James Swain - Dark Magic

“But you’re gonna croak,” Nemo said.

“I have to stop Wolfe. Too many people will die if I don’t.”

“You sure about this?”

“Positive. Did you see anything else?”

“Yeah. My handlers asked me how the attack was going down. I put myself in a trance three more times. Each time, I went to different parts of the city. It was bad.”

“It wasn’t just isolated to Times Square?”

“Nope. It was everywhere. East Side, West Side, Midtown, even the Village. It was hard to figure out what was going on, being nighttime and all. I saw lots of dead people. One of my handlers called it a hell storm. I looked it up. It what’s people who chase tornadoes call a monster storm. Chances of surviving one are slim.”

“The city’s going to be turned into a hell storm.”

“Looks like it. Sure you don’t want to bolt?”

“I’m staying.”

“Would you mind doing me a favor then?”

“Name it.”

“I have a cousin that lives in Spanish Harlem. She doesn’t own a computer, otherwise I would have contacted her. Could you warn her?”

“Of course.”

“Her name’s Juanita. She lives at 1743 East Ninety-seventh Street, apartment 37D. Phone number is 925-4781. She tends bar. Best time to get her is in the day.”

Peter wrote the information down. “Got it. I’ll call her in a few hours.”

“Thanks. One more thing. She doesn’t have any money. And she’s got a little boy. Could you help her out? Buy her a bus ticket or something?”

“Does she have someplace to go?”

“We’ve got relatives in Jacksonville.”

“I’ll buy her and her son plane tickets.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Anything you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her I think about them every day.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll pay you back.”

“You already have.”

Peter heard the front door buzzer. He lived in one of the quietest neighborhoods in the city, and no one ever came calling this late.

“I’ve got to go,” Peter said. “Be safe.”

“And you as well,” Nemo said.

Peter shut down the computer. Moments later, he was standing at his front door. Turning on the outside light, he stuck his face to the peephole. Garrison stood outside with raindrops dancing on his shaven skull. He was alone, and wore a tired smile on his face.

Peter opened the door, praying that he brought good news.

“Where’s your entourage?” Peter asked, ushering Garrison inside.

“Home in bed, which is where I’m heading once we’re done,” the FBI agent said, stamping the cold out of his feet in the foyer. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

“You’re going home?”

“Damn straight. We nailed the son of a bitch.”

“You caught Wolfe?”

“Better.”

“He’s dead?”

“He’s deader than a church social, as my pappy used to say.”

Peter rocked back on his heels. It was like a giant invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he slapped Garrison on the arm. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. You want a cup of coffee?”

“Dying for one.”

Garrison finished his story at the kitchen table with a steaming mug clutched in his hand. “The Westchester police spotted Wolfe on a surveillance camera at a tollbooth early this morning. They set up a roadblock, and had a cruiser with a SWAT team come up from behind. Wolfe tried to run, and got shot to bits. His vehicle went down a ditch, and the gas tank caught fire. He got burned like a marshmallow at a weenie roast.”

Peter leaned against the counter. He wanted to be happy, only what Garrison was describing didn’t sound right. Wolfe had impressed him as someone who knew all the angles, not a guy who’d get taken down by a bunch of local cops.

“The last time I saw Wolfe, he was wearing an elaborate disguise,” Peter said.

“So?”

“If the Westchester cops spotted Wolfe on a surveillance camera, it meant he wasn’t wearing a disguise. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Look, Peter, it was definitely him.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I saw the tape myself.”

“Was he carrying any ID?”

“Like I told you, he got burned up.”

Peter thought back to what Nemo had said about the government knowing who he was. Garrison had betrayed their confidence, and he felt himself grow angry as he gazed at the FBI agent.

“You told your superiors about me, didn’t you?” Peter said.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Garrison replied.

“I thought we had a deal.”

“Too many lives were at stake.”

“Well, you just ruined mine.”

“No, I didn’t. I protected you. I didn’t reveal your name.”

“But you told them I existed. They’ll start to look for me.”

Garrison placed his mug down. “The FBI already knew you existed, and that you’d given them valuable information in the past. I simply told my bosses that you’d made contact in order to warn me about Wolfe. It worked like a charm.”

“You mean you used me as leverage,” Peter said.

“Your predictions are highly regarded within the FBI.”

“But you didn’t give them my name.”

“No, sir.”

“What about your team?”

“Sworn to keep quiet. Told them you were our secret weapon. Which you are.”

Talking to Nemo had reminded Peter how precious his freedom was. “I’m not your secret weapon,” he said.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You, I trust. Not the people you work for.”

“That’s a low blow, man. The people I work for are cool.”

“You think so?”

Garrison’s eyes grew wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How many people did you tell about me?”

“Just my immediate superior, who swore he’d stay silent. Why?”

“He broke his promise to you, that’s why,” Peter said. “The CIA is holding a psychic friend of mine at a farm in Virginia. They use him to look into the future. My friend made contact, and told me the CIA was on to me. He heard it from one of his handlers.”

Garrison looked crushed, and stared at the table. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Start with ‘I’m sorry’ and work your way up.”

“I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”

Peter pulled up a chair, and sat down beside his guest. His life was about to become a living hell, courtesy of the man sitting across from him. He had to deal with this right now, or risk losing everything. “Erase me,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Garrison asked, clearly perplexed.

“I heard it in a spy movie. I want you to make me disappear.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Tell your boss I’ve vanished, or died, or went to Nepal to live with the monks. Whatever you think he’ll buy, tell him.”

“Erase you.”

“That’s right. Poof.”

“You’re not going to help me anymore?”

“I didn’t say that. But you’re going to have to tell your boss that the information is coming from somewhere else.” He paused. “Is that possible?”

Garrison gave it some thought. “I don’t see why not,” the FBI agent said.

“Good.”

They shook hands. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was the best Peter could think of. Now, if he could just figure out how to win Liza back, his life would return to normal.

Garrison smothered a yawn. “I need to head out. I’ve got a long drive home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Out on Long Island. Little burg called Greenlawn.”

“Want another cup for the trip?”

“You’re a mind reader,” Garrison said, and burst out laughing.