Split, Part Four

The cops finally let us go home after I told them everything I knew several times while they tried to decide whether I was crazy, lying, or playing some kind of game with them. 

            “So you’re saying they’re both possessed by a demon.” The detective was a tall, skinny white man named Hendricks. “And Parks was going to be an exorcist for them?”

            “Something like that.” Rachel was talking to another cop a few desks away from me. At least they hadn’t split us up in separate interrogation rooms. “Parks used to be a priest.”

            Hendricks sighed. “And this demon, Malik? What is he?”

            “Persian. I don’t know much more than that.” I rubbed my eyes. “Look, I’m telling you what I know. The cops in Chicago know me, they’ll tell you I have some pretty outlandish stories, but—”

            “Yeah, we’ve heard of you out here, Jurgen.” He looked at his notes, then waved to the cop talking to Rachel. “You done?”

            “Yeah.” The other cop, a woman, grimaced. “You can go as far as I’m concerned,” she told Rachel. “Why you’re going with him—”

“He’s cute, in a funny-looking sort of way.” Rachel stood up and waved to me. “Let’s go, lover.”

I grinned. But my mood plummeted again when I thought of Oscar Parks lying behind the church. Dead.

Back home Rachel headed straight to the bedroom. “That was fun, but I’ve got to go to bed,” she told me, unbuttoning her shirt. “I mean, except for the dead guy. You okay?”

 “Yeah.” I sighed. “I’m going to check my email.”

“Don’t stay up all night. I’ve got a big project due tomorrow, and I don’t need you being grouchy in the morning.” But she walked over to kiss my cheek. “I’m sorry about Oscar.”

“Yeah,” I said again. “It’s okay. Get some sleep.”

I stayed up to check my messages and drink a beer, thinking about Parks and praying to a God I didn’t quite believe in that Zack or Leonard hadn’t sent me an email that would send me right out into the night again. And also, oh yeah, that Zack was all right.

When I went to bed, I dreamed about vampires. Some of them chased me. Some of them tried to bite me. One tried to seduce me, until I woke up sweaty and irritated to my insistently buzzing alarm.

After my shower and my cereal I took my coffee into the office, hoping to catch up on other cases. Rachel came in at 8:30, earlier than usual, in sweats, with a Batgirl mug. She grunted at me and slumped down in front of her computer to tackle her project, whatever it was. 

We worked in silence until my phone buzzed around 11 a.m. “Damn it.”

“What?” Rachel glanced over her shoulder.

“Jessica Stavic.”

“Great.” She kept working.

I picked up my phone. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “It’s me. Jessica? From last night? I just—I got a call from Zack just now.”

            I hid a sigh. Why couldn’t these people leave me alone? But curiosity and stubbornness won again. “Where is he?”

            “I don’t know. He says—he said his brother tried to kill him.”

            Oh hell. “Why?”

            “I don’t know. He didn’t sound very rational, you know? Something about bringing something together. I don’t know.”

            “Is he with Leonard right now?”

            “No. I don’t think so. He says he ran away. He wouldn’t tell me where he was, or maybe he didn’t know. He did say there was a church—”

            “What church?” I realized my voice was a little too loud and too tense, so I took a breath. “Sorry. You probably don’t know.”

            “Nope. But he said the guy at the church yesterday told him about it. Told him to ask for someone—and I don’t know who, before you ask.”

            “Yeah. Okay, thanks.”

            “I just wanted to let you know. Does this help?”

            “Maybe. Thanks again.” I hung up.

            “What’s going on?” Rachel had turned in her chair, watching me suspiciously. 

            “Zack. Leonard apparently tried to kill him.” I was on my computer, looking up the church in Woodridge.

            “What the hell? Wouldn’t that—” She paused. “Oh.”

            I looked up. “What?”

            “The demon is split between them, right? Maybe if one of them dies . . .”

            “It becomes one demon again?” I thought about it. “I wonder if that’s better or worse.”

            “Worse for the one who dies. So where is he now?”

            “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I got the church’s number and punched in the digits. 

            The secretary left me on hold until Father Ross came on the line. “Yes, Mr., uh, Jurgen? How can I help you?”

            “Father Ross, when you talked to Zack yesterday, did you mention a church in Chicago he could go to?”

            “I, uh, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I told him I know a priest at St. Ledas, father Medina. He’s performed exorcisms. I thought he might be able to help. Zack didn’t want to leave, or go outside, so I told him I’d try it myself, but then you showed up— ”

            I was already looking for the address. “Thanks, Father. Have a, uh, blessed day.”

            He hung up. I stood.

            Rachel crossed her arms. “Where are you going?”

            I pointed at the computer screen. “To see if Zack is there. Looking for an exorcism. Maybe I can help.”

            Rachel groaned. “I’m coming too.”

            “What about your project?”

            “I’ll get an extension. I haven’t done that yet since I’ve been there.” She headed for the door. “What are you waiting for? Vamonos!”

            I knew better than to argue with her. “To the Batmobile.”

 

St. Ledas was on the west side of Chicago, a small church in a small neighborhood. I found a parking spot down the street, but we waited in the car for a few minutes, looking for any sign of Zack. Or Leonard.

            Rachel grunted. “You didn’t bring Donald, did you?”

            “I forgot.” Actually, I had thought for a moment about bringing the handgun, but decided not to. Leonard wasn’t with Zack, anyway. We’d be fine.

            She sighed. “Okay. Are we going in or what?”

            I opened my door.

            The church was crammed in between two apartment buildings. A metal gate was open. We walked up a short sidewalk surrounded by grass and flowers to a front door. I pulled it open, and we stepped inside.

            A hallway ran from side to side. An empty desk sat by the door. The entrance to the sanctuary was off to one side. A security camera was mounted in a corner of the ceiling.

            “Hello?” I called. “Father Medina? Zack? Hello?”

            No answer. I looked into the sanctuary, Rachel behind me, and called again.

            Then a dog came racing up the hallway, barking furiously. I jumped, backing up, trying to get between it and Rachel before it leaped on us and tore our throats out.

            “Sebastian.” A mild voice from the end of the hall chuckled. “Settle down, boy. Is this how we treat visitors?”

            Sebastian, a small beagle, began darting in circles in front of me while Rachel punched my shoulder and laughed. The speaker was a short man in a black T-shirt and a priest’s collar, smiling as he walked down the hall. 

            “I’m Father Medina,” he said. “May I help you?”

            “My name is Tom Jurgen.” I handed him a card. “This is my associate Rachel. We’re looking for Zack Rupp, Is he here? Has he been here recently?”

            Father Medina stared at my card, frowning. “I think Zack mentioned you. It’s hard to tell, he’s rambling a lot.”

            “What about his brother Leonard? Is he here?”

            “No.” He shook his head.

            “Where’s Zack?”

            He gazed at Rachel and me, as if praying for heavenly advice. Finally he said, “This way.”

            We followed him down the hall and up a flight of stairs. At the top he opened a door into a small room with a sloping ceiling.

            Zack sat in a chair, asleep. Snoring softly.

            Father Medina folded his arms. “A friend of mine in Woodridge told me he might be coming. He warned me that Zack doesn’t seem very stable. He told me why.”

            “A demon.” Rachel looked at Zack. “I can feel it all over the room.”

            He looked her over—not the way men usually do—and smiled, glad somebody understood. “Yes. I’ve been preparing for the ritual, because it’s going to be pretty complicated. Because—”

            “Because the demon is split between two people,” I said. I didn’t want him thinking Rachel was the only one who believed in demons. “Zack and his brother Leonard.”

            “Precisely.” The priest picked up a book from a table in the corner. “There’s no precedent for this kind of thing, not that I can find. If I had both of them together—”

            “Leonard has killed people,” I said. “Two that we know about. Maybe more. It’s the demon, I know, but he’s dangerous. The police are looking for him.”

            Father Medina set the book down. “I don’t—Zack is scared of him, but I didn’t know what that meant.”

            “He tried to kill Zack,” Rachel said. “Maybe to have the demon all to himself.”

            He looked at the door. It had just a flimsy deadbolt. “This is beyond my experience. I’m bound to help whoever I can, but I don’t think I’m—”

Downstairs Sebastian started barking again.

Rachel staggered, and grabbed the wall to keep her balance. “It’s—it’s him.”

Damn it. “Stay here.” I pulled the door open. “The demon’s name is Malik, by the way.”

“Tom—” Rachel fumbled in her pocket. “Take my—”

“I’ve got some.” I slammed the door behind me and turned to the stairs, one hand in my jacket pocket.

Leonard was halfway up the steps.

He was taller than I expected from his picture. His face was red, his hair tangled, his chin and cheeks bristly. He seemed to be muttering to himself as he mounted the steps, Sebastian behind him, barking frantically. Leonard kicked at him, but he stayed on his heels, nipping at his shoes.

“Leonard!” I held up a hand, palm out. “It’s me! Tom Jurgen! Stop!”

He blinked, as if trying to remember the name. Then he shook his head. “Get out of my way.” His voice was a growl.

“Let’s go downstairs.” I tried to keep my own voice from shaking. “Zack is fine. The priest here it taking care of him. You should really sit down and—”

Leonard lunged at me. That’s when I saw the knife in his hand. 

It had a long blade, stained with—what? Dried blood? Probably. Fortunately he was five or six steps below me, and before he could reach me to do any serious damage I had my pepper spray out. It wasn’t a handgun, but I always carry some, and the spray could slow down or stop bigger men than Leonard. Even vampires and other monsters.

Leonard screeched in anger as the spray hit his face, and he staggered back down two steps, coughing and slashing with his dagger. I stayed above him, the sprayer in my fist.

Sebastian darted up and chomped at his ankle. He was a small dog , but his jaws were apparently strong and his teeth sharp enough to rip through his sock and draw some blood. Leonard howled, kicking viciously, and then he lost his balance. With a shriek, he tumbled backward down the stairs.

He flipped over, bouncing at each step, legs flailing, his hand still tight around his knife as the dog jumped back and forth, barking and nipping at his arms and legs.

Then Leonard hit the bottom. His neck bent sharply, and the knife dropped from his hand. His fingers twitched as his body shuddered. 

Then he went limp.

Sebastian barked, running down the steps until he reached Leonard, and then started backing away, whimpering. He edged forward once and sniffed at Leonard’s scalp, then turned and fled.

I clambered down the steps, out of breath. Leonard wasn’t moving, but he was still breathing. Blood seeped from the back of his skull. 

I kept my pepper spray tight in one fist as I knelt next to him and planted a hand on his chest. His breathing was shallow. I kicked the knife across the hall and felt for the pulse in his neck, half expecting him to lurch up like the killer in a slasher movie. But his body was motionless. 

“Tom?” Rachel, at the top of the steps. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Should I start CPR? I grabbed my phone to call 911. “What about up there?”

“Yeah, we’re—wait.” I heard her footsteps. “What the—Tom, get up here!”

I ran up the stairs, talking as fast as I could to the 911 operator, hoping I was making some kind of sense. Then at the door, I stopped, looked inside, and hung up. 

Father Medina was struggling with Zack, who was trying to get past him to the doorway. Rachel blocked him, the stun gun she always carries in her fist as Zack squirmed and twisted in the priest’s arms.

Zack was growling, his face red like his brother a few moments ago, sweat running down his cheeks and through his shirt, his eyes burning like flame. “Get—off of me! Get away!”

            “It’s him.” Rachel glanced over her shoulder at me. “He’s all Malik. He’s all inside him. What happened to Leonard?”

            I didn’t have time to answer. Zack succeeded in shoving Father Medina to the floor, but then Rachel jabbed him with her stunner. He howled, but hurled himself forward, and Rachel spun and fell on the floor, cursing.

            I dropped my phone and grabbed my spray just as Zack rammed into me. I toppled backward, but I managed to spray his face as I fell. He kicked me but bent over, clawing at his eyes, shrieking in rage.

            Sebastian was there too, barking and circling him warily. He tried to kick the little dog away, but then Medina was on top of him, pulling one arm back until Zack yelped and pounded a fist at the floor. He tried to roll over, but I jumped on him too, grabbed his other arm, and yanked it back until his face went white with pain and his howls of rage became grunts and gasps of pain. 

“We have to restrain him.” Medina was panting as he held onto the arm. “I don’t have anything—stay still, Zack!—to hold him down, but we have to do something if I’m going to perform the ritual.”

“You may not have time,” I said as Zack rolled back and forth, groaning as he tried to break free. “I had to call 911 for Leonard. I think he’s dead.”

“That’s why—okay, that makes sense,” Rachel said, keeping her stun gun close to Zack’s neck. “He suddenly went crazy. Crazier. That must have been the other half of the demon reuniting with him.”

Zack’s body sagged, like a child suddenly running out of energy and deciding to take a nap. Medina sighed and wiped a hand over his forehead. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, I can try to do the exorcism, but—”

I lifted a hand. Shouting below, someone calling, “Hello?” The cops.

“Stay here.” I left Rachel with Zack and the priest and made my way downstairs. Slowly. Hands on top of my head. I was glad now I hadn’t brought Donald with me. 

            Two paramedics were crouched over Leonard’s body, trying to bring him back to life. Two cops stood next to them: a female, Hispanic, talking into her radio and a male, Black, with his hands on his hips staring up at me. 

            “His name’s Leonard Rupp,” I said carefully, staying a few steps above the body so the paramedics could work without bumping into me. “He’s wanted for the murder of Oscar Parks in Woodridge and a woman named Carol Beck in Wicker Park.”

            The male cop crossed his arms. They looked huge enough to crush me. “And you?”

            “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective—”

            “Oh, hell,” the cop said. “Not you. Please, not you.”

            I shrugged. “Sorry. The thing is, we’ve got a priest performing an exorcism upstairs, and—”

            “Shut up. Just shut up.” The cop shook his head. “Diaz, call it in. Get Cruz and tell him this is going to be complicated.”

 

Two weeks later my phone buzzed at 9:30 a.m. Zack. “Tom Jurgen speaking. Hi Zack.”

            At Zack’s name Rachel swung around in her chair. “Is he—”

            I held up a hand and put the phone on speaker as Zack said, “Hi, Tom. I was going through my brother’s emails, and I found your bill. I made a payment to your account.”

            “Uh, thanks.” The invoice wasn’t very much, and I wouldn’t have bothered him over it. But every little bit helps pay the cable bill. “How are you doing?”

            “Fine, I guess.” Zack sighed. “It’s still sort of—strange. I’ve got a new therapist, she’s helping.”

            “That’s good.”

            The cops had put Zack in Northwestern’s mental health unit. After a day or so, Father Medina had finally persuaded them to let him try an exorcism. Apparently at least one doctor there had seen a case of demonic possession before. After a few days, Malik was gone.

            The cops took me downtown and questioned me for hours, but in the end they couldn’t charge me with anything. Leonard had been carrying the knife he’d used in the two murders, and a camera in the church hallway had caught at least part of Leonard’s attack. They cut me loose, but I had to take an Uber to pick up my car. Rachel had already left for class. 

            “Yeah,” Zack said. “The nightmares are still bad. I wish—I don’t know. But thanks. For helping.”

            We hung up. 

            “You okay?” Rachel asked.

            “Yeah.” I sipped some coffee. “I mean, I wish I hadn’t killed his brother, even by accident, but at least the demon is gone. So, glass half full, I guess?”

            “I can’t wait until I can treat people like him. I’m going to be great.” She turned back to her computer. 

I watched her for a few minutes, my mind on Zack and Leonard. Then my phone buzzed. A client. Time to get back to work.

 

# # #

The Ancient God

A seemingly routine stalker case becomes mysterious and deadly when Tom discovers an old house hiding an ancient, monstrous secret. 

The Ancient God, Part One

In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

―H.P. Lovecraft

The Call of Cthulhu

 

 

“I’m being stalked,” Amber Keenan told me. 

Amber Keenan was in her 30s, blond, a marketing executive. We were in a coffee shop with her girlfriend, Kris Santos, also blond. An artist. 

I opened my notebook. “Okay. Tell me everything you’ve got.”

            The two women looked at each other. “He’s got blond hair,” Amber said. “Darker than Kris. Short. Older than us.”

            “Sometimes he wears a baseball cap,” Kris said. “I can’t see what team. Sometimes he’s in a jacket, sometimes just a sweatshirt. Depending on the weather, I guess.”

            “When did you start seeing him?”

            Amber groaned. “Right around the time I inherited the house.”

            I looked up. “What house?”

            She ran her fingers through her hair. “I somehow inherited this house from an uncle I’ve barely heard of. I mean, both my parents are dead so I couldn’t ask them, but this lawyer showed me the will—the part of it I was in—and I found the name in some documents my mom had, so it’s legit. Now I’ve got this house near Benton Harbor in Michigan and I have no idea what to do with it, and—”

            Amber paused for breath. Kris put a hand on her arm, smiling. 

            I wrote it all down, giving her a chance to recover. Yeah, I still write things in a notebook, not on my phone. I’m not even that old. I love technology, but a notebook and a pen are old habits from when I was a reporter.

            “I noticed someone watching us the day we went to look at the house.” Amber took a sip of her iced coffee. “I didn’t think about it much, there are a few other houses along the street. Then I noticed a guy who looked like he was following me when I was at the grocery store. I didn’t really start worrying until I saw him a few days later on my way home from work. I work downtown, and I noticed him when I got off the bus.”

            She glanced at Kris. “That time I recognized him, and I called Kris, and we went to a bar where the owner knows us so we could get out the back way. So he wouldn’t follow us home, you know? And I’ve seen him at least three times since then, over the last two weeks.”

            “What’s the time frame? When did you see him first?”

            “Four weeks ago.” That came from Kris. “That’s when we were at the house. I didn’t see him then. But I’ve seen him a few times since.”

            “And yes, I called the police.” Amber said, anticipating the obvious question. “They couldn’t do anything without a name or a photo, or anything to identify him.”

            “That figures.” I sat back and crossed my arms, looking at my notes and trying to think of what to tell them. “Did he follow you today? Here?”

            They shook their heads. “I don’t think so,” Amber said.

            “I didn’t see him,” Kris added.

            “Okay.” I sat forward. “I can do a couple of things. One, I’ll follow you home from here. Or wherever you’re going after this. Do you live far away?”

            “A couple of blocks,” Amber said. “Yeah, we’re going home. We’ve got laundry to do.” It was Saturday morning.

            “I’ll follow and watch for him,” I said. “Then we’ll set up a time every day for a week where you can go out and I’ll look for him. If I spot him, I’ll try to follow him home, or wherever he goes. Then we can go from there.”

            “All right,” Amber said, but Kris seemed uncertain.

            “What if you don’t spot him?” she asked. “Or you lose him?”

            A reasonable question. “I’ll be honest. I’m pretty good at tailing people, but I can’t guarantee anything. In the meantime, I can advise you on personal security. It’s not my speciality—I’m not a bodyguard, but I know a bit about it, and I know some good people I can recommend.”

            “And what if you do spot him?” Kris asked. “What then?”

            Another fair question. “That depends. If I can identify him by where he goes, we can go to the police. On the other hand, we could simply confront him directly. Ask him what he’s up to. That might scare him off. That’s not my favorite option—”

“Yeah, it could just make him mad.” Kris frowned. I was glad she hadn’t pointed out that I don’t have the most intimidating presence. She looked at Amber. “What do you think? I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

Amber sighed. “Yeah. Don’t get in his face. Just see if you can figure out who he is.” She shuddered. “I hardly go outside anymore anyway. God, this is driving me crazy.”

Kris put an arm around her. I went up to get more coffee and give them a few minutes together, and then I sat down to go through the details. We set up a schedule, talked about pepper spray, Tasers, and other self-defense options, and then Amber sent a retainer to my Venmo. I used the bathroom and left.

Outside I crossed the street and waited at a bus stop, watching the coffee shop door and scanning the area for signs of the stalker. I called Rachel, my girlfriend, to let her know what I was up to. She told me to be careful, and also to pick up some bread from the grocery store on my way home.

I’ve handled stalking cases before. They can be tricky. Restraining orders are fine when you can get them, but they don’t always stop someone who’s seriously obsessed—or just crazy. I hoped this guy turned out to be relatively normal. Capable of being scared, willing to listen to a cop or a lawyer. 

Or at least nothing supernatural. I hoped.

 

I got home two hours later, after following Amber and Kris without spotting their stalker. I put away the groceries, checked my email, and turned on the TV. It was Saturday, after all.

            Rachel got home for her class 15 minutes later. She’s working on a degree in psychology, and Saturday classes are part of the schedule. “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” she groaned, letting her backpack slide to the floor.

Rachel’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and psychic powers. She helps me out on cases when I need some insight into the supernatural, at least when she’s not studying psych or working at her gig as a graphic designer.

“How was class?” I asked.

“Actually pretty interesting. Sexual addiction.”

I sat up. “Tell me more.” 

“Later, maybe. What’s the case?”

I shrugged. “Stalker.”

“Huh. I had a stalker once.”

I looked up from the TV. “Really? What happened?” 

            She smiled. “I scared him away.”

            I grinned. “You can be pretty scary.”

            She went to the bedroom. When she came back she was in a T-shirt and shorts, and she brought beers for us. We clinked glasses, and I handed the remote over.

            “Who was your stalker?” I asked as she sped through the channels looking for a reality show she hadn’t seen yet.

            “Oh, it was—a long time ago. Right after college. I had three roommates in this tiny apartment.” She paused on a channel. “Oh, good, Real Housewives of Reykajik! I haven’t seen this in ages. Anyway . . .” She sipped on her beer. 

“I started getting notes left on the front door. Post-Its, then letters. First it was just, ‘Have a sexy day,’ and then the letters started getting creepy. I figured it had to be someone in the building, but the landlord was no use. So I set a trap.”

            “What kind of trap?” 

            “Shut up, I want to watch this . . . Okay, I got this stuff that was invisible, but it would glow if you put it under a black light, and I left some outside the door. It took a few days, but eventually I could track the guy back to his apartment from his footprints.”

            “Very Doc Savage of you. Color me impressed.”

            She nodded. “I thought it was pretty clever. And it worked.”

            “What happened?”

            “I knocked on his door and told him to piss off.”

            “And that was it? I mean, not that you’re not scary in your own way, but—”

            “I had a dog with me. It belonged to my roommate’s boyfriend, but he didn’t know that. He growled. The guy denied everything, but I could tell it was him.” She tapped her forehead. “He tried to argue, the dog picked up on my feelings and lunged at him, and, well, I may or may not have hit him with a blast of pepper spray.” She sipped her beer. “Case closed.”

            I patted her leg. “I’ll bring you along if this case gets complicated.”

            “Great. Now shut up and let me watch the show.”

 

The next day I followed Amber and Kris on a quick walk to the park with a stop at the grocery store, but didn’t see the guy. On Monday, though, I followed Amber home from work and caught him as she got on her bus on LaSalle. He was already aboard, holding a strap in the aisle. I managed to keep my eye on him without being obvious.

            Like Amber said, he had blond hair in a baseball cap, and he wore jeans and a leather jacket. Not too tall, kind of skinny, with thick hands and sharp eyes. I couldn’t manage a photo, but I kept my eyes on him, trying not to let him notice me as the bus rolled in its stop-and-start pattern up the street. 

I texted her so she’d know I was there. We all got off the bus near her apartment building, and he waited outside when she stopped at the grocery store. Once she got home, he stood on the nearest corner for 15 minutes, then walked north for three blocks to an el stop. I lost him a few minutes later, but it was a start.

            He didn’t follow her home the next day, but he was back on Wednesday. I stayed with him longer, tailing him off the train and down the street past electronics stores, Mexican restaurants, and shoe stores until he went into a bar. I went in and had a beer, watching him until he went to the restroom, but he didn’t come back. I found a back door to the alley, but it was too late. He was gone.

            On Thursday I called her to check in. I’d been sending Amber daily emails, but I had some other information to share.

            “No, I get that tailing people is hard,” Amber said after I apologized for losing the stalker again. “It feels better knowing there’s someone there, you know? I know I can’t hire someone full-time, but I sorta wish I could.”

            “Do you want me to keep at it?” I asked.

            “Yeah,” she said. “At least until next week. Then maybe if you don’t know where he lives, we can just try to talk to him on the street.”

            I wondered what had happened to Rachel’s roommate’s dog. But at least I had plenty of pepper spray, and my Taser. “There’s something else you might want to know,” I said. “I was looking into the history of the house you inherited.”

            “Oh. Yeah, Kris keeps telling me we’ve got to do something about that. I’ve just been all over the place with this guy—” She paused to breathe. “Okay. What do you know?”

            “Your uncle, Jacob Holroyd, was your mother’s half-brother, correct?”

            “Y-yeah. I think that’s it. She didn’t talk about him much. Grandpa’s first wife—I think she left him. Grandpa was an alcoholic. Mom didn’t—well, she tried to maintain some kind of relationship with him, but he wasn’t easy, and so they didn’t keep up together.”

            “Right.” I’d gotten some of this from property records, and some from the lawyer handling the estate, such as it was. Jake Holroyd’s mother had married a man named Quinn Powell, who adopted Holroyd. They apparently never had any other children. 

I told this to Amber, and then I got to the hard part: “There’s another thing. Jake’s parents, uh, committed suicide. In that house.”

            “Oh my God.” Amber gulped. “In the house?”

            “Yeah. Jake found them. They hung themselves in the attic—”

            “I don’t think I want to know. Jesus Christ! Just a second.” I heard her take a gulp of water. Or whatever she had handy at her desk.

            “This was 20 years ago or so. Jake continued to live there until he died this year. The lawyer, James Crowley, obviously wasn’t able to track down any other relatives—”

            “Yeah, he said he only met my uncle twice, about five years ago and then last year. Christ. I mean, I got some money, too, but—”

            “Did he leave the house to you specifically? In his will?”

            “No. It was just to be divided among any living relatives. He had to do some kind of search to find me.”

            I wondered how thorough he’d been for a client he barely knew. I’d have to do some searching of my own.

            “All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you tonight—”

            “I’m going out for drinks. With work people. Not for long, but an hour or so.” A bar downtown. I noted the name and promised to stay with her.      

            Rachel was working on her side of the office. “Stalker case?”

            “Yeah. I’m tailing her again tonight.”

            “Is she cute?” Rachel sometimes gets territorial when I’m around another woman.

            I shrugged. “Reasonably. She has a girlfriend, though, so I’m probably not her type.”

            “You never know. Just be careful.”

            I figured she wasn’t just talking about Amber. “Don’t worry.  I don’t have a dog, but I’m a Jedi with my pepper spray.”

            “Use it wisely, young padawan.” We both went back to work.

 

So at six p.m. I was outside a downtown bar called O’Riley’s, with an office building on one side and an alley on the other. Amber was inside, with three women and one man from her office, sitting around a table drinking beer and wine. A light rain was beginning to fall. Fortunately I had a jacket and a hat. I just hoped it wouldn’t turn into a downpour.

            I hadn’t spotted the stalker as they were walking over. I stood in front of the office building next door with a good view of the bar’s entrance, pretending to talk on my phone as I watched. Every few minutes I put my phone away, paced, then pretended to get another call so I’d be doing something normal. 

            I was getting tired and wet, so I was thinking about going in to see if somehow he’d snuck into the bar when I saw him. Across the street, hands in his pockets, just watching. I looked away quickly, and tried keeping an eye on him in the reflection of the office building’s windows, but that didn’t work as well as it does in detective novels. I had to keep turning back, aware that he could slip away in an instant if I took my eyes off him.

            He didn’t seem to notice me. I managed a few pictures with my phone, then texted Amber that he was outside.

            She texted back a minute later: I’m getting a cab home.

            The stalker stayed where he was as Amber pushed her way through the revolving doors of the bar with two co-workers. She glanced around, as they hugged, chatting good-bye, and then she turned to the curb and lifted a hand, looking for a cab.

            The rain was heavier now, and the street was busy. Amber’s friends headed for the subway stairs, and she stayed, her eyes darting nervously around as she looked for an open cab.

            The stalker, on the far side of the street, suddenly moved forward. He dodged a car, waited for another one that slowed and honked, and then stood in the middle of the street, looking both ways for a safe moment to finish crossing.

            A cab flashed its lights, and Amber took a step to the curb. Then a woman I hadn’t noticed before darted out from the shadow of the alley next to the bar and skidded behind her, shoving Amber in the back. 

Amber stumbled. The cab hit its brakes, and the driver twisted his wheel to veer away from her as he forced it to a stop on the wet pavement.

            The woman, in a long green coat, boots, and a skirt, stood on the sidewalk, watching Amber as if deciding whether to try pushing her further into the traffic. 

Then the stalker was making his way across the rain-streaked street, and she turned and ran away without looking back, ducking in front of two guys in business suits to duck into the subway.

            Amber caught her balance and looked around, confused. She pulled the cab’s door open and slid in. and the cab drove away into the rain.

            The stalker stood motionless, peering up and down the street. For a moment our eyes met. Then he turned and walked back across the street, his arms swinging back and forth as if he was in a hurry.

            I crossed, but I lost him in half a block. By now I was soaked by the rain, frustrated with my shadowing skills, and puzzled by the woman in the green coat. But there was no point in getting more wet. I got a cab of my own and headed home.

            Amber called me as I was taking off my damp socks in the bedroom. “What happened? Did that—it felt like someone tried to shove me in front of my cab!”

            “Yeah.” I’d been rerunning the scene through my mind on the ride home. “I’m not 100% sure, but—yeah, that’s what it looked like.”

            “What about the guy? What happened to him?”

            “I lost him again. It looked like he was trying to get to you when that woman came up.”

            “Damn it.” I could hear Kris behind her, trying to keep her calm. “What the hell is going on?”

            “I think I have to confront him.” I didn’t like the idea, but I tried to keep my nerves under control. “Before this—escalates any further.”

            “Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.” She sniffed. “Sorry. I’m going to work from home tomorrow. I’m scared to go out now. Even the cab driver thought that woman was trying to push me.”

            “That’s good. Stay home and safe. I’ll swing by your building tomorrow morning to see if I can spot him. If that doesn’t work . . .” My voice trailed off as I thought about the next step.

            “What?”

            I had one idea. “How would you feel about going out to the house this Saturday?”

The Ancient God, Part Two

So on Saturday I was just south of Benton Harbor, Michigan, parked down the street from Amber’s house. It had two stories and an attic, with a tall, thick tree shading a wide front lawn that was carpeted with dandelions. Around the back I could see a big tree and a small wooden structure, like an outhouse, also surrounded by weeds and dandelions 

The house’s windows were shuttered; the siding had faded over the years of bright summers and cold winters. The grass hadn’t been mowed lately. The house loomed over the rest of the street, which had a few smaller houses scattered up and down the block.

The day was sunny and warm. The neighborhood was quiet, with just a few houses in either direction. A woman down the street weeded her garden. A young boy rode a bicycle in circles up and down the cracked pavement until a friend joined him and they pedaled off.

Rachel wasn’t with me. “Drive to Michigan with you? Let’s see, I’ve got a paper to write and another lab experiment to design. I can do that in the car while you drive and listen to classic rock, sure. Or, here’s a thought—no.”

Her psychic abilities might have come in handy with the stalker, but her classwork was her priority. I had to hide my irritation, because it was a fight I couldn’t win. I settled for texting her that I’d arrived safely, then waited for Amber and Kris. 

I looked around from inside the car. No sign of the stalker. Was he a neighbor? I had a few fuzzy pictures of him from my phone. Maybe someone would recognize him if I started knocking on doors. Or maybe someone would shoot me. You never know.

They showed up at 11:30. Or maybe 12:30, with the time change. I watched them get out, go up to the door, unlock it and go inside while I waited to see if the stalker would show his face. 

A minute later Amber called. “Hi. We’re here. Everything looks pretty much the same. What do we do now?”

“Let’s wait a bit to see if—whoops, there he is now.”

The stalker was across the street, standing under a tree. Had he been there the whole time? The lot was empty, just tall grass and weeds and a mound of dirt. 

I took a gulp of coffee, steeled my nerves, and got out of the car.

He watched me cross the street. He was wearing the leather jacket and his cap, leaning against the tree, smiling as I approached. 

“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

He looked over my shoulder at the house, then nodded. “Sure.”

“My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. I’m working for the woman in the house over there, Amber Keenan. You’ve been following her.”

He straightened up and looked me over. “I’m Driver. I don’t mean her any harm.”

“You’re scaring her. What are you up to?”

“We—I want to make sure she’s safe. The house is important.”

“Important how? To who?”

He shook his head. “To some of us.”

I looked around. “The neighbors?”

Driver laughed. “No. They’re—not important.”

This wasn’t getting me anywhere. “What’s your full name?”

He looked down. “No. This is none of your business.”

I took a different direction. “What about that woman the other day? Who was she? Was she trying to kill Amber?”

Driver’s eyes flickered. “We’re—I’ll take care of that.”

“Doing what? Is Amber in danger?”

He shook his head again. “Not from us. Not as long as she takes care of the house.”

“What’s important about that house?” I asked again.

            “It’s beyond your knowledge. You wouldn’t understand. Or believe.”

            The list of things I’ve run into that most people wouldn’t believe is pretty long—vampires, gargoyles, killer fungus. “I’m pretty open minded. Try me.”

            He looked at my eyes for a moment, then away. “Sorry.”

            I had more questions, or at least variations of the questions I’d already asked, but I got the feeling he was finished talking. “All right.” 

I turned, pulling up my phone, and accessed the camera.

            Then I turned back and got a picture of him. Nice and close. 

I managed another picture before he took a step forward, frowning. I switched hands and reached for the pepper spray in my jacket, but before I could get it out he changed his mind and turned away from me. He started walking, not looking back, not toward any particular house or yard. Just away. Not running, but quick.

I didn’t think following him would work right now. So I let him go, checked the photos, and crossed the street to the house.

“We were watching,” Amber said as she opened the door. “What happened? What’d he say?” Kris was right next to her, staring at me hard.

“His name’s Driver, he said.” I showed them the picture. “First name, last name, code name, I don’t know. He says he only wanted you to be safe, but he—or they—want to make sure you take care of the house. It’s important for some reason.”

“This place?” Amber spread her arms. We were in a big, empty room with a fireplace in one corner and curtains pulled across a wide picture window. “I’m figuring out how to sell it. How is it important?”

“You said ‘they,’” Kris said. “Who’s they?”

“No idea. He seemed to slip up by saying ‘us.’ He said what’s important about the house is beyond our knowledge.”

Kris rolled her eyes. “What does that mean?”

I didn’t answer. 

The floor was wood, rough and unpolished, as if the living room’s carpeting had been pulled up recently. The air was dusty, smelling like animal droppings and lingering disinfectant. A dark hall led to the other side of the house, and I could see a kitchen at the far end. “Mind if I look around?”

We glanced into a dining room and a study, both empty except for a few boxes and crumpled wads of newspaper. A door to the basement stood in front of the kitchen, but we went past it for the moment. 

In the kitchen I tried the faucets, but only a few drops dribbled into the dirty, stained sink. The cabinets were mostly bare, but cans of spaghetti sauce and beans and vegetables sat in the cupboards.

A back door was locked and bolted from the inside. A screened window looked into the back yard, where grass and weeds had taken over, surrounding the big tree and the outhouse I’d seen from the car.

A wastebasket in the corner held a few fast food bags. “Are these from you?”

“Uh-uh.” Amber shook her head. “I don’t think they were here before. Kris?”

“No.” She looked into the basket. “That was empty.”

The second floor had four bedrooms and two linen closets. In one bedroom, facing the back yard, we found a dirty T-shirt and a long white sock.

“Oh shit,” Amber said. “Someone’s been living here?”

The rest of the bedrooms showed no sign of human habitation. We checked all the doors and windows. Every one was locked securely. 

            A narrow staircase led up to an attic. Amber had to unlock it with one of the keys the lawyer had turned over to her, and we went through. Under the sloping ceiling we found dust, cobwebs, and mouse droppings. A single shuttered window kept out the sun, so we used our phones as best we could, but only a few empty boxes lay scattered across the creaking floor.

            On the ground again we looked at the windows and doors. All of them were secure, with no signs of tampering that I could find. 

That left the basement. I led the two women down a set of dark stairs, again using my phone for light. We spread out across the concrete floor, shining our phones at the gray cinder block walls, looking into shadowy corners and cautiously examining ominous shapes that turned out to be the washer and dryer, an empty freezer, and the furnace. Two small windows near the ceiling on one side were too high for any of us to reach, but they were too tight for any intruder to have gotten through.

A tall, heavy wooden door stood in the wall opposite the two windows. Amber fumbled with her keys. “Nope, no, nope—none of them.” She tried each one again, then slid them back into her jeans. “Anyone got an ax?”

We headed back upstairs. Kris looked annoyed with me. Amber just seemed freaked out. I couldn’t blame either one of them. 

“What now?” Kris demanded, arms crossed.

“I can use the picture and the name he gave me to try to identify him. I also want to look more into the house’s history. Maybe—I don’t know. Somebody buried treasure here?” 

Amber bit her lip. “I just can’t go on like this. I want to burn it to the ground.”

That was one option, though not something I could legally recommend. I knew people who could threaten Driver—not “people,” technically, and I didn’t like to think about what favors I’d owe them if I went there, so I didn’t mention that. 

Like I said, stalking cases are complicated. 

Kris put an arm around her. “We’ll figure this out. Somehow.” She looked at me. “Right?”

“I’ll do my best.”

We went outside and locked up. I stood on the porch, looking for Driver as they got into their car and drove away. No trace of him. I looked at his picture on my phone, then turned back to the front door of the house, making sure it was locked firmly. 

A chill ran up my arm as I touched the doorknob. I’m not psychic like Rachel, but something about the house made me wary. I’ve visited a few haunted houses and met some angry ghosts in them, and this place had the same kind of aura around it—and inside it. Something that made me want to leave and not come back.

Again I wished Rachel was here. But I usually wish Rachel was with me. I sent her a text that I was on my way home and went back to my car.

 

On Monday morning I followed Amber to work without spotting Driver, then went back to my desk to call the lawyer who’d given her the house. I’d spoken to him once before, after she’d authorized him to talk to me, and he’d been reasonably helpful without going beyond the bare minimum. This time I figured I’d try pushing him a bit.

            “Did you keep any keys from the house?” I paused. “Because it looks like someone’s been inside since my client took possession from you.”

            The lawyer, James Crowley, cleared his throat. “There are no keys to the house in my possession.”

            “Are there any other keys floating around in someone else’s possession?”

            “There could be. I was only in contact with Mr. Holroyd. There may have been someone—”

            “Do you know if there was anyone else with access to the house?”

            “No! There was only—” He stopped.

            Gotcha. I felt like I was the lawyer now. “Who? Was there someone else?”

            “Someone called asking about the house. If it was for sale. I told her no—”

            Her. “A woman? Did you get her name?”

            “It was—let me think—Mickey something. Or Nikki, maybe. I don’t remember the last name. I told her the house was passing on to Mr. Holroyd’s next of kin, and she asked who that was, but I—something was off about her, so I just said it was part of the estate.”

            “Off about her how?”

            “Like—she sounded very anxious. In a hurry. I started to ask her if she wanted me to contact the estate for her, but she just hung up.”

            “You haven’t heard from her since?”

            “No. Sometimes you get random people trying to find out if a house is good to rob, stuff like that, but we’d already cleared out the house, at Ms. Keenan’s request. Not that there was much there. I went in once after Holroyd died, and it was just furniture, a few pots and pans, a bed upstairs, empty basement—nothing.”

            After we hung up, I started digging into real estate records. 

The house had been in the same family for close to 150 years, starting with a guy named J.P. Holroyd in 1872. He’d died shortly after building the house, leaving it to his wife and two sons. 

            Since then, it had passed between generations, father to son, or sometimes father to nephew, staying in the same family without much dispute. One man emerged in 1901 claiming to be the illegitimate son of Silas Holroyd, but the family apparently bought him off, and he disappeared. Two sons battled for control of the property in the 1950s until the older died in a car accident. 

Other family members had died tragically too. One drowned in the river between Benton Harbor and its sister city St. Joseph, Michigan, in 1879; another had died in the Spanish Flu pandemic in 1918, and his son was shot by a robber in 1923; one of them shot himself in the head when the stock market crashed in 1929, and so forth.

            The family had done well for more than 100 years, establishing a series of department stores that thrived until the 1980s or so, then apparently living off real estate investments in the area until, one by one, everything got sold off until only the house was left. And then Jacob Holroyd’s parents had killed themselves.

            The parents, Brad and Annabelle, had been in their 50s. Brad had owned a bank in St. Joseph that failed 12 years before his death. Annabelle, as far as I could determine, simply devoted herself to raising Jake. 

            That brought us up to the present day. I wasn’t sure it helped, but it gave me some context to the story. 

            A reverse image search of Driver’s face didn’t get me anywhere. The few possible matches were obviously wrong, and there were too many other results for me to check each one. A social media search only found a lot of Adam Driver fans, and this guy was no Force-wielding Kylo Ren from the Star Wars sequels. I scanned the town records for anything that remotely matched “driver” as a name or nickname. Again, zero. Some detective I was.

            I emailed my client and confirmed that I’d follow her home from her office again. Rachel came back from a morning class, kissed me, then ignored me for the rest of the day to work on a web page redesign for a client of hers. I spent the day dealing with other cases—internet searches, calling people with questions, writing and sending emails, and all the stuff of a P.I.’s life they don’t show you on TV.

            I quit at 4:30, kissed Rachel, and headed downtown to Amber’s office building. Once again I waited with my phone in hand, pretending to talk, my eyes darting everywhere for Driver’s face. I thought I saw him once, but the face turned out to belong to a man using GPS to find an address.

            Amber emerged at 5:25, walked to the nearest bus stop, and rode the bus up LaSalle and a few other streets until we reached her stop, a two-block walk from home.

            She didn’t stop at the grocery store today. I stayed half a block behind her as she made her way down the sidewalk, glancing around and back nervously a few times, but otherwise she was just like any other pedestrian on their way home on a Monday afternoon.

            Then the woman came out. 

            She’d been standing in the doorway to Amber’s apartment building. She wore the same green coat and skirt and  boots, her hair pulled back, her eyes hidden behind round sunglasses. One of her hands was buried inside a big leather purse slung over her shoulder.

            Amber jumped back. The woman pulled something from her purse—I expected a knife or a handgun, but it was a file folder. She shoved it into Amber’s face. 

            “Look at this!” she shouted. “Just look!”

            I was running forward, but then Driver was behind her, arms reaching. He grabbed her wrist, and she twisted halfway around, yelling at him. 

            I had pepper spray in my hand as I reached Amber’s side. “You okay?” 

Before Amber could answer, the woman kicked Driver in the leg. With her boots, it hurt, and he grunted, letting go of her and staggering back. “Stop, Nicole,” he told her. “Just wait a—”

            She swung a fist and punched him in the chest. He sank to his knees, gasping, and the woman—Nicole?—darted past him.

She ran down the sidewalk. Her elbow hit a woman walking a dog, who yelled, but she kept going, and in a moment she was around the corner and out of sight.

Driver lurched to his feet, breathing hard. “I told you,” he gasped. “I told you, I’m just watching out for her—”

“Who are you?” Amber screamed. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”

“Keep the house,” he said, backing away. “Don’t let her scare you. Just keep the house.”

Then he turned and ran.

I looked at Amber. “Do you want me to go after him? I might be able—”

“No.” She shook her head. “Forget him. I just want to get inside.”

Good. I probably couldn’t have caught Driver, which would have been embarrassing, but I had to make the offer. 

People were staring at us, and the woman with the dog asked if we wanted her to call 911, but Amber only wanted to go home. The woman held the door for her.

I looked down the street, trying to see if Driver had a car, when I noticed something on the sidewalk at my feet. Just then, a man locking up his bike pointed down. “Hey, you dropped something.”

Nicole’s folder. I bent down. “Thanks.”