An Affair Of Sorcerers

'Senator, it's Frederickson.'

'Frederickson,' Younger said gruffly, his voice strained. 'I was just getting ready to call you.'

'How's your daughter?'

'Linda's. . worse. I'm. . not sure even Esteban will be able to help her if she has to wait much longer. I'm getting ready to hold that press conference you suggested in the first place.'

'That could cost you your career, and it won't necessarily get Esteban out.'

'I have to do something, Frederickson. Have you been able to find any new evidence?'

'No, but I think I may be able to raise some new questions. At the outside, how much time do you think we have before Esteban won't be able to help your daughter any longer?'

There was a long silence on the line, then: 'A week, maybe ten days. She's deteriorating rapidly now. She. . she-' His voice broke, and I heard him sob. After a few moments he cleared his throat and brought his voice back under control. 'It takes her most of the morning to clear her lungs. Her medication helps some, but only Esteban seems to be able to affect her condition for any length of time.'

'All right, Senator. Here's what I've got-and it's not much. I don't want to get your hopes up, but maybe-just maybe-I can raise enough questions and doubts to get Esteban a sympathetic bail hearing. But I'm going to have to get my facts straight, and that's going to take some more time. Hold off on your press conference for a couple of days. In the meantime, either bring your daughter with you to New York or leave a number where I can reach you twenty-four hours a day. It's next to impossible to get bail in a premeditated-murder case; if I can arrange a hearing based on new information, I may want you here-fast. I'll try to arrange for any hearing to be held in camera, but I can't promise anything.'

'Linda and I will be in New York this evening,' Younger said tensely. 'We'll stay at The Plaza. You can reach me there whenever you need me.'

'Very good. There's one other thing, and you probably won't like it. If I run into any road jams, I may need a little unethical political pressure brought to bear. If you've got any juice in the city, start getting your contacts together. Okay?'

'I'll do whatever you say, Frederickson.'

When I hung up, spasms of pain and nausea rippled through my belly. I wasn't looking forward to the hours I was going to have to spend talking to court reporters and combing through the public trial records. And I was going to have to conserve enough energy for some fast talking.

I started to stand up, but another spasm put me on my back with my knees drawn up to my chest. I breathed deeply, trying to relax. The deep breathing helped some, but it also made me return to the question of just how a rabid bat had ended up in my bedroom. It could have flown in a few days before, during the time when I'd left the window open; it could have holed up in some nook or cranny. Maybe. But I was finding my discomfort and the fact that I could still die of rabies-not to mention the general inconvenience of being bitten by a rabid bat-somewhat distressing. If someone had sicced the animal on me, I definitely wanted to find out who so that I could repay the kindness.

Assuming the bat had received human help getting in, it was obviously a kind of deadly game-playing, and probably had something to do with the Esobus matter. I had no way of knowing who'd been talking to whom, or who could be responsible.

I picked up the phone and started to dial Krowl's number, then thought better of it and hung up. I assumed that coming up with a rabid bat in the middle of Manhattan was no particularly easy task. Krowl had been shaken enough to blow someone's whistle after he'd talked to me; but unless Esobus had a private cave full of rabid bats, it wasn't likely that the little critter who'd bitten me could have been conjured up in the few hours that had passed since I'd left his house. In any case, I doubted that Krowl would talk to me, and a call would only telegraph the fact that I was suspicious.

It suddenly occurred to me that there was someone else who'd had the time; also, to judge by his background, he was crazy enough to come up with just such a nasty gift for somebody he was unhappy with. He might not have any connection with Esobus, but at the moment I didn't feel picky. I called the Chancellor's office. Two secretaries later, I got him on the line.

'Good morning, Dr. Frederickson,' Barnum said. He sounded a lot better than he had the last time I'd talked to him; controlled and self-assured. 'How are you?'

'Actually, I'm feeling a bit tacky.'

'Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. Incidentally, I'm glad you called. I've been feeling rather embarrassed about that. . matter we discussed.'

'I don't know why you should be embarrassed. You have a legitimate concern.'

'Well, thank God you're a discreet man. You were absolutely right to back away from it, and I appreciate your good judgment. I should have handled it myself from the beginning.'

'You've talked to Dr. Smathers?'

'Yes, I have,' he said firmly. 'Yesterday morning, right after you left.'

'Did you talk about the rumors?'

'No,' Barnum said, sounding a little less sure of himself. 'I didn't feel I had the right. But I did ask him where all his money was-coming from.' He laughed shortly, and his voice brightened again. 'It seems Dr. Smathers has been getting a number of grants on his own, and you know what sloppy bookkeepers these scientists are. Very commendable of him, I think-the grants, I mean.'

'Very commendable. Did you find out what he's up to?'

'Well, I've been through most of his complex. It seems Dr. Smathers has received grants to study certain forms of psychotic behavior. The equipment they use is very expensive, and there are potentially dangerous people on the fourth floor from time to time. That explains the need for tight security. Actually, Dr. Smathers was quite gracious.'

'Chancellor, did my name come up?'

Barnum cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid it did, Dr. Frederickson. Not that I'm indiscreet, but Dr. Smathers seems to have put two and two together. He jokingly asked me if I'd hired you to check up on him.'

'Jokingly.'

Barnum laughed nervously. 'I didn't confirm or deny, but I think Smathers guessed. Actually, he seemed more amused than offended.'

'Amused,' I said. 'I'm glad to hear that.' I added a goodbye and hung up. The phone rang almost immediately. It was Garth.

'Hey, brother,' he said. 'Your phone's been busy for a half hour and it's only nine in the morning. What's up?'

'Somebody's been driving me batty. That's a punch line. Want to try and guess the joke?'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Never mind. Have you got a line on Harley Davidson?'

He grunted. 'Yeah, and it's bad news. If you want to get anything coherent out of him, every second counts. And I'm not kidding.'

'What's the matter with him?'

'Your friend Davidson's a junkie, and it seems he's in a bad way.'

'That doesn't sound like Bobby.'

'Well, unless there are two rock stars going by the name of Harley Davidson, this is your man.'

'How long's he been on junk?'

'According to my sources, about a year,' Garth replied. 'Once he started to go, he went downhill fast. I've seen it before. He hasn't sung a note in six months, and his band's broken up. No promoter will touch him, even if he wanted to perform, which I understand he doesn't. For a while he was moving around a lot, staying with friends. Now even they don't want him.'

'Have you got a current address on him?'

'Try 38 Farrell Street. You know where it is?'

'Yeah,' I said, feeling a little chill. 'Off The Bowery. Thanks, Garth. I appreciate the information-and the speed.'