Jay just looked at it. “You got to be kidding.”
“No,” Tachyon said, face solemn.
“How about I just piss in it instead?” Jay suggested.
“The blood is the bond,” Tachyon insisted.
Hiram stepped forward. “I’ll do it,” he said, taking the knife. He shrugged out of his white linen coat, rolled up his sleeve, and made the cut. The pain made him inhale sharply, but his hand did not hesitate.
“So deep,” Tachyon muttered as bright hot blood began to spurt from Hiram’s wrist. Hiram winced and held his hand above the glass. The red line crept upward.
Then they were both looking at him.
Jay sighed deeply. “So if you two are Huck and Tom, I guess that makes me Nigger Jim,” he said. “Remind me to have my head examined when all of this is over.” He took the knife.
It hurt like a motherfucker.
When it was done, Dr. Tachyon swirled the glass to mix the blood, then lifted it above his head and chanted in a high singsong that Jay had to assume was Takisian. “By Blood and Bone, I so vow,” he finished. He threw back his head and drained a third of the glass in one long gulp.
Jay thought he was going to be sick. Even Hiram looked a little queasy as Tachyon passed him the glass. “By Blood and Bone,” Hiram intoned, and took his ritual swallow.
“Am I allowed to add some tabasco, maybe a little vodka?” Jay asked when Hiram gave him what was left.
“You are not,” Tachyon said stiffly.
“Pity,” Jay said. “Always liked Bloody Marys.” He lifted the glass, muttered, “Blood and Bone,” and drank the last of the blood, feeling like an idiot. “Yum,” he said afterward.
“It is done,” Tachyon said. “Now we must make plans.”
“I’m going back to the Omni,” Hiram announced. “I was among Gregg’s earliest supporters, and I daresay I am not without influence in the New York delegation. I may be able to have some impact. We must deny him the nomination, at all costs.”
“Agreed,” said Tachyon.
“I wish I knew more about Dukakis.…” Hiram began.
“Not Dukakis,” the alien said. “Jesse Jackson. He has been courting us all along. I’ll speak to him.” He clasped hands with Hiram, bloody hankies dangling down absurdly from their wrists. “We can do it, my friend.”
“Real good,” Jay said. “So Greggie doesn’t get to be president. Big deal. What about all his victims? Kahina, Chrysalis, the rest of them.”
Dr. Tachyon glanced over. “Not Chrysalis,” he said.
“What?” Jay said.
“He threatened Chrysalis, yes,” the alien said. “He made her and Digger watch while his creature tortured and killed Kahina, but he never acted on that threat. When he heard of her death on Monday morning, he was as surprised as anyone.”
“No fucking way,” Jay said. “You got it wrong.”
The little man pulled himself up to his full height. “I am a Psi Lord of Takis, trained by the finest mentats of House Ilkazam,” he said. “His mind was mine. I did not get it wrong.”
“He sent Mackie after Digger!” Jay argued.
“And he commanded the Oddity to retrieve the incriminating jacket and destroy it. Most assuredly. After he heard that Chrysalis was dead, he took steps to protect himself. But he had no hand in ordering that death.” Tachyon put a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my friend.”
“Then who the fuck did it?” Jay demanded.
“We have no time to argue about this now,” Hiram said impatiently. “The woman’s dead, nothing will—”
“Quiet,” Jay said urgently.
A newsflash had banished Cary Grant from the television screen. “… latest tragedy to strike the convention,” a solemn announcer was saying. “Senator Hartmann is unharmed, repeat, unharmed, but reliable reports indicate that the ace assassin took the lives of two other men in his attempt to reach the senator. We are still waiting for final confirmation, but unofficial sources indicate that the killer’s victims were Alex James, a Secret Service agent assigned to Senator Hartmann”—a photograph of the dead man appeared on the screen, above the announcer’s shoulder—“and the chairman of Hartmann’s California delegation, ace Jack Braun. The controversial Braun, who starred in feature films and TV’s Tarzan, was better known as Golden Boy. He was considered by some to be the strongest man in the world. Braun first came to public attention…”
Braun’s picture appeared on screen as the announcer went on and on. He was in his old fatigues, smiling crookedly, surrounded by a golden glow. He looked young, alive, invincible.
“Oh, Jack,” Tachyon said. He looked like he was going to cry again.
“He can’t be dead,” Hiram said furiously. “I just saved his damnable life last night!” The television set floated off the carpet, bobbing up toward the ceiling like a balloon. Jay glanced over and saw that Hiram’s hand was squeezed into a fist. “He cannot be dead!” Hiram insisted, and all of a sudden the TV was falling. It hit the ground as if it had been dropped six stories instead of six feet, and the picture tube exploded.
“He will not have died in vain,” Tachyon said inanely. He touched Hiram on the arm. “Come,” he said.
After they had gone, Jay sat down on the couch. His ribs hurt, his face hurt, and now his wrist hurt, too. His mouth tasted like blood, he no longer had the remotest idea who the fuck could have killed Chrysalis, and he was too damn tired to think straight.
He fumbled the bottle of painkillers out his pocket, put four of them into his mouth, and washed them down with a good long swallow of Dr. Tachyon’s best brandy. It tasted pretty damn good. The second swallow tasted even better; the third was downright delicious. After that he lost count. By the time the decanter was empty, Jay’s head was swimming. He lay down on the couch. No way he could sleep, with all this going on. But maybe if he just closed his eyes for a few minutes …
8:00 P.M.
After the long, hard day, Jennifer slept, but Brennan could not.
He was on the edge of exhaustion, but his head felt curiously clear and light. His brain wouldn’t shut off and allow him the rest he needed, so he slipped quietly out of bed, dressed, and went out into the night.
It was hot and sticky. The heat wave smothering the city was unrelenting even at night. The streets were full of people, wandering, Brennan thought, in an aimless search for answers to their own particular problems, answers as elusive as those Brennan was seeking.
A new variable had shown up to further complicate the equation of Chrysalis’s murder: the mysterious master, Ti Malice, and his apparent accomplice, Ezili Rouge. Sascha was his servant, and so was Kant. The cop had used a strange term to refer to those in thrall to Malice. He had called them “mounts.” Brennan couldn’t even begin to guess what that meant.
A crowd had gathered in front of an all-night drugstore a few blocks from the hotel. Brennan joined them, curious as to what caused their hushed expectancy, and saw that the television set in the window was tuned to a news channel that was recapitulating the day’s chaotic events in Atlanta.
Jack Braun had been murdered, the newscaster said. Brennan couldn’t believe it. When he was young, Brennan had been a big fan of Golden Boy, idolizing him because he was handsome, strong, and fearless. He was everything a hero should be. He sheltered the weak and protected the helpless as a living embodiment of the heroic ideal. As Brennan had gotten older, he learned that heroes could be hollow when he realized that Golden Boy had betrayed his friends in a moment of weakness and fear. But his continuing belief in the heroic ideal had been part of what had drawn him to the military.
There Brennan had learned firsthand how difficult it was for ideals to flourish in an imperfect world. He’d been sent to defend Vietnam. Instead, because of inefficiency and incompetence, avarice and stupidity, he’d helped devastate it. Then those in charge of the mess just walked away, leaving the Vietnamese people in the hands of the murderous thugs they’d sworn to defend them from.
&nb
sp; Stung by the pain of that lesson, Brennan had walked away himself, had tried to isolate himself by abandoning the rest of humanity. But he discovered that old ties, always remembered, are impossible to forget, and new ties, once forged, are impossible to ignore.
Let Barnett and Hartmann, Brennan thought, play their games in Atlanta. Let them hoist placards, wear funny hats, and make speeches full of empty, impossible promises. In the end they could do little that would matter. Despite his fine intentions and noble vows, Hartmann would still be constrained by a system crippled by incompetence, inertia, and injustice. Barnett, too, would face the same roadblocks if he ever tried to put his despicable plans into operation.
In the end, Brennan thought, it came down to protecting your comrades, your friends, and your family. Brennan knew he would always be ready for that. And if, as with Chrysalis, he was too late to protect, he would make sure that anyone who harmed his people once would never do so again.
Brennan smiled wryly. Noble sentiments, he thought, but actually he wasn’t getting very far in exacting retribution.
Brennan stared unseeingly at the television screen. He needed more information, but his sources had all dried up. There was nothing on the street. Sascha had disappeared, perhaps under orders from the mysterious Malice. Fadeout was obviously more interested in using Brennan to get rid of Kien and to help find Chrysalis’s files.…
Perhaps that was the answer. Chrysalis knew everything that went on in Jokertown. Perhaps her information cache had the answers Brennan needed. But the files were well hidden. Knowing how fond she was of secrets, Brennan doubted that she told anyone where she kept them.
Except perhaps for one man. One man who was something of her confident. One man whose lips would be sealed by unbreakable vows of silence. One man who had received a strange bequest from her.
The time had come, Brennan decided, to call in all debts.
His mind made up, Brennan turned back to his hotel room and a few hours’ sleep. He smiled as the cat following him also turned, darting quickly through the shadows. He considered stopping and offering him a lift, but decided that Lazy Dragon could use the exercise.
Saturday
July 23, 1988
8:00 A.M.
… WALKED FASTER, HIS FEET bare and bloody, rushing after the heavy man in the bulky black coat. He shouted after him, but nothing broke the dreadful silence but the sound of his feet. The steps grew narrow, making it harder to keep his balance as he rushed down into the darkness. When he reached the platform suspended over that stygian gulf, the man was there ahead of him. Just the sight of that back, hunched and ominous, filled him with fear, and when the man began to turn, the terror rose inside him until he thought he would choke. The featureless white face lifted, the wet red tentacle tasted the air. Its howl and Jay’s scream sounded together in a horrible cacophony.…
“You pissed your pants,” a voice sneered. “Some ace.”
Jay sat up. His suit was rumpled, his side ached, and his head was pounding. Some kid was standing across the room with a smirk on his face like Jay was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. The kid had a refined, prissy little face, a French accent, and an attitude. His hair was so red it hurt to look at it. Jay wanted to pop him to the South Bronx, but he figured he’d better not. Groggy as he was, he seemed to recall that this was Tachyon’s grandson.
“Where’s Gramps?” Jay asked as he lurched to his feet, ignoring the boy’s gibes. There was broken glass all over the carpet; it crunched when he stepped on it. It was all over the couch, too, and a few shards fell off Jay when he stood. He noticed the shattered windows for the first time. When the hell had that happened?
The kid shrugged. “His bed wasn’t slept in,” he said. “Maybe he finally caught one of his bimbos.”
“Figures,” Jay said. “I pass out on the goddamn couch with a perfectly adequate bed empty in the next room.” He went over to the bar, glass breaking under his heels, and stared at the booze for a moment until he found an unopened bottle of cognac. A little hair of the dog, he decided, real good.
“You’re Popinjay.” The kid was as arrogant as Tachyon. Not to mention almost as tall.
“Jay Ackroyd,” Jay corrected. “So who are you, Kid Tachyon?”
“Blaise. I’m one quarter Takisian,” he added proudly.
“Don’t let it bother you, I’m one quarter Croat myself.” Jay tossed back the cognac. It burned against the back of his throat on the way down. He splashed a little more into his glass. And kept splashing. The glass was one third full. One half. Three quarters. Jay tried to put down the bottle. He kept pouring. Filled the glass to the brim. Poured it over his head.
The liquor stung when it hit his eyes, blinding him. He tried to say sonofabitch. Instead he heard himself singing “I’m a Little Teapot,” in a high falsetto voice. With all the little motions. Somewhere along there the cognac glass slipped from his fingers and rolled across the carpet.
When his vision cleared, Blaise was standing in front of him, arms crossed, smiling in satisfaction. “Takisians don’t let anybody make fun of them,” he told Jay. “Watch what you say. I can make you do anything I like.” He laughed. “Now you’re wet at both ends.”
“Real good,” Jay said. He smelled like cognac and piss. “You’d make some detective.”
“Really?” Blaise had managed to miss the sarcasm; Jay was grateful for that much.
“No shit. Of course, you still got a few things to learn.”
“Like what?” Blaise wanted to know.
“Well,” said Jay, “like you really should make sure a guy is unarmed before you piss him off.” He made a gun of his hand, aimed it at Blaise, winked broadly.
The boy was not impressed. “You’re unarmed,” he said.
Jay smiled sweetly.
Blaise made a nice crisp popping sound when he vanished. He didn’t even have time to look surprised.
Jay was standing there with his finger pointing at empty air when the door to the suite opened and a haggard-looking Dr. Tachyon walked in, saw him, and frowned. “Doc,” Jay said, trying to sound innocent, “I swear, I didn’t know it was loaded.”
9:00 A.M.
Brennan entered the church and watched Quasiman for a few minutes as he washed the stained-glass window that depicted the passion of Jesus Christ, Joker.
“Hello.” The joker greeted Brennan cordially as Brennan approached, setting the butt of his long-handled squeegee on the floor and leaning on it as if it were a spear.
“I have to see Father Squid,” Brennan said.
Quasiman dropped the squeegee as the hand holding it suddenly vanished. He calmly looked down to where it had been, as if this were something he was used to. After a moment Brennan felt a blast of cold air and caught a whiff of an unbearable stench and Quasiman’s hand was back. He leaned over and picked up the squeegee.
“He’s meditating in the chancellery,” Quasiman said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Brennan nodded. “I know the way.” He moved to go by, but the joker laid a hand on his forearm. It was still as cold as ice, but Quasiman either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Do you know who did it yet?” he asked.
Brennan shook his head.
“Then you still may need me?”
“Quite possibly.”
Quasiman let go of Brennan’s arm. “I’ll be ready,” he said, then added, “I hope.”
I hope so, too, Brennan thought, but only nodded and went past.
In the chancellery Father Squid was in his favorite meditative posture.
“Hello, Sergeant.”
The priest started. His eyes snapped open and he looked up at Brennan. He smiled slightly, quivering the tendrils that hung down over his mouth.
“I could never have snuck up on you like that in the old days,” Brennan said, sitting down across the desk from the priest.
Father Squid nodded from the comfortable chair where he’d been dozing. “I’m older than I w
as in the old days. I also sleep a lot better.”
Brennan smiled, though there was little humor in his expression. “I did, too, for a while.”
“Why don’t you give it up and try to find the peace I have?”
“I tried,” Brennan said. “I even joined a monastery for a while. A Zen monastery.” He smiled at the look of astonishment on the priest’s face. “But I was never one of the better students. Violence follows me like an unwelcome shadow. I rarely seek it out, Father, but it finds me wherever I hide.”
“So we’re back to ‘Father,’ are we?”
Brennan shrugged. “Whatever you prefer. How many times did you make sergeant, anyway?”
Father Squid smiled. “Four times.”
“And you were busted back to private each time.”
“Well, I wasn’t one for following the rules back then.”
“Sometimes you had cause not to,” Brennan said. “The Joker Brigade was just an excuse to kill off as many of you as possible.”
“Maybe. But there were some good soldiers in it.” Father Squid smiled at Brennan. “And some of the units we served with weren’t so bad. You never cared if a man had feathers, fur, or hair, or whether he had tentacles on his face and rows of suckers on his hands.”
“We were brothers-in-arms,” Brennan said softly. “That was all that mattered.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, reliving memories of fifteen years gone by.
“What did you do after the war?” Brennan finally asked.
“Not much that I’m proud of. I sold my services for a while. But everywhere I went, as bad as it was in the Joker Brigade, as bad as Jokertown was back home, I found that jokers were generally treated worse outside America.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “I tried to do something about it for a while, but I fear I actually did more harm than good.”
“I heard once,” Brennan said, “that a man called Squidface ran with the Black Dog. I wondered if it was you.”
“It was,” the priest said heavily. “And much do I regret those days. Never will I be able to do enough penance to cleanse my soul of the horror of the things I did in the name of my people.”