No Ordinary Job

No Ordinary Job

By

Peyton Connor

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Mayan Prophecy has 2012 as the year of the end of the world. If you had asked private investigator Jaycee Connolly if she believed in prophecies last year she would have laughed in your face. That was until a demon walked into her office and offered her a million dollars just for trying to find the Countess Elizabeth Bathory, an escapee from Hell. He's quick to reassure her it's just a job like any other she's done before. There's just one thing he left out of the story, or so she's told by angel, if Jaycee doesn't find the Countess and send her back. The gates of Hell will open allowing evil to run roughshod over the unsuspecting. So this is like no ordinary job she's been offered before. 

Saddled with a demon guardian who looks more likely to slow her down than protect her Jaycee crosses the globe to hunt down the Countess and send her back where she belongs and prevent the gates of Hell from opening and a prophecy from being fulfilled.

Copyright 2011 by Peyton Connor

All rights reserved.

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This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organization, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, dialogue and incidents are the work of the author and are not construed to be real. 

Chapter One

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The decrepit elevator lurches to a stop and the jolt pulls me into consciousness that has me questioning how the hell I got here. As the doors begin to close I quickly step out while running a shaking hand through my hair. Confusion and unease cause me to forget to step over the rip in the ancient carpeting. Quick reflexes stop me from slamming into an office now empty after the accountant had been walked out in handcuffs two months ago for inventive tax returns. Palms flat I push away from the wall and force myself to keep walking the dimly lit hall. The absence of sound feels wrong and I glance at my watch as I unlock the door to my office. 

Agitation builds as I struggle for some memory of the last hour and a half. I remember waking without my alarm and stumbling into the shower but nothing since then. I tuck my large handbag that could double as a suitcase at a moments notice under my desk and get the coffee machine going. I shake my head as I give up trying to remember. I’ve been existing on autopilot for the last few weeks, it shouldn’t be surprising that today would be any different. The stark quiet rasps against my nerves, so I bring up my music library and Muddy Waters can’t lose what you never had fills the room and chases the quiet away.

I watch for the coffee to finish and mix heavily with cream and sugar. I don’t actually like coffee just the caffeine and the warm feeling as it slides down. I sip slowly as I scan through my inbox. Aside from the email proclaiming me a lost princess of Nigeria there’s no good news. A woman wants me to find a beloved parakeet, I don’t do animals. Another woman believes her husband is cheating and she wants proof. It sounds good until the woman names her husband as Sylvester Stallone. One, I highly doubt Jennifer Flavin would want to go so down market as a small time private investigator in Chicago and two, it was Sylvester Stallone. Of course the man was cheating with any woman who was stupid enough to believe she could get anything more from the man than a bad case of the clap. That left only two process serving jobs in the hole for the week and they both paid next to nothing.

My cell phone rings but the display reads ComEd. Although I would love to chat about the extremely past due state of my account I don’t want my coffee to get cold. I send it to voicemail and take a nice soothing gulp. I know shut off is imminent but considering I still owe half my rent odds are I won’t soon have a place that needs electricity. All I have left is seventy five dollars in my bank account and thirty four dollars and change in my purse. The rent on my office that I paid six months up front for two months ago includes utilities.

My move to this office still eats at my not so fragile ego. My lease was up at my original office on Adams and Wells and without the money to sign another six month lease it was either here and keep going for a while longer or close up shop completely. Me being me I’m not inclined to give up easily. There was also the memory that although business started slow, for almost a year I had had my pick of cases.

For a private investigator good word of mouth isn’t always easy to come by. Specializing in missing persons cases could make it even harder but it’s something I’m good at. My rate of finds was almost fifteen percent over most in the city. Considering my main business was teenage runaways, I’m damn good. My actual success rate was even higher but there were times when I found runaways who deserved to be lost.  Their supposed loved ones only wanting them found to make sure things secret were kept secret and controlled. In those cases, once I found them I gave them advice on staying hidden and if there was a need, I found new places for them to hide.

There were a few I found that were all but destroyed and those I sent to a friend in New Mexico. Lisa Jennings ran a horse therapy ranch that helped the broken rebuild. While I had at first been skeptical Lisa never doubted in the abilities of the horses to heal. The horses and Lisa hadn’t failed once and eight to twelve weeks from the time they arrive at Lisa’s I receive a picture of a smiling confident teenager who has replaced the broken one. I have yet to have a parent or guardian find out about this. I’m sure one day they will but I’m willing to take the hit because to me it’s worth it.

So despite the fact four of my previous clients managed to end up in jail on child pornography charges and another on a case of the solicitation of a minor, I was recommended and business had been good. I had even been considering taking on an assistant and then almost four months ago the phones just stopped ringing.  Cases gone cold were halted by clients. My attempts to seek out work were met with negatives and the excuse that work of any kind was hard to come by in the bleak economy we were in. My once large savings account was now bone dry. The four hundred I had given to Reggie last week was pretty much the last of it. Now I’m down to fumes and very few options.

Today was the day, it was time to make decisions that I had been avoiding for weeks. In the last few weeks I’ve been selling my life through Ebay and Craigslist to keep going. About the only thing of real value I have left are my guns and my currently hiccupping laptop. Even my nicer clothes have been sold. Could I possibly borrow money from Sean and Rose to keep going, would they even have it? Was today the day to just throw it all in and give up? Added to that Sean and Rose would have me moved back into my old room before I was even finished speaking. As much as I love the both of them the idea of moving back in with them fills me with anxious dread.

My head is in my hands and I’m wishing for a way out of the nightmare my life has slowly become. My father’s words whisper through my mind, wishes and dreams, be careful, they can be dangerous things. I never understood what he meant by that but in this moment I do. I had gotten my wish to work for myself on my own terms and now the real cost was coming due.

As I contemplate whether I can fit a futon in my small office there is a knock at the door of the outer office. Startled, I realize I left off the lights in the outer office. It was supposed to contain a secretary and a small waiting room but currently only housed an empty desk and a dead potted plant.

Silencing Eminem as he assures me he will never slip or stumble, I jump up afraid the person will leave. Flicking on the light I call out I’m coming. Opening the door I do my best not to flinch at the guy filling the doorway. He’s huge, minimum six foot five. Normally I would say built like a linebacker, all I can think of is skyscraper. African American and dark as midnight he seems to take all the air out of the room. His hair is buzzed close and the whites of his eyes are startling white as are his teeth, visible as he says hello. His charcoal grey Brooks Brothers suit is tailored for a loose fit. A pale pink silk tie at his throat matches the handkerchief in his front pocket and seems wildly out of place on him.

Something about him sends a chill skating down my spine. As I lead him back to my office my skin crawls when I turn my back to him. Quickly I make my way around my desk. Once I’m back behind my desk I feel better due to having three weapons in easy reach. But I know that only the Mossberg 500 shot gun strapped under my desk and prepped for fire, would do any good against him. I invite him to sit without offering my hand to shake. I am loathe to touch the man.

You are Miss Jaycee Connolly, correct. His baritone gravel filled voice was not one of questioning as it undulated through the air every word wrapped with a hushed menace.

That is correct. How can I help you? My spine has never been straighter and my own voice has never been more firm.

I am here on the behalf of my master to secure your services. 

Master? This should be interesting. What is your master wanting to secure my services for?

We need you to find this woman. She escaped from Hell and has taken possession of a human. We believe that if she hasn’t already she will take possession of a woman who is due to give birth and soon be reborn. This cannot happen. Agreements were made when she arrived in Hell and they must be upheld. Hell needs her back. He leans forward and holds out a miniature portrait in a beautiful ivory setting.

I want to laugh but it’s trapped in my throat under the weight of his intense gaze. I have every intention of saying thanks no thanks and getting him out of my office as quickly as possible. Yet, curiosity has me reaching for the miniature. The dark haired woman was far from pretty, her high forehead and thin eye brows gave her a stern look. Even though I hadn’t paid attention in history class I can tell the high necked dress while not elaborate was expensive. The words are out before I know it, Who is she?

The English version of her name is the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. He says it with deep meaning. Although the name sounds familiar I can’t place it.

Nodding and taking a deep breath I prepare to tell him as politely as possible no when he spoke again. "My master knows much about you Miss Connolly. In your work for the Chimes Insurance Company you still have a highly regarded reputation. He knows that you are a very skilled hunter often able to find people who wanted to be lost, and remain lost. There are times you do it without even a picture. This is your most appealing skill, as although this is the image of the Countess near her death the human she will have possessed will likely look far different. My master knows of your frustration with being overlooked and undervalued. We will not undervalue you in this undertaking.

You will be paid five hundred thousand dollars simply to begin and for expenses. Once she is found you will receive another five hundred thousand plus any other expenses that you might have incurred. If you are unable to find the Countess, you will still receive all of the one million plus expenses. Will you accept the case?"

Despite the fact that I know this man has to be crazy, I cannot discount his air of solemn, ominous gravity. So although I long to laugh and shake my head at him I know I can do neither. There can be no sudden movements with him. While I appreciate you and your master’s consideration of me Mr-, I’m sorry I don’t believe I ever got your name.

I am Balaam.

Three seconds that feel like an hour as I wait for his last name tick before I give in. Okay, Balaam. While I appreciate the offer I am going to have to decline. I’m actually in the middle of two very demanding cases. I just wouldn’t be able to devote the time and focus your case so obviously needs. I wish you luck on the matter. I stand and he does as well. An exhale of breath I refuse to call a sigh escapes me and then he speaks.

"Miss Connolly both my master and I know that you are lying. We know that you have no other pending matters. We also know that you have a desperate need of money. We know that your landlord Reginald Witt visited you two days ago asking for the remainder of your unpaid rent and that he will be waiting for you tonight. We also know he is the process of looking for another suitable tenant to take your place and will only give you a few days notice as he has grown weary of your lack of prompt payment and your continued sexual refusals.

Your hesitation is understandable. You grew up in an Irish Catholic household with all the guilt and self-loathing the Catholics love to immerse themselves in. I do understand that you would find being employed by Satan a sin. That is why I am here, you will be employed by me and there will be no contract. It is money only that is on offer and for a job that you have done often in the past. This will be like any other ordinary job you have undertaken in the last year and a half."

Hunting down an escapee from Hell is most definitely no ordinary job. It wouldn’t be like any job I have worked, ever. While it’s great of you to think of me and my concerns in all of this but I have to tell you my only real concern is that you’re nuts. I don’t work for people who are crazy. I need to get paid real money by real people who exist. I’m angry at myself for letting my voice rise but his knowledge of Reggie had been a kick to my stomach.

The job is real, the money is real and I and my master are real. Check your bank account right now and you will see the sum we discussed waiting for you. It is a barely veiled command throbbing with menace.

Refusal screams through me but I give in. I want this bizarre moment over and done. With a few swipes of my laptop I bring up the website for my bank. The balance rocks my foundation, No, I don’t want this.

I will give you some time to consider the job offer. We believe you are the best option open to us but you are not the only one and we are beginning to run out of time. I will give you 24 hours. Here is a card with my name. Say my name three times and I will come with more information to assist you in your search. If you not contact me the money will be removed and there will be no further contact. He lays a card on my desk and with the sound of wind and the smell of sulfur he disappears before my eyes.

When he disappears so does my nerve and I sink into my chair my knees over cooked spaghetti. Without taking my eyes from the place he disappeared I pull out a half-empty bottle of Asyla and do something I have never done before. I pull deep from the bottle. The whisky burns fire that brings me back and the tears in my eyes allow me to blink. This is insane, I am asleep right now, and this is all a dream.

Setting the bottle down with a resounding thud, I refresh the page again and again. Yet every time I refresh it’s still there in front of me. The page shows an amount unlike anything I have ever seen in my account before. I click through the website to find that the money was wired into the account with a time stamp of about two minutes before the guy knocked on my door. The money is real. For a half second I flash on Dr. Evil’s one million dollar demand and stifle a half hysterical chuckle.

The card was laid neatly in the middle of my almost bare desk. Only one word is on the creamy white card, Balaam. Curiosity overtakes me and I pick it up. It is oddly heavy with a thick texture and the name appears to be burned in rather than inked. Gradually I become aware heat is coming from the card. I drop it and it flutters back to the desk. Reaching for the bottle of Asyla I take another deep pull and hiss from the burn as it goes down.

Closing out the window for my bank account I bring up another window. Bringing up Google I enter Countess Elizabeth Bathory not at all sure I spelled it correctly. I did spell it wrong but Google brings up what I want anyway. Clicking on the result from Wikipedia brings up something from a horror movie. Apparently the woman had tortured and killed over six hundred women. There is debate on whether or not she had actually bathed in her victim’s blood but it is a fact that she was one evil and monstrous bitch.  Satisfaction that she ended up in Hell mingles with a sense of unease. Wouldn’t the devil get off on something like Bathory running loose?

I Google Balaam but I miss the second a, instead coming up with Balam but the results still get my attention. The first search result was again from Wikipedia. The very first sentence from the result sucks all the air from my lungs. In demonology, he is a great and powerful king of Hell. Demonology, king of Hell, this is not fucking happening. Exhaling very slowly I click on the entry. While it was only two very short paragraphs it was enough for me to reach for another gulp of Asyla. With a feeling of fatality I search Wikipedia under the spelling from the card. The flood of information is overwhelming and less than half way through I lose patience. In a fit of annoyance and a thread of fear I close out of the page.

One last pull from the Asyla and I force myself to cap it and return it to the bottom drawer. Opening the top drawer I pull out my Walther PPS. It was a gift from Sean when I announced my intentions to set up as a private investigator.  I was originally annoyed by its small size. At four and a half inches from the bottom of the magazine to the top of the sight and six inches from the tip of the barrel to the back and less than two inches wide it fit easily in my small hands. The frame was polymer construction, the barrel and slide steel. It was insultingly light even with a full magazine. All of that might lead a person to believe it was a mere toy but they would be