Dead Man's Hand

by George R. R. Martin

  Tachyon held out his right hand and cut the pad of his forefinger with a knife he pulled from a boot sheath. He held his finger over the flame of a candle, extinguishing it with a drop of his blood.

  “Farewell, Chrysalis.”

  Tachyon stepped from the podium and made his way back to his place in the pew and Brennan suddenly realized that, like Tachyon, tears were running down his cheeks, too.

  1:00 P.M.

  When the doorbell played “Old McDonald Had a Farm,” Jay knew he had the right place.

  A housekeeper opened the door. “Yes?” she asked.

  Jay smiled his most ingratiating smile. “Bob Lowboy,” he said, holding out a hand, “from Aces magazine.”

  “Nobody’s home,” she told him. “Jessica’s at school, and Mr. von der Stadt won’t be back from work till seven.”

  “No problem,” Jay told her. He held up the camera he’d borrowed from his favorite pawnbroker. “I just need to get a few more shots of the farm for our story on Miss Jessica and her little animals.”

  The housekeeper looked suspicious. “That other reporter, Mr. Downs, he took all kinds of pictures.”

  “Ruined,” Jay said. “A little accident in the darkroom. These things happen.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, won’t take me more than ten minutes, but I have to get a move on.”

  She frowned. “Maybe I ought to phone Mr. von der Stadt at the brokerage,” she said.

  “Be my guest,” Jay said, “but I’m due at the next shoot in thirty minutes, and you know what crosstown traffic is like this time of day. We’ll just run the story without art.”

  The housekeeper’s frown deepened. “Well,” she said, “maybe it would be all right. Just for a minute.”

  “Real good,” said Jay. He stepped into the house.

  She led him upstairs. The farm was on the top floor. Rather, the farm was the top floor. “You be careful you stay on the path now,” the housekeeper warned him as she unlocked the special fire door. “That Mr. Downs, he almost stomped on one of the horses.”

  “That’s Digger for you,” Jay said.

  The door swung open, and Jay looked around in astonishment. Digger hadn’t exaggerated. It was Iowa in an attic. To his right, a herd of cows munched away on a handful of real grass tossed down in the middle of a fake-grass field. To his left, alone behind a chicken-wire fence, a bull the size of an especially husky mouse snorted threateningly. Beyond them were other fields, other animals. “That’s an elephant,” Jay said.

  “He was Miss Jessica’s Christmas present,” the housekeeper said. “How come you’re not taking any pictures?”

  Jay turned and looked at her. “Photography is an art, you know. You don’t expect me to work with you right here looking over my shoulder, do you?”

  It actually worked. “Well, okay,” the old woman said. “No more than ten minutes, mind you.” She closed the door behind her.

  Jay took the footpath across the fields toward the complex of farm buildings under the windows, past a flock of sheep and some very short sheepdogs, a muddy trough crawling with pigs, toy tractors, and plastic farmer figurines, and a ramshackle henhouse. Chickens the size of marbles squawked and fluttered at his approach. The animals weren’t all to scale, but he supposed he shouldn’t be picky.

  The house stood surrounded by haystacks, next to the traditional red barn and a tall grain silo. It was a painstaking replica of an old-fashioned woodframe farmhouse, as lovingly detailed as any dollhouse. It had painted wooden shutters, a bronze weathervane that moved when he touched it, and real cloth curtains in the windows. On the porch swing, a plastic hired hand sat with his arm around a plastic farmer’s daughter. An iced pitcher of lemonade stood on the little table beside them.

  Jay got on his knees and pushed open the front door with his fingers. He peered in just long enough to glimpse a living room full of antique miniatures before a tiny collie rushed out and began to bark at him wildly. “Sonofabitch,” Jay said. The dog snapped at his nose. “Nice dog,” he said, pulling his head back quickly. “Shut the fuck up, nice dog.” The collie kept on barking. If only he’d brought a bone.

  “Digger,” he whispered urgently. “You there?”

  He thought he heard a rustle of movement from one of the upper stories, but it was hard to be sure with the racket the collie was making. Jay peeked in one of the third-story windows. He saw a woman’s bedroom, all lace and frills, pale blue walls covered with butterflies, a canopied four-poster bed. Nothing moved. It was a little dusty. How do you clean the inside of a dollhouse anyway?

  Jay thought about that for a moment, while Lassie danced around him and yapped. He considered seeing how far he could punt the collie with a nice hard finger flick, but restrained himself. Instead he bent over the farmhouse and lifted off the roof.

  Digger Downs, all three inches of him, was huddled on the floor of a tiny, windowless closet, trying to hide under a pile of doll clothes. He screamed when he saw Jay staring down at him, leaped up, and made a run for a staircase. Jay got him on the third step, lifting him into the air by his collar.

  “Don’t kill me,” Digger shrieked in a tiny shrill voice, arms flailing as he dangled between Jay’s fingers. “Oh God, please don’t kill me.”

  “I only pick on guys my own size,” Jay said. “Nobody’s going to kill you. We’re getting out of here. Be quiet.”

  He dropped Digger into his coat pocket barely an instant before the housekeeper returned. “Mr. Lowboy,” she said, in a disapproving tone, “I have Mr. von der Stadt on the line, and he’d like a word with you.”

  “No can do,” Jay said. “Gotta run.” The collie was barking up a storm, jumping around on his shoe, trying to climb up his pant leg to the pocket where Digger was hidden. “You think she’s trying to tell us something?” Jay asked innocently.

  Chrysalis’s only pallbearer was a green, nine-foot-tall joker who easily lifted her coffin and, cradling it in his arms as if it were a shoe box, led the procession into the churchyard.

  By the time Brennan and Jennifer had followed the crowd of mourners into the tiny graveyard, the joker and Quasiman were lowering the coffin into the open grave. Father Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water, said the final prayers for the dead, and stepped back as Jokertown buried another of its own. A long line snaked around the grave. Each person dropped a handful, pawful, or clawful of dirt onto the coffin, then paid their condolences to Father Squid, Tachyon, and the uncomfortable-looking man who’d been sitting with Tachyon in the front pew. He was a big man with a weathered face that was florid under his tan. He was sweating from the heat and twitching from the private storm of emotions that was raging, barely checked, inside him.

  “Hello, Father,” Brennan said, taking the hand of the priest.

  “Good to see you again, Daniel,” Father Squid said, returning his handshake with his powerful, but friendly grip.

  Tachyon threw himself at Brennan, hugging him with naked emotion that Brennan tolerated with good grace. He drew back after a long moment and held Brennan at arms’ length, examining him critically. “We must talk. Come.”

  Tachyon led Brennan deeper into the graveyard until the only ones who could hear them were the carven angels on the tombstones surrounding them. Tachyon glanced back at Jennifer, who was watching them curiously from Chrysalis’s graveside.

  “The beautiful blonde must be Jennifer,” Tachyon said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d say you’re a lucky man, but that would seem less than apt when you’re being framed for murder. Is that what brought you back?”

  “Partly,” Brennan said. “Mostly I’m here to find who killed her.”

  “And how are you progressing?”

  “Not too well,” Brennan admitted.

  “Any theories?”

  “I thought Kien might have done it,” Brennan said doubtfully.

  Tachyon seemed even less thrilled by the notion. “That makes no sense. We had a deal that took you out of the city and
ended the war. Why would he risk restarting the whole killing cycle?”

  “Who knows?” Brennan shrugged. “I’m just going to keep poking until something jumps.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t jump on you,” Tachyon admonished. “I wish I could aid you, but I must return to Atlanta. You will keep in touch?”

  Brennan shook his head. “No. Once I finish this, Jennifer and I are leaving New York, and this time it will be for good.”

  “If you won’t keep in touch, at least be careful.”

  “That I can agree to.”

  They clasped hands, then wandered back over to the grave site. The man standing in the receiving line next to Father Squid cleared his throat, and Father Squid glanced at him.

  “Ah yes,” the priest said, “Mr. Jory, meet, ah—”

  “Archer,” Brennan said softly.

  “Yes, Daniel Archer and Jennifer Maloy. Daniel was a, um, close friend of your daughter. Daniel and Jennifer, this is Joe Jory, Chrysalis’s father.”

  Jory glanced aggrievedly at Father Squid before turning to Brennan and putting out a large, meaty hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Archer. It’s good to know that my little Debra-Jo had some normal-looking friends.”

  Brennan’s sympathetic expression went cold. Father Squid and Tachyon pretended to look elsewhere.

  “Chrysalis was an extraordinary woman with many friends,” Brennan finally said in a hard, even voice.

  “Her name was Debra-Jo—” Jory began, but Father Squid stepped between them and put a hand on Brennan’s arm.

  “As executor of the estate,” the priest said, “I’ll be reading her will tonight at the church. I think you should attend.”

  Brennan took his eyes from Jory and looked at Father Squid. “I’ll be there,” he said evenly. “Sorry we have to run.” He looked at Jory again. “As I said, Chrysalis was an extraordinary woman. No one, as Dr. Tachyon so elegantly stated, knew much about her, though I knew more about her and her loving family than most. I promise you one thing, Mr. Jory. Her killer will be brought to justice. Not to make you feel better. But for her.”

  Brennan turned, and Jennifer followed him as they left the churchyard. A black cat with jade green eyes was waiting for them on the street outside. It meowed as Jennifer and Brennan approached, stood on its hind paws, and offered Brennan an envelope.

  Jennifer stared at Brennan as he hunkered down until he was almost at eye level with the cat. The two looked at each other silently for a long moment, then Brennan took the envelope. “Hello, Lazy Dragon,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Mmmmwell,” the cat said, licked its shoulder, and then turned and ran up the street.

  “Did you know that cat?” Jennifer asked.

  “I worked with him once before, when he was a mouse.” Brennan unfolded the sheet of paper that was inside the envelope, scanned the message on it, then handed it to Jennifer.

  The message was short and to the point.

  “Hello, Cowboy,” it read. “Let’s talk.”

  It was signed Fadeout, and there was a phone number next to the name.

  2:00 P.M.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Digger said. He was sitting on a stapler, next to a Coke can that was taller than he was. The pizza carton took up most of the desktop. Jay hadn’t been able to manage more than three slices, and Digger was still working on a pepperoni. In his hands it looked like a greasy red manhole cover.

  “The story hadn’t even run yet,” Digger went on. “Nobody knew about Jessica but me, and that big farmhouse looked so cozy, y’know? I knew the kid’d always wanted a little farmer, but Daddy wouldn’t allow it, so I figured, what the hey, nobody would know but me and Jessica, and she’d never tell. It seemed like the perfect hideout.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you just leave town?” Jay asked him.

  Digger shook his head gloomily. “Man, I wanted to, but it wasn’t safe. What if they were staking out the airport, just waiting for me to make a break for it?” He grimaced.

  “There’s three airports,” Jay pointed out. “Not to mention Penn Station, Grand Central, Port Authority. How many people were after you?”

  “Who the hell knows?” Digger said darkly. “There’s no telling who might be in on this—cops, FBI, CIA, maybe all of them. Besides, say there was only one, and I guessed wrong.” He shuddered. “I got to Jessica in her school playground, and she loved the idea. Shrunk me down right there and took me home in a Flintstones lunchbox. By then I was having second thoughts, but it was too late, she was determined to keep me. The little snot-nosed brat wanted me to do chores. And that farmhouse—maybe it looks comfortable, but everything’s made of plastic. There’s no plumbing!”

  “There’s worse things.” Jay told him about the carnage at his apartment building and Digger got very quiet.

  “Holy shit,” he said softly when Jay had finished. “Jonesy and Mrs. Rosenstein, Jesus. But why? They didn’t know a damned thing.”

  “They were there,” Jay said. “You weren’t.”

  Digger dropped the half-eaten pepperoni and wiped his greasy palms off on his pants. “You got to believe me, I had no idea. I knew he was crazy, man, but I never—”

  “You knew who was crazy?” Jay asked pointedly.

  Digger looked around the office. There was no one watching but Oral Amy, who looked even more surprised than usual. “Mack the Knife,” he croaked in a low, scared whisper. “Mackie Messer. You think the scene in the stairway was bad, man? You don’t know nothing. I seen him kill. He did the Syrian chick right in front of us, made us watch the whole show.”

  “The Syrian chick?” Jay was confused.

  “Misha,” Downs told him. “The Kahina. You know, the Nur al-Allah’s sister, the one who sliced his throat open.” His tiny hands were trembling. He looked down at them and laughed. The laugh was thin and bitter, on the edge of hysterical. “His hands shake, too,” he said. “Oh, man, do they shake, like a blur, and then they go right through you. He touched her, you know, like he was going to play with her tit, but his fingers went right in, and the blood started. He just sliced it off, right in front of us, he sliced off her tit, and then he giggled and threw it at me. I puked my guts up. Chrysalis, she just sat watching, you know how she was. It was getting to her, too, but she never liked to look weak. This is her fault, I know it. She did something stupid, right? She wasn’t talking much these last few weeks, but I’m pretty good at reading people. What’d she do?”

  “She sent a hired assassin to Atlanta,” Jay said.

  “Damn,” Digger said. “Damn it. Yeah, it figures. She knew the score, but I guess she just couldn’t stomach it no more. If we exposed him, we were dead meat, he’d warned us about that. She must of decided to kill him first.”

  “Maybe she just couldn’t live with the idea of Leo Barnett as president,” Jay suggested.

  Digger looked at him oddly. “Barnett?” he said. “What does Barnett have to do with it?”

  Jay just stared at him.

  “Not Barnett,” Digger said quietly. “Gregg Hartmann.”

  “Hartmann?” Jay said, incredulous.

  Digger nodded.

  The office was hot, airless, but Jay felt cold fingers tracing a path up his spine. “Maybe you better start at the beginning,” he said.

  “Fadeout,” Brennan said into the phone.

  There was a short silence, then a voice that Brennan remembered quite well said, cautiously, “Speaking.”

  “How did you find me?” Brennan asked.

  There was another silence, then Fadeout said, “Good to hear from you so soon, Cowboy. Or should I call you Yeoman?”

  “Call me whatever you like. Just tell me how you tracked me down.”

  “A little bird told me you were at the church.”

  “Lazy Dragon?”

  “Exactly. I had him covering the funeral just in case anything interesting happened. When he told me you were there, I thought I’d avail myself of your offer to discuss
things, so I had him deliver my message.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Brennan said. “I didn’t think a Shadow Fist captain would want to talk to me.”

  Brennan had infiltrated the Shadow Fist Society to gather evidence to bring Kien to justice. His scheme probably would have worked, but he had been forced to blow his cover to save Tachyon’s life when the Fists had taken over Tachyon’s clinic.

  “I’m not one to dwell in the past,” Fadeout said expansively. “You caused me a few problems, but, as I said, I think we can help each other.”

  “Uh-huh. What would Kien say to all this?”

  “Well…” Brennan could picture Fadeout’s insincere smile. “He doesn’t know every little thing that I do. We should talk in more detail. Not over the phone. Actually, we missed an opportunity to discuss things yesterday. That was you at Quinn’s, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Sorry I didn’t hang around, but I wasn’t sure of the reception I’d get.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. I think it’s very possible that we can be a big help to one another.”

  “I see.” Evidently Fadeout was an ambitious man. He might make a helpful, if not totally trustworthy ally. Brennan checked his watch. He desperately needed a few hours’ rest, then he had the will reading to attend in the evening. “I’ll call you about midnight with a place where we can meet.”

  There was a long pause as Fadeout thought it over. “All right,” he finally said.

  Brennan hung up, sighing tiredly. He leaned back on the sagging hotel bed and rubbed his eyes.

  “Can we trust him?” Jennifer asked.

  “Not too far. It sounds as if he wants to move up in the organization and he thinks I can help him. That gives us something of a basis for working together. He doesn’t know everything the Fists do, but he’s high enough in the organization to know about something as big as Chrysalis’s murder.”

  Jennifer nodded. “He can give us a line on Wyrm. Bludgeon’s been eliminated as a suspect, but there’s still Quasiman and the Oddity.”

  “I have an idea how we can deal with Quasiman,” Brennan said thoughtfully, “but the Oddity’s still a problem. There’s nothing to link him to Chrysalis, other than the fact I caught him in the Palace after the murder.”