After a good night’s sleep I rose at ten, feeling fairly decent. I ate a light breakfast and went over to the Medical Center for my shot. On the way it occurred to me that exactly one week before I’d been happily drumming away, planning to while away the rest of the summer nibbling at the Big Apple. I’d ended up with a mouthful of worms. It seemed years since I’d rolled up my practice pencils into the Tchaikovsky score and filed the package away in my drawer.
Kathy had been moved from Intensive Care into a private room. She was out of the coma, but under heavy sedation as a result of the washing-out process she was undergoing. I was allowed to look in on her; as I stood next to her bed looking down on her peacefully sleeping body, I felt tears of gratitude well in my eyes. I waited a few minutes, hoping that April would show up. She didn’t, and I went downstairs to keep my appointment with Joshua Greene.
By now the injection procedure was becoming a familiar—if no more pleasant—ritual. After the shot, a nurse brought me tea and Joshua left me alone to dress. On my way out of the room I almost bumped into an excited and flushed April who was carrying a shopping bag that looked heavy. As always when I saw her, I experienced a small rush in my stomach and chest that had absolutely nothing to do with rabies shots.
“Robert!” she cried. “I was just on my way over to your apartment. I met Dr. Greene in the elevator and he told me you were down here.”
“Ah, and you come bearing gifts,” I said, smiling and pointing to the bag.
“It may be something better,” April said, her voice taut and humming with excitement. “After you left yesterday, I drove home to Philadelphia to look for those things of Frank’s I told you about. Now that Kathy’s going to be all right, I thought it was time I tried to help you and Garth.” She used both hands to lift the bag. “Here’s what I found.”
My heart began to pound as I took the bag from her and carried it over to an examining table. “Is this all there was?”
“I don’t know, but this is definitely what he brought last Saturday. I recognized the bag. There may be more in other parts of the attic, but I wanted to bring this to you as quickly as possible.”
Slowly and carefully, I began to take the items from the bag and lay them out on the table. There were a number of books on witchcraft, most of which looked academic and sophisticated. Many of the pages were heavily annotated in what April confirmed was Frank Marlowe’s handwriting. There were also three notebooks, which I skimmed through quickly. They consisted of research notes on witchcraft and the occult in general. There was no mention of Esobus, or a supercoven.
At the bottom of the bag was a leather carrying case which contained a tiny tape recorder of the sort a person can strap to his body in order to make surreptitious recordings. There was also a small spool of recording tape.
“Have you listened to this yet?” I asked April, picking up the tape.
She shook her head and gripped my arm. “I’m not sure how the machine works; I was afraid I’d break the tape, or erase it.”
I put the tape in the machine, turned it on.
“Black Bull of the north, Horned One, Dark Ruler of the mountains and all that lies beneath them, Prince of the Powers of Earth, be present, we pray Thee, and guard this circle from all perils approaching from the north!”
The chant was repeated twice. April whispered in my ear: “It’s an invocation of protection. It may be the coven!”
I nodded as another, lone voice came on the tape.
“Whence come you?”
“I travel east in search of light.”
“What passwords dost thou bring Esobus?”
“Perfect love and perfect trust.”
April gasped, and I shut off the machine. “It’s Frank, isn’t it?” I asked softly.
She slowly nodded, her eyes wide with shock. “Yes. It’s Frank’s voice. What we’re hearing is an initiation ceremony.”
“Frank’s initiation ceremony.”
“And the other voice …”
I turned the machine back on.
“I, the Guardian of the watchtower of the north, forbid thee entrance. Thou canst not enter this holy place from the north, save thou first be purified and consecrated. Who vouches for you?”
A third voice came on the tape; it was distant and muffled, barely audible.
“I, guide of souls, do so. Let Bart Stone be one of us.”
The tape ran out; I rewound it and played it over again twice. April went to a corner of the room and stood leaning against the wall, her hands to her temples. The third voice that had come in was totally unrecognizable. Obviously, Frank Marlowe had wired himself for his initiation ceremony, but the tiny recorder had picked up only the sounds of the group’s chanting, Marlowe’s own voice—and the voice of the coven leader. That voice had been amplified and distorted.
“The leader,” April said tensely. “It sounds just like the voice on the tape that was delivered to the hospital.”
“That’s right. It is the same person.”
“Robert, what does it mean?”
“It means you were wrong about Frank not being a part of Esobus’ coven.” I paused and carefully started replacing the items in the shopping bag. What I was thinking was so off-the-wall that it threatened to turn the entire case inside out, blowing away a major assumption I’d been operating on up to that point. Yet the evidence offered by the two tapes appeared to point to one, inescapable conclusion. I finally put my thoughts into words, if only to hear how insane they sounded when spoken aloud. “It also means—or seems to mean—that the person responsible for saving Kathy’s life is Esobus himself.”
Taking the shopping bag with me, I got into a cab outside the Medical Center and gave the driver directions to take me to Garth’s precinct station house. I got there just as Garth came hurrying out the door. I intercepted him on the way to his car.
“Hey, brother,” I said, hoisting the bag in his direction. “Wait up. I’ve got something here you’re definitely going to want to check out.”
“Not now, Mongo,” Garth said tensely, brushing past me. He started to slide into the car, then motioned for me to get in beside him. “Come on. I guess you’ve earned the right to see this—if that’s the way to put it.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, knowing from Garth’s tone that I wasn’t going to like it.
“Our elusive friend Crandall got himself lost permanently. He’s dead.”
Chapter 16
It was not yet noon, but the temperature had to be approaching ninety. The heat and the drugs in my system were poking at my brain, making it hard, despite my respect and feeling for this victim, to concentrate on the fact that we were on our way to a pre-luncheon meeting with Daniel’s death. As if bodies weren’t found, and people didn’t die, on hot mornings. Then too, I may have been distracted by the pastoral surroundings—The Ramble, a heavily wooded area of Central Park notorious as a trysting place for homosexuals, but in fact freely used by lovers of all colors, creeds and sexual persuasions. Even heterosexuals.
Neither of us spoke as I followed Garth along one of the many trails cutting through woods, around ponds and across the strong spines of granite mini-cliffs that sparkled in the heavy white sunlight. We passed a number of late-rising bird-watchers, tweedy men and women with necks bowed under the weight of huge binoculars that looked powerful enough to track an ant at three hundred yards.
A uniformed cop was waiting for us a half mile or so down the trail. He led us off the main trail, up over a small outcropping of rock and along a narrow path that was incongruously marked with NYPD posting signs. We went around another outcropping. What I saw made my mind snap back into focus with such force that I involuntarily groaned and snapped my jaws shut.
Daniel’s body was in a tiny clearing in the center of a secluded, dense copse of trees, surrounded by uniformed cops and police technicians. It wasn’t pretty. Daniel had been stripped naked and staked spread-eagled, face up, to the ground. He’d been tortured, a
nd a cat’s head had been stuffed into his mouth as a gag. The immediate cause of death looked to be an ornate ceremonial sword that had been plunged into Daniel’s heart, but he’d been expertly carved up first. Occult symbols had been scratched into the rocky soil around him: it had been a ritual torture and murder.
“It looks like Crandall finally found the people he was looking for,” Garth said softly.
I nodded slowly, but could think of nothing to say. Despite his brusque stubbornness, I’d liked Richard Crandall, and had come to respect his strange, unyielding demand for solitude. As April had said, he was, by nature of his beliefs, a loner who had to do things his own way. It occurred to me that his hunt had been a kind of spiritual exercise. The ceremonial magician was dead, and I wondered who would pray for this strange priest of the occult. I decided I would.
We waited for the police photographers to finish their business, then went back to Garth’s car, where I played the tape for him. When it had finished, I turned the machine off. He didn’t say anything, and I asked, “You want to hear it again?”
Garth shook his head. “I’ll give it to the lab boys. They may be able to clean it up and raise the levels so we can try for some voice identification.” He paused, added, “So that’s Esobus. It’s the same voice we heard on the hospital tape. You can tell that, even with the distortion.”
“Yep. It was Esobus, the leader of this shithead crew, who backed off and supplied the information that saved Kathy’s life. Interesting, huh?”
“To say the least,” Garth replied quietly. “There’s something else that’s interesting: this tape proves that the distortion on the two tapes wasn’t done after the recording. Only Esobus’ voice is distorted; except for poor quality, all the other voices on the tape are normal. What the hell do you think is going on?”
“It’s electronic,” I said. “You can get that effect with certain kinds of microphone and feedback setups. Obviously, Esobus masks his voice from his own coven, which could mean they don’t even know who he is.”
“Christ, that’s hard to believe. Wouldn’t they try to find out?”
“Some weird people here, brother, which I don’t have to tell you. Everyone I talk to who’s ever heard of Esobus speaks of him as a legend. If Esobus wanted to keep his identity secret, even from his own coven, he just might have the muscle to get away with it. The rest of the coven might view it as some kind of ritual source of power.”
Garth stared out the side window for a few moments, then made a sharp, hissing sound of disgust. “What the hell was that girl’s father doing with this bunch of creeps? You gave me the impression you thought Marlowe was pretty straight—at least morally.”
“I still think he was. And Marlowe isn’t the only one who doesn’t seem to fit this picture. Bobby Weiss—Harley Davidson—wouldn’t have hurt a fly, unless he accidentally dropped his ego on it. Neither of those men was a torturer nor murderer. Not only that, but I’ve been told over and over again that Esobus is a ceremonial magician who wouldn’t form a coven with anyone but other ceremonial magicians who are almost as heavy as he is. Obviously, that isn’t true.” I hesitated as a thought flitted up from some dark corner of my mind. I tried to look at it, but it ducked out of sight behind drug-shadows of weariness and confusion. “Maybe,” I added feebly.
“What ‘maybe’?” Garth said scornfully. “A coven has thirteen members, period. In this case, there would be Esobus and twelve others. So Marlowe and Harley Davidson turned out to be closet pussycats.”
The thought came back for a return run. This time I grabbed it and flopped it over on its back. Its face was ugly. “Unless Marlowe and Bobby Weiss were marked as victims from day one. They only thought they were members of the coven; the real members were doing a number on them.”
Garth was still staring out the car window, idly tapping his knuckles against the glass. “I like it,” he said at last. “Go ahead.”
“All right, let’s noodle on it together. Try this for openers: Thirteen members of the coven are heavies, and all very kinky—with Esobus himself the only question mark. They prey on vulnerable people who are sucked in and made to think they’re members. The suckers are given all the sex, drugs and anything else they want; and all the while the real coven is going to work on them.”
“Milking them dry, like they did to the kid.”
“Sure; they took Bobby’s money, but there are other things the coven could want—and get. Power; political influence. God knows we’ve got enough closet screwballs at all levels of government. Can you imagine what this coven could do with a senator or two in its pocket?”
“Shit, yes,” Garth said softly, slowly nodding.
“And they may have them,” I said, thinking of the hand casts on Krowl’s wall.
We sat quietly for some time. Out of the silence another idea began to emerge, and I voiced it. “I think they may have found one joker in the deck,” I continued, poking my brother in the side. “Frank Marlowe, with his research notes and tape recordings; he was the joker. Maybe he was trying to do a number on them. Check this out: Marlowe was initiated as Bart Stone—only one of a dozen different pseudonyms he used. The coven members thought they were initiating a rich and famous Western pulp writer. I don’t think they knew that wasn’t his real name. If they had known his real name, why not use it at the initiation ceremony?”
I thought about it some more, and was pretty sure I had the answer. “April told me Marlowe hadn’t written anything in almost a year. But he damn well was working. Somehow, he fell into the coven situation—and he knew what to do with it. He was researching this outfit, and he planned to write a book about them. This was going to be his big book—his ‘book of shadows.’”
“And the coven found out about it,” Garth said, giving the window a single, hard rap that rattled the glass. “They took all his notes, then killed him. It means everything he wrote, with the exception of what we’ve got in that shopping bag, was destroyed.”
“I’m not so sure.” Something about the whole thing still didn’t sit right. I tried to pin it down in my mind, couldn’t, and let it go.
“Somebody’s going to have to tell Crandall’s sister,” Garth said, looking over at me.
“I’ll do it,” I said quietly. “Drive me over to the hospital.”
Garth glanced sideways at me again as he leaned forward to start the car. “She’s under your skin, brother, isn’t she?”
I grunted noncommittally. “Good-looking woman.”
“Damned if I don’t think you’re falling in love.”
“Come on, Garth; I’ve known the woman less than a week.”
“You should see your face when you look at her; your eyes actually get glassy.” He paused and chuckled at the thought. “Come to think of it, I don’t believe you’ve ever been in love before, have you? I know you do all right with the ladies, although I’ll never understand what they find lovable about a smart-ass dwarf. But this is different; this one scares you. Knowing you, it’s only logical that your first real love would be a witch.”
“Shut up, Garth, and mind your own business.” I’d meant it to sound light and joking, but the words and tone came out serious. The fact of the matter was that the power April Marlowe exerted over my muscles, glands and mind did frighten me.
I hadn’t forgotten John Krowl’s reading.
“Hello, Kathy.”
“Mr. Mongo!” Kathy squealed excitedly. She was still pale, but healthy patches of color had appeared in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were clear. “What have you got?”
The enormous stuffed panda I carried on my shoulders was as big as I was. I dropped it on the bed next to Kathy with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “His name’s Horace. He wants to be adopted by a little girl.”
“Hello, Robert,” April said quietly from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” I lied, already feeling self-conscious in her presence. I squeezed April’s hand and kissed Kat
hy on the forehead. “You look just great, sleepyhead,” I said to the girl. “But it’s about time you woke up; you’ve been asleep a long time.”
Kathy giggled, then suddenly frowned. “Have you found my daddy’s book of shadows yet, Mr. Mongo?”
I glanced quickly at April, who gave me an almost imperceptible shake of her head; it meant Kathy hadn’t yet been told of her father’s death. It was the right decision, I thought. “Not yet Kathy,” I said. “But I’m still looking.”
“I know you’ll find it, Mr. Mongo. You’ll make everything all right.” She hugged the bear and me at the same time. “Mommy says you brought me here when I got sick, Mr. Mongo. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She frowned again. “Why didn’t my daddy bring me?”
“I’ll explain it to you when you’re feeling better,” April said, gently smoothing her daughter’s hair.
“Kathy,” I said, “I have to talk to your mother. It’s very important. May I borrow her for an hour or so? I’ll bring her right back when I’m finished, and you can spend the time getting acquainted with Horace.”
Kathy solemnly considered the proposition, then finally nodded her assent. I took April’s arm and guided her out of the room. “How long will Kathy have to stay in the hospital?” I asked as we rode down in the elevator.
“Dr. Greene says he wants to keep her around for three or four more days. The poison hasn’t been completely flushed from her system, and you can see she’s still very weak.”
“I talked to Janet Monroe before I came over here. Now that Kathy’s out of danger, she’d like you to stay with her until Kathy can go home. She lives only a few minutes away. You must be tired of that hospital room.”
“I’ll think about it, Robert. What is it you want to talk to me about?”
“I’ll get to it,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “Let’s walk over to Janet’s.”
At Janet’s apartment I told April of Daniel’s death, omitting the gruesome details. April wept for a few minutes in my arms, but she wasn’t hysterical; she almost seemed to have anticipated her brother’s death, and was prepared for the news.
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