Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (47 page)

 
          
"Indeed
I can, young man! It were better that Walter had died than that he should
become such a tool of the Enemy. Nights when I cannot sleep, I wonder if I take
too much refuge in the law. Knowing what he would become once he'd left us, it
might have been better if I had killed him myself."

 
          
Colin
was no Catholic, but in many ways the Light that he served and the Roman Church
held similar views. "He can still repent," Colin argued re-flexively.
"So long as he lives, there is hope."

 
          
"Ah,
yes. An excellent rebuke, Teacher. Pride and despair together in one beguiling
spiritual fault. But there are times when it is so hard to stand by and let
Evil be done. It is a cold consolation to know that one is preventing a greater
Evil by one's own inaction."

 
          
"It
is the hardest lesson," Colin agreed. The two men sat together for a moment
in silence.

 
          
"But
you will be wanting to talk to Walter," Father Godwin said staunchly.

           
"He is living in
Brooklyn
now, I believe. Would you
ring for Mrs. Keppler? She will know which of my Liber Negri I need."

 
          
Mrs.
Keppler brought the ledger quickly
—
and fixed Colin with a
meaningful glare. Colin raised a hand in token that he would cut the visit as
short as he could. Father Godwin might have the vitality of a man twenty years
his junior, but he was still a very old man.

 
          
The
Liber Negri were the records Father Godwin kept of his fallen angels, as he
called them. The pages were inscribed in an exquisite copperplate Latin, the
color of the ink showing that the entries had been made over the course of many
years. He turned the pages quickly, obviously certain of what he was looking
for.

 
          
"Here
we are. Walter Mansell. He lives in Flatbush. If you have a pencil, Colin, I
will give you the address."

 
          
Colin
returned home, where half an hour spent with his atlases enabled Colin to
pinpoint Mansell's precise location and give himself some idea of the layout
of the streets surrounding the building. He was planning to tweak the tiger's
tail, and there was no room in such a plan for surprises. When he was certain
of where he was going, he went around to Cornby's Garage to pick up his
transportation.

 
          
The
Black Beast had died two years before, at the end of a long life of faithful
service. Colin had hesitated over a new car, but all the new models had looked
too low-slung and gleaming for his tastes, and he couldn't imagine fitting his
lanky frame into the front seat of one of those tiny imports.

 
          
He'd
compromised
—
far too close to the side of self-restraint, according to
Claire
—
on
an anonymous Ford van, bought secondhand. It was painted gas-chamber green and
came pre-dented, but there was enough room in the driver's seat for Colin's
long legs. A van had a number of other advantages as well, not the least of
which was its cargo capacity.

 
          
By
six o'clock
he was on the
FDR Drive
, heading south toward the
Brooklyn
Bridge
.

 
          
Ocean Parkway
cut straight through
Brooklyn
on its flight toward
Coney Island
. Along both sides of the
parkway stood brownstones and the classic C-shaped redbrick
Brooklyn
apartment houses.
Generations of immigrants from every part of
Europe
had come to
Brooklyn
, leaving their legacy in
nicknames that ranged from Little Sicily to Little Odessa. Once
Brooklyn
had been a thousand
segregated neighborhoods, from Park Slope to
Borough
Park
and beyond.

 
          
Flatbush
was an area of comfortable middle-class homes and apartments. Though once
entirely Jewish, its population was changing as the old neighborhoods evolved
with the influx of new tenants. Today it was no longer so easy to make an
assumption about a person's religion by knowing their address.

           
Case in point.

 
          
Colin
parked at the end of Mansell's street. There was a synagogue at one end and a
yeshiva at the other, but they were both dark at this time of night, and on a
Wednesday evening traffic was not particularly heavy. Colin eased the green van
into the last available space on the street
—
someone must have just
pulled out, because he could see the dark bulk of a double-parked car halfway
up the street: a big black sedan.

 
          
Colin
did not think he would have to lie to Mansell
—
the unvarnished truth should
be a shocking enough impact to gain him the man's cooperation, or at least the
information he sought.

 
          
He
climbed out of the van and locked the door, handling the key carefully with his
gloved hands. It was a brilliantly clear night, and the air was already
startlingly cold; his breath made dense clouds on the evening air. Colin
glanced around warily, but the street was empty, and he walked up the sidewalk
toward Mansell's apartment, going over in his mind what he would say to the
man.

 
          
If
Mansell was indeed a member of the same black coven that had murdered Sandra
Jacquet, the lead detective on the case would be able to call him in for
questioning. And if Colin's past experience was any judge, this would draw the
whole coven out into the open, allowing Colin to neutralize them before they
could do any further harm.

 
          
It
would still, however, leave the problem of Toller Hasloch. . . .

 
          
Colin
stopped as the door to the apartment building opened. The double-parked sedan
—
a Mercedes
—
stood at the curb. It made
Colin automatically think of a doctor seeing a patient, although most doctors
had stopped making house calls years before.

 
          
Most
New
York
apartments were constructed with an "airlock" as part of the lobby:
two doors, an inner and an outer, that provided both security and insulation.
The space considerations that controlled every facet of city life frequently
reduced the space between those doors to awkward dimensions, necessitating
callers' backing out through the outer door.

 
          
The
man on the steps faced precisely this problem. At first all Colin could see was
the light of the streetlamp falling on his black cashmere topcoat and a sleek
helmet of flaxen-fair hair. Then he turned, starting down the three steps to
the double-parked Mercedes.

 
          
The
shock of recognition was like a shout in a silent world. But
—
somehow
—
it was not as startling as
it should have been. It was as if Colin were an actor following a script he had
read long ago, and on some level he already knew what was to come and who he
was to meet here.

 
          
Indeed,
in some sense he had been born, he had come here, only to meet this man.

 
          
The
fair man stopped in the act of crossing the sidewalk to his waiting vehicle,
and turned back toward Colin. Colin could not see his eyes, but he knew what
color they would be: a grey so pale it was almost colorless, as cold and hungry
as the winter sea.

           
"Why, it's dear old Professor
MacLaren," Toller Hasloch said gaily. "What an unexpected privilege
it is to see you again."

 
          
The
years from twenty-three to thirty-four had been generous to Hasloch. His hair,
though it brushed his shoulders in the current style, was no unkempt hippie
mass, but an expensive Sassoon cut. His black polo coat was open over a
double-breasted pin-striped suit with extravagant lapels; the silk
pocket-square and fashionably wide tie were a bright Peter Max print and the
deeply cuffed bell-bottoms broke over gleaming boots with high stacked heels.

 
          
"I
wouldn't call it a privilege in your position," Colin said. "Still, I
suppose tastes differ. You've done well for yourself, haven't you? I see you've
sold out to the Establishment."

 
          
Hasloch
smiled, an expression as cold and false as the man himself.

 
          
"Professor
MacLaren, I never intended to challenge the Establishment. I have always
intended to suborn it, and then place it in service to the eternal Reich. It's
remarkably easy once you've begun, so I find."

 
          
"It
sounds like a full-time job," Colin commented calmly. "I suppose I
had better let you get back to it."

 
          
"We'll
meet again," Hasloch vowed. He turned to go, then stopped. "I suppose
I ought to be coy in the best movie villain fashion and ask if you've read any
good books lately, but you strike me as such an unlikely candidate for the role
of James Bond that I can't bring myself to do it. I should mention, though,
that if you're looking for Walter, I'm afraid he's out. But do feel more than
welcome to call another day."

 
          
He
knows about the manuscript. He's baiting you. Don't react,
Colin told himself.

 
          
"Yes,"
Hasloch said, as if Colin had spoken. "I'm in this John Cannon business
up to the eyes. Walter's one of mine. Every single one of those pathetic
anti-Church reactionaries is mine
—
and there's nothing that
you, with your precious White Light scruples, can do about it.

 
          
"It's
quite amusing, really. They think they're rebelling, but they're still
celebrating the Big Lie of the Jew-inspired Roman Church, even in their trivial
blasphemies."

 
          
"I
do wonder why you put up with it," Colin said commiseratingly.

 
          
Hasloch
threw back his head and laughed.

 
          
"Because
there's
power
there, my dear monk! Anywhere there is fear or hatred
there is power that feeds the Aeonic Current. But acquit me of being anything
so inconsequential as a Satanist
—
this is simply another mask for me, a diversion until the
time for masks is over. And do go on with your pathetic and useless
crusade," Hasloch said amiably. "You've put so many obstacles in
your own way, you'll never prevail."

 
          
In
one thing, Colin thought to himself grimly, Hasloch had not changed. He still
talked too much, though in one sense he was right
—
the actions which Colin
could take and remain of the Light were much more circumscribed than those
available to the Shadow. To lose patience with that fact, to use the methods of
the Serpent, was to fall to the Shadow and become its tool, witting or not.

 
          
"And
do have a Merry Christmas, Professor." Hasloch turned away and climbed
into his car. A moment later it was moving quietly up the street, white clouds
of steam billowing from its exhaust.

 
          
Colin
watched until the car was out of sight, and then went up the steps to ring
Mansell's bell. There was no answer, not that he had truly expected any. The
encounter he had been drawn to here in
Brooklyn
had been with Hasloch, not
with Mansell. And a challenge had been offered
—
and answered.

 
          
The
odds seemed insurmountable, the contest unwinnable, but all of Colin's life had
been spent waging just such a war. The first victory must be over the Self, to
gain the tools for all that followed. It was a battle that must constantly be
refought, but each time he conquered his own impatience and despair, something
far greater than himself had won a victory, and Colin became stronger.