Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04

by Heartlight (v2. 1)

  "Yes?"

  "Colin?" The voice was faintly familiar. "It's Michael Davenant."

  "Michael," Colin said warmly, hiding his disappointment that the call had not been what he'd wished. "How has life been treating you?"

  "Oh, I can't complain. You heard that we lost our funding?"

  "No." Even through his worry about Cannon, Colin was shocked. The Rhodes Group had been privately funded and owed a good deal of its viability to government contracts.

  "Afraid so. The Sharon Tate thing hit us pretty hard out here—that and the Blackburn murders were a sort of one-two punch. Frankly, when the government contracts dried up, the group couldn't make a go of it in the private sector."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Colin said honestly. "How are you doing these days?"

  "Oh, not too badly. There's always room for a good administrator. But I ran across something the other day that I thought might interest you, and I thought I'd buy you a drink and tell you about it."

  "With all due curiosity expressed," Colin said, "I am a bit tied up here in New York."

  Davenant laughed. "Oh, silly of me; I should have mentioned. I'm in New York, staying at the Warwick. Come on by—I guarantee it'll be worth your while."

  Colin glanced at his watch. He tried to convince himself that Cannon still might call, and failed.

  "It's four o'clock now," Colin said. He mistrusted his own eagerness to involve himself with Cannon's problem—he needed to step back from it if he could. Meeting Michael would be a heaven-sent distraction. "How about if I meet you at six-thirty? We'll have time for a drink or two before dinner. I know a nice little Italian place only a few blocks away from where you're staying."

  "Great," Davenant said. "I'll see you then."

  The bar at the Warwick was like something out of a lost world: dark and intimate, with a faintly shabby coziness. It seemed to belong more to the fifties than to the seventies. Colin located Davenant at a corner table and quickly moved to join him.

  Part of Colin's mind was still occupied with Cannon, but he'd called Claire to phone-sit while he was out. She knew where Colin was, and Colin put more faith in Claire's ability than his own to keep a frightened, distrait caller on the line long enough to elicit some hard information. Her years spent manning various crisis hot lines had honed her inbred people skills to the point that nobody remained a stranger to Claire Moffat for long.

  "You're looking well," Davenant said when he arrived. "The publishing life agrees with you, though it's a pity to lose your services in the field."

  "I do keep my hand in here and there," Colin admitted.

  Davenant smiled. "I was hoping you were. So many folks burn out, you know—get religion, or just lose their taste for ambiguity. I'm glad you're still in the fight."

  "So to speak," Colin said.

  They ordered drinks, and chatted of current events—the Watergate break-in, Nixon's reelection, the war—until they came. After they'd both tasted their drinks—the Warwick poured an excellent selection of single-malts— Davenant finally broached the subject of their meeting.

  "I've already told you that the Rhodes Group is disbanding, but of course there's still the matter of the company's assets to dispose of. The research library—not to mention the records of our cases—constitutes a significant resource. And it would be a pity if all that data were to be lost."

  "It certainly would," Colin agreed. "I suppose you'll be donating it to a library or university?"

  "Donating!" Davenant laughed. "You've been out of the business world too long, Colin. I've spent the last eight months looking for a buyer at the express direction of the board."

  "I suppose so," Colin said noncommittally. He was always depressed when commerce got in the way of pure research. "Any luck?"

  "Fortunately, yes. The library was broken up—most of it went to Duke, of course—but I'm happy to say I've found the perfect home for our case files."

  "Didn't you have some confidentiality issues there?" Colin asked. "Some of those case files have some pretty hot stuff in them."

  "Oh, well, of course. Naturally all the government files were turned over to the Central Intelligence Agency—something called Project Star Gate has taken over our work in-house over there, but you didn't hear it from me. As for the rest, real names have been deleted, and most of our clients signed partial waivers back in the beginning anyway. The only real problem was in finding a suitable recipient, and fortunately, I have success to report. We ended up selling the material lock, stock, and ectoplasm to the Bidney Institute, right here in your backyard."

  "Not quite my backyard, Michael—Glastonbury is a good ways up the river. But close enough, I suppose," Colin said.

  "Which brings me to what I wanted to pass along to you. While I was up there closing the deal, I happened to hear that they're looking for a new director, since Newland's retiring next year. I suppose you're familiar with the terms of the funding bequest?"

  Coincidentally enough, the book Colin was reading for Selkie Press was on the life of Margaret Beresford Bidney. "As a matter of fact, yes. The institute is associated with the college, but it manages and administers its own funding, including that million-dollar prize."

  "For just as long, I gather, as the good doctor can keep the money out of the sticky fingers of the college trustees. Well, now that he's decided to retire, the college is putting real pressure on the institute to wind down and assimilate with Taghkanic."

  "Which would, of course, give Taghkanic control of the Bidney bequest?" asked Colin, out of familiarity with the intricacies of both internal politics and academic feuds.

  "Precisely. The institute won't have much hope of remaining an independent entity if they can't search out a qualified director. While of course the college doesn't have any actual control over who the institute chooses, if the institute makes a really bad appointment, the college can always withdraw its support and leave them without accreditation."

  "Who picks the new director?"

  "The outgoing director and the institute's board of directors. Frankly, I think Newland's on Taghkanic's side, the way he's conducting his job search. Or maybe he just doesn't want to get caught in the middle."

  "I can understand his feelings." Colin considered the matter. "Well, I can hardly walk in and propose myself for the job. To be frank, I'm pretty happy with Selkie Press and my consulting work. Still, if the institute is going on the block, I'd at least like to take a look at it before it's gone."

  "That's the spirit," Davenant said enthusiastically. "And speaking of spirits—"

  The conversation turned to parapsychology, and rambled through the field of mutual friends and acquaintances. Soon the venue was moved to Colin's "little restaurant around the corner," where both men did full justice to the table d'hote. It was only at the end of the meal, over brandy and cigarettes, that Davenant returned, briefly, to the subject of the Rhodes Group library.

  "It was a near thing, and even if the institute is going to go under next year when Newland resigns, I'm still glad they got the records—they'll just roll over into the Taghkanic Library, and you know how colleges are about letting go of anything once they've got their hands on it. Anyway. I had a job of persuading the board, because Hasloch, Morehouse, and Rand were frankly offering more money, but—"

  "Hasloch?" It wasn't a common name, and Colin felt a chill strike straight to his heart, as though he'd unwarily breathed in a deep lungful of arctic air. There were no coincidences—all his experience and training had taught him that. Michael had called today—and Colin had accepted his invitation—for a reason, and now he knew what it was. Suddenly, without any need for temporal proof, Colin knew the enemy he faced.

  "Toller Hasloch," Davenant said. "Hotshot legal beagle: used to be Hasloch, Hasloch, and Morehouse before Hasloch's father died last year and one of the senior associates got promoted. Apparently they were bidding for a client who didn't want to be named—I can't imagine what interest a New York law firm would have in para
psychology."

  For an instant the cozy restaurant was gone, and Colin stood in the basement in Berkeley, looking up at the blasphemous inverted figure hanging from the cross.

  "Neither can I," Colin said evenly.

  The talk moved on, but the mood of the evening had been clouded, and when Davenant pleaded an early flight on the morrow, Colin was almost eager to let him go.

  He decided to walk at least partway home, in hope of finding an off-duty cab, and went a few blocks out of his way to inspect the big tree at Rockefeller Center. It towered brilliantly over the plaza, its colored lights casting a sort of a magic glow over its surroundings in token of the greater Light that this season celebrated. The air had that almost-minty bite that spoke of snow, but even four days before Christmas, any flurries they got weren't likely to stick.

  Colin felt his heavy mood lighten a little and was even moved to purchase a copy of the Times from a kiosk at the edge of the plaza. Claire always accused him of burying his head in his work and paying little attention to current events.

  Perhaps he had, but he couldn't imagine how even the most scrupulous attention to world events could have warned him about the reappearance of Toller Hasloch in his life. The boy had been so young . . . Colin had always hoped that the fright he'd given him had been enough to turn him away from the Shadow, but in his heart, he'd always know it hadn't been.

  Almost absentmindedly, Colin reached toward his pocket, feeling for the weight of a gun that wasn't there.

  It was half past eleven when Colin let himself into the apartment. Claire was fast asleep, wrapped in a quilt and curled up in Colin's big leather easy chair. The phone was nestled in her lap like a sleeping cat.

  As Colin shut the door, she roused.

  "Oh, Colin." She looked at her watch. "You're back early."

  "I don't suppose I even need to ask if there were any calls?" Colin said, taking off his ancient topcoat and tossing it over a chair, dropping the newspaper on top of it.

  "Not unless you count an opinion poll and somebody trying to sell you the New York Times," Claire said, setting the telephone back on its table and unwinding herself from the quilt. "Oh, and a wrong number—but I think they figured that out for themselves; they hung up in the middle of a sentence." She got to her feet and stretched. "How was your dinner?" She paused, and looked at him closely. "Colin, you don't look well."

  "I got some disturbing news tonight. You remember Toller Hasloch?"

  "Ugh." Claire made a face. "How could I ever forget? Such a charming man—and such a way with the ladies. Don't tell me you ran into him tonight, Colin. I'd been hoping he was dead."

  "Not quite. Apparently he's practicing law in New York now . . . and his law firm was one of those bidding on the Rhodes Group library."

  "Brrr." Claire gave a not-entirely-theatrical shiver. "Well, I hope you aren't going to tell me he got it. Tea? I think I could use a cup before hearing all the gory details." Claire strode off to the kitchen, and in a few moments Colin heard her moving around between stove and refrigerator.

  He wandered around the room, nipping on a few more lights, and then picked up the paper. He skimmed through it—Apollo ij was still heading for Earth without incident, the Watergate conspirators were moving closer to trial—and tossed it aside. Its contents seemed to have no bearing on his life.

  By then Claire had returned, carrying a large tray. Colin moved a pile of papers and she set it down, using a large ottoman as a makeshift table. There was a plate of Christmas cookies on the tray, and Colin raised an eyebrow.

  "Oh, you know how it goes," Claire said. "This time of year you can hardly escape a few Christmas cookies. Last week I got two fruitcakes, so I squirreled one away here for emergencies."

  "Or at least for whatever emergencies can be addressed by a serving of fruitcake," Colin said, selecting a cookie for himself.

  "You'd be surprised," Claire said placidly. "Most of life's crises can be settled with a good meal, a stiff drink, and a hot bath. Toller Hasloch, however, does not fall into this category. So he's practicing law in New York? I wish I'd known before I moved here, then. But what does he want with a bunch of books? He never struck me as much of a reader, somehow."

  "Not the reference library, but the case histories," Colin said. "And in any event, he didn't get it."

  "There must be more to things to put that look on your face. What else?"

  "I think," Colin said slowly, "that he's practicing a little more than law. But if he is, what he's doing is very well hidden. In the last six weeks I think you and I have hit up every single Left-Hand practitioner in Manhattan and the boroughs, not to mention selected locations in Westchester and Long Island, and we haven't heard of anything even remotely similar to that bad patch back in Berkeley."

  "Thule Gesellschaft." Claire pronounced the word as if it were the name of a loathsome disease. "You'd think we'd have gotten a hint if he were up to his old tricks."

  "You would, wouldn't you?" said Colin musingly. "I suppose that means he isn't, but that's something I'm not willing to take on faith. As soon as this John Cannon thing is settled, I'm going to make it my business to deal with Hasloch personally. I may not be allowed by my oaths to interfere in the lives and destinies of ordinary people, but perhaps an exception can be made for Hasloch."

  "Why don't you ask Can ..." Claire's voice drifted away as she sat with a teacup poised halfway to her mouth. Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. "Cold. So cold. Oh, Colin, why didn't you tell me?"

  "Claire?" Colin said, very softly.

  "They've gotten Lucille," Claire said. Though her voice was still her own, her manner of speaking had changed, until Colin could almost visualize John Cannon sitting in front of him. "Colin, you've got to save—" Her voice broke off. "Save ..."

  Claire stopped and blinked, her eyes focusing. "Save what?" she asked in her normal voice. "Did I just nod off here?"

  "Not quite," Colin said. "I think someone was using you to deliver a message." Someone who passed through the wards I have set about this place as if they didn't exist.

  Claire looked around the room vaguely, as though searching for the messenger in the corners of the ceiling. "There's no one here now," she pronounced decisively. She drained her tea and glanced at her watch again. "Will it keep, do you think, or should I try to call it back?"

  Colin hesitated. "Let me make a phone call, first."

  Cannon did not answer his phone, and after Colin had let it ring thirty times, he knew that no one would. "They've gotten Lucille—" the voice had said. He tried both of Madame Lucille's numbers as well, but no one answered there, either. He hoped she had taken his advice to leave New York, but knew in his heart that she hadn't.

  "I think you'd better see what you can raise," he said grimly. There was only one force he knew of that could pass through the wards an Adept set about himself—that of the pure spirit in the lands of Death.

  "Nothing." Forty minutes later, Claire shook her head decisively. She set the shewstone aside, rewrapping it carefully as she did so. "I'm sorry."

  "You did your best," Colin said. "I'm sorry to have kept you so long. I'll call you a taxi—I don't want you riding the subway at this hour."

  "And what about you?" Claire demanded suspiciously. She found her answer in Colin's expression. "Not without me you don't, buster."

  At two o'clock in the morning, all the windows of the buildings lining Gramercy Park were dark.

  Colin wasn't entirely certain of why he had come. There was nothing he could do here, and he certainly couldn't go banging on Cannon's door in the middle of the night, demanding to know if he were all right. Cannon had not asked him to intervene. Colin's hands were, in a sense, tied.

  "Anything?" he asked hopefully.

  Claire shook her head. "Just the usual residual nastiness you'll find on any city street. What are you going to do, Colin?"

  Colin sighed, shaking his head wearily. "The only thing I can do—wait for a new day and start over. Tomorrow m
orning—well, later today—I'll see what his publisher can tell me. I wonder if Jock kept his final appointment?"

  He'd only been asleep for a few hours when the phone rang.

  "MacLaren."

  "Colin? Turn on the radio to that news station," Claire said. "Quick."

  Colin sat up and quickly activated the clock-radio beside his bed. He kept the radio alarm tuned to 1010 WINS; in seconds the abrasive tones of twenty-four-hour news radio filled the bedroom.

  "—and noted popularizer John Cannon, dead today at age forty-nine.

  Cannon, the author of several books on the occult such as The Devil in America—"

  Colin raised the phone to his ear again. "I heard," he said tersely. Rest easy, John Cannon. You will be avenged.

  "When I got home this morning I just couldn't sleep. There was a bit in the morning paper, too, just a squib on the Obits page. They're calling it a heart attack. I'll hope that's true. But I can't shake this feeling—sort of a vague nagging, nothing concrete enough to act on—that there's someplace I need to be. So I guess my work for today is to wander around and see if I strike into it."

  "Good luck," Colin said. "I'll give you a call this evening and we can compare notes. I'm going to see if John Cannon kept his last appointment."

  As he was dressing to go over to Blackcock, another phone call came. This one was from Alan Daggonet, the owner of Selkie Press, reminding him that there was a production meeting scheduled for this morning.

  Reluctantly, Colin headed uptown to Alan Daggonet's brownstone. His visit to Blackcock would have to wait a few hours.

  After the meeting, Daggonet took him aside.

  "I'm afraid it's not good news, Colin, but I wouldn't be doing you any service by holding it back. You know we've been in trouble financially for several years now. ..."

  "Is this a pink slip, Alan?" Colin asked quietly.

  Alan Daggonet was the scion of an old New York family, and Selkie Press had been his pet project for almost twenty-five years. But recession and inflation combined had conspired to put book publishing out of the financial reach of even a rich man, and Colin had been expecting news of this sort for months.