Sins of the Father, Part Five

Vollmer called me at 8:30 the next morning. “My daughter almost died last night.”

            Oh hell. “What happened? Is she okay?”

            “She fell into the street. She almost got hit by a car! Something pushed her, she said, except there was no one there. Someone caught her before . . .” He was gasping, coughing, until he finally got his breathing under control again. “Someone saved her. But we’ve got to stop this! Is there anything you can do?”

            I wished I had an answer. “Carrie Ransom is apparently dead. She developed cancer and went to Mexico for treatment, and she died there. I met with a woman named Catherine Randel who says she’s Carrie’s sister—”

            “Carrie never mentioned a sister. I thought she was an only child. What does she have to do with this?”

            This was getting complicated. “Look, I have a theory, but it’s going to take me a while to check it out. Can you give me that?”

            He heaved a sigh. “All right. I’ll wait. Call me as soon as you have anything.”

            We hung up.

            I wanted to talk to Rachel, but she was still in the shower. I like talking to her in the shower, of course, but then I’d get distracted. I just hoped Carrie wouldn’t strike again right away. 

            So while I was waiting for Rachel, I made a phone call. Rachel came in as I finished up. “We need more Froot Loops. I put it on the list.”

            “Good morning too.” 

            “Yeah, whatever.” She punched my shoulder, but affectionately. “Anything developing?”

            I told her about Vollmer’s daughter. She frowned. Then I told her my theory. She frowned some more.

            “I’ll try.” Rachel crossed her arms. “I mean, no guarantees or anything, but—”

            “That’s all I want.” 

            She rolled her eyes. “This was going to be my lazy day.” She stretched her arms over her head.

            “Sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

            “I have to go back to the clinic and meet the people there tomorrow. Group interview.” She shuddered. 

            “You’ll do fine.”

            “Oh, shut up.” She kissed me. “Just let me know what you need me to do.”

            I stood up and put my phone in my pocket. “Get your coat. I’ll tell you on the way.”

            “I love it when you get all, ‘Let’s roll, Kato.’” Rachel followed me to the door. 

 

At the front desk we asked for Catherine Randel’s room number. The attendant stared at us cautiously, the lifted her phone. “Your names?”

            I gave her a card. “She’s expecting us.”

She held it up, squinting, then punched in a few numbers. “Ms. Randle? Yes, I have a Tom Jurgen here to see you? And . . .” She glanced at Rachel. “A friend. Yes. All right, thank you.” She hung up. “Room 214.”

            “Hope she didn’t call her son after I talked to her,” I said as we made our way down the hall. 

            “I got the feeling she wanted to talk more without him,” Rachel said, following me. “We should be fine.”

            I knocked on room 214. “Come,” a voice called.

            Catherine Randel sat in a reclining armchair. It tilted her forward as we entered. The room was bigger than I expected, with a separate bedroom and a kitchen. The curtains were a cheerful yellow. 

She turned the TV off. “Yes?”

            “Thanks for seeing us again.” 

            “I was surprised when you called.” She set her cane across her lap. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to see your sister’s remains. Actually, I’d like Rachel to look at them.” I nodded to her. “She’s my associate. She’s psychic.”

            Catherine’s eyebrows rose. “Psychic.” 

Rachel shrugged. “Among other things.”

            “May we?” I asked.

            Catherine sighed and led us into the bedroom, shaking only slightly as she walked with her cane. Two bedside tables sat on either side of a queen-sized bed. She sank into a flowered bedspread and pointed toward a closet door. “Upper shelf.”

            I slid the door open to confront a row of dresses and blouses hanging from the rod. I reached up, shuffled some boxes around, and found a ceramic urn. I pulled it off carefully and carried it to the nearest table.

            No markings. The urn was a dusty red, sealed at the top. I turned to Rachel.

            “Can I touch it?” she asked.

            Catherine shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

Rachel nudged me back, leaned down, and planted her hands on the urn. After a moment she slid her hands around the surface, as if searching for something. She placed one hand on the lid. Then she dropped her arms, stepped back. And looked at me, puzzled. “Nothing.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it. “What does that mean? Nothing supernatural?”

“Nothing anywhere.” She crossed her arms, annoyed. “Look, I don’t go around touching dead bodies or cremated ashes, but I do go to funerals, and I’ve been around, you know, dead people. I can almost feel something, a shadow, a whisper, a teardrop—something left over.” She turned to Catherine. “Is there anything in this?”

She smiled. “Sand. From the hills outside the city in Mexico.”

“So where is Carrie?” I asked. 

Catherine tapped her chest. “Inside me.”

“You mean you—” I looked at the urn.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She rammed her cane into the floor. “No, I didn’t eat her ashes. I scattered them in the wind. After Carrie’s body died. After she joined me.”

Rachel stepped toward her. “May I?”

Catherine sighed, then held her hand out. “Just for a moment.” 

Rachel took the hand and closed her eyes. She stood in front of Catherine, head cocked, then drew a sharp breath and released her, backing away quickly.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes, then looked into Catherine’s face. “It’s you, isn’t it? Both of you.”

Catherine nodded. “Yeah. Me and Carrie.”

 

“She didn’t go to a clinic.” Catherine was in the back seat of our Prius, and she had to raise her voice as I drove. She’d come willingly, almost eagerly, but she seemed irritated at having to explain while we were on the highway. “She found a bruja—a witch. She couldn’t save Carrie’s life, but she could—preserve her soul. If I’d help.”

            I’d called Vollmer to let him know we were on our way. I didn’t tell him I was bringing the soul of his dead girlfriend. I just hoped he’d be able to deal with it once we were there. Would they be able to talk? Could it bring some sort of closure? I didn’t know. But I had to try something.

            “What was it like?” Rachel asked, next to me. “The ritual.”

            She paused for almost a full minute, as if digging up the memory. “We were outside Mexico City. The house was cold, but there was a fireplace. Carrie was on a sofa. She could hardly breathe. I held her hand, and the bruja—there were three women, but one was in charge—burned incense and oil and chanted endlessly. For hours. I almost couldn’t take it.” Pause. “I mean, it was my sister, but I didn’t really believe—but I did it because she wanted me to, whatever happened.” She blew her nose. “But it was hard. I got stiff, and my back hurt because I was just sitting there on the floor next to her, watching her breathe, until—until—she stopped breathing.” She took a long deep breath. “Then I passed out.”

            I checked her in the mirror quickly to be sure she was still with us. Finally her head rose. “When I woke up, she was—inside. It wasn’t like—she couldn’t control me or anything, I could just feel her. Hear her, like a whisper. Sometimes I can feel her watching things with me, looking around.”

            “Is that when you started painting? And making boxes?”

            “I was always painting. Just not like Carrie. But afterward—well, I guess that was her. I just caught the urge to try something different, outside the pretty pictures that Carrie always made fun of.” She laughed. “In some ways it isn’t that different.”

            “What about—” I wanted to ask her about Vollmer, but our exit from the highway was coming up. I pressed the brake as I swerved toward the ramp.

            Nothing happened.

            I pressed my foot harder. Without the accelerator the car’s speed dipped a little, but we were still heading toward the ramp way too fast. 

            “Uh, Tom?” Rachel patted my arm. “Are you—”

            It was too late to veer away. We were going into the ramp whether I liked it or not. I bit my lip and gripped the wheel. Maybe I could get through the curve without crashing and killing us. Maybe we could—

            Then a split-second realization reared in my head. Carrie. “Catherine! Make her stop! She’s going to kill us! And you! Make Carrie stop!”

            I pushed my foot down on the useless brake as I tried to navigate the curve. The car fishtailed, but I got control and made it around the curve without hitting any barriers. But now we were heading for the intersection. If I couldn’t make the stop I’d smash into at least two cars coming toward it from opposite directions. “Catherine!”

            “I’m trying, I’m—ahh!” She screamed in pain, clutching her head. I fumbled for the emergency brake. Would that do anything? A prayer flashed through my head—and I’m not very religious. Come on, come on—

Then the brake caught. Our seatbelts caught us as we lurched forward in our seats. I twisted the wheel, trying to burn our speed as the car skidded. I managed to slide over onto the shoulder as a car behind us blared its horn while passing.

            I hit the emergency flashers and tried to catch my breath. “You okay?” I asked Rachel.

            She nodded, swallowing, and reached for a water bottle without speaking. I turned in my seat. “Catherine?”

            Catherine lay across the back seat, breathing slowly, her eyes closed. “Catherine?” I repeated.

            Her eyelids fluttered. “Wh—what happened?” She rubbed her forehead.

            “Carrie tried to kill us.” I faced forward again, shifted, and pulled toward the intersection. “Try to keep her under control until we reach Vollmer’s house, okay?”

            “I’ll—I’ll try. I don’t really know . . .” Her voice faded. I glanced back. Catherine was unconscious again.

            “Can you check her?” I asked Rachel.

            She swallowed some more water. “I’m beginning to question some of my life choices.” Then she reached back with one hand. After a moment she grunted. “She’s okay for now. But it feels like she’s fighting something. Or something’s fighting her.”

            Wrestling with her dead sister? “I hope the right one wins.”

            “Until we get to your client’s house?” Rachel finished the bottle. “What’ll she be like when he’s in front of her after all this time?”

            I tried not to think about that as I drove.

 

Catherine was awake again by the time I pulled up in front of Vollmer’s house, but she didn’t speak as we got out and walked to the door, as if keeping Carrie under control took all her concentration. Rachel stayed close to her.

            The maid gave us the kind of look you give door-to-door missionaries, but she let us in and opened the doors to the living room, where Myles Vollmer waited. 

            Flames flickered in the gas fireplace. Vollmer wore a thick sweater buttoned to his neck. Next to him stood a young woman with black hair and bright blue eyes that looked like his. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Sabrina.”

            “My daughter.” He reached over to pat her hand. “And this is—?”

            “Catherine Randel,” I said as she sank onto a sofa, setting her cane aside. “She’s Carrie’s sister. Carrie tried to kill us as we were getting off the highway just now.”

            Vollmer closed his eyes. “I can’t—this is too much.”

            Sabrina clutched his shoulder. “It’s all right, dad,” she said in a soft voice. “It’s going to be okay.”

            “You had a close call last night,” I said to her.

            She nodded. “Yeah. Dad asked me to come up, to keep me safe, after last night.” She shuddered. “He told me what’s been going on. I’m not sure—I know you’re not crazy,” she said to Vollmer. “But this just sounds totally insane.”

            “It gets insane-er” I checked to make sure Rachel was close to Catherine. “Carrie died in 2013. But somehow, with the help of a witch in Mexico, Carrie’s soul sort of, uh, migrated into her sister. I’m hoping we can convince her to give up this—campaign of murder, basically.” 

            Silence filled the room. Only the quiet crackling of the gas fire disturbed the air.

            Vollmer blinked. “I never even knew Carrie had a sister.”

            Catherine stared back at him. “You didn’t know a lot of things about her.”

            “Well, I’m—” He cut himself off. Took a deep breath. “Look, anything I’ve done wrong, whatever I did to her, I’ll take the rap for it. You can do whatever you want with me. I just—please leave my family alone. Please—” Her reached for Sabrina. “Don’t hurt my daughter.” 

            I was between them, with Rachel behind me. I doubted she was strong enough to attack Vollmer physically, but I didn’t know if I could stop her—or Carrie—from pushing a bookcase over or crashing the ceiling down on him. I swallowed and said, “Catherine, can you stop this? There’s no point in killing anyone else. Especially Vollmer’s daughter. She hasn’t done anything to you. It won’t undo what’s past.”

            She shook her head. “It still matters. It still hurts.”

“So what does Carrie want?”

            Catherine clutched her cane. For a moment I thought it meant she wanted to lash out with it, at me or Vollmer or the world. Instead she zeroed in on Vollmer. “Tell them what you did. Confess.”

            Vollmer’s eyes went wide. “W-what? Confess what? Whatever I did, I’m sorry. What—what did I do?”

            Catherine glared. “It was the child.”

            Vollmer blinked. “There was no child. There was never any child—”

            “You shoved her down the stairs!” She pounded the tip of her cane on the carpet. “Do you even remember that?”

            He looked away from her. “I was—we were arguing outside her apartment. She slipped—”

            “You pushed her.”

            “No, she lost her balance and I—I tried to catch her, and then she fell.”

            “What were you arguing about?” I asked. 

            “Cheating.” Catherine spat the word at Vollmer. “You accused her one time too many. You wanted someone to control. Not that you were faithful to her either. You cheated on her every chance you got, and when you couldn’t make her shut up, you attacked her. You pushed her and left her there in the street.”

            “No” He shook his head. “I called an ambulance. She was screaming at me. She told me to go away.”

            “And you never saw her again.” Her words were a whisper.

            “She told me—she said she never wanted to see me. Never again. I—I did what she asked.” He looked around helplessly. “That’s what she told me to do.”

            “And she was pregnant?” Rachel asked.

            “Yes.” Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, as if reliving a bad memory. Just not hers. “She found out in the hospital. She lost it before she never she even had him. Or her.” When she opened her eyes again they were burning with anger. “But that’s not all of it. That’s when she found out about the cancer. It was her uterus. Ironic, isn’t it? She lost the baby she didn’t know about, and then her life.”

            Sabrina stood next to her father, her face pale. He avoided her eyes as he took it all in, breathing hard. “I didn’t know,” Vollmer murmured. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

            “Now you know. Everything.” She folded her arms, clutching her cane in a fist.

            I glanced at Raschel. She nodded. It was the truth—all of it. “Okay,” I said. “But—can this stop now? You don’t have to keep killing people—Carrie doesn’t, I mean. What’s the point after all these years?”

            “He’s dying now.” Catherine stared at Vollmer. “There’s no time left. He has to feel it now. Before he can’t feel anything.”

            Sabrina flinched and grabbed for her father’s hand. He squeezed, then let go. “Just take me, then.” His voice was quiet. “Sabrina didn’t do anything to you. Take it all out on me—”

            “You don’t understand!” Again Cather slammed her cane on the floor. “You don’t know suffering! You don’t know pain! You don’t know what it’s like to have it burning inside you day after day even when your body is gone and all you’re left with is the memory of everything that’s wrong and ugly and hateful and—”

            Cather leaned back suddenly. Her lips curled in a smile. “Maybe you’re right. This is the perfect end. You and your daughter, together. You’re helpless. Youi can’t save her.”

            What? I took a step between them. “Hang on, Ms. Randel. This doesn’t have to—”

            “Shut up!” Catherine screamed.

            Then the fireplace exploded.

Behind me—behind all of us—the glass screen shattered.  A ball of flame erupted, streaming across the room like a fiery arrow.

            Someone screamed as a wave of smoke crashed through the air. I grabbed for Rachel, but she pushed me out of the way and reached down to pull Catherine up from the sofa. Sabrina was behind her father, already choking as she shoved his wheelchair frantically toward the living room door.

            Catherine punched Rachel in the shoulder and dropped back, snarling like an angry cat. Rachel leaned down again, but Catherine hit slammed her cane at her knee. Rachel stumbled, cursing and hacking, so I grabbed her arm and yanked. She didn’t fight me as I pulled her, right behind Sabrina and Vollmer to the door.

            One of the maids was already in the hall, phone in her hand. “Call 911,” Vollmer barked weakly, gasping for air. “F-fire. God, it’s a fire . . .”

            I looked back into the living room, my throat already raw from the smoke. It was an instant battlefield of flame, fire raging in every direction, smoke so thick I couldn’t see the nearest bookcase. I bent down, peering along the floor, and saw Catherine’s cane, shaking as her hand twitched, the skin of her fingers already scorched. 

            “Get me a blanket or something.” My voice was raspy. I stood in the doorway, crouching. She wasn’t that far away, not more than 10 feet. If I covered my mouth and moved fast, I could wrap her up and drag her back before she suffocated or burned to death. “Come on, get me something!”

            Rachel grabbed my collar and yanked me back. Before I could get my balance, she reached in and pulled on one door, then the other, shutting the living room off. 

            I looked at her, angry, and then I started choking. I sank to the floor and Rachel knelt next to me, still hacking herself, and we held each other, trying to breathe, until the fire department arrived.

 

Catherine Randel died in the hospital the next day. The firefighters saved Vollmer’s house, but the living room was a wasteland. Sabrina told us that she found the brass frame around Carrie’s portrait, but the canvas was gone. “Good riddance,” she said.

            At least the fire department decided that the explosion had been caused by a defect in the fireplace’s gas line. It was preliminary, and there’d be more investigation, but I was glad I wouldn’t have to try explaining the truth.

            The paramedics had insisted on taking us to the hospital, but we argued our way free after an hour of breathing pure oxygen and answering questions. Back home, we showered the smoky smell off and I rammed some frozen leftovers in the microwave. We ate dinner mostly in silence, except for the lingering coughing and wheezing.

            My phone buzzed as we finished. I groaned. “Hopcroft “

Rachel grunted. I let the call go to voicemail. Then we listened to five minutes of him yelling at me and threatening a lawsuit. 

“Asshole,” Rachel said, swigging her beer.

“I suppose can’t blame him.” I texted him my lawyer’s number and deleted the message. 

“Not your fault.”

“I know, just . . . I don’t know.”

She reached across the table to grab my arm. “Tell me something.”

“Okay.” I held my breath.

“Were you really going to go back in there and try to save her?”

I thought for a moment. Remembered the heat, the smoke, the desperate desire to get out of the room with Rachel. And I remembered looking back for Catherine. I’d brought her there. I made her talk. Was it all my fault?

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe? I wanted to—do something.”

“Jerk.” She squeezed my hand and dropped it. “You can’t be doing stuff like that. I know, I know, you have to do some stupid stuff, but—you just can’t do that. At least not while I’m around. And I’m around everywhere, you know. All the time.”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath, coughed, then took another. ”I was going to wait for graduation day, even if we’re not doing the ceremony, but—” I looked into her eyes. “Do you want to get married?”

She stared. “To you?”

I grinned. “That would be my first choice, yeah. Or are you keeping your options open?”

“Shut up.” She picked up her beer, looked me over as drank some  if making sure I was serious, then set it down. 

She nodded. “Yes.”

My heart jumped a little. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Rachel laughed. “Just don’t ask me to write my own vows. I don’t think they allow swearing in marriage ceremonies.”

“Whatever you want.” We kissed.

“So.” I finished my beer and stood up. “TV?”

“You get the dishes. I’m going to change.” She was in sweats. “Then we’ll see.”

I smiled. “Can’t wait.”

 

# # #

Teenage Romance

Two star-crossed teenagers are caught in the middle of a war between rival witch families, and Tom Jurgen has to sort things out while a dangerous wizard hunts them across the city. 

Teenage Romance, Part One

The baggage claim at O’Hare Airport at 10:30 p.m. was quiet. A man sat on the edge of a luggage carousel in a corduroy blazer sipping a Starbucks, watching people scan the belt in search of their suitcases. Two giggling women pulled their bags off the carousel and staggered next to each other while looking for the taxi stand sign. A family with two sleepy children stared at a big monitor, looking for their flight information.

            I was wearing a red necktie, as instructed by my client. She didn’t want me to hold a sign announcing the name of the person I was picking up. I stood in front of the slowly rotating, almost empty carousel for flight 743 from Boston and waited. 

            A man and a woman trudged to the carousel, and the man leaned over to heft a bulky suitcase off the belt. The woman sighed and patted his arm, and they turned, looking up at the signs to tell them where to go.

            A teenager walked up to me, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was about 16, with curly black hair, in a denim jacket and jeans. He pointed at my necktie. “You my ride?”

            “I’m Tom Jurgen.”

            He frowned. “I’m supposed to ask for a password.”

            “Scarecrow.”

            The kid smiled. “Right. And I’m King. Except my name is really Ross. Ross Beneditti.”

            “Hi, Ross.” I glanced at the carousel. “You have any luggage?”

            He pulled at the backpack strap. “Just this.”

            “Let’s go.”

            We walked to an elevator, descended, and made our way to the day parking lot. 

            “Nice flight?” I asked.

            Ross shrugged. “I guess.”

            I spotted my Prius “That way.”

Like the baggage claim, the garage was quiet and almost empty as we walked between cars. Bright lights in the ceiling cast long shadows in every direction. A car near the exit honked its horn impatiently. Doors slammed in the distance.

Behind a car ahead of us something moved. Before I could put out an arm to stop Ross, I heard a voice behind me. “It’s them!” 

I stopped. Over my shoulder I saw the guy who’d been drinking Starbucks by the luggage carousel.

            When I looked forward again, two men were standing in front of us. One of them held a handgun. 

            Oh hell.

            “Okay, Ross,” said the one without the handgun. He was tall, balding, in a nylon windbreaker. “Come with us.”

            Ross froze. He looked at me.

            What was I supposed to do? I only had pepper spray in my jacket. Could I get it before the other guy shot us? “Who are you?”

            “Ross is coming with us,” the tall guy said. “Don’t be a stupid hero or anything.”

            The guy with the gun—short, shaped like a barrel—just stared at us. Mostly at me.

            Damn it. I was supposed to do something. But what? Rachel would kill me if I got shot. “What’s this all about? People know I’m here—”

            “Shut up!” The guy with the handgun looked nervous. “Let’s just go.”

            “It’s okay.” Ross took a deep breath. “I got this.”

            I glanced at him as he let his backpack slip from his shoulder. “What?”

            He smiled. “Brace yourself.”

            The guy with the gun took a step back, lifting his weapon. “Don’t do anything—”

            Ross lifted his arm, palm out, and held his breath. Then he pushed his hand forward—

            And the short guy with the gun flew backward, feet off the ground, and slammed against a minivan behind him. He dropped his gun and slumped to the concrete, groaning. 

            The tall guy reacted right away, reaching under his windbreaker. But I grabbed my pepper spray and blasted him in the face before he could get whatever he was reaching for, and before Ross could repeat his trick. He doubled over, choking, clawing at his face as he coughed and gasped for air.

            A shout behind us made me turn. The guy from the carousel was running through the row of cars, but he didn’t seem to have a gun in his hands. I tapped Ross’s shoulder and pointed. “Come on.” 

            We ducked our heads as we scrambled between the rows of vehicles until I spotted the Prius. “Over here.” I clicked the lock control and pulled the door open for him, then darted around to slide into the driver’s side. Ross threw his backpack into the back and yanked his seatbelt as I backed up, turned, and veered toward the exit.

            “Who were those guys?” I checked my rearview mirror. A dark SUV was wheeling around a row of cars, driving too fast for safety. I pressed the accelerator, praying I didn’t hit any cars. Or people.

            “My aunt can explain when we get there.” He twisted his neck to look behind us. “Can you go faster?”

            I bit my lip hard as I zoomed toward the exit gate. Slamming the brake, I almost hit the barrier with my windshield, and then I was fumbling in my pocket for the parking ticket and a credit card. The SUV was coming. 

            Window down, I fed the ticket into the slot and then jammed my Mastercard into the payment slot. THANK YOU read the display, and the barrier began to rise. I left the credit card and hit the gas, and the rail scraped the roof as the car lurched forward.

            “They’re still behind us. Haha! They hit the rail.” Ross laughed as he turned back around. “How far to the hotel?”

            “Not close enough.” Fortunately the traffic around the airport was light, and I found the on-ramp to the Kennedy Expressway without colliding with anything. 

            I merged into the traffic heading downtown, the pounding in my chest starting to fade. I wasn’t getting paid enough for this. 

My client—Helena Snowe—had called me at four this afternoon to pick up her nephew from the airport. Why she needed a private detective wasn’t clear, but it sounded like an easy job. All I had to do was show up wearing a red necktie and take the kid to her hotel downtown. I wished I’d told her I was too busy.

            “What’d you shoot that guy with?” Ross was looking out the window at the lights around us. “Don’t you have a gun or something?”

            “Pepper spray. Nobody told me I’d need a gun.” Not that I would have shot anybody. I carry my Glock sometimes, but I’ve never had to fire it at a human being. Thankfully. “What was that thing you did?”

            “It’s, uh—hey, I think that’s them.” He lurched around again. “Yeah. Their windshield’s broke. They’re coming up fast. Can you go faster?”

            “Just because I’m a P.I., doesn’t mean I can drive like The Fast and The Furious.” Goddamn it. I wouldn’t even be able to call Rachel before I got killed. Of course she’d just yell at me, but still—

            I yanked the wheel to the right, cutting across the center lane as horns blared at me from all sides. I could see the dark SUV coming. I looked for an exit, hoping I could lose them and hide in the neighborhood streets.

            But the SUV came up behind me hard. Its bumper pushed against the trunk, and I struggled with the wheel to keep the car going straight. They swerved and hit me again, jarring my teeth as the Prius jerked sideways onto the shoulder, kicking up gravel as I tried not to hit the barrier on the side. 

I looked at Ross. “Can you—do something?”

            He was watching the SUV. “I guess. Let me—” He closed his eyes and held up both arms, palms raised to the ceiling. One deep breath, then another. The SUV was right beside us. I could see the gunman glaring at me.

            Then the SUV lurched to the left. A car in the far lane honked, slamming it brakes and shooting over around it, narrowly avoiding a collision as the SUV bounced off a barrier and started to skid on the pavement.

            Then it disappeared in the traffic behind us as I gunned the accelerator again. After three miles I caught my breath and eased up on the gas, letting the car slow to the speed limit. 

            “Are we going to get there soon?” Ross asked. “I’m hungry.”

 

A valet at the Hotel Venetian off Michigan Avenue took my keys and pulled away in the Prius. An elegantly dressed woman behind the front counter confirmed Ross’s identity, made a call, and then gave him a passkey. She looked me over. “And this gentleman is with you?”  

            A nice quiet elevator took us to the 21^st floor. We turned the wrong way down the hall at first, but found the right door at the end of the other hall. Ross slid the passkey in and opened the door.

            A slender Black man in an Oxford shirt and a necktie met us before the door was fully open. “Hello, Ross. Make yourself at home. Mr. Jurgen? My name is Chad. Please make yourself comfortable. Have a drink. I’ll get Mrs. Snowe.”

            The suite was big—bigger than most houses. Long sofas, plush armchairs, a TV that covered one wall, a full bar in one corner, a kitchenette off to the side, and four bedrooms that I could see. 

Ross dropped his backpack on the floor and sat on a sofa, pulling out his phone. I went to the bar and poured myself a whiskey. I don’t usually drink hard liquor, but after almost getting killed on the Kennedy, my nerves needed a break.

Drink in hand, I took out my own phone to text Rachel. I gave her the hotel’s name so she’d know where I was, and mentioned that I’d had some “excitement” getting here. Her response: Wake me up when you’re home. Don’t do anything stupid.

Chad came back. “Mrs. Snowe.”

Helena Snowe, in her 70s, had silvery hair and a stony face. Silver earrings. A necklace with a small glittering diamond dangled over her crisp white blouse. She made me think of a prime minister from some faraway mountain nation. 

She walked first to Ross, who was playing a game on his phone. “Ross. I’m glad you’re here.”

            He put down his phone, stood up, and gave her a stiff, formal hug. “Hi, Aunt Helena.”

            “Mr. Jurgen.” She turned to me. “I apologize for the unpleasantness in bringing my nephew here. You’ll be compensated above what we agreed on.”

            She’d already sent me money this afternoon, but I wasn’t going to turn her down. “Thank you. I guess there was a reason you hired me instead of just ordering an Uber.”

            A hint of a smile lifted her lips. “You have some experience in—unusual matters.”

            That was true. “Yes. I’m not a bodyguard, though. One of the men had a gun.”

            “He was really good, Aunt Helena,” Ross said. “He knew what to do all the time.”

            I felt an unexpected surge of pride at Ross’s praise. “Thanks,” I said. “I was actually scared to death. And Ross did most of the work.”

            “Would you like to know what’s happening?” Helena asked. “I can explain.”

            What I wanted was to go home to Rachel and go to bed. But I can’t kick the compulsion to ask questions. It helped me when in my past life as a reporter and it still gets me in trouble now. 

            “Sure.” I knew I’d regret this.

            “Please have a seat.” She sat next to Ross. I took a seat in one of the big chairs and sipped my whiskey. 

            Helena folded her hands in her lap. “We belong to a family of wizards and witches.” She waited for my reaction.

            “Okay.” I set my glass down. “You know about me. You know you’re not the first witches I’ve encountered.” Not to mention vampires, demons, and the occasional giant killer chicken.

            “So you understand that we want to keep a low profile in the modern world. Even though they don’t hang or burn witches anymore, people tend to be—uncomfortable with us. We’re not looking for attention.”

            “That’s good to hear,” I said.

            Ross went back to playing his phone game.

            “Our side of the family is located in the East,” Helena went on. “Another branch of the family is centered in the Pacific Northwest. We’re—not exactly at war, but we have different ideas about how to do business. We’ve sparred with each other for years. We finally came to a decision, and it involves Ross.”

            Ross looked up and sighed. “I haven’t said yes yet.”

            “I know.” She patted his shoulder. “Neither has she. This is just a first step.”

            “She?” I asked.

            “Ross is here to meet a young woman from the other side of the family. If everything goes well, they could unite our two branches, and things would be better for everyone.” Helena smiled.

            I looked at Ross. “How old are you?”

            “Sixteen. Seventeen next month.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s 17. She’s pretty—we’ve talked on Zoom and stuff, and—”

            “This is just preliminary,” Helena cut in. “No one is asking either of you to make any decisions right now. This is just a first visit to see if there’s any future there.”

            It sounded like that miniseries about Queen Victoria I’d watched with Rachel a few months ago. “Well, good luck.” I finished my drink. “I don’t have much experience with teenage romance, so I can’t offer any advice for either of you. My girlfriend would say I don’t have much useful experience with romance at all, so . . .”

            Before I could get up, Chad reappeared with a phone. “Mrs. Snowe? For you.”

            Her eyebrows rose. “One minute.” She took the phone and headed into another room.

I looked at Ross. “You’re okay with this?”

He groaned. “Yeah. I mean, I never said I’d marry her or anything. Honestly, I think it’s just a way for them to avoid dealing with their real problems. But if it keeps them happy for a while? I’ll go along with it. And she’s kinda cute.” He grinned.

“Who were those people trying to kidnap you?”      

“Oh, them. Yeah.” Ross shook his head. “I guess there are some of the family on both sides who don’t want this to happen. They think it’s surrendering, giving up power, or something. I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of weird relatives.” He shrugged. 

“Every family does.” Witches can be scary, but family politics can turn ugly. “What kind of magic can you do?”

He grinned. “Mostly just the push thing you saw. A little levitation. Fire. They say they’ll teach me spells when I’m older. And—” He stopped as he saw his aunt returning.

Helena was frowning. “You can go, Mr. Jurgen. Wait—Chad? My checkbook.”

“Is everything all right?”

She glanced at Ross. “Everything’s fine. The meeting tomorrow morning has been postponed, Ross. I’ll let you know when it’s rescheduled.”

“Great. I don’t have to get up early.” He stood up. “I’m hungry. Can I order room service?”

“Go ahead.” She took a checkbook from Chad and hastily scrawled out a check. “Here you are, Mr. Jurgen, and thank you again. And my apologies. Again.”

The check was double what she’d already paid me. The noble type of P.I. you see on TV would have turned it down. I’m the type of P.I. with bills to pay, so I folded it up and put it in my wallet. “Thank you, Ms. Snowe. If there’s nothing else?” I stood up. 

            “Have a good night. Chad?”

            He walked to the door and held it open for me. I paused. “Good night, Ross. Nice meeting you.”

            Ross was scanning the room service menu. “Yeah. Thanks. Same here.”

            I nodded to Chad. “Have a good night.”

            Chad nodded but said nothing. He didn’t look like he was expecting the night to get any better.

 

Rachel had an early morning class—she’s studying for a psychology degree—so we only saw each other for a few minutes the next morning. Just enough for some coffee and a brief rundown of last night. “Sounds crazy,” Rachel said, filling her travel mug. “At least she paid you extra.”

            “Yeah, that almost makes up for me almost getting killed.” I shrugged. “At least it’s over. I wonder about the kids, though.”

            “They’ll figure it out. They’re teenagers. When I was 16—you may not want to know.”

            “Oh, I want to know.” I looked her over. Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes, slender and gorgeous. She’s also kind of psychic, which makes for an interesting combination. “Everything.”

            “Maybe later.” She punched my shoulder, hefted her laptop bag, and headed for the day. “Have a boring day!”

            I bent over my cereal. “I hope.”

            After breakfast I went into my office. It was lonely without Rachel on the other side complaining about website redesigns and other graphic chores, but I focused on work. I had a fraud case that promised to be nowhere near as scary as last night’s shenanigans.

            My phone buzzed at 11:15. Helena Snowe. What now?

            I answered. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen.” She sounded tense. “I have a problem.”

            “Is Ross all right?” Maybe the kidnappers had tried again, or he’d blown up the suite with magic, or—

            “He’s fine. It’s the girl. Christine. She’s—missing.”

            Uh-oh. “Kidnapped?”

            “Possibly. We’re not sure. She wasn’t on her flight last night. I was told that she’d missed her flight and was coming in this morning. I just got a call that she arrived at Midway—we purposely arranged for them to fly into different airports, for security—but she went into a restroom and didn’t come out. The people sent to bring her in were both men.” 

            “Not P.I.s like me? Just family members?”

            “Apparently. The Graves—that’s the family, Graves—were in charge of their own arrangements bringing Christine here. I’m meeting with them in an hour to talk things over. I’d like you to come, if you’re available.”

            I was very available. “I can certainly join you. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be—I do a lot of missing persons work, if that’s what it is, but if it’s a kidnapping, well, I got lucky last night because Ross was there. I’m not exactly the dad in those Taken movies.”

            “You can identify the men from last night. That might be useful, if they show up.”

            Maybe. I didn’t want to face them again, but I didn’t want to admit that to a client. Especially one who was willing to pay me. “I’ll help you as much as I can. Where is the meeting?”

Teenage Romance, Part Two

The meeting was in the conference room of an insurance company downtown, owned by an ally of the Graves faction. The window looked across the street at another office building. Helena Snowe was there, along with a younger woman. She was blond, slender, in her 20s, in a trim blue pantsuit, with an open briefcase on the table in front of her. Helena wore a gray sweater and slacks, her necklace catching the light from the fluorescents overhead.

            The other side was represented by Micah Graves, older than me—I’m in my 40s—who wore a gray blazer and jeans, as if he didn’t have to rely on Brooks Brothers to intimidate anyone. He was accompanied by two men, both in suits that might have come off the rack from Sears. 

            We sat on opposite sides of a long table. Micah immediately zeroed in on me. “And you are?”

            “This is Tom Jurgen.” Helena spoke before I could. “He’s a private detective I hired to pick Ross up from O’Hare last night. When someone tried to kidnap my nephew.”

            The other Graves men looked at each other. Micah just shrugged. “You stopped them? Good.”

            “Ross did most of it,” I said. “I just drove fast.”

            The young woman leaned in. “How much do you know about Christine’s disappearance? Anyone?”

            Micah looked to his men. One cleared his throat. “It was me and Robby.” He looked at me. “We came out with Mr. Graves. But we’re not private detectives.”

“I trust both of them,” said Micah, “or I wouldn’t have brought them here. Or sent them to the airport.”

“Anyway,” the guy said, “she came to the baggage claim, and she said she had to use the bathroom. She didn’t come out.”

The other man—Robby—cut in. “We waited 10 minutes. When she didn’t come out, Seth asked a woman to go in and check on her, but she wasn’t there. We went in, and we got yelled at, but Christine wasn’t there. We found her backpack in the garbage, after we called her phone. It was ringing in the backpack.”

“Do you have it?” I asked.

Micah shot him a look. “Go get it.”

“Why did she miss her flight last night?” I asked as Robby left.

Micah looked at Helena, irritated. “Is he in charge of your family now?”

“It’s a valid question.” Her tone was chilly. “Why?”

“She said she wasn’t feeling well.” He spoke to her, not me. “A stomach problem.”

“But she was better this morning?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Apparently.”

I turned to Helena. “Who knew what flight Ross was coming in on last night?”

“Me. Chad.” She turned. “Cecilia. That’s my attorney, Cecilia Spearing—” The young woman nodded. “Chad arranged the flight.”

I looked at Micah. “And your side had no idea when he was coming in?”

He shook his head. “We knew it was O’Hare. The day or night before the meeting.”

The door opened, and Robby came back with the backpack. 

“Can I look at it? Did you search it?” I stood up. 

Seth said, “Just the side pocket. For the phone.”

Robby set it on the desk. I unzipped the side pocket and found her phone. It was locked, so I couldn’t check her recent calls or contacts. I looked at Helena. “We’ll have to check Ross’ phone. He said he’s talked to her before this.”

She nodded. “As soon as we’re done here.”

I untied the cords on top of the backpack. “What was she wearing?”

Robby and Seth looked at each other. “Jeans,” Robby said. “A black jacket, with yellow stripes, like a tiger.”

“And a black scarf over her hair,” Seth said. 

I reached into the backpack and pulled out a black jacket. The jagged yellow stripes did look tigerish. Underneath was a pair of jeans, and tangled in them was a black scarf.

I spread the clothes across the table. “At least we know she didn’t teleport out of there.”

Robby and Seth looked at each other, then at Micah. “No,” Robby said. “We were watching for her! There’s no way—"

“You were looking for one girl in a black jacket and a scarf on her head. She could have changed clothes, made friends with someone in the bathroom, and walked out with them. Or had a friend meet her—does she have any friends in Chicago?”

Micah glared at me. “We’ll check. We’re keeping that backpack, along with the phone. Gentlemen?”

Robby and Seth started packing up Christine’s clothes. Micah stood up, hands on the table. “We’ll be conducting our own search for Christine. I’ll let you know when we’ve found her, and we can go ahead with the meeting. We’re done here.” He turned with a gesture, and Robby and Seth followed him out of the conference room with the backpack.

I looked at the door. “Or maybe she did teleport, and left these as a ruse.”

Helena gave a faint smile. “What now, Tom?”

Good question. I hadn’t really expected to end up in charge. I just like to ask questions. “The clothes and backpack make it look like she wasn’t kidnapped, just went off on her own, but how this is connected to Ross last night, I don’t know.” Maybe she had been snatched, somehow, and they’d left her clothes behind to throw everyone off. That seemed overly complicated, though. Snatching a young woman in a public restroom would be tricky. “I’d like to talk to Ross. Alone.”

“He’s back at the hotel. Chad’s with him.” She stood up. “Let’s go, Cecilia.”

“Are you part of the family?” I asked her as she packed up her briefcase.

Cecilia looked at me, smiled, and lifted a finger. 

A small flame began burning in the center of the conference room table.

She closed her briefcase. “What do you think, Tom?” 

“That’s enough, Cecilia.” Helena lifted her own finger, and the flame disappeared without leaving a mark. “Let’s go.”

 

Ross was watching TV and fidgeting with his phone in a bedroom. Chad brought me a cup of coffee, then left us alone. Helena and Cecilia were in the main suite, discussing—whatever.

            Ross looked up at me. He was on the bed, legs crossed. “Sup.”

            “How you doing today?” I pulled a chair next to the bed.

            He shrugged. “Fine. Bored. I mean, I know they have to watch out for me after last night. And this whole thing about Christine—I agreed to it, but now it’s like there’s a conspiracy or something. You know?”

            “You know she’s disappeared.”

            “Yeah.” He turned the TV off. “Is it the guys from last night?” He looked worried.

            “I don’t think so. She may have just slipped away from her people at the airport, but we don’t really know.” I looked him over. “You’ve talked to her, haven’t you?”

            “Yeah, we’ve Facetimed a few times. We text.”

            “Have you heard from her lately?”

            He scrolled through his phone. “Last week. She had a chem test she was nervous about.”

            “That’s it? Nothing about coming out here to meet?”

            He squirmed. “She was nervous. But she didn’t want to talk about it. So I guess she stopped texting me.”

            “Do you like her?”

            He looked away from me. “Yeah. She’s okay. Funny. I like her fine. I don’t know if I want to, you know, date her or whatever, but . . .” His voice trailed away, embarrassed.

            “Do you have a picture?”

            He scrolled again, then held out his phone. “That’s her.”

            Christine was blond, with a streak of blue in her hair that matched her eyes. Two earrings in one ear, three in the other. Pretty, for a teenager. “Is that it? Any more?”

            “I don’t have any pictures of her naked, or in her underwear, if that’s what you mean.” Ross rolled his eyes. “A few. Just regular selfies.”

            “Send me a few. I may need them. What’s Christine’s last name, by the way?”

            “Novis.” He spelled it.

I looked at her pictures came through on my phone, and then I asked, “Did she know when you were coming in?”

            He shook his head. “No.”

            “Do you know any of her friends? People we could call?” I assumed Graves was already in contact with her parents, as well as trying to get into her phone. But that might take some time.

            He shrugged. “Not really. I don’t know their names or numbers, I mean.”

            “Does she have any friends here in Chicago?”

            Ross looked at his phone, away from me. After a minute, he looked up. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. But everyone’s so serious. And after last night . . . Shit, she’s going to be mad at me.”

            “We have to be sure she’s safe,” I said gently. 

            “Yeah.” He leaned back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. “There’s this girl named Jackie. Jackie Vega. I only know that because when they told us about Chicago last month that was the first or second thing she said. Then she told me not to tell anyone. I think she wants to get together with her, but she didn’t say for sure.”

“Do you know any more about her?” I started typing the name into my phone.

            He grimaced. “No. I mean, it was just—wait, her folks are divorced, and her mother moved here. She lives with her mother, and it’s somewhere near the zoo. I remember that. That doesn’t help at all, does it?”

            Not really. But I’d already found some social media for the name. “You don’t know what she looks like, do you?”

            “No. I mean, she’s Christine’s age, but that’s all I know.” He looked upset. “Sorry.”

            “That’s fine. She’s a teenager, so she may have an Instagram or something. Do kids use Facebook anymore?”

            He snorted. “Hardly. Snapchat and WhatsApp are more like it.”

            “I’ve heard of those.” I grinned. “Okay, let me see what I can find out. Thanks, Ross.” I stood up. “Please call me if you think of anything else.” I gave him one of my cards.

            He stared at it, as if no one had ever given him a business card before. “Okay, thanks. You’ve got my number?” He held out his phone.

            I made sure I had it. Ross picked up the remote, then hesitated before turning the TV on. “I hope you find her,” he said.

            “I’ll do my best.” I left him alone. 

            Helena was talking with Cecilia when I came out. “Did you find anything?” 

            “One lead. I—” I remembered Ross’s nervousness. “I should keep it private right now. It may turn out to be nothing.”

            She frowned, but before she could argue Cecilia stood up, looking at her phone. “Graves got into her phone. They found a picture taken at the zoo in Lincoln Park at 10 this morning, from a sender named, uh, Jack. He sent those two guys but they haven’t found her.”

            Jack. I didn’t want to get Ross in trouble for breaking his promise to Christine, unless I really had to. I kept my face in neutral. “I’m going to check my lead out. I’ll be in touch.”

            Helena looked annoyed, but said nothing. Cecilia was scowling at her phone. I headed to the door. My plan was to search for Jackie Vega online, try to locate her, contact her and then—

            The door opened unexpectedly. 

            It was the three men from the airport.

            I jumped back. The tall guy had his handgun. The short guy was unarmed, but the third, still in his corduroy jacket, held a Starbucks cup in his hand, as if ready to hurl hot coffee in my face. 

            I stumbled backward, shouting. Chad stepped out from the kitchenette, then quickly ducked back. Helena rose to her feet, gesturing to Cecilia. “Call the—”

            “No calls!” The tall man pointed his weapon. “Where are they?”

            Helena lifted an arm, palm up. “Tom, get down,” she said as the tall man took a step toward her. 

            I crouched, wondering what that meant but mostly hoping I wouldn’t soil my boxers if tall guy fired his pistol. Before I could worry about anything else, though, a loud CRACK! punched my ears.

            The room shook. Lamps rocked on tables. The shockwave pushed me over, and I rolled to one side, suddenly gasping for breath.

            Tall guy dropped his gun and fell to his knees. Short guy slumped forward, clutching his ears. The third guy fell backwards, spilling his Starbucks on the carpet.

Chad emerged again from the kitchenette, this time holding his own handgun, one that would have intimidated Dirty Harry. I saw Ross in the doorway to his room, eyes wide. He raised one hand, as if to do his push, but Helena waved him to stay back.

            Cecilia fled the room, phone in hand. Talking urgently. 911? Wizard Police? I didn’t know. 

            Then the Starbucks guy sat up, his face red. He swung an arm toward Chad and flicked his finger, and Chad staggered back, grunting. His big Magnum or whatever it was slipped from his hand. I ducked and covered my head in case it went off.

Helena raised her arm again, and then the Starbucks guy closed his fist and opened it, spreading his fingers wide like an explosion—

            And then I couldn’t see anything.

            Panic swirled in my brain. A month ago I’d been struck blind by a curse. Okay, I was cured pretty quickly and I could see fine now, but it made me aware of how vulnerable I really was, whether it was guns, magic, or just a bad fall. I didn’t want Rachel to be stuck taking care of me. She wouldn’t even be mad, but I’d resent the hell out of it.

            I blinked frantically, and after a moment I realized my eyes were fine. A dense smoke had suddenly enveloped the room, swirling like a black sandstorm that smelled like burning leaves and bitter tea. I sat up, waving my hand in front of my face, which didn’t help at all. I saw a shadow run in front of me, and I stuck out a leg. Someone grunted and cursed but kept going.

            Helena shouted, “Chad! Get Ross!”

            I struggled to my feet. I heard and felt bodies nearby. Someone pushed me. I reached out and grabbed at something—an arm, but it twisted and slipped away. I stepped back, my hands out, searching in the darkness for someone or something to hold onto and hoping nobody fired off a gun into the darkness. Helena yelled for Ross again.

            Then suddenly the black shroud faded, and I could see once more. I groaned with relief as I looked around.

            The short guy sat on the ground, clutching a bloody knee and groaning. Helena was half-sprawled on the sofa, rubbing her eyes, with Cecilia leaning over her, murmuring quietly.

            Chad was in the middle of the room, looking around. No gun in his hand—I spotted it on the floor near the window. The other two intruders were gone. The Starbucks cup lay on the carpet in a puddle of coffee.

            Chad spun in a circle, his eyes wide. “Ross? Ross, you there?”

            Helena lurched up. “Check on Ross.”

            Chad and me trotted toward Ross’ bedroom. Empty, the TV still on. No phone. No Ross.

            Ross was gone.