Dark Magic

by James Swain

  His host waved good-bye. His name was Harold Webster, and he was a founding member of the Order. Webster was well into his sixties, yet looked like a man in his twenties. As part of his pact with the Devil, he had not grown old. In fact, he looked exactly as he had in the prime of his life. It seemed like the perfect arrangement, only his back, which he’d injured playing soccer, always ached. The Devil was funny that way—he never let his subjects forget who was in charge.

  Webster walked back to the castle. A hallway took him to the Room of Spirits, an octagon-shaped chamber with an elevated platform on which sat three swivel chairs. Two of the chairs were occupied by the other founding members, Charles Gill and Edward Eastgate. Both looked as they had in their twenties. Gill’s curse was a Cockney accent that he detested, while Eastgate’s nose and teeth remained crooked from when he’d wrecked his car.

  Webster took the third chair. It was strange, not growing old. The world around them changed, but they did not. It often made him wonder what would happen if they fell out of favor with the Devil. Would they all suddenly grow old and frail? There was no way of knowing. The Devil held all the cards, while they had nothing.

  “How did it go?” Eastgate asked.

  “He paid in full,” Webster replied.

  “Cash?”

  “Of course. Now we just need to make sure that nothing goes wrong Tuesday night. The last thing we need is an angry African dictator after us.”

  “Do you think he’d do that?”

  “Yes. His country is a shambles. He’s a desperate man.”

  They fell silent. Taking risks was part of the game, and so was taking insurance.

  “I’m thinking we should help Wolfe with his mission,” Webster suggested.

  It was Gill’s turn to speak. “Help him how?”

  “We could trick the police into thinking Wolfe is dead. That would give him some breathing room,” Webster said.

  “You mean a decoy?”

  “It’s worked before. I was in touch with our spy in New York. He found a subject we can use. The man is the same age as Wolfe, and shares the same physical characteristics.”

  The elders employed spies on every continent. The operative in New York had provided the information on Wolfe’s hit list, and was reliable.

  “Then let’s do it,” Eastgate said.

  “I agree,” Gill said.

  “Good. We’re in agreement. Are you ready?”

  His partners nodded. Webster fingered the control pad on the arm of his chair, causing the domed roof above their heads to slowly part. A hydraulic lift raised the platform into the air until they were outside of the palace, staring at a pale blue sky sprinkled with puffy white clouds.

  “Face east toward New York,” Webster instructed them.

  They faced the pastoral countryside. Astral projection had been a part of the psychic’s arsenal since the beginning of time. The elders had played with various forms, most recently the use of fiber optic cables to transmit themselves to various parts of the world. But the best way was still the old way.

  “Manhattan, Museum of Natural History, Seventy-ninth Street and Central Park West,” Webster said. “The decoy works as a night guard, and has just ended his shift. He’s about to begin his commute home. He’s driving a pale green van with black masking tape covering the rear window. It’s a real junker.”

  The elders projected themselves across the ocean to the island of Manhattan. The sensation was like traveling in a bullet train, with scenery rushing past in a blinding blur of color and sound. It was still nighttime in New York, the city being drenched by a storm. The West Side was being hit hard, and traffic was at a standstill. A green van was not among the vehicles.

  “I don’t see him,” Eastgate said.

  “Perhaps he got off early from work,” Webster said. “Let’s check the Henry Hudson Parkway on the West Side.”

  They projected themselves onto the eleven-mile highway which ran from 72nd Street to the Westchester County boundary. Traffic there resembled a parking lot as well.

  “I see him,” Gill said. “He’s at the toll bridge over the river with the strange name.”

  “You mean the Harlem River,” Webster said.

  “That’s it. The decoy is about to pass through a tollbooth.”

  They projected themselves up the parkway to the tollbooth where the van waited in line. The decoy was at the wheel, eating a submarine sandwich dripping with mayonnaise.

  “That’s him. Are we ready?” Webster asked.

  “Ready,” Eastgate said.

  “Ready,” Gill said.

  “On the count of three. One … two … three!”

  The elders projected themselves inside the van. Using the collective power of their minds, they created an image inside the van that was not real. The driver became Wolfe, who was also eating a submarine sandwich. The false image lasted only a few seconds. Just long enough for the surveillance camera above the tollbooth to capture it, and transmit it back to the New York Police Department, the FBI, and every other law enforcement agency that was hunting for Wolfe. Then, the image disappeared, and the decoy was back.

  Webster fell back into his chair. “Done.”

  “How long do you think it will take?” Gill asked.

  “Hard to say. The weather being what it is.”

  They watched the van head into Westchester County. Traffic had thinned out, and the van got onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, and picked up speed. Within minutes, a pair of highway patrol cars began to follow. The officers inside the patrol cars wore body armor, and cradled automatic rifles in their laps. They did not seem in any hurry to pull the van over.

  “There’s must be a roadblock ahead,” Webster said. “We can’t let the police take him alive. Who wants to handle this?”

  “It’s your turn,” Eastgate said.

  “I think he’s right,” Gill said.

  Webster projected himself up the parkway. Just as he’d expected, the police had created a roadblock by parking a pair of cruisers sideways in the middle of the road. Four officers with rifles were crouched behind the cruisers. The trap was ready to be sprung.

  The van pulled up to the roadblock. Webster projected himself behind the wheel, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The van rammed the two vehicles in the roadblock. A bullet came through the windshield, scaring him half to death. Webster didn’t know if bullets could kill him while he was projecting himself, and was in no mood to find out. He departed, and watched the resulting carnage from the safety of his perch above the palace.

  Bullets ripped through the van and turned the driver into a quivering mass. The van veered off the parkway, and rolled down a steep incline. The gas tank would have exploded on its own, but Webster helped it along with a murderous glare. Soon the vehicle was a mass of flames, the driver burned beyond recognition.

  “You haven’t lost your touch,” Eastgate said.

  “Or your sense of timing,” Gill said. “Good show.”

  Webster fingered the arm of his chair, causing the platform to lower back inside the palace, and the domed roof to close. He took a moment to collect himself. He found himself wondering if the driver had a wife, or children, and just as quickly dismissed the thought. In making a pact with the Devil, he had accepted that something was due the Devil, the rest of the world be damned. This was the nature of the Order of Astrum, and let no man stand in its way.

  30

  His vibrating cell phone snapped Peter’s eyes open. Only bad news called this late at night. He sat up in bed, and brought the phone to his face. Caller ID said it was Snoop.

  “Don’t you ever go to bed?” he answered.

  “Sorry to be calling this late. Someone’s looking for you,” his assistant replied.

  Lightning flashed through the bedroom window. He’d been dreaming he was a little kid again. It had seemed like such a long time ago.

  “No need to apologize. Have you talked to Liza?”

  “She’s crashed on our couc
h. She thought she had a bed at a friend’s apartment, but it fell through, so she came here. Zack fixed her a hot toddy, and she fell asleep.”

  “Thanks for taking care of her. Is she still mad at me?”

  “To put it mildly. I don’t mean to switch subjects, but someone’s trying to get ahold of you.”

  “I’m more concerned about Liza.”

  “She’s fine. Trust me.”

  “Promise me you’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Thanks. So who’s looking for me?”

  “He says he’s an old friend, wouldn’t give me his name. He sent me an e-mail, and said he’s been trying to find you. He sounds desperate.”

  “Sounds like a kook.”

  “I don’t think so. He knew a lot about you.”

  “How am I supposed to contact him?”

  “He said go to your computer, and he’ll Skype you.”

  “You’re not just saying Liza’s okay, are you?”

  “Stop worrying about it. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  Peter ended the call and breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want Liza out by herself with Wolfe still on the loose. If she was staying at Snoop and Zack’s place, she was safe. Soon he was in his study, parked in front of his computer. His e-mail account had over two hundred messages. So much for his spam filter. He scrolled through them, starting with the most recent. One message popped out. It said, Hey Superstar, Where you been? We need to talk! Omen. Omen? Who the heck was Omen? As he started to erase the message, it hit him. Omen was Nemo spelled backwards. He typed a reply to his friend, and hit send.

  Nemo’s real name was Hector Rodriguez. A street kid from Spanish Harlem, Nemo was a gifted psychic who did not need the help of other psychics to communicate with the spirit world. His ability to see into the future was unparalleled, which was why the government had made him their prisoner. Nemo was also a petty thief, and had been in and out of trouble most of his life. He and Peter had met in Max’s magic shop when they were kids. Each had instantly recognized that the other was psychic, and they became close friends. Outside of having to bail him out of jail several times, Peter missed having Nemo in his life.

  Nemo quickly responded to his e-mail. He wanted to talk, and sent Peter a Skype ID to call on his computer. Peter’s fingers raced across the keyboard as he called Nemo.

  Technology was a wonderful thing. A split second later, Nemo appeared on Peter’s computer screen. He’d grown a scruffy beard, and wore a sweatshirt with the words PROPERTY OF UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT stamped across the front. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.

  “Hey, stranger,” Peter said by way of greeting.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Nemo replied.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. Did you escape?”

  “Nope. I’m still on the funny farm in Virginia.”

  “How did you get your hands on a computer?”

  “I’m using one of the guard’s laptops. I got my hands on some sleeping pills, and slipped him a few. He’s passed out in front of the TV.”

  “You’re going to get caught.”

  “What are they going to do? Take away my HBO? Listen, Peter, I’ve got something I have to tell you. That’s why I took the risk to make contact.”

  Peter smiled at the image on the screen. “Thanks, man. Lay it on me.”

  “The government is on to you. One of my handlers mentioned it yesterday. He said the FBI had gotten a tip from a psychic in New York that an attack was going to happen in Times Square on Tuesday night. My handler said the psychic was a young guy who held séances with a group of other psychics. I knew right away who they meant.”

  Peter shook his head in disbelief. Special Agent Garrison had promised to keep their deal a secret. This sounded like a betrayal if he’d ever heard one.

  “Did your handler mention me by name?” Peter asked.

  “Nope. I think the FBI is keeping you under wraps for now. You know how these law enforcement guys are. Always fighting for turf.”

  Peter relaxed. He was safe, at least for a little while.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said.

  “There’s more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your life is in danger. My handlers asked me to look into the future, and see if I could visualize the attack. I put myself into a trance, and transported myself to Times Square on Tuesday night. It was a flipping nightmare. There were bodies everywhere. I saw you standing in the middle of it. You were fighting with some guy dressed in black.”

  “Wolfe,” Peter said.

  “You know him?” Nemo asked.

  “He’s an assassin. Tell me what happened.”

  “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you lost.”

  Peter swallowed hard. “I did?”

  “Yeah. This Wolfe dude was choking the crap out of you.”

  “What happened then?”

  “You started to die.”

  “You sure?”

  “On my mother’s grave.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I came out of my trance.”

  “You don’t think I could have saved myself?”

  “Naw, man, you were toast. That’s why I had to warn you. You need to take a trip, and get out of the city. Otherwise, you’re going to be pushing daisies soon.”

  In a day filled with bad news, this was the cherry on top of the cake.

  “I’m not running,” he heard himself say.

  “But you’re gonna croak,” Nemo said.

  “I have to stop Wolfe. Too many people will die if I don’t.”

  “You sure about this?”

  “Positive. Did you see anything else?”

  “Yeah. My handlers asked me how the attack was going down. I put myself in a trance three more times. Each time, I went to different parts of the city. It was bad.”

  “It wasn’t just isolated to Times Square?”

  “Nope. It was everywhere. East Side, West Side, Midtown, even the Village. It was hard to figure out what was going on, being nighttime and all. I saw lots of dead people. One of my handlers called it a hell storm. I looked it up. It what’s people who chase tornadoes call a monster storm. Chances of surviving one are slim.”

  “The city’s going to be turned into a hell storm.”

  “Looks like it. Sure you don’t want to bolt?”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Would you mind doing me a favor then?”

  “Name it.”

  “I have a cousin that lives in Spanish Harlem. She doesn’t own a computer, otherwise I would have contacted her. Could you warn her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Her name’s Juanita. She lives at 1743 East Ninety-seventh Street, apartment 37D. Phone number is 925-4781. She tends bar. Best time to get her is in the day.”

  Peter wrote the information down. “Got it. I’ll call her in a few hours.”

  “Thanks. One more thing. She doesn’t have any money. And she’s got a little boy. Could you help her out? Buy her a bus ticket or something?”

  “Does she have someplace to go?”

  “We’ve got relatives in Jacksonville.”

  “I’ll buy her and her son plane tickets.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Anything you want me to tell her?”

  “Tell her I think about them every day.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks, man. I’ll pay you back.”

  “You already have.”

  Peter heard the front door buzzer. He lived in one of the quietest neighborhoods in the city, and no one ever came calling this late.

  “I’ve got to go,” Peter said. “Be safe.”

  “And you as well,” Nemo said.

  Peter shut down the computer. Moments later, he was standing at his front door. Turning on the outside light, he stuck his face to the peephole. Garrison stood
outside with raindrops dancing on his shaven skull. He was alone, and wore a tired smile on his face.

  Peter opened the door, praying that he brought good news.

  31

  “Where’s your entourage?” Peter asked, ushering Garrison inside.

  “Home in bed, which is where I’m heading once we’re done,” the FBI agent said, stamping the cold out of his feet in the foyer. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  “You’re going home?”

  “Damn straight. We nailed the son of a bitch.”

  “You caught Wolfe?”

  “Better.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “He’s deader than a church social, as my pappy used to say.”

  Peter rocked back on his heels. It was like a giant invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he slapped Garrison on the arm. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. You want a cup of coffee?”

  “Dying for one.”

  Garrison finished his story at the kitchen table with a steaming mug clutched in his hand. “The Westchester police spotted Wolfe on a surveillance camera at a tollbooth early this morning. They set up a roadblock, and had a cruiser with a SWAT team come up from behind. Wolfe tried to run, and got shot to bits. His vehicle went down a ditch, and the gas tank caught fire. He got burned like a marshmallow at a weenie roast.”

  Peter leaned against the counter. He wanted to be happy, only what Garrison was describing didn’t sound right. Wolfe had impressed him as someone who knew all the angles, not a guy who’d get taken down by a bunch of local cops.

  “The last time I saw Wolfe, he was wearing an elaborate disguise,” Peter said.

  “So?”

  “If the Westchester cops spotted Wolfe on a surveillance camera, it meant he wasn’t wearing a disguise. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Look, Peter, it was definitely him.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I saw the tape myself.”

  “Was he carrying any ID?”

  “Like I told you, he got burned up.”

  Peter thought back to what Nemo had said about the government knowing who he was. Garrison had betrayed their confidence, and he felt himself grow angry as he gazed at the FBI agent.