An Incident At Bloodtide

Chapter Three

Garth showed up at the brown-stone on West Fifty-sixth Street three days later, a Wednesday morning. I was in my office on the first floor going over a file in preparation for a lunch meeting with a client, with Vicky sitting next to me on the floor, reading a book. The door opened, and Garth leaned in. He was carrying a large suitcase.

Garth said simply, "I'm back, Mongo."

"Garth!" Vicky shrieked with delight when she saw my brother. She put her book to one side, jumped up, and ran to him with outstretched arms. "Are you going to take me back to your house?"

"Nope," Garth replied as he swept up the child with his free hand. "I'm going to stay with you and Mongo here in the city for a while. Want to help me unpack?"

Vicky nodded eagerly, and Garth said to me, "See you later, brother," before turning away, closing the door behind him.

I waited ten minutes, impatiently drumming my fingers on the top of my desk, and then I got up and went into the adjoining office to give some instructions to Francisco Gonzalez, my secretary. Then I went upstairs to Garth's apartment on the fifth floor. I found him and Vicky in the bedroom, unpacking his suitcase.

"Vicky," I said to the girl, "Francisco knows how you like to work with his computer, and he wants to give you another lesson. But you have to go down right now, while he has the time."

The child gave a little squeal of delight. She ran to the door, then suddenly stopped and looked back, a pensive expression on her face. "Is it all right, Garth? I said I'd help you unpack."

Garth nodded. "It's all right, sweetheart. I'm almost finished. Go ahead."

I waited until I heard Vicky's footsteps recede down the stairway, then went and closed the bedroom door. Garth resumed unpacking his suitcase, transferring shorts and handkerchiefs to the top drawer of his dresser. It was the largest suitcase he owned, and he'd brought a lot of clothes. I did not think that boded well.

"Garth, I didn't call because I didn't want to intrude."

"I know that," my brother replied in a flat tone.

"When I didn't hear from Harry, I figured there was no problem with the police, and I didn't think that whatever else was going on was any of my business. It's not that I wasn't concerned."

"I know that too, Mongo. I should have called you. I'm sorry. I. . just didn't feel like talking."

"Do you feel like talking now?"

"Not particularly."

"All right, will you talk? Mary means something to me too, you know. I love both of you, and I've never met a couple who looked more in love than the two of you. I can't believe this is happening."

"I know the feeling," Garth replied drily as he picked up a handful of ties, then walked to the closet and began to drape them over a tie rack. "What do you want to know, Mongo?"

"For openers, what's the story on the guy you threw through the window?"

"They haven't found a body in the river, he hasn't shown up anywhere else, and, so far, nobody's filed a missing persons report. As far as the cops are concerned, if there's no body and no missing persons report, there's no problem. Mary backed up my story of what happened, and Harry took the knife with him. I pushed the Cadillac out onto the street. That's about it."

"Who the hell was the guy, Garth?"

It seemed to me Garth hesitated just a moment before answering. "An old boyfriend."

"How old? Where the hell did he come from?"

Garth had finished hanging up his ties, but he remained standing in the doorway of the closet, with his back to me. "I don't know the answer to either of those questions, Mongo. Mary freezes up whenever she tries to talk about him. As close as I can figure, she got involved with the guy twelve or thirteen years ago, before she got involved with the Fellowship of Conciliation and moved to Cairn."

"Christ, Garth, it's hard for me to imagine Mary hooking up with such a weirdo-an obnoxious weirdo, to boot."

"To you and me, maybe, but apparently not to her. Who knows? What I do know is that she's very much afraid of him."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Mongo. I get the impression he has something on her that she doesn't want me to know.""

"Jesus, Garth, it's been three days. You haven't been able to talk this out?"

"No. She can't seem to talk about her past with this man without ending up crying hysterically, or just clamming up and staring off into space. She did manage to tell me that they were lovers back then, and that they met at a time when her career was at its low ebb. She says he left her, but she can't-or won't-tell me why he should show up again after all this time."

"Now that she's on top again, maybe he wants her back for her celebrity value. Not to mention her money."

Garth shrugged his broad shoulders. "There's also the question of how he found out she lives in Cairn."

"Mary Tree may not be listed in the phone book, but you are, and it's no big secret that Mary Tree lives in Rockland County, or that she's married to you. Garth, you think Mary still carries a torch for this guy? Is that what this is all about?"

"I don't know how she feels about him romantically; I only know she's afraid of him. She doesn't think he's dead."

"Assuming he didn't land the wrong way and break his neck, and that he's a good swimmer, he could have stayed underwater after you threw him in the river, swum up under the overhang out of your line of sight, and then split before you got down there. The question is, why would he do it? And, once out of the water, why not just get in his car and drive away, or at least come back for it later? It seems silly to disappear and let his car sit out on the street collecting tickets. What would be the point?"

Still with his back to me, Garth began rummaging around among his suits, then began rearranging the ties he had just put on the rack. "I don't know," he said at last. "Mary said something about it being his way of trying to do a number on our heads. She called it a magical attack. It didn't mean anything to me, and, like I said, Mary hasn't been very good at explaining things."

I felt a tightening in my throat. The words meant something to me, not only as a result of the time I had spent with the decidedly good witch, April, but as the legacy of a deadly confrontation, many years before, with a decidedly evil band of self-described super-witches, so-called ceremonial magicians, in New York.

"Mary ever into the occult?" I asked quietly, watching my brother's back.

"You know she's heavily involved with her church."

"I'm not talking about Christianity. I'm talking about witchcraft, voodoo, astrology, that sort of thing."

My brother grunted. "When did you start making such fine distinctions between beliefs in the supernatural?"

"I'm making them for purposes of this discussion. What about it? Was Mary ever into witchcraft?"

"What's your point, Mongo?"

"You said she used the words 'magical attack' to describe Sacra Silver's disappearing act. That's a wicca concept and term. One difference between wicca and the big-time religions is that wicca isn't centered around one deity. Witches don't pray to get what they want, they manipulate; they do things, for good or bad. They try to shape events by, in one way or another, enforcing their will on others. To wit, Silver tried to get Mary away from you, and you out of her lite, through sheer intimidation. That didn't work; you threw him out the window. So what does he do? Give up? No. Disappearing like that could be his way of making sure that he remains the focus of your lives, that he stays between you. You have to be able to think like a witch. Going away like he did could be his means of not going away. It's a very witchy thing to do."

"You're putting me on, right, Mongo?"

"He hasn't really gone away, has he? You went away, which is all Sacra Silver wanted from the beginning."

Garth's reply was a halfhearted shrug.

"Right now Mary presumably believes in Holy Trinities, virgin births, messiahs, life after death, and various other tenets of Christianity. What notions do you suppose she had thirteen years ago, when she became involved with Silver?"

"I don't know, Mongo," Garth said wearily. "When you get right down to it, I just don't really know all that much about my wife's background, outside of her music and career. She doesn't talk about her past, except for the things everybody knows. I didn't-don't-care who she was with, or what she did, before we met. I just loved her. As far as I was concerned, everything important in our lives together started on the day you brought me those tapes she'd given you to give to me."

"Garth," I sighed, "I have to say something. And then I have to ask you a question."

"Mongo, I guess maybe I wish you wouldn't do either."

"By your own admission, Mary's very disturbed about Sacra Silver, dead or alive. In your own words, she's damn well afraid of him. If you'd found them in bed together, or if she'd tossed you out because she said she wanted to go back with her old boyfriend, that would be one thing. But that's not what happened. She's so upset, so afraid, that she can't even bring herself to talk about who he is, or what it is about him that so terrifies her. Your wife's in a lot of trouble, Garth. My question is, what are you and your damn suitcase doing here?"

Garth remained unmoving and silent for what seemed to me to be a very long time, but probably wasn't. It would be understandable if he was offended, considering what I had just said, but I'd felt I'd had to tell him what was on my mind. Then he slowly turned around to face me, and I could see that he wasn't offended; he was crying. Garth didn't cry like other people; there was no sobbing, no facial distortion, no strangled speech, virtually nothing changed in his speech or appearance, except for the tears that welled in his bloodshot eyes and streamed down his cheeks.

"I can't help her, Mongo," he said evenly as he walked back across the room and sat down on the bed.

"Who says?"

"She won't let me. I guess you may be right about his disappearing the way he did being his way of making sure he wouldn't go away. Like you pointed out, it sure as hell worked. These last three days have been hell, with him right there between us whenever we looked at each other, or when I tried to get her to talk about it. I'll tell you something I do know, Mongo. She's afraid, all right, but she's not afraid for herself; she never was. She's afraid for me. She really does seem to believe that this creep is some kind of sorcerer who's sold his soul to the devil in exchange for special powers over people; she believes he can hurt me in some terrible way if he chooses to, and that he can't be stopped."

"I thought you said she couldn't talk about him."

"Put together enough incomplete sentences and sometimes you'll get a whole thought or two."

"Witchcraft and Satanism are two different things, brother, and Silver could be into either, or both. The principle is the same: you work on people's heads. I'd say Mr. Silver has worked on Mary's head real good in the past, because he certainly has power over her. All he has to do is show up after thirteen years, and she falls to pieces. But I still don't understand why the hell you're here, and not there."

"My being there only makes matters worse. That night and the next morning, it was only her past and Sacra Silver that Mary couldn't talk about. By yesterday morning, she didn't seem to be able to talk about anything at all. You could see the strain just continuing to build up in her. And then she said something that. . bothered me. She told me he wouldn't hurt her, but that he would hurt me, and you, and everybody else she and I care about until he got what he wanted, namely her. She said she would never go back with him, but that I should maybe go away. Mongo, she wanted me to run away from a man who's probably dead. That's how little faith she has in my ability to handle this thing. Can you understand how small that made me feel? That's when I felt myself slipping back to the. . nothing I felt inside myself when I was poisoned with the NPD. Just by walking into our house, this man took away Mary's faith in me, and maybe my own in myself."

I stood and stared at my brother, feeling very uncomfortable. His alluding to the emptiness he had felt when he'd been poisoned sounded alarm bells. Years before, when Garth had still been a New York cop, somebody had slipped him a dose of a mysterious and potent chemical called nitrophenyldienal, "spy dust," the properties of which were still classified top secret by the government. He had not only nearly "lost" himself, but I'd thought I'd lost him. He'd survived, but the experience had changed him forever. However, none of the changes he'd undergone had made him weaker, less strong-willed. Quite the contrary.

"Are you going to be all right, Garth?" I asked tightly.

He nodded. "I'm all right now. I'm just explaining why I had to leave."

"Sacra Silver didn't do this to you, Garth; Mary did. I love her too, but obviously not the way you do. When you give of yourself like you have, it makes you vulnerable; it gives to the person you love the power to hurt you very deeply. In your case, I'm thinking that kind of hurt could literally be fatal."

My brother shook his head. "I don't know how to fight him. I can punch him out, throw him in the river, maybe even kill him, but none of that seems to make the slightest impression on my wife. She's still afraid of him-afraid for me. She believes Silver is a man I can't handle, and it's that attitude I can't handle."

"She loves you, Garth, and she doesn't want you hurt. You have to give her points for that."

He nodded, but tears continued to stream down his cheeks. "It doesn't matter, Mongo. If she loves me so much that she pushes me away and humiliates me in an effort to save me from ghosts that exist only in her mind, then it would be better if she didn't love me; if we were just friends, at least she might be able to confide in me. I'd rather she hated me than loved me and. . do this. I tried to explain that to her this morning, but by then I wasn't able to talk too well myself. I can't fight ghosts, Mongo; I can't help her fight her terror if she won't let me. I couldn't-can't-deal with it. That's why I'm here, and not there."

I glanced at my watch. I had to leave for my luncheon meeting, and after that I had to zip down to Foley Square to give a deposition. With luck, I would be finished by four-thirty; assuming rush-hour traffic wasn't hopelessly snarled on the West Side Highway or George Washington Bridge, I figured I could be in Cairn by early evening. "I'd like your permission to drive up and talk to her."

The tears had abruptly stopped. Garth rose from the bed, closed his suitcase, carried it to the closet. "You don't need my permission to talk to Mary, brother. Like you said, she's your friend too. You introduced us to each other."

"I don't want my brother to think I'm butting into his business."

Garth, completely clear-eyed now, turned to face me. "I don't think you're butting into my business, Mongo. As a matter of fact, it looks like my wife and I could use your help now. She's in trouble, in her head, and she won't let me help her, which gives me trouble with my head. Whatever Sacra Silver has on her, if he does have anything on her, doesn't matter. It's her fear that's tearing us apart, not Sacra Silver. She has to trust me and our love enough to let us work this out together."

"I'll give her the message." I walked to the door of the bedroom, turned back. "I'm thinking that dealing with Mary's haunts may keep us preoccupied for a while. Maybe we should cut Vicky's visit with us short."

Garth nodded curtly. "I'll call April."

"You want me to call? It might be easier for me to explain."

"No, Mongo; I'll call. I don't have any trouble explaining the situation to other people. It's my wife I can't talk to."

Sacra Silver's car was back in the driveway. I pulled my Volkswagen Rabbit up behind it. I got out, walked up the flagstone path to the front door, knocked. There was no answer, and I knocked again. I hadn't called first, because I hadn't been sure what I wanted to say over the phone; also, considering Mary's state of mind, I had been concerned that she might simply refuse to see me. As a result, it could very well turn out that I was wasting my time. I knocked a third time. When there was still no answer, I tried the door. It was open, and I went in.

"Hello?" I called. "Mary, you home? It's Mongo."

I walked through the living room and down a connecting corridor to the music room, where I found Sacra Silver, to all appearances quite alive, sitting in Garth's chair. He was wearing new boots, brown, the same jeans, and a new T-shirt, this one yellow. He was sipping at what looked like Scotch or bourbon on the rocks, and he lifted the tumbler to me in a mock salute as I entered the room. His cold, piercing black eyes glittered with amusement, and his thin lips curled back in a sneer that was for him probably a genuine, heart-felt smile. He was obviously enjoying what he considered to be his little reincarnation joke, but he was going to be disappointed if he expected any reaction from me.

"How you doing there, big fella?" I said casually. "I was looking for Mary. Is she around?"

He was definitely disappointed at my lack of response to seeing him not only alive and well but back in Garth's home, and back in Garth's leather recliner. His smile, what little there had been of it, vanished. "If she was here, Frederickson, she'd most likely have answered the door, wouldn't she? Do you always walk into other people's homes uninvited?"

"No, but in this case the home happens to belong to my brother and sister-in-law. In the absence of an owner to tell me I'm not welcome, I guess I have as much right to be here as you do."

"What do you want?"

"Like I said, I want to talk to Mary."

"What if she doesn't want to talk to you?"

"Then I'll go home."

"She's at the hospital. I don't know when she'll be back."

"Who's hurt?"

The simulated smile returned to his face. "The assistant pastor at her church. The dumb schmuck was skulking around trying to hide a flag, of all things-something to do with an argument over whether it should be on the altar. The bozo was taking the sucker down into the basement; he tripped, fell down the stairs, and broke his back." Now Silver laughed, a kind of nasal bray that grated on my nerves. The image of a man breaking his back obviously amused him. "There must be a moral there someplace."

"If there is, I'm sure you'll tell me what it is."

Silver drained off his drink, set the tumbler down on the small, glass-topped table to his left, smacked his lips. "The moral of your story is that it doesn't make any difference whether or not you get to talk to Mary; there's nothing you can say that will make her change her mind about anything. She belongs to me, and she knows it. The sooner your brother realizes that and accepts it, the sooner he'll be able to get on with his life. Maybe he already has, because I understand he walked out of here this morning. Smart move. He doesn't know shit about Mary. For Christ's sake, they've been married two years, and he doesn't even realize she's queer, or that she spent six months in a mental hospital after she almost baked her brains on peyote. She and I have done things together she probably doesn't even remember."

"You know what Robin Williams says about the sixties," I replied with a shrug. "If you remember them, you probably weren't there. What's your point?"

He rattled the melting ice cubes, then leaned back in the chair, studying me through narrowed lids. He was obviously not getting the audience response he wanted, and now looked even more disappointed. "I'm saying that you're wasting your time if you came here to try to get Mary to change her mind."

I retrieved a straight-backed chair from across the room, pushed a microphone out of the way, and sat down across from the other man. "Big fella, you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I give a shit about what you, Mary, or Garth decide to do. I care what happens to my brother and Mary, and I wish them happiness, but I have enough trouble managing my own life and times without trying to tell other people how to manage theirs. I may think you're a prick for surfacing in their lives and disrupting them like you have, but you're Mary and Garth's problem, not mine. This matter is between the three of you, and it's none of my damn business."

I watched him watching me as he reached out with one of his long arms and began to absently turn his empty tumbler on the glass-topped table beside him. I knew he was trying to gauge my sincerity, and so I gazed back at him with my most sincere expression-which in this case was meant to project profound indifference. Finally he asked, "If you don't think it's any of your business, why are you here?"

"Just to touch base, say hello, and hear her tell me she's all right. Mary's more than just a sister-in-law, big fella, she's my friend. She talks to me. Does that make you nervous?"

Sacra Silver didn't like that, and he flushed slightly. "Nothing you could do or say would make me nervous, Frederickson. The fact of the matter is that I'll be surprised if she wants to talk to you about anything."

"We'll see, won't we?" I replied, leaning forward slightly in my chair. "I take it Sacra Silver is a witch name. You fancy yourself a ceremonial magician, or are you a member of a coven?"

That startled him. He recovered quickly, but not before I had seen the surprise reflected in his eyes, and watched him tense slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, Sacra. Don't be coy. I can read your aura. You think you can practice the craft."

"You don't see shit," he said, but his tone was wary. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Oh, I don't know. The notion might have come up in a conversation between Garth and me, which means it probably came up in a conversation between Garth and Mary."

His response was to shake his head. "Mary would never say. . Your brother didn't hear anything like that from Mary."

"If you say so. Then I must have heard it someplace else."

"How do you know the term 'ceremonial magician'? What do you know about the craft?"

Feigning indifference in Sacra Silver and all his works, I had apparently managed to pique his interest, and in the past I had often been downright amazed at how much curious people will reveal about themselves as they attempt to probe the lives of another person. I wasn't interested in killing this particular cat, only hooking him. I figured I had done that, and that it was time to play him on the line for a while to see if I might not be able to cast a little spell of my own. I flashed what I hoped was an enigmatic smile, rose. "I think I'll have a drink," I said, and started for the door. Then, in what I hoped was an Oscar-winning characterization of debonair indifference laced with graciousness, I paused, turned back, and pointed to his empty glass. I asked casually, "You want another one?"

Sacra Silver was either too distracted to question this rather odd gesture of subservience or just too lazy to get up and get his own drink. He only thought about it for a second or two, then picked up his glass and held it out to me. "Yeah," he said somewhat absently. "Dewar's."

Holding the tumbler by the base, I went to the kitchen, headed directly for the cabinet where Mary kept her plastic wrap. I had already taken note of the license plate of the car in the driveway, but somehow Sacra Silver didn't seem to me to be a green Cadillac kind of guy, and I thought the vehicle might be a company car or borrowed; besides, I wanted more than what I could get from Motor Vehicles-assuming there was more to get. I tore off a sheet of the plastic, wrapped it around the tumbler, which I placed at the back of the shelf, behind a jar of spaghetti sauce. Then I went to the bar in the living room, put some ice into an identical tumbler, splashed in some Dewar's. I poured myself a Jack Daniel's on the rocks, then headed back to the spider in the music room.

"Ceremonial magic is a bit different from garden-variety witchcraft, isn't it, pal?" I said easily as I handed him his fresh drink. "More dangerous. The ceremonial magician works alone. You don't have other members of a coven to help you absorb the rebound you're going to get if you attack somebody you shouldn't, namely a person who can reflect the bad news back at you."

"You're very well read, Frederickson," Silver said in a neutral tone.

"Oh, I'm more than well read. Let's see what you know about ceremonial magic and other aspects of the craft. Here's a witch name for you: Esobus. Ever hear that one?"

He did not reply, but he moved his chair back an inch or two, and pulled his chin in slightly, as if to protect himself. His jet-black eyes now reflected not only surprise but growing caution, perhaps even concern.

"Okay," I continued, "that one stumped you. Let's try a few more. Sandor Peth? John Krowl? Daniel? Who's buried in Aleister Crowley's tomb?"

"Peth, Krowl, and Daniel are legendary ceremonial magicians," Silver replied tightly.

"Dead legendary ceremonial magicians. I could mention a few more names you might recognize, and they're dead too. Actually, they were mostly legends in their own minds-and yours, I guess. Except for Daniel and Esobus, they were real idiots, preying on idiots."

"You're full of shit, Frederickson."

"Oh, no, I'm not. You know I know what I'm talking about."

I could see that he was struggling not to say the word, but it came out anyway. "How?"

"I was once in love with a witch, who happened to save my life. Also, I once spent a few months dancing around with a bunch of creeps who had the same belief system I suspect you have. I picked up a few things. Those people I mentioned caught the biggest, damnedest rebound of all-death. Esobus, by the way, also saved my life, and I was sorry I couldn't return the favor. I was with her when she died."

"She?"

"Oh, yes. Esobus was a woman, and she happened to be a good friend of mine."

"I still say you're full of shit."

"Sure I am."

"Who was Esobus? What was her real name?"

"You sure as hell don't know, and you're not going to find out from me. When she died, she and I were the only two people who knew her secret. I think I'll keep it that way. I will tell you that she was a respected scientist who was trying to do a number on people like you who do numbers on other people. She looked on what she was doing as a research project, and she was under the mistaken impression that she was going to learn something valuable from the experience. All it did was kill her. I also knew Daniel, who happened to be a very good man. I can assure you the rest were idiots. I guess my point is that you should be careful who you choose as role models. I think I'm also offering you a little friendly advice about who you choose to throw bad spells at, because they're liable to bounce back and hit you right between the eyes. My experience has been that witches and ceremonial magicians who try to work the dark side of the craft are usually shits-for-brains. But hey, I'm not offending you, am I? We're just having a casual conversation about a particularly loony belief system, right? I mean, I know you don't think I'm suggesting that you're a shit-for-brains. If I did think that, I might try to catch you off guard and do a number on your head like you've done to Mary's-assuming, of course, that I cared one way or another."

"I can inflict great suffering on you, Frederickson," the other man said in a low, tense voice.

"The last man who said that to me died with blood running out of his mouth, nose, eyes, ears, and ass, and I didn't lay a finger on him. In a sense, he self-destructed. Just like you, he'd bought into a particularly dangerous belief system. Sure, you can hurt me, but I'm in no more danger from you than from any other pain in the ass who might come at me with a knife or gun. You're in more danger from what you believe than I am, because I don't believe it."

"I hope I never have to prove you wrong, Frederickson. I can make very bad things happen to you, and I don't need a knife or gun."

"For sure. You've already made something bad happen in this house, but that's because one of the people involved, Mary, believed you could make bad things happen. The healthy response when she found you on her doorstep would have been to slam the door in your face, but her faith in your powers wouldn't permit her to do that. She let you into her home, and back into her life, and both she and the man who had faith in her are now suffering because of it. Mary's wound is self-inflicted, but the pain ends up shared. You control Mary because Mary believes you have the power to control her; by believing it, she makes it happen. It's a very sad, but simple, self-fulfilling prophecy."

"What's your faith, Frederickson? What do you believe in?"

"Gravity, mathematics, and mystery."

"What about God? Do you believe in God?"

"Now, there's a mystery."

Sacra Silver, squinting slightly, stared hard at me. I stared back. "You believe in yourself," he said at last. "And you believe in your brother. That's your faith. You believe that the two of you, working individually or together, can overcome virtually any difficulty."

"No, I don't believe that at all. I do imagine things, and one of the things I imagine is that I have enough sense not to let your imagination get the better of me. Imagination, of course, is the third leg of the Witch's Triangle, along with will and secrecy. I don't know how much will you have, because, so far, the only person I've seen you manipulate is Mary, and Mary's very impressionable. As for power you derive from secrecy, that remains to be seen. You use a witch name in your everyday life, which interests me. Most witches don't, you know. I imagine that if I nosed around enough to find out who you really are, your background and all that, the information might go a long way toward helping people who have let your imagination get the better of them."

He didn't like that at all. His black eyes flashed with anger, and his thin lips drew back from his teeth. "I tend to imagine horrible things happening to people who make themselves my enemies, Frederickson. Very horrible things. And sometimes the things I've imagined actually do happen to those people."

"That could easily be construed as a threat," I replied evenly, and smiled at him. "It's hard for me to believe that you take risks like that."

He frowned slightly. "What risk am I taking?"

"It's lucky for you I don't take your shade prince act too seriously, big fella. Let's just suppose I did. Suppose I believed that the next bad thing that happens to me is your fault, because you imagined it-cast a spell, so to speak. Naturally that would make me paranoid, and the focus of my paranoia would be you. Considering you responsible for the bad thing that's happened to me, I take the very unimaginative and unmagical step of walking up to you with a gun and blowing your brains out. A nonbeliever like me would call that poetic justice, but a witch would call it rebound. See what I mean about risk-taking? If I were you, I'd be downright careful about threatening anybody with as wispy a weapon as Sacra Silver's imagination."

"I don't make idle threats, Frederickson."

"Oh, have you been threatening me? I thought we were just having a casual conversation about having to be careful what you believe, because you tend to become what you believe."

"You said I was none of your business."

"I did say that, but just out of idle curiosity I'd like to know what brought you to Cairn in the first place. Was it because of Mary, or did you have some other business in town and then just happened to find out that she lives here now? Thirteen years is a long time to stay out of touch. And what do you really want from her? Money? Or do you just want to get your face on television at the next Grammy awards? What's the inside scoop on this sudden visitation?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, Frederickson."

"Funny, but I was thinking along those exact same lines not ten minutes ago."

"What the hell does that mean?"

I wasn't about to tell him what the hell that meant, any more than he was likely to tell me anything I really wanted to know, but I was spared the trouble of coming up with an evasive answer when Mary suddenly appeared at the door. She looked terrible; the color was gone from her face, and her skin was blotchy. She had a tic in her left cheek.

"Hello, Mary," I said, rising to my feet.

Seeing me made her look even more stricken, and I suspected it had more than a little to do with the fact that I had found Sacra Silver in her house. She swallowed hard, glanced back and forth between Silver and me. "Mongo, I didn't know. . Sacra's only been here since this afternoon."

She was trying to tell me Silver wasn't sleeping in Garth's bed, and I was glad to hear it. I raised my hand, shook my head. "You don't owe me any explanations, Mary. I just came by to see if you were all right. Mr. Silver and I have been passing the time with a pleasant conversation about witchcraft, ceremonial magic, imagination, and how bad things can happen to people who expect bad things to happen to them. Now, can you and I talk?"

Once again, she glanced uncertainly back and forth between the other man and me. "Mongo," she said in a small voice, "I don't think you can understand. I don't want anything to happen. ."

"Mary, believe it or not, I think I do understand. You don't want anything bad to happen to Garth, or to me. I think you're trying very hard to protect Garth from harm. It's all right." I paused, turned to Silver. "Is it all right if I talk to Mary, big fella? You're not worried about anything, are you?"

"I'm not worried about a damn thing, Frederickson."

"Good," I said, taking Mary's hand and leading her toward the door. "See you later. Don't let anything bad happen to you while we're gone."