Dark Magic

38

Nothing ever died on a computer. Every file left a history, even if had been erased. It was all there, recorded like a giant footprint for posterity, if you just knew where to look.

Garrison knew where to look. The FBI agent worked the keyboard on Zack’s laptop, a study in concentration. Peter sat beside him, and tried not to look at Zack, who lay on the floor fifteen feet away. His assistant’s neck had stopped glowing right before the FBI arrived.

“So what am I looking for?” Garrison asked.

“A file on me and my psychic friends,” Peter replied. “Hopefully, it will help us figure out what Wolfe’s mission is.”

Garrison resumed his search. “I’m still having a hard time believing you killed Zack with a screwdriver while he had a sword. How does that work?”

“I got lucky.”

“Lucky, my ass. What are you, a Jedi warrior?”

Peter did not have a good answer. How could he explain that the demon inside of him had killed Zack? Now that the demon was gone, he wanted to put the incident out of his mind.

“Found something,” Garrison said several minutes later.

Peter leaned in to have a look. The file was called FNP. That had to stand for Friday Night Psychics. Garrison opened the file, and scrolled through the pages. It contained the names of the Friday night group, their phone numbers, and their addresses. There was no mention of Wolfe, or why he’d been sent to New York.

“Damn it,” Peter said.

Garrison closed the laptop and slid it off the table. “I’m going to let our forensic team have a crack at it. Maybe there’s more here I’m not finding.”

“You’re taking the laptop away?” Peter asked.

“I sure am.”

Peter felt himself start to panic. He trusted Garrison, but not the people he worked for. He couldn’t let the FBI get their hands on those names.

“You have to erase that file,” Peter blurted out.

“No can do. This is evidence.”

“You have to. Otherwise, everything falls apart.”

Garrison gave him a healthy stare. “Explain yourself.”

“If my friends’ names get out, the Friday night psychics are no more.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There are rules to conducting a seance that must always be followed. They have to be conducted at night, the participants have to dress a certain way, and certain props must be used, including occult signs and astrological symbols. It’s part of the deal, and there’s no getting around it.”

“So?”

“One of the most important rules is secrecy. Each member vows to protect the identities of the other members of the group. If the group becomes exposed, its ability to talk with the spirit world ends. If you let that file out, our ability to conduct seances will die.”

“You’re saying you won’t be able to help me?” the FBI agent asked.

“That’s right.”

“Why do you need a group? Why not just do it yourself?”

“The spirits don’t often hear us. If one psychic calls out to them, they usually don’t respond. If a group of psychics calls, they do. It’s because of all the commotion in the spirit world.”

“It’s noisy on the other side, huh?”

Peter nodded. He’d been there, and it was as loud as a busy subway station.

“You’re asking me to commit a crime,” Garrison said. “As an officer of the law, I’m not about to step over that line. At the same time, I don’t want to do anything that will diminish your ability to help me. So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go over to the other side of the room. The laptop stays right here. If this file’s gone when I come back, I’m not going to say anything.”

“Got it,” Peter said.

The FBI agent’s chair made a harsh scraping sound as he rose from the table.

“See you in a few,” Garrison said.

Peter texted Snoop, asking how to make the file disappear from Zack’s laptop. His assistant replied with a detailed set of instructions, and Peter went to work. Garrison stood on the other side of the loft, talking to a member of his team.

Several excruciating minutes later, the file was gone.

Peter breathed a sign of relief. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Holly. He answered in a hushed voice.

“Hey.”

“Are you all right?” Holly asked.

“I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait. Did you figure out who the spy was?”

“I took care of it.”

Garrison had finished his conversation, and began to cross the room.

Peter said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t hang up,” Holly said. “My aunt’s had a change of heart, and wants to contact the police. She’s afraid Wolfe will kill us if she doesn’t do something. I tried to talk her out of it, but she won’t budge. I called Max, and he’s coming over to talk to her. We need you here, too. My aunt will listen to you. When can you get here?”

His loyalty was to his friends, and always would be.

“Give me twenty minutes,” he said.

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

Peter ended the call as Garrison neared the table.

“Locked and loaded?” the FBI agent asked.

Peter wasn’t sure what Garrison meant, and simply nodded.

“Glad to hear it. I need to get a statement from you about what happened.” Garrison pulled up a chair and sat down. Taking a spiral notepad and a pen from his pocket, he began to scribble. “Okay. Now, start from the beginning.”

“Can’t you just make something up?” Peter asked.

“A man died here. No, I can’t make something up.”

Peter rose from his chair. He couldn’t be in two places at once; giving a statement to the FBI would have to wait. He told himself that Garrison would get over it.

“Going somewhere?” Garrison said.

“There’s someplace I have to be.”

“Sit down. I’m not done with you.”

The Sword Suspension illusion sat in the center of the room. Lying on the floor was a large white sheet that was used to cover Liza as she was suspended in midair. The sheet looked innocent, but in fact had stiff wires sewn into its fabric that resembled a human figure when held the proper way. Peter had made Liza disappear hundreds of times with it, and no one had ever discovered its secret. Picking the sheet up, he covered himself.

“Hey-what are you doing?” Garrison asked.

“I’m sorry,” said his voice from beneath the sheet.

“Sorry about what?”

There was no response. Garrison grabbed the sheet, and whisked it away. The young magician had vanished like a puff of smoke. Garrison’s trained eye gazed across the room. The door to the loft was wide open.

“Damn you!” the FBI agent exclaimed.

Peter was breathing hard by the time he reached the roof. Raindrops danced off the tar paper in a hypnotic ballet. He went to the edge, and looked straight down. Garrison and his team burst out the front door of the building. The last thing he needed right now was the FBI hunting for him, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice.

“Hey!” Garrison shouted, looking straight up.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Peter shouted back.

“Get your ass down here, right now!”

“I can’t do that.”

“I’m going to throw you in jail.”

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

“To the roof,” Garrison said to his team.

The FBI agents hit the front door hard. They’d be on the roof soon. Peter turned around, and looked for an escape route besides the stairwell. He spotted an old-fashioned fire escape on the other side of the building, and hurried toward it. The roof was flat, and ran the length of the building. Many older buildings in the city were designed this way, and had once housed entire tent communities of people too poor to afford apartments, with residents traveling on catwalks from building to building without ever touching the ground below. Peter could feel their presence as he ran; this rooftop had been their home, and for many of their ghosts, still was.

He reached the fire escape. It was rusted with age, and hadn’t been used in forever. He hoped it was strong enough to support him. As he took to the first step, Garrison and his team burst onto the roof, red-faced and puffing hard.

“I command you to stop!” Garrison shouted.

Peter glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll call you later. I promise.”

“I’ve had enough of your crap,” Garrison declared.

The FBI agents rushed toward him. Peter started down the creaky stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a man dressed in rags and wearing a broken top hat, sitting on the ledge. The man looked like a hobo, yet managed to have a dignified air about him. He was also transparent; half of him was there, and half of him wasn’t.

It had been a while since Peter had seen a ghost. Back when he was a boy, they’d popped up fairly often, and he’d grown used to the late-night conversations with ghosts in his bedroom. As he’d grown older, their appearance had become less frequent. Now, if he saw a ghost every week, it was a lot. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Ghosts filled the earth, and resided in old houses and buildings they’d once called home. They continued to occupy these dwellings long after they died, and could not be driven out. Trying to remove a ghost from a house was a serious mistake, and could lead to all sorts of problems. The ghost sitting on the ledge had an impish look.

“I could use a little help,” Peter said.

“I see that,” the ghost said. “What did you do?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Most good stories are. Maybe someday you’ll come back, and share it with me.”

“You have a deal.”

The ghost jumped off the ledge, and positioned himself in a crouch. As the FBI agents ran past, he stuck his leg out, and sent them flying through space. Later, the agents would say that they’d slipped, which was what everyone said who got tripped by a ghost.

“I owe you,” Peter called.

The ghost flashed a crooked grin. He looked vaguely familiar, and Peter realized he’d seen his face in a book, and that he’d been someone important in his time. As Peter ran down the fire escape to the street, he promised himself to one day look up the building’s history, and find out who the ghost was. It was nice to know who your friends were, even the dead ones.