by James Swain
“But why? What does the Order of Astrum want?”
It was the same question Peter had been asking himself from the beginning.
“I wish I knew. I’ve got to go,” Peter said.
“Call me if you need me. Liza says she loves you.”
“Tell her that I love her. Talk to you later.”
Peter returned to the main room of the loft, where he sat at the dining table with the laptop in front of him. Zack lay on the floor a few yards away. His assistant had died with his eyes wide open, staring lifelessly into space. Peter’s stomach started to do strange things, and he looked away. He had come here with the intention of making Zack tell him the Order of Astrum’s secrets, and knocking him around a little bit. He had never expected it would end like this.
He focused on the laptop. Its hard drive contained fifteen files, each named after a major city. He opened them, and scanned their contents. Zack had been gathering information on psychics in other cities, including Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington, D.C., and preparing hit lists. Strangely, there was no file devoted to the Friday night group, and he supposed Zack had erased the file from his computer after sending the information to his bosses.
He had to find that file. It would explain why Wolfe was trying to kill them, and what the Order of Astrum’s reason was for sending Wolfe to New York. He knew enough about computers to know that nothing was ever permanently erased from a computer’s memory. The New York file was still on the laptop, and needed to be retrieved, and studied.
It was time to bring Garrison into the loop. As he pulled up Garrison’s number, something on the floor caught his eye.
He gasped.
Zack’s neck was glowing like he’d turned radioactive. Peter had never seen anything like it before. He placed his cell phone onto the table, and went to have a look.
He stopped a few feet from the body. Zack looked dead. Just to be safe, he nudged him with his toe. His assistant didn’t move.
He knelt down, and studied the glowing skin. It was the size of a half-dollar, and was shimmering. The Order of Astrum’s symbol had been tattooed into Zack’s neck, and covered with a piece of flesh through plastic surgery. Zack was dead, yet the Order’s symbol lived on. Garrison needed to see this.
He went to the table and retrieved his cell phone. A voice was coming out of it. Had he put the call through without realizing it?
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
“Peter—is that you?” Garrison asked.
“It’s me. You need to get over here, and see this.”
“See what? What’s going on?”
“I just killed one of my assistants.”
“You did what?”
“His name was Zack, and he was an assassin and spy for the Order of Astrum. He’s lying dead on the floor, only the side of his neck is glowing. I think the Order is somehow keeping tabs on him. It’s freaking me out.”
“Why did you kill him?” Garrison asked.
“He attacked me with a sword.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“No, I used a screwdriver.”
“A screwdriver?”
“It’s a long story. I also found his laptop.”
“Tell me where you are, and I’ll be right over,” Garrison said.
Peter looked back at Zack. The side of his assistant’s neck looked like it was on fire. Zack had traded his soul to be a member of the Order, and was now burning from within.
He gave Garrison the address.
37
Wolfe sat in the corner of a West Side bar called The Gin Mill, tending to the dog bites that covered his arms and legs. None of the bites were particularly severe, yet they still managed to sting like the devil each time his clothing rubbed against them. Dipping a paper napkin into a glass of vodka, he cleaned the wounds to avoid infection.
Music played out of a jukebox. The Rolling Stones’s Some Girls. Above the bar was the prerequisite flat screen TV; across the room, a foosball game. Wolfe found himself longing for a simple pub with a dartboard and a snoring dog. He’d had enough of bloody New York, and was ready to go home again.
He placed down his empty glass. His waitress hit the table like a shark. She’d told him her name while taking his order, but he’d promptly forgotten.
“Ready for another Stoli?” she asked.
“Yes. And a beer chaser,” Wolfe said.
“You got it, cowboy.”
He snorted contemptuously. He hardly felt like a cowboy. What he felt like was a battered and beaten soldier. Every job came with a price, he’d learned that long ago. Each time he took a life, a tiny piece of his soul was taken away, until he had no soul at all. He could live with that aspect of his work. What he couldn’t live with was getting eaten alive by a pack of lunatic dogs. He was going to walk away, the elders be damned. He’d never done that before, and he supposed there was a first time for everything.
His drinks arrived, and he belted back the vodka. He wasn’t sure how he’d get out of New York, or for that matter, the country. Using any mode of public transportation was out of the question. He needed a new identity. He supposed he’d have to kill some bloke.
He threw down money, and headed for the door. The pay phone next to the dart board started to ring. The waitress who’d been serving him answered it. “Hold on, I’ll check.” She cupped the receiver into the crook of her neck. “Is your name Jeremy?”
Wolfe’s hand was on the front door. He shot her a murderous look.
“What if it was?”
“Someone’s looking for you,” she said, gulping hard.
“Who?”
“Some guy with a funny accent.”
“Does he have a name?”
“He wouldn’t give it to me.”
Wolfe crossed the bar and motioned for the receiver. Lifting it to his ear, he felt the cold plastic seep into his skin. The waitress skipped away.
“What do you want?” he said.
“Hello, Major Wolfe,” said the elder with the BBC accent. “When you didn’t contact us at the usual time, we decided to track you down. How is your mission going?”
Wolfe parked himself onto the stool next to the pay phone. He had not decided how to break the news to his employer, and supposed now was as good a time as any.
“I’ve hit a bump in the road,” Wolfe replied.
“How so?”
“I tracked down Reggie Brown this morning, and got attacked by a pack of dogs. There was a young woman with him, chanting some sort of spells. I think she’s a witch.”
“Will you be able to continue?”
Wolfe laughed to himself. Nothing like getting right to the bloody point, was there?
“No,” he said flatly.
“You can’t continue, or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“Answer the question, Major.”
“Won’t. I’m finished. Game over.”
“That’s our decision to make, not yours.”
“The police have circulated my photograph, and everyone and their brother is looking for me,” Wolfe said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “It’s just a matter of time before I’m caught, so I’ve decided to chuck it.”
“We have an agreement,” the elder replied. “You signed it in your own blood when you became a member of the Order. There is no quitting on our watch.”
“Oh, piss off,” Wolfe said, letting the alcohol talk for him.
“How dare you speak to me in that fashion.”
“I’m hanging up now. Have a nice day.”
“Wait!”
“Give me one good reason why I should.”
The elder hesitated. “What if we change our deal?”
“What are you offering?”
“More money.”
“I’ve got all the flipping money I want. It will have to be something fresh. Put your thinking cap on, and come up with something.”
“I need to speak with the others.”
“Do
that,” Wolfe told him.
The line went mute. Wolfe found himself staring at his reflection in the silver plate on the payphone. The tattoo on his neck had intensified in color. The tattoo was like a homing device which let the elders keep track of him. The day Wolfe had the tattoo removed, he would have to tell the doctor to cut very deep.
“Are you still there?” BBC accent said, coming back on the line.
“I’m here,” Wolfe replied.
“We wish to make you a new offer in recognition of your present situation. This offer should more than compensate you for your trouble.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Wolfe said.
“If I’m not mistaken, you are presently in a bar with several large-screen television sets. Walk to the nearest screen, and stare at it.”
“Why the hell should I do that?”
“Major—just do it!”
Wolfe dropped the phone, the receiver banging against the wall. The nearest screen hung directly over the bar. He crossed the room and gazed up. A basketball game was showing, with men flying through the air like they had wings on their feet. In the blink of an eye, the picture changed to a tranquil bay with deep blue water, and a fishing boat tied to a dock. A sunburned man wearing a straw hat was cleaning the deck, while whistling to himself. The man looked happy, without a care in the world, and Wolfe’s face grew warm as he realized that he was looking at himself, the picture on the screen his dream of one day retiring to the Seychelles. It upset him to know that the elders knew such intimate details about him, but that was the price you paid for working with men who practiced dark magic. He went back to the pay phone.
“No thanks.”
“But—”
“I’ve got all the money I need to buy my boat and start my charter fishing business,” he said. “You can’t dangle that carrot in front of my face.”
“You’re a hard man to please, Major. You realize we could crush you like a bug, if we so choose.”
“But then there would be no one to kill Peter Warlock and his friends.”
“We could find someone else.”
“Who can kill psychics like I can? Good luck.”
“Perhaps we can sweeten the offer.”
“Go right ahead,” Wolfe said sarcastically.
Again the phone went mute. Wolfe could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times in his life he’d been in a position like this. He caught the waitress’s eye, and mimicked chugging a beer. She got him a perspiring Heineken from the bar, and slapped it into his hand with a knowing wink. The elder with the BBC accent returned to the line.
“We have something else we’d like to put on the table,” the elder said.
“I’m listening,” Wolfe replied.
“Go back to the large screen TV you were looking at a moment ago.”
“What for?”
“It’s part of our offer.”
Wolfe crossed the room. A commercial with a talking lizard was showing on the flat screen. Before his eyes, the reptile turned into a ravishing woman sitting on a prison cot in some godforsaken part of the world. It was Rita. He walked back to the pay phone.
“Where is she?” he said into the receiver.
“Turkey,” the elder said.
“Don’t tell me she’s in Diyarbakir.”
“It’s a rather nasty place, isn’t it?”
Diyarbakir was a hellhole. Torture by the guards was common, with prisoners dragged behind cars across a concrete courtyard until they died.
“How did they catch her?” Wolfe asked.
“Your girlfriend attempted to kill an Arab terrorist who was in Turkey on vacation. It seems she’s employed by the Israeli Mossad. How ironic that both of you are in the assassination business.”
“Shut up, you dirty swine.”
“Now, now, Major, we didn’t put her there, but we can get her out.”
“You can? How?”
“Leave the details to us. Our offer to you is this. Stay in New York and finish your job. Rita will be sprung from prison, and flown to a city of your choice. First class, of course.”
Wolfe took a swig of beer. Rita was the only woman he’d ever loved. Like him, she had no family or friends. He was the only person who cared about her, and she him.
“You have a deal,” Wolfe said.
“You’ll kill the rest by tomorrow?” the elder asked.
“You have my word.”
“Tell me how.”
Wolfe hadn’t thought that far ahead. Killing the others in such a short amount of time would be hard, unless he set a trap. He had not forgotten the old witch and her niece going out for dinner, even though they knew their lives were in danger. They were naïve, and he would use them as bait to draw the others in.
“I’ll have to get them all in the same room,” Wolfe said.
“Is that possible?” the elder asked.
“They’re a close-knit group. It shouldn’t be difficult.”
“When will this take place?”
“Right now.”
“Splendid. I look forward to speaking with you soon.”
“What about Rita?” Wolfe asked. “When will I know she’s safe?”
“Don’t worry about Rita. We’ll take care of everything. Farewell, Major.”
The phone went dead. Wolfe crossed the room and stared at the flat screen. The elders had left Rita’s image there, just to torture him. His dream of running away to the Seychelles had always included her. Without Rita, the dream would die. He would not let that happen, even if it meant killing half the people in New York with his bare hands.
“I love you,” he whispered to the screen.
His beloved began to fade away. A pitiful sound escaped his throat. Once during a mission he’d been captured and tortured in the Congo, and it hadn’t been as painful as this.
He left the bar knowing what he had to do.
38
Nothing ever died on a computer. Every file left a history, even if had been erased. It was all there, recorded like a giant footprint for posterity, if you just knew where to look.
Garrison knew where to look. The FBI agent worked the keyboard on Zack’s laptop, a study in concentration. Peter sat beside him, and tried not to look at Zack, who lay on the floor fifteen feet away. His assistant’s neck had stopped glowing right before the FBI arrived.
“So what am I looking for?” Garrison asked.
“A file on me and my psychic friends,” Peter replied. “Hopefully, it will help us figure out what Wolfe’s mission is.”
Garrison resumed his search. “I’m still having a hard time believing you killed Zack with a screwdriver while he had a sword. How does that work?”
“I got lucky.”
“Lucky, my ass. What are you, a Jedi warrior?”
Peter did not have a good answer. How could he explain that the demon inside of him had killed Zack? Now that the demon was gone, he wanted to put the incident out of his mind.
“Found something,” Garrison said several minutes later.
Peter leaned in to have a look. The file was called FNP. That had to stand for Friday Night Psychics. Garrison opened the file, and scrolled through the pages. It contained the names of the Friday night group, their phone numbers, and their addresses. There was no mention of Wolfe, or why he’d been sent to New York.
“Damn it,” Peter said.
Garrison closed the laptop and slid it off the table. “I’m going to let our forensic team have a crack at it. Maybe there’s more here I’m not finding.”
“You’re taking the laptop away?” Peter asked.
“I sure am.”
Peter felt himself start to panic. He trusted Garrison, but not the people he worked for. He couldn’t let the FBI get their hands on those names.
“You have to erase that file,” Peter blurted out.
“No can do. This is evidence.”
“You have to. Otherwise, everything falls apart.”
Garrison gave him a health
y stare. “Explain yourself.”
“If my friends’ names get out, the Friday night psychics are no more.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There are rules to conducting a séance that must always be followed. They have to be conducted at night, the participants have to dress a certain way, and certain props must be used, including occult signs and astrological symbols. It’s part of the deal, and there’s no getting around it.”
“So?”
“One of the most important rules is secrecy. Each member vows to protect the identities of the other members of the group. If the group becomes exposed, its ability to talk with the spirit world ends. If you let that file out, our ability to conduct séances will die.”
“You’re saying you won’t be able to help me?” the FBI agent asked.
“That’s right.”
“Why do you need a group? Why not just do it yourself?”
“The spirits don’t often hear us. If one psychic calls out to them, they usually don’t respond. If a group of psychics calls, they do. It’s because of all the commotion in the spirit world.”
“It’s noisy on the other side, huh?”
Peter nodded. He’d been there, and it was as loud as a busy subway station.
“You’re asking me to commit a crime,” Garrison said. “As an officer of the law, I’m not about to step over that line. At the same time, I don’t want to do anything that will diminish your ability to help me. So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go over to the other side of the room. The laptop stays right here. If this file’s gone when I come back, I’m not going to say anything.”
“Got it,” Peter said.
The FBI agent’s chair made a harsh scraping sound as he rose from the table.
“See you in a few,” Garrison said.
* * *
Peter texted Snoop, asking how to make the file disappear from Zack’s laptop. His assistant replied with a detailed set of instructions, and Peter went to work. Garrison stood on the other side of the loft, talking to a member of his team.
Several excruciating minutes later, the file was gone.
Peter breathed a sign of relief. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Holly. He answered in a hushed voice.
