Dark Magic

by James Swain

  “It’s the wrong explanation,” Peter said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “How many pieces of information did you tell me your group looked at?”

  “Thousands.”

  “If there was another agent, you would have spotted him, don’t you think?”

  Garrison started to reply, then thought better of it. He crossed the observatory and stood at the glass. With his hands shoved into his pockets, he watched the storm.

  “You win,” he said. “How long do you think you’re going to need?”

  There was no timetable when it came to solving a mystery, especially one which had the best brains in the FBI baffled.

  “I have no idea,” Peter admitted.

  “Guess.”

  “A couple of hours. Maybe longer.”

  Garrison glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to be giving the mayor a briefing at eleven. Call me if you come up with something.”

  “I will.”

  Garrison walked back to the elevators. He acted like he’d been expecting a miracle. Peter knew better. Figuring out the mysteries of the universe took time, especially when the forces of evil were involved. With the storm swirling around him, Peter shut his eyes, and soon became lost in thought.

  47

  Peter sat on the observatory bench with his eyes shut, and listened to rain pelt the windows. He felt like he was inside the belly of an enormous beast that had swallowed him whole. The only way out was to solve this mystery. Otherwise, he was a meal.

  The minutes slipped by. The best way to figure out a trick was to pretend he was the person performing it. He’d done that with Houdini’s Vanishing Elephant, which had fooled magicians for over a century. Everything in Houdini’s show was based upon simplicity; what made the tricks great were the elaborate presentations. The secret of the Vanishing Elephant had also been simple. The elephant never left the stage. Houdini had performed an optical trick using mirrors and special lighting that made his audience think the elephant had disappeared, then sold it using superb showmanship.

  He decided to try this approach with the Order of Astrum. On his fingers, he counted the things he knew about them. The Order had paranormal powers, and could see into the future. Each member had made a pact with Satan’s son, and dedicated their lives to causing harm and destruction to the human race. They were pure evil, and always would be.

  Then he examined the mystery. The Order had sent Wolfe to different cities to kill psychics. A few days after Wolfe finished his assignment, an attack would occur, harming the city. The Order was somehow connected to these attacks. That was the mystery, and if he didn’t solve it soon, New York would be attacked as well.

  He went to the window. Placing his hand against the glass, he felt the storm’s power surge through his body. He was looking for a slit in the hanky, something so obvious that it would have bit him, had he gotten any closer.

  But what was it?

  He thought back to the Friday night séance when he’d seen Wolfe standing in Times Square among the dead and dying. He still did not understand how Wolfe had killed so many people without any visible weapon. The spirits could be vague that way, and there was no way to get them to change.

  Lightning flashed around him, and he instinctively pulled his hand away from the glass. As he did, a strange thought went through his mind. The spirits did not play favorites, and treated all psychics the same. The Order of Astrum were seeing the same things during their séances that Peter was seeing during his.

  It took a moment for the thought to sink in. When it did, he let out a shout. That was the answer to the mystery. We’re seeing the same things.

  He’d found the slit in the hanky.

  * * *

  He pulled up Garrison’s number on his cell phone, and heard the call go through.

  “Where are you?” Peter asked.

  “Out front. Some jackass is trying to tow my car,” the FBI agent said furiously.

  “I figured out what the Order is doing. You’re not going to believe this. It was right in front of our faces.”

  “Hold on. I’m on my way.”

  Peter waited by the elevators. It was so incredibly obvious that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it sooner. They’re no different than me, he thought. The elevator doors parted, and Garrison came out like a racehorse exploding out of the gate. A pair of foreign tourists were also in the elevator, hoping to take pictures. Peter guided Garrison away from them.

  “Tell me,” the FBI agent said breathlessly.

  “It’s simple. The Order isn’t behind the attacks.”

  Peter thought the FBI agent might hit him.

  “Are you crazy? Of course they are!” Garrison practically shouted.

  The tourists were watching them. Peter pulled Garrison farther away.

  “Listen to me. The Order is conducting séances, and looking into the future. When they see a horrific event taking place, they figure out where it’s occurring, and send Wolfe to the city to kill any psychics before they see the same thing, and alert the police. The Order doesn’t know who’s behind the attacks, nor do they have to. All they know is that an attack will happen, just like I knew the attack on New York was going to happen. Get it?”

  Garrison’s face turned blank as he absorbed the information. Then, his eyes lit up. “And the Order is selling the information, instead of alerting the authorities.”

  “Exactly. In a way, they’re coconspirators, since they know the attacks will take place. But they don’t know who’s behind them, or any of the details.”

  “I thought Wolfe was involved in the attack you saw.”

  “Wolfe was there. I’m guessing he was just a spectator.”

  Garrison swore under his breath. “So we’re back to square one. We don’t know who’s going to attack the city, and have no way of stopping them.”

  Peter had come to another hurdle. He’d been sworn to secrecy the night he’d conducted his first séance, and vowed never to break the confidences shared by those who regularly visited the spirit world. But there were exceptions to every rule, especially now, when the lives of so many innocent people were at stake. New York was his home, its people his family, and he was willing to break his vows in order to save it.

  “Yes, we do,” he said.

  Garrison grabbed his shoulders. “Then tell me how!”

  The clouds were swirling around them, the city’s skyline eerily visible as it came into view. He struggled to find the words to explain. “It’s like this. Evil doesn’t pop up overnight. It takes a long time to grow inside of a person. First there’s anger, then rage, and finally evil appears. Over time, the evil creates an aura that’s seen by the spirits. If the aura becomes too great, the spirits make it known during a séance that something horrible’s about to happen.”

  “Describe this person,” Garrison said.

  “His soul has been poisoned, and he’s teetering on the brink of insanity. He’s a loner, and has pushed away whatever friends he once had. He’ll stop at nothing to cause death and destruction.”

  “I hate to say it, but that describes a lot of people.”

  “He’s also extremely intelligent.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “During my séance, I saw scores of people die, but no evidence of a bomb or guns. Whatever took those people down was invisible to the naked eye. That tells me that the attack he’s planning is extremely sophisticated.”

  “You mean like chemical warfare.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could he be some kind of scientist or engineer?”

  “That would be my guess. He’s got some kind of weapon he wants to unleash on the city. It’s too deadly for him to have built here without people knowing about it. I’m guessing he built it somewhere nearby, and plans to bring it in. You need to alert every cop in New York and surrounding areas to be on the lookout. Have them check the subways, the bridges and tunnels. With all the security cameras in this city, they migh
t just spot him.”

  “So what we’re looking for is a crazed scientist who’s carrying some type of dangerous weapon. That’s a helluva piece of detective work. Sure you were never a cop?”

  “Maybe in another lifetime I was.”

  Garrison stepped away and started making calls on his cell phone. Very soon, every law enforcement officer in the city would be on the lookout for their attacker, and, hopefully, bring him to justice. Peter had done his job, and felt a monumental sense of relief that he’d solved the mystery. Yet at the same time, he felt like he should do more. This was his city, and his home. When his parents had needed a place to run to, they’d fled to New York, just as millions of desperate people had come before them. It was a city that took in the needy, no questions asked. When the people who lived here said they loved New York, it was not a casual remark. They loved the city with all their heart, and all their soul, and so did he. It was the greatest place on earth, and he could not help but feel angry at anyone who’d want to cause it harm.

  48

  A stiff wind blew off Long Island Sound, sending a chill through Dr. Lucas Carr’s body. Standing on the crest of a hill, he shielded his eyes with his hand, and watched a fishing boat make its way toward Connecticut’s distant shores, its bow cutting a perfect V through the chop. It was the kind of day meant for being on the water, battling the elements. It was not the kind of day meant for bringing untold suffering to thousands of innocent people, yet that was precisely what was on Carr’s mind.

  Katie and Joanie are in the ground.

  The thought brought stinging tears to his eyes. Carr was a fifty-six-year-old physicist, small of stature, with wire-frame glasses, graying hair, and a razor-sharp mind. Two years had passed since the car accident that had sent his wife and daughter to their graves. It was more than enough time for him to heal, yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not let go of them.

  Katie and Joanie are in the ground.

  He headed down a dirt path to the Shoreham nuclear plant where he worked. Shoreham had been built to generate power to two million Long Island residents, but shoddy construction had kept it from opening. That had been two decades ago. The state kept the plant operational in the hopes that one day its generators would be put to use. Carr’s job was to keep the generators from falling apart. After the accident, he’d considered turning the generators on and causing a meltdown, but had been afraid the staff would have stopped him. Better to come up with a careful plan, and stick with it. That was how smart killers worked.

  He’d spent a year planning for this day. Now that it was finally here, he felt strangely calm. Soon it would be over, and he would be reunited with his loved ones.

  Katie and Joanie are in the ground.

  And then Dr. Carr started to cry again.

  * * *

  Two black Doberman pinschers met him at the gated entrance. Carr swiped his plastic key against the security pad, and let himself in. He headed up the driveway with the dogs sniffing his heels. He had been coming to the plant on weekends, and had grown fond of the dogs. Being around them calmed him down, if just for a little while.

  Reaching the front entrance, he stopped to have a look around. One of the staff was having a going-away party at a local tavern, and the last cars were leaving the parking lot. The lab would be empty. That was good, because he didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. In fact, he didn’t want to talk to anyone ever again.

  His footsteps echoed down the hallway. His coworkers had been acting strange lately, watching him out of the corners of their eyes like a bunch of spies. They must have guessed he was plotting something, but were too afraid to confront him. Stupid them.

  He entered the lab, and went to his desk. Standing with his back to the security camera in the ceiling, he opened the center drawer, and removed a Sig Sauer he’d bought at a gun show, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. There were security cameras everywhere inside the plant, and they were all operational. Big Brother was watching, but were they paying attention? He didn’t think so. People broke the rules all the time, and no one said anything.

  The refrigerator hugged the far wall. His coworkers used it to store their lunches in. Carr didn’t think they would have done that, had they known what he was keeping in there. He pried open the double doors. A small blue knapsack that had belonged to his daughter was stuffed inside. He clutched it to his chest.

  “Damn you all,” he whispered.

  He’d come to the lab every weekend for the past year to prepare for his attack. Except for the maintenance people, there had been no one in the building except him. It had given him the freedom to experiment, and create a device that, once unleashed, could not be stopped.

  He glanced around the lab a final time. It would have been easier to have shot his coworkers to death while they sat at their desks. He could have just gone postal, and gotten the whole thing over with. But he wanted to make a statement, and leave his mark on the world. He wanted to go out in style.

  “No backing out now,” he said through his teeth.

  A harsh laugh escaped his throat. It didn’t even sound like him. Before the accident, he wouldn’t have harmed a fly. But two years was a lifetime when the ones you loved were dead, and the blackness was festering inside.

  He carried the knapsack to the garage where he’d parked his Ford Windstar. That morning, he’d removed the backseat, and replaced it with a stainless-steel footlocker filled with packets of dry ice. Sliding open the side door, he carefully placed the knapsack into the footlocker, and packed it down. Then he got behind the wheel.

  His hands were trembling as he stuck the key into the ignition. He’d read in a book about ancient warfare that fear was only for those who were uncertain about their life’s path. A person should never be fearful of their destiny, no matter where it took them.

  This was his destiny, and he told himself not to be afraid.

  * * *

  He drove out of the garage into the late-afternoon sunshine. He needed to hurry if he wanted to miss the rush-hour traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

  “Carr! Hold on!” a voice called out.

  A physicist named Dr. Stan Skarda ran over. An aging hippie, Skarda wore his long white hair pulled back in a ponytail, and an annoying gold earring. Before the accident, the Carr family had socialized with the Skardas, and taken several skiing vacations together in Vermont. Carr hit the brakes to avoid running over him.

  “Aren’t you going to the party?” Skarda asked.

  “I’m heading home. I’m not feeling well.”

  Skarda put his hands on the door of the car, wanting to talk. “If you don’t mind my saying, you really need to get out more, and start socializing again. You can’t grieve forever. It’s not healthy.”

  Carr gripped the wheel and looked straight ahead. “I need to go, Stan.”

  “I know the anniversary of the accident is right around the corner. This must be a difficult time for you.”

  “It’s today. The anniversary’s today.”

  “It is? I’m so sorry.”

  An awkward silence followed. Skarda glanced into the backseat of the Windstar.

  “What’s in the footlocker?”

  “Just some things,” Carr said.

  “What things?”

  Carr did not like the tone of Skarda’s voice. “That’s none of your business.”

  “I heard you’ve been coming around on weekends, and doing work in the lab,” Skarda said. “One of the maintenance people mentioned it to me.”

  “Really. Which one?”

  “It was José. He said you were cooking up something using biohazardous materials.”

  “José said that?”

  “Yes. He told me he found them in the garbage. What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing, Stan. I have no idea what José is talking about. I need to go.”

  Carr started to drive away. Skarda reached through the open window, and grabbed his colleague by the arm.

 
“You’re not acting right, Lucas. Tell me what’s going on. I’m your friend.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Not until you explain. I want to help.”

  Carr’s rage bubbled up inside of him like so much poison. He threw the Windstar into park, and drew the Sig. It felt powerful in his hand, and he aimed at Skarda’s forearm.

  “This is what’s going on, Stan.”

  He squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered the windshield and the wheel. Skarda grabbed his arm and staggered back. His face was a mixture of pain and surprise.

  “You shot me,” Skarda gasped.

  Carr stared at the gaping wound that he had caused. The bullet had taken a small piece out of Skarda’s arm, and the wound was bleeding profusely. Not that long ago, the sight of blood had sickened him. Now, it had the opposite effect, and sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. He pointed the Sig and took careful aim.

  “What are you doing?” Skarda gasped.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Please, Lucas. Don’t do it.”

  “I read that there are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment in the future when your name is spoken for the last time. Do you believe that, Stan?”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Is that a yes, or a no?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s true. Let’s find out.”

  Skarda tried to run away. Carr pumped three bullets into the man he’d once called his friend. The gunshots echoed across the property long after the Sig had gone silent.

  Carr gazed at the dead man lying on the driveway with a strange sense of detachment. He waited for some feeling of remorse, or regret. There was none.

  He was doing sixty when he took down the front gate. Five minutes later, he was weaving through traffic on the westbound LIE, his vehicle pointed toward the city.