James Swain - Shadow People

“Yes, that, too,” Sierra echoed.

Peter drummed the table. The phrase “troubled childhood” was taking on a whole new meaning. But he still wasn’t sure why Sierra and Hunsinger had gone to such great pains to seek him out. Both men had seen scores of troubled people during their careers. So why had they worried about him? Because he was a child when this had occurred? That was one explanation, although he was quite certain both men had seen scores of troubled children during their careers. There had to be another reason.

His drumming grew louder. So loud that he could hardly hear himself think. Out of frustration, he attempted to read both men’s brains to see what they were up to.

It didn’t work. Both men were cutting him off by thinking about the lunch they’d shared a few hours ago. It was almost as if they’d planned it.

He gave Liza a look and whispered, “We need to talk.” She rose from her chair the same time he did, said, “Please excuse us,” and followed Peter out of the room.

Huddled in the hallway, Peter spoke in a hushed tone. “They know something they’re not telling me.”

Liza gave him a quizzical look. “What more is there to know?”

“That’s a good question. I keep thinking back to Sierra asking me if the demon had come out the night my parents died. I think he already knew the answer and just wanted confirmation that it had.”

“How would he have known if it had?”

“My parents’ murders made the front page of the New York newspapers. Maybe I did something horrible that night that also made the newspapers, and Sierra and Hunsinger read about it, and made the connection.”

“Did you?” Liza asked.

“Not that I remember.”

“But you don’t remember hurting the burglar in your apartment either.”

Liza was right. Was this dark spirit inside of him so powerful that he couldn’t control it, much less remember when it took over his body? It scared him to think it might be true. Grabbing his leather jacket off a peg, he gave Liza a kiss.

“I need to talk to the police. They’ll know what happened that night,” he said.

“What about Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger? What should I tell them?”

That was a good question. Sierra and Hunsinger had opened Pandora’s box, and Peter didn’t think he’d ever get it closed. But why had they done that? Out of an insatiable curiosity, or was something else in play here? Peter was determined to find out the answer.

“Thank them for dropping by,” he said, and flew out the door.

He hurried uptown.

Soon he was standing outside the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street. Did he really want to know the truth about himself? Could he handle the truth? He was about to find out.

He went inside. The lobby reminded him of the Port Authority bus terminal and was just as noisy. He sifted through the crowd, picking up people’s thoughts. When he was under stress, his psychic powers got the better of him, and he heard things without meaning to.

He waited dutifully in line to talk to the female desk sergeant working reception. In front of him, a Puerto Rican man was trying to determine how he was going to tell his brother-who’d beat up someone over a girl-that he didn’t have the money to bail him out of jail. Behind him, a distraught mother was wondering if the police had any fresh information about her runaway teenage daughter. Their thoughts were incredibly loud, as most stressful thoughts were, and bounced around him like so many echoes.

Finally his turn came, and he approached the desk.

“Hey, magic man, long time no see,” the desk sergeant said. “How’s tricks?”

He’d helped the police solve a murder not long ago, and was surprised she remembered him. “I’ve been good. I’d like to see Detective Schoch.”

“Do some magic first. I want to be amazed.”

He searched his pockets for something to fool her with. He’d left the house without so much as a deck of cards. Normally in situations like this, he would have read her mind, but the desk sergeant was one of those rare birds whose minds could not be read. He pointed at the notepad lying on the desk.

“Pick up that pad and draw something on it. Don’t let me see it,” he said.

“You gonna read my mind?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Cool.” The desk sergeant picked up the pad and a pencil. “Turn around, I don’t trust you.”

“Come on, I’m one of the good guys.”

“I still don’t trust you. Now turn around.”

Peter obeyed, and found himself staring at a scummy-looking character standing where the distraught mother had been. Day-old stubble, rheumy eyes, and lifeless blond hair made up the picture. The man’s dark thoughts invaded Peter’s head. He was a cold-blooded murderer.

“Something wrong?” the scummy-looking man asked, picking up his vibe.

“There was a woman standing behind me,” Peter explained.

“She left.”

“I’m finished,” the desk sergeant said loudly.

“Nice meeting you,” Peter said.

“Right.”

Peter turned back around. The man’s crime was running through his head like a trailer to a movie. Friday night, a rough bar in Hell’s Kitchen, the man and a drinking buddy left the bar together, walked into a dark alley, where the scummy-looking man robbed his friend and shot him for good measure. He was a stone-cold killer.

“So tell me what I drew,” the desk sergeant said.

Peter had absolutely no idea what the desk sergeant had drawn while his back was turned. But he was about to find out without his subject being the wiser. “Please tear off what you drew, and hide the drawing,” he replied.

The desk sergeant tore off the drawing and hid it under her desk. Peter wondered how was he going to tell her about the killer without tipping her off that he was a psychic. He decided to finish the trick, hoping a solution would come to him.

“May I please have the pad and your pencil,” he said.

“So polite. I like that in a man.”

She winked at him while handing over the items. Peter held the pad up close to his chest. Using the edge of the pencil, he lightly shaded the page, and the impression of what she’d just drawn popped to life. There were only ten objects that people ever drew. Peter pegged the desk sergeant for a house, and glanced down at the page. Sure enough, she’d drawn a house. But not just any house. This one had a winding driveway, a mailbox at the road, and a front lawn. Had she drawn the house out in the suburbs where she lived?

“You drew something very dear to you, a special place.”

The desk sergeant lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Boy, you’re good,” she said.

“It’s a house in the suburbs.”

“Right again.”

“Is it the house where you live?”

“I’ll be damned. You’re amazing.”

Behind the desk appeared an attractive brunette wearing a sidearm strapped to her side. Detective Colleen Schoch, the very person he’d come to the precinct to see.

“Hello, Peter. How have you been?” she asked.

“I’m okay. I need to speak with you. In private.”

“May I ask what this is about? I’m kind of busy right now.”

“The night my parents were killed.”

Schoch did not know what to say. She’d been the first officer on the scene the night his parents had died, and had taken Peter to the station house and taken care of him. Schoch was a friend, and one of the few people outside of his Friday night group who knew of his powers.

Schoch motioned him to come around the desk, and they walked to a bank of elevators and waited for a car to come. She brought her face up close to his. Their eyes locked.

“What’s going on?” Schoch asked.