“Tell me where your friends live,” Garrison said.
“One lives in the Village on Mercer Street, two live on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West, and the third lives in a hotel on Central Park West and Fifty-eighth Street. Ask the police to stake out those areas, and they might apprehend him.”
“Why won’t you give me names? It will help us protect them.”
“Because I promised them I wouldn’t.”
“You’ve got to trust me, Peter. That’s the only way this can work.”
The CIA already knew that Peter and his friends existed. If Peter gave Garrison his friends’ names, there was a chance the CIA would find out, and their lives would be ruined.
“Later,” Peter said, and ended the call.
Peter stood in the foyer. He tried to put himself in Wolfe’s shoes. He didn’t think Wolfe would want to tangle with Milly’s crows again, which left Max or Reggie as his next victims. He placed calls to both men on his cell phone. Voice mail. Leaving a message wouldn’t do. They had to be warned before it was too late.
He went outside. Herbie was parked at the curb in the limo, reading the sports section of the paper. He could not remember ever being more happy to see his driver.
“Morning, boss,” Herbie said as he hopped in.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Herbie.”
“You need glasses, boss. Where to?”
“Max’s apartment on Mercer Street.”
“Got it.”
“Do you mind turning the heater on? I’m freezing.”
The limo pulled away from the curb. Warm air invaded the backseat, yet Peter could not get the aching feeling out of his bones. He dialed Holly’s number, and heard her pick up. He hoped she wasn’t still angry with him after last night.
“Hello, Peter,” she said coldly.
“Hi. I need a favor. Call Reggie until he picks up. Tell him to stay indoors.”
“Didn’t you see the news? Wolfe’s dead.”
“Wolfe’s not dead. It was a trick. He’s getting ready to attack. I’m going down to Max’s place to warn him. You need to do the same with Reggie.”
“Let me come with you. We can catch him together.” The ice had melted from her voice.
“That’s not a good idea, Holly,” he said.
“I have powers, Peter. Aunt Milly’s been teaching me how to use my gifts.”
“Can we talk about this later? Please?”
“Suit yourself. I’ll make sure Reggie gets the news.”
“Will you call me once you hear from him?”
Holly didn’t answer, and Peter realized she’d hung up on him. He stuck his head through the opening in the partition that separated him from his driver.
“Faster, Herbie,” he said.
32
Holly slipped her cell phone into her pocket. She sat at the dining room table in her aunt’s apartment, enjoying a breakfast of fresh fruit salad and an omelette au fromage that Milly had prepared for her. Her aunt sat across the table, eyeing her intently.
“Is something wrong?” Milly asked.
“Peter said the story on the news isn’t true. Wolfe’s alive, and he’s gunning for us.”
“You make it sound like we’re in a Western, my dear.”
“I didn’t know what other expression to use.”
Milly put her fork onto her plate, and wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“What did Peter suggest we do?” her aunt asked.
“He wants me to warn Reggie. Peter also wants us to stay in the apartment, and hide like defenseless women.”
“You sound put out with him.”
“I hate when he talks down to me.”
“There is no shame in hiding, especially when someone is trying to kill you. Perhaps we can watch a movie together, or play canasta.”
Holly folded her napkin, and placed it beside her plate. “We can help catch Wolfe, if Peter will let us.”
“How do you propose doing that?”
“We could set a trap for him, and use one of us as bait.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Wolfe is a monster, and so are the people he works for. Peter is correct in telling us to stay out of sight. It’s for our own good.” Milly rose from the table, her own breakfast barely touched. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a hot bath. Invite Reggie over for lunch, will you?”
“Of course, Aunt Milly.”
“And stop being in a huff with Peter. He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”
“Yes, Aunt Milly.”
Her aunt walked out of the dining room, leaving Holly to stew by herself. She didn’t like being treated like a child. She supposed being the youngest in the Friday night group had something to do with it, but that still didn’t mean that her ideas didn’t have merit. She could catch Wolfe. She was absolutely sure of it. She rang Reggie on her cell, but got no answer. Maybe he was still asleep, or taking a shower. She called again. Still nothing.
“Damn it,” she swore to herself.
What was she supposed to do if he didn’t pick up? Sit here, and bite her fingernails to the quick? She was a witch. She didn’t need to rely on a stupid cell phone to contact him.
She quickly came up with a plan. It was sneaky, and made her skin tingle with excitement. Her aunt was going to be furious with her if she found out.
Her next stop was the kitchen. From the refrigerator, she removed a plastic container filled with black dirt. The dirt had come from the root and herb garden of Mary Glover, the witch from whom she was descended. Dirt was an important part of a witch’s ritual, and provided a spiritual connection to the earth. She placed a small handful onto a paper towel. Pouring a glass of water, she picked up the towel by the corners, and headed for her aunt’s study.
“Forgive me for stealing your precious dirt,” she said quietly.
* * *
Her aunt’s study was on the other side of the apartment. The blinds were always closed, the room in perpetual darkness. Holly positioned herself at her aunt’s desk, flicked on the lamp, and placed her props in front of her. She gave Reggie another call; still no answer.
“Don’t want to pick up your phone, do you?”
She went to work. Dipping her fingers in the water, she began to sculpt the dirt into a small figure, or poppet. Poppets allowed a witch to become connected to someone, even if the person was thousands of miles away. Holly was molding a likeness of Reggie. Reggie was built like a scarecrow, so she made the arms and legs unusually thin. He was also a dapper fellow, and liked to dress well. Grabbing a pencil, she used the point to add a bow tie, and lines for his perfectly combed hair. Finished, she placed the poppet on the blotter so it faced her.
“Hello, little fellow,” she said.
Now came the hard part. Picking up the glass of water, she held it a few inches from her face, and focused on the water’s shimmering surface. The ritual was called scrying, and would allow her see Reggie wherever he was.
