An Affair Of Sorcerers

Chapter 19

The lights were on in Krowl's brownstone, and the shades were up. I didn't want anyone inside looking out and seeing me, so I stayed across the street in the night shadows. I walked to the end of the block and went down the side street. In the shadows between the glows cast by two street lights I crossed the street to the warehouse behind Krowl's house. The warehouse still looked abandoned, but I didn't think it was; the coven had to have a private and secure place to meet, and the warehouse looked like a perfect spot.

All the windows I could see were painted black, and the glass looked as if it were reinforced with wire mesh. Considering the neighborhood, the building looked in good shape and seemed to be maintained well. In the front was a stainless steel door with a heavy padlock. I was reasonably certain I could work my way through the lock, but the street was too exposed.

I had better luck in a side alley. I had the same problem with a heavy door and padlock, but in the alley I was shrouded in darkness. There was always the danger of setting off an alarm, silent or otherwise, but there didn't seem to be any way of getting around that risk if I wanted to get inside the building-and I most certainly wanted to get inside. The drop-bolt lock was expensive and sturdy; beyond the skills of the average burglar, nervous and in a hurry. It took me almost an hour and my entire set of custom-made lockpicks to get through it.

I stepped inside the door and found myself in pitch darkness. I fumbled along the wall, found a light switch and flipped it. Fluorescent lights came on, throwing a stuttering, soft glow over a narrow stairway. I slowly climbed the stairs, paying close attention to where I stepped in case the setup was booby-trapped. I could find no wires or mechanical devices that would indicate an alarm rigging, and I assumed I was home free.

At the top of the stairway I found myself on a catwalk which circled a broad concrete area on the first floor below. Occult symbols had been painted on the concrete between the perimeter of a large black circle and twelve smaller circles surrounding it. Black draperies encircled the entire area. There was a sloping, sunken area in the center of the floor. The depression was scorched, and I thought I could see three small metal outlets that were probably gas jets. They would make a clean, gas-burning bonfire; all the conveniences of modern covenry.

To my right was a narrow platform constructed of reinforced concrete and jutting out over the ceremonial area below. At the end of the platform was a small enclosure draped in crimson velvet. Assuming I was right about Esobus keeping his identity secret even from the members of his own coven, the cubicle would probably be where the ceremonial magician held forth. A look inside the cubicle confirmed it. There was what I assumed to be a one-way mirror overlooking the area below. In front of the glass were a bare wooden writing desk and a straight-backed metal folding chair. The walls were bare, except for a small sign that had been lettered with India ink on heavy bond paper. It was neatly taped to the smooth wood just to the left of the glass, and read:

THE SEARCH FOR TRUTH IS NEITHER MORAL NOR IMMORAL: IT IS THE PREREQUISITE OF A CIVILIZED SOCIETY.

It seemed a curious motto for the leader of a coven that went around killing people and poisoning little girls.

I took the paper from the wall, folded it and put it in my pocket. Then I turned my attention to the small console of electronic equipment in the corner to the right of the desk. There were a tape deck, a microphone and equipment for voice distortion. I was certain that the message Joshua Greene had received at the hospital had been recorded on the machine I was looking at.

I went back out on the catwalk and walked around it. The gutting and reconstruction of the building was far from complete. There were a number of dusty corridors radiating off the catwalk to other sections of the building. I walked down one corridor and found myself in a large, bare area that looked as if it had once housed heavy equipment. I didn't have time to explore all the other sections, and I was anxious to examine the main floor. I returned to the catwalk.

There was probably a stairway leading downstairs if I looked long enough for it, but I was in a hurry. I found some heavy rope on a scaffold that had been left in a corner. I anchored the rope, then dropped it over the railing and shinnied down. At the bottom, just in case I wanted to get back up in a hurry, I coiled the rope end and hid it behind a section of black drapery. On the other side of the drapery, on the concrete apron of the main area, I discovered a large cubicle whose walls and ceiling seemed to have been constructed from prefabricated materials. A quick swing around the area behind the drapery showed that there was a total of twelve such cubicles.

I stepped into one, found the light switch and turned it on. Again, fluorescent lights flickered on. My heart almost stopped as I heard a sudden, pneumatic hissing sound. I wheeled and dived for the entrance. In a way, I was lucky that my reflexes were slightly off; if I'd been a split second faster, I'd have been decapitated or cut in half as a steel plate dropped from a hidden niche above the cubicle doorway and hit the floor with a solid, loud clang.

I got my arms up just in time and absorbed the force of my hitting the plate with my forearms. Panicked at being caught like an animal in a trap, I leaped up and hurled myself against the steel; the plate set me right down on the floor again. This time I stayed down, held my head in my hands and tried to calm nerves that were shrieking with fear. The plate was solid, and all I'd get from banging against it would be a broken shoulder and a headache.

If I had to play rat, I decided I might as well try to be a smart one: I got to my feet and carefully examined the surface of the plate. Fifteen minutes of this convinced me there was no way to escape; obviously, one had to make arrangements for walking out before walking in. That, I thought, didn't seem to bode well for my future-which could be very short. But I knew that the terror generated by dwelling on the fact would only sap my strength. There was nothing I could do but wait and see who-if anyone-was going to show up. I took out my gun and looked around.

The cubicle had been designed as an all-purpose private retreat for one of the coven members. There were a cot, a small library of sorts with an esoteric collection of occult books; there was even a black-draped altar with black candles. In the center of the altar was a large, hand-bound book with hand-tooled leather covers and thick parchment pages. A book of shadows. Having absolutely nothing better to do and needing something to keep my mind off my situation, I sat down on the edge of the cot, placed my gun next to my right thigh and began to leaf through the book.

It belonged to a man by the name of Jan Watson, a ceremonial magician from North Dakota. There were numerous pages of mystical diagrams, recipes for herb medicines and poisons, records of dreams and their magical interpretation in an occult framework. There was also a record of what Watson referred to as altered states of consciousness reached during coven ceremonies-most of which seemed incredibly ugly and vicious.

Apparently, I hadn't been the first persistent burglar to force my way into the coven's headquarters; according to Watson's book of shadows, three other men had been trapped as I was, then put to death in sacrificial rites. It seemed an effective, if somewhat tacky, method of cutting down on the neighborhood crime rate. It also made me feel slightly better. It seemed to mean that they wouldn't simply leave me there to starve to death. Also, I much preferred waiting around for a sacrificial rite to being gassed or shot from some hidden aperture in the walls or ceiling.

The most intriguing sections of Watson's book of shadows were those dealing with the formation of the coven a year and a half before; there were detailed records of the group's activities and proceedings. It made fascinating reading-right up to the point when the plate sighed open and John Krowl stepped into the room. I started to grab for my gun, then froze with my hand in the air.

Krowl was wearing a red, hooded robe with black occult symbols embroidered across the front. Dressed in the robe, his white hair framing the ghostly-pale flesh of his face, he made quite a striking figure. But it wasn't his costume that impressed me as much as the enormous black.45 automatic in his hand. The lights had been turned off in the main chamber, and there was a loud hissing sound from the activated gas jets. Behind Krowl, courtesy of Consolidated Edison, firelight flickered and danced like heat lightning.

Moving very deliberately, keeping the.45 aimed steadily at my chest, the albino came across the room, picked up my gun from the cot and threw it skittering behind him into the darkness. Then he moved back to a safe distance, by the entrance.

The only way out was through Krowl, but he'd have to be set up first. I'd have to try a little game of Concentration; to see just how good he was.

I closed Watson's book, crossed my legs, looked up at Krowl and tried to smile. "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" I was grateful for the fact that my voice came out steady, but with what I hoped was just the right amount of underlying hysteria. The hysteria wasn't difficult.

Krowl looked at me for a few moments, puzzled, then grinned crookedly. "You're a tenacious fool, Frederickson."

"The gun and the gas fire are rather newfangled, aren't they?" I asked, giggling inanely. "I don't mean to offend you, but, frankly, it spoils the image."

"The advantages of living in the twentieth century," he said smugly. With the heavy artillery in his hand, at what he obviously-and with good reason-thought was the end of the matter, Krowl was showing that he could be positively droll.

"I can't believe you're going to kill me with a gun," I said in the same thin, breathy voice I'd been using. "I mean, a shooting would be so declasse for a big, bad ceremonial magician." I shrugged nervously, uncrossed my legs and planted my feet firmly on the floor. "Why don't you just try spelling me to death?"

It was time to try for the secret square and hope it didn't turn out to be a rubber duck-or a dead dwarf. I lunged forward, hitting the floor and rolling, aiming at Krowl's legs. The gun exploded in my right ear, partially deafening me; concrete splinters sprayed my face. Even as I came up into a crouch, I knew I'd missed. Krowl was standing over me, holding the gun steady with both hands. The barrel was inches away from my head, and I stiffened, closing my eyes and biting into my lip in anticipation of the next shot-which I doubted I'd even hear. It didn't come. I opened my eyes, wiped the blood off my mouth.

"You'll die, Frederickson," Krowl snarled, "but you'll die in a way we choose-by fire and athame. The only decision you have to make is whether you want bullets in your kneecaps and elbows when we kill you."

Krowl motioned me back. I sank to the floor, bracing my back against the wall, cursing silently and methodically at myself for missing the only chance I'd probably ever get, and at drug-and-disease-wasted muscles that wouldn't work properly. "You're missing a couple of members," I said, trying desperately to think, to plan. "I'd hate to be sacrificed at anything less than a full-blown official gathering."

Krowl almost smiled. "You're tough, Frederickson. And you have personal power. I respect you."

"Fuck you, you creep son-of-a-bitch."

Krowl looked at me strangely, his pinkish eyes slightly out of focus. "Down through the centuries, dwarfs have always been considered receptacles of power," he said distantly. "They were kept as consorts, for good luck, in the Medieval courts. Maybe that's what we should do with you. We could chain you, keep you here in a cage. No one would ever know."

"Krowl," I whispered, "come Mental Health Week, I'm going to nominate you for Poster Child."

I was rather hoping he'd get mad; if he got mad, he might get sloppy. He disappointed me.

"Keeping you with us was just a thought," Krowl said with a shrug, his eyes coming back into focus on my face. "You're going to die."

I sighed. "Where's the rest of the coven?"

"They'll be here-except for Smathers and Kee, of course. It seems their power was not equal to yours."

"Will Esobus be here?"

"Yes."

"Spouting electronic bullshit from his own private cabin," I said, watching Krowl carefully, waiting for another chance at him. In order to get it, I'd just about have to put him to sleep; I couldn't generate much momentum from my seated position, and Krowl looked as though he were paying attention. "You don't even know who Esobus is, do you?"

Something like chagrin or embarrassment moved in the albino's eyes, but he didn't speak. I motioned toward the book of shadows left open on the cot. "Come on, Krowl," I continued. "Your coven-buddy Watson didn't know, and he indicated that he was pretty pissed off about it. The only reason he went along was because he'd been asked to by the man who'd recruited him. That was Smathers, a fellow weirdo and pervert Watson had known for years. In fact, you all joined by invitation, and the hosts for the party were Smathers and Esobus. Smathers vouched for Esobus, and one of the conditions for joining was that Esobus be allowed to maintain absolute secrecy about his identity." I slowly planted my hands on the floor at my sides. "I think you've all been witched-out, Krowl; Smathers was just jerking around the bunch of you."

Krowl's pale eyes glinted. He noticed my position and wiggled the gun. I put my hands back in my lap. "Esobus is the greatest ceremonial magician alive," he said intently. "He made it possible for all of us to join together. Tonight, we-or one of us-will be asked to share the secret of his identity."

"Smathers was the liaison between Esobus and the rest of the coven," I said. "But Smathers is dead, and you just told me there was no backup man. There won't be a new messenger boy until tonight. How will Esobus know about this meeting?"

"Tonight's meeting was scheduled beforehand," Krowl said softly. "You picked the best of all possible times to visit us."

I most fervently hoped Esobus would show up. It was Esobus who'd saved Kathy's life, Esobus who'd undoubtedly cut my bonds in Smathers' lab-and Esobus who was going to have to get me out of this one. Esobus was my last potential ace in the hole-a possible secret ally. It was a paper-thin chance, especially in view of the fact that he was going to have to pull this particular dwarf rabbit out of a hat in full view of the other coven members, but it was the only hope left on the shelf.

A movement to the left caught my eye. A robed figure had appeared and was standing just outside the entrance to the cubicle. The hood covered the man's face, and his hands and arms were folded inside the flowing sleeves of the robe. He nodded to Krowl, but didn't speak. Number Two had arrived, and we were obviously in a holding pattern. My stomach muscles knotted painfully, and for a moment I was afraid I was going to be sick.

Krowl acknowledged the other man's presence with a brief movement of his head, then turned his attention back to me. "It was all in the tarot cards," he said absently. "Except that you almost brought me bad luck."

"I remember something about disaster," I said tightly.

"For you, Frederickson; not for me."

"I'm not dead yet," I said, and was sorry I'd spoken. It was false bravado, to say the least, and it sounded desperate and silly.

"You will be soon."

"Christ, you're a bunch of sickies!" I said with a lot more feeling than I'd intended to show. I knew that I had to stay calm and look for my best chance; but I vividly remembered what Daniel's body had looked like. Krowl, with his gun, and the gathering, robed assemblage outside the cubicle did tend to make me nervous. A rational part of me kept insisting that dead was dead, and it didn't make any difference how you died. But I didn't want to be tortured, cut, burned; I didn't want a dead animal stuffed in my mouth, or to be howled over by men in crimson robes. Their "spell" was working as it was supposed to: I was very much afraid, and my fear had a paralyzing effect. They were working my head over before they began on my body. I didn't really have much hope that Esobus or anyone else was going to save me. At least, I hoped to die with some dignity, which meant I'd have to try to mask my fear for as long as possible.

Krowl gestured with the barrel of his gun toward Watson's book of shadows. "You've been doing a lot of digging, and now you've read a genuine book of shadows. Have you finally satisfied your curiosity?"

Something in his voice-or perhaps the question itself-struck me as odd, and for a moment curiosity displaced fear. It suddenly occurred to me that there was something Krowl wanted from me. I certainly hoped so; from where I was sitting, I didn't look like a man with too much bargaining power.

Three more hooded, red-robed figures had joined the first man outside. That left five more to go-assuming Garth hadn't picked up Sandor Peth.

"I know you're all full of shit," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I fought my mounting fear with words. "Your supercoven is shit. Men who are supposed to be the best ceremonial magicians in the country are brought together into one coven, and what do we get? People raised from the dead? Darkness at noon? Lead turned to gold? Nope. We get a bunch of nasty little boys dressed in Halloween costumes ripping off gullible people. It would be mildly funny if not for the fact that you're murderers. You're still all absolutely ridiculous, you know, and killing me won't change that."

That struck a nerve. Krowl's eyes flashed angrily, and the muscles in his jaw clenched and fluttered. "You miss the point, Frederickson," he said, his voice rising a notch.

I snorted. "They've been selling the Brooklyn Bridge to idiots like the people you've conned ever since we bought Manhattan from the Indians."

"We're committed to the accumulation of power through the conscious pursuit of evil," Krowl said in the tone of a slightly wounded professor correcting a dense student. "I won't even try to explain states of consciousness, or the inner journeys of the mind that we're able to achieve together."

"Spare me. I can take you on a tour of Bellevue and show you other people with altered states of consciousness." I paused, waited for my heartbeat to slow down; the longer we bantered, the longer I'd stay alive, and I was talking too fast. "Besides," I continued in a more measured tone, "the way I see it, you do all the work, Krowl. You've got a talent. Maybe it's just supersensitivity; whatever it is, I accept the fact that you gain tremendous insight into people, with your cards, in the wink of an eye. You can see their hopes and their secret terrors. But you're the one with the talent, and I suspect you're the single piece of flypaper that holds this wormy outfit together."

"Your analogy aside, I'm flattered," Krowl said. He obviously was.

"Don't be," I snapped. "I haven't finished. You know what I think? This alleged 'supercoven' of yours, with the possible exceptions of Smathers and a leader who won't even tell you his real name, is, in fact, the B group; you're second-raters." I paused, then asked softly, "What did you and Michael McEnroe fight about?"

Krowl stared at me for a long time, then slowly blinked once. "What do you know about McEnroe?" he asked tensely.

"I know he is-or was-your mentor. Your entire operation, including the hand casts, is patterned after his. I know McEnroe's very heavy, and that he taught you everything you know. My guess is that people like him and Daniel would have made up the A group; they were the first ones invited to form a coven. Smathers used the name of Esobus as bait to dangle in front of the real heavies. They may have laughed at him; more likely, they simply ignored him. So Smathers and Esobus had to widen the list. God, they really had to scrape the bottom of the cookie jar to come up with a madman like Sandor Peth. But they managed to bag you, Krowl. You certainly weren't Michael McEnroe, but you'd have to do. For the rest, Esobus and Smathers had to settle for more dumbies-like you-who'd be willing to accept a squawk box as a leader."

It was all speculation, a barrage of words fired in a wide scatter pattern, and I paused to try to gauge Krowl's reaction. I decided I must be pretty close to the target; the albino's mouth was slightly open, and his breathing had grown rapid and shallow.

"You're the conduit," I continued. "You're the key to this operation. People come to you for help and advice in your capacity as a palmist and tarot reader. With your talent, you can hit a moving vulnerability a mile away. Then you reel them in. Also, of course, there's the prestige the suckers feel from being in secret association with the great John Krowl-in a coven, no less; that's the clincher. You suck them in, then farm them out to other members of the coven-like advising Harley Davidson to leave Jake Stein at William Morris and sign Sandor Peth as his manager. Right up to the moment they die-or are milked dry-they continue to believe that they're members.

"I'm betting the rift between you and your teacher came when McEnroe found out what you were up to; he heard you'd been extended an invitation and were going to join. He also knew that, despite all your talent, you were evil and could be exploited. That's when he dumped on you." I paused, leaned slightly forward and smiled. "As far as I know, you only messed up with one man-but that was some screw-up."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Krowl said defensively.

"The hell I don't. Frank Marlowe had you turkeys in his sights from the beginning."

Krowl's eyes flashed. "The man you're referring to didn't survive long, did he?"

"You murdered him, but you didn't control him. You cast Bart Stone, big-shot Western writer, in the role of sucker, and all the time Frank Marlowe was playing Exorcist. He was planning to rip you off. I think that's funny as hell. Who knows? Before you killed him, Marlowe may even have found out who Esobus is."

Two more figures had joined the group outside. The cubicle was beginning to heat up, but I couldn't tell whether it was from the fire outside, or the fear inside me. Krowl motioned for me to get up.

"It's not going to do you any good to kill me," I said quickly, my voice too high-pitched. "I put my brother on to Peth. If I end up dead or missing, you're going to learn a new definition of the word, 'pressure.' "

"Peth is dead," Krowl said smugly. "In our world, the slightest mistake is paid for with death. Peth's mistake jeopardized us all, and he had to be eliminated. Now there's no proof of our existence; when you're dead, there'll be no one to lead the police to us." He smiled broadly, triumphantly. "In any case, we have many people, who think they're members, in a position to protect us."

He was probably right. The book of shadows I'd read was proof of a sort, and there were undoubtedly others lying around in the other cubicles; but no one was ever likely to find one, any more than they were likely to find my ashes.

"There is one thing you can tell us," Krowl continued. His voice seemed slightly off-key.

"Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because if you do, we'll spare the lives of the girl and her mother. I give you my word on that. We do have our own code of honor, and I offer you that."

"You can stick your word and your code of honor up your ass, Krowl."

"You were searching for what you thought was Frank Marlowe's book of shadows. I want to know if you found it; if you did, I want to know what you've done with it."

The question struck me with the force of a blow to the stomach. It confirmed that the coven hadn't taken Marlowe's book of shadows, and they were very much afraid of what it might contain. Marlowe's diary was the last threat to them.

"I never found it," I said quietly. "I could play games and tell you I did; but I didn't."

Krowl studied me for a long time, then nodded brusquely. "I believe you," he said at last.

"Good. It's the truth. So lay off the Marlowe woman and her daughter. There's no power for you in hurting them."

"I am ready."

The sound, shrill and distorted, filled the building.

"O pentacle of power, be thou fortress and defense for Esobus against all enemies, visible and invisible, in every magical work."

"It's time," Krowl said quietly, motioning with the gun for me to rise.

When I tried to stand, my condemned man's legs almost gave way under me. "I've got one more question," I said thickly, easing myself up by bracing my back against the wall. "You talk about a code of honor: What the hell did the little girl have to do with it? You killed Marlowe because you found out he was on to you and investigating your operation. Okay. But why poison the child? What kind of honor is that?"

Krowl hesitated, then said, "Debts must be paid; betrayals must be avenged."

"You did avenge Marlowe's betrayal when you killed him. Why take it out on his daughter too?" Krowl remained silent, staring. "Did someone else betray you, Krowl?"

Something dark moved across his eyes, but before I could chase it the voice came again, this time more forcefully.

"It's time!"

Krowl nodded toward the others waiting outside. As one, their right hands came out of their sleeves; each hand was holding a large, glittering blade. With a precision that would have made the Rockettes envious, the robed figures moved into the cubicle and surrounded me, the points of their daggers pinning me in the center of the circle they'd formed. Now Krowl put away the gun and took out his own knife.

Surrounded by sharp steel, I was herded into the huge outer chamber, close to the fire. Fueled by adrenaline, my legs were working all right, but there was no way I could duck away from or under the knives without being run through-which was what I suspected was going to happen anyway. At a word from Krowl or Esobus, eight blades would slice into me.

I glanced up at my last refuge of hope-the platform over my head. The mirror at the front of the elevated cubicle stared back at me like a baleful, pupilless eye reflecting the firelight.

As if to acknowledge my attention, Esobus began to chant.

"Black Bull of the north, Horned One, Dark Ruler of the mountains and all that lies beneath them. Prince of Evil, be here, we beseech thee, and guard this circle from all enemies!"

The group repeated the chant, then went into a series of other invocations in some archaic tongue that I couldn't understand. At one point I thought they might be sufficiently mesmerized to have lost track of the ceremony's piece de resistance; I tensed, ready to move. Suddenly, as if reading my mind, Krowl stuck me in the stomach with the point of his blade. The needle tip went through my shirt and into my flesh, drawing a dribble of blood that ran warm down my belly and into my groin. I stiffened and stayed that way. Krowl had nicked me without missing a word.

There was a long silence; then the mechanical voice intoned:

"Robert Frederickson."

"Present; but I'd like to be excused."

"I conjure thee; by night your eyes are blinded, by day your ears are stopped, by earth your mouth is sealed, by rock your limbs are bound!"

"Fuck you!" A little chant of my own. It was beginning to sound as though Esobus, my hoped-for secret ally, were reading my epitaph, and that we were nearing the end of this particular ceremony. But if Esobus was concerned that I was going to start shouting out accusations that he was a closet goody-goody, he gave no indication of it. His voice droned on without interruption.

"Twist and tangle, never to rise up again. Your eyes grow dimmer, your limbs grow numb. The angel of death now draws near. . Wait!. . There is an intruder among us!"

The last was definitely not part of the ceremony, and I grimaced as I felt the points of eight blades dig into me.

Suddenly I heard a familiar voice chanting, the words echoing through the chamber.

"O pentacle of might, be thou fortress and defense for Robert Frederickson against all enemies, seen and unseen, in every magical way!"

On the flickering outer edges of the firelight I could just make out the figure of Madeline Jones standing at the railing of the catwalk, above and to the far left. Her arms were stretched out to either side, and her eyes were closed in fierce concentration.

The sweat on my body turned ice cold, and I almost stumbled. My head spun, and for a moment I thought I had to be hallucinating. But I wasn't the only one in a state of shock: Krowl's mouth drooped open in astonishment.

"Damn you, Madeline Jones!" Krowl shouted. "This isn't your affair! Be gone from this place, or die! So mote it be! So mote it be!"

Madeline's voice came again, soft in contrast to Krowl's rasping shout, floating in the dry, heated air like a sonic feather.

"Four corners in this house for holy angels. Christ Jesus, be in our midst. God be in this place and keep us safe."

There was a short silence; then Madeline continued: "You know who I am, John Krowl. I am of the belief and the society. Robert Frederickson is under my protection. Let him go unharmed. So mote it be!"

Krowl had apparently tired of chants. The curious battle of sorcerers was over, and it was Technology Time: Krowl was reaching inside his robe for his gun.

But Madeline had given me what I most needed: distraction. Having overcome my initial shock at seeing Mad, I sucked in a deep breath as though I were diving underwater, then dropped to the floor. A knife tip slashed my shoulder, but that was all. I rolled backward through a pair of legs, at the same time kicking my toe up into their owner's groin. Then I got up and sprinted around the edge of the fire toward the place where I'd left the rope. With a little luck, it would still be there.

"Be careful, Mad!" I shouted as I ran. "Krowl's got a gun! And watch out to your left! Esobus is up there somewhere!"

Three gunshots rang out, and the wooden beam over Madeline's head splintered. Mad ducked away, looked around in desperation, then started running-in the wrong direction.

"Not that way, Mad!" I yelled as I saw her racing toward Esobus' cubicle.

The rope was where I'd left it. I swung out and shinnied up it into the darkness. Krowl got off a shot at me, but the dancing firelight must have distorted his vision, because he didn't even come close. I was up the rope in world-record time; but it was too late to stop Madeline. As I clambered over the railing I heard a scream, then a body falling heavily to the floor.

Below, I heard the sound of feet racing in all directions. Although I hadn't been able to find any, I was certain there was at least one stairway leading up to the catwalk, and probably two or three. The coven members would be on us soon, and they'd be shooting.

I raced down the catwalk, expecting a figure to leap out at me from the darkness at any moment. But Esobus was gone. Madeline was crumpled into a heap on the narrow platform leading to Esobus' cubicle. For a moment I thought she was dead, but when I turned her over I could see that she was still breathing. However, what Esobus had done was almost as terrible for a beautiful woman like Madeline; a cross had been carved into her forehead. Blood was flowing freely from the crosshatch wound, covering Mad's face. She began to moan softly, her hands fluttering like wounded birds about her face, as though she feared to touch it.

"Oh God, Mad," I said, lifting her head. "You have to get up. They'll be here any minute."

I quickly tore off my shirt and pressed it to her bleeding forehead. Madeline slowly raised her right hand and held the impromptu bandage in place. With my hand under her arm, she struggled to her feet. Directly in front of me was one of the corridors I hadn't explored; that would be where Esobus had gone. I started to lead Madeline back the way I'd come.

"Where are you going?" Madeline whispered in a hoarse, cracking voice.

"We can get down to an alley. It's the way I came in."

Mad shook her head, moaned with pain. My shirt was already stained crimson with her blood. "Better … to go. . my way."

"You can't see, and I don't know how you came in."

Running footsteps echoed throughout the factory. The acoustics of the building made it impossible to tell who was where, but the hollow, popping sounds were definitely coming closer, converging on us.

"Where … I was standing," Mad whispered. "Corridor leads to. . window. Fire escape."

There was no time to argue; one or two men had undoubtedly covered the doorway leading to the alley. "I won't ask you if you can run, Mad. You have to. They'll kill us if they find us."

"I know," she murmured. "Go ahead. Just. . don't let go of my hand. Straight. . down the corridor."

Gripping her wrist tightly, I raced back down the catwalk. Madeline, pressing my shirt to her wounded forehead with one hand and holding on to me with the other, staggered after me. I found the corridor, turned down it.

The part of the warehouse we were in consisted of abandoned, dust-filled offices. At the end, as Madeline had indicated, there was a black-painted window which was ajar. The lock on it had been broken, and a crowbar lay off to one side. I pushed the window open, then helped Madeline through the aperture and onto the metal grate outside. The fire-escape ladder, held aloft by a counterweight, led down into the small garden/patio behind Krowl's brownstone.

There was a wail of approaching sirens.

"Damned if that doesn't sound like the cavalry," I said, taking Madeline's elbow and guiding her down the rusted steel steps. "Our cup runneth over."

"Garth," she whispered in the same pain-filled voice.

"Good. He'll be able to get you to a hospital fast."

We reached the bottom, and I looked up, involuntarily flinching as I half-expected to see the flash of a gun from the open window. But it looked as if we were home free. Wherever the coven members were searching for us, it wasn't in the corridor we'd come down. I started leading my rescuer toward a gate leading out to a side street.

Madeline held back, squeezing my hand hard. "Can't let police. . see me, Mongo."

"Why not? Garth knows about you."

". . Called anonymously," Mad said, her voice barely audible behind a terrible curtain of pain and shock. "Garth doesn't. . know I'm here. They'll have the coven. But if they. . find me here, I'll have … to testify in open court. It will ruin me, Mongo. You know that. I'll. . lose everything that means. . anything to me."

"Krowl and the other members will tell the police."

"No. They won't, Mongo. No matter what. . happens, they won't tell how you escaped. Occult. . business."

Of course they wouldn't, I suddenly realized. And not only because it was "occult business."

"Mad," I said quietly, "we could have a problem here. The coven will have time to destroy their books of shadows. Without those personal records, I'm not sure what can be proved against them; without evidence, there's just a bunch of guys in an empty building celebrating Halloween early. I'm sure they've got a lot of politicians and judges in their pockets; the coven could blackmail those people, if they have to. The DA may need you to corroborate my testimony before a grand jury. That crew has killed a number of men, ruined the lives of dozens of others, and tried to poison a little girl. And don't forget that Esobus ran a blade across your forehead. Don't you want to see them permanently put out of business?"

Madeline swallowed hard, sobbed. "Mongo, if I testify, everything about me will come out. I'll be laughed out of the scientific community and never be taken seriously again. Teaching is my whole life. Please don't take that away from me."

It occurred to me that I was going to have legal problems if I tried to protect Madeline: I would have to perjure myself. But perjured was better than dead, and dead was what I would be if not for Madeline.

The sirens were very close now. "All right," I said quietly. "But I have to get you to a hospital."

"My car's just down the street. Thank you, my friend."