Season of the Witch

CHAPTER TWENTY

The second indication that the sisters were checking up on him came only a few days later.

Gabriel had arrived early for a dentist's appointment only to be told by the sour-looking receptionist that Dr. Guiley's car had broken down and that he would be an hour late. Paging through a woman's magazine did not appeal. A walk outside seemed a better proposition. But as he stepped into the street, he realized that the sky had turned sullen. A few stray drops of rain spotted the sidewalk.

He hesitated, wondering if he should go back inside. He was standing on a busy street corner, but to his right a quiet alley led off from the high street. The alley was home to three tiny shops: a florist, the windows filled with prickly cacti, a sad-looking coffee shop with metal tables and a store with a dusty sign peeping through an even dustier window. The Pagan Wheel. And underneath it the words divinatory tools, wiccan art and other essentials for the magicl life.

Magic again. He was not a great believer in synchronicity, but this was getting ridiculous.

As he pushed open the door, a bell tinkled faintly somewhere above him. The man behind the counter lifted his head at the sound. He had a thin face with feral eyes and reminded Gabriel of an emaciated wolf. The back of his hands were covered in tattoos- blue spiders weaving inky webs-as were the fingers. For a moment he stared expressionlessly at Gabriel, before going back to his book.

The shop was small but the shelves were packed. The paint on the walls was peeling, and there were damp patches at the skirting boards. Among the clutter Gabriel also noticed three mousetraps with dusty bits of cheese stuck inside their steel jaws. He grimaced. If he had to confess to a phobia, it would be mice. Rats were in the realm of total hysteria. Where his fear of these rodents stemmed from he had no idea, but they represented his ultimate nightmare.

There was a faint smell in the air. Sweetish, cloying. Gabriel wrinkled his nose in recognition. This smell came straight from his youth, but was one he did not encounter all that often any longer. Marijuana. Someone in this shop had been smoking grass. Well, he thought sardonically, mysticism and getting stoned have always gone hand in hand.

He glanced over at the shop owner again. The man was still deep in his book. His elbows were resting on the counter and he had his head propped up on his hands.

On the far wall were two prints. One was in black-and-white and showed death-a grinning skeleton-holding an hourglass. The other was lavishly colored and depicted a woman with flowing hair and swirling cape looking down at a sun clasped between her hands. The picture looked familiar: he had seen this image before. Then he remembered. The same image served as a screen saver on the computers at Monk House.

He made his way over to the picture, ducking dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. And there was no doubt about it: it was the same image. The flowing hair, the cape, the long white fingers wrapped around the golden sun.

He turned and looked over his shoulder. "Excuse me…"

The store owner looked up, and Gabriel was once again reminded of a wolf. It was something about the eyes.

"Can you help me?" Gabriel gestured at the print.

The man closed his book deliberately.

"This picture… what does it mean?"

The store owner moved out from behind the counter and came up to Gabriel. A bracelet in the shape of a snake was wound around the fleshy part of one arm, which was thin but muscled. His voice was soft and educated.

"As you can see from the color of her cloak, this woman is a witch."

Gabriel looked back at the picture. The cloak was green.

"The sun in her hands indicates she is a solar witch."

"Solar?"

"Solar witches are practitioners of high magic."

Gabriel was starting to feel irritated. "As opposed to low magic?"

The man did not react to the heavy sarcasm. "Magic can be separated into common magic and high magic. Common magic is the colorful side of magic-the kind that has always attracted the man on the street. Potions, incantions, sorceries." His voice sounded bored. "Women on brooms with pointed hats. Harry Potter books. TV shows. A lot of it is based on superstition and myth. Magic for the masses."

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the glass-fronted cases filled with dowsing rods, daggers and jewelry. "Most of the stuff you see here is for dabblers in common magic. I have to make a living, yes?" He lifted his eyebrows as if astonished at himself for making the admission. "But high magic… high magic is rooted in the Hermetica, the Kabala and oriental mysticism. High magic is something else altogether."

Gabriel waited. The sky outside the window had darkened considerably and raindrops were spattering the window.

"If you want to practice high magic, you're in for a rough ride. You will have to undergo a purification process. At the end of it, your consciousness will be irrevocably altered. It is a rigorous journey, traveled by few. If I were you, I would not even think of attempting it."

Why the hell the man would think he'd want to attempt something that kooky was beyond him. Besides-Gabriel looked back at the picture-green was not his color.

"Would I have to wear a cloak?"

The store owner did not acknowledge his feeble attempt at humor. He looked at Gabriel expressionlessly.

"During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, high magic was practiced by secret societies and lodges. The Church tried to stamp it out, of course. It was considered the great heresy." The store owner gave a curious half-shouldered shrug. "Practitioners of high magic were witches and wizards who sought to know the secrets of the universe. They were ready to look God in the eye without flinching. That takes a lot of guts, yes? The Church liked to keep the masses obedient. And scared. Alchemists had a rough time of it. If they were caught, they died truly horrible deaths at the hands of their inquisitors." He touched his forefinger to his lip as if in secret. "You know one, don't you?"

"Know who?"

"A witch."

"I don't know what you mean."

The store owner smiled suddenly, his lips pulling away from his teeth to show very pink gums. "I think you do. I knew you'd been touched the moment you walked in here. I can sense her fingerprints on the tissue of your brain."

Even though he told himself the man was simply messing with him, Gabriel was conscious of a chill settling at the base of his spine.

He tried to be flippant. "Does she at least practice good magic?"

"There is no such thing as good or bad magic. Magic is amoral. It is the intent of the witch that is good or evil."

"Well, is her intent good?"

"I don't know." The store owner shrugged again. "I sense… ambivalence. So be careful."

"What is it you're saying?"

"I'm saying, don't make her angry. Don't make her feel threatened."

"Or what?"

"Magic has three functions." The store owner ticked them off on his web-covered fingers. "To produce, protect and destroy. Even a good witch will sometimes make use of destructive magic in self-defense. So if this woman feels she needs to defend herself against you… well, watch out."

The tiny shop with its mildewed walls was crowding in on Gabriel. And for a split second he thought he saw something small and dark dart along one of the shelves. A mouse?

"I have to go."

"Wait." The store owner walked over to one of the glass cases and opened the hinged lid. Reaching inside, he removed a silver-colored circle pinned to the felt board.

"Here, take this. On the house. It's an amulet."

Gabriel took the object from him. It was small but surprisingly heavy.

"Iron," the man said as though Gabriel had asked a question. "A good metal for protection against witchery."

"I thought you said this kind of thing was common magic?"

"Common magic has its uses."

Gabriel slipped the amulet into his pocket. "Thanks. But let me pay for it."

"No. This will be my good deed for the month." The store owner smiled again, the pink gums reinforcing the vulpine quality of his features. "And good luck on the journey ahead. You do not live the magic life yourself, but you are within its orbit. It will draw you in. Soon."

Gabriel looked at him, perturbed. The decaying shop, which suddenly seemed full of tiny moving shadows, and the proprietor with his heavy eyes were starting to creep him out.

The store owner had settled himself behind the counter again and was reaching for his book. "The journey will test your sanity." He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as though there were nothing extraordinary about his words. "And once you start walking down that road, there is no turning back. You will start craving the rush. One can become addicted to madness, you know. Develop a taste for it." He looked down at the book in his hands, frowned and turned a page.

Gabriel waited, but it was clear the store owner had lost interest in him. "Shut the door tightly behind you, please." He spoke without looking up. "It has a tendency to slip open."

Later that afternoon, after the rain had cleared, Gabriel went for a run. As he started jogging down the Embankment, the day was dissolving into blue dusk.

He was moving at a fast clip. Sweat was running down his forehead and he pushed his arm angrily across his face.

He knew the reason for his anger. He was spooked. He had allowed himself to fall for the deliberately enigmatic warnings of a pot-smoking weirdo who probably enjoyed putting the wind up gullible customers.

He did not believe in witches. He did not believe in witchcraft.

And yet, and yet…

Solar witches were witches in search of self-knowledge and enlightenment. He was unable to see how this quest could be construed as sinister or threatening. But somehow it had led to the death of Robert Whittington. Why?

And how? There was little doubt in his mind that Robert Whittington had tried to become a solar wizard himself. And that this journey had involved walking through the house of a million doors. Maybe this was what the "game" was that she kept referring to in the diary. But what exactly was the house of a million doors?

One can become addicted to madness… Develop a taste for it.

The writer of the diary was not insane. But-and he was facing up to this truth for the first time-some of the passages in the diary read as though the mind behind the words was calibrated too finely. As though the writer was inflamed with a vision of such fevered beauty, the heat might cause her to burn herself from the inside out.

Had she snapped? Had her frantic quest for enlightenment somehow tipped her over into shadow?

The thought was so unpleasant that he involuntarily slowed his pace to a walk. In front of him was a wooden bench. It was sprayed with graffiti and encrusted with bird droppings, but he nevertheless lowered himself heavily onto the seat.

He might be in love with a murderer.

For a long time he simply sat there, staring at the river. The algae smell rising into the night air was strong here and fetid. He loved the river, but every day the newspapers carried a roll call of horror. The broken-boned body of a jumper. A severed head bobbing on the water like a fleshy bowling ball. Syringes. Crack vials.

Was he in love with a killer?

Even more shocking: did he really want to know the truth?

In his mind's eye he saw himself standing in the living room at Monk House with its high, shadowed ceiling, a sweating glass of water in his hand. Inside his chest a feeling as though his heart were being squeezed to dust. On that day he could have accessed the computer holding the file of The Promethean Key and he hadn't. He hadn't had the guts. If the woman in the diary was the same woman who had pushed a boy's head under water till he drowned, he did not want to know it.

He felt cold. There was a chill in the air that warned summer was drawing to a close. It was time to go home.

In the communal entrance hall of his apartment block he stopped to check on his mailbox. It held two invoices-gas and electricity- and a mail order catalog. He dropped the catalog into the open bin provided for residents to get rid of their junk mail. It held some bus ticket stubs and a take-out menu. Babbaloo. He recognized the bold lettering and distinctive logo. This restaurant was only three blocks away from Monk House. He was slightly surprised to see the menu here. This was not SW3, and as far as he knew, Babbaloo only delivered locally.

The entrance hall was brightly lit, and the lamps on the landings should have been burning as well, but for some reason the stairs were dark. He hesitated for a moment before heading for the elevators.

Just before pressing the button in the wall to summon the cage, he looked up at the row of numbers in circles above the elevator door. The very last circle was lit. It made him pause.

The building had only eight apartments arranged over four floors. The top floor held one apartment only. His.

The elevator was open on the top floor.

He stared frowningly at the lit circle with the letter P. P for "penthouse." Someone had taken the elevator to his apartment and must still be up there.

He turned away and headed back to the unlit stairwell. As he mounted the stairs two by two, holding on to the railing for support, he wondered why he was feeling so anxious. It could be anyone up there. The superintendent. A messenger. Even a neighbor-although the residents of the warehouse tended to keep themselves to themselves. Well, he would know in a moment.

As he stepped onto the landing of the third floor, however, he heard the unmistakable whine of the elevator starting up. It was on its way down.

He turned around and started racing down the stairs. But as he approached the first landing, the elevator whine ceased and was replaced by a juddering sound as the cage reached the ground floor. He would not make it in time. He stopped, breathless, and leaned out over the balustrade, looking down the well and straining to catch a glimpse of the occupant.

He heard the door open. A shaft of light fell across the floor. The merest hint of a black wool coat. Light steps. The next moment the muted whoosh of the revolving glass doors in the front hall. Silence.

Well, so much for that, then. He straightened, feeling disappointed and almost angry.

The front door of his apartment was closed and locked. But even as he turned the key, he knew that someone had been inside.

Not that there were any clear signs of disturbance. The papers on his desk were still neatly stacked. As far as he could see, nothing had been taken. The data on his computer was what concerned him most, but fortunately, he had been carrying his notebook around with him all day and had not had the chance to set it up again before he went for his run. It was still in his satchel inside the safe, and the combination lock was fast. His CDs were out of harm's way inside a beautiful eighteenth-century fruitwood cabinet with a very sophisticated twenty-first-century lock.

But there were signs nevertheless. The broom cupboard in the kitchen could not be closed unless you deliberately pushed against the door, and he never did that because once closed, it was murder to open again. He had once ruined two perfectly good table knives trying to pry the door open, and ever since he never forced it. He had been meaning to get the locking mechanism fixed but hadn't got around to it yet.

The door was immobile. He pulled on the knob but it stayed closed. Someone had walked past this cupboard and inadvertently pushed the door shut, not realizing it would be a dead giveaway that an intruder had been inside.

The second sign was in the bedroom. Before setting out for his run, he had changed his day clothes for his running shorts and a T-shirt and had simply dropped jacket and trousers on the bed without bothering to put them away. The clothes were still where he had left them. He had also dropped his long-sleeved shirt into the open laundry basket and the shirt was inside the hamper. All as it should be. But on top of the shirt were two socks and that was wrong. When he had taken them off, he had, as usual, tried to pitch his socks into the basket. He averaged a 98 percent success rate but today his aim was off and one of them had ended up outside the hamper. He remembered feeling annoyed about it. When he left, one sock had been inside the hamper. One outside. No longer.

The footsteps downstairs had been unmistakeably those of a woman. And only a woman would tidy up a stray sock. And then there was the Babbaloo menu in the bin. Taken together, all these signs gave him a pretty clear indication as to which direction he should be looking.

He had never invited the sisters to his apartment: it was as though he realized that he needed to keep this part of his life separate. But tonight one of them had paid him a visit.

Both sisters were interested in transformation and alchemy. But only one had stepped over into darkness. Magic was amoral, his tattooed friend of this morning had assured him. It was the intent of the practitioner that was key. So who had been inside his apartment tonight? The good witch, or the witch with evil intent? He smiled, grimly amused that he now seemed to be able to use the word "witch" without any sense of irony.

A thought suddenly entered his mind and he went cold. The picture of Robert Whittington and the two women on Hampstead Heath. The one he had stolen during his very first visit to the house. Where was it?

He walked swiftly to his bookcase and pulled down the heavy volume of The Oxford English Dictionary. Placing his thumb on the tab marked R, he opened the filmy pages.

The picture was still there, along with the headshot of the boy Frankie had given him. He gave a deep sigh of relief. His secret was safe.

Which still left the main question unanswered. Who had entered his apartment tonight: his love or his adversary?

And what if they were one and the same?

He was still standing there, the dictionary heavy in his hand, when the phone rang.

Gabriel recognized the voice immediately. He tried to keep his own voice cool. "What can I do for you, Mr. Whittington?"

"I would like to meet with you at my house, Gabriel. Tonight, if possible."

Oh, no. The last thing he felt like doing was talking to a dying man about his dead son.

When he didn't answer, Whittington continued, "Please. It will just be you and me. Cecily will be at a charity dinner."

Well, at least he wouldn't have to face Frankie. He hadn't seen her since their argument five days ago in Isidore's house. He and Isidore were back on speaking terms, although relations between them were still strained. But Frankie… the disappointment in her eyes had been bad enough. Worse, though, had been the resignation he had read on her face-as though she had hoped he wouldn't fail her but was not really that surprised that he had.

"Please," Whittington repeated. "Around eight. I'll be waiting for you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The butler who opened the door of the Whittington residence for him wore an expression of long-suffering patience mixed with faint nausea.

"Mr. Whittington is expecting you," he said, managing to inject an inflection of pained surprise into his voice. "If you would come this way."

Gabriel followed silently, even though he felt like kicking the man's imperious arse. Who still employed butlers anyway? Hadn't they gone the way of the dodo?

They passed through the impressively domed entrance hall, which smelled of furniture polish, and entered a room that was obviously used as a study. It had a very masculine feel to it: all leather club chairs, hunting prints and tooled calfskin books.

Set within the bay window was a gigantic kneeholed desk. A gilt-framed photograph sat in the extreme right-hand corner. The back of the photograph was facing the room and he was unable to see who or what it depicted. Hanging above the fireplace was a life-sized oil painting of Frankie. It was an excellent rendition: the artist had managed to capture the essence of his sitter. The painted eyes were lifelike and reflected her levelheadedness, compassion and humor.

Gabriel turned to the butler, who was watching him over his nose. For a moment he thought the man was going to tell him not to touch anything, but all he said was "Please wait here. Mr. Whittington will be with you shortly."

Gabriel sat down in one of the club chairs and crossed his ankles, trying to relax.

A sound at the door made him look up. William Whittington had entered the room, and once more Gabriel was aware of the force of his personality. It wasn't the in-your-face arrogance of the typical corporate alpha male-it was far more subtle than that. But there was no mistaking that this was a big, big jungle cat even if it walked softly.

"Gabriel. Thank you for coming." Whittington held out his hand, and as Gabriel took it, he noticed the raised blue veins under the skin. And did he imagine it or was the grip less firm than the first time they had met?

"Can I fix you a drink?" Whittington approached a glass-fronted bookcase and placed his hand against the door. It swung open to reveal a bar area with a mirror, glasses and several rows of bottles.

"Whisky, thank you."

"Bourbon or Scotch?"

"Scotch, will be good."

After handing Gabriel his drink, Whittington sat down in his swivel chair behind his desk. A grimace of pain flitted across his face and Gabriel felt a stab of pity. Not that Whittington was the kind of man who would welcome his concern.

Whittington raised his glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Gabriel took a sip of the smoothest whisky he had ever tasted. He glanced over at the bottle. The label was unknown to him, some unpronounceable Scottish name. Probably at least ten pounds a shot.

"First," Whittington looked steadily at Gabriel, "I'd like to thank you."

Gabriel moved his shoulders uncomfortably. "I haven't been very successful so far."

"You've brought us much closer to the truth than anyone else. That's more than the police and private investigators I've hired have been able to do. At least we now know where the evil lies. In Monk House."

Gabriel was jarred. Evil? When he thought of Monk House, he thought of flowers, laughter, beautiful music and… friendship.

Whittington was watching him keenly. "They're fascinating women."

Gabriel made a noncommittal sound.

"Someone once said: 'Everything that deceives may be said to enchant.'"

"Plato, actually." He could be erudite too.

Whittington smiled faintly. "Yes, indeed."

"Mr. Whittington-"

"William, please."

"William. I wish I had more to give you but I can't really tell you all that much." Gabriel suddenly realized he had a headache. It had come from nowhere but it was now pulsing just behind his eyes.

"Tell me this. Is my son still alive?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I don't think so."

"You don't think so or you know so."

"I know so."

It was very quiet in the room. Whittington sat in his chair with extraordinary stillness. Gabriel looked away, unwilling to witness the grief in the eyes of the man opposite him. His gaze went past Whittington's shoulder and out the curved bay window and came to rest on the spotlit statue of a naked female. She was standing inside a niche in the garden wall and had flowing hair curling coyly around her hips, only barely concealing the mons veneris. Her breasts were full and her shoulders beautifully rounded. But her features were weathered and pitted, the eyes shallow indentations in a blank face.

When Whittington spoke again his voice sounded exhausted. "Frankie tells me Robert might have been drowned."

"Yes. The impression I got during my ride was of death by drowning."

"My son was an excellent swimmer. He loved water."

"I know. Frankie told me. But something happened to your son before he drowned. Something that affected his brain and which induced partial paralysis of his body. What, I don't know. But I think that was why he was unable to defend himself. I'm not going to lie to you. At the moment everything is a muddle. I don't see clearly at all. The only thing I am convinced of is that your son is no longer alive. I'm sorry-I wish I could say different."

Whittington inclined his head. "Frankie has been trying to prepare me but I needed to hear it from you myself. Thank you for your honesty." He reached out to the photograph on his desk, and as he pulled it toward him, Gabriel had a glimpse of the picture. It was a copy of the one Frankie had given him when she first visited the loft. Robert Whittington. Smiling.

Alive.

Whittington touched the picture with his thumb. He looked up, and the expression in his eyes was no longer one of sadness but of determination.

"Now I want to ask you something else. Will you be able to find out what happened? "

Some things are better left to mystery. The words popped into his mind unbidden, and for one horrified moment Gabriel thought he had actually uttered them out loud.

But Whittington was no fool. "You think it best to let sleeping dogs lie."

"No." Gabriel pressed his fingertips against the spot above the bridge of his nose where the headache had settled. Man, he felt tired. And he was aware of an unheard sound vibrating through his skull, faint but insistent. It was as though… as though something were scratching at his mind, trying to get in…

"Gabriel?" Whittington's voice interrupted his thoughts.

He looked at Whittington where he was sitting behind his desk and was surprised to find that he had trouble focusing. "I won't stop searching. You have my word. As long as you want me to keep looking, I will. I'll only stop if you tell me to."

"I'll never give up," Whittington said. "Not as long as I have breath in my body."

The words might have come across as overly dramatic, but for the fact that Gabriel knew he was looking at a dying man. With things as they were, the words sounded poignant. And for one disconcerting moment-as he looked into the other man's face-he thought he glimpsed the stark sheen of Whittington's skull glowing through his skin like a premonitory hologram.

Whittington opened his mouth and said something else, but Gabriel was unable to concentrate on his words because for just a moment the image of a spider flitted across the transom of his mind and a fragrance of musk and frangipani stirred a memory…

NO! He slammed down on his inner eye and a massive bolt of pain shot through his head. It was so shocking he almost let go, but then he clamped down even tighter, shutting out the intrusive presence that was probing his brain. A burst of heavy fragrance-the musk and frangipani smell now almost unbearably intense-exploded in his mind as the intruder withdrew with an almost audible squeal. He was bathed in sweat and wanted to throw up.

"Gabriel?" Whittington had moved out from behind his desk and was standing beside his chair, a glass of water in his hand. "Drink this. Are you all right? Shall I call a doctor?"

"No." He pushed Whittington's hand away. "I'll be OK. I just need to get home." He felt intensely nauseous, and for a moment he thought he might vomit onto the priceless Tabriz carpet. He gulped several deep breaths, trying to settle his pitching stomach.

"I'll ask Flannery to call you a cab." Whittington walked out the room hurriedly, and a few moments later Gabriel could hear him talking to someone in the entrance hall. As he waited, he closed his eyes. His head was throbbing wildly. He didn't want to look at this room in which the light now seemed acid-color bright and the furniture horribly lopsided. His one overriding desire was to get to his bed and pull the covers over his head. He opened his eyes briefly, and for one awful moment it seemed to him as though Frankie were trying to step out of the heavy gilt frame above the fireplace and into the room, her painted figure elongated and strange. Hurriedly he closed his eyes again.

When the cab finally arrived, Whittington accompanied him into the street. As he shut the cab door on Gabriel, he leaned through the open window. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Gabriel nodded, then winced. Nodding was definitely not in the cards yet. "Don't worry." He tried to smile. "I'll be fine." He hesitated, searching for words. "And I'll keep my promise. You have my word. I won't stop searching for your son until you do."

Whittington stepped back. He lifted his hand-in a gesture of thanks or farewell, Gabriel couldn't tell. And then the cab pulled away from the curb, leaving the tall, thin figure behind.

His brain felt battered. There was no other word for it. As though someone had taken a swing at it with a blunt object.

Gabriel lay in his bed watching the play of shadows on the ceiling. Light from outside filtered in through the half-open drapes. He had left the window open even though the wind was fresh. It blew into the room at irregular intervals, chilling his face and exposed shoulders.

The alarm clock next to his bed blinked crimson seconds: 2:00 a.m.

The first thing he had done upon his return to the apartment was to check the diary in the hope that the writer had added an entry tonight, which might give him a clue as to what had happened to him at Whittington's house. But there was nothing. He had checked again half an hour ago. Still nothing. The last entry was keyed in fully three days ago. She was not in the mood to write.

Again and again he relived his visit to William Whittington and the moment he had realized he was being viewed remotely. It had been a very skilled scan. It had started out so gently, he had almost missed it. The remote viewer was testing the terrain, but what had started out as a kind of scouting expedition had turned into an assault as soon as Gabriel tried to get the intruder out of his mind. The RV who had accessed him sure as hell did not like to be denied entry.

For a moment he thought back to his years at Eyestorm and the scans remote viewers had run on one another. Sometimes the exercise was conducted in stealth mode-the idea being that the scan should be done surreptitiously without the other viewer knowing about it. But he had always been able to sense immediately when he was being accessed, and he never had the slightest trouble shutting the scan down. But tonight he had almost missed the signals-the scan had indeed been spiderlike, the viewer leaving hardly any prints behind. Only that signature of musk and frangipani. And when he did finally catch on and tried to clamp down, it had felt like trying to shut the door on an avalanche. And it hurt.

Who was it?

Someone with truly extraordinary remote viewing skills. Rivaling his own. No, surpassing them. He had never before encountered an RV who could wield his talent like an actual weapon, inflicting physical pain on the subject who was being viewed. He certainly wasn't able to do so.

Uneasily he remembered the agonizing pain that had shot through his head when he had clamped down. His overwhelming impulse had been to let go, to allow the scan to continue. Anything to stop the pain. What if next time he wasn't able to hold on?

Stop being a wimp. No one had ever bested him before. And next time he'd be prepared.

But it was an odd feeling, knowing he might have met his match. At Eyestorm no one had been even remotely in his league. What had Frankie called him? Mr. Super Remote Viewer.

Ah, Frankie. Suddenly he missed her fiercely. Among all the weirdness, she had always been the sane voice. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. Had she returned from her event yet? Was she sleeping? He remembered how, when she slept, there was always the hint of a frown between her eyes. It had amused him when they were still together, the way in which she would seem to be concentrating even while in the land of Nod. It's as though sleep is an activity for you, he'd tease her. Not a release. And he had pressed his lips to the little frown between her eyes, smoothing out the lines with a kiss.

But she had lost faith in him. Again. She probably wished she had never asked for his help with Robbie's disappearance.

I won't stop searching for your son until you do. His promise to William Whittington. He still did not understand why he had made that promise. He had just about decided to tell Whittington tonight that he was quitting.

In his mind's eye he saw Whittington's face. The taut, papery skin. The intelligent eyes. The bone beneath the flesh glowing like a holographic omen.

This was a man in danger.

Warn Frankie.

Danger? The thought had floated into his mind. Whittington was a sick man. A man who was close to dying. But "danger" hardly seemed the appropriate word. And no use upsetting Frankie. She already had too much to deal with.

A gust of wind pushed gently against the curtains as though an invisible hand were trying to find a way in. He pulled the covers over his shoulders and closed his eyes. Tomorrow was Minnaloushe's birthday and the sisters had invited him to Monk House for a private celebration. A celebration for three. Waiting for him at the birthday table would be his love.

And his foe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Whenever Gabriel tried to remember that last evening at Monk House, he would be unable to give a chronological account of the night's events. The details were as blurred as a badly developed photograph. Did they start the evening with dancing or did that come later? Was Morrighan's dress green or blue?

He'd arrived to find the living room illuminated by candlelight. Incense burning in earthenware pots. Champagne on ice. A birthday cake made of ice cream, which, on a whim, they decided to eat before the main meal. He and Morrighan singing "Happy Birthday" while Minnaloushe opened her presents. He had bought her a signed volume of Leonard Cohen's Stranger Music, and she seemed delighted with the gift.

"And we have something for you too." Morrighan handed him a small package wrapped in blue tissue paper tied with silver tinsel.

"Forme? Why?"

"Because."

"That's not an answer," he said lightly. He was holding the package between forefinger and thumb, strangely hesitant to open it.

"OK. Because pigs might fly."

"And zebras wear pajamas," Minnaloushe added.

"Take a look."

It was a locket on a silver linked chain. Engraved on the outside was the Monas. The craftsmanship was superb. Inside were two strands of silken hair, the shiny filaments intertwined. Red and black. Curled in the shape of a question mark.

He rubbed his fingertips across the surface of the locket, feeling the scored lines of the engraving. He had never been one for the jewelry thing, but as he looked into their expectant faces, he felt almost emotional. "Thanks," he said. "I shall treasure this always." And they smiled.

Later he could never recall much of the birthday meal. But he remembered well how his glass was filled again and again-first with champagne, then with Morrighan's berry wine. He supposed he should have paced himself, but it was a party after all, and he was gripped by an odd feeling of recklessness.

There was dancing, he recalled-Chris Isaac singing "Wicked Game"-and he remembered partnering Morrighan, while Minnaloushe looked on. Morrighan smiling at him with her blue eyes, her lovely mouth aglow. Her hip and thigh brushing his, his hand resting on her bare back, feeling the fine muscles of a true athlete underneath his fingertips as they moved from one end of the room to the other. "Wicked Game" giving way to "Heart-Shaped World." The songs to which they danced forever after locked inside his mind with the memory of looming, distorted shadows flitting across the wall.

It was then that the events of the night started to run into one another, dissolving into a blur of crazy color, fantastical images and heightened emotions.

He had a fractured recollection of lying supine on the couch with no idea of how that came to be. The two women bending over him. The fragrance of their hair and the scent of their skin mingling with the maddeningly sweet smell of the smoldering joss sticks. Minnaloushe's hands running through his hair, Morrighan's fingers stroking the inside of his wrist. Soft hands undressing him. The inside of his mouth tasting of berries. His tongue thick and sluggish.

We want you to play with us, Gabriel. We want to show you heaven.

Was he dreaming? Was this just a lustful, alcohol-hazed dream? Fingers like velvet, their touch firm, undoing the buttons of his shirt, quite unhurriedly. Pale hands in the almost darkness, stroking, cupping. Minnaloushe's hair silken bonds around his wrists. Morrighan an ephemeral vision of porcelain skin and blue-gemmed eyes. The wet pressure of slippery lips of flesh. The bonding of damp skin with damp skin. Who was in his arms? Morrighan? Minnaloushe?

The fluttering of a wet tongue across his body, tiny flicks driving him mad. He groaned, his skin unbearably irritated. She was kissing him, drawing him inside her wet, slick mouth.

Look into my eyes…

And at that moment he knew he was being scanned. He sensed her presence, her signature. It smelled of frangipani and musk. A tiny portion of his mind was screaming at him to man the boats, pick up arms, guard himself… but he was powerless. Unlike the blunt-force power of the previous scan, this was a languid, slow probe. He could feel his inner eye opening. Slowly, slowly widening until it was at its fullest extent. He tried to clamp down but he was paralyzed. No control. No protection reflex. His inner eye was slack, wide open, completely vulnerable. As vulnerable as a normal eye staring into a dust storm without the ability to blink.

Someone was walking through his mind calmly, softly.

Don't fight it, Gabriel.

Why? The question formed sluggishly inside his head.

Follow me…

Her invitation a gentle caress. So good. His groin tingling, his legs heavy, his mind soft, soft, soft. The softest wax.

Who sent you, Gabriel?

"William Whittington." No hesitation.

As long as he's alive, the search continues?

"Yes. As long as he's alive the search continues."

No response from her this time, just a lingering feeling of regret and disappointment enfolding his thoughts like a thin fog.

Such a waste. It could have been good. We could have played with you, Gabriel; given you your true name. We could have changed your life.

Changed my life. Changed my life. The thought repeating itself in his head like a needle stuck on a vinyl record. Changed my life.

Let me show you. Look. This could have been yours.

He groaned. Sounds and images streaming through the receptacle of his inner eye unhindered, an avalanche of sensation.

Do you like it?

Oh, God. Such wonder. So incredible.

He saw a sparrow fall a thousand miles away, heard the moan of solar winds. The sky above his head a blue apocalypse, his feet standing on a million unborn suns. He heard the rush of angels' wings and around his ankles curled serpents with velvet eyes.

He knew he was close to understanding the speech that cannot be grasped. He was about to meet the mute who does not speak but whose multitude of words was great. And still his consciousness kept expanding. He was flying, soaring. How wonderful to possess the power of flight. He found himself giggling uncontrollably like a patient on laughing gas.

But then he was suffused with great sadness. The sadness of the suffering endured by millions of souls. Grief poured into his mind, obliterated him, a vast ocean of sorrow drowning him, and he sobbed, his heart was breaking.

It's all right, Gabriel. Don't cry.

Comfort. He reached out to the woman who was lying with her back to him. He wanted her to turn over so he could place his head against her breast.

Her skin was deathly white. He placed his hand on her flaccid shoulder. As her head flopped around, he saw it was Melissa Cartwright. Ash blond hair dirtied with mud and dried blood. Behind her violet eyes a darkness. He shrieked, tried to roll away from the weight of her lifeless body, on top of him now, and his mind went black with horror.

And then he was suddenly alone, a stick figure drawn on a blank white page.

I'm sorry, Gabriel. I have to go.

She was disengaging; he could feel her withdrawing. The fragrance of musk and frangipani was fading. This was even worse than coming face-to-face with Melissa Cartwright's dead eyes. Loneliness: he had never felt such terrible abandonment.

"NO!" It burst out of him, the thought filled with desperate longing. "Stay with me."

But she was gone.

Now he heard voices quarreling and a woman weeping and a long time later someone standing next to him. He could barely see the outline of her figure in the dark. As she placed a light blanket on top of him, he struggled to sit upright, but his limbs were still scarily numb. "Shh." He guessed rather than saw her hold a finger to her lips. "Go to sleep, Gabriel. It's over." She was whispering.

He closed his eyes like a child, feeling greatly comforted. His mind was suddenly still. At peace. Outside was the moonless night, trees rustling in the cold wind. Small creatures burrowing in the underbrush. A night bird singing.

He woke up to the most horrific hangover he had ever experienced in his entire life.

Opening his eyes was painful. Running his coated tongue over his parched lips was painful. Lifting his head was incredibly, horrendously painful. And he hadn't experienced hangover nausea like this since his student days.

He sank back against the cushions again and took stock. He was lying on the couch in the living room in Monk House. A pink throw with tiny purple flowers covered his body. The windows were closed, and the air was musty with the smell of faded incense and alcohol. Even the sunlight seemed stale.

It was quiet. From the opposite wall, Minnaloushe's masks stared down at him through an ephemeral veil of slowly twirling motes of dust. In his glass box Goliath rested motionless.

Slowly Gabriel raised himself upright, swinging one leg gingerly over the edge of the couch to steady himself. Shit. The slight movement brought on a fresh wave of queasiness. He squinted at his watch. 11:04 a.m. The day was almost half over already.

His bladder was bursting. He got to his feet, slightly surprised to find himself barefoot, and started in the direction of the guest bathroom, weaving across the floor like a sailor who was trying to adjust to dry land after months at sea. The guest bathroom was located just off the dining room and next to the kitchen. The door to the kitchen was closed, but as he approached it, he heard a low murmur of voices. He turned the knob.

Minnaloushe and Morrighan were sitting at the kitchen table. As he opened the door they looked up at him.

He hesitated. He suddenly realized that his shirt was flapping open and his trousers had no belt. A blush crept across his neck and warmed his ears and he felt as awkward as a teenager. His fingers started to button his shirt automatically.

The women were watching him with cool, impersonal eyes.

"Good morning." This was Minnaloushe.

"Good morning." He looked around him. The kitchen still showed the ravages of the previous night's feast. Unwashed plates and glasses. A half-empty bottle of berry wine on the kitchen table.

"Have a seat."

He gestured with his thumb behind him in the direction of the guest bathroom. "I'll be right back. I just need-"

Morrighan cut him off. "There's a fresh towel and soap in the cupboard."

In the tiny bathroom area he looked at himself in the mirror and shuddered. Bloodshot eyes. Black stubble on his jaw. Sweaty skin. He breathed against his hand and almost gagged at the smell.

For a moment he closed his eyes and steadied himself against the washbasin. Echoes of the previous night's happenings were stirring in his memory, but did it all take place? Or was it just one hell of a wet dream? He touched the locket around his neck. At least this was real.

But he couldn't stay shut away in the bathroom all morning trying to work out what had happened. He opened the cold water tap, splashed his face with water and rinsed his mouth. He had no comb, and running his fingers through his hair made it stand on end even more. Very attractive.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found Minnaloushe still sitting at the table and Morrighan pouring boiling water from the kettle into a mug. Reaching up to one of the shelves, she took down a slim test tube and emptied the contents-a pinkish powder-into the mug.

"Here." She held the mug out at him. "Drink this."

He hung back. "Come on," she said impatiently, "it's only rose hip and chamomile. Best cure for a hangover. You'll feel better."

As he brought the cup to his mouth, his hand was shaking. But after a few sips he did indeed feel better. He wasn't sure if it was only the power of suggestion, but he was feeling decidedly more clearheaded. Not well, mind you, but at least he was able to focus on the world around him without wanting to narrow his eyes into slits.

For the first time that morning he took a good look at the two women. They were dressed almost identically in black trousers and jerseys. No makeup-innocent lips and eyes-hair tied back in loose knots.

And there was tension in the air. But whether it was tension between the two of them, or hostility directed at him, he wasn't certain.

It didn't take him long to find out.

"We'd like you to leave." Morrighan's voice was low.

"And we don't want you to come back." Minnaloushe.

The words hit him between the eyes like a hammer blow. "Why?"

"You really are nothing more than a common snoop, aren't you, Gabriel? No, don't bother denying it. We know it's you who's been hacking into our computer. How could you? You've abused our trust. Our hospitality… Our friendship."

The contempt in Minnaloushe's voice made him cringe. But the next question literally took his breath away.

"Do you really think one of us killed Robert Whittington?"

He was so shocked he couldn't find his voice. They knew he was investigating them. That he suspected one of them of murder. How did they know?

Only one answer to this question: the scan last night had revealed everything.

"Did you?" he asked challengingly, suddenly angry.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Minnaloushe's voice was trembling.

"I'm someone who wants answers, someone who is tired of being led around by the nose." His anger was growing.

"We loved Robbie." Morrighan leaned forward, palms pressing down on the table in front of her. "We helped him find what he was searching for."

He made a disgusted movement with his hand. "Yes, I know. You 'played' with him. I'd like to know what kind of game."

"Of the most sublime kind. Robbie was a seeker, on a journey to transformation. We assisted him."

"Transformation. Really." His voice was heavily sarcastic.

"We could have done the same for you." Morrighan stared at him, her eyes glacial, the pupils narrowing to two tiny points of black.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He uttered the words through clenched teeth. "Excuse me, but I don't recall asking either one of you to be my spiritual guru."

"If there's anyone who needs help it's you, Gabriel. Your arrogance is breathtaking."

"If I'm arrogant that's my business and no one else's."

"It's not when people get hurt." Minnaloushe's tone was challenging. "Like Melissa Cartwright."

So they knew about Melissa as well. How the hell had they scanned him so thoroughly? He was a master at blocking. One of them had accessed his mind with the ease of a key turning a lock. How? Even as the question formed inside his mind, his eyes fell on the empty wineglasses in the sink. The glasses were unwashed, red rings staining the bottoms.

"You drugged me." He spoke slowly, but his anger was now so great, he felt light-headed. Picking up the half-full bottle of berry wine that stood on the kitchen table, he sniffed at it.

He glared at Morrighan. "Did you lace this with one of your potions?"

No answer.

"But it wasn't just the potion, was it? Tell me, who is the remote viewer?"

"Remote viewer? What are you talking about?" Morrighan.

"You're delusional, Gabriel." Minnaloushe.

The sound of his pulsing blood filled his ears. He tried to steady his voice: "I need to know one thing."

"Know what?"

"Whose diary is it?"

Silence.

He felt like throwing the bottle against the wall, but forced himself to breathe slowly. "Please. Please tell me."

No change in their expressions. Smooth, masklike faces.

"Is it yours?" He turned to Minnaloushe. She stared at him unblinkingly with limpid green eyes. They gave nothing away.

"Or yours?" His eyes fixed on Morrighan. "Tell me, damn you." He grasped her by the wrist with such violence, he felt her bones creak underneath his fingers.

"Don't." One word only but it stopped him like a bullet. Wisps of black hair fell across her forehead, which held the slightest sheen of sweat. There was something in her eyes that made him feel sick with shame.

He released her and stepped back. His mouth was stale with misery.

Morrighan cradled her wrist in her hand. "Now go."

He tore at the locket around his neck and threw it onto the table. "It doesn't stop here. I'll keep looking for that boy. His father deserves to know what happened to him."

Silence. Two pairs of eyes watching him inscrutably.

He stumbled a little as he turned away. There seemed to be a haze in front of his eyes as he made his way through the living room. When he opened the front door, he blinked. The soft autumn sunshine seemed oddly harsh. Everything outside appeared sharp-edged; every blade of grass a razor blade.

He resisted the impulse to look back over his shoulder to see if they had followed him. In his heart he knew they had not. They wanted him gone.

He stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind him, shutting himself out of the house. It wasn't until he was standing on the sidewalk, feeling nauseous and confused that he realized he had forgotten his shoes and his wallet. In his hand, he still clutched the half-full bottle of berry wine.

He wasn't hopeful, but the very first taxi he tried to flag down did actually stop, the driver studiously avoiding making any remarks about his bare feet. The man also waited patiently outside the apartment building, meter turned off, for Gabriel to go upstairs to get money.

When Gabriel entered the loft, he immediately noticed the blinking light on his answering machine. He pressed the button, heart racing. Maybe they had called in the meantime? Maybe they wanted to talk everything over and make up?

"Gabriel." Even the tinny quality of the machine could not disguise the hysteria in Frankie's voice. "Please call me. William is dead!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

William Whittington III was cremated on a beautiful autumn day. The service was a private affair. Afterward Gabriel drove Frankie back to the house in Holland Park.

Frankie looked ill. She was impeccably groomed, but her skin was sallow and her lips so dry they were flaking. When Gabriel took her hand to help her out of the car, her fingers were ice cold.

For a moment she stood looking at the imposing facade of the house. "I love this house. It's home to me. But the idea of living here without William…" She stopped, drew a shuddering breath.

"Frankie, I'm so, so sorry."

"He was a great man. Oh, I know all the whispers when we got married. Gold digger. The age difference. How could this possibly be a love match? But I loved him." She inclined her head. "These last few months he started shutting me out. He thought he was making it easier for me. And now he's gone. And there's still so much I want to say to him. Oh, God." She pressed her fists hard against her eyes. "How will I bear this?"

He drew her close. A chilly wind had sprung up, and he draped one side of his coat around her so that she was cocooned in warmth. She started to weep: ugly dry sobs, her body shaking against his. The rawness of her grief was devastating. His own eyes wet, he stroked her hair, murmured words of comfort. "Frankie. My brave girl. Don't cry like that. Don't cry. You'll break my heart."

When she finally grew quiet, she pulled away from him and extracted a wad of tissues from her purse. She dabbed at her face. "Sorry." Her voice was hoarse.

She was so very pale. And the expression in her eyes… "Frankie, why don't I call a friend to stay with you tonight? Isn't there someone you'd like to be with you?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No. But I think I might go away for a while."

His heart gave a Wrench. "Go away? Where to?"

"I don't know. Someplace warm."

Every object in her house would remind her of the man she had loved, he realized. No wonder she wanted to run away. But the idea that she might leave was unthinkable. He wanted to keep her close. Safe.

"I don't want you to go, Frankie. You shouldn't be alone."

"I am alone." The terrible sadness in her voice filled him with despair.

"You can't just disappear." He placed an urgent hand on her arm. "You have to keep in touch."

"Don't you think it's time for us to give each other some breathing space?"

"You're disappointed in me-I know you are. And I understand that." His fingers tightened on her elbow. A feeling of panic was rising inside his chest. "But, Frankie-please, please don't give up on me!"

"I'm confused, Gabriel. You're probably confused too. Besides, it's over, don't you think? I wanted William to know what had happened to his son. But now he's dead. And revenge seems pretty pointless right now."

"I gave your husband my word that I wouldn't stop searching." But as he said the words, he realized how futile they sounded. How was he going to accomplish this goal now that the sisters had kicked him out of the house? His wallet, shoes and belt had been couriered to his apartment in a neatly wrapped package. No accompanying note. There was no indication at all that they were interested in resuming relations. He was filled with rage at their indifference-how could they simply cut him out of their lives as if they had canceled the subscription to a magazine? But for all his anger, he knew that if they so much as lifted a finger in his direction, he would come running. What a needy pathetic fool he was.

"William told me about your promise." Frankie sounded weary.

"But the way I understand it, you told him that once he stopped looking for Robbie, you would too. Well, I guess that lets you off the hook."

Gabriel winced. But there was no bitterness in Frankie's eyes, only sorrow.

He watched hopelessly as she searched for her keys. Nothing he could say was going to change her mind, he realized. He was going to have to stand here and simply watch her walk away from him.

"I'll call you," she said. "Really, I will. But I need to be alone for a bit. Sort out my head." She touched his cheek briefly. "Don't look so worried. I'll be all right." But as she walked down the garden path toward the front door, her gait was hesitant, as though she wasn't able to see well.

The wind was becoming gustier. Earlier in the day, the sky had been achingly blue, but as Gabriel got back into his car, dark clouds were drifting over, shutting out the sun.

Summer had gone. In the garden at Monk House the roses were probably turning brown, he thought. Or maybe they were still flowering desperately in a last-gasp effort before withering away. Deep inside of him, he sensed that the change of seasons was mirroring a transformation within himself. He was still not exactly sure what he was leaving behind; wholly uncertain as to what he was to become.

By the time he parked around the corner from Isidore's house, water was sluicing from the sky. He had no umbrella with him and had to sprint from the car to Isidore's front door. As he rang the doorbell, he realized he was soaked to the skin.

Isidore opened the front door. For a moment they simply stared at each other.

"I need your help."

"You have it," Isidore answered without hesitation. "Come on in."

Isidore handed him a grimy towel. "How's Frankie?" "Not good." Gabriel rubbed the towel over his head. "Well, I suppose that's to be expected." Isidore pressed a mug of steaming something into his hand. "Here. It will warm you up."

"What is it?" Gabriel took a sip. The liquid was so hot it scalded his palate.

"Cup-a-Soup. Good stuff."

The brew was gritty and bland, but it was strangely comforting to sit there in Isidore's ugly chair, the warmth of the soup burning his throat, watching Isidore as he pottered around the room. The TV was on, the sound turned low. Another rerun of CSI. Isidore was still infatuated with the seductive if steely Catherine Willows.

Gabriel emptied the cup and placed it carefully on top of a spread-eagled comic book.

"What's wrong, Gabriel?"

He looked up. Isidore was watching him steadily.

"I think…" He stopped, looked back at the comic book. The cover featured a big-bosomed, kick-ass superwoman in a tight-fitting dominatrix suit squaring off against a lizardlike villain with three eyes. The lady looked as though she'd be able to kick the crap out of any scaly-skinned guy.

"Gabe. What is it?" Isidore was starting to look alarmed.

He took a deep breath. "I think Whittington was murdered." Now that the words had actually left his mouth, Gabriel felt relief.

"What are you talking about? The man was terminally ill. It's sad that he's gone but it was totally in the cards."

"Isidore, Whittington suffered from cancer. But he died of a brain aneurysm."

"If you're sick, your body's immunity is down. You're much more open to other things that can go wrong as well."

"That's not what happened. I know it."

Isidore stared at him for a few moments. "You say he was murdered. Well, explain to me how the killer deliberately triggered an aneurysm in the guy's brain. It's simply not possible."

"I think she did it through remote viewing."

"She? The woman who drowned Robbie?"

Gabriel nodded. In Isidore's eyes he saw horror. His own mind was feeling eerily at peace. As if by finally putting his suspicions into words, he had lanced the boil. But as he looked down at his hands, he saw they were shaking.

"Why? It doesn't make any sense. Does she just have it in for the Whittington males?"

"She scanned me the other night, remember? So she knew I'd keep searching for Robbie as long as his father wanted me to. With him out of the way, there is no reason for me to continue the investigation."

Silence. Isidore looked shell-shocked. In the background Gil Grissom was saying to a sad-eyed Sara Sidle, one eyebrow arched quizzically: "The best intentions are fraught with disappointment."

Isidore moved agitatedly in his seat. "I get the impression that's not all that's bothering you."

Why couldn't he stop his hands from trembling? Gabriel balled his fingers into fists. But the shaking was traveling from his hands and taking hold of his entire body. He was suddenly shivering violently.

"I feel responsible."

"Responsible? For Whittington's death? Oh, come on, Gabe, take off the hair shirt. You were tricked into a scan. Those women drugged you."

He didn't answer. He had given Isidore a fair account of the events of that night, but he had omitted the more salacious details. He still wasn't sure if there had been an actual exchange of bodily fluids between him and one or both of the women. But what he did know was that the scan itself had been a deeply erotic experience-both pleasurable and terrifying in equal measure. Bliss and peril. The sense of danger a goad to his lust. He was drugged, but if he hadn't been, would he have put up a fight? Remembering that slow, slow probe, he knew he would not have. One of the sisters had sparked a firestorm in his brain, and every nerve ending in his body had responded. He had wanted to give himself up to her control completely, allowing her to do with him what she would.

"Hell." Isidore's voice rose. "I just realized. If this witch is able to pop veins in people's heads whenever she feels like it, then you're at risk as well."

"Don't think I haven't thought of that. But I'm not Whittington. I'm an RV myself. I know how to block."

"That did not help you the other night. You were pretty much at her mercy."

"As you yourself pointed out: I was drugged. That won't happen again."

"Gabriel, don't do it. Frankie isn't holding you to your promise. Why this quest for justice?"

Silence.

Isidore spoke slowly, disbelievingly. "This isn't about justice, is it? You want to know who it is. All you're interested in is finding out if the woman you love is a murderer."

Gabriel didn't answer.

"I can't allow you to continue with this."

"You can't stop me."

For a few moments they stared at each other. "Oh, what the hell." Isidore shrugged in resignation. "What's next, then?"

"Well, the diary is closed to us now. There's no way we'll be able to hack in again from the outside. She'll be too much on her guard. But we still have to find out what the hell is in that other bloody file."

"The Promethean Key."

"Exactly. And yes, go on, say it. I should have accessed the damn thing ages ago. And you're right: I had the opportunity to do so and I let it slide."

"So what are we talking about? Breaking and entering again?"

"I'm afraid so. At least it will be quick this time. I have the password so it will literally be a hit-and-run."

"When?"

"Tonight. After they've gone to bed."

"Well, I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. Someone has to be there to watch your back."

Gabriel looked at his friend-the concerned eyes, the blond hair falling untidily over his forehead, the bony shoulders drooping into a hacker's slump. He felt suddenly emotional.

"You're a good friend, Isidore."

"I know. You don't deserve me." Isidore grinned.

"OK, you can come along." He held up his hand as Isidore's eyes lit up. "But you stay in the van while I slip in and do my thing. Quick and clean."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

By nightfall the weather had deteriorated even more. A gale-force wind was making the trees sway, and the rain came down in a steady curtain. Even inside the van, Gabriel could hear the sound of the raindrops striking the hood like a drumbeat.

They had been sitting inside the darkened van for two hours, staring at the subdued light peeping through the half-drawn curtains on the top floor of Monk House. The rest of the house was dark, but that one light was burning steadily, a diffuse orange glow through the driving rain. A few times Gabriel had contemplated entering the house anyway. She was on the third floor and he would be confining his activities to the ground floor. If he was very quiet…

But Isidore wouldn't hear of it. "We're playing it safe," he insisted firmly. "This woman should not be messed with. I don't want you ending up like Frankie's husband. I don't want her to even begin to suspect you're inside the house."

And so they waited, spending the time eating Krispy Kremes- Isidore's contribution to their stakeout-and drinking black coffee from the thermos flask Gabriel had filled before leaving his apartment. But what with the caffeine and the sugar rush, it was getting very difficult for Gabriel to contain his impatience.

There were two bedrooms on the top floor, and the light came from the corner room, but unfortunately, during the time he'd spent with the sisters, he never got to find out which bedroom belonged to which sister. The top floor had always been off-limits, so he did not know who the night owl was: Minnaloushe or Morrighan.

He glanced at his watch. It was half past midnight. Witching hour.

"What was it like?" Isidore's voice was casual.

"What was what like?"

"That whole thing that happened to you at the birthday party. Flying through the air and hearing angels sing and so on."

"Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I sense something different about you. Hard to explain. I was wondering if there's a connection."

Gabriel looked ahead into the darkness. "It was the most incredible experience I have ever lived through in my entire life." He hesitated. "And… and it's like I've had a taste of something, which I now crave."

Except he did not know how to satisfy his craving. How to regain that feeling of omnipotence? He had felt strong enough to explode right out of his body and take flight. The pull of earth and mortality had ceased to exist for him that night. Was this what Robert Whittington had been searching for? If so, he understood the boy's hunger. The same hunger had now become an integral part of his own makeup; it had become hardwired into his brain.

"I'm worried about you, Gabe."

"Don't be."

"Cravings are dangerous."

"It was only one taste. It will never happen again." And didn't the idea that he would never have another opportunity just tear him up? He wasn't going to tell Isidore exactly how much he was yearning for another hit. He did not even want to admit it to himself. But he was dreaming about it obsessively.

The rain continued to batter the van, sluicing down the windshield. Every now and then they heard a faint, high moan as the wind increased in strength.

"Look." Isidore's voice was tense with excitement. "It's out."

Gabriel turned his head to look at the house. The lighted windowpane was dark.

He placed his hand on the inside door handle, but Isidore grabbed his wrist. "Give it another twenty minutes. Let her fall asleep first."

They waited. The rain continued to pour down.

"OK. I'm off." Gabriel lifted the hood of his waterproof jacket over his head, pulling the strings tight underneath his chin.

"Is your cell phone on vibrate?"

"Sure." Gabriel patted the pocket of his jeans. The cell phone would allow Isidore to contact him in case of an emergency. Such as the top-floor light going on again. Or a cop on his beat. It wouldn't do to creep through the back door leading to the alley only to find a policeman interrupting his stealthy getaway.

"And you're sure of the spelling of the password?"

Gabriel gave his friend a withering glance.

"OK. OK. Just checking."

Gabriel pushed the door open and grimaced as the force of the wind shoved against him and the rain hit his face. Not a good night to be outside. He jumped out of the van and slammed the door shut.

The street was completely deserted. He walked quickly into the alley at the rear of Monk House just as he had done that summer's evening nine weeks ago when he had made his first clandestine visit to the house. Nine weeks. A lifetime.

The garden door was unlocked, as he'd expected it to be. The sisters made use of the alley to take out the rubbish and he knew they hardly ever bothered securing the door afterward. The French doors, on the other hand, were sure to be locked, and since the last time he broke in, they had replaced the lock with something more sophisticated. And to think that over the past two months he could have had a duplicate key made at any time.

He had been delinquent in his duty, he thought bitterly. He had been sure he was engineering them when he was the one who had been seduced, manipulated and flattered into submission. No steel in his spine, which was why he was now standing in sodden shoes in a rain-drenched garden, shivering with wet and cold and wishing with all his heart he did not have to be here.

The garden looked forlorn. The humpbacked tree next to the swimming pool had lost its fiery petals. The house waited, dark and still.

He approached the French doors with their stained glass panels. Placing his pencil flashlight between his teeth, he freed his hands and reached into his jacket pocket to extract the pouch holding his picks.

The new lock was a tougher proposition than the old one, but not impossible. Picking locks was his forte. However, doing so in pouring rain was no picnic. Working on the lock, he tried to ignore the rain on his neck. But even so he couldn't stop himself from shivering.

He glanced up uneasily at the silvery windows of the house rising into the night sky above him. But everything was quiet. Nothing stirred.

At last. He felt the lock give. He shoved the flashlight back into his pocket and pushed the door open.

The bloody thing creaked like the gate to an abandoned crypt.

He froze, then quickly moved into the house, clicking the door shut behind him.

The sudden quiet was unnerving. For a long moment he waited, expecting at any moment to see a flood of light cascading down the staircase. That creak had been loud enough to wake the dead.

The house remained dark.

Slowly he released his breath. For a few moments he continued to stand still, allowing his eyes to get used to the inside gloom. And there, on the far side of the room were the two computers, their screen savers on: two solar witches with their waxing and waning suns floating in the surrounding blackness.

For a moment an image of the sleeping women, two storeys above him, entered his mind. They would be breathing deeply, caught in the embrace of dreams. Hugging their pillows, the bedclothes twisted around their bodies. Bare arms, bare shoulders, long bare legs. Hair spread across the pillows like seaweed. And one of them might be dreaming of him… Maybe he should creep up the stairs, stand outside the doors, listen to their soft breathing…

Stop it, he told himself savagely. God, he was pathetic.

He switched the pencil light on again and flicked it up and down the room a few times. Cautiously, he took a few steps forward.

He stopped. His shoes were making squelching sounds. He shoved the flashlight into his pocket, stooped to untie his shoelaces-not the easiest thing to do when they're wet-and worried the shoes off his feet. His feet were now clad in socks only and he made no noise.

Softly he padded past the bookshelves, the mounted bird skeletons, the abacus with its ivory beads. He was intimately familiar with this room and its objects, but tonight in the near darkness, with the rain driving against the pale windowpanes, the place felt alien. This was a room he associated with flowers and beautiful music. But it was as though he were looking at a distorted black-and-white print of a full-color memory. A half-remembered image surfacing in a bad dream. Any music playing in this room was sure to be off-key.

Masks. The dark shapes lining the wall. He could feel their eyes on him.

He had reached the long table with the two computers. He touched the space bar on the keyboard of the Mac. The screen filled with desktop icons. He clicked on the only document name: The Promethean Key. The screen blinked and the prompt appeared, asking for the password.

Without hesitation he keyed in the words: HERMES TRISMEGISTUS.

For an agonizing moment the cursor kept blinking. But then the screen cleared. Open sesame.

On the screen in front of him was a menu. The Promethean Key consisted of four subfiles:

East: Mind

West: Body

North: Spirit

South: Portal-Chi

Each of the names was followed by a tiny square. Gabriel placed his hand on the mouse and ticked each box in succession.

He had brought a writable CD with him. Slipping it into the computer's disk drive, he gave the command to copy the four components of The Key onto the disk.

The light on the disk drive blinked and he could hear a soft whirring sound. The download started.

He swiveled the chair around so that he was now facing the IBM. He tapped the enter key and the desktop appeared.

Diary.

Ever since they had kicked him out of the house, the diary's pages had been closed to him. They had killed off his Trojan. But at this moment he had direct access to the machine and it was still connected to the Internet. He would be able to reactivate his fallen warrior.

He started working the keyboard. He hadn't told Isidore that his plan for tonight also included taking one last, final look at the diary. Isidore might have accused him of breaking and entering into Monk House merely to get to the diary-not to find out what was hidden inside The Promethean Key.

His fingers raced across the keys.

Entry Date: 7 October Betrayal is the saddest word there is…

For a moment he closed his eyes. He was in.

Betrayal is the saddest word there is… To trust someone and then to have him fail you. Treachery.

He took advantage of us. Could we have been more naive? We gave a professional hacker the run of the house and we never considered

ourselves at risk? Such is arrogance. And vanity. The thought never

occurred to us-why? Because we thought we were playing him. Instead,

he was playing us. Smiling at us with friendly eyes and all the while

keeping his heart cold and his mind suspicious. A spy.

I should be furious. He's read my diary. But instead of rage, I feel longing. I miss him. On the one hand I feel violated. On the other- every woman wants to share herself with the man she loves; to have him truly know her.

M is angry and disappointed and that makes me afraid. Anger and disappointment is a potent brew and M is on the boil. I am afraid for G. I am afraid what M might do to him.

What am I really saying?

G things R was murdered. Is he right?

I am finally admitting it. I am allowing myself to thinks the unthinkable. That R did not leave of his own free will, but came to harm. And that M might be responsible.

Is Ma filler?

I am concerned that G might be in danger too. I am afraid that he will be hurt without my knowing about it. What if M tries to harm him and I'm not there to protect him?

The cell phone suddenly started to vibrate against his hip. Gabriel grabbed at it and brought it to his ear. He cupped his hand around his mouth and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"What?"

"Get out of there." Isidore's voice was taut. "She's awake."

Gabriel glanced toward the staircase, which, though in shadow, was clearly visible from where he sat.

"I don't see any light."

"She turned it on for just a moment and then killed it again. Bloody hell! Don't argue. Get out now!"

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned to the Mac. The download was not complete. East, West and North had been copied but the copy process for South-the Portal-had only just started.

He looked back at the shadowed staircase in an agony of indecision. It wouldn't take long for her to get from the top floor to the bottom. But who was to say she was coming this way? Maybe she simply wanted a drink of water and had gone back to bed again.

The staircase remained dark. The disk drive whirred softly.

And then, suddenly, she was there. Like a ghost.

She was standing on the first landing, her hand resting lightly on the balustrade. Her face was in deep shadow but she was wearing a long, wide floating nightdress in a pale color, which intensified the feeling that he was looking at an apparition-something not made of flesh and blood.

He reacted instinctively. He clicked on the cancel icon and almost simultaneously pushed his finger hard on the eject button of the disk drive. The tray slid gently outward. Even as he grabbed the disk, she was coming down the stairs.

He turned around and ran in the direction of the French doors. In his haste he bumped against a footstool and grunted in pain as the sharp edge of the stool cut into his shin. As he continued toward the doors, his eyes searched the shadows for his shoes. Where were his shoes? He couldn't see them anywhere.

Too bad. Too late now. He had reached the door. Placing his hand on the handle, he wrenched it open and ran into the rain.

His mad rush carried him through the garden, and he didn't stop until he reached the door that would give him access to the alley. Out of breath, adrenaline coursing through his body, he turned around to look back at the house.

At first he couldn't spot her. But then, peering through the slanting rain, eyes straining, he made out the shape of her figure where she stood at the window looking out. He couldn't see her eyes or her face, but the force of her presence played over him like a tracking beam.

For a long, long moment they stared at each other through the darkness and the rain. He turned his back on her and slipped out into the alley.

Isidore poured water from the kettle into the makeshift plastic footbath. "Place your feet in here."

Gabriel dipped a cautious finger into the steaming water and yelped. "Add some cold water first."

"Lion heart." But Isidore obeyed and emptied a jug of tap water into the container. "Better?"

Gabriel grunted. His feet felt like blocks of ice, and they had turned a rather weird shade of aquamarine. The sole of one was cut and bloodied where he had stepped onto the jagged edge of an empty can during his dash out into the alley. His shin, where it had connected with the footstool, was starting to bruise quite spectacularly. He felt as though he had been through the wars.

Isidore had conjured up a bottle of Dettol and now proceeded to pour a long stream of the amber liquid into the water, turning it milky. "To stop infection," he explained. "That can was probably filthy."

Gabriel gasped slightly as he lowered his freezing feet into the water. It was still hellishly hot.

Isidore stirred the water with a wooden spoon. "That's the second pair of shoes you've left at their house." True.

"And this time I don't think they'll send them back."

"It doesn't matter."

"What matters is that our killer now has a very good idea of who the midnight intruder was, and who hacked into the Mac."

Gabriel thought back to that moment when they had stared at each other sightlessly through the dark and the rain. Eyes blinded but their minds connecting.

"She would have known it was me even without the shoes."

"And you weren't able to identify her."

"No. She was in shadow all the time and the nightdress she was wearing was voluminous, so I couldn't tell from her figure. But…" Gabriel smiled. "I did establish one thing tonight." He stopped and smiled again. "While I was waiting for The Key to download, I accessed the diary."

"No shit. And?"

"Well, one thing's clear as day. The writer is not the killer. And she doesn't know what happened to Robbie Whittington. But she's starting to get suspicious. And she's scared of her sister-or rather, she's scared of what her sister is capable of. She wrote it in as many words."

Isidore leaned over and punched Gabriel on the shoulder. "Way to go, brother. I don't mind telling you I had my doubts. I know you love that diary, but I think it plenty creepy. I did not find it such a stretch to think its owner might be capable of murder."

"Well, she's not. And what's more, she has feelings for me."

"I'm happy for you. Now if only you knew who it is who has these feelings."

Gabriel sighed. "That would help."

"Well, I have some news too. You remember my cousin Derek? The pharmacist? You met him at that Science Con in Northampton a year back."

"Vaguely."

"Well, I gave him the bottle of leftover berry wine you took with you the day the girls kicked you out and asked him to analyze it."

"Did you now?" Gabriel was surprised.

"It's potent shit, man. Apparently there's belladonna in there and hemlock and ashwagandha and a crapload of other stuff. Derek was fascinated. He said if the person who had put this potion together hadn't been such a skilled chemist, you'd be dead."

"Really. How comforting."

"Apparently a mixture like that is capable of altering the rhythm of the heart. It will almost certainly induce dizziness, hallucinations and an impression that you're falling or flying. And it is sure to lower your inhibitions. Also, it has a cumulative effect. So the longer you use it, the more susceptible you become to its effects. You've been drinking this stuff for a while now, haven't you?"

Gabriel thought back. "About eight weeks."

"No wonder you weren't able to resist the scan. They were marinating you like a piece of tough steak."

"That sounds about right."

"Derek also said to watch out for the stuff as it could give you a hard-on that just won't quit. The Makonde of Tanzania use something similar as a kind of homegrown Viagra."

"Uh-huh."

Isidore gave him a sardonic look. "All right. Let's see what this baby can tell us." He picked up the CD with the downloaded Promethean Key.

Gabriel removed his feet from the water. As he started to towel them dry, he sneezed. Reaching into his pocket, his ringers hunted for his handkerchief but instead found something round and hard.

It was the amulet given to him by the owner of the magic shop. He had forgotten all about it. As he turned the tiny object over in his palm, he was again surprised by its weight. Iron, if he remembered correctly. A defense against witchery, the man had said. Well, he supposed it had done its job tonight.

As Isidore worked the keyboard, he spoke over his shoulder. "This disk is not complete, you know. When you made your dash for freedom, the download of the fourth component-the portal-was aborted. So we only have the first three components to work with."

"Maybe that will be enough."

"Wow." Isidore's voice was a whisper. "Check this out."

Gabriel clumsily shoved the amulet back into his pocket and got to his feet. He stared over Isidore's shoulder.

The computer screen was covered with graphics-enigmatic icons, idiosyncratic symbols. As Isidore scrolled down the pages, it looked like some kind of strange, mysterious tapestry.

And there were sketches. Architectural sketches. Meticulous drawings of passageways, drawbridges, flights of stairs, ceiling details, galleries. And doors. Many doors. Paneled doors. Doors with hoods in the shape of shells. Tall, formal doors framed with architraves and pilasters. Small, unassuming doors. The rooms to which they led were labeled; the labels in code and unintelligible. Even so, as Gabriel looked at the plans, he felt himself grow cold.

"I've been inside this place."

"What?" Isidore twisted around in his chair.

"This is the blueprint for the house of a million doors."

"You're kidding."

"Or at least a partial print. Obviously this is only a tiny, tiny section. But there's no doubt about it: I've walked through those rooms. See that door there? It gives access to a room stacked from floor to ceiling with broken violins. And that long, oblong room there is a conservatory filled with carnivorous plants. I remember it exactly."

"So what the hell is this place, then?"

"I don't know." As he looked at the plans, Gabriel was surprised to feel the hairs on his arms rise. "But believe me, walk through it… and you can go insane."