Perhaps someone else was responsible, a madman maybe, or another poor soul possessed by a demon. Those were logical explanations, and he was willing to accept them, except he still couldn’t understand how he’d managed to end up with Max.
Stepping outside the 19th Precinct, he texted Liza that he’d be home in a few hours, then hailed a cab and headed downtown to the Village.
39
Long ago, a freight rail line had run high above the streets of Manhattan on the West Side. One day the trains had stopped running, and the elevated line had fallen into disrepair, with weeds and garbage strewing the tracks. The city had planned to tear down the constant eyesore along with all the memories.
Only this was New York, where everything old became new again. A vocal group of residents had banded together with the goal of preserving the tracks. Calling themselves Friends of the High Line, they’d begun the arduous process of convincing the city’s leaders to change their minds. In the end, they had won, and the tracks were saved.
Today, the tracks served as a pedestrian walkway that stretched from Gansevoort to 34th Street, and was filled with well-tended gardens, dozens of pieces of modern sculpture, and comfy places to curl up with a book, which many people did when the weather was pleasant.
Because this was New York, the High Line had plenty of rules. No smoking, biking, skateboarding, picking flowers, climbing, throwing objects, littering, filming movies, or blasting boom boxes were allowed. And there were no street performers of any kind.
Except for one.
One performer was allowed to hold court on the High Line and entertain the masses, and his name was Max Romeo.
Max had lived in New York most of his life, and knew everybody. He’d pulled some strings, and had gotten the city to issue him a permit to perform magic on the High Line whenever the mood suited him. In Peter’s opinion, it was the greatest gig in the city.
Tuesday afternoon, bright and sunny, Peter found his teacher near the West 20th Street entrance. Max was plucking shiny silver dollars out of a young boy’s ears and nose, the coins landing into a metal pail with a loud clunk! The appreciative crowd laughed and applauded.
“Stand up straight, my boy,” Max commanded with a playful air.
More coins appeared and were tossed in. Soon the pail grew heavy in Max’s hand. The old magician shook the coins while casting a suspicious gaze at the crowd. There was no tougher crowd than a bunch of New Yorkers. Yet Max had them in the palm of his hand.
“On the count of three, I will perform a miracle,” Max proclaimed. “Please count along. Are you ready? Here we go. One.”
“One!” the crowd echoed.
“Two.”
“Two!”
Max started to say “Three” and dumped the bucket into the crowd. Silver-colored confetti floated to the sidewalk, the coins miraculously gone. Max gave a matadorlike bow.
It was all about the applause. Shakespeare had said that, and he’d been right. The crowd rewarded Max generously. When the applause subsided, several members of the crowd tried to give Max tips. The old magician politely but firmly refused. Only when the crowd had dispersed did he address his student.
“Why, Peter, it’s good to see you,” Max said.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was a murderer?” Peter asked.
They sat on a bench with their backs to the gloomy Hudson. Max treaded softly.
“You look troubled,” Max said. “Have the shadow people visited you again? I saw one earlier when I stepped out of my apartment.” He patted the five-pointed star resting beneath his shirt. “Thank God you gave me this.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about the shadow people,” Peter said.
“Milly saw one, too,” Max said, as if not hearing him. “So did Lester, and Homer called to tell me that his wife believes one was floating outside their apartment window this morning around breakfast time. Have you figured out what they want?”
“That’s simple. They want me.”
“But why? Still no clue? I would have thought they would have made their intentions known by now. The spirits aren’t ones to beat around the bush, you know.”
Peter shook his head. He had three days left to save Rachael from walking into Dr. Death’s trap. Right now, though, he needed to deal with his own issues, and uncover the truth, as ugly as it might be. “I want to talk to you about the night my parents perished. I learned today that I was roaming around the city for five hours, and that a kindly old man who bore a striking resemblance to you deposited me at the police station house at three o’clock in the morning.”
Max lowered his eyes. “Is that so,” he mumbled.
“Was it you? Please be honest with me about this.”
“I believe it was.”
“Thank you. So here’s the question I want to ask you, Max. When you found me that night, were my hands covered in blood?”
His teacher’s head snapped, and he locked eyes with his student. “Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it most certainly does.”
“Will you tell me the truth?”
“Tell you the truth about what?”
“Me.”
“You want to know the truth about you?”
“Yes, Max. Something tells me you know exactly who I am.”
Max placed his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and pulled him close to his chest. With his other hand, he ran his knuckles across his hair. Max hadn’t done that to him in a long time, and it brought a long-forgotten smile to Peter’s face.
“I’ll tell you who you are,” Max said. “You are one of the most caring and generous people I have ever known. That’s who you are, and I’m proud to have helped raise you. Is that good enough for you?”
“No. I want to know if there was blood on my hands.”
Max scowled and released him. “How much do you remember from that night?”
“Nothing. It’s all a blank.”
“There’s your answer. There wasn’t any blood.”
“But that’s not true,” he said, hearing the fear in his voice. “I went on a rampage that night, and killed six men in the city. The police confirmed it. I saw the cold case file with photographs of my victims. It was awful.”
Max winced like he’d been kicked. A deck of cards appeared in his hands. He fanned and cut them one-handed without being disrespectful. “So you know.”
“Yes. Now tell me the rest.”
“If you insist. At the exact moment your mother and father were abducted, Milly Adams was taking a hot bath. Milly had a vision, and saw your parents being shoved into a car at gunpoint. She knew your parents were doomed, but held out hope for you.”
“Did Milly see me in her vision?”
“Yes. She said you changed.”
“Into a monster?”
“She said you turned into a little demon. Milly alerted her psychic friends, and asked us to look for you. I owned a car at the time, and was given an area to search. I looked for hours, and finally found you on Ninth Avenue.”
“What was I doing?”
At first, Max did not respond. The pools of black reappeared and Peter felt all the more ready to step into one. “Please, Max. Tell me.”
“You were in the act of interrupting a serious crime,” Max said solemnly. “A mugger was robbing an elderly man and kicking him. You jumped in, and got your hands around the mugger’s throat. You were four and a half feet tall and weighed seventy pounds. The mugger was a brute, and four times your size, yet he didn’t stand a chance.”
“Did I kill him?”
“You snapped his neck like it was a bread stick. But it was for a good cause. As were the others, I’m sure.”
Dag had made a similar comment, as if the six killings were justifiable. Peter didn’t believe there was ever a good reason to take a human life. The truth was, he’d gone berserk that night, and become a killing machine. How he was going to live with that, he had no idea.