Demon in a Bottle

Booze is literally a killer when Tom Jurgen’s newest case takes him into the rooms of A.A. to track a demon that preys on alcoholics. 

Demon in a Bottle, Part One

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Tom, and I’m an alcoholic.”

            “Hi, Tom,” the dozen people around me responded. 

            I hesitated. The people were all ages, from college students to senior citizens. Some wore cargo pants and sweatshirts; others were dressed better than me, in my windbreaker and jeans. Everyone looked, well, normal.

            They gazed at me. Patient. Expectant.

            “I, uh, I started drinking in college. Mostly beer. After I graduated, my first job was, well, pretty high stress, and there was a lot of drinking going on.” I closed my eyes, trying to keep track of what to leave in and what to keep out. “I, uh, got fired, and then I got divorced, and then I sort of spiraled for a long time. My girlfriend has been pretty tolerant, but she’s getting sick of me not coming home, or coming home too drunk to talk, and complaining about hangovers, and not being able to work much for two or three days after a good binge, so . . . here I am.” I spread my hands. “Trying to figure things out.”

            Most of them nodded sympathetically. A few smiled. The man leading the group gestured toward the woman next to me, Black, with thick glasses and a plaid sweatshirt.

            “I’m Simone, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said with a wave.

            “Hi, Simone,” I said along with everyone else.

            Instead of telling a story of drinking and drugging, she talked for a few minutes about her father, who’d also been an alcoholic but never recovered, dying in the hospital of liver failure. Growing up she assumed everyone drank themselves to oblivion most nights, so she did the same thing. She talked about the car crash that almost killed her, the son who’d given up on her, and her first sponsor in AA who refused to listen to her excuses. “Now I’m 10 months sober,” she said. “Best decision I ever made.”

            We clapped, and the woman next to her cleared her throat and introduced herself.

            After her came the man I was interested in. “I’m Robbie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

            “Hi, Robbie.”

            He looked around at us, then at the floor,as if he was embarrassed to be here. “I’ve got two weeks today.”

            Everyone clapped. Even me.

            “I started drinking when I was 14. My friends got a case of beer, and I didn’t want to be left out, so . . .”

            He spoke for about five minutes. Then we went on to an older woman next to him.

            The stories were alike, but even so, each one was unique. Everyone remembered their first drink, and they all could tell you the date of their last—except some who were still drinking, trying to get sober, fighting the urge and losing more often than winning, but still coming back, determined to make it stick this time.

            We got to the last person, then we all stood up and recited the Serenity Prayer. “Give me the wisdom to change the things I can . . .”

            As the meeting broke up, Robbie picked up his coat from the back of his chair. A man in a three-piece suit put a hand on his shoulder and said something softly to him. Robbie nodded a thank-you, and they shook hands before he turned for the door.

            I tossed my empty coffee cup in a trash can and snagged a cookie from the table. The three-piece-suit guy walked over to me. “Good to see you, I’m Phillip. Two Ls. First meeting, huh?”

            “I’ve, uh, been to other meetings.” I kept my eyes on Robbie. 

            “Well, it works if you keep coming back.” He winked. “Here’s my number.” He handed me a three-by-five card with the 12 Steps of AA printed on one side, his phone number on the other. “Call me if you want to talk. Any time.”

            “Thanks.” I smiled and headed for the door.

            Robbie was at the bottom of the stairs. I tried not to be too obvious as I hurried down the steps after him. Out the door, I saw him walking up the street, swinging his arms, enjoying the cool evening air. 

Robbie was Robbie Seltz, 39 years old, and his wife was my client. I’m Tom Jurgen, and I’m a P.I.

This had started out as the usual cheating spouse case. “He goes out two, three nights a week,” his girlfriend told me when we met at a coffee shop near my apartment the day before. “He swears he’s not cheating, he’s just taking a long walk or going out with friends. But he’s so vague about it. I don’t know what’s going on.”

So here I was, pretending to be an alcoholic, invading the privacy of AA to find out if Robbie was cheating on his girlfriend.

The good news was that Robbie wasn’t cheating. The bad news was he was an alcoholic. I wondered how the girlfriend would respond to that. At least he was trying to get sober.

I followed him down the street. We were in Old Town, a few miles from his condo in Lincoln Park. I couldn’t get too close, or he might spot me and realize I was following him. Or maybe he’d think I wanted him to be my sponsor or something. So I hung back as far as I could until he stopped in front of a bar.

He stood on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes, as if trying to decide what he wanted to do. Then, shaking his head, he pushed the door open and headed inside.

I waited a moment, then followed him. 

The bar was busy for a Tuesday night, the jukebox singing and couples dancing in whatever space they could find. I took a stool near the door and ordered a beer as Kent grabbed a stool far from the door and ordered something. The bartender poured a stiff shot of Jack Daniels. He drank it down and immediately pointed at the glass for another.

I nursed my beer, my previous relief dissolving. This maybe wasn’t as bad as finding out he was having an affair, which happens a lot to me, but after an hour of hearing people spill their sad stories at the meeting, I couldn’t help feeling depressed for him. And my client. Sometimes I hate having to report the things I find out. 

Robbie had three more drinks, then fumbled with his wallet and tossed two twenties on the bar. He gripped the bar for balance as he slid off his stool, and bumped into people as he staggered his way to the door. I dropped some money on the bar next to the half of the beer that I hadn’t drunk and followed.

Out on the street he looked both ways, as if he’d forgotten where he was or where he was going. Then he made up his mind and started walking, weaving back and forth on unsteady feet, stumbling and catching himself until he reached a bus stop on North Avenue.

Two people stood under the bus stop shelter, a woman in her 60s and a young man in a long coat and sneakers. The woman held two heavy shopping bags. The shelter didn’t have a bench, so they all stood waiting.

Thunder rumbled, and a mild rain started to fall.

I stood behind the shelter, hoping Robbie wouldn’t turn around and recognize me from the meeting. From the way he leaned on the glass, though, I didn’t think he’d remember much from tonight. I probably wouldn’t be surprising his girlfriend when I called her tomorrow. She’d know the minute he walked in the door. That was some small comfort.

A bus approached. The woman reached down for her bags, lifting them with tired arms. The traffic light changed from red to green, and cars veered around the bus as the driver pressed the brakes to bring it to a stop. The young man in the long coat stepped forward, then turned and took a step back to let the woman get on the bus first.

Then Robbie reached out, grabbed her shoulders, and shoved the old woman in front of the bus. 

She screamed and tried to struggle. The young man turned, staring at Robbie, frozen in confusion. The bus driver leaned forward, pressing his foot harder and yanking the big wheel of his vehicle.

The woman might have been only bruised and shaken If Robbie hadn’t held onto her. But once she was in the path of the bus, he didn’t let go. He stood there, rain pouring down over both of them, like he was waiting.

The bus skidded. The driver tried to jerk it out of the way. But the pavement was slick and Robbie held firm.

The bus hit them both. The woman toppled in front of the massive tires, but Robbie flew through the air, landing on the hood of a car trying to veer away. His arms flailed as he rolled, and then his body slammed down onto the street with a crunch I could hear six yards away.

The old woman lay face down on the pavement, and the bus went right over her, finally rocking to a stop halfway through the intersection with her battered body beneath it, her groceries strewn around her motionless legs.

Robbie lay on the street, his eyes wide open, his arms and legs motionless, slack. 

Cops and an ambulance came in minutes. I watched as paramedics  put Robbie into a bag and another team slowly pulled the woman out from under the car and lifted her onto a stretcher. They covered her face before sliding her body into the ambulance to take her away..

That was four years ago

 

“Hi, I’m Tom, and I’m an alcoholic.”

            “Hi, Tom.”

            “I’m, uh, I think I’m just listening tonight, if that’s all right.”

            People nodded. The woman next to me said, “Hello, I’m Susan. I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”

            “Hi, Susan.”

            No, I hadn’t gone back in time. I remembered the meeting I’d been to three or four years ago, the one that had ended in a drunk man pushing a woman under a bus and killing himself after going to an A.A. meeting. This time my client was the wife of Luke Kempton, who’d been sober for six months. But she wondered if he was really going to meetings.

            “He’s had relapses before,” she told me over the phone. “I find bottles under the sink or in the garbage. I hate that I don’t trust him, but I just want to be sure he really is going to meetings when he says he is.”

            So I took a PayPal retainer and arranged to follow Kempton tonight.

            The meeting was in the conference room of a Lincoln Park library. Fourteen people, including me. Men, women, and nonbinary folks, old, young, and in between, spread out for social distancing, some of them wearing masks, all of them there to share their stories in hopes of staying sober. 

I hoped it helped. I wanted a beer.

            When Kempton’s turn came, he was brief. “I’ve got six months,” he said. “Before that I had eight months. Before that I had two months. In between, I went out and barely made it back. Hospital, detox, rehab—it worked for a while and then I was right back out. My wife—she wanted to kick me out half a dozen times. I’ve got to do it this time. For her. And, uh, for me.” He took a gulp of lukewarm coffee in a paper cup.

            We ended with the meeting leader standing up to start us on the Serenity Prayer. He wore a necktie and a three-piece suit, the vest unbuttoned and his jacket hanging on the folding chair behind him, and he smiled as he started out, “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change . . .”

My memory clicked, and I remembered him. Phillip. Two L’s. He’d been at the meeting four years ago. He smiled, walking around the room as the meeting broke up, shaking hands, asking questions, offering encouragement. He put a hand on Kempton’s shoulder to speak for a few moments, then moved onto Susan.

He didn’t notice me. Probably he didn’t recognize my face or my name. It was a funny coincidence, but I knew people stayed with meetings for years, so maybe it wasn’t that unusual to see him again.

Kempton slipped on his coat and made his way to the door. I followed.

He was tall and broad, a little overweight, and he was easy to follow down the street. Not in any hurry. He paused to look inside a Thai restaurant, as if hungry—the meeting had run to 7:30, either too early or too late for dinner, as my stomach rumbled—and then at the display window of a New Balance store. Maybe he needed new shoes.

Then he stopped in front of a bar. 

I waited, half a block behind, feeling like I was in a sudden flashback. Maybe I was traveling in time? Deja vu made my skin tingle. 

I hadn’t thought about that night in years, but now it came flooding back—the meeting, the rain, the bus, the shock, and finally the guilt. 

Could I have done something? Saved that woman somehow? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I’d watched her get murdered for no reason, and seen him die, and then had to report what I’d seen to my client. His wife. 

I couldn’t bring myself to send her an invoice.

I told myself it wasn’t my fault. Rachel, my girlfriend, told me the same thing, more insistently. “It happened in a second, right?” she said. “You couldn’t have stopped him. You’re not Batman.”

“No,” I had to agree. Even Batman couldn’t have stopped that bus. But I’d watched it all happen without doing anything. It nagged at me for a long time.

So when Kempton, after three seconds, pushed on the door and walked inside the bar, I hesitated for only half a moment. Then I went in after him.

            A jukebox played classic rock for the dozen or so people sitting around the small bar, watching basketball on the TVs mounted overhead. A woman behind the bar in tight jeans and a sweatshirt rolled up to her elbows was pouring Kempton a shot.

            I hurried over to him, out of breath and nervous. “Luke, right? Is that you ? From the meeting? I’m Tom.” I sat next to him.

            He stared at me. The bartender looked me over, waiting for an order, but I shook my head and waved her away.

            “You okay, Luke?” I glanced at the shot glass in his hand.

            Kempton looked too, as if he hadn’t seen it before. He set it down, blinking, and rubbed his temples, shaking his head. “I don’t—I don’t know. I feel like I just want to get drunk. And kill myself.”

            “You want to get a cup of coffee?” I asked. “Better than what they had at the meeting?”

            He blinked, then shoved the glass across the bar and stood up. “Yeah. Thanks. Let’s go.”

            I dropped some money on the bar for the drink and followed him outside.

 

I spent an hour with Kempton at a nearby Starbucks. He told me his life story in much greater detail than he’d shared at the meeting—tales of blackouts, DUIs, broken relationships, petty theft, and more, all common in the rooms and nothing I hadn’t heard before as a P.I. I tried to keep the focus on him so I wouldn’t get tripped up in too many lies. I told him I was a freelance reporter, after getting fired from the Tribune for drinking too much, which was only partly true—I was drinking a lot at the time, but that wasn’t why I’d quit. I made up some drinking escapades of my own, and told him a little bit about Rachel, and admitted that I hadn’t been to too many meetings lately, but I was glad I’d shown up tonight.

In the end I walked him home, and we traded phone numbers. I wondered if his wife would be able to keep a straight face when he told her about his new friend Tom from AA.

 

Back home Rachel was studying for yet another test while watching a reality TV show. She’s a graphic designer, sometimes my assistant, and she’s in grad school to become a psychologist. “How’d it go? Want a beer?”

            “Actually, no.” After hearing Kempton’s story in detail, the thought of a beer made my stomach churn. “I need to check something.”

            In our shared office I turned on my computer and started going back through my case files. Two years, three years, four—there it was. Robbie Seltz.

            Details surged back to life in my mind as I skimmed the report. The big blue book of Alcoholics Anonymous. Simone, the alcoholic and drug addict. Did she ever reconcile with her son? The meeting leader—was he still leading the Serenity Prayer? The lukewarm coffee and stale cookies that seemed to be a common denominator for every AA meeting, or at least the few I’d been to.

            Phillip. I found a scan of his card, the 12 Steps on one side, his phone number on the other. 

            And I remembered the woman. I never saw her face, but I could still hear her screams.

            Out in the living room I sat next to Rachel and stared at the TV. A man and two women were arguing in a car. Something about a poodle, or maybe a chihuahua, and a swimming pool. I couldn’t figure it out without more background, and I didn’t want to make the effort.

            At the break Rachel muted the TV. “You okay?”

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. We’ve lived together for five years or so. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and killer legs. 

And psychic powers. At least a little, sometimes a lot. She frowned at me. “What’s wrong?”

            I sighed. “You remember a couple of years ago, there was a case where I followed a guy to an A.A. meeting and he ended up getting drunk and pushing a woman in front of a bus?”

            She thought for a moment. “Yeah. I think so.”

            “He left the meeting and went straight into a bar. The same thing happened tonight. Only this time the guy didn’t kill anyone, thank God. I went in after him, and we went out for coffee.”

            “Are you his sponsor now?”

            “Maybe.” I glanced at the TV. The show was starting up again, but Rachel didn’t turn up the sound. “The same guy was there both nights. Different meetings, four years apart, but the same thing, a guy leaving and heading straight for a bar.”

            She cocked her head. “I bet that happens a lot.”

            “Probably. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

            “But you don’t think so.”

            “Using your psychic powers to read my mind?”

            She snorted. “The ditzy woman in my show could figure out what you’re thinking.”

            I chuckled. “Yeah. Maybe I’m just feeling guilty again.”

            She nodded. “You were pretty upset.”

            I’ve faced vampires, demons, mutant monkeys, and other assorted monsters across the course of my career. I just seem to attract them for some reason. But violent death is never easy to see.

            “Yeah.” I stood up. “Is there any ice cream?”

            “Don’t eat all the mint chocolate chip. I’m saving that for after my test tomorrow.” 

            “Got it.” I went to the kitchen, took a carton of french vanilla from the freezer, and opened the refrigerator door for a drink. A six-pack of Heineken stared up at me from the bottom shelf. I took a bottle of water instead.

Demon in a Bottle, Part Two

The next morning I called my client.

            I told Jenna Kempton everything, but I left out the flashback to four years ago. She sounded worried. “I’m glad he’s really going to the meetings,” she said. “But going into a bar right afterward? Is that normal?”

            “I have no idea. If you want, I can follow him to his next meeting. It’ll be easier, actually, since he knows me now.” 

            “Maybe . . .” She thought for a moment. “He has a Zoom meeting tonight, so I know he’ll do that. I think there’s one tomorrow. I’ll let you know the address. Unless I change my mind? It feels funny, having you follow him. It’s not like he’s cheating on me, but going into a bar, like you said? I’d feel better if someone was with him.”

            “He’ll need to get a sponsor for that. I can definitely follow him tomorrow night, but I’m not really qualified to help anybody stay sober long term.”

            “Right. Okay. Tomorrow.” She hung up. 

            I spent some time looking up Phillip with two Ls. With his phone number, I was able to get his full name, Phillip Levering, and some details. He managed a carpet store not far from the church where I’d met him four years ago. He’d had some legal troubles—evicted from two apartments for nonpayment of rent, a restraining order from a girlfriend, a DUI—but nothing in the last year or so. No social media presence beyond a basic Facebook page with a profile picture and an image of a sunset. Or maybe a sunrise.

            I had other work, a workers comp fraud situation, and was gone for a lot of the day. When I got back Rachel was eating her ice cream, and I started on dinner, since it was my night to cook. We drank a few beers, which felt funny after the meeting last night. Then I, uh, forgot about all that as we, well, you know.

 

So the next night I was back at another meeting. We were in a high school gymnasium  this time, under the basketball hoop. The same folding chairs in a circle, another urn of decaf coffee and a tray of cookies, a similar group of people who looked like they could have been parents at a PTA meeting, not alcoholics trying to turn their lives around or keep it headed in the right direction.

            I’d picked up Kempton outside his apartment building again. He was easy to follow, and I knew where the meeting was ahead of time, but I still hung back as much as I dared. He knew me, after all, even if I’d just been mostly listening to him.

            I recognized a woman from last night, Asian and elderly, and a person who went by Theo and offered the pronouns they/them. The rest were new to me, but I imagined the same people showed up at different meetings everywhere.

            Phillip was there too. Not leading the group tonight, just waiting for things to get started.

            We read from the !2 Steps and 12 Traditions book, step four: “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Rachel would have been better doing that for me. I read a few paragraphs, then started my own list in my head: stubborn, reckless, easily irritated by stupidity, too willing to believe the unbelievable, not paying attention—

            Why was everybody looking at me? Oh, right. “Hi, I’m Tom, and I’m an alcoholic. I think I’ll just listen tonight, if that’s all right.”

            People shared about DUIs, abusing their partners, throwing up at wedding receptions, and other stuff. Others talked about how working on their lists with a sponsor helped them overcome the character defects that contributed to their drinking. It could be a positive experience, apparently. I wondered if I should try it. 

            Then we stood and recited the Serenity Prayer, and the meeting was over. 

            Kempton said hi to me but didn’t talk about anything else. He seemed embarrassed. He helped fold and stack chairs, so I did too. When we were close to being finished, Phillip came up to me. “Hi, I’m Phillip. Two Ls. How you doing tonight?”

            “I’m, uh, I’m okay. I didn’t drink today.” That was true, at least. So far.

            “Great. Keep coming back.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “It works if you work it sober, like they say. Here.” He pressed a card into my hand. The same one he’d given me four years ago—same timeless 12 Steps, same phone number. “Call me if you want to talk.”

            “Thanks.” I put the card in my pocket. Kempton was putting his jacket on. “I’ve, uh, got to go.”

            “Sure.” He let go of my shoulder. “Keep coming back,” he said again.

            “I will.” I looked for my jacket to follow Kempton.

            I hurried out behind him, then hung back again. This time he might get really worried if he spotted me on his tail after the meeting. 

            Following Kempton, I began to feel—funny. Jittery, like I was having an attack of nerves. I checked behind me, wondering if maybe I was being followed too. Or just being paranoid. It’s an occupational hazard.

Then I almost lost Kempton, and that made my anxiety jump. I caught up to him, breathing hard, then dropped away as he turned to look back. Damn it. Was I losing my edge? I’m usually pretty good at tailing people. 

            Finally Kempton reached his building. I leaned against a lamppost, catching my breath, grateful that now I could go home. Instead the anxiety rose more. I tapped my foot on the pavement. Maybe once I got home and had a beer—

            I started walking to where I’d left my car. Two blocks away I stopped in front of a small bar. Smiley’s. The yellow neon letters in the window glowed like beacons. 

            Why not? I hadn’t had a drink today, like I’d told Phillip. I deserved one. 

            Inside I perched on a stool and looked over the beer taps. A bartender in his 20s with his hair in a ponytail and a Cubs cap backward on his head dropped a cardboard coaster in front of me. “What’ll it be?”

            “Jack Daniels,” I heard myself say. I hardly ever drink hard liquor. But it somehow felt like something I needed right now.

            The guy poured the whiskey. I put the glass to my lips and drank it down in one swallow, then held the glass forward. “Another.”

            The bartender smiled and poured again.

            I drank it down again. “Another one, I guess.”

            He looked me over. “Okay, but take it easy.” He poured another drink. “Pace yourself, maybe?”

            I chuckled. “Sure.”

            I nursed the next one. For maybe four minutes. Then I ordered another. After a while I stopped keeping track. The bartender tried to keep an eye on me, but then a group of women in tight jeans and loose blouses came in and he got busy.

            After a while I felt a buzzing my pocket. My phone. Rachel. I smiled. “Hi, Rach! I’ll be home soon.”

            “Where are you?” She sounded suspicious.

            “Just, uh, stopped off for a drink. Long day. You know?”

            “One drink? You sound funny.”

            I looked at my empty glass and waved for the bartender. “I don’t know. Another one, okay?”

            “Are you drunk?”

            “No. I’m not drunk. I’m just—having a few. I’m allowed, right?”

            She said nothing for a moment. Was she going to be mad at me. “Rach, I’m fine, I’ll be home soon—”

            “Where are you? Never mind, I can track your phone. Stay there. Let me talk to the bartender.”

            “Huh?” He was pouring my drink. Less this time. “Okay. Hey, uh, my girlfriend wants to talk to you.” I handed the phone over.

            He took it, annoyed. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay. It’s called Smiley’s. Yeah, okay. I’ll try.” He handed it back. “She’s on her way. And I’m not supposed to serve you anymore. And I’m supposed to keep you here.”

            I slumped. “Can I at least finish this one?”

            “I guess so. I’ll get your tab.”

            My bill was—wow, it was a lot. I had how many? Liquor is expensive. I spent a long time working out a reasonable tip, then adding more to it because the bartender seemed like a nice guy. Then I shoved the tray across the bar and started to stuff my wallet back in my pants. I dropped it.

            Someone ran into my elbow as I was bending over. Asshole. “Hey!”

            The guy was big, with broad brawny shoulders and a thick head of black hair. “Huh?”

            “Watch where you’re going.” I grabbed my stool for balance.

            “What the hell?” He blinked, his eyes shifting from mildly annoyed to pissed off. 

            “You ran into me, asshole.” I jabbed a finger at his arm.

He pushed me, sending me staggering back against the bar. My stool fell over.

            “Goddamn it.” I lunged forward, my fists raised and ready to hammer him, except I tripped and went sprawling to the floor. He laughed.

            I rolled over, rage rushing furiously through my head, and then Rachel was standing over me, looking disgusted. 

“Settle down, Tom. It’s okay.” She grabbed my arm as I struggled up to my feet, then smiled at the guy with a shrug. “Sorry. He’s not usually a jerk.” Then she looked at me. “Jerk.”

            The guy laughed. “Not a problem.” Was he flirting with her? My girlfriend? I stiffened, but then a tall girl took his hand and led him to the door. 

            The bartender was watching us from behind the bar. “We good?” Rachel asked. “Does he owe you anything?”

            “No, he already—” He picked up the tray with the receipt on it. “Wow. Thanks. Copy of the receipt?”

            “Thanks.” She yanked it from his fingers and looked it over. “Very generous.” She punched my arm. “Come on, Mr. Moneybags. Let’s get you home.”

            “Wh-how are you here?” I let her lead me to the door. “Oh, right. I called you.”

            “I called you. Watch your step.” She held the door for me. 

“Right here.” She had an Uber waiting in the street. “In you go.”

            I tumbled into the back seat. Then everything went black.

Demon in a Bottle, Part Three

I woke up feeling like someone had poured cement into my skull, let it dry, and was now slowly chipping away at it with a pickaxe. A heavy, dull pickaxe.

            After 20 minutes or so, I managed to stumble into the bathroom. I immediately threw up, brushed my teeth, took a shower, then threw up again. I brushed my teeth again and swallowed four Tylenol. They stayed down.

            Back in the bedroom I found a big purple bruise on my left arm that I didn’t have yesterday. I pulled on a T-shirt, and then I had to take a five-minute break before struggling into my jeans. I didn’t even try to tie my shoes. 

My clothes from last night were on the floor. At least I hadn’t puked in the bed, although the garbage can was right next to my pillow. The door to the closet was wide open for some reason, but I couldn’t drag anything from my memory to explain why. 

            I made it to the kitchen, where I decided I couldn’t deal with cereal. I poured myself some coffee, took a deep breath to steel my nerves, and slowly trudged to the office.

            I sank into my chair. “What time is it?”

            “Eleven thirty-something.” Rachel swung around in her chair. “You were out 14 hours. I spent half the night making sure you didn’t vomit in the bed. I didn’t want you to choke on your own puke. Or have to change the sheets.” She glared at me.

            I hung my head. “Sorry. I don’t know—what happened.”

            “Oh, I know what happened. How do you feel?”

            “Nothing a shotgun blast to the head wouldn’t—” I stiffened. 

Oh hell. I remembered.

            The closet in the bedroom. We keep a handgun on the upper shelf. “Did I—”

            Rachel stared at me as it started to come back. “Yeah. You tried to get Daffy.” Daffy Duck is our name for the Glock I bought last year. 

She crossed her arms. “Good thing you dropped the box on the floor and I heard it, and you were too drunk to get the key in.”

            “Shit.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead, reminding me that my left arm ached. I pulled up my sleeve to show off the bruise. “Is this . . .”

            “Yeah.” Rachel sighed. “I hit you. I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

            “No, I’m . . .” I closed my eyes again. “Damn it.”

Rachel walked over to me. “You okay?”

“No.” I’d tried to kill myself once before. With pills. Rachel saved me that time too. I’d taken antidepressants and seen a psychiatrist for months after that. “Damn it.”

“Take it easy. And listen to me.” She crouched in front of me. “It wasn’t you.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Just shut up for a minute.” She planted a hand on my forehead. “Okay.” She grimaced. “It’s gone.”

            “What? I took a bunch of Tylenol—”

            “No, you idiot. The demon.”

            I blinked. “Demon?”

            Rachel sighed. “You were late, and I called you, and there was something in your voice. I could feel it.”

            “Through the phone?” Rachel’s psychic, like I said, but it doesn’t usually work long distance, as far as I knew.

            She rolled her eyes. “Have long have we been together? I can see inside your head whenever I want.”

            “Really?” That was scary news.

She snorted. “Not really. But maybe I’ll start working on it.”

“Okay.” Good to know. “You could tell I was—possessed—when you called me?”

            “I knew something was wrong. Aside from being drunk. Which isn’t like you anyway.”

            That was true. Aside from the occasional beer, I rarely drink, and I don’t have that many beers in an evening when I do. The last time I was really drunk was probably when my marriage was falling apart, and that was 15 years ago. 

            I searched my aching head for memories of last night. “I don’t remember coming home.”

            “Yeah, you were pretty out of it.”

            “I don’t remember trying to . . . get the gun, either.”

            She looked away from me. “Well, you weren’t anywhere near close to getting inside the box. I don’t think you could have loaded it. But still . . .” She shook her head. “You said you were going to kill yourself. So I hit you. Hard.” She rubbed her hand as if it still stung. “You called me a bitch, and a lot of other things. I kept telling myself it was the demon, but still—” Her face got tense. “I was scared. And mad.”

            “I’m sorry. Even if it was the demon, I—”

            “Don’t. I don’t care. I can’t—” She looked away from me. “This just happens too much. Demons, haunted houses, vampires, it’s just—hard for a girl to take sometimes.”

            “I know.” We’d almost broken up over it once.

            She looked at my arm. “So I hit you. And it felt—good.”

            I nodded. “Can’t blame you. And thanks for not letting me kill myself.”

            Rachel sighed. “I don’t have any backup plan. This is it. You’re it.” She punched my arm. Lightly, but I winced. “Just remember that, would you?”

            “I’ll try.”

            She patted my bruise. “Did you eat anything?”

            “Not yet. Maybe when my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s in free fall. Where is it now?”

            “I’m not telling you where Daffy is.” 

            “Good. But I meant the demon.” It would be nice to blame all this on something else. 

            She put a hand on my forehead again. “No idea. It was there most of the night. Until about four o’clock. That’s when I went to sleep.” 

“What kind of demon is it?”

            Rachel closed her eyes. “Something angry.”

            Most demons are angry. “Anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “Frustrated. Needy. Full of resentment.”

            Resentment—they talk about that at A.A. meetings. Wait a minute—”Phillip.”

            “What? Who?”

            “Phillip. With two Ls.” I turned to my computer and ignored the pounding in my head to bring up the file I’d started on him. “He was at the meeting last night. He was leading the meeting the night before. And he was at that meeting four years ago.”

            I showed her what I had, including the one photo I’d found of him on Facebook. “And last night he came up to me—wait, I think he came up to me four years ago. Yeah, he gave me that card, but last night he touched me. And the night before he touched Kempton.”

            “And four years ago?”

            I shook my head. “Maybe. I don’t remember for sure. But he was there.”

            “Is that such a coincidence? Lots of people go to meetings for years. Lots of people relapse.”

            “They don’t jump in front of buses.” I rubbed my scalp. “Or try to shoot themselves for no reason.”

            She tilted her head. “So you’re thinking that’s what happened four years ago? That guy was possessed by a demon who just wanted to kill someone? Anyone? A random stranger?”

            “What did the demon in me want?”

            “I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Yeah. It’s not like it talked to me, but it definitely wanted to do something destructive. Or self-destructive. You were on your way to getting your ass kicked when I walked in that bar.” Rachel smirked. 

            “That I remember. I owe you two.”

            “Oh, you’ll pay. Double. Maybe triple. But what now?”

            I slumped in the chair and rubbed my eyes. “First I’ve got to call my client. Then . . .”

            She looked suspicious. “Then what?”

            “How do you feel about going to an A.A. meeting tonight?”

 

Jenna Kempton was relieved when I told her Luke hadn’t gone to a bar last night. “Maybe it was just a one-time thing,” she said. “I’m just glad you were there to help him.”

            I didn’t say anything about Phillip or the demon. I just wished her and Luke luck, then hung up and took a long drink of water. Hydration is key when you’re hung over.

            Then I had to figure out which meeting Phillip would be at. In the end I decided to take the direct approach.

            “Hi, Phillip? It’s, uh, Tom. From the meeting last night?”

            “Oh, hi, Tom!” Phillip sounded delighted to hear my voice. “How you doing today?”

            “Not great. I, uh, relapsed last night.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” It sounded like a reflex, something he’d say without thinking. “But it happens, you know? The thing is to get right back to it and go to a meeting.” 

            “Yeah, that’s the thing. You going to any meetings tonight? I don’t know where to go.”

            “Sure! I’m going to be at St. Agathe’s church, 7:00 p.m. See you there?”

            “Seven o’clock, got it. Thanks.” I hung up.

Demon in a Bottle, Part Four

It was another Big Book meeting. We were in the basement of the small church, about a dozen us, including me and Rachel and Phillip.

            Rachel was there to check Phillip out with her psychic powers. I’d told her what the meetings were like, what to say, and what Phillip looked like. “Just don’t let him put his hands on you,” I said. 

            She smirked. “You say that about everyone.”

            I looked her over. “Well, it’s true.”

            Rachel and I arrived separately and didn’t make eye contact in the room. She read from the book haltingly, pausing a lot, and stopping after just a few paragraphs. Phillip read for a page and a half. The story was typical—someone who started drinking as a teenager, let it grow slowly out of control as an adult, tried to quit multiple times, and finally ended up in A.A. and found long-term sobriety with the help of a sponsor and the 12 Steps. Happy ending. 

            The leader passed a hat, and we dropped our donations in as people shared. They got to Rachel before me.

            “My name is Rachel. I’m an alcoholic.” She stared at the floor. “I’ve got about a month sober. My boyfriend got really drunk last night.” She took a deep breath. “I was—I was really afraid he was going to kill himself.”

            I bit my lip, telling myself to apologize again later. And maybe call my psychiatrist for an appointment.

            “I got him to go to sleep, and I thought about having a drink. I mean, I really wanted a beer. But I didn’t. I was mad at him, but I know it wasn’t his fault. It’s this disease. He goes to meetings too, he’s at one tonight. I hope it helps.”

            She was sitting one person away from Phillip, who nodded sympathetically. When he spoke, he mentioned that he had 11 years of sobriety, but every day was still a challenge. “I know I’ve got it inside me,” he said. “I don’t know when it could come out, so I have to watch myself every day. And keep coming to meetings.”

            We continued around the room and eventually got to me. I introduced myself. 

“Hi, Tom,” the group responded.

            “I, uh, had a relapse last night.” I rubbed my head. My hangover was a little better, but I still felt like I’d fallen from an airplane onto a concrete bed of nails. “I don’t remember much of it. I haven’t had that much to drink in a long time. I almost got into a fight in a bar, and I almost—got really hurt. Fortunately my, uh, roommate came and got me and put me in bed. I just woke up this morning aching all over, and I knew I needed a meeting. To get back on track, you know?”

            Everyone nodded. Except Rachel, who didn’t look at me. We’d agreed on that beforehand. But it still hurt a little.

            We finished once again with the Serenity Prayer. Rachel said something to Phillip quickly, slipping her jacket on as she talked so he wouldn’t be able to reach out and touch her, and then she headed for the door. I helped fold and stack chairs until Phillip came over.

            “How you doing?” He smiled.

            “My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it.” I groaned. “I could barely eat today. Just some water.”

            “Want to go out for coffee?”

            “Sure. Let me just text my roommate.” I took my phone out.

            Going for coffee with LL. Follow, I texted.

We finished with the chairs. My phone buzzed as I slipped my jacket on.

Careful. He’s definitely got something going on.       

            “Everything okay?” Phillip smiled again.

            “Fine.” I put my phone away. “Let’s go.”

 

Coffee shops are everywhere in Chicago. We found one a block away and ordered—black coffee for me, a decaf latté for Phillip. We sat down at a small table facing each other.

            I’d caught a glimpse of Rachel across the street when we left the church. She’s decent at tailing people, although she doesn’t get much practice. I hoped she was close enough to watch us through the window of the shop.

            “So you relapsed last night,” Phillip said.

            “Yeah.” I sipped my coffee, wondering if I should have ordered decaf myself. “It was weird. Right after I talked to you, I was passing a bar, and I got this urge to go inside. And I just started drinking.”

            He nodded. “It happens. It’s happened to me more than I can say. Did you drink today?”

            I shook my head. “I don’t think my stomach could take it.”

            “That’s good. Not your stomach, I mean, but you didn’t cure your hangover with a drink.”

            “I’m just afraid it will happen again.”

            “It might.” Phillip shook his head. “I can’t promise it won’t.”

            So far he hadn’t tried to put a hand on me. Could he insert the demon without physical contact? What kind of a demon was I dealing with, anyway? I’d spent part of the day trying to look up “demons” and “alcohol” on my usual internet sources without getting anywhere, although the fog of my hangover made focusing difficult.

            Maybe I should try the direct approach. “What causes it? Where does it come from?”

            Phillip leaned back, as if this was his favorite subject to talk about. “They say it’s a disease, or an allergy. But I think it’s something else. Something inside you. Like a parasite. And it wants to kill you.”

            He reached across the table for my shoulder.

            I jerked my chair back. Phillip looked at me, then let his arm drop. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything—”

            “No, I’m sorry. I’m just jumpy.” I gulped more coffee. “Where does it come from? The parasite?”

            Phillip shook his head. “No one knows. From hell, maybe. A demon. But you can’t get rid of it with an exorcism. It never goes away.”

            “A demon.” I crossed my arms. “Is that what the Big Book says?”

            He searched my face. Did he sense my skepticism? “It’s just what I’ve come to know. I can feel it. Inside me. Trying to take over.”

            “Trying to get out?”

            Phillip’s chair scraped on the parquet floor as he edged backward. “If it stays, it’ll kill me.”

            “So you let it out? Is that it? Is that what you did to me last night?”

            He stared at me, his eyes suddenly sharp and wary. “What are you talking about?”

            “Last night. And the night before. And four years ago.”

            He shot up, knocking his chair over. Two women at a nearby table looked over, then quickly looked away.

            “I’m . . . powerless.” He blinked. “But God won’t take it away.”

            “Have you asked? Isn’t that one of the steps? Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings—”

            “Fuck you!” Phillip pounded a fist on the table, spilling coffee. Now everyone was looking at us. He leaned down, arms outstretched, but I pushed my chair back, out of his reach. 

            Phillip’s face was red, his lower lip trembling. He glanced around the shop, one face to another, as if looking for someone else to hand the demon to. Then he came back around to me, and scowled. 

            “There’s more like you. Lots more.” He grabbed his coffee and threw it into a garbage bin as he walked out.

            I looked over at the barista behind the counter, who was watching us, one hand near the phone. “Sorry. Leaving now.” I picked up my cup.

            Outside, I spotted Rachel outside a taco place across the street. She pointed up the street, a question on her face. Follow? I shook my head and crossed to her.

            “What happened?” She peered up the sidewalk. “We can still catch him. Maybe.”

            “Let him go.” I wasn’t up to confronting any real demons tonight. I only hoped it was too late for him to find another victim.

            “He called it a demon.” I sipped my coffee. “When I asked him. He knew what I was getting at, so he got scared and left.”

            “So what now?”

            I was tired. “Let’s go home.”

 

Back home. “Want a beer?” Rachel asked, hanging up her jacket.

            “Just water.”

            “You mind if I have one?”

            “No. You have studying?”

            She grimaced. “Always. And a paper on Freud to work on.”

            “You’re still on Freud? Isn’t he ancient history? The Blockbuster Video of psychology?”

            She punched my shoulder. “There’s still some useful ideas. The paper’s supposed to be about finding one and explaining what’s not BS.”

            She brought me a water and opened her laptop on the couch. I went into my office.

            First I sent Jenna Kempton an email. I wanted to be sure her husband was sober and healthy, and I also warned her that he should stay away from Phillip if possible. I couldn’t give her the real reason; I just told her I had an idea he was a bad influence.

            I went digging for more information on Phillip, but got nowhere. I didn’t know what to do now. Was he really letting some sort of demon into people’s head so it could make them kill themselves? What could I do about it? I know an ex-priest who does exorcisms, but—

            My phone buzzed. Jenna Kempton.

            “Tom? I’m sorry to call you, but—” She took a breath. “He went to a meeting and he isn’t back yet. He’s not answering. I can track his phone now, and it says he’s at a bar.”

Was I Luke’s sponsor now? I tried to think of an excuse to stay home, but before I could think of anything she said, “I can’t go because my three-year-old is asleep and I can’t leave him. I’ll pay you. I’m just worried.”

I stifled a groan. But the thought of making a little extra cash eased my irritation. “Sure. Text me the address.”

In the living room Rachel was studying with the TV on low.  “I have to go pick up my client’s husband,” I told her. “He’s at a bar.”

Rachel cocked an eyebrow. “Will you be okay? Maybe I should come.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll text you the address. It’s not far.”

She frowned. “Okay. Call me.” She turned back to her laptop. 

            I hesitated. “Are we okay here?”

            She slammed the laptop shut. “No. Yes. I’m coming with you.” She stood up. 

            I’ve learned not to argue with her. “Fine. Let’s go.”