Out of the Box, Part Two

I called Miles from my car. He didn’t pick up. I left a message.

            I swung by his house. It wasn’t really on my way back home, but I was curious. I rang his buzzer, called again, and thought about pestering the neighbors to get inside. But I didn’t really have any reason to knock on his door if he wasn’t answering his phone, and I wasn’t ready to commit illegal entry yet.

            Not that I’ve ever done that. More than once or twice.

            Back home I ate an apple and called Sharon Young again. No answer.

            I wasn’t sure what else to do. I didn’t have any answers—or questions. Charley had been scared. He disappeared. He starved himself to death. But why?

            Sometimes the only thing to do was start over again. No preconceptions. But where did the story begin? Charley being born? Coming to U of I? Or traveling here for the interview?

            The only hard evidence I had was the video. So I pulled it up on my laptop.

            I recognized Charley now. The Gundersons had sent me dozens of pictures. He had long brown hair and a gold stud in his left ear. He was shouting. His parents had tried to get a lip reader to figure out what he was saying, but she’d only come up with a few words—“God,” and “No,” and maybe “Away!”

            But no one was in the elevator with him. Maybe he was hallucinating. Or the other person had someone had managed to stay below the range of the camera.

            Maybe Charley was an undiagnosed schizophrenic. But I’d asked the Gundersons if they were aware of any mental health issues, and to my relief they didn’t get angry. Like they’d had to answer that question before, too many times.

            I worked a case once where I met a guy with a charm that could make him invisible, and he had a bunch of friends with the same charms and abilities. But he swore they didn’t commit any crimes more serious than sneaking into the movies.

And this seemed different. Charley wasn’t just spooked by an unseen voice. He was terrified.

            I watched the video again, trying to slow it down. There was Charley, pounding the buttons. The elevator didn’t stop. Why not? That was a new question to ask. I wrote it down.

            And then Charley was pounding one button, his finger stabbing the lighted number. I tried to zoom in.

            You can’t really “enhance” images or videos the way they do on TV. The closer I got, the more the picture broke up. But I could still make out the shapes of the numbers.

            Charley was pushing the number six. Over and over again. Even with all the other numbers lit, he kept punching the same button. Six, six, six . . .

            Then the door slid open. Charley fled.

            I started the video again. Charley was talking, then shouting, then pushing buttons. When they all lit up and the elevator didn’t stop, he stabbed the same button over and over again. Six. Three times, then a pause as he yelled in terror. Then three more times.

            Oh, hell. Rachel says I’m not that quick on the uptake, but I could figure this out.

            I picked up my phone. My hand shook. I didn’t have all the answers, but at least I had a few new questions.

            “Bradford Hotel, Linda Palmer, how may I—”

            “Hi, it’s Tom Jurgen again. We met yesterday?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I just have one more question. Does anyone know why the elevator didn’t stop when Charley Gunderson hit every single button?”

            “What?” She kept her voice low. “I don’t know. I mean, we shut down that elevator and brought in inspectors. All they could say was that it was maybe a circuit failure. But I don’t know. Listen . . .”

            “Yes?”

            “I shouldn’t tell you this.” She gulped. “But I’m going back to school in a few weeks, so it doesn’t matter. The thing is, this maintenance guy I talked to, one of them who found the, uh, the body downstairs? He saw something. On the wall behind the locker.”

            “What was it?” I thought I knew. But I knew I could be wrong.

            “The numbers, 666. In big black letters. Like from that movie The Omen? I saw it on TV when I was seven. I couldn’t sleep for three nights.”

            I remembered the movie. Gregory Peck, Lee Remick, and a creepy little kid who was the Antichrist. And a guy getting his head sliced off, which was when I walked out. I never saw the end.

But I knew the number 666, and not just from the movie or Charley’s frantic jabs at the elevator buttons. It came from the Book of Revelation. The number of the beast.

I’ve met a few demons. They’re not nice.

But I didn’t want to spook her. “It was only a movie.” I tried to sound reassuring. “I don’t think there’s any danger. Just—be careful.”

            “Okay.” Palmer giggled. “I mean, I can make it a few more weeks. I don’t have to go down there again/”

            “Where are you going to school? What are you studying?”

            “DePaul. Journalism. I want to be a reporter.”

            I stifled a groan. “Well, I used to be a reporter. I should tell you to find another career in something more practical, like taxidermy. But call me if you need any advice.”

            “Thanks! I will.”

            Now what? I called Miles again and left a message. I called Sharon Young and again got no answer, so I left a message.

            I had an address for Sharon. I’d already gone to check on Miles in his apartment, so I figured I ought to do the same with her. Of course, Miles knew who I was, so I’d have to be careful approaching his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.

            I left a message with Rachel. It’s a habit, so someone knows where I’m going in case I run into trouble. Then I finished my apple and went down to my car.

Sharon Young lived in Cicero, a suburb near her job in Oak Park. I got there at about 5:30. Her building was three stories high on a quiet street. I parked and made my way to the door.

            I pressed a buzzer and waited. No answer. Just like Miles. So I called her number on my cell phone.

            This time she picked up. “Who is it?”

            “Ms. Young? My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’ve been trying to contact you. It’s about Charley Gunderson?”

            “Wait a minute. Oh, god. There’s someone buzzing my door—”

            “That’s me. I apologize, I don’t mean to bother you. It’s just that I have a few questions. Could I come up?”

            Sharon Young didn’t know me, and she didn’t have any reason to let me into her apartment. But after a moment the door buzzed. “Second floor,” she whispered.

            No elevator. I climbed the stairs. She was waiting for me in the hallway, a young blond woman in cutoff shorts and a blue T-shirt. “Hi. Who are you again?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I handed her my card. “I can show you my ID if you want. I’m a private detective, working for Charley Gunderson’s parents. I only want to ask you a few questions. We can talk out here in the hall if you want.”

            Her hand shook as she peered at the card. She glanced back at her door. “No. I recognize your voice from the messages. Sorry I didn’t call back.”

            Inside the apartment Sharon slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

            The apartment was small, one bedroom, and it looked like she hadn’t left it in days. Dirty clothes and towels lay scattered on the floor, along with empty pizza boxes and crushed cans of Pepsi. And a mostly empty bottle of tequila on a bookshelf.

Sharon dropped my card on the floor and collapsed in a chair, pulling her legs up in front of her chest. “It’s about Charley, isn’t it? I saw that video.”

“Yeah.” Where to start? “Well, you and your boyfriend were two of the last people to see him alive—”

“No!” She screamed at the ceiling. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

I’ve been yelled at before, but this was different. I lifted my hands, ready to run. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No . . . no. I wasn’t talking to you.” Sharon took a deep breath. “Well, partly I was. Miles isn’t my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“So who were you talking to?”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’d believe. Let’s start over.” I perched on the edge of a couch. “I’m looking into Charley’s death. I just want to ask a few questions.”

            She pressed her hands against her ears. “Shut up! Shut up! Stop talking!” She stomped a bare foot on the hardwood floor.

            I stood up. No one else in the living room. I peered toward the kitchen behind Sharon. No movement. No sound except her hoarse breathing and my pounding heart.

I tried again. “Who are you talking to?”

            She leaned down, her had between her knees as if she was about to throw up. “The devil,” she moaned.

            And me without a crucifix. Or my Taser. “Sharon.” I kept my distance so she wouldn’t feel threatened. By me, anyway. “Can you tell me what happened?”

            “What?” Sharon looked up. She seemed surprised I was still around, like she’d fallen asleep for a moment and I was just part of a bad dream. She sat back and coughed. “That’s easy—Miles got Charley an interview at his company. Charley came in and aced it. I mean, Miles said he was sure to get the job. So we went out to celebrate, and Miles got drunk, so we took him home to sleep it off. And then . . .” Sharon seemed to curl up again. “I went back to Charley’s hotel with him.”

            Oh. “So you and Charley . . .”

            “He was cute, you know?” She giggled. “And Miles was drunk. I probably shouldn’t have done it. But I wasn’t that drunk. And Miles and me . . . it wasn’t going that great.”

            “So what happened? Aside from—you know.”

            “Crap.” She glanced around the room. “I’m thirsty. Get me that?”

            The tequila. “Okay.”

            She took a swig. “Miles called me in the middle of the night. I guess he heard Charley in the background. No, we weren’t doing it!” She shouted at the ceiling. “It wasn’t like that! He was in the bathroom! It was just . . .” She planted the bottle on the floor. “I can’t take this much more.”

            I paced the room. I had part of a theory that almost made sense. Not that anyone would believe it. “So what did Miles do?”

            Sharon closed her eyes. “He went crazy. Yelling, calling me a slut and a whore, saying he was going to destroy me. And Charley. Charley came out of the bathroom and heard him screaming over my phone. He grabbed the phone and they yelled at each other. Charley threw it across the room. I got dressed and I left.”

            And then later that night—morning, actually—Charley took the elevator down and disappeared. “So did Miles do something?”

            “He said he was going to open the box.”

            Huh? “What box?”

            “The box, it’s like a Mayan pyramid, it’s got four sides—oh, hell, shut up, shut up, make it stop talking!” Sharon grabbed the tequila and took another long swallow. Then she jumped up, and almost fell over. “I can’t take it anymore. Shut up!”

            She ran to the kitchen, sobbing. I got there just in time to see her pick up a long sharp knife. Her face was red, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Make it stop, make it stop—”

            I grabbed her arm. She twisted and sank an elbow into my ribs. Rachel slugs my arm sometimes, but it’s usually pretty mild. This hurt. But I managed to get hold of her wrist as I staggered back. “Sharon! Sharon!”

            “No!” She jabbed the point of the knife at her wrist. Blood spurted over her arm, red and pulsing. Some landed on my shirt.

            I hit her in the shoulder. Okay, I don’t like hitting people, women especially, although at times I’ve done it all. And I’m not very strong. But I got her hard enough to make her drop the knife.

            Screaming, she sagged to her knees. I kicked the knife into a corner and looked around the kitchen until I spotted a roll of paper towels. I snatched a half dozen and pressed them down on the wound as Sharon squirmed and moaned. I didn’t think she’d gone too deep, but more blood was flowing from her wrist than I ever wanted to see.

            With one hand I managed to get my cell phone out and hit 911. “There’s a woman who’s had an accident with a knife,” I told the dispatcher. I struggled to remember the address but I got it right. “Send an ambulance right away. Please?”

            “Shut up,” Sharon moaned. “Shut up, shut up, shut up . . .”

           

Rachel met me at the local ER. “Have I ever mentioned that I hate hospitals?” Then she saw my shirt. “Is that blood? What the hell?”

            “That’s why I asked you to bring me a shirt. Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

            “Good.” She slugged my arm. “I don’t want to visit you in a hospital bed.”

            “You and me both.” I told her what happened. She lifted her eyebrows when I mentioned the Devil.

            A nurse pushed the curtain back. “You can—wait, are you family?”

            “I’m Sharon’s brother. Tom. I called the ambulance.”

            She looked me over skeptically for any sign of a family resemblance. “Okay. Five minutes.”

            We went inside. Sharon was sitting up, her eyes dazed, a wide bandage on her wrist and an IV in her arm. “Oh. Hi.” She shook her head. “Sorry about that.”

            “How do you feel?”

            She gazed up at the ceiling. “I can’t hear it now. I hope it doesn’t come back.”

            Me too. “This is my friend Rachel. She helps me out. Can she talk to you for a minute?”

            “Sure.” Sharon blinked at Rachel. “Wait, are you his girlfriend?”

            I expected another punch. But Rachel just smirked. “It’s complicated. Look, Sharon—it’s Sharon, right? Let me just . . .”

            She reached out and took Sharon’s hand, the one without the wound. Sharon looked at her, puzzled but smiling. I figured the painkillers were helping her relax. She giggled again and closed her eyes.

            Rachel dropped her hand. “There’s something. You know I can’t pick up definite images or anything like that, but there was a presence, and she’s been scared. Really scared. I think it’s fading. But I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just because she’s out of her place.”

            I didn’t like to think of her going back home if she was going to try to kill herself again. I also didn’t want to worry that this was my fault—that if I hadn’t asked her questions, she would have been fine. Frightened, but not suicidal.

            Sharon opened her eyes. “Oh, hi. You’re still here.”

            “I’m sorry.” I glanced at the curtain, not sure how much time we had. “You said Miles was going to open a box? A pyramid?”

            “What? Oh yeah.” She shivered. Then she looked around and sat up. “Huh. It’s gone.”

            “What’s gone?” I glanced at Rachel.

            “The voice. The devil.”

“You’re not scared anymore?”

            “Spiders and hornets, insurance salesmen, yeah. The other thing?” She tilted her head and rubbed an ear. “I can hear again.”

            “What about the box?”

            The nurse pushed the curtain back before Sharon could answer. But she didn’t kick us out. “Listen, honey, we want you to stay the night. We’ll take you up to a room in a few minutes.”

            “Okay.” Sharon shrugged. “Wait—do you need my insurance card or anything? I don’t think—”

            “Your brother brought your purse. Everything’s fine.” She smiled.

            Sharon blinked at me. “Oh. Thanks, bro.”

            “Anything for my sister.” I’d managed to grab it when the paramedics came. “Could we have another minute?”

            The nurse nodded and left.

            Sharon laughed. “My brother?”

            I grinned, more in relief than anything else. “I had to get in to see you somehow. So look, Sis, what about this box? The pyramid?”

            Her face paled. “Miles used to joke that he had a demon trapped in there, and if anyone pissed him off, he’d let it out. He said his uncle gave it to him when he died. I thought he was just joking, but now . . .” She shuddered. “I guess maybe he was right.”

            A box. “I don’t suppose you still have a key to his apartment?”

            

Out of the Box, Part Three

“So what are we doing?”

            We’d both driven to the building where Miles lived. Rachel was in my car. Shadowy twilight was turning into a cloudy evening.

            “I’m going to commit a possible felony.” I looked up at the windows. I had the keys—a fob for the front door, and the key to his apartment. “I think I saw the pyramid she was talking about. I’ve been calling Miles, but he doesn’t answer. So either he’s not there, or . . .” Maybe he couldn’t control the demon as much as he thought.

            “Ooh, a crime.” She grinned. “Am I coming with you?”

            I sighed. We’d had this argument before. “I’d rather you didn’t. I might get arrested. Or worse. And I might need your help. To bail me out, or . . . whatever.”

            To my surprise, she just nodded. “That makes sense.”

            Miracle of miracles. “Wish me luck.”

            I called the apartment from the front door. No answer. The fob worked fine. When I got to his door I knocked, waited, and knocked again. No answer. So I took out my cell phone.

            “Miles?” I waited, but I didn’t pick up. My hands and voice were shaking.  “It’s me, Tom Jurgen. I’m outside your door. I’m coming in. I’ve got a key.” I gulped. “Please don’t shoot me.”

            I’d have to delete that from his answering machine if he wasn’t there. I hung up and called Rachel. “Okay, I’m going in. Hold on.”

            I slipped the phone into a pocket and stood as far from the door as I could and still slide the key into the lock and turned the doorknob.

            Nothing. Which didn’t mean I was safe. I peered into the apartment, waiting, trying to breathe evenly and not pass out. Crouching a little, ready to turn and flee, I stepped into the apartment, leaving the door open a crack.

            I called his name again. No sign of Miles. One more step. I looked around.

            The pyramid sat on the coffee table in front of the couch.

            The gray metal looked ancient, with intricate scrollwork across its surface. One of its four sides hung open on a pair of hinges. The bottom was lined with red silk.

            It smelled like dead flowers.

            “Tom?” Rachel’s voice was inside my pocket. “Are you there?”

            I put my phone on the table, next to an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “I think I found the box. But I don’t know—”

            A door banged. I stood up quickly. Miles was standing in front of me, shirtless and barefoot in a pair of dirty sweatpants. His face was red and his hair was a tangled mess, as if he hadn’t showered in days. Sweat ran down his chest.

            “What—what are you doing here?” He gasped for breath.

            At least he wasn’t armed. But I wasn’t either. I’d left my Taser in the car. Committing illegal trespass was bad enough, but getting caught with any kind of a weapon would mean months or years of taking showers with the kind of large smelly men I usually avoided on the street.

Still, Miles was younger than me, and probably stronger and faster. So I talked quickly. “You didn’t answer your phone. Sharon gave me your key.” I pointed. “What’s in that box?”

            Miles stared at the pyramid. “My uncle Jim gave it to me. He died five years ago.” He dropped down onto the couch. “He said only to open it if—if I really wanted to hurt someone.”

            “So have you ever opened it?” I kept my phone out, hoping Rachel could hear.

            Miles ran his hands over his scalp. “I had a manager at work. At another job. He was a grade-A asshole, and one time he made me work all weekend, I mean 48 hours straight, and then he took credit for the whole project.” He looked at me, desperate for me to understand. “I was tired and I was drunk, so I opened the box and said his name. Two hours later he died in a car accident. And then the box closed. Uncle Jim said it would come back and close the door when it finished the job.”

            But the door was open now. Did that mean . . .  “So what happened when Charley slept with Sharon?”

            “He was my best friend!” Miles rolled back and forth on the couch. “And she was my girlfriend! How would you feel?” Miles started pacing around. “You think I could just forgive and forget? I was trying to help him get a job! And then he turns around and screws my girlfriend?”

            “Okay, okay!” I backed away from him. “I get that you were mad at Charley. So what about Sharon? Charley died two months ago. Sharon tried to kill herself today.”

            “That bitch!” His arms thrashed in rage. “She was the one who cheated! I shouldn’t have to beg, should I? But I did, and she wouldn’t listen to me! She never even said she was sorry. And I called her over and over again, every day, for weeks! But she stopped answering me.”

He was crying now. “I would have taken her back. Really! But I couldn’t let her talk to you.

            So Miles had sent the demon after Sharon. But she was still alive. And free now. So maybe it had limits. Even demons had rules. At least the few I’d had to deal with.

            “So where is it now?”

            His head drooped. After a long, ragged breath, he tapped his chest. “Here.”

            Oh god. “Why?”

            “It doesn’t want to go back. Uncle Jim said it was hard to control, and the more you let it out, the stronger it gets.” Miles was gasping.

            “So let’s get out of here.” I reached for the box. “You should see a doctor. And I know an ex-priest who does exorcisms—”

            “No!” He lurched up. “I can’t leave! Get out of here!” He staggered from the room. “Just leave me alone!”

I wasn’t sure who he was talking to—me or the demon. And for a moment, yeah, I didn’t really care what happened to Miles. Charley was dead, his parents were devastated, and Sharon could have died. All I wanted was to dash out the door and leave Miles to his fate.

But I was at least partly responsible for what almost happened to Sharon.

Could I lock the demon back up so it couldn’t harm anyone else? I stared at the pyramid, trying to think of an answer. Maybe Rachel knew someone—

            Oh hell. Rachel. My cellphone was still sitting on the table, and Rachel was listening. “Hey! Are you there? Stay out of—”

“Too late.” Rachel was inside the door, panting. “I had to push every damn button until someone believed I was a UPS driver.” She kicked the door shut and looked around. “Where’d he go?”

Damn it. I couldn’t run away now—I didn’t want Rachel to think I was a coward. “I don’t know. Somewhere close. Be careful.”

            The apartment wasn’t that big. His kitchen was empty and the bathroom door was open, which left the bedroom. The door was shut.

            I knocked. “Miles!”

            “Go away!” His throat was hoarse. “Just get out of here!”

            “Are you going to kick it in?” Rachel smirked at me.

The door looked hard and solid. I’m a P.I. in my forties, not the Terminator. So I just tried the doorknob.

            In his rush and terror, Miles had forgotten to lock it. I turned the knob and pushed, but Miles pushed back. I grunted, leaning forward with my shoulder. Rachel helped.

            Miles stumbled back as we shoved the door open.

“Stay back!” He held a long hunting knife with a serrated edge on one side of the sharp blade. “Stay away from me!”

“Okay, okay!” That was definitely what I wanted, too. I stepped in front of Rachel and held up my hands out. “Why don’t you put the knife down? We can talk—”

            “I can’t take it anymore!” He scooted to the far side of the bed. “It’s in my head! I can’t shut him out!”

            “We can help you.” I didn’t really know how, except to get him to a hospital. I held out my hand. “The knife, Miles. You don’t want to do this.”

            “I have to . . .” Miles jabbed his throat with the tip of the blade. A drop of blood spilled down his chest.

            I took a step. “No, you don’t. Don’t listen to it.” Another step. Hands wide, not threatening. “You don’t have to listen to it.”

            “You don’t understand.” He took a breath. “I can’t keep it out anymore—”

            Rachel screamed.

            I might have screamed too. I turned away when the blood spurted from his throat, then somehow forced himself to run over to Miles on the floor, one hand still on the knife’s handle as he rolled back and forth, moaning and bleeding.

            I pulled a tangled sheet from the bed and tried to press it over the wound, déjà vu flooding my mind for a moment. It was the second time today I’d tried to save someone from a knife and gotten blood over my hands and clothes, but this time I wasn’t going to save anyone. Miles was already choking, and I wasn’t sure I should even try to pull the knife out. The serrated edge would probably just make things worse.

            He stared up at me, tears in his eyes. His lips trembled as if he was trying to speak, but his mouth was filled with blood.

            In the end I backed away, helpless and sick. Nothing I could do would help Miles now.

            I turned around, reaching for my phone. “Rachel? Are you—”

            Rachel was on the floor, curled up in an almost fetal position, shaking like a child. She managed to look up and stare at my eyes.

            “Who are you?” Her words were a whisper. “I don’t know you.”

            Oh god. Not Rachel. No.

            She screamed again, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Get out, get out, get out!” She clutched her hair.

            I tried to grab her arms. She shoved me away. “Get off of me!”

            “Rachel, come on.” I wondered if she could hear me. Damn it, this was all my fault. I shouldn’t have let her—

She punched me in the chest. Hard. I fell back, gasping as she crawled away.

No. I managed to push up to my feet as she stumbled toward the living room. I tackled her by the knees in the doorway, and she kicked my face.

Fortunately she was wearing her Nike running shoes and not her boots. My cheek throbbed, but at least she missed my eye. She slithered out of her arms and ran for the front door. My knees ached as I stood up and followed. I didn’t know what I could do. At least she wasn’t heading to the kitchen for a knife.

“Rachel, stop!” I put as much energy into my voice as I could summon, and it must have worked, because she hesitated, her hand on the knob.

What was she going to do? Run out into the street to get hit by a bus? Or just disappear? I didn’t know what the demon wanted. I only knew that they wanted to be free. So I didn’t know what would happen if I lost sight of Rachel.

            Rachel stared at me, her hazelnut eyes almost black. “Leave me alone,” she ordered in a voice that shuddered and shook. “I don’t know you.”

            “I’m Tom! Tom Jurgen! I live downstairs! I’m your—” Somehow I didn’t think “sort-of boyfriend” would get through to her. “I love you!”

            Rachel blinked. “Wh—what?”

            I’d stopped her. For a moment. Now what?

            I looked at the table, where the pyramid sat. If I could lure it back . . .

            But I had no idea how to do it. It wasn’t a genie from a magic bottle. I couldn’t make a wish. But maybe . . .

            Oh, this was a bad idea. But I didn’t have any good ideas left. And whatever happened, I couldn’t leave the demon inside Rachel.

            So I picked up the pyramid and hurled it to the floor.

            Instantly a cold wind pushed down on my shoulders, as if someone had turned on a gigantic ceiling fan. It grew stronger as I stomped the pyramid under both feet.

             The wind rushed faster, scattering newspapers and whipping up clouds of dust like Dorothy’s cyclone. I kneeled down and started pounding it with my bare fists.

            Which didn’t work so well. It was metal, after all. So I picked it up, my fingers bleeding, and slammed it against the wall, over and over, until one of the hinges broke. I could barely stand up as the wind swirled over me, and my feet hurt, but I kept swinging the box as hard as I could until the door finally snapped off.

            The pyramid flew through the air. I lunged after it, sliding on my stomach. I clawed the red silk inside ripped it. I had to bite the fabric to start a tear. It tasted like blood. I spit bits of silk out of my mouth.

            Then the pyramid exploded. Shards of metal stung my face. I dropped flat, hands over my eyes as the wind stormed around me.

I looked for Rachel. She lay on the floor, her arms wrapped over her head and neck as the air churned around us. It was hot as a desert sandstorm, then cold as a blizzard.

            “Get out of here!” I shouted. “Go away and leave us alone!”

            A roar of wind answered me—or maybe ignored me. The apartment seemed to spin under my hands and knees. I gasped for air. Okay, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a . . .

Suddenly the apartment was silent.

Papers and dust fluttered to the floor. I sat up, amazed that I could breathe again.

            Rachel was stretched out on the floor next to the door, her fingers twitching. Breathing hard.

            “Rachel? Rach?” I crawled toward her. “Come on, are you okay?” I pressed a finger to her neck. Strong pulse. I reached for my cellphone. “Just a minute—”

            “You asshole.” Her eyelids fluttered.

I set the phone down and helped her sit up. “Are you okay?”

            “I feel—well, like the world’s worst hangover.” She rubbed her head. “Oh god, did Miles—did he really . . .”

            “Yeah.” I couldn’t save him. “Sorry.”

            She looked ready to puke in my lap. “That was, you know, horrible. I’ve never felt like that. Oh, hell!” She reached up to run a hand over the fresh bruise rising on my face. “Wait—did I do that?”

            “Sort of.” I reached for my phone again. “I have to call 911 now. So remember—we were just checking on Miles, and he went crazy. That’s how I got hit, and how the pyramid got destroyed. It was all kind of a blur. Okay?”

            “Yeah. That’s about right.” Rachel shivered. “Hey, wait—what was that you said? That made it go away?”

            Oops. “Well, I broke up the pyramid. That set it free.”

            “No, you dummy. You said . . .” She lifted an arm to punch me, but then she let it drop. “It doesn’t matter.”

            “Right.” I hit 911.

            Rachel put a hand on my knee. “Don’t make a big deal about this, but . . . yeah.” She coughed, “Oh, god, I hope I don’t throw up.”

            I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. —Yeah, hello? There’s been a suicide here, a man is dead. You need to send an ambulance to . . .”

           

Rachel sipped her tea. “I wanted ginger.”

            “It’s mint. You were out.”

            We were up in her apartment, after spending several hours telling different police officers how Miles had given us permission to enter his apartment—although we had a key from his worried ex-girlfriend—only to rant about demons and then try to kill us before slitting his own throat. It was a simple story that didn’t make them have to work too hard. Even Sharon’s story fit most of the pieces, and if it had matched too closely, the detectives would have been skeptical enough to start asking more questions. As it was, the cops had just one dead body to deal with, and it was obviously a suicide. They could probably decide we were all crazy without having to charge us with anything.

            So in the end they let us go.

            Rachel put her cup down. “Thanks. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, it wasn’t me, but still—”

            “It wasn’t that bad.” Actually, my chest still hurt from her punch, but I didn’t want to admit it. At least the bruise on my cheek didn’t keep me from opening and closing my eyes. “I need your help.” I opened my laptop.

            “Oh. Skype?” She started hitting keys as I called the Gundersons on my cellphone.

            We connected, and I told them the whole story. Leslie flinched when I told her about Charley and Sharon, and Todd turned away and wiped his eyes when I described the knife Miles had used to kill himself.

Leslie sighed when I finished. “I am sorry about Miles. We met him once. He seemed like a nice boy.”

            Except for the whole sending-a-demon-to-make-people-kill-themselves thing? But that felt like the wrong thing to say. “I wish I could have saved him.”

            “Well . . .” Leslie stared at the screen. “Who’s that next to you?”

            “Oh, she’s my . . . my associate.” I shifted the laptop. “Rachel. She was a big help in this case.”

            “Hi!” Rachel raised a hand. “Drinking tea!”

            “Send us your bill.” Todd Gunderson seemed to enjoy watching Rachel sip from her mug, and I couldn’t blame him. “And thank you. This . . . it helps.”

            I knew nothing would really help a family that had lost a child, but I couldn’t think of anything more to say or do. “I appreciate your time. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

            The screen went blank.

            “So . . .” I closed the laptop. “Dinner? Should I order out? Or just experiment with whatever you have in the fridge?”

            “Just let me rest.” She set her mug down and sank back on the sofa. “Being possessed by a demon is exhausting, you know?”

            “Whatever you want.” I patted her arm. “Glad you’re okay.”

            “Hey, wait a minute.” Rachel sat up. “What happened to the demon? Oh . . .” She groaned and rubbed her head. “What did you do?”

            “I couldn’t think of any way to force it back inside the box.” I shrugged. “So I thought maybe if the pyramid couldn’t hold it, the demon wouldn’t be chained to it.” I shook my head. “I guess it worked. It let you go.”

            Now it was free. And whatever harm it caused in the future was at least partially because of me.

But it wasn’t controlling Rachel anymore. I could live with that.

“You idiot. “ Rachel squeezed my hand. “I could feel it inside my head. It was angry, like a—a rat caught in a trap. Nowhere to go. Then you said—what you said. And it went away.”

Well, it was true. “Yeah. It was the only thing I could think of.”

            Rachel sighed. “Thanks.” She sipped more tea. “This is okay, I guess.”

            “Do you want anything else?”

            Rachel set the mug down. “Just stay here for a while. You can order something. I’m probably going to fall asleep.”

I nodded. “I’m right here.”

            “Mmm.” Rachel closed her eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”

           

# # #

Room without a key

A young woman is confined in a mysterious room for almost 200 days before escaping. Tom Jurgen’s investigation leads him to the same place—with no way out.