An Affair Of Sorcerers

Chapter 16

It was not yet noon, but the temperature had to be approaching ninety. The heat and the drugs in my system were poking at my brain, making it hard, despite my respect and feeling for this victim, to concentrate on the fact that we were on our way to a pre-luncheon meeting with Daniel's death. As if bodies weren't found, and people didn't die, on hot mornings. Then too, I may have been distracted by the pastoral surroundings-The Ramble, a heavily wooded area of Central Park notorious as a trysting place for homosexuals, but in fact freely used by lovers of all colors, creeds and sexual persuasions. Even heterosexuals.

Neither of us spoke as I followed Garth along one of the many trails cutting through woods, around ponds and across the strong spines of granite mini-cliffs that sparkled in the heavy white sunlight. We passed a number of late-rising bird-watchers, tweedy men and women with necks bowed under the weight of huge binoculars that looked powerful enough to track an ant at three hundred yards.

A uniformed cop was waiting for us a half mile or so down the trail. He led us off the main trail, up over a small outcropping of rock and along a narrow path that was incongruously marked with NYPD posting signs. We went around another outcropping. What I saw made my mind snap back into focus with such force that I involuntarily groaned and snapped my jaws shut.

Daniel's body was in a tiny clearing in the center of a secluded, dense copse of trees, surrounded by uniformed cops and police technicians. It wasn't pretty. Daniel had been stripped naked and staked spread-eagled, face up, to the ground. He'd been tortured, and a cat's head had been stuffed into his mouth as a gag. The immediate cause of death looked to be an ornate ceremonial sword that had been plunged into Daniel's heart, but he'd been expertly carved up first. Occult symbols had been scratched into the rocky soil around him: it had been a ritual torture and murder.

"It looks like Crandall finally found the people he was looking for," Garth said softly.

I nodded slowly, but could think of nothing to say. Despite his brusque stubbornness, I'd liked Richard Crandall, and had come to respect his strange, unyielding demand for solitude. As April had said, he was, by nature of his beliefs, a loner who had to do things his own way. It occurred to me that his hunt had been a kind of spiritual exercise. The ceremonial magician was dead, and I wondered who would pray for this strange priest of the occult. I decided I would.

We waited for the police photographers to finish their business, then went back to Garth's car, where I played the tape for him. When it had finished, I turned the machine off. He didn't say anything, and I asked, "You want to hear it again?"

Garth shook his head. "I'll give it to the lab boys. They may be able to clean it up and raise the levels so we can try for some voice identification." He paused, added, "So that's Esobus. It's the same voice we heard on the hospital tape. You can tell that, even with the distortion."

"Yep. It was Esobus, the leader of this shithead crew, who backed off and supplied the information that saved Kathy's life. Interesting, huh?"

"To say the least," Garth replied quietly. "There's something else that's interesting: this tape proves that the distortion on the two tapes wasn't done after the recording. Only Esobus' voice is distorted; except for poor quality, all the other voices on the tape are normal. What the hell do you think is going on?"

"It's electronic," I said. "You can get that effect with certain kinds of microphone and feedback setups. Obviously, Esobus masks his voice from his own coven, which could mean they don't even know who he is."

"Christ, that's hard to believe. Wouldn't they try to find out?"

"Some weird people here, brother, which I don't have to tell you. Everyone I talk to who's ever heard of Esobus speaks of him as a legend. If Esobus wanted to keep his identity secret, even from his own coven, he just might have the muscle to get away with it. The rest of the coven might view it as some kind of ritual source of power."

Garth stared out the side window for a few moments, then made a sharp, hissing sound of disgust. "What the hell was that girl's father doing with this bunch of creeps? You gave me the impression you thought Marlowe was pretty straight-at least morally."

"I still think he was. And Marlowe isn't the only one who doesn't seem to fit this picture. Bobby Weiss-Harley Davidson-wouldn't have hurt a fly, unless he accidentally dropped his ego on it. Neither of those men was a torturer nor murderer. Not only that, but I've been told over and over again that Esobus is a ceremonial magician who wouldn't form a coven with anyone but other ceremonial magicians who are almost as heavy as he is. Obviously, that isn't true." I hesitated as a thought flitted up from some dark corner of my mind. I tried to look at it, but it ducked out of sight behind dmg-shadows of weariness and confusion. "Maybe," I added feebly.

"What 'maybe'?" Garth said scornfully. "A coven has thirteen members, period. In this case, there would be Esobus and twelve others. So Marlowe and Harley Davidson turned out to be closet pussycats."

The thought came back for a return run. This time I grabbed it and flopped it over on its back. Its face was ugly. "Unless Marlowe and Bobby Weiss were marked as victims from day one. They only thought they were members of the coven; the real members were doing a number on them."

Garth was still staring out the car window, idly tapping his knuckles against the glass. "I like it," he said at last. "Go ahead."

"All right, let's noodle on it together. Try this for openers: Thirteen members of the coven are heavies, and all very kinky-with Esobus himself the only question mark. They prey on vulnerable people who are sucked in and made to think they're members. The suckers are given all the sex, drugs and anything else they want; and all the while the real coven is going to work on them."

"Milking them dry, like they did to the kid."

"Sure; they took Bobby's money, but there are other things the coven could want-and get. Power; political influence. God knows we've got enough closet screwballs at all levels of government. Can you imagine what this coven could do with a senator or two in its pocket?"

"Shit, yes," Garth said softly, slowly nodding.

"And they may have them," I said, thinking of the hand casts on Krowl's wall.

We sat quietly for some time. Out of the silence another idea began to emerge, and I voiced it. "I think they may have found one joker in the deck," I continued, poking my brother in the side. "Frank Marlowe, with his research notes and tape recordings; he was the joker. Maybe he was trying to do a number on them. Check this out: Marlowe was initiated as Bart Stone-only one of a dozen different pseudonyms he used. The coven members thought they were initiating a rich and famous Western pulp writer. I don't think they knew that wasn't his real name. If they had known his real name, why not use it at the initiation ceremony?"

I thought about it some more, and was pretty sure I had the answer. "April told me Marlowe hadn't written anything in almost a year. But he damn well was working. Somehow, he fell into the coven situation-and he knew what to do with it. He was researching this outfit, and he planned to write a book about them. This was going to be his big book-his 'book of shadows.' "

"And the coven found out about it," Garth said, giving the window a single, hard rap that rattled the glass. "They took all his notes, then killed him. It means everything he wrote, with the exception of what we've got in that shopping bag, was destroyed."

"I'm not so sure." Something about the whole thing still didn't sit right. I tried to pin it down in my mind, couldn't, and let it go.

"Somebody's going to have to tell Crandall's sister," Garth said, looking over at me.

"I'll do it," I said quietly. "Drive me over to the hospital."

Garth glanced sideways at me again as he leaned forward to start the car. "She's under your skin, brother, isn't she?"

I grunted noncommittally. "Good-looking woman."

"Damned if I don't think you're falling in love."

"Come on, Garth; I've known the woman less than a week."

"You should see your face when you look at her; your eyes actually get glassy." He paused and chuckled at the thought. "Come to think of it, I don't believe you've ever been in love before, have you? I know you do all right with the ladies, although I'll never understand what they find lovable about a smart-ass dwarf. But this is different; this one scares you. Knowing you, it's only logical that your first real love would be a witch."

"Shut up, Garth, and mind your own business." I'd meant it to sound light and joking, but the words and tone came out serious. The fact of the matter was that the power April Marlowe exerted over my muscles, glands and mind did frighten me.

I hadn't forgotten John Krowl's reading.

"Hello, Kathy."

"Mr. Mongo!" Kathy squealed excitedly. She was still pale, but healthy patches of color had appeared in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were clear. "What have you got?"

The enormous stuffed panda I carried on my shoulders was as big as I was. I dropped it on the bed next to Kathy with an exaggerated sigh of relief. "His name's Horace. He wants to be adopted by a little girl."

"Hello, Robert," April said quietly from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," I lied, already feeling self-conscious in her presence. I squeezed April's hand and kissed Kathy on the forehead. "You look just great, sleepyhead," I said to the girl. "But it's about time you woke up; you've been asleep a long time."

Kathy giggled, then suddenly frowned. "Have you found my daddy's book of shadows yet, Mr. Mongo?"

I glanced quickly at April, who gave me an almost imperceptible shake of her head; it meant Kathy hadn't yet been told of her father's death. It was the right decision, I thought. "Not yet, Kathy," I said. "But I'm still looking."

"I know you'll find it, Mr. Mongo. You'll make everything all right." She hugged the bear and me at the same time. "Mommy says you brought me here when I got sick, Mr. Mongo. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She frowned again. "Why didn't my daddy bring me?"

"I'll explain it to you when you're feeling better," April said, gently smoothing her daughter's hair.

"Kathy," I said, "I have to talk to your mother. It's very important. May I borrow her for an hour or so? I'll bring her right back when I'm finished, and you can spend the time getting acquainted with Horace."

Kathy solemnly considered the proposition, then finally nodded her assent. I took April's arm and guided her out of the room. "How long will Kathy have to stay in the hospital?" I asked as we rode down in the elevator.

"Dr. Greene says he wants to keep her around for three or four more days. The poison hasn't been completely flushed from her system, and you can see she's still very weak."

"I talked to Janet Monroe before I came over here. Now that Kathy's out of danger, she'd like you to stay with her until Kathy can go home. She lives only a few minutes away. You must be tired of that hospital room."

"I'll think about it, Robert. What is it you want to talk to me about?"

"I'll get to it," I said, avoiding her eyes. "Let's walk over to Janet's."

At Janet's apartment I told April of Daniel's death, omitting the gruesome details. April wept for a few minutes in my arms, but she wasn't hysterical; she almost seemed to have anticipated her brother's death, and was prepared for the news.

Janet came later, as I'd asked her to. April cried some more, then began to talk of her and Daniel's childhood in a witch family and community. Some of the stories were funny, others sad; all were fascinating.

April finished by saying in a firm, proud voice: "My brother was a good and strong man who understood the ways of the human heart. Struggle was his life. He lost this battle, but he will always live in the hearts and memories of those who loved him. So mote it be."

The ceremonial magician had received his memorial service.

An hour after returning to my apartment, I received a phone call. The voice on the line was clipped and heavily muffled. The message was brief and to the point.

"Be at The Cloisters at midnight. Esobus wishes to speak with you. Don't contact anyone. Come alone. The lives of the child and her mother will depend on your following these instructions to the letter."

Every word had struck me with the force of a blow, dazing me and making me short of breath. I was more drained of feeling than afraid; I moved like an automaton, forcing myself to eat some steak and eggs for strength. The food stayed down, and I stretched out on my bed to rest. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but I set the alarm for ten just in case. Then I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and regularly, trying to empty my mind of everything; I knew I would need all my energy and concentration in the long night ahead.

At ten I rose and dressed. I took out my Beretta, checked the firing mechanism and magazine, stuck the weapon into my belt by my spine. I planned on being early, so I started to leave at ten thirty. I hesitated, walked over to the telephone and stared at it. I desperately wanted to call Garth, clearly aware that in most situations like this it was a sucker play not to bring in the police. But this case had some unusual, deadly wrinkles; their numbers and the place they'd chosen for the meeting gave the coven members all the advantages. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be walking into a trap; I was liable to end up staked to the ground and whittled on, like Daniel. Still, it seemed I had no choice but to play this round by their rules. There were thirteen members of the coven, and the entire area surrounding The Cloisters would be easy enough for them to cover. Even if the police did manage to catch whoever might be lying in wait for me, the others would certainly find out about it and act accordingly; they'd demonstrated that they didn't make idle threats. I had no qualms about blowing the brains out of my hosts, but I wanted to make certain that April and Kathy weren't casually killed by default; there was no guarantee that the police could make anyone they captured talk before some kind of action was taken against the mother and daughter. But I was certain I could; I had a few spells of my own to cast.

Traffic in midtown and on Riverside Drive was almost nonexistent. It was a clear night illuminated by a full moon. The Hudson River, on my left, had taken the cold light, shattered and rewoven it into a brightly spangled robe that stretched, swelled and glittered to the New Jersey shore on the opposite bank.

It took me only fifteen minutes to reach the north entrance to Fort Tryon Park, where The Cloisters is located. It struck me as I drove slowly up the lower driveway how appropriate the setting was for communing with a bunch of witches. The Cloisters is one of New York's landmarks, an enormous castle structure which is a museum housing prime examples of Medieval European art and architecture. There is a great deal of church art, and the very name conjures up visions of pious, ascetic men and women devoting their lives and talents to their Deity. And, of course, the witch in the Middle Ages carried as much weight as the priest. Now, in the twentieth century, the church had revered landmarks and the occultists had sidewalk scam parlors. It looked as if Esobus were trying to turn the clock back a few centuries, at least symbolically.

I didn't want any cruising patrol cars to spot my Volkswagen and come looking for me, so I parked the car on the shoulder of one of the parking areas, between two trees. There was always a chance that my reception committee had arrived even earlier, but I doubted it. I walked in the darkness up toward the Medieval castle. The Cloisters had always been one of my favorite places; now, at night, it was different and threatening, like a gentle friend who has without warning turned neurotic and vicious. In the night, under the full moon, it looked eerie, haunted, with its stone balustrades jutting like blunt teeth chewing a sky bleeding midnight blue.

I had no idea who was supposed to find whom, but I wanted to make certain that I saw my hosts first. To that end, I climbed up on one of the ramparts circling the vast lawn and walked up to the museum. Then it was Circus Time. I managed to human-fly my way up the rough stone wall of The Arcade until I was on the roof of the building. I walked across the pebbled surface and positioned myself behind a balustrade above the Fuentiduna Chapel. That gave me a view of the main approach road. I crouched down, gun in hand, and waited.

And waited.

By twelve fifteen I was anxious. Staying low so as not to show a silhouette, I'd already been around the perimeter of the roof several times, checking out the surrounding area below. There was no sign of life. Twenty minutes earlier a patrol car had cruised up, turned at the head of the drive, then headed back. By twelve thirty, I was soaked with nervous sweat. It occurred to me that they could be watching, waiting. If they thought I hadn't followed their directions. .

I clambered back down the side of the building the way I'd come. Once on the ground, I began making a circuit of the museum. My stomach was beginning to cramp again-not only from the antirabies serum, but from fear and tension. I started whistling to attract the attention of anyone who might have trouble seeing a dwarf in the dark. I was convinced that if the coven had said they intended to kill April and Kathy if I didn't show up, they'd do it.

One circuit completed, I sat down on the stone wall near the entrance and whistled some more, louder. By one thirty, I knew no one was coming. I walked back to my car, distracted and tormented by the thought that Kathy and April could now be in jeopardy because of my game-playing. If I was lucky, the night's exercise had been only a run-through to see if I would show up alone; if I was lucky, they hadn't noticed that I'd spent two hours holed up on the roof trying to get the drop on them. If I was lucky.

Bad luck to one you love, Krowl had said.

With my state of mind what it was, my senses and reflexes weren't quite what they should have been. Also, I was suffering from a bad case of the stupids not to have thought of where else they might try to ambush me. I was seated in my car, turning the key in the ignition, when I felt the skin on the back of my neck begin to prickle. But it was too late. I tried to twist away, but the man in the back who'd picked the lock on my car door reared up and sapped me expertly. There was a loud thud inside my skull, which kept ricocheting around inside my head. I tried to follow the sound's bounces, and suddenly one echo became a white ball of fire that rushed at me. I tried to duck away from it, tripped over another echo and plunged down into a sea of red-tinged darkness.