"What?" Stepovich demanded.

Daniel's eyes shone brighter than the passing street lights could account for. His hands floated up as if to the signal of an unseen maestro. He began to mime the playing of a fiddle-mimed it with such uncanny precision that Stepovich could almost hear the eerie music drawn forth from the unseen strings.

Neither Durand nor Ed heard anything, judging by their expressions. Ed eased the Caddy to a stop at a red light at Pine. "Maybe that hit on the head," he muttered to Stepovich, sotto voce. Stepovich shrugged, and turned to stare ahead into the night street and the sparse cross traffic.

The light was just ready to turn, Ed was already letting the Caddy creep forward when every hair on Stepovich's body came to attention. Later it would seem to him that first his hide prickled, and then the four black horses drawing the midnight coach came out of the night and crossed their path. Sixteen hooves rose and fell in perfect cadence, high spoked wheels turned soundlessly against black asphalt.

There was no coachman on the box.

"Follow it," Stepovich whispered.

The Caddy didn't move. Stepovich glanced over at Ed, transfixed behind the wheel. "Follow it!" he bellowed, and the big car surged suddenly forward and took a hard left.

"Shit, oh shit," Durand whispered. Stepovich spared him a glance. The kid's eyes were as big as saucers. Daniel was oblivious, playing his invisible instrument faster now. He was smiling through the tears that tracked his face, leaning forward, swaying raptly to his silent music. When Stepovich turned back, the solid black of the coach was still there, but harder to see. It was visible mostly as a shape that blotted out oncoming traffic, storefronts and street signs. The coach was pulling away from them. There was a dim lantern fixed to the back of the coach, and they followed this more than the coach itself.

"Damnit, no horses are going to outpace me," Ed declared, and pushed down on the gas. The heavy car surged forward, and the coach lantern grew. Just as the black coach began to take on details, it turned out of sight. Ed cursed, and gave the Caddy more gas, and took the corner at a speed that pressed Stepovich up against the door. But the coach was moving up the hill at an impossibly smooth fast pace,turning another comer almost as soon as they sighted it. Ed spun loose gravel following it, and was barely in time to see the lantern wink around another corner as the coach turned uphill once more, on Park, passing back under I-79. Other cars went by, but none slowed down; it was as if only they could see the damn thing, which, all things considered, wasn't unlikely.

Ed floored it, sliding the big car through the turn.Daniel swayed, but never ceased playing. Suddenly,the lantern was stationary in front of them. Ed hit the brakes, throwing them all forward, to a chorus of "Jeez, Ed!" from Durand and the steady low, "Watch it, watch it, watch it!" from Stepovich as he braced against the dash.

The Caddy's tires screeched as they slid helplessly forward. All three cops braced for a collision with a coach that was suddenly not there. In front of them,the night flapped like a sheet on a laundry line, and then was still.

"Which way?" Ed demanded angrily of the empty street. But Daniel abruptly stopped playing his invisible instrument, and flung open the door of the Caddy, narrowly missing the pole of the bus-stop sign.

"Help me with him!" he commanded over his shoulder, and then was down on one knee beside a slumped figure on the bench inside the bus shelter.

Durand, Ed and Stepovich exchanged uneasy glances as the Coachman lifted his head slowly and put one hand on Daniel's shoulder. He didn't try to rise, but waited. Finally Stepovich said, "Well, nothing to be afraid of," and moved to open his door. But Durand was already sliding across the back seat and out. Ed and Stepovich watched him crouch slightly to allow the Coachman to get a good grip on his shoulder.

"How many gypsies am I supposed to fit in this Cadillac?" Ed demanded of the night, and Stepovich asked, "That an ethnic joke?" as Durand and Daniel eased the Coachman into the car.

"Nem cigdny vagyok," muttered the Coachman, almost too quietly for anyone to hear.

"What's that mean?" demanded Ed, turning to watch them.

"He said he's not a gypsy," said Daniel.

"He looks like shit," Ed observed congenially."Take him to the hospital?"

"I don't think so," Daniel replied.

"No," said the Coachman, breathing out pain with the word. He drew another ragged breath and gingerly rearranged himself on the seat. "I just got out of there."

"What's wrong with him?" Durand demanded as he got in his side of the car.

The Coachman turned his head to look at Daniel as he and Durand settled into the car on either side.Whatever passed between them seemed to reassure him. He said, "I was bitten by a snake, crushed by a horse with five legs, and gored by a bull with three horns. Of course," he added, "You might see it differently."

"You been gut shot, haven't you?" said Stepovich. It was all coming together for him.

"I knew you'd see it differently," agreed the Coachman.

"Gut shot?" Durand demanded, and again Stepovich sighed, wishing he'd just let the man talk. "Earlier today, at Madam Moria's place?"

The Coachman nodded. The soft cushioning of the seat and the warmth of the Caddy's heater seemed to be reviving him.

"Who did it?" Durand demanded again.

The Coachman shrugged, an elaborately careful gesture. "One of the Fair Lady's tools. If he has a name, I don't know it. After he's been with Her a little longer, neither will he. Those She takes, She takes all from."

"Let me guess," said Durand. "This particular tool was five feet, six inches tall, one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pounds, had short reddish hair, a long face, snub nose with a few freckles, blue eyes set close together, a high forehead. He seemed nervous, and he licked his lips a lot."

Now everyone was staring at Durand, who was staring at the Coachman.

The Coachman said. "Yes. Like that."

Stepovich frowned, "how the hell-?"

Durand smiled. "That's the revised description of the killer in the liquor store holdup. I mentioned that to you."

"I remember."

"I told you I wasn't as stupid as you thought I was."

"Timmy," said Stepovich suddenly.

"Huh?" said Durand.

"His name is Timmy. It must be."

The Coachman nodded. "Of course. The little boy."

"It all fits," said Stepovich. He shifted uneasily in his seat, caught Ed looking at him, but looked away."God, this is weird," he breathed.

"You wanna explain it to me?" Ed offered quietly.

"I don't think I can," Stepovich said. "But our friend Csucskari seems to be off the hook. On one count, anyway."

"Sure," Durand agreed. "Now it's only escaping custody, and the possible murder of the old gypsy woman."

"You like him for the gypsy?" asked Stepovich,watching Durand closely.

"Huh? Of course not. But he's still wanted for it. We can't change that."

Stepovich nodded unhappily. "What next then?"he asked of no one in particular.

"I think," said Daniel carefully, "that we should find this Madam Moria, and that we should not waste time doing it."

The Coachman nodded. "Driver?" He leaned forward slightly and addressed the word to Ed as if it were a title. "You'd best do as he says. Don't spare the horses, for whatever will happen, it won't wait for any of us."

Ed nodded curtly and pulled away from the curb. The leap of the Caddy as he fed the big car gas pressed them all back in their seats, and made the Coachman smile. Stepovich marked how he held his hands in his lap, fingers lightly curled but empty, as if unseen reins rested in his hands.