Dark Magic

6

Wolfe traveled light. Toothbrush, shaving kit, fake ID, a few thousand in American money, a Zippo lighter from his army days, a disposable cell phone, a laptop, a single change of clothes, and the pocketknife. From time to time, one of the items would break or need replacing, and he’d go through a short period of adjustment. They were his only possessions, and he was attached to them.

Wolfe was sick about losing the pocketknife. It had been given to him as a small boy by an uncle. He had eaten with it, killed with it, and used the corkscrew to open bottles of wine. It pained him that it was now lying in a police evidence bag. It was not the fate he would have hoped for his knife. Better if it had ended up sticking out of the young magician’s chest, like he’d planned.

The cab braked. “Seventy-eight Christopher Street. That will be ten bucks,” the driver said.

Wolfe settled the fare. Soon he was standing on one of the West Village’s narrow streets. He checked the street for any signs of police. Seeing none, he approached a parlor with a hand-painted sign in the window that was home to a Gypsy fortune-teller named Madame Marie. As he opened the front door, a buzzer went off in his ear. He went in.

The parlor was small and scented with sandalwood, the walls covered in dark burgundy fabric. A round antique table sat in the room’s center flanked by two wingback chairs. On the table was a dog-eared deck of Tarot cards, and nothing else.

“Anybody home?” he called out.

“We’re closed.”

The voice was female, and had come from behind a beaded curtain.

“The sign in the window said you’re open until midnight.”

“Don’t believe everything you read. Come back tomorrow. We open at ten sharp.”

“Are you Madame Marie?”

“Yes.”

“I need to see you now. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving?”

“Flying home to England. I was told you were the best fortune-teller in New York.”

“You can’t come back some other time?”

Wolfe heard a slight hesitation in Madame Marie’s voice. When it came to sound, he could hear things that other people could not. It had happened while he was in the army, after nearly being blown up by a roadside bomb. Ever since, his hearing had been phenomenal.

“It’s really important. Please. I’m desperate.”

She let out a sigh. “Have a seat. I’ll be right out.”

Wolfe took the chair closest to the door and looked around the room. He could tell from his surroundings that Madame Marie was the real deal. Fake fortune-tellers used a variety of props and cheesy gimmicks to get their clients to tell them what was on their minds. Some had their clients sit at glass tables so they could read their body language, or write questions on trick clipboards which took impressions of their handwriting. Wolfe had visited psychics all across the world, and knew their tricks. None of that subterfuge was in evidence here. Real fortune-tellers didn’t need tricks. They simply gazed into their tea leaves or crystal balls, or laid out their Tarot cards, and told you what they saw. Some were better than others at peering into the future, and some, like Madame Marie, had powers that bordered on prescience. That was why she was on Wolfe’s hit list of psychics to kill in New York.

The curtain parted, and the lady of the house entered. In her seventies, she dressed like a Gypsy, with long flowing robes, and wore a mystical five-pointed gold medallion around her neck to ward off evil spirits. She greeted him with a dip of the chin, and slipped into the other wingback. Her eyes were puffy with sleep.

“Good evening,” she said rather formally. “What is your name?”

“Jeremy,” Wolfe replied.

“Good evening, Jeremy. My name is Madame Marie. One hundred dollars, please.”

Wolfe paid up. The money disappeared into a hidden fold in Madame Marie’s clothing. She picked up the Tarot cards and began to shuffle them.

“Have you been fighting, Jeremy?”

Wolfe hesitated. If he lied to her, she’d know it. Better to tell the truth, and see what happened. “I had a slight altercation earlier. Am I nicked up?”

“Your breathing is accelerated, and the side of your face is pink and swollen. You came to me during a time of stress. This must be very important to you.”

“It is.”

“Good. I like to help people when I can.” The Tarot cards made a soft purring sound as they cascaded between her wrinkled hands. “Do you have a question for me?”

Wolfe nodded. Before he ended his victim’s life, he was required to test them. If they passed, they died; if they failed, they were spared, and he went on his merry way.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Will my mission be successful?” he asked.

She smothered a yawn. “Is that why you’re here in New York? A mission?”

“That’s right.”

“Very well. Let us find out.”

She cut the deck, then dealt a row of three face-up cards onto the table. Her bony forefinger swept over them, and her eyes narrowed.

“What do you see?” Wolfe asked.

“Your childhood was harsh. You left home at a young age to seek a new life. You had dreams of becoming successful and wealthy. Instead, you joined the army, and became a merchant of death.”

“I followed the orders I was given,” he said defensively.

The old Gypsy looked up. “I’m only telling you what I see. I’m not passing judgment.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She resumed studying the row of cards. “The service changed you. You see the world differently now. Sometimes, late at night, you lay awake and wonder what your life would have been like had you chosen another path.”

“Would it have been different?”

“Yes, much different.”

“How so?”

She pointed at the card of the juggler. “You would have become an entertainer.”

A shudder passed through his body. His boyhood dream had been to play drums in a rock ’n’ roll band, and tour the world. He didn’t want to hear any more.

“Tell me about my mission.”

Madame Marie dealt another row of face-up cards behind the first. Her face darkened and her breathing grew shallow. Wolfe leaned closer.

“What do you see?”

“Your mission is more dangerous than you realize. If you succeed, many innocent people will suffer. Even you will be horrified by the outcome.”

He snorted contemptuously. His hit list contained the names of seven psychics living in New York that he’d been ordered to kill. Killing seven people wasn’t the end of the bloody world, was it?

“Try again,” he said.

“You’re not satisfied?”

“No. You’re way off.”

“The cards don’t lie. There are consequences for everything in life.”

Wolfe didn’t want to hear about consequences. His missions were cloaked in secrecy; even he didn’t know the reasons why he was sent to kill the people that he did. He traveled to a city with a list of names, and when he left that city, everyone on that list was dead.

Before they could continue, the front door banged open, and a couple of wildly drunk college kids wearing NYU sweatshirts staggered into the parlor.

“What do you want?” Madame Marie demanded.

“Tell her, Bobby,” the drunk girl said.

“Katie wants to know if I’m screwing around on her,” her boyfriend replied.

“Oh, Bobby,” the drunk girl giggled.

“Go away. I have a customer,” Madame Marie said.

“Come on, lady. She doesn’t believe me,” the boy said.

“You heard me! Get out! Both of you!”

The college kids laughed to themselves. Madame Marie came around the table, grabbed them by the arms, and ushered them outside. Slamming the door, she dead-bolted it. She returned to her chair.

“Now, where were we?”

Wolfe glanced out the front window. The college kids were standing beneath the awning, making out. He needed to kill time and wait for them to leave.

“Sorry, I don’t remember.”

“Perhaps we should start over?”

“That would be good.”

The cards were gathered and re-mixed. Then, another row was dealt onto the table. Cards representing the Devil, Death, and the High Priestess stared up at them. Panic filled Madame Marie’s eyes, and she drew back in her chair.

“I know who you are,” she muttered under her breath.

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re going to kill all those people in Times Square.”

“What are you bloody talking about?”

“You’re the Devil, and must be stopped.”

“Me? Come on. Get real.”

She drew a small-caliber pistol from her dress, and aimed it at Wolfe’s chest. Her breathing had grown accelerated, and he realized she was going to shoot him without caring about the consequences. He had a few seconds to save himself, and his mind raced.

It was difficult to own a legal handgun in New York, and, as a result, there were few firing ranges in which to practice. That was to his advantage. As he upended the table and sent the cards into the air, she fired, the bullet missing him by a foot and lodging in the ceiling.

He knocked the old Gypsy out of her chair, and jumped onto her chest. A feeble scream escaped her lips. On the other side of the curtain, Wolfe heard footsteps. He was not surprised when the curtain brushed back, and an elderly man charged into the parlor clutching a baseball bat, which he waved menacingly at Wolfe’s skull.

“Let her go,” the man declared.

“And who might you be?” Wolfe asked.

“I’m her husband. Now release my wife.”

“Whatever you say.”

Wolfe grabbed the rug the husband was standing on, and pulled his feet out from under him. The man flew backward through the curtain and disappeared. The sound of his body hitting the floor was loud and painful. Wolfe resumed looking at his wife.

“Tell me about Times Square.”

“I didn’t see it,” Madame Marie said.

“Who did? Tell me, and I won’t make you suffer.”

“No.”

Wolfe picked up the bat and tapped it against her skull.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

He tapped a little harder. “Tell me, damn it.”

“No.”

He smashed the bat onto the floor, making her scream.

“Last chance,” he said.

“It was Peter,” she whispered.

“The magician?”

“Yes. He saw you during a seance. He said you were going to kill thousands of people in Times Square on Tuesday night.”

“How?”

“He didn’t know.”

Wolfe wasn’t buying it. He didn’t have the means to kill that many people. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have done it. The only people he killed were the names on his list. That was what he got paid to do. There were no freebies in his line of work.

The husband groaned behind the curtain. It was time to go.

Wolfe put his hands around Madame Marie’s throat, and squeezed the life out of her. She shuddered once, and the life seeped out of her body.

“Have a nice hereafter,” he whispered.

Retrieving the pistol from the floor, Wolfe went into the back room. The husband lay on the floor in a daze. Wolfe inserted the pistol into his mouth, and squeezed the trigger. It made a loud popping sound, and the husband died instantly.

Let the police draw their own conclusions, he thought.

He slipped out of the parlor. The college kids were gone and the street was quiet, save for the steady beat of the rain. He fired up a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. Each time he killed, he was overcome with revulsion. Buried deep within his psyche there were still the small remains of a conscience. Someday, he guessed, it would be gone, and the Devil Madame Marie had seen in her cards would be all that remained.