Dead Mans Hand

1:00 A.M.

"You're taller," Jay said to Digger. Only a little, but when you start at three inches, an inch or two makes a difference. "Yeah, yeah," Downs said, from where he was perched in Oral Amy's lap. "The brat had to come in every morning before school and reshrink the ones needed it most. Otherwise you grow"

"Slowly," Jay said, locking the office door behind him. "Slowly," Digger admitted gloomily. "Where the hell you been? I figured Hartmann had gotten to you for sure."

"Hartmann's in Atlanta," Jay pointed out. "I doubt he even knows I'm alive."

"Don't bet on it," the reporter said, his tone gloomy. "So what's going on? You blow the whistle?"

"No," Jay said. He went on into the back room, turned on the lights and the fan, sat down at his desk.

Digger jumped down off Oral Amy and came trotting after him, his little feet pitter-pattering on the hardwood floor. "What the hell you waiting for, an engraved invitation from the White House?" he said in an aggrieved voice. "They've started balloting down in Atlanta, Hartmann could win the nomination while you're shuffling around picking your nose. You going to let the guy who had Chrysalis killed become president?"

Jay picked up the reporter by his collar. "Do me a favor, Downs, and shut the fuck up," he said, dropping the little man in his wastebasket.

Downs landed among the remains of the pizza and squawked in protest. "What the hell's wrong with you, Popinjay?"

"I found another body," Jay told him. "Jesus," Digger said. "Who?"

"Damned if I know"

"Was it one of Mackie's?" Downs wanted to know.

"I don't think so," Jay said. "This one was pretty ripe, but all the pieces were still attached."

Downs climbed up the pizza box, teetered on the edge of the wastebasket for a moment, and jumped down to the floor. He landed with a grunt. "We got to get Hartmann before he gets us," he said. "I told you how he works…"

"Yeah, you told me," Jay admitted. "It's a great story. It better be, it's all we've got. Your word against his. A presidential candidate versus the guy who broke the story about the Howler's secret love child. Wonder who they'll believe? Of course, you got substantiation-Chrysalis, Kahina, Gimli, hell yes. Too bad they're all dead."

"The jacket!" Digger insisted. "That's your proof!"

"Maybe," Jay admitted. "If we had the jacket. Which we don't. You wouldn't happen to know where Chrysalis hid her stash of secrets, would you?"

Downs shook his head.

"Too bad," Jay said. "What can you tell me about Sascha?"

"Sascha?" Digger looked thoughtful. "Well, he's a telepath. Does that help? He just skims off surface thoughts, you know? But if he was to leak what he picked up… Christ, you don't think Sascha was tied with Hartmann, do you?"

"The notion did cross my mind," Jay admitted. "Jesus," Digger repeated. "I never paid much attention to Sascha… I mean, he was just kind of there, you know? But he was there a lot… if he was reporting to Hartmann… she trusted him, goddammit. Him and Elmo, she counted on them. Sascha could pick up on trouble before it happened, and Elmo would handle it."

"Unless Sascha was part of the trouble," Jay pointed out.

"Chrysalis ever say anything about Sascha's girlfriend?" Digger seemed astonished. "What girlfriend?" Jay sighed. "Never mind," he said. He got up.

"Where you going?" Digger asked. "Out," Jay said.

"When are you coming back?"

"Later," Jay said as he unlocked the door. He needed a quiet drink. Some food would be nice, too. Not to mention sleep, but somehow he didn't think sleep was part of tonight's program.

Brennan tossed and turned on the lumpy bed, halfasleep and half-awake, tormented by dreams that he couldn't separate from reality He kicked off the confining, sweat soaked sheets and glanced over at Jennifer. She was still soundly asleep. The clock on the bedstand beside her said that he had about two and a half hours before his meeting with Fadeout. He needed more sleep, but he doubted that it would come.

The memory of Chrysalis was a dull ache in his mind. Like Tachyon had said, her ghost was a demanding one. He fantasized dropping the card she'd given him on the body of the man or woman, ace or joker, who'd killed her. The only problem was that he could only conjure a big blank spot for the identity of the murderer.

It wasn't Bludgeon, it wasn't the Oddity. He couldn't really picture Quasiman in the role of cold-blooded killer. That left Wyrm and Doug Morkle as the final possibilities from Ackroyd's list. Wyrm, maybe. Morkle, who the hell knew?

He turned again restlessly toward the window, and froze. He wondered if he were still dreaming, or if he was just hallucinating.

The window seemed to have grown to gigantic proportions, lending credence to the notion that he was only dreaming that he was awake. It was framing Chrysalis from the neck up. He'd recognize her anywhere. It was her gleaming skull, her blue eyes, her red, pouting lips.

He stared for a good five seconds, then closed and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone. He lay there in bed staring at the now-empty window, telling himself to get up and go to it, but he was afraid.

He lay there and closed his eyes and told himself that it was only a dream, and after a while he'd almost convinced himself that that was true.