Witch's Fork

A dead father returned to life, a trapped witch desperate to free herself, and a missing fork infused with powerful magic—these are the deadly players in Tom Jurgen’s latest case. 

Witch's Fork, Part One

The ranch house was set back from the road, behind a neatly mowed lawn with flowers crowding the front window. A child’s tricycle lay on the grass next to the cracked concrete path to the door.

            I rang the doorbell, and a moment later woman answered—mid-30s, short black hair, in jeans and a Chicago White Sox T-shirt. She peered at me through the dusty screen. “Yeah?”

            “Niki Matos?”

            She nodded cautiously, one hand ready to slam the door in my face. “What is it?”

            “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective from Chicago.” I held out the thick envelope I’d brought with me. “I’m supposed to deliver this to you.”

            Niki blinked, confused. “What’s going on?”

            “It’s not a subpoena or a lawsuit,” I said quickly. “It’s from your father.”

            Her frown grew dark and angry. “Bull shit. My father’s dead.” She stepped back to close the door.

            Huh? “Wait!” I held up a hand. “I spoke to a man two days ago who said he was Luke Valdez. He asked me to locate you and deliver this to you. He said he hasn’t seen you in three years, didn’t know where you live now. If he was lying to me—”

            “He died six months ago. In Chicago. Drugs, that’s what I heard. I haven’t seen him in, yeah, three years, I guess. But I’ve got the obituary.”

            I thought back to the phone call. It’s not unusual for clients to hire me without ever meeting in person, but I’ve been hired by imposters before. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “If you don’t want it, that’s fine. Sorry to bother you.” I turned.

            “Wait.” She looked me over, probably deciding whether she could overpower me if necessary. I must looked harmless enough, because she pushed at the screen door. “Come on in.”

            The living room carpet was thin and faded. Toys and games were piled in corners, and an empty can of soda sat on a table in front of the TV. “The kids are at school,” Niki said, leading me across the room toward the kitchen. “My youngest is taking a nap, so keep quiet.”

            In the kitchen we sat across from each other at a wobbly, and I handed her the envelope as. She reached over the counter for a big knife to slit the envelope, and maybe to stab me if she turned out to be wrong about my threat potential. 

            Niki’s eyes grew wide as a wad of cash fell out onto the table. Twenty-dollar bills, wrapped in rubber bands. She picked it up, held it sideways to judge its thickness, then dropped it into her lap. She looked up at me, as if expecting me to claim it. I shrugged.

            Next came two folded pages of notebook paper, and a photo. Niki picked up the picture, stared for a moment, then gasped and threw it on the table.

            A middle-aged man. Gray hair, a flat nose, one eyelid drooping lower than another. His head was tilted, and he held the sport section of the Chicago Tribune in one hand. I picked the photo up to look close, and saw the score of Sunday’s Chicago Cubs game.

            Proof of life. Or very, very good AI drawing.

            She picked up the letter, her hand shaking. I watched as she read the first page, then skin the second one, then read the first page again. She shook her head. “It’s him. Really him.”

            I said nothing as she grabbed a napkin to wipe her eyes. After a minute she looked up at me and set the cash on the table between us.

            “He says to give you some of the money so you’ll drive me to Chicago and back.” We were in Matteson, a suburb to the south. 

            “To meet him?”

            “To bring him something.” She stood up. “Can you do that? How much do you want?”

            I shrugged. “I’ve already been paid.” Matos had included my fee in cash with the package he’d sent me containing Niki’s envelope. “It’s more than enough to cover that.”

            She nodded her mind elsewhere. “I have to call a friend to take care of the baby. My other kids will be okay. Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”

            “Coffee’s great if you have it. Otherwise, a glass of water would be fine.”

            She brought me a bottle of water while talking on her phone. I sipped it as she made arrangements with her friend and then went into her bedroom to change.

            Her children came home just as the baby in the other room woke up—a middle school-aged boy who ignored me and a teenaged girl who looked at me suspiciously without saying anything. Niki came out carrying the baby in one arm. “I have to go to Chicago with this guy,” she told them. “I’ll be back tonight. Essie is coming over to take care of David.” She patted the baby. “Just let me change him one last time,” she told me.

            “I’ll be in the car,” I told her. The kids were barely hiding their hostility now. Who was I? A cop? Mom’s new boyfriend? Whatever, they didn’t want me around, and I was happy to oblige.

            Out in the car I texted my wife Rachel about the plan. She texted back: Is she hot? Know you’re a newlywed?

            Marital status hasn’t come up, I texted back. I’ll be sure to mention it. We’d dated and lived together for years before getting married a few months back. It was nice to know Rachel can still be territorial.

            A woman in slacks and a windbreaker came down the walk, peered into my car, then walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. Niki let her inside, and they talked for a moment. The woman—Essie—shook her head several times, as if annoyed, but finally Niki came out and headed toward my car with a leather jacket over one arm, a small travel bag slung over one shoulder, and a black wooden box the size of a shoebox in her hands. She put the bag in the backseat, climbed into the car, and kept and the box in her lap. “Let’s go.”

            “Everything okay?” 

            She nodded, impatient. “It’s all fine. Go.”

            I started the car and began heading back to the highway. 

            

We found the house just past sunset, at the end of a dead-end street in Hazel Crest, a suburb south and west of the city. The house was half hidden from the street by two trees with brown, brittle leaves and a thick hedge in need of major trimming. Shutters covered the windows; the paint on the siding was peeling. The steps to the front porch sagged as we walked up to the door.

            Niki looked at me. She’d been silent on the 45-minute drive, the box in her lap, gazing out the window without really looking at anything we passed. Now she sighed and knocked on the door. She had her leather jacket on, the box under one arm. We waited.

            The door opened slowly. The man looking out was thin and bony, in a dusty gray jacket buttoned to the throat. He had no hair. His skull was white as an egg, and his eyes looked clear glass. “Yes?”

            “Tom Jurgen,” I said. “Niki Matos. You should be expecting us.” 

He looked me up and down, ran his eyes over Niki more carefully, and held the door wide. “Come inside, please.”

            She stepped carefully over the threshold.

            We followed him into a living room that looked like it hadn’t been dusted since the 1960s. No TV, bookcases choked with cobwebs, and a red and black rug circling the tables and sofa and chairs. He turned on a flickering lamp in the corner. “Please wait here,” he said softly, “while I let the Lady know you’re here.”

            The furniture looked like it would collapse under our weight. Niki put the box down on a table, next to a deck of cards and a candle that burned in a long bronze holder. She looked at me. “What is this place?”

            I was looking at the pattern in the peeling wallpaper. Angels and devils, facing off against each other. “No idea.”

            She scowled. “Feels like I’m in a horror movie.”

            “Yeah.” I’ve been in a few horror-movie situations in my life, and this definitely fit the formula.

            The hairless man returned. “The Lady Estrella Corday.” He stepped aside.

            The woman who walked forward had a thin, severe face, gray hair pulled back behind her tall neck, and she wore a long black skirt with a crisp white blouse. “Hello, Niki. Mr. Jurgen. I’m Estrella Corday. You have something for me?” She looked at the box, her eyes sharp and eager.

            Niki stood in front of the box on the table. “What about my father?”

            “Of course. Alexander?”         

            The bald man reappeared. “Yes, my lady?”

            “Take Ms. Matos to her father.” Estrella smiled. 

            “Yes, my lady.”

            Niki looked at the box. “Bring it,” she told me. “I want to see my father first.”

            I picked up the box. Estrella kept her eyes on me as we followed Alexander out of the room, but she stayed behind.

            He led us up two flights of stairs, paused to check for Estrella Corday’s approval, then opened a door. “In here.”

            Inside the small room with a sloping wooden ceiling, a small lamp cast weak light and shadows across the bare walls. A man lay in a metal frame bed with a sagging mattress and a dirty gray blanket. He was barefoot, in a white T-shirt and sweatpants, unshaven. But I recognized him from the photo, by the one eyelid that drooped lower than the other. 

            Luke Valdez. Niki’s father. 

            She stumbled toward the bed. “Dad?”

            Valdez sat up, leaning forward and squinting. “N-Niki?”

            She crouched beside the bed and took his hand. “What happened? I thought you—I thought . . .” She looked away from him, at the floor, crying softly.

            He blinked, squeezing her hand as if unsure she was real. “I was—I just woke up here. I was with Devin and Freddy, and they were mad about—about—something.” He bit his lip for a moment, as if the memory embarrassed him. “Then everything was dark. And then I was—here.”

            “Do you remember me?” Niki aske, her voice trembling.

            He smiled, although it seemed forced. “Of course, Niki. Of course. You’re—” He leaned further and put his arms around her shoulders. “I’m so glad—so glad to see you again. I was afraid you were mad at me. I was so afraid I’d never see you again. How are the children?”

            She was crying openly now, and I couldn’t hear what she said, but I decided she was safe and they deserved some privacy. I stepped out of the room, leaving the door open a half inch in case she needed me.

            Alexander was still standing there, his arms crossed. 

            “How long have you worked for the Lady?” I ask questions instinctively, thanks to years as a reporter and now a P.I.

            “Years,” he replied. “And years before that.”

            “What else do you do for her?”

            His eyebrows rose. “Everything she asks.”

            He wasn’t going to give up much. “Did you help her bring Valdez back to life?”

            He blinked once, then stiffened his shoulders. “You’ll have to discuss that with Miss Estrella.”

            “Is she a witch? I’ve met witches, so it doesn’t surprise me.”

            His mouth tightened. “Again, you’ll have to speak with her. My role here is very—formal.”

            I smiled. “I understand.”

            Then the door opened with a hard, angry thud on the wall. Niki’s face was flushed, streaks of tears on her cheeks. But her eyes brimmed with fury. “Take me back down to that bitch.”

            Alexander nodded calmly. He led us back down to the ground floor, then to another big room filled with books and cabinets where Estrella sat in a red leather armchair, a bottle of wine on the table next to her. Candles and a gas lamp lit the room. I didn’t see any sign of electricity.

            “Who is that up there?” Niki stood in front of the chair, arms crossed, her body shaking with anger. “That’s not my father! He looks like my father, but he’s not—not my father. What did you do?”

            Estrella sighed. “Let me see what you’ve brought me. Then I’ll explain.”

            Niki scowled, then whirled on me. “Give it to her.”

            I set the box down on a small table in front of Estrella. She leaned forward, unhooked a small metal latch, and lifted the top. I edged forward to take a look.

            Inside lay a spoon. 

            Silver, slightly tarnished, in a tangle of red velvet cloth. A spoon.

            Estrella smiled. “Almost,” she whispered. “Almost.”

            “Almost what?” Niki looked ready to snatch the box back. “What’s going on?”

            She sat back, smiling. “Let me ask you something, Niki—where did that box and the spoon in it come from?”

            “My grandma,” Niki said instantly. “Dad’s mother. Grandma V.”

            “Emilia Collins Valdez.” Estrella nodded. “She is—was known to me. To many of us. In our little community.”

            “What community is that?” I asked, as Niki gaped at her.

            “You might call us witches, or—”

            “My grandmother? You knew her? She was a witch?” Niki took a step backward, away from the table. And the spoon. “You’re crazy.”

            “Sit.” She gestured toward a damask sofa. Niki looked at me, heaved a sigh of annoyance, and sat. I perched on the other end.

            “Emilia was a collector.” Estrella took a sipe of wine. “Not a witch, not at all. But she liked to collect objects with—energy. Energy from the earth, or the sun, or the moon—energy comes from everywhere.” 

            Niki groaned. “Spare me the new age crap, please. I’m not listening to you all night.”

            Estrella frowned. “Some energy comes from dark places. It can be hard to know where it comes from, you just feel it. This spoon—” She pointed—“comes from a setting crafted by a wizard in the 19^thcentury, forged from metal that was once a sword that had tasted blood. A lot of blood. That gives each piece power, to the person who knows how to use it. By itself, that spoon has enough psychic energy to, oh, I don’t know, lift a car or kill an elephant. All three together?” She smiled again. “You can’t imagine.”

            I fidgeted, nervous. “Where are the other two? The knife and the fork?”

            Estrella closed the box and pulled it into her lap. “I have the knife. The fork? That’s why you’re here. Both of you.” 

            Me? I fought the urge to run for the door. Abandoning my client wouldn’t look good on my Yelp reviews.

            Niki was still angry, but she was listening now. “What are you talking about?”

            “Your father.” Her eyes darted upward. “I was able to raise his body. His brain holds everything he knows, but as you say, it’s not him. Not all of him.”

            “So? What are you saying?” Her voice shook.

            “With the complete set—with the fork—I will be able to restore him, body and soul.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Bring me the fork. Then I can make him whole.”

            Oh hell. I looked at Niki. She was staring at Estrella, trying to decide whether she could believe her—or if she even wanted to believe her. 

            “Wait a minute.” My throat was dry. Could I ask for a glass of water? “Why do you need us to find the fork? Why can’t you find it yourself?”

            “I can’t leave this house.” Estrella glanced at the walls around us. “I’ve been trapped here for 30 years. It’s . . . a long story.”

            “Can’t you send—” Niki looked around. “What’s his name? Alexander?”

            She laughed. “Alexander is an excellent, loyal servant. He is not a private detective, like Tom.” She smiled at me, as if we were old friends. It made me nervous. “There’s a reason I hired you to contact Niki. You’re very well known in certain areas. To the right people.”

            Or the wrong people. “And once you have the fork, along with the other two, and you fix Niki’s father—what then?”

            Estrella looked at me, a smile curving her lips. “That’s not for telling right now.”

            Great. I looked at Niki. Now she was gazing at me, hope rising in her eyes. Damn it.

            I shook my head. “No.”

            “What?” Niki exploded. “It’s my father! My father! You have to—"

            “Hold on.” I held up a hand and looked at Estrella. “Look, with all due respect, I don’t know anything about you. Or about what this collection of silverware can do once it’s put together. You’re already powerful enough to raise the dead, and that’s some pretty serious magic. Dangerous magic. What happens when you get more? How do I know you won’t blow up the world?”

            She raised her eyebrows. “Why would I want to destroy the world? I live here, you know.”

            “You know what I mean. You said you know me, so you must know I’m not a fan of black magic, or zombies, or demons in any shape.”

            “I’m not a demon.” Estrella cocked her head. “And you’re on friendly terms with the vampires.”

            “Some vampires. I’ve killed a lot of them too.” 

            Niki stared at me. “Uh—vampires?”

            “Yeah.” I nodded defensively. “For some reason I run into this sort of thing, the supernatural, a lot. But that doesn’t mean I go looking for it.”

            She glared at me for a moment, then swallowed and looked away. “I can see that, I guess. It’s just—”

            Estrella stood up suddenly, her face dark with anger. Then all the light on the room vanished to blackness.

            I was standing in nothing, in absolute silence, not even the echo of Niki’s cut-off voice. How long? A minute, two—or a lifetime.

            Then light returned. Not from the candles or the lamp, but a bright, overwhelming burst of whiteness like a sheet of lightning, complete with a thundering boom that smacked at my ears. Estrella was standing in front of her chair, and the light gradually faded until we were back to candles and lamp again.

            “I don’t need the fork to do things that would terrify you, Tom Jurgen.” Her lips were tight, almost motionless as she spoke. “I can rain fear and devastation across this city anytime I want, with or without any charms or talismans. You can either help me, and help Niki get her father back, or leave.” Then she smiled. “I will pay you, of course. But you have to make up your mind now.”

            Even Niki looked doubtful. I noticed Alexander in the doorway, checking to make sure his Lady was all right. 

            I wanted to leave. Estrella was right—she obviously had powers beyond my experience, but that didn’t mean her intentions for the complete set of silverware were peaceful or pleasant. I probably couldn’t stop her from doing whatever she wanted, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be part of it.

            But Niki had started crying again. She wasn’t looking at me, or Estrella, or anyone. Just the carpet, sniffling and wiping her eyes and sniffling some more, until I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her.

            “All right,” I said. “My wife will kill me anyway, so I’ll do what I can.”

            Estrella sat down and picked up her wine glass. “Thank you, Tom.”

Witch's Fork, Part Two

We talked in the car as I drove Niki home in the night. 

            “I asked Dad.” She’d gone up to talk to Valdez again before we’d left. “Or—whatever that was. He doesn’t know anything about the fork. He says my uncle took a lot of Grandma V’s stuff. That’s Ricky—Enrique, everyone called him Ricky. So he might have it.”

            “Same last name?”

            “Valdez, yeah.” She was silent. “I think he owned a restaurant.” More silence. “Do you think—you said you know a lot about this stuff. Is he going to be all right?”

            I stifled a groan. This wasn’t a question I really wanted to answer. “Honestly? Bringing people back from the dead—it doesn’t always turn out very well.”

            “But sometimes?” Her voice was small, like a little girl.

            I didn’t answer.

            We were silent the rest of the way to Matteson. When I dropped her off, she told me she’d call me in the morning. Then, outside, she turned and leaned down over my window. “Thank you. I’m—I’m sorry.”

            “That’s okay,” I told her. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

            Back home, Rachel was already in bed. I checked my email in the office we share, then went to the kitchen to make a sandwich and open a beer.

            Rachel came in as I was drinking a second beer. “Hi. You okay?”

            “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “I always hear the locks when you do them.” She sat down. “How’d it go?”

            I sighed. “On the plus side, I have a new and apparently very wealthy client.” Alexander had thrust a stack of cash into my hands at the door. I dropped it on the table between us. “On the other hand, she’s a witch who dabbles in bringing back the dead.”

            Rachel looked at the cash first. “At least she’s not a drug dealer.”

            “Yeah.” I told her the story.

            “So you’re really going to do it?” Rachel frowned. “Not sure I like that.”

            “They were both very persuasive, in their own ways.” I sighed. “Maybe I won’t be able to find the fork.”

            “Nah, you’re a good detective.” She shook her head. “Too good, sometimes. If it gets you killed—” She stopped and looked away. “Damn it. I used to be able to joke about that. Marriage changes a girl.”

            “One would hope so.” I finished my beer. “You in the office tomorrow?”

            “Yeah.” Rachel is a therapist, and works in an office with three other therapists three days a week. “I think I’ll call Carrie in the morning and see if she’s ever heard of this—what was her name again?”

            “Estrella Corday.” I stood up and took my beer bottles to the recycling. “Thanks.” I picked up the money. “Let me put this in the office.”

            She kissed me. “You’re going to be careful.”

            “You know me—ow!” She’d punched me. “Sorry. Yes, I will be careful. The only one allowed to kill me is you.”

            “That’s better.” She kissed me again. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

Rachel left early the next morning. I’d slept restlessly, between dreams of Estrella, with the body of a spider, beckoning to me from dark corners, and Rachel glaring at me from across the kitchen table with two long, jagged daggers in her hands. I was on my third coffee, working on the question of Enrique Valdez, when Niki called.

            “I called one of my cousins,” she told me immediately. “She says Ricky died in 2020. COVID. She doesn’t know anything about the fork, except I couldn’t really ask her right out, you know?”

            “Right.” I’d already found records of Ricky’s death. “He owned a restaurant on the west side of Chicago, but he retired in 2018 and bought a house in Des Plaines. Survived by his second wife and two adult children and one stepchild, under 18.”

            “Wow, that was fast.” She sounded impressed, making me feel a little better. “What now?”

            “I’ll have to contact them and ask. It will sound—strange, especially considering I can’t really explain why I’m looking for it.”

            “Will you have to, uh, give my name?” That made her nervous. 

            “I’ll try not to. There’s no client confidentiality for private detectives. I mean, technically you’re not my client, but I figure I’m dealing with you as much as Estrella. Hopefully there won’t be any conflicts.”

            She sighed. “I just can’t believe any of this. What happens if he—I mean, how will I explain it to people? Maybe it’s better if—I don’t know.”

            I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to influence her, at least not unless she asked me. Part of me hoped she’d change her mind and let me tell Estrella to go to hell. But I was worried about Estrella’s reaction, too. This was like working for a mob boss, only Tony Soprano can’t threaten you with the literal torments of hell.

            “Never mind,” Niki finally said. “Let me know if you find it.”

            “I will.” We hung up.

            I got more coffee and started making calls and sending emails. People nowadays don’t usually answer calls from numbers they don’t recognize, so I knew I’d have to wait. After an hour I was finished, and I started looking for more traces of Ricky Valdez on the internet, in case he’d ever posted a picture of his prized collection of forks on Instagram or something. You never know.

            Then, half an hour later, my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Tiffany Robbins. I’m Ricky Valdez’s daughter. You sent me an email?”

            “Yes! Thanks for calling me back.” I’d already thought through my approach, but I spent a moment getting my head straight. “As I said, I’m a private detective. I’m trying to locate an item your father may have had—”

            “What for?” She was suspicious. Understandably.

            “My client doesn’t want to be identified. But it’s not anything of value. A fork. Just a single fork, not part of a set. Do you happen to know where it is?”

            “Huh.” She thought that over. “Just a fork? What does it look like?”

            “Just—a fork, I guess. I don’t have a picture. Silver, maybe tarnished a little.”

            “I could look. But this sounds weird, not telling me who wants it. Can you pay me if I find it?”

            I hadn’t discussed that with Estrella, but I had the cash Alexander had handed me last night. As long as Tiffany Robbins didn’t ask for an exorbitant amount, I could afford to part with some of it. If I had to. “Within reason.”

            “Well—let me see, okay? I’ll let you know.” She hung up.

            I tried to concentrate on other cases—employee background checks, workers comp claims, some skip tracing—but I kept looking at my phone. When it buzzed, it wasn’t Tiffany. It was Rachel’s friend Carrie.

            For a long time Carrie didn’t like me. She’s warmed up a bit, especially since Rachel and I got engaged. Now that we’re married, she pretends like we’ve always been the bestest of friends, and I try not to let it bother me. She’s Rachel’s best friend, and she’s helped me out dozens of times, despite being suspicious of me and my intentions in the beginning. 

            Today she was friendly. Excited even, but maybe because she got to scare me. “Estrella Corday? Bad news. Really bad news, Tom. Make sure your life insurance is up to date.”

            I sighed. “What can you tell me about her?”

            “She’s over 150 years old. She may have been born during the Chicago Fire in 1871, according to some legends. She learned witchcraft in Austria, stayed there for 50 years terrorizing small towns, then came back here when the Nazis started moving in. After killing a few of them.”

            “So there’s something about her to like,” I said.

            “Back home she did spells for Frank Nitti and the Outfit, so there’s that. And there’s some people who disappeared because they challenged her once she started getting too powerful. Then, I don’t know, something happened, and no one’s seen her in, like, 30 years or so.”

            “What happened?”

            “Nobody knows. Or wants to say. She’s done some work from wherever she is—her traces are all over a couple of strange deaths and animal sacrifices—but she’s apparently keeping low, staying out of sight.”

            “Or trapped.” I told her about our encounter.

            “Wow.” Carrie sounded nervous. “Anything that could keep Estrella chained to one place of 30 years would have to be really strong. Are you sure you want to deal with her?”

            “No.” I struggled to find the words to explain. “I promised someone I’d help restore her father’s soul.”

            “My God, Tom, you know that’s not possible, don’t you? Even for someone like Estrella Corday?”

            “I mostly wanted to get out of the house alive. Now I’m stuck. If I don’t deliver, or at least make a good-faith effort, what is she going to do to me?”

            It was a rhetorical question, but Carrie answered ominously, “I haven’t heard a lot about any of her enemies. Not because she never had any, either. Because they’re either hiding, or, you know. Dead.”

            “Thanks for that.” I looked at my coffee cup. Was it too early to start drinking whiskey?

            After Carrie told me to say hi to Rachel and hung up, I got more coffee and tried to think. I’ve worked for some disreputable people and taken some cases I should have skipped, but that was earlier in my career. Nowadays I try not to take on any cases that won’t let me sleep at night. But I’d gotten backed into a corner, and I didn’t see any way out. Now what?

            As I was trying to think, my phone buzzed again. Tiffany Robbins. “Fifty dollars,” she told me.

            Uhh— “All right. Where are you? I can pick it up whenever you want.”

            She lived in Park Ridge, but she didn’t want me to come to her house. We agreed to meet outside in a grocery store parking lot near her home at 1 p.m. I’d bring cash. 

            I couldn’t call Estrella, and I didn’t really want to, so I called Niki Matos. “I think I’ve found the fork.”

            “Oh. That was fast.” But she didn’t sound impressed by my amazing detective work.

            “I’m picking it up this afternoon. After that, we can take it out to the house—”

            “I’m not sure I want to do that,” she said suddenly.

            I stopped. “That’s your decision, obviously.”

            “It’s just—I was thinking about what you said, and—I don’t know if I want to do that to him.” Her voice went quiet. “I miss him, but—maybe it’s better just to let him go?”

            I waited a few moments, in case she needed to go on. Finally I said, “I think that might be best, actually. Like I said, necromancy—resurrecting the dead—is very dangerous magic. Anything could go wrong.”

            “Yeah.” She sighed. “Okay. You do what you have to do. Tell her—just tell her I changed my mind.”

            “I’ll do that.”

            “Thank you.” She hung up.

            That made me feel somewhat better. Zombies are always bad news in my experience, and I’ve had more experience with them than I’d like. 

            But I still had to decide whether to hand the fork over to Estrella. 

 

Witch's Fork, Part Three

Tiffany Robbins had bushy blonde hair and a red minivan. “You Tom Jurgen?”

            “That’s me.” I reached into my jacket for the envelope. 

            “This is kind of crazy.” She handed a brown paper shopping bag over. I gave her the envelope. She counted while I looked inside the box.

            A fork, all right. Gleaming in the afternoon sun, a little tarnish on the handle. I closed the box as she stuffed the envelope into her jeans. “Okay,” she said, looking as if she regretted not asking for more money. But it was just a fork, as far as she knew. “Thanks.”

            We got in our cars. I sat while she drove off. 

            I decided not to go right back to Estrella’s house to deliver the fork. I probably had a little time before she expected me to find it. If nothing else, Rachel could take a look at. She’s psychic, and she can pick things up. Especially dangerous magic.

            I was just a few blocks from the grocery store when I noticed it—a gray Nissan in my rearview mirror. Private detectives in movies get tailed all the time, but it almost never happens to me, so for a few blocks I wasn’t really sure what was going on. Then I tried some of the tactics you read about in novels—a sudden turn just before a red light, circling the block twice, speeding through the intersection with one last burst of speed before the light changed.

            I thought I’d lost them, or what I was just imagining trouble, when I got on the highway. But then I spotted the Nissan again, about three lengths behind me. What the hell? I’m no stunt driver, so I wasn’t going to try to race them. I stayed in the right lane for several exits, hitting my blinker each time and then speeding past without exiting, hoping that would make them lazy. 

            It seemed to work when I finally lurched right just before I passed the exit, and saw the gray car hurtling past on the highway. My heart was pounding, but I felt very pleased with myself for losing them.

            When I got to my apartment building, the Nissan was parked across the street.

            Damn it. They knew where I lived. Why did they bother following me then? And, oh yeah—who the hell were they?

            I pulled into the parking garage and left the bag in the trunk. After catching my breath and making sure I could stay calm—fighting the impulse to rush upstairs and hide under my bed—I walked up the ramp out of the garage.

            I crossed the street, not making any effort to hide. I took a picture of the license plate and immediately sent it to Rachel. Then I cautiously approach the driver’s window and peered inside.

            The driver was a young man, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing dark glasses and a denim jacket. He stared at me as I took his picture, then looked away, ignoring me.

            With a deep breath I wished for courage and then knocked on the window. “Hey!” I called, loud enough that I hoped he could hear. “What’s the deal?”

            He glanced at me, then looked away.

            I knocked again. “Why are you following me?”

            The guy lit a cigarette, looking straight out the windshield. 

I decided I didn’t want to stand in the street until he used up all his air and cracked a window. I took another picture of him, just to show him I could, and went back to my building. 

I got the box from the car and went up. In my office, I looked at the fork, but didn’t touch it. Even if I didn’t have Rachel’s psychic powers, I thought I could feel something emanating from it, although it could have just been my nerves going haywire. 

My phone buzzed. Rachel. “What’s going on? Are you all right? What’s with those pictures?”

I told her about being followed. “I don’t know who the guy is, but he obviously knows where I live.”

“But he picked you up after you got the fork, though. So he knew where it was even before you had it. That’s what he’s really after, maybe.”

“So how did he know to come here after I lost him? Why bother to follow me?”

“To make sure you got the fork, maybe. Okay, don’t worry about that right now. What are you going to do now? Focus on that.”

“Gee, it’s like you’re a shrink or something.” I thought for a moment. “I’ll have to call her and find out what’s going on. If there’s someone else after this mystery table setting, I’d rather know now, before they start breaking into the house.”

“Okay, good. Are you going to give it to her?”

“Not until you take a look at it. You do put the ‘psychic’ in ‘psychiatrist,’ after all.”

Rachel groaned. “They’re not even spelled the same. Call me when you know anything.” She hung up.

I made more coffee and went back to my desk. On my phone I looked up the number Niki’s father had called me from two days ago, and made the call.

The pickup came after two rings. “Hello?” 

“Alexander? This is Tom Jurgen. I need to talk to Estrella.”

“Just one moment.”

It was almost five minutes before her voice came on. “Tom? This is Estrella.”

I cleared my throat. “I can deliver the fork to you tonight. But I have to tell you that someone is following me, and they’re parked right outside my building. Do you know anything about that?”

I heard a short sharp hiss of breath. “There are people who would like to draw me out of my house, out of my prison. I’m trapped, but safe. Some want to change that. Don’t worry about them. Do you have the fork now?”

Would she be able to tell if I lied? “I’ll bring it to you tonight.”

A moment passed. “All right. Tonight.” She hung up.

Estrella hadn’t mentioned Niki’s father. Maybe she’d forgotten all about that part of it. What would happen to Valdez once Estrella didn’t need him anymore? 

More things to worry about. I had to focus on what I could do, not on what I couldn’t control, like Rachel said. Right now I was hungry, and I could do something about that, so I took my coffee into the kitchen to make a sandwich.

 

Rachel got home at 6:15. “Let me change,” she said, dropping her briefcase inside the door. “Then I’ll look at your fork. Speaking of forks, is there dinner?”

            “Ravioli and salad,” I said after kissing her. “No rush.”

            “Maybe for you. I’m starving.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

            Ten minutes later she was in the office, in jeans and a sweater. “Okay, where is this thing?”

            I had the box on a corner of my desk, so I opened it. “Right here.”

            She leaned over and peered down at the fork. Usually she has to touch an object to feel its energy, but this time she seemed to feel it instantly. “Wow,” she whispered. She held her hand over the box, as if an invisible flame was rising up from it and threatening to burn her. After a moment she slammed the box shut and backed away. 

            “That’s maybe the strongest magical artifact I’ve ever been close to.” She shivered. 

            “Is that good or bad?”

            “Depends on who’s using it. Did Carrie get back to you about this Estrella chick?”

            “Yeah.” I told her what Carrie had told me. “I’d bet she wants the fork to complete the set so she can get out of her house. Overpower whatever’s holding here there so she can escape.”

            “And then what?” Rachel crossed her arms.

            I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know. Disneyland? The White House? World domination? What would you do?”

            She cocked an eyebrow. “Vengeance, maybe.”

            Oh, yeah. Great. “Was the car still there when you came home?” We moved to the kitchen.

            “I didn’t see it. But I didn’t look too hard.” She sat down and I opened the refrigerator for beers. “What time are we going to see this witch?”

            “We?” I’d been hoping she’d want to stay home and watch whatever reality show she was binging lately. Hoping, but not really expecting it. 

            “I want to see her up close and personal.” She jabbed a finger at me “And I’m not letting you go alone so you get turned into a turtle or something.”    

            I’ve never won the argument that follows me asking her to stay home and safe. “Fine. Do you think Donald will do any good?”

            Donald Duck is our name for the Glock handgun I bought a few years ago. I don’t like carrying it, and I’ve never actually had to shoot anyone—nothing human, anyway—but it has come in handy from time to time.

            Rachel shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. She might have minions or something.”

            I nodded. “After dinner, then. Your turn to clean up.”

            Rachel scowled. “Fine.”

Witch's Fork, Part Four

We pulled up in front of the house 90 minutes later. The gray Nissan was waiting on the other side of the dead-end street.

            Rachel and I sat in our Prius. The sky was dark and the trees cast deep shadows, but I caught a glimpse of the guy’s ponytail. He wasn’t looking directly at us, keeping his face pointed up the street. He didn’t open the door or otherwise react to our arrival.

            I had Donald, the handgun, heavy and uncomfortable under my arm. It didn’t look as if I’d need it right now, though. The guy just sat in his car as Rachel and I made our way to the door. I knocked, and Alexander opened it. One eyebrow rose as he looked at Rachel. “You’re expected.”

            He led us into the house. I glanced at Rachel. She blinked, as if against a bright sun, even though only candles gave any light, leaving the corners shrouded in darkness. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was sensing something strong and menacing.

Alexander took us to the room with the big leather armchair, where Estrella sat a long dress of dark blue, her eyes cool and expectant. “That was fast work. Hello,” she said to Rachel.

            “This is Rachel,” I said. “My wife. She helps me out. She’s psychic.”

            “Of course you are.” Estrella smiled. “Have you had training? You’re very perceptive. I could feel it from outside.”

            “Uh, thanks.” Rachel shifted on her feet, nervous. “No, uh, training. It just sort of happened.”

            “And Tom—you brought a gun?” She shook her head, disapproving. “Were you planning on shooting me? I’m not offended, but you should have known that won’t work. Especially here, in this house.”

            “No, ma’am.” I felt embarrassed. “But that gray car is outside. I didn’t know how serious they might get if they wanted the—the package.” I held the bag up.

            She stared at it, her lips tight. “That’s Holt. He wouldn’t hurt you. Well, his master might try if I didn’t already have the knife and the spoon. The odds would be different. At this point, he actually wants me to have this.” She held out her hand.

            I took out the box and handed it over. Estrella set it in her lap and opened it gingerly, as if it might explode in her face. She lifted the fork out, smiling as it gleamed in the candlelight. She held it up in front of her face, and for a moment I thought she was going to lick it. 

            Then she set it down. “Thank you. Alexander will pay you on your way out.”

            I glanced at Rachel, then took a deep breath. “I’d rather have some answers.”

            Estrella cocked her head. “Answers to what?”

            “Who are you? Why are you trapped here? Who’s in the car outside?”

            She smiled. “It’s a long story. Sit down. Have a glass of wine.” She rang a bell on the table next to her, and Alexander appeared. “Some wine, Alexander. Three glasses.” 

            We sat next to each other on the damask sofa. 

            “You know something about me. I can tell that.” She pointed at me. “I can see through your eyes. I could read your memory if I wanted to, but it’s enough right now that I know you’ve heard some of my story. There’s too much to tell you everything, and too much I can never tell anyone. Thank, you Alexander.”

            The bald servant appeared with a tray. He set glasses in front of Rachel and me, poured the wine, and then poured a glass for Estella. “Will there be anything else, Lady?”

            “Not right now. But stay close.” She took a sip. “Ah. Nice. A hint of hickory.”           

            Rachel and I sipped, too, to be polite. I didn’t taste any hickory.

            “So . . .” She set her glass down. “Thirty-two years ago I was a power in this town. The best kind of power—almost invisible. The only people who knew me where the people who counted—the people who needed me. I had respect, I had influence, I had money, although money isn’t that important when you can create or destroy whatever you want.” She smiled. “For example?”

            The room suddenly went dark. Just like last night. I reached instinctively for Rachel, but she was gone. I wasn’t even sitting anymore, but gravity didn’t pull me down. I floated in whatever air still existed around me.

            Then, a burst of flame. First like a burning match, but it grew, and as it got bigger and wider I saw something inside it. For a moment it was just a dark mass, but then it wiggled forth, out of the flame—a creature, a worm the size of a bear, with a round maw filled with jagged teeth, and antennae questing forward as if searching for prey. It slid through the air, its hide quivering, edging closer to me, inch by inch.

            I couldn’t move. The antennae flicked across my forehead. One of them pushed into my mouth. I swung my head, trying to spit it out or bite it off. My arms were locked. My legs were paralyzed. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t even do that. Oh God oh God, what am I doing here? Why did I come here? Why did I bring Rachel? What’s going on—

            Then another flash of light returned me to the room. I gasped, looked at Rachel. “Are—are you all right?”

            She was staring at me, her face pale as moonlight. “I saw it. I saw you—are you all right?”

            I turned to Estrella. “What was that?”

            “Just a show. What I’m capable of, without even very much effort. What’s a hundred or a thousand dollars compared to that?”

            I caught my breath. “Very impressive. But you’re still stuck in here.”

            Rachel elbowed me in the ribs. “Shut up,” she hissed. “So are we.”

            Estrella laughed. “Yes, I’m trapped. But not for long.” She looked around the room, as if the walls around us were already slowly edging away from her.

            I had to ask: “So what’s the first thing you’re going to do? When you walk out the front door?”

            She closed her eyes for a moment, looking into the future. “I’m going far away from here. Don’t worry, you’ll never see me again. I’ve spent too many years in one place to want to stay here one minute longer than I have to.” She opened her eyes. “But first—vengeance.”

            Rachel straightened up. “Against who? Why are you trapped here?”

            Estrella’s face grew gray. “I did something bad. I admit it. A man—a very old man—wanted someone dead. He was a powerful wizard himself, but he didn’t want any of his magic associated with the deed. And the person he wanted to kill was his daughter.”

            She sipped her wine. We left ours alone.

            “She was grown—50 years old—and she had her own set of powers. That’s what scared him. He was afraid she had become stronger than him, and was planning to take everything he had. So I had to set a trap. This house—” she lifted her arms. “Was the trap. This fork—” She lifted it. “Was one of three keys. I embedded all the power I could summon in them, and told her to gather them and bring them here. I hid them all across the world, so I had time to construct my perfect trap. Then she brought them here. Then—” Her smile was red and deep. “I killed her.”

            She took a deep breath, as if inhaling the wine’s bouquet. “Her magic was strong. I had to rip her to shreds. It took half a year, but when she was finally gone, obliterated, I flung the keys away, without paying attention to where they went, and in a moment I had all the power I was promised. And then the wizard snapped his own trap, and I was imprisoned here, in the trap I made myself.”

            The candle glowing next to her flickered, as if a breeze had intruded through a crack in the wall. 

            “How did you find them? All three?” Rachel asked.

            “It took years. At first I was enraged at being trapped here. Then I got used to it, once I realized I could still influence the world outside. So I spent years just doing whatever I wanted. I needed servants, of course, so I found them, and Alexander has been with me longest. Then I got bored.” She stretched her arms over her head. “I wanted to go back the world. But the wizard—he calls himself Artizan—wants me here, so I can’t tell anyone I killed his daughter for him. So no one will know he was afraid to do it himself.”

            “So no one comes in or out of here unless you want them to?” I asked. 

            “Yes. But once I open the door, with these three keys?” Her eyes shimmered. “Then it’s wide open. Both ways. So you’d better get out while you can.” She pointed toward the door.

            I wanted to leave right away, but I still had questions. “Wait—what about Luke Valdez?” Rachel bit her lip impatiently beside me. “Why is he here?”

            Estrella looked annoyed. “Like I said, I can influence things outside these walls. I couldn’t get the spoon myself, so I had to improvise.”

            “By raising the dead? You couldn’t just send an email?”

            She giggled. “I was bored. This was more interesting.”

            “Could you really restore his soul?” Rachel asked.

            Estrella looked away from us, as if ashamed. “I could give him a soul. Of a sort. Not the same, but she wouldn’t know, not for a long time. He might not even know. Souls are complicated.”

            I knew that was true. “So what happens to him now?”

            She shrugged. “Eventually his body will fail. I won’t be around to keep him sustained. But if his daughter doesn’t care . . .”

            “You should at least let his body return to his grave,” Rachel said. “She’d want that.”

            Estrella sighed impatiently. “If I have time. Things are going to start happening very fast, very soon. You should leave now.”

            She rang the bell, and Alexander was there as if he’d been standing outside the door. “Bring the knife and the spoon, Alexander! We’re ready to leave this place!” Then she giggled. “Knife and spoon—it sounds silly, right? The table setting of the damned.” She drank the last of her wine. “Now go.”

            Rachel and I looked at each other and nodded. She took my hand and pulled me out into the hallway.

            Alexander bumped into us, carrying two black boxes like the one I’d brought Estrella. “You move fast,” I said, and he barely nodded as he headed into the room.

            Then we had to stop. Luke Valdez stood in the hall, between us and the door. 

            “W-here’s Niki?” His voice was raspy, quivering. “She s-said she’d come back.” He wore jeans and a ripped T-shirt, barefoot. “W-where is she?”

            I stared at him, trying to think of an answer. We couldn’t take him with us, but it felt wrong to just abandon him here to whatever fate Estrella would dole out. 

            Before I could ask Rachel what she thought, though, the house shuddered. 

            The wallpaper started to rip as the walls on either side buckled, and chunks of plaster from the ceiling dropped down on our shoulders and hair. The hardwood floor shook under our feet as if a subway train was running through the walls. 

            Then a deafening boom from above rocked the house, like a bomb exploding. Everything tilted, and we slid toward one wall, hitting it hard. Rachel swore; I grunted. Valdez screamed.

            Rachel and I ran. The floor seemed to rise up and fall down as we staggered through the hall. I heard Valdez’s ragged breathing behind us. Rachel got to the front door first and shoved it with her shoulder. She stumbled going through, but reached back for me as I staggered forward.

            Valdez crashed into the side of the door as we jumped across the porch onto the grass. Rachel rolled and hopped up, breathing hard, and turned back to look at the house.

            The roof was blowing away, as if a tornado was rising up inside. Shingles flew through the air, spinning like knives, and fiery smoke billowed up like a gray pillar, reaching for the sky.

            Then one side of the house caved in, as if someone had swung a huge hammer into it. The ground under us shook, and then a tree root pushed its way up through the dirt like a black tentacle, poking at the air. I looked at Rachel, and we turned for our car.

            The guy from the gray Nissan—Holt, Estrella had said—blocked us. He held an axe in his hands, and he looked ready to chop us up if we got too close or tried to flee.

            He pointed at the house. “No one leaves alive!”

            “We’re not friends with Estrella!” I snapped. “We’re not part of this!”

            “No one is innocent where she’s concerned.” He looked past us.  “Who’s that?”

            Valdez, staggering across the lawn, looked up at him. He tried to speak, but only grunts came from his mouth.

            I pulled my jacket open. Rachel jumped back as Holt lurched forward. He started to swing—        

            Valdez pushed past me and charged at him. The axe caught him in the shoulder, and Valdez fell, screaming. 

Holt lifted his axe and brought it down on his skull. 

            Blood gushed, and Valdez kept screaming until Holt hit him again, cutting through his neck. His body flailed like a fly caught in a web, but he went silent, and in a moment his body went slack.

            Rachel darted behind me, but the ground bucked again, and another root shot up from the earth like a spear, jabbing her ankle. Rachel tumbled forward, swearing, hitting the ground on her hands and knees.

            Holt grinned and lifted his axe—

            I didn’t think. I didn’t have time. I had the pistol in both hands, and I shouted something, but Holt didn’t hear me or didn’t care, and I didn’t have time to warn him again.

            I shot him in the chest.

            He looked surprised as he dropped the axe. He pressed a hand to his chest, looked at me as if I wasn’t playing fair, and then he topped to the ground. A black tree root pushed from the dirt and start to wrap itself around his neck.

            Rachel was next to me. “We’ve got to go.” She put a hand on my arm. “Tom? Let’s go.”

            I was staring at the man I’d just killed. Rachel tugged at my arm, and I blinked, fighting down the urge to throw up. “Right.” I put Donald back in my holster, and Rachel led me to the car.

            Estrella’s house was burning. More than just burning—it was a pillar of fire and dark smoke, towering into the sky, crackling and booming.

            Was Estrella still in there? Battling with her enemy? Had she won? Or were they both still locked in combat, oblivious to the death and destruction around them? Had one of them already destroyed the other, and left for other worlds to wreak havoc in?

            I didn’t care. I could think about it tomorrow if I wanted, but right now we needed to flee. I started the car.

 

The next morning the news was full of an explosion in Hazel Crest. A house had been incinerated, crumbling to ashes. Authorities were speculating about a gas explosion, a giant meth lab, a cache of explosives, or maybe all three. Somehow the fire hadn’t damaged any other residences in the neighborhood. It had consumed itself in a matter of hours until nothing was left to burn, then died without a flicker, leaving only the foundation and a big, black hole.

            There was no mention of any dead bodies found in or around the area.

            “You okay?” Rachel came into the office with her Wonder Woman coffee mug.

            “I’m fine.” I shifted away from the news and took a sip of my own coffee.

            She stood over me. “Really?”

            I’d never killed anyone before. Well, nothing human. But I’d always knew this day might come, and I’d always known I wouldn’t know how to deal with it. 

            But Rachel was alive. So that helped. I squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”

            She sighed. “Fine. You saved my life, so, thanks. Again.”

            “You wouldn’t have needed saving except for me. Sometimes I think—”

            She punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Stop it. This is what you do. It’s one of the things I like about you. And I did say ‘for better or worse,” or whatever.”

            “One of the things?” I smiled. “What other things?”

            “Don’t get me started on the ‘for worse’ part.” She headed for her side of the office.

            I looked at my computer. Then my phone buzzed.

            Niki Matos. Oh God.

            “Mr. Jurgen?” Her voice was quiet, quavering. “I was just wondering—well, I saw all about that fire online, and I thought—what happened?”

            I hid a sigh. “I was able to locate the fork she wanted. There were—problems with another wizard. So the fire was caused by their fighting. I’m afraid—I’m sorry to say, your father didn’t get out.” It was a small lie, but I could live with it.

            “That wasn’t my father.” Her voice shook. “But—thank you. I just wanted to know. I guess it’s better to know that he—that it’s gone.”

            “He’s gone,” I agreed. 

            Niki thanked me and hung up.

            Yeah, Luke Valdez was gone.

I just wondered where Estrella was.

            

# # #