Shadow People

32

Central Park was a lush oasis within the city’s concrete jungle. Here, joggers ran at all times of the day and night, dogs were walked, lovers sought refuge, and horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped on twisting roads designed to slow motorists down.

Milly Adams was a woman of rituals. Each morning, she awoke at the crack of dawn, fixed herself a poached egg over toast, ate it while reading the morning paper, and when she was done, left her apartment and journeyed across the street to a well-worn bench that sat beside one of the park’s most popular footpaths, where she stayed for the next hour or so depending upon the weather and her mood, talking to no one, enjoying the sights.

It was here that Peter found Milly at eight o’clock the next morning. The park was filled with joggers huffing and puffing their way into shape, and Milly was watching them pass by with a keen eye, as if she knew their futures with just a casual glance. Peter asked if he could join her.

“Of course.” Milly patted the spot beside her. “Sit down right here.”

Peter took the spot. Milly had helped raise him, and was the closest thing to a mother that he had. He hated spoiling her morning, but didn’t see that he had any other choice. Holly was out of control, and Milly needed to rein her niece in before Holly ruined his life.

“I need to talk to you about Holly,” he said.

“You sound terribly solemn. Is she still scrying on you?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. I made the mistake of encouraging her yesterday when I discovered a reporter spying on me. Now she keeps texting me every five minutes.”

“But she’s love in with you, and says you have feelings for her.”

“Of course I have feelings for Holly. I also have feelings for you. But that doesn’t make us in love, does it?”

Milly laughed under her breath. “I suppose not. But Holly is young and infatuated. You need to go gently with her. Let her down easy, as they say.”

Milly did not understand the gravity of what was taking place. Holly had held him against his will in her apartment through the use of a spell. She was also using her powers to stalk him, and that didn’t feel like any kind of love he’d experienced before.

“Holly won’t listen to me,” he said in a quiet but firm voice. “I have enough problems in my life right now, and she’s only making them worse. Please talk to her, Milly.”

Milly drew back, clearly alarmed. “I suppose I could call her.”

“I would be forever in your debt.”

“What exactly would you like me to say?”

“Ask her to stop intruding. Order her, if you have to. Just make her do it.”

They fell silent. On the other side of the path, a dozen feisty black crows lined the limb of an oak tree. They were the jackdaw variety, and perched in a militarylike formation. They’d migrated with Milly from the town of Ipswich, Massachusetts, decades ago, and had taken up residence in the park across the street from her apartment. Witches had many unusual powers, including the ability to hold sway over dogs, cats, and birds. The crows were Milly’s pets, and would have done anything their master asked.

“Are you implying that Holly can’t be reasoned with?” Milly asked.

“Holly is out of control. She’s messing with my life, and refuses to stop. I’m afraid if I talk with her, I’ll lose my temper, and ruin whatever’s left of our friendship.”

“So you still care for her.”

“How could I not?”

“But she’s making you miserable.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

“A truer definition of love I’ve never heard.”

Peter gritted his teeth. Milly was letting her feelings for her niece cloud her judgment. It was understandable considering that they were both witches, and that Milly had trained Holly to cast spells, scry, and perform other strange rituals that made up the witch’s playbook. Milly would side with Holly no matter what her niece had done, and he rose from the bench.

“I need to go. Thanks for listening.”

“Ever since you were a child, you’ve run away from your troubles,” Milly said. “It’s a defense mechanism, I suppose. Well, dear Peter, you can’t run away from this. You’ve been in love with Holly since she was a little girl. I saw it one night when you were babysitting for her, after I’d come home from the theater. The way you looked at her told her you were in love. But since she was much younger than you, and you were a proper young gentleman, you did not act on your impulses. Admit it.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said defensively.

“Love never dies.”

Milly was right. He still had strong feelings for Holly. If he hadn’t, he’d have found some nasty way to blow her off. But he couldn’t do that to Holly. He cared about her too much to cause her pain. Maybe Milly was right, maybe he loved Holly more than he realized.

“Yes, I love Holly,” he said, “but I love Liza more. We live together, for Christ’s sake, and she’s my best friend. Why can’t you see that?”

“You love Liza more now,” Milly said. “But that might change. Liza is normal, and you are not. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but relationships with nonpsychics don’t work out, at least none that I’ve ever heard about. Don’t throw away your feelings for Holly just yet.”

“Liza and I are doing great,” he said. “We’re a team.”

“How long have you and Liza been together?”

“Two years.”

“And how long has she known you’re different?”

“I told her last month. It wasn’t easy, but we’re working it out.”

“How much does she know?”

“Enough.”

“Everything?”

“No, not everything.”

“So you haven’t told her the true origin of your parents’ powers, or yours.”

Peter felt the air escape from his lungs. “Not yet.”

“Still keeping secrets from her? That will never work in a million years.”

“I’m going to tell her. I just have to find the right time and place to do it.”

“Oh, no, here he comes,” Milly said under her breath.

Milly’s eyes shifted their focus as an elderly fellow wearing gray sweats and a sweatshirt tied around his waist came jogging down the path. He was downright handsome for his age, with a mane of snow-white hair and a runner’s lean physique. A smile lit up his face at the sight of Milly. Cupid’s arrow had struck, Peter guessed.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,” Peter said. “He’s cute.”

“The man is practically stalking me. I can’t stand him.”

“You’ve been out with him?”

“Just once. Dinner and a movie. It was a terrible mistake.”

“You made it through dinner and a movie? I’d say you’re doing great. Introduce me.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“Come on. Love never dies.”

“Be still.”

Milly’s beau was veering toward their bench, ready to strike up a conversation. Milly was having none of it, and raised a crooked finger to ward him off. In all the world, there was no greater force than a witch’s crooked finger, at least not that he knew of. With that single finger, oceans could be parted and skies made to darken. It was a power not to be used lightly, and he was surprised that Milly used it now. From the oak trees a single kamikaze crow exploded in a beeline for the elderly gentleman’s perfectly coifed head. He saw the bird coming in time to halt his forward progress and raise his hands in self-defense, exactly what Milly had intended.

“Go away,” the man said.

The bird did the opposite, and continued to buzz his head, while doing arcing somersaults befitting an aerial show. Peter could not help but laugh under his breath.

“You think this is funny?” Milly scolded him.

“I was thinking of filming it, putting it on YouTube.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

Love is blind. It was also stupid, deaf, and incredibly dumb. Milly’s beau would not give up, his feelings for the old witch too great. He came toward them while continuing to do battle with the crow, his arms flailing like a crazy man just released from an asylum. Milly raised her crooked finger again. More crows exploded out of the trees and added to the first bird’s aerial assault, forming a cloud of black around the poor man.

“Have them pluck his eyes out,” Peter suggested. “That will do the trick.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” Milly said with a stern face. “I made the mistake of giving him my phone number. He won’t stop calling me.”

“You gave him your phone number? This sounds serious.”

“A moment of weakness.”

Milly’s beau continued to inch toward the bench. There was no doubt in Peter’s mind that this man was truly in love with Milly. There was also no doubt that Milly had found him attractive. So why was she trying to scare the fellow half to death?

Milly raised her crooked finger a third time. A barking dog ran down the path trailing a leash. Dogs in New York came in three sizes: large, medium, and symbolic. The dog belonged to the third category, and could have fit comfortably in a lady’s handbag.

The barking mutt nipped at Milly’s beau’s ankles. Canines were clearly his weakness, and he began to head back the way he’d come, but not before glancing over his shoulder and waving good-bye. He’d be back tomorrow, Peter was sure of it.

The crows returned to the trees and quieted down. Taking a tissue from her purse, Milly blew her nose. Her eyes were wet with tears.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

She took a moment to gather herself. When she spoke, her voice was filled with pain. “Back when I lived in Ipswich, I knew a man named Henry Quinton. Henry was decent and strong and a perfectly normal fellow, and I absolutely adored him. He was a banker, and made a nice living, had a boat and a membership at a country club. We dated for a while, then one day out of the blue, he got down on his knee, and popped the big question.

“I wanted so desperately to say yes! Having a normal life seemed terribly attractive to me. But for it to work, I knew that Henry had to know who I was. That trust had to be established from the start. It was the only way a marriage could possibly work.

“So I sat dear Henry down and told him the whole story. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. I even did a little demonstration for him, and persuaded a stray cat to do tricks for us. Henry was stunned, to say the least.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “A few days later he broke it off. No reason was offered, nor did I need to hear one. The act itself spoke volumes. I moved to New York City soon after, and have never been home since.”

“I’m so sorry, Milly.”

She put her hand on his arm. “I didn’t tell you this story for sympathy, but as a warning. What happened to me can happen to you and Liza. And if she breaks your heart, your life will never be the same.” Milly glanced at her watch and shook her head. “I must be gone. Think about what I’ve told you. Don’t break things off with Holly just yet. You might regret it one day.”

Milly rose from her spot on the bench and Peter did as well. She offered a peck on the cheek and the faintest of smiles. She was in his corner, he realized, and always would be.

“Good-bye, Milly. Be safe,” he said.

“And you as well, dear boy,” she replied.

33

Peter escorted Milly out of the park, and watched her cross the street to the Dakota. Only after she’d gone inside the building did he hunt for his limo. Herbie had parked in a striped No Parking zone at the corner of Columbus and 72nd Street. Limos were status symbols in New York, and drivers could park just about anywhere, and not get towed.

Peter climbed in and made himself comfortable in the backseat. His driver looked preoccupied, with an open textbook in his lap. The partition slid back.

“Where to, boss?” Herbie asked.

“Let’s go home. What are you reading?”

“A book on accounting. I’m taking some night classes at CCNY. I’m studying entertainment management.”

“They really have classes devoted to that?”

“Sure do. Most entertainers are bad businesspeople, present company excluded.”

“How do you know that I’m not a bad businessperson?”

“Well, you’re not broke.”

The truth be known, he still didn’t know how to balance a checkbook, and relied on Liza to take care of the household finances while a team of well-paid accountants kept track of the money he made at the theater. They were soon gliding down Broadway. There were many people like Herbie in the city. They worked long days, yet still managed to pursue other careers during their off-hours. New York was a city of dreams, and everyone had a dream he or she was chasing. Not so long ago he’d been one of those dreamers, and knew how powerful the urge could be.

His cell phone vibrated. He sometimes thought of his cell phone as a little pet that clawed his leg whenever it craved attention. It was Liza. Despite what Milly had said, he believed their relationship really did have a chance. Psychics could have relationships with nonpsychics. It just took a lot of work, no different from any other relationship he’d ever had.

“I’m on my way home,” he said by way of greeting.

“Good. You need to get here soon,” Liza said.

“What’s wrong? You sound stressed out.”

“I am stressed out. We have company.”

He and Liza rarely entertained at home, preferring the solitude of the brownstone after the labors of performing the show each night. He didn’t like the sound of this, and sat up in his seat. “And who might that be?”

“Dr. Sierra and his friend Hunsinger are here.”

“You can’t be serious. What are they doing there in my home?”

“You’re losing your temper. Please calm down.”

“What did you expect me to do? Break out in song?”

“Peter, control yourself.”

“I’m sorry. Now tell me, what are they doing there?”

“I forgot to cancel our session this morning. Dr. Sierra had asked Hunsinger to come to his office and meet with us. When we didn’t show, they decided to come here. I stupidly gave Dr. Sierra’s receptionist our address when I booked our session.”

“Why didn’t you just slam the door in his face?”

“I couldn’t. Dr. Sierra begged me to let him in. He made it sound like life and death.”

Peter’s blood started to boil like so much bad poison. His brownstone was his sanctuary where he went to escape from the world. Sierra and Hunsinger had no right to be there. In the mirror he caught Herbie giving him an eyeful. He twirled a finger, and the limo accelerated.

“Where are they now?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Sitting at the kitchen table. I made them a pot of coffee.”

“That was nice of you. Maybe they’d like some pancakes.”

“Please don’t be angry. I went with my heart, and my heart said let them in.”

“Why not tell them to go to a restaurant? I would have met them there. Why let them in?”

“Hunsinger is very frail and he can hardly breathe. I think he may be dying.”

“So?”

“Peter, this isn’t like you. These men want to speak with you, that’s all. Why are you so afraid of talking to them? What harm can it cause?”

Since he was a kid, he’d lived in other people’s homes, a year in one apartment, the next year in another apartment. He never had his own room or furniture that was his. He’d longed for those things, and for a special place to call home. The brownstone was that place, and he didn’t want men like Sierra or his friend to step foot inside.

Liza broke the silence. “Do you want me to throw them out?”

“No, let me,” he said.

Sometimes, mind reading was easy. Herbie knew exactly what was on his employer’s mind as he pulled to the curb in front of the brownstone. Throwing the limo into Park, he hopped out and stood on the sidewalk with his arms outstretched. As Peter climbed out, Herbie grabbed him in a bear hug. Herbie was a big man, and made Peter his prisoner.

“Boss, calm down. You act like you’re gonna hurt someone,” his driver said.

“I just might.”

“Ain’t worth it. Trust me, I know.”

As a teen, Herbie had run with a gang and had shot a man. He had done hard time in a maximum security prison called Sing Sing, and had come out a changed man. He spoke from experience, and Peter took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down. His driver smiled sheepishly and released him.

“Feel better?” Herbie asked.

“Come to mention it, yes. You’re a great hugger.”

“Thanks, boss. Not mad at me, are you?”

“No. Thanks for doing that.”

Peter headed up the front steps. He had a temper, no doubt about it, and he was fortunate to have people like Herbie there to stop him when his emotions got the best of him. The door opened and Liza came out wearing drab workout clothes.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m managing.”

She led him down the hallway to the kitchen, where his two unwanted guests sat at the table sipping java. Both looked up as if startled out of a daydream. Sierra was the first to rise and seemed apprehensive and more than a little nervous about being here.

“I’m sorry to come barging into your home like this,” Sierra said.

“It must be important,” Peter heard himself say.

“It is. Please let me introduce my friend. This is Richard Hunsinger.”

The second man slowly came out of his chair. He was little more than skin and bones, and wore a black shirt buttoned to his neck, and black slacks that hung loosely around his waist. His hair was flecked with spots of white that looked like snowflakes, his eyes sallow and pale.

“Hello,” Peter said stiffly.

“Hello, Peter,” his guest replied. “Do you remember me?”

“No. Should I?”

“We met long ago. You and your parents came to see me. Think hard.”

“Is this a quiz?”

“It will be easier this way. Please,” Hunsinger said.

“How long ago was this?”

“You had just celebrated your seventh birthday.”

Peter tried to imagine a younger version of Hunsinger. After a few moments, it dawned on him who this person was. Hunsinger was the bogeyman he’d been seeing in his dreams since he was a kid, the strange man in black who’d made him cry.

In his dream, Peter was in a study with a scary painting of Jesus Christ hanging on the cross. Jesus’s face was filled with so much pain that he’d avoided staring at it. Beneath the painting sat a man wearing black clothing and the gravest of expressions. The man motioned for Peter to step forward, only Peter wouldn’t budge. The man gently took Peter by the hand, and pulled the boy toward him. Peter had started to cry. His parents were standing nearby, and he looked to them for help. His mother was crying as well. But she would not help him.

A strange dream, for sure. But now the young magician knew otherwise. It had actually happened. Hunsinger was real, and had known his parents. For that reason alone, Peter needed to hear what the man had to say. Maybe then the dream would go away, and be replaced by some other unexplained mystery from his youth.

“I remember you now,” Peter said. “My parents brought me to see you, although to be honest, I have no earthly idea why. Did I do something wrong?”

Hunsinger picked up his coffee cup as if to take a drink. Instead, he stared into its depths as if it held the secret to the universe. He had the kind of honest face that Peter associated with people with a clean conscience. He’d not met many people he could say that about.

Hunsinger looked up. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

“All I have left are dreams.”

“I hope your dreams are not painful.”

“Actually, they are. You made me cry.”

“It was a difficult time. Dr. Sierra met with your parents on several occasions, and he referred them to me. Your parents brought you to me, and I examined you and gave them my opinion.” His voice had gone weak, and he paused to catch his breath. “Dr. Sierra and I always wondered what became of you. When Dr. Sierra called to tell me that he’d found you, I asked him to arrange a meeting. I hope you don’t mind.”

“At first I did mind, but now I’m glad you came,” Peter said. “Now, would you please tell me who you are, and what this is about? The suspense is killing me.”

“Of course. You see, I’m a priest.”

34

Peter could not have been more confused. His mother and father weren’t Catholic. Why on earth had they taken him to see a priest? “Why did my parents come to see you? Were they thinking of converting to Catholicism?”

Hunsinger stole a glance at Sierra. Where to begin? his facial expression seemed to say. After a moment his eyes returned to Peter’s face. “If you don’t mind, I need to sit down. My body is frail, and I am unable to stand for long periods of time.”

The priest lowered himself into his chair. He was sickly and moved in slow motion. The fact that he’d ventured out in such poor health to meet Peter was not lost on the young magician.

“Can I interest either of you gentlemen in more coffee?” Peter asked.

The offer brought a smile to both their faces, Liza’s also.

“Another cup of your delicious coffee would be splendid,” the priest replied.

“I would love another cup as well,” Sierra said.

“Me, too,” Liza chimed in.

Peter fixed a fresh pot and served his guests and Liza, then pulled up a chair to the table. His heart was racing and he could hear a bass line pounding in his ears. Life was filled with unexplained mysteries which we carried with us to our graves. One of those mysteries was about to be explained to him. Liza sat on the windowsill overlooking the courtyard, content to listen as Peter’s past unfolded.

“Perhaps I should go first, since it was me your parents first came to see,” Sierra began. “As you and Liza know, I am a marriage counselor by profession, and I specialize in dealing with relationship issues. One day, your parents appeared in my office, and said they were having problems, which is nothing new in my line of work. They were both rather vague about the situation, and seemed to be having difficulty coming out in the open and discussing it. Whatever this problem was, I could tell it was affecting them deeply, and harming their marriage. As our session wound down, I bluntly asked them to tell me what was going on. If they were unwilling to do this, I said, then there was no point in their coming back, since I couldn’t help people who couldn’t be honest with themselves.”

Peter stared at the table. It sounded like an echo of his own problems with Liza. “Did they finally tell you what was going on?”

“Your mother broke the spell and explained the situation,” Sierra said. The problem, it seems, was you.”

Peter drew back in his chair. “Was I causing problems?”

“I’m afraid so. Your parents were beside themselves as to what to do. It was tearing them apart, so they decided to come and see me.”

“How bad were the things I was doing?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid.”

“Did they spell them out?”

“No, but they alluded to them. Don’t you remember?”

“Not at all. I must have repressed the memories.”

“That is not uncommon in violent children,” Sierra said.

The kitchen fell quiet. A sense of enormous guilt came over Peter. To think that he’d done things that had nearly ruined his parents’ marriage was unconscionable, and he felt the overwhelming urge to bolt from the room. Milly had accused him of running away from his problems, and he forced himself to sit tight and face the music.

“You must have some idea of what I was doing,” he said. “Was I hurting other kids at school? I had a rough time when I first came to the United States. I was small, and my British accent made me stand out. I got into a fight with a bully at school who was picking on me. Was that what they were talking about?”

“No, it was not,” Sierra said. “Your parents told me that you had a demon inside of you. They said that you were born with this demon, and that when it showed its face, it was capable of all sorts of horrible acts. At first, I thought they were exaggerating, and blowing the problem out of proportion. After all, you were only seven, and how much trouble could a child that age cause? It was at that point that your father decided to show me the photos.”

“What photos?”

“Your father took photos of the things you’d done. I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps he needed evidence to convince men like myself what you were capable of. I still have them.”

“Are they bad?” Peter choked on the word.

“Yes, I’m afraid they are.”

He glanced at Liza. She nodded as if to say it was okay.

“Show them to me,” he said.

Sierra produced a faded envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled back the flap, and removed a stack of photos. “I want you to know something. Up until now, I’ve shown these photographs to no one except Richard. I protected your family’s privacy, and will continue to do so. Your family’s secrets are safe with me, despite what you might think.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

The stack was handed to him. Taken on a Kodak Instamatic, the color had faded but not enough to hide the horror of the images. The top photo showed Peter’s bedroom in the family’s apartment in Murray Hill. They had lived in a third-floor walk-up with rattling pipes and noisy neighbors. In the photo, there was shattered glass on the floor that appeared to be swimming in a substance that resembled catsup.

He stared hard. Not catsup. Blood. And there was a lot of it. Had someone died in his bedroom, and he’d not heard about it? It didn’t seem possible, yet the photo said otherwise.

His eyes shifted to the broken window in the photograph. There was a hole in the glass big enough for a man to slip through. The hole led to a fire escape outside.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “What happened?”

“Look at the rest of them,” Sierra said.

Peter laid the photos in a row on the table, and let his eyes drift over the disturbing images. After the bedroom came the narrow hallway, where bloody handprints covered the walls. Next was the kitchen, where the furniture had been turned upside down, leaving more bloodstains. Then came the study, where his parents held séances with their psychic friends and talked with the dead. This photo was the most troubling of all. In it, Peter sat in his father’s chair dressed in his Batman pj’s. His eyes were half open as if in a trance, his mouth twisted in a menacing snarl. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, as were his hands. He looked more animal than human.

Peter looked across the kitchen at Liza. If she saw these photographs, things between them would never be the same. But if she didn’t see them, things wouldn’t be the same either. Whatever was left of his relationship with Liza was about to go up in flames.

Stacking the photos, he went to her, and placed them in her hands. “Here.”

Then he poured himself more coffee.

35

Liza shocked him. After she’d finished studying the photos-which she spent over a minute doing-she dragged a chair up to the kitchen table, sat down beside Peter, and placed her hand on top of his, clasping it in the process. She was going to go down this road with him, no matter where it took them both. What was the expression from the country-and-western song? “Stand By Your Man.” He wanted to hug her.

“Who did I kill?” Peter asked his two guests in the calmest of voices.

It was Sierra who replied. “You didn’t kill anyone. At least your parents didn’t think so.”

“But I hurt someone pretty badly.”

Sierra nodded gravely. No wonder he’d asked Peter if the demon inside of him had come out the night his parents had been murdered in Times Square. Sierra had already seen the demon, and knew the carnage it could wreak.

“Any idea who it was?” Peter asked.

“Your father said that the apartment house where you lived had been burglarized several times,” Sierra replied. “Late one night, a burglar broke the window in your bedroom, and tried to enter. That was when the burglar encountered you. He managed to get away, but only barely. Your father said there was a great deal of blood on the fire escape and also in the alley below.”

“Did I stab him?”

“You used the sharp edge of one of your toys.”

“Wow. Talk about a little demon.”

No one laughed. Peter picked up his mug and drained it.

“Your parents were torn over what to do,” Sierra went on. “Your mother was fearful that your demon was out of control and might strike again. The night of the burglary, your parents went over to a neighbor’s for a few minutes to see her new baby. This was when the burglar chose to enter your apartment. When your parents returned, it was your mother who found you.”

“Did seeing me covered in blood scare her?” Peter asked.

“Very much. She told me that she had this same demon inside of her, and explained how difficult it had been for her to keep it contained all her life. It upset her that the demon had come out in you at such a tender age. She was fearful it might take control of your soul.”

“Is that what she said?”

“In so many words, yes.”

But it hadn’t taken control of my soul, Peter thought. The demon went back to its dark hiding place, and he’d gotten on with his life. End of story.

“Your father viewed the matter differently,” Sierra continued. “He was fearful that if doctors started examining you, the demon would be unleashed, and never go away. He wanted to treat you with tender loving care, which he said was the only cure.”

“Who won out?” Peter asked.

“I did, actually,” Sierra said.

“How so?”

“Your parents brought you in, and I examined you. I tested your reflexes to make sure you didn’t have any neurological damage, which is not uncommon in violent children. You know when a doctor hits a patient in the knee with a rubber hammer? Well, I struck you in the knee with my hammer, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”

“I hit you?” Peter asked incredulously.

“Knocked me right across the room. I never saw the blow. To be honest, I’m not certain you actually threw one. You did it with your mind. That’s when I convinced your parents that Richard needed to be brought in.”

Peter looked across the table at the sickly man dressed in black. “You’re an exorcist.”

“I am a priest who on occasion practices exorcisms,” Hunsinger replied.

“Same difference. Did you perform an exorcism on me?”

“Yes, I did.”

Peter took a deep breath. “And?”

“Nothing happened,” the priest confessed. “We performed the exorcism in my chambers at the church. You lay on a couch with your parents sitting to either side of you. I wore an alb, a purple stole, as prescribed in the Old Testament. I made the sign of the cross over you, doused your body with holy water, and invoked the words ‘Ecce crucem Domini! Fugite, partes adversae’ while placing my right hand on your forehead in the same manner in which Jesus healed the sick. I followed the procedure exactly as it was written.”

“How did I react?”

“You looked up at me and let out a little laugh.”

“I laughed?”

“Yes.”

“Was it demonic?”

“Not at all. It was a little boy’s laugh. The demon inside of you had receded. I don’t know if I sent it away, or if it left on its own accord, but it was gone. What remained was a precious seven-year-old boy.”

Liza squeezed his hand as this last sentence was spoken. It made Peter feel like there was still hope. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Anytime,” she whispered back.

“Now you understand why Dr. Sierra and I wanted to see you,” Hunsinger said. “We wanted to know what had become of you. To see how you turned out, if you will.”

“You wanted to know what had happened to my demon,” Peter said.

“That, too,” the priest admitted.

“Yes, that, too,” Sierra echoed.

Peter drummed the table. The phrase “troubled childhood” was taking on a whole new meaning. But he still wasn’t sure why Sierra and Hunsinger had gone to such great pains to seek him out. Both men had seen scores of troubled people during their careers. So why had they worried about him? Because he was a child when this had occurred? That was one explanation, although he was quite certain both men had seen scores of troubled children during their careers. There had to be another reason.

His drumming grew louder. So loud that he could hardly hear himself think. Out of frustration, he attempted to read both men’s brains to see what they were up to.

It didn’t work. Both men were cutting him off by thinking about the lunch they’d shared a few hours ago. It was almost as if they’d planned it.

He gave Liza a look and whispered, “We need to talk.” She rose from her chair the same time he did, said, “Please excuse us,” and followed Peter out of the room.

Huddled in the hallway, Peter spoke in a hushed tone. “They know something they’re not telling me.”

Liza gave him a quizzical look. “What more is there to know?”

“That’s a good question. I keep thinking back to Sierra asking me if the demon had come out the night my parents died. I think he already knew the answer and just wanted confirmation that it had.”

“How would he have known if it had?”

“My parents’ murders made the front page of the New York newspapers. Maybe I did something horrible that night that also made the newspapers, and Sierra and Hunsinger read about it, and made the connection.”

“Did you?” Liza asked.

“Not that I remember.”

“But you don’t remember hurting the burglar in your apartment either.”

Liza was right. Was this dark spirit inside of him so powerful that he couldn’t control it, much less remember when it took over his body? It scared him to think it might be true. Grabbing his leather jacket off a peg, he gave Liza a kiss.

“I need to talk to the police. They’ll know what happened that night,” he said.

“What about Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger? What should I tell them?”

That was a good question. Sierra and Hunsinger had opened Pandora’s box, and Peter didn’t think he’d ever get it closed. But why had they done that? Out of an insatiable curiosity, or was something else in play here? Peter was determined to find out the answer.

“Thank them for dropping by,” he said, and flew out the door.

36

He hurried uptown.

Soon he was standing outside the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street. Did he really want to know the truth about himself? Could he handle the truth? He was about to find out.

He went inside. The lobby reminded him of the Port Authority bus terminal and was just as noisy. He sifted through the crowd, picking up people’s thoughts. When he was under stress, his psychic powers got the better of him, and he heard things without meaning to.

He waited dutifully in line to talk to the female desk sergeant working reception. In front of him, a Puerto Rican man was trying to determine how he was going to tell his brother-who’d beat up someone over a girl-that he didn’t have the money to bail him out of jail. Behind him, a distraught mother was wondering if the police had any fresh information about her runaway teenage daughter. Their thoughts were incredibly loud, as most stressful thoughts were, and bounced around him like so many echoes.

Finally his turn came, and he approached the desk.

“Hey, magic man, long time no see,” the desk sergeant said. “How’s tricks?”

He’d helped the police solve a murder not long ago, and was surprised she remembered him. “I’ve been good. I’d like to see Detective Schoch.”

“Do some magic first. I want to be amazed.”

He searched his pockets for something to fool her with. He’d left the house without so much as a deck of cards. Normally in situations like this, he would have read her mind, but the desk sergeant was one of those rare birds whose minds could not be read. He pointed at the notepad lying on the desk.

“Pick up that pad and draw something on it. Don’t let me see it,” he said.

“You gonna read my mind?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Cool.” The desk sergeant picked up the pad and a pencil. “Turn around, I don’t trust you.”

“Come on, I’m one of the good guys.”

“I still don’t trust you. Now turn around.”

Peter obeyed, and found himself staring at a scummy-looking character standing where the distraught mother had been. Day-old stubble, rheumy eyes, and lifeless blond hair made up the picture. The man’s dark thoughts invaded Peter’s head. He was a cold-blooded murderer.

“Something wrong?” the scummy-looking man asked, picking up his vibe.

“There was a woman standing behind me,” Peter explained.

“She left.”

“I’m finished,” the desk sergeant said loudly.

“Nice meeting you,” Peter said.

“Right.”

Peter turned back around. The man’s crime was running through his head like a trailer to a movie. Friday night, a rough bar in Hell’s Kitchen, the man and a drinking buddy left the bar together, walked into a dark alley, where the scummy-looking man robbed his friend and shot him for good measure. He was a stone-cold killer.

“So tell me what I drew,” the desk sergeant said.

Peter had absolutely no idea what the desk sergeant had drawn while his back was turned. But he was about to find out without his subject being the wiser. “Please tear off what you drew, and hide the drawing,” he replied.

The desk sergeant tore off the drawing and hid it under her desk. Peter wondered how was he going to tell her about the killer without tipping her off that he was a psychic. He decided to finish the trick, hoping a solution would come to him.

“May I please have the pad and your pencil,” he said.

“So polite. I like that in a man.”

She winked at him while handing over the items. Peter held the pad up close to his chest. Using the edge of the pencil, he lightly shaded the page, and the impression of what she’d just drawn popped to life. There were only ten objects that people ever drew. Peter pegged the desk sergeant for a house, and glanced down at the page. Sure enough, she’d drawn a house. But not just any house. This one had a winding driveway, a mailbox at the road, and a front lawn. Had she drawn the house out in the suburbs where she lived?

“You drew something very dear to you, a special place.”

The desk sergeant lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Boy, you’re good,” she said.

“It’s a house in the suburbs.”

“Right again.”

“Is it the house where you live?”

“I’ll be damned. You’re amazing.”

Behind the desk appeared an attractive brunette wearing a sidearm strapped to her side. Detective Colleen Schoch, the very person he’d come to the precinct to see.

“Hello, Peter. How have you been?” she asked.

“I’m okay. I need to speak with you. In private.”

“May I ask what this is about? I’m kind of busy right now.”

“The night my parents were killed.”

Schoch did not know what to say. She’d been the first officer on the scene the night his parents had died, and had taken Peter to the station house and taken care of him. Schoch was a friend, and one of the few people outside of his Friday night group who knew of his powers.

Schoch motioned him to come around the desk, and they walked to a bank of elevators and waited for a car to come. She brought her face up close to his. Their eyes locked.

“What’s going on?” Schoch asked.

First things first, Peter thought. “The creepy guy behind me on line is a killer.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I read his mind. He shot a guy in Hell’s Kitchen Friday night. His victim was left lying in an alley. If you don’t grab him now, he’s going to escape.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Positive. I saw the whole thing clearly.”

“How do I prove this?”

“He stole his victim’s wallet. He’s still carrying it.”

“Wait here. I’m going to go arrest the son of a bitch.”

Most criminals were stupid. The man in line was no exception. His victim’s ID was still in his wallet when Schoch arrested him.

Schoch was beaming as they sat in her tiny cubicle in Homicide. Her desk was as neat as a pin, which could not be said of the desks around her. She offered him a soft drink.

“No, thanks. Let me tell you why I’m here,” Peter said. “I’ve been having some problems lately, and I think they stem from the night my parents were murdered. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. It will help me sort things out.”

Schoch leaned back in her chair. “What kind of problems?”

“Anger issues.”

“That’s not uncommon for victims of violent crimes.”

“These are extreme.”

“You’re becoming violent?”

“Close enough. Will you help me? Please?”

Her face softened, if just a little bit. “All right, fire away. What do you want to know?”

“Did I become violent the night my parents died?”

“No. You cried a lot at the station house, but that was it.”

He thought back to what he knew about his demon. It came out right at the moment he became angry, like a spark turning to a flame. “I mean at the scene of the crime. Did I do anything out of the ordinary?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Schoch replied.

“But you were the first responder. You would have seen how I was acting. Try to remember. It’s very important to me.”

“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but when I first got to the scene, you weren’t there,” Schoch said. “I was a foot cop working Times Square with my partner. A call came in that a man and his wife had been abducted in an alley beside the Shubert Theatre. We got to the scene as fast as we could, and discovered there were plenty of eyewitnesses. We took their statements, and every single one of them said there had been a little boy. Well, there was no little boy.”

“I wasn’t there?”

“No, and we looked high and low for you. You vanished.”

“Then how did I show up at the station house?”

“A man brought you. I remember him quite clearly. He had snow-white hair and was theatrical looking. I pegged him for an actor. He said he’d found you wandering the streets.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No. It was weird. He came into the lobby and handed you off to me. You were in a state of shock and not communicating. While I was watching you, he disappeared.”

He disappeared? Peter felt the invisible stab to his heart. The physical description matched that of Max, his teacher. He took a deep breath before continuing. “How long I was gone?”

Schoch had to think. “The call came in at ten o’clock at night, and you showed up at the station house at around three A.M.”

Five whole hours. That was a long time. Yet it made sense, the pieces of the puzzle falling together, the empty holes filling in. Right as his parents were abducted, he’d looked into his mother’s eyes, and had known that he was never going to see her or his beloved father again. He’d known his parents were about to die, just as they’d known. A shared truth had never been more painful. And with that terrible knowledge had come an anger so great that the little boy in pajamas who’d maimed a burglar had gone on a rampage that had lasted into the small hours of the night. Once the rampage was over, he’d somehow ended up with Max, his parents’ dearest friend.

There was no doubt in his mind this is what had happened that awful night. The only question was, how much damage had he caused?

37

Peter sat on the edge of the detective’s desk and tried to act calm, even though his heart was racing out of control. “I have another question. I know this is going to sound strange.”

“I’m sure it isn’t anything I haven’t heard before,” Schoch replied.

“The night my parents died, were there other deaths in the city that you didn’t solve?”

“Deaths? Do you mean murders?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“That’s a strange question,” she conceded. “Why do you want to know that?”

The detective wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her, so he said instead, “I’ve been having some weird dreams lately that concern that night. I’ve been wondering if the things I’m seeing in my dreams might have actually happened.”

“Fair enough. Let’s ask Dag. He’ll know.”

Schoch told Peter that her toothpick-chewing partner, Dag, had recently been assigned to work on a slew of cold cases from that year, and he’d be the person to ask. She called Dag on her intercom. “You busy? I need a favor.”

“What’s going on,” Dag replied over the squawk box.

“Peter Warlock is here. He needs our help.”

Moments later, Detective Sal Dagastino, known as Dag to his friends, entered the cubicle and pumped Peter’s hand. “How’s life in the fast lane?” he asked.

“Traveling at the speed of sound,” Peter replied.

“I need to score four tickets for Saturday night’s show,” Dag said without missing a beat. “My in-laws are coming to town, and I want to show them a good time.”

“Consider it done. You can pick them up at Will Call. Will third row center do the trick?”

“Perfect. Now it’s my turn. What do you need?”

“I was wondering if there were any unsolved murders or violent crimes which took place the night my parents died. Detective Schoch said you’ve been working cold cases lately.”

“Peter was roaming the city that night and might have seen something,” Schoch explained.

As a rule, cops did not share information about open investigations. But Peter had helped Dag and Schoch solve a difficult murder case not long ago, and gained their trust. The toothpick twirled between Dag’s teeth as he considered their visitor’s request.

“There were several violent killings in the city that night that were never solved,” Dag said. “We recently reopened them because of a new DNA test called ‘scraping.’ Scraping lets us test for DNA in places we weren’t able to test before.”

Peter swallowed hard. Several violent killings. Were they his doing?

“Were the cases linked?” he asked.

“They sure were. All our victims had skin underneath their fingernails which wasn’t theirs,” Dag said. “With scraping, we were able to find DNA, and compare it. The same assailant was responsible, and might be a serial killer. Kind of scary to think this person has been roaming around the city for the past eighteen years and we didn’t know it.”

Pools of black opened up before Peter’s eyes, and he would have liked nothing better than to jump through one of them, and disappear. He felt the weight of Dag’s stare, and realized the detective was waiting for a response. If the police shared information with you, they expected you to give something in return, and he said, “The memories from that night have recently been coming back to me. Maybe while I was roaming the city I came across your killer.”

“Would you remember him?”

“I might.”

“How about his victims? Would you remember them?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

The toothpick did another slow twirl. Going to the next cubicle, Dag grabbed a manila folder off the top of a pile, and dropped it in Peter’s lap upon his return.

“That’s them,” Dag said.

“You mean the victims?”

“That’s right. The photos aren’t pretty.”

The file felt heavy. “How many unsolved cases were there that night?”

“Six.”

Peter thought he was going to be sick. Possessed little boy runs amok in city, killing six innocent people. It sounded like the plot to a low-budget horror film.

“Not that any of them were going to be missed,” Dag went on. “Whoever took those guys out was doing the good citizens of New York a favor, and deserves a medal.”

“You’re starting to sound like a vigilante, Dag,” Schoch said.

“Just speaking my mind,” her partner said.

“Were the victims bad people?” Peter asked.

“Scum of the earth,” Dag said. “I say good riddance.”

Peter went through the file. It contained six Homicide reports that had been written back in the day when cops used typewriters. Each report had its own collection of gruesome crime-scene photographs. Each victim had died in a pool of his own blood. He thought back to the snapshot of him in his Batman pajamas. The front of his pj’s had been blood soaked. No doubt the shedding of blood was something the demon found appealing.

38

An approximate time of death was printed on each report. All the victims had died during the five hours he’d been roaming the city. All had also been found within a twenty-block radius of the Shubert Theatre in Times Square, where his parents had been abducted.

The cases had other similarities as well. Each victim had a lengthy criminal record, and was wanted by the law. One rapist, an armed robber, three men wanted for murder, and a drug dealer known for selling poisonous drugs to his clients. In keeping with the theme of his rampage, they had died brutally, with their necks broken and skulls crushed in, their bodies left in alleyways to be discovered a few hours later.

He closed the file. He was going to have to find a way to deal with this; he just didn’t know how. When he spoke, his voice sounded like a recording. “Did anyone see who did this?”

“There was one eyewitness,” Dag said. “A woman walking her dog saw our killer kneeling over one of the victims, strangling the crap out of him.”

I killed them with my bare hands, he thought. How lovely.

“Did she give you a physical description?”

“Witness said he was a little guy, if you can believe that.”

He started to tremble. For the first time, he realized what a huge risk he’d taken coming here. If he wasn’t careful, Dag and Schoch would realize that he was the little guy the eyewitness had seen, and they’d take a sample of his DNA, compare it to the victims’ samples, and then they’d have to arrest him.

Dag wore a blank look, and wasn’t making the connection. Schoch hadn’t made the connection yet, either. So far so good, but what about later on? They were smart cops, and their brains worked like filters. Eventually, it would dawn on them why Peter had come to see them.

He needed to stop that from happening, and decided to blur their memories. Magicians were masters at blurring their audiences’ memories, and he would do the same with the detectives.

He asked Dag what several notations he’d seen in the homicide reports referred to. Dag obliged him, and spent five minutes explaining the notations. When Dag was done, Peter asked Schoch to explain the coroner’s reports in the files. Schoch obliged him as well, and five more minutes were spent. Getting the detectives talking served an important purpose. Instead of asking questions, they were now having to answer questions. This made them switch gears, and use a different part of their brains.

The second thing it did was kill time. The further away they moved from the thing Peter didn’t want them to remember, the less in focus the memory became. If he killed enough time, the memory would become blurred with the things he was now asking them. Magicians called this stalling technique time delay. During a magic show, things happened onstage which the magician did not want the audience to remember. By creating a time delay, the audience often forgot the very thing which allowed the trick to work.

Peter worked his magic on the detectives. Soon they looked bored, and ready to go back to work. “Thanks for talking to me. I’ll let you know if I remember anything from that night.”

The phone on the desk lit up. Schoch snatched the receiver and waved good-bye. Dag walked him to the elevators and punched the button.

“I’ll e-mail you about those tickets,” the detective said.

“I won’t forget,” Peter promised.

Riding down in the elevator, Peter hugged himself and shut his eyes. How could he have murdered six men with his bare hands and not remember the act? It just didn’t seem possible.

Perhaps someone else was responsible, a madman maybe, or another poor soul possessed by a demon. Those were logical explanations, and he was willing to accept them, except he still couldn’t understand how he’d managed to end up with Max.

Stepping outside the 19th Precinct, he texted Liza that he’d be home in a few hours, then hailed a cab and headed downtown to the Village.

39

Long ago, a freight rail line had run high above the streets of Manhattan on the West Side. One day the trains had stopped running, and the elevated line had fallen into disrepair, with weeds and garbage strewing the tracks. The city had planned to tear down the constant eyesore along with all the memories.

Only this was New York, where everything old became new again. A vocal group of residents had banded together with the goal of preserving the tracks. Calling themselves Friends of the High Line, they’d begun the arduous process of convincing the city’s leaders to change their minds. In the end, they had won, and the tracks were saved.

Today, the tracks served as a pedestrian walkway that stretched from Gansevoort to 34th Street, and was filled with well-tended gardens, dozens of pieces of modern sculpture, and comfy places to curl up with a book, which many people did when the weather was pleasant.

Because this was New York, the High Line had plenty of rules. No smoking, biking, skateboarding, picking flowers, climbing, throwing objects, littering, filming movies, or blasting boom boxes were allowed. And there were no street performers of any kind.

Except for one.

One performer was allowed to hold court on the High Line and entertain the masses, and his name was Max Romeo.

Max had lived in New York most of his life, and knew everybody. He’d pulled some strings, and had gotten the city to issue him a permit to perform magic on the High Line whenever the mood suited him. In Peter’s opinion, it was the greatest gig in the city.

Tuesday afternoon, bright and sunny, Peter found his teacher near the West 20th Street entrance. Max was plucking shiny silver dollars out of a young boy’s ears and nose, the coins landing into a metal pail with a loud clunk! The appreciative crowd laughed and applauded.

“Stand up straight, my boy,” Max commanded with a playful air.

More coins appeared and were tossed in. Soon the pail grew heavy in Max’s hand. The old magician shook the coins while casting a suspicious gaze at the crowd. There was no tougher crowd than a bunch of New Yorkers. Yet Max had them in the palm of his hand.

“On the count of three, I will perform a miracle,” Max proclaimed. “Please count along. Are you ready? Here we go. One.”

“One!” the crowd echoed.

“Two.”

“Two!”

Max started to say “Three” and dumped the bucket into the crowd. Silver-colored confetti floated to the sidewalk, the coins miraculously gone. Max gave a matadorlike bow.

It was all about the applause. Shakespeare had said that, and he’d been right. The crowd rewarded Max generously. When the applause subsided, several members of the crowd tried to give Max tips. The old magician politely but firmly refused. Only when the crowd had dispersed did he address his student.

“Why, Peter, it’s good to see you,” Max said.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was a murderer?” Peter asked.

They sat on a bench with their backs to the gloomy Hudson. Max treaded softly.

“You look troubled,” Max said. “Have the shadow people visited you again? I saw one earlier when I stepped out of my apartment.” He patted the five-pointed star resting beneath his shirt. “Thank God you gave me this.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about the shadow people,” Peter said.

“Milly saw one, too,” Max said, as if not hearing him. “So did Lester, and Homer called to tell me that his wife believes one was floating outside their apartment window this morning around breakfast time. Have you figured out what they want?”

“That’s simple. They want me.”

“But why? Still no clue? I would have thought they would have made their intentions known by now. The spirits aren’t ones to beat around the bush, you know.”

Peter shook his head. He had three days left to save Rachael from walking into Dr. Death’s trap. Right now, though, he needed to deal with his own issues, and uncover the truth, as ugly as it might be. “I want to talk to you about the night my parents perished. I learned today that I was roaming around the city for five hours, and that a kindly old man who bore a striking resemblance to you deposited me at the police station house at three o’clock in the morning.”

Max lowered his eyes. “Is that so,” he mumbled.

“Was it you? Please be honest with me about this.”

“I believe it was.”

“Thank you. So here’s the question I want to ask you, Max. When you found me that night, were my hands covered in blood?”

His teacher’s head snapped, and he locked eyes with his student. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it most certainly does.”

“Will you tell me the truth?”

“Tell you the truth about what?”

“Me.”

“You want to know the truth about you?”

“Yes, Max. Something tells me you know exactly who I am.”

Max placed his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and pulled him close to his chest. With his other hand, he ran his knuckles across his hair. Max hadn’t done that to him in a long time, and it brought a long-forgotten smile to Peter’s face.

“I’ll tell you who you are,” Max said. “You are one of the most caring and generous people I have ever known. That’s who you are, and I’m proud to have helped raise you. Is that good enough for you?”

“No. I want to know if there was blood on my hands.”

Max scowled and released him. “How much do you remember from that night?”

“Nothing. It’s all a blank.”

“There’s your answer. There wasn’t any blood.”

“But that’s not true,” he said, hearing the fear in his voice. “I went on a rampage that night, and killed six men in the city. The police confirmed it. I saw the cold case file with photographs of my victims. It was awful.”

Max winced like he’d been kicked. A deck of cards appeared in his hands. He fanned and cut them one-handed without being disrespectful. “So you know.”

“Yes. Now tell me the rest.”

“If you insist. At the exact moment your mother and father were abducted, Milly Adams was taking a hot bath. Milly had a vision, and saw your parents being shoved into a car at gunpoint. She knew your parents were doomed, but held out hope for you.”

“Did Milly see me in her vision?”

“Yes. She said you changed.”

“Into a monster?”

“She said you turned into a little demon. Milly alerted her psychic friends, and asked us to look for you. I owned a car at the time, and was given an area to search. I looked for hours, and finally found you on Ninth Avenue.”

“What was I doing?”

At first, Max did not respond. The pools of black reappeared and Peter felt all the more ready to step into one. “Please, Max. Tell me.”

“You were in the act of interrupting a serious crime,” Max said solemnly. “A mugger was robbing an elderly man and kicking him. You jumped in, and got your hands around the mugger’s throat. You were four and a half feet tall and weighed seventy pounds. The mugger was a brute, and four times your size, yet he didn’t stand a chance.”

“Did I kill him?”

“You snapped his neck like it was a bread stick. But it was for a good cause. As were the others, I’m sure.”

Dag had made a similar comment, as if the six killings were justifiable. Peter didn’t believe there was ever a good reason to take a human life. The truth was, he’d gone berserk that night, and become a killing machine. How he was going to live with that, he had no idea.

“What happened then?”

“I took you home, where I cleaned you up, while Anna fixed you something to eat,” Max replied. “You remember how my wife always wanted to feed everyone. Anyway, you’d calmed down by then, and gone back to being a little boy. A very frightened little boy, I might add. It was Anna’s idea to take you to the police in the hopes you might identify the men who’d stolen your parents away. Which was exactly what I did.”

The cards were snapped in a fan. They had shrunk to half their size. Another fan, and they shrunk to the size of a matchbook. Then, like a puff of smoke, they were gone.

“But why did you do that, Max?” he asked pleadingly. “Didn’t the fact that I’d killed six men weigh on your decision? I was a dangerous little boy. Shouldn’t you have taken me to a hospital instead?”

Max opened his hands and the deck of cards miraculously reappeared. Seeing them made Peter swallow hard. The cards had been there all along, perhaps up Max’s sleeve, or someplace else, but hiding in plain sight nonetheless. So simple, yet it had fooled him.

“You had killed before, you do know that,” Max said.

“The burglar at our apartment. He died?”

“Of course he died. I mean, before that.”

Someone could have knocked him over with a feather.

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

“So you don’t know the truth, then.”

The truth. Peter had been waiting a long time to hear the truth. Max rose from the bench and motioned for Peter to rise as well.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

40

Down at street level they went to a hidden Italian eatery called Pepe Giallo, its motto, “Feeding the Starving Artists since 1997.” For a restaurant in New York to be Italian, it not only had to serve authentic Italian fare, but had to be run by Italians with accents and rude manners. Pepe Giallo had all those things. A host led them to a small courtyard in the back with rustic redbrick walls and a murky skylight. Tossing a pair of menus on the table, he walked away.

“I’m not hungry. Let’s go someplace else,” Peter said.

“Nonsense, you’re always hungry, even though you manage to never gain weight,” Max said. “Food will make you feel better. Try the roasted eggplant. It’s wonderful.”

An indifferent waiter took their drink orders. When he was gone, Max glanced at a couple sitting nearby. Deciding they were not a threat, he leaned forward and said, “I once read a quote by Ernest Hemingway that stayed with me. Hemingway said that memoirs are fiction. People reinvent their pasts to suit them. We take out the things we don’t want repeated, and embellish the things we do. When it comes to the past, there is no such thing as the truth.”

“Is my past fiction?” Peter asked.

“Yes. Part of your family’s past is fiction.”

“So this includes my parents.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How bad is it?”

“I never planned to tell you, if that’s what you mean.”

Peter removed a bread stick from the basket, broke off a piece. Did he really want to hear dark things about his family’s past? Milly’s accusation that he ran away from his problems didn’t seem such a bad idea right now.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Max wiped his hands with a cloth napkin. Bunching the napkin up, he extracted a full glass of water, complete with ice cubes and a slice of lemon, which he triumphantly placed in front of his bug-eyed student. Fooled again, Peter thought.

“You flashed. Do it again,” Peter said.

“I did no such thing,” Max thundered. “Admit you’re fooled!”

“All right, you fooled me. Bravo.”

A thin smile crossed Max’s face. “Listen carefully to what I have to say. This will be upsetting at first. Once I explain certain things, I think you’ll understand. Okay?”

“Sure, Max.”

“All right, here we go. You were raised to believe that your mother and father left London and came to New York because they were being threatened by the group of evil psychics called the Order of Astrum. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“That is not the actual reason your parents left England. The real reason they left is that their precious son killed a man in Hyde Park, and they were running from the law.”

“I did what?”

“Please let me tell my story without interruption.”

Peter could feel the blood draining from his head. “Sure, Max, whatever you say.”

“Thank you. Here’s what happened. Your parents lived in London and taught at a small college. Each Sunday when the weather was favorable, they packed a picnic and went to Hyde Park, where they allowed you to play while they read books. It was one of their favorite things to do. One Sunday in the early spring, your parents were going about their usual routine when your father realized you had disappeared. He grew alarmed, and went searching for you. Several minutes passed before he found you behind a thick hedge a hundred yards from where your parents had been sitting. You were in a daze, and barely speaking. Lying on the ground was a man with blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. The man’s neck was broken and he was dead. Your father gathered you in his arms, and asked you what had happened. And you said, ‘I killed him, Father. He was going to hurt us.’”

“Who was he?”

“Please, don’t make me get ahead of myself.”

“Sorry.”

“On the ground beside the dead man was a lead pipe. Your father couldn’t be sure if the man had been holding the pipe, or if it had been lying there. Your father rushed you home, where your mother gave you a bath, and wiped the blood away.”

“Why didn’t they call the police?”

“Your parents knew you were different in many ways, and did not always understand the things you did. That night, after you were put to bed, your parents talked it over. They couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to harm them. After all, they were college professors, and led dull, uneventful lives. If the man in the bushes had wanted to rob them, he wouldn’t have gotten much money. And if he’d wanted to hurt them, why?

“The next day, the story hit every newspaper in London. Scotland Yard was looking for you, and claimed to have a rather vague description of what you looked like provided by an old woman who’d been bird-watching in the park. Your father saw the newspapers and panicked. If the police found you, he was afraid they would have stuck you into a mental institution. He had to protect you, and convinced your mother that they needed to leave London, and quickly.”

“So they left because of me.”

“That’s right. Your father knew there was more to the story, and felt certain he’d figure out the rest eventually. Your parents came to New York, where they took jobs at Hunter College and went about their lives. Then the unthinkable happened.”

“I killed again.”

Max nodded gravely. “Six months to the day, to be exact. It happened at night. You were in bed, and your parents went to see a newborn in a neighbor’s apartment. When they returned, your mother went to check on you, and found you covered in blood.”

Peter stared at the table, thinking he might be sick.

Max squeezed his arm. “It gets better,” he said.

“How can this story possibly get better?” he half whispered.

“Because now you’re going to hear the truth.”

His head snapped. “Which is what?”

“While your mother tended to you, your father went onto the fire escape outside your bedroom. Finding more blood, he followed it down to an alley. It was there that he found your victim, who’d been beaten around the face and had died from loss of blood.”

“How awful.”

“Stop flogging yourself. I said it got better, didn’t I?”

“Sorry.”

“The man in the alley reminded your father of your victim in Hyde Park. Both men were physically large, in their early thirties, and rough looking. That bothered your father, yet he was still unable to make the connection. He decided to move the body before someone discovered it, and called me for help.”

“Because you had a car.”

Max nodded.

“Had he told you what I’d done in Hyde Park?”

“Yes, he had. Like him, I believed there was more to the story than met the eye. Mind you, Peter, I’d gotten to know you during my visits to your family’s apartment, and you impressed me as a fine fellow and not some little serial killer in waiting. Anyway, I rushed over with my car, and your father and I loaded the dead man in the trunk. We hauled him to a vacant lot in Brooklyn, where we planned to dump him.”

Peter found himself shaking his head. Max and his father were the two most important men in his life. The idea that they’d dumped a dead man in a lot in order to save him from the police brought out an emotion that he could not describe. He took a deep breath.

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. And that was when I had a eureka moment,” Max said triumphantly.

“Your victim was wearing a turtleneck sweater. As we dragged him out of the trunk, it got pulled down, and I spied a shimmering silver tattoo on his neck.”

Peter gasped. “He was a member of the Order of Astrum.”

“Indeed he was. He wasn’t a burglar, as your parents originally thought, but an assassin who had been sent to kill them.” Max paused again. “And you stopped him.”

“You think I knew who he was?”

“Of course you did-why else would you have killed him?”

Peter wrestled with what Max was telling him. Why couldn’t a few memories of these events have remained? It would have made it so much easier for him to deal with this. But the memories had been erased along with the violent emotions that had gone with them.

“So these killings weren’t random acts of violence, but served a purpose,” Peter said.

“That was the conclusion your father and I came to,” Max replied. “As you know, your parents were founding members of the Order. They left the organization in their teens, got married, and moved to London. One day, the three remaining members of the Order paid them a visit, and asked them to rejoin. Your parents said no, and they threatened them. Your father said he hadn’t taken the threats seriously. Now he did.”

“What about the man in Hyde Park? Was he an assassin as well?”

“Excellent deduction. Yes, he was.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I have a friend in London whose brother is with Scotland Yard. I called my friend, and asked him to ask his brother to check the autopsy report of the dead man to see if he had a shimmering tattoo on his neck. Not surprisingly, the man did.”

“So the man in Hyde Park was sent to kill my parents. When he failed, a second assassin was sent to New York, and he failed as well. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“You’re stealing my thunder.”

“Finally, the Order got fed up, and the other members came to New York to do the job themselves,” Peter said. “Only this time, I wasn’t able to protect my parents, and they were stolen out from under me. I went into a rage, and ran around New York killing bad men in retaliation. Is that the deal?”

“You make it sound like you were a monster,” Max said. “That was not the case.”

“From what you’ve just told me, I killed eight men before I turned eight years old. What would you call it?”

“They were bad men, and got the fate they deserved.”

“I was a child. Children are not supposed to kill. It was wrong. Please don’t justify it.”

“But they were trying to kill your parents.”

“Why didn’t my parents stop them? They were both psychic. How could they have been so blind to the danger they were in?”

Max shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Your mother and father left the Order of Astrum because they wanted to lead normal lives. They were psychics, but it was a small part of who they were. They kept their powers turned off most of the time, so to speak. That was why they didn’t see the danger.”

But their seven-year-old son had seen the danger. Unlike his loving parents, Peter had not turned off his psychic powers, and when danger had come calling, the demon inside of him responded in a way that was so horrible that the memories had been repressed.

His chair made a harsh scraping sound. Standing, Peter tossed his napkin onto his plate. Why couldn’t Max’s story have been different? Something easy for him to digest and come to grips with? He could have accepted just about anything, except this.

Max looked into his student’s face, and saw his pain. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to have a normal life, too,” Peter said, and walked out of the restaurant.

41

Peter got out of the cab at the Centre Street entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Keep the change.”

The driver smiled at his good fortune and pulled away. It was not every day that a passenger gave him a hundred bucks for a twelve-dollar fare.

Peter zipped up his leather jacket and climbed the stairway to the elevated pedestrian walkway that ran the length of the bridge. Day or night, rain or shine, freezing cold or unbearably hot, there was always a mob of people walking and jogging and enjoying the sights from the bridge. And then there were poor souls like him, who needed to clear dark thoughts from their heads.

It was a half mile to the bridge’s center. Upon reaching it, he gazed up at the main tower, which was as tall as a skyscraper. Many times, he’d imagined climbing over the railing, crawling on a beam to the tower, taking the stairs to the top, ripping off his clothes, and diving into murky depths of the East River. Not to kill himself, but simply as a way to change, believing that the Peter who came out of the water would be different from the Peter who’d jumped in.

But he hadn’t done it. In the end, something had always held him back. He gripped the railing with both hands and gazed at the water. He’d read once that everyone desired to be someone else. For him, that person was someone totally ordinary. He yearned for a morning when he’d wake up and not have had a vision the night before which foretold the future, or step into an old building and not be confronted by a ghost. He wanted a life with the normal daily ups and downs, happiness and pain. Was that too much to ask for?

“There you are.”

He released the railing and spun around. Liza came toward him wearing stone-washed jeans and a wool sweater, looking as radiant as the day he’d first laid eyes on her.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Because this is where you come when you’re in the dumps. Did you get my texts?”

He took out his Droid and saw the message icon flashing in the upper corner of the screen. Had his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he’d not noticed? That was no excuse, and he said, “I haven’t been myself today. What happened to Sierra and his friend?”

“They left right after you did.” Liza saw something she didn’t like, and placed her hand beneath his chin so she could stare fully into his eyes. “You look despondent. Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

Where to begin? Start by how you feel and take it from there. “I used to think that the day my parents died was the worst day of my life. I was wrong. Today is the worst day of my life.”

“Because of what Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger told you this morning.”

“That was just the beginning.”

He edged up to the railing and resumed looking at the river. Liza clasped his hand and stood beside him. They shared the same view, but he doubted they were seeing the same things, and he found himself wishing that Liza could read minds, for he would have given anything not to repeat the things that Max had told him.

“Sierra and Hunsinger were the tip of the iceberg. I killed eight different people when I was a little kid.”

“Oh, my God, Peter. Are you sure?”

“Max confirmed it. He saw me strangling a mugger the night my parents died. Said the guy deserved it, not that it made me feel any better.”

“Who were the others?”

“Two of them were assassins trying to do away with my parents; the other six came after my parents died. My demon did a ‘Death Wish’ on all the bad guys roaming the city that night.”

“So you only killed bad people. Well, I guess that’s some consolation. Isn’t it?”

When confronted by the forces of evil, most people turned away, or made excuses, or tried to ignore the facts staring them in the face. It was how they coped with evil in its purest form, and Liza was no exception. He fell silent.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

He struggled to reply. In the back of his mind he saw himself taking the plunge into the river and emerging a different person, or not. That was one way out.

“I remember the first time you brought me here,” she said. “We had just started dating, and you took me out to dinner, and then brought me here. We stood right in this spot, and you explained to me that there were sixteen bridges that connected the island of Manhattan to the different boroughs, and then you named them. There was the Brooklyn Bridge, the George Washington Bridge, the Triborough Bridge, and I can’t remember the others. Then you told me how you grew up believing the bridges were anchors that kept the city from floating away. Remember?”

He nodded.

“Is that why you came here? Because you feel like you’re floating away?”

It was as good an analogy as Peter could think of, and he nodded again.

“Are you afraid your demon will come out again, and go on a rampage?”

Growing up, his parents and later his parents’ friends had taught him to control his anger, and it allowed him to control the demon as well. So far, he’d been able to keep the monster under control, but who knew what the future held?

“That’s part of it,” he said.

“So tell me the rest. Please, Peter, I want to know. Say what’s on your mind.”

“I lost my dream. I’ve always known I was different. I talked to my mother about it, and she told me not to worry. She told me that one day I’d grow up, and everything would work out. I took that to mean that when I became an adult, I’d meet a special person, get married, have a couple of kids, and lead a normal life. I’d get to shed being a psychic just like a soldier gets out of the army, you know? Sure, I’d still have gifts, but I wouldn’t have to use them unless I wanted to. That was my dream, and I’ve held on to it for all this time. But now I know that isn’t true. This evil inside of me will always be there, and I’ll always need to keep a lid on it. Because if I don’t, it will come out, and there will literally be hell to pay. I won’t get to retire, ever. I’m stuck being who I am.”

“But I love who you are,” Liza said.

“What about the demon? Do you love him as well?”

“I love you, warts and all.”

He laughed silently to himself. He had a lot more than warts to deal with.

“We can deal with this,” Liza said. “We’ll work on it day by day, just like other couples that are having problems. We just have to believe in each other, that’s all. Isn’t that what your parents did?” She glanced at her watch and her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, look at the time. We’ve got a show in a few hours. Come on!”

Liza grabbed his hand. She was not giving up on him. That was good, because Peter didn’t see how he could deal with this by himself. He stole a final glance at the river, the idea of jumping not far from his thoughts.

Together, they ran across the bridge.

42

Milly was telling fortunes for three wealthy widows in her apartment when her cell phone rang. It had been Holly’s idea to buy her a ringtone, and the recorded cat’s meow sounded like the poor animal was being mutilated.

“So sorry.” Milly muted the phone without bothering to check caller ID. Cell phones were like traffic lights. Necessary, but terribly annoying. “Now, where were we?”

The widows sat at a round table draped in black felt covered in astrological signs in the center of Milly’s living room. Every Tuesday at five o’clock, they assembled in Milly’s apartment, where they drank tea, ate cookies, and had their futures told. The widows paid Milly enough money to maintain a lifestyle that most psychics only dreamed about.

“Who’d like to go first?” Milly asked.

“Let me start,” the widow Miller said. “I want to know what’s going to happen with my oldest son. He’s been causing me all sorts of trouble lately.”

“I see. Please give me your cup of tea and we’ll begin.”

The cup was passed across the table. Milly swirled the remaining liquid so the tea leaves were distributed, drained the liquid onto a paper napkin, then gazed into the cup. The key to reading tea leaves was the ability to interpret the symbols suggested by the leaves, of which there were over a hundred, each with different meanings. If the leaves looked like a stone, it meant there was work to be done. If they resembled a house, it meant that prosperity was in the future, while a mountain meant an arduous journey was ahead.

The symbol in the widow’s cup was a snake, a bad sign. But Milly wasn’t going to tell her guest that. Bad news was bad for business. Instead, she said, “Your son will continue to make questionable choices. He means well, but his decisions do not always reflect this.”

“Will he ever get a real job?” the widow asked.

Snakes did not work. They hung around all day, sleeping, and were the laziest of creatures. The widow’s son was no different.

“I don’t see a job in his immediate future,” Milly replied truthfully.

“Someday?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can you be more specific? He’s thirty years old and I’m still supporting him!”

Milly studied the leaves some more. The snake appeared to be well fed. The widow’s son wasn’t going to leave home until his mother stopped babying him. “Your son has the potential to do many useful things with his life. Whether or not he does is up to you.”

“Up to me? So what do I do?”

“Take a long trip. I hear a cruise to Alaska is nice this time of year.”

“Seriously? What about my son? Should I take him along?”

“Leave him behind.”

“But I’ve never done that before. Will he be all right?”

Milly again consulted the leaves. The snake had sprouted wings and resembled a butterfly, a symbol of growth and change. “He’ll be fine,” she assured her.

A telephone rang in the study down the hall. Milly’s home number was unlisted, and hardly everyone ever called her.

“Did you need to get that?” the widow asked.

“They can leave a message,” Milly replied.

The phone continued to ring. Like most witches, Milly was a private person, and hated intrusions. An annoying telemarketing firm had found out the hard way, and she’d cast a spell over them when they wouldn’t stop harassing her. Only after they’d gone out of business had the company’s operators gotten their voices back.

The phone would not stop ringing.

“Let me get that,” Milly said. “Please, help yourselves to more tea.”

She went to her study to take the call. She’d already decided that her caller would wake up tomorrow with an ugly mole on their nose with black hairs sprouting out of it. That would make them think twice about calling her again. She snatched up the receiver.

“Who is this, and what do you want?” she demanded.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Adams, this is Joe, the building’s head of security,” a man’s deep voice said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you have a visitor.”

“I’m busy, Joe,” she said icily.

“I know you are, Ms. Adams. I told your visitor that you had guests and were not to be disturbed, but she insisted that I ring you.”

Joe was a decent fellow, and always helped her bring in her groceries. Milly quickly undid the spell that she’d just cast over him, then reminded herself to look at Joe’s nose tomorrow morning to be sure he was all right.

“Does this visitor have a name?” Milly asked.

“It’s your niece, Holly.”

So that was who’d called her cell phone. And when Milly hadn’t answered, Holly had rushed over to see her. Something told Milly this was about Peter, and could wait.

“Tell her that I’m busy, and will call her later,” Milly said.

“She says it’s a matter of life and death, and that she must see you now,” Joe said.

“Really. Well, I guess you’d better send her right up.”

“Will do.”

Milly hung up the phone. This sounded serious. She returned to the living room to check on her guests. Their teacups were full, their conversation light and pleasant.

“I’ll just be a few more minutes,” she promised them.

A witch’s life was filled with drama and suspense. It was part of the job description, and there was no getting around it. A light tapping on the door announced Holly’s arrival. Milly ushered her niece into the foyer with a finger to her lips and shut the door behind her.

“There are clients in the living room. What’s wrong?”

Holly pulled the wool cap from her head and shook out her hair. Her cheeks were without color, her eyes glassy from crying. She struggled for a proper reply.

“This is about Peter, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’ve been scrying on the poor boy again. I see it clearly in your face. You must leave Peter alone!”

“But I can’t,” Holly said, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Peter wants to kill himself.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“He nearly jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this afternoon. I was scrying on him, and I saw the whole thing. He would have done it, but his girlfriend Liza came to the rescue. I’m so worried about him, Aunt Milly.”

“Lower your voice,” Milly said, glancing at the living room. “Tell me something. Why do you assume Peter was going to jump? He might have just been out for an afternoon walk.”

“Peter gets depressed sometimes. He wants his life to be different. Sometimes he can’t handle it. He told me once that he imagined himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, and coming out of the water a different person. I told him that if he jumped off the bridge, he’d surely die. He said, ‘If that’s what it takes…’ and his voice trailed off.”

Milly squeezed her niece’s arm. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

“Peter swore me to secrecy.”

“You still should have told me. I would have talked to him.”

“It won’t make it any better. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Milly wanted to grab her niece by the shoulders, and shake some common sense into her. Milly understood who Peter was, and what he was, better than anyone else, except maybe Max. If anyone could talk the boy off a ledge, it was her. Not that she could convince Holly of that.

“My powers of persuasion are far greater than yours,” Milly said. “I will go see Peter tomorrow, and talk some sense into him. He’ll listen to me.”

Holly shook her head and stared at the floor. A tiny sob escaped her lips. “It’s too late. Max told Peter about some horrible things he did when he was a little boy. I heard the whole thing. Peter ran out of the restaurant with the most horrible expression on his face.”

“You mean Max told Peter about the killings,” Milly said matter-of-factly.

“You know about them?”

“Of course I know about them. Come on, dear girl, I helped raise Peter.” A noise from the other room caught Milly’s ear; her guests were growing restless. If she wasn’t careful, the subtle spell she’d cast over them would evaporate like a puff of smoke, and they’d seek out another psychic in the city to look into their futures and soothe their fears. “I must get back to my guests. Come back later, and we’ll go have dinner and talk this through some more.”

Holly shook her head, still miserable.

“What is it now?” her aunt said stiffly.

“Peter’s going to do harm to himself. I can feel it in my bones,” Holly declared.

A feeling in the bones was the window to a witch’s soul, and could not be denied.

“And what do you propose we do?” Milly asked.

“We must protect Peter,” Holly said.

Her niece didn’t understand. Milly didn’t have the time or the patience to explain it to her. Holly would have to learn on her own about Peter, just as Milly had done. She opened the front door and gently but firmly pushed her niece into the hall. Nearly fifty years separated them in age, but sometimes it felt more like hundreds, the different between them was so great.

“What are you doing?” Holly said, sounding hurt.

“Showing you out, my dear.”

“But why-what have I done?”

“You don’t understand what’s going on. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have raced across town, and barged in on me like this.”

A hurt look crossed Holly’s face. “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”

Milly stuck her head through the open door. “You and I were not put on this earth to protect Peter. Peter was put here to protect us. Now go home. I’ll call you later.”

Holly looked stunned, the words slow to sink in. Milly shut the door firmly in her niece’s face, and returned to her guests in the living room.