The Long Way Home

by Richard Chizmar

  “Please continue,” he said. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

  Billings eased back in his chair. “The sun was setting by then and whatever curiosity had wormed its way into my brain regarding that old well had vanished with the day’s heat. I got started for the tree line, already thinking about the cold beer I was going to have when I finally got my butt home, when I heard the voice call out from behind me clear as can be: ‘Come back.’

  “I stopped and turned around, a shiver running its way down my spine just like a character from one of Clarice’s old spooky movies. I stood there, nice and quiet, listening, scanning the clearing for a visitor. No one there. I’d just started to turn to leave when the voice came again: ‘Come back.’

  “This time I’d heard where the voice was coming from. I crept up close to that old well and peered down into the darkness. ‘Hello,’ I said, feeling more frightened than foolish. ‘Someone down there?’

  “‘I need your help, Lester.’”

  Jim leaned closer, his elbows sliding across the table, his chin resting on his crossed hands. His eyes were wide and enchanted. He looked like a young boy at his first afternoon matinee.

  “When I heard my name the chill spread from my spine to the rest of my body. For a second, I saw sparks at the edge of my vision and thought I might faint, but then the feeling passed, and I mustered the courage to speak again.

  “‘What…what do you want?’ I asked, my shaky voice betraying what little courage I had found.

  “The answer came right away, louder this time: ‘Mischief.’

  “I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, but before I could say anything else, the voice came again: ‘It’ll be fun, Lester. Help me.’”

  “What did the voice sound like?” Jim asked.

  “It was a child’s voice. That’s all I remember. Later, I thought about it a lot and tried to recall if it was male or female or…something else. But I couldn’t. All I remember is that it was a child’s voice.”

  “What happened next?”

  “What happened next is I woke up.”

  “You woke up? Wait a minute, it was all a dream? None of this ever—”

  Billings put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down a minute. Every word I just told you is true and every word happened exactly the way I just told it. That’s not what I mean. What I mean is that’s the last thing I remember: standing there by that old well as the sun disappeared over the treetops and listening to that voice tell me it wanted to get into some mischief. Next thing I knew I was laying on the cold ground with moonlight shining down on my face and it was almost midnight.”

  “Jesus.”

  Billings shook his head. “Wasn’t Jesus out in that old well, that’s for certain. Anyway, I picked myself up and grabbed my fishing pole and tackle box from where I’d left them, and I got myself out of there as fast as my legs would carry me. By the time I found my truck and got home it was almost one in the morning and Clarice was sitting up in the living room with our next-door neighbor, sick with worry. She scolded me something good and told me that she’d been set on calling the police if I hadn’t come home in the next fifteen minutes.

  “The next morning I woke with a fever that stuck with me for every bit of two weeks. No matter what the doc fed me, it wouldn’t go away. I lost ten pounds I couldn’t afford to lose and suffered the worst nightmares of my life. When the fever finally broke and Clarice nursed me back to my feet, I only had one thing on my mind, Mr. Hall, and it wasn’t getting back to work at the office and it wasn’t getting back to work in the bedroom. It was…”

  He locked on Jim with those intense green eyes: “Mischief.”

  Jim started to respond, when a loud voice erupted from a hidden speaker: “FIVE MINUTE WARNING, MR. HALL. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES REMAINING.”

  “What were the nightmares about?” he asked, ignoring the interruption. “Do you remember?”

  Billings leaned across the table, close enough so that Jim could smell the cherry cough drop on his breath. “We only have a few minutes, so what do you say you let me do the rest of the talking?”

  Jim nodded his agreement.

  “Good, now listen very carefully. There’s another body, Mr. Hall. Number twenty. I haven’t told the police, I haven’t told my attorney, I haven’t told anyone…until now.”

  His eyes widened. “What…what do you want me to do?”

  “Tell Hector to inform the police that I will only reveal the details to you. No one else. If they allow us another meeting, I’ll give you a name and a location.”

  “I’ll tell him as soon as I leave here.” He closed his notebook and placed the mini-recorder on top of it, double-checking to make sure it was still recording.

  Billings reached his hand across the table and Jim surprised himself by shaking it. “I’ll do my best to—”

  “PHYSICAL CONTACT IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED,” squawked the hidden loudspeaker.

  Startled, Jim tried to jerk his hand back, but Billings held tight, pulling him closer. He could hear the door being flung open behind him. Billings’ fingernails dug into his palm, and for one horrific moment, he thought the old man was going to kiss him. Instead, Billings leaned even closer and whispered, “His name is Ornias.”

  Then Jim’s hand was free and one guard was pulling him toward the door while a second guard stood in front of a smiling Lester Billings.

  “Wait…what did you say?” Jim called over his shoulder.

  “His name is Ornias. Time to do some more homework, Mr. Hall.”

  ****

  Both men said their goodbyes to Hector Coltrane in the parking lot. The attorney had listened to Jim’s story about a twentieth victim and immediately called someone on his cellphone. When he finished with the short conversation, the three men walked out of the prison together with plans to meet again the following afternoon.

  Warwick climbed behind the wheel of his leased Audi. Jim got into the passenger seat. They closed their doors in perfect synchronicity and sat there in silence. Finally, Warwick looked over at Jim and said, “Jesus Christ. What just happened in there?”

  Jim shook his head and let out a breath. “I…I don’t even know.”

  “You know what this means?” When Jim failed to answer right away, Warwick went on. “You could get a book deal out of this. Hell, a film deal isn’t out of the question, depending on what happens next.”

  “My head is still spinning.”

  “I bet it is.” Warwick started the car and pulled up to the security gate. “You okay? You look a little…odd.”

  “I’m fine. Just overwhelmed.”

  “You want to grab some dinner, do a little pre-game strategy before we meet with Hector tomorrow?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m just gonna go home and order delivery. I need to transcribe the tape.” He patted his jacket pocket to make sure the mini-recorder was safe and sound.

  “Good idea. Get that shit down on paper while it’s still fresh.” A uniformed guard waved them through the gate. Warwick flipped a pudgy hand in his direction and steered into traffic. “Think you can have something ready for Sunday’s edition?”

  “Of course I can. But let’s wait and see what Hector has to say tomorrow.”

  “Another good idea.” Warwick snapped his fingers. “Hey, you know who would love this story? Remember Carlos Vargas, the young guy we ran that article about last month? Turned a couple of food trucks into a successful chain of restaurants and then went to Hollywood and became a big-time producer? I bet he would…”

  Jim stared out the passenger window at the blur of fast food joints and strip malls and tuned out the sound of Warwick’s voice. His boss was excited, and when he got excited he didn’t shut up. Not that Jim blamed the guy. He was pretty damn excited himself. But he was also a bit uneasy about the whole thing. It felt wrong somehow to benefit from a situa
tion such as this. It felt ghoulish.

  Jim glanced down at his right hand, rubbed a finger against the small abrasion on his palm where Billings had pressed his fingernail into him. There was a tiny streak of faded blood there. He wiped his hand on his pant leg with a shudder of disgust and looked out the window again.

  ****

  Jim tossed the pizza crust back into the grease-stained box and returned his attention to his laptop screen. He’d transcribed the tape as soon as he’d walked through the door, even before he’d ordered a large pepperoni and a side salad from the Italian restaurant down the street. He knew there was software that would handle transcription, but he didn’t trust it.

  While he ate, he’d researched the mysterious name that Lester Billings had revealed at the end of their interview: Ornias.

  Now, he read over the notes that he’d summarized into a separate document:

  According to The Encyclopedia of Angels by Rosemary Guiley, Ornias was a fallen angel, who along with many other demons, had been bound by King Solomon to build his temple. He was described as a very troublesome demon who inhabited the constellation Aquarius and enjoyed strangling people born under the sign of Aquarius. Ornias had various abilities attributed to him, including the gift of prophecy, body transference, shape-shifting, and causing physical pain with a mere touch. He was considered mischievous, almost impish (were it not for the hideous acts attributed to him), and he was also well known for playing games with his victims.

  Jim stared at the screen. An icicle of unease tickled the back of his neck as the words echoed inside his head:

  Fourteen of Lester Billings’ victims had been strangled to death.

  It was soon discovered that the only common trait shared by all of Lester Billings’ victims was the time of year they celebrated their birthdays. All nineteen were born between January 19 and February 18, falling under the eleventh astrological sign of Aquarius.

  “When the fever finally broke and Clarice nursed me back to my feet, I only had one thing on my mind, Mr. Hall, and it wasn’t getting back to work at the office and it wasn’t getting back to work in the bedroom. It was…

  “Mischief.”

  He picked up a pen from the coffee table in front of him and wrote down eight words on a blank sheet of paper in his notebook: LESTER BILLINGS. THE OLD WELL. DEMON. POSSESSION. ORNIAS.

  He started to close the notebook, then hesitated and scribbled a ninth word and underlined it: MISCHIEF.

  Jim stared at the word for a moment, then left the notebook open on the coffee table and went upstairs to take a shower.

  ****

  That night, he dreamed he was lost in the woods.

  Bathed in moonlight from a cloudless night sky and staggering through a thicket of decaying trees, the bare branches clawing at his face, scratching his arms and hands. A thin branch reached out and slapped at his cheek, drawing blood. He could taste the warmth of it on his lips. He staggered out of the thicket into a small clearing and dropped to his knees, sobbing, chest heaving. A small cabin stood in the distance, the front windows flickering with the dim glow of a burning fire. A finger of gray smoke curled from the stone chimney.

  Something in the basement of his brain warned him to stay away, to turn around and flee in the direction he had come from. But he was exhausted and ignored it.

  He scrambled to his feet and set off toward the cabin. An owl hooted somewhere in the treetops and lit off, the sound of its flapping wings very loud in the shadowy silence. Startled, Jim slowed his pace and glanced around the clearing. The night was windless. Nothing else was moving. He started to turn around to resume his way to the cabin, when he saw it. Tucked away in the far corner of the clearing: a stone well.

  Without thinking, Jim changed direction and headed for the well. He broke into a fast jog. His heart was hammering. Something was drawing him there. In that moment, he realized what had been bothering him. He could’ve sworn he’d been here before. That he’d spent time here within this clearing and seen this cabin—and most definitely, this stone well—many times before. He just couldn’t remember when.

  He reached the well and rested both his hands on the rough stone, catching his breath. The opening yawned at him like a hungry, dark mouth. He leaned closer to peer deeper into the darkness—as a skeletal corpse hand reached up over the edge and latched onto his right hand.

  He gasped in terror and tried to jerk it back, but the thing in the well wouldn’t let go.

  A nightmare face emerged. Black holes for eyes. Decaying flesh hanging on pale exposed skull. Maggots squirming from the dark, wet socket of a toothless mouth.

  Jim screamed, but gagging quickly drowned out the scream, as the creature’s foul stench flooded his nostrils. He tried again to yank his hand back, and this time, it worked. He broke the corpse’s grip and went sprawling onto his back in the clearing—

  He woke in his darkened bedroom, gasping for breath. He flung the sweat-soaked sheet off him and sat up in bed. Once his eyes adjusted, he glanced down at his right hand. The Band-Aid he’d put on earlier was missing. A trickle of fresh blood marked his palm.

  ****

  Jim held the door open for an elderly couple and hurried inside the crowded Starbucks. The weather report had called for sunny skies and moderate temperatures, so of course it had started raining just before dawn. Distracted and still shaken from his nightmare, he had rushed out of his condo this morning without an umbrella. Now, a widening puddle spread on the floor at his feet while he waited in line for his daily cappuccino.

  He paid the cashier, ignoring her dirty look (she must be in charge of cleaning the floor, he thought), and someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to find a beautiful blonde woman he’d never seen before. Dressed in a stylish business suit and heels, she was carrying a folded-up umbrella.

  “Here,” she said, holding out a stack of napkins. “I think you need these more than I do.” She smiled and Jim stood there and couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say.

  “Thanks,” he finally mumbled, taking the napkins. She smelled so good, it made his head spin. He wanted to ask her what perfume she was wearing; he wanted to ask her right then and there for her phone number. Instead, he mopped at his dripping face and neck with the napkins and tossed them into a nearby trashcan.

  “I’ve seen you here before,” she said. “You’re a writer of some kind, right?”

  Jim nodded, still in disbelief that she was talking to him. “I write news and features for the Sun paper.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Impressive.”

  “You might not think that if you saw my paycheck.” Jesus, he thought. What a stupid thing to say.

  She laughed. “Wow, honest and humble. A rare combination these days.”

  “Must be because I’m a Sagittarius.” A Sagittarius? Where the hell did that come from?

  The blonde stuck out her hand. “I’m Terry, by the way. And I’m a Taurus. You know what they say about Tauruses.”

  Jim didn’t have a clue what they said about Tauruses and didn’t care. He shook her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against the cut on his palm. “I’m…Jim. Nice to meet you.”

  ****

  As Jim Hall walked into the conference room at half past one, Warwick and Hector Coltrane were already seated and waiting for him.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he said, taking a seat and placing his notebook and a manila file folder on the table in front of him. “Phone call went long.”

  Hector waved away the apology. Warwick took a sip from his coffee mug. “No worries,” he said, “the two of us had a lot to talk about.”

  “Have you heard from Rick yet?” Rick was the head of legal affairs for the Baltimore Sun. If he didn’t sign off on a second meeting, there would be no article for this Sunday’s newspaper.

  “Spoke with him twice in the past hour,” Warwick said, gri
nning like a schoolboy. “We’re good to go.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I reviewed the notes you sent over,” Hector said. “I’m impressed.”

  Jim shrugged. “I just asked the questions. Your client did all of the talking.”

  “Perhaps,” Hector said, “but there was a reason Mr. Billings chose you. I didn’t quite understand his decision initially. Now, I believe I do.”

  “Well, thank you,” Jim said, and started rubbing at something on the table with his thumb.

  “I’m waiting for a return call from a Detective Cavanaugh,” Hector continued. “Evidently, he’s the only detective still active that worked on the initial investigation.”

  “He’s the one I’ll be talking to?” Jim asked, and returned his attention to whatever he was trying to scrub off the table.

  “I’m sure there will be plenty of others, but I figured he was a good place to start.”

  Warwick put down his notes and craned his neck to see what Jim was doing. Had he spilled something on the table? He noticed Jim was wearing a Band-Aid on his hand. Was he bleeding?

  As if he could read his mind, Jim looked up at Warwick and smiled. He stopped rubbing his finger against the table. “Does it bother you that you were born under the sign of Aquarius, boss? With everything that’s going on?”

  Warwick started to respond, but hesitated. What an odd question to ask. Warwick glanced at Hector and he could tell by the surprised look on the older man’s face that he was thinking the same thing.

  “Not really,” Warwick finally answered, wondering why he’d never noticed before how green Jim’s eyes were. The way the writer was staring at him, grinning, made Warwick very uncomfortable. He tried to cover it with a fake smile. “I stopped being afraid of the boogeyman a long time ago.”

  Hector laughed and opened his leather portfolio, ready to get down to business.

  The odd grin slowly faded from Jim’s face, but he continued to stare at his boss. Warwick looked away first and gazed down at his notes. Hector asked him a question about the Sunday edition deadline and he answered, then quickly looked back at his notes again.