P.I.s spend a lot of time in their cars. It’s not usually car chases, just tedious stakeouts or long boring drives. Harper was about 150 miles west of Chicago, almost to the Mississippi River. I listened to classic rock mixed with news as I drove, along with as much talk radio as I could stand.
I pulled into town in the middle of the afternoon. I got gas and used the bathroom at one of the two gas stations along the main road, went to the Burger King across the street for something to eat, called Rachel to let her know I’d arrived safely, then checked my GPS.
The Harper Care Home had a small parking lot between its two wings. Sliding doors ushered me to the front desk. I could see a dining area and lounge to the right.
A young Black woman smiled up at me. “Welcome to Harper Care Home, how may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to visit Adele Blackburn? My name is Tom Jurgen.”
She looked me over. “Are you . . . family?”
“No. It’s about her son. He isn’t in any trouble,” I added quickly. “I just—need to contact him.”
Her eyes were suspicious, but she picked up her phone. After a moment she said, “Ms. Blackburn? Hi, it's Bridget from the front desk? There’s a Mr. Tom—Tom Jurgen? Here to see you. He says it’s about your son. No, he says there isn’t any trouble. He says.”
After a moment she nodded and hung up. “Ms. Blackburn will see you in the lounge. You can wait there.” She pointed.
I sat in a heavily upholstered chair next to a gas fireplace. Hotel room prints of nature scenes hung on the walls between bookcases holding hardback and knickknacks. An old man napped in a corner.
Adele Blackburn emerged from a side hallway five minutes later. She had thin brown hair covered with a scarf and glasses, and she used a walker to make her way slowly across the floor.
She stopped in front of me. “Jurgen?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I stood up. “Tom Jurgen. I’m from Chicago.”
She dropped into a chair next to me. “I’ve been to Chicago. Lots of times.. She peered at me through her glasses. “Now, what is this about my son?”
“I’m a private detective.” I gave her my card. “I’m working for a lawyer who’s been representing a man named Charlie Shore. He was in prison, but he escaped a few days ago, and she’s concerned he might try to contact your son Nathan.”
“Prison? What’d he do?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Murder. He may want—he’s said in the past, and recently, that he wants your son Nathan to perform an exorcism on him.”
Adele Blackburn looked at me, as if I might be making fun of her. Then she sat back and crossed her arms defiantly. “Nathan does good work. They didn’t believe it. They had him arrested. He got thrown out of his church, his own church that he practically built himself. All he ever did was help people who asked him. And everybody turned on him. Except me.”
“Ma’am, I’ve witnessed exorcisms.” More than one. “I know what they’re like. I’m only trying to make sure Nathan is all right. If Charlie Shore comes here looking for him—”
` “The murderer?”
“He says he was possessed when he did it. He knew your son somehow, wrote to him. We think it’s possible he might try to contact him, or come here, looking for help for his exorcism. I’m only here to let your son know to be careful if he hears from Shore.” I stopped.
She closed her eyes, as if falling asleep. Then they opened again, blinking, and she sighed. “You’ll have to tell him yourself. We don’t—he doesn’t talk to me anymore. You’ll have to go out there to see him.”
“Go out where?”
She waved an arm in a vague direction. “Just outside town. He’s got a church, his own church, but I don’t know what kind of things he says there. North out of town, take the first left, go about 20 miles . . . It’s just a house. A big farmhouse.”
More driving. “Well, thank you, Ms. Blackburn.” I stood up. “I’m sure there’s no trouble. I just need to talk to him.”
She shook her head. “Whatever. Tell him . . . say I said hello.”
I nodded. “I will.”
Following Adele Blackburn’s directions, I took the main road north, turned left, and drove about 20 miles. I spotted a big house off the road, went past, found nothing further on except a gas station in the middle of nowhere, then turned the car around and headed back to the house.
Up a long driveway I parked in front of a tall red house with a barn sagging next to it, trees all around. A minivan, a pickup truck, and a blue Honda were parked in front. I walked up to the door and knocked.
A young Black man in jeans and a Blackhawks jersey looked out at me. “Ye-es?”
“I’m looking for Nathan Blackburn.” I showed him my card. “My name’s Tom Jurgen.”
He stared at the card for a long time. “Okay. I’ll see if Reverend Blackburn can see you.” He closed the door, leaving me on the porch.
I waited. Five minutes later the door opened again. “Mr. Jurgen? I’m Reverend Blackburn.”
He was heavyset, with broad shoulders and a thick belly pushing at a buttoned sweater. A silver cross hung around his neck. His head was mostly scalp; his face had sharp eyes. I could see a little resemblance to his mother.
“Hi.” After a moment, when he didn’t invite me inside, I said, “I’m here because a man named Charlie Shore may try to contact you. He’s an escaped murderer. He, uh, apparently wanted you to perform an exorcism—”
“Charlie.” Blackburn frowned. “Yeah, I know him.”
“He escaped from prison three days ago. I don’t know if it’s possible he could get here, but I know he was obsessed with getting you to perform an exorcism for him. The police are looking for him, so if he shows up—”
“Come in.” Blackburn pushed the screen door open.
Inside the young man in the jersey closed and locked the door behind us. “This is Stephen,” Blackburn said. “One of my assistants.” He led me past a dark living room into the kitchen, a narrow room with dirty dishes in the sink and an ancient refrigerator in the opposite corner. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” I didn’t know what he had in mind, now that I’d told him about Shore, but maybe he knew something that would help the marshals find him. I was glad I’d called Rachel to let her know where I was, though.
A skinny blonde woman in cutoff shorts and a black turtleneck came in through a separate doorway. She had a rose tattoo on her leg. “Reverend, he’s asking for more—oh.” She saw me and shut up.
“Hannah, this is Tom Jurgen.” He smiled, pouring coffee into a cracked mug. “Hannah is another one of my assistants here. Cream? Sugar?”
“Black.” We sat down. Hannah left, but Stephen stood by the door, arms crossed.
“What do you do here?” I lifted my mug. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I’m retired.” Blackburn spooned some sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “I was excommunicated by my church, but I wanted to still be of service, so I came here to Harper. I—counsel people. Help them spiritually. It’s a small group—it’s a small town—but I like to think I help them. In a small way.” He smiled. “How did you find me?”
“Your mother gave me directions. She says to tell you hello.”
He didn’t respond.
“Have you been in contact with Charlie Shore?” I asked.
“He sent me letters. One just last week. He sounded very distraught. A man in need of help.”
“You’ve performed exorcisms?” I looked at him over the top of my mug.
“Several. More than 20.” He nodded with satisfaction.
“Have they always been successful?”
Blackburn’s eyes darkened. “Some can’t be saved. Some don’t want to be saved. They reject help even when it will help them.”
“Did you try with Charlie Shore? When you visited him?”
“They wouldn’t let me. The guards.” He blew on his coffee. “I tried to speak with the demon, and Charles started shouting. Or the demon started shouting, really. And then the guards took me away. I was barred from coming back.”
“So he wrote you letters after that?”
“Lots.” Blackburn sipped his coffee. “But I couldn’t help him. Not while he was locked up.”
“Has he—”
A tall man at the door interrupted me. In his 60s, with a face scarred by sunburn and weather, he wore suspenders and a blue shirt rolled up to the elbows. He carried a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Reverend? He’s, uh, he’s asking for you.” His eyelids were droopy, and he leaned to one side, as if he’d been drinking from the whiskey all afternoon.
Blackburn sighed and pushed his chair back. “All right, Jason.” He stood up. “Come on with me,” he said to me. “You’ll want to see this.”
I stood, uncertain. Stephen’s eyes targeted me with suspicion. I followed Blackburn, led by Jason, and Stephen followed us.
He led me up a staircase that creaked under every other step, to a second floor with half its lights burned out. A shotgun leaned next to a closed door, a sealed box of cartridges unopened on the floor next to it. Jason turned a doorknob, and Blackburn motioned me to join him.
Candles burned on a dresser, and a lightbulb flickered overhead. One door peeked into a bathroom. The room was bare except for a king-sized bed with posts at its four corners.
Charlie Shore was tied to the bed.
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