Ace In The Hole

5:00 P.M.

Amy Sorenson met Gregg and Ellen behind the podium screen. On the other side of heavy velvet curtains, Gregg could hear the loud conversations of the reporters; the glare of video lights washed under the red folds. "They're all primed," Amy said. "I have your guests next door; I'll get them after you go in." She touched the wireless receiver in her ear and listened for a second. "Okay, Billy Ray says everything's fine. Are you ready?"

Gregg nodded. It had been a long, hard afternoontrying to get news from New York, working with Jack and a mostly soused Danny Logan (Logan was definitely one puppet he'd driven too far) on the strategy for the California fight later tonight, putting out brushfire rumors about his affair, arranging things with the justice Department, setting up this press conference. He'd worried that the stress would bring Puppetman back to conciousness, but the power was still silent and buried. He could sense only the barest rustle of its struggling.

But Gimli-if it was Gimli… That presence was still very much with him. Gregg could hear the dwarf's evil chuckling, and he wondered, as he'd wondered much of the afternoon, if he weren't approaching some kind of breakdown. With the thought, the Gimli-voice surged forward.

You are, Greggie, he said. I'm going to fucking make sure of it.

Gregg took a deep breath and pretended he'd not heard the voice. He took Ellen's hand, squeezed it, then patted the swell of her belly. "We're ready. Let's get on with the circus, Amy."

Gregg fixed a smile on his face as Amy held the curtains aside. He took the three steps up to the stage at a bound, Ellen following slowly. Cameras clicked like a plague of mechanical insects; electronic flashes stuttered their brief lightning. At the podium, Gregg waited until the reporters had quieted in their seats, looking down at the outline of Tony Calderone's speech in his hand. Then he raised his head.

"As usual, I don't have much in the way of a formal statement," he said, waving the single page of handwriting. That received the small laugh he'd expected-Gregg had a reputation as an off-the-cuff speaker who regularly strayed from Tony's prepared text, and most of the reporters in the audience had been with him on the campaign trail for months. "There's a good reason for that, too. I really don't have much to say at this press conference. I feel that the less one responds to vicious and unfounded rumors, the better. And I know what you 'll all say to that: `Don't blame us. The press has its responsibility.' I hope you all feel better for having that out of the way."

There was more chuckling at that, mostly from those he knew were in his camp. The rest waited, solemn.

He paused, glancing again at the notes Tony, Braun, Tachyon, and he had made. At the same time, like a person constantly probing at a broken tooth, he felt for Puppetman and sensed nothing. He relaxed slightly. "We all know why you're here. I'm going to say my piece, answer a few question if you want, and go on to other things. I've already seen fellow candidate ruined by what was essentially innuendo an circumstance. Whether Gary Hart actually did anything was immaterial. He was injured by rumors and might have to credibility even if he'd actually done nothing at all."

"Well, I'm not Gary Hart; he's better looking. Even Ellen says so."

They grinned at that, almost universally, and Gregg himself smiled with them. He placed his notes carefully an visibly to one side, and leaned on his elbows toward them. "I think I can point out a few other differences. The Stacked Dee wasn't the Monkey Business. We went to Berlin, not Bimini And Ellen was along on the entire trip."

Gregg glanced over to Ellen and nodded. On cue, s returned his smile.

"Senator?" Gregg squinted into the glare oflights and sa Bill Johnson of The Los Angeles Times waving his notebook Gregg gestured for him to go ahead. "Then you're denying that you and Sara Morgenstern have had an affair?" Johnson asked "I certainly know Ms. Morgenstern, as does Ellen, an she's been a family friend. She has her own problems, and have no knowledge of precisely what she's said or hasn't sat recently. But I don't go sneaking around behind my wife i back."

Ellen leaned in close to Gregg with a mischievous look "Bill, I did catch Gregg eyeing Peregrine from time to time but he was hardly the only one doing that."

Laughter. The cameras began flashing again, and th tension in the room visibly dissolved. Gregg grinned, but th expression went cold and dead on his face. Gimli's voice seemed to whisper just behind his ear.

You screwed her, Hartmann. You spread her legs on five different continents, and your little ace made her smile and think she enjoyed it. But she didn't, did she? Not really. She doesn't think much of you now, not at all. Not without Puppetman.

Ellen sensed Gregg's distress. He knew his hand was clammy in hers. She was still smiling, but behind the eyes was worry. He shook his head slightly, pressing her fingers.

Such a fucking professional wife you have, too. She knou exactly what to do, doesn't she? Smiles at just the right time, says just the right thing, even lets you knock her up so she'll be nice and matronly for the convention. You're so proud, such a good daddy. You're a bastard, Hartmann. I am too, and this little bastard's going to wreck your life. I'm going to make your pet ace rip you open so everyone can see.

Listening to the voice, he'd waited a beat too long. He could hear the laughter dying, the moment passing. He hurried to catch them again, refusing to listen to Gimli's continuing stream of invective.

"Okay, as Ellen has pointed out, I'm guilty of some of Jimmy Carter's lust of the heart. I doubt there's very many of us who aren't-Peregrine would be disappointed if it were any other way. Beyond that, I'm afraid that you've been duped. There's a rumor, and nothing else. From today on, I'm going to consider this whole question answered, and we'll try to concentrate on real issues. If you want more of a story about this, look at your sources. Ask yourself what ulterior motives were responsible for spreading this kind of trash."

"Are you accusing Leo Barnett or his staff?" A voice from the back: Connie Chung of NBC.

"I'm not naming names, Ms. Chung; I don't have them. I'd like to believe that a God-fearing man such as Reverend Barnett would refuse to use such tactics, and I'm certainly not going to cast the first stone." Another wave of laughter. "But the lie started somewhere-track it down. I notice Ms. Morgenstern hasn't been quoted directly by any of you. I haven't seen anv tangible proof at all. That should tell you something immediately, I'd think."

He had them. He'd turned it around. He could see it, feel it. Yet there was very little sense of triumph in Gregg. Beneath everything, he could sense a familiar stirring. Puppetman was rising, still deep down, but heading for the surface. Just another day, he thought. Give me that much time.

You can't keep it down even that long, Hartmann. You're addicted. That's all Puppetman is: your goddamn drug. And you both need a fix, don't you? Gimli chuckled. To get it, you've got to get around me. Ain't it a fucking pity.

Both Ellen and Amy were staring at him. He was standing stock still, frozen. Gregg gave them an apologetic shrug and continued.

"A few minutes ago, Bill Johnson called me `Senator.' Now, it's been over a year since I gave up my seat to run for this candidacy, but I understand the mistake. Bill's been calling me Senator-when he hasn't been calling me other things-for years now."

A slow amusement moved through the ranks in front him. "That's habit," Gregg told them, sliding easily back into Tony's speech. "It's easy to let habits rule us. It's easy for us to cling to ancient prejudices, clouded outlooks, and outright fables. But we can't do that, not now. We hear too many rumors and believe them without foundation. We've had the habits and listened to the lies for years: that jokers are somehow accursed; that it's right to hate people-jokers o otherwise-because they look or act differently; that people can't change, and the way it is is the way it must be. If yo believe opinions and feelings are set in concrete, you 'r right-you can't change, you can't grow. But when we can d something that defies such beliefs, well, to me that's worth more coverage than sensational rumors about infidelity." Gregg glanced over to Ellen; she nodded back. Gimli still there and Gregg's head ached with the sound of his voice but he blinked and went on. He wanted to get off the podium, to be alone in his room. He was rushing, speaking too fast; he forced himself to slow down.

"I'm pleased to say that some things we think eternal pass. I've based my entire campaign on the idea that now is the tim to heal the wounds. Opinions change. We can embrace those we once hated. That's important. That's newsworthy. And it's also not my story. I can understand a person who takes his o her fervor too far. I can understand passionate conviction even when I don't agree with them. We all have things w believe in strongly and that's good. It becomes a proble when such passion crosses the line beyond fervor to violence. There have been joker organizations that have sometimes stepped over that line."

Gregg gestured to the back of the stage. "Amy, pleas(bring them out."

The curtains at the back of the stage parted, and jokers stepped into the light. One had skin marked with fine serrated ridges; the other was shadowy and the ghost of the curtains could be seen through him. The press began t murmur.

"I'm sure I don't need to introduce File and Shroud t you. Their faces were prominent in your papers and on your broadcasts last year when the JJS was finally broken up." Gimli laughed inside at that; Gregg swallowed hard. "Some of the JJS, those who seemed peripheral members or harmless, were simply fined and released. Others, the ones deemed truly dangerous, were incarcerated. File and Shroud have been in a federal prison since that time. Perhaps deservedly so-both have admitted to extremely violent acts. Yet… I was the direct victim of some of that violence, and I've spoken to File and Shroud extensively in the last year. I feel that they've both learned a hard and painful lesson and are genuinely remorseful."

"I will stand by my own words and convictions. I believe in reconciliation. We need to forgive, we need to strive to understand those less fortunate than ourselves. Today, in an agreement with Governor Cuomo of New York, the Justice Department, and the New York Senate, I've arranged to grant parole to File and Shroud."

Gregg placed his arms around the jokers: the rough skin of File, the misty shoulders of Shroud. "This is far more important than rumors. This is genuine, and it's also not my story-it's theirs. I'll let them convince you as they convinced me. Talk to them. Ask them your questions. Amy, if you'd moderate -"

As the first questions were shouted from the crowd and File stepped to the microphone, Gregg took a deep breath and retreated.

Don't you understand? Gimli taunted as Gregg left the room and headed for the elevators. You haven't gotten rid of me. You can't run away from my particular obsession. I'm here. And I'm staying. I don't forgive. Not at all.

With fingers without feeling Sara replaced the receiver in its cradle.

She'd fled her room in tears, trusting in her small size and a certain knack of invisibility that had served her well at various points in her career to hide her in the mob. At first it worked. When they paged her in the lobby, it set a fresh pack of reporters baying after her, hungry to worry bones from which Hartmann's bland denial hadn't filleted the last scraps of meat.

Is Hartmann telling the truth? Why did Barnett's announcement specify you? What's your connection to the Bar- nett campaign? The questions split half and half between trying to get her to admit she'd hit the rack with Hartmann and trying to get her to admit she'd conspired with the fundamentalists to wreck the senator's good name.

Part of her ached to use the proffered forum, to announce, Yes, I slept with Gregg Hartmann, and I learned that he's a monster, a covert ace who makes people into puppets. Cowardice intervened. Or was it sanity? Her revelationsallegations, was the only way they would be viewed-were extravagant enough without turning them into Midnight Sun headline fodder.

She turned her face away and said, "No comment." And swallowed whole the steaming chunks of abuse: "Where do you get off trying to pull that shit? The public has a right to know. You're a journalist, for Christ's sake." Finally a cocktailer in leotards and one of those short black skirts took her by the arm and steered her here, into the office of the manager of the Marriott's lounge.

The receiver clicked home with the finality of a breech closing on a cartridge. Somebody took what she had to say seriously.

The caller was Owen Rayford of the Post's New York bureau. Chrysalis was dead. Murdered. Ace powers were involved.

Was it a puppet? She doubted that. Hartmann's strings quickly attenuated and broke with distance; she knew that from experience. There were bent aces-Bludgeon, Carnifex, maybe the Sleeper if he were far gone in amphetamine psychosis-who were capable of such a deed. That was an irony about Hartmann; in his position you hardly needed ace powers to get into serious evil doing. Money, power, and influence weren't exactly any weaker forces in human affairs than they'd been up until the fifteenth of September, 1946.

The fear lived within her; it coiled like a serpent, burned like a star. It brought with it terrible knowledge: the only hope of safety lay in risking all.

The manager and the waitress who'd rescued her stood by, watching with polite curiosity. She arranged her face in a smile and stood.

"Is there a back way out of here?" she asked.