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Following the adage that "no good deed goes unpunished," Gwydion found himself padding down the hallway of the hospital the next morning, on his way to meet the fox whose life he had helped to save. He was accompanied by two males who couldn't have been more clearly police detectives than if they had screamed their titles as they strode in something just shy of a march.

In one sense, Gwydion had been lucky -- he had not spent the night in jail. He stayed with the fox until the paramedics had arrived, as he had promised the dispatcher. The two had made swift work of it, stabilizing the fox, getting him on the gurney, onto the ambulance. Before they had left the premises, a pair of detectives -- this pair -- had arrived to take stock of the situation. They questioned the cougar how he had found the fox, his actions, all the usual. Gwydion had phrased his answers carefully but truthfully and, after being escorted back to his home (which the two detectives also took the time to glance through), they informed him that he was not to leave town, be available for questioning, the usual folderol that the cougar had seen on any number of crime dramas. It took several cups of chamomile tea to help steady his nerves that night, along with as much meditation as he could manage to put himself through.

The telephone woke him before his alarm, and he was told to be ready for the detectives' arrival in short order. A proper shower was out of the question; he was only half-dressed when they came for him, and he finished getting dressed under their watchful scrutiny. The ride to the hospital was short, the trip to the correct floor shorter, and here they were. The lean Dalmatian seemed to be the junior of the two; the slightly older, taller, hard-bodied Doberman ushered Gwydion into the hospital room ahead of him, as if to ensure that the cougar didn't try to make a run for it. For his own part, the feline was ready to make some less-than-parliamentary comments about the situation.

The fox in the bed was propped up in a sitting position, his head partially swathed in bandages. His eyes were open, golden and alert, much more fully-present than the spirit that Gwydion had seen the afternoon before. The cougar heard the door to the private room close softly behind him, and he held himself steady on his hindpaws, as unthreatening as he could imagine making himself.

"Mr. Granville," the Doberman intoned, "is this the furson who attacked you?"

"Detective," the fox's voice dripped with sarcasm, "do you not know a feline from a canine?"

The detective pretended not to notice the comment. "Do you know this furson?"

Here, the fox paused, considering. "He seems familiar," he said at last.

"His name is Gwydion."

"Just Gwydion," the reader added. "I had done away with my family name when they had done with me."

Another pause hung in the air, neither awkward nor weighty. "That," the fox said softly, "sounds sad." He raised a forepaw toward his head but didn't touch it. "Were you the one who found me?"

"Yes."

"And we're still wondering about that," the Doberman put in. "You said that you were walking by the house and heard some noise?"

"That is what I said." Gwydion chose the words carefully.

"What sort of noise did you hear?"

"Detective," Granville observed softly, "is this necessary?"

"I want to know what he was doing in there."

"Saving my life. I might have bled to death before someone found me." The fox turned his eyes toward Gwydion. "I would like to ask a question of you, if I may. You don't have to answer."

The cougar nodded. "I'll say what I can, Mr. Granville."

"Haywood, please, or even Woody, if you like." The fox smiled with something like tenderness. "I insist on being on a first-name basis with the cougar who saved my life."

"Woody, then." Gwydion smiled. "What do you want to know?"

"Have we met before?"

The reader had little time to ponder the question, as the police detective would expect it to be a simple yes-or-no situation. Trusting the first instinct, the feline answered, "I think we may have done, yes."

"You think?" the Doberman nearly roared.

"Please, Detective," the fox said softly. "My head still hurts. And my friend here is right: I have no clear recollection of the meeting either. If you'd leave us to ourselves now...?"

"There's still matters of trespass, breaking and entering..."

"I will not prefer charges. Whatever he did, it was part of an effort to rescue me. If there's nothing else...?"

The Doberman ground his teeth like a pup robbed of his favorite chew toy. "We'll keep looking for your assailant."

"Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your efforts."

Finally, the dog departed, considerately closing the door behind him. It was then that Gwydion dared to release the breath that he had been holding all this time. The chuckle that he heard from the bed gave him leave to chuckle as well.

"Are sunglasses really supposed to be that dark?" he asked.

"I kept expecting him to take out a weird pen and make me forget the past 24 hours with a light-flash! Please, come sit." Haywood used a forepaw to indicate a chair near the bed. "I think we need to talk."

With a bit of maneuvering, the cougar managed to get the chair into a position where the patient wouldn't have to half-break his neck to look at him. The fox offered a forepaw to his guest, and Gwydion took it gently, willing his discernment to back off, despite the apparent intention of the vulpine to open up his soul for inspection.

"I'm going to hope," he said quietly, "that you don't think I've gone crazy for saying that I think I met you in a dream."

"Only if you promise not to think I'm crazy for telling you what happened... or, at least, what I experienced."

Taking the risk, Gwydion told the story exactly as he had lived it; the fox, to his credit, didn't laugh or show disbelief even once. The energy that the cougar felt flowing through the touch of their forepaws told him that his story was being taken just as itself, without judgment, and it was then that he knew what Haywood Granville did for a living.

"Ordinarily, I might find that difficult to believe, save for the description of the illusion-cutting blade."

"I saw it, in pride of place, mounted in its acrylic case. I noticed that it had a small brass plate just under the knife; I couldn't read the inscription."

The fox chuckled softly. "It was my vanity, more than anything else. I wanted to commemorate the old panda who gave it to me, or so I told myself. More likely, it was a bit of 'look what I got'." With a soft sigh, he glanced away for a moment. "It would seem that I got it, all right."

"What was it, Woody?" Gwydion asked softly. "Why was he after you, personally?"

Surprise showed on the vulpine's face. "Why do you say that?"

"The entire house was untouched. Even your workroom -- the papers on your desk, your filing cabinets, your books, everything seemed to be in order. It wasn't burglary. The front door was unlocked, telling me that whoever you'd let in left in a hurry and didn't bother with covering his tracks. You got clobbered by someone. Very personal. What was it about?"

"It's you who should be on the police force." Haywood's eyes squinted the slightest bit. "You have it, too. It's why you're a good Tarot reader. Part of it is the cards; the rest is what you know. It's what you discern."

"Cutting the maya away from the real, separating truth from illusion." The cougar grinned all the way to his whiskers. "It's part of your being a reporter."

It was clear that the fox was about to ask_How did you know that,_ but he stopped himself. "You're right. And it was a story that I've been working on. I'm not to continue working on it, you see, and someone sent a 'messenger' to me to inform me. When he announced himself as a messenger, I thought it was some sort of documentation that an informant hadn't wanted to trust to the mail service." He smiled ruefully. "This was one time when my ability to look through illusion wasn't working very well."

"Were you expecting some kind of document?"

"Yes, although not as quickly as this. I also wasn't expecting the physical documents; we'd discussed his scanning them for my perusal, keeping the originals in a safe place. Perhaps I got too involved in getting the story, and I let my guard down. I didn't imagine the object of my scrutiny to stoop to the level of threats."

Gwydion offered a smile to go with the gentle squeeze of his paw. "You've been very discreet, even now. That's fine. This cat's curiosity isn't prurient, at least." He paused, hoping that his wording would be as non-frightening as possible. "Was his job to kill you?"

"No. The attack was due to me frightening him." Haywood offered another sigh, returning the squeeze. "I led him back to the office, again thinking he was some sort of courier. When he revealed that he was to give me a 'message,' I took better stock of him. There was enough threat in his words and his voice that I thought I could get the police to squeeze some information out of him. I had my phone in my paw when he screamed at me, then he must have hit me with something."

"The rest we know and don't need to go over." The cougar let a little of his shield open up, tried to convey his support with emotions as well as words. "I'm not sure how I can help, but I'd like to try."

"You've already done a great deal for me. I'm not sure..." The fox paused, pulled up the reserves for a smile. "I'm still not thinking too clearly, I guess. I'll be okay, once the headache dims down."

"When are you going home?"

"The doctors tell me that I can leave this afternoon, as long as I sleep sitting up for a few nights and check in with them tomorrow or Tuesday. I've got a recliner that has a mostly-up sort of position; that should do."

"Want some company?"

Haywood tried to laugh, winced. "Am I being propositioned?"

"Not at the moment. Blood rushing to the head -- either one -- could be painful, at this point. However, I'll take it as a compliment." Gwydion smiled gently. "I'm talking about someone to help you through a bit of your convalescence, and to be there to offer assistance if you need it. I can pick up some things at the store to make some dinner for us, and I can be there to fend off unwanted visitors, especially those with religious tracts."

"I really don't imagine--"

"Woody... indulge me. I don't know if I can take your coming to ask for help again, the way you did yesterday. Once is enough."

* * * * * * * * * *

Gwydion was pleased to find that it was apparently enough for Haywood as well. Plans were made, and the cougar took his leave to set his own home to rights before returning to the house he had visited only the afternoon before. The handsome fox met him at the door, clad in lounge pants and a robe (befitting his convalescent status), head still bandaged, but looking more clear-eyed than before.

"A fine way for your host to behave," he laughed gently.

"Nonsense. As anyone with experience of it knows, a hospital is no place to recover." The feline padded into the kitchen, deliberately averting his eyes from the workroom door. "We'll keep dinner light, and a snack before sleep has been included in the menu."

Haywood had already learned not to argue and let himself be at least a little bit pampered. Afraid that he might bang the pots and pans a bit too sharply for vulpine ears, Gwydion saw that his host was ensconced in the recliner with some pre-dinner herbal tea and, at the fox's suggestion, some mellow jazz playing softly on the stereo system. The fox did draw the line at having a bicycle horn to honk, to fetch the cougar to his side; he saw himself as shaky, not incapacitated, and the card reader wisely agreed. Some little time later, the two dined on pan-seared fish with lemon-pepper finishing sauce, rice, and a small helping of kale salad with apple, cranberries, and pecans. The latter, Gwydion admitted was prepared in the store where he shopped.

"They do it well there; all fresh ingredients, that sort of thing. It's a simple enough recipe, but it's one of the few corners I'll let myself cut."

"Gwydion, it's all delicious. Thank you."

The cougar accepted the compliment gracefully, considering his host a bit more closely. He still did his best to keep his discernment damped down, if only out of respect. He was in Haywood's home, and that's still (so far as the card reader was concerned) a place where one's privacy should be respected. Besides, the fox was uncharacteristically without camouflage in his own home. This made Gwydion realize that his host not only lived alone but probably had few visitors. The accompanying emotion was a simple sadness, as the reporter was both quite comely and an entertaining companion. Perhaps the comment he'd made back at the hospital, about being too involved with his story, was true more to his detriment than not.

The dinnertime conversation, like the meal, was kept light. Rather than anything to do with current events -- topics that might accidentally touch upon the journalist's work -- subjects ranged from music to art, literature to philosophy, and the occasionally wry observation. Gwydion found his mind challenged for the first time in months, perhaps a year or two. He had the feeling that he might be doing the same for his host. It was a good feeling, and he hoped that he could retain it as the evening progressed.

"The cliché would be to retire to the living room with a snifter of brandy," Haywood observed with a smile, rising from the table. "However, quite apart from my current medical situation, I don't particularly care for alcohol."

"How terribly un-journalistic of you, Woody!" The cougar also rose and collected their plates for the sink. "I thought the bottle of rye in the desk drawer was required of newspapermen and hard-boiled Hackshaws."

"Ooo, testing my literary references again? Oh, and don't bother with the dishes..."

"The one who cooks is the one who cleans. Besides, I'll be here to finish up in the morning, so I'll just let these soak with the pans and all." Gwydion grinned. "The frying pan, at least, will_need_ the soaking! Go sit down; I'll be there in just a moment."

The cougar set the kitchen to rights as best he could, smiling ruefully at the realization that all of the mess was his own doing. Cooking was always a delight for him and, like a lot of fun things, cleaning up afterward was part of the price to pay for those delights. It seemed to him that, on balance, it was worth it.

Upon returning to the living room, Gwydion saw his host sitting properly in his chair, a glass of ice water with lemon on a small table at his elbow. "A nice tisane and raspberry crumb cake for dessert before sleep," the cougar announced with a grin as he sat on the sofa that, later, would be his own bed.

"Gwydion, you are spoiling me shamelessly. And needlessly. I already am feeling better after good doctoring and all this attention. I may not even need my pain medication before bed."

"You might, if you have to think too much."

Smiling a little, Haywood nodded gently. "You've been good enough to avoid talking about it all evening. What do you want to know?"

The cougar shook his head a little. "Nothing about your story, or your sources, or anything else potentially compromising. Just about the..." He hesitated. "I'm not sure what word to use that isn't prejudicial in itself."

"You'd make a good reporter." The fox smiled. "Was it an 'assault' or an 'attack'? Perhaps not 'beating,' as there was only the one blow, and I don't imagine it would be 'attempted murder,' since that implies an intent to kill. Any word could sway opinion, or a prosecuting attorney, or a jury."

"I'm sorry, Woody, I--"

"My fault; I'm playing games, and you're trying help me. I'll apologize, and we can just refer to it as the 'incident,' if we want to avoid unpleasantries." He took a moment to sip some water. "Okay. Do you want me to tell you what I remember, or...?"

"Let's pretend I'm the guy on the FBI profiler's staff. They've gone through the routine so many times on the television, even a comparative imbecile like myself can take a stab at it. I would, however, like to try one extra factor. It's not something that would be allowed in court, but it might help us push through a few things."

"A card reading?"

"Close. You know how this works, too, I'm sure. Let me guide you through it. Deep breath, relax, close your eyes..." As Gwydion had expected, Haywood had already begun with those things. "I want you to tell me what felt when you woke up yesterday."

The fox opened one eye, raising the eyebrow as well.

"I'm not being prurient. Did you wake feeling rested? Did the alarm go off? What were you feeling? And close your eyes again."

Smiling a bit impishly, the reporter complied and began reporting on his day. "The alarm went off, but it's not raucous. I was dreaming -- no, I don't remember what about. A little sluggish in waking up, but okay. I think I was a little irritated."

"That happens, when a dream is interrupted." Gwydion continued speaking smoothly. "What did you do next?"

"Bathroom things. Shower to wake up with. Thinking of coffee."

"Automatic coffeemaker in the kitchen. Did you set it the night before?"

"Yes."

"Can you smell the coffee?"

"Smelling the fur cleaner."

The cougar watched the fox carefully, his two eyes watching for anything physical, his third opening slowly, gently, not wanting to frighten Haywood's own discerning nature. It wouldn't do for the vulpine to feel attacked at any level.

"Good. Move forward to breakfast."

"Coffee, bagel, cream cheese..."

"Type of bagel?"

"Always the 'everything' type." Eyes still closed, he nodded. "Cream cheese flavors can vary. Onion yesterday."

"Very good. How did you remember that?"

A brief pause, a frown trying to form on his face. "Smelled it."

"That's it. Tell me what you heard. Silence, music, birds..."

"Birds in the feeder outside the window. Sun's warm. House is quiet."

"What's next? Work?"

"Scan the paper. Nothing about..."

"It's okay, Woody. Move on to lunch."

"Almost forgot about it. Heated some soup. Tomato basil. Garlic toasted cheese crackers. Radio news."

_There._Something had changed, the slightest movement of his tail, something like a shifting of energy patterns around him. The radio had announced something relevant.

"What's the temperature like?"

A moment's pause. "Warmer than this morning. Turned on the ceiling fans here in the den. Office has a window unit. Not quite warm enough to turn it on." Haywood shifted slightly in his chair. "Doorbell."

"Take a breath. Where are you?"

"Back in the office. Checking some information, emails..."

"What are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

Gwydion was sure that even Haywood knew what a whopper that was. "Were you expecting anyone?"

"No. You knew that."

"One paw in front of t'other, Woody. Walk to the front door. Do you look through the peephole?"

"Never do. Way too trusting. It's a fault."

"Tribute to clean living." The cougar let the smile into his voice. "Open the door."

The fox didn't flinch; a frown, a flick of an ear and of the tail. "Why can't I see him?"

"Because you don't want to. That's normal. What's beyond him, outside? Cars, people..."

"Sunny day, warm... no cars in my line of sight." A brief pause, a sense of realization. "He didn't drive here. Parked somewhere else. Didn't want to be seen."

"What did he say?"

"Confirmed my name. Told me he was a messenger." Pause. "Haywood Granville? Messenger service. Something you need to know."

"What happened next?"

"Turned back toward the office." Eyes still closed, the fox's head turned toward the back of the house. "Followed me in. Thought it was documents from a source. Stopped in the kitchen. Offered coffee; he refused."

"Doesn't like coffee. Maybe he's too hot. It's warm outside. What's he wearing?"

"I can't see--" The face softened in surprise. "Hoodie. Warm weather, and he's wearing a hoodie... dark color, something... design, logo, something..." He fought himself, trying to capture the picture in his mind. "Pentacle," he managed. "Five-pointed star inscribed in a circle."

_Snap,_the feline thought. "What else do you see? What do you smell? What do you feel?"

Haywood squirmed. "Bright. Mostly coffee smell. Sweat, from heat, from fear. Could be a break in my story, want the papers, where are the papers... He pivots toward me..."

"Size? Shape? Fur color?"

"Canine. Large, lean. Brown, black, mixed. Longer fur. His eye..."

"What are you seeing?"

"Sunlight caught his eye, and something reflected."

"Color?"

The fox shook his head. "Dark, but reflected... hell, I don't know what I'm saying."

Gwydion's third eye was wide open, seeing the emotions, seeing the specters haunting the reporter's mind and heart. The information was absolutely correct, he was certain of it; however, although he could feel that fully, he couldn't see what Haywood saw. "Second sight" was something of a misnomer. What locked the idea in place was a reference to Coleridge.

"Finally realized he didn't have any papers. Told me to back off the story, or I might regret it. An outright threat, tough-guy style. I must have gotten my phone out... not clear about that..."

"Open your eyes, Woody. Take a breath." The cougar likewise took a breath, let his eyes close for a moment before opening only two of them again. "Retrograde amnesia will take away that moment or two before you were struck. You did remember something, though, if my guess is right about what you told the detective."

Gently, the fox nodded. "Fur color, and not a short-haired coat. And the hoodie." He reached for his water glass, taking a long draught from it. "Still no real specifics, nothing for a firm ID."

"That may yet come with time." Gwydion smiled softly. "How's your head?"

Haywood managed a smile. "Not nearly as sore as I was afraid it was going to be. All right then, Sherlock; what's the next thing on our agenda?"

The cougar rose fluidly from the sofa. "A continued program of the softest in jazz, some light conversation, some raspberry crumb cake for proper night-food, and a good night's sleep."

* * * * * * * * * *

Sometime in the night, Gwydion found himself dreamwalking again. It was a strange and beautiful quirk about his psyche that he could, on occasion, have a lucid dream that took the shape of wandering in physical places, some known, some not. He could remember, vividly, sitting in the living rooms of houses he had otherwise never known before, simply looking at his surroundings and absorbing just a bit of the stories that lived under that roof. He didn't think himself an intruder, nor did he take any specifics with him that would identify who he had visited. He was a traveler, not a spy.

This particular night, on this particular walk, his spirit (or subconscious, or whatever) was wandering somewhere that seemed to be near his own neighborhood, or at least a subdivision of a very similar design. He was conscious enough to wonder if perhaps he were physically restless, that he had actually gotten up and walked out of Haywood's house without realizing it. The sensation he felt was one of gnawing, of picking apart something that was close to unraveling or opening, but it wouldn't quite get there. A walk would have helped, and it would be reasonable for him to have risen from the otherwise comfortable couch in which had fallen asleep earlier and taken a bit of a walkabout in a more traditional fashion. If that were true, however, he should have been paying closer attention to where he had walked; at the moment, he wasn't entirely sure where he was.

Given that it was nighttime, Gwydion decided it had to be a dreamwalk, as no one would be sitting on an empty apple crate on a suburban street corner at what must be perhaps three in the morning, strumming a guitar and singing a musical rendition of the opening stanzas of a familiar old poem:

It is an ancient mariner, he stoppeth one of three. "By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stop'st thou me?" The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, and I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din. He holds him with his skinny hand, "There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold off! Unhand me, gray-beard loon!" Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with this glittering eye -- the Wedding Guest stood still And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, that bright-eyed Mariner...

The Husky was of medium build, with clean fur that hinted at bluish-silver and gray in the dim light of stars, the fickle light of the moon. He wore a green tunic and red pants, like something from a Renaissance festival; Coleridge wasn't "in period," but the poem would be a welcome story nonetheless. The comely pup raised his head, and his own glittering eye winked in the starlight. Gwydion thought heterochromia a lovely trait in Huskies, and the lad nodded at him with a gentle smile.

Approaching softly, the cougar padded up to the young dog and bent to put two coins into an upturned hat at the balladeer's hindpaws. Still strumming softly, the pup offered his thanks. "Did you write music for the entire song?"

"Only the part that you needed to hear."

"How do you know what I need to hear?"

"Because your spirit shines brightly, card reader, but there is more that brought him thence."

* * * * * * * * * *

Gwydion's nose woke him gently, the aromas of coffee, eggs, and something toasted being the top notes of this morning bouquet. Glancing over at Haywood's chair, he saw the blanket neatly folded and no other sign of the fox beyond the obvious scents from the kitchen. The cougar managed a luxurious stretch from his position on the couch, then righted himself and set his makeshift nest to rights before joining his host in the kitchen.

"G'morning!" the vulpine offered cheerily. "I took a guess at an omelet and English muffins, but I have other things available..."

"Here and I thought I was to be pampering you," the feline offered with a grin. "You must have slept well."

"A particularly relaxing chair, and I think those pills must have done some good. I hope they aren't part of some epidemic or something; I'd hate to lose them, should I need them again."

The banter continued casually and merrily as coffee was poured, plates were set, muffins buttered, jams offered, and first bites taken. Gwydion found himself unable to keep even the semblance of proper feline pickiness or concealment of true feeling. "Woody, I cannot understand why anyone who can make a breakfast this good could remain single."

Chuckling, the fox flicked the tip of his tail just enough to be noticed. "Not many chances to find that Certain Someone, in my line of work. Strange hours, travel..." He pointed to his bandages, lowering his voice dramatically. "...intrigues...!"

Saluting his host with his coffee mug, the reader smiled. "We still have that. And maybe something further in the way of a description of your assailant...?"

Haywood allowed himself at least a slight nod. "The coloration may not be much help, but we can rule out short-haired breeds. The detective wanted me to look through some mug books, if I felt up to it; I should call him. I think I have his card somewhere."

"I'm surprised that he didn't staple it to your clothes." Gwydion paused, glancing down at the halves of English muffin in his plate. What, he found himself wondering, constituted an English muffin? They were usually served split in half, toasted, buttered, but each half was somehow a whole unto itself, like a slice of toast. Two discs. Two of Pentacles. And something about a snippet of dream, of a poem...

...his glittering eye...

"Woody, what were you saying about the dog's eye?"

"What? When?"

"Last night. You said something about his eye, about catching the light."

The reporter considered a moment, then nodded. "Oh yeah. Probably just some trick of the light. Maybe he was wearing contacts or something."

"But you said 'eye,' singular. Why would someone wear only one contact lens?"

"Why is it important?"

"I'm not sure yet. Something to do with a dream I had last night, or... not exactly a dream." Sighing, the cougar tried to explain dreamwalking in as few words as he could get away with. To his credit, Haywood seemed to take everything in stride.

"Considering how I found you," the fox observed, "it's not so difficult for me to believe."

"How did you find me?"

"You told me it was your discernment, your psychic presence--"

... there is more that brought him thence...

"The reading." Gwydion tried to remember the cards that he was reading, the particular cards that had made up the pattern for the young Shepherd... The Moon, the Ace of Cups, the Emperor... telling the pup about becoming himself, telling the Shepherd...

Doubling. Duplication. Duplicity.

The cougar knew what had happened, beyond any possible doubt. Proving it would be impossible, unless Fortune would deal the fortune-teller one last card.

* * * * * * * * * *

It wasn't the card he was expecting, but it would do. He found it pushed through his letterbox when he got home in the midmorning.

You were right; she loved the bistro. I'll try to tell her. Thank you. Matt Chandler

Gwydion had the courtesy to call first, but he was back at the fox's house within ten minutes of finding the card. The name Chandler was too common for the ordinary search engines, but Haywood was able to access his newspaper's database, looking for local high school graduates. Not the most recent senior class but the one before it, complete with a photograph that actually did the pup some justice. "Too young," the reporter said, "and he's got heterochromia."

"Age him maybe five or six years, and put a color-changing lens over the blue eye."

"Are you serious?"

"Start by finding out if Matt has an older brother."

The fox's fingers flew across the computer keyboard, seeking out the familial information. He whistled lowly, changed his search again, found a police blotter. "Harold Chandler, 25, mostly penny-ante stuff, but some of it includes assault charges."

"Look familiar to you?"

Considering carefully, the reporter focused as best he could. "The brothers share heterochromia, which is unusual. The trait is rare enough in Shepherds, and it's considered genetically recessive..."

"Can you see beyond that? Can you get any impression that would make you lean toward picking him out of a line-up?"

"I'm still trying to remember clearly, but... Gwydion, how can you be sure?"

"Look at the home address for both pups. They live together, probably with their parents. Even if it's their own place, it's practically across town from here. How would Matt have found me, and why? He came in off the street, saw my sign and that I was available to do a reading, and he decided he'd play a game with me. He was killing time by wandering through the neighborhood. He had been hanging out with his older brother, driving around, and they ended up here... how?"

Haywood nodded slowly. "Looking for me."

"Harold was; Matt was just along for the ride. And you found me because it was his brother that attacked you. It wasn't just my discernment that brought you to me. It was a direct connection."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Do you think I am?"

After considering for a long moment, the reporter shook his head slowly. "It feels right. But I can't just show up with a name..."

"Go look at the mug shots. Use the additional information of the fur length, the general coloration, let them use that to start narrowing pictures. If they ask for a sketch artist, you might have to get creative, but you could guide them to him. If he's innocent, they'll cut him loose; if he talks, you might get that story you've been looking for after all. Somebody had to have sent him."

"I can't help thinking that this is right on the edge of suborning perjury."

"Only if you have to swear to it in court." Gwydion paused, taking a deep breath, letting it out with a huff. "How much do the police need to question someone?"

"A witness identification. If it gets to court, the witness would have to swear to it."

"But before that?"

After a long pause, Haywood picked up his cell to dial the number on the detective's business card. "Okay. It's not the longest shot I've ever taken."

* * * * * * * * * *

"I need you to find someone."

Gwydion nearly jumped out of his fur at the voice. "I don't have so many lives left that I could afford to lose one quite like that, Woody."

The fox chuckled softly, without the slightest malice. "I figured I'd like to see this place with real eyes for a change. I don't think I actually saw it, that first time."

The cougar rose from his chair on the other side of the card table and moved to hug his visitor, finding it returned warmly. "I'm guessing you have news."

"Was that a pun?"

"Unintended."

Haywood took the seat reserved for the clients as Gwydion returned to his own. "So... I spent some time looking through a variety of pictures, examining them carefully and matching them in my head with the photo we pulled on Harold's rap sheet. They kept asking me if I was sure, and I hedged just enough to give me some wiggle room, but they eventually took enough of my word to go pick him up."

"This was, what, Monday afternoon?"

"Three days ago," the reporter nodded. "At the risk of sounding like a Mickey Spillane novel, he was layin' low on account of da whack he gimmie. They dug him up and sweat him in da box for a while."

The cougar grinned. "You need a refresher course in Thug Talk 101. Did they get this stoolie t' sing?"

"Folded like a cheap chair in the nosebleed seats." Haywood laughed at his own words. "Time to go back to Robert B. Parker; he had better metaphors."

"What happened?"

Leaning back in his chair, the fox shrugged. "With my say-so, picking him out of what they call a photo line-up, they threatened him with attempted murder. A good defense lawyer could probably have gotten him out of that, since murder assumes intent, but he didn't know that. He was sufficiently intimidated to bargain down in exchange for whatever he could give them on the guy who hired him."

"High enough?"

"Enough to keep me safe, I expect, but hardly enough to crack the story I'm working on. Too many layers to get that far up the chain."

Gwydion nodded, sighing softly. "I'd have loved for a big-time happily ever after, but I know how these stories often go."

"Don't give up too quickly. I do have one thing on the Shep: He threatened me specifically about that particular story. That's not something he would have known about on his own, so the subject of my investigations will have to back down from trying the threatening route again. The news story now is that I was directly threatened, and the pup's confession included that he told me to, and I quote, lay off talking about Thomas Payne McCarthy."

The cougar's eyes widened with understanding. "To take the plea, he had to make an allocution, which is public record!"

Haywood smiled. "Funny how that works. I thought I'd tell you the story in person before it hits the stands in tomorrow's paper."

"Woody, that is amazing news. Would you think it forward of me to suggest that we celebrate?"

"You could always ask the cards."

Gwydion took the deck into his paws and spread them out, face down, as he had before. "You get to pick any card but the Two of Pentacles."