Shadow People

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.