Witches' Notebook, Part One

Karen Yester folded her hands on my table. “We were trying to bring the dead back to life.”

I tried to keep my face neutral. I’ve had some experience with the supernatural. Vampires, demons, ghosts—more than I like, but it’s making up more and more of my business these days. “So how can I help you?”

She sighed. “When I was in college, I was part of a group of—well, witches. It was guys and women. Not exactly a Wicca coven. We were just playing with doing spells. Make people float in the air, grow giant flowers? Some of them worked. I was in charge of writing down all the spells. It was fun for a while. I kept the notebook for all the spells.”

 She paused. “Then we started with animals.”

“Like what?”

“Hamsters from the pet store. We’d suffocate them in plastic bags and Tupperware. Then we tried to bring them back to life. We . . . a bunch of them died. The last one came back to life. We did it a few more times, until all the pet stores stopped selling them to us. And then Marissa wanted to start trying with . . . bigger things.”

            She looked down at the floor. “Felicia had a cat in her apartment, and she was going to . . . let us do it. But I was sick of it. Throwing dead hamsters in the dumpster, staying up all night trying out new spells? So I told Marissa I was quitting, and I was burning the notebook with all the spells.”

            She leaned back in the chair, looking out at the twilight in the window behind me. “All those little hamsters . . .”

I pushed a box of tissues across the table.

            I wished Rachel was here. She’s my upstairs neighbor, my girlfriend, and she’s sort of psychic. Rachel can sense things, and she has friends who know a lot about magic.

            But she was busy designing a web page for her own client. And I hadn’t expected this meeting in my dining room to turn quite so dark.

            Karen blew her nose. “But I didn’t burn it.”

            “The notebook?”

“We didn’t want to put anything on computers. This was ten years ago, 2006 or whatever?  But we wanted to be ‘old school.’ ” She lifted hands for sarcastic air quotes. “No technology, just parchment. I was in charge of keeping track of the spells and writing them down. What worked, what didn’t, and the results. I wrote it all down. Until I couldn’t do it anymore.” She grabbed another tissue.

            So I asked again. “What can I do for you?”

            “Marissa called me.” Karen Yester crumpled up her tissues on the table. “Marissa Sayers. She was always in charge of the group. She wants the notebook.”

            “And she knows you still have it?”

            “She always knew I was lying. The group was breaking up anyway. She was mad at me about . . . stuff. I don’t know why she’s doing this now. I just want her to go away and stop bothering me. I’ll give her the damn notebook.” She blew her nose. “But I want someone there with me when I hand it over. It won’t be dangerous. I’m just afraid . . .”

            Karen wiped her eyes with another tissue. “I’m scared she’ll try it on me.”

At 7:30 p.m. I parked my Honda in front of Marissa Sayers’ condo building on Chicago’s Gold Coast. “Okay. Here we are.”

Rachel unbuckled her belt She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and a mean jab. “Why am I here again?”

I unlocked the doors. “You know more about this stuff than I do. There probably won’t be any trouble. If there is—well, just run. I’ll be right behind you. Or possibly ahead of you.”

            “You better run fast, or I’m leaving you behind.” But she kissed my cheek.

            The doorman was young Hispanic man with a nametag: Raoul K. He called up to Sayers’ apartment and then opened the door with a fob.

Karen was waiting in the lobby. She carried a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. “Hi.”

            “Ms. Yester, this is my associate, Rachel Dunn. She’s psychic. I told you I’d ask her to—”

            “I just want to get this over with.” She punched the elevator button. But in the elevator she held out a hand. “Sorry. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

            On the 17^th floor we knocked at a door.

“Karen! Come in!” Marissa Sayers wore tight tan slacks and sandals, and a wine-colored blouse then dangled loosely from her shoulders. She reached forward for a hug.

Karen leaned forward, awkwardly. “Hi, Marissa.”

Rachel nudged my arm. “Stop checking her out.”

            I’d already checked Sayers out on the internet. A real estate attorney, with degrees with from the University of Illinois and Purdue. Two lawsuits for breach of duty, settled. One award from a state realtors’ association.

And, okay, a few pictures of her in a bikini from her Facebook page, from a vacation in Jamaica. I’d saved those in a private folder. I’m a guy.

            Sayers led us into her living room. A wide window had a dramatic view of Lake Michigan in the twilight—clouds drifting across the sky, sailboats rocking on the water. A long leather couch dominated the floor.

            “I didn’t catch your names.” She smiled at Rachel and me. “Why are you here?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I held out a card. “And this is my associate, Rachel.”

            “Mr. Jurgen’s a private detective.” Karen dropped her bag on the thick gray carpet. “I wanted someone here when I handed this over.”

            Sayers’ eyes fluttered. “Of course. Let me get you a drink. Curtis?”

            A short man in jeans and a black T-shirt emerged from the open kitchen door. “Yes?”

            “Get some drinks for our guests.” She waved a hand. “The usual for me.”

He blinked, as if waking up from a doze. “Hi. I’m Curtis. What can I get you?”

“Just a glass of water.” Karen glanced at me. “We’re not staying long.”

            Rachel reached out to shake his hand. “Hi, I’m Rachel. Maybe a beer? And one for my boyfriend.”

            They held hands for a moment. Rachel’s shoulder went stiff, and she let her hand drop. “I didn’t get your name. Curtis . . .?”

            “Just Curtis.” He nodded. “Beer. Water. Marissa?”

            “The usual. Let’s sit down.” Sayers sank into a chair in front of a long glass-topped table. “Karen, it’s so good to see you again. What are you doing now?”

            “I’m in marketing at D&K.” Karen zipped her bag open. “Social media, SEO, all that stuff. You?”

            “Real estate.” Sayers crossed an ankle across one knee. “It’s booming all over the city. More highrises coming up every day.”

            Curtis emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray full of drinks. Rachel and I took our beers. Sayers took a gulp of her white wine, and Karen sipped her water.

            “Curtis, take a seat.” I sipped my beer. “Or are you working?”

            Rachel kicked my ankle.

            “I’m . . .” He seemed confused. “I have stuff to do. Maybe later?”

            “Go ahead, Curtis.” Sayers waved a hand. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

            He nodded, like an obedient butler, and went back into the other room.

            Karen yanked her bag open and dropped the notebook on the table. It had a brown leather cover, and it looked at least 20 years old. “Here it is. You can have it.”

            Sayers leaned forward and started flipping through the pages. “Thank you.”

            “What are you going to do with it?” I sipped my beer.

            Sayers giggled. “What do you think?”

            “If you’re planning to start up again . . .” Karen shuddered. “With cats or dogs or, I don’t know—”

            “We did it, didn’t we?” Sayers slammed the notebook shut. “It’s all here. And I’ve got more.” She sat back. “Death doesn’t have to be the end. Do you remember when your grandmother died, and how you—”

            “Don’t even talk about that!” Karen grabbed her bag. “I’m out of here. Keep it if you want it, but don’t drag me back into this!”

            Curtis returned from the kitchen. “Is something wrong?”

            “We’re going.” Karen waved an arm at me. “Come on.”

            Sayers smiled, as if we were leaving a cocktail party early. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Karen.” She didn’t go for another hug. But she did glance at Rachel and me. “And meeting you two.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel pulled me to my feet. “Sorry to drink and run, but . . .”

            I gulped my beer and set the half-finished bottle on the table. Rachel pulled at my wrist, but I stood my ground on the carpet. “I have to tell you—raising the dead? I’ve seen it before. It doesn’t always work out the way you want.”

             “We’ll see.” Sayers picked up the notebook.

            Karen was waiting for the elevator down the hall, tapping impatiently on her phone.

            “Okay, that was weird.” I looked back at Sayers’ door. “Am I right about what’s going on?”

            Rachel punched my arm. “Couldn’t you feel it?”

            “Yeah.” I’m not psychic like Rachel, but I could pick up the vibe. “Curtis. He’s dead.”

            “I saw the same thing.” Karen jammed the phone in her back pocket. “With the hamsters.”

            I glanced at Sayers’ door. “But she didn’t have your notebook.”

            “I wasn’t the only one taking notes.” The elevator opened. “I just took the best.”

            A man was riding down. He checked Rachel out as the elevator descended. I couldn’t exactly blame him, but I was annoyed that we couldn’t keep talking.

            In the lobby Karen split away from us, walking as fast as she could toward the revolving door. “Wait!” I ran around the short man and followed her outside. “We need to talk.”

            “No, I’m done.” Karen wheeled around on the street. Her body was trembling. “I’ll mail you a check.”

            I couldn’t stop her. I stood back as her Uber slowed down at the curb. She jumped in and slammed the door. The car sped away.

“So that went well.” I unlocked the Honda.

            Rachel got in and buckled her seat belt. “Now what?”

            They’d killed hamsters as experiments. Now Sayers had a dead man working for her. Not exactly a zombie. But not a human. And she had Karen’s notebook.

            “I don’t know.” I started the car. “Let’s just get away from here.”

I couldn’t sleep. By the time Rachel came down the next morning I’d been up since 4 a.m., and I was wired by coffee. My hand fingers shook on the keyboard as I tapped at my laptop.

            “So what have you got?” Rachel poured herself a mug of coffee.

            I turned the laptop to let her see. “Curtis Atlee. Facebook friend of Marissa Sayers. That part was easy.” I wondered how The Big Sleep would have turned out if Philip Marlowe had social media in the 1940s.        

The profile page showed Curtis, a bright smile on his face, leaning into a selfie. His other pictures showed him eating lunch, walking a dog, and laughing with friends.

            “What’s their connection? Aside from social media?” Rachel scrolled down. “He was posting two or three times a day up until last week. Ever since—” She looked up at my Sierra Club calendar on the wall. “Almost two weeks. Nothing. Like he’d—”

“Died. Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “They might be college friends. He has a degree from Purdue, like Sayers, but Karen didn’t go there. So she wouldn’t know him from there.” I rubbed my eyes.

My coffee was lukewarm. Time for a fresh pot. “He’s got an employer listed. Not Marissa Sayers’ office. I’m going to call them at nine.” I stood up and checked the time over the door to the kitchen. 7:30. “Do you want some cereal?”

            “What about Sayers?” Rachel followed me into the kitchen, where I got bowls from my cupboard, milk from my refrigerator, and a box of Lucky Charms from the pantry.

            “She’s on my other list.” I poured cereal. “Are you eating?”

            “That?” Rachel grimaced. “I guess.”

            Out on the dining room table I tapped at my laptop while Rachel ate. “Marissa’s a real estate lawyer. Nothing about dabbling in witchcraft or necromancy on any of her social profile pages, obviously. Not much of an internet footprint at all, but I’m checking out all her friends and contacts—wait a minute.” I picked up my phone. “I’m an idiot.”

            “Well, I knew that.” But she nudged her foot against my leg instead of kicking me. “I should call Karen Yester to find out who else was in that group.”

            But Karen didn’t pick up. I left a message and went back to going through Sayers’ Facebook friends. She had 216. This could take all morning. And I had a client meeting at 10.

            Rachel finished her cereal and left. I worked for as long as I could, and then I took a shower and headed out for my meeting.

Witches' Notebook, Part Two

Fortunately the client wanted a simple tail job on her husband for a few hours in the late afternoon—though I’ve had those turn out badly. She didn’t need me to start until tomorrow, and my only other ongoing job involved computers and phone calls, so I could stay in my apartment the rest of the day.

            No response from Karen. I tracked down a landline phone number for Curtis and tried calling him. He didn’t pick up. I left a message, claiming I’d lost my favorite pen at Sayers’ condo last night, and asked him to call me back.

            I spent the next two hours going through Sayers’ Facebook friends. I sorted all the college friends I could find into one folder—everyone who’d gone to U of I, at least, since that’s where Karen and Sayers had been in the witches’ group together. I added a few others, including one man who claimed to do psychic readings and a woman who had “Magic” as one of her likes. Then I spent a while digging in deep on each one, until I had 14 possibles

            What now? While I was trying to think of a way to message all of them asking, “Hey, were you ever involved in a witches’ group that tried to resurrect dead animals?” my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Marissa Sayers.” Her voice was low and cool.

            “Hello, Ms. Sayers? What can I do for you?” Maybe she was screening Curtis’ phone calls?

            “I need you to call your client. Karen didn’t give me the entire notebook.” Her tone was higher and less cool now.

            “Why do you need me? You were able to—”

            “She’s not answering my emails. I don’t have her number. She didn’t hold up her end of the deal.”

            “What deal? She gave it to you of her own free will.” I’m not a lawyer—and Sayers was—but that didn’t sound like—

            “She agreed. She didn’t keep her agreement. I want what we agreed to. All of it.”

            I didn’t want to argue with a lawyer. “I’ll call her. That’s all I can do.”

            “Do that. Immediately.” Sayers hung up.

            So I called Karen again, got no answer again, and            left a message again.

Maybe she just had a cold. People don’t go to work and don’t answer their phones for any number of reasons. But most people aren’t involved with witches who have a zombie working for them.
            I didn’t know where she lived or worked, but she’d mentioned a firm called “D&K” last night. So I looked up all the marketing firms I could find in Chicago starting with D, then ones that had a K. I found two: Daniels & Kearns LLC, and Dilney and Kimball, Inc.

            Daniels & Kearns had never heard of her. Dilney and Kimball, on the other hand, told me that Karen Yester hadn’t come to work today.

            It took some time, but I managed to track down an actual address for her. (Don’t ask me how.) I called Rachel to tell her where I was going, and then I drove up to the north side to find her apartment building.

            I buzzed at her door. No response. So then I turned to the doorman, a dark young man in a black jacket. His nametag was Darryl. “Hi, I’m Tom Jurgen. One of your residents, Karen Yester, is a client of mine? She’s not answering calls and she didn’t come to work today, and I’m concerned. Is there any way someone could go up and do a wellness check on her?”

            Darryl T. looked at my card. “I can ask maintenance to go in. I can’t let you up, though.”

            I nodded. “That’s fine. I’ll wait right here.”

            I checked my email on my phone while I waited, then played some solitaire. The doorman let people in—residents, food deliveries, and the like—while glaring at me from behind his desk. After fifteen minutes his phone buzzed. “She’s not there.”

            “Did they go inside?”

            He nodded, irritated. “Just enough to confirm that no one was home. That’s all we can do.”

            I nodded. “Right. Thank you.”

            Out in my Honda I pondered my next move. Maybe I was just overreacting. Karen could be at a doctor’s appointment for all I knew. But why wouldn’t she call me back? Especially after last night.

            I called Marissa Sayers. “I’m at Karen’s apartment. She’s not home. There’s not much else I can do right now.”

            “Then find her.” Her voice was a snarl. “This is on you now. I want those pages.”

            “Or what? You’ll sue me?” I tried to imagine the resulting lawsuit: Your honor, the defendant promised me she would deliver all the content of a notebook outlining magical spells for bringing animals back from the dead, and . . .

            “You know what I can do. You met Curtis. You’ve got 24 hours. Bring me those pages.” She hung up.

            Oh hell.

Back at my apartment the phone buzzed again. This time it was the doorman from Karen’s building. “Mr. Jurgen? I just wanted to let you know, I talked to the doorman from last night? And he says he saw Ms. Yester leaving around 6 a.m.. She had a small suitcase, he said.”

            I wished I’d left him a tip. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

            At least now I knew she’d left on her own. Trying to stay away from Sayers? Or just a business trip she hadn’t mentioned? I had no idea.

            As I was checking my email messages I saw a notice that I had a package in the receiving room. We don’t have a doorman, but the handymen pick up packages in their office in the basement. So I went down.

            “A messenger dropped this by a few hours ago,” Earl said as I signed on the clipboard. It was a padded white envelope, with my name and address—and Karen Yester’s name and building as the return address.

            Upstairs I pulled the envelope open. Inside I found a check for twice what I would have charged her, along with five pages from a notebook. And a letter.

           

Mr. Jurgen: I’m leaving town to stay safe from Marissa for a while. These pages are from the notebook I gave her last night. Without them, Marissa won’t be able to try again, or if she does, she’ll end up with something like Curtis. Do whatever you want with them, but please don’t give them back to her.

Karen Yester

I read the letter twice. Then I called Rachel. “Can you come down?”

            She muttered something about work, but five minutes later she was at my table, looking at the pages.

“Holy shit.” She rubbed her eyebrows. “Where did you get this?”

“Karen sent it by messenger. She’s on the run. What does it mean?”

Rachel leaned down. “This is . . . instructions. I didn’t see the book last night. But this looks like a continuation. ‘After withdrawing the blade, put two drops of blood into the wound before sealing it up. Step 19, rub the wound with a paste made from the butterfly wings in step nine . . .’”

She looked up, her shoulder shuddering. “We should burn this.”

            “Yeah.” I looked at the pages. “Except we might need it as a bargaining chip.”

            “For what?”

            “Maybe—”

            Then my door opened. I was sure it was locked, but the man who walked into my apartment apparently didn’t care.

            He wore a short leather jacket, black jeans, and tennis shoes. White hair, mid thirties, a thick jaw. Oh, and he was carrying a handgun.

            I stood up slowly as Rachel backed away, her hands up. “Who the hell are you?” My voice might have trembled more than a little.

            He just pointed. “I’ll take that.”

            The pages.

            What the—“H-how did you know they were here?”

            “Just give them to me.” His handgun was pointed at the floor, but I had no desire to find out how quickly he could lift it and fire.

            “S-sure.” I’ve been called stubborn, but no one has ever accused me of being brave, especially with a handgun in the room. I lifted the pages. They shook in my hand.

            The man glanced at them and then stuffed them in his rear pocket. “Forget about this.” He smiled at Rachel. “Sorry.”

            She giggled nervously. “Fine.”

            He left.

            I collapsed in my chair. For a second I thought Rachel was going to fall over, and I tried to stand again, but she leaned on the table, took a deep breath, and sat down, her shoulders shaking. “What the hell was that?”

            I shook my head. “No idea.”

I’ve faced vampires, ghosts, and a dragon, but something about a handgun shocked my nerves more than any supernatural being. Especially in my own apartment.

So I opened the bottle of whiskey I keep in a cupboard and poured us two stiff shots. We drank silently, but when I poured myself another drink Rachel got up and put the bottle away. She brought two Heinekens from the kitchen and watched as I tried to tap at my laptop. My fingers didn’t cooperate at first, but finally I found what I was looking for.

            Rachel stared at me. “What?”

            I turned my laptop around. “This guy.”

            Tim Radansky. He was in my file of Possibles from Sayers’ friends on her profile. White hair, a wide chin, and an interest in reincarnation.

            Rachel nodded. “Yeah. That’s him.”

            I could call the police. Even without going into the whole “bringing people back from the dead” thing, I could still report a robbery with a handgun.

            But Radansky could deny everything. He could hide the papers, ditch the handgun, and it would be a he-said/he-said case. The cops would have nothing to go on. And I wouldn’t blame them.

So I clicked through his profile. Work: Video consultant. Education: B.A. in management, University of Illinois. Places lived: Indiana and Illinois. Relationship status: No answer.

I clicked on his photos. There he was, smiling from his office chair, walking in the park, eating lunch. And in the middle, two photos of Marissa Sayers.

One of them showed her walking away down a sidewalk, her head turned around just enough to show her face, although she clearly wasn’t looking at the lens. The other caught her face outside a restaurant with a girlfriend, in a short skirt and high boots.

I clicked and found an album named “MS.” It had four photos, including one of Sayers in shorts hiking up a hill somewhere.

The last picture was a shot of her apartment building in the daytime.

I waved my hand over the screen. “So, is he stalking her?”

Rachel peered over my shoulder. “It’s only a few pictures. But yeah, that feels a little weird. Especially that one of her building.”

I went back to Radansky’s own photos. Regular stuff: friends, parties, a trip to New York City. Nothing different from anyone else’s profile.

Except for one selfie of him with Karen Yester. Holding her hand in front of Lake Michigan.

Damn it. I picked up my phone, my hands still trembling, and called Marissa Sayers.

She picked up after two rings. “Jurgen. Are you ready to turn it over?”

“Okay, okay!” My voice shook. “Yes, I had the papers, because Karen Yester just sent them to me today. But your friend Tim Radansky just stole them from me. Using a gun. So I’m out of this. Talk to him if you want them back.”

            “Tim?” She groaned. “Are you sure?”

            ‘Pretty sure.” I managed a deep breath. “So if you want those pages, you’d better talk to him.”

            “No.” Her voice echoed between our phones. “I’ll send you everything I have on Tim Radansky. But you get those pages back. That was the deal.”

            “What? We don’t have any deal—”

Sayers shut off the call.

            “Sounds like that went well.” Rachel gulped down her beer.

I rubbed my face, tired and frustrated. “She wants me to find Radansky and get the pages back. She’s sending me stuff. Maybe we can find him. Maybe—”

            “Maybe what? He had a gun! You just have your awesome personality. I know you’re the great detective, but you’re not exactly the Terminator.”

            “I’m not even the denominator.” I sighed.

            Rachel’s head slanted. “Huh? That makes no sense.”

            “Neither does my sense of humor. Or my math skills.” But Rachel was right—the closest thing I have to a superpower is stubbornness. Still, I had to do something. As a reporter you learn never to give up as long as you have more questions. And I had a lot of them.

            I suddenly had an email from Sayers with a bunch of attachments. “Just let me look at this.”

            She’d sent me pictures of Radansky from his Facebook page, which I’d already seen, and also a link to his LinkedIn profile, which told me again that he was a video consultant for a marketing firm downtown.

            The next document was from a real estate website—which made sense, because Sayers was a real estate attorney. It gave me Radansky’s address, phone number, email, and a photo of the condo building he lived in near the lake.

            The third was a scanned photo, obviously from years ago. Radansky, his hair thin but not white, sat on his knees in a circle with three other young people. His face was curled in a tight smile.

            Karen Yester sat next to him in shorts, legs crossed. I didn’t see Marissa Sayers. Maybe she was taking the picture?

            Radansky held a small rabbit in his left hand. One of the students was pointing at it, laughing. A candle burned on a windowsill in the background.

            Rachel shuddered.

            I clicked back to the document with Radansky’s contact info. Rachel punched my shoulder. “You’re not going over there, are you?”

            “You think I’m stupid? Don’t answer that.” I picked up my phone, my fingers numb. “I’m just going to call him.”

            “For what, comment? You’re not a reporter anymore. Your client ran out on you. She paid you. You—”

            “I can’t just quit.” Did Rachel know me at all after all these years? “I have to ask questions. It’s all I know how to do.”

            “Yeah.” She punched my arm again. Gently, this time. “Jerk.”

            “Yeah.” I punched Radansky’s number into my phone. One buzz . . . two . . .

            “Hello?” The voice was a little hoarse, but I recognized it right away. “Who is this?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I swallowed. “You just stuck a gun in my face?”

            “What the—” I expected him to hang up. “How did you get this number?”

            “How did you know I had those papers?”

            “I—I can’t tell you that. Can’t you just forget about—”

            “What are you going to do with them?”

            “None of your business. Just leave me—”

            “Do you know Karen Yester?” I was keeping the questions coming fast, hoping he might slip up.

            “I don’t know where she is. ”

            “How do you know Marissa Sayers?”

            “I knew her in college. She was part of a group . . .” His voice trailed off, nervous.

            “Trying to bring the dead back to life? She was the leader of the group, wasn’t she?”

            “That wasn’t it. I mean, yes, but that’s not why . . . I was there.”

            “So why did you come to my apartment with a gun?” I stood up. I might have been shouting.

            Pause. “I only wanted the papers. That’s all. I’m sorry.” He hung up.

            I dropped my phone and sat down again, shaking with anger. And fear.

            Rachel brought me another beer. “Did that do any good?”

            “No.” I tried to think. It wasn’t easy, with my mind blinded with terror from the gun. “I don’t know what to do now.”

            We sat in silence for a few minutes. Eventually I calmed down.

            “Sorry.” I pushed my beer away. “I was just—nervous.”

            “Hey, I was here too. I might have to change my panties upstairs.” Rachel patted my hand. “Are we done with this now?”

            Done? Yeah, I could walk away right now. Who cared what was in the notebook? Would it even work? Karen Yester was far away and safe, and Radansky had brought a gun into my home. I wanted to stay the hell away from all of them.

            “No.” I’m not brave, but I am stubborn. I picked up my phone. “Sorry.”

            Rachel groaned. “Good thing I like you, or I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.”

I didn’t call Sayers. Instead I called Karen Yester. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message: “Tom Jurgen here. I got your package, but a man named Tim Radansky just stole the missing pages from me. I don’t know what he’s planning to do with them. If you could call me back with any information, I’d appreciate it. Oh, and thanks for the check.”

            “Now what?” Rachel finished her beer.

            “Lunch.” I stood up. Even after being threatened by a gun, I was hungry. “Want a sandwich? I’ve got tomatoes and avocado.” Rachel’s a vegetarian.

            She shook her head. “I’ve got work to do.”

            But my phone buzzed as she got up. Karen Yester.

            “Tim’s got the pages?” She sounded as if she were driving.

            “He had a gun.” I turned the speaker on so Rachel could hear.

            “Oh god.” Yester groaned. “He’ll give them to her. I’m in Wisconsin, my sister lives in Madison. You’ve got to do something.”

            “How did he even know I had them? What’s going on?”

“I—we were together. Last night. I told him not to do anything stupid, but he—”

Last night? Together? I was none of my business, but— “Look, I really don’t care about your sex life. But why would he steal the papers and then give them to Marissa Sayers?”

            “Because he’s in love with her! Or he was in college, at least. He was my boyfriend for a while, all right? Then he saw Marissa, and that’s why he joined the group. He didn’t care about witchcraft. He just wanted to hook up with Marissa.”

“Okay, fine.” I grimaced. “I just need to know how this all fits together. Why didn’t you give Marissa Sayers the entire notebook in the first place?”

“I’m afraid of her. I didn’t want her to do it while I was there. But I knew she’d find out right away, so I sent the pages to you. That way I could be far away when she started looking for people to try it on.”

It made a kind of sense. “So what does Tim Radansky want?”

            I heard Yester’s motor turn off. “He got in touch with me a few months ago. I had, uh, a bad breakup last year. So we hooked up. Just a few times. He started talking about Marissa and asking about the notebook. I showed it to him. Then last night, after, uh, everything, I knew I had to get away from the city. So I wrote a check and printed off that later to you, but Tim must have seen my loading the papers into the envelope. He’s still obsessed with her. You’ve got to get those pages back and destroy them before he gives them to Marissa.”

            I looked at Rachel. She shook her head, a hard threatening look in her eyes.

            I sighed. “I’m not Dirty Harry, Ms. Yester, just an ex-reporter trying to make a living. Did I mention that Radansky had a gun?”

            She was silent for a moment. “Sorry. I’m—I shouldn’t have kept that notebook.” Then she blew her nose. “All right, I’m on my way back. I’ll take care of it. Somehow.”

            She hung up.

            “So?” Rachel stared at me.

I nodded. “She’s coming back. She says she’ll handle it.”

            “What are you going to do?”

            “You heard what I told her.” I didn’t want anything more to do with this case. I picked up the check, Karen’s letter, and the envelope.

            Something made me check the envelope again. Maybe it felt wrong, or maybe I just wanted to see if I’d missed anything. So I looked inside.

            And found another page from the notebook.

            Oh, hell. I picked up my phone and called Karen again. “How many pages did you send me?”

            She was driving again. “From the—what? Six. Six pages. Why?”

            “He doesn’t have all of them. Somehow I left one in the envelope.”

            Rachel was next to me, looking at the page. “She won’t be able to do it. But she’ll know she doesn’t have it all. The steps are numbered.”

            “I’ll get back to you.” I hung up.

            Rachel cocked her arm to punch me, her fist tight. “What are you thinking? You’ve got an idea, don’t you?”

            I wished I didn’t. A minute ago I’d been willing to let the whole case go. But if I could stop Sayers from trying again . . . I braced myself for Rachel’s punch. “Yeah. Like I said, a bargaining chip.”

            “You asshole.” But she didn’t hit me. She just sat down, her shoulders tense. “Let’s hear it.”

            “Okay.” I gulped. “Here’s the plan.”

Witches' Notebook, Part Three

Of course, it didn’t go the way I planned at all.

First I called Marissa Sayers. “Have you heard from Tim Radansky yet?”

            “What?” She snorted. “Why would I?”

            “Wasn’t he in love with you? That’s what Karen Yester just told me.”

            “Jesus Christ.” She groaned.  “Yeah, we did it a few times in college, I guess. He was a nice guy, all right? I thought it was just a fling, a crush. He did—he’s called me a few times, but that was all a long time ago.”

            “Fine. If I’m wrong, then—” I didn’t really know. “I’ll contact him and set up a meeting for him to turn the papers over. On the condition that you leave Karen Yester alone from here on out. Okay?”

            She laughed again. “Of course. I don’t care if I ever see her again. Go ahead. My place, 8:00?”

            I nodded. “It’s a date.”

            Then I called Radansky. “Marissa Sayers is willing to meet with you in exchange for those papers. This is your chance to—”

            “Wait, what?” He sounded slightly drunk at 3:00 in the afternoon. “What are you talking about? Who is this?”

            I took a deep breath. “Tom Jurgen, Remember?”

            “Oh.” He hesitated. “Yeah. What do you want?”

            “That’s why you robbed me, isn’t it? Just leave your gun at home. Eight o’clock.” I gave him the address. “Do you need me to pick you up?”

            “N-no. I can get there. But—why?”

            “I’m just trying to help a client. I’ll be there.”

            Rachel opened my door as I hung up. “I think these will do it.” She dropped a shopping bag on my table. “Did you set it up?”

            “Yeah.” I was nervous. I’d made myself a sandwich, but I could barely eat half of it. And I didn’t want another beer until later, because I’d need a clear head. “Eight o’clock.”

            “Okay.” She started unloading her bag. “This is crazy, you know that?”

            “Yeah.” I sipped some water, my hand trembling. “We should just quit right now, right?”

            I almost hoped she’d say yes. Instead she went to work. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

            “Yeah.” I reached for the ingredients from her bag.

At 7:30 we sat in my Honda outside Sayers’ building. I looked at Rachel. “You ready?”

            She jabbed her elbow at my ribs. “Are you?”

            Not really. But I’d started this, so I couldn’t just drive away. So I pulled my phone from the pocket of my windbreaker.

            One buzz, two . . . “Yes?”

            “Marissa? Tom Jurgen here. I’m downstairs.” I looked up at her building. Lights in every other window, some flickering, some steady. Which one was hers? I had no idea.” You should know something before Tim Radansky shows up with the papers.”

            “Oh really?”  Sayers chuckled. “Well, maybe we can all discuss that when you’re all here.”

            “He doesn’t have all the papers. There’s a page missing. So don’t do anything stupid.”

            “Just come up. Now.”

            I unlocked the doors and looked at Rachel. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you to stay here?”

            We’d had this argument before, too many times for Rachel to even slug my shoulder now. Besides, she was part of my intricate plan. She sighed, unbuckled her seat belt, and stood up. “Come on, jerk.”

            The doorman buzzed us in. We took the elevator up. I knocked on Sayers’ door, my arm trembling

            Curtis opened the door, his face blank. “Yes. Come in, please.”

            I held Rachel’s hand as we walked inside.

            The glass-topped table in the middle of the room was laid out like an alchemist’s lab, beakers perched above Bunsen burners, cups filled with ingredients like a chef’s spices, bottles filled with dark, smoky fluids. Sayers stood over it in a silk blouse and black slacks.

            Karen Yester’s notebook sat in the center of the table. And the missing pages lay next to it. A glass of wine sat nearby.

            Radansky lay on the leather couch, unconscious. Curtis stood over him, Radansky’s pistol in his hand.

            Rachel nudged me. “Told you so.”

            I was suddenly sweating too hard to argue. I tried to pull my eyes away from the handgun. “What is this?”

            Radansky groaned, shifting on the couch.

            Sayers smiled. “I need someone to try it again on. Now that I have the entire notebook—” She held out a hand. “Give it to me, please.”

            “Well, since you said please.” Rachel reached into her leather jacket.

            Sayers snatched the page. “Thank you.”

            “How does this work?” I looked at the equipment spread across the table. was nervous. I hadn’t expected the gun, and I could barely think straight enough to form words. Did Curtis have enough free will to use it on his own? Would he obey Sayers if she told him to shoot us? Was I going to throw up first or pee my shorts in fear?

            “It will take all night. The potion in the wine will keep Tim asleep. When I’m ready, we’ll suffocate him so his body will have only minimal damage. The process won’t repair a major fatal wound. If it works . . .” She glanced at the final page. “He should be completely restored.”

            “And possibly a little miffed?” I glanced at Radansky. He lifted an arm, then let it drop, as if he was trying to wake up. I wondered what Sayers had knocked him out with. And whether he could hear us.

            “He’ll be alive.” She shrugged, as if her success was all that mattered.

            “Why are you doing this?” Rachel shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Killing animals and people just to bring them back to life? It’s not like you can resurrect murder victims or dead soldiers, right? What’s the point?”

            She started mixing ingredients. I didn’t see any eye of newt, but I was pretty sure it was there, or at least an equivalent. “My mother died when I was six. I would have done anything to have her alive again.”

            I got that, at least. My father died when I was in college, and I still remind myself to buy him a birthday card every year before remembering that he’s gone.

            I don’t think he’d want me to commit murder to bring him back, though.

            “What about us?” I let myself look at the handgun. Curtis held it loosely in his hand, pointed at the floor, his finger nowhere near the trigger. Not that I was going to see how fast he could get it there.

            “You’ll have to stay here until I’m finished.” She measured out a teaspoon of liquid and dropped it into a cup. “I don’t want you calling the police.”

            “Or you’ll shoot us? That’ll bring the police pretty quick too.”

            Before she could answer, her phone rang. Curtis picked it up with his left hand. “Ms. Sayers’ residence.  . . . One moment please.” He looked over at Sayers. “Karen Yester?”

            What the hell? Sayers had the same puzzled look on her face that I felt.  Rachel rolled her eyes and glared at me as if Karen was all my fault.

            “Send her up.” Sayers mixed the ingredients in her cup. “Damn it. I don’t have time for this.”

            Rachel still had her hands in her pockets. I rubbed mine on my pants, trying to wipe the sweat from my palms.

            Curtis answered Karen’s knock, still holding the handgun. She staggered through the doorway, looking haggard from her day of driving. “Marissa? What are you—oh my god.” She pushed past Curtis, oblivious to his handgun, and looked down at Radansky. “Tim? Marissa, what the hell are you doing?”

            “What we started doing a long time ago.” She pushed the notebook aside to reach for a bottle of clear  liquid. “You wanted to do it too. Don’t get in the way, or Tim won’t come back.”

            Karen walked to the table. “This is insane! You can’t do this! Animals were bad enough but—”

            We had to act now, while Sayers was distracted. I glanced at Rachel. “You take the book.” I reached into my pocket, my voice low. “I’ll take Curtis.”

            Rachel nodded. I could tell she wanted to slug me, but we didn’t have time.

            I pulled a bottle out of my pocket and twisted the cap. Rachel brought an identical bottle out of her jacket.

            Sayers looked away from Karen. “What—”

            Rachel dumped her bottle all over the notebook.

            I threw mine at Curtis’ face.

            Hydrochloric acid. It will eat through almost anything—except, apparently, the bottles we were packing it in.

            And you can buy it at Home Depot.

            “What are you doing?” Sayers shrieked in fury as the book sizzled.

Curtis staggered backward, his eyes wide and confused, silent as the acid burned his face. He dropped the handgun—thank god—and reached up to touch his cheek, jerking his hand away as the acid stung his fingertips. Then he stumbled to the ground, whimpering.

            Sayers picked up the book. Karen grabbed her arm. They struggled, Karen’s face red with rage.

“No . . . no . . .” Sayers slapped Karen’s face and lurched back, her eyes blazing. “You can’t do this, you can’t—” Then she looked over Karen’s shoulder. “Tim?”

            Radansky had lurched to his feet, unsteady but conscious enough to scoop his handgun from the carpet. Rocking from side to side, he lifted the weapon with both hands and pointed it at Sayers.

            “What are you—wait! Tim!” Sayers waved her hands. “Put the—”

            “Shut up.” His face was pale. “I only wanted—just . . .” He blinked his eyes, fighting to stay awake and upright.

            Karen scampered away. I pulled Rachel back. “Tim, you’re all right. Don’t do this. You can just go home and—”

            He shook his head. “You won’t come back from this.”

            I didn’t count the shots, and I don’t know how many bullets the handgun held. He apparently emptied the magazine, though, because after a few seconds it went silent and dropped back onto the carpet. Then Radansky sank back onto the leather couch, unconscious again.

            Karen screamed. Rachel didn’t. I might have.

Blood spattered Sayers’ expensive silk shirt. She

Sayers rolled on the floor, gasping, blood spattering her expensive silk shirt. Then her head drooped over and she stopped breathing.

She was dead. And yeah, she wasn’t coming back.

Rachel kicked the gun out of his reach. Karen knelt next to Sayers on the floor, sobbing. I grabbed my phone to call 911.

We told the police the truth: Marissa Sayers had planned to kill Tim Radansky and then make him rise from the dead. Karen Yester was surprisingly calm as she explained about her college magic group.

            The cops were willing to accept that Sayers was crazy. But one of the detectives—Joran—knew me, and she pulled me aside.

            “Jurgen.” Her face was disgusted. “Is this for real? Again?”

            I sighed, exhausted. “What do you think?”

            She shook her head. “If she was crazy, why did you do any of this? You didn’t know she was going to kill Radansky before you got here. Why destroy the book anyway?”

            “She was going to try to kill someone. We destroyed the book to stop her.”

            Joran shook her head again. “Your friends downtown are going to love this one.”

            I straightened up. “I have friends downtown? Best news I’ve heard all day.”

            She laughed and shoved me away.

            EMTs took Radansky and Curtis away on stretchers. Radansky mumbled incoherently, but Curtis was completely unresponsive. Eventually they let the rest of us leave. It was close to midnight.

            In the elevator Karen Yester closed her eyes. “What happens to Tim?”

            “Well, he killed her.” I watched the floors count down. “We’ll probably have to testify. Or maybe he’ll make a deal.”

            “God. This is a nightmare.”

            In the lobby the doorman held the door for us. Outside the building Karen wiped her eyes and stared at me. “Wait—you gave her the missing page?”

            I’d wondered if she’d ask that. “No.” I looked at the sidewalk. “I had a plan.”

            “And it worked out so well.” Rachel leaned against a light pole. “I had to go to three stores to find a notebook that matched the page. Then I had to copy your handwriting. Then I had to make up something that sounded like it matched.” She punched my arm.

            I nodded, embarrassed and annoyed. “We just hoped it wouldn’t get far enough for her to figure out that it was all wrong.” I reached into my pocket. “Here it is.”

            Karen snatched the page from my hand. She stared at it, and then started ripping it up. Tears streamed down her face as she tore it into the smallest shreds possible. Then she dropped it into a puddle in the street, next to a storm drain. We watched the remnants disappear.

 “I shouldn’t have—I don’t know.” She rubbed an arm across her nose. She looked down the street. “There’s my car.”

I felt like I’d failed. “Look, I can send your check back if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. Keep it.” Karen shook hands with me, and then Rachel. “Thanks.”

            Rachel and I walked back to the Honda. “You want to go home?”

            She squeezed my hand. “Yeah. Alone.”

            “That’s fine.” It had been a tough night. Not the first time we’d witnessed a murder, but it never got easy. I unlocked her door.

            Rachel looked up at the sky. “It’s bad magic.”

            “I know.” I stood next to her for a long time, watching the few stars we could see above the streetlights. And trying not to think about what happens after death.

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