The Archer, Part One

He sat in darkness, looking down into the park, his eyes gleaming. Waiting.

            The bow was loose in his hand. He held the arrow ready. He breathed slowly, silently. Expectantly.

            Drifting clouds obscured the stars over the top of the trees. The sliver of the moon slid into view, then dissolved, then slipped back, as if afraid of being discovered.

            The grass below him was thin and patchy, worn through by the hundreds of feet that passed through the park every day. Children, mothers, nannies, joggers, dogs—people. People like a blight on the earth, carelessly shredding the world layer by layer, ignoring the damage, mindful only of their own coarse needs and desires. In a rush to nowhere, on an aimless path that led only to oblivion in the end. Every step they took carried them closer to the grave. Under the same dirt they were in such a hurry to race over.

            The signal from his watcher came. He peered through the darkness. There. Walking through the trees. A man. Young, cocky, wearing a loose jacket, trudging step by step, in no particular rush, but with purpose. On a road to someplace. A destination only he cared about.

            The archer smiled. He notched the arrow and pulled back the string, feeling the power of the bow in his body. He locked his eyes on his target, and let out a long breath.

            The arrow flew.

            The man dropped. His body flailed, blood already surging from his chest. Had he seen it? Did he even know what was buried in his chest, rapidly drawing the life from his body? Or was the darkness already falling in around him as he struggled for breath, for one last breath before sinking into the darkness . . .

            The archer waited 30 seconds. Then he dropped his bow to the ground, slipped from the tree, and made his way into his own darkness.

 

I poured my coffee, sat down with my cereal, and opened the paper. 

Rachel raced into the kitchen. “Late, late, late.”

            I pointed to the counter. “There’s your travel mug, next to your lunch.”

            She grabbed them both. “Okay, I’ll stay married to you. For now.”

            “Another day’s reprieve.” I lifted my arms. “Hooray?”

            “Yeah, we’ll see about tomorrow.” She punched my arm. “Go investigate something, gumshoe.”

            “Have a good day! Give good therapy!” I called as she slammed and locked the front door. Then I went back to the newspaper. 

These days I read it mostly for the comics. Lately I didn’t want to read too much about whatever chaos was happening in Washington. Today the front page was about the latest crime spree: ARCHER STRIKES IN LEWIS PARK.

            Lewis Park?

I scanned the story. Yes, Lewis Park. On the North side. A man had been shot in the chest with one of the Archer’s signature arrows, a titanium shaft with an arrowhead of bronze. The victim was a young father of two, apparently taking a shortcut home after getting off his usual bus two blocks over. He was the Archer’s fourth victim in two weeks. 

            I’d been at Lewis Park last night.

            My latest client, Lynda Fowler, had hired me a few days ago to follow her husband, Gregory. “He goes out at night, takes walks—that’s what he says,” she told me in a coffee shop near her house in the Ravenswood neighborhood. “I don’t know—I don’t think he’s having an affair, but he’s really vague about what he’s doing. I’m afraid he might be, I don’t know? Doing drugs or something?”

            She was in her 30s, with black hair and red stone dangling from her left ear. Nervous. I took her retainer and told her I could start that night. That was four days ago.

            I waited outside their house that night until she texted me that her husband was taking a bath. The next night he stayed in as well. But last night he told Lynda he was taking a walk at 7:30 and left. 

            I followed him on foot. Fowler was 40, with graying hair, and he walked quickly, not like he was in a hurry but like someone accustomed to getting places as fast as possible. We walked for several blocks, past houses with families watching TV inside, then along a street with taco restaurants and shoe stores and convenience stores, and finally to a small park.

            A metal fence circled the park, with a sign identifying it as Lewis Park and warning that the park closes at 10 p.m. I followed him in but had to hang back so he didn’t spot me, and at that point I lost him. The sky was cloud covered, the lights were sparse, and the park was silent. Losing people happens. I cursed silently for a few moments, then headed back for the front gate, hoping he didn’t take a different exit. 

            Fowler emerged from the park an hour later, looking around, but he didn’t notice me sitting at the bus stop across the street. He made his way up the street, slower now, as if he was tired. I followed, but it was clear after two blocks that he was on his way home, and I gave him more of a lead until he turned on his street and made his way to his door. 

            My feet were aching. I watched him go inside, then returned to my car where I could sit down, gulp some water, and make my way home. Rachel was watching reality TV and I had a beer from the fridge.

            Now I was wondering just what exactly I’d been doing last night. I sipped my coffee, ate some cereal, and forced myself to think rationally. 

            Fowler hadn’t been carrying any archery equipment with him. Could he have stashed it in the park ahead of time? Maybe, but the Archer had struck at three different parks before this. Fowler would have had to plant his gear, commit the murder, then go back afterward to pick it up with the police swarming the area.

            No. He couldn’t be the Archer. Could he?

            I finished the paper and my cereal, and took my coffee into the office, where I did paperwork and sent emails on some of my other cases. At 9:05 I called my client.

            “The kids are at school.” She sounded out of breath. “Did you follow him last night?”

            “Yes, I did.” I chose my words carefully. “He walked about two miles, and then he went into Lewis Park. He stayed there until about nine, then came home.”

            “Right, he looked a little tired. —Wait. Lewis Park?”

            “That’s right.”  I waited.

            “Wait. What are you saying? You don’t think—”

            “I think we need to talk to your husband about his walks.”

            “Because—no. He can’t be that guy. I don’t believe it.”

            “I’m not saying that. For what it’s worth, he didn’t stop to pick up a bow and arrow on the way. But he was in the park last night. He might have seen something. We have to talk to him.”

            Lynda Fowler was quiet for 10 seconds or more. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right. We don’t have to—are you going to call the police?”

            I should, but I hesitated. “Let’s wait to see what he says.”

            “Okay. Thank you.” She sniffled, as if she’d started crying. “Why don’t you—tonight. At six. Before dinner. Oh God, the kids . . .” She gulped, catching her breath. “I’ll take care of it. What am I going to say? I’ll think of something. I suppose.”

            We confirmed the time, and then hung up. I’d just yanked the rug out from under her life, and not in the way she was expecting. I hate doing that.  It’s part of being a P.I. sometimes, but it’s never fun. Then I texted Rachel to let her know I’d be late for dinner. Fortunately it was her turn to cook.

 

“You want me to come with you?” Rachel asked when she called me later. 

            “I don’t think you have to.” Rachel is at least somewhat psychic, which helps me when a case turns toward the supernatural. But this didn’t seem like one of those. No ghosts or vampires, just a possible connection to a serial killer terrorizing the city. Nothing to worry about.

            “Okay, but if get an arrow through your head, I don’t want to wait to read about it in the morning paper.”

            I grinned. “Aw, you really do care.” 

            “Yeah, I’m thinking of upping the payout on your life insurance. Be careful.”

            “I don’t think he’s the Archer. But I’m always careful.”

            Rachel snorted and hung up.

            So at 5:45 I was sitting on a chair in the Fowlers’ living room. Their children—two daughters, nine and 12—were upstairs doing homework, or more likely hiding at the top of the staircase trying to listen in. 

            Lynda Fowler clutched her hands nervously. She was on her second glass of wine, and her husband wasn’t home yet. I had a beer that I’d barely sipped. She was trying not to look at me, as if afraid I’d spring more bad news on her.

            She flinched when we heard the key in the front door lock. “It’s him. Maybe—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

            A briefcase dropped in the front hall, a closet door opened and shut, and then Greg Fowler was in the living room. “Hi, Lynn, how was—” Then he saw me. “Excuse me?”

            Lynda stood up. “Greg, this is Tom Jurgen. He’s a—a private detective. I hired him.”

            Fowler frowned. “What the hell?”

            “Sit down.” She put a hand on his arm. “We have to talk.”

            He stared at me. “Let me get a drink.” He went into the kitchen.

            He came back a moment later with a glass of scotch. “What is this, an intervention or something?” He sat next to his wife on the sofa. 

            “You were taking these walks,” Lynda said. She looked at me, then back to him. “I got—well, I didn’t know what you were doing. I was worried. I was scared. What were you doing?”

            Instead of answering her question, he looked at me again. “You were tailing me?”

            “Last night.” I nodded. “You went to Lewis Park.”

            Fowler’s face went stuff. “So what?”

            “The Archer killed someone there last night.”

            He turned to Lynda. “What are you saying? You think—you think I’m the Archer?”

            Lynda’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She looked at me desperately.

            “Why were you there?” I asked. “What did you see?”

            Fowler blinked. He took another drink, staring in my direction, but his eyes didn’t focus on me, as if he was thinking of something far away. He set his glass down and planted his hands on his knees.

            “Let me make a call.” He reached into his pocket.

            Who? Was he calling the Archer? Would I be in the paper tomorrow for cracking the case? I nodded slowly.

            He found a number on his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. There’s this guy here asking about last night. About—you. know. What?”

            We watched as he listened intently for a moment. “Yes. Yes. No. Yes . . .”

Then, suddenly, Fowler shot to his feet. His face was red now, his eyes wide, his mouth curled like a snarling wolf. “Abilosh!” 

            Huh? I took a step toward him as Lynda stared up, confused and frightened.

            Fowler shoved my chest, and I stumbled back, off balance. I managed not to fall, but by that time he was dashing to the door, laughing like a deranged clown, and by the time I reached the door he was across the front yard and sprinting down the street.

            I tripped on the porch steps. Then I chased him, running as hard as I could, but he was too far out in front. After half a block I realized I didn’t know which way to turn, and I wasn’t sure my chest could take the pounding. I gasped my way back to the house, promising myself to start working out more, and found Lynda Fowler talking to her two daughters. 

            The younger one was crying. The 12-year-old was trying to calm her, but she looked just as upset. They didn’t pay any attention to me as I stood in the living room, and eventually I took my seat again and started an internet search as Lynda walked them into the kitchen for ice cream.

            She came back 10 minutes later. “I didn’t know what to tell them. What—what happened?” She’d been trying to hide her fear from her daughters, but now she was on the verge of letting the panic come flooding out.

            I shook my head. “He got away. I don’t know.” I patted the sofa, hoping he’d dropped his phone. No luck. 

            “What was that—Avilosh? What was that?”

            I showed her my phone, wishing I’d brought Rachel with me. She’s good with things like this—talking to nervous wives and calming them down, and also sensing the presence of demons. Which is what we were now dealing with.

            “Abilosh is a demon,” I told her, nervous about her response as she stared at the image on my screen. “He’s frequently pictured with a bow and arrow. He has roots in ancient Europe, and . . .” I let my voice trail off as Lynda Fowler stared at me in disbelief.

            “Demon? What are you talking about?” She glanced toward the kitchen, hoping her daughters weren’t listening.

            This could be tricky. “I’ve encountered some—supernatural beings occasionally.” More than just a few, but this wasn’t the time for a full recitation. “This may be one of those times.”

            She didn’t believe me. But she was desperate. “We have to find him.”

            “We should call the police.”

            Lynda shook her head. “You saw him. He’s not—not acting right. They might hurt him. We have to find him first.”

I was pretty sure the police would write me off as crazy anyway. They usually do. Once I had more information, or once I had Greg Fowler in front of me, I’d think about bringing them in. “Can you track his phone?”

She got her own phone out. “Just a minute . . . It’s a few blocks from here.” She showed me the intersection. “I don’t think there’s anyone there we know.”

“Okay. We’ll wait a few minutes to see if he stays there. Does he have a computer at home?”

“There’s a laptop.” She got up and returned a few minutes later, setting it down on the coffee table. We opened it up, but there were no folders conveniently named “Abilosh” or “Archer.” I did a search, and neither one came up. 

The younger daughter came out of the kitchen. “Is Daddy home yet?”

“Not yet, darling.” Lynda stood and scooped her daughter up in her arms. “Why don’t you go look for his phone?” she told me. “Take the laptop with you. Call me if you find anything. Please.”

I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”