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
“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 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.”
He fought back the tears. Madame Marie had taught him how to the read the Tarot cards when he was a little boy. He’d sat on a phone book in the back room of her parlor, and learned what the cards stood for in the spirit world. A giving teacher, she’d never once reprimanded him when he got one wrong. And now she was gone.
A second body followed, and was loaded into the ambulance with the first. Marie and her husband were inseparable, and it was fitting they left this world together. The back of the ambulance was closed, and it drove down the block with its bubble still flashing.
The spectators dispersed, leaving Peter and the cop.
“They were my friends. Can you tell me what happened?” Peter asked.
“Looks like a murder-suicide,” the cop explained. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You don’t think someone murdered them?”
The cop gave him a funny look. “Can’t say that I do.”
Peter saw movement inside the fortune-telling parlor. A group of old friends had gathered inside to pay their last respects.
“What are you looking at?” the cop said.
“Nothing,” Peter replied.
“You can’t go in there, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d suggest you move along.”
“I’ll do that.”
The cop’s walkie-talkie came to life, and he stepped away to take the call. Peter went straight to the parlor’s
