"What's this?"

"Oh, just that old case file from New Orleans- I promised Durand I'd have it by this morning, and then I missed him, but he said it was really for you anyway, so I guess I caught the right man after all,right?"

"Huh?" She'd lost him after her first few words,her voice dissolving into a chirpy cheerfulness. New Orleans. Durand. "Sure. Uh, thanks. Thanks."

"No problem, always glad to help a friend. Tell Durand I said hi. He's such a good kid, isn't he?"

"What? Uh, sure."

"Well, you're welcome. I hope it's what you're hoping for. And Step, no offense, but next time you need something, why don't you come yourself? Durand's a good kid, but he wasn't sure of the date, and he could hardly read your handwriting. Said it looked like you wrote it in the middle of the night. It would be easier for me if I got it straight from you. Speeds things up for all of us, right?"

"Aah, right. Yeah. Thanks again. Thanks." He went off down the hallway, muttering to himself. Forget the briefing, he was late anyway and he was sick of hearing about what new indignities the Basher had perpetrated on Exxon stations. He was trying to remember where he had left the scribbled notes from his conversation with Marilyn. Probably folded it up and stuffed it under the clay pencil pot Laurie had made for him when she was in kindergarten. That had always been his private, hands-off spot when he and Ed were partners. But somehow Durand had gotten the notes and gone asking for the files.

Another thing occurred to him: Ed had dropped Cynthia Kacmarcik's name last night, before he had mentioned it, and he was sure he hadn't told Ed the name of the murdered woman. Or had he?

He sat down at his desk and dropped the brown envelope in front of him. Then he slowly reached over and lifted the pencil pot. Nothing there. But maybe he hadn't left it there. Maybe he'd left it right out in the middle of the blotter, and the puppy had decided to be industrious. But forget that for now.

There wasn't much in the envelope. Fresh clean paper with long-dead facts on them. Teletype print, only it wasn't a Teletype anymore, was it? He scanned it hungrily. An August night, a card game that might have been rigged, and a dead man named Timothy DeCruz. And a great description of the killer, and two eye-witnesses, and they'd never managed to catch him. The knife even sounded familiar. There was a coroner's note about the unusual wound it left. But the killer himself had just vanished. Stepovich shuffled through redundant reports, found the eyewitness descriptions and read them slowly. The witnesses hadn't missed much. A knife scar that ran from under the left eye to just in front of the left ear. Discolored patch at left jaw hinge. Broken nose. Slight squint in left eye.

"It's him, isn't it?" Durand asked from behind. Stepovich spun to glare at him. Durand ignored it,reached past him to finger the description clear of the other papers. He picked it up. "It's our gypsy. Step. And the bastard hasn't aged a day since 1935."

"He's not a bastard," Stepovich corrected automatically. "He's a Dove."

A wanted man in New Orleans

Matches my description

Mister druggist please be kind enough

To refill my prescription.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

The Gypsy sat, for a time, in the eye of the storm. He could feel the tension around him-the Wolf beginning another day's hunt, a murderer who trembled with fear and tried not to touch the weapon with which he had killed before, another who rushed, desperate to save a life that had been unknown to him moments before, another who wrestled with temptation without understanding the stakes, another who tried to bring growth out of the pain of loss.

All of these, he knew, were connected to him. And he knew that he could help some of them, if he could only find them, but to find them might mean forgetting why he had sought them. He clung to his memories as a miser to a gold coin, and sat in the eye of the storm, waiting.

Two and a half miles away, a bartender woke up much earlier than he had to, since he wasn't on until the afternoon. He glowered at the clock and lay back thinking for a while. After a time, he decided that he'd procrastinated long enough; he had to either write the letter or not. A few minutes later he got up,showered, dressed, then sat down and wrote a short note to his daughter in which he said nothing about her revelation, but that he hoped to see her over Christmas break, and they could talk then. He put his coat on and walked out to the mailbox with it, before he changed his mind.

The Gypsy sat in the eye of the storm and smiled,though he didn't know why.

This city seems so cold,

And it isn't just the wind.

It would be easy to say

I'm here because I sinned;

Well I'm here because someday

Someone will need a ride,

And I'll throw away my drink and say

"The coach awaits outside."

"NO PASSENGER"

The Coachman paused at the threshold, and listenedlistened. Thean's voice was high-pitched and sharp as needles, and, as near as he could tell from just outside the door, held no trace of fear. He was in time, then. He waited for her to finish bilking this customer. It would be soon enough afterward, to go in and warn her that-

"So, it's you," she was saying. "I must say I'm surprised. I had expected some other of Her slaves."

There was another voice, but he couldn't make out the words. The old woman's voice came again. "Slave I said, and slave I meant. Or would worm be better?Madam Moria isn't afraid of worms. Now that I see you, I'm less afraid. How does She control you,worm? Does She promise you riches? Does She come to you in your dreams? In Voices out of the night? As a fire-oh. Voices, is it? Well, that shouldn't surprise me," More muttering that he couldn't make out,then, "Oh, and you have a nice shiny toy to play with? Well, get on with it. Madam Moria has friends on the other side she hasn't seen in years, and she'll have a good laugh with them about this. But don't think your mistress will be able to hold me like She's holding Cynthia. No. I've been ready for you since yesterday, and it's too late for that. Well, what are you waiting for? Shoot if you're going to."

The Coachman stepped into the room, as the skinny, short-haired man turned, holding a gun that looked as if it were too large for him. They stared at each other for a moment, then the man with the gun stepped back so he could watch both of them.

"Who are you?" snapped the old gypsy woman.

The gun began to tremble. The Coachman ignored the gunman. "Your servant, madam. Is this fellow troubling you?"

Something like amusement came into the old eyes,and she said, "Yes. See him out, will you?"

The gun trembled more. "I'll kill you both," stammered the gunman. "I have a gun."

"So I see," said the Coachman. He reached into his back pocket, slowly, smoothly, as if it was the most natural action in the world. "I have a knife."

He opened the Nevaja with a harsh, ratcheting sound. "I have learned something from all these gypsies, you know," he said. The blade was seven inches long, the handle of glittering steel with parts of the antler of the red deer worked into the grip. Blade and handle curved into a thin and wicked shape. The Coachman held it to the side, blade in and slightly up, and he waited. The gunman pressed his lips together and raised his pistol.