Dragon's Gold, Pt. Three

We pulled up a block from Cory’s Bucktown apartment building 45 minutes later. I carried the sword, hidden by a blanket, and Rachel held a plastic drugstore bag. We rang Cory’s buzzer, and an elevator ride brought us to her door.

            “You’re here.” She seemed surprised. “I didn’t think you were really coming. Uh, you’re . . .”

            “Rachel.” She pushed through the door first. “I’m Tom’s associate detective. Not an assistant. Let’s get that straight right now.”

            “Okay!” Cory backed away. “Dan, they’re—”

            “What’s going on?” A voice thundered behind her. “Who the hell is here?”

            Cory shut and locked her door. “I did what you said.” She lowered her head, her voice quiet. “I took it out back. Under the dumpster, in case I needed to get it again. But now Dan’s mad.”

            That was the least of my worries. Rachel walked ahead of me into Cory’s living room, where Daniel sat on a couch, slumped over, like his brother in the wheelchair.

He had gray hair, thicker than Leo, and broad shoulders. But he had the same big ears and thick chin. “Who the hell are you?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I set the sword on the ground. “Your brother Leo hired me to find you.”

            “Right.” Daniel glared out the window. “He’s only worried about his gold.”

            “We all have bigger problems right now.” I pulled my phone from my pocket. “But I can call him right now if you want to talk. Maybe patch things up?”

            “Wait! Don’t!” He lurched forward. “Yes, I took his gold. Do you know what he’s like? Did you meet him?” Daniel pounded the arm of the sofa with pent-up fury. “All my life, Leo acts like he knew everything, and I’m just the stupid little brother. But I’m an architect! I build things! And what does he do but sit around counting his money? What’s he going to do with it?”

He slumped back again. “You saw him, didn’t you? All that gold down in his basement, and he’s lying there like a lump in his chair. He just stares out the window at the house next door. My house. I offered to pay for his share, but he turns me down. He just wants something to hold against me, like he’s doing me a favor I don’t need.”

            Yeah, family disputes are the worst. Just ask any cop. I put my phone away. “So the bigger problem I mentioned? There’s a dragon out there killing people. Like Livvy.”

            “Oh, god.” Daniel lowered his head. “I didn’t think . . .”

“You gave Livvy a gold krugerrand. And Cory. Anyone else?”

            “No.” He shook his head. “I only knew I was going to have to go away. But what can you do with that much gold? I had to turn it into cash, and that’s not easy.”

“So you kept going to work?”

            “I didn’t want to disappear right away. I had to figure it out. And I wanted to—take care of people.” He gazed at Cory. “I didn’t think . . .”

            “Yeah, right.” She turned away. “Asshole.”

            “So where’s the rest of the gold?”

            “In my van. I parked it at the top of the highest garage I could find. You wouldn’t believe how heavy that locker was when I carried it up the stairs.” He looked at Cory. “I just kept some of it so I’d have some cash while I figured out how to convert it.”

Cory suddenly looked at me. “Hey, what happened to that coin I gave you?”

            I reached into my back pocket. “Right here.” I held it out in my palm.

            Cory backed away. “Is that—oh shit, is that going to bring it here?”

            “Either that, or all the krugs you dropped in the dumpster.” I looked at Rachel and picked up my sword. “You ready?”

            “You are crazy. Guess that’s why—oh, forget it.” She grabbed the plastic bag. “Nice meeting you both.” She glared at Cory. “Just in case, I’m his girlfriend. So don’t get any ideas.”

            “Who? What?” Cory blinked at me. “Oh. Okay. I can see that.”

            How? I didn’t care. My body was shaking too much. “Come on.”

           

The alley behind the building was suitably dark and creeping for a dragon stakeout. I found a black metal box under the nearest dumpster and popped it open.

            My heart fluttered. Gold. More than I’d ever seen, outside of the movies. I dropped the coin Cory had given me in with the rest, for luck. Or something.

            “Do you have your Taser?” Rachel patted the pocket of my windbreaker.

            “Just a flashlight. I’m pretty sure a Taser will only make it mad.”

            “Good point. How long do we wait?”

            I looked at my phone. Eight thirty, not too dark yet, and fortunately not too cold. “No idea. However long it takes the dragon to smell gold from a distance.”       “Great.” Rachel sat down on the pavement and crossed her legs. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a fun date? Because they lied.”

            “You can go back inside.” I leaned against the brick wall. “Or home, if you want. Just leave that bag.” Actually, I would have felt a lot better with her far away. But the thought of arguing with her about this (again) was almost as terrifying as the prospect of facing a dragon.

            “No.” She snickered. “I want to make sure Cory doesn’t come down to keep you company.”

            Rachel’s jealousy is mysterious. She usually denies being my girlfriend unless there’s another woman in the room. Then she gets as protective as a mama grizzly. I kind of like it.

            So we waited. Two hours.

            “Do we really have to kill it?” Rachel’s voice startled me. I thought she’d fallen asleep. Or I had.

            I stretched my shoulders. “Well, it did kill a person.”

            “Doing what it was trained for. I mean, it’s dangerous, I get that. But what if it’s the last one? Suppose we could, I don’t know—let it go back to its home? And just sleep?”

            I couldn’t tell how serious she was. Maybe Rachel was just trying to think of an excuse for us both to get out of here. I couldn’t blame her. “Protecting the gold is one thing. The dragon stalked her. If it was a guard dog, they’d kill it. A tiger in the jungle gets a taste for blood—”

            “Or a shark attacks a swimmer and they kill every shark they find. This isn’t Jaws.”

            “It’s not like there are dozens of otherwise peaceful dragons lurking in the sewers.” My nerves were already at a thin edge. I didn’t want an argument now. “I mean, yeah, you’ve got a point. I feel bad for the thing. But what are we supposed to do?”

            The back door opened before Rachel could answer. She jumped up, possibly expecting Cory, but Daniel stepped through the door with two cups of coffee. “Here. I thought you might need this.”

            “Thanks.” I sipped. Lukewarm, but caffeinated. Rachel sat down again.

            Daniel sighed. “I called Leo.” It sounded like a confession.

            I kept an eye on the street. “And?”

            He shook his head. “I told him I’d bring his gold back. It was a stupid idea. I was just mad at him. And I didn’t think . . .” He rubbed his rubbed. “I just didn’t think.”

            “Did you tell him we’re going to kill his dragon?” Or try, at least.

            “Yeah.” Another sigh. “He’s not happy. In a way I don’t blame him. Ramathor’s hundreds of years old. But he killed Livvy. I can’t—even if it’s my fault, I can’t live with that.”

            “Guys?” Rachel pointed. “I hear something.”

            Daniel flicked on a flashlight. I pulled up my own.

            A round manhole cover in the middle of the street was rattling.

            I set down my coffee and unsheathed my sword. “Get ready,” I told Rachel.

            “Here.” Daniel stuck out a hand. “I did this before.”

            Rachel handed the bag over without arguing. The prospect of chasing a dragon will do that, I guess.

            Daniel and I walked slowly until we stood on either side over the slotted cover. His shoulders trembled as he clutched the bag. I was pretty sure my whole body was shaking, and I concentrated on holding the sword firmly.

            The cover rattled again, then popped up and skittered across the street like a stone skipping over a lake. We both took a step back, then two. Rachel held a flashlight of her own the opening. From a safe distance behind us. I hoped.

            A scaly, reptilian arm emerged from the hole. Three clawed fingers, digging into the concrete.

            Daniel dug a hand into the plastic bag. He came up with a handful of gray crystals—the sleeping potion I’d gotten from Marie before driving to Cory’s apartment. He drew his arm back.

“Wait!” I held up a hand. “We don’t want it to fall asleep and fall back down into the sewer.”

            “He won’t fall asleep that fast.” But Daniel hesitated. “When I did this, he was already sleeping. I just didn’t want him to wake up—”

            A head rose up from the hole.

            Long and thin, like an oversized crocodile, with yellow eyes that glowed like searchlights and teeth like a great white shark, the head of the dragon slid through the opening, its long red forked tongue flicking from side to side through its open jaws. Its breath smelled like a forest fire, burning in the night. At least it didn’t breathe fire.

            “Okay, okay!” I waved a hand. “Just a minute, let it get a little higher . . .”

            “Hey, dragon!” It was Rachel, behind me. I risked a glanced over my shoulder. “This is what you want, right?’

            She threw a handful of krugerrands through the air. They landed in front of the dragon.

            The dragon roared and thrust its body up through the hole. Fifteen feet and six legs of fury. Daniel reared back and flung a handful of crystals into its face.

            Some of them went down the dragon’s throat. The rest bounced off its glowing eyes. Daniel threw more, staggering back, and I lifted my sword, feeling like a weak imitation of a stunt man pretending to be a Samurai warrior in a TV movie. Today is a good day to die, I told myself. Oh, wait, no, that was Klingon. Good enough. I steadied my hands.

“Here, dragon, dragon. Here . . .” Rachel’s voice can carry. I’ve heard her singing in the shower. Now she was at the top of her lungs, and she was shoving the box of gold across the concrete.      

Daniel kept throwing the crystals. I looked for an opening—a chance to stab the dragon right in the center of its chest, like the dragon killer in California said. I just needed it to turn, or rear up, or something. How long would the crystals need to make him fall asleep?

It lunged forward. I dodged, my feet slipping on the concrete, but I stayed upright. Daniel tossed the bag into its mouth, between those jaws crammed with jagged teeth. Then he turned and ran.

Rachel jumped away from the box, but not away from me. “Should we run?” Her voice was surprisingly calm.

“It only wants the gold.” I said it more to myself than her. It only wants the gold, it only wants the gold . . . “We have to wait for it to fall asleep.”

“It ate all the crystals!” Suddenly she sounded on the verge of panic. “Do we have to sing it a fricking lullaby?

The dragon was shoving the box back and forth with one of its claws. Its eyes gleamed in the shadows of the alley. It opened its mouth for a roar, and we could smell its foul breath.

Then the roar turned into a yawn. Its breath didn’t turn into anything that smelled better.

I tried to stand between Rachel and the dragon, and Rachel was trying to get out in front of me. I expected an elbow in my ribs, but she restrained herself as we waited.

The dragon’s forked tongue flicked over the box, then slid back into its mouth. The big jaws closed. And then its eyes.

The dragon slumped to the street.

“Daniel!” We had to roll him over. Fast. I had no idea how long the sleeping crystals would keep it out—or if it would fight us while it slept.

Daniel had no trouble staying behind us as we slowly approached the dragon. Its scales rose and fell softly, shallowly, as its breath permeated the air. “Yuck.” Daniel coughed.

“Hold this.” I handed the sword to Rachel—mostly to keep her from getting too close. I crouched down, my hands under one of its thick, scaly shoulders, and Daniel took a leg. We lifted—or tried to. The dragon didn’t move.

“Okay.” My mouth was dry as sandstone. “One, two, three, lift!” We managed to shift the big body a little, and I got one hand further underneath. “One, two, three, lift!”

Two more tries, and we managed to flip the dragon over. It slid onto its back, its legs dangling limp, breathing a little faster now. Did one of its eyes flicker?

I still had my flashlight. Running it over its hard armored scales, I looked for the soft spot Desmond Hacker had told us to look for. Did he even know what he was talking about? How many actual dragons had he killed, anyway? I should have asked for references.

The dragon groaned.

Wait a minute. Right in the center of its stomach, a bare patch of skin. Gray and slick. No scales, just dragon flesh. “Sword!” I reached out my hand.

Rachel pressed the sword against my sweaty, shaking fingers. “Be careful.”

Too late for that. With the sword in both hands, I leaned over the dragon’s belly. I tested the soft spot once. Making sure I had the right target. Then I tightened my grip. “Get back,” I told Rachel. And Daniel too, but mostly Rachel.

I tensed my shoulders and took a deep breath. “Sorry,” I whispered.

So I drove the sword down as hard and deep as I could into Ramathor’s body.

The sword’s curve made the strike a little tricky, but I pushed it in almost up to the handle. A sharp gasp burst from the dragon’s mouth. I tried to pull the sword out, but it wouldn’t budge. I scrambled back, leaving the sword impaled in Ramathor’s stomach. Sorry, Dad.

Its eyes flared, burning with the fire of a supernova. The dragon’s jaws opened wide, displaying its teeth one more time for a ferocious roar as it tried to roll over. One of its legs hit me, and I stumbled to the ground hard and crawled desperately out of reach. Rachel grabbed my arm and pulled me up.        

The roar faded into a guttural groan. Its head rose, as if looking for the human who’d dared to strike it. Then its eyes closed and the head dropped down. One final gasp, and then its whole body sagged, resting on the pavement, motionless, not breathing.

A stream of black blood trickled from the wound in its stomach.

Rachel held onto my arm. “Wow.”

“It’s gone.” Daniel turned away. “Damn it. I should have—it was so old . . .”

I wondered what the city would say when the garbage collectors found an ancient dragon on their route. Maybe it would dissolve into dust before morning, like vampires on TV. Not my problem.

Rachel rubbed my hands. They were still shaking. “Are you all right?”

“I th-th-think s-s-so.” I was trembling too hard to speak.

            “Jerk.” She punched my shoulder. “Do you have to act so brave?”

            I lifted a shoulder. “I just l-like to show off in front of my g-girlfriend.”

            “Girlfriend? Where did you get an idea like that? Come on.” She walked toward the dragon. “Let’s get your sword back.”

We checked in with Cory, and then we went back to Leo’s house. Marie rushed around, serving tea, while we waited for Daniel to return in his van with the gold he’d stolen.

            Leo was angry. “You killed it. You killed it!” He pounded a fist on his wheelchair. “Who’s going to protect my gold now?”

            “Something that isn’t likely to go on a killing spree if it disappears again.” Leo was a client, but I was too tired and shaken to argue. “Maybe invest in an actual security system? I can recommend a few good companies . . . ”

            “I’d say he did pretty good.” Rachel patted my shoulder. “He did get your gold back in one day.”

            Leo sighed. “That’s something, I guess. But still . . .” He closed his eyes. “Killed it. Ramathor . . .”

            “Are you his girlfriend?” Marie set a plate of cookies on the small table in front of the couch. “He seems like a good boyfriend.”

            “Associate detective.” Rachel picked up a cookie. “And yeah, I’m kind of—wow, this is really good! Can I get a dozen to go? Did you make them yourself?”

            The doorbell rang. Daniel, carrying a big heavy locker in his arms. “Here it is. Hi, Marie. Hello, Leo—oh.” Leo was sound asleep.

            I helped him carry it downstairs and pack the gold back into the safe. He slammed the door hard enough to make an echo across the basement.

            “Okay.” Daniel looked around. “I brought the gold back. Now I have to fix the wall. It’s going to be complicated.”

            I looked at the hole. “You can do it. You’re an architect.”

            “But I got Livvy killed.” He hung his head down. “And Ramathor too.” Daniel groaned. “What do I do?”

Yeah. He was going to have to deal with that, and I couldn’t help him. “Get some counseling. Maybe talk to your brother some more. Go back to work and do what you can.”

            “I will, but . . .” Daniel looked at the safe. “It’s done. I can’t change it. Goddamn it!”

            He started to cry. I stood there, uncertainty. I didn’t want to hug him—he was right, he had gotten Livvy killed—but I couldn’t  just walk away.

            Then Marie shouted down the steps. “Daniel! Come up here! Now!”

The paramedics were too late. Marie thanked them as they carried Leo’s body out the door and down the steps outside.

            Marie Jarvis sat looking at her husband’s empty wheelchair. Daniel stood behind her, his face gray. Haunted. I didn’t know what he and Leo had said to each other on the phone—when he’d called to say he was bringing the gold back—but he’d probably wanted to have more of a talk. A chance to patch things up. That chance was gone now.

            I leaned forward on the couch. “Ma’am, is there anything we can do for you?”

            “No, thank you.” She shook her head, not looking at us. Then she stood up. “Let me wrap some cookies to take.”

            “Oh, that’s okay—” But Rachel clamped a hand on my arm. I shut up. Probably Marie had to do something. Anything. If only for a moment.

            Daniel gazed out the window at the house next door. “Should I stay?”

            Did he mean in the living room, or in the house his brother had bought him? I didn’t know, and honestly at that point I didn’t care. I was tired and irritable. I didn’t want to tell Daniel that this was all his fault. Maybe Leo would have had his heart attack today no matter what happened. But Livvy would still be alive.

            But I was no one to judge. “Ask Marie.” At least she had the gold. She could take care of herself now.

            She came from the kitchen, a bag in her hands and a weak smile on her face. “Here. I’m glad you like them.”

            Rachel stood up. “Thank you.”

            “We’ll go.” I left a card on the table. “If there’s anything you need . . .”

            “Just send me your bill.” She shrugged. “I think I can pay it.”

            “Marie . . .” Daniel crossed his arms, uncomfortable. “I’m—I’m not sure what to say—”

            “You should just go home now, Daniel.” She sat delicately in her chair, her eyes shrouded. “Come back tomorrow.”

            He put a hand on her shoulder. Only for a moment. “All right.”

           

Down in the car, Rachel squeezed my hand. “You did good.”

            “I guess. Hey, I killed a dragon. Any of your other boyfriends do that?”

            “They were all assholes.” She kissed my cheek. “You okay?”

            “Yeah.” I started the Honda. “I don’t really want to do that invoice, but I suppose I should.”

            “I get the feeling she’d be insulted.”

            “And my cable bill isn’t going to pay itself.” I checked my mirrors. “I wonder what they’ll do with the body.”

A light rain fell on the streets. In one dark alley, a fallen dragon stirred.

            Slowly, painfully, Ramathor rolled over. Its eyelids flicked up and down. It licked the pavement and sniffed the damp air, searching for traces of its gold.

The dragon shook one leg, then another, making sure they all moved with the same strength and power as before. It reared up, balancing on its back legs, and uttered a thunderous roar at the sky.

Then it slumped down, panting, and slouched toward the storm drain. The gold was gone, but he was still alive.

Ramathor was tired. He would sleep. Maybe for a day, maybe a hundred years.

It takes more than one sword to slay a dragon.

### 

Rain Killer

A serial killer reappears from Tom Jurgen's past, forcing him to confront the nightmare that first brought him into contact with the supernatural world.

Rain Killer, Pt. One

So I have the dream every few months, usually when it’s raining:

            I’m standing in an alley, cold rain drizzling over my scalp and shoulders.

            An eight-year-old boy lies silent and motionless in a black puddle.

            He’s wearing Pink Panther pajamas, ripped and soaked and stained with blood. His fingers and toes are curled up tight, like he’s sleeping. But he’s not breathing. He hasn’t in a long time.

            I know I should grab my camera and take pictures. But I can’t do it. He’s just a little boy. I wipe my eyes against the rain and lean against the house behind me. I’ll have to report on this. Write a story for my newspaper. What do I say? How can I—

Then a shadow rears up at the corner of the alley.

It’s tall and black. I can’t see its eyes or its face, but its body is huge, monstrous, misshapen, like a beast out of H.P Lovecraft. It rocks back and forth as the rain pours down.

            I want to take a picture. Or run. But my hands and legs are paralyzed with fear. I can’t even blink. Oh god, oh god—what is that?

            Suddenly the creature leaps up into the air. It looks like it’s wearing a long black coat, its tails whipping around in the wind. Wings?

The creature—whatever it is—spins around above the house and looks down at me, like a circling vulture looking for prey. Is it coming for me now? What do I do? How can I . . .
Then it disappears up into the dark clouds over the house.

            And now I’m surrounded by cops yelling at me.

            I point. “He’s up there! He flew away! Get him!”

            The cops look at me as if I’m crazy.

            I stare down at the little boy. His mother is right behind me, screaming his name, and the cops have to hold her back.

            I look up at the black sky. Rain stings my eyes.

            Then I wake up.

* * *

I sat at my dining room table on a rainy Tuesday morning in late November, drinking coffee and running background checks on my laptop with 1980s classic rock on the radio for background noise. Yeah, I grew up on Talking Heads, U2, and Journey. I may be a private eye, but I never claimed to be cool.

My client had six candidates for a bookkeeping job, and I had to make sure none of them had a prison record for embezzlement, or any outstanding parking tickets, or anything in between. I ran the usual checks, hoping for some classic David Bowie.

The 10:00 newsbreak reported on two shootings on the south side, along with mortal combat between City Hall and the Chicago Teacher’s Union and schoolyard insults from the Illinois governor and the speaker of the house. In other words, a typical day in in the city of Chicago. My kind of town.

Rain from last night’s thunderstorm was still tying up traffic on the inbound Kennedy Expressway, and an accident on the Dan Ryan was keeping cars to a crawl. The rain was likely to fade away in the morning but come back in the late afternoon. Unusual lightning overnight had struck a church in Old Town, a 300-year-old tree in a cemetery on the west side, and the Ferris wheel on Navy Pier.

My cellphone buzzed. Hoping for Rachel, or a more interesting client, I hit “save” on my laptop and looked at the screen. Uh-oh.

Detective Elena Dudovich, Chicago PD.

Dudovich and I have run into each other more often than either of us would like, because some of my cases have an unfortunate tendency to involve, well—vampires, monsters, demons, and other entities that most people, especially cops, don’t like to think about.  But I have to, because I’ve seen them. And I used to insist on talking about them.

So Dudovich is on my speed dial. I call her from time to time. Sometimes she actually picks up. She seems to have a reluctant respect for me—something she’d never admit to my face. She even steers clients my way once in a while. We aren’t exactly friends, or even allies, but we sort of understand each other.

But I’m usually in trouble when she calls me.

            I took a deep breath and pressed the “Answer” button. “Good morning, detective! What can I do for you today? Am I in trouble?”

            “Not yet, but it’s only ten o'clock.” Dudovich’s voice was raspy, as if she hadn’t slept. “You remember the Rain Killer?”

            Oh hell. My body went stiff. “That was—10 years ago?” When I was still a reporter.

            “Yeah. I need you to pull everything you have on the story and bring it down to Central. You think you do that?”

            “Wait, what?” I did still have files from those days, copied to disks. “What’s going on? Aside from the obvious First Amendment issues—”

            “He’s back.” She lowered her voice. “And if you tell anyone I said this, I will follow you and plant parking tickets on your car until the end of time—but I think maybe you were right.”

            Oh god. “I’ll be right there.”

So here’s the thing:

            My dream? It happened. No one believed me about the dark shape flying into the sky. Not the cops, because they didn’t see it. And not my editors, because they got leaned on by the cops. The superintendent and the mayor got involved.

            The cops and my editors had two problems with my story: One, I was crazy; two, even if I wasn’t crazy, a shadowy black monster who killed children and then flew away would only create panic and false speculation in the city.

And three, I was crazy.

            So I was stupid. I wrote my story, insisting it was accurate, and then I called my editor a coward and an asshole—and okay, maybe I threw a box of chicken-fried rice across the newsroom.

I was supposed to report the facts, wasn’t I? But in the end the main fact was that I was out of a job.

            I picked up a job with another paper. That didn’t last long, mostly because my marriage was falling apart and I refused to stop working on stories my editors didn’t want. I was starting to find weird angles in everything: A throat wound looked like a vampire attack, and bodies dragged into the sewers meant that some kind of monster lived beneath our streets. Sometimes I got evidence, but it was never good enough. So I was arguing all the time, at work and at home. Eventually I got fired again, and the same day I came home to find divorce papers on the kitchen table.

            After a few months I got a job as a legal researcher, but that didn’t work out so well either. The lawyer I worked for was smart and tenacious, but unfortunately her ex-husband was an actual vampire—with issues. And sharp teeth. I managed to stake its heart with a shard of plywood from a damaged bookshelf, and then I quit.

Eventually I managed to finagle a license to be a private detective. Reporters and P.I.s basically do research and ask questions, right? It seemed like a good fit. And I was making a living at it.

            But I never forgot that little boy. His name was Justin Bennett. And I never forgot the creature that had killed him.

The officer at the front desk of CPD’s Central District station on State Street gave my ID a skeptical look, but she picked up her phone. “Detective Dudovich? I’ve got a Tom . . . Yurgen here? He says—yes, ma’am.” She handed my ID back. “Third floor.”

            Dudovich was waiting when I got off the elevator. “You—over here.” She

yanked open a door, and we sat in a conference room. No one-way glass, so I wasn’t being interrogated. Yet.

            “Okay.” Dudovich perched on a chair. “What do you remember about the Rain Killer?”

            That’s what they called him—or it. The killer always returned the bodies in the rain, like a crazed meteorologist.

            “Like it was last night.” I closed my eyes, and I could see the rain pouring down on Justin’s pajamas. “Three kids were kidnapped. It was the same pattern—they were taken from their homes and then found dead, close to their homes, two or three days later, always when it was raining. A kid named Justin Bennett was the third one, I was there when they found him. I was interviewing the parents. They were hoping a newspaper story might spook the killer into making a mistake. Or changing his mind.” I shook my head. “Obviously that didn’t work. There was another one after Justin, a little girl, and then . . . it stopped.”

            “But you saw something.”

            “You’ve got my statement in your files somewhere.” I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I saw something rise up into the sky and then fly away. After all these years, someone’s going to admit that I wasn’t crazy?”

            Dudovich glared at me. “I don’t care about your precious feelings, Jurgen. I told you, it’s happening again. Two days ago. A little girl, same pattern. Karla D’Angelos, age 11. We found her last night. And her father says . . . he saw something fly away.”

            So, yeah, I felt a small twinge of victory. Someone else saw it too. Finally. Maybe now they’ll believe me. That lasted half a second before the horror of the crime sank in.

Oh god. It was happening again.

            The First Amendment was one thing, but kids getting killed? I pushed my disks across the desk. “So what else can I do?”

            Dudovich stared at me. “Are you willing to talk to the parents?”

            What? I’d felt like a media vulture interviewing Justin’s parents ten years ago—even though they’d asked for an interview, desperately hoping they could somehow get through to the kidnapper by talking to a reporter.

            I wasn’t sure I could go through that again. But if it would help catch that monster—“Fine. Can I bring Rachel?”

            Dudovich groaned. “If you can control her.”

            I snorted. “You’ve met Rachel, haven’t you?”

            Dudovich actually smiled. “I can’t even believe you’ve got a girlfriend, Jurgen. Just don’t let her talk to the press. You know what I think of them.”

            Ouch. But I could see her point. “Speaking of which, how isn’t this all over TV and the internet?”

            “It will be. We’re trying to keep the whole ‘flying away’ thing out of it.”

            “So people won’t think you’re crazy?” I couldn’t resist it. “Yeah, that would suck.”

            Her glare could have melted steel. “Are you going to help or make smartass comments?”

            “Fine. I’ll want to look at everything you can show me on the other cases.”

            She shrugged. “Dozens of real detectives have been looking at those files for years.”

            “None of them believed in a killer who could fly away.”

            She stood up. “Some of it’s computerized, but you’ll have to do it here. I don’t want anything leaving the building.”

            “No problem.” I stood up too.

            “I’ll set it up with the parents.” Dudovich sighed. “God, I hate this.”

Kelly and Dean D’Angelos looked exhausted and heartbroken.

            “Can I get you anything? Water, or . . .” Dean had grizzled gray hair and the rough face of a guy who hadn’t shaved in days and might never shave again.

His wife slumped in an armchair in their living room. She managed to look up, her shoulders shaking and her eyes as raw as a zombie. “What—what was your name again?”

            “Tom. Tom Jurgen.” I turned, feeling awkward as hell. “And this is Rachel.”

“Hi.” Rachel stepped forward to shake Dean’s hand. She’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she’s my upstairs neighbor. Yeah, she’s also my girlfriend, at least sometimes, but she helps me on my cases.

She’s also psychic. Sort of. She can pick things up—emotions, lies, paranormal phenomena. I didn’t think the parents were lying—although years as a reporter and P.I. have taught me to be skeptical—but I wanted her to read them as they spoke.     

Also I just wanted someone with me who believed me. 

Dudovich was with us, but she was staying back. Just watching and listening.

Kelly D’Angelos clutched her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

            “I just wanted to say . . .” Rachel sat next to me on the couch. She’s usually pretty calm—except when she’s mad at me—but right now her dark hazelnut eyes were trembling. “I . . . I know it’s a cliché, but I’m so sorry for, you know . . . your loss.”

            “Everybody says that.” Kelly gave a bitter laugh. “Everybody. Goddamn it . . .”

            “Kell.” Dean squeezed her arm. “They’re trying to help.”

            “I know, I know!” Her laughter turned to low sob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”

            Dean looked at us as his wife wept quietly. “You’re—detectives?”

            “Private detective.” I glanced back at Dudovich, who nodded. “And Rachel is my associate. Thank you for meeting with us.”

            He crossed his arms. “What can we do for you?”

            “I used to be a reporter. I covered the, uh, original crimes 10 years ago.” How to ask this? I’d been trying to phrase the question in my mind for the last half hour. “I only want to ask about what you saw. Flying away.”

            “What?” Dean shook his head. “They all think I’m crazy.”

            I knew the feeling. “I saw the same thing. Ten years ago.”

            Dean glanced at his wife. “What did you see?”

            I hesitated. “Maybe you’d better tell me first.” I didn’t want my story to influence his.

            He took a gulp of water. “We were here—right here. Waiting for a call. There was a cop there.” He shot a glance at Dudovich. “He was very nice, ma’am. And some in a car outside. I was falling asleep on the couch, and then there was this sound—like something falling out back. So I ran, and the cop came with me. And . . .”

            Dean’s voice cracked. “Karla was—right there. At the bottom on the steps. I sort of froze, and then there was this thing . . . this thing. It turned around and looked at me, and then it just—I don’t know—flew up into the air. And it was gone. And Karla was—oh, god . . .”

            He grabbed a tissue while Kelly held onto his arm, weeping softly. I waited for Dean to blow his nose and take a gulp of water. “I’m sorry, but could I ask a few more questions?”

            He blinked at me. “Yeah.”

            “I only saw a shadow. You said it looked at you?”

            Dean nodded, his neck wobbling. “I didn’t see a face. It backed away, and then it was gone.”

            “Did it just jump up? Or climb something?”

            “It, uh—I guess it jumped, and caught the other house for a moment. And then it, you know, flew away.” He shrugged. “Then the police were out there. I couldn’t—couldn’t think . . .”

            “I was right behind him.” Kelly’s voice choked. “We both got soaked. But we didn’t feel anything. Just . . . just . . .”

She shuddered. “In the sky.  Against the clouds. Sort of floating. It turned around and then—there was this big red thing all around its chest. Like a snake. Then it was gone. All I cared about was Karla. You know?”

            “Of course.” Big red snake? That was different. The thing I’d seen had been black all over.

I looked at Rachel. She nodded. “Did you see the red mark, Mr. D’Angelos?”

“No.” He gulped some water. “Maybe. It was so dark. For a moment I couldn’t see anything. But I saw it fly up. I swear I saw it! They didn’t believe me!” He jabbed a finger at Dudovich. “Your people didn’t follow it! No one believed me!”

Dudovich stayed quiet. I almost felt sorry for her. Cops have a hard job, and she was a good one. Tough, but honest. She didn’t like me, but she’d always been straight with me.

            I leaned forward. “Detective Dudovich doesn’t believe me most of the time. That’s how I know she’s good at her job. But she asked me to come here. You can trust that she wants this thing as much as you do.” Or me.

            Dean’s head drooped. “Sorry. I’m just . . . I know you’re all doing the best you can, but Karla is dead. My daughter.”

            Rachel clutched my hand. Red snake, her lips said silently. I nodded.

            Dudovich caught it. She doesn’t miss much. But she didn’t say anything.

            I stood up. “I’m very sorry to upset you. And for—everything.”

            “I just want my little girl back.” Dean was sobbing, and Kelly held his shoulders. “Please—can’t someone bring her back?”

           

“So what’s with the red snake?”

            We were back in my Honda. Rachel looked out the window at the house. Dudovich was in her own vehicle. The sky overhead was gray.           

She shrugged. “I felt something when she mentioned it. Nothing I can describe. She’s telling the truth, I’m positive. But it made a big impact on her.”

            I nodded. “Me too.”

“You didn’t see it? That time?” I’d told Rachel about that night. More than once.

            “It was dark, and I only caught a glimpse.” I shook my head, helpless and frustrated. Should I have seen it? Ten years ago? Did I miss something that could have stopped the Rain Killer in its tracks?

            Maybe only women could see it. Or maybe it had changed over the years. Or maybe I was just clutching to some desperate hope that I could somehow turn things around and make everything right.

            I’d still be a reporter. I’d still be married. I’d never meet Rachel.

            But the kids would still be alive.

            I started the car. “I’ll drop you off. I need to go back downtown and go through the police reports. It might take a while.”

            Sometimes Rachel punches my arm. Now she squeezed it softly. “Are you all right?”

            “I’m . . .” Yeah, I was fine. Super. Never better. But Rachel wouldn’t need any psychic powers to know I was lying. “I just have to work on this. I’ll be okay.”

            “Right.” She fastened her seatbelt. “I’m going to look into this red snake thing. I’ll call you.”

            I pulled away from the curb. Dudovich flashed her lights at me—even though it was the middle of the afternoon. “I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Rain Killer, Pt. Two

Back at the police station Dudovich had an IT tech set me up with a computer in a second-floor room crowded with cops. Clouds hung down in the sky outside the windows. The IT tech, Dorrie, was a young Latina who looked like she could construct a working computer with one hand using a handful with components from Walgreens.

            “Use this password.” She scribbled on a Post-It note. “Go to the J drive, and click on this file.” Another scribble. “Use the same password. That’ll get you to the files you want. You click on anything else, the computer freezes, an alarm goes off, and you get shot.” She smirked. “Maybe.”

            I was officially scared. “Thanks. What about the paper files?”

            “I’m Tech Girl. You have to ask someone else about the Dead Sea Scrolls.” She walked away.

            So I logged on, following her instructions with nervous glances at the detectives around me. I have a lot of respect for cops—some of them are assholes, and worse, but most, like Elena Dudovich, just want to help people and go home at night. But most cops don’t like reporters—or private detectives.

            I can understand why. We ask questions. Sometimes we’re assholes. And we have to deal with the police to do our jobs, but cops don’t always think they should have to answer our questions—or take us seriously. And reporters and P.I.s don’t usually trust them to tell us the truth. It makes trust and cooperation difficult.

            Still, all the cops around the room were working on the Rain Killer case too—probably looking at some of the same files I wanted to see. They might think I was crazy, and thought some of them were jerks, but we all had the same goal.

            So I dived into the electronic records. I’d show them that a good P.I. could do their jobs better and faster, and in style.

            Two hours later my brain felt fried. I staggered to the coffee machine. Empty. I picked up a paper cup, hoping to get the water from the sink hot enough to brew some lukewarm tea, when a tall African-American detective walked over and picked up the carafe. “Give me a few minutes. My name’s Hawkins.”

            “Tom Jurgen. Thanks.”

            He peered at me. “Hey, you were with that weird dog case a couple months ago, right?”

            I blinked and then recognized him. I wasn’t sure what to say. The case had involved dogs from another dimension, and at least two people had died. I’d lied my way out of it, but I was pretty sure the cops didn’t believe me. They just didn’t have any reason to lock me up.

            “Yeah.” I nodded. “Thanks for your help that night.”

            “I’ve seen some crazy stuff too.” He shrugged. “Coffee’s coming.”

            I went back to my computer. I’d read enough police reports to get through the euphemisms, abbreviations, and jargon. Nothing in the files surprised me or changed what I remembered about the Rain Killer. He (or she, or it) grabbed children without being seen, and then delivered their bodies close their house one or two days later—always during a rainstorm. I found my own statement, with the notation, “Witness unreliable.”

But I also discovered two similar reports, one from a parent and another from a homeless woman. Both mentioned a shadowy figure leaping up into the air. And the homeless woman had seen the red snake. She’d been around when the second victim was found, a five-year-old kid named Antwan Purvis, behind a family-owned restaurant on the west side.

            Her statement was also marked, “Witness unreliable.”

            So then I went to the medical reports. They were mostly beyond my comprehension, but I recognized a few terms. Mostly relating to blood loss.

            The first two children had been almost drained of blood. Justin had lost blood too, but not nearly as much. The fact that no blood had been found near their bodies meant that they’d all been taken elsewhere—for whatever the killer did with them.

            A vampire? I could imagine how Dudovich would respond to that theory.

            I picked up my phone to call Rachel. Then a tall African-American man in a police commander’s uniform stalked into the room. “Heads up!”

            Everyone stopped. I’d seen him in the newspapers. His name was Daniel Hughes. He had a trim mustache and broad shoulders, and a reputation as a tough cop. But a fair one.  

Hughes made sure all eyes were watching him. “It looks like there’s been an abduction.”

            Someone cursed. Someone else slammed a fist on a desk.

            “A little boy. Nathan Black. We don’t know yet if it’s the Rain Killer again. But the weather’s getting worse.” He glanced out the window. A light rain pelted the glass. “Do whatever you have to do. I want to get this bastard.”

            About half of the detective followed him from the room. The rest went back to their phones and computers with new, grim determination.

           

I looked for Dudovich, and eventually found her at a desk in the corner, talking on the phone. She glared at me, kept talking, and then finally slammed the phone down. “You got anything?”

            “A theory. Half a theory. Okay, not even a theory, just an idea. And you won’t like it.”

            She scowled. “I don’t have time for long exposition. Talk.”

            “Blood. The victims were drained in diminishing amounts. The witness to the second victim saw the same red mark—”

            “She was homeless drunk.”

            “Actually, she was just getting out of rehab and selling newspapers. It’s in her statement. My point is . . .” I knew how this sounded. “I think maybe this thing was feeding. It got enough blood and then it quit.” After Justin. The last little girl had lost a small amount of blood—as if the killer finally got full.

            “And then what happened? Why is he back now?” Dudovich grabbed her jacket. “I need more than another vampire story, Jurgen.”

            “You think I don’t know that?” I tried to keep my voice low. “You called me, remember? I’m still working on this, and I’ll give you everything I can. Whether you believe it or not—”

            “Christ, Jurgen.” She lowered her head. “I’ll take anything I can get right now.” She checked the handgun at her hip. “I have to get out there right now. Just don’t tell anyone else about this, and don’t screw this up, all right?”

            I sighed. “Yeah.”

I called Rachel from a sandwich shop. “So I had a thought.”

            “First time for—” She giggled. “Okay, that’s too easy. And I’m on a caffeine high. Hit me, lover.”

            Lover? How much coffee had Rachel been drinking? I shifted my mind back to other important topics. “Blood. Ten years ago, the creature drank lots from its early victims and less from the later . . . the later ones.” I hated referring to the dead kids as “victims,” but it was the only way I could get through this. “So maybe the red snake thing shows up when it’s really hungry, and fades as it’s feeding.”

            “Huh.” I heard Rachel’s fingers on the computer. “Well, time to Google ‘monsters that eat blood.’”

            It wasn’t much, but it was something the cops probably run down. “And I’ve got to find a homeless woman.”

The only other person to see the red mark was a woman named Lillian Fraser. Her statement mentioned a homeless shelter she sometimes stayed at. I called and talked to a volunteer.

            And then I got lucky. “Yeah. She’s here.”

            I felt stunned. As if I’d won the lottery—or someone was playing an unfunny practical joke. “She’s still staying there?”

            “No, she’s a volunteer. Like me. She’s been here for three or four years.”

            “Is she there now?”

            “She’ll be here in a few hours.”

            I made sure of the address, then hung up.

The Archway Center was a shelter for homeless women, and the short Latina woman at the front desk gave me a skeptical look through her steel-rimmed glasses.

            Being a man was one strike. Being a private detective was the second. What if an abusive boyfriend had hired me to track his victim down? I didn’t blame Ms. Martinez for her hostility. “I can meet her anywhere she wants, or just talk to her on the phone. Wherever everyone’s comfortable.” I didn’t mention the Rain Killer, figuring that might spook her even more. “It’s important.”

            She took my card with a frown. “I’ll see if she’s even here.”

            Ten minutes later she returned. “This is Lillian. Lillian, this is Tom Jurgen. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

            Lillian Fraser was in her 50s. Gray hair, slightly plump, with a hard look in her dark blue eyes. “What’s this all about?”

            I handed her my card. “I’m a private detective. It’s about what you saw in an alley 10 years ago. A creature flying away from the body of a child.”

            Lillian Fraser flinched. “No one believed me. I was drunk.”

            “I saw the same thing. No one believed me either, and I wasn’t drunk.”

            She looked at my card again. Then she sighed. “It’s okay, Rina. I’ll talk to him.”

            Ms. Martinez glared like she’d made a huge mistake letting me in. “Fine. Use my office. Remember, intake starts in half an hour.”

            The office was small and cramped. Lillian sat behind the desk, next to a computer that looked 20 years old. She hunched over, her body shaking.

“He—he’s back, isn’t he?” Her voice trembled. “It was on the news.”   

“It might be.”

            She shook her head. “I don’t know how much I can tell you. I don’t remember much about that night.”

            Maybe I could ease her into it. “Tell me what you did before it happened.”

            “Well . . .” Lillian closed her eyes. “I was selling newspapers, but I got fired a few days before for being drunk. Rehab—it didn’t take, not that time.” She sighed, embarrassed. 

“I managed enough money for a bottle of vodka. I drank most of it in the park before it closed and they kicked me out. I didn’t—I hadn’t had anything to eat all day. I guess that made me even drunker.” She rubbed her eyes. “So I carried my bottle and I was going to search through the dumpster behind a restaurant. They weren’t locked yet. It was raining, and I was cold, so I kept drinking. I guess I fell asleep.”

            She rubbed her eyes. “I woke up, and there was something moving at the end of the alley. I was starting to feel sick, and I tried to get up, and then there was this big—thing in front of me.”

            “What did it look like?”

            “He was big, in black clothes.” She grabbed for a tissue from a box on the desk. “I couldn’t see his face, he had some kind of a hood. And below his waist, he looked like a snake. Or a dragon. It almost looked like he had wings down there.”

            I waited as she cried. Without wanting to lead her, I asked, “Anything else?”

            “His chest was red. Glowing, kind of . . . pulsing, you know? Like I could see his heart. He just stood there. I don’t know if he was looking at me, or if he even saw me. Then he just—flew up into the air. And then I threw up.” Her face turned red, ashamed. “Then there were cops all over. I told them what I saw, but they just . . .” She shrugged. “I was drunk and dirty, and they didn’t believe me. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.”

            Witness unreliable. I knew the feeling. “So what happened after that?”

             “I was in the hospital for a while.” She tossed her tissue into a wastebasket. “Then I came back here, because I was here before, but I couldn’t hack it that time.” She looked around the room. “I went back on the streets, and then—I don’t know. I went in the hospital again, and then I came back here—again—and they let me in. And they helped me get back into rehab, and after that . . .”

            Lillian groaned. “I don’t know how I did it. It’s not like I found God or anything. I hated rehab. But I just couldn’t do it anymore. Somehow I got through that, and they helped me get a job. And somehow . . .”

            More tissues. Lillian was sobbing now. “I’m clean. For eight years. But I can’t stop thinking about him.”

            Damn it—what could I say? “I saw it too.” I leaned forward. “I believe you.”

            “What difference does it make?” Her voice was a screech. “It was 10 years ago! What was I supposed to do?”

            The door burst open. Ms. Martinez jabbed her finger at me like a dagger. “Get out! You’re upsetting everyone.”

            “Okay, okay!” I stood up. “Lillian, I’m very sorry for bothering you—”

            “I’m okay now.” Lillian Fraser shook her head, gasping for breath. “I’m . . . it’s just so hard, every day . . .”

            Ms. Martinez marched me through the waiting room. A young woman at the front desk was talking to a woman holding a baby. Other women waited—young, old, all races. Some hopeful, some desperate. They stared at me, some nervous, others curious. And others angry.

            A box for donations hung on the wall beside the front door. I stuffed most of the cash in my wallet inside before leaving.