“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it-I just did it.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Eli muttered. Sherwood put her arms on the table and rested her head on them.

“Wow,” she said. “That took a lot out of me.”

We all made a show of splitting up the bill, which was our usual ritual, though pointless. Victor always offered to pay and we always let him. The man is rich, after all. Not just well-off-rich. And unlike many rich people, he’s a generous man. Victor has his share of flaws, but stinginess is not one of them. I’ll give him that.

Sherwood took a quick trip to the restroom, and Timothy reached over and picked up a section of newspaper that had been left at the adjacent table by a solitary diner.

“Look at this,” he said, pointing to the obituary section. “They’re holding a memorial for one of those hikers who was killed.”

“Or what was left of him,” Victor said. Timothy shot him a disapproving look.

“It’s sad,” he said, skimming a long article. “He was apparently quite a guy-an athlete, a musician, a top student with a bright future.” He pointed at the picture next to the text. “Cute guy, too. What a shame.”

I glanced over at the picture and did a double take. It showed a young man with curly hair, looking into the camera and smiling, his whole life ahead of him. The photo was black and white, but there was one thing about which I had no doubt. The last time I’d seen that mass of curly hair it had been died a brilliant, artificial red.

BACK HOME, I FOUND MYSELF IN AN ALL-TOO-FAMILIAR state of mind-being utterly baffled. What the hell was going on? Had the practitioner I’d followed been a doppleganger? Had our mysterious practitioner taken on the dead boy’s aspect as a disguise, and if so, why? There were a thousand people he could have picked to copy, and a thousand more faces that would be entirely made-up. Was it some bizarre sense of humor, or was it a deliberate challenge? He had led me into a trap where that creature waited, but why? And why was he stalking Ruby? And what was that creature anyway?

I couldn’t answer any of these questions, and Eli and Victor hadn’t been much better at coming up with a logical theory. Maybe it was time for a visit to someone who might be able to provide them-if he felt like it. Rolf. He wasn’t much for answering questions unless there was something in it for him, but he owed me. I’d helped him out when he was worried about Richard Cory-or at least I’d tried. Rolf was unpredictable; he might ignore my questions, but he might just as easily decide to answer them simply because it was a full moon on a Tuesday.

I called Sherwood and asked if she’d mind coming along. I was interested to see what her take would be about Rolf-I didn’t trust him much, although he’d never actually crossed me. Yet. And he had a fondness for good-looking women; that much was obvious by the way he’d reacted to Campbell. It might help make him more amenable, and every little edge helped.

I picked up Sherwood a little after dark and we headed down to his stomping grounds under the Bay Bridge. To Rolf, that was home. I think he was psychically drawn to the bridge, which was a good thing. It meant I didn’t have to search the city every time I wanted to talk with him. Of course, for all I knew he had a cell phone. It wouldn’t have surprised me.

The street in front was all parked up, but I found a spot a couple of blocks away. When we reached the gate I could see the faint glow of a small fire way in the back of the site, next to one of the massive bridge support pylons. I could barely make out three figures crouched around the fire. So Rolf had company. I didn’t want to go through the whole drill of climbing over the new gate, and I didn’t want to come up on the group unexpectedly in any case. Rolf was used to me, but his friends might not be.

I found a corner of the new wire mesh fence where the bottom didn’t quite meet the ground and pried it up a fraction, giving Lou just enough room to wriggle through.

“Tell Rolf he’s got company,” I said. “And be careful of those other guys.”

Lou gave a quick tail wag and was off. He didn’t look worried.

“Who exactly is this guy?” Sherwood asked.

“He used to be a practitioner, just like you or me. But over time, for reasons that Eli seems to get, but I don’t quite understand, he changed into something less human, something more like a magical creature.”

“You mean, like an Ifrit?”

“Not exactly. More like an archetype of some magical being-the stuff legends are made of. It’s something that’s been going on for years, centuries, probably. People eventually noticed, and made up folk tales about what they saw. Werewolves. Vampires. The fey. Rolf has friends even less human than he is. And there are still others, ones who have passed entirely over. They can be dangerous-I ran into a few of them last year.

“So you’re essentially saying that such things as vampires are real?”

“No, but there must be former practitioners who have taken on some of those characteristics. I’ve haven’t seen anything that matches up with a vampire yet, though. I don’t think I’d care to meet one, either.”

Sherwood looked skeptical, especially when Rolf strolled over to the gate, looking remarkably like any other homeless man. Lou wasn’t with him.

“Where’s Lou?” I asked.

“He’s fine. Hanging out by the fire.” He gave Sherwood the once-over. “You’ve brought another lady friend, I see.”

“This is Sherwood.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. The rescued damsel.”

Once again, Rolf seemed to know an awful lot about my life. He did his little trick with the lock again and swung open the gate. He bowed low in an exaggerated fashion, sweeping one hand out to the side. Then he turned and walked back toward the fire.

Lou was sitting close to the flames, staring intently into them. On the opposite side, Richard Cory sat on an overturned plastic bucket, looking incongruously elegant. Lou gave a start as we came up, backed away from the fire, and shook himself as if he’d just come out of a rainstorm.

Right outside of the range of the fire’s glow stood a third figure, blending into the shadows and piles of broken concrete rubble. I could see him only out of the corner of my eye; whenever I tried to focus on him my eyes played tricks on me and his figure vanished. Rolf followed my gaze and chuckled in that deep way he has.

“Kind of hard to see, ain’t he? It’s just as well, believe me.” He picked up a long narrow board and poked at the fire. “I don’t suppose this is just a social visit. What’s on your mind tonight?”

“The usual. I’ve got a couple of questions. I thought you might have a couple of answers.”

“Could be. You got something to trade?”

“You owe me,” I reminded him. “You asked me to find Richard, remember?”

“And did you?”

“Well, no, but that’s hardly the point. You asked; I tried. Got myself into a bit of trouble over it, I might add.” Rolf thought for a moment before nodding.

“Fair enough, I guess. Okay, ask away.” I told him about my encounter with the redheaded practitioner and the beast in Glen Park. “What I can’t figure out is the connection between the two and why he chose the aspect of the murdered boy,” I said. “What do you think?” Rolf looked at me with an expression that was hard to read.

“I think you’ve wasted a question,” he said. “It doesn’t take any special talent or knowledge to answer that one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it a minute. You have a practitioner that’s taken on the aspect of one of the victims, right? Which indicates first of all that he was involved in the murder, and second, that he can alter his appearance. You follow him, and he vanishes. Suddenly, a creature springs out at you. You don’t see the connection?”