All the way to the Marriott, Puppetman nudged at the gnawing guilt inside Billy Ray. It was a delicious snack, soured and spiced with frustration. Gregg could feel Ray reliving the moment of Ellen's fall again and again, and he knew that every time Billy felt his fingers graze Ellen's hand. Ray sat in the front seat of the limo and watched the traffic far too carefully, blinking too often behind his mirrored sunglasses. Gregg could feel Carnifex aching to strike out at something, someone.
So Simple, Puppetman chortled. He'd do anything if he thought it might make up for his mistake.
Remember that, Gregg told him. Tonight, maybe.
Now that it was over, Gregg was beginning to feel more normal. The numbness and feeling of being split in half was receding. Part of him still hated what he'd done, but after all what choice had he had?
None. None at all.
There was nothing else we could do, right? Absolutely. Nothing else.
Puppetman was smug.
When Billy opened the door of the campaign staff room for Gregg, a cardboard Peregrine floated out. Someone had whited-out her costume and penned in pubic hair and enormous nipples on the bare breasts. "Flying Fuck" was stenciled on the side.
The place was a happy chaos. Gregg could see Jack Braun in one of the bedrooms with Charles Devaughn and Logan. Half the Ohio delegation seemed to be in the living room of the suite, dipping into the booze stashed behind the wet bar and waiting for their own meeting with Devaughn. Junior staffers were riding the phone lines while volunteers bustled in and out. Room service trays littered the floor near the door, the carpet was sticky with spilled soda. The place smelled like a week-old pizza.
Gregg watched the mood shift as soon as he entered. Puppetman felt the hysterical jubilation darken as the noise level dropped to nothing. Everyone turned to look at Gregg.
Devaughn broke away from Jack and Logan. His well-groomed figure cut a wedge through the crowded room. "Senator," he purred. "We're all very sorry. How's Ellen?",
Puppetman could feel very little actual sorrow or concern inside his campaign manager-Devaughn felt nothing unless it directly impacted him, and then everything was a crisis-but Gregg nodded. "She's doing a good job of pretending that she's a lot better than she is. This has been a blow to all of us, but especially to her. I'm not going to stay here too long, Charles. I need to get back to the hospital soon. I just wanted to touch bases. I know I haven't been much help to you people…"
"You're mistaken there, Senator. That press conference at the hospital-" Devaughn shook his head. The yuppie-cut hair stayed perfectly in place. "John's meeting with Florida, Georgia, and Mississippi right now; it looks like we might be able to swing a lot of the Southern Gore delegates away from Barnett."
They're heavily into the strength of the family unit and that type of thing; we've got a lot of sympathy pull to use there." Devaughn didn't even notice the callousness of the remark, though aides around them audibly gasped. "Christ, man… one of them exclaimed.
Devaughn simply plowed on. "I've been talking with Jack and the West looks solid, too." Devaughn couldn't keep the grin from his face. "We've got it, Senator," he said eagerly. "We're within 150-200 votes of the majority, and the swing our way is getting deeper. Two more ballots, three at the most. Barnett's drifting and going nowhere, and we're picking up everyone's defectors. It's all over but the VP decision. You'd better start making your final decision on that."
Some of the workers around them gave a cheer at the declaration. Gregg allowed himself a small half-smile. Jack had followed Devaughn over and was standing beside him. He grimaced at the display and Puppetman felt a faint spill of distaste.
"I'm sorry, Gregg," he said, giving Devaughn a hard glare. "Really. No one would have blamed you for dropping out. I think I would have given it up in the same situation. I know there's nothing anyone can say to make it hurt less."
"Thanks, Jack." Gregg clasped the ace on the shoulder. He heaved a great sigh and shrugged self-conciously. "Whether you believe it or not, hearing that does mean something. Listen, you're one of the main reasons I dropped back here. Ellen's asking to see both you and Tachyon. I think she wants to make certain I've got good people around me for protection."
Gregg felt a twinge from Billy Ray at that: more guilt. Just for the pleasure it would give Puppetman and because for the first time in weeks he could do such things without worry, he tweaked the guilt and let Puppetman savor it. Ray's intake of breath was audible.
"Tachy's over at the Omni, I think," Jack said.
"Then could I ask a favor? Would you find him and drag him back to the Marriott? We'll go over together, if it's all right with you two."
It had been easy enough to arrange. Ellen was a long-time puppet and extremely pliable. It would add to the favorable press the accident had given him. He could see the photo now:
Senator Hartmann, Golden Boy, and Dr. Tachyon at Mrs.
Hartmann's bedside. From the slight twist to Braun's mouth, it was obvious the ace had come to much the same conclusion, but he shrugged.
"I guess. Let me go see if I can round up Tachy."
"Good," Gregg said. "I'll wait for you in my room."
4:00 P.M.
Jack hadn't found Tachyon at the Omni, and decided to go on to the hospital without him. Jack didn't have the heart to tell the candidate that Tachyon was probably back at the Marriott screwing Fleur van Renssaeler.
Hartmann stared silently at the back of Billy Ray's head as the limousine inched its way through bumper-to-bumper traffic on its way to the hospital.
Jack thought about the secret ace. If the fragment of Sara's photocopy clue was anything to go by, the unknown ace had to be a veteran who had somehow got his blood test suppressed.
This left out Jesse Jackson, who, being a seminary student, had a draft deferment. The other candidates were all veterans, but the way Jack figured, the most likely suspect was Leo Barnett.
Barnett was a populist charismatic preacher who claimed to interpret the word of God, whose flock had mostly voted for Reagan in the last two elections, but who had followed him blindly into Democratic ranks. He preached against the wild card and wild card violence, but he didn't have the votes to take the nomination unless so much chaos broke out at the convention that a backlash gave him the nomination:
Maybe Barnett had been off in his tower praying for disasters to befall Gregg Hartmann. Maybe the angels had obliged him.
Or maybe it hadn't been the angels who had obliged. There was another possible clue in Sara's "secret ace" paper, the doodles that included a row of crosses. Maybe Sara made those crosses when thinking about the Reverend Leo Barnett.
Jack held off making a judgment until he saw the videotapes. Dukakis impressed him as hardworking, intelligent, and fairly dull. Hardly the sort to employ twisted aces to chop up his enemies. But Barnett was riveting.
In the videos, he prowled the stage like a wary panther, wiping away buckets of sweat with a succession of huge handkerchiefs, his voice ranging from a mild, just-folks West Virginia twang to a lacerating, scornful jeremiad shriek. And he was clearly no brainless ranting Holy Roller. His ice-blue eyes burned with fearsome intelligence. His messages were so well-constructed, so well-reasoned-at least within their apocalyptic framework-that his communications skills had to be the envy of any of the other candidates' speechwriters.
And Barnett was-Jack hated to admit this-sexy. He was still under forty, and his blond Redford good looks and dimpled chin obviously had his female audience in thrall.
There was one incredibly revealing scene, Barnett straddling a prostrate young semi-deb who had been possessed by the Spirit, Barnett shouting into his phallic microphone while the girl babbled in tongues, and writhed and grunted in what to Jack's jaded Hollywood mind seemed clearly to be a series of staggering sexual climaxes… And Jack, looking into the preacher's intent face and ferocious predator eyes, knew that Barnett knew he was bringing the girl off just with the power of his presence and voice, and that Barn
ett rejoiced in the twisted sexual glory of it all…
Jack remembered a night in 1948, sitting after a Broadway debut in a Sixth Avenue coffee shop with David Harstein, the member of the Four Aces whose pheromone power hadn't, at that point, been revealed to the public. Unknown to them, a meeting of the Communist Party USA was being held down the street. The meeting ended and several of the party members showed up in the coffee shop and recognized Jack and Harstein. What started out as autograph-seeking turned into a combative political debate, as the comrades, fired-up from their meeting, demanded ideological concurrence from the two celebrities. Hunting Nazis and overthrowing Juan Peron was all very well, but when were the Four Aces going to proclaim solidarity with the workers? What about assisting anti-Dutch forces in Java and Mao's army in China? Why hadn't the Aces fought alongside the ELAS in Greece? What about assisting the Russians in purging Eastern Europe of unsound elements?
All the downside of celebrity, in short.
Jack had been all for saying goodnight and moving on, but Harstein had a better idea. His pheromones had already flooded the small coffee shop, making everyone amenable to his suggestions. Shortly thereafter the comrades, including several hulking dock workers and a couple horn-rimmed intellectuals, were standing on the counter doing Andrews Sisters impersonations. The late-night crowd was entertained with "Rum and Coca-Cola,"
"Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy," and "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree."
Jack thought about how easily Harstein had controlled the hostile crowd as he watched the last Barnett video, the one shot in Jokertown. Barnett moved amid the devastated landscape of a gang battle in New York, calling down the powers of heaven to heal Quasiman, who rose from the dead… and seeing that, Jack knew in his bones the identity of the secret ace.
Barnett could make things happen. How the talent worked, Jack couldn't say. Barnett had to be able to affect things at a distance: make TV producers cut to commercial when he needed it, compel candidates like Hart and Biden to self-destruct, make his followers love him and give him money, maybe erase the wild card from his own military record, erase Tachyon's impotence and give him a letch for Fleur, maybe even give long-distance orgasms to the faithful. The twisted leather boy with the buzz saw hands could be someone Barnett had promised to heal of the curse of his wild card, provided he did the Lord's bidding first.
Jesus, Jack wondered. Had anyone really looked at these videos? Had anyone at all been able to tell how important they were? They were like a flaming Biblical hand in the sky, its index finger pointing at Leo Barnett.
Barnett. The secret ace had to be Barnett.
And now Jack gnawed his lower lip and looked at Hartmann, wondering whether or not to tell him. Hartmann was still staring with a peculiar intensity at Billy Ray, who sat riding shotgun in front of him. Was he blaming Ray for what happened to Ellen? Jack wondered. Ray, from what others had told Jack, was certainly blaming himself.
Jack started to say something to Hartmann, then choked the words down. Somehow he couldn't interrupt Hartmann's thoughts, not after the events of the day.
He'd talk to Tach about it first, he thought. Show Tachyon the clues, the videos. Between the two of them, they'd be able to figure out a response.
All this long-distance mind-control stuff was more in Tachyon's bailiwick, anyway.
5:00 P.M.
Spector sat in the hospital reception area and paged through a copy of Reader's Digest. The couch was made of hard, red vinyl and had been repaired with silver duct tape. A dying fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead. The hospital stank. Not just the usual smell of antiseptic and disease, but jokers. The deformed had a stink all their own. But it was probably the only place in town that had bed space for them.
A young, rail-thin nurse with tired eyes walked over. "You can see him now. Room 205." She walked away without looking up from her clipboard.
Spector stood, stretched, and walked down the scuffed linoleum hallway. He'd decided not to fill the contract. There was no way in the world he was going to help Barnett and his shithead followers into the White House. He'd keep the money, of course. It'd stake him to a new start somewhere else. He'd go back to Teaneck first and get his things together, then take off. Maybe just spin a globe and go wherever his finger landed, like in the movies. There were bound to be plenty of places where his talents would be marketable. If his current employer wanted to try to track him down, they were welcome to give it their best shot. He wasn't really worried about it. But first he wanted to check on Tony and make sure he was going to be okay. After that, he was bouncing back to Jersey on the next plane.
He rapped the door to 205 open and poked his head in. Tony opened his eyes and smiled. It wasn't the same with so many broken teeth. "Come on in."
Spector sat down in a chair next to the window. Tony had gauze over one eye and an ugly mouse under the other. They'd taken stitches along his cheekbone and in his forehead. His lips were puffy and discolored.
"Want me to spring you?"
"Maybe tomorrow. The doctors said I had a couple of seizures secondary to the concussion. Nothing serious, but that's why they won't be transferring me out until this evening."
"I'll be staying at the same hospital as…" He closed his eyes. Spector nodded. "Hurt to talk?"
"Hurts to blink, even. You okay?" Tony lifted himself up. "Those guys take it easy on you, or something?"
"I'm fine. They always want to mess you pretty boys up. Figure us ugly guys got enough trouble already." Spector shook his head. "You're going to make some dentist very happy. He's going to look at your mouth and see a new home entertainment system."
Tony was quiet for a moment. "You heard about Ellen?"
"Yeah." The news about Mrs. Hartmann's miscarriage had been the day's top news story. "A shitty break. Sorry."
"From a personal standpoint, I am, too. But this is going to put the man over the top at the convention." Tony reached up and scratched his nose, then winced. "I guess that sounds kind of cold. But it's going to help so many people that I think the trade off is worth it."
Spector glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. "I've got to get going, Tony. Things to do. I may not get a chance to see you again for a while, but I can always look you up on Pennsylvania Avenue."
"Can you do me a favor before you leave?"
"Sure, name it."
"All my writing stuff is at the Marriott. I know we're getting the nomination tonight and I have to finish off the acceptance speech. There's a black briefcase on my bed. It's got everything I'll need, my laptop, CD player." Tony edged his shoulders up the bed, sitting up as straight as possible. "With Ellen's accident and the story about some assassin hanging around, there's nobody else to get it for me. I kind of got lost in the shuffle."
"Uh, I don't think they're just going to let me waltz up to your room to pick up your shit." Spector felt bad about crawfishing, but really didn't want to go back to the Marriott. He might see Barnett and have to kill the bastard.
"No problem. I'll write you out a note. Show it to the security people at the entrance and they'll take care of it. I can call the nurse at the front desk here, have her give you my room key."
Spector couldn't say no, much as he wanted to. "Okay. It may take awhile. Traffic is a bitch out there."
Tony smiled. Even with split, purple lips, the guy still came across like a winner. He took Spector's hand and shook it. "The team's still working."
"Right," Spector said, handing him a pen and a piece of paper. "I couldn't let you go outside looking like that. You'd need a mask to cover up all those stitches."
Tony grabbed him by the elbow. "That's it, Jim. Masks. That's the angle I'll work with. Something that really showcases joker's Rights." He let go of Spector and raised his hands.
"America, wear a mask for one day. See what it's like to be treated as something less than human."
Spector stood quietly for a moment. "I think it needs a little work. "
"No problem. No
w that I've got the angle, the words will come." Tony began writing.
"I'll get your stuff back as soon as I can." Spector didn't shake his head until he was out of the room.
6:00 P.M.
Projected on the screen of the electron microscope, the wild card lay in its distinctive crystal pattern.
"Jesus," breathed Ackroyd. "It's beautiful."
Tachyon scraped back his bangs. "Yes, I suppose it is." He grimaced. "Trust us Takisians to create a virus to match our aesthetic ideal."
He swung around on the lab stool just as Hiram began to slide down the wall.
"Ackroyd!"
They each grabbed an arm, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. All three ended up seated on the floor. Hiram ran a hand across his eyes and muttered, "Sorry, must have blacked out for an instant."
Unlimbering his flask, Tach held it to Hiram's lips. Worchester gulped down brandy, then his head fell to the side as if his neck were too fragile to support its weight. An enormous, ugly scab crusted on his neck. Tach touched it with a cautious forefinger, and Hiram straightened abruptly. "Hey, can I have a sip of that?" Jay pointed with his chin to the flask. "It's been a hell of a week." The detective's Adam's apple worked as he gulped down the brandy. Ackroyd gusted a sigh, and wiped his mouth.
"There can be no doubt?" Hiram's eyes pleaded with Tachyon.
"None."
"But just because he's an ace… well, that proves nothing. He'd have been mad to admit to the virus. He might be a latent."
An uneasy silence fell over the three men. Tachyon, squatting on his heels, gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Three floors above him Ellen Hartmann rested in her hospital room. Dreaming of her lost child. Never dreaming that her husband was a secret ace, and possibly a ruthless killer. Or had she known all along?
Jay cleared his throat and asked, "So what do we do now?"
"A very good question," sighed Tachyon.
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