Death, and the Girl He Loves

“That’s it!” I nearly squeaked as an image popped up on screen. The exact same image from the journal. “That’s in the movie!”

It was a photograph of a business located in … Riley’s Switch, New Mexico. I stilled.

“It’s here,” I said. “The business is here.”

“I remember it,” the sheriff said.

Granddad nodded. “I do, too. Sydow was an odd sort, but a good man.”

“Okay,” Ms. Mullins said, taking a chair and sitting beside me. “This is an obituary. The man who owned this business died in ’92.” She scrolled down, mumbling to herself as she read. “Here we go. He is survived by two sons, Brian and Norman.”

“Brian,” I said, thinking back. “My name was Brian.”

“Pix,” Mac said, “you’re going to have to help us out here. How was your name Brian?”

Another picture scrolled past, and I told Ms. Mullins to stop. “That’s the man. That’s him.”

“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice soft, “this man died twenty years ago. It can’t be him.”

My hope rushed out of me. “But he has the same eyes.”

“Okay,” Granddad said, “what did you mean, your name was Brian?”

“My name. No.” I rubbed my forehead to clear the cobwebs. I was being silly and possibly still a little drunk. “The man’s name, the one who drew that journal, was Brian. He was trying to send us a message. He said he didn’t have much time.”

Ms. Mullins did another search. “Brian Sydow. Okay, there was a Brian Sydow from Albuquerque, but he died twelve years ago as well.”

She showed me the picture on the screen. “That’s him. I can feel it. Does it say how he died?”

“No, just that he’s survived by one brother, Norman Sydow.”

“Okay, let’s search him.”

After a few minutes and a couple of cold trails, we finally came across a Norman Sydow in Ohio.

“There’s no picture,” Ms. Mullins said.

“There’s always a picture. Somewhere, somehow, there will be—”

Before the picture even popped up, I’d figured it out. After rolling my eyes, I took a pen and paper, wrote out Norman’s name, and then circled the “No” and the “Syd.” “Okay, if you read that backwards, what do you have?”

“Dyson,” Mac said. “It’s him.”

“Pretty smart,” Jared said.

I lifted a shoulder bashfully. “Thanks. I’ve had a rather large amount of whiskey tonight. I think it helped.” Grandma’s jaw fell open and I laughed. “Just kidding, although I did throw up on my throw rug. Get it?” I snorted. “Throw up? Throw rug? It’s on the fire escape.”

Sheriff Villanueva had been taking notes the whole time. He shut his little black book and said, “Okay, I’m going back to the office to run this name.”

“That’s him.”

Ms. Mullins had pulled up another link. It had an article about the arrest of an Ohio man on assault charges. “According to this article, Norman Sydow was sentenced to fifteen years in the Ohio State Pen for assaulting an officer and causing great bodily harm.”

“Which would explain why he hasn’t tried to open the gates in ten years.”

“But that’s him,” I said, astonished. “That’s the man who opened the gates in the first place.”

Mac kneeled beside me. “Are you sure, Pix?”

I couldn’t believe that after all this time, he was standing there, staring me in the face. The mug shot of him was horrible quality, but it was enough for recognition to spike inside me. It was him. “I’m positive,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the screen.

“Good enough for me,” he said.

“And I remember where I’ve seen him,” I continued. “His dad was an electrician?”

“Yes,” Ms. Mullins said. “Is that how you know him?”

My recognition stunned me. “He was a maintenance man at Bedford Fields.”

“What?” the sheriff said, taking down that information as well.

“He was working there. How did I not recognize him?”

Mac tugged a curl. “It doesn’t matter, Pix. We have him now.”

“We did it.” Grandma stared straight ahead in astonishment. “No.” She turned to me. “You did it.”

I tore my gaze away. After all this time, it couldn’t be that simple. And he could’ve killed me at any time. Why didn’t he? I looked over at Kenya. Was she really protecting me that much? Was it fate? I had so many questions, but we had bigger fish to fry. My questions would have to wait.

“You did it,” Grandma repeated.

“Well, me and the whiskey.”

I really had to stop teasing her about the whiskey. She went from proud to lethal on a dime, she was that good.

“And Brian,” I continued. “Brian Sydow didn’t have much time when he made this journal. I got the feeling he was sick and, obviously, dying. He was trying to get the journal into the hands of one of the members of the Order. He said I’d know what to do with it.”

“And you did,” Mac said. “He must have found Olivia and given it to her.”

“She didn’t get it from the nephlim,” Granddad said. “She got it from Brian, whose brother, he knew, was going to open the gates of hell.”