Dark Magic

by James Swain

  Peter had thought about that while sitting in the lobby. The Post article said the Ruttenbergs had been married forty years. He guessed this was a crime of passion, and that there were other clues in the apartment that the police had missed.

  “Let me see the file,” he said.

  Dagastino went and got the file. “Find something to incriminate the husband, and I’ll tell you everything we know about the guy who tried to cut your heart out.”

  “Deal,” Peter said.

  10

  The Ruttenberg file was an inch thick. It included a stack of black-and-white crime scene photos taken at the Ruttenberg’s multi-million-dollar Park Avenue penthouse. Even by New York standards, the dwelling was spectacular, and filled with the finest things money could buy. The panoramic view of Central Park was enough to take a person’s breath away.

  Peter sat at Dagastino’s desk. He quickly sorted through the photos, and found himself drawn to a shot of the master bedroom, which was bigger than most apartments in the city. Something about the walk-in closet struck him as odd, and he showed the photo to Schoch.

  “This doesn’t look right,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Schoch replied.

  “Look at the way the clothes are hung. Bunny Ruttenberg’s dresses are in the back of the closet, behind her husband’s suits and sport coats. A woman wouldn’t let her husband put his clothes in front of hers, would she?”

  “You’ve got a point. What do you think it means?”

  “The husband knows his wife isn’t coming back. He killed her, and is feeling guilty about what he’s done. He moved her clothes so he doesn’t have to look at them.”

  “So his conscience is eating at him.”

  “Yes. He probably wanted to throw the clothes out, only he knew it would look suspicious, so he moved them instead.”

  “Hey, Dag, take a look at this,” Schoch said.

  Dagastino was schmoozing with another detective. He hustled over, and Schoch pointed out the discrepancy in the photo.

  “That’s good. Give me more,” Dagastino said.

  Peter spread the photos across the detective’s desk, and looked for more evidence of the husband’s guilt. One photo showed a dresser in the master bedroom with the couple’s wedding photo on it. Bunny’s face was blocked by an alarm clock.

  “Here’s another. The husband can’t bear to look at his wife’s face, so he stuck an alarm clock in front of it. He’s guilty as sin.”

  Dagastino stuck a stick of gum into his mouth. He vigorously chewed while staring at the photo of the dresser.

  “What are you thinking?” Schoch asked.

  “I want to pull the husband out of the holding cell in the basement, and grill him while making him look at Bunny’s picture,” her partner said.

  “Think he might crack?” Schoch asked.

  “Could happen.”

  “I’ll go get him.” Schoch slipped on her jacket and went to retrieve the husband.

  “I’d like to watch,” Peter said. “I might see something else.”

  “The more the merrier,” Dagastino replied.

  * * *

  Henry Ruttenberg was moved from the holding cell to an interrogation room on the third floor. The room was small, and had a desk and two chairs. A distinguished-looking man with silver hair, Ruttenberg sat with a blank look on his face and examined his fingernails.

  The door banged open, and Dagastino came in. In his hand was a photo of Bunny Ruttenberg printed off the Internet. She was an attractive woman, and could have passed for an aging movie star. He slapped the photo on the desk.

  “You didn’t mean to kill her, did you, Henry?” Dagastino asked.

  Ruttenberg stared at his wife’s lovely visage, and his eyes grew moist.

  “It was an accident, right?” Dagastino barked.

  Ruttenberg shut his eyes, and did not respond.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Dagastino said.

  The suspect opened his eyes. The blank look had returned.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no accident,” Ruttenberg said.

  “Then it was a fit of rage.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Here’s my question, Henry. How soon after you murdered your wife did you decide to move her clothes to the back of your closet?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You knew she wasn’t coming back, but you couldn’t part with her things without people getting suspicious.” Dagastino put his fists on the desk. “You gave yourself away, Henry.”

  Ruttenberg stared at the photo of his wife, and remained silent.

  “You even moved your wife’s picture on your dresser so you wouldn’t have to look at it. You still love her, don’t you?”

  A long minute passed. Ruttenberg’s chin dipped, and tears rolled down his face. Dagastino handed him a tissue, and the accused man loudly blew his nose.

  “You figured it out,” Ruttenberg said.

  “Yes, we did. But some of the details are sketchy. Why don’t you fill us in? It will go a long way with the judge.”

  Ruttenberg dabbed his eyes with the tissue. “Bunny found out I was having an affair with my personal trainer. It was nothing, just a fling, but Bunny wouldn’t hear it. She told me last Saturday night that she wanted a divorce. I blew up, and we started to fight. By accident, I knocked her down. Bunny hit her head on a coffee table, and cracked her skull.”

  The memory was too much, and he started to shake. “I tried to revive her, but she was gone. I didn’t want to kill her. You have to believe me. I loved my wife.”

  “Keep talking,” Dagastino said.

  “I was afraid to call the police, so I carried her to the car in the basement garage and drove to our farm in Connecticut. I buried her in the woods. It was her favorite spot.”

  “Will you show us where?” Dagastino asked.

  Ruttenberg nodded solemnly.

  “If I give you a confession, will you sign it?”

  Ruttenberg again nodded.

  Dagastino looked at Peter and Schoch through the two-way mirror. He grinned.

  * * *

  They met up in Dagastino’s cubicle ten minutes later. Dagastino had the signed confession and was beaming from ear to ear.

  “Nice work,” Dagastino said. “Let me know if you ever want to change careers.”

  “I’ll do that,” Peter replied. “Now, it’s your turn. Tell me about Wolfe.”

  Dagastino parked himself on the edge of his desk. A toothpick appeared in his mouth as if by magic. “Two days ago, a customs agent at JFK got spooked. He thought a guy coming into the country might have lied to him. The agent pulled the guy’s photo off a surveillance video, and ran a facial recognition scan against their database. Turns out it was Jeremy Wolfe, a member of the Order of Astrum. Every intelligence agency in the world wants to have a sit-down with this guy. Whenever he’s around, dead bodies show up.”

  “He’s an assassin?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, and a damn good one,” Schoch jumped in. “While Wolfe was in the army, he was nearly blown up by a roadside bomb, and came out of it with a heightened sense of hearing that made him invincible on the battlefield. His superiors called him a killing machine.”

  Every person was born with some psychic ability. It was not uncommon to have these abilities awakened after traumatic events. Wolfe sounded like a classic late bloomer.

  “Now, here’s where it gets interesting,” Dagastino said. “The FBI got involved, and interviewed a twelve-year-old girl who sat next to Wolfe on the flight over. Turns out, the girl saw Wolfe reading from a list of names. With her parents’ consent, the FBI put the girl under hypnosis. The kid responded to the hypnosis, and said the list contained seven names. The only name she remembered was yours. Seems she’s been to your show, and is a fan.”

  “So I was on a hit list,” Peter said.

  “Correct,” Dagastino said. “The FBI asked us to alert
you, since you live within our jurisdiction. My partner volunteered, since she knew you. We went to your theater, only Wolfe had attacked you by the time we arrived. That’s the story.”

  “But why did he attack me?” Peter asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “What did the FBI say?”

  Dagastino glanced at his partner. “You tell him.”

  “The FBI told us the Order of Astrum were linked to your parents’ deaths, which was news to us,” Schoch said. “When we asked them to explain, they refused.”

  Peter was dumbstruck. “The FBI knew?”

  Both detectives nodded. They didn’t like it any more than he did.

  “Damn them,” Peter said.

  * * *

  Schoch walked Peter to the elevators. Her face was filled with sorrow.

  “I’m sorry, Peter. I know this has been hard on you. I’ll call you if we learn more.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  Schoch squeezed his arm before leaving. Peter punched the elevator button in anger. The idea that he might someday find his parents’ killers was never far from his mind. That the FBI had known who was behind their deaths and not told him was unthinkable.

  He took several deep breaths, and forced himself to calm down.

  He had to find Wolfe. Wolfe could lead him to the three men who’d abducted and shot his parents in cold blood. Wolfe was the key.

  No elevator. He glanced at the display above the door. It was stuck on the seventh floor. He hit the button again.

  “Come on.”

  He felt himself grow cold. He spun around, sensing Nemo’s presence. His friend was reaching out to him. But from where?

  A rectangular mirror hung on the wall opposite the elevators. In its glass, a swirling white cloud had appeared. Within the cloud, a number took shape.

  Seven.

  “Seven?” he said aloud.

  The number began to flash.

  “Seven what?”

  The cloud vanished, and the number disappeared. The air temperature returned to normal. Peter turned around. The elevator was still stuck on the seventh floor.

  Then it hit him what Nemo was trying to say.

  There had been seven names on Wolfe’s list.

  His name was at the top of the list.

  There were seven people in his Friday night séance.

  He was the leader of the séance.

  The Order had sent Wolfe to kill him and his friends.

  He turned around to face the mirror. “Thank you,” he told it.

  He started back to Homicide, only to stop. He had told the detectives enough about himself. Any more, and they’d find out about his friends. Secrecy was the bond that kept the Friday night séance intact, and he’d sworn never to break it.

  He took the stairwell to the lobby, and ran outside. In the middle of Third Avenue, he was nearly run over by a bus. Unfazed, he hailed down a cab, and hopped in.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “Just drive,” he said.

  11

  Peter had never asked to be the leader of the Friday night séance. Nor had the group ever voted on it, or held a discussion, or anything like that. It had just happened, largely because the spirits seemed comfortable communicating through him, just as they’d channeled through his mother years ago.

  He’d become the group’s leader as a teenager. The fact that he’d been doing it for so long now seemed odd to him. It would have been nice to have shared the responsibility.

  He called Max, Madame Marie, and Reggie Brown, got their voice mails, and asked them to call back as soon as possible. His next call was to Holly, whom he caught going into a study group at Columbia University. She quickly detected the apprehension in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I just came from seeing the police. Something bad is about to happen to a member of our group. You must go to your aunt’s apartment. Stay with her until I call you back.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “An assassin named Wolfe is trying to kill us. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t.”

  “Do the police know?”

  “Yes, they’re hunting for him.”

  “I mean about us.”

  “No, I didn’t tell them.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Do you have Lester Rowe’s cell phone number? It’s not in my address book.”

  “Lester doesn’t have a cell phone. He’s a Luddite. He doesn’t have a phone in his apartment, either. I think he uses his neighbor’s phone when he wants to call.”

  “Do you know his address? I have to warn him right away.”

  “He lives down on the Lower East Side. You sound scared.”

  He was scared. Not for his own life, but for one of them, his secret family, and it came through with every word he spoke. “I am scared. Call me when you reach your aunt’s, okay?”

  “But I thought you said the police were hunting Wolfe.”

  “You don’t understand. Wolfe’s a member of a cult of dark magicians. They murdered my parents, and now they’re trying to murder us.”

  “Oh, my God, Peter. Oh, my God.”

  “I know. Now go stay with your aunt.”

  “What about you? Where are you going?”

  “I have to warn the others.”

  “You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. Come to my aunt’s, and hide with us.”

  Hiding was the last thing on his mind. “I need to go,” he said.

  “I love you, Peter. I always have.”

  The words struck him like a thunderbolt. “You do?”

  “Yes. Ever since I was little, and you did magic tricks for me. I’m sorry to be telling you this now, but I just have to.”

  He stared out the rain-soaked window at the street. Babysitting Holly while practicing his magic were some of the fondest memories he had, and now seemed like another lifetime.

  “You’re not mad, are you?” she asked.

  “Happy,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “That’s so wonderful. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He folded his phone, his heart doing a strange flip-flop inside his chest. The driver tapped his meter. They had just crossed 14th Street, and the fare was over twenty dollars.

  “Gimme a hint,” the driver said.

  Madame Marie’s fortune-telling parlor wasn’t far, and he decided to go there, and alert her. He gave the driver the cross streets and soon they were heading west.

  Peter shut his eyes and leaned back in his seat, trying to make sense of it all.

  * * *

  He opened his eyes to the sight of an ambulance and a police cruiser parked in front of Madame Marie’s parlor. The cruiser’s bubble cast a sickly red glow over the scene.

  He was too late.

  He paid the driver and got out. On the sidewalk were a gathering of spectators and a uniformed cop talking into a walkie-talkie. Two grim-faced medics wheeled a body draped in white sheets through the front door of the parlor. Peter felt a dagger pierce his heart.

  “What happened?” he asked a woman in the crowd.

  “An old fortune-teller and her husband were murdered late last night.”

  “How?”

  “Strangled and shot. I tell you, the neighborhood’s falling apart.”

  He fought back the tears. Madame Marie had taught him how to the read the Tarot cards when he was a little boy. He’d sat on a phone book in the back room of her parlor, and learned what the cards stood for in the spirit world. A giving teacher, she’d never once reprimanded him when he got one wrong. And now she was gone.

  A second body followed, and was loaded into the ambulance with the first. Marie and her husband were inseparable, and it was fitting they left this world together. The back of the ambulance was closed, and it drove down the block with its bubble still flashing.

  The spectators dispersed, leaving Peter and the cop.


  “They were my friends. Can you tell me what happened?” Peter asked.

  “Looks like a murder-suicide,” the cop explained. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “You don’t think someone murdered them?”

  The cop gave him a funny look. “Can’t say that I do.”

  Peter saw movement inside the fortune-telling parlor. A group of old friends had gathered inside to pay their last respects.

  “What are you looking at?” the cop said.

  “Nothing,” Peter replied.

  “You can’t go in there, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d suggest you move along.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The cop’s walkie-talkie came to life, and he stepped away to take the call. Peter went straight to the parlor’s front door. He broke yellow crime scene tape, and stuck his head in.

  It looked like a wake. All of Madame Marie’s spirit-world acquaintances were crammed into the small space. There was the ridiculous-acting Fool; the Hermit in his threadbare clothes; the always-aloof High Priestess and High Priest in their flowing robes; the Lovers, whose bodies were forever entwined; the Hanged Man with his grotesquely twisted neck and bubble eyes; and the other spirits who made up the major arcana of the Tarot cards that Madame Marie used to peer into the future. These spirits had inhabited the earth since the beginning of time, and were the archetypes of human existence, embedded in the collective unconscious of every human being. They represented life, death, and everything that fell in between.

  Their mournful wails filled the parlor. Peter knew of nothing sadder than hearing the spirits cry. He wanted to comfort them, but the words had not been invented to make their pain go away. The Fool shuffled over.

  “How’s tricks?” the Fool said with a raspy voice.

  “Hello, Fool,” Peter replied.

  “This is a sad day. I will miss her.”

  “She was very fond of you,” Peter told him.

  “And I of her. Who would do such a thing?”

  “A monster named Wolfe. I’m going to find him, and make him pay.”

  “Be careful. This is the Devil’s work.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said,” the cop’s voice rang out.