James Swain - Dark Magic

“I know who you are,” she muttered under her breath.

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re going to kill all those people in Times Square.”

“What are you bloody talking about?”

“You’re the Devil, and must be stopped.”

“Me? Come on. Get real.”

She drew a small-caliber pistol from her dress, and aimed it at Wolfe’s chest. Her breathing had grown accelerated, and he realized she was going to shoot him without caring about the consequences. He had a few seconds to save himself, and his mind raced.

It was difficult to own a legal handgun in New York, and, as a result, there were few firing ranges in which to practice. That was to his advantage. As he upended the table and sent the cards into the air, she fired, the bullet missing him by a foot and lodging in the ceiling.

He knocked the old Gypsy out of her chair, and jumped onto her chest. A feeble scream escaped her lips. On the other side of the curtain, Wolfe heard footsteps. He was not surprised when the curtain brushed back, and an elderly man charged into the parlor clutching a baseball bat, which he waved menacingly at Wolfe’s skull.

“Let her go,” the man declared.

“And who might you be?” Wolfe asked.

“I’m her husband. Now release my wife.”

“Whatever you say.”

Wolfe grabbed the rug the husband was standing on, and pulled his feet out from under him. The man flew backward through the curtain and disappeared. The sound of his body hitting the floor was loud and painful. Wolfe resumed looking at his wife.

“Tell me about Times Square.”

“I didn’t see it,” Madame Marie said.

“Who did? Tell me, and I won’t make you suffer.”

“No.”

Wolfe picked up the bat and tapped it against her skull.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

He tapped a little harder. “Tell me, damn it.”

“No.”

He smashed the bat onto the floor, making her scream.

“Last chance,” he said.

“It was Peter,” she whispered.

“The magician?”

“Yes. He saw you during a seance. He said you were going to kill thousands of people in Times Square on Tuesday night.”

“How?”

“He didn’t know.”

Wolfe wasn’t buying it. He didn’t have the means to kill that many people. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have done it. The only people he killed were the names on his list. That was what he got paid to do. There were no freebies in his line of work.

The husband groaned behind the curtain. It was time to go.

Wolfe put his hands around Madame Marie’s throat, and squeezed the life out of her. She shuddered once, and the life seeped out of her body.

“Have a nice hereafter,” he whispered.

Retrieving the pistol from the floor, Wolfe went into the back room. The husband lay on the floor in a daze. Wolfe inserted the pistol into his mouth, and squeezed the trigger. It made a loud popping sound, and the husband died instantly.

Let the police draw their own conclusions, he thought.

He slipped out of the parlor. The college kids were gone and the street was quiet, save for the steady beat of the rain. He fired up a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. Each time he killed, he was overcome with revulsion. Buried deep within his psyche there were still the small remains of a conscience. Someday, he guessed, it would be gone, and the Devil Madame Marie had seen in her cards would be all that remained.

Peter barely slept. His parents’ abduction kept playing in his head like a trailer for a bad movie. He couldn’t turn the damn thing off, no matter how hard he tried.

He opened his eyes the next morning to the smell of toasting bagels. The spot beside him on the bed was empty, and he could hear Liza downstairs in the kitchen. Tossing on his clothes, he barreled down the narrow staircase to the first floor.

Liza was a wonderful cook who did magic in the kitchen. He found her standing by the sink, wearing one of his dress shirts and a pair of fuzzy Garfield slippers. His eyes grew wide at the spread of food on the table. Sliced lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, chives, and a basket filled with sliced bagels. New Yorkers held bragging rights for many things, and that included the world’s best bagels. Some claimed it was the water they were boiled in; others said it was the dough. Whatever the reason, a New York bagel was a delicacy found nowhere else.

“This is awesome. What’s the occasion?” he asked.

“After last night, I thought you deserved a treat,” she said.

“You’re the best.”

“Have a seat. The show is about to begin.”

The food gave him an idea. He went to the basement, and grabbed a bottle of vintage champagne given to him by the Sultan of Brunei after a private show at the Waldorf. Liza oohed and aahed when he brought the bottle to the table. The cork hit the ceiling with a distinct Pop! He served her, and raised his own glass in a toast.

“May we never have a repeat of yesterday,” he declared.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said.

They drained their glasses and began to eat. As he bit into his bagel, he noticed Liza looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Something wrong?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Don’t I look okay?”

“You talked during your sleep last night.”

“Really? What did I say?”

“You were calling for your parents. I never heard you do that before.”

He swallowed hard. There were so many things that he wanted to tell Liza about himself that he didn’t know where to start. And now he had more to add. He shouldn’t have waited this long, not with Liza. He put his bagel onto his plate.

“There are some things I need to tell you,” he blurted out.

“Really? About what?”

“About what happened last night. I know this is going to sound strange, but that guy who attacked me is somehow related to my parents’ deaths.”

Her eyes grew wide. “He is? How?”

“The cult he belongs to was responsible for their murders.”

“But I thought you told me the police didn’t know who murdered your parents.”

“They don’t know. But I do. I saw it last night.”

“Oh, my God, Peter. Is that what you were dreaming about?”

It was the perfect explanation, only it wasn’t the truth. He had to start being honest with Liza if this was going to work. He took a deep breath. “No. I went back in time, and saw the men who killed them. One of them had a shimmering tattoo on his neck. It was the same tattoo as the man who attacked me at the theater.”

“You mean you had a flashback,” Liza corrected him.

“No, I mean I went back in time.”

“Come on, that isn’t possible. Not even for you.”

She laughed at him with her eyes. Why couldn’t this be easier? He tried to continue when his eyes were drawn to the paper bag the bagels had come in. The Order of Astrum’s shimmering symbol had appeared on its side with bright red blood oozing from its center.

“Please give me that bag.”

“Don’t tell me you saw a roach crawling out of it. Yuck.”

“No. It was something else.”

By the time the bag reached his hands, the symbol had vanished, and been replaced by the bagel store’s cartoon logo. It was a sign from the other side. He needed to act quickly.

“I need to make a phone call.”

“But you hardly touched your food,” Liza said, sounding put out.

“I’m sorry, but this is important.”

A hurt look crossed her face. “Whatever you say.”

“I’ll explain everything later.”

“You’re acting weird, Peter.”

He hurried upstairs to the bedroom. Snatching Schoch’s card off the dresser, he punched the detective’s number into his cell phone. “This is Detective Schoch of the NYPD,” a cheery recorded voice answered. “Please leave a message at the tone and I’ll get right back to you.” Straight to voice mail. Damn it. He told Schoch it was urgent and hung up.