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 and emotion.
"To kill me," he continued in the same, soft tone, "you'd have to know how to use the hate you feel now, then be able to conquer it and ride it to a conclusion. Can you do that? I doubt it. Very few people can."
"It's simple, Crandall; I'll just beat you to death with a broomstick. I said I wanted to ask you a few questions. Answer them right and you can go back to changing people into frogs, or whatever it is you do in your spare time."
"I will answer nothing," the gray-eyed man said casually.
Suddenly he stepped forward until he was only inches away from me. In a lightning motion, he reached down with his right hand and touched me squarely between the eyes with the tip of his third finger. It was a light tap, and yet it actually hurt; I was beginning to feel like a character out of Carlos Castaneda. Normally, my reflexes would have propelled me at him, but now, inexplicably, I found myself stepping back. I felt confused, weak and tired. I was losing rounds all over the place.
"You're to take what I say as a threat," Crandall continued casually in a voice barely above a whisper. "As you see, I know who you are; your career is familiar to me. I don't know how you came to know of me. I can't think of anyone who would dare give you information about me; but, obviously, someone did. No matter. There's absolutely nothing-nothing! — you can do to me. But I can. . inflict. You'll discover that to your sorrow if you try to interfere with me in any way." He paused a few beats, then said in a slightly louder voice, "Now you will answer this question. Why did you mention the name 'Esobus'?"
"It has to do with the little girl who's dying. She told me either you or Esobus took her father's book of shadows."
Daniel blinked rapidly and took two quick steps backward. It wasn't much of a reaction, but from this man I considered it a major concession.
"Her name is Kathy Marlowe," I continued. "Her father's name is Frank Marlowe. Someone's done a bad number on that girl, and you're a major candidate. There isn't much time left, and I intend to find out what's wrong with her before she dies of it."
Crandall's impassive, stony facade suddenly began to crumble before my eyes. He opened his gray eyes wide, looked at me for a long time; his tongue darted out, licked his lips. Finally he turned and walked quickly across the room. He stopped, his back to me, and stared out a window overlooking the bank's parking lot.
"Tell me what you did to her, Crandall," I continued quietly, making no effort to keep the pleading out of my voice. "You don't seem like the kind of man who'd hurt a little girl and not regret it." I picked up the telephone receiver on the conference table next to me, held the instrument out to him. "Tell me what's wrong with her so we can call her doctor and tell him."
"I wouldn't hurt Kathy," Crandall said in a dry, croaking voice. "She's my niece."
I slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. "What did you say?"
The man who called himself Daniel turned and looked at me strangely. His gray eyes seemed darker, his gaze even more intense. "You heard me," he said sharply. "I tell you because I want you to know I'm not responsible for Kathy's condition, and I don't want you interfering with me. Does Kathy's mother know?"