Dead Mans Hand

I?"

"Not to me." Tachyon squeezed Jesse's arm. Jay wasn't sure who was reassuring whom. "And you will convince them. I know it."

"Well, help me a little."

"I will do my uttermost best," Tachyon declared.

The limo doors were thrown open, and they climbed out one by one. Secret Service men in dark suits and sunglasses were watching the crowd suspiciously, and a squad of uniformed cops had cordoned off a narrow path from the limo to the flatbed truck, hung with red Jackson banners, where the microphones were waiting. Jokers pressed closely around them on all sides. Some stared in dead silence. Others grinned and yelled out their support. Still others screamed obscenities. Everyone was cooking in the heat.

"How can they hate them so?" Tachyon asked plaintively of no one in particular. "They are pitiful, and so brave. So very brave."

The cops struggled to hold back that sea of twisted humanity as the jokers surged forward. Slowly, the party began to make its way down to the truck. Hands were thrust at them from all sides, between the linked arms of the policemen, over their shoulders, around their backs. Jesse moved along one side of the line, grabbing each hand in turn, giving it a quick squeeze, then moving on to the next. Tachyon, less enthusiastic, worked the other side. An elderly man with gills spat in his face. Others tried to kiss his ring.

Jay kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, several paces behind. Straight Arrow walked beside him, keeping a careful eye on Jackson. The ace's broad forehead was dotted with sweat.

Overhead the. Turtle slid across the sky. Sometime during the night someone had painted HARTMANN! across his shell in silver letters three feet high.

A vast, pale wall of moon-faced flesh suddenly loomed up behind two policemen, broke through the cordon, and waddled toward Tachyon. Secret Service men reached for their pistols. "No, it's okay," Jay said, "that's Doughboy. He's simple-minded, but he won't hurt him." Straight Arrow weighed Jay's words, gave a curt nod. The Secret Service relaxed. Doughboy and Tachyon exchanged a few quiet words. The alien looked like he was going to break down and cry.

"I hate this," Straight Arrow muttered.

Somewhere in the crowd, a chant of "traitorl" went up. Tachyon stopped and hid his face in his hands. Jesse had to put an arm around his shoulders and whisper encouragement in his ear to get the Takisian going again. Even then, Tach's smile looked like it had been pasted on. The alien grasped the flipper of a legless joker who had thrust it up between a policeman's legs. He said a few words, smiled, moved on. More hands reached for him.

A thin teenager in worn leathers slid through the crowd, smiling, just three people down the line. How the hell could anyone wear leather in this heat? Jay wondered briefly.

He was glancing away when something-the hunger in that lean face, the bright glitter in the boy's eyes-caught his attention and held it.

Tachyon touched-oh so lightly-the twisted fingers of a foul-smelling joker whose huge boils oozed with pus. He looked a little green, but he forced a smile.

One of the boy's shoulders was higher than the other.

"NO!" Jay screamed, moving forward, hands sliding out of his pockets.

The boy grasped Tachyon's hand. "I'm Mackie Messer," Jay heard him say as the buzz saw kicked in.

"I was in medical school in 1946," Mr. Bones said between sips of tea, "when the wild card came down out of the sky. My deformity was slight, but enough to get me banished from school. It was unusual enough to be a black man in medical school, but a joker black man couldn't be tolerated."

"You use your antennae in your work, don't you?" Brennan asked.

Bones nodded. "After a while I discovered that they've given me a sixth sense, somewhere between taste and smell and touch that's probably about as hard to describe as sight to a blind man. Through the years I've learned to use it to help detect wrongness in my patients."

He put down his cup and turned to Jennifer as she moaned loudly, the first sound she'd made in hours. He ran his antennae over her body, listened to her heartbeat, and said to Brennan, "Give me my bag."

Brennan brought it over and put it beside him. He reached in for a hypodermic and a bottle of clear fluid, and gave her an injection. Her breathing was fluttery and rapid, her forehead was beaded with sweat. She sat straight up and cried out, "Daniel, where are you, Daniel?" It seemed she couldn't see him even though he was standing right next to her.

Bones moved over and gestured for Brennan to take his place. He knelt down and held Jennifer. She clung to him fiercely and her skin was cold even though she was soaked with sweat.

"Daniel," she murmured, and suddenly went limp. Brennan looked at Bones desperately, who reassuringly put a large-knuckled hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, son, let her down gently. I think she's passed the crisis point."

Brennan held her at arms' length and looked at her. She seemed to be sleeping deeply. Her breath was firm and measured. He let her down against the pillow and she sighed and turned over.

"She needs sleep," Bones said. "I'm going to give her a sedative and I don't want her to be disturbed for at least twenty-four hours."

A vast sense of relief swept through Brennan. "She'll be all right?" he asked.

Bones nodded.

"Thanks, doctor-I mean, Mr. Bones. What do I owe you?"

Bones shrugged lean shoulders. "I don't have set fees. My patients pay what they can."

Brennan reached for his denim jacket, which was slung over a chair next to the sofa. He took a flat roll of money from a secret pocket sewn into the inside and gave it all to Bones.

"This is all I have with me," he said. "If there's anything else you ever need, call this number and I'll do what I can." Brennan scribbled the number down on a piece of paper he took from Father Squid's secretary and handed it to him. Bones riffled through the money Brennan had given him. "You're very generous," he said.

Brennan shook his head as he watched Jennifer sleep peacefully on the sofa. "You've done more for me than I could ever repay. I'll always be in your debt."

Under the high, thin shriek of Tach's screaming was the hideous wet sound of a power saw cutting meat. Fingers and pieces of flesh and bone were flying everywhere. The boy stood there, fine drops of Tachyon's blood spattering his face and arm and leathers with a sound like summer rain, all the time smiling, his mouth open just a little, tongue moving slightly across his lower lip.

It seemed to Jay like he was moving in slow motion. His hand came up, fingers sliding into the shape of a gun… Tachyon staggered back, blood jetting from the ragged ruin of his right hand. The boy's hands were a blur. A cop grabbed him by the jacket. The leather boy sliced off his arm clean at the shoulder like it was the easiest thing in the world and turned back to Tachyon. The alien had stumbled to his knees. The boy reached down for him, almost gently, as if he were going to caress his cheek, stroke that long red hair.

But Jay was pointing. No one heard the pop. Too many people were screaming. But suddenly Mackie Messer was gone.

Dazed, trembling, Jay was hardly aware of the big blond man who came crashing out of the crowd an instant later, glowing as yellow as a bug light and staggering almost in a circle as he punched at an assassin who was no longer there. "Who did that?" he shouted. All around them people were shouting, running into each other. The Secret Service had knocked down Jesse and covered him with their bodies. "An ambulance," a distant voice was calling. "Someone get an ambulance. Dammit, dammit, someone get an ambulance." Everybody was waving guns and Straight Arrow was holding a flaming arrow up over his head. TV cameras were circling like sharks. Jay heard someone say "Ackroyd," but he wasn't sure who. The policeman was still making a hideous noise, but Tachyon had fallen silent. When Jay reached him, the little alien lay on the pavement, still as death, his eyes closed, his right arm clutched to his chest. Blood still came in short, ragged spurts from his wrist, and the ruffles of his lace shirt were as red as his hair. Jay smelled something burning somewhere behind him. Then he was shoved aside, none too gently. Straight Arrow knelt over Tachyon. Dimly, from his own haze of confusion and shock, Jay watched. The man held his hands over the raw wet stump. Pale yellow flames leapt from his fingertips, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Tachyon's body thrashed feebly. The stump was black and seared when Callendar stood up. A couple of paramedics lifted Tachyon onto a stretcher. Jay wasn't sure when they'd arrived.

"Ackroyd," someone said. Jay looked around. Straight Arrow was talking to him. "Where did you send him?"

Jay couldn't think straight. "Yeah," he said. His hand was still clenched tightly in its gun shape. He flexed his fingers, ran them through his hair. "Oh Jesus," he said, patting himself to make sure he was intact.

"You!" someone bellowed at him. It was the big blond guy. He looked almost as young as the leather boy. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jay Ackroyd," Straight Arrow told him. "Private cop. They call him Popinjay."

"I had the bastardl" The blond guy made a fist, crushing a pack of cigarettes that he didn't seem to realize he was holding. Little bits of tobacco drippled down over his pants. "I could have turned him into Jell-O! Aw, fuck!" He threw down the squashed cigarettes and kicked them into the crowd. Suddenly Jay recognized Golden Boy. The reports of Braun's death were obviously exaggerated. Nobody ever told him anything.

"Where'd you send him, Ackroyd?" Straight Arrow asked. "Popped him…" His lips were very dry. When he licked them, Jay tasted blood.

The Mormon ace grabbed his lapels and shook him. "Where'd you send the assassin?"

"Oh," Jay said. "New York. The Tombs." Straight Arrow let him go. "Good."

But Golden Boy was a lot less pleased. "He walks through walls!" he yelled. He seemed to feel a need to scream everything. Jay was starting to understand why Braun had never made it as an actor. "He's out by now"

That made Straight Arrow very unhappy. The Mormon gave a long sigh, then turned and walked away. Jay followed him, leaving Braun alone with his histrionics. "Tachyon," Jay asked, grabbing Callendar by the arm. "Is he going to live?"

"Only God can answer that question, Ackroyd. Pray."