Serpent and the Rainbow—yeah, not bad. This one—I can’t read Latin. Necromancy for Dummies? No. Book of the Dead . . .” She dropped it on the stained carpet. “This one is dangerous.”
“Lulu.” I looked over at the candle. “I’m sorry about Kirk. Really. But I saw him today. Twice. And he’s—lost.”
“How can you say that?” Lulu’s eye burned in the candlelight. “He’s here, isn’t he? I was asleep. Sometimes when I’m asleep he goes out, but that’s the way it is with kids. They go where they want, they don’t listen, but they’re . . . here. That’s what matters.”
I thought about the Oshers and Stevie. “Yeah. I guess I get that. But—”
Then a new shadow fell into the living room.
“M-mom?” It was Kirk.
Rachel stiffened her back. Lulu twisted around on the couch, and then she pushed herself up and staggered around, her arms out.
“You came home!” The smile on her face looked like a sloppy cartoon. “Where did you go? I told you not to go too far away!”
“Mom.” Kirk’s arms hung at his sides as Lulu embraced him. “Mom.”
Rachel and I looked at each other.
“Go sit down in the kitchen.” Lulu let Kirk go and turned around. “You two, leave.”
Rachel rubbed my arm and then took a step away. I nodded.
“Kirk.” I held up a hand, wondering if he remembered me. Or if he even heard me. “Stevie’s fine. Becky is fine. But you need to go.”
One of Kirk’s legs collapsed like a flat tire, and he grabbed for the edge of the couch. Lulu caught his arm. “It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. “You’ll get better tomorrow. I’ll take care of you—”
Kirk pounded a fist on the couch. “No. No!”
Lulu jumped away. “It’ll be all right, Kirk. I’m here. You can . . . you can . . .”
Kirk groaned.
Rachel nudged my shoulder. “Should I?”
I sighed. “I’ll do it.”
“What?” Lulu whirled around. “No! You can’t! He’s my son!”
Kirk lurched up on his good leg. “Mom . . . mom . . .”
“Stop!” Lulu screamed.
I stood in front of the red candle. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Then I blew it out.
Kirk disappeared. No flash of light or puff of smoke. Just gone, as if he’d never been there.
I expected Lulu to scream, or attack us with a burning candlestick. Instead she just sank down to the floor on her knees in silence, as if she was praying. I heard her breathing softly, not crying or cursing. When I walked around to check her, her eyes were closed and her lips were tight.
Without looking at me, Lulu whispered, “Go.” It was fiercer than any curse.
I nodded to Rachel. She picked up The Book of the Dead and held it away from her body as we went to the door.
* * *
“This is why I never want to have children.” Rachel and I walked across the dark yard. “Just so you know. Plants are better. Goldfish.”
“Maybe.” I thought about the Oshers and Stevie. “I hear some people like kids.”
She punched my arm. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Never.” I opened my door. “Dinner?”
She leaned against the Honda’s hood. “I don’t feel like dinner. Maybe a beer. Or two.”
I nodded and slipped into my car. “Follow me.”
# # #
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