Dead Man's Hand

by George R. R. Martin

  “Close,” Ackroyd muttered as Jennifer looped a rope on his free wrist and twisted it gently to his back where she tied his hands together.

  Brennan turned Ackroyd around and shoved him onto a plush chrome-and-leather sofa that looked wildly out of place in Ackroyd’s shabby apartment.

  The PI fell onto the couch with a loud “Oooof” and wiggled around uncomfortably on his hands. He sniffed and held his head back, trying to keep the blood that was seeping out of his nose from dripping onto his chest. He squinted at Brennan. “Yeoman, I presume. Since we’re all such good friends, can I call you Dan?”

  “How do you know my name?” Brennan said quietly.

  Ackroyd shrugged. It was difficult to do that and keep the blood from running onto his shirt. “One of the first things I learned in detective school was how to find out stuff. Like the names of masked vigilantes.”

  “Why don’t you just answer my question?”

  “Or what?” Ackroyd said angrily. He struggled to find a comfortable position on the sofa. “You think you can just come in here and—”

  Jennifer stepped between them. “We don’t ‘think,’ Mr. Ackroyd, we have,” she said practically. She found a bunch of Kleenex in her handbag and stanched the flow of blood coming from his nose. She felt it gingerly and Ackroyd winced. “It doesn’t seem to be broken.” She made a face herself and stepped out of close smelling range.

  “Thanks,” Ackroyd muttered grudgingly.

  Jennifer gave Brennan a significant look. He took a deep, calming breath and began again.

  “Mentioning my real name to the wrong parties would cause me no end of trouble—”

  “Trouble,” Ackroyd interrupted. “What about the ‘trouble’ you caused all those people you killed? How many was it? Do you even remember?”

  “Every face,” Brennan said in a slow, hard voice. He sank down on his haunches so that he and Ackroyd were eye to eye, and stared at the detective. “You don’t like me or what I do, and I couldn’t care less. I do what I have to.”

  “Ambushing innocent—”

  “I can’t point my finger at people and make them go away,” Brennan said in the same hard voice. “And no one I killed was innocent. Maybe not everyone deserved to die for what they’d done, but they were playing the game, consciously and willingly. I’m not to blame if they were too stupid to realize the consequences of their involvement.”

  “Game?” Ackroyd asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Brennan gestured angrily. “I’m not going to justify myself to you. I’ll just say this. It is”—he stopped, looked at Jennifer and corrected himself—“was me against the Shadow Fists. One man against hundreds. I did what I had to do. I don’t regret any of it. Nor have I forgotten any of it.”

  “What you had to—”

  “That’s that,” Brennan said flatly. “We have more important things to discuss. We don’t have to be friends. We don’t have to like each other. We don’t have to work together. But we should talk.”

  Ackroyd nodded, but gestured stubbornly with his bound hands. “I’m not saying anything tied up like this.”

  “All right.” Brennan drew a knife from his ankle sheath and slashed Ackroyd’s bonds. The two men stared at each other for a long moment as Ackroyd rubbed his wrists angrily and then tenderly felt his nose.

  “My name,” Brennan prompted.

  Ackroyd shrugged. “All right. Sascha gave it to me. He said he’d plucked it from Chrysalis’s mind. Said you were probably involved in the murder, though I figure he was lying. Something had him really scared. Why all this mystery about your real identity, anyway? Other than the fact that you’re wanted for multiple homicides, of course.”

  Brennan looked at him coolly. “I’m in the country illegally. Maybe I’ll explain it someday when we have a couple of spare hours. Only Wraith”—he nodded at Jennifer—“and my enemy knew my name. Apparently also Chrysalis.”

  “You’re wanted by the feds?”

  “I deserted from the army. It’s complicated and it doesn’t have anything to do with Chrysalis’s death. If she’s really dead,” Brennan said significantly.

  “If?” Ackroyd said. “What do you mean ‘if’? I found her body.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure? She was not merely dead, she was most sincerely dead.”

  Brennan sighed, rubbed his face tiredly. “I don’t know.…” he said softly.

  “Look, are you crazier than I think, or what? I saw her—”

  “And I heard her voice. Yesterday.”

  “What?” Ackroyd asked quietly.

  “And I heard her voice today,” Jennifer added.

  Brennan looked at him closely. “What is it?”

  “I heard it, too,” Ackroyd admitted quietly. Then he looked at Brennan and shook his head. “But it couldn’t have been her voice. Christ, I was just at the funeral parlor where she was lying in her coffin.”

  “You’re certain, one hundred percent certain, that it was Chrysalis in the coffin?”

  “Do you know anyone else with invisible skin?” Ackroyd said. “It was her body I found. Besides, the wiseguy who called me had to be an imposter. She didn’t know the, uh, real story of the relationship between me and Chrysalis and she was telling me all kinds of screwy stuff. Claimed you’d been captured by eskimos.”

  Brennan sighed and shook his head. “Well, she was right about that.” He held up his hand, forestalling any more questions on Ackroyd’s part. “All right. So you’re convinced she’s dead. Do you have any suspects, any idea at all who killed her?”

  Ackroyd looked at him for a long moment before he spoke. “Suspects I got.” He fished a sheet of paper out of the inside breast pocket of his battered jacket and handed it to Brennan. It was soggy and had the same horrible smell that Ackroyd had. It was a list of names, most of them crossed off.

  “These are your candidates?” Brennan asked as Jennifer peered at the list over his shoulder.

  Ackroyd nodded. “Those that are left. I crossed the others off because of my years of experience as a trained investigator and my keen insights into the human psyche.”

  “Hmmm,” Brennan said. “Well, you can also cross off Bludgeon. I beat the hell out of him this morning in a place called Squisher’s Basement.”

  “You?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Brennan said with something of a smile. “Actually, something’s wrong with him. He’s obviously sick. He claimed that he killed Chrysalis, but he didn’t know enough details to make his claim convincing. It was all just a pathetic attempt to rebuild his reputation.”

  “Okay.” Ackroyd produced a pen and struck a line through Bludgeon’s name. “I’ll take your word for it. That still leaves us with four prime suspects.”

  Brennan nodded. “I know Wyrm.”

  “What about him?” Ackroyd asked.

  Brennan and Jennifer exchanged glances. “We’ve gone mano a mano a few times. He’s strong, but I don’t know if he’s strong enough to do what Chrysalis’s killer did to her. Also, bludgeoning isn’t his ordinary M.O.”

  “I thought about that already,” Ackroyd interjected. “He likes to use his fangs, doesn’t he?”

  Brennan unconsciously rubbed the side of his neck. “That’s right.”

  “But all of us heard him threaten Chrysalis,” Jennifer said.

  “Right. And he is one of Kien’s chief lieutenants, high in the Shadow Fist Society.”

  “Kien?” Ackroyd asked.

  “Why don’t you just leave Wyrm to me?” Brennan suggested.

  Ackroyd looked at him, shrugged. “Okay. You want the lizard, he’s yours.”

  “What makes Quasiman a suspect?” Jennifer asked.

  “You mean besides the fact that his brain has more holes in it than a Swiss cheese? Well, Barnett saved his life with a faith healing. Brought him back from the dead through the power of prayer. Or so some of Barnett’s people claim.”

  “And?” Brennan prompted.


  “And Chrysalis hired someone to do in the Bible thumper.”

  Brennan frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Reasonably. Elmo gave some hired muscle her order to make a hit on one of the politicos in Atlanta.”

  “Why?” Jennifer asked.

  Ackroyd shrugged. “I’m not sure. Because she was afraid of Barnett’s politics?”

  Brennan shook his head. “She wasn’t stupid. She’d realize something like that would push the country right into his hands. But,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps you’re not the only one who misinterpreted Elmo’s mission. Perhaps one of Barnett’s people also found out about it and told Quasiman. At any rate, we should look into it.” He glanced at Jennifer. “Perhaps we should have Father Squid lend us Quasiman for a while.”

  “For what reason?” Jennifer asked.

  “Ostensibly in case we run into the Oddity again.”

  “The Oddity?” Ackroyd echoed.

  “I found him trashing Chrysalis’s bedroom. He said that he was looking for something that Chrysalis was using to blackmail him. But I didn’t buy it. Chrysalis never extorted money from anyone.”

  “You’re right,” Ackroyd said.

  “That leaves just one name,” Jennifer prompted.

  Brennan looked down at the list. “Who the hell is Doug Morkle?”

  Ackroyd shook his head. “Beats me. Let me know if you find out.”

  “All right.” Brennan looked at Jennifer, then back at Ackroyd. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Yup. Except for a few questions.”

  “Like?”

  “Like did you know that Chrysalis had taken up with Digger Downs?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He masquerades as a reporter for Aces magazine.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Brennan said. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Chrysalis since October ’86.”

  Ackroyd nodded. “Elmo said she was desperate for info on you.” He watched Brennan closely. “Well. We all know you’re pretty good with a bow, but how about a chain saw?”

  Brennan scowled. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  Ackroyd shrugged. “No. Not really. One last thing. What do you know about the Palace’s neighbors?”

  Brennan was tired of Ackroyd’s bizarre questions. “The Palace has no neighbors,” he said flatly. “It’s alone on the block.”

  “That’s right,” Ackroyd said. “That’s entirely right.”

  Brennan took Jennifer by the arm. “We’re even,” he said as they turned to go.

  “Just so you know,” Ackroyd said as they stopped by the door. “I didn’t pop you into the Tombs this time, but our next meeting will be an entirely new matter.”

  “Next time,” Brennan said, nodding and smiling. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Good-bye,” Jennifer said. She blew Ackroyd a kiss and went through the door.

  Brennan stopped to open it and turned to look at Ackroyd a final time. “Take my advice,” he told the PI, “and either cut down on your drinking or switch to a better brand. You smell like you’ve been swimming in formaldehyde.”

  “Real good,” Ackroyd said. “You could almost be a detective.”

  Wednesday

  July 20, 1988

  5:00 A.M

  THE SIGN BEFORE THE rambling three-story Victorian house said COSGROVE MORTUARY, COSMO, TITUS, AND WALDO COSGROVE, PROPRIETORS, in suitably somber, Gothic-style lettering. The building was as quiet as death, as dark as the tomb. Brennan crept onto the wooded porch that encircled the house, moving slowly and carefully lest one of the ancient floorboards reveal his presence by creaking in the silent night.

  He jimmied a window and stepped through it into the lobby. He paused for a moment and shone his pocket flashlight around the small room. It had dark wallpaper and was cluttered with antique furniture and bric-a-brac. Chrysalis, he thought, would have loved it.

  The directory, hanging in a glass case on the wall, listed several viewings. The one he wanted—Jory—was in the West Parlor. He clicked off the flashlight and gave his eyes a few moments to readjust to the darkness, then moved into the bowels of the mortuary.

  There was a peculiar odor to the place, a curious mixture of chemicals and death. The silence was oppressive, unbroken by any sounds of movement or life. Brennan had to force himself to move slowly and quietly. He badly wanted to get an answer to his question and then get the hell out into the dirty, but living, city air.

  The West Parlor was a long, high-ceilinged room, still choked with scores of flower arrangements. The flowers, like everything in this place, were dead and wilted. Their scent was stultifying in the enclosed dark. They had been placed all over the room, the most were clustered around the closed coffin that was still in place against one wall. Brennan let out a deep sigh of relief when he spotted the coffin. He was afraid that he might be too late, that it might have already been moved to the church. That would have complicated things.

  Brennan approached the coffin silently, stopped before it, stared at it. For a moment he couldn’t bring himself to open the lid. But he had to know if it was Chrysalis in the coffin, he had to see with his own eyes.

  He lifted the lid and held it high. The darkness made it impossible to see any details, but Brennan thought that was a good thing. He kept his pencil flashlight off.

  The corpse was wearing a demure dress that covered it from neck to ankles. Above the neck was nothing. The head was totally missing, apparently obliterated beyond any possible hope of reconstruction. The hands, though, holding a Bible on the sunken stomach, were clear, invisible, dead flesh. They were her hands, Chrysalis’s hands, of that Brennan was sure, though blood no longer surged through their pulsing arteries. Whatever fluid that now filled them was clear and unmoving.

  “It was a difficult job,” a soft voice said behind Brennan.

  Brennan started, almost dropping the coffin lid. He barely managed to maintain his hold on it while he turned on his flashlight and swung it around.

  There was the sound of something moving swiftly away from the light, and the voice spoke again. “Please, the light is painful to me.”

  The voice was so authentically gentle and sad that Brennan couldn’t help but comply with it. “All right,” he said, and flicked off the flash.

  The speaker moved out from behind the straight-backed sofa. He was a vague pale blur in the darkness, very white, very tall, and very thin. He smelled of strange, powerful chemicals, but his voice was as sweet as a young boy’s.

  “You work here?” Brennan asked.

  “Oh yes. I do the embalming. Light is injurious to me, so I do most of my work at night. I was just stopping by to say good-bye to Chrysalis—it was a difficult job, but I did the best I could.”

  “This may sound strange,” Brennan said, “but you are sure that it’s Chrysalis in that coffin?”

  “Certainly,” the pale man said in his sweet voice. “Why do you ask?”

  Brennan shook his head. “Never mind. I was just making sure.”

  The pale man nodded in turn. “I’ll leave you to your private good-byes. Even though it’s past our regular visiting hours.” He turned to go, stopped, and looked back at Brennan. Brennan could see his small pink eyes shine with light reflected from his flash. “I tried to put her head back together, you know, but her killer had been terribly thorough. There weren’t enough pieces to work with. I’ve repaired the results of many violent killings, but this was one of the most savage. Her murderer deserves to be caught. To be caught and punished, Mr. Yeoman.”

  “I know,” Brennan said, looking down at what was left of Chrysalis, “I know.”

  6:00 A.M

  In the still, sick moonlight, the fingers of the trees reached out for him hungrily as he passed.

  He did not look up at that grim starless sky where the moon pulsed like a thing alive, glistening palely with all the colors of corruption. He knew better than to look, or to listen to the terrible secrets the trees whispered in th
e rustling of branches as bare and thin as whips. He walked through a land black and barren, where dead gray grasses grasped at his feet, and the fear grew in his soul like a black worm.

  Huge wings of dry cracked skin stirred the dead air. Eight-legged hunters, lean and cruel as any hound, slid from tree to tree just out of the range of his sight. The endless, deep ululation sounded behind him, promising an eon of terror, an eternity of pain. He knew this place; that was the most frightening thing of all.

  When he saw the subway kiosk up ahead, he began to run. So slowly he ran, each stride consuming an hour, but at last he reached it and started down the stairs. He held the railing tight as he descended. Trains roared through mindless gulfs far below him. Still he descended, down and around on steps that spiraled round forever, until he saw the other passenger. He began to chase him, down steps that grew narrow and cruel, and so cold that his bare feet stuck fast, and each step ripped away more bloody flesh.

  And he was there again, on that platform, hanging out over the endless subterranean dark, and there was the man before him. Don’t turn, he pleaded silently, while inside he gibbered in fear, oh please don’t turn.

  He turned, and Jay saw that white, featureless face, tapering to one long red tentacle. It lifted its head and began to howl. Jay screamed …

  … and grunted in pain as he fell out of bed, cracking his elbow hard against the hardwood floor. He doubled over and clutched the elbow, making a whimpering sound deep in his throat. It hurt like a motherfucker, but he was almost grateful. There was nothing like a good sharp pain to chase away the nightmare.

  He lay there for a good five minutes, until the throbbing in his elbow had finally subsided. Figuring out that his childhood trauma in the Dime Museum had caused the nightmare didn’t seem to have cured him of it. He’d wet the bed anyway. At least this time he’d had the sense to sleep in the nude.

  He started the water running in the tub, then went to the kitchen, spooned some Taster’s Choice into a cup, and waited for the kettle to boil. When the coffee was ready, he took it back to the bathroom. The tub was just about full. Jay set the coffee on the rim, turned off the faucets, and stepped in gingerly. The bathwater felt as hot as the coffee, but he forced himself to stand there until the heat started to feel good. He stretched out in the scalding water and drank his coffee. It made him feel clean again.