“There you go—”
“You know what a psychic is. A materializing medium is a person who can make objects appear in another person’s hand—by willing it.”
I found Uranus in her offices in the university’s Hall of Sciences. The rooms were cluttered with charts, telescope parts, and other astronomical paraphernalia. Uranus was bent over a blowup of a new star cluster she had discovered. Her hair, strawberry blond in old photographs she had shared with me, was now a burnished silver. I knew she was fifty, but she had the face and body of a woman in her early thirties, and the eyes of a teen-ager.
She glanced up and smiled when I entered. “Mongo! How nice to see you!”
“Hello, darlin’.” I went over to her desk and looked at the photograph. “How do you think those stars are going to affect my behavior this year?”
Uranus casually pushed the photo to one side, leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and stared at me. “Who have you been talking to?”
“A certain cop who’s a little in awe of you. Didn’t you know Garth is my brother?”
“I did.”
“Well, how come you never talked to me about any of these hidden talents of yours? Heaven knows we’ve sat through enough boring faculty parties together.”
“What would have been your reaction?”
I envisioned myself choking on a Scotch sour. She had a point, and I decided not to pursue it. “Uranus, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“As a criminologist or private detective?”
“Private detective. I need some help.”
“All right. What do you want to know?”
“For openers, darlin’, what’s a nice astrologer like you doing in a place like this?”
That caught her off guard and she laughed. “Astronomy evolved from astrology,” she said, pointing to the charts and photographs strewn around her office. “The one is much older than the other.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It may mean,” Uranus said easily, “that any man who rejects out-of-hand the tools that other men have found useful for thousands of years is a fool.” She paused, then slowly drew a circle in the air with her index finger. “We live in a circle of light that we call Science. Obviously, I believe in science. But I also know that the circle of light expands slowly, illuminating things that are in the surrounding darkness. The atom, the force of gravity, the fact that the earth is round—all were very ‘unscientific’ concepts at one time. There are still unbelievably powerful forces out in that darkness we temporarily call the Occult, Mongo. The ancients knew about and used these forces instinctively. Most modern men—at least in the West—are not so wise. Science can be thought of as a means of getting things done. But there are other ways. For example, taking an airplane is a perfectly reasonable and efficient means of getting to, say, Europe. There are men and women alive today who can make the same journey—and report their observations—without ever leaving their living rooms. It’s called astral projection.”
“Are you one of those people?”
Uranus ignored the question. “The Magi mentioned in the Bible were astrologers,” she said. “Our word ‘magician’ comes from magi. The ‘star’ they saw in the east was actually an astrological configuration that they knew how to interpret. And look where it led them. Jesus may have been the greatest ceremonial magician who’s ever lived. He—with his disciples—numbered thirteen, the classic number of the witch’s coven. Each of the disciples displays the characteristics of one of the twelve signs of the Zodiac. The sign of the early Christians was the fish. Pisces is symbolized by fish, and Jesus lived in the age of Pisces.”
I meant to laugh; it came out a nervous chuckle. I remembered Garth’s comment on preconceptions. “You’d better not let your friendly neighborhood clergy hear you talking like that.”
Uranus smiled. “Everything I’ve said is common knowledge to anyone who’s done his theological homework. It’s a matter of difference of opinion over interpretation.” She paused and touched my hand. “In any case, you can no longer claim that I don’t discuss these things with you. What did you want to see me about, Mongo?”
I took out the horoscope Peth had given me and handed it to her. “I’d like you to read this for me.”
Uranus smoothed the paper flat on the desk and studied it. After a few moments she looked up at me. “Is this yours, Mongo?”
I shook my head.
“I’m glad. I don’t have time to do a thorough reading, but at a glance I’d say this person is in trouble.”
“How do you know that?”
Uranus motioned me closer to the desk and pointed to the two circles. “The inner circle is the natal horoscope,” she said, “the position of the sun, moon and planets in the sky at this person’s birth. There are no severe afflictions—bad signs—in it. He or she probably has a marked talent in art or music, although that talent is used rather superficially, in a popular vein. But the chart indicates considerable success.”
I swallowed hard and found that my mouth was dry. “Where does the trouble come in?”
“The outer circle is a synthesis—the horoscope projected up to the present time. Saturn—an evil, constricting influence—is in very bad conjunction with the other planets. There is a bad grouping in Scorpio, the sign of the occult. There are a number of other afflictions indicated, including a bad conjunction in the house of the secret enemy. I would say that whoever this is has reached a most important crossroad in his life, and the situation is fraught with danger. May I ask whose horoscope this is?”
I felt light-headed. I wrenched my brain back into gear. “A rock star by the name of Harley Davidson.”
Uranus choked off a cry as her hand flew to her mouth.
“You know him?”
Uranus shuddered. “His real name is Bob Greenfield. Bob was one of my students a few years back. Tall, likable boy. Black hair, angular features. Maybe you remember him.”
I didn’t, which wasn’t unusual. The university is a big place. I briefly told Uranus the story Peth had given me.
Uranus’ eyes clouded and her face aged perceptibly. “Borrn is an evil man,” she said quietly. “Bob would be no match for him.”
“His ex-manager seems to think the same thing. He hired me to try to get something on Borrn.”
Uranus shook her head. “You’ll fail. And you’ll be running a great personal risk if you try. Borrn is exceedingly dangerous.”
“If he’s criminal, maybe I can prove it.”
“No. Evil is not necessarily criminal. There’s a difference.”
I didn’t argue the point. I understood it all too well.
“Borrn is a gifted astrologer and palmist,” Uranus continued. “There’s also a rumor to the effect that he’s a member of a supersecret coven of witches.”
“Garth mentioned that.”
“Garth must be developing some other good contacts; or someone is deliberately trying to mislead him. I’m not sure if the rumor is true, but it probably is. If so, it could explain a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“The influence you claim Borrn has over Bob. It could be the coven’s cone of power acting on him.”
“Cone of power?”
“An influence coming from a powerful collective will. That’s the purpose of a coven: to form a collective will. There’s no telling what they want with Bob. It could be a homosexual angle—Bob’s a handsome boy—or it could simply be money.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Uranus, but I don’t believe that ‘cone of power’ number.”
Uranus seemed distracted, and I couldn’t tell whether she hadn’t heard or was merely ignoring my comment. “We should go and talk to Bob,” she said at last.
“We?”
“He wouldn’t talk to you. He would to me. I know the language.”
I considered it for a moment, then reached for the phone, intending to call Peth. “I’ll find out where he liv
es.”
Uranus was already halfway to the door. “I know where he lives; we kept in touch up until a few months ago.” She paused and stared at me. I was still standing by her desk, trying to sort things out. The urgency in her eyes hummed in her voice. “I really think we should hurry, Mongo.”
The place where Harley Davidson had once lived was a three-story brownstone in a fashionable section of Greenwich Village. Nobody answered the bell, and it took me half an hour to work my way through the double lock on the door.
Harley Davidson was out, and he wouldn’t be back. He’d left his body behind on the floor of his bedroom, filled with sleeping pills.
I picked my way through the empty plastic vials on the floor and called Garth. Uranus sat down on the edge of Davidson’s bed and began to cry softly. I began to poke around. The first thing that caught my attention was what appeared to be a notebook on a night stand. It had metal covers and was inscribed with strange symbols. I used a handkerchief to pick it up and carry it over to where Uranus was sitting. Her sobbing had subsided and she was staring off into space, beyond a young man’s corpse, at what was and what might have been.
I touched her gently on the shoulder and showed her the notebook. “Darlin’, do you know what this is?”
She glanced at the notebook. “It’s a witch’s diary,” she said distantly. Her voice had the quality of an echo. “All initiates start one, and fill it the rest of their lives. It usually contains personal experiences, spells, and coven secrets.”
I grunted, opened the book and started to leaf through it. There wasn’t much in it that made any sense to me; I decided the obfuscation was probably intentional, designed to preserve its contents from prying eyes like my own. Borrn’s name was mentioned a number of times, along with a list of various ceremonies in which Davidson had participated.
“Borrn seems to be the coven leader, judging by all this,” I said.
Uranus said nothing, nor did she exhibit any interest in the notebook. I didn’t press her on it. I asked a question instead. “What’s ‘scrying’?”
“Is that mentioned in there?”
“A number of times.”
“Scrying is a method of divination,” Uranus said hollowly, “of looking into the future or discovering secrets. It usually involves crystal gazing, but flame or water can also be used. Bob would have been nowhere near the point where he could scry.”
“Who is at that point?”
I must have made a face, or the tone of my voice wasn’t right. Uranus suddenly snapped, “Don’t mock what you don’t understand! I do it all the time!” She punctuated the outburst with a long sigh; it was an apology, unasked for and unneeded. “With the locked door and empty pill bottles, it’s an obvious suicide. It’s finished, Mongo. What’s your interest now?”
It was a good question, one I’d been asking myself. Maybe it was the fact that a lot of Sandor Peth’s money was still rustling around in my pocket. It seemed a shame to give it back, and if I were going to keep it I had to work for it.
“There’s a point of law called psychological coercion,” I said. “If it can be shown that Borrn or any other member of his coven influenced Davidson to take his own life, it’s a criminal offense. Probably impossible to prove, but worth looking into.”
“Leave it, Mongo. Please. No good will come out of your investigating Borrn. I know you don’t believe this, but you can’t imagine the misery he could cause you.”
I didn’t say anything. I was tired of warnings, tired of unwanted glimpses into the dark attics of men’s minds. There was the body of the boy on the floor, shot out of the tree of life by invisible bullets of what had to be superstition. Those bullets had found their mark in a bright, talented and rich boy who had exploded under their impact, plunging from the rarefied atmosphere of celebrity to end as a cold, graying hulk, like a falling star.
Uranus suddenly gripped my arm. “Bob shouldn’t have had something like this.”
I looked at her. The grief in her eyes had been replaced by something else. She looked as if she had just waked from sleep, passing from a nightmare into something worse.
“Why not? You told me Borrn was a witch. Under the circumstances, wouldn’t it have been natural for Davidson to become a member of Borrn’s coven?”
“No. It would have been virtually impossible. I told you that a coven is made up of thirteen members. Thirteen is a magic number of sorts. No coven would take in a fourteenth member.”
“Maybe somebody died or decided to join the Elks instead.”
Uranus shook her head. “Not at the level at which this coven operated. You don’t just ‘leave’ a coven like that. And, even if a member had died, they would never choose a boy like Bob to take his place. Borrn’s coven is highly skilled. They would never accept an initiate.”
“Maybe the book belongs to somebody else.”
“I doubt it. A witch’s diary is his most precious possession. He almost never lets it out of his sight.” I put the book back in its place and started for the door. “Garth should be here in a few minutes,” I said. “You fill him in. I’ll talk to him later.”
“Where will I tell him you’ve gone?”
“Tell him I’ve gone to have my fortune told.”
It took a bit of looking, but I finally found Borrn’s store-front operation. It was the only open door in a narrow alley bounded on both sides by crumbling warehouses with boarded-up windows. I went through it.
The room was small and cramped, permeated by the smell of incense. Borrn sat in the middle of it like a spider in the middle of an invisible web that was no less deadly for the fact that I couldn’t see it. In front of him was a plain wooden table on which was a crystal ball. It was the only exotica in the room; the rest consisted of bookshelves filled with books, most of which looked well-worn. I wondered whether he actually read them, or had picked them up in a secondhand bookstore. Borrn himself was dressed in a very unmystical outfit consisting of faded denims and dungaree jacket. I felt vaguely disappointed, like a boy who’d peeked into a clown’s dressing room.
Borrn rose as I entered. He was not a big man, but he had presence, the kind of self-assurance that comes from being able to make a living doing what you like and being good at it. He was short and stocky, with brown hair and piercing black eyes.
“Can I help you?” His voice was soft, almost lilting, like the swish of a garrote before it bites into flesh.
I gave him a phony name. Business or no, I didn’t want my name popping up at a later date on some astrologer’s list of clients. “I hear you tell fortunes.”
I’d offended him. Borrn sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not ‘tell fortunes,’ as you put it. I advise you to look on Forty-second Street.”
“What do you do?”
“If you are serious, I will read your palm. I charge twenty-five dollars for a one-hour consultation. However, I do not think you are serious. You would have known that I am not a fortuneteller.”
“What do you call palm reading?”
“The palm is a map of your past and an indication of what your future may hold. It does not tell your destiny; you decide your destiny.”
“It still sounds like the same thing.”
“It is not. If I tell you there is a red light two blocks from here, that does not affect your freedom to decide to stop for it or to run it.”
“It sounds a little complicated to me. How about doing my horoscope?”
He motioned me to sit down. I did.
“I believe your horoscope would be useless to you,” he said in the tone of a doctor criticizing a medication. “I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you to be told that you’re a dwarf. Your horoscope would probably show a great affliction in the physical area, but the rest might not necessarily hold true. A horoscope is like an insurance company’s actuary tables. You differ markedly from the norm; your dwarfism—the immediacy of it—would consistently influence your life far more than the planets.”
<
br /> “All right,” I said, holding out my hand, “see what you can do with that.”
“Are you right-handed?”
“Yes.”
“Then this hand is the record of what you have done with your natural talents. The left is your subconscious, your potential. Later we will compare the two.”
He took my right hand and began to manipulate it, bending the fingers back and forth, pressing the mounds of flesh at the base of the palm and fingers. He had a soft, delicate touch. To this point he had been rather pleasant, a natural psychologist; I had to remind myself that the worst evil often comes in the nicest packages.
“Were you once in the circus?”
The question startled me, until I reflected on the logic of it. “Sure,” I said evenly. “We call it ‘Dwarfs’ Heaven.’”
Borrn shook his head. He seemed puzzled. “But you weren’t there in the capacity of a clown, or a freak. You were important, had a wonderful reputation and considerable publicity. I … see great coordination and drive. I would have to say that you were an acrobat. Or a tumbler.” He looked up at me. “Is that right?”
I decided Borrn had one hell of an act. I resisted the impulse to look at my own hand. “What else does it say?”
Borrn turned his attention back to my hand. “The head line is very long and complex. I would say that you have—or once had—multiple careers. You have a great deal of intelligence, and may be a teacher, probably at an advanced level, as your hand shows that you are impatient with stupidity. Also, you are dying.”
The last went through me like a jolt of electricity. I yanked my hand away. “It comes with the package,” I said tightly. “That’s why you don’t see many dwarfs in old-age homes. Did Harley Davidson’s hand say the same thing?”
That gave Borrn a little jolt of his own, but he had remarkable control. Something flashed in his eyes, then went out, leaving his eyes looking like two cold lumps of coal. The effect was startling, as though he had suddenly contracted and was watching me from somewhere deep inside himself, far behind the dull eyes I was watching. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“Davidson was one of your clients. Did you know that he’s dead?”
In the House of Secret Enemies Page 18