Stephen Brust - The Gypsy

Stepovich went for two more Becks, and when he sat down, Ed asked, "You want I should look into it a little?"

"How?"

"Turn over a few rocks, shake out a few people who used to know things for me. Ask some tactless questions in ways you aren't allowed to ask them. You know."

Stepovich did know. "I don't want you getting your ass in a crack over this," he said.

Ed snorted. "Give me a little credit. But here's the deal. I shake out what you want, then you take a week off and we go fishing. Right?"

"Okay," Stepovich conceded. Some part of him felt relieved, and another part of him felt ashamed to have dragged Ed into this. Over what. Over a bad dream and a peculiar feeling.

"Feeling guilty?" Ed read him, and Stepovich nodded sheepishly.

"Good." Ed grinned wickedly. "We can spend the rest of the day adjusting my automatically adjusting dimmers."

I got no home I can go back to,

I got no one to call a friend.

I can't find the place I started.

I can only guess how it will end.

"HIDE MY TRACK"

They almost caught you, said the Voice. They almost caught you, and now they're closing in.

Timothy moaned and rolled over, pushed damp sheets away from him, and pounded his fist into the pillow. The Voice didn't go away, though; it never did. They almost caught you, it repeated. He sobbed.

Tim, it said. Timothy. Little Timmy.

"No!" he cried. He hated being called Little Timmy. He'd always hated that. Little Timmy got pushed around. Little Timmy got beat up, and, most of all. Little Timmy got laughed at.

Little Timmy, said the Voice.

He sat up and cried to the air, not caring by this time if the whole building heard him. "If they catch me it's your fault. You said you'd protect me, damn you."

There was a pause, but then the voice inside his skull answered him. Damn me? it said. How redundant.Timmy felt a shudder go through him, and, more than anything else, he wanted to be away. But it wouldn't let him go. I disguised you, Timothy. I made you look like someone else, and the police caught him, but he escaped.You were almost found three days ago, Timothy, but I protected you. So you see-

"You did that?" he spoke to the walls, and there was hysteria in his voice. "I did that. You made me kill an old woman who had never-"

Shush, Timothy. You tire me. Yes, you killed her, but what took you so long? Was she too strong for you? If you had killed her quickly, they wouldn't be after you. But I acted to protect you. Now 1 will act again. It is time for you to get up and go out. It is no longer enough to count on your police, Timothy. You must act yourself.

He sat on the bed and looked at his hands. There was a power there, as there was a power in the Voice. His stomach churned once more as he thought of the old woman, her eyes bright with anger and pride and hate, and he felt the fear in his bowels as she had struck the gun from his hand, and then he'd been holding a knife, and where had it come from? And where did it go?

"What must I do?" he said.

The knife has fallen from our hands, and we could not use it against him in any case. You must get your gun. I will tell you what to do with it.

He still sat at the edge of the bed and stared at his hands, "Why are you doing this to me?" he asked.

To his surprise, she answered.

Because I can. Little Timmy.

I keep finding hands to help me with the load

So I'll keep walking further up this road.

"UP THE ROAD"

Early morning: Cigany sat cross-legged in his hidey-hole beneath the overpass and stared at his knife. It would need to be cleaned, he. knew, before he could fully trust it again. Until it was, it could draw the Fair Lady to him, and who knew what form the attack would take? He was not invulnerable, he knew that.He had lived a long time because of his wits, and skill, and luck, but now the Fair Lady had seen him,and he Her, and the battle was joined in earnest, and he knew that She had the power to destroy him if he wasn't careful.

Death didn't frighten him, but the idea that he could die after all of those forgotten years, and all of that heartache and pain; this was not to be borne.

As he stood up, the sun's rays struck him across the face, and he shuddered, knowing that today someone would try to kill him. He made the sign of the cross in the air and looked around for a piece of wood to touch. There were none, so he picked up some gravel and threw it in front of him saying, "May my road be higher than the river and lower than the sun, and may my feet find a safe way home."

He brushed his hands on his shirt and set off, keeping to alleys as much as possible, always staying alert for the police. As he walked he found a clothing store and stole a snakeskin belt (the only snakeskin he could find), pulled a twig from a hazel tree, and begged a small quantity of holy water from a confused priest. He drank a bowl of tasteless soup and a cup of weak coffee at a Howard Johnson's, then continued to forage. As he walked, his vision began to blur, and he felt his headache coming back. He took the piece of paper out of his pocket and tried to remember how the scribbling on it could cure the headache, but it was no good- He laughed grimly to himself. "When my head doesn't hurt," he thought,"I don't think of it, and when it does, I can't read it." He took wheat flour from a grocery store and a white candle from a pharmacy. He took a piece of bark from an oak, and, with the knife, scratched designs of the moon and the stars on the bark.

Armed with these things, he made his way back to his place beneath the overpass and waited for the rising of the full moon of autumn.

They said. "Why are you here?"

I said, "I'm doing time,

'Cause I'm willing to break laws

But I won't commit no crime."

"NO PASSENGER"

It was humiliating to be a coachman and to be forced to ride in a cab; a humiliation only partly alleviated by riding up front, with the driver. Sometimes they wouldn't let you do that, but this man, big and burly like an innkeeper and gnarled like a peasant woman,didn't seem to mind. His nod was an implied shrug,and as the Coachman settled into place he said, "Whereto?"

"The bus station," he said. More humiliations in store.

The cab pulled away. "Meeting someone?"

"No, going somewhere."

The driver frowned for a moment then shrugged. The lack of luggage probably puzzled him. He said,"Where ya going?"

"I'm looking for birds," he said, only coming to realize it as the words were spoken.

"Birds?"

"I have to find a Raven and an Owl before the Dove kills himself."

The driver cleared his throat and twitched nervously, obviously having second thoughts about having this wacko in the front seat "Whatever you say,buddy," he finally said. They spoke no more during the journey.

My partner doesn't even know my name.

If he did I think I'd hate him

Just the same.

"STEPDOWN"

Stepovich wished he were driving. Durand always talked while he drove, and flapped his right hand at Stepovich, as if that were an essential part of talking.

"So the lab guy says, 'Yeah, that bastard drove that knife into her like he was trying to shove it clear to China, but that wasn't the weirdest part of it, though,'so I says, 'Oh, yeah,' kind of casual, and he says,'No, the weirdest part was the wound configuration.I didn't know what the hell it was, I thought maybe the killer had a defective knife or something, but one of the older guys, he looks at it and says, hey, will you look at the hilt impressions on this wound?' "