Uranus motioned me closer to the desk and pointed to the two circles. 'The inner circle is the natal horoscope,' she said, 'the position of the sun, moon and planets in the sky at this person's birth. There are no severe afflictions-bad signs-in it. He or she probably has a marked talent in art or music, although that talent is used rather superficially, in a popular vein. But the chart indicates considerable success.'
I swallowed hard and found that my mouth was dry. 'Where does the trouble come in?'
'The outer circle is a synthesis-the horoscope projected up to the present time. Saturn-an evil, constricting influence-is in very bad conjunction with the other planets. There is a bad grouping in Scorpio, the sign of the occult. There are a number of other afflictions indicated, including a bad conjunction in the house of the secret enemy. I would say that whoever this is has reached a most important crossroad in his life, and the situation is fraught with danger. May I ask whose horoscope this is?'
I felt light-headed. I wrenched my brain back into gear. 'A rock star by the name of Harley Davidson.'
Uranus choked off a cry as her hand flew to her mouth.
'You know him?'
Uranus shuddered. 'His real name is Bob Greenfield. Bob was one of my students a few years back. Tall, likable boy. Black hair, angular features. Maybe you remember him.'
I didn't, which wasn't unusual. The university is a big place. I briefly told Uranus the story Peth had given me.
Uranus' eyes clouded and her face aged perceptibly. 'Borrn is an evil man,' she said quietly. 'Bob would be no match for him.'
'His ex-manager seems to think the same thing. He hired me to try to get something on Borrn.'
Uranus shook her head. 'You'll fail. And you'll be running a great personal risk if you try. Borrn is exceedingly dangerous.'
'If he's criminal, maybe I can prove it.'
'No. Evil is not necessarily criminal. There's a difference.'
I didn't argue the point. I understood it all too well.
'Borrn is a gifted astrologer and palmist,' Uranus continued. 'There's also a rumor to the effect that he's a member of a supersecret coven of witches.'
'Garth mentioned that.'
'Garth must be developing some other good contacts; or someone is deliberately trying to mislead him. I'm not sure if the rumor is true, but it probably is. If so, it could explain a lot of things.'
'Like what?'
'The influence you claim Borrn has over Bob. It could be the coven's cone of power acting on him.'
'Cone of power?'
'An influence coming from a powerful collective will. That's the purpose of a coven: to form a collective will. There's no telling what they want with Bob. It could be a homosexual angle-Bob's a handsome boy-or it could simply be money.'
I cleared my throat. 'I'm sorry, Uranus, but I don't believe that 'cone of power' number.'
Uranus seemed distracted, and I couldn't tell whether she hadn't heard or was merely ignoring my comment. 'We should go and talk to Bob,' she said at last.
'We?'
'He wouldn't talk to you. He would to me. I know the language.'
I considered it for a moment, then reached for the phone, intending to call Peth. 'I'll find out where he lives.'
Uranus was already halfway to the door. 'I know where he lives; we kept in touch up until a few months ago.' She paused and stared at me. I was still standing by her desk, trying to sort things out. The urgency in her eyes hummed in her voice. 'I really think we should hurry, Mongo.'
The place where Harley Davidson had once lived was a three-story brownstone in a fashionable section of Greenwich
Village. Nobody answered the bell, and it took me half an hour to work my way through the double lock on the door.
Harley Davidson was out, and he wouldn't be back. He'd left his body behind on the floor of his bedroom, filled with sleeping pills.
I picked my way through the empty plastic vials on the floor and called Garth. Uranus sat down on the edge of Davidson's bed and began to cry softly. I began to poke around. The first thing that caught my attention was what appeared to be a notebook on a night stand. It had metal covers and was inscribed with strange symbols. I used a handkerchief to pick it up and carry it over to where Uranus was sitting. Her sobbing had subsided and she was staring off into space, beyond a young man's corpse, at what was and what might have been.
I touched her gently on the shoulder and showed her the notebook. 'Darlin', do you know what this is?'
She glanced at the notebook. 'It's a witch's diary,' she said distantly. Her voice had the quality of an echo. 'All initiates start one, and fill it the rest of their lives. It usually contains personal experiences, spells, and coven secrets.'
I grunted, opened the book and started to leaf through it. There wasn't much in it that made any sense to me; I decided the obfuscation was probably intentional, designed to preserve its contents from prying eyes like my own. Borrn's name was mentioned a number of times, along with a list of various ceremonies in which Davidson had participated.
'Borrn seems to be the coven leader, judging by all this,' I said.
Uranus said nothing, nor did she exhibit any interest in the notebook. I didn't press her on it. I asked a question instead. 'What's 'scrying'?'
'Is that mentioned in there?'
'A number of times.'
'Scrying is a method of divination,' Uranus said hollowly, 'of looking into the future or discovering secrets. It usually involves crystal gazing, but flame or water can also be used. Bob would have been nowhere near the point where he could scry.'
'Who
I must have made a face, or the tone of my voice wasn't right. Uranus suddenly snapped, 'Don't mock what you don't understand! I do it all the time!'' She punctuated the outburst with a long sigh; it was an apology, unasked for and unneeded. 'With the locked door and empty pill bottles, it's an obvious suicide. It's finished, Mongo. What's your interest now?'
It was a good question, one I'd been asking myself. Maybe it was the fact that a lot of Sandor Peth's money was still rustling around in my pocket. It seemed a shame to give it back, and if I were going to keep it I had to work for it.
'There's a point of law called psychological coercion,' I said. 'If it can be shown that Borrn or any other member of his coven influenced Davidson to take his own life, it's a criminal offense. Probably impossible to prove, but worth looking into.'
'Leave it, Mongo. Please. No good will come out of your investigating Borrn. I know you don't believe this, but you can't imagine the misery he could cause you.'
I didn't say anything. I was tired of warnings, tired of unwanted glimpses into the dark attics of men's minds. There was the body of the boy on the floor, shot out of the tree of life by invisible bullets of what had to be superstition. Those bullets had found their mark in a bright, talented and rich boy who had exploded under their impact, plunging from the rarefied atmosphere of celebrity to end as a cold, graying hulk, like a falling star.
Uranus suddenly gripped my arm. 'Bob shouldn't have had something like this.'
I looked at her. The grief in her eyes had been replaced by something else. She looked as if she had just waked from sleep, passing from a nightmare into something worse.
'Why not? You told me Borrn was a witch. Under the circumstances, wouldn't it have been natural for Davidson to become a member of Borrn's coven?'
'No. It would have been virtually impossible. I told you that a coven is made up of thirteen members. Thirteen is a magic number of sorts. No coven would take in a fourteenth member.'
'Maybe somebody died or decided to join the Elks instead.'
