Dark Magic

by James Swain

  Peter returned to the viewing room where Garrison and Perry were waiting. Garrison stood in the corner with his cell phone pressed to his face. The veins were popping on his forehead, and he looked like a candidate for a stroke.

  “What’s going on now?” Peter asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Perry admitted. “Garrison is talking to some cops downtown, and keeps swearing under his breath. This case is going to kill him if he’s not careful.”

  Him and me both, Peter almost said.

  “Did you hear what Carr told me? He said the man who stole the knapsack was a corpse.”

  “Yeah, we heard him,” Perry replied. “There’s a hidden mike in the light fixture in the ceiling. It’s sensitive enough to pick up a fly buzzing around.”

  “He was telling the truth.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Carr was telling the truth. I looked inside his head, and saw the dead guy. That’s what caused Carr to flip out.”

  Perry’s face betrayed her. She didn’t believe him. Peter wasn’t going to argue with her. When it came to the supernatural, nothing would change a nonbeliever. Perry didn’t believe in the spirit world, or that the forces of evil regularly did battle with the forces of good, often in plain view of people just like herself.

  “I’m just telling you what I saw, that’s all,” Peter said.

  “Right,” she said under her breath.

  “I’m not making it up. Carr saw a dead person.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said.

  Garrison had finished his call. He said something to himself that sounded like “So help me, God.” He jerked open the door, and looked back at them.

  “You coming or not?” he asked.

  “Where are we going?” Perry replied.

  “To the morgue,” he said. “There’s a dead man on the loose.”

  55

  The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York was located in Kip’s Bay, in a steel-and-glass building overlooking the East River. Garrison remained silent during the drive. He looked shaken to the core. Something had happened inside the morgue that rocked him. Peter had tried to glimpse Garrison’s thoughts to find out what it was. The wall of resistance he’d encountered was impenetrable.

  They parked on the street in front of the building. Several uniformed cops stood on the sidewalk, blocking anyone from entering. Garrison identified himself and had a brief conversation with them. The cops looked equally rattled.

  They went inside. The lobby looked like a cyclone had run through it. An employee stood on a ladder, righting a sign that hung on the wall. It read, LET CONVERSATION CEASE, LET LAUGHTER FLEE. THIS IS THE PLACE WHERE DEATH DELIGHTS IN HELPING THE LIVING. Looking around, Peter didn’t think that death had delighted anyone recently.

  They took an elevator to the basement. Peter felt the cold return to his bones as they entered the harshly lit autopsy room, an antiseptic chamber with eight steel examining tables where the city’s dead revealed their secrets. The same cyclone had run through here as well, with broken equipment scattered about, the TV monitors used to film autopsies pulled off the walls and ripped apart. A maintenance man stood in the room’s center, mopping chemical preservative off the floor. “Can I help you?” he inquired.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Garrison asked.

  “That would be the chief medical examiner, Dr. Fiesler,” the maintenance man said.

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She’s down the hall, trying to calm everybody down.”

  “What do you mean? What exactly happened here?” Garrison asked.

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dr. Fiesler’s orders. I’m sure you’re somebody important, otherwise you wouldn’t be down here. But I could lose my job, so I’m not saying anything.”

  Garrison turned to Perry. “See if you can charm this guy into telling you something.”

  “Will do,” Perry replied.

  Peter and Garrison went to a room at the end of the hall. Garrison entered without bothering to knock. Six physicians wearing lime-green scrubs stood in the center, talking in hushed tones. Behind them were the stainless-steel coolers where the newly dead were stored. Inside the coolers was a construction worker who’d had a heart attack, a homeless man who’d died peacefully in his sleep, and a house painter who’d fallen off a ladder. Their spirits whispered to Peter as he entered, telling him their darkest secrets. Normally, Peter would have talked to them, but today there was no time. He tuned out their voices.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Fiesler,” Garrison announced.

  “That’s me,” replied a smallish woman with sun-bleached hair.

  “Special Agent Garrison, FBI. I want to know what happened here.”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” Fiesler said gravely.

  “Try me.”

  “We had a corpse come back to life while being cut open on an autopsy table.”

  “Name?”

  “Wolfe. He was brought in yesterday. Fell from an apartment building.”

  “Dead people don’t come back to life,” Garrison said. “There has to be something else going on here. I’m sure you’ve considered that.”

  “We have,” Fiesler replied. “There’s no other explanation. Not one that we can think of, anyway.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my associate,” Garrison said.

  Garrison pulled Peter into the hallway and dropped his voice.

  “Is this possible?” the FBI agent asked.

  “The dead don’t come back to life,” Peter said. “It’s one of the rules of the game. The only other explanation is that Wolfe’s body is possessed.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “It is if a group of psychics are involved. No one will admit to it, but that’s what really started the witch trials in Salem. A group of witches were possessing dead people’s bodies.”

  “How do we find out for certain? I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  “The TV monitors inside the autopsy room were pulled out of the walls. Maybe they were filming Wolfe when it happened, and he tried to destroy them.”

  “Would you know if you saw a film?”

  “I think so.”

  Garrison went back into the room. The doctors were still in a huddle. Peter sensed they were having a hard time dealing with what had happened. The things I could tell you, he thought.

  “Was Wolfe filmed during his autopsy?” Garrison asked.

  “All our autopsies are filmed,” Fiesler replied. “So was Wolfe’s.”

  “I’d like to see it. It may explain what happened.”

  Fiesler took them to her office. It was a messy affair with stacks of papers hiding her desk. She got onto her computer and made magic on the keyboard. Soon they were watching a film of Wolfe’s autopsy. The dead man lay naked on an autopsy table. Rigor mortis had set in, and his body had gone stiff, his mouth open like someone in a deep sleep. Looking at him, there was no doubt that his spirit had left this earth long ago. A doctor holding a scalpel began to slice open Wolfe’s sternum. The tattoo on the dead man’s neck began to glow.

  “See that?” Peter asked.

  “Yeah, and it’s creeping me out,” Garrison replied.

  “Somebody give me a hint what’s going on,” Fiesler said.

  “He’s being possessed,” Peter explained.

  Wolfe’s eyelids snapped open. Knocking the scalpel away, he sat bolt upright, and hopped off the table. In a mad fury he began destroying things, his movements stiff and awkward. The doctor performing the autopsy fled from the room.

  Wolfe went to a closet in the autopsy room. He pulled out a cardboard box filled with clothes, and removed a tattered pair of pants and a shirt. He dressed himself, and staggered away.

  “What’s with the clothes?” Garrison asked.

  “Good question,” Fiesler replied. “He had a choice of clothes, including a brand-new pair of
scrubs hanging inside the closet. For some reason, he took the clothes he was wearing when he was brought in. I guess he had some sort of attachment to them.” She paused. “So let me ask you gentlemen a question. How do my staff and I explain this without looking like lunatics?”

  “You don’t,” Garrison answered.

  “Come again?”

  “Keep a lid on it,” the FBI agent said.

  “But that’s not ethical.”

  “No, it’s not. But how’s it going to look if you start telling people you saw a corpse come back to life?”

  “Not good,” she admitted.

  “I’d call it career-threatening. People would question your ability to do your job. My advice would be for you and your staff to make up a story, and stick to it. That’s what we do in the government.”

  “You’re saying we should lie,” Fiesler said.

  “Through your teeth.”

  “Whatever you say. Anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”

  “Can you e-mail me a copy of this video?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” the doctor replied.

  Peter wrote his e-mail address on a slip of paper. Fiesler got onto her computer, and through the magic of the Internet, the e-mail appeared on Peter’s cell phone seconds later.

  “Much appreciated,” he said.

  “Last question,” Fiesler said. “What should I do with this film?”

  “Make it go away,” Garrison answered.

  Fiesler erased the autopsy of Wolfe, and walked out of the office.

  * * *

  Peter forwarded the autopsy film to Holly, with Garrison looking over his shoulder.

  “I have a friend who’s a witch,” Peter explained. “She has the ability to track people down if she knows what they look like.”

  “Can all psychics do that?” Garrison asked.

  “No, they can’t.”

  “So you’re not all the same, then.”

  “Hardly. Our gifts come from different places, and let us do different things. The thing we share in common is the ability to communicate with the spirit world.”

  “Can your witch tell me where Wolfe’s hiding?”

  “To a degree. She’ll able to tell us if he’s hiding inside a building, or on a rooftop, or in a bedroom. Hopefully, she’ll spot some landmark that will tell us his location.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “Hard to say. I have to talk to her first.”

  Garrison consulted his watch. The frown on his face grew more pronounced. The thoughts racing through his head were as easy to read as a ticker tape. He was going to call his superior in the FBI, and tell him to override the mayor, and shut down the city. If Wolfe did release the nerve agent, it would reduce the number of lives lost. It was the best Garrison could do, considering the circumstances.

  Peter followed him upstairs. Perry was waiting outside the building for them. Garrison headed for his car, then stopped, and came back to where Peter stood.

  “Explain something to me,” Garrison said. “How did the Order of Astrum know to have Wolfe intercept Carr, and steal the knapsack? You said they didn’t know what was going on.”

  “They didn’t,” Peter replied. “When Wolfe was killed last night, the Order realized their plan was in jeopardy. They figured out it was Carr the same way we did.”

  “So how did they find him?”

  “Carr’s incident at the lab was on the news. The Order must have seen it on CNN, and realized he was the one. They probably used astral projection to search for him, and saw all the police gathered around Penn Station. That was the clue they needed. They possessed Wolfe, and sent him to intercept Carr.”

  “So you’re saying they got lucky.”

  “Afraid so.”

  Garrison was burning up inside. He’d never had an assignment break this bad.

  Peter’s cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out, and stared at the face.

  “That’s my witch. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  Garrison hurried with Perry to his car.

  * * *

  Peter stepped under the building’s awning to answer the call.

  “That was fast,” he said.

  “I just watched the film you sent me,” Holly said. “Is this a science fiction movie?”

  “Wolfe’s body has been possessed, and he’s got his hands on a deadly nerve agent. You have to find him. Ask Max and Milly to help. The more eyes the better. He’s hiding out somewhere south of Twenty-sixth Street, on the west side of town.”

  “Why’s he hiding? Why not release the nerve agent now?”

  “He’s waiting until dark. It will make things easier.”

  “There are only so many places a dead man can hide. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “Thanks, Holly.”

  “No need to thank me. We’re all in this together, you know.”

  Peter started to say good-bye, then stopped. Nemo had predicted that he would die at Wolfe’s hands tonight. That had not seemed a reality, until now. There were some things that even a psychic couldn’t change, and he realized he might never speak to Holly again.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit lately,” he said. “You deserve better. Please forgive me.”

  Holly’s voice softened. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. When this is over, we need to talk. I have a special gift for you.”

  He swallowed hard. Would he die not knowing what it was?

  “What kind of gift?” he asked.

  “It will change your life.”

  “Really? Tell me.”

  She laughed. “You hate being kept in the dark, don’t you? You’ll have to wait.”

  “Come on. Please.”

  “I’ll give you a hint. It’s three hundred years old, and came from Mary Glover.”

  “The witch? What is it, a magical talisman?”

  “That would spoil the surprise. I’ll call you once I’ve located Wolfe.”

  He smiled into the phone. Holly wasn’t angry with him anymore. If he died tonight, he would know that at least he’d ended things right with her.

  “Good-bye, Holly,” he said.

  56

  Holly folded her phone with a smile on her face. Peter sounded like his old self again. More than anything else, she wanted Peter to be happy, and not to suffer. If that wasn’t a definition of true love, she didn’t know what was.

  She glanced at her aunt. The sleeping pill had knocked her out cold. She decided that it would be a bad idea to awaken her. Better to ask Max to help her track down Wolfe. Max had a keen eye for that sort of thing.

  She found the old magician snoring on the couch in the living room. Several vigorous shakes were required to rouse him from his dreams. Max awoke with a start.

  “What’s going on?” he asked excitedly.

  “I just spoke with Peter. He wants us to find Wolfe.”

  “That should be easy enough,” Max replied. “Wolfe’s in the morgue.”

  “Afraid not. He’s become possessed, and is about to release a nerve agent on the city. He’s holed up somewhere below Twenty-sixth Street on the West Side. Peter wants us to locate him.”

  Max dragged himself off the couch. The sleep was slow to leave his face. Shaking it away, he said, “He’s possessed? That makes him easier to find. Where do you want to do this?”

  “How about right here? That way, if my aunt wakes up, we’ll hear her.”

  “Fair enough. Get the potions, and I’ll set up by the window where the light’s good.”

  Holly retrieved the herbs and potions from her aunt’s closet. Upon returning, she found a round vase filled with water sitting on the table. Max sat at the table, waiting.

  “Isn’t that vase a little big?” she asked.

  “My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” Max said. “The bigger the better these days.”

  She prepared the potions, mixing them together with the tip of her little finger. “Unless Wolfe�
��s hiding someplace obvious, we’ll have no idea where he is. Will we?”

  “The possessed are easy to find,” Max explained.

  “You’ve lost me, Max.”

  “Do what needs to be done. Then I’ll explain.”

  Holly poured the potions into the vase, and the water turned a milky white.

  “Spirits all so knowing,

  I’m looking for a man who’s stopped growing.

  His name is Wolfe, and he’s become possessed,

  and now hides somewhere in the city.

  Show me where, and I’ll be forever thankful,

  that you chose to show me pity.”

  “Not bad,” Max said, nodding approvingly.

  “I’ve been working on my rhyming.” Holly pulled up a chair, and sat next to the old magician. “Now tell me why the possessed are easy to find.”

  “It’s because of the baggage they inherit,” Max explained. “When a person dies, their soul leaves their body, and leaves behind things which are no longer of use to them. I’ll give you an example. Let’s say Wolfe was a smoker. When he died, his craving for nicotine stays behind. When Wolfe’s body became possessed, the possessor becomes a smoker.”

  “How does that make Wolfe easy to find?”

  “The human instincts also stay behind. Wolfe is now in hiding, correct? Well, I can tell you that he’s hiding in a place that is comfortable to him. A place that he knows.”

  “Like a child would do.”

  “Exactly. Just like a child. The possessor can’t control this.”

  “What kind of places would Wolfe find comfortable?”

  “Someplace he’s already been to. Perhaps a bar, or a restaurant. We’ll have to see.”

  The water inside the vase had gone from cloudy to crystal clear. An image of a man appeared. It was Wolfe, wearing the same clothes which had been burned after his fall. The skin on his face was hideous to behold, with rigor mortis setting in. At his feet lay a child’s knapsack.

  “That’s him,” she whispered. “It looks like he’s in a basement.”

  Max leaned in. His bushy eyebrows came together as he stared. “I believe you’re right. He’s in the basement of a building. I can see the outline of a stairwell on the far wall.”