Ace In The Hole wc-6

by George R. R. Martin

  With Puppetman satisfied, the other part of him grieved.

  He swallowed hard, choked it back. When he turned, the doctor wavered in a sheen of genuine tears.

  "I'd like to see Ellen now," he said. His voice sounded wonderfully drained, superbly exhausted, and far too little of it was an act.

  Dr. Levin gave him a wan smile of understanding. "Certainly, Senator. If you'll follow me-"

  10:00 A.M.

  The first thing Jack thought when he heard about Ellen was: Yes. The secret ace.

  "Where's the senator now?"

  "At the hospital."

  "And where's Ray?"

  "With him."

  Maybe Ray could keep the freak away, then. Jack had other things to do.

  Sara's tattered notes seemed like a cold weight in Jack's breast pocket. He looked around, saw campaign workers milling around the HQ, pointlessly and silently, like survivors of a disaster. Which, of course, they probably were.

  The secret ace had gone after Hartmann first, Jack figured, because Hartmann had more delegate votes. That was the only way to explain all the things that had gone wrong, from the networks cutting to commercial breaks during Carter's seconding speech to the riot before the platform fight to Ellen's miscarriage.

  The thought of which, on reflection, made Jack burn with anger. The secret ace was picking not just on a candidate, but on civilians the candidate was close to.

  Sara Morgenstern, who knew the ace's identity, had disappeared. Jack, along with the Secret Service, had been trying to find her all night long.

  Devaugbn was gone from HQ, and so was Amy. Jack went to the phone, ordered a thousand and one roses delivered to Ellen's room on his credit card, then he headed next door to the media center. He found an unused VCR, picked up some videocassettes of the other candidates as well as their campaign biographies, and took them to his room.

  Maybe Gregg Hartmann's candidacy was finished. Jack couldn't tell, and couldn't change things one way or another.

  He only knew one thing for certain. He was going to have to call Rodriguez and tell him to take charge of the delegation and vote his proxy for Hartmann on every ballot. Jack had other things to do. He was going hunting for the secret ace.

  Even though a hotel is a fortress armored against the outside world, the outside gets in anyway, in subtle ways. Trying to flow through the crush of delegates and press toads,

  Mackie could tell it was morning, from the light that managed to battle inside, from a taste of the Chilled Sliced Processed Air Product extruded by the AC. Maybe it was just that as a Hamburg harbor rat he had an instinctive dread of morning, and could smell it when it lurked outside.

  His hands were jammed in pockets, his head jammed in memories. Sometimes, when he was young and had fucked up again, the fog of booze would lift enough to permit his mother to fix him with a stern, bleary look and say, Detlev, you disappoint me so, instead of just shrieking and hitting him with whatever came to hand. He hated that the most. The shrieking he could ignore, the blows he could weather by tucking his head painfully between uneven shoulders and turning away. But the disappointment went right through him, there was no defense against that.

  Every particle of his life had been a disappointment to somebody. Except when his hands were steel, were knives. When the blood ran: no disappointment there, oh no, laughter inside: yeah.

  Until the last two days. Two chances: two failures. All he had to show was an incidental nigger in a suit worth more than Mackie's entire body. He thought at least the big glowing gold weenie was meat when he crashed the rail last night, but then this morning he saw on the news that he crashed through a piano and wasn't hurt.

  He was glad about the piano, anyway. Son of a bitch never played his song.

  Ahead of him he saw a pair of dark well-filled suits crowding a man with a garment bag over his shoulder, back toward the wall, out of the clotted traffic flow. They were leaning into him in that way pigs have when they know they have your ass. Mackie snagged a shred of conversation:

  "No, really, I was wearing my pass just a moment ago. In all this crush, somebody must have brushed against me, knocked it o$="

  That made Mackie smile. He had no need of badges. No need to squirm in the grip, unreeling lies as obvious as a whore's smile to amuse the pigs and make them give each sideways smirks. He was still Mackie, MacHeath the Knife as big as legend. Not a bug like this nat crasher.

  He phased and sideled softly, through the crowd and through the wall, toward his rendezvous with love and disappointment.

  John Werthen had arranged for the makeshift press conference in the gymnasium/auditorium of the hospital. As Amy accompanied Gregg around the back of the small stage there, he felt a sudden distress pulse from her. "John, you ass," she whispered, then glanced at Gregg guiltily. The auditorium had been used for a Lamaze class the night before. Charts of the stages of labor, cervix dilation, and positions of the fetus were stacked in one corner. They almost seemed a mockery.

  You had to do it, he reminded himself quickly. You didn't have a choice.

  "I'm sorry, sir," Amy said. "I'll have someone get rid of them."

  "I'm all right," he said. "Don't worry about it."

  The tragic death of the Hartmann infant had become The Story of the convention. Wildfire rumors flared through the convention-Hartmann was pulling out; Hartmann had decided to take the VP spot behind Dukakis or Jackson or even Barnett; Hartmann had actually been the intended victim of Nur terrorists; a simultaneous attempt had been made on the lives of all the candidates; a joker was somehow involved in Ellen's fall; no, the baby had been a joker; Carnifex had pushed Ellen or he'd just watched her fall without moving; Barnett was calling it the hand of God; Barnett had called Hartmann and they had prayed together.

  There was a morbid glee to it all. The circus atmosphere had been plunged into something halfway between horror and fascination.

  The auditorium was almost unnaturally quiet. "Senator, if you're ready… " Amy said. Her eyes were red and puffy; she'd been crying off and on since she'd arrived at the hospital.

  Puppetman had made certain of it. She looked at Gregg and tears brimmed again. He hugged her silently as Puppetman lapped at the sorrow.

  It was easy. It was all so easy with Puppetman.

  Amy held the curtains open for him and he walked out into the familiar glare of lights. The floor was a solid mass of people: reporters in front; behind them, Hartmann supporters from the convention intermingled with jokers and hospital staff. Amy and John had argued for restricting admission strictly to the press, but Gregg had overruled them. A large contingent of jokers had besieged the hospital, and Gregg insisted that they be allowed to attend as well. Security blocked the doors after capacity was reached; behind the windows, Gregg could see that the corridors were also wallto-wall.

  Let them in, Gregg had told Ray. The jokers are our people. We all know why they're concerned. If they're clean, give 'em passes until were out of room. I trust you, Billy. I know nothing will happen.

  Ray had been almost pitifully grateful at that. That had tasted good, too.

  Gregg walked slowly to the podium and bowed his head, gripping either side of the lectern. He took a deep breath and heard it echo against the hard tile walls. Puppetman could feel the sympathy beating against him. He reveled in it. Gregg could see the puppets interspersed with them: Peanut, File, Mothmouth, Glowbug, a dozen others just in the first few ranks. Gregg knew from long experience that a crowd was an easily swayed beast. Control enough of them and the rest would follow along.

  This would be easy. This would be cake. He hated it.

  Gregg raised his head, solemn. "I… I really don't know what-" He stopped deliberately and closed his eyes. Hartmann Composing Himself. Out in the audience, he heard a subdued sob. He tugged gently at the dozens of mental strings and felt the puppets move. He let his voice tremble just slightly when he resumed.

  "… don't know what to say to you all. The doctors have given you t
heir report. Umm, I'd like to say Ellen is doing fine, but that's not really the truth. Let's just say that she is doing as well as can be expected at the moment. Her physical injuries will heal; the rest, well-" Again a pause; he ducked his head for a moment. "The rest is going to take a lot of time. I've heard that there's already a roomful of flowers and cards that some of you have sent, and she asked me to thank you. She'll need all the support and prayers and love you can give her."

  He gestured at Amy. "I was going to let Ms.: Sorensonmy aide-read you my statement. I'd already drafted it, telling all of you that I was withdrawing my name from nomination due to… to the unfortunate accident today. I even read it to Ellen. Afterward, she asked me to give the paper to her, and I did. This is what she gave me back."

  They waited, obedient. Puppetman tightened his fingers around the strings.

  Gregg reached into his pocket. His hand came out fisted; he turned his hand over and opened his fingers. Scraps of paper fluttered to the wooden floor.

  "She told me that she'd already lost a son," he said quietly. "She said she wasn't about to lose the rest."

  Puppetman pulled the strings tight, opening the minds of the puppets among them. The murmurs of the audience rose, peaked, broke. From the back of the gymnasium where the jokers watched, the applause began, swelling and moving through the audience until most of them were on their feet, clapping hands together, laughing and crying at the same time. The room was suddenly noisy and wild like a camp revival meeting, everyone swaying and shouting and weeping, grieving and celebrating at once. He could see Peanut, his lone arm waving back and forth, his mouth a black wound in the scaly, hard face as he jumped up and down. The excitement triggered Glowbug's joker: his pulsing radiance rivaled the electronic flashes.

  The cameras swiveled about, panning the odd celebration. Reporters whispered urgently into microphones. Gregg stood there, posed, his empty hand out over the torn-up paper. He let his hand drop to his side and lifted his head as if hearing the acclimation for the first time. He shook his head in feigned bemusement.

  Puppetman exulted. Gregg channeled a portion of the stolen response into himself. He gasped at the pure, undiluted strength of it. He raised his hands for quiet as Puppetman loosened the strings slightly-it took long seconds before he could be heard at all over them.

  His voice was choked. "Thank you. Thank you all. I think mavbe Ellen deserves to be your nominee; she's worked as hard or harder at this, even when she was tired from the pregnancy or a little sick in the mornings. If the convention doesn't want me, maybe we'll place her name in nomination instead."

  That brought more applause and outright cheering, sprinkled with sobbing laughter. All the while, Gregg gave them a wan, strained smile that had nothing of Puppetman in it. Part of him seemed to be simply, scornfully, observing.

  "I just wanted all of you to know that we're still in this fight despite everything. I know Ellen is watching this from her room and she wants me to thank you for your sympathy and your continued support. Now, I'd like to get back to her myself. Ms. Sorenson will answer any other questions you might have. Once again, thank you all. Amy-"

  Gregg raised his hands in salute; Puppetman yanked hard. They cheered him, tears streaming down their faces. He had it all back.

  It was his, now. He knew it. Most of him rejoiced.

  2:00 P.M.

  The sound of a soap filtered through the cardboard and cottage-cheese stucco walls of the cheap motel room. On the screen of the room television a pretty young joker woman with bright-blue skin was trying to guess the password from Henry Winkler's clues. Wrapped in a cheap, stiff housecoat her mysterious benefactor had bought on sale at Kmart, Sara sat on the end of the bed and stared at the screen as if the images on it mattered.

  She was still trying to pull together the broken glass pieces the news flash had left in her belly. The wife of Senator Gregg Hartmann has miscarried in the wake of her tragic fall… The senator was bravely containing his grief as he fought for political survival on the convention floor. Just the sort of persevering spirit America needed to carry her into the nineties, or so the commentator's tone seemed to say. Or had that just been the blood in Sara's ears.

  Bastard. Monster. He sacrificed his wife, his unborn child, to save his political hide.

  An image of Ellen Hartmann's face surfaced through the shrouds she laid over her memories of the W.H.O. tour. A wan, brave smile, knowing, forbearing… infinitely tragic.

  Now she lay broken and near death, the child she had so desired lost.

  Sara was never the strident kind of feminist who saw every human interaction in terms of grand collectives, political synecdoche wherein a man was Men and a woman, Women.

  Yet this struck her deeply, offended her on some primal level. Angered her: for herself, for Ellen, for all of Hartmann's victims, yes, but especially the women.

  For Andrea.

  There was a thing the man who had hurried her from the hotel last night as the police cars wailed their red-and-blue way to the latest battle scene, had suggested when they talked in the early hours of this morning. She had promised to consider it before he left about whatever errands he had to tend to-not even reporter's curiosity made her really want to know. Because his suggestion was natural enough, she supposed, for a self-confessed Soviet spymaster. But it shocked a Midwestern girl, transplanted into the neurasthenic garden of the New York intellectual set, even one who prided herself on her case-hardening in the streets and back rooms of Jokertown.

  But still, but still… Gregg Hartmann had to be stopped. Gregg Hartmann had to pay.

  But Sara Morgenstern didn't want to die. To follow Andi oh-so-ungently into that night she could not believe was good. That was the covert caveat of George Steele's suggestion, neither hidden nor overtly stated.

  But what, what chance do I have with that-thing-after me? The laughing, twisted leather boy, who humme to himself and walked through walls. She could not hide forever. And when he found her..

  She shook her head, whipstinging her cheeks with the ends of her hair, blinded by hot sudden tears.

  Onscreen the blue woman cleaned up in the End Game. Sara hoped it made her happy.

  3:00 P.M.

  "Stop it." The steady angry flipping of the magazine's pages ceased.

  "Why?" Blaise's tone was challenging.

  Tach reined in his temper. Poured another brandy. " I am trying to think, and it is irritating me."

  "You always stop using contractions when you're pissed."

  "Blaise, please."

  Propping the phone beneath his chin, Tach called Sara's room. The distant ringing echoed mournfully over and over again.

  Tach drummed his fingers on the table, touched the disconnect button and phoned the desk. Blaise's magazine flew across the room like a terrified bird. "This is boring sitting here watching you be stupid! I want to go out."

  "You have forfeited that right."

  "I don't want to be here when the CIA comes to get you." The boy's grin was ugly.

  "Goddamn you."

  Fist upraised, Tachyon charged across the room. The knock at the door arrested him before he could strike the child. Hiram and Jay Ackroyd were in the hall. Hiram looked like death. Ackroyd's face was puffy and swollen, and a lot of colors that a face shouldn't be. Tachyon's stomach formed into a small, tight ball, and tried to retreat into his spinal cord. He stepped reluctantly back to let them enter.

  Hiram waddled to the window. For the first time in all the years he had known him, Tachyon realized that the ace was not using his gravity power to reduce his own weight.

  Worchester's footfalls were ponderous in the suite. Ackroyd seated himself on the sofa, and laid a garment bag across his knees. The silence stretched like cobwebs between the three men and the boy.

  Ackroyd jerked his head toward the door. "Lose the kid."

  "Hey!" Blaise burst out.

  "Blaise, go."

  He gave his grandfather a smirk. " I thought I'd forfeited the rig
ht."

  "GO, damn you!"

  "Shit, just when things were getting interesting." Blaise held up his hands, palms out. "Hey, no problem. I'm gone."

  The door closed behind him, and the silence resumed. Nerves fraying, Tachyon flung out a hand. "Hiram, what the devil is this?" There was no reply from the ace.

  Ackroyd said, "You gotta run a blood test, Doc. Right now."

  Tachyon smirked and indicated the room. "What? Here?" The detective grimaced. "Don't be dense, and don't be cute. I'm too fucking tired and I hurt too much to deal with it." The man's fingers trembled slightly as he unzipped the bag. "This is Senator Hartmann's jacket from Syria."

  Tachyon stared in blind terror at the black stain on the cloth.

  This was it. He could no longer postpone the discovery by reason of convoluted Takisian honor. Sara's accusations would be proved or disproved in old blood.

  "How did you come to possess this?"

  "That's a long story," Ackroyd said wearily, "and none of us have the time. Let's just say I got it.. from Chrysalis."

  "It was… well… sort of a legacy."

  Tachyon cleared an obstruction from his throat, and asked cautiously, "And just what do you think I am going to find?"

  "The presence of Xenovirus Takis-A."

  Moving like an automaton, Tachyon crossed to the dresser, poured a drink, threw it back. " I see a jacket. Anyone could buy a jacket, doctor it with virus positive blood-"

  "That's what I thought." Hiram's voice was a 'rusty grinding sound. "But he's," a jerk of the head toward Ackroyd, "been through too much. The link from Syria to this hotel room is clear. It's the sen-it's Hartmann's jacket."

  Tachyon pivoted slowly to face Worchester. "Do you want me to do this thing?"

  "Do we have any choice?"

  "No. I don't suppose we have."