James Swain: Shadow People

He removed Holly’s notes from his pocket and reread them. Her notes were meticulous, and captured every detail of his encounter with Dr. Death. Yet it was all still terribly vague. He didn’t know the killer’s name or address, what he did for a living, or anything solid about him. He simply knew that the man had joined forces with the Devil, which had allowed him to know that Peter was present when he shouldn’t have. That kind of thing wouldn’t show up on a Google search. Finding Dr. Death would be like finding a needle in a haystack, maybe harder.

Herbie stopped to let a pair of bundled joggers run past. Central Park was an oasis in a concrete jungle, and someone was always out running. New Yorkers were like that. They didn’t care about things like cold weather. Peter caught Herbie’s frowning eyes in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re thinking too hard, boss. Remember what I told you. Just use Occam’s razor when something’s eating at you. Always worked for me.”

Occam’s razor was Herbie’s solution to life’s problems. A British philosopher, William of Occam, believed the simplest solution was usually the best solution. In this case, the simplest solution was to contact Special Agent Garrison, who knew a thing or two about solving crime. Garrison would take the clues Peter had assembled, and put together a profile of Dr. Death. Once a profile was finished, it would be only a matter of time before the FBI would figure out who the bearded man in the basement was.

Only there was a problem with contacting Garrison. Garrison was with the government, and the government, especially the CIA, was looking for him. The CIA wanted to imprison him on a farm in Virginia with his psychic buddy Nemo, where they could track down the nation’s enemies and other assorted bad guys.

That was the risk he faced contacting the FBI. Garrison had sworn never to reveal his identity, but if Garrison slipped up, or betrayed him, Peter would simply disappear from the general population.

They had reached the east side of the park. Herbie’s eyes found his employer in the mirror. Peter took a deep breath as if to say, I’m still working on it.

“You want me to drive around the block a few times?” Herbie asked.

“No. Let’s go home.”

Peter lived on 320 East 62nd Street, a few blocks away. His girlfriend, Liza, was up waiting for him, just like she did every Friday night, with a spread of delicious food waiting on the kitchen table. He’d grown up an orphan, and coming home to a house filled with pleasant smells and music playing on the stereo was the most wonderful thing he could ask for.

He read Holly’s notes again. There really wasn’t anyone else he could call besides Garrison. And if he didn’t alert someone, an innocent woman would die next Friday night.

It was the simplest solution. Occam’s razor had won again.

He sent an instant message to Garrison. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

Peter had grown up in New York largely on the generosity of others. His parents had left enough money behind for him to attend private school, and that was it. His parents’ friends, all of whom were psychics, had rotated him between their homes a year at a time, and raised him. Milly Adams and Max Romeo had been his primary guardians, and had kept him clothed and fed. He hadn’t been poor, but he hadn’t been rich either.

As a boy, he’d known he was different, and he’d had few close friends. To ward off loneliness, he’d roamed the streets on afternoons and weekends, and familiarized himself with the city’s rich and varied neighborhoods. He’d fallen in love with Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, Hell’s Kitchen, the meatpacking district, Times Square, Greenwich Village, and the Upper East and West sides. Each had possessed a special charm all its own.

Over time, he’d settled on the neighborhood which most attracted him, and a building that he wished to someday call home. His choice was an old brownstone on 62nd Street, between Second and First avenues. From the street it didn’t look like much, but that was an illusion. It had three stories plus a sunroof, nine rooms with three working fireplaces, a small basement, and a private courtyard. It also had a history that he rather liked. Every previous owner had been an artist.

It had been his dream house. Someday, when he was rich, he’d buy the brownstone, and turn it into his castle.

That day had come sooner than he’d expected. At twenty-one, he’d shot a series of TV commercials for Apple that made him a household name. Overnight, his magic shows had gone from being half filled to sold out. He’d become wealthy and had saved every penny. The week he’d turned twenty-four, he’d bought the building outright without a mortgage, and moved in.

His brownstone was more than just a home. He also used it to store his ever-growing magic collection. The first floor was crammed with illusions and apparatus, the upper floors devoted to his library of first-edition magic books and his vast collection of magic wands, of which he owned one from every corner of the world. Liza claimed it was like living inside a magic store, complete with her very own demonstrator.

The limo braked at the curb. As he started to get out, he got a call on his Droid. It was Garrison. He didn’t want Herbie hearing the call, and he hopped out and banged his hand on the roof. “Night, Herbie. Drive safe.”

“Take care, boss. See you in the morning.”

The limo drifted away. The street was quiet, the empty sidewalk a good place to talk. Peter pushed the Answer button and raised the Droid to his face. “You’re up late.”

“No rest for the weary,” Garrison replied. “I need to ask you some questions about this text you just sent me. Can you talk?”

Peter glanced at the upper floors of the brownstone. The master bedroom was all lit up; Liza was up, watching a horror movie. Parking himself on the stoop, he zipped up his leather jacket to keep warm. “I can talk.”

“In your message, you said you encountered a serial killer during a séance, and that he nearly murdered you,” Garrison said. “How is that possible?”

Explaining the workings of the spirit world was tricky, and Peter chose his words carefully. “During my séance, I went forward in time, and witnessed a serial killer preparing to abduct his next victim. It seems he was also watching me. It was a trap.”

“You went forward in time? How does that work?”

“Time consists of three dimensions: the past, the present, and the future. The spirits can send a person backward in time, or forward into the future, or leave him in the present. Tonight, the spirits decided to send me into the future.”

“Is it scary?”

“Tonight sure was.”

“What else can you tell me about this killer?”

He gave Garrison a physical description. Dr. Death was short and fat and didn’t look like he could harm a fly, when in fact, he was a monster. In conclusion, he said, “Just remember that he’s in league with the Devil. It was the only possible way he could have known I was present in his home. To anyone else, I would have been invisible.”

“You’re sure he’s a devil worshiper?”

“Positive. His next victim is a woman named Rachael. He was going out to meet her when I dropped in on him.”

Peter heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Bright light was pulsating from the master bedroom. Liza had a thing about watching horror movies with the volume on full blast, the louder and scarier the better. He resumed his conversation.

“You’re looking for this guy, aren’t you?” Peter asked.

“Stop doing that,” Garrison said.

“Doing what?

“Reading my mind over the phone.”