James Swain - Dark Magic

He reached across the table, and took her hands into his own.

“You did the right thing warning Reggie.”

She nodded and took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to tell you. Reggie thought one of our group might be helping the Order of Astrum. I think he was right.”

“You do? Why?”

From her purse she removed a folded piece of paper, and slid it toward him. “I found this on the sidewalk. One of the dogs pulled it from Wolfe’s pocket before he ran.”

Peter unfolded the paper and had a look. It was a list of the names of the seven members of Friday night psychics. Beneath each name was the person’s address, home phone number, and, if they had one, cell phone number.

“This is Wolfe’s hit list,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“How did he get all of this information?”

“Someone in our group must have given it to him.”

“You mean a spy.”

“That’s right.”

“But all of our names are on the list.”

“So?”

“If there was a spy in our group, do you think he’d want Wolfe to kill him as well?”

Holly bit her lower lip. “No, I guess not.”

“There’s a spy, but it isn’t one of us. Someone else did this.”

“But who could it be?”

Peter again studied the list. Something about it bothered him. After a moment, he realized what it was. The information included Max’s cell phone number. Max had only recently crawled out of his cave and purchased one. Max had given Peter the number in case of emergency, and asked that he not share it. Max was a private person, and Peter didn’t think the other members of the Friday night group had the number.

There was one way to find out.

“Do you have Max’s cell phone number?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know. Let me check.”

Holly took out her cell phone, and went through the phone book. “No, I just have his apartment number. Is that significant?”

“Yes. I’m the only member of our group that has Max’s cell number. The spy got this information from me.”

“But how’s that possible? I mean, this isn’t stuff you talk about, is it?”

Peter never talked about his psychic friends. Nor had he put their names and phone numbers on his computer. The spy had gotten the information from his cell phone.

He slammed the table with the palm of his hand.

“For the love of Christ,” he swore.

“What’s wrong? You’re getting all red in the face.”

“I have to go.”

“Peter, wait.”

He rose from the table so abruptly that he knocked over his chair. The nurses stopped their conversation to stare at him.

“Go back to your coffee and gossip,” he told them.

“Peter, get a hold of yourself,” Holly said.

He hurried out of the cafeteria. Holly caught up with him in the hallway, and grabbed his arm. “Don’t run away from me like that,” she said furiously.

“I have to deal with this,” he said.

“Do you know who it is?”

“I have a good idea. Go back to your aunt’s apartment, and stay there until I call you.”

“Don’t order me around. I hate when you do that.”

“Do it anyway.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

They came to the street entrance. Outside it was cold and nasty and wet. Peter zippered his jacket while staring at his reflection in the glass door. Not having a family growing up, he’d compensated by creating one as he’d gotten older. It made the betrayal that much greater.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” she begged.

“It’s one of my assistants,” he said.

The sidewalks on Broadway were an endless sea of umbrellas. Peter stared out the passenger window of his limo, trying to control his rage.

“You okay, boss?” Herbie asked.

“I’m fine,” Peter replied, hearing the lie in his voice.

“You don’t look fine. Sure you’re not getting sick? There’s a bad flu going round.”

“When did you become a doctor, Herbie?”

His driver fell silent. Peter continued to watch the passing scenery. The anger he’d felt in the hospital had manifested into a burning rage that would not go away. First Reggie had died, then he’d learned one of his assistants had stuck a knife into his back. Bad news came in threes, and he wondered what was going to come next.

“You had anything to eat?” his driver asked.

“Just some coffee.”

“That explains it.” Herbie lifted a Philly cheesesteak sandwich wrapped in wax paper off the seat, and passed it through the partition. “Eat this. Make you feel better.”

“You think so?”

“Always worked for me.”

Peter quickly ate the sandwich. He was surprised at how hungry he was. He caught Herbie watching in the mirror.

“Better?” Herbie asked.

“A little. Remember the guy who tried to stab me the other night during my show?”

“Sure. What about him?”

“One of my assistants is feeding him information.”

Herbie frowned. “That’s bad stuff. Who is it?”

“I don’t know. He took the information off my cell phone, and passed it to him.”

“I thought you kept your cell phone locked for security.”

“I do.”

“Then how did he get it open?”

That was a good question. Even if one of his assistants had gotten their hands on his cell phone, they couldn’t have accessed the directory without knowing the password. Had he given the phone to one of them to use while it was unlocked?

“I must have let one of them borrow it,” Peter said.

“Like when the power went out,” his driver said.

A week before, there had been a power outage at the theater, and Peter had lent his cell phone so an electrician could be called. The electrician had not been able to find anything wrong with the fuse box, which had seemed odd at the time. Now, he knew why.

His third piece of bad news had just arrived.

“It’s Zack,” Peter said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. He had my cell phone. He’s a spy.”

“But I thought Zack fought with that guy who attacked you.”

Zack and Wolfe had fought, or so it had seemed at the time. Now Peter realized what had really happened. Wolfe had tried to stab him. Peter had blinded Wolfe with a load of flash paper. Realizing Wolfe might be caught, Zack had leapt onto the stage, and pulled Wolfe through the trapdoor, allowing the assassin to escape. Peter marveled at the boldness of what Zack had done. Even he had been fooled.

“It was a trick,” Peter said.

“So what are you going to do?” Herbie asked.

“Confront him.”

“But Zack’s a monster. He does mixed martial arts.”

“I’ve still got to confront him. Liza’s staying in his loft. She’s not safe.”

“Why don’t you call the cops?”

“No cops.”

“But boss-”

“I said, no cops.”

“Whatever you say.”

Peter resumed looking out the window. There were names for men like Zack. Traitor, spy, Judas. None of them adequately conveyed the harm he’d caused. All the cops could do was arrest Zack. Peter had something else in mind. He was going to make his assistant talk, and tell him about the men who ran the Order of Astrum. Then, maybe he’d call the cops.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Herbie said under his breath.

“Trust me,” he said, hearing the rage in his voice. “I do.”

Zack and Snoop shared a loft in SoHo, in what was once the heart of the New York art scene. They lived in an old factory with a cast-iron facade and a hundred and fifty years of history. Herbie parked by the front door. It was quiet, the rain keeping everyone inside.

Peter gazed up at the third floor where his assistants lived. Liza was up there, and had no idea that her life was in danger. He needed to get his girlfriend to safety before confronting Zack. He started to get out.