An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  The rains came; or, rather, they attacked. The sudden cloudburst was a thick wall of water falling on us with the force of a giant wave. Sheets of rain swept over the car, instantaneously reducing visibility to zero. Huge droplets banged against the roof and windshield like the foot slaps of millions of running soldiers; their supporting artillery could be heard close by—laser rockets of lightning, explosions of thunder, their percussive vibrations felt through the body of the car.

  Garth immediately turned on the wipers, but, despite the fact that he had them on at high speed, they had little more effect on the blurred windshield than someone swishing his hand through the water of a pond looking for something on the bottom. Garth slowed the car to a crawl as dozens of taillights, glowing like red wounds in the day, suddenly appeared on the road before us.

  A few minutes before, I would have been glad for any excuse not to talk, Now I resented the storm’s interruption, the way in which it had wrenched my audience’s attention away from me. My certainty, and the words it generated, were building up with inexorable force, like poison in an infected wound.

  After fifteen minutes of creeping along, watching Garth hunched over the wheel, I could stand the pressure no longer.

  “April,” I continued, raising my voice so as to be heard over the snare-drum beat of the rain and loud flop-flop of the wipers, “you were the one who told me Frank used to periodically drop manuscripts off at your home for storage and safekeeping. That’s what he’d been doing with his book. The early parts of his research—the meat of what we want, including the names of the coven members and records of their activities—is probably still up there in your attic. That shopping bag you brought me was the last thing he brought up. I’m sure that, if we really look around up there, we’ll find more than enough to put Krowl and the rest of the coven away permanently.”

  April shook her head. “I don’t understand. You said that Frank told Kathy his book of shadows had been stolen.”

  “Only part of it—the sections he had in his apartment. The main work had been done, and I’m betting he was just researching background material on witchcraft in general in order to flesh out the book. Those sections didn’t have anything in them to identify the members of the coven; but when they were stolen, Frank knew his secret was out and that he was in deep trouble. It was those minor sections that Daniel stole.”

  “Daniel?” April whispered breathlessly.

  Garth was concentrating hard on the road, but at the same time listening intently to the conversation. I nodded to April and leaned forward so that my brother and Madeline could hear over the roar of the storm.

  “It had to be him. Kathy said her father told her that either Esobus or Daniel had taken his book of shadows. Well, let’s assume he knew what he was talking about. I know the coven didn’t take it, because Krowl asked me where it was. Admittedly, since Esobus has obviously been playing some kind of double game, it’s possible that Esobus took it and didn’t tell the others; but I don’t think so. My money’s on Daniel, and if April will take us to his house after we search her attic, I think that’s where we’ll find the missing sections.”

  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Robert,” April said. “But why would Daniel take Frank’s notes?”

  “A good question, and I think I have the answer. Daniel wanted to scare Frank off the project. Hypothesis: Esobus and Smathers were the seminal force behind the formation of the coven. Smathers was the front man, and Esobus provided the name that—theoretically—would attract the best ceremonial magicians. Like Michael McEnroe—and Daniel. Daniel was certainly one of the first men asked to join, but he turned the invitation down. All the real heavies—at least, all the ones Smathers knew of—turned it down.”

  “But then, Daniel would have known about Smathers’ involvement from the beginning, wouldn’t he?” April said.

  “Not necessarily. Smathers was the front man, but I think the original contacts would have been made through unsigned letters; Smathers wouldn’t have wanted to be too up-front. Besides, the fact that the writer knew the identities of the ceremonial magicians in the first place would have lent the project—and the invitations—a certain air of legitimacy. Only if they responded—say, to a post-office box number—would Smathers come out of the closet. As I said, Daniel probably ignored the whole thing.”

  Suddenly the taillights before us became brighter brake lights, an unmoving, twin smear of crimson stretching off into the blurred distance. Garth brought the car to a halt and pulled the emergency brake. There was no way of telling what was causing the solid tie-up, but it was undoubtedly an accident—and a big one. The situation had a feel of permanency about it, and I cursed under my breath. My nerves were raw with anticipation, guilt and anxiety.

  “But Daniel would have known about the coven from the beginning,” Garth said thoughtfully, absently shutting off the wipers and ignition. “That would be dangerous information to have.”

  “Right,” I said tightly. “Knowledge of the coven—and, later, information about what they were up to—probably made Michael McEnroe nervous enough to skip town by taking an extended trip to India. Now, considering the fact that we’ve been dealing with a bunch of crazies who make a fetish out of ritualistic behavior, Kathy’s poisoning could begin to make some sense—if that’s the word for anything these people did. It certainly didn’t in the beginning: They’d already killed Marlowe, so why bother with Kathy? I got the definite impression from Krowl that there was a double betrayal—Marlowe’s and someone else’s. Who else did the coven think betrayed them? I think it was Daniel. The coven poisoned Kathy to get back at Daniel—to punish him in the most evil, devastating way they could think of. They were torturing him, while at the same time warning him that they could do the same thing to anyone he loved if he betrayed them again.”

  Madeline had been half-turned in her seat, staring at me intently. Now she turned around and stared at the rippling, shifting sheets of water on the passenger window. “How did Daniel betray them?” she asked distantly, her voice barely audible.

  “He didn’t, Mad. They only thought he did. But he anticipated the problem and tried to head it off by taking those parts of the book that Frank Marlowe was working on in his apartment. Daniel probably didn’t know that he didn’t have all of it, and by the time he found out it was too late anyway.”

  “Sorry, brother,” Garth said, shaking his head. “I’ve lost you somewhere.”

  “I understand,” April said in a breathy whisper. “Oh, my God.”

  “When Marlowe was first approached, the coven didn’t even know his real name,” I continued. “He was initiated as Bart Stone, the Western writer. Somehow, the coven finally found out that he was researching their entire operation for an exposé. About the same time, they found out his real name. From there, it was only one small step to finding out that Marlowe had been married to a witch who came from generations of occultists, and that his ex-brother-in-law was a famous ceremonial magician … who’d ignored their invitation. They figured Daniel had turned Marlowe on to them.”

  There was a prolonged silence, filled only with the wash, bangs and roar of the storm. Finally, Garth said, “I like it, Mongo. It could be the way you say it is—but you’re only guessing.”

  “True. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about this—above and under water. The problem has always been finding an overall theory that will fit the available facts; this is it. Daniel eventually found out about the research project when Frank Marlowe approached him directly for information. Daniel immediately knew there was going to be a problem for him if they ever found out what Marlowe was up to, and he tried to warn Marlowe off. When that didn’t work, he stole Marlowe’s book of shadows as a warning.”

  “I still don’t understand why Daniel didn’t come to the police after his niece was poisoned,” Garth said.

  “He was afraid they’d drop the other shoe,” I said. “On April. His only chance was to find them himself and convince them
they’d made a mistake.”

  “Yes,” April said very softly, slowly nodding. “But there’s more to it than that, and you’d understand if you’d known Daniel. He was a priest—and he behaved as a priest. Besides, if Robert’s right about the bulk of Frank’s book being in my attic, my brother really had nothing to tell the police; involving them could only make matters worse.”

  “Assuming you’re on target all the way,” Garth said to me, “do you think we’ll find Esobus’ real name in Marlowe’s manuscript?”

  “I don’t know.” I paused and lighted a cigarette; my hands were trembling. “Frank might have spotted her if he’d hung around the warehouse long enough, but I’m not confident about that. I’ll bet Esobus missed an awful lot of coven meetings—the real ones as well as the phony ones. Esobus is a very busy woman. In any case, I’m hoping she’ll confess of her own free will.”

  April put a trembling hand on my elbow. “She?”

  I reached into my pocket and took out the paper I’d removed from Esobus’ cubicle. My stomach muscles fluttered as I read it aloud. “‘The search for truth is neither moral nor immoral: it is the prerequisite of a civilized society.’” I slowly crumpled the paper and jammed it back into my pocket. “Mad,” I said softly, “I found that little homily tacked up inside Esobus’ cubicle. What do you make of it?”

  “It sounds strange,” Madeline said in a choked voice. “On the surface, it sounds a little academic. For the leader of that coven, it sounds incredibly self-serving.”

  Madeline breathed a deep sigh and rested her head wearily against the side window. Up until that moment, I’d hoped I was wrong and that I’d simply misread all the clues. But now I realized with a sudden, sickening jolt that I was right, and I groaned inwardly. Garth hissed through his teeth and quickly glanced at Madeline. April was staring at me, her eyes wide.

  “You’re Esobus, Mad,” I said softly, feeling short of breath. “You knew it had to come to this one day. ‘The Wizard of Oz is dead’; remember when you told me that?”

  “Facts, Mongo,” Garth said tightly. “Where are your facts?”

  “I don’t have any facts, and there’s still a great deal that I don’t understand. Madeline is going to have to fill us in on the details.”

  Mad shook her head; her silver hair rippled and cascaded over the back of the seat. Then slowly, like a tree toppling in a forest, Mad fell sideways until her cheek came to rest on Garth’s shoulder. Garth started to bring his arm up to put it around her shoulders, then uttered a startled grunt. There was a swirl of movement in the front, with Madeline sliding back across the seat and flinging open the door. Suddenly the roar and spit of the storm was in the car. Garth grabbed for Madeline and missed as the woman leaped out of the car and was swallowed up in the deluge.

  “She’s got my gun!” Garth shouted, scrambling across the seat and diving into the storm after her.

  “Stay here!” I snapped at April as I opened the door on my side and stepped out.

  I was soaked through to the skin within moments after getting out of the car. The fury of the wind and rain was even greater than I’d imagined listening only to its voice; a sudden gust of wind threw me against the car’s trunk, spinning me around and momentarily disorienting me, robbing me of precious seconds. By the time I got around to the other side of the car, neither Garth nor Madeline was in sight.

  Shielding my eyes from the driving rain with my hands, I could see that I was at the foot of a fairly steep embankment that rose off the right shoulder of the turnpike. There was a flash of lightning, and in that moment I could see the tops of trees whipping violently back and forth along the top of the embankment.

  Suddenly I felt a hand grip my arm. I spun around and found April standing next to me. Her hair was matted to her cheeks and the top of her head, and tiny rivers of water cascaded down her face, blurring her features.

  “Get back in the car!” I shouted, spitting water.

  “No! She’ll need me!”

  “She’s goddamn likely to shoot you, woman! Do as I say!”

  “No, Robert! No matter what you say or do, I’m going to help search for her. Even if Dr. Jones is Esobus, she’s not evil. She saved Kathy’s life—and yours. She’s a woman; I’m a woman. I’m going to her. You can’t stop me, so take me with you!”

  There was no time to argue. April’s voice rang with determination, and I couldn’t have her wandering alone in the storm. Nor could I drug her back; the decision to expose Madeline in this manner had been mine. What was happening was my responsibility, and I couldn’t leave Garth and Madeline alone in the storm.

  I started to scramble up the embankment, gripping April’s hand tightly and pulling her up after me. The force of the storm was tearing away loose patches of sod, turning the face of the hill into a checkerboard of ice-slick patches of grass and slimy, clinging squares of mud. We slipped often, breaking our slide by digging our fingers into the ground. We would rise again, resume climbing; within seconds, the rain would strip the clots of mud from our clothes and bodies. It was a difficult climb for anyone, not to speak of an injured fifty-year-old woman. Logic dictated that Madeline had not attempted it, that she had run parallel to the highway. Somehow, I knew she hadn’t. I sensed instinctively that, driven by desperation, Mad would want to be alone, to seek the natural sanctuary of the trees—and that she had made it. Madeline was too intelligent to believe she could get away; there was no place to go. And I did not believe that she intended to shoot us. Instead, I believed she had something else in mind—a ritual; an epilogue to the strange book of shadows that was her life. For some reason, that thought frightened me more than the idea of being shot myself.

  But I could be wrong. At that very moment, Madeline could have Garth—or us—in her sights, pressing her finger on the trigger …

  Perhaps Garth had caught her. Garth was young, strong. But he was also a logical-thinking policeman. If he had not seen her start up the hill, he would be searching up and down the turnpike.

  April and I reached the top of the embankment and fell to our knees, leaning against each other and gasping for breath. Rain cascaded and swirled around us, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. It was difficult to breathe, almost as if the air were filling with water and we were drowning.

  There was a loud, sharp crack, and I cringed, thinking it was a gunshot. But it was only thunder.

  Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, the wind began to subside. Through the translucent sheets of rain I could make out a thick growth of tall grass and brush a few feet in front of us. There was a low retaining fence; beyond that was the wooded area I’d glimpsed from below.

  “Robert,” April gasped, “she couldn’t have come this way. She must be down on the highway.”

  I shook my head. “No. She’s somewhere near,” I half-turned, put my face very close to hers. “Go back, April. Please. I’m afraid for you.”

  “I can’t, Robert. Don’t waste time arguing.”

  I pulled April to her feet and led her toward the fence. I held the wire strands apart for her to climb through, then followed. The foliage and trunks of the trees provided some cover from the lashing elements, and we ran ahead. I shouted the names of Garth and Madeline, but my words were sucked up and extinguished by the storm.

  The stand of trees was only a few hundred feet wide; on the other side of the wooded strip, thick factory stacks speared the black sky. Between, forming a buffer zone perhaps a half mile wide, was an ugly no-man’s-land of rolling, lumpy landfill, garage dumps and occasional oases of grass.

  Madeline, her figure barely visible through the curtains of rain, was kneeling in one of those oases which formed a small basin a hundred yards away from the foot of the embankment. Her body was bent forward at a sharp angle, and both her hands were pressed hard into her stomach. For one horrible moment I thought she had shot herself. But she was sitting too still, too steady. Her stiff immobility was statuelike, as though she intended to kn
eel there in the open, exposed to the pelting rain, for as long as it took to cleanse herself—perhaps forever.

  With April clinging to my arm, I began to move down the slippery face of the hill, heading toward the basin where Madeline knelt. Suddenly, April drew her breath in sharply and squeezed my arm. I looked in the direction she was pointing and saw Garth emerge from the woods, perhaps fifty yards away. He immediately took in the scene, motioned to us with a single, terse wave of his hand, then began moving down himself, angling to his left in an attempt to approach Madeline from the rear.

  But Madeline wasn’t going to be taken by surprise. Suddenly, as if sensing our presence, she lifted her head. I winced when I saw that the rain and wind had stripped the bandage from her forehead, exposing the cross-shaped wound. Blood oozed from the raw flesh between the crusted stitches, mixed with rain and covered her face in a pink wash. Shaking, I raised my arms—more as a calming gesture than to show I was unarmed—and continued moving toward her, keeping my body in the line of fire between Madeline and April. Garth had almost reached the bottom of the embankment. He stopped to wait for us, and we cautiously converged on Madeline together.

  When we were about ten yards away from Madeline the wind abruptly abated even further, until there was only the steady drumbeat of the rain, much lighter now. I had an eerie, chilling sensation that the storm was no more than a special effect; the tens of thousands of buildings, the millions of people, the hundreds of square miles surrounding us, were a backdrop for a movie. Our movie. All the master shots had been made, and now we had arrived at center stage. The camera was moving in for an Extreme Close-Up. I shook off a chill.

  “Please don’t come closer,” Mad said evenly. Her voice was soft, but could be heard clearly in air that now, almost stripped of wind, suddenly felt too thin, drained of oxygen.

  April, Garth and I squatted in a semicircle before Mad.

  “Give me the gun, Dr. Jones,” Garth said quietly. “You’re hurt. Let us take care of you.”