"It's all right," Baribeau said, behind her, lugging his big, black leather case up the stairs. "Whoever was here is gone now."

      Alison rapped on the door. "Joey! Are you in there? It's me, Alison!"

      No answer. She turned the knob, and the door swung open. Poking her head in cautiously, she called again, knowing it was useless. "Joey?"

      Baribeau pushed past her, impatient to survey the apartment. He dropped his bag and stopped. "My God," he said. "They ransacked the place."

      Alison stepped in and shut the door behind her, slapping the deadbolt home. She studied the jumble of furniture, newspapers, books, clothes, soda cans and food wrappers strewn across the floor. Despite the tightness in her gut, she smiled to herself. "Not necessarily."

      Baribeau inspected the bedroom. "The window's wide open, and there's a big set of muddy footprints leading from the fire escape," he said. "It doesn't look as if your friend left willingly."

      Alison knew then that it was real. Joey wasn't just out on one his strange Spelvin errands. He was in real trouble, bad trouble.

      "What should we do?" she said, hugging herself even though she wasn't the least bit cold. "Call the police?"

      Baribeau came back into the living room. He crouched and opened his black bag. "I doubt there is much they can do, except get in the way. At this point, it is up to me."

      "What are you going to do?"

      Baribeau took from the bag an interesting assortment of paraphernalia: rattles, gourds, scrolls of paper, colored bottles filled with liquids and powders, mysterious pill-boxes and sachets. He stood and carried the items to the kitchen table, sweeping clear a suitable work area. He said, "First I will make this apartment safe. Then I will entreat the loas to help your friend."

      The hungan unrolled one tube of paper and pinned it to the wall. Unstoppering a bottle, he poured some of its contents into half a coconut shell. From the pill-box he took two shards of bone and, arranging them in the shape of a cross and threading a wick around them, floated them in the oil.

      As Baribeau dimmmed the lights and struck a match, Alison wandered over to read the paper tacked to the wall. The carelessly scrawled writing on it looked to be in a bastardized form of French. Alison could not decipher it.

      Baribeau picked up the now-blazing lamp and bowed with it in four directions. His lips formed a silent entreaty. He set the shell down and shook a rattle over it a few times.

      Apparently satisfied, Baribeau turned to Alison and said, "The charm lamp, the prayer scroll and your amulet should provide sufficient protection while you wait here."

      "Where are you going?"

      "Into the other room, where I must perform certain rites best done alone. I would much prefer to perform them at my private altar, but there's no time to waste."

      "What should I do?"

      "Pray for Joey. If you hear noises from the bedroom as if something has gone wrong, walk out the front door without looking back."

      Baribeau took his satchel and shut himself in Joey's bedroom. Restless and scared, Alison roamed the kitchen and living room, idly picking up trash from the floor and furniture. When she saw how fruitless that task was, she set herself down in front of the television set and Joey's videotape library. Not surprisingly, the tapes were the only thing in the room in order, catalogued meticulously in a computer print-out ledger.

      Most of the library consisted of low-budget horror flicks, and tonight those held no appeal whatsoever. But Joey also stocked a number of classic black-and-white comedies. She popped Animal Crackers into the VCR. She kept the volume loud enough to camouflage her footsteps as she walked to the bedroom door and pressed her ear against it.

      While everyone on the screen sang "Hooray for Captain Spaulding," Alison heard chanting from within the bedroom. The smell of pungent incense crept out from under the door.

      Baribeau called, "Go back and sit down, Alison."

      This time she did as she was told. She turned off the television and stared at its blank screen.

      How simple everything had been before Joey brought her that goddamn Razor Cut. Her life hadn't been perfect, but it hadn't been particularly complicated, either. She'd liked her job. Despite the strains of law school, she'd been happy enough with Brad. Now she was in the middle of something she did not understand at all.       It could be worse, Alison supposed. She could be Joey. She wondered where the hell he could be, what could be happening to him. Was she right to trust a stranger like Claude Baribeau, who believed he talked to gods and worked magic with rattles, beads and drums? Wasn't there some way the police could help?

      The incense and Baribeau's sing-song voice combined to act as a powerful soporific. The night was charged with tension, but the day had been long and hard. Alison found her eyes closing and her head bobbing forward. She fought the drowsiness for a time, but eventually she let sleep take her.

      Cold alcohol splashed his face, and the shock of it brought Joey to his senses. After wiping the stinging clairin from his eyes, him received a second surprise.

      Somewhere back aways, while Concasseur was slicing Tiffany's wrist open, the car had turned onto Fell Street, heading into Golden Gate Park. His eyes free of tears at last, Joey found that he was no longer riding in a luxurious limousine. Concasseur, Tiffany and he sat in the rear of a jeep, the top down. Night wind whipped through his hair as they raced along a dusty dirt road beneath a canopy of jungle trees.       He looked at Concasseur. Concasseur only smiled. He looked at Tiffany. She merely stared back while she pressed Concasseur's handkerchief to her injured wrist.

      Smoked glass no longer separated driver and passengers. Joey could see who was at the wheel. The man who chauffered Concasseur to the Hot Spot had been white. A black man now drove the jeep, a black man wearing a top hat, a black leather vest and a chain around his neck. Beside him sat the Walkman.

      The man from Tower Records peered into the rear view mirror, tipped his hat and said, "What did I tell you, man? Sooner than you thought, right?" He laughed, his broad shoulders shaking with merriment.

      Was this all a hallucination? The wind in his hair felt real enough. The temperature had risen twenty or thirty degrees, making Joey sweat until his shirt stuck to his body. The air smelled thick with oxygen and rot. The jeep bumped and rattled convincingly as it made its way along the rutted road.

      Concasseur said, "It is real enough, Joseph. It cannot hurt you unless you let it. Stay calm."

      In the road, about a hundred yards in front of their vehicle, marched a column of red-robed figures. On their heads, most wore crowns of flickering candles. Some wore horns fashioned out of tin cans; others prefered conical straw hats. The throng included both men and women.

      An odd clacking sound ricocheted through the night. Joey saw the men at the back of the column clap stones together. The column marched to the beat.

      "Who are they?" Joey said.

      "The Zobop. Members of a secret society of magicians."

      Zobop. Mr. Top Hat had warned him about them at the record store.

      The jeep slowly gained on the procession. The column split in two, men and women on either side moving out of the way to let them pass. When the car reached the center of the column, the marchers closed ranks behind them. They were surrounded by red robed figures.

      A man alongside the jeep turned suddenly and cracked a whip at Tiffany. The tip of its missed her nose by inches. She didn't seem to notice, but Joey jerked back violently, nearly toppling backwards into the road. Concasseur steadied him. From the front seat, the Walkman giggled.

      They drove for what seemed like miles. At one point, the column marched through a village where no other people walked the streets. Joey saw a small child toddle out of a dark hut to stare wide-eyed at the awesome parade. A woman, eyes wide not with awe but stark terror, screamed as she ran out, snatched up the child and fled back inside to safety.

      The procession came to a crossroads and halted. Someone at the front, whom Joey could not see, shouted gibberish into the night. Concasseur said, "He is praying to Papa Legba, the Master of the Crossroads. Legba must remove the barrier, so that we may pass through."

      Joey nodded as if he understood everything completely. The column moved on.

      If things had been strange before, the weirdness factor suddenly tripled upon their departure from the crossroads. Joey saw the robe of one of the marchers begin to twitch oddly, as if the muscles in the man's back had begun to spasm. There came the sound of ripping fabric, and a pair of grey, leathery wings sprouted from the celebrant's spine. The creature shed its tattered robe, turned its bat-face toward Joey, and emitted an ear-splitting shriek.

      Bad drugs. He had to have been given bad drugs. An aerosol or a contact poison. This horror show had to be all in his head.

      But no matter how hard he tried, he could not convince himself that were he to leap out of the car, he would find himself in Golden Gate Park and not on a dusty road in Haiti.

      More marchers underwent bizarre metamorphoses. As Joey watched, the skin of an attractive red-haired woman turned brown and scaly. Her nose flattened down to two small slits, and she tasted the air with a blue, forked tongue. Behind her, a marcher with the face of a wolf turned toward Joey and snarled.

      Joey spotted the jeep's destination. A cemetery.       Mr. Top Hat steered the jeep through the narrow gate of the graveyard. The marchers in front of them got out of the way and let them pass. At a huge tomb topped by a gigantic cross, the driver turned the vehicle around to face the mob. He shut off the motor and extinguished the headlights.

      The candles the celebrants bore flickered in the breeze, casting strange shadows across their human and non-human faces. The Zobop stood silently for a moment and then began to clash their rocks together again. They chanted a song that raised gooseflesh the entire length of Joey's body.

      The driver climbed out of the jeep. He doffed his hat to the crowd, which responded by cheering and chanting even more loudly. The driver reached into his vest pocket and extracted a long, green cigar. He snapped his fingers and somehow produced a high, bright flame, which he used to light the cigar. He tipped his head back and puffed contentedly.

      Concasseur tugged on Joey's arm. "Step out of the car and follow me."

      Joey braced his feet against the front seats. "Uh uh."

      "Step out, or I shall have Delmore carry you out," Concasseur said, looking pointedly in the direction of the Walkman.

      Joey followed him out of the car. Tiffany and the Walkman also clambered down to the ground. They stood in front of the jeep. The man in the top hat capered around, turning somersaults and doing handstands. The hat never fell from his head.

      Joey stuck his thumbnail deep into his palm. He felt pain and saw blood well in the puncture. Not a dream.

      The driver executed a spectacular backflip. The crowd yelled its approval and then abruptly fell silent. In that instant, all sense of frivolity vanished from Mr. Top Hat's face. Looking as somber and stiff-backed as an undertaker, he walked up and stood at attention beside Joey.

      Concasseur raised his arms above his head and began to chant words utterly incomprehensible to Joey. For such an old man, his voice was remarkably clear and strong. Joey nervously shifted from foot to foot, wondering what the hell he should do.

      The bokor finished, lowered his arms and brought his face close to Joey's. Joey smelled a foul odor not quite covered by rum or wintergreen mints.

      "Come in?" said Concasseur. "Or go out?"

      A powerful hand clamped down on his head and turned it to the left. Mr. Top Hat whispered, "Come in or go out?"

      Tiffany stepped up and pressed herself against him. "Come in or go out?"

      "I don't know what you're talking about!"

      He pushed her away and looked frantically for some break in the crowd, some avenue of escape. There was none.

      A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head backwards. Joey yelped and would have struggled had the Walkman not pressed the blade of a straight razor against his neck. The same blade that had once sliced Tiffany's throat open.

      "Come in or go out, Joey?" the giant asked. There was no question what would happen if he refused to answer.

      Around him, the mob waited in tense silence. Every eye was on him. It felt as if the whole goddamn world was holding its breath in anticipation.

      "Ka-kak..." He swallowed the aborted word, mustered the will to try again.

      Lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder pealed loud enough to shake the very earth. The mob cowered and muttered, spooked like skittish horses. The Walkman dropped the razor.

      For the first time all evening, Concasseur lost control. The bokor gazed at the heavens with a bewildered expression on his nearly fleshless face. Suddenly, he shrieked and clutched at his temples. He crumpled to the ground and lay still for two dozen heartbeats.

      When Concasseur finally picked himself up, he moved slowly and awkwardly, as if slightly crippled. He walked a few steps towards the mob, dragging his left foot behind him at an odd angle. The celebrants retreated at his approach.

      The bokor lifted his arms and spoke in a strange, guttural voice, completely different from his usual manner of speech. "Legba has changed his mind. You shall not have the boy yet. He is not ready. The gate is closed!" With that, Concasseur clapped his hands together.

      Joey heard a tooth-jangling blast like a sonic boom and felt himself lifted bodily from the ground. A powerful wind bore him higher and higher into the air, away from the panicked congregation of magicians. He shut his eyes to fight a rising wave of vertigo.

      After many minutes, the cries and shouts of the voodoo marchers faded in the distance, replaced by the sounds of traffic. Cold rain splashed his face. Joey descended to the ground, landing in heap on the wet grass.

      He opened his eyes. He was back in the park, back in San Francisco. Just a few yards from where he lay, he could see cars moving along Lincoln Way. The sight of them spurred him back into action.

      With all of his strength, Joey ran towards the lights, towards safety, towards sanity.

      After a time, the sound of pouring rain woke her up. She opened her eyes and found Baribeau sitting in the chair across from her. He looked as exhausted as she felt. The television was off and the lights were out. The only illumination came from the charm lamp and through the water-spattered windows.

      She glanced at her watch. 2:30.

      Alison stretched and smoothed her mussed hair. "What happened, Claude? Did you have any luck?"

      The hungan rubbed his eyes and shrugged. "I asked Papa Legba to intercede on my behalf. Whether he will or not, I have no idea. Either way, I owe him many, many sacrifices."

      So that's what it came down to, huh? Going into a darkened room and making your pitch to the gods? It was all too strange for Alison, but she wished she could come up with a better alternative.

      She got up and looked in the refrigerator for something to wash away the stale taste in her mouth. The choices were diet raspberry soda or strong-smelling chocolate milk. She chose the soda. She offered one to Baribeau, but he declined.

      The hungan said, "Alison, may I ask how close you and Joey are?"

      A good question, one she didn't really have an answer for. "He's been popping in and out of my life ever since we met in junior high. Sometimes we're best buddies, but then we'll let six to ten months go by without getting together or even calling. He's smart and real funny, but after a while he wears out his welcome. Maybe he feels the same way about me. I guess our friendship works best in small doses."

      "Have you and he ever been lovers?"

      The question didn't offend her. "Never. He's not exactly my type." I prefer handsome, up-tight, insensitive assholes like dear, old Brad.

      Baribeau walked to the window and peered out. Liquid shadows played across his face. "Does Joey have family around here?"

      "As far as I can tell, his nearest blood relation is a great-uncle in Kansas. They're not what you'd call close."

      The hungan rested his rear end against the sill. "His parents are dead? No brothers or sisters?"

      "When Joey was fourteen, his two older brothers will killed while the family was on vacation."

      "What happened?"

      "I never really found out. Some sort of freak accident. Joey refuses to talk about it."

      "And the parents?"

      "They died in a car crash on the way home from Tom and Jeff's funeral."

      Baribeau's eyes widened. "Where was Joey?"

      "He ran away from home two days before the burial. No one saw him for another two years."

      A sharp knock on the door startled both Alison and Baribeau. The hungan sprang silently from the chair and tiptoed over to the door. He put his eye to the peephole.

      A hoarse voice called, "Hey! Hey! Anybody home?"

      Baribeau looked at Alison questioningly. She shook her head. The voice wasn't familiar.

      "Hey! Hey! It's me, Al! Joey needs help! Open up!"

      Baribeau opened the door. A sopping wet figure wearing ratty fatigues, torn sneakers and a 49ers souvenir cap shuffled in. The stranger regarded the hungan with evident distrust, but his smudgy features lit up when he spotted Alison.

      He pointed at her and exclaimed, "You! You're Joey's pretty friend! Oh, boy, he'll be happy to see you."

      Baribeau shut the door and said to Alison, "Do you know this man?"

      Alison had heard Joey mention some street person named Crazy Al. It seemed a little impolite to address the stranger as such, so she said to him, "Are you the guy who plays the organ in front of Woolworth's?"

      He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, yeah! Getting pretty good, too. But you gotta come with me. Joey's sick or something."

      Baribeau said, "Perhaps Legba answered my prayers after all."

      Crazy Al tugged on Alison's sleeve. "C'mon. C'mon. He needs you."

      Baribeau and Alison put on their rain-gear. After finding an umbrella in Joey's closet for Al, they set off through the night streets.

      Al led them on a tortuous tour through San Francisco's back alleys. Their path made so many twists and turns that Alison wondered whether Al truly knew where he was taking them. Eventually they came to a litter-strewn alleyway. A make-shift shelter wrought from packing crates, vinyl garbage bags and two scavenged wooden doors leaned precariously at the dead end.

      Al said, "Joey was talking real crazy when I found him. Said he was scared of going home, that one of those cassette tape players would come and get him."

      Baribeau and Alison looked at each other. The hungan said to Al, "Is Joey in there?"

      "Was when I left. I didn't want to leave him alone, but I figured he needed help right away."

      "You did good, Al."

      Alison poked her head into the funky-smelling space. She dimly saw a blanket-covered form huddled in one corner. "Joey? You in there? It's Alison."

      The thing in the corner wailed like a heartbroken banshee. It threw itself at her, knocking her back into the alley, clutching her tightly and sobbing wildly.

      Frightened at first, Alison pulled the blanket away from her assailant's face. It was Joey, black hair plastered to his head, skin paler than veal. He kept his eyes closed and hugged her until she almost couldn't breathe.

      Baribeau made a move to intervene, but Alison waved him away. She held Joey and let him cry as the night rain pelted down on them.