Peter went inside. Each night, he followed a ritual. First, he bid goodnight to the menagerie of winged and four-legged assistants that he used in his show. Then, he inspected his props so they’d be ready for tomorrow. Satisfied that everything was just right, he stood in the center of the stage, and soaked up the darkness. Normally, he spent this time being thankful that he got to do the thing he loved for a living. But tonight was different. A man had tried to stab him, and he didn’t know why. It would eat at him until he learned the answer.
He left through the theater’s front doors. Liza, Snoop, and Zack huddled beneath the canopy, trying to stay dry in the pouring rain. Liza looked upset, and gave him a hug.
“Are you okay?” his girlfriend asked.
“I’m fine,” Peter replied.
She gave him a look. The first time he’d laid eyes on Liza, she’d been performing aerial contortions as part of a troupe of Chinese acrobats with Cirque du Soleil. Small-boned and petite, she had an oval face and simmering light brown eyes that could peel back his soul.
“All right, I’m not fine,” he confessed.
“You left the hidden microphone in your collar turned on,” she said. “We overheard your conversation before the battery died. Detective Dagastino sounded like a flaming jerk.”
He started to panic. He’d never confided in Liza about his psychic powers. Nor had he told Snoop or Zack, and he wondered how much of his conversation they’d overhead.
“Did you hear what his partner, Detective Schoch, told me?” Peter asked.
His assistants shook their heads. He was safe for now.
“Let’s go. I’ll tell you in the car,” he said.
His limo was parked at the curb. They piled into the backseat, and made themselves comfortable. The glass partition slid back, and Herbie stuck his shiny bald head through the opening. “You okay, boss? Liza told me what happened.”
“Just a little shaken up. It could have been worse,” Peter replied.
“I’ll say. Where to?”
“Nowhere. Just drive around.”
“Nowhere it is.”
Herbie headed south. Soon, they were being bathed in the soft yellow street lights of Greenwich Village. The sidewalks were empty, the foot cops and street people nowhere to be seen. There was no lonelier city than New York when it rained.
The back seats of the limo faced each other. Peter held hands with Liza, while staring at Zack and Snoop. Snoop’s usual sheepish expression had been replaced by a worried look. Zack pressed an ice-pack on the golf-ball-sized lump on his forehead.
“Here’s what the detective told me,” Peter said. “The guy who attacked me is named Wolfe. He slipped into the country a few days ago, and the police are hunting for him. Wolfe belongs to a secret cult called the Order of Astrum. They’re supposedly into dark magic.”
Zack sat up like he’d been hit with a cattle prod. “Wolfe’s part of the Order?”
“That’s right. You’ve heard of them?”
Zack slipped back into his seat. He looked disgusted, and stared out his window.
“The heavy metal band I did security for dabbled in dark magic,” his head of security explained. “When we were touring England, members of the Order came backstage after a show, and asked the band to join up. When the band refused, they threatened us. A few days later, our bus got firebombed. We ended up cancelling the tour, and coming home.”
“Do their members have a special tattoo on their neck?” Peter asked.
Zack nodded. “Every member of the Order gets a shimmering silver tattoo inked on the side of their neck. It supposedly lets the Order keep track of them.”
“Like a homing device?”
“I guess.”
The limo braked at a traffic light. A loud rapping on the passenger window made everyone jump in their seats. Zack cautiously lowered his window. A panhandler stood in the gutter, hacking violently.
“Spare some loose change?” the panhandler asked.
“Take a hike,” Zack said.
“I just need a couple of dollars. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You heard me. Beat it.”
The panhandler lowered his eyes. Peter leaned forward to get a better look at him, and saw a proud man humbled by a series of tragic events beyond his control. His situation wasn’t going to change unless someone helped him, and Peter extracted a handful of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, and stuck his arm out the window. “Hey, I think you dropped this.”
“Oh, my God,” the panhandler gasped.
“Go ahead. It’s yours.”
The panhandler took the money with tears in his eyes. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Get some warm clothes, and a place to sleep.”
“Yes, I will.”
“And go to a clinic for that cough.”
“I’ll do that, too. You’re very kind.”
“Goodnight.”
The light changed, and the limo drove away. Zack hit the button to raise his window. His eyes shifted to Peter’s face. “I know you’re into helping people, but you’re going to have to cut it out until Wolfe is caught. It’s too risky.”
“I’m never going to stop helping people,” Peter said.
“All right. Then you need to get more security, especially at the theater.”
“All right. Double the security.”
“For yourself as well.”
Peter didn’t need a bodyguard. He was tuned in to Wolfe, and would sense the next time the assassin came calling. Only he couldn’t tell Zack that, so instead he said, “I’ve got Herbie watching my back. Right, Herbie?”
The glass partition slid back. “You say something, boss?”
“Zack thinks I need extra security so I don’t get killed.”
“No one’s going to kill you while I’m around, boss. I’ve got bills to pay.”
Everyone laughed. Feeling a gentle tug on his sleeve, Peter looked at Liza.
“Wolfe said something strange before he tried to stab you,” his girlfriend said. “Do you remember what was it?”
“Wolfe said, ‘You’re bloody good, you are.’ Then he charged me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think he was complimenting me.”
“But he tried to kill you.”
“Maybe he was testing you to see how your magic stacked up,” Zack said.
The limo fell silent. It was an angle that Peter hadn’t considered.
“Wow, that’s heavy,” Snoop said.
Snoop was trying to be funny. Only no one laughed.
Snoop and Zack shared a loft on Greene Street in SoHo. Peter dropped them off, and then had Herbie drive to his brownstone on the Upper East Side. It was still raining as they pulled up, and Peter and Liza got out. The driver’s window lowered.
“Is this guy Wolfe really trying to kill you?” Herbie asked.
“Afraid so,” Peter replied.
“Why? What did you do?”
“I don’t know. He’s part of some strange cult.”
“That’s bad stuff. What time do you want me here tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was Herbie’s day off. On his off days, Herbie had custody of his teenage daughter, whom he was trying to help raise. Peter didn’t want him missing that.
“Don’t worry about it, Herbie. If something happens, I’ll call you.”
“You got it. Sound the alarm, and I’ll come running.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the concern.”
The limo glided down the rain-slick street. Peter unlocked the front door, knowing how lucky he was to have people like Herbie working for him. There was no price tag for loyalty or friendship. It had to be earned every single day.
They entered the brownstone. From the street, the building appeared nondescript, its gray stone walls shoddy compared to many of its affluent neighbors. But like most things in Peter’s life, appearances were deceiving. His home had three floors and a sundeck on the roof, three spacious bedrooms with cathedral ceilings, a living room with a working fireplace, a gourmet kitchen, a workshop, a study, a basement big enough for a wine cellar, and a Pilates room with an Allegro Reformer. Upon entering for the first time, visitors could often be heard to exclaim, “Oh, my God!” at the enormous collection of brightly painted magic tricks, theater posters, and stage illusions crammed into almost every room. He had practically grown up inside a magic shop, and it was only fitting that he now lived in one.
They moved through the downstairs without turning on the lights. Liza stopped at the stairwell, and slipped her arms around his waist.
“I’m going upstairs to take a hot bath. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You don’t sound okay. Stop worrying. The police will find this guy.”
“I sure hope so.”
In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of juice, and drank it standing at the window. Shadows danced in the courtyard behind the building like dancers in an otherworldly ballet. Talking to Schoch had brought back painful memories, and it would be a while before he’d be able to fall asleep. He’d been seven when his parents had died, and his memories of them were faint. He’d tried to learn as much about them as he could. It was the only way he could stay close to them.
Their names were Henry Butler Warren and Claire Abigail Higgins, and they hailed from the town of Marble in southern England. Their relationship had been straight out of a storybook. They’d grown up together, attended the same college, gotten married, and moved to London to become professors at a small university. Peter had come later, when his parents were well into their forties.
One day, his parents had packed up their things, and moved to New York City, where they’d taken teaching jobs at Hunter College. The move had been traumatic for their son-a new city, strange customs, his classmates making fun of his accent-and they’d struggled to make it work. They’d argued a lot, and he remembered one exchange in the kitchen where a glass thrown by his mother had shattered against a wall. But in the end, they’d never stopped loving each other. That was what he remembered most.
He felt a sharp stabbing in his chest. People said that time healed all wounds, but that wasn’t true when the two people you loved most were taken away from you as a child. That was a pain that he’d never quite gotten over.
He went to his workshop. It was filled with tricks that needed repairs. In the corner sat the Spirit Cabinet. Created by the Davenport Brothers in 1875, the illusion had stood the test of time. The trick was simple. The magician entered the cabinet and sat on the stool. Members of the audience tied ropes around his wrists and ankles, with the ends fitted through holes in the doors to ensure he could not move. When the doors were closed, ghostly manifestations occurred, courtesy of an assistant hidden in a secret crawl space. Or, you could perform the trick the way Peter sometimes did, and let real ghosts do the work.
Peter liked ghosts, and ghosts liked him. They’d been talking to him for as long as he could remember, and would sometimes do favors for him. They were his friends, as much as a ghost could be a friend to someone on the other side. Perhaps by talking to them now, he’d better understand what had happened tonight.
Try it, he thought. Nothing to lose.
He entered the cabinet, and shut the door. Inside was a stool with a tambourine lying on it. He picked up the tambourine, and parked himself on the stool. Then, he began to shake the tambourine. The sound had a profound effect upon him, and a shudder passed through his body.
A few minutes passed. The first rule of dealing with ghosts was patience. They had their own timetable, and there was no getting around it.
He heard a faint noise that sounded like a chorus to a song. He strained to make out the words. It was a song.
“My spirit and my voice in one combined,
The Phantom of the Opera was there inside my mind.”
He smiled to himself. He hadn’t heard those lyrics in a long time.
Then, his world changed.
He was standing inside the lobby of the Majestic Theatre, singing the chorus to the dark musical he’d just had the privilege to see. The lobby was filled with people; mostly adults, but a fair number of children as well. None of them were smiling, except for him.
“Peter, hurry along,” his father called out.
His parents stood by the entrance, dressed in warm winter clothes. His father was tall and thin, with unruly gray hair and cheeks the color of tomatoes. His mother was a half-foot shorter than her husband, and might have passed as his daughter had her hair not been snow-white. Peter joined them, and his mother buttoned his coat.
“How did you like the show?” she asked.
“It was scary,” he said. “I loved it.”
“What did you like the most?”
“The music. It was so spooky. I can’t stop singing it.”
“I’m glad you liked it. Your father has a surprise for you.”
With a smile on his face, his father reached into his pocket, and removed the Phantom of the Opera’s soundtrack. His son squealed with delight.
“Can we go home now so I can listen to it?” Peter asked.
“Not yet. We’ve got another surprise for you,” his father said.
Peter looked into his father’s eyes, and saw singing waiters and a table covered with giant plates of pasta. They were going to Mamma Leone’s, his favorite place to eat.
“Can I have the fried pastry for dessert?” Peter asked.
“We’ll see. Now, come along, or we’ll miss our reservation.”
Outside it was snowing, the flakes the size of silver dollars. Standing on the sidewalk was a beggar playing the theme from Phantom on an old violin. The music was as enchanting as a siren’s song, and Peter could not help but sing along.
“Don’t dawdle,” his father said.
Next to the beggar was an open violin case into which Peter tossed a handful of coins.
“You play very well. Perhaps someday, you’ll be in the show,” the boy said.
“I can only hope,” the beggar replied.
“Peter!”
“I have to go now. Good luck.”
His parents had turned into an alley beside the theater which was used as a shortcut by theatergoers. Peter hurried to catch up to them.
“Wait for me,” he called out.
Three men rushed past, knocking Peter to the ground, and ripping his pants. The boy stifled the urge to cry. Lifting his head, he saw the men holding guns to his mother and father’s backs. They hustled his parents to a waiting car at the end of the alley.
“Mother! Father!”
His parents were being shoved into the back of the car. His father was fighting back, and one of the men struck him on the head with his gun. The gift of prescience could be a terrible thing, and Peter knew at that moment that he was never going to see his parents alive again.
“No!!” he shouted.
He jumped to his feet, and ran toward the car. As he came out of the alley, the car pulled away with his parents and their abductors inside. One of the abductors was visible through the side window, and Peter saw a man with crooked teeth and a twisted nose. On the man’s neck was a shimmering tattoo whose silver color made it look alive.
“Give me my parents back!” Peter shouted at him.
His world changed again. He was back inside the Spirit Cabinet, banging the tambourine. The chorus from The Phantom of the Opera had been replaced by the sound of a man’s tortured breathing. After a moment, he realized he was listening to himself, panting for breath.
He was not alone.
The shimmering tattoo he’d seen on the abductor’s neck hovered directly in front of him. Staring into its center, he saw his parents’ distraught faces as they were whisked away to their doom, and felt himself shudder again.
He had wanted a sign from the other side, and he’d gotten his wish. The Order of Astrum had murdered his parents, and now they’d sent an assassin to kill him.