"Just a little farther, just a little farther," LeVar repeated again and again as they wove their way past mounds of rubble. The Dark Man remained silent.

  LeVar's main base was the remains of a small ten-foot square modular office located at the rear of the warehouse.

  "Welcome to the candy store," LeVar said proudly, pulling open the door to the room and entering. The Dark Man followed, ducking his head to get through the doorway.

  The only piece of furniture in the room was a broken-down old desk, with a huge multicolored candle resting at its center. LeVar lit it with his Zippo. The melting wax sent strange shadows scurrying across the walls. "I found the candle here when I discovered this place," said LeVar. "Probably left over from some honkie orgy. You want the crack?"

  Not waiting for an answer, LeVar pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Inside were nearly a hundred plastic Baggies, each containing a white, rocklike ball of pure cocaine—crack. In the rear of the drawer, rested an old .44 automatic—LeVar's "burner." Gently, LeVar placed his right hand on the butt of the gun. "How about some green, man?"

  The Dark Man laughed, a low powerful sound like the rumble of distant thunder. "I don't need your poison, little man," he said in his honey-toned voice. "I came here to slaughter you."

  The candle flickered and sputtered with the sounds of his words. Shadows grouped around the Dark Man, adding to his massive bulk, until he seemed to fill the entire back wall. Still chuckling, the giant reached for something inside his coat.

  Not merely kill, but slaughter. The choice of words frightened LeVar. He decided to put things back on the right track. "Enough bullshit jive," LeVar said, pulling the pistol out from the drawer and aiming it straight at the Dark Man's chest.

  "Now the dumb nigger be holding the gun," said LeVar, grinning. The .44 remained steady in his hand. "Looks like the hijacker gets hijacked. Lay out the green. All of it, right now, or I blow you away. No one around to hear you scream."

  "You misunderstand," said the Dark Man, in a pleasant, relaxed tone of voice. "I meant what I said. Drug dealers need to be taught a lesson. You're going to serve as my first example. First, I'll chop off your genitals. Next come your arms, then your legs. I'll leave your head till last, though I suspect you'll have died from shock or loss of blood long before I reach that stage."

  Out of his coat the Dark Man pulled a huge meat cleaver. He took one slow step forward, lifting the butcher's blade up over his head.

  "You crazy sonnafabitch!" screamed LeVar. He squeezed the trigger of the automatic and kept on squeezing. Gripped by fear, he kept on firing until all the chambers were empty. From only a few feet away, he couldn't miss.

  The heavy slugs pounded into his assailant. The force of the bullets lifted the Dark Man off his feet and slammed him into the far wall. The small office filled with gunsmoke and the smell of burnt powder.

  LeVar drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His whole body shook with uncontrollable tremors. It was the first time he ever wasted anyone and he didn't like the feeling. The gun dropped from his fingers numb from the recoil.

  That mother had been a genuine, absolute psycho, LeVar thought. "He done scared me white," said LeVar, trying to laugh away the shakes. And then the laughter turned to screams.

  On the far side of the room, the Dark Man rose to his feet. The gun blasts had blown away much of his coat and knocked off his hat but he seemed otherwise unharmed. For a bare instant, LeVar caught a glimpse of a face that was not a face—a flat featureless blank, unbroken by nose or mouth, like a pane of dark frosted glass. Eyes burning like red coals glared at LeVar with unblinking intensity. In one hand, the giant still clutched the meat cleaver. With his other hand, he reached out and extinguished the candle. "My turn," said the Dark Man.

  2

  It was a hell of a way to start Tuesday morning. Sid Taine looked down again at the neat stack of hundred dollar bills on his desk and then back up at his prospective client. "Twenty thousand dollars in cash, you said. For four days work?"

  "That's right," replied Evangeline Caldwell, flicking an ash from her cigarillo onto the floor. For that kind of money, Sid forgave her lack of manners. "Half now, the rest when you complete the job. All I want you to do is find a man for me before Friday evening." She took a deep drag on the thin cigar. "One particular man."

  She rested, half-sitting, half-standing, on the wide arm of the old-fashioned high-back chair that faced his desk. Wearing a smartly tailored red knit dress slit up the sides, she burned with a raw, nervous energy that evidenced itself in her every motion.

  Taine reached out and picked up the cash. The bills felt cool and crisp. He ruffled the stack with his thumb. It was a lot of money for only a few days' work. "I need a little more information before I make up my mind. Who do you want me to find—husband, father, runaway child . . . lover?"

  The young woman laughed, a harsh, cruel sound that contrasted sharply with her casual beauty. "I keep track of my father by reading the papers. Harmon Sangmeister makes the society page every time he dates another floozy. The same applies to my wayward husband. They both like variety in their women.

  "My mother and my older sister died in a boating accident twenty years ago. I barely remember what either of them looked like. Children I consider disgusting little monsters.

  "As to lovers, I leave them, Mr. Taine. It's never the other way around."

  "I'll bet," muttered Taine under his breath. Momentarily at a loss for words, he gazed out the windows that bordered the corner office. His suite, on the twentieth floor of the Acme Building, commanded an unobstructed view of Lake Michigan. Black storm clouds rumbled ominously off shore, darkening the morning sky.

  "I merely offered some possibilities," said Taine, turning and looking Evangeline Caldwell directly in the eyes. "Why don't you fill in the blanks."

  "Then you'll take the case?"

  "I could use the money," said Taine. "But no deals until you give me all the details."

  She hesitated for a moment, as if wrestling with some inner turmoil. Taine waited patiently. He knew the value of silence.

  In the meantime, he unobtrusively studied his potential client. He rarely entertained such style. She looked like an advertisement from a fashion magazine.

  He estimated her age around thirty. She stood a little over five foot five, but her narrow spiked heels added several inches to her height. Her bronze skin and shapely figure proclaimed her a health club regular. The designer dress she wore hugged her trim curves like a second skin. It was cut low across her full breasts, revealing enough to be considered rather daring. Her bright red lipstick and nail polish matched her outfit. Moussed and waxed, her light brunette hair crest in a Mohican-style "punk" haircut that was the rage among the wealthy young socialites of Chicago.

  Taine thought it strange that she wore no jewelry—not even a wedding or engagement ring. Then his gaze fixed on a small white medallion pinned directly over her heart. The face of the brooch pictured a long red passion cross, set against a white background. But unlike the Crusader's emblem that it most closely resembled, this cross was reversed, with its long arm pointing upward, its transverse lowered. A green serpent coiled around the base of the cross.

  Taine's mouth went very dry. He vaguely remembered that insignia from his studies, but could not place the reference immediately. He knew it symbolized the triumph of darkness over light, of evil over good.

  "I assume anything I tell you is in ... strictest confidence?" asked Evangeline Caldwell, finally coming to a decision.

  "Consider it privileged information," said Taine. "No different than what you would tell a lawyer or a doctor."

  "No one must know I hired you," she said nervously. "Over the past few years, I managed to save part of my household allowance in a safety deposit box unknown to my husband . . . and my father. This money comes from that source."

  Taine again mentally noted the cryptic reference to her father. "I thought you wanted me to find someone? I stay strictly away from marital problems."

  "My marriage need not concern you, Mr. Taine," said Evangeline Caldwell sharply. Then the fear crept back in her voice. "I merely want to emphasize that this investigation must be our secret."

  "Sure, sure. No offense taken. You have my word of honor not to reveal your secrets. And despite how most people bandy that phrase about these days, when I give my word, I never break it."

  She nodded. "So I gather. Your file described you as one of the few honest detectives in the city. That greatly influenced my decision."

  Taine let slide her remark about his file. He felt sure she would reveal everything sooner or later. Mrs. Caldwell impressed him as the type that once she got started talking, would not be able to stop. He prompted her in that direction.

  "I gather you found other reasons as well?"

  "Several others," she said.

  She reached for her purse resting on the chair. Doing so, she revealed a great deal more of her thighs and breasts. Taine doubted she was wearing any undergarments, and she definitely was not wearing a bra. He gulped and tried to keep his mind on the business at hand.

  Mrs. Caldwell straightened, gripping a folded piece of paper in one hand. She waved it at the detective. "I copied this information out of my husband's file on you. He keeps detailed portfolios on people who interest him for one reason or another."

  "Sounds perfectly normal to me," said Taine, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Your husband a Mafia capo or someone like that?"

  "No, of course not. I'm married to Victor Caldwell, the commodities broker. I thought you realized that."

  "Oh, that Caldwell," said Taine, not recognizing the name. He hated admitting ignorance about anything so he rarely did. "Why am I in his files? I don't handle cases involving stocks and bonds. And God knows, I can't afford them."

  "I don't know. There must be a reason, though. Vincent never does anything without a reason."

  She looked down at the sheet of paper. "Sidney Taine," she read, "Thirty-one years old, male, Caucasian. Six feet, two inches tall; weight, two hundred and fourteen pounds. No scars or distinguishing characteristics. Taine runs a private investigation agency from the Acme Building on Chicago's North Side. His one employee, Mary McConnell, serves as both secretary and researcher."

  Mrs. Caldwell looked up at him. "Right so far?"

  "Two hundred and eight pounds," said Taine quietly. "I've been on a diet."

  "Taine only handles missing person cases. In the two years since he arrived in Chicago from San Francisco, he has brought to a satisfactory conclusion nearly ninety percent of his inquiries. Even allowing for some prejudice in his selection of assignments, this record defies statistical analysis. A recent newspaper article called Taine a 'modern psychic detective' because of his use of harmonic frequencies, crystals and other so-called New Age beliefs in his investigations."

  Taine pushed himself up and out of his chair. A powerfully muscled man, he moved with the lithe grace of a jungle cat. Walking over to the window that directly faced the lake, he pulled back the curtains to get a better view of the approaching squall. Thunder flickered in the black clouds, which were now much closer to shore.

  "Is that true?" said Mrs. Caldwell.

  "What? The number of cases I've solved. I believe so. It never occurred to me—"

  "No, no," Mrs. Caldwell interrupted, sounding annoyed. "Do you truly believe in psychic phenomena—in Black Magic?"

  "By Black Magic, I assume you mean some force opposed to White Magic," said Taine slowly, turning back to face the woman. "Such terms mean nothing. Magic has no orientation. However," he continued, not giving her a chance to speak, "good and evil exist in this imperfect world of ours. Good and evil men make their magic black or white."

  "You argue semantics," said Evangeline Caldwell, with a wave of a hand. "Now you know why I came to you for help. You never answered my original question. Will you help me or not?"

  "Maybe. But not until you give me more details."

  "Oh, all right," she said, angrily. "You men are all alike. Always obsessed with facts."

  Blowing a smoke ring into the air, Mrs. Caldwell continued in a calmer tone. "I want you to find a man who calls himself Arelim. I know nothing about him other than both my father and my husband fear him. And they are not afraid of many people."

  "Arelim," said Taine, repeating the name. "Now I know why you wanted a New Age detective. Not many people would recognize that title. It comes from The Kabbalah. If I remember correctly, it's the designation for the Angel of Rigorous Ministry. Or, updating that title, the Avenging Angel."

  "I never heard of that Kabbalah thing," said Evangeline Caldwell, looking around the room nervously. "I only heard the name when my husband mentioned it on the phone. But my father called him exactly that—the Angel of Vengeance. I must find him."

  "I gather you can't just ask your husband where this gentleman lives?"

  She laughed, a little hysterical now. "They don't even know I learned his name. Last week, I arrived home early from an appointment. I heard my husband yelling into the phone. Curious, I picked up an extension and eavesdropped.

  "Victor was pleading with my father for assistance. Arelim threatened to interfere with a major business operation being run by my husband. Both men were very cautious about what they said, but I got the impression my father knew all of the details of the enterprise. One thing I can tell you. Victor sounded frightened—very, very frightened."

  "Did your father agree to help?"

  "Evidently Harmon owed Victor his cooperation. Again, they spoke in vague generalities. They both belonged to the same Lodge and membership required they work together. That convinced me that the old bastard feared this Arelim nearly as much as did my husband.

  "You see, my father and Victor maintain cordial relations in public, but privately they despise each other. For them to join forces is incredible. Their hatred runs deeper than mere business rivalry."

  Taking a deep breath, she continued. "Years ago, Victor seduced Harmon's mistress. She was living with my father at the time and had access to all of his records and files. For months, she served as a spy at the highest level of father's financial network. Andrea revealed major business secrets to Victor while retaining Harmon's full trust. Harmon lost millions before he finally discovered her treachery.

  "Compounding the betrayal, Andrea moved in with Victor immediately after leaving my father. She made no secret which man she regarded as a better lover. The news hit the market like a bomb exploding. His colleagues on the Exchange ridiculed my father for months. The money he lost never bothered him. But he never forgave Victor for the embarrassment he suffered."

  "And yet you married the same guy?"

  "Victor offered me an escape from a pointless existence. Or so it seemed at the time. And it enraged Harmon to lose another woman to his worst enemy. In those days, it seemed a suitable way to pay back my father for years of neglect."

  "I take it that relations are somewhat strained between the two of you?"

  "You can put it that way. Harmon goes out of his way to cross Victor in their business dealings. But their battles all take place in the financial markets. Outside that arena, they remain in close contact because of their Lodge affiliation. Two or three times a year we dine together. At such occasions, father is polite but cold. He refuses to speak to me unless absolutely necessary.

  "He never forgave his only living relative for marrying his worst enemy. The hatred I see reflected in his eyes frightens me. That is why I must find Arelim before he does."

  "You think if you can find him first, that might change your father's opinion of you?"

  "I don't give a damn about his opinion," said Evange-line, her face flaring red with suppressed fury. "He deserves every bit of suffering and bad fortune that comes his way. If Harmon fell overboard in shark-infested waters, I wouldn't throw him a life jacket. Instead, I'd laugh myself silly watching the sharks fight over his carcass. I want to find Arelim for my own reasons. They need not concern you."

  "Sure," said Taine with a short laugh. "I'm just your hired flunky."

  Taine dropped back into the swivel chair behind his desk. "Can you tell me anything else about this guy other than his name?"

  "No. That was all I heard."

  "You want me to find one man in a metropolitan area of six million people, with my only clues his name and the fact he scares your husband and your father? Lady, despite what you saw in that file, I'm not a magician."

  "Arelim is."

  "Huh. What do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I say. Arelim is a black magician. That is what frightens Victor so much. Threats of violence never bother my husband. After years of double crossing, he routinely handles such matters. But the forces of sorcery change everything. That is why he needs my father's aid."

  "Extending that chain of logic one step farther, Mrs. Caldwell, that implies—"

  "Take it any way you want," she said sharply, rising abruptly from her chair. "Ten thousand in cash for accepting the case. Another ten thousand if you find Arelim before Friday evening."

  "Why the Friday deadline?"

  She shook her head. "I can't tell you that, either." She shuddered. "Just find him before then. My life depends on it. My very soul depends on it."

  "You could go to the police."

  "Harmon Sangmeister is above the law," she said, as if stating the obvious. "He lives by his own rules. The police mean nothing to him. They serve as mere annoyances to someone of his wealth and power. You're the only one who can save me, Taine."

  Suddenly angry, Taine tightly clenched one hand into a fist. He shook it as he spoke, as if punching out his words. "No man is above the law. There always comes a reckoning. I'll take your case. I dislike you depending so much on me, but I'll do my best. How do I reach you if I have something to report?"

  She snuffed out her cigar against the bronze paperweight on his desk. "Let me worry about that. I'll keep in touch. Don't ever call me. The servants can't be trusted. They report my every movement to my husband."