Dead Man's Hand

  “I’m scared,” Blaise said. His voice was softer, but not soft enough. “I want to go home.”

  “Pull yourself together,” Jay said. “I need you. You have to mind-control one of them.”

  “I tried,” Blaise said. “Last night … I had Sascha, but they didn’t listen to him, and then that thing … that joker … too many minds, I wasn’t even sure how many, and some of them … it was like an animal mind, only smarter, and it kept sliding away from me, I couldn’t get a grip … they hurt me.” He was crying now. A line of red ran down one cheek, where his tears mingled with the dried blood that had closed his eye.

  “They’re going to hurt you a lot worse if we don’t get out of here,” Jay said. “You don’t need to mess with the big ugly one. Just grab the guy who looks like a centipede. Make him stand up and say, I’m going to go check on the prisoners. You got that?”

  “I’m going to go check on the prisoners,” Blaise repeated numbly through swollen, cracked lips.

  “Casual,” Jay stressed. “Make it real casual. Then get the fucker back here with one of his knives and have him cut me loose. Once my hands are loose, we’re home free. I’ll pop you back to the Marriott and you can bring the cavalry. Okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Blaise said.

  “I thought you were part Takisian,” Jay whispered with all the scorn he had in him. “You guys good for anything but crying?”

  Blaise blinked back tears, then nodded slowly. “I’ll try.”

  The boy’s battered face twisted in concentration. Jay held his breath. The singing went on for what seemed like an eternity. Then a chair pushed back and he heard a thin voice announce, much too formally, “I’m going to go check on the prisoners.”

  The singing stopped. Jay heard footsteps.

  Too many footsteps.

  The centipede crossed the cellar like a sleepwalker, knelt down in front of Jay, groped behind him, and started sawing at his bonds with a knife. From the sound it made, Jay had the sick realization that his hands were bound with wire, not rope.

  Charm came in just behind him, lurching forward with a ponderous stumbling gait. One head glanced over at Jay and the centipede, and ignored them. All the other eyes stayed fixed on Blaise. “No,” the boy whimpered as the joker’s vast dark shadow fell across him. He tried to scuttle back on the mattress, but there was no place to hide.

  One of Charm’s hands reached up into the pipes that ran along the ceiling and emerged with a baseball bat. The first swing caught the boy’s head with a crack that made Jay nauseated.

  2:00 P.M.

  This time Brennan’s approach was straightforward. He knew where he was going, he knew what he wanted to do. Quinn’s garden was gorgeous in the afternoon sunlight. He either had tremendous horticultural skills or had hired a superb landscaping service. Brennan wouldn’t mind talking gardening with the Eskimo, and if things went right, he’d have his chance.

  He cut through the poppy bed and approached the caterpillar sentinel from the rear. As it had done the first time he stumbled upon it, the machine turned its head slowly, grinned, welcomed him, then dispersed a billowing cloud of gas in his direction.

  Brennan fell, artistically he hoped. He winced when his right arm hit the turf and twisted so that his left hand was under his body. He held his breath as the gas dissipated, and took shallow, cautious breaths when he had to. He got a little dizzy from the residue gas, but then he was still feeling woozy from his medical treatment, anyway.

  He lay there for ten minutes before he heard approaching footsteps and a grumbling voice. “Sunday afternoon,” it was saying, “Sunday afternoon. Can’t a man be left in peace to enjoy himself even on the weekends? What’s this world coming to?”

  The grumbling stopped and through slitted eyes Brennan saw Quinn staring down at him.

  “Now who’s this?” Quinn continued his monologue. “Who’s caught in the web spun by my caterpillar? Wait a minute. Caterpillars don’t spin webs, do they?”

  “That’s right,” Brennan said, sitting up and pointing his gun at Quinn. “You’re thinking of spiders.”

  “You’re unconscious,” Quinn said. “You can’t talk.”

  Brennan could see that the Eskimo was badly ripped, but that wasn’t unusual. He peered doubtfully at Brennan, seemingly not even cognizant of the gun Brennan was pointing at him.

  “Running downs through your system this afternoon, Quinn?”

  He nodded tranquilly. “Quaaludes.”

  “Lucky me. Now here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going back to your place, then we’re going to call up someone else and have a little party. That all right with you?”

  Quinn nodded agreeably. “Sure. Sundays are boring anyway. There’s usually nothing on television worth watching at all.”

  “You first,” Brennan said, waving his gun at Quinn. He didn’t want to get within reach of the doctor in case Quinn realized what was happening and tried to sink his finger needles into him again.

  Brennan got a better view of the inside of the mansion than the last time he was there. Whatever taste Quinn had in landscaping didn’t extend to interior design. The inside of his Magic Kingdom was decorated in what could best be called exotically eclectic taste. The entrance hall was lined with portraits of famous drug addicts of the past, including Edgar Allan Poe, Sherlock Holmes, Elvis Presley, and Tom Marion Douglas.

  The room Quinn led him to had a group of display cases that housed, among other things, a collection of Chinese opium bottles and antique Turkish water pipes. Against one wall were terrariums with rare and delicate species of fungus and cactus, against another were aquariums with various species of puffer fish.

  “Quite a place you’ve got here,” Brennan said, gazing about in wonder.

  “Thanks.” Quinn beamed. “It’s thematic, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Brennan said. “Now I want you to make that phone call.”

  “Who are we calling?”

  “Fadeout. I want you to get him here fast. Tell him you’ve discovered something new. Something important that he has to see right away. Can you handle that?”

  “Hey!” Quinn stood straight up. “Sharp as a tack!” But he stopped and peered at Brennan. “But why should I?”

  Brennan decided that subtlety was out of the question. “Because I got a gun,” he said, pointing it at Quinn. “And I want you to.”

  “Hey,” Quinn said, backing away. “I was only asking.” He went to the telephone, and Brennan kept pace behind him, out of arms’ reach. He peered at the number that Quinn was trying to dial. It was different than the number that Fadeout had given him, as Brennan had suspected it might be. He didn’t think Fadeout would hand out his secure number to just anyone.

  Quinn, meanwhile, was having difficulty dialing, but finally made it through on the third try. Brennan positioned himself before Quinn, where the Eskimo could see his gun.

  “Hey, hey!” Quinn said into the receiver. “Guess who?… That’s right. Coo-coo-ka-choo … No, wait a minute. That’s the walrus.… Anyway, it’s me, Quinn. Yeah, listen, Phil old boy, I was fooling around in the lab today and came up with something you’ve just got to see.… Sure I’m sure.… Everybody’s gonna jump for joy.… Hey, has the Eskimo ever let you down?… Well, recently, I mean … Okay … okay … When you can make it … Sure … Adios.”

  He hung up the phone.

  “Well?” Brennan asked.

  “He’s got some stuff to do, but he’ll be by in a hour or so. Say, want to see my greenhouse? I’ve got a great collection of marijuana plants.”

  “Sure,” Brennan said. “Why not?”

  3:00 P.M.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs made Jay open his eyes.

  It was very quiet. He had been sleeping … or drifting in and out of consciousness, it was hard to be sure. He glanced over toward the mattress and saw Blaise staring at him. The boy’s eyes were wide open, fixed in terror. A froth of blood bubbled out of his mouth where Charm had knocked o
ut some teeth. He didn’t seem aware of it. He didn’t seem aware of anything.

  The footsteps got louder. Jay squirmed along the couch, his useless hands still bound behind his back, and tried to get a good look into the next room.

  Hiram Worchester stepped into the basement.

  Jay blinked. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. Then he gathered all the strength he had in him and screamed. “Here! Hiram, I’m back here!”

  Hiram’s head snapped around. Charm lurched to his feet and moved slowly out of the shadows. “Watch out!” Jay yelled.

  He heard Ezili laughing.

  Hiram was carrying a suitcase, huge and black, closed with three bright brass hinges. It was so large it was almost a trunk, but he carried it as easily as a normal man might carry a briefcase, and Jay realized he had made it light. Charm took it from him and set it on its end, reverently. Six hands began working simultaneously on the latches.

  Jay Ackroyd went cold all over.

  Hiram looked at him across the length of the basement. The ace looked rumpled and tired, his impeccably tailored suit stained with sweat. Jay met his eyes; they were full of pain, and shame, and something that might have been terror. He looked as though he was going to cry. When he raised a hand in a gesture that had grown all too familiar to Jay and rubbed at something on the side of his neck, Ackroyd wanted to cry himself.

  Sascha stepped into view beside Hiram, his head moving slowly from side to side in tiny birdlike motions as his telepathy tested the waters. It was safe; Sascha nodded. “Open it.”

  Charm opened the suitcase.

  Inside was a young girl, no more than four or five. She was tiny, fair-skinned, blond, naked. And smiling.

  Clinging to her in an obscene embrace was a thing that looked like a cross between an aborted fetus and the biggest maggot Jay had ever seen. Its mouth was pressed to the side of her neck, and in the sudden quiet Jay could hear faint sucking sounds.

  But its eyes were alive and alert. They found Jay in the darkness and considered him hungrily.

  My nightmare, Jay thought wildly. He almost expected it to howl. Warmth spread across his thighs as his bladder let go.

  “He is very afraid, master,” Sascha said.

  “Later I will taste his fear,” the little girl replied. She climbed awkwardly from the suitcase and put a dainty hand on Charm to steady herself. She had a voice out of a Shirley Temple movie, but the words belonged to the thing on her back.

  “Hiram,” Jay pleaded. “Do something.”

  “There’s nothing to be done, Jay,” Hiram Worchester said softly. “I’m sorry.”

  Jay twisted helplessly against his bonds, trying to wrench his hands free. It was useless. He couldn’t even feel his hands; for all he knew, they had fallen off an hour ago.

  “They are strong, master,” Ezili said.

  “Both aces,” Sascha confirmed.

  Hiram looked as though he was going to say something. Instead he turned to stare at a wall. Jay called out to him. “Make a fucking fist, Hiram. These guys are nothing compared to you. Pile on the weight until the goddamn leech is a thin film on the floor!”

  “You don’t understand,” Hiram said. “Ti Malice is my master. I couldn’t live without his kiss. How could I hurt him?” His huge body shook. “I could … never … hurt him.”

  “I will try the boy first,” the little girl announced.

  If Blaise heard or understood, he gave no sign. They came into the room one by one; the girl first, with the creature Hiram had called Ti Malice glistening against her flesh, then Sascha, Ezili, the centipede, even Charm and the others. Only Hiram remained back in the other room.

  Blaise stared up at them blankly, then seemed to wake, as if from a deep sleep. “No!” he shouted, scrambling back across the filthy mattress, as far from Ti Malice as he could go. It wasn’t far enough. “No, please.”

  “Interesting,” the girl said. “I can feel it touching the mount’s mind, trying to push her away.” Stunted vestigial limbs stirred feebly as Ti Malice prepared to move to a new host.

  “Not the girl,” Jay screamed, “the thing on her back.”

  Blaise gave him one quick, desperate glance, and in that moment, Jay truly knew the meaning of fear.

  “Hold him for me,” Ti Malice told Charm with the mouth of its child. The huge joker shambled forward.

  The boy’s violet eyes went back to Ti Malice and narrowed in a last desperate act of courage as his mind reached out for the parasite’s.

  Then Blaise began to scream.

  4:00 P.M.

  Brennan peered through the peephole when the doorbell rang. It was Fadeout, looking bothered and impatient. Brennan smiled and opened the door.

  “All right, Quinn,” Fadeout said as he stomped into the entranceway to the Magic Kingdom, “what’s all this … about…?”

  His voice faded as he spotted Brennan standing before him, and so did he. But Brennan was ready.

  He slammed the door behind the ace, and as Fadeout disappeared, Brennan threw the contents of the metal canister he’d been holding right at him. A fine white powder fluffed out from the container, coating Fadeout from head to toe and sprinkling the floor all around him.

  Fadeout blinked astonished eyes, and sneezed. His tongue came out and licked the corner of his mouth. “Jesus Christ!” he exploded. “That’s cocaine!”

  Brennan nodded.

  “Do you know how much money you just threw at me? Jesus Christ! We’re talking millions!”

  Brennan dropped the canister and drew and aimed his .38 right between Fadeout’s eyes. “We’re talking dead,” he said flatly.

  Fadeout backed away with enough white powder clinging to him to make him look a six-foot-tall sugar donut. “You’re angry,” he said to Brennan.

  “You’re right,” Brennan said. “Calm me down.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Chrysalis’s diary.” Brennan gestured with his gun. “Or your head, either one. I figure you’ve read it already. I figure that I can find Deadhead somewhere. I figure he’s hungry.”

  Fadeout barely suppressed a shudder at the mention of Deadhead, the psychotic ace who could access people’s memories by eating their brains.

  “Well, okay, I guess we can come to some kind of accommodation. It’s at my apartment. We can go and pick it up—”

  “You can call and have it delivered.”

  “That’s fine, too.”

  “This way.” Brennan gestured with his gun, and Fadeout walked ahead of him, slowly and carefully. “In here,” Brennan said.

  He led the way to Quinn’s combination boudoir and rumpus room, where Quinn himself was already installed in the chair that Brennan had once been held captive in.

  “Bummer,” Quinn said when they entered the room. He apparently was off his ’lude low and his brain was functioning somewhat normally.

  Fadeout fixed him with a steady glare. “We’ll talk later,” Fadeout said.

  “Sit there,” Brennan ordered.

  Fadeout sat on a chair next to Quinn, and Brennan tossed him a straitjacket he’d found among Quinn’s collection of bondage devices. Fadeout slipped it on wordlessly, then Brennan awkwardly tied him into it. To make doubly sure, he further tied Fadeout into the chair using some leather restraints that were also part of the Eskimo’s unusual collection.

  “Now, about that call,” Brennan said.

  Fadeout, who by now had given up all pretense at invisibility, grumbled, but did as he was told.

  Brennan sat and watched the two as they waited for the delivery to be made. Once or twice Fadeout tried to start a conversation by offering apologies and excuses, but Brennan was having none of it. A look at his face was enough to shut Fadeout up.

  Finally the doorbell rang, and Brennan went to answer it. A Werewolf in a Mae West mask was at the door. He handed Brennan the leather-bound journal and looked at him expectantly.

  “That’s it,” Brennan told him. “You’re not a delivery boy. Yo
u don’t get a tip.”

  The disappointed Werewolf went down the driveway as Brennan went back into Quinn’s bedroom.

  “Well, it’s been delivered,” Fadeout said. “How about letting us go?”

  Brennan turned to Quinn. “You have servants?”

  “Yeah, man. Sunday’s their day off.”

  “So they’ll be back tomorrow?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “They’ll let you loose then,” he said, and turned to go.

  “Okay by me,” Quinn said. “Guess I’ll cook some acid and meditate on the lessons I learned today.”

  Fadeout, though, was not so phlegmatic. “Hey, Cowboy!” he called. “Let me loose!”

  Brennan shook his head. “Don’t push it. You’re lucky I’m not leaving you dead.”

  “Come on!” Fadeout implored, but Brennan just kept walking. “You bastard!” Fadeout yelled, and then he broke into shrill, mocking laughter. “You think you’re so damn smart! You’ll see what good that stupid book does you!”

  Brennan kept walking and left the house, leaving its door open, hoping against all odds that some burglars would come by and empty it. He stopped before Fadeout’s brand-new BMW and decided to take it back to the city. He thought about Fadeout’s mocking words as he hot-wired the car, and his curiosity compelled him to open the journal.

  As he scanned the pages, he realized that in a sense Fadeout was right. There was not a single fact, a single piece of concrete data in the whole book. It was a personal journal where Chrysalis had kept her thoughts, where she wrote in clear, plain, feeling words about her doubts, fears, and anxieties.

  Brennan turned to the entry for the day, well over a year and a half ago, when he had offered her his protection and love and she’d turned him down. That was the last day he had seen her alive.

  “What,” she had written, “am I so afraid of? I’m not afraid to show my hideous deformity to the world every day—in fact I revel in the discomfort my appearance causes, in the revulsion it evokes. I have to live with it every day; so should everyone else.

  “I make men make love to my ugliness as the price for the information they seek. Why can’t I give myself to one who might love me for myself? Is it fear? Fear that he doesn’t really care, that he’s using me, that he’ll drop me the moment he achieves all he wants?