Shadow People

by James Swain

  “I’m sorry I disobeyed you,” Holly said to the group, her voice cracking.

  “Peter is not like us—you understand that now,” her aunt said.

  “He’s a monster. How could I have not seen that before?”

  Milly gripped her niece by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Peter is not a monster. He is of both worlds, both good and evil. He can make choices, which purely evil people cannot. Do you understand the difference?”

  Holly shook her head. All she understood was that there were two Peters: the one she loved, and the inhuman one she’d seen in the vase that terrified her. She had no idea how to deal with her feelings, so she’d run to her aunt’s apartment for help.

  A tiny sob escaped her lips. Milly put her arms around her niece, and gave her a hug. Max, Lester, and Homer circled around her, and placed their hands consolingly on her as well. It made her feel better, and she told herself that somehow, she’d get through this.

  * * *

  Garrison was taken to the ER of the nearby Lawrence Hospital Center to be checked out.

  A sign on the wall boasted that the hospital had over four hundred doctors. Judging from the activity inside the ER, most of them were on duty tonight.

  Peter and Liza stood in a curtained room with Garrison, waiting for a doctor to see him. The agent sat on a table wearing slacks and an undershirt. He kept looking at his arms, shocked that the skin had not been burned. To Peter he said, “Why was I spared?”

  “It’s complicated,” Peter said.

  “Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “The Order was in retreat mode. Munns was dead, and the police were about to arrest Ray and start interrogating him. Ray was a recruiter and had direct contact with the three elders that call the shots. The elders needed to silence Ray before he started talking. That was their sole objective, and they succeeded.”

  “Why didn’t they kill the rest of us as well?” Garrison asked.

  “The elders don’t kill innocent civilians, if they can avoid it. They let their underlings do that.”

  “And by not killing civilians, the police don’t pursue them. Makes sense. Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Rachael came through the curtains. Except for a square bandage covering a scrape on her forehead, she looked no worse for wear, and she gave Peter’s arm a squeeze. “There you are. I was hoping to see you before I blew out of here.”

  “You’re leaving?” Peter asked.

  “I gave my statement to the police, and really don’t see any reason to hang around,” she said. “I think a good night’s sleep in my own bed is just what the doctor ordered.”

  Liza stepped forward. “You must be Rachael. I’m Liza. It’s great to finally meet you. I heard you on the phone a few days ago.”

  “You heard me on the phone?” Rachael said, sounding confused.

  “It’s a long story,” Peter explained. “Maybe someday we can get together, and Liza and I will explain it to you.”

  “That would be very nice. There’s an awful lot of what’s happened here that I still don’t completely understand. One of the policemen told me about the fire at the tattoo parlor. I hope no one was injured who didn’t deserve to be.”

  “The good guys came out unscathed,” Garrison replied.

  “How wonderful is that?” Rachael broke into a smile. It was the first time she’d done that, and it made her look radiant. To Peter she said, “May I steal you away from your friends for a couple of minutes? I have a question that I think only you can answer.”

  Peter looked at Liza and saw her nod. Pulling aside the curtain, he allowed Rachael to leave first, then turned to his friends. “I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  He followed Rachael outside the hospital to the parking lot. A yellow cab idled by the front entrance. Peter guessed this was Rachael’s ride back to the city. She would go home tonight and, hopefully, return to a normal life. He wished he could be so lucky.

  “Can you please tell me what those things are?” she asked.

  A darkish cloud hung over the taxi. Peter had thought it was the taxi’s dirty exhaust, but upon closer inspection, realized it was the shadow people, all clustered together. He’d assumed the shadow people would go back to wherever they came from once Munns was dead, and the threat to Rachael had passed.

  Wrong.

  The shadow people were not going anywhere until Rachael was back in New York, safe and sound. Their sole purpose for being was to protect Rachael. It had never been about him, or Munns, or the Order of Astrum. Their skin in the game was to keep Rachael unharmed, and they had succeeded.

  “Can you make them go away?” she asked. “They’re scaring me.”

  “You don’t want them to go away,” Peter said. “Those are your other guardian angels. They’re going to hang around for a while, and make sure you get home okay.”

  She shuddered from an invisible chill. “I guess I can deal with that. But what are they? Ghosts? Or are they something else? I really want to know.”

  Peter wanted to tell her to forget about them. She had escaped from the forces of evil, and that was all that really mattered. Asking questions would only lead to more questions and soon she’d be bogged down by the horrible weight of it all. He chose his words carefully.

  “Think of them as friends from the other side.”

  “Like fairies?”

  He laughed to himself. That was one way to describe them. “Call them what you want. Don’t be afraid if you catch them hanging around. They’re just trying to protect you. Now, let me ask you a question. What do you do for a living?”

  “Why is that important?” she asked.

  Rachael had been targeted because she made a difference in the world, and Peter wanted to know what that difference was. “I’m just curious.”

  “Very well. I’m a research scientist. It’s boring work. Endless hours in the lab staring through a microscope at tiny molecules. I specialize in molecular biology in the hopes it will one day lead to a breakthrough in cancer research.”

  Peter had his answer. He smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Actually, no. I was looking forward to taking a break. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  “May I ask why?”

  She impressed him as a private person, and she gazed at the ground as she spoke. “Most of my experiments are done with lab rats. They are much nicer animals than you’d imagine. This past week, I had to put down six of my favorites. I gave them names, which made it that much more painful. It put me in a terrible depression. I hate killing animals.”

  “But you keep doing it.”

  She lifted her eyes. “You make that sound like a crime.”

  “It makes you feel bad, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s supposed to make me feel bad. But that doesn’t make it wrong. A long time ago I realized that some of us were put on this earth to kill in the hopes that it might better mankind. I know that sounds very noble, but I happen to think it’s true. Soldiers kill so that we may have peace, policeman kill to stop criminals from hurting innocent people, and I euthanize some unlucky lab rats in the hope I’ll discover a cure for cancer. It’s hard, but there’s no other way.”

  Peter thought about the killing he’d done in his life. Had those bloody acts left the world a better place? He supposed they had, for the men he’d killed were the personification of evil, and had victimized countless innocent people. It was one way to rationalize the things he’d done, and the things that he’d no doubt do someday in the future.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said.

  “Am I safe to go home?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “How do I thank you for saving my life?”

  “No need to. I’m glad I was in time.”

  She gave him a hug. The best things in life were the good deeds we did for strangers. Someone a lot smarter than him had said that, and it felt very true right now. He went to the cab and held open t
he door for her. The shadow people continued to hover above the vehicle like a storm cloud. “I have a question,” he said. “You said before that you saw me in a dream. Do you remember what was I doing?”

  She stopped before getting in the cab. “It was so strange. You were standing on stage doing your magic. I was in the front row watching. When your trick was done, a single person in the audience started to clap. The sound had a hollow ring, and it caused me to turn around in my seat to see what was going on. To my surprise, the seats behind me were empty.”

  “Who was doing the clapping?”

  “A dark figure standing in the very back row. He wore hideous stage makeup and a flowing black Gothic robe. There was a black bird perched on his shoulder that looked like a vulture. He asked me if I wanted to join him.”

  “Join him in what?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He spoke to me by name. It was so strange.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I told him no thanks. Then I woke up, and found myself covered in sweat.” She paused. “I have no idea what the dream meant. Do you?”

  Ray the tattoo artist had been thinking of a magician who made vultures appear from scarves as well. Was the man in Rachael’s dream the same person?

  “No, I don’t,” Peter said.

  “Well, I sure hope he doesn’t come back. Good night. Thanks again for saving my life.”

  The taxi pulled out with the dark cloud still hovering above it. It occurred to Peter that he didn’t even know Rachael’s last name. He would have to ask one of the cops what it was. That way, he’d be able to Google her, and find out how her research was going. Something told him that before long, her name would be in the newspapers, and for all the right reasons.

  He headed back inside. Through the glass doors he spied Liza standing in the lobby. She had a cell phone pressed to her ear, and was waving frantically to him.

  He rushed inside.

  65

  “It’s Dr. Sierra. He needs to speak with you,” Liza said, handing him her cell phone.

  Sierra was the last person Peter wanted to be talking to right now, and he pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Hello, Dr. Sierra. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to be calling at such a late hour,” Sierra said. “Hunsinger is dying. I’m with him at his apartment. The doctor just left, and said he only has a few hours left. It was Hunsinger who asked me to call you. He wishes to speak with you before he passes.”

  A dying man’s last request was hard to turn down, only Hunsinger had already told him enough bad things about his childhood to last a lifetime, and Peter didn’t want to hear any more horror stories tonight. “I’m sorry your friend is dying, Dr. Sierra, but I’m going to take a pass. I’m already having a hard enough time dealing with what he told me the other day.”

  “This concerns your parents,” Sierra said as if not hearing him. “It seems that your father confided in Hunsinger about certain events which had happened during your parents’ childhoods. Hunsinger wishes to share these things with you.”

  “I already know about my parents’ childhoods. Good night.”

  “Please don’t hang up. You don’t know about these things.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hunsinger said your mother was the reason it all happened in the first place.”

  “My mother? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “He said your mother was the prize.”

  “The prize for what?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what any of this means. I would suggest that you speak to Hunsinger yourself. And hurry. The clock is running out for my friend.”

  Peter cursed under his breath. If he didn’t rush back to the city to see Hunsinger, he’d never know what the old priest was talking about. The words would haunt him for the rest of his life, and he had no doubt this was why Hunsinger had uttered them to Sierra.

  “Where does he live?” Peter asked.

  Sierra gave him the street address and apartment number. Peter memorized it and ended the call. He felt like throwing the cell phone against the wall, only it happened to belong to Liza. “We need to go back to the city,” he said.

  “Right now?” Liza said.

  “Yes. Right now.”

  * * *

  They sat in a pair of middle seats on the midnight train back to New York, facing each other. The car was otherwise empty.

  “That was rude to leave and not say good-bye,” Liza said.

  Peter had sent Garrison a text, explaining that he had to go see a dying friend. He’d also asked Garrison to contact Chief Burns’s family, and pass along those things which Burns had communicated to him a few moments before he died.

  “Hunsinger is on his deathbed, and has asked to speak with me,” Peter explained. “He knows a secret about my mother that he wants to tell me. I couldn’t say no.”

  Liza had run out of patience, and she gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “When are things ever going back to normal? I feel like a puppet being jerked around on a string. First I get yanked one way, then another. This isn’t right, Peter.”

  “Our lives used to be dull, You even complained about it once.”

  She frowned at him. “Our lives are out of control, I don’t know what normal is anymore. You’re going to have to make a decision.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. Do you want to be a psychic who runs around helping the FBI solve crimes, or do you want to be in love with me? You can’t have both.”

  “I can’t?”

  “No. I’ve reached my limit.”

  It was his turn to stare at the scenery. Being a psychic was a reward for all it enabled him to achieve and punishment for all the lies it forced him to tell. That was his destiny, and there was no getting around it. But was it fair to Liza? He was pulling her into a world where she had no control. If he was going to keep her, he would have to change, even if it meant never sitting down to another Friday night séance with his psychic friends and talking with the dead. He had to stop it if he truly loved the woman sitting across from him.

  And he had to do it right now.

  “I want to be in love with you,” he said. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. I’ll stop the psychic stuff. No more talking to ghosts, or helping the FBI.”

  The words hit her hard, and it took a moment for her to compose herself.

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes, it’s a promise.”

  Liza switched seats, and snuggled up beside him. They held hands and kissed, and he saw how incredibly happy she was. That alone told him he’d made the right decision. That hadn’t been so hard. All he’d ever wanted was to have a normal life. By walking away from being a psychic, he could have one. It was as simple as that.

  He resumed looking out the window. The train route was lined with billboards for theatrical shows playing in the city. There were musicals, revivals, and plenty of serious dramas, reminders that New York was the theater capital of the world.

  One billboard caught his eye. It was for a magic show, the performer someone he’d never heard of. Peter tried to stay up on any magicians who played New York, if for no other reason than to know who his competition was.

  He brought his face up to the glass for a better look. The billboard showed a dark figure wearing a flowing black robe, his face painted in fright makeup, his hypnotic eyes daring you to enter his world. Perched on his shoulder was vulture with a bunny rabbit in its mouth. Bold lettering announced his show at a theater in Times Square.

  Dante—The Anti-Conjuror

  Prepare to have your imagination turned inside out,

  and your emotions stripped bare.

  Call now for tickets

  It was the same dark magician that Ray the tattoo artist had been thinking of before he died, the same evil character who’d invaded Rachael’s dreams as well.

  Peter fell back in his seat. Anti-conjurors were the Devil’s entertainers,
and were sent to earth during times of turmoil and strife, their sole purpose to recruit more disciples to the Devil’s unholy cause. Dante was about to unleash his dark magic on the unsuspecting populace of New York. If unstopped, the city would never be the same.

  He had to act. He could not sit by, and let the city he loved be harmed. But how was he going to tell Liza that? Hadn’t he just promised to stop being a psychic? She was not going to let him off the hook this time. If he didn’t stop, she would leave him for good.

  The train hit a bump in the tracks. The lights inside the car went off, plunging him into darkness. It helped him think, and by the time they’d reached their destination, Peter knew exactly what he must do.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank Claire Eddy, Katharine Critchlow, and Laura Swain for their generous contributions to this book.

  ALSO BY JAMES SWAIN

  JACK CARPENTER BOOKS

  Midnight Rambler

  The Night Stalker

  The Night Monster

  The Program

  TONY VALENTINE BOOKS

  Grift Sense

  Funny Money

  Sucker Bet

  Loaded Dice

  Mr. Lucky

  Deadman’s Poker

  Deadman’s Bluff

  Wild Card

  Jackpot

  PETER WARLOCK BOOKS

  Dark Magic

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JAMES SWAIN is the national bestselling author of fifteen thrillers. His novels have been translated into many languages and have been chosen as Mysteries of the Year by Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Swain has received three Barry Award nominations, a Florida Book Award for fiction, and the prestigious Prix Calibre .38 Award for Best American Crime Writing. An avid magician, he has written and lectured extensively on the subject. Visit his website at www.jimswain.com.