An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  Barnum wanted it both ways. He wanted to find out whatever there was to know about Smathers, but he didn’t want to get his hands dirty; in short, he wanted me to decide for him whether or not to continue the investigation. At the moment, that responsibility was resting heavily on my thighs. What my briefcase contained could easily destroy the reputation of a brilliant scientist.

  Very carefully, like a man toying with the pin on a hand grenade, I fingered the latch on the case for a few seconds, then abruptly set the case on the floor. “It doesn’t make any difference, sir,” I said. “I’ve decided not to take the assignment anyway.”

  “Then you too feel … uncomfortable?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s part of it. Also, frankly, something more important has come up, and it requires my full attention. I wouldn’t be able to continue this investigation in the manner it deserves. That wouldn’t be fair to you—or to Dr. Smathers.”

  He looked at me for a long time, his eyes boring into mine. “Continue?” he said at last. “Have you found out anything?”

  “As you indicated, there are rumors,” I answered after giving it some thought. “But that’s all.” I took Barnum’s check out of my pocket and placed it on the desk between us. I wasn’t about to destroy a man on the basis of what I’d heard. Neither, apparently, was the Chancellor.

  “But you have heard something?” Barnum said tightly.

  “Yes; but as far as I’m concerned, what Smathers does with his personal life is his business.” For all I knew, Smathers had been living like a monk since coming to New York; the brush with notoriety and the law in Boston had to have given him a scare.

  Barnum thought about it, nodded. “Please keep the check, Dr. Frederickson,” he said, picking up the piece of paper and holding it out to me. “I insist. You have gone to some trouble.”

  Reacting to the pride in his voice, I took the check. I got up, started for the door, then hesitated and turned back. Barnum was still seated at his desk, staring absently after me. He looked like a man suffering from acute indigestion. I respected the man, and knew that I’d probably left him with an even heavier burden than he’d come to me with. I’d been coy, to say the least, and I felt I owed the man something for his money.

  “Chancellor,” I said, “I’ve been up to Smathers’ complex, but I couldn’t find out anything other than the fact that Kee’s Chinese assistant spooks easily. Smathers has everything locked up tighter than a drum. I suppose that’s his right—maybe even his responsibility, if he’s working with expensive equipment and bizarre types. But I’d think that somebody in the administration has a right to know what he’s doing—you don’t need a private investigator to find out what it is. That’s my opinion as a faculty member, not a detective.”

  “I agree, Frederickson,” the man said thoughtfully with a curt nod of his head. “I think perhaps I’ve been neglecting my responsibilities. I’ll look into Dr. Smathers’ professional activities myself. Thank you for your time and advice.”

  Walking out of the Administration Building, I felt a surge of relief; I hadn’t wanted to investigate Smathers to begin with. Now I was free of that burden, and I didn’t think the Chancellor had been offended. It was, after all, Barnum’s responsibility to monitor research activities at the university; if he wanted to find out about Smathers’ extracurricular activities, he could hire somebody else to do the investigating.

  As if to underline my reticence to dig up personal dirt, I glanced up and spotted a Chinese walking toward me. He was tall for an Oriental—over six feet—and stocky. His head was shaven, and he wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses. His dress was rather odd for New York: flowered Hawaiian shirt, ill-fitting blue serge slacks, white socks and wing-tipped cordovans. He looked almost comical, like something out of a World War Two propaganda film. But there was nothing funny about the way he walked and carried himself; his movements and bearing had a distinct military stamp. I was convinced the man was Kee, and I instinctively sucked in my breath. However, the Chinese walked on past me with barely a glance in my direction. That was worth a sigh of relief; I’d been expecting Round Two of Frederickson versus the behavioral psychologists.

  My good feeling didn’t last long.

  “Mongo!” a familiar voice called from behind me. “What luck! I was just looking for you over at your office.”

  The woman who approached me across the stone plaza was young—twenty-four—and brilliant. Dr. Yvonne Mercado had graduated from the university at seventeen, earned her master’s at nineteen and her doctorate at twenty-one. A widely published cultural anthropologist, she’d been around the world several times, charting various cultures. Yvonne also happened to be lovely, with a dark, lusty beauty. She was touted by the university as the successor to Margaret Mead, but I didn’t see it that way. Mead had obviously empathized with the people she studied; I tended to look on Yvonne as something of an academic hotshot, seeing people in terms of statistics, books, monographs and awards. She had an unsettling habit of saying exactly what was on her mind. But I liked her, and suspected she might mellow with age.

  “Hello, Yvonne,” I said, uncomfortable because I was pretty sure I knew what she wanted to talk to me about.

  “I tried to call you last night, but your service said you were out.”

  “I got the message. I was planning to get back to you later.”

  “Do you mind if I walk with you?” the pretty woman asked. “Where are you heading?”

  “To my office; and I don’t mind at all.”

  Yvonne fell into step beside me. “Janet told me you’re trying to help Esteban, and she thought you might want me to give you some more background on him. He’s such a precious man. Have you talked to him yet?”

  “Not yet. I’m on my way to make arrangements for that now. I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  Yvonne glanced sideways at me, raised her eyebrows. “Mongo,” she said reprovingly, “Senator Younger’s daughter will die without Esteban’s help. What could be more urgent than that?”

  I told her. Yvonne listened with intense interest, her dark eyes shining brightly.

  “My God,” she whispered when I’d finished. “That’s fascinating.”

  “It is?” I showed her I could raise my eyebrows too. “I haven’t had the time to be fascinated; I’ve been too scared.”

  Yvonne was impervious to the sarcasm. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re only assuming that the child’s been poisoned. Have you considered the possibility that she’s under some kind of spell?”

  I stopped walking and wheeled to face her. “What the hell are you talking about, Yvonne?” I said impatiently. “For Christ’s sake, I’m up to my eyeballs in this mumbo-jumbo garbage. What amazes me is that I’m hearing it from people who are supposed to know better.”

  The excitement in the anthropologist’s eyes turned to hurt. “I’ve never heard you be intentionally rude before, Mongo,” she said quietly. “Why are you angry with me?”

  “Forget it, Yvonne. I’m just feeling boorish. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said after a long pause. “I can see now that … I must have seemed insensitive. I do get carried away with … strange situations. But I am concerned, believe me.” She hesitated, and her voice dropped. “Will you listen to what I have to say? I’ve seen this kind of thing before; if there’s even a remote possibility that this is a spell, the girl’s life could depend on what you do. Give me the benefit of the doubt that I wouldn’t waste your time.”

  “C’mon, babe,” I said, squeezing her elbow. “Let’s sit down.”

  We moved off the plaza and sat down on the surrounding grass, crossing our legs Indian fashion and facing each other.

  “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘membership’?” Yvonne asked.

  “I belong to the New York A.C.,” I said. “Aside from that, I’m not much of a joiner.”

  “I’m talking about an anthropological concept,” she said tightly. It was her turn to be impatien
t.

  “What’s your point, Yvonne?” I asked, trying to soften my bluntness with a smile.

  She plucked at the grass in front of her as though she were having trouble selecting her words. “You know, Mongo,” she said at last, letting the broken blades of grass fall to the ground, “I maintain that it’s anti-intellectual to deny that other realities beside our own exist; there’s too much evidence to the contrary. The ‘membership’ I’m talking about is different. You don’t consciously join one of these groups; your induction begins at birth. And the terms of your membership are stamped on your conscious and subconscious mind.”

  “All right: so I’m a member of a Western, technological, rationalist society.”

  “Yes!” Yvonne said excitedly. “My point exactly!”

  “Membership” was obviously a subject Yvonne enjoyed talking about, and I had a vision of her anxiously stalking me ever since Janet had told her I might want more information about Esteban. Despite my affection for Yvonne, I wondered how much she really cared about the healer—or Kathy.

  “Your membership in this society automatically affords you a set of immunities to some anxieties, and vulnerability to others,” she continued. “In many ways, we are what we believe.”

  “Are you implying that Esteban can’t heal anyone who doesn’t believe in him?”

  “Not at all,” Yvonne said, shaking her head emphatically. “Esteban is a psychic healer. His psyche—his life force—emanates some kind of powerful energy that works independently of the attitude of the person he’s working on, the same as an electric light will work regardless of whether the person operating the switch ‘believes’ in electricity. Esteban’s power is mysterious only because we haven’t yet been able to codify and label it.

  “A faith healer is a perfect example of the ‘membership’ I’m talking about: your tribal shaman, Oral Roberts, President Carter’s sister. All can heal, Mongo; make no mistake about it. But faith healers have a selective clientele; they can heal only those who believe they can heal, through their respective deities.”

  “They can only affect members,” I said quietly. I could see where Yvonne was heading, and I felt a prickling sensation at the base of my neck.

  Yvonne slowly nodded. “A faith healer probably couldn’t do anything for you or me, because we’re not members of charismatic religious groups. I study them, yes; but that doesn’t make me a member, by any means. You and I believe in Science, and that gives us our own special set of vulnerabilities. For one thing, we’re liable to end up on a psychiatrist’s couch when Science can’t otherwise come up with a cure for what ails our souls.”

  “I know,” I said quietly. I’d been there. And I couldn’t help thinking of Kathy lying unconscious in a coma that seemed to be intractable to the best treatment modern medicine had to offer. It had never occurred to me that her illness could be one of something other than the body.

  Despite the heat of the August sun, I felt chilled.

  “Mongo, people do die of spells. I’ve seen it; I’ve seen Cubans withering away in Miami hospitals because they’ve had ‘spells’ cast on them. The condition of the body is inextricably linked to the condition of the mind. If you believe you’re going to die, it’s often very hard for the body to resist the suggestion.”

  “How strong could a seven-year-old’s sense of membership be, Yvonne? Enough to kill her?”

  The beautiful young Puerto Rican thought about it, then said, “Well, I’ve seen young children in your Southern fundamentalist groups exhibit stigmata.”

  “Bleeding of the palms isn’t dying.”

  “But the same mechanism may be involved. I think it would depend on how young the child was when she was first introduced to the tenets of witchcraft. Did she grow up in an occult society?”

  “Her mother’s a witch,” I said, feeling ridiculous. Sitting in the sun on a college campus, I found the words totally alien. “But she’s into living, not dying.”

  “Still, the child almost certainly would have been introduced to the concept of spells—forces directed against her by others.”

  I recalled with stunning impact the story Garth had told me of the two children a pair of witches had turned against their enslaved mother. “What would they do to her?” I asked quietly.

  “Oh God, Mongo, I don’t know; I’m not an expert on witchcraft. All I’m saying is that people who are truly into witchcraft—those who have ‘membership’—are vulnerable to the forces they believe in, precisely because they believe in them. That’s the price we all pay for our particular belief systems. With the child it could be sheer terror, a form of deep hypnosis or just plain trauma from whatever it was she was subjected to. Neither of us can know for certain—but when you told me your story I just had to give you this perspective. I believe the child’s coma could have a psychological basis.” She paused and squeezed my hand hard. “Mongo, I do care!”

  “I can see that,” I said, squeezing her hand back. “And I thank you.” If Yvonne was right, I was left back at the beginning; in order to help Kathy, I was going to have to find out specifically what had been done to her—meaning I’d have to find out who had done it. And the nightgown was my only clue.

  “Is there anything you’d like to ask me about Esteban?” Yvonne asked softly.

  “Yeah. What do you think he could do for my little girl?” The words had come out by themselves, and I wasn’t certain myself whether I was serious or indulging in a little black humor.

  Yvonne answered very seriously. “What Esteban does is a mystery to me, Mongo. But I am sure he can heal; that’s why I was so anxious to have Janet study him. However, as I pointed out, Esteban’s power is effective against disease. If the girl’s condition is … a spell, I’m not sure he can help; he’s not a member of that belief system. But I really don’t know. In any case, I don’t see how it could hurt to have him see her. If you can free Esteban, I’d ask him to see her.”

  It occurred to me that Yvonne’s notion would be greeted with something less than wild enthusiasm by Dr. Greene and the specialists he was bringing in, but I kept the thought to myself. Yvonne and I got up together. I kissed her hand, then walked to my office, where I called Garth.

  “Hey, brother,” I said when I got him on the line. “What’s happening with John Krowl? Did you get me an appointment?”

  “Eight o’clock tonight. Do you have his address?”

  “No. Give it to me.”

  He did, then asked, “How’s the girl?”

  “The same. I suppose that’s something to be thankful for. As long as there’s no brain damage, I assume she can be maintained on life-support systems for as long as it takes to find a way to get her out of it.”

  “You sound better.”

  “I feel better. I had a good night’s sleep, and I don’t feel quite so much pressure. As long as Kathy’s condition remains stable, I have a little more room to move around in. Does Krowl know why I want to see him?”

  “Uh-uh. I talked to his secretary. He knows me, so I was able to get you an appointment on short notice. But I wasn’t sure you’d want me to go into any kind of detail over the phone. The secretary just assumes you want a reading, and I left it at that. Do you want me to get back to Krowl and fill him in?”

  “No,” I said after giving it some thought. “I think I’ll play Krowl by ear. Let’s talk about Esteban. I know this isn’t your province, but what do you think the chances are of getting Esteban out on bail? I’ve got character witnesses up the ass.”

  “Like you say, that isn’t my province. But I know his lawyer’s already tried that, and he didn’t get too far. He is charged with premeditated murder, and Esteban doesn’t exactly have roots in the community.”

  “Can I get in to talk to him?”

  “At your convenience, brother. Esteban and his lawyer don’t have any objections, and we couldn’t care less. While you’re here, there’s someone else you’re going to want to talk to.”

  “Who?”

&nb
sp; “Weirdo by the name of Richard Crandall. His name’s all we’ve been able to get from him. He knows something about your little friend in the hospital; a security guard caught him in her room at three o’clock this morning. He was doing a witchcraft number; candles, ceremonial robe—the works. Whatever the hell he was up to, he meant business.”

  Suddenly my heart was beating inside my chest with triphammer speed and force. Crandall’s actions during the night were eloquent testimony to the fact that he, at least, believed Kathy was under some kind of spell, and that he could undo it.

  It also meant Crandall believed time was running out.

  “Did he give her anything?” I asked tightly.

  “No,” Garth replied evenly. “As far as anyone can tell, he didn’t even try to touch her.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Ask him yourself. He won’t say a word to us. He was dressed in a scarlet robe. The guard found him kneeling at the girl’s bedside in the center of a pentagram he’d drawn on the floor with red chalk. He’d surrounded the bed with white candles, and he was passing another candle back and forth in front of the girl’s face while he chanted in her ear.”

  “I’ll be right over, Garth,” I said quickly.

  When I hung up, I found I had what felt like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach, and a lump in my throat. Crandall’s chant had been a ceremonial magician’s prayer.

  Chapter 9

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you, Crandall? Those cops out there think you’re the wildest thing to hit this town since The Flying Nun.”

  The ceremonial magician called Daniel sat stiffly on the edge of his cell cot. He was dressed in the same conservatively cut gray suit I’d seen him in the day before; his tie was still neatly knotted, and he hadn’t even removed his suit jacket. Garth had told me Crandall had been sitting, unmoving, in the same position since being booked. The only incongruities in his facade were a pair of scuffed black shoes and a stubble of beard. Otherwise, his appearance was impeccable.