Dead Man's Hand

by George R. R. Martin

  Brennan looked back down at Dragon. “A friend of mine was killed, Dragon. You heard.”

  “Chrysalis?”

  Brennan nodded. “And I heard that someone is bragging around town that he did it to get in good with the Fists.”

  Dragon shook his head. “I didn’t know the Fists wanted her dead.”

  “You don’t make policy. I want to talk to someone who does. Fadeout.”

  “He’s not happy with you, Cowboy. You really fucked us over.”

  Brennan shrugged. “That’s life,” he said. “Fadeout will talk to me, or the Fists will bleed.”

  Dragon stood up slowly, carefully. “You don’t want to start anything here, Cowboy. I’m head of security for this party—”

  Brennan nodded, smiled under his Mae West mask, and backed away. “And I wouldn’t want you to have a black mark on your record. Just tell Fadeout I want to talk.”

  They stared at each other until Brennan backed out of the room.

  “So?” one of the Werewolf guards in the corridor asked Brennan.

  “So what?”

  “Who’s going off duty?”

  “Oh.” Brennan stripped off the Mae West mask and tossed it at the astonished Werewolf, who caught it against his chest. “I am.”

  “What the hell?” the other one growled angrily. “That’s not fair.”

  “Life’s a bitch,” Brennan told him. “Then you die.”

  The Werewolves recognized the danger in his voice. They watched him as he went down the corridor, wondering who he was, deciding that it would probably be better if they never found out.

  Tuesday

  July 19, 1988

  2:00 A.M.

  THE STALE AIR TRAPPED inside the unused sewer line that Chrysalis had converted to a secret Palace entrance stank of mold and rot. It was dark but for the beam from Brennan’s flashlight, quiet but for the infrequent noises he made as he crept toward the Palace. Once he passed a side tunnel that Chrysalis hadn’t told him about. He thought he heard something moving in it, but decided that now was not the time to indulge idle curiosity.

  The sewer line led to a tunnel of more recent construction, that led in turn to a dark basement storeroom. The room was packed with stacks of liquor cases, piles of aluminum beer kegs, and cardboard boxes filled with potato chips, pretzels, pork rinds, and other junk food.

  Brennan moved through the storeroom silently and went up the flight of stairs to the first floor. He waited for a moment, but neither saw, nor heard, nor smelled anything to indicate that anyone else was in the Palace. He hadn’t figured there would be. He went down the corridor to Chrysalis’s office and paused at the door, strangely reluctant to enter the room.

  He realized that once he saw her blood splattered on the walls, he would know without a doubt that Chrysalis was dead. She’d kept too much of herself to herself for him to have loved her, but he had shared her bed and some of her secrets. He’d known the lonely woman under the cool exterior. He hadn’t loved her, but he could have. He couldn’t forget that. It kept gnawing at him like the pain from an open wound, unbound and bleeding.

  He remembered Chrysalis’s office as a dark, quiet, charming room. It had a fabulous Oriental carpet on the floor, floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of leather-bound volumes that Chrysalis had actually read, solid oak-and-leather furniture, and dark, purple-patterned Victorian wallpaper. The room had even smelled of Chrysalis, of the exotic frangipani perfume she wore and the amaretto she drank. It had been a peaceful room, and he didn’t want to see it transformed into a scene of death and destruction. But he had to. He took a deep breath, pulled away the tape that sealed the door, and entered the office.

  It was worse than he had suspected. The room had been utterly devastated. Her huge oak desk was on its side halfway across the room from its usual place. Her black leather chair had been shattered. Her bookcases had been torn from the walls and the volumes scattered on the floor. The visitors’ chairs had been smashed to kindling. Her wooden file cabinets had been upended and their contents strewn all over the floor and the broken furniture. Worst of all was a light spray of blood, barely visible on the patterned wallpaper, splattered low on the wall behind where her desk and chair normally stood.

  Brennan had seen a lot of destruction, but this devastation filled him with anger. He took the anger and forced it down, pushing it deep inside himself until it was a glowing pinpoint in the pit of his stomach. This was no time to give in to emotion. Perhaps later he could afford to vent it, but now he needed a cool, dispassionate intellect. Not knowing yet what might constitute an important clue, he memorized the horrible scene in as much detail as he could so that he’d be able to reconstruct it in his mind later.

  Brennan left the office with the room locked in his memory. He couldn’t face the stuffiness of the tunnels running under the streets. He wanted to breathe fresh, clean air, as fresh and clean, anyway, as could be found in the city. He went to the stairs that led to the exits of the upper floor, and he heard a voice, the last voice he ever expected to hear again, whispering from the dark stairwell ahead of him.

  “Yeoman,” it said, sending shivers up his spine, “I’m waiting for you. Come to my room. I’ll be waiting, my archer.”

  It was her voice. Chrysalis, speaking in her almost-English accent. He stood still for a moment, but heard no one or nothing move in the darkness.

  Brennan didn’t believe in ghosts, but the wild card made nearly anything possible. Maybe Chrysalis hadn’t even been killed, maybe it was all an elaborate hoax, perhaps perpetrated by Chrysalis herself for whatever unfathomable reason. Whatever it was, he couldn’t just walk away from it. He drew his Browning Hi-Power from his hip holster and crept up the stairs as quietly as a stalking cat.

  The door to Chrysalis’s bedroom was open, and as he peered around the jamb he could see that someone had been here before him. The intruder had been searching for something and hadn’t bothered to be neat about it. Chrysalis’s canopied bed had been pulled apart and its mattress shredded. All her Victorian portraits and elegantly framed antique mirrors had been stripped from the walls and lay in silver slivers scattered about the floor. The crystal decanter that usually stood on the nightstand lay shattered on the floor. A fencing mask sat in its place.

  Brennan entered the room and stared about in dismay. Just as he reached the smashed bed, a bulky figure appeared at the mouth of the walk-in closet where Chrysalis had kept her extensive wardrobe. Its face was feminine and beautiful, but etched with what looked like chronic pain. Her body was grotesque, huge and blocky under her floor-length black cloak. Something was moving under the cloak. Something twisted and writhed across her chest and abdomen like a sack full of snakes. The intruder stopped short and stared at Brennan, who stared back and pointed his gun.

  “You’re the Oddity,” Brennan finally said.

  “Who are you?”

  “No one you know. Call me Yeoman.”

  There was another silence, then the Oddity said, “We see. What are you doing here?”

  “That’s my question.”

  “We’re looking for something.”

  Brennan’s lips quirked in a grimace. “Let’s not draw this out.”

  “Or what? Shouldn’t a threat be in there somewhere?”

  Brennan’s voice was as cold as glacial ice, the hand holding the gun as steady as a statue’s. “I don’t threaten. I don’t play games. I’ve found you in my friend’s bedroom and I’m inclined to believe you had something to do with her death. If you don’t want to tell me anything, fine. I’m not going to turn you over to the police. I’m going to leave you dead.”

  “We believe you would try,” the Oddity said softly.

  Brennan said nothing.

  “All right.” She sighed. “We had nothing to do with Chrysalis’s death. When we heard about it, we came looking for something … some information that Chrysalis was blackmailing us with. We just wanted to recover it before the police found it.”

  Brennan
scowled. “Blackmailing you? For money?”

  The Oddity nodded, then her face suddenly screwed up in an expression of intense pain. She gasped and fell to her knees, her arms crossing over her stomach. She threw back her head, her face a rictus of suffering.

  “Christ,” Brennan murmured. The Oddity wasn’t acting. She was in intense, uncontrollable pain. Brennan didn’t know what to do or how to help her. He started to approach the helpless joker, but she held out a hand to ward him off. He stared as her features crawled from her face and slid down the side of her throat. Another set of features, swarthy and masculine, began to move around from the back of her head.

  The new eyes stared at Brennan with suspicion. Even before they were properly in place, even before the Oddity finished moaning, he—as Brennan now thought of the joker—stood, grabbed the leg of the end table that stood near the bed, and threw it at Brennan with a flick of his wrist. Brennan ducked and squeezed off a shot.

  He never knew if the bullet hit home, because the Oddity charged at him like a fullback blasting for the goal line, and when they collided, it felt as if he’d been smashed by a sack full of bricks.

  He twisted away and placed a powerful side kick into the squirming mass that was the Oddity’s torso. A feminine hand grabbed him, and it was much, much stronger than his. It pulled at him and he followed it without resistance as it whirled him around and slammed him against the wall hard enough to make his teeth clatter and his back ache.

  His gun flew away. He hit the floor, rolled, and grabbed a knickknack stand of solid oak. He swung it with all his strength and caught the Oddity in the side. The stand shattered. His arms quivered with shock and he tried unsuccessfully to shake the numbness from his hands. The Oddity hadn’t even budged.

  He swung at Brennan and Brennan dodged, dodged, and dodged again, dangling his hands at his side, trying to get feeling to return to them. He retreated until he felt a wall against his back and the Oddity loomed before him, scowling with ferocious anger.

  He swung again and Brennan ducked, sliding down the wall as the Oddity’s fist smashed through it, his arm punching into the wall cavity to the shoulder.

  Brennan slipped around to the side and grabbed one of the posts that had supported the canopy of Chrysalis’s demolished bed. He swung it like an oversized baseball bat and connected solidly with the Oddity’s back, right over the kidneys.

  The Oddity howled more in anger than pain. Brennan swung again, splintering the post into kindling.

  “Christ,” Brennan muttered as the Oddity cursed and wrenched at his trapped arm.

  There was no sense, Brennan realized, in trying to fight the berserk joker. He dove out of the room as the Oddity pulled free, and ran down the hallway, gritting his teeth at the pain in his back.

  “We’ll get you, you bastard!” the Oddity cried. His voice was slurred, as if perhaps two people were fighting for control of it. “We’ll get you!”

  Brennan took a deep breath as he ran. No bones were broken, but his whole back felt bruised. There was no time to waste moaning. The police could arrive at any moment to investigate the commotion. He went up the stairs and out through the roof, replaying the Oddity’s story in his mind.

  Chrysalis might have extorted favors or information as part of the game she liked to play, but she would never blackmail anyone for money. Brennan knew that wasn’t in her.

  So why was the Oddity lying? And what was he—they, whatever—really looking for in the closet of Chrysalis’s bedroom?

  9:00 A.M.

  “You’ve got a reporter named Thomas Downs,” Jay said.

  The receptionist looked at him dubiously. She was a chic little number who looked like she’d been specially bred to sit behind the high-tech chrome-and-glass reception desk. The offices of Aces magazine were a lot classier than Jay had anticipated. If he’d known they had two entire floors at 666 Fifth Avenue, Jay might have stopped for that shine in the subway. Obviously, there was money to be made in stories about Peregrine’s love life.

  “Digger didn’t come in today,” the receptionist said.

  On the wall behind her, the magazine’s logo had been burned into a chrome steel plate by Jumpin’ Jack Flash. Elsewhere around the reception area, various distinguished ace visitors had transmuted a chrome ashtray into some kind of weird purple glass, twisted steel bars into new and fanciful shapes, and constructed a perpetual-motion machine that had been whirring happily away for four years now. Little brass plaques commemorated each of these feats.

  “Where can I find him?” Jay asked. “It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “We don’t give out that kind of information.”

  “Is there someone else I could talk to?” Jay asked.

  “Not without an appointment,” she said.

  “I’m an ace,” Jay told her.

  She tried to suppress a smile, and failed. “I’m sure you are.”

  Jay looked around the reception area, made the gun shape with his fingers, and pointed at a long chrome-and-leather sofa. It vanished with a pop. He’d needed a new couch anyway. “Do I get a little brass plaque?” he asked the receptionist.

  “Perhaps Mr. Lowboy could help you,” she said, lifting up the phone.

  The editorial floor had been partitioned off into a maze of tiny cubicles. Larger private offices, with real walls and doors, lined the outside of the building, leaving the big central space windowless. There were lots of cheerful colors and potted plants, and peppy Muzak kept the well-dressed staff busy at their computer terminals. Everything was very clean and orderly. Jay hated it.

  Mr. Lowboy’s corner office had no computer terminal, no cheerful colors, and no Muzak. Just a lot of wood and leather, and two huge tinted windows looking out over the Manhattan skyline. Mr. Lowboy wasn’t there when they arrived, so Jay wandered around the room looking at the framed photographs on the walls. He was studying a faded black-and-white print of Jetboy shaking hands with a wizened little man who looked like an anemic gnome when Lowboy finally made his entrance.

  “That’s my grandfather,” he said. “He and Jetboy were like that.” Lowboy crossed his middle and index fingers. He was a couple of inches shorter than Jay and wore a three-piece white suit with a pastel shirt and a black knit tie.

  “Why is he handing Jetboy a check?” Jay asked.

  “Oh, well, truth is, he was lending the kid money all the time. Jetboy never did know how to manage his finances. Just like a lot of these modern aces.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bob Lowboy. I understand you’re looking for Digger.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m afraid we can’t help you,” he said as they shook. “Digger’s a crackerjack reporter, no doubt of it, but he’s not the most reliable man we’ve got on staff. He took off yesterday during his coffee break, and we haven’t seen him since.”

  “Aren’t you a little concerned about that?”

  “Not to worry,” Lowboy assured him. “He’s done it before. The last time, he showed up a week later with all the dope on the Howler’s secret love child. Made the cover.”

  “I’ll just bet it did,” Jay said.

  “If you’d like to leave a card with my assistant, we’ll make sure Digger gets it,” Lowboy promised.

  Jay left a card with Mr. Lowboy’s assistant and told her he’d find his own way out. He was threading his way through the labyrinth when a woman called out to him. “Mr. Ackroyd?”

  She was young, early twenties maybe, dressed in a plain white shirt open at the collar, jeans, and a pin-striped gray vest. Her hair was cropped short, and round wire-rims framed her face. “Mandy told everyone about the couch,” she said. “You’re Popinjay.” She offered her hand shyly. Her nails were trimmed down to the quick.

  “I hate that name.”

  She looked guilty. “Oh God, that’s right, it was in your file. I’m sorry, I forgot. I hope I haven’t offended you. I’m Judy Scheffel. Sometimes they call me Crash.”

  “Crash?” Jay said dubiously. />
  “Don’t ask. I’m Digger’s research assistant. Can we talk?” She produced a key from the pocket of her vest. “The key to Digger’s office,” she said. “C’mon.”

  Downs might have been only a reporter, but clearly Aces valued his services. His office was a third the size of Lowboy’s, but it was a real office, with walls, a door that locked, and even a single narrow window. The bookshelves along the west wall were jammed far beyond capacity and looked as though they could come cascading down at any moment. A computer work station occupied the corner by the window. Next to it was a bulletin board crowded with mug shots of people that Jay didn’t recognize. “Who are they?” he asked.

  Crash carefully locked the door. “Aces who are still up the sleeve,” she said. “For future reference. You’d be surprised how many times Digger’s been the first to break the story on a new ace. No one else comes close.”

  “If they haven’t gone public yet, how does he know they’re aces?” Jay said, studying the pictures.

  “I think he has a source down at the Jokertown Clinic who tips him off whenever a new ace is diagnosed.” Crash shoved some papers aside and sat on the edge of Digger’s desk. “Digger’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

  “You tell me,” Jay said.

  “He’s in trouble,” she said. “He’s always been kind of jumpy, but yesterday he just freaked.”

  “Tell me about it,” Jay said. He moved a box of Peregrine pinup calendars off the swivel chair and sat down.

  “We were working on a story yesterday morning. About the convention—a profile of the ace delegates. Digger had this tiny little Sony Watchman on in the background, in case any news broke on the convention floor. When they came on with the newsflash about Chrysalis, he turned white as a sheet.”

  “They were close,” Jay said. “Maybe even lovers.”

  “It wasn’t just grief,” Crash said. “It was fear. Digger was terrified. I gotta go, he said. I asked him when he’d be back, but it was like he didn’t hear me. He practically ran out of the office. And Mandy, up front at the desk, she told me he didn’t even wait for an elevator. He took the stairs down.”