Sorcerer Read online

  “I’m a compassionate person, sorry if that offends you.”

  “No, there’s more to it and you know it.”

  “Oh no, you found out!” she said, eyes wide. “We’re fuck buddies!”

  “You think this shit’s funny?”

  “Yeah,” she said, laughing again, “I do, actually.”

  He waved her off. “OK, whatever, no sense in discussing it then.”

  “I don’t know what your problem is tonight,” she said, “but I find deliberate cruelty revolting. Especially in someone I love. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

  “Wait, I—look, I don’t mean to be cruel, OK? I’m sorry, you know I’m not really like that, it—it’s just that I’ve got other things to worry about right now. I’m focused on us, on our life. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and—”

  Someone in the lobby downstairs buzzed their apartment. With Jeff following close behind, fearful it might be Hope or one of his associates, Eden went to the intercom just inside the front door and pressed the button. “Yes?”

  “Eden!” a man’s frantic voice answered. “Let me in! Please, let me in!”

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch.” Jeff recognized the voice immediately. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Please Eden! You can help me, please—please—help me, let me in!”

  She glanced guiltily at Jeff, unsure of what to say.

  “Please! Let me in! I don’t belong out here!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t.”

  When the intercom fell silent, Jeff ran for the bedroom and looked out the window. The homeless man had already begun to drift down the street, looking back over his shoulder at the apartment every few steps.

  When Jeff turned from the window he found Eden standing behind him in the doorway. “How the hell does he know your name?”

  She sat at the foot of the bed, hands in her lap. “When I left for work this morning he was out on the steps. He told me his name was Ernie Graham, so I told him my name too, all right?”

  “No, it’s not all right. Are you insane?”

  “I can’t believe you’re acting like this. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Not gonna argue that one with you. The guy just buzzed our apartment and expected you to let him in. If that doesn’t qualify as ridiculous nothing does.”

  “I said no didn’t I?”

  “Eden, listen to me. We know nothing about this man. He could have a criminal record, he could be dangerous. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with English. Stop talking to me like I’m a child.”

  Jeff steadied himself. Breathe…stay calm… “I know you mean well and you’re only trying to be kind, OK? I get it. But you don’t make friends with deranged homeless guys that live on the front steps of the building.”

  “He’s not deranged.”

  “How do you know?”

  “OK, I admit I have sort of a soft spot for him.” She threw her arms in the air. “He just—I don’t know what it is—I know it sounds crazy but it’s almost like I know him somehow. For some reason I feel especially sorry for him. Maybe it’s some sort of spiritual connection, or a higher power is trying to tell me something, who knows?”

  He stared at her, mouth gaping.

  “He’s just a lost soul, Jeff, not a serial killer.”

  “This isn’t like feeding a stray cat, Eden. It’s a little more complicated.”

  “Have you ever actually spoken with him? Not spoken at him, not threatened him, but actually spoken with him like you would anyone else?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “He’s down and out and hurting. Look around the city. The homeless are everywhere, just like you said. But have you really seen them? A lot are women and children. Are they all deranged, too? Are they all criminals? They’re just people that have fallen on hard times. If you hadn’t gotten that job we eventually would’ve ended up out there with them. Are we criminals? Are we scum? Are we deranged? All Ernie’s looking for is a little compassion and understanding, enough to let him know he still matters and that at least some of us care about him and others out there like him.”

  “Well it’s good to know that’s all Ernie’s looking for. I love it, my wife and the bum that lives on our street are on a first-name basis.”

  “I had a civil conversation with him that lasted all of a minute.”

  “During which you told him your name and apparently our apartment number. Was there any other personal information you felt compelled to share with your new best bud?”

  “If because of my kindness he took it upon himself to buzz the apartment that’s not my fault. It’s probably not even his. We have no idea what it’s like to be out on those streets night after night. We have no idea what that man’s been through. Maybe he broke down. Maybe he just wanted to spend one night indoors and was making a crazy plea to—”

  “There are shelters in the city, let him go to one of those.”

  “For his sake I hope he finds one with a free bed.”

  “Well if not we can always put good ole Ernie up on the couch, right?”

  Glaring at him, she yanked the sheet back from the bed with an angry tug and fired a pillow at him. “Nope, you’ll already be on it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Goodnight Jeff.”

  Pillow clutched to his chest, he returned to the den and flopped onto the couch. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “like I need this shit tonight.”

  Fine, he thought. Bright and early tomorrow morning he’d get this job done, get paid, make it right with Eden and put this nightmare behind him.

  There are no nightmares.

  Jeff closed his eyes, but it failed to silence the whispers from his dreams.

  There is only the torment of darkness.

  -9-

  The following morning, Jeff hailed a cab. He didn’t know what to expect and didn’t want his car to be identified later if something went wrong. The address scrawled on a small sheet of paper inside the envelope listed an address located in a rough neighborhood in Chelsea, a small city just outside Boston located on the far side of the Mystic River. It also listed the name of the man in Mr. Hope’s debt: Stephen Wychek. Jeff had been through Chelsea but knew no one there and was unfamiliar with the layout. Thankfully the driver was able to find the address, a rundown two-story tenement on a relatively quiet street. But even in daylight, the area looked somewhat threatening. “Wait for me,” he told the cabbie. “Keep the meter running, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  As Jeff stepped out of the taxi and approached the tenement steps he saw a faded lace curtain move in one of the windows facing the street. He hesitated, looked around. But for a lone elderly woman carrying a bag of groceries farther down the block, the street was empty. He continued up the steps to the front door, opened it and slipped into a foyer. The walls were cracked, the paint chipped and peeling, and a repugnant odor he couldn’t identify hung in the air.

  He glanced down at the paper. Alongside the address were the words: First floor. Jeff knocked. No one answered, but he could hear movement inside the apartment, so he knocked again. After a moment, a shuffling sound indicated someone had moved up closer to the door.

  “Hello?” he said, leaning closer. “Hello?”

  From behind the door came a female voice; nervous and muffled. “What do you want?”

  “I need to speak to Mr. Wychek.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Are you Mrs. Wychek?”

  “What do you want?”

  “My name’s McGrath. I need to speak to Mr. Wychek, it’s very important.” Jeff looked at the dark stairway leading to the second floor. It was filthy and strewn with garbage. “Could you open the door please?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Ma’am, please, my name is Jeff McGrath and—”

  “What do you want with my husband?”

  “I need to speak with him about some personal business.
”

  “What kind of personal business? If this is about the car payment the bank already did a repo, came and took it a couple nights ago.”

  “It’s not about the car.”

  “What bill’s it about?”

  “It’s not about any bill, I—”

  “Then what do you want?”

  With a sigh, Jeff rubbed his eyes. This was ludicrous. He obviously wasn’t going to get anywhere without turning up the heat. “Ma’am, I need to speak to your husband, understand? Now if he’s not home I need you to tell me where I can find him. This is very important. I’m not playing games.”

  “Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

  Jeff thought a moment. “I don’t think Foster Hope would appreciate that.”

  After a lengthy pause he heard locks disengaging. The door opened slowly, but only a crack, the security chain catching. Through the opening, a middle-aged woman with bleary eyes and a drawn face peeked out at him. Her hair was mussed and unwashed, her skin pale and unhealthy looking, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. She also looked deeply frightened. Her eyes were filled with tears and her lips trembled like a scolded child’s. “Please,” she whispered, “please, we…I didn’t know, I…”

  “It’s all right,” he said, holding his hands up in an effort to calm her. “I’m not going to hurt you or cause you any trouble. I just need to speak to Stephen.”

  “Please,” she hissed, shaking as tears streamed her face. “Please.”

  Jeff forced a swallow. “Tell me where he is. I only want to talk.”

  “We have kids,” she said, choking on her tears. “Please, I—”

  “I want to help your husband, do you understand? Tell me where I can find him and I’ll do everything I can to help him make this right with Mr. Hope.”

  Her watery eyes seemed to focus for the first time, and her mouth fell open. “You don’t…You don’t know what’s happening, do you?”

  Jeff looked around nervously, as if expecting to find Hope in the shadows, watching him from the top of the stairs. “Look, I don’t want to be here, but I don’t have any choice. They’re making me do this. All I’m supposed to do is talk to your husband and try to convince him to contact Mr. Hope. That’s all.”

  She shook her head, the tears coming faster now.

  “Do you know why they’re doing this? What did he do to you and your husband? What are they doing to me?” Jeff placed his hand against the doorframe to steady himself. “If you know, please Mrs. Wychek, tell me. What’s happening? What have we done? Why us?”

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks with a shaking hand, but they were quickly replaced. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “you don’t have to go looking for the Devil. Sometimes he goes looking for you.”

  Despite the heat, Jeff felt a sudden burst of cold from deep within him. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Pray?” she asked hopelessly, her hand suddenly fingering a gold cross around her neck.

  “Where is your husband, Mrs. Wychek?”

  “He’s not my husband anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  “Can you tell me where he is?”

  Her sad and frightened eyes looked to the floor. “Yes,” she whispered. “God forgive me…but yes.”

  * * * *

  Moments later Jeff was back in Boston. There was a slight break in the stifling heat as an enormous bank of storm clouds slowly rolled in off Boston Harbor. The cab moved through the streets between the theater district and Chinatown, then finally pulled onto a side street and lurched to a stop near a vacant lot strewn with garbage and debris. The driver pointed to a rotting shell of an apartment building just beyond the lot. “That’s it.”

  “Crazy,” he mumbled, “no one could actually live here.”

  “That’s the address you gave me. You want me to wait again?”

  “No.”

  Jeff paid him and stepped out. As he crossed the lot thunder rumbled in the distance and a cool breeze provided an unexpected chill. He reached the base of the steps and looked up at the dilapidated, graffiti-covered structure. Most of the windows were blown out and the front doors were missing. He glanced around. The neighborhood was deserted.

  A drizzle began to fall, startling a congregation of blackbirds perched along the roof into flight. Jeff watched until they disappeared into the dark clouds overhead. He slowly forced himself up the front steps.

  As he entered what had once been a lobby his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light. A variety of lurid smells wafted all around him, and rain trickled in through several cavities in the high ceiling. A timeworn staircase stood to his right. Jeff ascended it cautiously, testing each step with his weight before continuing.

  When he reached the top he followed a long hallway filled with garbage and the splintered remains of furniture to the first apartment. The door had rotted from its hinges and collapsed just inside the entrance. He climbed over the door and into an open area. Broken pallets and a few discarded empty crates lay scattered about, and upon seeing him, a covey of plump rats scurried off, seeking refuge in corners or small portals previously gnawed in the decaying walls.

  A rustling sound diverted Jeff’s attention. A large piece of tattered plastic hung over one of the windows, rippling in the mounting breeze, and on the floor just beneath it sat a pile of spent liquor bottles.

  “Hello?” The only reply was the echo of his voice. “Is anyone here?”

  “Joint’s taken,” a voice behind him said suddenly.

  Jeff spun round to see a man standing a few feet away. “Jesus,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “What do you want?” Keeping a wary distance, the man produced an enormous hunting knife from his belt and brandished it about between them with a slow and threatening arcing motion.

  “Take it easy,” Jeff said putting his hands up. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  His eyes widened, as if he were losing sight of him. “Who are you?”

  It was difficult to tell the man’s age. His clothes were soiled and worn, his hair and face needed to be washed and he was clearly exhausted. “McGrath.”

  “I don’t know nobody named McGrath.”

  “I’m looking for Steven Wychek.”

  The man stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Are you Mr. Wychek?” Jeff asked, already wondering if he could outrun this man if need be. “Do I have the right person?”

  The man slowly lowered the knife to his side. “Nobody knows where I am. How did you find me?”

  “Your wife told me you were hiding here.”

  “My…wife…” His hostility turned to terror. “My God,” he muttered. “You…You’re one of them.”

  “No, I’m not, I—I’m caught up in this the same as you.” Confused, Jeff continued to hold his hands up to assure the man that he harbored no bad intentions toward him. “A man named Foster Hope hired me, he’s forcing me to work for him.”

  Wychek raised the knife a bit higher, ready to use it if need be.

  “That’s not necessary, OK?” Jeff smiled nervously. “All I want to do is—”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “I won’t come any closer,” he said, hoping to mask his own fear with a docile tone. “Relax, OK? Mr. Hope asked me to tell you that it’s in your best interest to settle your debt with him and that you should contact him as soon as possible. He just wanted me to deliver that message. That’s it.”

  The man gave a questioning stare. “You don’t know what you’re into yet, do you?”

  “Honestly?” Jeff asked through a sigh. “No. I don’t have any idea.”

  “You will.” Wychek moved toward the window, the knife leveled in front of him. “But by then it’ll be too late.”

  Jeff glanced in the direction of the doorway, fairly certain if he made a quick dash for it he could make it outside well ahead of the man. “What do yo
u owe him? What does he want from you?”

  “Everything.” Wychek slumped a bit, defeated. “And I’m tired of running, McGrath. I’m tired of being afraid.”

  “Come with me, and I’ll get in touch with Mr. Hope. I’m sure we can all sit down and work out an arrangement both of you can live with.”

  “You crazy or just dumb as a brick?”

  “I’m frightened and confused, same as you.”

  “Funny how it all fits together,” he said, as if to himself. “All I wanted was to get out from under my problems, I…I wanted me and my wife to be free from them, you know? My drinking, the drugs, my running around, I—I can’t stop, I’m a fuckup, and she—she’s a good woman, my wife. Too good for me, she never deserved this. I wanted to get better so we could both be happy…free. He told me he could help us, told me he could make it all come true. But it was a trick. He’s a cruel and evil fuck.”

  “Maybe you and I can help each other.”

  “Ain’t no help against his kind.”

  “He’s powerful, rich and plays demented games with people’s lives, but he’s a man just like you and me.”

  “No he’s not.”

  “Come with me,” Jeff said again. “We’ll confront the bastard together and get to the bottom of this.”

  Wychek hopelessly bowed his head. “You tell Foster Hope I’ll see him real soon.”

  Before Jeff had a chance to respond, Wychek rushed to the window, and with a horrific scream, launched himself through the plastic drape and plummeted to the street below.

  A stomach-churning thud followed.

  Jeff ran to the window and saw the carcass of an old refrigerator in the alley below. Sprawled across the top was Wychek’s broken body. It flopped over like a rag doll, leaving behind a wide red wake as it slid lifelessly to the ground.

  Staggering back, Jeff fell to his knees and vomited. When the nausea had left him he forced himself back to his feet and staggered from the room.

  Ignoring the now heavy rain and a burning sensation deep in his gut, he crossed the vacant lot at a full run. As he rounded the corner and joined a more congested street he slowed his pace and tried to appear calm.

  At the next block he leaned against the corner of a bank, fumbled his cell phone from his belt and frantically punched in the number he’d been given. It was answered on the first ring, but all Jeff heard was heavy breathing. “Hello?” he said, voice breaking. “Hello!”