An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  And the woman knew I was wrong. She smiled gently, as at a child. “Wicca, among other things, teaches that you can change your life—and the lives of others—through an intimate relationship with Nature. ‘Tricks’ aren’t really the point; the witch is concerned with that part of human consciousness we refer to as the ‘deep mind,’ which is really a commonly shared racial consciousness. It’s true there are mysteries involved in what we believe—numbers, dates of the year and so on. But that’s true of all religions.”

  She sipped delicately at her wine, patted her mouth with her linen napkin. “It’s really very simple,” she continued quietly. “Wicca requires no massive organizational structure, no ornate buildings for worship, and no money to sustain it. In this sense, it’s very close to what the early Christians practiced. In fact, the reason why witches were burned was primarily socioeconomic, and the church knew exactly what it was doing.

  “You see, in the 1600s the vast majority of people were peasants, and they practiced wicca. This posed a threat to the social and economic well-being of the rich landowners who controlled the Church; their answer to the problem was to start burning people.” She paused and smiled disarmingly. “So much for a very biased history lesson. Anyway, we believe that the best way of nurturing and refining our deep minds is through the coven.”

  “Daniel doesn’t belong to a coven.”

  “That’s true, but what Daniel tries to do is far beyond what most witches concern themselves with.”

  “I’ve heard him compared to a priest.”

  “That’s a good analogy,” April Marlowe said thoughtfully, nodding in agreement. “He works on his own deep mind, and the deep mind of others, alone—without the protection of a group. That can be dangerous. Daniel eventually reached a point where a higher plane of consciousness and control could only be reached by going on alone. That was when he started on the road of the ceremonial magician.”

  “A hard road, I take it.” I felt sarcastic, hoped I didn’t sound it.

  “Yes,” the woman replied evenly.

  I picked up a roll, slowly and meticulously buttered it. “Mrs. Marlowe, I don’t know anything about the tough life of a ceremonial magician, but it seems to me that your brother is playing spiritual games at a risk to Kathy’s life.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I trust and respect Daniel. Whatever he does, he does for a reason. And he always goes his own way, even if that way is incomprehensible to others.”

  I vividly remembered the force of Crandall’s tap on my forehead, and the hypnotic power of his presence. “What if thirteen of these ceremonial magicians got together and formed their own coven?”

  She thought about it, shrugged. “Well, you’d certainly have a powerful coven—at least, in theory. Who knows what would happen? I’ve never heard of such a thing. I know that’s not much of an answer, but it’s an odd question. I can’t think of any reason why a group of ceremonial magicians would want to form a coven.”

  “Maybe they’d want to burn a man to death and poison his daughter.”

  April Marlowe’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “Your brother doesn’t talk to you very much either, does he?”

  She was about to reply when the waiter brought our food—paella for two. April Marlowe ate and sipped at her wine, and she began to look more relaxed. I felt better too. For a few minutes the nightmare I’d been living for almost twenty-four hours was put at a distance, and I was simply having dinner with a beautiful woman. The mood lasted only as long as it took us to finish our dinner; the fact that the woman’s daughter was dying only a city block away was too real and terrible to suppress for long.

  “There are rumors that a ceremonial magician by the name of Esobus has set up just such a supercoven,” I said as I signaled the waiter for coffee.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she said evenly. “There’s been talk of this Esobus for years, but I think he’s just a myth. No one could be as powerful as Esobus is supposed to be.”

  “Just how powerful is that?”

  She considered it for a few moments, then said: “That’s hard to explain without getting into a discussion of the ‘tricks’ that you don’t believe in. Anyway, Esobus is supposed to be a ‘black’ magician dedicated to evil.”

  “So I’ve been told. Have you ever heard anyone’s real name associated with Esobus?”

  She shook her head. “Not with the Esobus we’re talking about. Oh, from time to time some witch will adopt the name, but those people are just silly dilettantes. ‘Esobus’ is a very powerful name. Any ceremonial magician powerful enough to assume that mantle simply wouldn’t; he’d adopt a name of his own. That’s why I doubt this Esobus is anything more than a legend.”

  “This particular legend may have stolen your former husband’s book of shadows.”

  She put down her coffee cup, frowned. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Daniel didn’t mention that either?”

  April Marlowe slowly shook her head. “What would there be to tell me? Frank wasn’t a witch. On the contrary, he always thought wicca was a big joke.”

  Chapter 8

  The mysterious, many-mooded creature that is the New York night somehow reminded me of a number of things, including Vincent Smathers; its body was a complex game board of light and dark where there were as many games as there were people and you never knew what move to expect next. Where we were, the beast was feeling good; the block between the restaurant and the hospital was brightly lighted. Children played stickball in the street, using potholes for bases. Older boys and men played basketball and paddleball in a lighted playground in the middle of the block.

  As we slowly walked, I told April Marlowe everything I’d learned. She listened with growing agitation, knotting and unknotting the sleeve of the light sweater she’d thrown over her shoulders.

  “I just don’t understand any of it,” she said when I’d finished. “Kathy told you that either Esobus or Daniel stole Frank’s book of shadows?”

  “That’s right,” I said, gently easing her down on a bench under a mercury lamp in a corner of the playground. “Apparently, she heard him talking to himself.”

  “Frank certainly did talk to himself, but I wasn’t aware he was even interested in wicca.”

  “Well, it’s obvious he was. It’s also obvious that he was killed—and Kathy probably poisoned—by occultists, most likely witches.”

  “But Daniel? They only met once, at some family gathering, and they didn’t show any particular interest in each other. If they ever saw each other after that, no one ever mentioned it to me. Even if Daniel had found out that Frank was into wicca, why steal Frank’s book of shadows? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Whatever happened makes sense to Daniel, Mrs. Marlowe. I’m certain of it. What I told him about your former husband and Kathy upset him, sure … but I don’t think he was really surprised.”

  She put her head in her hands, rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s all just … totally incomprehensible to me.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. I lighted a cigarette, offered her one. She declined. “Please tell me about Frank, Mrs. Marlowe,” I said.

  “Please call me April.”

  “All right. If you’ll call me Mongo.”

  She looked up, raised her eyebrows slightly. “Mongo?”

  “It’s a circus name.”

  “You used to be in the circus?”

  “But of course,” I said, smiling. “Don’t you know that the circus is dwarf heaven?” That usually got at least a chuckle from most people; April Marlowe just stared at me. “I was billed as Mongo the Magnificent,” I continued. “The name stuck.”

  “I’ll tell you about Frank,” the woman said softly. “But first you have to tell me about the time you spent with the circus.”

  I did, and was surprised at how easily it all came out. The years I’d spent with the circus w
ere, overall, a painful memory for me. I’d used the money I’d earned to finance my studies. In the course of my earning a Ph.D., the university and I had made the mutual discovery that I was good with students; I’d accepted their offer of a faculty position. The private-detective business had come later. I wasn’t rich, but I was reasonably happy. That was what I told April Marlowe.

  She’d listened intently, with an interest that I found absurdly flattering. “You’re a fascinating man,” she said evenly. “From circus headliner to college professor and private detective.”

  “Oh, just an average superdwarf.”

  She still didn’t smile. “Your self-mockery doesn’t always become you,” she said somewhat sternly. “You’re a very remarkable man. Since you’re no longer a circus performer, I think I’ll call you Robert—if you don’t mind.”

  I still felt like a performer; I’d always feel like a performer. But I said, “I don’t mind, but no one else is going to know whom you’re talking about.”

  “You asked about Frank,” she said with a curt nod. “As I’m sure you know, he was a very successful writer. What you may not know is that he was a very unhappy one.”

  “That’s not unusual for creative types.”

  She shook her head. “This is more than that. He’d been unhappy for years with the work he was doing. He considered it all junk—and I suppose he was right. You may not realize this—how could you?—but Frank could have been a good writer; he had a lot more talent than you’d suppose from just reading those series genre books he churned out. He felt trapped—felt he’d trapped himself, really. He was making a great deal of money from the stuff he was writing. Naturally, his publisher couldn’t get enough of it. But more than anything else he wanted to write what he referred to as a ‘big book,’ by which he simply meant a good book. He wanted to write something he could put his own name on and be proud of. It ate at him for years—and it finally cost us our marriage. It must have gotten even worse, because I know he was drinking quite a lot this last year.”

  The paddleballers on the court nearest us were arguing over one of the players’ calls. I’d happened to be looking in their direction while April was talking. When they glanced over at me, I signaled that the ball had been out over the back line. There was some grumbling from the losing side over how I could make a call from so far away, but they went back to their game.

  “Why didn’t he just write his ‘big’ book, or at least take a crack at it?” I asked, turing back to April. “He certainly had enough money to tide him over.”

  She thought about it, shrugged. “I really don’t know, Robert. He was so used to what he was doing. Also, of course, his publisher wasn’t interested in publishing the kind of ‘straight’ book he wanted to do; he was under constant pressure to keep turning out the genre books.”

  “Again: he had plenty of money. Why didn’t he just take a couple of years off?”

  “I guess he was under his own pressures,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “In the end, perhaps he was simply … afraid that he didn’t have that good book in him.” She paused again, ran her finger along the edge of the wooden bench. “As a matter of fact,” she continued quietly, “the pressure may finally have gotten to him in another way besides the drinking. He always sent Kathy and me copies of his books—sometimes as many as eleven or twelve a year. We hadn’t received any for the past year. He must have been blocked, afraid he was drying up.” She sighed, put her head in her hands. “Maybe that’s why he turned to wicca.”

  “Maybe. How long have you been divorced?”

  “Four years, but we stayed good friends. Frank adored Kathy, and she adored him. As you know, Kathy spent summers with him.”

  “Did you speak often?”

  “Oh, yes. We were always on good terms; we just didn’t love each other anymore. He often used the house to store things—tax records, manuscripts, contracts—that sort of thing. Even with all his money, he preferred living in a small apartment, and I have a big attic. In fact, he and Kathy stayed …” She choked, put her hand to her mouth, took a deep, shuddering breath. “Kathy and Frank were at the house over the weekend. Frank had driven up to leave something in the attic.” She suddenly rose with a start. “I’m worried, Robert; I’ve been gone too long.”

  “The hospital’s only five minutes away,” I said, rising and taking her arm. As we left the playground, two of the paddleballers smiled and waved; the other team scowled. “If Frank wasn’t writing,” I asked quietly, “what did he want to leave with you?”

  April Marlowe looked at me strangely. “I don’t know, Robert,” she said distantly.

  “Can you find out?”

  “I suppose so. Do you think it’s important?”

  “I have no idea, April. It could be.”

  “Then I’ll go back and look for it as soon as I can. But the attic is a mess; I have no idea where he put what he brought, and it will take me hours to dig through …” Her eyes grew moist as her voice trailed off. “Right now I have to stay close to Kathy.”

  “I understand. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Dr. Greene has arranged for me to stay at the hospital.”

  “Where’s your brother staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I gave April Marlowe my home and office numbers, and we hurried back to the hospital. Kathy’s condition was unchanged.

  In the morning I awoke with a start and glanced at my watch; it was ten thirty. I’d slept around the clock. I immediately called the hospital, but the reception desk would tell me only that Kathy’s condition was listed as “serious.” I asked them to switch me over to the residential room where April Marlowe was staying. April answered on the third ring.

  “It’s Mongo,” I said. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “Good morning, Robert,” the woman said in a heavy, sad tone. “You didn’t wake me.”

  “Were you able to sleep at all?”

  “Some. The wine and the dinner helped relax me—as you knew they would. Thank you. And Dr. Greene gave me something to help me sleep.”

  “Anything new on what’s wrong with Kathy?”

  “No,” April said tightly. “She’s still in a coma, and her heartbeat’s slightly irregular. The neurologists here are working on her, and Dr. Greene is assembling a team of specialists from other hospitals.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence in which I found myself with nothing to say. I suddenly realized why, and I felt slightly guilty; beyond my concern for Kathy, I’d thoroughly enjoyed dinner with April Marlowe the night before. I enjoyed hearing her voice over the telephone, and I looked forward to seeing her again.

  In some circles, lusting after a comatose girl’s mother might be considered a bit tacky.

  “Uh, I’ll be by later to check on her,” I said at last. “You try to get some rest. Do you need anything?”

  “No. Thank you, Robert. If I’m not in my room near Intensive Care, I’ll probably be having coffee. Be sure to find me, okay?”

  “Right.”

  When I hung up, I realized something was missing; it was the painful knot that had been in the pit of my stomach since early Monday morning. Kathy was in one of the finest medical centers in the world, and the doctor in charge of her case was intensely concerned about her; it would be hard for any group of mere witches to top those odds.

  Now, with a full night’s sleep in my head, I decided I must have been suffering delusions of grandeur to suppose that Kathy’s life could depend on anything I might or might not find out about the gown she’d been dressed in. In the bright morning, I was filled with confidence that Greene and his team of specialists would quickly discover what was wrong with Kathy, and cure her; it was inconceivable to me that they wouldn’t. My concern had shifted to wanting to find the people responsible for putting her in the hospital in the first place. I wanted to drum out a few tunes on their skulls.

  I checked in with my service and was told that Senator Younger had called the n
ight before and was anxious for me to get in touch with him. The Chancellor had called at eight; he wanted me to come in and see him. Also, Yvonne Mercado had called.

  Yvonne could wait. When I called Barnum’s office, I was told that he’d be free to see me in a half hour. I said I’d be there. I started to dial Younger’s number, then hung up. I remembered all too well the fear and pain in the Senator’s eyes, and the confidence Janet Monroe had expressed in me. It would do no good to tell him that something else had come up; it had been four days since I’d spoken with him, and his daughter was also dying. The fact of the matter was that I hadn’t even had time to talk to Esteban Morales, much less look into the case against him. I wasn’t prepared to tell Younger I’d been weighing the life of his daughter against that of someone else’s.

  Reluctantly, I gathered up the file I’d started on Smathers based on the information Winston Kellogg had provided me with. I put it into my briefcase, along with the recording of my telephone conversation with Kellogg and a small, portable tape player. Then I drove downtown to the university.

  The towering glass-and-stone buildings of the school with its vast, arcane treasury of human knowledge, combined with the ubiquitous murmur of New York’s technology, proved a good antidote to the case of creepies Marlowe’s death and Kathy’s hospitalization had given me. I stood in the middle of the student plaza for a few minutes, armoring myself with the university atmosphere. As a result, I was five minutes late for my appointment. Barnum was pacing impatiently back and forth across his carpeted office.

  “Good morning, Chancellor,” I said.

  “Good morning, Frederickson,” Barnum replied curtly, moving around behind his desk. He lowered his lanky frame into his leather-covered swivel chair. “I appreciate your coming in to see me on such short notice. Please sit down.”

  I did, placing the briefcase on my lap. “Do you think it’s a good idea for us to meet here?” I asked evenly.

  “Probably not,” Barnum said shortly, “but I hate deceit.” He shifted his angular form forward in his chair, began tapping his fingers nervously on his desk top. “In fact, I’ve been having second thoughts about this whole matter. I’m not sure what I’ve asked you to do is … appropriate.” He cleared his throat. His gray eyes seemed cold and distant, as though he blamed me for his discomfort. “I know you’ve only had a few days, but have you, uh … have you found out anything?”