Shadow People

by James Swain

  “What day is it?” he asked.

  “What kind of stupid question is that?” Dr. Death replied.

  “I was brought here against my will. I want to know.”

  “Very well. It’s Wednesday evening. Happy now?”

  Today was Wednesday. The shadow people hadn’t taken him to Westchester County on Friday night like the previous times. Instead, they’d transported him to a Westchester County in the present. Had Rachael’s encounter with Dr. Death been moved up two days?

  “Close your eyes, and I’ll make this painless,” the serial killer said.

  Dr. Death glanced at his watch as he spoke. Was he going to meet someone? Then it hit Peter why the shadow people had brought him here.

  “Rachael is coming out tonight instead of Friday, isn’t she?” Peter said. “You’re going to the train station to pick her up, aren’t you?”

  Dr. Death blinked. Peter had nailed it.

  “You know too much,” Dr. Death said. “Shut your eyes, and I’ll get this over with.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. I’m not shutting my eyes.”

  Dr. Death shoved the barrel of the gun against his temple, its muzzle still warm. “I’ll splatter your brains across the road.”

  “You don’t have the guts.”

  “I didn’t have the guts. But I do now. Let me show you why.”

  Reaching up with his free hand, Dr. Death undid his necktie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and jerked back the collar. Tattooed to his neck was the shimmering symbol of the Order of Astrum. The tattoo looked alive, and glowed mysteriously in the dark. “I have the Order of Astrum on my side,” he said with a sick smile. “Now say good-bye. I have a train to meet.”

  He’s really going to shoot me this time. The expression “three strikes and you’re out” came to mind, and he prayed for Liza to pull him back to the other side.

  Then the shot rang out.

  * * *

  Peter had always wondered what it felt like when you died. He’d imagined the sensation would be similar to hurtling at the speed of light through the universe with no idea of his final destination, if there even was a final destination. A journey that would be both amazingly beautiful and terribly frightening at the same time.

  Wrong.

  The afterlife felt surprisingly like this life. In fact, it felt exactly like it. He was still kneeling on the side of the road, with blood streaming down his leg. Dr. Death had not moved either, and was still holding the gun to his temple.

  Nothing had changed.

  Except the look on Dr. Death’s face. The sick smile had been replaced by a mask of fear. His eyes were trained on the forest directly behind them.

  “Munns—let him go!” a woman’s shrill voice called out.

  Peter turned his head to see a rather small woman in hiking clothes burst through a dense wall of shrubs. In one hand was a flashlight, in another a smoking handgun. Moments later a panting chocolate Labrador with a huge stick clenched in its mouth came through behind her.

  “Gladys Hadden,” Dr. Death said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Taking my evening constitutional with Brewster, just like I do every night.” She stopped a few yards from where they stood, her gun pointed at the ground. “Oh, my God, you shot him.”

  “He was breaking into my house,” Munns said defensively.

  “You don’t say. Do you know who he is?”

  “I think he’s a drug addict. He was going through my things when I caught him,” Dr. Death lied, his gun still pressed to Peter’s temple. “He ran away, and I got into my car and chased him. I was just about to shoot him when you fired your gun.”

  “Why were you going to shoot him, Doc?”

  “I just told you, he was robbing me.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to shoot him. I’d suggest you call nine one one, and let the police deal with this. I’ll call them myself if you like.”

  Gladys Hadden was talking down to Munns like he was a child. Munns acted confused, and didn’t seem to know what to do. His cell phone rang. He jerked it from his pocket to stare at the face.

  “I need to take this,” he said, and stepped away.

  “Thanks for saving my life,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

  “You’re not a drug addict, are you?” Gladys Hadden asked. “You certainly don’t dress like one.”

  “It’s a long story. I’m helping the FBI catch your neighbor.”

  “Really? What did Doc do?”

  “His name’s Doc? Is he a doctor?”

  “No, it’s just his nickname. He likes to pretend he’s one. He’s really the janitor over at the local college, has been for God knows how long. Now, tell me what he’s done.”

  “He’s a serial killer,” Peter whispered. “He brings women to his house, and kills them.”

  Gladys Hadden gasped. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Munns was talking excitedly into his cell phone. They heard him say, “Your train is running ahead of schedule? I’m glad you called to let me know. Yes, I can be at the station when you pull in. I’m sure the dean won’t mind if we show up for dinner a little early.”

  “Who’s that?” Gladys Hadden asked in a whisper.

  “His next victim,” Peter replied.

  “Oh, my Lord. What should we do?”

  “Shoot him.”

  “You want me to shoot him?”

  “Yes. Otherwise, he’s going to kill her.”

  “You’re certain about this?”

  “On my parents’ graves.”

  Flipping his cell phone shut, Munns stared at Peter and his neighbor. The glint in his eyes said a decision was being made. Peter didn’t have to use his psychic powers to know what that decision was. Munns was going to shoot them in cold blood, and deal with the consequences later. Rachael was drawing closer, and he could practically taste his next kill.

  Munns stepped forward, prepared to gun them down.

  Brewster stopped him.

  The Lab had been lying in the grass gnawing on his stick. Sensing that his owner was in danger, Brewster jumped up and tried to bite Munns’s hand off. He jumped back in fear. Brewster kept barking, and Munns started backing up.

  “He’s getting away,” Peter said.

  Gladys Hadden aimed her gun. “Stay right where you are.”

  “Gladys, you can’t shoot me,” Munns begged her.

  “I’m calling the police, Doc. Don’t you dare move.”

  Munns turned his back and ran to his car. He pulled away in a swirl of rubber and raced down the twisting hill. Gladys Hadden lowered her gun to her side, and sadly shook her head. She was a good person, and good people did not shoot their neighbors.

  Peter felt an invisible tug on his shoulder. Liza was pulling him back to the other side. He resisted, knowing he must stop Munns from picking up Rachael at the train station. He was dealing with real time now, and every second counted.

  “Call nine one one,” he said.

  “What do I tell them?” Gladys asked. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Tell the police that Munns is a serial killer. If they call Special Agent Garrison with the FBI in New York City, Garrison will confirm it.”

  “The police will think I’m a nut.”

  “Do it anyway. Please.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “But you’re wounded. You need to get help.”

  She punched three numbers into her phone. An operator came on, and she said that a man had been shot, and requested an ambulance. She gave her address and Peter memorized it. His world started to change, the image of his dressing room taking soft focus.

  “Do you walk your dog every night?” Peter asked.

  “Why yes, I do,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  It explained everything. The shadow people had brought him here twice, and both
times it had seemed that Munns was about to shoot him in the head right before he was pulled back. But that hadn’t been the situation at all; the gunshot he’d heard each time had come from Gladys Hadden’s gun, and had been meant to stop Munns from killing him. His life had never been in danger at all.

  He began to slip away. He wished he had a camera to take a photo of the startled look on Gladys Hadden’s face as he disappeared. Brewster would not stop barking.

  52

  Washed in cold sweat, Peter awoke lying on the couch in his dressing room. Liza sat beside him, forcefully shaking his shoulders. “How long have I been out?” he asked.

  “Too long,” she replied. “The curtains go up in ten minutes. Can you go on?”

  “I don’t know. Let me check.”

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position. The bullet wound in his right thigh had miraculously healed itself, and he felt no worse for wear. Garrison leaned against the far wall with a grave look on his face.

  “Have a nice trip?” the FBI agent asked.

  “Come to mention it, I did,” Peter replied. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  Liza brought a water bottle to his lips. “Here. Drink this.”

  Peter took a long swallow. His dressing room was void of spirits. He had expected the shadow people to follow him back, but they’d chosen to remain with Munns. Perhaps they were hoping to stop Munns from claiming his next victim. They hadn’t succeeded in the past, and were going to need some help. “I know who our killer is.”

  Garrison pushed himself off the wall. “Start talking.”

  “His name is Doc Munns, only he isn’t really a doctor. He lives in a town called Pelham, and is a janitor at a local college.”

  Garrison produced a notepad and started scribbling.

  “You need to call the Westchester police immediately,” he went on. “I saw Munns in real time. His next victim is coming out on a train tonight, not on Friday like I originally thought. When I left, Munns was racing to the train station to pick her up.”

  “You’re sure about all of this?”

  Peter nodded and drained the water bottle.

  “Do you have any proof?” Garrison asked.

  “What do you mean? I was just with him.”

  “I can’t tell the Westchester police that. I mean I can, but they won’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re not going to take the word of a psychic and detain someone. It’s not how the law works. I need to offer up some proof to what you’re saying.”

  Peter felt stymied. He’d seen it, hadn’t he?

  “Can’t the police at least detain him?” the young magician asked.

  “Not without a good solid reason.”

  “Tell them to make one up.”

  “The police won’t do that.”

  “This is crazy. A women’s life is hanging in the balance. Isn’t that enough reason?”

  Garrison flipped the notepad shut. “We have to work within the law. This isn’t the Wild West. We can’t just go grab someone because you think he’s a killer.”

  “It has nothing to do with what I think. Munns is a serial killer.”

  “You don’t know that for certain.”

  Peter threw the empty water bottle at the trash can in anger. When he visited the other side, there were no illusions, subtleties, or nuanced shades of gray. It was all black and white. Munns was their killer, and needed to be stopped. “You’re a fool,” he said.

  “Peter,” Liza said.

  “Watch your mouth.” Garrison simmered.

  “I just risked my life to go to the other side, and now you’re disputing what I’m saying,” Peter said, not calming down. “I should throw you out of here.”

  “Peter!” Liza said.

  A loud rap on the dressing room door snapped their heads. The door opened a foot, and Snoop stuck his shaggy head in. “Why, Detective Garrison, fancy seeing you here. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “It’s Special Agent Garrison, wiseass,” Garrison said.

  “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk with my boss for a second?” Snoop asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Are we going on?” Snoop asked.

  “How much time do I have?” Peter asked.

  “Five minutes. I can get on the PA, and say we’re running late.”

  Peter wore many hats. The biggest hat was that of a professional magician, and there were rules which he needed to follow. Starting the show on time was one of them. He’d never been late before, and wasn’t going to start now. “No, I’m going on right now.”

  “Beautiful. I’ll be up in the booth,” Snoop said. “Nice seeing you, Detective.”

  “You’re pushing it,” Garrison said.

  * * *

  Soon, the three of them were walking down the hallway toward the back of the stage. Peter’s usual nervousness started to set in, just like it did every night before he went on.

  “There has to be some solution here,” Peter implored the FBI agent.

  “I’ll call the Westchester police and ask them to send a cruiser to the train station, if you think it will do any good,” Garrison said.

  “You can’t pull Munns in for questioning?”

  “I need tangible proof. It’s how the law works.”

  Peter came to a short stairwell that led to the stage. Through the back of the stage he could hear the crowd’s murmuring. They were ready to see a magic show, but was he ready to put one on for them? No, he wasn’t, and he realized that he had to get Munns out of his mind. That sounded easy to do, only there was an unsuspecting woman named Rachael whose life he was supposed to be saving. He thought back to his encounter with Munns on the hillside. Munns had been carrying a loaded firearm. That was illegal in the state of New York without a concealed weapons permit, and he had a feeling that Munns didn’t possess one of those.

  “I’m going to get ready,” Liza said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks for being there for me,” he told her.

  “Always,” she said.

  They kissed and Liza hurried away.

  “Munns is carrying a loaded gun,” he said. “If you told the Westchester police that you had reason to believe he was a dangerous person, would they haul him in?”

  “Of course,” Garrison said.

  “Then please do it. Right now.”

  “You’re sure he’s carrying a loaded gun?”

  “He shot me with it.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking. Are you certain he’s carrying it right now? If not, the police will have to release him, and Munns will know we’re on to him.”

  Peter didn’t know if Munns still had his gun. Maybe he’d thrown it out the window of his car after his encounter with Gladys Hadden. But Peter felt certain that Munns still had his kill kit, which had contained a rope, handcuffs, and a bottle of chloroform.

  “Munns has a leather bag filled with the stuff he uses to capture his victims,” Peter said. “Tell the police to look for it.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Garrison said.

  “I saw the bag in his house.”

  Garrison hesitated. Something was clearly wrong, and Peter gazed into the FBI agent’s eyes and read his thoughts. If the Westchester police blew this, Munns would go home and destroy evidence linking him to his crimes. The FBI would be back to square one with the case, and Garrison would have to sleep at night knowing that a dangerous killer was roaming free.

  That was a bad scenario, but Peter’s was much worse. A woman who pushed back at the darkness was going to die tonight if Munns wasn’t arrested. The shadow people had chosen to save Rachael because she was someone who made a difference in the world. Peter was going to save her, the law be damned.

  “Promise me you’ll talk the police into arresting Munns,” Peter said.

  “I’ll do my best,” Garrison replied.

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “What
did you say?”

  “Munns’s next victim isn’t an ordinary person. She’s going to do something extraordinary in her life that will make a tremendous difference in the world. That’s why the dark side wants her dead. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Is this woman some kind of saint?”

  Peter nodded, and a look of recognition spread across the FBI agent’s face, along with the weight of knowing that if he didn’t act fast, he’d be responsible for her demise as well.

  “Then I’ll order the police to arrest him,” Garrison said.

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yes. I’m putting my ass on the line, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  Peter climbed the steps to the back of the stage as Garrison began to make the call. The music had already started, his other life about to begin. He cleared his head, and prepared himself to enter the world of make-believe.

  53

  The parking lot of the Pelham train station was deserted as Munns parked and killed his headlights. During the day, there was not a space to be found, and cars often parked illegally on the street. Nighttime was a different story, and most of the spaces were empty.

  Munns lowered his window. The sound of the northbound train from New York could often be heard a mile or more away as it lumbered into the station. Each of Munns’s six victims had come on the train to Pelham, where Munns had picked them up with the promise of a nice job at the local college but instead had taken them to the basement of his house where he’d tied them up, laid them out on a long table, and ended their miserable lives in whatever fashion struck his fancy. He never decided ahead of time, preferring to follow his impulses and go with the flow. Rachael would be no different.

  The train’s whistle caught his ear. It was time. On the passenger seat sat his kill kit. From it, he took the bottle of chloroform, which he put into his left jacket pocket. Next he removed a folded handkerchief, which went into his right jacket pocket. The kill kit was moved to the floor of the backseat. He climbed out of the car.

  He waited on the platform. He was not alone. A woman had come to pick up her husband, and was chatting on a cell phone while holding an infant in her arm. That was the extent of his worries.