James Swain - Shadow People

“You still should have told me. I would have talked to him.”

“It won’t make it any better. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Milly wanted to grab her niece by the shoulders, and shake some common sense into her. Milly understood who Peter was, and what he was, better than anyone else, except maybe Max. If anyone could talk the boy off a ledge, it was her. Not that she could convince Holly of that.

“My powers of persuasion are far greater than yours,” Milly said. “I will go see Peter tomorrow, and talk some sense into him. He’ll listen to me.”

Holly shook her head and stared at the floor. A tiny sob escaped her lips. “It’s too late. Max told Peter about some horrible things he did when he was a little boy. I heard the whole thing. Peter ran out of the restaurant with the most horrible expression on his face.”

“You mean Max told Peter about the killings,” Milly said matter-of-factly.

“You know about them?”

“Of course I know about them. Come on, dear girl, I helped raise Peter.” A noise from the other room caught Milly’s ear; her guests were growing restless. If she wasn’t careful, the subtle spell she’d cast over them would evaporate like a puff of smoke, and they’d seek out another psychic in the city to look into their futures and soothe their fears. “I must get back to my guests. Come back later, and we’ll go have dinner and talk this through some more.”

Holly shook her head, still miserable.

“What is it now?” her aunt said stiffly.

“Peter’s going to do harm to himself. I can feel it in my bones,” Holly declared.

A feeling in the bones was the window to a witch’s soul, and could not be denied.

“And what do you propose we do?” Milly asked.

“We must protect Peter,” Holly said.

Her niece didn’t understand. Milly didn’t have the time or the patience to explain it to her. Holly would have to learn on her own about Peter, just as Milly had done. She opened the front door and gently but firmly pushed her niece into the hall. Nearly fifty years separated them in age, but sometimes it felt more like hundreds, the different between them was so great.

“What are you doing?” Holly said, sounding hurt.

“Showing you out, my dear.”

“But why-what have I done?”

“You don’t understand what’s going on. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have raced across town, and barged in on me like this.”

A hurt look crossed Holly’s face. “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”

Milly stuck her head through the open door. “You and I were not put on this earth to protect Peter. Peter was put here to protect us. Now go home. I’ll call you later.”

Holly looked stunned, the words slow to sink in. Milly shut the door firmly in her niece’s face, and returned to her guests in the living room.

“Call her,” Ray said.

Early Wednesday morning, the sun was barely up. Munns stared at the cell phone lying on his kitchen table. It was a clamshell Motorola, ancient by today’s standards. He would have bought a newer model if he’d had friends to talk to. But Munns had no friends. Few serial killers did.

“Come on, call her,” Ray implored him. “You need to set this thing up.”

Munns lifted his eyes to stare at the tattoo artist leaning against the sink. He didn’t like the tone of Ray’s voice, or that Ray had driven to Munns’s house so early in the morning, and banged on his front door like an irate bill collector.

“It already is set up,” Munns said irritably. “Rachael is coming out on the train Friday night. If I call her now and tell her to come early, she’ll get suspicious and stop trusting me.”

“You’re not going to do it? Not even for me?”

“Nope, not even for you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Munns’s silence was his answer. He knew how to draw victims into his web, and did not appreciate Ray’s interference into the one thing he did rather well.

Ray pulled up a chair and sat backward in it. Whenever he could, he liked to show off the demonic-inspired tattoos that covered his arms. Like wild reptiles moving across the jungle floor, they slithered across his skin in perfect synchronicity. “I had a dream last night. Rachael came out on the Friday night train, and she had a pair of detectives with her. Something happened on Friday morning that made her suspicious, and she decided to call the cops.”

“You saw this in your dream,” Munns said.

“I sure as hell did. The detectives busted you and searched your car,” Ray said, not missing a beat. “They found rope and handcuffs and a bottle of chloroform. Then they came here, and tore your house apart. They found your trophy collection of clothing and jewelry of the women you’ve killed. They threw your ass in the county lockup, and the judge refused to grant you bail. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Munns shuddered, and drew his bathrobe tightly around him. When a judge didn’t grant bail, it meant the system thought you were guilty, and was not going to let you back into society no matter how fancy your lawyer was.

“I know,” Munns whispered.

“Then call Rachael right now, and get her to come out on the train tonight. You know how to talk to women. You told me so yourself.”

“But why tonight? Why so soon?”

“Because she still isn’t suspicious. I saw that in my dream, too.”

Munns understood the power of dreams. He’d started having them right after Ray had stamped the shimmering silver tattoo on his neck. They’d given him glimpses into the future, and he’d watched himself kill several of his victims before it had actually happened. He’d seen these dreams as gifts, for it had allowed him to watch himself and hone his skills. But they had not come without a price. Each time he’d had one, he’d awakened in sweat-soaked sheets and he knew that he had ceded another chunk of his soul to the Devil.

Finally, he gave in. “All right.”

Ray seemed relieved. From the fridge he grabbed a long-neck beer. Perhaps he’d seen himself going down on Friday night as well. No doubt he had some skin in the game.

“You gonna stand there and listen to me?” Munns asked.

“What-I make you nervous?”

“Everything makes me nervous. Go in the living room.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

Ray walked out of the kitchen, and Munns pulled up Rachael’s number from his cell’s directory. He’d talked to her many times, knew her schedule by heart. She worked at a cancer research center in New York affiliated with one of the universities, and got to work by seven thirty each morning so she could feed the rats that she used in her experiments and would one day have to inject with pink juice and put to sleep. She’d told Munns this was the most difficult part of her job, and always made her cry. Munns hadn’t understood how anyone could feel compassion for a rodent, but had pretended he did, just to make her happy.

The call went through. Munns quickly made up a story. Rachael lived by herself on the Upper East Side and had no close friends or social life. A single woman living in New York who didn’t get out much or have any attention showered upon her. It gave him an idea.

“Hello?” she answered, sounding out of breath.

“Rachael? This is Doc Munns. How are you? I sure hope didn’t catch you at a bad time. I have some wonderful news to share with you.”

“Not at all. I just came through the door and was pulling off my coat. It sure is cold for April. And I’d love to hear some good news.”

“The dean of the college called me last night, and said he wanted to hold a party at his house tonight so he can introduce you to the faculty. I thought it was a great idea, so I said yes. I hope you don’t mind.”