An Affair Of Sorcerers

Chapter 10

On my way up to my apartment I reflected on the fact that the building where I lived had no 13th floor listed; the numbering in the elevator went from 12 to 14. Black cats, not walking under ladders-and religion-were, of course, part of the culture, but I was particularly struck by the 13th-floor syndrome: the occult-in the form of the magical number 13-had become institutionalized.

After a short nap, I shaved, showered and went to the hospital, where I checked with Dr. Greene. Kathy was still in a coma, and they were awaiting the results of the latest tests. I mentioned the possibility of induced coma, but without using the word "spell." Greene listened patiently, with a straight face, but I could tell he was amused. He promised to let me know if there was any change, and I went over to the Intensive Care Unit. I found April Marlowe sitting idly in a small adjacent waiting room. She was staring off into space, lost in thought. I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her. She was dressed in boots, straight black skirt and a loose-fitting blouse that didn't quite disguise her full bosom.

April looked up and caught me watching her. She started, then relaxed and smiled wistfully. "Hello, Robert," she said. "You startled me. How long have you been standing there?"

"Just arrived," I lied. I walked across the room and sat down on a chair across from her. She was pale, and her lovely eyes were shadowed with anxiety. "I just talked with Dr. Greene. I understand Kathy's the same."

"I'm worried, Robert," she said in a choked whisper. "I have a bad feeling."

"Of course you're worried," I said gently. "But at least Kathy's not getting worse; and she's getting the best possible care."

She dropped her eyes. "I'm not sure that's going to be enough."

I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I didn't. In different circumstances, if I hadn't been feeling what I was feeling, I would have. But I was embarrassed by my own desire. "Did you know that your brother was arrested here last night?" I asked.

The woman's eyes grew large, then filled with tears. Now I gripped her shoulder; the touch of her sent what felt like an electric shock running down my arm. "I got him out on bail," I continued. "I don't think the hospital will press charges now that they know who he is."

"What was he doing here?"

"He was up here in the middle of the night performing some kind of ceremony. That seems to mean he feels Kathy's problem might be something other than physical. He must think she's under a. . spell. What do you think?"

April slowly shook her head. "I can't answer you, Robert. I don't know anywhere near as much about those things as Daniel does. I just. . can't say. I have to trust in Dr. Greene and the other doctors."

She smiled wanly and put her hand in mine. Perhaps she felt the tension there, because she moved her hand away after a few moments. We sat in silence for a minute or two. Finally I cleared my throat, balled my fist and extended my ring finger. "April," I asked quietly, "does this gesture mean anything to you?"

"Where did you see that?" she asked, surprised.

"Daniel used it on me."

April's tentative smile vanished, leaving in its wake tension lines at the corners of her mouth. "It's called a 'witch's sword,' or athame. It's an occult gesture-a kind of warning, or curse. Actually, in wicca terms, an athame is a dagger that's been prepared in ritual fashion for certain ceremonies; it's 'blessed.' I suppose you could compare the gesture to a Catholic crossing himself-except in this case the feeling is hostile and is directed against the person the witch points his finger at."

I nodded absently, remembering the curious reaction Daniel had brought about in me when he'd tapped my forehead; I was beginning to understand why people were afraid of him. "April, how long have you been sitting here?"

She glanced at her wrist, but she wasn't wearing a watch. There was no clock on the wall. "I. . really don't know," she said softly. "There just doesn't seem to be anything else to do but wait. I have this awful. . premonition."

"Come and have dinner with me. It'll help you relax; besides, I have some more questions."

"Robert," she whispered, "can't we talk here? I'll help you in any way I can, but I'm afraid to leave Kathy."

"We'll eat at The Granada and leave the number at the nurses' station, just like last time. You have to take care of yourself; it's not going to do Kathy any good if you get sick. Believe me, a nurse will call right away if there's any change. We won't be long."

She thought about it, then rose. "You're right, Robert. I'll be happy to dine with you. Thank you."

It was going to rain. The early-evening light was dirty, translucent; the air was moist and heavy, as though the city were about to break into a sweat. Perspiration gleamed on the bodies of the omnipresent paddleball players in the playground, and the thwack-thwack of the hard rubber ball against wood paddle and concrete wall seemed unnaturally loud in the thick atmosphere. I asked April if she wanted to take a cab, but she said she preferred to walk. We made our way to the restaurant in silence. I sensed that, unlike the night before, dinner and wine would do nothing to improve April's mood. She was tense, pensive and distracted.

The red velvet and mahogany interior of the restaurant, usually warm and relaxing, seemed oppressive. The air-conditioning level was set too high, and we both shivered as we stepped into the restaurant. The maitre d' nodded in recognition, then led us to a good table by the window. The lighted candle in the center of the table made me nervous, and I pushed it to one side.

"What did you want to ask me, Robert?" April asked after we'd been seated.

"Do you know anything about tarot cards?"

"Some," she said. "Why?"

"I have an appointment for a reading in an hour and a half. I'd like to know what to expect."

April cocked her head to one side and looked at me strangely. "You're going for a reading? That surprises me."

"Well, it's true that I'm not exactly a believer."

"You might change your mind after a tarot reading-depending, of course, on how good the reader is."

"I'm seeing a man by the name of John Krowl. I'm hoping he can give me a line on this Esobus character."

She looked at me for a long time. "I should have known it would have something to do with Kathy. Thank you again, Robert, for trying so hard to help."

A waiter appeared. April shook her head when I asked her if she wanted a drink, and I didn't press. She ordered gazpacho and an omelette. I asked for the same.

"Have you heard of Krowl?" I asked.

"Yes. He's supposed to be very good; only a man by the name of Michael McEnroe is supposed to be better. If you go to John Krowl, you're liable to learn more about yourself than about Esobus. Krowl is supposed to be psychic."

"Terrific," I said, flashing a tentative smile. "I need a psychic."

April didn't smile back. "I won't try to convince you of the power of the tarot, Robert," she said very seriously. "You'll see for yourself. Do you know anything at all about the cards?"

"Only that they were supposedly invented by the Gypsies in the Middle Ages; they have pictures, and they're used for fortune-telling."

The waiter brought our gazpacho. The soup was good, but April ate only half of it. " 'Fortune-telling' isn't a good word for what happens during a tarot reading," she said, pushing the rest of her soup away. "Despite what you see on Forty-second Street, that's not what the tarot is about. You should think of the tarot deck as a great book of mystical knowledge that uses symbols instead of words. The symbols are very deep. The tarot is one of the occult 'mysteries'-astrology, palmistry and numerology being the occult 'sciences.' Each card is open to a variety of interpretations; the quality of the reading depends on the quality of the channels of communication opened between the querent-the person having the reading-and the reader."

"How does it work?"

"John Krowl will have you shuffle and cut the cards; then he'll use any one of a number of different layouts. What should show up are trends in your life-past, present and future."

"It still sounds like fortune-telling," I said gently.

"If someone can accurately see your past, it's not difficult to predict your future. The tarot deck can change a person's life, if the person truly wants to change; the cards can provide a shock of recognition."

Our omelettes arrived. As we started to eat, April shivered again. I rose and put my sports jacket around her shoulders. She nodded her thanks and pulled the jacket even tighter around her. Seeing her do that gave me an absurd jolt of pleasure.

"You said that the symbols on the cards are inexact. It seems to me that a reader could come up with any number of different interpretations."

"But you'll instinctively know if it's a true reading," she said, picking at her omelette. Her mind was back in the hospital with Kathy; her voice was distant, its matter-of-factness masking her anxiety. "A single card may have as many as three or four subtly different meanings; but the specific interpretation of any card is refined by its position in a particular layout. The cards are intensely personal, Robert." April paused and smiled thinly. For a moment, she was back in the restaurant with me. "Behind your somewhat flamboyant exterior, I sense that you're a very private man. You shouldn't go to this man unless you're prepared to have your life and dreams stripped bare. He could know all there is to know about you five minutes after the cards are laid out."

"You are impressed by the tarot, aren't you?"

"Yes I am, Robert," she said evenly. "Of all the occult studies, I find the tarot the most mystical and beautiful." She had to force herself to eat a few more bites of the omelette, then pushed away what was left. "I'm sorry, Robert," she continued quietly. "I hate to waste food. I know I should eat, but I can't. I'm afraid you've wasted your money on me."

"Don't be silly. Would you like some tea or coffee?"

April shook her head. "The reason I believe Krowl is probably psychic is that he's been so successful," she said in a low voice. "People wouldn't keep going back to him unless he was telling them something about their lives and helping them to solve their problems. Also, he's been working with the cards for many years. Regular use of the cards can help you develop your own psychic abilities. It's like exercising a muscle, except in this case it's a psychic muscle. I think of the tarot deck as a window into regions of the mind that are beyond the rational."

"Thank you for talking to me, April." I said. "I know it's been hard for you."

As I signaled the waiter for the check, it occurred to me that it would be interesting to see if John Krowl lived up to April's advance billing.

The most spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline, bar none, is from the Manhattan Bridge. I took advantage of a minor traffic slowdown to twist in my seat and look back at the most exciting piece of real estate in the world. Manhattan is, of course, only one of New York's five boroughs, but to me it was New York, the city's heart and soul. At that moment the sight of the skyline was probably the only vista in the world that could, if only for a few seconds, lift me beyond my anxiety and fear. Manhattan's tremendous energy can burn a man out, but burning out is not something I worry about.

Traffic began to move again, and I drove down into the amorphous entity of funky culture and parochial defensiveness that is Brooklyn.

Tacky appearances to the contrary, Krowl had chosen a chic area to work out of. Creeping glamour, wealthy dilettantes and accompanying rising rents were driving loft artists out of SoHo, NoHo and the rest of Manhattan's "Ho's." They were migrating in increasing numbers to Brooklyn's DUMBO-"Down Under the Manhattan-Brooklyn Overpass." The area-a montage of dying industries that supplied the artists' lofts and thriving galleries and small businesses that were supported by the artists-even had its own newspaper, the Phoenix. It was an apt title; DUMBO was rising from ashes of crumbling concrete.

John Krowl's brownstone was four blocks east of the Manhattan Bridge, in a poor but clean working-class neighborhood. I was a few minutes early, but I rang the bell anyway. It was answered by a young man in his early twenties who looked down at me inquiringly. I introduced myself and said that I had an appointment for eight o'clock. He introduced himself only as Krowl's secretary and told me I'd have to wait a few minutes. He motioned me inside and indicated that I should sit down on one of the three antique chairs just inside the door.

I was in a large circular foyer with a corridor directly opposite me that extended all the way to the end of the house. There were closed doors to either side of me. Around the perimeter of the foyer were a number of old, heavy tables, their surfaces covered with what looked like valuable African primitive sculpture-most of it erotic. The walls of the foyer were decorated with an odd but strangely appealing mixture of garish Haitian paintings and faded Persian tapestries. All of the exposed wood had been stripped to the grain and polished to a burnished glow. In contrast to the rather dreary facade and neighborhood outside, the inside of Krowl's brownstone was like a museum. Krowl had taste.

The art was carefully chosen and interesting, but what intrigued me by far the most in the foyer was a display of at least a hundred plaster hand casts mounted in the spaces around and between the paintings and the tapestries. I got up and went closer to examine them.

The casts had been expertly made, and all of the details in the palms had been meticulously lined in with India ink. The effect was eerie and startling. The names of the hands' owners were inscribed in calligraphic script over the base of the wrist and signed beneath. Most of them belonged to well-known New York and Hollywood celebrities, with a few Washington politicians sprinkled around as if to give the display some respectability, like a heavy bronze identification plaque under a muddy painting. Just about everyone who was anyone seemed to be represented in John Krowl's foyer; it occurred to me that the people represented couldn't all be idiots, and I found I was impressed.

Two names in particular interested me. The first was that of Harley Davidson, at one time the hottest young rock star in the country. I'd known him as Bobby Weiss, a gangling, likable student who'd been blundering his way through college. Criminology had seemed to be one of the rare subjects that interested him, and he'd managed to show up fairly regularly for my undergraduate class.

Bobby had dropped out of school three years before, in the middle of his junior year. A year after that he'd exploded onto the national rock scene as Harley Davidson-Instant Millionaire. He'd signed with Jake Stein, a friend of mine with the William Morris Agency, and I'd kept track of him through Jake. One year I'd even received a Christmas card. I'd thought Bobby spent all his time in Los Angeles, but he'd obviously touched base often enough in New York to hear of Krowl. Seeing the palm print suddenly made me realize that I hadn't heard anything of Bobby for at least six months-no records, no television, not even a gossip item. I wondered what had happened to him.

The second name hit even closer to home, and it gave me a jolt. The name was Bart Stone. Stone was a prolific writer of Western pulp novels who had provided the fictional fodder for dozens of Western films turned out by Hollywood.

I wondered if Krowl, when he'd make the print, had known that "Bart Stone" was but one of the many pseudonyms used by Frank Marlowe. I might ask him.

I wandered down the hallway to the end, where a narrow balcony looked out over a small, exquisitely arranged garden and patio. The area was encircled by plants which seemed to be miraculously surviving in New York's sulfurous air; it seemed a tiny piece of serenity in the middle of the most manic city in the world. Across the way, looming up into the drizzling twilight, was a fifteen-story factory building. The side I was looking at was covered with climbing ivy. The windows had been painted black.

"Mr. Frederickson?"

I wheeled and was startled to find a man I assumed to be Krowl standing almost directly behind me. The door to the left of the foyer entrance was open, and he'd managed to approach me without making a sound.

No one had thought to mention the fact that John Krowl was an albino; his wraithlike, ghostly appearance startled me. Krowl's skin was almost the color of chalk, and he wore his thin, white hair at shoulder length. He wore glasses with tinted lenses, presumably to protect his sensitive eyes from the light. He was five feet ten or eleven, and reminded me of some coloring-book Jesus who hadn't been crayoned in.

I wondered how much Krowl's bizarre physical appearance had to do with the fact that he'd been drawn to-and succeeded in-the occult. Perhaps, in a sense, Krowl and I had something in common; Garth had always maintained that I'd have stayed on our family's farm in Nebraska if not for the fact that I'd been born a dwarf. Deformity-any deformity-can crush, but it can also propel a man beyond his normal limits.

"Is that part of your act?" I asked.

"Excuse me?" Krowl's voice was high-pitched, nasal and raspy.

"I'm Frederickson. I take it you're John Krowl."

"That's right," he said coldly, looking at me intently. "Garth left word with my secretary that you wanted a reading. He said it was a matter of some urgency. Why?"

Krowl's chilly abruptness took me aback. I didn't want to offend Krowl in light of the fact that Garth had told me he could be a valuable source of information. On the other hand, something about me obviously put him off; he looked as if he were getting ready to ask me to leave. I decided it might be a good idea to get a better feel of his territory before I started asking direct questions.

"I've got problems," I said quietly.

"Really?" He removed his glasses and stared at me with pink, washed-out eyes. "How do you think I can help?"

I shrugged. "I thought that was obvious. I was hoping you'd read the tarot for me."

Krowl put his glasses back on and smiled thinly. "Frederickson, why do I get the feeling that you think I'm full of shit?"

I felt myself flush. I had to give him points for frankness. "Let's say I'm hoping you can help me," I said, trying to sound humble and offering up my most innocent smile.

"My fee is forty dollars."

"Fine."

"Very well," Krowl said abruptly. "Come with me, please."

He turned and walked back down the hall. I followed him through the open door, which he closed behind us. I found myself in a kind of parlor/sitting room carpeted with the finest Persian rugs. There were more Haitian paintings and faded antique tapestries on those sections of the walls not covered by oak bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. The room was dominated by a round mahogany table in the center. Over the table a stained-glass Tiffany lamp hung like a sparkling jewel in the middle of the room's dark, earth colors. Although the table was not particularly large, its magnificently carved legs and edges lent it an air of massiveness. There were two chairs.

Krowl took a small bundle wrapped in black silk out of a drawer in the table, unwrapped it to reveal a deck of tarot cards. He sat down and motioned for me to sit in the chair across from him.

"Aren't you going to look at my hand?" I asked.

He shook his head and began to shuffle the cards. "Not now," he replied softly. "Perhaps later. Frankly, I get very bad vibrations from you, and I'd like to see what the cards reveal."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," I said, resisting the urge to add something sarcastic.

Krowl put the deck back together, shoved it across the table to me and indicated that I should shuffle.

"I still don't feel that you believe there's anything to be gained from this," the albino said, watching me closely as I manipulated the cards. He made a clucking sound of resignation. "You should try to keep an open mind. As you shuffle the deck, meditate on some problem or question you'd like the cards to speak to. By the way, are you involved with a woman by the name of Amy? Or Abigail?"

"What?" I stopped shuffling and looked up at him, startled once again. The names Amy and Abigail were very close to April. I found Krowl's question distressing for a number of reasons, and I wasn't sure I wanted to confront any of them. I tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "Is that a preview?"

"You'll have to tell me."

"Don't you think you should check out my cards?"

"You're carrying a woman with you," he said, looking at me intently. "I thought I saw one of the names mentioned."

"No," I said curtly.

"All right," he said easily. "The presence of the woman is what's important, not her name. Are you right- or left-handed?"

"Right," I said, actually having to think about it. My mind was wandering, and I was having trouble concentrating.

"Then the left is the hand of your subconscious. Use it to cut the deck into three piles, then put them back in the opposite order."

When I'd done as he'd instructed, Krowl looked through the deck, without disturbing the order, until he found a particular card, which he placed face up on the table between us. The card showed a young man stepping off a cliff.

"This card is the Significator he continued. "It will represent you in the reading. It's The Fool."

"That doesn't sound very complimentary."

He wasn't amused. "The Fool is an innocent," he said. He spoke softly, but his voice had an edge of disdain. "I often use The Fool as a Significator for people who come to see me for the first time. As you can see, the young man is about to step into an abyss; it's the first step in a journey of the consciousness. Whether you succeed on this journey or are dashed on the rocks below is up to you."

"That seems fair enough."

Krowl quickly laid the cards out between us. He placed a card on top of The Fool, then another card crossing them both. Moving in a counterclockwise direction, he laid out four more cards, one at each point of the compass around the center cards. Finally he laid out four cards in a vertical line to his right.

I found myself staring at the cards. The predominant symbol in a number of cards seemed to be swords; I didn't find that encouraging.

Krowl sat in silence for almost five minutes, absently tapping his fingertips together as he stared at the cards. He seemed very much interested in whatever it was he was seeing.

"This is an unusual layout," Krowl said at last in a soft, clipped voice. He looked at me inquiringly. I felt a fluttering in my stomach, but said nothing. Finally Krowl returned his attention to the cards and exposed the card that had been covering The Fool.

"The Queen of Swords," Krowl continued. "We say that the card in this position 'covers' you. It represents the general atmosphere surrounding your question. As you can see, it is a woman. The Queen of Swords may be a widow. I'm certain she's the woman I mentioned-the one in your thoughts."

He pointed to the card he had laid across The Fool. "This 'crosses' you. It's the Two of Cups-Desire. You have a very strong attraction to this woman. Frankly, the rest of the layout is confusing. The card at the bottom is The Devil. In this position it represents something which has happened to you in the past-and which is important to the matter. The Devil is a powerful card. And evil." He hesitated, rapped his knuckles once, hard, on the gleaming surface of the table. "There is evil surrounding the woman," he said forcefully. "Black magic. Does that mean anything to you, Frederickson?"

"You're doing the reading," I said tightly.

Krowl took off his glasses and stared at me with his pale eyes. "The Devil can also indicate the psychic. Something dark. Have you had a psychic experience lately?"

Krowl had shaken me with his comments about a woman; now I felt as if I'd been hit between the eyes with a hammer. The dream. As much as I'd been resisting thinking about it, I had had a "psychic" experience: Transcending all the laws of logic and science, a comatose child had somehow reached out across an unmapped abyss of the spirit and touched my mind in order to tell me she was in danger. The dream had been vivid and complete, from the flames surrounding Kathy to the gown she'd been wearing. The dream had enabled me to save Kathy's life-but it was an experience I still wasn't psychologically prepared to examine.

"Finish the reading," I said tautly, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Then maybe we'll see how it all ties in."

Krowl made a harsh sound in his throat and started to rise. "You're uncooperative and hostile," he said, anger sparking on the hard flint of his voice. "I don't understand what you're doing here."

"I would like you to finish the reading," I heard myself saying. "I'm curious."

Krowl hesitated, then shrugged and sat back down again. He continued in a perfunctory, almost apathetic, tone. "The card on the left side of the cross shows an influence which may be just passing away: it's the Page of Swords, reversed. It's a sick child-perhaps the woman's daughter. At the top is the Five of Wands. It represents something that may happen in the future. This is a card of violence. There's violence around you; I can feel it, as well as see it in your cards."

A large, invisible hand planted itself on my chest and pushed me back in the chair. My gaze rose to the Tiffany lamp over the table; more than half the shards in its glittering surface were the color of blood. The hand reached inside my chest, wrapped itself around my heart and squeezed. Images swam in the glass; the faces of people I'd known-some good, some evil, all dead. In an age when most detective work was sterile and boring, done with computers and phone checks, I continually found myself involved with high-fever cases that grew into epidemics of death. It seemed wherever I went in my career, I left a foaming, bloody wake filled with bodies; whatever garden I set out to till ended up Golgotha. But I survived. I was a carrier. Now Kathy and April had been exposed.

My neck and ears felt hot. Krowl had been reading my mail, and I found that the fear I'd initially felt was rapidly metamorphosing into anger. There could be any number of explanations for what seemed to be the deadly accuracy of Krowl's reading; he could very well have read about me and the violence that usually attended my investigations. What Krowl could not possibly know-because I hadn't realized it myself until he'd pointed it out to me-was the importance April Marlowe had suddenly assumed in my life. Krowl had hit that target dead center. The truth was that April Marlowe distracted me as much as-or more than-the plight of her daughter, or the Senator's. It was ugly, hard for me to admit; but it was true. It made me feel ashamed.

Krowl pointed to the card on the right side of the cross. It showed a dog baying at the moon. A large, ominous-looking crayfish was crawling out of a pond at the dog's feet. "The Moon," Krowl said, placing his forefinger on the card. "Its position represents something that may happen soon. The Moon may stand for deception, unforeseen perils.. secret enemies." He pursed his lips and squinted at me. "Possibly bad luck for one you love."

"What kind of bad luck?" I asked quickly. My voice sounded strange in my ears, shrill and strained.

Krowl smiled broadly, as though he'd won a major concession from me. "I don't know," he said quietly. "The woman is sad now; I pick that up from you. She's surrounded by trouble, and I sense that you carry much of that trouble with you; you bring it to her."

"What do the rest of the cards tell you?" I asked, pointing to the vertical line of cards on his right. I hoped my voice was steady, but I'd experienced an unnerving flash of the "bad luck" I'd brought to others in the past. Like Garth: A woman he'd loved had died in the desert sands of Iran, six thousand miles away. Garth himself had fired the bullet that killed her.

"The Nine of Swords," he said, pointing to the card at the bottom of the vertical line. "Its symbols speak for themselves. The card is in the position representing your fears-in this case suffering and illness, possibly the death of one you love." He frowned and suddenly swept his hand over to the Page of Swords on the opposite side of the cross. "Or the woman's daughter," he added quietly. "It's the woman's daughter you fear for. And-" He abruptly stopped speaking and stared intently at the cards, as though looking for something. Finally he shook his head, continued.

"The next position represents the opinion of family and friends. As you see, the card is Strength. All it means is that you know they have faith in you.

"The next card is the Six of Swords, and it's in the position of your hopes. The card is a logical one for the 'hope' position. A man-you, obviously-ferries a woman and her daughter across a lake toward a more peaceful place.

"The last card represents the outcome. It's the Ten of Swords: disaster."

Krowl let the prediction drop perfunctorily, then removed his glasses, leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. The light from the overhead lamp danced eerily in his pink eyes. "Normally, at this point I'd try to be upbeat," he continued casually. "I'd try to assure you that the trends shown by the cards don't necessarily have to come to pass. I'd tell you that the cards reflect your present state of mind, and what could happen if you don't change your present behavior patterns. But I don't think you care about what I have to say. I still think you came here for some other reason."

"You're very perceptive, Krowl," I said, meaning it. My stomach was churning, and I felt light-headed. I hoped it didn't show. I found I disliked Krowl; he was arrogant and-to judge by the way he'd handled my reading-cruel. He was also, as I'd been warned, damn good.

"Thank you," Krowl said with a thin smile. "Now, why don't you tell me what it is you really want?"

"I came to see you because I wanted to see what the tarot cards are all about, and you've shown me," I said. "But it's true that I had another reason for coming here. I need information."

Krowl rose stiffly from his chair. "I don't give out information," he said coldly. "I never discuss my clients. You owe me forty dollars."

I stood up, counted out the money from my wallet and placed it on the table. "I don't want to talk about any of your clients; what I need to know involves one of mine. The sick child you saw in the cards; that could be her. She's dying because something was done to her; I have to find out exactly what's wrong with her."

Krowl's gaze dropped to the layout on the table, and he stared at the cards for a long time. Finally his eyes flicked back to my face. "What are you talking about?" he asked tightly. His face was flushed to the point where it almost matched his eyes.

"The girl's father got himself involved in some bad witchcraft business," I said, watching Krowl carefully. "I think his new friends killed him and did something to the girl. She's in a coma. It will help if the doctors can find out what was done to her. I'm trying to find the people responsible. Garth said that you might be able to help me. I have to find a ceremonial magician who uses the witch name 'Esobus.' Have you ever heard the name?"

Krowl quickly reached for his glasses and put them on. "What makes you think I'd know anything about this?"

"I just told you: Garth told me you might know who Esobus is."

The albino started to put the cards in the layout back into the deck. Both his hands were trembling now, and he looked sick. Suddenly he pushed the cards away and walked quickly to a bookcase filled with occult icons and books. He leaned against it, arms outspread and forehead touching the leather-bound volumes, as though drawing strength from the symbols and words there. He spun around as I started across the room toward him.

"Get out!" Krowl said firmly. His flesh had returned to its normal parchment color, and he'd stopped shaking. It was quite a transformation. "What right do you have to come to me under false pretenses and start asking questions?"

"Hey, buddy; I'm just asking you to help a little girl who's dying. Esobus works out of your bailiwick, not mine. I can see that you're afraid; okay. I absolutely guarantee that no one will ever find out you gave me his real name."

"I don't know anything." He half-turned toward a louvered door behind him. "Jonathan! Come here!"

"Bullshit," I said quietly. "You sure as hell know something; you looked like you were about to toss your cookies when I mentioned the name. Come on, Krowl. Anything you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence. Nothing is going to happen to you. Tell me Esobus' real name."

A huge man, almost seven feet tall, appeared in the doorway, and Krowl motioned toward me. "Get him out of here," he said to Jonathan. Then to me: "Don't come back here again."

I waved an embarrassed, reluctant Jonathan off and headed for the door, where I paused with my hand on the knob, turned. "I don't know what your problem is, Krowl," I said softly, "but I want to make a prediction of my own. I'm betting that I can be an even bigger pain in the ass than Esobus. I'm making up a creep list, and it looks like you're on it. If that girl dies because the doctors don't have information you could have given me, I'm going to be back. You think on that, you son-of-a-bitch." I took a card out of my pocket and handed it to the bemused Jonathan. "Here's my number; you call me if you want to talk."

I made a point of slamming the door behind me.

I walked to a phone booth at the end of the block and called Garth. I let the phone ring ten times and was about to give up when Regina finally answered.

"Hi, Regina. It's Mongo. Let me talk to Garth, please."

Garth came on the line a few seconds later. "Jesus, Mongo," he growled. "You pick the most incredibly inopportune-times to call."

"Think of me as your conscience."

He grunted. "How's the little girl?"

"The same."

"Did you get anything from John?"

"A hard time. He doesn't like me; I don't like him."

"That's too bad. He's a great contact. If anyone knows who Esobus is, I'd have laid odds it would be John."

"And you'd win. Krowl knows something, all right; I thought he was going to pass out when I mentioned Esobus. The problem is that he threw me out. He's afraid of something. If Krowl won't tell me about Esobus, I'm going to start finding out about Krowl. How well do you know him personally?"

"Not well enough to tell you anything useful. I met him through some of my other contacts."

"Okay. I want you to do something for me. Have you heard of Harley Davidson?"

"The motorcycle or the singer?"

"Ho-ho. I thought he was out on the Coast, but it turns out he's one of Krowl's clients. He may have digs here in the city. If so, some of the Special Details boys may know where to find him. Make a couple of calls for me in the morning, will you? Davidson used to be a student of mine, and he may be able to give me a better line on Krowl."

"Will do. Incidentally, a friend of yours has been very busy lately."

"Who?"

"Daniel-or Crandall, or whatever the hell his name is. He's been cutting a pretty wide swath through the underground here. You've got company; the word is that he's looking for Esobus too. The difference is that those nice folks are afraid of him. I hear he's scaring the shit out of people."

"Yeah? Well, good for him. Get back to me on Davidson as soon as you can, okay?"

"Check. May I go now?"

"You may go now. Listen; save some energy, will you?"

Garth cursed good-naturedly and hung up. I dug another dime out of my pocket and called Madeline Jones. Madeline had also known Bobby Weiss before he'd become Harley Davidson. Weiss had enrolled in my classes because he was interested in criminology; I was sure he'd taken astronomy because he'd lusted after Madeline.

"Hello?" It was a stranger's voice-hollow, thin and strained.

"Uh … is Dr. Jones there?"

"This is Dr. Jones speaking. Mongo?"

"Yeah. Mad? God, you sound terrible."

"I. . have a cold. And I'm very tired."

"Sorry to be calling so late."

"It's all right. Is something. . wrong?"

"First of all, I just saw John Krowl. I'm sure he knows something about Esobus, but he won't talk to me. I'm afraid our relationship got off to a rather rocky start."

"What. . makes you think John knows anything about Esobus?"

"Big reaction when I mentioned the name. Anyway, I was hoping you'd talk to him for me; assure him that I'm relatively straight and that anything he tells me will be in strict confidence. I know you think Esobus is a myth, but it looks like you're wrong. Hearing the name definitely upset Krowl. I just don't have the time to lean on him. Will you talk to him?"

There was a long pause at the other end of the line, and I repeated Madeline's name.

"Yes, Mongo." The stranger's voice was barely a whisper. "I'll talk to John, but I don't think he'll have anything to say to me."

"Well, I'll appreciate your making the effort. And I may have another lead. Do you remember Bobby Weiss?"

"Uh. . vaguely."

I wondered; rumors around faculty circles had it that the student and the middle-aged woman had been lovers. "I think he may be in New York," I said. "I was wondering if you'd heard anything from him."

Again there was a long silence; again I repeated her name.

"I'm sorry, Mongo," she managed to say at last. "I'm just so. . exhausted I can't think. I don't know what's the matter with me."

"Mad, have you seen a doctor?"

"No. I just need. . some rest. I haven't heard from Bobby. I'm sorry I can't help you there."

"It's okay. Listen, sweetheart, you take care of yourself. Okay?"

"Yes," Mad answered dully. "I will. Thank you, Mongo. Goodbye."

When I hung up, I found that I was concerned about Madeline. I quickly reminded myself that I had enough other things to worry about, and that Madeline-to say the least-was a strong woman who could take care of herself.

There was nothing more to be done that night. I went home, took a hot bath, then fell asleep as soon as I lay down on the bed.

Nightmare time. I'd have expected something to do with werewolves and goblins, but it wasn't like that at all. I was at the bottom of some desert valley in which the colors were all wrong; low, green plastic sky, gray cactus and sagebrush, purple sand and stone. I was surrounded by figures that looked like people, but weren't. As if to confirm my suspicion, one of them pulled back his lips to reveal long snake-fangs. Slowly, in ballet-unison, all of the figures lifted their arms and wriggled their fingers: suddenly the air was filled with the deadly, rustling song of rattlesnakes. Then the figures began to change into snakes. A few, unable to complete the transition, exploded soundlessly. The rest completed their metamorphosis-almost; I was ringed by rattlesnakes with human faces.

It was all too absurd to take seriously. I knew I was dreaming, and I decided to wait patiently until I woke up.

My patience became a little strained when the snakes started to crawl toward me. Dream or not, the human faces on the scaled, limbless bodies repulsed me. I didn't want to be bitten. I instinctively reached out for a rock; one of the snakes hurtled through the air and buried its fangs in my right thumb. It hurt far more than such dream-things should, and I was relieved to feel the heavy-lidded, swirling sensation of vertigo that was always my passport to consciousness. The screen inside my head went blank and I slowly became aware of my bed, my pillow, the sheet over me, the hum of the air conditioning.

I was definitely awake, but my thumb still hurt. Something was wrong.

Something was gnawing on my thumb.

Tiny needles of fire and ice were vibrating in my flesh, grinding down to the bone. I sat bolt upright in bed and shrieked when I saw the dark, fluttering shape hanging from my thumb. I jumped out of bed and violently shook my hand, but the thing wouldn't come off. Bony, cold wings flapped against my hand, and I knew with sudden, chilling certainty what it was-and what was wrong with it.

Groaning aloud with revulsion and terror, I reached over with my left hand, wrapped my fingers around the bat and yanked it off my thumb. It took all my willpower to hang on to the writhing animal, but I knew I had to keep my head. My entire body was quaking, oozing sweat, but I managed to walk across the room, turn on the light and examine the bat. It had worked one cold, skin-covered wing free and was flapping it against me in a mindless, disease-powered frenzy. Its body kept churning, and I could feel its tiny, clawed feet scratching against my palm and wrist. The maw with its tiny needle teeth was covered with froth and blood. The flesh on my right thumb where it had been chewing was shredded; blood and flecks of saliva covered my hand.

I gagged and tasted sour bile in the back of my throat. Desperately hoping that it was all a dream-within-a-dream, I screwed my eyes shut and waited to wake up. But I was awake. The tiny, muscular body squirmed; I could feel its soft, throbbing belly, wirelike veins, slimy feces lubricating my hand. In a few more seconds it would wriggle its way free.

Fighting off a strong compulsion to vomit, I staggered back across the room and used my free hand to remove the pillowcase from my pillow. I dropped the bat into it, then beat the shape to death with a shoe. Groaning and whimpering like a maniac, I kept pounding the stained pillowcase long after the creature inside it was dead.

I wrapped the package in plastic, washed off my hands with alcohol and bandaged my thumb as best I could. I tried to keep my mind off what I knew was inevitably before me as I dressed, picked up the plastic bag and went down to my car. I couldn't stop shaking. With the bundle on the seat beside me, I careened through the night streets of Manhattan to the university Medical Center. I didn't want to die that way, and I tried not to think of the deadly germs coursing through my system at that very moment, being carried by my bloodstream toward my brain.