I found Fowler’s phone 20 minutes later, in a garbage can near the intersection of three streets a half mile from his house. I texted her with the news. She texted back: I think I know someone who can help you. I’ll send you his number.
Back home Rachel could tell something was wrong as I threw the locks on our door. “What happened?”
“Ever heard of a demon named Abilosh?”
“Oh no.” She turned the TV off. “I knew I should have come with you.”
“That would have helped.” I got myself a beer and told her the story.
She kicked my leg. “You couldn’t just be risking your life looking for a serial killer? Now there’s a demon?”
“Hey, I don’t go looking for this stuff. It finds me.” I gulped some beer.
“You going to call the police?”
“Not yet. Not until I have something more solid than the name of a demon.”
She grimaced. “So what’s next, Sherlock?”
“I’ve got his phone and his laptop. And the wife has the name of a friend of his who’s into the occult. Someone he used to. Play D&D with, I guess. I’ll start with him.”
“Solid plan.” Rachel leaned back and turned the TV back on. “I’m working tomorrow, but I’ll be home. I’ll help when I can.”
“Thanks.” It was easier when Rachel was a freelance graphic designer and she could just take off with me whenever she wanted to. Now that she’s a therapist with office hours three days a week, taking her along on cases was a lot more complicated. But she was happy, and we were making more money, so I couldn’t complain.
Rachel watched reality TV until 10:30 while I searched Fowler’s laptop and phone. I couldn’t get into his email on either device, and I didn’t find anything that seemed linked to the Archer. I found games, tax stuff, do-it-yourself home repair PDFs, and, of course, some porn, including a folder with photos of his wife that I only glanced at before Rachel could catch me. I quit at 10:30 when Rachel turned to the news. “I want to see the weather tomorrow.”
“Why?” I closed the laptop. “You’re staying home.”
“I want to go to yoga before my first client.”
“You could use your phone.”
She jabbed me with her elbow. “Okay, smart guy, I like the girl who does the weather, all right?”
“Wait!” I pointed at the TV.
An image of a bow and arrow framed footage of a park entrance. The chyron underneath read: ARCHER STRIKES SECOND NIGHT. The news anchor solemnly told us: “The serial killer dubbed ‘The Archer’ has struck for the second time in as many days, Chicago police report, with the latest victim found in a north side park just an hour ago.”
I stopped listening because I was trying to work out the timing. Fowler had run from his house at around 6:15 or 6:30. The victim had been discovered—the reporter on the scene to say that someone had called it in at nine. That meant Fowler could have been involved somehow. And I’d let him go.
Rachel felt my mood darken. She reached for my hand. “Not your fault.”
“Yeah, probably.” I didn’t believe her. Or myself. “Maybe he’s not even involved, maybe it’s something totally different, maybe . . .” I shut up. Damn it.
I woke up the next morning in a toxic mixture of guilt and dread: guilt that I hadn’t somehow stopped Fowler before the murder, and dread of the murders that were coming next. Rachel was already out at yoga. I stayed in bed, wallowing in self-pity for five minutes, then forced myself to get up and get back to work.
My client called at 8:30. “Have you heard anything? I mean—I don’t know. I heard about the shooting last night. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I’ll call that name you gave me last night,” I told her. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
Then I called Brian Bayard—a college friend of Fowler’s, someone he’d played Dungeons and Dragons with, a guy with an interest in the occult, according to Lynda Fowler.
I introduced myself. I didn’t tell him much about what had happened to Fowler, just that Fowler had mentioned a name that sounded like Abilosh and that the only reference I could find seemed to be connected to a mythical demon. Did Bayard know anything that might shed some light?
“I don’t know.” I heard him flipping pages. “I don’t think it’s in any of my manuals here. It’s been a while since we played, it was mostly in college. Once a year or so, maybe, we get together for a game, but—you know who you should ask? Irina.”
“Irina? Who’s that?”
“She plays with us. Her and one other woman, the rest of us are guys. It’s nothing sketchy, we don’t hook up or anything. We’re just friends. Irina—you know, I don’t think I even know her last name? Anyway, I got her number here.”
So I called Irina.
“Abilosh?” She had a faintly European accent, but she didn’t waste any time questioning my interest—or my intentions. “Yes, I am familiar with that demon. What do you want to know about him? Wait—maybe you should come to my house. I have things I can show you.”
I wasn’t that thrilled by the idea, but if a demon really was behind the Archer’s rampage, I wanted all the information I could get as soon as possible. “Where do you live?”
Fortunately she was in the city. She told me to be there at 11.
Rachel came back from yoga and I told her about my appointment with Irina. She grimaced. “Is she hot?”
“I have no idea. You want to come?”
“You know I can’t. Darn. I like going out to interrogate people with you about demons.”
“It’s not exactly an interrogation. I don’t think.”
“Just so long as it’s not a seduction.” She peered down her nose at me.
I grinned. “It’s cute you can still be threatened by other women.”
“I haven’t saved your life this many times to lose you to some tramp with an exotic name.” She went to her desk, muttering.
The house in West Rogers Park was small, crammed up next to houses on either side. I rang the doorbell, and a moment later a woman opened up. “Tom? Irina. Welcome.”
Inside the living room was dark, full of bookcases crammed together like the houses on the street. A lamp cast shadowy light from a table in one corner. A cat napped on top of a sofa, and a computer sat on a table between two stuffed bookcases.
“Something to drink? Coffee, tea? Water? Vodka?” Irina was younger than I expected. In her 20s. Her hair was blonde with streaks of pink. Her blouse was unbuttoned and I could see her black bra. She wore sweatpants with a yellow stripe down to her ankles, and no shoes. I worried what I’d have to tell Rachel about her.
“Just some water.” I took a seat on the sofa, trying not to disturb the cat, and she disappeared, returning with a tall glass of water, ice, and a lemon. “Thanks.”
“So.” She perched on the folding chair in front of her computer. “You want know about Abilosh.”
“My client’s husband shouted that name right before having some sort of episode,” I told her, more or less truthfully. “We don’t know where he is right now.”
“And you really think he was talking about a demon?” She tilted her head, smiling.
“I don’t know. But I need to check it out. What’s your experience with demons?”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “It is a family thing. My mother, she was—not a witch, but she worked with some of the supernatural arts. Sometimes dark arts. It ended badly for her, but I have her books—” She spread her hand around the room. “And what she taught me.”
“Including demons?”
She giggled and stood up. After standing in front of the bookcase next to the sofa for a moment, she pulled a leatherbound volume down and sat next to me. I tried to keep my eyes on the book and she flipped through the pages.
“Here.” She pointed to a photo.
It was painted on fabric, like part of a tapestry: An image of a man in long robes and a hood, holding a bow as tall as he was, an arrow as long as a spear notched in it, and a small animal like a ferret perched on one bony shoulder.
Underneath ran a few line of text explaining that Abilosh was a little-known figure from the folklore of Gaul around 900 B.C.. who was said to terrorize villages that refused to pay him tribute in gold. He usually hunted in the winter or early spring, vanishing for the rest of the year, and was accompanied by a forest animal who helped him spot his targets.
“I have more.” Irina suddenly had a stack of books beside her. “Here is Abilosh in Germany.” She showed me a photo of a small part of a tapestry. Abilosh was more dwarflike, and had a tail, but he still had his bow ready to shoot someone.
There were more books and pictures, but not much new information until Irina opened her laptop. “Here is something new,” she said, tapping keys. “Last year in France, someone started shooting arrows at people and demanding money to stop. The name Abilosh was mentioned in some of the news articles. Look!”
I peered at the screen. All but one of the articles was in French, which I haven’t read since high school, but a British paper ran a short piece. Four people had been killed by an unknown assailant using a bow and arrow, all in local parks in a small town in Central France. Authorities had received a note demanding 50,000 Euros, but defiantly refused to consider paying. At the time of the article, the killer hadn’t been caught.
“Huh.” I wondered if the Chicago police knew about this. Maybe I should call one of the few cops who’d actually talk to me. But then I’d have to explain things. They probably wouldn’t believe I was just acting as a concerned citizen.
“Well, thanks.” I stood up. I wasn’t sure how this would help me find Fowler, but—
“Wait.” Irina put a hand on my arm. “It is interesting—someone else was asking me about this demon just a few weeks ago.”
Huh? “Who?”
“His name is Danny. Dan Gabler. We are friends. Not ‘friends.’” She giggled. “We play D&D and trivia together, with others. He came over and asked me about this demon, he didn’t say why.” She shrugged. “Do you think it means something?”
“I wish I knew.” We shook hands, and she started buttoning her blouse as I was leaving.
Out in my car I called Lynda Fowler. “Do you know someone named Dan Gabler?”
“Danny? Yeah, I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s a friend of Greg’s. I think—what does he have to do with this?”
“I don’t know yet. Do you have his number? Do you know where I can find him?”
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