James Swain - Dark Magic

“How are we supposed to have a relationship if you hide things?”

His cell phone rattled on the table. He glanced at the face. It was Garrison, trying to track him down. Why couldn’t he leave a voice mail like everyone else? Peter ignored it.

“I’m not hiding things,” he said. “My parents died when I was seven. There are a lot of things I didn’t know about them, and their past, that I’m only learning about now. It’s making me see them in a new light and it’s not easy.”

Her eyes searched his face. It made him uncomfortable, and he resumed eating his food. His relationship with Liza had never been a struggle, and he wondered if they would ever return to the way things used to be.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” she said. “How does it work with psychics when it comes to relationships? How do they work these issues out? I’m assuming their partners are normal. Or aren’t they?”

He gave her question some thought. Max’s late wife had been psychic, and so had Milly’s late husband. Reggie had been a confirmed bachelor, so he didn’t count. Madame Marie’s husband hadn’t been psychic, but his parents had been, so he’d understood the drill. Peter didn’t know about Lester Rowe, and as far as Holly was concerned, she rarely dated. There was Nemo, who’d changed girlfriends as often as he changed his socks. It occurred to him that none of his psychic friends had carried on a relationship with a normal partner. He wondered how he could tell Liza this, and not make her even more uncomfortable. Before he could answer, his cell phone did a slow crawl across the table. Garrison, calling again.

“Maybe you’d better answer it,” Liza said.

“I want to talk about this some more,” he said, ignoring the phone.

“Then answer my question. How do your psychic friends deal with their relationships? Or is that a secret too?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask them.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Liza picked up her plate, went to the garbage disposal, and dumped her uneaten meal into the trash. Turning around, she gave him a fiery look. “How can someone with the gift of clairvoyance not know how to carry on a normal relationship? I just don’t get it.”

“You’re the first normal relationship I’ve had,” he said truthfully.

“Really. What about that Swedish supermodel you were dating, and the TV actress. Didn’t those last a while?”

“I never got close to them. I couldn’t confide in them like I have with you.”

“You told me what you wanted to tell me, Peter. You didn’t tell me the truth.”

He rose from his chair. She was pushing him away, and he needed to come clean. “I was afraid that if I told you too soon, I’d damage the relationship, and you’d run away.”

“You’ve already damaged the relationship. The question is, how do you plan to fix it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, I think that’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”

His cell phone did another little dance. Liza crossed the kitchen, and snatched it off the table. Flipping it open, she abruptly said, “Hello-are you looking for Peter? He’s right here. Hold on,” and shoved the cell phone into her boyfriend’s hands. “Let me know when you’re ready to have a real conversation,” she said, and stormed out of the room.

Peter heard the front door slam as she left the house. He shook his head, wondering how he was going to make this right. He’d wanted to tell Liza about himself for the longest time, but had never been able to muster up the courage to do it. Now, he wondered if it was too late. A voice came out of the phone, and he raised it to his face.

“Hello?”

“You are one hard man to track down,” Garrison said. “I’ve got a big problem, and I need your help.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Wolfe isn’t who we thought he was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to talk about this over the phone,” the FBI agent said. “I’ll come by your place in ten minutes. Be outside on the curb waiting for me. I’ll explain everything then.”

Peter wasn’t ready for this. He needed to find Liza, and talk things out with her. His personal life had taken enough hits in the past few days, and couldn’t take much more.

“Hold on a second,” he said. “I need to know what’s going on. I have a life, you know.”

“The city is still in danger,” Garrison said.

Peter heard his own sharp intake of breath. He glanced at the window, and saw the rain coming down hard outside. The storm had returned with a vengeance.

“See you in ten,” he said.

Peter threw on some clothes, grabbed an umbrella, and went outside his brownstone to wait for the FBI agent’s arrival. His heart was pumping furiously, the images of the Friday night seance still fresh in his mind. Cars burning, people dropping like flies, and Wolfe standing in the middle of it like the Grim Reaper, assessing the carnage. That was the threat he’d seen during his journey to the other side; now that Wolfe was dead, the threat should have passed as well. For Garrison to be telling him otherwise made him shiver uncontrollably.

If there was one constant in his life, it was his ability to predict the future. He’d never been wrong, and could not understand how he’d called this one so badly. He glanced at his watch. “Come on,” he said impatiently.

Garrison pulled up in his Lincoln, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Peter went around to the passenger side and jumped in. The car took off before his door was closed.

“How can the city still be in danger?” Peter asked.

“There’s an envelope on the backseat you need to see,” Garrison said. “Take a look at what’s inside. Then I’ll explain.”

Peter retrieved a manila envelope off the rear seat, and dumped its contents onto his lap. Out fell a man’s wallet, passport, an ancient Zippo lighter, and some loose change. The wallet and passport were darkly stained, and he realized they were covered in dried blood.

“Are these Wolfe’s?” Peter asked.

“They are,” Garrison replied. “The police found them on his body last night. I decided to take a hard look at them, in the hopes I might discover how Wolfe was planning to launch his attack on the city. The wallet contained a plastic hotel-room key. We’re trying to track the location right now. There’s also a snapshot of a woman named Rita Tomavich, who’s an assassin for the Israeli government. We’re looking for her, too. The thing that caught my eye was the passport. Open it up.”

Peter flipped through the passport. Wolfe was well traveled, and the pages were filled with colorful stamps from a variety of foreign countries, including Spain, the Philippines, a number of countries in Africa, and Saudi Arabia. Wolfe had murdered three psychics in the Saudi city of Riyadh a few days before an attack on the city, and Peter wondered if that played into this.

“Is this the problem?” Peter asked, pointing at the stamps from Saudi Arabia.

“Very good,” Garrison said. “How did you know?”

“I guessed.”

“You’re a hell of a guesser. Look at the dates when Wolfe arrived and departed from the Riyadh airport. They’re next to the stamps.”

The dates were printed in tiny letters, and Peter had to stare. “Let’s see. It says here that Wolfe arrived in Riyadh on November third, and left on November seventh. Is that significant?”

“Yes. Want to take a stab at it?”

Garrison was making a game out of it, although not in a playful way. Peter thought hard, and finally gave up.

“I don’t have a clue. What does it mean?”

“The attack on the oil pipeline in Riyadh took place on November ninth,” Garrison said. “Wolfe was long gone before it took place.”