Spector looked Bob over. He was dressed well enough, although the clothes didn’t disguise the fact that he was creeping into middle age, but he had a hustler’s eyes and smile. Spector just wanted to buy some clothes and get out. “I’ll need two suits, one dark gray and one light gray. Thirty-eight long. Not too expensive.”
Bob stroked his chin and made a face. “I don’t think gray is really your color. Something in a tan maybe. Come on over here.” He grabbed Spector by the elbow and guided him over to one of the mirrors. “Wait just a second.”
Spector looked around the store. He didn’t see anyone else. It was just Bob and him.
Bob trotted back over, holding a tan coat. He turned Spector toward the mirror and held the coat up in front of him. “What do you think? Great, huh. And a steal at four hundred and fifty dollars. Plus alterations, of course.”
“I want two suits. Just like I said. One light gray. One dark gray.”
Bob sighed. “Look around outside. You know how many people are wearing gray suits? If you want to stand out, make an impression, you have to dress for it. Trust me.”
Spector wasn’t listening. He was breathing evenly and concentrating. Remembering the pain. The agony of his own death.
“You okay, mister?”
Spector turned to face Bob and stared into the man’s eyes. They linked. Bob couldn’t look away, and Spector didn’t want to. The memory of his death blotted out everything else. And he gave it to the man in front of him. His insides twisted and burned. Skin ruptured and sloughed off. Muscles tore and bones snapped. Spector’s death lived again in his mind. And Bob felt it, too. Spector shuddered as he recalled his heart bursting. Bob gasped. His legs went rubbery and he fell over. Dead. Just as Spector had been before Tachyon brought him back to life.
Spector glanced around. They were still alone. He grabbed Bob under the armpits and dragged him into one of the dressing booths, then walked back to the rack and picked out two gray suits. One dark and one light.
He wrapped them in plastic and headed for the street. “The customer’s always right, Bob. First rule of business.”
9:00 P.M.
“The problem with Jackson on the ticket is that it could cost us the election. Not to sound bigoted or nothin’—”
“But you do,” interrupted Tachyon. A frown of jovian proportions creased Bruce Jenkins’s forehead. Since the only hair remaining to the man was a tiny ruff over each big red ear it looked as if his entire head was buckling like earthquake-torn Earth. “Not to suggest that you are,” Tachyon hastened to add, realizing that Takisian tactlessness might not be in place at a political convention. “But why are we discussing third-place runners, no matter how interesting or charismatic? The real issue is Senator Hartmann and Leo Barnett.”
“Reverend.”
“Eh?”
“Reverend Barnett. You give Hartmann his title. Leo’s deserving of his, too.”
“Are we finally getting down to business, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Yeah. Texas went solidly for the reverend.”
“And you intend to keep it that way?”
“If I can. Now this ain’t to say that Gregg Hartmann isn’t a good man. He is, that’s why I think a Barnett/Hartmann ticket might have some real strengths.”
“Impossible!”
“Now, don’t be so hasty. Politics is a lot like horse trading, Doctor. You can’t be too rigid.”
“Mr. Jenkins, if the issue is the triumph of the Democratic ticket in November, then a ticket headed by Leo Barnett would be a disaster. There are still enough people who would oppose a religious figure running this country. Besides, Barnett is a one-note candidate.”
“No, sir, there you’re wrong. You see him as a one-note candidate because you’re obsessed with wild cards, but Leo speaks for a lot of simple Americans who are worried about the moral decay of this country.”
They stepped out of the Bello Mondo restaurant. To their left came the clatter of cutlery on china as the journalists, hangers-on, and less wealthy delegates dined in the Marriott’s coffee shop. Tachyon frowned up at the banners stretched across the dizzying expanse of the lobby atrium.
Heard the sharp tick of high heels. Jumped and whirled as he felt cold fingers nuzzle up beneath his hair, touching the nape of his neck. Sara winced at the pressure of his hand around her fingers. Bright color flamed in each cheek, but it looked angry against the unnatural white of her skin.
“I came for a statement, and to see if I could help.”
Tachyon shook his head. “What?”
She reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. “Chrysalis.”
“What about her?”
“She’s dead.” The flat tone snapped him around as surely as Fleur’s slap. He took two quick steps, groping for support. His hand closed on the sharp point of Sara’s shoulder.
“Dead!”
“You mean you didn’t know?”
“No … I … I’ve been busy. All day.”
“Yeah.” Her tone was bitter; then abruptly she dropped a gentle sympathetic mask over her pale features. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”
Jenkins tiptoed over. “Doctor, it seems you’ve had bad news. We’ll talk another time.”
Sara gripped Tachyon’s arm with both hands and tugged him toward the elevators. “This has been a shock. You’re very pale. Maybe you should lie down.”
“I need a drink.”
Sara hung on grimly to his arm. “Don’t you have something in your room?”
He frowned at her. “Yes.”
“Let’s … let’s go there.” Pale tongue running briefly across those too-thin lips. “I … I need to talk to you.”
Physical vertigo added to his emotional vertigo as the elevator shot upward. “Chrysalis.” He shook his head. “Tell me.”
She did, in quick terse sentences, her pale eyes locked on his lilac ones. She seemed to be pressing for a mind contact, and he tightened his control. He didn’t really want to know what went on behind that intense face.
He led them into the suite. Stood staring into the mirror over the wet bar, a hand closed limply about a brandy bottle.
Mirrors. Chrysalis had loved mirrors, and had filled her boudoir with them.
He pictured the skull head with its trademark swirl of glitter on one transparent cheek. Pictured it battered to a bloody pulp. The tink of glass on glass was loud in the room. He turned, and held out the glass, but Sara was gone. Hearing the squeak of a mattress, he walked into the bedroom, and stared in bewilderment at her pose. Elbows resting on the coverlet. One leg cocked over the other. Skirt hiked to mid-thigh. She accepted the drink, and coyly patted the bed next to her. Feeling like a man sharing a bench with a spider, he sank warily down.
“Secrets.” He sighed and drank. “I suppose Chrysalis at last found the secret that killed her.”
“Yes.” Sara stared rigidly at the far wall. Gave a shake, and placed her hand on his arm. It lay there heavy and lifeless. “I know how much this must hurt you. You two were very close.”
He removed her hand, squeezed it, and sat it aside. “I don’t know if I would go that far.”
The hand crept back, fingers tightening suddenly on the big muscle in his thigh. She began to rub him. Tach rolled a nervous eye in her direction. Sweat had broken along her hairline, and her lips were compressed into a thin line. She sensed his scrutiny, and smiled at him, eyelids half lowered, pouted her lips. Tachyon drained his glass. His leg muscle was beginning to cramp under her furious assault.
“Another?” He waved the glass.
Throaty, husky. “Oh, yes. Please.”
They sat drinking in silence. Tachyon felt his guts cramping. “I wonder—JESUS!”
He hit the edge of the bed, slid off onto the floor, brandy sloshing across his crotch. Thrust his little finger into his ear, and wiped out the moisture left by the sudden thrust of Sara’s tongue. It had felt like someone driving a Q-tip dipped in icy Vaseline into his ear.
She h
ung over the bed staring down at him with fever-bright eyes. Gasped out, “I want you! I want you!”
It was like getting hit with a rake. Bony knees, elbows, pelvis digging into his chest, groin, thighs as she flung herself upon him. They thrashed for a few moments, Sara dropping inexpert kisses onto whatever part of his anatomy she could hit. Tachyon threw her off, and tottered to the far side of the bed.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Tears of shame and rage filled his eyes.
“I want to make love with you.”
“If this is some kind of joke, it is in pretty goddamn bad taste! Or actually, it’s in perfect taste if you go in for cruel Takisian humor.”
“What are you driveling about?” she screamed, raking back her hair.
“I’m impotent! Impotent! IMPOTENT!”
“Still?” Honest amazement filled the word.
It shredded his last vestige of control. “Yes, fuck you! Now get out! Just get the hell out of here!”
Blotchy red patches flamed in her cheeks. Sara flung herself on his chest, hands clasped frenziedly behind his neck. “No, please, I can’t leave you. I’m next, don’t you see? Only you can keep me safe!”
“Are you out of your mind? Keep you safe from what?”
“Hartmann! HARTMANN! He killed Andi, he killed Chrysalis, and now he’s going to kill me!”
“I’m not going to listen to any more of this.”
“He’s a monster. Inhuman. Evil.”
“A year ago you were fucking your brains out with him.”
Her breath came in harsh pants. “He made me.”
“Now I’ve heard everything. You are crazy.” Tach threw himself through the sitting room, dragging Sara like a recalcitrant foal. Flung open the door. “Out, out, out, out.”
She ran from him, and threw herself onto the bed. Curled up with a pillow clutched to her chest. “No, no, you can’t make me. I won’t leave. You’ve got to help me,” she wailed as he bundled her into his arms, and staggered back to the door. “Read me! Go into my mind!” she hissed, clinging to his lapels.
“I wouldn’t touch that cesspool that you call a mind.”
Fire flared as her nails raked across his face. “WHEN I’M DEAD YOU’LL BE SORRY.”
“I’m already sorry.”
Tach slammed the door, brushed distastefully at his coat, and crossed to the bar. Seized the cognac and drank directly from the bottle. Spewed as the heat became too much for his throat. He drew a hand across his face, and yelped as the liquor entered the cuts left by her nails.
Help me.
You don’t want to believe.
When I’m dead you’ll be sorry!
The bottle exploded against the far wall.
“I’M TIRED OF FEELING SORRY!”
11:00 P.M.
Spector combed his hair up and went at the ends with the scissors. Lank brown strands fell into the dirty sink. The job was near barber standards. He’d cut hair on the side when working his way through school, and had gotten pretty good at it. He picked up the cracked hand mirror and checked the neckline in the back.
“Not bad, my man,” he said to himself. He scooped up a fingerful of skin lotion, and rubbed it onto his reddened upper lip. Without the mustache and long hair he looked years younger, not much different from his old college self. Only the pained eyes were forever changed. With his hair washed and blown dry he’d be unrecognizable to anyone who’d met him since he became Demise. Except Tachyon. He’d know regardless.
The thought of the little alien knocked him from his normal sullen mood into a gnawing rage. Making the hit, that would hurt Tachyon. He nodded to the mirror and walked into the living room. The decor was nicer than his apartment in Jokertown. The walls were gray-green; the furnishings were mahogany or other dark woods. He even picked up occasionally. He’d made the move back to Teaneck after the Sleeper had roughed him up. Considering the hell that had broken loose not long after, it had been a good idea.
He flopped into the black futon and reached for the TV remote control. His flight wasn’t until ten the next day. There would be plenty of time to pack in the morning. He punched up WABC. The set crackled to life and Ted Koppel came into view.
“… little was known about this woman with transparent skin who chose to create her own kingdom in the center of New York City’s Jokertown.” Koppel’s brows were knit together even more tightly than usual. “While police are saying little about the apparent murder, it was seemingly a very brutal affair. There is the possibility that an ace with abnormal strength was involved. Before giving you what limited background we have on this woman named Chrysalis, here’s what Angela Ellis, captain of the Jokertown precinct, had to say earlier today.”
The video cut to a drab press area. A short woman with dark hair and green eyes stood in front of a nest of microphones. She coughed, then paused, and placed her hands palms down on the podium. “The woman popularly known as Chrysalis was found dead at her place of business this morning. Should the medical examiner determine that a homicide has occurred, this office will of course conduct a thorough investigation. We have no further information to give at this time.” Voices of questioning reporters immediately rose into a roar. Ellis raised one hand. “That’s it. We’ll keep you informed as facts become available.”
Spector reached for the bottle of whiskey he always kept by the futon. He twisted off the cap and took several swallows.
“Shit.” He’d never cared one way or the other for the bitch, but something about her being dead made him uneasy. There was blood and death in the air already, and while that ordinarily made him feel right at home he had a gut feeling that he was really going to be putting it on the line to make this hit. That was too bad, though. The money from the Shadow Fists was almost gone, and he needed another big score. This had dropped into his lap and he wasn’t going to blow it.
Several more slugs of whiskey and Koppel’s familiar monotone relaxed him. He drifted off to sleep wondering what the weather was like in Atlanta.
Tachyon hunched at the bar, ankles wrapped about the rungs of the high chrome stool. The light reflecting off the hanging wineglasses hurt his aching head, but he couldn’t find the energy to look away.
Mirrors. The mirrors of the Funhouse shattering as the kidnappers had come for Angelface. A skull face reflected in a hundred different angles as he entered Chrysalis’s boudoir on the upper floor of the Crystal Palace. The invisible lips painted a pale pink, the swirl of glitter across one transparent cheek, the blue eyes floating eerily in their bony sockets.
He had drunk in both those bars for more years than he cared to remember. Now the Funhouse was closed following Des’s death a year ago.
What would become of the Palace?
Drunken self-pity brought tears to Tachyon’s eyes, and he considered his bereft state.
“Hey, buddy?” asked the cheerful young bartender. “Another one?”
“Sure, why not.” The bartender set up another brandy, and Tach raised it high. “To the lost and mournful dead.”
Tach drained the glass, scrawled his room number across the bottom of the bar bill, slipped off the stool. There was still a lot of activity in the lobby even at this hour, but he spotted no one he knew. Tachyon considered calling Jack, but he wanted to drink and talk about Chrysalis, and the big ace hadn’t known her.
His aimless wanderings led him to the floor housing Barnett’s party. Behind the doors he could hear the low murmur of voices. He stared hard at one door, willing Fleur to emerge. It didn’t work. His silent scrutiny of the suite drew the attention of a Secret Service guard. Tach saw him coming, and stumbled back to the elevators.
Back in his own room he stared down at Blaise’s tousled head. Sobs shook him as he knelt by the bed, and enfolded the sleeping boy in his arms.
Everyone always leaves me. Everyone I love leaves me. I love you so very much. Don’t ever leave me.
Chapter Two
Tuesday July 19, 1988
8:00 A.M.<
br />
HE’D BEEN SO DRUNK and upset last night that he hadn’t noticed the message light on the telephone. Having now arrived at a state where his eyes focused and his head felt less like an enemy growth mounted on his shoulders, Tachyon sipped Alka-Seltzer and listened to the distant ringing.
“Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic.”
“This is Tachyon, get me Finn.”
“Hi, Doc, you must have heard by now.”
“Yes.”
“Things are in an uproar here. There was a firebombing at Barnett’s mission last night, and what I can only describe as free-form demonstrations in Chatham Square. I tried to reach you all afternoon.”
“I didn’t get back to the room until very late.”
“I assisted on the autopsy. You want details?”
Tachyon sighed. “I suppose I must.”
Finn ran down the findings. In the background, Tach could hear a sharp four-beat tapping as the pony-sized centaur danced on nervous, dainty hooves. The joker physician concluded with a wry, “It’ll sure as hell be a closed-casket service.”
“Damn, the funeral. When is it?”
“Tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“I will of course be there.”
“How are things down in your neck of the woods?”
“Confusing. I don’t even know the current delegate count.” He checked his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Snatching up a hat, Tachyon paused at the bathroom door, and yelled over the thunder of running water. “I’m off to breakfast with Jack. Meet me at ten-thirty, and we’ll go over to the Omni. And be there.”
There was no answer. Blaise was either plotting or sulking. Neither was an encouraging prospect.
“Ms. Morgenstern.” Braden Dulles was younger than she was, but he had this State Voice he put on, an authoritative Ben Bradlee rumble like driving over a gravel road on a New England winter day, complete with frost crackling and the occasional squeak. “You have put this newspaper in a very difficult position.”
She shifted in her bed, pulled a wad of pillow closer to her breasts. She had on a heavy blue-flannel nightgown. It was how she always did hotels: in winter leave the heat down, in summer crank up the air-conditioning and bundle up. She liked the insulation a lot of bedding gave her.
Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole Page 9