Séance, Part Three

So after lunch I looked for Joseph Busch online. I figured with a middle initial “Q” and a starting point in Western Springs, a Chicago suburb, I might have some luck.

I was wrong. I found a lot of “Joes” and “Josephs” with a “Q” and even with “Quinn” as a middle name. Too many of them were from genealogy sites, dead for years. Others were scattered across the country. I tried calling or emailing as many as I could, but by 3 p.m. I’d gotten nowhere. I managed to talk to a handful of people who had no idea what or who I was talking about, but nothing panned out.

I had similar luck, or the lack thereof, with Anis Welch. Maybe she’d gotten married and changed her name. I’m used to striking out dozens of times or more, but it was never fun.

With nothing else to do, Rachel and I went for a walk. As promised, she wore her cutoffs. I tried not to stare at her legs.

We wore masks and gloves, and although we didn’t stay six feet away from each other, we kept a decent distance from other people. Shoppers carrying grocery bags, joggers huffing and puffing, cyclists in the street, and the homeless guy in front of our local grocery store. I gave him a dollar, and we stopped in to buy vegetables, fruit, rice, and pasta. Also beer.

The sun was bright, with a few clouds in the sky. A warmer day than usual, although the weather report said it would cool off tomorrow, with rain. Welcome to springtime in Chicago.

We rounded the block and started heading back home, paper shopping bags in our hands. Rachel breathed in as much fresh air as she could through her mask. “This is nice.”

“Yeah.” I wanted to hold her hand, but that would have crowded the sidewalk too much. She held back, letting me walk ahead. “I’d go first, but you’d just be staring at my butt.”

“You know me too well.” I laughed, and Rachel laughed, and for a moment things were all right, even in the Coronavirus-infested world.

Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Maybe spam? But I had to answer, just in case. “Sorry. —Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Jurgen? This is Joe Busch. What are you looking for me for?”

What the—? I perched on the edge of a short iron fence. “Is this Joseph Quinn Busch? You were at the University of Chicago  four years ago?”

            “Uh, yeah. That’s me. What’s going on?”

He didn’t sound hostile. Mostly puzzled. “How did you get my number?”

“Your email went to my cousin. It sounded kind of weird.”

            “Sorry. Here’s the thing—” A woman walking a labradoodle glared at me through her wide sunglasses as I sat forward. “Uh, there was a séance a couple of years ago? Do you remember that?”

“Yeah.” Busch paused. “I remember that. Weird night. So what?”

“Can I ask where you are right now?”

“Uh, I live in La Grange.” Another western suburb. “With Anis. I’m a contractor. Not much work these days, so I’m home most of the time.”

Wait a minute—“Anis Welch?”

“Yeah. We live together.”

Okay. “Great. Uh, congratulations. Anyway, here’s the thing . . .”

Halfway through my explanation, Busch shouted: “Anis! Come here!”

Rachel leaned next to me on the fence. A little too close for social distancing, but what the hell. 

            I held the phone next our ears—I didn’t want to put it on speaker on a public sidewalk—as a sharp female voice came on the line. “Yeah? What? What’s going on?”

            “Ms. uh, Anis? I’m a private detective, working for Marcus Keene—”

“Yeah, Joe just told me. What is this? I read about Charmaine. We weren’t great friends or anything, but I remember that night, and—well, that’s when Joe and me—anyway, what are you talking about?”

Rachel smirked. I tried to focus. “I’m worried that somehow Azar is back. That demon? Do you—”

“What? I dreamed about him last night. Or something. I don’t know. I’ve been having nightmares for a week. Joe can tell you—”

            “She wakes up all the time.” Busch’s voice was shaky. “All sweaty. Shouting. Words—I can’t even understand it. I thought she was just babbling, but sometimes it’s she’s like speaking in tongues, you know? And she doesn’t remember any of it when she wakes up.”

“I just did that one time.” A long, long pause. “Sorry for what I said, Joe.”

            My skin felt cold. “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on. Natalie McGinnis told me she’s also had dreams about Azar. This is—I don’t know.”

            Busch asked, “What do we do? What the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. Maybe sleep in separate rooms? With the doors locked? “Joe, have you been having nightmares too?”

“Uh, no. I sleep fine. Except when Anis wakes me up.”

So was the demon targeting only females? But why now? After— “All right. I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you. Just–—be careful.”

Busch groaned. “Thanks. I guess.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Rachel and I stood up. I grabbed my bag of groceries. “Something’s wrong.”

“You think?” She lifted a hand to punch my shoulder, but lowered it as a jogger ran past us. “Wear a mask, asshole!” she shouted. The jogger flipped his middle finger at us.

Rachel laughed. “Let’s go home.”