Lightning Strike, Part One

Harold Mortime struggled with his umbrella as the chilly rain whipped around him. Only two more blocks to home. Couldn’t find a cab, damn it. His raincoat was drenched and his socks were soaked. Only two more blocks.

            Thunder rumbled. Mortime paused to pull his hat down on his forehead. A burst of lightning flashed overhead. He blinked, eyes twitching. He tried to remember the equation for figuring how close lightning struck after thunder boomed. Whatever. That had been close. 

A car zoomed by, splashing his leg.  Goddamn it. One more block. Just one more block. Then dry slippers, a warm sweater, a drink—

            The roar of thunder pounded his face like a boxing glove. White light seared his eyes in the same instant like a light bulb bursting in his eyes. Electric shock stabbed at his skin like a shower of needles in the rain.

            For a single, endless moment Harold Mortime was weightless, his body floating in space. The umbrella fell from his numb fingers. He felt his head hit the wet sidewalk. The clouds convulsed over his head, black like a dark sea coming to drown him as the icy rain pounded his face.

            Oh god, he found it, Mortime thought for one last fleeting moment. How did he—           

            Then the lightning flashed again, and everything went black.

 

I sipped some coffee, checked my email, and started on a report of a surveillance from the night before. Being a private detective can something be boring work. And wet. 

It had been raining in Chicago for a week and a half, like monsoon season in southeast Asia. I’d tailed a subject named Alan Lavoy fourteen blocks through cold pouring rain last night until he’d ducked into a house in Wicker Park, then waited two hours under a bus stop shelter down the street, watching and waiting. When he came out, he got into a Lyft and vanished in the rain. 

Why couldn’t he do that in the first place? But then I wouldn’t have been able to tail him, so it worked out, even though I was soaking wet by the time I found a cab. Rachel was watching Doom Patrol when I got home, so I changed into dry sweats and watched the next episode with her until I fell asleep on the sofa.

Rachel has short red hair and hazelnut eyes, and psychic powers that help me out when a case takes a supernatural turn, which it does all too often. We share an office in our apartment. 

She walked into the office at 9:15. Instead of her usual morning work look—sneakers and jeans—she was barefoot, in a black T-shirt and panties. 

I raised an eyebrow. “Good morning.”

“Don’t gawk. You’re not a teenager.” She sank into her chair with a yawn. “I’ve got a Zoom meeting at 11, I don’t want to sit here in my good suit for two hours until then and get coffee on it. I’ll get dressed later.” But she gave me a wink. “Plus, it’s fun to give you a thrill sometimes.”

“Good thing my ten o’clock is phone only or you’d give my client a thrill. She’s female, but you never know.” 

“That’s what backgrounds are for, you know?” She sipped her coffee. “Okay, I’m working now. Don’t bother me. Don’t leer at me. Too much.” She swung to her computer.

I refilled my coffee at 9:55 and waited for my call—a report on last night’s surveillance. The client, Lenore Grayson, was a lawyer representing a woman in a divorce case. They were trying to get a handle on the husband’s assets. The wife was sure he owned property around the city he’d never told her about, aside from a chain of coffeeshops he owned. So I was supposed to tail him a few nights a week to see where if he had any secret lairs the wife didn’t know about.

My phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Hi, Tom.” It was Grayson. “The morning has gone crazy. Julie Lavoy’s boyfriend Warren died last night.”

“Oh my god.” Julie Lavoy was the woman getting the divorce. Her ex was Alan Lavoy. “What happened?”

“He was struck by lightning.” Grayson sighed. “Crazy, right? Just getting out of his car to meet her for dinner. Julie’s, uh, not in any shape to talk about things right now.”

“Can’t blame her.” At least it hadn’t been a drive-by shooting, but that probably wasn’t any consolation. “Anyway, Lavoy walked around to all his stores in the pouring rain, and then he ended up in a house in Wicker Park, stayed there two hours, then took a Lyft home. Meanwhile, I got soaked. Can I expense a new raincoat? Not that I’m complaining—”

“You get paid rain or shine, gumshoe.” Grayson chuckled. 

“I’m just saying. Anyway, the house is owned by a guy Harold Mortime, according to tax records. I’m looking into him just for the heck of it, but it doesn’t sound like we can add it to Lavoy’s assets for the case.”

“Okay. Maybe they’re partners in one of his shops. Keep checking those out. Julie wants to take him for everything she can, after catching herpes from him. Oops, I wasn’t supposed to mention that.”

 “Is that why the barista is suing him?” I’d done a pretty through check on Lavoy.

“Can’t tell you. But Julie’s got texts showing cheating, so, you decide.” She chuckled again. “Okay, let’s both get back to work. Ciao.”

We hung up. In addition to Lavoy, I was also looking into investors and partners in his coffeeshop chain—Redburn, from a Herman Melville novel, obviously chosen to duplicate the success of Starbucks from Moby-Dick—and anything else I could find. 

I tried not to glance over at Rachel too much, and then I found something that pulled my attention away from her—for a moment. “That’s weird.”

“What? Is it my butt?” She whirled around in her chair. “Stop looking at me!”

“Not your butt.” I leaned back and pointed at my screen. “The lawyer’s client, her boyfriend? Got struck by lightning and killed last night.”

“So what? I mean, that’s sad, but—”

“No, what’s weird is that I tailed her soon-to-be-ex-husband to a house in Wicker Park last night in that thunderstorm, and the guy who owned the house? He was killed by lightning last week.”

“Whoa.” Her eyebrows rose. “That’s kind of weird. Anything to do with the divorce case?”

“I don’t know. Yet.” I turned back to my computer.

“Okay.” Rachel stood up. “I have to go dress.”

“Need some help?”

“Don’t follow me!” She punched my shoulder on the way out. I watched her leave, sighed, and went back to work.

Harold Mortime was a retired professor of meteorology, which seemed ironic. Divorced, 67, he’d had a blog and podcast about weather. The only connection I could find was that Lavoy had attended the same university—U of Illinois—but he’d majored in business. I emailed Grayson to ask Julie about it when she had a chance. Then I went onto other leads.

Rachel came back in a white blouse and blue blazer for her meeting. She twirled around. “This okay? Professional enough?” She was in snug jeans. “I thought about not wearing pants. But I might have to stand up.” 

“Darn.” I turned and tried to focus on work.

I found two other businesses Lavoy was involved with, through partners in his Redburn shops. One was a Mexican restaurant, and the other some sort of IT consultancy. I didn’t know how this might affect the outcome of the divorce, but Grayson could sort the assets out.

Two hours later I was ready for lunch and Rachel was finishing up her meeting when my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Mr. Jurgen? This is Julie Lavoy. Do you have a minute?”

I hadn’t spoken to her directly before—my client was Lenore Grayson. But I couldn’t see anything wrong with talking. “Of course. I’m sorry for—about your—loss.” Considering how often I talk to grieving husbands, wives, and parents, I should have said it better, but condolences are always awkward.

“Thank you.” Her voice was calm and controlled. “It’s about—Lenore told me about Harold Mortime. I remember the name. Alan talked about him, and he and his friend Marcus, I guess they took some classes from him in college. I don’t know anything about him. But I remembered today that a few months ago I got a call from Marcus—Marcus Diego. They were best friends in college. I only knew him a little bit when we were dating and got married, and then I didn’t see him around for a long time. He was asking about Alan. Like he hadn’t heard from him in a while, and he didn’t know about—about the divorce. And he sounded—worried? Nervous? I don’t know. Anyway, I gave him Alan’s new number, and that was it.” 

She paused for breath. “But this thing about Mortime got me wondering. All I have is a phone number, and he didn’t answer when I called him today. Maybe you could find out where he is? If he’s all right? I don’t—I mean, he’s Alan’s friend, but I liked him too.”

She’d been talking fast. I said, “Well, I should check with Lenore. This isn’t directly connected to what I’ve been hired for, but—”

“That’s fine. I can pay you myself, if it’s a problem.”

“All right. Tell me a little more about Marcus?” I reached for my notebook and a pen.

“They were roommates for two years. I met him before we were married. He’s nice. Smokes a lot of weed. It didn’t—they argued sometimes, when he came over or when we went out together. Then it was like they had a falling out six or seven months ago, right around the time—when we were splitting up.  And then I was busy getting divorced. And I met Warren. Just a second.” She paused, and I heard a swallow. “Water. And now Warren’s  . . .” Her voice trailed off.

I changed the subject. “What about Harold Mortime?”

“They talked about him a lot for a while. I guess he was a prof at U of I when they were there. I don’t know how they got together, but they were hanging out sometimes when we were dating. I don’t think I ever met him, or if I did I don’t remember. Alan said his name one time or two when he was arguing with Marcus on the phone.”

“What did they talk about? About Mortime.”

“They were trying to find out where he was. I guess he dropped out of sight after he retired. Then they were trying to get him to talk to them. I don’t know what they wanted. Alan never explained it to me. He, uh, kept a lot of secrets. Obviously.” Her voice turned bitter. Then she sighed. “That’s all I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s fine. This gives me something to work with. So you basically just want me to find Marcus and put him in touch with you?”

“Yeah. I just—I have a funny feeling about this. I know that doesn’t make sense—”

“My girlfriend has feelings like that all the time. She’s psychic.” 

That didn’t faze her. “All right. Thank you.”

I got a few more details, and then we hung up. 

Rachel finished her meeting and swung around in her chair. “That’s over.” She stood up, shrugged out of her blazer, and started unbuttoning her blouse. “Lunch?”

“Sure. Got a new angle on the divorce case.”

“Tell me later.” She headed past me to the door, then turned, her blouse open. “You coming or what?”

I jumped up. “On my way.”

Lightning Strike, Part Two

 After, uh, lunch, I went back to my computer again and started looking up Marcus Diego. He had a Facebook page and an Instagram account, but neither one had been updated in nine months or so. His photos showed a young Hispanic man with a beard, along with some friends—including Lavoy—and various small apartments. Also a dog, food, birds, and a few vacation photos.

            His last job had been in a Target, but that ended close to a year ago. His phone went straight to voice mail: “Hi, this is Marcus, I’m doing something else, so leave me a message if you want.” I didn’t, for now. If he hadn’t responded to Julie he probably wouldn’t call me back. I could try again later when I had more to go on.

            Rachel came in, in sweats and a T-shirt. “This is better.” She kissed the top of my head and then dropped into her chair. “Back to work. Darn it.”

            The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, until I had to go tail Alan Lavoy again. “You’re getting out of making dinner again?” Rachel complained as I packed up supplies—drinks, water, an umbrella.

            “Duty calls.” At least it wasn’t raining.

            I started at Lavoy’s office in River North, waiting across the street from a building that housed two art galleries on the ground floor. A light rain fell, making the air muggy. 

            At 5:30 Lavoy walked down the front steps, turned, and headed north. He was tall, lanky, with short black hair and a wide chin. He wore a raincoat and carried a leatherbound briefcase. Like he usually did, Lavoy stopped first at one of his Redburn shops nearby, spending 15 minutes talking to the manager. I watched through a window. Then he left and walked east toward the next. After that he caught a cab that headed north again, and I grabbed a cab and gave the address of the Redburn in Lincoln Park. 

            I’d been following Lavoy for a few days, so I knew his pattern. Until last night, he always went back to his condo on the north side after visiting the last café. Fortunately he stuck to his routine tonight. I caught up with him at the next Redburn, and followed on foot for another two hours. At least I was getting my exercise in.

            We reached one of his last stops, near Wicker Park, by 8:30. I rested on the edge of a big planter in front of the restaurant next door, rain dripping down from green leaves over my shoulders. I was trying not to look inside the coffeeshop, but when Lavoy took a seat at a table in the front window I couldn’t help myself.

Sitting across from Lavoy was Marcus Diego. 

He was wearing the Redburn uniform, a red apron over a brown T-shirt, and a red cap. His scalp was almost bald. A wide nametag was pinned to his chest, and I could see MANAGER under his name. I might have seen him last night, but I didn’t know him then. Now I watched as inconspicuously as I could. I couldn’t risk a picture, but I didn’t need one. I waited until they stood up, then backed away when Lavoy headed for the door. Diego went back behind the counter to take an order.

            I followed Lavoy to one last shop. Then he called a Lyft, so I figured he was going home—not back to the Mortime house. So I turned around and headed back to Diego’s shop. It closed at 10:00. I went in, got a coffee, used the restroom, and called Rachel. When Diego announced closing time I threw my cup in the trash and crossed the street to wait.

            Rain drenched the streets, and my raincoat. No thunder, just clouds and chilly wind. I popped my umbrella as Diego came out, hiding my face as he locked up. He hurried up the street through the pelting drops to a bus stop, ducking into the shelter until the bus came. 

I joined him, shaking my umbrella and hoping he wouldn’t notice me, and we rode the bus several blocks until he pulled the cord and made his way to the rear door. Out on the street the rain was harder, and Diego ran faster until he reached an apartment building and yanked the door open, flinging himself inside.

At least he’d been too busy trying to beat the rain to notice me. I made a note of the address and started looking for a cab.

 

The next day at 4:30 I was in the Wicker Park Redburn with Julie Lavoy. I’d called her at 9:30 to tell her I’d found Marcus Diego, and she told me she wanted someone with her when she talked to him. I remembered her “funny feeling.” I just hoped it didn’t mean trouble. Based on my experience, though, it probably did.

            “Call me,” Rachel had ordered me before leaving. “Before. And after. And during. Is she cute? Maybe I should come too.” She’s got a possessive streak. I assured her I’d be fine alone with another woman for 45 minutes. She didn’t quite believe me, but she went back to work muttering under her breath.

Rain started falling, light but steady, as we entered the café. Two people were in line ahead of us, ordering from a young Black man behind the counter. A middle-aged woman poured coffee and mixed the more exotic blends. Both wore the Redburn uniform, red apron, brown T-shirt, but no cap. Apparently only the manager got to wear a cap. I didn’t see Diego.

            Julie ordered a tall latté. I asked for a small coffee, and then I said, “Is Marcus Diego around? We’re friends.”

            “Uhh . . .” He looked nervous, as if we were cops or process servers. “I think he’s in the bathroom. Take a message?”

            “We’ll wait.” I paid, and we took our coffees to a table.

            Seven minutes later Diego emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on a paper towel. The barista gestured toward us.

            His face froze for a moment, and then he forced a smile. “Julie? How you doing?”

            She stood up and introduced me. Just my name, nothing more. They sat down.

            “I, uh, like I said . . .” Diego sighed. “Sorry about you and Alan.”

“You said you hadn’t seen Alan in years, and now here you are, working at one of his shops?” She crossed her arms.

            “I ran into him in August. I needed a job. What’s going on?” Now Diego was confused.

            “I know Alan went to that guy Mortime’s house the other night.”

            Diego blinked. “Okay. Wait. How do you know that?”

            “I followed him there.” I handed him a card. “Tom Jurgen. I’m working with Ms. Lavoy’s attorney regarding the divorce.”

            He stared at the card, then at me, then at Julie. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Alan can be an asshole sometimes. I know. But what’s that got to do with Harold?”

            “Why were you guys looking for him?” She circled her hands on the table around her latté. “How is it that Alan could just go into his house? After he’s dead?”

            Diego pushed his chair back. “Look, I don’t know. I ran into Alan, he gave me this job, we didn’t—I mean, I heard about Mortime being dead, but—”

            “Did you two talk about it?” I asked. “Ms. Lavoy says you talked about him a lot.”

            He looked over at me, irritated. “I saw it in the paper. Alan mentioned it, but that’s it.”

            “Why were you so interested in him?” I glanced at Julie. She nodded to me. “He was just a prof at your college, wasn’t he?”

            Diego pushed his chair back again and stood up. “I have to get back to work. Thanks for, uh, stopping by.” Then he turned and headed toward the back. The middle-aged barista behind the counter watched him leave, then gave us a threatening look.

            I picked up my coffee. “Sorry. Did I push too hard?”

            “No.” She blew on her latté. “That’s what I wanted to ask. Look . . .” She took a long sip and wiped her lips with a napkin. “Isn’t it kind of crazy that they both got killed by lighting? Harold Mortime and then—Warren? Lightning?”

            I’d been thinking about that. “Yeah. It’s a hell of a coincidence.” I let it hang there.

            “What—what do you think?” 

            I smiled. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things. If this is one of them, it’s not even the weirdest.”

            Julie looked puzzled. “Okay. What can you do?”

            Outside thunder rumbled. I picked up my cup. “Research.”

 

After eating my cereal the next morning I started looking into Harold Mortime. And Marcus Diego. And Alan Lavoy for that matter, even though I had lots of data on him from Lenore Grayson. Might as well be thorough.

            Rachel came in at 9:05, carrying coffee and wearing sweats. “Sorry, no cheap thrills for you today.” She yawned. “Did you hear the news? Some guy got hit by lightning again. It was on the radio just now.”

            “What the—” I opened a new tab and found it right away on the Chicago Tribune site: “Local Businessman Killed in Lightning Strike Outside Shop.”

            Kenneth Dunne had been waiting for an Uber at 8:00 p.m. last night in the middle of the thunderstorm. Bystanders were momentarily blinded by a flash of white light and a deafening burst of thunder, and then Dunne was on the sidewalk, burns on his face and hands, dead.

            I read a few paragraphs down looking for some kind of connection to Mortime and Lavoy, and then I found it—Dunne owned a small string of coffeeshops called, not very creatively, Dunne’s Coffee (& Tea & Snacks). I’d noticed some while following Lavoy the last few days.

             “Huh.” I started clicking links for the Dunne’s site.

            “What?” 

            “The guy who got struck by lightning owns another coffeeshop chain.” He had six stores in Chicago. 

            “Oh-kay.” I heard her sip coffee. “And your client’s boyfriend? And that other guy, Mortime? They got hit by lightning too?””

            “Yeah.” I sat back. “I wonder what the odds are on that.” 

            “So you think somebody knows how to sling lightning?”

            I nodded. “Interesting way to murder somebody.”

            “It’s kind of creative. And hard to take to the cops. Even Sharpe.”

            Anita Sharpe of the Chicago PD worked with me sometimes, usually with great reluctance. “Yeah, she’d tell me to go to hell. She does that anyway.”

            “So what are you going to do?”

            I sighed. “Find out more about lightning.”

Lightning Strike, Part Three

 “Well, rockets and lasers can be used to trigger lightning strikes,” Wade Lawson told me. “They shoot rockets into thunderstorms with spools of wire trailing out of them, for research. And they can shoot lasers and make a trail of ionized gas to conduct lightning to the ground—they do that for space launches. But I can’t think of any way that could be happening here.”

            Wade Lawson was a local TV weathercaster with a few spare minutes to answer some questions from his friendly Chicago P.I. “But this kind of activity is unusual, right? Three people killed by lightning in the same week?”

             “Very, especially with multiple storms. You sometimes have more than one person hit during a single storm, but statistically this is, well, wildly improbable is putting it mildly.”

            I thought so, but it was nice to have it confirmed by an expert. “Thanks. Love your broadcasts.” Actually, I rarely watch TV weather, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

            I’d talked to Julie Lavoy, and to Lenore Grayson. Julie was skeptical, but she wanted answers about her boyfriend’s death. Grayson just wanted it billed separately from the divorce work. 

            Then I started making phone calls and sending emails. I was surprised when the assistant at the TV station sent me straight through to Wade Lawson and he actually picked up. Maybe all the rain was making it a slow day for weather. When we finished I checked my email, and then my phone buzzed.

            Clement Hogue, a semi-retired instructor of earth sciences, had read my email. He knew Harold Mortime, and he was willing to talk over lunch. He lived near the U of I-Chicago campus, so I jotted down his address and arranged to meet him. 

            At 1:05 p.m. I was in a Panera restaurant across from a 70s-ish man with a bushy gray beard and sparse blond hair, with a tattoo of the Earth on his left wrist and a friendly smile. 

            “I don’t get out much these days.” He’d gotten a Caesar salad and a cup of potato-leek soup at the counter. “Between the Covid and taking care of my wife, I haven’t been out to eat in a couple of weeks. This weather don’t help.” Rain drizzled outside. 

            “I appreciate your time.” I sipped some coffee. “You were in the same department with Harold Mortime?”

            “Yeah, I was teaching environmental sciences. Still do, I’m only semi-retired, but I was doing it online all last year.” He stirred his soup. “Harold was a nice guy. He taught weather—meteorology. A little weird, but a good teacher. Students loved him.”

            “Weird how?”

            “He got obsessed with stuff. Crop circles—he did half a semester on crop circles. The students mostly went along with it, but the head of the department had to shut him down. Then he went on about tornadoes. Good research, but more than he really needed. Climate change, of course. But he went in for crazy solutions, like giant mirrors in the sky to deflect the sun or building floating countries in the ocean.”

            Hogue took a bite of salad. “But he was good teacher and a nice guy. Spent lots of time with students. He got them volunteering for projects to reclaim the prairie. That sort of stuff.”

            “What about lightning?”

            He sipped some Pepsi and thought for a long time before answering. “Yeah, He went off on a tangent about controlling lightning for a while. Lasers and stuff like that. Then it was . . . less science-based. He started getting books on, like, alchemy and magic. From other colleges, and Amazon and other places.”

            “Was this recently?”

            “Well, I haven’t seen Harold in a couple of years. It was right before he got—before he retired.” He looked down at his plate.

            I set down my sandwich. “Did something happen?”

            “Damn it.” Hoge shook his head. “I’m not supposed to—I only know the rumors. They said he was doing it with a student, a girl. And he quit mid-semester to get out of it. I never heard if there was a formal complaint or an investigation. He just sort of disappeared. I never saw him again.” He sat back, nervous. “You can’t—I shouldn’t have said anything.”

            “I won’t bring your name into it.” Unless I had to, but this didn’t seem likely to become a court case. “He just vanished.”

            “Yeah.” Hogue gulped his Pepsi. “Like I said. Nobody heard anything from him.”

            “Do you know a student named Alan Lavoy? Or Marcus Diego?”

            He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t think so. Lots of students, you can’t remember everyone, you know?”

            “Right.” I finished my sandwich. “So, thanks again for your time.”

            “Thanks for lunch.” I’d paid. Expense accounts are handy for things like that.

            Back home I wrote up the interview and reviewed my notes. I had the bare facts about Mortime—where he’d gone to school, teaching jobs and other activities—but the stuff about his obsessions added context. I noticed that before he’d taken the UIC job he’d worked as a storm tracker in Oklahoma, chasing tornadoes and watching thunderstorms. 

            I went over my research on Alan Lavoy again. He’d started Redburn four years ago, with two shops. It was privately held, so I couldn’t get financial data, but there was enough public information to tell me that it had grown steadily, with six more shops in two years, closing one at the same time. Two more last year—then three closed since January of this year.

            The pandemic was obviously having an impact on local businesses. And managing growth in a small business is hard. But Kenneth Dunne’s death made me wonder. 

I spent an hour doing a deep search on Redburn without finding out much more than I already knew. Finally I turned in my chair. “Want to go get coffee?”

Rachel didn’t look up. “We have coffee here.”

“I need to go talk to somebody. You don’t have to come, I don’t need your psychic powers, I just thought—”

“I’m coming.” She jumped up. “I need to get out of this place for a while. Just let me get dressed.”

She emerged from the bedroom 10 minutes later in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. “It’s still your turn to make dinner.”

“Deal.” I held the door.

 

Diego was behind the counter when we walked in. The rain was light but steady outside. The café was almost empty—one woman on her phone in the corner, no line to order. He saw me and frowned. Even the sight of Rachel didn’t change his expression, and she usually makes everyone a little more cheerful. But I’m biased.

“What do you want?” Diego crossed his arms.  

I looked at the board behind him. “Maybe the jasmine tea.” I’d had enough coffee today. “Rachel?”

“Espresso. And a scone. I skipped lunch.”

He didn’t move. “What’s this about?”

“We just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” I spread my arms. “How’s business? Is Redburn doing well? You closed three stores this year. I know it’s a tough economy with the pandemic and everything, but—”

A bell at the front door jingled. Diego looked past us, and his arms dropped. “Hi, Alan.”

Alan? I turned. Yes, Alan Lavoy was on his daily rounds. Earlier than usual to get this far north. His raincoat was damp. 

He stepped to the counter and set his briefcase on the floor. “Hey, Marcus. What’s up?” He glanced at Rachel and me. “I’m sorry. You were ahead of—”

“They’re not customers.” Marcus planted his hands on the counter. “This is Tom, uh, Jurgen. He’s a private detective.” He darted a look at Rachel. “I don’t know who she is, but he was here yesterday with Julie. He’s asking questions.”

Lavoy stared at me. Trying to be intimidating. “What do you want?”

I stared back. He wasn’t a vampire or a wendigo, after all. “Interesting weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”

He frowned. “What the hell?”

“All this rain. Thunder. Lightning?” 

Lavoy blinked and took a step away. “Get out of here.”

“Hey, I didn’t get my scone,” Rachel said. 

“Marcus, give her a scone,” Lavoy said. “Just get out now.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Forget it. This place is getting one star from me.”

We left quickly. The rain was falling harder. My car was down the block, and we got fairly drenched before we could jump inside.

I started up. Rachel grabbed my wrist. “Wait. When you said lightning?”

I looked at her. “Yeah?”

“I saw something.”

Her psychic powers. “I didn’t bring you here for that. I just thought—”

She punched my shoulder. “It’s fine. I needed some air. Plus I was hungry and I really wanted a scone. But anyway—I saw, just for a moment, a book. A big book, like the Bible, except not the Bible. Just—leather binding and parchment pages.” She closed her eyes. “I can’t make out the writing. But he was mad. Furious.”

“Yeah. Even I got that.” I put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

Then a boom of thunder rocked the street. A moment later, lightning streaked across the sky.

Rachel pushed my hand away. “Just get us home.”

Lighting Strike, Part Four

 The next morning my pal Wade Lawson was on the local morning news, trying to explain why a third Chicagoan had been killed by lightning the night before. 

            “Yes, Andrea, this is definitely unusual,” Lawson said to the morning show host talking to him with an image of a rainy Chicago skyline behind him. The chyron beneath read: LIGHTNING: LOCAL BUSINESS OWNER LATEST IN BIZARRE SERIES. “I’ve been talking about it since yesterday. And there’s no way to direct lightning—it hits where it wants to. I mean, where the charge builds up between the ground and—”

             “But we’ve got lightning striking twice here. More than twice,” said Andrea Cooper, the local morning anchor. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it?

            “Actually, each bolt of lightning is made up of many smaller bolts, one after the other in a split second,” Lawson said with a patronizing smile. “So actually, yes, lightning does strike twice.”

            I turned the TV off.

            Wendy Kirke, owner of a small ice cream shop on the north side, had been struck and killed by lightning at 10:30 last night, right after locking her doors and turning to head home in the rain. Her shop was two doors down from the Lakeview Redburn. It served homemade ice cream and frozen yogurt, as well as free trade coffee from Central America and Africa.

            Was Lavoy really killing off his competition with lightning? I’d never thought the café business was so cutthroat, but I’d run into stranger motives for murder.

            In my office I left messages for Lenore Grayson and Julie Lavoy. Rachel came in carrying her Supergirl coffee mug. “Hey, did you hear about—”

            “The ice cream shop owner? Yeah. This guy’s looking more dangerous than your usual angry ex.”

            “Funny he didn’t just zap his wife. Ex-wife. Whatever.” She sat down.

            “Usually they try to terrify them into coming back. Sometimes it works.” 

            “I’d just shoot you. Just so you know.” She sat down

            I nodded. “Message received.”

            My phone buzzed. Grayson. I’d sent her my latest report yesterday, but I’d left out my suspicions. Now I asked, “Does Lavoy have any evidence of violence? Or anger?”

            “There are several items in the filing,” Grayson replied. “Threats, intimidation of friends and family, that sort of thing. Why?”

            “Well, you know how I tend to run into these things—”

            “Oh hell, he’s not a vampire or a werewolf, is he? I don’t think I can include that in any filings.” 

            “No, but I think—” I stopped myself. “Let me get back to you.”

            Julie Lavoy called me 10 minutes later. When I asked her about Lavoy’s temper, she groaned. “You could say that. The arguments just got more intense as things went on. He got mad if I went out with friends and came home late. He threw things when he was drunk. When I had a miscarriage, he—” She took a breath. “It was bad, let’s just say that. I mean, I put up with it a lot longer than I should have, and then I met Warren. It was when we were separated, but when Alan found it, he went berserk. That’s why I thought—when he was struck by lightning—but Alan couldn’t do that, could he?”

            I hesitated. “To be honest, I—this may sound weird, but yes. Maybe.”

            Julie was silent a moment. “How would he do that?”

            “I don’t know yet. I think Marcus may know about it.”

            A sigh. “That would make sense. They were best friends, and then—something happened, I don’t know what. Then Marcus called me, like I said, looking for Alan. And, well, I remember Marcus liked occult stuff. Alan told me how they’d smoke weed and then do séances, stuff like that. And wait—didn’t that guy Mortime get hit by lightning?”

            “Yeah.” I was relieved she had an open mind about all this stuff. Some people—like my editors when I was a reporter—just stopped talking when I brought it up. “It looks like I have to talk to Marcus again. I saw him last night, but Alan showed up.”

            “I’ll come with you. He’ll talk to me.”

            “All right. Early, before Alan makes his rounds. I’ll bring an associate.” 

            “Fine. Three o’clock?”

            “Sounds good.” We hung up. “We’re going back to the café.”

            Rachel rolled her eyes. “Fine. This time I want my scone.” 

 

So we went back to Marcus Diego’s Redburn Café. I was starting to feel like a regular. 

            Marcus wasn’t behind the counter. Rachel and Julie sat at a table while I got coffees and Rachel’s scone. By the time I got to the table they were giggling like teenage girls. I wondered what Rachel had been telling her about me. I decided not to ask. 

            Marcus came out from the storeroom five minutes later. Maybe one of the baristas had buzzed him, because he headed right for our table. “Okay.” Hands on his hips. “What’s the deal?”

            “Hi, Marcus.” Julie pushed a chair out from under the table. “Can we just talk?”

            “Without Alan?” I added.

            He glanced at the front window, as if looking for Lavoy, then around the café. Two people sat at two separate tables, looking at their phones, and a young couple snuggled in the sofa next to the glowing gas fireplace. 

            “Okay.” He sat with a grunt. “Just a few minutes. What’s going on?”

            I glanced at Rachel, then spoke. “Your friend Alan Lavoy can control lightning.”

            Marcus blinked twice. He looked at Julie, then sat back and crossed his arms with a sigh. “I didn’t think anybody would believe it. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

            Rachel nodded to me, confirming that he was telling the truth. 

            “That means Warren . . .” Julie’s face was tight. “He killed him.”

            Marcus bit his lip. “Yeah. I guess. I mean, he didn’t tell me about it. About killing anybody. I just—He’s got this book.”

            Rachel and I exchanged a glance. She’d seen a book in Alan’s mind. “What book?”

            “Harold’s book. Harold Mortime.” He shook his head. “He was a prof at U of I when Alan and I were roommates there. We were friends. He was the kind of prof who’d smoke weed after class with you. And he was into some pretty strange ideas. Conspiracy theories, you know? Not like faking the Twin Towers or putting microchips in the COVID vaccine. Weather stuff, mostly.” 

            “Weather conspiracies?” Rachel looked skeptical.

            “Like tornadoes, right? He thought the government could control tornadoes and earthquakes, or at least they were trying to. And crop circles were caused by weather satellites with lasers, or something. He bought all these antiques—maps of the ocean currents, sextants for figuring out where you are, old books on predicting weather,  stuff like that. He was into trying to control the weather—chemtrails, cloud seeding, you know? We just thought it was funny.” He laughed for a moment, then fell silent.

            “What about the book?” I sipped my coffee, which was turning cold.

            “I’m getting to that.” He rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, a few months ago I tried calling Alan, and I talked to you.” He looked at Julie. “I knew about his coffee shops, and I was looking for a job. And he said he’d give me this job, but I had to do something for him. See, I was still friends with Harold. Harold Mortime, you know about him?”

            I nodded. “Go on.”

            “He wanted me to get into Harold’s house and—get something from him.”

            “Steal a book?” That came from Rachel.

            Marcus hung his head. “Well, yeah. It was called something like The Weathermonger’s Codex, or something. Anyway, I needed the job, and Alan and me—well, we had some fights, but he was still a good friend. I thought. It took a couple of weeks, getting in contact with Harold again, making friends again, hanging out, and eventually he took me home to get high a few times. The last time I found the book when he was in the bathroom, and I managed to get it out.”

            “So the book tells you how to control the weather.” I pushed my coffee aside. “But what was Alan doing in Mortime’s house the other night? The night Warren died?”

            Julie flinched but said nothing.

            “It’s not just chanting spells, I guess. That’s what Alan told me. You need objects around you to make the thing work, and after I stole the book Harold wasn’t going to let me back into his house. But I looked around outside and found where he hid a spare key, and I made a copy. Then I put it back so he wouldn’t change the locks.”

            Marcus suddenly pounded a fist on the table, shaking all our beverages. “I didn’t think—I’m sorry, Julie. I just never thought he’d start—doing stuff like this. I just needed a job. I didn’t know . . .” He shoved his chair back, but stayed rooted in his seat. Breathing hard. “I didn’t know.”

            Julie stared at him. Then she gave a short nod. “Okay. You didn’t know.”

            I glanced at Rachel. She shrugged. Marcus was telling the truth, all of it, as far as she could tell.

            Julie leaned forward, her eyes cold. “Okay. Now what do we do about him?”

            Her voice made me nervous. Low and serious, it felt like a simmering boil just under the surface. I looked outside. Rain was streaking the windows.

            “We have to get that book,” I said. 

            “What about Alan? He killed—” She stopped and looked around to make sure no one heard her. The barista was watching us but too far away to listen. Everyone else was busy with their phones. “He killed Warren.”

            “Taking away the book takes away his power,” Rachel said. “It’s a punishment. He’ll know we did it.”

            “He’ll still be walking around. He’ll still be—” Her voice choked. “Alive.”

            “We can’t exactly go to the police with this.” Even if they believed me, “Murder by lightning” wasn’t part of the criminal code. “Rachel’s right. Knowing we stopped him will have to be enough.”

“And making him broke when you’re done with the divorce,” Rachel said.

Julie sighed. “There’s that.”

Marcus shook his head. “The way business is going, he’s closer to broke today than he was last week. I’m not even sure he’s going to keep this place open much longer.”

“Then we’d better do something before he murders any more of the competition,” I said.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “You going to break into that house?”

Marcus reached into his pocket. “We don’t have to break in.” He dropped a key on the table. “I made two.”

 

Lightning Strike, Part Five

 Rachel and I sat in the car across the street from the Mortime house. Julie had driven her own car, and now she was in our backseat—after shoving aside all the trash a P.I. accumulates doing surveillance—watching with us.

            The house was three stories tall, old red brick and faded blue paint peeling off the window trim. A small front yard had two trees. A narrow walk led to a side door and the back yard.

            “Is he there?” Julie’s face was taut.

            No lights in the windows. I checked the car clock. 4:15. “Depends on if he started his rounds early today. Or skipped them.” I looked at Rachel. “Any idea?”

            She looked like she wanted to kick me. “I’m good, but not at long distances.”

            Marcus had stayed in his store in case Lavoy showed up unexpectedly. Rachel and I were pretty sure we could trust him, but I didn’t want to bet on his ability to fool his friend—and boss—for very long.

            At least we had the key.

            Rain streamed down as we opened the car doors and crossed the slick street, and thunder rumbled. It sounded far away, a distant warning trumpet, but I didn’t want to waste any time. 

            We climbed the front steps. I pushed the key into the lock. The doorknob turned reluctantly, and I peeked inside.

            No lights on inside. The living room opened on the left side of a short foyer, and there was a sitting room to the right. We headed down the hall, walking quietly, the small flashlight on my keychain poking at the shadows. 

            Marcus said that Mortime kept his collection of weather-related antiques on the third floor—where they went to smoke weed, too. We checked the kitchen and other rooms in case Lavoy had moved stuff, then climbed the stairs at the back of the hall.

            The second floor was bedrooms. None of them looked like they’d been slept in lately, so Lavoy probably wasn’t living here. No sign of the book or any magical artifacts that we could see, or that Rachel could sense.

            Up on the third floor, I fumbled around for a light switch. It turned on two lamps in the cobwebbed corners, revealing an attic crammed with old curios. Two wrought-iron sundials, three sextants, a barometer from centuries past, and other stuff I couldn’t recognize. Several large maps of north and south America from the 18^th and 19^th centuries were pinned to the walls, some more accurate than others. An astrolabe with half the planets in the solar system sat on a small table.

            A plastic card table sat in the center of the room, with a metal folding chair beneath it. On it sat a white candle next to a box of wooden matches, a large compass, a glass-bulb thermometer, a modern barometer, and an old-fashioned watch on a silver chain. 

            The objects were arranged in a circle. As if something was missing in the center. Rachel reached past me and placed her hand on the table.

            “Yeah.” She rubbed her hands. “It was here. Right in the center.”

            “So where is it?” I looked around.

            A small bookcase sat next to the door. We crouched around it, but it held only a few old books of maps, a couple of college textbooks, and some paperback bestsellers.

            Julie stood up. “It’s not here.”

            “He must keep it somewhere else. Maybe he carries it around in that briefcase.” I was annoyed and nervous. We were trespassing, committing illegal entry if not actually breaking and entering because we had a key—and we’d come up empty. 

            On the other hand, Mortime wasn’t around to complain. The only person who might find us was Lavoy. Would he call the police if he walked in on us? Or could he shoot lightning from his fingertips now? I didn’t want to find out.

            “Grab that stuff.” I pointed at the table. “Maybe he needs it to bring down the lightning. I don’t know. Let’s just get out of—”

            “What the hell?”

            Not Lavoy. A woman’s voice. I swung around, startled.

            She was in her 30s, with shoulder-length blond hair and wide blue eyes glistening with anger. She held her phone high, taking video.

“H-hello,” I said nervously. “I can explain—”

            “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my dad’s house? Why are you stealing his things?” 

            Dad? “Harold Mortime was your father?”

            She pointed her phone at me. “Yeah? Who are you?”

            I took a chance. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. Have you been letting Alan Lavoy into this house? I saw him here a few nights ago.”

            “Alan—” She stepped back. “He was a friend of my father. Sort of. What’s he got to do with you guys?”

            “He’s my ex-husband.” Julie pushed past Rachel to stand next to me. “Or he will be soon. He killed my boyfriend.”

            The phone in the woman’s hand shook. “Wait, what? What are you—”

            I said, “He took a book from your father, Ms., uhh . . .?”

            “Dawn. Dawn Mortime. I live down the street, I saw lights up here—” She stopped the video. “I’m calling him.” She started tapping at her screen.

            “Wait.” Rachel held up a hand. “Before you say anything, ask him about the book.”

            Dawn Mortime was wary. Not without reason, of course. She had three strangers staring at her. But she asked, “What book?”

            “It’s called The Weathermonger’s Codex,” I said. “A friend of his stole it from your father.”

            She tilted her head. “Yeah, okay. I remember that book. What friend?”

            I hesitated. “Just ask.”

            The phone was already buzzing. She held it to her ear. “Alan? Yeah, it’s me. Look, there are some people here—” She looked at me. “They’re asking about a book? They say you have it? It’s called, uh, The Weathermonger’s Code?”

            “Codex,” I said. Rachel jabbed me with her elbow.

            “Codex. What? Well, his says his name is Tom something—”

            “Jurgen.” Another jab from Rachel. “What? She’s got us.”

            “And two chicks. One of them says she’s your ex. She says—” Dawn stopped before repeating the accusation of murder. “Anyway, should I call the police?”

            We waited. Then she said, “Okay,” and hung up.

            She put her phone away. “He’s coming over. He says he can explain about the book. Not to call the cops. What’s going on?”

            I sighed. My policy is to tell the truth about all the weird stuff I run into, vampires or werewolves or whatever, whether I’m talking to cops or civilians, and let them decide what they want to believe. People are usually more open to the supernatural that you might expect, I’d found.

            So I said, “Your father had a book that apparently let him control the weather. Alan Lavoy got his hands on it, and I think he’s using it to murder people with lightning. Like his ex’s boyfriend—” I glanced at Julie—"and the other people who’ve been struck by lightning around the city in the last few days.”

            Dawn stared at me. For a moment I thought she was going to call paramedics to haul us away in straightjackets. Instead she said, “Huh.” Then she put her phone away. “Come on downstairs. I’ll make tea.”

 

She heated cups in the microwave. Sitting around the table, we chose teabags from a jar. Rain streamed down the windows outside.

            “Dad was—kinda weird. Toward the end, it was the dementia. But even before that, when we were growing up—I’ve got a brother in New York—Dad was always into offbeat stuff. He told us ghost stories during thunderstorms. He took us chasing tornadoes once, but Mom made him stop after that. And he liked collecting things, weather things. You saw’em upstairs. There’s lots more around the place. I’m trying to find someplace to donate them.” 

            “How did you meet Alan Lavoy?” I dangled my bad in the hot water.

            “He visited my dad a few times when I was over. He, um, asked me out.” She shot a shy look at Julie. “I just met him for coffee a few times, nothing else. He never mentioned—you know.”

            “Redburn?” Rachel asked.

            Dawn nodded. “He said he owned the place. And a bunch more.”

            Julie snorted. “Figures.”

            “Anyway, when Dad died last week, he called me about buying this place.” She rubbed her eyes. “It was weird. I mean, just two days after—it happened. We haven’t even had a funeral yet. I’m waiting for it to stop raining before I schedule anything. But I was surprised. It’s not like he and my dad were close friends. I guess he had Dad in a class one time? I told him I couldn’t even think about anything right now, and he said fine and hung up.”

            “Do you know a man named Marcus Diego?” I asked. “He’s a friend of Lavoy.”

            Dawn thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I—I don’t think so. Who’s that?”

            “He got the book for Lavoy. And copied a key he found outside so Lavoy could get in here. That’s how we, uh, got in tonight.”

            Dawn frowned at me. “I might still call the police on you. I’m not sure I believe any of this. But that guy gives me the creeps.”

            The doorbell buzzed. A crack of thunder hit at the same moment. Rachel and I looked at each other.

            “So what do we do now?” she asked. 

            I shrugged. “Get the book somehow.”

            Dawn stood up. “Come on. I’m not meeting him alone.”

            In the foyer she unlocked the door. I guess Lavoy didn’t want her to know he had a key. He pushed his way inside, his raincoat soaking wet, and dropped an umbrella on the floor. He kept his briefcase tight in his hand.

            “Okay.” Lavoy started unbuttoning his raincoat. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?” He glared at me. Then he saw Julie. “Oh. Hi, Julie.”

            “Alan.” She crossed her arms.

            Dawn kept her phone in her hand. “Alan, these guys are saying some weird stuff about you.”

            “It’s all true. About the lightning.” He threw his raincoat on the floor over his wet umbrella. “What do you want?”

            I wanted the book, but I wasn’t ready to wrestle him for it. “Look, we know what you’re doing. We can’t—”

            But Julie broke in. “I want to see how you did it.”

            He stared at her. “What?”

            “How you killed Warren. How you work the lightning.”

            Lavoy shook his head. “I don’t know—”

            “Show me how you did it! With the book. And everything.”

            I shifted on my feet. “Julie—”

            “Shut up! You’re working for me! He killed Warren, and we can’t tell the police about it, so the least this bastard can do is show me how it works!”

            Yeah, she was my client, but that didn’t mean she owned me. Still, I was curious to see it too.

            Lavoy sighed. “Call your lawyer off. Stop trying to bleed me dry. Just give me the divorce.”

            Julie nodded. “All right.”

            Rachel left Julie for me. “What are we going to do?” she whispered as Lavoy and Julie headed down the hall. 

            “Watch him.” I didn’t have a plan. Maybe something would occur to me. “You’ve got your stuff?” She always carries some pepper spray and a Taser with her, especially when we’re going out for work. 

She patted the purse slung over her shoulder. “Right here.” 

            Upstairs Lavoy pulled the chair out from under the table, opened his briefcase, and dropped the book on the table. I couldn’t read the language on the cover. The pages looked dry and brittle. 

Julie stood next to his shoulder. Rachel and I stayed near the door.

            Dawn stood across from him, her phone back in her hand. “I’m filming this.”

            Lavoy didn’t seem to care. He opened the book to a page marked with a Post-It. “This is it.” He struck a wooden match and lit the candle. Then he leaned back. “Okay, who do you want to kill?” He smirked.

            “How does it work?” I asked. “You just say his name?”

            He tapped a blank space in the middle of the wrinkled page. “It says you need to put something personal right here. According to Harold. I can’t read this gunk, Latin or whatever it is. But he said it works with a picture. It even works with a phone.” He reached into his pocket. “Like this.”

            He tapped the photos. I didn’t recognize the face, but Julie flinched. “Warren.”

            “Yep.” 

            Julie backed away and pulled her phone. She held it up to Lavoy’s face and snapped a picture. Then she dropped the phone on the book, her eyes fierce.

            Lavoy laughed. “That’s not it. I have to say the spell. And then it doesn’t come in through the window, you have to wait until the guy is outside, and there’s a thunderstorm. Good for me, the weather’s been crappy lately. Climate change, I guess.” He grinned.

            I looked at Rachel. “Is this guy evil inside?”

            She closed her eyes. “A little. Mostly he’s just a sociopathic asshole.”

            Lavoy slammed a fist on the table, shaking the candle. “I’m trying to make a living! The goddamn pandemic makes it impossible to keep a business open! And you—” He jabbed a finger at Julie. “You never supported me! You never believed in me! Then you started screwing around with that—”

            “That was after I caught you with that girl! And threw you out!” 

            “This is why cops hate domestic violence calls,” I said. “Everybody stop yelling—”

            “This isn’t a domestic argument! He killed Warren!” Julie stalked forward.

            “And my father!” Dawn put her phone down and pulled the book to her.

            Lavoy pushed his chair back. Before he could stand up, Julie rushed him, knocking him over and pummeling her fists at his head. Rachel and I started toward them. I wasn’t too sympathetic toward Lavoy, but  didn’t want to see my client beat him to death.

            Then Lavoy rolled over, swearing, and reared up. With a pistol in his hand.

            I backed away, pulling Rachel. Julie scooted away on her knees.

            His face red, Lavoy struggled to his feet, breathing hard. “Goddamn it.” He pointed the gun at us, then at Julie. Then he dropped his arm and let it point at the floor. “The hell with all of you. You, give me my book!”

            Dawn looked up from the book, saw the handgun, and jumped away, hands high. “F-fine. Take it. Get out of here.”

            Lavoy grabbed the book and shoved it into his briefcase, still clutching his handgun. He took one final look at Julie, and I held my breath, preparing to launch myself at him if he tried to shoot her. Rachel’s fingers dug into my shoulder.

            But Lavoy put the pistol away, cursing again. He blew the candle out and started stuffing everything onto the table into his briefcase. He couldn’t close it, but he lifted it and staggered past Rachel and me to the door. 

            He glared at me. “Fucking P.I. piece of shit. And your fucking girlfriend too.” 

            I raised an arm, fist clenched. But Rachel kept her grip on my shoulder, her fingers sharp and strong. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she hissed. “Asshole’s not worth it.”

Lavoy shook his head and left. 

            I swallowed, trying to catch my breath as my heart dropped close to normal. “Thanks,” I told Rachel. “You all right?”

            She slugged my arm. “Let me do the hitting if we need to, all right?”

            “Just trying to defend your honor.” I turned to Julie. “You okay?”

            She got to her feet. “I should have just—”

            Then the thunder roared, like a bomb going off right outside. A sharp flash of light filled the window. 

            “Oh my god.” Dawn darted to the stairs.

            We followed, Rachel and me right behind her, with Julie at our tails. On the ground floor Dawn dashed down the hall, and we reached her side as she flung open the door.

            Alan Lavoy lay on the sidewalk, his body smoldering as rain fell on him. 

            “What the—” I looked at Rachel. “He had the book. He needed to speak the spell—”

            “I—I did it.” Dawn’s face was pale.

            She shut the door and leaned against it, her body sagging. “You guys were fighting. Her phone was in the right spot, with his picture. I—I didn’t really think it would work. It was just a few words . . .” 

            Dawn sank down until she was sitting on the floor, eyes closed, her breath shallow. I peered through the window next to the door.

            Lavoy’s body was motionless on the concrete. A dog nosed his foot until its owner yanked him back on the leash. A woman with him pulled out her phone to call 911.

            Dawn shook her head. “He killed my father.”

 

The paramedics tried to revive him, but Lavoy was gone. They carried him away on a stretcher, and one of them took our information. They didn’t ask many questions, because they weren’t cops. None of us told them about the book. Julie told them Lavoy was her ex-husband, and they’d been arguing when he left.

But it wasn’t a homicide, at least not in their eyes. They left. 

            Julie left, shaken up but steady on her feet. “I didn’t think—I just wanted him out of my life. Warren and me—I don’t know . . .” She choked back a few tears. “I’ll—be in touch with Lenore, I guess.” 

            She avoided the spot on the sidewalk where lightning had killed Lavoy.

            Dawn went back into the kitchen for more tea. “It was just—I wasn’t thinking. I was just so mad.” She picked up our cups. “You want some?”

            “No thanks,” Rachel said. “Come on, Tom.”

            We left her at the sink, rinsing. I hoped she’d be all right. Killing someone—even with a spell you didn’t really understand—could scar someone forever. I knew.

            Back home we changed out of our wet clothes. I opened beers for us. “Who’s turn for dinner?”

            “Screw it, we’ll order pizza.” Rachel was in sweats and a T-shirt on the couch. “That was weird.”

            “Yeah.” I sipped my beer. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told him to show us how the spell worked.”

            “Maybe he shouldn’t have started killing people.” She patted my arm. “Not your fault.”

            “Yeah.” I’d still feel guilty, though.

            She leaned forward to look past me at the window. “Hey, it stopped raining.”

            I turned my head. Late afternoon sunlight was turning the sky purple. “Finally.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel picked up the remote. “Doom Patrol?”

            I picked up my phone to order the pizza. “Sounds good to me.”

 

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