James Swain - Shadow People

“I have no idea. You have to believe me.”

“I think you’re lying, son. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not going to call the police…”

“I was considering it.”

Munns thought he might pass out. He grabbed the sink edge to steady himself and filled his lungs with air. Like most serial killers, his killings followed a specific pattern that included taking his victims to a rental unit at EZ Storage, where he put their plastic-shrouded bodies in metal footlockers stacked inside. There the bodies stayed, locked away from the world. Ray had taught him this little trick. Without the bodies, the police had no evidence to play with, and the crime was reduced to a question mark which faded over time.

Only now something had happened inside his unit. Munns couldn’t imagine how a hole had appeared in the roof, not that it really mattered. His landlord was suspicious, and Munns needed to deal with him before things got out of control.

“I’m sure we can work this out,” Munns said.

“Hah,” the old man laughed derisively.

“I’ll pay you to keep quiet.”

“Think you can bribe me, huh?”

“Isn’t that why you called?”

“Don’t be a wiseass, son.” Jucko paused. “Give me a range.”

“How about two thousand dollars?”

“That’s chickenshit. Make it five grand, cash, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“You’re on. Give me a half hour to get the money. I’ll come by and give it to you.”

“Bring another three hundred to fix the roof.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll see you soon.”

“Don’t hang up. There’s one more thing that’s bothering me. I want to know what you’ve been keeping in that unit. Was it a man, a woman, a boy, or a girl? Was it an illegal alien, or some kind of sex slave? Or was it something else? I want to know what it was.”

“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.

“It is now. You don’t tell me, I’m calling the police.”

Munns’s cheeks burned. Jucko had gone from being a problem to being a threat. He needed to stall him so he could figure out what to do, and he said, “I can’t tell you over the phone. I’ll tell you later, when I bring the money.”

“You have been keeping someone in there,” Jucko said.

“I’ll explain everything later.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Jucko hung up on him. Munns went into the bedroom and sat down on the very edge of the bed. His head was pounding, his heart beating out of control. If he didn’t deal with this right now, Jucko would start talking, and he’d be doomed.

He pulled up Ray’s number on his cell phone. Ray would know what to do in a situation like this. Ray was street smart and he knew all the angles. Several rings later, the tattoo artist answered, his voice thick with sleep.

“I need your help. Clyde Jucko’s onto me,” Munns said breathlessly.

“Leave a message, and I’ll call you back,” an automated voice replied.

Munns let out a string of profanities. A beeping sound filled his ear.

“Meet me at EZ Storage,” he said into the phone.

Then he threw on his clothes, grabbed his keys, and ran out of the house.

Peter’s next stop was Lester Rowe’s shabby fortune-telling parlor on the Lower East Side. The small reception area was filled with clients, and he didn’t stay long.

Then he headed uptown to pay Milly a visit at the Dakota. The old witch met him at the door of her apartment wearing a flowing black robe and a mystical gold pendant hanging around her neck. Milly also told fortunes, but to a much wealthier clientele, and he guessed by her wardrobe that she was working. He passed the five-pointed star through the door.

“Please put this on right away,” he said.

“Am I in danger?” Milly asked.

“Yes. The shadow people are going after my friends.”

Milly thanked him with her eyes and shut the door.

His last stop was Holly. Max’s warning was still ringing in his ears, and he wondered what to do. Should he tell Holly that he couldn’t see her anymore? That would mean one of them would have to leave the Friday night psychics, and he didn’t see that happening. No, he was going to act like an adult, and sit down with her and have a talk. He couldn’t think of anything more unpleasant, except perhaps going to see Dr. Sierra again.

As his cab neared Holly’s place, his cell phone started to crawl out of his pocket as if alive. Only one person he knew could do that, and he flipped the phone open.

“Hey, Nemo, how you been?” he asked.

“Great for a guy doing life in prison,” the Puerto Rican psychic said.”We need to talk. Give me your coordinates.”

The CIA kept Nemo on a farm in Virginia where they used him to travel across time and space to see what fiendish plots the nation’s enemies were hatching. It was a lousy existence, and the reason Peter didn’t trust people in law enforcement. He glanced out the window at the approaching intersection. “I’m in a cab at the corner of Ninetieth and Central Park West, right next to Central Park.”

“Look in the eastern sky. Do you see any clouds?”

“I see a few.”

“Excellent. Get out of the cab, and stare at them. I’ll be right there.”

“You’re going to visit me in person?”

“Yeah, aren’t you excited?”

The line went dead. Nemo hadn’t told him what was going on. But it wasn’t like Nemo to bother him with trivial things, and Peter told the driver to pull over. The cab’s tires kissed the curb, and he passed a twenty through the partition and hopped out. Walking over to the stone wall that surrounded the park, he located a formation of puffy clouds in the otherwise flawless sky, and stared. The outline of Nemo’s face gradually appeared.

“Aren’t we special,” Peter said.

“Yes we are,” his friend replied.

Nemo was a street kid from Spanish Harlem whom Peter had knocked around with as a teenager. Each psychic had a special gift. Nemo’s was astral projection. He could project himself anywhere in the world if he set his mind to it. That was why the CIA found him so valuable. He was like a drone that didn’t need gas, and couldn’t be shot down.

Out-of-body experiences were nothing new in the psychic world. Psychics had been projecting themselves across the globe since the beginning of time. When people saw human faces in the clouds, or appearing on oil slicks on the road, or in rock formations on the sides of mountains, it was often a psychic projecting himself. The psychic never stayed for very long, but sometimes the image lingered behind, causing people to get excited, and even build shrines.

“How’s life on the funny farm?” Peter asked.

“They’re treating me like a king,” Nemo replied. “Great food, beautiful accommodations, premium cable. The only problem is, they won’t let me out.”

“We’re going to have to work on that. How did you call me? Don’t tell me they gave you a cell phone.”

“I wish. I stole my one of handlers’ cell phones.”

“That’s going to come back and bite you.”

“I stole his credit card, too. Amex silver, no less.”

“Aren’t you afraid of what they’ll do when they find out?”

“What are they going to do? Arrest me? Then they’d have to acknowledge that they’re holding me, and that’s not going to happen. You should see all the stuff I bought on his card. Trips, hotel rooms, airline tickets, the works.”

“For who?”

“My cousin and her little kid. She lost her job, and has been living on welfare. They needed a vacation, so I sent them down to Disney World. First class, all the way.”

“How much did you charge on his card?”