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 seance.
He was the leader of the seance.
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 seance 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 seance. 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.”