An Affair Of Sorcerers

'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 By the time I hung up, my weariness had been replaced by acute anxiety.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 every 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