“She’s not too young to give me everything she had in order to help someone she loved. She hired me to find her father’s book of shadows, and I don’t want her to be disappointed. Besides, needless to say, I’m curious about that book, and about Esobus. I can’t back off now.”
“But if you’re right about Frank’s book of shadows being an exposé of the coven, it must have been stolen and destroyed by them.”
“Probably. I want to find out for sure; and I want to find out who Esobus is.”
“But you’re ill, Robert!”
“I’ll be all right. I’m going to nail these bastards.”
“The police will take care of it now.”
“I know; it’s probably only a matter of time. I just want a piece of the action.”
April only shook her head, whispered, “You’re crazy.”
“No. Just slightly put out.”
“I’m afraid they’ll kill you, Robert,” April breathed. “After all you’ve done for us, after all you … mean to me … I don’t think I could bear losing you.”
“Hey, it’s their side that’s losing. I’ve got momentum, and I absolutely guarantee you they can’t kill me. Your spell has cloaked me with invincibility for at least a hundred years.”
“Words!” April said with sudden anger. “Words, and stupid pride! Death can come in an instant! You’ll be killed, and all that will be left will be your stupid words! I don’t want to have to remember you as a wonderful, stupid man!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, April,” I explained quietly. “I just have to follow this thing through to its conclusion. If you can’t understand, there’s no way I can explain.”
April sighed again. “Kathy’s recovering beautifully, but I’m exhausted—and you’re exhausted. I was hoping that in a few days we could all … go off somewhere together. Kathy would like that so much.” She winked, and growled playfully. “So would I, lover. Want to think about it?”
“Think about it? My God, I want to go now!” I reached across the table and took her hand. “But I can’t just leave this thing hanging.”
“I can see that,” April said, looking at me hard. “I was just hoping.”
“Can I get a taking-care-of-business check?”
“You’ve got a postponement.”
“Where’s Kathy now?”
“With Janet.”
“How’s she getting along with Horace?”
April smiled warmly. “Just fine, but she’d love to see her best friend, Mr. Mongo. She’s been asking about you all week, and she doesn’t understand why you haven’t come to see her.”
“Does she know about … her father yet?”
April nodded. “She knows that Frank died in the fire you saved her from, but not the details. She doesn’t remember anything about what happened before the fire. All she can say is that she fell asleep in the car coming home from my house; that’s all she remembers until she woke up in the hospital.”
“It’s just as well. Are you and Kathy doing anything this afternoon?”
“No. Why?”
“I have to drop by the hospital for my shot, and then I’d like to do something with the two of you. Like go to the zoo. Can Kathy leave the house?”
“She can, and I know she’d love to go to the zoo.”
“I’m a zoo freak—if you’ll pardon the pun.”
April giggled. “I’ll ignore the pun—and I’m a zoo freak too. I love orangutans.” Her smile fluttered and faded. “Does this mean that at least you’re not starting back to work right away?”
“Certainly not before we go to the zoo,” I said, getting up to clear away the dishes.
But I would right afterward, as soon as it got dark. And I had a pretty good idea where to start looking.
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 in 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 botto
m, 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 déclassé 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 athamé. 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 offical 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 h
im 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 Smather’s 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.
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