Shadow People

by James Swain

  He glanced at his reflection in the window of the station house, fixed his necktie, and patted down his lapels. If Rachael stepped off the train and got a bad vibe, she wouldn’t get in his car. He had to win her over right from the start.

  The ground shook as the train pulled in, and a handful of passengers disembarked. Dark suits and ties for the men, power suits and fancy shoes for the women. One passenger stood out. A tall, sallow women with prematurely gray hair and a slightly lost expression. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her.

  “Rachael?” he called out expectantly.

  She smiled and came toward him. Not too fast, not too slow. Sizing him up like any intelligent woman would do. Munns stepped forward and opened his arms in welcome.

  “It’s so good to finally meet you. Welcome to Pelham,” he said.

  “You must be Doc Munns.” She stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  Her handshake was firm but also friendly. He waved to his parked car. “Your chariot awaits. The dean is expecting us. I’m told his wife has cooked up a wonderful meal with all the trimmings. I hope you brought your appetite.”

  “Matter of fact, I did. I’ve been so looking forward to this,” she said.

  They continued to chat as they walked to Munns’s car. Out of the corner of his eye, Munns saw the woman with the kid drive away with her husband. The other passengers were piling into cars and heading home. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. Munns opened the passenger door for his guest.

  “Such a gentleman. I like that in a man,” Rachael said.

  “My pleasure,” the serial killer said.

  * * *

  The routine that Munns used to abduct his victims never varied. Like a short one-act play, he’d memorized the lines that he would say, and had choreographed the individual steps that led to his victims being knocked unconscious in the passenger seat of his car. He had performed his play in the railroad station parking lot, and in the supermarket parking lot down the street where he’d taken several of his victims after picking them up. It had seemed bold at first to perform the abduction in public, but time had proved it a smart tactic. His victims did not think anything could happen to them while in a public place, and let their guards down. As a result, none of them had seen it coming. He did not anticipate Rachael being any different.

  He fastened his seat belt and requested that his passenger do the same.

  “Sorry,” Rachael said, buckling up. “I hardly take car rides anymore.”

  “How do you get around in the city?” he asked.

  “Mostly by the subway, sometimes when I’m late I’ll take a cab.”

  “You don’t own a car?”

  “On my salary? You’re funny.”

  No one had ever called him funny before, and he grinned. He found himself liking her, but that feeling would soon fade. It always did when he brought his victims to his house and carried them downstairs to the basement. Each step down the creaky staircase was a painful journey back in time. By the time he reached the basement, he was ready to kill.

  He fired up the ignition and threw the car into reverse. Then he started to wheeze and cough. It was an ugly sound, and he pounded his chest with his fist.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked in alarm.

  He threw the car back into Park. More pounding on the chest and heavy breathing followed. Pointing at the glove compartment, he said, “If you don’t mind. I need my pills.”

  “Is this serious? Do I need to call nine one one?”

  “Not at all. I just forgot to take them, that’s all.”

  “Do you have any water?”

  “No,” he gasped.

  “Have no fear.” She produced a water bottle from her purse and stuck it into the cup holder jutting out of the dashboard. Then she turned her attention to the glove compartment. The latch was tricky, and she fumbled opening it. She rummaged through maps and car junk.

  “I’m not seeing any pills,” she said.

  “They should be there,” he wheezed. “Keep looking.”

  She obeyed, paying him no attention. Sticking his hand into his left pocket, he unscrewed the chloroform bottle with a quick twist. His right hand removed the handkerchief, which he doused liberally. He kept his face turned to avoid knocking himself out with fumes.

  “I’ll still not seeing them,” Rachael said.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be beaten as a child?” he asked in a normal voice.

  The words caught her off guard. Rachael turned her head, and Munns placed the handkerchief over her nose and mouth. It was important to get his victim to turn into the chloroform, and not shove it into her face. Her eyes rolled into her head, and she slumped into her seat.

  * * *

  The hard part over, Munns felt himself relax. As he started to back out of his spot, a police cruiser rolled into the lot and pulled up behind him, its headlights bathing his vehicle.

  “Shit,” he swore.

  In his mirror he spied a grim-faced cop at the wheel. Before the economy had taken a dump, the Pelham Police Department had employed pairs of officers for its nightly patrols. Budget cuts had changed that, and officers now rode solo at night.

  Munns strained to make out the officer’s face. He’d gone through school with many of the cops in town and knew most of them by first name.

  The cop was someone new. A clean-cut rookie with a square jaw and straw-blond hair. Munns decided to have a talk with him. He had talked his way out of tight jams before, and felt confident he could handle this rookie. Opening his door, he placed his foot on the ground.

  “Stay in your car,” the officer barked over a bullhorn.

  Munns pulled himself back in, and slammed the door.

  “Hands on the wheel,” the officer commanded.

  Munns placed his hands on the wheel. He wondered if was going to have to kill a police officer tonight. He couldn’t hide a dead cop the way he’d hidden his other victims, and would have to figure out a clever way to dump the body. Perhaps he’d cut it up first, and dispose of the pieces in Dumpsters behind different restaurants. The rotted food would hide the smell perfectly.

  A flashlight’s beam touched the back of his head. Munns turned in his seat to glare at the officer.

  “Look straight ahead,” the officer barked.

  Munns turned around. The flashlight beam traveled to the passenger seat, and rested on Rachael’s slumping profile.

  “Who’s that in the car with you?” the officer demanded.

  Munns rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Look, can’t we talk?”

  “Answer the question!”

  “My wife. She just got off work.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She fell asleep. She’s had a long day. May I ask what this is about?”

  “Be quiet, and turn your head around.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Do it!”

  Munns turned back around. Killing the police officer seemed a certainty. No other real choice. His gun was in his kill kit and not handy. He would have to use his hands, like he had with Clyde Jucko at the storage facility, and tear the officer apart limb from limb. Thinking about it brought a faint smile to his lips. Tonight was going to be a two-bagger.

  He devised a plan. He’d let the officer come up to his window and ask for his ID. He would stick his driver’s license out the window. When the officer took it, he’d grab his arm, pull him into the car, and tear his head off. Easy as pie.

  He tapped his fingers on the wheel. When the officer did not come, he glanced into his mirror. The officer was talking on his car radio to a dispatcher. He tried to lip-read what the officer was saying. He caught a couple of key words, and realized the officer was calling for backup like he’d just apprehended a dangerous criminal.

  It was time to make his move. Opening the driver’s door, he hopped out, and marched toward the cruiser with his arms outstretched in a placati
ng manner.

  “Get back in your car!” roared the officer over the bullhorn.

  Stopping, he struck a neutral pose. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Back up!”

  “Have I broken any laws? Is my tag expired?”

  “Do it!”

  “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  The officer reached for his gun. The look in his eyes bordered on pure panic. Pelham was a sleepy place, and the officer had probably never dealt with a situation like this before. Munns decided that was in his favor, and took a giant step forward.

  “Son, you’re overreacting.”

  “Listen to me!” the officer shouted.

  Munns raised his arms in mock surrender. “What are you afraid of? Do I scare you?”

  “Son of a bitch,” the officer swore.

  Squealing rubber tore a hole in the still night air. A black van had entered the parking lot and was flying. Its headlights flashed and the driver mouthed the words, “Get out of the way!”

  It was Ray.

  Ray plowed into the back of the cruiser without hitting his brakes. The impact sounded like a bomb going off, and the officer flew through the windshield like a human cannonball, his body landing on the rear of the Volvo with a sickening thud.

  Munns pulled himself off the pavement. He was covered with broken glass, but otherwise unharmed. Ray jumped out of the van and joined him. Together they stared at the officer’s crumpled body. The surprised look on his face said he’d never known what had hit him.

  “Did you get Rachael?” the tattoo artist asked.

  “She’s passed out in the car.”

  “Get her out of here. I’ll deal with this guy.”

  Ray pulled the dead cop off the trunk and dragged him to the van. For a skinny guy, Ray was strong, and Munns felt certain he would figure out a way to dispose of the body.

  Munns drove away knowing he was in good hands.

  54

  Fight or flight.

  Ray had never understood the meaning of the expression, until now.

  He had murdered a cop. If that wasn’t bad enough, the cop’s broken body was lying on the floor of his van, bleeding on the carpet. He had to dispose of the body, and then he had to run. Ray didn’t know where he was going to go, and he supposed it really didn’t matter.

  Just run.

  Hanging around Pelham was a bad idea. The police would haul him and Munns in, and question them. Munns would squeal like a fat boy in a candy store, and point the finger at Ray. No fancy lawyer could save him. Ray would spend the rest of his life in the slammer.

  Ray cursed the Order of Astrum. They had sent him down this path, and told him to make sure Munns got the girl no matter what. When Ray had driven past the train station and seen the cop about to arrest Munns, he’d lost his head, and crashed his van into the cruiser. Looking back, the smart thing would have been to let Munns take the fall, and not get involved. Ray knew that now, not that it was going to do him any good.

  He navigated Pelham’s narrow roads while trying to keep to the speed limit. More criminals got busted speeding away from the scene of their crimes than just about anything else. So he kept it under thirty and fought to stay calm.

  He thought about the places he might escape to. Canada seemed like a wise choice, or perhaps a remote town in Mexico. Let Munns take the heat for the dead cop.

  He drove down a dead-end street on the outskirts of town. Pulled down a dirt road that was part of a wooded lot where nobody lived. Parked and got out to look around. Didn’t see a soul or hear anything that would suggest people nearby. A perfect spot to dump a corpse.

  He lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. This whole damn thing was crazy. He’d let the elders kidnap his soul, and make him do things that he’d never dream of doing on his own. Before joining the Order of Astrum, he’d placed limits on the crimes he would commit. Not anymore. There were no limits to the depravity and suffering he’d been asked to be a part of.

  He finished the cigarette and ground the butt into the dirt. Walked back to the van and saw a figure sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him. Was it Munns? It was too dark to tell, and he fired up his lighter and held it with his arm outstretched.

  It was the dead cop, come back to life.

  Ray let out a savage yell.

  The dead cop rolled down the passenger window and stuck his bloody head out. It was said that the eyes were the last thing to die. The dead cop’s eyes had died long ago, and all that was left now was the shell of the man inhabited by the most evil of spirits.

  “Get in the van, Ray,” the dead cop said.

  The dead cop’s voice had a British accent. One of the elders had inhabited his body.

  “Nothing doing,” the tattoo artist stammered.

  “Do as I say. There’s nowhere for you to run. Canada is terribly cold this time of year, Mexico is too far, and the police will eventually track you down. You need to stay here and finish the job. You made a promise, which we plan to hold you to. Get in the van.”

  Ray thought he was going to lose it. Killing the cop had been bad enough. Talking to his dead corpse was worse. And he couldn’t imagine sitting next to it. Not on his life.

  “I ain’t getting in that van with you,” he said.

  The passenger door swung open and the dead cop piled out. His broken neck left his head sitting on his shoulder blade like a bowling ball, and Ray recoiled at the sight of him. He stood in front of Ray with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

  “Do I repulse you?” the dead cop asked.

  “That’s one way to put it,” Ray said.

  “This is nothing, Ray. I can show you things that will twist your soul inside out, and make you wish that you had never been born. Would you like that?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now, let me explain to you what the future holds. Munns is going back to his house with Rachael. The police will soon follow. Not long after that, a black FBI agent and Peter Warlock will appear. Warlock and Munns will square off, and fight to the death. We need the police and the FBI agent kept out of the way. That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “You own a hunting rifle with a telescopic lens, yes? Go get it, and perch yourself on the neighboring hill. Keep the police and the FBI at bay, while Munns and Warlock do battle. That doesn’t sound too hard, does it?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Are you afraid of being caught? Don’t be. We will whisk you away and give you a new life. You will become one of Dante’s disciples, and have powers beyond your wildest dreams. Doesn’t that sound good to you?”

  “What kind of powers?”

  “Prescience, incredible strength, the ability to live forever. Do those things excite you?”

  Ray nodded, even though he didn’t know what prescience was.

  “Would you like a taste?” the dead cop asked.

  Ray nodded again, this time more enthusiastically.

  “Step forward so I can touch you.”

  Ray moved closer to the man he’d killed a short while ago. The dead cop lifted his arm and stuck his cold palm against Ray’s forehead. A sharp current passed between them, and Ray gasped as a bolt of white light illuminated the theater of his mind. The dead cop removed his palm and pointed at the forest. “Look. See for yourself.”

  Ray gazed into the dense forest. Despite the darkness and abundance of trees, he was able to see a deer sleeping on the ground a hundred yards from where he stood. A raccoon came into the picture, followed by squirrels, chipmunks, and an overly large owl. The animals had been there all this time, only Ray hadn’t been able to see them, until now.

  “You gave me night vision,” he said under his breath.

  “Do you like it?” the dead cop asked.

  “It’s way cool. Yeah, I like it a lot.”

  “Good. Now go. There is more work to be done.”

  The dead cop staggered into the forest. Ray nearly told him
to stop. What was he supposed to do after Munns killed Warlock? And how was he supposed to meet up with Dante? The dead cop read his thoughts, and turned stiffly around.

  “Everything will be revealed to you. Trust me.”

  That was good enough for Ray. He watched the dead cop walk to a clearing. His body shuddered, and he dropped like a stone as the elder inhabiting his body abandoned him. Ray looked to the sky, imagining he could see the evil spirit floating overhead.

  Then he went home to get his hunting rifle.

  55

  There was no such thing as a perfect show.

  Every night, something went wrong in Peter’s performance of Anything’s Possible. Usually it was minor, like a cue being missed, or a prop malfunctioning. Rarely did it interfere with the audience’s enjoyment of the act. Most of the time, they hardly noticed.

  But those mishaps rankled Peter no end. Details made perfection, but perfection was no detail, just a goal that could never be reached, only strived for.

  Tonight’s mishap had taken place during the show’s opening. A puff of smoke had filled the center of the empty stage from which the young magician emerged. Stepping to the footlights, he engaged the audience with a brief introduction. When he finished, the lights were raised to reveal a stage filled with gorgeous props that had materialized out of nowhere. The trick never failed to garner a gasp of astonishment, followed by a sustained burst of applause.

  Except tonight.

  Tonight, there had been no gasp, and the applause had been polite. The audience had been given a clue to how the trick worked, just enough to spoil the illusion.

  The trick’s secret was based upon the lazy Susan principle. The stage was actually two stages. One of these stages was bare, the other filled with props. The stages were secretly rotated while Peter gave his opening speech, which was enough of a distraction to keep the audience in the dark. Only tonight a squeaky gear beneath the stage had given the secret away. It had told the audience that something was going on, and spoiled the illusion.

  Peter was furious. At the show’s end, he went beneath the stage to fix the squeaky gear. Liza held a flashlight while he squirted WD-40 lubricant onto the culprit.