Shadow People Page 3

  They had reached the east side of the park. Herbie’s eyes found his employer in the mirror. Peter took a deep breath as if to say, I’m still working on it.

  “You want me to drive around the block a few times?” Herbie asked.

  “No. Let’s go home.”

  Peter lived on 320 East 62nd Street, a few blocks away. His girlfriend, Liza, was up waiting for him, just like she did every Friday night, with a spread of delicious food waiting on the kitchen table. He’d grown up an orphan, and coming home to a house filled with pleasant smells and music playing on the stereo was the most wonderful thing he could ask for.

  He read Holly’s notes again. There really wasn’t anyone else he could call besides Garrison. And if he didn’t alert someone, an innocent woman would die next Friday night.

  It was the simplest solution. Occam’s razor had won again.

  He sent an instant message to Garrison. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

  4

  Peter had grown up in New York largely on the generosity of others. His parents had left enough money behind for him to attend private school, and that was it. His parents’ friends, all of whom were psychics, had rotated him between their homes a year at a time, and raised him. Milly Adams and Max Romeo had been his primary guardians, and had kept him clothed and fed. He hadn’t been poor, but he hadn’t been rich either.

  As a boy, he’d known he was different, and he’d had few close friends. To ward off loneliness, he’d roamed the streets on afternoons and weekends, and familiarized himself with the city’s rich and varied neighborhoods. He’d fallen in love with Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, Hell’s Kitchen, the meatpacking district, Times Square, Greenwich Village, and the Upper East and West sides. Each had possessed a special charm all its own.

  Over time, he’d settled on the neighborhood which most attracted him, and a building that he wished to someday call home. His choice was an old brownstone on 62nd Street, between Second and First avenues. From the street it didn’t look like much, but that was an illusion. It had three stories plus a sunroof, nine rooms with three working fireplaces, a small basement, and a private courtyard. It also had a history that he rather liked. Every previous owner had been an artist.

  It had been his dream house. Someday, when he was rich, he’d buy the brownstone, and turn it into his castle.

  That day had come sooner than he’d expected. At twenty-one, he’d shot a series of TV commercials for Apple that made him a household name. Overnight, his magic shows had gone from being half filled to sold out. He’d become wealthy and had saved every penny. The week he’d turned twenty-four, he’d bought the building outright without a mortgage, and moved in.

  His brownstone was more than just a home. He also used it to store his ever-growing magic collection. The first floor was crammed with illusions and apparatus, the upper floors devoted to his library of first-edition magic books and his vast collection of magic wands, of which he owned one from every corner of the world. Liza claimed it was like living inside a magic store, complete with her very own demonstrator.

  The limo braked at the curb. As he started to get out, he got a call on his Droid. It was Garrison. He didn’t want Herbie hearing the call, and he hopped out and banged his hand on the roof. “Night, Herbie. Drive safe.”

  “Take care, boss. See you in the morning.”

  The limo drifted away. The street was quiet, the empty sidewalk a good place to talk. Peter pushed the Answer button and raised the Droid to his face. “You’re up late.”

  “No rest for the weary,” Garrison replied. “I need to ask you some questions about this text you just sent me. Can you talk?”

  Peter glanced at the upper floors of the brownstone. The master bedroom was all lit up; Liza was up, watching a horror movie. Parking himself on the stoop, he zipped up his leather jacket to keep warm. “I can talk.”

  “In your message, you said you encountered a serial killer during a séance, and that he nearly murdered you,” Garrison said. “How is that possible?”

  Explaining the workings of the spirit world was tricky, and Peter chose his words carefully. “During my séance, I went forward in time, and witnessed a serial killer preparing to abduct his next victim. It seems he was also watching me. It was a trap.”

  “You went forward in time? How does that work?”

  “Time consists of three dimensions: the past, the present, and the future. The spirits can send a person backward in time, or forward into the future, or leave him in the present. Tonight, the spirits decided to send me into the future.”

  “Is it scary?”

  “Tonight sure was.”

  “What else can you tell me about this killer?”

  He gave Garrison a physical description. Dr. Death was short and fat and didn’t look like he could harm a fly, when in fact, he was a monster. In conclusion, he said, “Just remember that he’s in league with the Devil. It was the only possible way he could have known I was present in his home. To anyone else, I would have been invisible.”

  “You’re sure he’s a devil worshiper?”

  “Positive. His next victim is a woman named Rachael. He was going out to meet her when I dropped in on him.”

  Peter heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Bright light was pulsating from the master bedroom. Liza had a thing about watching horror movies with the volume on full blast, the louder and scarier the better. He resumed his conversation.

  “You’re looking for this guy, aren’t you?” Peter asked.

  “Stop doing that,” Garrison said.

  “Doing what?

  “Reading my mind over the phone.”

  “I can’t read your mind over the phone, just in person.”

  “Then how did you know the FBI was looking for this guy?”

  “The way you framed your questions told me he was on your radar.”

  “Fine, you’re right. He is on our radar.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. During the past two years, a killer has been sending the FBI taunting letters that contained photographs of dead women lying facedown in grassy fields. There have been six victims so far, with a promise of more to come. We don’t know the victims’ names, or what they look like. We haven’t even found the bodies. The letters were postmarked from different locations in the Northeast, so we’re assuming that’s where he lives. An occult sign was burned into the grass beside each body. That’s how we knew he was a devil worshiper.”

  Peter’s breath formed a white cloud in front of his face. The FBI liked to think it knew a thing or two about the Devil and his twisted followers, but they were wrong. What the Bureau knew only scratched the surface of a group whose history stretched back thousands of years.

  “Describe the sign in the grass,” he said.

  “It was an inverted triangle balanced atop a large V with a line drawn across the top. The FBI keeps a databases of symbols used by various cults and the like, and has seen this symbol at crime scenes before.”

  An icy finger ran down Peter’s spine, and he shivered. Garrison had just described a magical sigil. Made of complex occult symbols and geometric figures, sigils were used by psychics to make contact with the spirit world, their true meaning known only to practitioners of dark magic. The sigil in the photos sent to the FBI was the Seal of Satan, and meant Dr. Death was working directly with one of the Devil’s sons. Two thousand years ago, the Devil had sent six of his sons to the earth with the purpose of causing havoc and misery. Those sons were responsible for most of the horrible events which mankind had inflicted upon itself. If Peter was right, Dr. Death had entered into a pact with one of these sons, and been given special gifts which made him more powerful than an ordinary devil worshipper.

  “How close are you to finding this madman?” he asked.

  “We’re not. The Bureau has run out of leads. That was why I called you right back.”

  “Maybe this will help. His victims are women who push bac
k against the darkness. Their names are Mary, Joan, Kelly, Diane, Christine, and Edie. His next victim’s name is Rachael.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes. He’s killing women involved in good works.”

  “That’s something we didn’t know before. How good a look did you get at him?”

  “Very. I was right next to him.”

  “I know you want to keep your psychic powers a secret, but I need you to let a police artist draw a composite of this guy. It could help us nab him.”

  “No cops.”

  “What’s wrong with the cops?”

  “They’re not good at keeping secrets.”

  “We can use an FBI artist, then. I’ll set it up for tomorrow.”

  There was a click on the line. It was Liza, probably wondering where he was.

  “I need to run,” he said to Garrison.

  “Don’t go yet. I want you to think if there’s anything you might have forgotten to tell me about your encounter with this guy. This is important, Peter.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. People forget things when they sleep. We have to do it right now.”

  Another click on the line, indicating that Liza had hung up. “There was one thing,” Peter said, realizing he’d left out an important part. “I saw this strange apparition before and after the séance. It was a quivering black mass that didn’t have a face. Another psychic told me it’s called a shadow person. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Could it be connected to the killer?”

  “I think so. This thing kidnapped me.”

  “What do you mean ‘kidnapped’?”

  “My soul.”

  Another click on the line. Liza again. His girlfriend wouldn’t have called again unless she was pissed off. “I’ve got to beat it. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  “One more thing.”

  “No more. Liza is going to kill me.”

  The sound of shattering glass sent Peter flying off the stoop. A man’s dress shoe landed at his feet along with shards of glass. He picked up the shoe. It was one of his.

  Turning around, he looked at the brownstone. The master bedroom window had a gaping hole in it. Loud music was streaming out, the voice of Coldplay’s “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall” ripping a hole in the still night.

  He ran up the steps to his front door, fumbling with his keys. “I’ve got to go,” he said into the phone.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I send someone over?”

  “Capital idea.” He hit the button that let him switch calls and said, “I’m coming through the front door.”

  “There’s a man in the bedroom,” Liza screamed. “He’s attacking me!”

  5

  Peter burst into his brownstone. Every light was turned on, and so were the CD players. He loved music, and kept a stereo system in every room. His intruder had turned them to full volume, the competing voices of Amy Winehouse and Fifty Cent filling the downstairs.

  What the hell was going on? Burglars tried to keep things quiet, or at least the ones he’d heard about. He flew up the staircase while glancing into the living room. His favorite illusions had been knocked off their pedestals and lay in a gut-wrenching heap on the floor. The Flying Carpet would never fly again, and the Zig-Zag illusion that let him pull out a woman’s middle was now just a pile of boards. Butch, the mechanical toy panda that predicted the future, sat on the mantel over the fireplace, banging its miniature cymbals in obvious displeasure.

  Dark thoughts filled his head. Had Liza been injured? Was she okay? If the burglar had harmed her … he tried not to imagine it.

  He reached the second-floor landing. On the walls hung promotional photos of famous magicians that had once adorned the lobby of Lou Tannen’s, the greatest magic shop that had ever existed. Every frame was shattered, the photos torn to shreds. They could never be replaced.

  “Liza!” he called out.

  “He’s in the bedroom with me,” came her voice from the third floor.

  “I’m coming!”

  The stairs groaned beneath his feet. Many old buildings in New York were inhabited by ghosts, and he sensed that the ghost in his brownstone was trying to warn him about the danger that awaited him upstairs.

  The third floor was another disaster area. Pictures yanked off the walls, illusions in the hallway turned upside down and destroyed. His intruder had targeted his collection, and everything appeared ruined.

  Peter entered the master bedroom ready to confront the person who’d wrecked his home. The room had been ransacked, his prized sixty-inch plasma TV torn off the wall, its screen kicked in.

  He looked around the bedroom. No sign of Liza, or of a burglar. He checked the adjoining bathroom, and also looked under the bed. Nothing but a few dust balls. The Coldplay CD was still rocking the house, and he silenced the music with the remote.

  “Liza? Where are you?”

  “In the closet,” she replied.

  The master bedroom had a spacious walk-in closet. He opened the double doors to find Liza backed into the corner with a letter opener clutched in her hands. She was trembling, and looked half scared to death. “I know this sounds stupid, but are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m freaking out. Did you see him?”

  “There’s no one there.”

  “That can’t be—he was here a few moments ago.”

  “I just looked. He’s gone. Come on out. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Check the fire escape. Please.”

  Entering the hall, he checked the fire escape. It was empty, the window locked from the inside, and he quickly returned to the bedroom.

  “It’s safe,” he said.

  She cautiously emerged from the closet and tossed the letter opener onto the bed. They embraced, and she leaned her head against his chest. “God, that was scary.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, but he scared the shit out of me. I was lying in bed watching the remake of Dawn of the Dead when I heard someone on the first floor destroying things. I locked the bedroom door, and called nine one one, but got put on hold. Then he started banging on the door. I got scared and hid in the closet. Somehow he got the door open, came in here, and starting trashing the place.”

  “Did you dead-bolt the door?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask me how he opened it.”

  Peter checked the dead bolt. It was functioning normally, and he shook his head. Even Houdini couldn’t pick a dead bolt.

  “Did you get a look at him?”

  “I caught a glimpse of him from the closet. He was dressed in black. I didn’t see his face, just the back of his head. He almost looked like…”

  “Like what?”

  “This is so weird.”

  “Tell me. Please.”

  “He almost looked like a ghost.”

  The proverbial lightbulb went off in Peter’s head. Now he understood how the intruder had gotten into his house, and picked the lock on the bedroom door. It was a shadow person.

  “What else did you see?” he asked, just to be sure.

  “He was moving really fast around the room. It was almost surreal. The stuff just flew off the walls and broke apart on the floor. He didn’t seem to touch things.”

  Peter realized he was shivering. A cold wind was blowing through the broken window, and he went to close the curtains. A strange thought occurred to him. “Why did you throw my shoe through the window?” he asked.

  “Your shoe?”

  “Yes. I was outside talking to Special Agent Garrison. Next thing I knew, my shoe came through the window and hit the pavement.”

  “I didn’t throw your shoe. Why were you talking to the FBI?”

  “I saw something bad during a séance tonight. I texted Garrison, and he called me back.”

  “Is Garrison the agent I met? The pushy guy built like a refrigerato
r?”

  “That’s him. He’s coming over right now. Maybe he’ll help us clean up this mess. You should see downstairs. Everything’s ruined.”

  “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry.”

  She joined him at the window and they again embraced. They’d been living together for two years, yet only a few weeks ago had he come clean, and told her about his psychic powers, including secret things about his past. Along with his confession had come the promise that he would not keep secrets from her. It was the only way the relationship could survive.

  “I need to tell you something.” He took her hands in his own, and gazed into her soft brown eyes. “The intruder wasn’t human. It’s called a shadow person, and it’s somehow connected to the bad thing I saw during the séance.”

  “What does it want? Besides your shoe?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “So what do we do? Rent a suite in the Waldorf and wait for it to leave?”

  “I don’t think there’s any way to hide from it. But there is a way to keep it away from us. Permanently.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  Liza was getting her spirit back. That was good, because his life was filled with unexpected visitors, and he couldn’t have her freaking out whenever one came calling. Entering the closet, he spun the dial on the wall safe, and opened it with a few deft turns. From its interior he removed an ornamental gold box, and brought it to his girlfriend.

  “That’s your mother’s jewelry box,” she said. “What does that have to do with this?”

  “My parents used to conduct séances in our apartment with their friends. One night, I stumbled into the room, and caught them in the act. My mother was wearing an unusual piece of jewelry, which I inherited when she died. I didn’t understand the significance of it until tonight.”

  He opened the box’s lid, and his mother’s jewelry sparkled up at them. He sifted through the items and removed a gold necklace with a five-pointed gold star pendant. “I want you to have this. It has a special power to ward off evil spirits. Put it on.”

  “Are you sure about this, Peter?”

  “Yes. It’s the only way I know to keep the shadow person away.”