Dragon's Gold, Pt. Two

Two or three hours to kill. I debated going back home, but I’d just have to make my way back downtown in rush hour traffic. So I moved the Honda to a parking garage tried to find a signal for my laptop.

            A search for Daniel Jarvis turned up nothing. But a new search for Livvy— Olivia Heinrich. That turned up some unwelcome news.

            She was dead.

            I zeroed in on the story. Olivia Heinrich, 26, had been walking home from her car to her apartment on the west side early in the morning when something had attacked her. Maybe a dog, or a coyote—sometimes they wandered into the city. Whatever. She’d been mauled to death, dying from blood loss and severe trauma on the sidewalk outside her apartment building.

Just this morning. So maybe nobody at the company knew.

            I had a CPD detective on speed dial. She wouldn’t be happy to hear from me, but . . .

            “Dudovich. What the hell, Jurgen? I’ve got enough to deal with without another horror story. Homicides are up, in case you haven’t heard.”

            “President Trump will take care of that in a week, remember? And then you’ll be out of a job. So in the meantime, what can you tell me about the Olivia Heinrich murder?”

            Elena Dudovich was a cop. A good one, honest and tough. She sort of hated me, because I told her stories she couldn’t always ignore, and then she was stuck twisting them into reports her superiors would accept. Vampires? Serial killers with a taste for blood. Demons? People gone crazy. Monsters terrorizing a strip joint? Hallucinations caused by bad booze.

            But she’d a few things she couldn’t just write off. So sometimes she listened to me. “I swear to God, Jurgen, if this is another imaginary monster . . . wait, Heinrich? That one isn’t even classified as a homicide. Just an unexplained death. What the hell is this?”

            “Just tell me what killed her. Or can you do that without getting permission from City Hall?”

            “Screw you. I can’t send you the pictures, but they ain’t pretty. Have you had lunch yet? I haven’t and it’s almost five o’clock. It was last night, around 12:30 or 1:00. She was—I don’t know. The first officer who found her said she looked like a crocodile attacked her. Of course, he’s from Florida. There aren’t any crocodiles in the sewers here.” She paused. “Are there?”

            “It’s a dragon.” Dudovich wouldn’t believe me, but I had to tell her. “There’s a dragon loose in the city. I don’t know where it’s hiding, but he’s hunting stolen gold. I’ll try to take care of it, but you should tell everybody—”

            “What the hell?” It should have been a shout, but Dudovich kept her voice close to a whisper. “Every time I think you can’t surprise me with some new bullshit, you manage to raise it to a new level of insanity. What the hell would I tell anyone? Look out for a dinosaur coming out of every alley? You really think I can put this out there?”

            I rubbed my eyes. “No. Of course not. I just thought I should warn somebody. I don’t know what’s going to stop this thing—shotguns, maybe hand grenades. I’ve got Rachel looking into it—”

            “Good, because I trust her a lot more than you. Maybe it’s a girl thing.” Dudovich groaned softly. “Damn it. Hughes is coming over. Got to go. Call me, or—on the other hand, don’t call me. All right?” She hung up.

            Great. I looked at my phone, thought about calling Rachel just to hear her voice, even if she yelled at me, and decided what I really needed was a beer.

            So I headed to Marco’s. Cory might not be there for an hour, or even longer, but I could nurse a beer for that long. The w-fi was good. I read everything I could find on the internet about dragons.

            Smaug, from The Hobbit. Pete’s Dragon, from the Disney cartoon. The Jabberwock. The dragons of Pern. Godzilla. The Komodo dragons. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal, the dragons hatched by Daenerys Targaryen in Game of Thrones. Okay, I admit I checked out a few hot pictures of Emilia Clarke on that one. I’m a guy.

            None of this was helping me find Daniel Jarvis, Leo’s gold, or Ramathor. I was just killing time until—

            “You.” Cory’s face was pale. She dropped a small backpack on the floor and slid into a chair. “Livvy is dead.”

            “I just found out.” I waved for a waiter.

            “Is it about Dan? He didn’t . . .” She ordered a vodka with orange juice. “He wouldn’t do something like that.”

            “He didn’t kill her.” I didn’t want to start talking about dragons just now. “What did they tell you?”

            “It was on the internet. Sheila called a meeting, then she sent everyone home. I guess a cop called her.” Cory blinked, looking out the window. “She said they might want to talk to all of us.”

            “They usually do.” I finished my beer and ordered another when the vodka came. “So what can you tell me about Dan? He and Livvy were dating?”

            Cory giggled. Then she gulped her vodka. “Sorry. I just—I shouldn’t laugh. I like Livvy. She’s funny and smart, and we work together a lot. But . . . well, she wasn’t the only one.”

            “Dan and . . . other women?”

            “Well, hey, he wasn’t married or anything.” She twirled a strand of blond hair around a finger. “It wasn’t anything serious. He was a lot more open about Livvy, and that was okay. But he still wanted to hook up. And that was okay, too.” She turned her eyes on me, daring me to judge her.

            My beer came, and Cory immediately ordered another screwdriver.

            “An expense account is a wonderful thing.” I reminded myself to get a receipt. “So I don’t care who was having sex in your office. I’m just trying to track down Dan Jarvis. When was the last time you saw him, or talked to him?”

            “Last week. Thursday. My place.” She sat back with a sigh. “Long night. When he was getting up to go, he gave me this.”

            Cory unzipped a pocket in her backpack. “This. He said it was a present.”

            She dropped a gold Krugerrand on the table between our drinks.

            Oh god. I looked out the window, in case the dragon was coming up through the sidewalk. “Do you know—could Dan have given one of these to Livvy?”

            Her laugh was bitter. “I think he was dropping them in front of homeless people. He said he had to get rid of them. He was going out of town to trade them in for cash. I don’t know how much he had, or how he was going to get them out of the country, but—” Then she saw the terror in my eyes. “What?”

            I downed half my beer and reached out for the coin. “You have to give this to me. It could be dangerous. It might be . . .” Dangerous for who? “It could be why Livvy was killed.”

            “Okay!” Cory leaned back, hands high. Her chair knocked against a couple of guys drinking beers behind her. “Sorry! Uh, yeah, take the thing.” She sipped her vodka. “Wait a minute. That’s worth a lot of money, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you give me a receipt or something for it?”

            I was worried about dragons. She was thinking about money. But she had a legitimate point. “Honestly, I probably don’t have enough money in my checking account to reimburse you. You’d have to sue me, and I might have to sue my client, and it would be a whole mess. But here . . .” I kept a receipt book in the pocket of my jacket. “Let me give you this—”

            “Oh, forget it.” Cory finished her drink. “I just thought—I don’t know. I hope Dan’s all right.”

            She stood up, somewhat unsteady on her legs. “I’m going home. Thanks for the drinks.”

            “Thanks for your help.” I slipped the gold coin into my back pocket and signaled for the waiter.

Rachel was sitting at the dining room table back at my apartment, peering at her laptop. “I found a dragon hunter.”

            “So that’s a thing?”” I dropped my briefcase on the sofa. “Do we have any Doritos?”

            “What am I, your waitress?” She stood up and stretched. Rachel has red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she was wearing jeans and a “Chicago Cubs win the World Series” T-shirt. “I could use a beer, I guess.”

            “Just water.” I pulled out a chair and sat, trying to think. Rachel brought out a bag of chips, a Heineken, and a bottle of water for me. “So what do we know about dragons?” I crossed my arms, mostly to keep them from shaking with fear. “Aside from the obvious.”

            Rachel stretched her arms. “They were probably cross-bred from the last of the dinosaurs, by sorcerers trying to protect their gold. That’s one legend. Or explorers in African saw huge crocodiles and other animals and their stories got exaggerated over time. Or they existed, but most of them died out thousands of years ago, except a few went into hibernation. The Nazis might have woken some up to protect the gold they looted during World War II. Or they started out in Asia, made their way to Europe but couldn’t handle the climate, so they—”

            I held up a hand. “All right. Sorry I asked. What about this dragon hunter?”

            “He’s in California. We can Skype with him, but he’s going to charge you $100 for a consultation, and a crap-ton more if you actually want him to come out here.” She opened her laptop and her cell phone. “There’s a woman in Wisconsin, and she only charges $50 for a phone call. I’m not sure if she does house calls.”

            “Let me call my client.” I hit the number on my phone.

            “Leo’s asleep.” Marie Jarvis’ voice was a quiet whisper.

            “Okay.” I sighed. “I think the dragon has already killed one person—Daniel’s girlfriend. He gave her one of the krugerrands. He may be trying to convert them into cash. What kind of box were they stored in?”

            “A big—a metal container. With handles. It was heavy. I couldn’t lift it. I tried once.” She gasped. “Wait—Ramathor killed someone?”

            “Yeah.” Calling the dragon by a name sounded—weird. “It was a woman Daniel was dating at work.” I gulped some water.

            “Oh my god.” Marie swallowed. I’m so—I’m so sorry. I can’t . . . Leo said he slept all the time. I didn’t even think . . . Oh my god.”

            I waited. But I couldn’t wait for long. “I’m sorry, I have to ask a question.”

            “Go—go ahead.” She blew her nose.

            “Right now I’m a little more concerned with finding the dragon and, uh, dealing with it before it kills anyone else? Than I am with recovering your husband’s gold.”

            “Of course.” She was whispering again.

            “How would Daniel have gotten the gold out without waking it? I mean, if it’s job was to guard the gold . . .”

            “Leo has—some kind of a sleeping potion. So he could go down and take some out, and put more in, safe and sound. Of course, he doesn’t go down there much anymore. And I don’t go down at all.”

            I understood. “That’s good to know. I may need some of that.”

            “I’ll . . .” She hesitated. “I’ll have to talk to Leo about that.”

            “I’ll be in touch.”

            “Wait! What about Daniel?”

            Now I hesitated. “I don’t know. If he’s got the gold . . .”

            “You—oh god. You have to find him before the dragon does.” Her voice was urgent. “He’s the only family Leo has left.”

            I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “I’ll do my best.”

            We hung up. I looked at Rachel. “Set it up with the California guy.”

So a half hour later we were on Skype with Desmond Hacker, dragon hunter.

            I expected a big man with in a leather vest with a beard and maybe a necklace of dragon teeth. Instead I saw a pudgy white guy in a black T-shirt. “So you’ve got a dragon?” He smiled. “What species is it?”

            Species I didn’t have a field guide to dragons. “His name’s Ramathor. Six legs, about fifteen feet long. No wings. No idea how old it is, but it was brought here from Eastern Europe before World War Two. It’s been guarding my client’s collection of gold for years, and now it’s out because the gold was stolen. So how do I find? And what do I do about it?”

            “Huh.” Hacker tapped some keys on his laptop, and a small drawing came up in a corner of the screen. “Is this what it looks like?”

            I didn’t bother magnifying the image. “I haven’t actually seen it. I know it’s killed at least one person. What do I do?”

            He folded his arms, as if in deep thought. “It’s probably hiding in the sewers or the storm drains. You need to lure it out somehow.”

            Gee, thanks. “I have a piece of the gold it’s looking for. How do I—”

            “What?” Rachel slugged my arm. “Where?”

            “Ow! I left it outside.” I’d put it inside a plastic bag and shoved it into the dirt next a fire hydrant down the street, hoping that dog pee would keep both the dragon and humans from finding it right away. And then I cleaned my hands with five disinfectant wipes from my car before coming back to the building.

            Hacker leaned forward to peer at Rachel. “Hi there. Who is that?”

            “I’m Rachel. Tom’s worst nightmare.” She smiled. “And maybe yours. How much is this consultation costing again?”

            “Wait a minute.” I waved a hand before everything spiraled out of control. “So what’s a safe way to lure it out? And how do I kill it?”

            Hacker chuckled. “There’s no safe way to deal with dragons. Killing them? Well . . .” He lifted a long spear. “This works if you hit the right spot. Do you have a sword? You can cut off its head if you want to get close enough. Or—”

            “I do have a sword, actually.” A Japanese army sword that my father had given me. It had killed, or at least wounded, an ancient vampire called a lamia, but I wasn’t the one wielding it. I wasn’t sure I could swing it hard enough to cut anything more than a slice of cheese, especially while gasping with terror. “What’s the right spot?”

            “Usually in the middle of its chest.” Hacker tapped his T-shirt, just above his belly. “Right here. But you have to hit hard and deep. Now I can come out there tomorrow, or the day after—”

            “I’ll think about it. Thanks for your help.” I closed the laptop. Now what?

“Asshole.” Rachel stood up. “He looked like a muscular, dragon-fighting warrior in the pictures on his website. I guess they can do a lot with Photoshop these days.”

            “Yeah.” I sipped my water. “Goddamn it. Mom was right. I should have been an accountant.”

            Rachel snorted. “Right. You can’t pay your own bills on time.”

            “So that means I have to go fight a dragon?” I stared at the table. “There should be some middle ground.”

My phone buzzed. Damn it. Rachel got up and went into the kitchen as I answered. “Tom Jurgen speaking—”

            “Hey! It’s me. Cory.” She sounded hoarse. “I just heard from Dan.”

            I sat forward. “Where is he?”

            “I don’t know. But he sounded scared. He wanted to know about the gold coin he gave me.”

            I grabbed my water. “I’ve got it. It’s hidden. You should be safe.”

            “But—oh shit. I’ve got a bunch more. He gave them to me to keep until he could get back from, I don’t know, wherever he went to change them. But he sounded like he was crazy. I don’t know what’s going on!”

            Oh god. “Get rid of them. Right now. Throw them out the window, down the garbage chute, whatever. Just don’t keep them in your apartment. Where are you?”

            She gave me an address. I could be there in—well, twenty minutes, but I had to make a stop first. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Call me if Dan calls back.”

            “What is it?” Rachel came back with and the bottle of whiskey I keep for special occasions. Like New Year’s or when I really want to get drunk. I wanted a drink or six, but it looked like I was going dragon hunting, like it not.

“More gold. In this girl’s apartment. I hope she’s dumping it right now.” I stood up. “I’m going to need the sword.”

            She put her hands on her hips. “First things first—what girl?”

            I groaned. “I’ll explain on the way.”

            “I’ll get the sword. I’m coming with you.”

            I nodded. No point in having this argument again. “Of course.”

            She headed to my bedroom. “This doesn’t make me the sidekick, by the way!”

            I took a quick drink of whiskey. It burned. Like a dragon’s breath. “Of course.”

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.”