Dead Man's Hand

by George R. R. Martin

He’d made it back to Freakers about an hour ago and had told Jennifer about his nautical adventures and Tripod’s wise decision to go on vacation in Florida until things quieted down. He’d had quite a bankroll to finance it, because Kien’s Asian Princess had brought a nice sum from Tripod’s boat-broker acquaintance, which they’d split fifty-fifty.

  A cocktail waitress with a Medusa head of twitching blind worms came up to their table.

  “We’re waiting for someone,” Brennan said.

  She smiled. “Someone in particular,” she asked, “or will anyone do?”

  Brennan ground his teeth together. He started to answer her, stopped, and gripped Jennifer’s arm while nodding toward the bar. “Here,” he said, giving the barmaid a twenty without looking at her. “Go away.”

  She took the bill, slipped it into her ample cleavage, and went off on her rounds.

  “It’s him,” Jennifer whispered.

  Brennan nodded. “Wait here.”

  Kant was at the bar. Even from across the room Brennan could see that he was highly agitated. He was questioning one of the bartenders as Brennan came up quietly behind him. The bartender was shaking his head.

  “She ain’t been in for a couple of days.”

  Kant was disheveled and had a rank, reptile-house smell about him.

  “You don’t understand,” he told the bartender. “I need her. I need the kiss!”

  A woman sitting at the bar swiveled toward him, her face hidden by a cheap, glittery mask. “You sound like you need it bad, doll.”

  Kant turned to her. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath was a husky rattle.

  “I’ll kiss you, honey,” the woman said. “Anywhere you want.”

  Kant growled wordlessly and struck her backhanded across the face, knocking her from the bar stool. She gazed up at him in terror as he towered over her, glowering like a madman.

  “I don’t need a filthy whore!” he screamed. He pounded his fist on the bar, then shuddered all over like a dog throwing off water. He brought himself under control with great effort and hissed, “I need the kiss!”

  He whirled and almost trampled Brennan as he lunged toward the door. No one tried to stop him. Brennan turned to signal Jennifer and saw that she was already at his side. He took his bow case from her and said quietly, “Let’s go.”

  It was the easiest tailing job Brennan had ever done. Kant left a trail of disgruntled pedestrians in his wake as he obliviously slammed through them. The biggest problem Brennan had was keeping up with him. Kant wasn’t exactly running, but he was moving with the urgency of a man who had to find a bathroom.

  They followed him for half a dozen blocks to a shabby five-story apartment building. It was solid and functional looking, with no pretense toward elegance or security. Kant went in the lobby and after a moment Brennan and Jennifer followed him. They heard him pound up the stairs and then followed at a more sedate pace all the way to the top, meeting no one else on the way.

  Brennan and Jennifer reached the top floor just in time to peer around the stairwell and see Kant take a key ring from his pocket and unlock the door. He entered the apartment and slammed the door so hard that it rattled in its frame.

  “He’s off the deep end,” Brennan whispered.

  Jennifer nodded. “Let’s find out why.”

  Brennan unzipped his bow case and took out the long-barreled air pistol that had been snugged down next to the bow. It was loaded with tranquilizer darts. He didn’t want to hurt Kant, and he wanted the joker able to answer his questions.

  They went down the corridor and stopped in front of the door. It had rebounded out of its latch when Kant had slammed it, so that it was open a crack. Brennan nodded at Jennifer, who blew him a kiss, and then he went in fast and low, dropping the bow case and rolling to a crouch.

  The living room was decorated with obvious expense, but it was not to Brennan’s taste. It was brightly lit with numerous bulbs blazing in track lighting set in the ceiling, and even though it was summer, the heat was on and cranked up to the max. The furniture was all shiny leather and polished chrome. The image of a lizard sunning himself on a smooth rock flashed through Brennan’s mind.

  The room was empty. Brennan closed the door as Jennifer ghosted through the wall and joined him. It was quiet but tense, as if an angry beast were waiting in ambush somewhere in the apartment.

  Brennan motioned down the hallway that led to the apartment’s interior, and Jennifer nodded. He crept forward, passing a kitchenette that was also empty, then a hall closet whose sliding door was half-open. Brennan looked into it to make sure it wasn’t hiding a crazed joker cop. It wasn’t, so he moved on toward the doorway to the bedroom, listened for a moment, then cautiously peered in.

  The room was dominated by a huge four-poster water bed with mirrors on the canopy and headboard. A big-screen television stood against the wall opposite the bed. Next to the television was what looked like a child’s wading pool filled with sand. A pair of sunlamps were focused on the pool and Kant was in it, naked, with his eyes closed. He was rooting in the sand, mumbling aloud as he dragged himself through the grit as if he were frenziedly trying to wipe himself clean.

  “Kant,” Brennan said quietly.

  The joker turned slowly. His face was a frozen mask of madness. There was an ugly oozing sore on his lower neck. He stared at Brennan, his mouth working wordlessly, and then he screamed and sprang, his hands outstretched, his fingers hooked into talons.

  Brennan calmly shot him.

  The pistol whooshed and a feathered dart flew through the air, struck Kant’s naked chest, and bounced off the hard, scaly skin.

  Shit, Brennan thought. Then the maniac was on him.

  “So close,” Hiram said. He sighed hugely, got up from the couch, and went over to the wet bar to mix himself a drink. They were in Tachyon’s suite at the Marriott, waiting for his return and watching the convention on television.

  “Too damn close if you ask me,” Jay said. Down on the floor of the Omni, another inconclusive ballot had just been tallied. A wave of sympathy voting had pushed Gregg Hartmann to 1956 votes of the 2082 needed to nominate. Jackson and Dukakis had both lost support, and the tiny Draft Cuomo movement had melted away entirely. Only the Barnett forces were holding firm.

  Hundreds of Hartmann supporters, with victory so close they could taste it, were dancing in the aisles, waving their green and gold placards, chanting, “Hart-mann, Hart-mann,” over and over while the chair gaveled for order. The convention floor was a sea of Hartmann green and gold, surrounding a few stubborn islands of Jackson red, Dukakis blue, and Barnett white.

  David Brinkley had just predicted that Hartmann would go over the top on the next ballot when one of Leo Barnett’s people rose and moved to suspend the rules “to allow the Reverend Leo Barnett to address the convention.” All of a sudden half of the hall was on its feet, screaming at the podium.

  The couch whuffed in protest as Hiram sat back down. “Damn him,” Hiram said, “but it’s a good move. Barnett will never get to the floor, but we’ll have to vote down the motion, and that will take time. It might cost us some momentum.”

  “Us?” Jay said, with a sidelong glance.

  Hiram scowled, rubbing at the back of his neck under his collar. “Until I have proof that Gregg is the monster you claim, I’m still a Hartmann delegate. By rights I ought to be there right now.” He looked at his watch. “What could be taking Tachyon so long?”

  Mackie Messer could be cutting his liver out, Jay thought, but he didn’t say it. Hiram was in bad enough shape already. Jay was trying to figure out what their next move would be if Tachyon never came back from his little showdown with Hartmann. And what if he came back and said Greggie was innocent? That would be enough for Hiram, but Jay was of a more suspicious nature. Could Hartmann’s ace powers be potent enough to twist even Tachyon to his will? Jay didn’t think so, but he’d been wrong before. He was glad he’d ignored Tachyon’s advice about the jacket; it was safely back in its ga
rment bag, hanging in the closet.

  On the tube, Hartmann’s people asked for a voice vote on the motion to suspend the rules. Barnett’s supporters objected, demanding a roll-call vote. A Hartmann delegate asked for a voice vote on the motion for a roll-call vote. The chair stopped to consult the parliamentarian.

  Jay got up and changed the channel. The other networks were showing the same thing, as was CNN, but he found an old movie on Ted Turner’s superstation. Colorized, unfortunately; Cary Grant was a strange shade of pink. Jay left it on anyway.

  Hiram was annoyed. “Damn it, Popinjay,” he said. “Put the convention back on.”

  “Gimme a break, Hiram,” Jay said. “They’re arguing about whether they ought to vote about how to vote on whether some guy can give a speech.”

  “Yes,” Hiram snapped, “and it might just be crucial. If you want to see Topper so badly, just say so and I’ll buy you a cassette. George Kerby was never that color, dead or alive.”

  Jay looked at him sharply. “What did you say?”

  “I said that George Kerby was never—”

  “Shit!” Jay swore. “Goddammit.”

  “What is it?” Hiram said. He came ponderously to his feet. “Jay, are you all right?”

  “No,” Jay said. “I’m dumb as a plank. George Kerby, George Fucking Kerby, The assassin, Hiram! Chrysalis was being clever. The airline ticket was made out in the name George Kerby.”

  Hiram Worchester was scarcely a slow man. “Tickets in the name of a ghost,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Jay. “A ghost. A specter.”

  “James Spector!” Hiram said.

  “And both George Kerbys came back from the dead,” Jay said. “She hired that sonofabitch Demise.”

  Hiram knew what Demise was capable of. “We have to let them know,” he said. He crossed the room, picked up the phone, and punched for the operator. “Connect me to the Secret Service.”

  The door opened. Dr. Tachyon stepped quietly into the room, head bowed. Hiram looked at him with dread, the telephone momentarily forgotten in his hand. “It … it’s not true, is it?” he said desperately. “Tell me that it’s all some hideous mistake, Gregg can’t be…”

  Tachyon looked up with pity in his lilac eyes. “Hiram,” the alien said softly. “My poor, poor Hiram. I saw his mind. I saw the Puppetman.” The little man shuddered. “It is a thousand times worse than we could ever have imagined.” Tachyon sat on the carpet, buried his head in his hands, and began to weep.

  Hiram stood there with his mouth open. Jay had never seen him look so used up, so beaten, so fat. He took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it as if he had never seen a telephone before, his face gray as ash. “God forgive me,” he said, in a barely audible whisper. Then he hung up the phone.

  It was Brennan’s day for fighting lizards. Kant was strong, but in his frenzy he forgot whatever combat techniques he knew. Brennan blocked Kant’s taloned hand as it raked at his eyes, caught the cop’s other wrist, and flung him hard against the bed’s footboard. Kant crouched, panting, and when Brennan leapt on him, he flicked open a switchblade he’d grabbed from the heap of clothes piled next to his sand pool. Brennan changed direction in midleap, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The knife slashed open his T-shirt and the skin underneath, drawing a line of blood from belly button to nipple across Brennan’s stomach and chest.

  Wraith walked out of the wall as Brennan flung himself to the other side of the bed. Kant saw her and his eyes bugged out of his head. He twisted frantically from side to side, trying to watch both Jennifer and Brennan at the same time.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Jennifer said in her most soothing voice. “We want to help.”

  “Help me?” Kant asked, his voice high-pitched, hysterical, and mean. “If you want to help me, get me the goddamned kiss!”

  Brennan lunged across the bed, grabbed Kant’s knife wrist, and yanked hard, pulling Kant down. The knife plunged into the mattress. Brennan leaped on him and Kant twisted savagely, gutting the water bed.

  Water spewed from it as if a dam had broken. Brennan and Kant tumbled apart and the cop washed up next to Jennifer, wet as a wharf rat, sputtering and spitting. He grabbed Jennifer, drew the knife back to slash. She ghosted. He swung through her, teetered off balance, and Brennan grabbed him from behind and rammed him through the screen of the television set. It exploded with a loud crash. Kant hung inside it, stunned, until Brennan pulled him out. The cop was dazed and bleeding from a dozen cuts on his face and chest. Brennan slapped the knife from his hand and kicked it away, then pushed him down and sat on his chest.

  “What’s this about a kiss?” Brennan asked.

  Kant moaned, unconsciously licking the blood that ran from his nose and lips.

  “Is it Ezili? Do you want her?”

  Kant tossed his head from side to side. His eyes were stunned and glazed, but there was still a powerful need in them.

  “Nooo!” he howled. “That bitch.”

  “What then?” Brennan demanded, shaking Kant by the shoulders.

  “The Master. Ti Malice. His kiss, so sweet, so sweet.”

  Brennan and Jennifer exchanged baffled glances.

  “Who’s Malice?”

  “My master.”

  Brennan suddenly remembered where he’d seen a sore like the one on Kant’s neck. “Is he Sascha’s master, too?”

  Kant shook his head, still dazed and bewildered, and Brennan slapped him to get his attention. “Sascha, the bartender at the Crystal Palace. Is Malice his master, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t fucking know! They’re gone. They left me behind!”

  “Who did your master take with him?”

  “Some mounts,” Kant mumbled. “I don’t know them all.”

  “Did he take Sascha?”

  Kant sobbed wordlessly, uncontrollably.

  “Christ,” Brennan said.

  He stood and dragged Kant to the bed. He took the pair of cuffs he found among Kant’s clothes piled on the floor and chained the cop to a bedpost. Kant crouched in a puddle on the floor, weeping and picking at the sore on his neck.

  Brennan took the phone on the nightstand by the bed and dialed Fort Freak. “Maseryk,” he said. “This is an emergency. Life or death.”

  It took the detective only a moment to answer.

  “This better be good,” he said, his voice harsh and flat.

  “It’s your partner,” Brennan said. “He’s strung out.”

  There was a shocked silence. “Drugs?” Maseryk asked after a moment.

  “I don’t think so. Look,” Brennan said, cutting off any more queries. “I think you’d better get to Kant’s apartment, fast. He needs help. And Maseryk—”

  “What?”

  “You owe me.” He hung up the phone and turned to Wraith. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “What are we going to do?” Hiram asked when Tachyon’s sobbing had finally begun to subside.

  “Blow the whistle,” Jay said.

  Dr. Tachyon bounded to his feet. “No!” he said. “Are you mad, Ackroyd? The public must never learn the truth.”

  “Hartmann’s a monster,” Jay objected.

  “No one knows that better than I,” said Tachyon. “I swam in the sewer of his mind. I felt the vileness that lives inside him, the Puppetman. It touched me. You can’t imagine what that was like.”

  “I’m not a telepath,” Jay said. “So sue me. I’m still not going to help you whitewash Hartmann.”

  “You do not understand,” Tachyon said. “For close to two years Leo Barnett has been filling the public ear with dire warnings about wild card violence, inflaming their fears and their mistrust of aces. Now you propose we tell them that he was right all along, that a monstrous secret ace has indeed subverted their government. How do you think they will react?”

  Jay shrugged. He was too tired and beat up for intellectual discussions. “Okay, so Barnett gets e
lected, big deal. So we have a right-wing dork in the White House for four years. We managed to survive Reagan for eight.”

  Dr. Tachyon was having none of it. “You cannot know the half of what I found in Hartmann’s mind. The murders, the rapes, the atrocities, and him always at the center of his web, the Puppetman pulling his strings. I warn you, if the full story ever becomes known, the public revulsion will touch off a reign of terror that will make the persecutions of the fifties look like nothing.” The alien gesticulated wildly. “He killed his own unborn child and feasted on the pain and terror of its death. And his puppets … aces, jokers, politicians, religious leaders, police, anyone foolish enough to touch him. If their names become known—”

  “Tachyon,” Hiram Worchester interrupted. His voice was low, but the anguish in it was as plain as nails on a blackboard.

  Dr. Tachyon glanced guiltily at Hiram. It was hard to say which of them looked most frightened.

  “Tell me,” Hiram said. “These … puppets. Was … was I … one of…” He couldn’t finish, choking on the words.

  Tachyon nodded. A small quick nod, almost furtive. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Then he turned away.

  Hiram considered that, his face leaden. Then he said, “In a grotesque way, it’s almost funny,” but he did not laugh. “Jay, he’s right. This must be our secret.”

  Jay looked from the tiny man to the big one, feeling outnumbered. “Do what you want,” he said, “just don’t expect me to vote for the fucker. Even if I was registered.”

  “We must take a vow,” Tachyon said. “A solemn oath, to do everything in our power to stop Hartmann, and to take this secret to our graves.”

  “Oh, gimme a break,” Jay groaned. The last thing he needed right now was more Takisian bullshit.

  “Hiram, that glass,” the alien snapped. Hiram handed him the half-finished drink, and Tachyon upended the contents onto the carpet. He bent, slid a long knife out of a sheath in his boot, and held it up in front of them. “We must pledge by blood and bone,” he said. And before anyone could stop him, the Takisian took the knife in his right hand and slashed straight across his left wrist. He held the wound over the glass until there was an inch of blood on the bottom, then bound his wrist in a lace hankie and passed the knife to Jay.