by James Swain
“You told your superiors about me, didn’t you?” Peter said.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Garrison replied.
“I thought we had a deal.”
“Too many lives were at stake.”
“Well, you just ruined mine.”
“No, I didn’t. I protected you. I didn’t reveal your name.”
“But you told them I existed. They’ll start to look for me.”
Garrison placed his mug down. “The FBI already knew you existed, and that you’d given them valuable information in the past. I simply told my bosses that you’d made contact in order to warn me about Wolfe. It worked like a charm.”
“You mean you used me as leverage,” Peter said.
“Your predictions are highly regarded within the FBI.”
“But you didn’t give them my name.”
“No, sir.”
“What about your team?”
“Sworn to keep quiet. Told them you were our secret weapon. Which you are.”
Talking to Nemo had reminded Peter how precious his freedom was. “I’m not your secret weapon,” he said.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“You, I trust. Not the people you work for.”
“That’s a low blow, man. The people I work for are cool.”
“You think so?”
Garrison’s eyes grew wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How many people did you tell about me?”
“Just my immediate superior, who swore he’d stay silent. Why?”
“He broke his promise to you, that’s why,” Peter said. “The CIA is holding a psychic friend of mine at a farm in Virginia. They use him to look into the future. My friend made contact, and told me the CIA was on to me. He heard it from one of his handlers.”
Garrison looked crushed, and stared at the table. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Start with ‘I’m sorry’ and work your way up.”
“I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”
Peter pulled up a chair, and sat down beside his guest. His life was about to become a living hell, courtesy of the man sitting across from him. He had to deal with this right now, or risk losing everything. “Erase me,” he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Garrison asked, clearly perplexed.
“I heard it in a spy movie. I want you to make me disappear.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Tell your boss I’ve vanished, or died, or went to Nepal to live with the monks. Whatever you think he’ll buy, tell him.”
“Erase you.”
“That’s right. Poof.”
“You’re not going to help me anymore?”
“I didn’t say that. But you’re going to have to tell your boss that the information is coming from somewhere else.” He paused. “Is that possible?”
Garrison gave it some thought. “I don’t see why not,” the FBI agent said.
“Good.”
They shook hands. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was the best Peter could think of. Now, if he could just figure out how to win Liza back, his life would return to normal.
Garrison smothered a yawn. “I need to head out. I’ve got a long drive home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Out on Long Island. Little burg called Greenlawn.”
“Want another cup for the trip?”
“You’re a mind reader,” Garrison said, and burst out laughing.
* * *
Garrison soon left. Peter sat in the kitchen and drank more coffee. The ordeal was over, only he didn’t feel relieved. Too many questions were still unanswered. It was like a jigsaw puzzle filled with holes, and he wondered if he’d ever know the whole story.
Through the kitchen window the sky was starting to lighten. He wondered if Liza was awake. He wanted to call her, and share the good news. It might be a good way to start over, and get their relationship back on track.
Then, he had a better idea. He’d get dressed, and take her out to breakfast. Telling her in person was better than over the phone, as was asking her to forgive him.
He headed upstairs and took a hot shower. There were other people he needed to contact as well. Holly, Milly, Max, and Reggie. He guessed they were probably all asleep, and he decided to wait another hour before making the calls.
He dressed while watching the morning news. The main story was Wolfe’s capture in Westchester County. A perky blond newscaster read the story while a photo of the burned-out van Wolfe had been driving was shown. No one could have survived that, Peter thought.
The story ended. The newscaster announced that a video of Wolfe was coming after a commercial break. Stay tuned, she said.
Peter found himself shaking his head. The story didn’t add up. Why had Wolfe decided to go to Westchester County? And where had the van he’d been driving come from? His body was growing cold, the feeling seeping out from his bones. He put on a wool sweater, and when he didn’t get warmer, put on a pair of wool socks as well.
The promised video clip arrived. It showed Wolfe pulling up to a tollbooth, and dropping a handful of coins into the hopper. He was eating a sub, which he clutched in the same hand which held the wheel. There was no doubt it was him, yet something still didn’t feel right.
The clip was shown again. Peter drew closer to the screen to get a better look. His eyes were drawn to Wolfe’s neck. The collar of Wolfe’s shirt was open, the flesh plainly exposed.
Peter cursed.
He pulled up Garrison’s cell number, and called him. Voice mail picked up, and he called again, and again. On the fourth try, the FBI agent answered, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Hello?” Garrison grumbled.
“Hey, it’s me, Peter. You make it home okay?”
“Yeah, just climbed into bed. What’s up?”
“I’ve got some bad news. Wolfe isn’t dead. That wasn’t him in the van.”
“I told you, I saw the tape. It was Wolfe. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’m gonna get some sleep.”
The cell phone went dead in Peter’s hand. Garrison needed convincing. Peter surfed the other stations. He found one showing a story on Wolfe’s apprehension. The same video was being shown, and he hit redial. Garrison practically barked at him this time.
“This is getting old,” Garrison said.
“You’re going to be a lot angrier once you realize I’m telling you the truth,” Peter said. “Turn on the Channel Eleven news.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because I’m going to prove to you that Wolfe isn’t dead.”
Garrison growled at him. Peter could hear a TV being turned on in the background. He stared at the screen in his bedroom. The clip of Wolfe pulling into the tollbooth was on.
“This is the same clip I saw,” Garrison said.
“Did you look at his neck?” Peter asked him.
“Why should I?”
“The Order of Astrum tattoo is gone. What you’re seeing is an illusion, courtesy of the Order. They tricked you into thinking Wolfe was dead to bring your guard down.”
“So who’s driving the van?” Garrison asked.
“Some poor guy who never knew what hit him. You need to marshal your troops. Wolfe’s going to strike soon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m cold.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m freezing from the outside in.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Peter grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair, and headed down the stairs with the cell phone jammed into his neck. There were some things that couldn’t be explained; the feeling that he got in his bones whenever Wolfe was about to strike was one of them.
“You still there?” Garrison asked.
“Still here.”
“Come on, man, you’ve got to work with me.”
“I am working with you. Wolfe isn’t dead, and he’s getti
ng ready to kill one of my friends. You need to alert the police that he’s on the streets.”
“Tell me where your friends live,” Garrison said.
“One lives in the Village on Mercer Street, two live on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West, and the third lives in a hotel on Central Park West and Fifty-eighth Street. Ask the police to stake out those areas, and they might apprehend him.”
“Why won’t you give me names? It will help us protect them.”
“Because I promised them I wouldn’t.”
“You’ve got to trust me, Peter. That’s the only way this can work.”
The CIA already knew that Peter and his friends existed. If Peter gave Garrison his friends’ names, there was a chance the CIA would find out, and their lives would be ruined.
“Later,” Peter said, and ended the call.
* * *
Peter stood in the foyer. He tried to put himself in Wolfe’s shoes. He didn’t think Wolfe would want to tangle with Milly’s crows again, which left Max or Reggie as his next victims. He placed calls to both men on his cell phone. Voice mail. Leaving a message wouldn’t do. They had to be warned before it was too late.
He went outside. Herbie was parked at the curb in the limo, reading the sports section of the paper. He could not remember ever being more happy to see his driver.
“Morning, boss,” Herbie said as he hopped in.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Herbie.”
“You need glasses, boss. Where to?”
“Max’s apartment on Mercer Street.”
“Got it.”
“Do you mind turning the heater on? I’m freezing.”
The limo pulled away from the curb. Warm air invaded the backseat, yet Peter could not get the aching feeling out of his bones. He dialed Holly’s number, and heard her pick up. He hoped she wasn’t still angry with him after last night.
“Hello, Peter,” she said coldly.
“Hi. I need a favor. Call Reggie until he picks up. Tell him to stay indoors.”
“Didn’t you see the news? Wolfe’s dead.”
“Wolfe’s not dead. It was a trick. He’s getting ready to attack. I’m going down to Max’s place to warn him. You need to do the same with Reggie.”
“Let me come with you. We can catch him together.” The ice had melted from her voice.
“That’s not a good idea, Holly,” he said.
“I have powers, Peter. Aunt Milly’s been teaching me how to use my gifts.”
“Can we talk about this later? Please?”
“Suit yourself. I’ll make sure Reggie gets the news.”
“Will you call me once you hear from him?”
Holly didn’t answer, and Peter realized she’d hung up on him. He stuck his head through the opening in the partition that separated him from his driver.
“Faster, Herbie,” he said.
32
Holly slipped her cell phone into her pocket. She sat at the dining room table in her aunt’s apartment, enjoying a breakfast of fresh fruit salad and an omelette au fromage that Milly had prepared for her. Her aunt sat across the table, eyeing her intently.
“Is something wrong?” Milly asked.
“Peter said the story on the news isn’t true. Wolfe’s alive, and he’s gunning for us.”
“You make it sound like we’re in a Western, my dear.”
“I didn’t know what other expression to use.”
Milly put her fork onto her plate, and wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“What did Peter suggest we do?” her aunt asked.
“He wants me to warn Reggie. Peter also wants us to stay in the apartment, and hide like defenseless women.”
“You sound put out with him.”
“I hate when he talks down to me.”
“There is no shame in hiding, especially when someone is trying to kill you. Perhaps we can watch a movie together, or play canasta.”
Holly folded her napkin, and placed it beside her plate. “We can help catch Wolfe, if Peter will let us.”
“How do you propose doing that?”
“We could set a trap for him, and use one of us as bait.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Wolfe is a monster, and so are the people he works for. Peter is correct in telling us to stay out of sight. It’s for our own good.” Milly rose from the table, her own breakfast barely touched. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a hot bath. Invite Reggie over for lunch, will you?”
“Of course, Aunt Milly.”
“And stop being in a huff with Peter. He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”
“Yes, Aunt Milly.”
Her aunt walked out of the dining room, leaving Holly to stew by herself. She didn’t like being treated like a child. She supposed being the youngest in the Friday night group had something to do with it, but that still didn’t mean that her ideas didn’t have merit. She could catch Wolfe. She was absolutely sure of it. She rang Reggie on her cell, but got no answer. Maybe he was still asleep, or taking a shower. She called again. Still nothing.
“Damn it,” she swore to herself.
What was she supposed to do if he didn’t pick up? Sit here, and bite her fingernails to the quick? She was a witch. She didn’t need to rely on a stupid cell phone to contact him.
She quickly came up with a plan. It was sneaky, and made her skin tingle with excitement. Her aunt was going to be furious with her if she found out. Better to beg for forgiveness than ask permission, she thought. She rose from her spot at the table and headed down the hallway. Reaching the master bathroom, she stopped, and stuck her ear to the door. She heard water running, while her aunt sang an opera to herself. Perfect, she thought.
Her next stop was the kitchen. From the refrigerator, she removed a plastic container filled with black dirt. The dirt had come from the root and herb garden of Mary Glover, the witch from whom she was descended. Dirt was an important part of a witch’s ritual, and provided a spiritual connection to the earth. She placed a small handful onto a paper towel. Pouring a glass of water, she picked up the towel by the corners, and headed for her aunt’s study.
“Forgive me for stealing your precious dirt,” she said quietly.
* * *
Her aunt’s study was on the other side of the apartment. The blinds were always closed, the room in perpetual darkness. Holly positioned herself at her aunt’s desk, flicked on the lamp, and placed her props in front of her. She gave Reggie another call; still no answer.
“Don’t want to pick up your phone, do you?”
She went to work. Dipping her fingers in the water, she began to sculpt the dirt into a small figure, or poppet. Poppets allowed a witch to become connected to someone, even if the person was thousands of miles away. Holly was molding a likeness of Reggie. Reggie was built like a scarecrow, so she made the arms and legs unusually thin. He was also a dapper fellow, and liked to dress well. Grabbing a pencil, she used the point to add a bow tie, and lines for his perfectly combed hair. Finished, she placed the poppet on the blotter so it faced her.
“Hello, little fellow,” she said.
Now came the hard part. Picking up the glass of water, she held it a few inches from her face, and focused on the water’s shimmering surface. The ritual was called scrying, and would allow her see Reggie wherever he was. Long ago, witches had used large pools of water to scry on people, while today it was more common to use a glass of water like she was doing.
“Water, oh so bright, let me see Reggie Brown in your perfect light.”
She waited for what seemed like an eternity. A bubble rose to the water’s surface, then another. To her delight, an image of a man appeared inside the glass. It was Reggie, lying in bed in striped pajamas. He was yawning, and appeared to have just woken up.
“Wonderful, he’s home,” she said, feeling relieved.
She watched Reggie climb out of bed. A minute later, he was at his kitchen sink, sipping a hot drink. He was a confirmed bachel
or, and the counter and sink were cluttered with dirty dishes. He went into his living room, and switched on the TV. The news came on, with Wolfe’s death the lead story. Reggie pumped the air joyously with his fist.
“Oh, no,” Holly said.
She called him again on her cell. In the glass, Reggie glanced at the ringing phone in his kitchen, but did not answer it.
“Pick up the phone, damn it,” she swore.
Reggie still did not answer. Instead, he returned to his bedroom, where he selected a pair of dark slacks and blue blazer from the closet, and tossed them onto the bed. Next came a sporty dress shirt and solid blue necktie. He was planning to go out and celebrate, not knowing that danger might be lurking around the corner, ready to take him down.
Holly kept calling his apartment, and Reggie kept refusing to answer. Panic set in. She had to do something, and she was not about to call Peter and beg for his help. This was her time.
Rising from the desk, she crossed the room. In the corner of the study was a small closet. She flicked on the overhead light and entered. It was empty, except for the safe set into the wall. Many of the building’s apartments had safes just like this one. Her aunt had entrusted her with the combination years ago, and she recited it from memory while spinning the safe’s dial.
The safe clicked open, and she pulled back the door. The interior was lined with shelves filled with witch’s tools: a human skull, a cracked mirror, a jar of chicken bones used to cast spells, a box of talismans for removing spells, and the most precious item of all, a braided lock of Mary Glover’s hair. These items had been passed down among the Glover witches for centuries, and would someday be hers.
She decided upon the lock of hair. Shutting the safe, she hurried from the study.
33
Reggie Brown finished dressing. Now that Wolfe was dead, he was going to celebrate, and do a little gambling. Gambling was his passion, and always got his juices flowing. The question was, should he play the horse tracks in New York, or gamble at the Indian reservation casinos in Connecticut? Each was a pleasant car ride away. Each had nice accommodations, good food, and friendly service. None had yet to catch on that he’d been robbing them blind for years, and passing along his winnings to charity.