“Not Joan.”
The third drawer contained another set of women’s clothes, meticulously kept, along with jewelry and a small handbag.
“Not Kelly.”
The fourth drawer contained similar items as the first three.
“Not Diane.”
And so did the fifth.
“Not Christine.”
Opening the bottom drawer, he said, “Ah, yes, these were Edie’s. Such a charming girl,” and laid the strand of pearls atop a pink blouse before shutting the drawer.
Peter had watched enough TV cop shows to know what he was seeing. He’d been brought to the lair of a serial killer, and the dresser was his trophy collection of his victims’ personal belongings. But who were the victims? And who was Dr. Death? The spirits were mean that way; they told him next to nothing, and forced him to figure out the rest.
Dr. Death went up a creaky flight of stairs like he had bad knees. Peter followed him to the first floor, and entered a kitchen with a yellow linoleum floor and ancient appliances. The light was better here. He was as plain as a loaf of white bread. His only distinguishing feature were his eyes. They were black and utterly soulless. Dr. Death again consulted his watch. “Look at the time. I’d better hurry, or Rachael will think I’ve stood her up.”
Was Rachael his next victim? If the items on the worktable were any indication, she was. Peter looked around the kitchen for a piece of mail, or something that might have Dr. Death’s name, or his address. Lying on the counter was an upside-down copy of the New York Times. A label on the cover said it was the Westchester County edition, an affluent suburb north of the city. Dr. Death went out the front door, whistling under his breath.
Peter was right on his heels. A black four-door Volvo sedan sat in the drive. A full moon cast an eerie patina off the car’s windshield. Volvos were practical cars, and it only confirmed Peter’s suspicion that Dr. Death was indeed a doctor. Dr. Death got behind the wheel, and fired up the engine. It took several starts before coming to life.
Peter moved to the back of the vehicle, hoping to catch the license plate. To his surprise, the Volvo took off in reverse, nearly hitting him as it raced past. The vehicle braked a few yards behind him with a rubbery squeal, the headlights catching him within their twin beams. The driver’s window lowered, and Dr. Death stuck his head out.
“Thought I didn’t know you were there, didn’t you?” he shouted.
Peter froze. Normally when he journeyed to the other side, he was invisible to everyone he came in contact with. For Dr. Death to have seen him meant only one thing-he was in league with the Devil.
“Say something, before I run you down!” Dr. Death shouted.
“Nice to meet you,” Peter said lamely.
“Very funny. Who sent you?”
“The spirits. Who do you think?”
“You’re not the first one they’ve sent. They’ve been after me for some time. I suppose they’d like me to stop killing their little darlings.”
“What happened to the others?”
“I got rid of them, just as I’m going to get rid of you.”
“What about the women?”
“What women?”
“Mary, Joan, Kelly, Diane, Christine, and Edie.”
“How clever. You memorized their names.”
“Will you tell me why you killed them?”
“Let’s just say I enjoy spreading misery, one bad deed at a time.”
“The spirits will stop you eventually. You must know that.”
“They haven’t so far. Do you communicate with the spirits?”
Peter said that he did.
“Tell them I said hello. You’re going to be joining them very soon.”
The Volvo lurched forward. Peter could just as easily perish here as in the real world, and he feinted to his left, before bolting to his right. The Volvo passed with inches to spare.
“Asshole,” he yelled.
A thick hedge ran parallel to the drive. Peter leapt through it, the branches tearing at his face and hands. A steep hill awaited him on the other side. His momentum carried him forward, and he went helter-skelter down the side.
“Get me out of here,” he begged the spirits.
Nothing happened. Normally, the spirits responded quickly when he needed help. He came to a hard stop at the bottom. The Volvo was racing down the hill with Dr. Death leaning out the window, aiming his pistol. He squeezed off a round, and the bullet kicked up dust at Peter’s feet.
He ran for his life. Other houses lined the hill, their light casting a muted glow into the night. He’d been having a pretty decent day until now. It wasn’t the first time the spirits had pulled the rug out from under him. They were rotten that way, and he sometimes wondered if they were truly his friends.
Another shot rang out. This time, he was not so lucky, and he grabbed his wounded thigh and hobbled over to the side of the road.
There was nowhere to hide. Was this the end? He’d always imagined himself old and gray when the time came. Never had he thought he’d be twenty-five and in the prime of his life.
The Volvo braked, and Dr. Death climbed out. A warped smile distorted his face.
“Get on your knees.”
Peter fell to his knees. He needed to buy some time. Perhaps Dr. Death would give him a final cigarette, or let him have a last meal.
Fat chance.
“Want to say something before I shoot you?” Dr. Death asked.
“Tell me why you killed those women,” Peter said.
“Why do you care?”
“I just do. Think of it as a dying request.”
“How touching. Very well, I’ll tell you why. I kill those who push back at the darkness. As a psychic, I’m sure you understand what that means.”
Peter certainly did. The war of good versus evil was fought on many levels. Dr. Death wasn’t just killing innocent women. His victims were involved in good deeds, which made them the enemies of Satan. That was what he meant by pushing back at the darkness.
The gun’s warm barrel pressed against the side of his head. A jolt of electricity ran up his spine as he was pulled back to the other side.
Hurry, he thought.
Then the shot rang out.
2
“Peter!”
How many times had Holly said his name like that? More than he could remember. Friends since childhood, she’d always been yelling his name.
Peter came back to the real world in a hurry, and found himself lying on the dining room floor in Milly’s apartment, his overturned chair beside him. He lifted his head to glance at his leg. No bullet wound. That part of his trip had not come back with him. So much for small favors.
Max and Milly knelt beside him. They’d taken turns raising him after his parents had died. Most people were lucky if they had one set of parents. He’d been blessed to have two.
“How long have I been under?” he asked.
“Just a few minutes,” Max replied.
“Are you all right?” Milly wanted to know.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Tell us what happened,” Holly said, hovering behind them.
Peter pulled himself up to a sitting position and took a deep breath. The memory was starting to fade, no different from the way a dream faded upon awakening. “I was taken to see one of Satan’s disciples. I need to write down what I saw before I forget.”
“Holly, please get some paper and a pen from my study,” Milly said.
Her niece hurried from the room. Peter got to his feet, righted his chair, and parked himself in it. Max pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and draped it over his palm. Whisking it away, he produced a tall glass of water, which he handed to his student.
“Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
Peter sipped the water. Max had fooled him, and he would stay up late into the night wondering where the glass had been hidden, and how Max had produced it without spilling a single drop. Max’s repertoire was endless, his knowledge of all things magical unsurpassed.