Dead Mans Hand

1; 00 P.M.

When the doorbell played "Old McDonald Had a Farm," Jay knew he had the right place.

A housekeeper opened the door. "Yes?" she asked.

Jay smiled his most ingratiating smile. "Bob Lowboy," he said, holding out a hand, "from Aces magazine."

"Nobody's home," she told him. "Jessica's at school, and Mr. von der Stadt won't be back from work till seven."

"No problem," Jay told her. He held up the camera he'd borrowed from his favorite pawnbroker. "I just need to get a few more shots of the farm for our story on Miss Jessica and her little animals."

The housekeeper looked suspicious. "That other reporter, Mr. Downs, he took all kinds of pictures."

"Ruined," Jay said. "A little accident in the darkroom. These things happen." He glanced at his watch. "Look, won't take me more than ten minutes, but I have to get a move on."

She frowned. "Maybe I ought to phone Mr. von der Stadt at the brokerage," she said.

"Be my guest," Jay said, "but I'm due at the next shoot in thirty minutes, and you know what crosstown traffic is like this time of day. We'll just run the story without art."

The housekeeper's frown deepened. "Well," she said, "maybe it would be all right. Just for a minute."

"Real good," said Jay. He stepped into the house.

She led him upstairs. The farm was on the top floor. Rather, the farm was the top floor. "You be careful you stay on the path now," the housekeeper warned him as she unlocked the special fire door. "That Mr. Downs, he almost stomped on one of the horses."

"That's Digger for you," Jay said.

The door swung open, and Jay looked around in astonishment. Digger hadn't exaggerated. It was Iowa in an attic. To his right, a herd of cows munched away on a handful of real grass tossed down in the middle of a fake-grass field. To his left, alone behind a chicken-wire fence, a bull the size of an especially husky mouse snorted threateningly. Beyond them were other fields, other animals. "That's an elephant," Jay said.

"He was Miss Jessica's Christmas present," the housekeeper said. "How come you're not taking any pictures?" Jay turned and looked at her. "Photography is an art, you know. You don't expect me to work with you right here looking over my shoulder, do you?"

It actually worked. "Well, okay," the old woman said. "No more than ten minutes, mind you." She closed the door behind her.

Jay took the footpath across the fields toward the complex of farm buildings under the windows, past a flock of sheep and some very short sheepdogs, a muddy trough crawling with pigs, toy tractors, and plastic farmer figurines, and a ramshackle henhouse. Chickens the size of marbles squawked and fluttered at his approach. The animals weren't all to scale, but he supposed he shouldn't be picky.

The house stood surrounded by haystacks, next to the traditional red barn and a tall grain silo. It was a painstaking replica of an old-fashioned woodframe farmhouse, as lovingly detailed as any dollhouse. It had painted wooden shutters, a bronze weathervane that moved when he touched it, and real cloth curtains in the windows. On the porch swing, a plastic hired hand sat with his arm around a plastic farmer's daughter. An iced pitcher of lemonade stood on the little table beside them.

Jay got on his knees and pushed open the front door with his fingers. He peered in just long enough to glimpse a living room full of antique miniatures before a tiny collie rushed out and began to bark at him wildly. "Sonofabitch," Jay said. The dog snapped at his nose. "Nice dog," he said, pulling his head back quickly. "Shut the fuck up, nice dog." The collie kept on barking. If only he'd brought a bone.

"Digger," he whispered urgently. "You there?"

He thought he heard a rustle of movement from one of the upper stories, but it was hard to be sure with the racket the collie was making. Jay peeked in one of the third-story windows. He saw a woman's bedroom, all lace and frills, pale blue walls covered with butterflies, a canopied four-poster bed. Nothing moved. It was a little dusty. How do you clean the inside of a dollhouse anyway?

Jay thought about that for a moment, while Lassie danced around him and yapped. He considered seeing how far he could punt the collie with a nice hard finger flick, but restrained himself. Instead he bent over the farmhouse and lifted off the roof.

Digger Downs, all three inches of him, was huddled on the floor of a tiny, windowless closet, trying to hide under a pile of doll clothes. He screamed when he saw Jay staring down at him, leaped up, and made a run for a staircase. Jay got him on the third step, lifting him into the air by his collar.' "Don't kill me," Digger shrieked in a tiny shrill voice, arms flailing as he dangled between Jay's fingers. "Oh God, please don't kill me."

"I only pick on guys my own size," Jay said. "Nobody's going to kill you. We're getting out of here. Be quiet."

He dropped Digger into his coat pocket barely an instant before the housekeeper returned. "Mr. Lowboy," she said, in a disapproving tone, "I have Mr. von der Stadt on the line, and he'd like a word with you."

"No can do," Jay said. "Gotta run." The collie was barking up a storm, jumping around on his shoe, trying to climb up his pant leg to the pocket where Digger was hidden. "You think she's trying to tell us something?" Jay asked innocently.

Chrysalis's only pallbearer was a green, nine-foot-tall joker who easily lifted her coffin and, cradling it in his arms as if it were a shoe box, led the procession into the churchyard. \

By the time Brennan and Jennifer had followed the crowd of mourners into the tiny graveyard, the joker and Quasiman were lowering the coffin into the open grave.

Father Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water, said the final prayers for the dead, and stepped back as Jokertown buried another of its own. A long line snaked around the grave. Each person dropped a handful, pawful, or clawful of dirt onto the coffin, then paid their condolences to Father Squid, Tachyon, and the uncomfortable-looking man who'd been sitting with Tachyon in the front pew. He was a big man with a weathered face that was florid under his tan. He was sweating from the heat and twitching from the private storm of emotions that was raging, barely checked, inside him.

"Hello, Father," Brennan said, taking the hand of the priest.

"Good to see you again, Daniel," Father Squid said, returning his handshake with his powerful, but friendly grip. Tachyon threw himself at Brennan, hugging him with naked emotion that Brennan tolerated with good grace. He drew back after a long moment and held Brennan at arms' length, examining him critically. "We must talk. Come."

Tachyon led Brennan deeper into the graveyard until the only ones who could hear them were the carven angels on the tombstones surrounding them. Tachyon glanced back at Jennifer, who was watching them curiously from Chrysalis's graveside. "The beautiful blonde must be Jennifer," Tachyon said. "Yes."

"I'd say you're a lucky man, but that would seem less than apt when you're being framed for murder. Is that what brought you back?"

"Partly," Brennan said. "Mostly I'm here to find who killed her."

"And how are you progressing?"

"Not too well," Brennan admitted. "Any theories?"

"I thought Kien might have done it," Brennan said doubtfully.

Tachyon seemed even less thrilled by the notion. "That makes no sense. We had a deal that took you out of the city and ended the war. Why would he risk restarting the whole killing cycle?"

"Who knows?" Brennan shrugged. "I'm just going to keep poking until something jumps."

"Just make sure it doesn't jump on you," Tachyon admonished. "I wish I could aid you, but I must return to Atlanta. You will keep in touch?"

Brennan shook his head. "No. Once I finish this, Jennifer and I are leaving New York, and this time it will be for good."

"If you won't keep in touch, at least be careful."

"That I can agree to."

They clasped hands, then wandered back over to the grave site. The man standing in the receiving line next to Father Squid cleared his throat, and Father Squid glanced at "Ah yes," the priest said, "Mr. Jory, meet, ah-"

"Archer," Brennan said softly.

"Yes, Daniel Archer and Jennifer Maloy. Daniel was a, um, close friend of your daughter. Daniel and Jennifer, this is Joe Jory, Chrysalis's father."

Jory glanced aggrievedly at Father Squid before turning to Brennan and putting out a large, meaty hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Archer. It's good to know that my little Debra-Jo had some normal-looking friends."

Brennan's sympathetic expression went cold. Father Squid and Tachyon pretended to look elsewhere.

"Chrysalis was an extraordinary woman with many friends," Brennan finally said in a hard, even voice.

"Her name was Debra-Jo-" Jory began, but Father Squid stepped between them and put a hand on Brennan's arm.

"As executor of the estate," the priest said, "I'll be reading her will tonight at the church. I think you should attend."

Brennan took his eyes from Jory and looked at Father Squid. "I'll be there," he said evenly. "Sorry we have to run." He looked at Jory again. "As I said, Chrysalis was an extraordinary woman. No one, as Dr. Tachyon so elegantly stated, knew much about her, though I knew more about her and her loving family than most. I promise you one thing, Mr. Jory. Her killer will be brought to justice. Not to make you feel better. But for her."

Brennan turned, and Jennifer followed him as they left the churchyard. A black cat with jade green eyes was waiting for them on the street outside. It meowed as Jennifer and Brennan approached, stood on its hind paws, and offered Brennan an envelope.

Jennifer stared at Brennan as he hunkered down until he was almost at eye level with the cat. The two looked at each other silently for a long moment, then Brennan took the envelope. "Hello, Lazy Dragon," he said. "How've you been?" ` "Mmmmwell," the cat said, licked its shoulder, and then turned and ran up the street.

"Did you know that cat?" Jennifer asked.

"I worked with him once before, when he was a mouse." Brennan unfolded the sheet of paper that was inside the envelope, scanned the message on it, then handed it to Jennifer.

The message was short and to the point. "Hello, Cowboy," it read. "Let's talk."

It was signed Fadeout, and there was a phone number next to the name.