An Affair Of Sorcerers

Chapter 11

"It's rabid," Joshua Greene said. "I'm sure you suspected it."

I gripped the edge of the examining table on which I was sitting, winced as pain streaked through my freshly cleansed and bandaged right thumb. I was in my shorts, and felt cold. "Of course," I said. "Healthy bats don't normally make a habit of chewing on people's fingers."

"You know what has to be done, don't you?"

"Yeah. I know. How many shots am I going to need?"

"I'm not sure. We'll start off with one a day, vary the dosage and take blood samples as we go along. Maybe we can get away with six or seven. I'll start you off, and your regular doctor can give you the rest."

"My doctor's away for a month. I'd just as soon you took care of it, if you don't mind. I'm beginning to feel at home here. How's my little friend?"

"The same," he said stiffly. "My team of specialists is setting up a new battery of tests for this afternoon. Right now, let's concentrate on you."

Greene asked me questions about my height and weight, then left the room for a few minutes. He returned with a hypodermic needle that looked at least nine inches long. He prepared the syringe and came toward me. I lay back on the examining table and stared at the ceiling.

"Antirabies serum is injected directly into the abdominal wall, Dr. Frederickson-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. If you're going to start sticking needles into my gut, you may as well start calling me Mongo."

"Very well. And if you're going to continue an investigation on behalf of one of my patients, you may as well call me Joshua. Now that we've broken down the social barriers, let's get back to the matter at hand."

He paused, narrowed his eyes and stared at me hard. "There is no cure for rabies once the symptoms have appeared," he continued. "That can be anywhere from two to eight weeks, depending on how well the victim handles himself. No cure. I emphasize this because I suspect you could be a difficult patient."

I sighed, shook my head. "You've got to be kidding. Order a stool specimen, and I'll meekly ask you what color you'd like."

"Good. You sound very cooperative. Since there's no cure for rabies, we use the classic Pasteur treatment. I'll be injecting a weakened rabies strain into you. Your system will then build up antibodies in time to defeat the main strain that the bat infected you with. The serum I'll be giving you is prepared from duck embryos. We have some synthetics, but I still consider this the best."

"Lord love a duck."

"Please listen," Greene said evenly, but with absolute authority. I listened. "The point is that you must rest in order to let your system build up the necessary antibodies. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. You've probably heard that the shots you're going to get are painful. It's true. Besides pain, you'll probably experience nausea and extreme fatigue as a result of the injections. As I said, you should rest as much as possible if you want to get away with the minimum number of shots; but then, you'll probably be happy to. Here comes Number One."

I put my hands behind my head, closed my eyes and clenched my teeth as Greene daubed on some local anesthetic, then slowly slid the tip of the needle into my abdominal wall. He worked slowly, expertly, negotiating the needle through the tough, striated muscles. When he had the needle properly inserted, he slowly pressed the plunger. My stomach felt as if it were being filled with hot metal. He finished, slowly removed the needle. When I started to get up, he put a hand firmly on my chest.

"Take it easy for a few minutes," he said. "You'll be able to contain the nausea if you eat small amounts, fairly often. If your stomach hurts, take aspirin."

"What are the odds I could end up with rabies anyway?"

Greene shrugged. "Very slim, since we've started the injections within hours of your being bitten. That's assuming you do as I tell you. Where did you manage to find a rabid bat?"

"In my bedroom," I said, swallowing hard. My mouth tasted like something purple. "A more interesting question is how it got there, and I've been giving that some thought. It occurs to me that the bat might be a small memento from the same people who put Kathy into a coma."

Greene frowned. "Are you serious?"

"I may be rabid, but I'm not paranoid. I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building. How many bats do you find flying around Manhattan?"

"They're here, and they're quick. Did you leave your window open at any time during the past few nights?"

It was true that I had-to air out the apartment after a particularly smoky party. Still, I wondered: I had a chain on my apartment door, but someone could have slipped the bolt lock, let the bat in, then closed the door again. It was a Wednesday morning, and in the past three days my name had undoubtedly been added to a few enemy lists. It was possible that a rabid bat had flown in through a window I'd left open over the weekend, but the potential relationship between being bitten by a bat and the occult business I'd been investigating was just too poetically neat to ignore.

"Have you eaten anything since last night?" Greene asked.

"Uh-uh. Seeing that little critter hanging off my thumb seems to have taken away my appetite."

Joshua Greene smiled. It made him look quite handsome. "You're pretty peppy for a guy who's just had his first antirabies shot. Would you like a lollipop or a cup of coffee?"

"Actually, Joshua," I said, sitting up, "I'd like some information."

"Really?" he said quizzically. "Are you thinking of becoming an M.D. in addition to your other accomplishments?"

"Only if the shots don't work and I end up howling at the moon. What's your opinion of healers?"

He gave me an amused grunt. "You trade me in for a healer and you'll find yourself howling at the moon and frothing at the mouth in a very short time. Does that answer your question?"

"I'm not sure."

He thought about it for a few moments. "A faith healer is fine for someone whose illness is psychosomatic," he said seriously. "That's assuming, of course, that the sufferer is a believer."

"What about a psychic healer who's supposed to be able to heal in a way that has nothing to do with religion?"

"Nonsense," Greene said evenly.

"That's straight enough," I said, and almost doubled over with a spasm. I waited, and after a few moments the twitching stopped.

"I'll have the nurse bring you some coffee," Greene said. "Then you should get something to eat. After that, you may want to go home and sleep. You're going to be very tired."

"Thanks," I said, getting down off the table and starting to dress. "Tell me: do you know Dr. Jordon?"

When I didn't get an answer, I looked up at him. "Eric Jordon?" he asked guardedly.

"That's him."

"Is he your regular doctor?" "No."

"A friend?"

"An acquaintance. He's affiliated with the Medical Center, isn't he?"

Greene looked uncomfortable. "I. . uh, I don't believe he's been affiliated here for five or six months."

"Oh? What hospital is he affiliated with now?"

Greene looked nervously at his watch and cleared his throat. "I'm not sure he's affiliated with any hospital at the moment," he said quietly.

"Isn't that odd? I'd think it would be tough going for a doctor who didn't have hospital privileges somewhere."

Greene put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. "These sound like the kind of questions a private detective might ask. Are they?"

"Yes," I said quietly. I liked Greene and wanted to be up-front with him. Besides, I didn't have time to be clever; I'd tried that with Krowl, and had probably lost an important source of information as a result.

"Malpractice suit?"

"No, Joshua. I can't go into detail, but it involves a case I've been working on simultaneously with the Kathy Marlowe matter. Believe me, I wouldn't be asking you about Dr. Jordon if this other case, in its own way, wasn't just as important. It involves a woman's life and a man's freedom. Dr Jordon has access to information that might answer some important questions, but he's being very uncooperative. I'm trying to find out why. That's all I can say, except to assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strict confidence."

"Is Dr. Jordon being. . charged with anything?"

"No. I'm just trying to understand his behavior."

Greene shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "Look … I appreciate your frankness, but you have to understand that professional ethics prevent me from discussing a colleague."

"Sure, Doctor," I said with a sigh. "I understand perfectly." I finished dressing and started toward the door.

"Wait a second," Greene said tensely.

He disappeared out into the corridor, and I waited impatiently, in a hurry to be on my way. Greene returned five minutes later with coffee in brown plastic cups. He motioned for me to follow him into a small office just off the emergency room. He closed the door after us, then offered me a cigarette. It tasted like chalk. I ground it out and sat down in a straight-backed chair.

"How's your stomach feeling?" Greene asked casually as he sat down on a leather divan across from me.

"It hurts."

He nodded. "You're the first private detective I've met," he said easily, stirring his coffee with his little finger. "It must be interesting work."

"Sometimes," I said curtly, putting down the cup and starting to rise. "I'd love to chat with you, Joshua, but-"

"For example," Greene said forcefully, still stirring his coffee. "I imagine you have procedures for finding out things about, say, a doctor you are interested in."

"Sure," I said softly, slowly settling myself back down into the chair. "We clever, real-life private detectives have procedures for finding out absolutely anything. But some procedures are more time-consuming than others."

"I thought so," Greene said, refusing to meet my questioning gaze. "And of course, almost all your time at present is being used to try to find out what's been done to Kathy." He covered his mouth with a long, tapering hand, coughed drily. "Assuming you did have the time, how would you go about checking on a physician?"

I stared hard at the doctor, but he refused to look up from his coffee. By then the liquid had to have grown stone cold, but he kept right on stirring. "I'd start by asking questions of his patients and colleagues-if they'd talk to me. After that, I'd use my contacts in the various Court Clerks' offices to see if there'd been any malpractice suits filed against the doctor; how many, if any, and what their disposition had been. That's exactly what I will do-when I get the time."

Greene lighted a cigarette, took two quick, deep drags, then ground it out. "I see," he said, carefully wiping an ash smudge off his index finger. "After a lot of digging, you might very well discover that this particular doctor had had a number of malpractice suits filed against him; enough, in fact, to eventually cost him his hospital affiliation. Then you'd investigate further and find that he hadn't been able to get another one. Of course, it would probably be helpful if you could find out about the relationship this particular doctor had with his partner." He cleared his throat. "Assuming, of course, that the doctor you were investigating had a partner."

"It would be helpful," I said tightly. "Also very time-consuming. Doctors don't like to talk about each other."

"Oh, I know all about that. But, if you persisted, you just might discover that the senior partner was dissatisfied with the relationship and was taking steps to dissolve this partnership. I'm not sure what any of this would have to do with your investigation, but it certainly might answer a few of your questions about the doctor."

"It certainly might," I said, fairly springing up out of the chair. "You've got my number; you'll let me know right away if there's any change in Kathy's condition, right?"

For the first time since we'd entered the room, Greene lifted his eyes to meet my gaze, smiled easily. "Right."

"In the meantime, I'm going back to work on finding out what's been done to Kathy."

Greene raised his eyebrows. "I told you: you're going to find that you're very tired and sore. And you must rest."

"Yeah. Well, I'm just going to have to put it on remote control. I'll walk and talk very slowly."

Joshua sighed. "Any leads at all?"

"My cup runneth over with weirdos, but I can't say for sure that any one of them qualifies as a lead. You still don't think there's any possibility Kathy could be suffering from some psychological trauma?"

He shook his head. "Forget that notion. There's no witchcraft involved in Kathy's condition, Mongo. Whatever's wrong with her has a physical cause. I'm sure we'll have the answer as soon as we learn what the question is."

On the way out, I raised my bandaged thumb in the air. "Thanks for the tender loving care, Joshua. And thanks for the discussion on private detectives."

Joshua Greene had been absolutely right: I was exhausted, and it felt as if I had a permanent cramp in my stomach. I tried to eat some breakfast, but I couldn't even get started on it. I went back to my apartment and lay down, but I couldn't find anything even remotely resembling a comfortable position. I got up and took three aspirins, then sat on the edge of the bed and idly rummaged around in my emotions.

Despite Greene's assurances, I was still very much afraid of the deadly germs that were loose in my system. I was more than a little angry, and I was beginning to feel sorry for myself. That wouldn't do at all. If I couldn't sleep, I had to do something. I picked up the phone and dialed Bill Younger's private number. The Senator answered on the first ring.

"Senator, it's Frederickson."

"Frederickson," Younger said gruffly, his voice strained. "I was just getting ready to call you."

"How's your daughter?"

"Linda's. . worse. I'm. . not sure even Esteban will be able to help her if she has to wait much longer. I'm getting ready to hold that press conference you suggested in the first place."

"That could cost you your career, and it won't necessarily get Esteban out."

"I have to do something, Frederickson. Have you been able to find any new evidence?"

"No, but I think I may be able to raise some new questions. At the outside, how much time do you think we have before Esteban won't be able to help your daughter any longer?"

There was a long silence on the line, then: "A week, maybe ten days. She's deteriorating rapidly now. She. . she-" His voice broke, and I heard him sob. After a few moments he cleared his throat and brought his voice back under control. "It takes her most of the morning to clear her lungs. Her medication helps some, but only Esteban seems to be able to affect her condition for any length of time."

"All right, Senator. Here's what I've got-and it's not much. I don't want to get your hopes up, but maybe-just maybe-I can raise enough questions and doubts to get Esteban a sympathetic bail hearing. But I'm going to have to get my facts straight, and that's going to take some more time. Hold off on your press conference for a couple of days. In the meantime, either bring your daughter with you to New York or leave a number where I can reach you twenty-four hours a day. It's next to impossible to get bail in a premeditated-murder case; if I can arrange a hearing based on new information, I may want you here-fast. I'll try to arrange for any hearing to be held in camera, but I can't promise anything."

"Linda and I will be in New York this evening," Younger said tensely. "We'll stay at The Plaza. You can reach me there whenever you need me."

"Very good. There's one other thing, and you probably won't like it. If I run into any road jams, I may need a little unethical political pressure brought to bear. If you've got any juice in the city, start getting your contacts together. Okay?"

"I'll do whatever you say, Frederickson."

When I hung up, spasms of pain and nausea rippled through my belly. I wasn't looking forward to the hours I was going to have to spend talking to court reporters and combing through the public trial records. And I was going to have to conserve enough energy for some fast talking.

I started to stand up, but another spasm put me on my back with my knees drawn up to my chest. I breathed deeply, trying to relax. The deep breathing helped some, but it also made me return to the question of just how a rabid bat had ended up in my bedroom. It could have flown in a few days before, during the time when I'd left the window open; it could have holed up in some nook or cranny. Maybe. But I was finding my discomfort and the fact that I could still die of rabies-not to mention the general inconvenience of being bitten by a rabid bat-somewhat distressing. If someone had sicced the animal on me, I definitely wanted to find out who so that I could repay the kindness.

Assuming the bat had received human help getting in, it was obviously a kind of deadly game-playing, and probably had something to do with the Esobus matter. I had no way of knowing who'd been talking to whom, or who could be responsible.

I picked up the phone and started to dial Krowl's number, then thought better of it and hung up. I assumed that coming up with a rabid bat in the middle of Manhattan was no particularly easy task. Krowl had been shaken enough to blow someone's whistle after he'd talked to me; but unless Esobus had a private cave full of rabid bats, it wasn't likely that the little critter who'd bitten me could have been conjured up in the few hours that had passed since I'd left his house. In any case, I doubted that Krowl would talk to me, and a call would only telegraph the fact that I was suspicious.

It suddenly occurred to me that there was someone else who'd had the time; also, to judge by his background, he was crazy enough to come up with just such a nasty gift for somebody he was unhappy with. He might not have any connection with Esobus, but at the moment I didn't feel picky. I called the Chancellor's office. Two secretaries later, I got him on the line.

"Good morning, Dr. Frederickson," Barnum said. He sounded a lot better than he had the last time I'd talked to him; controlled and self-assured. "How are you?"

"Actually, I'm feeling a bit tacky."

"Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. Incidentally, I'm glad you called. I've been feeling rather embarrassed about that. . matter we discussed."

"I don't know why you should be embarrassed. You have a legitimate concern."

"Well, thank God you're a discreet man. You were absolutely right to back away from it, and I appreciate your good judgment. I should have handled it myself from the beginning."

"You've talked to Dr. Smathers?"

"Yes, I have," he said firmly. "Yesterday morning, right after you left."

"Did you talk about the rumors?"

"No," Barnum said, sounding a little less sure of himself. "I didn't feel I had the right. But I did ask him where all his money was-coming from." He laughed shortly, and his voice brightened again. "It seems Dr. Smathers has been getting a number of grants on his own, and you know what sloppy bookkeepers these scientists are. Very commendable of him, I think-the grants, I mean."

"Very commendable. Did you find out what he's up to?"

"Well, I've been through most of his complex. It seems Dr. Smathers has received grants to study certain forms of psychotic behavior. The equipment they use is very expensive, and there are potentially dangerous people on the fourth floor from time to time. That explains the need for tight security. Actually, Dr. Smathers was quite gracious."

"Chancellor, did my name come up?"

Barnum cleared his throat. "I'm afraid it did, Dr. Frederickson. Not that I'm indiscreet, but Dr. Smathers seems to have put two and two together. He jokingly asked me if I'd hired you to check up on him."

"Jokingly."

Barnum laughed nervously. "I didn't confirm or deny, but I think Smathers guessed. Actually, he seemed more amused than offended."

"Amused," I said. "I'm glad to hear that." I added a goodbye and hung up. The phone rang almost immediately. It was Garth.

"Hey, brother," he said. "Your phone's been busy for a half hour and it's only nine in the morning. What's up?"

"Somebody's been driving me batty. That's a punch line. Want to try and guess the joke?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind. Have you got a line on Harley Davidson?"

He grunted. "Yeah, and it's bad news. If you want to get anything coherent out of him, every second counts. And I'm not kidding."

"What's the matter with him?"

"Your friend Davidson's a junkie, and it seems he's in a bad way."

"That doesn't sound like Bobby."

"Well, unless there are two rock stars going by the name of Harley Davidson, this is your man."

"How long's he been on junk?"

"According to my sources, about a year," Garth replied. "Once he started to go, he went downhill fast. I've seen it before. He hasn't sung a note in six months, and his band's broken up. No promoter will touch him, even if he wanted to perform, which I understand he doesn't. For a while he was moving around a lot, staying with friends. Now even they don't want him."

"Have you got a current address on him?"

"Try 38 Farrell Street. You know where it is?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling a little chill. "Off The Bowery. Thanks, Garth. I appreciate the information-and the speed."

"Let me know what you find out."

"Will do. Any further information on Daniel?"

"Still kicking ass, from what I hear."

"If the two of you cross paths, tell him I want to talk to him. About bats."

"What's with the bats?"

"I'll talk to you later, brother. Thanks again."

After hanging up, I eased myself over the side of the bed. The pain in my stomach had eased to a kind of dull throb; now it was my thumb that burned. I managed to get dressed; I needed a shave, but decided to save my energy for what looked to be a long day. I wanted to talk to Davidson, then start pulling together my other contacts.

I opened my apartment door and was startled to see April Marlowe, her hand raised as if to knock. We both jumped, then laughed. She was dressed as she'd been when I'd first seen her, in jeans and the steel-blue silk blouse. She looked tired, but still stunning.

"Robert!" she said breathlessly, reaching out and gently touching my right hand. "I saw Dr. Greene this morning and he told me what happened to you. Are you all right?"

"Just a little sore, April. Thanks."

"Sore? Dr. Greene told me you were in pain and that you'd probably be in bed all day!"

"I'm surprised you're not at the hospital."

April looked at me oddly; something like a cloud passed across the surface of her blue-gray eyes. "After all you've done for Kathy, I thought it was time you got a little tender loving care."

"Thank you," I said quietly, covering her hand with mine. As before, the touch of her flesh was like an electric shock, making it hard for me to breathe. This time she didn't draw her hand away. I squeezed her fingers, then quickly drew my own hand back, embarrassed by even this small intimacy. I felt like a shy schoolboy-even more so since Krowl's reading had made me intensely aware of just how much April Marlowe fascinated me. "I appreciate your coming to see me, April," I continued, resisting the impulse to look at my feet. "I know how hard it is for you to leave Kathy. You can go back now. I'm all right."

"They're running more tests on Kathy this morning," April said softly. "I told Dr. Greene I'd be here, so he knows where to reach me. I did want to get out of the hospital for a little while. I thought I'd come over and make you something to eat, and here I find you on your way out. At least you can let me take you out to breakfast."

The fact of the matter was that there was nothing I'd have liked better than to spend a leisurely hour or two with April Marlowe; but it was also a fact that the depth of my feeling toward her was beginning to frighten me. I was, when all was said and done, a dwarf. I didn't want to make a fool of myself. It wasn't that I lacked self-confidence: I didn't lack for female company, platonic or otherwise. But April was different; she was creating an emotional climate in me that I feared was blowing out of control. I didn't want to do or say anything that might jeopardize our relationship-whatever that relationship might be.

April was a woman I wanted badly-and could love.

"Uh-I can't hold anything down, April. And I have to keep moving; I have to find somebody."

"It has something to do with Kathy, doesn't it?"

"Maybe; I'm not sure. I feel like I'm chasing a ghost, if you'll pardon the outrageous analogy, but I have to keep after this Esobus. At the moment, I'm trying to get more information on John Krowl. I'm on my way to talk to a man by the name of Bobby Weiss. You may have heard of him as Harley Davidson."

"The singer?"

"He used to be a singer. Right now he's on the skids."

"Robert, may I go with you? I. . really don't want to be alone today."

"Where I'm going isn't exactly Park Avenue, April. It's ugly; very ugly."

She shook her head. "I'd still like to go-as long as you don't think I'll be in the way. I'll wait in the car; just as long as there's a phone nearby so I can check in with the hospital."

Against my better judgment, very conscious of Krowl's reading of the tarot cards, I nodded my assent.

I drove across town on 72nd Street, turned south on the East River Drive and exited in lower Manhattan on Houston Street. The pain in my stomach persisted, as though Joshua Greene had left part of the needle there; but my weariness had vanished, chased by the excitement of being near April Marlowe. The late morning and afternoon no longer loomed as a nightmare of forced endurance; the woman beside me made everything all right, and I had to remind myself of the seriousness of the errand I was on.

Cars were jammed up in the left lane, waiting to get onto the entrance ramp for the Manhattan Bridge. Krowl, of course, lived just across the river, and it occurred to me as I pulled into the right lane to pass that I was driving at a right angle to the problem. Looking up Bobby Weiss in order to get information on the palmist and tarot reader might well be a waste of precious time. I felt a surge of rage at Krowl for holding out on me-if he was holding out on me.

April must have had similar thoughts. "How did your reading with John Krowl go?" she asked. "Ummm."

"What does 'ummm mean?"

"It means you were right: I was impressed."

"How did the two of you get along?"

"Not too well." I glanced over at her. "I think he knows something about Esobus, but he isn't likely to tell me what it is. The man I'm going to see had his hand cast on Krowl's wall; I want to find out what it takes to get into the Inner Sanctum, and what it means once you get there. By the way, your former husband's cast was there too."

April half-turned in her seat, touched my arm. "Frank went to see Krowl?"

"As Bart Stone; at least that's the way the cast is identified. Krowl may not have known his real name when the cast was made."

"Perhaps not," April said distantly. "On the other hand, 'Bart Stone' was far more famous than Frank Marlowe; that was one of the things that bothered Frank. He wanted to produce something he could be proud to put his own name on." She paused, shook her head. "If you knew Frank, you'd realize that a tarot reader would be the last person he'd have gone to see."

"You also said he was the last person you'd have expected to be involved in witchcraft," I reminded her gently. "And the person I'm going to see is the last person I'd expect to become a junkie, but that's what he is. I don't think I'll recommend this occult business to any of my friends."

She looked away. "It's not all like that, Robert," she said sadly. "You've seen so much. . evil. I guess you can't be expected to understand."

"I've met you," I said, brushing the back of my hand across her forearm. "And that makes me think wicca can't be all bad."

I stopped for a traffic light, and two bleary-eyed members of The Bowery's vanguard looking for the day's first bottle of Thunderbird or cheap rotgut whiskey stumbled off the divider and proceeded to "clean" the lights and windshield of the car with the filthy rags they carried. I rolled down the window and managed to slip a dollar to the man nearer me before he'd smeared the entire windshield.

"Thank you," the man said. His smile was vacant, but his voice was surprisingly clear, with precise diction. "You're probably curious about me. I used to be an engineer. It's not that people haven't tried to help me. Don't you believe it. I'm here because I'm a loser. I want to be here; I'm a bum because I want to be a bum."

I glanced into his face and was startled to see that he was a fairly young man who only looked old. I always gave money to the street-working winos when I passed through this section, but I rarely looked at them. Now, when I did, I was shaken, not only by the wasted human being who lived from one bottle to the next, but by the research which seemed to indicate that there was no solution. As the man had said, he was on The Bowery because he wanted to be, and all the king's psychiatrists probably couldn't keep him away. Put him in the hospital, dry him out, buy him clean clothes, get him a job. . he'd be back in a week, just like the shopping-bag ladies in midtown.

I wondered if the man thanked all his "customers" with his confession.

April had rolled down her window and given the other man a dollar. The light changed, and I stepped on the accelerator.

"What do you hear from your brother?" I asked.

April, who'd been looking back, sighed and turned around to the front. "Nothing. I think he's spoken to Dr. Greene on the phone to ask after Kathy, but I haven't seen or spoken to him since you saw the two of us together at the hospital." She pointed out the window to the dirty summer streets. "I know he hasn't gone home. He's somewhere out. . there."

"Oh, you bet he is. My brother tells me Daniel's scaring hell out of every warlock in the city. What's he doing out there, April? What does he think he can accomplish?"

"The same thing you're doing," she said softly. "He's trying to help Kathy."

"Then why won't he cooperate with the police? Or with me?"

"I told you: he has to do things his own way."

"Membership," I said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. I was just talking to myself."

I turned left on The Bowery, the quintessential "skid row"-a thoroughfare of dead dreams, drunks and wholesale appliance and lighting stores. The Bowery is the catch basin for the city's human dregs. This street is as far into the spiritual sewer as the drunks can flow. Having resisted the best ministrations of everyone from the toughest troops of the Salvation Army to flying squadrons of social workers, they are tended to in soup kitchens and flophouses, but, for the most part, left alone in their special circle of hell, like bits of human garbage moldering in the wind, snow, sun and rain, apathetically waiting for death. Those men who'd begun cleaning windows early-or who'd had some coins left from the day before-were already sprawled on the sidewalk, or huddled in doorways drinking death disguised as bottles in brown-paper bags. Of late, they'd been joined by a new breed of derelict: hopeless, wild-eyed crazies dumped on the streets under New York State's new "enlightened" program of releasing the mentally ill from the hospitals and returning them to "neighborhood care."

It was a bad place to be looking for a friend.

Farrell Street was narrow and litter-strewn, bounded on both sides by gutted, decaying buildings. I parked in front of the address Garth had given me; it was a rotting hulk that looked a month or so away from disintegration. April asked if she could come along, but I insisted that she stay in the car. I locked the car doors, then went up to the entrance.

The front door of the building was half off its hinges. I pushed it to one side, stepped over an unconscious drunk and walked down a hallway that reeked of urine and garbage. The door to Bobby Weiss's apartment was locked, but a terrible stench emanated from the room on the other side. I knew what I was going to find even before I went in. The lock broke easily; I pushed open the door and entered.

The floor of the room was littered with glassine envelopes and needle-works. Bobby Weiss/Harley Davidson was out, and he wouldn't be back. He'd left his half-naked body behind, a dirty needle stuck in its thigh, on the filthy bathroom floor. From the smell, I judged that he'd been dead at least two days.

The odor wasn't helping my stomach any. I put a handkerchief over my mouth and nose and began looking around the apartment. There wasn't much to look at; Bobby had apparently hocked most of his possessions during the course of his addiction, or had simply left them behind in the string of places where he'd flopped.

There was one thing he hadn't been able to pawn, and it occupied a place on top of a stained orange crate next to a bed with grease-stained sheets.

The book had been put together with skill and great care, with inscribed metal covers and leather thongs for binding.

My stomach muscles fluttered as I opened the metal cover and began to leaf through the book. There were about thirty pages; the writing at the beginning was neat and concise-the handwriting of the Bobby Weiss who'd been one of my students. The last twenty pages were almost totally illegible, obviously scrawled under the influence of heavy drugs. But there was more than enough in the first few pages to tell me that I'd stumbled over much more than I'd expected to find.

I felt wounded and very tired as I put the heavy book under my arm and walked from the room. I was leaving behind the wasted body of a boy who, to judge by the strange manuscript he'd authored, had been shot by invisible bullets of superstition; Bobby had exploded under their impact, plunged from the rarefied atmosphere of celebrity to end as a cold, gray hulk, like a falling star.

My thumb throbbed painfully, a not-so-gentle reminder that the same gunsights were undoubtedly being lined up on me.