Shadow People

by James Swain

  “Let me find it,” the young magician said.

  “How are you going to do that?” Garrison asked.

  “If Liza will let me, I’ll find the memory buried in her subconscious.”

  “All right. Just don’t go snooping where you don’t belong,” she said.

  Peter put his hands onto Liza’s shoulders and gazed into her eyes. Of all his gifts, mind reading was the one he had the most control over. It was like crossing his eyes, only the crossing took place inside his head. It took but a second, and allowed him to peer into another person’s head, and mine his or her innermost thoughts and memories.

  He hunted for Liza’s trip to the other side. The memory was vivid, with Liza running for her life as Dr. Death tried to run her down. The faces of Liza’s mother, father, and her three siblings appeared. She thought she was going to die.

  Another face appeared, buried deep away. Faint, so he had to stare. A dark-haired woman, late thirties, with Irish features and a strong chin. Was this Rachael, the woman Liza had imagined when she’d heard the voice over the killer’s phone?

  “I think I’ve got her. Rachael is Irish, with a pleasant face and a strong disposition.”

  Liza clapped her hands excitedly. “That’s the woman I imagined.”

  “Define strong disposition,” Garrison said.

  “Strong willed. When I look at her, I think doctor, or nurse,” Peter said.

  “You nailed her,” Liza said. “Her voice reminded me of a doctor’s voice. She was very precise in the way she spoke, like she was used to telling people what to do.”

  “Good going,” Garrison said. “Now we can work the case from both ends. If we can’t find the killer, hopefully we can find his victim before she leaves town.”

  The best days were the ones that ended well. Garrison got into his car. The driver’s window came down, and he stuck his head out, his breath turning into vapor.

  “One more question,” he said.

  Why did Garrison always have one more question? Why couldn’t he just fade away into the sunset like lawmen were supposed to do?

  “What’s that?” Peter asked.

  “The thing you two just did, does it have a name?”

  Peter squeezed Liza’s hand. “It’s called teamwork.”

  15

  Sixty-five blocks away, on the fifth floor of the ultra-exclusive Dakota, Milly Adams sat at her dining room table with Max Romeo, Lester Rowe, the blind psychic Homer, and her niece Holly. The purpose of their gathering was to use their psychic powers to decode why a shadow person had attached itself to their beloved Peter. They had yet to begin, and the men sat at the far end of the table, eating pretzels while listening to one of Max’s fanciful stories.

  “Have I ever told you about the Great Chesto? He was far and away the most amazing novelty act I’ve ever seen,” the old magician said.

  “Can’t say that you have,” Lester replied.

  “I think I would have remembered that name. What exactly did he do?” Homer asked.

  “Chesto billed himself as the Man Who Felt No Pain. He would place a concrete block on his chest, then invite a muscular young man from the audience to pick up a sledgehammer, and hit the block as hard as he could.”

  “He did this more than once?” Lester asked.

  “It was how he made his livelihood.”

  “Astonishing.”

  Max bit into his pretzel while staring wistfully into space. “A long time ago, I was part of a traveling road show. There was a drunk plate spinner, a Barbra Streisand look-alike with a voice like a feral cat, a musical group that couldn’t carry a tune, and myself. We were working the corn belt, traveling in a pair of broken-down vans. I don’t mean to wax nostalgic, but it was one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve ever had.

  “One day, we entered a town where a county fair was taking place. Since our show wasn’t until that night, I bought a ticket. At first I was disappointed. The fair was more a livestock exhibition, with smelly cows being judged by men in coveralls missing most of their front teeth. The spectators were the biggest people I’ve ever seen, and every piece of food they were eating was fried or dripping with barbecue sauce. There was an auction going on, with the prize animals being sold off for slaughter. Having spent my formative years on the Lower East Side, I can tell you the experience was nothing less than a shock to my frail system.”

  “Max, we need to get started,” Holly said impatiently. “How long is this going to take?”

  “I’m nearing the finish line,” the old magician said.

  “Sorry.”

  “So where was I? Oh, yes, I was at the fair, debating whether I should try a corn dog or a pulled-pork sandwich, when over the loudspeaker came an announcement that the Great Chesto was about to perform a death-defying feat, so please gather round. This piqued my curiosity, and I followed the rest of the crowd to a makeshift dirt arena.

  “The Great Chesto awaited us. He was rather stout, as big around the middle as he was tall. He addressed the crowd over a microphone to build up his trick. It was the only thing he did, so he had to draw it out. When the preamble was over, Chesto asked a man from the crowd to assist him. A big farm boy stepped forward. I was standing next to the fellow, and got a good look at his face. The expression “dumb as a fence post” came to mind.

  “Chesto didn’t notice. If he had, I’m sure he would have selected someone else. He lay down on a blanket, and picked up a concrete block lying on the ground, which he balanced on his chest. He instructed the farm boy to pick up a sledgehammer, which lay beside him. The farm boy did as told. Then Chesto said, ‘When I nod my head, I want you to hit it as hard as you can. Got it?’ The farm boy said yes. The Great Chesto nodded his head, and that was the end of him!”

  Lester and Homer slapped their hands on the table and howled with laughter.

  “Max, that’s a terrible story, and not the way we wish to start our evening,” Milly scolded him, trying not to grin. “Let’s get down to the business at hand, shall we?”

  Max nodded compliance, as did Lester and Homer. Milly passed the baton to her niece.

  “Go ahead, my dear,” she said.

  “Yesterday, Peter texted us, and asked for our help figuring out the mystery of the shadow person,” Holly began. “But Peter left out something very important. Last night, after Peter left our séance, the shadow person followed him home, where Peter was again taken to the other side and nearly perished. I’m fearful for his safety, and want us to collectively figure out how to prevent this from happening again.”

  “Did Peter tell you about this second trip?” Max asked.

  Holly swallowed hard. “No, not exactly.”

  “I didn’t think so, because he usually comes to me first with that kind of information, and I never heard a peep out of him. So how did you know?”

  “If you must know, I was scrying on him.”

  “Did you say you were spying on him?”

  “No, I was scrying on him.”

  “Same difference, I suppose. You were watching Peter when you weren’t supposed to. We’re not allowed to do such things, Holly. It’s against the rules.”

  “I was afraid for him,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “Don’t you remember what happened during our séance? He nearly died.”

  “But he got out of it,” Max said.

  “Barely.”

  “But he did. And I’m guessing he got out of it the second time as well. Which means he has the situation under control, and we should not meddle in his affairs. The shadow person is visiting him for a reason, and it’s Peter’s responsibility, not ours, to find out what it is.”

  Max rolled a shiny silver dollar across his knuckles as he spoke. Holly slapped the table in anger, and the coin jumped from Max’s hand to the floor.

  “Our responsibility is to help each other whenever possible,” she said, the rage boiling over in her voice. “Peter needs help, the rules be damned. If you won’t come to his aid, I’ll go it al
one. I’m not going to abandon him.”

  “I didn’t say that,” the old magician said defensively.

  “You most certainly did. Peter thinks of you as his father, and yet you refuse to help him. How can you be so thoughtless?”

  Max looked to Milly for help. “Please explain to your niece what I’m trying to say.”

  “I thought you were doing a perfectly miserable job of it yourself,” Milly told him. To Holly she said, “What Max is trying to say is this. Peter seems to need our help, but he may not need our help. This may simply be some kind of test Peter must endure. I know I agreed with you earlier that we must help Peter, but now I’m not so sure. All psychics go through learning phases during their lives when the spirit world makes contact with them for reasons that are never quite clear. Peter is now in one of those phases.”

  “A learning phase? How quaint. When have any of you ever had a gun put to the side of your head during a séance?” Holly crossed her arms and awaited a response. “I’m waiting.”

  The ticking grandfather clock in the corner kept time to their silence. Holly had challenged them, and drawn an imaginary line in the sand. Who would cross it first?

  “Peter’s different,” Lester said quietly. “We are all psychics, but Peter is special. You must accept that, Holly.”

  “You don’t think he could have been killed?”

  Lester thought about it, and shook his head. “No,” he said for emphasis.

  “For God’s sake, I saw him writhing around on the floor in his bedroom. If his girlfriend hadn’t shaken him awake, he’d have died.”

  “Hooray for his girlfriend,” Lester said.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” the Scottish psychic said. “Peter beat the Devil, and has learned from the experience. These are lessons we must not deny him.”

  “Are you telling me that this is some kind of master plan?” Holly asked.

  “Our fate is bestowed upon us the day we’re born,” Lester explained. “This is Peter’s fate. You must stop interfering. For your own sake, and his as well.”

  “Here, here,” Max said. “Do you agree, Homer?”

  “I do. We must let Peter fend for himself.”

  Holly could not believe how poorly they were acting. Peter had come to their aid so many times she’d lost count. Yet now they refused to help him during his time of need.

  “Do you agree with this nonsense?” she asked her aunt.

  “I’m afraid that after some consideration I do, my dear,” Milly said. “We must not interfere. If Peter feels he needs our help, we’re but a phone call away. We can stand on the sidelines and watch, but we must not jump in. In the psychic world, there is no room for the uninvited.”

  Holly had heard the term before. The uninvited were psychics who didn’t play by the rules, and upset the natural balance of the universe. They were pariahs, and shunned by their peers. It should have been enough to stop her, only this was Peter they were talking about, the boy who’d lit the candle in her heart. She suddenly realized that the object of the meeting tonight wasn’t about helping Peter but getting Holly to stop interfering in his life. She rose from her seat. “Thank you for granting me an audience tonight. I am sure this is not the first time we’ll disagree. But in the end, we will all remain friends, and that’s the most important thing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go home.”

  Her aunt’s apartment was thirty-six hundred square feet. That was bigger than many houses in New York. Holly’s footsteps followed her down the hallway to the coat closet. She pulled her winter coat off a hanger and felt a presence behind her.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  Max helped her into her coat. He seemed embarrassed by what had happened, as well he should. Holly had turned twenty-one only a short time ago. She was old enough to drink and vote, and did not appreciate being treated like a child.

  “You’re angry with me,” Max said.

  “Whatever gave you that idea, Max?” She removed the scarf from her pocket and tied it around her neck. “I asked you to help, and you said no. Why should I be angry?”

  “You don’t understand the gravity of this.”

  “Stop talking to me like I’m still in diapers.”

  “I’m closer to that than you are.”

  “I’m in no mood for jokes, Max. What don’t I understand?”

  “Peter is different than we are.”

  “I know that. But does that make the rules different as well?”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  “I’m not buying that for one minute, Max. I think you’re all scared of that evil thing we saw last night, and want nothing more to do with it, Peter’s safety be damned.”

  Max started to speak, then thought better of it. The expression on his face said it all. There was something he wanted to tell her, yet chose to hold back instead. It was all Holly could do not to scream. She headed for the front door, ready to go home.

  “Wait.”

  Max made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. From out of nowhere appeared two beautiful bouquets of red and gold feather flowers. Max’s flower trick was one of Holly’s favorites, the bouquets’ hiding place on the old magician’s clothing still a mystery. Tonight, the trick had the opposite effect on her, and she grabbed the bouquets from his hands, and angrily shook them in his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and before she knew it, she was crying.

  “Oh, Holly, I’m so sorry,” he said.

  He put his arms around her, and let Holly cry on his shoulder.

  16

  Peter loved Mondays. His theater was dark, and with Liza glued to his side, he’d set about to explore the city’s hundreds of different ethnic neighborhoods. Finding them was a challenge, and part of the fun. Many of the smaller ones weren’t on any map, nor did any of the guidebooks list them, except for the obvious spots like Chinatown and Little Italy. Liza had a cool trick that usually worked. They’d walk into a restaurant and read all the items on the menu. If half the stuff sounded foreign, they knew they’d found another.

  Only this particular Monday was different. He’d woken up in a dark mood, and Liza had shoved him out of bed with the words, “You promised, Peter. Today’s the day.”

  He’d put on nice clothes while she’d taken a shower. Instead of a leisurely breakfast, they’d noshed on bagels and sucked down coffee. Then out the door they went into the chilly morning. As Peter’s feet hit the sidewalk, he nearly turned around. Why he’d ever agreed to see a relationship counselor, he had no idea. A moment of weakness, he supposed. Men said stupid things when they were in love.

  But there was more to it than that. He was going because he didn’t want Liza to pack up and leave, which was how his other relationships had ended. That was a good reason, and he should have been okay with it, only he wasn’t. Spilling his guts to a stranger just seemed wrong, and he hoped the whole thing didn’t blow up in his face.

  * * *

  Dr. Raul Sierra worked out of a somber building the color of ash. Across the street was NYU’s Medical Center, which his practice was affiliated with. According to his online profile, Sierra was an authority on guiding couples through difficult periods in their lives. The photo on his Web site showed a rather frail little man with an unruly mop of black hair that resembled a bird’s nest. He looked harmless, but looks were deceiving. Sierra hadn’t gotten to be one of the world’s foremost authorities on relationships without being a good interrogator, and Peter guessed he was in for a long morning.

  Monday was also Herbie’s day off, and they cabbed it, arriving a few minutes before their appointment. As they waited to be buzzed in, a cold wind whipped off the East River that knifed through their clothes and made them both shiver. Peter said, “Let’s go find a restaurant and get a nice hot chocolate.”

  “Not on your life,” Liza replied.

  They were let in, and took an elevator to the top floor. Sierra’s waiting room was small and dreary. A recept
ionist sat at a computer and appeared hypnotized by its screen.

  “Good morning. We’re here to see Dr. Sierra,” Liza said.

  “He’s waiting for you. Go right in,” she replied without looking up.

  They passed into an office whose walls sagged under the weight of thick medical books. Sierra stood at a window that faced onto the street with a faraway expression on his face. He had aged since his photo, his hair now gray. Turning, he said, “Is it already nine thirty?”

  It was a strange way to begin a counseling session. Peter acknowledged that it was while helping Liza remove her coat. Dr. Sierra crossed the room and politely shook hands. “I must have lost track of the time. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  The doctor motioned toward a leather couch in the room’s center. On the side table was an open box of Kleenex. Sierra pulled up a chair so he was sitting directly in front of them.

  “Excuse me for acting so distracted when you came in,” he said. “I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”

  “It must have been some daydream,” Liza said.

  “A strange case that was never resolved to my satisfaction. But that was a long time ago. Please tell me about yourselves, and why you’ve come to see me. My receptionist said you were vague over the phone as to the nature of your problems.”

  Liza cupped her hands in her lap and gazed at the floor. “God, I don’t know where to start. It’s so complicated. And so … well, weird.”

  “Is the problem sexual in nature?” Sierra gently asked.

  “Our sex life is terrific. Peter is a wonderful lover.”

  Sierra glanced at Peter and dipped his chin approvingly. It was hard not to like the guy, but Peter wasn’t taking the plunge just yet. He made eye contact with Liza.

  “You’re wonderful, too.”

  “Well, we’re off to a good start,” Sierra said, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “You are both in love, and enjoy each other’s company in bed. Is your problem financial?”

  “Peter makes a very good living,” Liza said, still doing floor patrol.

  “Is it religious in nature?”