Ace In The Hole

11:00 A.M.

Cal Redken sounded like the acne-scarred junk-food addict he was. In the background of all his conversations was the rustle of plastic wrappers; his words were slurred by the effort of sneaking around wads of Twinkies, Snickers, and Fritos. He sounded fat and slow and lazy.

Only the first of those was true.

Gregg had taken him as a puppet long ago, more from reflex than desire. He'd played with Redken's voracious appetite, mildly amused that he could make a man eat until he was literally, sickeningly, stuffed. But that had not fed Puppetman particularly well, and Gregg had rarely utilized his link. Redken was not Hiram-an ace with peculiar abilities and tastes. Redken was a competent, if sedentary, investigator. There was no one better at following the confusing labyrinth of bureaucracy. It had been Redken who'd put together overnight-the unproved web of conjecture with which Gregg had confronted Tachyon.

Now, he'd make sure the conjecture became fact.

The phone rang twice at the other end, followed by an audible gulp and "Redken."

"Cal, Gregg Hartmann here."

"Senator." Cellophane tore in the background; a new snack being opened. "You get my package all right?"

"Early this morning, Cal. Thanks."

"No sweat, Senator. Interesting stuff you had me looking up," he added reflectively. He took a bite of something, chewing noisily.

"That's what I want to talk with you about. We need to pursue this further. I need to know if we can bring charges against Tachyon."

"Senator"-swallow-"all we have now is circumstantial stuff. A Russian agent assigned to the right city in the right year, another coincidental crossing of paths in London last year, your contact in the JJS and her story, a few other tenuous links here and there. Nothing's solid. Not even close."

"It scared hell out of him, Cal. I saw it. I know something's there."

"That's still far from proving it."

"Then it has to get closer. You know what Video told us last year. Gimli and Kahina had definite Soviet connections. An agent met with them one night last year in New York, and Gimli called him Polyakov."

"Polyakov's dead, Senator. All our sources say the same thing; the KGB and the GRU believe it too. Maybe they're just using his name to confuse us."

"They're all wrong. Video still has the pictures in her mind. He matches Polyakov's description."

"So do a few thousand other people. There's a lot of fat, bald, old men. Plus, you're not going to get any court to accept a joker's wild card talent as evidence. A mental projection isn't a photograph."

"It's a start. Find her, look at what she has. Listen to her. Then keep digging."

Redken sighed. Plastic crackled like dry leaves, and his voice was suddenly muffled by something soft. "Okay, Senator."

"I'll do it. I'll try. How soon do you need this."

"A week ago. Yesterday at the latest."

Another sigh. "I get the idea. I'll call New York as soon as I'm off. Anything else?"

"Soon, Cal. I gotta have this soon."

"You're asking me to miss lunch."

"You do this for me and I'll buy you your own damn restaurant."

"You got a deal, Senator. Talk to you later."

The last word was obscured as Redken placed another bite of something in his mouth. The line clicked and went dead.

"Somebody's on us."

"What?" Tachyon slewed around in the cab, and stared out the back window.

Ackroyd laid a hand on his arm. "Easy. He's good. You'll never spot him that way. Cabby." The detective fished out his wallet. "There's an extra fifty in it for you if you can lose the gray Dodge. Back about three cars."

The man's black face split in a wide grin. "Sure thing, mister."

Tachyon followed Jay's mortified gaze as the detective fanned out a ten and three ones. Grumbling Tachyon pulled out his wallet, and stripped off the bills, tucked them into the driver's shirt pocket. And promptly landed in Ackroyd's lap as the cab accelerated abruptly into a hard left turn. Blaise, grinning delightedly, clung like a young monkey to the front seat.

"Just like Paris, K'ijdad." "Huh?" asked Jay.

"Never mind. You know enough of my secrets," growled Tachyon.

Jay glanced behind. "Still on us. Damn, he's good."

"What are we going to do?" The fluttering in his stomach was back, and Tach could feel a fine shivering running through his hands.

Ackroyd ran a hand across his mouth. "There's probably not going to be time for any long good-byes."

The Motel 6 sign loomed ahead. "Sara's there, too," said Tachyon.

"Jesus Christ. You got the whole New York Philharmonic there? Maybe the Dodgers?"

"This is no laughing matter."

"No shit. Punch it, buddy. Everything she's got."

The cab gunned down the street, turned with a squeal of tires into the parking lot. The threesome were out before the car had stopped rolling. Jay flung his remaining ten over his shoulder as they pelted for the room.

Sara was curled up on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, pillow clutched to her chest, listening to the television. Polyakov, a bemused expression on his round face, stepped back to avoid being trampled. Jay seized the edge of the door, and slammed it shut. Threw the deadbolt. Tachyon ran to Sara, and yanked her up off the bed. Blaise flung himself into the Russian's arms.

"No time to explain. Hartmann knows. There is someone after us." Tachyon seized Sara's dress at the neck, and pulled. It ripped with a loud rending sound. Sara screamed, and covered herself. She was wearing only her bra. "Into the shower, quick! Don't come out, and by the way, you rent by the hour." The alien was propelling her toward the bathroom door, unsnapping her bra as they went.

Heavy footfalls were coming down the hall at a run. Polyakov's gray eyes were calm, fatalistic. "There's no time."

"Yes, there is. Jay will get you out of Atlanta. For the gods' sake, Blaise, move!"

The water thundered on. Polyakov gently sat the boy aside.

"Open up! Open the goddamn door!" Tachyon recognized Billy Ray's voice.

"Now!" he hissed urgently to the detective. Ackroyd formed his fingers into a gun. Polyakov vanished. There was an audible pop as the air rushed back into the space formally occupied by a body.

Tachyon leaped across the room, seized the bottle of vodka on the dresser, ripped open his collar, and in a long, low dive threw himself onto the bed.

The door blew open, splinters flying across the room as Billy Ray bulled through. Jay shielded Blaise with his body, and Tach covered his face. The Justice Department ace had a gun, a. 44 magnum. Tachyon stared down the barrel. It yawned like a cave's mouth.

"All right. Where is he? Where the fuck is he?"

"Huuuh?" asked Jay.

"Asshole!"

Ray stiff-armed the detective, and Ackroyd went down. Rav tore the closet door off its hinges, and flung down the clothes. Glanced beneath the bed, headed for the bathroom door. Tachyon crossed his fingers, and prayed to whatever ancestors might be lurking nearby.

"Get out of there. Now!"

Sara's voice floated over the rush of falling water. Clearly female. Heavily Southern. Tachyon prayed that he was the only one who heard the panic underlying the words.

"Wal, sugah, how many you boys there gonna be?"

The shower curtain rasped back. Sara screamed. For a long moment there was silence from the bathroom. The sharp report of a slap. Ray re-entered the room the pale pink imprint of a palm already fading from his cheek, the front of his white uniform wet from the thundering water.

Breathing heavily, he said, "He was here. That goddamn Russian was here."

Jay looked to Tach. "Russian? I don't see any Russian. Do you see a Russian? And sweetcheeks in there sure don't sound Russian. Russian costs you extra." He grinned at the outraged ace.

"Why did you try to get away from me?"

Tachyon sighed, took a long pull on the bottle. "Because I was afraid you were the press, and I didn't want to be found visiting a prostitute."

"You always take a kid?" He gestured at Blaise with the. 44.

"Could you put the gun away? It makes me nervous when you wave it around like that. Most fatal shootings are accidental, you know."

Ray glared at him. "This wouldn't be an accident. Answer the fucking question."

With a delicate clearing of the throat Tachyon said, "Well, that is the matter in a nutshell. It's time the boy learned." He glanced about the motel room. "This lacks the ambience that I could wish, but she is very good. I tried her myself last night. Of course, nothing can compare with the woman my father gave to me on my fourteenth birthday-"

Ray stormed back through the shattered door. "Fourteen? No kidding?"

"Oh Ackroyd, please!"