Gene Michaelis: Served his Navy hitch in the Mediterranean theater. Yes, Bruce had mentioned that. What might have happened during Gene's Italian shore leaves was an intriguing question.
Peter Michaelis: Gene's father, as embittered as he toward the Lombardi tribe.
Terry Larkin: No connection demonstrated, but it was quite possible in this land of many races.
"Holy Hieronymus," muttered Kintyre, "next thing I'll be looking for a Black Hand."
But melodramatic and implausible facts were still stubbornly facts.
He completed his task about noon, turned in the papers and reports, and got the Book of Witches from the department safe. He wanted a better acquaintance with this thing.
Bruce's office was too empty. He took the manuscript and the folder of notes to his own room. It was just as bare and quiet between these walls, but more familiar. He could look out the window to lawns and blowing trees and sunlight spilling over them—without thinking that Bruce lay frozen under a sheet.
He put the book on his desk with care. It was almost six hundred years old.
The phone rang. He jerked in surprise, swore at himself, and picked it up. "Hello?"
"Kintyre? Jabez Owens."