I texted Rachel, and then I drove back to Hartwell. I found Jarvis’s real estate office, a storefront not far from the historical society, and took a look at the listings posted on the window: homes starting from $350,000 up to $2 million were available, along with condos and townhouses. Behind the postings I saw an office with six cubicles, three of them inhabited.
I went inside. A woman in a sharp business suit was on the phone. A man in slacks and a vest looked up from, his computer, sizing me up: Was I here for a McMansion or a one-bedroom condo? But I spotted a nameplate with “Randall Jarvis” just behind him and walked forward.
Jarvis was in his late 50s, balding, in a jacket and necktie. “Hello?” His chair swiveled around as he jumped up and extended his hand. “I’m Randy. You are—?”
“Tom Jurgen.” We shook hands. “I don’t actually want to buy a house.” I handed him my card. “It’s about Bryan Furier.”
Jarvis gave me a puzzled look. “What about him?”
“He’s in the book group with you. The one at Hartwell House? He’s in the hospital now.”
Jarvis blinked. He glanced past me, at the two other real estate agents. They weren’t paying attention to us. “Let’s go somewhere.”
I followed him outside to a coffee shop two doors down. We took a table without buying anything.
Jarvis leaned forward, arms on the tabletop. “What about Bryan?”
“He’s in the hospital. It happened the day after your last book club. Do you know anything about it?”
“What would I know about it? Look, we’re friends, but we’re not best buddies or anything. Sam was looking for new people, so I reached out to Bryan. That’s it.”
“What’s the group about? He gave me a copy of your latest book.” I paused. “Unfortunately, it caught fire.”
“Huh?” He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“The book. It’s not just a feel-good book of quotes, is it? Your friend Bryan isn’t just sick. He’s been possessed by a demon.”
Jarvis’s reaction surprised me. Not disbelief or shock. He looked almost envious. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. What’s the deal?”
He jerked up from his chair, almost tipping it over. “I can’t—I can’t tell you. I have to go.” He rushed for the door.
My instinct was to follow, but I held off. I couldn’t exactly interrogate him on the street or in his office. Plus, I’ve never been that good at the third degree. And the barista behind the counter was glaring at me.
I went up and bought a cup of coffee to show her my good intentions. Then I went back to my car.
I waited for 10 minutes until I saw Jarvis leave his office. He walked up the street half a block, then got into a Mazda parked at a meter. I started up and managed to pull a U-turn without getting into any trouble, and tailed him down the street and out of town.
He drove slowly, and I had to stay back so he wouldn’t spot me, but he drove only a few miles. I recognized his destination as he flipped his turn signal: Hartwell House. He pulled up the drive, and I parked on the side of the road just past.
I waited, my eyes on the rearview mirror in case the sheriff showed up again. I texted Rachel. She texted back: Don’t get stuck in a cornfield. I’m making nachos for dinner.
Jarvis left 20 minutes later. I was following him back to town when my phone buzzed. I let it go to voice mail, since I was driving, and waited until Jarvis had parked again near his office to check the message.
“Mr. Jurgen? This is Sam Hartwell. I know you’re in town. Could you stop by my house before heading back to Chicago? We need to talk.”
Uh-oh. I sat in my car, trying not to panic. I did not want to go to Hartwell House, not alone. Not knowing what I knew, or at least suspected. But I’d need to talk to Hartwell directly to find out what I wanted. After a moment I called back.
Laurie answered, and I asked for her boss. A moment later Hartwell came on the line. “Mr. Jurgen.” He sounded like a school principal trying to make up his mind what to do with a troublesome third grader. “I think we need to talk.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “There’s a coffee shop here on Second Street. Do you want to meet me there?”
He clearly didn’t, but he decided not to argue. “Half an hour.” He hung up.
I set the phone on the seat next to me, trying to think. Hartwell wouldn’t try to kill me in a coffee shop, would he? Probably not. On the other hand, his family had practically founded the town. Maybe they’d let him get away with anything he wanted? Maybe I was an idiot for meeting him? But at least I wasn’t letting him lure me into his house.
I texted Rachel. She called me back almost immediately. “Are you crazy?”
“You’re the shrink, you tell me.”
“I don’t have the power to have you committed yet, but when I do . . .” I could feel her impulse to jab me with her elbow.
“I’ll be careful. It’s in public. I’ll have my Taser.” I checked the glove compartment. “It’s right here.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.” She groaned. “Remember, nachos. Don’t make me eat them late. They’re no good when you have to heat them up again.”
Now I was hungry and nervous. “Got it. Love you.”
“Whatever.” She hung up.
I checked the Taser, locked the car, and walked over to the coffee shop. Maybe they had sandwiches.
I was finishing up a turkey and Swiss cheese croissant when Sam Hartwell walked in. The barista greeted him with a smile as he looked around for me, and she brought him an espresso as he sat down at my table.
“Thank you,” he told the barista. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked me, barely hiding his annoyance.
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing. I just didn’t want to do it at your house if you’re summoning demons there.”
He didn’t flinch when I said “demons.” He just stared at me. “It’s my house. It’s my business. You wouldn’t understand what we do there.”
“I understand that one member of your group is in the hospital dying. And believe me, I understand a lot about demons.” I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. “Little ones, big ones, the kind that pretend to be your friend until you realize they’re trying to eat your soul. That book almost burned my apartment down. What’s it doing to the people in your little reading club?”
He sat back, like a professor about to deliver a lecture. “It’s helping them prosper. Become stronger. Find alignment with the power inside everyone. If that book harmed you, you did something wrong.”
I shook my head. “You’re playing games with something you can’t trust. Is this the secret of your company’s success? How did you end up publishing this book, anyway?”
He smiled proudly. “We have a reputation for supporting works out of the mainstream. Nicholas Newman is moistly forgotten today, but he was a respected philosopher in his lifetime, and later. We’ve read that book a dozen times. Each time we learn more. We—become more. I’m making people better. I’m helping them achieve their destiny.”
I wondered if he ever listened to himself. “Do you hold your reading groups every night? Or just Tuesday?”
“Do you want to join?” He cupped his hands around his espresso. “Then you could see that there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. We’re very inclusive, as long as people keep their minds open.”
Open minds are a good thing, most of the time. Until they invite demons in. I finished my sandwich. “I’ll be in touch.” I stood up.
He stood and extended a hand. I kept the handshake brief. “Anytime,” Hartwell said.
“No.” Rachel kicked me under the kitchen table. “You are not joining a demon book cult. Uh-uh. No way.” She kicked me again for emphasis.
“Ow.” I rubbed my ankle, then picked up a nacho chip covered with guac and salsa. “I’m not joining it. I’ll just go once. I’ll take the Taser—”
“What’s your strategy? Think about it.” She picked up her beer. “Are you going to do a mass exorcism or something? Or burn the place down?”
I thought about it. I didn’t really have a plan—or clear instructions from my client. “Maybe you’re right. Let me talk to—"
My phone buzzed. Jayne Furier. The coincidence didn’t feel good. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen? It’s Jayne—Jayne Furier. I just wanted to tell you that my husband died this afternoon.”
Oh damn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for your loss.” It sounded lame, as usual, but I couldn’t think of anything better.
“Thank you. Do you—do you know any more about what happened?”
I frowned. Was this the right time to introduce her to the world of demons? “Maybe we should meet.”
“All right. Can you come to my house tomorrow? Ten o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.” We hung up.
I told Rachel about Furier. She sighed and put a hand on my arm. “You all right?”
“Yeah. I suppose there’s nothing I could have done for him.” But I kept thinking about the other people in Sam Hartwell’s reading group. Were they in danger? Could I help them? How?
Rachel yanked her hand away . “I know that look. You want to go demon hunting.”
“Well, I have to talk to her first. Find out what she wants me to do. If she tells me to forget it . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Rachel nodded. “This is what I married into, I guess. Do what you have to do. I’ll come visit you at the hospital. But if you get killed, I’ll marry someone new as fast as I can.”
“Fine. Just wait a week or two.”
She kicked me again under the table, but then she squeezed my hand. “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll find a nice convent.”
I snorted. “Right.”
We held hands for a long time.
Jayne Furier lived in Skokie, north of the city. The woman who opened the door wasn’t her. “Tom Jurgen? I’m Jayne’s sister. Pam. C’mon in.”
Jayne sat at the kitchen table, a laptop in front of her and lot of papers scattered around. In person, she had blonde hair with streaks of gray. Pam, who looked a few years younger and dark lines under her eyes like Jayne, brought me a cup of coffee and sat down next to her.
“Once again, I’m so sorry for your husband,” I told her.
“You should have seen him,” Pam said. “He was—like he had rabies or something. Grunting and groaning and rolling on the floor and—”
“Pam, for Christ’s sake!” Our coffees shook as Jayne slammed her hand on the table. “I don’t want to go through that today! I’ve got insurance and lawyers and doctors and everything to deal with, and I can’t relive that!” Then she stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Pam reached out to take her hand. “It’s okay, Jay-Jay. We’ll get through this.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Then I asked, “Do you have children?”
“Two girls. They’re with my mother right now.” She ran a hand through her hair. “What can you tell me?”
I bit my lip. “You should understand that this is going to sound, well, crazy. But I’ve run across a lot of things that seemed crazy in my life, and they turned out to be true.” And terrifying. “Here’s the thing.”
So I told them about the book, about what Milan Powell had told me, and what Sam Hartwell said in the coffee shop yesterday. When I finished, Pam looked at Jayne, then at me, then at the table.
Jayne stared off into nowhere. A thousand-yard stare.
“What do you think, Jay-Jay?” Pam finally asked.
Jayne blinked, as if coming out of a vision. “I, uh—” She stood up. “I have to show you something.”
She walked out of the room. Pam and I looked at each other. She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then she looked me over. “Do you run into this kind of thing often? Demons?”
I nodded. “Sometimes it’s vampires. Once it was carnivorous giant plants.”
Her mouth opened. “Oh-kay.”
Jayne returned, her face pale as ivory. She dropped a book on the table between our cups.
Unleashing the Power Beneath. Nicolas Newman.
“He brought it home. Is that the same book?” She sank into her chair. “What should I do? Burn it? Take it out there and throw it in his face?” She pulled it to her. “What’s in this thing? What did this to my husband?” She opened it up.
“Wait—” I reached out to snatch it away, but she pulled it in close.
“’When you see an obstacle in your path, do not turn from it,’” she read, her voice trembling with anger. “’Reach out to it, embrace it, make it part of you—'”
The book suddenly rose in the air. Jayne jerked back in her chair, her eyes wide, her arms thrown back, biting her bottom lip hard enough to draw drops of blood. Her eyes flared. Red, like the blood on her chin, then black as the bottom of an empty grave.
Jayne jumped up, knocking the chair over. “Rrr . . .” she growled, whipping her head back and forth like a wolf seeking prey. “Rahar! Rahar!”
Jayne lunged at me. I jumped back, arms up to shield my face as her fingers curled like claws to rake at my skin.
Pam stood helplessly for a moment, confused and frightened, but then she stumbled forward and grabbed one of her sister’s arms. “Jaye!” she shouted. “Jaye-Jaye!”
Jayne whirled around and slapped Pam hard enough to send her spinning. She was still shouting gibberish—guttural grunts that repeated the same few sounds: “Rhahar! Rahar!” But she teetered unsteadily on her feet, like a dancer uncertain of her balance. While she was half turned away from me, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her, dragging her to the kitchen floor, trapping her as tightly as I could.
She struggled, rocking back and forth, but I was heavier and more clearheaded. “Call. 911!” I told Pam, wrestling Jayne to the floor. “Fast!”
Jayne bit my ear without breaking any skin, and kicked me near some painfully sensitive spots. I gritted my teeth and held her down as best as I could, but as Pam was trying to tell the 911 operator what was going on, Jayne squirmed out from under me and shot to her feet.
“Rhahar is coming!” Her voice thundered. She pointed a finger at my chest, and I backed away, feeling a flutter beneath my ribs. “From beneath! It rises! From beneath!”
I glanced around the room frantically for something that might help. A cross for an exorcism? A rolling pin to knock her out? And maybe give her brain damage? My eyes dropped onto the book lying on the table.
Jayne rushed me, swiping at my face with her fingernail. I grabbed her arms and staggered back against the sink, fighting to stay upright and protect my eyes. “The book!” I yelled to Pam. “Destroy the book!”
Pam looked up from her phone. Jayne was still growling about Rhahar. I didn’t want to hit her, or kick her, but she was going to do serious damage if she didn’t run out of energy soon.
Pam grabbed the book and ran out into the living room. From the corner of my eye as I was grappling with Jayne I saw her pull open a sliding door to the back yard. Then I had to focus on keeping Jayne from clawing out my eyeballs or flattening my testicles with her knee.
I was holding up, but Jayne was younger than me and I was trying not to hurt her. The demon didn’t care about her pain and kept fighting furiously as I tried to just keep her back. I was wondering in the back of my mind what Rachel was going to say about the scratches and bruises she’d see on my body—or my corpse—when I heard an explosion from beyond the living room. Not a bomb, just a hard burst, and the smell of gas.
Suddenly Jayne slumped sideways her eyes rolling back in her head. I caught her before she hit the floor, and lowered her as gently as I could, making sure she was still breathing and trying to catch my own breath. Was I bleeding anywhere? I ran a hand over my face, but didn’t find any blood.
Pam was standing over me. “Is she okay?”
“She’s breathing.” I checked her pulse. “What did you do?”
“They have a gas grill on the patio. It took me a minute to get it lit.” She knelt next to her sister. “What the hell was that?”
“A demon.” I sat back, letting my heart slow down a little. “Named Rhahar.”
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