An Affair Of Sorcerers m-3

by George C. Chesbro

  "You've been talking, and I think you know what you're talking about."

  Madeline smiled wryly. "A child's life is at stake. Besides, it's different with me; I'm a scientist. I'm interested in the pursuit of knowledge, not personal power."

  "Most of your colleagues might find some irony in that statement," I said gently.

  "To say the least. But I don't worry about what my colleagues think-only what they know. What they're not aware of they can't worry about."

  "You get me to this Daniel, and let me worry about striking up a conversation."

  She slowly walked around behind her desk, sat down. She suddenly looked much older, and very tired. "Daniel's real name is Richard Crandall," she said in a low, strained voice. "He lives and works in Philadelphia. I don't know his home address, but this is the name and address of the bank where he's vice-president." Madeline quickly wrote down the information on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to me. I picked up the paper and put it in my pocket.

  "Daniel is the most celebrated ceremonial magician in this part of the country," Madeline continued, reaching across her desk and touching my arm. "That doesn't mean anything to you now, but it might in a few days. You'll undoubtedly find Daniel strange, but he's a very strong-willed and powerful man. Until now, no one outside of the most sophisticated occult circles knew of his secret spiritual life, accomplishments or reputation. You now become the exception. His identity was a kind of 'gift' offered to me in honor of my own. . accomplishments. I'm giving you Daniel's real name because I realize you must do everything you can to save this child's life. But I have to ask you not to tell Daniel how you found out about him."

  "I understand, and I won't. Do you think he's dangerous?"

  "I've never met him personally. I know that he's respected-and feared-by those who do know him personally. That's something for you to bear in mind, my friend. My concern is that he could cut me off from my occult contacts."

  "And they're important to you, aren't they?"

  "You know they are," Mad said, then dropped her gaze.

  I stared at the top of the scientist's head for a moment, then turned and walked toward the door. I was very conscious of the fact that every minute could count, and I was anxious to get to my car and begin the drive to Philadelphia. Yet something made me hesitate with my hand on the knob and turn back; perhaps it was the realization that I was entering a world I didn't understand at all, and was anxious about it. Madeline's seriousness had had an impact on me.

  "Mad," I said softly, "what's this all about?"

  She looked up at me and frowned, obviously lost in her own thoughts. "Excuse me?"

  I smiled. "How is it you've never told me before about any of these hidden talents of yours? God knows we've sat through enough boring faculty parties together."

  After a few seconds Madeline smiled thinly and seemed to relax. "What would your reaction have been if I had told you?"

  "I'd have choked on my Scotch, of course."

  "That's what I thought," Mad said wryly. She paused, tapped her desk once, then continued in a low voice. "It started as a hobby. I was curious about things like the statistical rise in the crime rate when there's a full moon. Astronomy evolved from astrology, you know, and astrology is ages old. I believe that anyone who rejects out of hand the tools that other men have found useful for thousands of years is a fool. The Occult is the Mother of Science, my friend."

  "It seems to me that science is what replaced ignorance and superstition," I said evenly.

  "That's true," Madeline replied easily. "Most of what you read about the occult in the popular press is nonsense." She paused, looked at me intently. "But not all of it is nonsense, I assure you. It's like digging for diamonds; you may have to wade through twenty tons of coal before you find even a small gem. I've been willing to get dirty."

  "What if there aren't any diamonds? Maybe science has taken all there is to take from that particular mine."

  "Oh, there are still diamonds there, Mongo. As far as I'm concerned, astrology-done properly-is really nothing more than the application of statistics. The question is simply stated: Can you correlate the position and movement of certain celestial objects with people's behavior? Insurance companies do almost exactly the same thing all the time; they charge rates based on a person's neighborhood, occupation, race and so on. You don't see many insurance companies going out of business, do you?" She raised her eyebrows, shrugged. "Either the trends of a person's life correlate with the predictions of his horoscope, or they don't. You'd be surprised at how often they do correlate. Statistics."

  She paused, tilted her head to one side and looked at me inquiringly. When I said nothing, Mad opened her desk drawer and took out a series of charts and graphs. She rose, laid the papers out in front of her and motioned for me to come over. I did so, increasingly impatient to be on my way but anxious to hear everything Madeline had to say. She seemed excited now, totally absorbed in whatever it was she wanted to share with me. The charts were complex computer readouts of letters and numbers that made no sense to me whatsoever.

  "This is a statistical analysis I'm working up," Madeline continued. "It will include all the horoscopes I've ever cast, as well as charts from other well-known astrologers. The subjects are letter-coded to ensure anonymity. I won't bother you with the details, but the idea is to codify specific astrological predictions in a research model that can be scientifically evaluated. If my hypothesis is correct, I'll end up with statistical proof that astrological techniques can be used to predict behavior."

  For some reason I thought of Janet Monroe and her work with Esteban Morales. "Interesting," I said. "Where do you get your funding?"

  She laughed sharply, without humor, as she replaced the charts in her desk drawer, locked it. "No one else even knows about what I'm doing here. This is my own private project."

  "How do you justify your computer time?"

  "I steal time from my other, 'respectable' projects. It's the only way I can do it."

  "Mad, I can get into what you're saying about astrology as statistics-at least, in theory. But what about things like witchcraft?"

  She thought about it for a few moments, then raised her hand and slowly drew a circle in the air with her index finger. Her blue eyes were moist, gleaming. "We live in a circle of light that we call 'Science,' " she said thoughtfully.

  "Obviously, I believe in science. Science is the most efficient means Man has ever found for discovering certain truths-and for getting things done. That doesn't mean that science is the only way. To say that science is efficient can never take away the wonder of what some men are able to do through self-discipline. Maybe these powers are vestigial. Perhaps there are men who still pursue-and find-secrets that our ancient ancestors knew instinctively. Let's suppose there are still unbelievably powerful forces out there in the darkness which some men have learned to tap. The term 'occult,' after all, means nothing more than secret knowledge. Understand: I'm just trying to give you a different point of view."

  "Thank you, Mad," I said, assuming she was finished. "You've put me in the proper frame of mind-and I mean that sincerely."

  She didn't seem to have heard me. Madeline Jones was deep in thought, and it suddenly struck me just how deeply obsessed this astronomer was with the occult. Only then did I realize that, up until a few minutes before, I had persisted in looking upon her involvement as some kind of off-the-wall professorial joke. It wasn't: Madeline Jones was deadly serious.

  "Are you religious, Mongo?" she asked distantly. "I don't want to offend you."

  "Say what's on your mind, Mad. You won't offend me."

  "I know for a fact that most of the very scientists who would ridicule me are stalwart members of churches or synagogues. They're intellectual schizophrenics; they just won't accept the fact that orthodox religious beliefs are every bit as 'occult' as witchcraft."

  She looked through me, laughed shortly. "In Westminster Abbey, there's a mausoleum for the Black Knigh
t," she continued in the same distant, ironic tone. "Beside the tomb is a small, typed sign advising all to pray on that spot for their relatives and loved ones in the armed services." She paused, shook her head. "That, my friend, is a pure example of 'sympathetic magic'-a straight steal from the occultists."

  I smiled. "You'd better not let your neighborhood clergy hear you talking like that; they might want to stage a public burning."

  Madeline smiled back, and I had the feeling some of the tension in her had passed. "I do get carried away, don't I? But ignorance bothers me, especially when the ignorant are so damn self-righteous." She hesitated, studied my face intently for a few moments, then continued: "Did you know that the Magi mentioned in the Gospels were probably astrologers?"

  "I thing I've read it somewhere."

  "Our word 'magician' comes from 'magi.' The 'star' they saw in the east, if it wasn't a supernova, was probably an astrological configuration they knew how to interpret. And it led them to Jesus." She took a deep, shuddering breath. Once again her eyes were wide and bright. "Most people consider only two possibilities when they think about Jesus of Nazareth. Either he was the Son of God, and could thus perform miracles-or he wasn't, and therefore the accounts of the miracles must be false. What excites me is a third possibility: Jesus may have been the greatest ceremonial magician who ever lived."

  "Hmmm. Sounds like a rather unusual theory." I was hoping my stab at dry humor might at least get a smile from Mad, but she was oblivious to everything but the ideas bouncing around inside her head.

  "Early Christian history is permeated with astrological symbology," she continued excitedly. "Jesus, with his disciples, numbered thirteen-the classic number of the witches' coven. The sign of the early Christians was the fish-and Jesus lived in the age of Pisces."

  Madeline now lapsed into silence. I glanced at my watch. It was past eleven, and I wanted to get on the road before my body realized I was operating on only two hours of sleep. "I've got to go, Mad," I said. "Thanks for the information and advice. And don't worry: your secret's safe with me."

  She looked up and nodded. "Good luck, Mongo. I hope the little girl will be all right."

  Outside, the August sun was hot. I felt a chill, although I couldn't tell whether it was caused by fatigue or by fear that Madeline could be right. Perhaps there were powerful, dark forces that I knew nothing about and could not combat; perhaps someone was using that power to kill Kathy.

  And I had stepped into the line of fire.

  I told myself that that kind of thinking was silly. Still, as if in self-defense, I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, my head tilted back, savoring the feel of the bright, cleansing sunlight on my upturned face.

  Chapter 7

  I stopped at my office and called Dr. Greene at the hospital. He sounded as tired as I felt, and just as worried. Kathy had still not regained consciousness, and there'd been a change for the worse: her heart was beginning to show signs of irregular beating. Although Greene was personally supervising the various tests, with only a few hours off to sleep, the doctors and technicians had still not been able to identify the cause of Kathy's coma. I repeated to Greene what Madeline had told me about the possible use of poisonous herbs. By the time I hung up, my weariness had been replaced by acute anxiety. I ran to my car.

  Within a half hour I was through the Lincoln Tunnel and on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading for Philadelphia. I cruised at seventy-five, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror for state troopers.

  The hot, white afternoon had a bracing effect on me; it was as if the heat and light formed a friendly committee of Nature welcoming me home after many hours spent wandering in a dark, nightmare cave which I'd assumed, before talking to Madeline, was reserved exclusively for the ignorant. Zooming along on the sunlit highway, I found it hard to believe I'd spent the last few hours talking about witches and witchcraft, covens, astrology and ceremonial magicians; somehow, those things just didn't sit well inside my head in the middle of the day. But then there was the strange case of Madeline Jones-a respected scientist who led a double life as an astrologer. To say that Mad was obsessed explained nothing. As far as my client and I were concerned, it was a good thing she was; Madeline had given me potentially invaluable information about the occult. Still, out in the sunlight, I found I was worried about Madeline. But I was more worried about Kathy; a little girl was dying, a victim of these eerie spinners of twisted dreams, and that was the only reality I cared about.

  I got off the Turnpike at Cherry Hill, New Jersey, then drove on and crossed over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge into Philadelphia's Franklin Square.

  Unlike W. C. Fields, I liked Philadelphia. Only two hours from New York City, it was at once a vast warehouse crammed floor to ceiling with fascinating history, and a place of human ordinariness; it was this feeling of vaguely boring nonhurry that made it, on occasion, a welcome relief from the constant, draining excitement of New York. After my painful immersion the year before in the ancient culture and politics of Iran, I'd become highly sensitized to the infancy-and wonder-of my own country's history. As a result, I'd spent a number of weekends soon after my return visiting Philadelphia's historic sites. If I hadn't been knotted tight with tension and anxiety, it probably would have felt good to be back.

  The address Mad had given me was in a fashionable area of Broad Street, near the Academy of Music. The sight of Richard Crandall's place of employment only added to my sense of surreality; a bank seemed a rather odd place to find a ceremonial magician. But then, not even Madeline-for all her obvious respect and fear-had claimed that Daniel could change lead into gold. It seemed even ceremonial magicians had to eat, and it looked as though this particular specimen was eating well; as Madeline had indicated, he was sitting in the bank vice-president's chair. His name-plate was flanked by Christmas Club and Hannukah Club signs.

  Crandall looked the part; that is, he looked more like a bank vice-president than a master of the occult arts-whatever such a master looked like. Maybe I'd been expecting Orson Welles in drag. At the moment, Crandall was busy talking to a customer. He looked to be over six feet, and I judged him to be in his mid-thirties. He had close-cropped, prematurely gray hair which coordinated well with his matching eyes and gray pin-striped suit.

  I sat down on a banquette covered with green imitation leather and waited, feeling my anger grow. Crandall must have felt my gaze on him, because he suddenly glanced up. Our eyes held. Perhaps it was exhaustion working on my brain, but there seemed to be something startling about his steady gaze. We stared at each other for what seemed a long time, and I could feel a warm flush working its way up the back of my neck, spreading across my cheeks. Finally he looked away and resumed talking to his customer.

  When Crandall had finished, I rose and walked up to his desk. He was unconcernedly leafing through a sheaf of papers. Finally he stacked them neatly on one side of his ordered desk, then looked up at me. "Yes, sir?" he said evenly. He had an announcer's voice, deep and rich.

  For some reason, I felt I had lost a round in our staring contest. I was anxious to recoup, but the studied air of self-confidence in his voice was as unsettling as his piercing stare. Both made me angry. "What the hell kind of a witch name is 'Daniel'?" I asked evenly, hoping to score back. "It just doesn't have the pizzazz of, say, 'Esobus,' or even 'Old Scratch.' "

  I looked for a reaction, but there wasn't any-unless an almost imperceptible quick intake of breath could be judged a reaction. His eyes didn't change at all. He let his breath out slowly, but his face remained passive, almost blank, as though he were looking straight through me. He waited a few seconds, then said softly, "Excuse me?"

  "Your witch name is 'Daniel,' " I said too quickly. "Word is that you're an occult Ph.D. I want to talk to you."

  Crandall's right hand dropped below the desk for a moment, then resurfaced; it looked as if I were about to lose another round. I figured I had five to ten seconds before someone responded to the silent alarm, and I intended to use e
very one of them.

  "You listen good, you son-of-a-bitch," I said softly, leaning on his desk. "There's a little girl dying two hours away from here. I think you had something to do with it, and if you don't set me straight fast I'm going to come down on you. Hard. For openers, I'm going to make sure that the stockholders of this bank find out about your weird hobbies. If the girl dies, I'll kill you. Believe it."

  The depth of my rage surprised me. Up to that moment I'd been distracted by my concern for Kathy, but now I was struck by the full import of what someone had done to her.

  My words had been propelled by a searing hatred for the sick mind or minds responsible for an innocent child's suffering.

  Time was up. I could feel the bank's security guard come up behind me, and I stiffened as his hand gripped my shoulder. I looked hard at Daniel, who suddenly held up his hand.

  "It's all right, John," Crandall said easily. "My knee hit the button by mistake. Dr. Frederickson is a customer."

  The hand came off my shoulder. There was a mumbled apology, then the sound of receding footsteps. I never took my eyes off Daniel's face. He rose and gestured toward a door to his left. "Come with me, please," he said softly.

  I followed him into a small conference room which was richly carpeted and paneled in shades of burnt orange. He closed the door, then turned to face me. "I believe you would try to kill me, although I don't know why," he continued softly. He had his head tilted back and was looking at me through half-closed lids, as if he were about to fall asleep. He looked almost comical, but what I found disconcerting was the fact that he made me feel odd; there was a sensation of heat and pressure in the pit of my stomach. I reminded myself that I'd only had two hours of sleep, and was running on reserve batteries of adrenaline and emotion.

  "To kill me," he continued in the same, soft tone, "you'd have to know how to use the hate you feel now, then be able to conquer it and ride it to a conclusion. Can you do that? I doubt it. Very few people can."