"Then he'll know you consulted me this morning."

  "I gave my chauffeur the slip. He thinks I'm at a charity bazaar in the Loop. I left by the rear exit and took a cab up here. After I leave, I'll return the same way. At those type of affairs, no one comments if you disappear for an hour or two."

  "Sounds very civilized," said Taine, rising.

  He circled the desk and helped her with her wrap.

  "I make no promises on this job. Miracles usually take more than four days."

  "You must not fail," she said, trembling again as she spoke. "My father hosts his Lodge for a mystic ceremony this Friday at midnight. They conduct these meetings once a year, always on the eve of May first. In the past few years, his second wife assisted him. But she died in an auto accident in November. Harmon expects me to take her place. He discussed the necessary preparations with Victor during that same phone conversation."

  "Not exactly to your liking, I gather."

  "I'm scared, Taine," she said, her face chalk white. "Something terribly wrong takes place at those celebrations. I'm no prude, that's for sure, but whatever goes on that evening is not just immoral. It's evil."

  "Why not get out of town?"

  "Harmon would find me and bring me back. No one crosses my father. You don't know his power. I do. He controls forces beyond belief. Believe me, my only chance is to stay and fight. And I can only do that if you find Arelim."

  "I'll do my best," said Taine. He walked with her to the door to the outer office. "Call me tomorrow evening. Hopefully, I'll have something by then."

  3

  Alone in his office, Taine seated himself behind his desk and flipped on the intercom. "No calls, Mrs. McConnell," he said into the small box. "I want to be alone for the next hour or so."

  "Yes sir, Mr. Taine," answered his assistant from the next room.

  Taine smiled with satisfaction. Mrs. McConnell was the perfect "woman Friday." She never questioned any of his requests. They had worked together for nearly two years and still called each other by their last names. He knew nothing about her life outside of the office. They never socialized other than sharing a lunch at the restaurant at the foot of the Acme Building when business was slow. Even then, they chatted about the weather, about clients, and the fortunes of the Cubs. Personal life remained off-limits.

  He guessed her age to be around forty, give or take a year or two. A slender short woman with jet black hair and green eyes, she dressed simply but well. She was an efficient and highly skilled secretary. More important, she was a talented researcher and investigator. Mrs. McConnell used a telephone like a master swordsman wielded a fine blade. She ferreted out obscure information from uncooperative sources with a surgeon's skill. Taine credited half his success to her expertise.

  A wall switch turned on the overhead fan and air freshener. He couldn't concentrate with the strong odor of cigar smoke in his office. He shook his head in disgust, trying to understand why a beautiful woman poisoned herself with tobacco.

  Pulling out his key ring, Taine unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Reaching in, he pulled out a worn deck of tarot cards kept together by several rubber bands. One massive arm swept all the oddball clutter from the top of his desk onto the floor. Transferring the cards from one hand to the other, he flexed his fingers, getting them loose and supple.

  Carefully, he removed the elastics and set the seventy-eight cards at the center of the empty desk. Concentrating now, he broke the deck into two stacks and mixed them thoroughly. He repeated the same routine twelve more times.

  Closing his eyes, Taine cleared his mind of all distractions. He inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply, oxygenating his system. Years of practice enabled him to enter a trancelike state merely through touching the worn edges of his personal tarot deck.

  Looking inward, he visualized a great stone pyramid sitting silently in a vast sea of sand. At the top of the pyramid rested a huge blue eye, all-seeing and all-knowing, staring directly at him. To Taine, this mental image symbolized the power of the mysterious cards, the wisdom and secrets of ancient Egyptian sorcerers.

  With his eyes open but still filled with the vision, Taine constructed the Kabalistic Tree of Life. In less than a minute he dealt out nine stacks of cards, forming three interweaving triangles. A tenth pack went in the center of the bottom-most figure. The remaining cards he left on the side of the desk, away from the tree.

  The first triangle encompassed the spirit, the second stood for reason, and the third symbolized intuition. Taine firmly believed that the cards held incredible secrets of magic for the enlightened. He never started a case without first performing a reading.

  The true tarot deck contains seventy-eight cards. There are four suits: cups, wands, coins and swords. Each consists of the numerals from one through ten and the four court cards. Additionally, there are twenty-two major trumps, unusual and obscure picture cards, each one with its own meaning and title.

  Taine subscribed to the belief that the cards originated in Egypt. Created by the mystic sorcerers of that ancient land, the tarot deck was the exclusive property of the Priests of Osiris and was used by them to predict the future.

  However, during the time of the Roman conquest of Egypt, a pack fell into the hands of a nameless soldier in Caesar's army. Not realizing the deck's true purpose, he instead used them for gambling. Within a few years, the far traveling Legions of the Empire had spread the tarot deck throughout the known world. In that manner, the secrets of Egyptian magic traveled down through the ages.

  Working methodically, Taine turned over a card from each deck, following the "Serpent of Wisdom" from the foot of the Tree upward. Each individual tarot card told a story. At the same time, all of the glyphs combined together to form an integrated network of symbols with its own separate meaning. He continued working through the deck, carefully watching the pattern that developed.

  After he concluded the first reading, Taine gathered the cards together and repeated the whole procedure. A true divination required three readings.

  Each deal yielded the same results. A run of four major trumps occurred in all three passes. First came "The Wheel of Fortune," the card of destiny. Following that was "Pope Joan," the trump standing for a mysterious woman. Third in the progression was "The Hermit," the symbol of hidden wisdom. The final card, in all three readings was the thirteen trump, "La Mort," the skeleton—predicting death.

  Taine banded the cards together, returned them to the drawer and locked it. Pocketing the key, he switched off the lights and exited the room.

  "I'm leaving for the rest of the day," he said to Mrs. McConnell. "Mrs. Caldwell made it quite clear she expects results from this investigation by Friday. She's willing to pay for speed, and I can use the cash. Postpone all the other appointments on my calendar till next week. If they can't wait till then, give them Paul Schulz's phone number. He has the necessary manpower and I trust his judgment."

  "Whatever you say," replied Mrs. McConnell. "You're the boss."

  "After that, I want you to do some checking for me."

  "Go ahead," she said, pulling out a pen and memo book.

  "I want all the background you can get on Victor Caldwell and his wife, Evangeline Caldwell. I'm especially interested in Victor's recent business dealings. See what your contacts in the business community think of him."

  "You want all the dirt and gossip?" asked Mrs. McConnell, tapping her pen against the top of the pad. "You saw how she dresses. Her type always generates the most talk—both true and false."

  "Get me everything," said Taine. "I'm not worried about Mrs. Caldwell's reputation." He paused for an instant. "She referred several times this morning to her father, Harmon Sangmeister. Don't turn over any rocks, but learn all you can about the old man as well."

  "Sounds nice and juicy. Anything else?"

  "Arelim. According to The Kabbalah, that's the secret name of Elohim's Avenging Angel."

  "You want me to find all other references."

  "If you can. Try calling that occult bookstore in New York City. The old man who runs the place is a walking encyclopedia of Hebrew mysticism."

  "Still more?"

  "Just this," said Taine and took the pen and pad from her hands. Beneath her notes, he sketched a rough drawing of the emblem worn by Mrs. Caldwell. "Track down this design. It's the badge of a medieval occult organization or secret society. I want to know which one."

  "With full particulars about the group, I assume," said Mrs. McConnell. She closed her notebook. "This might take some real money. Should I spare no expense?"

  Taine nodded. Mrs. McConnell knew the value of a dollar. She only used bribery when nothing else worked. He relied on her judgment in all such matters.

  "You took the words right out of my mouth. Our client is footing the bill. Grease the way if necessary, but maintain a low profile."

  "I'll walk on tiptoes."

  "That sounds like a good idea," said Taine, pulling a battered hat and coat off the clothes tree by the front door. "Even rich people can be dangerous when threatened."

  4

  Sullivan Preparatory School on Chicago's north shore promptly dismissed students at three minutes after three o'clock every afternoon of the school year. The principal strictly enforced this rule so that parents knew exactly when to meet their children. In most circumstances, this dogmatic adherence to schedule pleased Janet Packard. Today, stuck in traffic six blocks away and five minutes late, she cursed the day she enrolled her son at the academy. She also cursed the traffic, cursed the weather, and cursed the driver in the car ahead of her.

  Muttering a number of very unladylike remarks, she leaned on the horn, venting her rage the only way possible. Under usual conditions, the trip from her jewelry establishment in the Loop to the school took eighteen minutes. She normally left her store at twenty to three, giving herself an additional five-minute cushion.

  Today, a wealthy old dowager looking to purchase an expensive diamond bracelet had insisted on dealing with no one but the proprietor. Reluctant to lose a major sale, Janet had handled the negotiations. She pushed the deal through in record time. However, she left the store ten minutes later than usual. Speeding cut that deficit in half, but a broken water main on Sheridan Road ended any chance of arriving on time.

  Like many only children raised by a single parent, Timmy was a shy, quiet boy—more at ease with adults than with kids his own age. Despite constant assurances of love and affection from his mother, he exhibited an overwhelming fear of abandonment. The last time Janet arrived more than a few minutes late at school, she found Timmy huddled up against a wall, bawling like a baby. It took a visit to the zoo to calm his fears that time. Janet feared it might be worse today.

  As mysteriously as it began, the traffic jam dissolved. Janet slammed down hard on the gas pedal, sending her BMW roaring through the last few blocks to Timmy's school. With a screech of protesting rubber, the car shuddered to a stop in the Academy parking lot at ten minutes after the hour.

  Janet jumped out, her eyes anxiously scanning the playground adjacent to the school. Only a few children remained. None of them was Timmy. Feeling the first touch of worry, she hurried over to the building's exit. No one waited inside. Again she checked all the other children in the yard, making sure no one lurked behind a swing or bench. The results proved the same. Timmy was gone.

  Her palms sweaty and cold, Janet finally spotted Mrs. Kearny, the playground monitor who regulated afterschool traffic. She rushed over to the elderly teacher. The short, white-haired woman frowned as Janet approached.

  "Why are you here today?" the teacher asked.

  "To pick up Timmy," said Janet, her heart pounding furiously. Had something terrible happened while she was stuck in traffic? Where was her son?

  "But your father sent his car for your boy today. The driver assured me you asked them to take Timmy to visit Mr. Packard today." The old woman sounded puzzled. "You did make arrangements, didn't you?"

  "Oh, of course," said Janet, trying to keep her anger from showing. "I ... uh ... forgot," she said, trying to come up with some plausible excuse. "Business pressures . . ."

  "Yes. I'm sure," said Mrs. Kearny, her tone making it perfectly clear she suspected Janet of drinking on the job or worse. The teacher shuddered. "Why does your father insist on employing that spooky chauffeur? That man is positively sinister. What a brute."

  Janet laughed. "Bruno? He's as gentle as a puppy."

  "Maybe so," replied the teacher, "but he gives me the creeps."

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Janet returned to her car. The notion of Bruno, her father's manservant and chauffeur, frightening anyone seemed absolutely incredible. Bruno had served her father since before she was born. To Janet, he was part of the family.

  Then she paused, thinking back to her childhood. She vaguely remembered classmates taunting her about "The Asp." The nickname came from the Little Orphan Annie comic strip. If Janet remembered correctly, it had been coined not by one of her friends, but by one of her teachers. Bruno's slicked-down black hair, swarthy features and muscular build invited comparisons between him and the cartoon character. Janet knew Bruno as a shy, compassionate man, ill at ease around strangers. She wondered if he dressed the way he did to erect a wall between himself and people like Mrs. Kearny.

  Her lips pressed tightly together in annoyance, Janet steered her car into the traffic heading north. Her memory rarely failed at anything and never in regards to her son. Bruno never acted without direct orders from her father. And Leo Packard never did anything without a reason. The uneasy feeling she experienced in the playground returned and she could do nothing to shake it.

  Twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of Brentwood, her father's suburban estate. The huge old house looked unchanged from the days of her youth. With her mother and older brother both long dead and Janet living in a town house, her father spent most of the year at his residence in Florida. Leo opened Brentwood only for his brief stays in Chicago during the spring and fall. He had returned to the city a few weeks ago, but due to conflicting schedules, they had yet to get together. Not that they were very close anyway.

  Her father doted on Timmy. He never failed to see her son at least once during his trips north. She wondered if perhaps Leo might be leaving earlier than planned. He could have sent Bruno on his unusual errand because he wanted to spend some time with his only grandchild before he departed. The notion seemed possible.but not very probable. Leo was incredibly rich. Money served him, not the other way around. He never allowed time or circumstances to dictate his plans.

  Martha Skoup, his father's other full-time employee, answered the door. Martha had served as maid, cook and general secretary for Leo for nearly twenty years. A big, brawny Slavic woman with dark brown hair and matching eyes, Martha had the softest voice imaginable. She never spoke above a whisper. Much of what she said went unheard. Like Bruno, she was absolutely devoted to her boss. Janet knew Leo paid both his servants extravagant salaries, but she suspected that if necessary they would work for nothing. She often wondered what it was about her father that generated such absolute devotion.

  "Is Timmy here, Martha?" Janet asked, as she walked into the main hall.

  "Yes, Miss Janet. He's upstairs in his room, playing with Bruno."

  His room. Actually, it once belonged to her brother, Ralph. For years after his death in a drunk driving accident, the room had remained closed and locked. It was quite clear to Janet that to her father, Timmy represented a small measure of redemption for that tragedy.

  She still remembered the look on her parent's face that night. Leo had been at a confidential business conference and all efforts to contact him had proven unsuccessful. He had returned home well after midnight, to be greeted by a policeman in the front hall. His wife, Janet's mother, had already collapsed after hearing the news. It was the first of a long series of bouts of depression that inevitably climaxed with her suicide three months later. Only Janet, barely ten years old, waited with the officer.

  "Your son must have been drinking heavily for hours," the policeman told her father. "We found several empty whiskey bottles on the floor of his car. We're still not sure where he did his drinking or when.

  "The last time any of his friends remembered seeing him was leaving a party around eight. He was sober then. Evidently, in the next four hours, he fell in with another crowd and got smashing drunk. The details usually come out after a while. Sooner or later we'll get all the facts. In any case, we found his car smashed into an oak tree on a deserted stretch of Route Forty-three in the Forest Preserve. According to the coroner, he died around midnight."

  "Did he suffer much?" her father managed to ask, his voice crackling with pain.

  "The crash killed him," said the policeman, staring at the floor. "The impact sent him flying through the front window. The windshield glass cut him to shreds. It was like he was stabbed by a hundred daggers at the same instant. He probably never knew what hit him."

  "A hundred daggers," her father repeated, his face twisted in horror. To Janet, all the anguish in the world seemed wrapped up in those few terrible words.

  "Are you all right, Miss Janet?" asked Martha, a note of apprehension in her voice.

  "Yes, yes, I'm okay," said Janet. "Just overcome by memories for a moment. Brentwood sometimes does that to me." She paused for an instant. "It was nineteen years ago, almost to a day, that Ralph died."

  "Yes, ma'am," said Martha, in her quietest voice. "Dreadful night, that. Killed your mother, too. The shock that is. She never recovered from the news, poor sweet lady. This Friday's the day—April thirtieth."

  Janet started up the stairs to Ralph's old room. "Your father is resting on the sun porch, Miss Janet," said Martha. "He asked me to tell you that. He wants to talk to you after you see Timmy."

  "I plan on doing exactly that," said Janet.