Dead Mans Hand

5:00 P.M.

Brennan awoke still soaked with sweat and numb from a half-remembered dream in which all of his friends and lovers were killed slowly and excruciatingly by some unseen agency he was powerless to stop. He was reassured somewhat when he spotted Jennifer sitting in the room's only chair, listening distractedly to the transmitter they'd planted on Quasiman. She heard Brennan stir, turned to watch him sit up and run his hands through his hair.

"About time you woke up," she said. "I'm suffering from terminal boredom listening to Quasiman stumble through his day."

"Nothing to link him to the murder?"

She shook her head. "Either he's incredibly clever, which frankly I doubt, or he has no connection with Barnett's crowd."

"What'd he do today?" Brennan asked.

"Got up early. It took him a while to figure out how to use the mop, then he washed the church's floors. Went up on the roof for a coffee break and forgot to come down. Father Squid called up to him to remind him to mow the lawn in the graveyard. That was a tough one. By the time he figured out the lawn mower, it was lunch. He spent the afternoon mowing and trimming. Once the transmitter stopped sending for forty-five minutes. I think it accompanied Quasiman into whatever alien dimension it is that he slips into."

"You ask me, he's just what he appears to be. A sweet, terribly afflicted church handyman."

"Figures." Brennan picked his jeans up off the floor and slid into them, then rummaged through the bureau for a fresh T-shirt. "I got a possible line on Sascha this morning from Tripod. It seems he has a girlfriend-"

He stopped and stared at the plain white envelope that was lying on the worn carpet just inside the door to the hotel room.

"How long has that been there?" he asked Jennifer. She turned, looked at the envelope, and frowned. "I don't know. I didn't notice it before."

Brennan crossed the room and picked up the envelope. It was unsealed and unaddressed. He opened it and took out the single piece of paper it held with a message scrawled in a familiar childish hand.

"Sorry how things turned out befour," it read. "I only want to help you. If you want to find a reel rap-head, go to Chickadee's."

"Damn," Brennan muttered to himself. "Just what the hell is going on here?"