by James Swain
“Who is it?” her aunt called from the living room.
“It’s Ralph. He’s delivering a package,” Holly replied.
“I wasn’t expecting anything. Were you?”
“No.”
“He usually calls up first,” her aunt said suspiciously.
“Maybe he forgot.”
Through the peephole, Ralph gave the buzzer another jab. He was a good-natured man and friendly, but now had a troubled look on his face. Holly decided to err on the side of caution, and opened the front door without unfastening the security chain. “Hi, Ralph? What have you got for us?” She peered through the cracked door.
“Special delivery,” Ralph said.
“Is something wrong? Who’s that standing behind you?”
Ralph’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he sunk to the floor still clutching the package. Behind him stood the man who’d attacked her and Reggie that morning. It was Wolfe, clutching a club in his hand.
“Aunt Milly, call 911,” Holly shouted.
Wolfe kicked the door before Holly could shut it. The chain broke, and the door hit her in the face. Seeing stars, she fell to the floor. Wolfe entered and slammed the door.
“Hello, bitch,” Wolfe said.
“It’s witch,” Holly whispered.
“I like bitch better. Stand up.”
“I can’t,” Holly replied, fighting to stay conscious.
Wolfe grabbed Holly by the hair, and jerked her head so he was looking in her face.
“You’re a difficult one, aren’t you?”
“Go to hell.”
Wolfe dragged Holly kicking and screaming into the living room like a caveman. Her aunt was waiting, and tried to hit Wolfe with an antique lamp. Wolfe lashed out, and sent her aunt sprawling to the floor. Max was next, and threw a clumsy punch at Wolfe’s head. The old magician also ended up on the floor.
Holly pushed herself into a kneeling position. Blood was pouring out of her mouth, and one of her bottom teeth felt loose. She looked up at Wolfe.
The assassin was smiling at her.
“Your turn,” he said.
Holly braced herself. She had accepted her own mortality long ago. It was part of being a witch. What she hadn’t accepted was that she might be brutally murdered in the prime of her life. That wasn’t fair, and she told herself she must fight back.
Through the living room window, she saw the crows dancing on the branches. They knew something was wrong, yet without Milly’s direction, would not react.
Help me, she told them.
Wolfe raised his club.
40
There was no faster driver than a New York cabbie. Peter threw money at the driver and jumped out of the backseat. His shoulder hit the front door as he entered the Dakota.
The guard’s chair behind the front desk was empty. That was strange—there was always one guard behind the desk, and another standing in the lobby, ready to hold open the front door.
“Anyone home?”
A dull banging sound got his attention. The noise was coming from the coat closet behind the desk. He jerked open the closet door. A red-faced security guard stood inside. His wrists were bound together with wire, his mouth covered with duct tape.
Wolfe had beat him here.
Peter had felt it during the cab ride over, the coldness in his bones telling him that evil was knocking at his door. He ripped the tape from the guard’s mouth. The man winced.
“How long has he been here?” Peter asked.
The guard gasped for air. “Just a couple of minutes. He came in pretending to be a delivery man, then jumped us.”
“Us? Where’s your partner?”
“He took him upstairs with him.”
“Can you free yourself?”
“Yes, once I get out of this damn closet,” the guard said.
Peter ran to the elevators and hit the call button. Nothing happened, and he stared at the LED displays above the doors. The building had three elevators, and each was stuck on the fifth floor. Milly’s apartment was also on the fifth floor. He quickly found the stairwell, and flew up the stairs. The rage had returned, and he felt ready to take on an army.
He came out of the stairwell on the fifth floor, and ran the length of the hall to Milly’s apartment. Outside her door the second security guard lay on the floor, moaning softly. The apartment door was closed, and Peter rammed it with his shoulder like he’d seen cops do in the movies. The door flew off its hinges, and he raced inside.
“Milly? Holly? Max?”
“Help,” came a voice from the living room.
It was Holly, sounding hurt. He entered the living room expecting the worst. Milly lay on the floor in a pool of blood, while Max knelt beside her. Across the room, Holly was having her hair pulled out by Wolfe, who was preparing to strike her with a club.
“Stop!” Peter said.
Wolfe stopped what he was doing to look his way.
“You’re an hour late, and a dollar short,” the assassin said.
Peter grabbed a flower vase from a table and dumped its contents onto the floor. He’d ended Zack’s life with a miserable screwdriver, and felt certain that he could arrange an equally inglorious demise for Wolfe as well. Flipping the vase over, he grabbed it by the neck.
He moved forward.
“Do you really think you can hurt me with that?” Wolfe mocked him.
He kept coming, halving the distance between them.
“Stop right there, or I’ll crush her skull,” Wolfe exclaimed.
Peter stopped on a dime. He heard a loud Ping! sound that reminded him of hail falling during a storm. There had been no hail outside, just a heavy rain, and he ignored it.
“Let her go, or I’ll kill you,” he said.
“I’m the one holding the cards here. Not you.”
Wolfe was wrong. Peter had the power to hurt Wolfe, and bring this to an end. Call it a gift, or a curse; whatever it was, he’d had this power his entire life, and had just never known it was there. Now, he did, and he was going to unleash all its fury on Wolfe.
Peter raised the flower vase. “Last chance.”
“You think you can take me down with that?” Wolfe said.
“Sure do.”
“Take your best shot.”
The pinging sound had not gone away. Peter glanced at the picture window that faced the park. Milly’s crows were throwing their bodies against the glass, trying to get inside to save their mistress before it was too late. Or maybe they knew how evil Wolfe was, and were trying to stop him. Whatever their motive, they looked ready to die, just like him.
Peter threw the vase across the living room. He’d had lousy aim since childhood, and missed his enemy by several feet.
“Ha,” Wolfe laughed.
The vase shattered against the wall. Instead of falling to the floor, the jagged pieces flipped backward through the air, and impaled themselves in Wolfe’s neck.
“Ha, yourself,” Peter said.
Wolfe screamed in pain, and let the club slip from his hand. With blood pouring down his neck, he staggered around the living room. With each step, his eyes grew more panicked.
“You tricked me,” he gasped.
“Yes, I did,” Peter said.
The living room had a working fireplace that got plenty of use during the winter. Wolfe fell to his knees in front of it, and looked ready to pass out. The tattoo on his neck began to glow, and his eyes snapped open. He pulled the poker from the ashes, and struggled to his feet.
Max and Milly had not moved from their spot on the floor.
Wolfe lunged toward them.
Peter stood on the other side of the living room. He thought back to the night he’d lost his parents. He couldn’t live through that again, and looked at the birds.
“Get him!” he screamed.
The window imploded, allowing the crows to enter. In a mad flurry of beating wings, they crossed the living room and swallowed up Wolfe, biting at his clothing and his skin. He
looked like a scarecrow having the stuffing pulled out of him. Within seconds, his clothes had been torn apart, and his face was a bloody mess. A pitiful sound escaped his lips.
“Help me,” Wolfe begged.
Peter hesitated. The image of the dead and dying in Times Square had never been far from his thoughts. Wolfe had been in the center of the carnage, assessing his work like the merchant of death that he was. With Wolfe gone, there would be no massacre.
“No,” Peter said firmly.
“Please!”
“No,” he said again.
A gust of rain blew into the living room. The crows pulled Wolfe toward the broken window. Wolfe began to kick wildly as the birds lifted him cleanly off the floor.
Peter looked at Holly, now standing beside him.
“Are you controlling them?” he asked.
“I am,” she replied.
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“I’m learning.”
The crows carried their prey through the window. Wolfe had stopped making any sound, and was frozen in fear. Once outside, he hung in the air, the sight both beautiful and horrifying at the same time. Peter crossed the room with Holly beside him, and stopped by the window. The crows pivoted Wolfe around so he faced them.
“Please spare me,” Wolfe begged.
The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth. How many of his victims had he spared in his life? Not a single one, Peter guessed.
“Tell me about Times Square,” Peter called to him.
“What about it?”
“How were you going to kill everyone? With a bomb?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wolfe replied.
Peter felt his blood boil. The coldness was gone, replaced by a hot wire that ignited his veins, and made him as capable of ending a life as the man hanging outside. He leaned against the windowsill, and stuck his head into the blowing rain. “You killed my friends, but I’m still going to give you a chance. Tell me what your mission is.”
“To kill you, and your psychic friends,” Wolfe said, his voice growing hoarse.
“Tell me the rest of it.”
“There isn’t any more.”
“Liar.”
Wolfe dropped a few feet in the air as the crows tired. He blinked wildly, and Peter wondered if his life was flashing before his eyes.
“They can’t hold him any longer,” Holly said.
“Tell them to bring him back inside,” Peter said.
“I’ll try.”
The crows tried to bring Wolfe back into the apartment. His weight was too much, and he fell several more feet. A startled yell came out of his mouth.
“They can’t do it,” she said.
One by one, the crows released their grip, and disappeared into the night. Wolfe appeared to be hanging on an invisible thread as he floated in the air. The thread finally broke. He flailed his arms and legs while descending to the pavement below.
Holly turned away, unable to watch.
Peter stuck his head out the window just in time to see Wolfe tear through the building’s awning. His body hit something on the sidewalk, and lay perfectly still. Peter didn’t think anyone could survive such a fall, but was not willing to take a chance. He turned from the window to face Holly, and saw that she was crying.
“I just killed him,” she sobbed.
“It had to be done.”
“I’m not a monster, am I?”
“You did what had to be done. I’m going downstairs. Please stay here.”
“Whatever you say.”
Peter crossed the room to check on Milly and Max. The old magician was sitting on the floor, and had pulled Milly’s head into his lap. A painful-looking welt had appeared on Milly’s forehead, and Peter saw her eyelids flutter.
“Is she okay?”
“Just knocked out,” Max said. “What about Wolfe?”
“I think he’s dead,” Peter replied.
“You think? Better make sure. We don’t want another round of this.”
“He fell five floors, Max. He’s dead.”
The old magician gave him a scornful look. Peter had learned everything he knew from Max, yet there were times that he wondered how much his teacher had really told him.
“He was sent by the Order. Five floors is nothing,” Max said. “You need to check.”
Peter nodded, and hurried from the apartment.
41
Peter took the stairway to the lobby and ran outside. Wolfe’s crumpled body lay on the sidewalk. His clothes were on fire, his face seared beyond recognition. Smoldering chestnuts littered the ground. In the street sat the damaged chestnut cart he had landed upon.
Peter knelt down, just to make sure Wolfe was dead.
He was.
Beneath the damaged awning stood the security guard Peter had freed from the closet. The guard had a cell phone pressed to his ear, and a bewildered look on his face.
“I could use a little help,” Peter said.
With the guard’s help, Peter patted Wolfe down until the flames were extinguished. It was the perfect send-off for someone going straight to hell, he thought.
“No one’s going to believe this,” the guard said.
“What do you mean?” Peter asked.
“He was being held in the air by a bunch of birds.”
A siren pierced the air. No one had ever accused the New York police of being slow. He needed to plant the seed of doubt with the guard before the police arrived.
“What birds? What are you talking about?” Peter asked.
“You didn’t see them?” the guard asked.
“Afraid not.”
“Come on. Don’t tell me I’m seeing things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said. “I went into Milly Adams’ apartment, and found this guy attacking my friends. We fought, and I threw him out the window, and he fell to the sidewalk.”
“You threw him out the window? What about the flipping birds?”
“You must have imagined them.”
“No such luck. I stopped drinking twenty years ago. They were black and making this godawful racket. I think they were the crows that live in the oak trees across the street.”
“I didn’t see them.”
The guard looked confused, just as Peter intended. If the guard doubted himself, the police would question his story as well, and hopefully not believe him. A white Crown Vic with a flashing bubble on its dashboard came racing up Central Park West. The cavalry had arrived.
“What are you going to tell the police?” Peter asked.
“That’s a darn good question,” the guard said.
The guard waved the vehicle down. It braked with a rubbery squeal, and four men wearing dark suits jumped out. Each sported a short haircut and had a Bluetooth in his ear. Not cops, but agents of some other law enforcement agency, Peter decided.
Two of the agents checked Wolfe to make sure he was dead.
“No life in this one,” one of them said.
The man in charge nodded grimly. He was built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and no visible neck. He confronted Peter and the guard.
“Which one of you called 911?” he asked.
“I did,” the guard said.
“Come over by the car. I need to speak with you.”
The guard stood by the Crown Vic and answered questions. Peter felt his cell phone vibrate, and slipped it from his pocket. It was Holly, sending him a text message.
U OK?
YES
I’M IN THE LOBBY WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?
Peter glanced over his shoulder. Holly looked at him through a window, her breath fogging the glass. He turned back around, and resumed texting.
GOVERNMENT THEY WILL PROBABLY QUESTION YOU
WHAT SHOULD WE DO?
LIE
I KNOW THAT! SOMETHING WRONG WITH MILLY
WHAT?!
NOT TALKING RIGHT
CALL AMBULANCE
He again looked through the window. Holly looked very scared.
SHE’LL BE OKAY
HOPE SO
“Hey, I want to talk to you.”
Peter looked up. The agent in charge was motioning to him. The guard stood to one side with a sheepish look on his face. He’d told him about the birds.
Peter walked over to the car, prepared for the worst.
“Who were you talking to on your phone,” the agent in charge asked.
“A girl I know. Who are you?”
The agent flipped open his wallet. Chad Morningstar, CIA. The CIA had kidnaped Nemo, and Peter could not let the same thing happen to him, or Holly, or Max and Milly. None of them deserved to lose their freedom because of this.
“What’s your name,” Morningstar asked.
“Peter Warlock.”
“Do you mind answering some questions, Peter?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Get in the car.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“To a secure place.”
“What’s wrong with right here?”
“You got a problem getting in the car?”
“Come to mention it, yes.”
Morningstar grabbed his arm, and looked ready to get physical. A dark thought passed through Peter’s mind, and he saw himself pounding Morningstar into the ground as payback for what his bosses had done to Nemo. He took a deep breath, and the feeling passed.
“Whatever you say,” Peter told him.
Peter got into the back of the Crown Vic. As Morningstar shut the door, Peter gave the CIA agent a hard stare. The knowing look in his eye was all too familiar. He knows who I am.
Peter fell back into the seat. The game was over.
