"Let's teach these joker-pokers a real lesson now." The kid spoke with the bravado only a pea-brained street punk can manage.
Spector rolled over and looked up. Tony was lying next to him, blood coming from his mouth and nose; eyes closed. He was out. The kid in the jacket pulled out a switchblade and clicked it open. Spector knew game time was over. He blinked a few times to clear his head before killing the kid.
There was a gunshot from the window behind them. The kid went down with a funny look on his face, his switchblade spinning off into the darkness. The other punks scattered before Spector could get up. The kid had gotten over the initial shock of being shot and was now screaming on the sidewalk. His right arm was a bloody mess between the shoulder and elbow.
Spector struggled up and kicked the kid in the mouth. "You shut up or I'll rip your tongue out, shithead." The kid stopped yelling, but still made pathetic mewling noises.
Armand came down the stairs holding a rifle. Shelly was a step behind, a rubbery hand over her mouth. Tina had her face pressed to the window and was peering down at the sidewalk. Porch lights, those that worked anyway, were coming on up and down the street. Several neighbors were headed toward them. Spector carefully rolled his friend over. Tony had a bad cut on his forehead, and several of his front teeth were chipped or split.
"Is he all right?" Shelly dabbed at the blood on Tony's face with her sleeve.
"He'll be okay, I think," Spector said, opening the back door and grabbing Tony by the armpits. "Help me lift him in. We need to get him to a hospital." Armand grabbed Tony's legs and they hoisted him into the back seat. Spector turned to Shelly. "You know where the nearest hospital is?"
Shelly nodded.
"Then get in the front seat and tell me where to go." Spector fished out Tony's car keys, closed the door, and walked around to the driver's side.
Armand grabbed him by the elbow and motioned to the kid with his head.
Spector coughed. "Tony would tell you to hand him over to the cops and hope for the best. Personally though, I'd cut his throat and feed him to the neighborhood dogs."
Armand's face changed, but Spector couldn't be sure it was a smile. He slid into the driver's seat and cranked the Regal up.
"Buckle up, Shelly," Spector said, fastening his seatbelt. She did as she was told. Tony groaned as Spector punched the accelerator. They screamed off into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Friday July 22, 1988
6:00 A.M.
The darkness should have been soothing. Instead, the air-conditioner droned like some slumbering evil beast and demons capered in the dim reaches of the ceiling. Gregg could feel his hands trembling. He tottered on the edge of an anxiety attack. The panic threatened to overwhelm him and set him screaming.
"Gregg?" Ellen whispered alongside him. Her soft hand touched his chest. "It's only six. You should be sleeping."
"Can't." He could barely even choke out the word, afraid that if he opened his mouth again he might start screaming. Her hand stroked his cheek, and slowly the panic receded, though the shade of it remained behind. He lay there stiffly, feeling Puppetman crawl inside at the touch, like a slug just underneath his skin. "I'll be glad when this convention is over, no matter what," Ellen said.
"I'm blowing it, Ellen." Gregg closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath that did nothing to calm him. The apparitions continued to dance behind his eyelids. "It's all falling apart around me, the whole thing."
"Gregg… Love.. " Ellen's arms came around him, her body snuggling close, and she hugged him. "Stop. You're just letting the stress get to you, that's all. Maybe if you saw Tachyon, he could prescribe-"
"No," he interrupted vehemently. "There's nothing a doctor can do." Ellen drew back at his sharp tone, then returned.
"I love you," she said, empty of any other comfort.
"I know." He sighed. "I know. It's a damn good thing. God, you've been so understanding, the way I've been acting… " For a moment, he was on the verge of confessing, of just letting the whole madness spill out just to have an end to it. Then Puppetman wriggled inside, a reminder, and he carefully pushed the power back down.
You can't say it, it told him. I won't let you.
"You're worrying too much. The nomination will come or it won't. If not this year, you'll be in a good position for '92. We can wait. We'll have time to let the baby grow up a little." He could feel her smiling bravely-her own little obsession. "You'll have enough to keep you busy with our son or daughter. A little part of us."
Ellen took his hand and placed it on the swell of her stomach just below her navel. "Feel it?" she asked. "It's been kicking up a storm lately. Getting more active every day, stronger. It's waking up now. There, feel that? Say hello to daddy, little one," she crooned.
Gregg suddenly wished that she was right, that it was over. Ellen had brought up the subject after the hectic months of the tour; he'd been surprised at how easily he'd agreed. It seemed right, a symbol of normalcy after the violence and hatred. It had taken months; he'd been so pleased when they'd found Ellen was finally pregnant. Despite everything, he'd wanted the child as much as she did. He'd enjoyed playing the proud, prospective father. Even the power within had seemed to share the happiness.
A little part of us.
Now he could hardly remember that at all. The pride and love and hope had been driven away by Puppetman's needs. There was a faint fluttering beneath his fingertips. Ellen laughed with the baby's movements.
Let the baby grow up a little.
And Gregg nearly pulled his hand away as if burned. The suspicion was like a physical blow. He knew, and with the knowledge, Puppetman howled inside.
The difficulties with Puppetman had started slowly and intermittently only -a few months ago. The Gimli-presence had been faint and weak and unformed then, easily pushed away. Getting more active every day, stronger.
"Oh, my god," Gregg whispered. The fetus kicked again, softly. He let the power slip out, just a touch. He looked inside Ellen, at the primal colors of the fetus.
There, wrapped around the child's emotional matrix like some strangling vine, there were other hues. Very familiar tints and shades.
Gimli had said it: No, not dead. Just changed. It took me a long time to get back..
"I can't believe it myself, sometimes," Ellen laughed. "It's so incredible to feel it, to know that this life-our child-is growing inside me."
Gregg lay wide-eyed, staring at her stomach and his hand. "Yes," he told her. "Yes, it's incredible."
"I wonder who it'll look like?" Ellen patted Gregg's hand. "I'll bet it'll take after you," she said.
It can't be true, he told himself. Please don't let it be true. But he knew it was.
7:00 A.M.
"Jesus Christ, stop plucking at me! I don't need this shit!" Jack gripped the Takisian's hands, and flung them away like a man flicking water. "Jesus."
Tach firmly quashed the irritation he felt rising like gorge in the back of his throat, but still said in slightly aggrieved tones, "I was concerned. You could have been killed."
The snap of a lighter as Jack lit a Camel. "Well, find another way to show it. By the way, you look like shit."
"Thank you so very much. I didn't sleep last night."
"Hey, ditto."
"Jack, what happened? It was all so garbled on the news reports. I'm standing there brushing my teeth when I see you plummeting into the piano." He cocked his head to one side, and considered. "Which is, I suppose, the only fortuitous thing to come out of this mess."
"Fortuitous, hell. I was aiming for that damn piano." Then in a few staccato sentences the ace outlined the rest of the evening; Sara's clumsy come-on, Jack's plan for taking the journalist out of the way, the arrival of the horrifying hunchback, the fight. Cognac-flavored vomit hit the back of Tachyon's throat, and he bolted for the bathroom.
"Now what?" Jack called.
Tach emerged wiping his mouth on a wet washcloth. "Sara, where is she now?"
"What?"
"She came to me Monday night. Tried to tell me she was in danger. I wouldn't listen." The import of what he had just said struck him, and Tach lurched back into the bathroom.
He was down to stomach juices. The acid burned on its way up. Like the acid eating away at his trust, his certainty. Hartmann is an ace.
Help me. You'll be sorry.
Arms embracing the toilet, the ceramic rim cool against his burning cheek Tach murmured, "Help me."
Jack lifted him to his feet and asked, "How? What is it you need? What the hell's going on? Why did you bring up a secret ace on Monday? Talk to me, Tachy."
"Not now, Jack. Not now. I must find Sara."
8:00 A.M.
Billy Ray knocked and poked his head through the open door. "Security says the stairs are clean, Senator. You two ready?"
"We're coming now," Gregg told him. He finished knotting his tie and adjusted it around his neck.
Puppetman prowled like a sleek cat just under the surface, waiting. Ellen came from the bedroom and gave Gregg a worried, concerned glance. Gregg smiled back reassuringly, hating the act. "I'm fine," he said. "Much better this morning since I talked with you. Back to normal." He put his arms around her and patted her belly. "After all, the kid might just have a president for a daddy, right?"
Ellen leaned against him. She hugged him wordlessly. "He still kicking this morning, darling?"
"He? And just what makes you so sure it's a boy?" Ellen teased him, hugging him again.
Gregg shrugged. Because my child's a goddamn dwarf joker who's supposed to be dead. Because I've heard him talking to me. "Just a hunch, love."
Ellen chuckled against his chest. "Well, he's been mostly quiet. I think he's asleep."
The breath went out of Gregg in a sigh. He closed his eyes momentarily. "Good," he said. "Good. Let's go, then. Amy and John are probably waiting." He waved to Billy.
The morning staff briefings were held in the campaign headquarters one floor below. Gregg had always taken the stairs down-while he could have commandeered an elevator, it hardly seemed worth it. Now he was glad for the routine. He knew exactly what he needed to do.
You're sure? You're sure this will end it? The power was vibrating with intensity. Puppetman's voice was insistent.
I don't know. If it doesn't, we'll find another way. I promise. Now that we know, we can plan. Just wait and be ready.
The stairwell was an ugly contrast to the halls: stained concrete landings connected by steep metal stairs. They nodded to Alex James, stationed there as usual. Echoes rebounded as Billy held the door open and let Ellen pass. Gregg caught the door and motioned to Billy to precede him. I don't want to do this. I don't, Gregg thought.
We don't have a choice. Puppetman. Eager.
He searched in his head for Gimli and found nothing. He let Puppetman loose.
As Ellen approached the stairs, the power lanced from Gregg in a rush, fearing that if he hesitated at all Gimli would stop him again. He invaded her long-open mind and found what he wanted.
It was all there, as he knew it would be: A faint, swirling vertigo as Ellen looked down the stairs; an uneasy feeling of imbalance from the unaccustomed forward weight of her stomach. Puppetman wrenched brutally at both responses, dampening everything else in her mind. When the inevitable quick panic followed, he amplified that as well.
It took less than a second. It was worse than he'd thought it would be.
Ellen tottered, screamed in fright. Her hand grasped far too late for the handrail.
Puppetman leaped for Billy Ray in that instant. He truncated the adrenaline surge as Billy saw Ellen lose her balance on that first step, slowing the ace's superb reflexes.
Gregg himself could have done nothing even if he'd wished, trapped behind Ray. Billy made a valiant leap for Ellen; his fingertips grazed her flailing arm and then closed on empty air. Ellen fell. It seemed to take a very long time.
Gregg pushed past the horrified Ray, whose hand was still futilely outstretched. Ellen lay crumpled against the wall on the next landing, her eyes closed and a deep gash streaming blood down one side of her head. As Gregg reached her, her eyes opened, clouded with pain. She tried to sit up as Gregg cradled her and Ray shouted for James to call an ambulance.
Ellen moaned, clutching suddenly at her stomach. There was bright blood between her legs. Her eyes widened. "Gregg," she breathed. "Oh, Gregg…"
"I'm sorry, Ellen. My god, I'm sorry."
Then she began to cry with tremendous gasping sobs. He cried with her, mourning for the child that might have been, while another part of him celebrated.
For that instant, he hated Puppetman.
9:00 A.M.
The breakfast crowd was thinning out. The people who came here some black, some white, all working class-had to get to their jobs. Spector was a hell of a lot more comfortable eating here than at the Marriott. There were too many people he was tempted to kill there, and after last night's attack he was in a particularly foul mood. He'd been working his way through the morning newspaper, but so far hadn't seen anything about Tony getting sent to the hospital by a group of anti-joker thugs.
He'd let Shelly check Tony into the hospital. He didn't want to be around when the cops showed and started asking questions. No point in pushing his luck. Shelly had given him a strange look when he took off, but he knew she wouldn't talk. She was satisfied that he was on their side and that would be enough.
Spector finished the last of his hash browns and bacon.
The coffee was hot and they kept his cup filled, so he didn't feel like going anywhere just yet. He was beginning to lose his enthusiasm for this job, anyway. Maybe he should just pay Tony a visit and skip town.
He'd sort it out later. Right now he was going to relax and mind his own business.
The press were lined up six deep in the waiting room. Gregg caught a glimpse of them every time the doors opened: a wash of portable video lights, a flurry of electronic flashes, a babble of shouted questions. The news of Ellen's fall had spread rapidly. Before the ambulance had arrived at the hospital, they were waiting.
Billy Ray leaned against the wall, scowling. " I can have security move them if you want, Senator. They're like a flock of buzzards. Ghouls."
"It's okay, Billy. They're just doing their job. Don't worry about them."
"Senator, I was so close, I tell you." Billy clenched his hand in front of his face, his mouth twisted. "I should have got her. It's my damn fault."
"Billy, don't. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault." Gregg sat head in hands on a couch outside the surgical clinic. It was a careful pose: The Distraught Husband. Inside, Puppetman was exuberant. He rode Ellen's pain, relishing it. Even under the haze of the anesthetic, he could make her writhe inwardly. Her worry for the baby was a cold, primal dark blue; Puppetman made the emotion an achingly saturated sapphire, fading slowly into the orange-red of her injuries. But better-far, far better-was Gimli. The Gimli-thing that had fastened itself on his child was in torment, and there were no drugs to blunt that pain, nothing to stop Puppetman from doubling and redoubling it. Gregg could feel Gimli suffocating, choking, screaming inside Ellen's womb.
And Puppetman laughed. He laughed as the baby died because Gimli died with it. He laughed because at last the insanity was over.
The infant's slow, horrible death was tasty. It was good. Gregg felt it all numbly. He was being split in half.
The part of him that was Gregg hated this, was appalled and disgusted by Puppetman's exuberant response. That Gregg wanted to weep rather than laugh.
You shouldn't feel relief. It's your child dying, man, a part of you. You wanted it and you've lost it. And Ellen… She loves you, even without Puppetman, and you betrayed her. How can you not be sad, you son of a bi
tch?
But Puppetman only scoffed. Gimli had it. It wasn't your child, not any longer. It's better that it dies. It's better that it nourishes us.
In his head, Gregg could hear Gimli sobbing. It was an eerie sound. Puppetman chuckled at the anguish and desolation in it.
Gimli's cry turned abruptly to a rising, hopeless shriek. As his voice rose in pitch, it began to fade, as if Gimli were falling away into a deep, dark pit.
Then there was nothing. Puppetman groaned orgasmically.
The door to the surgery swung open. A doctor in sweaty scrub greens emerged. She nodded to Gregg and Ray, grimacing. She walked slowly toward them as Gregg rose.
"I'm Dr. Levin," she said. "Your wife is resting now, Senator. That was a terrible fall for a woman in her condition. We've stopped the internal bleeding and stitched up the scalp wound, but she's going to be badly bruised. I'll want to x-ray her hip later; the pelvis isn't broken, but I want to make sure there's no fracture. We'll need to keep her a day or two at least for observation, but I think-eventually-she'll be fine."
Levin paused, and Gregg knew she was waiting for a question. The question. "And the baby?" Gregg asked.
The doctor tightened her lips. "We couldn't do anything for him-a boy, by the way. We were dealing with a prolapsed umbilical and the placenta had torn away from the uterus wall."
"The child was without oxygen for several minutes. With that and the other injuries… " Another grimace. She rubbed at her hand; took a deep breath, and looked at him with sympathetic dark eyes. "It was probably better this way. I'm sorry."
Billy pounded the door with a fist, tearing a jagged splintery hole in the wood and gouging long scratches down his arm. Ray began cursing softly and continuously. Puppetman turned to feed on the guilt, but Gregg forced the power below the surface once more; for the first time in weeks, the power subsided docilely. Gregg faced the wall for a moment.
Ace In The Hole wc-6 Page 23