Ace In The Hole

11:00 A.M.

"I don't need it!"

"Stop being such a royal asshole, your Takisian excellency." Jack unfolded the chair and placed it by Tachyon's hotel bed.

"I've managed all morning without you or that damned wheelchair."

"Yeah, and look at you, you look like something the cat threw up."

"You should be out looking for Blaise," Tachyon said. He was propped up on pillows suffering whitely.

Jack sighed. "The police are looking for him. The FBI has been alerted. Even that fatuous jerk Straight Arrow is poking around. What can I do that they can't?"

Tachyon's face was haunted. His one hand clutched the bed covers. "I must find my grandson. I must. He's all I have left."

Jack sat on the room chair, and reached for a cigarette. "The police say he was with that Popinjay guy, that Jay Ackroyd, at the hospital Saturday night after your operation."

They were watching the TV in the waiting room. One- of the nurses remembers, that something on the TV caught their attention, and that Popinjay turned to Blaise and said "You wanna go play detective?' Or words to that effect."

"Ideal." Tachyon bit his lip. "If Popinjay has involved my grandchild in one of his intrigues…"

"The police are trying to find out what channel they were tuned to." Jack shook his head. "I wasn't any help there either. I was partying Saturday night." Depression invaded him. "I thought the right candidate had got the nomination."

"I have been trying to phone Hiram," Tachyon said. "I thought he might have seen Blaise, but he's vanished too."

"He left yesterday morning."

"No he didn't. I inquired, and he hasn't checked out of the hotel.

"

"I saw him in the lobby. He was carrying a trunk." Tachyon frowned. "Jay and Hiram are the closest of friends. If Ackroyd were in trouble, Hiram would be the person to whom he would turn." Tach dropped into a thoughtful silence.

"Since they're all missing they aren't going to be very much help to us. What you need is some rest."

Tachyon leaned back against the pillows. "You are right." He closed his eyes. "Perhaps I should try again to detect Blaise's mind signature. Would you please turn out the lights?"

"It might help my concentration." Almost inaudibly he added. "I am weary. So very weary."

"Will it disturb you if I have a belt of bourbon?"

"Not at all."

Jack turned out the light, leaving only the trickle of sunlight coming in under the drapes, and then he carried his cigarette in the direction of the bottles on Tachyon's table. He put some ice in a glass, then reached in the near darkness for one of the bottles. It turned out to be James Spector's ashes. He put the urn down and picked up another bottle. It seemed to have liquid of the right color. He poured.

Scotch. Damn.

It was sure one of those days.

It all felt very strange.

Gregg didn't know the Secret Service guards who rode with him in the rented limo on the way to Ellen's hospital. Their faces were unfamiliar and they didn't speak to him. They were strangers, hidden and masked by dark glasses, dark blue suits, and dark frowns.

They would always be strangers. Their minds were locked away and Gregg no longer had the key to open them. It felt very strange to be so silent in his own head, to be unable to sense the tidal flow of feelings around him, to find it impossible to swim in the bright salt ocean of emotion, to be powerless to change its swift currents.

This must be what it's like to go suddenly blind or deaf or mute. Then: Puppetman? he mind-called again, and again there was only the echo of his own thoughts.

Dead. Gone. Gregg sighed, feeling lost and sad and hopeful all at once, looking at the people around him, touching him, and yet isolated. Apart.

He didn't know if he'd ever get used to that.

All he wanted to do was get away from the furnace of Atlanta, to go back home and be alone and think. To see if he could heal some of the wounds and begin again.

It wasn't my fault. Not really. It was Puppetman and he's dead. That should be punishment enough.

Gregg didn't know exactly what he was going to say to Ellen. She, at least, had tried to comfort him yesterday. She at least had said that it was okay, that it didn't matter, that it would all be all right again. But behind the words, he knew she wanted to know why, and he didn't know how to explain it. Part of him ached to simply let the horrible, awful truth spill out and beg forgiveness. Ellen cared for him. He knew that from Puppetman; he had seen her love given to him even without the power's help.

Yes, he'd give her a part of the truth at least. He'd tell her that yes, he was an ace, that he'd abused his abilities to enhance his own power, that he'd manipulated people. Yes, even her.

But not all of it. Some of it couldn't be said. Not the death and the pain and the violence. Not what he'd done to her and their own child.

Not that, because then there'd be no hope at all. Ellen was the one thing Gregg could salvage from this wreckage. Ellen was the only person who would help him find a path.

Gregg needed her. He knew just how desperate that need was from the churning in his stomach and the cold fear in his gut.

"Senator? We're here."

They were at the side entrance of the hospital. The Secret Service riding in back with him pushed open the doors. Heat and sunshine hit Gregg like a fist as he got out, blinking behind his sunglasses. He leaned back into the cool, leather-scented interior to speak to the chauffeur. "We'll be back in a few minutes," he told him. "We're just going to get Ellen and her things-"

"Senator," one of the bodyguards outside said. "Isn't that her?"

Gregg straightened to see Ellen being wheeled out of the hospital behind a clot of reporters, her own Secret Service personnel keeping back the flurry of videocams and cameras. Gregg frowned, puzzled.

The heat rippling up from the blacktop went cold: behind Ellen, he could see Sara. She was standing inside, her face pressed against the glass doors.

"No," Gregg whispered. He half ran to Ellen, the Secret Service men pushing a path through the reporters around her. He saw her bag, sitting alongside the wheelchair.

She stood as he approached. Gregg smiled for the cameras and tried to ignore the specter of Sara just a few feet away. "Darling," he said to her. "Did Amy call-?"

Ellen looked into his face and his voice trailed off. Her examination of him was long and intense. Then she looked away. Her mouth was a straight, tight line, her dark eves were stern and solemn, and a bitter loathing lurked behind them. "I don't know if it's all true, what Sara said," Ellen husked out. "I don't know, but I can see something in you, Gregg. I only wish I'd seen it years ago." She was crying now, oblivious or uncaring of the reporters circled around them. "Damn you, Gregg. Damn you forever for what you did."

Her hand lashed out unexpectedly. The slap jerked Gregg's head around and brought tears of pain to his own eyes. He fingered the crimson flush on his cheek, stunned.

He could hear the cameras and the excited buzz of the reporters. "Ellen, please…" he began, but she wasn't listening.

"I need time, Gregg. I need to be away from, you." She took her bag and strode past him toward a waiting car. Behind the glass doors, Sara snagged Gregg's eyes as his hand dropped from his burning face.

Bastard, she mouthed silently, and turned away. "Ellen!" Gregg wheeled around, the image of Sara's accusation staving with him. "Ellen!"

She wouldn't look back. The driver placed her bag in the trunk. Her guards held the door open for her.

With Puppetman, Gregg could have made her stop. He could have had her run back into his arms in a glorious, happy reconciliation.

With Puppetman, he could have written a happy ending. Ellen got into the car and slumped back against the seat. They drove away.