An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  “I’m on my way out, Mongo,” Garth said irritably. “I’ve got police business.”

  “This is police business. Come on, Garth, Give me ten minutes.”

  He hesitated, then gestured impatiently for me to lead the way.

  Esteban glanced up as Garth and I entered the cell. His eyes were bright with curiosity. “Esteban,” I said, “I’d like the Lieutenant to hear the rest of our conversation.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Garth had leaned his tall, gaunt frame against the bars on the opposite side of the cell and was tapping his foot rhythmically—a sure sign of impatience. “Esteban,” I continued quickly, “will you tell the Lieutenant what a human ‘aura’ is?”

  Esteban described the aura, and I followed up by describing the Kirlian photographs Janet had shown me—what they were, and what they purported to show. Garth’s foot continued its relentless tapping. Once he glanced at his watch.

  “Esteban,” I said, “what does the Lieutenant’s aura look like?”

  “The Lieutenant looks fine,” the old man said, puzzled.

  “What about me?”

  Esteban abruptly shook his head and dropped his gaze.

  The foot tapping behind me had stopped. Suddenly Garth was beside me, gripping my arm. “Mongo, what the hell is this all about?”

  “Just listen!” I rasped. “Esteban, can you see my aura? Damn it! If you can, say so! I may be able to help you, but you have to do as I ask!”

  Esteban slowly raised his head. His brown eyes were moist, filled with compassion. “Why do you want me to say it, Mongo? You know, and I cannot help you.”

  Garth gripped my arm even tighter. I pulled away from him. “Tell me what it is you see, Esteban,” I said in a hoarse whisper.

  “You are dying, Mongo.”

  “You have to tell me more!” I snapped. “Be more specific!”

  “Your organs are like your body, Mongo; twisted … dwarfed. They are not normal. You have a very strong will and life force, but that is not enough. You are still dying.”

  “Tell me how many years I have left,” I said, swallowing hard. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. “The Lieutenant and I know; let’s see if you know.”

  “Maybe four, five years,” Esteban said resignedly. “I do not know for sure. Why do you make me say these things?”

  The healer and I stared at each other, our gazes locked. I felt light-headed, even more nauseated. There was no satisfaction in the other man’s face—only sorrow. Whatever Morales did, I thought, it was for real. Janet Monroe and Yvonne Mercado were right.

  I tore my gaze away from Esteban and spun around to face Garth. I’d caught him at a bad moment; his face was twisted, his eyes full of pain. My brother was rather fond of me.

  “Well, brother?” I asked, hoping I had my smile on straight. “It’s true that anyone might know that dwarfs aren’t long-lived, but how does Mr. Morales’ opinion stack up against the medical authorities’?”

  Garth’s voice was cracked and hollow. “Your clients get a lot for their money, Mongo.” He swallowed, looked away. “I’m impressed, sure; but it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Was an autopsy performed on Samuels?”

  “I don’t know,” Garth said distantly. “Cause of death was obvious. If there was an autopsy, the report’s probably been filed away by now.”

  “Well, check it out. If Esteban’s right, Samuels’ body was riddled with cancer. He only had a few more months to live, and Esteban knew that. Since Esteban knew Samuels was going to die anyway, why kill him? This man just doesn’t have that kind of passion.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything, Mongo,” Garth said hoarsely. “I wish it did.”

  “It should be enough to raise reasonable doubt that Esteban did it. Look, all I’m trying to do is light some fires under the investigation. Will you do some more checking?”

  Garth looked over at Esteban. “I’ll have another talk with Jordon about that list of patients.” He looked back at me, smiled thinly. “You all right, brother?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Hell, we’re all dying, aren’t we?” My laugh turned sharp and bitter. “When you’ve been dying as long as I have, you get used to it. Hey, I want to use your phone to make a long-distance call. I’ll charge it to my home phone—okay?”

  “I’ll clear it with the switchboard.” Garth nodded curtly, seemed to hesitate, then abruptly turned and walked out of the cell.

  Esteban was still staring at me. “I am sorry, Mongo,” he said quietly.

  “Tell me about Dr. Jordon,” I said absently, struggling to get my mind back on business. “You got on well together, didn’t you?”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “Si. We got along fine. It was Dr. Jordon who persuaded Dr. Samuels to take part in the experiment.”

  There was something in Esteban’s voice that didn’t quite ring true, and I spoke to that. “Do you like Jordon personally?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I like Dr. Jordon fine. But it was hard to work with his patients. I feel sorry for him. I think he tries very hard, but not everybody should be a doctor.”

  “Really? Are you saying that Dr. Jordon isn’t a good doctor?”

  Esteban’s eyes clouded. “I am not saying that, Mongo. It is not my place to say that. I think Dr. Jordon is a fine man. He has been very good to me. He tries hard to be a good doctor.”

  “But you don’t think he is a good doctor,” I persisted. Esteban said nothing. I kept pressing, but he only sat and shook his head. Finally I left the cell and made a quick call to Washington.

  Senator Younger was in his office. He had a number of questions, all of which I finessed in one way or another. The point of the call was to let him know that I was working on the case, and that the police might be a little more interested now in looking for other suspects.

  After hanging up, I went outside and lighted a cigarette. It tasted bitter, but that didn’t stop me from smoking it down to the end. When I finished that one, I lighted another. I stood motionless on the sidewalk, smoking and playing sponge—soaking up the minutest smells, sights and sounds of the city around me. I missed it already. Dying can be a distraction.

  Chapter 10

  On my way to my apartment I reflected on the fact that the building where I lived had no 13th floor listed; the numbering in the elevator went from 12 to 14. Black cats, not walking under ladders—and religion—were, of course, part of the culture, but I was particularly struck by the 13th-floor syndrome: the occult—in the form of the magical number 13—had become institutionalized.

  After a short nap, I shaved, showered and went to the hospital, where I checked with Dr. Greene. Kathy was still in a coma, and they were awaiting the results of the latest tests. I mentioned the possibility of induced coma, but without using the word “spell.” Greene listened patiently, with a straight face, but I could tell he was amused. He promised to let me know if there was any change, and I went over to the Intensive Care Unit. I found April Marlowe sitting idly in a small adjacent waiting room. She was staring off into space, lost in thought. I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her. She was dressed in boots, straight black skirt and a loose-fitting blouse that didn’t quite disguise her full bosom.

  April looked up and caught me watching her. She started, then relaxed and smiled wistfully. “Hello, Robert,” she said. “You startled me. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Just arrived,” I lied. I walked across the room and sat down on a chair across from her. She was pale, and her lovely eyes were shadowed with anxiety. “I just talked with Dr. Greene. I understand Kathy’s the same.”

  “I’m worried, Robert,” she said in a choked whisper. “I have a bad feeling.”

  “Of course you’re worried,” I said gently. “But at least Kathy’s not getting worse; and she’s getting the best possible care.”

  She dropped her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s going to be enough.”

  I wanted to reach out and tou
ch her, but I didn’t. In different circumstances, if I hadn’t been feeling what I was feeling, I would have. But I was embarrassed by my own desire. “Did you know that your brother was arrested here last night?” I asked.

  The woman’s eyes grew large, then filled with tears. Now I gripped her shoulder; the touch of her sent what felt like an electric shock running down my arm. “I got him out on bail,” I continued. “I don’t think the hospital will press charges now that they know who he is.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  “He was up here in the middle of the night performing some kind of ceremony. That seems to mean he feels Kathy’s problem might be something other than physical. He must think she’s under a … spell. What do you think?”

  April slowly shook her head. “I can’t answer you, Robert. I don’t know anywhere near as much about those things as Daniel does. I just … can’t say. I have to trust in Dr. Greene and the other doctors.”

  She smiled wanly and put her hand in mine. Perhaps she felt the tension there, because she moved her hand away after a few moments. We sat in silence for a minute or two. Finally I cleared my throat, balled my fist and extended my ring finger. “April,” I asked quietly, “does this gesture mean anything to you?”

  “Where did you see that?” she asked, surprised.

  “Daniel used it on me.”

  April’s tentative smile vanished, leaving in its wake tension lines at the corners of her mouth. “It’s called a ‘witch’s sword,’ or athamé. It’s an occult gesture—a kind of warning, or curse. Actually, in wicca terms, an athamé is a dagger that’s been prepared in ritual fashion for certain ceremonies; it’s ‘blessed.’ I suppose you could compare the gesture to a Catholic crossing himself—except in this case the feeling is hostile and is directed against the person the witch points his finger at.”

  I nodded absently, remembering the curious reaction Daniel had brought about in me when he’d tapped my forehead; I was beginning to understand why people were afraid of him. “April, how long have you been sitting here?”

  She glanced at her wrist, but she wasn’t wearing a watch. There was no clock on the wall. “I … really don’t know,” she said softly. “There just doesn’t seem to be anything else to do but wait. I have this awful … premonition.”

  “Come and have dinner with me. It’ll help you relax; besides, I have some more questions.”

  “Robert,” she whispered, “can’t we talk here? I’ll help you in any way I can, but I’m afraid to leave Kathy.”

  “We’ll eat at The Granada and leave the number at the nurses’ station, just like last time. You have to take care of yourself; it’s not going to do Kathy any good if you get sick. Believe me, a nurse will call right away if there’s any change. We won’t be long.”

  She thought about it, then rose. “You’re right, Robert. I’ll be happy to dine with you. Thank you.”

  It was going to rain. The early-evening light was dirty, translucent; the air was moist and heavy, as though the city were about to break into a sweat. Perspiration gleamed on the bodies of the omnipresent paddleball players in the playground, and the thwack-thwack of the hard rubber ball against wood paddle and concrete wall seemed unnaturally loud in the thick atmosphere. I asked April if she wanted to take a cab, but she said she preferred to walk. We made our way to the restaurant in silence. I sensed that, unlike the night before, dinner and wine would do nothing to improve April’s mood. She was tense, pensive and distracted.

  The red velvet and mahogany interior of the restaurant, usually warm and relaxing, seemed oppressive. The air-conditioning level was set too high, and we both shivered as we stepped into the restaurant. The maître d’ nodded in recognition, then led us to a good table by the window. The lighted candle in the center of the table made me nervous, and I pushed it to one side.

  “What did you want to ask me, Robert?” April asked after we’d been seated.

  “Do you know anything about tarot cards?”

  “Some,” she said. “Why?”

  “I have an appointment for a reading in an hour and a half. I’d like to know what to expect.”

  April cocked her head to one side and looked at me strangely. “You’re going for a reading? That surprises me.”

  “Well, it’s true that I’m not exactly a believer.”

  “You might change your mind after a tarot reading—depending, of course, on how good the reader is.”

  “I’m seeing a man by the name of John Krowl. I’m hoping he can give me a line on this Esobus character.”

  She looked at me for a long time. “I should have known it would have something to do with Kathy. Thank you again, Robert, for trying so hard to help.”

  A waiter appeared. April shook her head when I asked her if she wanted a drink, and I didn’t press. She ordered gazpacho and an omelette. I asked for the same.

  “Have you heard of Krowl?” I asked.

  “Yes. He’s supposed to be very good; only a man by the name of Michael McEnroe is supposed to be better. If you go to John Krowl, you’re liable to learn more about yourself than about Esobus. Krowl is supposed to be psychic.”

  “Terrific,” I said, flashing a tentative smile. “I need a psychic.”

  April didn’t smile back. “I won’t try to convince you of the power of the tarot, Robert,” she said very seriously. “You’ll see for yourself. Do you know anything at all about the cards?”

  “Only that they were supposedly invented by the Gypsies in the Middle Ages; they have pictures, and they’re used for fortune-telling.”

  The waiter brought our gazpacho. The soup was good, but April ate only half of it. “‘Fortune-telling’ isn’t a good word for what happens during a tarot reading,” she said, pushing the rest of her soup away. “Despite what you see on Forty-second Street, that’s not what the tarot is about. You should think of the tarot deck as a great book of mystical knowledge that uses symbols instead of words. The symbols are very deep. The tarot is one of the occult ‘mysteries’—astrology, palmistry and numerology being the occult ‘sciences.’ Each card is open to a variety of interpretations; the quality of the reading depends on the quality of the channels of communication opened between the querent—the person having the reading—and the reader.”

  “How does it work?”

  “John Krowl will have you shuffle and cut the cards; then he’ll use any one of a number of different layouts. What should show up are trends in your life—past, present and future.”

  “It still sounds like fortune-telling,” I said gently.

  “If someone can accurately see your past, it’s not difficult to predict your future. The tarot deck can change a person’s life, if the person truly wants to change; the cards can provide a shock of recognition.”

  Our omelettes arrived. As we started to eat, April shivered again. I rose and put my sports jacket around her shoulders. She nodded her thanks and pulled the jacket even tighter around her. Seeing her do that gave me an absurd jolt of pleasure.

  “You said that the symbols on the cards are inexact. It seems to me that a reader could come up with any number of different interpretations.”

  “But you’ll instinctively know if it’s a true reading,” she said, picking at her omelette. Her mind was back in the hospital with Kathy; her voice was distant, its matter-of-factness masking her anxiety. “A single card may have as many as three or four subtly different meanings; but the specific interpretation of any card is refined by its position in a particular layout. The cards are intensely personal, Robert.” April paused and smiled thinly. For a moment, she was back in the restaurant with me. “Behind your somewhat flamboyant exterior, I sense that you’re a very private man. You shouldn’t go to this man unless you’re prepared to have your life and dreams stripped bare. He could know all there is to know about you five minutes after the cards are laid out.”

  “You are impressed by the tarot, aren’t you?”

  “Yes I am, Robert,” she said evenly. �
�Of all the occult studies, I find the tarot the most mystical and beautiful.” She had to force herself to eat a few more bites of the omelette, then pushed away what was left. “I’m sorry, Robert,” she continued quietly. “I hate to waste food. I know I should eat, but I can’t. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your money on me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  April shook her head. “The reason I believe Krowl is probably psychic is that he’s been so successful,” she said in a low voice. “People wouldn’t keep going back to him unless he was telling them something about their lives and helping them to solve their problems. Also, he’s been working with the cards for many years. Regular use of the cards can help you develop your own psychic abilities. It’s like exercising a muscle, except in this case it’s a psychic muscle. I think of the tarot deck as a window into regions of the mind that are beyond the rational.”

  “Thank you for talking to me, April,” I said. “I know it’s been hard for you.”

  As I signaled the waiter for the check, it occurred to me that it would be interesting to see if John Krowl lived up to April’s advance billing.

  The most spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline, bar none, is from the Manhattan Bridge. I took advantage of a minor traffic slowdown to twist in my seat and look back at the most exciting piece of real estate in the world. Manhattan is, of course, only one of New York’s five boroughs, but to me it was New York, the city’s heart and soul. At that moment the sight of the skyline was probably the only vista in the world that could, if only for a few seconds, lift me beyond my anxiety and fear. Manhattan’s tremendous energy can burn a man out, but burning out is not something I worry about.

  Traffic began to move again, and I drove down into the amorphous entity of funky culture and parochial defensiveness that is Brooklyn.

  Tacky appearances to the contrary, Krowl had chosen a chic area to work out of. Creeping glamour, wealthy dilettantes and accompanying rising rents were driving loft artists out of SoHo, NoHo and the rest of Manhattan’s “Ho’s.” They were migrating in increasing numbers to Brooklyn’s DUMBO—“Down Under the Manhattan-Brooklyn Overpass.” The area—a montage of dying industries that supplied the artists’ lofts and thriving galleries and small businesses that were supported by the artists—even had its own newspaper, the Phoenix. It was an apt title; DUMBO was rising from ashes of crumbling concrete.