Dark Magic (26 page)

“Too late. Good-bye, my lovely friend.”

Closing his eyes, Reggie slid off the bench to the ground, where he lay in a heap. Holly punched 911 into her cell phone with tears streaming down her face.

34

Peter’s limo pulled up to the emergency entrance of Roosevelt Hospital on West 59th Street and Tenth Avenue, and he hopped out. Like many New Yorkers, he knew of Roosevelt Hospital through an episode of
Seinfeld,
where Jerry and Kramer had accidentally dropped a Junior Mint into Elaine’s ex-boyfriend during an operation. The send-up of the inept hospital staff had seemed funny at the time. It didn’t now.

The emergency room was loud and chaotic. He found Holly giving a statement to a uniformed policeman. Their eyes met, and Holly shook her head as if to say
Not now.
He backed away, and headed for the nurse’s station. He wondered what story Holly was giving the police. Something that left out the Friday night psychics and the Order of Astrum, he guessed. That was the bad thing about living a lie. Once the lie got started, there was no turning back.

The nurse’s station was also busy. The nurse in charge was a middle-aged woman with a kind face, and appeared to be the calm in the eye of the storm.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“A friend of mine named Reggie Brown was admitted a short while ago. I was wondering if you could tell me how he’s doing.”

She slipped on her bifocals and consulted a clipboard. The corners of her mouth turned down. “I’m sorry, but your friend didn’t make it.”

The words hit him like an invisible punch.

“You mean he’s dead?”

“Yes. He passed away a short while ago.”

He brought his hand up to his face. What good were his powers if he couldn’t save the people he loved? He wanted to scream.

A phone on the desk rang, and the nurse answered it. Peter lowered his hand. The cup of coffee on the desk was boiling over, the black liquid running down the sides onto the blotter. He forced himself to calm down, and the coffee went back to normal.

She hung up the phone, and resumed speaking to him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

*   *   *

The hospital cafeteria was near the emergency room. Except for a group of nurses on break, it was empty. Peter sat at a corner table, and stared at the pale blue wall. It didn’t seem possible that Reggie was gone. He’d been a part of Peter’s life for as long as he could remember. The notion that he was no longer alive just didn’t seem real.

Every psychic Peter knew was an eccentric; it seemed to come with the territory. But Reggie had been unique. He could look at any game of chance, and predict its outcome. Instead of turning himself into a billionaire, he’d used his gift to help others, and had supported many of the city’s less fortunate through his generosity. Reggie’s favorite quote had come from the Talmud.
He who saves a single life, it is though he has saved the entire world.

Holly slipped into a chair across from him. In her hand was a Kleenex, which she used to dab at her eyes.

“What did you tell the police?” he asked.

“I told them Reggie got sick, and collapsed on the sidewalk.”

“You didn’t tell them Wolfe was chasing you?”

“How could I?”

“Tell me what really happened.”

“I went to Reggie’s hotel to warn him, and he convinced me to take a spin with him in his sports car. We were going north on Central Park West, when Wolfe rammed us with a delivery van. When Reggie got out, Wolfe came after him with a pipe.”

“Did Wolfe beat him?”

“No. I cast a spell on a pack of dogs, and they went after Wolfe.”

Peter drew back in his chair. “You did what?
”

“Aunt Milly’s been working with me on casting spells. I’m getting good at it.”

“Then how did Reggie die?”

“Heart attack. I guess all the excitement got to him. I felt so helpless.”

Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She’d had an innocent childhood, until now.

“Does Reggie have any next of kin?” he asked.

“A sister in California. The hospital is calling her to make arrangements.”

“Good. I want you to go back to your aunt’s apartment. None of us are safe.”

“Are you mad at me for going out?”

“No.”

“You’re not just saying that, are you?”

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.

35

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.

“You got something to defend yourself with?” his driver asked.

“Just my wits,” Peter replied.

“Zack will kill you with his bare hands.”

Peter thought back to his encounter with Wolfe. He’d been able to anticipate every move Wolfe had tried to make, and didn’t see things being any different with Zack.

“We’ll see.”

“Be careful, boss. I got bills to pay,” his driver said.

Peter climbed out of the limo. The building’s front door was locked, with visitors needing to be buzzed in. If he called upstairs, he’d have to explain why he was here. He considered picking the lock, and even breaking the front door down. Before he could decide, the front door opened, and a female artist emerged, dragging a large canvas.

“Crummy elevator is out of service,” she said.

Peter held the door for her, ducking inside when she was gone. He found the stairwell and started up, hearing the dull echo of his footsteps. A naked bulb lit his way.

He felt his rage build, and clenched his hands into fists. As a boy, his parents had forbidden him from fighting. After they’d died, he’d lived with a number of their psychic friends who’d continued to stress that rule. He could remember getting into a scuffle at school with an older bully twice his size. The next thing he’d known, the bully was in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose and a pair of black eyes, while he was in the principal’s office getting a lecture. Milly, his guardian at the time, had begged him never to lash out again. Now, he understood why. Milly had seen his mother turn into a monster, and was fearful that her son was capable of doing the same thing.

He stepped out of the stairwell onto the third floor landing. His assistants’ loft was at the end of the hallway. Zack’s racing bike was parked by the door.