Dark Magic (2 page)

They retired to the living room, and took their usual spots. Peter abandoned the comfy leather chair he usually sat in, and stood at the window, gazing at the blazing lights of Times Square thirty blocks away. In four days, it would be turned into a living hell, and he wrestled with how to deal with it. It was Milly who broke the silence.

“Tell us what you’re thinking,” she said.

Peter turned from the window. “We need to act quickly. The usual method of contacting the authorities isn’t going to work. We must get their attention right away.”

“He’s right,” Reggie said, chewing on his pipe. “We can’t send them a letter, and expect they’ll open it in time. Something else has to be done.”

“I agree,” Milly said. “Any suggestions?”

“We could bombard them with anonymous e-mails,” Holly offered.

“Anonymous e-mails can be mistaken as spam, and never seen,” Reggie reminded her.

“You’re right. Sorry.”

“How about a good old-fashioned phone call?” Lester suggested. “We can buy one of those devices that alter a person’s voice, in case the call is taped.”

“Phone calls can be traced,” Milly reminded him.

“Even cell phones?” Lester asked.

“Naturally.”

“How about running a banner behind a plane? Those usually get people’s attention.”

Lester had a knack for finding humor in just about any situation. This time, no one laughed, and the living room fell deathly quiet. Down below, a police cruiser passed the apartment building, its mournful siren punctuating the still night air.

“There’s no getting around it,” Peter said. “We need to make direct contact with the authorities. Since I’m the one who saw the attack, I should do it.”

“You can’t go to the authorities,” Milly said. “Look at what happened to poor Nemo.”

Peter knew perfectly well what had happened to Nemo. Once the government had discovered that Nemo was psychic, they’d stuck him on an estate in Virginia, where his handlers put him through vigorous interrogation sessions in an effort to find out what the government’s enemies were plotting. It was a wretched existence, and Peter hoped it never happened to him, but that still didn’t change the situation.

“I still have to do it,” Peter said.

“But why risk direct contact?” Milly asked. “Isn’t there some other way to tell them?”

“How do I pass along information that I don’t understand? I saw people dying in Times Square, but there was no blood, or gunfire, or explosions. Did some kind of bomb go off? Or was it something else? The authorities are experts at figuring out puzzles like this. I have to tell them what I saw. It’s the only way to prevent a catastrophe from happening.”

Milly sprang off the couch and crossed the room to where he stood. She grabbed his forearm and gave it a healthy pinch, just like she had when he was a little boy.

“They will never let you go, Peter. Once you start talking, they’ll realize you’re not normal, and then it will be over for you. Is that what you want? Never to see any of us again? And what about your career? Are you willing to toss that away as well?”

Peter said nothing. An uneasy silence fell over the group. Madame Marie cleared her throat. Everyone shifted their attention to hear what the old Gypsy had to say.

“I know you like my own son,” Madame Marie said. “You are a headstrong young man, and prone to making rash decisions. Think about this before you act. You have four days in which to make a decision. Use them wisely.”

“Yes, Peter, do think about it,” Max added. “There’s a lot at stake here.”

“A good night’s sleep will do the trick,” Lester joined in.

“That and a hot toddy always worked for me,” Reggie added.

They were the closest thing to a family that Peter had, and he would weigh their words carefully. Tomorrow was Saturday, and he had a matinee in the afternoon, and another show at night. He bid them goodnight, and Milly walked him to the door.

“Please let me know what you decide to do,” she said.

“I will, Milly. Thank you for your advice.”

“Like you ever listened to me.”

“I’ve always listened to you.”

“But have you ever obeyed?”

Hardly,
he thought. He kissed her on the cheek. “Goodnight.”

“Be safe, Peter,” she said.

“And you as well,” he replied.

*   *   *

His limo was idling at the curb, waiting to take him home. He spent a moment trying to clear his head. A little voice was telling him to go to the police, and tell them what he’d seen. It was the right thing to do, only it would lead to questions that he wasn’t prepared to answer. His friends were right. He needed to sleep on it, and come up with a better plan of attack.

A chill swept through his body. He looked up and down Central Park West, sensing another presence. Was Nemo trying to contact him? His friend could do that, and without thinking, he stepped off the curb. In the clouds was a translucent face that looked like Nemo’s.

“Peter, watch out!”

A city bus was hurtling toward him. He jumped back onto the curb, then gazed into the sky. Nemo was gone. Holly stood behind him, her teeth chattering from the cold. He draped his leather jacket over her shoulders.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“A little star-gazing. What’s the mood upstairs?”

“Not good. They’re afraid you’ll do something rash.”

“Me? Perish the thought.”

“You need to be careful. No one wants you to disappear. Especially me.”

A single tear ran down her cheek. Growing up, he’d babysat for Holly, and shown her magic tricks to keep her entertained. She was the little sister he’d never had, and one of the few people he ever confided in. He hated to see her so upset.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

“You’re not crossing your toes, are you?”

“Toes and fingers are uncrossed.”

“I worry about you. Were the things you saw really that bad?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Could it have been terrorists?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I have to contact the authorities.”

“You know best.” She slipped out of his jacket and kissed his cheek. “’Night, Peter.”

“Goodnight.”

He watched her go back inside, and climbed into the limo. Herbie, his African-American driver, put down his newspaper and glanced into his mirror.

“You look wiped out, boss. Ready to call it a night?”

“Yeah, Herbie. Let’s beat it.”

Peter poured himself a Scotch from the limo bar. He didn’t drink often, and when he did, there was a reason. The drink burned going down, and cleared his head.

“Do you have something to write on?”

“Pen or pencil?”

“Pencil, please.”

Herbie passed him a yellow pad and a pencil. “Which way home?”

“Through the park. It’s usually quiet this time of night.”

Herbie entered Central Park through the 72nd Street entrance. The park was empty, save for a die-hard jogger and a man walking his dog. Switching on the reading light, Peter stared at the blank pad. The key to stopping the catastrophe in Times Square would be finding the man he’d seen standing in the median. If he could get a drawing to the police, they could track the man down, and avert the disaster. He wouldn’t have to talk to them—just get the drawing in their hands, and call the man a threat. It sounded like a plan, and he began to sketch.

He was a passable artist, and the man’s face slowly took shape. Square chin, a scar on his left cheek, another beneath the hairline on his forehead. Flat nose, possibly broken a few times. Soulless eyes. Whoever he was, he’d lived a harsh life.

Peter appraised his work. It was a decent likeness, only something was missing. He added a scowl to the man’s face. That did the trick. He’d captured the thing about the man that was so unnerving. He could watch innocent people die without caring.

They’d reached the 72nd Street exit on the east side of the park. Herbie got onto Fifth Avenue, and headed south to 62nd Street, where he hung a left. They pulled up in front of a nondescript brownstone on a street of quiet elegance.

“So what are you drawing?” his driver asked.

Peter passed the sketch through the partition. Limo drivers saw hundreds of faces every single day. Maybe Herbie could help.

“Ever see him before?” Peter asked.

Herbie had a look. He shook his head, and passed the pad back.

“If I gave you copy of this sketch tomorrow, could you e-mail it to other drivers you know, and tell them to be on the lookout for this guy?”

“Sure,” Herbie said.

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Peter climbed out of the limo. The driver’s window came down, and Herbie stuck his head out. “If you don’t mind my asking, who is that guy, anyway?”

The pad was clutched in Peter’s hand, the face staring up at him. The harsh streetlight accentuated the man’s utter callousness, and Peter could not help but shudder.

“He’s the Devil, Herbie, and we need to find him.”

“Got it, boss. See you in the
A.M.
”

Peter climbed the steps to his brownstone. The downstairs lights were burning brightly. Liza had stayed up. A warm drink was waiting, and something good to eat. She was wonderful that way, and made him happy in ways that no one had ever managed to before.

He hurried inside.

2

New York’s meat-packing district was not where people went to see live theater. Located on the West Side, the district’s once gritty meat-packing plants were now occupied by nice restaurants, late-night clubs, and fashion boutiques. The neighborhood had found new life, and a soul all its own.

Peter had chosen to stage his full-evening magic show in the district for this very reason. By avoiding bustling Times Square, he did not have to compete with the musicals, revivals, and serious dramas that fueled New York’s Theater District. He was the new kid on the block, and his fans ate it up. Each night, they flocked to his shows, desperate to find out what this young miracle-maker would do next in the abandoned meat-packing plant that was his stage.

Peter stood inside his dressing room. It took longer to get ready for a magic show than it did to perform one. He was nearly done with his preparations, and he adjusted the elastic pull that ran up the right sleeve of his jacket. The pull was one of his favorite props, and it let him make small objects disappear in the blink of an eye.

He stood in front of the mirror and tested the pull. Picking up a playing card, he secretly attached the card to the pull using a small clip. By extending his arms, he made the card race up his sleeve. To the mirror, it looked like real magic.

“Hey, Peter, can you talk?”

It was Liza, speaking through the inner-canal earpiece that he wore during his show. Along with being the love of his life, Liza was his assistant, the best he’d ever had.

“As well as the next guy,” he said into the tiny microphone sewn into his shirt collar.

“Very funny. Everyone’s in their seats. It’s a good crowd.”

“Sold out?”

“Yup. The last tickets got bought right before the doors opened.”

“That’s great. Is Snoop there with you?”

“He’s standing next to me. Ready to go over the details?”

“Let ’er rip.”

A magician’s assistant wore many hats. Liza and Snoop worked as ushers, and chatted with the patrons as they were led to their seats. Any valuable information they gleaned was passed to Peter before the show began. Magicians called this preshow work. It allowed them to know intimate details about the audience before ever stepping foot on stage.

“Here we go,” Liza began. “Row A, seats five and six are an older couple from Battle Creek, Michigan, named Wayne and Marilyn Barcomb. Their son, Michael, is about to graduate from NYU Medical School. Michael’s sitting in seat seven. He was talking on his cell phone as they got seated. I think there’s a young lady in the wings.”

“Engaged?” Peter asked.

“It sounds that way. She’s going to meet the parents on Sunday.”

“Did you get her name?”

“Suzanne.”

“Another med student?”

“Yes—how did you know?”

“Just a guess. Great job.”

“Thanks, Peter.”

Snoop went next. Before joining the show, Snoop had been a computer hacker, and had gotten his nickname because he enjoyed sticking his nose into other people’s business.

“You’re going to love this,” Snoop said. “Row F, seats eight through twelve are five ladies who could be stand-ins for
Sex and the City,
but actually work in the media department of the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency here in New York. One of them is celebrating a birthday, but I couldn’t find out which one.”

“The birthday girl’s sitting in seat number 10,” Peter told him.

“Cut it out.”

“I’m serious. I’ll bet you lunch.”

“No thanks. How do you know she’s in seat number 10?”

“Simple deduction. Five ladies are out on the town, and one is having a birthday. The birthday girl will sit in the middle so none of her friends will feel left out.”

“Wow. I’m impressed,” Snoop said.

“Merci. Keep going.”

Snoop recited the rest of the things he’d overheard while taking patrons to their seats. One lady had a poodle who’d eaten a box of chocolates, and nearly died. Another woman was worried that a passport for a trip to Paris might not come through in time. And one poor man was a recent victim of identity theft, and had been forced to cut up his credit cards. It was just enough information for Peter to open up the door to a person’s psyche, and plumb their thoughts.

“Want to add anything, Zack?” Peter asked.

Zack handled ticket sales and worked the door. He was a muscle head, and cut an imposing figure. Zack had once handled security for a heavy metal band, and had a sixth sense when it came to spotting trouble. “Sure do. A strange guy with a British accent approached me in the lobby, and asked if you still accepted challenges during the show. He had this way about him that bothered me. When I asked him what he had in mind, he told me to piss off.”