James Swain - Dark Magic

“And I don’t like the FBI.”

The special agent came around the table, and got in his face. “What did you say?” Garrison acted like he might rip Peter’s head off. The young magician held his ground.

“My mother and father were murdered when I was a kid,” Peter said. “This morning, I discovered that the FBI knew the Order of Astrum was responsible for their deaths, but never shared the information with the police. Like I said, I’m not a big fan of your employer.”

The words hit Garrison hard. He stepped back, unsure of how to respond. Liza caught Peter’s eye, and mouthed the word Wow! Snoop nodded approvingly.

It was hard to admit when you were wrong. Harder still when you had to do it in front of a roomful of people. The words that came out of Garrison’s mouth were a surprise.

“Sounds like the FBI owes you an apology,” Garrison said.

“It would be a good start,” Peter said.

“I’m sorry we never spoke to the police about the Order of Astrum’s involvement in your parents’ murders,” Garrison said. “They had a right to know. And so did you.”

Nothing was going to change the way Peter felt about his parents’ deaths. But it was still nice to hear Garrison say the FBI had not handled things right.

“Thanks,” Peter said. “Now how about letting my friends go?”

“You win,” Garrison said. “Your friends can go.”

Liza and Snoop broke into smiles. Garrison wagged a finger in their faces.

“Keep your noses clean,” the FBI agent said.

Snoop walked out of the kitchen with a lift in his step. Liza came around the table, and kissed Peter lovingly on the cheek.

“You’re a star,” she whispered.

“Get out of here before he changes his mind,” Peter whispered back.

Liza hurried out of the kitchen. Moments later, Peter heard the front door open as Liza and Snoop left the brownstone. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing his friends were safe.

Garrison turned to his team, and told them to wait in another room. The three agents filed out.

“I need some coffee,” Garrison said.

Peter fixed a fresh pot. Soon they were facing each other at the table, the hostility between them all but gone.

“You go first,” Garrison said.

“I’d never heard of the Order of Astrum until last night, when one of their members tried to kill me during a show,” Peter said. “A British guy named Wolfe.”

“Who told you Wolfe was a member of the Order?”

Peter sipped his drink. Detective Schoch had told him Wolfe was part of the Order. He wasn’t going to give her up any more than Liza or Snoop.

“Wolfe had the Order’s tattoo stamped on his neck,” Peter said. “One of my assistants recognized the tattoo, and told me about the Order.”

“How did you make the connection between the Order and your parents’ deaths?”

“I saw it in a dream last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was there the night my parents were abducted, and repressed the memory. It came out last night, and I saw the men who did it. One of them had the Order’s tattoo on his neck.”

“You were there.”

“That’s right. So what’s Wolfe’s deal? You must have some idea.”

The ball was back in Garrison’s court. When the FBI agent did not respond, Peter gazed into his guest’s troubled eyes, and read his thoughts. He knows something horrible is about to happen, and doesn’t know how to stop it.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of. Maybe I can help,” Peter said.

“Who said I was afraid of something?”

“It’s written all over your face.”

“Is that so. Are you psychic?”

“I don’t have ESP, but I do have ESPN.”

“Ouch. Just answer the question.”

“I see things that other people miss.” He paused. “I can help, if you let me.”

Garrison drummed the table. He had a face like an open book. Now it was saying, “What the hell do I have to lose?”

“All right. I’ll tell you what I know,” Garrison said.

Peter refilled the special agent’s mug. Garrison appreciated the gesture, and dipped his chin.

“I run a special division of the FBI called the Pattern Recognition Unit,” Garrison said. “We solve cases through data mining and information analysis. You familiar with this?”

“I think CSI did an episode about it,” Peter said.

“I’ll give you an example. There was a serial killer in Boston who was slashing women the third Friday of every month. The Boston police were stymied, so the case was handed to us. We mined several thousand pieces of data to see if anything popped. Turns out, a movie theater in Boston was showing splatter flicks every third Friday. We contacted the mental hospitals to see if any patients got turned on by that stuff. Wouldn’t you know, there was a guy who did, and he’d been missing for months. We caught him.”

“Did a pattern lead you to the Order of Astrum?”

“Yes, it did,” Garrison said. “Last year, an oil field in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, was mysteriously blown up. The next day, the price of crude oil skyrocketed, and a ruthless dictator in Africa named Big Daddy made a killing in the oil futures market. It looked real suspicious, so my group decided to investigate.

“We looked at thousands of pieces of information. Based upon our investigation, Big Daddy wasn’t connected to the bombing in any way. But we found something else. Big Daddy had recently unveiled a new flag with the Order of Astrum’s symbol replacing the country’s national emblem. That bothered me, so I decided to have a look at the Order.

“There wasn’t much information available about the Order, except for a file on the FBI’s computer, which said the Order had killed your parents, who were both psychics. I wondered if there could be a link to their killings, and the case in Riyadh.”

The words went off in Peter’s head like a bomb. The FBI knew that my parents were psychics. Did they know about him, and the Friday night seance group as well?

“Was there?” Peter asked.

“Yes, there was. Don’t get ahead of me.”

“Sorry.”

“I contacted the Saudis, and asked them if there had been any unusual killings in Riyadh before the pipeline attack. Guess what I found?”

“There were.”

“Right again. There were three suspicious deaths the week before the bombing. One victim was a woman who had occult stuff hidden in her house. The second victim was an old man who claimed to be two hundred years old, and gave spiritual guidance to his neighbors. The third was a teenage boy who was shunned by everyone who knew him.”

“Why?”

“The boy’s neighbors claimed he used to sit on the sidewalk, and stare into the sun while predicting the future.” Garrison paused. “We think they were all psychics.”

“How were they killed?”

Garrison gave him a hard stare. “Why is that important?”

“Wolfe used a knife. I read somewhere that knifings are rare.”

“They are rare. Most murderers use a firearm. To answer your question, the victims in Riyadh were stabbed, strangled, and beaten to death.”

“It has to be him. Wolfe likes using his hands.” Peter paused to think about what Garrison had told him. “You think Wolfe was sent to Riyadh to bomb the pipeline. But before he did that, he killed these three psychics so they wouldn’t tip off the police.”

Garrison took another sip of coffee. “You’re very perceptive.”

“Like I said, I see things other people miss.”

“You sure you’re not a psychic like your parents?”

Peter stared into the depths of his drink and said nothing.

“My father had an expression,” Garrison said. “He used to say, ‘I may have been born late, but I wasn’t born late last night.’”