“Face east toward New York,” Webster instructed them.
They faced the pastoral countryside. Astral projection had been a part of the psychic’s arsenal since the beginning of time. The elders had played with various forms, most recently the use of fiber optic cables to transmit themselves to various parts of the world. But the best way was still the old way.
“Manhattan, Museum of Natural History, Seventy-ninth Street and Central Park West,” Webster said. “The decoy works as a night guard, and has just ended his shift. He’s about to begin his commute home. He’s driving a pale green van with black masking tape covering the rear window. It’s a real junker.”
The elders projected themselves across the ocean to the island of Manhattan. The sensation was like traveling in a bullet train, with scenery rushing past in a blinding blur of color and sound. It was still nighttime in New York, the city being drenched by a storm. The West Side was being hit hard, and traffic was at a standstill. A green van was not among the vehicles.
“I don’t see him,” Eastgate said.
“Perhaps he got off early from work,” Webster said. “Let’s check the Henry Hudson Parkway on the West Side.”
They projected themselves onto the eleven-mile highway which ran from 72nd Street to the Westchester County boundary. Traffic there resembled a parking lot as well.
“I see him,” Gill said. “He’s at the toll bridge over the river with the strange name.”
“You mean the Harlem River,” Webster said.
“That’s it. The decoy is about to pass through a tollbooth.”
They projected themselves up the parkway to the tollbooth where the van waited in line. The decoy was at the wheel, eating a submarine sandwich dripping with mayonnaise.
“That’s him. Are we ready?” Webster asked.
“Ready,” Eastgate said.
“Ready,” Gill said.
“On the count of three. One … two … three!”
The elders projected themselves inside the van. Using the collective power of their minds, they created an image inside the van that was not real. The driver became Wolfe, who was also eating a submarine sandwich. The false image lasted only a few seconds. Just long enough for the surveillance camera above the tollbooth to capture it, and transmit it back to the New York Police Department, the FBI, and every other law enforcement agency that was hunting for Wolfe. Then, the image disappeared, and the decoy was back.
Webster fell back into his chair. “Done.”
“How long do you think it will take?” Gill asked.
“Hard to say. The weather being what it is.”
They watched the van head into Westchester County. Traffic had thinned out, and the van got onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, and picked up speed. Within minutes, a pair of highway patrol cars began to follow. The officers inside the patrol cars wore body armor, and cradled automatic rifles in their laps. They did not seem in any hurry to pull the van over.
“There’s must be a roadblock ahead,” Webster said. “We can’t let the police take him alive. Who wants to handle this?”
“It’s your turn,” Eastgate said.
“I think he’s right,” Gill said.
Webster projected himself up the parkway. Just as he’d expected, the police had created a roadblock by parking a pair of cruisers sideways in the middle of the road. Four officers with rifles were crouched behind the cruisers. The trap was ready to be sprung.
The van pulled up to the roadblock. Webster projected himself behind the wheel, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The van rammed the two vehicles in the roadblock. A bullet came through the windshield, scaring him half to death. Webster didn’t know if bullets could kill him while he was projecting himself, and was in no mood to find out. He departed, and watched the resulting carnage from the safety of his perch above the palace.
Bullets ripped through the van and turned the driver into a quivering mass. The van veered off the parkway, and rolled down a steep incline. The gas tank would have exploded on its own, but Webster helped it along with a murderous glare. Soon the vehicle was a mass of flames, the driver burned beyond recognition.
“You haven’t lost your touch,” Eastgate said.
“Or your sense of timing,” Gill said. “Good show.”
Webster fingered the arm of his chair, causing the platform to lower back inside the palace, and the domed roof to close. He took a moment to collect himself. He found himself wondering if the driver had a wife, or children, and just as quickly dismissed the thought. In making a pact with the Devil, he had accepted that something was due the Devil, the rest of the world be damned. This was the nature of the Order of Astrum, and let no man stand in its way.
30
His vibrating cell phone snapped Peter’s eyes open. Only bad news called this late at night. He sat up in bed, and brought the phone to his face. Caller ID said it was Snoop.
“Don’t you ever go to bed?” he answered.
“Sorry to be calling this late. Someone’s looking for you,” his assistant replied.
Lightning flashed through the bedroom window. He’d been dreaming he was a little kid again. It had seemed like such a long time ago.
“No need to apologize. Have you talked to Liza?”
“She’s crashed on our couch. She thought she had a bed at a friend’s apartment, but it fell through, so she came here. Zack fixed her a hot toddy, and she fell asleep.”
“Thanks for taking care of her. Is she still mad at me?”
“To put it mildly. I don’t mean to switch subjects, but someone’s trying to get ahold of you.”
“I’m more concerned about Liza.”
“She’s fine. Trust me.”
“Promise me you’ll keep an eye on her.”
“You have my word.”
“Thanks. So who’s looking for me?”
“He says he’s an old friend, wouldn’t give me his name. He sent me an e-mail, and said he’s been trying to find you. He sounds desperate.”
“Sounds like a kook.”
“I don’t think so. He knew a lot about you.”
“How am I supposed to contact him?”
“He said go to your computer, and he’ll Skype you.”
“You’re not just saying Liza’s okay, are you?”
“Stop worrying about it. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Peter ended the call and breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want Liza out by herself with Wolfe still on the loose. If she was staying at Snoop and Zack’s place, she was safe. Soon he was in his study, parked in front of his computer. His e-mail account had over two hundred messages. So much for his spam filter. He scrolled through them, starting with the most recent. One message popped out. It said, Hey Superstar, Where you been? We need to talk! Omen. Omen? Who the heck was Omen? As he started to erase the message, it hit him. Omen was Nemo spelled backwards. He typed a reply to his friend, and hit send.
Nemo’s real name was Hector Rodriguez. A street kid from Spanish Harlem, Nemo was a gifted psychic who did not need the help of other psychics to communicate with the spirit world. His ability to see into the future was unparalleled, which was why the government had made him their prisoner. Nemo was also a petty thief, and had been in and out of trouble most of his life. He and Peter had met in Max’s magic shop when they were kids. Each had instantly recognized that the other was psychic, and they became close friends. Outside of having to bail him out of jail several times, Peter missed having Nemo in his life.
Nemo quickly responded to his e-mail. He wanted to talk, and sent Peter a Skype ID to call on his computer. Peter’s fingers raced across the keyboard as he called Nemo.
Technology was a wonderful thing. A split second later, Nemo appeared on Peter’s computer screen. He’d grown a scruffy beard, and wore a sweatshirt with the words PROPERTY OF UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT stamped across the front. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.