James Swain - Dark Magic

“What’s your name,” Morningstar asked.

“Peter Warlock.”

“Do you mind answering some questions, Peter?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Get in the car.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“To a secure place.”

“What’s wrong with right here?”

“You got a problem getting in the car?”

“Come to mention it, yes.”

Morningstar grabbed his arm, and looked ready to get physical. A dark thought passed through Peter’s mind, and he saw himself pounding Morningstar into the ground as payback for what his bosses had done to Nemo. He took a deep breath, and the feeling passed.

“Whatever you say,” Peter told him.

Peter got into the back of the Crown Vic. As Morningstar shut the door, Peter gave the CIA agent a hard stare. The knowing look in his eye was all too familiar. He knows who I am.

Peter fell back into the seat. The game was over.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Peter glanced at the front of the Dakota. Holly was watching, and had tears running down her cheeks. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

They hurtled downtown. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Peter thought.

Morningstar took him to the 14th Precinct on West 35th Street, also known as Midtown South. It was here that the criminals of Times Square were brought to be booked. The precinct had a reputation for being a cesspool, and they passed an assortment of lowlifes on their way to the basement. Peter looked down as he walked, and tried to remain calm.

They entered a small room with a desk and two chairs. Peter sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and put his elbows on the desk. There was another chair beside his, which he assumed was for a lawyer. Morningstar remained standing.

“Tell me about Wolfe,” the CIA agent said.

Peter had already made up a story during the ride. Most of it was true, and he hoped Morningstar would buy the rest. He took a deep breath, and began. “A crazy guy attacked me three nights ago. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. This afternoon, I went to visit some friends at the Dakota, and this guy followed me there. He got into the building, and broke into the apartment. We fought, and I threw him through a window in the living room.”

Finished, Peter leaned back in his chair.

“That’s it?” Morningstar asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Their eyes locked. The CIA agent wasn’t buying his explanation one bit.

“Exactly what is your relationship with Millicent Adams?” Morningstar asked.

“She helped raise me,” Peter replied.

“How about the other two people in the apartment?”

“Holly Adams is her niece, and my friend. Max Romeo, my magic teacher, also helped raise me. Max is a friend of Milly’s as well.”

“So you all know each other?”

“Correct.”

“Why were you all together?”

No good answer came to mind, so Peter made one up.

“We were going out to celebrate my birthday,” he said.

“Really. Give me your wallet.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Just do it.”

Peter dug out his wallet, and handed it over. Morningstar removed his driver’s license, and held it up to the overhead light. “Your birthday was last month. Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying,” Peter said.

“Your birthday story is nonsense.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then why were your friends getting together so late?”

“I’m in show business, and work nearly every night. I miss a lot of holidays and anniversaries and stuff like that. We picked this afternoon because we were all available.”

Morningstar tossed his wallet to the table. “What do you do?”

“Do?”

“For a living.”

“I’m a professional magician.”

“Do you read minds, and tell the future?”

Morningstar was trying to trap him. Peter told himself to stay calm.

“No, that’s what a mentalist does,” he said. “I do magic tricks, like sawing a woman in half and making things disappear.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“No, that’s what a comedian does.”

Morningstar pulled the other chair out from the table, and sat backwards in it. He eyed Peter coolly. “You’re the guy we’ve been looking for, aren’t you?”

Busted! Peter thought.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I think you do. Should I explain?”

“Please.”

“You’re the guy who can see into the future, and predict what’s going to happen,” the CIA agent said. “You know, the United States government could use a person with your talents. You could make the world a safer place. Think about it.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “You’ve got me mistaken for somebody else. I’m not a psychic.”

“Did I call you a psychic?”

“No, but that’s what psychics do, and I’m not one.”

“Why don’t you admit it? It will make things a lot easier.”

“Because then I’d be lying.”

Morningstar rocked forward in his chair. “Tell me about the birds.”

“What birds?”

“The flock of birds that helped you do away with Wolfe. The guard at the Dakota saw them fluttering outside the apartment window before Wolfe fell. Is that another one of your powers? Can you make animals do your bidding?”

“I can pull a rabbit out of a hat, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I know. That’s why I became a magician.”

Morningstar came out of his chair faster than Peter would have liked. He pointed at the door. “I’ve got someone standing in the hallway that will identify you. Why don’t you just admit who you are, and spare him the trouble of having to come in here?”

“There’s nothing to admit,” Peter said.

“Sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

“I’m happy with the mind that I have.”

Morningstar jerked the door open. “Come in.”

Special Agent Garrison entered the room. He was the last person Peter wanted to see right now. Peter wondered if he could talk Morningstar into putting him on the same farm in Virginia where Nemo was being held. At least he’d have someone to talk to.

“Stand up,” Morningstar said.

Peter rose from his chair, ready to face the music.

“Special Agent Garrison, is this the psychic you told the CIA about?” Morningstar asked.

Garrison popped a piece of candy into his mouth. He gave Peter a healthy stare.

“No,” Garrison said.

Peter nearly hit the floor.

“What?” Morningstar exploded. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. It’s not him,” Garrison said.

“Hold on a minute. You told us you met with a psychic in New York who was dialed in to Wolfe. You said this psychic was in his twenties, slender, and good-looking. You’re telling me this isn’t the same guy?”

“The guy I met was thinner, and had brown hair,” Garrison said. “This isn’t him.”

“Are you sure?”

Garrison shot him a nasty look. “What do you mean, am I sure?”

“You told the CIA you met this psychic in a dark bar, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, maybe he was wearing a disguise that altered his appearance.”

“This isn’t the guy I met.”

“It has to be him. Everything points to him.”

“What do you want me to say, that it’s him when it’s not?”

“Look at him again, will you?”

Garrison crushed the piece of candy in his mouth. “Sure, whatever you want.” Taking out a pair of glasses, he fitted them onto his face, and leaned forward to stare at Peter. A long moment passed, with Peter doing everything in his power not to smile at the FBI agent. Finished, Garrison removed his glasses, and slipped them back into his shirt pocket.