by James Swain
“Sorry to bother you. I’m here on holiday, and just got a call from my bank saying I may have been robbed. I need to get on the Internet, and make sure everything’s okay. I know this is a terrible intrusion, but may I use your laptop?”
She studied him for a few moments. Her breathing did not change. That told Wolfe she had bought his story.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jeremy. What’s yours?”
“Blair. How long will you be?”
“A few minutes at most. I’d like to pay for your lunch.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Please. I insist.”
“Well, all right.”
She spun the laptop around so it faced him. Wolfe pulled his chair up to her table. From his wallet he removed a slip of paper containing the access codes to his different accounts and began to type. The Web site for his bank in the Caymans appeared. He entered his user name and password, and waited for his account to come up.
Even monsters had dreams. Wolfe’s dream was to one day move to the Seychelles Islands in the Indian Ocean, and start up a business. He had his eye on a small ferry that took people out to the coral reefs in the outer islands. It was a two-person operation, which was where Rita came in.
His account appeared and he checked the balance. To his surprise, all of the money was still there. It gave him hope that maybe he hadn’t taken such a bad hit.
Exiting the screen, he pulled up the Web site for his bank account in Guernsey, a tiny island in the English Channel. The money in Guernsey was still there as well.
“What the hell,” he said under his breath.
“Did you get robbed?” Blair asked.
He’d forgotten all about her. He shook his head and smiled.
“Good,” she said.
He checked his bank accounts on the Isle of Man, Luxembourg, and Andorra. Not a penny had been touched in any account, and a numbing sensation crept over him.
Rowe had tricked him. The little psychic had figured out Wolfe was an assassin. Instead of panicking, Rowe had looked into Wolfe’s black soul, and found the things which Wolfe was afraid of. The expression “played like a fiddle” came to mind.
Rowe had been wearing a bathrobe during the reading. More than likely, he’d retreated to his apartment, and would be easy to hunt down.
Wolfe stood up. His waitress came over and told him his food would be right out.
“Keep it,” he told her.
He started to leave, and caught Blair looking at him.
“You offered to pay for my lunch,” she said.
“Piss off,” he said.
He hit the sidewalk. He checked the trash bin for his axe. It had already been pinched.
He started to run. If he’d learned anything on the battlefield, it was that every second counted when it came to dealing with the enemy. Rowe’s apartment was three blocks away. A two-minute run, if he caught the lights right. He passed a courier holding a delivery envelope. Parked by the curb was a Suzuki motorbike with a helmet resting on the seat.
Wolfe stopped. “That a Razor?”
“Sure is,” the courier replied.
The courier stared at the addresses on the storefronts. He looked lost. His breathing reflected this. It was slightly accelerated.
Wolfe glanced up and down Avenue B. The street was filled with delivery trucks and yellow cabs, while the sidewalks were filled with people holding newspapers over their heads. Some of his best killing had been done in the middle of busy cities like this. People assumed they were safe in crowds, and that no harm could possibly come to them. Wolfe knew otherwise.
Wolfe got up next to the courier. Raising his arm, he chopped the side of the man’s neck. The courier’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he crumpled into Wolfe’s arms. A quick search of his pockets turned up a key ring. Wolfe laid the courier onto the sidewalk as two punked-out teenagers walked past.
“My friend’s feeling a bit under the weather,” Wolfe explained. “He’ll come round.”
Wolfe straddled the Razor. The bike lived up to its name. It was sleek and made plenty of noise. Soon he was racing crosstown with revenge on his mind. Lester Rowe was going to pay for messing with Wolfe’s dreams.
15
Peter and Max could not get into Lester Rowe’s apartment.
Max tried the intercom in the lobby. When there was no response, his teacher went outside to the sidewalk, and shouted Rowe’s name through cupped hands. Four floors up, a window opened, and Rowe’s red head popped out.
“Who is it?” Rowe called down suspiciously.
“Max Romeo. I’m here with Peter. Let us in. We need to speak with you.”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Max. Can it wait until some other time?”
“No!”
“He’s already been here,” Peter said, looking up and down the street.
His teacher turned to stare at him. “Who’s been here?”
“Wolfe. I can feel it in my bones.”
“What do you mean? Feel what?”
Peter’s body had gone cold, and the very tips of his fingers felt like cubes of ice. With the sensation had come the knowledge that Wolfe had recently been here.
“I can’t explain it,” Peter said.
Rowe buzzed them in. They climbed the creaky staircase to Rowe’s apartment. At the third floor landing, they stopped so Max could catch his breath. His teacher’s cheeks had turned pink, and he seemed on the verge of collapsing.
“Still smoking those cheap cigars?” Peter asked.
“I’ve cut back,” Max replied. “Now, I only smoke one at a time.”
“I know this great program to help you quit. Every time you want a smoke, you dial a phone number, and a guy comes over and gets drunk with you.”
“Your jokes are getting worse all the time.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Touché.”
They climbed the last flight of stairs. Upon reaching the fourth floor, Rowe stepped out of his apartment wearing a suit and snappy bow tie.
“Hello, Max. Hello, Peter,” the diminutive psychic said.
“Hello, Lester,” Max replied. “Sorry to barge in, but there’s a madman running around the city trying to kill our group. He’s already done away with Madame Maire and her husband.”
Rowe’s face sank at the news of Madame Marie’s death. “He visited my parlor a short while ago. He was going to cut my head off with an axe! I saw it in my crystal ball. This is horrible news about Marie, the poor thing. Come inside, I’m just finishing packing.”
Rowe dead-bolted the door behind them. The apartment was a reminder of what dwellings in New York once looked like, with high-ceilinged rooms, dark wood floors, and ornate crown molding. Rowe entered a bedroom where an open suitcase lay on the bed.
“Any idea why he’s after us?” Rowe asked, tossing clothes into the suitcase.
“He was sent by the Order of Astrum,” Max explained.
“The Order of Astrum. I haven’t heard that name in years.” Rowe closed the suitcase and locked the clasps. “The man’s pure evil. I looked into his future, and saw scores of people dying because of him. Is this the same fellow Peter saw during the séance?”
“Same man,” Peter said.
“Egad. What’s he up to?”
Peter shook his head. That was the frustrating part of seeing into the future. Often, he had no idea what the things he saw meant. A buzzer in the hallway rang.
Rowe looked alarmed.
“Ignore it,” Max suggested.
The buzzer rang again. It had a harsh, angry edge to it. Peter went to the bedroom window and gazed down at the street. A motorbike was parked at the curb with a helmet resting on its seat. The bike’s owner stood on the stoop, hidden from view. The only people who used motorbikes in the city were couriers and drug dealers.
“Are you expecting a delivery?” Peter asked.
“My travel agent is sending a ticket over,” Rowe said. �
�I have a cousin in Ireland that I haven’t laid eyes on in twenty years. I thought it was time we became reacquainted.”
“Don’t let him in until you get confirmation,” Peter said.
“Good idea.”
Rowe walked out of the bedroom and went down the hallway to where the intercom was located. He looked shaken by what had happened, and was muttering to himself. Peter turned to his teacher. “You’d better watch him, Max.”
“Right,” his teacher said.
Peter returned to the window and gazed down. The man on the sidewalk was gone. The icy feeling returned to his bones, and made him shiver.
Beside Rowe’s bed was a bookshelf. For a person who was against technological progress, Rowe had a large collection of DVDs, with labels like LIVING DEAD/BOMBAY 1/19/76, FIRE BREATHERS/BALI 3/16/88, WITCH DOCTORS/JAMAICA 9/07/94. One title caught his eye, and he pulled it from the shelf. CLAIRE & HENRY WARREN 12/10/92. His parents, filmed right before their deaths. On the cover, Rowe had scribbled a note which Peter now read aloud. “First encounter with the Order of Astrum. Claire and Henry showed us things that were beyond the realm of our imaginations.”
A yell sent him an inch off the floor.
“Peter!” Max called out. “Come here. Hurry!”
“I’m coming!”
He slipped the DVD into his pocket with a promise that he’d return it once he’d had a look. Then, he rushed out of the bedroom and down the hallway. Max and Rowe stood with their shoulders to the front door.
“What’s going on?” Peter asked.
“It’s Wolfe,” Max explained, frantically dialing his cell phone. “One of Lester’s neighbors mistakenly buzzed him in. I’m calling 911.”
“He’s in the building?” Peter asked.
“Yes!” they both said.
Peter’s vision clouded over. A burning rage swelled his chest and made his breathing shallow. Since he was a boy, he’d wanted to meet up with someone connected to his parents’ deaths. How he would act had played itself out countless times in his imagination. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
Entering the kitchen, he grabbed an empty whiskey bottle from the trash. It made a harsh sound against his palm. Returning to the hallway, he placed his hand on Max’s shoulder.
“Stand aside,” he said.
“Peter, don’t be foolish,” his teacher said. “I just spoke with an operator. A cruiser is on its way.”
“I said, stand aside.”
“Peter, no.”
“Do it. Both of you. Now.”
Peter had been told that he looked like a demon when he became enraged. It must have been true, because Rowe and his teacher backed away from the door.
“You going to fight him?” Rowe asked.
“That was the idea,” Peter replied.
Rowe grabbed a walking stick out of a bucket by the door, and thrust it into Peter’s other hand. It was made of walnut, and felt good and solid.
“Take this. It’s got some heft to it.”
“Thanks. Don’t come out until I say so.”
Max grabbed his arm. “Peter, please be careful.”
“I will, Max.”
“Make sure you hit him first, and hard.”
“Good idea.”
“Good luck, my boy.”
Rowe did him the courtesy of throwing back the dead bolt and opening the door. Peter squared his shoulders and stepped outside the apartment. He supposed he should have felt apprehensive, yet for some reason, he felt more confident than he ever had in his life.
He walked onto the landing, ready to slay the dragon.
16
Everybody had a history.
Peter had read that in a book whose author had survived the Holocaust. The book’s message had been clear. Every person had events in their past which were painful, and hard to bear. It was part of life, and there was no getting around it.
Deal with it.
He had been dealing with his parents’ deaths for as long as could remember. So long that it had become a fabric of his life. He had learned to cope during holidays, birthdays, and when he needed a shoulder to cry on, or an ear to listen. He had accepted that the two people who loved him most were gone, and that there was nothing he could do about it.
Deal with it.
He had, as best he could. Becoming a magician had let him escape to a make-believe world where he could manipulate reality, and pretend nothing bad had ever happened to him. But the anger was still there, and always would be. It rumbled inside of him like a volcano, bubbling just below the surface, hidden to everyone but himself.
Until now.
His footsteps sounded like cannons going off as he ran down the apartment stairwell. The coldness had returned to his joints, and he could not stop shivering. He stopped to look over the railing. Wolfe was on the landing below, holding a metal pipe in his hand.
“Hey, asshole,” Peter shouted.
Wolfe looked straight up. His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Remember me?”
Peter threw the whiskey bottle at the wall behind Wolfe’s head. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying tiny shards of glass into his enemy’s face. Wolfe let out a startled yell, and bolted down the stairs.
“Coward!”
Peter hopped over the railing, and landed on the steps below. Wolfe was already to the next landing, and running hard. The young magician hopped over the railing again, then again. He’d never been much of an athlete, yet now he felt like he could have won a decathlon. Reaching the first floor, he stopped and looked around the empty lobby. Wolfe was gone. His breathing grew short, and his vision narrowed. In the theater of his mind, he saw Wolfe hiding outside the apartment house on the stoop, waiting to strike when he emerged. He could see the tiny cuts on Wolfe’s face, and even smell his foul breath. It was like having a target in his sights.
He clutched the walking stick. He’d never been able to project his thoughts like this before. A new gift, courtesy of the spirits. How long it would last, he had no idea.
Kicking open the front door, he came out of the apartment swinging. Wolfe was right where he’d expected, and he caught him on the side of the face with the stick. The cry of pain was worth savoring. He chased Wolfe into the street, and began to strike his enemy at will. Every blow found its mark, and produced howls of excruciating pain. Each time Wolfe attempted to counter or strike back, Peter saw the blow or kick coming seconds before it was delivered, and parried it. Wolfe was bigger and stronger, yet hopelessly outmatched. His eyes took on a desperate look.
“No more,” Wolfe said.
“You quitting?”
“Yes. Stop hitting me.”
“Put your arms in the air.”
Wolfe raised his arms in surrender. Blood was pouring out of his mouth and nose. Peter fought back the urge to strike him again, and finish the job. Looking into Wolfe’s soulless eyes, he saw a little boy who’d been tortured by his father, who’d grown up to be a torturer and killer himself. He had a history, too, only it was no excuse for who he’d become.
“Start talking,” Peter said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the Order.”
“No thanks.”
Peter raised his stick and took aim. One blow was all it would take to send him straight to hell where he belonged. Wolfe recoiled in fear.
“All right, all right, I’ll tell you the little that I know. There are three elders of the Order. I’ve never seen their faces, nor do I know their names. They send me jobs to do, and pay me well. That’s the arrangement.”
Peter thought back to the three men he’d seen whisk his parents away. Were those the elders? Something told him they were, and he said, “One of the elders has crooked teeth and a twisted nose. What’s his name?”
“Like I told you, I’ve never seen their faces,” Wolfe said.
“You must have some idea.”
A spark of recognition sparked Wolfe’s eyes. He knew something. Pet
er whacked him in the kneecap. His enemy let out a muffled cry and sank to the ground like he was melting. Peter brought the tip of the stick beneath Wolfe’s chin, and raised his head so their eyes met. Wolfe’s life flashed before his eyes.
“Last chance,” Peter said.
Wolfe blinked. He was not ready to die.
“I don’t know who the elders are,” Wolfe said. “But the other members of the Order might. There’s one here in New York. A spy. I’ll bring him to you.”
“What do you mean, a spy? What does he do?”
“He gathers information. Before I arrived he emailed me the list of names of people I was supposed to kill.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name. Just his cell number.”
“Would he know who the elders are?”
“He might. He’s been with the organization for a while. Longer than me.”
“Give me his cell number.”
“It’s in my wallet.”
“Get it. And no funny stuff.”
Wolfe pulled out his wallet and extracted a slip of paper from his billfold. Peter leaned forward in anticipation. It was just the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. Springing up, he shoved Peter and sent him backwards, then hobbled over to his motorbike and jumped on. The engine barked to life.
“Bastard!” Peter shouted.
The bike sped away. Their eyes met in the motorbike’s mirror.
Wolfe was laughing at him.
The rage swelled up inside of Peter. The walking stick flew out of his hand and gyrated through the air, slicing the raindrops like a scythe. He hadn’t thrown it; it had just gone.
The stick smacked Wolfe in the back of the skull. Wolfe lost control of the bike, and it went down in the intersection of Second Avenue and Houston. Several Good Samaritans got out of their cars to give help. Wolfe jumped into an idling vehicle, and sped away.
The slip of paper with the phone number lay at Peter’s feet. He picked it up, and unfolded it. It was a receipt from a restaurant.
“Damn you,” Peter swore.
Max had appeared on the stoop. He hurried over to his student.
