An Affair Of Sorcerers

Chapter 7

I stopped at my office and called Dr. Greene at the hospital. He sounded as tired as I felt, and just as worried. Kathy had still not regained consciousness, and there'd been a change for the worse: her heart was beginning to show signs of irregular beating. Although Greene was personally supervising the various tests, with only a few hours off to sleep, the doctors and technicians had still not been able to identify the cause of Kathy's coma. I repeated to Greene what Madeline had told me about the possible use of poisonous herbs. By the time I hung up, my weariness had been replaced by acute anxiety. I ran to my car.

Within a half hour I was through the Lincoln Tunnel and on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading for Philadelphia. I cruised at seventy-five, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror for state troopers.

The hot, white afternoon had a bracing effect on me; it was as if the heat and light formed a friendly committee of Nature welcoming me home after many hours spent wandering in a dark, nightmare cave which I'd assumed, before talking to Madeline, was reserved exclusively for the ignorant. Zooming along on the sunlit highway, I found it hard to believe I'd spent the last few hours talking about witches and witchcraft, covens, astrology and ceremonial magicians; somehow, those things just didn't sit well inside my head in the middle of the day. But then there was the strange case of Madeline Jones-a respected scientist who led a double life as an astrologer. To say that Mad was obsessed explained nothing. As far as my client and I were concerned, it was a good thing she was; Madeline had given me potentially invaluable information about the occult. Still, out in the sunlight, I found I was worried about Madeline. But I was more worried about Kathy; a little girl was dying, a victim of these eerie spinners of twisted dreams, and that was the only reality I cared about.

I got off the Turnpike at Cherry Hill, New Jersey, then drove on and crossed over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge into Philadelphia's Franklin Square.

Unlike W. C. Fields, I liked Philadelphia. Only two hours from New York City, it was at once a vast warehouse crammed floor to ceiling with fascinating history, and a place of human ordinariness; it was this feeling of vaguely boring nonhurry that made it, on occasion, a welcome relief from the constant, draining excitement of New York. After my painful immersion the year before in the ancient culture and politics of Iran, I'd become highly sensitized to the infancy-and wonder-of my own country's history. As a result, I'd spent a number of weekends soon after my return visiting Philadelphia's historic sites. If I hadn't been knotted tight with tension and anxiety, it probably would have felt good to be back.

The address Mad had given me was in a fashionable area of Broad Street, near the Academy of Music. The sight of Richard Crandall's place of employment only added to my sense of surreality; a bank seemed a rather odd place to find a ceremonial magician. But then, not even Madeline-for all her obvious respect and fear-had claimed that Daniel could change lead into gold. It seemed even ceremonial magicians had to eat, and it looked as though this particular specimen was eating well; as Madeline had indicated, he was sitting in the bank vice-president's chair. His name-plate was flanked by Christmas Club and Hannukah Club signs.

Crandall looked the part; that is, he looked more like a bank vice-president than a master of the occult arts-whatever such a master looked like. Maybe I'd been expecting Orson Welles in drag. At the moment, Crandall was busy talking to a customer. He looked to be over six feet, and I judged him to be in his mid-thirties. He had close-cropped, prematurely gray hair which coordinated well with his matching eyes and gray pin-striped suit.

I sat down on a banquette covered with green imitation leather and waited, feeling my anger grow. Crandall must have felt my gaze on him, because he suddenly glanced up. Our eyes held. Perhaps it was exhaustion working on my brain, but there seemed to be something startling about his steady gaze. We stared at each other for what seemed a long time, and I could feel a warm flush working its way up the back of my neck, spreading across my cheeks. Finally he looked away and resumed talking to his customer.

When Crandall had finished, I rose and walked up to his desk. He was unconcernedly leafing through a sheaf of papers. Finally he stacked them neatly on one side of his ordered desk, then looked up at me. "Yes, sir?" he said evenly. He had an announcer's voice, deep and rich.

For some reason, I felt I had lost a round in our staring contest. I was anxious to recoup, but the studied air of self-confidence in his voice was as unsettling as his piercing stare. Both made me angry. "What the hell kind of a witch name is 'Daniel'?" I asked evenly, hoping to score back. "It just doesn't have the pizzazz of, say, 'Esobus,' or even 'Old Scratch.' "

I looked for a reaction, but there wasn't any-unless an almost imperceptible quick intake of breath could be judged a reaction. His eyes didn't change at all. He let his breath out slowly, but his face remained passive, almost blank, as though he were looking straight through me. He waited a few seconds, then said softly, "Excuse me?"

"Your witch name is 'Daniel,' " I said too quickly. "Word is that you're an occult Ph.D. I want to talk to you."

Crandall's right hand dropped below the desk for a moment, then resurfaced; it looked as if I were about to lose another round. I figured I had five to ten seconds before someone responded to the silent alarm, and I intended to use every one of them.

"You listen good, you son-of-a-bitch," I said softly, leaning on his desk. "There's a little girl dying two hours away from here. I think you had something to do with it, and if you don't set me straight fast I'm going to come down on you. Hard. For openers, I'm going to make sure that the stockholders of this bank find out about your weird hobbies. If the girl dies, I'll kill you. Believe it."

The depth of my rage surprised me. Up to that moment I'd been distracted by my concern for Kathy, but now I was struck by the full import of what someone had done to her.

My words had been propelled by a searing hatred for the sick mind or minds responsible for an innocent child's suffering.

Time was up. I could feel the bank's security guard come up behind me, and I stiffened as his hand gripped my shoulder. I looked hard at Daniel, who suddenly held up his hand.

"It's all right, John," Crandall said easily. "My knee hit the button by mistake. Dr. Frederickson is a customer."

The hand came off my shoulder. There was a mumbled apology, then the sound of receding footsteps. I never took my eyes off Daniel's face. He rose and gestured toward a door to his left. "Come with me, please," he said softly.

I followed him into a small conference room which was richly carpeted and paneled in shades of burnt orange. He closed the door, then turned to face me. "I believe you would try to kill me, although I don't know why," he continued softly. He had his head tilted back and was looking at me through half-closed lids, as if he were about to fall asleep. He looked almost comical, but what I found disconcerting was the fact that he made me feel odd; there was a sensation of heat and pressure in the pit of my stomach. I reminded myself that I'd only had two hours of sleep, and was running on reserve batteries of adrenaline and emotion.

"To kill me," he continued in the same, soft tone, "you'd have to know how to use the hate you feel now, then be able to conquer it and ride it to a conclusion. Can you do that? I doubt it. Very few people can."

"It's simple, Crandall; I'll just beat you to death with a broomstick. I said I wanted to ask you a few questions. Answer them right and you can go back to changing people into frogs, or whatever it is you do in your spare time."

"I will answer nothing," the gray-eyed man said casually.

Suddenly he stepped forward until he was only inches away from me. In a lightning motion, he reached down with his right hand and touched me squarely between the eyes with the tip of his third finger. It was a light tap, and yet it actually hurt; I was beginning to feel like a character out of Carlos Castaneda. Normally, my reflexes would have propelled me at him, but now, inexplicably, I found myself stepping back. I felt confused, weak and tired. I was losing rounds all over the place.

"You're to take what I say as a threat," Crandall continued casually in a voice barely above a whisper. "As you see, I know who you are; your career is familiar to me. I don't know how you came to know of me. I can't think of anyone who would dare give you information about me; but, obviously, someone did. No matter. There's absolutely nothing-nothing! — you can do to me. But I can. . inflict. You'll discover that to your sorrow if you try to interfere with me in any way." He paused a few beats, then said in a slightly louder voice, "Now you will answer this question. Why did you mention the name 'Esobus'?"

"It has to do with the little girl who's dying. She told me either you or Esobus took her father's book of shadows."

Daniel blinked rapidly and took two quick steps backward. It wasn't much of a reaction, but from this man I considered it a major concession.

"Her name is Kathy Marlowe," I continued. "Her father's name is Frank Marlowe. Someone's done a bad number on that girl, and you're a major candidate. There isn't much time left, and I intend to find out what's wrong with her before she dies of it."

Crandall's impassive, stony facade suddenly began to crumble before my eyes. He opened his gray eyes wide, looked at me for a long time; his tongue darted out, licked his lips. Finally he turned and walked quickly across the room. He stopped, his back to me, and stared out a window overlooking the bank's parking lot.

"Tell me what you did to her, Crandall," I continued quietly, making no effort to keep the pleading out of my voice. "You don't seem like the kind of man who'd hurt a little girl and not regret it." I picked up the telephone receiver on the conference table next to me, held the instrument out to him. "Tell me what's wrong with her so we can call her doctor and tell him."

"I wouldn't hurt Kathy," Crandall said in a dry, croaking voice. "She's my niece."

I slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. "What did you say?"

The man who called himself Daniel turned and looked at me strangely. His gray eyes seemed darker, his gaze even more intense. "You heard me," he said sharply. "I tell you because I want you to know I'm not responsible for Kathy's condition, and I don't want you interfering with me. Does Kathy's mother know?"

I shook my head. "I don't know how to get in touch with her. Kathy mentioned her once or twice, but I didn't really pay attention. Frank Marlowe and I were only casual acquaintances; aside from the fact that he was divorced and Kathy stayed with him during the summer, I didn't know anything about his private life. You're the first relative I've been able to find."

His eyes narrowed. "How did you become involved with this in the first place?"

"Kathy asked me to find her father's book of shadows," I said, still slightly stunned by the information that Daniel was Kathy's uncle. "Apparently, she heard her father say that either you or Esobus had stolen it."

I filled Crandall in on what had happened. He listened in silence. When I'd finished, he nodded distantly. "Thank you for saving Kathy's life," he said quietly.

"She's still in great danger. Her mother should be told right away."

"I'll take care of that, Frederickson," he murmured. He seemed totally distracted as he fumbled inside his suit jacket, produced a checkbook. "I appreciate what you've done. Let me pay-"

"I don't want your money, Crandall," I said sharply. "Your niece is my client, not you. And I still have a lot of questions. Did you take Frank Marlowe's book of shadows?"

It was some time before he answered. "This is an affair of sorcerers," he said at last.

"Terrific. I can't wait to use my thirty-eight-caliber wand on one of those bastards. I think it's time we called in the police."

"The police can't do anything for Kathy. Neither can you."

"But you can?"

"I'm the only one who can."

"And I say you're full of shit. You tell me Kathy's your niece, and I believe you. I also believe you didn't hurt her. But you damn well know more than you're telling me; you're plugged into this screwball scene right up to your eyeballs." I sighed with frustration and weariness. "For Christ's sake, she's your niece and you're playing with her life! Why don't you just tell me what this is all about so we can call in the proper authorities?"

"Stay out of this!" he hissed. "And stay away from me! I tell you there is nothing anyone else can do! I know what I'm talking about."

He again raised his right hand and started to move toward me; his hand was balled into a fist except for the ring finger, which was rigidly extended, pointing at my forehead.

"Touch me again and I'll crack your kneecap," I said, going into a crouch.

Crandall stopped, slowly put his hand down. That round went to me. I waited for him to say something, but he walked quickly around me and out through the office door. I followed, but he strode straight ahead and out of the bank without a backward glance. By the time I got to the street, he'd disappeared from sight. I walked to my car, got in behind the wheel and pulled out into the traffic.

I was almost sideswiped at the next corner, and it was only when I glanced in the rearview mirror that I realized I'd run a red light. I opened the window and took a deep breath; I was going to have to start paying attention to the all-too-real world around me. What with psychic healers, screwball Nobel Prize winners and homicidal witches, the previous Friday looked to have been a real loser on my horoscope.

Lack of sleep finally caught up with me an hour out of Philadelphia. The deadly monotony of the New Jersey Turnpike beat on me like a club. When I caught myself weaving back and forth between the center line and the shoulder of the road, I parked at the first rest stop, crawled into the back seat and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up at six fifteen feeling grubby but refreshed. I used a gas-station rest room to wash up, then sped into New York and went directly to the hospital. Visiting hours were over at eight thirty, but I made it by eight. Kathy was in the Intensive Care Unit, with no visitors allowed. I'd hoped to check with Dr. Greene, but I was told he wasn't available. That meant he was catching up on his sleep, which was probably more important than anything he could say to me. I left a message for him to call me at home whenever he could.

I was on my way to the elevator when I caught sight of a familiar figure sitting next to a woman in a small waiting room off the corridor. I went in. "What's the latest word on your niece?" I asked Daniel.

There was a vacant look in the ceremonial magician's eyes as he turned his head and looked at me. Without a word he rose and walked from the room, leaving me alone with the woman. She was short, maybe a foot or so taller than I was, and strikingly beautiful in a natural, totally understated way. She had to be Daniel's sister, because she had the same gray eyes, with just a touch of blue. The eyes were large and sensual, with natural long lashes. She was dressed in soft leather boots, French-cut jeans and steel-blue silk blouse. Around her neck she wore a necklace consisting of a fine gold chain supporting a dove which had been carved from ivory; the dove and silk on denim added just the right touch of vulnerable femininity. She had what looked like natural reddish-blond hair that fell neatly across her shoulders. She struck me as a person who was normally very much in control of herself. Her eyes were dry at the moment, but they were red-rimmed, and it was obvious she'd been crying before I walked in.

"You must be Robert Frederickson," the woman said, rising and offering me her hand. The hand was small and smooth and fitted easily into mine. "I'm April Marlowe; Kathy's mother."

I motioned for her to sit down again, then sat beside her. "How's Kathy?" I asked.

For a moment I thought she was going to cry, but she didn't. "Dr. Greene says that she seems stable."

"But she's still in a coma?"

April Marlowe nodded. "Yes, but I'm confident the doctors are doing all they can." She paused, dropped her eyes. "Dr. Greene and my brother told me about all you've done. You saved Kathy from the fire, and I know you're still trying to help. Please don't be offended, but I know you're a professional detective; I'd. . like to pay you."

"I'm not offended, Mrs. Marlowe, and paying me isn't necessary. Kathy's already taken care of my fee."

"Kathy-?"

"Never mind; it's not important. I assume Dr. Greene has asked you about Kathy's medical background?"

She nodded slowly. "Kathy doesn't have any allergies. It seems she's been. . poisoned." She suddenly reached out and touched my hand. "Mr. Frederickson, how can I thank you?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Three or four hours," she said. "My brother picked me up after he'd spoken with you. Why?"

"Then you haven't eaten?"

She shook her head, clasped her hands together tightly. "I'm not hungry."

"I am. If you don't mind eating with an unshaven dwarf, I'd like you to have dinner with me." She glanced at me quickly, puzzled and perhaps a little frightened. "I know a nice restaurant in the next block," I continued. "I'll leave word at the nurses' station where to reach us if there's a need, but I suspect we could all be in for a long siege. There's nothing to be done here now, so let's eat. I'd like to ask you some questions."

She thought about it, then gave a barely perceptible nod of her head. I took her elbow and helped her to her feet. I left word at the nurses' station that we'd be at The Granada, and wrote down the number.

"Where's your brother?" I asked the petite woman as we headed toward the elevator. "Maybe he'd like to go with us; in fact, I'd like it if he did."

"He won't talk to you," she said softly. "He'll find us if he wants to see us."

It was true that Crandall could always check at the nurses' station to see where we'd gone, but I sensed that April Marlowe hadn't meant it that way. I glanced sideways to see her face, but she was obviously thinking about something else. I guided her into the elevator and pushed the button for the ground floor.

At the restaurant I insisted she have a drink, and she ordered a Dubonnet on the rocks. I felt sufficiently rested to have a double Scotch.

"I can't drink at all," the woman said, flushing at the first sip of her wine.

"It's all right," I said, smiling. "You're in safe hands. Go ahead and drink it; it's good for you."

The waiter took our order, then brought rolls and butter. April Marlowe absently buttered half a roll, nibbled at it. "I must apologize for my brother," she said hesitantly. "I know he must seem. . strange to you."

" 'Strange' is a polite way of putting it, Mrs. Marlowe. His niece is dy. . very sick; I'm sure he knows something about this business but he won't say what it is. Now, that does seem 'strange' for a loving uncle. There's prima facie evidence that a crime has been committed, and I think it would be a good idea if the cops sweated him a little."

"Oh, that wouldn't do any good!" she said quickly, dropping her roll. Her blue-gray eyes were suddenly filled with alarm. "Daniel loves Kathy; he'd no more hurt Kathy-by omission or commission-than I would."

"You're not a loony."

April Marlowe put her elbows on the table, clasped her fingers together under her chin and stared at me. She almost smiled. "Daniel didn't tell you, did he?"

"Tell me what? Your brother won't even give me name, rank and serial number."

"Obviously, he didn't tell you that I'm a witch," the woman said evenly. "Wicca has been a way of life in my family for generations." Again she almost smiled. "We lost three ancestors in the Salem witch trials; two were burned, one was hanged."

"I didn't mean to offend you, Mrs. Marlowe," I said quickly, embarrassed.

She took another bite of her roll. As she ate, I noticed that she had a pale brown birthmark on her left cheek; it was a small imperfection that somehow made her even more beautiful. "You didn't offend me, Mr. Frederickson," she said. "You don't know any better because you don't understand. How could you be expected to? There's so much misinformation and prejudice about wicca that you couldn't be expected to know there's more to it than dancing naked around bonfires."

"I'd like to know more, Mrs. Marlowe. Will you tell me about it? It could help me understand what's happened to Kathy."

"I don't think it will," she said distantly. "The people who have done this thing are as alien to me as they are to you. Wicca is not evil, Mr. Frederickson; it's neither good nor evil, any more than Christianity, in itself, is good or evil-despite the evil that some men have done in Jesus' name. Wicca is simply an Earth religion which emphasizes sensitivity to the natural forces in the world around us. A Sabbat is no different from any other religious ceremony."

"Except that your average participant at a prayer meeting isn't trying to do tricks," I said-and immediately regretted it, because I recognized almost as soon as the words were out that I was wrong.

And the woman knew I was wrong. She smiled gently, as at a child. "Wicca, among other things, teaches that you can change your life-and the lives of others-through an intimate relationship with Nature. 'Tricks' aren't really the point; the witch is concerned with that part of human consciousness we refer to as the 'deep mind,' which is really a commonly shared racial consciousness. It's true there are mysteries involved in what we believe-numbers, dates of the year and so on. But that's true of all religions."

She sipped delicately at her wine, patted her mouth with her linen napkin. "It's really very simple," she continued quietly. "Wicca requires no massive organizational structure, no ornate buildings for worship, and no money to sustain it. In this sense, it's very close to what the early Christians practiced. In fact, the reason why witches were burned was primarily socioeconomic, and the church knew exactly what it was doing."

"You see, in the 1600s the vast majority of people were peasants, and they practiced wicca. This posed a threat to the social and economic well-being of the rich landowners who controlled the Church; their answer to the problem was to start burning people." She paused and smiled disarmingly. "So much for a very biased history lesson. Anyway, we believe that the best way of nurturing and refining our deep minds is through the coven."

"Daniel doesn't belong to a coven."

"That's true, but what Daniel tries to do is far beyond what most witches concern themselves with."

"I've heard him compared to a priest."

"That's a good analogy," April Marlowe said thoughtfully, nodding in agreement. "He works on his own deep mind, and the deep minds of others, alone-without the protection of a group. That can be dangerous. Daniel eventually reached a point where a higher plane of consciousness and control could only be reached by going on alone. That was when he started on the road of the ceremonial magician."

"A hard road, I take it." I felt sarcastic, hoped I didn't sound it.

"Yes," the woman replied evenly.

I picked up a roll, slowly and meticulously buttered it. "Mrs. Marlowe, I don't know anything about the tough life of a ceremonial magician, but it seems to me that your brother is playing spiritual games at a risk to Kathy's life."

"No," she said quickly. "I trust and respect Daniel. Whatever he does, he does for a reason. And he always goes his own way, even if that way is incomprehensible to others."

I vividly remembered the force of Crandall's tap on my forehead, and the hypnotic power of his presence. "What if thirteen of these ceremonial magicians got together and formed their own coven?"

She thought about it, shrugged. "Well, you'd certainly have a powerful coven-at least, in theory. Who knows what would happen? I've never heard of such a thing. I know that's not much of an answer, but it's an odd question. I can't think of any reason why a group of ceremonial magicians would want to form a coven."

"Maybe they'd want to burn a man to death and poison his daughter."

April Marlowe's eyes widened. "I don't understand what you're getting at."

"Your brother doesn't talk to you very much either, does he?"

She was about to reply when the waiter brought our food-paella for two. April Marlowe ate and sipped at her wine, and she began to look more relaxed. I felt better too. For a few minutes the nightmare I'd been living for almost twenty-four hours was put at a distance, and I was simply having dinner with a beautiful woman. The mood lasted only as long as it took us to finish our dinner; the fact that the woman's daughter was dying only a city block away was too real and terrible to suppress for long.

"There are rumors that a ceremonial magician by the name of Esobus has set up just such a supercoven," I said as I signaled the waiter for coffee.

"I don't think that's true," she said evenly. "There's been talk of this Esobus for years, but I think he's just a myth. No one could be as powerful as Esobus is supposed to be."

"Just how powerful is that?"

She considered it for a few moments, then said: "That's hard to explain without getting into a discussion of the 'tricks' that you don't believe in. Anyway, Esobus is supposed to be a 'black' magician dedicated to evil."

"So I've been told. Have you ever heard anyone's real name associated with Esobus?"

She shook her head. "Not with the Esobus we're talking about. Oh, from time to time some witch will adopt the name, but those people are just silly dilettantes. 'Esobus' is a very powerful name. Any ceremonial magician powerful enough to assume that mantle simply wouldn't; he'd adopt a name of his own. That's why I doubt this Esobus is anything more than a legend."

"This particular legend may have stolen your former husband's book of shadows."

She put down her coffee cup, frowned. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Daniel didn't mention that either?"

April Marlowe slowly shook her head. "What would there be to tell me? Frank wasn't a witch. On the contrary, he always thought wicca was a big joke."