"Have a seat if you will," DeVilbiss gestured. He continued on into the adjoining kitchen, much of which Frederika could see from where she sat. Along the far wall hung homely bundles of dried herbs. DeVilbiss moved to one and plucked a handful of leaves. He turned off the music but continued to hum the tune. Frederika listened to water running hollowly into a kettle. She was relieved to find no heavily draped curtains on the walls, no crystal ball, burning incense, or wind chimes-the kind of props that screamed fakery.
"Is the clown yours?" she asked, to fill in the silence.
"As much as I am his" came the reply.
"He looks old."
"Indeed. He's been with me a long time." DeVilbiss appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Pierrot Lunaire and I are a team. A matched pair of dummies, I say." He told his joke without smiling and retreated into the kitchen without waiting for a reaction.
"Are you brewing me a cure for my cold?" Frederika asked.
"You know there's no such cure. Yet. But give the men of science enough time and there shall be," DeVilbiss declared. "I have absolute faith in them."
"Then what are you brewing?" Frederika asked.
"Merely something to relieve all the unpleasant symptoms. Something far better than the drugstore nostrums."
"Do tell," Frederika muttered. She was not pleased by the abrupt detour the gentleman had made. Her cold was a minor annoyance, one she would gladly endure if only he could live up to his other advertised promises.
"The amazing thing is that so many effective medicines have been known for hundreds of years," DeVilbiss remarked, loudly. "But only by a chosen few. Just as foxglove has been known to help the heart, so a rare few have possessed the knowledge of this remedy for the common cold." From the amount of noise he made, DeVilbiss seemed far busier than merely the preparation of herbal tea. A spoon clinked several times following the sound of a bottle being uncorked. Frederika glanced at her wrist and remembered that she had left her watch on the bedside table.
The kettle whistled. Frederika started in her chair.
"One more minute," the man called out. Frederika peeked under the table, then rocked it up to examine the rug directly under it. The sound of pouring water cued her to resume her patient, hand-folded posture.
DeVilbiss entered the room carrying a tray that held a hand-painted English teapot, a pair of matching cups and saucers, and nothing else. He set the tray down on the edge of the table, placed both cups in the middle and poured them three-quarters full. As he did, he pointed out, "Cream or lemon would dilute its potency. I shall drink with you if you don't mind. As a preventative."
Frederika's apprehension at being offered the tea evaporated with the man's desire to share it. DeVilbiss lifted his cup first and sipped, closing his eyes as if in mild euphoria. She followed his example and found the taste delightful. She told him so.
"I'm so glad you approve," he replied. "Please drink all of it, for its full effect." He was polite and mannerly to a fault, but his mien was not in the slightest effete. Frederika detected a quiet confidence in his movement and bearing. "And now to the point of your visit," he invited.
"I wish to contact my father," Frederika stated flatly.
"How long has he been dead?"
"Ten years."
DeVilbiss frowned.
"Is there some problem?" Frederika inquired.
"It is more difficult with the passage of time," the self-professed channeler replied. He swept the tarot cards up with one hand and tossed them on the sideboard. "Have you attempted to contact him before?"
"Yes. Several times, with no success."
DeVilbiss lifted his cup and drank to the dregs; his brows knit as if in thought. "Your mother… is she alive?"
"No."
"Perhaps it would be easier to contact her."
"No!" Frederika said firmly. "She's been dead even longer."
DeVilbiss set the cup down and indicated with his forefinger that Frederika should finish hers. "My sympathies. So much tragedy for one so young."
"I'm not that young," Frederika countered. She lifted the cup and drank. DeVilbiss watched without comment as she finished. When she had, she said, "What is your usual price for such an unusual talent?"
"I charge thirty dollars, to see if we can become attuned. If it's possible, the fee varies with what is demanded."
"You promised to make it easy for me to judge if your talents are worth anything at all," Frederika reminded him.
"So I did." He cleared the tea service onto the sideboard. As he did, Frederika blew her nose. Mucus came out in a flood, and suddenly she found it much easier to breathe. She attributed the unstuffing to the warmth of the tea. DeVilbiss dimmed the dining room's chandelier lights to a feeble orange glow and reassumed his place directly across from the young woman.
"Your father's name?" DeVilbiss requested.
"Frederik Vanderveen the Third."
"His place of burial?"
"Here in Princeton."
"Very well." DeVilbiss stretched out his hands, palms up, silently inviting Frederika to place hers on top. She obeyed. He wrapped his long, thin fingers around hers, and she felt the strength in them. "I channel through the spirit of a criminal named Roderick Miller. He was hanged in London for horse thievery in the year 1548."
"Not the most savory soul," Frederika commented.
"Neither beggars nor channelers can be choosers," DeVilbiss returned archly. He closed his eyes and let his facial muscles go suddenly slack. His body became totally tranquil.
It seemed to Frederika that she had been holding the man's hands for five minutes without his moving. She was about to speak when the table began to tremble, as if a minor earthquake passed through Princeton. Frederika eased her feet forward, to test the man's actions under the table. Simultaneously, the toes of her shoes ran into those of his. His feet were well away from the table's single pedestal leg and firmly planted on the rug. He seemed oblivious to her contact. The trembling stopped abruptly. The ceiling's color shifted subtly, taking on a bluish tint. A streak of white light dodged along the lines of the walls and vanished. DeVilbiss's hands had not moved in the slightest. A rasping sound issued from his throat. His lips did not move.
"What… do you… demand of me?" the whispered voice asked.
The hackles raised on the back of Frederika's neck. She stared at the motionless channeler, wondering if he or she was supposed to answer.
"Woman… what do you demand… of me?" the voice repeated.
"I wish to speak with my father, Frederik-"
"I know his name," the voice hissed. "What would you have me… ask him?"
"Ask him what happened to my first teddy bear," Frederika said. Her eyes watered with dread, but as soon as her question was out, her jaw set resolutely.
"Teddy bear?" the voice said. This time DeVilbiss's lips moved.
"Yes."
Silence hung in the room like motes of dust. Finally, the voice began to laugh, at first the barest puffs of air, then with increasing sound, taking on a more robust quality by the moment. In the instant that Frederika recognized DeVilbiss's natural voice, his eyes opened and his mouth curled up into an expression of mirth. Frederika felt the heat of embarrassment burning onto her cheeks. She pulled her hands violently from his.
"Good question. I have no idea what happened to your bear, but isn't this show worth thirty dollars?" he asked.
Frederika's sudden rising upset her chair; it clattered backward noisily to the floor.
DeVilbiss's smile shifted to a look of genuine concern. "I apologize profusely," he said, getting up. "But isn't that all you expected to see: the parlor tricks of a circus sideshow performer?"
"No," Frederika answered, darkly. "I told you; I did not come for entertainment. I can't believe this."
DeVilbiss leaned back against the sideboard. "But now I believe you. I've shown you the nonsense I feed the dolts. Now we can get to the real magic."
"You have an accomplice," Frederika said, too
unnerved and angry for his words to register.
DeVilbiss shook his head. "They were necessary in the old days. The days of magic lanterns and flash pot lightning."
"Then how did you make the table move? And those colors?"
"Electronics. I have a little box taped to one knee, with a button protruding. I simply press my knees together at the proper time, and the rest happens automatically. No use of hands or feet. The table has an agitating motor in the pedestal." He strode to the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room and pointed up to the air return. "A miniature projection unit here. Remote speakers also, if I need the aid of sound. People today think they're so much more sophisticated than their grandfathers, but if they come to me they're usually as ready to make themselves blind as in any other era."
"You actually fool people with this?" Frederika asked.
"Those willing to be fooled. I give them peace of mind, hope of an afterlife, communion with their loved ones. All at a reasonable price."
"What do you think is reasonable?"
"As I said: thirty dollars for the first session. That's when I find out who they wish to contact and why. Then I do as much investigating as I can. I always start with the obituaries. Depending on how much information I uncover and how much time it takes, I charge up to several hundred dollars. Often, they're so pleased to hear what they already know that they give me a generous tip."
"And why bother showing this to me?"
DeVilbiss dug his hands into his trouser pockets. He took a casual, almost errant step in her direction, but his eyes were fixed hard on hers. "I already told you. Because I want you to understand that I am capable of both the illusion and the reality. For the average person, the illusion is sufficient. But not for you. Now, I can help you contact your father, but only if you can help me."
Frederika took a step backward. The fallen chair prevented her retreat. "I don't understand."
"You work in the university library. I saw you there two days ago, when I was purchasing an access card."
"So?"
"I told you that there are many wonderful arts which have been discovered but which only a few have shared."
"Go on."
"For example, that cold remedy. How does your cold feel now?"
Frederika turned her awareness inward. She realized that she felt fine.
DeVilbiss strolled the length of the sideboard. "No coughing or sneezing. No tightness in the sinuses or tickle in the throat. Not a hint of fever. Am I right?"
"Yes," Frederika admitted.
"That remedy is one among many wonderful secrets that I've unearthed. But there are so many others that I'd love to know. How huge stones were moved hundreds of miles to build Stonehenge. The lost formulas for making the stained glass of the great cathedrals. These may be beyond recovery. But they're only idle curiosities on my part." DeVilbiss continued his stroll, circling toward Frederika. He leaned his torso forward in a theatrical manner. "The one secret I am obsessed with is contacting the dead. This is the real reason why I travel so much. I've learned a great deal, and shortly I'll prove it to you. But as far as I know, there is only one source that can give me the final answers I seek."
"The Memphis Grimoire?" Frederika guessed.
DeVilbiss stopped short. "You know this book?"
"Yes. It just came to the library. In the Schickner Collection."
DeVilbiss sucked in his cheeks and let them out. "You're a quick woman. The Memphis Grimoire looks impressive, but it's completely useless."
"I know," Frederika said. "I already tried it."
This time DeVilbiss bowed. "You are indeed the one I seek. No, Miss Vanderveen, while I have come to Princeton because of the Schickner Collection, it has nothing to do with the Memphis Grimoire. The source I seek is the pair of scrolls attributed to Ahriman."
"Oh. Yes. What do you know about them?"
Now that anger and fear were replaced by amazement on the woman's face, DeVilbiss approached her and rerighted the chair. "Much," he said, indicating with his hand that she should sit. "I know, for example, why every translation that's been made since the time of the ancient Greeks has been utterly destroyed."
"Why?" Frederika obliged.
"Because they alone teach how to speak with the dead. And the dead tell things about religion that at least several major faiths cannot allow to be believed," he lied, with consummate ease.
"Such as?"
"I promise to tell you what I know another time. What you must know right now is that agents of the Catholic church have destroyed every copy of this precious work. That I can prove, and I assure you they will get to this one as well. If I'm ever to reach all the way into the next world, I must learn the scrolls' secrets before they're erased for all time."
"But you need my help," Frederika filled in.
"Yes. Your library is like a fortress."
"I never thought of it that way, but I suppose it's true," Frederika granted. "Unfortunately, those scrolls are as inaccessible to me as they are to you."
"No. I can't believe that," DeVilbiss said in a seductive tone, as he stepped directly behind the young woman. "Those with access to the scrolls are men, aren't they? A woman of your beauty and intelligence can surely have her way with them." His fingers came to rest lightly on her shoulders.
"Even if that were true, no one has the authority to remove those scrolls now." Frederika glanced at her right shoulder but made no effort to free herself of his touch. "However…"
"Yes?"
"I have a friend in that section. He might be able to copy part of the scrolls without removing them."
"By photocopying?" DeVilbiss's fingertips began a gentle massaging.
"No. It's not allowed. The intense light can damage the ink. I meant copying by hand," Frederika said. She rolled her head back at his relaxing manipulation.
"Does he read Akkadian?"
"I don't think so."
"Then he wouldn't know what to copy. Even if he did, with no knowledge of the language he'd certainly make errors which might be critical." DeVilbiss's fingers stopped moving. "There is one other way. If I could be given access to the scrolls for an hour."
"You read Akkadian?"
"I have acquired the skills necessary for my quest," DeVilbiss lied.
"Why should I believe any of this?"
"You shouldn't. Yet." DeVilbiss moved around the table and sat again on the chair directly across from her. "But, as I promised, I will make it easy for you to believe me. Are you ready for real necromancy?"
Frederika's eyes watered at the prospect. "Yes."
DeVilbiss set his elbows on the table and raised his forefingers to his temples. "Then I'll take you as far as I can without the scrolls."
"What will I need to do?" Frederika asked.
"Just look into my eyes," DeVilbiss instructed. "There is no reciting of words, no holding of hands. Not even the fictitious Roderick Miller. Stay perfectly still and look into my eyes. Think of your father, but say nothing. I will do the calling silently. His image will appear between us. Are you ready?"
Frederika nodded. DeVilbiss's eyes held hers without blinking. His forefingers described slow, continuous circles around his temples. Gradually, his eyelids lowered. Frederika's eyelids did the same. They sat across from one another like sleepwalkers at supper.
Suddenly, Frederika's eyelids popped open. Her eyes strained from their sockets, to drink in the apparition that shimmered before her on the table. There, in perfect miniature, was her father as he had looked the last time she had seen him alive. He smiled. It was an unaccustomed expression, filled with love. And forgiveness.
"Daddy!" Frederika gasped. "Daddy, tell me please! You promised!"
The image lost its opaqueness, dissolving as if smoke.
"Daddy!" Frederika wailed.
DeVilbiss shook himself from his trance. His hands left his temples and thrust out toward Frederika. "Stop! Say no more!"
"What happened?" she demanded.
> "I told you not to speak!" DeVilbiss looked as angry as he sounded. "My powers can only bring the dead to you; I have no skill to let them communicate. If you try that, they're frustrated and vanish. It is always the same."
"Was it really my father?" Frederika asked, shaking from the experience.
"Only you can tell that," DeVilbiss answered, in a gentler voice. "I can see nothing when I'm in the trance."
"It was a trick," she said, with wavering conviction.
"You called only two hours ago, and you said nothing of who you wanted to contact," DeVilbiss replied, shaking his head as if rattling brains back into place. "I have no idea what you saw, but ask yourself: Would I have been able to create such a thing on such short notice? And for what? Have I asked for money? No. All I wish is more power such as that you have just witnessed. Power to make them speak." DeVilbiss stood and drew himself up erect and proud. "It's well to be a skeptic in matters of the occult, but one may also be so worldly wise as to be stupid. Shall we help each other or not, Miss Vanderveen?"
Frederika looked hard into his eyes as if into windows. She could read nothing behind them. "I think we can help each other. I can tell you for certain very soon."
"Excellent."
"When I called, you said you stay up late into the night."
"I do. People think it's necessary to conduct seances during the witching hour. It doesn't pay for me to challenge their beliefs. So I sleep during the day."
Frederika stood. "I think I'll be able to call you later."
DeVilbiss got out of his chair, went to the dimmer and turned up the lights. "That's fine, but you'll get my answering machine. I have other business, you see." Frederika started toward the living room, but he moved in her path and reached gently for her right hand. "You asked if I had an accomplice; I do now. The most desirable accomplice possible." He raised her hand to his face in the Continental manner and pressed his parted lips against it. She felt the pressure of his teeth, and a sensuous thrill coursed through her. "To our mutual conquest of death," he said, smiling broadly, displaying both rows of gleaming white teeth, the upper incisors not quite long enough to raise suspicion.
The Book of Common Dread Page 9