Dreams of Murder, Part Five

I went home, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. I drank some coffee and sat in front of the TV with my phone beside me, watching an old science fiction movie about giant killer insects. I dozed.

            I jumped when my phone buzzed. It was Rachel. The time was 7:15. “Hi.”

            “Hi.” Her voice was low and subdued. “You’re home?”

            “Yeah. I thought about sleeping there in the car, but these days I’m not sure my back could stand it. What happened?”

            “Give me a second.” I heard her take a swallow of something. Probably coffee. “I told them I stayed in the on-call room in case Henry needed me again. So far I think everyone’s buying it.”

            “Good. What about Henry?”

            Another slurp of coffee. “I don’t think there were any murders. But it felt like there was something—someone—inside his head. Poking around.”

            “Demon?”

            “No. It felt human. And it felt like it knew I was there. Mostly it felt like it wanted Henry to know it was there, like it was trying to scare him.”

            “What does Henry say? Any dreams? Even non-murdery dreams?”

            “He says . . .” She paused. “Sorry. I’m in the break room, and there’s people coming in and out. It’s okay to take personal calls, but this is risky.” More coffee. “Anyway, he sort of remembers walking around outside, but nothing clear enough to describe.”

            “Did he hear the song? The humming?”

            “Yeah. He still doesn’t know what it was, but it’s something he sort of remembers. He just can’t get it. Why is it important?”

            “Maybe it’s not. But songs can trigger memories. If he’s trying to get through to Henry, tell him something, it could be in the song.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel sighed. “God, I’m tired.”

            “Do you want me to come get you?”

            “Yeah. No rush, I can finish up some paperwork. Just stay outside and call me. So Stenholtz doesn’t see you.”

            “Let me grab a shower. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

            “Take your time.” She hung up.

            I took a shower, ate a quick bowl of cereal, and headed for the car.

            I drove as quickly as I could, thinking about Henry. Actually, after five minutes, I was only thinking about Rachel. Hoping she was okay. Usually she’s the one helping me, and I’m busy trying to solve some supernatural problem while she worries about me getting eaten by a giant carnivorous plant or a homicidal cyborg. 

I was beginning to see how aggravating it was to wait around and feel helpless. Some days I wonder why she puts up with me.

She was under a lot of pressure. My job right now was to take some of it off her any way I could. Like any good boyfriend, right? I could be a good, supportive boyfriend if I worked at it, couldn’t I?  Maybe I could find a podcast about it.

I pulled up in front of the center and texted her. She called back within 20 seconds: “Come in,” she told me. 

“What about Stenholtz?” I asked.

“He’s out delivering a lecture somewhere. The guy at security won’t write down your name. He owes me a favor.”

I wanted to ask what the favor was, but immediately decided I was better off not knowing. “I’ll be right there.”

I drove into the parking garage, made my way to the front desk, and got a new VISITOR sticker. The security guard gave Rachel a wink when she came out to get me.

“What’s going on?” I asked as she tapped the keypad next to the inner door.

“Henry remembered something.” Her eyes were red from missed sleep. She was walking fast, and I had to hurry to keep up with her.

“Remembered what?”

“Just now. I wanted you to hear it yourself. Ask questions, you know, what you do. Come on.”

She led me to the door to Henry’s room, knocked, and opened it right away. “Henry? I’ve got Tom. Can we come in?”

Henry was sitting at the small table, wearing the same T-shirt and drawstring pants as last night. “Hi, Tom.”

“Hi, Henry. What’s going on?”

Rachel closed the door. There was no place for us to sit except the unmade bed, so we stood next to each other. 

He rubbed his eyes. “I, uh, I was sleeping. Rachel was here.” His eyes darted at me nervously. “She was right here, in the chair, not next to me or anything, okay?”

“It’s fine, Henry.” I hid a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

 “And I was pretty tired, so I went to sleep right away. Right?” He looked at Rachel. She nodded. “And I didn’t have any dreams. I mean—I sort of felt Rachel, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t anything.” He looked at the floor. “There was something else. Like something calling me, but I couldn’t hear it. Like it was too far away.”

“Okay.”

“Then just now—I was eating breakfast in the cafeteria, and I was humming a song, and—” He looked up, smiling. “It was the song! From my dream. And I remembered everything.” Henry sighed, 

Rachel and I exchanged a glance. She looked happy. For the first time in days.

“What song?” I asked.

He sang: “‘There was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-oh.’ You know that?”

A dog. “Uh-huh. It’s an old song.”

“Yeah. The thing is, I had a dog named Bingo when I was a kid. He was just a mutt, but he was a good dog. He was my dog.  I guess I named him after the song.” Henry laughed, but then his face grew dark. “That’s when I remembered—well, the rest of it.”

I waited. Sometimes silence is the best way to get someone to open up.

“My best friend when I was a kid was Mitch. Mitch Haining. He was older than me, and he was kind of mean, but I didn’t have a lot of friends. People thought I was strange. That was before—anyway, Mitch hated dogs. He hated Bingo. Bingo didn’t like Mitch, he’d hide when he came over, or barked and growled at him all the time. And then—” Henry closed his eyes. “One day Mitch just killed Bingo.”

Henry’s voice started to tremble. “Bingo was barking at him, and Mitch kicked him, and he kept kicking him, over and over and—I couldn’t stop him. No one was home, my mom was at work, and Mitch just kept kicking him and then stomping him until—until he was dead. And Mitch just laughed.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Yeah.” Henry looked up and wiped his eyes, reaching for a tissue. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t say anything. I buried Bingo in the backyard, and I just—I didn’t say anything to anyone. I told my mom Bingo ran away.” 

“There’s more,” Rachel told me.

Henry threw the tissue away. “Mitch got arrested. He, uh, beat up his girlfriend. Stabbed her, but she didn’t die. He showed up at my house, to hide, and there was blood all over his clothes. The cops caught him in my house, and I told them about Bingo. He started screaming at me, and the police took him away, and—I don’t know what happened to him after that.” He stared at the floor again, breathing hard, as if reliving the memory had exhausted him. 

“What town were you in?”

He looked confused for a moment. “P-Park Ridge. Why?”

I looked at Rachel. She said, “Henry, Tom’s going to have to tell the police about Mitch. He has a friend—”

“No.” Henry’s face jerked up. “You can’t. Mitch will—he’ll—I can’t—”

“You’re safe here,” Rachel said, her voice protective and reassuring. “No one can get inside without—” She glanced at me. “Nothing will happen.”

“The police will just want to check out where Mitch is,” I said. “To see if there’s any connection. Chances are they won’t want to get you involved at all. I mean, even if you could identify Mitch from your dreams—”

“It’s him.” Henry was nodding. “He was humming that when he—when he killed Bingo. And those other people. I’m sure it’s him.”

“You can’t testify to that in court,” I told him. “Trust me, the police will want to leave you completely out of this. But with a name they can look for evidence, and you won’t have to get involved.”

Henry bit his lip until I was afraid he’d draw blood. Finally he sighed. “All right. I’ll—I’ll help if I can. I just can’t take any more dreams.”

“I know.” Rachel nodded. “Get some rest now, and—”

The door opened. It was Dr. Stenholtz. “Rachel? Mr. Jurgen? What are you doing here?” His face was definitely not pleased.

Dreams of Murder, Part Six

Twenty minutes later we were driving home. 

            “Breakfast talk?” Rachel pounded the dashboard. “What the hell is he doing giving a breakfast talk? I thought it was a big lecture. At a university. Or a conference. Not a Waffle House.”

            “At least he didn’t fire you,” I said, my eyes on the road.

            Stenholtz had actually listened to the whole story. He’d heard about the murders—one of them, anyway. He didn’t quite believe the dreams could have anything to do with the real world, but he was intrigued. “Cruelty to animals and a history of violence fits a few markers,” he agreed. “Assuming he’s not still in prison. Or dead.”

            “That’s what we need to check out next,” I said. 

            He looked between the two of us. “All right. Go home, both of you, and check this out. But Ms. Dunne, when you come back on Monday, I expect a full report on top of all your paperwork being finished. And I expect a new attitude about following procedures and protocols for bringing outsiders into this facility.”

            “Yes, sir.” I’d never seen Rachel so subservient. It was uncomfortable.

            “Yeah, he listened to you. A man.” She punched my shoulder. “But, yeah, at least I still have my job. And a ton of paperwork to do.” She put her sunglasses on. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a bit. Try not to crash into anything.”

            “Got it.”

            At home Rachel headed to the bedroom for a shower. I started looking up whatever I could find on Mitch Haining.

            I found a few brief newspaper stories about Haining going to prison for assault, along with a few other glimpses of his earlier life—a brief mention of him scoring the winning touchdown in a high school football game, an obituary for his mother, a minor arrest for marijuana, and then the girlfriend stabbing. Fortunately the girl had lived. Was he still locked up? I couldn’t find out. No social media presence. And there was nothing about the dog.

I showed it all to Rachel when she came in. “I guess you have to call Anita,” she said when she was done skimming.

“Yeah.” I saved everything to my hard drive, “I just hope it does some good.”

She patted my shoulder, then turned to her desk. I watched her walk, and then I called Sharpe. 

“Okay,” she grunted when I told her what we’d learned. “Send me what you got. I’ll see if it checks out.” Then she hung up. 

After that I talked to some clients, lined up more appointments for the sexual harassment case, and did one interview via Zoom in the afternoon. Rachel sat with noise canceling headphones at her desk, ignoring me as well as she could.

            At 5:30 I checked the refrigerator. Then I went into the office. “I’m going down to the grocery store for dinner stuff. Is rice curry okay with you?”

            Rachel groaned. “You’ve made dinner every night this week. I’ll do it.” She stood up and stretched. “I need the walk. What are you gawking at?”

            “I like watching you stretch.” I grinned. “I’ll come with you. I could use a walk with you too.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”

            “Me? You jest.”

            The late afternoon was warm, the sky a little overcast, the sidewalks busy as people got on and off buses or came down from the el on their way home, or maybe on their way to work. I saw people walking their dogs and kept an eye out for anyone who seemed to be stalking them.

            “I want to go to the park.” Rachel took my hand. “Just for a few minutes?”

            “Fine.” I followed. “You okay?”

            “I just need some fresh air, and nobody calling me.” She squeezed my hand. “All right?”

            The park was only a few blocks away. We made our way down a path and found an empty bench under a tree. Rachel sank down and closed her eyes with a sigh.

            I sat with her, not saying anything, just watching her and listening to the birds and the breeze.

            “I’m so close,” she murmured. “Just a few more months. I can do this.”

            “You’re doing great,” I told her. “I always knew you could.”

            “It’s just . . . some days.” She sighed. “I hope Henry’s getting some sleep. He said he was going to—”

            “Rachel? Tom?”

            I turned. It was Sara Metz, a neighbor from our building. She’s middle-aged and friendly, a real estate agent with two grown kids in New York. She waved, pulling on a leash. “Yes, Neelix, behave. They’re friends.”

            Neelix was her pug, a small dog named after a Star Trek character. Our landlord technically didn’t allow pets, but somehow Neelix was an exception. “Hi, Sara,” I said, and Rachel nodded.

            “Nice day, isn’t it?” She took a swallow from a water bottle clipped to her belt as Neelix sniffed Rachel’s feet.

            “Yes, hi, Neelix.” Rachel scratched his ears, then stood up. “Come on, Tom, we’ve got groceries to buy and beer to drink somewhere.”

            “Yes, milady.” I stood. “Have a nice walk, Sara. Neelix—”

            The small pug barked once. Then he stiffened with a growl and barked again. Not friendly this time.

            I started to turn. What the—

 

I’m in a park.

            She’s there, with her boyfriend. And there’s a woman with a dog. A dog.

            No one can see me. But I don’t care. I’m going to do it. Right now. I’m going to—

            Tom is standing up. He shouts a name. Rachel is staring at me. Not scared. Why isn’t she scared?

            The dog is barking. Some woman is holding its leash, yelling at it. 

            I have the knife. Rachel is right there. Tom is running at me.

            I can’t move.

            The knife is in my hand, but I can’t move my arm. 

            Rachel grabs Tom’s arm before he can hit me. I can’t hear what she’s saying. The dog is barking. I can’t hear it barking. The woman holding it looks scared. She’s got her phone out.

            I can’t move.

            Rachel’s in front of me, keeping away, and Tom is pulling on my hand, trying to get the knife away. I can’t move. Rachel is staring at me. She’s trying to talk to me. Her lips are moving. I can’t hear her. I stare back at her. What is she saying? What’s she trying to say? I can’t move.

            Finally I hear her—

            “Henry? Henry!”

            Then I wake up.

 

We were in Dr. Stenholtz’s office on Monday. Henry was there.

            “I just fell asleep in the rec center.” He seemed more relaxed than I’d seen him before. “I wasn’t going to take a nap, I just dozed off. And then—I was there. I saw you.” He blinked, his eyes darting over to me. “B-both of you. And I had to—I couldn’t let him do it. I just couldn’t. So I—I stopped.”

            The cops had shown up in minutes after Sara’s 911 call. Mitch Haining just stood there, seemingly paralyzed, and when he could move again he just fell over, gasping and cursing. I’d taken the knife. Neelix kept his distance.

            Dr. Stenholtz was still skeptical, but right now he seemed able to keep an open mind. “How are you feeling today, Henry?”

            “Fine.” He smiled. “Better than in a long time. I can sleep good again.”

            Rachel cleared her throat. “It seems like Haining became aware of me through Henry’s dreams, when I spent the night here.” She’d come clean about that, but Henry had insisted that he’d given his full consent. “And he decided, since we had a connection, to come after me. And Tom,” she added quickly.

            “Mostly you,” I said. “I get it.”

            “And the dog?” Stenholtz asked.

            “He hates dogs,” Rachel said. “Having Neelix there just drove his rage, but he didn’t need it that time. He wanted to punish Henry for turning him in when they were kids. He couldn’t get at him in here directly, but somehow he had the ability to get inside people’s dreams. So he decided to torture Henry by making him watch the killings.”

            I’d called Sharpe right after two cops arrived at the park to take Haining into custody. Detectives confirmed his identity, and the old man, Francis Monks, identified him in a lineup. Sharpe had told me this morning that Haining had made a rambling statement about hating dogs and loving nightmares. “I’m betting his lawyers go for an insanity defense,” she told me.

            Stenholtz looked at us across the table, his arms folded. “And you have some experience in things like, I don’t know, invading people’s dreams? Psychic phenomena? The supernatural?”

            Rachel swallowed and nodded. “Yes. That’s correct.”

            “A lot of that is my fault,” I said. “I seem to attract the crazies.”

            Rachel kicked me in the ankle.

            Stenholtz scowled. “Thank you, Henry. You may go.”

            Henry stood up, nervously looking at Rachel and me, and then left.

            Stenholtz tapped a key on his laptop. “I’m going to have to add a note to your file about observing Henry during sleep without prior authorization. And also about bringing your boyfriend in on different occasions for inappropriate purposes. Not—” He raised a hand before Rachel could object. “Not those kind of inappropriate purposes. Just outside the realm of your prescribed duties.”

            He tapped some more keys, then looked up. “However, Henry does seem to have improved under your care. And you have shown a commitment to your patient’s well-being that’s commendable. But this all sounds like an X-Files episode, and I don’t like the X-Files. So for the next few weeks, try to limit yourself to standard protocols and approved guidelines of care.” He sighed. “That’s all. Go back to work.”

            We left his office before he could change his mind. Out in the hallway, Rachel sighed with relief. “He didn’t fire me.”

            “Of course not.” I looked around, but there were too many people watching for me to give her a kiss. “See you at home?”

            She smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

            “No problem. It’s what boyfriends do.”

            Rachel punched me. Lightly. “Don’t forget it.”

            I rubbed my arm. “Never.”

 

# # #

Split

New story! A murderous demon split between two bodies leads Tom Jurgen and Rachel on a race to stop its killing spree.

Split, Part One

The house was small, one story, with stucco walls and a narrow lawn. Not close to any neighbors. Lights glowed behind drawn curtains. A half moon hung over its roof. 

            I was watching the house because my client, Leonard Rupp, a real estate developer, had called me at 3:30 today. His brother had disappeared.

            “Zack isn’t—well, stable,” Rupp told me, sounding panicky. “He just disappeared last night. He’s been living here—I’ve been taking care of him—and we had a fight, and—he’s gone. I’ve called all our friends and nobody’s seen him. The only place I can think he’d be would be our uncle’s house, out in Naperville.”

            Naperville, southwest from Chicago. “Have you called him?” I asked.

            “We’ve—we had a falling out a few years ago. I don’t think he’d take my calls. Look, I just need you to go and watch his house. See if my brother’s there. Just don’t knock on the door or talk to Oscar, anything like that, okay? Just watch. Can you do that?”

            I had other cases going. And Rachel and I had, uh, plans. But he offered a substantial bump in my usual fee, and he did sound worried. I agreed, and he gave me the information I needed. 

I told Rachel I had to go to Naperville. She rolled her eyes. “Nice way of getting out of dinner.” 

            “Hey, it’s a job. We’ve still got some of that frozen lasagna.”

            “Because you make it so we’ll always have leftovers.” She smirked. “Fine. Don’t come home too late, or we won’t be able to play Naughty Job Interview. Tonight I’m playing the hiring manager.”

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, psychic powers, and nice legs. We live together, sharing an office for my P.I. work and her graphic design jobs. “I’ll work on something inappropriate to explain the gap in my résumé,” I promised.

            So now I was sitting outside the home of Oscar Parks. I’d double-checked Rupp’s information briefly before leaving, to confirm what he’d told me about his brother and his uncle. I don’t usually do background checks on clients, but Rupp’s insistence that I get on the job right away raised a bit of a red flag. 

According to social media, Leonard Rupp did have a brother named Zack, and I found a thriving account for himl—not something that looked like an afternoon’s catfishing work. And Oscar Parks did own a house in Naperville at the address Rupp had given me, though I couldn’t quickly determine the family connection. I’d take that as given for the moment.

            So I sat in my car, down the street from the house, waiting for Zack to show his face. Rupp had sent me some photos. I had the radio on to help me stay awake, as well as a large coffee (and a wide-mouthed bottle in case I needed it). 

I called Rachel once. “I’m studying,” she snapped. She’s working on a psychology degree. “Unless you’re calling to play Inappropriate Job Interview by phone?”

            “Not on a stakeout.” I had my eyes on the house. “I need all my keen powers of observation for this.’

She snorted. “Just don’t start singing along to the classic rock you’re listening to. You’ll scare any dogs in the neighborhood.”

“I’ll have you know most dogs—wait.” Movement at the front door. “I’ll call you back.”

For a moment I thought it was just a shadow—a bird or a bat flying across the doorway. Then the door burst open, and a man dashed out onto the front lawn.

He was blond, stocky, and barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt. Halfway across the lawn he stopped, catching his breath. Then another man emerged from the house.

This guy was older, in his 70s or so, with a gray beard and thick glasses, a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and slippers on his feet. He ran forward and grabbed the man, trying to pull him around.

The man—Zack Rupp, my client’s brother—spun and shoved the old man in the chest, sending him sprawling to the grass. The man rolled and lunged for Zack, wrapping his arms around one leg, trying to drag him down, but Zack twisted free and kicked his shoulder.

The old man sank down on the ground. Zack looked around, gasping, then ran down the street. 

I started the car, but the night was dark, streetlights were distant, and the other houses weren’t nearby. Zack vanished into the darkness before I could shift gears.

Damn it. But the old man—Uncle Oscar, presumably—was still on the grass. I got out.

“Hey, you okay?” I walked up to him slowly, hands out, not a threat. “Need a hand?”

He coughed, looked up at me, then held a hand out. “Just—a little help.”

I pulled him to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and he kept coughing. “Let me help you back inside,” I said, and he allowed me to turn him around and lead him back to his door and then inside.

The living room was large and clean, with magazines neatly stacked on a coffee table next to a Bible, and plants dangling from ceiling hooks. A large cross hung on one wall. I got Parks to a sofa where he sat down, still coughing. “Let me get you a glass of water.”

He didn’t argue. I found the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and filled a glass from the sink. Back in the living room he drank it down, set it next to a Bible on the coffee table, and said, “Thank you.”

“Who was that guy?” As long as I’d lost Zack, I figured I could try to use the situation to find out more about him.

“My nephew, Zachary.” He looked at me. “I’m Oscar Parks.”

“Tom Jurgen. I’m from Chicago.”

His eyes flickered. “What were you doing out here?”

“I just saw that guy push you down. I wanted to see if you needed any help.” It was an evasive answer, so I followed up quickly before he could cut in. “He sure runs fast. What was the matter?”

“He has—some problems.” 

“Drugs? Booze?”

Parks looked at me, suspicious. “Nothing like that. Why are you here again?”

“I was just driving by. Where do you think Zack would have gone? Does he have any other family here? Friends? Does he live nearby?”

He blinked. “Zack? The only people who call him that—” Parks shifted away from me on the sofa, his eyes suddenly narrow and searching. 

Oops. “Yeah, well, that’s a common nickname, right—”

“No.” He stared at me. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

I suck at undercover work. “Okay, my name’s Tom Jurgen.” I took out a business card. “Zack’s brother Leonard hired me. Zack disappeared on him, and he was—”

“Leonard?” Parks blinked. Then he lurched to his feet and pointed at the front door. “Get out. Before I call the police.”

I hesitated. “Is there anything I can tell Leonard? Is Zack all right?”

He jabbed his finger. “Out. Now.”

“Okay, okay.” I headed to the door. “If Zack comes back, maybe you could—all right, I’ll go.” For an old guy, Parks had a menacing glare.

Out in my car, I pounded the wheel once, angry with myself, but all that did was make me wince and rub my hand. It’s not like I never screw up—just ask Rachel—but nobody likes admitting it. Especially to a paying client.

I put off calling Rupp for a few minutes by driving around the neighborhood looking for Zack. Without a jacket or shoes, he couldn’t get far, could he? But I didn’t catch sight of him anywhere. I stopped at a gas station a few blocks away to ask the attendant inside, but she hadn’t seen a barefoot man on the road tonight. 

I had to concede defeat—and make the call. He listened calmly. “Well, I told you not to talk to Oscar, but—I can see what happened.”

“I thought it might be a chance to find out where Zack went. He was gone too fast for me to follow.” I was trying not to sound defensive. Clients hate that.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I guess that’s it. You can go home. Send me your bill.” He hung up.

He’d offered double my hourly rate. Should I hold him to it? I’d think about that later.

Can’t win them all, I told myself as I started the car. I called Rachel. “On my way.”

“Good. I’ll get my interviewer clothes on.”      

I wasn’t in the mood. “I don’t know. I sort of blew it.”

“Oh.” She was annoyed. “Well, okay. I’ve got lots of studying. Hey, how about if we play Naughty Psychiatrist? That way I can use the textbook.”

I laughed. “I’ll try.”

 

The next morning I wrote up a report for Leonard Rupp and emailed it along with an invoice at the rate he’d agreed to. If he complained, I’d change it. Maybe.

            After that I checked my email and the news. I used to be a reporter, so keeping up with what’s in the Tribune and the Times and the Post and the other newspapers online is a compulsion. Democrats and Republicans were arguing in Washington and Springfield, as usual; a man had been shot on the south side in a drive-by, as usual, a woman had been stabbed on the north side, which was slightly less usual; and the Cubs lost and the White Sox won, more or less as usual.

            Rachel came into the office at 9:30. “You are a sick, sick puppy.” She kissed me. 

            “I just got lost in the role play. Sleep okay?”

            “Fine.” She carried her Superwoman coffee mug to her computer on her side of the office. “I’ve got class at 11. I’m pretty sure I can finish this landing page in 20 minutes. If not . . .” She shrugged. “Something will have to bend.”

            We both went to work. She left at 10:15 for class. I kept making phone calls and internet searches for an embezzlement case I’d been working on when Rupp called me yesterday. I checked my email a few times to see if he’d responded, but nothing. I hoped I wouldn’t have to bug him about the invoice.

            At 1:30 I was just thinking about lunch when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen?” The voice was raspy. And familiar. “This is Oscar Parks. From last night. You were at my house.”

            “Yes, Mr. Parks.” Was he calling to yell at me some more? “What can I do for you?”

            “It’s Zachary. He needs someone to get him. I can’t drive anywhere. My eyes.”

            I remembered his thick glasses. “What about his brother?”

            “No.” The word was quick and sharp. “He doesn’t—not right now. But since you’re already involved—”

            I wasn’t, now that I’d sent off the invoice. But I still felt bad about messing up. “Where is he?”

            “He’s in Woodridge. At a church.”

            “And does he want to go home?”

            “You need to bring him here. As fast as possible.”

            I stifled a groan. “Look, Mr. Parks, I’m not working for Leonard Rupp anymore, which is actually good in one way, because if I was, my primary responsibility would be to him. So I could do this for you—for Zack—but I’d need to know what’s going on. Woodridge is a bit of a drive—”

            “I can pay you, if that’s what you want,” he snapped.

            “That’s not the issue. Not the main one, anyway.” I do have bills to pay. “This is just sounding a little sketchy to me. I don’t want to get involved in anything illegal, or—”

            “I’ll explain everything when you get him here.” Parks coughed. “After that, if you want to call Leonard, or the police, go ahead.”

            I was still uncomfortable, but now I was curious. And Rachel knows how I get when I’m curious. “All right. Give me the address.”

Split, Part Two

An hour later I was searching Woodridge for the St. Martin of the Flowers church. My GPS had it just up the street on the left, so I turned, found it, and parked in a small lot surrounded appropriately by a garden of tall colorful flowers. 

            The church was small, with long shadows falling across the porch in front. I opened the door to a foyer leading to the sanctuary and let my eyes adjust to the dim light seeping through the stained-glass windows. 

            A man sat in a pew halfway back, hunched over. Blond hair, thick shoulders. I walked down the aisle and edged into the pews quietly. “Zack?”

            His head jerked up. He twisted around, like a kid caught watching porn on the internet. “Huh?”

            “Your uncle Oscar sent me. Oscar Parks? I’m Tom Jurgen.” I kept my voice low and as soothing as I could manage, suitable to a conversation in a quiet church. “I met him last night after you, uh, ran off.”

            He was wearing shoes now, and a hoodie halfway zipped up his chest. “Oh. Yeah. Uncle Oscar said he’d get someone. He can’t drive anymore.” Zack seemed calm, if a little nervous. “Who are you?”

            “I’m a private detective. Tom Jurgen. Your uncle asked me to come get you.” All true statements, with a lot of details left out. “Shall we go?”

            “Excuse me?”

            That came from a priest walking swiftly down the aisle from the pulpit. He was in his 30s, slender, wearing a dark suit with a crisp white clerical collar around his throat. “Can I help you with something?”

            “I’m just here to take Zack back to his uncle’s house.” I looked around. “Should I leave something in the collection box, or—”

            “Zack, you don’t have to go away with this man.” The priest crossed his arms. “You’re safe here with me.”

            Oh great. “Look, I’m not here to kidnap him or anything. I’m just doing a favor for his uncle.”

            “It’s all right, Father Ross.” Zack lifted a hand. “Thanks for your help.”

            “But I’m almost prepared for the—”

            “NO!” Zack’s voice was suddenly a thunderous roar. “I have to get out of here! Now!”

            He pushed his way past me, shoving me against the back of the pew, and then he was running up the aisle, shouting gibberish.

            “Zack!” The priest glared at me. “Do you see what you—”

            “Hang on.” I wasn’t letting this happen again. I took off up the aisle after Zack. 

He dashed through the foyer, but fumbled with the doorknob in front. I was right behind him as he threw the door back, and I clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Zack, just talk to me a minute—”

He pushed my hand away and stumbled through the doorway, but then he stopped, breathing hard, staring at the sky. A few clouds floated in the sky, and a light breeze blew the fragrance of the flowers across our faces.

Zack sank onto a bench next to the door, his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” He murmured. “I’m sorry. I just—”

The priest was out on the porch with us. “Zack? Do you want to come back inside?”

“No!” he shouted again. Then his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Father Ross. I just—I just can’t.”            

I looked at him, shuddering and shivering as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. I wished Rachel was here, but even without her I thought I knew what was going on.”

“Zack.” I sat down on the bench, keeping a few feet between us. “Zack—are you possessed? Is there a demon?”

His face went white as he stared at me. The priest froze.

Zack nodded, biting his lip. “Y-yeah. Uncle Oscar was trying to—to help me, but it made me run away.”

“How did you get here?”

“I slept in the park. Then I called Jessica. She’s my ex. I didn’t know where to go, so she was driving me back to her place, and then I—” He looked down at the ground. “I don’t know how I ended up here. But Father Ross, he’s going to help me, but then I—it—got scared. I had to get out of there. I’m sorry,” he said to the priest.

Father Ross nodded. “That’s all right, Zack. Do you want to go back inside?”

“Or do you want to go back to your uncle’s house?” I asked. 

Zack twitched. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He sat forward, arms around his head, rocking back and forth.

Father Ross put a hand on Zack’s shoulder and looked at me. “Yes, he’s possessed. I have everything ready inside. I can do it here.”

“An exorcism?” I looked up at him. “Have you done one before?”

“Well, no. I’ve read a lot about the ritual, I know the procedure—”

“I’ve assisted at some,” I told him. I even pulled one off myself once, mostly through luck, but that didn’t make me qualified to perform one. “They’re tricky. He needs someone who’s been through it before.”

Father Ross looked offended. “I know what to do. I can—”

“Stop!” Zack’s hand shot up and pushed Father Ross away. He looked at me. “I’ll go with you. Take me back to Oscar. Sorry.” That was to Father Ross. “Thanks for helping me.”

The priest sighed. “If that’s what you want. Are you sure you’ll be okay with this man?” He gave me a suspicious glance.

I could understand his skepticism. I pulled up my phone. “Let me call Mr. Parks. You can talk to him. Make sure I’m who I say.” I found his number and handed Zack the phone.

Father Ross gestured to me. I stood up, and we went to the side of the porch,where we could watch Zack as he talked to his uncle.

“Thank you.” He seemed relieved. “I don’t know if I could have performed the exorcism by myself. But it was my duty to try.”

“I understand. I seem to run into these supernatural things more often than most detectives, so I have a little experience.” I gave him my card. 

He handed me a card with the church’s phone number and email address. “Could you let me know when he’s recovered? I only just met him, but he seems in need of help.”

“Sure.” We shook hands. I turned. “Zack?”

“Yeah.” He stood up and handed my phone over. “Let’s go. Thanks, Father Ross.”

“I hope everything works out for the best, Zack. I’ll pray for you.”

In my car I set the GPS for Parks’ house. Zack was silent, and after a few minutes he slumped over, asleep. A night in the park probably didn’t make for a restful snooze. 

Then my phone buzzed. I looked at the caller ID, and quickly pulled over to the curb.

Zack jerked up, confused. “What?”

“Sorry. I’ve got to take this.” And I didn’t want to be driving when I answered. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Mr. Jurgen? This is Detective Cruz of the Chicago PD. Have you recently been in contact with a Leonard Rupp?”

I glanced at Zack. “Yes. He’s a former client. He hired me for a job yesterday. I’m a private—”

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Lots of Chicago cops know me. Very few of them like me, mostly because I insist on telling the truth about the vampires and other monsters I run into. “What was the job?”

“What’s this about?”

“Don’t make me come and take you down to the station. Jurgen. Just tell me what he hired you to do.”

I could argue, but that never works out well, and Cruz sounded impatient. “He hired me to locate his brother. I did, temporarily, but then I lost him. That was it.”

I could see Zack tense next to me at the word “brother.” I held up a hand and shook my head.

“Where was this brother when you found him?”

“At his uncle’s house. In Naperville. But he ran away.” I was purposely leaving out the part that I’d just found him again. Technically, that wasn’t what Cruz was asking me. 

“Where are you now?”

“In my car. In Woodridge. On another case.”

“Did you talk to Rupp last night? After you lost the brother?”

“I called him, It was about 9:30. I reported, and he told me to send an invoice. That was it.”

“Nothing after that?”

“No. I sent him an email this morning. He didn’t respond. Detective, what’s going on, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“I do mind. For your information, though, Leonard Rupp is a person of interest in a stabbing last night. A woman in Wicker Park, Carol Beck. She’s dead. Happened after midnight. Know anything about that?”

I looked over at Zack, who was staring at me like a cornered puppy. “No. Nothing like that.”

Cruz paused. Finally he said, “All right. Call me when you get home. I’ll have some more questions for you.”

“Right.” We hung up.

They must have found Rupp’s phone to find my name, or looked at his emails. This didn’t have anything to do with Zack. Did it?
            “W-what’s going on?” Zack’s arm twitched.

“It’s your brother Leonard.” I started the car. “He hired me to find you, to watch your uncle’s house last night. When you ran away I thought everything was over, but I talked to your uncle for a bit, and then I went home. Your uncle called me today after you called him. But now the police apparently think your brother—” 

I hesitated, watching Zack from the corner of my eye. “They think your brother may have something to do with a woman who was murdered last night.”

“Oh God.” Zack closed his eyes for a moment. “I thought—I hoped it was just a dream or something.”

I braked for a red light. “What?”

“I saw—there was a woman. And a knife. And I—she screamed and fell down, and I was running away, and—” He shook his head. “I was in the park. Trying to sleep. But I couldn’t. I kept hearing his voice. And seeing things. It was—that was Leonard?”

“I don’t know.” I have some experience with demons, like I said, but every demon and every possession is different. “Let’s see what your uncle says.” I needed to concentrate on not getting into an accident.

“Can we get something to eat?” Again he sounded like a little boy, afraid of getting yelled at for asking a question. “I mean, I haven’t had anything all day.”

“Sure.” I spotted a Burger King up ahead. “Give me a minute.”

 

Back at Parks’ house Zack and his uncle talked in the living room, beneath the cross hanging on the wall, while I called Rachel from the bathroom. “Geez, I can’t let you go anywhere by yourself, can I?” she asked. 

            “I seem to be a demon magnet,” I agreed. “Maybe that’s what attracted you to me in the first place.”

            She snorted. “Who said I’m attracted to you?”

            “Well, last night—”

            “I was in character last night.” She giggled. “Well, maybe not all the time.” 

            “Good to know. I’ll keep you posted.”

            “Do that. Be careful. Don’t get possessed yourself. And all that stuff.”

            “I love you too.” We hung up.

            Back in the living Zack was asleep again, snoring softly on the sofa, and Parks was flipping through his Bible. ”Thank you for bringing him here.” He closed the book and stood up. “Beer?”

            “Sure.”

            In the kitchen he opened us both beers. We sat at the table. “Last night I thought you were—I don’t know. But Zachary tells me you’ve been kind to him, and I appreciate that.”

            “All I did was stop for a burger and Coke. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”

            “You did more than that.” He sipped his beer. “Although I still don’t know who you are.”

            I gave him the short version of my autobiography, complete with vampires and other creatures of the dark I run into, showed him a picture of Rachel, and explained how I’d ended up outside his house last night. Then I told him about my call from the Chicago police, and Zack’s dream.

            He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. “This is a lot more complicated than a typical demonic possession. If there is such a thing as typical. You could tell he was possessed, right?”

            “The church and the priest seemed to agitate him,” I said. “At least some of the time. And I saw him run from you last night, and with the cross and the Bible in your living room—well, I’ve dealt with enough possessions that I could put it together. My girlfriend would have known from 10 feet away. She’s psychic.”

            “That’s interesting. At least you keep an open mind.”

“Demonic possession is maybe the least unbelievable thing I’ve run into.” I sipped my beer. “Can you help Zack?”

Parks sighed. “It’s complicated. Like I said.”

“Because of his brother? They’re linked somehow?”

“They’re both possessed.” He looked through the doorway, out toward the living room where Zack slept. “They’re both possessed, and they’re possessed by the same demon.”

“Okay.” I’d never heard of that. “How does that, uh, work?”

“I don’t know.” Parks shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it before. Not that I was ever involved in too many exorcisms. But I do know that for it to work, we need both of them. Here. Together.”

Uh-oh. “You can’t just take care of Zack and do Leonard later? Maybe when he’s out on bail or something?”

Parks looked as if I didn’t understand. “I don’t know if doing just one brother would even work, or if it would leave it with the other one. We need to send it back to Hell.” He shuddered. “If the police are right, we know what it’s capable of.”

I bit my lower lip. “That could be a problem. What with Leonard on the run from the cops for murder.”

Parks nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ll have to call the police when I get home. They know I was here last night, looking for Zack. I didn’t tell them I found him today, but they’ll probably want to talk to you. And Zack.”

He frowned. “They won’t believe me. About the demon.”

“Probably not. I mean, I know some cops who’ve seen strange things.” A few of them even didn’t think I was entirely crazy. “But trying to lie or hide things from them usually ends badly.”

He sighed. “I suppose.”

I stood up. “I should talk to Zack.”

Back in the living room Zack was snoring restlessly on the sofa. Parks sat down next to him and nudged his shoulder. “Zachary? Zachary?”

His eyes popped open, frightened and disoriented. Parks handed him a bottle of water, and he took a long drink before setting it down to look at me. 

“Hi,” he said, nervous.

“Hi.” I took a chair across from the sofa. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“It’s all right, Zachary.” Parks patted his arm. “He’s a detective. He can help us.”

I hoped he was right. “You live with your brother Leonard, right?”

“Yeah. I, uh—well, I had a job at a real estate office, admin stuff, but I got fired. I was, uh—” He looked away from me. “I have a problem with drugs.” He sighed. “Prescription stuff, mostly, and, well, other stuff. I’ve been clean for six months,” he said hurriedly. “But I lost my apartment, and Leonard let me move in.”

“How long ago?”

“Six weeks or so. He doesn’t—we don’t get along real well, but he’s my brother. He did help me get straight, took me to doctors and meetings and stuff, and I got a job at another office, part-time. That was good. I’m doing good.” He looked at Parks, who smiled.

“That’s great,” I said. “So when did the demon come?”

Zack closed his eyes. “I’m not sure. Maybe four weeks ago? I remember Leonard came home one night, and he was—different. I thought he was drunk. He was saying stuff that didn’t make any sense, words I didn’t even recognize. He just passed out in the living room.”

He hesitated, as if his memory was murky. “The next morning I felt like I had a hangover. But I wasn’t doing any drugs or anything like that. I just felt—funny. Leonard seemed okay, but there was something different about him. He didn’t talk much. Then . . .” He took a breath. “I started hearing voices.”

“What did they say?”

“I couldn’t understand them all the time. Different languages. Sometimes I don’t think it was even words. But they wouldn’t let me sleep. I couldn’t think, or focus on anything.” He shifted on the sofa. “Leonard started acting—strange. He hit me once. He tried to lock me in my bedroom. One night he sat in the middle of the living room floor in his underwear, not saying anything, just looking at—nothing.” 

He rubbed his head. “I didn’t eat. I didn’t change clothes. Leonard stopped going to work, but he went out—I don’t know what he did. Then, yesterday, he tried to—tried to—” 

Zack closed his eyes, tears running down his face. “He tried to strangle me. I left. I ran around for hours, not knowing what to do. I don’t know how I got here, but Oscar let me in. He was trying to help me, all day, but then last night I got scared, and—I ran away.”

Parks patted his arm again. “I was trying to do the exorcism rite, but I don’t really know how. That spooked the demon, and Zack got upset, and then—well, you saw it.”

“Yeah.” Zack running away, barefoot and half-crazed, into the night. “Have you talked to Leonard since yesterday?”

“No.” He stopped to think. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember a lot about last night. I remember waking up and finding a store with a phone, and the only number I could remember was Jessica. She’s my ex. She picked me up, and—I don’t know how I ended up in that church.”

I got Jessica’s number in case I needed to confirm Zack’s story later. Then I asked, “So, where would your brother go if he didn’t want to talk to anyone?”

Zack blinked. “You mean—hide?”

“The police are looking for him. If they haven’t already arrested him, that means they can’t find him. And we need him to get the demon out of you. Both of you.” I glanced at Parks. “And to stop him before he kills anyone else.”

Parks looked stern. “The demon killed that woman.”

“The police won’t see it that way. Whether a jury will—well, I don’t know.” Wasn’t there a movie about that? I looked from Zack to his uncle, trying to think of what to say.

“Look,” I said finally, “I only got hired to find Zack. And I’m probably not even going to get paid for that.” Parks started to speak, but I held my hand up. “That’s all right, I’m not after money from you. I want to help you, but I’d just as soon not go to jail and I definitely don’t want to get killed. My girlfriend would get really upset.” I could imagine Rachel cursing my embalmed body at my funeral.

Parks nodded. “I can understand that.”

“So the thing is, I really have to talk to the police.”

Zack looked alarmed. “But what will happen to Leonard? He can’t—I can’t let him—”

“He’s right, Zachary.” Parks sighed. “I hate it too, but if the demon is making him kill people, then, well . . .” He looked at me. “Do what you have to do. Will the police believe you?”

“Maybe.” Some cops had seen the same things I have. They didn’t always want to admit it, though. “Either way, they need to know Leonard believes he’s being possessed by a demon.”

“I suppose.” Parks wasn’t happy, but he seemed resigned. 

I looked at Zack. “Do you have any idea where your brother might go? If he wanted to hide?”

Zack thought for a moment. “Leonard has another place,” he said, as if just remembering. “It’s an apartment close to his condo. I think it’s for, uh, women. When he doesn’t want to bring someone home. He rents it under the name uh, Lawrence Pullman. No, Puller. Lawrence Puller. He might be there.” He gave me the address.

“Do you have any pictures of Leonard?” I looked from Zack to his uncle. “I’ve never actually met him, we just talked on the phone.”

Parks stood up and walked to a bookcase, coming back with a framed photo.

Two men stood outside, under a tree, arms around each other’s shoulders. Zack, and a man slightly taller than him, heavier, with the same stocky build and blond hair. Zack was smiling; Leonard frowned as if he wanted the picture finished.

I took a picture on my phone and handed it back. After a few more questions, I told them I’d be in touch.

At the door Parks put a hand on my shoulder. “I know all this isn’t your problem. But thank you. I’ll pray for you.”

“Uh, thanks.” Despite everything I’ve seen, I’m still pretty agnostic about religion. And I was in Hell once. But I don’t turn down any offers of assistance. “Everything helps.”

He smiled.

Out in my car I called Cruz’s number. Another cop answered. His name was Meyerson, and he listened while I told him everything I knew, including the address Zack had given me.

When I finished he was quiet for a moment. Then: “A demon? That’s the story they’re going with?”

“That’s what they told me. I know you won’t believe it, but I’ve seen this before. I mean, I’m not saying it’s a legal defense that’s going to get Rupp off, but—”

“Whatever. Where are you now?”

“In my car. Parked.”

“Okay. Go home and stay there. We’ll be in touch.”

I glanced at Parks’ house as I started up. Lights came on in the living room, behind the curtains, but I couldn’t see any movement inside. After another minute I buckled up and started home.