The Anubis Gates

Doyle found that he could still speak clearly if he spoke slowly and chose his words as carefully as a golfer selecting the right iron to use for a difficult stroke. “Rebecca also had her head broken,” he told the gypsy. “In spite of the helmet—the helmet broke too—she hit a freeway pillar head-first. I was riding, she was behind.” The gypsy nodded sympathetically. “We were on an old 450 Honda, and the streets were too wet to ride on if you were carrying a passenger. I even knew that then, but we were in a hurry and, hell, she had on a helmet, and I’d been riding bikes for years. I was changing lanes, ‘cause when you get onto the Santa Ana Freeway from Beach Boulevard you wind up in the fast lane, and I wanted to get to a slower one; and as I leaned it to the right and went across those lane divider bumps I felt the bike… shift sideways. Horrible sensation, like an earthquake, you know? A … deadly and unexpected motion. And the old 450’s were top-heavy anyway, with those overhead cams, and it—just—went—down.” He swallowed a massive gulp of beer. “Rebecca tumbled off to the right and I slid on straight ahead. Burned my leather jacket paper-thin on the pavement—if it had been dry it would have sanded me down to the bare ribs. The cars all managed to stop without running over me, and I got to my feet and hopped back—I’d broken my ankle, among other things—back to where she was. Her… head was—”

He was pulled out of his memories by the clink of the pitcher-lip on the rim of his glass. “No need to say it,” said Richard, lifting the pitcher away when the glass was full again. “I too saw what you saw.” He raised his own glass. “Here’s to Rebecca and Bessie.”

“May they rest in peace,” said Doyle.

When the glasses had clunked to the table again Damnable Richard stared hard at Doyle. “You’re not a sorcerer, are you?”

“God, I wish I was.”

“Somebody you were with must have been, though—I saw the two carriages disappear from that field like fleas from the back of your hand.”

Doyle nodded morosely. “Yes. Left without me.”

The gypsy got to his feet and threw a sovereign onto the table. “Take that,” he said. “I’ll tell them I took off chasing a chal that I thought was you, and knocked him down, but it was the wrong man and I had to buy him a drink to keep him from going to the prastamengros.” He turned to leave.

“You’re—” Doyle blurted. The gypsy paused and gave him an unreadable stare. “You’re letting me go? After only having a drink with me?” He knew he should just shut up, but he felt he couldn’t live with this mystery. “Did you think my offer to make you rich was a bluff?”

“It’s you gorgios that are stupid,” said Damnable Richard. He smiled, turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

The candle flickered out in a puddle of melted wax—the auction was over. The winner stood up to deal with the paperwork, looking a little more surprised than pleased that his last bid had been the last of all. Doyle glanced at the clock, and felt a tiny cold quiver in his chest—it was thirty-five minutes after ten. His glance darted around the room, but there was no giant blond man present, with or without the fierce beard Ashbless was evidently never without. Damn it, Doyle thought; the son of a bitch is late. Could I have missed him during the last few minutes? No, he’s not supposed to just duck in and out; he’s supposed to sit down and write the damned “Twelve Hours of the Night.” That’s what, a couple of hundred lines long?