Knight Life (37 page)

C
HAPTRE

THE
T
WENTIETH

R
ABBI ROBERT KASMAN
opened his door and saw an extremely scruffy-looking individual standing there. “Yes?” he said cautiously, keeping care to have the chain lock in place on the door.

    
“Hi,” said Buddy. “I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow. I'm with Arthur Penn, and—”

    
“Oh, the king!” said the Rabbi. “Yes, yes, I saw your fellow. Oh, not on the actual day, because they had the poor judgment to have the debate on shabbos. But it was rerun enough, you can be sure.”

    
“I can be sure,” Buddy said agreeably.

    
“I don't know what that crazy Keating fellow hoped to accomplish by trying to embarrass that nice man, particularly after he saved those two children. Imagine, trying to convince everyone that your man actually thought he was King Arthur. Imagine!”

    
“Imagine,” echoed Buddy.

    
“Of course, just between you, me, and the hole in the wall,” said the rabbi, “it wouldn't matter to me if he really did think he were King Arthur.”

    
Buddy blinked. “You know, that's what lots of people have said to me.”

    
“Well, I'm not surprised,” said the rabbi. “I mean, we all have our own mishugas, right? New York has certainly had some genuine nuts for mayor. It would only be appropriate if we had a sincere nut for once. You know what I mean?”

    
“I know what you mean.”

    
“So.” The rabbi leaned against the inside of the doorframe. “What did you want to know again?”

    
Buddy stared at him, then scratched his head. “I can't remember.”

    
“Oh. Well, I'm sure when you remember you'll come by again.”

    
“You bet.”

    
The rabbi closed his door and went on about his business. Five minutes later there was another knock at his door. He peered through the peephole, frowned, and opened the door.

    
“Hi,” said Buddy. “I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow ...”

T
HE POLITICAL COMMENTATOR
for PBS was saying, “One can only wonder what heroic proportions he might achieve should he, in a few years, go national ...”

    
“This being so,” the commentator was asked, “it comes down to the question of what Keating's motives could possibly have been in giving Penn such an opening? Did he really believe that Penn was actually the Arthur of legend?”

    
“Whatever Keating had in mind, I can only surmise that it backfired spectacularly. It's hard to say what sort of response he expected, but it could hardly have been what he got—namely, what observers are already referring to as the Camelot speech.”

    
The commentator was on tape. It was now being viewed, for the hundredth time, by a fuming Bernie Keating. He sat in front of the VCR in his office, feeling his innards broil as he watched the tape time after frustrating time. The rest of the debate, Bernie thought, including most of his exceptional observations and responses, had been totally overshadowed by Penn's performance in the first ten minutes. A performance that he, Bernie, had helped to cue.

    
There was a knock at his door, and Bernie called unenthusiastically, “Come in.”

    
Moe entered and looked around in distaste. Crumbled memos and newspapers were scattered everywhere, as were half-drunk cups of coffee and several stale doughnuts. When Bernie saw who it was, his mouth assumed the frown that came to it so naturally these days.

    
“So. It's the turncoat,” Bernie said tonelessly. “I haven't seen you since the night of the debacle—oh, pardon me, the debate.”

    
“Now, Bernie—”

    
“You can save the ‘Now, Bernie' bullshit! You're outta here, Mr. Brilliance. You and your genius idea.”

    
“You went a little far,” said Moe reasonably. “When it became clear that he wasn't going to crack immediately, you should have backed off.”

    
“Backed off? Now you're giving me backed off! I go in there with guns blazing, and you leave me with no ammo. You said he'd come out and say he was some long-dead king.”

    
“Well, he did,” said Moe reasonably.

    
“Yeah, but he came off smelling like a rose! Forget about this guy who says Arthur pulled a sword on him. Penn'll probably turn that to his advantage somehow.” Bernie sighed and sagged back in his chair. “So where does this leave us?”

    
“You're asking me? I thought I was through.”

    
“Oh, come on. How could I do that to one of the top seven PR hacks I ever knew?”

    
“I thought I was one of the top three.”

    
“You're sinking fast.”

    
“Wonderful.” Moe circled the table slowly. “Well, we've still got a last-minute whirlwind crush of vote getting. It's more or less in the hands of the voters at this point. But I've been reading the polls pretty carefully, and everyone who's predicting a landslide for Penn is off base, as far as I'm concerned.”

    
“You think so? You're not just bullshittin' now?”

    
“No, I'm very serious. A lot of people were suspicious of the Camelot speech. The more perceptive voters sense that Arthur really does have a screw loose. Plus there are still people who don't want to cross party lines and vote for an Independent.”

    
“If Penn had any brains, he would have courted the Democratic nomination. He'd be as good as in.”

    
Moe shook his head. “Men like Arthur Penn always have to carve their own way in life.”

    
“I've never understood that sort of thinking.” Bernie leaned back too far in his chair. It crashed over backward, sending him tumbling to the floor with loud curses and bruised dignity.

    
“No, Bernie,” said Moe, “I don't suppose you would.”

G
WEN KNEW SHE
would be there.

    
She had sat outside until the last of the office workers departed Arthur's campaign headquarters. There was absolutely no reason to think that she would be remaining . . . and yet somehow there was not a moment of doubt in Gwen's mind. She worked up her nerve, breathing slowly in and out, and finally she took one more deep breath, walked briskly across the street and up to the door. She pulled out her keys and was a bit surprised to find that they still worked. Apparently he hadn't
changed the lock after their . . . falling out.

    
She opened the door, not bothering to call out, “Hello!” It seemed imbecilic, somehow. Besides, she was quite certain that the one she was seeking would seek her out in turn.
How nice. You've got a whole hunter/hunted dynamic flittering around in your head. That'll certainly put you at ease
.

    
She walked slowly across the office complex, looking around for some sign of life. And then she jumped two feet in the air and clutched at her chest as a calm voice said behind her, “What are you doing here?”

    
She spun and, sure enough ... it was Miss Basil. The implacable stare of those frightening green eyes didn't move away from her. She was so still she could have been a statue. Those eyes of hers seemed to glow with a separate life of their own. “Well?” demanded Miss Basil.

    
“I . . . I . . .” Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.

    
Miss Basil slowly walked toward her, although her legs didn't seem to move. “Arthur wants no part of you. Merlin isn't here. Turn. Turn now and leave. It is your only hope—”

    
“I need a book,” Gwen said desperately.

    
Whether it was the nature of the pronouncement or the fact that it was said with such overwhelming urgency, Miss Basil stopped dead. She stared unblinkingly at Gwen. “Have you considered a public library?”

    
“It's a very special book.
The Carpathian Book of the Fey and Daemonfolk
.” She felt a little unsteady just having said it out loud. “Please. I've been looking everywhere,” she said. “For ages now.”

    
“The
Carpathian Book?
You want a copy of that, do you.” Miss Basil seemed most amused. “I'm almost tempted to help you.”

    
“If you help me, you'll help Arthur!” Gwen assured her.

    
But Miss Basil shrugged. “I couldn't care less about that. But if you acquire a copy of that particular reference volume, and you use it improperly ...” She shrugged. “Well, it's said others who tried to use it were yanked
into the eighth circle of hell, never to be seen again.”

    
“I'll take that risk.”

    
“And what makes you think it's mine to give? I didn't say I had the book, or any clue how to use it even if I did.”

    
“I think it because ...” She tried to steady the runaway thudding of her heart. “I think it because . . . you are not what you appear. You are a creature of myth ... a very old one, I'd think.”

    
“Is that what you think.” There was no question in her voice, no mirth in her eyes.

    
Gwen managed a nod and then said, “You're the closest thing to magic I've got.”

    
“Close? I
am
magic, little girl.”

    
“And yet, you've done nothing to find Merlin yourself?”

    
“I've no reason to,” Miss Basil said. “I'm in servitude to him; it doesn't mean I have to like him, or extend succor to him. His disappearance leaves my situation in limbo. I can't act against Arthur, because that would be against Merlin's wishes; but I don't have to act on Arthur's behalf either. And if Arthur were to fall, then I would be bound to nothing or no one. Nor can I take direct action against you because . . . because ...”

    
Gwen waited for a reason why. Basil looked thoughtful.

    
“Actually, I suppose I could,” she said after a time.

    
Gwen's blood froze, and she suddenly had a realization that death was standing three feet away and could cover that distance in no time. She also knew that to run would be to bring it down upon her. So she stood her ground, which wasn't that difficult, considering she suddenly felt numb from the waist down.

    
Miss Basil gave her a long, appraising look and then lowered her gaze. “Too easy. It would be like clubbing a baby seal. Besides ...” And now she actually smiled. “You have strength in you yet. I am . . . surprised. And it takes a good deal to surprise something that has seen as much
as I. Perhaps you'll provide more surprises and amusements yet.”

    
And she told her an address.

    
Gwen frowned. “I know that street . . . that block. I've walked past it a hundred times. There's no bookshop there. Is this some kind of trick?”

    
“Why should I trick that which I could simply destroy?”

    
“For amusement,” Gwen said dryly.

    
Miss Basil inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Touché,” she admitted. “Tell me, have you ever been looking for it?”

    
“No. How could I look for something that isn't there?”

    
“All you have to do is not look where it isn't.”

    
Gwen blinked in confusion, then nodded and said, “I'm not sure whether to thank you or not.”

    
“Depends whether you live or not, I suppose.”

    
Knowing that there was no point in staying, Gwen rose and headed for the door. She heard no sound behind her, no scuffling of feet, and yet somehow she knew that when she glanced behind her—which she did—Miss Basil wouldn't be there—which she wasn't.

R
ENT TAYLOR WAS
dying. At least, that's how the
Democratic nominee felt every time he looked at the polls.