…
He shook his head, actually chuckling as he rubbed fatigue out of his eyes.
He poured himself a glass of water. It struck him that the subject of Karswell, the dead man, had never been raised along with all the other ghoulish talk at the bar, and just then—
His cellphone rang.
“It’s me,” Artie said over the line. “Sorry to call so late, but I finally got some poop on your man.”
“Karswell,” Fanshawe uttered.
“Yeah, Eldred Karswell. Sixty-seven years old, resident of Ellicottville, New York. No criminal convictions, no old dockets, no arrests, not even a traffic citation.”
“Clean as a whistle on all counts, is what you’re getting at,” Fanshawe presumed.
“Mmmm, well, there’s no dirt on him but—let’s just say some weird stuff.”
Fanshawe laughed in spite of himself. “I’m getting quite accustomed to weird stuff, Artie. What’ve you got?”
“First, the guy was a Protestant minister in the seventies, but he was dismissed from active pastoral license by the Diocese of New York.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me for molesting kids—”
“Nope. It was after a series of theological controversies between Karswell and something called the Board of Informatory Regents of Episcopacy.”
Fanshawe’s lips pursed. “
“It’s some kind of doctrinal regulatory commission, the bosses of the church.” Artie paused as if entertained. “You ready for this?”
“No, I’m paying you to jerk me around.”
“The Diocese essentially defrocked the guy for advocating and practicing
Fanshawe’s speculation chugged to a near halt. “Of all the oddball things.”
“Tell me about it, boss, but that’s not all. Karswell’s also a published author, and it’s not just books about mysticism that he writes about—”
Fanshawe’s eyes widened.
“—the dude’s written books about witchcraft, demonology, devil worship, the history of human sacrifice —”
Fanshawe gulped.
“—he’s had over a dozen books published, all stuff like that. Last year he published a book with Montague University Press called
Fanshawe almost spit out the sip of water he’d just taken. “What the
Artie laughed. “That’s just it, I don’t know! The word wouldn’t even Goggle! Your man’s into some goofy shit, boss. He’s got a house worth one-five, and property tax out the yin-yang, never paid late. Top-flight credit rating, two other cars plus the Caddy—a new Merc and a loaded Yukon, plus he’s got his own office and staff.”
“So he’s got money. From the books?”
“Can’t say for sure but I doubt it. He’s never been on a bestseller list, and there’s very little about him on the web.”
“Then how’d you find out about his books?”
“The research goons found his titles on some online book auctioneers, and there’s a tiny bibliography at a European booklist site. My opinion? I think Karswell writes for some fringe underground specialty market. Can’t see there being a lot of money in that.”
“Family money, then, the lottery—who knows—” Fanshawe chewed a lip. “—and who cares? Is that all?”
“Come on, boss, I’m better than that, ain’t I?”
“You tell me.”
“He’s got an agent, some woman named Reobek, office in Scarsdale. I actually talked to her a little while ago. Wouldn’t give me Karswell’s direct contact info, but she gave me his office number. Said he’s out of town for several weeks. Christ, the woman’s got a Bronx accent so thick I wanted to jump out the window. But, anyway, she did say he’s in
“Guess you left the old thinking cap at home, huh?”
Artie didn’t get it, but since he often worked ten- or twelve-hour days, Fanshawe gave him a break. “But I saved the laugher for last. She said one more thing… She said Karswell was working on a book about a
Fanshawe caught his stare sticking to the wall, and thought with instantly:
“That’s the scoop so far. I’ll try his office number in the morning; maybe they’ll give me his cell number in case you want to talk to him.”
“He wouldn’t be very talkative, Artie. He’s dead.”
“Say again?”
“Karswell is dead”—the image of the dead man’s face resurfaced like a bellow. “No doubt about it.”
“You sure about that, boss? His name wasn’t on the Social Security Death Index.”
“That’s because there hasn’t been time. He died yesterday. Just so happens that he was staying in my hotel.”
Suddenly, distress seemed to come through with Artie’s next pause. “So
“It was murder, Artie—”
“Shit, Stew! Get out of there right now! You’re not Little People, you know. Out of six and a half billion folks walkin’ the earth, only five hundred are billionaires and you’re one of them! I’m sending up a car and some of our guys to bring you back—”
“Forget it,” Fanshawe sluffed. “The
“I don’t like this, Stew. You’re too fuckin’ important to be near fucked up shit like that.”
“I guess you picked up the fine language in Harvard Yard, huh?” Fanshawe laughed. “Don’t worry about it, all right? But do me a favor and get research to hassle the agent again, try to find out the name of the warlock Karswell was writing about.”
Now the line’s silence seemed to remotely convey Artie’s lengthening face. It was a
“Just do it, Artie, okay?”
Artie groaned. “Sure, find out the name of the warlock, you bet…”
Fanshawe put the cellphone away, thinking.
At once he was glancing abruptly upward, as though some inner monitor of his subconscious had so directed him.
Yes, he was glancing upward, at the trapdoor…
Again:
He’d already been up in the attic, and had found—just as Mr. Baxter had—nothing out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, next, he was standing once more on the bed, reaching up, and unprizing the trapdoor. Moments later, he was standing stooped in the warm, wood- and dust-scented space. He swept his penlight to either side, and if anything—
