Editor's note: The following article is taken from papers found in a filing cabinet in the fire-gutted office building on Fourth Street. Pictures on B-2.

I.

I knew that staring at the phone wouldn't make it ring, but I stared anyway. Stupid phone.

My private investigator business wasn't exactly booming. One job in the last three months, for the old lady with the bouncing checks. If I didn't get another customer soon, I'd have to go back to moonlighting as a moonlighter in a moonlight shop. I really hated that. I looked out the window at the full moon.

I pulled my feet off of my desk, knocking off the empty flask that should have been in the wastebasket. That's where empty bottles belong, somewhere out of sight. Sitting up, I rested one elbow on my blotter and ran my other hand across my mouth, then rubbed my eyes. I'm really on edge, I thought.

My mind wandered, pausing here and there at the reasons I chose for being a PI. They sure didn't make sense now. Holding my head in one hand, I picked up a pen and started doodling on my notepad. Spirals and geometric figures trailed from beneath my fingers, mirroring the maze that my thoughts were in. Everything's in such a mess, I'm so far behind in all of my bills. And Rita, my ex-girlfriend, has really earned her "ex." I sure hope she brings my car back sometime soon. I really don't like riding the bus.

Things could have been so different. I had made some good moves when I started my business. All it took was one or two (OK, maybe more) bad ones to blow me out of the water. How I wish I had never opened my office in Minneapolis, how I wish I'd moved to California. What I wouldn't do to have that second chance, that "one more time" that everybody needs, that I really deserve.

By now I'd filled the pad with great sliding figures and swirls. Drops of sweat darkened the pad in places. My dissatisfaction with my lot reached a crescendo as I changed my looping doodles to my signature, writing with a long, slow script "Max T. Drake, PI."

Suddenly a loud "crack" echoed through the hallway outside of my office, just as an involuntary shudder coursed through my body. I heard the elevator chimes just as I heard footsteps coming down the hall towards my office. Who, I thought, this late at night? Rita?

A curious sensation ran through me, not a shudder, something else. I caught a whiff of an strange odor, not quite familiar. Sulfur or something. And the footsteps were odd, having a "click" to them as if the wearer had taps on his heels. Not tap shoes, no, this was a heavier tread.

Then I saw him, a male figure striding past my frosted glass window. Male judging by his size and snap-brim. He stopped at my door, reading my sign on the glass. I saw him take off his hat and glance down the hall towards the elevator. Then it hit me, the terror that I realized had been building up since smelling the sulfur. The two protuberances that showed on his forehead, that were profiled so well in the glass. A scream worked its way up my throat.

I saw the doorknob turn...

II.

And that's how I ended up in Long Beach. The person who came into my office was a common-place fellow. No nobs on his forehead, no funny shoes, and the sulfur odor went away as fast as it came. My imagination, sure.

Perry Devondale needed a PI right now. The California company that bought his indie movie company, Perry Productions, well...

"I am owed 3.5 million dollars, Mr. Drake. There's no need to tell you the concern I have. I am willing to send you to a property I have in the Los Angeles area, so you may observe my business partner's progress on their payments. Of course, I am able to supply you with all amenities that you should require during your stay there.

"In fact, should this retention prove satisfactory to you, I have, well, "associates" in California that are always in need of a capable investigator. Perhaps, if you desire, your stay on the West Coast could be extended indefinitely."

I'll say. Devondale was right on time in my book. We finished our consultation, he by giving me an address in Long Beach and a five-digit check, promising another when I reached the Coast. He gave me a plane ticket, too, but I should have noticed it was one way.

So I got out here fast. Not many loose ends to tie up in Minneapolis, my landlady was glad to see me go. Rita never missed me. My car? I reported it stolen the day before I left.

And this is the first "help" I got from Perry that should have made me worry, I should have seen it was him. I'd been in California for a month when I got a call from Minneapolis Homicide, telling that they'd found my car. Twenty miles out of town, deep in a ravine and burned to a crisp. So were the two bodies in it, one male and one female. Rita was identified by her dental charts, but the male was John Doe.

Turned out that Rita'd made me beneficiary in her life insurance policy back before "ex." I had a check coming my way for seventy-five thou.

Not that I needed it. My new clients were that easy. All I had to do was watch the activity of one office and its occupants, that's it. One office and four people. Eleven months of that, lounging around a pool with green umbrella drinks and Gidgets galore. And money. This wasn't Minneapolis, that's for sure, and Rita wasn't missed.

Neither was Perry. The only contact I had with him was an occasional check and a voice mail or two. His associates helped me with my condo and "work-car" (Viper), and whatever other needs I'd find, and I found a few new ones. They gave me no hint that Perry would be around.

III.

That's why it was such a surprise when he showed up. I'd spent the afternoon at the pool with green umbrellas, and had just returned to the condo. I was in my robe, switching CDs and caught a look at myself in the mirror. I really liked me California-ized. Still six foot, but really bronzed now. A little time at the gym and some jogging had replaced the Minnesota pale and padding. Yep, I thought, I could live with me like this for a while, sure could.

So I answered the knock at the door. Swinging it open, I didn't recognize Perry right off. He was wearing sun glasses, visor, and seemed a little taller somehow. "Can I come in?" he asked, and there it was, his voice. It was Perry.

"Sure," I answered, letting him in and going to the bar to pour him an umbrella. Perry made small talk, asking a few questions about my surveillance and finances. I showed him some records I'd made of the office's movements, and some pictures I'd taken. He nodded his head throughout.

"Good, good. Well, Max, it seems that you're really a fine addition to our team. I'm glad you liked your stay in California. It really seems a shame to have to end it now, but we have to move on, don't we?"

I was confused. From what I understood, Perry hadn't been paid in full for Perry Productions yet, and I was supposed to make sure everyone at the office was accounted for until then. "Are they leaving town, Perry?"

"No, we are. You see, our contract here is done, we'll be moving on shortly. No, you won't need to pack. We'll travel light." He chuckled softly and took a drink. "You see, Max, I really answered you. You remember, right? 'One more chance, everyone gets one, where's mine?' Your signature? The sweat? Salt's a great catalyst for me, doesn't matter if it's in sweat or blood. Or tears. Maybe because it's so bitter, you think?"

There it was, I was worried again. It all came back, the step in the hall, the silhouette, the sulfur. Right after my doodle. This can't be real, it's some kind of a joke. Sure, that's it, Hollywood!

"Uh, what's that, Perry? What chance, I'm fine. Always have been."

"I believe you, Max, I really do. You look fine to me. I just like to help people like you in small ways. Make you happy, you know? It makes me feel good, to make you feel good. So you see what I'm doing? I'm going to take you someplace where there are a lot of people like you, where you'll be happy. And, Max? Rita's there!"

That was it. I'd had enough of this. Perry put his drink down, moving towards me. I threw my drink at him and bolted for the door. I heard him laugh as I hit the asphalt, heading for the Viper. I jumped in, ramming my keys into the ignition. It fired right up, and I burned rubber out of my parking slot.

I passed the condo's front door on the way to the street, and saw Perry's form actually filling it; he'd gotten even bigger. I caught a whiff of a now-familiar odor (I wonder what brimstone smells like?), and turned my head to look full at him. This time I really screamed.

IV.

And now I'm at the office. The one I've been watching for Perry, the one that's the cause of all this. I'd made a set of keys for it months ago, but this is the first time I've used them. I hid the Viper blocks away in a motel parking lot. I really don't want to see it again, and my guess is I won't.

I tried to call, I really did. I called Minneapolis homicide, the number the detective gave me if I had any questions. No voice mail, and the duty dispatcher wasn't any help. The local police couldn't help me, as the only crime that's been committed so far is me being in this office. I didn't tell them about that, but I know they have the number I called from. Even if they came out here it wouldn't be any good. Perry would be here first. I know that, I saw it in his face. There's nowhere I can go.

Perry's sunglasses and visor were off. The horns on his head were larger than I'd imagined, his eyes shone red as the flames behind him, that were part of him, that leaped and danced just like the tortured souls I saw trapped within them. But it was what showed beneath his pants cuff that caused me to scream, the cause of the "click click" in the Minneapolis hallway, the twin black hooves that I know will soon be tearing into my soul.

I hear them now...