The Witching Hour

  As I pondered all these things, I also found myself thinking often of Petyr van Abel--Petyr whose father had been a great surgeon and anatomist in Leiden, a name in the history books to this day. I longed to tell Rowan Mayfair: "See that name, that Dutch doctor who was famous for his study of anatomy. That is your ancestor. His blood and his skill perhaps have come down to you through all the generations and the years."

  These were my thoughts when in the fall of 1988 our investigators began to report some amazing findings regarding traumatic deaths in Rowan's past. It seems that a little girl fighting with Rowan on the playground in San Francisco had suffered a violent cerebral hemorrhage and died within a few feet of the hysterical Rowan before an ambulance could even be called.

  Then in 1974, when Rowan was a teenager, she was saved from assault at the hands of a convicted rapist when the man suffered a fatal heart attack as Rowan struggled to fight him off.

  In 1984, on the afternoon that he first complained of a severe headache, Dr. Karl Lemle of the Keplinger Institute told his secretary, Berenice, that he had just seen Rowan unexpectedly and that he could not understand the animosity she felt for him. She had become so angry when he tried to speak to her that she had cut him off in front of the other doctors at University. In fact, she'd given him a bad headache. He needed some aspirin. He was hospitalized for the first of his successive hemorrhages that night, and died within a matter of weeks.

  That made five deaths from cerebrovascular or cardiovascular accident among Rowan's close associates. Three of these people had died while Rowan was present. Two had seen her within hours of taking ill.

  I told my investigators to run an exhaustive check on every single one of Rowan's classmates or colleagues, and to check each and every name with the death records in San Francisco and in the city of the person's birth. Of course this would take months.

  But within weeks, they had found yet another death. It was Owen Gander who called me, a man who has worked directly for the Talamasca for twenty years. He is not a member of the order, but he has visited the Motherhouse and he is one of our most trusted confidants, and one of the best investigators we have.

  This was his report. At U.C. Berkeley in 1978, Rowan had had a terrible argument with another student over some laboratory work. Rowan felt that the girl had deliberately meddled with her equipment. Rowan had lost her temper--an extremely rare occurrence--and thrown a piece of equipment to the ground, breaking it, and then turned her back on the girl. The girl then ridiculed Rowan until other students came between them insisting that the girl stop.

  The girl went home that night to Palo Alto, California, as the spring break began the following day. By the end of spring break she had died of a cerebrovascular hemorrhage. There was no indication from the record that Rowan ever knew.

  When I read this, I called Gander immediately from London. "What makes you think Rowan didn't know?" I asked.

  "None of her friends knew. After I found the girl's death in the Palo Alto records, I researched her with Rowan's friends. They all remembered the fight, but they didn't know what happened to the girl afterwards. Not a single one knew. I asked them pointedly. 'Never saw her again.' 'Guess she dropped out of school.' 'Never knew her very well. Don't know what happened to her. Maybe she went back to Stanford.' That's it. U.C. Berkeley is an enormous university. It could have happened like that."

  I then advised the investigator to proceed with the utmost discretion to discover whether Rowan knew what had happened to Graham's mistress, Karen Garfield. "Call her some time in the evening. Ask for Graham Franklin. When she tells you Graham is dead, explain that you are trying to find Karen Garfield. But try to upset her as little as possible, and don't stay on the line very long."

  The investigator called back the following evening.

  "You're right."

  "About what?" I asked.

  "She doesn't know she's doing it! She doesn't have any idea that Karen Garfield is dead. She told me Karen lived somewhere on Jackson Street in San Francisco. She suggested I try Graham's old secretary. Aaron, she doesn't know."

  "How did she sound?"

  "Weary, faintly annoyed, but polite. She has a beautiful voice, really. Rather exceptional voice. I asked her if she'd seen Karen. I was really pushing it. She said that she didn't actually know Karen, that Karen had been a friend of her father's. I believe she was perfectly sincere!"

  "Well, she had to know about her stepfather, and about the little girl on the playground. And she had to know about the rapist."

  "Yes, but Aaron, probably none of them was deliberate. Don't you see? She was hysterical when that little girl died; she was hysterical after the rape attempt. As for the stepfather, she was doing everything she could to resuscitate him when the ambulance arrived. She doesn't know. Or if she does know, she can't control it. It might be scaring her half to death."

  I told Gander to reconsider the matter of the young lovers in greater detail. Look for any relevant deaths among policemen or fire fighters in San Francisco or Marin County. Go back to the bars Rowan frequented; start a conversation with one of her former lovers; say you're looking for Rowan Mayfair. Has anybody seen her? Does anybody know her? Be as discreet and nondisruptive as possible. But dig.

  Gander called four days later. There had been no such suspicious deaths among any young men in the departments who could conceivably be connected to Rowan. But one thing had emerged from the investigator's talks in the bar. One young fireman, who admitted to knowing Rowan and liking her, said she was no mystery to him, rather she was an open book. "She's a doctor; she likes saving people's lives and she hangs around with us because we do the same thing."

  "Did Rowan actually say that to the young man?"

  "Yes, she told him that. He made a joke about it. 'Imagine, I went to bed with a brain surgeon. She fell in love with my medals. It was great while it lasted. You think if I pull somebody out of a burning building, she'll give me another chance?' " Gander laughed. "She doesn't know, Aaron. She's hooked on saving people, and maybe she doesn't even know why."

  "She has to know. She's too good a doctor not to know," I said. "Remember, this girl is a diagnostic genius. She must have known with the stepfather. Unless of course we're wrong about the whole thing."

  "We're not wrong," said Gander. "What you've got here, Aaron, is a brilliant neurosurgeon descended from a family of witches, who can kill people just by looking at them; and on some level she knows it, she has to, and she spends every day of her life making up for it in the Operating Room, and when she goes out on the town it's with some hero who's just saved a kid from a burning attic, or a cop who's stopped a drunk from stabbing his wife. She's sort of mad, this lady. Maybe as mad as all the rest."

  In December of 1988, I went to California. I had been to the States in January to attend the funeral of Nancy Mayfair, and I deeply regretted not having gone on to the coast at that time to try to get a glimpse of Rowan. But no one had an inkling, then, that both Ellie and Graham would be dead within six months.

  Rowan was now all alone in the house in Tiburon. I wanted to have a look at her, even if it was from a distance. I wanted to make some appraisal which depended upon my seeing her in the flesh.

  By that time, we had not--thank God--turned up any more deaths in Rowan's past. As the senior resident in neurosurgery, she was working a hectic if not inhuman schedule at the hospital, and I found it far more difficult to get a glimpse of her than I ever imagined. She left the hospital from a covered parking lot and drove into a covered garage at home. The Sweet Christine, moored at her very doorstep, was concealed entirely by a high redwood fence.

  At last I entered University Hospital, sought out the doctors' cafeteria, and hovered near it in a small visitors' area for seven hours. To my knowledge Rowan never passed.

  I resolved to follow her from the hospital only to discover that there was no way to discover when she might be leaving. When she arrived was also a mystery. There was no discreet way to press anyon
e for details. I could not risk hanging about in the area adjacent to the Operating Rooms. It wasn't open to the public. The waiting room for the family members of those having surgery was strictly monitored. And the rest of the hospital was like a labyrinth. I didn't know finally what to do.

  I was thrown into consternation. I wanted to see Rowan, but I dreaded disturbing her. I could not bear the thought of bringing darkness into her life, of clouding the isolation from the past which seemed, on the surface, to have served her so well. On the other hand, if she was actually responsible for the deaths of six human beings! Well, I had to see her before I could make a decision. I had to see her.

  Unable to come to any decision, I invited Gander for a drink at the hotel. Gander felt Rowan was deeply troubled. He had watched her off and on for over fifteen years. She had had the wind knocked out of her by the death of her parents, he said. And we could now pretty fairly well confirm that her random contact with the "boys in blue," as he called her lovers, had dropped off in the last few months.

  I told Gander I would not leave California without a glimpse of her, if I had to hover in the underground parking lot near her car--the absolutely worst way possible to achieve a sighting--until she appeared.

  "I wouldn't try that, old man," said Gander. "Underground parking lots are the spookiest places. Her little psychic antennae will pick you up instantly. Then she'll misinterpret the intensity of your interest in her, and you'll get a sudden stabbing pain in the side of your head. Next you'll suddenly ... "

  "I follow the drift, Owen," I said dismally. "But I must get a good look at her in some public place where she isn't aware of me."

  "Well, make it happen," said Gander. "Do a little witchcraft yourself. Synchronicity? Isn't that what they call it?"

  The following day I decided to do some routine work. I went to the cemetery where Graham and Ellie were buried, to photograph the inscriptions on the stones. I had twice asked Gander to do this, but somehow he had never gotten around to it. I think he enjoyed the other aspects of the investigation much more.

  While I was there, the most remarkable thing happened. Rowan Mayfair appeared.

  I was down on my knees in the sun, making a few notes on the inscriptions, having already taken the photographs, when I became aware of this tall young woman in a sailor's coat and faded dungarees coming up the hill. She seemed all legs and blowing hair for a moment, a very fresh-faced and lovely young creature. Quite impossible to believe she was thirty years old.

  On the contrary, her face had almost no lines in it at all. She looked exactly like the photographs taken of her years ago, yet she looked very much like someone else, and for one moment the resemblance so distracted me that I could not think who it was. Then it came to me. It was Petyr van Abel. She had the same blond, pale-eyed look. It was very nearly Scandinavian, and she appeared extremely independent and extremely strong.

  She approached the grave, and stopped only a few feet away where I knelt, clearly taking notes from her stepmother's headstone.

  At once I began to talk to her. I cannot remember precisely what I said. I was so flustered that I didn't know what I should say to explain my appearance mere, and very slowly I sensed danger just as surely as I had sensed it with Cortland years ago. I sensed enormous danger. In fact, her smooth pale face with its large gray eyes seemed suddenly filled with pure malice. Then a wall went up behind her expression. She closed down, rather like a giant receiver which is suddenly and soundlessly turned off.

  I realized with horror that I had been talking about her family. I had told her that I knew the Mayfairs of New Orleans. It was my feeble excuse for what I was doing there. Did she want to have a drink, talk about old family matters. Dear God! What if she said yes!

  But she said nothing. Absolutely nothing, at least not in words. I could have sworn, however, that the closed receiver suddenly became a highly focused speaker and she communicated to me quite deliberately that she couldn't avail herself of my offer, something dark and terrible and painful prevented her from doing it, and then she seemed lost in confusion; lost in misery. In fact, I have seldom if ever in my life felt such pure pain.

  It came to me in a silent flash that she knew she had killed people. She knew she was different in a horrible and mortal way. She knew it and the knowledge sealed her up as if she were buried alive inside herself.

  Perhaps it had not been malice which I felt only moments before. But whatever had taken place was now concluded. I was losing her. She was turning away. Why she had come, what she meant to do, I would never know.

  At once I offered her my card. I put it in her hand. She gave it back to me. She wasn't rude when she did it. She simply did it. She put it right back in my hand. The malice leapt out of her like a flash of light from a keyhole. Then she went dim. Her body tensed and she turned and walked off.

  I was so badly shaken that for a long moment I could not move. I stood in the cemetery watching her walk down the hill. I saw her get into a green Jaguar sedan. Off she drove without glancing back.

  Was I ill? Had I suffered a severe pain somewhere? Was I about to die? Of course not. Nothing like that had happened. Yet I knew what she could do. I knew and she knew and she had told me! But why?

  By the time I reached the Campton Place Hotel in San Francisco, I was thoroughly confused. I decided I would do nothing further for the present.

  When I met with Gander, I said: "Keep up the surveillance. Get as close as you dare. Watch for anything that indicates she is using the power. Report to me at once."

  "Then you're not going to make contact."

  "Not now. I can't justify it. Not until something else happens and that could be either of two things: she kills someone else, deliberately or accidentally. Or her mother dies in New Orleans and she decides to go home."

  "Aaron, that's madness! You have to make contact. You can't wait until she goes back to New Orleans. Look, old man, you have pretty much told me the whole story over the years. And I don't claim to know what you people know about it. But from everything you've told me, this is the most powerful psychic the family has ever produced. Who's to say she's not a powerful witch as well? When her mother finally goes, why would this spook Lasher miss an opportunity like this?"

  I couldn't answer, except to say what Owen already knew. There were absolutely no sightings of Lasher in Rowan's history.

  "So he's biding his time. The other woman's still alive. She has the necklace. But when she dies, they have to give it to Rowan. From what you've told me, it's the law."

  I called Scott Reynolds in London. Scott is no longer our director, but he is the most knowledgeable person in the order on the subject of the Mayfair Witches, next to me.

  "I agree with Owen. You have to make contact. You have to. What you said to her in the cemetery was exactly what you should have said, and on some level you know it. That's why you told her you knew her family. That's why you offered her the card. Talk to her. You have to."

  "No, I disagree with you. It isn't justified."

  "Aaron, this woman is a conscientious physician, yet she's killing people! Do you think she wants to do that sort of thing? On the other hand ... "

  " ... what?"

  "If she does know, this contact could be dangerous. I have to confess, I don't know how I would feel about all this if I were there, if I were you."

  I thought it over. I decided that I would not do it. Everything that Owen and Scott had said was true. But it was all conjecture. We did not know whether Rowan had ever deliberately killed anyone. Possibly she was not responsible for the six deaths.

  We could not know whether she would ever lay her hands on the emerald necklace. We did not know if she would ever go to New Orleans. We did not know whether or not Rowan's power included the ability to see a spirit, or to help Lasher to materialize ... ah, but of course we could pretty well conjecture that Rowan could do all that ... But that was just it, it was conjecture. Conjecture and nothing more.

  And here was this h
ardworking doctor saving lives daily in a big city Operating Room. A woman untouched by the darkness that shrouded the First Street house. True, she had a ghastly power, and she might again use it, either deliberately or inadvertently. And if that happened, then I would make contact.

  "Ah, I see, you want another body on the slab," said Owen.

  "I don't believe there is going to be another," I said angrily. "Besides, if she doesn't know she's doing it, why should she believe us?"

  "Conjecture," said Owen. "Like everything else."

  SUMMATION

  As of January 1989, Rowan has not been connected with any other suspicious deaths. On the contrary, she has worked tirelessly at University Hospital at "working miracles," and will very likely be appointed Attending Physician in neurosurgery before the end of the year.

  In New Orleans, Deirdre Mayfair continues to sit in her rocking chair, staring out over the ruined garden. The last sighting of Lasher--"a nice young man standing beside her"--was reported two weeks ago.

  Carlotta Mayfair is nearing ninety years of age. Her hair is entirely white, though the style of it has not changed in fifty years. Her skin is milky and her ankles are perpetually swollen over the tops of her plain black leather shoes. But her voice remains quite steady. And she still goes to the office every morning for four hours. Sometimes, she has lunch with the younger lawyers before she takes her regular taxi home.

  On Sundays she walks to Mother of Perpetual Help Chapel to go to Mass. People in the parish have offered to drive her to Mass, and indeed, anyplace else that she would like to go. But she says that she likes walking. She needs the fresh air. It keeps her in good health.

  When Sister Bridget Marie died in the fall of 1987, Carlotta attended the funeral with her nephew (cousin, actually) Gerald Mayfair, a great-grandson of Clay Mayfair. She is said to like Gerald. She is said to be afraid she may not live long enough to see Deirdre at peace. Maybe Gerald will have to take care of Deirdre after Carlotta is gone.