James Swain - Shadow People

Munns had liked Ray, and had decided to sign up.

Part of the process required that his body be covered in tattoos, just like Ray’s. It had all been done in secret, with the sessions taking place late at night in the Blue Devil’s back room. Thirty-three sessions so far, his pasty white skin gradually being replaced.

New skin, new attitude.

One day, in the not too distant future, he’d be done, and everything but his hands and face would be covered with images of death and despair. And when that day happened, the Devil would own him, just as he owned Ray.

“Can I see the new tattoo?” Munns asked.

“Not until I’m done,” Ray replied. “Now, tell me about Friday night. Who is this woman? How did you find her?”

“She e-mailed the college about an internship that was posted online. I intercepted the e-mail, and made contact. She sent me a résumé, and it fit all the requirements. Young, brilliant, filled with ambition. She thinks she can change the world.”

“Does she push back at the darkness?”

The vibrating needle touched a nerve in Munns’s arm. He silenced the scream coming out of his mouth. “Yes,” he gasped. “She pushes back at the darkness.”

“How?”

“Cancer research. She told me she was on the verge of a huge discovery, but it was going to take more time before she could publish her findings.”

“Our Father will be pleased.”

“My only desire is to make him happy.”

“And mine as well. Will her disappearance be noticed?”

“She has no family, and recently moved to New York, and has no friends. I spoke with her several times and gained her confidence. She believes I’ve arranged living accommodations for her on campus, and even the use of a car. She will step off the train on Friday night into my trap, and will never be seen or heard from again.”

“Won’t the people she works with miss her?”

“She works part time at a college when she’s not doing research. She told me she was planning to resign her post this week. Friday will be her last day.”

“A perfect victim. There, I’m done.”

Munns’s right arm felt like it was burning. Never before had a tattoo hurt like this. Ray picked up a mirror, and held it in front of his latest creation. In its reflection was a red-eyed demon holding a decapitated human head.

“What is that thing?” Munns asked.

“Surtr,” Ray replied. “According to Norse mythology, Surtr is a member of a race that is as strong as the gods. He looks small, yet can spring up at any time, and become a Jotunn, or a giant. At the end of the world, Surtr will wage war with the gods, and ravage the world with fire.”

No wonder his arm felt like it was burning. “Whose head is he holding?”

“Don’t you recognize him? He’s famous.”

The decapitated head belonged to a handsome young man with dark spiked hair and an expressive face. He looked vaguely familiar, and Munns tried to place him.

“I feel like I know him,” he said.

“He’s a professional magician named Peter Warlock, who’s also a psychic,” Ray replied. “Warlock will come to Pelham, and try to stop you from killing Rachael. Your job will be to kill Warlock. If you succeed, you’ll become one of the Order’s chosen few. Does that sound appealing to you?”

The breath caught in Munns’s throat. Becoming a member of the Order had given his life purpose, and made him strong. He could only imagine what his new role would be like.

“I won’t let you down,” Munns promised.

“Glad to hear it,” the body artist said.

It was a damp and dreary Saturday afternoon. But that hadn’t stopped six hundred happy kids from Fort Apache, the Bronx, from showing up for today’s matinee. The kids came from poor families, and could not have afforded the price of a ticket, much less the cost of a bus ride and box lunch. Nor did they have to. Peter picked up the tab.

It was a practice he’d started when he’d first opened his theater. Performing for adults paid the bills, but performing for kids was what he loved. There were a lot of kids in New York who couldn’t afford to come to his show. So every Saturday, he opened his doors, and invited a group of them in.

He couldn’t have pulled it off without Liza’s help. His show was staged in an old sausage plant in the meatpacking district, the building cold and a little spooky. That was fine for adults who came to his evening shows, but not for the little ones. To make the place more appealing, Liza strung papier-mâché streamers on the walls and cheerful orange rugs on the cold tile floors. She also changed the preshow music from a moody piano concerto to a cheerful song by the Muppets. Upon entering the theater, the kids were greeted by a pair of old-fashioned popcorn machines, and carts filled with free drinks.

The show Peter performed on Saturday afternoons was also different. Gone were his mind-boggling illusions and baffling mind-reading stunts. Instead, he did his kid show, and performed the Multiplying Bottles, Sucker Die Box, the Professor’s Nightmare, Eggs from the Mouth, Rabbit out of the Hat, and a dozen other timeless routines. They were tricks designed to make kids scream with delight. That was what his Saturday show was all about.

Peter was in his dressing room getting ready. He wore a tailored Italian jacket, the pockets of which he now checked. The two normal pockets on the outside contained a deck of cards and a set of multiplying billiard balls, while the four secret pockets sewn into the lining contained a reel, a thumb tip, a hand flasher that sent a burst of flash paper into the air, and a trick scarf that changed colors just by flicking it in the air. Everything was where it should be, and he turned to his guest.

“You done yet?” he asked.

“I’m getting there,” the FBI artist replied, sketching away.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a show to do.”

“One minute.”

“One minute I can do.”

Special Agent Roe had come to the theater by himself, and set up shop in the dressing room with his sketch pad and charcoal pencils. Garrison was not present, and Peter guessed the FBI agent had been pulled away on another assignment.

“Here, tell me what you think.” Roe turned his pad around for Peter to see the composite of Dr. Death he’d drawn. It was good, but not good enough.

“Wow,” Peter said.

“You like it?”

“It’s great, but it’s missing something.”

“What’s that?”

“His inner rage.”

Roe frowned. “You said he was the quiet type. That’s what I drew.”

“He’s carrying around a lot of anger. The volcano inside of him could erupt at any moment.” Peter snapped his fingers for effect. “Just like that.”

“What are you, a profiler?”

The truth be known, he could have been a detective or maybe even a profiler; his ability to look at people and gauge their feelings was as good as his ability to read minds.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Roe said, breaking the silence.

“Can I take a closer look?”

Roe handed him the sketch pad. Dr. Death had the kind of face that was easily lost in a crowd. If Roe didn’t capture his inner rage, there was a chance the killer would continue to elude the FBI, and an innocent woman named Rachael would perish this Friday night. Peter couldn’t let that happen. He was going to open up with Roe, and decided the trade was worth it.

“Our killer has entered into a pact with the Devil. You need to capture that in your drawing.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Pardon the pun.”

“But how could you possibly know that?”

“How much did Garrison tell you about me?”

“He said you did magic, and that if I wasn’t careful, you’d read my mind. I assumed he was pulling my leg.” Roe paused. “Can you read minds?”