by James Swain
“Of course I’m going to finish my show,” Max said.
“Then hurry. The natives are getting restless.”
She went back inside. Max sprung his deck of cards playfully between his hands like an accordion. He threw back his shoulders and glanced at his pupil. “Yes or no?”
“I care for the girl, but I am not in love with Holly,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “She’s the little sister that I never had, which is why I have feelings for her.”
Max did several deft one-handed cuts without looking at the cards. “Those feelings have been misinterpreted. You must be careful. Witches are dangerous creatures when their passions become inflamed. Take my advice, and stay away from her. She’s not the young woman you think she is. I must go. Be safe.”
“And you as well.”
Max entered the pub to a healthy round of applause, leaving Peter to contemplate this new wrinkle in his personal life. He wasn’t big on confronting his problems, preferring to run away whenever possible, but this situation had to be addressed. He was in love with Liza, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.
He should have left right then, and warned his other friends. Instead, he went to the pub’s window, and peered through the smokey glass. It was the one great lesson that he’d learned from losing his parents at such a tender age. Nothing in this world lasts forever. The people and things that you love and cherish will one day be stolen away from you, never to be returned. It was the natural order of the universe, and could not be changed. The only question was, when would this happen? When would you lose those things that you loved? He’d always believed that day was sooner rather than later. If he didn’t enjoy the special things in his life right now, they’d be gone in a blink of an eye, and he’d forever regret not experiencing them one last time.
That was why he stayed at the window and watched Max entertain the crowd.
21
Munns rose late, took a hot shower, did all the usual things. Naked and clean, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door, and gazed at the freakish assortment of tattoos on his body. He looked like a walking billboard for the Devil.
Munns often wondered what would happen if he decided to change his ways, and revert back to his old life. Would the Devil let him? Or would the tattoos spring to life, jump off his skin, and tear every limb from his body, and when they were done torturing him, kill him and bury his torso? Once, during a feverish dream, he’d seen that very thing, and had no doubt that it was a sign from below of what happened to traitors.
The silver tattoo on his neck was shimmering like a dull neon sign. It often did that, and he didn’t quite understand why. He’d asked Ray what it meant, and the body artist had replied that it was the sign that the Devil was paying him a visit. Munns was not fond of the silver tattoo and wished he could figure out a way to turn the damn thing off.
He drew closer to the mirror. His latest tattoo was already his favorite. The mighty Surtr holding a bloody sword in one hand, the head of Peter Warlock in the other. Ray had predicted that Munns would become Surtr one day, and do away with the young magician. Munns had tried to imagine what that transformation would be like. Would he grow in size and become stronger? And what about his face? Would it turn as hideous as Surtr’s?
Munns had never heard of Surtr so he’d done a search on the Internet. During the time of the Norse gods, Surtr had single-handedly guarded the gates of hell. He resembled Yoda from Star Wars, and did not look fierce enough to fight off a teenager. But when enemies approached, Surtr grew into a horrifying monster with horns on his head and eye-popping muscles. As part of this transformation, the knife on his belt grew into a flaming sword, which he used to chop off the heads of his enemies. Munns had liked the sound of that, and had started to carry a Swiss Army knife with him wherever he went.
His cell phone vibrated on the counter, the word UNKNOWN lighting up the screen. Munns had no friends, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him. Perhaps it was Rachael calling to say that she wouldn’t be coming on Friday night. The very notion filled him with dread, and he snatched up the phone. “Yes?”
“Is this Doc Munns?” an older man’s gruff voice asked.
It was not Rachael calling to cancel, and he instantly relaxed.
“That’s me. Who am I speaking to?”
“Name’s Clyde Jucko. I own EZ Storage, where you rent a unit.”
The Jucko clan were longtime residents and could trace their lineage back to the first Dutch families that had settled in the area. Clyde Jucko, the family patriarch, was a local slumlord and a tough customer. Locals often turned the J in his name into an F when describing him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jucko?” Munns asked, wrapping himself in a towel. “Did you not get my rent check?”
“I got the check. There’s something not right with your unit.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, there’s something not right with your unit. There’s a big gaping hole torn in the roof. I was up on a ladder doing some repairs to the gutters when I spotted it. It looks like someone tore a hole in the roof of your unit from the inside. You wouldn’t by chance happen to know how something like that could happen, would you?”
“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” Munns stammered.
“You don’t have someone illegally living in the unit, do you?”
“No.” This time, Munns choked on the word.
“Then how the hell did a flipping hole get in the roof?”
“I have no idea. You have to believe me.”
“I think you’re lying, son. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”
“You’re not going to call the police…”
“I was considering it.”
Munns thought he might pass out. He grabbed the sink edge to steady himself and filled his lungs with air. Like most serial killers, his killings followed a specific pattern that included taking his victims to a rental unit at EZ Storage, where he put their plastic-shrouded bodies in metal footlockers stacked inside. There the bodies stayed, locked away from the world. Ray had taught him this little trick. Without the bodies, the police had no evidence to play with, and the crime was reduced to a question mark which faded over time.
Only now something had happened inside his unit. Munns couldn’t imagine how a hole had appeared in the roof, not that it really mattered. His landlord was suspicious, and Munns needed to deal with him before things got out of control.
“I’m sure we can work this out,” Munns said.
“Hah,” the old man laughed derisively.
“I’ll pay you to keep quiet.”
“Think you can bribe me, huh?”
“Isn’t that why you called?”
“Don’t be a wiseass, son.” Jucko paused. “Give me a range.”
“How about two thousand dollars?”
“That’s chickenshit. Make it five grand, cash, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You’re on. Give me a half hour to get the money. I’ll come by and give it to you.”
“Bring another three hundred to fix the roof.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll see you soon.”
“Don’t hang up. There’s one more thing that’s bothering me. I want to know what you’ve been keeping in that unit. Was it a man, a woman, a boy, or a girl? Was it an illegal alien, or some kind of sex slave? Or was it something else? I want to know what it was.”
“That’s none of your business,” Munns said.
“It is now. You don’t tell me, I’m calling the police.”
Munns’s cheeks burned. Jucko had gone from being a problem to being a threat. He needed to stall him so he could figure out what to do, and he said, “I can’t tell you over the phone. I’ll tell you later, when I bring the money.”
“You have been keeping someone in there,” Jucko said.
“I’ll explain everything later.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.
”
Jucko hung up on him. Munns went into the bedroom and sat down on the very edge of the bed. His head was pounding, his heart beating out of control. If he didn’t deal with this right now, Jucko would start talking, and he’d be doomed.
He pulled up Ray’s number on his cell phone. Ray would know what to do in a situation like this. Ray was street smart and he knew all the angles. Several rings later, the tattoo artist answered, his voice thick with sleep.
“I need your help. Clyde Jucko’s onto me,” Munns said breathlessly.
“Leave a message, and I’ll call you back,” an automated voice replied.
Munns let out a string of profanities. A beeping sound filled his ear.
“Meet me at EZ Storage,” he said into the phone.
Then he threw on his clothes, grabbed his keys, and ran out of the house.
22
Peter’s next stop was Lester Rowe’s shabby fortune-telling parlor on the Lower East Side. The small reception area was filled with clients, and he didn’t stay long.
Then he headed uptown to pay Milly a visit at the Dakota. The old witch met him at the door of her apartment wearing a flowing black robe and a mystical gold pendant hanging around her neck. Milly also told fortunes, but to a much wealthier clientele, and he guessed by her wardrobe that she was working. He passed the five-pointed star through the door.
“Please put this on right away,” he said.
“Am I in danger?” Milly asked.
“Yes. The shadow people are going after my friends.”
Milly thanked him with her eyes and shut the door.
His last stop was Holly. Max’s warning was still ringing in his ears, and he wondered what to do. Should he tell Holly that he couldn’t see her anymore? That would mean one of them would have to leave the Friday night psychics, and he didn’t see that happening. No, he was going to act like an adult, and sit down with her and have a talk. He couldn’t think of anything more unpleasant, except perhaps going to see Dr. Sierra again.
As his cab neared Holly’s place, his cell phone started to crawl out of his pocket as if alive. Only one person he knew could do that, and he flipped the phone open.
“Hey, Nemo, how you been?” he asked.
“Great for a guy doing life in prison,” the Puerto Rican psychic said.”We need to talk. Give me your coordinates.”
The CIA kept Nemo on a farm in Virginia where they used him to travel across time and space to see what fiendish plots the nation’s enemies were hatching. It was a lousy existence, and the reason Peter didn’t trust people in law enforcement. He glanced out the window at the approaching intersection. “I’m in a cab at the corner of Ninetieth and Central Park West, right next to Central Park.”
“Look in the eastern sky. Do you see any clouds?”
“I see a few.”
“Excellent. Get out of the cab, and stare at them. I’ll be right there.”
“You’re going to visit me in person?”
“Yeah, aren’t you excited?”
The line went dead. Nemo hadn’t told him what was going on. But it wasn’t like Nemo to bother him with trivial things, and Peter told the driver to pull over. The cab’s tires kissed the curb, and he passed a twenty through the partition and hopped out. Walking over to the stone wall that surrounded the park, he located a formation of puffy clouds in the otherwise flawless sky, and stared. The outline of Nemo’s face gradually appeared.
“Aren’t we special,” Peter said.
“Yes we are,” his friend replied.
Nemo was a street kid from Spanish Harlem whom Peter had knocked around with as a teenager. Each psychic had a special gift. Nemo’s was astral projection. He could project himself anywhere in the world if he set his mind to it. That was why the CIA found him so valuable. He was like a drone that didn’t need gas, and couldn’t be shot down.
Out-of-body experiences were nothing new in the psychic world. Psychics had been projecting themselves across the globe since the beginning of time. When people saw human faces in the clouds, or appearing on oil slicks on the road, or in rock formations on the sides of mountains, it was often a psychic projecting himself. The psychic never stayed for very long, but sometimes the image lingered behind, causing people to get excited, and even build shrines.
“How’s life on the funny farm?” Peter asked.
“They’re treating me like a king,” Nemo replied. “Great food, beautiful accommodations, premium cable. The only problem is, they won’t let me out.”
“We’re going to have to work on that. How did you call me? Don’t tell me they gave you a cell phone.”
“I wish. I stole my one of handlers’ cell phones.”
“That’s going to come back and bite you.”
“I stole his credit card, too. Amex silver, no less.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what they’ll do when they find out?”
“What are they going to do? Arrest me? Then they’d have to acknowledge that they’re holding me, and that’s not going to happen. You should see all the stuff I bought on his card. Trips, hotel rooms, airline tickets, the works.”
“For who?”
“My cousin and her little kid. She lost her job, and has been living on welfare. They needed a vacation, so I sent them down to Disney World. First class, all the way.”
“How much did you charge on his card?”
“Enough to piss him off.”
“You’re my hero.”
Nemo laughed in the clouds. His face was starting to fade, as was his voice. Out-of-body experiences never lasted more than a few minutes, and Peter strained to hear him.
“I had a strange thing happen to me that I wanted to warn you about,” Nemo said. “My handlers routinely give me files of dangerous people they’re trying to catch, and ask me to find them. This morning, I was given a composite of a serial killer in Westchester County called Dr. Death. My handlers asked me to project myself to Friday night, and see if I could find Dr. Death, so I did.”
“What happened?”
“I found him. I also found someone else.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Me? What was I doing in Westchester?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. I projected myself to Friday night in Westchester County, and floated around for a few minutes. After a while, I felt your aura. It was really strong, and I spotted you standing in the parking lot of a train station on the outskirts of town.”
“Was I by myself?”
“No. You were with a hulking black guy who acted like a cop.”
“Special Agent Garrison, FBI.”
“You’re hanging out with the FBI? That’s dangerous stuff, Peter.”
“Tell me about it. Now, what did you see?”
“Garrison drove you to a house on a hill that reminded me of the house on the hill in Psycho. It had faded shingles and a gravel driveway surrounded by a thick hedge. You and Garrison went inside the house, where a really terrified woman was being held in the living room. She was tied to a chair, and was totally freaking out. Dr. Death was also in the living room. He’s an overweight guy, dressed like a nerd, didn’t look scary at all. At first I thought, what’s going on here? Then things got freaky.”
“How so?”
“Dr. Death’s body started to change until he looked like a gargoyle on steroids. The guy grew horns and his hands turned into claws. It was like watching a bad horror flick. You guys started fighting to the death.”
People who entered into pacts with the Devil often lost their human qualities, and became like their master. Monsters in every sense of the word, they deserved no place on this earth.
Peter had never fought one of these people, and had no idea how his powers would stack up. He supposed there was a first time for everything.
“You’ve got me on the edge of my seat. What happened then?” Peter asked.
“I woke up,” Nemo said.
“You suck, you know that?”
“Hey, nobody’s perfect.”
Nemo’s face was now an afterimage, his voice barely a faint whisper. In a few seconds he would be gone, leaving Peter to wonder when they’d again hook up.
“Be careful, Peter. Whatever this guy is, it isn’t human,” his friend said.
Peter started to thank him for the warning. But by then, Nemo had disappeared in the clouds, leaving nothing but a pair of gulls circling overhead.
23
Clyde Jucko had the disposition of a junkyard dog and a face to match. He was waiting outside EZ Storage as Munns pulled into the parking lot, and climbed out of his car. A big man, he cast a long, menacing shadow that stretched halfway across the lot.
Munns approached Jucko cautiously. Jucko was holding what looked like bolt cutters in his hand. Munns’s eyes fell on the broken padlock lying on the ground.
“You went into my unit without my permission,” Munns said.
“It’s my unit. You just rent it from me,” Jucko corrected him.
“You had no right to do that, or to touch my things.”
“I didn’t touch your goddamn things. I just wanted to see what you’ve been up to. You bring the money?”
“I got it.”
“Give it to me right now.”
Munns pulled an envelope stuffed with hundreds from his pocket and tossed it to the older man. As Jucko counted the money, Munns glanced in both directions. The other units were empty and they were alone. Except for the steady hiss of cars on the nearby highway, the air was still. Munns knew that the best course of action was to shoot Jucko in the head at point-blank range, and throw his body in the trunk of his car. A single gunshot would carry through the woods and trail off like a lonely clap of thunder. It would go unnoticed, and Jucko would join the list of people who’d come in contact with Munns and disappeared.
Only there was a problem with that scenario. Jucko was pointing the bolt cutters like he was planning to cut Munns’s balls off. He looked ready for a fight, and drawing a gun on him at this moment seemed out of the question.
“All here,” Jucko said, pocketing the cash. “Okay, now I want you to tell me what’s been going on. Who’s been living in that unit?”