Dark Magic

by James Swain

  As the car pulled away from the curb, Peter glanced at the front of the Dakota. Holly was watching, and had tears running down her cheeks. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

  They hurtled downtown. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Peter thought.

  42

  Morningstar took him to the 14th Precinct on West 35th Street, also known as Midtown South. It was here that the criminals of Times Square were brought to be booked. The precinct had a reputation for being a cesspool, and they passed an assortment of lowlifes on their way to the basement. Peter looked down as he walked, and tried to remain calm.

  They entered a small room with a desk and two chairs. Peter sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and put his elbows on the desk. There was another chair beside his, which he assumed was for a lawyer. Morningstar remained standing.

  “Tell me about Wolfe,” the CIA agent said.

  Peter had already made up a story during the ride. Most of it was true, and he hoped Morningstar would buy the rest. He took a deep breath, and began. “A crazy guy attacked me three nights ago. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. This afternoon, I went to visit some friends at the Dakota, and this guy followed me there. He got into the building, and broke into the apartment. We fought, and I threw him through a window in the living room.”

  Finished, Peter leaned back in his chair.

  “That’s it?” Morningstar asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Their eyes locked. The CIA agent wasn’t buying his explanation one bit.

  “Exactly what is your relationship with Millicent Adams?” Morningstar asked.

  “She helped raise me,” Peter replied.

  “How about the other two people in the apartment?”

  “Holly Adams is her niece, and my friend. Max Romeo, my magic teacher, also helped raise me. Max is a friend of Milly’s as well.”

  “So you all know each other?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why were you all together?”

  No good answer came to mind, so Peter made one up.

  “We were going out to celebrate my birthday,” he said.

  “Really. Give me your wallet.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Just do it.”

  Peter dug out his wallet, and handed it over. Morningstar removed his driver’s license, and held it up to the overhead light. “Your birthday was last month. Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not lying,” Peter said.

  “Your birthday story is nonsense.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Then why were your friends getting together so late?”

  “I’m in show business, and work nearly every night. I miss a lot of holidays and anniversaries and stuff like that. We picked this afternoon because we were all available.”

  Morningstar tossed his wallet to the table. “What do you do?”

  “Do?”

  “For a living.”

  “I’m a professional magician.”

  “Do you read minds, and tell the future?”

  Morningstar was trying to trap him. Peter told himself to stay calm.

  “No, that’s what a mentalist does,” he said. “I do magic tricks, like sawing a woman in half and making things disappear.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No, that’s what a comedian does.”

  Morningstar pulled the other chair out from the table, and sat backwards in it. He eyed Peter coolly. “You’re the guy we’ve been looking for, aren’t you?”

  Busted! Peter thought.

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

  “I think you do. Should I explain?”

  “Please.”

  “You’re the guy who can see into the future, and predict what’s going to happen,” the CIA agent said. “You know, the United States government could use a person with your talents. You could make the world a safer place. Think about it.”

  Peter shifted uncomfortably. “You’ve got me mistaken for somebody else. I’m not a psychic.”

  “Did I call you a psychic?”

  “No, but that’s what psychics do, and I’m not one.”

  “Why don’t you admit it? It will make things a lot easier.”

  “Because then I’d be lying.”

  Morningstar rocked forward in his chair. “Tell me about the birds.”

  “What birds?”

  “The flock of birds that helped you do away with Wolfe. The guard at the Dakota saw them fluttering outside the apartment window before Wolfe fell. Is that another one of your powers? Can you make animals do your bidding?”

  “I can pull a rabbit out of a hat, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “I know. That’s why I became a magician.”

  Morningstar came out of his chair faster than Peter would have liked. He pointed at the door. “I’ve got someone standing in the hallway that will identify you. Why don’t you just admit who you are, and spare him the trouble of having to come in here?”

  “There’s nothing to admit,” Peter said.

  “Sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

  “I’m happy with the mind that I have.”

  Morningstar jerked the door open. “Come in.”

  Special Agent Garrison entered the room. He was the last person Peter wanted to see right now. Peter wondered if he could talk Morningstar into putting him on the same farm in Virginia where Nemo was being held. At least he’d have someone to talk to.

  “Stand up,” Morningstar said.

  Peter rose from his chair, ready to face the music.

  “Special Agent Garrison, is this the psychic you told the CIA about?” Morningstar asked.

  Garrison popped a piece of candy into his mouth. He gave Peter a healthy stare.

  “No,” Garrison said.

  Peter nearly hit the floor.

  “What?” Morningstar exploded. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. It’s not him,” Garrison said.

  “Hold on a minute. You told us you met with a psychic in New York who was dialed in to Wolfe. You said this psychic was in his twenties, slender, and good-looking. You’re telling me this isn’t the same guy?”

  “The guy I met was thinner, and had brown hair,” Garrison said. “This isn’t him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Garrison shot him a nasty look. “What do you mean, am I sure?”

  “You told the CIA you met this psychic in a dark bar, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, maybe he was wearing a disguise that altered his appearance.”

  “This isn’t the guy I met.”

  “It has to be him. Everything points to him.”

  “What do you want me to say, that it’s him when it’s not?”

  “Look at him again, will you?”

  Garrison crushed the piece of candy in his mouth. “Sure, whatever you want.” Taking out a pair of glasses, he fitted them onto his face, and leaned forward to stare at Peter. A long moment passed, with Peter doing everything in his power not to smile at the FBI agent. Finished, Garrison removed his glasses, and slipped them back into his shirt pocket.

  “So what do you think?” Morningstar asked.

  “Definitely not him,” Garrison answered. “If you don’t mind, I need to get back to work. You gentlemen have a nice day.”

  Garrison left without another word being spoken.

  * * *

  Everything got a lot simpler after that.

  They went upstairs to an office, where Peter was given a cup of steaming hot coffee. Morningstar found a tape recorder, and made Peter recount his story again, which was then typed up by a police secretary, and given to Peter for his signature. The process took an hour, but seemed longer. By now, Morningstar had stopped treating him like a criminal. The crisis had passed, and Peter could not remember having ever felt more relieved in his life.

  When th
ey were done, Morningstar walked Peter to the front entrance of the precinct. He could not wait to set foot on the sidewalk, a free man again.

  “Sorry for the mix-up,” Morningstar said.

  “You were just doing your job,” Peter replied.

  “No hard feelings?”

  “Not at all.”

  Morningstar pumped his hand.

  “Let me be the first to congratulate you,” the CIA agent said.

  “What for?” Peter asked.

  “For bringing a dangerous man to justice. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Wolfe posed a serious threat to the entire city. By killing him, you saved a lot of lives.”

  “I’m glad to help,” Peter said.

  Peter walked down the front steps of the precinct. The weather was still miserable. Turning up his collar, he headed west on 35th Street toward Ninth Avenue on a sidewalk filled with people holding umbrellas. He waited until he was a safe distance away from the precinct before pulling out his cell phone. He checked for messages, but found none on voice mail, nor any texts. That was troubling, and he hoped Milly was all right.

  He walked another block to Dyer Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen before calling Holly. Voice mail picked up, and he left a message. As he ended the call, a black Lincoln pulled onto Dyer from 35th Street, and flashed its brights at him. His instincts told him it was Garrison, and he was proven right as the Lincoln’s tires rubbed the curb, and the passenger window lowered.

  “Need a lift?” Garrison called to him.

  Peter hopped in. Garrison did a U-turn, and got on 34th, this time heading east.

  “Thanks for the save,” Peter said. “How are my friends doing?”

  “The older lady took a whack to the head,” Garrison said. “They rushed her to the hospital, and are treating her right now. I’m assuming that’s where you want to go.”

  “You assumed right. Which hospital?”

  “Roosevelt.”

  Peter felt himself shudder. They had taken Milly to the same hospital where Reggie had died. It was as bad an omen as he could ask for.

  “How did it go with Morningstar?” Garrison asked.

  “I survived,” Peter replied. “I didn’t realize the CIA was so intent on finding me.”

  “I told the CIA enough about you for them to get excited,” Garrison said. “In hindsight, that was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “Morningstar would have taken me away to some secret location, wouldn’t he?”

  “Probably.”

  “And I never would have seen my friends again.”

  “Yeah,” Garrison said under his breath.

  “Do you mind my asking you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you lie to him? You’re going to get in trouble if it comes out who I really am.”

  “Yes, I will. Might even lose my job.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  Garrison glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he sped north on Eighth Avenue. Peter’s life had turned into a cloak-and-dagger novel, and he needed to know who his friends were. Finally, Garrison replied.

  “Like I told you the other day, you’re my secret weapon.”

  “You’re not going to share me with other government agencies?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  “What do you want in return?”

  “Help. Not all the time, just when I’m stumped.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s one other thing.”

  Peter braced himself for the worst. “What’s that?”

  “You and your friends have been sending notes to the FBI whenever you see something bad during your séances,” Garrison said. “From now on, I want you to contact me directly. It will be quicker, and you can save yourself the postage.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  Peter felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. He’d be more than happy to help Garrison if his life would return to normal and his friends were spared.

  “You’ve got a deal,” he said.

  “Beautiful,” the FBI agent replied.

  A few blocks from the hospital, Peter’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Caller ID said HOLLY. He felt his heart leap into his throat as he answered her call.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “At the hospital with my aunt.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s Max?”

  “He’s here with me. We’re so scared.”

  Peter placed the cell phone against his chest. “Can you go any faster?”

  Garrison hit the gas, and the car’s wheels momentarily left the ground.

  “I’m on my way,” he said into the phone.

  43

  Holly was standing in the ICU as Peter came out of the elevator. Her cheeks were red and puffy from crying. Seeing him, she put her brave face on.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Peter hugged her. “I got here as fast as I could. How’s your aunt doing?”

  “Oh, God, Peter, I’m so worried. She keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. One minute she’s here, the next she’s not. When she’s awake, she babbles and doesn’t make much sense. The doctor said she took a bad blow, and might have some permanent memory loss, and maybe some other side effects as well. He said the next few hours were critical.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Holly didn’t sound okay. Peter put his hands on her shoulders, and studied her eyes. Her anger was bubbling just below the surface, ready to erupt. An angry witch was a force to be reckoned with, as Holly had demonstrated at her aunt’s apartment.

  “Why don’t you go back to the apartment, and get some rest,” he suggested. “You’ve had a hard day, and need to take it easy.”

  Her eyes flamed. “No.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “I’m not deserting her.”

  Peter looked around the ICU to make sure no one was listening. “All right, but don’t let your anger get out of control. Please.”

  “Look who’s talking,” she said.

  “Peter!” Milly called from inside the room.

  “She’s awake,” Holly said in a hushed voice.

  “Peter, is that you I hear in the hallway, conspiring with my niece?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” Peter called into the room.

  “Come here at once, young man. I wish to speak with you.”

  “She certainly sounds normal,” Peter said.

  Holly wiped away a tear. “Maybe she’s coming out of it. Let’s hope so.”

  “Where’s Max, anyway?”

  “He went to get a hot drink from the cafeteria for my aunt.”

  “Peter?”

  “Coming.”

  “Go slow with her,” Holly said quietly.

  Peter slipped into room. Milly sat in a reclining position in bed, looking small and frail. A pillow was propped behind her head, while several tubes ran out of her arm to a gathering of beeping machines beside her bed. Her face sported a mosaic of bruises that would have seemed noble on a boxer or football player, but looked sickening on a seventy-year-old woman.

  “There you are,” she said.

  He kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been ground through a cement truck. You know what they say. All’s well that ends well. And how are you, my dear boy?”

  “I’m fine, Milly.”

  “Holly said that a government agent took you away.”

  “It worked out okay. We’re in the clear.”

  “Leave it to you to make things right. It appears we have company.”

  Max came through the doorway holding a brown paper bag. He tore away the paper to reveal a large foam cup with a plastic lid. “Your drink, my lady.”

  Milly took the cup. She pulled back the lid and frowned. “It’s empty, Max.”

  “Are you sure?” Max ex
claimed.

  “Yes. There’s nothing in it.”

  “It must have vanished during the elevator ride up.”

  “More likely you drank it.”

  “Me? Perish the thought.”

  “If it vanished, then make it reappear.”

  “Your wish is my command.” Max waved his hand magically over the empty cup. “Like a ghost passing through the wall of an Irish castle, I command your drink to reappear. One, two, three! Why, look what we have here—your cup of decaf.”

  The cup had filled itself with the steaming drink. Milly sipped it appreciatively. It seemed to lift her spirts, and the color returned to her face.

  “How did you do that?” she asked him.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Max asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “So can I.”

  “How did he do that?” she asked Peter.

  “I haven’t a clue. He fooled me completely,” Peter replied.

  Max beamed at the compliment. Like all great magicians, he guarded his secrets like the crown jewels, and it would be a long time before Peter would be able to pry this particular trick out of him. Then, Peter had an awful thought. If Max were to die, he’d never know how the trick worked. The secret would die with him, along with all the other secrets that he possessed.

  The thought gave him pause. Max had been present the night his mother had turned into a monster, and so had Milly. They’d seen the transformation, and understood its terrible meaning. The other people who’d been there—his father, Madame Marie, and Reggie—were gone. Lester Rowe had been there, but he was now thousands of miles away, and might never return.

  Max and Milly were the only ones left who knew the secret of his parents’ supernatural powers. Peter could wait for a better time to talk to them about it, but if he’d learned anything over the past few days, waiting was dangerous.

  “I need to have a talk with you and Max,” Peter said.

  “This sounds serious,” Milly said.

  “It is.”

  “What do you say, Max?” Milly asked.

  Max looked away, saying nothing.

  “I’ll take that as a reluctant yes,” Milly said. “The floor is yours, Peter.”

  “Thank you. I have a demon inside of me, which I inherited from my parents, who had the same demon inside of them,” he said, the words spilling out. “Both of you sheltered me from this demon when I was growing up, fearful of the harm I might cause. You tried to keep me from fighting with other kids because you worried I might hurt them.”