Chapter Ten

 

 

AFTER ENDURING THE claustrophobic misery that is the New York City subway system during rush hour, Libby Chastain and Mal Peters found themselves on Ninth Avenue in the Village, looking across the street at the triangular red brick structure known as the Little Flatiron Building.

At one point during their crowded and cramped journey, Peters had whispered to Libby, “I thought Ashley told me once that you can use magic to fly.”

“Not very fast, and not very far,” Libby had muttered. “Especially with two people involved. Sorry.”

“Too bad. It would be a lot more fun than this sardine can, not to mention smelling better. Any chance you could whip up a spell that would turn everybody else in this car into ants?”

“Don’t give me ideas.”

Now as they stared at the building, Libby said, “I’ve never been to this part of town, but darned if that building doesn’t look familiar, somehow.” She had to speak loudly, so that he could hear her over the noise of the traffic and all the people passing on foot.

“Maybe in the movies,” Peters said. “You ever see Fatal Attraction?”

“With Glenn Close as the psycho-bitch from hell? Sure—although it was a long time ago.”

“That was supposedly the building where she lived. They used what we’re looking at now for the exterior shots.”

“That must be what I’m thinking of, then. Nothing like giving the place a cheerful history, even if it was made up.”

After another minute, Peters asked, “So, you getting anything? Is she really in there?”

Libby shook her head, frowning. “Too many people—I can’t isolate her life energy from all the others. We’ll have to go inside and walk each floor.”

“What’re you planning to do if we find the right apartment?”

“Go in and get her, of course. As I said, there’s a good chance she’s in danger.”

“That’s okay with me—but isn’t that what the cops are for?”

Libby nodded solemnly. “Quite right. So, why don’t you call 911 and tell them we need a SWAT team from Emergency Services down here right away. You can explain that this witch you know says she’s been getting psychic vibrations that tell her a missing girl is inside, and probably in serious trouble. Go ahead—I’ll wait.”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

“Come on—we can catch the light if we hurry.”

They agreed that the restaurant and its cocktail lounge below street level were the least likely places, and should be kept until last.

A few seconds later, they were in front of the building’s main entrance. With Peters standing behind her to block the view of any passers-by, Libby produced her wand, muttered a couple of words, and touched the tip to the security keypad. With a soft buzz, the door clicked open.

Elevators in older buildings are notoriously unreliable, so Peters and Libby took the immense, winding staircase up to the second floor. They walked the well-lit carpeted hallway slowly, Libby holding her wand flat against one leg to avoid drawing attention. Peters had transferred the Kimber .45 from its usual spot near his pelvis to the waistband just left of the belt buckle where it was covered by the light jacket he wore but still readily accessible.

Libby got no useful emanations from any of the apartments on that level. As they climbed the stairs to the next floor, Peters asked her, “What do we do if you get a hit—or whatever you call it—at one of these places? Knock on the door and ask for Kayla?”

“Well, we could always call the police. I could explain to them that I’m a witch and that I’m getting psychic vibrations from—”

“Okay, okay—you already made your point.”

“The sense of unease I experienced while doing the map search could mean any number of things. Maybe she’s developed a crack habit or hooked up with an abusive boyfriend. On the other hand, it could mean she’s in imminent danger of death. There’s only one way to find out for certain.”

“Go in and get her.”

“Score one for the man from the CIA.”

“I haven’t been with the Company for a long time. That was literally, a lifetime ago.”

“I know, but I thought calling you ‘the man from Hell’ might sound rude.”

“You got any thoughts as to—”

“Quiet.”

They had just passed apartment 311. Libby turned back, softly walked to the door, and placed both hands flat against its surface. She stood like that for several seconds, eyes closed in concentration.

Then she turned to Peters and said, “This is the one, and whatever danger she’s in is worse than a drug habit—a lot worse. We have got to get in there right now.”