Reign in Hell, Part Three

Back at the apartment I got Cokes for both of us. In the office Rachel started tracking down the website while I worked on researching Charles Moreland.

            “Don’t you have work to do?” I glanced over my shoulder. “I mean, thanks, but you mentioned a landing page and—”

            “Well, you’re not getting paid for this either.” She tapped her keyboard. “And if we’re looking for demons from another dimension, the LP can wait a day or so.”

            I swigged my Coke.

            Moreland Research had a website. The cover page showed row of computer servers, with an image below of a 60ish guy with gray hair, a round nose, and a thin beard. The top line read MORELAND: SEEKING NEW ANSWERS.    

            The page was full of more techno-nonsense. I got the idea that Moreland was selling advanced data services for sales, marketing, and PR, with a side order of health care and HR. Maybe Rachel could make sense of it, but it flew right past me, and I know a little bit about AI and SEO.

            So I clicked on “About Us” to find out more about Charles Moreland.

            Born in New York, went to Yale, graduate degrees in various computer-science related fields from CalTech. Worked for Microsoft and Oracle, then at different IT consulting firms until founding Moreland Research three years ago. Why did he move to Chicago from the West Coast? No indication that I could see.

            The website only listed two other people: Victoria Moreland, with a degree in computer engineering from the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign and another impressive résumé of tech work. The photo showed a woman in her thirties with short black hair and sharp eyes behind glasses. Maybe his daughter, probably not his wife.

            The other staffer was David Mahoney, similarly degreed and talented. He was from Ireland.

            Then I went to the web. Moreland showed up pretty quickly, once I separated him from the other Charles Morelands on the internet. 

            He was 63. No wife mentioned, but Victoria was definitely his daughter. It looked like he’d been fired from Oracle, but I couldn’t get any juicy details. I kept looking—LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter, and some other social media sites. Nothing but marketing materials. A few reviews, ranging from five stars to “Stay far away.” That’s typical, though. I try not to do a vanity search on myself too often, but when I do, I get a wide spread of sentiments from clients—from “He saved my life” to “He’s an idiot.”

            I leaned back and stretched. “You got anything?”

            Rachel grunted. “The demon site is hosted offshore. I’m trying to dig through whatever source code I can find, and some of it looks like it might link to the Moreland site, but I can’t be sure.”

            I sighed. “Thanks. Keep digging.”

            I dug some more too, looking up whatever I could find about Victoria Moreland and David Mahoney. They turned out to be married, their wedding date a year before Moreland had founded his company. Did that mean anything? Maybe not.

I realized I’d been putting off the obvious, again. So I took a deep breath and a swig of Coke and picked up my phone.

“Moreland Research, how may I help you?” The voice sounded you, female, and slightly bored.

“Charles Moreland, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moreland is unavailable right now. May I take a message?”

“When do you expect him back?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I really don’t know. Message?”

“How about Victoria Moreland?”

“Vickie? Let me see . . . please hold.”

A moment passed. Two. Then: “Vickie Moreland.”

“Hi, Ms. Moreland.” I’d planned my approach. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. My friend Chip Shannon was apparently doing some research into Moreland Research, but he’s dropped out of sight, and I’m concerned. Can you tell me if you’ve had any contact with him?”

She hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr.—Jurgen? I don’t think I’ve heard of any Chip Shannon. What kind of research was he doing here?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Like I said, he dropped out of sight right after calling me. There were some—disturbing videos on his phone.”

Rachel swung in her chair. 

Vickie’s tone grew guarded. “What kind of videos? What is this? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

I turned my phone to speaker. “No, no, not at all. I apologize. I’m just worried about my friend. I wanted to speak with your father, but he’s apparently unavailable, too. The videos were . . .”

I glanced at Rachel. Go ahead, she mouthed.

Yeah. Might as well put the truth in the lead. “The videos are demons. Fighting each other. I can’t tell where they came from, but Chip had them on his phone and a link on his computer, and he called me, because . . .” She didn’t know me, or my reputation for getting involved in supernatural doings. “You can look me up. I know about this stuff.”

“Wait a minute . . .” I heard fingers tapping keys. “Okay, there you are. Wow, there’s a lot of stuff about vampires and zombies and stuff. You look like some kind of crackpot.”

I’d heard that before. “Hang on a minute. What’s your email address?”

I picked up Chip’s phone, accessed his email account, and sent the photos and video to Vickie. Then I used my computer to send her a link to the other website. “You should see these soon.”

“I’m busy here! I don’t have a lot of time to—okay, wait. You’ve got 30 seconds, and then . . .”

She fell silent. 

After a moment: “Okay, this could just be bad CGI. Or at least fairly good. What are you—”

“Check out the link. Tell me if you recognize it.” I waited. 

A full minute passed. “Hello?” She’d either hung up, or—

“It worked.” Vickie gasped. “David! Come in here and look at this!”

Rachel and I shared a glance. “I think she sees it.”

Moreland Research was on the northwest side of Chicago, in a small gray building next to a vacant lot. We parked across the street in front of a Mexican restaurant. The smell of burritos and salsa made me hungry. Maybe later.

            The receptionist inside, a young Asian woman, looked at my card and made a call. Rachel and I had barely made ourselves comfortable with magazines—ComputerWorld, Fast Company—when the door opened. “Mr. Jurgen? I’m David Mahoney.”

            He had brown hair and thick hands. I introduced Rachel—he checked her out in her T-shirt and jeans and boots, of course—and he led us through a cubicle maze where workers tapped their keyboards and talked in whispers. At the back he knocked and opened a door marked “Victoria Moreland.”

            Vickie Moreland scowled as we entered. The sun shone through the blinds behind her desk. She had short black hair and glasses, like in her profile pic, and a round nose like her father’s in his profile picture. “Mr. Jurgen. Are you working for someone?”

             “Chip Shannon is a friend of mine. He’s disappeared, after sending me what I sent you. I don’t need a client to investigate. And I’m not looking for any money from you.”

            “That’s right.” She crossed her arms. “Since you’re here—”

            “You invited us here.” Rachel sat.

            Vickie narrowed her eyes. “You’re—who?”

            “Rachel.” I sat too. “She’s my associate.”

            David stood behind us, as if guarding the door.

            Vickie sighed. “I asked you because it looks like you might have some expertise that can help me.” She opened her desk draw and pulled out a checkbook. “Is $500 enough as a retainer?”

            I tried not to blink. “It depends on what you’re retaining me to do.”

            David took a step forward. “Vickie—”

            “My father has disappeared too.” She scribbled on the check. “Last night sometime. He was . . .” She tore off the check. “David, can you explain?”

            David pulled up a chair and took a breath. “I’ll try. Uh, Charles is sort of an investigator too. But he was looking into—using quantum computing to—try to find other dimensions.”

            “He got fired from Oracle for hijacking their systems for his research.” Vickie sat back. “He tried the same thing at Microsoft before that, but he managed to resign before getting terminated. So he came here, because I live in Orland Park, and set up this.” She spread her hands around the office.

            “Wait a minute.” I leaned forward. “Rachel’s the computing expert, but even I know you can’t mount a quantum computing operation in a storefront like this.”

            “Yeah.” David looked at Rachel. “We’re not CERN. We outsourced some of our work to other sites, but Charles used—other tools.”

            What kind of tools? “Wait.” I shook my head. “What was he investigating?”

            David and Vickie looked at each other, as if daring the other to answer first. Finally Vickie sighed. “Hell.”

            I waited. Until I realized that she wasn’t just swearing. “You mean—”

            “He became obsessed with demons.” David ran a hand through his black hair. “And angels, but mostly demons.”

            “It started a long time ago.” Vickie sighed. “My mother, uh, died when I was 14. I went to live with my aunt here. I didn’t talk to him for a long time. Then he wanted to start a company here. It was totally legit.” She glared at us, as expecting an argument. “Helping companies with SEO and CRM—mostly small companies, but we do good work here.” She pointed at her computer monitor. “I can show you the sales figures, the testimonials—”     

            “What about the demons?” Rachel turned to David.

            He looked at the floor. “He kept working on that. Like I said, obsessed. When he couldn’t use actual quantum computing, he went to, uh—” He glanced at his wife. 

            “Alternate sources.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. 

            Uh-oh. “What kind of sources?”

            “I don’t know. He’s very—secretive about it. I didn’t really know what was going on until a few days ago, when he was holed up in his office for 12 hours. I knocked on the door, and . . .” 

            She shoved her chair back. “It’s better if I show you.”

Reign in Hell, Part Four

Moreland’s office was next to Vickie’s door. She opened it with a fob, the kind I used to start my new car. Vickie went in first.

            The lights were dark. Burned-out candles sat on half-empty bookcases, the books piled on the floor. The blinds on the windows were shut tight. A candelabra sat on the desk next to a computer monitor, an empty pack of cigarettes sitting at the base. Two ashtrays were filled with cigarette butts and ashes. An oriental rug covered most of the floor

            “This is it.” Vickie leaned against the side of a bookcase and flicked a light switch. “What I found yesterday. He was already gone.”

            Rachel moved behind the big metal desk and leaned down to tap some keys. She looked up at the monitor, then down under the desk. She pressed the power button. Then she pressed some other buttons, and hit a few more keys. The computer hummed to life.

            I slid behind her. “What have you got?”

“I’m going to need some passwords.” She looked up at Vickie. 

            “Wait a minute.” David closed the door behind him. “There’s too much proprietary information there—”

            “Shut up, David.” Vickie joined Rachel behind the desk. “Here. And here. And—here.”

            Rachel giggled as she hit the keys. “Okay, here’s something. And this. Wait, who’s this?”

            David, behind her, leaned and planted a hand on her shoulder. I tried not to overreact. Rachel could take of herself if he misbehaved, but I’m still a guy with a girlfriend. I waited.

            “She’s the one.” David pointed. “That site. We had all kinds of traffic coming in and out of there for the last few days. Our customers got mad—it was clogging everything up—wait!”

            Too late. Rachel clicked the link. I slipped behind her to watch the screen—and to keep David honest. Vickie crowded next to me.

            Q SERVICES—A TOTAL SOLUTION. That was the headline at the top of the page. Beneath it, an image of a middle-aged woman with black hair streaked with gray, leaning back in a black pantsuit. 

            QUERELLE was her name apparently. Below that, the usual links: Who We Are, What We Do, Our Team, and Contact Us. Then one for “Q Insiders.”

            Rachel clicked the button.

            Fortunately for us, Moreland had saved his password. 

            His Insider page had links to business functions. Rachel clicked on one and found a list of clients—but those required another password, and Moreland hadn’t saved these.

            David pulled his hand away from her shoulder. “I don’t think we should let these two look at this information—”

            “We can’t see anything anyway.” Rachel kept clicking.

            “Even the names of our clients are confidential.” But Vickie didn’t move to stop her. 

            “We don’t care about clients.” I pointed. “That one.”

            “Way ahead of you, shamus.” She clicked on a file named “QPortal.”

            Password protected. Damn it. I looked at Vickie. “Any ideas?”

            “I still don’t think—”

            “Shut up, David.” Vickie pushed Rachel’s chair back to open the top desk drawer. “He’s not the type to write things down, but maybe . . .”

            Rachel tried a couple of obvious possibilities, like Vickie’s name in various versions, puns on “quantum” and the like, while Vickie and I searched the desk.

            Then Rachel shifted back to Moreland’s desktop and started clicking thorugh files while Vickie and me—and eventually David—went through the drawers. He kept murmuring protests about Moreland’s privacy, but Vickie ignored him. 

            Of course, Rachel found it first. In a file called “Victoria,” he kept a document named “Alpha.” It contained a long list of passwords. 

“Yahoo!” Rachel pumped her fist. “Let’s see what we’ve . . .” She scanned down the page and found the word Qport23al.

“Not very imaginative.” But Rachel copied it, went back into the Q Services website, and pasted it into QPortal link.

The next page had a series of links. Rachel clicked the first one:

A barren landscape. Jagged cliffs in the distance, sand and rock up close. For a moment it looked like a still image, but then I saw the sand drift in a soft breeze. A red sun hung low on the horizon.

Rachel went back and clicked the next link. 

This showed a man, naked, bleeding, chained to a wall. Thin ribs and a sunken stomach. His head rolled back and his lips moved: HELP ME.

It was Chip Shannon.

“What the—” I fought back a surge of nausea before I could vomit my breakfast all over the desk. “What the hell was your father doing?”

“Oh god.” Vickie looked at David. “Did you know—what did you know?”

“You know how he’s been!” David shook his head. “It’s been weeks since I’ve been able to get him to focus on work. If this bitch got into his head—”

Rachel sighed as they argued, and clicked another link.

Clouds in the sky. A calm blue sea underneath. Birds spinning in the air—until Rachel zoomed in.

Not birds. Angels.

Male and female, naked like Chip, but smiling as the wings on their shoulders adjusted to the warm currents. Two of them flew to each other and kissed. Others circled around them, gazing down at the ocean or up into the sky, spreading their arms and lifting their heads as if they were singing—

Rachel backed out of the link. “This one is bullshit.”

“But that was Chip.” I focused on breathing, One, two, three . . .

I leaned down and planted my elbows on the desk. There were more than ten links on the screen. I took the mouse from Rachel and clicked another one.

This was the howling demon site. Right now they were somewhat quiet, sitting cross-legged, heads down, a few of them kicking or elbowing the demon next to them.

Then a head popped up, right in front of whatever camera was watching them. Its red eyes were wide as a pair of soccer balls, and its fangs dripped with spit. It howled, punched a fist, then jumped back, its arms and legs whirling like whips.

In an instant, the rest of the demons were awake too. Screaming, jumping up and down, clawing at each other—they didn’t care if they were hurting each other. Blood spurted. All they showed was rage.

Just like before.

Vickie and David were still arguing. “I’ve been trying to keep this place going!” His face was getting red. “I didn’t know what he was up to, locked in here all day while you were running the business—”

“Someone had to!” She lurched back and took a breath, running a hand through her black hair. “Look, you two—what’s going on here? Yeah, my father was trying to contact—something. And I guess he did it. If any of this is real.”

“We know demons are real.” Rachel had been possessed more than once. My fault, but she didn’t hold it against me. Most of the time. “But those angels are definitely bad CGI.”

“Wait a minute.” Vickie grabbed my arm. “What are you talking about? Yeah, my father was trying to contact—something. And I guess he did it. But—where is he?”

David slid behind the chair to hold Vickie’s shoulders. “We’ll figure this out, Vick. Hold yourself together.”

I stood up, wishing for some water. “We’ve got to find Chip. And figure out how Querelle is accessing other dimensions. Unless this really is some sort of scam to milk your father out of his money—”

“Money?” Vickie snorted. “We’re running on fumes here. I’m checking the floor for nickels and dimes.”

Rachel sighed. “This is going to take a while.” She leaned forward. “Give me some space. And some water. Maybe a sandwich. I missed lunch.”

“David, do it. Whatever they want.” Vickie staggered against the desk. “Just, you know—find my father.”

Ninety minutes later I looked up from my phone. The demons were quiet again. I had the link to Chip. He was sleeping, sagging against the chains. I forced myself not to look too long.

            I looked up. “Uh, sorry. Anything?”

            “What do you expect?” Rachel jabbed her fingers on the keyboard. “Like I said, the whole site is hosted offshore. Maybe Russia or Eastern Europe. Geography is my weakest Jeopardy!category. I think I can get a phone call to Querelle, but that means risking this whole computer getting hacked and burned.”

            I stood up, my legs unsteady from crouching too long. “It’s a tech company.” I looked at David. “You must have a few laptops they can spare.”

            Vickie lurched up and stalked from the office. David followed her. A few minutes later they came back, a laptop in her arms. “Here.” She set it on the desk. “We’ve got a dozen different accounts on 20 different modems, so we can let this one burn if we have to.” She wiped a hand across her forehead. The office was warm, and we were all kind of sweaty. “Use this password.” She dropped her phone on the desk.

            “It should have all the virus protections.” David watched as Rachel opened the lid and booted it up. “I suppose we can afford a new one if they don’t work. Maybe.”

In a few minutes, she’d set up to access QServices, and Moreland’s account. “Okay, here goes.” She shut down Moreland’s computer and tapped a few keys on the laptop. “Setting up a Skype connection.”

            Vickie leaned over my shoulder. David stood at the door, as if guarding it from the other employees—or keeping them safe from the office.

            At first the screen was blank. Rachel adjusted the sound. After a few moments, we made contact—a young blond woman with a puzzled look on her face, as if she’d never had to take a Skype call before—or any kind of call. “Hello, this is, uh, Q Services? How can I—may I help you?”

            “This is Tom Jurgen, calling from Charles Moreland’s account.” I tried to hold my voice steady. “I need to speak with Querelle.”

            “I am not—let me see—” Her accent was Italian. Her hair fell over her face as she leaned down to tap her keyboard. “I am sorry—your name again?”

            Vickie pushed me to one side. “Victoria Moreland. My father is Charles Moreland, and he’s spent thousands of dollars with your service. We want to talk to Querelle, right now.”

            “Uh, please wait . . .” The screen froze. 

            I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”

            She shrugged. “Beats working in the office.”

            Two minutes passed. Three. Then . . .

            A woman popped onto the screen. Her face was thinner than in her profile picture on the home page, and her hair was mostly gray. She wore a black blouse and a long gold necklace that dangled on her chest.

            “Yes?” She smiled. “I’m Querelle. How can I help you?”

            Vickie leaned in. “Where is my father, you bitch?”

            “Oh.” Querelle tilted a shoulder. “He’s right here. Give me a second . . .”

            The screen split. To one side, Charles Moreland sat in a chair. A throne, really, made from huge black bones. Dinosaurs? Demons? Whatever. He wore a blazer spattered with blood, and a loose tie loose pulled to one side. His blue shirt was streaked with sweat.

            Demons danced around him.

            “Dad?” Vickie grabbed the edge of the screen. “Dad! Are you there? What’s going on?”

            “V-Victoria?” He leaned forward, peering at something in front of him. “Is that you?”

            “Dad?” Her voice was a hoarse shout. “What are you doing there? What’s going on? What are those—things?”

            Moreland sat back, crossing a leg over his knee. “They obey me.”

            “Dad!” Vickie pounded the desk hard enough to shake the laptop. “Get out of there! This is crazy!”

            “This is where I belong.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t find your mother. Now I’m in Hell. But it’s better here . . .” He spread an arm. “Look at them. They worship me.”

            Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven? I shuddered.

            Querelle closed the split screen. Moreland disappeared. Vickie groaned and lowered her head, sobbing.

            “We’re done now.” Querelle moved a hand forward to quit the connection.

            “No, we’re not!” Who was shouting? Oh, yeah. Me. “Wait a minute!” 

            Rachel clutched my arm. Querelle paused and flicked her eyes across the screen. “Who are you?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I lurched up. “You’ve got my friend Chip in chains. Maybe Moreland wants to be there—”

            Vickie shrieked. “No! Get him out”!

            I hoped we could. Somehow. One problem at a time. “What’s he doing there? How did he get there? And Moreland? What the hell are you doing?”

            “Hell.” Querelle licked her bottom lip. “That’s what I’m doing. Do you want to come and see?”

             Rachel punched my shoulder. Hard. “Don’t answer her.” She shot her fingers across the keyboard. “I can shut this down—”

            “No!” Vickie grabbed her hand. “Then we can’t get him out of there! Stop!”

            “Bitch. You don’t understand.” Rachel swatted her away. “I think I can—wait, wait—Oh, goddamnit, Tom. . .”

            Too late. I clutched the edge of the desk, my body shaking. Oh no. Oh hell—

Reign in Hell, Part Five

I’ve traveled to alien dimensions before. It usually feels like a seizure, shaking my body and twisting my nerves, cold air rushing through my body. I gasped, waiting for it to be over. Rachel . . . Rachel . . . Rachel would get me out. Somehow. 

            I tumbled on a bloodstained floor and fought to sit up. My legs shook. My shoulders shivered. I rubbed my eyes. My neck was stiff.

A demon yanked at my leg.

I twisted and kicked. My heel hit the demon’s face, but it didn’t stop him. He leaned down, jaws wide, ready to take a chomp out of my skinny ankle.

“Tom?” Chip Shannon leaned down, blood leaking down his arms from the shackles on his wrists. “Oh, god, help me . . .”

“I’m trying!” I kicked again. The demon grinned at me, fangs dripping with drool.

            Then a voice thundered: “Stop!”

            The demon froze. I looked up. 

Charles Moreland peered down from his throne, his eyes as red as the demons. “They obey me.” He smiled.

“W-what are you doing here?” My voice cracked. 

He sighed, “I was looking for my wife in Heaven. I couldn’t find her, so I came here.” He looked past my shoulder.

I turned, and saw a horde of demons thronged behind me. Most were sleeping. A few were eying me and Chip hungrily, whipping long tongues around their lipless jaws.

What were they? The decayed, corrupt bodies of sinners sentenced to Hell? I didn’t even believe in God, much less Heaven and Hell—although I’ve got an open mind about Satan.

I looked back at Moreland and relied on my reporter’s and detective’s instinct to keep asking questions. At least until the demons had me for lunch. “So what do you want?”

Moreland sat down. “I’ve only been here a few days. Maybe I’ll lead them back into the real world. Or send them back one by one to possess human souls. I still don’t know everything they can do. But they’re desperate to get out.”

I knew the feeling. “How did you bring Chip here? And me?”

“You were watching the feed. That was easy. Your friend somehow found the feed, so he was connected. That took a little more work before we could pull him here.”

Oh god. What if he brought Rachel? I had to end this somehow. Fast. 

Unfortunately, my superpowers begin and finish with asking questions. So I kept it up. “We? You and Querelle? What’s she doing?”

 “She said I could be powerful here.” He shrugged. “This is what I was trying to find—a portal to other dimensions. When I gave up on finding Laura . . .”

Despair. It’s an irresistible impulse, and the devil feeds on it. “Wait, think! What does Querelle want? What if she’s just using you?”

He grinned. “What if I’m just using her?”

“Why isn’t she here?” 

Moreland tilted her head. “We’re working together. She wants to explore—”

“Then where is she? What does this place do to you?” I looked at Chip. Then back at the demon horde. 

Maybe—

“Are you going to turn into one of them?” I jabbed a finger. 

It was just an idea. Maybe the wrong one, maybe a bad one. But Moreland tilted his head, as if he hadn’t thought about it before. He was a scientist. They like asking questions too. If I got his attention . . .

I felt dizzy, so I kept asking questions: “How long have you been here? What do you eat? What do you drink? What if they turn on you? What if—”

“Shut up!” Moreland stood up again, wiping a hand across his forehead. His jacket and shirt were soaked with sweat. “I’m in charge here! These creatures listen to me!” He swung a finger. “RISE UP!”

The demons woke. Most of them, at least. They jostled each other, snarling, ready to fight. Some of them turned to gaze at Moreland—and me.

“They will rip you apart if I tell them to.” Moreland leaned down. “Show a little respect.”

Frankly, they didn’t seem that interested in Moreland. A fight broke out, and suddenly dozens of the demons were struggling with each other, their fangs flashing, claws slashing, arms and legs swinging in every direction as they built a pile of tangled, bleeding bodies. None of them dead, though. Still twitching—ready to get back up and join the battle.

Maybe some would obey Moreland. Most just looked like they wanted to go crazy with each other. And, okay, Maybe me.

I stumbled to my knees, already exhausted after being here only a few minutes. I was hot and thirsty—this was Hell, after all—and close to giving up. Just like they wanted me to.

But my question had apparently stabbed a little doubt into Moreland. He stalked toward me. “You can’t die here. No matter how hungry or thirsty you get, you can’t starve. They can eat the skin off your body, break all your arms and legs, snap your spine, and you’ll never—”

“I get it, I get it!” I leaned back to look up at him. “Eternal torment. That’s sort of the mission statement of Hell, right? Just ask Querelle—who really rules in Hell?” I managed a weak smirk at the rhyme. “I sort of remember a guy called Satan.”

Behind me I heard the demons shouting with rage. I didn’t want to look back.

Chip struggled to lift his head. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to—do this to you . . .” His eyes closed. He couldn’t die, but he could apparently pass out.

Moreland stomped a foot. “We’ll settle this, asshole. Querelle!”

I slumped on the ground. Hard dirt, smelling like a toilet. Moreland stomped his foot again. “Querelle!”

The ground rumbled beneath me. I lurched up. Chip’s head dangled. Blood seeped from half-dried wounds in his neck. I tried to turn around. Querelle? Would she save us? Or condemn us to more torture? I almost didn’t care. Almost.

But it wasn’t her.

I blinked, then closed my eyes. Blinding fire burned my eyelids. I covered my head. Okay, okay, maybe this was it. Even if I didn’t die. Ever. I thought about Rachel, my mother, my brother and his kids, my father—he’s dead—and Chip. And then Rachel again. 

A thunderous voice boomed in my ears. I couldn’t make out any words. I went fetal, trembling. This couldn’t go on forever, could it? I hoped not, even if it meant—

Then I was falling. As if the ground had ripped open beneath me. Falling into a cold dark void, my body shaking, tumbling head to foot, until—

“You jerk!” Rachel slapped my face. “Open your eyes! Talk to me! Or I swear to god—”

            I grabbed her arm before she could hit me again. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

            She kissed my forehead. “Asshole. I was worried!”

            I rolled over on the rug. Chip lay next to me, his breath shallow. Someone had dropped a blue couch cushion over his crotch.

            “Hi, Tom.” He shifted his body with a groan. “Good to see you again.”

             “Yeah.” I sat up. “You okay?”

            Behind him, David was doing CPR on Moreland as Vickie clutched his wrist. “Come on, come on, come on,” she chanted. “Come on, dad, come on—”

            “We could see you.” Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the laptop. “We couldn’t hear much. Then there was this burst of light, and it just went black. For a minute I thought the thing was fried, but it’s still working.”

            “What about Querelle?”

            She shook her head. “Gone. The feed’s just down.”

            Paramedics arrived a few minutes later. One team looked at Chip and me, the others went to Moreland. Chip asked for water—he was probably dehydrated. I wasn’t injured, except for a few bruises.

            One of the paramedics took Vickie to a corner of the room. They talked in whispers, and Vickie started to cry. 

            The other paramedics stopped working on Moreland. 

            Chip gulped some water and managed to stand up, although the paramedics insisted on putting him on a gurney. I managed to convince Buck, a young African American paramedic, that I was okay to go home on my own, and after taking my pulse and flaring a penlight in my eyes, he clapped my shoulder. “Get some rest. And lots of water.”

            The other crew pulled Moreland’s body through the door. Vickie followed him. 

David looked at Rachel and me, his face pale. “You need to leave. I’m sorry.”

            Suited me fine. Rachel helped me through the office and out to the car.

            “I’ll drive.” Rachel snapped her seat belt. “So what happened?”

            I shuddered. “I think I saw Satan.”

Back at the apartment I took a shower, drank a lot of water, then opened a beer and told Rachel everything.

            “Wow.” She folded her arms. “You talked them down? You silver-tongued devil.”

            “I wasn’t thinking, just talking.” I sipped my beer. “If it hadn’t worked, I’d probably still be there.”

            “We would have found some way to get you out. Vickie was in a frenzy.” She sighed. “It’s too bad. I mean, Moreland sounds like a nut—a dangerous one. But it sucks to lose your dad.”

            “I know.” I’d lost mine years ago, and I still dream about talking to him.

            My phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s, uh, Dave Mahoney.”

            Uh-oh. Was he calling to chew me out? File a lawsuit? I tried to stay calm. “How are you and Vickie holding up?”

            “She’s pretty—ruined. Wrecked. I just wanted to call and tell you we’re sorry. She actually told me to call you. For all the trouble.”

            “No problem.” I was lying, but—“I’ll send that check back. I didn’t really do any work for you—”

            “No, you got kidnapped, and it was Charles’s fault. Keep it.”

            I wasn’t sure I’d cash it, but that was generous. “Can I ask one question?”

            David sighed. “I guess.”

            “How did Vickie’s mother die?”

            Long hesitation. “She, uh—committed suicide. I think that Charles didn’t—he was abusive to her. Vickie doesn’t talk about her much.”

            I nodded. Maybe that’s why Moreland ended up looking for her in Hell. “None of my business, but thank you.”

            “Thank you.” He hung up.

The phone buzzed again almost immediately. Chip Shannon. “Hey, Tom. They’re letting me out of the hospital. Thanks for getting me out of—there.”

            “Is your wife okay? She was pretty frantic. But she was a big help.”

            “She’s here.” I heard her voice. “She says thanks too.”

            “What were doing on Moreland? Did you know about—the demons?”

            “Hell, no.” He laughed. “I’m going to think of that place every time I say ‘hell’ now. No, I was just checking out the business, because it seemed fishy—doing quantum computing from a storefront on the west side? I got a tip from one of his clients. Anyway, one thing led to another—you know how that goes—”

            I chcuckled. “Too well.”

            “—and I accidentally logged into the Hellcam or whatever they call it. I knew I was in trouble, and I thought of you. You still have a reputation, you know.”

            Rachel smirked. I sipped my beer. “Yeah. Should have been an accountant like my father.”

            “Whatever. Let’s get together sometimes. Not in Hell.”

            “Definitely. To both.”

# # #

Message from Beyond

Vanessa Scott was murdered years ago by a serial murderer known as the Left Foot Killer. So why is she sending messages from beyond the grave to her ex-boyfriend? Tom and Rachel hunt for the answers—and confront a serial killer.

Message from Beyond, Part One

Justin Cornell, sitting next to me in the coffee shop booth, opened his laptop and went to his Facebook profile.

            “That’s her.” He pointed to a private message, then clicked the link. “Vanessa Scott.” Her profile pic showed a young, pretty blond woman in a yellow blouse. The messages were pretty mundane:

            

Vanessa:Hi Justin! What have you been up to?

Justin:Who is this?

Vanessa:It’s Vanessa. Remember me?

            

“Okay.” This didn’t seem like anything you’d hire a private detective for. Stalking, maybe? “What’s the problem?”

            Cornell sighed. “She’s dead.”

I sipped my coffee. “Someone probably hijacked her account.”

            Cornell, in his 30s, had short black hair and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. His eyes looked nervous behind thin lenses. “She knows stuff about me no one else knows.”

            I shrugged. “Girlfriends share.”

            He shook his head. “It’s something else. She died two years ago. She was murdered.”

            That was different. But not too different, considering the number of various undead creatures I’ve dealt with in my career. I’m a private detective, doing background checks mostly and tailing cheating spouses, but some of my cases tend to be—offbeat. “Who killed her?”

            His hand trembled as he lifted his latté for a sip. “I don’t know. It was a serial killer, and he never got caught.”

            Great. I’ve tangled with vampires, werewolves, and the occasional demon from Hell. They were bad enough—but humans can be a lot more vicious.

But a job was a job, and it kept the cable bill paid. I nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out. But I’ll need access to your profile.”

            That made him more uncomfortable. Understandably. “I—I guess I can give you my password. But I’ll want to change it after you’ve looked at everything.”

            “Of course. Give me until—five today?” I tried for a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry. I have to deal with lots of confidential information. Unless I find something criminal on there—”

            “No, no.” Cornell shook his head again. “Nothing like that. I called you because people said you were—you handle strange cases like this.”

            “Yeah.” Like I said, I’m not like most private detectives.

            He wrote me a check, then picked up his latté. I watched him walk away. He limped on his left foot.

Back home I headed for my office, powered up my computer, and went to Zuckerberg-land.

            “Checking your profile?” Rachel, my girlfriend, leaned in behind me, a hand on my shoulder. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and slightly psychic powers. All nice things. Plus, we live together, which has its benefits. 

            I only keep a bare profile on Facebook for the sake of having access to social media. Not even a picture. “It’s a case. Dead girl sending messages from beyond. The usual thing.” I typed in Cornell’s password.

            She snorted. “It’s one of her girlfriends getting back at him for being an asshole.”

            “Probably.” I found the beginning of Cornell’s thread with Vanessa:

Vanessa:Hi Justin! What have you been up to? 

Cornell:Who is this?

Vanessa:It’s Vanessa. Remember me?

Cornell:She’s dead. 

Vanessa:I had to go away. It hurt a lot. But yeah, I’m dead.

Cornell:This isn’t funny, whoever you are.

Vanessa:It’s me. Don’t you remember our first time? My place, and the purple candles, and . . .

I skimmed. Whoever was writing did seem to know a lot about Cornell’s, uh, preferences. I reminded myself that I’m a professional, with lots of experience following and occasionally spying on cheating spouses of all sexes and inclinations. At least Cornell and Vanessa weren’t into anything too kinky.

            Cornell got down to it in a later thread:

Cornell:What happened? Who killed you?

Vanessa:Don’t know. It was dark. He broke my ankle. It was wet. Bag over my head.

Cornell:Why are you talking to me now? How?

Vanessa:Find him. Find him. Findhimfindhimfindhim

I sat back, staring at the screen.

            Several questions came quickly: Was this really Vanessa? On a vengeance quest from beyond the grave to find her killer? Why hadn’t Cornell led with that when we met? I used to be a reporter—that would have been my lead.

            Which led to the obvious question: Was Cornell the killer?

            On the one hand, it didn’t make sense. Why would he hire me to find out what was going on? On the other hand, if he didn’t really believe Vanessa’s ghost was talking to him, he might want to find out who was really sending him messages so he could protect himself. 

            I checked the time. We’d met at noon, and it was 1:45 right now. I had a few hours before he changed his password.

            So I sent a message to Vanessa as Cornell:

Me:Hi, Vanessa. What happened that night?

I waited, not sure how quickly she’d reply. So I started researching her murder in another window. But after two minutes seconds, she came back:

Vanessa:Don’t remember. Going out with friends. Then—nothing. 

Traumatic experiences can erase memories. Being murdered certainly fit. I replied:

Me:What friends?

Vanessa:Traci, Meredith, Robyn and I don’t remember anyone else.

The names were hyperlinked to other profiles. I made notes. Then:

Me:Have you messaged anyone else?

Vanessa:Just you.

Me:Why me?

Vanessa:I remember you.

Great. What did that mean? “Gotta go,” I typed, then closed out of the account. 

            Now what? I started searching the internet furiously.

            “What’s going on?” Rachel turned in her chair. We share an office. Maybe she heard my fingers slapping the keys, or maybe her psychic powers picked up something.

            “I’m researching a serial killer. Hang on.”

            “Oh, for god’s sake.” If she was close, she would have slugged me. Hard. “Vampires and contagious fungus and ancient Greek Furies aren’t enough for you? Now we have to track down monsters from the real world?”

            “I’m not trying to track him down. I just need to know—oh, hell.”

            A dozen articles on Vanessa Scott’s murder popped up on my screen. And lots more, because she was one of a half-dozen victims of a serial murderer dubbed “The Left Foot Killer.”

            I remembered the headlines. Over the course of a year and a half, seven women had been kidnapped, beaten, killed, and left in alleys and parks around Chicago. One common denominator—they’d all been found with their left feet or ankles or legs broken. 

            Just like Vanessa had said.

            “Give me a few minutes.” I leaned forward, gulped some water, and started reading as fast as I could.

            Most serial killers target women on the fringe—prostitutes, the homeless, people who won’t be missed. I knew that from Mindhunterand other TV shows, plus my own crime reporting. If they were reasonably careful, it could take a long time for anyone to make a connection, because the victims usually didn’t have a lot of people to care about them.

Not this guy. His victims were young professional women, and the left foot thing caught everyone’s attention. After the second or third murder, people were demanding answers and action—family members, politicians, and even some reporters I knew from when I worked at the Chicago Tribune. Because the victims were all young, most of them white, and generally attractive, the murders attracted a lot more publicity than the usual crop. 

It wasn’t fair, obviously. But that didn’t matter, because they never caught the guy.

The victims hadn’t been sexually assaulted. Which was unusual in itself. Just beaten, their broken bodies left just out of sight.

My stomach churned. I’d reported on dozens of cases like these as a journalist. I’d had to learn to be objective and dispassionate when writing up the story. But like most reporters and cops I knew, I’d never learned to accept it. 

            Vampires weren’t the only monsters stalking the world.

            I rubbed my eyes and then picked up my phone. I wished for Dudovich, the cop I’d sparred with for years. We’d never really become friends, but over the years we developed a kind of trust—even though she thought I was crazy for seeing vampires, zombies, and other supernatural terrors. She’d come to see the same things, but she remained skeptical when I reported anything paranormal to her or her colleagues.

But she’d been killed in the vampire wars years ago. She used to abuse me, but after a while I kind of liked it. I still miss her.

            “Who are you calling?” Rachel walked across the office.

            “Who do you think?” Fortunately I had other—friends? Allies? Contacts? People who would at least talk to me before hanging up?—on the CPD. The phone buzzed. Twice. 

Then detective Anita Sharpe picked up. “Jurgen? I was having a nice quiet day here without vamps or demons or anything supernatural. Just the usual drive-by shooting this morning and now a husband-and-wife murder/suicide thing, although I don’t who killed who first at this point. This better be good.”

            Sharpe was part of the CPD’s unofficial Vampire Squad. It had been set up during the vampire wars, but in the last few years or so vamp activity had simmered down around the city. Now she was mostly back at her regular job, investigating trouble and doing her best to keep the mean streets safe.

            I heard traffic around her. “Okay, I guess you’re not at your desk. It’s about the Left Foot Killer.”

            “Leftie?” Sharpe groaned. “That was years ago. I don’t have time for this right now. What do you want?”

            I hesitated. I couldn’t just give up my client based on speculation involving a Facebook ghost. “Did you ever catch him?” 

            “It would have been in the papers, right?” She shouted at someone—“Hey! Don’t touch that!” Then she came back. “Okay, sometimes we get a perp on something else, but we can’t link him to an open case. So he goes to jail and we count that a win. But I never told you that, okay? Anyway, I don’t know about Leftie right now. Maybe—just maybe—I can look it up later. You going to tell me what this is about?”

            “Not yet.” I bit my lip. I needed more information before I could think about turning over my client. The cops wouldn’t care, of course. I only hoped Sharpe could wait.

            “Let me know. I’ll be back at the office soon.” She hung up.

Message from Beyond, Part Two

Cornell called me at 5:05 p.m. “I’m changing my password. Did you get what you need?”

            “For now. But I have to ask you a few more questions.”

            I heard him swallow. “Go ahead.”

            “The night she was killed, Vanessa was going out with three women— Traci, Meredith, and Robyn. Do you know them?”

            “Sort of. We hung out together a few times. What are you getting at?”

            “Do you think any of them could be impersonating Vanessa online?”

            He thought for a moment. “I don’t really know. Meredith, maybe. They were pretty close. But I still don’t think she would have told her—I mean, you read everything, right?”

            “Don’t worry, I’ve seen almost everything, and I can keep my mouth shut about it all. Can I contact these women?”

            “Uh, I guess . . . what are you going to say?”

            “Just some general questions about that night. And maybe about you.”

            Long pause. “What about me?”

            “If they’ve been in contact with you. I still think it’s more likely that someone is playing ‘Let’s Pretend.’ If that’s what’s going on, a straight question might shake loose an answer.” It had worked for me before. Most people aren’t great at lying, unless they’re complete sociopaths. And years as a reporter and a P.I. had made me reasonably good at picking up on inconsistencies, even if I wasn’t psychic like Rachel.

            “I just don’t think that’s what’s going on. It just—sounds like Vanessa.” He took a deep breath. “But okay, sure. Go ahead. Just—be careful, all right?”

            “Absolutely.” I looked at Rachel. She was sitting next to me, listening. “One more question?” I felt like Lieutenant Columbo.

            “Fine.”

            “When I met you today, you were limping on your left foot. How did that happen?”

            “Wh-what?” He was silent for a moment, and then he laughed. “I sprained my ankle playing softball last week. It’s getting better.”

            I still wondered why he hadn’t mentioned that his girlfriend had been murdered by Leftie—as Sharpe called him. But this wasn’t the right time to push. “Okay, thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

            We hung up. I looked at Rachel. “Well?”

            She slugged my shoulder. “You know I can’t pick up anything over the phone! Facetime, maybe, but . . .” She scooted her chair away. “Maybe he’s telling the truth. People get hurt all the time, and with only two legs, it’s 50-50 that he’d injure the foot that this guy seemed to like breaking.”

            “Yeah.” I wondered why the killer fixated on that. But better minds that mine had probably probed that. Sharpe might know their theories, but she wouldn’t be happy if I called her now. I hoped she was home fixing dinner—or at least at her desk typing out reports.

            Speaking of dinner—“Let me send a few emails, and then I’ll start the pasta.”

My phone buzzed at 2:37 a.m. Rachel kicked me as I rolled over. “Let it go to voice mail.”

            I blinked, trying to focus my eyes. Sharpe. “Just a—” I clicked the button. “Hi, detective! I was just dreaming about you.”

            “Shut up.” Her voice was deadly. “There’s another Leftie murder.”

            Hell. I rolled over and planted my feet on the floor. “Who—what—where?” My feet searched for their slippers.

            “It’s an ongoing crime scene. Don’t come down here—not that I’m telling you where it is. But you’re going to get a call tomorrow morning. Better wake up early.” She hung up.

            “What?” Rachel sat up. “Who were you dreaming about? It better not be—”

            “That was a joke.” I staggered from the bed. “Another Left Foot murder.” 

            “Wait, huh?” She threw the covers off. “The last one was, what, two years ago?”

            Yeah. “And now, right after Vanessa Scott comes back from the dead to talk to her ex-boyfriend . . .” I shuddered. “Why can’t serial killers keep normal business hours? It’s not like they’re vampires. Okay, that makes no sense, but still . . .”

            I splashed some cold water over my face in the kitchen, grabbed a Coke, and headed for my computer. 

            The early news reports were sparse. No screaming headlines, just a few brief items about the murder of a body found next to a dumpster. Left ankle broken. #leftiereturns was already trending on Twitter.

            Damn it. I swigged my Coke. Then I went onto Facebook.

            Cornell had changed his password. I didn’t blame him. But I’d sent Vanessa a friend request.

            And she’d accepted. Whoever she was.

            I sent a message: “Who are you?” I didn’t expect a fast response, but I waited, tapping my foot on the floor.

            But two minutes later: “I’m Vanessa. Who are you?”

            

Me:Tom Jurgen. You accepted my friend request.

            Vanessa:Why are you talking to me?

            Me:I’m a private detective. Justin Cornell hired me.

            Vanessa:Why?

Me:Because Vanessa Scott died two years ago. You can’t be her.

Vanessa:It hurt.

Me:Who killed you?

Vanessa:I don’t know.

Me:Vanessa was murdered by the Left-Foot Killer. And there’s been another murder tonight.

I waited ten minutes. No more responses. I sent my phone number. Maybe Traci would see it and contact me.

            Rachel came into the office in a T-shirt and panties. “Should I just make coffee?”

            “No.” I couldn’t think of anything to do right now. “I’m going back to bed.”