“You must be from out of town,” the vendor said.
“Is it that obvious?” Wolfe said.
“It’s across the street.”
He had a look. The Dakota took up the entire block, and was as imposing as a medieval fortress. He spotted no less than a dozen security cameras secured to the front, a doorman, and more security people inside the lobby. No wonder the city’s elite chose to live here. Breaking into the building would be difficult, if not downright impossible.
He thought back to the articles he’d read about Millicent Adams. Milly, as her friends called her, was a creature of habit, and dined each night at a quaint French restaurant on West 86th Street, where she sat at her own table, often in the company of a friend, ate a simple meal of broiled fish and vegetables, and drank a single glass of white Chablis. She’d been following this routine for forty years, and had ventured out every night, regardless of the weather. Would tonight be any different? Something told him it wouldn’t.
He ate his bag of warm nuts. To throw off any curious passersby, he glanced at his watch every few minutes, as if awaiting someone’s arrival. He also regularly took out his cell phone, and pretended to be having a conversation.
He repeated the charade until nine-thirty. By now, the vendor had gone home, and the block was deserted. He was soaked to the skin, and his cheap suit had started to fall apart.
Then, his luck changed.
A taxi pulled up to the Dakota, and Milly Adams climbed out, wearing a mink stole and a mink hat. With her was a young woman in jeans and a sweater. The second woman was Milly’s spitting image. This had to be Holly Adams, the last name on his list.
Wolfe smiled through chattering teeth. What was the expression? Kill two birds with one stone. Or two psychics with one pair of hands.
He started across the street.
His victims stood beneath the building’s awning, oblivious to the danger they were in. That was good, because he planned to snap them both like twigs.
The front door opened, and a doorman stepped out. Beneath his blazer was something substantial, perhaps a gun, or billy club. Wolfe decided to take the doorman out first, just to be safe. The element of surprise was his. It was all he’d ever needed.
A new person came through the door. Wolfe instantly recognized him. It was Peter Warlock, dressed in his magic-show outfit.
“Where have the two of you been?” Warlock said. “I’ve been looking
Milly Adams dismissed him with a wave, and went inside. Her niece gave the young magician a kiss on the cheek, and followed her aunt through the front door.
Wolfe stopped in his tracks. These women were not stupid. They knew their lives were in danger, yet had chosen to venture outside. Had he missed something?
Rain poured down the back of his collar. He heard a noise that was louder than the rain. Like a tornado bearing down on him. He slowly turned around. The army of crows was flapping their wings and shrieking at him in a mad chorus. The power of their wings was so great that the rain was blown sideways. They looked ready to rip him apart.
Wolfe was not fond of animals. A tiger had nearly torn him to pieces in Kenya, and a monkey had chewed off a piece of his ear in India. The crows looked particularly formidable. And there were lots of them.
He who runs away, lives to fight another day.
A soldier had said that. A very smart soldier. He turned away from the building, and headed up the street. The crows’ shrieking was so loud that he couldn’t think. He had experienced fear many times in his life, but nothing like this.
He took off at a dead run. He heard a sound like a page being torn out of a magazine, amplified a thousand times. He glanced over his shoulder.
The crows were after him.
He looked for a restaurant to duck into, or an alley, but there was nothing. At the next corner, a cab pulled up, and a well-dressed couple disembarked. Wolfe grabbed the door before it closed, and hopped in.
“Go north,” he told the driver.
The cab sped away, and Wolfe fell back in his seat. The idea of retirement had never seemed more inviting than it did right now. A banging sound broke his concentration.
“What was that?” the driver asked.
Wolfe turned around. A single crow had caught up to them. It slammed its beak against the glass while its bloodred eyes tore a hole into his soul.
“Something’s attacking my cab!”
The driver drifted over to the curb and hit the brakes. As he opened his door, the crow flew into the cab. Flying through the open partition into the backseat, it bit Wolfe’s face. Wolfe grabbed the bird with both hands, and pulled it away. Clutched in its beak was a piece of his disguise, the rest of which hung off his face like dead skin. The bird shrieked like an angry schoolteacher before going limp in his hands.
Wolfe was shaking as he got out of the cab, and tossed the dead bird into the gutter. The driver stood a safe distance away, looking at him fearfully.
“You’re a zombie!”
Wolfe decided to steal the cab. He’d broken so many damn laws that it didn’t really matter. Soon he was speeding north on Amsterdam, wondering how he was going to explain this to the men who employed him.
Movement in his mirror caught his eye. Two blocks behind him, Peter Warlock was running down the middle of the street, chasing him. He’d seen a lot of strange things in New York, and the notion that the young magician might somehow outrun the cab did not seem as crazy as it might have a few days ago.
He punched the gas, and watched Warlock disappear.
26
“Coward!” Peter yelled at the fleeing cab.
He stopped in the middle of Central Park West as the cab’s taillights faded away. He’d caught the license plate, and pulled out Special Agent Garrison’s business card from his wallet, and punched the FBI agent’s number into his cell phone. Garrison picked up on the first ring.
“Who’s this?” Garrison asked suspiciously.
“This is Peter Warlock. Wolfe just tried to attack two of my friends. He’s now heading north on Central Park West in a stolen yellow cab, license plate number 9AH 4B7.”
“How’s he dressed?”
“He’s wearing a cheap dark suit and some kind of fake skin that makes him look like an old man. I didn’t recognize him at first. A bird tore most of it away.”
“A bird?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Right. Was anyone hurt?”
Peter looked at the cab driver, whom Wolfe had knocked to the ground, being helped to his feet by a well- dressed couple. People were always saying that New Yorkers were cold and unfriendly, yet in fact the opposite was true. The driver was shaken up, but no worse for wear.
“The driver got knocked on the head, but it looks like he’s going to be okay,” Peter said.
“What about your two friends? Did Wolfe hurt them?”
“No, but he got close.”
“I’m alerting the NYPD. Hopefully, they’ve got a patrol car in the area, and can run him down. I need to know your friends’ names, so the police can get a statement from them.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
