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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SHADOW PEOPLE

Copyright © 2013 by James Swain

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Trevillion Images

Cover design by Base Art Co.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 978-0-7653-2995-0 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4299-4308-6 (e-book)

First Edition: June 2013

For Bob Elliott

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part I: The Witching Hour

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part II: Shadow People

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part III: The Little Demon

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part IV: Dante

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Part V: Pelham

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Acknowledgments

Also by James Swain

About the Author

I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!

—Emily Brontë,

Wuthering Heights

PART I

THE WITCHING HOUR

1

Something didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t the setting. Milly Adams’s luxurious apartment in the Dakota on New York’s fashionable Upper West Side looked as magnificent as ever. Laid out like a photo spread in a glossy home furnishings magazine, each piece of antique furniture was in its proper place, as were the exquisite wall decorations and fresh-cut flowers.

Nor was it the other guests sitting at the table with Peter Warlock. In fact, the group of psychics gathered in Milly’s apartment on this particular Friday evening were the young magician’s most trusted friends. It consisted of Max Romeo, a retired magician who’d trained Peter in the art of legerdemain; Lester Rowe, a puckish Scotsman who gave psychic readings out of his Lower East Side apartment, and ventured north of 14th Street only to attend Milly’s weekly séances; Milly’s beautiful if somewhat spoiled niece Holly, a sophomore at Columbia and an aspiring witch; and the group’s newest member, a blind African-American psychic named Homer, who made his living telling fortunes beneath the arch in Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.

Everything looked the same, yet something wasn’t right. Peter could feel it in his bones. He’d been leading the Friday night séances since his teens, his ability to channel the dead far greater than that of the other psychics in the room.

The clock on the mantel struck midnight. Striking a single wooden match, the young magician lit the three white candles sitting on the dining room table. “Ready for takeoff?”

“Ready,” the others replied.

They clasped hands and formed a circle. Staring into the flames, Peter began to recite the mystic words that would grant him entry to the world where the spirits resided.

In darkness, I see light: in daylight, I see night.

Shadows as bright as sunshine, the blind able to see.

This is the world we wish to enter.

A movement caught his eyes, and he stopped. On the far wall, a quivering black mass danced beside the portrait of Mary Glover, an infamous Salem witch from whom Milly was directly descended. Peter had never seen anything quite like it. Without warning, the mass slipped into a crack in the wall, and vanished without a trace.

“I just saw something really strange,” Peter announced.

“Was it a ghost?” Holly asked, sitting to his right.

“Not like any I’ve ever seen.”

“What was different about it?”

“It didn’t have a face.”

“Come on. All ghosts have faces.”

“I know they do. But this one didn’t.”

As everyone at the table knew, every ghost had a face, as well as a voice, and sometimes a warped personality as well. “You must be imagining things,” Holly teased him.

“You’re right. After all, there are no such things as ghosts, are there?”

They all laughed. Ghosts and spirits were everywhere, yet people refused to acknowledge them. Instead, they convinced themselves they were imagining things, or that their eyes were playing tricks on them.

“Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” Peter said. “Let’s resume. Is everyone ready?”

His friends nodded in unison.

“Good. Here we go.”

A séance was a ritual with a strict set of rules. Peter snuffed the three candles on the table with his fingertips, then relit them using another wooden match. They again joined hands, and he repeated the mystic words that allowed him entry to the spirit world.

A jolt of electricity went straight up his spine. His world turned dark as his spirit left his physical body and transported itself to the parallel world where the spirits dwelled. He likened the experience to falling down a mine shaft, his arms and legs flailing helplessly in the air.

Finally his fall ended, and he found himself inside a basement with a low, claustrophobic ceiling with exposed beams, a rattling furnace, and a naked bulb hanging by a cord that swung eerily back and forth. It felt like the set of a teenage slasher movie, and he took a deep breath, wondering where in God’s name he was.

Every Friday night, the spirits took him on a dark journey. Sometimes, they sent him into the past, while other times, he was plunged headlong into the future. No two journeys were ever the same. Tonight’s had started badly, and he hoped things would improve.

The sound of a voice caught him by surprise, and he spun around. On the other side of the basement, an overweight man wearing corduroy pants and a blazer with sandy patches on the elbows stood by a worktable. He had a neatly trimmed beard and glasses, and looked like a college professor. He was also talking to himself, and had no idea that Peter was there.

Peter found the man’s appearance odd. Normally, the people he encountered on the other side were downright evil and engaged in unspeakable acts. This fellow wasn’t even mildly scary, and Peter wondered if the spirits had dropped him in the wrong house.

Only the spirits didn’t make mistakes. He edged up next to the man, and noted the items lying on the worktable. There was a handgun, a hunting knife, a ball of twine, nickel-plated handcuffs, a black hood, and a bottle of clear liquid. Definitely not the type of stuff most college professors carried around. He picked up the bottle of clear liquid and read the label.

Chloroform.

Looks could be deceiving. The man was either a kidnapper or a killer.

Or he was both.

That must have been why the spirits had brought him here. To stop a madman.

But who was he? Where did he live? And what did he do for a living? Peter needed that one clue that would help him tip off the police. It didn’t have to be much. Once he had it, the spirits would whisk him back to Milly’s place, the séance would end, and the Friday night psychics would go about the task of figuring out their killer’s identity. Once they did, an anonymous call would be made to Special Agent Garrison, his friend with the FBI, and the wheels would be set in motion for the killer to be brought to justice.

He looked around the basement for a meaningful clue, but came up empty. Then he had an idea. He’d memorize their killer’s features, and pass them on to Garrison, who would find the man in one of the FBI’s endless databases.

Peter studied the killer from head to toe. He needed to give him a name; it would make him easier to remember. Dr. Death seemed appropriate. Dr. Death it was.

Dr. Death consulted his watch and made a face. “Look at the time,” he muttered, and began to place the items on the table into the various pockets of his blazer. Before putting the gun away, he checked the chamber. All six bullets were there. Dr. Death slipped the weapon into his jacket with a little smile. “Uh-oh,” he said aloud. “What’s this?” He pulled a pearl necklace from the same pocket, and shook his head in displeasure.

“We’re getting sloppy,” he scolded himself.

A dresser stood beside the worktable. Dr. Death pulled open the top drawer. It contained a woman’s skirt, neatly folded, and matching blouse. Lying on the blouse was a pair of gold hoop earrings, a gold necklace, and a gold lamé purse.

“Not Mary,” he said.

Dr. Death shut the drawer, and pulled open the one beneath it. Another wardrobe consisting of a pair of faded blue jeans, neatly folded, a navy sweater, gold stud earrings, a diamond necklace, and a pocketbook.

“Not Joan.”

The third drawer contained another set of women’s clothes, meticulously kept, along with jewelry and a small handbag.

“Not Kelly.”

The fourth drawer contained similar items as the first three.

“Not Diane.”

And so did the fifth.

“Not Christine.”

Opening the bottom drawer, he said, “Ah, yes, these were Edie’s. Such a charming girl,” and laid the strand of pearls atop a pink blouse before shutting the drawer.

Peter had watched enough TV cop shows to know what he was seeing. He’d been brought to the lair of a serial killer, and the dresser was his trophy collection of his victims’ personal belongings. But who were the victims? And who was Dr. Death? The spirits were mean that way; they told him next to nothing, and forced him to figure out the rest.

Dr. Death went up a creaky flight of stairs like he had bad knees. Peter followed him to the first floor, and entered a kitchen with a yellow linoleum floor and ancient appliances. The light was better here. He was as plain as a loaf of white bread. His only distinguishing feature were his eyes. They were black and utterly soulless. Dr. Death again consulted his watch. “Look at the time. I’d better hurry, or Rachael will think I’ve stood her up.”

Was Rachael his next victim? If the items on the worktable were any indication, she was. Peter looked around the kitchen for a piece of mail, or something that might have Dr. Death’s name, or his address. Lying on the counter was an upside-down copy of the New York Times. A label on the cover said it was the Westchester County edition, an affluent suburb north of the city. Dr. Death went out the front door, whistling under his breath.

Peter was right on his heels. A black four-door Volvo sedan sat in the drive. A full moon cast an eerie patina off the car’s windshield. Volvos were practical cars, and it only confirmed Peter’s suspicion that Dr. Death was indeed a doctor. Dr. Death got behind the wheel, and fired up the engine. It took several starts before coming to life.

Peter moved to the back of the vehicle, hoping to catch the license plate. To his surprise, the Volvo took off in reverse, nearly hitting him as it raced past. The vehicle braked a few yards behind him with a rubbery squeal, the headlights catching him within their twin beams. The driver’s window lowered, and Dr. Death stuck his head out.

“Thought I didn’t know you were there, didn’t you?” he shouted.

Peter froze. Normally when he journeyed to the other side, he was invisible to everyone he came in contact with. For Dr. Death to have seen him meant only one thing—he was in league with the Devil.

“Say something, before I run you down!” Dr. Death shouted.

“Nice to meet you,” Peter said lamely.

“Very funny. Who sent you?”

“The spirits. Who do you think?”

“You’re not the first one they’ve sent. They’ve been after me for some time. I suppose they’d like me to stop killing their little darlings.”

“What happened to the others?”

“I got rid of them, just as I’m going to get rid of you.”

“What about the women?”

“What women?”

“Mary, Joan, Kelly, Diane, Christine, and Edie.”

“How clever. You memorized their names.”

“Will you tell me why you killed them?”

“Let’s just say I enjoy spreading misery, one bad deed at a time.”

“The spirits will stop you eventually. You must know that.”

“They haven’t so far. Do you communicate with the spirits?”

Peter said that he did.

“Tell them I said hello. You’re going to be joining them very soon.”

The Volvo lurched forward. Peter could just as easily perish here as in the real world, and he feinted to his left, before bolting to his right. The Volvo passed with inches to spare.

“Asshole,” he yelled.

A thick hedge ran parallel to the drive. Peter leapt through it, the branches tearing at his face and hands. A steep hill awaited him on the other side. His momentum carried him forward, and he went helter-skelter down the side.

“Get me out of here,” he begged the spirits.

Nothing happened. Normally, the spirits responded quickly when he needed help. He came to a hard stop at the bottom. The Volvo was racing down the hill with Dr. Death leaning out the window, aiming his pistol. He squeezed off a round, and the bullet kicked up dust at Peter’s feet.

He ran for his life. Other houses lined the hill, their light casting a muted glow into the night. He’d been having a pretty decent day until now. It wasn’t the first time the spirits had pulled the rug out from under him. They were rotten that way, and he sometimes wondered if they were truly his friends.

Another shot rang out. This time, he was not so lucky, and he grabbed his wounded thigh and hobbled over to the side of the road.

There was nowhere to hide. Was this the end? He’d always imagined himself old and gray when the time came. Never had he thought he’d be twenty-five and in the prime of his life.

The Volvo braked, and Dr. Death climbed out. A warped smile distorted his face.

“Get on your knees.”

Peter fell to his knees. He needed to buy some time. Perhaps Dr. Death would give him a final cigarette, or let him have a last meal.

Fat chance.

“Want to say something before I shoot you?” Dr. Death asked.

“Tell me why you killed those women,” Peter said.

“Why do you care?”

“I just do. Think of it as a dying request.”

“How touching. Very well, I’ll tell you why. I kill those who push back at the darkness. As a psychic, I’m sure you understand what that means.”

Peter certainly did. The war of good versus evil was fought on many levels. Dr. Death wasn’t just killing innocent women. His victims were involved in good deeds, which made them the enemies of Satan. That was what he meant by pushing back at the darkness.

The gun’s warm barrel pressed against the side of his head. A jolt of electricity ran up his spine as he was pulled back to the other side.

Hurry, he thought.

Then the shot rang out.

2

“Peter!”

How many times had Holly said his name like that? More than he could remember. Friends since childhood, she’d always been yelling his name.

Peter came back to the real world in a hurry, and found himself lying on the dining room floor in Milly’s apartment, his overturned chair beside him. He lifted his head to glance at his leg. No bullet wound. That part of his trip had not come back with him. So much for small favors.

Max and Milly knelt beside him. They’d taken turns raising him after his parents had died. Most people were lucky if they had one set of parents. He’d been blessed to have two.

“How long have I been under?” he asked.

“Just a few minutes,” Max replied.

“Are you all right?” Milly wanted to know.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Tell us what happened,” Holly said, hovering behind them.

Peter pulled himself up to a sitting position and took a deep breath. The memory was starting to fade, no different from the way a dream faded upon awakening. “I was taken to see one of Satan’s disciples. I need to write down what I saw before I forget.”

“Holly, please get some paper and a pen from my study,” Milly said.

Her niece hurried from the room. Peter got to his feet, righted his chair, and parked himself in it. Max pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and draped it over his palm. Whisking it away, he produced a tall glass of water, which he handed to his student.

“Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

Peter sipped the water. Max had fooled him, and he would stay up late into the night wondering where the glass had been hidden, and how Max had produced it without spilling a single drop. Max’s repertoire was endless, his knowledge of all things magical unsurpassed.

“I found a new evil,” Peter told his teacher. “I encountered a man who looked like a frumpy college professor, but in reality is a serial killer who’s targeting innocent women.”

“That describes most serial killers,” Max replied. “I read in a book that most serial killers target prostitutes and runaways because they want victims no one will miss.”

“These victims are missed. They were actively involved in doing good in the world, and they pushed back at the darkness,” Peter said.

“Then he shouldn’t be too difficult for the authorities to track down. I’d say you’ve hooked a live one.”

“Or perhaps he hooked you,” Homer said, his cane tapping the floor.

For a blind man, Homer had an uncanny way of seeing things. Peter had been hooked, and knew he was lucky to have escaped with his life. Holly returned with a pad and pen, and pulled up a chair. “You talk, and I’ll write,” she said.

Peter described his encounter with Dr. Death with Holly transcribing. Tomorrow, he would contact the FBI, and pass along the information in the hopes they’d be able to track down the serial killer. Peter’s name would be kept out of it, along with the rest of the Friday night psychics. That was the deal he’d struck with Garrison after he’d helped the FBI stop a madman from releasing a canister of deadly nerve gas in Times Square. So far, the arrangement had worked pretty well.

When he was done, Holly read aloud what she’d written. It was exactly as he remembered it. Now it was his job to try and stop Dr. Death from carrying out his grim task. So far, he’d been successful in preventing many bad things from happening, but deep down, he knew that every streak came to an end. Even the best struck out sometimes.

He thought back to the copy of the New York Times he’d seen in Dr. Death’s kitchen. The headline was a highly publicized murder trial in New York that had ended with the jury finding the defendant guilty on all counts. A photograph had shown the victim’s family rejoicing outside the courthouse. Justice had been served.

“Who’s been following the Crawford murder trial?” Peter asked.

“I have,” Holly replied.

“When is the jury supposed to get the case?”

“Late next week after the lawyers wrap up their arguments.”

“I saw a newspaper in the killer’s house. It had the verdict on the cover.”

“You know how the trial ends—tell me!”

“He’s guilty,” Peter said.

“Yea!”

“Now here’s the bad news. Our killer is going to strike on the evening of the day that the verdict is announced. That doesn’t give us much time.”

Milly placed her hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting involved. Remember what happened last time? The CIA nearly caught you, and sent you down to that farm in Virginia where they keep psychics prisoner and force them to spy on people.”

“I still need to alert the authorities,” Peter said.

Peter placed his empty glass on the table. His mind was made up, and there would be no changing it.

It was Homer who spoke next. “You said this man was in league with the Devil?”

“He is one of the Devil’s disciples,” Peter answered.

“Then you will have to go to the FBI to make sure he doesn’t kill all of them when he’s captured. That is reason enough to get involved.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

Homer dipped his chin. He’d been an ordinary housepainter until a car accident had stolen his sight. With the loss of vision had come a gift of prescience and clarity of thought that few people ever obtained. His advice was always heartfelt, and seldom was he wrong.

Peter stiffened. The room’s temperature was dropping, a sign that a spirit was in their midst. His eyes found the quivering dark spirit hovering against the far wall. Blacker than black, it looked like a tear in the universe, and pulsated as if breathing. The rest of the group saw it as well, except for Homer, whose metal cane continued to tap the floor.

“That thing tried to kill me,” Peter said under his breath.

“It looks like the work of the Devil,” Lester said. “Max, do you have any idea what it is?”

“Beats me,” Max confessed. “Milly, any ideas?”

“I have no earthly clue,” the old witch said.

“I’m going to talk to it,” Holly said out of the blue.

“Peter said it was evil. You’ll do no such thing,” her aunt told her.

“If it’s evil, then why did it come back?” Holly asked. “I think it returned for another reason. Let’s find out, shall we?”

Holly pulled a small talisman from the pocket of her faded jeans. She crossed the dining room and waved the talisman in front of the dark spirit while reciting in a soft voice.

Shadow, shadow, dark as night, explain to me your mission tonight.

Are you here to see a friend, or have you come to make amends?

If there’s something you wish to say, then say it now, or go away.

It was impossible to resist a witch. The quivering mass jumped off the wall, and swirled cyclonelike over the dining room table. Out of the vortex popped the shape of a hand. It was followed by the shape of a foot, then a human head. Each shape struggled to break free, only to be pulled back inside. Suddenly, it jumped back to the wall, and was swallowed up by a large crack. Holly stood transfixed.

“Holly?” Lester asked. “Are you all right?”

No response.

The little Scotsman hurried to Holly’s side. He clicked his fingers in front of Holly’s eyes while repeating her name. After a few tense seconds, she snapped to.

“Oh, my,” Holly said.

“What happened?” Lester asked.

“That thing was trying to take me away. It was scary.”

“To where?” Peter asked.

“The basement of some creepy house.”

Just like me, Peter thought.

“I hate to say I told you so,” her aunt said stiffly, “but I will in this case.”

Lester had taken to examining the crack in the wall into which the dark spirit had escaped. Running his forefinger across the crack, he emitted a stiff cry. “Ow!”

Peter rushed to his aid. A nasty red blister had formed on the tip of Lester’s finger.

“What in God’s name was that thing?” he wanted to know.

If any of the Friday night psychics knew, they were not saying.

3

The gathering soon broke up. Lester left with a Band-Aid, vowing not to stick his finger where it didn’t belong. Then Max bid adieu. The old magician made the glass he’d pulled out of nowhere disappear in equally baffling fashion, and left with a smug look on his face.

Holly was next. She kissed everyone good night before departing. When it came to kissing Peter, she gazed dreamily into his face. “We need to talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She left, leaving Peter, Homer, and Milly. Peter would have liked nothing better than to stay up trying to figure out what the dark spirit was, but tomorrow was Saturday, and he had two shows to do, a matinee in the afternoon followed by an eight o’clock show in the evening. He needed his rest if he was to be sharp. “I wish I knew what that damn thing was,” he said.

“I suppose it was some form of poltergeist,” Milly said. “To be forewarned is to be forearmed. Next time it comes around, fight it.”

“Do you think it will return?”

The rules governing the spirit world were vague. She shrugged.

“Homer, what do you think?” Peter asked.

Homer was bundled up from head to toe, ready to brave the elements, the tip of his cane tapping the floor as he spoke. “I talk to ghosts regularly, and am visited by poltergeists. Our visitor tonight was neither. It came from the darkest of places. I heard its silent scream.”

Peter had no earthly idea what Homer was talking about. “What’s that?”

“A silent scream is a life force begging to be heard. I started hearing them soon after I lost my sight. There is no sound, just the pain. It cuts through the air like a sharp knife.”

“How many times have you heard this?” Milly asked.

“Enough times to last a lifetime. I have a theory about their origin. I believe there is a place which exists between the spirit world and our world. A buffer zone, so to speak. These life forces exist there.”

Spirits were like lightning, and rarely struck in the same place twice. Peter had seen the dark spirit twice in the same evening, which was not normal. “This thing made itself known to me twice tonight. Should I be worried?”

“To worry is to poison oneself,” Homer replied. “I would advise caution. I think we should say good night before Milly throws us out.”

“Perish the thought,” their hostess said.

Milly walked them out of her apartment to the elevators at the hallway’s end. She kissed them both affectionately on the cheek. “Be safe,” she said.

“And you as well,” they both replied.

*   *   *

Peter and Homer descended to the lobby. A uniformed attendant opened the front door for them while tipping his cap good night.

A cold wind slapped their faces as they stepped outside. Two weeks from May, and the city was still locked in winter’s grasp. Peter’s limo idled at the curb, his driver buried in the sports section of the Post. “Let me give you a lift home,” he offered.

“No offense, but I’ll take the subway,” Homer replied.

“Are you sure? It’s late.”

“I realize that. There is something perversely pleasurable in the feeling of passing subways rumbling beneath my feet. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t.”

“Well, then let’s talk here.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“You’re holding back. I want to know why.”

A frown creased Homer’s face. “You’re right. Did you read my mind upstairs?”

“I didn’t have to. Your cane gave you away.”

“My cane? How so?”

“You tap your cane whenever you talk. The tapping accelerates when you start bending the truth. I’ve noticed it before.”

“So you can hear when I’m lying.”

“Afraid so.”

Homer’s frown became a scowl. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’d throw my cane away, only then I’d be in a real bind. You should have become a detective, Peter. You’re very observant.”

Peter had been told this before. He caught things that other people missed. It had as much to do with his perceptive skills from being a magician as it did from his psychic ability.

“I was holding back—to use your expression—because I was sworn to secrecy by a psychic named Selena about the very thing you saw tonight,” Homer explained.

Peter had heard of but had never met the legendary Selena, who was consulted by the most powerful people in the city for her celestial advice.

“You’ve actually met Selena?” Peter asked.

“I most certainly have. Years ago, a dark spirit visited my apartment, and scared the daylights out of my family. My family described this spirit to me in detail. It was not like any ghost I’d ever heard of. I needed help, and a mutual friend arranged a meeting.”

“Was she helpful?”

“She most certainly was. Selena told me that the dark spirit that visited my apartment was a shadow person. Shadow people are evil apparitions that attach themselves to humans, and refuse to let go. They are usually seen out of the corner of the eye for a split second before disappearing. When a person sees one fully—like you did tonight—it’s because the shadow person is seeking him out.”

“What do they want?”

“I asked Selena that very question, and she did not reply. But she did tell me this: Shadow people can destroy your life. They’ll attach themselves to you, and scare away your family, friends, and everyone else. Your existence will become a living hell.”

Peter understood the gravity of what Homer was saying. Most psychics could deal with ghosts and spirits, but their friends and families could not. More than one psychic had seen his personal life destroyed by the intrusion of unwanted visitors.

“Did you rid the shadow person from your apartment?” Peter asked.

“Eventually, I did,” Homer said. “At Selena’s urging, I began to wear a five-pointed star to ward it off. I’ve worn one ever since, and so have my wife and children. I also keep them hanging on the walls. You can never be too careful about these things.”

“Did the shadow person return?”

“No. My family has not seen it since.”

“Did you ever wonder why it picked you?”

“Sometimes. But I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind. If I thought about it too much, I was afraid it might return.”

Peter understood this as well. Often, ghosts and spirits became tuned in to a person’s thought waves, and knew when their subject was thinking about them. It was at these times that a ghost often chose to pay its subject a visit.

Peter touched Homer’s arm. “How about that lift home?”

“Thanks, but no. I’m looking forward to that subway ride. It’s where I do some of my best thinking. If you’ll point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”

“At least let me walk you to the station.”

“By all means. I would enjoy your company.”

The subway station was a half block away. As they walked down the street, Peter’s limo crawled behind them, its headlights turned low. Reaching the station’s entrance, Peter stopped to shake the blind psychic’s hand. Thank you for confiding in me,” he said.

“You are more than welcome,” Homer replied. “First thing tomorrow, I’m going to purchase a rubber tip for my cane. Good night, Peter. Be safe.”

“And you as well.”

Peter climbed into the backseat of his limo. Herbie spun the wheel and headed toward the 65th Street transverse through Central Park without being told. “Want some music?” he asked.

“I’m good,” Peter said.

“That blind guy you were talking to, I’ve seen him before. He tells fortunes down in the Village. Why you hanging out with him?”

Herbie did not know of his employer’s psychic talents. One day, Peter planned to tell his driver about his unusual talents, but it wasn’t going to be today.

“We’re old friends,” Peter said.

“You don’t say. He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Another limo driver told me that guy can make himself disappear while standing beneath the arch in Washington Square Park.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I’m just telling you what the other driver told me. He said it was some kind of trick.”

“The man is blind, Herbie. He doesn’t do tricks.”

“I know he’s blind. But that’s what this driver told me. Swore on a stack of Bibles he was telling me the truth. Said he saw it with his own eyes.”

“Even I can’t do that.”

“Maybe he can teach you.”

Peter leaned back in his seat. He tried to put Homer and the shadow person out of his mind. There were more important matters to deal with, like the serial killer he’d seen during the séance. A woman named Rachael was going to die if he didn’t solve this thing.

He removed Holly’s notes from his pocket and reread them. Her notes were meticulous, and captured every detail of his encounter with Dr. Death. Yet it was all still terribly vague. He didn’t know the killer’s name or address, what he did for a living, or anything solid about him. He simply knew that the man had joined forces with the Devil, which had allowed him to know that Peter was present when he shouldn’t have. That kind of thing wouldn’t show up on a Google search. Finding Dr. Death would be like finding a needle in a haystack, maybe harder.

Herbie stopped to let a pair of bundled joggers run past. Central Park was an oasis in a concrete jungle, and someone was always out running. New Yorkers were like that. They didn’t care about things like cold weather. Peter caught Herbie’s frowning eyes in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re thinking too hard, boss. Remember what I told you. Just use Occam’s razor when something’s eating at you. Always worked for me.”

Occam’s razor was Herbie’s solution to life’s problems. A British philosopher, William of Occam, believed the simplest solution was usually the best solution. In this case, the simplest solution was to contact Special Agent Garrison, who knew a thing or two about solving crime. Garrison would take the clues Peter had assembled, and put together a profile of Dr. Death. Once a profile was finished, it would be only a matter of time before the FBI would figure out who the bearded man in the basement was.

Only there was a problem with contacting Garrison. Garrison was with the government, and the government, especially the CIA, was looking for him. The CIA wanted to imprison him on a farm in Virginia with his psychic buddy Nemo, where they could track down the nation’s enemies and other assorted bad guys.

That was the risk he faced contacting the FBI. Garrison had sworn never to reveal his identity, but if Garrison slipped up, or betrayed him, Peter would simply disappear from the general population.

They had reached the east side of the park. Herbie’s eyes found his employer in the mirror. Peter took a deep breath as if to say, I’m still working on it.

“You want me to drive around the block a few times?” Herbie asked.

“No. Let’s go home.”

Peter lived on 320 East 62nd Street, a few blocks away. His girlfriend, Liza, was up waiting for him, just like she did every Friday night, with a spread of delicious food waiting on the kitchen table. He’d grown up an orphan, and coming home to a house filled with pleasant smells and music playing on the stereo was the most wonderful thing he could ask for.

He read Holly’s notes again. There really wasn’t anyone else he could call besides Garrison. And if he didn’t alert someone, an innocent woman would die next Friday night.

It was the simplest solution. Occam’s razor had won again.

He sent an instant message to Garrison. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

4

Peter had grown up in New York largely on the generosity of others. His parents had left enough money behind for him to attend private school, and that was it. His parents’ friends, all of whom were psychics, had rotated him between their homes a year at a time, and raised him. Milly Adams and Max Romeo had been his primary guardians, and had kept him clothed and fed. He hadn’t been poor, but he hadn’t been rich either.

As a boy, he’d known he was different, and he’d had few close friends. To ward off loneliness, he’d roamed the streets on afternoons and weekends, and familiarized himself with the city’s rich and varied neighborhoods. He’d fallen in love with Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, Hell’s Kitchen, the meatpacking district, Times Square, Greenwich Village, and the Upper East and West sides. Each had possessed a special charm all its own.

Over time, he’d settled on the neighborhood which most attracted him, and a building that he wished to someday call home. His choice was an old brownstone on 62nd Street, between Second and First avenues. From the street it didn’t look like much, but that was an illusion. It had three stories plus a sunroof, nine rooms with three working fireplaces, a small basement, and a private courtyard. It also had a history that he rather liked. Every previous owner had been an artist.

It had been his dream house. Someday, when he was rich, he’d buy the brownstone, and turn it into his castle.

That day had come sooner than he’d expected. At twenty-one, he’d shot a series of TV commercials for Apple that made him a household name. Overnight, his magic shows had gone from being half filled to sold out. He’d become wealthy and had saved every penny. The week he’d turned twenty-four, he’d bought the building outright without a mortgage, and moved in.

His brownstone was more than just a home. He also used it to store his ever-growing magic collection. The first floor was crammed with illusions and apparatus, the upper floors devoted to his library of first-edition magic books and his vast collection of magic wands, of which he owned one from every corner of the world. Liza claimed it was like living inside a magic store, complete with her very own demonstrator.

The limo braked at the curb. As he started to get out, he got a call on his Droid. It was Garrison. He didn’t want Herbie hearing the call, and he hopped out and banged his hand on the roof. “Night, Herbie. Drive safe.”

“Take care, boss. See you in the morning.”

The limo drifted away. The street was quiet, the empty sidewalk a good place to talk. Peter pushed the Answer button and raised the Droid to his face. “You’re up late.”

“No rest for the weary,” Garrison replied. “I need to ask you some questions about this text you just sent me. Can you talk?”

Peter glanced at the upper floors of the brownstone. The master bedroom was all lit up; Liza was up, watching a horror movie. Parking himself on the stoop, he zipped up his leather jacket to keep warm. “I can talk.”

“In your message, you said you encountered a serial killer during a séance, and that he nearly murdered you,” Garrison said. “How is that possible?”

Explaining the workings of the spirit world was tricky, and Peter chose his words carefully. “During my séance, I went forward in time, and witnessed a serial killer preparing to abduct his next victim. It seems he was also watching me. It was a trap.”

“You went forward in time? How does that work?”

“Time consists of three dimensions: the past, the present, and the future. The spirits can send a person backward in time, or forward into the future, or leave him in the present. Tonight, the spirits decided to send me into the future.”

“Is it scary?”

“Tonight sure was.”

“What else can you tell me about this killer?”

He gave Garrison a physical description. Dr. Death was short and fat and didn’t look like he could harm a fly, when in fact, he was a monster. In conclusion, he said, “Just remember that he’s in league with the Devil. It was the only possible way he could have known I was present in his home. To anyone else, I would have been invisible.”

“You’re sure he’s a devil worshiper?”

“Positive. His next victim is a woman named Rachael. He was going out to meet her when I dropped in on him.”

Peter heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Bright light was pulsating from the master bedroom. Liza had a thing about watching horror movies with the volume on full blast, the louder and scarier the better. He resumed his conversation.

“You’re looking for this guy, aren’t you?” Peter asked.

“Stop doing that,” Garrison said.

“Doing what?

“Reading my mind over the phone.”

“I can’t read your mind over the phone, just in person.”

“Then how did you know the FBI was looking for this guy?”

“The way you framed your questions told me he was on your radar.”

“Fine, you’re right. He is on our radar.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much. During the past two years, a killer has been sending the FBI taunting letters that contained photographs of dead women lying facedown in grassy fields. There have been six victims so far, with a promise of more to come. We don’t know the victims’ names, or what they look like. We haven’t even found the bodies. The letters were postmarked from different locations in the Northeast, so we’re assuming that’s where he lives. An occult sign was burned into the grass beside each body. That’s how we knew he was a devil worshiper.”

Peter’s breath formed a white cloud in front of his face. The FBI liked to think it knew a thing or two about the Devil and his twisted followers, but they were wrong. What the Bureau knew only scratched the surface of a group whose history stretched back thousands of years.

“Describe the sign in the grass,” he said.

“It was an inverted triangle balanced atop a large V with a line drawn across the top. The FBI keeps a databases of symbols used by various cults and the like, and has seen this symbol at crime scenes before.”

An icy finger ran down Peter’s spine, and he shivered. Garrison had just described a magical sigil. Made of complex occult symbols and geometric figures, sigils were used by psychics to make contact with the spirit world, their true meaning known only to practitioners of dark magic. The sigil in the photos sent to the FBI was the Seal of Satan, and meant Dr. Death was working directly with one of the Devil’s sons. Two thousand years ago, the Devil had sent six of his sons to the earth with the purpose of causing havoc and misery. Those sons were responsible for most of the horrible events which mankind had inflicted upon itself. If Peter was right, Dr. Death had entered into a pact with one of these sons, and been given special gifts which made him more powerful than an ordinary devil worshipper.

“How close are you to finding this madman?” he asked.

“We’re not. The Bureau has run out of leads. That was why I called you right back.”

“Maybe this will help. His victims are women who push back against the darkness. Their names are Mary, Joan, Kelly, Diane, Christine, and Edie. His next victim’s name is Rachael.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. He’s killing women involved in good works.”

“That’s something we didn’t know before. How good a look did you get at him?”

“Very. I was right next to him.”

“I know you want to keep your psychic powers a secret, but I need you to let a police artist draw a composite of this guy. It could help us nab him.”

“No cops.”

“What’s wrong with the cops?”

“They’re not good at keeping secrets.”

“We can use an FBI artist, then. I’ll set it up for tomorrow.”

There was a click on the line. It was Liza, probably wondering where he was.

“I need to run,” he said to Garrison.

“Don’t go yet. I want you to think if there’s anything you might have forgotten to tell me about your encounter with this guy. This is important, Peter.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. People forget things when they sleep. We have to do it right now.”

Another click on the line, indicating that Liza had hung up. “There was one thing,” Peter said, realizing he’d left out an important part. “I saw this strange apparition before and after the séance. It was a quivering black mass that didn’t have a face. Another psychic told me it’s called a shadow person. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Could it be connected to the killer?”

“I think so. This thing kidnapped me.”

“What do you mean ‘kidnapped’?”

“My soul.”

Another click on the line. Liza again. His girlfriend wouldn’t have called again unless she was pissed off. “I’ve got to beat it. Let’s talk in the morning.”

“One more thing.”

“No more. Liza is going to kill me.”

The sound of shattering glass sent Peter flying off the stoop. A man’s dress shoe landed at his feet along with shards of glass. He picked up the shoe. It was one of his.

Turning around, he looked at the brownstone. The master bedroom window had a gaping hole in it. Loud music was streaming out, the voice of Coldplay’s “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall” ripping a hole in the still night.

He ran up the steps to his front door, fumbling with his keys. “I’ve got to go,” he said into the phone.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Should I send someone over?”

“Capital idea.” He hit the button that let him switch calls and said, “I’m coming through the front door.”

“There’s a man in the bedroom,” Liza screamed. “He’s attacking me!”

5

Peter burst into his brownstone. Every light was turned on, and so were the CD players. He loved music, and kept a stereo system in every room. His intruder had turned them to full volume, the competing voices of Amy Winehouse and Fifty Cent filling the downstairs.

What the hell was going on? Burglars tried to keep things quiet, or at least the ones he’d heard about. He flew up the staircase while glancing into the living room. His favorite illusions had been knocked off their pedestals and lay in a gut-wrenching heap on the floor. The Flying Carpet would never fly again, and the Zig-Zag illusion that let him pull out a woman’s middle was now just a pile of boards. Butch, the mechanical toy panda that predicted the future, sat on the mantel over the fireplace, banging its miniature cymbals in obvious displeasure.

Dark thoughts filled his head. Had Liza been injured? Was she okay? If the burglar had harmed her … he tried not to imagine it.

He reached the second-floor landing. On the walls hung promotional photos of famous magicians that had once adorned the lobby of Lou Tannen’s, the greatest magic shop that had ever existed. Every frame was shattered, the photos torn to shreds. They could never be replaced.

“Liza!” he called out.

“He’s in the bedroom with me,” came her voice from the third floor.

“I’m coming!”

The stairs groaned beneath his feet. Many old buildings in New York were inhabited by ghosts, and he sensed that the ghost in his brownstone was trying to warn him about the danger that awaited him upstairs.

The third floor was another disaster area. Pictures yanked off the walls, illusions in the hallway turned upside down and destroyed. His intruder had targeted his collection, and everything appeared ruined.

Peter entered the master bedroom ready to confront the person who’d wrecked his home. The room had been ransacked, his prized sixty-inch plasma TV torn off the wall, its screen kicked in.

He looked around the bedroom. No sign of Liza, or of a burglar. He checked the adjoining bathroom, and also looked under the bed. Nothing but a few dust balls. The Coldplay CD was still rocking the house, and he silenced the music with the remote.

“Liza? Where are you?”

“In the closet,” she replied.

The master bedroom had a spacious walk-in closet. He opened the double doors to find Liza backed into the corner with a letter opener clutched in her hands. She was trembling, and looked half scared to death. “I know this sounds stupid, but are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m freaking out. Did you see him?”

“There’s no one there.”

“That can’t be—he was here a few moments ago.”

“I just looked. He’s gone. Come on out. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Check the fire escape. Please.”

Entering the hall, he checked the fire escape. It was empty, the window locked from the inside, and he quickly returned to the bedroom.

“It’s safe,” he said.

She cautiously emerged from the closet and tossed the letter opener onto the bed. They embraced, and she leaned her head against his chest. “God, that was scary.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, but he scared the shit out of me. I was lying in bed watching the remake of Dawn of the Dead when I heard someone on the first floor destroying things. I locked the bedroom door, and called nine one one, but got put on hold. Then he started banging on the door. I got scared and hid in the closet. Somehow he got the door open, came in here, and starting trashing the place.”

“Did you dead-bolt the door?”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how he opened it.”

Peter checked the dead bolt. It was functioning normally, and he shook his head. Even Houdini couldn’t pick a dead bolt.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“I caught a glimpse of him from the closet. He was dressed in black. I didn’t see his face, just the back of his head. He almost looked like…”

“Like what?”

“This is so weird.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“He almost looked like a ghost.”

The proverbial lightbulb went off in Peter’s head. Now he understood how the intruder had gotten into his house, and picked the lock on the bedroom door. It was a shadow person.

“What else did you see?” he asked, just to be sure.

“He was moving really fast around the room. It was almost surreal. The stuff just flew off the walls and broke apart on the floor. He didn’t seem to touch things.”

Peter realized he was shivering. A cold wind was blowing through the broken window, and he went to close the curtains. A strange thought occurred to him. “Why did you throw my shoe through the window?” he asked.

“Your shoe?”

“Yes. I was outside talking to Special Agent Garrison. Next thing I knew, my shoe came through the window and hit the pavement.”

“I didn’t throw your shoe. Why were you talking to the FBI?”

“I saw something bad during a séance tonight. I texted Garrison, and he called me back.”

“Is Garrison the agent I met? The pushy guy built like a refrigerator?”

“That’s him. He’s coming over right now. Maybe he’ll help us clean up this mess. You should see downstairs. Everything’s ruined.”

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry.”

She joined him at the window and they again embraced. They’d been living together for two years, yet only a few weeks ago had he come clean, and told her about his psychic powers, including secret things about his past. Along with his confession had come the promise that he would not keep secrets from her. It was the only way the relationship could survive.

“I need to tell you something.” He took her hands in his own, and gazed into her soft brown eyes. “The intruder wasn’t human. It’s called a shadow person, and it’s somehow connected to the bad thing I saw during the séance.”

“What does it want? Besides your shoe?”

“I wish I knew.”

“So what do we do? Rent a suite in the Waldorf and wait for it to leave?”

“I don’t think there’s any way to hide from it. But there is a way to keep it away from us. Permanently.”

“I’m all for that.”

Liza was getting her spirit back. That was good, because his life was filled with unexpected visitors, and he couldn’t have her freaking out whenever one came calling. Entering the closet, he spun the dial on the wall safe, and opened it with a few deft turns. From its interior he removed an ornamental gold box, and brought it to his girlfriend.

“That’s your mother’s jewelry box,” she said. “What does that have to do with this?”

“My parents used to conduct séances in our apartment with their friends. One night, I stumbled into the room, and caught them in the act. My mother was wearing an unusual piece of jewelry, which I inherited when she died. I didn’t understand the significance of it until tonight.”

He opened the box’s lid, and his mother’s jewelry sparkled up at them. He sifted through the items and removed a gold necklace with a five-pointed gold star pendant. “I want you to have this. It has a special power to ward off evil spirits. Put it on.”

“Are you sure about this, Peter?”

“Yes. It’s the only way I know to keep the shadow person away.”

“But it’s your mother’s.”

“She would have wanted you to have it.”

Liza slipped the necklace over her head. She appraised it in the broken mirror on the dresser. The pendant rested comfortably at the base of her neck. “It’s beautiful.”

“The five-pointed star is a talisman, and will keep the shadow person away, along with any other evil spirits. I want you to wear it until this thing is gone.”

“Do I have to give it back?”

“No, it’s yours.”

“You’re sure about this?”

It was not the circumstances under which he would have liked to be giving her a piece of his mother’s jewelry, but it would have to do. Liza brought her hand up to her mouth.

“Oh, my God. It’s back.”

A shadow person lurked on the other side of the bedroom. Shaped like a person but without a face, it hovered a few inches above the floor, and made no sound. Peter stepped protectively in front of Liza. Through the broken window he heard a car pull up in front of the brownstone and Garrison and his team get out. They all knew about Peter’s powers, and were people he trusted. The cavalry had arrived.

“That’s Garrison. I locked the front door. Better let them in.”

“And leave you here with this monster?”

“I can handle him.”

“No!”

Liza did not understand the danger she was in. With his body, he gently pushed her toward the door. She resisted, and pushed right back.

“I’m not leaving,” she said defiantly.

Their unearthly visitor glided across the floor as it came toward them. Objects flew through the air as if weightless, while the electricity flickered on and off.

Peter stepped forward, knowing what he had to do.

6

Because he’d moved around as kid, Peter hadn’t had a lot of stuff. Just his clothes, his school uniforms, a worn baseball mitt, and some toys. It hadn’t been much.

As a result, he did not buy things on a whim. Every purchase was carefully thought out. The tricks and illusions in his brownstone were a perfect example. They were things he’d coveted as a child, but could not afford. When he’d finally had the money to buy them, he’d taken his time, and made one purchase at a time. Each item he bought, he savored.

And now, it was all gone.

The shadow person had wrecked his home, while scaring the woman he loved. Ghosts had broken things in his home before, but it had been out of sheer clumsiness, never on purpose. The shadow person had attacked him on purpose.

Homer had said this might happen. If Peter didn’t respond, the shadow person would ruin his life, and drive Liza away. And then where would he be? Alone and brokenhearted, no different from before.

Seen in that light, there was no other choice but to turn to a power within him that he feared and loathed, and summon the demon that had resided inside of him since birth. Through clenched teeth he muttered the words that would allow him to fight back.

Darkness, take my hand.

Give me the power to vanquish my enemies, and rule the world as I see fit.

He started to change. The feeling started like a bad case of heartburn, and grew worse, until he was burning up inside. With his heart pounding in his ears like a bass drum, he marched across the bedroom. Shooting his arm out, he struck the shadow person right in the nose, if it had had a nose. The black mass emitted a yelp, and wavered uncertainly.

“Oh, my God, you hurt it,” Liza squealed.

“Score one for the good guys,” he said.

Filled with confidence, he brought his fist down hard on the shadow person’s shoulder, and saw it crumple. Being already dead, a spirit could not be killed. But it could be injured, and that hurt would last for an eternity. It shrunk before his eyes.

“You did it again,” Liza said.

“Think I should stop?”

“No! Let the bastard have it.”

Downstairs, the pounding on the front door had grown louder. If they didn’t let Garrison and his team in, they’d kick the door down, and something else would be in need of repair.

“Please go downstairs, and let them in,” he said more calmly than before.

“What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Don’t tell them anything. Let me do the talking.”

“What are you going to do to this thing?”

“Convince it not to return.”

“I’m all for that. I’ll be right back. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She smiled with her eyes, and left without making a sound.

Peter blinked. The shadow person was no longer standing in front of him.

“Damn it,” he cursed.

He hunted for it. He could still feel its presence, and sensed it was hiding behind a piece of furniture or inside the wall. With his knuckles he rapped loudly on the plaster. Getting no response, he got on his knees, and looked beneath the furniture and the bed.

Still nothing.

He got to his feet, still burning with anger. Then he noticed something odd. None of Liza’s perfume bottles sitting atop her dresser had been touched. The shadow person hadn’t come here to mess with his girlfriend. It’s me he wants.

Garrison and his team came up the stairs. How was he going to explain this? He never should have told Garrison about the shadow person in the first place. It added nothing to the situation, and led to too many other topics that he didn’t want to discuss.

He decided to meet the FBI agents in the hallway, and take them back downstairs. He’d fix a pot of coffee and offer them something to eat. It would give him time to make up a story. It wasn’t a perfect plan, just the best he could do given the circumstances.

He started to walk out of the bedroom when he saw his unearthly intruder inside the vanity on the dresser, hiding within the mirror’s reflection. Staring at him, even though it had no eyes. He approached the dresser, shaking his fist. “Damn you for wrecking my house. I want you to leave, and never return. Do you understand?”

No response. Was it mocking him?

“I’ve had enough of your games,” he said angrily.

He rushed the vanity, prepared to break it into a thousand pieces. The mirror turned a deathly black that expanded into the bedroom like a storm cloud spreading over the horizon. He was sucked into the void, and desperately tried to resist. Too late. He’d been trapped again.

*   *   *

His world changed. He was transported from his bedroom to the dirt road on the hill beside Dr. Death’s house. Dr. Death was chasing him, the Volvo’s headlights dancing in the darkness as the vehicle snaked down the hill. It was déjà vu all over again.

Peter ran for his life. In all the years he’d been visiting the other side, he’d never been taken back to the same place twice. Every trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Not just for him, but for every other psychic he’d ever communicated with. It was always a one shot.

But the rules were different now. The shadow person had taken him back so Dr. Death could finish the job, and take Peter out of the picture. It wasn’t fair, but the spirit world rarely was. In that regard, it was no different from the real world.

He looked for a landmark that might tell him where he was. In the distance, two-story houses with pitched roofs dotted the hillside. He counted four, along with a number of cars and pickup trucks parked in driveways.

The Volvo reached the bottom of the hill, and chased him. Peter looked for a tree or some bushes on the side of the road to hide behind, just to buy himself some time. He could not remember having ever felt more helpless in his entire life.

A gunshot ripped the still night air. He stopped running and clasped his leg. Blood was flowing freely out of a wound in his thigh, just like the first time. He hobbled over to the grass and tried to stop the blood by pressing on it with his palm.

The Volvo braked and Dr. Death got out with a lunatic smile distorting his face. Gun in hand, he came over to where Peter stood, and told him to kneel. The young magician complied.

“Anything you want to say before I kill you?” Dr. Death asked.

His mind raced. Dying was for quitters, and he wasn’t about to quit. He was going to go back to the real world, and track this bastard down. To do that, he had to learn more about Dr. Death. Even the simplest detail would help the FBI find him.

“Who are you?” he said boldly.

“You want to know my name?”

“Yes. I have a right to know who my killer is.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What does it matter? I’m going to die, anyway.”

“I’m still not going to tell you.”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“That’s none of your business. Now close your eyes, and I’ll make this painless.”

Dr. Death was being bathed in the Volvo’s soft headlights. Peter gazed up into the killer’s eyes, and saw Dr. Death walking into a room filled with college students taking a class. His hunch was right: Dr. Death was a college professor.

“Aren’t you afraid of being caught?” Peter asked.

“I said, close your eyes.”

“Not even by your neighbors? They must have heard your gun.”

“My neighbors won’t save you, and neither will anyone else in this hellhole. Now close your eyes and shut your damn mouth.”

Dr. Death had just told him something important, yet Peter had no earthly idea what it meant. The FBI would, and he prayed he got to speak with Garrison again.

The gun’s warm barrel pressed against his forehead. A pair of hands begin to shake him, trying to bring him back to the real world where he lived.

Then the shot rang out.

7

Liza shook him hard. “Peter, wake up.”

He returned with the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Lying on his back on his own bed, the white plaster ceiling spinning in a lazy clockwise rotation. He checked the gunshot wound on his leg for the second time that night, and found that it had healed itself.

Liza’s lovely face came into the picture. She looked scared out of her mind. She’d just saved his life, and didn’t even realize it. “What in God’s name happened?”

“I took a little trip to the other side. Thanks for bringing me back.”

“Did that thing draw you over?”

“Yes. Is Garrison here?”

The FBI agent’s solemn face came into the picture. Built like a pro linebacker, he wore a dark suit whose jacket’s left side bulged more than its right from the gun that he carried. He was breathing hard from running up to the third floor of the brownstone.

“We’re here,” Garrison said. “How you doing?”

“I’m okay. Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“Not fast enough, I’m afraid. Let me help you up.”

Peter got out of bed on shaky legs while leaning on Garrison for support. Not seeing the rest of Garrison’s team, he said, “Where’s your gang?”

“Having a look around. Your place looks like a tornado hit it.”

“That’s one explanation. I need a cup of coffee. Want some?”

“I never say no to coffee,” Garrison replied.

The kitchen was on the first floor and faced a private courtyard. It hadn’t gotten much use until Liza had moved in. The miracles she produced in it were every bit as amazing as those Peter performed onstage each night. That was an exaggeration, only there was something about home-cooked food that seemed totally magical to him.

Liza served fresh coffee and reheated bagels. Garrison’s team consisted of three male agents dressed in dark suits, and a droll blonde named Nan Perry.

“What just happened upstairs?” Garrison asked.

Peter took a moment to gather his thoughts. Saying too much would lead to trouble; too little, and the FBI would be no help at all. “I took another trip into the future, and saw our killer. The scene was exactly the same. I was outside his house, trying to run from him, and he shot me in the leg. He was getting ready to put a bullet in my head, when Liza shook me awake.”

“That’s intense,” Garrison said.

“The good news is I got a hard look at him. His face will be easier for me to remember when I sit down with your artist for a composite.”

“That’s a plus. Did anything else stand out?”

“Well, he said something strange. Right before he was going to shoot me, I asked him if he was worried that his neighbors might hear the gunshot. He replied that his neighbors wouldn’t save me. He called where he lived a hellhole.”

“What do you think he meant?”

“Hard to say. He lived in a nice area. It didn’t look like anything remotely resembling a hellhole.”

“Maybe something happened there that made him feel that way.”

“Could be.”

“Why do you keep going back there?”

“Believe me, it’s not by choice. An evil spirit called a shadow person is taking me.”

“Did this shadow person rip your place apart?”

Peter nodded and sipped his drink.

“What’s its motive? You must have some idea.”

Every psychic had a spirit which looked over his shoulder and protected him. Peter guessed the same was true for people who were in league with the Devil.

“It’s our serial killer’s guardian angel,” he said quietly.

“So those really exist,” Garrison said.

“They most certainly do.”

“And this serial killer has one.”

“That would be my guess.”

The kitchen fell silent. Peter hated when that happened. Garrison leaned forward on his elbows. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp. “You talk with the spirits on a regular basis. Why not talk with them again, and ask them who this killer is. It can’t hurt, can it?”

Peter had been communicating with spirits since boyhood. There were rules to the game, and he said, “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just cross over, and start asking questions.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. I rarely speak when I’m on the other side.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I watch and listen.”

“Can’t you at least give it a try?”

He laughed under his breath. The other side was not gentle. Within its ever-shifting landscape of light and dark was a force that ruled with a firm, if not brutal hand. He likened it to the Old Testament: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, where wars lasted for centuries and grudges were never settled. It was not a place where you wanted to spend eternity, and those who did suffered for it, every single moment of their wretched lives.

“No,” the young magician said. “You have to trust me on this.”

Garrison let out an exasperated breath and put down his mug. He looked ready to call it a night. “I’ll come by your theater with the artist tomorrow. What time works for you?”

“Come at four. We can do it in my dressing room between shows.”

“Four o’clock it is.” Garrison put his empty mug in the sink. One by one, his team filed out of the kitchen. “You need help cleaning up?” he asked at the door.

Peter stole a glance at Liza, who still looked upset. He needed to have a talk with her, and not with the FBI hanging around. “We’ll manage. Thanks for the offer.”

Peter walked the agents to the front door. The hallway was lined with rare magic playbills that he’d purchased at auction at Christie’s. Each was one-of-a-kind, and worth a fortune. Their frames had been smashed, and Garrison pointed at the ruined glass.

“Look at that,” he said. “The breaks in each frame are the same.”

Peter had a look. The breaks in the glass weren’t the same, they were identical. He wondered how that was possible. The spirits conformed to the laws of physics when visiting the real world, and the broken frames were an obvious violation of that.

“I need to take a photo of this,” Garrison said.

He snapped a series of photos on his iPhone. When he was finished, Peter walked him to the door. His team waited outside on the sidewalk.

“Sure you don’t need some help?” Garrison asked.

“We’re good,” Peter said.

He started to leave, then asked the inevitable final question. “Will it come back?”

“Probably. It hasn’t gotten what it wants.”

“Meaning you. I could leave two of my team to act as bodyguards.”

“They’ll only end up getting hurt.”

“Don’t be so sure. We deal with more bad stuff than you can imagine.”

Garrison didn’t get it. The shadow person existed in another dimension that was either light-years away, or right next door, and had the power to visit the real world whenever it chose. The FBI did not possess the means to stop it.

“We’ll manage. Thanks, anyway,” Peter said.

Their ride was a black GMC Terrain with needle antennas on the hood. The vehicle seemed to disappear as it drove away. Peter waved and shut the door.

“What a night. Ready to tackle this mess?”

Liza put her head on his chest and started to cry. Her evening had been one long horror show, and now he was asking her to clean up.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“No, it’s probably a good idea.” She sniffled. “It will take my mind off things.”

“You sure?”

She answered him with a kiss, and climbed the stoop and went inside.

8

The living room had been hit the worst, so they decided to start there. Liza went to the kitchen to find a broom while he started to pick up pieces of broken illusions from the floor. A sizzling sound filled his ears. Without warning, the brownstone was plunged into darkness.

“Peter!” Liza called from the kitchen.

“I’m right here. Are you all right?”

“It’s back. I saw it out of the corner of my eye.”

He stumbled down the darkened hallway. “Don’t move. I’m coming.”

“Hurry. I’m scared.”

“Me, too.”

“Oh, great. Now I’m more scared.”

As he reached the entrance to the kitchen, a flash of white light exploded before his eyes. It had no sound, and continued to flash on and off like heat lightning. In the kitchen he found Liza huddled by the fridge, her hair standing on end as if electrified. Clutched in her hands was a frying pan she’d grabbed off the stove. He held her protectively against his chest.

“Make it go away,” she pleaded.

“Do you want me to go back to the other side?”

“No!”

“Then I can’t make it go away. We need to go outside, and hope it doesn’t follow us. Ghosts and spirits don’t like to be seen, so we should be okay.”

They headed for the front door still holding each other. Halfway down the hall, the electricity returned and the flashing stopped. In the living room, Butch was frantically clashing his cymbals. Spirits had a way of becoming attached to objects, and the shadow person had taken a liking to the automated toy panda on the mantel.

The clashing became more intense. So loud that Peter thought Butch might fall apart. Sticking his head into the living room, he gasped.

“Holy crap,” he said.

Liza jerked open the front door. “Don’t stop,” she said.

“Come here. You have to see this.”

“Peter!”

Love was based on trust. He grabbed Liza by the hand, and pulled her into the living room. She was afraid, but did not resist. She raised her hand to her mouth in utter disbelief.

“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed.

*   *   *

Peter was rarely amazed. Tonight was one of those exceptions. His prized illusions had miraculously repaired themselves and returned to their designated spots in the living room. The Flying Carpet levitated in midair, while the Zig-Zag illusion looked ready to remove a person’s middle. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it possible.

“Am I dreaming?” Liza asked, lowering her hand.

“Not at all. What you see is what you get.”

“Do I have to kill you, or are you going to explain this to me?”

“Of course I’ll explain it to you. Hold on for a second.”

The best tricks continued to fool a person long after they were over. He stepped into the hallway to inspect his collection of rare playbills. To his delight, the shattered frames had miraculously restored themselves, the playbills untouched. But what about the other floors? As he headed up the stairs to find out, Liza crossed her arms, demanding an explanation.

“Now,” she said, raising her voice.

“None of it was real,” he said, stopping on a step. “I should have realized it before, when Garrison pointed out that all the breaks in the frames were identical.”

“What do you mean, none of it was real? We all saw the damage, Peter.”

“It was an illusion.”

“Is this thing some kind of magician?”

“In a way, yes. It can distort reality, and make you see things which really don’t exist. For whatever reason, it decided to trash my place without really trashing it. Come upstairs with me. I need to check something out.”

She followed him upstairs to the third floor. The photos of magicians past that lined the stairway had returned to their original condition, as had the furniture in the master bedroom. Everything was normal again, except for the broken window his shoe had gone through.

“This is so flipping weird,” he said.

Liza struck a defiant pose. What he was telling her, and what she’d just seen, had collided, and she no longer trusted him. He made her sit beside him on the bed.

“I don’t believe this,” she said.

“I can prove it was an illusion,” he said.

“Show me.”

He pulled up Garrison’s number on his Droid. As the call went through, he put the phone on speaker so Liza could hear the conversation. Garrison answered on the first ring.

“Something wrong?” the FBI agent asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. In fact, everything’s just great,” Peter replied, putting his hand around Liza’s waist, and drawing her close. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“Can you look at those photos you shot in my place, and call me back?”

“What am I looking for?”

“See if the broken glass in the frames repaired itself.”

“Come again?”

“The damage you saw earlier wasn’t real. It was an illusion.”

“No offense, but I’m not buying that for one minute.”

“Make you a bet. Loser buys a steak dinner at Smith & Wollensky.”

“You’re on, magic man. I’ll call you right back.”

Peter ended the call. His shoe was lying on the floor, and he picked it up. “This is the part I don’t understand,” he said.

“You understand the rest of it?” Liza asked in disbelief.

“I’m beginning to. The shadow person wants my undivided attention. It pulled this stunt to get it. Now I have to figure out what it wants.”

“How wonderful.”

The Droid vibrated in his hand and Peter answered it on speaker. “I want my steak medium-rare with all the trimmings.”

“Remind me never to make a bet with you,” Garrison said.

*   *   *

Sleep proved elusive, and they lay in bed beneath the warm covers, trying to make sense of it all. Liza rested her head on Peter’s chest, and listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart. A blanket covered the broken window, muting the street noise.

“Is this what it’s going to be like living with you?” she asked.

Kaboom, Peter thought. He chose his words with extra care.

“Normally, my life is pretty dull.”

“You talk to the dead every Friday night with your friends. That’s not normal.”

“It’s only once a week.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

“Sorry.”

“You promised me that you’d stop keeping secrets from me. It’s the one thing I can’t stand about living with you. You’re always hiding something.”

It was true. He kept his darkest secrets from Liza, and the rest of his friends as well. Secrets about his past, his parents, and the genetic code they’d passed on to him which extended his powers far beyond anything a normal psychic could do. Liza couldn’t stand not knowing these things about him, and wanted him to level with her. If he didn’t, they both knew what the outcome would be. She’d pack up and leave and he’d be alone again. It was his greatest fear, and he was ready to tell her everything about his life, only a voice inside his head said not yet.

“Let me ask you a question,” she said. “You nearly died during the séance at your friend’s apartment. Were you planning to tell me? Be truthful.”

“No. I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“That’s not fair. You had this absolutely horrible thing happen to you, and you internalize it, and don’t let your emotions out. I’m more than just your lover, Peter. I’m your friend. You have to confide in me, and share your feelings.”

“I’m sorry.”

She grabbed his chin and gave his head a shake. “Stop saying that.”

He started to say “I’m sorry,” and stopped himself. Liza fell back onto her pillows, and for the longest time stared at the ceiling.

“I want us to see a counselor. We’re running in circles,” she said.

“But I like chasing you.”

No response, not even a giggle. They’d discussed seeing a counselor before. He turned on his side, and rested his head on the palm of his hand. “Okay, I’m game.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes. We’ll go see a pro, and talk this out. I don’t want you angry with me.”

“You have a problem, Peter. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I’m different. So were my parents. They taught me to hide my gifts. So did the people who raised me after they died. I’m not making excuses. It’s how I was brought up.”

“But you can’t hide things from me. Not if we’re going to live together.”

“I understand that. You have to be patient. This isn’t easy for me.”

He gently stroked her hair, and elicited a faint smile. The first time he’d laid eyes on Liza at the Beacon Theatre during a performance by Cirque du Soleil had been like something out of a dream. He’d taken a date, buying front-row seats. The show was filled with gymnasts able to turn their elastic bodies into pretzels, and it would have been nothing more than a fun night out until a troupe of Chinese aerialists called the Lings took the stage. Mom and dad, a pair of muscle-bound twin brothers, and two drop-dead beautiful girls, Liza and her sister Kim.

The Lings had flown through space as if they had wings. They looked like angels, and Peter’s heart had caught in his throat as Liza had twirled overhead while hanging on to a bright red sash with one hand. He’d never believed in love at first sight, but that night had changed his notions about romance and physical attraction. He had wanted her not just physically, but also emotionally. This was the woman he was meant to be with; this was the partner he’d longed to have in his life, and he hadn’t even known her name.

His feelings had been impossible to conceal. When the act was over, he’d jumped from up his seat and applauded wildly while his date stormed out of the theater.

That had been two years ago. Liza had entered his life, and become his lover, while her younger sister had replaced her in the family troupe. He had showered Liza with everything she could have asked for, and treated her like a princess. A perfect arrangement, except he’d hidden his psychic abilities from her, fearful that she’d think he was a freak, and run away. He knew now it had been a mistake, one that he must fix.

“Do you have someone in mind?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“I did some research on the Internet. One name kept popping up. A professor at NYU Medical School named Dr. Raul Sierra. He’s written several highly regarded books on relationship counseling. He teaches partners how to communicate with each other.”

“You want to go see him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much do I have to tell him about myself?”

“Enough for him to understand you.”

“You mean everything.”

“If that’s what it takes, yes.”

“You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life. It’s now or never, Peter.”

They shared a brief silence. It carried in it an unstated answer that he didn’t want to hear, and it went like this: If we don’t fix this relationship, I’ll go back to the circus with my family. But he’d never told anyone everything. His life was filled with secrets that he’d expected to take with him to his grave, and maybe beyond. Yet at the same time, if he didn’t come clean with Liza, she’d walk out on him, and his heart would be forever broken.

“Okay,” he mumbled halfheartedly.

“You mean that?”

“Uh-huh.”

She kissed him on the lips in the darkness. The fear and anxiety of the past few hours went away, and he felt whole again. Just a single kiss had done it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“When do you want to go see him?”

“Monday morning, nine thirty. I booked a session a week ago. For me. But you can come, too.”

“You were going to see a shrink?”

“I had to do something. I don’t know how to deal with this.”

He suddenly felt like a shit. Liza had been agonizing for days, and he hadn’t noticed. Too busy with the show and his Friday night séances to be paying attention to her needs. He vowed to change that, too. His Droid vibrated on the night table, and he lifted the phone to his face. “The FBI never sleeps,” he said.

“Garrison?”

“The one and only.”

“It must be something important for him to be calling this late.”

“Your intuitive skills are amazing, Dr. Watson.”

“Answer it, smart-ass.”

He answered the call. “Hello, Special Agent Garrison. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Sorry for the intrusion, but I thought you’d want to hear this,” Garrison said. “The pattern in your broken frames struck a nerve. I was sure I’d seen it somewhere before, so I sketched it from memory, scanned it into my computer, and ran it through a database of symbols the FBI has found at different crime scenes. I got a hit.”

“From where?”

“Westchester County a decade ago. He killed five homeless men, and dumped their bodies in a field. The bodies were laid out in this strange pattern, like an upside-down cross. It was the same pattern that I saw in your broken frames.”

“Then it’s him.”

“Has to be. The FBI did up a profile. He’s a white male in his late forties, lives by himself, is smart, and has no social life.”

Peter groaned. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to tell Garrison that he’d glimpsed into the killer’s mind, and seen him entering a room of students. “He’s a college professor. I forgot to tell you.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“I read his mind right before he tried to shoot me. There can’t be that many college professors who fit that physical description in Westchester. Your haystack just got smaller.”

“It sure did. See you tomorrow.”

“Still want that composite?”

“Damn straight I do.”

Garrison was a hunter, and his prey was in his sights. This was good news, because once Dr. Death was behind bars, the shadow person would lose its sponsor, and return to wherever it came from. He returned the Droid to the night table, feeling better than he had a minute ago.

Liza’s cool breath tickled his skin. “Good news?” she asked.

“Getting better,” he said.

9

Holly was being a bad girl. After coming home from the séance, she’d lit candles inside her studio apartment, put on some classical music, and drawn the shades. When she’d deemed the mood was just right, she’d filled a round vase with tap water, added a mixture of magic herbs, and begun to scry on Peter, the man she loved.

Holly knew that playing voyeur cam with Peter’s private life was wrong. Witches had a dreadful reputation for snooping, and she was only making it worse. But she couldn’t help it. She had loved Peter since she was a child. For the longest time, she’d kept these feelings bottled up, and her emotions in check.

No more.

She’d had an epiphany. Life was fleeting, and terribly short. Peter had nearly died, and she’d never gotten to express her true feelings to him. That was about to change.

Water, water, oh so clear, show me the boy that I hold so dear.

I love him with all my heart, and feel terrible when we’re apart.

The water in the vase grew cloudy, then cleared. The image of Peter at his brownstone on the East Side appeared. For a while, Peter sat on the stoop talking on his cell phone. Then a shoe came through an upper window, and landed at his feet. Peter raced inside in alarm.

She should have ended things right there. But instead, she recited the mystic words that let her follow Peter inside.

Oh spirits from above, take me inside the house of the man that I love.

Let me see what’s happening to dear Peter, so that I may help him and be near him.

It wasn’t the best rhyme she’d come up with, but it would do. The image inside the vase changed, and she saw Peter bound upstairs and run down a hallway to the master bedroom. She’d visited Peter’s brownstone during her supernatural visits before, but never ventured inside his bedroom. It had not seemed the right thing to do

She now followed him, hoping she might help. A dark spirit waited in Peter’s bedroom, and it snatched Peter’s soul away to the spirit world, while his body lay motionless on the floor. Every few moments, one of his arms or legs twitched, signaling he was still alive.

Every time that happened, Holly’s heart skipped a beat.

Peter’s beautiful girlfriend, Liza, and a gang of stern-faced FBI agents appeared. Holly knew they were FBI because of the badges clipped to their chests. Seeing Peter on the floor, Liza had tried to shake him awake. She was crying, her face flush.

Holly cried as well. If Peter died … she tried not to imagine it.

Finally, Peter’s eyes opened and he returned to the real world. Holly yelped for joy. The sound had a strange effect, and the water in the vase grew cloudy, ending the session.

“Damn it,” she cursed.

Vase in hand, she crossed the studio and dumped the water into the sink. She tried to look on the bright side. The danger had passed and Peter was now safe. But she could not avoid seeing the dark side. Her beloved was still with Liza, and not with her. That wasn’t fair, was it? Liza didn’t have any powers, and she could never love Peter like Holly did. She was going to go crazy if that situation didn’t change soon. Sometimes, she felt like she already had.

*   *   *

Holly lived in Morningside Heights, not far from Columbia. The space was small, but the view of the Hudson River made it feel big. On the walls hung her witch’s things: astrological charts along with those devoted to numerology, plus shelves lined with jelly jars filled with magical herbs, rainbow powders, and bone-white charms. She lived by herself, which was depressing in a city as large as New York. She’d considered getting a roommate, but it couldn’t be any roommate. It would have to be a person with an open mind, one who’d tolerate her strange habits. Like talking to ghosts and seeing into the future, for one thing.

She was a direct descendant of Mary Glover, who’d been hanged in Boston during the Salem witch trials. She bore a striking resemblance to the late great witch, right down to the cute dimple on her chin. A witch’s powers were many: clairvoyance, casting spells, and the ability to hold sway over farm animals and domesticated beasts. But these powers came with a price, and she had few close friends.

It was hard being a young woman living in New York by yourself, even if you weren’t a witch. Harder still when you belonged to a two-person club that included you and your aunt. Sometimes, it was all she could do not to feel sorry for herself. Holly told herself to get over it.

There had been a boy once. A drop-dead gorgeous foreign exchange student named Jean-Claude. One night at the restaurant where she worked as a hostess, he’d come in, and started to chat. One thing had led to another, and Jean-Claude had ended up in her apartment, sharing a bottle of wine. It had turned physical. As they’d made their way to her bed, she’d read his thoughts, and seen him preparing an exit strategy. She’d thrown him out, along with any notion that she could have a relationship with a normal boy.

She thought back to Peter. He was safe, but for how long? He’d been kidnapped twice tonight, and it could happen again. He was not going to win this fight without some help. As a rule, the Friday night psychics did not get involved in each other’s personal lives, but this was different. This had started during a séance, when all of them were together. It was as much an attack on the group as it was on Peter, and the group needed to fight back.

She dug out her iPhone. The digital clock on the face said 3 A.M. What some people called the witching hour.

She rang her aunt, knowing she’d be up.

*   *   *

“What are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” Milly asked by way of greeting.

“Peter needs our help,” Holly replied, getting to the heart of the matter.

“Is he there with you?”

“No, he’s at home, and I’m at my studio.”

“Have you been talking to him?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know Peter needs us, unless you’ve been scrying on him.”

The words were not a question, but a statement of fact. Witches often spoke in such a manner to each other. It made small talk all but out of the question. “Come to mention it, I have been scrying on him,” Holly replied, deciding to meet her aunt’s charge head on. “I love Peter, although you already know that. I watch him sometimes. Actually, I watch him a lot.”

“Shame on you, Holly. That’s wrong.”

“Tell me you haven’t done the same thing, and I’ll apologize.”

Her aunt went mute. Of course she’d done the same thing. Holly had spent part of her childhood at her aunt’s place, learning the art of witchcraft. Many times when she was supposed to be practicing, she’d snuck into her aunt’s study, and had seen Milly scrying on an unsuspecting person. Holly had never questioned it, and did not want her aunt questioning her now.

“Tell me why Peter needs our help,” her aunt said, breaking the silence.

“He came home to find that black thing from the séance in his house. It pulled him back to the other side. That’s two times in one night. When he came to, he looked shaken up.”

“We cannot fight Peter’s battles for him,” Milly said.

“This thing appeared at our séance. It’s a battle against all of us.”

“It’s called a shadow person, and it has an interest in Peter. Peter must deal with this.”

“You’re not going to help him?” Holly’s voice rose indignantly.

“Peter is the son I never had, and I love him with all my heart. But there are some things which a psychic must experience on his own, without the interference of others. It is part and parcel of the learning process we all go through. Someday, you will go through it yourself.”

“He nearly died,” Holly said, not hearing a word her aunt just said.

“So?

“What do you mean, so?”

“Did I not teach you anything when you were growing up? Our lives are not days at the beach. The trials and tribulations that a psychic must endure are far greater than those of a normal person. It is the price we must pay for these dark gifts.”

“Have you paid such a price?”

“I most certainly have. So have Max, Lester, and Homer, who was struck by a car and left blind. Every psychic goes through a trial of some kind. May yours not be so harsh.”

“We still must help him,” Holly said. “If not for Peter, then for ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“The FBI were in Peter’s place when this happened.”

“How did the FBI get involved?”

“Peter contacted them. Instead of calling one of us for help, he called them. Do you see my point now?”

The sharp intake of Milly’s breath sounded like a gun going off. Next to the Devil, the police were their worst enemy, and capable of ruining their lives. “Yes, I do,” her aunt said. “I will call the others in the morning, and seek their opinions. I don’t like you interfering in Peter’s life, but in this you are right. We must help Peter deal with this.”

Holly was relieved. Milly was as stubborn as a mule, and so was she. The difference was age. It was rare for Holly to come out on the winning side of an argument, and she chalked this one up as a major victory.

“May I make a suggestion?” her aunt said.

“Of course.”

“Instead of scrying on Peter, why not scry on the killer Peter saw during the séance? Once he’s caught, this thing will be over.”

“But I don’t know who the killer is. I need a name to work with.”

“Why not use the name that Peter gave him—Dr. Death?”

“Will that work?”

“It should. Peter gave you the man’s physical description, and said that he lives in Westchester County and is a college professor. How much more information do you need?”

“I’ve always had a name before.”

“It’s time for the training wheels to come off. You can do it.”

“I’ll most certainly try. Good night, Aunt Milly.”

“Good night, dear child.”

*   *   *

Holly ended the call. Milly was right. Her time was better spent finding Dr. Death than spying on Peter and his girlfriend. And if she did happen to find the killer, then wouldn’t Peter be thrilled? It would put their relationship on a whole new level.

Drawing the shades, she relit the candles, filled the vase with tap water, mixed in the magic herbs, and pulled up a chair. Into the vase she stared.

Oh, spirit from above, help me find a twisted college professor,

Who’s trying to kill the man I love.

This man is small and somewhat fat, with a thick beard, and eyes like a rat.

He lives in a county called Westchester, where he kills women for his pleasure.

His name is unknown, so we’ve given him one, all our own.

We call him Dr. Death, and so should you.

For Death is his calling card, and the thing he shall always do.

The water became the color of mushroom soup. As it cleared, Holly saw the image of a man sleeping on a bar in a smokey tavern. A cigarette burned in an ashtray while a movie played on an old TV with bad color. Was this Dr. Death? The man looked more like a drunk than a serial killer. The bartender tried to shake him awake. The man stirred, and raised his head off the bar. He looked directly at Holly, and she froze.

Evil had a face. It was mean and cruel and lacked a soul. It could be seen in the faces of evil dictators and ruthless madmen as they stood at podiums and made hateful proclamations. The man sleeping on the bar had such a face. His expression was ugly and harsh, and lacked compassion for other human beings. No wonder Peter had christened him Dr. Death.

Dr. Death continued to look right at her.

Then he spoke. “Fuck off.”

The water grew cloudy, and he vanished.

“Damn it!” Holly said.

10

The serial killer in Holly’s vase of water was named Harold Munns, “Doc” to those who knew him. Forty-five, never married, he lived in the town of Pelham in Westchester County where he’d grown up. He had no friends except the bottle of whiskey on the bar.

“Last call,” the bartender announced. “Come on, Doc. Don’t make me toss you again.”

Munns lifted his head off the bar. “Fuck off.”

“Watch your language.”

“Gimme some coffee.”

A steaming cup was set in front of him. Munns sucked it down, felt himself come around. The bar was clearing out. He settled his tab and followed the others outside. Someone asked him if he had the time.

“Three A.M.,” he replied.

Munns wondered if the others understood the significance of the hour. Christ had died on the cross at three o’clock in the afternoon, so it had been decided by Satan that his disciples would be most active twelve hours later.

Three A.M. Some called it the witching hour, others the Devil’s hour. It really didn’t matter: More bad things happened at three A.M. than at any other time of the day. That was a fact, and had been for two thousand years. Munns, and people like him, made sure of that.

“This town sucks,” Munns said hoarsely.

The late-night crew laughed. To them, Munns was a fat, chronically shy townie who worked at the local college and liked to get drunk on cheap whiskey, and that was all he was. If the police ever caught Munns and his crimes became known, his friends would be sure to say, “But he seemed like a decent guy.” because that was how he acted around them.

The late-night crew got in their cars and spun their tires in the loose gravel. Soon Munns was all by himself. He sucked on a cigarette.

“I hate this fucking place,” he shouted.

He’d lived in Pelham his whole life. The town had redbrick streets and gaslight replicas on every corner. It sold itself as a great place to raise a family, but that was a lie. A child could be locked in a dungeon here, and no one would care.

Soon, he was driving his Volvo through town. The streets were deserted, and he could have broken the sound barrier and not gotten a ticket. But that wasn’t his style. He never broke the law or drew suspicion to himself. The trick to being a killer was to stay off the police’s radar. His friend Ray had taught him that, along with many other useful things. If not for Ray, he’d probably be doing life in prison right now.

He passed the railroad station where the town’s homeless lived. Ten years ago, he’d used it as his laboratory. With the promise of a warm meal, he’d had lured homeless men to his car, strangled them, and dumped their bodies en masse in a field. He’d read in a book that when the homeless died, no one cared. The book had been right. No one had cared.

He pulled into a seedy strip mall, his destination a tattoo parlor called the Blue Devil. A blue neon sign in the window said CLOSED. Munns knew better and got out.

His legs felt like rubber. Booze was his weakness, but that was okay; the town was filled with drunks, and he fit right in. He banged on the front door with his palm. Ray, the owner, came through a beaded curtain and unchained the door. A self-proclaimed body artist, Ray had decorated himself in tattoos which covered ninety percent of his skin. Every tattooist had something he did particularly well. Ray’s specialty was ghoulish skeletons, flesh-eating zombies, and the assorted demons and serpents that guarded the gates of hell.

“How’s it going?” Ray asked.

“I’m hungry,” Munns said, shaking off the cold.

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, over nine months.”

“Is there someone in the wings?”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Give me a name. It will help me visualize her.”

“Her name is Rachael.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two. Single. Tall and trim. A runner. Tight ass.”

“You’ve seen pictures?”

“Google Images.”

“Is she coming here?”

Munns smiled and nodded.

“When?”

“Friday night on a train from New York. I’ll be picking her up at the station. She thinks she’s been invited to do an internship at the college. Won’t she be surprised when I take her to my house, and lock her in the basement.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought everything out.”

Ray headed toward the back of the parlor. Munns fell in line behind him.

Just thinking about Rachael’s arrival got Munns excited. Like most serial killers, his killing fell into cycles, which could be represented by the hands of a clock. Each time he killed, he felt satiated and very happy. That was the first three hours on the clock. The happiness faded away, and he would fall into a depression, hardly able to come out of his house and function. Those were the next three hours. This depression led to a manic stage, where he would begin to plot to secure his next victim. Often, he would stay up for days at a time, and was filled with unbridled energy. The next three hours. Finally, he would reach the countdown, where his next victim was about to step into his web. During this phase, he drank heavily, and felt like he was having a nervous breakdown. Those were the last three hours on the clock.

“I have a surprise for you,” Ray said.

“What’s that?”

“A new tattoo. I’ve been working on it all day.”

“For me?”

“Yes. Just for you.”

They entered Ray’s studio with its black walls and a space heater that faced a barber chair hex-bolted to the floor. Munns stripped down to his trousers. He was shaped like a bowling pin, with all his weight centered around the middle. His upper body was covered in tattoos, but not as spectacularly as Ray’s. There was still much work to be done.

“Where’s this new tattoo going to go?” Munns asked.

“On your right arm,” Ray said. “I want you to look at it every single day. It will serve as a reminder. Now take a seat, and we’ll get started.”

Munns sat in the barber chair and tried to get comfortable. He’d been physically abused as a child, his body used like a punching bag by his parents, and the prospect of having a hot needle stuck into his skin was not appealing. But there was no getting around it. Ray’s tattoos had been his salvation; each time he got one, he became a new man.

Ray snapped on a pair of rubber gloves like a surgeon. He removed the needles from the sterilized autoclave bag, fitted them into his tattoo machine, and turned on the power by stepping on a foot pedal. Coils sent an electric current through the machine, causing the needles to move up and down at a rapid pace. His unblinking eyes searched for the virgin skin on Munns’s arm. Finding his target, he pounced.

Munns settled in for the ride. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d gotten a flyer in the mail containing samples of Ray’s work. Looking at the grisly images, he’d known that Ray was someone he should meet. Up until that point, Munns’s killings had been poorly organized, more to satisfy a dark craving than any life calling. Meeting Ray had changed that. Ray had gone over to the dark side long ago. A convicted rapist and murderer, Ray had spent twenty years in prison, where he’d become a member of a group of devil worshipers called the Order of Astrum.

The first time they’d gotten together, Ray had convinced Munns to join the Order. Ray had shown him that the taking of innocent life was part of the Order’s master plan, and that if he subscribed to that plan, his ability to cause suffering would only grow.

Munns had liked Ray, and had decided to sign up.

Part of the process required that his body be covered in tattoos, just like Ray’s. It had all been done in secret, with the sessions taking place late at night in the Blue Devil’s back room. Thirty-three sessions so far, his pasty white skin gradually being replaced.

New skin, new attitude.

One day, in the not too distant future, he’d be done, and everything but his hands and face would be covered with images of death and despair. And when that day happened, the Devil would own him, just as he owned Ray.

“Can I see the new tattoo?” Munns asked.

“Not until I’m done,” Ray replied. “Now, tell me about Friday night. Who is this woman? How did you find her?”

“She e-mailed the college about an internship that was posted online. I intercepted the e-mail, and made contact. She sent me a résumé, and it fit all the requirements. Young, brilliant, filled with ambition. She thinks she can change the world.”

“Does she push back at the darkness?”

The vibrating needle touched a nerve in Munns’s arm. He silenced the scream coming out of his mouth. “Yes,” he gasped. “She pushes back at the darkness.”

“How?”

“Cancer research. She told me she was on the verge of a huge discovery, but it was going to take more time before she could publish her findings.”

“Our Father will be pleased.”

“My only desire is to make him happy.”

“And mine as well. Will her disappearance be noticed?”

“She has no family, and recently moved to New York, and has no friends. I spoke with her several times and gained her confidence. She believes I’ve arranged living accommodations for her on campus, and even the use of a car. She will step off the train on Friday night into my trap, and will never be seen or heard from again.”

“Won’t the people she works with miss her?”

“She works part time at a college when she’s not doing research. She told me she was planning to resign her post this week. Friday will be her last day.”

“A perfect victim. There, I’m done.”

Munns’s right arm felt like it was burning. Never before had a tattoo hurt like this. Ray picked up a mirror, and held it in front of his latest creation. In its reflection was a red-eyed demon holding a decapitated human head.

“What is that thing?” Munns asked.

“Surtr,” Ray replied. “According to Norse mythology, Surtr is a member of a race that is as strong as the gods. He looks small, yet can spring up at any time, and become a Jotunn, or a giant. At the end of the world, Surtr will wage war with the gods, and ravage the world with fire.”

No wonder his arm felt like it was burning. “Whose head is he holding?”

“Don’t you recognize him? He’s famous.”

The decapitated head belonged to a handsome young man with dark spiked hair and an expressive face. He looked vaguely familiar, and Munns tried to place him.

“I feel like I know him,” he said.

“He’s a professional magician named Peter Warlock, who’s also a psychic,” Ray replied. “Warlock will come to Pelham, and try to stop you from killing Rachael. Your job will be to kill Warlock. If you succeed, you’ll become one of the Order’s chosen few. Does that sound appealing to you?”

The breath caught in Munns’s throat. Becoming a member of the Order had given his life purpose, and made him strong. He could only imagine what his new role would be like.

“I won’t let you down,” Munns promised.

“Glad to hear it,” the body artist said.

11

It was a damp and dreary Saturday afternoon. But that hadn’t stopped six hundred happy kids from Fort Apache, the Bronx, from showing up for today’s matinee. The kids came from poor families, and could not have afforded the price of a ticket, much less the cost of a bus ride and box lunch. Nor did they have to. Peter picked up the tab.

It was a practice he’d started when he’d first opened his theater. Performing for adults paid the bills, but performing for kids was what he loved. There were a lot of kids in New York who couldn’t afford to come to his show. So every Saturday, he opened his doors, and invited a group of them in.

He couldn’t have pulled it off without Liza’s help. His show was staged in an old sausage plant in the meatpacking district, the building cold and a little spooky. That was fine for adults who came to his evening shows, but not for the little ones. To make the place more appealing, Liza strung papier-mâché streamers on the walls and cheerful orange rugs on the cold tile floors. She also changed the preshow music from a moody piano concerto to a cheerful song by the Muppets. Upon entering the theater, the kids were greeted by a pair of old-fashioned popcorn machines, and carts filled with free drinks.

The show Peter performed on Saturday afternoons was also different. Gone were his mind-boggling illusions and baffling mind-reading stunts. Instead, he did his kid show, and performed the Multiplying Bottles, Sucker Die Box, the Professor’s Nightmare, Eggs from the Mouth, Rabbit out of the Hat, and a dozen other timeless routines. They were tricks designed to make kids scream with delight. That was what his Saturday show was all about.

Peter was in his dressing room getting ready. He wore a tailored Italian jacket, the pockets of which he now checked. The two normal pockets on the outside contained a deck of cards and a set of multiplying billiard balls, while the four secret pockets sewn into the lining contained a reel, a thumb tip, a hand flasher that sent a burst of flash paper into the air, and a trick scarf that changed colors just by flicking it in the air. Everything was where it should be, and he turned to his guest.

“You done yet?” he asked.

“I’m getting there,” the FBI artist replied, sketching away.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a show to do.”

“One minute.”

“One minute I can do.”

Special Agent Roe had come to the theater by himself, and set up shop in the dressing room with his sketch pad and charcoal pencils. Garrison was not present, and Peter guessed the FBI agent had been pulled away on another assignment.

“Here, tell me what you think.” Roe turned his pad around for Peter to see the composite of Dr. Death he’d drawn. It was good, but not good enough.

“Wow,” Peter said.

“You like it?”

“It’s great, but it’s missing something.”

“What’s that?”

“His inner rage.”

Roe frowned. “You said he was the quiet type. That’s what I drew.”

“He’s carrying around a lot of anger. The volcano inside of him could erupt at any moment.” Peter snapped his fingers for effect. “Just like that.”

“What are you, a profiler?”

The truth be known, he could have been a detective or maybe even a profiler; his ability to look at people and gauge their feelings was as good as his ability to read minds.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Roe said, breaking the silence.

“Can I take a closer look?”

Roe handed him the sketch pad. Dr. Death had the kind of face that was easily lost in a crowd. If Roe didn’t capture his inner rage, there was a chance the killer would continue to elude the FBI, and an innocent woman named Rachael would perish this Friday night. Peter couldn’t let that happen. He was going to open up with Roe, and decided the trade was worth it.

“Our killer has entered into a pact with the Devil. You need to capture that in your drawing.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Pardon the pun.”

“But how could you possibly know that?”

“How much did Garrison tell you about me?”

“He said you did magic, and that if I wasn’t careful, you’d read my mind. I assumed he was pulling my leg.” Roe paused. “Can you read minds?”

“I sure can. I read the killer’s mind. That’s how I know these things about him.”

Roe chuckled under his breath. It was how most people reacted when confronted by something out of the realm of their comprehension. Only this situation wasn’t humorous, and Peter realized he needed to make Roe understand.

Peter stared into the FBI agent’s eyes, and plumbed his thoughts. He saw Roe enjoying a candlelight dinner with an elegant young woman. The restaurant had polished wood floors and smokey etched glass that separated the tables. It looked like the Grotta Azzurra in Little Italy.

“What if I told you what you’re having for dinner tonight?” Peter asked. “Would you believe me then?”

Roe stopped laughing. “That’s impossible.”

“Then you won’t mind if I do it.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re going to have the same thing you always have, the signature dish Lobster Fra Diavlo, while your date will order the gluten-free Spaghetti Carbonara, which takes extra time to prepare. You’ll also order a whole bottle of wine instead of by the glass, which is what you normally do.”

“Jesus Christ. How’d you do that?”

“I just told you. I’m psychic. You can call me Peter.”

Roe’s face changed from a nonbeliever to a believer in no time flat. He turned the pad around on his lap, and sketched while he spoke. “My grandmother was psychic. She used to tell me what the rest of my family was thinking when I was a little kid. My parents thought she was nuts, but I knew better. How long have you had the gift?”

Peter chose his words carefully, not wanting to tell Roe any more about himself than he’d already told Garrison. “We’re all born with psychic ability. Some of us realize it early, while others never do. I realized mine when I was a kid. I’ve been honing it ever since.”

“You’re saying that everyone can read minds?” Roe asked, not looking up.

“To a certain degree. It’s one of the ways people communicated before language was invented. Then people started talking, and stopped using their psychic powers. As a result, their abilities began to wane.”

“But yours didn’t.”

“I’m a little different. Both of my parents were psychics, and they passed it on to me. Mine is stronger than most people’s.”

Roe nodded as he drew. Peter had told him just enough to make him a believer, but not enough to turn him into a threat. He stole another glimpse into Roe’s head. Tonight over dinner, Roe would tell his date that he’d met someone who could read minds, and she’d smile and laugh, and it would be forgotten by the time dessert was served.

Perfect.

Finished, Rose spun his pad around. Dr. Death no longer looked like an everyman. His nostrils were now flared, and his eyes had taken on a predator’s glint, and become narrow and suspicious. The corners of his mouth were turned down in a frown. Seething out of every pore on his body was a palpable rage. The madman was lurking right below the surface.

“That’s a winner,” Peter said.

Roe acted pleased. He gathered up his pencils, and Peter walked him to the door. They shook hands, and the artist flashed a smile. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he said.

*   *   *

Peter tried to put Dr. Death out of his mind, and concentrate on how he was going to make a theater full of kids happy.

“Hey, Peter, can you talk?” a voice asked. It was Liza, speaking to him through the inner-canal earpiece that let his staff secretly communicate with him during the show.

“Sure can,” he said. “How’s it looking out there?”

“Looking good. The kids are in their seats. I don’t mean to freak you out, but I’m a little nervous. What if that thing from last night comes back? What should we do?”

“It’s called a shadow person, and I’ve already taken care of it,” Peter said.

“You have? How?”

“Shadow people are like ghosts, and prefer darkness. If the shadow person appears during my show, I’ll give Snoop a signal to turn on the house lights, and flood the stage. That should make it go away.”

“What if it doesn’t? What if it takes you to the other side again?”

“Then you’ll have to finish the show. Still remember how to do Miser’s Dream?”

“Come on. I’m being serious.”

“I’ve taken other precautions. I went through a box containing my father’s things this morning. Sure enough, he had a five-pointed star, similar to the one that belonged to my mother. My father’s is hanging around my neck, along with a string of garlic.”

“You have a string of garlic hanging around your neck?”

“Yeah. It really smells.”

“Quit farting around. I got frightened half to death last night. You’re not helping.”

Liza was stressed. He wished he could have been in the same room with her, and not having this conversation with his collar. “I texted my psychic friends, and told them I was having problems. They’re going to get together and try to help.”

“Help how?”

“Lester Rowe will gaze into his crystal ball, Max will read his tea leaves, and Milly and Holly will mix magic potions into a vase of water. They’ll talk to the spirits, and see if they can get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

“Is this another joke? I’m not laughing.”

“No joke. It’s what my friends do. Come on, don’t be mad. It works.”

“All I want to know is that I’m safe. I don’t feel that way right now.”

He swallowed the formidable lump in his throat. “Please don’t be afraid.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be.”

“I can stop this thing, if I have to.”

“You can? How?”

The answer was complicated. Lurking inside him was a person far different from the man Liza knew. He liked to think of it as his alter ego, but in fact it was a demon that he’d been born with, courtesy of his parents’ peculiar genetic makeup. He could summon that demon if he chose, but there was a price to pay if he did.

“I have to go through a change,” he said. “The source of my psychic power is buried deep within me. If I really need to I can summon it to deal with this thing. But there are consequences.”

“Such as?”

“I can scare people, and I don’t want to do that.”

“But you’ll go back to being yourself eventually.”

Peter hesitated. He’d summoned the demon only as a last resort, and each time it had stayed around longer than he would have liked. Maybe one day the demon would not go back. That was the other reason he kept it suppressed, only he was not going to tell Liza that.

“Of course. Now please stop worrying.”

“I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”

A buzzer rang backstage, signaling that the show was about to start. He headed for the door when her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“How will you stop it?” Liza asked. “Pistols at twenty paces?”

“With my hands. I’ll grab it and shake it until it stops moving. Then it will fade away, and the threat will be gone. Okay?”

“You’ll kill it?” Her voice had taken on a chill.

“This thing isn’t alive. Its soul left this earth, and only a small portion remains in the form you saw last night. If I get my hands on it, I can shake that small piece out of it, and it will go join the rest of its spirit. I know it sounds weird, but that’s how it works.”

“So you’re not killing it?”

“You can’t kill something that’s already dead. But I can make it go away.”

“That makes me feel a lot better.”

The fear had left her voice. For now, she was good with things. He supposed that was the best he could hope for.

*   *   *

He walked down a narrow hall and up a staircase that led to the back of the stage. He could hear the faint voices of children, chattering away. He didn’t have to read their minds to know what each of them was thinking. They wanted to see some magic, and be transported to the world of make-believe.

He was not about to disappoint them.

12

Most magicians hated working for kids. They were little monsters, unruly and disruptive, and became distracted at the drop of a hat. In the world of magic, there was nothing lower than doing a kid show.

Peter felt differently about performing for children. Maybe it was because he’d never stopped being a kid himself.

Children of a certain age still believed in magic. The tricks they loved could be found on the shelves of any well-stocked magic shop, and would make a kid scream with delight if properly done. Pull a rabbit out of a hat, or a flapping dove from a scarf; make a pitcher of milk disappear in a newspaper; cause a silver ball to float mysteriously beneath a foulard; pluck fans of cards out of nothing, make billiard balls appear at your fingertips. Do these things right, and kids beg to see more. Their happiness will become your happiness, and it will last a long time.

Peter’s kid show contained twenty tricks. Some could fit in his pocket, while others required a prop. None was more than four minutes long. Each had a definite beginning, middle, and end. Classics, they had withstood the test of time, and thousands of performances. He could have performed each in his sleep.

“Hello, boys and girls, and welcome to a very special afternoon of fun and magic,” Liza’s cheerful voice boomed over the PA. “Before we start, please remember, no flash photography or recording is permitted during the show, and cell phones must be turned off. Thank you, and have fun.”

Over the PA came recorded music, followed by a drum roll. When it ended, the curtains parted, and Peter stepped out of a white puff of smoke onto a bare stage. Six hundred wide-eyed children stared up at him in awe.

Peter smiled. It was one of Max’s rules. Every show began with a smile. If you weren’t happy to be there, then why should your audience be? Displaying empty palms, he plucked a red scarf out of the air. As if creating life, a white dove appeared in its folds. The bird flew out of his hands, and landed in a lacquered box on an ornamental table. In the moment it had taken for the bird to appear, the stage had become filled with beautiful props.

From the children’s mouths came a collective gasp.

Bang! Peter thought.

He hit them hard at the start, and made three more doves appear, placing them in the small lacquered box with the first. Firing a cap pistol at the box, he broke it apart, showing each piece as he did, and tossing them into Liza’s waiting hands.

“Say good-bye to the birds,” he told the children.

The kids applauded and stomped their feet. As the applause died down, he took stock of the crowd. He owned them.

For the next hour and twenty minutes, he worked his magic while spinning stories about the world of make-believe. In that imaginary world, no child felt hurt, or abandoned, or lonely, and every tale had a happy ending. It was a place where everybody got along, and there was at least one hour of sunshine, every single day. It was a world where anything was possible.

All good things must come to an end, his show no exception. He stepped to the foot of the stage, and the stage lights dimmed. He could no longer see the kids’ faces, but he could hear their breathing, and smell the popcorn on their breath.

“Want to see one more?” he asked.

A cheer rose up. Liza wheeled an oversized dollhouse onto the stage. The prop was three feet wide by three feet high, with a pitched roof and matching front doors that opened at the center. He parted the doors to reveal an interior painted like a child’s bedroom.

“What do you see inside this dollhouse?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the kids replied.

“Good. Now, watch closely. Is everyone ready?”

“Yes,” his fans chorused.

Liza sat on the edge of the dollhouse, curled herself into a ball, and gracefully wiggled her body inside. Shutting the doors, Peter spun the dollhouse around on its wheels.

“Everyone say ‘Abracadabra!’” the young magician said.

“Abracadabra!” the kids shouted back.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Abracadabra!”

There was a shifting inside the dollhouse as Liza slipped into the crawl space hidden in the base of the prop. The trick’s clever construction made it appear that there was no place for her to hide, when in fact, there was more than enough room.

“Ready?” he whispered.

“Ready,” she whispered back.

He pressed a button on the roof, and the front doors sprung open. A small white terrier named Norman was supposed to leap out. A circus dog, Norman never missed a cue.

Only today there was no Norman. In his place, a shadow person oozed out of the prop, and hovered a few inches above the stage like a hologram. Peter touched the five-pointed star underneath his shirt. The shadow person could not kidnap him and take him to the other side. A small comfort, for the dark spirit was about to wreck his show.

“That’s cool!” a kid called out.

“Totally awesome,” another kid shouted.

The kids were on their feet, staring in awestruck wonder. No trick he’d performed this entire afternoon had elicited this much excitement. He’d been upstaged by a rogue spirit.

“Peter, help me,” said Liza in his earpiece.

Poor Liza was stuffed inside the dollhouse’s floor, breathing through the air holes drilled into the wood. “Hold on,” he whispered into the speaker in his collar.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s chasing me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your killer.”

“What?”

“That thing took me over to the other side. At least, that’s where I think I am.” She sounded terrified, and was breathing hard. “I’m running down a gravel driveway on the side of a steep hill. A guy in a Volvo is chasing me. Oh, my God, he’s leaning out of his window—he’s pointing a gun at me!”

It was the same nightmare he’d experienced. Liza had been taken to Dr. Death’s house, and was being chased down a rural road by the serial killer in his Swedish-made car. A gunshot ripped through his earpiece. Peter’s heart skipped a beat.

“Keep running,” he whispered.

“This maniac is shooting at me! Bring me back!”

Onstage, the shadow person was going in convulsions. Forms appeared from within. A hand pushed at the spirit’s lining, as if trying to break free. It was both fascinating and horrifying to watch. The kids in the audience appeared hypnotized. Maybe part of the process was a form of hypnosis that prepared your soul to be whisked to another place. If that was the case, then a large number of kids from Fort Apache were not going to make it home this afternoon.

One of the oldest rules in show business was never to turn your back on your audience. Peter broke that rule, and turned his back while stepping in front of the convulsing spirit. The moment he did, he let the anger festering inside of him come out. The anger had been there for as long as he could remember. He’d been raised to keep a lid on it, even if it meant biting his tongue, or turning the other cheek, or any of the other passive things that civilized people did.

His anger changed him. His psychic powers grew, and so did his physical strength. Overall, the effect was extraordinary. But it came with a price, as the evil side to his personality came out as well. It wasn’t pretty, and certainly not suitable for kids to see.

With his back turned, he plunged his fist into the shadow person’s midsection. The evil spirit emitted a painful sound, and appeared to shrink in size.

“Peter!” Liza screamed.

“I’m coming! Hold on!”

Another shot rang out, this one closer than the first.

“Oh, my God, he shot me in the leg!” Liza said.

Peter struck the shadow person several times. It shrunk in size, until it was no bigger than a beach ball. He shoved it back inside the dollhouse, and pressed the secret mechanism which let Liza escape from her hiding place. His girlfriend poured out of the illusion into his waiting arms, her eyes firmly shut. He looked at her leg, and did not see a bullet wound. So much for small favors. He kissed her, and she snapped awake.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said.

“What took you so long?” she whispered.

“We need to finish the show.”

She slipped out of his arms. Clasping hands, they bowed to the audience, and were showered with applause. Peter looked at the crowd, and saw a sea of smiles. And the huge false one planted on Liza’s face that was there to reassure the children.

13

Peter sat on the couch in his dressing room, holding Liza in his arms. Entering the spirit world was a harrowing experience, and Liza had not completely fallen back to earth, her mind still wandering in the shallow space somewhere in between.

“Drink this,” he said.

The water bottle touched her lips. Eyes still faraway, she sipped. “Explain what just happened to me.”

“The shadow person sent you forward in time to a house in Westchester where a serial killer lives. That killer was getting ready to pick up his next victim, a woman named Rachael, when you dropped in on him.”

“Was he the same guy from your séance last night?”

“Yes. I nicknamed him Dr. Death. He has a beard, and dresses like a college professor.”

“That’s the guy I saw. How many people has he killed?”

“Nearly a dozen, according to the FBI.”

She took another sip. “Why did the shadow person send me to see him? To get to you?”

“I guess.” He stared at Liza’s bare neck. His face grew into a deep frown. “You took off my mother’s five-pointed star. I asked you not to do that.”

“It was scratching my neck, so I took it off for the show. Big mistake.”

“Promise me you won’t do that again until this is over.”

“I promise.”

He kissed her on the forehead. It had a calming effect on her, and she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. An eerie scratching sound at the door made them both jump. Peter jumped up and sprang open the door. A white ball of fur came bounding in.

“Norman! Oh, my God, we forgot all about you,” Liza said.

Norman was panting hard. They took turns stroking his fur until he calmed down.

“I wonder where he was,” Peter said.

“He was with me,” Liza said. “He was running down the road with me, barking at Dr. Death. Dr. Death started yelling at him, and tried to run him over with his car. It had to be the most cruel thing I’ve ever seen. What kind of person would run over a lovable dog like this?”

“An evil one. What happened then?”

“Norman ran between the car’s tires, and somehow escaped.” She petted Norman’s furry head. “Can you imagine what’s going through his little brain?”

Peter could hardly understand what was going through his own head, much less the poor dog’s. Rising from the couch, he walked down the hall to Liza’s dressing room, removed his mother’s five-pointed star from the pewter jewelry dish, and returned to his own dressing room with it dangling from his finger. “Please put this back on.”

Liza fitted the star around her neck, and tucked it beneath her collar. “I won’t take it off, even if it rips my throat.”

They played with the dog for a while. Peter had taught Norman how to walk on his hind legs while balancing a red rubber ball on the tip of his nose. He had used animals in his magic show since he was kid. Back then, his doves had lived in a drawer of his dresser, while he’d kept a Dutch dwarf rabbit in a cardboard box in his closet. These days, his pets lived in large pens with plenty of sunlight, and were showered with daily attention by himself and his staff.

“So, how are we going to catch this guy?” Liza asked.

Her words caught him by surprise. They were not what he’d expected her to say, and it took a moment for them to sink in. “Did you say we?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Yes. I want to stop him from killing Rachael. So do you.”

“But you’re putting yourself at risk.”

“So are you.”

“I have powers. I can fight back.”

“Then I’ll make sure to stand right next to you.”

“I don’t want you doing this.”

Liza stopped playing with the dog. “I have to. I heard her voice.”

“You mean Rachael’s?”

“Yes, Rachael’s. As Dr. Death got out of his car, his cell phone rang, and he answered it. I heard the caller. It was Rachael calling to say that her train was running late because of a delay out of Grand Central Station. She sounded like a good person.”

“You’re sure about this.”

“Positive. I’d like to think she’d do the same for me.”

Liza had connected with a woman in the future she didn’t know, and now wanted to prevent her from perishing. It was an emotion he knew all too well, for it was one which consumed him also. Rachael with no last name was a life that needed saving.

“You’re probably right,” he said.

“So you’re okay with it?”

“I appreciate and support your position.”

“Thank you, counsel.”

“What else do you remember about your experience? Any little detail might help the FBI to figure out who Dr. Death is.”

Liza stopped petting the dog, her face a study in concentration. “It was dark. I didn’t see all that much. The interior of his house was kind of drab. Judging by the decorations, I’d say he’s a bachelor, doesn’t have any lady friends. The car he was driving stuck out. It was an older make of Volvo my parents drove when I was a kid. My father always complained about the suspension.”

“How old?”

“Twelve–thirteen years.”

“This is great. Keep going.”

“Do you think we can really catch him?”

“The FBI has a profile. If we give them enough clues, they’ll find him.”

She shut her eyes and tried to bring the rest of it back. “He had a really bad vibe. Like he was carrying around a huge chip on his shoulder.”

Dr. Death had called the town he lived in a hellhole, and Peter guessed something traumatic had happened to him growing up. His soul had been seared, so he sought revenge against those who had wronged him. It was as good an explanation as any for what he was.

“That’s all I remember,” Liza said. “Does it help?”

“Everything helps.”

There was a tap on the door. Snoop stuck his head into the dressing room. Snoop was Peter’s stage manager, and one of his closest friends. Snoop wore his blond locks combed over his eyes, and looked like Norman’s older brother. Snoop had seen a lot of unusual things, and never said much about it. He was cool with the strange comings and goings in Peter’s life.

“You two lovebirds okay?” Snoop asked.

“We’re doing fine,” Peter said.

“I’ve got a question. Is that black thing that came out of the dollhouse going to be a permanent part of the show? That was one heck of a trick.”

“I don’t think so,” Peter said.

“You’re not going to do it again? Why not?”

Snoop got his name because he enjoyed prying into other people’s business. Lying to him was pointless because he’d eventually figure out the truth. Better to level with him up front, and be done with it, Peter decided.

“The thing you saw wasn’t part of the show,” Peter said.

“Then what was it?”

“An unwanted guest.”

“You mean a ghost?”

“Ghosts are friendly. That thing wasn’t. It’s called a shadow person.”

“That’s heavy. I’m glad I got it on tape. Wait until I post it on YouTube.”

“You taped the show?”

“You betcha.”

Peter sometimes filmed his shows so he could later critique himself. The Saturday matinee hadn’t been filmed in a while, and it was a stroke of luck that Snoop had chosen to film today. Ghosts and spirits did not like to be captured on film. When watched frame by frame, their true identities often revealed themselves. Perhaps Snoop’s film of the shadow person would reveal its true identity, and lead them to Dr. Death.

“You’re a genius,” Peter told him.

“Glad you finally noticed,” his assistant replied.

14

Garrison arrived at the theater after the evening show let out, and gathered with Peter, Liza, and Snoop in Peter’s dressing room. Peter kept a TV in the room, and it was on this that they watched the video Snoop had shot of the shadow person during the matinee.

The video’s resolution along with the bright stage lighting gave remarkable clarity to a presence that was normally viewed in a fleeting glance before disappearing. About five feet tall, it was shaped like a woman, but could have easily been a man. They watched Peter stuff it into the Dollhouse illusion, and make the lovely Liza reappear, her body falling into his arms. It was here that the video ended.

“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” Garrison said to Liza. “While that thing was on stage, you were hidden in a secret compartment in the bottom of the illusion, but your spirit was whisked away to the future, where you encountered Dr. Death.”

Liza had changed into a pair of gray sweats. The strain of two shows and her nerve-racking trip had taken its toll, and she looked exhausted. “That’s right.”

“What do you remember about him? Think hard.”

“He tried to run over a little dog in the road. He has to be the most rotten person I’ve ever met. I mean, who runs over little dogs?”

“That’s a very helpful piece of information,” Garrison said.

She brightened. “It is? Why?”

“People who are really angry with the world run over dogs and cats, and leave them in the road for other motorists to see. The FBI has seen this before in serial killers. I can think of three off the top of my head.”

“Will it help you catch him?” Liza asked.

“It just might. The three serial killers I’m thinking of all shared something else in common. They’d all gone berserk in public, and been arrested. They all had records which detailed what they’d done. If we’re lucky, our serial killer in Westchester will have a record, and that will make it easier to find him.”

Liza smiled. She was a person who searched for meaning in just about every situation. She’d been searching for the meaning of her harrowing trip, and Garrison had just served it to her. The FBI was one step closer to catching Dr. Death. “Thank you for sharing that. I’m going to think about what happened some more. If anything else pops up, I’d like to call you.”

Garrison handed her a business card. “Call me anytime.”

She slipped the card into her pocket. Her world was back on keel. It occurred to Peter that this was an important moment in their relationship. She had not run. His other girlfriends had all done that at some point. His psychic gifts had scared them, and they’d gone from being lovers to Facebook friends in a New York minute. Not Liza. She was in it for the long haul. No girlfriend had ever done that for him before. Somehow, he would find a way to thank her.

“Let’s see the video again,” Garrison said.

Snoop punched the remote, and the shadow person danced across the screen. The FBI agent brought his face close to study the unearthly presence.

“You’ll go blind doing that,” Snoop said. “My mother told me that, so I thought it was worth passing along.”

“Shut up,” Garrison said.

Snoop and Garrison were not friends. One of the agents in Garrison’s team had arrested Snoop in college for hacking government computers, and Garrison had made it clear that he thought the public would be well served if Snoop was locked up in prison. Snoop knew of these feelings, and made it a point to needle the FBI agent whenever they were together.

The video ended, and Garrison twirled his finger. “Play it again.”

“Only if you say please.”

“Don’t push your luck, son.”

The tape played again, and Garrison went back into his pose. He resembled a baseball umpire crouching behind home plate, his face scrunched up in anticipation of a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball ready to fly into the catcher’s mitt. His eyes squinted, and then he smiled.

“Isn’t that something,” he said.

Peter assumed a similar pose beside him. Whatever Garrison was seeing was invisible to his untrained eye. “What did you see?”

“Your spook is dancing in front of those kids,” Garrison said. “Look how it sways back and forth while shrugging its shoulders. That’s modern dance.”

Liza made it a threesome, also staring. “Oh, my God, you’re right. You can see how it moves across the stage in rhythm to the music. How weird is that.”

This was not how evil spirits acted. Usually, they did scary things around kids, whom they liked to torture. It was a part of being evil that Peter had never quite understood. Hurting adults was something he could vaguely understand, but how could someone hurt a child?

Certainly not the shadow person. It seemed more intent on entertaining the crowd of kids than scaring the daylights out of them. But Peter was letting his imagination run away with him. This was an evil spirit they were looking at. Perhaps the dance was a preamble of what was about to come, and the shadow person was preparing to enter the audience, and kidnap the spirits of several kids in the front row.

It could happen. Peter had heard stories about evil spirits abducting children. They’d always ended badly. The poor kids had come back traumatized, and were never the same.

He’d been justified in hurting this thing, and stuffing it back in the box. In hindsight, he should have hurt it more when he’d had the chance. Only he hadn’t wanted the kids to see the full force of his rage. It would have scared them as badly, so he’d held back.

“I need to take this tape, and have the forensic boys analyze it,” Garrison said.

“It’s yours,” Peter told him. “Make sure they study the face. Ghosts and evil spirits are ashamed to have been left behind, so they hide their faces, and avoid the light.”

“Sounds like some girls I’ve dated,” Snoop said.

“Skip the commentary, and get me the tape,” Garrison said.

Snoop produced the video. He’d burned it onto a CD, which he dutifully handed over. He started to raise his arm, and give the infamous middle finger salute. Peter caught his assistant’s attention eye, and shook his head. Snoop lowered his arm dejectedly.

“We’ve got until Friday to catch this madman,” Garrison said. “We’re off to a good start because of your efforts. Call me if you remember anything else.”

“Will do,” Peter said.

*   *   *

Peter and Liza walked Garrison to the back alley where the agent’s SUV was parked. The temperature had dropped, with the promise of another bitterly cold night. Garrison produced his keys and hit a button that unlocked the doors and killed the security system.

“I heard her voice,” Liza said.

“Whose voice?” Garrison asked.

“Rachael, his next victim. It was over the phone. Dr. Death was setting the trap.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“I didn’t see her—I just heard her voice.”

“You formed a mental image of Rachael while listening to her speak. It’s something we all subconsciously do. Describe that image to me.”

Liza tried to remember and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

Garrison did not seem discouraged. He was a family man, with a wife and kids out in a small town on Long Island. He could have been home with them right now, but instead he was here, trying to solve a difficult case. Peter decided to help him.

“Let me find it,” the young magician said.

“How are you going to do that?” Garrison asked.

“If Liza will let me, I’ll find the memory buried in her subconscious.”

“All right. Just don’t go snooping where you don’t belong,” she said.

Peter put his hands onto Liza’s shoulders and gazed into her eyes. Of all his gifts, mind reading was the one he had the most control over. It was like crossing his eyes, only the crossing took place inside his head. It took but a second, and allowed him to peer into another person’s head, and mine his or her innermost thoughts and memories.

He hunted for Liza’s trip to the other side. The memory was vivid, with Liza running for her life as Dr. Death tried to run her down. The faces of Liza’s mother, father, and her three siblings appeared. She thought she was going to die.

Another face appeared, buried deep away. Faint, so he had to stare. A dark-haired woman, late thirties, with Irish features and a strong chin. Was this Rachael, the woman Liza had imagined when she’d heard the voice over the killer’s phone?

“I think I’ve got her. Rachael is Irish, with a pleasant face and a strong disposition.”

Liza clapped her hands excitedly. “That’s the woman I imagined.”

“Define strong disposition,” Garrison said.

“Strong willed. When I look at her, I think doctor, or nurse,” Peter said.

“You nailed her,” Liza said. “Her voice reminded me of a doctor’s voice. She was very precise in the way she spoke, like she was used to telling people what to do.”

“Good going,” Garrison said. “Now we can work the case from both ends. If we can’t find the killer, hopefully we can find his victim before she leaves town.”

The best days were the ones that ended well. Garrison got into his car. The driver’s window came down, and he stuck his head out, his breath turning into vapor.

“One more question,” he said.

Why did Garrison always have one more question? Why couldn’t he just fade away into the sunset like lawmen were supposed to do?

“What’s that?” Peter asked.

“The thing you two just did, does it have a name?”

Peter squeezed Liza’s hand. “It’s called teamwork.”

15

Sixty-five blocks away, on the fifth floor of the ultra-exclusive Dakota, Milly Adams sat at her dining room table with Max Romeo, Lester Rowe, the blind psychic Homer, and her niece Holly. The purpose of their gathering was to use their psychic powers to decode why a shadow person had attached itself to their beloved Peter. They had yet to begin, and the men sat at the far end of the table, eating pretzels while listening to one of Max’s fanciful stories.

“Have I ever told you about the Great Chesto? He was far and away the most amazing novelty act I’ve ever seen,” the old magician said.

“Can’t say that you have,” Lester replied.

“I think I would have remembered that name. What exactly did he do?” Homer asked.

“Chesto billed himself as the Man Who Felt No Pain. He would place a concrete block on his chest, then invite a muscular young man from the audience to pick up a sledgehammer, and hit the block as hard as he could.”

“He did this more than once?” Lester asked.

“It was how he made his livelihood.”

“Astonishing.”

Max bit into his pretzel while staring wistfully into space. “A long time ago, I was part of a traveling road show. There was a drunk plate spinner, a Barbra Streisand look-alike with a voice like a feral cat, a musical group that couldn’t carry a tune, and myself. We were working the corn belt, traveling in a pair of broken-down vans. I don’t mean to wax nostalgic, but it was one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve ever had.

“One day, we entered a town where a county fair was taking place. Since our show wasn’t until that night, I bought a ticket. At first I was disappointed. The fair was more a livestock exhibition, with smelly cows being judged by men in coveralls missing most of their front teeth. The spectators were the biggest people I’ve ever seen, and every piece of food they were eating was fried or dripping with barbecue sauce. There was an auction going on, with the prize animals being sold off for slaughter. Having spent my formative years on the Lower East Side, I can tell you the experience was nothing less than a shock to my frail system.”

“Max, we need to get started,” Holly said impatiently. “How long is this going to take?”

“I’m nearing the finish line,” the old magician said.

“Sorry.”

“So where was I? Oh, yes, I was at the fair, debating whether I should try a corn dog or a pulled-pork sandwich, when over the loudspeaker came an announcement that the Great Chesto was about to perform a death-defying feat, so please gather round. This piqued my curiosity, and I followed the rest of the crowd to a makeshift dirt arena.

“The Great Chesto awaited us. He was rather stout, as big around the middle as he was tall. He addressed the crowd over a microphone to build up his trick. It was the only thing he did, so he had to draw it out. When the preamble was over, Chesto asked a man from the crowd to assist him. A big farm boy stepped forward. I was standing next to the fellow, and got a good look at his face. The expression “dumb as a fence post” came to mind.

“Chesto didn’t notice. If he had, I’m sure he would have selected someone else. He lay down on a blanket, and picked up a concrete block lying on the ground, which he balanced on his chest. He instructed the farm boy to pick up a sledgehammer, which lay beside him. The farm boy did as told. Then Chesto said, ‘When I nod my head, I want you to hit it as hard as you can. Got it?’ The farm boy said yes. The Great Chesto nodded his head, and that was the end of him!”

Lester and Homer slapped their hands on the table and howled with laughter.

“Max, that’s a terrible story, and not the way we wish to start our evening,” Milly scolded him, trying not to grin. “Let’s get down to the business at hand, shall we?”

Max nodded compliance, as did Lester and Homer. Milly passed the baton to her niece.

“Go ahead, my dear,” she said.

“Yesterday, Peter texted us, and asked for our help figuring out the mystery of the shadow person,” Holly began. “But Peter left out something very important. Last night, after Peter left our séance, the shadow person followed him home, where Peter was again taken to the other side and nearly perished. I’m fearful for his safety, and want us to collectively figure out how to prevent this from happening again.”

“Did Peter tell you about this second trip?” Max asked.

Holly swallowed hard. “No, not exactly.”

“I didn’t think so, because he usually comes to me first with that kind of information, and I never heard a peep out of him. So how did you know?”

“If you must know, I was scrying on him.”

“Did you say you were spying on him?”

“No, I was scrying on him.”

“Same difference, I suppose. You were watching Peter when you weren’t supposed to. We’re not allowed to do such things, Holly. It’s against the rules.”

“I was afraid for him,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “Don’t you remember what happened during our séance? He nearly died.”

“But he got out of it,” Max said.

“Barely.”

“But he did. And I’m guessing he got out of it the second time as well. Which means he has the situation under control, and we should not meddle in his affairs. The shadow person is visiting him for a reason, and it’s Peter’s responsibility, not ours, to find out what it is.”

Max rolled a shiny silver dollar across his knuckles as he spoke. Holly slapped the table in anger, and the coin jumped from Max’s hand to the floor.

“Our responsibility is to help each other whenever possible,” she said, the rage boiling over in her voice. “Peter needs help, the rules be damned. If you won’t come to his aid, I’ll go it alone. I’m not going to abandon him.”

“I didn’t say that,” the old magician said defensively.

“You most certainly did. Peter thinks of you as his father, and yet you refuse to help him. How can you be so thoughtless?”

Max looked to Milly for help. “Please explain to your niece what I’m trying to say.”

“I thought you were doing a perfectly miserable job of it yourself,” Milly told him. To Holly she said, “What Max is trying to say is this. Peter seems to need our help, but he may not need our help. This may simply be some kind of test Peter must endure. I know I agreed with you earlier that we must help Peter, but now I’m not so sure. All psychics go through learning phases during their lives when the spirit world makes contact with them for reasons that are never quite clear. Peter is now in one of those phases.”

“A learning phase? How quaint. When have any of you ever had a gun put to the side of your head during a séance?” Holly crossed her arms and awaited a response. “I’m waiting.”

The ticking grandfather clock in the corner kept time to their silence. Holly had challenged them, and drawn an imaginary line in the sand. Who would cross it first?

“Peter’s different,” Lester said quietly. “We are all psychics, but Peter is special. You must accept that, Holly.”

“You don’t think he could have been killed?”

Lester thought about it, and shook his head. “No,” he said for emphasis.

“For God’s sake, I saw him writhing around on the floor in his bedroom. If his girlfriend hadn’t shaken him awake, he’d have died.”

“Hooray for his girlfriend,” Lester said.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” the Scottish psychic said. “Peter beat the Devil, and has learned from the experience. These are lessons we must not deny him.”

“Are you telling me that this is some kind of master plan?” Holly asked.

“Our fate is bestowed upon us the day we’re born,” Lester explained. “This is Peter’s fate. You must stop interfering. For your own sake, and his as well.”

“Here, here,” Max said. “Do you agree, Homer?”

“I do. We must let Peter fend for himself.”

Holly could not believe how poorly they were acting. Peter had come to their aid so many times she’d lost count. Yet now they refused to help him during his time of need.

“Do you agree with this nonsense?” she asked her aunt.

“I’m afraid that after some consideration I do, my dear,” Milly said. “We must not interfere. If Peter feels he needs our help, we’re but a phone call away. We can stand on the sidelines and watch, but we must not jump in. In the psychic world, there is no room for the uninvited.”

Holly had heard the term before. The uninvited were psychics who didn’t play by the rules, and upset the natural balance of the universe. They were pariahs, and shunned by their peers. It should have been enough to stop her, only this was Peter they were talking about, the boy who’d lit the candle in her heart. She suddenly realized that the object of the meeting tonight wasn’t about helping Peter but getting Holly to stop interfering in his life. She rose from her seat. “Thank you for granting me an audience tonight. I am sure this is not the first time we’ll disagree. But in the end, we will all remain friends, and that’s the most important thing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go home.”

Her aunt’s apartment was thirty-six hundred square feet. That was bigger than many houses in New York. Holly’s footsteps followed her down the hallway to the coat closet. She pulled her winter coat off a hanger and felt a presence behind her.

“Let me help you with that.”

Max helped her into her coat. He seemed embarrassed by what had happened, as well he should. Holly had turned twenty-one only a short time ago. She was old enough to drink and vote, and did not appreciate being treated like a child.

“You’re angry with me,” Max said.

“Whatever gave you that idea, Max?” She removed the scarf from her pocket and tied it around her neck. “I asked you to help, and you said no. Why should I be angry?”

“You don’t understand the gravity of this.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m still in diapers.”

“I’m closer to that than you are.”

“I’m in no mood for jokes, Max. What don’t I understand?”

“Peter is different than we are.”

“I know that. But does that make the rules different as well?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“I’m not buying that for one minute, Max. I think you’re all scared of that evil thing we saw last night, and want nothing more to do with it, Peter’s safety be damned.”

Max started to speak, then thought better of it. The expression on his face said it all. There was something he wanted to tell her, yet chose to hold back instead. It was all Holly could do not to scream. She headed for the front door, ready to go home.

“Wait.”

Max made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. From out of nowhere appeared two beautiful bouquets of red and gold feather flowers. Max’s flower trick was one of Holly’s favorites, the bouquets’ hiding place on the old magician’s clothing still a mystery. Tonight, the trick had the opposite effect on her, and she grabbed the bouquets from his hands, and angrily shook them in his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and before she knew it, she was crying.

“Oh, Holly, I’m so sorry,” he said.

He put his arms around her, and let Holly cry on his shoulder.

16

Peter loved Mondays. His theater was dark, and with Liza glued to his side, he’d set about to explore the city’s hundreds of different ethnic neighborhoods. Finding them was a challenge, and part of the fun. Many of the smaller ones weren’t on any map, nor did any of the guidebooks list them, except for the obvious spots like Chinatown and Little Italy. Liza had a cool trick that usually worked. They’d walk into a restaurant and read all the items on the menu. If half the stuff sounded foreign, they knew they’d found another.

Only this particular Monday was different. He’d woken up in a dark mood, and Liza had shoved him out of bed with the words, “You promised, Peter. Today’s the day.”

He’d put on nice clothes while she’d taken a shower. Instead of a leisurely breakfast, they’d noshed on bagels and sucked down coffee. Then out the door they went into the chilly morning. As Peter’s feet hit the sidewalk, he nearly turned around. Why he’d ever agreed to see a relationship counselor, he had no idea. A moment of weakness, he supposed. Men said stupid things when they were in love.

But there was more to it than that. He was going because he didn’t want Liza to pack up and leave, which was how his other relationships had ended. That was a good reason, and he should have been okay with it, only he wasn’t. Spilling his guts to a stranger just seemed wrong, and he hoped the whole thing didn’t blow up in his face.

*   *   *

Dr. Raul Sierra worked out of a somber building the color of ash. Across the street was NYU’s Medical Center, which his practice was affiliated with. According to his online profile, Sierra was an authority on guiding couples through difficult periods in their lives. The photo on his Web site showed a rather frail little man with an unruly mop of black hair that resembled a bird’s nest. He looked harmless, but looks were deceiving. Sierra hadn’t gotten to be one of the world’s foremost authorities on relationships without being a good interrogator, and Peter guessed he was in for a long morning.

Monday was also Herbie’s day off, and they cabbed it, arriving a few minutes before their appointment. As they waited to be buzzed in, a cold wind whipped off the East River that knifed through their clothes and made them both shiver. Peter said, “Let’s go find a restaurant and get a nice hot chocolate.”

“Not on your life,” Liza replied.

They were let in, and took an elevator to the top floor. Sierra’s waiting room was small and dreary. A receptionist sat at a computer and appeared hypnotized by its screen.

“Good morning. We’re here to see Dr. Sierra,” Liza said.

“He’s waiting for you. Go right in,” she replied without looking up.

They passed into an office whose walls sagged under the weight of thick medical books. Sierra stood at a window that faced onto the street with a faraway expression on his face. He had aged since his photo, his hair now gray. Turning, he said, “Is it already nine thirty?”

It was a strange way to begin a counseling session. Peter acknowledged that it was while helping Liza remove her coat. Dr. Sierra crossed the room and politely shook hands. “I must have lost track of the time. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

The doctor motioned toward a leather couch in the room’s center. On the side table was an open box of Kleenex. Sierra pulled up a chair so he was sitting directly in front of them.

“Excuse me for acting so distracted when you came in,” he said. “I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”

“It must have been some daydream,” Liza said.

“A strange case that was never resolved to my satisfaction. But that was a long time ago. Please tell me about yourselves, and why you’ve come to see me. My receptionist said you were vague over the phone as to the nature of your problems.”

Liza cupped her hands in her lap and gazed at the floor. “God, I don’t know where to start. It’s so complicated. And so … well, weird.”

“Is the problem sexual in nature?” Sierra gently asked.

“Our sex life is terrific. Peter is a wonderful lover.”

Sierra glanced at Peter and dipped his chin approvingly. It was hard not to like the guy, but Peter wasn’t taking the plunge just yet. He made eye contact with Liza.

“You’re wonderful, too.”

“Well, we’re off to a good start,” Sierra said, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “You are both in love, and enjoy each other’s company in bed. Is your problem financial?”

“Peter makes a very good living,” Liza said, still doing floor patrol.

“Is it religious in nature?”

“Sorry.”

“That leaves family. Are your families interfering in your lives?”

“Peter’s family is gone, and mine isn’t a problem,” Liza said.

“Well, this hardly sounds like a bad situation. Unless of course I’m missing something.”

Liza squirmed uncomfortably. Peter felt like he was in a cab stuck in traffic with the meter running. He reached across the couch and took Liza’s hands in his own, then cleared his throat. “Okay, here’s the deal. The problem with our relationship is me. I’m a psychic. I can read minds, see into the future, and communicate with the dead. Liza and I have been living together for two years. I kept this hidden from her until recently. It’s causing us a lot of problems.”

Sierra’s face had gone blank, and Peter wondered if it was too much information for him to absorb. After a moment, the good doctor spoke.

“You look familiar. Aren’t you a professional magician?” Sierra asked.

“That’s right. I have a show downtown.”

“And you’re telling me that the tricks you do are real?”

“Some of them.”

“But not all.”

“Correct.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m finding this rather hard to believe.”

Sierra had a bemused look on his face, and Peter felt himself grow flush. He hated when people laughed at him, and he felt his inner demon about to rear its ugly head. He didn’t want that to happen in the presence of a stranger, and forced himself to calm down.

“Perhaps you could give me a demonstration,” Sierra said.

“You want me to read your mind?”

“Could you? That would be splendid.”

“Give me your hand.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Sierra placed his hand onto Peter’s outstretched palm. As their skin touched, the doctor jumped in his chair. “Your hands are ice-cold,” Sierra said.

“I have a demon inside of me. When it starts to come out, my skin turns cold.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. Now, think of something in your past. Anything at all.”

Sierra looked at Liza for help. “Is your boyfriend on the level?”

“Everything he says is true,” Liza said.

“Including this demon?”

“Including the demon.”

“This must have come as a great shock to you.”

“Well, it’s definitely taken some getting used to.”

Sierra shifted his attention back to Peter, who had not let go of his hand. “Most people think I was born in Havana, because that is what it says on my passport. In fact, I was born in a small village in the mountains of Cuba that is not on any map. Tell me about it.”

“Are you thinking about this village right now?” Peter asked.

“I most certainly am.”

Peter gazed into the depths of Sierra’s eyes and went searching. The doctor’s head was a library of information, and it took an extended moment before he found the images he was looking for. The rural village where Sierra had been born and raised held a special place, and Peter treaded carefully on the older man’s memories. “You were born in a farming village in the Sierra Maestra mountains in the western region of Cuba. Your family has lived there for six generations, raising sheep and cattle. On the outskirts of the village is a primitive cemetery where many of your relatives are buried. Your older brother rests there: He perished after being thrown by a horse. He was your best friend, and it broke your heart the day it happened.

“You left the village at the age of twelve to attend a school for gifted students in Havana. When you were a teenager, you escaped Cuba with a group of friends on a makeshift raft made of tires, and landed on a small island off Key West. You later relocated to New York, where you worked three jobs to put yourself through college and, later, medical school. You have not been back to your birthplace in forty years, and long for the day you can return safely, without fear of retribution from the government.”

Sierra’s eyes welled with tears. “Astonishing. How long have you had this … gift?”

“Ever since I could remember. At first, I thought everyone could do these things. But then I learned that only certain people can.”

Sierra adjusted himself in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He seemed to be having a hard time coming to grips with what Peter had just done. There was a name for this: seeing but not believing. The brain did not accept what the eyes had seen, and that caused the mind to wrestle with reality. It was not a fun process, but in the end, reality usually won out.

“You said that you did not tell your girlfriend about your gifts until recently, yet you’ve been living together for two years,” Sierra said, the professional tone returning to his voice. “The obvious question would be, did you read her mind during that time, and not tell her?”

Peter looked at Liza as he replied. “No, I didn’t.”

“Why not? Most men would.”

“I wanted our relationship to work. If I started to read Liza’s mind, it would make things off balance.”

“Not even once?”

“No, sir.”

Sierra addressed Liza. “Do you believe him?”

“Yes, I believe him,” she said.

“Then I would say you are off to a wonderful start. Now, tell me more about this demon inside of you. I’m curious to hear how this came about.”

“Why is that important?” Peter asked.

“You cannot simply tell Liza you have a monster inside of you, and then expect her to accept it, and move on. That is not fair to her, or to you.”

“I didn’t say it was a monster. It’s a demon, and I have it under control.”

“What triggers it?”

“The demon comes out whenever Peter blows his top,” Liza interjected. “A dark cloud comes over his face, and his nostrils flare, and he starts to look like a total maniac. The demon also has powers that Peter doesn’t.”

“So you’ve seen this firsthand,” Sierra said.

Liza started to reply, but nodded instead. Not long ago, she’d seen Peter kill a man who’d been intent on murdering her and Snoop. Peter had killed him with a screwdriver with a dull point. It had been like watching a macabre magic trick. One moment the screwdriver was in Peter’s hand, the next it was embedded in their attacker’s heart.

What had bothered her most was the transformation Peter had gone through. One moment he was gentle, fun-loving Peter, the next a snarling Mr. Hyde. The transformation had been painful to watch and, thankfully, had not lasted very long.

“Your anger brings it to the surface?” Sierra asked Peter.

“That’s right,” Peter said.

“How long does the demon stay?”

“A couple of minutes at the most.”

“When it finally leaves, how do you feel?”

“Pretty awful. Especially if I’ve hurt someone. I suffer for weeks.”

“Were you ever tempted to see a psychiatrist?” Sierra asked.

He shook his head. “I was raised not to talk about these things.”

“Raised not to talk about these things by who?”

“My mother and father.”

“Your parents knew about this demon? How did they deal with it?”

Sierra was on the edge of his seat, and had the unmistakable gleam in his eye of someone stumbling upon something of great value. The look bothered Peter. What was the good doctor planning to do with the information? Write about it in a prominent medical journal? Or sell it to Hollywood one day? These things had happened to psychics who’d made the mistake of baring their soul to strangers, and Peter didn’t want it happening to him. “Before I answer your question, I want you to promise me that you’ll never reveal what I’m about to say to you to anyone else.”

“Your secrets are safe,” Sierra assured him. “Nothing you say will leave this office.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise.”

“All right. I inherited this demon from my mother and father. They were trapped by one of the Devil’s sons when they were children, and forced to become his disciples. They grew up, got married, had me, and I got this demon. They raised me in a loving household, and taught me not to lose my temper. I can still hear my mother saying, ‘Don’t get angry—you’ll just tempt the Devil.’ I didn’t realize she was telling me the truth.”

“Your parents were trapped—how?”

“They lived in a small village in the south of England. One day they were playing with their friends, and saw an injured black cat on a frozen lake. When they went to rescue it, the ice broke under their weight. One of the Devil’s sons was waiting on the bottom of the lake for them. He converted them, so to speak, and the children became his disciples.”

“The Devil has children?”

“He has six sons. They’re responsible for most of the horrible things that have happened to mankind in the past two thousand years.”

“What kind of people were your parents?”

“They were wonderful people. Even though they knew they were possessed by an evil spirit, they still choose to be good. It was a struggle, but they won out.”

“How extraordinary. Where are they now?”

“They’re dead. They were murdered when I was a boy.”

“Where? In England?”

“Here in New York. We moved here when I was small, and lived in an apartment in Murray Hill. They were abducted and killed by a gang of evil psychics after seeing a show in Times Square. I was with them.”

Sierra’s head bobbed up and down, drinking in every word. “The night your parents died—how did you react? Did the demon come out then? Did you go berserk?” he asked.

The words hit Peter like an invisible punch. He had cried and cried that night, just like any normal kid would do. What did Sierra think he was? A freak?

“What kind of question is that?” Peter snapped.

“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

“It sure didn’t.”

“Please don’t get angry,” Sierra said, trying to sooth him. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“No, it wasn’t. You asked a deliberate question that took deliberate thought. Now here’s my answer. I’m not Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I don’t piss on rugs and spin my head and say crude things to party guests. I can control myself. I do control myself.”

“Of course you do,” Sierra said.

“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me,” Peter said.

“And how is that?”

“Like a lab rat that’s grown two heads.”

“Oh, Peter,” Liza said, knowing what was coming next.

“You are a patient, and I am a doctor. That is how I’m looking at you,” Sierra said.

“You’ve got something else on your mind.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong about stuff like that. You’re a snake, and you’re going to betray me.” Peter rose from the couch and glanced down at Liza. “I’m leaving. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

“No, I’m coming, too,” Liza said.

She rose and clasped Peter’s hand. She could find the good in just about anything, even a disaster like this. To Sierra she said, “Thank you for taking the time to see us. We really appreciate it.”

“But we’re not done,” the doctor said.

“Yes, we are,” Peter replied, and pulled Liza toward the door.

17

Sierra chased the young couple into the reception area. His receptionist’s desk was empty. “I’m sorry I offended you. I meant no harm.”

Peter gave Sierra the evil eye. The look came straight from the depths of his troubled soul. Liza clutched his hand while staring discreetly at the floor.

“You asked if the demon came out the night my parents died. What exactly did you mean by that?” Peter asked.

Sierra felt Peter’s eyes burning a hole in him. He did not want the young magician reading his mind, and shifted his gaze to the clutter of paperwork on his receptionist’s desk.

“I don’t know. It was a slip of the tongue,” he said.

“You’re lying.”

“Peter!” Liza said.

“He’s lying,” Peter repeated. “One moment, he’s being all nice and friendly, the next he’s asking me if the demon came out the night my parents died. He knows something.”

Sierra cursed under his breath. He had handled this all wrong. He should have told Peter the truth the moment Peter had told him that his parents had moved from London to New York when he was a boy. Had he told him the truth, none of this would be happening now.

He tried to repair the damage as best he could. “You are a troubled young man. I can help you and your girlfriend, if you’ll let me. Please give me another chance.”

“Up yours,” Peter said.

“Peter—that’s so rude!” Liza scolded.

“I don’t trust him,” he said, not caring anymore. “He’s got something else on his mind—you can see it in his face. The moment I told him my parents were murdered, his whole demeanor changed. I don’t know what this clown is up to, and I’m not about to find out.”

“I’m not a clown,” Sierra said indignantly.

Peter wagged a finger in Sierra’s face. A simple gesture that carried an implied threat. This young man was capable of causing him great harm if he chose to, and Sierra listened carefully to what he had to say.

“If one word of what was said here today gets out, there will be hell to pay,” Peter said. “Do you understand that? None of this can ever be repeated, or written down in a journal or a diary, or passed on to another doctor in a conversation. It stays here. Got it?”

“I understand,” Sierra repeated.

“Look me in the eyes when you say that.”

Sierra swallowed hard. The image of Peter’s mother and father sitting in his office burned vividly in the theater of his mind. They’d been a nice couple, except for the terrible secret they’d carried with them. He’d tried to help them, and when that had failed, he’d gone to a higher source.

Sierra repressed the memory, fearful Peter would see it. He locked eyes with the young magician. “You have my word. I will not repeat anything you said here today.”

Satisfied Sierra was telling the truth, Peter ushered Liza out and slammed the door behind him, causing the walls to shake.

“Damn it,” Sierra said under his breath.

*   *   *

Sierra began to shiver. A gust of cold wind swept through the office, even though the window facing the street was shut tight. This was Peter’s doing. He had not trusted Sierra, so part of him had stayed behind as a warning, in case Sierra had second thoughts about the promises he’d been sworn to keep.

His receptionist returned, reeking of cigarette smoke. “Are you okay, Dr. Sierra?”

“Do I not look okay?”

“Come to mention it, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Back in his office with the door shut, he tried to decide his best course of action. His eyes fell upon the thick volumes of psychiatric journals filling the bookshelf behind his desk. One of the journals inched out of its space and fell to the floor, landing on its spine with a dull thud. As he bent down to retrieve it, another journal crept out of its place, and fell on top of his head, then another and another, until all eleven volumes in the series were raining down upon him. It could have been much worse, and he returned the books to their spots.

The greatest fear was of those things we did not understand. Sierra sat down at his desk, and tried to regain his composure. His heart was racing, and adrenaline was coursing through his veins. His professional career had been filled with challenges, but one had stood out above all the rest. It had never been resolved, and he’d accepted that it probably never would. Each morning he’d stood at his office window, remembering the sunny fall morning twenty years past when a charming British couple named Henry and Claire Warren had paid him a visit to discuss their unusual problem. He’d seen them only once, yet the effect they’d had on him had been so profound that he’d never forgotten them.

He rummaged through his desk drawers. In the bottom drawer was an ancient Rolodex, and he flipped through it, quickly finding the card he was looking for. The pencil markings had grown faint, and he had to hold it beneath the lamp on his desk.

Hunsinger

555-1259

That was all. Just a last name and a phone number.

Sierra could not help the Warrens, so he’d put them in touch with Hunsinger, who had tried to help them with their problem. Hunsinger had failed, just as Sierra had failed. Had Hunsinger’s curiosity been eating at him ever since? Did he also stare through a window each day, pondering life’s unexplainable mysteries? Sierra guessed that it had. Situations like this happened once in a lifetime.

Picking up the phone, he punched in the number on the card, and heard the call go through. Three rings, four rings, five. Sierra expected voice mail or an answering machine to pick up, but instead heard the unhealthy sound of a man’s raspy cough.

“Hello?”

“Good morning. I hope I have the right number,” Sierra said.

“I’ve had this number for forty years. I think you do,” the voice replied.

The receiver grew tight in Sierra’s hand. “This is Dr. Raul Sierra. We met many years ago.”

“I remember you, Dr. Sierra. How have you been?”

“I’m well. How about yourself?”

“My health is not what it used to be. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

Sierra hesitated. Ten minutes ago, he’d made a promise that he was now about to break, and he hoped it would not come back to haunt him. “Do you remember a British couple I sent to see you named Claire and Henry Warren?”

“How could I have forgotten, even after all this time? Is this about them?”

“No, it’s about their son.”

“You mean Peter.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“I always wondered what happened to him. I read in the newspapers that his parents had been killed, and I tried to track Peter down. He disappeared, you know. I assumed he was sent back to England to live with his relatives. I think about him often.”

“He’s here in New York.”

“Really. May I ask how you came about this information?”

“Peter and his girlfriend just left my office. They are having issues and needed counseling. A strange twist of fate that he would seek me out.”

“Everything happens for a reason, Dr. Sierra. Please tell me, how is Peter coping?”

“Not well. He’s battling with his demons, so to speak.”

“Did you talk to him about his past?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell him what happened?”

“The situation was not right. That’s why I contacted you. I thought we could do it together, being that we were both involved. It might…”

“Lessen the blow?”

“Yes.”

“Give me an hour. I still remember your address,” Hunsinger said.

18

New York was constantly reinventing itself. The neighborhood around Sierra’s office was a perfect example. It was known as Kips Bay, yet most New Yorkers now called it Curry Hill for the many authentic Indian restaurants that had opened there. Saravana Bhavan was Peter and Liza’s favorite of the bunch, and it specialized in South Indian fare of dosas and vegetarian plates.

The owner greeted them cheerfully at the front door. It was a family operation, with his wife behind the register, his son working the kitchen. He escorted them to a table in the back.

“Menus? Or are we having the usual?” the owner asked.

“The usual,” Peter replied.

The breakfast crowd had thinned out, and the restaurant was quiet. Soon the owner served them crispy lentil doughnuts with sambar and chutney, and cups of steaming Madras coffee. Liza munched silently on a doughnut.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Peter replied.

“You’re always hungry. Eat something. It will make you feel better.”

He bit into a doughnut. It was deliciously warm and melted in his mouth. Liza sipped her coffee before speaking again. “What happened back there at the doctor’s office?”

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“It was ugly.”

“How ugly is ugly?”

“On a scale of one to ten, it was a nine.”

“With a ten being my throwing Sierra out the window?”

“I sure hope not. Why did you act like that?”

He stared at his reflection in his plate. Sierra’s question about the demon coming out after his parents had died had hit a nerve. It was as if Sierra had known about the demon, and was baiting him. But how could that be? He’d never met Sierra until this morning. Except for the Friday night psychics and Liza, no one knew about his special powers or his past, and he planned to keep it that way. The only reason he told the doctor was because of the doctor/patient oath, and he was already regretting that he had done so.

“You cry in your sleep a lot,” Liza said. “Did you know that?”

What an icebreaker. He shook his head.

“What do you dream about?” she asked.

“Can we talk about this some other time?”

“No more running away. I want to know.”

“I dream about the night I lost my parents.”

“Were you traumatized?”

There are events in a person’s life which change everything. The night of his parents’ deaths was such an event. His life had been one thing before, another thing ever since. Not a fair thing to do to a seven-year-old, but life was hardly fair. He’d accepted that hard fact long ago.

“Yes,” he said.

“Is the dream always the same?”

“Pretty much. Three men whisk my parents down an alley in the theater district. I start to run after them, fall down, and rip my pants. When I look up, my mother and father are being hustled into the back of a waiting car. My mother looks over her shoulder at me. Her face tells me everything. I’m never going to see her or my father alive again.”

“Your mother knew she was going to die?”

“People were chasing them. They left England and came to New York. She knew.”

“You were seven. You’re twenty-five now, and still having nightmares. Don’t you think you should talk to Sierra about this?”

“I’m not going back there. Sierra’s no good.”

“He’s a highly respected expert in his field. You’re just making excuses.”

One doughnut remained on the plate. Peter tore it in half, and munched on his piece. He was not going to let Dr. Sierra peel back the layers of his soul. Not in this lifetime.

“Is that a no?” Liza asked.

“Let’s find someone else,” he suggested.

“And start over? You think I want a repeat of this? No, thanks.”

He wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked across the table at Liza. “Why are you stuck on this guy? Do you like seeing me getting hurt?”

“That was low,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Stop it.”

“Why are you the only one that gets to ask the tough questions?”

“I’m going outside. Come out when you have something nice to say.”

“Can I have the other half of the doughnut?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke? You’re not funny.”

Peter stuffed the remaining piece of doughnut into his mouth as Liza walked out the front door. He hadn’t told her the whole story about his nightmares. The pain of his parents’ passing had eased over time. What hadn’t gone away was the helplessness he’d felt as they were abducted. The pained expression on his mother’s face was one he’d never forget. Help us, her eyes had cried out. Help us.

But by the time he’d reached the street, the car was gone.

He’d failed her and his father.

That was why he wept in his sleep at night.

*   *   *

The key to dealing with tragedy was to avoid thinking about it. But that wasn’t always possible. When Peter thought about the night he’d lost his parents, it made him grow angry, and the demon reared its ugly head.

“Help!” a voice cried out.

The owner raced out of the kitchen, followed by his son. Both men had their arms in the air and were moving fast. The owner grabbed his wife from behind the cash register, and the family fled to the street.

The restaurant was filling with smoke. Rising from his chair, Peter pushed open the swinging kitchen door to see what the problem was. A grease fire on the stove had jumped onto a wall and was burning out of control. The demon inside of him was like that. It was capable of creating havoc and destruction with little regard for the consequences. It had no conscience, or sense of right and wrong.

He looked straight up. The kitchen ceiling had turned transparent. In the apartment above the restaurant, an older Italian couple was eating a late breakfast. In the apartment next door, four women were playing gin rummy while chatting away. Next door to them, a young mother was nursing a newborn. The building’s other apartment units were also occupied. So was the apartment building next door. It was filled with people, maybe fifty in all.

They were all about to die.

Within moments, the fire would be as hot as a nova, and eat through the structure with the speed of a runaway train. Once that happened, there would be no stopping it. It would race up the walls of both buildings, becoming so hot that the bricks would catch fire. The occupants of both buildings would hear a loud whoosh! like the sound of wind passing through a tunnel. That would be the last thing they heard. No a soul would be spared.

The fire trucks would come, and the city’s bravest would give battle to the roaring flames, but it would be too little, too late. The block between 26th and 27th streets would be destroyed, the street’s foundation buckling from the heat. Before it was eventually contained, the fire would destroy tens of millions of dollars in real estate and ruin countless lives.

And Peter knew in his bones that it was no mere accident, that it had been his temper that had started the fire.

But Peter also knew that the things he started he could stop. It wasn’t easy, but he could do it. He walked into kitchen and faced the burning wall. The fire had eaten through the plaster, and was heading to the second floor. He had a few seconds at most to stop it.

He had to make the demon leave. There was only one way to do that—through his mind. He thought back to when he was a kid, and the Sunday afternoons he’d spent with his father going to see the Yankees play in the Bronx. His father had showered him with attention, and bought him baseball caps and hot dogs and anything else his heart had desired. They were his fondest childhood memories, and he could not help but smile.

The demon began to recede into the deepest regions of his soul. It was like pushing back a boulder, and took all his strength. As it did, the flames rolled down the wall and returned to the frying pan on the stove. The heat vanished, and the choking smoke evaporated like fog being burned off by the sun. The room returned to normal in the blink of an eye.

Even Peter had to marvel at the illusion.

Liza stood at the open door with her hand over her mouth.

“Holy shit,” she said. “Did you do that?”

“I sure did,” he said.

He heard voices. The owner and his son were coming back. Peter couldn’t explain what he’d just done without exposing his psychic powers to them.

“Stall them,” he told her.

“What?”

“You heard me. Stall them. Please.”

Liza turned around and blocked the owner and his son and from entering. Peter found a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall, and he quickly doused the room with white foam until the interior looked as if a snowstorm had hit it.

“All clear,” he called out.

Liza stepped away from the doorway, and they rushed in. The owner clapped his hands together joyously, and embraced the young magician.

“Thank you for saving my restaurant,” he exclaimed.

*   *   *

The police were the first to show up, followed by a fire truck and an ambulance, then more police, followed by a gaggle of onlookers. Peter had wanted to bolt, but did not want to raise eyebrows. So he gave a statement to a uniformed cop, and asked if he could leave. The cop said okay, and they headed up Lexington Avenue with their heads bowed to the punishing wind.

“Did you cause that fire to happen?” Liza asked, her hands tucked in her pockets.

“I think so. I was mad.”

“Bad things happen when you get angry.”

“I’ve never burned down a building before. I know that sounds juvenile, but it’s true.”

“I believe you. But there could always be a first time.”

“You want me to go back and see Sierra, don’t you?”

“He was trying to help us. Why can’t you see that?”

“It didn’t feel like help. It felt like torture.”

“Just give it a shot. That’s all I’m asking.”

“How many times is a shot?”

“Just one more.”

Peter could deal with that, and said okay. Liza said she would contact Sierra’s office and schedule another session. They stopped and kissed and things were good again. He felt like a regular human being whenever he was with her, and wondered if the trick to having a normal life was to never let her out of his sight. Not a bad solution.

They decided to walk home. It was a long hike, and would let them clear their heads. They headed up Lex with the city’s thrum in their ears. Buses rumbled, horns honked, and a car alarm wailed like a colicky baby. A racket to some, they were the noises Peter had known his entire life, and sounded like music. It was not hard for him to imagine Gershwin in the sound of garbage cans being thrown, or a symphony in the roar of a subway. By the time they reached the brownstone, the morning’s bad events had faded into the past.

Walking up the front steps, Peter had his keys out when he heard a car door slam. The sound was not friendly, and he spun around to see Garrison climb out of his parked SUV. The look on the FBI agent’s face was nothing but trouble.

“Just the man I was looking for,” Garrison said.

PART II

SHADOW PEOPLE

19

Special Agent Garrison was a man of simple tastes. His wardrobe ran from blazers and dark trousers to sweatshirts and blue jeans. Today, he wore faded denims and a charcoal gray cardigan.

“You need to start keeping your cell phone on,” the FBI agent said. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Not on Mondays. On Mondays, Peter’s cell phone was turned off while he and Liza roamed the city’s neighborhoods.

“Peter put out a fire at a restaurant in Kips Bay this morning,” Liza jumped in. “He was a hero.”

Peter squeezed Liza’s hand. She hadn’t told Garrison the whole story of how he’d lost his temper and accidentally set the restaurant’s kitchen fire, and it made him love her that much more. Garrison acted impressed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Nice going. I realize this is your day off, but I’ve got a situation on my hands and I need your help. Do you mind coming downtown with me for a little while?”

Peter tried to help the law whenever possible. He also tried to have a life with Liza. Right now, the two were colliding. “Where to?”

“Grand Central Station. The police caught a shadow person running through the terminal on a surveillance camera. I want you to have a look, see what you think.”

Peter instinctively touched his shirt, and felt the five-pointed star around his neck. Liza did the same. Their recent encounter with the shadow person was still fresh in their minds.

“What do you think?” he asked Liza.

“By all means, go. Maybe you can catch this thing.”

“You’re welcome to come along.”

She shook her head. They got only one day a week off. Liza used some of that time to talk with her family, whom she regularly stayed in touch with. “I need to talk to CiCi. She’s been having difficulty with one of the routines in the act.”

Liza’s younger sister CiCi had replaced Liza in the family troupe, and Liza continued to coach her whenever possible.

“Tell her I said hi,” Peter said.

“I will. Please be careful. Don’t let that thing kidnap you again.”

They kissed and Liza went inside the brownstone. Garrison tapped his shoulder, and Peter climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV without a word. As he was strapping himself in, the vehicle lurched away from the curb like a wild animal jumping out of a cage.

*   *   *

The fluid human dance of Grand Central was best viewed from the main concourse. A mammoth space framed by high windows, glittering constellations in the ceiling, and a double staircase at either end, it was here that a person could observe the complex patterns made by arriving and departing passengers on the Connecticut and Westchester railroads. During rush hour, it was one of the busiest areas of the city, and one of the loudest. That changed once rush hour ended and the commuters cleared out. Then it became a tourist site, with group tours and lots of pictures being snapped of the famous architecture. Garrison hurried up the staircase on the west side with Peter glued to his side.

“I analyzed the film of the shadow person your smart-mouthed assistant shot,” Garrison said. “You’re not going to believe what I found.”

“His name is Snoop, and he’s my best friend,” Peter said.

“He’s got a bad attitude and is a threat to national security.”

“Just because he can hack your computers doesn’t make him a threat.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

They hurried down a marble hallway. With multiple exits and doors leading to multiple train platforms, it was easy to get lost, and Peter realized he didn’t know where he was.

“I examined the video of the shadow person frame by frame like you suggested,” Garrison went on. “I was able to make out a face.”

“Man or woman?”

“It looks like a woman, but that’s just a guess.”

They stopped at a door marked NYPD—NO ENTRANCE at the hallway’s end, and Garrison rapped loudly.

“I told you—no cops,” Peter said in alarm.

“There aren’t any cops here right now. You’re safe.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“I sent the video to the NYPD, and asked them to run it against their database of collected images from the past thirty days. The cops have thousands of surveillance cameras in the city, and I figured one of them might have spotted your ghost. Sure enough, I was right. The Grand Central team found the shadow person on a tape, and alerted me.”

“You gave the police the video?” Peter asked. “I’m on it, for Christ’s sake. And so is Liza.”

“I didn’t tell them anything about your involvement, and neither did anyone on my team.”

“The police aren’t stupid. They’ll make the connection.”

“Which is what? That you were visited by a ghost? If they contact you, play dumb.”

There were times when Peter wished he’d never struck a deal with Garrison. The FBI agent didn’t know how to keep a secret, and might someday blow Peter’s cover, and mistakenly tell the world who the young magician really was.

The door swung in, and Special Agent Nan Perry ushered them into a windowless room lined with video screens monitoring the ebb and flow of the terminal concourse. The lighting was muted, and the images popped off the screens. As promised, there were no cops.

Garrison’s team sat at desks facing the screens. Each agent was at a keyboard with an odd-looking joystick. Peter had seen those joysticks before. Back when he was breaking in his act, he’d worked at one of Trump’s lavish casinos in Atlantic City, and had been given a private tour of the casino’s surveillance room, where he’d been shown how cheaters were caught trying to scam the games. The cheaters’ moves were invisible to the naked eye, but they weren’t invisible to the cameras, and they all got caught.

“This looks like a Pelco DX system,” Peter said.

“Who told you about Pelco?” Garrison asked.

“A casino I once worked at. Pelco can search thirty days of video images in a minute. When it comes to catching bad guys, this system is state-of-the-art.”

“I’m impressed,” Garrison said.

“Thanks. So, what did you find?”

Garrison got onto a keyboard and typed in a command.

“Over the past thirty days, the shadow person has been filmed on four different occasions running across Grand Central’s main concourse. I’ll show you the first video we found. Look at screen number three.”

His eyes found screen three on the wall of monitors. A surveillance video began to play. On it, a shadow person ran through the main concourse. It looked like a puff of smoke, and hovered inches above the floor. It moved quickly before disappearing through a street exit. Several people in the concourse saw it pass, shook their heads, and went back to whatever they had been doing, which was how people usually reacted when confronted by a ghost.

The video was short, barely five seconds long. Peter stared at the screen long after it had stopped playing. The shadow person had appeared to be in a hurry. Why?

He shook his head in frustration. He had no earthly idea what any of this meant. The time stamp on the corner of the video caught his eye. It had been shot on Friday night at 11:50.

He shuddered.

The shadow person had been hurrying to reach the Friday night séance at Milly’s apartment on the other side of town, where it had appeared ten minutes later.

“What’s outside the exit I just saw?” he asked.

“A taxi stand,” Garrison replied.

That made sense. The shadow person had taken a taxi. Not in the traditional sense. It had simply hung on the roof and bummed a ride. Ghosts did it all the time.

“May I see the other videos?” Peter said.

Garrison worked his magic on the keyboard. Three videos appeared in rapid succession, shot on the floor of the main concourse. In each, a shadow person could be seen fleeing past. Peter read the time stamps on each video.

The first had been recorded at 1 A.M. on Saturday morning, right around the time the shadow person had invaded his brownstone. The second was from Saturday afternoon, right before the shadow person had disrupted his matinee. The third was from this morning. In each video, the shadow person ran past a newspaper kiosk in the concourse. With the kiosk as a point of reference, the differences were clear.

“There’s more than one of them,” he said.

“What? Are you sure?”

“I compared the images on the videos. They’re different sizes. They’re traveling into the city on the Westchester railroad. Once they arrive at Grand Central, they run across the concourse to get outside, and go searching for me.”

“I thought these things could slip through walls,” Garrison said.

“They can slip into cracks in walls in the same way ghosts can. But they can’t pass through solid walls. No spirit can. That forces them to make a mad dash in order to reach the street. From there, they’re hitching cab rides to their final destinations.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Happens all the time. I need to go.”

“But you just got here.”

Peter had encountered all of the shadow people who’d traveled to New York, except the last one, which had arrived this morning. Was another of his friends about to be kidnapped, like poor Liza? He couldn’t let that happen, and he brushed past Garrison on his way to the door.

“Something urgent’s come up,” he said. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

*   *   *

Grand Central was like a small city, and had over a hundred shops and restaurants, and contained everything a visitor could desire. Peter hurried to a jewelry store called Forever Silver inside the Lexington Avenue Passageway that sold hand-crafted necklaces and bracelets.

Peter was in luck. There was a jewelry maker on duty. He was babysitting his young son, a dark-haired boy sitting on the counter, watching the world go by. Peter offered to do tricks for the boy if the jewelry maker would fill his order right away.

“Good luck. He’s got a short attention span,” the jewelry maker said.

“What’s his name?” Peter asked.

“Anthony.”

Peter did his best to entertain Anthony while his father went to work. Peter waved his hands magically in front of Anthony’s face, and pulled a shiny half-dollar out of the boy’s ear, which he split into two. The coins jumped from hand to hand not once but several times. For a finale, he rubbed them together, and they turned into a silver dollar.

Anthony giggled and clapped his hands enthusiastically.

“Want to see some more?” Peter asked.

It was the magician’s first rule. Wait for them to ask for more.

“Yes,” the boy said.

“Anthony,” his father said.

“Please,” the boy added.

Peter continued the show. He removed a piece of string from his pocket, and began to tear it into tiny pieces. Anthony’s eyes did not leave his hands.

“How many necklaces did you say you wanted?” the jewelry maker asked.

“Five,” Peter said. “Each needs to have a five-pointed star hanging from it. Make sure the star has five points.”

“I’ve got some really beautiful diamond pendants on sale,” the jewelry maker said. “They’re our best sellers. The women love them.”

Peter rolled the pieces of string into a ball, and had Anthony blow on them.

“Just a five-pointed star.”

“Do you mind my asking what they’re for? I’m not being nosy. Just curious.”

Peter grabbed the ends of the string and pulled it apart. It had magically restored itself, and Anthony squealed with delight. The jeweler probably dealt with a hundred customers a day. Five-pointed stars weren’t an item that people requested. Peter could have told him that Grand Central was being visited by evil spirits that were trying to kill him and hurt his friends, and that the stars were needed to ward them off, only that would have ruined the man’s day, and he didn’t want to do that.

“It’s a long story,” the young magician said. “How much longer will you be?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

Peter went back to entertaining Anthony. The boy looked no more than seven, the same age he’d been when he’d lost his parents. He’d often wondered how his life would have turned out had his parents not been taken away from him at such a tender age. Would he still have become a magician, or would his life have taken another path, and sent him on a different journey then the one he was on now? And would he have met Liza and fallen in love, or would another woman have claimed his heart? There was no way to know; even his psychic powers would not let him look back into past and see what might have been.

The trick ended, and Anthony clapped his hands and giggled with laughter. Ever since Peter could remember, he’d wanted to have a family of his own, and a child he could pass down his magic to. Knowing what he did now about himself, he wondered if he’d dare even try.

“All done. Cash or credit card?” the jewelry maker asked.

Peter paid the jeweler cash and took the gift bag off the counter.

“Sure I can’t interest you in those diamond pendants?”

“Maybe some other time,” Peter said.

20

Leaving Grand Central, Peter hailed a cab from the taxi stand on Lexington Avenue. He needed to hunt down Milly, Holly, Max, Lester, and Snoop, and present them with the five-pointed-star necklaces. It was the only way he could ensure that the newly arrived shadow person would not harm his friends.

He gave the driver an address in the Village, and the vehicle headed downtown. Of all his friends, he considered his teacher to be the most at risk. Max had lost his wife a year ago, and now spent his days traveling between restaurants and taverns in the city, doing magic to keep himself busy. He often acted like he was walking around in a fog, and would be an easy target.

Peter decided to call Max, and tell him of his impending arrival. As he pulled out his Droid, the phone vibrated as if alive. Caller ID said it was Garrison.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he said to the phone.

Then Peter answered the call. “Special Agent Garrison, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“Where are you?” the FBI agent barked.

“In a cab, heading downtown.”

“Can you get back to Grand Central? I need your help.”

Peter’s priorities would always be to his friends and loved ones, and he said, “I’m sort of busy at the moment. What’s going on?”

“About an hour ago, a surveillance camera at a train station in Westchester picked up a shadow person climbing onto the roof of a New York–bound train. It will be arriving soon, and I’m trying to figure out what to do. That’s why I called you.”

Another shadow person was coming into the city? It was starting to feel like an invasion.

“I was thinking of having a team of agents board at one of the stops, and see if they can root this thing out,” Garrison went on. “Is that practical?”

Peter sat up straight in his seat. “I would advise you not to do that.”

“Look, my men are trained professionals. They’ve seen everything there is to see.”

“Don’t do it.”

“So what do I do?”

“Nothing.”

“They don’t pay me to do nothing. Come on, think of something.”

Ordinary people who engaged with the spirits often spent the rest of their lives regretting it. As a result of their unearthly encounters, ghosts visited them regularly, and they were plagued by otherworldly voices in their dreams. Their nerves became frayed, and they walked around perpetually scared. Garrison had no idea of the danger he was placing his agents in.

“The best thing you can do is to leave it alone,” Peter said.

“Some help you are. Don’t tell me there isn’t a way to fight these things.”

So that was it. Garrison wanted to fight. He was stubborn that way, and would probably try to capture the shadow person no matter what Peter told him. And then there’d be hell to pay for Garrison and his team. “You can’t fight a shadow person. But you can catch it the same way you capture a ghost. Promise me you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“You have my word.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. The train will pull into the terminal, and the shadow person will stay on the roof until the passengers have departed and the platform is quiet. Then it will get off and creep up the stairs to the exit, and hang by the door. Once it sees an opening in the terminal, it will bolt toward an exit. That’s when you have a chance to catch it.”

“How? With a butterfly net?”

“Turn on the lights inside the terminal to their brightest wattage. It will freeze the thing in its tracks.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Yes. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t touch it.”

“How am I going to move it?”

“You don’t. Unless you want to cause great harm to yourself and your team.”

“What? And leave it there for everyone to see? Are you nuts?”

The taxi had reached its destination, and the driver raised the flag on the meter.

“Call me if you catch it,” Peter said, “and I’ll tell you what to do.”

*   *   *

Max had made a living doing magic for half a decade. Unlike most stage performers, who lugged around lots of bulky props, his act fit into a small suitcase. The Egg Bag, Linking Rings, Floating Ball, Rising Cards, and an occasional mind-reading stunt made up his repertoire. In his hands, each trick was a masterpiece of deception tempered by delicious patter and funny stories. Max the Magnificent, One of the Better Cheaper Acts.

These days, Max limited his act by performing close-up tricks that fit into his pockets. On Mondays he could be found entertaining the lunch crowd at a Bleecker Street landmark called the Peculier Pub that featured hundreds of imported beers and ales and a menu of traditional British fare. The pub had a low tin ceiling, which magnified the sound of the diners and folks lining the bar, and Max often had to shout to be heard.

The room was mobbed, and Peter sifted his way to the back, where he found his teacher doing a card trick for a group of businessmen having lunch at a table. The deck was not cooperating, and Max kept getting the wrong card, much to the men’s’ delight.

Max pulled an ace of hearts from beneath his collar. “Is this your selected card?”

“Nope,” said a businessman drinking beer.

“Rats! How about this one?” From behind his knee, Max made the king of hearts magically appear, and waited expectantly.

“Wrong again.” The businessman snorted derisively.

“Godfrey Daniels! Give me one more chance. I’ll give you a prize if I don’t succeed.”

“What kind of prize?” the businessman asked.

“A very valuable one, worth lots of money.”

“You’re on.”

The businessman tapped his knife against a water glass. A hush fell over the pub, with all eyes glued to the old magician with shoulder-length white hair and frayed tuxedo. Max cuffed his sleeves and displayed his empty palms. His hands were soft and supple. When his fingers danced, it was with the lightness of butterfly wings. A playing card materialized out of thin air.

“Wow,” someone at the bar gasped.

“Name your card,” Max said triumphantly.

“It was the nine of spades,” the businessman declared.

Max spun the card around to reveal the three of diamonds.

A groan went through the tavern.

“You lose,” the businessman roared. “Pay up!”

Max acted disgusted with himself. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the businessman’s wallet, and presented it to him. Next followed the man’s wristwatch, car keys, cigarette lighter, and reading glasses. The businessman grabbed helplessly at his empty pockets while the pub roared with laughter. It was a staple of many tricks to turn failure into triumph. No one did it better than Max, and sustained applause followed.

Max hadn’t lost his touch. The great ones never did. As Peter approached him, he sensed an otherworldly presence in the room. Had the shadow person beaten him here?

“Why, hello, Peter, how are you?” Max asked. “Enjoy the show?”

“It was great. You killed them. I need to get you out of here.”

“But I’m just getting warmed up.”

Peter looked around to make sure no one was listening, then brought his mouth up to Max’s ear. “There’s a shadow person in the room. You’re not safe.”

“No, there’s not. Sit down and have some lunch. The corned beef is very good.”

“I felt it, Max. Come outside with me.”

Peter pulled his teacher toward the front door. Max waved to the crowd on his way out.

“Be back in sixty,” he called out.

*   *   *

The feeling of an evil spirit disappeared the moment Peter stepped onto the sidewalk outside the pub. Max grinned at him the way an older man smiles at a child.

“See? I told you it wasn’t a shadow person,” his teacher said.

“But I felt something strange in there.”

“And so did I. A feeling of anxiety, yes?”

“That’s right. Do you know what it was?”

“I most certainly do. It’s called electromagnetic hypersensitivity. Ghost hunters often mistake electromagnetic hypersensitivity for ghosts, when it fact it comes from refrigerators.”

“I got spooked by a refrigerator?”

“Afraid so. The owner lets me set up my show in the kitchen. I noticed that a refrigerator had been moved so it backed up onto a wall of the pub. As the refrigerator’s cooling settings cycled on, the electromagnetic field it emitted passed through the wall. That’s what you felt.”

Peter lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“You know what they say. There’s a paddle for everyone’s behind, and yours just got paddled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my show.”

“Hold on. I have a present for you.”

Peter presented a small jewelry box to his teacher. Max opened it, and examined the five-pointed star. As a rule, psychics did not interfere with the lives of other psychics, or offer them help or counsel. On those rare times that a psychic did reach out, it was for a good cause, and the offer was rarely refused. Without a word, Max slipped the necklace on, and tucked it under his shirt. He nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, Peter.”

“You’re welcome, Max.”

“I see other gifts in your bag. Who are they for?”

“One of my assistants, and the rest of the Friday night group.”

“Will you be presenting one to Holly?”

“Yes, she’s on the list. Why do you ask?”

Max’s eyes narrowed and he dropped his voice. “Someone was going to have to tell you, so I suppose it should be me. Holly has been scrying on you. She admitted it to me and the rest of the group the other night. I told her to stop, and she got quite upset with me. She thinks the present predicament you’re in with the shadow people gives her the right to play voyeur cam with your life. It’s not right, and I wanted you to know.”

“That doesn’t sound like Holly. What’s come over her?”

“I’m afraid she’s changed, and not for the better. Her crush on you is out of control. The poor girl is head over heels in love.”

Peter rocked back on his heels. He’d known Holly since she was five. He’d babysat her as a teenager, and watched her grow up. How could he have missed this?

“I also sense that Holly thinks you’re in love with her,” Max went on. “Are you?”

“In love with Holly? I have feelings for her, but not like that.”

“Are you?”

“Max, come on. Be serious. This is Holly we’re talking about.”

“Are you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding the question.”

The door to the pub swung open and a comely red-headed waitress stuck her head out. “Hey, Max, your adoring fans await you. Are you going to finish your show?”

“Of course I’m going to finish my show,” Max said.

“Then hurry. The natives are getting restless.”

She went back inside. Max sprung his deck of cards playfully between his hands like an accordion. He threw back his shoulders and glanced at his pupil. “Yes or no?”

“I care for the girl, but I am not in love with Holly,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “She’s the little sister that I never had, which is why I have feelings for her.”

Max did several deft one-handed cuts without looking at the cards. “Those feelings have been misinterpreted. You must be careful. Witches are dangerous creatures when their passions become inflamed. Take my advice, and stay away from her. She’s not the young woman you think she is. I must go. Be safe.”

“And you as well.”

Max entered the pub to a healthy round of applause, leaving Peter to contemplate this new wrinkle in his personal life. He wasn’t big on confronting his problems, preferring to run away whenever possible, but this situation had to be addressed. He was in love with Liza, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

He should have left right then, and warned his other friends. Instead, he went to the pub’s window, and peered through the smokey glass. It was the one great lesson that he’d learned from losing his parents at such a tender age. Nothing in this world lasts forever. The people and things that you love and cherish will one day be stolen away from you, never to be returned. It was the natural order of the universe, and could not be changed. The only question was, when would this happen? When would you lose those things that you loved? He’d always believed that day was sooner rather than later. If he didn’t enjoy the special things in his life right now, they’d be gone in a blink of an eye, and he’d forever regret not experiencing them one last time.

That was why he stayed at the window and watched Max entertain the crowd.

21

Munns rose late, took a hot shower, did all the usual things. Naked and clean, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door, and gazed at the freakish assortment of tattoos on his body. He looked like a walking billboard for the Devil.

Munns often wondered what would happen if he decided to change his ways, and revert back to his old life. Would the Devil let him? Or would the tattoos spring to life, jump off his skin, and tear every limb from his body, and when they were done torturing him, kill him and bury his torso? Once, during a feverish dream, he’d seen that very thing, and had no doubt that it was a sign from below of what happened to traitors.

The silver tattoo on his neck was shimmering like a dull neon sign. It often did that, and he didn’t quite understand why. He’d asked Ray what it meant, and the body artist had replied that it was the sign that the Devil was paying him a visit. Munns was not fond of the silver tattoo and wished he could figure out a way to turn the damn thing off.

He drew closer to the mirror. His latest tattoo was already his favorite. The mighty Surtr holding a bloody sword in one hand, the head of Peter Warlock in the other. Ray had predicted that Munns would become Surtr one day, and do away with the young magician. Munns had tried to imagine what that transformation would be like. Would he grow in size and become stronger? And what about his face? Would it turn as hideous as Surtr’s?

Munns had never heard of Surtr so he’d done a search on the Internet. During the time of the Norse gods, Surtr had single-handedly guarded the gates of hell. He resembled Yoda from Star Wars, and did not look fierce enough to fight off a teenager. But when enemies approached, Surtr grew into a horrifying monster with horns on his head and eye-popping muscles. As part of this transformation, the knife on his belt grew into a flaming sword, which he used to chop off the heads of his enemies. Munns had liked the sound of that, and had started to carry a Swiss Army knife with him wherever he went.

His cell phone vibrated on the counter, the word UNKNOWN lighting up the screen. Munns had no friends, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him. Perhaps it was Rachael calling to say that she wouldn’t be coming on Friday night. The very notion filled him with dread, and he snatched up the phone. “Yes?”

“Is this Doc Munns?” an older man’s gruff voice asked.

It was not Rachael calling to cancel, and he instantly relaxed.

“That’s me. Who am I speaking to?”

“Name’s Clyde Jucko. I own EZ Storage, where you rent a unit.”

The Jucko clan were longtime residents and could trace their lineage back to the first Dutch families that had settled in the area. Clyde Jucko, the family patriarch, was a local slumlord and a tough customer. Locals often turned the J in his name into an F when describing him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Jucko?” Munns asked, wrapping himself in a towel. “Did you not get my rent check?”

“I got the check. There’s something not right with your unit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, there’s something not right with your unit. There’s a big gaping hole torn in the roof. I was up on a ladder doing some repairs to the gutters when I spotted it. It looks like someone tore a hole in the roof of your unit from the inside. You wouldn’t by chance happen to know how something like that could happen, would you?”

“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” Munns stammered.

“You don’t have someone illegally living in the unit, do you?”

“No.” This time, Munns choked on the word.

“Then how the hell did a flipping hole get in the roof?”

“I have no idea. You have to believe me.”

“I think you’re lying, son. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not going to call the police…”

“I was considering it.”

Munns thought he might pass out. He grabbed the sink edge to steady himself and filled his lungs with air. Like most serial killers, his killings followed a specific pattern that included taking his victims to a rental unit at EZ Storage, where he put their plastic-shrouded bodies in metal footlockers stacked inside. There the bodies stayed, locked away from the world. Ray had taught him this little trick. Without the bodies, the police had no evidence to play with, and the crime was reduced to a question mark which faded over time.

Only now something had happened inside his unit. Munns couldn’t imagine how a hole had appeared in the roof, not that it really mattered. His landlord was suspicious, and Munns needed to deal with him before things got out of control.

“I’m sure we can work this out,” Munns said.

“Hah,” the old man laughed derisively.

“I’ll pay you to keep quiet.”

“Think you can bribe me, huh?”

“Isn’t that why you called?”

“Don’t be a wiseass, son.” Jucko paused. “Give me a range.”

“How about two thousand dollars?”

“That’s chickenshit. Make it five grand, cash, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“You’re on. Give me a half hour to get the money. I’ll come by and give it to you.”

“Bring another three hundred to fix the roof.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll see you soon.”

“Don’t hang up. There’s one more thing that’s bothering me. I want to know what you’ve been keeping in that unit. Was it a man, a woman, a boy, or a girl? Was it an illegal alien, or some kind of sex slave? Or was it something else? I want to know what it was.”

“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.

“It is now. You don’t tell me, I’m calling the police.”

Munns’s cheeks burned. Jucko had gone from being a problem to being a threat. He needed to stall him so he could figure out what to do, and he said, “I can’t tell you over the phone. I’ll tell you later, when I bring the money.”

“You have been keeping someone in there,” Jucko said.

“I’ll explain everything later.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Jucko hung up on him. Munns went into the bedroom and sat down on the very edge of the bed. His head was pounding, his heart beating out of control. If he didn’t deal with this right now, Jucko would start talking, and he’d be doomed.

He pulled up Ray’s number on his cell phone. Ray would know what to do in a situation like this. Ray was street smart and he knew all the angles. Several rings later, the tattoo artist answered, his voice thick with sleep.

“I need your help. Clyde Jucko’s onto me,” Munns said breathlessly.

“Leave a message, and I’ll call you back,” an automated voice replied.

Munns let out a string of profanities. A beeping sound filled his ear.

“Meet me at EZ Storage,” he said into the phone.

Then he threw on his clothes, grabbed his keys, and ran out of the house.

22

Peter’s next stop was Lester Rowe’s shabby fortune-telling parlor on the Lower East Side. The small reception area was filled with clients, and he didn’t stay long.

Then he headed uptown to pay Milly a visit at the Dakota. The old witch met him at the door of her apartment wearing a flowing black robe and a mystical gold pendant hanging around her neck. Milly also told fortunes, but to a much wealthier clientele, and he guessed by her wardrobe that she was working. He passed the five-pointed star through the door.

“Please put this on right away,” he said.

“Am I in danger?” Milly asked.

“Yes. The shadow people are going after my friends.”

Milly thanked him with her eyes and shut the door.

His last stop was Holly. Max’s warning was still ringing in his ears, and he wondered what to do. Should he tell Holly that he couldn’t see her anymore? That would mean one of them would have to leave the Friday night psychics, and he didn’t see that happening. No, he was going to act like an adult, and sit down with her and have a talk. He couldn’t think of anything more unpleasant, except perhaps going to see Dr. Sierra again.

As his cab neared Holly’s place, his cell phone started to crawl out of his pocket as if alive. Only one person he knew could do that, and he flipped the phone open.

“Hey, Nemo, how you been?” he asked.

“Great for a guy doing life in prison,” the Puerto Rican psychic said.”We need to talk. Give me your coordinates.”

The CIA kept Nemo on a farm in Virginia where they used him to travel across time and space to see what fiendish plots the nation’s enemies were hatching. It was a lousy existence, and the reason Peter didn’t trust people in law enforcement. He glanced out the window at the approaching intersection. “I’m in a cab at the corner of Ninetieth and Central Park West, right next to Central Park.”

“Look in the eastern sky. Do you see any clouds?”

“I see a few.”

“Excellent. Get out of the cab, and stare at them. I’ll be right there.”

“You’re going to visit me in person?”

“Yeah, aren’t you excited?”

The line went dead. Nemo hadn’t told him what was going on. But it wasn’t like Nemo to bother him with trivial things, and Peter told the driver to pull over. The cab’s tires kissed the curb, and he passed a twenty through the partition and hopped out. Walking over to the stone wall that surrounded the park, he located a formation of puffy clouds in the otherwise flawless sky, and stared. The outline of Nemo’s face gradually appeared.

“Aren’t we special,” Peter said.

“Yes we are,” his friend replied.

Nemo was a street kid from Spanish Harlem whom Peter had knocked around with as a teenager. Each psychic had a special gift. Nemo’s was astral projection. He could project himself anywhere in the world if he set his mind to it. That was why the CIA found him so valuable. He was like a drone that didn’t need gas, and couldn’t be shot down.

Out-of-body experiences were nothing new in the psychic world. Psychics had been projecting themselves across the globe since the beginning of time. When people saw human faces in the clouds, or appearing on oil slicks on the road, or in rock formations on the sides of mountains, it was often a psychic projecting himself. The psychic never stayed for very long, but sometimes the image lingered behind, causing people to get excited, and even build shrines.

“How’s life on the funny farm?” Peter asked.

“They’re treating me like a king,” Nemo replied. “Great food, beautiful accommodations, premium cable. The only problem is, they won’t let me out.”

“We’re going to have to work on that. How did you call me? Don’t tell me they gave you a cell phone.”

“I wish. I stole my one of handlers’ cell phones.”

“That’s going to come back and bite you.”

“I stole his credit card, too. Amex silver, no less.”

“Aren’t you afraid of what they’ll do when they find out?”

“What are they going to do? Arrest me? Then they’d have to acknowledge that they’re holding me, and that’s not going to happen. You should see all the stuff I bought on his card. Trips, hotel rooms, airline tickets, the works.”

“For who?”

“My cousin and her little kid. She lost her job, and has been living on welfare. They needed a vacation, so I sent them down to Disney World. First class, all the way.”

“How much did you charge on his card?”

“Enough to piss him off.”

“You’re my hero.”

Nemo laughed in the clouds. His face was starting to fade, as was his voice. Out-of-body experiences never lasted more than a few minutes, and Peter strained to hear him.

“I had a strange thing happen to me that I wanted to warn you about,” Nemo said. “My handlers routinely give me files of dangerous people they’re trying to catch, and ask me to find them. This morning, I was given a composite of a serial killer in Westchester County called Dr. Death. My handlers asked me to project myself to Friday night, and see if I could find Dr. Death, so I did.”

“What happened?”

“I found him. I also found someone else.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me? What was I doing in Westchester?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. I projected myself to Friday night in Westchester County, and floated around for a few minutes. After a while, I felt your aura. It was really strong, and I spotted you standing in the parking lot of a train station on the outskirts of town.”

“Was I by myself?”

“No. You were with a hulking black guy who acted like a cop.”

“Special Agent Garrison, FBI.”

“You’re hanging out with the FBI? That’s dangerous stuff, Peter.”

“Tell me about it. Now, what did you see?”

“Garrison drove you to a house on a hill that reminded me of the house on the hill in Psycho. It had faded shingles and a gravel driveway surrounded by a thick hedge. You and Garrison went inside the house, where a really terrified woman was being held in the living room. She was tied to a chair, and was totally freaking out. Dr. Death was also in the living room. He’s an overweight guy, dressed like a nerd, didn’t look scary at all. At first I thought, what’s going on here? Then things got freaky.”

“How so?”

“Dr. Death’s body started to change until he looked like a gargoyle on steroids. The guy grew horns and his hands turned into claws. It was like watching a bad horror flick. You guys started fighting to the death.”

People who entered into pacts with the Devil often lost their human qualities, and became like their master. Monsters in every sense of the word, they deserved no place on this earth.

Peter had never fought one of these people, and had no idea how his powers would stack up. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

“You’ve got me on the edge of my seat. What happened then?” Peter asked.

“I woke up,” Nemo said.

“You suck, you know that?”

“Hey, nobody’s perfect.”

Nemo’s face was now an afterimage, his voice barely a faint whisper. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving Peter to wonder when they’d again hook up.

“Be careful, Peter. Whatever this guy is, it isn’t human,” his friend said.

Peter started to thank him for the warning. But by then, Nemo had disappeared in the clouds, leaving nothing but a pair of gulls circling overhead.

23

Clyde Jucko had the disposition of a junkyard dog and a face to match. He was waiting outside EZ Storage as Munns pulled into the parking lot, and climbed out of his car. A big man, he cast a long, menacing shadow that stretched halfway across the lot.

Munns approached Jucko cautiously. Jucko was holding what looked like bolt cutters in his hand. Munns’s eyes fell on the broken padlock lying on the ground.

“You went into my unit without my permission,” Munns said.

“It’s my unit. You just rent it from me,” Jucko corrected him.

“You had no right to do that, or to touch my things.”

“I didn’t touch your goddamn things. I just wanted to see what you’ve been up to. You bring the money?”

“I got it.”

“Give it to me right now.”

Munns pulled an envelope stuffed with hundreds from his pocket and tossed it to the older man. As Jucko counted the money, Munns glanced in both directions. The other units were empty and they were alone. Except for the steady hiss of cars on the nearby highway, the air was still. Munns knew that the best course of action was to shoot Jucko in the head at point-blank range, and throw his body in the trunk of his car. A single gunshot would carry through the woods and trail off like a lonely clap of thunder. It would go unnoticed, and Jucko would join the list of people who’d come in contact with Munns and disappeared.

Only there was a problem with that scenario. Jucko was pointing the bolt cutters like he was planning to cut Munns’s balls off. He looked ready for a fight, and drawing a gun on him at this moment seemed out of the question.

“All here,” Jucko said, pocketing the cash. “Okay, now I want you to tell me what’s been going on. Who’s been living in that unit?”

“No one,” Munns said.

“That’s a bunch of bull. I had a look. Someone’s been living in there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Have a look, see for yourself.”

Jucko had not lowered the bolt cutters, and Munns stepped around him while keeping his distance. He brought his face to the open door of his unit, and gazed into the darkened interior. Inside were six stainless-steel footlockers stored on the rack of a metal shelving unit. Inside each footlocker was the body of one of his victims. One of the footlockers had fallen from its spot, and lay broken on the concrete floor. Light streamed down from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Jucko had been correct in his assumption that the hole had been created from within. But by who? Or what? Munns couldn’t be sure. He started to slide the door shut and felt a hand on his arm.

“What the hell are you keeping in those footlockers?” Jucko demanded.

“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.

“Everything’s my business.”

Jucko pushed him to the side before Munns could reply. Sliding back the door, he entered the unit, and flipped over the broken footlocker lying on the floor. A corpse wrapped in plastic tumbled out, and Jucko used the bolt cutters to cut away the plastic shroud. A skeletal face stared up at him. It was Edie, Munns’s last victim. She had cursed Munns as he strangled her to death, and the invective was slow to leave her face.

“It’s a dead woman,” Jucko said in horror. “What kind of monster are you?”

Munns’s gun was tucked in his belt behind his back. As he reached for it, Jucko swung the bolt cutters up from the floor and their blades brushed his face. Warm blood ran down Munns’s cheek and his vision blurred. His hands covered the bleeding wound.

Jucko reached behind Munns’s back, and relieved him of his gun. Dropping it in his pocket, he triumphantly rested the bolt cutters on his shoulder. “I should kill you. Save the state the trouble of locking you up. Now get on your knees, or I’ll bust your head open.”

“I thought we had a deal,” Munns blurted out.

“I ain’t making no deals with the Devil. On your knees.”

Munns’s neck began to burn. The sensation started at the shimmering tattoo, and spread straight up his neck and into his brain like so much bad poison sent from below.

“No,” Munns said.

“What did you say?” Jucko declared.

“I’m not kneeling to you, or anyone else.”

For reasons Munns could not explain, he no longer felt afraid of Jucko. In his mind, he saw himself taking Jucko outside the shed and dismembering him in the parking lot, the old man’s blood staining the pavement and spoiling an otherwise perfect day.

Munns’s hands were burning as well. He brought them up to his face to have a look. The skin was turning a sickening black, and his fingernails had grown into talons. A sound escaped his lips that was not human.

“Jesus H. Christ. What in God’s name are you?” Jucko whispered.

The bolt cutters hit the floor. Jucko looked like he might cry. The presence of the Devil did that to some people. Munns backed Jucko into the corner, put his hands around Jucko’s throat, and lifted him clean off the floor. Then he carried him outside into the parking lot.

Jucko begged for mercy, and Munns squeezed the words as they came out of his throat. Munns had been tortured as a child, and every person in town knew it, including Clyde Jucko. Mercy was the last thing on his mind.

Munns drew the Swiss Army knife from his pocket, and flicked open the blade. Before his eyes, it grew into a gleaming sword. He released his grasp on Jucko, and let him stand on his own. In one swift motion, he cut off the old man’s head. One quick slice was all it took, and the disembodied corpse hit the pavement with a sickening thud.

Jucko’s head rolled for several yards before coming to a stop. The old man’s eyes were blinking wildly, like he didn’t know he was dead yet. A screech of brakes shattered the stillness. Ray’s black van pulled into the parking lot, and the tattoo artist jumped out. Ray started to approach, saw Munns, and started backing up, as if he didn’t know who Munns was.

“Doc, is that you?” he asked.

“Who do you think it is?” Munns barked.

Ray opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked terrified. In all their time together, Ray had never shown fear. It was not a quality he seemed to possess, until now.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Munns demanded.

“You don’t know?” Ray asked.

“No. Tell me what’s going on.”

Ray went to the van and bent the side mirror so Munns could see his own reflection. The image staring back did not look real. Munns’s clothes were shreds, and he’d been transformed into a hulking demon with horns coming out of his skull, rapierlike fangs, and a ridge of spikes running the length of his spine. The most recent tattoo Ray had inked on his skin had come to life, and now stood ready to do battle with whichever enemies stood in his way.

A coarse laugh escaped Munns’s lips. Surtr had risen.

24

Peter got out of the cab in front of Holly’s apartment wondering what a gargoyle on steroids looked like. Not the kind of date to spend Friday night with, that was for sure. At least he’d have Garrison backing him up when he confronted the thing.

He entered the lobby, and searched for Holly’s name on the intercom. He had always envied Holly for making it into Columbia. It was New York’s best school, and one of the finest in the country. His own college experience had consisted of a single semester at CCNY, where he’d majored in not falling asleep in class before being thrown out.

He sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he’d stayed in school, and gotten a degree. Perhaps he would have become a doctor or a lawyer. He would have made a hell of an attorney, especially during a cross-examination. No one was going to keep any secrets from him! But that was just an idle daydream. He’d wanted to be a magician for as long he could remember. It was his calling, as strange as that sounded.

Right as he found Holly’s listing, he got a call from Liza. How strange that she’d call just as he entered Holly’s building.

“When are you coming home?” she asked.

“Soon. I’ve been running some errands,” he replied.

“You could have called, you know.”

“I thought you wanted to have a quiet afternoon by yourself.”

“You leave in the company of an FBI agent. Then I don’t hear from you for three whole hours. You could be a little more considerate.”

“Sorry.”

“How did it go with Garrison?”

“It was a strange morning. It appears there’s more than one shadow person in the city. The FBI has tapes of them inside Grand Central Terminal. It’s like an invasion.”

“Eeek! What do the shadow people want?”

“Me.”

“Don’t say that. You’re scaring me.”

“All right. They want you.”

“You’re not funny. So, where are you now? Can you talk for a minute?”

It did not seem the right time to be telling his girlfriend that he was about to enter another woman’s apartment to give her a piece of jewelry. He stepped out of the lobby onto the sidewalk, and cupped his hand over his ear to block out the street noise. “I can talk.”

“I called Dr. Sierra,” Liza said. “He’s very disturbed by what you told him this morning. He’s afraid you could hurt yourself when you go into one of your states. He wants to help you.”

“Hurt myself how?”

“By doing something awful, and then later being held accountable for it.”

“Like nearly burning down the restaurant this morning.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“No. I was going to let you do that.”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. The moment of truth had finally arrived. “You think I should tell him what happened at the restaurant?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. Dr. Sierra said he could fit us in tomorrow morning.”

“That soon, huh?”

“He wants us to meet a colleague of his named Hunsinger. Dr. Sierra said that Hunsinger has dealt with people who have problems just like yours. Dr. Sierra put in a call to Hunsinger, and he’s agreed to meet with us.”

“He spoke with Hunsinger before you called?”

“Yes. Why?”

Something inside of him snapped. It must have shown in his face, for a man walking toward him on the sidewalk stepped into the gutter and immediately crossed the street.

“Dr. Sierra promised not to talk to anyone about us. Remember?”

“You’re losing your temper. Calm down,” Liza said.

The demon lurking inside of him never truly went to sleep. It was always simmering just below the surface, ready to attack like a vicious watchdog. “He betrayed me.”

“Dr. Sierra consulted Hunsinger for advice,” she said. “He’s trying to help, and you’re putting handcuffs on him.”

“He deserves a lot worse than handcuffs.”

“That’s not funny. Stop talking like that.”

Betrayals were the Devil’s playthings. They started wars, ruined marriages, and brought out the worst in mankind. A betrayal had taken his parents’ lives, and forever altered his own. He would make Sierra pay for this indiscretion, even with Liza in the room. Looking up into the sky, he let the warm sunlight bathe his face, and felt his anger recede, if only a little.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

“Will you go see him tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll go see him.”

“Thank you for doing this. Are you mad?”

“Not at all.”

“You sound mad. Please don’t be. It’s for the best.”

He loved Liza more than anything in the world. Yet there were times when she made him so angry, he wanted to scream. Saying good-bye, he ended the call.

*   *   *

Holly was in her apartment. She sounded happy to hear his voice, and buzzed him in.

He took a creaky elevator to the ninth floor. Once upon a time, he’d loved Mondays. It was the day he used to escape his problems. Now it seemed like all he was doing was confronting them. The elevator rumbled to a stop. He got out, and walked down a narrow hallway to a door painted a muted black.

Holly lived by herself. Most psychics did. He was one of the lucky ones, although he wasn’t sure how long that was going to last. He and Liza seemed to be growing further apart with every conversation. It was like slipping down a cliff.

He tapped lightly. No answer. He tapped a little harder. To his surprise, the door opened by itself. People didn’t leave their doors unlocked in New York, not even in the best apartment buildings. He stuck his head in. “Holly?”

Nothing. He entered and shut the door behind him. Holly lived in a large studio with a sweeping westerly view of the Hudson River. The walls and ceilings were painted black, while thick white candles decorated the bookshelf and coffee table. A haunting violin solo played over the music system. He looked around the room, not seeing her.

“It’s Peter. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Growing up, Holly had loved to play hide-and-seek. She’d make herself disappear in her aunt’s vast apartment, and Peter would have to search for her. She’d always squealed when he’d discovered her hiding in the closet, or under a bed. That had been the best part of the game.

A voice shattered the stillness. “Who’s that?”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

He walked around the couch. Holly lay on the cushions, her eyes half open, as if in a daze. She wore jeans and a tight T-shirt that exposed her midriff and accentuated her breasts. Her dark hair lay seductively on a pillow, and her lips were painted a hot pink. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her dressed like that before. She did not look like the woman he knew.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “I think so.”

“You didn’t get visited by a shadow person, did you?”

“I think I would have known that. I’m just a little light-headed. Get me some water, would you? I’m dying of thirst.”

The kitchen was the size of a phone booth. He ran the tap until the water was chilled, then filled a glass and brought it to her. She was sitting up and smiling.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded and sipped the water. He sat down on the edge of the couch so they were a few feet apart. He noticed a large vase of water sitting on the coffee table. Beside it, a pouch of magic herbs. “You’ve been scrying on me again, haven’t you?” he said bluntly.

“Yes, I have,” she admitted without a hint of shame. “I got scared on Friday night during the séance. You were lying there on the floor in my aunt’s apartment, twitching your legs, and I realized that I might never see you again. It nearly broke my heart. So I started to watch you.”

“What did scrying on me accomplish?”

“I wanted to help you. I was scared for you.”

He looked away and stared into space. “How much have you seen?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. I saw you at the doctor’s office this morning, and at the Indian restaurant which you nearly burned down, and later at Grand Central Station with the FBI agent, where you watched the videotapes of the shadow people running across the terminal floor.”

“Did you see me talking to Max?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear what Max said about you?”

“Yes. Max is angry with me. I already knew that.”

“Did you see me talking to Nemo?”

“Was that the face in the clouds? I didn’t recognize him. You shouldn’t be talking out in public like that to Nemo. People will become suspicious. Next time, stick a Bluetooth in your ear, and they’ll think you’re on a cell phone.”

“That’s not fair, Holly.”

“Do you think I’m abusing my powers?”

“Yes—don’t you?”

She moved closer to him on the couch. “I only planned to watch you after you left my aunt’s apartment Friday night to make sure you were safe. But once I started watching you, I couldn’t stop. I guess you could say it’s become an addiction.”

This was bad. Holly could make his life far more complicated than it already was and there wasn’t an earthly thing he could do to stop her except get on his knees and plead with her. Only that would probably be taken the wrong way. Damn it, what was he supposed to do?

“Please stop this,” he begged her. “Please.”

“I’ll try.” She paused. “But I won’t make any promises.”

“Not even to me?”

She put her hand on his knee and left it there. “Not even to you. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I know who you are, and what you are. That’s why. You’re not normal, and neither am I. But we pretend to be. That’s the lie we have to live in order to fit in. But it doesn’t work all the time. Like you’re learning now.”

“You mean with Liza.”

“Especially with Liza. She can’t change you, no matter how hard she tries.”

Holly was making it sound like his relationship with Liza was doomed, and would end like every other relationship he’d ever had. He shook his head in disagreement.

“It’s not like that between us,” he said. “Liza’s trying to help me.”

“Peter.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

Holly pulled herself close, and moved her hand to his stomach, where she rested her palm. Her eyes danced across his face. Every inch of her skin looked radiant. Before his eyes she had changed from a girl into a ravishing young woman. Or had she been that way for a while, and he just hadn’t noticed? He did not resist as she climbed into his lap.

Witches were strange creatures. Their powers were linked to their imaginations much differently than other psychics. If they imagined something vividly enough, it would become their reality, as well as the reality of those in their presence. They were dangerous that way.

The candles sparked to life. As they did, the walls expanded like a movie set, and the apartment was transformed into a high-ceilinged boudoir with a four-poster bed in its center. Over the sound system, the violin solo turned into a romantic ballad.

Holly climbed off his lap. She motioned for him to rise, and he did. She offered him her hand, and he took it. They started across the room together toward the bed. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. She had cast a spell on him, and there was nothing he could do.

They stopped in front of the bed. She put her hands on his shoulders, and gazed longingly into his eyes. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. He had to escape.

“No,” he said, the word taking all his strength to utter.

“No?” She acted amused. “Don’t tell me you never considered it.”

Of course he’d considered it. Holly was beautiful, and the thought of having sex with her had entered his mind more than once. Each time it had, his conscience had shouted it down.

“It’s not right,” he whispered.

“What’s not right? Our falling in love?”

He nodded stiffly.

“I beg to differ. You’ve had plenty of girlfriends, and they’ve all left you, and broken your heart. We were meant for each other, Peter. You have to know that.”

“Let me out of this spell.”

“Not on your life.”

She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingertips across his hairless chest. He could not deny the powerful effect it had on him. He was becoming aroused, and would soon be lying in bed with Holly. But if he let that happen, his life would never be the same. He’d lose Liza, and start down a road with Holly whose ending was totally unclear. He was not ready for either of those things to happen. Somehow, someway, he had to make her stop.

Holly leaned in close, and kissed him on the mouth. A painful spark jumped between their lips. The boudoir disappeared, and Holly’s student furnishings returned. Around the room, the candles spouted flames that caused the textbooks and magazines on the coffee table to catch fire. Peter stamped them out on the floor.

“Check to see if anything else is on fire,” he said.

Holly was in a daze. She checked the kitchen and the bathroom.

“All clear?” he asked.

She nodded dumbly. He hated to be a party pooper, but it was time to go. He removed the five-pointed star from the gift bag he’d brought, and made her put it on.

“Don’t take that off until I tell you to, okay?”

Utterly embarrassed, Holly stared at the floor. He wanted things to go back to the way they used to be, and gave her a hug.

“Can’t we just be friends?” he asked.

She started to cry. He hated when she did that. He got a paper towel from the kitchen, and wiped away the tears. She looked vulnerable now and more than a little afraid. He grabbed the bag with the remaining necklace and went to the front door. She followed him as if blind.

“Good-bye. I’ll call you in a few days,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to explain?” she blurted out.

“Explain what?”

“You were under a spell.”

He waited, certain there was more.

“No one can break a witch’s spell. It’s not possible.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“Be serious, Peter. How did you do that?”

There were certain things that even Peter didn’t understand about himself. Like how he moved objects with his mind or set off car alarms or made cups of coffee boil or flames jump off kitchen stoves. At the most unexpected of times these things just happened, and he never knew why. His temper was partially responsible, but there was another reason, and he had yet to fathom its meaning. Now he had another strange power to add to the list. He could not be kept under a witch’s spell. It pleased him to know that Holly could not make him her prisoner, and he hugged her before going out the door.

25

Ray was freaking out.

What if someone came, and saw Jucko’s headless body lying on the ground? They’d most certainly call the police, and he and Doc Munns would be arrested and sent to jail. He could not let that happen, not unless he wished to anger the Order of Astrum.

Ray was more afraid of the elders of the Order than he was of the police, or of going to jail, or just about anything else he could think of. He’d seen the kind of horror the elders were capable of wreaking upon people in their service who did not perform up to their standards. They were brutal, and he had made it a point to never make them angry.

Ray made Munns get into the passenger side of the van. Munns had calmed down and was reverting back to his old self. The transformation was as startling as it was remarkable One moment, he was the embodiment of a beast that had guarded the gates of hell for over two thousand years; the next, he was a pudgy slob, and easily the world’s biggest loser.

“Stay here,” Ray said.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Munns asked, sounding bewildered.

“You don’t know?”

“No. Did I kill Jucko?”

“You cut his head off. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Ray went about cleaning up the mess. He dragged Jucko’s body into Munns’s storage unit, near the footlockers that contained Munns’s previous victims. Then he threw in Jucko’s head. Keeping the victims in airtight footlockers had seemed like a good idea, until now. The bodies were a liability, and Ray wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them, or with Jucko. He’d think of something, it was just going to take a little time.

Ray had known that Munns had problems when he’d first recruited him. Men who killed had troubled pasts, which was why they killed. It was sweet revenge for all the terrible things that had happened to them growing up.

Munns’s childhood had been a living hell. Ray had heard the stories from the people in town. Munns’s parents were no-good drunks who’d taken turns torturing him. One day his father was beating the snot out of him while his mother looked on; the very next, Mom was giving him the belt while Dad smoked a butt and watched. Beating their son had been a sick sport that had lasted for many years. It had stunted Munns’s growth and left psychological scars that no amount of time would ever heal.

That was Munns’s story, at least part of it. There was another sordid chapter, although Ray had never gotten the details. Something had happened when Munns was a teenager that had been the icing on the cake. It was so ugly, that at times Munns lost control, and did crazy things, like try to run over townspeople’s dogs.

Ray had known all these things about Munns, yet still had recruited him into the Order. In hindsight, it now seemed a mistake. Munns was too imperfect for the job, too flawed. The Order did not tolerate mistakes, and Ray would pay for his lack of judgment.

As Ray started to leave the unit, the sliding metal door clanged shut in his face, throwing the interior into darkness. The door wouldn’t budge. Was Munns playing a trick on him?

“Let me out!” he said, banging on the door with his palm.

A scraping sound made him jump. Something was crawling across the floor. He dug out his lighter and flicked it on.

He gasped. Jucko’s severed head was rolling across the floor by itself. Coming to its own body, it stopped. Before Ray’s disbelieving eyes, the tendons and sinew rejoined in perfect union, and the dismembered corpse became whole again.

Jucko stood up. His face was lifeless, his eyes unblinking. Ray had thought he knew evil. But now, he realized he didn’t know evil at all. The evil he knew was clever and sly and played wicked tricks on the world. The evil standing before him was different. It was pure, and came straight from the depths of hell.

“Give me your lighter,” came a ghostly voice out of Jucko’s mouth.

Ray hesitated. He did not want the room to return to darkness. Then his imagination would take over, and he’d lose his sanity.

“No,” he squeaked.

“Do as I say. It’s for your own good,” the voice said.

The voice of reason, coming out of a dead man’s mouth. Ray reluctantly handed over the lighter. In the dead man’s hand, it turned into a torch, which illuminated the entire room.

The lid to one of the footlockers popped open, and a female corpse climbed out. It was no longer shrouded in plastic, but wore stylish city clothes and had a skeletal face. The lid to a second footlocker popped open, and a second victim emerged, this one dressed like a much older woman. The dead women stared at Ray with hollow eyes.

Their number gave them away. It was the elders, come to pay him a visit. Ray had never felt more afraid in his life. “Guess I screwed up, huh?” he said.

The unholy trio did not reply.

“I can do better,” Ray promised them. “I swear I can.”

“To who do you swear?” came a voice out of Jucko’s mouth.

“To Satan and everything he stands for.”

“Forever and ever?”

“Yes, forever and ever.”

“Good. There has been a change in plans. We need you to speed up the process. Munns needs to bring the woman named Rachael out on the train sooner. Munns must call this woman, and convince her to come out right away.”

“But everything’s in place for Friday night,” Ray protested. “She’ll become suspicious and start questioning him.”

“Help Munns deal with her suspicions. Work with him.”

“Munns is a basket case. He’ll screw up,” Ray said, speaking his mind.

“We’re giving you another chance,” said the voice. “Make the most of it.”

“You’re crazy,” Ray said under his breath.

“Deal with him,” said the voice.

The two dead women charged across the shed, and pinned Ray against the door. Their bony fingers gripped his arms and held his struggling body in place. The one to his left bit into his cheek and held the flesh between her teeth; the one on his right clamped her teeth down on his earlobe, and tugged on the skin. At any moment, he expected to be eaten alive.

“Care to reconsider?” asked the voice.

Ray took a deep breath, expecting it to be his last. Not once had the elders asked him his opinion. They didn’t care what he thought. He was just a slave.

“All right,” he said.

“You’ll work with Munns and make the girl come out?” the voice asked.

“I’ll try.”

“That’s not good enough!”

The dead women began to tear away at Ray’s flesh.

“I’ll do it!” Ray screamed.

They stopped eating him. Ray shut his eyes, and tried to wish this nightmare away. Opening them a moment later, he found that nothing had changed.

“Is that a promise?” the voice asked.

“On my mother’s grave,” Ray said.

“We’re going to hold you to that.”

“I said I’d do it,” Ray said. “Why is this woman so important to you? Is there a reason?”

Jucko brought his face within inches of Ray’s. His breath reeked of the rotted architecture of an evil man’s soul. “The woman is meaningless. It’s Peter Warlock we’re after. Warlock is trying to save Rachael, and will travel from New York to come to her aid. That is predestinated, and there’s no changing it. When Warlock arrives in your little town, he will have an FBI agent with him. That is predestined as well. The agent will arrest Munns, and you as well if you’re not careful. Your job at that point will be to stay out of the way. Understood?”

“Why? What will happen?”

“What do you think will happen, you stupid little man?”

Ray shook his head, his thoughts clouded by fear. The teeth of one of the dead women began to gobble his ear and he shrieked in agony. “Please! Spare me!”

His ear was being torn from his head. The other dead woman tried to rip a hunk of flesh out of his cheek. He screamed and struggled but could not free himself from their bony grasp. The dead man standing in front of him lowered the torch onto the top of Ray’s head. Ray felt his hair catch fire, and knew that this was the end.

As if by magic, the torch extinguished itself, throwing the shed into darkness. The dead women stopped eating his face. They seemed to just melt away, and Ray brought his hand up to touch his unscathed head. Behind him, the sliding door slid open on its own accord and filled the shed with sunlight. Jucko’s headless body lay on the floor, his head a few feet away, while the footlockers were propped against the wall, the corpses of Munns’s victims still inside.

None of it had been real.

It didn’t matter. Ray was still terrified. The elders had tapped his innermost fears. They knew what scared him, and had used those fears to turn his soul inside out. Locking the sliding door behind him, he hurried across the parking lot to his van. Munns sat in the passenger seat, listening to a Marilyn Manson CD on the sound system.

“Where you been?” Munns asked.

“Shut the hell up.”

Ray stared through the windshield at the road, thinking hard. He would have to concoct some reason to draw Rachael from New York. He’d always been good at making up stories, and supposed it wouldn’t be too hard to come up with a convincing lie. The hard part would be to get Munns to call Rachael, and make her believe him.

Ray glanced at his passenger. Munns was humming along to the music. He did not appear the least bit upset by what he’d done. Munns rolled up his sleeve and began to scratch the skin around the tattoo of Surtr holding the severed head of Peter Warlock. It was one of Ray’s best creations, the colors so vivid it almost looked alive.

“The skin is burning,” Munns explained.

Of course it was burning. The skin always burned for the new recruits entering into hell. The hard part was that it never stopped burning.

“Change of plans,” Ray said. “We’re going to get Rachael to come out sooner. We need to come up with a story that she’ll believe.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Munns asked.

Ray hesitated. How did he explain what had just happened in the storage shed? The words had not been invented. Even if they had, he was not sure he would have uttered them.

“It’s a long story,” the tattoo artist said.

26

Peter cabbed it back downtown. He’d dodged a bullet, but had a feeling that this was not the end of things between him and Holly in the romance department. Holly was in love and she was also a witch. That was a recipe for disaster if there ever was one.

The last person on his list was Snoop, never the easiest person to track down. Once Peter found his assistant and gave him the five-pointed-star necklace, he’d go home to Liza and apologize for not calling. Perhaps a quiet dinner, or a foreign movie at an Upper East Side art house would do the trick.

He sent his assistant a text, and told him they needed to meet up. Snoop wrote back to say that he was setting up a pop-up club at Jobee, a Taiwanese restaurant on Howard Street. Did Peter want to join him? Peter wrote back that he did, and gave the cabdriver the address.

Pop-up clubs were the latest rage. All across the city, party promoters were setting up velvet ropes and plugging in turntables in dim sum parlors, Midtown office spaces, strip clubs, school playgrounds, even Laundromats. At midnight, these unassuming spaces were transformed into trendy nightclubs, complete with snarling bouncers and a line of partygoers stretched halfway around the block hoping to get in.

Snoop liked to work pop-up clubs because they were great places to meet women. The fact that the clubs weren’t legal added to the thrill. Jobee, his newest venue, was located just north of the fake handbag district on Canal Street. The cab pulled up to the door, and Peter hopped out.

Jobee’s front door had a paper menu taped to it, and the house specialty, Taiwanese Oyster Pancake, caught his eye. It was the only restaurant in the city that served the dish, and he decided to take some home to Liza as a surprise.

He went in. The restaurant’s interior looked like a cyclone had hit it. A waiter was shouting into a cell phone, asking the police to hurry. Tables and chairs were turned upside down, the kitschy paper lanterns swung wildly from the ceiling. He cursed under his breath, knowing he was too late.

He hurried to the back of the restaurant. There, he found Snoop slumped in a chair. His assistant’s head sagged on his chest, and his eyes were tightly shut. The only thing moving were his legs, both of which twitched uncontrollably. The restaurant’s owner and a cook knelt beside Snoop, trying to rouse him. Behind the chair stood the party promoter, a Russian named Boris from the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Boris was telling the waiter not to call the police, and the waiter was ignoring him. It was not a pretty scene.

Peter took the last five-pointed star from his bag, and fitted it around his assistant’s neck. He had no idea if this would do any good, but he gave it a try. Snoop’s lips started to move. Peter leaned over and put his ear up next to his assistant’s mouth, listening hard.

“Peter, is that you?” Snoop asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Did that thing take you away?”

“Oh, man, this is crazy. One minute I’m in the club, the next I’m at some crazy guy’s house on the side of the hill, and he’s trying to run me down with his car.”

“Are you still there?”

“I ran away from him. Trying to find my way to town, wherever the hell that is.”

“I need to get you out of there.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Great. Here he comes in his car. He’s got a gun—he’s trying to shoot me!”

Snoop’s feet began to tap the floor as he attempted to run away from Dr. Death. Only Snoop wasn’t going to succeed, just as Liza hadn’t gotten away, nor Peter himself. Dr. Death had a home field advantage, and was going to shoot Snoop if Peter didn’t act quickly. Rising, he quickly hustled the owner, cook, waiter, and Russian promoter out the front door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the owner asked him.

“My friend needs help. Please stand here, and keep the police out.”

“What is wrong with your friend?” the owner asked. “Is he on drugs?”

“That’s none of your business.”

With that, Peter went back into the restaurant and locked the door behind him. He didn’t want an audience to witness Snoop coming around, and hearing what he had to say. As a psychic he was sworn to keep secrets and not talk about his dealings with the other side. It was a hard promise to keep, but he did his best. He grabbed Snoop by the shoulders and attempted to shake him awake. His eyelids fluttered.

“He’s shooting at me!” Snoop said desperately.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Peter implored him.

“Oww! Something hit my leg. Oh, my God, it’s bleeding. He winged me!”

“Snoop, you’ve got to open your eyes!”

“I can’t. This is so crazy. Get me out of here, will you!”

Peter stopped shaking his assistant. Something was keeping Snoop from returning. He let his eyes canvass the room. In the back of the restaurant was a darkened space with several booths. His eyes locked on the shadow person hovering over a table. The last times hadn’t worked, so the shadow person had decided to hang around, and make sure it did this time.

Peter did not remember moving across the restaurant toward the booths. Nor did he remember raising his arm. Just the sound of his fist striking the shadow person in the space that should have been its head. The evil spirit emitted a groan, and shrank into itself. Two more blows produced similar effects. He was hurting it, and making it smaller. The third blow did the trick, and the shadow person became the size of a beach ball before disappearing, the sound coming out of its mouth a pitiful cry.

He hurried back to Snoop. His assistant had woken up, and was examining his leg where he’d been shot by Dr. Death. He was in a daze, having a hard time grasping that his trip hadn’t been real. Peter helped him out of his chair.

“You’re my hero,” Snoop said.

“Let’s get out of here before the police come. This is one trip you can’t talk to anyone about.”

“What’s this thing around my neck, anyway? It’s not my color.”

“Leave it on. It will protect you from being kidnapped again.”

He pushed Snoop into the kitchen and looked for an exit. Snoop pilfered a vegetarian egg roll out of a pan sitting on the stove, and started to eat it. “Is that what happened to me? I was kidnapped by that weird black thing?”

“It’s called a shadow person, and it’s an evil spirit. It kidnapped your soul, and took you to the home of a serial killer. Don’t ask me why, because I haven’t figured out that part yet.”

“Could I have died?”

“It was a distinct possibility. I need to pick your brain. We have to catch this guy.”

Snoop chewed contemplatively. “I’m game.”

27

Opening Ceremony was the most daring clothing boutique in the city, and a few short blocks away. Snoop suggested they get a window seat at the Starbucks across the street from it. Girl watching was his passion.

They both got the house roast and a toasted sesame bagel. A window table opened up and they grabbed it. Peter sipped his drink, realizing how lucky it was Snoop was still alive. Either he was going to have to give every person he knew a five-pointed star, or he’d have to come up with another way to deal with this problem. Snoop leaned forward on his elbows and spoke in a whisper. “I heard you beating that thing in the restaurant. Did you kill it?”

Peter shook his head and sipped his drink.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you do that?”

Another moment of truth. There should have been a law that a person didn’t have to deal with more than one of those a day. Should he tell Snoop who he was, or continue to lie to his best friend? He decided to tell the truth.

“It’s called dark magic,” Peter explained, his voice barely audible. “It’s a special gift that I was born with. I can read minds, see into the future, and when I set my mind to it, move objects around by telekinesis. I also conduct séances with some of my psychic friends.”

“Do you talk to dead people?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are there really such things as ghosts?”

“Yes, and they’re everywhere.”

Snoop chewed on his bagel. He did not seem terribly surprised by Peter’s admission. Perhaps he’d known all along that Peter was psychic, and because they were tight, had never let on. A better friend he’d never had.

“What about the magic tricks? Are they your cover?” Snoop asked.

“I guess you could call them that,” Peter said. “If I slip up, I tell people it’s a trick, and no one’s the wiser. I’ve been doing it all my life, and never been caught.”

“Which makes you a very interesting guy. Does Liza know?”

“I told her a few weeks ago. The shock is starting to settle in.”

“That bad?”

“We went to see a shrink this morning. It didn’t go well.”

Snoop put down his half-eaten bagel. A knowing look spread across his face.

“Was the shrink’s name Dr. Sierra?” his assistant asked.

Peter’s coffee cup hit the table hard. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, wow, I fooled you. That’s a first. Let’s write this down and get it notarized.”

“Come on, tell me.”

Snoop took out his Droid. He carried the same model that Peter did, and was resisting turning it in for an upgrade, just as Peter was. They were alike in many ways, and often joked that they were twins separated at birth. Snoop punched an app, and a live shot of a surveillance camera outside Peter’s theater appeared on the tiny screen. He hit another button, and a live shot from the camera in the alley came on. Pushing more buttons, he revealed shots from the surveillance cameras inside the theater that ran 24/7.

“I didn’t know that was possible with a Droid,” Peter said.

“They don’t call me Snoop for nothing. The system also has a memory. Take a look at this video that was shot earlier.”

Snoop pushed another button. On the screen appeared a video showing a man standing outside the theater, banging on the front door. It was Dr. Sierra, wearing a hat and coat. With him was a second man, quite sickly in appearance, who carried a wooden cane. The second man wore a solemn expression on his face.

“I like to check on the theater and make sure everything’s okay,” Snoop explained. “I caught Dr. Sierra and his friend banging on the door this afternoon. He was there for a while. Then he went across the street to get a sandwich with his friend. Something told me I should call this guy, and find out what he wanted. So I called the restaurant, and asked to speak with him.”

“He must have been surprised,” Peter said, enjoying his assistant’s ingenuity.

“He was. He said he urgently needed to speak with you. I thought he was a kook, and asked him who his friend was. That’s when he clammed up.”

“He wouldn’t tell you who the other person was?”

“No, and I asked him a few times. It bothered me that he wouldn’t give me the other guy’s name or anything.”

Was this Hunsinger, the colleague Dr. Sierra had mentioned to Liza? If so, why had Sierra dragged him out on a Monday afternoon and brought him to Peter’s theater? Sierra had betrayed him in so many ways that it made Peter angry thinking about it.

At the next table, a college-aged girl enjoying a latte let out a yelp. Her cup was boiling over, the brown liquid singeing her manicured fingers. She looked bewildered, which was how most people reacted when confronted by the paranormal. Peter forced himself to calm down, and the drink went back to its normal state.

Peter glanced at Snoop. His assistant mouthed the word “Wow!”

“Can you teach me that?” Snoop asked under his breath.

It comes with a heavy price tag, Peter nearly told him.

“Afraid not,” he said instead. “What else did Dr. Sierra say?”

“He asked for your phone number. I told him it was private, and not something I could hand out. He got insistent, and I told him to have a nice day.”

“He wouldn’t tell you what he wanted, huh?”

“No. If you ask me, this guy is trouble.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re a public person. People don’t just come banging on your door unannounced every day, do they? This guy Sierra is unhinged. Take my advice, and stay away from him.”

“I’ve got another session with him tomorrow morning.”

“Cancel it.”

“I promised Liza.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Peter Warlock the magician?” the college girl at the next table asked. “Why, yes, you are. I saw your show with my girlfriend last year. We had the best time. Will you do that trick for me again? I’m just dying to know how it’s done.”

She held out her cup of latte, as if expecting Peter to make it boil again. Snoop pulled back in his chair. He was laughing under his breath and enjoying himself at his boss’s expense. Peter gave him the eye. It wasn’t funny, but Snoop kept laughing.

“What’s your name?” Peter asked.

“Sheri,” she replied.

Peter borrowed one of Sheri’s rings and made it magically pass through a coffee stirrer. The ring was put into a paper napkin and made to disappear. Peter then asked Sheri to pick a packet of sugar from the dish on the table. Sheri chose a yellow packet of Splenda. Tearing the packet open, he produced the ring and slipped it on her finger. Sheri squealed with delight, and seemed to have forgotten about the boiling latte. He stole a peek inside her head just to be sure. The memory was on a back shelf, never to be used. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is it safe?” Snoop asked under his breath.

“Yes, it’s safe.”

Peter’s Droid vibrated. Garrison calling. He took the call in the street.

“We caught one,” the FBI agent said.

28

“You caught a shadow person,” Peter said breathlessly.

“Caught it dead in its tracks,” Garrison replied. “We spotted it coming out the Westchester train platform and watched it run across the main concourse. There were people in the concourse, so we waited until it ran upstairs into a hallway by the west-side exits. That’s when we hit the lights. You’d be amazed at how bright they can make them.”

“How did it react?”

“It screamed so loud I heard it upstairs. Then it turned to stone. We cordoned off the area, and are keeping people away. My boss wants it moved out of here. He’s telling me to take it to an empty hangar at Kennedy Airport so a bunch of pointy-headed scientists can stick needles in it. I didn’t like the sound of that, so I decided to call you. Is that a wise idea?”

Peter panicked. Violating a ghost or spirit would upset the psychic balance of the universe. Innocent people would perish as a result, not just here, but in other parts of the world as well. “That’s a bad idea. Lots of people will die in ways that you cannot possibly imagine.”

“How about if we just move it down the hall to a room?”

“Don’t. It will burn you. The scars will never heal.”

“Well, I can’t just leave it here. Too many people will see it.”

“You want my help?”

“I didn’t call to hear the sound of your voice. Of course I want your help.”

It was not uncommon for a spirit to become trapped in this world. When that happened, psychics often rushed to the spirit’s aid, and built makeshift walls around it to hide it from peering eyes. Those walls, along with a few well-placed sawhorses, usually did the trick.

“Build a wall around it using plywood and sheets of translucent plastic,” Peter said. “The plastic will keep the public from seeing it. At the same time, the plastic will allow the light to filter through, which will keep the shadow person frozen.”

“I want you to take a look at this thing. You game?”

“I’m game.”

A cab crawled down the street looking for a fare and Peter waved the driver down. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Snoop inside the coffee shop, chatting away with Sheri. Snoop was doing a magic trick where it appeared he removed his thumb, and then made it whole. Sheri seemed absolutely enthralled. Peter waved good-bye before hopping into the backseat.

“Whatever you do, don’t throw a blanket over it,” Peter said. “The darkness will allow it to become unfrozen, and it will escape.”

The cabbie turned around in his seat, his dreadlocks bouncing on his shoulders. “You talking to me, mon?”

“No, I wasn’t. Grand Central Terminal.”

The cab lurched ahead. Peter went back to his conversation. “I would also advise you not to stare at it very long, either. It will give you nightmares that will last a long time.”

“I’ve got enough of those,” Garrison said. “How soon can you get here?”

“As fast as my cabbie can drive.”

Peter put away his phone. So much for taking Liza out to the movies. It was stuff like this that ruined relationships, yet he wasn’t sure how to stop it.

“You’re that magic guy I heard about,” the driver said, spinning the wheel.

“That’s me,” Peter replied.

“Are you the devil? I’ve talked to passengers who’ve seen your show. They say you do weird shit, like move things with your mind, and know what people are thinking. I’ve heard enough of them talking to know that something ain’t right.”

Peter’s face burned. “It’s all a bunch of tricks.”

“Is that so?” The cabbie took a corner at Canal and headed uptown. “I heard other drivers talking. Their passengers told them the same things. The stuff you do defies imagination and cannot be explained. If enough people believe something, it’s usually true. At least in my experience it is.”

Peter tried to imagine the other cabbies the driver worked with. They probably all got together after their shift was over, and had a cold beer. Peter needed this Jamaican telling those drivers that he was an ordinary guy who was adept at fooling people, and that was all he was.

The cab braked at a light. Peter said, “I want to show you something.” Taking a flesh-colored hollow thumb from his pants pocket, he passed it through the partition. “This handy little device is called a thumb tip. You can buy one in any magic store. They’ll actually help you mold it so it fits perfectly onto your thumb. Put it on.”

It was not every day that a passenger was carrying a hollow thumb. The driver inspected it closely before slipping it onto his thumb. The plastic jarred with his dark skin.

“Now move your hand around,” Peter said.

The driver waved his hand, and the thumb tip did not fall off.

“I use that to make small objects disappear,” Peter said.

The driver passed the gimmick back. The light changed, and he hit the gas. “What’s all this supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Do you honestly think that if I had supernatural powers that I’d carry that stupid thing around in my pocket all day long? Do you?”

The driver burst into laughter. “No, I guess not.”

“Thank you.”

“You really can’t read minds?”

“I wish.”

“Or move things around by thought control?”

“Give me a break, will you?”

“You’re not in league with the Devil?”

“No, but I once dated his sister.”

The driver’s eyes danced in his mirror, and he slapped the wheel. He had been won over, but how many more were there like him out there? A hundred? A thousand? For all Peter knew, half the population of New York thought he had supernatural powers, and were whispering behind his back. Or maybe it was just this driver and the guys he hung out with. There was no way of knowing for sure. One day, his whole world might fall apart, and there was nothing he could do about it. It gave him an idea. Again he stuck his head through the partition.

“Change of plans,” Peter said. “Take me to 320 East 62nd. I need to pick someone up.”

29

The driver parked at the curb and left the meter running. Peter bounded inside. He found Liza in the living room sitting cross-legged on the Flying Carpet illusion and floating three feet above the floor. Her dark hair tied in a ponytail, eyes tightly shut, she looked like a genie that had just popped out of a bottle.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Her eyes opened in surprise. “You startled me.”

“Sorry. Grab your jacket. The FBI caught a shadow person running through Grand Central Terminal. Garrison wants me to have a look at it. I want you there with me.”

Her face grew concerned. “But those things terrify me.”

“And doctors’ offices scare me.”

“This is different. Shadow people are dangerous.”

“So is Dr. Sierra. I need you to come along. Please do this for me.”

She chewed her lip. “What if I say no?”

“I’ll cry.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

He touched Liza’s arm. “The reason we’re having problems is that I keep secrets from you. If I include you in the psychic part of my life, then there won’t be any secrets. You’ll know everything there is to know about me.”

“Will you still go to see Sierra?”

“There’s a problem with Sierra. He came to the theater this afternoon with another man and started banging on the door. Snoop caught him on a surveillance camera, and called him at a restaurant across the street. Sierra told Snoop he needed to see me. He made it sound like it was life or death. What kind of doctor does that?”

“He came to the theater? That’s ridiculous.”

“Now do you understand why I don’t trust him?”

“Who was the other man?”

“Snoop didn’t get his name. Snoop played the surveillance film on his phone for me. He was an older man and walked with a cane. I think it was Hunsinger.”

“You think Sierra brought his colleague to the theater?”

“That’s what it looked like. It sort of scared me.”

Liza shook her head in bewilderment. “His Web site sure read well. What if I pick another counselor?”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Is that a promise? No backing out at the last minute.”

“I promise.”

“If I go with you now, will you protect me?”

“With my life.”

They kissed on the lips, sealing the deal. Liza hopped off the flying carpet and went to the hall closet, grabbing a cashmere scarf and gloves along with a leather jacket. As they headed out the door, Peter said, “There’s a cab waiting outside. Be careful what you say around the driver. He thinks I’m some kind of demon.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said.

*   *   *

They held hands during the cab ride to Grand Central. Liza looked happier than she had in a long time. All it had taken was a little compromise. He needed to remember that. Despite his powers, he couldn’t always have things his way.

The cab dropped them off at the south entrance and they went inside. It was rush hour, with commuters dashing toward train platforms with the vigor of Olympic athletes. Garrison stood at the foot of a marble stairway leading to the second floor with a scowl on his face.

“Sorry it took us so long to get here,” Peter said.

“So am I,” Garrison replied. “My boss just left. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. My boss nixed your idea of keeping the shadow person under wraps. He thinks it’s too dangerous, and wants the thing moved.”

“Didn’t you tell your boss what would happen? Didn’t you warn him?”

“I tried. He doesn’t get the paranormal stuff, thinks it’s all a bunch of hooey.”

Peter turned to Liza. “Lesson number one: No one ever listens to the psychic until it’s too late.”

“What’s going to happen?” she asked.

“Fire and brimstone with the earth tilting on its axis. Real wrath of God stuff.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

“I am being serious. You don’t mess with the spirits in any capacity.” He addressed Garrison. “Where is the shadow person right now?”

“Follow me.”

Garrison hurried up the marble stairs with Peter and Liza on his heels. Reaching the top, the FBI agent went down a hallway only to abruptly halt. Peter and Liza nearly crashed into him.

“What the hell,” he said.

Twenty feet away, his team stood with the frozen shadow person. The team also appeared frozen, with mouths agape and arms locked at their sides, and looked like empty shells.

“Nan, Fred, Johnny,” Garrison called to them.

The team did not respond.

Garrison shoved his hand into his jacket. He was going for his sidearm. Why did cops think that shooting something you didn’t understand was the best alternative?

“Put your gun away,” Peter said. “You’ll only make it angry.”

“Is that so?” Garrison said.

“Let me deal with this. I’ve had experience with these things.”

“Peter beat one up at the theater yesterday,” Liza said. “He can hurt them.”

“Yeah? Well, you have my permission to hurt this one, too.”

Peter started down the hall. Garrison hadn’t heard a word Peter had said, and started to follow him. “Stay back,” Peter said.

“I don’t take orders from you. My people are in danger.”

“You’re in a foreign land. Act like a tourist. Okay?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I don’t want to call your wife later, and tell her you’re dead. Stay put.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“You asked me here, didn’t you?”

Garrison didn’t have a good answer for that.

Peter turned to Liza. “Lesson number two: The FBI is never wrong.”

“Very funny,” Garrison snorted.

Liza smiled with her eyes. Peter realized how much he liked having her with him. It gave him a sense of confidence that he had not experienced before. He went down the hall toward the shadow person and cluster of FBI agents. This time, Garrison did not follow him.

*   *   *

He drew close to the gathering. The shadow person was smaller than its predecessors, and stood about five feet tall. Small in stature, it could not have weighed much when it was alive. The bright overhead lights had captured it in an awkward pose, and it hovered in fear against the wall. There was nothing threatening about its presence at all.

He studied Garrison’s team. To his relief, their spirits were still inside Grand Central. Their frozen expressions and rigid bodies were the product of something else.

Shock.

Shock was not uncommon when dealing with the supernatural. Seeing things that did not compute could cause a mental meltdown. Even Peter dealt with it sometimes. Garrison’s team needed to be brought back to earth. He started with Nan Perry, whom he knew the best.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’d make a really good mime?” Peter asked.

Perry continued to stare straight ahead. “It’s alive,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“This thing’s alive.”

“No, it’s not. It’s deader than dead.”

“Take a look.”

He followed her gaze. There was a spot on the shadow person’s neck no larger than a coin. Its color was dark blue. It looked like the corner of a lapel to a shirt.

“What is that?”

“It’s a piece of a blouse,” Perry said. “There’s more. Look at its face.”

Peter got closer to the dark spirit and stared at where its face should have been. His heart leapt into his throat. A woman’s eye stared back at him. It was a murky brown and filled with everlasting dread. Was this the last facial expression the shadow person had experienced before passing into the great beyond? Something told him that it was. He was looking death in the face, and it shook him to the core.

“That’s creepy,” he said under his breath.

There was more. The tip of an ear was also showing. And a finger. The middle finger, to be exact. A black substance was oozing out of it. He bent over to get a better look. The fingernail was torn, the flesh bleeding. Evil spirits were bad people who went to hell when they died. The Devil was a cruel host, and relegated his subjects to suffering and indignation. This shadow person was clearly being punished for past sins.

Then Peter noticed something else. The shadow person’s wristwatch was bleeding through the darkness. An art deco Cartier. Whoever she was, she’d had good taste.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Perry asked.

“Well, for starters, it isn’t alive,” Peter said. “What you’re seeing are remnant memories and emotions that stayed behind. Think of them as leftovers.”

“Of a person.”

“That’s right. We shed a lot when we die.”

“It’s not a zombie, then.”

“Nope. It won’t eat you.”

Perry breathed a sigh of relief, and visibly relaxed. So did the other agents. The threat had passed. Or so everyone thought.

“Let’s move this thing,” Perry said.

“Don’t touch it,” Peter warned.

Perry stuck out her hand and made contact with the shadow person. Humans and spirits were not meant to physically interact, and many bad things could have happened at that moment. Perry’s hand could have caught fire and been burned to a crisp, or it could have melted, with the fingers falling off like icicles. Her hand could have also disappeared, never to be seen again. This was what happened to people who touched things they weren’t supposed to.

But Perry got lucky. Nothing happened to her hand. Instead, she was given an invisible shove, and sent flying down the hall. Now unfrozen, the shadow person raced up the wall, and disappeared inside an ornate light fixture. Moments later, the hallway was thrown into darkness.

“It’s going to get away,” Peter called out. “Call someone, and tell them to turn the light back on.”

“Are you all right, Peter?” Liza called out.

“I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

Garrison got on his cell phone and began barking out orders. Peter could feel the shadow person’s unearthly presence lurking overhead. At any moment, it could leap down, and kidnap Perry or the other FBI agents in the hall. He whispered to Perry and the others, and they formed a tight circle around him. “It won’t attack you if you’re standing close to me,” he said.

“Attack us how?” one of the agents asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

The hallway light flickered to life. The shadow person had done something to the bulb, and it burned only half as brightly as before. Peter looked straight up. So did the others. Like a bunch of tourists visiting the city for the first time, he thought. It was almost funny.

What they saw was not meant for any tourist’s eyes. The shadow person was stuck to the ceiling like a giant spider, and appeared to be gazing down at them, as if sizing up its next meal. Peter stuck his hand down into his shirt and pulled out the five-pointed star. He held the star so it was pointing directly at the evil spirit that seemed intent on harming them.

“Leave us alone,” he said.

The shadow person pulled back. Peter held the star up higher and raised his voice. “Go back to where you came from. Leave us alone.”

“I think it’s leaving,” Perry said under her breath. “Way to go.”

It was a little-known fact that human beings were capable of chasing away ghosts and evil spirits. Bathing them in bright light was one way to do it. Another was to hold up a mirror and expose them to their own reflection. But the best way was with a talisman. All of these methods had been used by ghost hunters to rid dwellings of evil spirits for hundreds of years.

The five-pointed star was as powerful a talisman as you will find. The shadow person slid down the wall and slithered across the floor, passing so close to Peter’s feet that he could have touched it with his shoe, had he wanted to.

“Can you brighten the lights?” Peter called to Garrison.

“We’re trying to, but it’s not working,” Garrison called back.

The shadow person continued down the hall toward where Garrison and Liza stood at the top of the stairway leading to the main floor, its movements like a giant stingray gliding across the ocean floor. Liza stood perfectly motionless, as did Garrison. The shadow person slipped past them and disappeared down the stairs.

The eye was strange. It often saw only what it wanted to see. For the first time, Peter noticed a third person in the picture. A woman in her late twenties, with a shock of blond hair, painted eyebrows, dressed in black. She stood behind Liza and Garrison, using their bodies as a shield. In her hands was an iPhone that she was using to record what was taking place.

Was she a reporter? Or just some person who liked to film stuff and post it on YouTube? Whoever she was, she was a problem, and Peter needed to talk with her.

“Excuse me, miss? Can I speak with you for a second?”

She lowered the camera. She wore a bemused expression, like a cat that’s just eaten a canary. Definitely trouble. She ran down the marble stairs without responding.

“Hey, hold on,” Peter called out.

He raced down the stairs in pursuit. The young woman had reached the main floor and was running hard, her footsteps pounding the marble.

“I said stop!” Peter shouted.

At the exit, she paused to glance over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and Peter read her thoughts. Her name was Maddison O’Brien Jones, MJ to her friends, and she was a freelance journalist and a blogger. She was working on a piece that would expose Peter’s psychic powers that she planned to sell to one of the New York tabloids. If they didn’t bite, she’d post the story on her Web site, of which she had several thousand followers. The video was the final piece of her story, and would prove that Peter did indeed communicate with the spirit world.

MJ ran outside. Peter was five seconds behind. The sidewalks were mobbed and she was nowhere to be seen. A sinking feeling came over him. His psychic powers were about to be revealed, and his world turned upside down. He’d never be able to lead a normal life again.

He had to find MJ, and talk her out of this. He had an idea, and looked to the sky.

“Call me,” he said to the clouds.

30

His cell phone vibrated. It was Holly, calling on the landline from her apartment. He pressed the icon on the screen that let him answer the call.

“Need some help?” the young witch asked.

Liza burst through the exit and ran toward him. While Peter was willing to share things with Liza, there were some things about his life that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about; his strained relationship with Holly was one of them. “I’m going to have to call you back,” he said.

“I see lovely Liza has joined you,” Holly said. “Why don’t I start texting?”

He ended the call. Liza grabbed his arm, looking panicked. “Who was that blonde, and why was she filming you inside Grand Central?”

“Her name is MJ, and she’s a blogger writing an exposé on my psychic abilities. She was shooting a video of me with the shadow person, which she plans to put on her Web site.”

“Oh, my God, Peter, what are you going to do?”

“Move to the country and grow vegetables.”

“You have to stop her.”

Peter wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish that. It was a free country, and MJ could publish anything on her blog she wanted about him. There were many amazing things that he could do with his psychic powers, but making people do his bidding was not one of them. His cell phone vibrated and an icon appeared on the screen indicating that he had a text message.

“Let me see who this is,” he said.

It was Holly. No one was better at finding people than a witch. She’d tracked MJ to the bar of a trendy Mexican joint called Zengo on Third Avenue a few blocks away. MJ had gotten settled into a booth and was reading the bar’s long list of exotic tequilas available for sampling. She’s going to have a victory drink on me, Peter thought.

“Anything important?” Liza asked.

“Just Snoop checking in. I need to think this through. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“You’re hungry?”

“Starving.”

Liza acted puzzled. Food was the last thing on her mind right now. Peter took her arm and headed down the sidewalk. Reaching the corner of 42nd Street, he took a left, and went east.

“You’re acting weird, Peter,” Liza said.

He pretended not to hear her. They came to Third Avenue and walked south to Zengo’s on the west side of the street. He’d read about the restaurant but never eaten there. One of the partners was the famous opera singer Placido Domingo, which seemed unusual, considering the menu was Mexican.

They went inside, and Peter canvassed the restaurant. He did not spot MJ sitting at any of the booths or up at the bar. Had Holly made a mistake?

He approached the hostess stand. A pair of female eyes looked up from a seating chart filled with Xs and Os. “Table for two?” the hostess asked.

“Do you have a bar?” Peter asked.

“La Biblioteca is our house bar, and is on the lower level.”

“Does it serve tequila?”

“It’s their specialty. It has over four hundred brands on the menu.”

“Sounds like our kind of place. Thanks for the help.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Liza asked as they walked away. “And you hate tequila. It makes you puke.”

“Only when I eat the worm in the bottom of the bottle,” Peter said.

Liza reluctantly followed him down the winding stairway to the bar. It was a cavernous space filled with polished dark wood, the walls lined with display cabinets featuring expensive agave drinks. Peter searched for MJ among the booths. She was in the back of the room, working on a drink while reading a menu. Liza tugged on his sleeve.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she demanded.

“Our snooping reporter friend is here,” he said.

“Where?”

“In the back corner in a booth. She’s sitting by herself, getting ready to order.”

Liza had a look. “You’re right—she’s over there. How did you find her?”

Peter could not tell Liza that this was Holly’s doing while their relationship was having so many problems. So he told a lie instead. He hoped it was the last one he told her.

“My psychic powers sometimes let me do things that I normally could never do. Like find people who are running away from me,” he explained. “MJ left a psychic trail, and I just followed it. I’d explain it to you, but I don’t understand it myself.”

“Wow. That’s some power to have.”

“Well, let’s just say that I’m probably never going to lose my car keys. Now comes the hard part. We need to convince MJ that I’m not really a psychic.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“Easy. Just follow my lead.”

*   *   *

The snooping blogger did not look up from her menu as they approached. She’d already polished off her drink and was ready for another. In his best waiter voice, Peter said, “May I get you a refill?”

“Please,” she said. “Wait a minute—you’re not my waiter.”

“No, I’m not. This is my girlfriend, Liza. May we join you?”

Peter and Liza sat down, effectively blocking MJ into the booth. Her eyes darted back and forth liked a caged animal’s. In a trembling voice she said, “How did you find me so fast?”

Peter’s mind had been racing since they’d entered the restaurant. He needed to tell MJ a yarn, and it needed to be convincing enough for her to buy on the spot. That was going to take some doing, and he was glad he had Liza alongside to back up his fabricated story.

“One of my assistants was standing outside Grand Central when you ran out,” he explained. “He decided to follow you, and told me you were here.”

“Your assistant?” MJ asked suspiciously. “You don’t work Mondays.”

MJ had done her homework, and he wondered how much more she knew. Holly was scrying on him and MJ was spying on him. He wasn’t sure which was worse, and he said, “You’re right. My theater is dark on Mondays, which is when I rehearse new material. I’ve been working on an hour-long special for HBO that features illusions that I perform around New York. I was inside Grand Central with my team practicing a new illusion when you caught us in the act.”

“That black thing I saw was a trick?” MJ said. “Gimme me a break. That thing was real. You’re into dark magic, and have these amazing powers. Admit it.”

Peter gently kicked Liza beneath the table, and she picked up without missing a beat.

“What you saw inside Grand Central was a hologram,” Liza said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a brand-new illusion in Peter’s show, and he was trying to see if it would work outside the theater. Unfortunately, there are still some kinks to be worked out.”

MJ leaned across the table to stare at Liza. “Are you into dark magic, too?”

“Not at all,” Liza said with a frozen smile.

“Then why are you lying for him?”

“What you saw is a trick,” Liza said, not backing down. “If you publish a story that says Peter has some kind of weird powers you’re going to look like a fool.”

“Is that so.”

MJ’s face flushed. Peter tried to read her mind but found her thoughts blocked off. The young blogger dug an iPhone from her purse and punched a command into it. She showed them the screen. “I’ve been collecting videos of you. I took this one at your theater on Saturday when that black thing jumped out of the Dollhouse trick. Take a look.”

On the small screen appeared a video of Peter striking the shadow person during Saturday’s matinee. How had MJ gotten into the theater without Snoop spotting her?

“Here’s another one of you doing real mind reading,” MJ said.

On the screen appeared another video taken inside the theater of Peter reading the mind of a woman from the audience. It was followed by an interview of the woman outside the theater on the sidewalk. The woman told the camera how Peter had known things about her past that not a single living person knew, and how could he not be a psychic?

“Want to see some more?” MJ asked when the video was over.

“How did you get inside my theater on Saturday?” Peter asked.

“Trade secret.”

“I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

“I wasn’t trespassing.”

“Taking videos is strictly prohibited during the show,” Liza jumped in.

“So sue me.”

“I just might do that,” Peter said.

“There’s more,” MJ said with a smirk. “I interviewed your classmates from private school and several of your teachers. They said you seemed to know the answers to questions before they were asked. One of your classmates said he once heard you talking to a ghost.”

“Are you going to put that on your blog as well?” Peter asked.

“It’s all going in,” MJ said.

Against one accusation Peter knew he had a fighting chance. But against a whole slew of accusations dating back to childhood he had little chance. MJ hadn’t just gone digging into his private life, she’d used an earth mover, and gathered enough secret information to expose him to the public and ruin whatever semblance of a normal life he enjoyed.

He started to laugh. It was the only way to respond without caving in. He nudged Liza with his toe, and she started to laugh as well.

“You don’t fool me,” MJ told them.

*   *   *

Peter rose from the table. MJ had resumed reading the menu while sipping her drink. She’d won this round, and she knew it.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He found the restroom and splashed cold water on his face. Drying himself with a paper towel, he stared long and hard at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me what the hell to do.”

His cell phone vibrated. He knew who it was without having to look at the face.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Why don’t I cast a spell on her, and wipe her memory out?” Holly suggested. “I’ve gotten rather good at that, you know.”

“Will it harm her?” Peter asked.

“Of course. She’ll be a blathering idiot for the rest of her life.”

Peter groaned into the cell phone.

“All right, how about if I just make her blind?” Holly said.

“You’re not helping.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Any other ideas? Come on, I’m in a real bind.”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you. The thing I don’t understand is, how did she get into your theater? Your security is awfully tight.”

Peter had been wondering that very thing himself. His security was so good that it had caught Dr. Sierra knocking on the front door that morning. So how had MJ snuck in and filmed him so many times without being spotted? After a moment the answer hit him. She’d had help.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

Ending the call, he pulled up Snoop’s number. His assistant answered with dance music playing in the background. He was back at the pop-up club getting ready for tonight.

“How long have you and MJ been an item?” Peter asked his assistant.

“Who told you I was dating MJ?” Snoop said.

“I found out the hard way. Your girlfriend is writing an exposé about me. She used you to get into the theater. She’s going to tell the world that I’m a psychic, and ruin everything.”

“What? MJ’s a reporter?”

“Afraid so. You once told me that there wasn’t a computer that you couldn’t hack. Does that hold true for private computers as well?”

“Sure. They’re the easiest to get into. All you need is the person’s e-mail address.”

“Then do it.”

“Do what?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you in black and white?”

The line went silent. Then Snoop said, “But that’s a crime.”

“Like you haven’t committed crimes before? Call me when you’re done.”

Peter ended the call and headed back to the booth. MJ had gotten another tequila drink and had a sly smile on her face. Just you wait, he thought as he sat down.

He picked up a menu and studied the array of tasty appetizers. MJ was a formidable opponent, and he felt certain that this wasn’t the last time their paths would cross. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and he pulled out his cell phone, and placed it on the table.

A minute later, it vibrated. Snoop calling. He answered it by saying, “All done?”

“Yup,” Snoop replied.

“What about backup?”

“That’s gone, too.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Do I still have my job?”

“Of course. Just next time be more careful.”

Peter put his phone away. MJ was watching him. The smile had left her face. She was smart enough to know that something had gone down that wasn’t in her favor. He wondered how long it would take her to figure out what it was. He would have liked to have been there when that happened, but he had more important things to do, and he rose from the table.

“Time to get out of Dodge,” he said.

Liza rose as well. Without a word to MJ, they walked out of the bar. Under her breath, Liza said, “Are you just going to leave? She’s going to ruin you.”

“Not today,” he whispered back.

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“She can’t hurt me anymore. I’ll explain in the cab.”

Peter gave MJ a parting look. The young blogger was on her iPhone trying to retrieve the clandestine videos she’d shot of him. She’d spent a great deal of time composing her exposé, and it seemed a shame that it had all been erased in the amount of time it took to strike a keyboard. She slapped the table in anger and looked across the room. Their eyes locked. If looks could have killed, he would have been six feet under pushing up daisies.

He waved pleasantly and headed up the stairs.

31

Lying in bed that night, Liza asked, “Is your life always this exciting?”

“Hardly,” Peter murmured, his eyelids heavy.

“Will it go back to normal soon?”

“Boy, I sure hope so.”

“Can you look into the future, and make sure? My heart beat’s still racing.”

“Ask me tomorrow, okay?”

Liza rested her head on his chest and stared at the grisly images on the flat-screen TV. They were halfway through season two of The Walking Dead, one of the better zombie shows in recent years. They had come to the series late, and rented the episodes from Netflix. They were both hooked on the show, only Liza didn’t like the fact that in the first season the zombies had staggered around with wooden legs, while in the second they ran like deer. She was thinking of going online to post a negative comment about it.

The episode ended with a zombie getting its head shot off, just like all the other episodes had. Peter started to ask Liza if she wanted to watch the next episode, when he realized she was fast asleep. She looked like an angel, and he kissed her forehead.

“Thanks for not running away,” he whispered.

He killed the TV and the picture was reduced to a tiny blip, which hung there for a while before vanishing. The bedroom fell dark. The day had started out lousy but ended well. While he hadn’t stopped the shadow people or found Dr. Death, he’d reunited with Liza, and that was all that mattered. Alone, there was only so much he could accomplish. But with Liza by his side, just about anything seemed possible.

He didn’t really understand it. He’d had plenty of girlfriends before Liza, but none of the relationships had been this deep. She was more than just his lover and soul mate. She was also his assistant, and with him almost every waking moment of every day. His previous assistants had found him too demanding, and had all quit. Not Liza. She’d embraced the challenge of performing on stage every night. It was hard work, and to her credit, she’d never once screwed up a trick.

He did eight shows a week, fifty-one weeks a year, along with a few dozen private events sprinkled into his schedule. Liza had been with him for two years, and not made a single mistake. Had she ever dropped a prop or forgotten a cue? Had she ever not floated perfectly in midair, or not magically jumped out of an empty box when she was supposed to?

He couldn’t remember a single time when she hadn’t been perfect. Not one. But that was impossible. Everyone who performed magic made mistakes. It was part of the business, and there was no getting around it. It was how you learned, and grew.

Yet Liza didn’t make mistakes. Not any that he’d been aware of. The matinee this past Saturday was a perfect example. She’d been hidden inside the secret compartment of the Dollhouse illusion when the shadow person had kidnapped her spirit and taken her into the future. It had been a hair-raising experience that would have sent anyone else to the hospital. Not Liza. Not only had she escaped from Dr. Death, she’d also ended the trick correctly, and taken her bow beside him.

He decided that he was being irrational. Liza made mistakes just like everyone else, and he just wasn’t catching them. Love was blind that way.

A noise from downstairs lifted his head. A tinny clanging sound. His hand instinctively touched the five-pointed star hanging around his neck. Then he checked for the star around Liza’s neck. It was there as well. They were both protected.

He slipped out of bed and into his bathrobe. The floor was cold to his bare feet. Down the stairs he went to the first floor, the noise growing louder with each step. His destination was the living room, where Butch sat on the mantel banging his toy cymbals. He touched the hidden switch behind the panda’s neck and the music stopped.

The main keypad for the security system resided in the foyer. He checked it. The place was locked up tight. No intruders had slipped in. At least, not any human intruders.

He inspected the downstairs rooms, expecting to see his favorite things smashed to bits, or at least the illusion of that. But that wasn’t the case. Each room was how he’d left it before going to bed. In his study the computer was turned on, the screen saver of Harry Houdini hanging upside down in a straitjacket lighting up the darkened room.

His last stop was the kitchen. The pantry doors were wide open. He stuck his head in to see if any food items were missing. He clearly remembered closing the pantry doors before coming to bed. Had the shadow person reopened them?

If so, why?

He knew a thing or two about ghosts and spirits. The longer they remained stuck on earth, the more cranky and mean they became. If a ghost or spirit stayed too long, it turned into a destructive force, capable of all sorts of mayhem. The shadow people had impressed him as these very types of destructive forces. Yet their behavior was also strange. One had thrown a shoe out the window at him, while another had raided his kitchen pantry.

Cold air danced around his bare legs. Icy, invisible fingers touched his skin. He felt himself drawn to the other side of the kitchen and stood at the window facing the courtyard. The courtyard was his private sanctuary, and contained a wrought-iron table and two wrought-iron chairs. When the weather was warmer, he and Liza ate breakfast there and split the newspaper. His breath fogged the window. Liza’s chair was now occupied by a shadow person. A piece of its face was visible, and a piece of its hand. It was the same evil spirit he’d encountered in Grand Central.

The shadow person lifted its hand in a macabre salute. Peter felt his blood start to boil. How many times were these damn things going to invade his home? The only solution was to destroy every last one of them, and he was more than ready to do that.

The back door had a variety of locks. He opened each of them and stepped outside. From the foyer, the security system started to wail. He decided that was a good thing. Liza didn’t need to be sleeping while a shadow person was lurking around.

The shadow person floated out of the chair, its body a quivering mass. It almost seemed frightened of him. A psychic could get rid of an otherworldly spirit through physical force. It wasn’t pretty, but dealings with the dead seldom were. As he grabbed it with his hands, its essence turned to a vaporlike substance, and slipped out of his grasp as if melting away.

“No, you don’t.” With the tips of his fingers, Peter pinched the visible piece of flesh on the shadow person’s face, and held it tight. It felt like worn leather.

“How do you like that?” he said triumphantly.

The shadow person wiggled and squirmed, but could not escape. He made his other hand into a fist. The shadow person let out a tortured sound as if begging for mercy. Could it be reasoned with? He was willing to give it a try. He spoke where its ear should have been.

“Leave me and my friends alone. If you don’t go away, I’ll destroy you. Do you understand?”

“Peter, who are you talking to? What’s going on? Why is the alarm ringing?”

Liza stood in the doorway with a sleepy expression on her face. She wore one of his dress shirts and her favorite Garfield slippers. She stepped outside.

“What is that you’re holding?” she asked.

“I caught one of them,” he replied. “Please stay back.”

“Oh, my God, you really did. This is so creepy. What is that thing on its face?”

“Skin.”

“Ecch. Why are you holding it?”

“It was the only way I could stop it from escaping. Want to touch it? I dare you.”

“You’re not funny, Peter. That thing is dangerous. Please get rid of it.”

The shadow person had shrunk in size, and did not seem the least bit harmful now. That was another illusion, courtesy of the dark world which it inhabited, and he twisted the piece of skin as if to rip it from its face. It screamed and began to corkscrew into the ground.

“You’re hurting it,” Liza said in alarm.

“And your point is?”

“No, Peter. I can’t let you do that. No matter how evil it is.”

He disagreed, but was not going to have an argument over it. He’d shown the shadow person he meant business, and maybe that was all he really needed to do. He released the piece of skin and watched the shadow person float straight up into the night sky. It sailed higher and higher into the night like a lost balloon. Stars shone down, their light passing straight through it.

The threat had passed, and Peter felt himself relax.

A glimmer of light caught his eye. From far above, a tiny object began to fall noiselessly through space. As the object entered the courtyard, Liza let out a shriek.

“Watch out!”

Peter jumped in front of Liza and stuck his hand into the air. The object landed in his palm and he wondered if the flesh would burn off or his fingers might explode. But neither of those things happened. All he felt was a slight stinging sensation.

He brought his hand down and stared. Liza let out a gasp. His own sharp intake of breath was equally loud. Not a meteor or a falling star, but a lady’s art deco Cartier watch. It was the same watch the shadow person in Grand Central had been wearing. Its face was cracked, the hands of time stopped at ten minutes of ten.

“What does it mean?” Liza asked.

Peter wasn’t sure. The world was filled with the Devil’s playthings. If the watch was such an object, it would have a simmering aura around it, which was in fact the Devil’s fingerprints.

The watch had no such aura. It was a perfectly normal timepiece, as far as he could tell. Had the shadow person dropped it during her ascent into space? Or had it purposely fallen from her wrist? There was no way to be certain why it now rested in his hand.

He knew only one thing for certain. He was freezing to death. He grabbed Liza by the arm, and pulled her inside.

PART III

THE LITTLE DEMON

32

Central Park was a lush oasis within the city’s concrete jungle. Here, joggers ran at all times of the day and night, dogs were walked, lovers sought refuge, and horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped on twisting roads designed to slow motorists down.

Milly Adams was a woman of rituals. Each morning, she awoke at the crack of dawn, fixed herself a poached egg over toast, ate it while reading the morning paper, and when she was done, left her apartment and journeyed across the street to a well-worn bench that sat beside one of the park’s most popular footpaths, where she stayed for the next hour or so depending upon the weather and her mood, talking to no one, enjoying the sights.

It was here that Peter found Milly at eight o’clock the next morning. The park was filled with joggers huffing and puffing their way into shape, and Milly was watching them pass by with a keen eye, as if she knew their futures with just a casual glance. Peter asked if he could join her.

“Of course.” Milly patted the spot beside her. “Sit down right here.”

Peter took the spot. Milly had helped raise him, and was the closest thing to a mother that he had. He hated spoiling her morning, but didn’t see that he had any other choice. Holly was out of control, and Milly needed to rein her niece in before Holly ruined his life.

“I need to talk to you about Holly,” he said.

“You sound terribly solemn. Is she still scrying on you?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. I made the mistake of encouraging her yesterday when I discovered a reporter spying on me. Now she keeps texting me every five minutes.”

“But she’s love in with you, and says you have feelings for her.”

“Of course I have feelings for Holly. I also have feelings for you. But that doesn’t make us in love, does it?”

Milly laughed under her breath. “I suppose not. But Holly is young and infatuated. You need to go gently with her. Let her down easy, as they say.”

Milly did not understand the gravity of what was taking place. Holly had held him against his will in her apartment through the use of a spell. She was also using her powers to stalk him, and that didn’t feel like any kind of love he’d experienced before.

“Holly won’t listen to me,” he said in a quiet but firm voice. “I have enough problems in my life right now, and she’s only making them worse. Please talk to her, Milly.”

Milly drew back, clearly alarmed. “I suppose I could call her.”

“I would be forever in your debt.”

“What exactly would you like me to say?”

“Ask her to stop intruding. Order her, if you have to. Just make her do it.”

They fell silent. On the other side of the path, a dozen feisty black crows lined the limb of an oak tree. They were the jackdaw variety, and perched in a militarylike formation. They’d migrated with Milly from the town of Ipswich, Massachusetts, decades ago, and had taken up residence in the park across the street from her apartment. Witches had many unusual powers, including the ability to hold sway over dogs, cats, and birds. The crows were Milly’s pets, and would have done anything their master asked.

“Are you implying that Holly can’t be reasoned with?” Milly asked.

“Holly is out of control. She’s messing with my life, and refuses to stop. I’m afraid if I talk with her, I’ll lose my temper, and ruin whatever’s left of our friendship.”

“So you still care for her.”

“How could I not?”

“But she’s making you miserable.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

“A truer definition of love I’ve never heard.”

Peter gritted his teeth. Milly was letting her feelings for her niece cloud her judgment. It was understandable considering that they were both witches, and that Milly had trained Holly to cast spells, scry, and perform other strange rituals that made up the witch’s playbook. Milly would side with Holly no matter what her niece had done, and he rose from the bench.

“I need to go. Thanks for listening.”

“Ever since you were a child, you’ve run away from your troubles,” Milly said. “It’s a defense mechanism, I suppose. Well, dear Peter, you can’t run away from this. You’ve been in love with Holly since she was a little girl. I saw it one night when you were babysitting for her, after I’d come home from the theater. The way you looked at her told her you were in love. But since she was much younger than you, and you were a proper young gentleman, you did not act on your impulses. Admit it.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said defensively.

“Love never dies.”

Milly was right. He still had strong feelings for Holly. If he hadn’t, he’d have found some nasty way to blow her off. But he couldn’t do that to Holly. He cared about her too much to cause her pain. Maybe Milly was right, maybe he loved Holly more than he realized.

“Yes, I love Holly,” he said, “but I love Liza more. We live together, for Christ’s sake, and she’s my best friend. Why can’t you see that?”

“You love Liza more now,” Milly said. “But that might change. Liza is normal, and you are not. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but relationships with nonpsychics don’t work out, at least none that I’ve ever heard about. Don’t throw away your feelings for Holly just yet.”

“Liza and I are doing great,” he said. “We’re a team.”

“How long have you and Liza been together?”

“Two years.”

“And how long has she known you’re different?”

“I told her last month. It wasn’t easy, but we’re working it out.”

“How much does she know?”

“Enough.”

“Everything?”

“No, not everything.”

“So you haven’t told her the true origin of your parents’ powers, or yours.”

Peter felt the air escape from his lungs. “Not yet.”

“Still keeping secrets from her? That will never work in a million years.”

“I’m going to tell her. I just have to find the right time and place to do it.”

“Oh, no, here he comes,” Milly said under her breath.

Milly’s eyes shifted their focus as an elderly fellow wearing gray sweats and a sweatshirt tied around his waist came jogging down the path. He was downright handsome for his age, with a mane of snow-white hair and a runner’s lean physique. A smile lit up his face at the sight of Milly. Cupid’s arrow had struck, Peter guessed.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,” Peter said. “He’s cute.”

“The man is practically stalking me. I can’t stand him.”

“You’ve been out with him?”

“Just once. Dinner and a movie. It was a terrible mistake.”

“You made it through dinner and a movie? I’d say you’re doing great. Introduce me.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“Come on. Love never dies.”

“Be still.”

Milly’s beau was veering toward their bench, ready to strike up a conversation. Milly was having none of it, and raised a crooked finger to ward him off. In all the world, there was no greater force than a witch’s crooked finger, at least not that he knew of. With that single finger, oceans could be parted and skies made to darken. It was a power not to be used lightly, and he was surprised that Milly used it now. From the oak trees a single kamikaze crow exploded in a beeline for the elderly gentleman’s perfectly coifed head. He saw the bird coming in time to halt his forward progress and raise his hands in self-defense, exactly what Milly had intended.

“Go away,” the man said.

The bird did the opposite, and continued to buzz his head, while doing arcing somersaults befitting an aerial show. Peter could not help but laugh under his breath.

“You think this is funny?” Milly scolded him.

“I was thinking of filming it, putting it on YouTube.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

Love is blind. It was also stupid, deaf, and incredibly dumb. Milly’s beau would not give up, his feelings for the old witch too great. He came toward them while continuing to do battle with the crow, his arms flailing like a crazy man just released from an asylum. Milly raised her crooked finger again. More crows exploded out of the trees and added to the first bird’s aerial assault, forming a cloud of black around the poor man.

“Have them pluck his eyes out,” Peter suggested. “That will do the trick.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” Milly said with a stern face. “I made the mistake of giving him my phone number. He won’t stop calling me.”

“You gave him your phone number? This sounds serious.”

“A moment of weakness.”

Milly’s beau continued to inch toward the bench. There was no doubt in Peter’s mind that this man was truly in love with Milly. There was also no doubt that Milly had found him attractive. So why was she trying to scare the fellow half to death?

Milly raised her crooked finger a third time. A barking dog ran down the path trailing a leash. Dogs in New York came in three sizes: large, medium, and symbolic. The dog belonged to the third category, and could have fit comfortably in a lady’s handbag.

The barking mutt nipped at Milly’s beau’s ankles. Canines were clearly his weakness, and he began to head back the way he’d come, but not before glancing over his shoulder and waving good-bye. He’d be back tomorrow, Peter was sure of it.

The crows returned to the trees and quieted down. Taking a tissue from her purse, Milly blew her nose. Her eyes were wet with tears.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

She took a moment to gather herself. When she spoke, her voice was filled with pain. “Back when I lived in Ipswich, I knew a man named Henry Quinton. Henry was decent and strong and a perfectly normal fellow, and I absolutely adored him. He was a banker, and made a nice living, had a boat and a membership at a country club. We dated for a while, then one day out of the blue, he got down on his knee, and popped the big question.

“I wanted so desperately to say yes! Having a normal life seemed terribly attractive to me. But for it to work, I knew that Henry had to know who I was. That trust had to be established from the start. It was the only way a marriage could possibly work.

“So I sat dear Henry down and told him the whole story. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. I even did a little demonstration for him, and persuaded a stray cat to do tricks for us. Henry was stunned, to say the least.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “A few days later he broke it off. No reason was offered, nor did I need to hear one. The act itself spoke volumes. I moved to New York City soon after, and have never been home since.”

“I’m so sorry, Milly.”

She put her hand on his arm. “I didn’t tell you this story for sympathy, but as a warning. What happened to me can happen to you and Liza. And if she breaks your heart, your life will never be the same.” Milly glanced at her watch and shook her head. “I must be gone. Think about what I’ve told you. Don’t break things off with Holly just yet. You might regret it one day.”

Milly rose from her spot on the bench and Peter did as well. She offered a peck on the cheek and the faintest of smiles. She was in his corner, he realized, and always would be.

“Good-bye, Milly. Be safe,” he said.

“And you as well, dear boy,” she replied.

33

Peter escorted Milly out of the park, and watched her cross the street to the Dakota. Only after she’d gone inside the building did he hunt for his limo. Herbie had parked in a striped No Parking zone at the corner of Columbus and 72nd Street. Limos were status symbols in New York, and drivers could park just about anywhere, and not get towed.

Peter climbed in and made himself comfortable in the backseat. His driver looked preoccupied, with an open textbook in his lap. The partition slid back.

“Where to, boss?” Herbie asked.

“Let’s go home. What are you reading?”

“A book on accounting. I’m taking some night classes at CCNY. I’m studying entertainment management.”

“They really have classes devoted to that?”

“Sure do. Most entertainers are bad businesspeople, present company excluded.”

“How do you know that I’m not a bad businessperson?”

“Well, you’re not broke.”

The truth be known, he still didn’t know how to balance a checkbook, and relied on Liza to take care of the household finances while a team of well-paid accountants kept track of the money he made at the theater. They were soon gliding down Broadway. There were many people like Herbie in the city. They worked long days, yet still managed to pursue other careers during their off-hours. New York was a city of dreams, and everyone had a dream he or she was chasing. Not so long ago he’d been one of those dreamers, and knew how powerful the urge could be.

His cell phone vibrated. He sometimes thought of his cell phone as a little pet that clawed his leg whenever it craved attention. It was Liza. Despite what Milly had said, he believed their relationship really did have a chance. Psychics could have relationships with nonpsychics. It just took a lot of work, no different from any other relationship he’d ever had.

“I’m on my way home,” he said by way of greeting.

“Good. You need to get here soon,” Liza said.

“What’s wrong? You sound stressed out.”

“I am stressed out. We have company.”

He and Liza rarely entertained at home, preferring the solitude of the brownstone after the labors of performing the show each night. He didn’t like the sound of this, and sat up in his seat. “And who might that be?”

“Dr. Sierra and his friend Hunsinger are here.”

“You can’t be serious. What are they doing there in my home?”

“You’re losing your temper. Please calm down.”

“What did you expect me to do? Break out in song?”

“Peter, control yourself.”

“I’m sorry. Now tell me, what are they doing there?”

“I forgot to cancel our session this morning. Dr. Sierra had asked Hunsinger to come to his office and meet with us. When we didn’t show, they decided to come here. I stupidly gave Dr. Sierra’s receptionist our address when I booked our session.”

“Why didn’t you just slam the door in his face?”

“I couldn’t. Dr. Sierra begged me to let him in. He made it sound like life and death.”

Peter’s blood started to boil like so much bad poison. His brownstone was his sanctuary where he went to escape from the world. Sierra and Hunsinger had no right to be there. In the mirror he caught Herbie giving him an eyeful. He twirled a finger, and the limo accelerated.

“Where are they now?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Sitting at the kitchen table. I made them a pot of coffee.”

“That was nice of you. Maybe they’d like some pancakes.”

“Please don’t be angry. I went with my heart, and my heart said let them in.”

“Why not tell them to go to a restaurant? I would have met them there. Why let them in?”

“Hunsinger is very frail and he can hardly breathe. I think he may be dying.”

“So?”

“Peter, this isn’t like you. These men want to speak with you, that’s all. Why are you so afraid of talking to them? What harm can it cause?”

Since he was a kid, he’d lived in other people’s homes, a year in one apartment, the next year in another apartment. He never had his own room or furniture that was his. He’d longed for those things, and for a special place to call home. The brownstone was that place, and he didn’t want men like Sierra or his friend to step foot inside.

Liza broke the silence. “Do you want me to throw them out?”

“No, let me,” he said.

*   *   *

Sometimes, mind reading was easy. Herbie knew exactly what was on his employer’s mind as he pulled to the curb in front of the brownstone. Throwing the limo into Park, he hopped out and stood on the sidewalk with his arms outstretched. As Peter climbed out, Herbie grabbed him in a bear hug. Herbie was a big man, and made Peter his prisoner.

“Boss, calm down. You act like you’re gonna hurt someone,” his driver said.

“I just might.”

“Ain’t worth it. Trust me, I know.”

As a teen, Herbie had run with a gang and had shot a man. He had done hard time in a maximum security prison called Sing Sing, and had come out a changed man. He spoke from experience, and Peter took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down. His driver smiled sheepishly and released him.

“Feel better?” Herbie asked.

“Come to mention it, yes. You’re a great hugger.”

“Thanks, boss. Not mad at me, are you?”

“No. Thanks for doing that.”

Peter headed up the front steps. He had a temper, no doubt about it, and he was fortunate to have people like Herbie there to stop him when his emotions got the best of him. The door opened and Liza came out wearing drab workout clothes.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m managing.”

She led him down the hallway to the kitchen, where his two unwanted guests sat at the table sipping java. Both looked up as if startled out of a daydream. Sierra was the first to rise and seemed apprehensive and more than a little nervous about being here.

“I’m sorry to come barging into your home like this,” Sierra said.

“It must be important,” Peter heard himself say.

“It is. Please let me introduce my friend. This is Richard Hunsinger.”

The second man slowly came out of his chair. He was little more than skin and bones, and wore a black shirt buttoned to his neck, and black slacks that hung loosely around his waist. His hair was flecked with spots of white that looked like snowflakes, his eyes sallow and pale.

“Hello,” Peter said stiffly.

“Hello, Peter,” his guest replied. “Do you remember me?”

“No. Should I?”

“We met long ago. You and your parents came to see me. Think hard.”

“Is this a quiz?”

“It will be easier this way. Please,” Hunsinger said.

“How long ago was this?”

“You had just celebrated your seventh birthday.”

Peter tried to imagine a younger version of Hunsinger. After a few moments, it dawned on him who this person was. Hunsinger was the bogeyman he’d been seeing in his dreams since he was a kid, the strange man in black who’d made him cry.

In his dream, Peter was in a study with a scary painting of Jesus Christ hanging on the cross. Jesus’s face was filled with so much pain that he’d avoided staring at it. Beneath the painting sat a man wearing black clothing and the gravest of expressions. The man motioned for Peter to step forward, only Peter wouldn’t budge. The man gently took Peter by the hand, and pulled the boy toward him. Peter had started to cry. His parents were standing nearby, and he looked to them for help. His mother was crying as well. But she would not help him.

A strange dream, for sure. But now the young magician knew otherwise. It had actually happened. Hunsinger was real, and had known his parents. For that reason alone, Peter needed to hear what the man had to say. Maybe then the dream would go away, and be replaced by some other unexplained mystery from his youth.

“I remember you now,” Peter said. “My parents brought me to see you, although to be honest, I have no earthly idea why. Did I do something wrong?”

Hunsinger picked up his coffee cup as if to take a drink. Instead, he stared into its depths as if it held the secret to the universe. He had the kind of honest face that Peter associated with people with a clean conscience. He’d not met many people he could say that about.

Hunsinger looked up. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

“All I have left are dreams.”

“I hope your dreams are not painful.”

“Actually, they are. You made me cry.”

“It was a difficult time. Dr. Sierra met with your parents on several occasions, and he referred them to me. Your parents brought you to me, and I examined you and gave them my opinion.” His voice had gone weak, and he paused to catch his breath. “Dr. Sierra and I always wondered what became of you. When Dr. Sierra called to tell me that he’d found you, I asked him to arrange a meeting. I hope you don’t mind.”

“At first I did mind, but now I’m glad you came,” Peter said. “Now, would you please tell me who you are, and what this is about? The suspense is killing me.”

“Of course. You see, I’m a priest.”

34

Peter could not have been more confused. His mother and father weren’t Catholic. Why on earth had they taken him to see a priest? “Why did my parents come to see you? Were they thinking of converting to Catholicism?”

Hunsinger stole a glance at Sierra. Where to begin? his facial expression seemed to say. After a moment his eyes returned to Peter’s face. “If you don’t mind, I need to sit down. My body is frail, and I am unable to stand for long periods of time.”

The priest lowered himself into his chair. He was sickly and moved in slow motion. The fact that he’d ventured out in such poor health to meet Peter was not lost on the young magician.

“Can I interest either of you gentlemen in more coffee?” Peter asked.

The offer brought a smile to both their faces, Liza’s also.

“Another cup of your delicious coffee would be splendid,” the priest replied.

“I would love another cup as well,” Sierra said.

“Me, too,” Liza chimed in.

Peter fixed a fresh pot and served his guests and Liza, then pulled up a chair to the table. His heart was racing and he could hear a bass line pounding in his ears. Life was filled with unexplained mysteries which we carried with us to our graves. One of those mysteries was about to be explained to him. Liza sat on the windowsill overlooking the courtyard, content to listen as Peter’s past unfolded.

“Perhaps I should go first, since it was me your parents first came to see,” Sierra began. “As you and Liza know, I am a marriage counselor by profession, and I specialize in dealing with relationship issues. One day, your parents appeared in my office, and said they were having problems, which is nothing new in my line of work. They were both rather vague about the situation, and seemed to be having difficulty coming out in the open and discussing it. Whatever this problem was, I could tell it was affecting them deeply, and harming their marriage. As our session wound down, I bluntly asked them to tell me what was going on. If they were unwilling to do this, I said, then there was no point in their coming back, since I couldn’t help people who couldn’t be honest with themselves.”

Peter stared at the table. It sounded like an echo of his own problems with Liza. “Did they finally tell you what was going on?”

“Your mother broke the spell and explained the situation,” Sierra said. The problem, it seems, was you.”

Peter drew back in his chair. “Was I causing problems?”

“I’m afraid so. Your parents were beside themselves as to what to do. It was tearing them apart, so they decided to come and see me.”

“How bad were the things I was doing?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid.”

“Did they spell them out?”

“No, but they alluded to them. Don’t you remember?”

“Not at all. I must have repressed the memories.”

“That is not uncommon in violent children,” Sierra said.

The kitchen fell quiet. A sense of enormous guilt came over Peter. To think that he’d done things that had nearly ruined his parents’ marriage was unconscionable, and he felt the overwhelming urge to bolt from the room. Milly had accused him of running away from his problems, and he forced himself to sit tight and face the music.

“You must have some idea of what I was doing,” he said. “Was I hurting other kids at school? I had a rough time when I first came to the United States. I was small, and my British accent made me stand out. I got into a fight with a bully at school who was picking on me. Was that what they were talking about?”

“No, it was not,” Sierra said. “Your parents told me that you had a demon inside of you. They said that you were born with this demon, and that when it showed its face, it was capable of all sorts of horrible acts. At first, I thought they were exaggerating, and blowing the problem out of proportion. After all, you were only seven, and how much trouble could a child that age cause? It was at that point that your father decided to show me the photos.”

“What photos?”

“Your father took photos of the things you’d done. I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps he needed evidence to convince men like myself what you were capable of. I still have them.”

“Are they bad?” Peter choked on the word.

“Yes, I’m afraid they are.”

He glanced at Liza. She nodded as if to say it was okay.

“Show them to me,” he said.

Sierra produced a faded envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled back the flap, and removed a stack of photos. “I want you to know something. Up until now, I’ve shown these photographs to no one except Richard. I protected your family’s privacy, and will continue to do so. Your family’s secrets are safe with me, despite what you might think.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

The stack was handed to him. Taken on a Kodak Instamatic, the color had faded but not enough to hide the horror of the images. The top photo showed Peter’s bedroom in the family’s apartment in Murray Hill. They had lived in a third-floor walk-up with rattling pipes and noisy neighbors. In the photo, there was shattered glass on the floor that appeared to be swimming in a substance that resembled catsup.

He stared hard. Not catsup. Blood. And there was a lot of it. Had someone died in his bedroom, and he’d not heard about it? It didn’t seem possible, yet the photo said otherwise.

His eyes shifted to the broken window in the photograph. There was a hole in the glass big enough for a man to slip through. The hole led to a fire escape outside.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “What happened?”

“Look at the rest of them,” Sierra said.

Peter laid the photos in a row on the table, and let his eyes drift over the disturbing images. After the bedroom came the narrow hallway, where bloody handprints covered the walls. Next was the kitchen, where the furniture had been turned upside down, leaving more bloodstains. Then came the study, where his parents held séances with their psychic friends and talked with the dead. This photo was the most troubling of all. In it, Peter sat in his father’s chair dressed in his Batman pj’s. His eyes were half open as if in a trance, his mouth twisted in a menacing snarl. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, as were his hands. He looked more animal than human.

Peter looked across the kitchen at Liza. If she saw these photographs, things between them would never be the same. But if she didn’t see them, things wouldn’t be the same either. Whatever was left of his relationship with Liza was about to go up in flames.

Stacking the photos, he went to her, and placed them in her hands. “Here.”

Then he poured himself more coffee.

35

Liza shocked him. After she’d finished studying the photos—which she spent over a minute doing—she dragged a chair up to the kitchen table, sat down beside Peter, and placed her hand on top of his, clasping it in the process. She was going to go down this road with him, no matter where it took them both. What was the expression from the country-and-western song? “Stand By Your Man.” He wanted to hug her.

“Who did I kill?” Peter asked his two guests in the calmest of voices.

It was Sierra who replied. “You didn’t kill anyone. At least your parents didn’t think so.”

“But I hurt someone pretty badly.”

Sierra nodded gravely. No wonder he’d asked Peter if the demon inside of him had come out the night his parents had been murdered in Times Square. Sierra had already seen the demon, and knew the carnage it could wreak.

“Any idea who it was?” Peter asked.

“Your father said that the apartment house where you lived had been burglarized several times,” Sierra replied. “Late one night, a burglar broke the window in your bedroom, and tried to enter. That was when the burglar encountered you. He managed to get away, but only barely. Your father said there was a great deal of blood on the fire escape and also in the alley below.”

“Did I stab him?”

“You used the sharp edge of one of your toys.”

“Wow. Talk about a little demon.”

No one laughed. Peter picked up his mug and drained it.

“Your parents were torn over what to do,” Sierra went on. “Your mother was fearful that your demon was out of control and might strike again. The night of the burglary, your parents went over to a neighbor’s for a few minutes to see her new baby. This was when the burglar chose to enter your apartment. When your parents returned, it was your mother who found you.”

“Did seeing me covered in blood scare her?” Peter asked.

“Very much. She told me that she had this same demon inside of her, and explained how difficult it had been for her to keep it contained all her life. It upset her that the demon had come out in you at such a tender age. She was fearful it might take control of your soul.”

“Is that what she said?”

“In so many words, yes.”

But it hadn’t taken control of my soul, Peter thought. The demon went back to its dark hiding place, and he’d gotten on with his life. End of story.

“Your father viewed the matter differently,” Sierra continued. “He was fearful that if doctors started examining you, the demon would be unleashed, and never go away. He wanted to treat you with tender loving care, which he said was the only cure.”

“Who won out?” Peter asked.

“I did, actually,” Sierra said.

“How so?”

“Your parents brought you in, and I examined you. I tested your reflexes to make sure you didn’t have any neurological damage, which is not uncommon in violent children. You know when a doctor hits a patient in the knee with a rubber hammer? Well, I struck you in the knee with my hammer, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”

“I hit you?” Peter asked incredulously.

“Knocked me right across the room. I never saw the blow. To be honest, I’m not certain you actually threw one. You did it with your mind. That’s when I convinced your parents that Richard needed to be brought in.”

Peter looked across the table at the sickly man dressed in black. “You’re an exorcist.”

“I am a priest who on occasion practices exorcisms,” Hunsinger replied.

“Same difference. Did you perform an exorcism on me?”

“Yes, I did.”

Peter took a deep breath. “And?”

“Nothing happened,” the priest confessed. “We performed the exorcism in my chambers at the church. You lay on a couch with your parents sitting to either side of you. I wore an alb, a purple stole, as prescribed in the Old Testament. I made the sign of the cross over you, doused your body with holy water, and invoked the words ‘Ecce crucem Domini! Fugite, partes adversae’ while placing my right hand on your forehead in the same manner in which Jesus healed the sick. I followed the procedure exactly as it was written.”

“How did I react?”

“You looked up at me and let out a little laugh.”

“I laughed?”

“Yes.”

“Was it demonic?”

“Not at all. It was a little boy’s laugh. The demon inside of you had receded. I don’t know if I sent it away, or if it left on its own accord, but it was gone. What remained was a precious seven-year-old boy.”

Liza squeezed his hand as this last sentence was spoken. It made Peter feel like there was still hope. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Anytime,” she whispered back.

“Now you understand why Dr. Sierra and I wanted to see you,” Hunsinger said. “We wanted to know what had become of you. To see how you turned out, if you will.”

“You wanted to know what had happened to my demon,” Peter said.

“That, too,” the priest admitted.

“Yes, that, too,” Sierra echoed.

Peter drummed the table. The phrase “troubled childhood” was taking on a whole new meaning. But he still wasn’t sure why Sierra and Hunsinger had gone to such great pains to seek him out. Both men had seen scores of troubled people during their careers. So why had they worried about him? Because he was a child when this had occurred? That was one explanation, although he was quite certain both men had seen scores of troubled children during their careers. There had to be another reason.

His drumming grew louder. So loud that he could hardly hear himself think. Out of frustration, he attempted to read both men’s brains to see what they were up to.

It didn’t work. Both men were cutting him off by thinking about the lunch they’d shared a few hours ago. It was almost as if they’d planned it.

He gave Liza a look and whispered, “We need to talk.” She rose from her chair the same time he did, said, “Please excuse us,” and followed Peter out of the room.

Huddled in the hallway, Peter spoke in a hushed tone. “They know something they’re not telling me.”

Liza gave him a quizzical look. “What more is there to know?”

“That’s a good question. I keep thinking back to Sierra asking me if the demon had come out the night my parents died. I think he already knew the answer and just wanted confirmation that it had.”

“How would he have known if it had?”

“My parents’ murders made the front page of the New York newspapers. Maybe I did something horrible that night that also made the newspapers, and Sierra and Hunsinger read about it, and made the connection.”

“Did you?” Liza asked.

“Not that I remember.”

“But you don’t remember hurting the burglar in your apartment either.”

Liza was right. Was this dark spirit inside of him so powerful that he couldn’t control it, much less remember when it took over his body? It scared him to think it might be true. Grabbing his leather jacket off a peg, he gave Liza a kiss.

“I need to talk to the police. They’ll know what happened that night,” he said.

“What about Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger? What should I tell them?”

That was a good question. Sierra and Hunsinger had opened Pandora’s box, and Peter didn’t think he’d ever get it closed. But why had they done that? Out of an insatiable curiosity, or was something else in play here? Peter was determined to find out the answer.

“Thank them for dropping by,” he said, and flew out the door.

36

He hurried uptown.

Soon he was standing outside the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street. Did he really want to know the truth about himself? Could he handle the truth? He was about to find out.

He went inside. The lobby reminded him of the Port Authority bus terminal and was just as noisy. He sifted through the crowd, picking up people’s thoughts. When he was under stress, his psychic powers got the better of him, and he heard things without meaning to.

He waited dutifully in line to talk to the female desk sergeant working reception. In front of him, a Puerto Rican man was trying to determine how he was going to tell his brother—who’d beat up someone over a girl—that he didn’t have the money to bail him out of jail. Behind him, a distraught mother was wondering if the police had any fresh information about her runaway teenage daughter. Their thoughts were incredibly loud, as most stressful thoughts were, and bounced around him like so many echoes.

Finally his turn came, and he approached the desk.

“Hey, magic man, long time no see,” the desk sergeant said. “How’s tricks?”

He’d helped the police solve a murder not long ago, and was surprised she remembered him. “I’ve been good. I’d like to see Detective Schoch.”

“Do some magic first. I want to be amazed.”

He searched his pockets for something to fool her with. He’d left the house without so much as a deck of cards. Normally in situations like this, he would have read her mind, but the desk sergeant was one of those rare birds whose minds could not be read. He pointed at the notepad lying on the desk.

“Pick up that pad and draw something on it. Don’t let me see it,” he said.

“You gonna read my mind?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Cool.” The desk sergeant picked up the pad and a pencil. “Turn around, I don’t trust you.”

“Come on, I’m one of the good guys.”

“I still don’t trust you. Now turn around.”

Peter obeyed, and found himself staring at a scummy-looking character standing where the distraught mother had been. Day-old stubble, rheumy eyes, and lifeless blond hair made up the picture. The man’s dark thoughts invaded Peter’s head. He was a cold-blooded murderer.

“Something wrong?” the scummy-looking man asked, picking up his vibe.

“There was a woman standing behind me,” Peter explained.

“She left.”

“I’m finished,” the desk sergeant said loudly.

“Nice meeting you,” Peter said.

“Right.”

Peter turned back around. The man’s crime was running through his head like a trailer to a movie. Friday night, a rough bar in Hell’s Kitchen, the man and a drinking buddy left the bar together, walked into a dark alley, where the scummy-looking man robbed his friend and shot him for good measure. He was a stone-cold killer.

“So tell me what I drew,” the desk sergeant said.

Peter had absolutely no idea what the desk sergeant had drawn while his back was turned. But he was about to find out without his subject being the wiser. “Please tear off what you drew, and hide the drawing,” he replied.

The desk sergeant tore off the drawing and hid it under her desk. Peter wondered how was he going to tell her about the killer without tipping her off that he was a psychic. He decided to finish the trick, hoping a solution would come to him.

“May I please have the pad and your pencil,” he said.

“So polite. I like that in a man.”

She winked at him while handing over the items. Peter held the pad up close to his chest. Using the edge of the pencil, he lightly shaded the page, and the impression of what she’d just drawn popped to life. There were only ten objects that people ever drew. Peter pegged the desk sergeant for a house, and glanced down at the page. Sure enough, she’d drawn a house. But not just any house. This one had a winding driveway, a mailbox at the road, and a front lawn. Had she drawn the house out in the suburbs where she lived?

“You drew something very dear to you, a special place.”

The desk sergeant lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Boy, you’re good,” she said.

“It’s a house in the suburbs.”

“Right again.”

“Is it the house where you live?”

“I’ll be damned. You’re amazing.”

Behind the desk appeared an attractive brunette wearing a sidearm strapped to her side. Detective Colleen Schoch, the very person he’d come to the precinct to see.

“Hello, Peter. How have you been?” she asked.

“I’m okay. I need to speak with you. In private.”

“May I ask what this is about? I’m kind of busy right now.”

“The night my parents were killed.”

Schoch did not know what to say. She’d been the first officer on the scene the night his parents had died, and had taken Peter to the station house and taken care of him. Schoch was a friend, and one of the few people outside of his Friday night group who knew of his powers.

Schoch motioned him to come around the desk, and they walked to a bank of elevators and waited for a car to come. She brought her face up close to his. Their eyes locked.

“What’s going on?” Schoch asked.

First things first, Peter thought. “The creepy guy behind me on line is a killer.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I read his mind. He shot a guy in Hell’s Kitchen Friday night. His victim was left lying in an alley. If you don’t grab him now, he’s going to escape.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Positive. I saw the whole thing clearly.”

“How do I prove this?”

“He stole his victim’s wallet. He’s still carrying it.”

“Wait here. I’m going to go arrest the son of a bitch.”

*   *   *

Most criminals were stupid. The man in line was no exception. His victim’s ID was still in his wallet when Schoch arrested him.

Schoch was beaming as they sat in her tiny cubicle in Homicide. Her desk was as neat as a pin, which could not be said of the desks around her. She offered him a soft drink.

“No, thanks. Let me tell you why I’m here,” Peter said. “I’ve been having some problems lately, and I think they stem from the night my parents were murdered. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. It will help me sort things out.”

Schoch leaned back in her chair. “What kind of problems?”

“Anger issues.”

“That’s not uncommon for victims of violent crimes.”

“These are extreme.”

“You’re becoming violent?”

“Close enough. Will you help me? Please?”

Her face softened, if just a little bit. “All right, fire away. What do you want to know?”

“Did I become violent the night my parents died?”

“No. You cried a lot at the station house, but that was it.”

He thought back to what he knew about his demon. It came out right at the moment he became angry, like a spark turning to a flame. “I mean at the scene of the crime. Did I do anything out of the ordinary?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Schoch replied.

“But you were the first responder. You would have seen how I was acting. Try to remember. It’s very important to me.”

“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but when I first got to the scene, you weren’t there,” Schoch said. “I was a foot cop working Times Square with my partner. A call came in that a man and his wife had been abducted in an alley beside the Shubert Theatre. We got to the scene as fast as we could, and discovered there were plenty of eyewitnesses. We took their statements, and every single one of them said there had been a little boy. Well, there was no little boy.”

“I wasn’t there?”

“No, and we looked high and low for you. You vanished.”

“Then how did I show up at the station house?”

“A man brought you. I remember him quite clearly. He had snow-white hair and was theatrical looking. I pegged him for an actor. He said he’d found you wandering the streets.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No. It was weird. He came into the lobby and handed you off to me. You were in a state of shock and not communicating. While I was watching you, he disappeared.”

He disappeared? Peter felt the invisible stab to his heart. The physical description matched that of Max, his teacher. He took a deep breath before continuing. “How long I was gone?”

Schoch had to think. “The call came in at ten o’clock at night, and you showed up at the station house at around three A.M.”

Five whole hours. That was a long time. Yet it made sense, the pieces of the puzzle falling together, the empty holes filling in. Right as his parents were abducted, he’d looked into his mother’s eyes, and had known that he was never going to see her or his beloved father again. He’d known his parents were about to die, just as they’d known. A shared truth had never been more painful. And with that terrible knowledge had come an anger so great that the little boy in pajamas who’d maimed a burglar had gone on a rampage that had lasted into the small hours of the night. Once the rampage was over, he’d somehow ended up with Max, his parents’ dearest friend.

There was no doubt in his mind this is what had happened that awful night. The only question was, how much damage had he caused?

37

Peter sat on the edge of the detective’s desk and tried to act calm, even though his heart was racing out of control. “I have another question. I know this is going to sound strange.”

“I’m sure it isn’t anything I haven’t heard before,” Schoch replied.

“The night my parents died, were there other deaths in the city that you didn’t solve?”

“Deaths? Do you mean murders?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“That’s a strange question,” she conceded. “Why do you want to know that?”

The detective wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her, so he said instead, “I’ve been having some weird dreams lately that concern that night. I’ve been wondering if the things I’m seeing in my dreams might have actually happened.”

“Fair enough. Let’s ask Dag. He’ll know.”

Schoch told Peter that her toothpick-chewing partner, Dag, had recently been assigned to work on a slew of cold cases from that year, and he’d be the person to ask. She called Dag on her intercom. “You busy? I need a favor.”

“What’s going on,” Dag replied over the squawk box.

“Peter Warlock is here. He needs our help.”

Moments later, Detective Sal Dagastino, known as Dag to his friends, entered the cubicle and pumped Peter’s hand. “How’s life in the fast lane?” he asked.

“Traveling at the speed of sound,” Peter replied.

“I need to score four tickets for Saturday night’s show,” Dag said without missing a beat. “My in-laws are coming to town, and I want to show them a good time.”

“Consider it done. You can pick them up at Will Call. Will third row center do the trick?”

“Perfect. Now it’s my turn. What do you need?”

“I was wondering if there were any unsolved murders or violent crimes which took place the night my parents died. Detective Schoch said you’ve been working cold cases lately.”

“Peter was roaming the city that night and might have seen something,” Schoch explained.

As a rule, cops did not share information about open investigations. But Peter had helped Dag and Schoch solve a difficult murder case not long ago, and gained their trust. The toothpick twirled between Dag’s teeth as he considered their visitor’s request.

“There were several violent killings in the city that night that were never solved,” Dag said. “We recently reopened them because of a new DNA test called ‘scraping.’ Scraping lets us test for DNA in places we weren’t able to test before.”

Peter swallowed hard. Several violent killings. Were they his doing?

“Were the cases linked?” he asked.

“They sure were. All our victims had skin underneath their fingernails which wasn’t theirs,” Dag said. “With scraping, we were able to find DNA, and compare it. The same assailant was responsible, and might be a serial killer. Kind of scary to think this person has been roaming around the city for the past eighteen years and we didn’t know it.”

Pools of black opened up before Peter’s eyes, and he would have liked nothing better than to jump through one of them, and disappear. He felt the weight of Dag’s stare, and realized the detective was waiting for a response. If the police shared information with you, they expected you to give something in return, and he said, “The memories from that night have recently been coming back to me. Maybe while I was roaming the city I came across your killer.”

“Would you remember him?”

“I might.”

“How about his victims? Would you remember them?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

The toothpick did another slow twirl. Going to the next cubicle, Dag grabbed a manila folder off the top of a pile, and dropped it in Peter’s lap upon his return.

“That’s them,” Dag said.

“You mean the victims?”

“That’s right. The photos aren’t pretty.”

The file felt heavy. “How many unsolved cases were there that night?”

“Six.”

Peter thought he was going to be sick. Possessed little boy runs amok in city, killing six innocent people. It sounded like the plot to a low-budget horror film.

“Not that any of them were going to be missed,” Dag went on. “Whoever took those guys out was doing the good citizens of New York a favor, and deserves a medal.”

“You’re starting to sound like a vigilante, Dag,” Schoch said.

“Just speaking my mind,” her partner said.

“Were the victims bad people?” Peter asked.

“Scum of the earth,” Dag said. “I say good riddance.”

Peter went through the file. It contained six Homicide reports that had been written back in the day when cops used typewriters. Each report had its own collection of gruesome crime-scene photographs. Each victim had died in a pool of his own blood. He thought back to the snapshot of him in his Batman pajamas. The front of his pj’s had been blood soaked. No doubt the shedding of blood was something the demon found appealing.

38

An approximate time of death was printed on each report. All the victims had died during the five hours he’d been roaming the city. All had also been found within a twenty-block radius of the Shubert Theatre in Times Square, where his parents had been abducted.

The cases had other similarities as well. Each victim had a lengthy criminal record, and was wanted by the law. One rapist, an armed robber, three men wanted for murder, and a drug dealer known for selling poisonous drugs to his clients. In keeping with the theme of his rampage, they had died brutally, with their necks broken and skulls crushed in, their bodies left in alleyways to be discovered a few hours later.

He closed the file. He was going to have to find a way to deal with this; he just didn’t know how. When he spoke, his voice sounded like a recording. “Did anyone see who did this?”

“There was one eyewitness,” Dag said. “A woman walking her dog saw our killer kneeling over one of the victims, strangling the crap out of him.”

I killed them with my bare hands, he thought. How lovely.

“Did she give you a physical description?”

“Witness said he was a little guy, if you can believe that.”

He started to tremble. For the first time, he realized what a huge risk he’d taken coming here. If he wasn’t careful, Dag and Schoch would realize that he was the little guy the eyewitness had seen, and they’d take a sample of his DNA, compare it to the victims’ samples, and then they’d have to arrest him.

Dag wore a blank look, and wasn’t making the connection. Schoch hadn’t made the connection yet, either. So far so good, but what about later on? They were smart cops, and their brains worked like filters. Eventually, it would dawn on them why Peter had come to see them.

He needed to stop that from happening, and decided to blur their memories. Magicians were masters at blurring their audiences’ memories, and he would do the same with the detectives.

He asked Dag what several notations he’d seen in the homicide reports referred to. Dag obliged him, and spent five minutes explaining the notations. When Dag was done, Peter asked Schoch to explain the coroner’s reports in the files. Schoch obliged him as well, and five more minutes were spent. Getting the detectives talking served an important purpose. Instead of asking questions, they were now having to answer questions. This made them switch gears, and use a different part of their brains.

The second thing it did was kill time. The further away they moved from the thing Peter didn’t want them to remember, the less in focus the memory became. If he killed enough time, the memory would become blurred with the things he was now asking them. Magicians called this stalling technique time delay. During a magic show, things happened onstage which the magician did not want the audience to remember. By creating a time delay, the audience often forgot the very thing which allowed the trick to work.

Peter worked his magic on the detectives. Soon they looked bored, and ready to go back to work. “Thanks for talking to me. I’ll let you know if I remember anything from that night.”

The phone on the desk lit up. Schoch snatched the receiver and waved good-bye. Dag walked him to the elevators and punched the button.

“I’ll e-mail you about those tickets,” the detective said.

“I won’t forget,” Peter promised.

*   *   *

Riding down in the elevator, Peter hugged himself and shut his eyes. How could he have murdered six men with his bare hands and not remember the act? It just didn’t seem possible.

Perhaps someone else was responsible, a madman maybe, or another poor soul possessed by a demon. Those were logical explanations, and he was willing to accept them, except he still couldn’t understand how he’d managed to end up with Max.

Stepping outside the 19th Precinct, he texted Liza that he’d be home in a few hours, then hailed a cab and headed downtown to the Village.

39

Long ago, a freight rail line had run high above the streets of Manhattan on the West Side. One day the trains had stopped running, and the elevated line had fallen into disrepair, with weeds and garbage strewing the tracks. The city had planned to tear down the constant eyesore along with all the memories.

Only this was New York, where everything old became new again. A vocal group of residents had banded together with the goal of preserving the tracks. Calling themselves Friends of the High Line, they’d begun the arduous process of convincing the city’s leaders to change their minds. In the end, they had won, and the tracks were saved.

Today, the tracks served as a pedestrian walkway that stretched from Gansevoort to 34th Street, and was filled with well-tended gardens, dozens of pieces of modern sculpture, and comfy places to curl up with a book, which many people did when the weather was pleasant.

Because this was New York, the High Line had plenty of rules. No smoking, biking, skateboarding, picking flowers, climbing, throwing objects, littering, filming movies, or blasting boom boxes were allowed. And there were no street performers of any kind.

Except for one.

One performer was allowed to hold court on the High Line and entertain the masses, and his name was Max Romeo.

Max had lived in New York most of his life, and knew everybody. He’d pulled some strings, and had gotten the city to issue him a permit to perform magic on the High Line whenever the mood suited him. In Peter’s opinion, it was the greatest gig in the city.

Tuesday afternoon, bright and sunny, Peter found his teacher near the West 20th Street entrance. Max was plucking shiny silver dollars out of a young boy’s ears and nose, the coins landing into a metal pail with a loud clunk! The appreciative crowd laughed and applauded.

“Stand up straight, my boy,” Max commanded with a playful air.

More coins appeared and were tossed in. Soon the pail grew heavy in Max’s hand. The old magician shook the coins while casting a suspicious gaze at the crowd. There was no tougher crowd than a bunch of New Yorkers. Yet Max had them in the palm of his hand.

“On the count of three, I will perform a miracle,” Max proclaimed. “Please count along. Are you ready? Here we go. One.”

“One!” the crowd echoed.

“Two.”

“Two!”

Max started to say “Three” and dumped the bucket into the crowd. Silver-colored confetti floated to the sidewalk, the coins miraculously gone. Max gave a matadorlike bow.

It was all about the applause. Shakespeare had said that, and he’d been right. The crowd rewarded Max generously. When the applause subsided, several members of the crowd tried to give Max tips. The old magician politely but firmly refused. Only when the crowd had dispersed did he address his student.

“Why, Peter, it’s good to see you,” Max said.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was a murderer?” Peter asked.

*   *   *

They sat on a bench with their backs to the gloomy Hudson. Max treaded softly.

“You look troubled,” Max said. “Have the shadow people visited you again? I saw one earlier when I stepped out of my apartment.” He patted the five-pointed star resting beneath his shirt. “Thank God you gave me this.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about the shadow people,” Peter said.

“Milly saw one, too,” Max said, as if not hearing him. “So did Lester, and Homer called to tell me that his wife believes one was floating outside their apartment window this morning around breakfast time. Have you figured out what they want?”

“That’s simple. They want me.”

“But why? Still no clue? I would have thought they would have made their intentions known by now. The spirits aren’t ones to beat around the bush, you know.”

Peter shook his head. He had three days left to save Rachael from walking into Dr. Death’s trap. Right now, though, he needed to deal with his own issues, and uncover the truth, as ugly as it might be. “I want to talk to you about the night my parents perished. I learned today that I was roaming around the city for five hours, and that a kindly old man who bore a striking resemblance to you deposited me at the police station house at three o’clock in the morning.”

Max lowered his eyes. “Is that so,” he mumbled.

“Was it you? Please be honest with me about this.”

“I believe it was.”

“Thank you. So here’s the question I want to ask you, Max. When you found me that night, were my hands covered in blood?”

His teacher’s head snapped, and he locked eyes with his student. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it most certainly does.”

“Will you tell me the truth?”

“Tell you the truth about what?”

“Me.”

“You want to know the truth about you?”

“Yes, Max. Something tells me you know exactly who I am.”

Max placed his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and pulled him close to his chest. With his other hand, he ran his knuckles across his hair. Max hadn’t done that to him in a long time, and it brought a long-forgotten smile to Peter’s face.

“I’ll tell you who you are,” Max said. “You are one of the most caring and generous people I have ever known. That’s who you are, and I’m proud to have helped raise you. Is that good enough for you?”

“No. I want to know if there was blood on my hands.”

Max scowled and released him. “How much do you remember from that night?”

“Nothing. It’s all a blank.”

“There’s your answer. There wasn’t any blood.”

“But that’s not true,” he said, hearing the fear in his voice. “I went on a rampage that night, and killed six men in the city. The police confirmed it. I saw the cold case file with photographs of my victims. It was awful.”

Max winced like he’d been kicked. A deck of cards appeared in his hands. He fanned and cut them one-handed without being disrespectful. “So you know.”

“Yes. Now tell me the rest.”

“If you insist. At the exact moment your mother and father were abducted, Milly Adams was taking a hot bath. Milly had a vision, and saw your parents being shoved into a car at gunpoint. She knew your parents were doomed, but held out hope for you.”

“Did Milly see me in her vision?”

“Yes. She said you changed.”

“Into a monster?”

“She said you turned into a little demon. Milly alerted her psychic friends, and asked us to look for you. I owned a car at the time, and was given an area to search. I looked for hours, and finally found you on Ninth Avenue.”

“What was I doing?”

At first, Max did not respond. The pools of black reappeared and Peter felt all the more ready to step into one. “Please, Max. Tell me.”

“You were in the act of interrupting a serious crime,” Max said solemnly. “A mugger was robbing an elderly man and kicking him. You jumped in, and got your hands around the mugger’s throat. You were four and a half feet tall and weighed seventy pounds. The mugger was a brute, and four times your size, yet he didn’t stand a chance.”

“Did I kill him?”

“You snapped his neck like it was a bread stick. But it was for a good cause. As were the others, I’m sure.”

Dag had made a similar comment, as if the six killings were justifiable. Peter didn’t believe there was ever a good reason to take a human life. The truth was, he’d gone berserk that night, and become a killing machine. How he was going to live with that, he had no idea.

“What happened then?”

“I took you home, where I cleaned you up, while Anna fixed you something to eat,” Max replied. “You remember how my wife always wanted to feed everyone. Anyway, you’d calmed down by then, and gone back to being a little boy. A very frightened little boy, I might add. It was Anna’s idea to take you to the police in the hopes you might identify the men who’d stolen your parents away. Which was exactly what I did.”

The cards were snapped in a fan. They had shrunk to half their size. Another fan, and they shrunk to the size of a matchbook. Then, like a puff of smoke, they were gone.

“But why did you do that, Max?” he asked pleadingly. “Didn’t the fact that I’d killed six men weigh on your decision? I was a dangerous little boy. Shouldn’t you have taken me to a hospital instead?”

Max opened his hands and the deck of cards miraculously reappeared. Seeing them made Peter swallow hard. The cards had been there all along, perhaps up Max’s sleeve, or someplace else, but hiding in plain sight nonetheless. So simple, yet it had fooled him.

“You had killed before, you do know that,” Max said.

“The burglar at our apartment. He died?”

“Of course he died. I mean, before that.”

Someone could have knocked him over with a feather.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.

“So you don’t know the truth, then.”

The truth. Peter had been waiting a long time to hear the truth. Max rose from the bench and motioned for Peter to rise as well.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

40

Down at street level they went to a hidden Italian eatery called Pepe Giallo, its motto, “Feeding the Starving Artists since 1997.” For a restaurant in New York to be Italian, it not only had to serve authentic Italian fare, but had to be run by Italians with accents and rude manners. Pepe Giallo had all those things. A host led them to a small courtyard in the back with rustic redbrick walls and a murky skylight. Tossing a pair of menus on the table, he walked away.

“I’m not hungry. Let’s go someplace else,” Peter said.

“Nonsense, you’re always hungry, even though you manage to never gain weight,” Max said. “Food will make you feel better. Try the roasted eggplant. It’s wonderful.”

An indifferent waiter took their drink orders. When he was gone, Max glanced at a couple sitting nearby. Deciding they were not a threat, he leaned forward and said, “I once read a quote by Ernest Hemingway that stayed with me. Hemingway said that memoirs are fiction. People reinvent their pasts to suit them. We take out the things we don’t want repeated, and embellish the things we do. When it comes to the past, there is no such thing as the truth.”

“Is my past fiction?” Peter asked.

“Yes. Part of your family’s past is fiction.”

“So this includes my parents.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How bad is it?”

“I never planned to tell you, if that’s what you mean.”

Peter removed a bread stick from the basket, broke off a piece. Did he really want to hear dark things about his family’s past? Milly’s accusation that he ran away from his problems didn’t seem such a bad idea right now.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Max wiped his hands with a cloth napkin. Bunching the napkin up, he extracted a full glass of water, complete with ice cubes and a slice of lemon, which he triumphantly placed in front of his bug-eyed student. Fooled again, Peter thought.

“You flashed. Do it again,” Peter said.

“I did no such thing,” Max thundered. “Admit you’re fooled!”

“All right, you fooled me. Bravo.”

A thin smile crossed Max’s face. “Listen carefully to what I have to say. This will be upsetting at first. Once I explain certain things, I think you’ll understand. Okay?”

“Sure, Max.”

“All right, here we go. You were raised to believe that your mother and father left London and came to New York because they were being threatened by the group of evil psychics called the Order of Astrum. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“That is not the actual reason your parents left England. The real reason they left is that their precious son killed a man in Hyde Park, and they were running from the law.”

“I did what?”

“Please let me tell my story without interruption.”

Peter could feel the blood draining from his head. “Sure, Max, whatever you say.”

“Thank you. Here’s what happened. Your parents lived in London and taught at a small college. Each Sunday when the weather was favorable, they packed a picnic and went to Hyde Park, where they allowed you to play while they read books. It was one of their favorite things to do. One Sunday in the early spring, your parents were going about their usual routine when your father realized you had disappeared. He grew alarmed, and went searching for you. Several minutes passed before he found you behind a thick hedge a hundred yards from where your parents had been sitting. You were in a daze, and barely speaking. Lying on the ground was a man with blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. The man’s neck was broken and he was dead. Your father gathered you in his arms, and asked you what had happened. And you said, ‘I killed him, Father. He was going to hurt us.’”

“Who was he?”

“Please, don’t make me get ahead of myself.”

“Sorry.”

“On the ground beside the dead man was a lead pipe. Your father couldn’t be sure if the man had been holding the pipe, or if it had been lying there. Your father rushed you home, where your mother gave you a bath, and wiped the blood away.”

“Why didn’t they call the police?”

“Your parents knew you were different in many ways, and did not always understand the things you did. That night, after you were put to bed, your parents talked it over. They couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to harm them. After all, they were college professors, and led dull, uneventful lives. If the man in the bushes had wanted to rob them, he wouldn’t have gotten much money. And if he’d wanted to hurt them, why?

“The next day, the story hit every newspaper in London. Scotland Yard was looking for you, and claimed to have a rather vague description of what you looked like provided by an old woman who’d been bird-watching in the park. Your father saw the newspapers and panicked. If the police found you, he was afraid they would have stuck you into a mental institution. He had to protect you, and convinced your mother that they needed to leave London, and quickly.”

“So they left because of me.”

“That’s right. Your father knew there was more to the story, and felt certain he’d figure out the rest eventually. Your parents came to New York, where they took jobs at Hunter College and went about their lives. Then the unthinkable happened.”

“I killed again.”

Max nodded gravely. “Six months to the day, to be exact. It happened at night. You were in bed, and your parents went to see a newborn in a neighbor’s apartment. When they returned, your mother went to check on you, and found you covered in blood.”

Peter stared at the table, thinking he might be sick.

Max squeezed his arm. “It gets better,” he said.

“How can this story possibly get better?” he half whispered.

“Because now you’re going to hear the truth.”

His head snapped. “Which is what?”

“While your mother tended to you, your father went onto the fire escape outside your bedroom. Finding more blood, he followed it down to an alley. It was there that he found your victim, who’d been beaten around the face and had died from loss of blood.”

“How awful.”

“Stop flogging yourself. I said it got better, didn’t I?”

“Sorry.”

“The man in the alley reminded your father of your victim in Hyde Park. Both men were physically large, in their early thirties, and rough looking. That bothered your father, yet he was still unable to make the connection. He decided to move the body before someone discovered it, and called me for help.”

“Because you had a car.”

Max nodded.

“Had he told you what I’d done in Hyde Park?”

“Yes, he had. Like him, I believed there was more to the story than met the eye. Mind you, Peter, I’d gotten to know you during my visits to your family’s apartment, and you impressed me as a fine fellow and not some little serial killer in waiting. Anyway, I rushed over with my car, and your father and I loaded the dead man in the trunk. We hauled him to a vacant lot in Brooklyn, where we planned to dump him.”

Peter found himself shaking his head. Max and his father were the two most important men in his life. The idea that they’d dumped a dead man in a lot in order to save him from the police brought out an emotion that he could not describe. He took a deep breath.

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. And that was when I had a eureka moment,” Max said triumphantly.

“Your victim was wearing a turtleneck sweater. As we dragged him out of the trunk, it got pulled down, and I spied a shimmering silver tattoo on his neck.”

Peter gasped. “He was a member of the Order of Astrum.”

“Indeed he was. He wasn’t a burglar, as your parents originally thought, but an assassin who had been sent to kill them.” Max paused again. “And you stopped him.”

“You think I knew who he was?”

“Of course you did—why else would you have killed him?”

Peter wrestled with what Max was telling him. Why couldn’t a few memories of these events have remained? It would have made it so much easier for him to deal with this. But the memories had been erased along with the violent emotions that had gone with them.

“So these killings weren’t random acts of violence, but served a purpose,” Peter said.

“That was the conclusion your father and I came to,” Max replied. “As you know, your parents were founding members of the Order. They left the organization in their teens, got married, and moved to London. One day, the three remaining members of the Order paid them a visit, and asked them to rejoin. Your parents said no, and they threatened them. Your father said he hadn’t taken the threats seriously. Now he did.”

“What about the man in Hyde Park? Was he an assassin as well?”

“Excellent deduction. Yes, he was.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I have a friend in London whose brother is with Scotland Yard. I called my friend, and asked him to ask his brother to check the autopsy report of the dead man to see if he had a shimmering tattoo on his neck. Not surprisingly, the man did.”

“So the man in Hyde Park was sent to kill my parents. When he failed, a second assassin was sent to New York, and he failed as well. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“You’re stealing my thunder.”

“Finally, the Order got fed up, and the other members came to New York to do the job themselves,” Peter said. “Only this time, I wasn’t able to protect my parents, and they were stolen out from under me. I went into a rage, and ran around New York killing bad men in retaliation. Is that the deal?”

“You make it sound like you were a monster,” Max said. “That was not the case.”

“From what you’ve just told me, I killed eight men before I turned eight years old. What would you call it?”

“They were bad men, and got the fate they deserved.”

“I was a child. Children are not supposed to kill. It was wrong. Please don’t justify it.”

“But they were trying to kill your parents.”

“Why didn’t my parents stop them? They were both psychic. How could they have been so blind to the danger they were in?”

Max shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Your mother and father left the Order of Astrum because they wanted to lead normal lives. They were psychics, but it was a small part of who they were. They kept their powers turned off most of the time, so to speak. That was why they didn’t see the danger.”

But their seven-year-old son had seen the danger. Unlike his loving parents, Peter had not turned off his psychic powers, and when danger had come calling, the demon inside of him responded in a way that was so horrible that the memories had been repressed.

His chair made a harsh scraping sound. Standing, Peter tossed his napkin onto his plate. Why couldn’t Max’s story have been different? Something easy for him to digest and come to grips with? He could have accepted just about anything, except this.

Max looked into his student’s face, and saw his pain. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to have a normal life, too,” Peter said, and walked out of the restaurant.

41

Peter got out of the cab at the Centre Street entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Keep the change.”

The driver smiled at his good fortune and pulled away. It was not every day that a passenger gave him a hundred bucks for a twelve-dollar fare.

Peter zipped up his leather jacket and climbed the stairway to the elevated pedestrian walkway that ran the length of the bridge. Day or night, rain or shine, freezing cold or unbearably hot, there was always a mob of people walking and jogging and enjoying the sights from the bridge. And then there were poor souls like him, who needed to clear dark thoughts from their heads.

It was a half mile to the bridge’s center. Upon reaching it, he gazed up at the main tower, which was as tall as a skyscraper. Many times, he’d imagined climbing over the railing, crawling on a beam to the tower, taking the stairs to the top, ripping off his clothes, and diving into murky depths of the East River. Not to kill himself, but simply as a way to change, believing that the Peter who came out of the water would be different from the Peter who’d jumped in.

But he hadn’t done it. In the end, something had always held him back. He gripped the railing with both hands and gazed at the water. He’d read once that everyone desired to be someone else. For him, that person was someone totally ordinary. He yearned for a morning when he’d wake up and not have had a vision the night before which foretold the future, or step into an old building and not be confronted by a ghost. He wanted a life with the normal daily ups and downs, happiness and pain. Was that too much to ask for?

“There you are.”

He released the railing and spun around. Liza came toward him wearing stone-washed jeans and a wool sweater, looking as radiant as the day he’d first laid eyes on her.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Because this is where you come when you’re in the dumps. Did you get my texts?”

He took out his Droid and saw the message icon flashing in the upper corner of the screen. Had his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he’d not noticed? That was no excuse, and he said, “I haven’t been myself today. What happened to Sierra and his friend?”

“They left right after you did.” Liza saw something she didn’t like, and placed her hand beneath his chin so she could stare fully into his eyes. “You look despondent. Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

Where to begin? Start by how you feel and take it from there. “I used to think that the day my parents died was the worst day of my life. I was wrong. Today is the worst day of my life.”

“Because of what Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger told you this morning.”

“That was just the beginning.”

He edged up to the railing and resumed looking at the river. Liza clasped his hand and stood beside him. They shared the same view, but he doubted they were seeing the same things, and he found himself wishing that Liza could read minds, for he would have given anything not to repeat the things that Max had told him.

“Sierra and Hunsinger were the tip of the iceberg. I killed eight different people when I was a little kid.”

“Oh, my God, Peter. Are you sure?”

“Max confirmed it. He saw me strangling a mugger the night my parents died. Said the guy deserved it, not that it made me feel any better.”

“Who were the others?”

“Two of them were assassins trying to do away with my parents; the other six came after my parents died. My demon did a ‘Death Wish’ on all the bad guys roaming the city that night.”

“So you only killed bad people. Well, I guess that’s some consolation. Isn’t it?”

When confronted by the forces of evil, most people turned away, or made excuses, or tried to ignore the facts staring them in the face. It was how they coped with evil in its purest form, and Liza was no exception. He fell silent.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

He struggled to reply. In the back of his mind he saw himself taking the plunge into the river and emerging a different person, or not. That was one way out.

“I remember the first time you brought me here,” she said. “We had just started dating, and you took me out to dinner, and then brought me here. We stood right in this spot, and you explained to me that there were sixteen bridges that connected the island of Manhattan to the different boroughs, and then you named them. There was the Brooklyn Bridge, the George Washington Bridge, the Triborough Bridge, and I can’t remember the others. Then you told me how you grew up believing the bridges were anchors that kept the city from floating away. Remember?”

He nodded.

“Is that why you came here? Because you feel like you’re floating away?”

It was as good an analogy as Peter could think of, and he nodded again.

“Are you afraid your demon will come out again, and go on a rampage?”

Growing up, his parents and later his parents’ friends had taught him to control his anger, and it allowed him to control the demon as well. So far, he’d been able to keep the monster under control, but who knew what the future held?

“That’s part of it,” he said.

“So tell me the rest. Please, Peter, I want to know. Say what’s on your mind.”

“I lost my dream. I’ve always known I was different. I talked to my mother about it, and she told me not to worry. She told me that one day I’d grow up, and everything would work out. I took that to mean that when I became an adult, I’d meet a special person, get married, have a couple of kids, and lead a normal life. I’d get to shed being a psychic just like a soldier gets out of the army, you know? Sure, I’d still have gifts, but I wouldn’t have to use them unless I wanted to. That was my dream, and I’ve held on to it for all this time. But now I know that isn’t true. This evil inside of me will always be there, and I’ll always need to keep a lid on it. Because if I don’t, it will come out, and there will literally be hell to pay. I won’t get to retire, ever. I’m stuck being who I am.”

“But I love who you are,” Liza said.

“What about the demon? Do you love him as well?”

“I love you, warts and all.”

He laughed silently to himself. He had a lot more than warts to deal with.

“We can deal with this,” Liza said. “We’ll work on it day by day, just like other couples that are having problems. We just have to believe in each other, that’s all. Isn’t that what your parents did?” She glanced at her watch and her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, look at the time. We’ve got a show in a few hours. Come on!”

Liza grabbed his hand. She was not giving up on him. That was good, because Peter didn’t see how he could deal with this by himself. He stole a final glance at the river, the idea of jumping not far from his thoughts.

Together, they ran across the bridge.

42

Milly was telling fortunes for three wealthy widows in her apartment when her cell phone rang. It had been Holly’s idea to buy her a ringtone, and the recorded cat’s meow sounded like the poor animal was being mutilated.

“So sorry.” Milly muted the phone without bothering to check caller ID. Cell phones were like traffic lights. Necessary, but terribly annoying. “Now, where were we?”

The widows sat at a round table draped in black felt covered in astrological signs in the center of Milly’s living room. Every Tuesday at five o’clock, they assembled in Milly’s apartment, where they drank tea, ate cookies, and had their futures told. The widows paid Milly enough money to maintain a lifestyle that most psychics only dreamed about.

“Who’d like to go first?” Milly asked.

“Let me start,” the widow Miller said. “I want to know what’s going to happen with my oldest son. He’s been causing me all sorts of trouble lately.”

“I see. Please give me your cup of tea and we’ll begin.”

The cup was passed across the table. Milly swirled the remaining liquid so the tea leaves were distributed, drained the liquid onto a paper napkin, then gazed into the cup. The key to reading tea leaves was the ability to interpret the symbols suggested by the leaves, of which there were over a hundred, each with different meanings. If the leaves looked like a stone, it meant there was work to be done. If they resembled a house, it meant that prosperity was in the future, while a mountain meant an arduous journey was ahead.

The symbol in the widow’s cup was a snake, a bad sign. But Milly wasn’t going to tell her guest that. Bad news was bad for business. Instead, she said, “Your son will continue to make questionable choices. He means well, but his decisions do not always reflect this.”

“Will he ever get a real job?” the widow asked.

Snakes did not work. They hung around all day, sleeping, and were the laziest of creatures. The widow’s son was no different.

“I don’t see a job in his immediate future,” Milly replied truthfully.

“Someday?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can you be more specific? He’s thirty years old and I’m still supporting him!”

Milly studied the leaves some more. The snake appeared to be well fed. The widow’s son wasn’t going to leave home until his mother stopped babying him. “Your son has the potential to do many useful things with his life. Whether or not he does is up to you.”

“Up to me? So what do I do?”

“Take a long trip. I hear a cruise to Alaska is nice this time of year.”

“Seriously? What about my son? Should I take him along?”

“Leave him behind.”

“But I’ve never done that before. Will he be all right?”

Milly again consulted the leaves. The snake had sprouted wings and resembled a butterfly, a symbol of growth and change. “He’ll be fine,” she assured her.

A telephone rang in the study down the hall. Milly’s home number was unlisted, and hardly everyone ever called her.

“Did you need to get that?” the widow asked.

“They can leave a message,” Milly replied.

The phone continued to ring. Like most witches, Milly was a private person, and hated intrusions. An annoying telemarketing firm had found out the hard way, and she’d cast a spell over them when they wouldn’t stop harassing her. Only after they’d gone out of business had the company’s operators gotten their voices back.

The phone would not stop ringing.

“Let me get that,” Milly said. “Please, help yourselves to more tea.”

She went to her study to take the call. She’d already decided that her caller would wake up tomorrow with an ugly mole on their nose with black hairs sprouting out of it. That would make them think twice about calling her again. She snatched up the receiver.

“Who is this, and what do you want?” she demanded.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Adams, this is Joe, the building’s head of security,” a man’s deep voice said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you have a visitor.”

“I’m busy, Joe,” she said icily.

“I know you are, Ms. Adams. I told your visitor that you had guests and were not to be disturbed, but she insisted that I ring you.”

Joe was a decent fellow, and always helped her bring in her groceries. Milly quickly undid the spell that she’d just cast over him, then reminded herself to look at Joe’s nose tomorrow morning to be sure he was all right.

“Does this visitor have a name?” Milly asked.

“It’s your niece, Holly.”

So that was who’d called her cell phone. And when Milly hadn’t answered, Holly had rushed over to see her. Something told Milly this was about Peter, and could wait.

“Tell her that I’m busy, and will call her later,” Milly said.

“She says it’s a matter of life and death, and that she must see you now,” Joe said.

“Really. Well, I guess you’d better send her right up.”

“Will do.”

Milly hung up the phone. This sounded serious. She returned to the living room to check on her guests. Their teacups were full, their conversation light and pleasant.

“I’ll just be a few more minutes,” she promised them.

*   *   *

A witch’s life was filled with drama and suspense. It was part of the job description, and there was no getting around it. A light tapping on the door announced Holly’s arrival. Milly ushered her niece into the foyer with a finger to her lips and shut the door behind her.

“There are clients in the living room. What’s wrong?”

Holly pulled the wool cap from her head and shook out her hair. Her cheeks were without color, her eyes glassy from crying. She struggled for a proper reply.

“This is about Peter, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’ve been scrying on the poor boy again. I see it clearly in your face. You must leave Peter alone!”

“But I can’t,” Holly said, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Peter wants to kill himself.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“He nearly jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this afternoon. I was scrying on him, and I saw the whole thing. He would have done it, but his girlfriend Liza came to the rescue. I’m so worried about him, Aunt Milly.”

“Lower your voice,” Milly said, glancing at the living room. “Tell me something. Why do you assume Peter was going to jump? He might have just been out for an afternoon walk.”

“Peter gets depressed sometimes. He wants his life to be different. Sometimes he can’t handle it. He told me once that he imagined himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, and coming out of the water a different person. I told him that if he jumped off the bridge, he’d surely die. He said, ‘If that’s what it takes…’ and his voice trailed off.”

Milly squeezed her niece’s arm. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

“Peter swore me to secrecy.”

“You still should have told me. I would have talked to him.”

“It won’t make it any better. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Milly wanted to grab her niece by the shoulders, and shake some common sense into her. Milly understood who Peter was, and what he was, better than anyone else, except maybe Max. If anyone could talk the boy off a ledge, it was her. Not that she could convince Holly of that.

“My powers of persuasion are far greater than yours,” Milly said. “I will go see Peter tomorrow, and talk some sense into him. He’ll listen to me.”

Holly shook her head and stared at the floor. A tiny sob escaped her lips. “It’s too late. Max told Peter about some horrible things he did when he was a little boy. I heard the whole thing. Peter ran out of the restaurant with the most horrible expression on his face.”

“You mean Max told Peter about the killings,” Milly said matter-of-factly.

“You know about them?”

“Of course I know about them. Come on, dear girl, I helped raise Peter.” A noise from the other room caught Milly’s ear; her guests were growing restless. If she wasn’t careful, the subtle spell she’d cast over them would evaporate like a puff of smoke, and they’d seek out another psychic in the city to look into their futures and soothe their fears. “I must get back to my guests. Come back later, and we’ll go have dinner and talk this through some more.”

Holly shook her head, still miserable.

“What is it now?” her aunt said stiffly.

“Peter’s going to do harm to himself. I can feel it in my bones,” Holly declared.

A feeling in the bones was the window to a witch’s soul, and could not be denied.

“And what do you propose we do?” Milly asked.

“We must protect Peter,” Holly said.

Her niece didn’t understand. Milly didn’t have the time or the patience to explain it to her. Holly would have to learn on her own about Peter, just as Milly had done. She opened the front door and gently but firmly pushed her niece into the hall. Nearly fifty years separated them in age, but sometimes it felt more like hundreds, the different between them was so great.

“What are you doing?” Holly said, sounding hurt.

“Showing you out, my dear.”

“But why—what have I done?”

“You don’t understand what’s going on. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have raced across town, and barged in on me like this.”

A hurt look crossed Holly’s face. “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”

Milly stuck her head through the open door. “You and I were not put on this earth to protect Peter. Peter was put here to protect us. Now go home. I’ll call you later.”

Holly looked stunned, the words slow to sink in. Milly shut the door firmly in her niece’s face, and returned to her guests in the living room.

PART IV

DANTE

43

“Call her,” Ray said.

Early Wednesday morning, the sun was barely up. Munns stared at the cell phone lying on his kitchen table. It was a clamshell Motorola, ancient by today’s standards. He would have bought a newer model if he’d had friends to talk to. But Munns had no friends. Few serial killers did.

“Come on, call her,” Ray implored him. “You need to set this thing up.”

Munns lifted his eyes to stare at the tattoo artist leaning against the sink. He didn’t like the tone of Ray’s voice, or that Ray had driven to Munns’s house so early in the morning, and banged on his front door like an irate bill collector.

“It already is set up,” Munns said irritably. “Rachael is coming out on the train Friday night. If I call her now and tell her to come early, she’ll get suspicious and stop trusting me.”

“You’re not going to do it? Not even for me?”

“Nope, not even for you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Munns’s silence was his answer. He knew how to draw victims into his web, and did not appreciate Ray’s interference into the one thing he did rather well.

Ray pulled up a chair and sat backward in it. Whenever he could, he liked to show off the demonic-inspired tattoos that covered his arms. Like wild reptiles moving across the jungle floor, they slithered across his skin in perfect synchronicity. “I had a dream last night. Rachael came out on the Friday night train, and she had a pair of detectives with her. Something happened on Friday morning that made her suspicious, and she decided to call the cops.”

“You saw this in your dream,” Munns said.

“I sure as hell did. The detectives busted you and searched your car,” Ray said, not missing a beat. “They found rope and handcuffs and a bottle of chloroform. Then they came here, and tore your house apart. They found your trophy collection of clothing and jewelry of the women you’ve killed. They threw your ass in the county lockup, and the judge refused to grant you bail. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Munns shuddered, and drew his bathrobe tightly around him. When a judge didn’t grant bail, it meant the system thought you were guilty, and was not going to let you back into society no matter how fancy your lawyer was.

“I know,” Munns whispered.

“Then call Rachael right now, and get her to come out on the train tonight. You know how to talk to women. You told me so yourself.”

“But why tonight? Why so soon?”

“Because she still isn’t suspicious. I saw that in my dream, too.”

Munns understood the power of dreams. He’d started having them right after Ray had stamped the shimmering silver tattoo on his neck. They’d given him glimpses into the future, and he’d watched himself kill several of his victims before it had actually happened. He’d seen these dreams as gifts, for it had allowed him to watch himself and hone his skills. But they had not come without a price. Each time he’d had one, he’d awakened in sweat-soaked sheets and he knew that he had ceded another chunk of his soul to the Devil.

Finally, he gave in. “All right.”

Ray seemed relieved. From the fridge he grabbed a long-neck beer. Perhaps he’d seen himself going down on Friday night as well. No doubt he had some skin in the game.

“You gonna stand there and listen to me?” Munns asked.

“What—I make you nervous?”

“Everything makes me nervous. Go in the living room.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

*   *   *

Ray walked out of the kitchen, and Munns pulled up Rachael’s number from his cell’s directory. He’d talked to her many times, knew her schedule by heart. She worked at a cancer research center in New York affiliated with one of the universities, and got to work by seven thirty each morning so she could feed the rats that she used in her experiments and would one day have to inject with pink juice and put to sleep. She’d told Munns this was the most difficult part of her job, and always made her cry. Munns hadn’t understood how anyone could feel compassion for a rodent, but had pretended he did, just to make her happy.

The call went through. Munns quickly made up a story. Rachael lived by herself on the Upper East Side and had no close friends or social life. A single woman living in New York who didn’t get out much or have any attention showered upon her. It gave him an idea.

“Hello?” she answered, sounding out of breath.

“Rachael? This is Doc Munns. How are you? I sure hope didn’t catch you at a bad time. I have some wonderful news to share with you.”

“Not at all. I just came through the door and was pulling off my coat. It sure is cold for April. And I’d love to hear some good news.”

“The dean of the college called me last night, and said he wanted to hold a party at his house tonight so he can introduce you to the faculty. I thought it was a great idea, so I said yes. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Tonight? But I’m not coming out until Friday night.”

“I know. But I didn’t think you’d want to pass up this opportunity. Kevin and Bob and Marty and Roland will all be there, and I know they want to meet you. Roland’s a long-distance runner, just like you. If I’m not mistaken, Kevin attended the same college you did. And Marty and Bob are both great guys. They were all thrilled to hear they’ll be having a nice young lady in their ranks.”

He heard the hesitation in her voice. Four single men, one single women. Those were a lot better odds than she was going to find in some stinky bar in the city.

“But I have to work tomorrow,” she said rather lamely.

“I realize that. Here’s what I’d like to suggest. When the party’s over, I’ll drive you back to the city in my car. The trip won’t take more than an hour and a half. It will be a late night, but I think it will be worth it. You game?”

“You sure it’s no trouble?” she asked.

Munns smiled into the phone. “Not at all.”

“But I don’t have anything to wear. This is too sudden. No.”

He frowned. “The party is strictly casual, jeans and sweaters. No one will be dressed up.”

“Casual is different between men and women. You know what they say. You only get one chance to make a good first impression.”

“Trust me, you won’t make a bad impression.”

“You sound awfully determined to get me out there. Is there something else going on here I should know about?”

Rachael’s intuition was kicking in, and intuition was the messenger of fear. If Munns didn’t put this fire out now, she would not enter his trap. “Of course not,” he said in his smoothest tone. “It’s just that I already told the dean that you’d come, and his wife is making a special dessert to serve the guests. They’ll both be terribly disappointed if you cancel.”

“Oh, God, now I’m backed into a corner,” Rachael said. “I really wish you hadn’t committed for me. That wasn’t fair.”

“I didn’t feel comfortable saying no,” Munns replied. “The dean’s my boss, you know.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

“Do you want me to cancel for you? I can, you know.”

Rachael hesitated. It was at that moment that Munns knew she was coming.

“I’ll call him the moment we hang up,” he threw in for good measure.

“No, I want to come,” his next victim said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. It sounds like a good time.”

“That’s wonderful. You’ll love the dean, and everyone else, too.”

“I’m sure I will. I’ll finish up my work early, and grab a late afternoon train out of Grand Central. I’ll text you when I know my arrival time.”

“That works for me. I’ll see you at the station. I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

“Same here. Good-bye, Doc.”

Munns ended the call. That hadn’t been nearly as difficult as he’d thought. A woman’s greatest weakness was her desire to be loved. It blinded them to so many things.

“All done,” he called into the next room.

44

Ray skillfully maneuvered down the twisting gravel driveway outside Munns’s house. He hadn’t liked setting Munns up, and hoped it did not come back to haunt him.

At the bottom of the hill, the road turned smooth. The lassitude of highway driving took over, and he fired up a cigarette and settled in for the ride back to town. Tonight was going to be the end of the line for Munns. The elders of the Order of Astrum had said as much, and they were never wrong.

Ray took a deep drag on the cigarette. He needed to get out of town. He didn’t like leaving on such short notice, but had no other choice. There would be bloodshed tonight, and he needed to distance himself from the carnage.

But where would he go? To the hinterlands of upstate New York? The wilds of Maine? Or to a remote town in Vermont? They were good places to hide, with plenty of farms and wide open spaces. He’d grab a map when he got back to the tattoo parlor and make his decision.

Music came out of his radio’s speakers like a funeral dirge played extra slow. As the noise grew louder, he fiddled with the dial to make it go away. Instead, the sound became deafening, and the interior of his car turned black.

He hit the brakes, fearful of hitting something in the road. When the lights returned, he found himself sitting in a deserted theater, dead center with the stage. The strange music he’d heard was coming from the orchestra pit, where a quartet of skeletons plucked discordant notes on violins and blew savagely on wind instruments. Had he died, and gone to hell?

“Hello, Ray,” a voice said.

Three men wearing black robes appeared. One sat to his left, the second to his right, the third directly in front of him, positioned backward in his seat. Ray was trapped. Were these the elders? He had to think so. They were handsome devils, with strong facial features and good teeth, and appeared to be in their late twenties, although Ray knew the elders were much older, having been granted eternal youth as part of their pact with Satan. It was not a bad deal, only the spark of humanity that colored all human beings was missing, and they looked like ghouls.

“You’re the elders of the Order of Astrum,” Ray said respectfully.

“We thought it was time we had a chat with you,” the elder facing him said. “You’ve been an outstanding recruiter, the best we’ve ever had. You’ve done such a good job, we decided you deserved to be rewarded. Would you like that, Ray?”

Ray started to get excited. He’d become a member of the Order in prison after hearing stories about members gaining mystical powers as rewards for pleasing their masters.

“Are you going to give me special powers?” he asked.

“We can. Is there something in particular you’d like?”

“I know this is going to sound stupid, but I’ve always wanted to bend silverware with my mind. You know, like spoons. I always thought that was really cool.”

The elder facing him smiled like a department store mannequin. The elder didn’t possess a soul, and it showed through in everything he said and did. Ray imagined himself as an elder one day, immortal and able to wreak havoc on the world whenever it suited him.

“Consider it done,” the elder said.

“Cool,” the tattoo artist said.

“There’s something else we’d like to give you as well.”

“What’s that?”

“Call it the gift of knowledge. It’s time for you to be enlightened.”

Enlightened. That was a strange word for the elder to use, and Ray nearly laughed.

“I’m game.”

“Good,” the elder to his right chimed in. “You see, we have a master plan which involves the good citizens of New York being exposed to something that will forever change their lives. A portentous event designed to alter their souls, so to speak. We cannot put this plan into motion with Peter Warlock in the picture. Warlock must be erased.”

“I thought that was Munns’s job,” Ray said, uncertain where this was going.

“You must make sure that Munns does not fail.”

“Whoa. I was going to leave town.”

“You cannot leave,” the elder facing him said sternly. “You must stay, and make sure that Munns does away with Warlock.”

Ray shifted uncomfortably in his plush velvet seat. He didn’t like when plans got changed at the last moment. Yet at the same time, he understood the elders’ concern. Munns was erratic, and could very well screw up. If Peter Warlock was going to be taken out of the picture, it would probably be better if Ray hung around and made sure the job got done correctly.

“If I say yes, will I become like you?” Ray asked.

“You will be given the opportunity to become like us,” the elder facing him replied. “The process takes time. First, your old self will fall away, then your new self will be born. With your new self will come new responsibilities. You will become one of Dante’s disciples.”

“Who’s Dante?”

“Dante is the anti-conjuror. For the past thousand years, he’s performed his magic for the delight of Satan and his guests. Satan has decided that it’s time to unleash him, and is sending Dante to New York. You will have the honor to be one of his assistants.”

“Will this make me like you guys?”

“Yes. It will bring you one step closer. Would you care to meet Dante?”

Ray had always wanted to join the inner sanctum of the Order, for he knew that one day it would lead to him standing at Satan’s side and becoming immortal. Whoever Dante was, he was sure he could find a way to get along with him.

“Bring him on,” Ray said, unable to hide his excitement.

“Splendid. Enjoy the show.”

The elders vanished, and Ray found himself sitting alone in the theater, shuddering from a burst of cold air. He could no longer remember what the elders looked like, their memory having been erased. He would have given anything to be so powerful.

The house lights dimmed. The curtains parted to reveal a darkened stage. A single spotlight shone down, its beam so bright it reminded Ray of a light coming out of a flying saucer in a Spielberg movie. Smoke filled the stage, followed by a flash of light, from which stepped a wild-looking young man wearing a flowing purple robe. This had to be Dante, his new boss. The guy was a trip, with spiked purple hair, pierced eyebrows, lips, and nose, and Gothic designs smeared across his face. He moved in a slight crouch while staring sinisterly from side to side, and looked like a jackal that had learned to walk on its hind legs. Plucking two black scarves out of the air, the anti-conjuror bunched them together, and made a screaming vulture appear.

The vulture was released into the theater, and flew in a lazy circle over Ray’s head. More vultures appeared from the same scarves, and were also set loose. The birds weren’t hidden in Dante’s coat or stuffed up his sleeves, but were molded to life right before his disbelieving eyes. Ray had once seen a magician at a birthday party, and thought the whole thing was a bunch of crap, the tricks obvious if you looked hard enough. Dante’s magic was different. It looked real, and something told him it probably was.

Ray started to applaud, figuring he’d better make his new boss happy. The hollow sound echoed throughout the theater. Dante silenced him with a menacing glare. Clearly, he did not like interruptions.

A final vulture was brought to life, and sent airborne to join the flock. Ray kept one eye overhead, noticing that the vultures had positioned themselves directly over his chair.

“What’s your name?” Dante’s voice was high-pitched, like a woman’s.

“Ray,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”

“Do you know what the purpose of magic is, Ray? Magic is supposed is to reveal the secrets of the universe and life itself. Magic is not supposed to create illusion, it’s supposed to strip illusion away. It’s about finding eternal truth.”

Ray didn’t know what the hell Dante was talking about but nodded anyway.

“Here. Let me show you.” Dante cupped his empty palms together while his eyes bored a hole into Ray’s soul. “Think of a thing which truly frightens you. Don’t tell me, just think of it.”

That was easy. The one thing that truly frightened Ray were rats. One had bitten him in the foot as a kid, and he’d never shaken the experience.

From Dante’s cupped hands appeared a rat with a curled tail. It leapt to the stage, and was quickly followed by another. Soon, rats were pouring out of Dante’s cupped hands in such great numbers that they flooded the stage, and began to pour into the audience.

Ray had seen enough, and jumped out of his seat in fear. Too late. A rat was attached to his pant leg, tearing at the fabric. Several more jumped on his shoe, their weight dragging him down. Within seconds he was covered in furry rodents whose sole intent was to scare him to death. Then the vultures swooped down, attaching their beaks to the tattoo artist’s shirt, and lifted him into the air with the rats still clinging to his body.

“Don’t do this to me,” Ray cried.

Dante stepped to the foot of the stage to appraise his handiwork. He had peeled back the darkest layer of his subject’s soul, and seemed pleased with himself. “You now work for me, Ray. Do as I say, and you’ll do fine. But if you disobey me, my furry friends will skin you alive. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Please make them go away,” he begged.

“When your job is finished here, you will join me in the city. We’re starting rehearsals soon, and I want you to be there. Does that sound good, Ray?”

“Yes. They’re biting me!”

Dante howled with laughter and lifted his arms into the air. The vultures released their grip on his clothes, and Ray let out a blood-curdling scream as he fell into the audience.

A car horn’s blast brought Ray back to the real world of Westchester County. A delivery truck idled behind him at an intersection, the driver fuming. Ray could still feel the rats on his body, and tried to swipe the invisible creatures away. The delivery truck passed, firing its horn.

Ray pulled off the road and started to cry. Dante had made him want to die. He’d never felt that way before, and his fear was tearing him apart. This was not what he’d bargained for, and he told himself there was still time to escape to Maine or upstate New York and get out with his soul. He would live in the woods if he had to. He was ready to do just about anything to get away from this madness.

A shadow fell over his van. It was a perfectly sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. Rolling down his window, he stuck his head out. A mob of vultures hung directly overhead. Try to run, they dared him, and see what happens. He wiped away his tears, knowing he was doomed to serve a master far darker than any he’d known before.

45

Every day began with the promise of a new beginning. Peter had read that in a book while growing up. The message had stayed, and had helped him get through the dark times.

Wednesday morning was a perfect example. Sunlight flooded through his bedroom window and delicious breakfast smells floated up from the kitchen. It was enough to make him forget what a nightmare the previous few days had been, if just for a little while.

He tossed on a bathrobe and bounded downstairs. The brownstone had been sold to him with a warning. The previous tenant had fallen down the stairs, and broken his ankle. The staircase was treacherous, and not using the handrail was a serious mistake.

Soon after moving in, Peter had learned that the staircase wasn’t treacherous at all. The problem was a cantankerous ghost named Zachary Nathaniel Harrison who’d inhabited the brownstone for over a century, and occupied the spacious guest bedroom on the second floor. Zack, as he liked to be called, was a light sleeper, and punished those who woke him up by tripping them during their stair runs.

Ghosts could be reasoned with. Peter had conducted a séance in the bedroom, and summoned Zack to the table. The old ghost had obliged him, and they’d sat and talked and eventually worked out a deal. When the sun was up, Peter was free to run the stairs as much as he wished. When it was down, there would be no running. They had shaken hands on it, which had felt strange, since there had been nothing there to physically shake.

The kitchen greeted him with a spread of food fit for a king and Liza at the counter squeezing fresh oranges. It still amazed him that she’d not packed her bags and split after yesterday’s revelations. The expression “love was blind” had taken on a whole new meaning.

“If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty,” she said.

“What’s the special occasion?” he asked.

“I just thought you needed a fresh start after yesterday.”

“Why? What happened yesterday?”

She wiped her hands on a paper towel and wrapped her arms around Peter’s thin waist. “We have a lot of talking to do, you know.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

“Good. How about later this afternoon?”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m game.”

They sat down at the kitchen table and dug in. Liza had hit the nail on the head. A fresh start was exactly what the doctor ordered. He couldn’t change the horrific things he’d done as a child, but he could make sure they never happened again. He was an adult now, and his own boss. He would stop the demon inside of him from controlling his actions.

Finished, they stood at the sink with Liza washing the dishes and Peter drying and putting them away. “Do you remember that antique wristwatch that fell out of the sky while we were standing in the courtyard the other night?” she asked.

Peter remembered the watch well. Made by Cartier, it had belonged to the shadow person he’d confronted in the lobby of Grand Central Station. He’d never understood its significance, and wondered if Liza had plumbed it secret.

“I may have found its owner,” Liza went on. “I noticed it wasn’t working properly, so I found a store online that repairs antique watches, and sent them an e-mail along with a photo I shot on my iPhone. The manager e-mailed me right back. Come to find out, he thinks he’s repaired the watch before. His shop is called Time After Time, and is in the West Village. He asked me to come by this morning, and show the watch to him so he could confirm it.”

“Did he say who the owner was?”

“No. The manager’s name is Walter, and he was very mysterious about the whole thing. Maybe he can tell us who the owner is, and that will lead to figuring out what the shadow people want. It’s a stretch, but who knows.”

Peter hung the dish towel on the hook next to the fridge. The other world was a difficult place to understand, the motives of the spirits never fully clear. Liza was reacting the same way he usually did, which was to plunge ahead, and hope for the best.

“I’m game,” he said. “Let’s go talk to Walter.”

“I’ll go change,” Liza said.

Peter took out his cell phone and called Herbie. “Be at the brownstone in half an hour,” he told him. “We’re going on a fishing expedition.”

*   *   *

The West Village was old New York, its streets twisting and narrow. Time After Time sat in a dusty storefront filled with grandfather clocks and rare timepieces in glass display cabinets.

Peter told Herbie to circle the block, and entered the shop with Liza.

The cramped interior was a mess. Any more than a handful of customers, and the place would have felt crowded. An eccentric-looking manager with a halo of curly white hair stood behind the counter, and nodded courteously as they entered .

“You must be Walter,” Liza said. “I’m Liza. We spoke yesterday on the phone.”

Walter said nothing. He probably got a hundred phone calls a day. Or he didn’t get any phone calls, and was playing stupid. From her purse, Liza removed the antique woman’s watch that had fallen from the sky, and placed it on a felt mat on the counter. Walter stuck a loupe in his eye and studied the exquisite timepiece. “This is an original Cartier, special limited edition, very rare to find these days. May I ask where you came upon this?”

“Is that important?” Liza asked.

“I just would like to know, that’s all.”

“My boyfriend and I found it.”

Walter studied Peter briefly, then looked back at Liza. “May I ask where?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.”

They’d been in the store less than a minute, and Walter was already giving them the third degree. Something wasn’t right with this picture, and Peter scanned the store’s interior. Not one, but three surveillance cameras were trained upon them, two from the ceiling, the third bolted to the wall behind the counter. The wall camera was a recent addition as evidenced by the sales sticker glued to the side. And there was a large rottweiler lying at Walter’s feet behind the counter. The dog was panting and its tail wasn’t wagging. Dogs fed off their owner’s emotions, and Walter was subliminally telling the dog to be on alert.

Peter thought he knew what was going on. The watch was hot, and on a list of stolen items that the police sent to store owners in the city. Walter had recognized it from Liza’s photo, and had decided to set a trap. Better start telling the truth, he thought.

“Look, we know that this watch belongs to someone else,” Peter interrupted. “How we came upon it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we return it to its rightful owner. Right, dear?”

The corners of Liza’s mouth turned up in a smile. He’d never called her dear before, and she seemed to like it.

“We just want to do the right thing,” Liza continued. “Yesterday when we spoke, you indicated you knew who the owner might be. If you’ll tell us, we’ll return it to her right away. Or you can do it. Whatever you think is best.”

Walter looked perplexed and let out a deep breath. “Oh, my,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” Peter asked.

“You’re not thieves. I can tell by listening to you. Thieves come into my store often, and try to sell me hot timepieces. You’re not like them.”

“Of course we’re not thieves,” Liza said with a little laugh.

“Well, I’m deeply sorry, then. Truly, I am.”

The shopkeeper took a deliberate step away from the counter. As he did, a black sedan pulled up in front of the store, and double-parked in the street. Four plainclothes detectives wearing silver NYPD detective shields pinned to their jackets piled out, and rushed through the front door. Each had a gun drawn. At the same time, a door behind the front counter parted, and two more gun-toting detectives appeared.

“Don’t tell them anything,” Peter said under his breath.

46

Peter had lived on TV cop shows as a kid, and knew what was about to happen. The detectives would separate him and Liza, and grill them. They would ask each of them a series of questions, and write down their answers in spiral pads. Then the detectives would reconvene, and compare notes. If the detectives caught either of them lying, the drilling process would continue until they got to the truth.

Liza was sent to the back room of the store while Peter remained in front. As she was led away, she winked at him. She didn’t appear the least bit nervous or afraid. She’d been through a lot lately, certainly a lot more than any of his other girlfriends had ever put up with. He winked back.

“Cut the crap,” the detective in charge barked.

The detective’s name was Velasco. Short and balding, his most prominent feature was his beach ball stomach. Who needs a six-pack when you can have a keg? Peter thought.

Velasco pulled a stool out from behind the counter, and made Peter sit on it. The detective towered over him while another detective covered Peter’s back. A third detective stood by the locked front door. The shades had been pulled over the window for privacy.

“What’s your name?” Velasco asked.

“Peter Warlock.”

“Very funny. Your real name.”

“Peter Warren. Warlock’s my stage name.”

“You some kind of performer?”

“I’m a magician. I have a show in town, Anything’s Possible.”

Velasco nodded like he’d heard of him. Early in his career, Peter had performed a number of stunts around the city to gather much-needed publicity for his show. As a result, there were a lot of people who had heard his name but who’d never seen him perform.

“All right, Mr. Magic, tell me where you got the antique watch,” Velasco said.

“I found it,” Peter replied.

“Be a little more specific.”

“Do you know who the owner is? I’ve been trying to locate her.”

“I’m the one asking the questions, pal. Now tell me about the watch.”

“It fell out of the sky,” Peter replied truthfully.

“Oh, boy, a regular comedian. How do you think it’s going to look if I run you and your girlfriend in? Think that kind of publicity is going to help ticket sales?”

“Are you going to arrest us?”

“I will if you don’t come clean with me. That watch doesn’t belong to you.”

“That doesn’t mean we stole it. You don’t have a case, Detective. Let us go, and I’ll be happy to explain to you how the watch came into our possession.”

Velasco didn’t like being told how to run his investigation, and wagged a finger in his suspect’s face. “Keep up the banter, and I’ll throw your skinny ass in jail.”

“Which jail?” Peter wanted to know.

“MCC. Ever been there?”

MCC was the Metropolitan Correctional Center on Park Row behind the U.S. Federal Courthouse. Peter knew the facility like the back of his hand, and said, “Matter of fact, I have. I was locked up in a cellblock in the basement that the warden claimed was inescapable. I managed to escape in four minutes flat, and beat Houdini’s record by thirty seconds. There’s a video on my Web site if you don’t believe me.”

“I remember that stunt,” the detective guarding the door said. “You moved all the other inmates in the block into different cells. That took a lot of nerve.”

“Thanks,” Peter said.

“Shut up,” Velasco told both of them. Looking his suspect in the eye, he said, “I think you’re hiding something. I’m hauling you in.”

“On what charges?”

“I’ll think of something. Get up.”

Peter gazed into Velasco’s eyes and read his mind. The detective was having a bad day. He’d started his morning by having a knock-down, drag-out argument with his teenage daughter. Then the battery on his car had been dead when he’d tried to start it. Now this wiseass magician was giving him a hard time. Peter and his girlfriend were going to spend the rest of the day in jail if Peter didn’t think of something quick.

Velasco pulled open his sports jacket and removed a pair of nickel-plated handcuffs from his belt. Peter wanted to tell Velasco that he could escape from those, too, but didn’t think the detective would appreciate the humor.

“I’ll tell you about the watch, but first you need to call a friend of mine,” Peter said.

Velasco eyed him suspiciously. “Who’s that?”

“His card’s in my wallet. You’ll understand when I show it to you.”

“All right, show it to me.”

Peter pulled Special Agent Garrison’s business card from his billfold and handed it to the detective. Velasco stared at the embossed lettering on the white card.

“The FBI? What do they have to do with this?”

“Just call him,” Peter said.

*   *   *

Garrison barged into the watch shop with his badge pinned to the lapel of his sports jacket and a disgruntled look on his face. Peter wondered what pressing matter he’d pulled the FBI agent away from. New York was the greatest city on earth, but there were plenty of bad people here as well, and the life of a law enforcement agent was nothing but a challenge.

“Thanks for getting here so fast,” Peter told him.

“Who are these guys?” Garrison asked.

“This is Detective Velasco. He wants to arrest me.”

“What for? You tell him one of your jokes?”

“Possession of stolen property,” Velasco said. “You know this smart-ass?”

“He does consulting work for me. Now, tell me what he did,” Garrison said.

“He was caught with a stolen wristwatch whose owner has been missing for over a year,” Velasco replied. “When I tried to question him, he started talking in riddles.”

“Peter’s a psychic, he does that sometimes,” Garrison said.

Velasco’s jaw dropped open. “Cut it out.”

“I’m dead serious. Don’t tell me you’ve never worked with psychics before.”

“Tried to. They were worthless.”

“They were probably fakes. Peter’s the real deal.”

“I’m having a hard time believing this.” Velasco spoke to Peter, “So read my mind.”

Peter was boxed into a corner. He tried to avoid public displays of mind reading whenever possible. When mind reading was performed onstage, all sorts of explanations were possible; when done in person, there was only one explanation—the person doing the mind reading was a psychic. He lowered his voice so the other detectives would not hear. “At breakfast this morning, you had words with your daughter over her choice of boyfriends. Then your car’s battery died, and you had to carpool with a cop you can’t stand. When you got to work, the coffeepot was empty. That good enough for you?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Velasco said.

“I told you he was real,” Garrison said smugly.

The antique Cartier that had brought them together lay on the counter. The watch was a mystery, along with most of the events of the past several days. If Peter could plumb the watch’s secrets, then perhaps the rest of the puzzles would solve themselves.

“What can you tell me about the watch’s owner?” Peter asked.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Her name is Barbara Metcalf,” Velasco replied. “Single woman, early fifties, lived alone, got a couple of PhDs, is one of the top brass at the CDC. Went missing about a year ago and hasn’t been heard from. We suspect foul play, but don’t have a suspect or a motive. Metcalf had a nice collection of antique jewelry. This watch was one of her favorite pieces, which she often wore. When she went missing, so did several pieces of her jewelry, including this watch. We asked every jewelry store in town to be on the lookout for it.

“Yesterday, your girlfriend e-mailed the manager of this store a photo of Metcalf’s watch, asking if he could repair it. Walter immediately recognized the watch, and contacted the police. We laid a trap for you, and you walked into it. That’s it in a nutshell.”

Peter felt numb. The story wasn’t what he’d expected to hear at all. He’d assumed the shadow person he’d confronted in Grand Central Station was a thoroughly evil spirit whose human life had been filled with crimes against society, as well as humanity. A person wicked through and through, and in league with the Devil.

“What’s does CDC stand for?” Peter asked.

“Centers for Disease Control,” Velasco explained. “Metcalf ran their research department. She was responsible for finding cures for things like bubonic plague and anthrax.”

“So she was a good person,” the young magician said.

“That’s what Walter told us,” Velasco said.

“The shop manager knew her personally?”

“Yes. They were friends.”

“I need to speak with him.”

Walter was led into the front of the store. There was nothing more powerful than the truth, and Peter’s head was still spinning from the things Velasco had told him. If Barbara Metcalf had been a good person on this earth, then it was not possible that she’d turned into an evil spirit in the afterlife. That was not how things worked. Which meant that there had been a black mark in her background which Velasco didn’t know about. It was the only explanation he could think of, and now he needed to hear the shop manager confirm it.

“What can you tell me about the owner of this watch?” Peter asked.

Walter’s face softened as he was overcome with memories. Peter took a look inside Walter’s head, and saw the woman he had known. Short and rather petite, her clothing suggested a person who appreciated the finer things in life, while the way she carried herself indicated she was used to getting her way. The description strong willed came to mind.

“How do I describe Barbara?” Walter scratched his chin. “Brilliant, headstrong, filled with passion about her work, demanding at times. She had quite a temper. I remember one time, this is going to sound funny, but once I promised to repair her watch, only I stuck the watch in a drawer, and forgot about it. You should have seen the look on her face when she found out.”

“Did she get mad?” Peter asked.

“Mad was not the word. She became furious. She started to stomp out, and then she turned around, oh, I shouldn’t be telling this, not with her missing for so long.”

“Please. It’s important you tell me everything.”

“Very well. Barbara went to the front door like she was going to leave. Then she spun around in a huff, lifted her foot, and pulled off her shoe. She threw it across the store at me!”

“Her shoe,” Peter said in shock.

“That’s right. Of course she immediately apologized. I later learned from a mutual friend that Barbara had done this before.”

“She threw a shoe at someone,” Peter said.

“Yes. It happened in the lab where she worked. Another doctor made a mistake, and ruined a week’s worth of work. Barbara pulled off a shoe and tossed it at him. She had a boiling point. When she got mad, she threw shoes at people.”

Peter thought back to Friday night, standing on his front stoop talking to Garrison, when a shoe had come flying through the bedroom window, and landed at his feet. Was this Metcalf’s not-so-subtle way of telling him that she was angry at him? If that was the case, then he’d gotten this whole thing terribly, terribly wrong.

He broke out of his thought. Liza had returned to the front of the store with two of the detectives. The look on her startled face said she’d heard every word Walter had said, and was thinking the same thoughts that he was thinking.

“Oh, my God, Peter,” she exclaimed. “Oh, my God.”

47

“I need to talk to Peter in private,” Garrison said to Velasco. “Do you mind?”

The FBI had jurisdiction over the NYPD, and Garrison didn’t need to be asking Velasco’s permission for anything. Velasco appreciated the gesture, however, and said, “Be my guest. Be careful. He’s a slippery one.”

“That’s one way to describe him,” Garrison said with a laugh.

Peter and Garrison walked outside. It was bitter cold and blowing hard. Peter’s limo was parked across the street by the curb.

“Want to talk in my limo?” Peter asked.

“Beats freezing to death,” Garrison replied.

They crossed and climbed into the backseat. Herbie looked up from the sports section. Peter shook his head and his driver went back to his reading. The interior was toasty and they spent a moment getting comfortable. Peter handed his guest a bottled water.

“Thanks. Now tell me what’s going on,” Garrison said.

“Up until now, I thought the shadow people were trying to lure me over to the other side to have me killed,” Peter said. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Then what’s their purpose?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they’re trying to show me something.”

“In a good way?”

“I think so.”

“Hold on a second. You told me the other night that you were taken into the future, where Dr. Death shot you in the leg, and was just about to put a final bullet in your head when you returned to the present. That doesn’t sound very good to me.”

“Perhaps something else was going on.”

“Like what?”

Peter had journeyed to the other side many times, yet still could not fathom much of what he saw. He’d always assumed that as he grew older and more mature, the unexplained would untangle itself, and the truth would become clear. So far that hadn’t happened, leaving him to wonder if the other side would ever be fully explained. “I don’t know what the shadow people are up to, but I plan to find out. There’s a psychic in town named Selena who communicates with the shadow people on a regular basis. I need to track her down, and have a chat.”

“Think she’ll talk? You psychics are a cagey bunch.”

Garrison was right about that—psychics were as secretive with each other as they were with the general public. It came from a lifetime of secrecy, born out of growing up knowing you were different, and also knowing how that difference would be perceived. Getting Selena to talk wouldn’t be easy, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. She was a keeper of secrets, and he needed to gain her trust.

“I’m willing to give it a shot,” Peter said.

“You and your girlfriend are free to go. I’ll deal with the cops. Call me if you learn something.”

“I’ll do that. Would you mind giving me another of your business cards? Detective Velasco kept the one I gave him.”

“What for? You’ve got my number in your cell, don’t you?”

“It’s my Get out of Jail Free card.”

Garrison pulled a dozen cards from his wallet and stuck them in Peter’s hand. “Take ’em all. Something tells me you’re going to need them.”

Garrison went back inside the watch shop. Moments later Liza came out the front door, and was soon snuggled up beside Peter. She had not enjoyed being detained by the detectives, even if just for a little while. Peter told Herbie to head to Washington Square Park, then pulled a club soda out of the minirefrigerator, twisted off the top, and handed it to Liza. She took a long swallow.

“Are psychics lives always this eventful?” she asked.

“Most psychics lead pretty normal lives,” he admitted.

“What makes you so special?”

That was a good question. Of late, there never seemed to be a dull moment. Perhaps one day he’d find out why, along with the other unanswered mysteries which consumed his life.

“I wish I knew,” he said.

*   *   *

The blind held a special place in most New Yorkers’ hearts. They rode the subways and walked the sidewalks with their Seeing Eye dogs without a worry in the world, their calm demeanor in sharp contrast to madness swirling around them.

Homer, the blind psychic, spent his days beneath the Washington Square Park’s famed marble arch. Built two centuries ago, the arch resembled an ancient Roman artifact, and dwarfed everything around it. Long ago, the police had run off the fortune-telling gypsies who’d held court at the arch, but out of kindness, had allowed Homer to stay.

Homer sat on a folding metal stool and told people’s fortunes. Part of his charm was that he dressed in a similar fashion to the professors at nearby New York University. Today he wore a brown cashmere sweater, a navy scarf, and brown corduroy pants. Unlike most fortune-tellers, he did not have a plate or tin cup for donations. If someone wanted to give him money, it was tucked into Homer’s breast pocket. If not, he did not complain.

Peter’s limo pulled up to the northern entrance to the park, and the partition slid back.

“Tell him to do his trick for you,” Herbie called from the front.

“What trick?” Peter asked.

“Homer can make himself invisible,” his driver said.

“Cut it out.”

“No joke. I heard a bunch of other limo drivers talking about it. One minute Homer is standing there, the next minute, poof! he’s gone. I hear it’s a real mindblower.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him.”

Peter and Liza got out and entered the park. The arch acted as a gateway to Greenwich Village, and was a favorite meeting spot. During the arch’s construction, a perfect set of human remains had been found in a spot directly below where the park’s only hanging had taken place. Rumors claimed the arch was haunted, and that the ghost of the dead man, a convicted ax murderer named Witten, ventured out at night to dance in the park’s enormous fountain. Peter had never confronted Witten, or his ax, and had assumed that it was only a matter of time before they became acquainted.

Homer was in his usual spot. As they approached, his head bobbed up and down.

“Hello, Homer,” Peter said. “It’s Peter Warlock.”

“Hello, Peter. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I brought a friend. Her name is Liza. Liza, meet my friend Homer.”

“Hello, Homer,” Liza said.

“Hello to you as well,” Homer said. “You picked a chilly day to visit the park. A group of classical musicians are warming up near the south entrance. You might want to hear them. They’re quite good.”

“Perhaps some other time,” Peter said. “I need to talk to Selena about the shadow people. You told me the other night that you knew her. Please tell me how to contact her.”

Homer scowled. “You know the rules, Peter.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Yet you ask me to break them.”

“This is urgent, a matter of life or death.”

“That does not change how the game is played.”

“It doesn’t?”

Homer shook his head. “No.”

“What rules? What are you two talking about?” Liza asked.

“Psychics play by certain rules,” Homer explained. “We are not supposed to ask each other questions about the mysteries of the universe for fear that one question will lead to another and then another until the end of time. The answers to these questions must be answered through self-discovery and inner examination. Then the truth will be revealed.”

“But a woman’s life is at stake,” Liza said.

“Do you know this woman?” Homer asked.

“I heard her voice on the phone. Her name is Rachael.”

“Well, then go find her, and save her,” the blind psychic said.

“But I don’t know who she is. Why won’t you help us?”

“Because it’s not allowed.”

Homer rose from his stool. The sun had come out and it was warming up. He removed his scarf, and Peter stared at the open neck of his sweater. Homer was not wearing the five-pointed star that he’d told Peter he wore to ward away the shadow people. Without thinking, Peter blurted out, “Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me that the shadow people weren’t a threat?”

“Because I’m not supposed to,” Homer replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”

“You’re leaving?” Liza said. “What kind of friend are you?”

“I’m Peter’s friend, and always will be,” Homer said stiffly.

“You’re not acting like a friend.”

“You’re not one of us, are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not a psychic.”

“Afraid not.”

“An ancient Chinese philosopher once said, ‘A secret is no longer a secret by the time it gets to you.’”

“Come on, Homer,” Peter implored. “A woman is going to get murdered if I don’t figure this thing out.”

Homer started to reply, but pursed his lips instead. People lived and people died, but the rules that governed a psychic’s existence remained constant, and to break them was unthinkable. Picking up his metal stool, he folded it with a snap of the wrist.

“Would you mind hailing me a cab?” Homer asked.

There was usually a taxi or two parked at the park’s northern entrance, ready to whisk people uptown. Peter and Liza both turned around. Today, there were none.

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Peter said.

When they both turned back around, Homer was gone.

48

“Where did he go?” Liza said in disbelief.

Peter scanned the area beneath the arch where Homer had just stood. It was not entirely impossible for psychics to make themselves invisible to the naked eye. Peter had seen it done, and hoped someday to master the art himself. Had Homer just made himself invisible?

The answer was immediately obvious. Homer had not.

Psychics could make themselves invisible, but they could not make inanimate objects invisible. And Homer’s folding stool was gone as well. Which meant the blind psychic had tricked them in the brief instant it had taken them to turn around to hail a cab.

“He’s somewhere nearby,” Peter said. “Start looking.”

“How do you know he’s nearby?”

“Because blind people don’t move very fast. Check the bushes.”

Liza scoured the nearby bushes while also checking a number of homeless men sleeping on benches. None proved to be Homer. Peter walked around the arch, looking for a hiding place that Homer might have ducked into. Liza joined him a moment later.

“So where is he?” she asked.

“Like I said, he’s nearby.”

“Peter, he’s gone. I looked everywhere.”

The greatest lie is the one which we tell ourselves. The lie Liza was telling herself was that Homer had slipped away and could not be found. But what if Homer was still right here, hiding in plain sight? That was a more likely explanation, even if the evidence did not support it.

He examined the spot where Homer had stood. His eyes drifted to the arch. Had the blind psychic somehow managed to get inside of it? And if so, how?

A door was usually the way people entered things. Peter went to the arch and ran his fingertips across the smooth marble. The original arch had been made of wood in celebration of George Washington’s birthday. It had been such a hit that a permanent marble arch had been commissioned and built. He ran his forefinger across a break in the marble, and saw that it was the outline to a hidden door. He’d passed beneath the arch countless times in his life and never imagined that it had a door that went inside. He felt Liza’s breath on his neck and glanced over his shoulder into her unblinking eyes.

“You are so smart,” she said. “Should we knock?”

“Let’s surprise him.”

“How are you going to get in?”

“Watch.”

Peter didn’t think Homer had locked the door behind him. Most people in a hurry usually didn’t. Kneeling, he slipped his fingers beneath the door’s sill and pulled. It popped open, revealing a darkened space inside. He entered while Liza hesitated.

“There’s no light,” she said.

Taking out his Droid, he went onto the Internet, which caused the screen to light up. It was as good as having a flashlight, and he pointed it into the darkness. “You coming?”

She entered and they ventured ahead. The air was dank and chilly and very still. Just to be sure he was in the right place, Peter pointed his Droid at the floor, and saw a fresh set of footprints in the dust. So this was how Homer made himself disappear.

They came to a spiral staircase. With his Droid, he looked up the twisting stairs. The staircase went to the very top of the arch. There were fresh footprints on the steps as well.

“I’ll flip you to see who goes first,” Peter said.

“Very funny. You sure you want to go up there? It’s awfully dark.”

Peter had never been afraid of the dark. Not even as a child had it bothered him. He wondered what that said about his personality as he headed up the stairs.

*   *   *

They were breathing hard by the time they reached the top. Peter checked out their new surroundings with his Droid, and found himself standing inside a vaulted room with an ornate tiled ceiling. He would never have imagined such a room existed on top of the Washington Square Arch. Tucked away in the basement perhaps, but not at the very top. Several windows were blackened by dust and age, and a smattering of light seeped through them.

“Who’s that?” Homer’s voice called out.

“It’s Peter and Liza. We found your hiding place.”

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“I won’t let an innocent woman die. Now, are you going to help us, or not?”

Homer let out a pronounced sigh. “Only if you promise never to ask again.”

“I promise never to ask you again. Where are you, anyway?”

“Sitting against the far wall. Whatever you do, don’t turn on the light.”

“There’s a light in here?” Peter asked.

“Long ago, this room was the park manager’s office, if you can imagine him climbing those stairs every day. The room has electricity and running water. It’s quite comfy.”

“Why don’t you want me to turn on the light?”

“Because it will anger my guests,” Homer replied.

“What’s he talking about?” Liza whispered.

“Beats me,” Peter replied.

Peter made Liza stand behind him. With the light of his Droid, he located Homer on the far wall, parked on his folding stool. Behind him stood a mob of angry ghosts hovering just off the floor. Judging from the forlorn expressions on their sunken faces, they had suffered heavily during their previous lives. One member stood out. Tall and thin, with a pinched face and a scowl, he had a bloodstained ax clutched in his hands. The infamous Witten.

Peter wondered how fast he and Liza could make it down the stairs. Probably not fast enough. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends?” he asked.

“These are the ghosts of the park. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” Homer said.

“I’ve heard of Witten, but not the others. Who are they?”

“Remember, you only get to ask me one question.”

“I know who they are,” Liza interrupted. “Before Washington Square Park was built, this area of land was a potter’s field where the city’s poor and homeless were buried. I read it in a book. Those ghosts are people who are buried right here. Right?”

“There’s more to it,” Homer said.

Peter again studied the ghosts with his Droid. One held a bloody butcher’s knife, while another clutched a thick lead pipe. Their necks were badly discolored and pulled to one side. The city’s criminals were buried here as well, he realized.

“These ghosts are criminals, and were hanged for their crimes,” he said.

“Eek,” Liza said under her breath.

Homer nodded approvingly. This was how the game was supposed to be played. Peter noticed that the ghosts stood behind Homer instead of in front. Clearly, they sensed danger.

But from who?

Certainly not Liza. That left only one other choice.

They were afraid of him.

It didn’t seem possible. They’d all died long before he was born, and nothing in his life had ever touched them. He decided to find out, and took a step forward.

“Where are you going?” Liza said under her breath.

“Just wait,” he whispered.

The ghosts retreated into the wall, making them half visible, half gone. The fear factor was real. It had never been that way before. In the past, ghosts had been his friends, and he’d confided in many of them while growing up. Some deep spiritual change had caused his physical presence to be feared by even the most dangerous of spirits.

“Tell me how to find Selena,” Peter said.

“Selena can be found at the corner of Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue,” Homer replied. “She will explain to you the meaning of the shadow people. Go now, or you will miss her.”

Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue was in the heart of Times Square, and some of the most expensive real estate in the city. No fortune-tellers or psychics could afford to work out of storefronts there. Was Selena a street person?

“Are you sure that’s where she is?” Peter asked.

“Positive. Tell her I said hello.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for the help. Say good-bye to your friends for me.”

“Have a nice day,” Homer said.

Peter took a last look at the ghosts with his Droid. They had pulled out of the wall, and seemed relieved that he and Liza were leaving. That makes two of us, he thought.

49

Liza sat in the backseat of the limo with her head resting against Peter’s chest. Peter could not remember her ever looking so vulnerable.

“That was scary,” she said. “What were those things going to do to us?”

“Something unthinkable,” he replied.

“So why didn’t they?”

“I’m not sure. Ghosts are strange. They have the ability to see through things. You know, like when a person lies or tries to pull a fast one, a ghost will know it in a second. The ghosts inside the arch saw something inside of me they didn’t like, and got frightened.”

“Have ghosts ever acted that way before?”

What had happened inside the arch was a brand-new experience. Had his demon come so close to the surface that Homer’s otherworldly friends had wanted nothing to do with him?

“No,” he said. “Never.”

Liza clasped his hand and gave it a healthy squeeze. “Remind me to bring you along the next time I visit a haunted house.”

They rode the rest of the way uptown in silence. Liza still hadn’t run away from him. If anything, she seemed even more committed to making their relationship work. That was good, because he had a sneaking suspicion that there were plenty of other surprises still in store. The limo braked at the corner of 42nd Street and Seventh Avenue, and the driver’s partition slid back.

“No place to park around here, unless I go into a garage, and they’ll charge me thirty bucks an hour,” Herbie said. “How about I circle around until you need me.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Limo drivers knew the city’s streets like the back of their hands, and Peter wondered if Herbie had ever encountered Selena. “Have you ever seen a female fortune-teller working this corner? She goes by the name Selena.”

“Can’t say that I have,” Herbie replied.

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“Cops ran all the mimes and musicians off. Fortune-tellers, too.”

Peter felt defeated even before he started. Perhaps Selena was inside one of the many office buildings in the area. It would only take about a year to check all of those. He climbed out of the backseat along with Liza. His driver’s window lowered.

“Check down below,” Herbie suggested.

“The subway?”

“Yeah. A lot of street performers work down there. Transit cops leave them alone.”

“Got it.”

The Times Square subway entrance was about as wide a city street. They went down the stairs and entered the city’s noisy underworld. The station was the linking point for five different lines, and contained five different sets of platforms. It was another needle in a haystack, and he approached a pair of transit cops flipping their nightsticks.

“Excuse me, but I’m looking for a female fortune-teller named Selena.”

“Describe her,” one of the cops said.

How was he supposed to describe someone he’d never met?

“She’s wise beyond her years,” he replied.

The cop pointed straight ahead. “I think I know her. She sits by the platform for the Number Three train. Take the escalator down. You can’t miss her.”

They bought Metrocards and followed the arrows to the Number 3. An escalator took them down to the lower level. Beneath a ripped poster for a rap artist sat a sixtyish woman wearing a black dress that could have belonged to a nun, no makeup, her gray hair tied in a bun. The contours of her face said Russian, perhaps Ukrainian. Two empty folding chairs were positioned to either side. Had she known they were coming?

“You must be Selena,” Peter said.

“And you must be Peter Warlock and Liza,” she said, without a hint of an accent. “I was reading a man’s fortune earlier, and you both popped up. Make yourself comfortable. I hope you don’t mind the noise.”

They sat to either side of her. A train pulled in and disgorged people wearing business attire. A particularly well-dressed man carrying a leather briefcase dropped several bills into Selena’s dented tin cup. They were big bills, a fifty and two hundreds.

“He a regular?” Peter asked.

“Hedge fund manager. I saved him a billion dollars last year,” Selena said.

“Holy cow,” Liza said.

“Got him on retainer?” Peter asked with a smile.

“Come to mention it, I do. His partners as well. Does that seem vulgar to you?”

“You have a right to make a living as much as anyone else.”

“Good answer.”

Selena fished the money out of her cup and stuffed it into the pocket of her dress. It was not easy making a living telling fortunes. There were so many fakes in the city, it was hard for a real psychic to get by. Selena had obviously found a gold mine inside the subway station, and Peter guessed her drab appearance was more costume than real.

“So tell me why you’re here,” Selena said. “It’s not often that another psychic seeks out my counsel.”

“I’m having a problem with a shadow person,” Peter explained. “Actually, several of them. They keep kidnapping me and my friends, and taking us into the future where we nearly die at the hands of a serial killer. I just learned that one of them was the victim of this same serial killer. I’m having a hard time understanding all this. Will you help me?

“Does your boyfriend always talk so fast?” Selena asked Liza.

“Only when he’s on edge,” Liza replied.

She addressed Peter. “The answer is obvious. You’re just not seeing it.”

“Will you tell us?” Peter asked.

“Bad question. Try again.”

“Will you guide us?” Peter asked.

Another businessman stepped up and dropped big bills into the dented tin cup.

“Investment banker,” she said as the man departed.

“Did you save him a bundle?” Peter asked.

“Just his bank. You don’t need me, Peter. You already know the answer.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel much better.”

“Repeat the words you said to me a moment ago. Dissect them one by one. One of those words holds the key to your mystery. Do it, and see if I’m right.”

Peter played back to himself what he’d just told Selena. While he did, a third man deposited more good tidings in Selena’s cup. Not a gold mine, but a mint.

“He runs a foreign embassy,” she said.

“Friend or foe?” Peter asked.

“Friend, of course. The only information I’d sell to a foe would be bad information. Have you got it yet?”

“I think so. The word nearly.”

Selena nodded approvingly. “That is correct. You said the shadow people were taking you and your friends into the future, and that you nearly died at the hands of a serial killer. But none of you have died. You’re assuming you will die, but that may not be the case.”

“I was taken into the future, and the serial killer put a gun to my head,” Liza jumped in. “He pulled the trigger right as I was yanked back into the real world. I would have died.”

“But you didn’t,” Selena said forcefully.

“I got lucky.”

Selena’s eyes laughed, and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly.

“Why is that funny?” Liza asked.

“No one gets lucky,” Selena said.

“Sure they do. Haven’t you heard of Lady Luck smiling down on you?”

“Tell her,” Selena said to Peter.

“Luck is controlled by the spirits, and they only dole it out to babies and drunks,” Peter explained. “Everything else that happens in life is a role of the dice.”

“Next you’ll be telling me there isn’t a Santa Claus,” Liza said.

“Come to mention it…”

“What about you and Snoop? You were both taken to the future, and escaped before you were shot in the head,” Liza said. “Isn’t that luck?”

“No, that was fate. There’s a big difference.”

“Now I’m really confused.”

Selena’s eyes were still laughing. She rose from her chair and headed for the escalators. They followed and were soon standing in bustling Times Square. Down 42nd Street they went to one of the area’s many overpriced parking garages. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and Peter realized he needed to get to his theater and prepare for tonight’s show. Selena’s day might be over, but his had just begun. Selena handed a parking attendant a stub, and the uniformed man hustled away.

“You don’t take the subway?” Peter asked.

“No. I live outside the city,” Selena said.

She removed a giant wad of cash from the pocket of her dress and began to count it. Her take for the day was well into the thousands of dollars.

“I think I’ve figured out what’s going on,” Peter said. “Will you hear me out?”

“Go ahead,” she said, still counting.

He spent a moment collecting his thoughts. When he finally spoke, it was with the conviction of someone who’d finally found a truth that had been evading him for the longest of times. “I was wrong from the start. The shadow people aren’t trying to hurt me, and in fact, aren’t evil spirits at all. They’re victims who are taking me into the future to reveal things that will help me stop the killer from claiming his next victim.”

Selena’s face was a blank. A shiny black Mercedes with New Jersey license plates came out of the garage. Selena tipped the attendant handsomely, then nodded good-bye to Peter and Liza as she climbed in.

“At least tell me if I’m getting warm,” Peter said.

She looked at him before shutting the driver’s door.

“You’re on fire,” she said.

50

Peter’s limo raced downtown. In less than two hours, he would be performing a full-evening magic show for a packed house. Solving crimes was important, but so was satisfying the people who paid to see him perform.

Liza fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. It was rare to see her so unsettled. He was tempted to read her thoughts, but fought back the urge. Their relationship was never going to work if he kept stealing looks inside her head, and he told himself the practice had to stop.

What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I guess I’m going to be taking a trip to the other side.”

“You mean you’re going to let the shadow people kidnap you again? Don’t you remember what happened the two previous times? If you go back again, that crazy serial killer will shoot you.”

Liza was wrong. This time would be different. This time, he was going to figure out who Dr. Death was, and bring him to justice. “The shadow people aren’t trying to harm me. They’re trying to show me something that will help me figure out who Dr. Death really is. I need to go back.”

“The shadow people may not be trying to hurt you, but Dr. Death is. You think you can escape from him? I couldn’t, and neither could Snoop. I know you have special powers, but do they work on the other side?”

Peter shook his head. When he was in the spirit world, his psychic gifts were weak at best.

“Then how can you stop him from killing you?” Liza asked.

He didn’t know the answer to that question. Dr. Death had come close to putting a bullet in his head the two previous times he’d paid him a visit. Going back a third time was a definite risk, but he needed to discover what it was the shadow people wanted him to see.

“I’ll find out when I get there,” he said.

Liza became angry with him and stared out the window. “What if I say no?”

“No, as in, don’t go?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I won’t go,” he replied.

“You won’t?”

“We’re a team, remember? If this upsets you, then no, I won’t do it.”

She faced him. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

“Now let me ask you a question. What about Rachael? If I do nothing, she’s probably going to die.”

“You don’t know that. The police or the FBI might still find Dr. Death.”

“Maybe so. But it might not be in time to save her. She’s going out to see Dr. Death on Friday night, and he’s going to kill her, just like he did his other victims. And you and I will have to live with that for the rest of our lives.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we know what’s going to happen. That’s the curse of knowing the future. If we don’t do anything to prevent the horrible things we know from happening, our consciences will eat at us, and we’ll walk around feeling like shits because we didn’t act.”

“Has that ever happened to you?”

He nodded stiffly, the memory still fresh. “About ten years ago. We did a séance one Friday night, and I got pulled over to the other side. I found myself standing outside an Italian restaurant in the neighborhood where I used to live. The owner was a nice old guy who got along with everybody. Two punks went in and tried to rob the place. The owner pulled a gun and ran them off. I was standing outside when the punks ran out with the owner chasing after them. I thought it was funny as hell. When the séance was over, I told the psychics in our group what had happened. They told me that I had to warn him. I didn’t see the point.”

“Did you warn him?”

“No. And it still eats at me.”

“Why?”

“The owner got robbed two days later. It played out just like I’d seen it. Except there was one thing I didn’t see during my séance. The owner chased the punks down the street and around the corner. Then he had a heart attack and dropped dead.”

“Oh, Peter, I’m sorry. If he had a bad heart, he probably would have had a heart attack eventually.”

“I still should have gone to see him. It was my responsibility, and I let him down.”

“How often do you think about it?”

“Every single day.”

The back of the limo fell silent. Being a psychic was a gift, and it was also a curse, and sometimes, quite strangely, it was a little bit of both.

“So the moral of the story is, we have to let the shadow people take you over to the other side if we’re going to save Rachael,” Liza said.

“Only if we want to live with ourselves.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Peter. I just don’t know.”

*   *   *

A magic show took as long to prepare as it did to perform. Every prop that Peter used in his act needed to be tested to ensure it was working properly. Musicians and comics could have things go wrong and still salvage a show, but that wasn’t true with magic. If a trick went haywire during a performance, the mystical illusion of wonderment that Peter had worked so hard to create would be shattered, and the audience’s evening ruined.

Each night before his show he did a prop check, a light check, a sound check, and a music check. Only after those were completed to his satisfaction did he retire to his dressing room, and change into his performance clothes.

He took his time dressing. He got nervous before going on, and dressing helped calm him down. Soon, his fans would begin lining the sidewalk in front of the theater with tickets clutched in their hands. Mostly families with kids, but lots of couples as well, and plenty of squealing teenage girls. The front doors would open, and they’d file in. Sometimes, he’d peek out the window to the street to glimpse their expectant faces. They came from all over, yet shared one thing in common: They loved to be fooled.

He stood in front of a mirror as he dressed. A strange motion in the reflection caught his eye, and he watched a shadow person seep out of a crack in the wall, and stand directly behind him, hovering a few inches off the floor. He turned around, and faced his unwanted guest.

“Leave me alone. I have a show to do!”

It made no sound, and continued to hover. From the same crack seeped a second shadow person, followed by a third and a fourth, until six otherworldly spirits were crammed into his tiny dressing room. He tried to reason with them.

“I know what you want. Come back later, and I’ll go over to the other side with you, and you can show me whatever it is you want to show me. But not now. I have a show to do.”

His guests didn’t budge. That was a problem, because he wasn’t going to back down. He shook a finger in what would have been their faces, if they’d had them.

“I’m not kidding. Get out of here.”

The wall of black closed around him. He heard a sharp scraping sound as a chair was pulled across the floor, and his body was forced into it. The lapels of his jacket were tugged back, the front of his shirt unbuttoned. He roared his disapproval.

“Damn you!” he shouted.

His buttons popped as his shirt was pulled open. A black hand grabbed the five-pointed star hanging around his neck, and yanked on it.

“Stop that!”

There was a loud banging on the door. He jerked his head, fearful a stranger might step into his dressing room and see this insane scene. “Yes?”

“Peter, what’s wrong?” Liza said fearfully through the door.

“The shadow people are here. They’re trying to take me away.”

“Hold on—I’ll help you!”

Liza started kicking the door. He tried to summon the demon within, wondering how it would fare against a band of spirits. Before he could find out, the black hand ripped the five-pointed star from his neck, and tossed it to the floor.

He entered the next world still fighting.

51

It was déjà vu all over again.

Peter was transported from his dressing room to the snaking dirt road on the hill beside Dr. Death’s house in Westchester County. As before, Dr. Death was chasing him, the Volvo’s headlights dancing in the darkness as the vehicle raced down the hill.

Damn the shadow people! Peter thought as he ran for his life. Why couldn’t they just come out and tell him who Dr. Death was? Or at least point him in the right direction? Why did each visit have to be a hair-raising experience that made his heart beat so hard that he could hardly breathe?

At the bottom of the hill he took a hard left, sprinting ahead. Something felt different from his two previous visits. The air was noticeably cooler, the sky not nearly as dark. He’d been brought back to the same place, but it was not at the same time in the future.

The Volvo’s wheels skidded as Dr. Death took the turn and goosed the accelerator. Peter knew what came next. Dr. Death would stick his handgun out his window, take aim, and shoot him in the leg, delivering a nasty flesh wound. The beginning of the end, unless he did something drastically different from the two previous times.

He bolted to his right. Maybe he could change the outcome of this. At the edge of the road he tried to jump into the forest, only it was as dense as a jungle, and there was nowhere to escape to.

“Damn it,” he swore.

He wondered if the shadow people heard him, or if they cared. Ghosts and spirits were bad that way. Divorced from human feelings, they often forgot what it was like to suffer.

A gunshot ripped the still night air. He groaned and grabbed his thigh. Blood was pouring down his leg, and he pressed his hand against the gaping wound to stop the flow. The Volvo parked in the road, and Dr. Death climbed out. The serial killer wore the same college professor clothes and the same lunatic smile. Gun in hand, he told Peter to kneel. The young magician complied.

“Want to say something before you die?” Dr. Death asked.

Peter told himself that he was going to somehow escape, and that he must learn who Dr. Death was before he was sent back to the real world.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” Dr. Death replied.

“I was brought here against my will. I want to know.”

“Very well. It’s Wednesday evening. Happy now?”

Today was Wednesday. The shadow people hadn’t taken him to Westchester County on Friday night like the previous times. Instead, they’d transported him to a Westchester County in the present. Had Rachael’s encounter with Dr. Death been moved up two days?

“Close your eyes, and I’ll make this painless,” the serial killer said.

Dr. Death glanced at his watch as he spoke. Was he going to meet someone? Then it hit Peter why the shadow people had brought him here.

“Rachael is coming out tonight instead of Friday, isn’t she?” Peter said. “You’re going to the train station to pick her up, aren’t you?”

Dr. Death blinked. Peter had nailed it.

“You know too much,” Dr. Death said. “Shut your eyes, and I’ll get this over with.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. I’m not shutting my eyes.”

Dr. Death shoved the barrel of the gun against his temple, its muzzle still warm. “I’ll splatter your brains across the road.”

“You don’t have the guts.”

“I didn’t have the guts. But I do now. Let me show you why.”

Reaching up with his free hand, Dr. Death undid his necktie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and jerked back the collar. Tattooed to his neck was the shimmering symbol of the Order of Astrum. The tattoo looked alive, and glowed mysteriously in the dark. “I have the Order of Astrum on my side,” he said with a sick smile. “Now say good-bye. I have a train to meet.”

He’s really going to shoot me this time. The expression “three strikes and you’re out” came to mind, and he prayed for Liza to pull him back to the other side.

Then the shot rang out.

*   *   *

Peter had always wondered what it felt like when you died. He’d imagined the sensation would be similar to hurtling at the speed of light through the universe with no idea of his final destination, if there even was a final destination. A journey that would be both amazingly beautiful and terribly frightening at the same time.

Wrong.

The afterlife felt surprisingly like this life. In fact, it felt exactly like it. He was still kneeling on the side of the road, with blood streaming down his leg. Dr. Death had not moved either, and was still holding the gun to his temple.

Nothing had changed.

Except the look on Dr. Death’s face. The sick smile had been replaced by a mask of fear. His eyes were trained on the forest directly behind them.

“Munns—let him go!” a woman’s shrill voice called out.

Peter turned his head to see a rather small woman in hiking clothes burst through a dense wall of shrubs. In one hand was a flashlight, in another a smoking handgun. Moments later a panting chocolate Labrador with a huge stick clenched in its mouth came through behind her.

“Gladys Hadden,” Dr. Death said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking my evening constitutional with Brewster, just like I do every night.” She stopped a few yards from where they stood, her gun pointed at the ground. “Oh, my God, you shot him.”

“He was breaking into my house,” Munns said defensively.

“You don’t say. Do you know who he is?”

“I think he’s a drug addict. He was going through my things when I caught him,” Dr. Death lied, his gun still pressed to Peter’s temple. “He ran away, and I got into my car and chased him. I was just about to shoot him when you fired your gun.”

“Why were you going to shoot him, Doc?”

“I just told you, he was robbing me.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to shoot him. I’d suggest you call nine one one, and let the police deal with this. I’ll call them myself if you like.”

Gladys Hadden was talking down to Munns like he was a child. Munns acted confused, and didn’t seem to know what to do. His cell phone rang. He jerked it from his pocket to stare at the face.

“I need to take this,” he said, and stepped away.

“Thanks for saving my life,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

“You’re not a drug addict, are you?” Gladys Hadden asked. “You certainly don’t dress like one.”

“It’s a long story. I’m helping the FBI catch your neighbor.”

“Really? What did Doc do?”

“His name’s Doc? Is he a doctor?”

“No, it’s just his nickname. He likes to pretend he’s one. He’s really the janitor over at the local college, has been for God knows how long. Now, tell me what he’s done.”

“He’s a serial killer,” Peter whispered. “He brings women to his house, and kills them.”

Gladys Hadden gasped. “No.”

“Yes.”

Munns was talking excitedly into his cell phone. They heard him say, “Your train is running ahead of schedule? I’m glad you called to let me know. Yes, I can be at the station when you pull in. I’m sure the dean won’t mind if we show up for dinner a little early.”

“Who’s that?” Gladys Hadden asked in a whisper.

“His next victim,” Peter replied.

“Oh, my Lord. What should we do?”

“Shoot him.”

“You want me to shoot him?”

“Yes. Otherwise, he’s going to kill her.”

“You’re certain about this?”

“On my parents’ graves.”

Flipping his cell phone shut, Munns stared at Peter and his neighbor. The glint in his eyes said a decision was being made. Peter didn’t have to use his psychic powers to know what that decision was. Munns was going to shoot them in cold blood, and deal with the consequences later. Rachael was drawing closer, and he could practically taste his next kill.

Munns stepped forward, prepared to gun them down.

Brewster stopped him.

The Lab had been lying in the grass gnawing on his stick. Sensing that his owner was in danger, Brewster jumped up and tried to bite Munns’s hand off. He jumped back in fear. Brewster kept barking, and Munns started backing up.

“He’s getting away,” Peter said.

Gladys Hadden aimed her gun. “Stay right where you are.”

“Gladys, you can’t shoot me,” Munns begged her.

“I’m calling the police, Doc. Don’t you dare move.”

Munns turned his back and ran to his car. He pulled away in a swirl of rubber and raced down the twisting hill. Gladys Hadden lowered her gun to her side, and sadly shook her head. She was a good person, and good people did not shoot their neighbors.

Peter felt an invisible tug on his shoulder. Liza was pulling him back to the other side. He resisted, knowing he must stop Munns from picking up Rachael at the train station. He was dealing with real time now, and every second counted.

“Call nine one one,” he said.

“What do I tell them?” Gladys asked. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Tell the police that Munns is a serial killer. If they call Special Agent Garrison with the FBI in New York City, Garrison will confirm it.”

“The police will think I’m a nut.”

“Do it anyway. Please.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“But you’re wounded. You need to get help.”

She punched three numbers into her phone. An operator came on, and she said that a man had been shot, and requested an ambulance. She gave her address and Peter memorized it. His world started to change, the image of his dressing room taking soft focus.

“Do you walk your dog every night?” Peter asked.

“Why yes, I do,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

It explained everything. The shadow people had brought him here twice, and both times it had seemed that Munns was about to shoot him in the head right before he was pulled back. But that hadn’t been the situation at all; the gunshot he’d heard each time had come from Gladys Hadden’s gun, and had been meant to stop Munns from killing him. His life had never been in danger at all.

He began to slip away. He wished he had a camera to take a photo of the startled look on Gladys Hadden’s face as he disappeared. Brewster would not stop barking.

52

Washed in cold sweat, Peter awoke lying on the couch in his dressing room. Liza sat beside him, forcefully shaking his shoulders. “How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Too long,” she replied. “The curtains go up in ten minutes. Can you go on?”

“I don’t know. Let me check.”

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. The bullet wound in his right thigh had miraculously healed itself, and he felt no worse for wear. Garrison leaned against the far wall with a grave look on his face.

“Have a nice trip?” the FBI agent asked.

“Come to mention it, I did,” Peter replied. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Liza brought a water bottle to his lips. “Here. Drink this.”

Peter took a long swallow. His dressing room was void of spirits. He had expected the shadow people to follow him back, but they’d chosen to remain with Munns. Perhaps they were hoping to stop Munns from claiming his next victim. They hadn’t succeeded in the past, and were going to need some help. “I know who our killer is.”

Garrison pushed himself off the wall. “Start talking.”

“His name is Doc Munns, only he isn’t really a doctor. He lives in a town called Pelham, and is a janitor at a local college.”

Garrison produced a notepad and started scribbling.

“You need to call the Westchester police immediately,” he went on. “I saw Munns in real time. His next victim is coming out on a train tonight, not on Friday like I originally thought. When I left, Munns was racing to the train station to pick her up.”

“You’re sure about all of this?”

Peter nodded and drained the water bottle.

“Do you have any proof?” Garrison asked.

“What do you mean? I was just with him.”

“I can’t tell the Westchester police that. I mean I can, but they won’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re not going to take the word of a psychic and detain someone. It’s not how the law works. I need to offer up some proof to what you’re saying.”

Peter felt stymied. He’d seen it, hadn’t he?

“Can’t the police at least detain him?” the young magician asked.

“Not without a good solid reason.”

“Tell them to make one up.”

“The police won’t do that.”

“This is crazy. A women’s life is hanging in the balance. Isn’t that enough reason?”

Garrison flipped the notepad shut. “We have to work within the law. This isn’t the Wild West. We can’t just go grab someone because you think he’s a killer.”

“It has nothing to do with what I think. Munns is a serial killer.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

Peter threw the empty water bottle at the trash can in anger. When he visited the other side, there were no illusions, subtleties, or nuanced shades of gray. It was all black and white. Munns was their killer, and needed to be stopped. “You’re a fool,” he said.

“Peter,” Liza said.

“Watch your mouth.” Garrison simmered.

“I just risked my life to go to the other side, and now you’re disputing what I’m saying,” Peter said, not calming down. “I should throw you out of here.”

“Peter!” Liza said.

A loud rap on the dressing room door snapped their heads. The door opened a foot, and Snoop stuck his shaggy head in. “Why, Detective Garrison, fancy seeing you here. What a pleasant surprise.”

“It’s Special Agent Garrison, wiseass,” Garrison said.

“Sorry. Do you mind if I talk with my boss for a second?” Snoop asked.

“Be my guest.”

“Are we going on?” Snoop asked.

“How much time do I have?” Peter asked.

“Five minutes. I can get on the PA, and say we’re running late.”

Peter wore many hats. The biggest hat was that of a professional magician, and there were rules which he needed to follow. Starting the show on time was one of them. He’d never been late before, and wasn’t going to start now. “No, I’m going on right now.”

“Beautiful. I’ll be up in the booth,” Snoop said. “Nice seeing you, Detective.”

“You’re pushing it,” Garrison said.

*   *   *

Soon, the three of them were walking down the hallway toward the back of the stage. Peter’s usual nervousness started to set in, just like it did every night before he went on.

“There has to be some solution here,” Peter implored the FBI agent.

“I’ll call the Westchester police and ask them to send a cruiser to the train station, if you think it will do any good,” Garrison said.

“You can’t pull Munns in for questioning?”

“I need tangible proof. It’s how the law works.”

Peter came to a short stairwell that led to the stage. Through the back of the stage he could hear the crowd’s murmuring. They were ready to see a magic show, but was he ready to put one on for them? No, he wasn’t, and he realized that he had to get Munns out of his mind. That sounded easy to do, only there was an unsuspecting woman named Rachael whose life he was supposed to be saving. He thought back to his encounter with Munns on the hillside. Munns had been carrying a loaded firearm. That was illegal in the state of New York without a concealed weapons permit, and he had a feeling that Munns didn’t possess one of those.

“I’m going to get ready,” Liza said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks for being there for me,” he told her.

“Always,” she said.

They kissed and Liza hurried away.

“Munns is carrying a loaded gun,” he said. “If you told the Westchester police that you had reason to believe he was a dangerous person, would they haul him in?”

“Of course,” Garrison said.

“Then please do it. Right now.”

“You’re sure he’s carrying a loaded gun?”

“He shot me with it.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. Are you certain he’s carrying it right now? If not, the police will have to release him, and Munns will know we’re on to him.”

Peter didn’t know if Munns still had his gun. Maybe he’d thrown it out the window of his car after his encounter with Gladys Hadden. But Peter felt certain that Munns still had his kill kit, which had contained a rope, handcuffs, and a bottle of chloroform.

“Munns has a leather bag filled with the stuff he uses to capture his victims,” Peter said. “Tell the police to look for it.”

“You’re sure about this?” Garrison said.

“I saw the bag in his house.”

Garrison hesitated. Something was clearly wrong, and Peter gazed into the FBI agent’s eyes and read his thoughts. If the Westchester police blew this, Munns would go home and destroy evidence linking him to his crimes. The FBI would be back to square one with the case, and Garrison would have to sleep at night knowing that a dangerous killer was roaming free.

That was a bad scenario, but Peter’s was much worse. A woman who pushed back at the darkness was going to die tonight if Munns wasn’t arrested. The shadow people had chosen to save Rachael because she was someone who made a difference in the world. Peter was going to save her, the law be damned.

“Promise me you’ll talk the police into arresting Munns,” Peter said.

“I’ll do my best,” Garrison replied.

“That’s not good enough.”

“What did you say?”

“Munns’s next victim isn’t an ordinary person. She’s going to do something extraordinary in her life that will make a tremendous difference in the world. That’s why the dark side wants her dead. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Is this woman some kind of saint?”

Peter nodded, and a look of recognition spread across the FBI agent’s face, along with the weight of knowing that if he didn’t act fast, he’d be responsible for her demise as well.

“Then I’ll order the police to arrest him,” Garrison said.

“Can you do that?”

“Yes. I’m putting my ass on the line, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

Peter climbed the steps to the back of the stage as Garrison began to make the call. The music had already started, his other life about to begin. He cleared his head, and prepared himself to enter the world of make-believe.

53

The parking lot of the Pelham train station was deserted as Munns parked and killed his headlights. During the day, there was not a space to be found, and cars often parked illegally on the street. Nighttime was a different story, and most of the spaces were empty.

Munns lowered his window. The sound of the northbound train from New York could often be heard a mile or more away as it lumbered into the station. Each of Munns’s six victims had come on the train to Pelham, where Munns had picked them up with the promise of a nice job at the local college but instead had taken them to the basement of his house where he’d tied them up, laid them out on a long table, and ended their miserable lives in whatever fashion struck his fancy. He never decided ahead of time, preferring to follow his impulses and go with the flow. Rachael would be no different.

The train’s whistle caught his ear. It was time. On the passenger seat sat his kill kit. From it, he took the bottle of chloroform, which he put into his left jacket pocket. Next he removed a folded handkerchief, which went into his right jacket pocket. The kill kit was moved to the floor of the backseat. He climbed out of the car.

He waited on the platform. He was not alone. A woman had come to pick up her husband, and was chatting on a cell phone while holding an infant in her arm. That was the extent of his worries.

He glanced at his reflection in the window of the station house, fixed his necktie, and patted down his lapels. If Rachael stepped off the train and got a bad vibe, she wouldn’t get in his car. He had to win her over right from the start.

The ground shook as the train pulled in, and a handful of passengers disembarked. Dark suits and ties for the men, power suits and fancy shoes for the women. One passenger stood out. A tall, sallow women with prematurely gray hair and a slightly lost expression. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her.

“Rachael?” he called out expectantly.

She smiled and came toward him. Not too fast, not too slow. Sizing him up like any intelligent woman would do. Munns stepped forward and opened his arms in welcome.

“It’s so good to finally meet you. Welcome to Pelham,” he said.

“You must be Doc Munns.” She stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Her handshake was firm but also friendly. He waved to his parked car. “Your chariot awaits. The dean is expecting us. I’m told his wife has cooked up a wonderful meal with all the trimmings. I hope you brought your appetite.”

“Matter of fact, I did. I’ve been so looking forward to this,” she said.

They continued to chat as they walked to Munns’s car. Out of the corner of his eye, Munns saw the woman with the kid drive away with her husband. The other passengers were piling into cars and heading home. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. Munns opened the passenger door for his guest.

“Such a gentleman. I like that in a man,” Rachael said.

“My pleasure,” the serial killer said.

*   *   *

The routine that Munns used to abduct his victims never varied. Like a short one-act play, he’d memorized the lines that he would say, and had choreographed the individual steps that led to his victims being knocked unconscious in the passenger seat of his car. He had performed his play in the railroad station parking lot, and in the supermarket parking lot down the street where he’d taken several of his victims after picking them up. It had seemed bold at first to perform the abduction in public, but time had proved it a smart tactic. His victims did not think anything could happen to them while in a public place, and let their guards down. As a result, none of them had seen it coming. He did not anticipate Rachael being any different.

He fastened his seat belt and requested that his passenger do the same.

“Sorry,” Rachael said, buckling up. “I hardly take car rides anymore.”

“How do you get around in the city?” he asked.

“Mostly by the subway, sometimes when I’m late I’ll take a cab.”

“You don’t own a car?”

“On my salary? You’re funny.”

No one had ever called him funny before, and he grinned. He found himself liking her, but that feeling would soon fade. It always did when he brought his victims to his house and carried them downstairs to the basement. Each step down the creaky staircase was a painful journey back in time. By the time he reached the basement, he was ready to kill.

He fired up the ignition and threw the car into reverse. Then he started to wheeze and cough. It was an ugly sound, and he pounded his chest with his fist.

“Is something wrong?” she asked in alarm.

He threw the car back into Park. More pounding on the chest and heavy breathing followed. Pointing at the glove compartment, he said, “If you don’t mind. I need my pills.”

“Is this serious? Do I need to call nine one one?”

“Not at all. I just forgot to take them, that’s all.”

“Do you have any water?”

“No,” he gasped.

“Have no fear.” She produced a water bottle from her purse and stuck it into the cup holder jutting out of the dashboard. Then she turned her attention to the glove compartment. The latch was tricky, and she fumbled opening it. She rummaged through maps and car junk.

“I’m not seeing any pills,” she said.

“They should be there,” he wheezed. “Keep looking.”

She obeyed, paying him no attention. Sticking his hand into his left pocket, he unscrewed the chloroform bottle with a quick twist. His right hand removed the handkerchief, which he doused liberally. He kept his face turned to avoid knocking himself out with fumes.

“I’ll still not seeing them,” Rachael said.

“Do you know what it’s like to be beaten as a child?” he asked in a normal voice.

The words caught her off guard. Rachael turned her head, and Munns placed the handkerchief over her nose and mouth. It was important to get his victim to turn into the chloroform, and not shove it into her face. Her eyes rolled into her head, and she slumped into her seat.

*   *   *

The hard part over, Munns felt himself relax. As he started to back out of his spot, a police cruiser rolled into the lot and pulled up behind him, its headlights bathing his vehicle.

“Shit,” he swore.

In his mirror he spied a grim-faced cop at the wheel. Before the economy had taken a dump, the Pelham Police Department had employed pairs of officers for its nightly patrols. Budget cuts had changed that, and officers now rode solo at night.

Munns strained to make out the officer’s face. He’d gone through school with many of the cops in town and knew most of them by first name.

The cop was someone new. A clean-cut rookie with a square jaw and straw-blond hair. Munns decided to have a talk with him. He had talked his way out of tight jams before, and felt confident he could handle this rookie. Opening his door, he placed his foot on the ground.

“Stay in your car,” the officer barked over a bullhorn.

Munns pulled himself back in, and slammed the door.

“Hands on the wheel,” the officer commanded.

Munns placed his hands on the wheel. He wondered if was going to have to kill a police officer tonight. He couldn’t hide a dead cop the way he’d hidden his other victims, and would have to figure out a clever way to dump the body. Perhaps he’d cut it up first, and dispose of the pieces in Dumpsters behind different restaurants. The rotted food would hide the smell perfectly.

A flashlight’s beam touched the back of his head. Munns turned in his seat to glare at the officer.

“Look straight ahead,” the officer barked.

Munns turned around. The flashlight beam traveled to the passenger seat, and rested on Rachael’s slumping profile.

“Who’s that in the car with you?” the officer demanded.

Munns rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Look, can’t we talk?”

“Answer the question!”

“My wife. She just got off work.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She fell asleep. She’s had a long day. May I ask what this is about?”

“Be quiet, and turn your head around.”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Do it!”

Munns turned back around. Killing the police officer seemed a certainty. No other real choice. His gun was in his kill kit and not handy. He would have to use his hands, like he had with Clyde Jucko at the storage facility, and tear the officer apart limb from limb. Thinking about it brought a faint smile to his lips. Tonight was going to be a two-bagger.

He devised a plan. He’d let the officer come up to his window and ask for his ID. He would stick his driver’s license out the window. When the officer took it, he’d grab his arm, pull him into the car, and tear his head off. Easy as pie.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. When the officer did not come, he glanced into his mirror. The officer was talking on his car radio to a dispatcher. He tried to lip-read what the officer was saying. He caught a couple of key words, and realized the officer was calling for backup like he’d just apprehended a dangerous criminal.

It was time to make his move. Opening the driver’s door, he hopped out, and marched toward the cruiser with his arms outstretched in a placating manner.

“Get back in your car!” roared the officer over the bullhorn.

Stopping, he struck a neutral pose. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Back up!”

“Have I broken any laws? Is my tag expired?”

“Do it!”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

The officer reached for his gun. The look in his eyes bordered on pure panic. Pelham was a sleepy place, and the officer had probably never dealt with a situation like this before. Munns decided that was in his favor, and took a giant step forward.

“Son, you’re overreacting.”

“Listen to me!” the officer shouted.

Munns raised his arms in mock surrender. “What are you afraid of? Do I scare you?”

“Son of a bitch,” the officer swore.

Squealing rubber tore a hole in the still night air. A black van had entered the parking lot and was flying. Its headlights flashed and the driver mouthed the words, “Get out of the way!”

It was Ray.

Ray plowed into the back of the cruiser without hitting his brakes. The impact sounded like a bomb going off, and the officer flew through the windshield like a human cannonball, his body landing on the rear of the Volvo with a sickening thud.

Munns pulled himself off the pavement. He was covered with broken glass, but otherwise unharmed. Ray jumped out of the van and joined him. Together they stared at the officer’s crumpled body. The surprised look on his face said he’d never known what had hit him.

“Did you get Rachael?” the tattoo artist asked.

“She’s passed out in the car.”

“Get her out of here. I’ll deal with this guy.”

Ray pulled the dead cop off the trunk and dragged him to the van. For a skinny guy, Ray was strong, and Munns felt certain he would figure out a way to dispose of the body.

Munns drove away knowing he was in good hands.

54

Fight or flight.

Ray had never understood the meaning of the expression, until now.

He had murdered a cop. If that wasn’t bad enough, the cop’s broken body was lying on the floor of his van, bleeding on the carpet. He had to dispose of the body, and then he had to run. Ray didn’t know where he was going to go, and he supposed it really didn’t matter.

Just run.

Hanging around Pelham was a bad idea. The police would haul him and Munns in, and question them. Munns would squeal like a fat boy in a candy store, and point the finger at Ray. No fancy lawyer could save him. Ray would spend the rest of his life in the slammer.

Ray cursed the Order of Astrum. They had sent him down this path, and told him to make sure Munns got the girl no matter what. When Ray had driven past the train station and seen the cop about to arrest Munns, he’d lost his head, and crashed his van into the cruiser. Looking back, the smart thing would have been to let Munns take the fall, and not get involved. Ray knew that now, not that it was going to do him any good.

He navigated Pelham’s narrow roads while trying to keep to the speed limit. More criminals got busted speeding away from the scene of their crimes than just about anything else. So he kept it under thirty and fought to stay calm.

He thought about the places he might escape to. Canada seemed like a wise choice, or perhaps a remote town in Mexico. Let Munns take the heat for the dead cop.

He drove down a dead-end street on the outskirts of town. Pulled down a dirt road that was part of a wooded lot where nobody lived. Parked and got out to look around. Didn’t see a soul or hear anything that would suggest people nearby. A perfect spot to dump a corpse.

He lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. This whole damn thing was crazy. He’d let the elders kidnap his soul, and make him do things that he’d never dream of doing on his own. Before joining the Order of Astrum, he’d placed limits on the crimes he would commit. Not anymore. There were no limits to the depravity and suffering he’d been asked to be a part of.

He finished the cigarette and ground the butt into the dirt. Walked back to the van and saw a figure sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him. Was it Munns? It was too dark to tell, and he fired up his lighter and held it with his arm outstretched.

It was the dead cop, come back to life.

Ray let out a savage yell.

The dead cop rolled down the passenger window and stuck his bloody head out. It was said that the eyes were the last thing to die. The dead cop’s eyes had died long ago, and all that was left now was the shell of the man inhabited by the most evil of spirits.

“Get in the van, Ray,” the dead cop said.

The dead cop’s voice had a British accent. One of the elders had inhabited his body.

“Nothing doing,” the tattoo artist stammered.

“Do as I say. There’s nowhere for you to run. Canada is terribly cold this time of year, Mexico is too far, and the police will eventually track you down. You need to stay here and finish the job. You made a promise, which we plan to hold you to. Get in the van.”

Ray thought he was going to lose it. Killing the cop had been bad enough. Talking to his dead corpse was worse. And he couldn’t imagine sitting next to it. Not on his life.

“I ain’t getting in that van with you,” he said.

The passenger door swung open and the dead cop piled out. His broken neck left his head sitting on his shoulder blade like a bowling ball, and Ray recoiled at the sight of him. He stood in front of Ray with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“Do I repulse you?” the dead cop asked.

“That’s one way to put it,” Ray said.

“This is nothing, Ray. I can show you things that will twist your soul inside out, and make you wish that you had never been born. Would you like that?”

“No thanks.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, let me explain to you what the future holds. Munns is going back to his house with Rachael. The police will soon follow. Not long after that, a black FBI agent and Peter Warlock will appear. Warlock and Munns will square off, and fight to the death. We need the police and the FBI agent kept out of the way. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“You own a hunting rifle with a telescopic lens, yes? Go get it, and perch yourself on the neighboring hill. Keep the police and the FBI at bay, while Munns and Warlock do battle. That doesn’t sound too hard, does it?”

“You’re nuts.”

“Are you afraid of being caught? Don’t be. We will whisk you away and give you a new life. You will become one of Dante’s disciples, and have powers beyond your wildest dreams. Doesn’t that sound good to you?”

“What kind of powers?”

“Prescience, incredible strength, the ability to live forever. Do those things excite you?”

Ray nodded, even though he didn’t know what prescience was.

“Would you like a taste?” the dead cop asked.

Ray nodded again, this time more enthusiastically.

“Step forward so I can touch you.”

Ray moved closer to the man he’d killed a short while ago. The dead cop lifted his arm and stuck his cold palm against Ray’s forehead. A sharp current passed between them, and Ray gasped as a bolt of white light illuminated the theater of his mind. The dead cop removed his palm and pointed at the forest. “Look. See for yourself.”

Ray gazed into the dense forest. Despite the darkness and abundance of trees, he was able to see a deer sleeping on the ground a hundred yards from where he stood. A raccoon came into the picture, followed by squirrels, chipmunks, and an overly large owl. The animals had been there all this time, only Ray hadn’t been able to see them, until now.

“You gave me night vision,” he said under his breath.

“Do you like it?” the dead cop asked.

“It’s way cool. Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“Good. Now go. There is more work to be done.”

The dead cop staggered into the forest. Ray nearly told him to stop. What was he supposed to do after Munns killed Warlock? And how was he supposed to meet up with Dante? The dead cop read his thoughts, and turned stiffly around.

“Everything will be revealed to you. Trust me.”

That was good enough for Ray. He watched the dead cop walk to a clearing. His body shuddered, and he dropped like a stone as the elder inhabiting his body abandoned him. Ray looked to the sky, imagining he could see the evil spirit floating overhead.

Then he went home to get his hunting rifle.

55

There was no such thing as a perfect show.

Every night, something went wrong in Peter’s performance of Anything’s Possible. Usually it was minor, like a cue being missed, or a prop malfunctioning. Rarely did it interfere with the audience’s enjoyment of the act. Most of the time, they hardly noticed.

But those mishaps rankled Peter no end. Details made perfection, but perfection was no detail, just a goal that could never be reached, only strived for.

Tonight’s mishap had taken place during the show’s opening. A puff of smoke had filled the center of the empty stage from which the young magician emerged. Stepping to the footlights, he engaged the audience with a brief introduction. When he finished, the lights were raised to reveal a stage filled with gorgeous props that had materialized out of nowhere. The trick never failed to garner a gasp of astonishment, followed by a sustained burst of applause.

Except tonight.

Tonight, there had been no gasp, and the applause had been polite. The audience had been given a clue to how the trick worked, just enough to spoil the illusion.

The trick’s secret was based upon the lazy Susan principle. The stage was actually two stages. One of these stages was bare, the other filled with props. The stages were secretly rotated while Peter gave his opening speech, which was enough of a distraction to keep the audience in the dark. Only tonight a squeaky gear beneath the stage had given the secret away. It had told the audience that something was going on, and spoiled the illusion.

Peter was furious. At the show’s end, he went beneath the stage to fix the squeaky gear. Liza held a flashlight while he squirted WD-40 lubricant onto the culprit.

He heard footsteps too large to be Snoop. Liza heard them, too.

“Who’s that?” she whispered.

“Beats me. Can I help you?”

“Garrison, FBI,” a familiar voice called out. “I need to talk with you.”

They crawled out from beneath the stage to find Garrison by the stairwell. He was smiling, always a good sign. “We found the son of a bitch,” he announced.

Liza squealed with delight and hugged Peter. The news made everything Peter had gone through the past few days through seem bearable. Now the shadow people would stop harassing him and his friends, and he could get on with his life.

“Your information was all good. His name is Harold Munns, and he lives in the village of Pelham where he works as a janitor at the local community college,” Garrison went on. “I spoke to the Pelham police chief, and he knew exactly who I was talking about. The chief said Munns had a history of problems dating back to childhood. The things I told him weren’t a surprise.”

“Have the police arrested him?” Peter asked.

“They’re scouring the town for him. Sent a pair of cruisers to his house, and another cruiser to the train station to see if he was there.”

“So they’re all over it.”

“They most certainly are. Now here’s the funny part. I explained to the chief how we used a psychic to track Munns down. The chief didn’t sound terribly surprised. Seems he used a psychic to find a missing kid, and the case had a happy ending.”

“So he’s a believer.”

“A true-blue believer. He expects to catch Munns tonight and haul him in. He asked if you’d drive up to Pelham with me, and feed him any details about the case that you uncovered during your trips to the other side. He really wants your help.”

The exhaustion of the past few days had caught up to Peter, and he wanted nothing more than to go home with Liza, share a hot bath, and watch a scary zombie flick. Sensing his hesitation, Garrison put his hand on the young magician’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to come, but it would be a huge help if you did.”

“Right now?” Peter asked wearily.

“Afraid so. I’ll drive. You can sit in the passenger seat and sleep on the way up.”

Peter looked at Liza. “You cool with going home by yourself?”

“Not really. How about I come with you?” she said.

“You sure?”

“Positive. We’re a team, remember?”

His whole life he’d been facing the unknown by himself. He hadn’t minded, but it had gotten lonely at times. Having Liza by his side was going to make his life a lot nicer. To Garrison he said, “Give me five minutes to get out of these clothes.”

“I’ll be waiting outside in the car,” the FBI agent replied.

*   *   *

Peter went to change. Opening the door to his dressing room, a cry escaped his lips. The room was trashed, his props and clothing scattered across the floor.

He’d been burglarized. It happened all the time in New York. The question was, how had the burglar gotten in? Certainly not through any of the theater’s entrances. There were only two, the front and the back, and they were watched 24/7 by surveillance cameras.

That left the window in his dressing room. It would have been hard, considering the room was on the second floor and there was no fire escape, but burglars were a resourceful lot, and would go to any means to enter a building if there was something worth stealing.

He went to the window to check the latch. To his surprise, it hadn’t been touched. So how had the burglar gotten in? He pulled out his cell phone, planning to call Snoop and ask him to check the surveillance videos, when a movement stopped him cold. A curling wisp of black smoke was seeping out of a crack plaster in the wall. Before his eyes it took shape. He had seen the shadow people enough times to differentiate them by their sizes. It was the same shadow person who’d dropped her antique watch into his hands a few nights ago, Barbara Metcalf.

“What have I done to upset you now?” he asked.

No response.

“You know that I’m trying to help you, don’t you?”

Nothing.

“I’m going to Pelham to track down Munns. That’s what you want from me, isn’t it? To stop this crazy guy before he kills Rachael.”

Still nothing.

“I’m getting tired of you messing with me,” he blurted out.

She made an angry squeal. Across the room, five black wisps came out of their hiding place to join her. They swarmed around Peter like a hive of angry bees, threw him into the chair in front of his dressing table, and held him down.

“Cut it out!” he protested.

A pair of scissors on his dressing table were crawling toward him, its blades snapping like an alligator’s jaws. His left hand was pinned to the table; as he watched, the shadow person that was Barbara Metcalf began to snip off the tip of his left forefinger.

“Not my hand,” he howled.

The scissors were dull, and it took tremendous effort to break the skin and cut into the bone. Before his disbelieving eyes, the tip of his finger fell to the table. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, and he struggled not to pass out.

“Peter, let me in,” Liza shouted through the door.

“They’re back,” he gasped.

“What are they doing to you?”

“Bad stuff.”

“Tell me!”

“Cutting off my finger…”

Metcalf wasn’t done with him. Grabbing his hand, she brought his bleeding finger up to the three-way mirror on his dressing table, and used his blood to write a message. Peter thought he would be sick, and shut his eyes. The next thing he knew, Liza was standing beside him, shaking his arm with both his hands.

“Peter—don’t let them kidnap you!”

His eyes snapped open. The dressing room was back to normal, all the broken furniture and scattered things returned to their rightful places. It had all been a trick of the mind.

He stared at his severed finger. It had miraculously healed itself. No blood, no missing tip, he flexed it several times, found it in good working order.

Liza knelt beside him. “Oh, God, are you okay?”

“I think so.”

One thing hadn’t gone away. His dressing mirror was smeared with blood. He leaned forward to make out the single word left behind as a memento:

HURRY

Grabbing Liza by the arm, he ran from the dressing room.

PART V

PELHAM

56

Witches were not supposed to fall in love. Nor were they supposed to get married and become soccer moms. It was not how being a witch worked.

It wasn’t written down anywhere. Most of the rules which dictated a witch’s life were not written down anywhere at all. But they were passed down to each generation of young women who were born into the coven of spells and sorcery. And those rules were clear.

True love and witches simply did not mix.

Of course, they could have partners, and engage in sex, and be all things that women could and should be. There were no laws against that. But they were not allowed to lose themselves with a partner and forget who they were, which was what happened to most people who fell in love. They forgot who they were, and became someone else for a while. Witches were not supposed to do that. They had to remain true to themselves throughout their lives, and never forget who they were. It made relationships with the opposite sex tricky, to say the least.

Perhaps this was Holly’s problem. She had gotten crazy over Peter before the rules of the game had been properly explained to her. By the time Milly had gotten down to spelling out the rules, Cupid’s arrow had pierced her heart, and nothing would ever be the same.

Peter had been such a logical choice. Cute, clever, with one foot stuck in the dark side, what more could she want from a boy? They had grown up together, and always been fond of each other. Falling in love had been a natural progression, and Holly didn’t think the world would fall off its axis because of it.

She poured the magic herbs into the water-filled vase sitting on the coffee table. The water grew cloudy, with lifelike forms swirling about.

Oh spirits from above, show me Peter, the boy I love.

The water grew clear, and there Peter was, slumped in a chair in his dressing room while lovely Liza shook his arm. Clearly, something was amiss, which seemed almost routine for poor Peter these days. He’d become a poster boy for the problems that came from being psychic.

Peter woke up. Soon he and Liza were in a car racing out of the city. At the wheel was a grim-faced man whom Holly recognized as an FBI agent of Peter’s acquaintance. The FBI agent was driving one-handed while talking on a cell phone and to Peter at the same time. It was like watching a silent movie, and Holly tried to make out what they were saying.

“Holly!” a familiar voice called out.

Holly looked up in alarm. The voice had come out of nowhere. “Aunt Milly, is that you?”

“Who do you think it is, the Girl Scouts of America?”

“You have no right scrying on me, if that’s what you’re doing.”

“Au contraire, I have every right to be scrying on you. You must leave Peter alone.”

“Why should I? I’m in love with him.”

“I fully understand that. But love doesn’t give you the right to invade his privacy. Peter must not be disturbed. Do you understand me?”

Holly glanced at the vase of water at the object of her desire. “Certainly.”

“You’re not listening to me. Peter is not like us. He’s different.”

“I know.”

“Much different.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

“Damn it, Holly.”

A framed photograph fell off the wall and crashed to the floor.

“Please stop destroying my things,” Holly said.

“Not until you do as I say.”

Holly had never won an argument with her aunt, and doubted she ever would. Clicking her fingers three times, she made the water grow cloudy and the images disappear. Rising from the floor, she found her aunt’s ghostly image in the oval mirror over her water bed.

Holly crossed her arms defiantly. Her aunt countered with a frown.

“What do you want, Aunt Milly?”

“Peter has enough on his plate these days. Stop pestering him.”

“Who said I was pestering him? And when did this become your business? I’m a grown woman living in my own apartment. I can do whatever I please, thank you very much.”

Her aunt started to argue, but stopped herself. The wisdom of old age was knowing when silence was more powerful than words. Her face softened. “You’re right. You are no longer a child, and I have no right to treat you that way. So consider this a warning, instead.”

“A warning about what?”

“Be careful with Peter.”

“How so?”

“Be discreet. Respect his privacy. Know when to look away.”

An icy finger ran the length of Holly’s spine. Was there a side to Peter that she didn’t know? If that was the case, then her aunt had every right to be checking up on her, and Holly suddenly felt bad about the way she was acting.

“I’m sorry I’m acting like such a turd,” she said.

“No need to apologize my dear. I wasn’t very tactful.”

“How will I know?”

“About Peter? You will see the change. It will not be pleasant to watch.”

“You mean he’ll grow ugly like he does when he gets angry?”

“This will be more severe. He will physically alter himself. It will not be pretty, to say the least.”

Holly brought her hand up to her mouth. “Have you seen him do this?”

“Yes, when Peter was a little boy. It occurred the night his parents died. The demon inside of him fully took over. It was like he turned himself inside out.”

“Did it affect your relationship with Peter?”

“It most certainly did. And it will change your relationship with him as well.”

Holly swallowed hard. “How can you be so certain?”

Her aunt smiled the way adults do when they’re talking to children. Her image in the mirror began to fade and turned a foggy whitish color. Just wait, her eyes seem to say.

“Do as I say for once,” Milly said, and then was gone.

*   *   *

Holly parted the blinds and gazed at the city’s canopy of blinking lights. Had she fallen in love with a monster? Or just someone who was frightfully different? Better to know what she was getting into right now, she supposed, than to get surprised down the road.

She had talked herself into it. She would scry on Peter and discover his terrible secret, her aunt’s warning be damned.

57

Like many New Yorkers, Peter’s sense of direction was useless once he stepped off the island of Manhattan, and he paid scant attention as Garrison followed the signs for the Cross Bronx Expressway and West 178th Street as he drove up the West Side Highway. Liza sat in the backseat, studying a traffic app on her iPhone. “This doesn’t clear up until the George Washington Bridge. We’re never going to get there.”

Garrison slapped a flashing red light on the dashboard and punched his horn. The lines of cars in front of them parted like the Red Sea, and the FBI agent began to weave between lanes with the skill of a NASCAR driver.

“That’s more like it,” Garrison said.

Peter rode shotgun and stared at the highway. His hands had grown sweaty and he felt nervous in anticipation of finally meeting Munns in the flesh. The greatest mass murderers in history were all associated with the Devil in some way, and there was no question in his mind that Munns would put up a terrible fight when the police tried to arrest him.

“You scared?” Garrison asked.

“A little,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

“Not really. I’ve dealt with serial killers before.”

The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood up. Hadn’t he warned Garrison about the dangers that Munns posed? Munns was capable of causing more harm than Garrison could possibly imagine. “If you’re not careful, he’ll kill every cop in Pelham, and you and me as well.”

“Come on. Doc Munns is an angry little man. Most serial killers are.”

“What do you know about him?” Peter asked.

Garrison stopped talking long enough to merge onto the I-95 Lower Level North/George Washington Bridge exit out of the city. The sound of the bridge’s metal grating beneath their wheels was oddly soothing. “The chief of the Pelham Police Department said Munns was a troubled soul. His parents were alcoholics who abused their son. They made him live in the basement and didn’t let him eat with them. They also made him work around the house and do a lot of manual labor. He went to school in dirty clothes without lunch money.”

“Sounds like they tortured him,” Liza said from the backseat.

“That came later,” Garrison said.

“His childhood got worse?”

“Yes, unfortunately. When Munns was a teenager, his father got laid off work, and started hitting the bottle. He and his wife used to sit around the house all day, collect welfare checks, and get blistered. They convinced Munns to quit high school, and get a full-time job so they could pay their bills and support themselves in the lifestyle to which they’d become accustomed. It was a crummy thing to do, but that’s what kind of people they were.

“At first, Munns wouldn’t do it. He had dreams of going to college and being a medical doctor. One day, he came to school with a black eye and a busted front tooth. Everyone knew who had given it to him.”

“His father,” Liza said.

“That’s right, his father. Munns dropped out of high school, and took a job driving a truck. The money wasn’t good, and the family barely scraped by. On weekends, the police were often called to the house to settle domestic arguments. Munns’s father was beating up his son pretty regularly, and should have gone to jail, only Munns wouldn’t play ball with the cops.”

“So he was loyal,” Peter said.

“That he was,” Garrison said. “But that all changed one day. Munns got a phone call from a lady with the Social Security office in Washington. A woman claiming to be Munns’s birth mother was looking for him. Did Munns want to talk with her?”

“Wait a second,” Liza said, leaning through the seats. “The people who were torturing and treating him like a slave weren’t really his parents?”

“No, they weren’t. His biological mother gave Munns up for adoption when he was two years old. The torturers were his adoptive parents.”

“That’s so sick. What did Munns do?”

“That’s the strange part. He did nothing to his parents, and in fact, continued to care for them when they became sick and eventually died. The people he took his anger out with were his neighbors and other people who lived in Pelham.”

“Why? They weren’t responsible.”

“That’s not how Munns saw it. The townspeople knew he was being abused, and they also knew that his parents weren’t really his parents, yet they turned their backs and didn’t step in. Munns held that against them. Still does.”

“How old is he?” Peter asked.

“Munns is forty-eight years old. Is that important?”

Munns had been carrying his anger around for a long time. It had corrupted his soul and erased any semblance of decency. His joining the Order of Astrum and taking his anger out on the world by killing innocent women was yet another chapter in his sick life. But were those women the people Munns was really after? Peter didn’t think so. It was the citizens of Pelham he wanted to pay back, every last one of them. By joining the Order, Munns had been given the means to accomplish his grisly task, and one day he eventually would. Had that day arrived?

“You need to drive faster,” Peter implored.

“I’m already doing seventy-five,” the FBI agent replied.

“Faster.”

Garrison floored the accelerator and the vehicle lurched ahead. Peter watched the exit signs as they flashed by, praying they were not too late.

*   *   *

The exit for Mt. Vernon/Pelham appeared just as Garrison’s cell phone let out a sonic blast. He yanked it from his pocket and took the call. He listened for several seconds and made an ugly face. “What? When did this happen?”

Peter could have waited for Garrison to hang up and explain what was going on, or he could plumb the agent’s thoughts and find out himself. Liza’s hand came up and squeezed his arm. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

“A rookie cop in Pelham spotted Munns at the train station,” he whispered back. “He was asking a dispatcher for backup when he got cut off. Munns may have gotten away.”

“Ugh,” Liza said.

Garrison finished his call. “Quit reading my mind. I don’t like it.”

“Sorry. Just trying to save time.”

“What about Rachael? Did anyone see her come into the station?” Liza asked.

“The cop who called in the license told the dispatcher there was a second person passed out in Munns’s car,” Peter said. “That was probably her.”

“So Munns abducted her.”

“It sure looks that way.”

Liza fell back in her seat and shut her eyes. Traffic had thinned out since leaving the city, and Garrison took the exit with his tires squealing.

“Go ahead. Tell her the rest,” Garrison said.

“There’s more?” Liza said.

“The Pelham police chief sent several of his officers to the next town to help with an apartment house fire,” Peter explained. “As a result, he’s short staffed, and only has a handful of available officers to deal with Munns.”

“You can’t be serious,” Liza said.

“It’s a small town. The force isn’t that big to begin with.”

“Does he realize how dangerous Munns is? Or that he’s in league with the Devil?” Liza asked.

“The chief’s a small-town cop. He’s never dealt with anything this serious before. He sent two cruisers to Munns’s house earlier, but hasn’t spoken to them. We’re meeting the chief at the train station, and then we’re all going to Munns’s place together.”

“Does this man know what he’s doing?” Liza asked.

Peter glanced across the seat at Garrison, who was thinking the same thing. The Pelham police chief was going to blow this if they didn’t hurry.

*   *   *

The two-lane road leading into Pelham twisted and turned across the hilly landscape, forcing Garrison to ease up on the gas. They began to crawl, and Peter felt his anxiety grow. Devil worshippers did not go quietly when caught. Often, they went on rampages, intent on taking down as many innocent lives as possible before being taken down themselves. This was the great threat that Munns posed to the people of Pelham.

Ten minutes later, they arrived in a quaint town with artificial gaslights lining the streets and an array of enticing storefronts. The railroad tracks ran next to the town. Signs warned people not to play on the tracks or risk electrocution.

Garrison followed the tracks to the station. A police cruiser with a flashing red light waited in the parking lot. Beside it was a second cruiser, which had been rear-ended and had a shattered windshield. Garrison parked beside the first cruiser, and they got out.

Peter checked out the damaged cruiser. The gaping hole in the windshield suggested a body had been thrown through it. On the ground he found glass and a dark black stain.

“Is this blood?”

Garrison studied the stain. “Sure looks like it.”

Peter had helped the police with difficult cases, and was adept at reconstructing a crime scene. There was no doubt that someone had died here. What he did not understand was how. The officer was calling in Munns’s license when he was rammed from behind, and the call was cut off. That didn’t make sense, unless Munns had a partner.

“Where is everybody?” Liza asked.

“Beats me. Anybody home?” Garrison called out.

“In here,” replied a man’s voice.

The voice had come from inside the station house. The front door was ajar, and Peter entered a small waiting room lined with wooden benches. Another open door led to the ticket office with a desk and a chair. A uniformed cop in his fifties greeted him with a glare.

“Who are you?” the cop asked gruffly.

“Peter Warlock. I’m helping Special Agent Garrison track down Munns.”

“Are you the psychic he’s using?”

“Yes, he is.” Garrison followed Peter into the office. “You must be Chief Burns. I’m Special Agent Garrison. This young lady behind me is Liza. She’s also helping.”

“Welcome to Pelham,” Burns said. “It was a quiet little town, up until a little while ago.”

“Can you tell me what happened outside?” Garrison asked.

“I’m about to find out.”

A video monitor sat on the desk. Burns punched a button on a remote, and a grainy surveillance tape began to play on the small screen. Taken by a camera attached to the station house roof, it had a date and time stamped in the corner. It had been recorded twenty-two minutes ago, and showed a train pulling into the station and a group of passengers disembarking and going to their cars or rides. One nicely dressed woman remained on the platform. She looked nervous, and glanced from side to side as if looking for someone.

“That’s Rachael,” Liza said.

“How can you be sure?” Garrison asked.

“I don’t know. I just am.”

“Who’s Rachael?” Chief Burns wanted to know.

“Munns’s next victim,” Liza said.

Munns appeared in the frame, and warmly greeted the woman. Together, they walked off the platform to Munns’s Volvo. Rachael got into the car, and they watched Munns put a handkerchief over her face, and knock her out. Liza let out a shriek, and momentarily averted her eyes.

Munns began to back out of his spot just as a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and blocked him from leaving. The cop in the cruiser exchanged words with Munns, and began to call in his license to a dispatcher. From out of nowhere a black van appeared, and rammed the cruiser from behind. The officer was propelled through the windshield and landed on the trunk of the Volvo, his head flopped to one side. Liza turned away again. Chief Burns swore.

The driver of the van hopped out. He wore a sinister Fu Manchu and his arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Peter had been right. Munns was working with a partner.

“Any idea who that guy is?” Garrison asked.

“Never seen the bastard before,” Burns swore.

Burns’s cell phone vibrated, and he yanked it off his belt. Looking at its face, he said, “It’s about time they called me back. I need to take this outside. Reception’s bad in here.”

Everyone went outside. Burns stepped away and took the call. It was from the cops he’d sent to Munns’s house. Judging by the expression on the chief’s face, the news was not good.

Peter peeked inside the chief’s head to find out what the problem was. And saw it clearly.

Munns was holed up inside his house with his latest victim. Burns’s men had peeked through the front windows, and seen Rachael tied to a chair in the living room. She was conscious, and trying to reason with her abductor. Munns was also in the living room but not visible, and the cops couldn’t pinpoint his location.

The cops had stepped back from the house. One of them had called Burns to find out what to do. Break down the front door and save Rachael, or stay outside and wait for backup?

Burns hemmed and hawed. He was a small-town police chief, and dealt with domestic situations and lost dogs. This was new to him.

“Tell your men not to go in,” Peter told him.

“Hold on a second,” Burns said into the phone. “What did you say?”

“Don’t let your men go in. Munns will kill them.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Then he’ll go into town, and kill as many people as he can.”

“How do you know this?”

“That isn’t important. Let me deal with Munns. I can stop him. It’s why I’m here. Don’t ask me to explain any more, because I can’t. You have to trust me.”

Burns looked to Garrison for confirmation. The FBI agent nodded. That was good enough for Burns, and he passed the instructions to the man on the line before ending the call.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the chief said.

58

Garrison followed Burns’s cruiser out of the parking lot and into Pelham. Soon the town ended, and they drove down a two-lane road with signs for crossing deer.

“How are you going to deal with Munns?” Liza asked from the backseat.

Peter had promised not to keep secrets from Liza, but there were times when he would have preferred not to give her a straight answer. It would have made things so much easier.

“I’d like to hear the answer to that question myself,” Garrison said.

“I have a friend who’s a witch,” Peter explained. “I’m going to call her right now, and ask her to cast a spell on Munns that will incapacitate him so I can get into the house, and free Rachael. The spell should also let me subdue him.”

“A spell?” Garrison said, sounding incredulous.

“Yes. It’s one of a witch’s more potent powers.”

“What will it do to him?” Liza asked.

“That’s up to my friend. Some spells can set their subjects on fire. Others make a person blind, or incontinent. My friend will know which one to pick.”

“Is this witch someone I know?”

Liza did not sound pleased. It was not the time to be discussing this, and Peter glanced into the backseat. “Her name’s Holly Adams, and she’s a student at Columbia University. I told you about her, remember? We grew up together.”

“I seem to recall the name. Maybe I should meet her one day.”

He decided to let that one go. They started to climb a steep hill. The scenery looked terribly familiar, and Peter realized that it was here that Munns had tried to end his life on three different occasions. It was a memory that he would just as soon forget.

“I’ve got a question,” Garrison said, eyes glued to the road. “This spell your friend Holly is going to cast on Munns, will it wear off?”

“Eventually, yes. A spell is never permanent,” Peter replied.

“How quickly?”

“It all depends on how strong the spell is, and if Munns is able to ward it off.”

“Can he do that?”

“He might. Members of the Order of Astrum have special powers as well.”

“That’s not the news I wanted to hear. If the spell doesn’t work, do you have a Plan B?”

Peter hadn’t thought that far ahead, and shook his head. “Afraid not,” he added for emphasis.

“Well, think of one.”

Peter stared out his window and gave it some thought. The night held the answer to many of life’s mysteries, and after a moment he knew what he must do. He’d enter Munns’s house and summon the demon inside him. The demon would destroy Munns, just like it had destroyed the criminals the night his parents had perished, and the assassin who’d entered their apartment, and the assassin in Hyde Park. His victims had been evil people, and it was because of their evil that the demon had done away with them. Munns would be no different.

That was his Plan B.

But how to tell Garrison? The demon was at the top of the list of things he was never going to discuss with the FBI agent. Only he had to tell Garrison something …

A gunshot interrupted his thoughts.

The car lurched to a stop, and Garrison rolled down his window. The night had grown still again. “That sounded like a high-powered hunting rifle,” he said.

“Do people around here hunt at night?” Liza asked.

“Not animals, they don’t.”

Climbing out, Garrison drew his gun. He motioned for them to stay put, and started up the road. Peter opened his door and felt Liza’s hand come through the seats and grab his arm.

“We’re supposed to stay here,” she said.

“I was brought here for a reason,” he reminded her. “I have to go.”

“Oh, God, Peter, this is scary. Please be careful.”

“Remember, I’ve got some powers of my own.”

He slipped out of the car, and headed down the road after Garrison. Pieces of glass crunched beneath his feet. Rounding a curve, he saw a police cruiser lying in a ditch, its warning lights flashing. Garrison stood next to the ditch, shaking his head in dismay.

Burns had taken the hit.

*   *   *

The bullet hole in the cruiser’s windshield was the size of a man’s fist. Garrison opened the driver’s door and the interior light came on. Still strapped in, the chief of the Pelham Police Department stared straight ahead with his hands clutching the steering wheel. The bullet had cut him in half, his lower torso drenched in blood.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Burns whispered.

“I’m calling nine one one,” Garrison said, grabbing for his cell phone.

“Too late for that. Tell my kids…” His voice trailed off.

“Tell them what?”

“That their father…”

Burns stopped talking and licked his lips. He blinked, and then he blinked again. Peter gently pushed Garrison to one side. Crouching down, he pried the chief’s hand off the wheel, and clasped it with both of his own.

“Let your thoughts go. It will make things easier,” Peter said.

Burns nodded and seemed to relax. Peter looked into his head, and saw that the chief had a lot on his mind. Some of it was meaningless, but most of it not. He owed five dollars to another officer that he’d been meaning to pay back; the dry cleaning had to be picked up; the upstairs bathroom still needed painting. Then there was the important stuff, his family. On the hard drive of his computer was a letter to his son stationed in Afghanistan that he had yet to send. He’d been meaning to tell his wife how he appreciated her waiting up for him at night, but never gotten around to it. To his teenage daughter, a simple I love you was all he’d wanted to say. Those were the things that were on his mind. And how much he was going to miss them.

Peter squeezed the dying man’s hand. “I’ll tell them for you.”

Burns’s eyelids fluttered. The look on his face was skeptical.

“I’ll make sure your son gets his letter, and I’ll tell your wife how important her staying up was to you,” he said. “And I’ll tell your daughter that she was the apple of her father’s eye.”

Burns let out a deep breath, satisfied.

“Anything else?” Peter asked.

Burns looked like he was drifting on a cloud. Then he was gone. Garrison reached in, and shut the dead man’s eyes.

Another gunshot ripped the still night air.

59

“Peter!” It was Liza, calling out in the darkness.

“I’m here,” he said.

“I heard another gunshot. Are you all right?”

“Get back in the car,” Garrison said. “You’re not safe.”

“Not until I know Peter’s okay,” she said.

Peter thought he was all right. But then again, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the bullet he’d just heard had gone straight through his heart, and what was now standing here was a ghost instead. It was entirely possible. He ran his hands up and down himself, feeling flesh and bone.

“I’m not hurt,” he said.

“Please be careful,” Liza said.

Peter listened to her walk away. Then he looked up the hill. Munns’s house sat at the top, bathed in the bright moonlight. A two-story shingle box with a pitched roof and sagging gutters, it reflected years of neglect and disrepair. Back when Munns’s parents had owned it, it had probably been nice. But evil had a way of corrupting everything it came in contact with, even the exterior of houses.

He started up the hill. He wondered who the shooter was. Was it the man in the van who’d killed the first police officer? It really didn’t matter. Whoever it was had to be stopped.

“Get back here,” Garrison ordered.

Peter ignored him, and kept walking. He dug out his cell phone and pulled up Holly’s number. The call went through, and Holly picked up on the second ring.

“Get down before you get shot,” Holly warned.

He fell into a crouch. “You watching me?”

“Yes. You’re going to get killed if you’re not careful.”

“Where’s the shooter hiding?”

“His name is Ray, and he’s hiding behind an old oak tree on the same hill as the serial killer’s house. Ray’s got a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight, and somehow is able to see in the dark. He must be a devil worshipper.”

“Make him stop shooting at us. I need to get inside the house.”

“And fast. I looked in there, too.”

“What did you see?”

“There’s a woman tied to a chair. Your serial killer is about to strangle her to death.”

“Stop him, please.”

“I tried, but he shrugged off my spell.”

“You’re slipping.”

“This was a strong spell. He was just stronger.”

Another rifle shot rang out and kicked up dirt around Peter’s feet. “Help me.”

“Stay tuned.”

His Droid made a funny beep as Holly ended the call. It would have been nice if she’d bothered to tell him if he was supposed to lie on the ground, or go hide behind a particular tree. Witches were peculiar in that regard: They gave only so much of themselves.

He scrunched down. The smaller a target he was, the better. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he tried to find the shooter, only there were too many trees. It occurred to him that if the shooter fired another round, he’d see the bullet as it left the barrel of the rifle, and that was the probably the last thing he’d ever see. He glanced over his shoulder to see Garrison lying on the ground.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” he scolded.

“Get ready,” Peter said.

“For what?”

“The shooter is about to be taken out of the picture.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I told you, I have a friend who’s a witch, and she’s going to cast a spell on him.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Peter shifted his gaze straight ahead. “Keep watching.”

A witch’s powers were derived from nature and employed all of its destructive elements. Wind, earth, fire, and rain were all part of a witch’s repertoire, along with the ability to hold sway over wild animals. Which of these powers Holly would use was anyone’s guess. If Peter had been a betting man, he would have put his money on an owl swooping down out of a tree, and ripping the shooter’s face clean off.

He would have lost the bet. A menacing black storm cloud formed overhead. A bolt of lightning sprang out of its belly and pointed a crooked finger at a large oak tree in Peter’s line of vision. The oak tree burst into bright orange flames. Not ordinary flames, but ones of incredible heat. The shooter hiding behind the tree emitted a blood-curdling scream.

Bull’s-eye, Peter thought.

The shooter ran out from his hiding spot with his clothes on fire. Garrison came crablike up the hill.

Peter pointed at the burning man. “There’s your shooter.”

“Tell your witch I said thanks.” Garrison rose to a full standing position and took careful aim. Several shots rang out as he tried to take the shooter out. “Damn,” he swore.

“Keep firing at him.” Peter rose from his crouch, and started up the hill.

“Where are you going?”

“Guess.”

“I’m ordering you to stay here.”

“Sorry, I don’t answer to you.”

“You don’t know what’s up there. This may all be an elaborate trap.”

The words struck Peter as being prophetic. Since Friday night, he’d known that he would meet up with a serial killer who’d do everything in his power to kill him. The whole thing was a trap, courtesy of the Order of Astrum, and he was about to step right into the thick of it. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and he felt ready for the dangers that lay in store.

“I’m ready,” Peter said.

He ran up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him.

60

The scene at the top of the hill was reminiscent of a war movie. Two police cruisers were parked on the gravel driveway in front of Munns’s house with their windshields shot out and their front tires deflated. Each had sunk into the ground like a wounded animal.

Both cruisers had contained a single uniformed officer. Both officers now lay on the driveway with bloodied legs, tending to their wounds while aiming their guns at the front door of the house. Seeing Peter approach, they cautioned him to get down.

“Are you guys going to be okay?” Peter asked.

They gritted their teeth and nodded. Their faces were filled with pain compounded by the anguish that they hadn’t stopped Munns.

“Who are you?” one of the officers asked.

“I’m working with the FBI. I just took out the guy with the hunting rifle who was shooting at you.”

Peter looked toward the house. “Is Munns still in there?”

“Yeah, he’s in there, and so is the woman he’s holding hostage,” the second officer replied. “We just heard her begging him not to kill her.”

Rachael was still alive. But for how long? Light was streaming through the downstairs windows, and Peter tried to place where the living room was located. He decided that it was off to the left of the front door. He imagined Rachael bound to a chair and Munns about to end her life. He hadn’t come all this way to let that happen.

I’m going in,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

The officers did not protest. They knew that something had to be done. He cautiously approached the front door. He supposed he could have grabbed one of the officers’ guns, but he’d never shot a gun before, and didn’t think now was a good time to start.

Not that he needed a gun. He had a weapon far more powerful. He thought back to the night his parents had perished. Rage filled his body like so much poison, the demon boiling up from within. His shoulder hit the door. The hinges gave way, and his momentum carried him into the foyer. He made a hard stop and looked into the room where he’d guessed Rachael was being held prisoner. His guess was on the money. She was there, bound to a chair.

So was Munns. He’d wrapped a thick piece of rope around her throat, and was pulling it taut, causing her eyes to grotesquely bulge out. Those same eyes were begging for mercy.

Evil did not know mercy. Nor did it know kindness, or love. Munns spun around to glare at his intruder. “I know you. Your name is Peter Warlock, and you were sent here to stop me.”

Peter wasn’t the only one who’d been warned. “That’s right. Let her go.”

“Not on your life.”

Munns pulled the rope tighter while grinning sadistically. Rachael was jerked out of her chair as the life began to leave her body. Her eyes shifted to Peter for the first time.

Save me, they said.

A yell came out of the young magician’s mouth. It did not resemble any sound that had ever come out of his mouth before. He charged across the living room, having decided to tear Munns apart and throw his limbs out the front door for the wounded cops to see.

His fist crashed into Munns’s jaw and snapped the serial killer’s head. He’d never been much of a fighter growing up, preferring to talk his way out of tight spots. Now the opposite was true, and he wanted nothing more than to beat Munns to a bloody pulp.

The rope dropped from Munns’s hand. Kicking it away, Peter struck Munns again. The sound of Munns’s nose breaking was loud and sharp. Blood poured from his nostrils like they were wide-open spigots. He started to lose his balance, and appeared ready to fall.

Peter should have stopped there, but the demon was having none of it. He struck Munns with all his might, the blow sending him across the living room and sprawling onto a couch. Munns lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He looked dazed, and gasped for breath as Peter came forward, prepared to finish him off.

“Stop,” Rachael said.

Peter raised a fist. One more blow was all it would take to end Munns’s miserable life.

“I said stop,” she said.

“I’m not done with him.”

“He’s taken enough punishment. Please don’t hurt him any more.”

“I was planning on killing him,” he heard himself say.

She let out a gasp. “No—don’t do that.”

“You want him to live? Come on. He was going to kill you.”

“That’s not what I said. I’d love nothing more than if that horrible man was dead. But that still doesn’t give you the right to beat him to death. No one has that right.”

There was no rage in her voice or sense of outrage over what Munns had done to her.

“You’re not angry at him?” he asked.

“Of course I am. But my anger doesn’t justify taking another life. Would you mind untying me? The ropes are cutting off the circulation in my arms.”

Peter was impressed that she could be thinking so clearly. As he started to untie her, Garrison rushed in through the front door, gun clasped in both hands. He zeroed in on Munns. He was still lying on the couch and had shut his eyes. Garrison aimed at his chest.

“Get up,” he said.

No response. Garrison pulled back an eyelid. Satisfied that Munns was no longer a threat, he holstered his weapon and crossed the room to where Rachael sat. “I’m Special Agent Garrison with the FBI. How are you feeling?”

“Hello, Mr. Garrison,” Rachael said politely. “All things considered, I’m doing fairly well, thanks to our friend here.”

“Peter does good work, doesn’t he?”

“I would say so.”

“There’s an ambulance coming to tend to a pair of wounded police officers outside,” Garrison said. “I’ll have them take you to the hospital as well.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked.

“It’s always smart. You know, as a precaution.”

Her arms free, Rachael touched her rescuer. “This is going to sound funny, but I had a dream about you the other night. Isn’t that amazing?”

So the spirits had talked to Rachael as well. Peter undid the last of the knots and offered her his hand. She stood up too quickly, and fell back into the chair. He pulled her upright.

“Be careful,” he said.

She thanked him with a smile. “I’ve never had a guardian angel before.”

“Is that what I am?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll feel better when you’re safely out of this house.”

Peter spied movement on the other side of the living room. Munns had woken up, and was going through a terrifying transformation, his body tearing out of its clothes. His fingers grew into talons, and lizardlike scales appeared on the back of his hands. He didn’t look human anymore. Grabbing Rachael, Peter pushed her out the front door.

Garrison went next, loudly complaining.

Peter slammed the door in the FBI agent’s face, locking it.

“Stay outside, and don’t look through the windows,” he warned.

“What’s going on?” Garrison said through the door.

“I’ll tell you later.”

He returned to the living room. The transformation was complete. The bearded faux college professor was nothing but a memory; in his place, a monster served straight up from the depths of hell. In his hand was a Swiss Army knife, which turned into a gleaming sword.

Now I know what a gargoyle on steroids looks like, Peter thought.

61

The water in the vase on Holly’s coffee table had turned a dreamy whitish color. Like a storm cloud, the water twirled and danced. Holly recited the magical words that would let her once again spy on her beloved Peter. The water cleared, and she leaned forward, filled with anticipation.

She gasped. Peter was inside a strange house, fighting to the death with a hideous giant reptile. The reptile looked half human, half alligator, with a head shaped like a monkey’s, and talons instead of fingertips. Incredibly strong, it was tossing poor Peter around like a rag doll.

To his credit, Peter was fighting back. He’d never been much of a scrapper, not that Holly had ever seen. But now he was using his fists with real skill, and landing solid blows against his opponent’s skull. It thrilled her to see him in this mode.

Only there was a problem. Peter’s blows were having little to no effect, and seemed to be making the giant reptile even more enraged. Throwing Peter to the floor, the thing began to stomp on Peter’s chest.

Holly shrieked.

Witches weren’t supposed to do that. Nor were they supposed to cry, or fall madly and hopelessly in love. But Holly had fallen in love, and now her emotions were on full display.

A loud banging on her front door caught her by surprise.

“Yes? Who is it?”

Her next-door neighbor, asking her if she was all right.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Burt,” Holly said.

Mrs. Burt asked if she should call the police.

Holly jumped off the couch. The last thing she wanted was the police in her apartment and seeing her wall of potions and herbs. There was no law against being a witch, but it could still lead to unpleasantness with the landlord and even eviction if she was not careful. In the vase, Peter was back on his feet, whacking the thing with a poker he’d pulled from the fireplace.

“Come on, Peter, smash its head in,” she urged.

“Is someone in there with you?” Mrs. Burt asked through the door.

Holly threw the dead bolt, and cracked the door. Mrs. Burt stood in the hallway wearing a pink bathrobe and curlers, cell phone at the ready.

“Is someone hurting you?” her neighbor asked.

“No, Mrs. Burt, no one’s hurting me. In fact, I’m by myself.”

Mrs. Burt stuck one eye to the door. “Why, isn’t that amazing! You have a movie playing inside a bowl of water! How on earth is that possible?”

Closing the door in her neighbor’s face was not the proper response, and Holly had to think fast. “It’s the latest technology, Mrs. Burt. I bought it online.”

“The figures inside the water are so lifelike! When I was growing up, the big thing was owning a color TV. Times have certainly changed. What do they call it?”

“Water movies.”

“What will they think of next?”

“Good night, Mrs. Burt. Thanks for checking up on me.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

Her neighbor shuffled off to her apartment. Holly shut the door, threw the dead bolt, and returned to the couch. Peter and the thing were still doing battle. They had destroyed the room they were in, the furniture in splinters on the floor. Peter’s face was a bloody mess and he was favoring his left arm. The thing had definitely hurt him. Holly had naturally assumed that Peter would win simply because Peter managed to somehow always come out on top.

But what if she was wrong? What if Peter had met his match, and was about to lose? The very thought threw her into a tailspin. Her aunt had warned her against interfering in Peter’s affairs, and Holly put the warning right out of her mind.

Water shiny and oh so bright, do my bidding this darkest night,

Give the strength to the boy I love, so that he may vanquish …

Her cell phone slithered across the coffee table. Caller ID said Milly. She decided not to answer it, and continued.

… this thing that would end his life.

Let him fight with the strength of …

Her cell phone flipped off the table into her lap. It had enough force behind it to tell Holly that if she didn’t answer it right now, there would be hell to pay down the road. Flipping it open, she politely said, “Well, hello, Aunt Milly, how are you?”

“Leave Peter alone,” her aunt replied sternly.

“I will do no such thing. Peter needs our help.”

“Stay out of it, damn it!”

Holly could not remember her aunt ever cursing at her. Not that Holly had been an angel growing up—few witches were—but harsh words had rarely passed between them. She had crossed over an invisible line, yet refused to back down. “Give me one good reason why I should.”

“Because you’re going to royally fuck things up,” Milly said.

Holly nearly fell off the couch. The f bomb? From her aunt?

“I’m just trying to help,” she stammered.

“For the thousandth time, Peter does not need our help.”

Her aunt could not have been more wrong. The giant reptile had put its slimy hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the life out of him. Peter’s knees had buckled, and his face lost its color. He began to sink into the earth one excruciating inch at a time.

“He’s going to die,” she whispered into the phone.

“No, he’s not.”

“Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?”

“I most certainly am. And so are the others. Max, Homer, and Lester are here with me.”

“You’re scrying on Peter and me?”

“That’s right. As they say, two vases are better than one.”

“You all see the peril that Peter’s in, don’t you?”

“He’s not in any peril.”

“Aunt Milly, are you blind?”

“For once in your life, stop questioning me.”

“What about the others? What do they say?”

“They agree with me. Peter will be all right.”

Holly started to cry. Peter was dying before her eyes, and her aunt was forbidding her from doing anything to prevent it.

Her aunt spoke again. “There’s one more thing you must do, my dear child. You must stop watching. Something is about to happen which you are not supposed to see.”

“Stop treating me like a child.”

“Listen to me. It’s for your own good.”

“Good-bye, Aunt Milly.”

The cell phone hit the wall and shattered. She’d been wanting to get a new one anyway. Kneeling on the floor, she pressed her face against the vase as Peter was pushed farther into the floor. She would have watched even if it had turned her blind, her love for him was so great.

62

As Surtr squeezed the life out of Peter’s body, the young magician began to slip away to the next world. The experience was peaceful, almost serene. Not dead yet, but getting close.

His eyes snapped open. He stood in a black forest filled with dense smoke. Hanging from the trees were corpses of men who had not pleased their master and now hung there for eternity. From the distance came the battle cries between the forces of good and evil that had been taking place since the beginning of mankind.

It was dusk, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found himself staring at a throne made of human skulls on which sat a man well over seven feet tall. Dressed in a black hooded robe, the man’s once handsome face had been grotesquely melted on one side like a worn-down candle.

Peter had two fathers. One biological and one … demonic. The black forest was residence to the second, whom he knew simply as the wicked one. Two thousand years ago, the Devil and his counterpart in heaven had struck a deal, with each of them sending six of his sons to earth to see which would prevail, the forces of evil or the forces of good. Lucifer had cheated, and made his six sons immortal. The earth had never been the same since.

“Hello, Peter,” the wicked one said.

Peter grunted a coarse greeting under his breath.

“Not happy to see me, are you?” the wicked one asked.

“Our meetings never end well,” Peter replied.

“You are a stubborn young man.”

“Do I get that from you?”

A wind whipped through the clearing, causing the hanging men to twirl from their ropes.

“You’re losing,” the wicked one said. “That’s unacceptable.”

“He’s much stronger than me, whatever the hell he is.”

“His name is Surtr, and he’s the eternal guardian at the gates of hell. The Order of Astrum sent him to earth to do away with you, once and for all. The fair-haired girl was nothing more than bait.”

“What threat do I pose to the Order?”

“The elders of the Order are sending one of their disciples to New York in the hopes that he will attract more converts to their cause. Only one thing stands in their way. You.”

“Who said I wanted to get involved?”

“I’m afraid you do not have a choice.”

Peter shook his head at these words. His life was becoming a dark, uncharted journey where he had no say in the matter. The wicked one rose from his throne and stepped toward him. “Give me your hand, and I will give you the strength to do battle with Surtr.”

“I don’t want your fingers digging into my flesh,” Peter told him.

“Do it. Before he kills you.”

Peter saw himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge and emerging from the waters a changed person. Perhaps if he died at Surtr’s hand, the same thing might happen.

“What if I say no?”

“Have it your way.”

The wicked one clicked his fingers. Peter’s body went stiff and his left arm rose on its own accord. The wicked one grabbed his wrist as his fingers turned into venomous snakes whose fangs tore into Peter’s flesh and sent their poison coursing through his bloodstream. Peter bit his lip and tried not to scream. He could feel himself growing stronger, but at what cost?

“I’ll be watching,” the wicked one said.

*   *   *

Like a switch being thrown, Peter returned to the living room of Munns’s house. The room had been wrecked by their battle, and Surtr still had his hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the last breath of life from his body. Nothing had changed.

Except, of course, him. He had been infused with an evil that had wreaked havoc upon mankind since the beginning of time, an evil that came straight from the source. Breaking free of Surtr’s grasp, he clutched the thing’s head and twisted it violently to the left, then violently to the right, hearing the bones in his neck crack like so many empty peanut shells.

“Uhhh,” the thing from hell groaned.

Surtr released him, and staggered around the room with its arms flailing, mortally wounded. Peter rose from the floor. He should have stopped right then. But he was no longer himself, and wondered if he ever would be again.

He crossed the living room and gave Surtr’s head another series of violent twists, and felt its neck grow looser. He found himself thinking about the three elders of the Order of Astrum, whom he felt certain were watching. It was time to send them a message.

He spun Surtr’s head clear around its body like it was attached by a string. Then he released his enemy. Surtr’s broken body hit the floor with a resounding thud. In the blink of an eye, he reverted back to being Doc Munns, whose head was now turned in the wrong direction.

“Peter, are you all right?” Garrison shouted from the front lawn.

Peter didn’t know if he was all right or not. He certainly didn’t feel the same. A piece of him had been stripped away during his journey, another layer of his soul lost.

An antique mirror hung over the fireplace. In its reflection, he saw what he had become.

He nearly cried.

He no longer looked human. His face was narrow as a wolf’s, his nostrils flared, his mouth set in a permanent snarl. The pupils of his eyes were tinged a savage red, and darted wickedly from side to side.

Covering his face, he begged the evil thing he’d become to go away.

*   *   *

Garrison started banging on the front door. Finally, he’d had enough, and took the door down with his shoulder, and came inside. He looked at Munns lying dead on the floor.

“For the love of Christ, you nearly tore his head off.”

“Guess I don’t know my own strength,” Peter whispered.

“That’s brutal, man. Did he hurt you?”

“No. How’s Rachael?”

“She’s fine. The woman’s amazing.”

“You still need to take her to a hospital.”

“I plan to. And you as well. Now stand aside for a minute. I need to record this.” Garrison memorialized the crime scene through photos snapped on his cell phone.

Lowering his hands, Peter took another look in the mirror. He had become his old self again.

“I need to get some fresh air,” he said.

“Be my guest. I’ll be done in a minute,” Garrison replied.

Outside, Peter stood in the gravel driveway and sucked down the chilly night air. Rachael was gone, and so were the pair of wounded officers, the ambulance’s siren carrying across the hills as they were taken to the local hospital.

He took out his cell phone to call Liza, and found a text waiting for him. U OK? she asked. THINK SO, he wrote back, then added, SAVED RACHAEL. That got a dozen exclamation points in reply. He found it in him to smile. Something good had come out of this.

Garrison came out of the house holding a promotional mailer in his hand. He shoved it into Peter’s face and said, “Take a look at this. I found it on the dining room table.”

Peter held the mailer up to the light coming from the house. It was for a tattoo parlor called the Blue Devil, and featured glossy photos of various tattoos that you could have inked onto your body for a nominal fee. The tattoos were routinely hideous and featured snakes and demons. One tattoo in particular caught his eye: the shimmering symbol of the Order of the Astrum. He flipped the mailer over. On the postage side was a photo of the owner, a biker type with a ponytail. Only his surname was given: Ray.

“This is the same guy with the hunting rifle who killed Chief Burns, and rammed the police cruiser at the train station,” Peter said. “He’s part of the Order as well.”

Garrison took the mailer and studied the address. “We need to run this character down before he skips town. Let’s move.”

“What about Munns?”

“You afraid of him coming back to life? Trust me, he’s dead.”

Garrison walked down the hill toward his car. Peter started to follow, then went in the opposite direction, and returned to the house. Munns had not moved from his spot on the living room floor. He looked dead, but looks could be deceiving. Peter wanted a sign, just to be sure.

“Show me,” he said aloud. “I have a right to know.”

In the oval mirror over the fireplace appeared a swirling form. Munns falling down an endless black hole as a silent scream came out of his mouth. It was fair punishment for all the terrible things he’d done, and Peter left the house believing there was still justice in the world.

63

Peter sat in the backseat with Liza while Garrison drove into town under the guidance of his GPS system. In a voice that was barely a whisper, Liza said, “What happened up there?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered back.

“Come on. No secrets.”

He had taken no pleasure in killing Munns, and wouldn’t sleep for the next few nights because of it. Talking about it would only make how he felt worse.

“Was it bad?” she asked, refusing to let go.

“On a scale of one to ten, it was a fifteen.”

“Ugh. Will you tell me later?”

He didn’t know if he could. Better to bury the memory and act like it had never happened. Just like all those times he’d killed as child. Just forget about it, and move on. The silence troubled her, and she squeezed his hand. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“How about, I don’t know?”

“You aren’t the same. The rage is boiling right below the surface. I can feel it.”

She was right. The rage had not gone away like it had the other times. The demon was lurking in the shadows of his soul, ready to rise up and kill again. He needed to get his emotions under in check, and he said, “I just killed somebody, okay?”

She fell back in her seat. Looked out her window at the two-story shingle houses that lined the road at the bottom of the hill. “You’ve changed. I can see it in your face and hear it in your voice. You look scary.”

“Do you want to get away from me?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“But you might.”

“I will if I don’t get some answers.”

Garrison was doing a fine job of chauffeuring, and Peter guessed the FBI agent had overheard every word they’d said. Placing his mouth against Liza’s ear, he said, “I’ll tell you everything that happened, just not here.”

She mouthed the word “When?”

“Later tonight. At home.” And nearly added, “Lying in bed in the darkness.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on, say it.”

“It’s a promise.”

His answer seemed to satisfy her. They held each other and kissed, and it all felt good again. His whole life, he’d been holding back his innermost feelings. Not since he’d lost his parents had he truly confided in anyone. That had changed when he’d fallen in love with Liza. Yet even with her, he’d held back certain things. Somehow, that was going to have to change.

“I also want to hear about your friend Holly,” Liza said. “She sounds like someone I should get to know.”

The words hit him like an invisible punch and he winced in the darkness.

“She actually kind of dull,” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied.

*   *   *

The Blue Devil was located in a half-ugly strip mall on the outskirts of Pelham. In the parlor’s front window was a blue neon sign of a smiling devil wielding a pitchfork. Beneath it, a second blue neon sign said CLOSED. A pair of police cruisers had taken the parking spaces in front of the store. Garrison said, “Stay put,” and hopped out of the car.

Staring at the neon devil in the window, Peter had an unpleasant thought. Ray, the store’s owner, had sent a mailer to people in town, shopping for clients. Each of the tattoos in the mailer had a demonic theme, and would attract a certain type of clientele. Munns had taken the bait, paid Ray a visit, and gotten an Order of Astrum tattoo stamped on his neck and become their slave. That meant Ray was a recruiter for the Order, and knew how things worked. Perhaps Ray could lead him to the elders, and he could pay them back for murdering his parents. Just thinking about it ignited a hot wire in his blood, and he threw open his door.

“Didn’t you hear what Garrison just said?” Liza asked. “He meant it this time.”

“Was he talking to me?”

“You’re not funny. Please stay here.”

“I need to talk to the man who owns this place. He knows things.”

“You have that look in your eye again.”

“You mean the suave and debonair look?”

“No, the evil one. No more bloodshed. I mean it, Peter.”

Her voice had a finality that he could not ignore.

“Okay,” he said.

*   *   *

Inside the Blue Devil, he felt a drop in temperature that chilled him to the bone. The reception area had a pair of cheap folding chairs and a counter with brochures strewn across it, the walls covered in posters of naked men and women whose bodies were tattoo canvases. A beaded curtain led to a cluttered back room with a low ceiling and jet-black walls. A barber chair sat in the room’s center. It was here that customers got their tattoos inked onto their bodies while listening to music coming out of a boom box on the floor. Ray, the owner, sat in the barber chair, his wrist handcuffed to the arm. He reeked of smoke and was covered in bandages. There was no doubt this was the person who’d been shooting at them with the hunting rifle.

Garrison and the local cops stood nearby, exchanging information. Garrison’s back was turned, and Peter drew up next to Ray, who shrank in his chair.

“Something the matter?” Peter asked.

“You’re the guy that Doc Munns was supposed to kill,” the tattoo artist said.

“Didn’t work out that way.”

“Is Munns dead?”

“Yes. I killed him.”

“But he was possessed by Surtr.”

“I still killed him.” Peter let the words sink in and dropped his voice. “I want you to tell me what you know about the elders of the Order of Astrum.”

Ray shook his head fearfully. “I do that, they’ll snuff me for sure.”

“You need to cooperate with the police. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”

“Right,” Ray said.

One of the cops said, “Son of a bitch was going to pour kerosene on the walls right when we came into the store, probably planning to burn the place down, destroy evidence.”

“What did you find in the van?” Garrison asked.

“We found a hunting rifle with a telescopic scope lying on the backseat, along with a box of ammo,” the same cop said. “We think it’s the same rifle that killed Chief Burns.”

“Then let’s charge him. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Once the cops charged Ray, they’d take him to the station to be processed, and Peter would lose his chance to question him. He drew closer to the barber chair, and Ray cowered like a frightened dog. “You had to know you’d get caught,” Peter told him. “What did the elders do? Make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“You know about the elders?” Ray squeaked.

“We’re old friends. Now what did they offer you?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Tell me, damn it.”

Ray clamped his mouth shut. Peter was not planning to leave empty-handed, and he stole a look inside Ray’s mind. It was filled with troubling images, but one in particular stood out. A sinister figure wearing dark flowing robes covered in astrological signs commanded a stage not unlike the one in his own theater. His spiked hair and dark fright makeup were pure Gothic. Plucking a succession of black silks out of the air, he bunched them together, and made a half dozen screaming vultures magically appear. With a mad explosion of feathers, the carnivorous creatures flew into the theater to pluck at the faces of the unlucky patrons sitting in the first row.

“Who is he?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the tattoo artist said.

“The man on the stage with spiked hair and the vultures. I want to know who he is.”

Ray gulped. “You know about Dante?”

“Is that his name? Dante?”

Peter felt a hand come down on his arm, and he spun around. Garrison pulled him away from the barber chair to the other side of the room.

“I told you to stay in the car,” Garrison said angrily.

“Just give me another minute with him,” Peter pleaded.

“That’s out of the question. We have an investigation to finish. Now go outside, or you’ll end up getting in trouble.”

“There’s something else going on here, and this guy knows what it is.”

“You heard me. Leave. Right now.”

Peter bit the words about to come out of his mouth. The expression “devil got your tongue” took on a whole new meaning. He pointed an accusing finger at Ray. “You’ve got to make him talk.”

“We’ll do that. Now vamoose.”

He started to leave and heard an odd popping sound. The noise reminded him of a soda can being punctured and the air escaping. Against the wall, the five-gallon kerosene tanks that Ray had intended to torch his studio with had mysteriously punctured themselves. The smelly liquid was pouring out, and racing across the concrete floor, where it puddled at the base of the barber chair, and climbed up its sides. Ray was talking to one of the cops, not having a clue.

“Get away from the chair,” Peter said.

The Pelham cops looked at him, not understanding.

“Why should we?” Garrison asked.

“Because it’s going to explode.”

“Is he serious?” one of the cops asked.

The rules of physics did not hold in the psychic world. An ashtray with a dead cigarette sat on the table where Ray kept his tattoo needles. The cigarette sparked to life, rolled out of the ashtray, and landed on the floor in a stream of kerosene. The stream caught flame, and did a mad dash toward the barber chair. In a split second, the chair was engulfed in flames along with the man chained to the arm. It was like watching a bomb go off.

Ray screamed.

The cops ran for the door.

Peter rushed toward Garrison. The arm of Garrison’s sports jacket had caught fire, and he pulled the FBI agent out of the building, found a patch of grass, and rolled him around until the flames were extinguished. The cops stood in the parking lot coughing and hacking but otherwise no worse for wear. The elders had spared them. It was Ray they wanted silenced.

The Blue Devil burned like a tinderbox, the flames licking the sky by the time the fire trucks and ambulance pulled in. As the building’s walls started to crumble, Ray’s final screams could be heard above the wailing sirens. The elders had kept him alive so they could torture him. It was the price you paid for striking a deal with the Devil.

Peter drew closer to the burning building and strained to hear Ray’s last words. He was trying to say something before he died, his voice rising above the din.

“Dante … will … kill you all…”

Peter still had no idea who Dante was. Only Ray knew the answer to that question, and as the fiery building collapsed, he guessed the secret would follow the tattoo artist to his grave.

64

“You can go upstairs, Ms. Adams,” the uniformed guard said.

Holly crossed the lobby and punched the elevator button. She had been coming to the Dakota for so many years that security knew her by name, yet the guards still called her aunt before allowing her to go upstairs.

She rode the elevator wishing she’d heeded her aunt’s warning. Milly had told her not to scry on Peter any longer, that she would end up getting hurt if she did. There were rules to being a psychic, and she’d broken every one of them. What an awful mistake she’d made.

The elevator doors parted and she walked down a hallway to Milly’s apartment. She wiped away her tears before pressing the buzzer. The image of Peter twisting the head of the serial killer from side to side would not go away. He had not seemed human.

She raised her hand to knock on the door. Before she could, it opened wide, revealing her aunt in the foyer along with Max, Lester, and Homer. Their collective faces were filled with sorrow. Had they continued to scry on her while she scryed on Peter? Something told her that they had. She entered the apartment, and the door was shut behind her.

“I’m sorry I disobeyed you,” Holly said to the group, her voice cracking.

“Peter is not like us—you understand that now,” her aunt said.

“He’s a monster. How could I have not seen that before?”

Milly gripped her niece by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Peter is not a monster. He is of both worlds, both good and evil. He can make choices, which purely evil people cannot. Do you understand the difference?”

Holly shook her head. All she understood was that there were two Peters: the one she loved, and the inhuman one she’d seen in the vase that terrified her. She had no idea how to deal with her feelings, so she’d run to her aunt’s apartment for help.

A tiny sob escaped her lips. Milly put her arms around her niece, and gave her a hug. Max, Lester, and Homer circled around her, and placed their hands consolingly on her as well. It made her feel better, and she told herself that somehow, she’d get through this.

*   *   *

Garrison was taken to the ER of the nearby Lawrence Hospital Center to be checked out.

A sign on the wall boasted that the hospital had over four hundred doctors. Judging from the activity inside the ER, most of them were on duty tonight.

Peter and Liza stood in a curtained room with Garrison, waiting for a doctor to see him. The agent sat on a table wearing slacks and an undershirt. He kept looking at his arms, shocked that the skin had not been burned. To Peter he said, “Why was I spared?”

“It’s complicated,” Peter said.

“Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”

“The Order was in retreat mode. Munns was dead, and the police were about to arrest Ray and start interrogating him. Ray was a recruiter and had direct contact with the three elders that call the shots. The elders needed to silence Ray before he started talking. That was their sole objective, and they succeeded.”

“Why didn’t they kill the rest of us as well?” Garrison asked.

“The elders don’t kill innocent civilians, if they can avoid it. They let their underlings do that.”

“And by not killing civilians, the police don’t pursue them. Makes sense. Looks like we’ve got company.”

Rachael came through the curtains. Except for a square bandage covering a scrape on her forehead, she looked no worse for wear, and she gave Peter’s arm a squeeze. “There you are. I was hoping to see you before I blew out of here.”

“You’re leaving?” Peter asked.

“I gave my statement to the police, and really don’t see any reason to hang around,” she said. “I think a good night’s sleep in my own bed is just what the doctor ordered.”

Liza stepped forward. “You must be Rachael. I’m Liza. It’s great to finally meet you. I heard you on the phone a few days ago.”

“You heard me on the phone?” Rachael said, sounding confused.

“It’s a long story,” Peter explained. “Maybe someday we can get together, and Liza and I will explain it to you.”

“That would be very nice. There’s an awful lot of what’s happened here that I still don’t completely understand. One of the policemen told me about the fire at the tattoo parlor. I hope no one was injured who didn’t deserve to be.”

“The good guys came out unscathed,” Garrison replied.

“How wonderful is that?” Rachael broke into a smile. It was the first time she’d done that, and it made her look radiant. To Peter she said, “May I steal you away from your friends for a couple of minutes? I have a question that I think only you can answer.”

Peter looked at Liza and saw her nod. Pulling aside the curtain, he allowed Rachael to leave first, then turned to his friends. “I’ll be right back.”

*   *   *

He followed Rachael outside the hospital to the parking lot. A yellow cab idled by the front entrance. Peter guessed this was Rachael’s ride back to the city. She would go home tonight and, hopefully, return to a normal life. He wished he could be so lucky.

“Can you please tell me what those things are?” she asked.

A darkish cloud hung over the taxi. Peter had thought it was the taxi’s dirty exhaust, but upon closer inspection, realized it was the shadow people, all clustered together. He’d assumed the shadow people would go back to wherever they came from once Munns was dead, and the threat to Rachael had passed.

Wrong.

The shadow people were not going anywhere until Rachael was back in New York, safe and sound. Their sole purpose for being was to protect Rachael. It had never been about him, or Munns, or the Order of Astrum. Their skin in the game was to keep Rachael unharmed, and they had succeeded.

“Can you make them go away?” she asked. “They’re scaring me.”

“You don’t want them to go away,” Peter said. “Those are your other guardian angels. They’re going to hang around for a while, and make sure you get home okay.”

She shuddered from an invisible chill. “I guess I can deal with that. But what are they? Ghosts? Or are they something else? I really want to know.”

Peter wanted to tell her to forget about them. She had escaped from the forces of evil, and that was all that really mattered. Asking questions would only lead to more questions and soon she’d be bogged down by the horrible weight of it all. He chose his words carefully.

“Think of them as friends from the other side.”

“Like fairies?”

He laughed to himself. That was one way to describe them. “Call them what you want. Don’t be afraid if you catch them hanging around. They’re just trying to protect you. Now, let me ask you a question. What do you do for a living?”

“Why is that important?” she asked.

Rachael had been targeted because she made a difference in the world, and Peter wanted to know what that difference was. “I’m just curious.”

“Very well. I’m a research scientist. It’s boring work. Endless hours in the lab staring through a microscope at tiny molecules. I specialize in molecular biology in the hopes it will one day lead to a breakthrough in cancer research.”

Peter had his answer. He smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

“Actually, no. I was looking forward to taking a break. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“May I ask why?”

She impressed him as a private person, and she gazed at the ground as she spoke. “Most of my experiments are done with lab rats. They are much nicer animals than you’d imagine. This past week, I had to put down six of my favorites. I gave them names, which made it that much more painful. It put me in a terrible depression. I hate killing animals.”

“But you keep doing it.”

She lifted her eyes. “You make that sound like a crime.”

“It makes you feel bad, doesn’t it?”

“It’s supposed to make me feel bad. But that doesn’t make it wrong. A long time ago I realized that some of us were put on this earth to kill in the hopes that it might better mankind. I know that sounds very noble, but I happen to think it’s true. Soldiers kill so that we may have peace, policeman kill to stop criminals from hurting innocent people, and I euthanize some unlucky lab rats in the hope I’ll discover a cure for cancer. It’s hard, but there’s no other way.”

Peter thought about the killing he’d done in his life. Had those bloody acts left the world a better place? He supposed they had, for the men he’d killed were the personification of evil, and had victimized countless innocent people. It was one way to rationalize the things he’d done, and the things that he’d no doubt do someday in the future.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said.

“Am I safe to go home?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“How do I thank you for saving my life?”

“No need to. I’m glad I was in time.”

She gave him a hug. The best things in life were the good deeds we did for strangers. Someone a lot smarter than him had said that, and it felt very true right now. He went to the cab and held open the door for her. The shadow people continued to hover above the vehicle like a storm cloud. “I have a question,” he said. “You said before that you saw me in a dream. Do you remember what was I doing?”

She stopped before getting in the cab. “It was so strange. You were standing on stage doing your magic. I was in the front row watching. When your trick was done, a single person in the audience started to clap. The sound had a hollow ring, and it caused me to turn around in my seat to see what was going on. To my surprise, the seats behind me were empty.”

“Who was doing the clapping?”

“A dark figure standing in the very back row. He wore hideous stage makeup and a flowing black Gothic robe. There was a black bird perched on his shoulder that looked like a vulture. He asked me if I wanted to join him.”

“Join him in what?”

“I honestly don’t know. He spoke to me by name. It was so strange.”

“What happened then?”

“I told him no thanks. Then I woke up, and found myself covered in sweat.” She paused. “I have no idea what the dream meant. Do you?”

Ray the tattoo artist had been thinking of a magician who made vultures appear from scarves as well. Was the man in Rachael’s dream the same person?

“No, I don’t,” Peter said.

“Well, I sure hope he doesn’t come back. Good night. Thanks again for saving my life.”

The taxi pulled out with the dark cloud still hovering above it. It occurred to Peter that he didn’t even know Rachael’s last name. He would have to ask one of the cops what it was. That way, he’d be able to Google her, and find out how her research was going. Something told him that before long, her name would be in the newspapers, and for all the right reasons.

He headed back inside. Through the glass doors he spied Liza standing in the lobby. She had a cell phone pressed to her ear, and was waving frantically to him.

He rushed inside.

65

“It’s Dr. Sierra. He needs to speak with you,” Liza said, handing him her cell phone.

Sierra was the last person Peter wanted to be talking to right now, and he pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Hello, Dr. Sierra. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m sorry to be calling at such a late hour,” Sierra said. “Hunsinger is dying. I’m with him at his apartment. The doctor just left, and said he only has a few hours left. It was Hunsinger who asked me to call you. He wishes to speak with you before he passes.”

A dying man’s last request was hard to turn down, only Hunsinger had already told him enough bad things about his childhood to last a lifetime, and Peter didn’t want to hear any more horror stories tonight. “I’m sorry your friend is dying, Dr. Sierra, but I’m going to take a pass. I’m already having a hard enough time dealing with what he told me the other day.”

“This concerns your parents,” Sierra said as if not hearing him. “It seems that your father confided in Hunsinger about certain events which had happened during your parents’ childhoods. Hunsinger wishes to share these things with you.”

“I already know about my parents’ childhoods. Good night.”

“Please don’t hang up. You don’t know about these things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hunsinger said your mother was the reason it all happened in the first place.”

“My mother? What is that supposed to mean?”

“He said your mother was the prize.”

“The prize for what?”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what any of this means. I would suggest that you speak to Hunsinger yourself. And hurry. The clock is running out for my friend.”

Peter cursed under his breath. If he didn’t rush back to the city to see Hunsinger, he’d never know what the old priest was talking about. The words would haunt him for the rest of his life, and he had no doubt this was why Hunsinger had uttered them to Sierra.

“Where does he live?” Peter asked.

Sierra gave him the street address and apartment number. Peter memorized it and ended the call. He felt like throwing the cell phone against the wall, only it happened to belong to Liza. “We need to go back to the city,” he said.

“Right now?” Liza said.

“Yes. Right now.”

*   *   *

They sat in a pair of middle seats on the midnight train back to New York, facing each other. The car was otherwise empty.

“That was rude to leave and not say good-bye,” Liza said.

Peter had sent Garrison a text, explaining that he had to go see a dying friend. He’d also asked Garrison to contact Chief Burns’s family, and pass along those things which Burns had communicated to him a few moments before he died.

“Hunsinger is on his deathbed, and has asked to speak with me,” Peter explained. “He knows a secret about my mother that he wants to tell me. I couldn’t say no.”

Liza had run out of patience, and she gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “When are things ever going back to normal? I feel like a puppet being jerked around on a string. First I get yanked one way, then another. This isn’t right, Peter.”

“Our lives used to be dull, You even complained about it once.”

She frowned at him. “Our lives are out of control, I don’t know what normal is anymore. You’re going to have to make a decision.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Do you want to be a psychic who runs around helping the FBI solve crimes, or do you want to be in love with me? You can’t have both.”

“I can’t?”

“No. I’ve reached my limit.”

It was his turn to stare at the scenery. Being a psychic was a reward for all it enabled him to achieve and punishment for all the lies it forced him to tell. That was his destiny, and there was no getting around it. But was it fair to Liza? He was pulling her into a world where she had no control. If he was going to keep her, he would have to change, even if it meant never sitting down to another Friday night séance with his psychic friends and talking with the dead. He had to stop it if he truly loved the woman sitting across from him.

And he had to do it right now.

“I want to be in love with you,” he said. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. I’ll stop the psychic stuff. No more talking to ghosts, or helping the FBI.”

The words hit her hard, and it took a moment for her to compose herself.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise.”

Liza switched seats, and snuggled up beside him. They held hands and kissed, and he saw how incredibly happy she was. That alone told him he’d made the right decision. That hadn’t been so hard. All he’d ever wanted was to have a normal life. By walking away from being a psychic, he could have one. It was as simple as that.

He resumed looking out the window. The train route was lined with billboards for theatrical shows playing in the city. There were musicals, revivals, and plenty of serious dramas, reminders that New York was the theater capital of the world.

One billboard caught his eye. It was for a magic show, the performer someone he’d never heard of. Peter tried to stay up on any magicians who played New York, if for no other reason than to know who his competition was.

He brought his face up to the glass for a better look. The billboard showed a dark figure wearing a flowing black robe, his face painted in fright makeup, his hypnotic eyes daring you to enter his world. Perched on his shoulder was vulture with a bunny rabbit in its mouth. Bold lettering announced his show at a theater in Times Square.

Dante—The Anti-Conjuror

Prepare to have your imagination turned inside out,

and your emotions stripped bare.

Call now for tickets

It was the same dark magician that Ray the tattoo artist had been thinking of before he died, the same evil character who’d invaded Rachael’s dreams as well.

Peter fell back in his seat. Anti-conjurors were the Devil’s entertainers, and were sent to earth during times of turmoil and strife, their sole purpose to recruit more disciples to the Devil’s unholy cause. Dante was about to unleash his dark magic on the unsuspecting populace of New York. If unstopped, the city would never be the same.

He had to act. He could not sit by, and let the city he loved be harmed. But how was he going to tell Liza that? Hadn’t he just promised to stop being a psychic? She was not going to let him off the hook this time. If he didn’t stop, she would leave him for good.

The train hit a bump in the tracks. The lights inside the car went off, plunging him into darkness. It helped him think, and by the time they’d reached their destination, Peter knew exactly what he must do.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to thank Claire Eddy, Katharine Critchlow, and Laura Swain for their generous contributions to this book.

ALSO BY JAMES SWAIN

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The Night Stalker

The Night Monster

The Program

TONY VALENTINE BOOKS

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Funny Money

Sucker Bet

Loaded Dice

Mr. Lucky

Deadman’s Poker

Deadman’s Bluff

Wild Card

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PETER WARLOCK BOOKS

Dark Magic

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JAMES SWAIN is the national bestselling author of fifteen thrillers. His novels have been translated into many languages and have been chosen as Mysteries of the Year by Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Swain has received three Barry Award nominations, a Florida Book Award for fiction, and the prestigious Prix Calibre .38 Award for Best American Crime Writing. An avid magician, he has written and lectured extensively on the subject. Visit his website at www.jimswain.com.