Shadow People

19

Special Agent Garrison was a man of simple tastes. His wardrobe ran from blazers and dark trousers to sweatshirts and blue jeans. Today, he wore faded denims and a charcoal gray cardigan.

“You need to start keeping your cell phone on,” the FBI agent said. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Not on Mondays. On Mondays, Peter’s cell phone was turned off while he and Liza roamed the city’s neighborhoods.

“Peter put out a fire at a restaurant in Kips Bay this morning,” Liza jumped in. “He was a hero.”

Peter squeezed Liza’s hand. She hadn’t told Garrison the whole story of how he’d lost his temper and accidentally set the restaurant’s kitchen fire, and it made him love her that much more. Garrison acted impressed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Nice going. I realize this is your day off, but I’ve got a situation on my hands and I need your help. Do you mind coming downtown with me for a little while?”

Peter tried to help the law whenever possible. He also tried to have a life with Liza. Right now, the two were colliding. “Where to?”

“Grand Central Station. The police caught a shadow person running through the terminal on a surveillance camera. I want you to have a look, see what you think.”

Peter instinctively touched his shirt, and felt the five-pointed star around his neck. Liza did the same. Their recent encounter with the shadow person was still fresh in their minds.

“What do you think?” he asked Liza.

“By all means, go. Maybe you can catch this thing.”

“You’re welcome to come along.”

She shook her head. They got only one day a week off. Liza used some of that time to talk with her family, whom she regularly stayed in touch with. “I need to talk to CiCi. She’s been having difficulty with one of the routines in the act.”

Liza’s younger sister CiCi had replaced Liza in the family troupe, and Liza continued to coach her whenever possible.

“Tell her I said hi,” Peter said.

“I will. Please be careful. Don’t let that thing kidnap you again.”

They kissed and Liza went inside the brownstone. Garrison tapped his shoulder, and Peter climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV without a word. As he was strapping himself in, the vehicle lurched away from the curb like a wild animal jumping out of a cage.

The fluid human dance of Grand Central was best viewed from the main concourse. A mammoth space framed by high windows, glittering constellations in the ceiling, and a double staircase at either end, it was here that a person could observe the complex patterns made by arriving and departing passengers on the Connecticut and Westchester railroads. During rush hour, it was one of the busiest areas of the city, and one of the loudest. That changed once rush hour ended and the commuters cleared out. Then it became a tourist site, with group tours and lots of pictures being snapped of the famous architecture. Garrison hurried up the staircase on the west side with Peter glued to his side.

“I analyzed the film of the shadow person your smart-mouthed assistant shot,” Garrison said. “You’re not going to believe what I found.”

“His name is Snoop, and he’s my best friend,” Peter said.

“He’s got a bad attitude and is a threat to national security.”

“Just because he can hack your computers doesn’t make him a threat.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

They hurried down a marble hallway. With multiple exits and doors leading to multiple train platforms, it was easy to get lost, and Peter realized he didn’t know where he was.

“I examined the video of the shadow person frame by frame like you suggested,” Garrison went on. “I was able to make out a face.”

“Man or woman?”

“It looks like a woman, but that’s just a guess.”

They stopped at a door marked NYPD-NO ENTRANCE at the hallway’s end, and Garrison rapped loudly.

“I told you-no cops,” Peter said in alarm.

“There aren’t any cops here right now. You’re safe.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“I sent the video to the NYPD, and asked them to run it against their database of collected images from the past thirty days. The cops have thousands of surveillance cameras in the city, and I figured one of them might have spotted your ghost. Sure enough, I was right. The Grand Central team found the shadow person on a tape, and alerted me.”

“You gave the police the video?” Peter asked. “I’m on it, for Christ’s sake. And so is Liza.”

“I didn’t tell them anything about your involvement, and neither did anyone on my team.”

“The police aren’t stupid. They’ll make the connection.”

“Which is what? That you were visited by a ghost? If they contact you, play dumb.”

There were times when Peter wished he’d never struck a deal with Garrison. The FBI agent didn’t know how to keep a secret, and might someday blow Peter’s cover, and mistakenly tell the world who the young magician really was.

The door swung in, and Special Agent Nan Perry ushered them into a windowless room lined with video screens monitoring the ebb and flow of the terminal concourse. The lighting was muted, and the images popped off the screens. As promised, there were no cops.

Garrison’s team sat at desks facing the screens. Each agent was at a keyboard with an odd-looking joystick. Peter had seen those joysticks before. Back when he was breaking in his act, he’d worked at one of Trump’s lavish casinos in Atlantic City, and had been given a private tour of the casino’s surveillance room, where he’d been shown how cheaters were caught trying to scam the games. The cheaters’ moves were invisible to the naked eye, but they weren’t invisible to the cameras, and they all got caught.

“This looks like a Pelco DX system,” Peter said.

“Who told you about Pelco?” Garrison asked.

“A casino I once worked at. Pelco can search thirty days of video images in a minute. When it comes to catching bad guys, this system is state-of-the-art.”

“I’m impressed,” Garrison said.

“Thanks. So, what did you find?”

Garrison got onto a keyboard and typed in a command.

“Over the past thirty days, the shadow person has been filmed on four different occasions running across Grand Central’s main concourse. I’ll show you the first video we found. Look at screen number three.”

His eyes found screen three on the wall of monitors. A surveillance video began to play. On it, a shadow person ran through the main concourse. It looked like a puff of smoke, and hovered inches above the floor. It moved quickly before disappearing through a street exit. Several people in the concourse saw it pass, shook their heads, and went back to whatever they had been doing, which was how people usually reacted when confronted by a ghost.

The video was short, barely five seconds long. Peter stared at the screen long after it had stopped playing. The shadow person had appeared to be in a hurry. Why?

He shook his head in frustration. He had no earthly idea what any of this meant. The time stamp on the corner of the video caught his eye. It had been shot on Friday night at 11:50.

He shuddered.

The shadow person had been hurrying to reach the Friday night séance at Milly’s apartment on the other side of town, where it had appeared ten minutes later.

“What’s outside the exit I just saw?” he asked.

“A taxi stand,” Garrison replied.

That made sense. The shadow person had taken a taxi. Not in the traditional sense. It had simply hung on the roof and bummed a ride. Ghosts did it all the time.

“May I see the other videos?” Peter said.

Garrison worked his magic on the keyboard. Three videos appeared in rapid succession, shot on the floor of the main concourse. In each, a shadow person could be seen fleeing past. Peter read the time stamps on each video.

The first had been recorded at 1 A.M. on Saturday morning, right around the time the shadow person had invaded his brownstone. The second was from Saturday afternoon, right before the shadow person had disrupted his matinee. The third was from this morning. In each video, the shadow person ran past a newspaper kiosk in the concourse. With the kiosk as a point of reference, the differences were clear.

“There’s more than one of them,” he said.

“What? Are you sure?”

“I compared the images on the videos. They’re different sizes. They’re traveling into the city on the Westchester railroad. Once they arrive at Grand Central, they run across the concourse to get outside, and go searching for me.”

“I thought these things could slip through walls,” Garrison said.

“They can slip into cracks in walls in the same way ghosts can. But they can’t pass through solid walls. No spirit can. That forces them to make a mad dash in order to reach the street. From there, they’re hitching cab rides to their final destinations.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Happens all the time. I need to go.”

“But you just got here.”

Peter had encountered all of the shadow people who’d traveled to New York, except the last one, which had arrived this morning. Was another of his friends about to be kidnapped, like poor Liza? He couldn’t let that happen, and he brushed past Garrison on his way to the door.

“Something urgent’s come up,” he said. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

Grand Central was like a small city, and had over a hundred shops and restaurants, and contained everything a visitor could desire. Peter hurried to a jewelry store called Forever Silver inside the Lexington Avenue Passageway that sold hand-crafted necklaces and bracelets.

Peter was in luck. There was a jewelry maker on duty. He was babysitting his young son, a dark-haired boy sitting on the counter, watching the world go by. Peter offered to do tricks for the boy if the jewelry maker would fill his order right away.

“Good luck. He’s got a short attention span,” the jewelry maker said.

“What’s his name?” Peter asked.

“Anthony.”

Peter did his best to entertain Anthony while his father went to work. Peter waved his hands magically in front of Anthony’s face, and pulled a shiny half-dollar out of the boy’s ear, which he split into two. The coins jumped from hand to hand not once but several times. For a finale, he rubbed them together, and they turned into a silver dollar.

Anthony giggled and clapped his hands enthusiastically.

“Want to see some more?” Peter asked.

It was the magician’s first rule. Wait for them to ask for more.

“Yes,” the boy said.

“Anthony,” his father said.

“Please,” the boy added.

Peter continued the show. He removed a piece of string from his pocket, and began to tear it into tiny pieces. Anthony’s eyes did not leave his hands.

“How many necklaces did you say you wanted?” the jewelry maker asked.

“Five,” Peter said. “Each needs to have a five-pointed star hanging from it. Make sure the star has five points.”

“I’ve got some really beautiful diamond pendants on sale,” the jewelry maker said. “They’re our best sellers. The women love them.”

Peter rolled the pieces of string into a ball, and had Anthony blow on them.

“Just a five-pointed star.”

“Do you mind my asking what they’re for? I’m not being nosy. Just curious.”

Peter grabbed the ends of the string and pulled it apart. It had magically restored itself, and Anthony squealed with delight. The jeweler probably dealt with a hundred customers a day. Five-pointed stars weren’t an item that people requested. Peter could have told him that Grand Central was being visited by evil spirits that were trying to kill him and hurt his friends, and that the stars were needed to ward them off, only that would have ruined the man’s day, and he didn’t want to do that.

“It’s a long story,” the young magician said. “How much longer will you be?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

Peter went back to entertaining Anthony. The boy looked no more than seven, the same age he’d been when he’d lost his parents. He’d often wondered how his life would have turned out had his parents not been taken away from him at such a tender age. Would he still have become a magician, or would his life have taken another path, and sent him on a different journey then the one he was on now? And would he have met Liza and fallen in love, or would another woman have claimed his heart? There was no way to know; even his psychic powers would not let him look back into past and see what might have been.

The trick ended, and Anthony clapped his hands and giggled with laughter. Ever since Peter could remember, he’d wanted to have a family of his own, and a child he could pass down his magic to. Knowing what he did now about himself, he wondered if he’d dare even try.

“All done. Cash or credit card?” the jewelry maker asked.

Peter paid the jeweler cash and took the gift bag off the counter.

“Sure I can’t interest you in those diamond pendants?”

“Maybe some other time,” Peter said.

20

Leaving Grand Central, Peter hailed a cab from the taxi stand on Lexington Avenue. He needed to hunt down Milly, Holly, Max, Lester, and Snoop, and present them with the five-pointed-star necklaces. It was the only way he could ensure that the newly arrived shadow person would not harm his friends.

He gave the driver an address in the Village, and the vehicle headed downtown. Of all his friends, he considered his teacher to be the most at risk. Max had lost his wife a year ago, and now spent his days traveling between restaurants and taverns in the city, doing magic to keep himself busy. He often acted like he was walking around in a fog, and would be an easy target.

Peter decided to call Max, and tell him of his impending arrival. As he pulled out his Droid, the phone vibrated as if alive. Caller ID said it was Garrison.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he said to the phone.

Then Peter answered the call. “Special Agent Garrison, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“Where are you?” the FBI agent barked.

“In a cab, heading downtown.”

“Can you get back to Grand Central? I need your help.”

Peter’s priorities would always be to his friends and loved ones, and he said, “I’m sort of busy at the moment. What’s going on?”

“About an hour ago, a surveillance camera at a train station in Westchester picked up a shadow person climbing onto the roof of a New York-bound train. It will be arriving soon, and I’m trying to figure out what to do. That’s why I called you.”

Another shadow person was coming into the city? It was starting to feel like an invasion.

“I was thinking of having a team of agents board at one of the stops, and see if they can root this thing out,” Garrison went on. “Is that practical?”

Peter sat up straight in his seat. “I would advise you not to do that.”

“Look, my men are trained professionals. They’ve seen everything there is to see.”

“Don’t do it.”

“So what do I do?”

“Nothing.”

“They don’t pay me to do nothing. Come on, think of something.”

Ordinary people who engaged with the spirits often spent the rest of their lives regretting it. As a result of their unearthly encounters, ghosts visited them regularly, and they were plagued by otherworldly voices in their dreams. Their nerves became frayed, and they walked around perpetually scared. Garrison had no idea of the danger he was placing his agents in.

“The best thing you can do is to leave it alone,” Peter said.

“Some help you are. Don’t tell me there isn’t a way to fight these things.”

So that was it. Garrison wanted to fight. He was stubborn that way, and would probably try to capture the shadow person no matter what Peter told him. And then there’d be hell to pay for Garrison and his team. “You can’t fight a shadow person. But you can catch it the same way you capture a ghost. Promise me you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“You have my word.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. The train will pull into the terminal, and the shadow person will stay on the roof until the passengers have departed and the platform is quiet. Then it will get off and creep up the stairs to the exit, and hang by the door. Once it sees an opening in the terminal, it will bolt toward an exit. That’s when you have a chance to catch it.”

“How? With a butterfly net?”

“Turn on the lights inside the terminal to their brightest wattage. It will freeze the thing in its tracks.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Yes. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t touch it.”

“How am I going to move it?”

“You don’t. Unless you want to cause great harm to yourself and your team.”

“What? And leave it there for everyone to see? Are you nuts?”

The taxi had reached its destination, and the driver raised the flag on the meter.

“Call me if you catch it,” Peter said, “and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Max had made a living doing magic for half a decade. Unlike most stage performers, who lugged around lots of bulky props, his act fit into a small suitcase. The Egg Bag, Linking Rings, Floating Ball, Rising Cards, and an occasional mind-reading stunt made up his repertoire. In his hands, each trick was a masterpiece of deception tempered by delicious patter and funny stories. Max the Magnificent, One of the Better Cheaper Acts.

These days, Max limited his act by performing close-up tricks that fit into his pockets. On Mondays he could be found entertaining the lunch crowd at a Bleecker Street landmark called the Peculier Pub that featured hundreds of imported beers and ales and a menu of traditional British fare. The pub had a low tin ceiling, which magnified the sound of the diners and folks lining the bar, and Max often had to shout to be heard.

The room was mobbed, and Peter sifted his way to the back, where he found his teacher doing a card trick for a group of businessmen having lunch at a table. The deck was not cooperating, and Max kept getting the wrong card, much to the men’s’ delight.

Max pulled an ace of hearts from beneath his collar. “Is this your selected card?”

“Nope,” said a businessman drinking beer.

“Rats! How about this one?” From behind his knee, Max made the king of hearts magically appear, and waited expectantly.

“Wrong again.” The businessman snorted derisively.

“Godfrey Daniels! Give me one more chance. I’ll give you a prize if I don’t succeed.”

“What kind of prize?” the businessman asked.

“A very valuable one, worth lots of money.”

“You’re on.”

The businessman tapped his knife against a water glass. A hush fell over the pub, with all eyes glued to the old magician with shoulder-length white hair and frayed tuxedo. Max cuffed his sleeves and displayed his empty palms. His hands were soft and supple. When his fingers danced, it was with the lightness of butterfly wings. A playing card materialized out of thin air.

“Wow,” someone at the bar gasped.

“Name your card,” Max said triumphantly.

“It was the nine of spades,” the businessman declared.

Max spun the card around to reveal the three of diamonds.

A groan went through the tavern.

“You lose,” the businessman roared. “Pay up!”

Max acted disgusted with himself. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the businessman’s wallet, and presented it to him. Next followed the man’s wristwatch, car keys, cigarette lighter, and reading glasses. The businessman grabbed helplessly at his empty pockets while the pub roared with laughter. It was a staple of many tricks to turn failure into triumph. No one did it better than Max, and sustained applause followed.

Max hadn’t lost his touch. The great ones never did. As Peter approached him, he sensed an otherworldly presence in the room. Had the shadow person beaten him here?

“Why, hello, Peter, how are you?” Max asked. “Enjoy the show?”

“It was great. You killed them. I need to get you out of here.”

“But I’m just getting warmed up.”

Peter looked around to make sure no one was listening, then brought his mouth up to Max’s ear. “There’s a shadow person in the room. You’re not safe.”

“No, there’s not. Sit down and have some lunch. The corned beef is very good.”

“I felt it, Max. Come outside with me.”

Peter pulled his teacher toward the front door. Max waved to the crowd on his way out.

“Be back in sixty,” he called out.

The feeling of an evil spirit disappeared the moment Peter stepped onto the sidewalk outside the pub. Max grinned at him the way an older man smiles at a child.

“See? I told you it wasn’t a shadow person,” his teacher said.

“But I felt something strange in there.”

“And so did I. A feeling of anxiety, yes?”

“That’s right. Do you know what it was?”

“I most certainly do. It’s called electromagnetic hypersensitivity. Ghost hunters often mistake electromagnetic hypersensitivity for ghosts, when it fact it comes from refrigerators.”

“I got spooked by a refrigerator?”

“Afraid so. The owner lets me set up my show in the kitchen. I noticed that a refrigerator had been moved so it backed up onto a wall of the pub. As the refrigerator’s cooling settings cycled on, the electromagnetic field it emitted passed through the wall. That’s what you felt.”

Peter lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“You know what they say. There’s a paddle for everyone’s behind, and yours just got paddled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my show.”

“Hold on. I have a present for you.”

Peter presented a small jewelry box to his teacher. Max opened it, and examined the five-pointed star. As a rule, psychics did not interfere with the lives of other psychics, or offer them help or counsel. On those rare times that a psychic did reach out, it was for a good cause, and the offer was rarely refused. Without a word, Max slipped the necklace on, and tucked it under his shirt. He nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, Peter.”

“You’re welcome, Max.”

“I see other gifts in your bag. Who are they for?”

“One of my assistants, and the rest of the Friday night group.”

“Will you be presenting one to Holly?”

“Yes, she’s on the list. Why do you ask?”

Max’s eyes narrowed and he dropped his voice. “Someone was going to have to tell you, so I suppose it should be me. Holly has been scrying on you. She admitted it to me and the rest of the group the other night. I told her to stop, and she got quite upset with me. She thinks the present predicament you’re in with the shadow people gives her the right to play voyeur cam with your life. It’s not right, and I wanted you to know.”

“That doesn’t sound like Holly. What’s come over her?”

“I’m afraid she’s changed, and not for the better. Her crush on you is out of control. The poor girl is head over heels in love.”

Peter rocked back on his heels. He’d known Holly since she was five. He’d babysat her as a teenager, and watched her grow up. How could he have missed this?

“I also sense that Holly thinks you’re in love with her,” Max went on. “Are you?”

“In love with Holly? I have feelings for her, but not like that.”

“Are you?”

“Max, come on. Be serious. This is Holly we’re talking about.”

“Are you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding the question.”

The door to the pub swung open and a comely red-headed waitress stuck her head out. “Hey, Max, your adoring fans await you. Are you going to finish your show?”

“Of course I’m going to finish my show,” Max said.

“Then hurry. The natives are getting restless.”

She went back inside. Max sprung his deck of cards playfully between his hands like an accordion. He threw back his shoulders and glanced at his pupil. “Yes or no?”

“I care for the girl, but I am not in love with Holly,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “She’s the little sister that I never had, which is why I have feelings for her.”

Max did several deft one-handed cuts without looking at the cards. “Those feelings have been misinterpreted. You must be careful. Witches are dangerous creatures when their passions become inflamed. Take my advice, and stay away from her. She’s not the young woman you think she is. I must go. Be safe.”

“And you as well.”

Max entered the pub to a healthy round of applause, leaving Peter to contemplate this new wrinkle in his personal life. He wasn’t big on confronting his problems, preferring to run away whenever possible, but this situation had to be addressed. He was in love with Liza, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

He should have left right then, and warned his other friends. Instead, he went to the pub’s window, and peered through the smokey glass. It was the one great lesson that he’d learned from losing his parents at such a tender age. Nothing in this world lasts forever. The people and things that you love and cherish will one day be stolen away from you, never to be returned. It was the natural order of the universe, and could not be changed. The only question was, when would this happen? When would you lose those things that you loved? He’d always believed that day was sooner rather than later. If he didn’t enjoy the special things in his life right now, they’d be gone in a blink of an eye, and he’d forever regret not experiencing them one last time.

That was why he stayed at the window and watched Max entertain the crowd.

21

Munns rose late, took a hot shower, did all the usual things. Naked and clean, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door, and gazed at the freakish assortment of tattoos on his body. He looked like a walking billboard for the Devil.

Munns often wondered what would happen if he decided to change his ways, and revert back to his old life. Would the Devil let him? Or would the tattoos spring to life, jump off his skin, and tear every limb from his body, and when they were done torturing him, kill him and bury his torso? Once, during a feverish dream, he’d seen that very thing, and had no doubt that it was a sign from below of what happened to traitors.

The silver tattoo on his neck was shimmering like a dull neon sign. It often did that, and he didn’t quite understand why. He’d asked Ray what it meant, and the body artist had replied that it was the sign that the Devil was paying him a visit. Munns was not fond of the silver tattoo and wished he could figure out a way to turn the damn thing off.

He drew closer to the mirror. His latest tattoo was already his favorite. The mighty Surtr holding a bloody sword in one hand, the head of Peter Warlock in the other. Ray had predicted that Munns would become Surtr one day, and do away with the young magician. Munns had tried to imagine what that transformation would be like. Would he grow in size and become stronger? And what about his face? Would it turn as hideous as Surtr’s?

Munns had never heard of Surtr so he’d done a search on the Internet. During the time of the Norse gods, Surtr had single-handedly guarded the gates of hell. He resembled Yoda from Star Wars, and did not look fierce enough to fight off a teenager. But when enemies approached, Surtr grew into a horrifying monster with horns on his head and eye-popping muscles. As part of this transformation, the knife on his belt grew into a flaming sword, which he used to chop off the heads of his enemies. Munns had liked the sound of that, and had started to carry a Swiss Army knife with him wherever he went.

His cell phone vibrated on the counter, the word UNKNOWN lighting up the screen. Munns had no friends, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him. Perhaps it was Rachael calling to say that she wouldn’t be coming on Friday night. The very notion filled him with dread, and he snatched up the phone. “Yes?”

“Is this Doc Munns?” an older man’s gruff voice asked.

It was not Rachael calling to cancel, and he instantly relaxed.

“That’s me. Who am I speaking to?”

“Name’s Clyde Jucko. I own EZ Storage, where you rent a unit.”

The Jucko clan were longtime residents and could trace their lineage back to the first Dutch families that had settled in the area. Clyde Jucko, the family patriarch, was a local slumlord and a tough customer. Locals often turned the J in his name into an F when describing him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Jucko?” Munns asked, wrapping himself in a towel. “Did you not get my rent check?”

“I got the check. There’s something not right with your unit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, there’s something not right with your unit. There’s a big gaping hole torn in the roof. I was up on a ladder doing some repairs to the gutters when I spotted it. It looks like someone tore a hole in the roof of your unit from the inside. You wouldn’t by chance happen to know how something like that could happen, would you?”

“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” Munns stammered.

“You don’t have someone illegally living in the unit, do you?”

“No.” This time, Munns choked on the word.

“Then how the hell did a flipping hole get in the roof?”

“I have no idea. You have to believe me.”

“I think you’re lying, son. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not going to call the police…”

“I was considering it.”

Munns thought he might pass out. He grabbed the sink edge to steady himself and filled his lungs with air. Like most serial killers, his killings followed a specific pattern that included taking his victims to a rental unit at EZ Storage, where he put their plastic-shrouded bodies in metal footlockers stacked inside. There the bodies stayed, locked away from the world. Ray had taught him this little trick. Without the bodies, the police had no evidence to play with, and the crime was reduced to a question mark which faded over time.

Only now something had happened inside his unit. Munns couldn’t imagine how a hole had appeared in the roof, not that it really mattered. His landlord was suspicious, and Munns needed to deal with him before things got out of control.

“I’m sure we can work this out,” Munns said.

“Hah,” the old man laughed derisively.

“I’ll pay you to keep quiet.”

“Think you can bribe me, huh?”

“Isn’t that why you called?”

“Don’t be a wiseass, son.” Jucko paused. “Give me a range.”

“How about two thousand dollars?”

“That’s chickenshit. Make it five grand, cash, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“You’re on. Give me a half hour to get the money. I’ll come by and give it to you.”

“Bring another three hundred to fix the roof.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll see you soon.”

“Don’t hang up. There’s one more thing that’s bothering me. I want to know what you’ve been keeping in that unit. Was it a man, a woman, a boy, or a girl? Was it an illegal alien, or some kind of sex slave? Or was it something else? I want to know what it was.”

“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.

“It is now. You don’t tell me, I’m calling the police.”

Munns’s cheeks burned. Jucko had gone from being a problem to being a threat. He needed to stall him so he could figure out what to do, and he said, “I can’t tell you over the phone. I’ll tell you later, when I bring the money.”

“You have been keeping someone in there,” Jucko said.

“I’ll explain everything later.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Jucko hung up on him. Munns went into the bedroom and sat down on the very edge of the bed. His head was pounding, his heart beating out of control. If he didn’t deal with this right now, Jucko would start talking, and he’d be doomed.

He pulled up Ray’s number on his cell phone. Ray would know what to do in a situation like this. Ray was street smart and he knew all the angles. Several rings later, the tattoo artist answered, his voice thick with sleep.

“I need your help. Clyde Jucko’s onto me,” Munns said breathlessly.

“Leave a message, and I’ll call you back,” an automated voice replied.

Munns let out a string of profanities. A beeping sound filled his ear.

“Meet me at EZ Storage,” he said into the phone.

Then he threw on his clothes, grabbed his keys, and ran out of the house.

22

Peter’s next stop was Lester Rowe’s shabby fortune-telling parlor on the Lower East Side. The small reception area was filled with clients, and he didn’t stay long.

Then he headed uptown to pay Milly a visit at the Dakota. The old witch met him at the door of her apartment wearing a flowing black robe and a mystical gold pendant hanging around her neck. Milly also told fortunes, but to a much wealthier clientele, and he guessed by her wardrobe that she was working. He passed the five-pointed star through the door.

“Please put this on right away,” he said.

“Am I in danger?” Milly asked.

“Yes. The shadow people are going after my friends.”

Milly thanked him with her eyes and shut the door.

His last stop was Holly. Max’s warning was still ringing in his ears, and he wondered what to do. Should he tell Holly that he couldn’t see her anymore? That would mean one of them would have to leave the Friday night psychics, and he didn’t see that happening. No, he was going to act like an adult, and sit down with her and have a talk. He couldn’t think of anything more unpleasant, except perhaps going to see Dr. Sierra again.

As his cab neared Holly’s place, his cell phone started to crawl out of his pocket as if alive. Only one person he knew could do that, and he flipped the phone open.

“Hey, Nemo, how you been?” he asked.

“Great for a guy doing life in prison,” the Puerto Rican psychic said.”We need to talk. Give me your coordinates.”

The CIA kept Nemo on a farm in Virginia where they used him to travel across time and space to see what fiendish plots the nation’s enemies were hatching. It was a lousy existence, and the reason Peter didn’t trust people in law enforcement. He glanced out the window at the approaching intersection. “I’m in a cab at the corner of Ninetieth and Central Park West, right next to Central Park.”

“Look in the eastern sky. Do you see any clouds?”

“I see a few.”

“Excellent. Get out of the cab, and stare at them. I’ll be right there.”

“You’re going to visit me in person?”

“Yeah, aren’t you excited?”

The line went dead. Nemo hadn’t told him what was going on. But it wasn’t like Nemo to bother him with trivial things, and Peter told the driver to pull over. The cab’s tires kissed the curb, and he passed a twenty through the partition and hopped out. Walking over to the stone wall that surrounded the park, he located a formation of puffy clouds in the otherwise flawless sky, and stared. The outline of Nemo’s face gradually appeared.

“Aren’t we special,” Peter said.

“Yes we are,” his friend replied.

Nemo was a street kid from Spanish Harlem whom Peter had knocked around with as a teenager. Each psychic had a special gift. Nemo’s was astral projection. He could project himself anywhere in the world if he set his mind to it. That was why the CIA found him so valuable. He was like a drone that didn’t need gas, and couldn’t be shot down.

Out-of-body experiences were nothing new in the psychic world. Psychics had been projecting themselves across the globe since the beginning of time. When people saw human faces in the clouds, or appearing on oil slicks on the road, or in rock formations on the sides of mountains, it was often a psychic projecting himself. The psychic never stayed for very long, but sometimes the image lingered behind, causing people to get excited, and even build shrines.

“How’s life on the funny farm?” Peter asked.

“They’re treating me like a king,” Nemo replied. “Great food, beautiful accommodations, premium cable. The only problem is, they won’t let me out.”

“We’re going to have to work on that. How did you call me? Don’t tell me they gave you a cell phone.”

“I wish. I stole my one of handlers’ cell phones.”

“That’s going to come back and bite you.”

“I stole his credit card, too. Amex silver, no less.”

“Aren’t you afraid of what they’ll do when they find out?”

“What are they going to do? Arrest me? Then they’d have to acknowledge that they’re holding me, and that’s not going to happen. You should see all the stuff I bought on his card. Trips, hotel rooms, airline tickets, the works.”

“For who?”

“My cousin and her little kid. She lost her job, and has been living on welfare. They needed a vacation, so I sent them down to Disney World. First class, all the way.”

“How much did you charge on his card?”

“Enough to piss him off.”

“You’re my hero.”

Nemo laughed in the clouds. His face was starting to fade, as was his voice. Out-of-body experiences never lasted more than a few minutes, and Peter strained to hear him.

“I had a strange thing happen to me that I wanted to warn you about,” Nemo said. “My handlers routinely give me files of dangerous people they’re trying to catch, and ask me to find them. This morning, I was given a composite of a serial killer in Westchester County called Dr. Death. My handlers asked me to project myself to Friday night, and see if I could find Dr. Death, so I did.”

“What happened?”

“I found him. I also found someone else.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me? What was I doing in Westchester?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. I projected myself to Friday night in Westchester County, and floated around for a few minutes. After a while, I felt your aura. It was really strong, and I spotted you standing in the parking lot of a train station on the outskirts of town.”

“Was I by myself?”

“No. You were with a hulking black guy who acted like a cop.”

“Special Agent Garrison, FBI.”

“You’re hanging out with the FBI? That’s dangerous stuff, Peter.”

“Tell me about it. Now, what did you see?”

“Garrison drove you to a house on a hill that reminded me of the house on the hill in Psycho. It had faded shingles and a gravel driveway surrounded by a thick hedge. You and Garrison went inside the house, where a really terrified woman was being held in the living room. She was tied to a chair, and was totally freaking out. Dr. Death was also in the living room. He’s an overweight guy, dressed like a nerd, didn’t look scary at all. At first I thought, what’s going on here? Then things got freaky.”

“How so?”

“Dr. Death’s body started to change until he looked like a gargoyle on steroids. The guy grew horns and his hands turned into claws. It was like watching a bad horror flick. You guys started fighting to the death.”

People who entered into pacts with the Devil often lost their human qualities, and became like their master. Monsters in every sense of the word, they deserved no place on this earth.

Peter had never fought one of these people, and had no idea how his powers would stack up. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

“You’ve got me on the edge of my seat. What happened then?” Peter asked.

“I woke up,” Nemo said.

“You suck, you know that?”

“Hey, nobody’s perfect.”

Nemo’s face was now an afterimage, his voice barely a faint whisper. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving Peter to wonder when they’d again hook up.

“Be careful, Peter. Whatever this guy is, it isn’t human,” his friend said.

Peter started to thank him for the warning. But by then, Nemo had disappeared in the clouds, leaving nothing but a pair of gulls circling overhead.

23

Clyde Jucko had the disposition of a junkyard dog and a face to match. He was waiting outside EZ Storage as Munns pulled into the parking lot, and climbed out of his car. A big man, he cast a long, menacing shadow that stretched halfway across the lot.

Munns approached Jucko cautiously. Jucko was holding what looked like bolt cutters in his hand. Munns’s eyes fell on the broken padlock lying on the ground.

“You went into my unit without my permission,” Munns said.

“It’s my unit. You just rent it from me,” Jucko corrected him.

“You had no right to do that, or to touch my things.”

“I didn’t touch your goddamn things. I just wanted to see what you’ve been up to. You bring the money?”

“I got it.”

“Give it to me right now.”

Munns pulled an envelope stuffed with hundreds from his pocket and tossed it to the older man. As Jucko counted the money, Munns glanced in both directions. The other units were empty and they were alone. Except for the steady hiss of cars on the nearby highway, the air was still. Munns knew that the best course of action was to shoot Jucko in the head at point-blank range, and throw his body in the trunk of his car. A single gunshot would carry through the woods and trail off like a lonely clap of thunder. It would go unnoticed, and Jucko would join the list of people who’d come in contact with Munns and disappeared.

Only there was a problem with that scenario. Jucko was pointing the bolt cutters like he was planning to cut Munns’s balls off. He looked ready for a fight, and drawing a gun on him at this moment seemed out of the question.

“All here,” Jucko said, pocketing the cash. “Okay, now I want you to tell me what’s been going on. Who’s been living in that unit?”

“No one,” Munns said.

“That’s a bunch of bull. I had a look. Someone’s been living in there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Have a look, see for yourself.”

Jucko had not lowered the bolt cutters, and Munns stepped around him while keeping his distance. He brought his face to the open door of his unit, and gazed into the darkened interior. Inside were six stainless-steel footlockers stored on the rack of a metal shelving unit. Inside each footlocker was the body of one of his victims. One of the footlockers had fallen from its spot, and lay broken on the concrete floor. Light streamed down from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Jucko had been correct in his assumption that the hole had been created from within. But by who? Or what? Munns couldn’t be sure. He started to slide the door shut and felt a hand on his arm.

“What the hell are you keeping in those footlockers?” Jucko demanded.

“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.

“Everything’s my business.”

Jucko pushed him to the side before Munns could reply. Sliding back the door, he entered the unit, and flipped over the broken footlocker lying on the floor. A corpse wrapped in plastic tumbled out, and Jucko used the bolt cutters to cut away the plastic shroud. A skeletal face stared up at him. It was Edie, Munns’s last victim. She had cursed Munns as he strangled her to death, and the invective was slow to leave her face.

“It’s a dead woman,” Jucko said in horror. “What kind of monster are you?”

Munns’s gun was tucked in his belt behind his back. As he reached for it, Jucko swung the bolt cutters up from the floor and their blades brushed his face. Warm blood ran down Munns’s cheek and his vision blurred. His hands covered the bleeding wound.

Jucko reached behind Munns’s back, and relieved him of his gun. Dropping it in his pocket, he triumphantly rested the bolt cutters on his shoulder. “I should kill you. Save the state the trouble of locking you up. Now get on your knees, or I’ll bust your head open.”

“I thought we had a deal,” Munns blurted out.

“I ain’t making no deals with the Devil. On your knees.”

Munns’s neck began to burn. The sensation started at the shimmering tattoo, and spread straight up his neck and into his brain like so much bad poison sent from below.

“No,” Munns said.

“What did you say?” Jucko declared.

“I’m not kneeling to you, or anyone else.”

For reasons Munns could not explain, he no longer felt afraid of Jucko. In his mind, he saw himself taking Jucko outside the shed and dismembering him in the parking lot, the old man’s blood staining the pavement and spoiling an otherwise perfect day.

Munns’s hands were burning as well. He brought them up to his face to have a look. The skin was turning a sickening black, and his fingernails had grown into talons. A sound escaped his lips that was not human.

“Jesus H. Christ. What in God’s name are you?” Jucko whispered.

The bolt cutters hit the floor. Jucko looked like he might cry. The presence of the Devil did that to some people. Munns backed Jucko into the corner, put his hands around Jucko’s throat, and lifted him clean off the floor. Then he carried him outside into the parking lot.

Jucko begged for mercy, and Munns squeezed the words as they came out of his throat. Munns had been tortured as a child, and every person in town knew it, including Clyde Jucko. Mercy was the last thing on his mind.

Munns drew the Swiss Army knife from his pocket, and flicked open the blade. Before his eyes, it grew into a gleaming sword. He released his grasp on Jucko, and let him stand on his own. In one swift motion, he cut off the old man’s head. One quick slice was all it took, and the disembodied corpse hit the pavement with a sickening thud.

Jucko’s head rolled for several yards before coming to a stop. The old man’s eyes were blinking wildly, like he didn’t know he was dead yet. A screech of brakes shattered the stillness. Ray’s black van pulled into the parking lot, and the tattoo artist jumped out. Ray started to approach, saw Munns, and started backing up, as if he didn’t know who Munns was.

“Doc, is that you?” he asked.

“Who do you think it is?” Munns barked.

Ray opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked terrified. In all their time together, Ray had never shown fear. It was not a quality he seemed to possess, until now.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Munns demanded.

“You don’t know?” Ray asked.

“No. Tell me what’s going on.”

Ray went to the van and bent the side mirror so Munns could see his own reflection. The image staring back did not look real. Munns’s clothes were shreds, and he’d been transformed into a hulking demon with horns coming out of his skull, rapierlike fangs, and a ridge of spikes running the length of his spine. The most recent tattoo Ray had inked on his skin had come to life, and now stood ready to do battle with whichever enemies stood in his way.

A coarse laugh escaped Munns’s lips. Surtr had risen.

24

Peter got out of the cab in front of Holly’s apartment wondering what a gargoyle on steroids looked like. Not the kind of date to spend Friday night with, that was for sure. At least he’d have Garrison backing him up when he confronted the thing.

He entered the lobby, and searched for Holly’s name on the intercom. He had always envied Holly for making it into Columbia. It was New York’s best school, and one of the finest in the country. His own college experience had consisted of a single semester at CCNY, where he’d majored in not falling asleep in class before being thrown out.

He sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he’d stayed in school, and gotten a degree. Perhaps he would have become a doctor or a lawyer. He would have made a hell of an attorney, especially during a cross-examination. No one was going to keep any secrets from him! But that was just an idle daydream. He’d wanted to be a magician for as long he could remember. It was his calling, as strange as that sounded.

Right as he found Holly’s listing, he got a call from Liza. How strange that she’d call just as he entered Holly’s building.

“When are you coming home?” she asked.

“Soon. I’ve been running some errands,” he replied.

“You could have called, you know.”

“I thought you wanted to have a quiet afternoon by yourself.”

“You leave in the company of an FBI agent. Then I don’t hear from you for three whole hours. You could be a little more considerate.”

“Sorry.”

“How did it go with Garrison?”

“It was a strange morning. It appears there’s more than one shadow person in the city. The FBI has tapes of them inside Grand Central Terminal. It’s like an invasion.”

“Eeek! What do the shadow people want?”

“Me.”

“Don’t say that. You’re scaring me.”

“All right. They want you.”

“You’re not funny. So, where are you now? Can you talk for a minute?”

It did not seem the right time to be telling his girlfriend that he was about to enter another woman’s apartment to give her a piece of jewelry. He stepped out of the lobby onto the sidewalk, and cupped his hand over his ear to block out the street noise. “I can talk.”

“I called Dr. Sierra,” Liza said. “He’s very disturbed by what you told him this morning. He’s afraid you could hurt yourself when you go into one of your states. He wants to help you.”

“Hurt myself how?”

“By doing something awful, and then later being held accountable for it.”

“Like nearly burning down the restaurant this morning.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“No. I was going to let you do that.”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. The moment of truth had finally arrived. “You think I should tell him what happened at the restaurant?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. Dr. Sierra said he could fit us in tomorrow morning.”

“That soon, huh?”

“He wants us to meet a colleague of his named Hunsinger. Dr. Sierra said that Hunsinger has dealt with people who have problems just like yours. Dr. Sierra put in a call to Hunsinger, and he’s agreed to meet with us.”

“He spoke with Hunsinger before you called?”

“Yes. Why?”

Something inside of him snapped. It must have shown in his face, for a man walking toward him on the sidewalk stepped into the gutter and immediately crossed the street.

“Dr. Sierra promised not to talk to anyone about us. Remember?”

“You’re losing your temper. Calm down,” Liza said.

The demon lurking inside of him never truly went to sleep. It was always simmering just below the surface, ready to attack like a vicious watchdog. “He betrayed me.”

“Dr. Sierra consulted Hunsinger for advice,” she said. “He’s trying to help, and you’re putting handcuffs on him.”

“He deserves a lot worse than handcuffs.”

“That’s not funny. Stop talking like that.”

Betrayals were the Devil’s playthings. They started wars, ruined marriages, and brought out the worst in mankind. A betrayal had taken his parents’ lives, and forever altered his own. He would make Sierra pay for this indiscretion, even with Liza in the room. Looking up into the sky, he let the warm sunlight bathe his face, and felt his anger recede, if only a little.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

“Will you go see him tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll go see him.”

“Thank you for doing this. Are you mad?”

“Not at all.”

“You sound mad. Please don’t be. It’s for the best.”

He loved Liza more than anything in the world. Yet there were times when she made him so angry, he wanted to scream. Saying good-bye, he ended the call.

Holly was in her apartment. She sounded happy to hear his voice, and buzzed him in.

He took a creaky elevator to the ninth floor. Once upon a time, he’d loved Mondays. It was the day he used to escape his problems. Now it seemed like all he was doing was confronting them. The elevator rumbled to a stop. He got out, and walked down a narrow hallway to a door painted a muted black.

Holly lived by herself. Most psychics did. He was one of the lucky ones, although he wasn’t sure how long that was going to last. He and Liza seemed to be growing further apart with every conversation. It was like slipping down a cliff.

He tapped lightly. No answer. He tapped a little harder. To his surprise, the door opened by itself. People didn’t leave their doors unlocked in New York, not even in the best apartment buildings. He stuck his head in. “Holly?”

Nothing. He entered and shut the door behind him. Holly lived in a large studio with a sweeping westerly view of the Hudson River. The walls and ceilings were painted black, while thick white candles decorated the bookshelf and coffee table. A haunting violin solo played over the music system. He looked around the room, not seeing her.

“It’s Peter. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Growing up, Holly had loved to play hide-and-seek. She’d make herself disappear in her aunt’s vast apartment, and Peter would have to search for her. She’d always squealed when he’d discovered her hiding in the closet, or under a bed. That had been the best part of the game.

A voice shattered the stillness. “Who’s that?”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

He walked around the couch. Holly lay on the cushions, her eyes half open, as if in a daze. She wore jeans and a tight T-shirt that exposed her midriff and accentuated her breasts. Her dark hair lay seductively on a pillow, and her lips were painted a hot pink. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her dressed like that before. She did not look like the woman he knew.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “I think so.”

“You didn’t get visited by a shadow person, did you?”

“I think I would have known that. I’m just a little light-headed. Get me some water, would you? I’m dying of thirst.”

The kitchen was the size of a phone booth. He ran the tap until the water was chilled, then filled a glass and brought it to her. She was sitting up and smiling.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded and sipped the water. He sat down on the edge of the couch so they were a few feet apart. He noticed a large vase of water sitting on the coffee table. Beside it, a pouch of magic herbs. “You’ve been scrying on me again, haven’t you?” he said bluntly.

“Yes, I have,” she admitted without a hint of shame. “I got scared on Friday night during the séance. You were lying there on the floor in my aunt’s apartment, twitching your legs, and I realized that I might never see you again. It nearly broke my heart. So I started to watch you.”

“What did scrying on me accomplish?”

“I wanted to help you. I was scared for you.”

He looked away and stared into space. “How much have you seen?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. I saw you at the doctor’s office this morning, and at the Indian restaurant which you nearly burned down, and later at Grand Central Station with the FBI agent, where you watched the videotapes of the shadow people running across the terminal floor.”

“Did you see me talking to Max?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear what Max said about you?”

“Yes. Max is angry with me. I already knew that.”

“Did you see me talking to Nemo?”

“Was that the face in the clouds? I didn’t recognize him. You shouldn’t be talking out in public like that to Nemo. People will become suspicious. Next time, stick a Bluetooth in your ear, and they’ll think you’re on a cell phone.”

“That’s not fair, Holly.”

“Do you think I’m abusing my powers?”

“Yes-don’t you?”

She moved closer to him on the couch. “I only planned to watch you after you left my aunt’s apartment Friday night to make sure you were safe. But once I started watching you, I couldn’t stop. I guess you could say it’s become an addiction.”

This was bad. Holly could make his life far more complicated than it already was and there wasn’t an earthly thing he could do to stop her except get on his knees and plead with her. Only that would probably be taken the wrong way. Damn it, what was he supposed to do?

“Please stop this,” he begged her. “Please.”

“I’ll try.” She paused. “But I won’t make any promises.”

“Not even to me?”

She put her hand on his knee and left it there. “Not even to you. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I know who you are, and what you are. That’s why. You’re not normal, and neither am I. But we pretend to be. That’s the lie we have to live in order to fit in. But it doesn’t work all the time. Like you’re learning now.”

“You mean with Liza.”

“Especially with Liza. She can’t change you, no matter how hard she tries.”

Holly was making it sound like his relationship with Liza was doomed, and would end like every other relationship he’d ever had. He shook his head in disagreement.

“It’s not like that between us,” he said. “Liza’s trying to help me.”

“Peter.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

Holly pulled herself close, and moved her hand to his stomach, where she rested her palm. Her eyes danced across his face. Every inch of her skin looked radiant. Before his eyes she had changed from a girl into a ravishing young woman. Or had she been that way for a while, and he just hadn’t noticed? He did not resist as she climbed into his lap.

Witches were strange creatures. Their powers were linked to their imaginations much differently than other psychics. If they imagined something vividly enough, it would become their reality, as well as the reality of those in their presence. They were dangerous that way.

The candles sparked to life. As they did, the walls expanded like a movie set, and the apartment was transformed into a high-ceilinged boudoir with a four-poster bed in its center. Over the sound system, the violin solo turned into a romantic ballad.

Holly climbed off his lap. She motioned for him to rise, and he did. She offered him her hand, and he took it. They started across the room together toward the bed. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. She had cast a spell on him, and there was nothing he could do.

They stopped in front of the bed. She put her hands on his shoulders, and gazed longingly into his eyes. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. He had to escape.

“No,” he said, the word taking all his strength to utter.

“No?” She acted amused. “Don’t tell me you never considered it.”

Of course he’d considered it. Holly was beautiful, and the thought of having sex with her had entered his mind more than once. Each time it had, his conscience had shouted it down.

“It’s not right,” he whispered.

“What’s not right? Our falling in love?”

He nodded stiffly.

“I beg to differ. You’ve had plenty of girlfriends, and they’ve all left you, and broken your heart. We were meant for each other, Peter. You have to know that.”

“Let me out of this spell.”

“Not on your life.”

She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingertips across his hairless chest. He could not deny the powerful effect it had on him. He was becoming aroused, and would soon be lying in bed with Holly. But if he let that happen, his life would never be the same. He’d lose Liza, and start down a road with Holly whose ending was totally unclear. He was not ready for either of those things to happen. Somehow, someway, he had to make her stop.

Holly leaned in close, and kissed him on the mouth. A painful spark jumped between their lips. The boudoir disappeared, and Holly’s student furnishings returned. Around the room, the candles spouted flames that caused the textbooks and magazines on the coffee table to catch fire. Peter stamped them out on the floor.

“Check to see if anything else is on fire,” he said.

Holly was in a daze. She checked the kitchen and the bathroom.

“All clear?” he asked.

She nodded dumbly. He hated to be a party pooper, but it was time to go. He removed the five-pointed star from the gift bag he’d brought, and made her put it on.

“Don’t take that off until I tell you to, okay?”

Utterly embarrassed, Holly stared at the floor. He wanted things to go back to the way they used to be, and gave her a hug.

“Can’t we just be friends?” he asked.

She started to cry. He hated when she did that. He got a paper towel from the kitchen, and wiped away the tears. She looked vulnerable now and more than a little afraid. He grabbed the bag with the remaining necklace and went to the front door. She followed him as if blind.

“Good-bye. I’ll call you in a few days,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to explain?” she blurted out.

“Explain what?”

“You were under a spell.”

He waited, certain there was more.

“No one can break a witch’s spell. It’s not possible.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“Be serious, Peter. How did you do that?”

There were certain things that even Peter didn’t understand about himself. Like how he moved objects with his mind or set off car alarms or made cups of coffee boil or flames jump off kitchen stoves. At the most unexpected of times these things just happened, and he never knew why. His temper was partially responsible, but there was another reason, and he had yet to fathom its meaning. Now he had another strange power to add to the list. He could not be kept under a witch’s spell. It pleased him to know that Holly could not make him her prisoner, and he hugged her before going out the door.

25

Ray was freaking out.

What if someone came, and saw Jucko’s headless body lying on the ground? They’d most certainly call the police, and he and Doc Munns would be arrested and sent to jail. He could not let that happen, not unless he wished to anger the Order of Astrum.

Ray was more afraid of the elders of the Order than he was of the police, or of going to jail, or just about anything else he could think of. He’d seen the kind of horror the elders were capable of wreaking upon people in their service who did not perform up to their standards. They were brutal, and he had made it a point to never make them angry.

Ray made Munns get into the passenger side of the van. Munns had calmed down and was reverting back to his old self. The transformation was as startling as it was remarkable One moment, he was the embodiment of a beast that had guarded the gates of hell for over two thousand years; the next, he was a pudgy slob, and easily the world’s biggest loser.

“Stay here,” Ray said.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Munns asked, sounding bewildered.

“You don’t know?”

“No. Did I kill Jucko?”

“You cut his head off. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Ray went about cleaning up the mess. He dragged Jucko’s body into Munns’s storage unit, near the footlockers that contained Munns’s previous victims. Then he threw in Jucko’s head. Keeping the victims in airtight footlockers had seemed like a good idea, until now. The bodies were a liability, and Ray wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them, or with Jucko. He’d think of something, it was just going to take a little time.

Ray had known that Munns had problems when he’d first recruited him. Men who killed had troubled pasts, which was why they killed. It was sweet revenge for all the terrible things that had happened to them growing up.

Munns’s childhood had been a living hell. Ray had heard the stories from the people in town. Munns’s parents were no-good drunks who’d taken turns torturing him. One day his father was beating the snot out of him while his mother looked on; the very next, Mom was giving him the belt while Dad smoked a butt and watched. Beating their son had been a sick sport that had lasted for many years. It had stunted Munns’s growth and left psychological scars that no amount of time would ever heal.

That was Munns’s story, at least part of it. There was another sordid chapter, although Ray had never gotten the details. Something had happened when Munns was a teenager that had been the icing on the cake. It was so ugly, that at times Munns lost control, and did crazy things, like try to run over townspeople’s dogs.

Ray had known all these things about Munns, yet still had recruited him into the Order. In hindsight, it now seemed a mistake. Munns was too imperfect for the job, too flawed. The Order did not tolerate mistakes, and Ray would pay for his lack of judgment.

As Ray started to leave the unit, the sliding metal door clanged shut in his face, throwing the interior into darkness. The door wouldn’t budge. Was Munns playing a trick on him?

“Let me out!” he said, banging on the door with his palm.

A scraping sound made him jump. Something was crawling across the floor. He dug out his lighter and flicked it on.

He gasped. Jucko’s severed head was rolling across the floor by itself. Coming to its own body, it stopped. Before Ray’s disbelieving eyes, the tendons and sinew rejoined in perfect union, and the dismembered corpse became whole again.

Jucko stood up. His face was lifeless, his eyes unblinking. Ray had thought he knew evil. But now, he realized he didn’t know evil at all. The evil he knew was clever and sly and played wicked tricks on the world. The evil standing before him was different. It was pure, and came straight from the depths of hell.

“Give me your lighter,” came a ghostly voice out of Jucko’s mouth.

Ray hesitated. He did not want the room to return to darkness. Then his imagination would take over, and he’d lose his sanity.

“No,” he squeaked.

“Do as I say. It’s for your own good,” the voice said.

The voice of reason, coming out of a dead man’s mouth. Ray reluctantly handed over the lighter. In the dead man’s hand, it turned into a torch, which illuminated the entire room.

The lid to one of the footlockers popped open, and a female corpse climbed out. It was no longer shrouded in plastic, but wore stylish city clothes and had a skeletal face. The lid to a second footlocker popped open, and a second victim emerged, this one dressed like a much older woman. The dead women stared at Ray with hollow eyes.

Their number gave them away. It was the elders, come to pay him a visit. Ray had never felt more afraid in his life. “Guess I screwed up, huh?” he said.

The unholy trio did not reply.

“I can do better,” Ray promised them. “I swear I can.”

“To who do you swear?” came a voice out of Jucko’s mouth.

“To Satan and everything he stands for.”

“Forever and ever?”

“Yes, forever and ever.”

“Good. There has been a change in plans. We need you to speed up the process. Munns needs to bring the woman named Rachael out on the train sooner. Munns must call this woman, and convince her to come out right away.”

“But everything’s in place for Friday night,” Ray protested. “She’ll become suspicious and start questioning him.”

“Help Munns deal with her suspicions. Work with him.”

“Munns is a basket case. He’ll screw up,” Ray said, speaking his mind.

“We’re giving you another chance,” said the voice. “Make the most of it.”

“You’re crazy,” Ray said under his breath.

“Deal with him,” said the voice.

The two dead women charged across the shed, and pinned Ray against the door. Their bony fingers gripped his arms and held his struggling body in place. The one to his left bit into his cheek and held the flesh between her teeth; the one on his right clamped her teeth down on his earlobe, and tugged on the skin. At any moment, he expected to be eaten alive.

“Care to reconsider?” asked the voice.

Ray took a deep breath, expecting it to be his last. Not once had the elders asked him his opinion. They didn’t care what he thought. He was just a slave.

“All right,” he said.

“You’ll work with Munns and make the girl come out?” the voice asked.

“I’ll try.”

“That’s not good enough!”

The dead women began to tear away at Ray’s flesh.

“I’ll do it!” Ray screamed.

They stopped eating him. Ray shut his eyes, and tried to wish this nightmare away. Opening them a moment later, he found that nothing had changed.

“Is that a promise?” the voice asked.

“On my mother’s grave,” Ray said.

“We’re going to hold you to that.”

“I said I’d do it,” Ray said. “Why is this woman so important to you? Is there a reason?”

Jucko brought his face within inches of Ray’s. His breath reeked of the rotted architecture of an evil man’s soul. “The woman is meaningless. It’s Peter Warlock we’re after. Warlock is trying to save Rachael, and will travel from New York to come to her aid. That is predestinated, and there’s no changing it. When Warlock arrives in your little town, he will have an FBI agent with him. That is predestined as well. The agent will arrest Munns, and you as well if you’re not careful. Your job at that point will be to stay out of the way. Understood?”

“Why? What will happen?”

“What do you think will happen, you stupid little man?”

Ray shook his head, his thoughts clouded by fear. The teeth of one of the dead women began to gobble his ear and he shrieked in agony. “Please! Spare me!”

His ear was being torn from his head. The other dead woman tried to rip a hunk of flesh out of his cheek. He screamed and struggled but could not free himself from their bony grasp. The dead man standing in front of him lowered the torch onto the top of Ray’s head. Ray felt his hair catch fire, and knew that this was the end.

As if by magic, the torch extinguished itself, throwing the shed into darkness. The dead women stopped eating his face. They seemed to just melt away, and Ray brought his hand up to touch his unscathed head. Behind him, the sliding door slid open on its own accord and filled the shed with sunlight. Jucko’s headless body lay on the floor, his head a few feet away, while the footlockers were propped against the wall, the corpses of Munns’s victims still inside.

None of it had been real.

It didn’t matter. Ray was still terrified. The elders had tapped his innermost fears. They knew what scared him, and had used those fears to turn his soul inside out. Locking the sliding door behind him, he hurried across the parking lot to his van. Munns sat in the passenger seat, listening to a Marilyn Manson CD on the sound system.

“Where you been?” Munns asked.

“Shut the hell up.”

Ray stared through the windshield at the road, thinking hard. He would have to concoct some reason to draw Rachael from New York. He’d always been good at making up stories, and supposed it wouldn’t be too hard to come up with a convincing lie. The hard part would be to get Munns to call Rachael, and make her believe him.

Ray glanced at his passenger. Munns was humming along to the music. He did not appear the least bit upset by what he’d done. Munns rolled up his sleeve and began to scratch the skin around the tattoo of Surtr holding the severed head of Peter Warlock. It was one of Ray’s best creations, the colors so vivid it almost looked alive.

“The skin is burning,” Munns explained.

Of course it was burning. The skin always burned for the new recruits entering into hell. The hard part was that it never stopped burning.

“Change of plans,” Ray said. “We’re going to get Rachael to come out sooner. We need to come up with a story that she’ll believe.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Munns asked.

Ray hesitated. How did he explain what had just happened in the storage shed? The words had not been invented. Even if they had, he was not sure he would have uttered them.

“It’s a long story,” the tattoo artist said.

26

Peter cabbed it back downtown. He’d dodged a bullet, but had a feeling that this was not the end of things between him and Holly in the romance department. Holly was in love and she was also a witch. That was a recipe for disaster if there ever was one.

The last person on his list was Snoop, never the easiest person to track down. Once Peter found his assistant and gave him the five-pointed-star necklace, he’d go home to Liza and apologize for not calling. Perhaps a quiet dinner, or a foreign movie at an Upper East Side art house would do the trick.

He sent his assistant a text, and told him they needed to meet up. Snoop wrote back to say that he was setting up a pop-up club at Jobee, a Taiwanese restaurant on Howard Street. Did Peter want to join him? Peter wrote back that he did, and gave the cabdriver the address.

Pop-up clubs were the latest rage. All across the city, party promoters were setting up velvet ropes and plugging in turntables in dim sum parlors, Midtown office spaces, strip clubs, school playgrounds, even Laundromats. At midnight, these unassuming spaces were transformed into trendy nightclubs, complete with snarling bouncers and a line of partygoers stretched halfway around the block hoping to get in.

Snoop liked to work pop-up clubs because they were great places to meet women. The fact that the clubs weren’t legal added to the thrill. Jobee, his newest venue, was located just north of the fake handbag district on Canal Street. The cab pulled up to the door, and Peter hopped out.

Jobee’s front door had a paper menu taped to it, and the house specialty, Taiwanese Oyster Pancake, caught his eye. It was the only restaurant in the city that served the dish, and he decided to take some home to Liza as a surprise.

He went in. The restaurant’s interior looked like a cyclone had hit it. A waiter was shouting into a cell phone, asking the police to hurry. Tables and chairs were turned upside down, the kitschy paper lanterns swung wildly from the ceiling. He cursed under his breath, knowing he was too late.

He hurried to the back of the restaurant. There, he found Snoop slumped in a chair. His assistant’s head sagged on his chest, and his eyes were tightly shut. The only thing moving were his legs, both of which twitched uncontrollably. The restaurant’s owner and a cook knelt beside Snoop, trying to rouse him. Behind the chair stood the party promoter, a Russian named Boris from the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Boris was telling the waiter not to call the police, and the waiter was ignoring him. It was not a pretty scene.

Peter took the last five-pointed star from his bag, and fitted it around his assistant’s neck. He had no idea if this would do any good, but he gave it a try. Snoop’s lips started to move. Peter leaned over and put his ear up next to his assistant’s mouth, listening hard.

“Peter, is that you?” Snoop asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Did that thing take you away?”

“Oh, man, this is crazy. One minute I’m in the club, the next I’m at some crazy guy’s house on the side of the hill, and he’s trying to run me down with his car.”

“Are you still there?”

“I ran away from him. Trying to find my way to town, wherever the hell that is.”

“I need to get you out of there.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Great. Here he comes in his car. He’s got a gun-he’s trying to shoot me!”

Snoop’s feet began to tap the floor as he attempted to run away from Dr. Death. Only Snoop wasn’t going to succeed, just as Liza hadn’t gotten away, nor Peter himself. Dr. Death had a home field advantage, and was going to shoot Snoop if Peter didn’t act quickly. Rising, he quickly hustled the owner, cook, waiter, and Russian promoter out the front door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the owner asked him.

“My friend needs help. Please stand here, and keep the police out.”

“What is wrong with your friend?” the owner asked. “Is he on drugs?”

“That’s none of your business.”

With that, Peter went back into the restaurant and locked the door behind him. He didn’t want an audience to witness Snoop coming around, and hearing what he had to say. As a psychic he was sworn to keep secrets and not talk about his dealings with the other side. It was a hard promise to keep, but he did his best. He grabbed Snoop by the shoulders and attempted to shake him awake. His eyelids fluttered.

“He’s shooting at me!” Snoop said desperately.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Peter implored him.

“Oww! Something hit my leg. Oh, my God, it’s bleeding. He winged me!”

“Snoop, you’ve got to open your eyes!”

“I can’t. This is so crazy. Get me out of here, will you!”

Peter stopped shaking his assistant. Something was keeping Snoop from returning. He let his eyes canvass the room. In the back of the restaurant was a darkened space with several booths. His eyes locked on the shadow person hovering over a table. The last times hadn’t worked, so the shadow person had decided to hang around, and make sure it did this time.

Peter did not remember moving across the restaurant toward the booths. Nor did he remember raising his arm. Just the sound of his fist striking the shadow person in the space that should have been its head. The evil spirit emitted a groan, and shrank into itself. Two more blows produced similar effects. He was hurting it, and making it smaller. The third blow did the trick, and the shadow person became the size of a beach ball before disappearing, the sound coming out of its mouth a pitiful cry.

He hurried back to Snoop. His assistant had woken up, and was examining his leg where he’d been shot by Dr. Death. He was in a daze, having a hard time grasping that his trip hadn’t been real. Peter helped him out of his chair.

“You’re my hero,” Snoop said.

“Let’s get out of here before the police come. This is one trip you can’t talk to anyone about.”

“What’s this thing around my neck, anyway? It’s not my color.”

“Leave it on. It will protect you from being kidnapped again.”

He pushed Snoop into the kitchen and looked for an exit. Snoop pilfered a vegetarian egg roll out of a pan sitting on the stove, and started to eat it. “Is that what happened to me? I was kidnapped by that weird black thing?”

“It’s called a shadow person, and it’s an evil spirit. It kidnapped your soul, and took you to the home of a serial killer. Don’t ask me why, because I haven’t figured out that part yet.”

“Could I have died?”

“It was a distinct possibility. I need to pick your brain. We have to catch this guy.”

Snoop chewed contemplatively. “I’m game.”

27

Opening Ceremony was the most daring clothing boutique in the city, and a few short blocks away. Snoop suggested they get a window seat at the Starbucks across the street from it. Girl watching was his passion.

They both got the house roast and a toasted sesame bagel. A window table opened up and they grabbed it. Peter sipped his drink, realizing how lucky it was Snoop was still alive. Either he was going to have to give every person he knew a five-pointed star, or he’d have to come up with another way to deal with this problem. Snoop leaned forward on his elbows and spoke in a whisper. “I heard you beating that thing in the restaurant. Did you kill it?”

Peter shook his head and sipped his drink.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you do that?”

Another moment of truth. There should have been a law that a person didn’t have to deal with more than one of those a day. Should he tell Snoop who he was, or continue to lie to his best friend? He decided to tell the truth.

“It’s called dark magic,” Peter explained, his voice barely audible. “It’s a special gift that I was born with. I can read minds, see into the future, and when I set my mind to it, move objects around by telekinesis. I also conduct séances with some of my psychic friends.”

“Do you talk to dead people?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are there really such things as ghosts?”

“Yes, and they’re everywhere.”

Snoop chewed on his bagel. He did not seem terribly surprised by Peter’s admission. Perhaps he’d known all along that Peter was psychic, and because they were tight, had never let on. A better friend he’d never had.

“What about the magic tricks? Are they your cover?” Snoop asked.

“I guess you could call them that,” Peter said. “If I slip up, I tell people it’s a trick, and no one’s the wiser. I’ve been doing it all my life, and never been caught.”

“Which makes you a very interesting guy. Does Liza know?”

“I told her a few weeks ago. The shock is starting to settle in.”

“That bad?”

“We went to see a shrink this morning. It didn’t go well.”

Snoop put down his half-eaten bagel. A knowing look spread across his face.

“Was the shrink’s name Dr. Sierra?” his assistant asked.

Peter’s coffee cup hit the table hard. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, wow, I fooled you. That’s a first. Let’s write this down and get it notarized.”

“Come on, tell me.”

Snoop took out his Droid. He carried the same model that Peter did, and was resisting turning it in for an upgrade, just as Peter was. They were alike in many ways, and often joked that they were twins separated at birth. Snoop punched an app, and a live shot of a surveillance camera outside Peter’s theater appeared on the tiny screen. He hit another button, and a live shot from the camera in the alley came on. Pushing more buttons, he revealed shots from the surveillance cameras inside the theater that ran 24/7.

“I didn’t know that was possible with a Droid,” Peter said.

“They don’t call me Snoop for nothing. The system also has a memory. Take a look at this video that was shot earlier.”

Snoop pushed another button. On the screen appeared a video showing a man standing outside the theater, banging on the front door. It was Dr. Sierra, wearing a hat and coat. With him was a second man, quite sickly in appearance, who carried a wooden cane. The second man wore a solemn expression on his face.

“I like to check on the theater and make sure everything’s okay,” Snoop explained. “I caught Dr. Sierra and his friend banging on the door this afternoon. He was there for a while. Then he went across the street to get a sandwich with his friend. Something told me I should call this guy, and find out what he wanted. So I called the restaurant, and asked to speak with him.”

“He must have been surprised,” Peter said, enjoying his assistant’s ingenuity.

“He was. He said he urgently needed to speak with you. I thought he was a kook, and asked him who his friend was. That’s when he clammed up.”

“He wouldn’t tell you who the other person was?”

“No, and I asked him a few times. It bothered me that he wouldn’t give me the other guy’s name or anything.”

Was this Hunsinger, the colleague Dr. Sierra had mentioned to Liza? If so, why had Sierra dragged him out on a Monday afternoon and brought him to Peter’s theater? Sierra had betrayed him in so many ways that it made Peter angry thinking about it.

At the next table, a college-aged girl enjoying a latte let out a yelp. Her cup was boiling over, the brown liquid singeing her manicured fingers. She looked bewildered, which was how most people reacted when confronted by the paranormal. Peter forced himself to calm down, and the drink went back to its normal state.

Peter glanced at Snoop. His assistant mouthed the word “Wow!”

“Can you teach me that?” Snoop asked under his breath.

It comes with a heavy price tag, Peter nearly told him.

“Afraid not,” he said instead. “What else did Dr. Sierra say?”

“He asked for your phone number. I told him it was private, and not something I could hand out. He got insistent, and I told him to have a nice day.”

“He wouldn’t tell you what he wanted, huh?”

“No. If you ask me, this guy is trouble.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re a public person. People don’t just come banging on your door unannounced every day, do they? This guy Sierra is unhinged. Take my advice, and stay away from him.”

“I’ve got another session with him tomorrow morning.”

“Cancel it.”

“I promised Liza.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Peter Warlock the magician?” the college girl at the next table asked. “Why, yes, you are. I saw your show with my girlfriend last year. We had the best time. Will you do that trick for me again? I’m just dying to know how it’s done.”

She held out her cup of latte, as if expecting Peter to make it boil again. Snoop pulled back in his chair. He was laughing under his breath and enjoying himself at his boss’s expense. Peter gave him the eye. It wasn’t funny, but Snoop kept laughing.

“What’s your name?” Peter asked.

“Sheri,” she replied.

Peter borrowed one of Sheri’s rings and made it magically pass through a coffee stirrer. The ring was put into a paper napkin and made to disappear. Peter then asked Sheri to pick a packet of sugar from the dish on the table. Sheri chose a yellow packet of Splenda. Tearing the packet open, he produced the ring and slipped it on her finger. Sheri squealed with delight, and seemed to have forgotten about the boiling latte. He stole a peek inside her head just to be sure. The memory was on a back shelf, never to be used. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is it safe?” Snoop asked under his breath.

“Yes, it’s safe.”

Peter’s Droid vibrated. Garrison calling. He took the call in the street.

“We caught one,” the FBI agent said.

28

“You caught a shadow person,” Peter said breathlessly.

“Caught it dead in its tracks,” Garrison replied. “We spotted it coming out the Westchester train platform and watched it run across the main concourse. There were people in the concourse, so we waited until it ran upstairs into a hallway by the west-side exits. That’s when we hit the lights. You’d be amazed at how bright they can make them.”

“How did it react?”

“It screamed so loud I heard it upstairs. Then it turned to stone. We cordoned off the area, and are keeping people away. My boss wants it moved out of here. He’s telling me to take it to an empty hangar at Kennedy Airport so a bunch of pointy-headed scientists can stick needles in it. I didn’t like the sound of that, so I decided to call you. Is that a wise idea?”

Peter panicked. Violating a ghost or spirit would upset the psychic balance of the universe. Innocent people would perish as a result, not just here, but in other parts of the world as well. “That’s a bad idea. Lots of people will die in ways that you cannot possibly imagine.”

“How about if we just move it down the hall to a room?”

“Don’t. It will burn you. The scars will never heal.”

“Well, I can’t just leave it here. Too many people will see it.”

“You want my help?”

“I didn’t call to hear the sound of your voice. Of course I want your help.”

It was not uncommon for a spirit to become trapped in this world. When that happened, psychics often rushed to the spirit’s aid, and built makeshift walls around it to hide it from peering eyes. Those walls, along with a few well-placed sawhorses, usually did the trick.

“Build a wall around it using plywood and sheets of translucent plastic,” Peter said. “The plastic will keep the public from seeing it. At the same time, the plastic will allow the light to filter through, which will keep the shadow person frozen.”

“I want you to take a look at this thing. You game?”

“I’m game.”

A cab crawled down the street looking for a fare and Peter waved the driver down. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Snoop inside the coffee shop, chatting away with Sheri. Snoop was doing a magic trick where it appeared he removed his thumb, and then made it whole. Sheri seemed absolutely enthralled. Peter waved good-bye before hopping into the backseat.

“Whatever you do, don’t throw a blanket over it,” Peter said. “The darkness will allow it to become unfrozen, and it will escape.”

The cabbie turned around in his seat, his dreadlocks bouncing on his shoulders. “You talking to me, mon?”

“No, I wasn’t. Grand Central Terminal.”

The cab lurched ahead. Peter went back to his conversation. “I would also advise you not to stare at it very long, either. It will give you nightmares that will last a long time.”

“I’ve got enough of those,” Garrison said. “How soon can you get here?”

“As fast as my cabbie can drive.”

Peter put away his phone. So much for taking Liza out to the movies. It was stuff like this that ruined relationships, yet he wasn’t sure how to stop it.

“You’re that magic guy I heard about,” the driver said, spinning the wheel.

“That’s me,” Peter replied.

“Are you the devil? I’ve talked to passengers who’ve seen your show. They say you do weird shit, like move things with your mind, and know what people are thinking. I’ve heard enough of them talking to know that something ain’t right.”

Peter’s face burned. “It’s all a bunch of tricks.”

“Is that so?” The cabbie took a corner at Canal and headed uptown. “I heard other drivers talking. Their passengers told them the same things. The stuff you do defies imagination and cannot be explained. If enough people believe something, it’s usually true. At least in my experience it is.”

Peter tried to imagine the other cabbies the driver worked with. They probably all got together after their shift was over, and had a cold beer. Peter needed this Jamaican telling those drivers that he was an ordinary guy who was adept at fooling people, and that was all he was.

The cab braked at a light. Peter said, “I want to show you something.” Taking a flesh-colored hollow thumb from his pants pocket, he passed it through the partition. “This handy little device is called a thumb tip. You can buy one in any magic store. They’ll actually help you mold it so it fits perfectly onto your thumb. Put it on.”

It was not every day that a passenger was carrying a hollow thumb. The driver inspected it closely before slipping it onto his thumb. The plastic jarred with his dark skin.

“Now move your hand around,” Peter said.

The driver waved his hand, and the thumb tip did not fall off.

“I use that to make small objects disappear,” Peter said.

The driver passed the gimmick back. The light changed, and he hit the gas. “What’s all this supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Do you honestly think that if I had supernatural powers that I’d carry that stupid thing around in my pocket all day long? Do you?”

The driver burst into laughter. “No, I guess not.”

“Thank you.”

“You really can’t read minds?”

“I wish.”

“Or move things around by thought control?”

“Give me a break, will you?”

“You’re not in league with the Devil?”

“No, but I once dated his sister.”

The driver’s eyes danced in his mirror, and he slapped the wheel. He had been won over, but how many more were there like him out there? A hundred? A thousand? For all Peter knew, half the population of New York thought he had supernatural powers, and were whispering behind his back. Or maybe it was just this driver and the guys he hung out with. There was no way of knowing for sure. One day, his whole world might fall apart, and there was nothing he could do about it. It gave him an idea. Again he stuck his head through the partition.

“Change of plans,” Peter said. “Take me to 320 East 62nd. I need to pick someone up.”

29

The driver parked at the curb and left the meter running. Peter bounded inside. He found Liza in the living room sitting cross-legged on the Flying Carpet illusion and floating three feet above the floor. Her dark hair tied in a ponytail, eyes tightly shut, she looked like a genie that had just popped out of a bottle.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Her eyes opened in surprise. “You startled me.”

“Sorry. Grab your jacket. The FBI caught a shadow person running through Grand Central Terminal. Garrison wants me to have a look at it. I want you there with me.”

Her face grew concerned. “But those things terrify me.”

“And doctors’ offices scare me.”

“This is different. Shadow people are dangerous.”

“So is Dr. Sierra. I need you to come along. Please do this for me.”

She chewed her lip. “What if I say no?”

“I’ll cry.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

He touched Liza’s arm. “The reason we’re having problems is that I keep secrets from you. If I include you in the psychic part of my life, then there won’t be any secrets. You’ll know everything there is to know about me.”

“Will you still go to see Sierra?”

“There’s a problem with Sierra. He came to the theater this afternoon with another man and started banging on the door. Snoop caught him on a surveillance camera, and called him at a restaurant across the street. Sierra told Snoop he needed to see me. He made it sound like it was life or death. What kind of doctor does that?”

“He came to the theater? That’s ridiculous.”

“Now do you understand why I don’t trust him?”

“Who was the other man?”

“Snoop didn’t get his name. Snoop played the surveillance film on his phone for me. He was an older man and walked with a cane. I think it was Hunsinger.”

“You think Sierra brought his colleague to the theater?”

“That’s what it looked like. It sort of scared me.”

Liza shook her head in bewilderment. “His Web site sure read well. What if I pick another counselor?”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Is that a promise? No backing out at the last minute.”

“I promise.”

“If I go with you now, will you protect me?”

“With my life.”

They kissed on the lips, sealing the deal. Liza hopped off the flying carpet and went to the hall closet, grabbing a cashmere scarf and gloves along with a leather jacket. As they headed out the door, Peter said, “There’s a cab waiting outside. Be careful what you say around the driver. He thinks I’m some kind of demon.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said.

They held hands during the cab ride to Grand Central. Liza looked happier than she had in a long time. All it had taken was a little compromise. He needed to remember that. Despite his powers, he couldn’t always have things his way.

The cab dropped them off at the south entrance and they went inside. It was rush hour, with commuters dashing toward train platforms with the vigor of Olympic athletes. Garrison stood at the foot of a marble stairway leading to the second floor with a scowl on his face.

“Sorry it took us so long to get here,” Peter said.

“So am I,” Garrison replied. “My boss just left. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. My boss nixed your idea of keeping the shadow person under wraps. He thinks it’s too dangerous, and wants the thing moved.”

“Didn’t you tell your boss what would happen? Didn’t you warn him?”

“I tried. He doesn’t get the paranormal stuff, thinks it’s all a bunch of hooey.”

Peter turned to Liza. “Lesson number one: No one ever listens to the psychic until it’s too late.”

“What’s going to happen?” she asked.

“Fire and brimstone with the earth tilting on its axis. Real wrath of God stuff.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

“I am being serious. You don’t mess with the spirits in any capacity.” He addressed Garrison. “Where is the shadow person right now?”

“Follow me.”

Garrison hurried up the marble stairs with Peter and Liza on his heels. Reaching the top, the FBI agent went down a hallway only to abruptly halt. Peter and Liza nearly crashed into him.

“What the hell,” he said.

Twenty feet away, his team stood with the frozen shadow person. The team also appeared frozen, with mouths agape and arms locked at their sides, and looked like empty shells.

“Nan, Fred, Johnny,” Garrison called to them.

The team did not respond.

Garrison shoved his hand into his jacket. He was going for his sidearm. Why did cops think that shooting something you didn’t understand was the best alternative?

“Put your gun away,” Peter said. “You’ll only make it angry.”

“Is that so?” Garrison said.

“Let me deal with this. I’ve had experience with these things.”

“Peter beat one up at the theater yesterday,” Liza said. “He can hurt them.”

“Yeah? Well, you have my permission to hurt this one, too.”

Peter started down the hall. Garrison hadn’t heard a word Peter had said, and started to follow him. “Stay back,” Peter said.

“I don’t take orders from you. My people are in danger.”

“You’re in a foreign land. Act like a tourist. Okay?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I don’t want to call your wife later, and tell her you’re dead. Stay put.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“You asked me here, didn’t you?”

Garrison didn’t have a good answer for that.

Peter turned to Liza. “Lesson number two: The FBI is never wrong.”

“Very funny,” Garrison snorted.

Liza smiled with her eyes. Peter realized how much he liked having her with him. It gave him a sense of confidence that he had not experienced before. He went down the hall toward the shadow person and cluster of FBI agents. This time, Garrison did not follow him.

He drew close to the gathering. The shadow person was smaller than its predecessors, and stood about five feet tall. Small in stature, it could not have weighed much when it was alive. The bright overhead lights had captured it in an awkward pose, and it hovered in fear against the wall. There was nothing threatening about its presence at all.

He studied Garrison’s team. To his relief, their spirits were still inside Grand Central. Their frozen expressions and rigid bodies were the product of something else.

Shock.

Shock was not uncommon when dealing with the supernatural. Seeing things that did not compute could cause a mental meltdown. Even Peter dealt with it sometimes. Garrison’s team needed to be brought back to earth. He started with Nan Perry, whom he knew the best.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’d make a really good mime?” Peter asked.

Perry continued to stare straight ahead. “It’s alive,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“This thing’s alive.”

“No, it’s not. It’s deader than dead.”

“Take a look.”

He followed her gaze. There was a spot on the shadow person’s neck no larger than a coin. Its color was dark blue. It looked like the corner of a lapel to a shirt.

“What is that?”

“It’s a piece of a blouse,” Perry said. “There’s more. Look at its face.”

Peter got closer to the dark spirit and stared at where its face should have been. His heart leapt into his throat. A woman’s eye stared back at him. It was a murky brown and filled with everlasting dread. Was this the last facial expression the shadow person had experienced before passing into the great beyond? Something told him that it was. He was looking death in the face, and it shook him to the core.

“That’s creepy,” he said under his breath.

There was more. The tip of an ear was also showing. And a finger. The middle finger, to be exact. A black substance was oozing out of it. He bent over to get a better look. The fingernail was torn, the flesh bleeding. Evil spirits were bad people who went to hell when they died. The Devil was a cruel host, and relegated his subjects to suffering and indignation. This shadow person was clearly being punished for past sins.

Then Peter noticed something else. The shadow person’s wristwatch was bleeding through the darkness. An art deco Cartier. Whoever she was, she’d had good taste.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Perry asked.

“Well, for starters, it isn’t alive,” Peter said. “What you’re seeing are remnant memories and emotions that stayed behind. Think of them as leftovers.”

“Of a person.”

“That’s right. We shed a lot when we die.”

“It’s not a zombie, then.”

“Nope. It won’t eat you.”

Perry breathed a sigh of relief, and visibly relaxed. So did the other agents. The threat had passed. Or so everyone thought.

“Let’s move this thing,” Perry said.

“Don’t touch it,” Peter warned.

Perry stuck out her hand and made contact with the shadow person. Humans and spirits were not meant to physically interact, and many bad things could have happened at that moment. Perry’s hand could have caught fire and been burned to a crisp, or it could have melted, with the fingers falling off like icicles. Her hand could have also disappeared, never to be seen again. This was what happened to people who touched things they weren’t supposed to.

But Perry got lucky. Nothing happened to her hand. Instead, she was given an invisible shove, and sent flying down the hall. Now unfrozen, the shadow person raced up the wall, and disappeared inside an ornate light fixture. Moments later, the hallway was thrown into darkness.

“It’s going to get away,” Peter called out. “Call someone, and tell them to turn the light back on.”

“Are you all right, Peter?” Liza called out.

“I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

Garrison got on his cell phone and began barking out orders. Peter could feel the shadow person’s unearthly presence lurking overhead. At any moment, it could leap down, and kidnap Perry or the other FBI agents in the hall. He whispered to Perry and the others, and they formed a tight circle around him. “It won’t attack you if you’re standing close to me,” he said.

“Attack us how?” one of the agents asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

The hallway light flickered to life. The shadow person had done something to the bulb, and it burned only half as brightly as before. Peter looked straight up. So did the others. Like a bunch of tourists visiting the city for the first time, he thought. It was almost funny.

What they saw was not meant for any tourist’s eyes. The shadow person was stuck to the ceiling like a giant spider, and appeared to be gazing down at them, as if sizing up its next meal. Peter stuck his hand down into his shirt and pulled out the five-pointed star. He held the star so it was pointing directly at the evil spirit that seemed intent on harming them.

“Leave us alone,” he said.

The shadow person pulled back. Peter held the star up higher and raised his voice. “Go back to where you came from. Leave us alone.”

“I think it’s leaving,” Perry said under her breath. “Way to go.”

It was a little-known fact that human beings were capable of chasing away ghosts and evil spirits. Bathing them in bright light was one way to do it. Another was to hold up a mirror and expose them to their own reflection. But the best way was with a talisman. All of these methods had been used by ghost hunters to rid dwellings of evil spirits for hundreds of years.

The five-pointed star was as powerful a talisman as you will find. The shadow person slid down the wall and slithered across the floor, passing so close to Peter’s feet that he could have touched it with his shoe, had he wanted to.

“Can you brighten the lights?” Peter called to Garrison.

“We’re trying to, but it’s not working,” Garrison called back.

The shadow person continued down the hall toward where Garrison and Liza stood at the top of the stairway leading to the main floor, its movements like a giant stingray gliding across the ocean floor. Liza stood perfectly motionless, as did Garrison. The shadow person slipped past them and disappeared down the stairs.

The eye was strange. It often saw only what it wanted to see. For the first time, Peter noticed a third person in the picture. A woman in her late twenties, with a shock of blond hair, painted eyebrows, dressed in black. She stood behind Liza and Garrison, using their bodies as a shield. In her hands was an iPhone that she was using to record what was taking place.

Was she a reporter? Or just some person who liked to film stuff and post it on YouTube? Whoever she was, she was a problem, and Peter needed to talk with her.

“Excuse me, miss? Can I speak with you for a second?”

She lowered the camera. She wore a bemused expression, like a cat that’s just eaten a canary. Definitely trouble. She ran down the marble stairs without responding.

“Hey, hold on,” Peter called out.

He raced down the stairs in pursuit. The young woman had reached the main floor and was running hard, her footsteps pounding the marble.

“I said stop!” Peter shouted.

At the exit, she paused to glance over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and Peter read her thoughts. Her name was Maddison O’Brien Jones, MJ to her friends, and she was a freelance journalist and a blogger. She was working on a piece that would expose Peter’s psychic powers that she planned to sell to one of the New York tabloids. If they didn’t bite, she’d post the story on her Web site, of which she had several thousand followers. The video was the final piece of her story, and would prove that Peter did indeed communicate with the spirit world.

MJ ran outside. Peter was five seconds behind. The sidewalks were mobbed and she was nowhere to be seen. A sinking feeling came over him. His psychic powers were about to be revealed, and his world turned upside down. He’d never be able to lead a normal life again.

He had to find MJ, and talk her out of this. He had an idea, and looked to the sky.

“Call me,” he said to the clouds.

30

His cell phone vibrated. It was Holly, calling on the landline from her apartment. He pressed the icon on the screen that let him answer the call.

“Need some help?” the young witch asked.

Liza burst through the exit and ran toward him. While Peter was willing to share things with Liza, there were some things about his life that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about; his strained relationship with Holly was one of them. “I’m going to have to call you back,” he said.

“I see lovely Liza has joined you,” Holly said. “Why don’t I start texting?”

He ended the call. Liza grabbed his arm, looking panicked. “Who was that blonde, and why was she filming you inside Grand Central?”

“Her name is MJ, and she’s a blogger writing an exposé on my psychic abilities. She was shooting a video of me with the shadow person, which she plans to put on her Web site.”

“Oh, my God, Peter, what are you going to do?”

“Move to the country and grow vegetables.”

“You have to stop her.”

Peter wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish that. It was a free country, and MJ could publish anything on her blog she wanted about him. There were many amazing things that he could do with his psychic powers, but making people do his bidding was not one of them. His cell phone vibrated and an icon appeared on the screen indicating that he had a text message.

“Let me see who this is,” he said.

It was Holly. No one was better at finding people than a witch. She’d tracked MJ to the bar of a trendy Mexican joint called Zengo on Third Avenue a few blocks away. MJ had gotten settled into a booth and was reading the bar’s long list of exotic tequilas available for sampling. She’s going to have a victory drink on me, Peter thought.

“Anything important?” Liza asked.

“Just Snoop checking in. I need to think this through. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“You’re hungry?”

“Starving.”

Liza acted puzzled. Food was the last thing on her mind right now. Peter took her arm and headed down the sidewalk. Reaching the corner of 42nd Street, he took a left, and went east.

“You’re acting weird, Peter,” Liza said.

He pretended not to hear her. They came to Third Avenue and walked south to Zengo’s on the west side of the street. He’d read about the restaurant but never eaten there. One of the partners was the famous opera singer Placido Domingo, which seemed unusual, considering the menu was Mexican.

They went inside, and Peter canvassed the restaurant. He did not spot MJ sitting at any of the booths or up at the bar. Had Holly made a mistake?

He approached the hostess stand. A pair of female eyes looked up from a seating chart filled with Xs and Os. “Table for two?” the hostess asked.

“Do you have a bar?” Peter asked.

“La Biblioteca is our house bar, and is on the lower level.”

“Does it serve tequila?”

“It’s their specialty. It has over four hundred brands on the menu.”

“Sounds like our kind of place. Thanks for the help.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Liza asked as they walked away. “And you hate tequila. It makes you puke.”

“Only when I eat the worm in the bottom of the bottle,” Peter said.

Liza reluctantly followed him down the winding stairway to the bar. It was a cavernous space filled with polished dark wood, the walls lined with display cabinets featuring expensive agave drinks. Peter searched for MJ among the booths. She was in the back of the room, working on a drink while reading a menu. Liza tugged on his sleeve.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she demanded.

“Our snooping reporter friend is here,” he said.

“Where?”

“In the back corner in a booth. She’s sitting by herself, getting ready to order.”

Liza had a look. “You’re right-she’s over there. How did you find her?”

Peter could not tell Liza that this was Holly’s doing while their relationship was having so many problems. So he told a lie instead. He hoped it was the last one he told her.

“My psychic powers sometimes let me do things that I normally could never do. Like find people who are running away from me,” he explained. “MJ left a psychic trail, and I just followed it. I’d explain it to you, but I don’t understand it myself.”

“Wow. That’s some power to have.”

“Well, let’s just say that I’m probably never going to lose my car keys. Now comes the hard part. We need to convince MJ that I’m not really a psychic.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“Easy. Just follow my lead.”

The snooping blogger did not look up from her menu as they approached. She’d already polished off her drink and was ready for another. In his best waiter voice, Peter said, “May I get you a refill?”

“Please,” she said. “Wait a minute-you’re not my waiter.”

“No, I’m not. This is my girlfriend, Liza. May we join you?”

Peter and Liza sat down, effectively blocking MJ into the booth. Her eyes darted back and forth liked a caged animal’s. In a trembling voice she said, “How did you find me so fast?”

Peter’s mind had been racing since they’d entered the restaurant. He needed to tell MJ a yarn, and it needed to be convincing enough for her to buy on the spot. That was going to take some doing, and he was glad he had Liza alongside to back up his fabricated story.

“One of my assistants was standing outside Grand Central when you ran out,” he explained. “He decided to follow you, and told me you were here.”

“Your assistant?” MJ asked suspiciously. “You don’t work Mondays.”

MJ had done her homework, and he wondered how much more she knew. Holly was scrying on him and MJ was spying on him. He wasn’t sure which was worse, and he said, “You’re right. My theater is dark on Mondays, which is when I rehearse new material. I’ve been working on an hour-long special for HBO that features illusions that I perform around New York. I was inside Grand Central with my team practicing a new illusion when you caught us in the act.”

“That black thing I saw was a trick?” MJ said. “Gimme me a break. That thing was real. You’re into dark magic, and have these amazing powers. Admit it.”

Peter gently kicked Liza beneath the table, and she picked up without missing a beat.

“What you saw inside Grand Central was a hologram,” Liza said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a brand-new illusion in Peter’s show, and he was trying to see if it would work outside the theater. Unfortunately, there are still some kinks to be worked out.”

MJ leaned across the table to stare at Liza. “Are you into dark magic, too?”

“Not at all,” Liza said with a frozen smile.

“Then why are you lying for him?”

“What you saw is a trick,” Liza said, not backing down. “If you publish a story that says Peter has some kind of weird powers you’re going to look like a fool.”

“Is that so.”

MJ’s face flushed. Peter tried to read her mind but found her thoughts blocked off. The young blogger dug an iPhone from her purse and punched a command into it. She showed them the screen. “I’ve been collecting videos of you. I took this one at your theater on Saturday when that black thing jumped out of the Dollhouse trick. Take a look.”

On the small screen appeared a video of Peter striking the shadow person during Saturday’s matinee. How had MJ gotten into the theater without Snoop spotting her?

“Here’s another one of you doing real mind reading,” MJ said.

On the screen appeared another video taken inside the theater of Peter reading the mind of a woman from the audience. It was followed by an interview of the woman outside the theater on the sidewalk. The woman told the camera how Peter had known things about her past that not a single living person knew, and how could he not be a psychic?

“Want to see some more?” MJ asked when the video was over.

“How did you get inside my theater on Saturday?” Peter asked.

“Trade secret.”

“I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

“I wasn’t trespassing.”

“Taking videos is strictly prohibited during the show,” Liza jumped in.

“So sue me.”

“I just might do that,” Peter said.

“There’s more,” MJ said with a smirk. “I interviewed your classmates from private school and several of your teachers. They said you seemed to know the answers to questions before they were asked. One of your classmates said he once heard you talking to a ghost.”

“Are you going to put that on your blog as well?” Peter asked.

“It’s all going in,” MJ said.

Against one accusation Peter knew he had a fighting chance. But against a whole slew of accusations dating back to childhood he had little chance. MJ hadn’t just gone digging into his private life, she’d used an earth mover, and gathered enough secret information to expose him to the public and ruin whatever semblance of a normal life he enjoyed.

He started to laugh. It was the only way to respond without caving in. He nudged Liza with his toe, and she started to laugh as well.

“You don’t fool me,” MJ told them.

Peter rose from the table. MJ had resumed reading the menu while sipping her drink. She’d won this round, and she knew it.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He found the restroom and splashed cold water on his face. Drying himself with a paper towel, he stared long and hard at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me what the hell to do.”

His cell phone vibrated. He knew who it was without having to look at the face.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Why don’t I cast a spell on her, and wipe her memory out?” Holly suggested. “I’ve gotten rather good at that, you know.”

“Will it harm her?” Peter asked.

“Of course. She’ll be a blathering idiot for the rest of her life.”

Peter groaned into the cell phone.

“All right, how about if I just make her blind?” Holly said.

“You’re not helping.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Any other ideas? Come on, I’m in a real bind.”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you. The thing I don’t understand is, how did she get into your theater? Your security is awfully tight.”

Peter had been wondering that very thing himself. His security was so good that it had caught Dr. Sierra knocking on the front door that morning. So how had MJ snuck in and filmed him so many times without being spotted? After a moment the answer hit him. She’d had help.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

Ending the call, he pulled up Snoop’s number. His assistant answered with dance music playing in the background. He was back at the pop-up club getting ready for tonight.

“How long have you and MJ been an item?” Peter asked his assistant.

“Who told you I was dating MJ?” Snoop said.

“I found out the hard way. Your girlfriend is writing an exposé about me. She used you to get into the theater. She’s going to tell the world that I’m a psychic, and ruin everything.”

“What? MJ’s a reporter?”

“Afraid so. You once told me that there wasn’t a computer that you couldn’t hack. Does that hold true for private computers as well?”

“Sure. They’re the easiest to get into. All you need is the person’s e-mail address.”

“Then do it.”

“Do what?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you in black and white?”

The line went silent. Then Snoop said, “But that’s a crime.”

“Like you haven’t committed crimes before? Call me when you’re done.”

Peter ended the call and headed back to the booth. MJ had gotten another tequila drink and had a sly smile on her face. Just you wait, he thought as he sat down.

He picked up a menu and studied the array of tasty appetizers. MJ was a formidable opponent, and he felt certain that this wasn’t the last time their paths would cross. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and he pulled out his cell phone, and placed it on the table.

A minute later, it vibrated. Snoop calling. He answered it by saying, “All done?”

“Yup,” Snoop replied.

“What about backup?”

“That’s gone, too.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Do I still have my job?”

“Of course. Just next time be more careful.”

Peter put his phone away. MJ was watching him. The smile had left her face. She was smart enough to know that something had gone down that wasn’t in her favor. He wondered how long it would take her to figure out what it was. He would have liked to have been there when that happened, but he had more important things to do, and he rose from the table.

“Time to get out of Dodge,” he said.

Liza rose as well. Without a word to MJ, they walked out of the bar. Under her breath, Liza said, “Are you just going to leave? She’s going to ruin you.”

“Not today,” he whispered back.

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“She can’t hurt me anymore. I’ll explain in the cab.”

Peter gave MJ a parting look. The young blogger was on her iPhone trying to retrieve the clandestine videos she’d shot of him. She’d spent a great deal of time composing her exposé, and it seemed a shame that it had all been erased in the amount of time it took to strike a keyboard. She slapped the table in anger and looked across the room. Their eyes locked. If looks could have killed, he would have been six feet under pushing up daisies.

He waved pleasantly and headed up the stairs.

31

Lying in bed that night, Liza asked, “Is your life always this exciting?”

“Hardly,” Peter murmured, his eyelids heavy.

“Will it go back to normal soon?”

“Boy, I sure hope so.”

“Can you look into the future, and make sure? My heart beat’s still racing.”

“Ask me tomorrow, okay?”

Liza rested her head on his chest and stared at the grisly images on the flat-screen TV. They were halfway through season two of The Walking Dead, one of the better zombie shows in recent years. They had come to the series late, and rented the episodes from Netflix. They were both hooked on the show, only Liza didn’t like the fact that in the first season the zombies had staggered around with wooden legs, while in the second they ran like deer. She was thinking of going online to post a negative comment about it.

The episode ended with a zombie getting its head shot off, just like all the other episodes had. Peter started to ask Liza if she wanted to watch the next episode, when he realized she was fast asleep. She looked like an angel, and he kissed her forehead.

“Thanks for not running away,” he whispered.

He killed the TV and the picture was reduced to a tiny blip, which hung there for a while before vanishing. The bedroom fell dark. The day had started out lousy but ended well. While he hadn’t stopped the shadow people or found Dr. Death, he’d reunited with Liza, and that was all that mattered. Alone, there was only so much he could accomplish. But with Liza by his side, just about anything seemed possible.

He didn’t really understand it. He’d had plenty of girlfriends before Liza, but none of the relationships had been this deep. She was more than just his lover and soul mate. She was also his assistant, and with him almost every waking moment of every day. His previous assistants had found him too demanding, and had all quit. Not Liza. She’d embraced the challenge of performing on stage every night. It was hard work, and to her credit, she’d never once screwed up a trick.

He did eight shows a week, fifty-one weeks a year, along with a few dozen private events sprinkled into his schedule. Liza had been with him for two years, and not made a single mistake. Had she ever dropped a prop or forgotten a cue? Had she ever not floated perfectly in midair, or not magically jumped out of an empty box when she was supposed to?

He couldn’t remember a single time when she hadn’t been perfect. Not one. But that was impossible. Everyone who performed magic made mistakes. It was part of the business, and there was no getting around it. It was how you learned, and grew.

Yet Liza didn’t make mistakes. Not any that he’d been aware of. The matinee this past Saturday was a perfect example. She’d been hidden inside the secret compartment of the Dollhouse illusion when the shadow person had kidnapped her spirit and taken her into the future. It had been a hair-raising experience that would have sent anyone else to the hospital. Not Liza. Not only had she escaped from Dr. Death, she’d also ended the trick correctly, and taken her bow beside him.

He decided that he was being irrational. Liza made mistakes just like everyone else, and he just wasn’t catching them. Love was blind that way.

A noise from downstairs lifted his head. A tinny clanging sound. His hand instinctively touched the five-pointed star hanging around his neck. Then he checked for the star around Liza’s neck. It was there as well. They were both protected.

He slipped out of bed and into his bathrobe. The floor was cold to his bare feet. Down the stairs he went to the first floor, the noise growing louder with each step. His destination was the living room, where Butch sat on the mantel banging his toy cymbals. He touched the hidden switch behind the panda’s neck and the music stopped.

The main keypad for the security system resided in the foyer. He checked it. The place was locked up tight. No intruders had slipped in. At least, not any human intruders.

He inspected the downstairs rooms, expecting to see his favorite things smashed to bits, or at least the illusion of that. But that wasn’t the case. Each room was how he’d left it before going to bed. In his study the computer was turned on, the screen saver of Harry Houdini hanging upside down in a straitjacket lighting up the darkened room.

His last stop was the kitchen. The pantry doors were wide open. He stuck his head in to see if any food items were missing. He clearly remembered closing the pantry doors before coming to bed. Had the shadow person reopened them?

If so, why?

He knew a thing or two about ghosts and spirits. The longer they remained stuck on earth, the more cranky and mean they became. If a ghost or spirit stayed too long, it turned into a destructive force, capable of all sorts of mayhem. The shadow people had impressed him as these very types of destructive forces. Yet their behavior was also strange. One had thrown a shoe out the window at him, while another had raided his kitchen pantry.

Cold air danced around his bare legs. Icy, invisible fingers touched his skin. He felt himself drawn to the other side of the kitchen and stood at the window facing the courtyard. The courtyard was his private sanctuary, and contained a wrought-iron table and two wrought-iron chairs. When the weather was warmer, he and Liza ate breakfast there and split the newspaper. His breath fogged the window. Liza’s chair was now occupied by a shadow person. A piece of its face was visible, and a piece of its hand. It was the same evil spirit he’d encountered in Grand Central.

The shadow person lifted its hand in a macabre salute. Peter felt his blood start to boil. How many times were these damn things going to invade his home? The only solution was to destroy every last one of them, and he was more than ready to do that.

The back door had a variety of locks. He opened each of them and stepped outside. From the foyer, the security system started to wail. He decided that was a good thing. Liza didn’t need to be sleeping while a shadow person was lurking around.

The shadow person floated out of the chair, its body a quivering mass. It almost seemed frightened of him. A psychic could get rid of an otherworldly spirit through physical force. It wasn’t pretty, but dealings with the dead seldom were. As he grabbed it with his hands, its essence turned to a vaporlike substance, and slipped out of his grasp as if melting away.

“No, you don’t.” With the tips of his fingers, Peter pinched the visible piece of flesh on the shadow person’s face, and held it tight. It felt like worn leather.

“How do you like that?” he said triumphantly.

The shadow person wiggled and squirmed, but could not escape. He made his other hand into a fist. The shadow person let out a tortured sound as if begging for mercy. Could it be reasoned with? He was willing to give it a try. He spoke where its ear should have been.

“Leave me and my friends alone. If you don’t go away, I’ll destroy you. Do you understand?”

“Peter, who are you talking to? What’s going on? Why is the alarm ringing?”

Liza stood in the doorway with a sleepy expression on her face. She wore one of his dress shirts and her favorite Garfield slippers. She stepped outside.

“What is that you’re holding?” she asked.

“I caught one of them,” he replied. “Please stay back.”

“Oh, my God, you really did. This is so creepy. What is that thing on its face?”

“Skin.”

“Ecch. Why are you holding it?”

“It was the only way I could stop it from escaping. Want to touch it? I dare you.”

“You’re not funny, Peter. That thing is dangerous. Please get rid of it.”

The shadow person had shrunk in size, and did not seem the least bit harmful now. That was another illusion, courtesy of the dark world which it inhabited, and he twisted the piece of skin as if to rip it from its face. It screamed and began to corkscrew into the ground.

“You’re hurting it,” Liza said in alarm.

“And your point is?”

“No, Peter. I can’t let you do that. No matter how evil it is.”

He disagreed, but was not going to have an argument over it. He’d shown the shadow person he meant business, and maybe that was all he really needed to do. He released the piece of skin and watched the shadow person float straight up into the night sky. It sailed higher and higher into the night like a lost balloon. Stars shone down, their light passing straight through it.

The threat had passed, and Peter felt himself relax.

A glimmer of light caught his eye. From far above, a tiny object began to fall noiselessly through space. As the object entered the courtyard, Liza let out a shriek.

“Watch out!”

Peter jumped in front of Liza and stuck his hand into the air. The object landed in his palm and he wondered if the flesh would burn off or his fingers might explode. But neither of those things happened. All he felt was a slight stinging sensation.

He brought his hand down and stared. Liza let out a gasp. His own sharp intake of breath was equally loud. Not a meteor or a falling star, but a lady’s art deco Cartier watch. It was the same watch the shadow person in Grand Central had been wearing. Its face was cracked, the hands of time stopped at ten minutes of ten.

“What does it mean?” Liza asked.

Peter wasn’t sure. The world was filled with the Devil’s playthings. If the watch was such an object, it would have a simmering aura around it, which was in fact the Devil’s fingerprints.

The watch had no such aura. It was a perfectly normal timepiece, as far as he could tell. Had the shadow person dropped it during her ascent into space? Or had it purposely fallen from her wrist? There was no way to be certain why it now rested in his hand.

He knew only one thing for certain. He was freezing to death. He grabbed Liza by the arm, and pulled her inside.