The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,546

full of conviction, that it poisoned him. He hurried with the packing. And when at last he was finished, he cleaned up, threw the trash down the steps, took the box of ornaments with him, and closed up the attic for the last time.

The rain had slacked by the time he reached the Eighteenth Street post office. He’d forgotten what it meant to crawl through this dense traffic, to move perpetually among crowds on grim, narrow, treeless streets. Even the Castro, which he had always loved, seemed dismal to him in the late afternoon rush.

He stood in line too long to mail the box, bristled at the routine indifference of the clerk—an abruptness he had not once encountered in the South since his return—and then hurried off in the icy wind, towards his shop up on Castro.

She wouldn’t lie to him. She wouldn’t. The thing was playing its old game. Yet why that visitation on that long-ago Christmas? Why that face, beaming at him over the crib? Hell, maybe it meant nothing.

After all, he had seen the man that unforgettable night when he first heard the music of Isaac Stern. He had seen the man a hundred times when he walked on First Street.

But he couldn’t stand this panic. As soon as he reached the shop and had locked the door behind him, he picked up the phone and dialed Rowan.

No answer. It was midafternoon in New Orleans, and it was cold there, too. Maybe she’d taken a nap. He let it ring fifteen times before he gave up.

He looked around. So much work still to be done. The entire collection of brass bath fixtures had to be disposed of, and what about the various stained-glass windows stacked against the back wall? Why the hell didn’t the thief who broke in steal this stuff!

At last he decided to box up the papers in the desk, trash and all. No time to sort things. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and began to shove the manila folders into the cardboard cartons. But no matter how quickly he worked, he knew he wouldn’t get out of San Francisco for another week at best.

It was eight o’clock when he finally quit, and the streets were wet still from the rain, and crowded with the inevitable Friday night foot traffic. The lighted shopfronts looked cheerful to him, and he even liked the music thundering out of the gay bars. Yeah, he did now and then miss this bustle of the big city, that he had to admit. He missed the gay community of Castro Street and the tolerance of which its presence was proof.

But he was too tired to think much about it, and with his head bowed against the wind, he pushed his way uphill to where he’d left his car. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he saw—both front tires were gone off the old sedan, and the trunk was popped, and that was his goddamned jack under the front bumper.

“Rotten bastards,” he whispered, stepping out of the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk. “This couldn’t be worse if somebody had planned it.”

Planned it.

Someone brushed his shoulder. “Eh bien, Monsieur, another little disaster.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” he muttered under his breath, not even bothering to look up, and barely noticing the French accent.

“Very bad luck, Monsieur, you’re right. Maybe somebody did plan it.”

“Yeah, that’s just what I was thinking myself,” he said with a little start.

“Go home, Monsieur. That’s where you’re needed.”

“Hey!”

He turned, but the figure was already traveling on. Glimpse of white hair. In fact, the crowd had almost swallowed him. All Michael saw was the back of his head moving swiftly away and what looked like a dark suit coat.

He rushed after the man.

“Hey!” he shouted again. But as he reached the corner of Eighteenth and Castro, he couldn’t see the guy anywhere. People streamed across the intersection. And the rain had started up again. The bus, just pulling away from the curb, gave a belch of black diesel smoke.

Despairing, Michael’s eyes passed indifferently over the bus, as he turned to retrace his steps, and only by chance did he see in a flash through the back window a familiar face staring back at him. Black eyes, white hair.

… with the simplest and the oldest tools at your command, for through these you can win, even when it seems the odds are impossible …

“Julien!”

… unable to believe your senses, but trust what you know to be the