James Swain - Shadow People

“You formed a mental image of Rachael while listening to her speak. It’s something we all subconsciously do. Describe that image to me.”

Liza tried to remember and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

Garrison did not seem discouraged. He was a family man, with a wife and kids out in a small town on Long Island. He could have been home with them right now, but instead he was here, trying to solve a difficult case. Peter decided to help him.

“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.”

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.”