The Anubis Gates

“Oh, sure, there’s even a song about ‘em. ‘And the Spoonsize Boys steal the dollhouse toys when the cat by the fire is curled, then away they floats in their eggshell boats down the drains to the underground world.’ Goes on and on, blaming all sorts of things on ‘em. People say Horrabin made the creatures—and the things certainly seemed to be obeying him tonight, marking your location all the time. They say he made a bargain with the devil to learn how.”

Doyle’s eyes widened as a thought struck him. “Did you ever see his Punch show?”

“Of course. He is damned clev—oh! Yes… yes, I daresay you’re right. Good God. But the Punch puppets are bigger.”

“The pocketsize boys.”

“And here I was admiring his puppet-working skill.” Jacky picked up the oar and began rowing again. “Better keep moving—he wants you badly.”

“The way everybody was shooting at me—us—it looked like they just wanted me dead. You saved my life, Jacky. How’s your leg?”

“Oh, it stings, but it just tore across the surface. He shot at me three times while you were underwater and I was throwing the net over your little escorts. First time in my life I’ve been shot at. Don’t like it.”

Doyle was shivering. “I don’t like it either. Horrabin’s shot missed my eye by maybe an inch.”

“Well… that’s why I had to row out and get you. You see, it wasn’t Horrabin that shot at you. He knew who you were. It was me.”

Doyle’s first impulse was to get angry, but the sight of Jacky’s wound extinguished it. “Who did you—and Doctor Romany, I guess—think I was?”

Jacky rowed in silence for a few moments, then answered reluctantly, “I guess at this point you’ve earned the right to hear the story. We thought you were a man known as Dog-Face Joe. He—”

“Dog-Face Joe? The murderer who’s supposed to be a werewolf?” He could see Jacky’s eyes widen in surprise. “Who could have told you about him?”

“Oh, I’m just a good listener. So what have you or Romany got against him?”

“He killed a friend of mine. Hell. He—he tricked me into killing a friend of mine. He—I’ve never… talked to anyone about this, Doyle. Not this part of it. God damn it all anyway. You’ve read Colin Lepovre’s poetry—well, Colin was … a close friend, and… do you know how Dog-Face Joe stays alive?”

“I heard he could switch bodies with people.”

“You do know lots more than you let on, Doyle. I wouldn’t have thought there were a half-dozen people in London who knew that. Yes, that’s what he does. I don’t know how, but he can switch with anyone he can manage to spend some time with. And he has to do it fairly frequently, because as soon as he gets into a new body it starts to grow fur… all over it. So after a few days it’s a choice of shave his whole body or go find a fresh one.” Jacky took a deep breath. “Last year he took Colin’s. I think Dog-Face Joe must have poisoned the old body just before he left it. Colin came to me, evidently in great pain”—Jacky’s voice was clearly being controlled only with great effort, and though he was staring toward the dome of St. Paul’s, Doyle could see peripherally the sheen of tears on the youthful cheek—”and it was in the middle of the night. I was in my parents’ house, reading, when he opened the door and hurried toward me, groaning like, I don’t know, a big dog or something, and he was bleeding terribly from the mouth. Damn it, Doyle, he was in the cast-off body, the one Joe had just vacated, and it was covered with fur, like an ape! You understand me? In the middle of the goddamn night! How was I to … possibly… know it was Colin? God damn it to hell?”

“Jacky,” said Doyle helplessly, baffled by the impossible story but recognizing genuine suffering. “You couldn’t have known.”