An Affair Of Sorcerers m-3

by George C. Chesbro

  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 touch 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 athame. It's an occult gesture-a kind of warning, or curse. Actually, in wicca terms, an athame 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 maitre 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 s
miled 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.

  John Krowl's brownstone was four blocks east of the Manhattan Bridge, in a poor but clean working-class neighborhood. I was a few minutes early, but I rang the bell anyway. It was answered by a young man in his early twenties who looked down at me inquiringly. I introduced myself and said that I had an appointment for eight o'clock. He introduced himself only as Krowl's secretary and told me I'd have to wait a few minutes. He motioned me inside and indicated that I should sit down on one of the three antique chairs just inside the door.

  I was in a large circular foyer with a corridor directly opposite me that extended all the way to the end of the house. There were closed doors to either side of me. Around the perimeter of the foyer were a number of old, heavy tables, their surfaces covered with what looked like valuable African primitive sculpture-most of it erotic. The walls of the foyer were decorated with an odd but strangely appealing mixture of garish Haitian paintings and faded Persian tapestries. All of the exposed wood had been stripped to the grain and polished to a burnished glow. In contrast to the rather dreary facade and neighborhood outside, the inside of Krowl's brownstone was like a museum. Krowl had taste.

  The art was carefully chosen and interesting, but what intrigued me by far the most in the foyer was a display of at least a hundred plaster hand casts mounted in the spaces around and between the paintings and the tapestries. I got up and went closer to examine them.

  The casts had been expertly made, and all of the details in the palms had been meticulously lined in with India ink. The effect was eerie and startling. The names of the hands' owners were inscribed in calligraphic script over the base of the wrist and signed beneath. Most of them belonged to well-known New York and Hollywood celebrities, with a few Washington politicians sprinkled around as if to give the display some respectability, like a heavy bronze identification plaque under a muddy painting. Just about everyone who was anyone seemed to be represented in John Krowl's foyer; it occurred to me that the people represented couldn't all be idiots, and I found I was impressed.

  Two names in particular interested me. The first was that of Harley Davidson, at one time the hottest young rock star in the country. I'd known him as Bobby Weiss, a gangling, likable student who'd been blundering his way through college. Criminology had seemed to be one of the rare subjects that interested him, and he'd managed to show up fairly regularly for my undergraduate class.

  Bobby had dropped out of school three years before, in the middle of his junior year. A year after that he'd exploded onto the national rock scene as Harley Davidson-Instant Millionaire. He'd signed with Jake Stein, a friend of mine with the William Morris Agency, and I'd kept track of him through Jake. One year I'd even received a Christmas card. I'd thought Bobby spent all his time in Los Angeles, but he'd obviously touched base often enough in New York to hear of Krowl. Seeing the palm print suddenly made me realize that I hadn't heard anything of Bobby for at least six months-no records, no television, not even a gossip item. I wondered what had happened to him.

  The second name hit even closer to home, and it gave me a jolt. The name was Bart Stone. Stone was a prolific writer of Western pulp novels who had provided the fictional fodder for dozens of Western films turned out by Hollywood.

  I wondered if Krowl, when he'd make the print, had known that "Bart Stone" was but one of the many pseudonyms used by Frank Marlowe. I might ask him.

  I wandered down the hallway to the end, where a narrow balcony looked out over a small, exquisitely arranged garden and patio. The area was encircled by plants which seemed to be miraculously surviving in New York's sulfurous air; it seemed a tiny piece of serenity in the middle of the most manic city in the world. Across the way, looming up into the drizzling twilight, was a fifteen-story factory building. The side I was looking at was covered with climbing ivy. The windows had been painted black.

  "Mr. Frederickson?"

  I wheeled and was startled to find a man I assumed to be Krowl standing almost directly behind me. The door to the left of the foyer entrance was open, and he'd managed to approach me without making a sound.

  No one had thought to mention the fact that John Krowl was an albino; his wraithlike, ghostly appearance startled me. Krowl's skin was almost the color of chalk, and he wore his thin, white hair at shoulder length. He wore glasses with tinted lenses, presumably to protect his sensitive eyes from the light. He was five feet ten or eleven, and reminded me of some coloring-book Jesus who hadn't been crayoned in.

  I wondered how much Krowl's bizarre physical appearance had to do with the fact that he'd been drawn to-and succeeded in-the occult. Perhaps, in a sense, Krowl and I had something in common; Garth had always maintained that I'd have stayed on our family's farm in Nebraska if not for the fact that I'd been born a dwarf. Deformity-any deformity-can crush, but it can also propel a man beyond his normal limits.

  "Is that part of your act?" I asked.

  "Excuse me?" Krowl's voice was high-pitched, nasal and raspy.

  "I'm Frederickson. I take it you're John Krowl."

  "That's right," he said coldly, looking at me intently. "Garth left word with my secretary that you wanted a reading. He said it was a matter of some urgency. Why?"

  Krowl's chilly abruptness took me aback. I didn't want to off
end Krowl in light of the fact that Garth had told me he could be a valuable source of information. On the other hand, something about me obviously put him off; he looked as if he were getting ready to ask me to leave. I decided it might be a good idea to get a better feel of his territory before I started asking direct questions.

  "I've got problems," I said quietly.

  "Really?" He removed his glasses and stared at me with pink, washed-out eyes. "How do you think I can help?"

  I shrugged. "I thought that was obvious. I was hoping you'd read the tarot for me."

  Krowl put his glasses back on and smiled thinly. "Frederickson, why do I get the feeling that you think I'm full of shit?"

  I felt myself flush. I had to give him points for frankness. "Let's say I'm hoping you can help me," I said, trying to sound humble and offering up my most innocent smile.

  "My fee is forty dollars."

  "Fine."

  "Very well," Krowl said abruptly. "Come with me, please."

  He turned and walked back down the hall. I followed him through the open door, which he closed behind us. I found myself in a kind of parlor/sitting room carpeted with the finest Persian rugs. There were more Haitian paintings and faded antique tapestries on those sections of the walls not covered by oak bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. The room was dominated by a round mahogany table in the center. Over the table a stained-glass Tiffany lamp hung like a sparkling jewel in the middle of the room's dark, earth colors. Although the table was not particularly large, its magnificently carved legs and edges lent it an air of massiveness. There were two chairs.

  Krowl took a small bundle wrapped in black silk out of a drawer in the table, unwrapped it to reveal a deck of tarot cards. He sat down and motioned for me to sit in the chair across from him.

  "Aren't you going to look at my hand?" I asked.