front door. He broke yellow crime scene tape, and stuck his head in.
It looked like a wake. All of Madame Marie’s spirit-world acquaintances were crammed into the small space. There was the ridiculous-acting Fool; the Hermit in his threadbare clothes; the always-aloof High Priestess and High Priest in their flowing robes; the Lovers, whose bodies were forever entwined; the Hanged Man with his grotesquely twisted neck and bubble eyes; and the other spirits who made up the major arcana of the Tarot cards that Madame Marie used to peer into the future. These spirits had inhabited the earth since the beginning of time, and were the archetypes of human existence, embedded in the collective unconscious of every human being. They represented life, death, and everything that fell in between.
Their mournful wails filled the parlor. Peter knew of nothing sadder than hearing the spirits cry. He wanted to comfort them, but the words had not been invented to make their pain go away. The Fool shuffled over.
“How’s tricks?” the Fool said with a raspy voice.
“Hello, Fool,” Peter replied.
“This is a sad day. I will miss her.”
“She was very fond of you,” Peter told him.
“And I of her. Who would do such a thing?”
“A monster named Wolfe. I’m going to find him, and make him pay.”
“Be careful. This is the Devil’s work.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said,” the cop’s voice rang out.
“I must be going,” the Fool said. “Be safe.”
“And you as well.”
The Fool disappeared before his eyes, as did the other spirits crammed inside the parlor, leaving only Madame Marie’s worn deck of Tarot cards spilled across a worn rug on the parlor floor. Peter shut the door, and turned to face the irate cop.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Who the hell were you talking to?” the cop asked.
“Myself.”
“Come again?”
“She was a special person. I had to say good-bye.”
“I told you to stay out of there. Let me see some ID.”
Peter handed him his wallet. The cop gave his identification a cursory inspection, and flipped the wallet back to him. “Get out of here. Don’t let me see you hanging around.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walked to the next block and ducked beneath an awning to get out of the rain. When a psychic died, there was a void felt on both sides of life, a tear in the fabric of existence. There was no one waiting in the wings to fill Madame Marie’s shoes, no apprentice who could jump in and pick up where she’d left off. Her gifts had been unique, and could never be replaced. She’d helped thousands of people, and done countless good deeds, none of which would ever be recorded. She had made a difference, and her loss would forever haunt him.
He wanted to scream. The monster inside of him had woken up. He could only keep it contained for so long. Eventually, it would come out. When it did, Wolfe would pay for what he’d done.
12
Lester Rowe gave psychic readings out of a building on Second Street on the Lower East Side. Once a haven for the homeless, the area had been transformed by upscale apartments and trendy restaurants. Rowe’s building was run-down, and stood out like a sore thumb.
Wolfe sat in the reception area waiting his turn. The room was hot, and he was sweating. Beneath his coat was the hand axe he’d purchased at a hardware store on First Avenue. It was not the kind of thing he wanted to be showing off.
Beside him sat a crazy woman with beautiful rings on every finger of each hand. In her lap sat a fluffy toy dog with hair covering its eyes. Both had pink ribbons tied in their hair like characters out of a warped fairy tale.
“Are you going on a trip?” the crazy woman inquired.
Wolfe stared at an imaginary point in space, and said nothing.
“I always come to see Lester before I take a trip,” she said, ignoring his snub. “Lester always knows what the weather will be like where I’m going, and which restaurants are good, and all the places to avoid. His prescience is extraordinary.”
Wolfe wanted to tell her that she could get the same information off the Internet, but remained mute.
“Excuse me? Did you say something?” the crazy woman asked.
Wolfe shook his head, and kept looking straight ahead.
“I swear I thought you said something.”
Such a pest. Wolfe hoped she didn’t get in the way, and force him to give her a whack with the axe. He’d been raised a Catholic, and the church’s teachings had been pounded into his skull at an early age. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about the special place awaiting him in hell. It would have been easier to be an atheist, but those people were boring.
A red light above the door began to flash.
“Lester’s ready,” the crazy woman said breathlessly. “Why don’t you go next? You look like a man who has a lot on his mind. I’ll go take Buttercup for a walk.”
Wolfe glanced at the dog in the old woman’s lap. The animal appeared mortally afraid, and would not stop shaking.
“Take him for a long walk,” he said, breaking his silence.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, take your dog for a long walk. It will be good for him.”
“You must have a great deal to talk to Lester about.”
Wolfe rose from his folding chair, and led her to the door. “Have a nice walk.”
“Why, thank you. I will. I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Jeremy.”
“Mine’s Alice. Enjoy your session with Lester. He knows
She left, and Wolfe locked the door behind her. He waited a spell to make sure she didn’t return, then headed for the back room, the axe rubbing against his leg.
Lester Rowe gave his psychic readings in a bright pink room that was hard on the eyes. Framed pictures of the Zodiac hung on the walls, and dark blinds covered the windows. In the room’s center was an antique table where Lowe sat, gazing into a crystal ball as big as a cantaloupe. He was the size of a leprechaun, and sported a mane of red hair.
“Hello,” Wolfe said.
“You’re not Alice,” Rowe said.
“No, I’m not. She gave me her slot.” Wolfe sat down in the other chair.
“How considerate of her. And who are you? No, wait, don’t tell me.”
Rowe gazed into the depths of his crystal ball and scrunched up his face. “I’m seeing it clearly. Your name is Robert.”
“Jeremy,” Wolfe said.
“Damn. I get a lot of hits with Robert.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“To answer your question, the place used to be a bordello,” Rowe said. “I haven’t gotten around to repainting the walls just yet.”
Wolfe was impressed. He had planned to ask Rowe about the pink walls before he hacked him to death, only the little fellow had beat him to the punch. Slipping his fingers beneath his jacket, he grabbed the axe handle, and started to pull it free from his belt. Oblivious to the danger he was in, Rowe continued to gaze into his crystal
