Frank Lauria

The Priestess

(A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

[Doctor Orient - 5]

Copyright (c) 1978 by Frank Lauria

For my wife Magi Prins, and my brothers and sisters; Andy and Fran, Jackie Cain and Roy Krai, Dick Druz, Lou Alfano, Jerry Cole, John Wilcock, Don and Marianne DeFina, Ken Pell, Bob and Gail Gillman, wherever they may be

Cast a cold eye on life,

on death,

horseman pass by.

-- William Butler Yeats

Chapter 1

The director's assistant wore Gucci shoes and a tan Halston shirtdress, and she appraised Orient with the sharp glance of a seasoned shopper when he entered. Then a professionally congenial expression slipped over her pretty face like a plastic Glad Bag.

"Dr. Orient, I presume. I'm Judy Wald. Hope you didn't go through too much of a hassle finding us." The smile and handshake were hearty enough, but her gray eyes remained remote, like those of the youthful "guides" roaming the outer halls.

"Didn't realize security would be so tight down here."

She pouted sympathetically. "Some radicals planted a bomb in the main computer a few years ago. And there were some thefts." The cheerleader grin popped back into place. "It's slightly inconvenient, even for us. But I'm sure you feel, as we do, that the foundation's work is worth the extra effort. Right?" she chirped encouragingly.

Orient didn't fully agree, but he nodded.

"If I'm too late..."

"No sweat. Mr. Donovan's running behind, as usual. He'll be ready for you in a few minutes."

"There is one problem. They took my equipment at the gate. Two suitcases."

"Sorry, doctor. Haven't arrived yet. Want me to check?" Without waiting for his answer, she picked up the phone.

"I can assure you there's very little risk of your equipment getting lost. Mr. Donovan hires every single staff member personally, from the computer geniuses to the scrub ladies," Judy confided enthusiastically as she dialed. "Our boss is very generous with salary and benefits, but he demands outstanding efficiency. And believe me, he gets it.... Hello, main; Bruce in?"

She covered the mouthpiece and winked. "Bruce honchos the security team. He'll be right on top of things."

She took her hand away.

"That you, Bruce? Have you cowboys checked out two suitcases delivered by a Dr. Owen Orient and routed for Mr. Dee's office? You have? Great. Thanks, hound-dog man."

She flashed Orient another cheerleader grin.

"See? Your bags are on the shuttle. They should be rolling in any second. How about some coffee while you're waiting?"

"Not right now, thanks. Maybe after the shuttle pulls in."

She shrugged and returned to her work, while Orient retreated to the comfort of an oversized chair near the door. He tried to relax, but despite Judy's glowing reference, doubts peppered his confidence like carnival baseballs toppling a pyramid of bottles.

The sensitive equipment could easily be damaged by some careless bump, or the tapes destroyed by X-ray devices. At best, the suitcases had been misrouted through the vast maze of passageways that connected the underground complex of the RUD Foundation.

He hoped it was that simple. He really wouldn't feel disappointed with Mr. Reynolds U. Donovan if he recovered his equipment intact.

The portable unit and two reels of tape represented half his worldly assets. The other half was safely tucked away in his hotel room. Two more reels of videotape.

The footage had a total running time of three hours and had taken almost ten years, and all of his income, to assemble. He berated himself for failing to make extra prints, then remembered the reason for the neglect.

Duplicating costs were just too heavy for his frail financial condition. Money, in fact, was the sole reason he'd let Ted Bork arrange this meeting with the director of the RUD Foundation. Normally he avoided any sort of corporate funding, but the opportunity had presented itself at a particularly crucial time. And quite naturally.

When Ted had called after two decades of silence, Orient was moved by both obligation and curiosity to invite him to dinner. Almost twenty-one years had passed since they'd shared a freshman room at Stanford.

He'd been only fifteen then -- a gangling, introverted, insecure science prodigy entering an advanced program. Whereas Ted Bork was an advanced program all his own -- class president, an A student, star athlete, confident, modest, handsome; in short, an ideal specimen of American youth.

Orient could still clearly see the quick stroke of dismay that had numbed Ted's smile when they were introduced. He'd been braced for the reaction but completely surprised when Ted, instead of trying to rid himself of such an obvious burden, became Orient's unofficial big brother.

For weeks Ted coached him in the social graces and manly arts. There were intense all-night bull sessions, long afternoons of touch football, poker games, weekend beer blasts, and a few memorable blind dates.

Because of the unique circumstances of his childhood, however, Orient was wary. Bitter experience had taught him to wait patiently for the real machinery behind the friendly smiles. It usually proved to be simple greed fueled by contempt and driven by fear.

But again Ted surprised him.

It was nothing more complicated than the challenge that inspired the campaign of good fellowship. Basically Ted was a perfectionist, dedicated to a single ideal -- himself. He dutifully acquired one new skill per month, and kept progress charts on all his activities, including current romantic interests. He got up at six-thirty every morning, ran a mile to the gym, worked out for an hour, and ran back. He'd be sweating when he returned, and thirsty.

But he never drank his morning orange juice until after he'd showered and dressed.

Eventually Orient realized that he was just part of the program, like the push-ups and piano lessons. By helping his adolescent roommate adjust, Ted was able to toughen another facet of his character. Something like running ten miles a day, carrying a backpack filled with sand.

Secretly, however, Orient was pleased by the attention and was careful to learn slowly, knowing that as soon as Ted felt the course was finished, he'd turn to another exercise.

His friend put in the outstanding effort, and at semester's end, when Ted moved into new quarters, Orient was more grateful for what he'd learned than stung by the fact that he hadn't been invited along.

There was one area where Orient functioned superbly, however, and after his second year he was accepted by a Swiss medical school. By the time Ted gave his graduation speech, Orient was ready to begin residency in a private hospital. At twenty he was still socially awkward but already a skilled physician.

It was at that time that Orient sensed a formless yearning deep inside his being. After completing his residency, he took up the complexities of psychiatry.

It was an interesting period, but limited. What had once been exploration became repetition, and the yearning took root and spread until every movement rustled with its presence.

He decided to return home, and took a low-status position in a New York emergency ward. But after two bloody years in the pits trying to salvage bodies torn and smashed by the insanities of civilization, he was close to a breakdown.

A chance incident checked his emotional slide.

A girl he was dating introduced him to Yoga. At first an amusing diversion, it became a commitment. After a few months he decided to take a pilgrimage to India and Tibet.

Since that time he'd been fortunate enough to find a real purpose for his existence, but at some cost. He'd been unaware of its extent until the night Ted came to visit.

The first reaction was identical to the dismay that had marred Ted's yearbook grin when he first met his freshman roommate. This time it was more expertly masked; the downward twitch at the corner of his mouth was quickly swallowed by an exuberant whoop of greeting. Only someone who knew Ted well would have understood.

That evening two distinct impressions cut into Orient's memory. Although he was not yet forty, Ted's face was much heavier, and very old. The deterioration showed itself as nothing more than an extra layer that softened his chin, and deep violet crescents under the puffy eyes; barely enough for Orient to measure the hard miles his) friend had traveled.

The other change was unmistakable, however. Always charismatic, Ted now radiated a kingly aura. More than the material wealth symbolized by his red Mercedes 450SL and gold Rolex, it illuminated his presence with an assurance of power that was immune to censure.

Over drinks and dinner he drew a quick graph of his climb. Director of three private institutes, he'd just been appointed federal liaison for the AMA. Later, between reminiscence and gossip, he'd doggedly pumped Orient for details of his own progress.

Conditioned by experience, and well prepared, Orient managed to evade every probe. Then an old weakness betrayed him.

During dinner he noticed Ted's manner becoming overly sympathetic, as if reassuring a terminal patient that recovery was imminent.

In that moment Orient glimpsed what his life looked like to others.

To cut overhead expenses, he'd closed off most of the house, except for the studio, bedroom, and kitchen. The books, rare manuscripts, art objects, and furniture had been sold off to finance his research, leaving glaring gaps on the walls and empty shelves. The lab and film equipment were also long gone, abandoned in favor of a less costly videotape unit and some needed cash.

He could almost hear what his old pal was thinking under the polite noises. Poor Owen. Good head, but no real sand.

His evasions of Ted's questions merely reinforced the picture of eccentric failure. Estate squandered, no established practice, vague talk of special research, no family, no wife, no resources. At best, a competent lab man. At worst?...

The answer lashed across Orient's emotions, crumbling every discipline he'd mastered.

A coward.

Stung by pride, he disregarded a primary rule and mentioned his assistance in a highly publicized cure involving the daughter of a White House executive. To worsen matters, the infantile impulse unleashed by Ted's solemn astonishment caused another lapse in judgment.

Orient screened a short documentary explaining the technique employed in the cure -- a combination of Yoga, hypnosis, and acupuncture that stimulated self-healing and regeneration of nerve tissue.

Unsatisfied by Ted's modest admiration, he rolled another tape intended for private reference only. One illustrating the basic technique of telepathic communication.

After that, it was no contest.

He resisted, of course, but like some favorite uncle coaxing nephew to recite, Ted overcame every objection with patience, logic, and the unspoken promise of acceptance.

That was the button, Orient admitted regretfully. An adolescent need for approval. Push it, and it shattered eleven years of mental and spiritual training.

Someone pushed, and now he was sitting in an underground cubicle fretting like a kid waiting for the principal, while a conveyer dispatched his lost homework to the furnace room.

Normally, Reynolds Ulysses Donovan avoided projects of a speculative nature. A multimillionaire who shunned publicity, he had created a foundation whose major purpose was pumping a complex of underground computers full of raw information. A storehouse of the world's knowledge, coded and preserved for future generations.

It was a reasonable goal, and Ted had pulled more strings than a harpist to arrange the interview. His reluctance was probably nothing more than the envy of a poor relation toward his benefactor.

"Mr. Donovan is ready to see you now."

Orient moved toward the inner door, then stopped.

"Something wrong, doctor?"

He nodded. "Your express shuttle. My equipment's not here yet."

"It's already been set up in Mr. Donovan's office," she informed him coolly. "Everything's been arranged. Please go inside."

Uncertain he'd understood correctly, Orient opened the door. His confusion escalated when he saw Ted Bork seated at a long table with a group of men.

As he entered, Ted jumped up from his chair and came toward him, beaming proudly. In the time it took him to cross the floor, Orient managed to grasp what was happening.

A billowy calm smothered his confusion as he took in the electronic world map blinking across the wall, the zebra-padded bar, the miniature glass eyes of at least two surveillance cameras, the bank of telephones edging the massive conference table, and the anticipation narrowing the faces of the men seated there.

"Good news," Ted was saying. "Come meet RD. Christ, he's really impressed."

Orient let himself be led to the head of the table. Reynolds U. Donovan was bald, with a full moon face and cruel, country-shrewd eyes. He remained seated when they shook hands, but Orient noted the small, soft fingers and tiny feet barely touching the floor.

"Welcome to the world's deepest think tank, doc," Donovan rumbled cordially, voice unusually resonant for a short man. "It's very nice -- " Donovan wasn't listening.

"Don't mind telling you right off that all of us in here got pretty excited about these films ol' Ted showed us. Let me introduce our committee. Gentleman at my left is Chip Albright, from the science office over there in Washington. Fella 'cross from him is Lew Strand, our bank man. Big guy is Ben Altman, our house counsel. You probably seen him in all the papers. And you know ol' Ted, of course."

Orient smiled and nodded to each man in turn. Albright and Strand smiled back. Altman didn't.

Orient took a seat next to Ted and waited, like the others, for Donovan to fill his pipe. He remained calm, every instinct poised. He knew that all the decisions had been made. The only question left to be clarified was how far he could be trusted.

"Well, Owen," Ted spoke up expansively, "the boys saw the films, and everyone, especially RD, agrees that your work has enormous potential."

Donovan looked up.

"Mighty impressive stuff, doc. Didn't know you were on the Mulnew case." He paused to tamp some tobacco. "Course, all I know is what I see on TV, but they tell me you can make anything happen on a hunk of film."

Orient shrugged. "That's perfectly true."

"Well, the truth is, doc, I'm as tough to please as a Texan in Tulsa. And what I'd like, if it's possible I mean, is to see a live demonstration. Ol' Ted said you have something you do from time to time. Psycho-kinetics, he called it."

"Quite right," Orient said evenly. "We also call it PK, to keep it simple. Does anyone have a small object in his pocket he'd like to donate?"

Donovan struck a match and threw the pack on the table.

"How's this?"

Orient's concentration had been completely focused since the moment he entered the room, so it required little more than a shift of attention to prepare himself. He carefully extended the orbit of his awareness until he sensed the gravitational field emitted by the book of matches. He'd performed the experiment many times before, so he was quick to recognize the weak tug of potential energy, despite the alien vibrations crackling through his consciousness.

Without hesitation he allowed his brain cycles to fluctuate until they pulsed at the same rate as the energy emitted by the paper matches.

When both cycles were moving at the same speed, he applied leverage with his will.

The book of paper matches moved across the table as if drawn by a string, coming to rest directly in front of Donovan.

"Well, RD, can our man deliver?" Ted asked triumphantly.

Donovan sucked at his pipe reflectively.

"First-rate work, doc. Just like the four films we saw here. Absolutely a whole new branch of science."

"Four films?"

The moment he asked the question, Orient felt the tension swirl around the room like electric snow.

"Well, this is how it was. We saw the first two films, and they were fine. The cures you worked out were truly brilliant. But the truth is, we're not exactly in the market for cures right now. Anyway, ol' Ted said you probably forgot the telepathic stuff, so we had a couple of our staff boys go up to your hotel to get 'em. Hope you don't mind us invading your privacy. I mean, you did just plain forget that stuff anyhow, right?" Donovan's expression was wooden, but his eyes were like pale-blue nails.

"Not really."

Fully aware that every word was being carefully weighed, Orient enjoyed seeing a twitch of apprehension deflate Ted's grin.

"I wasn't certain the RUD Foundation would be interested in a project that's not accredited, so I decided to show only the most practical application of the technique. Just to make sure you didn't think I was some sort of crank."

Donovan chuckled softly.

"Crank? Far from it, doc," he reassured. "That telepathic technique of yours might be bigger than the space program, if properly developed."

Orient nodded enthusiastically. "Glad you feel that way, Mr. Donovan. All it would need -- "

"All it needs is the right kind of money. We understand fully. If you understand that we're not interested in the medical applications right now. But, son, if you can teach certain people to send and receive images mentally, you can write your own financial ticket. We'll also make sure you get full recognition. Maybe arrange a Nobel or somethin' for you and ol' Ted."

Ted sat back in his chair and took a cigar from his pocket.

Orient made himself smile. "Sounds very encouraging."

"More than just encouragement, doc. Ben Altman here will send you a foundation contract this week. The dollar amounts will be blank. You fill them in."

"That's certainly good news. I'd like to thank -- "

Donovan waved the pipe at him. "Don't mention it. Been a real pleasure, helping out. Sometime soon we'll have to get together for a personal visit."

Ted quickly jumped from his chair, leaving his cigar unlit on the table. "Thanks for everything, RD. We truly appreciate it."

Donovan nodded. "You keep in touch, son. Glad to see the AMA has some forward thinkers. Take good care of our genius, hear?"

Orient moved to the end of the table and started packing his equipment, while Ted shook hands all around. To his relief, the portable unit and four tapes were intact.

"Don't have to bother with that, doc. We'll have it sent," Donovan called out, genial tone edged with impatience.

Orient was prepared for the polite offer.

"No trouble," he said casually, continuing to pack up the equipment.

"These are the only masters. And since you enjoyed them so much," -- he smiled and looked around the table -- "I thought I'd make copies for everyone here."

As expected, the gesture caught Donovan in a diplomatic bind. He hesitated, frowned, then jabbed the air with his pipe.

"Well, all right, then. Help him out there, Ted boy. We got a heap of business on the table, can't hold much longer."

Despite Ted's special pass, they were searched twice before being allowed to ascend to the surface, and again at the main gate. It took an hour to reach the Maryland turnpike from the secluded grounds, and once on the highway, Orient settled down for the long trip back to New York. He waited with interest for the reviews, but some sixty miles passed before Ted broke the silence.

"Let me tell you, Owen boy, that you sure did a hell of a job charming those committee boys. That last little extra you threw in, about making copies for everyone. Perfect PR. Make sure you follow through on that one." Ted glanced over at him. "You're not sore because I told them about the telepathy and the other tapes?"

Orient smiled. "Not even surprised. But why did you keep me outside so long?"

"Well, you know how it is. I thought I could sell the committee, then let you decide.

"Worked out okay."

"Never told me about a committee, come to think about it."

"Didn't know myself until I got there. It was really a big break. They're all top guys."

"Depends on your vantage point. Albright's with the Pentagon, isn't he? I remember something from the Times about an investigating committee he heads. Seems to be very big on committees, in any case. Always a bad sign."

"Come off it, Owen. Chip's head of medical research for the Defense Department. And he's the one who wants to make you rich."

"Pardon. Forgot myself for a second."

"Now, don't worry about a thing, boy." Ted chuckled, imitating Donovan's Texas drawl. "Just set in the chair and let it rock."

Orient resisted a surge of rage. It was crucial that he bait Ted into disclosing as much of the truth as possible.

"We need a few smart lawyers to help us set up a big new research center," Ted mused, palm slapping the grained-wood steering wheel in time to the stereo music. "We can use your house for a while, until we find another location. Do you prefer another town-house in New York, or a place on the coast? Malibu, maybe, or Palm Springs."

"I like the sunshine."

"Great. Now, tell me, pal, how's it feel to be on top after all that youthful soul-searching?"

"Almost doesn't seem real."

Ted's face puckered with glee, making his features seem almost boyish. A bulge of fat spilling over his silk collar completed the impression of a greedy child.

"Don't forget to make up a print of those tapes for me," he reminded. "They'll be great for the media boys."

Orient savored the moment. It was time to tell the greedy child he couldn't have any candy, and see if he screamed something interesting. "I'm not making a print for you," he said softly.

Ted's glee was swallowed by a suspicious squint, and suddenly he was an adult again. The cynical, bitter old man Orient had seen that first night.

"So you want to keep them for yourself," he muttered. "You're learning real quick. You really had me fooled with that idealistic bullshit."

"Did I?"

"You know you did." He snorted angrily. "All right, play it your way. But there are four other men on that committee. You must know that sooner or later I'll cultivate one of them and get a copy of those tapes."

"I'm not making copies for anyone."

Ted slowed down and pulled the car into the right lane, jaw working and streaks of perspiration darkening his shirt collar.

"What the hell are you saying? You must be overworked or something, Owen boy. You're messing with a million-dollar deal here."

"There isn't going to be any deal."

"Why in hell are you doing this?"

"Why did you break your word and tell them about the telepathic technique? Why did you break into my hotel room and take the tapes?" he asked tonelessly. "Wouldn't it have been simpler to walk out and ask me for them?"

"So that's it. You're angry and want to make me look bad. That's why you went through that song and dance. And I thought you were being smart, for once in your life."

"Perhaps I was. I'm not a complete fool, ol' Ted. If I hadn't pretended to accept the offer, I never would have left that bunker with my tapes. Or didn't you know? Donovan and the boys just wanted to make sure I'd sell. If not, a couple of guards usher me outside. As it was, I had to step lively to keep Donovan from scooping up the tapes right then and there. Those top guys of yours could hold things up in court indefinitely, while they exploit the technique."

"You must be crazy." Ted chuckled. "Paranoid, I think you psychiatrists call it."

"How long have you been working for the company, Ted?"

It was a wild shot, but the jerk at the corner of Ted's smiling mouth signaled that he'd connected.

Ted also sensed he'd given himself away. The chuckle trailed off to a weary sigh as he eased the Mercedes onto the highway's shoulder and guided it to a stop.

He lit a cigarette and stared out at the stretch of white pebbles illuminated by the headbeams. When he turned to Orient, his face was void of expression, like a surgeon studying a section of flesh.

"I didn't have your advantages," he said, voice flat. "I worked my way up from my father's bankrupt grocery store. The company gave me a scholarship to med school and set my father up in another business."

He shook his head. "Not even my wife knows. How did you find out?"

"Only way it makes sense, once you eliminate coincidence. It explains Chip Albright and the Pentagon, and how you made everything happen so easily. It might even explain why you decided to look up your old buddy after twenty years."

"That brain of yours really puts in overtime," Ted admitted. "Donovan got wind of your research and asked me to check it out. Indirectly, of course. Today's the first time we've met."

"Nice job."

He took a deep drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

"Don't bother feeling righteous. Everybody works for the company. Even you, Owen. There's no other choice."

"Seems I've already made a few."

Ted's smile was contemptuous. "If you don't work for the company, you don't work anywhere, boy. We have a file on you that would make a hell of a series in the Daily News. It's damning stuff, Owen. We can pull your ticket to practice medicine for a long while. It'll take lots of money and lawyers to get it back. You explained it all to me yourself."

Orient made an abrupt move, and Ted instinctively lifted his arms to protect his face.

Orient turned off the ignition and removed the key. "No sweat, old pal," he said softly. "Just want to unlock the trunk and get my gear. I'll be out of your life in a second."

"Not yet."

Ted's arms parted. There were crimson patches above his white lips, and his neck was puffed with hate.

"I'm not out of your life yet, old pal." As he spat the last word, he grabbed Orient's wrist.

Jerking free with a quick twist, Orient opened the door and stepped out of the car. He kept glancing at the front seat as he lifted the suitcases from the trunk. When he saw Ted slide across the seat and step out, he sensed there was serious trouble coming. He was disappointed to see he was right.

Ted's eyes were glassy-bright in the rushing glare of traffic, like those of a hungry cat, and the dull-gray barrel of an automatic protruded from his fist.

"I mean to have those tapes," he said, voice shaking slightly. "Even if I have to terminate you, Owen."

"Terminate?" He shook his head sadly. "You don't even tell the truth when you kill."

"Don't make me do it, pal. Hand the stuff over."

"You won't shoot me here on a crowded highway."

"I'd never be brought to trial."

Wrong again. I gave a great performance down there, remember? Donovan and the boys won't buy it. They'll all believe you killed me to get the tapes and the glory for yourself. You'll go to prison while they exploit the tapes. And somehow, I can't believe you're that loyal to the company."

Ted's answer was obscured by the growl of tires crushing pebbles and by a red flash of light.

"Need some help here?"

Orient turned and saw a state trooper approaching, white Stetson glowing pink in the rotating beam of his turnpike cruiser. Then he heard the clatter of Ted's gun against the stones.

"How about a lift?" he called out.

"The trooper stopped. "We don't usually -- "

"It's all right, officer." He picked up the suitcases and headed toward the flashing red beam. "I'm a doctor on a case."

Hours later, while fumbling through his pockets to see if he had enough money to take a cab home from Penn Station, Orient found Ted's car keys.

Still pressed for cash, Orient immediately took a job in a city hospital. Two days later he received an envelope bearing the logo of the RUD Foundation. Inside were a contract and a typed note that read: "You have an unlimited future with us. R. U. Donovan."

He returned the contract unsigned. A few days afterward he returned from work and discovered that burglars had broken through the studio skylight and ransacked the house.

The only things missing were a Pentax Spotmatic still camera, some lenses, and a few reels of blank videotape. He'd already secured the four master reels describing the telepathic technique with a friend, and sold the other equipment. But the threat of violent action was clear.

The next morning he received a letter from the New York State Medical Examining Board informing him that his license to practice had been suspended pending an inquiry.

Deprived of his livelihood, Orient spent the whole day repairing the skylight, and the next catching up on his correspondence. On the third day he received another envelope from the RUD Foundation. Inside were the contract and a typed note that read: "You may still have a future with us. RD."

This time he kept the contract and note as possible evidence.

Later, however, he was forced to admit he was finished. They'd won. Ted and company were too strong to defy. They'd squeeze him dry in a matter of weeks.

In an effort to flush the bitterness from his belly and ease the tense, frayed muscles in his neck and back, Orient stretched out on his bedroom floor and went into a meditative breathing pattern.

His senses separated and drifted apart, allowing a deeper perception to function. He felt the colors of a billion solar systems whirling through his chemistry, and tasted the primal light.

He understood the flash of birth, and touched a childhood toy. The toy became the frozen clay bowl of a neophyte, who sat huddled in a high mountain cave before a dung fire. A sharp gust of wind snuffed the flames, and the embers illuminated the withered features of his spiritual guide and teacher, the master Ku.

Warmth instantly intensified to unbearable heat. A sudden flare drove him back to the temperate latitudes of instinct.

Orient sat up and put a hand on his forehead. It was steaming with sweat. There were also large, dark patches on his shirt where it was stuck to his wet skin.

Afterward, running the details of the experience through his memory, he understood the path he had to follow. When he offered the supplicant's bowl to Ku and was taught the secrets of the League, and the technique of telepathic communication, he'd also taken a vow. He'd sworn to nourish and protect the Serene Knowledge, accepting it as a sacred trust in the name of all humanity. And in return, the empty clay bowl of the neophyte had been filled with the riches of the universe.

The foundation couldn't erase the secret of telepathy from his brain. There was a simple, effective way to elude Ted and his committee of sharks.

Doubt, and a wide yawning hunger, blunted his fervor. He decided to walk to a dairy restaurant on upper Broadway and ponder whether it was best to seek legal action or just drop out of sight for a few months.

It had rained earlier that evening, and like some aged hustler decked out for another try, the wet, pitted streets were tinted with a garish coat of neon reflections.

A bit bloated from a double dessert of chocolate pudding, Orient walked home quickly after dinner. His lungs scrounged for oxygen in the gasoline-perfumed air, and he kept his head down against the biting wind gusting across the Hudson River. He didn't notice the two men until they grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back, and slammed him against the side of an apartment building.

"Take it easy, Owen," a voice hot with bourbon hissed against his ear. Ted's voice.

"The money's in my pocket."

"Funny man," another voice said. "The clown needs a workout."

"Hear that, Owen? My friend craves excitement. Maybe you'd better listen to my offer."

"I don't hear well in this position."

"All right. Let him go."

"Hold it," the other man said. He frisked Orient thoroughly before releasing his arm and taking a step back.

Orient pulled his face from the cold, damp brick and turned. Both arms were stiff from shoulder to wrist, making the simple act of buttoning his coat an arduous task. He used the few extra moments to assess his chances.

They were meager. The street was deserted, and he was penned in a shadowy alcove, out of range of any passing car. Ted wasn't armed, but the other men held something that looked like a spear gun. Orient realized it was an automatic with a silencer attached.

Ted's face resembled a puffy pink carnation in the darkness, and he was swaying drunkenly. The other man was a younger copy of Ted, clean-featured and heavily muscled. A football hero, perhaps, recruited to beef up the company's front line. The younger man seemed sober, and his body was set in an eager crouch.

"I've explained everything to the committee," Ted whispered hoarsely. "They've given me full authority. You're going to sign the contract and turn the tapes over to me."

Orient stalled for time, hoping help would appear.

"You didn't need a bodyguard in the old days, Ted," he said softly. He looked at the man holding the gun. "That's what you'll be like when you grow up -- guzzling whiskey to steady your nerves for the next mugging."

He was aware he'd said the wrong thing when the man tucked the gun into his waistband. He glanced wildly at Ted and saw his grin, a dark slash in the pink carnation, before his belly exploded with agony and he dropped to his knees, lungs heaving and throat choked with vomit.

Even while retching, he recognized the boozy stench of Ted's breath. "You ready to cooperate?" he rasped.

Unable to speak, Orient nodded.

"Let's get those tapes."

The other man dug his fingers into Orient's armpits and roughly pulled him upright.

They dragged him over to an automobile and pushed him into the back. The younger man drove, while Ted watched over Orient from the front seat.

"Where are we going, boy?"

Ted's question jabbed through his pain, filling him with blind panic. "They're at the house," he found himself saying.

"We searched the place real good," the other man commented.

"Behind the shelves ... wall safe."

"Didn't see any wall safe."

"Drive to the house," Ted snapped. "I'll take a look around myself."

Orient groaned as a fresh spasm forced his knees up to his chin.

"Must be slipping," the other man mused with professional interest. "Most clowns can't make a sound after that kick."

The ride was brief, and Orient was reluctant to move from the soft corner he'd found. Ted prodded him with the gun.

"Let's go, boy. After you open the safe, you can take a nice hot bath and go to bed. In the morning you'll be a rich man. That's not so bad is it?"

Orient painfully extracted his long body from the car.

"Want me to go with you?" the other man asked.

"No. I think I can handle this patient alone. Give me two short blasts on the horn if anybody comes to the house." He prodded again. "All right, Owen, let's go see your toy safe."

Unable to straighten up, Orient walked stiffly, body bent forward like a long-legged duck. By the time he reached the door the cool air had revived him somewhat. He deliberately fumbled with the lock, desperately trying for a few extra seconds to regain his strength. The knifelike cramps had dulled considerably when they entered the house, but he kept his body bent.

"Where is it?" Ted asked softly.

His manner had become almost gentle since the assault, as if the violence had drained some long-festering boil inside him.

Still stooped over, Orient went to the studio and led Ted to an empty bookcase at the side of the room.

"Behind here. Moves on a swivel." He gave the bookcase a weak push.

"Move away, I'll do it." Ted slid the bookcase back, revealing the round metal door on the wall and the combination lock marking its center like a bull's-eye.

"I'll have to make out a tough, negative report on the efficiency of our field agents," he said with satisfaction. "Open it up, please."

Orient had his back half-turned so Ted couldn't see him insert two fingers down his throat to encourage a small convulsion. He dropped to the floor, stomach heaving the dregs of the chocolate pudding onto the carpet.

"Oh, Christ." Ted sighed, as if exasperated by an unruly child. "Try to pull yourself together. Hurt or not, you're going to open this safe."

"Top ... desk... blue paper," Orient said hoarsely.

He watched Ted's suede loafers move across the floor and disappear around the corner of the desk.

"Hope you're not stalling," Ted murmured. "Hate to call my friend in here for another convincer. Ah, blue paper, here it is."

Orient was on his feet but bent almost double and weaving uncertainly when Ted returned. He held out his hand for the combination.

"Just take it easy, boy. I'll open it," Ted soothed. "Don't worry, I won't disturb any other hidden treasures."

Except for a deep pulsing knot in his belly and the sharp needles of pain puncturing his side with each breath, Orient had regained almost full control of his body.

Overcoming its shrill protest, he breathed deeply through his nostrils, gathering his concentration as he watched the suede loafers enter the alcove between book case and wall.

A second after they stopped, he slowly lifted his eyes.

Ted was at the safe, pistol in his left hand, with the slip of paper pressed between thumb and gun as his right hand twirled the dial.

Orient relaxed his crouched body and waited, eyes fixed on the soft bulge just below Ted's waist. The instant he opened the safe's door, Orient moved.

A sharp wrench of anguish ripped through his groin when he kicked. At the last moment, Ted saw him coming and turned, so his foot missed its intended target and sank into the roll of flesh covering Ted's kidney. It was good enough.

Ted uttered a short, unbelieving grunt as he slid across the wall into the bookcase. When he hit the shelves, the slip of paper fluttered into the air like a blue butterfly, and the gun fell to the floor.

Ignoring the pain stabbing through his knee, groin, and belly, Orient picked up the gun and headed for the kitchen. It was torment to lean any weight on the wrenched leg, but he forced himself to limp quickly down the short flight of stairs, afraid that Ted would recover and alarm his friend.

Then he heard Ted roar with anger and pain.

It was like a nightmare in which one is held back by a paralyzing force. He was halfway down the stairs when Ted yelled, and it seemed to take ten minutes to make the other half. In that time Ted roared again, louder. Holding his injured leg with both hands, Orient shuffled into the darkened kitchen and found the back door.

He stumbled down the four metal steps, then edged through the narrow alley until he reached a garden courtyard. He limped through the shadowy courtyard and entered the rear door of an apartment house on the other side.

After burying the long-barreled pistol in a garbage can, he went through the laundry rooms to the main lobby, then hurried out to the street and hailed a taxi.

Two hours later, lounging in former Senator Andy Jacobs' home, with ice packs on his knee and stomach, Orient knew he couldn't delay his decision any longer.

"Sorry, Andy," he repeated for the fourth time, "I can't let you take it to court."

"Owen, you're harder to convince than a nun in Gomorrah. If these men are criminals, then it's our duty to expose them. I've spent forty years on the hill fighting this sort of fascism."

"The tapes will be required as evidence," Orient reminded. "I don't want them screened publicly."

"Hmmm, I suppose it would defeat your main interest, anyway," Jacobs droned, like the forlorn bullfrog he resembled. "What the hell's on those videotapes that the CIA wants so badly? Some kind of secret weapon?"

"Exactly."

"And you don't want anybody to see what it is, not even a trusted friend such as myself."

"That's right."

Andy moved closer to the couch, squinting fiercely. "Look here, boy, I've been your guardian and counsel since you learned to toddle, and to your parents before you, God rest them. You say you trust me to keep four reels of videotape safe for you, but not enough to tell me what's on them. Do you think that's fair?"

"Senator, I've been burglarized, threatened, beaten up, and stripped of my license to practice medicine because I want to retain the private results of private research. Is that fair?"

"You should have called me as soon as they suspended you," he thundered. "Damned if I don't have you reinstated in two weeks."

Orient shook his head, wincing at the painful twinge the simple movement precipitated.

"Truly, I appreciate your loyalty, Senator, but right now the best thing I can do is leave New York as soon as possible. Ted Bork wouldn't stick his neck out without being sure of immunity. Probably cabinet-level connections, with Chip Albright on the board."

"And Ben Altman." Jacobs mournfully lit a fat black cigar. "That name's been around Washington for a long time. You could be right about this business. Donovan, Albright, and Altman are all heavyweights."

"And they play rough, or haven't you been listening?"

Andy's chuckle was something between a wheeze and a cough.

"Well, you know, even as a boy you had a tendency to overdo things. Like the time you gave away most of your inheritance, and tried to get rid of the house along with it. You were pretty definite about your reasons then."

"And I wasn't entirely wrong. But you've reminded me of something important. I'm signing the house over to you. Sell it if you can. If you want to pay off the back taxes, you can even keep it."

"How a man can be a damned fool twice..."

"Easy, Andy. I owe back taxes; lots of them. If these people have enough juice to pull my license, they'll certainly use the tax angle as well. This way, they can't touch me."

Jacobs sucked reflectively on his cigar.

"You seem to have it figured out well enough, but there's no denying you're making these decisions too hastily."

"I'd rather not make them at all; but if you don't mind drawing up the legal forms, I'll sign everything now, so I'll be ready to leave in the morning."

"Now, hold on," Jacobs blared hoarsely. "You're doing exactly what I've just counseled you against, and moving too fast."

"You still think the story I told you is an exaggeration, then." His soft voice was edged with impatience.

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't." Andy sighed, jowls drooping unhappily. "Wait here."

Andy Jacobs pushed his ponderous bulk out of the worn leather armchair and waddled slowly into the next room, shoulders bent as if carrying a great burden. He returned in less than a hour holding some typewritten sheets.

"Sign these, and you're worth zero," he growled.

Orient signed them all, then stood up and gingerly tested his leg.

"Just one last favor. I'd like to use your car to go over to the house. I want to pack a few things tonight."

Jacobs pointed triumphantly.

"See what I mean? One thing right on top of the other. Why can't you take a good night's rest, then pick up your things in the morning?"

"First reason: I don't want to give them time to set me up again. Reason two: I left the house unlocked. So I'd like you to wait by the phone, in case they're still there."

"Perhaps you know best," Jacobs muttered. "But if you can wait that long, I'll ring Hank and have him bring the car around. I'll also call police captain Greenberg and ask him to send a man or two to your house. And I'm not waiting here while you go gallivanting around looking for trouble."

Vaguely annoyed by Andy's repeated comments questioning his stability, Orient sat silently in one corner of the limousine during the ride across town, watching Andy methodically chomp his cigar.

As they neared the house, a chorus of high, whining sirens drew Andy's attention. He pulled the cigar from his mouth, rolled his large body forward, and peered through the rear partition.

"Maybe the police boys found somebody," he croaked enthusiastically. "Step on it, Hank."

When the car swung around the corner, his enthusiasm evaporated. He fell back against the seat as if stricken, and remained there for a long time, eyes glazed by the sight of flashing police lights, fire engines, and bright-orange flames shooting from every window in Orient's home. Finally he blinked, closed his mouth, and opened it again.

"I'm sorry about the house, Owen," he rumbled sadly, "and also for doubting your word. It won't happen again. You can count on me for any kind of help you need against these bastards."

Orient didn't answer. He was engrossed by the powerful jets of water arcing across the night sky. glistening like giant strands of tinsel as they dipped into the rolling black smoke. It crossed his mind that he was witnessing a festive occasion. Ted had tried to hurt him, and instead had removed the last tie holding him back. And every doubt.

A fiery blue flower pushed through the roof and was quickly surrounded by bloodred stalks of flame. Then a stinging curtain blurred his vision, and he closed his eyes.

Chapter 2

Cara O'Riley had a charmed life.

Those few who knew her well agreed that she'd inherited her father's courage and her mother's grace. As a combat pilot, Major Derek O'Riley had been shot down four times during World War II. He had retired from the RAF with a chestful of medals, a slight limp, and a yen for further adventure.

America provided the challenge O'Riley was seeking. He invested in Florida real estate and gratified a long-cherished desire by bankrolling a film venture. The movie lost money, but the experience whetted his appetite for the lavish possibilities of show business. He was on location with his second movie production when Cara was born.

Maria Catalan O'Riley never forgave her husband for his absence. Bred and educated according to an aristocratic family code, she could feel only contempt for any man who valued business above the birth of his first child. Faithful to her marriage vows, however, Maria concealed her emotions behind a devoted mask and accepted her husband's regrets without question. She also swore that he'd never possess her again.

The popular success of the second film made it easier for Maria to keep her vow. O'Riley was away for weeks at a time at first, and by the time Cara was two, visited his family only on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. The rest of the year he commuted between Beverly Hills and Monaco, swinging enormous movie production deals along the way.

The arrangement suited Maria perfectly. Her husband provided her with every luxury and complete privacy. She was able to raise her daughter in a traditional manner, without interference.

Cara was able to read and speak Spanish as well as English when she entered a Catholic convent school, and quickly distinguished herself as an unusually gifted child. Her beauty, brilliance, and modesty enchanted everyone who met her. She excelled as a student, and when she graduated, was named valedictorian of her grammar-school class.

Although Derek O'Riley was in Peru with a production, Cara was certain that her father would put in a last-minute appearance for the occasion.

As she recited her speech, she averted her eyes from the empty chair beside her mother, still sure that when she'd finished and looked down, he'd be sitting there. It wasn't until the next day that she resigned herself to the truth. Her father simply didn't love her.

Maria took her on a Mediterranean cruise as a graduation present, but although the holiday was a constant feast of dazzling experience, it didn't diminish the emptiness caused by her father's indifference.

Cara was a changed girl when she returned from the cruise. She entered a prestigious Catholic school in Switzerland, and for the first time failed to adjust. She became withdrawn from her classmates at St. Justin's, and hostile to any form of authority. In the beginning, her teachers were inclined to tolerance. They were aware that a twelve-year-old girl, no matter how bright, could find it difficult away from home. The mother superior reviewed her outstanding record and decided it was a classic case of growing pains. A month later she knew she'd been mistaken.

It happened one Sunday morning as Sister Louise was escorting the fourth-form girls to chapel for mass.

Cara was straggling behind the rest, as usual, hair uncombed and uniform wrinkled.

Sister Louise pursed her lips, trying to suppress her anger. She was an experienced teacher and knew the girl had problems but didn't approve of the mother superior's decision. If a student couldn't measure up to standard, she should be transferred. One seriously disturbed child could have a damaging effect on the rest. And Cara O'Riley was seriously disturbed. She was slovenly, lazy, and arrogant. Fortunately, the other girls were intelligent enough to avoid her.

Sister Louise halted the line at the chapel steps and looked back. Cara was still shuffling behind the rest.

"We're waiting for you, Miss O'Riley," she called out.

The girl took a few reluctant steps and stopped.

"We're waiting," Sister Louise repeated with mounting exasperation.

"My head's not covered," Cara mumbled.

Sister Louise remembered her vows and made an effort to remain calm. "Where is your kerchief, miss?" Cara pulled a balled-up cloth from her pocket.

"Very well. I'll take the class inside while you finish dressing. Try to be prompt. I'll save a place for you."

Sister Louise waited as long as she could, but when the priest started the salutation, she hurried outside to find Cara.

The girl was standing in the same spot, the kerchief dangling from her hand.

"Please hurry, Miss O'Riley. Mass has begun. Cover your head and come inside."

Cara shook her head. "I'm not going to mass."

Her brazen tone infuriated Sister Louise, and she forgot her instructions.

"You're going to mass if I have to drag you inside myself, young lady. Now, come along and stop this foolishness." Cara scampered back. "I won't go," she warned.

Realizing that she couldn't outrun her, Sister Louise tried to reason with the child.

"But don't you understand, Cara?" she explained patiently. "If you're absent from mass, you'll commit a mortal sin. You don't want to go to hell, do you?"

"I don't care."

Sister Louise stared at the pale, wild-haired girl in disbelief, composure shaken by a profound feeling of apprehension.

"You can't mean you want to deliberately damn your soul with a mortal sin, child," she gasped. "Why should you do something so terrible?"

Cara tossed her head back, eyes glassy and face pinched with defiance.

"Because I hate God," she said slowly.

The next day, as she sat alone in her room waiting for her mother to arrive, Cara was satisfied. She'd been expelled and would be returning home soon. It was all she wanted. Relief surged through her bitterness when she saw her mother, but she restrained an impulse to embrace her. Maria Catalan O'Riley considered any public display of sentiment unbearably vulgar. Instead, she stood quietly while her mother inspected her room.

"They told me your quarters were filthy," she said finally. "Perhaps they've been exaggerating the facts."

"It was messy. I cleaned it today." Maria nodded and adjusted her veil.

"At least you still have enough self-respect to tell the truth. Come along, then. You look like you haven't had any decent food for weeks." Cara was pleased to see her mother had come to school in her silver Bentley. She found the familiar scent of leather mingled with her mother's perfume warmly reassuring. But as they drove to town, she was puzzled that her mother had uttered no word of reprimand.

The customers in the restaurant all paused to stare when the captain showed them to a corner booth, and as Maria scanned the menu, the waiters tiptoed around her like nervous penguins.

"Perhaps I'd better order for both of us. We'll have some cold white wine. Is that all right?"

"Of course," Cara said, but her curiosity returned. Her mother usually reserved wine for family celebrations. In light of the situation, her choice seemed odd.

There was little conversation during lunch, and as they ate, Cara was aware of the men watching her mother with mute admiration.

After coffee Maria drummed her polished nails on the tablecloth as if trying to make a decision.

"Well, it seems we have some serious problems," she said crisply.

"I'm sorry about school...."

"Please don't interrupt. There are certain facts you should know."

"Facts?"

"Yes. I regret to tell you your father is dead." She dipped a hand into her purse and passed a letter to Cara. "He died some months ago. Apparently even the Pentagon was unaware he had a wife and family. Typical, really."

At first it was difficult for Cara to comprehend, but when she read the letter, everything became wonderfully clear. It stated that Major Derek O'Riley had been killed while performing a vital mission for the government. It was believed his plane crashed near Cuba.

"Your father was always reckless," Maria reflected. "Of course, he left you well provided for, but now there's the question of your education. There's an excellent school in Vermont that offers psychiatric counseling. Really, Cara, I can't tell you how horrified I was to hear what you'd done. Whatever possessed you to say something like that?"

Cara didn't answer, mind swimming through confusion, sadness, and a curious joy. "I've arranged everything," Maria was saying. "You won't even lose the semester."

"I think I'd like to stay at St. Justin's, Mother," Cara said softly.

"But that's quite impossible after your conduct."

"Mother, please listen. You said yourself I don't lie. If I can have another chance, I promise you won't be disappointed."

Surprised but pleased, Maria returned to St. Justin's with her daughter. After a lengthy interview with the mother superior, Cara was reluctantly given probationary status for two weeks, on the condition that she immediately go to confession and erase the taint of her deliberate blasphemy.

To everyone's amazement, Cara became a model student. It was as if a gray cloud had been removed from her personality, allowing its true brilliance to emerge. At the end of the year, she led her class academically and was elected dorm president. The teachers at St. Justin's, especially the mother superior, took great pride in their deft handling of her initial difficulties.

However, it was Cara who best understood the cause of her problems and their solution -- the news of her father's death. She knew that her father had loved her after all and had died long before her graduation in performance of a heroic mission. She also realized how much she loved him.

During vacations she scoured her home for photographs of Derek O'Riley and put them in an album, together with the newspaper and magazine clippings she'd started collecting. The album was the only secret she kept from her confessor. More than intelligent, as well as lovely and popular with her classmates, Cara was, besides, extremely devout.

The faculty frequently held her up as an ideal of young Catholic womanhood, and it was generally accepted that she'd follow her religious vocation. Cara shared their belief until her senior year.

During Christmas vacation her mother came across the album, which had been carelessly left open on Cara's bed. The discovery of the neatly preserved photographs and clippings illustrating Derek O'Riley's colorful career produced an unusually emotional reaction in Maria.

She was trembling when she confronted Cara, features distorted with anger.

"I had no idea you had this morbid obsession with your father," she whispered hoarsely, as if the concept was somehow obscene. "I won't have it."

Cara was stunned. She'd concealed the album for sentimental reasons and was unable to understand her mother's outburst.

"Father died a hero. Why shouldn't I revere his memory?" she asked calmly.

Maria made a visible effort to regain her poise. She clasped her hands and began pacing, eyes avoiding the album on the bed.

"Of course, it's not your fault," she conceded, voice low and face hardened by resentment. "I wanted to shield you during your formative years. Even though I've taught you to respect your family, I see now that I've done you an injustice. It's natural that you've built up an exaggerated sense of your father's qualities. They were dubious at best."

"Dubious?" Cara blurted, thoughts skidding between disbelief and anger. "How can you say that, Mother? You gave me a letter signed by the president himself. My father was a hero."

"He was a common adventurer who married me to satisfy some grand delusion of becoming a gentleman. But he didn't succeed. Unfortunately, he lacked the prime ingredient, a true sense of honor."

A sickening vertigo yawned in the pit of Cara's belly as she stared at her mother.

"It's not true," she said stubbornly. "The letter said..."

"The letter was a formality. Your father was probably flying some mercenary mission when he died. It's the sort of thing he enjoyed. But be sure that he never risked his life without profit. He always preferred excitement to the real values, like a vain child concerned with cheap bravado. And notoriety," she added, glancing at the bed. "That's why it's best to dispose of these silly illusions. A lady of breeding never distorts the truth."

"Then why are you lying to me, Mother?"

Maria's eyes narrowed. "I almost forgot. You have his common blood. Very well. I'll be frank. Your father never wanted a family. He wasn't even with me when you were born. I was alone. That was his sort of honor. That's why I never..."

"Never what, Mother? You said you'd tell me the truth."

Maria looked up, lips white. "That's why I never allowed him to degrade me again."

"You mean you never gave him the love he needed," Cara spat. "It was your fault. My father needed you, and you failed him. That's why he went away."

"He was a coward," Maria corrected softly. "There will be no further discussion, miss. I want that foolish collection out of my house. That's my final word on the subject."

"Very well, Mother," Cara whispered. "I'll do as you ask."

That morning she left with her clothes, jewelry, and the album. She never returned.

Being a practical young lady, Cara went back to St. Justin's and finished her term. During those last few months at school she underwent a slight change of personality, becoming less devout and more outspoken in questioning certain beliefs. She also sent applications to a number of secular universities, and enrolled at Radcliffe, a decision loudly deplored by the faculty.

She was again voted class valedictorian, however, and instead of delivering the traditional speech, played a piano concerto she'd composed for the occasion. Cara was completely alone when she graduated, but this time she wasn't disappointed. She hadn't expected her mother to attend.

That summer she worked as a secretary for a publishing house in Boston and managed to save a little money while supporting an apartment and two spoiled kittens.

Cara was only nineteen but blossoming. Tall and lithe, she had translucent skin and black hair that set off her cameo features like an iridescent frame. Like her mother, she commanded rapt admiration wherever she appeared. She had her father's sense of enterprise as well, and took her case to the dean of women.

Because of her outstanding scholastic record and unusual situation, Cara was granted a partial scholarship for room and board. Realizing that her secretary's salary wouldn't cover tuition, she began casting about for more lucrative possibilities. She'd studied classical piano at St. Justin's but soon found that sonatas had a limited appeal. Fortunately, she also played blues guitar and sang like a fallen angel.

Her haunting loveliness and voice never failed to create a sensation in the bars and coffee houses where she performed, and in a few weeks a booking agent became interested in her career.

Maurice Stanson was a paunchy Irish roughneck who'd survived a shaky career as vaudeville hoofer to become the most influential agent in New England. Impressed by Cara's potential, Stanson immediately began finding bookings for her in the better rooms. By the time she began her junior year, she was making six hundred dollars every weekend. Stanson energetically promoted his new find through his network of newspaper contacts, and soon Cara O'Riley was the headline act in Boston's poshest hotel. She earned six thousand dollars over the Christmas holidays.

The demands of a new career didn't hamper Cara's academic proficiency but did dull her interest. She began to feel that a degree was merely a formality, and the intellectual stimulation offered by school was minimal. Eventually the strain of maintaining both activities would consume her energy. After a vacation in Saint Thomas she withdrew from Radcliffe and concentrated on performing.

Maurice Stanson was pleased by the decision. He was also hopelessly in love with her. Not given to idle delusions, he understood he was an aging, gruff mannered brawler who looked like an ape escorting a swan when he was with Cara. But he didn't care.

It took a long time, but finally she responded to his constant entreaties and allowed him to seduce her. The discovery that she'd been a virgin brought out a fiercely romantic streak in Maurice, and he abandoned a wife and three children to live with Cara.

Convinced that she had the talent to achieve stardom, Stanson decided to move his operation to New York. He planned to use his influence to open the right doors for Cara, and when his divorce became final, marry her.

It didn't work out exactly as he planned.

Stanson's influence wasn't strong enough to crack the big-city barriers. Essentially a local promoter, he was out of his element in New York. As he predicted, however, Cara O'Riley became a star. It happened a month after she left him.

The television producer Cara moved in with used her in a soap commercial. The sequence of a medieval lady bathing in milk called national attention to her flawless beauty, and she worked continuously after that. When her class graduated from Radcliffe, she'd starred in thirty commercials.

It was then that Cara became bored. She turned down a role in a big-budget feature film and took a vacation in Sardinia. During her vacation she experimented with a sixteen-millimeter camera and was fascinated. She went back to New York with a ten-minute film and a new career.

At twenty-one her inheritance added another half-million to her account, but it didn't dilute her ambitions. She wrote, directed, and scored two films over the next few years. They received critical raves, but distributors considered them too radical for Middle America. Having made the error of investing her own money in the projects, Cara was forced to take a job.

She easily found work directing television documentaries, but again became dissatisfied.

Her luminous beauty and intelligence had brought her every favor she wished, except love. All the men she'd known had been weaklings in one form or other. For a time she tried developing primitive types who showed promise, until she saw they were as empty as the rest. A brief experiment with female lovers left her with the same yearning for someone strong enough to win her complete respect.

Cara had little hope of achieving that ideal when she flew to Miami to profile a retiring football player. Knowing very little about the sport, she asked to see game films as soon as she arrived. She'd allowed herself a week before shooting to become familiar with the sport and the athlete being featured. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that pro football had a certain sophistication, and was enthusiastic about her subject's graceful ferocity.

The man was a rangy, dark-skinned Cuban called Mojo Pay, who combined agility and size with an eagerness for violence. He roamed the defensive secondary like a tiger, hungry for any opportunity to unleash his fury.

While Cara was alone in the coach's office screening clips and mapping out a schedule, she felt an unfamiliar presence in the darkened room. Without hesitation she switched on the lights and whirled to confront the intruder. Anger dissolved to curiosity when she saw who it was.

Out of uniform, Mojo Pay looked more like a pampered house cat than a tiger. His thick copper hair was combed into an overabundant afro and his wide-shouldered body was draped in an impossible suit -- green shantung, with shawl lapels embroidered with silver flowers. There was a trace of animal intelligence in his handsome, olive-smooth face, but his eyes were soft with self-love.

"How long have you been here?" Cara snapped.

Pay ignored the question. "You're sure 'nough the prettiest movie director I ever met."

A note of authority beneath his casual drawl altered Cara's initial impression, but not the desire to be rid of him.

"I'm flattered," she said coolly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Pay, I'm very busy."

To her annoyance, Pay remained where he was, inspecting her like a small boy shopping for candy.

"Believe I can be of great help to you, Ms. O'Riley," he confided.

Infuriated by his arrogance, Cara folded her arms and sighed. "Suppose you make it quick, then. I've got serious work to do."

Pay's small smile didn't waver.

"Sure thing, sugar," he said softly. "First off, this thing's about me, right? Well, what you're watchin' on those game films is what I was, dig? So if you're gonna make some turkey instant replay, maybe you better forget about me this week. That's not what I had in mind when I agreed to do this number."

Cara decided to employ her legendary knack with temperamental actors, and a sad smile shadowed her porcelain features.

"Did it ever occur to you that directing film is my craft?" she asked sweetly. "I do it as well as you play football. Of course, I'm open to any constructive suggestion, but our working relationship has to be based on trust. And I can see you don't trust me, Mr. Pay."

"On the nose, sugar," Pay congratulated. "You see, directin' film may be your craft, but I'm the world's top expert on me. And you damn sure got a small view of what that is."

Cara became aware of the cold perfection of his features; the straight nose, plump lips, and cleft chin were sharply outlined in the dim lights, as if cut from smoked ice. As she stared into his black, fire-specked eyes, she recognized the gaze of a predator.

"And just who are you, Mr. Pay?" she asked, suppressing a chill of excitement.

His grin revealed the tiny star diamond set in a white incisor.

"Both my friends and enemies call me Mojo. Suppose you choose which side you're on after dinner. Fair enough?"

"As long as the food's good," Cara said, reaching for her briefcase. "I'm starved."

Mojo took her to an expensive Cuban restaurant near the stadium, where the food was excellent. Afterward they went to a plush private club to hear authentic Afro-Cuban music. During the evening she discovered he owned the club as well as the restaurant.

Cara was impressed with the adulation he received wherever they went, and was sexually aroused by his forceful masculinity. She managed to control the impulse by retiring early, but spent a sleepless night tossing in a squall of raw desire. The following afternoon she called Mojo at his home.

"I want to see you," she told him. "Right away."

He didn't sound surprised.

"Just get yourself together, sugar," he drawled lazily. "I'll send my car to pick you up." The call marked another junction in Cara's life. She was trembling with anticipation as she huddled in the chauffeured limousine, completely oblivious of anything except the itching need crawling over her senses.

Pay lived on an isolated estate south of Miami. She was met at the door of his mansion by a uniformed butler, who escorted her past a chain of noisy, crowded rooms to a secluded wing. A statuesque blond woman searched her at the door for weapons, then led her to a marble stairway.

Thoughts fogged by her urgent yearning, Cara was confused when the woman took her to a small interior room and ordered her to disrobe.

"What did you say?" she mumbled.

An eager shimmer lit the woman's eyes, as if she were studying a pinned butterfly.

"Never mind. I'll take care of everything as usual. You just stay on that cloud."

Numbly Cara allowed herself to be undressed. She was perspiring heavily, and after toweling her dry, the blond woman massaged her naked skin with a cooling scented lotion. Then the woman helped her into a white-chiffon caftan edged with gold.

"That's it, princess," she muttered, stepping back to inspect her work. "Now, go right through the door. Sure wish I could go with you."

"Where is it?"

The blond woman's smirk revealed a trace of contempt. She pointed straight ahead, and with the other hand gave Cara a quick slap on the buttocks that propelled her in the right direction.

Angry needles stung Cara's thoughts as she strode to the arched doorway. Until then they'd been bundled in sexual hunger, but the blond's patronizing slap cut them free. She realized she'd been carted, inspected, and groomed like some mare being readied for a prize stallion. She was just another piece of horseflesh to Mojo, nothing more. And she didn't like it.

Pay was propped up on a fur-covered bed watching a televised basketball game and conferring heatedly on the telephone. The flicker of surprise that crossed his face when Cara switched off the television and disconnected the phone was swallowed by a tight smile.

"Got a lot of cash on that game, sugar. Turn it back on."

Cara detected the intense violence smoldering under his easy tone but didn't waver.

"If that game goes on, I go out," she said calmly.

Pay's smile widened.

"In that case, we better leave it off. Now, come over here, and let's have some champagne." Desire muffled Cara's anger, but she was determined to salvage her dignity.

"Not yet. Who's the amazon that brought me here?"

"Tall blond?"

"That's the one."

"Name's Rita. Why?"

"Fire her. I don't want to see her again."

He shrugged. "Okay, if that's how you feel, she's fired. Now, lighten up, sugar. Come over here and tell me what got you so riled."

"Not until you pick up that phone and fire Rita."

He was smiling, but she felt the cold fury biting through his words.

"I said she was fired. Take it for what it's worth. Anything else you want?"

A swell of excitement flooded Cara's belly and oozed along her thighs like warm syrup.

"Just one more thing."

Her fingers hooked the neck of the robe, and with a quick motion she jerked her hands apart. Her eyes were fixed on Mojo as the shredded fabric fell away from her creamy breasts and slipped past her hips to the floor.

"From now on I choose my own clothes," she said hoarsely, moving toward him.

That night Cara's awareness was lifted to undreamed levels of pleasure. Mojo guided her senses past delight to a dimension where they were transformed into a billion separate shades of sensuality. His electric flesh jolted each nerve until her being was a frenzied mass of lust, and as all sensation imploded, a high, hysterical screeching shivered into her brain. Just before the blackness rushed in, Cara realized it was her own voice. She was screaming like a maddened alley cat, heat-lathered haunches open to the universe.

Cara woke up starved for more of Mojo's delicious flesh. She crept closer and nibbled at his chest, warm and secure in the protection of his arms.

He nuzzled her ear. "Think it's time for breakfast. Want anythin' special?"

"Just you."

His lingering kiss brought her to the brink of orgasm, and she clutched at his wrist when he eased away.

"You just stay mellow, sugar," he whispered. "I'll order up some eggs and grits."

In a short while a pert redheaded girl arrived with a tray of food, but Mojo didn't return. Cara waited until late afternoon, then called for a limousine and left the mansion, emotions seething. During the ride back to Miami she silently repeated a vow: never again would she allow herself to be degraded by animal passion.

Fortunately, she was well prepared for the film she'd been assigned to direct, and maintained a tight schedule despite the sexual craving constantly gnawing at her nerves. The day Mojo's sequences were due to be shot, she arrived on location early, armored by a heavy dose of tranquilizers. They didn't help. The moment Mojo arrived, she knew her vow was broken. She called him into her office and didn't emerge until late afternoon.

Her documentary eventually won an Emmy that season, but Cara wasn't there to accept. She never returned to New York. Mojo installed her in an apartment overlooking the bay, where she spent her days swimming and her nights waiting for her savage lover to call.

Although the phone never rang more than twice a week, Cara was satisfied. She'd never known a man could be so completely enthralling, and was fascinated by the experience. Violent but not reckless, and kitten-gentle despite his great strength, Mojo concealed a highly evolved intelligence beneath his easygoing drawl that was unhampered by guilt.

Knowing she was one of many ladies who entertained him, Cara used her leisure to make plans. All she had to do was wait, she concluded. Mojo had an unerring taste for quality. Eventually he'd realize she had much more to offer than the silicone starlets cluttering his act.

Her logic was quite accurate. Soon her phone rang every day. Though still a diversion, she'd stepped up in class.

She accompanied him to formal dinners in Palm Beach, celebrity barbecues in Dallas, and diplomatic cocktail parties in Washington. When he took her to the governor's inaugural ball in Tallahassee, Cara understood that she'd acquired leverage. Mojo was starting to rely on her discretion. Very shortly she'd become indispensable.

For a while her plan seemed to be working.

Mojo's notoriety and Cara's reputation as a film-maker made them a favorite topic for the gossip columns. Much comment was stirred by the obvious differences in their race and background. A photograph snapped during a yachting holiday was widely circulated. It showed Cara in a string bikini kneeling beside Mojo's chair like some fair virgin held captive by a barbarian king. It amused her to hear that the picture was a great source of embarrassment to her mother. Then things began to change.

Cara slowly learned that there was much she didn't know about her lover. Quite by accident she discovered that he was more than an energetic businessman. The bulk of his income was derived from gambling and prostitution.

She also found out that Maria, enraged by her daughter's shameless behavior, had embarked on a systematic program of ruin. Her mother was squandering money on any number of crackpot ventures that included founding an alligator sanctuary and financing an expedition to explore Biscayne Bay for remains of Atlantis. When Cara realized Maria was making sure there'd be nothing left of her father's estate to inherit, she became worried. Her savings were dwindling, and she knew that as soon as she became dependent, Mojo would drop her. And she craved the magnetic charge of his presence like a flower needed sun.

It was during that period that she learned of another facet of Mojo's life. Again it happened by chance. They were having dinner, and it occurred to Cara that as long as she'd known him, Mojo had always worn strands of brightly colored beads and a white-cotton sack around his neck.

She smiled and leaned closer. "You know, I've always considered myself a very observant woman, but maybe I've been overconfident. What's in that little pouch you're wearing?"

His expression became remote. "Just some ol' roots and stuff my daddy gave me."

"Lucky piece?"

"Might say. Sort of a religious amulet, really. My daddy was a priest."

Cara tried to smother a giggle. "A priest? Really? Please forgive me, darling. I'm not making fun of your father, but it's not what I expected."

Pay leaned back, a boyish grin spreading over his face. "Well, sugar lady. If you think that's funny, you better pull yourself together. Or you might bust apart laughin' when I tell you the rest."

"After that, I think I can handle anything."

"Try this. I'm a priest too. Just like my daddy. Got me a regular congregation and hold services every Wednesday and Saturday, rain or shine."

Cara was speechless for a full minute before exploding with excited questions.

"Are you serious? An ordained priest? Is it a Christian religion? How long have you been at this?"

Mojo stroked her hair. "Too much to tell, sugar. If you're interested, just drop by my church service sometime."

The sensual shock of his touch cut off Cara's questions but not her curiosity. That next Wednesday she attended the church service. Having made a deep study of religious philosophies and reached the conclusion that they were nothing more than corporate memos, she went without expectation. It was merely another way to get closer to Mojo.

The services were held in a private home, and the altar was an ordinary table heaped with flowers, food offerings, and plaster statues of Catholic saints. It all seemed naive and primitive, like some tribal totem. She was surprised by the large number of members, but when the ceremony began, it bore out her initial impression.

The congregation sang traditional hymns accompanied by the monotonous beat of conga drums, and after ten minutes she was anxious to leave. Her interest rekindled when Mojo appeared, and she followed his movements with the fascination of a parent watching her child in a school pageant. It wasn't long before fascination escalated to awe.

The drums gradually accelerated, until everyone, including Cara, was swept up in their stampeding rhythms. The classic hymns became strangely guttural chants that amplified the drumming's intensity. Suddenly the group of people assisting Mojo were seized by convulsions, and a soundless bolt of energy struck the room. In that chaotic instant Mojo underwent a marked physical mutation, face and body swelling until he resembled a decadent African chieftain, bloated with greed and power.

Although she was completely unfamiliar with the rite, the transformation was unmistakable. Another being had possessed Mojo's body. And as its massive force crackled through her perceptions, Cara realized the being was a god.

Unwilling to be swayed by mass hysteria, she attended many more services before asking for membership. She was accepted as a supplicant and given basic instruction in the Lecumi faith.

The roots of the cult went back to the Lecumi tribe in the Congo. Transplanted to Cuba with slavery, the pagan religion was outlawed by the Spaniards and every other regime that controlled the island. Nevertheless, it continued to flourish. Although influenced by Catholicism in Cuba, the inner rituals were still conducted in the Lecumi tongue.

Cara was an eager student, even becoming familiar with the ancient language, and soon ready to be tested. One morning she awoke at sunrise, bathed and perfumed her body, donned a white-linen gown, and covered her hair with a white scarf. Then she thrust a brightly feathered arrow into her front door to announce her desire to be baptized.

In less than an hour Mojo arrived at her apartment with two clerics of the Lecumi faith. Cara waited as they placed large silver zuperas, or soup tureens, in each corner of the room and covered them with silken scarves called penuallas. Bowls of fruit, coconut halves, flowers, and candles were also placed on a table.

Cara understood that each small detail held deep significance in Lecumi ritual, but she had been taught no more than necessary for her initiation. She knew only that every candidate was entitled to make a request of her padrino on the day of baptism and that it would be granted.

Most requests were centered on some material gain, but Cara had something more personal in mind. When the room was prepared, Mojo placed a low stool in front of the altar table and asked her to undress.

Chanting a prayer to the god Yemaya, he took a plate of cocoa butter from the array of offerings and used it to dab the sign of the cross on her forehead, breasts, belly, and feet. Then he took a mixture of eggshells and cocoa powder and repeated the process. After anointing her naked body three times, Mojo look a silver bowl from the altar. He chewed a piece of cocoa butter, spat it into the bowl, and passed it to his assistants, who did the same. As Mojo circled Cara's chair, muttering an invocation to Agallu, one of the clerics left the room and returned carrying a live black rooster.

Using a small iron knife, Mojo slit the bird's throat and let its blood mingle with the masticated butter. Cara felt no sense of revulsion when he gave her the bowl, only exhilaration. She whispered her baptismal request in his ear and greedily swallowed the warm, thick mixture.

A week later she learned that the request had been granted. Her mother was dead.

On her passing, Cara inherited what was left of her father's estate. Despite Maria's efforts, enough remained to make her a wealthy woman. But it didn't matter any longer. She already had what she wanted. With her baptism, she'd forged an indissoluble link to Mojo. For the moment a lowly neophyte, she fully intended to scale the mystical chain of Lecumi until she stood beside him as his priestess.

Cara pursued her goal with fierce determination. Her facility in learning the ancient language and ritual earned immediate notice, and it was generally conceded by the elders that she'd soon attain the coveted rank of santero. This would mean that she'd be favored to receive the precious spirit of the gods. Until then, however, she was bound by a rigid schedule.

Wednesday and Saturday nights were reserved for religious services. The rest of the week Cara entertained a series of faceless men who gladly paid five hundred dollars for the privilege of making love to the most exquisite prostitute in Mojo Pay's stable.

Chapter 3

As Orient sat in the diner next to the Miami station, wearily munching a melted-cheese sandwich, he wondered why bus terminals were invariably located in the seamiest part of town.

The vehicles themselves weren't uncomfortable; he'd completed the first leg of his enforced tour, New York to Montreal, in twelve easy hours. Once in Canada, however, the itinerary became more complicated. After spending the night in a hotel, he'd taken a local bus to the outskirts of Montreal and hitchhiked back to the border. It had been a simple matter to walk back into the United States without being registered, and then, tracks temporarily covered, take another bus south.

Staring through the spotted plate glass at the lethargic activity on the evening street, he considered buying a ticket west. Then he remembered the week of sun he'd promised himself and went into the terminal to check his suitcase.

The suitcase and new clothes it contained had been paid for with some of the cash Andy Jacobs had pressed on him after the fire. After replenishing his wardrobe, there was enough left over to buy a long head start on Ted Bork and his committee playmates.

When Orient stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal, the heat covered him like a damp cloth, and he debated whether to take another bus to Miami Beach or splurge and take a cab.

He decided on the cab, and twenty dollars later was strolling past the weathered pastel stucco hotels lining both sides of Collins Avenue like discarded gift boxes. After wandering aimlessly for a bit to stretch his travel-cramped legs, he headed toward the Lincoln Road Mall.

The glossy marketplace he recalled from previous holidays was gone, pushed into the sea by hordes of souvenir shops armed with every variety of plastic. With its fast-fried foods, instant-fit clothing, and nonstop porn movies, the area had acquired the fugitive pallor of its Times Square cousin.

Ordinarily he'd have rented a car and picked out a remote beach motel where he could rest and plan. But he was reluctant to use his license. Until he established a new identity, mobility was limited. He located a cheery beachfront hotel and reserved a room under the name David Clay. Then he took a bus back to the city to retrieve his luggage.

In Miami, the bus driver assured Orient that if he walked due south for six blocks he couldn't miss the terminal. The driver was an optimist.

When Orient reached a dead-end street girded by shadowy warehouses cringing beneath an elevated highway, he realized he was lost. He turned back, intending to ask directions in a nearby bar, and saw the two men following him.

Their aura of brute violence alarmed his instincts immediately. As they neared, a cluster of thoughts burst through his brain like shrapnel. A quick fear that Ted's agents had managed to track him faded when he noted the pair's amateur uncertainty, and he remembered the three thousand dollars in his pocket.

They were separated by a few feet as they ambled down the center of the darkened street, crudely but effectively cutting off both avenues of escape. Calculating that decisive action might catch the pair off guard, Orient hurried to meet them.

Both were young, with thick, beefy features that went slack with confusion as he approached.

"Hey, fellas, the truck arrive?"

Startled by the brisk question, they stopped, stared at him, then at each other.

Without hesitation Orient leaped into the gap between them and sprinted toward the blinking neon lights on the next corner.

It almost worked. He was clear and running hard when his foot twisted on a rock and he sprawled head-long, the pavement skinning his palm raw. He struggled to his feet, but the pair pounced like awkward bears. One man pinned Orient to the ground, while the other clawed through his pockets.

He found the bulging wallet and whistled softly.

"This bastard's loaded."

"Keep workin'," the other man grunted. "See what else he's got."

The large bundle of cash had a distracting effect on him, however, and Orient felt the grip on his neck relax. Desperation sparked reflex, and he jerked free, wildly lashing an arm back. His elbow smacked bone, numbing his fingers, but the sudden blow toppled his assailant. Orient rolled aside, pulling his body into a tight, protective ball. A pair of legs flashed across his vision, and he kicked out with all his strength. He felt a jarring shock when his heels connected, and heard someone yell, the cry oddly shrill in the panting darkness.

As Orient scrambled away, his fingers found a large rock and were still clutching it when he recovered balance.

One man was curled on the pavement, holding his shin; the other was lumbering closer, fists cocked and bared teeth gleaming dully. Then he saw the rock in Orient's hand.

Wariness diluted his anger, and he circled slowly, arms extended. "Forget him. Let's split."

The other man had reached his feet and was crouching like a referee. His urgent rasp cut through his partner's indecision, and he shuffled back, eyes fixed on Orient. On some unspoken signal, they both turned and ran.

Without thinking, Orient went after them. His long strides devoured their lead, and he overtook the trailing member of the pair at the corner. As he reached out, the man lurched to an abrupt halt and wheeled.

The roundhouse chop caught Orient under the chin, and he collapsed. Fortunately, his attackers were content with the money they'd taken, and fled. Orient was in no condition to defend himself. He lay on the sidewalk, body flopping like a landed fish, painfully gasping air through his crushed throat.

He was still fighting for breath when he heard the squeal of brakes and looked up. A uniformed officer was coming toward him, one hand resting on his holster.

Hours later, after hundreds of mug shots and repeated questions, the policeman kindly allowed Orient to sleep on a cot in an unused office. In the morning, unshaven and rumpled, he walked out of the Miami Beach police station into the glaring sun.

Exhausted from little sleep and the sweltering heat, Orient retreated to a nearby beach, found a shaded, secluded spot against a hotel wall, and stared out at the milky green water.

After being burned out of his home and forced out of his profession, being robbed was almost inevitable. Unfortunately, it made him vulnerable. Even if he wanted to contact Andy for more funds -- and he didn't -- it would endanger both of them. He still had the key to the locker where his suitcase was stored, his empty wallet, seventeen cents in cash, his lapis-lazuli ring, and his cigarette case.

Orient extracted a hand-wrapped cigarette from the case, and as he smoked, studied the interlocking-oval design etched into its silver face. The curious design was his own meditation mandala, given him by the master Ku when it came time to leave the Tibetan retreat and begin his work as an adept of the Serene Knowledge. Ku hadn't asked for material gains, but only that the secrets of the League be protected from misuse. At least he'd been faithful to that vow, Orient reflected, but his civilian record was abysmal.

He reminded himself that he'd eventually have run out of money in any case. Perhaps it was best that it happened before he developed too many loose habits. There was still a suitcase to be retrieved before evening, so he'd better concentrate on finding temporary work of some kind. He left the beach, spent ten of his remaining seventeen cents for a newspaper, and turned to the want ads.

Most of the likeliest positions were listed by agencies, which would require identification and references. One opening for a pharmacist's assistant listed a private business address and phone number. He decided to apply in person.

Aware that his appearance left much to be desired after days on a bus and a night in the police station, Orient looked around for a large, expensive hotel.

He found the Hotel Naples, a tall green structure whose mosaic siding depicted Venetian gondolas and canals. He went through the nouveau-renaissance lobby and saw the men's room, directly opposite something called the Leaning Tower Lounge.

The lavatory had red-velvet wallpaper ornamented with gilt chains, and the elderly attendant was wearing a red gondolier's sash. Orient stopped in front of a mirror and winced when he saw his reflection.

His long hair stood out like clumps of black weeds, and the white streak was a ragged patch on one side of his dark, beard-stubbled face. There were greasy shadows around his green eyes, and deep scoops underneath the jutting cheekbones.

Both blazer and trousers were rumpled, and his shirt soiled. Supplied with a comb, razor, and towel by the attendant, he managed to make himself presentable, if not impeccable. When he finished, he pressed his seven cents into the attendant's palm.

"Bit short today. My credit good?"

The old man looked from Orient to the coins.

"At least it's a lucky number; maybe I play it," he said, irony sharpened by a slight Spanish accent. Then he winked and fingered a strand of red and white beads around his neck. "I pray to the santos for both of us, okay?"

It took Orient a long time to hitchhike to the city of Miami, and when he reached the address given in the ad, it was late afternoon. As he walked, he noticed a profusion of stores advertising in Spanish before sighting the large neon sign proclaiming his destination: FEIN DRUGS.

Although billed as a pharmacy, the large store was divided by three long counters stacked with cosmetics, hardware gadgets, and a multitude of novelty goods. The walls too were covered with merchandise ranging from baby strollers to plastic mats.

"Help you, mister?"

The nasal voice belonged to a tiny woman with the quick, bright eyes and sharp features of a terrier. She squinted at his soiled collar and wrinkled her nose as if just presented with a bag of garbage.

"We got a special on wash-and-dry shirts, or maybe you could use a nice pair of slacks."

"Thanks, but I'd like to see the proprietor if I may."

"I'm not good enough to wait on you?"

"Oh, sure," Orient said quickly, "but you see, I came about the job."

The woman folded her arms. "Well, you came to the right person. I'm the manageress of this location, and there's no job here."

He tried to accept the news calmly, but something in the woman's strident tone rang off-key.

"Excuse me, miss, but are you sure there's nothing open? You see -- "

"Bella?" A gruff voice called out. "Is that somebody about the newspaper ad now?"

A deeply tanned bald man with long white sideburns stepped around a counter in the rear. He was wearing a bright-yellow knit shirt and green checked trousers and had a pair of yellow-framed sunglasses perched high on his smooth head.

"I told you this morning, Bella," he reminded calmly. "You didn't want a simple pharmacy, you wanted a dreck palace. So now we need help to sell this fancy merchandise."

Suddenly he turned to Orient. "You had any experience in pharmaceuticals before?"

"I know the difference between acetyl spiraeic acid and stropa belladonna, if that's what you mean. And I can wait on customers and make deliveries, if that's what you need."

"You bet that's what I need. What kind of background do you have? Professionally speaking."

"I had a couple of years of medical school, then gave it up. I've been working as a lab technician since then."

"Well, that's not bad at all. Maybe I can try you out for a week."

"Sam, you crazy or what?" Bella snapped. "You didn't hear him admit he's a dropout? Clean he's not, if you bother looking. You need that for a fancy-shmancy pharmacy? You don't even know the bum's name. You keep drugs in the back and cash in the front. You can't be in three places."

"I want you in one place. Home," Sam said firmly. He turned to Orient and smiled. "What's your name?"

"David Clay."

"So who's in a name?" Bella snorted. "Does he have a driver's license at least?"

"I was mugged last night," Orient explained. "The thief took my wallet. It'll take a few days to get a new license."

"Hah, you see?" She shook a triumphant finger at Sam.

"It couldn't happen?" he asked mildly.

"The Miami Beach police can verify it," Orient said.

"No problem," Sam assured. "Now, this job takes in a little of everything -- sales, stock, deliveries, cleaning up..."

"I can't believe you're really hiring him," Bella shouted.

Sam paid no attention and continued. "... It's a six-day week, nine to six, and it pays a hundred and a quarter a week. What this job doesn't include is going behind the drug counter if I'm not here. A deal, David?"

Orient nodded. "It's a deal, but, uh..."

He took a deep breath and plunged forward. "... if it's not an imposition, I wonder if you can advance me five dollars. So I can find a room."

"Right away this one starts," Bella observed with satisfaction.

Sam reached into his pocket and pressed a bill into Orient's hand.

"Don't worry, you'll earn it," he grunted. "See you in the morning."

"Earn it? You'll never see the bum again," Bella predicted shrilly. "A regular traveler's relief you got here, not a drugstore."

"You call this a drugstore?" Sam exploded. "Call it a grocery, call it a dry-goods shop. Thanks to your no-good brother, I'm a shmatta salesman, not a registered pharmacist."

Orient cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Fein."

Without turning, Sam waved him to the door. "Go, go. I'll see you in the morning."

"Don't worry, Mr. Bum, I'm gonna check the police, all right," Bella called after him. When Orient reached the bus stop, he discovered that Sam had given him a twenty-dollar bill.

After picking up his suitcase at the terminal, he took a bus back to Flagler Street and checked into a motel a short distance from the drugstore that offered room, bath, and color TV for seven dollars. After taking a hot shower and changing into fresh clothes, he went out in search of a good meal.

Hunger satisfied, he took a bus to Miami Beach and walked to the Naples Hotel to settle his previous debt. At night the structure was lit by pastel spotlights emanating from a circle of water-spouting mermaids poised in front of the entrance. Orient walked into the ornate lobby and headed for the men's room. The elderly attendant was still on duty.

"Your percentage," Orient said, slipping two dollars into the old man's hand. The attendant put the money in one of his pockets and took a five-dollar bill from another.

"And here's your percentage, amigo." He grinned. "I play double-oh-seven and she comes in like the rent collector. Thank the holy santos."

As Orient was leaving, he glanced through the glass door of the Leaning Tower Lounge and saw a familiar bald head framed by puffy white sideburns.

Moving closer, he recognized Sam Fein. The portly druggist was standing at the bar busily nuzzling the ear of a very young redhead. Not wishing to compromise his benefactor, Orient moved quickly to the exit.

The following morning he arrived at work a few minutes before nine and found the store open. Sam and Bella were in the rear sipping coffee from paper cups. Sam offered him one.

"Yes, thanks."

Sam winked at Bella. "Right on time."

"Good morning, Mrs. Fein."

"Hello. Drink your coffee and let's get busy with the stock."

"Bella, please." Sam sighed. "I told you yesterday, when David shows up for work, you go home. I'll see you lunchtime."

He sighed again as she stalked out the rear door.

"I hope I haven't disturbed Mrs. Fein by..."

"Don't worry, David, she's a good woman but difficult. Don't I know?" He lowered his voice. "In New York I had her convinced the store was too dangerous, but here I didn't have any excuse. So she insisted on working with me."

His blue eyes twinkled, and his cherubic face lit up with glee. "But I juggled the books. She still can't figure out why I'm hiring you if we're supposed to be losing money."

"You mean the merchandise is selling?"

"Dreck is dreck," Sam informed him. "It's the prescription business that's doing great here. It's a cubano area, and there's always lots of babies getting colds, measles, sores, and God knows what else. Kids are the same everywhere. And I don't gouge profits, so my customers come back. But Bella has dreams of owning a department store."

He tossed his empty container into a nearby basket and smiled at Orient. "Ready for some work?"

"At your service. Want that stock moved?"

Sam rolled up the sleeves of his yellow flowered shirt. "We're going to move this whole place around until it's a real pharmacy again."

Through the morning, while Sam was busy with the flow of prescription customers, Orient cleared the profusion of merchandise from the counters.

"Just take it easy," Sam advised when it neared noon. "Write up the phone orders until I get back from lunch. Rome took at least two days to build."

Despite the advice, Orient continued shuffling counters and had made significant progress by the time Sam and Bella returned.

Sam inspected the new prescription area and pharmaceutical display with satisfaction.

"Right near the front, where it should be. The dreck can rot in the back until my brother-in-law picks it up. It's on consignment anyway."

"Did David help you do this?" Bella demanded.

Sam patted Orient's shoulder. "He did almost everything by himself. Including the new shelves. So now tell him yourself what we talked about."

She peered suspiciously at Orient. "I hope you're a clean person. I won't stand for any hanky-panky on my premises. I got two nice rooms for rent over the garage."

She grudgingly held out a key. "Take a look for yourself."

Orient went through the rear door and found that there was a large courtyard garden behind the store that abounded with tropical plants and flowers.

The garage was on the other side of the garden and stood about twenty feet from a two-story wood house. An outside stairway led to the rooms above the garage. Orient liked the place immediately. There was an old-fashioned brass bed, a clean kitchen, and a big window overlooking the bright tapestry of flowers below.

"The rooms are very nice," he told them when he returned. "And the view of the garden is worth the climb."

Bella's expression softened. "Thank you. I have maybe a hundred varieties in there," she confided.

"There was nothing in back but sand until she took over and turned it into a tourist attraction," Sam said proudly. "Yeah. I got a regular brown thumb."

"Green thumb. Well, that's settled, then. David likes the place." Bella folded her arms. "If the dropout wants to move in, he should know the rent is twenty-five dollars a week. Payable to yours truthfully in advance."

"The rent is twenty a week," Sam said firmly. "And he'll pay you Saturday."

At the end of the day Orient moved his things into the new flat, then went out and bought some groceries. After a light dinner of yogurt, vegetables, fruit, and honey, he stretched out on the bed and took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case, luxuriating in the peaceful seclusion of his new home.

Sam was an easygoing, no-probing employer who was satisfied with an honest day's work, and the job was perfect cover. He'd be difficult to locate, even if Ted Bork somehow traced him to Miami.

Orient reached across the bed for his toilet kit. Before retiring from the medical profession, he'd prepared one last form for his own use. He took a folded document from the kit's inner pocket. Right now, the form was more valuable than the money he'd lost. It was a blank birth certificate, fully sealed and authenticated. All he had to do was fill in a name and date.

He'd take out a driver's license, using the birth certificate, and establish a new Identity. In time he'd be able to set up a small lab and continue his research.

For the first time in weeks he felt a gust of hope. Clinging to that breeze like a stray gull, he floated to sleep.

Chapter 4

Orient's stay with the Feins provided the haven he needed. His long, muscled body became taut from regular swimming, and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones were smoothed by Bella's rich meals. A month of rest restored clarity to his emerald eyes and gave his perpetually brooding smile an almost cheerful cast.

It wasn't until the fifth week that something happened to change the pleasant routine. Orient went to work at the usual hour, after completing his morning meditation, and when he entered the pharmacy, heard Sam's loud, angry voice.

"Get out of here fast, you phony bastards! I don't need you in my store! Out!"

As he came through the storeroom, Orient saw two young Cuban men dressed in clerical garb standing at the prescription counter. Both were wearing stiff white collars under their white suits, and seemed quite undisturbed by the outburst.

"Didn't you punks hear me?" Sam roared.

The two men glanced at Orient, nodded politely, and left.

Orient went to the door and watched them cross the street to a white Cadillac Eldorado.

"Never heard you so angry," he commented as they drove off. "Who were they?"

"Punks, that's all," Sam fumed. "Punks dressed like priests, trying to pull the oldest racket in history."

"Fake charity?"

"Worse. Shakedown artists. They want me to sell this location to their phony church, at their phony price. They went so far as to threaten that I might have trouble if I didn't come across."

"What church did they say they represent?"

"Santos something. They came around before, when we first opened up. I asked Father Vasquez over at the Catholic church, and he told me it was some kind of local group. He has trouble with it himself. He told me to report them to the police if they bother me again."

"Are you going to call them?"

"Forty years in New York and I never had to call the police because of punks. That's because of my little Delilah."

"Who?"

"Over there, David. You should meet her. Can't tell when a nice girl can come in handy."

"Now you sound like Bella." Orient moved around the counter and bent lower to see where Sam was pointing. Clamped to the underside of the counter was a short-barreled shotgun.

"That's Delilah," Sam murmured fondly. "And she loves to cut punks to size. I got a permit."

Later, while Sam filled prescriptions, he was still complaining loudly about the attempted shakedown.

"I hate cheap hoods like that worse than anything. And twice as much when they come around like phony priests."

"They really got under your skin," Orient commented.

"Ann, those galoots don't bother me. I can take care of them, same as always, with one hand tied behind my back."

He set the bottle down and reached for a green-checked sport coat on the wall. "Do me a favor. Refill this order and take it over to Mrs. Sagria. I'll be over at the wholesaler's. Bella can watch things while you're gone."

A couple of things struck Orient as odd. During all the weeks he'd been working there, Sam had never allowed him to make up a prescription without supervision. Strictly ethical, he always complied with the smallest regulations. And this was Sam's third visit to the wholesaler in six days.

Orient was kept busy in the store until afternoon and then asked Bella to take charge while he made a series of deliveries. Since he'd acquired his driver's license, the store's phone business had tripled, and he spent at least two hours a day making deliveries in the Feins' station wagon.

After completing the run of deliveries, Orient decided to have a cold beer, and parked in front of a Flagler Street bar called Cervantes. Just before entering, he glimpsed a green-checked figure through the glass and stopped.

Sam's wholesaler looked more like an aging Latin showgirl. She was busty and flashily dressed, with a sullen mouth and batwing eyeshadow. Sam seemed very eager and attentive, like a spaniel sniffing at a plump spider.

It didn't concern him, Orient told himself as he went back to the station wagon. Sam's vices had never been a secret. Bella often remarked about his nights out and gambling sprees. Weighed against his compassion and honesty, Sam's choice of entertainment was incidental.

But as Orient drove to another bar on Southwest Eighth Street, he was forced to admit that it wasn't that simple. Sam and Bella's arguments had been increasing in volume and frequency. His mind flashed back to the scene in Cervantes, and he hoped Bella wouldn't be hurt.

Later that evening Orient was conducting a series of experiments by candlelight when he was disturbed. It wasn't the hollow sounds of Bella and Sam's pitched battle drifting across the driveway that jostled his concentration. The fight had been raging for more than an hour, and he'd already completed four separate tests of his telekinetic skills.

Taking objects made of basic elements, such as an iron key, a small wood block, his lapis ring, and an empty cigar tube, he established mental rapport and moved each object at least twelve inches across the kitchen table.

The disturbance occurred during the fifth attempt. Orient was sitting by the window, chin cupped in his hands, trying to synchronize his consciousness with the dim pulses of energy emanating from a plastic bottle cap.

Since each object used had a separate mass and radiation cycle, he began by focusing on his own body. Moved by that familiar throb, his senses dowsed outward for an alien rhythm. Suddenly his consciousness recoiled, stung by a shock of static energy, the discharge caused by a lingering yawn of uneasiness in his belly, and for a moment he was confused. Then the sensation that someone was prowling nearby scratched at his senses like nails across a blackboard.

He doused the candle and went to the window. In the darkness he could make out a section of the garden that was dimly illuminated by the lights from the Feins' house.

Sam and Bella were still arguing, and their muffled shouts crackled through the stillness like distant machine guns.

There was no breeze, and the dark tangle of vegetation below was motionless. Then a pale blur detached itself from the shadows near the back porch and floated along the side of the house to the street. Orient shoved the window open, leaned out, and glimpsed a woman dressed in white turning the corner of the house. He hurried to the door and sprinted downstairs, but when he reached the street, it was deserted.

Not sure he'd seen anyone at all, he walked slowly to the end of the block, peering into the black holes between houses. When he returned, he checked the back porch before going back to his second-floor flat.

He'd just drifted off to sleep when Bella's scream snatched him back. As he stumbled downstairs, another scream punctured the stillness, and a dog started barking somewhere nearby.

He rang the bell and pounded on the door for a long time before it opened and Bella stood swaying uncertainly in the sudden light, skin fish-white and eyes bulging with shock.

"It's Sam, my Sam," she mumbled frantically. "Help him, he needs help, my Sam..."

He pushed past her and ran upstairs to the bedroom. Sam was propped up against the pillow, staring open-mouthed at the door as if surprised by the intrusion.

Orient tried stimulants, massage, and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but nothing worked. When the ambulance arrived, the doctor pronounced Sam Fein dead of a heart attack.

A steady stream of mourners, most of them neighbors and customers from the Cuban community, filled the house during the day, and at sundown Sam was buried.

Orient took care of the arrangements and stayed close to Bella until the funeral was over. Then he drove her home, brewed some hot tea laced with a sedative, and sat with her until she fell asleep.

Although convinced that death wasn't the end of existence, but, like birth, a natural transition, Orient felt depressed and strangely frustrated, burdened by the possibility that Sam's heart attack hadn't been natural. The fogged image of the woman in white hovered at the edge of his brain, just out of memory's reach. In an effort to bring it closer, he went out for a drive.

When he reached Miami Beach, he turned onto Collins Avenue and cruised past the hotels that squatted like huge rhinestone-beaked pelicans at the edge of the water, swallowing and regurgitating an endless supply of fat fish.

All vainly struggling to elude time's inevitable hook, Orient observed morosely as he scanned for an open stretch of beach. When he found one, he pulled over, shut off his headlights, and took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his silver case.

When he finished smoking, he removed his shoes and socks, left the car, and walked across the sand to the water. He waded into the tepid sea, as if by establishing contact with the raw stuff of life he could wash the smell of death from his thoughts. But as he trudged back across the sand to the car, he remained troubled by the persistent illusion that Sam's death hadn't been natural.

As he drove back toward the listless cluster of lights across the wide, murky bay, the blurred image of the fleeing woman continued to haunt his memory.

He was halfway up the stairs to his apartment when an odd thought stopped him. Perhaps he'd made a mistake looking for a clue during the daylight hours. The prowler couldn't have been overly familiar with the area. That fact, coupled with the darkness, would have limited her movements.

He turned around, went down to the sidewalk, and slowly walked back along the side of the house. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadows, then inched forward. The shadows congealed to an inky wall when he reached the edge of the porch. Even after pausing additional seconds, he could barely make out the stairs.

He bent and swept the ground with his hands and found nothing but leaves. Then his palm brushed the edge of the stair and automatically slipped underneath, and his groping fingers felt something small and soft.

He struck a match and saw a tiny roll of white cotton tied with black thread nestled in his palm. Heart pumping with excitement, he hurried upstairs to examine the roll more closely.

When he broke the thread, he found a shred of yellow cloth and a few human hairs bundled inside the perfect square of white cotton.

The scrap of cloth seemed vaguely familiar to Orient. The whole thing seemed like a form of hex used in both the American and Caribbean versions of voodoo, in which a bit of clothing, hair, or something else intimately connected to the victim was sewn into a conjure sack in order to provide a magnetic link.

He was certain that the cloth sack was connected to Sam's heart attack but knew it would be impossible to prove his voodoo-hex theory to a homicide detective. Realizing there was nothing more he could do, he took an envelope from the drawer.

His fingers hesitated as they reached for the cotton square, as if the cloth was saturated with some virulent disease. Reminding himself that the only person it could possibly infect was already dead, Orient picked up the sack and dropped it into the envelope.

Later, vainly trudging over wastelands of unanswered questions in search of sleep, his restless thoughts kept stumbling over dim, obscured images of a woman in white.

Chapter 5

Four days after the funeral, Bella announced her intention of returning to work.

"I'm going nutty as a grapefruit all by myself in this big house," she told Orient. "Morning, night, and noon I sit by the TV thinking about Sam. So I'm going back to the store. What do you think?"

"Excellent idea is what I think. Do you good to occupy your mind. You might even sell some of your brother's merchandise while you're at it."

Bella ladled a dollop of sour cream over a hot blintze and handed him the plate.

"I'm glad you agree, David. It's important to have good business relations. I'm counting on your help. After breakfast maybe we can take a look and see about rearranging things."

Orient dawdled over his second cup of coffee until he saw Bella becoming impatient. Then he quietly followed her across the garden to the store and gave her the keys.

"David, what did you do? It's just gorgeous," Bella exclaimed when they went inside. "How did you do all this so soon?"

"Only took a couple of days. I started the day after the funeral. There was no sense keeping up a pharmacy without Sam, so I just moved the old merchandise to the front. The pharmaceutical equipment is packed up in cartons. I called a few druggists, and they seemed quite interested in taking it over. Their phone numbers are near the register."

Bella was only half-listening.

"It's really gorgeous this way," she murmured repeatedly as she moved through the store examining the changes he'd made. "Any idea what you're going to call your new emporium?"

"Wait, wait, let me get used to this fabulous shop. I feel like buying something myself. The dreck never looked so good."

The transition from pharmacy to neighborhood department store was an immediate success. By keeping prices low and service polite, Fein's Variety Shoppe turned a profit in its first ten days. Bella insisted on giving Orient a raise and the grandiose title of head manager. He was kept busy with bookkeeping in the morning and deliveries in the afternoon, while Bella spent the day waiting on customers and voicing long-distance complaints to her brother in Long Island.

Late one afternoon when he returned from a delivery run, he noticed a white Cadillac Eldorado parked in front of the store. The gleaming car set off a chain reaction of anxieties that hurried him into the store. When he saw the two men, he remembered where he'd seen the car before.

The two men were dressed in white suits and Roman collars, and Orient recognized them as the pair who had tried to shake Sam down the morning before he died.

"David, I think you should hear this," Bella called out when he entered.

Both men turned. With their regular features and perfect white teeth they seemed like honor graduates of the Hollywood school of divinity. But as he came closer to them, Orient saw the hard lines edging their professional smiles, and their coldly appraising eyes.

Orient nodded to the two men. "Are you with a charity organization?"

The lines around their smiles softened as if both men simultaneously decided further vigilance was unnecessary.

One of them shook his head. "We've come to buy, not to beg."

"A straight cash deal," the other put in, voice quick and arrogant.

Orient decided to be obtuse. "Let me get this straight. Are you fellows connected to a church?"

The arrogant one looked at the ceiling. The other became earnest. "Pardon me, sir. Of course, we should make ourselves clear. I'm Father Bernard, and this is my colleague Father Felix. We're deacons of the Hispano Church of the Ocho Santos."

Father Felix acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, then plucked a Swiss Army knife from a display rack and became absorbed with the various blades.

Father Bernard smiled. "We came authorized to offer you twenty-five thousand dollars for the store, and another twenty-five thousand for the house."

Orient looked at Bella. "Are you thinking of selling?"

She wrinkled her nose as if suddenly aware of a dubious odor. "At these prices?"

"Exactly my conclusion." He turned to Father Bernard. "If Mrs. Fein decides to sell at all, it will be at a figure substantially higher than fifty thousand."

The smile remained amiable, but his voice hardened. "That's a mistake. Now's the time to sell. When you have a buyer."

Bella folded her arms. "We need to sell like a hole in the neck."

"That could be arranged," Father Felix whispered.

"Did you say something, Father?" Orient asked mildly.

He looked up, lips pulled back in an undisguised smirk. "I said it could be arranged."

"Please, gentlemen," Father Bernard implored. "We shouldn't quarrel so soon after Mrs. Fein's sorrowful loss. I'm sure we can reach an agreeable settlement for the property."

"And soon," Felix added softly, cleaning his thumbnail with the point of the knife.

Orient's hands dropped below the counter. "Mister inside and mister outside, is that it?"

Felix moved closer, wagging the short blade like an admonishing finger. "You shouldn't make jokes about men of the cloth."

When Orient's hands came up, they were holding Sam's short-barreled shotgun.

"No offense meant," he said softly, "but we're definitely not going to sell. Mrs. Fein is going to call the police to confirm that for you."

"With all due pleasure," she muttered, reaching for the phone.

The two men studied Orient impassively, like brokers appraising a new breed of livestock. Then Felix looked at Bernard.

"The way I count, it's only evens he'll shoot if we rush the old turkey, and a hundred to one he won't if we get in the wind," he said calmly.

Father Bernard nodded, and both men headed swiftly for the door.

"Get them," Bella shouted as he hurried after them. He reached the sidewalk as the Eldorado was peeling away from the curb, and saw that the license plate on the shiny white car had been carefully caked with mud.

"Shoot, David, shoot!" Bella screeched.

Suddenly conscious of the shotgun in his hand, Orient ducked back into the store.

"Why didn't you shoot?" Bella demanded. "Didn't you hear? They called me an old turkey."

"Perhaps I'd better drive you to the police station to register a complaint," he said, replacing the shotgun on its rack under the counter.

"Calling me an old turkey," she fumed angrily. "Fine priests, I'm sure. Of course I want to complain to the police."

She stopped pacing, squinted into a mirror, and patted her frizzy, gray-streaked hair.

"But I can't see anybody yet. I got to keep an important appointment first."

Bella's pressing appointment was with Val Valentine's Heart of Beauty Associates, and Orient dropped her in front of a three-story building whose powder-blue facade was shaped like a giant pink-frosted heart.

"You don't have to bother picking me up," Bella told him as she left the car. "I'll take a cab to the police station myself. It's better if you go back and mind the business."

When Orient returned to the store, he immediately went to the register and checked beneath the counter for the shotgun. There were traces of rust on the barrel, but otherwise it seemed in working condition. He checked the shells and found them loaded with light bird shot. For all his bluster, Sam had never meant to harm anyone seriously.

Still wondering if he'd have pulled the trigger if attacked, Orient returned the shotgun to its rack.

A late rush of customers kept him busy past closing time, and as he crossed the sweet-scented garden, Bella waved him over from her kitchen window.

"I'm making kreplach. Want to try some?"

"I'll try anything you cook," Orient said. But as soon as he entered, he stopped and blinked.

Bella's narrow head was piled with pineapple-blond hair, giving it an inverted-icecream-cone effect. Her eyebrows were painted thick blue to match the shadow above a double set of lashes, and there was a tiny sequin pasted to her cheek. "So why don't you come in? You were expecting Hedy Grable, maybe?"

He grinned. "I was expecting Bella Fein."

"You don't like my hair this way, right?"

Orient made a frame with his joined thumbs. "You look good enough to star in a movie."

"Thank you," she said wistfully. "Sam never liked to see a messy woman."

"Did you get over to the police station?" he asked, occupying his usual place at the kitchen table.

Bella turned to her cooking.

"No I didn't. Pearl, that's my stylist, advised me against it. She said it was worth more trouble than it should be."

"I don't agree, Bella. The police may have received other complaints. If these people really have a church in the area, they should be easy to locate."

"Well, who knows. After the way you handled them, they probably won't ever come back."

"I'm not so sure."

"You worried, David?"

"Just being careful. Remember what they called you?"

Bella came to the table with a steaming bowl of soup. "Already that's enough. I'll go tomorrow morning. Now, eat before it gets cold."

As promised, Bella went to the police, and as predicted, they could do little except register her complaint with the bunco squad. For days after the incident, Orient kept close to the store during the day and stayed home at night, waiting to see if the bogus clergymen tried to threaten Bella in some other way.

One evening Orient was alone in his garage apartment, bent over the microphone as he tape-recorded variations of the Om prayer, when a familiar vibration prickled his awareness like a crawling insect.

He shut off the machine and listened. There was nothing but the hum of the air-conditioner. He turned off the lamp and went to the window. The diffuse light from Bella's second-floor window did little to untangle the knotted shadows behind the house. He stood at the window for long minutes, senses casting for the source of the disturbance. As he peered down at the garden, the persistent sensation bristled the fine hairs along his neck. It had the same discordant quality he'd sensed the night Sam died.

He went back to the table, turned on the small lamp, and opened the drawer. The envelope was there, and inside, the white square of cotton he'd found under the porch stairs. When he touched the conjure sack, his anxiety seemed to expand, and he had an overwhelming desire for fresh air. He shoved the piece of cloth into his pocket and went outside.

As he crossed the driveway, he heard a soft cry, like a baby's wail, coming from the house. He walked back to the porch and rang the bell. He stood for long seconds in the quiet darkness without detecting any sound of response. Then he heard the cry again, louder this time, and definitely Bella's. His hand instinctively twisted the knob, and the door opened.

"You all right, Bella?" he called out as he stepped into the darkened kitchen.

"David?" she called back, voice muffled.

"You all right?" he repeated.

The only answer was an extended moan.

Orient hurried up the stairs and found Bella lying on the bed, doubled over with pain.

"Oh, David, thank God," she groaned when he entered.

A quick examination showed a high pulse rate, excessive perspiration, painful cramps, and labored breathing.

Despite the air-conditioning, the room seemed tepid and dank with the odor of moldering newspapers in a sunless cellar. Orient weighed calling in another doctor and decided to see what was available in Bella's medicine chest. But as he started to go, Bella rolled her eyes toward him.

"No. Please don't leave me. I'm afraid."

He took her hand. "Just going to find something for the pain. I'll be right back."

"No. Please." A spasm of coughing cut her off.

Orient hurried into the bathroom. On the wall there was a large white chest marked "First Aid." Inside was a large quantity of pharmaceuticals, ranging from painkillers to antibiotics. There was also some medical equipment, including a battered stethoscope.

Using the instrument, he gave Bella another examination, and then, convinced she wasn't suffering a coronary, prepared a sedative for her pain. She had great difficulty swallowing, but in a few minutes the seizures slackened, allowing her to breathe freely.

"That's much better, thanks," she murmured. "I was really scared, David. It was just like the night Sam passed. He was just watching TV, and he got those cramps. I left him alone for two minutes, and he was gone."

"Just try to relax now. There's nothing to be afraid of now."

"Yes. I feel so tired, David. Is it -- ?"

Without warning her body contracted, and a thick jet of yellow bile shot from her open mouth, spraying the bedspread. Fresh surges of nausea continued to rack her trembling body even after her stomach was dry. Eyes glassy with pain and fear, she grabbed his wrist with both hands.

"God... help..." she croaked.

Wrenched by a shock of terror, Orient's will snapped like worn brakes on a speeding car, skidding his awareness into uncontrolled panic. Then he remembered something that checked the mindless glide.

"I'll be right back," he whispered, pulling away from her desperate fingers.

As he hurried downstairs, Bella's remark "like the night Sam passed" steadied his stumbling thoughts like a gyroscope.

When he reached the kitchen, he turned on the lights and went to the pantry.

He grabbed a glass pitcher, a box of salt, and a ball of twine from the shelves, then went to the sink and filled the pitcher with water.

Bella's condition had deteriorated further in the few minutes he'd been gone. When he entered, she was stretched across the bed, barely conscious, and working hard for each breath.

Orient set the pitcher on the floor, poured some salt into his hand, and sprinkled it over the water. The reaction was instantaneous.

Bella's eyes fluttered open, and her breathing became a bit more regular.

Using a pencil and a length of twine, he scratched a faint but exact circle into the light rug. After placing a blanket in the center of the circle, he went to the bed and gently lifted Bella's tiny body in his arms. She was laboring for each breath, and shivering.

Orient carefully set her down on the blanket and reached for the box of salt. Making sure to pour from his hand, he spread the salt over the perimeter of the circle. The natural magnetic field released when he sprinkled water over the salt quickly neutralized the hostile energy coiled around his instincts.

Bella's shivering subsided, and her face lost its pinched, tormented expression. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing easily and deeply.

Aware that any relief was temporary, he fetched another blanket and pillow to make sure Bella was comfortable, then went downstairs.

He'd found the back door unlocked earlier, which meant that someone could have entered while Bella was upstairs watching television. However, a search of both the kitchen and hall proved fruitless, and he began to feel the pressure of time.

Foraging through his concentration, he remembered a technique he'd used in the past. Perhaps he could hone in on what he was seeking by using its vibration as a beam. He shut off the light and moved slowly through the darkened hall, senses dowsing for the alien vibration. As he expanded his awareness, a discordant whine hovered at the edge of his brain like an electric mosquito. Locating its direction, he moved carefully toward the source of the dissonance. He found something tucked under the rug at the base of the stairs and switched on the lights. It was a white-cotton roll tied with black thread.

After making sure the back door was locked, he went up to the bedroom and bolted the door shut. Bella was dozing peacefully until he approached. When he stepped inside the circle, her eyes bulged open and she lifted her head, groaning with fear.

Orient pressed his hand on her forehead.

"We beseech thee, Adonai, and thy herald Michael to shield us from harm. By the holy names Agla, Tetragrammaton, Yod, He, and Voud, and by the intercession of Raphael, Gabriel, and Muriel, protect us as thou cloaked Elijah with thy blessing, so that with thy wings we may be protected against all."

The whispered invocation calmed her physically, but she was still frightened. She lay stiffly on the pillow, staring at him like a crystal-eyed canary watching a cat.

Orient rounded up the box of salt, water pitcher, and twine and placed them within the circle, along with an empty ashtray. He dropped the cotton sack into the ashtray and opened it. Inside was a shred of pink cloth and a brittle twist of blond hair.

He stared at the flimsy contents of the cotton square, trying to determine its exact form. He knew it was a conjure sack common in the southern states and Caribbean islands as part of the practice of obeah, also termed voodoo. But though the general diagnosis was accurate, he was left with doubts.

Bella's low moan spurred his decision.

He began by inscribing the names of the four great gods, or Loa of the voodoo hierarchy around the edge of the circle. At twelve o'clock he wrote the name Legba, first of all Loa and guardian of the portal; at three o'clock he wrote the name of Legba's wife, Ayizan; at six o'clock he put the name Simbi, guardian of fountains; and at nine o'clock he wrote the name Loco, spirit of vegetation and guardian of sanctuaries. The names were faint, but by keeping the pencil tip wet, he was able to make legible symbols.

The moment he struck a match to burn the conjure sack, Bella cried out, body bucking violently from side to side.

Orient concentrated on the flames as they consumed the sizzling hair inside the cotton cloth.

"Be gone by the power of this holy circle, I beseech the powerful name of Legba and the names of Ayizan, Simbi, and Loco to enforce my command," he whispered, tracing an equilimbed cross of nature over the smoking embers with his fingers.

His prayer seemed to be worthless.

Bella's groans became a growling babble of strange phrases punctuated by rhythmic grunts, while her birdlike features thickened until they were rabidly simian.

Doggedly continuing his rite of dispersal, Orient poured a handful of salt over the ashes.

"Let these ashes be purified by the holy and powerful name Chango, the great defender," he called out, voice straining against the roaring pressure in his skull.

Bella's guttural sounds trailed off, and the pressure collapsed into deep silence.

Then a muffled sound lifted Orient's head. He heard a second and a third before recognizing the heavy shuffle of footsteps on the stairs.

Thoughts darting like startled fish, he crouched, listening to the footsteps until they stopped outside the door.

As he started to get up, a low, garbled noise at the door paralyzed his reflexes. He glanced down and saw that Bella's eyes were glaring at him with silent rage. The noise became louder. Something between a growl and a croak, it was unmistakably familiar.

Bella sat up, body rigid. "Sam? Is that you?"

Instinctively Orient moved to restrain her, but she shoved hard with both hands, pushing him off balance and almost out of the protective circle.

"Sam?" she repeated, struggling to get up.

There was another garbled noise and a soft rap on the door.

Using his full strength, Orient pulled Bella back and pinned her to the floor face down, but she fought back with surprising tenacity, making it difficult for him to hold her down.

Then he heard a strangled cry outside, like the high gibbering howl of a vivisected hound, and the obscene sound touched some primordial reflex, causing his belly to flood with nausea. A series of loud thumps shook the door as he tried to suppress the revulsion and rally his straggling will.

"By the power of the mighty Adonai..."

"Sam! Oh, Sam..." Bella screamed, twisting from side to side, while the persistent pounding on the door drove needles of terror into Orient's concentration. He tried to employ a protective formula, but as he spoke the first few words, the lights went out.

In the darkness, confusion magnified his fear, and he forced back another oily surge of nausea. Without light, there was no way of knowing if he was still inside the protective circle. Bella lifted and rolled away from his grasp, but he pulled her back and perched his full weight on her body, one free hand digging into his pocket for a match.

His fumbling fingers found a familiar texture, something soft and small. When he struck a light, he saw that they were holding the small roll of white cotton he'd found after Sam's death. He'd forgotten it was still in his pocket.

Certain he'd found the weak element in his defensive formula, Orient dipped the sack into the match flame and dropped the burning cloth into the ashtray.

"By the power of the mighty Adonai, Elohim, and Sabaoth, I order you to return from whence you came," he whispered hoarsely, as the yellow stalk of flame consumed the conjure sack.

When it was done, the room was dark again, and quiet.

Suddenly Bella pushed, and sent him sprawling. He groped helplessly through the blackness, unable to regain his sense of direction, until he heard her frantic struggle to unlatch the door. He moved quickly, but before he could reach her, it was open. The light from the hall spilled across Bella's frail, swaying form. There was no one else.

"Sam," Bella wailed. "It's me."

Then she collapsed.

Orient put her to bed, gave her a mild dose of morphine, and after she was sleeping comfortably, began cleaning up the wreckage of the battle. As he worked, he prayed that she'd remember the night as nothing more than an unpleasantly vivid dream.

Later, exhausted from endless losing skirmishes with sleep, Orient knew he could nurture no such hopes for himself. The oily dregs of fear oozing through his belly would pollute his consciousness for scores of restless nights to come.

Chapter 6

A bird flew through the open window, and its loud flapping startled him awake. White wings drumming against the wall, it fluttered blindly from floor to ceiling, trying to regain freedom.

Vision blurred by fatigue, and brain fogged with confusion, Orient lay still, watching its efforts. Realizing after a few moments that the bird would injure itself in the frantic struggle to escape, Orient was moved to attempt an experiment.

Without any physical preparation, he shifted his weary consciousness to a state of passive concentration.

The bird's frothing presence spattered against his mind like rain. Slowly he absorbed the chaotic bursts of energy and arranged them in balanced sequence. Then, carefully tilting his orbit of concentration, Orient veered the flowing pulses of energy toward the sun-glossed window across the room.

Like a plump white dart blown through a bent pipe, the bird shot forward and dipped through the open window into free space.

The brief exertion transformed the rough awakening into a refreshing sense of accomplishment. When he glanced down and saw the box of salt nearby, the sudden piercing memory of the sounds outside Bella's door cracked his confidence like an underboiled egg.

The rapid descent of his morale was accelerated by the recollection that a white bird flying into the house was a portent of doom.

Reminding himself that this particular portent had also brought a new direction for his telepathic experiments, Orient climbed the stairs to Bella's room and looked inside.

She was resting comfortably, still sleeping off the effects of the sedation. The room too showed no trace of the turmoil it had suffered. He'd done a passable night's work.

Although the rite he'd employed was one of the three prime formulas of dismissal, he wasn't sure it would succeed a second time. There was an indefinably seductive quality about the force that had attacked Bella, like the sweet, sticky texture of a flesh-eating flower.

Later that afternoon Orient prepared a breakfast tray and carried it up to her room. Bella was dozing peacefully when he entered, but as he neared the bed, one blue eye sprang open.

"David?"

"How do you feel?"

The eye closed, and she grimaced. "Like last year's egg salad."

"That bad eh," he murmured, checking her pulse. She peered at him suspiciously. "What happened to me last night?"

"Nothing more than a mild heart spasm," he said cheerfully, serving her a plate of eggs.

"If that's mild, I'll take a transplantation. I'm sore from my toes to my neck. And the nightmares were worse than the pain. I even dreamed Sam came back."

"Do you remember what else you dreamed?" Orient asked casually. "You seemed to be in distress after passing out."

"Everything was upside over. You were in the dream. I thought you were holding me on the floor and pouring garbage around me. Then I heard Sam call, and you wouldn't let me go to him."

"Some nightmare," he grunted.

"Funny thing was that I actually didn't want to go to Sam, if that sounds sensible. It was like I had to do it. But when I opened the door, the hall was empty." She shivered slightly and rubbed her shoulder. "Did you give me a shot or something?"

He nodded. "Even though you raved a bit, it seemed to ease the cramps. But you need a complete medical checkup immediately. After breakfast I'll call a doctor, and he'll -- "

"No." She waved a fork at him. "No fancy Miami quacks. I made my decision."

"About what?"

"I'm leaving to stay with my brother for a few weeks. I want to check the new merchandise anyway. And I can see my old doctor in Brooklyn. Him I trust."

"The books can be ready in a day or two, I suppose."

"Tonight I'm leaving. I need a change of life right now."

"Hope you're not thinking of selling out to those phony priests."

She wrinkled her nose. "In a pig's foot I will. Not even for a million."

Although relieved that Bella would be safe from future attacks, Orient was aware of a subtle pang of loss. The isolated, untroubled weeks of friendship had been used up too quickly.

After calling the airport and reserving a seat on the night shuttle to New York, Orient went across the garden to the store. He returned about three hours later with an accordion file.

"All the papers you'll need; deeds, inventory, financial statements, the works are in this file," he explained to Bella as she moved about the kitchen preparing a late lunch.

"I'm sure you'll take care of everything terrific, David. But you should think about taking it easy too. Maybe now would be a good time to take a few weeks off with payments. Like a real vacation."

"Thanks. But are you sure you're not afraid to leave me here alone for some reason?" he asked, sensing a vague anxiety.

Bella sat down and lowered her voice. "Do you think it's possible those two priests did something to make me sick?"

"Definitely not," Orient lied. "They're just hoodlums. Are you still worried about them?"

"Not really. I guess I'm getting silly in my middle age. A few weeks with my brother is the best thing. But you know what the worst thing is?"

"No more vegetable cutlets a la Fein."

She lifted her eyebrows and jerked her chin upward.

"It's my hair. Less than a week ago I paid thirty dollars plus tip for a first-class style and set. And now all I got is blond spaghetti."

Unfortunately, the description was accurate. The piled twists of hair had collapsed, and now hung in limp spirals around her small face, making her look like a mournful poodle.

"It could use a combing out or something," he admitted.

Bella sighed heavily. "I wish I could take Pearl with me. She's the only one I trust with my hair."

While he was driving back from the airport, Bella's chance remark echoed at the edge of Orient's thoughts. Free now to investigate the source of the psychic attack, he was uncomfortably aware of the obstacles before him.

There was no chance of police help, leaving him alone in a strange city trying to track down a group of extortionists who used occult means to murder their victims. He wasn't even sure what ritual form was being employed.

He was certain of the method, however. Something that belonged to the subject was necessary: nail parings, rings, sheets, personal garments, anything that could provide a magnetic link to the intended victim. In Sam and Bella's case, it had been a lock of hair.

When he returned to his apartment, he took the precaution of erecting simple barriers against possible psychic attack by inscribing an equilimbed cross at the door and windows with salt. The common substance was used in rituals of occult purification in every culture, including the Roman Catholic sacrament of baptism. Sure that he'd be undisturbed after erecting the defense, Orient settled down to construct a plan of action.

At nine-thirty the next morning, as he drove through the commuter-choked streets to check out his one slim clue, Orient was still without a plan.

He parked across the street from the blue-and-pink heart-shaped facade that housed Val Valentine's Heart of Beauty Associates, wondering how to approach the woman he wanted to see. Bella had mentioned that her hair stylist was named Pearl. It had also been Pearl who had convinced her it was useless to go to the police.

If his guess was correct and Pearl was collecting snips of hair from her customers to use as conductors for negative energy, then most likely she was directing her influence toward other victims. If the two deacons were in on the scheme, he was probably challenging a well-organized sect, a sect able to generate enough occult power to kill from a safe distance, so the death appeared natural.

Certainly he'd find it difficult, even dangerous, to approach a district attorney with tales of conjure sacks and snips of hair. As he sat brooding over the situation, he saw a linen-service truck stop in front of the heart-shaped building. A man left the truck, unloaded two large packages, and carried them inside.

A moment later Orient started his motor and headed back to the store. As he drove, reason argued that his hasty plan was as foolish as invading a leopard's den unarmed, but he ignored the protests.

At the store he selected a small doll in Spanish costume and made up a gift package. On a card he wrote "To Pearl, my favorite stylist, from Bella," then drove back to the beauty salon.

As a precaution, he took an old denim cap from the back seat and pulled it down over his distinctively silver-streaked hair. Then he left the station wagon and strolled to the entrance, carrying the festively wrapped package.

It was a typical Miami morning, and the heat blasted off the white sidewalk in sweltering waves. Just inside the pink doors the temperature plummeted to an equally uncomfortable air-conditioned frostiness. The small reception area was done in pink wallpaper patterned with blue-velvet hearts, and contained matching blue-velvet chairs. There was a full-length mirror edged with photographs at the end of the room, and next to it a long white desk. A middle-aged woman with a leathery tan and frizzy blond hair sat behind the desk filling out index cards.

"I'm here to deliver a gift."

"I'll take it. Where's the receipt?"

"No receipt. I was told to deliver this gift to Miss Pearl personally. Could you tell her I'm here? If she's busy, I'll wait."

The woman slapped her pen down as if the request was another in a long series of indignities, and reached for the phone.

"All right," the woman barked. "Pearl can see you upstairs." She pointed to a glass door and returned to her index cards.

There was another glass door at the end of the hall. As Orient passed, he saw a large swimming pool and gymnasium inside. There were some patrons at the exercise machines, and two men being massaged by female attendants in bikinis.

The stairway led to an even larger complex on the second floor. Just beyond the green-tinted glass doors a young girl sat behind a reception desk filing her nails. Orient smiled.

"Package for Miss Pearl."

Without glancing up, the girl reached out, pressed a button on the phone, then returned to her nails.

There was a health-food cafe on one side of the room, and on the other, a softly lit, mirrored amphitheater devoted to the cosmetic arts. Women in various stages of transformation reclined on padded chairs, faces masked with mud, while blue-clad stylists plied their tribal skills. A blond male wearing a flamingo-pink jump suit moved among them, suggesting improvements and making alterations. One of the female stylists came toward the desk, and Orient's memory bristled. She was busty, with plump hips and thin ankles that teetered on platform shoes. Though her hair was covered by a blue scarf, he placed the winged eye shadow and sullen expression immediately. It was the woman he'd seen with Sam the day he died.

Chapter 7

Orient's nerves were humming like strings on an amplified guitar as the woman approached.

"You have something for me?" she asked, brisk voice peppered by a Spanish accent.

"Are you Miss Pearl?"

"Yes. Pearl La Fuente, that's me."

"Package for you." He gave her the box and took a step toward the door.

"Wait a minute. Who's this from?"

He shrugged. "Name's on the card."

As he answered, Orient noticed a silver amulet, shaped like a drawn bow and arrow, dangling from her beaded necklace.

When she read the card, Pearl's face blanched noticeably under its cosmetic glaze. She glared up at him, caked lids blinking rapidly.

"This is some kind of trick, no? What do you want here?"

As her voice became louder, Orient began backing toward the door. Then he saw the receptionist coming around the desk to cut him off, and he decided to defend his position like any other righteous working man.

"Listen, lady, I've got deliveries to make," he shouted. "If you don't want the package, I'll take it back."

The tactic worked. Pearl's eyes wavered uncertainly and came to rest on the doll in her hand.

The man in the pink jump suit left the mirrored arena and hurried to the desk. "Pearl, baby, it sounds like a goddamned subway over here. What's the trouble?"

Orient lifted his palms. "If the lady doesn't want the package, it makes no difference to me, mister."

The man turned to Pearl. "So what is it, honey?"

"Here, Val, you tell me what it is."

Val Valentine was slender, with bleached blond hair and a tanned, youthful face that remained blank as he read the card.

"It's just a tacky little toy, Pearl, sweetheart. I don't see why you're getting so excited. We've got Mrs. Susskind in a seven-minute rinse, and Mrs. Kroner's waiting for her set." He waved a dollar in Orient's direction. "That's all. Thank you very much. Good-bye."

When Orient moved closer to take the money, he saw an amulet, the exact replica of Pearl's drawn bow and arrow, hanging from Valentine's heavy gold necklace. Smothering an impulse to try for a closer look at the amulet, he strolled to the stairs, confidence restored by Pearl's outburst and curiosity deeply stirred by Val Valentine's choice of jewelry.

Later he was forced to admit that the drawn bow and arrow was probably nothing more significant than the house trademark -- another coy logo for Valentine's Heart of Beauty. Stimulated by the success of his first attempt, however, he was inclined to speculate.

He was rock certain that Pearl La Fuente was directly connected to Sam's death. If the amulet held any special meaning beyond advertising, it could mean Val Valentine was involved as well. It might also give him a lead to the nature of the occult force being employed.

He drove aimlessly for a while, wondering where to begin tracking the origin of the amulet, until he remembered a small Cuban jewelry shop where he'd made regular deliveries when Sam was alive. The store stocked some religious artifacts, mainly Catholic, and the owner was an amateur archaeologist. When he reached the store, he took a slip of paper and pen from the glove compartment and made a drawing of the amulet.

Edmundo Cepeda, the proprietor, was a plump white-haired man who suffered from ulcers and always wore a tie and vest even in the hottest temperature. His stony face broke into a broad smile when Orient entered.

"Well, this is some surprise. Hello, David. Nice to see you. I miss our little discussions, especially those fantastic Egyptian theories of yours."

Orient grinned and shook his hand.

"Today I came to discuss some ordinary business, Mr. Cepeda. A gift for a friend." He took the sketch of the amulet from his pocket and passed it across the counter.

Cepeda squinted at it. "What is it, Sagittarius?"

"I was hoping you'd know. My friend said it had Cuban origins."

"Cuban, eh. That's quite possible. In the old days, people wore all sorts of charms for good luck: eyes, hands, pigs, hammers, stars, almost anything you could think of."

"Then you think it's a good-luck charm?"

The elderly proprietor pulled open a drawer beneath the display case.

"I'm not sure, David. I have a box full of old junk back here. Souvenirs I took with me when we left Cuba." He placed a cigar box on the counter and lifted the cover. Inside were some antique pocket watches and a quantity of coins.

"Ah, there it is," Cepeda muttered, digging underneath the coins.

The piece he fished out was less than an inch high. Cut from thin brass, it was a reasonable facsimile of Pearl's amulet.

"That seems like the one he told me about. Know anything about it?"

"Just a good-luck charm, in my opinion. I've seen many such pieces. They derive from the African tribes."

"Know where I can find out more about this piece?"

Cepeda sighed and shook his head. "Books are few. Rather than investigate these matters, the missionaries destroyed anything connected to the pagan religions. The Cuban government even passed laws against them."

Orient hefted the amulet in his hand. "Well, anyway, just finding this has been a great help. Is it expensive?"

"For you, complete with chain, five dollars. But on the condition that you visit more often."

Orient put a bill on the counter and picked up the amulet and chain. "You've got a deal. And thanks for the history lesson."

"De nada. I hope your friend likes the piece as much as you."

"Might even keep it. By the way, are you familiar with something called the Hispano Church of the Ocho Santos?"

Cepeda looked like someone who'd just been handed a black-bordered envelope.

"I don't know. There are many churches in Miami," he said gruffly. "You must excuse me, David. I'm closing for the afternoon."

Orient nodded. "I'll be back for that visit."

"Yes, of course, soon," Cepeda said without conviction.

Orient was puzzled by the jeweler's abrupt change of manner until it occurred to him that Edmundo Cepeda was probably being shaken down by the bogus deacons, along with other businessmen in the neighborhood. Orient's concern was eased by the thought of the metal piece he'd found. He'd at least managed to find a replica of Pearl's amulet and uncover a bit of its background. He slipped the brass trinket onto the chain and put it around his neck.

After calling the Heart of Beauty to find out what time the hair stylists closed shop, Orient drove to the beach and took a long, careful sunbath. When he returned home, he took a shower and changed from his functional jeans and work shirt to more expressive clothing.

Fully aware of fashion's impact on ordinary communication, he usually ignored the art. At best it was an illusion and at worst a pompous exercise. For his next foray, however, it was important that he prepare for his role carefully. Although unsure of the details, he had a good idea of the style. Luckily, he'd taken advantage of Bella's connection to a clothing outlet and pieced together a presentable wardrobe.

He decided on a deep-blue Italian jersey shirt and light-gray tropical trousers. When he examined himself in the mirror, he suddenly knew the role he'd assume for the investigation -- a New York gambler looking for action. Having had some experience with professional gambling, he knew he could pass a routine inspection.

He went to a few rental agencies in the area and finally made a ten-day deal for a red Thunderbird that included a free tank of gas. The only snag was the fee, which took most of the vacation pay Bella had given him before she left.

Time was getting short when he left the parking lot, and a swell of traffic prevented him from extending the margin. He tried to remain calm, but the prospect of a missed connection flickered at the edge of his concentration. Like any gambler, he wanted to roll while he had momentum.

He was minutes late, but the crowd of cars in the lot testified that the Heart of Beauty was pumping overtime. He parked across the street and settled down to wait.

Customers continued to arrive and depart regularly, and Orient remembered with dismay that Valentine's health club remained open until midnight. He could be too late, after all. Fifteen anxious minutes went by before he spotted Pearl coming through the pink doors.

Val Valentine was just behind her, blond head bobbing as he hurried to catch up. They stopped in the center of the parking lot to exchange some words, then separated.

Valentine left first, roaring off in a pink Sting Ray. Pearl exited at a more leisurely pace in a white Eldorado. Noting its resemblance to the car used by the deacons, Orient let the Cadillac pull far ahead and had no difficulty keeping the long white car in sight.

A waning trickle of traffic on the causeway encouraged Orient to follow the Eldorado closely. The vast tomato-red sky over the bay was swiftly darkening to violet, and he switched on his headlights as the car ahead crossed Indian Creek to Miami Beach.

Pearl drove directly to the Hotel Naples, and when Orient entered a few minutes after, he saw her perched on a bar stool in the Leaning Tower Lounge. Confident he had time, he went to the men's room to wash. An elderly attendant in a red sash brought him a towel and a bottle of cologne. Orient remembered the man's weathered, untroubled face from his previous visit, but decided to see if his new image blurred recognition.

The attendant's expression was blank when he took the used towel and dollar Orient handed him. "Remember me?" Orient asked softly.

The old man squinted. "Maybe. Your band's playing in the lounge, right?"

"Number seven. Remember now?"

"By the holy saints." The attendant's grin was sheepish. "I'm losing my memory lately, but not for a winner like that. But you've changed much since you used this place as a free bathhouse."

"Gambler's luck."

The grin became a sad, knowing smile. "I understand only too well. When I was younger..."

His voice faded, then lifted exuberantly. "Still, there's no better profession when you're ahead. Maybe because of your Ochosi you're up now, eh?"

"My what?"

"That sign on your chain, with the arrow. It's the sign of San Norberto."

"I thought it meant good luck."

"Oh, yes. San Norberto is the patron of fools, gamblers, and scoundrels." He fingered the string of red and white beads around his neck. "These are for Santa Barbara, my special saint."

"What was that other name you called San Norberto?"

"Ochosi. That's like a nickname. From the old times in Cuba."

"Ochosi," Orient repeated. Then something occurred to him. "What's the nickname you have for Santa Barbara?"

The old man hesitated. "Chango."

Orient's interest hopped to jubilance. He'd found the direct connection he'd been looking for. Chango was one of the Loa of Haitian voodoo, and a high African deity.

"Is that a Catholic saint?" he asked quickly. "Sounds different."

"Yes, they're Catholic saints."

"Regular Sunday mass and all?" Orient pressed.

"Oh, well," the attendant grumbled, looking uncomfortable, "we have our services on Saturday night, and we don't have a regular priest."

"What church is that?"

"The Cuban American Church of the Holy Savior." The old man gave him a sly smile. "Okay, Mr. Sporting Gent, how about a solid number for me today?"

Realizing he was being eased off the religious discussion, Orient smiled. "Try six-six-six. For a dollar." The attendant winked.

"Know where I can get some good action around here?"

"I can book anything from five cents to fifty dollars."

"Need something a little heavier."

The old man shook his head unhappily. "You seem like a level gent, amigo. There's some people, but they're not very nice. So maybe you shouldn't ask me again."

Orient gave him another dollar. "I always try to take good advice."

"Many thanks, and may San Norberto bless you."

"One more thing you may be able to help me with," he said casually. "Perhaps you know something about the Hispano Church of the Ocho Santos."

The old man looked away. "Since you ask me twice, I suppose I must tell you."

"What do you mean?"

"The people you wanted to meet who handle the big action on the strip. Some of them belong to this church. But understand, it's not like my church, eh?"

"I understand. But I'm interested in meeting some people who book serious action."

"They're right here in the lounge." The elderly attendant went to the door and opened it a crack. Being considerably taller, Orient stood behind him. Through the partially open door he could see clearly into the cocktail lounge across the hall.

"See the blond man talking to the sexy brunette at the bar?" the old man whispered. "Talk to him. He'll book important action for you. If he's not around she will too. Both of them are clerics of this church you ask me about."

Orient's eyes narrowed when he recognized Val Valentine and Pearl.

"Must be a strange church," he muttered.

"Too strange, amigo. Better go to the jai alai or dog track for your action. You'll save your lucky San Norberto a lot of trouble."

Another person entered the men's room, and the old man hurried to get a towel. Orient strolled across the hall to the Leaning Tower Lounge and took a side booth with a good view of the room.

The walls were decorated with grotesquely proportioned murals depicting typical scenes -- the canals of Venice, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the Roman Colosseum.

Val Valentine was seated beneath a painting of Mount Vesuvius, one elbow propped on the bar. He was dressed in black with touches of gold on his fingers, wrist, and neck to set off his bleached yellow hair. He also wore a slightly bored expression on his neat features, in contrast to his companion's high spirits.

Pearl La Fuente was a fleshy bundle of animal exuberance as she joked with the bartenders, flirted with the customers, and imbibed a steady flow of drinks. They made an interesting pair, like yogurt and hot peppers.

Valentine's bland expression remained unchanged as a few men and women came up to greet him, while Pearl was in constant motion, holding whispered consultations with various men, then making arrangements with the bartender, then calling over a girlfriend.

Pearl was drawing from a bullpen of eight or ten girls sitting at the small tables near the bar. Most were younger, slimmer versions of their madam, with sprayed hair and pampered faces. After a couple of cognacs they seemed to merge into a single entity. One, however, drew his continued interest.

Though dressed like the others in a tight strapless sheath, she wore little makeup, and her long honey-brown hair hung below her dusky shoulders. She had the poised grace of a reposing feline, and after a while Orient began hoping Pearl would fail to provide a customer for her obvious charms.

He was strongly attracted by her beauty, and his emotions were also stirred by a deep sense of familiarity, as if he'd encountered a childhood friend from some lost neighborhood. Perhaps it was that vivid impression, or the cognac, or an emotional lapse; Orient wasn't quite sure what prompted him to leave his table and amble to the bar.

His mind swiftly juggled the consequences as he walked the short distance. If Pearl recognized him, it would be all over. But with a shave, new clothes, the mirrored glasses, and a bit of luck, he might pass. He'd been wearing a hat when he made the delivery, Pearl had been overexcited, and Valentine hadn't bothered to look at him. It was an ideal opportunity to make contact with the Church of the Ocho Santos. However, as he stepped up to the bar and ordered another cognac, Orient was forced to admit he was risking recognition for one compelling but illogical reason -- the girl.

The first time he scanned the bar, he saw Pearl staring at him. Unsure if her gaze was heated by admiration or hostility, Orient smiled.

"So you decided to join us barflies," she said loudly. "Got lonely drinking by myself."

"That's a very bad habit. And it's not necessary. Especially in this town."

"My first time here."

"Yeah?" She squinted and leaned closer. "You looked familiar."

Up close it seemed that Pearl's skin was sagging under the weight of the cosmetics she wore. She reeked of sweet perfume and gluttony, but her small eyes were shrewd. He knew that if he betrayed the slightest hesitancy she'd see it immediately.

"Maybe you know me from Vegas or Puerto Rico?" he suggested.

"I don't go to those places. You on vacation?"

Orient's tension eased. "In a way. I'm scouting some business prospects."

"What kind of business?"

"Short-term speculation."

"What the hell is that?" She swiveled on her stool. "Hey, Val, what's a short-term speculation?"

Valentine half-smiled.

"I think the gentleman's trying to tell you he's a gambler, dear." He leaned forward to examine Orient, a spark of interest animating his limp expression. "Could it be you're looking for action?"

"I don't mind a friendly dice game."

"Any references?"

Orient searched his memory. "How about Joker Scanlon from New York? I hear he's out in Vegas now."

"Never heard of him. But perhaps I can ask around. Are you busy later tonight?"

"That depends. I was hoping to spend it with the lady at the corner table."

Pearl leered. "I knew you didn't come over here to find a drinking buddy."

Valentine whispered something in her ear, and she nodded.

"This place is a little stuffy," she told Orient. "Meet us at a place called Los Tambores, near the boulevard. Be there in an hour maybe. Okay, sport?"

Orient nodded agreement, finished his drink, and left. As he drove along Collins Avenue toward the boulevard, he wondered if he'd passed inspection or was being set up. The date presented a minor problem. For him, paid sex was something like pre-chewed food -- necessary, perhaps, but unappetizing. So, whoever she might be, he'd have to find a way of entertaining the girl without arousing her suspicions.

He spotted 'Los Tambores' on his right, a rambling red-and-yellow building with three neon drums on its terra-cotta roof. Orient drove past the nightclub, and when he reached Bal Harbour Boulevard, continued across to Haulover Beach Park.

He found a secluded area, pulled off the road, and dug into his case for a hand-wrapped cigarette. As he smoked, he looked out at the moon-whitened sea and tried to fit together the pieces he'd gathered that day.

The Santa Barbara and San Norberto the attendant spoke about were obviously versions of the voodoo Loa with Cuban designations. Nevertheless, the facts he'd gleaned amounted to nothing more than a pinhead's worth of information. There were at least twenty separate African tribes that worshiped Chango. Even his knowledge of Haitian and American ritual wouldn't help him penetrate the secrets of the Cuban form. The deity Ochosi, for instance, associated with San Norberto, was completely unfamiliar to him.

Still, he'd made fair progress in less than twenty-four hours. He knew who had attacked Bella, and the nature of their power. As he studied the glowing stub of his cigarette, he wondered if he wasn't trying to push the winning streak past its limits. Pearl and Valentine were ruthless competitors, with vicious friends.

A hazy recollection of the girl softened the sharp edges of his thoughts. Though he'd never managed a close look at her face, the memory evoked the same poignant sense of recognition he'd felt in her presence.

He took off his shoes and socks and went for a walk along the edge of the night-cooled water. He felt more relaxed when he returned to the car, and as he sat brushing sand from his feet, discovered he was impatient to see the girl and end his uncertainty. There was a decent chance she'd disappoint him when they met, he mused hopefully, starting the motor.

Orient was forced to take an awkward parking space when he reached Los Tambores. From that position it would be impossible to make a fast or a graceful exit, he observed unhappily, leaving the keys in the ignition. As he walked between the rows of cars to the entrance, he could hear the thumping blare of music and the babble of human voices.

The lobby was full of people waiting for tables, but Orient pressed a few dollars into the host's sweaty palm and slipped past the velvet rope in search of the bar. He found he had a choice of two, one in the back, just off the entrance, and another that ran along one side of the club. There was a dance floor at the far end, and from what he could make out through the jam of revelers, a Latin band.

Orient patiently worked his way through the crowd until he spotted Pearl at the main bar, surrounded by a small, admiring army of middle-aged businessmen.

If she had seemed like a social director in the Leaning Tower Lounge, here she was a battlefield commandant. Flanked by a double rank of female aides, Pearl sat on a high stool, shoulders jerking time to the music, while she aimed a barrage of rapid-fire comments at her entourage, barked orders to the barmen, and blatantly paraded her girls for inspection.

Orient stiffened his efforts to squeeze through the crush of people. He was about ten feet away from Pearl when a strong hand gripped his bicep. Unable to maneuver in the crowd, he shifted his weight and sharply pulled his arm forward.

It didn't work.

As he twisted his body, another hand clenched his free arm.

"Take it easy, mister, it's all right, we're your escorts," a mocking voice whispered. "Mr. Valentine would like to see you privately."

The confidence he'd acquired during the day crumbled as he shuffled helplessly through the throng, firmly guided by the two men. Like any penny-ante plunger, he'd blown his winnings on a sucker's bet. After the first bitter wave of defeat passed, his mind flailed for a way to break even. If he kept his head, there might still be a way to bluff it through. When he glanced at his escorts, the flurry of hope faded.

The two men taking him to see Valentine were Father Bernard and Father Felix.

Chapter 8

A feverishly wanton chorus of timbals, bongos, and conga drums urged the amplified thrusts of organ and brass to deafening excess as Orient walked past the bandstand, flanked by the two men.

The sound blasted all efforts to gather his scattered thoughts, and he numbly allowed himself to be led behind the stage to a small door.

In the second or so before it opened, Orient calmed his breathing and concentrated. There was still a chance the two deacons hadn't recognized him behind the sunglasses. If nothing else, he had to keep them from connecting him with the shotgun incident.

When the door closed, it became quiet except for a distant throbbing far across the deep-blue carpet. Val Valentine was alone, seated behind a black-leather desk watching television, his fingertips pressed together as if at prayer.

"Nice to see you again," he greeted, without turning from the television screen.

"I'd shake hands, but there's a couple of gorillas on my arms," Orient said loudly. "Is this what you call a friendly game?"

Valentine brushed a bleached lock of hair into place and looked up.

"It's friendly but very private," he explained in a low, bored voice. His eyes shifted away from Orient's face. "Any heat?"

Bernard frisked Orient swiftly.

"A wallet, that's all."

"Bring it here, and wait outside."

Orient's hopes rocketed as the hoodlum tossed the wallet on the desk and both men left the room.

"Well, Mr. David Clay, you seem to be carrying less than two hundred dollars. I thought you were looking for serious action," Valentine mused, looking through the wallet.

Orient moved closer to the desk. "I came here looking for a girl and a friendly game," he said softly. "And my idea of action is winning money, not losing it."

Valentine chuckled and fingered the amulet at his neck. "We seem to have the same taste in pendants, Mr. Clay. Where did you get yours?"

"A friend of mine in New York gave it to me. Spanish dude by the name of Ramon. But what's that got to do with our business?"

Valentine sat back and smiled.

"No connection, Mr. Clay. I'm just fascinated by that sort of thing. Aren't you curious about your good-luck piece?" The question flicked out like a lizard's tongue.

Orient dodged. "Sagittarius, isn't it? Now how about this girl? Or are you taking my application first?"

"In a way, that's correct," Valentine purred, smile fading with his suspicions. "You see, the more careful we are, the better it is for you. The girl's waiting. If you've been inconvenienced, let me offer our apologies."

"Whose apologies do I accept? Your boys didn't bother with introductions."

Valentine looked up in genuine surprise. "Of course, I thought you knew. You have a Miami driver's license."

"That's a convenience only."

"I'm Val Valentine, the manager of this place. I'm sure you'll hear of me around the strip. Just ask anyone."

In lieu of a handshake, he extended Orient's wallet. "Everything's there except the hundred and a half I deducted for the girl's fee. Saves embarrassment, don't you think? Her name's Royce. Have a good time with that heavy forty-three bucks you've got left."

"Where is she?" Orient asked calmly.

Valentine opened a drawer, took out a green-plastic card, and tossed it on the desk.

"Just give that to the coat-check girl. The card is on the house, just to prove our good faith. Any other questions, Mr. Clay?"

"Yes. How did your boys spot me so quickly in that crowd?"

"They didn't. I did, with this." He pointed to the television screen.

Orient moved closer and saw a crisp color picture of the lobby.

"Our tables are equally well covered against palm tricks," he purred. "If you know what I mean."

Orient scooped up the green card.

"Never touch the dice. If you know what I mean."

An avalanche of noise crashed against his brain when he left Valentine's office. Still trying to work the anger from his system, he moved slowly back to the main bar.

Hundreds of dancers were bobbing and bending like glittering surfers on the same rhythmic wave, but Orient was too incensed to appreciate the spectacle. Though he tried to will it away, his anger solidified into an icy ball of rage that froze his concentration. He was fed up with being abused and victimized by the Valentines and Borks of the world, like some docile head of beef being prodded and cursed to the slaughterhouse.

As he pushed toward the lobby, Orient reminded himself that rage was a luxury in the land of the enemy.

Pearl was still stationed at the center of the bar, and he made a wide circle to avoid her. He found the check room in a corridor just off the lobby. Although it was large enough to be attended by two smiling brunettes in abbreviated costumes, there were only two or three articles of clothing on the hangers.

Orient handed one of the girls his green card. Her smile widened, and she reached under the counter, bending far forward so he could see her deeply tanned breasts.

He smiled back. "Aren't you afraid of cancer?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." She returned the green card. "First door on the right. Have a ball."

He dropped a dollar on the counter. "What did you do with this card, X-ray it?"

"Just about." Orient could see from her animated expression that she enjoyed answering the question. "We put your club card into a computer. If for some reason you're barred or posted for credit, it picks up the number and cancels your card. I mean, it burns in front of your eyes like a mess of matches."

"Computer plays rough."

She plucked the dollar from the counter. "Doesn't everybody?"

Her question lingered in Orient's mind as he walked to the end of the counter and turned right. Just around the corner, out of sight of both counter and lobby, was a thick metal door that was partially open. When he went through the door, he deliberately left it open a few inches, but as he started up the carpeted stairs, he heard it click softly shut. Orient paused to make sure he had complete control of his instincts. He was wandering into an electronic jungle where interlopers were filmed, recorded, and fed to the computer before they could say American Express. The brunette had given him sage advice; everybody plays rough, including the girls. He'd do well to remember that his companion for the evening would make a full report to Valentine.

The door at the head of the stairs had no knob, just a tiny slot in the center marked "Club Cards." Orient inserted his plastic card in the slot, and the door swung open. He removed the card and stepped inside.

The casino was smaller than the nightclub below, and much quieter. All the sounds were muted -- the tinkling voices of the tanned, jeweled women tossing chips onto the green-felt tables, the lazy drone of the stick men and croupiers, an occasional winner's shout, and the faint, but all-pervading murmur of money.

There was an open door between two banks of busy slot machines across the room. A second before he entered, he felt the girl's presence.

The inner room was very small and dark, with candlelit tables and a magnificently mirrored bar. Attracted by a gentle caress of energy, he turned sharply and recognized her feline silhouette at a nearby table.

She had the delicately angled features of a Masai princess and a rose-smooth Castilian skin. A regal dignity infused her languid movements as she picked at a plate of food, fork poised like a tiny silver paw.

Orient watched her, wondering how to introduce himself. As if suddenly conscious of his thoughts, she looked up. "David?"

Her voice rippled over his mind like warm, sun-dappled water. When he surfaced, he saw her clear, turquoise eyes examining him curiously, and he smiled. "Royce?"

"Yes."

He sat down. "How did you know my name?"

"Val phoned from the office. You're easy to spot with that white streak in your hair. And I remembered seeing you at the lounge." Her eyes flicked away, as if afraid she'd said too much. "I got a little hungry waiting for you. Are we staying, or going somewhere else?"

"I'm in no hurry. Would you like a drink?"

His remark rang sour, but Royce didn't seem to notice. She was studying his face so intently that Orient thought he could feel faint patches of heat where her gaze touched his skin.

He smiled. "Is it that bad, nurse?"

For a moment she seemed embarrassed, and her eyes clouded with confusion. Seeing her hesitation, he pressed the advantage. "Perhaps I remind you of someone."

Her eyes widened slightly, and he saw he'd touched a sensitive point. But then, like a tumbling cat, she landed on her feet. "You look exactly like my long-lost brother, Fernando, the one who ran away with the family jewels. You both have the same cruel mouth."

"I'll bet that's not true."

"Maybe you'd win, but you'd never collect. Anyway, what really fascinates me is your Ochosi."

His expression didn't waver. "My what?"

"The little gold bow and arrow around your neck."

"It's brass, and I think it's Sagittarius."

"Maybe it's brass, but it's a Cuban Ochosi."

"My friend told me it was good luck."

"Female friend?"

"Male."

If a male gave it to you, it means you're good people. Ochosi is partial to gamblers."

"Ready for some action at the tables?"

She lifted her eyes and sighed.

"You're a gambler, all right. You go ahead. I'll just wait here like a good girl." She reached into her alligator clutch and pulled out a paperback. "See? I came prepared. Now, you go ahead and blow your money."

Orient folded his arms. "I didn't come here to lose. I had to explain the same thing to Valentine."

She gave him a quizzical smile. "You're almost serious, aren't you?"

"Totally serious."

"Well, I'm naturally optimistic. I'll go along and watch, if that's what you intend to do."

He shrugged. "If you like. But it's not particularly exciting. Just side bets at the craps table. Business profits."

"Anyone who can make a profit at those tables is worth watching," she assured him, reaching for her bag. "Lead on, maestro."

He realized he was taking a long risk, with less than fifty dollars left. If he made an error in judgment, he'd look ridiculous. If he succeeded, however, he might gain the ally he needed. And there was no reason to expect he'd fail.

Anticipation quickened Orient's pulse as they walked toward the dice tables. The vows of the brotherhood expressly forbade using his powers for material gain, but this case was unique. And while not playing for personal profit, he was looking forward to beating Valentine's tables and winning the admiration of an exciting woman. He bought a five-dollar chip from one of the roaming change girls and began looking for the right spot. As he went into a breathing pattern and activated his trained senses, he felt the exultation of an unhooded falcon.

The craps tables were crowded, and he wasn't noticed as he moved among the chattering swarms of players, awareness dowsing for the fiery aura of a potential winner. There was a balding gentleman at the center table who was just picking up the dice. Orient felt the magnetic pressure of static energy and saw a luminous blue corona around the man's body. As the bets were being placed, Orient edged closer to the pass line and put his money down.

When the dice stopped rolling, they read six and five, eleven the winner. The crowd stirred. Seeing that the man's aura had diminished to a paler shade, Orient picked up his two five-dollar chips and backed away. There was an excited murmur when the man made another pass, but Orient was already absorbed in finding someone with fresh potential.

He found a beefy, florid-faced fellow with a handlebar moustache who'd just thrown a double one and lost. Still confident, the man prepared to try again. Orient saw the blazing violet band around his broad frame, declared his own confidence with both his chips.

Orient let the twenty dollars ride after the winning seven came up, noting the unflagging brightness of the man's aura. There was a swirl of noise and motion as the big man threw a five; and other bets were made. The man's next roll was a four and a one, and Orient kept his forty dollars on the line.

The big man was riding high, and large sums were being wagered for and against him. The sounds of the players attracted others to the table, and Orient found it difficult to maintain his concentration. It was crucial that he know when to pick up his earnings and look for another winner.

The man's point was six. He rolled twice before a four and a two came up. The violet band around the beefy man remained clear, despite the swelling excitement around him, and Orient left his eighty-dollar stack of chips on the pass line.

"Coming out," the stickman droned.

Sweating and grinning hugely, the red-faced man threw the dice against the backboard and roared out with the other players when his eleven came up. The thick smoke, noise, and jostling made it difficult for a precise reading, but after a moment's concentration Orient detected the thick halo of color around the big man.

Orient let his hundred and sixty dollars ride. It was a minuscule bet compared to the hundred-dollar chips stacked on the table like parapets of a fortress. There was a hush as the big man shook the dice.

His point came up ten, and a low groan circled the table. Then he rolled two fat fives, and the customers went wild.

The big man had thrown a winner, but judging from his pale, fading aura Orient judged that the pocket of energy he'd possessed was spent. Orient picked up his three hundred and twenty dollars and pushed his way to the fringe of the eager crowd. As he walked away, a low moan told him that the big man had crapped out.

There was no individual big winner after that, just a scattering of hazy faces who made one or two passes before their confidence expired. Orient circulated among the tables, putting down bets of fifty or one hundred, and in the next hour and a half accumulated seventeen hundred dollars. He decided to quit, looked around for Royce, and felt a light tap on his shoulder.

"I'm right behind you. How could I desert a man who never loses a bet?" she whispered, pressing her soft breasts against him.

After cashing in, Orient felt exhilarated. Val Valentine's casino was supplying the money he needed to continue the investigation, and his secondary objective had been achieved. Royce's professional reserve had dissolved to the adulation of a teenager on a date with a pop star.

"Let's take a drive," he suggested. "I'd like to clear my head of this place."

"Anything you say, David," she murmured, snuggling against his shoulder.

They drove in silence for a while, until Royce turned on the radio and looked at him.

"You don't talk very much."

"Don't have to."

"Want a cigarette?"

"No, thanks."

She lit hers with a gold Dunhill and blew a cloud of smoke toward him.

That was really something," she said softly. "Can you do that anytime?"

"Only if I have to."

"You know what the best part is?"

"Tax-free."

"No, silly." She leaned closer, and Orient could smell the gardenia scent of her hair. "I happen to know that Val has people walking around keeping tabs on big winners. But they never spotted you at all. Why did you pull out so soon?"

"Same reason. Big winners are always noticed sooner or later. And it's hard work. More than two hours gives me dizzy spells."

She laughed much harder than the hollow crack deserved, and he could feel her hyperactive excitement.

"Nobody's ever beaten Val's tables so easily," she gloated.

"He'll still turn a profit for the night."

"Perhaps one night you'll decide to be noticed, and he won't make a profit."

"A thousand or two a night is worry-free, for everybody. But perhaps you have expensive tastes."

"Not really. A thousand a week would be plenty."

"What would you do if some rich uncle left you a trust fund?" he asked lightly, attention focused on her response.

"Settle down in a place with lots of trees and four seasons and raise kids. Maybe open a little jewelry store. I've got a knack for design."

Orient disliked eavesdropping on private fantasies and hopes cherished like some rag doll one hugged to sleep night after night, but he had to know if he could trust her.

"But what about you, David? You haven't even told me your home town."

Orient was prepared for the question.

"I'm from New York. We had four seasons where I grew up, but not much else. I hustled my way through school until I found out I was a better gambler than student."

"That's what I call talent," she said emphatically. "Being able to walk in anywhere and win as much as you need. Sure beats welfare."

"Your racket has it all over welfare too, come to think of it."

The remark had been intentional, but when he saw her features harden into a mask tinted with painful memories, he wished he'd thought of something else.

"It's not as many laughs as most men think," she told him. "Or as profitable. Val keeps a third of that hundred and fifty you gave him. I get the rest at the end of the week, just like any other working girl. But I suppose I can't complain. I get to sleep late in the morning."

"How'd you get involved with Valentine?"

"Didn't you know? He controls the strip from Lincoln Hall to the boulevard. Everybody on the beach works for him in some way or another. Except that I really met Val in church."

"Where?"

She laughed. "Val's the pastor of my church, among other things."

"Doesn't seem like a serious church with him as pastor."

"Don't be too sure."

Something in her voice attracted his glance. She was curled up in her seat, looking at him but watching something else. Judging from her devout, rapt expression, he thought it might be live coverage of the Sermon on the Mount.

"Things go on in my church that even a sharp guy like you can't handle," she said dreamily. "Ask your friend. The one who gave you the Ochosi."

He was tempted to probe further but knew it was too risky. Royce was quick and competent, despite her temporary illusions of him as some hustler hero. Should he strike a false note, she'd stop purring and wake up scratching. When he reached Arthur Godfrey Road, he turned right and headed for the causeway.

"How about showing a tourist a good Cuban nightspot?"

"You come to the right lady, meester." Royce grinned. "I'm guide numero uno in La Saquesera."

"Where's that?"

"'Where's that?' he asks. That's what we cubanos call Little Havana. You anglos still call it Southwest Miami."

As they drove through the empty, darkened streets, Royce rested her head on his shoulder. Orient felt mellow and relaxed, and she seemed to share his mood.

"You know, when I met you, I was really a little shocked," she murmured lazily.

"Because of your long-lost brother, Fernando?"

She giggled softly. "No, silly. I just made that up. But the truth sounds even sillier."

"Try me."

"Well, the reason I was so surprised was because I had a dream about you. Two dreams, in fact. One right after the other."

"Happy dreams?"

"Sure. But you don't think that's wild? I mean, I saw your face clearly. Same green eyes, high cheekbones, dark skin, white streak in your hair, everything. I dream in color."

"Yes, wild," he said, emotions skipping like stones across water. "I feel as if I've known you a long time."

Her voice was gardenia-scented smoke, misting his brain with a sensual euphoria, and he eased the car to the curb.

As Royce leaned back, her tight sheath dress edged up her long thighs and the top dipped low. She shrugged, and the dress fell away from her ripe, dark-nippled breasts. When she moved closer, he felt her smooth softness through the fabric of his shirt.

"Here or somewhere else?" she whispered.

Flexing his will against a rush of impulses, Orient moved away. "I thought you were going to show me the town," he mumbled.

He felt her body stiffen, and when he sat up, she was adjusting her dress, eyes averted.

"You're beautiful, Royce," he said awkwardly.

"You're a nice man," She sighed. "But an iceman."

Then she turned, dark lips parted in a sly smile. "Who knows, maybe I can melt you down, by and by."

Club Twenty-six was a few blocks from. Orange Bowl stadium. Orient was forced to park some distance away, and noticed the variety of expensive automobiles standing along the curb.

"There's a lot of money sitting on the street tonight," he commented. "Looks like everybody decided to drop by early."

As they approached, Orient heard the muted sounds of drums throbbing through the night air.

"Don't the neighbors ever complain?" Royce looked surprised by the question. "There are no neighbors at Club Twenty-six."

A few moments later he understood fully. Club Twenty-six was a small apartment house that was set off from the other dwellings in the area, and the entire building had been converted into a lavish after-hours club.

Royce was apparently well known, and Orient had no trouble getting past the entrance guards in her company. They crossed a mirrored lobby, another checkpoint where two other guards greeted Royce in Spanish, gave Orient a quick frisk for weapons, and allowed them into the elevator.

"I'll take you on the grand tour, and then you can decide on your favorite room," Royce said, pushing the second-floor button.

The doors opened onto a crowded restaurant, decorated to resemble a British pub, with regimental crests on the dark wood walls, glowing tavern lamps, and tartan-plaid upholstery. An incongruous strain of Latin music filtered through the hum of voices. Although the bar and tables were packed with customers, the noise was subdued.

Royce stopped often to greet friends as they walked up a spiral staircase made of polished brass, and it seemed to Orient that the air was charged with expectancy. There were a sprinkling of dancers on the large floor in front of the bandstand, their swaying movements shaded by an overhead rainbow globe that changed color as it rotated.

Tiers of couches were arranged in a wide semi-circle around the dance floor, like a lush arena. The walls were textured with imitation leopard skin and studded with crossed spears, masks, gazelle horns, and various other white-hunter trophies. Many of the padded tiers were occupied, but Royce exchanged a friendly word with the host, Orient added a folded five, and they were led to a table on the highest level, with a good view of the room.

A topless waitress bobbed into view as soon as they were seated, her breasts like questioning eyes.

"Hello, Royce. Take your order?"

"Hi, Pay, how's the action?"

"Can't complain. I've got an audition next week for a big soap commercial." She smiled at Orient. "I might even take a bath from coast to coast, imagine."

"Should make the record books," he observed amiably.

"Since you insisted on coming here, I'm going to be an expensive guide," Royce announced. "A bottle of Moet et Chandon, very cold."

"You're very popular in this part of town," Orient commented as the waitress wiggled off.

"When you're out six nights a week, you get to know people."

"What about the seventh?"

"I go to church, believe it or not."

"I believe it. On Saturdays?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"My friend, the one who gave me this good-luck piece. He always went on Saturdays."

She ran a polished pink nail along his chest and touched the brass Ochosi. "It sure does bring you luck."

"Only with dice."

She stared at him, angular features composed and turquoise eyes streaked with caution.

"Try studying women the way you do those little cubes sometime," she suggested. "You might come up with a system."

The room was filling up, and Orient could see that more than half of the late-night customers were Cuban. The crowd ranged widely in age but was very young in spirit. What struck Orient was the number of people wearing beads or religious symbols around their necks. He wanted to ask Royce about their significance but felt it wasn't time.

"There's a high-rolling casino upstairs, if you feel like some big-money action," she confided.

"Think I'd rather sip champagne with you."

She squeezed his hand. "That's quite a compliment, coming from a gambler."

"I can think of nicer ones."

Her glance was as sharp as a broken promise. "Make-believe?"

"Real thing."

"Later, then. Feel like dancing?"

"The music's fantastic, and so's the dancing, but I prefer to watch."

"Afro-Cuban mambo, my favorite sound. We call it salsa."

The floor was carpeted with dancers weaving rainbow patterns around the jogging rhythms. Orient couldn't help pondering the fact that "mambo" was the archaic voodoo word for "priestess" when he saw the ecstatic, trance-like glaze over the dancers' faces as their twirling bodies dipped gracefully on every second beat of the tireless drums.

Royce nestled against his shoulder.

"Don't you love it, David?" she asked breathlessly. "Sometimes I get out there and dance like that for hours."

His answer was interrupted by a gaggle of squeals across the floor. Orient looked down and saw a large group of people, mostly women, clustered around the bandstand. Although unable to make out the object of their excitement, he could see that the effect on the crowd was electrifying. A sudden hush gripped the room, and even the bustling waitresses paused to watch the activity down on the floor with rapt anticipation.

The knot of people around the bandstand gave way, and Orient saw a tall, powerfully built man and a slender, white-gowned woman walking slowly toward the tiers, trailed by a retinue of admirers. The man was wearing a silver-lame suit, and a bushy afro framed his dark face like a copper sunburst.

The woman at his side had a white scarf over her hair, and her skin was as pale and translucent as her chiffon gown. She was barefoot, and though still some distance away, Orient had the impression that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Royce's body tensed, and she lifted her head from his shoulder.

"Who are they?"

Her attention remained fixed on the approaching couple. "The most important people in the world."

"Important how?"

She looked at him, eyes cold blue channels to uncharted waters.

"Mojo Pay owns this state," she said slowly. "He owns me as well."

Chapter 9

Orient's thoughts scattered like startled birds, leaving him grounded in confusion.

"I thought you worked for Valentine," he mumbled.

Royce's attention drifted back to the dance floor. "Oh, Val manages certain things, but Mojo is king."

Orient's eyes were drawn to the dynamically magnetic couple moving from table to table gravely accepting the homage of their subjects. "Who's the woman?"

"Do you think she's beautiful?" She hung the question as lightly as a web and turned to watch him step in.

"Yes, I think she's lovely."

"All men do. It's the same with Mojo. All women are crazy for him. That's why he's king and Mama Pay is his queen."

Although he tried to contain his curiosity, all his instincts were quivering like compass needles toward the same question.

"Are they members of your church too?"

"Mojo Pay is our pope," she said fervently.

"And Mama Pay?"

Royce turned away, and for a long, sinking moment Orient was sure he'd aroused her suspicions. Then he saw why she couldn't speak.

Mojo Pay was a few feet away on the lower tier conferring with a man Orient recognized as a local television newscaster. The reporter was ruggedly built, with craggy, outdoor features, but he looked frail next to Pay.

Mama Pay stood to one side, listening to the conversation with the devotion of a Madonna keeping tabs on the Holy Child. Suddenly, as if hearing her name called, she turned and looked at Orient.

He watched them approach with a mixture of anticipation and panic. Instinctively he dived into a deep breathing pattern, and in the few seconds it took the couple to reach their table, managed to steady his will.

Mojo Pay was shorter than he seemed at a distance, but his massive head and shoulders and bright aura of barely repressed violence gave him giant proportions. His eyes were set deep in his dark, bony face, and his aristocratic features had the brooding sensitivity of an Egyptian philosopher's. Then Orient saw the savage red flames streaking his black pupils and realized the philosopher was slave to a barbarian prince.

Pay's expression broke into a boyish grin when he saw Royce.

"Hey, baby," he said softly. "How's my number-two doll? You're sure lookin' ultragood, sugar girl."

Royce jumped up to embrace him.

"I've missed you so much, baby," she squealed.

Orient saw Mama Pay watching him, pale lips curved in a puzzled smile.

"David Clay, I believe." Mojo's voice was as light as a fishing line as it jerked his head back.

"That's right. Who told you my name?"

Orient saw Royce's surprised expression in the corner of his vision, and braced himself for the backlash. It never came. The red flames in Pay's eyes flared and subsided. He ran a bemused hand through his orange hair, and smiled, revealing the star diamond in his tooth.

"I know your name because I've got the power to know, Mr. Clay. If anybody walks into my casinos and takes out as little as a thousand dollars, I hear about it in ten minutes."

The smile receded, and his eyes became magnetic poles of darkness. "I can see you have power too, but maybe you don't know how to use it."

Orient's awareness froze like a rabbit caught in a headlight beam.

"What kind of power are we discussing?" he asked softly.

Pay chuckled. "Just you go ahead and think on what I'm sayin'. I think I can show you how to connect your power to your deepest dreams."

Orient nodded, heart tripping wildly. "I'll think about it."

"Good. That's very good. It might save us all a truckload of aggravation." He looked at Royce. "You take good care of this fella, hear? He just might be a hell of an important man sometime."

Just before Pay turned away, Orient noticed the strand of beads around his muscular neck. There was a white tear-shaped object dangling from the necklace. It took a few seconds before he grasped that the tear-shaped object was a small cotton sack.

"Nice meeting you, Mr. Clay. I'll be talking to you again."

Orient nodded and started to extend his hand but Pay had already turned and was striding down the floor. Reflexively he glanced at Mama Pay, and saw she was still watching him, the same perplexed smile curving her pale lips. An instant later she turned and followed her man, bare white feet skimming the padded tiers like feathers.

Wordlessly Orient sat down, eyes intent on the powerful figure swaggering across the floor, the slender girl wound around his arm like a white mantle.

The crowd remained hushed until the couple disappeared behind the bandstand.

The moment they were gone, an excited babble flooded the large room.

Orient swallowed his wine in one gulp and found his mouth still dry. He pulled the bottle from the bucket and refilled both glasses, hand trembling slightly.

Royce didn't notice. Her face was radiant as she touched her glass to his.

"To a very important man," she whispered triumphantly.

Orient stared at his glass, her words dancing across his numbed brain like cruel children taunting a cripple. Royce was euphoric with champagne and success, however, and very optimistic.

"The word must have gone out that Mojo would be here. That's why the club's so crowded tonight. What a break, David. What a big, crazy break. Remind me to go anywhere you say from now on. You've really got a winner's radar. That must be what Mojo saw. Don't you know what this means, David?"

"Not exactly."

"Mojo's the key man in all Florida. Some people say he's got more juice than the governor. He came right over and picked you out. Don't you see? It's a beautiful chance to do something big."

Orient glimpsed her face, glowing like a child's on Christmas morning, and wished he could share her enthusiasm.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" she asked suddenly.

"Don't really know. I'm trying to get all this new business sorted out."

She snuggled close to him. "I understand, baby. You've had a busy night. But why don't we just go to my place? I make a mean pot of coffee."

Orient only half-listened to what Royce was saying as he drove to her house, but was acutely aware of her physical presence, familiar and warm at his side.

He erected a thick wall around those cozy feelings, reminding himself that she was a prostitute whose first loyalty was to her owner. If he expected to survive, he couldn't afford side bets.

When they reached her stucco cottage in Coconut Grove, he decided to stay for coffee. It would make his departure less abrupt, and he needed Royce's friendship.

"Hope you like croissants. It's all I could find to go with the coffee," Royce said, coming in with a wicker tray. "Want some brandy?"

He looked up from a circular canvas that had attracted his particular interest. "Just coffee, thanks."

She inclined her head toward the round canvas.

"Like it?"

"I like your work very much."

"How did you guess I painted this gem? More of your talents?"

"It's very much an extension of you -- a bit romantic, a bit violent, and good to look at."

She grinned. "I'd like to do a portrait of you sometime. I'd call it The Naked Gambler. Like the title?"

"Sure to sell."

She moved closer and lightly touched his face with her fingertips. "Yes, I think I'd enjoy painting you. I'd use gentle colors, except for those jungle-green eyes of yours. Maybe silver for that streak in your hair. And then I'd paint a hazy cloud over the whole thing, because you're not like anybody I've ever known."

"What about Mojo Pay?"

She drew her hand back, and her smile faded. "That's something completely different, David. I don't expect you to understand, really. I'm not sure I do myself."

"I can understand a little after meeting him. He's quite dynamic."

She seemed relieved by the comment. The curtain lifted from her clear turquoise eyes, and she brushed his cheek with her lips.

"You're nice," she whispered.

He eased back slightly. "I have to get on. It's been a busy day. Let me have your number. I'll call you in the afternoon."

Her eyes darkened with confusion. "My number? Is that all you want?"

"Thanks for the coffee and..."

As Orient started to get up, Royce drew him closer and pressed her moist mouth against his. She held him for long moments, and when he tried to pull away, gripped his arms.

"Tell me what's the matter, baby. Why don't you want to stay?" He tried to avoid her searching eyes.

"I've just got to go," he mumbled, standing up. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"What's the matter, don't want to change your luck?"

Orient's jaw clenched. "I'll tell you straight, Royce, so you don't misunderstand. I like you, but not your job. It's that simple."

"Maybe it's not that simple," she spat, eyes like glistening crescents of anger. "It's not that simple when you have to leave a beautiful house and live in a strange country and be poor when you're nine years old. My father was an engineer in Cuba, but he never made it here because his skin was too dark to cross Whitey's line. He died of failure and shame when I was fourteen. There was just my mother and me to raise two little brothers. And she wasn't very strong. So I know from experience that nothing in this whole damn world is ever simple."

"That was then, Royce. We're talking about right now."

She turned away as if struck.

"All right, amigo, you've recited your little piece. You can go," she said, voice quivering with fury.

A few brassy threads stitching the frayed black sky heralded the oncoming dawn as Orient walked to his car. He was aware of a dull sense of loss, like a patient after surgery, still uncertain if the operation had been necessary. He slipped behind the wheel, started the motor, and saw Royce hurrying through the shadows. He shut off the ignition and went out to meet her.

She halted a few inches away, and he could see the feverish brightness in her eyes.

"I didn't mean everything I said in there, David."

"It wasn't your fault."

She rubbed her shoulders as if chilled.

"Still leaving?"

He nodded.

"Don't you understand? Our date's finished. It ended when you walked out. I'm on my own time now, and I'm asking you to stay. Isn't that enough for you?"

"Yes, it's enough, Royce."

He slammed the door shut, and she was in his arms, soft body pressed against him and gardenia scent caressing his senses.

They walked slowly back to the cottage, arms wound around each other. As soon as Royce locked the door, she reached up and kissed him hungrily, darting tongue devouring his hesitation.

His hands drank in the fluid warmth of her body, and he lifted her in his arms. She buried her face in his neck as he carried her across the room and pushed open the door with his shoulder. He stepped inside and stopped short.

The room was empty except for a table laden with flowers and burning candles around an odd figure made of black cloth.

"Oh, no, David," she murmured faintly. "Not here."

Raging desire flooded over an instinctive flicker of alarm. He backed out of the room and went to an open door at the end of the hall.

Royce nuzzled his ear and neck, her restless tongue igniting his senses. When he eased her down on the bed, she pulled him next to her, lips searching for his mouth.

Moments later she slipped out of his arms and moved across the floor. He heard a scratching sound, and the flare of a match flame illuminated the sharp angles of her face as she lit a candle.

He watched her float back to the bed, his consciousness enveloped by a tingling bubble of excitement, and he reached up for her. Gently she pushed him back on the pillow and began to undress him, hands smooth and cool on his burning skin. Then she stood and reached behind her.

The dress fell away, and the taut, elongated lines of her body, from her firm, uptilted breasts to the flawless curves of her thighs, were briefly displayed in the wavering candlelight before she covered his awareness with a veil of luxuriant sensation. When he felt her silken softness against his naked skin, the bubble around his senses burst, embedding long splinters of pleasure into his brain.

His hands caressed her nipples, and her voice became a babble of urgent demands as he plunged deep into her liquid flesh.

"... Oh, come, darling, please come, my sweet, sweet honey man..."

Royce's husky cries pierced the lush mists clouding Orient's awareness, just before his being shattered into a thousand delicious fragments inside her steaming flesh and all sensation and sound dissolved into dreamless silence.

Chapter 10

It was afternoon when Orient awoke.

Golden shafts of sunlight filled the windows and reflected off the ceiling mirror above the bed in the center of the ornate canopy. Automatically his hand swept the bed for Royce, but she wasn't there.

He sat up and looked around. He noticed the white candle, still burning inside a glass jar on the bureau, and remembered the table set with flowers and candles in the other room. He had just begun hunting for his clothes when Royce breezed into the bedroom with a tray. Her hair was pushed under a white scarf, emphasizing the exotic planes of her face, and her smile was radiant. She set the heavy tray on his lap and gave him a warm, lingering kiss.

"Good morning, honey man," she murmured in his ear. "Sleep well?"

"Like a clam."

"I've got to rush off after breakfast. I've got a few classes today."

"Want me to drive you?"

"Better not. I'll need my own car. Don't let my special Andalusian omelet get cold."

During breakfast Orient was alert for any false note in her melodic chatter, but there was none. Her presence rang with childlike sincerity as she alternately teased and flattered him. Afterward he took a quick shower, and by the time he'd finished dressing, Royce was ready to leave.

"There's one thing I wish you'd explain before you go," he said casually.

"Which is?"

"Which is that crazy room with the flowers and candles I blundered into last night."

"Oh, yes. I remember now. You swept me right off my feet and stumbled right into my little shrine."

"Religious shrine?"

She nodded. "I told you. I'm a very religious girl."

"Mind if I take a look at it?"

"I don't mind. But there's really nothing to see."

Orient followed her out of the bedroom to the room at the other end of the hall.

Royce opened the door, then stepped back.

"I can't go inside, so you'll have to take this tour without a guide."

"How come?"

Royce leaned forward and shaded her lips with the back of her hand.

"Because I have the curse," she stage-whispered. "I'm not allowed in there on days when my menstrual blood is flowing, and it just started this morning. Probably your fault. Aren't you sorry you asked?"

Orient wasn't. In fact, his pulse was racing with anticipation as he stepped inside the small room and immediately focused his concentration. As he tuned his consciousness to a highly sensitive level, he felt the discordance. It was strong, like the anguished screech of metal grinding metal, or passion grinding passion.

The room was bare except for a wooden table. At each corner of the table was a burning candle inside a jar, and halfway between each candle was a vase of flowers, forming a vague enclosure. Seated on a tiny chair in the center of the enclosure was a black rag doll wearing a blue-gingham dress and white head-cloth.

The doll was surrounded by a profusion of objects: rosary beads, seashells, religious medals, holy cards of Christ and the Virgin Mary, plates of sliced melon, sliced coconut shells filled with seaweed, bowls of candy, and bottles of water, rum, and perfume.

Orient was reminded of the Badji sanctuaries of the Haitian obeah form. The voodoo shrines were also crammed with offerings to their Loa saints. Exploring the insect-like vibration whining through his awareness, he suddenly remembered the dissonance emitted by the cotton sacks used to attack Sam and Bella.

"Hey, don't get lost. I've got to go to class," Royce called.

Mind frantically juggling possibilities, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

"Nothing much to see, was it?"

He shrugged. "It reminds me of the room my friend had in New York. The one..."

"I know. The one who gave you the Ochosi," she said amiably. "Tell me about it on the way to the car."

Orient struggled to appear casual as they walked outside. "What saint do you have in there? My friend had Santa Barbara, I think. That sound right?"

"That's right. Mine is the Holy Mother of Mercy."

"Does your saint have a nickname too? My friend said his was called something else. Chango or something like that."

"Yeah, sure. Mine has sort of a nickname. In our religion she's also called Yemaya."

"What religion is that?"

She glanced up, eyes narrowed slightly. "It's the Lecumi religion."

Knowing that any further questions would arouse her suspicions, he fell silent as they walked to the yellow Mustang in the driveway.

Her cool fingers clasped his hand when they reached the car. "Am I going to see you again soon, David?"

It crossed his mind that the question was a professional courtesy, but when he saw her fragile smile, he was sure she meant it.

"Tonight if you like," he said softly.

"I'm off at about two in the morning, okay?"

"What about before?"

The smile withered, and her eyes became remote. "I work from eight to two. If you want to see me then, you'll have to pay a fee."

"I'll call you later."

For a moment she was vulnerable, expression torn between resignation and regret.

"It's been lovely, David," she whispered.

Her mouth was warm and yielding, but Orient's response was mechanical, steeled by his own regrets.

The late-afternoon sun was mounting a last-ditch attack, and its merciless rays battered the beach, unopposed by clouds. Orient retreated to the shade of a palm tree and tried to lull his mind into a state of peaceful contemplation, but his emotions remained locked in combat.

At the center of the struggle was his deep feeling for Royce. Orient understood that during some past lifetime she'd been his bride, and he still felt bound to her by the realities of the present. But he couldn't comprehend or accept her pact with Mojo Pay.

Unable to resolve the conflict, he left the beach and drove toward the city, mind sifting through the spoils of the past twenty-four hours.

If what Royce had told him was accurate, Mojo Pay was absolute ruler of Florida's organized crime syndicate. From the little Orient had seen of Val Valentine's part of the operation, he could deduce that the gambling and prostitution were buttressed by legitimate businesses like the Heart of Beauty. He was sure, however, that the most important link in the network was the Hispano Church of the Ocho Santos. Orient found it difficult to believe that Mojo Pay's lovely consort would lend herself to a blood ritual, but he was acutely aware of his own prejudice. In the few moments she'd been near him, Mama Pay had managed to slip under his skin.

When he reached home, he spent the next hour tending Bella's yard -- watering the plants and flowers, pruning dead leaves, and turning over the soil -- but the once lush vegetation was beginning to show signs of neglect. As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, it saddened him to realize that the brief security he'd enjoyed with Sam and Bella was gone; there was nothing left of their thriving, bustling household but a frightened stranger watching over a deserted garden.

Surrounded by the spare but reassuring comforts of his apartment, Orient felt better, and decided to cultivate his own neglected skills.

He began with the bending and stretching exercises of the yang series, exerting his body until the blood rushed through his veins, cleansing muscles and brain of accumulated waste.

When his body was tuned to a tingling harmony, he moved into a classic half-lotus position and began the breathing patterns of the yin series. After establishing control of the two- and four-count cycles, he shifted to an extended three-count breathing pattern and explored the limits of his concentration.

He returned from his journey refreshed, his swarming fears reduced to a single, obvious truth: it wasn't necessary for him to tear down the fortress to defeat his enemy. For all his temporal and occult power, Mojo Pay was simply a man. If he could somehow neutralize the man, the entire structure would collapse.

Orient was aware that his chances of success were limited, but the time had passed when he could quit the field and move on. Too much was at stake: Royce's future, Bella's security, and his own life.

He took a shower and changed clothes and counted his cash. There was just under sixteen hundred dollars, mostly in large bills. Suddenly sure of what he intended to do, he put a thousand dollars in his shirt pocket, stuffed the rest in his wallet, and left the apartment.

As he drove toward Miami Beach, his mind commuted endlessly between the hazy figure he'd glimpsed before Sam died and the pallid madonna at Mojo Pay's side. Though vague, the connection continued to attract his restless thoughts, like blinking lights at the end of a deserted highway.

The mermaids gracing the entrance to the Hotel Naples were merrily spewing pastel-tinted water into a pool of floating cigarette butts as Orient walked past to the main lobby. Before going to the lounge, he stopped off at the men's room to see if his friend was on duty.

As soon as the elderly attendant saw Orient, his wrinkled face folded into a gold-toothed grin.

"Hello, hello, good news," he said, pumping Orient's hand. "The number six-six-six comes up, and I played it for a big ten bucks. Here's your cut."

Orient gently pushed the hundred-dollar bill aside. "You keep it, amigo. It would put me in too high a bracket right now."

"I know, I know," the old man muttered, shoving the bill into his pocket. "All you young bloods are the same. When you're hot, you burn the profits like gas. But I remember not so long ago you didn't have a dime. Maybe I keep this for when your wallet's a little skinnier, eh? You just ask for Gaspar."

"Thanks, Gaspar, you're a rare gentleman. How's the action in the lounge tonight?"

The old man looked away.

"If you mean Val Valentine's action, it's the same, too strong. He's out there with his girls, like always. But go slow, my friend, the word's out on you already."

"What word is that?"

"They say there's a new dude on the strip with a white streak in his hair and a winning system."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

Gaspar shook his head. "People like Valentine don't like big winners, amigo. You'd be better off spreading your action thin. Los Tambores is a hot joint. People get burned bad sometimes."

Orient smiled. "Maybe the smoke's up already."

Though it was still early in the week, the Leaning Tower Lounge was crowded with businessmen wearing polyester suits and eager grins. They clustered in small, noisy groups ogling the girls, who sat in rows like slot machines waiting for a coin to animate their expressionless faces. Val Valentine had the same mechanical glaze over his neatly clipped features as he watched Pearl holding court at the bar, surrounded by a large group of boisterous spenders.

Orient scanned the room carefully, but it wasn't until he checked a second time that he spotted Royce sitting alone near the far wall, face partially averted. A spark of relief set his stalled thoughts in motion, and he walked directly to the bar.

Surprise flickered across Valentine's face, and his disinterested scowl broke into a boyish grin. "Well, if it isn't the man with the system. Please let me buy the winner a drink, Mr. Clay. I don't usually have the opportunity. What'll it be?"

"I'll have a Campari and soda," Orient said, determined to be affable.

Valentine seemed to share the desire.

"Please let me apologize for the way my associates delivered you to my office last night," he said, voice heavy with sincerity. "But you know how it is, busy night, things get misinterpreted."

"That's a big problem these days." Orient raised his glass. "To better communication."

Valentine brushed a hank of bleached blond hair into place and leaned closer. "Speaking of better communication, just how do you manage to win so consistently, Mr. Clay?"

"When I'm at the craps table, I make sure to bet on someone who's going to make a pass," Orient said earnestly. "It cuts down the risk."

"You know, I'm going to make a point of trying that, next time I play," Valentine said, equally earnest. "Are you going to try your system again tonight?"

"Could be. But right now I'm interested in transacting some other kind of business." He took the thousand dollars from his shirt pocket and slipped the folded bills into Valentine's hand. "There's a grand there. I want a week of Royce's time."

Valentine smiled. "Not only are you fifty bucks short, but there's a surcharge on a weekly. Another three hundred."

Orient was able to keep his face impassive, but his wildly straining anger stretched to the bursting point when he saw Valentine's gloating smirk. Teeth clenched, he picked the bills from his wallet and tossed them on the bar.

"At least I won't have to see you more than once a week."

Valentine's eyes glinted like broken glass. "Don't depend on that, Mr. Clay. Miami's a small town."

Emotions seething, Orient stalked across the room. He knew Valentine wanted to provoke him, but he couldn't understand his own violent hate. The anger ebbed when he saw Royce's radiant smile, but it remained at the edge of his awareness like a moat, blocking his response.

Royce brushed his cheek with her lips. "Something wrong? You look worried."

Her husky voice floated across his boiling emotions like a lifeline, and he smiled. "One thing I won't have to worry about is where you'll be this week."

The proud contours of her face wrinkled in childlike glee. "Is that what you were cooking up with Val?"

He nodded. "We made a deal."

Her glee suddenly fled, exposing a layer of bitterness. "We should make a deal too, I think."

"Sure. What about?"

"About us. I know how you feel about paying Val for my company. You don't need a cent to see me after work."

"I know that," he said softly. "But I don't want you to be with anybody else."

Her cool fingers squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you feel that way, David. You're very special to me, and I want this week to be special too."

Orient nodded. "Then let's start right now, and get out of this snake pit."

Despite a concerted effort of will, however, Orient was unable to bridge the rage circling his thoughts. He drove aimlessly, knuckles white on the steering wheel, as he brooded silently over Valentine's deliberate insult.

Royce leaned close to him, gardenia scent caressing his senses. "Hey, loosen up. Maybe we should go someplace noisy, where you can get it all out of your system."

The suggestion was like a tipped domino in his mind, felling a long row of emotions, impulses, and ideas.

"You're right," he grunted. "I think Los Tambores might be the best place to start."

It seemed like a simple solution to many problems. He'd win back the money he'd given Valentine, and return the challenge while working off his excess anger. Anticipation drained his rage as he drove past the glossy wall of hotels lining Collins Avenue, and his thoughts began wheeling possibilities. It seemed wisest to win a few fast thousand and fade before Valentine arrived, but Orient was tempted to make a lasting impression and take twenty or thirty thousand from the tables.

It was more difficult than he planned.

Orient lost the first three bets he made, and a frail fifty-dollar chip was his only buffer from complete embarrassment. He retreated from the tables, went to the men's room, and enclosed himself in the privacy of a coin-operated cubicle. There he plunged into a crash meditation, bypassing the basic patterns for one that instantly focused on the primary source of energy in the universe.

When he reentered the swirl of noise and movement in the crowded casino, his being was cleansed of negative emotions and he was ready to win.

As he moved past the players swarming around the craps tables, a humming violet color vibrated at the edge of his vision. He turned and saw a plump, frizzy-haired blond woman preparing to throw the dice, bright aura outlining her curves like a purple feather boa. Without hesitation he pushed his way to the pass line and put down his last chip.

Five passes later, Orient had sixteen hundred-dollar chips stacked in front of him. Ignoring the fact that the plump woman was still framed by a vibrant band of energy, he picked up his winnings and looked around for Royce.

She was nearby, watching him with an expression of bewildered admiration.

"For a while there I thought I'd have to lend you some money," she confided.

"Just loosening up, but thanks for the thought."

"Sure, sure, feeling good when you're hitting those winners and the eagle flies, but no system is perfect."

"The system works," he said softly. "But sometimes I don't. How would you feel about a cozy celebration?"

"I'd feel that's the most beautiful suggestion I've ever heard."

Something in her voice drew Orient's glance. Royce was looking at him intently, turquoise eyes like fragile porcelain cups waiting to be filled.

The next five days were a swiftly changing spectrum of discovery for Orient, revealing shades of human love he'd never experienced. Reality was transformed by their intense fascination for each other, until even their dreams intertwined, extending their union past space and time.

And though Royce never mentioned the Lecumi religion or Mojo Pay, he could feel their imprint on her consciousness. Instead of attempting to bridge the gap, however, both of them withdrew into a pocket of existence bounded only by their love, with no thought of anything beyond that feathery barrier.

The morning of their fifth day together began with Royce teasing him awake, caressing his sleep-warmed skin until his senses ignited, and his emerging awareness was consumed by liquid flares of pleasure.

They lingered in bed for hours, listening to music and saying very little, until she sighed softly.

Recognizing the sigh as a prelude to a proposal, Orient waited.

"It's Saturday," she said. "I have to go to church tonight."

"What happens if you miss a service or two?"

It seemed as if she'd never considered the question before.

"I can't miss a service. I'm a senior apprentice."

"What if you were sick?"

"I'd go to the service and I'd be healed," she said without hesitation. He sat up and hugged his knees, trying to smother his restless anxieties.

"How long have you been in the church?" he asked softly.

"Two years as a novice and four years as an apprentice. Another few months, and I'll be ready to become a cleric."

Orient's mind scrambled for some way to convince her to break with Lecumi and Mojo Pay.

"I have to get ready," she said after a long silence. He nodded, thoughts soggy with frustration.

Any method he could devise to force Royce's choice would eventually break down. She had to make the decision without influence, and he had to be prepared for the consequences.

If their loving communication wasn't enough to evolve a change, there was nothing he could do except pick up his chips and move on. It would save him from losing everything.

A tiny wisp of hope at the base of his brain began to smolder, ignited by the possibility that Royce would dissolve her contract with Mojo Pay. If she left Pay, she'd weaken his power, and the act would provide Orient with enough leverage to destroy it completely. The smallest crack could crumble the fragile network of occult power, for like all human endeavor, its binding thread was faith. If Royce truly believed in their love, she'd be able to break free of Mojo Pay. And in rejecting her master, she'd render him vulnerable.

As Royce showered, Orient waited in the bedroom, brooding over an action that was impossible to postpone and unlikely to succeed.

She emerged with her hair wrapped in a white towel, rose-nippled breasts and narrow hips sharply pallid in contrast to her sun-bronzed skin. Without makeup her exotic features were softly maternal, and her turquoise eyes glowed like distant patches of sky.

"I have to get busy and clean up my saint's holy room," she said almost to herself. "Haven't even looked inside for days."

"Can I have a minute first?" he asked softly. Her eyes widened questioningly. "Something wrong, David?"

"I don't want you to go tonight."

She sat on the bed next to him, with the patient smile of a nurse preparing a child for his medicine.

"It won't be for long," she assured. "I'm not very happy about leaving you myself. Not even for a few hours. But it's something I have to do."

He shook his head. "There's nothing you have to do, just what you choose to do. The choice is yours, isn't it?"

"No."

He lifted his head and saw the defiance glazing her expression. Will totally in control of his emotions, he decided to goad her to anger. If Royce was beyond help, he'd at least learn more about the Lecumi cult.

"You're just kidding yourself, Royce," he said calmly. "Like that crap about the Cuban princess forced to become a whore by circumstance. Look around, girl. There are thousands of women in Miami who were penniless when they came from Cuba, but they all managed to survive without selling themselves."

Her shoulders hunched slightly, and her head jerked back as if struck, eyes narrowed like an angry cat's.

"You're just a mealy mouthed John like all the rest," she spat. "You wouldn't know the truth if you kissed it."

"If I'm a John, it's because you insist on it. You don't want a true relationship. You'd rather sell yourself for Valentine. You say Mojo Pay owns you, but you don't belong to anybody except yourself, and that's the truth."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, the angular planes of her face blunted by uncertainty.

"You don't understand," she muttered, anger spilling into confusion. "It's not like anything you know about. It's ... it's another kind of thing...."

Orient sensed an opening and took a long chance. He knew that the apex of a voodoo rite was the physical possession of the Houngan priest and Mambo priestess by the various gods. Since the external structure of Lecumi followed the pattern of Haitian obeah, he gambled that the interior rites had the same purpose.

"You mean when the saints mount the priests?" he asked sharply.

"The santeros," she corrected, eyes blinking rapidly. "When the saints ride the santeros like a horse and speak to us."

"Is Valentine a santero?" he persisted.

"He's a Babalocha, a high santero. He's also my padrino in the church, you know, my godfather."

"Can't you see these people are using you?"

"No." She shook her head emphatically. "No, David. Lecumi has been everything to me: my mother, father, family."

She glanced at him.

"Lover too."

"You can't have both of us as lovers," he said softly.

"Please try to understand, David. I've been baptized in blood. My soul belongs to the supreme Babalocha."

Orient closed his ears to the frantic desperation beneath her pleas, awareness focusing on his primary task. Something about her reaction had gone off balance when he'd asked about the saints. Her defenses seemed to crumble, and another part of her personality took command. It occurred to him that Royce had been subjected to some form of hypnosis or religious brainwashing. Knowing he was moments away from losing her, Orient decided to risk an experiment.

He began tapping the bridge of his nose with his finger, as if deep in thought. The hammered-silver setting of his lapis-lazuli ring flashed dully as it caught the light and drew Royce's eyes.

Orient shifted his awareness from passive to active and compressed his concentration until it was a single flow of energy directed toward the ring on his finger. He escalated the flow until the silver metal was vibrating with the magnetism. As soon as he sensed the tension of Royce's presence in the field, he lifted his hand. Royce's eyes remained fixed on the silver ring.

"Tell me your name," he asked, voice calm but firm.

"Royce Sterling," she answered woodenly.

Orient kept his will focused on the lapis-lazuli ring as he slowly moved it back and forth like a pendulum. "Tell me your true name."

"Felicita Regin."

"Listen to me very carefully, Felicita Regin. You're going to understand everything I say, very clearly. You're going to empty your mind of any other thoughts and just absorb everything I say. Do you understand what I'm telling you now?"

"Yes. I understand."

A surge of relief almost toppled Orient's concentration, and he was forced to pause before going further. He resisted the temptation to implant a posthypnotic suggestion to achieve his goal. His real task was to free Royce from all forms of influence, including his own. Only then would her choice be significant.

"I'm going to say this once, Felicita Regin," he said softly. "Your soul belongs to you, and you alone. You're responsible for your own life. If you want to be free, you must take that responsibility. Is that clear?"

"Yes. I understand."

Orient prayed she did as he relaxed his concentration and covered the silver ring with his left hand.

She blinked her eyes rapidly and lifted her head, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotions and naked body shivering.

Orient instinctively wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her, but a higher instinct understood that Royce's awareness was still vulnerable. He had to wait for her choice.

She stared at him as if seeing his face for the first time.

"I love you, David," she whispered. "I want you, and I need you. I've never felt this way about anyone. Not even ... not even Mojo Pay."

Her eyes flicked away as if afraid she'd be over-heard uttering blasphemy.

Orient's emotions raged at the sight of her trembling confusion, but he held his will firm.

"I'm willing to do anything to be with you." Tiny crystals gathered in the corner of her eyes and melted into twin streams of tears.

"I love you, David," she repeated.

"Then come away with me," he said gently. "Come away with me now, and let me be your lover, friend, and family, and fill my life."

Orient reached out, and she was in his arms, her face buried in his chest and her smooth, naked body jerking with sobs. He rocked her like a baby, stroking her damp hair and murmuring soothingly until she was calm.

A long time passed before she moved from the protection of his arms. Finally she pulled away, reached across him for a Kleenex, and loudly blew her nose. Then she turned, red-rimmed eyes deeply troubled.

"I'll go away with you, David," she said slowly.

"But I'll go away with you, David," she said slowly. "But I just can't run. It wouldn't work. There's only one way."

"Tell me the way."

"I must go tonight and remove my name from the rolls. That's my only obligation. After that, I'll be free to go anywhere we decide."

Though reluctant to give in to the slightest concession, Orient was acutely aware that Royce's limit had been reached. She was already past the edge of her control. If he applied further pressure, he'd lose her entirely. All he could do was accept the terms or walk away.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked after a long pause.

"Not long." A smile broke through the drawn, anxious lines in her lovely face as she eased into his eager arms. "Not long at all, my love."

Chapter 11

Royce felt like a tigress.

She'd experienced many levels of reality during her life, but nothing as pure as the primitive desire to protect her den from intruders. Perhaps because she'd never had anything to protect before, not even herself. Her fierce love for David had torn the curtain from her mind, awakening instincts that had lain dormant for a lifetime.

She'd never felt as sure of herself, or as strong, not even when her nude body had been endowed with the ultimate baptism of La Ocha, the Lecumi faith. Royce perceived clearly that Val Valentine and Pearl were not true santeros, but outlaws. As for Mojo Pay ... There was just no way to understand the sheer sexual hunger he generated. She'd seen women literally throw themselves at his feet many times. She'd always managed to control herself, but only because she'd never felt worthy of releasing the animal needs gnawing at her belly. Her padrino had made sure she was a docile apprentice.

Val did a thorough job of destroying her self-image, using alternate bursts of guilt and humiliation. But she wasn't in awe of him any longer. She even dared ask the supreme Babalocha, Mojo Pay, to take her name from the rolls. Because David loved her.

She'd never known anyone who was as sensitive and as strong. And certainly he was unlike any gambler she'd ever met.

David had the natural, loose-limbed grace of a beautiful colt, and she'd been right about him in a way. He wasn't really a gambler, he was a winner. He didn't spend his life hustling the circuit, trying to connect with the smart money. In that sense, David was an amateur. But he sure was smart. He didn't blow time on nonessentials, he just won what he needed and let the whole scene go at that.

As Royce prepared herself, her memory caressed an image of his darkly sculptured features and brooding green eyes. She'd been strongly attracted by his bony handsomeness and quiet manner, but it was the grave wisdom in those jade eyes that she loved.

Royce understood men. It was one of the dubious fringe benefits of her profession. Some girls claimed they could read a John on sight, but Royce knew better. It took at least two or three hours. And after five days with David Clay she knew that he was totally honest. Even though he wouldn't reveal much about his true past, it didn't matter. She knew she could trust him, and that was enough. In fact, it was more than she'd ever expected to find in a world where truth was measured by profit.

Royce knotted the white cloth around her braided hair and glanced into the mirror.

A spotless white dress covered her body to the ankles, and eight strands of beads hung from her neck. Each strand was a different combination of colors and represented the eight major saints of the Lecumi faith.

All white was the necklace of Obatala; the red and black beads represented Eleqqua; crystal and blue was the necklace of Yemaya; all yellow beads for Ochun; red and white beads for Chango; the strand made up of carmelite and black was for Oggun; the black and white was for Oya; and the white beads striped with blue were those of Ochosi.

Unlike previous evenings, however, there was no sense of joyous anticipation as she walked to the temple. Since David had awakened her brain from its sleeping trance, she'd felt nothing but seething fury at the way she'd been used.

To ensure secrecy, the meetings were held at various floating locations each Saturday night. Usually the quarters reserved for the ceremony were quite luxurious, but when Royce left the shack used by the women, she was struck by the primitive surroundings. The site was located less than an hour from Miami, but it looked like some trading post in the deep Everglades.

The women's shack was about forty yards from a barn-like house set in the center of a clearing that was bordered by a forest of drooping cypress and thick jungle-like shrubs. The darkness was alive with sounds, and Royce found herself hurrying toward the reassuring glow and the hum of human voices coming from the house.

When Royce entered, she saw she'd barely made it. The congregation was gathered in front of the decorated altar, and the drummers were in place. In a few minutes the Babalocha would appear, and services would commence. Anyone arriving after that time would be barred from the ceremony.

The interior of the house was as crude as its exterior, being nothing more than a large, drafty room with a battered wood floor, lighted by bare light bulbs dangling from wires.

Royce took her place among the other females who were standing in small groups casually discussing the social calendar or fresh gossip.

Royce surveyed the hundred-odd members of the congregation with unsympathetic eyes. The people she'd revered as religious sisters and brothers were little more than a splinter Mafia. Most of the virginally attired females were either prostitutes or bag women for Valentine's gambling operation. Some, like Ramona, were drug smugglers, running cocaine from the islands to isolated points along the coast. The men, too, were heavily into gambling and dealing, with the exception of a few legitimate businessmen and lawyers.

But Royce was sure that any investigation of those few would turn up some highly illegitimate connections.

The hiss of a tambourine interrupted her speculations. A hush fell over the room, and the loose knots of people unsnarled and shuffled into place until they formed a gleaming white semicircle around the altar.

Val Valentine entered the room, followed by Pearl. He was wearing the white cloak of the Babalocha and carrying a clay bowl in his hands. First he blessed the four cardinal points of the room, spilling some of the liquid from his bowl into each corner. Then he blessed the doors and windows, reciting ancient African prayers as he sprinkled the omiero, the sacred mixture in the clay bowl, over each opening in the room. Finally he approached the altar and made his bow of salutation to his patron saint.

The altar was actually a long oak table crammed with statues of Catholic saints, crude tribal figures, and various totems representing the eight major gods of Lecumi. Around them were arranged offerings of meat, fruit, and flowers; coconut bowls filled with perfumes; bottles of rum; hundreds of candles; strands of beads; seashells; arrows; feathers; cigars; cocoa butter; and a live black rooster.

The Babalocha stretched out on the floor face-down, hands extending the clay bowl toward the altar, as the deep silence was disturbed by the shivering tambourine. At the sound, Valentine rose, sprinkled some of the sacred omiero over the altar, then backed up slowly. When he reached the center of the semicircle, the drums began. First the mother drum, lya, pounded out a slow, steady beat. Then the two lesser drums on either side, called Itotele and Okonkolo, joined the mother drum as Pearl led the congregation in a hymn to San Antonio.

The traditional Cuban hymn was usually sung during Catholic services, but in the Lecumi faith San Antonio was the African god Eleqqua. While the congregation sang, Valentine drank three times from the clay bowl, then walked slowly along the line offering each worshiper a sip of the sacred liquid.

Royce was prepared. She knew that the Omiera was a secret mixture of one hundred and one herbs, prepared by the Babalocha himself. She also knew that the sacred beverage was mildly psychedelic in content, inducing intense trance states, so when Valentine offered her the bowl, she put it to her lips but didn't drink.

The slowly marching drums shifted to a quick, heavily accented rhythm. Pearl began chanting an African prayer to Eleqqua, and the congregation joined in, bodies swaying as they sang. Royce felt the energy build inside the huge barren room as the Babalocha gave the last member of the congregation a drink of the omiera, then moved toward the altar, bare feet shuffling in time to the rhythmic chant.

Valentine placed the clay bowl with the other offerings to the gods, then backed away from the table.

His body stiffened, and he stood on his toes, eyes wide and head cocked, as if listening to some faraway sound. Lifting his arms, he executed a swift series of pirouettes, cloak billowing behind him like great white wings. Suddenly he collapsed to the floor.

Royce held her breath as the chanting voices and pounding drums merged into a pulsing swell of excitement that threatened to sweep away all control. A few of the women started to moan as the inert form before the altar went into violent convulsions.

Body trembling uncontrollably, Valentine twisted on the floor like a wounded white bird, while the drums rose to a rolling frenzy. From time to time someone would break away from the ragged, weaving line, whirl wildly, as if swept up by a gust of wind, then settle back to the semicircle of worshipers.

Abruptly the chanting stopped, and a rush of massed energy hurtled through the room like a silent freight train. Royce dug her fingernails into her palms when she saw the Babalocha struggling to his feet, face transformed by the spirit who possessed his body and soul.

Valentine's neat chorus-boy features were compressed into a grotesque scowl, and flecks of white foam clung to the corners of his mouth. Blond hair matted with sweat and dirt, he staggered from side to side, emitting a series of animal growls. A sharp shudder of fear squeezed the breath from Royce's lungs when she saw his rabidly gleaming eyes.

The mother drum lya, began a slow, intermittent beat, and the semicircle broke into fragments. Most of the congregation retired to the far side of the room, near the drums, and started singing a prayer to Obatala.

The others remained in the center of the floor, bodies twitching and jerking to unseen rhythms. Royce remained in the center, trying to repress an urge to move back to the safety of the large group near the drums.

The Babalocha was strutting back and forth before the altar, hands on his hips and sweat-ribboned face squinting fiercely. He stopped to pick a cigar from among the offerings, and took a light from one of the candles. Then he grabbed a bottle of rum, tilted his head back, and took a long swallow. Rum streaming down both sides of his chin, he turned, glared at the congregation, and began babbling in a hoarse polyglot of Lecumi, Spanish, and another language Royce couldn't understand.

However, Royce understood that the Babalocha had been mounted by Ochosi, and her apprehensions receded slightly. Although raucous, the god was known to be compassionate to lovers. She knew it was Ochosi riding Valentine by his coarse manner and greediness for strong cigars and rum.

One of the women nearby gave out an exuberant whoop and galloped in circles as if astride an invisible horse, her face distorted. It was something Royce had seen many times, when a worshiper was possessed, or "mounted," by one of the saints.

The steady slap of drums intensified, and a man fell face-down on the floor, body quivering like a malaria victim's as the saint took over his body. One after another the santeros were mounted, until there were two women and three men in various stages of possession.

The rest of the congregation, led by Pearl and guided by the insistent drums, continued chanting prayers to restrain the awful potential of the assembled saints. Royce looked around and saw seven other supplicants waiting with her for an audience with Ochosi. All were there to ask the gods to intercede in some earthly matter -- usually money, love, or health. But for her, the time had arrived to tell Ochosi that she wanted to renounce the Lecumi faith and her patron saint, Yemaya. It was certain to cause an argument among the gods, even if Yemaya wasn't present. Royce suddenly became aware of two things: her body was shivering with cold, and her dress was soaked with sweat.

Ochosi, who now possessed the Babalocha's body, was smiling and joking, apparently pleased with the bounty offered on the altar. He growled bawdy remarks in Spanish, chuckling to himself, but his flame-rimmed eyes were ready to flare from warmth to destruction at any moment.

He offered a drink to one of the waiting supplicants, a young man who stepped forward with the grim resignation of a soldier ordered to defuse a mine. The man drank some rum, returned the bottle to Ochosi, then leaned close to whisper in the god's ear.

Ochosi scowled as he listened to the man's request. Then he wheeled and stalked away. The supplicant waited stiffly, obviously unsure of the reaction his request had provoked.

The god swaggered to the altar, cigar clenched in his teeth and bottle swinging in one hand. He barked something to a female squatting on the floor. Royce's frail expectations collapsed when she saw the garlands of seaweed dangling from the woman's neck and recognized the brooding presence of Yemaya. But then Yemaya broke into a childlike giggle at Ochosi's remark, and hope flowed back into Royce's numbed brain. The gods were playful tonight. Perhaps a lover's request would amuse them.

Ochosi returned to the supplicant, feet shuffling in time to the drums. He stopped along the way to bawl out some lusty obscenity and take a swig from his rum bottle. When he reached the supplicant, however, Ochosi's manner became surly. He poured some rum on the floor and dared the supplicant to step across the line, loudly proclaiming that if the man's heart wasn't pure, he'd be struck down immediately.

Shoulders quivering with fear, the supplicant lifted a foot to step across the line, and Ochosi stopped him, roaring with laughter. He hopped across the line himself, threw his arm around the supplicant's shoulders, and whispered in his ear.

Face glazed with gratitude and relief, the man fell to his knees and kissed Ochosi's feet.

The gods granted every request that night. As the supplicants moved off the floor, faces radiant with gratitude, Royce's hopes dwindled. Knowing the gods' love for inconsistency, she felt the odds mounting against her with each grant. Finally, as predicted, she was alone on the floor with the tempestuous saints. For a moment it appeared that Ochosi had forgotten her presence, but then he turned to look at her, eyes popping and bulldog jaw overlapping his upper lip. After a few moments he barked a greeting in Lecumi and trotted toward her.

A warm blanket of calm settled over Royce's chilled, sweat-soaked body as the god approached. She focused the remnants of her thoughts on David and regretted nothing.

Ochosi glowered and thrust the bottle at her.

"Manu!" he ordered in Lecumi. "Drink!"

"If it please the holy saint, I do not want to drink," Royce answered in Spanish, meeting his angry eyes.

A great burst of laughter broke Ochosi's scowl.

"At least you're not stupid like the others." He chuckled. "What favor do you want of me?"

"I wish to remove my name from the Lecumi scroll."

Ochosi's face contorted into a disgusted, suspicious squint, and he moved closer. "Why?"

"To take a husband."

"What is your name, and who is your patron saint?"

"My true name is Felicita Regin, and my patron is Yemaya," she said, mind braced against his wrath.

But Ochosi merely nodded and swaggered to the altar to confer with Yemaya.

At first the saint was furious, but Ochosi growled soothing words and playfully coaxed her with a piece of melon, her favorite fruit. In a short time, Yemaya had forgotten her anger, and Ochosi returned, boasting lustily of his prowess as a lover.

There was no test this time.

Ochosi wrapped his great white cloak around his body and mumbled a short, unintelligible chant, staring at her intently. Suddenly his eyes crossed, and he lifted both arms.

"Mele!" he shouted. "Go! You are free of Lecumi."

Euphoric with relief, Royce hurried off the floor, the saint's parting words ringing in her brain like Christmas bells.

She was free of Lecumi.

Chapter 12

Royce's bare feet pawed impatiently at the wooden floor as she waited for the ceremony to end. She stood with the chanting congregation, thoughts soaring ahead to the moment she'd tell David she was completely his. She became so engrossed in the loving details that she wasn't aware that the service was over.

It was the quiet that first drew her notice. She blinked away from her reverie and saw the drums being packed into canvas bags. The throbbing balloon of energy stuffing the room had burst, leaving nothing but exhaustion. Valentine and the other santeros were being assisted from the floor, listless movements and sweat-wrung clothes making them seem like shipwreck survivors. The area around the altar was strewn with debris, and a few of the women were carefully packing the holy images into cartons.

Royce turned to leave, then hesitated. Mojo was standing at the door.

He was dressed in a white loose-fitting jacket, belted at the waist, and wearing the golden necklace of the supreme Babalocha. Pay's presence seemed to revitalize the exhausted santeros, who waited attentively as he conferred with Valentine and Pearl.

Royce's fears dissolved with the realization that the intense sexual desire she usually felt in Mojo Pay's presence was gone. Her mind examined the change gingerly, like a tongue exploring the gap left by an extracted tooth. The feverish longing that had infected her senses every time she saw him wasn't even dimly there. She was healed.

Although she was aware of Mojo's magnificent physical attributes and the immense strength he radiated, they couldn't dislodge what she felt for David. As she neared the door, however, one small pool of apprehension remained. Royce felt sure that Mojo would treat her fairly, but she was almost afraid of Mama Pay.

As always, she stood at Mojo's side, her pale, exquisite features revealing nothing. Royce couldn't recall having ever seen her laugh. Then she became annoyed at her own timidity. She'd kept her contract with Lecumi to the letter and earned her right to leave. Cool defiance sponged up Royce's remaining fears, and she began edging through the crowd around the doorway.

"Hey there, sugar girl. You're movin' so fast I could play dice on your coattails. Guess you got no extra time for ol' Mojo these days."

The soft, honey-slow words stopped her, and she smiled. "It's been a long night."

Mojo's expression softened, and he chuckled. "It's been a long four years. We'll be sorry to lose you, Royce, sugar. Class thoroughbreds are as hard to find as rich gamblers."

Royce's poise stumbled momentarily. Santeros who'd been possessed never remembered the experience afterward. She glanced at Valentine and saw that he too was confused, blond head swiveling like a spectator's at a tennis match.

"You going somewhere, Royce, sweetie?" he asked, voice still hoarse.

"Our girl's turned in her resignation," Mojo drawled. "Ain't that so, sugar?"

Royce nodded, senses alert for anything menacing in his manner. She was pleasantly surprised.

"Sometimes it's in someone's best interest to leave the way of Lecumi," Mojo said, voice warm and easy. "We of La Ocha will always be your brothers and sisters. Call upon us, and you won't be rejected. And if you wish to return, the door will always be open. You've honored your contract, and we'll honor ours. Go in peace."

Behind him, Mama Pay smiled and nodded.

"Amen." Pearl grunted, and the other santeros murmured assent.

Val kissed her on the cheek. "Be good, sweetie. We'll miss you."

Mojo put a brotherly arm around her shoulders.

"Sorry we got to rush you off now. But we got to perform a special little service. A once-a-year kind of thing, only for santeros. 'Course, you're welcome to stay and watch if you like. Then maybe we can all zip back to Miami together."

The combination of Mojo's charm, her own euphoria, and sheer curiosity prodded Royce to accept.

"Sounds really interesting. Will it take long?"

"No more than a half-hour at the max. It's just a little inside celebration for Ochosi." Mojo's long fingers toyed with the cotton sack dangling from his neck. "He's my main man, you know."

Royce grinned. "He's been pretty fair with me, too. I'll hang in."

She stood near the door, watching with interest, and the drums were unpacked and the santeros moved into place behind the altar. Although anxious about delaying her reunion with David, she knew it was too late to change her mind. She massaged her regrets by telling herself it wouldn't take long. She probably owed it to Ochosi anyway for releasing her, and it'd be a rare experience.

The gathering was certainly exclusive. Of the entire congregation, only the santeros were assisting the supreme Babalocha and priestess celebrate their rite.

There was a total of twelve: Mojo and Mama Pay, Val Valentine, Pearl and the other five santeros, and the three drummers.

The altar had been cleared of all images and holy offerings after the regular service, and in their place was a single silver crucifix, perhaps two feet high, bearing the image of a black Christ. There were two white candles on either side of the cross, but except for a pitcher of clear water and some glasses, the long wooden table was empty of offerings. Then Royce noticed two straw baskets just behind the large silver crucifix.

The mother drum, lya, began a rapid rhythm, and Valentine's hoarse voice called out a prayer to San Cristobal, the saint who represented Agallu, the most feared of the African gods.

Again a pang of regret crossed Royce's thoughts. If she'd left immediately, she'd be halfway home to David by this time. A few seconds later, her misgivings were swallowed by the intricate performance of the inner rite.

The drums trotted steadily ahead of Valentine's rising chant to Agallu, while Mojo and Mama Pay stood at one end of the altar watching the minor Babalocha conduct his phase of the ritual.

Royce was amazed at Valentine's endurance. Although he had been unable to walk unassisted at the end of the regular service, this inner ceremony seemed to inspire him beyond physical limits. His slender body seemed to become stronger as he chanted the African prayer, and he moved with authority, vigorously slapping a tambourine to punctuate his calls.

The small chorus of santeros responded as one, shifting with the complex chant without hesitation, despite its escalating rhythms. Then Valentine swung into an invocation to Ozain, and the supreme Babalocha lifted his arms.

Mojo Pay carefully removed his white toga-like coat, walked to the front of the altar, and made his bow of salutation.

Royce inhaled sharply as Pay lifted his body from the floor and began to dance, moving like a great orange-maned lion. A film of sweat oiled his dark torso, accentuating the cabled web of sinews stretched across his chest and belly. Although every gesture seemed casual and unhurried, his lithe body bent in perfect time to the swiftly shuffling drums.

As she watched the rite, Royce began to grasp the essence of the Babalocha's technique. While Valentine generated energy with his chanting, Mojo Pay used his physical presence to absorb the massive forces flowing into the room. His tall, wide-shouldered form seemed to expand, corded muscles bulging to contain the torrent of power unleashed by the ritual.

Royce's mouth and throat were parched, but she took little notice, enthralled by the spectacle. The Babalocha swayed before the crucifix, chanting a prayer, his melodic voice vibrating like crystal chimes against her brain. A moment later the drums and chorus trailed off, and there was only his voice, shimmering through the quiet.

Dada Aburo Oro Obini Oricha Cheveroni Ache Chango Oro Cullate Oro Cullate Obini Ache Chango Aburo Dada Ayuba.

As the African words faded into the stillness, the tension weaving across Mojo Pay's body relaxed. He moved to the altar, filled the glasses with water from the pitcher, and began serving the drummers and chorus.

Somewhat disappointed by the abrupt end of the ritual, Royce looked across the floor and saw Mojo extending a glass of water toward her. Grateful for an opportunity to relieve her thirst, she went to the altar, took the glass, and drained it in three greedy gulps.

She was about to ask Mojo when they'd be leaving, but hesitated when she saw his face. His dark pupils were like shattered glass and his features as formless as warm wax. It was then Royce understood that he'd been possessed by one of the saints.

The drummers and chorus were returning to their places behind the altar. As the Babalocha slowly drifted back to the center of the floor, Royce walked to the side, unwilling to stand near the altar, and impatient to get home to David.

It was clear that what she'd thought was the end of the ritual was some sort of water sharing. However, she'd noticed that Mama Pay hadn't participated. As the drum beats began, she glanced toward the exit, wondering if she could slip out quietly, and her hopes evaporated. Valentine's deacons, Bernard and Felix, were solemnly guarding the door.

Wishing she'd left when it was time, Royce resigned herself to waiting. As the chorus wailed a lyrical hymn to Agallu, she wondered how much longer the ceremony would last. Mojo's booming bass voice intoned a prayer, and the drums responded by quickening their languid pace. Royce looked up and saw the Babalocha squatting before the altar, legs and shoulders bunched like those of a cat about to spring.

An expectant hush fell over the chorus, but the drums galloped ahead. Being unfamiliar with the rite, Royce wasn't sure which of the many Lecumi gods had mounted Mojo Pay. Whoever it was didn't act like any of the major saints she'd ever observed. Certainly she'd never heard Mojo speak in that voice before. It was like the echo of boulders tumbling down a great mountain.

After completing the short prayer, the god remained in his hunched, tensed position as the drums pushed forward at a reckless pace. Royce watched with growing curiosity as the possessed Babalocha swayed from side to side, thighs bulging against the fabric of his trousers, his muscle-creased back expanding like a giant bellows. When the bellows collapsed, a rolling howl of pain and triumph shuddered through the room.

Valentine immediately led the santeros in a joyful chant to Iroko, the saint of fertility, as Mama Pay moved slowly around the altar and sprinkled what was left of the water over the crouched Babalocha. Then she took one of the straw baskets from behind the crucifix and opened it. When Royce saw the white rooster Mama Pay took from the basket, she understood what had happened.

The god hadn't been ready to attack, as she'd assumed, but had undergone the throes of birth. And now a baptismal ceremony was taking place for the newly born saint.

The large white rooster seemed like a dove in the Babalocha's huge hands as he knelt before the crucifix and presented the offering. The santeros chanted a prayer to Orula, god of secrets, their voices rising shrilly against the drum beats. The god-possessed Babalocha rose to his feet and with one quick twist of his powerful wrists separated the bird's head from its body.

A ragged ribbon of blood shot from the rooster's torn neck and laced Mama Pay's dress with red. The Babalocha let the wildly fluttering creature drop to the floor, and it somehow found balance. It raced crazily back and forth, jets of blood squirting from its headless torso in arcing spurts that spattered the altar, crucifix, and some of the santeros. The bird was still on its feet when the Babalocha began to dance, its gleaming head cupped in his hands like a jewel.

Royce's revulsion for animal sacrifice, her longing for David, and her anxiety to leave were smothered by a familiar sensation that rustled across her nerves like a swarm of silk-winged insects. The buzzing excitement prickled her restless thighs as she watched the dancing god, his sinewy flesh adorned with oily red flowers. Needles of lust bit into her moist skin until her entire body was itching with desire. She heard a high, feverish pitch of abandon in the chanting of the female santeros and knew that they too were being driven by the stinging flashes of need generated by the god's presence.

The Babalocha dropped to his knees before the crucifix, legs spread wide and supple body bent back to the floor. When he tensed his massive thighs, the tightly stretched seams of his trousers gave way, and his penis lifted like a triumphantly clenched fist.

As the god made a series of intricate passes with the rooster's head and rolled the gore-matted object over his groin, one of the female santeros moved around the altar, moaning loudly and clawing at her dress.

Shoulders heaving with the pumping drums, she wantonly displayed her nude body to the god. A moment later she was joined by Pearl and another female santero, both of them ripping away their clothes to expose their sweat-drenched bodies. Suffocating heat filled the room, and Royce's light cotton dress felt like burlap against her wet skin. Eyes glazed, she saw Pearl kneeling next to the fallen bird, chunky legs spread wide and fingers stroking her ponderous, olive-nippled breasts.

Unable to resist the steaming pressure billowing beneath her skin, and frantic to release her body from its scratching prison, Royce tore the dress away and hurried toward the sensuous freedom offered by the god.

A cool shiver of delight tickled her naked belly as she neared the altar. The delicious sensation slid along the inside of her thighs like an icy tongue, and she slowly crumpled to the floor.

"Olosi! Olosi! Olosi!" The god's rumbling voice vibrated through her pleasure-lathered senses and caressed her brain. Body shuddering with extended implosions of ecstasy, Royce forced her eyes open. She was in the midst of a semicircle of naked, frenzied females surrounding the god. The thundering drums were overpowered by his voice as he extended his arms to the crucifix.

"Kimbiambus-Kai! Kimbiambus Kua-Musa! Olosi! Olosi! Olosi!" The African chant cracked through her awareness like a high-tension current, jolting her erect. Still shivering with rapture, she watched through half-closed lids as Mama Pay picked up the straw basket behind the crucifix and walked slowly to the god.

Face bone-white and expressionless, Mama Pay stopped a few feet from the semicircle of prostrate women. Her hand dipped into the basket, and when it lifted, a crimson bracelet shimmered against her pale skin. Then the bracelet crept higher around her wrist, and Royce realized it was a snake.

Royce's brain was churning desperately, but her limbs were paralyzed as the gleaming red reptile slithered from Mama Pay's lowered arm to the floor. She watched with horrified fascination as the snake gathered its flexing coils and lifted its neck, its underside glistening with an obscene whiteness as its arrow-sharp head dowsed from side to side, tongue darting rapidly. For a moment it swayed toward Pearl, and Royce held her breath, not knowing if it was the drums or her heartbeat booming through the room as the snake circled closer, gliding like a crimson swan.

It stopped and leaned back into a tense arch, jaws wide and slender white fangs curving from its yawning pink maw. Terror snapped the numbing grip on Royce's instincts, and she lunged back. But as she tried to scramble away, her hands slid on a greasy patch of liquid, and she fell heavily to the floor.

Before she could rise, a burning lash slapped her thigh. The fire spread quickly through her hips and chest, its rapidly rising heat searing her eyes. She could barely make out the vivid shimmer of the snake nearby and a few dark shapes. Then a white blur obscured her vision.

The last things Royce saw before the fiery brightness consumed all consciousness were the oily smears of blood on her palms and Mama Pay's madonna smile.

Chapter 13

The first hours passed without strain.

Orient watched a televised basketball game, then stretched out on the couch with some magazines. Shortly after two am, however, a seed of anxiety pushed into his belly, and he telephoned to verify the time. He tried to resume reading, but as he flipped through the glossy pages, the anxiety blossomed into a creeping apprehension.

Although there'd been no specific arrangement, he'd expected Royce home by one. He made an effort to uproot the tension wedged in the pit of his stomach, and found himself wrestling with a dense tangle of unpleasant possibilities.

Weary of struggling, Orient drew his thoughts inward, focusing on the calm center of his concentration; but as his senses converged, they became aware of an elusive discordance at the base of his brain. Instincts scattering like alarmed bats, he swung his legs to the floor. Long wings of panic flapped through his awareness as he moved through the silent house. The discordant vibration had the same venomous whine he'd sensed when Sam and Bella were attacked.

Orient checked the altar room first, but Royce's shine to Yemaya was barren and still.

Instincts still circling warily, Orient returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboard for some necessary ingredients. Although he was ignorant of the laws of the Lecumi religion, his training as an adept gave him a grasp of certain techniques basic to all occult science. There were a few methods of protection that were generally effective against psychic attack, in the same way opiates were generally effective against most forms of pain.

Except the most lethal forms, Orient noted grimly as he gathered some salt, a bottle of water, some vinegar, a loaf of bread, a large knife, and some glasses and put them on a tray. Then he took a paper bag, went out to the garden, and filled the bag with earth.

Orient's first precaution was to place a glass of water and salt in each room of the house. Next he proceeded to erect protective barriers in the living room. He sliced two onions in half and placed a section in each corner of the room. He moved in a deosil direction -- from east to south, to west, to north -- this being the same direction taken by the hands of a clock.

Placing an onion half in the east corner of the room, he invoked Raphael; in the south he invoked Michael; in the west, Gabriel; and in the north, Uriel. Then he went back to the east corner and invoked Raphael's protection a second time, completing the formula of the cabalistic cross. When it was done, he shifted his concentration to another form of psychic defense from the Babylonian rite.

Taking the paper bag, he went to the door and spread a few handfuls of dirt over the threshold.

"Oh, Lord Adonai, who has formed me thy unworthy servant in thine image from plain earth, bless, sanctify, and protect this place," Orient whispered, finger tracing the sign of the five-pointed star in the dirt.

Satisfied the living room was secure, Orient dispensed with an additional formula, an Etruscan method of protection calling for bread and vinegar, and went to the bedroom with the sack of earth, intending to repeat the Babylonian formula. But as he began spreading dirt over the threshold, a faint shuffling sound stilled his hand.

An instant later there was another noise. Orient stepped into the hall and stood listening, but there was nothing except the swarming hum at the base of his brain. Then he heard it again very clearly, a rustle of movement from the kitchen.

Orient walked as silently as possible, body tensed and senses circling like trained falcons. When he reached the kitchen, however, a fusillade of emotions riddled his brain.

The back door was open, and Royce stood near the table, arms hanging loosely at her sides. Her expression had a dull, stunned glaze, but when she saw him, her face blazed with recognition, and she lifted her hands.

"Oh, David, my love..."

Relief burst through Orient's confusion, propelling him into her waiting arms. Then he became aware that something was wrong, and he tried to pull away. It was difficult.

Royce clung to him fiercely, belly rocking against his groin, and he found himself fighting his own rising desire as he struggled to escape her embrace.

"Take me to bed, David," she demanded feverishly. "Our soft love bed."

Orient stopped struggling and nuzzled her neck.

"All right, baby. It's all right," he said gently. "Just let me close the door, and we'll go inside."

"Yes, inside," she repeated woodenly, relaxing her grip.

Brain scrambling, Orient shut the door and locked it. He'd have to try to ease her into the living room. It was the only area completely protected against hostile influence.

Then something else occurred to him, and he put an arm around Royce's shoulder.

"Why didn't you use the front door?" he asked softly.

"No reason. Just wanted to surprise you. Tell you the good news."

"What news?"

"You'll see."

Orient stopped and snapped his fingers. "Wait a sec. I forgot something. It's right here."

Without pausing, he casually but firmly guided Royce to the living room.

Royce's body stiffened as they neared the door, but Orient was moving too quickly, and before her feet could find traction, they were inside the protective confines of the sanctified room.

Suddenly Royce regained her balance and with surprising strength wrenched free of his grasp.

Orient resisted the impulse to pull her back by force, knowing he had to bide his time.

"Something wrong?" he asked mildly.

She smiled and backed away. "Nothing wrong, lover. I just want to go to our bed right now."

"Be right there."

She waited just outside the door as Orient slowly crossed the room, concentration tuned on the task ahead. He'd already diagnosed what was wrong with Royce but wanted tangible confirmation before attempting a cure.

He found it immediately when he went to the bar.

As Orient busied himself with uncorking a bottle of wine, he glanced down at the fresh onion half he'd placed in the corner of the room. The whiteness at the onion's center had become dark and shriveled.

Orient knew the change indicated the presence of a hostile influence. The onion had become discolored when he forced Royce into the room, which meant she was possessed by some demon elemental that had to be exorcised quickly.

Still uncertain of how to achieve that goal, Orient returned, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I don't need wine," she whispered. "Just you. Right away."

Her unusual sexual aggressiveness alerted Orient's racing thoughts. He knew that if he made love to Royce he'd succumb to the force controlling her. But as they walked to the bedroom, he wondered if he could use her feverish drive to his advantage.

Royce tried to lead him to bed as soon as they entered, but he smoothly broke away and sauntered to an easy chair and poured out two glasses of wine.

"Let's have a drink first," he suggested.

Anger snapped through her eyes like blue lightning, then faded into her dark smile.

"I don't want anything," she said, reaching up to untie the cloth binding her head. "I don't need anything except you."

Mouth still curved in a private smile, she unbuttoned her dress and let it fall from her slender shoulders. Although completely detached, Orient could feel the sexual heat shimmering from her naked skin as she approached, and he took a mouthful of wine to moisten his dry throat.

She knelt on the floor and rubbed her taut breasts against his legs.

"I'll do anything you want. Give you any pleasure you've ever dreamed of having," she crooned softly.

"There is something I want," Orient said, an idea plowing through his turbulent emotions.

"Tell me, lover. Tell me everything you want," Royce urged, hands moving restlessly over his thighs.

"I want to tie you to the bed and make love to you. Will you do that?"

"Yes. Now, lover. You can do anything you want with me. I'll be your slave."

Orient left the chair and went across the room for a bathrobe cord and some neckties. When he returned, Royce was waiting on the bed, long legs stretched wide and fingers teasing the dark triangle at the edge of her belly.

"Take off your clothes," she whispered. "I want to feel your skin."

"After I've finished," he said, gently knotting the bathrobe cord around her wrist. After securing her hands, Orient knotted two neckties together and quickly bound her ankles.

"Untie my ankles, lover. Not that way," she mumbled. "I can't move my legs."

Orient stood up, slipped his arms under her knees and back, and lifted her from the bed.

Even tied, the slender bundle was too much to carry. Royce squirmed and twisted savagely, frothing lips stretched tight over her teeth as she tried to bite his arms. He was forced to put her down and drag her by the feet. She gnawed furiously at the cord binding her wrists as he pulled her along the hall, and as they neared the living room she screamed and kicked at him incessantly. Her screams became an animal growl of pain when Orient dragged her past the protective barrier. Once she was inside, her struggling ceased, and the guttural sounds trailed off into silence.

Orient left her alone in the center of the floor and hurried to the bedroom for the sackful of earth. He literally ran back, and when he reached the living room, found that Royce had managed to crawl to the front door. He pulled her back to the center of the room and began constructing a circle of exorcism.

Using a length of twine and piece of chalk he found in a drawer containing Royce's art supplies, Orient drew a large perfect circle on the rug. Along the outer edge, at the points of the compass, he wrote the words

"Tau,"

"Elion,"

"Ahih," and "Eloah."

Between each word he wrote the great name IHVH along the inner edge, completing the cabalistic circle of Moses. Then he took the paper bag and sprinkled handfuls of dirt over the circle's perimeter.

"Oh, Earth, I conjure thee by the holiest name Asher Eheieh with this arc made with my own hand," Orient intoned, carefully repeating the formula from the Almadel, the fourth book of Solomon. "May the one God Adonai bless this place, grant safety against all defiling spirits, and by his everlasting power bless this work."

Royce groaned weakly when he picked her up and placed her inside the circle, but as he began the formula of exorcism, her voice trailed off. Orient compressed his entire being around the rite, muscles trembling with exertion as he called out the prayer of dismissal.

"By the powerful name lah, and the highest name Adonai; by Agla, Aglai, Aglata, Aglatai, Elohim, and Sabaoth I license thee to depart, vile spirit. Depart by the eternal power of the one holiest Adonai and by the sacred name written inside this circle. Now!"

Orient braced his awareness after completing the command, prepared for some violent backlash by the force possessing Royce. There was nothing except the mocking silence.

Uncertain that the rite had been effective, he stared numbly at Royce's bound naked form curled on the floor like a sleeping child. A pang of anxiety cut through his doubts, and he crouched down to untie her wrists. As Orient unknotted the cord, he automatically felt for her pulse and instead found a waxy coldness that froze his flesh to the bone.

He worked over her for hours, trying everything he knew, from mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a crude electrical stimulant desperately fashioned from an extension cord; but his medical tricks were as useless as his grief.

Royce was dead.

Brain paralyzed by the realization that he'd killed her, and belly twisted with nausea, Orient tried to stand, and felt the floor collapse.

When he opened his eyes, he saw her sprawled nearby, and memory chopped through his helpless brain like an ax whacking a melon. Impaled by despair, he stared at her lifeless face, unable to turn away.

"Is she dead?"

The voice drew Orient to his feet like a puppet, dazed and unsteady. It took long seconds before he located the hazy white shape in the doorway.

Chapter 14

Recognition snapped Orient's reflexes into focus. A bloody curtain of rage dropped over his vision, and without hesitation he leaped at Mojo Pay, hands clawing for his throat.

A quick, jarring shock stopped him short.

This time he had to fight his way back to consciousness, painfully inching across an airless desert before he found a pool of air. After taking a few gulping breaths, he pushed himself erect, lungs heaving against the aching pressure on his chest, and opened his eyes.

Mojo Pay was standing at the edge of the circle, impassively regarding Royce's body. He turned when Orient staggered to his feet.

"You better sit down," he said calmly.

"I can ... stand." The words scraped through Orient's throat like pebbles.

Pay shrugged.

"You kill her?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Agony circled Orient's chest, squeezing off his reply.

"Maybe you better sit down."

"I'm all right."

He ambled closer. "Want to tell me how you killed her?"

Orient forced his head up and looked directly into Pay's flame-edged eyes.

"She was possessed." The impassive scowl on Pay's smoothly featured face didn't waver.

"You thought she was possessed, so you killed her?"

"I tried to exorcise the demon holding -- "

His explanation was cut off by a long blade of agony that jackknifed his body, and he pitched forward. Before he hit the floor, two men grabbed him and deposited him gently on the couch.

When Orient opened his eyes, however, he saw it hadn't been two men, but one. Mojo Pay was towering over him.

"You okay, duke?"

"I'll survive."

"Can you talk?"

"Depends."

Pay peered at him like a botanist examining a rare plant.

"Now, let me get this straight one time," he said patiently. "You're sayin' Royce was possessed by a demon, and you did this exorcism, and that's how she died. Is that right?"

Orient's ribs felt as if they'd crack if he breathed too deeply, but rage made him reckless.

"You know it is, Pay. She was possessed at your church service. Don't bother denying it."

"I'm not denying it, duke. But there's somethin' you don't understand. Lots of people are possessed by the saints during our church service. That's the point. Only, they're possessed by saints, not demons. You made a big mistake. One of us could've eased her out. Mostly it just takes a good night's sleep."

"Royce wanted to leave your church," Orient insisted weakly.

"Royce did leave. She quit flat. But before she left, she took part in our services, and like a few other people, was mounted, not possessed, by her saint. You should have waited instead of messin' around with her like that."

"Why are you here, anyway?" Orient asked suddenly. "Just happen to stop in at four AM?"

"That's right. I came by to give Royce my blessing and some money she's due. If you'd waited a bit, I could've taken care of her condition without hurting her."

His patient, almost affable manner blunted Orient's anger, and an instant later an avalanche of guilt buried all resistance. It was true. He hadn't waited to examine the nature of the force controlling Royce.

"Usually the saint leaves on its own," Pay was saying. "Exorcism causes a heavy shock. We never use it. Where'd you learn to do that stuff, anyway?"

Through his pain and complete mental despair, a part of Orient's mind reflexively erected defenses.

"My aunt was a professional medium," he muttered. "Taught me about tarot cards, crystal gazing, tea leaves, that sort of thing."

"Uh-huh," Pay grunted without enthusiasm. He jerked his orange-crowned head toward the circle. "You know, I happen to be high priest of the Lecumi faith, and the way you got this room covered looks very strong to me. Your aunt really knew her business."

Orient didn't reply, eyes fixed on the naked body inside the circle.

Pay shrugged. "Yeah, well, so you blew the lady away. What now?"

Orient glared up at him. "Now I call the police and tell them everything I know."

A low chuckle rumbled through Mojo Pay's massive chest.

"You still tryin' to do me, huh? Well, you seem semi-reasonable, think about it. The police won't believe word one about some exorcism. And if they think you're crazy, they won't believe anything you say. Even if they believed you about my church and gambling operation, so what? The worst that could happen is we'd have to shut down Los Tambores for a week or so. Club Twenty-six, never. So how you gonna get me, duke? My operation is protected by the biggest men in the country, and my church is protected by the Constitution."

He scowled and pointed a long finger at Orient. "But you'll be slammed down for about ten to twenty. Maybe an indefinite stretch in the hospital. If you get a choice, I recommend the slam."

There was a long pause.

"Course, none of it's necessary," Pay added softly. "Right now you're so full of guilt and crazy hate that you're gonna hurt yourself bad. You don't seem like the type who wants to waste his life. Could be I'm wrong. Maybe you've got nothin' better to do with your time. Think a minute and you'll see I'm talkin' straight."

Orient was thinking, and the words struck a responsive instinct. He was in a poor position to call in the police. They'd discover immediately that he wasn't David Clay but one Dr. Owen Orient wanted by the CIA. After that it would be just a matter of time before the secrets entrusted to him on behalf of mankind would be used to enslave the world.

His only alternative would be suicide.

He didn't doubt that Pay was well protected. And there was no evidence against him except the word of a fugitive and possible homicidal maniac. He couldn't win.

Orient took a long aching breath and shook his head. "It doesn't make any difference what I do. Royce is dead, and I'm responsible. Eventually they'll find me."

"Not if they're not lookin' for you, duke," Pay said slowly.

"Why wouldn't they be looking?"

"Because they won't have any reason to arrest you if we dispose of Royce's body discreetly. You can be my guest for a spell, until things cool down."

"Why do all that for me?" Orient snapped. "Afraid I'll tell them something your insurance doesn't cover?"

The tiny diamond star lit up when Pay smiled. "If I thought you could hurt me, I'd just kill you."

"Then why the offer?"

"Because Royce was one of my people, Mr. Clay. La Saquesera extends from Dade County to the Georgia line these days, and it's my kingdom. If something happens to one of my people, I'll deal out justice. Not the police. Not unless it's for my own convenience." He folded his arms and stared intently at Orient. "I believe your story, and that's why I made the offer. I've declared you innocent of willfully killing Royce. Her death was an accident. Therefore, I'll take responsibility and give you sanctuary."

Pay's scowling face suddenly broke into a broad grin. "Maybe by an' by I can pick up how you work that unbeatable dice system of yours."

Orient fought to detach his awareness from the hordes of screaming emotions battling for possession of his brain, and make a decision. It was a short struggle.

If he accepted Mojo Pay's offer, he'd have a chance to penetrate the inner ritual of Lecumi and find a weak gear in the machine. He might even be able to atone for Royce's death.

Will clinging to those frail possibilities like an incurable loser betting borrowed funds, Orient slowly nodded.

"All right. What do I have to do?"

"Nothing at all. You come to my place for a week or two. We'll leave right away. If you want to come back tomorrow, you'll find this place as clean as a baby's first tooth." Pay extended his hand. "A deal?"

Orient was over six feet tall, and his fingers stretched wide enough to palm a basketball, but they were swallowed by Pay's jeweled hand. Orient was easily drawn to his feet, although Pay did little more than crook his wrist, and he realized the vice lord could snap his spine like a stick.

"Think you can make it on your own?"

Orient took a few tentative steps. The severe pain belting his ribs stiffened with each inhalation or sharp movement, but he could walk.

"I'll be fine after a few hours' sleep."

The star in Pay's tooth glinted, and a grudging note of respect shaded his voice.

"Must be gettin' old. When I was in my prime as a pro, if I hit somebody as hard as I popped you, he wouldn't recover until next week's game." The note faded with his smile. "Well, let's move out, duke. We're finished here."

"Not yet. I want to say good-bye to Royce."

Pay's expression was a mask of contempt.

"No need for weak shit sentiment. She's gone," he snapped coldly. "Let's go. Time's short."

Although taken off balance by the abrupt switch in Pay's mood, Orient wasn't surprised. Rallying his will, he met Pay's anger-flecked eyes.

"It won't take long," he said calmly.

Orient walked over to the earthen circle and knelt beside Royce's body. As he murmured a Tibetan mantra, or tone prayer, for the safe passage of her soul, his attention was distracted by something he hadn't noticed earlier. He withdrew into his concentration until the prayer was finished, then bent closer to examine Royce's leg.

Her limbs were already stiffening, and there was a swollen purple-green bruise on her thigh. He hadn't noticed the bruise earlier, or the twin punctures, like tiny pink eyes, in the center. Perhaps it had happened in the struggle to reach the living room, or perhaps he should have waited to examine her properly. He hadn't seen anything except his own need.

"Time to go, duke. I can't wait."

Orient wanted to resist the curt command, but he was calling on resources that were long spent. He struggled to his feet and followed Pay to the door.

The air outside was gummy, and dawn edged across the bleak sky like the lazy yellow trickle of a broken egg.

As they crossed the lawn, a limousine emerged from the shadows at the end of the street and rolled up to the curb. The door swung open, and Orient saw two men in the front seat.

Mojo Pay paused before entering.

"As my guest, there are certain rules you'll have to respect," he said, voice crisp in the steamy quiet. "One is the law that only followers of La Ocha are allowed to wear a Lecumi sign. You'll have to turn yours in, duke."

Orient looked down and saw the brass bow and arrow of Ochosi dangling outside his shirt. Without hesitation he removed the amulet and dropped it into Pay's waiting hand.

Chapter 15

The guests at Mojo Pay's estate seldom saw their host.

Every evening at six, however, Orient saw his hostess from the window of his corner room as she took her walk around the grounds. Mama Pay was invariably alone during those promenades through the majestically terraced gardens, since at that hour her guests were gathering at the main bar for their nightly entertainment.

At least twenty-five other people were enjoying Mojo Pay's lavish hospitality, and during the week Orient was there, some of the faces had changed, but not the style, a chrome-edged form of high-octane hedonism. All the men were successful and the women beautiful, a fact that was perpetually celebrated at the estate.

Orient was the exception, having nothing to celebrate, and he immediately withdrew into a personal routine that gave him little contact with the other guests. He arose early, performed his meditative exercises, then took a two-mile jog along the white-sand beach bordering Pay's estate. After a swim and a shower, he had breakfast alone on the patio and retired to the privacy of his room until dinner.

Mama Pay sometimes made a brief appearance during the late-night festivities, but in time Orient learned that she never participated in the various diversions available at the estate. While Mojo was away on business, she remained secluded in the private wing, the only part of the mansion off-limits to guests. Two men were constantly stationed at the connecting corridor to make certain no one wandered in by mistake.

Although Orient had never spoken to Mama Pay, he was strangely affected by her presence. Unsure whether his interest stemmed from an obsession to uncover all he could about the Lecumi sect or from her exquisite beauty, Orient waited at his window every evening for her appearance.

And every evening, as he watched her stroll through the deepening emerald shadows, hair falling like black rain over the shoulders of her white dress, Orient was haunted by the memory of the luminously pale figure he'd glimpsed the night Sam Fein died.

Despite his reclusive habits, he'd made an extensive examination of the house and grounds and found nothing of any religious significance, beyond a few African totems in Pay's art collection. If there was an altar room like Royce's, it was probably in the private wing. And while Mojo Pay had hinted at giving him instruction in the practice of Lecumi, business kept him away for days at a time.

Pay's other promises had been fulfilled to the letter, however. The morning after Royce's death, Orient found his rented Thunderbird parked among a stable of gleaming machines that ranged from a Bugatti coupe to a hybrid of a Lincon Mark II to a Bentley sporting Cadillac fins trimmed with rhinestones. No one prevented him from driving off the grounds, and when Orient arrived at Royce's cottage he saw that all trace of her occupancy had been removed with her body. Her paintings, photograph, and personality had been scrubbed from the walls, leaving only plasterboard and motel furniture. As Orient stood in the barren silence, he realized he didn't have so much as a snapshot to remind him of the love they'd shared. He hadn't even given her his real name.

Since that day, he'd been off the estate only once. A few days after visiting the cottage, he drove to a hotel on Miami Beach to make sure his telephone call to Bella Fein wouldn't be tapped.

It proved to be another doomed enterprise. Bella's pretaped voice cheerily informed him that she was vacationing in Puerto Rico. Orient blurted a few good wishes and hurried back to the womblike isolation of Pay's estate.

A week passed before Mojo Pay returned. Orient was unaware of his arrival until late afternoon. He'd spent the morning as usual: meditating, running, and swimming. And, as usual, no matter what he tried, Royce's death dominated his awareness like an aching tooth.

Feeling oddly restless, Orient decided to leave his second-floor room and venture downstairs. The house had been designed during the twenties, and while its graciously classic exterior had been maintained, the interior was modernized considerably. What was once a circular ballroom had been converted to an entertainment area that resembled the amphitheater at Club Twenty-six. Two sweeping tiers of stacked couches, covered with alternating sections of black and white leather, created a stark checkerboard effect against the curved walls.

Some brightly glowing pieces of neon sculpture adorned the walls, but their brash message was overshadowed by a forty-foot canvas behind the bar: a giant portrait of a football player seated on a locker-room table, painted by Frank Stella. It'd taken Orient days before he recognized the caged face inside the helmet as that of his host, Mojo Pay.

Orient never felt at ease in the impersonal, stadium like environment, but had many other rooms at his disposal. Beyond the smaller rooms was a rear stairway, and the corridor that led to Pay's private wing.

Orient took the rear stairs, intending to go outside. When he reached the side door, however, his roving senses registered a concentration of energy nearby.

He slowly gravitated toward its source, and seconds later heard the eager buzz of voices and music coming from the main room.

The circular arena was swirling with people, and a full-scale party was in progress. Many of the guests were reclining on the stacked couches, while the rest stood in small groups or danced energetically to the Afro-Cuban music.

Orient caught a glimpse of Mojo Pay standing at the bar. His looming physical presence seemed even more imposing than the giant portrait above him. He was flanked by Mama Pay and Val Valentine. All three were dressed in white, and it occurred to Orient that many others at the party were wearing white clothing; simple shirts and trousers for the men, and long, austere dresses for the women. Most wore brightly colored strands of beads, and a few displayed the drawn bow and arrow of Ochosi. They mingled freely with the normally garbed majority, and it occurred to Orient that he might add to his puny hoard of information on the Lecumi sect. He moved through the throng looking for an opportunity to strike up a conversation with one of the white-clad guests.

A blond girl standing alone at one end of the bar smiled at him. He veered toward her, then stopped.

Bernard and Felix were leaning against the bar, no more than twenty feet away, eyes roaming through the crowd like hungry wolves. Fortunately, they were searching in the wrong direction. Orient executed a swift turn and lost himself in the mob.

"Lighten up, love, things can't be that bad."

Orient looked up and saw a busty redhead squinting at him amiably. The angularity of her face reminded him uncomfortably of Royce's exotic features, and he was about to slide past until he noticed her red and white bead necklace and starched white dress. She also had a drink in each hand.

"One of these will make you feel much better," she assured. "Romance troubles?"

Trying to remember where he'd seen a similar strand of beads, Orient accepted one of the glasses and smiled. "Just somebody I don't want to see."

"You look worried but real cute," she told him, voice slightly slurred. Orient sipped his drink and discovered it was straight vodka. As the liquid burned past his throat, he recalled the beads worn by the attendant at the Naples Hotel.

"Beautiful necklace. It's for Santa Barbara, isn't it?" The girl's penciled eyebrows lifted in delighted surprise. "Are you a brother?"

He nodded. "I'm a close follower of Lecumi."

"Who's your patron?"

"Ochosi."

She made a face. "All you swingers go for Ochosi. I like Chango, 'cause he's dependable."

"How about Yemaya?"

"Yeah, she's all right, I guess." The girl leaned closer. "I was mounted by Chango, you know."

"Are you a santero?"

"That's just it. I'm only an apprentice. Pearl, that's my godmother, she thinks I got a special gift."

"Your godmother should know," Orient muttered, thoughts swamped by bitterness.

As an expert occultist, he was familiar with the Loa deities that mounted worshipers of Haitian obeah, and he knew that in hundreds of American gospel churches, members were touched by the spirit. Then why hadn't he, a trained adept, diagnosed the true nature of Royce's possession before attempting exorcism? The question was a bog of quicksand that stifled any hope of answer, so he stopped struggling and drained his glass.

"I've got to run, handsome," the girl was saying. "Maybe we can get together later and cook up some fun. I'm a terrific blues chaser."

Grateful for her departure, Orient managed another smile. "Thanks for the cheer, sister."

The words clinked like lead in his mouth, and he retreated toward the exit, thoughts still mired in recriminations, until an angry reflex gripped his awareness like a noose, jerking him to a halt.

He'd been running for so long that the reaction was becoming instinctive. Since letting Ted Bork and his CIA playmates destroy his career, retreat had become an expensive habit; it had already cost his home, his name, and the woman he loved.

Orient turned and walked directly to the bar and the blond he'd seen there earlier, no longer caring if he was recognized by Valentine's enforcers. All that mattered was that he attack with everything at his disposal -- for Royce and for the sake of his own soul.

It was minutes before it dawned that they'd all gone. Mojo, Mama Pay, Valentine, and the rest of the white-garbed Lecumi family had quietly left the party to the civilians'. Orient checked the time, saw it was just after six, and hurried back to his room to catch Mama Pay's sunset promenade.

Again he was disappointed. The gardens were deserted. It occurred to him that it was Saturday, and he realized she'd gone with the others to their regular church service. He also realized that exactly a week had passed since he killed Royce.

Reason flailing weakly against the tide of despair the statistic provoked, Orient stood at the window until the candy-pink clouds deepened to violet and the shadows obscured sight.

A muffled crack pulled him from a soundless ocean of sleep, and he padded numbly to the door.

A butler stood in the hallway, ample body stuffed in his uniform like a shiny blue sausage.

"Mr. Pay would like you to join his party in the main room," he announced gruffly.

"When did they get back?"

A deep furrow dented the man's bullet head. "Back from where?"

"It's not important. I'll be down soon."

Determination revived by the opportunity to confront his host, Orient showered quickly, dressed, and was almost out the door when reflex stopped him. Why the rush? he wondered, the answer tripping on the heels of the question. He was running to keep a date with a death wish.

Orient carefully shut the door, went back to the bed, and took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case. "On, Aing, Ghring, Cling, Charmuda Yei Vijay," he murmured as he struck a match, repeating the ancient Brahmin mantra for the consecration of Bhang.

While he smoked he studied the scroll mandala on the silver case, emptying his mind of everything except the intricate design. When his concentration was tuned, he scanned the reality of his position.

It was precarious. A man like Mojo Pay didn't befriend strangers on impulse, especially someone who'd just killed one of his girls. Obviously, the vice lord was playing a game. But Orient couldn't understand what he expected to gain.

Instead of attempting to explore Pay's motives, Orient turned his perceptions inward, drawing thought and reflex into harmony with his will, and by the time he'd stubbed out the cigarette, his awareness was poised to register the slightest threat.

A celebration of heroic proportions was in progress downstairs, and when Orient finally worked his way through the crowded corridors, he found the main room jammed with people and noise.

The number of guests seemed to have tripled since the afternoon, and he wondered if the party had some special significance. He saw a few members of the Lecumi sect sitting listlessly on the tiers, clothing wrinkled and soiled and faces bleached with exhaustion. A stray image of the last time he'd seen Royce flashed into his mind, dress dazzling white.

Guided by the ceiling-high portrait, Orient edged toward the center of the bar, where Pay usually preferred to hold court, and as he neared, a familiar orange crown of hair bobbed above the heads clustered around the bar. Mojo was there, presiding over a tightly packed assembly of admirers.

Unable to penetrate, Orient watched in fascination as the regal figure effortlessly controlled their chaotic enthusiasm.

Pay was wearing a fringed shantung shirt, and a necklace of fat gold beads shone against his dark muscular chest. An invisible fence surrounded him, leaving a few respectful feet of space that no one dared cross. From that distance, Pay conversed with his large circle of devotees, cracked jokes, and issued instantly obeyed proclamations.

Orient noticed that more than a few of the women were physically overwhelmed, and stood trembling with restless excitement, eagerness restrained by the unseen force girdling the vice lord. The men, while less visibly affected, were docile, completely subdued by his aura of power.

Rather than set his will to resist that aura, Orient shifted to a passive state, having decided that any confrontation was premature. The wisest course was to allow Pay's personality to influence him completely, in order to find a vulnerable point.

Mojo lifted his head and grinned, dark, flame-streaked eyes scanning the faces pressed around him, and long fingers snapping time to the music.

"This here's a first-class jam," he said to no one in particular. "And I'm having myself a damned fine time."

A nodding chorus clamored agreement, but Pay's gaze swept over them and found Orient standing at the edge of the crowd.

"Hey, duke, don't be shy," he called out. "Come on over and have a drink with me."

Concentration balanced, Orient moved forward. Like some flesh-eating flower, the tightly pressed mass parted momentarily and snapped shut as soon as he passed. Letting himself be guided by Pay's magnetic vibration, Orient crossed the open space and joined him at the bar.

Pay's eyes drilled into his, smooth features set in an expression that was at once reflective and challenging. "What are you drinking?"

"Champagne always lifts a party."

"That's sure the truth." Pay's palm slammed the bar.

"Champagne for all my friends," he grunted, still watching Orient.

A flurry of activity erupted behind them as the barmen began popping corks and waiters hurried to serve the noisily appreciative group crowding around. Thankful he'd taken time to prepare himself, Orient met the vice lord's scrutiny with passive detachment.

"To a generous host," he said, raising his glass.

A corner of Pay's plump lips twisted into a wry smile. "And to a discreet guest. That's something harder to find than a one-legged tennis player."

Eyes narrowed speculatively, he waited for the general laughter to subside.

"You know, I got all kinds of faces stayin' here. Most of them just party themselves ragged. A few smart ones concentrate on gettin' rich. But you take the prize for stayin' coolest, longest, duke."

There was a ripple of amusement, but a warning flicker of Pay's eyes cut the humor short.

"In what way?" Orient asked.

"Few ways. You stay to yourself, don't get restless, and keep physically fit. I admire that in a man. Finish your wine and come with me. I got a little something to talk over."

Pay turned to confer with a man standing at the front of the circle, then adjusted his shirt and sauntered through the crowd. The man fell in beside Orient as he followed close behind. Orient wasn't sure if it was disappointment or excitement that sighed through the sea of people as it separated to allow them to pass. Even with Pay clearing the way, it took a long time to work through the waves of admirers trying to attract his attention. None of them, however, dared touch him despite the intense reactions he generated in his female guests.

When they reached the comparative calm of the outer rooms, the man beside Orient scratched his lumpy nose.

"Mojo's a hell of a lot bigger now than when he played football," he rasped.

Both the nervous gesture and the abrasive tone clicked in Orient's memory, and he recognized his feisty companion as Whitey Breslow, host of television's highest-rated talk show.

Pay led them both to the private wing, and when they entered the guarded corridor, it became quiet. The speckled marble floor was covered with Persian silk prayer rugs, and muted impressionistic paintings hung between ornately gilded mirrors. When they reached the curved marble stairway at the end of the corridor, Breslow punctured the silence.

"Who's your decorator, Cecil B. De Mille? I could sure use somebody at my place. My ex-wife took everything except the Mario Lanza records."

"I chose the rugs and pictures myself," Pay said amiably. "Next time I'm in Palm Springs, I'll take a look at your crib. Maybe I can give you a few suggestions."

"That would be great, Mojo," Breslow croaked, patting him on the back. "Maybe we could get up a game of touch football with some of the boys. How about that? They'd be tickled silly."

Pay's smile dimmed. "I don't play at all anymore."

Orient detected a hint of contempt in his tone, and so did Breslow. He pulled his hand back and grinned.

"Sure, sure, know just how you feel," he assured hurriedly, scratching his nose. "The boys might be disappointed, but we'll have plenty of laughs anyway, I'll see to that."

It struck Orient that Pay was edging into extremely prestigious circles, it being common knowledge that the secretary of state and an ex-vice-president were numbered among Breslow's 'boys'.

There was an arched, gilded doorway made of carved wood at the top of the stairs, and when they entered, Orient saw that a smaller but much more interesting party was in swing.

The high, windowless walls were covered with iridescent fabric that shimmered in the dim light, and except for a brilliantly tiled Romanesque pool dominating the center, the room was simply furnished. Although none of the guests had Whitey Breslow's national fame, all exuded an air of exhilarated assurance that suggested anonymous bank accounts and prominent friends.

Pay and Breslow were immediately surrounded by fans, and again Orient noted the vice lord's impact on females. Those who didn't rush to greet him were trans-fixed by his presence and stood staring with unwavering fascination. The only woman who didn't seem affected was Mama Pay. She half-reclined on a low couch in the corner, watching Orient intently.

Pay disentangled himself from a knot of people and ambled to his side.

"Folks really get dazzled when Whitey's on the scene." He chuckled.

"I notice the ladies always get flustered when you arrive," Orient said casually.

The chuckle faded, and Pay's hand strayed to his chest. It was then Orient saw the small white sack dangling against his coppery skin, partially obscured by a necklace of plump gold beads.

"I like women and they like me," Pay said softly. "That's just a plain natural fact. But that's old business. Let's have some more champagne. We got an interesting future to talk over."

Blue-coated waiters carrying trays of food and drink circulated through the crowd, and when Pay sat down, they scurried from every direction to serve him. He plucked two goblets of sparkling wine from the nearest tray and waved the rest away.

"You know, I'm very happy you decided to join us tonight," he said, handing Orient a glass.

"Do you throw these big bashes every weekend?"

"Not really. I sure like company, but tonight's extraspecial. I'm celebrating the biggest event of my life, my cumpleano."

"Happy birthday," Orient offered.

Pay studied him thoughtfully. "You know Spanish, all right, but maybe you don't know that in the Lecumi faith, your real birthday is the day you're baptized. That's when you're truly awakened to life."

"What kind of baptism do you have?"

Pay ignored the question, a reflective smile softening his chrome-smooth features.

"I was born with a veil," he said proudly. "You know what that is, duke?"

Orient did, but caution made him shake his head. "Something to do with your religion?"

"Not at all. It has to do with the talent I was given. I came from my mother's womb with a special mark. That mark was my sign and my power."

He leaned forward, tiny red flames illuminating his dark eyes.

"I'm tryin' to use that special talent to build something new, but it sure ain't easy. I need the right kind of people to help me. Now, I know how you feel about Royce, but you can't blame yourself. You didn't intend to kill her. So look here, let me help you, and help myself at the same time. I need somebody like you in my organization. Why not come work with me for a spell and see how it suits you?"

Orient stared at the bottom of his glass, thoughts trying to evade the stabbing memory of Royce. "You seem to be doing fine without me, Mojo."

"Like I said, can't do it alone. I need top executives. You stay to yourself, have regular habits, not a lush, keep fit, plus you're a smart enough gambler to walk out of my casino a winner. All that adds up to an ideal associate to me, duke. How about it?"

"I don't see how I could fit into your organization," Orient stalled.

"I'm willin' to let you figure that one out yourself. Why don't you just hang out with me for a few weeks and look my operation over? You'll draw two grand a week for expenses while you decide. A deal?"

Orient examined Pay's eyes, but they were as empty as mirrors.

"What can I lose?" he said, knowing there was no choice. "Sure, I'll give it a try."

The diamond in Pay's tooth blinked on as his smile widened. "Then that's what it is. Glad you're joinin' the team. It's gonna work out fine for both of us."

Apparently satisfied the interview was concluded, Pay stood up and glanced around the room.

"Now, why don't you just go ahead and celebrate? Life shouldn't be all work and worry, you know." He looked down at Orient, expression oddly challenging. "Anything goes in my castle, duke. A man could learn a lot."

Orient smiled. "Perhaps forget a lot too."

"Sometimes that's part of the learnin'."

"It's not fair, Mojo! You can't ignore me all evening!"

Both men turned as a stately, attractive woman with blue-white hair sailed into the conversation.

"Come dance with me at least once," she scolded playfully. Dressed in a gauzy two-piece gown that showed her lean, sun-browned body and heavy emerald jewelry to advantage, the woman radiated confidence. But Orient saw the trembling need beneath her tanned skin and knew she was holding on to her control by a thread.

"Not right now. I'll see you later."

The woman's face seemed to collapse when she heard the undisguised annoyance in his tone.

"Yes, yes, later. I'm sorry if I interrupted anything important," she stammered.

As she walked away, Pay beckoned one of the waiters to his side.

"Make sure the senator's wife doesn't drink too much," he said softly.

Then, without looking back at Orient, he joined some people across the room.

Orient remained seated for a while, sipping his wine as he scanned the rest of the party.

Predictably, a few of the guests were lolling nude in the pool, passing a pipe back and forth. Whitey Breslow was standing in the midst of a noisy gang, while a large circle of people nearby huddled around a silver bowl heaped with crystal powder that Orient assumed was cocaine.

As Orient got up and crossed the floor, he spotted a pair of arched doors spaced about ten feet apart. The first door led to a candlelit den filled with people in various stages of undress.

Ignoring an inviting smile from a big-breasted redhead stretched out on a velvet pillow, Orient backed out of the room and tried the other door.

He found himself in some sort of screening room that was darkened except for the twitching glow of the film being shown, and he gratefully sat down. Flexing his will, Orient dived into a deep meditation pattern and in a short time managed to retrieve his concentration. He'd detected the electric tension beneath Pay's affability and felt that their relationship was balanced on a very thin edge. Orient's primary concern now was to become an indispensable employee. If he could gain Pay's confidence, he'd find a vulnerable point. It was also his only chance to survive.

The film being screened was about football, and as Orient watched, he slowly comprehended that it was a documentary of Mojo Pay's athletic career. The film was short but very impressive.

Having starred in both football and track at Florida State University, Pay made All-American in his junior year. The following season he claimed a hardship waiver, left school, and signed with Miami for a big bonus.

He won rookie-of-the-year honors and was named to the all-pro team for the next five seasons, setting some records along the way. A defensive back, Pay had unusual speed and loved to hit. At least half the film was devoted to slow-motion clips of him demolishing offensive receivers or making impossible interceptions. After celebrating Pay's savage will to win, the film briefly replayed the tackle that tore his knee and ended his playing career, and then smoothly showed his transition from athlete to entrepreneur. There were shots of Pay piloting his corporate jet to enterprises ranging from boutiques and restaurants to oil leases.

The second time Orient watched the film, he noticed that in the latter sequence, although Pay sported a variety of original clothes and jewelry, one item was constant. The small white sack was always around his neck.

Orient recalled what he'd said about being born with a veil. He knew that some babies left the womb still covered by a transparent membrane and that ancient cultures believed this "veil" was a sign of magical power, and preserved it carefully. Allowed to dry and harden, the membrane was a prized ingredient in some occult formulas.

It suddenly occurred to him that the sack Pay wore probably contained a fragment of his birth veil and was the source of his psychic power. Darts of excitement pierced Orient's thoughts as he realized that the sack was a vulnerable target.

During his third viewing of the film, he found another vulnerable point. As he watched the reruns of Mojo's accomplishments, he remembered the giant portrait dominating the main room downstairs, and understood that if Pay had a personal weakness, it was his colossal vanity.

As the film faded into a final short of Pay piloting his Lear jet into the sunrise of big business, Orient decided to rejoin the other guests.

Reentering the jumble of sound and color was like jumping into ice water, and he sensed immediately that the party had intensified. Outwardly nothing had changed; some people had taken off their clothes and were cavorting in the pool, a few were dancing, and many were sampling the assortment of drink and drugs being served. But high-pitched vibrations of abandon were massing over the room like thunder-heads.

Orient looked up and saw Mama Pay sitting in the corner, pale, delicate features drawn in a faint smile. He hesitated, then recalled Mojo Pay's words: "Anything goes in my castle, duke. A man could learn a lot."

Her smile widened as he approached, and she patted the cushion beside her.

"I've been waiting for you," she confided, voice rustling like silk taffeta, stirring up the dust of forgotten desires.

"If I'd known, I would have skipped the movie," he said lightly, trying to conceal his agitation.

"Did you like it?"

"It's really effective. Probably brings in a lot of business."

"Mojo's so proud of the film. It's shown at clubs and schools across the country. He's thinking of using it if he decides to run for office."

Orient couldn't completely repress his surprise.

"You mean political office?"

"Of course. Think he's got a chance?"

"As your husband's new employee, I'd have to say yes."

Orient couldn't tell if her expression was mocking or pleased.

"I'm glad you're going to be with us, David. I've wanted to speak to you for a long time. Do you believe in premonition?"

His expression remained blank. "Like a gambler's hunch?"

"That's right. When I first saw you at Club Twenty-six, I had a hunch. I felt we were going to become close friends."

The dense noise around them seemed to fade, as if they were enclosed in a crystal bubble filled by her silken voice.

"Do you like me, David?"

Her question settled over his brain like a veil, obscuring his concentration with its sensual texture. In an effort to regain clarity, he turned away and signaled a waiter.

"Want a drink, Mama?"

The transition burst the bubble, and he was deluged by the sounds of the party. Mama Pay wrinkled her nose unhappily and said something he couldn't hear.

"What did you say?" he asked, leaning closer.

"Mama Pay is my formal title as matriarch of our church," she explained. "Good friends call me Cara." Orient took two glasses of champagne from the proffered tray and gave one to her.

"To my new friend, Cara."

Her pale, exquisite face glowed with satisfaction.

"I hope we become very close to each other," she whispered.

From the isolated corner he shared with Cara, Orient saw that his initial impression had been accurate. The party was rapidly reaching a level of total abandon. The lights were dimmed, and the babbling sounds had lowered to an intimate, excited murmur as the guests quickened their pursuit of pleasure. Many of them had shed their clothes and were reclining in and around the tiled pool. A few couples were at the caressing stage, but most were watching the impromptu floor show being given by Whitey Breslow.

The television star was sitting in the center of the shallow pool, naked except for a straw hat, fondling a girl sitting on his lap, and cracking jokes. Judging from the wild laughter punctuating his remarks, he was in top form.

Cara lifted a slim ivory hand, and a waiter appeared.

She said something, and he hurried away, returning with a small silver bowl filled with crystalline powder.

Cara smiled at Orient.

"The room's a bit warm," she purred. "We need some snow, I think."

Knowing he wouldn't refuse anything she suggested, Orient watched her scoop up a small mound of powder with a long fingernail and lift it to her delicate nostril.

The third time her finger lifted from the bowl, it extended toward Orient, and he leaned forward and sniffed the glistening powder from her lacquered red nail. She gave him another, and as the cocaine crackled through his brain, two things happened: his awareness expanded with a rush of confidence, and the edges of his instincts vibrated with alarm. Although his physical energy was greatly increased, the stimulant drained his control, and he exerted his will to brake his skidding concentration.

"Strong stuff," he commented. Cara nodded. "It makes everything stronger and better."

"I see you picked up on my message, duke. Smart man. Life's quick." Orient saw Mojo Pay standing beside the couch, with a nude woman under each arm. He'd taken off his shirt, and the females looked like tender flowers clinging to a towering oak. His dark torso was gnarled with hard muscle, and thick orange hair circled his head like a bright cluster of leaves.

One girl was young, with lank blond hair and pert features. Eyes closed, she was still, face pressed against Pay's chest. His other companion was the silver-haired senator's wife who'd approached him earlier. Although older, she had a waist narrowed by exercise and breasts enlarged by surgery, giving her remarkable proportions. She was writhing against Pay's arm, hands moving boldly over his skin, but the vice lord paid little attention as he reached for the bowl in Cara's hand.

"Let's have a taste of that Stardust, sugar. After all, it is my birthday, right?"

Using a small gold spoon, he took four hefty sniffs and squinted at Orient. "You indulge, duke?"

Annoyed by the sarcastic undertone in the question, Orient shrugged. "Cara and I just had some, but I don't mind joining you. Happy birthday, boss."

He exerted full concentration as he inhaled the stimulant, but its effect was too potent to control fully. Although he succeeded in keeping his face impassive, galaxies of energy were careening through his brain.

The diamond star shimmered in the center of Pay's smile. "I like a man who knows how to party. Makes for happy working relations. Y'all have a number-one session, hear?"

The two naked women still wrapped around his bulging arms, Pay turned and ambled toward the crowd at the pool.

Cara's hand gripped Orient's fingers.

"I wanted so much for you to come to me tonight." She leaned closer, voice a silken tongue in his ear. "I've wanted you a long time, David, and you've wanted me too. Isn't that true?"

A surge of exhilaration washed over Orient's perceptions, leaving them refreshed and clear. He understood why he'd been watching Cara every evening from his window. There was a bond between them, something primitive and compelling.

"Yes, it's true," he said, bending to kiss her.

A muffled wail pulled his head back. Turning, Orient saw men and women strewn across the floor, tangled in sexual combinations like a sighing, groaning carpet of vines. Mojo Pay was kneeling near the pool, great arms supporting the silver-haired woman's impaled body as she rocked frantically against him, legs clamping his waist and head flung back.

Orient felt Cara's cool fingers at the back of his neck.

"It's getting crowded," she said. "Let's find someplace private. Just for us."

Her touch aroused a ravenous hunger at the core of his senses, and he led her to the only place that he knew was unoccupied. As soon as they entered the darkened room, their bodies collided with violent need. Orient dragged her to the floor and made love to her again and again, gorging on Cara's liquid sweetness while looming images of Mojo Pay flickered endlessly across the screen.

Chapter 16

Orient learned a great deal during his first week as Pay's executive assistant.

The vice lord's organization was rooted in Dade County's growing Cuban community and included a stable of one hundred and forty-three girls who brought in fifty dollars each for a rough total of seven thousand dollars a day. Added to this were the profits from more than one hundred bookie joints, three illegal casinos, and a string of legitimate ventures, such as the Heart of Beauty. Pay was an aficionado of the grand gesture and capable of amazing acts of generosity. This quality was partially inspired by his monumental vanity, but had an endearing effect on his followers and created strong bonds of loyalty.

To his dismay, Orient slowly discovered that despite all the evil and pain he knew that Pay had caused, he couldn't prevent a certain respect from blunting his desire for vengeance.

He became aware of a deeper weakness as well, but long nights of meditation couldn't explain his constant need for Cara or why the restless yearning seemed to overshadow any other concern, including his memory of Royce.

The eighth day of his employment began early. At six a.m. the phone rang, and a voice informed him that Mr. Pay would be leaving in twenty minutes.

Precisely twenty-six minutes later Orient was in a limousine with Pay, his secretary, and two other men, speeding toward a private airport; ten minutes after that, they were airborne, winging toward the state capital and a meeting with the governor.

In Tallahassee Orient waited on the plane while Pay and his secretary went to keep the appointment.

The two other men immediately began to play cards, and Orient passed the time watching. Both were big and not overly friendly, with scarred hands and slightly battered features. They seemed uncomfortable in their tailored suits and silk ties, and in the hour Pay was gone, exchanged no more than three or four grunted words.

The moment Mojo boarded the plane, however, they leaped to their feet and began shouting questions like newspaper reporters.

"What happened in there, chief?"

"Did he try any rough stuff?"

"Was the commissioner there?"

Pay lifted his hands for silence.

"Gentlemen," he said gravely. "You can say that I blitzed the gov. He okayed the deal, and everybody concerned signed a letter to prove it. So tell the pilot to zoom it on home, we got a pile of fish to fry."

After a while Pay left the still excitedly jabbering men with his secretary and came back to join Orient.

"Congratulations, Mojo. Whatever the deal is, it sounds big."

"It's a start. How'd you like to produce the next heavyweight championship fight in Miami? That's what the deal's all about. With TV and side rights, it should bring in a mess of zeros, duke. Like to try it?"

"I don't think it's for me," Orient said after a long pause.

Pay nodded. "Probably right. I guess Tom and Zack over there are better for the job. They're so psyched up about it, they can't think about anything else."

He shook his head and sighed. "Does create a gap in my business structure, though."

"What do they do?"

"Location managers. They audit the take from my policy banks and booking agents. I need someone with a head for figures to take over the gambling collections and accounting. The right man could carve himself a nice chunk of the action."

Orient realized he'd been maneuvered but was vaguely relieved. The prospect of tagging along indefinitely as a dependent was somehow repellent.

"I'd like to try that one, Mojo," he said. "It sounds like my kind of work."

Pay leaned back and smiled. "Good, very good. That sure makes everything slide for me. You know, ol' Tom and Zack over there been with me since we played pro ball, but they never really dug the routine of the gamblin' business. Tell you what, when this plane lands, I'm gonna break you in myself. It's time I looked over my franchises, anyway."

Despite the whirlwind pace of their rounds, it took Pay a full three days to personally introduce Orient to the one hundred and five proprietors of the establishments fronting his gambling operation. For the most part they were small businessmen who ran novelty stands, dry-cleaning stores, or bars. One managed a fleet of taxis, and another, the old man who owned the rest-room concession at the Naples Hotel, was already known to Orient.

For the rest of the week Pay occupied himself with Tom and Zack, outlining various arrangements for the upcoming championship fight they were promoting.

On Friday he spent the entire afternoon locked in the inner room of his Doral suite with his secretary and five male visitors. They all came out grinning broadly. Pay saw Orient relaxing on a couch with a newspaper and came over to join him.

Orient folded his paper and looked at the men eagerly chatting up the women Pay had thoughtfully invited.

"Everybody seems happy," he observed. "What kind of deal did you make?"

"Food, baby, food. I just sewed up the restaurant and bar concessions at Hialeah, Gulfstream, the Orange Bowl, and a few other choice spots."

"Looks like you can leave the girls and gambling behind soon."

Pay gently poked Orient's shoulder with a diamond-studded finger. "Not a chance. Never let go of your basic strength, my friend. That's rule one."

The tiny white sack dangling at his chest caught Orient's attention, and he wondered how much of Pay's strength was stored in the innocuous cloth bag. The question continued to prod at his thoughts as he rode back to the estate with Pay and his entourage.

As soon as they arrived, Orient went to his room for a shower and a short nap. When he opened the door, he saw a thick blue envelope on the carpet. Inside was his first two weeks' salary, forty one-hundred dollar bills. He tossed the envelope on the bureau and went for his shower, still pondering some way to steal and destroy Pay's conjure sack.

The shower relaxed him, but as he stretched out on the bed, a soft knock pulled him upright. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he reluctantly answered the door.

A gust of excitement swept away his reluctance when he saw Cara, hair swirling like black smoke around her pale smile.

"Aren't you going to ask me in?" she asked gently. "Or don't you want to see me?"

Emotions tumbling, Orient smiled and stepped back. "I was coming to see you in a while. Everything all right?"

"Everything's rotten. I missed you terribly." She moved closer and kissed him, hands caressing his damp skin.

"Mmm, that's better." She sighed. "Do you want me to order some wine? I'm not sure I can wait that long."

Her cool, restless fingers sent icy prickles of delight along his spine, making it difficult to ease out of her embrace.

"We'll have to wait," he said softly. "I've got to meet the boss in a little while and take care of some unfinished business."

Cara's expression became as wooden as her touch. "All right, then, David. If that's what you want. I'll be waiting."

She turned and hurried from the room, and as Orient stared at the empty doorway, desire and doubt pecked at his brain like a pair of hungry vultures.

He'd spent two weeks working Cara out of his system, but after seeing her again it was clear he hadn't succeeded. The cravings aroused by her presence were a gnawing reminder that she was still part of him.

He dressed quickly and went to the corridor leading to Pay's private wing. The guards waved him through, and Orient realized that he'd accomplished the first phase of his objective. He'd gained complete access to Pay's inner fortress.

Heartened by the observation, he went to the main room and spotted Mojo sitting apart from the small crowd of guests, earnestly conferring with Tom and Zack. Knowing they were still hammering out the details of the championship fight, Orient took a drink from a passing tray and made himself comfortable.

As he waited, he tried to concentrate on his business with Mojo, but his eyes kept wandering across the room, searching for Cara's exquisite face, until he saw Mojo coming toward him.

"Everything's on, duke. Starting Monday morning, the gambling concession is yours," Pay announced, settling down beside him. "You'll have a staff of four assistants under you. Anything else you need, just holler."

Orient gathered his straggling concentration. "I won't need any assistants. All I need is a breakdown of your take for the last three months."

"What for?"

"I think I can cut down overhead and raise the profits. Fair enough?"

Pay chuckled. "Sure sounds like I picked the right man for the job. Tell you what. You raise the take and you get twenty-five percent of whatever comes in over normal."

"You've got a deal, Mojo."

"Good. It's settled. You'll have that breakdown Monday morning. Meanwhile, why don't you just relax and have a good time? Cara's been lookin' for you. I think she's gone on you, duke."

Pay's face was impassive, but a challenging note in his voice alerted Orient's instincts.

"She's lovely," he said calmly.

The diamond in Pay's tooth glittered at the edge of his smile. "You got good taste. I admire that in a man. And you're smart. The best way to forget an old flame is to strike a new match, my daddy always said."

The gathering in the private reception room enlarged to a full-scale party. Orient knew he should try to get some rest, but remained in his corner, trapped between the taunting memory of Royce's death and a scratching need to see Cara.

He felt a soothing tug at his instincts, and a moment later she was framed in the gilded doorway. She hurried to meet him.

"I'm late because I wanted you to miss me," she whispered. "Did you?"

"Yes. I missed you."

"Then let's get out of here. All these people make me nervous."

Holding his hand tightly, she led him outside to a small unoccupied room at the end of the hall. She closed the door, pressed the light switch, and a section of the wall slid away, revealing a stairway.

Fighting to regain control of his raging desire, Orient followed, and as the panel closed behind them, he saw that the carpeted stairs led to a miniature palace with a domed mosaic ceiling and tiled walls adorned with brocade tapestries. Without pausing, Cara ushered him through an inner doorway to a satin-padded bedroom.

"We'll have everything we need in here," she promised as the panel slid shut, sealing them inside. "Anything you ever wanted, my darling."

Cara was a perpetual fountain of pleasure, as well as an insatiable consumer, filling Orient with torrents of sensation, then draining him in long, delicious surges, over and over again. When he became exhausted, she nursed him with champagne and cocaine, and his senses billowed with renewed vitality, the hot, liquid need pumping through his body like blood.

Orient reveled in the unbridled bursts of ecstasy, surrendering all control to the foaming lusts of Cara's flesh, until every cell was saturated by her wanton sweetness, and passion spilled into oblivion.

A shaft of light prodded his eyes open.

He peered numbly at the patterns of brightness and shadow and minutes later recognized the hazy figure across the room. It was Cara, sitting at a mirror, braiding her gleaming black hair.

When she left the mirrored table and came back to the bed, he saw she was dressed.

She sat at the edge of the bed and cradled his head in her arms.

"You were asleep a long time," she murmured, kissing him gently. "How do you feel?"

He groaned. "Which piece are you talking about?"

"You just need a big breakfast."

As Orient sat up, he realized that Cara's head was covered by a white kerchief, and an image of Royce lashed his helpless brain. She'd been wearing the same kind of head cloth the night he killed her.

"Where are you going?" he asked numbly.

Cara's smile was radiant with anticipation. "It's Saturday evening, my darling. I must fulfill my obligations as matriarch of the Lecumi faith."

She held out a string of crystal beads. "Be an angel and fasten these for me. I don't want to break a fingernail."

Orient's fingers caressed the smooth nape of her neck as he clasped the necklace, and a spark of desire tingled his instincts.

Cara shivered slightly. "I'll be back soon, my love, and I'll belong only to you." A moment later she eased out of his arms.

"Time to go. If you need anything, dial zero."

Powerless to stop her, he watched her cross the room and slip through an arched panel.

It took over a half-hour of bending, stretching, and breathing before Orient's body felt whole again. An advanced meditation session replenished his withered senses, and after a hot shower he picked up the phone and ordered breakfast.

In a short time a uniformed waiter appeared carrying a tray of eggs, bacon, toast, honey, orange juice, and coffee. Appetite sharpened by the night's excess and his recent exercise, Orient devoured it all. He was lingering over a second cup of coffee when the man returned for the tray.

As Orient idly watched the waiter leave, it occurred to him that the man used a different panel than the one Cara had taken when she left.

The room was octagonal, and each of its eight sides was arched in shape. Two of the arches were open -- the entrance to the bath and Cara's dressing room. The others were padded with blue satin. Of those remaining six arches, two were exits. One panel, he knew, led to the room downstairs.

Perhaps, Orient reasoned, the other led to Pay's sanctum.

If the Lecumi service was being held off the estate, it might be an opportune time to look around. The crucial question was where the rite was being conducted.

From the outside, the large windowless wing resembled nothing more than a rectangular box attached to the rest of the mansion as an afterthought. There was no way of telling if Pay's private quarters contained three rooms or thirty.

Orient went to the arched panel Cara had used and pressed his ear against the satin padding.

Hearing no sound vibrating against the panel, he weighed the possibilities and pushed the circular light switch. If he wandered into anything embarrassing, he could plead ignorance of the floor plan.

The panel opened onto a short corridor and led to a small room and three blank walls. He located the light switch and pressed. Nothing happened.

Reluctant to be stopped so quickly, Orient studied the dial. Like the others, it raised or dimmed the light when twisted, but also had a spring beneath. Obviously it was meant to be pushed. He wondered if the dial had to be pushed in a certain sequence, like a Morse code, to work. He explored the variations of a three-dot code, since there were only six possible combinations, and on the fourth try -- one short and two long -- part of the wall slid open.

Elation broke through Orient's apprehension as he stepped into the marble-pillared room and saw the alabaster table heaped with offerings. He'd penetrated the sanctuary.

He went to the altar and examined the flowers, silver urns of fruit, coconut halves, bottles of perfume and rum, bowls of incense, and other offerings ranging from meat to jewelry, arranged around a garishly colored crucifixion statue of a black saint with silver arrows protruding from his bloody chest. He made careful note of the African totems interspersed among them, and realized that although much grander, it resembled Royce's simple altar to Yemaya.

Then he checked the immense empty room for more light dials. There were two -- one directly behind the altar, and the other across the room facing it.

Orient weighed going farther. At this point, he couldn't plead ignorance if he was discovered prowling around. Unable to decide, he went into a deep breathing pattern and extended the orbit of his awareness, dowsing for direction.

He found something immediately.

As soon as he expanded perception, a buzzing discordance stung his mind like a swarm of disturbed hornets.

Orient quickly withdrew his senses, but his curiosity was aroused. The core of the disturbance was located somewhere behind the altar, and from the fleeting impression he'd received, contained a huge reservoir of negative energy. Without hesitation he went around the altar and pressed one short and two long on the light dial.

A section of speckled green stone slid back, revealing a deep rectangular niche whose inner wall was lined with rows of white-cotton sacks. Neat squares of tape were placed beneath each sack, and something was printed on them.

Orient stepped closer to examine the labels, then froze as a thick, liquid shadow oozed from a corner of the niche. Paralyzed with terror, he watched the snake slide toward him, oily red scales glistening against the white-marble floor.

Chapter 17

Orient's frantic heartbeat filled the silence as the reptile glided closer, and a half-dozen thoughts sprayed his panic. The pointed head meant it was poisonous; probably a coral snake; best to keep perfectly still; no way to escape unless he could leap onto the altar; if he lifted a finger, the snake would strike; he was trapped like a caged bird.

The memory of the bird who'd flown into his window weeks before sparked his reflexes, and he took a long, slow breath, drawing his perceptions into a state of total acceptance. Senses balanced, he extended the passive orbit of awareness toward the approaching snake.

A harsh, bitter texture scratched his mind, and he felt the creature's hunger, thirst, and rage. Understanding he had to pacify the reptile's driving appetites, Orient drew the grating anger into his orbit of consciousness.

The snake lifted its head, slender white fangs protruding from its pink maw. Orient absorbed the reptile's hostility and eased his concentration back along the crimson body to its twitching tail. A second later the snake turned away.

Carefully moving his focused will along the floor, Orient guided the reptile to a point about fifteen feet away. Then he lifted his eyes and scanned the altar table.

He saw a plate of ground meat and a bowl of water among the offerings and slowly shuffled toward them. It was difficult to move and hold concentration, and when he glanced up, he saw the snake crawling toward him, tail lashing nervously.

He deepened his concentration, and the reptile stopped about three feet away. Orient's awareness absorbed the snake's murderous tension as he placed the plate of meat and bowl of water on the floor. Then, tilting his focus toward the food, he took a tentative step back.

A heartbeat later, the snake's head dipped into the bowl of water.

Knowing he might still alarm the deadly reptile with a sudden move, Orient inched back to the niche in the marble wall. After making sure the food had captured the snake's complete attention, he turned to examine the neat rows of white sacks.

There was a name printed beneath each small cotton bag. Orient quickly examined the labels and found two he recognized: B. Fein, and his own alias, D. Clay. Although curious to see what the sacks contained, he restrained the impulse. They were all sewn shut, and it was important that nothing seem disturbed.

He waited patiently until the snake's hunger was satisfied, and then, using his concentration as leverage, coaxed the sluggish reptile back to its nest on the floor of the niche. The moment the section of marble slid closed, Orient's control crumbled.

Perspiration streamed over his face, and his hands trembled as he replaced the plate and bowl on the altar. Suddenly afraid he'd been gone too long, he hurried to the door. He moved swiftly through the small room and corridor, and when he returned, saw that only thirty minutes had passed since he'd left the bedroom. Relief buried under a hoard of questions, Orient removed his sweat-dampened clothes and phoned for a double brandy.

The drink burned the revulsion from his belly, but the questions persisted.

Obviously, since Bella's name had been included, the sacks were lethal occult missiles, to be deployed whenever it became expedient to remove an enemy. He wasn't surprised to see his name included among the potential victims, but wondered if Cara knew about the niche behind the altar.

"Lazybones. I suppose all you've been doing is lying back counting the profits."

He looked up and saw her coming toward him, bare feet silent on the carpet.

"You're back early," he said awkwardly.

She knelt beside the bed, head slightly tilted, as if listening to the distant tremor of his heartbeat.

"You sound disappointed," she observed gently.

"Not at all."

Uncertainty chipped her pale smile. "I don't suppose you even missed me."

Orient's doubts were obliterated by a thrust of desire, and he knew only that he needed Cara. Her fragile presence filled the arid craters in his soul like moist earth.

"Yes, I missed you," he whispered hoarsely, reaching out.

Cara eased into his arms, soft mouth sending delicious ripples across his skin. Her restless tongue goaded the sensation, intensifying delight until it massed into a fierce ground swell of lust that raged past dawn.

The next few weeks arranged themselves into a pleasant routine. Orient would rent a suite at one of the hotels on the strip and spend his days collecting the cash receipts from Pay's network of bookie joints and policy banks.

As he'd calculated, making the rounds personally eliminated petty skimming and increased the profits by twenty percent the first month.

Every Friday afternoon he'd meet Mojo Pay at his Doral suite, turn in the week's take, and after a brief business conference they'd drive back to the estate, where Orient would rejoin Cara.

Together they'd remain secluded in her miniature palace, exploring the unlimited possibilities of sensual pleasure, until Monday morning, when, like all dutiful executives, Orient went back to work.

Pay ignored the relationship completely, except on Saturday night, when he called for Mama Pay to preside as matriarch of the Lecumi rite.

In those weeks Orient learned very little about Pay's cult. The Cuban businessmen he visited were polite but extremely reluctant to discuss anything beyond the weekly gambling receipts.

The breakdown in his investigation gnawed at Orient's awareness, but he soothed the guilt with the hope that Cara would eventually furnish him with what he required to defeat Pay.

She was his most vital link to the inner formulas of Lecumi. It was therefore crucial that he remain an indispensable employee.

As he drove to the Hotel Naples, however, Orient remembered the neat rows of deadly little white sacks and wondered if Mojo Pay considered anyone indispensable. It was late afternoon when he reached the ornate structure, and he looked forward to visiting his old friend before having a drink in the lounge.

Gaspar was at his post in the men's room, but seemed less than pleased to see him.

"I guess you came for your money, as usual," the elderly attendant muttered. "It's all here, don't worry."

Orient smiled. "I'm not worried, amigo. How's business?"

"This business is always the same. But at least it's clean," he retorted, thrusting an envelope at Orient. "Count it, please."

He opened the envelope and riffled through the bills.

"One hundred even," he confirmed. "Any problems I can help you solve?"

"Nothing I can't take care of myself," Gaspar spat.

"If there's something you don't like, let me know. That's why I'm here," Orient told him calmly.

The short, scrawny attendant puffed his chest like an aggressive turkey, bright-gray eyes blinking indignantly.

"I don't like paying off, and I don't like errand-boy collectors. Now, why don't you run back and tell that to your boss, so he can work me over?"

"I don't get it," Orient said slowly. "I'm a collector, sure, but nobody wants to work you over. I don't see why you're complaining. Ninety percent still leaves you nine hundred a week. Not a bad profit on the franchise."

"Nine hundred?" The old man snorted contemptuously. "Shows how smart you are. I don't clear more than two-fifty a week here. That hundred dollars isn't my percentage, it's my minimum contribution. I was doing fine until the great Mojo Pay decided to move in on my two-bit location. Now do you get it?"

Orient suddenly understood why he'd been unable to gain any of his clients' confidence. They saw him as part of Pay's tyranny of extortion.

"When I first saw you, I thought you were different, better maybe," Gaspar piped. "But you're just like Valentine and the rest of the pimps on the strip. Why don't you wise up?"

Anger stung Orient's calm.

"What would you know about it, old man? Sitting in here making small book and cheap talk." He tossed the envelope on the sink. "I'm sure Mr.Pay won't miss the take from this spot. Satisfied?"

Gaspar shook his head, hawk features puckered into a disgusted scowl. "Still the good little errand boy for Mr Pay, if you please. Still the pimp."

Orient took a long, slow breath to suppress unreasoning anger the old man's taunts provoked. The exertion seemed to drain his vitality. Shoulders sagging wearily, he turned to go.

"You look tired," Gaspar grunted. "Maybe you've journeyed long to reach us."

Disbelief wrenched Orient's head around. The phrase was the traditional salutation between teacher and neophyte; he'd learned it in Tibet. He stared numbly at the wizened attendant.

Gaspar's gray eyes were blank, but his bony face retained its scornful expression as he waited.

It was the scorn that finally penetrated Orient's stunned perceptions and prodded his response.

"The journey is like the flow of water," he said.

"And water finds the thirsty man."

A fleecy, half-forgotten vibration of joy settled over Orient's battered instincts when he heard the reply.

"I am Gaspar Cervantes," the old man continued gravely.

He nodded. "Why have you sent for me?"

The old man folded his arms and looked away. "Perhaps I've been mistaken."

"The journey is strewn with illusions."

It seemed as if the frail, white-haired attendant was reluctant to complete the response. Then his eyes darted back to Orient's face, and he smiled. "Then it will take a long time to complete."

"The journey will complete itself in time."

Orient's tensions relaxed as he finished the salutation, but he felt the resignation straining Gaspar's smile. There was no joy lighting the old man's face, merely a flicker of recognition and a deep, worried sigh.

The door swung open, and a customer ambled to a basin. Wordlessly Gaspar took a business card from his sash.

Mind seething with confusion, Orient took the card and walked across the carpeted hall to the Leaning Tower Lounge. It was early, and there were only a few customers in the booths. Still dazed by his conversation with the elderly attendant, he went directly to the bar.

The bartender was standing next to the cash register reading the sports pages. When he saw Orient, he folded the newspaper, rang up no sale on the register, and came to the bar holding a thick manila envelope.

"Usual?" he droned, passing the envelope.

Orient absently stuffed the envelope in his pocket and nodded. He was aware of a profound sense of recognition, if not acceptance, at the center of his stunned thoughts.

After leaving the Hotel Naples, he completed the day's rounds mechanically, perceptions fogged by the shock of the encounter.

Returning to his suite at the Fontainebleau, he started to tally the day's cash receipts, and as he took the last envelope from his pocket, his fingers found the card the old man had given him.

Printed in simple blue block letters across the center was the title "The Cuban American Church of the Holy Savior." There was an address in a lower corner, just beneath the inscription: "Rev. Gaspar Cervantes, Pastor."

Orient finished counting the cash, noted each amount in a small notebook, using code letters for both the numbers and names, and sealed the money, more than ten thousand dollars, in a large manila envelope. He deposited the envelope with the two others already in the hotel safe, then waited in the air-conditioned lobby for his Thunderbird.

The address on the card was in Southwest Miami, not far from the Orange Bowl stadium and Pay's private after-hours Club Twenty-six. Orient parked in front of a large white-stucco house and saw two children playing with a dog on the neatly trimmed lawn.

They all paused, including the dog, and watched him walk to the door. The boy was the oldest, perhaps ten, with dark, serious eyes. The girl had curly blond hair and was a shade bigger than the dalmatian beside her.

Orient smiled and rang the bell. He stared at his shoes as he waited, slightly uncomfortable under their innocent scrutiny, as if they could detect every defect time had ground into his being, including chronic bad breath and the doubts clinging to his confidence like flakes of dandruff.

"I was hoping you'd be early." Gaspar stood at the door dressed in a flowing white shirt and trousers. His sparse silver hair was carefully combed, and a double strand of red and white beads hung from his leathery thin neck. "Please come in. There's not much time. We're conducting services tonight."

Vaguely annoyed by the old man's brusque manner, Orient followed him through the vestibule into a large, brightly lit room. It was empty except for a brilliant patchwork of color and texture adorning the altar.

Uncertainty tripped Orient's poise as he stared at the silver tureens, flowers, candles, dolls, and countless other offerings grouped around a tall gilded statue of a madonna on horseback bearing a silver sword. The arrangement was a variation of the Lecumi shrines he'd seen in Royce's cottage and Mojo Pay's sanctuary.

"You seem surprised," Gaspar snapped.

Orient's senses found the hostility crackling between them.

"Of course I'm surprised," he retorted, instincts wary. "Natural, isn't it?"

The old man's stern expression relented, but his eyes remained cold. "I'm a Babalocha of the Lecumi faith as well as my other duties."

"'Babalocha' means 'high priest' in the Lecumi religion, doesn't it?"

"Yes. I'm father to a small group of worshipers. We have to keep our activities discreet because of your boss. Mojo Pay wouldn't hesitate to harm my good people."

"Perhaps you're the ideal person to help me," Orient ventured.

Gaspar's creased face puckered with exasperation.

"You've been sent to help me, son." He sighed. "By the word of Ku."

The tension girdling Orient's awareness broke when he heard the name of his first teacher. No one except the nine masters knew that Ku had been his initiator. And only Ku could refer him to another master of the League. Reason and emotion collided as he realized that Gaspar, the restroom attendant and petty bookie, was also one of the Nine Unknown Men.

"Perhaps we're both mistaken. Maybe we can't help each other at all."

The old man's curt tone roused Orient's stunned thoughts.

"You must teach me the Lecumi ritual," he said firmly.

"It will take too long."

He searched Gaspar's gnarled face, unable to understand his hostility. The master's expression was set in a displeased scowl, and his eyes glinted like chips of ice.

"Not if we merge minds," Orient persisted. "Working telepathically, you could communicate the entire structure in ten minutes."

Gaspar's mouth narrowed as if he'd already considered the prospect and found it unappetizing.

"What you say is correct, of course. But there's always a chance."

"A chance of what?"

The old man shrugged. "It's not important. Come with me."

He escorted Orient to a curtained alcove off the altar room that contained nothing but a thick rug, some pillows, and a white candle on a brass stand.

"Please make yourself comfortable."

Gaspar disappeared behind the curtain and returned with a book of matches in his hand, and a large wooden rosary around his neck.

Orient's eyes were drawn to the crucifix. The object seemed to radiate hard pulses of energy that battered his senses.

"For our purposes, it's necessary only that you maintain a negative polarity," Gaspar explained. He struck a match, ignited the candle, and settled his frail limbs into a half-lotus position.

As Orient controlled his breathing, easing into a passive orbit, his awareness blazed with the master's presence.

Unexpected combinations of images lit up his brain, enabling him to comprehend swiftly the pure, primitive flux of Lecumi's power.

He entered the limitless flow of its primal roots, evolving with the sect's transplantation and gradual change of form when grafted to Catholicism.

During that formless gap in time, he explored the vibrant possibilities of Lecumi, and when the gap closed, knew every ancient trail that led to the African gods.

The first thing he perceived when he returned to normal consciousness was the dark crucifix dangling from Gaspar's neck. The old man was staring at him, hawk-featured face impassive.

"Are you all right?"

Orient noted the concern in his voice and smiled.

"I'm fine," he assured. "It was very clear."

"Yes, very clear," Gaspar repeated almost to himself. Displaying surprising suppleness for a man of his advanced age, he stood up.

"It's almost time for our weekday service. When you participate, you'll see how the ritual formulas should be used."

Orient glanced at the rosary, suspicion quickening his heartbeat, his reflexes taut.

"Why do you want me to take part in the ritual?" he demanded.

"Because you're possessed."

The three words burst through Orient's understanding like bullets. Sharp explosions of rage shattered all control, and he scrambled to his feet, fingers clawing at the crucifix.

Chapter 18

"By Adonai, Elohim, and Sabaoth!"

The sacred names blocked Orient's driving charge, and he stumbled back. Instincts flailing, he exerted his will against the barrier, unable to gain traction.

Frustration spun anger into fury, and his nerves smoldered with hatred. The emotion provided balance, and he gathered his concentration, senses reveling in his new source of leverage. He felt the barrier yield a fraction, and exultation swelled his efforts.

Gaspar couldn't hold him. The certainty fed his hate, and he recklessly swung his resources toward total destruction.

"By Adonai, Elohim, and Sabaoth!" Gaspar repeated, grasping the crucifix. The gesture punctured the steaming pressure inside Orient's skull, and the madness evaporated.

Dimly he understood that the old man's diagnosis was accurate. Something alien and diseased was sucking at his will, spreading its loathsome infection to every cell in his being.

"Can you help me?" he croaked, voice distorted by desperation.

"It's possible, yes. But only if you put yourself in my complete charge."

Orient nodded weakly.

"I'll do anything you say."

"So be it. I was afraid you'd be too far gone to accept the truth. When we merged minds, it was clear. You've been possessed by a demon force. With your help, I figure we have at least an eighty-percent chance of cure."

"What about the other twenty percent?"

Gaspar shrugged. "Then we both lose, little brother. Anyway, there's no other choice. Better relax and prepare yourself. Fix on a passive orbit, and I'll guide you. There's not much time to prepare you for major surgery."

The first phase of the Lecumi service was sedate and very dignified.

The group of thirty of forty parishioners stood in the altar room talking quietly among themselves until Gaspar entered, resplendent in an embroidered white cloak and carrying the sacred omiera in a clay bowl.

Orient watched the proceedings from the curtained alcove, absorbing each element in the ritual. By maintaining empathetic telepathic contact with Gaspar, he was able to receive impressions that added to his newly acquired knowledge of the Lecumi form.

When the phase of unification was completed and the Babalocha had shared the omiera with all of the white-clad worshipers, the beat of the mother drum quickened. Gaspar sang out in a deep tremolo, leading his people into a hymn to Santa Barbara, the Catholic counterpart of Chango, and the heart of the ritual began to pulse.

Most of the parishioners moved back against the walls, leaving a handful of supplicants with the Babalocha. They waited as the old man blessed the cardinal points of the room and invoked the Lecumi formulas of protection. After completing the purification, Gaspar returned to the altar and spread his white cloak on the floor.

The silver-haired figure looked vulnerable as he knelt beside the cloak, precariously balanced on stiff limbs, face pinched with effort. Moments later, the old man's frail, bony frame seemed to expand. He stood up, face vibrant with fresh, youthful strength.

Just before their telepathic contact cut off, a dense gale of energy hurtled past Orient's consciousness, and he realized that Gaspar had been mounted by the god Chango.

From time to time, one of the worshipers would be swept up by the mass of energy careening through the room and would begin babbling excitedly. They were always quickly calmed by the santeros, and Orient perceived that Gaspar exerted strict control on the awesome forces unleashed by the rite.

Everything Orient observed soothed his doubts, but when his turn arrived, a chill shudder of apprehension froze his muscles. He remained inside the alcove, mind locked in conflict with emotion, until a pure chiming sound disengaged his will from the strife. As the harmony of voices swelled in a hymn of praise to the saints, Orient took a deep breath and pulled the curtain aside.

Naked except for a white-cotton sheet wrapped around his waist, Orient left the cozy security of the alcove and walked to the altar.

Following Gaspar's earlier instructions, he knelt on the cloak, made the sign of the cross, then lay on his back with his arms outstretched and head pointing toward the altar. Like a patient undergoing surgery with a local anesthetic, he quietly watched the old man exorcise the demonic presence from his body.

After crouching over him for some time, as if trying to locate the cancerous area, Gaspar went to the altar and returned with a bottle of clear liquid, a candle, and a plate of cocoa butter. He dabbed Orient's ankles, knees, chest, neck, shoulders, and forehead with the butter, at each point muttering a short prayer. Then the old man circled his prostrate body, letting the liquid trail from the bottle. Sharp alcohol fumes stung Orient's nostrils as he watched the Babalocha light the candle and place it at the perimeter of the crude liquid ring.

Salty beads of sweat burned into Orient's eyes. Blinking his vision clear, he glimpsed the old man bending closer, bottle tilted toward him. Fright jolted reflex, but before he could twist away, the liquid seared his skin like boiling oil. The pain jerked his body erect, and he lunged for the priest's throat, roaring with agony and rage. He was too slow.

Leaping back with the blurred agility of a wiry tomcat, the old man flicked his hand and tipped the candle over. A slithering blue flame instantly surrounded Orient when the burning wick touched the alcohol-soaked floor. Its savage heat ripped the air from his lungs and swallowed his last howling curse as he plummeted toward the glaring void.

The service ended with a song of praise for the departing Chango, but many members of the congregation lingered to confer with their Babalocha. They spoke in hushed tones, glancing anxiously at the tall, gaunt stranger sprawled on the floor.

Gaspar tried to give them all his full attention, but was also preoccupied with Orient's welfare. He patiently dealt with everyone's complaints, entreaties and curiosity, while guiding them nearer to the door; as soon as they departed, he hurried to the altar.

Orient was barely conscious. Memory and perception were shredded by bright blades of pain, severing the connections to his body.

"Breathe deeply."

Gaspar's presence nudged his blistered will, and he struggled to form a simple breathing pattern -- drawing air through his nostrils and exhaling from his diaphragm. Soon his vision cleared, and he saw Gaspar's creased, worried face hovering overhead. Awareness swiveled into focus, and he knew he was whole again.

"You won't need any more of that firewater," he grunted. "It's gone."

The old man grinned. "Can you walk?"

Orient slowly pushed his long body upright.

"Everything seems to work," he reported. "But I could use a glass of water."

"A glass of water?" Gaspar's webbed face beamed with delight as he helped him to his feet. "For you, little brother, my Florinda will prepare a feast."

Gaspar's wife was a plump, shy woman who adored her husband and fluttered over him like an attentive hen. As promised, Florinda served them a delicious vegetarian meal. After a dessert of strawberries and cream, Gaspar took Orient to his private study for coffee.

"Normally I don't drink," he confided, pouring two brandies. "But this is a rare occasion for me. The last time I welcomed a brother was more than thirty years ago, in Cuba. He taught me many things."

Orient smiled. "I'm honored."

"No." The old man's expression became grave. "I'm the honored one. You've answered my call for aid."

"I wasn't exactly in condition to help anybody."

"Just how did you get into that condition?"

Orient stared down at his glass. "I made a terrible error, and killed someone, a person very dear to me."

"Tell me how it happened."

A warm, reassuring vibration of empathy dissolved Orient's tangled despair, and he told the old man everything -- from the events that had forced him to halt his research and become a nameless fugitive, to Sam Fein's death and the psychic attack on Bella. He explained his relationship with Royce and tersely described how he'd caused her death with an aborted attempt at exorcism.

He found it a relief to unburden himself of the dank shame and constant deceptions choking his awareness, and as he related his obsessive involvement with Cara, it became clear that she'd infected him with the malevolent force.

"You've been fighting a terribly lonely struggle." Gaspar sighed. "And I must apologize for my rude manner. No man could have done more to honor his vow."

Orient was cheered by the master's approval, but noted that he'd diplomatically omitted that his negligence had killed Royce. Regrets jabbing at the insight, he drained his glass.

"We're men, after all," Gaspar muttered gruffly. "I was forced to leave Cuba to continue my work. There were many times when I thought it was the end. But I had my family. We worked, built a church."

Gaspar set his glass down and smiled sadly, eyes half-closed.

"But it never stops, never in all these years. And now you see me, a master of the League. Endowed with the techniques of healing, telepathy, and divination. Still, I'm just human. It became too much for one old man to bear, you see. Mojo Pay is young and ruthless. His influence is too great. And every day he gains new followers, greater power. That's why I was forced to call upon the League for help."

Orient accepted Gaspar's explanation as a valuable lesson in humility. His own advanced faculties were dim compared to the radiance of a master's awareness. If he could focus his will and use the leverage to move a fork across a table, then the combined mental potential of the Nine Unknown Men could generate enough energy to alter tides or slow the rotation of the earth. It was hinted that the nine masters were the navigators of the planet and guided humanity's destiny, but Orient wasn't sure.

Even for an adept there were still levels to achieve, and there were many things he hadn't yet learned and perhaps never would in this existence.

However, one question nagged at his curiosity.

"You mean that everything that happened to me was caused by your call for help and was predestined?"

Gaspar looked up. "Not directly. It was my fate to call. Had you not answered, someone else would have come in time. If, months ago, you had made other decisions and sold your trust, it would have changed the direction of your existence. Think, little brother. The fact that you're here in response to my call means that your actions are in harmony with your path as an adept of the League."

"And when I killed Royce?" he asked softly. "Was that in harmony with my fate as well?"

Deep lines webbed Gaspar's thoughtful expression as he lit a thick black cigar. He savored a few puffs and smiled, eyes piercing the smoke like silver darts.

"Are you sure you've told me everything?"

Orient carefully searched his memory, but he'd covered every detail. "That's how it happened."

The old man inspected the ash on his cigar. "I can't judge that matter. But I do know that, directly or indirectly, Mojo Pay has caused many deaths and a lot of misery in these years. Now that you're here, we've got a chance."

Orient nodded, dragging his thoughts from Royce. "I've been trying to learn what I could about Lecumi, hoping to neutralize his influence. Surely, as a Babalocha, you must know some rite that can be used against him."

Gaspar ran a hand through his sparse hair. "He's too advanced. I can protect myself or anyone else from a direct attack, but that's all. My power to fight is limited by my vows. I'm sworn to cure, never kill. Mojo Pay is a brujo, a sorcerer priest. His woman, too, this Mama Pay, is a bruja witch. These people can manipulate evil formulas forbidden to me. They're able to destroy or cripple with their rites, and they can call up the dead."

His last few words penetrated Orient's thought like arrows, and he stared numbly at the old man.

"Sure, I can teach you the inner formulas they must be using. However, I think you should use your position to crack Pay's sanctuary."

"I've already done that."

As he spoke, memory tugged at his impaled perceptions, trying to work them loose.

"I found the altar room. There was a hidden panel in there that contains his deadly little conjure sacks, and the names of the victims on his list. My name was there too. It was a trap. A snake guarding the panel -- a coral, I think -- and I just managed..." His voice trailed away.

"I didn't kill her!" Orient blurted suddenly. "I didn't kill Royce."

"You remember something else?"

"Yes. The marks. There were two swollen punctures on her leg. I thought she'd been hurt during the struggle, but I was wrong. Those puncture marks were snake bites. She was killed by a poisonous snake like the one in Pay's altar room. And then he..." He glared wildly at Gaspar. "Could he ... bring her back?"

The old man nodded, hawk features impassive. "Mojo Pay has the power to command the dead."

"Yes. I'm sure of it. He killed Royce," Orient muttered.

"Revenge is an illusion rooted in vanity," the old man cautioned, as if sensing Orient's bitter lust for vengence. "We have to concentrate on a positive aspect, or we'll fail. You've gained Pay's confidence and must keep it until you're ready. What else did you notice in the sanctuary?"

Orient's green eyes narrowed, his gaunt, high-boned face shadowed by speculation. "The statue I saw on the altar. It must be Pay's patron saint. It was a crucifixion statue, but the figure had silver arrows in his chest."

Gaspar grimaced as if his cigar had become sour. "The patron saint is Olosi, el diabio. We need something else. Maybe some personal weakness."

Orient's mind grasped another possibility. "There's a little white bag he always wears around his neck. I've been convinced for some time that his influence over females is generated by that cotton bag."

"You say he always wears it?"

"Always," Orient assured, becoming excited by an idea. "Pay once told me he was born with a veil. A part of that veil could supply his ultranormal vitality. Perhaps I can find a way to steal it. Replace it with another one just like it."

The old man shook his head. "Much too risky."

"It's a chance," he persisted. "If I can get Pay's personal talisman back here, even for a little while, you'd be able to examine it. Or even purify it."

"He'll notice the slightest change. I can guarantee that right now."

"What if he does?" Orient retorted. "We'll still have his source of power."

"I don't like it," the old man repeated calmly. "For many reasons."

"What kind of reasons?"

Gaspar took a scowling puff of his cigar.

"You're supposed to be a gambler, little brother. Well, so am I. Figure it out, and you'll agree it's a sucker's game. You play long odds for a chance to grab Pay's little amulet. And even if by some miracle you get it, so what?" He jabbed the air with his cigar. "The girls may not like him so much anymore, but as a Lecumi brujo he'll still have power to kill his enemies and call up the dead. Don't forget those other sacks. The ones in that panel behind the altar. One of them has your name on it. If you raise Mojo Pay's suspicions, he'll use it to kill you."

Orient sighed, reluctantly seeing his logic. "So we're back where we started."

"Maybe not. Tell me again about the altar room."

With little enthusiasm, Orient went over the description of the room, the objects on the altar, and the hidden niche.

"He's marked you already," Gaspar announced mournfully. "So we have to move fast."

"Move where? He's untouchable right now."

"He's still a man."

Something in his tone alerted Orient's instincts, and he looked up. "You think there's a chance, then?"

The old man's eyes were like shards of metal. "Can you get close to Mojo Pay? Close enough to steal something very personal?"

"I think so."

"And can you stay away from his woman?" Orient looked away, unable to answer.

Chapter 19

On Friday afternoon Orient still didn't know if he'd be able to fulfill Gaspar's request. Frustration chewing at his nerves, he tallied the week's collections and stacked the cash in a suitcase.

He knew from experience that sexual contact was the most powerful conduit of occult energy, but had little confidence in his ability to resist. He snapped the suitcase shut, grimly assessing his chances of avoiding Cara over the weekend. They were microscopic.

Later, as he drove along Collins Avenue to the Doral, it occurred to him that he could stage a drunken scene and insult Cara. It might cause less suspicion than trying to ignore her. Relieved by the possibility, he pulled into the hotel parking lot and went up to Pay's penthouse suite.

An aide answered the door, and when Orient stepped inside, he saw that Mojo was conducting a business conference with a dozen or more somber associates while being measured for a new suit.

Standing shirtless on a bench as a pair of tailors fussed around him, he looked like a bronze statue of a Roman centurion with a helmet of red gold. He also looked invulnerable, Orient observed morosely as he took a chair in the rear of the room.

Pay's imposing aura of invincible authority seemed to have a similar effect on his associates. Although all successful businessmen, judging from their custom mohair suits and heavy jewelry, they remained silent, heads sheepishly bowed under Pay's derisive harangue.

"This fight's gonna take more than publicity to get off the ground," he lectured. "I'm still waitin' for supply estimates and an up-front guarantee from the TV syndicate, but y'all dancin' around like a bunch of damn pompon girls. Meanwhile, nothin's happenin' but the rent. We got three mil tied up in this deal, gentlemen."

He paused and glared at them. "And you're responsible for every cent."

There was a general rustle of discomfort at the announcement. Even the tailors seemed startled and backed away to confer between themselves.

Pay looked around the room. "Now, the whole trouble is too much organization, get it?"

No one did.

"We got the merchandising contracts to sign, then we got to print tickets, supply food and beer for the concessions, and most important, lock up the TV rights. Now, that's a whole pile of doin', I know, but it won't get done just hirin' strange bodies and rockin' behind a desk. That's what I mean by too much organization."

Dramatically he lifted his hand, and a dozen heads swiveled to stare at Orient.

"That man took on a job," Pay announced. "And the first thing he did was get rid of his entire staff. That's right. He went out and personally took charge of every phase of his operation. That's why he's a partner now, gentlemen, and not just a flunky full of excuses."

There was a deep, unhappy silence as Pay stepped off the bench and stalked into the bedroom, pursued by the two tailors.

Orient was uncomfortably aware of the few men still staring at him with open curiosity. One of them, a squat man clutching a cigar in his hairy hand, seemed familiar.

An aide beckoned Orient to the bedroom. He expected Pay to be in a sullen temper, but the vice lord was standing at his closet, trying to decide what to wear. He grinned at Orient and smacked his palm.

"That blast should get those boys flyin' right." He chuckled. "I really put it to 'em, eh, duke?"

"You really put me on the spot," Orient corrected. "Your friends were memorizing my face."

"They were impressed, maybe even scared of you. That don't hurt in this business. How's the take this week?"

"Up about twenty-five hundred, but generally steady."

Pay took the suitcase and hefted it. "Sixty grand a week is nice and steady, all right."

His smooth features hardened slightly. "Look here, think you can share Cara for a few hours tonight?"

The unexpected question walloped Orient's composure, and he looked away. "Yes, of course."

Pay gave him a lazy, reflective smile. "That's good. You see, I'm havin' a special celebration for all the fight people, and the champ himself will be our guest of honor. I'd like you to be there too."

Orient was doubly relieved. He had a perfect excuse to avoid Cara, at least for the night.

"Are you really worried about this fight deal?" he asked casually.

"Worried? It's gonna be bigger than the Zaire fight and bring in three times as much cash."

One of the tailors darted between them, extending a book of fabric swatches. "There are thirty separate shades and types of our finest velvet, Mr. Pay. Perhaps you'd care to make a selection?"

"Cut me one in every color," Pay grunted. He brushed the man aside and winked broadly at Orient. "That little speech was just to keep the boys sharp."

He reached into his closet and held an iridescent-green-silk suit up to the light.

"Hey, what about this one? Think it's too conservative?"

"Looks fine," Orient murmured, suddenly aware of an enormous problem.

When Gaspar had asked him to take something "personal" from Pay, he'd meant some treasured object or favorite item of clothing, anything imbued with the vice lord's vibrations. However, Pay used everything impersonally. He changed clothes and jewelry at least twice a day, and had little regard for any particular possession, place, or person. In an odd way, the disposable nature of Pay's life created a barrier of privacy. The only constant was the white sack he wore at his neck.

Watching Pay riffle through the large wardrobe, Orient realized he'd have to penetrate deeply to bring Gaspar the vital element he'd requested. A shred of an idea fluttered across his thoughts. He remembered Mojo's filmed biography rolling continually in the screening room and found the leverage he needed. If Pay had any weakness, it was his immense vanity. By putting pressure on that sensitive point, he might be able to crack the barrier protecting the vice lord.

During the drive back to the estate, his thoughts continued spinning around the idea. As soon as they reached the house, Pay went to the circular ballroom in the main wing to put in his usual courtesy appearance. Unwilling to confront Cara, Orient tagged along and saw that a large celebration was already in progress.

Mojo circulated freely among the guests, flattering the ladies, joking with the men, and pausing every few minutes for a whispered conference with a business associate.

Orient trailed a few paces behind like a dutiful aide, pondering the weakness of his hastily conceived scheme. If Mojo didn't accept his challenge, he wouldn't get a second chance. Everything depended on precise psychological timing and his ability to resist Cara's tantalizing presence.

After an hour or so with his admiring public, Pay retired to the private wing with a small circle of intimates. Orient hung back at the edge of the group, concentration fixed on his objectives.

A satiny apprehension disturbed his calm when they reached Pay's crowded salon. He glimpsed Cara curled in the far corner like an ivory cat and moved toward her, senses teetering between desire and fear.

She looked away when he sat beside her.

"Not even a smile?" he ventured. "It's been a long week."

"You didn't come to see me when you arrived," she observed coldly.

Orient plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and offered one to her. "I thought you knew. Mojo wants us at this party."

She grimaced and took the glass. "Do you have to do everything he says?"

"He's still my employer, and your husband."

"Only for legal purposes," she reminded, caressing the back of his neck. Her fingers raked his concentration with sharp slivers of pleasure, and he leaned away.

"It's only a few hours," he said.

"Maybe we don't have to wait that long. Remember the screening room?"

"I remember." Orient drained his glass and stood up. "Want some coke?"

"Not now."

"I think I need something. I'll be back soon."

Orient edged through the swirl of noise and movement, trying to fend off the desire scratching at his will. He made his way to a long glass table surrounded by dozens of rapt men and women who were busily devouring the glistening mound of crystal powder heaped inside a silver bowl.

He hovered outside the circle, retuning his concentration as he waited his turn. The excited guests that clustered around the table sniffing the cocaine never noticed that his tiny gold spoon was empty when he brought it to his nostril. He felt Cara's eyes digging into his back, however, and lingered at the table, pretending to inhale more of the drug. When he finally rejoined her, she was pouting again.

"Something the matter?" he asked mildly.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be here," she snapped.

"Look, baby," he said slowly, "I've got to get my mind on something else. I can't disobey Mojo on this."

A rueful smile melted her anger. "I guess I'm just being bitchy. If you feel like wandering around, I'll sit here and try to relax."

Orient gratefully took her suggestion. He circulated aimlessly through the crowd, occasionally spotting well-known entertainment or political figures, but unable to find Mojo. Later, as he strolled around the mosaic-tiled pool, he saw that a few girls had doffed their gowns and were lolling gracefully in the water. He knew that the lovely nymphs were shills, hired to make sure the festivities didn't falter.

Although catching only occasional glimpses of Cara through the throng, he could feel her presence constantly, massaging his senses like warm fur. A chorus of squeals across the room expanded to a chain reaction of loud excitement that spread rapidly among the guests. Mojo Pay was coming from the screening room, accompanied by a tall black man in a pearl-gray suit, whom Orient recognized as Kareem Mustafa, the reigning heavyweight champion.

The young boxer was an inch or two shorter than Pay, but stockier, and his freewheeling exuberance complemented Mojo's regal charisma as they waded through a rush of admirers.

Orient also noted the delighted pride billowing Pay's manner and decided to act. It was an ideal time to see if he could penetrate that invulnerable shell with a well-placed needle.

He circled back toward Cara, assuming that Mojo would eventually want to introduce her to his prize guest.

His assumption was accurate. As he reached Cara's side, he saw Mojo veering toward them. Dressed in a dark-green tuxedo with silver-brocade lapels, he seemed to loom above the conservatively attired champion, who was mugging and clowning with his appreciative fans.

Expression dreamy with satisfaction, Mojo steered the boxer through the milling crowd toward Cara.

"And now, Kareem, baby, I'd like you to meet my queen," he announced grandly.

The champion bowed with a flourish and kissed Cara's hand.

"Mama Pay, you've just been kissed by the king of the boxing world, Kareem Mustafa," he trumpeted. "You're so beautiful that men fall down at your feet. Just like me. When my fists fly, strong men cry."

Laughing along with the others, Mojo threw a mock punch at the champion, who pretended to be devastated by the blow and recruited two eager ladies to help him recover.

"If Mojo Pay ever decided to fight for my crown, I'd have to get out of town," he declared.

Pay spotted Orient standing nearby, and nudged the champion's arm. "Hey, Kareem, come over and meet one of my top executives. This good-lookin' dude here is David Clay, a real smart operator."

"I respect brains," the boxer said solemnly, pumping Orient's hand. "Beauty took me where I am today, but it's brains that keep me there."

Orient took a swaying step back, gripping his glass as balance against a surge of panic, and glowered at the fighter.

"You're the king, right?" he demanded, voice slurred and belligerent. "But for how long?"

The champion's hand flew to his mouth, eyes wide with mock astonishment. "Right now, seems like you're the boss of the sauce, daddy. What you been drinkin', tiger juice?"

Orient ignored the jibe and the guffaws it produced.

"You're the world's champion fighter, right?" he persisted, weaving slightly. "And our distinguished host is the world's champion lover. He thinks. But Mojo's got a contender now, and maybe he won't have the title very long."

Pay's voice cut through the hush like a honey-coated razor. "Who's the competition, duke?"

"Maybe I am." Orient leaned over and nuzzled Cara's neck. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Startled, she pulled back and glanced at Mojo.

"I declare the duke is a fluke," the champion called out. "Now, let's shake this party loose."

Despite the general murmur of agreement from the guests clustered around the couch, Pay folded his arms and studied Orient, laser red glints of anger shooting from his narrowed eyes.

"You intend to back up that mouth of yours?" he asked softly.

Orient glared back at him, deliberately allowing the pent-up rage and frustration to flood his voice.

"Anytime you feel up to it, I'm ready, Mojo. How about right now? Call out the girls, and let's prove who's best man."

Kareem Mustafa grimaced.

"This is not my scene," he stated firmly. "I keep my fighting clean. I'll just treat my weary feet to that nice pool you got there, Mojo, while you tell that fool where to go."

Most of the group followed the champion to the pool, leaving a tight circle of absorbed spectators around the couch.

"You're a gambler," Orient prodded. "Let's make it interesting."

"You've got nothin' I want."

"Not even my dice system?"

A thin, calculating smile cracked Pay's icy expression. "Your system against what, duke?"

Orient turned and looked at Cara. She stared up at him, exquisite features blurred by confusion.

"Her."

The tiny diamond in Pay's tooth twinkled as his smile widened. "You're on, sucker."

Understanding transformed Cara's delicate face into a mask of hatred. Pale lips twisted with fury, she stood up and pushed through the crowd.

"She'll keep," Pay said calmly. "Right now, we got business to settle."

He turned to the circle of expectant onlookers and grinned.

"Sorry, folks. There's no use hangin' around, because this is a personal match. So you'd best find yourselves some action while we go play off. Have yourselves a party, hear?"

Disregarding their loud groan of disappointment, Mojo stalked across the packed floor toward the door. Orient followed, elation riddled by doubts. He'd achieved his primary objective by goading Mojo in front of his guest of honor, but for all he knew, the vice lord was leading him straight to the execution block.

A small room outside, similar to the one used by Cara, concealed the entrance to Pay's quarters. Like hers, they were located at the top of a carpeted stairway, but at that point all resemblance ended. While Cara's rooms were extravagantly adorned, Mojo's living area had a functional, almost spartan appearance.

Basically it was a long room divided into three unequal units. At one end was a small den crammed with shining athletic trophies; the center area was an office with an oversized desk on one side and a stereo system and television screen built into the opposite wall. The far section was dominated by a huge round bed covered with wolfskin. Except for the fur spread and the trophies, the only decorative touch was a photo mural behind the desk -- a color blowup of Mojo out-leaping two straining opponents to snatch a pass. It occurred to Orient that Pay's functional quarters resembled the executive suite of a successful football coach.

"Sure hope you're damn good and ready, duke."

Orient nodded, heart tripping like an energetic tap dancer's.

"Whenever you are," he said hoarsely.

Mojo ambled over to the bar and made a phone call, then motioned him to a nearby chair.

"Care for a drink?" he drawled genially.

Orient hesitated, senses dowsing the tension between them. It crossed his mind that Mojo might put something in his drink, or was waiting for his disposal squad to arrive.

"I got some fifty-year-old brandy," Pay suggested. "Or maybe you had too much already."

A sudden perception dissolved Orient's fears. Mojo was enjoying the conflict. Although he was dangerously suspicious, the bet had whetted his competitive drive.

"Brandy sounds good," he said.

Pay returned with two snifters and eased into a nearby chair.

"You know, you really puzzle me," he mused. "I always figured you for a serious, straight-ahead dude, but you sure got a wildcat streak."

Orient sensed the barbed hook floating behind the comment, and sipped his brandy.

"What is it got you riled up like that?" Mojo asked casually.

Orient looked up. "I want Cara. Without any strings."

"I guess she really got you deep," Pay reflected. "Deep enough to make you give up that secret dice system you got."

The tension webbing Orient's instincts broke when he saw Pay's mocking smile. His suspicions were satisfied. Mojo believed he was still being influenced by the demonic force and his insatiable need for Cara.

"Don't bother trying to psyche me out," Orient snapped. "I mean to win."

Pay idly fingered the cotton sack at his neck.

"Well, I admire your attitude, duke," he confided. "But you're a sure-'nough loser."

His prediction was correct.

A dozen pretty girls were ushered inside, and another six called up later in the evening.

The actual event was far more mechanical than erotic, however. Using advanced tantric yoga techniques, Orient was able to keep pace for almost three hours before exhaustion sucked his flesh dry.

Unable to continue, he retired from the field and stretched out on a chair near the bar as Pay effortlessly consumed female after groaning female. His slightest touch seemed to set off electric spasms of pleasure in each woman he took, and their spent, naked bodies littered the bed and floor like fallen moths.

Vitality drained, Orient dozed off, and when he blinked awake, saw that some of the girls were strewn across the bed asleep, but Mojo was gone. Then a quick anxiety jabbed his memory, and he glanced at his hand. It was resting on the chair, still clenched tightly around his trophy.

Carefully he unfolded his fingers, and a whisper of satisfaction caressed his weary senses when he saw the three orange hairs curled in his palm.

Chapter 20

Reluctant to provoke further suspicion, Orient lingered at the estate until late morning.

He went to the beach for a long swim, then returned to his room in the guest wing for a shower and change of clothes. After a leisurely breakfast he drove to Miami, circled for a while to make sure he hadn't been followed, then parked a few blocks from Gaspar's house and walked the rest of the way.

The old man's gnarled face bloomed with relief when he arrived.

"Still in one piece," he observed gruffly, leading Orient to the study. "How was your luck? Catch anything?"

Orient took a handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it.

"Hope it's enough. I don't think I'll get another try."

The old man examined the three hairs tucked inside the handkerchief.

"They'll be enough, all right. If you're absolutely positive they belong to Mojo Pay."

Orient wasn't. Digging into his memory, he recalled at least two redheaded girls who'd occupied the huge bed during the tournament. He focused his concentration on the moment he'd seen the hairs gleaming like a twist of copper wire against the black satin sheets. He'd been less than two feet away at the time, but the girl beneath Pay remained a writhing blur in his mind, blending into a successive blur of similar images.

"It's at least three to one they're his," he ventured.

Gaspar accepted the estimate glumly. "In that case, we'd better pray your luck holds, little brother. You're staking your life next time out."

"Perhaps it's my only chance to win it back."

The old man peered at him for a moment, face webbed with concern.

"Perhaps it is." He sighed. "Come, then, let's get down to work."

Orient sustained a passive orbit of consciousness during the short ceremony in the altar room, enabling him to comprehend each element in the Lecumi formula.

The three hairs were placed in a square of white cotton, along with a tiny religious medal and a pinch of salt, as the Babalocha intoned a prayer to the African deity Nana Barukku, who ruled the moon.

Gripping an image of Mojo Pay with his inflexible concentration, Gaspar sewed the cloth shut with a silver needle and black thread, using an intricate cross-stitch. When the conjure sack was sealed, he invoked the special powers of Ozain, and the protection of the god above all saints, Olordumare.

When the Lecumi rite was completed, Gaspar whispered a short formula from the sacred texts of the League that was familiar to Orient. He also noted that the master called upon the forces of harmony to prevail, rather than invoking reckless vengeance. Orient felt the presence fade from his awareness, and looked up.

"Is that all?" he asked, mildly surprised at the rite's brevity.

Gaspar spread his hands.

"That's all there is. Remember, the crux of sympathetic influence is in the intent, nothing more. The hair is merely a magnetic bridge, a conductor of that intent. Sure, there are other rites we could employ to gain advantage, but they charge expensive rates and guarantee nothing." A mischievous smile broke through his solemn expression. "And in this case, we won't have to do anything at all."

Gaspar kept hammering at each detail of the plan for hours. Orient did his best to memorize the instructions, but part of his consciousness remained locked in conflict.

He was still struggling as the old man unfolded a navigational map and pointed out exactly where his rescuers would be waiting.

"Since there's only that one road to Pay's mansion, they'll cut you off if you try to drive out of there. So instead of heading for your car, make for the beach. I'll arrange to have a little speedboat waiting right about here, in this little cove. That's a little more than a mile from the house. Think you can run that far?"

"I may be slowed down by an extra passenger."

Gaspar squinted shrewdly at Orient, weighing the possibility.

"You can't afford excess baggage," he stated firmly.

"I want to try to take Cara with me," Orient insisted.

The old man accepted the news without surprise or enthusiasm. "Have you considered that she might not want to leave with you?"

He nodded. The doubts had been hovering like vultures all day.

"I just want to try," he repeated, looking away.

Gaspar unwrapped a cigar and deftly clipped the end with his teeth.

"Well, it's your neck, little brother, and we've got no time to argue. I've got to make sure the boat will be there when you are. I'm confident you'll make the wisest choice." He regarded the unlit cigar sadly, then struck a match. "Better prepare yourself. It's almost sunset."

Instincts poised on the edge of anticipation, Orient drove back to Pay's mansion. A flow of confidence steadied his instincts, and he was unconcerned when the guards stopped him at the gate instead of waving him through as usual.

"Real sorry, Mr. Clay," one of them said, opening the car door. "Boss man's personal orders. Everybody gets checked out, no exceptions."

Despite the apologetic expression on his moon face, the man frisked Orient thoroughly while the other guard searched the car.

"Real sorry to hassle you," the man repeated. "Just following orders."

"I'll tell Mojo you're on top of things out here," Orient promised, sliding behind the wheel.

Mojo was being unusually cautious, Orient noted as he drove through the gate. But the guards had been looking for the wrong weapons. He wasn't carrying a gun, just a small cotton sack.

He was surprised to see only a handful of guests gathered around the main bar instead of the regular weekend throng, and walked directly to the guarded corridor.

Although ready to confront Pay when he entered the private reception room, Orient was vaguely relieved to find it empty. It gave him a chance to see Cara alone.

He passed through the sliding panel in the adjacent room and slowly climbed the stairs to her suite.

She was sitting at a silk-padded vanity table winding a white cloth around her head. Her self-absorbed expression didn't change when she saw him.

"What do you want here, David?" she asked crisply, watching his reflection in the mirror.

For the first time since leaving Gaspar's house, doubt jabbed at his balance. "I want to explain..."

"Never complain, never explain, isn't that what they say? Please leave me alone."

"I want to apologize for losing control," Orient went on. "But I'm not sorry for trying to take you from Mojo."

"Win me, you mean, in that cheap contest," she reminded bitterly.

"Call it what you like. Not being allowed to touch you made me understand that I wanted more than just part of you. It's that simple. Sorry for the embarrassment."

He walked to the stairs, mind reeling with uncertainty until he heard the light rustle behind him.

Cara reached out, and a savage surge of emotion battled for his control as he pressed her close.

"We can leave right now," he whispered. "Go away together."

She pulled back, delicate madonna face shadowed with regret. "You don't understand, David. I can't go with you like this. I want to, but I can't. We have to wait a little while longer."

"How long?"

"After tonight's service. I'll speak to Mojo. He's been waiting for you all day."

"I had to get things straight between us before I saw him."

"Will you trust me, David?" she asked softly. "I'll be away only a little while."

A sharp chill sliced his instincts as he recalled Royce saying the same thing the night she was killed.

"Please come with me now," he urged. "We have to wait a little while," Cara repeated patiently.

He nodded, knowing he was helpless to stop her.

"I'll wait until you come back," he promised.

He stood in the empty hall for long minutes after she'd departed, emotion and will clashing like enraged bulls. Finally he went inside and waited until the struggle was a dim echo at the edge of his thoughts.

There was plenty of time, Orient reminded himself, fingers automatically feeling for the conjure sack in his pocket. The service would take at least two hours, and it was crucial that his balance be perfect when they returned. He'd take his time, until his perceptions were perfectly tuned.

He never quite succeeded.

He tried to clear his mind, but a whining anxiety kept distorting the harmonies of his meditation.

The whining vibration webbed his instincts with tension, and he glanced at the panel that led to the altar room. Perhaps it was wisest to complete his mission immediately, he speculated. Having it over with might help him relax.

But as he walked to the panel, he knew that the high-pitched drone piercing his awareness was being generated by something stronger than fear. He pressed the light dial and entered the corridor. He paused when he reached the inner room, ear pressed against the wall and senses probing for any hint of activity. There was nothing except the shrill apprehension. He took the cotton sack from his pocket; then, using the sequence he'd decoded during his previous visit, he pressed the dial and the panel slid open.

The altar room was empty.

Although someone had obviously placed fresh flowers and food on the long table, the offerings were in exactly the same positions as he remembered, as if untouched.

Orient moved quickly, knowing from experience what had to be done. He took a bowl of water and a bowl of chopped beef from the altar and placed them on the floor, about six feet from the wall. Shifting concentration, he probed for the animal consciousness imprisoned behind the marble panel. The bitter texture of the snake's presence grated his senses, and he absorbed it completely, smoothing it calm with his will.

He waited until all harshness had faded from the placid orbit of concentration, then jabbed the dial. As the marble panel opened, he watched the glistening reptile emerge from the niche like a swift trickle of blood.

Using his will as leverage, he guided the snake toward the water and meat. It hesitated, then crawled across the floor and draped its supple coils around the bowl of meat.

As the snake began to feed, Orient edged closer to the niche and reached toward the neat rows of small cotton sacks lining shelves for the one labeled "D. Clay."

"Looking for something, duke?"

The question walloped the blind side of his brain, paralyzing his instincts.

Chapter 21

It was less than an instant, a minute fraction of perception in which he glimpsed the futility of his position and the price of his failure.

As if from a great distance he saw himself standing at the niche, both hands reaching inside, like a bound prisoner facing his execution wall, while Mojo Pay stood behind him, ready to pull the trigger. The instant flickered into reflex as he perceived that his body was blocking Pay's vision, and he plucked the sack from the shelf with the fingers of his left hand and shoved it under his sleeve.

He turned, right hand extended.

"This seems to have my name on it," he observed, spreading his fingers wide. The cotton sack Gaspar had prepared fell to the floor.

Mojo stepped through the doorway across the room, shaking his orange-crowned head sadly.

"You didn't really think you'd get away with it, did you?"

"There was an even chance I'd be able to get away with Cara, if I took that little conjure sack with me."

"You're smarter than most," Pay conceded. "Only thing is, you're still a dead-ass John. Come on in here, sugar."

Cara stepped into the altar room and hurried to his side.

"My Mama isn't ever goin' anywhere but where I want her to," Pay said contemptuously. "And now she's gonna take it to the max just to prove it to you. Aren't you, sugar?"

A dreamy expression misted Cara's delicate features. "Whatever you say, my love." Her submissive tone speared Orient's emotions like a fork.

Pay smiled lazily. "You look like you could use a drink, ol' buddy. Come on inside my private den and we'll watch the whole thing in living color."

Orient glanced back at Cara, and his last hope was devoured by the anticipation animating her pale cameo face. Knowing that some vital part of him had been consumed, Orient turned away and followed Pay to the open panel.

Mojo's suite connected to the altar room through the office area, the photo mural behind the desk sliding back to allow passage.

When Orient joined him across the room, he saw how easily he'd been trapped. The large television screen was transmitting a clear picture of the altar room. Every step he'd taken had been tracked by the camera. At the moment, it was focused on Cara's movements behind the altar. He watched with numb fascination as she picked up the snake, placed it inside a straw basket, and began restoring order to the disturbed altar.

"What are you drinkin', duke?"

Orient smiled ruefully. "Make it champagne, since it seems to be a special occasion. Especially for me."

"Oh, it's kind of special for me, too," Pay confided as he ambled to the bar. "I tried hard to avoid this. You see, I had other plans for you. But you sure busted them, all right."

A discordant note beneath the easy drawl set off a shrill alarm in Orient's mind. "How could I upset your plans? You've had me covered since I arrived."

"Had you covered long before that," Mojo corrected as he took a bottle from the bar's refrigerator and examined the label. "You were flagged even before you delivered that doll to Pearl. Anyway, that's not the point."

He flicked his thumb, and the cork shot from the bottle in a wobbling arc. "Point is, duke, that I didn't want to kill you. You're too valuable."

Pay poured the wine into two hollow-stemmed glasses and rejoined Orient. "Trouble is, you're stubborn as well as smart. That makes you dangerous."

"What makes me so valuable?" Orient wondered aloud. "You can find another delivery boy anywhere."

"Give it up, duke. I've been onto you since the time you helped old lady Fein." Pay ran a jeweled hand through his thick orange hair and shook his head as if baffled.

"No way anybody ever broke one of my rituals before. That's when I knew you were special. And that's why I told Val to lay off when you came sniffin' after Royce. I was really sure when you hit my dice tables with that sweet little system." A trace of mockery narrowed his smile. "You owe me that one, remember?"

Orient sipped his wine. "I'll be happy to settle my debt. It won't take more than a month to teach you how."

"Well, duke" -- Mojo sighed -- "I don't have that kind of time, and neither do you. Too bad. My real hope was that you'd be able to teach me those special talents you got. Maybe even team up and go for a really heavy score. Mister inside, mister outside; for a while, I was sure it would come together," he reflected sadly.

"Until I saw how determined you were to keep yourself apart."

"You mean Cara?"

Mojo nodded glumly. "Anybody else would've been crawlin' behind her after two hours, and you held out for weeks. You were sure 'nough crazy for her, but you wouldn't crack. Even after you killed Royce..."

Deliberately, without disturbing the cool blanket of concentration bundling his senses, Orient hurled his glass at Pay.

"You killed Royce," he said, voice barely controlled. "She wasn't alive when she came back to the house. Her body was possessed by the force called up with your filthy ritual to Olosi. Team up with you? I'd rather hook up with that snake out there. It's got more class."

A flat shock of pain exploded against his face, and he hit the floor.

He braced his body against another blow, but when he looked up, he saw Pay standing a few feet away, dabbing at his wine-stained lapels with a handkerchief.

"You better mind your own manners," he warned gently. "You're playin' for more than your life here, Dr. Orient."

Mojo's voice sliced through his awareness like a steel wire, cutting it loose from the throb numbing half his skull.

Orient slowly got to his feet, will scrambling to regain focus. A smudged glint drew his perceptions, and he saw the diamond star at the edge of Pay's contented smile.

"I can tell you're catchin' on already," Mojo said.

"You know my name," he mumbled.

"Much more than that. I found out you're sure a modest ol' boy. Never once let on that you're Dr. Owen Orient of New York who's got a strong rep as a bona-fide psychic expert. So strong that the CIA is offering a million cash or gold for anybody who happens to find you. Which happens to be me, duke."

Orient groped through his perceptions and found a slim edge of balance.

"I even had it figured one better," Pay went on, voice ripe with satisfaction. "I figured if your talent was worth a million to the company, it was just the crust of the pie. That's why I waited so long. I knew we could get a hundred times that money and more if I could get you to share your talents with mine. Sure was chasin' a long shot, and I almost waited too long."

He moved closer to the television screen, watching Cara prepare the altar.

She knelt before the large statue of the crucified figure, then rose and pulled one of the silver arrows from its riddled body. She very carefully pierced a piece of white cloth with the arrow before replacing it in the figure's bloody chest, and moments later Orient perceived that the impaled cloth was a conjure sack.

Pay reached for the phone and punched a number.

Abruptly the picture on the screen changed, and Orient recognized Val Valentine and Pearl La Fuente sitting with a half-dozen others around the tiled pool in the main room.

"It's time," Pay grunted into the phone.

A uniformed butler appeared, whispered something to Valentine, and the group started moving across the room.

Pay punched another number, and an image of a carpeted stairway flicked on. Valentine and the others entered the picture and filed up the stairs. Three of the men carried canvas-covered drums. Mojo glanced at Orient.

"Like my little surveillance system? Every move you made here was tracked, taped, and filed. I got some great footage on you and Cara. You're really what I'd call a romantic fool, duke, ol' buddy."

Orient ignored the comment, will clinging to a narrow ledge of confidence.

"I'm not worth anything to the company unless I'm alive," he reminded calmly. "And somehow I don't believe you'd throw away a million dollars just for revenge."

"That's perfectly right," Pay conceded as he jabbed the phone buttons and a picture of the altar room reappeared on the large color screen. He turned and grinned at Orient. "Still don't tumble? There's a gap in your thinkin', duke, ol' buddy. You said it yourself. I have the power to animate the dead. You'll be walkin' and talkin' long enough for me to collect my fee. A few weeks later, you'll keel over real natural like."

Dread congealed to acid in Orient's belly, burning into his calm.

"You can't do it," he blurted hoarsely. "You can't maintain that suspended state ... sustain the energy..."

Mojo's smile faded. "Can't? I was born with the power of the veil. There's nothin' I can't accomplish."

His smooth features seemed cast in iron, impassive except for the distant red flecks in his dark pupils. He jabbed a taut finger at the television screen, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw and harsh, as if being forced through dense layers of hate.

"There's what you risked your life to win. Look at her. Beautiful, isn't she? Well, how do you like makin' love to a dead woman, duke, ol' buddy?"

Steaming revulsion choked off Orient's breath, and awareness tottered at the brink of a dizzying void, flailing wildly for balance until his senses clutched a steely ridge of anger and held.

The cold, hard rage steadied his concentration as he breathed deep, stripping his mind of everything except the will to survive.

A guttural blare of voices and drums invaded the heaving silence.

Cara was kneeling before the altar, and the others were arranged in a tight semicircle around her. The three drummers were behind the altar, driving the chants forward with their loping rumble.

"She's calling to Olosi now," Pay said softly, almost to himself.

Orient recognized the ritual salutation from Gaspar's comprehensive instruction, but was distracted by the expanding nebula of hate radiating from Pay's physical presence. Its heat withered his perceptions like the nuclear flares of some predatory sun, and he glimpsed the true source of Mojo's power.

Cara and the others were hunched around the altar, bodies rigid with tension as they directed pulsing waves of hostility toward the sack impaled to the arrow-riddled statue. The screen blazed hot with the energy generated by their chanting prayers.

Revulsion and fear became ashes in Orient's memory as he reached for the core of his concentration. He wrapped his being in calm, confidence resting on the edge he'd carved when he substituted the sack Gaspar had prepared for the one meant for him.

The conjure bag impaled to the crucified figure on the altar contained the twist of orange hair belonging to Mojo Pay.

He turned and saw Pay studying him with detached expectancy, as if mulling over some future detail, perhaps looking forward to the million he'd collect for delivering a walking corpse.

Orient's control faltered, heartbeat accelerated by the feverish drums, lungs parched by the torrid emanations of hostility. The air in the room suddenly became a sweltering burden, and his skin oozed sweat.

"How do you feel, duke?"

The voice filtered through suffocating blankets of heat swaddling his brain, and he dimly perceived he'd failed. Convulsive flashes of agony jolted his spine, blistering his senses with the certainty that he was dying.

Chapter 22

Nerves screaming, Orient cast his senses past the fiery pain with a desperate spasm of will.

Pay was watching him, flame-speckled eyes lusting for the kill.

Orient forced a smile. "Hot in here. Can I have some water?"

Confusion flickered across Pay's face, and his eyes brightened with animal alertness.

"Condemned man can have what he wants," he said, voice remote.

The booming chants pummeled Orient's senses as he walked to the bar. Thoughts' ransacking possibilities, he poured a glass of water, knowing the defense was temporary. He might be able to undermine Pay's confidence with his display of resistance, but he was buying brief minutes. Eventually, his concentration would crumble under the relentless pressure of the ritual.

Somehow, even though he'd managed to substitute Pay's sack for his own, he'd failed. Gaspar had been right. Perhaps the hairs he'd found weren't Mojo's after all. Then a quick memory of the conjure bag tucked in his sleeve jabbed his understanding.

Despite the switch he'd made, his own sack was being magnetized by the ritual and was attracting its venomous radiations.

It was clear. He had to destroy the cotton bag in his sleeve, or it would soon destroy him.

A gust of dizziness scattered his thoughts, and he steadied himself against the bar, gulping down some water. The liquid clogged his throat like tepid oil.

He gathered his concentration and turned.

"Does the condemned man get to smoke a cigarette too?" he asked weakly.

Mojo gestured impatiently. "Why not? It's your last breath anyway. There are some on the desk. Think you'll make it that far?"

The derisive triumph in his voice seemed forced, however, and he glanced at the television screen as if to make certain the ceremony was proceeding correctly.

Orient fixed his shrinking vision on the desk and walked slowly across the floor, concentration swaying like a wire walker's in a hurricane. A hot spasm of pain tripped his heartbeat, and he stumbled to the desk, clinging to Gaspar's shriveled presence.

He took a cigarette from a silver box and fumbled for the lighter with trembling, sweat-greased fingers. Bending slightly to conceal his actions from Pay, he slipped the cotton bag from his sleeve, dropped it into the ashtray, and struck a light. The flame caught a corner of the conjure sack and curled around its sides like a luminous blue necklace.

Shielding the ashtray with his body, Orient lit his cigarette and turned toward Pay. He tried to speak, but the relentless fever of the drum-fired chants scorched his perceptions, and he felt his resistance disintegrate.

A crisp sizzle of agony severed control, and he grabbed the desk, concentration lurching as the musty stench of burning hair singed his nostrils.

Abruptly, as if a plug had been yanked from an electric socket, the pulsing anguish cut off.

Disconnected from sensation or thought, Orient looked up and saw the convulsive shock distorting Pay's features. Numbly he grasped that he'd succeeded. When he'd destroyed the conjure bag intended for him, the lethal current of energy unleashed by the demon rite diverted to the nearest conductor -- the sack containing Mojo's own hair, impaled to the bloody figure on the altar.

Pay's pain-swollen eyes locked on his, and a spark of recognition snapped between them. In that lightning instant, Mojo comprehended and charged, reflexes blinking quicker than thought as he hurtled across the floor.

Orient scrambled behind the desk and staggered back, legs jerking with fear as he feinted and circled to keep the fragile barrier between them, aware that one twist of those huge hands could crack his neck.

Mojo stared incredulously at the smoldering remains of the sack in the ashtray and grasped how he'd been tricked.

"Switched ... the damned..."

An enraged roar splintered his voice, and he leaped over the desk, hands raking the air.

Orient dodged, one purpose lighting his panic as he sprinted for the opposite wall -- to elude that murderous strength as long as possible. Although Pay's body was riddled with agony, his will was unyielding. He whirled, and with a few quick steps boxed off Orient's retreat. His face was bright with sweat as he shuffled closer, like a chunk of brown ice melting under the pain's intensity.

Orient feinted and scuttled to the bar. He fumbled for a weapon until his fingers closed on a wine bottle, and as he hefted its reassuring weight, Mojo hesitated.

His feverish glare focused on the bottle Orient held cocked, and his palm lifted in an attitude of surrender. Then he lunged.

Orient swung the bottle in a tight arc, flinging it directly into his face. Without breaking stride, Pay swatted the bottle with his long arm, and it shattered in midair, spraying Orient with wine and broken glass. As Orient dived, Pay's balled fist whipped past his ear, crushing a rack of goblets below the bar.

Orient rolled when he hit the floor, and jumped up, frantically searching for room to maneuver. He didn't find an inch.

Grunting with effort, Mojo herded him back until there was nowhere to turn.

Orient pressed against the wall, trapped in the short space between the bar and the television unit, as Pay circled closer, snarling like a wounded lion.

Orient crouched, muscles braced, but the charge never came. Mojo blinked at the television screen, spun, and stumbled across the floor.

Realizing that he'd abandoned revenge in order to abort the rite, Orient stood frozen against the wall, watching in terrified fascination as Pay staggered to the desk and pitched forward. Unable to stand, Mojo continued crawling toward the photo mural that connected to the altar room. He was almost there when he collapsed.

A weightless silence dissolved the pressure in Orient's skull. He took a few tentative steps, and a squeal of fright wrenched his head around.

The televised ceremony had stopped. The drums were still, and the figures on the screen were milling around Cara's crumpled body. Valentine was kneeling beside her, while the others jabbered excitedly. Orient turned away and hurried to the exit.

When he reached the outside room, he saw Felix and Bernard at the door, and approached them without hesitation.

"Mojo wants everybody in the big room in five minutes," he snapped.

The two men stiffened and stalked through the door without comment.

Grateful for the discipline Pay demanded of his soldiers, Orient swiftly crossed the hall to the stairway.

Just as he reached the main floor, he heard a faint shout behind him, but forced himself to maintain a deliberate pace through the long corridor. There were two more guards waiting at the far end, and he walked up to them briskly.

"Mojo wants everybody upstairs in the big room," he repeated. "Right away."

As they marched back along the corridor, he kept walking to the outside door.

A humid envelope of darkness slipped over Orient as he jogged across the patio.

Then a ragged chorus of shouts tore the quiet, and he broke into a run, mind racing in a dozen directions. They'd found Pay's body, but he'd gained a few minutes' start. They'd expect him to make for his car, so they'd lose time in the parking lot. With luck, he'd reach the boat before they discovered his escape route.

He ran with strong loping strides, breath flowing easily, scanning the shadowy terrain ahead for obstacles.

A series of rumbles swelled up behind him, and he accelerated, legs driving toward the moon-silvered water. The rumbles grew loud, shuddering ominously like approaching thunder as he sprinted across the sand.

Suddenly the darkness was webbed by bobbing ribbons of light, and Orient saw that he'd blown his bet. They were hunting him down with automobiles.

Their headlights caught him near the water's edge, and he unleashed a burst of speed.

Lungs shredded and ankles wobbling on the marshy surface, he was about to plunge into the surf when he heard a few flat pops. A bullet hummed past his ear, and the weaving lights picked out a scattered group of armed men no more than thirty yards away, running directly at him.

Orient lurched to a halt, hands lifted, but the men kept coming. About five yards away, they opened fire.

Rapid white flashes blasted around him, and he hit the ground, face digging into the cool wet sand. Someone jerked his head up by the hair, and a bright beam seared his eyes.

"That's our bonus baby," the man shouted above the chattering barks of gunfire.

"Get him back to the boat," another voice cried. "We'll mop up."

Still grasping his hair, the man dragged Orient erect, then shoved him away from the explosive tumult. As he took a few shuffling steps, darkness obscured vision, and he turned.

The two cars had swung around and were bucking and skidding toward the house. An extended barrage of automatic gunfire ripped through the rear car, splintering metal and glass before it erupted into a rolling orange ball. As the flames roared into the sky. a gun barrel bit into Orient's chest, prodding him forward.

The burning glow illuminated the beach, and he saw two metal-ribbed rafts glistening in the distance. The gun prodded harder, and he began jogging.

Two others overtook them at the rafts. Gasping with exertion, they herded Orient into the nearest craft and pushed it into deeper water.

A muffled boom shook the silence as they jumped aboard.

"That's it," someone grunted. The motor coughed awake, lifting the sharp prow, and the raft swiftly churned toward open sea.

Orient looked back and saw a cluster of running figures silhouetted against the rosy glare of two burning cars. Far beyond them was another glow -- a slender yellow vine of flame that was spreading across the side of Pay's mansion. Moments later there was nothing but the lashing spray and powerful growl of the motor as the craft sped through the darkness.

Orient huddled against the side, perceptions disconnected from thought, until he saw the signal lights winking ahead. Soon he made out a looming shape and saw they were approaching a large yacht. A white beam cut a shimmering path across the water, guiding the raft to the side of the ship.

Two of the men with Orient grabbed his arms and hauled him to a metal ladder. Numbly he grasped the bobbing rails and crawled toward the lights far above him.

The solid feel of the deck steadied Orient's instincts. Gathering his senses, he stared at the gawking jumble of faces, trying to sort out what they were saying.

"Is that him?"

"Where the hell is deuce team?"

"Just picked up their signal."

"Move 'em up fast."

"Anybody hit?"

"No sweat. Candy-store job."

"That's him, all right, you lucky bastards."

"Fell right in our laps. He was near a dead pigeon when we rushed the beach."

"Nice work, ace team. You've earned that bonus."

The smug, nasal drawl stirred Orient's memory. He squinted and located its source -- a florid, vaguely familiar blur partially obscured by milling shadows. Shock swatted his awareness into focus as the shadows parted and he recognized Ted Bork's fleshy pink features.

Chapter 23

They took him up to the pilothouse and gave him a container of black coffee laced with whiskey.

Later, Ted came in to visit. He was holding a tall glass of bourbon and grinning broadly.

"I guess we saved your ass back there, buddy boy," he gloated, rocking back and forth.

"And saved yourself a million-dollar fee," Orient reminded. "You knew about that, eh?"

What do you think?"

Why were they trying to run you down, anyway?"

I found out that my friend Mojo was planning to turn me in and collect your generous reward. I was trying to escape when your storm troopers landed."

Ted sipped his drink, eyes narrowed as he sifted through the answers for a flaw.

As Orient waited, he tried to piece together the fragments scattered across his memory and grasped something that didn't connect.

"It was a damn sweet operation," Ted declared. "And you're lucky to be sitting here alive. You should be grateful."

Orient suddenly saw the gap.

"Shove it, Ted," he snapped, unable to conceal his animosity. "You didn't send in those guerrillas to rescue me, or that million. I was just a bonus. You went in there to liquidate Mojo Pay. That's why I'm sitting here."

Ted's puffy jowls compressed into a scowl.

"Always were a brainy bastard, weren't you?" he muttered. "Okay, let's stop pussyfooting around. How much do you know about Pay's business structure?"

"Not very much. I handled the gambling accounts. That was it."

"Can't believe it, Owen. Not a smart boy like you. If you know about the reward money, you must have known Pay was leaning on some very important people. He tried to use you as leverage, but he broke the pump handle. Certain people can't be pushed too hard. You already learned that for yourself, didn't you?"

Orient looked away, will trying to contain his charging emotions, aware that Ted was deliberately needling for a sensitive spot.

This was just a preliminary session.

Any weakness he displayed now would be exploited later; when the experts started drilling into his defenses to extract the secret of the telepathic technique.

"You were pretty tight with Pay's woman," Ted suggested, scowl replaced by a leering smirk. "She must have told you what was going on. Didn't she ever mention anything about a food deal?"

Orient sighed. "I told you. I was involved with the gambling operation. Nothing more."

The door opened, and someone called Ted outside. While he was gone, Orient calculated his chances of escape and came up with a zero.

There were two other men in the dimly lit, glass-enclosed cockpit -- one at the wheel, and the other seated before a bank of electronic equipment. He had to get past both of them to reach the door, and the decks were crawling with armed guards.

When Ted returned, his lips were pursed in a confidential smile.

"The boys just completed their report," he said. The intimate tone alerted Orient's instincts. "When they entered the hidden rooms in the mansion, Mojo Pay and the woman were already dead."

Ted's curious expression was tinted with admiration. "You killed them both; that's why his torpedoes were trying to gun you down."

"They killed themselves," Orient stated flatly. "If you don't believe me, get an autopsy report."

"We took care of the house so there'll be nothing left for an autopsy. At any rate, it's clear you were responsible. Actually, we did each other a favor."

An acid memory of his own burning home frayed Orient's control, but he was too slow. Even as he struggled to his feet, he could see the balled fist floating toward his face.

The punch detonated abruptly. Its sharp crack drove him back into his chair and faded into chiming stillness.

Ted's voice pierced the quiet, and grated against his aching brain. "Crazy bastard. I'm trying to make it easy for everybody. If you won't talk to me, there are people who'll pull it out of your skin. Believe that, old pal."

"Talking to you ... makes me sick," Orient mumbled.

Ted hitched his shoulders as if preparing to hit him again. Then he glanced back at the two sailors watching them, and his body relaxed.

"Who knows?" he rasped. "Maybe soon you'll be begging to tell us every little detail."

A throbbing silence settled over Orient's bruised thoughts as Ted left the cabin. He looked around the cabin, mind rummaging for some means of escape, until it toppled into bottomless fear.

For the first time, he was truly afraid. Not for himself, but of what he might reveal.

The door opened, and two men entered. Both were dressed in blue denim and had lean, leathery features. One was slightly taller, with closely cropped gray hair, and held a coiled rope in his hand.

Wordlessly they crossed the cabin and bound Orient's arms securely with the rope, and then relieved the other two sailors.

Before giving up the wheel, the pilot pointed out a cluster of lights in the distance.

"That's Palm Beach portside," he said affably. "Sparks here can get you a radio fix, then keep her headed east for the next two hours."

Orient peered to his left at the winking strand of lights and realized he was in for a long trip. The lights veered away, shrinking into the blackness until there was nothing else.

Sparks signaled thumbs-up to the man at the wheel. "Right on. Keep it steady as you go."

As the helmsman checked the large compass, an idea flickered through Orient's lacerated brain. Perhaps he could alter the ship's course by using his psychokinetic ability. All he had to do was move the compass needles off course. He had nothing to lose. If they ran out of fuel or had to be rescued by another ship, it would give him a slim chance to escape. In fact, it made no difference if they piled up on a reef. Even drowning was preferable to giving up the precious legacy of telepathic control to a pack of rabid tyrants. And he had no illusions; eventually they'd find a way to squeeze it out of his flesh.

The steady drum of the engine and the sure, rocking motion eased Orient's knotted fears, and he slipped into a deep breathing pattern, weaving his concentration tight.

Although unable to see the face of the compass from his chair, Orient's dowsing senses felt the magnetic tug of the needle immediately. He let them be drawn to the dim field of energy and exerted leverage.

A subtle weight tipped his awareness as he felt the needle shift direction.

Minutes later the helmsman checked the compass, shook his head in puzzled annoyance, and turned the wheel a few degrees.

A spark of confidence vitalized Orient's weary thoughts. The plan was working. If they'd been steering east from Palm Beach, the ship was probably bound for some island in the Bahamas. By keeping the compass needle skewed, he could head them due south indefinitely.

He sat slumped forward in his chair, perceptions huddled around the magnetic pulse a few feet away.

It was another hour before the helmsman noticed something was wrong. He moved closer to the window and peered at the sky. "Sure don't look right. Get me another fix. I think we're off course."

The idea of trying to jam the radio flashed briefly across Orient's mind, but he let it pass. If he succeeded, they'd be certain something was wrong. Instead, he relaxed his concentration and let the needle return to its normal position.

The helmsman remained at the window gazing at the stars glinting brightly against the clear black sky.

"Okay, I've got it. We're off course, all right. Headed south," Sparks reported mournfully.

"Goddamnit, you see, I was right. This compass is..." He gaped at the compass. "Well, I'll be a diddle-assed river rat."

"What's the trouble?"

"Compass is true," the helmsman grumbled, shaking his head.

"Better get it together, or the old man'II bust your tail worse than that poor bastard back there."

"Must be something wrong with the automatic. I'll take it on manual from here."

Orient waited until he guided the ship back on course before extending his senses toward the compass. Exerting leverage as slowly as possible so the shift would seem natural, he tilted the compass needle.

He lost track of time until a burly red-faced man burst into the cabin, strode to the wheel, and thrust his bulldog jaw forward until it was inches away from the helmsman's unhappy face.

"Where in hell did you learn to navigate, Baker? Some damn bathtub?"

The helmsman shrank back. "There's something wrong with the automatic, sir."

"Blast the automatic! Look up there." The burly man jabbed his finger at the window. "Can't you see those little round lights up there? The ones they call stars?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, then, get this tub on course fast, Baker, and keep it there, or you'll be scraping paint for the next few years."

A glum silence filled the room after the captain's departure, and as the ship sliced through the glittering waters, guided by the stars and frequent radio checks, despair seeped into Orient's brain. He twisted against his ropes, wondering if he could work himself loose and make it to the deck while the two sailors were preoccupied with their navigation. He was still trying when Baker broke the quiet.

"Damn it all, if that ain't a bitch," he spat. "The old man'll have my ass for sure now. Get me another fix right away."

Orient caught the urgency in his drawl and looked up. Baker was squinting anxiously through the window while the radioman explored the electronic dials.

"We're still on course," Sparks announced cheerfully.

"Damn lucky if we can stay there, with this soup rolling in on us."

A glimmer of hope ignited Orient's will when he saw what was happening. A thin mist was steaming across the water, obscuring visibility. As the boat plowed forward, the mist condensed to a grimy fog that blotted out the sky completely. A pang of excitement nudged Orient's concentration, but he held back, mind scanning possibilities.

Both sailors, especially Baker, were worried. The fog was preventing them from star navigation, and they weren't sure their instruments were functioning. With a little effort, he'd probably be able to jam their radio the next time they tried to get a direction fix. If he exerted pressure at the right moment, they'd panic and start signaling for help.

The ship heaved erratically as the waves churned higher, and the helmsman slowed the engines.

Moments later, the captain hurried inside, surly bulldog face sweating profusely.

"Do you clowns know we're more than an hour overdue? What in hell's name do you mean by cutting our speed, Baker?"

The helmsman seemed to shrivel. "Sir, the automatic isn't functioning properly, and this weather -- "

"I'll take the wheel," the captain barked. "Full speed ahead. Sparks, you get on the radar screen. There's nothing out there but some haze and wind."

The captain had underestimated the weather. The sea was becoming rougher, and fog clung to the windows like a dirty gray curtain. As the hull lurched and slapped against the swelling waves, the captain cursed and cut the engine speed.

Orient waited until he'd confirmed the compass heading before extending his senses to the needle and shifting its direction.

Ted Bork entered the cabin and moved unsteadily to the wheel. His slack, pink features had a greenish pallor, and he was out of breath.

"What is this, O'Hara?" he demanded, voice slurred. "Didn't you check out the weather for this area?"

"All the reports are on my desk, Mr. Bork," the captain growled. "It's a freak storm. Nothing anybody can prevent. I think we'll be able to ride it out, but if we have to radio an SOS, there's one major problem."

"What problem?"

The captain hesitated, then inclined his head toward Orient.

A rosy glow returned to Ted's face as he looked across the cabin.

"The problem can be eliminated anytime it's expedient," he said slowly, savoring each word.

Orient accepted the pronouncement without regret, an odd note of triumph echoing through his resignation. He'd won his last gamble. They'd be forced to kill him before he could reveal any part of the telepathic technique.

A bristling gust of energy jostled his perceptions. Orient's senses quivered as the seething magnetic field swirled into the cabin like an invisible cloud of feathers.

The captain's flat, resolute voice pierced the fluttering silence. "Very good, Mr. Bork. I needed your authority on any emergency action."

"You have full authority." An extended groan of stressed metal stretched across the tilting deck as Ted spoke. The boat violently pitched forward, throwing him off balance, and the crackling energy whirled faster, igniting Orient's reflexes with excitement. The two sailors seemed to feel the frothing tension, and exchanged alarmed glances.

Orient strained against his bonds as the ship lifted high and then plunged, hut smacking hard against the water.

"Get us radio contact!" the captain bellowed.

Panic sucked the blood from Orient's belly as the ship slowly climbed a tall, billowing crest, then tipped into a yawning slide. "Cap'n, the goddamn compass!"

"Radio's haywire!"

The dense magnetic fuzz cramming the cabin distorted their cries as the ship plummeted like a brakeless elevator. Vision careening wildly, Orient saw the captain lock his arms around the wheel, while, a short distance away, Ted clawed at the door.

He heard a grumbling tremor far below, and as it hurtled closer, his senses began to spin. The shuddering momentum gathered mass until it congealed into a juggernaut of foaming darkness that smashed the windows and crushed his last gasp of consciousness.

Chapter 24

A searing green glare slashed the blackness.

Orient's eyes fluttered open and were flooded by emerald brightness. A choking pain spurted into his skull, and the blackness swallowed him again.

Snorting and coughing, he strained frantically toward the light. As he lifted his head, he felt the wetness and saw that the shimmering glints were the reflections of sun against water.

He was floating in a placid green sea, legs treading blindly. It was some time before he comprehended that his left hand was still bound to the arm of the chair, and the chair was attached to a splintered section of planks forming a crude raft.

Memory seeped back slowly, impeded by his efforts to free his hand from the rope. He pulled loose and flexed his cramped, nerveless fingers with great difficulty. His arm was numb to the shoulder, and as he doggedly worked feeling into the rigid muscles, he wondered how long he'd been tied to the chair.

He made an awkward attempt to mount the raft and found that it couldn't support his weight without tipping. The best he could manage was to clutch the chair with his fresh right hand.

He scanned the clear, quiet water for some sign of other survivors, but there wasn't even any debris; not so much as an oil puddle marked the destruction of the large ship.

The sun lifted in a bleak, pitiless arc, shredding his parched lips, while an icy undercurrent chilled his legs. He released his hold and paddled around the splintered planks in an effort to restore circulation to his shivering limbs and test the raft's balance on the far side.

After repeated tries, he found a section that would support him if he wedged his upper body against the base of the chair and lay face-down with his legs trailing in the water.

Although precarious, the perch was a decided improvement, and he gratefully felt the sun's heat penetrate his trembling ribs. Again he wondered how long he'd been in the water, fumbling for elusive wisps of memory.

It had been late Saturday night when he'd tried to escape Mojo's hoods and had run into Ted's extermination squad. Judging from the angle of the sun, it was probably now late Sunday morning.

Thirst and heat continued to hammer at his brain, and he understood he was nearing exhaustion. He probed his limits and calculated he could last out the day, and perhaps another, provided the sea remained calm. Exposure and hunger could be negotiated, but the need for fresh water would rapidly devour his resources.

For one reeling second he considered trying to contact Gaspar telepathically, and at the same moment perceived that the attempt would drain too much strength. Even if he succeeded, there was no way of pinpointing his location. He didn't know if he was floating toward Cuba or the Bahamas. All he could do was close off his thoughts and gather his senses around the small pocket of energy generated by his will.

The sun's relentless glare intensified, and he doused his head repeatedly to cool his boiling brain.

He drifted into sleep, and when he awoke, saw the silvery swarms of fish darting beneath the clear water. The sun was still bright, but descending, and its heat was tempered by a light wind. The vast glittering emptiness extended to the sky. and he drew his senses inward.

Much later, a brief hum stirred the quiet. He squinted toward the sound, but there was nothing but dazzling silence.

The hum tugged his perceptions once more, and he shifted slightly, trying to locate its precise direction. As the vibration grew distinct, his straining vision made out a low bulge on the horizon.

Fear that the craft would fail to notice him doused the surge of relief, and he peered anxiously at the dark blob. The sound chugged louder, but the bobbing outline remained small and distant.

Fingers stiff and reluctant, he unbuttoned his shirt. Inching carefully to maintain the raft's balance, he slipped it off, one sleeve at a time, and raised it above his head. A stiff breeze dragged the shirt skyward, and he kept it flapping overhead until his shoulder muscles knotted and refused to support his arm any longer. Barely able to turn his cramped neck, he saw the blob enlarge and take shape, and as the boat neared, its familiar throbbing wrapped his weary perceptions like a blanket.

Orient had to be carried aboard, but a few cups of water partially restored his vitality, and he managed to answer some questions. They gave him sandwiches and hot coffee, and after he'd eaten, helped him to a warm, dry bunk.

As soon as he was bedded down, a man came in with a glass of brandy.

"You need this," he grunted. "Best medicine for exposure. Good for the blood."

He was short and paunchy, with a freckled bald head and kinky black beard. Although he was dressed like the others, in rumpled khaki, the authoritative stride in his voice led. Orient to believe he was the captain.

Orient lifted the glass. "To the gentlemen who saved my life."

The brandy seared his throat open and glowed in his belly like a candle, dispersing the shadowy tensions.

The man smiled.

"Feel like a few more questions?"

"Just simple ones."

"How long were you out there?"

"Is it Sunday?"

The man nodded. "Sunday afternoon."

"Maybe ten, fifteen hours. I'm not sure."

"What was the name of your ship?"

Orient grabbed for a name. "Royce."

"How many on board?" the man asked gently.

"We left Miami last night," Orient rambled, stalling for time. "There were three of us."

"Any crew?"

Orient shook his head and leaned back on the pillow, suddenly perceiving that everything he'd said was dangerous.

"What happened?"

He eluded the thrust of the question by surrendering to the velvety security of exhaustion.

"There was a storm," he mumbled, closing his eyes.

Chapter 25

He awoke in darkness, and lay very still, breath suspended as he listened, but the only break in silence was the lazy creaking of the ship.

He warily extended his thoughts, and fathomed that he was unprepared to handle any questions concerning the shipwreck. He had to tell them something that couldn't be traced back to either Ted Bork or Mojo Pay. Especially Ted. There'd be lots of interested people searching for that ship. Radio alerts had probably been sent out from Nassau to Cuba.

It was crucial that he structure every detail of his story carefully. Any contradiction would bring it crashing down on his neck. Eyes shut, he burrowed into the cozy, rocking quiet, thoughts riding his concentration until he dozed off.

The feeling that he was being watched prodded him awake.

A pair of eager eyes, much too small for the round, doughy face they inhabited, were peering at him.

"You okay?" the man squawked.

Orient stifled a yawn. "I think so."

"Sure you are. All you need is some food."

He nodded, vaguely puzzled by the man's concern.

"Hell of a mess," the man muttered. He flapped his arms like a flabby bird and waddled away.

Orient felt almost normal after breakfast. He was finishing a second cup of coffee when the bearded man returned.

"Looks like you'll recover," he said amiably, perching on a nearby bunk. "I'm Captain Goudeau."

Orient extended his hand and gave him the name he'd prepared earlier. "Mike Scott. I appreciate everything you've done."

The captain dodged the compliment. "Can you give me a full report on what happened to your ship?"

"It wasn't my boat," Orient corrected. "It belonged to a man called Fred Leary. We left Miami Saturday night."

"Where were you bound?"

"Bimini Islands."

"How big a ship was it?"

"Hard to say. It was my first time on a yacht. Fairly large, I guess."

"Who else was on board?"

"Fellow by the name of Jeff Cook. He and Fred were friends."

"Who was piloting the ship?"

"Fred and Jeff took turns. Then they had an argument over the compass. I think Jeff said the compass was off, and Fred insisted on taking over. He claimed he could navigate by the stars."

Goudeau took a pipe from his pocket.

"Sure an exaggeration," he observed.

"How so?"

"Your friend Leary went way past the Biminis," the captain said, dark face impassive. "You were beyond Grand Bahama when we picked you up."

Orient accepted the fact without comment.

"Well, anyway, Jeff took over," the captain prompted, filling his pipe. "Then what?"

"Fred took over," Orient corrected. "It was his yacht. We just kept sailing for a few hours. It was a clear night, the water was calm. We had a few drinks, some laughs. It was fun until the fog came in. Fred tried to turn back, but the sea got very rough, and a storm blew up. Jeff got on the radio but had trouble making contact. Then it happened."

The captain struck a match.

Orient looked at him, uncertain of how to convey the awesome force of that moment.

"All hell broke loose," he said softly.

The tiny yellow flame paused above Goudeau's pipe. "What sort of hell, Mr. Scott?"

"Something like a jolt of lightning hit the boat, and we went into a spin. It was like falling off a cliff into the middle of a giant whirlpool."

The captain blew a reflective puff of smoke, bearded face regarding him impassively.

"That's all I remember. When I woke up, I was floating in the sea, holding on to a piece of the boat."

"We checked the area. Nothing else left out there at all."

A chubby man wearing yellow Bermuda shorts and a pink shirt that matched his sunburned skin bustled into the cabin and glared at Goudeau.

"Well, then?" he demanded. "How long are we going to be delayed? My friends came here to catch barracuda, not people."

Orient recognized the squawking voice that had greeted his awakening.

"No sweat, Mr. Mitchell," the captain said patiently. "We've radioed the Coast Guard. As soon as they pick up Mr. Scott, we'll be back on course."

The news cheered Mitchell, but a faint apprehension alerted Orient's instincts.

The captain grimaced slightly as Mitchell left.

"Charter customer," he confided. "He's worried about his clients. Guess he'll take them to play golf next time."

Orient waited as the captain brooded over his pipe.

Goudeau bridged the pause carefully. "You know, the funny thing is, there was no storm last night. None I saw or heard, anyway."

Orient met his thoughtful stare. "Then you don't believe me?"

"Didn't say that at all. I just want to get one thing straight. You said you'd been drinking. Well, how drunk were you?"

"Not drunk at all," Orient said firmly.

Goudeau sighed and chewed unhappily at his pipe. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Scott. I've been sailing these waters for over thirty years now, and everything you've described fits right in with other things folks in these parts have told me."

Orient hesitated. "Fits in how?"

"Don't suppose you've ever heard or read anything about the Bermuda Triangle."

"I think I've heard it mentioned. Some kind of sea myth like the Flying Dutchman, isn't it?"

"Well, I never heard of anybody who saw the Flying Dutchman, but there's plenty of hard, documented evidence that over a thousand people and more than a hundred ships and airplanes have been lost in this zone in the past fifty years. Would you call that a myth?"

"I suppose not."

The captain nodded his head slowly, as if the comment was significant. "That's right, the Bermuda Triangle's no myth. Happens just like what happened to your boat. What was it called, by the way?"

The question caught Orient by surprise, but he fielded the curve deftly.

"It was called Royce," he said. He remained poised, however, aware that the captain was still digging at something.

"Royce. Of course." Goudeau folded his arms and smiled.

"Well, anyway, it seems that all these strange wrecks in the area have a sort of pattern. Their electrical instruments go crazy, and the ships vanish without a trace. Some people call this area the Limbo of the Lost. You're one of the few that ever survived." He beamed proudly at Orient. "I keep charts on all the unexplained accidents in these waters. Made quite a study of it. Even worked out a theory on my own. Way I figure it, there's a big deposit of radioactive material somewhere underneath the ocean floor. The high concentration of energy flares up sometime, just like sunspots, and affects our magnetic gravity. Come to think of it, I should check out if there was any sunspot activity when those ships disappeared."

Reminded of his own neglected research, Orient felt a twinge of envy.

"Are you an astronomer too?"

"Sailor gets to know the stars like his own furniture," Goudeau mused, before his smile faded into a disgusted grimace.

"Doesn't make any difference how many facts you show those desk pilots," he snorted. "I tried showing the charts I compiled to a couple of those fancy marine experts that work for the Coast Guard, and they just laughed in my face. But let them explain this."

He leaned forward and stabbed the air with his pipe to underline his words. "According to all the reports, including the satellite reading, there was no storm anywhere near here. And still, two ships go down without a trace."

Orient's instincts stirred warily. "You mean there was another wreck last night?"

Goudeau scratched his kinky black beard. "We got official radio reports to look out for a light cruiser converted to private use, called the Jeb Stuart. It disappeared about the same time your boat went down. And, like I said, there were no storm warnings out."

Sure that the Jeb Stuart was Ted Bork's attack ship, Orient kept his expression blank.

"If that's the case, maybe that theory of yours makes sense," he ventured, recalling the massive flux of energy that had engulfed the ship. "There could be a concentration of unstable radioactive elements under the ocean floor. Shouldn't be too difficult to run some tests."

"Of course it makes sense," Goudeau exclaimed vigorously. "There's loads of officially documented evidence that there's something unusual in these waters. But you go try to convince the Coast Guard to investigate and see where it gets you."

Orient listened without enthusiasm. He didn't relish the prospect of trying to convince the Coast Guard of anything.

His worries were well founded.

After being transferred from Goudeau's fishing vessel to a Coast Guard cutter, Orient was obliged to repeat the details of the shipwreck many times while they sailed to Miami. As Goudeau had predicted, the captain and other officers accepted his account with barely repressed skepticism, as if it was clear that shock and exposure had made him slightly hysterical.

All except for the first mate, a bullish, prematurely bald young man whose curt, aggressive manner alerted Orient immediately. When his declaration was typed, signed, and witnessed, Orient's suspicions were confirmed.

A seaman ushered him to a narrow inside cabin, uncomfortably reminiscent of a jail cell, and an hour later, the first mate entered, holding a copy of his statement.

"We need to go over a few minor points before we pass this to the authorities," he explained tersely.

Orient caught the emphasis on the word "authorities" and perceived he'd been cornered into a tactical error. The signed deposition could be used against him.

"I don't know what more I can add," he said mildly.

The mate had snub, athletic features and a head that seemed too small for his wide neck. He folded his arms, glowering with muscular intensity.

"How well did you know this fellow, Fred Cook?"

"Fred Leary," Orient corrected. "Not very long. About two days."

"And this Jeff Cook?"

"I met him Saturday afternoon."

"Then why did these people decide to invite a comparative stranger on a cruise?" the mate snapped belligerently.

"Doesn't seem unusual to me," Orient observed. "And I don't see how it has any bearing on the accident, Mr.Cox."

The mate seemed startled, until he remembered the name plate on his shirt. He leaned against the door, trying to veil his suspicions beneath a casual manner.

"For one thing, we're still looking for your friends. Then, there's the problem of notifying families, insurance matters, legal questions; you wouldn't believe the hassles we get after we fish you guys out of the drink," he said, voice warm and earnest.

Neglecting to mention that they hadn't rescued him, Orient managed a sympathetic smile. He could see that any show of evasion would only make Cox more determined. What he couldn't fathom, however, was the young officer's zeal.

"Certainly puts things in a different light," he agreed. "If that's the situation, I'd better tell you how it all came about."

"It would be very helpful," Cox assured.

Orient took a deep breath. "You see, I live in New York and came to visit a friend of mine in Miami."

"What kind of work do you do, Mr. Scott?"

"I'm a freelance photographer."

Cox quickly switched direction, to confuse him. "And you met Fred Leary through this friend?"

The mate was circling like a shark sniffing blood, and Orient made an effort to concentrate.

"No. I met Fred on Friday night. I went over to Miami Beach to have a few drinks and met him in a bar."

"Remember what bar?"

"The lounge at the Fontainebleau."

"Did he say where he was from?"

Orient paused, thoughts sprinting frantically. He had to be candid without giving Cox anything he could check immediately. "New Jersey, I think. He said he was in the dress business."

"Why were you sailing to Bimini?" Cox persisted.

"Well, we had a good time that night, and he invited me to meet him the next day at the Doral. He was having lunch there with Jeff. During lunch, Fred was bragging a bit about his yacht, and Jeff started to kid him about it. One thing led to another, and Fred invited us to take a trip to Bimini so we could see how well the boat handled. He said it would be a short trip." Orient shook his head sadly.

"I certainly hope you find poor Fred and Jeff." He sighed.

"We're going to try our best, believe me," Cox said. He made it sound like a threat.

After the mate left, Orient lay on the bunk contemplating the reason for the relentless probing. Obviously Cox was out to disprove his story. He reexamined the statement he'd made for flaws, and found none, except for a slight matter of coincidence.

Two vessels, both sailing in the same area, vanish without a trace on a stormless night.

The truth, however, was even more extraordinary, and he remembered what Goudeau had told him.

Of course, a hardheaded naval officer would find it difficult to believe that an unexplained ultranormal force had swallowed a light cruiser and another yacht whole, despite the notoriety of the Bermuda Triangle.

Orient's awareness shuddered at the roaring memory of the massive wedge of energy that had smashed Ted's ship.

A moment later he grasped that Cox wasn't interested in the truth. He was driven by simple ambition. The Pentagon must have assigned top priority to recovering the Jeb Stuart and the special agents aboard. If the young mate could link a stray shipwreck survivor to the disappearance of a CIA ship, he'd win an important feather for his military cap.

A seaman brought in a tray of food and informed him they'd be docking in Miami in a few hours. Orient dozed off after eating, hoping he'd be able to leave the cutter before Cox aborted his rescue.

He was awakened by three sharp raps at the door.

When Orient saw the smug expression on Cox's face, his hopes for a swift departure faded.

As Cox escorted him to the main deck, something about his tense swagger led Orient to believe that the mate had an ace concealed in his shoe.

Before being allowed to leave the ship, he was examined by a Dade County physician and given a sheaf of medical releases to sign.

That completed, Cox led him down the gangplank to a small shack on the dock that contained a table, a telephone, and two uniformed policemen.

Orient repeated his account once more for the civil police record, and all through the ceremony his apprehension grew. The policemen seemed to be waiting for something. After the statement was signed, Cox revealed what it was.

"I guess your friend will be worried about you," he said casually. "If you give me the number of this Mr. Gaspar Cervantes you're staying with, I'll give him a call and tell him you're safe."

Orient suddenly understood the simplicity of the trap. If Gaspar couldn't vouch for his identity, the police would hold him for a routine check. Long enough for an intelligence agent to find out he was Owen Orient, alias David Clay, who was wanted by the CIA on a number of charges.

Cox's ploy presented a serious unforeseen problem. Of course Gaspar would vouch for David Clay, but he knew nothing about someone called Mike Scott.

Orient coiled his senses as Cox reached for the phone, launching the charged orbit generated by his concentration.

He felt the warm implosion at the base of his brain, and before Cox finished dialing the number, the problem was solved.

Having established telepathic contact with the master, Orient mentally provided Gaspar with the information he needed to make a positive identification of Mike Scott.

The mate was tenacious, however, and insisted that the policeman remain to verify. Gaspar's credentials.

One of the cops gave Orient an apologetic smile, and he relaxed, secure that Cox had no further legal grounds to hold him. As he watched the mate grimly pace the floor, he was aware of a pleasant tingle of accomplishment at the edge of his thoughts.

The tingle expanded to a billowy glow when he saw Gaspar's lined, grinning face and the pride illuminating his steely eyes.

"Mike, Mike. I've been so worried," he cried for the benefit of their audience. Then the old man embraced him.

"I give thanks you're safe," he whispered softly.

The terse words thundered through Orient's perceptions like an accolade, and were followed by a profound sense of peace. At that moment, he felt utterly fulfilled.

"Just a minute, Mr. Cervantes."

Gaspar met Cox's aggressive tone with an innocent smile. "Yes, sir?"

"Can you tell me Mr. Scott's profession?" the mate asked sharply.

It was a small detail Orient had overlooked, but even the quick jab of tension the question exerted couldn't dent the cozy satisfaction bundling his senses.

An instant later Gaspar broke into a prolonged fit of coughing, and by the time he'd recovered, Orient had managed to transmit the vital scrap of information telepathically.

"Mike takes pictures," the old man announced, beaming happily at Cox. "You should pose for him sometime."

Cox waited until Gaspar's credentials were verified, then remembered some pressing duty aboard ship and stalked from the shack.

The policemen were more cordial, and before they left, expressed their sympathy for Orient's ordeal.

"Well, you sure been through the grinder these days," one of them clucked. "Guess you'll be glad to get back home."

The contented bubble enclosing Orient's awareness burst, snuffing out the brief flicker of peace he'd held.

Stunned by the swiftness of the loss, he stared dumbly at the man's face, thoughts and emotions tumbling into emptiness.

He grabbed for his composure and smiled.

"Always nice to get back," he agreed. But the words were as empty as the gap in his soul as he fathomed that he'd sacrificed all title to a place called home.

The master took every precaution to ensure Orient's safety and comfort. He first installed Orient in a spacious secluded beach house, then went to work obtaining a new identity for him.

Orient learned something about the mechanics of true power from the old man. As a humble restroom attendant he attracted little notice; but between his activities as a minor bookie and high priest of a devoted Lecumi congregation, Gaspar had access to a wide range of connections. He conducted his affairs quietly, dealing mainly with an obscure circuit of secretaries, clerks, and assistants whose functions were indispensable to the wheels of influence.

In less than a month Gaspar provided him with a new birth certificate, driver's license, and passport. He also gave him a healthy bankbook and a small stack of plump white envelopes to go with the documents.

"Don't worry about the money," the old man warned sternly. "You sure earned it. The brothers and sisters of our church are always ready to support a worthy cause."

He gestured toward the stack of envelopes.

"Those are some references from a few of my fancy friends -- dentists, lawyers, all good solid people. They'll help, if you need to find a job somewhere. Still, I don't know why you have to go anywhere. You can stay here indefinitely. We can even set up a laboratory and continue research on psychic techniques. Probably get some interesting results working together."

Orient declined the offer reluctantly. He'd entertained similar hopes until he'd perceived that they were a pleasant illusion.

"I know too many people in Florida." He sighed. "Sooner or later, Mojo's old cronies or some CIA hawkeye will recognize me. And when that happens, you and your good friends might be harmed. If I'm tagged, it would endanger your work as well. Best for everybody if I keep moving. I'll find some remote spot where I can continue the telepathic experiments without risking exposure. But before I leave, there are two last favors I'd like done."

Gaspar's warm gray eyes darkened with curiosity. "Of course; tell me what you want."

"There's a very good woman who must be getting worried about what happened to me. Her name's Bella Fein, and she owns a store in Miami. Get in touch with her for me. Just tell her I ran away to get married. That should please her. If she needs any help, take care of her."

The old man smiled. "It's as good as done, little brother. What else would you like me to do?"

Orient glanced away. "The girl I told you about. Royce. Her real name's Felicita Regin. I don't want to leave here until I know what they did with her body."

Gaspar's smile became heavy as he absorbed the bitter need straining Orient's voice. He reached out a tentative withered hand, but let it drop before it touched Orient's shoulder. "We'll do our best."

A month of anxious waiting slipped by before Gaspar's network came up with some leads. It was another two weeks before they made a positive identification of Royce from photographs filed in a small town morgue miles from Miami. Her body had been found beside a dirt road near a swamp area. The autopsy report attributed her death to a poisonous snakebite. Lacking identification, she'd been buried in a numbered grave.

Through the intervention of some influential friends, Gaspar obtained clearance to transfer Royce's body to a private plot.

After she was settled, Orient visited the site.

The thread of loneliness stitching his memory was eased by the sight of the tree-shaded grounds and the marble headstone marking her real name, as if the distance between them had somehow been diminished. He lingered long enough to scatter some yellow roses and seashells over her grave, then drove directly from the cemetery to a highway heading west.

------------------

Content

Frank Lauria
The Priestess

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25