by James Swain
* * *
The exit for Mt. Vernon/Pelham appeared just as Garrison’s cell phone let out a sonic blast. He yanked it from his pocket and took the call. He listened for several seconds and made an ugly face. “What? When did this happen?”
Peter could have waited for Garrison to hang up and explain what was going on, or he could plumb the agent’s thoughts and find out himself. Liza’s hand came up and squeezed his arm. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“A rookie cop in Pelham spotted Munns at the train station,” he whispered back. “He was asking a dispatcher for backup when he got cut off. Munns may have gotten away.”
“Ugh,” Liza said.
Garrison finished his call. “Quit reading my mind. I don’t like it.”
“Sorry. Just trying to save time.”
“What about Rachael? Did anyone see her come into the station?” Liza asked.
“The cop who called in the license told the dispatcher there was a second person passed out in Munns’s car,” Peter said. “That was probably her.”
“So Munns abducted her.”
“It sure looks that way.”
Liza fell back in her seat and shut her eyes. Traffic had thinned out since leaving the city, and Garrison took the exit with his tires squealing.
“Go ahead. Tell her the rest,” Garrison said.
“There’s more?” Liza said.
“The Pelham police chief sent several of his officers to the next town to help with an apartment house fire,” Peter explained. “As a result, he’s short staffed, and only has a handful of available officers to deal with Munns.”
“You can’t be serious,” Liza said.
“It’s a small town. The force isn’t that big to begin with.”
“Does he realize how dangerous Munns is? Or that he’s in league with the Devil?” Liza asked.
“The chief’s a small-town cop. He’s never dealt with anything this serious before. He sent two cruisers to Munns’s house earlier, but hasn’t spoken to them. We’re meeting the chief at the train station, and then we’re all going to Munns’s place together.”
“Does this man know what he’s doing?” Liza asked.
Peter glanced across the seat at Garrison, who was thinking the same thing. The Pelham police chief was going to blow this if they didn’t hurry.
* * *
The two-lane road leading into Pelham twisted and turned across the hilly landscape, forcing Garrison to ease up on the gas. They began to crawl, and Peter felt his anxiety grow. Devil worshippers did not go quietly when caught. Often, they went on rampages, intent on taking down as many innocent lives as possible before being taken down themselves. This was the great threat that Munns posed to the people of Pelham.
Ten minutes later, they arrived in a quaint town with artificial gaslights lining the streets and an array of enticing storefronts. The railroad tracks ran next to the town. Signs warned people not to play on the tracks or risk electrocution.
Garrison followed the tracks to the station. A police cruiser with a flashing red light waited in the parking lot. Beside it was a second cruiser, which had been rear-ended and had a shattered windshield. Garrison parked beside the first cruiser, and they got out.
Peter checked out the damaged cruiser. The gaping hole in the windshield suggested a body had been thrown through it. On the ground he found glass and a dark black stain.
“Is this blood?”
Garrison studied the stain. “Sure looks like it.”
Peter had helped the police with difficult cases, and was adept at reconstructing a crime scene. There was no doubt that someone had died here. What he did not understand was how. The officer was calling in Munns’s license when he was rammed from behind, and the call was cut off. That didn’t make sense, unless Munns had a partner.
“Where is everybody?” Liza asked.
“Beats me. Anybody home?” Garrison called out.
“In here,” replied a man’s voice.
The voice had come from inside the station house. The front door was ajar, and Peter entered a small waiting room lined with wooden benches. Another open door led to the ticket office with a desk and a chair. A uniformed cop in his fifties greeted him with a glare.
“Who are you?” the cop asked gruffly.
“Peter Warlock. I’m helping Special Agent Garrison track down Munns.”
“Are you the psychic he’s using?”
“Yes, he is.” Garrison followed Peter into the office. “You must be Chief Burns. I’m Special Agent Garrison. This young lady behind me is Liza. She’s also helping.”
“Welcome to Pelham,” Burns said. “It was a quiet little town, up until a little while ago.”
“Can you tell me what happened outside?” Garrison asked.
“I’m about to find out.”
A video monitor sat on the desk. Burns punched a button on a remote, and a grainy surveillance tape began to play on the small screen. Taken by a camera attached to the station house roof, it had a date and time stamped in the corner. It had been recorded twenty-two minutes ago, and showed a train pulling into the station and a group of passengers disembarking and going to their cars or rides. One nicely dressed woman remained on the platform. She looked nervous, and glanced from side to side as if looking for someone.
“That’s Rachael,” Liza said.
“How can you be sure?” Garrison asked.
“I don’t know. I just am.”
“Who’s Rachael?” Chief Burns wanted to know.
“Munns’s next victim,” Liza said.
Munns appeared in the frame, and warmly greeted the woman. Together, they walked off the platform to Munns’s Volvo. Rachael got into the car, and they watched Munns put a handkerchief over her face, and knock her out. Liza let out a shriek, and momentarily averted her eyes.
Munns began to back out of his spot just as a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and blocked him from leaving. The cop in the cruiser exchanged words with Munns, and began to call in his license to a dispatcher. From out of nowhere a black van appeared, and rammed the cruiser from behind. The officer was propelled through the windshield and landed on the trunk of the Volvo, his head flopped to one side. Liza turned away again. Chief Burns swore.
The driver of the van hopped out. He wore a sinister Fu Manchu and his arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Peter had been right. Munns was working with a partner.
“Any idea who that guy is?” Garrison asked.
“Never seen the bastard before,” Burns swore.
Burns’s cell phone vibrated, and he yanked it off his belt. Looking at its face, he said, “It’s about time they called me back. I need to take this outside. Reception’s bad in here.”
Everyone went outside. Burns stepped away and took the call. It was from the cops he’d sent to Munns’s house. Judging by the expression on the chief’s face, the news was not good.
Peter peeked inside the chief’s head to find out what the problem was. And saw it clearly.
Munns was holed up inside his house with his latest victim. Burns’s men had peeked through the front windows, and seen Rachael tied to a chair in the living room. She was conscious, and trying to reason with her abductor. Munns was also in the living room but not visible, and the cops couldn’t pinpoint his location.
The cops had stepped back from the house. One of them had called Burns to find out what to do. Break down the front door and save Rachael, or stay outside and wait for backup?
Burns hemmed and hawed. He was a small-town police chief, and dealt with domestic situations and lost dogs. This was new to him.
“Tell your men not to go in,” Peter told him.
“Hold on a second,” Burns said into the phone. “What did you say?”
“Don’t let your men go in. Munns will kill them.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Then he’ll go into town, and kill as many people as he can.”
“How do you know this?”
“That isn’t important. Let me deal with Munns. I can stop him. It’s why I’m here. Don’t ask me to explain any more, because I can’t. You have to trust me.”
Burns looked to Garrison for confirmation. The FBI agent nodded. That was good enough for Burns, and he passed the instructions to the man on the line before ending the call.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the chief said.
58
Garrison followed Burns’s cruiser out of the parking lot and into Pelham. Soon the town ended, and they drove down a two-lane road with signs for crossing deer.
“How are you going to deal with Munns?” Liza asked from the backseat.
Peter had promised not to keep secrets from Liza, but there were times when he would have preferred not to give her a straight answer. It would have made things so much easier.
“I’d like to hear the answer to that question myself,” Garrison said.
“I have a friend who’s a witch,” Peter explained. “I’m going to call her right now, and ask her to cast a spell on Munns that will incapacitate him so I can get into the house, and free Rachael. The spell should also let me subdue him.”
“A spell?” Garrison said, sounding incredulous.
“Yes. It’s one of a witch’s more potent powers.”
“What will it do to him?” Liza asked.
“That’s up to my friend. Some spells can set their subjects on fire. Others make a person blind, or incontinent. My friend will know which one to pick.”
“Is this witch someone I know?”
Liza did not sound pleased. It was not the time to be discussing this, and Peter glanced into the backseat. “Her name’s Holly Adams, and she’s a student at Columbia University. I told you about her, remember? We grew up together.”
“I seem to recall the name. Maybe I should meet her one day.”
He decided to let that one go. They started to climb a steep hill. The scenery looked terribly familiar, and Peter realized that it was here that Munns had tried to end his life on three different occasions. It was a memory that he would just as soon forget.
“I’ve got a question,” Garrison said, eyes glued to the road. “This spell your friend Holly is going to cast on Munns, will it wear off?”
“Eventually, yes. A spell is never permanent,” Peter replied.
“How quickly?”
“It all depends on how strong the spell is, and if Munns is able to ward it off.”
“Can he do that?”
“He might. Members of the Order of Astrum have special powers as well.”
“That’s not the news I wanted to hear. If the spell doesn’t work, do you have a Plan B?”
Peter hadn’t thought that far ahead, and shook his head. “Afraid not,” he added for emphasis.
“Well, think of one.”
Peter stared out his window and gave it some thought. The night held the answer to many of life’s mysteries, and after a moment he knew what he must do. He’d enter Munns’s house and summon the demon inside him. The demon would destroy Munns, just like it had destroyed the criminals the night his parents had perished, and the assassin who’d entered their apartment, and the assassin in Hyde Park. His victims had been evil people, and it was because of their evil that the demon had done away with them. Munns would be no different.
That was his Plan B.
But how to tell Garrison? The demon was at the top of the list of things he was never going to discuss with the FBI agent. Only he had to tell Garrison something …
A gunshot interrupted his thoughts.
The car lurched to a stop, and Garrison rolled down his window. The night had grown still again. “That sounded like a high-powered hunting rifle,” he said.
“Do people around here hunt at night?” Liza asked.
“Not animals, they don’t.”
Climbing out, Garrison drew his gun. He motioned for them to stay put, and started up the road. Peter opened his door and felt Liza’s hand come through the seats and grab his arm.
“We’re supposed to stay here,” she said.
“I was brought here for a reason,” he reminded her. “I have to go.”
“Oh, God, Peter, this is scary. Please be careful.”
“Remember, I’ve got some powers of my own.”
He slipped out of the car, and headed down the road after Garrison. Pieces of glass crunched beneath his feet. Rounding a curve, he saw a police cruiser lying in a ditch, its warning lights flashing. Garrison stood next to the ditch, shaking his head in dismay.
Burns had taken the hit.
* * *
The bullet hole in the cruiser’s windshield was the size of a man’s fist. Garrison opened the driver’s door and the interior light came on. Still strapped in, the chief of the Pelham Police Department stared straight ahead with his hands clutching the steering wheel. The bullet had cut him in half, his lower torso drenched in blood.
“Didn’t see that coming,” Burns whispered.
“I’m calling nine one one,” Garrison said, grabbing for his cell phone.
“Too late for that. Tell my kids…” His voice trailed off.
“Tell them what?”
“That their father…”
Burns stopped talking and licked his lips. He blinked, and then he blinked again. Peter gently pushed Garrison to one side. Crouching down, he pried the chief’s hand off the wheel, and clasped it with both of his own.
“Let your thoughts go. It will make things easier,” Peter said.
Burns nodded and seemed to relax. Peter looked into his head, and saw that the chief had a lot on his mind. Some of it was meaningless, but most of it not. He owed five dollars to another officer that he’d been meaning to pay back; the dry cleaning had to be picked up; the upstairs bathroom still needed painting. Then there was the important stuff, his family. On the hard drive of his computer was a letter to his son stationed in Afghanistan that he had yet to send. He’d been meaning to tell his wife how he appreciated her waiting up for him at night, but never gotten around to it. To his teenage daughter, a simple I love you was all he’d wanted to say. Those were the things that were on his mind. And how much he was going to miss them.
Peter squeezed the dying man’s hand. “I’ll tell them for you.”
Burns’s eyelids fluttered. The look on his face was skeptical.
“I’ll make sure your son gets his letter, and I’ll tell your wife how important her staying up was to you,” he said. “And I’ll tell your daughter that she was the apple of her father’s eye.”
Burns let out a deep breath, satisfied.
“Anything else?” Peter asked.
Burns looked like he was drifting on a cloud. Then he was gone. Garrison reached in, and shut the dead man’s eyes.
Another gunshot ripped the still night air.
59
“Peter!” It was Liza, calling out in the darkness.
“I’m here,” he said.
“I heard another gunshot. Are you all right?”
“Get back in the car,” Garrison said. “You’re not safe.”
“Not until I know Peter’s okay,” she said.
Peter thought he was all right. But then again, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the bullet he’d just heard had gone straight through his heart, and what was now standing here was a ghost instead. It was entirely possible. He ran his hands up and down himself, feeling flesh and bone.
“I’m not hurt,” he said.
“Please be careful,” Liza said.
Peter listened to her walk away. Then he looked up the hill. Munns’s house sat at the top, bathed in the bright moonlight. A two-story shingle box with a pitched roof and sagging gutters, it reflected years of neglect and disrepair. Back when Munns’s parents had owned it, it had probably been nice. But evil had a way of corrupting everything it came in contact with, even the exterior of houses.
He started up the hill. He wondered who the shooter was. Was it the man in the van who’d killed the first police
officer? It really didn’t matter. Whoever it was had to be stopped.
“Get back here,” Garrison ordered.
Peter ignored him, and kept walking. He dug out his cell phone and pulled up Holly’s number. The call went through, and Holly picked up on the second ring.
“Get down before you get shot,” Holly warned.
He fell into a crouch. “You watching me?”
“Yes. You’re going to get killed if you’re not careful.”
“Where’s the shooter hiding?”
“His name is Ray, and he’s hiding behind an old oak tree on the same hill as the serial killer’s house. Ray’s got a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight, and somehow is able to see in the dark. He must be a devil worshipper.”
“Make him stop shooting at us. I need to get inside the house.”
“And fast. I looked in there, too.”
“What did you see?”
“There’s a woman tied to a chair. Your serial killer is about to strangle her to death.”
“Stop him, please.”
“I tried, but he shrugged off my spell.”
“You’re slipping.”
“This was a strong spell. He was just stronger.”
Another rifle shot rang out and kicked up dirt around Peter’s feet. “Help me.”
“Stay tuned.”
His Droid made a funny beep as Holly ended the call. It would have been nice if she’d bothered to tell him if he was supposed to lie on the ground, or go hide behind a particular tree. Witches were peculiar in that regard: They gave only so much of themselves.
He scrunched down. The smaller a target he was, the better. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he tried to find the shooter, only there were too many trees. It occurred to him that if the shooter fired another round, he’d see the bullet as it left the barrel of the rifle, and that was the probably the last thing he’d ever see. He glanced over his shoulder to see Garrison lying on the ground.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” he scolded.
“Get ready,” Peter said.
“For what?”
“The shooter is about to be taken out of the picture.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I told you, I have a friend who’s a witch, and she’s going to cast a spell on him.”
