Ace In The Hole

2:00 A.M.

Jack was sweating as he sat up in bed, his back propped against thick hotel pillows. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood in his hand. He'd run through two packs of Camels.

The television was on, an old Boris Karloff suspense film. Karloff kept looking at Jack with James Spector's eyes. Jack turned the set off with remote control. The television kept staring at him, so he got out of the bed and turned the TV set to the wall.

He knew what he had to do. He didn't know if he had the nerve to do it.

He'd never done this kind of thing by himself before. There'd always been Mr. Holmes or Earl or someone to give him advice and make sure everything worked out all right.

The secret ace had already come close to killing him twice.

Third time, he wondered, the charm?

Tachyon was seated in front of the room service tray buttering a slice of toast when Jay emerged from the bedroom. He wore one of Tachyon's suits, and though it was too short in the arms and legs, the man looked decidedly more elegant and well kept.

Blaise, stretched out across an armchair, looked up and sniggered. Tachyon gave his grandson a stern look. "Blaise, did you enjoy your little 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. "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. Blaise flinched. "Gotcha," Jay said. He smiled. So did Blaise.

Tachyon watched this in confusion. Apparently teleporting his wayward heir halfway across Atlanta had established a rapport. He remembered George once telling him that Blaise needed to fear someone before he could care for them. Tach felt depressed.

"He's enough of a rapscallion without your encouraging him," Tachyon muttered.

"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.

Tachyon was patting his lips with a napkin and Jay was mopping up the last of the yoke 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," the detective said. "Rays 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 skin-tight white uniform that outlined every muscle and tendon in his body.

"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."

"The sentiment is not reciprocated."

"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 Ackroyd called out. "Hey, Carny."

Tachyon winced.

Ray turned around with a dangerous glint in his green eyes. "That's Carnifex, asshole."

"Carnifex Asshole," Jay repeated.

Tachyon winced again, and closed his eyes.

"I'll try and remember," Jay continued. "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. Tachyon couldn't believe he was hearing this. As a child Ackroyd must have enjoyed kicking over ant hills, and investigating beehives.

Ray glared at the detective. "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?" Tach straightened, and lifted his chin. "I must."

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

Maybe he'd got some sleep, maybe he'd just passed out from time to time. He figured he better do what he had to before all motor coordination went to hell and he couldn't punch the numbers on his cellular phone.

"The Reverend Barnett, please."

"May I say who's calling?" The female voice spoke with a heavy Spanish accent.

"This is Jack Braun."

The accented voice was prim. "The Reverend Barnett is not available to anyone, Mr. Brown. He is in a prayer vigil expected to last until-"

"He'll talk to me!" Jack's voice rose to a near shout. "Sir," with feigned patience, "the Reverend Barnett-"

"Tell him," Jack said, "that I can deliver California." There was a long pause before the voice returned. "I will connect you to Miss van Renssaeler."

Little hangover stilettos entered Jack's eyes at the mention of the name.

At least he was getting closer to the reverend.

He's coming. Puppetman could sense Tachyon's arrival from Billy Ray's disgust. We're making a mistake not trying to take him…

No! Gregg was vehement. He's too strong for us. If we attack him that way, he'll have an excuse to retaliate. My way's better.

You're weak. You're feeling guilty.

The accusation was too close. Yes, he was feeling guilty. He'd known Tachyon for twenty years, after all. Just shut up, he told Puppetman. Let me handle this.

Sure. Sure. Who else has he told? Hiram knows. Maybe lots of others…

Shut up!

Gregg was facing out of the window as Billy-with obvious ill will-ushered Tachyon into the suite. "One traitor for you, Senator," Ray said as he held the door open. "Wonder how much they paid the little creep?" Ray shut the door behind Tachyon so closely that the alien had to step quickly into the room or have it strike his leg.

Gregg continued to shuffle through the pages of the folder he held in his hands, slowly and deliberately turning the pages. He waited until he heard Tachyon sniff in irritation.

"Say whatever it is you want to say, Senator. I do not have a great deal of time to waste on you."

The words hurt, more than they should have. I didn't do those things, he wanted to say. Puppetman did them. But he couldn't say that because Puppetman was listening. He turned around to face the red-haired alien and tossed the folder on the coffee table in front of Tachyon. "Damned interesting reading matter, that," he said. "Go on, Doctor. Pick it up."

Tachyon glared, but he snatched up the folder with delicate fingers. He riffled through the pages stamped with justice Department seals and shrugged. "What is it, Senator? Play out this farce and be done with it."

"It's simple enough, Doctor." Hartmann seated himself in one of the chairs, lounging back. He put his feet on the coffee table with studied nonchalance. "You invaded mv mind and took ammunition to use against me. I don't like being stuck with an empty revolver in a duel. So I went looking for things about you. I wondered who was whispering about me in your ear. I wondered where the lies might have come from."

"They are not lies, Senator. I saw the disgusting, perverted filth in your head. We both know that."

Please, Puppetman begged at the insult. Let me try. No!

Gregg waved a hand. "Someone convinced you to rape my mind, Doctor. I know Hiram was partially involved, but Hiram reallv wants to believe in me. He's not the source. Mv guess was that it had to be Sara, and if it was Sara,, she might have been working in concert with someone else. You see, I know Kahina-you remember poor Kahina, Doctor?-had talked with Sara. I know she and Gimli had had contact with another man, a Russian. I even had a photograph. And I have friends in high places, remember, Doctor? They checked a few other things out for me, checked backgrounds and chronologies. You'd be surprised at what they'd found, or then maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't."

Gregg shook his head. He gave Tachyon the famous crooked half-smile that had become the cartoonist's icon for Hartmann. "It's actually ironic, isn't it, Doctor? The HUAC folks were right all along. You always were a goddamn communist from outer space."

Tachyon had gone white. His body shook, his lips were pressed together into a hard line. Puppetman caught the overflow of emotions and chuckled. Got him. We got him.

"Bang," Gregg said. "You see, I've got a few bullets, too. One called Blaise, and one called Polyakov-and other names. Very high-caliber ammo."

"You can prove nothing," Tachyon blustered. "Your own people say Polyakov is dead. Kahina is dead. Gimli is dead."

"Everyone you touch seems to be dead. All you have is hearsay and innuendo. No facts."

"Polyakov has been seen here, in Atlanta. The other facts would be easy enough to find," Gregg told him comfortably. "But I don't want to go to the trouble."

"And what is it you do want?"

"You know that as well as I do, Doctor. I want you to say you made a mistake. I want you to tell the press and the delegates that it was all a private misunderstanding between me and you, and that everything's patched up again. We're friends. We're pals. And you'd sure as hell be disappointed if everyone didn't vote for me. If you don't want to actively campaign for me, fine. Leave Atlanta after you make your statement to the press. But if you don't do that, I will start digging for those facts you're so casually dismissing. You might take the nomination away from me, Tachyon, but I'll make sure you get dragged down with me-you and that upstart grandson as well."

It had worked. Gregg was certain of it. Tachyon blustered wordlessly, his fists clenched around the folder so that the cardboard crumpled, bright spots of color on his cheeks. The prissy little wimp was about to goddamn cry, his eyes welling with tears.

We've won. Even if all he does is keep his mouth shut, we've won. We'll be okay. You see? Gregg told Puppetman. And after this is over, we'll find a way to take him out. Finally and permanently.

Tachyon was crying, a line of wetness trailing down from both eyes. He drew himself up like a bantam rooster, his chest puffed up, and he glared at Hartmann. Gregg laughed, scornfully.

"We have a deal, then," Gregg said. "Good. I'll have Amy set up the press conference-"

"No," Tachyon said.

He hurled the folder at Gregg. Papers scattered like ghostly autumn leaves. "No!" Tachyon said again, and this time it was a defiant, weeping shout. "You may do as you wish, Senator, but no. You may go to hell. And as for your threats to take me with you, I don't care. I have been there before." Tachyon turned to leave as Gregg shot to his feet. Puppetman howled inside, frantic. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed at Tachyon. "You stupid bastard! All I have to do is make one phone call and you're finished! You'll lose everything!"

Tachyon glared back at Gregg with smoldering violet eyes. " I lost everything important long ago," he told Gregg. "You can't threaten me with that."

Tachyon opened the door, sniffed loudly, and closed it with silent dignity behind him.

He awoke to the sound of the door opening. Spector was lying under his bed. He'd spent the night there, afraid to sleep in the open. He peered out through the inch-tall gap between the carpeted floor and the edge of the bedspread. A pair of brown buckle-down shoes walked past and clopped onto the tiled bathroom floor.

"Nobody in here again last night." It was a black woman's voice. "Wasting our goddamn time on this junk. Guess I'd better call the man and tell him."

"That's what they said to do," said a voice from the hall. "So, I'd do it if I were you."

The feet moved over next to the bed. Spector held his breath.

The woman lifted the receiver and punched in four numbers. Waited. "He's never at his desk. Always wanting to be with the delegates, or Secret Service." She cleared her throat. "Yes, sir, this is Charlene up in 1031. There was nobody here last night. Course, I'm sure. You know we smelled whiskey the first night he was in, but not since." A long pause. "Yes, sir. We'll keep an eye on the room." She hung up the phone. "Asshole."

There was laughter from the hallway.

The woman walked back toward the door. "You know, if we're going to do this spy shit, I think we should get paid extra for it. Don't see why we should bust our asses to make Mr. Hot-Shot Hastings shine." She closed the door.

Spector could hear the woman carrying on outside the room. Even a New Yorker would have trouble getting a word in edgewise with her.

He was dead tired. His jaw felt like it had been stuck back on with ten-penny nails. Moving would take more effort than he was willing to make right now. He closed his eyes and listened to the maids' cart squeak its way down the hall.

Breakfast of steak and coffee hadn't quite done the job of making Jack ready to face the Reverend Barnett and a stable of killer aces, but a couple last-minute shots of vodka had. They'd steadied his hands for shaving-not that he could have cut himself if he tried, since even the wicked cutthroat he used couldn't match his protective wild card-but he hated to do a sloppy job.

While he dressed, he watched the news. The day's first ballot had Hartmann down by two hundred. About thirty of Jack's own delegates had defected, some to Dukakis, some to Jackson. Barnett was up about forty votes total.

A new sense of urgency poured through Jack.

He dressed in his summer power suit of navy blue cotton, handmade by an old man in New Jersey he'd been going to for forty years, a light-blue Arrow shirt, black Italian wingtips, red tie-he never understood why power ties were supposed to be yellow now, since yellow ties always made him think of someone who'd been careless with his breakfast eggs. He put on heavy Hollywood shades, partly to hide his hangover, partly in case Demise was waiting for him somewhere, and took another welcome shot of vodka before he left. He'd buy some cigarettes in the lobby.

Barnett's limousine met him at the door. The traffic was impossible, complicated by marching jokers and Catholics for Barnett and Mutants for Zippy the Pinhead and shuttle buses disgorging journalists from the outlying hotels where they'd been quartered.

Fleur met him at the door to the Omni Hotel. His nerves did a little dance at the sight of her, but he managed to repress his urge to flee, and instead smiled and shook her hand. " I have an elevator waiting," she said.

"Fine." They stepped across the polished lobby floor.

"I apologize for any difficulty Consuela gave you. She's used to fielding calls from cranks."

"No problem."

"She's a refugee from the anti-Ladino persecutions in Guatemala, a poor young widow with three children. The reverend made it possible for her to stay in this country."

Jack turned to Fleur and smiled. "That's remarkable, that a man as busy as the Reverend Barnett would take the time to help someone like that."

Fleur looked into his deep black shades. "The reverend's like that. He cares."

"Not just the reverend, I'm sure. You've been possessed by the spirit of charity yourself, I'm sure."

Fleur tried to look modest. "Well, I-"

"I mean, sacrificing your chastity just to cure old Tach of his problem."

She stared at him, goggle-eyed.

"By the way, just between us," Jack grinned, "did he ever manage to get it up?"

Jack, smiling, followed a white-lipped Fleur out of an elevator whose temperature seemed to have dropped about fifty degrees. Secret Service people, Lady Black among them, prowled the long corridor leading to Barnett's suite. Jack hoped she didn't recognize him.

He passed by a busy suite filled with tables and campaign workers. Most of them seemed to be women, many of them young and attractive.

They came to a door, and Fleur knocked. Leo Barnett, looking younger than his thirty-eight years, opened the door and stuck out his hand.

"Welcome, Mr. Braun," he said.

Jack stared at the hand, wondering if Barnett could take his mind by touching him; and then, summoning nerve from somewhere, he reached out and took the hand.

He was shaking again. Tachyon paused, the glass almost to his lips, and considered. How many drinks did this make for the morning? Two? Three? He set the glass aside with overly broad gestures. Patted it firmly as if to keep it in place, to keep it from flying back to his hand, crossed to the ravaged room service breakfast tray, and took a bite of cold toast.

His stomach revolted. Gasping, cold sweat breaking at his hairline, the alien staggered into the bathroom, and sluiced water over his face. From the bedroom he could hear Blaise and Ackroyd talking, laughing.

Crossing to the bedroom Tachyon opened the door. The conversation broke off. Jay looking up inquiringly, Blaise with a brooding light in those strange purple/black eyes.

"Mr. Ackroyd, come in here, please. I need to talk to you."

Jay shrugged, tried to pull down the pants that hiked up above his ankles. Followed Tachyon into the sitting room. "What did Hartmann want?" he asked as he poked at the room service tray.

"Mr. Ackroyd, I require a favor of you."

"Sure, name it."

Tachyon lifted a hand. "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."

"Jesus Christ, get to the point, Tachyon. All this flowery Takisian bullshit." Jay sank his teeth into an orange slice, and tore away the meat.

"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." Tach's voice ran down, and he stared blankly into an eternity of blasted hopes. Gave himself a shake and resumed. "You can give me that time."

"The point? The point?"

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

Suspicion bloomed in the detective's eyes. "Why? Who is this guy?"

The abandoned drink came easily to his hand, the beaded glass cool against his palm. Tach drained the brandy in a long swallow. "Long ago I was saved from death by a man who has alternately been a devil and an angel to me."

Ackroyd threw his hands into the air. "Shit."

"This is difficult for me," Tachyon flared. He rolled the glass between his hands; then burst out, "In 1957 I was recruited by the KGB." He smiled sadly at Ackroyd's expression. "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 re-entered my life and called the debt. He's here. In Atlanta."

"Why?"

"Hartmann. He suspected the existence of the monster. Now Hartmann has found out about him, and our connection."

"Connection?"

"He is Blaise's tutor."

"Oh hell." Ackroyd dropped into a chair.

"This is the bludgeon with which Hartmann seeks to cow me. 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?"

Tachyon laid fastidious fingers against the lace at his throat. One slender copper eyebrow arched arrogantly. "I? Consider, Mr. Ackroyd."

The detective eyed the slim peacock figure dressed in green, orange, and gold. "Yeah, I get your drift." He slapped his hands onto his thighs, and pushed up from the chair. "Well, hey, it's all ancient history to me. Let's go pop this commie somewhere."

Tachyon opened the door to the bedroom. "Blaise.-"

"You're taking him? I mean, he knows?"

"Of course. Come child, I want you to have a chance to say farewell to George."

Here Jack had come in his power suit, hoping to impress the well-dressed conservative preacher he'd seen on the tapes; and instead Leo Barnett looked about as formal as Jimmy Carter slopping around the house in Plains. Barnett was dressed in worn jeans, a checked shirt, and black Keds. His razor-cut blond hair was slightly disordered. He shambled back into his room and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Would you like breakfast? I believe there's plenty left on the buffet."

Jack looked around the room where Barnett had spent his prayer vigil. It was an ordinary hotel suite, with a little kitchenette, a wet bar, a big TV, even a hooded fireplace with some rolled-newspaper logs. All the light was artificial: the curtains were drawn, as per Secret Service instructions. A picture of Barnett's fiancee stood on one table, a Macintosh Il sat on a table, and there was a silver steam table on wheels near the door, presumably with breakfast under its covers.

"I've eaten, thanks," Jack said. "Coffee, then?"

Jack considered the state of his nerves and his hangover. What the hell, maybe he'd already blown it in the elevator. "I don't suppose a Bloody Mary would be possible..?"

Barnett didn't seem in the least surprised. "I expect we can find one somewhere," he said. He turned to Fleur. "Could you try and oblige Mr. Braun? Perhaps the press room downstairs would be the place to start."

"Certainly, Leo." Her tones were set at about three degrees Kelvin.

Barnett smiled at her warmly. "Thank you so much, Fleur."

Jack's gaze bounced from Barnett to Fleur to Barnett again. Slut for the Lord? he thought again; and then, I wonder if his fiancee knows?

"Have a seat, Mr. Braun."

Jack picked an armchair and settled into it. He reached into his pocket for a Camel. Barnett drew another armchair close to Jack's right side and sat in it, hunched forward slightly, his attitude expectant.

"How can I help you, Mr. Braun?"

"Well." Jack took a deep breath and summoned what nerve he could. He tried to remember the acting lessons he'd taken forty years before. "See, Reverend," he said, "I've almost died twice in the last couple days. I went off a balcony, and that was maybe enough to kill me if Hiram Worchester hadn't made me lighter than air, and last night this ace called Demise actually seemed to have stopped my heart for a while

…" His voice trailed off. "The thing is," he said insistently "I wonder if somebody's trying to tell me something."

Barnett gave a little wry smile, then nodded. "You haven't had much occasion to give thought to the eternal, have you?"

"No. I guess not."

"Life has always been right here on Earth for you. You've had eternal youth. An indestructible body. I assume you don't have to worry about money." He gave Jack a frankly admiring glance. "I remember Tarzan very fondly, by the way. I don t think I ever missed an episode. I remember swinging from a rope down by the swimming hole back home, trying to give that yell you used to do."

"I never did the yell, actually," Jack said. "It was dubbed in, a lot of different voices kind of strung together electronically."

Barnett seemed a bit disappointed. "Well. I guess you don't think about that when you're ten years old." He grinned again. "Whatever happened to the chimp, by the way?"

"He's in the San Diego Zoo." Which was the answer Jack always gave to that question, though it was completely untrue. Chester the Chimp, shortly after entering adolescence, had been shot dead after trying to tear off his trainer's arm. Most people, Jack had learned, preferred the chimp to have a happy ending-an attitude Jack had no sympathy with, having himself always disliked the surly little scene-stealing beast. Barnett seemed to recollect himself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Braun," he said. "I'm afraid I've let myself distract you."

"That's okay. I'm not sure what I was going to say, anyway. "

"Many people don't have the terms for talking about the eternal." Barnett gave a quick, self-deprecating grin. "Fortunately, we preachers are more or less equipped for the job."

"Yeah. Well. That's why I'm here."

Jack was having a hard time reconciling this laid-back Barnett with the ferocious preacher he'd seen in the video tapes, the blond panther stalking his own congregation, the predator Jack was certain was a secret, murderous ace. Could this be the same man?

Jack cleared his throat. "You ever seen Picture of Dorian Gray? A great old Albert Lewin picture from the forties. George Sanders, Hurd Hatfield, Angela Lansbury." He cleared his throat again. The endotrachial tube had left it irritated, and his smoking wasn't helping it. "Donna Reed, I think," he said, trying to remember. "Yeah, Donna Reed. Anyway, it's about this young man who has his portrait painted, and his soul goes into the portrait. He starts living a real, I dunno, wicked life, whatever you want to call it, but he never has to face any of the consequences. He just stays young, and the portrait gets old and… dissipated? Is that the word?"

Barnett nodded.

"Anyway, at the end, the picture gets destroyed, and Dorian Gray gets all old and evil all at once and drops dead." He grinned. "Special effects, you know? Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about that. I've been thinking, you know, I've stayed young for forty years, and I haven't led a precisely unstained life, and what if it wears off? What if I get old all of a sudden, like Dorian Gray. Or what if some crazy ace kills me?"

Jack realized he was shouting. His heart lurched at the further realization that he wasn't acting any more, that all this trauma was genuine. He cleared his throat again and settled into his seat.

Barnett leaned toward Jack, put a hand on his arm. "You'd be surprised how many visits I've had from people in our situation, Mr. Braun. Perhaps their presentiments were not as… spectacular as yours, but I've seen a lot of people resembling you. Successful, outwardly contented men and women who gave no thought to the eternal until thev were touched by it. Perhaps a warning heart attack, perhaps a loved one killed in an accident or a parent suffering a fatal illness…" He smiled. "I don't believe any of these warnings are accidental, Mr. Braun."

"Jack." He stubbed out his cigarette. He'd almost lost it there, he thought.

"Jack, yes. I believe there is purpose to these warnings, Jack. I believe the Almighty has ways of reminding us of His existence. I believe that in these narrow escapes you've had, there is a revelation of God's purpose."

Jack looked through his dark shades into Barnett's twinkling blue eyes. "Yeah?" he said.

There was a burning intensity in Barnett's china-blue eyes. "The Lord says, `Look unto me, and be ye saved, all ends of the Earth: For I am God, and there is none else."'

Look unto me, Jack thought: did Barnett mean God or himself? The preacher spoke on.

"Your wild card gave you a false belief in your own immortality, and the Lord has seen a way to warn you of its falsity, remind you whence true immortality lies, and spare you to do His work."

There was a knock on the door. As the sound pulled him out of his track, Barnett seemed to jolt slightly. He looked at the door.

"Come in."

Fleur entered with a Bloody Mary in a one frigid hand. "Mr. Braun's drink."

Jack smiled at her. "Call me Jack. Please."

She glared at him while Jack took the drink from her hand and looked into it under the rims of his shades to see if perhaps she'd spit in it.

"Thank-you so much, Fleur." Barnett didn't smile quite as warmly this time. His words were a dismissal, and Fleur obeyed.

Jack sipped his drink. It was excellent: apparently someone in the press room knew how to keep the journalists happy. "Is it good?" Barnett seemed genuinely curious.

"It's fine." Jack took a bigger swallow.

"I've never…" Barnett waved a hand. "Well, that doesn't matter." Surprise rang through Jack at Barnett's wistful tone, precisely that of a small boy whose mother. won't let him outside to play in the rain.

Maybe, Jack thought, Barnett really hadn't had any choice in his life.: Maybe they'd all been made for him. Maybe the only time he ever did anything he wasn't supposed to was when he ran away to the Marine Corps.

Hell, he thought savagely. Nobody makes you run for president.

Barnett leaned back in his armchair, steepling his fingertips under his chin. His attention had returned fully to Jack. Jack looked at the preacher carefully from behind his big shades.

"I'd like to tell you about a dream of mine, Jack," Barnett said. His voice was soft, gentle. "The Lord put it into my mind some years ago. In this dream, I found myself in a giant orchard. Everywhere I looked there were fruit trees, all rich with God's abundance. There were all sorts of fruit in the orchard, Jack, cherries and oranges and apples and persimmons and plums-every conceivable variety all filling God's vast cornucopia. The orchard was so beautiful that my heart just swelled up with joy and gladness. And then-" Barnett looked up to the ceiling, as if he was seeing something there. Jack found his eyes following the preacher's, then caught himself. Stage craft, he thought. He took a healthy swallow of his Bloody Mary.

"And then a cloud came over the sun," Barnett continued, and a dark rain began to fall from the cloud. The rain fell here and there in the orchard, and wherever it touched, the fruit was blighted. I could see all the oranges and lemons turning black and falling from the tree; I could see leaves withering and dying. And more than that, I could see the blight growing even after the rain passed, I could see the darkness reaching out to try to taint the healthy trees. And then I heard a voice.

The preacher's voice changed, deepened, became stern. A chill surged up Jack's spine at the completeness of the transformation. "'I give this orchard into thy keeping. Unto thee I give the task of destroying this blight."'

Barnett's voice and manner changed again. He was fervent, exultant. His powerful voice rang in the small room. "I knew the fruits of the orchard were God's children, made in His image. I knew the rain cloud was Satan. I knew the blight was the wild card. And I threw myself down on my face. `Lord!' I prayed. `Lord, I am not strong enough. I am not worthy for this task.' And the Lord said, `I will give thee strength!"' Barnett was screaming now. "`I will make thy heart as steel! I will make thy tongue as sharp as a sword, and of thy breath a whirlwind!' And I knew I had to do as the Lord asked of me."

Barnett jumped out of his chair, paced back and forth as he talked. Like God was jerking his chain, Jack thought.

"I knew I had the power to heal the wild card! I knew that the Lord's work had to be done, that His orchard had to be pruned!" He waved a finger at Jack. "Not as my critics would charge!" he said. "I would not prune wickedly, or arbitrarily, or maliciously. My critics say I want to put jokers in concentration camps!" He gave a laugh. "I want to put them in hospitals. I want to cure their affliction, and keep it from spreading to their children. I think it is sinful of the government to keep wild card research at such a low level of funding-I would multiply it tenfold! I would wipe this plague from the Earth!"

Barnett turned to Jack. To Jack's amazement there were tears in his eyes. "You're old enough to remember when tuberculosis was a plague upon the land," Barnett said. "You remember all the hundreds and thousands of tubercular sanatoriums that sprang up all over Arizona and New Mexico, where victims were kept from infecting others while science worked on a cure. That's what I want to do for the wild card."

"Jack!" Barnett was pleading. "The Lord has prolonged your life! The Lord has spared you from death! This can only be because He has a place for you in His plan. He wants you to lead the victims of this plague to their salvation. `He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.' Healed, Jack!" Barnett's face was joyful, rapturous. He stood in front of Jack, raised his hands triumphantly. "Won't you help me, Jack! Help me bring the cure to God's afflicted! Pray with me now, Jack! `Verily I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the Kingdom of God-but as many received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe in His name.",

Jack, to his astonishment, felt as if a giant hand had gripped him by the neck and flung him out of his chair. Suddenly he was on his knees in front of the preacher, his two hands raised and clasped between the hands of the Reverend Leo Barnett. Tears streamed down Barnett's face as he lifted his head and cried out in prayer.

"`Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature; old things are passed away; behold all things become new. "' The man's power was almost palpable, Jack thought. This couldn't be all good showmanship and razzle-dazzle. Jack knew about showmanship; he'd never seen anything like this.

He's an ace, Jack thought. My god, he really is an ace. Maybe he'd never really believed it till this minute. Barnett was an ace, and Jack was going to bring him down.