Dead Man's Hand

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Brennan said quietly. “The bad forget them. The good try to make up for them.”

  “Well,” the priest said, his nictitating membranes working quickly, “I’m the one who should be offering spiritual comfort, my son.”

  Brennan smiled. “Unlike you, I’m afraid that I may be beyond redemption. I could use your help with something else, though.”

  “The murder.”

  Brennan nodded. “I’ve hit a dead end. I’ve run out of clues and have no one to turn to. I realized last night that you were Chrysalis’s confidant, maybe even her confessor. I remembered the bequest she’d left you, and some whispers I’d heard about her secret files.”

  Father Squid shook his head. “Her bequest was merely a suitcase full of money that she’d stashed away if she ever had to flee the city on short notice. It will do much to aid the poor of my parish, but little, I fear, to help track down her killer.”

  Brennan grimaced. “Then she never told you anything that might have a bearing on her death?”

  “If she did, it was in the sanctity of Confession and is an unshakable confidence that can never be broken.”

  “Even if her murderer goes free?”

  The priest sighed heavily. “Even if her murderer goes free.”

  Brennan stood, looked steadily at the priest. “You have changed,” he said. “Sergeant Squidface knew when justice and honor took precedence over a rigid system of rules.”

  “Sometimes, Captain, I despair of my soul. Sometimes I fear I am as poor a priest as you claim to have been a student of Zen.”

  Brennan suddenly smiled. “Sometimes, Bob, I think we’re both guilty of slinging our share of bullshit.”

  The priest’s tentacles shook with laughter. “You are correct,” he said. “Well—Chrysalis did tell me things in the sanctity of the confessional that I cannot reveal to you. But I can tell you that you are overlooking a source of information.” He paused dramatically. “Her neighbors, Daniel,” Father Squid said. “Her downstairs neighbors.”

  Brennan’s expression was puzzled as Father Squid rose ponderously to his feet.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for the ten o’clock Mass.”

  10:00 A.M.

  Breakfast arrived as Jay was climbing out of the shower. He toweled himself dry, wondering what he was supposed to do about the damp bandages around his ribs, and slipped into the clothes Tachyon had loaned him. The sleeves were too short and the pants showed off two inches of pale white ankle, but otherwise the suit fit well enough. The only problem was, it was puce.

  Tachyon was seated in front of the room-service tray buttering a slice of toast when Jay emerged from the bedroom. Blaise, stretched out across an armchair, looked up and sniggered. Tachyon gave his grandson a stern look. “Blaise, did you enjoy your ride on the luggage carousel?”

  The boy looked sullen. “No. I felt stupid.”

  “Then by the Ideal, you will mind your manners,” Tachyon told him, “or I will have Mr. Ackroyd teleport you back to the Atlanta airport.”

  “I can’t help it if he’s funny,” Blaise complained. “He looks like a fruit.”

  “Those are my clothes,” Tachyon pointed out stiffly. He looked at Jay. “Myself, I think it’s a dramatic improvement.”

  “I’m with the kid,” Jay said. Blaise looked surprised. Then he grinned. Jay whipped up his finger in a quick-draw move, got the boy in his sights. Blaise flinched. “Gotcha,” Jay said. He smiled. So did Blaise. Popping the kid halfway across Atlanta had done wonders for their rapport.

  “He’s enough of a rapscallion without your encouraging him,” Tachyon complained.

  “Ah, he’s okay,” Jay said, pulling a chair over to the room-service cart. “For a Takisian.” He lifted the silver dome off his plate and attacked the eggs benedict wolfishly. They weren’t as good as the eggs benedict at Aces High, but he was hungry enough not to give a damn. Hiram always said Jay had a Naugahyde palate anyway.

  Tachyon was fastidiously patting his lips with a napkin and Jay was mopping up the last of the yolk with a piece of toast when the knock came at the door. Tachyon stood. “Who’s there?”

  “Carnifex. Open up, I don’t have all day.”

  Tachyon glanced back at Jay. “Let him in,” Jay said. “Ray’s tough, but there’s nothing he can do against you, me, and the Cisco Kid over there.” He gestured toward Blaise.

  The alien nodded and opened the door. Carnifex glanced around and stepped into the suite, wearing his skintight white uniform that outlined every muscle and tendon in his body. The hood was thrown back to reveal a face that looked like it had been patched together out of spare parts. “Regs say we’re supposed to stay out of the political bullshit,” Ray told Tachyon with disdain. “Good for you. Otherwise I’d have to whip your ass. You been hanging around Braun too much, I guess. Some of it must have rubbed off.”

  Tachyon’s mouth tightened. “Say what you came to say, Ray,” he told the government ace. “Your opinions on political and moral issues interest me not in the slightest.”

  “Gregg wants to see you,” Billy Ray said.

  “The sentiment is not reciprocated,” Tachyon said.

  “You’ll see him,” Ray said, with a crooked smile. “Gregg said to tell you he has a proposition he wants to discuss.”

  “I have nothing to discuss with the senator.”

  “Scared?” Ray wanted to know. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand if you want.” He shrugged. “Come or don’t come, either way it’s no skin off my nose. But if you don’t, you’re going to regret it.” The ace in the white suit looked around the suite: at the windows Turtle had shattered, the television Hiram had dropped, the urine stain on the sofa. “Must have been a hell of a party,” he said to Tachyon. “Somebody ought to teach you to clean up after yourself, doc. This place is a mess.”

  He was going out the door when Jay called out. “Hey, Carny.”

  Ray turned around with a dangerous glint in his green eyes. “That’s Carnifex, asshole.”

  “Carnifex Asshole,” Jay repeated. “I’ll try and remember. How many of those Good Humor suits you own?”

  “Six or eight,” Carnifex said suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Must be hell to get the bloodstains out,” Jay said.

  Ray just stared at him. “Stay out of my way, shamus,” he said, “or you’ll find out firsthand.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “Shamus,” Jay said. “He actually called me shamus. God, I’m so mortified.” He turned to Tachyon. “You gonna go?”

  The little man straightened. “I must.”

  Jay sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say something like that.”

  Brennan dropped Jennifer off half a block from the Crystal Palace and then cruised on by. Given the mysterious note warning them about the Palace, this seemed the safest way to check out the existence of the neighbors that Father Squid had told him about. Jennifer would scout in her insubstantial form, then come and get Brennan if the coast was clear.

  Brennan drove past the Palace and into the alley upon which the service entrance fronted. He killed the engine and flicked on the radio while waiting for Jennifer to return.

  The news from Atlanta was more cheering than it had been the night before. Apparently the initial reports of Jack Braun’s demise had been greatly exaggerated. He was still alive. Golden Boy’s ace had saved him again.

  Brennan’s train of thought was interrupted by a suddenly blaring bullhorn that froze him behind the wheel.

  “You in the car, this is the police. Come out with your hands up! We’ve got you covered. Come out with your hands up!”

  Brennan sat behind the wheel for an instant longer, his mind racing through then discarding half a dozen escape plans. He watched through the windshield as three policemen approached. The two in uniform had pistols pointed right at him. The third, following a pace behind, was Maseryk.

  He put his hands up, and then with slow, exaggerated
movements opened the door and got out of the car. He stood waiting for them with no expression at all on his face.

  “Couldn’t keep out of it, could you?” Maseryk asked.

  “How’s Kant?” Brennan replied.

  A shadow of something crossed Maseryk’s face. “Still a little shaky, but better.”

  One of the uniforms had opened the back door of the car while the other kept a bead on Brennan.

  “It’s him,” the first said excitedly. “The bow ’n’ arrow killer.” He brandished Brennan’s bow case.

  “You had the Palace staked out, waiting for her killer to return?” Brennan said.

  Maseryk shrugged. “It seemed like an idea.”

  Brennan shook his head in disgust. That was what the note meant. Goddamn.

  “All right,” the first patrolman said. “Put your hands on the fender. Feet back and spread your legs.”

  Brennan put his hands down, turned to comply. He didn’t move fast enough, so the cop kicked his feet further apart and padded him down, finding the knife Brennan carried in an ankle sheath.

  “All right, turn around.” The cop was smiling as Brennan did. “We caught him, by Jesus, we caught the big, bad vigilante. Put your hands behind your back, big guy.”

  “Shut up, Chris,” Maseryk said wearily as Brennan complied. He continued to speak in the same weary monotone as the patrolman cuffed Brennan. “You have the right to remain silent…”

  Brennan said nothing, nor offered any resistance. His face was hard as stone as they led him away to a patrol car parked out of sight past a turn in the alley.

  Tachyon was practically shaking when he flung open the bedroom door, his bright hair plastered to his forehead by a cold sweat. He looked like he was about to recycle his breakfast. Even Blaise, who’d been talking and joking with Jay, had the sense to shut up when he saw the look in his grandfather’s eyes. “Mr. Ackroyd, come in here, please,” Tach said. “I need to talk to you.”

  Jay got to his feet with a shrug. His pants rode up past his ankles. He tried to yank them down as he trailed Tachyon into the sitting room. “What did Hartmann want?” He poked around the room-service tray as he spoke, looking for something edible.

  “Mr. Ackroyd, I require a favor of you.”

  “Sure,” Jay said. “Name it.”

  Tachyon put a hand up. “Do not be so quick to commit yourself. Having me in your debt may not be enough to outweigh what I will ask of you.”

  Jay found an orange slice. “Jesus Christ, get to the point, Tachyon. All this flowery Takisian bullshit.” He bit into the orange and sucked at the juice.

  “Hartmann is blackmailing me. I have refused to meet his demands, but I require time. A day, two at the most, and it will be over. Hartmann will have lost the nomination.” Tachyon paused for a long moment, his face morose, as if the whole notion made him weary beyond words. “You can give me that time,” he concluded finally.

  “The point?” Jay prodded. “The point?”

  “You must remove a man from Atlanta. The more conventional means are closed to us.”

  This all got weirder every day, Jay thought. “Why?” he asked. “Who is this guy?”

  Tachyon turned away from him. There was a snifter on the side table, half-full of brandy. He groped for it like a drowning man groping for a lifesaver, and drained it in a gulp. “Long ago,” he said slowly, his back still turned, “I was saved from death by a man who has alternately been a devil and an angel to me.”

  Devils and angels, just what he needed, as if assassins and aces weren’t enough. “Shit,” Jay said, throwing up his hands.

  “This is difficult for me,” Tach whined. He stared down at the empty snifter, rolling it between his palms. Then it all came out in a rush. “In 1957 I was recruited by the KGB. It wasn’t all that difficult. I would have done anything for a drink. At any rate, years passed. I proved to be less useful than originally hoped. They cut me loose and I thought I was free. Then last year the man who ran me those many long years ago reentered my life and called in the debt. He’s here. In Atlanta.”

  Jay gaped at him. The notion of the prissy little alien prince working for the Soviets was the craziest thing he’d ever heard. He would have been less surprised if Tachyon had confessed that he was really an elf. “Why?” was all he could manage.

  “Hartmann,” Tach replied. “He suspected the existence of the monster. Now Hartmann has found out about him, and our connection.”

  “Connection?” Jay said.

  “He is Blaise’s tutor.”

  “Oh hell.” Jay sat down. He didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. Laugh, probably; he could always count on Tach to take care of the weeping.

  “This is the bludgeon with which Hartmann seeks to cow me,” Tachyon declared. “I’m probably going to jail, Mr. Ackroyd. But I’ll see him stopped before I go.”

  “You want me to pop this guy away.”

  “Yes. Already the FBI and the Secret Service have been alerted. They are combing Atlanta for George.”

  “Are you still a commie?” Jay asked, straight-faced.

  Dr. Tachyon clutched at the little doily he wore at his throat, and drew himself up to his full height. “I? Consider, Mr. Ackroyd.”

  “Yeah,” Jay said, “I get your drift.” He stood up. “Well, hey, it’s all ancient history to me. Let’s go pop this commie somewhere.”

  Tachyon gave him a grave little nod and went to the bedroom. “Blaise,” he called.

  “You’re taking him?” Jay was surprised. “I mean, he knows?”

  “Of course. Come, child,” he said to Blaise. The teenager shot him a venomous glance, but Tachyon missed it. “I want you to have a chance to say farewell to George.”

  11:00 A.M.

  Captain Angela Ellis stamped out a cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and immediately lit another. She strode up and down before the chair in which Brennan sat, her frustration evident in her staccato pacing.

  “How long do you think you can remain silent?” she asked Brennan.

  Brennan looked directly at her for the first time in twenty minutes. “Forever,” he said softly.

  “Christ! Why were you sitting in a car before the Crystal Palace at ten-oh-five this morning? What had been your relationship with Chrysalis? Did you kill her?”

  Brennan turned away, his face utterly blank, apparently totally devoid of feeling and emotion.

  Maseryk, sitting in the rear of the room, cleared his voice. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I don’t think he’ll say anything.”

  Ellis whirled on him. “Somebody’s got to say something! Some idiot let it leak that we’ve collared Yeoman, the bow-and-arrow killer, and there’s gotta be a hundred reporters yammering at the sergeant on the front desk, and about half a dozen federal agencies are sending agents over to ‘look into the affair,’ as they put it.”

  “As far as I know,” Brennan said softly, “there’s nothing illegal in sitting in a car. There’s nothing illegal in carrying a bow and arrow.”

  “Are you saying you’re innocent? Are you saying you’re not this Yeoman?”

  Brennan said nothing as Ellis whirled on him. “You have no identification and your description matches that of a man wanted for desertion from the United States Army.”

  “Superficially,” Brennan said.

  “Close enough,” Ellis ground out, “so that we can hold you until the feds arrive with this deserter’s dossier. Which includes his fingerprints.”

  “As you will,” Brennan said, returning his gaze to infinity.

  Ellis ground out her cigarette, then crumpled the empty pack. “All right,” she said. She opened the door to the interrogation room and called in the patrolman who’d been standing outside. “Put him in the lockup. Maybe a few hours in a cell will loosen his tongue.”

  The cop nodded. “All right, tough guy, move it.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea—” Maseryk began, but Ellis nailed him with a stare, and he fell silent.


  The cop led Brennan through a warren of interrogation rooms and offices, then downstairs to the general lockup. There were more than a dozen hardcases in there, waiting for bail to be arranged or other legal papers to be processed. They were a surly, tough-looking group.

  The jailer grinned as he opened the door and gestured for Brennan to enter. “Got someone famous for you guys to meet. His name’s been in all the papers,” he said. “You’ve heard of Yeoman, the bow-and-arrow vigilante? Well, here he is.” He chuckled again, slammed the door, and sauntered back up the corridor.

  Brennan felt their hard stares and waited for the inevitable. It didn’t take very long.

  “Shoot,” someone said from the back of the cell. “He don’t look too tough to me.”

  “He looks like a pussy,” someone else said. “Take away his bow and arrow and he’s just a pussy.”

  There was some low, cautious laughter. The man who spoke first pushed his way to the front of the cell where Brennan stood with his back against the bars. He was a big, tough-looking nat with tattoos crawling up and down his arms and a nose that’d been broken more than once. The second speaker was shorter than Brennan, but powerfully built. His head was bald and his face was a network of scars. They approached Brennan side by side as the others in the cell backed away.

  “He is a pussy,” the first said. “Here pussy, pussy, pussy. We got something for you.”

  Brennan watched without expression. When they came within reach, he pivoted sideways and lashed out with his right foot, catching the short one in the groin. The man went down with a gurgle and then threw up all over himself. Brennan grabbed the other by the arm and whirled him face-first against the cell’s barred door.

  The door shook when the thug rammed up against it. His left arm went through the bars. Brennan reached out and grabbed his hand, then yanked his arm back into the cell, wrapping it between two bars. He howled as his arm snapped. Brennan grabbed a handful of greasy hair and shoved his head forward as hard as he could. It pushed through the bars, but not without leaving a lot of skin and one ear behind.