Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  Tachyon’s eyes fluttered and he fell to the pavement. The cop was screaming. Jack could see that his wound was too high to tourniquet. Jack stepped up to him, drew back his fist, hit him gently on the temple. The policeman’s head bounced like a punching bag and he went unconscious.

  Straight Arrow stepped next to Jack. His shocked face was pale. He reached out a hand to the policeman’s wounded shoulder. Flame pulsed hotly. Blood hissed, boiling away, as he cauterized the wound. The smell of burning flesh eddied up, and from Jack’s layered memories came the screams of a man burning to death in a flaming tank somewhere under Cassino.

  Maybe the cop’s life could be saved if the man didn’t die of shock in the next five minutes. Jack followed, feeling helpless, as Straight Arrow moved to Tachyon’s side and picked up the wounded arm. Tachyon’s face and ruffles were covered with blood. There were things grinding under Jack’s feet that he didn’t want to think about.

  Straight Arrow cauterized Tach’s wound with the same efficient pulse of flame he’d used on the cop. Jack turned away, not wanting to have to listen to the hiss of blood, smell the burning meat. He reached for his cigarettes. Rage danced through his nerves. He’d had the kid, would have crushed his murderous little head like an eggshell.

  Jesse Jackson was getting to his feet. From his bewildered expression it was clear he hadn’t seen a thing. Secret Service were trying to call for ambulances on their radios.

  “Ackroyd.” Straight Arrow rose from his crouch. “Where did you send him?”

  Ackroyd was the nondescript-looking man Jack had seen leave the limousine with Tach and Jackson. He seemed as much in shock as anyone else.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Oh, Jesus.” His hands wandered over his own body as if he had an itch he couldn’t locate.

  “You!” Jack roared. “Who the hell are you?”

  Ackroyd looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Jay Ackroyd,” Straight Arrow said. “Private cop. They call him Popinjay.”

  “I had the bastard!” Jack shook his fist in rage, crushing his pack of cigarettes. “I could have turned him into Jell-O! Aw, fuck!” He threw down the pack of cigarettes and kicked it into the crowd.

  “Where’d you send him, Ackroyd?”

  “Popped him,” Ackroyd said.

  Straight Arrow grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. “Where’d you send the assassin?”

  “Oh.” Ackroyd licked his lips. “New York. The Tombs.”

  Straight Arrow took his hands off the detective and straightened in satisfaction. “Good,” he said.

  Jack wanted to knock Ackroyd into the next country. “He walks through walls!” he yelled. “He’s out by now!”

  Straight Arrow’s face fell.

  Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance. Jack looked around the scene, the two wounded men, Jackson kneeling by Tachyon, the Secret Service with their guns out, the crowd wailing and moaning in shock, TV cameras taking it all in …

  He’d lost again, Jack realized. Another tragedy he couldn’t stop. Everything was slipping through his fingers.

  And no one was going to profit from any of this besides Leo Barnett.

  He was in a room surrounded by big niggers and bars. For a moment Mackie thought he was dreaming. Then he became aware of the hot gobbets of alien meat clinging like melted plastic to his face and the front of his jacket.

  His right hand held air. His left was stiffened into a blade, vibrating, ready to take Dr. Tachyon’s head off his shoulder. But he was no longer in the brightness of the Atlanta street and there was no Tachyon.

  “Nein!” he screamed, slamming the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Nein, nein, nein!”

  He had failed again. It wasn’t possible. But he had failed.

  A hand clamped his shoulder. Nausea tsunami crashed from one side of his stomach to the other as he turned to find himself staring up at a gigantic black with a hairless dome of head and a gold ring in his ear.

  “Hey, man,” the giant said in a mild voice, “how the fuck you get in here?”

  Mackie screamed again, this time making no attempt at words. He made his hands do things, then, and then it was other people who were screaming, and when the screaming stopped he ran straight through the bars of the holding cell, down green echoing corridors that reeked of puke and sweat and fear, and downstairs and out into the grimy sunlight of New York.

  He had to get back to Atlanta at once. To redeem himself in the eyes of his master, his love.

  5:00 P.M.

  The first thing Gregg did was shake Jesse’s hand.

  Puppetman raced outward from the touch, opening the man’s mind eagerly. It was an exquisite mind, one that felt things deeply. That was, after all, the best kind. There was a wash of deep orange-red there now, a memory of something very painful and horrible. Gregg knew what that would be.

  Jackson hadn’t changed his jacket; it was still spattered from Tachyon’s blood. The sight of it made Gregg uneasy, a fluttering of guilt returning that made Puppetman mock him, inside.

  “Reverend, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice and after such a horrible afternoon. How … how is Dr. Tachyon?”

  “Clinging to life. In critical condition. The doctors say there was too much damage to reattach the hand.” Jackson’s long, dark face frowned. “A terrible event, Senator. A very terrible event. I have not seen such cold, sick violence since the Reverend King was assassinated.”

  Puppetman watched Jackson’s emotions carefully. There was horror and fear, and revulsion, but none of it was directed toward Gregg. Which told him that Tachyon was still remaining silent about Puppetman.

  Good. Then it doesn’t matter—yet—that Mackie didn’t finish the job.

  There was only a faint yellow ochre of distaste inside Jackson directed at Gregg, and Puppetman easily pushed that back down, scrubbing it with the respect he knew Jackson had for Gregg’s stand on common issues.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Reverend,” he said. “Please, take a seat. I’ve told my aide to contact your staff and have a change of clothes sent over. Would you like anything to drink?” Jackson declined with a wave of his hand and took a chair; Gregg sat on the couch opposite him. He steepled his hands in front of his face as if trying to decide what to say.

  “This isn’t a time I’d choose to say any of this,” Gregg said at last. “Not after this afternoon. But maybe this is the best time. We need to end the violence here. We need to unify the convention and start to work on the real campaign against Bush.”

  “I know what you’re going to say, Senator. You should know that my staff wants me to say ‘no.’” Jackson seemed easy and comfortable despite the trauma of the afternoon. He sat cross-legged, his big hands cupped around a knee. The dark stains on his jacket made the image eerily surreal. Outwardly, he was cool, collected, almost indifferent.

  Puppetman knew better. Inside the man was suddenly eager. He could see it; bright, electric blue, flashing like lightning. “They want me to say ‘no’ because they’re convinced that with Dr. Tachyon’s support, our Rainbow Coalition stands to win here,” he continued. “No half-victories, Senator, but everything.”

  “I’ve had a friendship of nearly twenty years’ standing with Dr. Tachyon,” Gregg said. “He’s a prideful and very stubborn man. The truth is that you and I are only taking votes away from each other and allowing Barnett to win. The truth is that if the presidential candidate isn’t me, it also won’t be you. I think we both know that, no matter what we’d like to believe. If I don’t win here, Leo Barnett will be the candidate. The attack on Tachyon today has only strengthened his position.”

  Puppetman could feel Jackson’s irritation with that. It was no secret that the two ministers didn’t care for each other. Jackson was an idealist, on the far left fringes of the party as Barnett was to the right. Gregg let Puppetman caress that irritation until Jackson visibly scowled.

  “Reverend, you don’t know why Tachyon came to you,” Gregg went on. �
��My staff wanted to release this to the press after Tachyon withdrew his support, but I didn’t let them, in deference to those twenty years of friendship. Tachy … well, there’s no graceful way to put this. In the last few days, the doctor has become involved in a relationship with Barnett’s campaign manager, Fleur van Renssaeler. I don’t know whether she seduced him or he her—it doesn’t matter, I suppose. But when I confronted him with it, he exploded. Said the relationship was none of my business. I insisted that indeed it was—understandably, I think—and pressed harder.” Gregg made a sour, chagrined face. “I probably said some things I shouldn’t have said. Our argument was bitter and harsh. He walked out. The next I heard of him, he was making the announcement that he was withdrawing his support.”

  Gregg smiled sadly. “I can understand why he would turn to you, Reverend. We have our differences, but I think someone looking at our records and our public stands would find us very similar. We’re both against prejudice and hatred of any kind; we’d both like to see all sides coming together to work in harmony. We’ve worked together on the platform fight; I know our ideals are the same.”

  In Jackson’s mind, Puppetman pushed here, pulled there.

  “That sounds like one of your campaign speeches, Senator.” There was a faint smile on his face. “I’ve heard the rhetoric before.”

  “And rhetoric is cheap. I know. I also know that if you look at my voting record, if you look at what I’ve done as chairman of SCARE, at how I’ve reacted to any joker or civil rights legislation, then you’ll see that we’re not very far apart. I think we could work together well.”

  “Which brings us back to that question you haven’t asked me yet, Senator.”

  He’s very interested, even without me. Feel it? Taste it?

  “You know what I’m offering.” Gregg said it as a fact, not a question.

  “You’re offering the vice presidency,” Jackson said, nodding. “You’re saying ‘Reverend Jackson, why don’t you tell your delegates to vote for the Hartmann/Jackson ticket?’ With my delegates and yours, we might win the nomination.”

  “With your voice, with your strength, with your power, we”—Gregg paused, stressing the word—“we win not just the nomination, we win the presidency.”

  Desire was bright, bright blue. Mottling it underneath were dark splotches of doubt. Puppetman scraped the darkness away, made them fade into nothingness. Jesse pursued his lips. “I could make the same offer to you, Senator…” he began, but Puppetman was still prodding, still working on his mind.

  Jackson’s voice faded.

  He nodded.

  He held out his hand.

  “All right, Senator,” he said as they shook. “You’re right. It’s time to build a bridge we can walk over. It’s time to begin to bring all of us together.”

  Puppetman shouted in triumph. Gregg laughed helplessly.

  He had it. This time he would have it. A little maneuvering yet to do, and it would be his.

  The overproof rum hit Jack’s stomach like a wave of welcome flame. He took another couple swallows, then capped the bottle and stuffed it in a pocket. He’d bought it after Tachyon had been carried off to the hospital and the Secret Service let him go.

  There was still blood on his cuffs and shoes. He was trying not to think about how it got there, and he figured the overproof would help.

  He stepped up to one of the back doors of the Omni.

  Aw, hell, he thought. There was the big guard with the broken nose, Connally. Connally was already shaking his head, refusing admittance to a gray-haired man who was waving a pass in his face. Jack could almost recite the dialogue along with Connally and the delegate.

  “Sorry. Nobody gets in this way.”

  “But I just left through this door. You saw me.”

  “Nobody gets in this way.”

  “Officer, I’m merely going to collect my daughter, who is a delegate. I do have a pass.”

  A chill finger caressed Jack’s neck at the sound of the man’s voice. He stopped, about ten feet behind the man, and stared at the back of his gray head. Where had he heard this before?

  “Well,” Connally said slowly. “I suppose it won’t make that much difference. Even though nobody’s supposed to come through here.”

  “It’ll be okay,” said the man.

  Shaking his head, as if he didn’t realize why he was doing this, Connally reached for his belt, produced a bunch of keys on a chain, and opened the door.

  Surprise danced through Jack’s head.

  “Thank you, Officer. That’s very kind.” The man stepped through the door.

  Jack moved forward. Something here wasn’t right. “Excuse me,” he said.

  Connally glared at him. “Where do you think you’re going, asshole?”

  Jack forced a smile. “I’m a delegate.”

  Connally closed the door and firmly locked it. “Nobody gets through this door. That’s my instructions.”

  Jack peered through the glass door at the gray-headed man’s retreating form. “You just let him through,” he said.

  Connally shrugged. “What if I did?”

  “He’s not even a delegate! I’m a delegate!”

  Connally looked at him. “He’s not an asshole. You are.”

  As Jack stared through the glass door he saw the gray-haired man glance back, a short take over his shoulder, his hand raised to give Connally a friendly wave. The man saw Jack, and the bearded face turned to stone before the man dropped his arm and headed on his way.

  Jack’s hackles rose. He’d seen that face recently, on the cover of Time magazine after an actor named Josh Davidson had done King Lear in Central Park.

  More importantly, he’d seen that look before.

  He remembered a bunch of dock workers dancing on a table, singing “Rum and Coca-Cola.”

  Sorry, Sheila, he remembered, your old man’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met.

  He knew Davidson’s look, Jack thought again. He’d seen it once before, back in ’50, when he’d walked out of the committee room after testifying before HUAC and walked right past where Earl and David and Blythe and Mr. Holmes were waiting, walked right past them without saying a word.

  Suddenly Jack was running, dashing past the surprised Connally toward one of the doors he could use.

  Josh Davidson, Jack knew, was a secret ace.

  As Jack ran for the doors, the bottle of overproof slipped out of his pocket and smashed on the concrete. He didn’t slow down.

  So far as anyone knew, Jack was the only one of the Four Aces left alive. No one knew for sure, because one of the four was missing.

  After serving three years on the island of Alcatraz for contempt of Congress, David Harstein had walked off the boat in 1953. A year later Congress passed the Special Conscription Act, and Harstein had been drafted. He never reported. No one had seen him since. There were rumors that he’d died, been murdered, defected to Moscow, changed his name and moved to Israel.

  There hadn’t been a single rumor to the effect that he’d had some plastic surgery, done a little weight lifting, put on some weight, grown a beard, taken voice lessons, and become a Broadway actor.

  Your old man’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Naturally. No one could dislike David Harstein, not once his pheromones got to them. No one could disagree with him. No one could avoid doing what he wanted them to do.

  Jack waved his ID at the man at the door, then plunged through. He ran through the crowd of people in the direction he’d last seen Davidson, ignoring the stares of the other delegates. Over the heads of others, he saw Davidson heading into one of the tunnels that led to the floor. He followed, caught Davidson’s arm, said, “Hey.”

  Davidson spun around, threw off Jack’s hand. His eyes were like chips of obsidian. “I would rather not talk to you, Mr. Braun.”

  Jack started to retreat. He could feel the color draining out of his face. He took a grip on his nerves and stepped forward.

  “I want to talk to you, Harstei
n,” he said. “We’ve got almost forty years to catch up on.”

  Harstein took a step backward and clutched at his heart. Jack felt a surge of terror: maybe he’d just given the old geezer a heart attack. He reached out to hold Harstein upright, but the man coldly knocked Jack’s hands away, then turned partly away and leaned on the wall.

  “‘If it be now,’” he murmured, “‘’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come.’”

  “‘Readiness is all,’” said Jack, completing the quote. He’d played Laertes in high school.

  Harstein looked sharply at Jack. “All these years, and you discover me. It’s appropriate somehow.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Why are we having a conversation? Unless you mean to blow the whistle on me.”

  Jack took a long breath. “I’m not blowing the whistle on anybody, David,” he said.

  The actor’s face was contemptuous. “An interesting step out of character.”

  “You’re the expert on character.”

  “I’m the expert on prison, too. I spent three years there.”

  “I didn’t send you to prison, David,” Jack said. “They sent you away before I ever testified.”

  “Another interesting distinction.” Davidson shrugged. “However, if it serves to salve your conscience…”

  Tears stung Jack’s eyes. He sagged against the wall. He couldn’t use the defense he’d used on Hiram. Harstein had been there. He hadn’t broken, and that’s why they’d sent him to prison.

  And what had happened to Blythe had been far worse.

  It was as if Harstein had picked the thought out of his head.

  “I went to see Blythe right after I got out of prison. November 1953. I talked my way past the orderlies. I even went into her cell. I told her everything was going to be all right. I told her she was well. She wasn’t. Three weeks later she was dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said.

  “Sorry.” Harstein seemed to taste the word, rolling it about in his mouth. “So easy to say, yet having so little effect. ‘We can make our lives sublime and, departing, leave behind us footprints in the sands of time.’” His eyes met Jack’s. “A wind came up, Jack, and it blew away our footprints.” He stared at Jack for a long time, an implacable look from which all emotions had been leached. “Leave me alone, Jack. I never want to see you again.”