Dark Magic (5 page)

“Oh, my God,” the panhandler gasped.

“Go ahead. It’s yours.”

The panhandler took the money with tears in his eyes. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Get some warm clothes, and a place to sleep.”

“Yes, I will.”

“And go to a clinic for that cough.”

“I’ll do that, too. You’re very kind.”

“Goodnight.”

The light changed, and the limo drove away. Zack hit the button to raise his window. His eyes shifted to Peter’s face. “I know you’re into helping people, but you’re going to have to cut it out until Wolfe is caught. It’s too risky.”

“I’m never going to stop helping people,” Peter said.

“All right. Then you need to get more security, especially at the theater.”

“All right. Double the security.”

“For yourself as well.”

Peter didn’t need a bodyguard. He was tuned in to Wolfe, and would sense the next time the assassin came calling. Only he couldn’t tell Zack that, so instead he said, “I’ve got Herbie watching my back. Right, Herbie?”

The glass partition slid back. “You say something, boss?”

“Zack thinks I need extra security so I don’t get killed.”

“No one’s going to kill you while I’m around, boss. I’ve got bills to pay.”

Everyone laughed. Feeling a gentle tug on his sleeve, Peter looked at Liza.

“Wolfe said something strange before he tried to stab you,” his girlfriend said. “Do you remember what was it?”

“Wolfe said, ‘You’re bloody good, you are.’ Then he charged me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think he was complimenting me.”

“But he tried to kill you.”

“Maybe he was testing you to see how your magic stacked up,” Zack said.

The limo fell silent. It was an angle that Peter hadn’t considered.

“Wow, that’s heavy,” Snoop said.

Snoop was trying to be funny. Only no one laughed.

*   *   *

Snoop and Zack shared a loft on Greene Street in SoHo. Peter dropped them off, and then had Herbie drive to his brownstone on the Upper East Side. It was still raining as they pulled up, and Peter and Liza got out. The driver’s window lowered.

“Is this guy Wolfe really trying to kill you?” Herbie asked.

“Afraid so,” Peter replied.

“Why? What did you do?”

“I don’t know. He’s part of some strange cult.”

“That’s bad stuff. What time do you want me here tomorrow?”

Tomorrow was Herbie’s day off. On his off days, Herbie had custody of his teenage daughter, whom he was trying to help raise. Peter didn’t want him missing that.

“Don’t worry about it, Herbie. If something happens, I’ll call you.”

“You got it. Sound the alarm, and I’ll come running.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the concern.”

The limo glided down the rain-slick street. Peter unlocked the front door, knowing how lucky he was to have people like Herbie working for him. There was no price tag for loyalty or friendship. It had to be earned every single day.

They entered the brownstone. From the street, the building appeared nondescript, its gray stone walls shoddy compared to many of its affluent neighbors. But like most things in Peter’s life, appearances were deceiving. His home had three floors and a sundeck on the roof, three spacious bedrooms with cathedral ceilings, a living room with a working fireplace, a gourmet kitchen, a workshop, a study, a basement big enough for a wine cellar, and a Pilates room with an Allegro Reformer. Upon entering for the first time, visitors could often be heard to exclaim, “Oh, my God!” at the enormous collection of brightly painted magic tricks, theater posters, and stage illusions crammed into almost every room. He had practically grown up inside a magic shop, and it was only fitting that he now lived in one.

They moved through the downstairs without turning on the lights. Liza stopped at the stairwell, and slipped her arms around his waist.

“I’m going upstairs to take a hot bath. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” he said.

“You don’t sound okay. Stop worrying. The police will find this guy.”

“I sure hope so.”

In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of juice, and drank it standing at the window. Shadows danced in the courtyard behind the building like dancers in an otherworldly ballet. Talking to Schoch had brought back painful memories, and it would be a while before he’d be able to fall asleep. He’d been seven when his parents had died, and his memories of them were faint. He’d tried to learn as much about them as he could. It was the only way he could stay close to them.

Their names were Henry Butler Warren and Claire Abigail Higgins, and they hailed from the town of Marble in southern England. Their relationship had been straight out of a storybook. They’d grown up together, attended the same college, gotten married, and moved to London to become professors at a small university. Peter had come later, when his parents were well into their forties.

One day, his parents had packed up their things, and moved to New York City, where they’d taken teaching jobs at Hunter College. The move had been traumatic for their son—a new city, strange customs, his classmates making fun of his accent—and they’d struggled to make it work. They’d argued a lot, and he remembered one exchange in the kitchen where a glass thrown by his mother had shattered against a wall. But in the end, they’d never stopped loving each other. That was what he remembered most.

He felt a sharp stabbing in his chest. People said that time healed all wounds, but that wasn’t true when the two people you loved most were taken away from you as a child. That was a pain that he’d never quite gotten over.

He went to his workshop. It was filled with tricks that needed repairs. In the corner sat the Spirit Cabinet. Created by the Davenport Brothers in 1875, the illusion had stood the test of time. The trick was simple. The magician entered the cabinet and sat on the stool. Members of the audience tied ropes around his wrists and ankles, with the ends fitted through holes in the doors to ensure he could not move. When the doors were closed, ghostly manifestations occurred, courtesy of an assistant hidden in a secret crawl space. Or, you could perform the trick the way Peter sometimes did, and let real ghosts do the work.

Peter liked ghosts, and ghosts liked him. They’d been talking to him for as long as he could remember, and would sometimes do favors for him. They were his friends, as much as a ghost could be a friend to someone on the other side. Perhaps by talking to them now, he’d better understand what had happened tonight.

Try it,
he thought.
Nothing to lose.

He entered the cabinet, and shut the door. Inside was a stool with a tambourine lying on it. He picked up the tambourine, and parked himself on the stool. Then, he began to shake the tambourine. The sound had a profound effect upon him, and a shudder passed through his body.

A few minutes passed. The first rule of dealing with ghosts was patience. They had their own timetable, and there was no getting around it.

He heard a faint noise that sounded like a chorus to a song. He strained to make out the words. It
was
a song.

“My spirit and my voice in one combined,

The Phantom of the Opera was there inside my mind.”

He smiled to himself. He hadn’t heard those lyrics in a long time.

Then, his world changed.

He was standing inside the lobby of the Majestic Theatre, singing the chorus to the dark musical he’d just had the privilege to see. The lobby was filled with people; mostly adults, but a fair number of children as well. None of them were smiling, except for him.

“Peter, hurry along,” his father called out.

His parents stood by the entrance, dressed in warm winter clothes. His father was tall and thin, with unruly gray hair and cheeks the color of tomatoes. His mother was a half-foot shorter than her husband, and might have passed as his daughter had her hair not been snow-white. Peter joined them, and his mother buttoned his coat.

“How did you like the show?” she asked.

“It was scary,” he said. “I loved it.”

“What did you like the most?”

“The music. It was so spooky. I can’t stop singing it.”

“I’m glad you liked it. Your father has a surprise for you.”

With a smile on his face, his father reached into his pocket, and removed the
Phantom of the Opera
’s soundtrack. His son squealed with delight.

“Can we go home now so I can listen to it?” Peter asked.

“Not yet. We’ve got another surprise for you,” his father said.

Peter looked into his father’s eyes, and saw singing waiters and a table covered with giant plates of pasta. They were going to Mamma Leone’s, his favorite place to eat.

“Can I have the fried pastry for dessert?” Peter asked.

“We’ll see. Now, come along, or we’ll miss our reservation.”

Outside it was snowing, the flakes the size of silver dollars. Standing on the sidewalk was a beggar playing the theme from
Phantom
on an old violin. The music was as enchanting as a siren’s song, and Peter could not help but sing along.

“Don’t dawdle,” his father said.

Next to the beggar was an open violin case into which Peter tossed a handful of coins.

“You play very well. Perhaps someday, you’ll be in the show,” the boy said.

“I can only hope,” the beggar replied.

“
Peter!
”

“I have to go now. Good luck.”

His parents had turned into an alley beside the theater which was used as a shortcut by theatergoers. Peter hurried to catch up to them.

“Wait for me,” he called out.

Three men rushed past, knocking Peter to the ground, and ripping his pants. The boy stifled the urge to cry. Lifting his head, he saw the men holding guns to his mother and father’s backs. They hustled his parents to a waiting car at the end of the alley.

“
Mother! Father!
”

His parents were being shoved into the back of the car. His father was fighting back, and one of the men struck him on the head with his gun. The gift of prescience could be a terrible thing, and Peter knew at that moment that he was never going to see his parents alive again.

“No!!”
he shouted.

He jumped to his feet, and ran toward the car. As he came out of the alley, the car pulled away with his parents and their abductors inside. One of the abductors was visible through the side window, and Peter saw a man with crooked teeth and a twisted nose. On the man’s neck was a shimmering tattoo whose silver color made it look alive.

“Give me my parents back!” Peter shouted at him.

*   *   *

His world changed again. He was back inside the Spirit Cabinet, banging the tambourine. The chorus from
The Phantom of the Opera
had been replaced by the sound of a man’s tortured breathing. After a moment, he realized he was listening to himself, panting for breath.

He was not alone.

The shimmering tattoo he’d seen on the abductor’s neck hovered directly in front of him. Staring into its center, he saw his parents’ distraught faces as they were whisked away to their doom, and felt himself shudder again.

He had wanted a sign from the other side, and he’d gotten his wish. The Order of Astrum had murdered his parents, and now they’d sent an assassin to kill him.

6

Wolfe traveled light. Toothbrush, shaving kit, fake ID, a few thousand in American money, a Zippo lighter from his army days, a disposable cell phone, a laptop, a single change of clothes, and the pocketknife. From time to time, one of the items would break or need replacing, and he’d go through a short period of adjustment. They were his only possessions, and he was attached to them.

Wolfe was sick about losing the pocketknife. It had been given to him as a small boy by an uncle. He had eaten with it, killed with it, and used the corkscrew to open bottles of wine. It pained him that it was now lying in a police evidence bag. It was not the fate he would have hoped for his knife. Better if it had ended up sticking out of the young magician’s chest, like he’d planned.

The cab braked. “Seventy-eight Christopher Street. That will be ten bucks,” the driver said.

Wolfe settled the fare. Soon he was standing on one of the West Village’s narrow streets. He checked the street for any signs of police. Seeing none, he approached a parlor with a hand-painted sign in the window that was home to a Gypsy fortune-teller named Madame Marie. As he opened the front door, a buzzer went off in his ear. He went in.

The parlor was small and scented with sandalwood, the walls covered in dark burgundy fabric. A round antique table sat in the room’s center flanked by two wingback chairs. On the table was a dog-eared deck of Tarot cards, and nothing else.

“Anybody home?” he called out.

“We’re closed.”

The voice was female, and had come from behind a beaded curtain.

“The sign in the window said you’re open until midnight.”

“Don’t believe everything you read. Come back tomorrow. We open at ten sharp.”

“Are you Madame Marie?”

“Yes.”

“I need to see you now. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving?”

“Flying home to England. I was told you were the best fortune-teller in New York.”

“You can’t come back some other time?”

Wolfe heard a slight hesitation in Madame Marie’s voice. When it came to sound, he could hear things that other people could not. It had happened while he was in the army, after nearly being blown up by a roadside bomb. Ever since, his hearing had been phenomenal.

“It’s really important. Please. I’m desperate.”

She let out a sigh. “Have a seat. I’ll be right out.”

Wolfe took the chair closest to the door and looked around the room. He could tell from his surroundings that Madame Marie was the real deal. Fake fortune-tellers used a variety of props and cheesy gimmicks to get their clients to tell them what was on their minds. Some had their clients sit at glass tables so they could read their body language, or write questions on trick clipboards which took impressions of their handwriting. Wolfe had visited psychics all across the world, and knew their tricks. None of that subterfuge was in evidence here. Real fortune-tellers didn’t need tricks. They simply gazed into their tea leaves or crystal balls, or laid out their Tarot cards, and told you what they saw. Some were better than others at peering into the future, and some, like Madame Marie, had powers that bordered on prescience. That was why she was on Wolfe’s hit list of psychics to kill in New York.