One Eyed Jacks

One Eyed Jacks

Book 8 of Wildcards

Nobody's Girl by Walton Simons

The late-afternoon sunshine warmed them. She lay naked on the bed, hands folded on her stomach, eyes closed. He looked down the outline of her body, trying to hold on to the ecstasy and contentment he'd felt with her only moments before. But it was already slipping away. Women kept it a bit longer. Afterglow. But they lost it, too.

"You could stay awhile," Jerry said. He tried to make the four words sound like it would be more fun than two people could stand. Not that they'd been pushing the limit in that area lately.

"Nope." Veronica opened her eyes and sat up, her long, sweat-soaked brown hair plastered to her face and neck. Jerry hoped it was his technique and not the August heat seeping in. She waited a few seconds, then stood and walked into the bathroom, closing the door after her. "Call me a cab."

"Okay, you're a cab." Jerry hadn't expected a laugh and wasn't disappointed. He heard her turn on the shower. He pulled on his shorts and walked across the carpeted floor into the next room. A five-hundred-dollar bill was in the top drawer of the mahogany bedroom dresser. Along with a new pair of black silk panties and matching underwire bra with cutout front. It was their ritual. Maybe she'd wear the lingerie next time, maybe not.

He picked up the phone and paused for a second, stopping his finger from making a rotary motion. He hadn't adjusted to push buttons yet. Twenty-plus years as a giant ape could do that to you. A cold, sick feeling spread through him. Even Veronica couldn't help when it hit him. He tried hard to push the thoughts away, but that only made it worse when they finally broke through. The world had changed during those years, drastically and unalterably. His parents had moved to Pass Christian, Mississippi, and been killed in Hurricane Camille. Some idiot psychic had told them he'd been kidnapped and taken there. The bodies wound up in a tree three miles inland. All the time he was in Central Park Zoo, fifty feet tall and covered with hair. He bit his lip and punched in the numbers.

"Starline Cab," said a bored voice on the other end of the line.

"Thirteen East Seventy-seventh Street. A lady will be waiting."

A pause. "That's Thirteen East Seventy-seventh. Five minutes. Thank you." Click.

Jerry walked back into the bedroom and stretched out on the bed. The sunshine drove the cold from his skin, but not his insides.

Veronica stepped out of the bathroom. She picked up her clothes and pulled them on in a quick, awkward manner.

"It's not against the law for you to stay sometime," he said. "We could go out to dinner every now and then. Or a movie."

"If it's not illegal, I don't bother with it." She turned her back on him to button her blouse.

"Yeah." He rolled over on his stomach, not wanting her to see the pain on his face. She could be a real bitch at times. Most times, nowadays.

"Sorry" She ran a finger down his calf. "I'll see what I can work out, but no promises. I'm a busy girl."

The intercom buzzed.

Jerry sat up straight. Almost nobody ever visited him here, except Veronica. He ran across the apartment to the intercom and pushed the button. "Hello."

"Jerry, this is Beth. I'll bet you forgot about the fundraiser tonight. You can't abandon me to all those lawyers and politicians."

"Oh, Jesus. I did forget. Hold on. I'll be right down." Jerry walked quickly over to the closet and snatched out a shirt and pants. "My sister-in-law. You should meet her. You'd like her."

"A lawyer's wife?" Veronica shook her head. "You must be kidding."

"You might be surprised. She's really terrific."

"I'm out of here," said Veronica, heading for the door. Jerry struggled into his alligator shoes and hopped across the carpet after her. "Okay, I love you."

Veronica waved without turning around and closed the door behind her.

Jerry sighed and went into the bathroom. He combed his too-red hair and dabbed on a few drops of cologne. He heard the elevator stop. He waited a few seconds until it headed back down. It wouldn't do for Beth to see him with Veronica, who'd probably just say something snotty.

He checked to make sure he had his wallet and keys, then hustled out into the hall and punched the elevator button.

Beth was waiting for him downstairs. She was wearing a floral print shirt and light blue pants. Her blond hair hung just past her shoulders.

"Let's get moving, bro. I'm double-parked." She grabbed him by the elbow and guided him toward the door. "I just saw a cute little brunette number leave." She arched an eyebrow. "Anybody I should know?"

He did his best to look shocked. "Nope. Anybody I should know?"

Beth smiled. "You could do a lot worse. You probably have too."

"A safe bet. Let's go and get this over with."

The ballroom was filled with smoke and noisy, rich Democrats, most of them trying not to appear drunk. Yet. Koch and Jesse Jackson had appeared together earlier in the day to show Democratic solidarity, such as it was. There was a rumor that Jackson might show up to speak, but it wasn't in the itinerary. Jerry hated going anywhere he was required to wear a tux, but Beth had promised him three movie dates in return.

The three of them were the only ones at their table. Kenneth had his arm around Beth, whose shoulders were bare except for the thin straps of her blue silk dress. Jerry was jealous. He and Veronica were never to appear in public together. Veronica had made that much clear.

"I can't believe the party nominated Dukakis," Kenneth said. "Even Richard Nixon could beat him into the ground."

"Bad luck'at the convention," Beth said. "Hartmann might have had a chance."

"Then again he might not. Public opinion on wild cards being what it is. That issue would probably have sunk him. You should be glad you're not a well-known ace." Kenneth stood. "There's a few people I need to talk to. Back in a minute." He kissed Beth on the forehead and made his way into the crowd.

"I'm not an ace at all, anymore." Jerry took a large swallow of wine. "Which is for the best, I guess." Hello, Mrs. Strauss. A young man stood behind Kenneth's empty chair. He was tall, blond, and could probably have passed for a Greek god even in good light. Jerry hated him instantly.

"David." Beth smiled and motioned to the chair. "I didn't know you were going to be here. How nice to see you. Do you know Kenneth's brother, Jerry?"

"No." David extended his hand.

"Jerry, this is David Butler. He's the intern working with Mr. Latham. Even St. John is impressed with him. Has David working all hours."

Jerry shook his hand. There was an almost palpable energy in David's touch. Jerry withdrew and managed a smile. "You do what, David?"

"Whatever Mr. Latham requires." David smiled at Beth. "You look lovely tonight. I can't imagine your husband being foolish enough to abandon you."

"Oh, I'm well taken care of, David." Beth put her hand on Jerry's sleeve.

David gave Jerry half a glance and drummed his fingers on the table. "I'd better be going. Mr. Latham expects me to mingle with the heavy hitters. Says it should be good for me." He got up, rolling his eyes. "Nice to see you, Mrs. Strauss." David left.

"He must be gay," Jerry said. Beth chuckled. "I don't think so."

"Is he rich, then?"

"I'm afraid so."

"There is no God." Jerry emptied his wineglass and looked for a waiter.

"You don't need to be jealous, Jerry." Beth adjusted the straps on her gown. "Just because he's young, rich, and gorgeously handsome."

"I'm rich and young, sort of." Jerry hadn't aged physically in the twenty years he'd been an ape. Legally, though, he was in his forties.

"Feeling sorry for yourself again?" Kenneth said, reappearing and sitting back down.

"Constantly," Jerry said.

"Right. Did you ever contact any of those film people I mentioned your name to? You have talent. Beth and I are both impressed with your abilities."

"I'll get around to it. I have a lazy muse," Jerry said. "I know you went to a lot of trouble."

"Not as much trouble as proving that you weren't legally dead when you showed up last year." Kenneth smiled. "Nobody wanted to believe you'd been a giant ape for over a decade. Too many precedents."

Jerry sighed. "Sorry I was so much trouble."

"It's not that and you know it. When you're born into wealth like we were, there's a larger obligation to society that comes with it."

Jerry shrugged. "I like to think I'm keeping my bank from going under. It's the romantic in me."

Beth smiled, but Kenneth shook his head. "The romantic in you is going to get you into trouble someday. You can pay people to not call you Mr. Strauss, but you can't make them give a shit when it's crunch time. People don't love you for money, they love you in spite of it."

Jerry didn't need to hear this right now. He turned to Beth. "Why did you marry this guy?"

Beth smiled and held up her hands, palms about a foot apart.

"Nasty girl," Jerry said. " I guess it runs in the family." Kenneth fingered a cuff link. "I don't want to be a pain, but you can count on me keeping after you about this. You need to find something to do with your life."

There was a burst of applause and people began standing. Jesse Jackson was making his way slowly from the back of the room, shaking hands as he went.

"I suppose we can expect a speech now," Jerry said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd rather be home watching a movie."

"Democracy is hell, bro," Beth said.

"I'll drink to that." Jerry snagged a waiter's arm and indicated he needed more wine. The only thing that numbed his butt quicker than politics was alcohol.

After rubbing elbows with the rich and powerful, he felt like staying up late. Jerry split time between his apartment and his room at the family house on Staten Island where Kenneth and Beth lived. He'd had to overhaul the place when he got back. His sixteen-millimeter projectors were shot and the neglected cans of film had gotten brittle with age. He'd replaced them with a largescreen TV and videotape. Nobody collected actual films anymore. But there was no romance in video. It was cheap and easy. He was hardly in a position to be judgmental about people who went that way, though, considering his relationship with Veronica. Although she wasn't cheap and was getting less easy all the time.

He was watching Klute. It was a bad choice. At least Veronica didn't wear a watch while they did it. She probably never came either, though.

There was a soft knock at the door and Beth stuck her head in. Jerry paused the tape and motioned her in. "Entrez. I'm watching Klute. Ever seen it?"

"Twice, at least." She sat down on the sofa next to him. " I love the scene where she licks the spoon after eating the catfood." Beth licked her lips.

"You're sick."

"Afraid so." She picked up two other tapes off the table. "What have we got here? Irma La Douce and McCabe and Mrs. Miller." She paused. He knew she expected him to say something.

"Yeah, well. I like to mix it up, you know. Murder mystery, period piece, comedy. I try to get a bit of everything." He shrugged. "I've got lots to catch up on."

She patted him on the shoulder. "You don't want to talk about it. I can tell. I always feel better when I talk about things. If I hadn't had some good friends and a decent analyst a few years back, Kenneth and I would have wound up divorced."

"I didn't know you two had any problems."

She laughed. "It's tough being married to a lawyer. You always have the feeling that anything you say can and will be used against you. And sometimes he did. I know he didn't mean to, or at least I hope that, but at the time it was hard to tell. You can't ever be another person and know how they really feel. That's kind of scary. But eventually you just decide to believe in them or not. I decided to believe in Kenneth and I'm not sorry"

"I'm glad." The words sounded flatter than he'd intended. "Really. You've been a big help to me. I know I'm not adjusting very well, but I will."

Beth kissed him on the cheek. "You can talk to me any time you feel like it." She pointed to the TV screen. "Want to know who the killer is?"

"No, thanks. I don't want to cheat myself out of guessing wrong and then feeling stupid."

"Good night." She closed the door.

Jerry shut off the TV and VCR. He didn't much like the way this one was headed, anyway. He crossed the floor to his dressing room. It hadn't changed much in thirty years. Back when he was the Projectionist, he'd practiced his Humphrey Bogart and Marlon Brando in front of the same mirror. Bogart died even before Jerry had drawn the wild card, and Brando was old and fat. He sat down, opened a drawer, and pulled out a picture of Veronica and a wig. The hair was as close a match as he could find for hers.

He stuck the picture in the corner of the mirror and looked at it for a second or two, then at his own reflection. His features began to change; his skin darkened. Hair was still a problem. He couldn't quite get it to do what he wanted yet. In the old days he could actually have turned into a woman, but that had always made him feel weird. He pulled on the wig and closed his eyes, waited a moment, then reopened them.

"I love you."

It was even less convincing than the few times Veronica had said it herself. He pulled off the wig and changed back. Beth was right, you couldn't know what another person was thinking or feeling. Couldn't ever actually be them. He tossed the wig and picture into the drawer and slammed it shut.

Who the hell would want to, anyway?

Luck Be a Lady by Chris Claremont

Once they heard where she was going, nobody would take her. Some cabbies were apologetic, others curtly dismissive, a couple offered rude gestures and ruder words.

If the plane had arrived on time, when the dispatchers were on duty, she might have fared better-but mechanical delays and rotten weather en route had delayed the flight so long it was well past midnight before she finally landed, and there was nobody official to turn to.

One asked point-blank why Cody was going there and, hoping it might persuade him to change his mind, she told him: "A job interview"

"Where fo'?" he asked, "ain't nobody hirin' down there."

"The clinic," she said.

"Shit, missy, you got better places to go an' better things to do wit'chu life than waste it down 'at shithole, trust me."

"Absolutely," a friend chimed in, his accent so thick Cody barely understood the word.

"Decent lady got no bizness goin' there," the driver continued, hands weaving a fascinating pattern in the air before him as he spoke, took a sip of coffee, spoke, took a drag on a Marlboro, without ever missing a beat. "Shit, nobody human got any bizness there. Unless…" Suspicion dawned and he looked narrowly toward her. "Maybe you're one of 'em."

The way he asked, far too deliberately casual, trying to mask the sudden burr of fear and hostility barely hidden underneath, caught Cody's attention and she tilted her head to give her one eye a better view of him.

"One of what?" she asked, genuinely confused. "Them," as if that was the most obvious reference in the world. "Jokers, aces-whole fuckin' crowd."

"I'm a doctor."

"Cops got a name for their precinct down there, `Fort Freak.' Fuckin' fits, y'know. Ain't there enough sick people needful amongst your own, why you gotta go take care o' them? Pardon me for sayin', lady, but you ain't got the look o' no Mutha Teresa, know what I mean?"

"Absolutely," his friend chimed in.

"Look…" She sighed, fatigue from her trip combining with apprehension to put steel in her voice, an edge that made the cabbie stiffen ever so slightly and take a reflexive half step backward. "All I'm looking for is a way into the city. If none of you will take me, can you at least point out some other way?"

"Sure," the other cabbie said, striking out with some humor of his own, "walk." Nobody laughed, and when Cody turned her eye on him, with a look she'd learned within forty-eight hours of landing in Vietnam and perfected over twenty years as a surgeon, he promptly wished he'd resisted the impulse.

"Hey, life's a bitch. Only other option's, you take the Q33 transit bus over to Roosevelt Avenue/Jackson Heights, then catch the F take you right into Jokertown."

"F what," she asked.

"F you," muttered the jokester, but she ignored him. "Subway," said the first man. "Sixth Avenue line, that's what the letter stands for, take it downtown."

"Thank you," she told him, hefting shoulder bag and briefcase and following his pointed direction along the sidewalk to the bus stop.

"Better watch your step, Doc," he called after her, "they're animals down there, you got no idea." (And you do, she thought.) "They see a nice piece like you, sonsabitch freaks'll prob'ly eat 'chu!" And on cue, came his friend's stolid "Absolutely!"

Cody didn't argue. For all she knew he might be right.

At the station she scrambled into the next-to-the-last car, surprised to find it crowded. Where'd all these people come from? she wondered. The bus driver said this station's supposed to be one of the main ones on the line and there couldn't have been more than a half dozen of us waiting. She shrugged. Isn't my city, this could be the only train they run this time of night. The thing was, as it had rumbled past her into the station, the other cars hadn't registered as being so full.

It was standing room only-there was room to move, but not much else-the passengers about as wide and wild a mix as could be imagined, the night people of this city that loved boasting to the world that it never slept, everyone locked tight in their own miserable little private worlds, not caring a damn about what was outside and praying with all their hearts to be left alone. No one looked her way. No one knew she existed, or cared. Good. Right now, anonymity was a most valued friend.

She twisted a little sideways to get more comfortable and caught a glimpse of herself in the door glass, turned black by the dark tunnel roaring by outside. Tall, too tall for a woman, her height and the power of her rangy frame working against the clothes she was wearing, the only thing in her wardrobe that qualified as a power suit. First time she'd worn anything like it in years. Christ, she wondered, sifting back through the years, was it when Ben died, has it really been that long? In-country, she'd gotten into the habit of fatigues and T-shirts, of dressing for comfort rather than fashion-if for no other reason than what sweat didn't ruin, the blood surely would-and one of the things she'd loved about Wyoming was the casual nature of the people. They took her as she was-at least, she thought with sudden bitterness, when it came to how I looked. And here she stood, trading that in for a world where the package was at least as important as what was inside. Wha' fuck, she shrugged, a small smile twisting the corner of her mouth at how easily she adopted the cadence of the taxi driver, maybe the change'll do me good. Except, perhaps, for the effing heels. Too long in hiking boots and sneaks; dress shoes were going to take some getting used to. And she eased one foot free to rub-massage the arch on the opposite shin.

Automatically, she continued her inventory, hoping her brief visit to an airport washroom had repaired most of the damage done by the seemingly endless flight. The hair was black, except for a smattering of silver splashed above her right eye, unruly as ever despite her best efforts with hairspray and comb. The years had taken the harshest edge off her scars, but to Cody they still stood out in stark contrast to her tanned skin, one running across the crest of the right cheekbone and up beneath the patch, where it branched to three that continued up into her hairline. The round should have taken her head of-f-but she'd flinched a split second before it hit, without knowing why, the firefight had been total chaos, shells and shrapnel tearing the night to shreds, coming from every direction, things so crazy you didn't know where to duck. So instead of her life, she'd only lost the eye. Lucky, they'd told her in Da Nang-and later, in the big Pacific Hospital at Pearlfantastically fucking lucky. She hadn't thought so then, she wasn't convinced now.

That side of her head throbbed like the devil-always happened when she was stressed, no matter that the cause was, probably psychosomatic-rubbing it didn't help, but it was better than nothing. She curled her hand into a half fist and pressed the heel gently against patch and empty socket. She'd never been beautiful and the wound had made sure she'd never get the chance.

The brakes came on too hard at Queens Plaza-there was a cry of pain as someone's body wouldn't give, a curse as someone else got stepped on-she heard a smattering of apologies, saw a lot more rueful grimaces, this was no surprise to these people, the grief came with the ride. Then, the doors popped wide and Cody struggled out of the way, to let passengers pass.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the people waiting by the last car suddenly rush toward the front of the train. A few who'd stepped inside quickly retreated, faces twisting in embarrassment and disgust. As the tide of passengers turned and those waiting on the platform bulled their way aboard, Cody twisted, snaked, finally shoved her way back to the rear connecting door. To her amazement, the car was empty-except for a gray, shapeless mass plopped on the bench seats, halfway along the right-hand side. At first, she thought it was a derelict.

As the train pulled out of the station, it bounced across some switches, sashay-swaying from side to side and a tentacle dropped out from under the rags.

Without thinking, Cody yanked open her door and stepped across the tiny platform into the rear car. The smell was like a wall, blocking her way. She remembered Firebase Shiloh, that last morning, waiting for the dust-off choppers, the air filled with blood and rot, gasoline-soaked smoke and charred flesh. She'd taken a twelve-gauge and one of the walking wounded and searched the compound, making as sure as she could they wouldn't leave any breathers behind. She'd been fine until they reached divisional headquarters. She'd spent a month in a charnel house but it wasn't until she walked into the mess hall and smelled fresh food that it finally struck home how unutterably awful it had been. Two steps in the door, one decent breath, and she'd doubled over onto her knees, puking her guts bloody.

This was worse.

The joker made a gargly hiss with each breath, and when it rolled over in its sleep, she saw that it was naked and male. The legs were more like stumps, ending in viciously twisted scar tissue, and she realized that they were really flippers, worn down by years of trudging across concrete and asphalt. The skin was mottled gray and blue black, gleaming with oily secretions, with two sets of tentacles attached to the shoulders. The primary was thick as a human arm, but half again as long, broadening at the end into a flat pad whose inner surface was covered with cephalopod suckers. Nestled in each armpit was a secondary nest of limbs, a half dozen each side, shorter and much thinner than the main tentacle, constantly in motion, writhing among themselves, picking at whatever came in reach, almost as if they had minds of their own. Its head was little more than a bump growing out of the top of the torso, but the jagged teeth she saw when it snored convinced her this was as close as she wanted to get. The eyes were closed, and for that she was thankful. Maliciously, after twisting so much else, Tachyon's virus had spared the genitalia; the joker had a very human penis.

Without realizing it, Cody had slumped down on her heels, unconsciously making herself as small and inconsequential as possible, afraid without knowing why when her rational self told her that all she should be feeling for this poor creature was pity. Over the rumble of the train, she heard rude voices-passengers in the car ahead, looking through the window as she'd done, making fun, demanding action.

As the train trundled down into the tunnel beneath the East River, the joker stirred. Perhaps, Cody thought, he senses the presence of the water? What's he doing still on land, anyway-unless, my God, to give him a body designed for an aquatic environment without the gills that would enable him to live there! Not the cruelest joker deal by far, she knew, but it still provoked a silent snarl. Hell, even if he is amphibian-if he was an adult when the virus activated, who's to say he could hack abandoning the world he knew, friends, family, job, everything that's familiar, that gives his existence purpose and meaning, for a new world. As unknown and alien as another planet, where he'd be all alone. Could I go, if he was me?

And her thoughts turned to Dr. Tachyon, the man-and she laughed softly, bitterly at that, because Tachyon was less of a 'man' in any human sense than she-responsible for the wild card. Whose people had sent it to Earth and turned humanity inside out. She wondered if she should hate the little geek for what he'd done? And yet, hadn't he spent the forty-odd years since trying to make up for that, fighting for the health and welfare of the 'people' his virus had created? There were probably worse fates than working by his side.

It helped, of course, that she needed the job.

His eyes were open. Black eyes, a shark's eyes, no depth, no emotion, flat, opaque plates, bright as gleaming lacquer except that they absorbed everything they gazed upon. Looking at Cody. She shifted on her feet, figuring to stand and slip back the way she came, into the comparative safety of the next car. But when she moved, so did he. Not much, just enough to let her know he was aware of her intention. Shit. She had a gun-a service. 45 she'd carried ever since the 'Nam-but it was locked in its case at the bottom of her carryall. Useless. Her shoulder blades contracted, as if she had an itch down her spine, and she crossed her wrists beneath her breasts, huddling close about herself. A vague glitter drew her eyes downward and her breath caught ever so slightly as she saw her skin glisten like the joker's. For the briefest moment, flesh and bone seemed to flow together, twisting and curling where it once was straight, tentacle instead of arm. When she looked back at the joker, he was showing teeth.

"Stop it," she hissed. "Leave me alone!"

Something wriggled beneath her blouse, an itching, tickling sensation under the armpits that set her to looking frantically about the car for a weapon.

"Damn you," she snarled, "leave me alone!"

A bounce and a jerk and a screech heralded their arrival at Lexington Avenue, the first stop in Manhattan, and the brakes snagged again, as they had in Queens, pitching Cody forward on hands and knees, sending her sprawling full length. The joker had anchored himself with one tentacle, was reaching for her with the others. Baring her teeth, she groped for her foot, coming up with a shoe-thankful now it had a heel-swinging as hard as she could toward the creature's face. It was like hitting sponge rubber, the flesh simply gave beneath the impact. But the joker howl-yowled in surprise and pain and rage, flinching away from her, gathering one set of tentacles protectively around its face while the other reached again for her, snagging hold even as Cody spasmed reflexively backward against the doors, which miraculously-a split second too late-opened. She heard a cry of rage and alarm, sensed rather than saw a pair of dark blue trousers step over her into the car, heard a sharp thwack as a nightstick connected with the creature's arm. There was no outcry this time, but he let her go. A black, oily liquid spread across the seat beneath it, filling the car with a smell beyond anything Cody had ever imagined. A breath, she knew, would kill her and her savior both. Hands helped her up-she registered a woman's features and thought, absurdly, So young, almost a baby-a uniform as well, Transit Police, thank God, and a pair of neck chains, the one a crucifix, the other a St. Christopher medal hooked to a miniature representation of her shield. An electronic chime announced the imminent closing of the subway doors, and the woman shouldered Cody outside onto the platform, handing out her bags to her.

"You all right?" she asked, continuing after a fractional pause. "You look pretty shaken, I'll radio for some help, you just wait here or, if you can manage, head upstairs to the token booth."

She'd blocked the door with her leg so it couldn't fully close.

"What," Cody stammered, "you?"

"I'm the only cop on the train," the woman said matter-of-factly.

And she stepped back aboard.

"No," Cody yelled, lunging forward to the door even as the train started moving. "No!" She was screaming, staggering along the platform, trying to hold on, keep pace, as the train gathered speed; she had no chance, less strength, tripped and fell crashing to the platform, her final cry-as the taillights disappeared into the darknessmore of a sob. "No!"

A flight of filthy stairs led up from the platform. She collapsed before she'd gone halfway, back against the banister, teeth chattering, good eye staring straight ahead at the long empty station as though it was the jungle and, any second now, she expected a VC attack to come boiling her way, the classic "thousand-yard stare" that one of the paramedics-another vet-who eventually came in answer to the policewoman's radio call, instantly recognized. He asked if she was okay and she nodded, not really hearing, or caring what he said, mostly ignoring what was happening around her, hands tucked tight under her armpits, making sure the flesh beneath was still her flesh and not some changeling nightmare, while she rocked panting back and forth, back and forth, thinking of nothing save those awful doll-face lacquer eyes and what they'd almost done to her. No joker, she realized, but an ace. A monster. And, whoever he was, whatever he was, he was still loose, and still hunting. And the next woman he found might not be as lucky. And she thought of the policewoman-and her low, keening wail built up into a cry of feral rage that filled the station and turned heads and made people step smartly away from her. Madness, she thought, not even noticing the sting of the needle as the medic shot a dose of sedative into her arm, madness!

I've become Dante, was her last awareness as oblivion claimed her…

… and my world, my home, is Malabolge.

She knew where she was without opening her eye, hospitals have that kind of smell and emergency rooms most of all. Problem was, when she opened her eye, she didn't believe it. Two men stood over her.

"You okay, miss?" asked the one to her left. "Everybody's favorite question," she managed to croak, thankful the rawness of her throat masked the sheer amazement that she felt.

He was a centaur, a glorious palomino who looked like he'd just leapt out of the "Pastorale" sequence of Disney's Fantasia. The golden coloring carried over to his human skin, which gave the impression that he had the most magnificent tan, complemented by ash-blond hair and tail. There was a boyish exuberance to his face and manner only slightly countered by his concerned expression and the surgical scrub shirt and physician's lab coat. Stitched onto the left breast pocket was the seal of the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic, and pinned over it was his ID card.

"Dr. Finn," she finished, reading the name off his tag. "And who are you?" was his reply.

"Cody Havero."

"D'you know what day it is?"

"Wouldn't that depend on how long I've been unconscious? It was Thursday-no." She rubbed an aching forehead. "That's wrong, isn't it? The plane landed after midnight, so I suppose it must be Friday."

"Still is," Finn said cheerfully, making a note on his chart. "No evident impairment of cognitive faculties."

"Why should there be?" she muttered, with an undertone of asperity. "I'm suffering, if anything, from shock, not a concussion."

"Now, miss…" he began. "Doctor," she corrected. "Yes," Finn replied, thinking she'd addressed him. "No," she continued patiently, "I'm a doctor."

"Hiya, Major," the other man said from her blind side, and she rolled her head to get a better view. At first glance the joker looked normal. Most people, surprisingly, never noticed his affliction right off-even though, in a very real sense, it was as plain -as the nose on his face. He had no eyes. Not simply eyeless sockets, but no sockets at all, a smooth curve of solid bone from the crown of his head to the nasal cavity. But there'd been a compensation, a nose that Jimmy Durante would have been proud of, possessing a sensitivity that would put a bloodhound to shame.

"Been an age, Sergeant," Cody acknowledged, levering herself up as he bent over to give her a rough embrace. "Too fuckin' long, an' that's a fact."

"You two know each other, Scent?"

"Goin' on twenty, Doc," the blind joker replied. "Meet the only woman combat cutter in U.S. Army history."

"You were in Vietnam?" Finn asked her. "The Joker Brigade," he added with disgust.

"Gotta understand, Doc," Scent said to the young centaur, "there was a lotta rationalization back then. Nobody gave a rat fuck about us. Attitude was, we get killed, that's one less freak fouling the gene pool. Usual pattern, if a joker got medivac'd to an aid station, he'd hardly be there more'n a day before some REMF in razor-creased tiger stripes'd slick up from Saigon to collect him. Standard excuse was to evac him to a special joker medical facility. Made sense actually-at least, most bought it since our regular quarters were in quarantine zone. Problem was, this `facility' seemed to be located an hour's flight out across the South China Sea. No muss, no fuss, just a thousand-foot-high dive into a telegram home to Momma. 'Cept Cody, she didn't buy it. Man showed up on her doorstep, she told him to fuck off. Man brought some Saigon khakis to back him up…" Finn looked confused.

"Upper-echelon staff officers from MACV headquarters," Cody told him.

"… damn if she didn't have a couple of network camera crews on hand doing interviews. Made sure they got pictures of the Man, made sure they had her records of the casualties. Any funny business, no way could it be kept quiet. Man backed down, did a rabbit. After that, you were a joker and you got hit, you moved heaven and earth to get to Cody's doorstep. It was like she was magic-nobody ever died on her table."

"I'm afraid, Scent, that string's gone down the drain." Along, she thought, with a lot of other things. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but why am I here? Maybe I'm confused about my New York geography but from what I remember of the subway map, isn't Blythe klicks from that station I was in? Aren't there closer hospitals?"_

Finn spoke: "All 911 was sure of was some sort of wild-card activity at the Lex-Third Avenue station. And, I'm afraid, your reactions to the medics sort of spooked them. They figured they had a manifestation on their hands. Procedure in those cases is, everything comes to Blythe."

"You were on your way here anyway, right?" Scent chimed in.,

"Lucky me," Cody agreed, but with a bite to her words. Scent chose not to take the hint.

"That's right, Major. If there was ever a right move to make, you made it. That's luck in my book."

"The train, Finn." He looked quizzically at her. "There was a transit officer," she explained, "a woman, who helped me…"

"Haven't heard any reports, but there's no reason why we should. I can run a check, though."

"Please, do. There was a… creature on the train. Looked like a joker, but…" She paused, shuddering at the memory. "I don't know, I keep thinking there was a sense of something…" Her voice trailed off and for a moment she felt lost, trying to sort images and memories that refused to stay still, conscious only of a need to run that bordered on panic.

"Can I get out of here, please?" she asked. "And if possible, is there someplace I can tidy up before I see Dr. Tachyon?"

"Residents have a crash pad, upstairs," Scent said, not giving Finn a chance to answer, "where they grab some stray z's when they're tannin' long shifts-I'll take you."

"There really is trouble, Scent," she told him as they rode the elevator up two flights.

"Ain't that the Lord's gospel-careful," he cautioned suddenly, but Cody was already in the process of a quick and nimble two-step over a body that looked made from limp spaghetti, spilling out of its chair and partially across the hallway. `Nice move.

"That touch, at least, I haven't lost."

"If you'd been a guy, the NFL woulda been your fame an' fortune."

There was no air-conditioning-the system had been overwhelmed by the summer's murderous heat, Scent told her, and there simply wasn't money in the budget for repairs-and the atmosphere was rotten. The sky outside the windows was only beginning to hint at the approaching dawn, heaven help them once the sun actually came up. New York, she knew, didn't suffer summer gladly, and this August appeared worse than most.

"Scent, something is out there."

"A lotta shit's out there, Cody. An' it's all startin' to come down-hard."

"Shiloh."

"That's right, you were there. Yup"-he sighed"Shiloh. Or worse. Here's the hooch. It's a mess, but that's the way you docs seem to like, I guess…"

"When were young and broke and working ninety-six hours at a stretch."

"Break my heart. Anyway, you hungry after, I know a nice diner, coupla blocks' walk, serves finest-kind breakfast."

"I'll let you know"

"Take care, Major."

"Thanks, Sergeant. This is one I owe you."

Tachyon's office, surprisingly, was nothing special, standard bureaucratic box with a view of the river and the Brooklyn waterfront. One wall of bookshelves full of medical texts, a pair of computer terminals on a table underneath littered with disks. Tachyon's desk angled so he could look out the windows without turning his back on any visitor. It was an antique; she didn't know enough to name the period or style, only that it was as magnificent as the small sideboard tucked into the corner behind it. The window was wide open, covered with a screen, with piles of documents stacked haphazardly on the sill. The sky was dark and a whisper of wind stirred the papersstorm signs, a nasty one, and she reacted instinctively, stepping behind the desk to shift the material to the floor below and lever the window partially closed. Made the room that much warmer, by cutting down the admittedly minimal circulation, but at least everything in it wouldn't end up drenched. She hoped the rain would mean the end of the heat wave, but doubted it. Drought had scarred most of the country this summer, days of three-figure temperatures everywhere you went-there was talk up and down the Midwest of a return to the Depression dust bowl-and she knew firsthand what the weather had done to her beloved mountains. There'd been another report on NPR's Morning Edition about the Yellowstone fires, memory filling her nostrils with the acrid tang of pine smoke.

"I hope, Dr. Havero, this interview suits you as much as my office clearly does."

She jumped, taken by surprise, realizing that she'd sunk down into the chair behind the desk-automatically making herself at home-and cursing the fact that the door was to her right, her blind side. Began to stammer an apology, vetoed the thought, tried instead to pass the faux pas off with a shrug and a smile.

The voice had the natural elegance of a classic noble vampire-which made her smile easier-and the man himself was everything his office was not, cut from a mold uniquely his own. She found herself looking down at him as they sidled past each other, exchanging positions. He was a head shorter. Her left hand went out in greetingwhich was when her conscious mind twigged to what her unconscious had already registered, that Tachyon's right arm ended at the wrist.

He responded with a soft left-handed handshake, the slightest of smiles acknowledging and appreciating her courtesy.

"A meeting I've been looking forward to, actually, for quite some time. Scent -I don't know if you're aware, but he's the director of our Vietnam Veterans Outreach Program has been singing your praises to these many years." He motioned her to take a chair. She'd seen pictures of him, of course, but on paper-and especially,- the tube-it was easy to dismiss his eccentric costumes as just that, costumes, the man himself trivialized into a character from some tacky teleplay.

"But I suspect," he continued, "the anticipation is not quite mutual."

"Is it that obvious," she replied, thinking deliberately loudly, or did you read my mind to discover it?

In person, his appearance was no less outrageous, but far more effective. Living embodiment of an eighteenthcentury aristo. Plum trousers tucked into gray suede buccaneer boots, ruled green shirt beneath orange, doublebreasted waistcoat, the effect actually enhanced by its contrast with the white hospital-issue lab coat that stood in for the burgundy frock coat hung on a corner rack.

He motioned toward the papers she'd moved. "Much appreciated," he told her, ignoring her inner and outer response. "It's often far too easy to be overwhelmed by the clutter here. As you might have guessed, I am far from the most organized of souls. And good secretaries, especially in Jokertown, are damnably hard to find."

The pieces of his face didn't fit together in any manner that might be considered classically handsome, yet the sum of the parts was undeniably attractive. The same description had often been applied to Cody. Though the end result in his case is, she thought, somewhat more delicate. A sling cradled his right arm, the stump swathed in fresh bandages, a recent wound. There'd been no hint of this in the letter he'd sent inviting her to New York. Wonder what I've missed fighting fires in the boonies? she thought. It also helped explain the fragility in his manner, she'd seen it herself too often in casualty wards. And she remembered her own reactions, coming out of anesthetic to discover her right eye gone.

"That what you want from me?"

"Hardly, given your resume." He looked quizzically at her. "Are you always this direct?"

"Yes," she said simply.

A sudden shadow crossed the inside of his eyes and she knew somehow she'd slipped through his barriers, touched a memory as painful as her own. Her face flushed, with anger and resentment, and she didn't bother masking her exultation at this small, trivial score. Who the fuck do you think you are, cock? she snarled silently, hoping he was listening. What the hell right do you, does anyone, have to pick someone else's brain, goddammit, isn't anything private anymore?

"Truthfully," he continued, as though nothing untoward had happened, and Cody found herself admiring his damnable alien poise as much as she was infuriated by it,

"I'd forgotten all about my letter in the press of recent events. I never expected an answer."

"Desperation has a way of overcoming even the most primal terrors."

"How clever. I only caught the one news broadcast. What exactly happened?"

She shrugged. "I shot my mouth off, got my ass shot off in return."

"Uncomfortable."

"I should introduce you to my kid, he has exactly the same opinion."

"I'd like to meet him. I have a grandson myself."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. A true blessing, actually.". From the way he spoke, the faintest coloration to his tone, she wondered if that was as true as he obviously wanted it to be.

"I'm glad for you."

"And I am still curious."

"Well"-she sighed-"after Chris was born, I packed in city life and headed for the high country. My folks left me their ranch-not really much as spreads go, nowhere near big enough to support itself, but heaven to live on-so I based myself there and hung out my shingle. Small-town GP, doing emergency surgery on the side. Figured there'd be the end of things. Until the fires."

"They're still burning. Last spring, hardly anyone knew what we were in for. Forest Service followed policy and let the lightning strikes burn uncontested. But the weather turned vicious-no rain, sun baking the woods tinder dry, winds whipping the flame front into firestorms. Alarm went out to damn near every fire-fighting outfit in the country. Indians handled the brunt of the work, about the best there are at this business."

"You ever wonder, Doc, if your virus affects the inanimate substance of the earth itself? Some of those Indians do. You value your hide, steer well clear of Apaches and the Cheyenne. They view the world as a living being, as much so as humanity itself. They see what the wild card does to people, they wonder if it can twist-even murder-the planet the same way."

"That's preposterous." He was genuinely shocked. She barely noticed. She was in the center of a broad mountain meadow with a beaten crew-most so tired they couldn't stand, much less run for their lives-staring in horror at a wall of flame two hundred meters away, where five minutes before there'd been a stand of magnificent timber.

"Maybe. Fires sure seemed alive to us. Sneaky and intelligent, and vicious as a bear trap. Forest Service brought in some joker crews to handle the scutwork cleanup in the low-intensity areas. They should have been fine. Probably, in any other fire, any other summer, they would have. I'm sure you can guess the rest."

"How bad was it?"

She met Tachyon's gaze. "Backfire caught a joker team, tore 'em up pretty badly. I was running the aid station inside Yellowstone. Seven came in still alive. All critical, badly burned, but they had a chance. We bundled 'em all into a Huey and sent it to our main receiving hospital. They turned 'em away. Said they had no bed space. Bullshit, of course, we'd transferred half their patients precisely so there would be room for our casualties. But they were adamant, no admittance. Three other hospitals on our list, got the same response from each. Pilot had to bring 'em back. I was running an aid station-the whole point of our existence was to get our injured into the air and out to a proper full-care facility as fast as humanly possible. I didn't have the staff, I didn't have the equipment, to cope with anything more. Took 'em two days to die. For one, in the end, drugs didn't help. He was screaming, like a baby-this high-pitched shriek, somehow he made himself heard even over the roar of the fire-I found myself once looking around for an ax or shovel, cursing myself for not having my gun handy. I wanted to smash that poor creature's head in, just to shut him up. I lost it, totally, I think by then I was more than a little crazy myself. I found a network crew, gave 'em a live interview on morning television."

"I saw that. You were quite impassioned."

"Lot of good it did me. Hospitals had covered themselves perfectly. They hit back with loads of righteous indignation. By the time they were through, they'd made a plausible case it was my fault. All things considered, it wasn't the best of times to take a stand for joker rights. I'd grown up there." A softness had crept into her voice, an eerie echo of what she'd heard earlier in Tachyon's, as though neither could still quite believe what had happened to them. "I'd made that place my home, it was where I raised my son-and five minutes on the Today show burned it up as completely as the North Fork fire did the Gallatin Range. Forest Service"-she made a face-"shipped me out on the next chopper. Got home, discovered my attending privileges at the local hospitals had been revoked. Within a week, I started losing patients. Within a month…"

"Sent out job applications, word got passed back that I'd been blackballed. I was a troublemaker, nobody wanted a thing to do with me."

"No one stood by you?"

"You don't know how afraid people are" of your damned virus, she finished silently.

There was a twist to his eyes, a small, sad smile, a flash of pain desperately masked that told Cody he knew far more than he dared let on.

"So," he said softly, finally, "you're here…" She filled in the rest: because you have no choice.

"I'm a doctor, this is a hospital. And I need the job."

"I have doctors, Cody, I don't need a doctor. I need my right arm." He made a small gesture with it, and didn't bother hiding the flash of pain in his eyes. There was a tentativeness now to his voice and manner that seemed to Cody like nothing so much as shame.

"We Takisians are so proud a species. We promote an ideal, in thought and deed and self. Deformity is cast out. Yet now, as you see, I am deformed. As unworthy in flesh to hold my name and rank as I've proved myself so eloquently in deed. Perhaps my ultimate penance for bringing the wild card to Earth."

She said nothing.

"I need someone I can trust to help me run this clinic."

"Why me?" she asked.

"Mostly…" He paused a moment, and she wondered whose thoughts he was collecting, his own or hers. That was what made this so damnably infuriating-not knowing whether he was inside her head or not. And then she thought of what he might see-advertently or otherwise hard as it was for her to deal with the nasty nooks and crannies of her psyche, how much worse for him? And she had just herself to worry about; he was privy to everyone's secret selves. Might be a bit much, for even the most hardened voyeur. Then twisted herself back into focus, to catch what Tachyon was saying.

"It was Scent who told me about you," he said. "I am a proud man, Cody, but even I can't deny anymore my need for help. Or theirs."

She sighed, taking refuge in the view out the window. The sky was more black than blue; the storm was about to break.

"I don't know," she said finally. "Then why did you come?"

"I thought…" What? she asked herself. A wayward gust filled the room, carrying a stale salt sea smell off the river, and before she was even aware she'd moved, she was on her feet, two steps toward the door, hand grabbing instinctively for the. 45 tucked in the bottom of her purse.

She couldn't move. Stood like a dumbfounded statue, while Tachyon came out from behind his desk, violet eyes mixing shock and concern as he gently took the Colt from her hand, her purse from her shoulder. They went on the desk. Still frozen, she watched him pour a stiff cognac into a cut crystal snifter. Then, he released the mind lock.

She didn't fall-though she dearly wanted to-but didn't hit him, either.

She took a cautious sip, the cognac burned deliciously. "That encounter this morning must have made quite an impression," he said quietly.

"Seems so," she agreed, trying to will her hands to stop shaking. "I gave as complete a description as I could to Dr. Finn."

"I saw. The joker you encountered isn't in our files, but that's hardly surprising." It isn't a joker, she screamed silently, don't you understand?

And said instead, as she set down the glass, "This was a mistake, Doctor, I think we both know that. I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry."

"Actually, I think you're right. They're lepers-aces as much as jokers, though too many think their powers make them somehow immune. More and more, it seems as though every hand is turning against them. People you know suddenly become total strangers, people you trust betray you-or, worse, believe you've betrayed them. The work we do here is as much psychological as physical; we can't afford such ambivalence-and latent hostility-even on a member of the regular staff, much less my alter ego."

She started to say, "I know you'll find someone," but left the words silent in her throat, because she and he both knew they'd be a lie.

She was almost out the clinic's main foyer-painfully conscious that aside from the occasional staff member, she was the only person she saw with anything approaching a normal appearance, every so often catching a whispered curse and not-so-whispered taunt when Scent caught up with her.

"Sorry to see you didi maul Major," he said.

"Win some, lose some, Scent. We should be used to that."

"This summer-after that fuckin' convention-I feel like we're bein' fuckin' overrun. Prob'ly makin' the smart play, buggin' out while you can."

"Yeah."

"Look, that ain't why I'm here. The joker you ran into-I can't say for sure since I can't see to make sure, but I think they just brought it in, DOA."

"Where?"

"Morgue."

"Can you show me?"

No attendants in the body shop, only a single pathologist on duty, a nat, more than willing to give full vent to his anger at the city medical bureaucracy for sending him to this gulag. He knew of Cody, figured that made them kindred spirits; they both stood up to the system and got royally screwed. She figured him for a jerk, but wasn't about to let on with him in a mood to help.

The corpse lay on the examining table and Cody was surprised to discover it no less disturbing dead than alive. "Pretty fucking gross," the pathologist agreed.

She didn't reply at first as she continued her examination, mentally comparing the body before her with the one imprinted in her mind's eye. "Ever see anything like it?" she asked, at last.

"You kiddin'? Jeez, I hope not. B'sides, I thought each manifestation of the virus was unique."

"That's the theory," she agreed. "Any chance of a positive identification?"

"Not a fucking prayer, pardon my French. Other than the fact it's female."

"Female?" she asked sharply.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Take a look. No tits to speak of, but what appear to be appropriate genitalia. I suppose, during the post, I can check to see if the internal plumbing matches."

"Do it." She spoke with such an automatic, offhand voice of command that he responded by writing the order down in his workbook, assuming she was senior staff. "About the ID?"

"No hands, which means no fingerprints; no way we'll get retinagrams from those eyes; and dental records…?" He pointed to the sawtooth fangs filling the partially open mouth. "This is a complete physical metamorphosis-'cept, of course, bein' a joker, nothing works like it's supposed to. So you got an aquatically configured creature who can't live in water. Flippers for swimming, but no gills."

Cody looked at the thickly massive, almost elephantine flippers that were the creature's "feet."

"What can you tell me about these?" she asked. "Whaddya mean"-he stifled a yawn-"other than what I already said?"

"Any wear and tear?"

"You can see that for yourself. Same kinda shit you'd have on your feet, you walked around barefoot. Especially in this town."

"Hasn't been doing it long, then?"

"Doubtful. Any real amount of time, they'd develop rough, horny calluses, scar tissue from the constant pounding and abrasion. Probably compression of the legbones, as well-y'see, these really aren't feet in any sense that we mean it, they aren't designed for walking. Nah, y'ask me, Doc, this baby's right outta the box."

"And somebody sure as shit wasn't happy to see her." He pulled aside the sheet that covered the joker's torso, revealing a pair of fearful wounds. "You ever see jaws," he asked, and as Cody nodded, "when I was in med school, we got some poor sumbitch, did a dance with a tiger shark. Same kinda bite structure. 'S funny." He stepped away from the table, gave the corpse a long look-and Cody revised her opinion of the man; for all his annoying behavior, he appeared to be good at his job. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost say the joker did this to herselfsimilar bite radius, actually a little larger, same kind of teeth structure. But no way could her mouth reach around to make those wounds."

"Maybe-twins?"

"You serious? Jeez, I hope not."

She looked at the creature's shoulder. The bite there had splintered bone and savaged the network of vessels leading out from the heart. "Cause of death?"

"Cardiac arrest, due to loss of blood, directly resultant from extreme, violent physical trauma."

"Who found her?"

"Work crew, I think. Transit. Scared 'em outta two lifetimes' growth, I hear. Shit. I do not understand how they get anyone to work down in those holes."

"Where?" Cody asked as he paused for breath.

"Got me there." He looked at his notes. "We don't have the full sheet yet, prob'ly at the precinct or en route, I only know the who 'cause the EMS crew was griping about coming here while the other ambulance got to transport the live ones to Bellevue. I guess that at least places it in Manhattan. What you got, Doc, something?"

"Not sure. Pair of tweezers."

"Here go. Looks shiny. Piece of chain, maybe, wedged into the wound. Holy shit," he exclaimed as Cody worried free both the chain and the medal it was attached to. There was almost nothing left of the miniature shield, but the St. Christopher medal was pretty much intact. Pity it hadn't protected the wearer.

"Doc, you all right? You look awful gray, want some water?"

She waved him back, one hand clenched tight into a fist, supporting her weight on the table while the other held the tweezers. Poor woman, she thought, completed the transformation barely begun with me. Not just an ace, the son of a bitch is a predator.

"Draw a blood sample. I want a test for the presence of the wild card."

"Why waste the time? Open your eyes an' take a look. She's a joker, that much is obvious."

"Humor me." She gave him a look, for additional inspiration; he got the message. "Quick as you can, please," she told him, "and send the results to Tachyon."

She sat at Tachyon's desk, trying to push thoughts onto paper, mostly staring at the blank legal pad in front of her, twirling the fountain pen she'd found. Fine point, with a clear, elegant line-got the job done but with a special little flourish if you wished. Like Tachyon. She hoped Tachyon was a southpaw, or possibly ambidextrous; it would be hell retraining to use the lesser side, the writing technique would never be as fluid, each word a reminder of-how had he put it?-his "deformity."

She thought of her own loss and wondered why it hadn't crippled her. By rights, she should have been finished as a surgeon-there was no depth perception with one eye, no way to tell precisely how far away things were, yet she never had a problem. She always seemed to know where to reach, was always a split second ahead of the people around her, somehow sensing what they were going to do, where they'd be. Folks always interpreted it as luck-and so did she, to an extent, on the rare occasions when she actually thought about it.

She made a rude face and ruder noise-if it were truly luck, she should be a lot better off than she was-and started scribbling notes. According to Brad Finn, Tachyon had been summoned to the local precinct "Fort Freak." Cody wondered if that had anything to do with the policewoman, wondered further what kind of effect her own news would have. A predator ace was bad enough, but one who went around transforming nats into jokers was everyone's worst nightmare, a return to the panicked days of last spring, when Typhoid Croyd roamed the city, and Manhattan had been placed temporarily under martial law. She'd thought of confiding in Finn-she liked the centaur-but didn't know him anywhere near well enough to trust him. The memory of what happened in Wyoming was still too raw; people she'd known had lied, those she'd trusted had turned away from her. She was determined never to be that vulnerable again. Scent, whom she'd trust with her life, was long gone home.

She considered sticking around till Tachyon's return, but found she couldn't stay still. Rain was sheeting downbad sign, since the long breaks between lightning flash and thunder indicated the heart of the storm had yet to arrive-but the violent weather did nothing to ease the oppressive atmosphere. Quite the opposite. She prowled the office, without a clue as to why she was on edge, wary in ways she hadn't been since the 'Nam. Easy to be confused, hot rain and steamy air more common to the Mekong Delta than Manhattan. It was like this at Shiloh, in the evening twilight, when everyone knew Charley was in the jungle beyond the wire, waiting for full night before he came visiting.

She sealed her report and the evidence in a manila envelope, left it on Tachyon's desk, decided to call it quits while she hopefully was ahead.

The illusion lasted as far as the clinic's main entrance, where a laugh of genuine amusement greeted her query about the possibility of getting a taxi. The guard let her use his phone to try to call a radio cab. Most of the numbers got her a busy signal and the few companies she actually reached-after what seemed like an age on holdhung up the moment she gave the address. A local gypsy cab pulled up, dropping off a joker. The driver was another one. But when Cody dashed to the curb, and he saw she was a nat, he gave her the finger with a hand shaped like a bird's claw and sped away, plowing though the biggest puddle at hand in the bargain, to add insult to injury.

"Fuck this," she muttered wearily, as furious with the growing joker prejudice as she was with its nat counterpart. Maybe she'd do better back in Chinatown or Little Italy. At least there she could get herself a meal; she hadn't eaten since the pathetic excuse for supper served by the 'airline on her flight in.

Streets were deserted, everyone with sense taking refuge under cover till the brunt of the storm passed. It was a true monsoon, water descending in an almost solid mass, overwhelming the capacity of the drains and turning most corners into ankle-deep ponds. The streets here dated back to the nineteenth century, like the buildings, cobblestone supposedly covered with asphalt. But no repairs had been made this summer, which meant that in a lot of places the asphalt had been worn down to the original pavement, which made the footing treacherous.

She thought she was going the right way, following the directions the guard had given her, but the streets didn't make sense. Most of Manhattan was laid out on a grid system, with streets running east west and northsouth. It took real effort to get lost. Not so down here. Some of the streets were more like alleys and they canted off in wild directions from the main avenues, which themselves followed the natural curve of the island. The buildings were old and looked it, mostly constructed in the last half of the last century, walk-up tenements that had never seen better days and probably weren't likely to. She smiled to herself-but only half in jest, another part of her took this perfectly seriously-and imagined the wild-card virus turning these old tenements into living beings, who played musical chairs with each other to confuse any visitors. Were the windows eyes, watching her every move, the doorways mouths? If she ducked into one to get out of the rain, would she be eaten? She scoffed, but edged out toward the middle of the street, rationalizing it by telling herself that this was the best place to flag down any cruising cab. Sumbitch would have to run her down to get by. Assuming, of course, one ever came. She'd walked more than far enough, she should have reached the periphery of Jokertown, but there wasn't a Chinese store sign in sight.

Then, on the corner, she saw a bright green globe set on a dirty green railing-she remembered that meant a subway station. What the fuck, she thought, and was down the steps in a flash, shaking herself like a half-drowned pup to get the worst of the wet off her before fumbling in her bag-which she'd had sense enough to wear under her slicker-for a dollar for a token. When she asked the clerk for directions, she found she was on the wrong platform. This was the downtown side, the trains here would take her under the East River to Brooklyn.

"Is there an underpass?" she asked, not terribly enthusiastic about the prospect of going back out into the storm, even if only to cross the street.

"Wouldn't matter if there was," the clerk-to Cody's surprise, another joker-replied, passing a copper token through the tiny slot. "Platform's closed, Us doing work on those tracks."

"Wonderful."

"They're s'posed to be finished by now, that's why the work's done mostly at night so the lines and stations are open for day traffic, 'specially at rush hour, but the storm's probably got 'em backed up some. Some serious rain," he added sympathetically.

"And then some," she agreed. "So could you tell me, at least, which line am I on, I didn't see the sign outside."

"This is the F ma'am. IND Sixth Avenue local." Cody didn't really hear the last line, she was making a slow, careful turn toward the station, sweeping the platform the same as she would a hostile tree line. She shook her head violently, chiding herself for reacting like a baby. Jokertown may well be strange country, but she was no cherry; she knew how to handle herself, and it wasn't like this.

"How do I go uptown, then?" she asked, satisfied that so far as she could eyeball-she was alone outside the booth.

"Take the F to Jay Street Borough Hall, then hoof it up the stairs, over to the uptown platform. Got your choice there, miss, between the F and the A.F.'ll take you straight up the middle of the island, but the A makes better connections. You want a map?"

She'd mislaid the last one. "Thanks," with a smile. "What we're here for. Got a rash or somethin'?" And when she responded with a confused look, wondering what he was talking about: "Been scratching your hand pretty hard, must itch awful bad."

She looked down, she hadn't been aware she was doing it-was the skin numb? and she went cold, inside and out. The back of her hand glittered impossibly in the fluorescent light, with the faintest silvery cast.

She looked toward the stairs. Water was pouring down-an impressive cascade, as good as many fountainsthe stream flowing past her down the slightly angled platform, through the gates, toward the tracks. She could hear other waterfalls inside, from the ventilation and maintenance grids set into the sidewalk above.

She'd been saved last time. And the policewoman had paid the price. Is that my fault? she asked herself. How could I have known? But what's the link now? And comprehension narrowed her eye. Perhaps that was the keyshe was the one that got away. An ace that looks like a joker, with the power to transform people into beings like himself. No, she realized, with a flash of inspiration, not people-women! The wild-card deck deals only one of a kind, each victim is forced to live their life unique and alone. And someone as awful as that ace, he wouldn't have even a hope of normal companionship. But if his power is to make a companion…? Fair enough-the lady cop was proof of that. Cody didn't have to imagine how the ace's victims felt-some awful instinct told her that she and the policewoman hadn't been the first. But if so, she thought, why hasn't anyone noticed; if there are others, what happened to them?

As she worked through all this, she began walking forward, head tracking slowly back and forth, giving her eye a clear field of everything in front of her. The turnstile sounded surprisingly loud as she passed through-everything did, her senses were operating at a peak they hadn't achieved since the war. So far as she could see, the platform was empty.

Keep putting the pieces together, she told herself, see what you build. Okay, the ace transforms women-perfectly understandable, he's alone and lonely, he wants a mateonly they don't like it. And she remembered the bite marks on the dead policewoman, and let her head loll back against the tiIe wall behind her. Is that it, has to be, explains why there've been no sightings-he kills them. She held up her hand, trying to tell herself the silver sparkles weren't flashing a fraction more brightly. She was unfinished business. Moby Dick, perhaps, to his Ahab.

Tachyon had broken down the gun when he took it away from her; she checked the clip to make sure it was full, then shoved it into the butt of her. 45. She pulled the slide to chamber a round, snapped on the safety, and tucked the heavy automatic behind the small of her back, under her belt. Not the most comfortable of improvised holsters-especially given the guns weight-but she wanted to be able to get at it in a hurry without having to fumble with her bag. The bag, though, was another problem, an encumbrance she could do without.

There was a rush of air from the tunnel, two spots of light off in the distance that slowly rocked toward her for what seemed like the longest time before suddenly exploding out of the darkness, revealing the sleek, graymetal box shape of the subway train. As the train slowed, she peered through each window, hoping for a sight of the ace-but all the cars that passed had people in them. She dashed for the next one in line, the conductor-not wanting to spend any more time than necessary at this particular stop-closing the doors just as she snaked through. A few passengers gave her the eye, probably wonderinglike the cabbie this morning, seemed to Cody like another age, another world-what she was, whether she was one of them. She met their gazes, same as she had after returning from the 'Nam, while moving the length of the car, automatically checking every seat. She tried the connecting door, but unlike on the train she'd ridden that morning, these were kept locked. Damn, she snarled silently, a complication she didn't need. At least, she could see through the grimy window that the next car had people in it, she could bypass it and go on to the one beyond.

She got that chance at York Street, on the fringe of Brooklyn Heights, ducking out the doors the moment they opened and sprinting fast as she could to the ones she wanted. There was the normal flow of passengers here, she had time to reach them. Problem was, her shoesperfectly adequate for job interviews-were not cut out for this kind of work. No support, less traction. Couldn't be helped, she had to manage with what she had, wouldn't be the first time.

This car was fine, too, and the one beyond, and the ones beyond that, as the train trundled through Jay Street and then Bergen. She was beginning to feel more than a little silly, dashing about like a madwoman, armed to the teeth, chasing a creature that could be anywhere along the subway systems hundreds of miles of tracks. There were no odds for her catching up with him-what made her think he'd be on this train, or even this line?-and if she did, she wondered wryly, would that be the best of luck, or the worst? And yet this was where he'd made his last attack, better than nothing to go on. Why her, though? Wasn't her job, or her nature-she was neither cop nor hero. Just stubborn.

The fiery numbness had spread up her forearm. Is that a function of proximity, she asked herself, does it mean we're coming closer? Sign on the wall read CARROLL

STREET. She made her move, as usual, as the doors opened, but she slipped on the rain-slick platform, bags unbalancing her enough so she couldn't recover, went down hard on one knee, pain splintering her concentration for a moment. She tried to lever herself up as she heard the door chime, called hoarsely to the conductor to wait as she tried for the nearest door, but he had his schedule to keep and they closed in her face. "Damn," she said over and over again as the train rumbled on its way, "damn damn damn damn damn!"

Nothing for it, she knew, but to wait for another one. There was some blood on her knee, small firebursts of pain as she gingerly put her weight on it-and a nasty tear in the already ruined panty hose-but as she lifted up to her full height, she found it would bear her weight, no problem. Thank heaven for small favors, she thought. And then she breathed the smell of a marshy shore at low tide.

Oh shit, she thought, reacting simultaneously, faster than she ever dreamed possible, starting a twisting dive that would buy her some distance and allow her to bring her gun to bear. The move was just enough to save her-the blow that should have knocked her senseless clipping the back of her skull, showering her thoughts with stars-but there was no grace to her landing, an awkward belly flop that left her sprawled on the slimy concrete. She rolled desperately sideways, managing to get off a shot her bullet spyanging uselessly off the ceiling-before a massive tentacle slapped the gun from her hand, the force of the blow tumbling her off the platform and onto the track bed. As she landed, she heard a sharp clatter, her gun falling to the tracks a level below, where another line ran parallel to this one.

She pushed herself out of the muck, her mouth full of the oceanic garbage-dump stench of the ace, so thick each breath made her gag; she knew it was her he wanted, had no illusions as to what would happen then. Even if she survived, that prospect was too horrible to contemplate. So she ran.

The track bed seemed to angle upward as it left the station, and not far away she thought she saw a glow that perhaps meant open air. Sure enough, the tunnel rose out of the ground. The rain hadn't let up, it was like running into the ultimate bathroom shower, the drops striking with such force they actually hurt. There was a wind here as well, blowing off the harbor, trying to shove her back underground. She staggered to the wall that flanked the tracks, tried to clamber over, couldn't get a decent grip, yelped as her scrabbling hand snagged one of the strands of barbed wire hung along the top.

A rumble-felt as much as heard-heralded the passage of a Manhattan-bound F on the opposite track. Her brain was totally fogged, as though she'd been drugged; the reality of the train didn't even register until it was too late for her to try to get the driver's attention. And though she waved, called, none of the passengers appeared to notice. But following the tracks as they curved along the viaduct, she dimly made out the lights of a station at its crest, the next one on the line. Not so far away, she thought, I can make it, easy. Tossed her remaining shoe, ignored the pain as stones and worse poked at her feet.

Did all right at first, no worse than a morning jog up a mountain road, wasted no effort looking over her shoulderthe ace was either there or he wasn't-better to assume the one than confirm the other. Rain tasted surprisingly sweet, for all its elemental fury, but that was the only sensation it sparked in her. She couldn't feel it strike her skin, it was as though she'd been wrapped in some impermeable membrane, mind suddenly disassociated from her body. A bellowed cry-rage and futile protest, the animal in her snared by an unbreakable trap-erupted from her gut as that awful, remembered tickling danced against the underside of her skin. The flesh she could see wasn't tanned anymore, the silver'd turned gray and oily, the arms (Illusion, she gabbled silently, dear Christ let this be my imagination) no longer quite as firm as once they'd been, seeming to flex and curve with a horrible, boneless grace. Her teeth didn't fit and every part of her body felt ready to explode, skin stretched, shrink-wrapped impossibly, unbearably taut over bones that had turned to razor blades. Each step became an efort. Her legs hadn't changedexcept to acquire the same opalescent sheen as her armsbut they felt petrified. The joints wouldn't bend-at knees or hips-she had to swing her entire body to shift them. She was near the crest of the viaduct, better than six stories up, no buildings close enough to risk a jump-even if she was capable of trying. The station was her only hope.

He caught her.

With the casual roughness of someone supremely confident of his strength, he wrapped a tentacle around her neck and yanked her flat; the impact shocked her breathless, she couldn't move. He dropped heavily on her, main tentacles pinning each arm, while the secondary nests scrabbled at her blouse, popping the buttons, shredding it and the bra underneath. There was a broad concrete median separating the tracks, that's where they'd fallen-easily spotted from the station on any sort of decent day, impossible in this gale. His penis lay like a bar across her belly as he shifted position, releasing one arm so he could tear her skirt and panties out of the way. She hit him, hard as she could; all she did now was hurt her hand. She tried for his eyes but the ace was ready for her, caught her arm, forced it back down.

New voice, making itself heard inside her head, through the shrieking berserker rage, calling her name. "Tachyon," she screamed, without knowing if she used her voice or mind or both.

Where are you? Were the words really his, or was this some psychotic trick her own mind was playing, giving her one last imaginary reed to hold on to?

There's no time, was her reply. She was boiling inside, all the elements of her self seething, bubbling, losing cohesion. He had her, the transformation was approaching critical mass; she knew that in a matter of minutes, it would be done.

Help me, then, Tachyon told her. Open your mind, Cody, of I'm to do anything, I have to see him!

Come, she thought. And nothing happened. No sense of trespass, or of another presence. None of the imagery she'd read of in a thousand books and comics.

But there was a glaze to the ace's eyes, and his body had gone rigid.

He's frozen, Cody, Tachyon said, but I'm not sure how long I can hold him.

She wriggled arms free of his tentacles, tucked her legs up as best she could, refusing this last time any of her body's protests as she forced it to move, then heaved as hard as she could. He shifted, started to stir in response she didn't need Tachyon's frantic mental cry to know what that meant-bellowed like a weight lifter for a final effort, arms starting the ace on his way, legs doing the bulk of the work, shunting him back and sideways, he rolled sort of like a Humpty-Dumpty toy, so much weight so low on his body that he couldn't get a decent balance until he came to rest. The scene was splashed by blinding light -a train pulling out of the station, headlamps illuminating the scene-and then there was a brighter flash, sparks and flame and a shriek of agony as a flailing limb slapped the third rail. The ace bounced and spasmed and roared as electricity ripped through him-and for a moment Cody thought he might pull free and somehow escape. But she'd reckoned without the train. The engineer applied his brakes the moment he saw them, but he had too much momentum on the slope and the rain had made the rails slick, and even as it shrieked to a stop, the lead bogies crushed the creature to bloody pulp.

As the train crew scrambled to her aid, she heard the electronic whoop of police sirens, converging faintly from all sides-before long, the viaduct was thick with blue rain slickers, the distant platform spotlit by TV minicam news crews. She hadn't moved-didn't have the strength-she just lay in a half sprawl, on her side, staring at the smoking remains, ignoring the shocked, scandalized, fascinated stares of the passengers.

Now, there was a presence in her mind-Tachyon's thoughts with hers even as he pounded up the flights of stairs from Smith Street far below. He drew a psychic setting from the places she loved best, and was kind enough not to react when that turned out to be Firebase Shiloh, in Vietnam's central highlands. Her physical appearance was the same here as in objective reality-no idealization to her mental image of herself-but there was a relaxed, confident strength to her that gave the feeling she was a rock, to which anyone could anchor and be protected. Tachyon allowed himself to be blended into the psiscape-muttering with characteristic dismay at the ultimate lack of style embodied in military combat fatigues (the color scheme was utterly awful-and then, slowly, gently, began to integrate Cody's mental imagery back into the real world outside. So that by the time he slipped free of Cody's awareness, she was over the shock of the moment, centered once more in mind, if not body-which, pushed far beyond its brink, promptly collapsed.

She awoke in a top-floor single at Blythe-she figured that out from the view-and at first luxuriated in the simple ecstasy of being human. She flexed her fingers, watching the glow of the morning sun on her arms, and marveled that the only sheen was due to honest, human sweat.

"Sleep well?" Tachyon asked from a chair against the wall, stretching with a small groan to ease the stiffness in his back.

She answered with a smile and marveled a little at how relaxed it felt. Didn't think she had that in her anymore, shocking in retrospect to discover how deeply the tension of the past few months had left its mark. How delicious she felt to be free of it.

She started to form a question, but he answered before the thoughts had even coalesced.

"Yes, I've been here all night."

She wondered if she should be angry-obviously the mind link had left its own mark, a duality of being that might well make both their lives miserable-decided it was a pointless exercise. What was, was; what mattered was dealing with it and moving on.

"Admirable philosophy," Tachyon agreed, laughing at her sharp sigh of asperity. "Actually, though, things aren't as bad as all that. I've been monitoring you while you slept."

She couldn't help a giggle at the thought of him walking sentry, marching back and forth across the gateway to her consciousness. The image was strong enough to bring a chuckle to his lips as well.

"Making sure," he finished, "there was no residue from your encounter with Sludge."

"How'd you learn his name?"

"Any psychic contact involves entering into a degree of rapport. I can't help learning some things. In Sludge's case"-he shrugged, mixing dismissal and disgust "the thoughts were relatively simple, desire-oriented. He was not an intellect, by any stretch of the imagination. Cunning more than intelligence. `Sludge' was the name he chose for himself."

"He was an ace?"

"Autopsy confirmed that analysis of his blood just as it revealed the body in our morgue to be a nat. As near as we've been able to determine, he's been roaming the subways and other tunnels beneath the city for quite some time, preying mostly on runaways and the homeless, the underclass who'd never be missed. And none of us realized-"

"How many?"

"Victims?" He sniffed, gazing out the window-but she knew he was looking back through the ace's memories. "Impossible to know. Sludge had very little cognitive capacity. Quite a few, I suspect."

"He killed them all."

"He ate them."

They were silent a long while. Faintly, Cody heard a page over the hospital's PA system. Gritting her teeth against the possibility of pain or weakness, she levered herself to her feet. There was an IV running in her left arm; she pinched off the junction and popped the tube, then hobbled the half-dozen small and gingerly steps to Tachyon. He seemed so small before her, yet the image she remembered from her mind was as strong and resilient as she imagined herself to be. She pressed her body against his back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, resisting the temptation to set her chin atop his head. He reached up to take her wrists in his good hand and rest his chin on them. She didn't need to see his eyes to recognize the sober, haunted expression in them. She'd seen the same in hers, too often, when she'd lost a patient that she believed could have been saved.

"A new twist," he said, allowing a faint edge of bitterness to the words, "on the old expression `you always kill the one you love.'"

"Not to mention," Cody couldn't help responding, " 'you are what you eat.'"

He laughed, a spontaneously explosive snort that caught them both by surprise, then turned somber again: "Why did you go haring off like that?"

"Impetuous broad, that's me. I gather you got my message."

"Brad Finn came over to the precinct in person. I just missed you, evidently. Captain Ellis had squad cars cruising Jokertown looking for you. We heard the report of a shot fired at Carroll Street…"

"… and then I heard your outcry."

"Thanks for listening."

He turned to face her. "You don't understand. In a city this size, a telepath has to maintain. fairly strong shields simply to keep from being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of psychic `noise.' I have to be attuned to a person to `hear' them; that almost never happens after a single, casual encounter."

"Perhaps it wasn't so casual, then."

"Apparently not."

"Tachyon, whatever the reason, I'm grateful for it."

"In time-fairly short order, actually-we won't resonate on quite so common a frequency. I'll still be unusually sensitive to you, but it will take a conscious effort to scan your thoughts."

"Over what range?"

"To be honest, I've no idea. This has never happened with anyone, in quite the same way. I'm sorry."

"For what, saving my life?"

"I created that monster. Those poor women Sludge slaughtered, their deaths are on my conscience."

"Welcome to the club."

"You don't understand."

"I'm a surgeon. I spent three years as a combat cutter. I do understand. So what?"

"It's my responsibility."

"Fine." She deliberately took him by his maimed right arm. "Be responsible. You can't change the past, any more than I can resurrect the patients I've lost-or the people I've actually killed. Yeah"-she nodded-"there's blood on my hands, too, it was a war, it came with the territory. And if there's a hereafter, maybe I'll get to deal with it then. Who cares? It's done. But at least I've come to terms with it. Taken my terror out of the closet, where I've been denying it even existed, and hung it out in the open with the other nightmares, where I can get a good look at it, see it for what it is-and me for what I am. Doesn't mean that doesn't hurt, and won't for a long time yet to come. But it's there. I can deal with it. Try that yourself, might be in for a surprise."

"You're needed, Cody," he said simply. "I'm a doctor, Tachyon, not a crutch."

He half raised his stump in its sling, then let it fall, his shoulders slump. "So you'll be going, then," he said. "Gotta find someone to look after the ranch--couple o' guys I know in Colorado, vets, could do a fair job, give 'em a call before I fly out spring the news on Chris, pack up the place, find a decent rack here in town." He looked at her in amazement, not altogether sure he was hearing right. "Assuming, of course"-the deliberate seriousness in her voice belied by the lop-sided smile at the edge of her mouth-"we can agree on a salary"

Tachyon had the decency to cough. "I'm, ah, sure we can work something out," he hazarded.

"Let's not presume too much, shall we?" Cody said, giving the smile full rein.

She held out her hand.

And Tachyon, his own smile a match for hers, took it.

Nobody Knows Me Like My Baby by Walton Simons

The left side of Tachyon's desk was littered with charts and paper. The right was almost bare. Jerry was trying hard not to look at the prosthetic hand, but his perverse side demanded a glance or two. Tachyon hadn't caught him at it. There was a visible hardness to the plastic that was out of place on the alien, and the color was a flesh tone or two off.

"How is your adjustment coming, Jeremiah?" Tachyon looked at Jerry and then glanced out his office window into Jokertown.

"Fine. I mean, there's rough spots here and there." Jerry smiled. Tachyon looked even more tired than usual. His already pale skin had less color and his red hair was dull and poorly kept, at least for Tachyon.

"You're sure. You seem a bit… withdrawn."

Jerry always felt as transparent as Chrysalis' skin when talking to Tachyon. But Chrysalis was dead. So was Jerry's pretense that life was wonderful. "Well, I just, you know, sometimes I think I don't relate well to women. They make me feel inadequate. Worse than that, they make me feel needy. I'd give my-" Jerry caught himself in time. "I just want somebody to see me the way I am and love me for it."

Tachyon nodded slowly. "Only what we all want, Jeremiah. I suspect you are, in fact, very well loved. Perhaps you're simply unaware of it. Try to temper your patience with the knowledge that love often comes when you've tired of looking for it. As for alienation from the opposite sex, we all deal with that, too. I seem to have specialized in it myself. Of course, being from Takis, I have my own built-in excuse."

It wasn't what Jerry wanted to hear. He was tired of trying to be patient. But he hadn't expected Tachyon to turn over his little black book either. Not that any woman could keep him from thinking about Veronica. "Sounds like good advice, I guess. Easier to say than do, though." Sirens passed by outside. Jerry glimpsed red light flashing on the side of a building the next block over. Tachyon looked, too. Jerry had never seen the blinds closed on that window, even though the only things visible were beat-up buildings, garbage, the occasional car, and jokers. Jerry only came to Jokertown to visit the clinic once a month.

"Something else," Jerry said, trying to regain Tachyon's attention. "My power is coming back."

Tachyon looked at him for a long moment. "It never went away, Jeremiah. You were traumatized so severely that you ceased to trust it. That trust must be coming back for your shape-changing ability to be manifesting itself again. If you're pleased, then I'm pleased for you. The current political climate being what it is, you might do well to keep this to yourself. The public thinks your ace is gone. Maintaining that image is in your best interest, believe me."

"Right." Jerry could tell Tachyon was ready for him to leave. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a check, then placed it carefully on the left side of the desk. "Here's September's donation."

Tachyon picked up the folded-over check and clumsily opened it with his one good hand. He nodded and smiled. "This does more good than you know, Jeremiah. A few dozen more like you and the clinic might actually cover expenses."

"I'm glad to do it," Jerry said. It was true. There were so few places where he knew his money was well spent, and two thousand a month was a drop in the Strauss family bucket.

The door opened and a woman in a lab smock walked in. She had dark hair and a patch over one eye. She looked past Jerry at Tachyon. "Two more beatings," she said. Her voice was restrained, but angry. "One of them might make it. The other…" She rubbed her forehead. Jerry backed away and moved around her toward the office door. Tachyon motioned him to wait.

"Jeremiah, this is our new chief of surgery here, Dr. Cody Havero. Doctor, meet a friend of the clinic." He held up the check. "And a patron as well, Jeremiah Strauss."

Cody turned and looked at him. She was very pretty, for an authority figure. Cody offered a hand and a strained smile. Jerry shook her hand and smiled back. Her grip was strong and sure. Exactly the way he imagined a doctor's hands should be.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Strauss."

"My pleasure, Doctor." Jerry was pleased he'd called her by her title. She was both threatening and comforting, and certainly physically attractive in spite of the eye patch.

He damn sure didn't want her first impression of him to be a rich, sexist jerk.

"See you next month, Jeremiah," Tachyon said. "Unless you need me for anything. If so, just give me a call."

"You'll be at Aces High next week, won't you? It's my first chance to go to one of Hiram's Wild Card Day dinners."

Tachyon sighed. "Yes, for Hiram's sake, I'll be there. Although I can't imagine it will be a very festive occasion." Jerry nodded and backed out the door, closing it behind him. He got the impression that Tachyon wanted to be alone with Cody. Not that Jerry blamed him. He imagined Veronica on black silk sheets, wearing an eye patch and nothing else.

Stop it, he thought. She's canceled out on you two of the last three times. Just find somebody else. Somebody you don't have to pay. How hard can it be?

"As hard as me, kid," said a Bogart voice in his head.

Aces High was a smorgasbord of sight and sound. The smells of fresh bread, fine meat in wine sauces, and expensive perfume assaulted his nostrils. The people were out of the ordinary, too. But that was always the case at Hiram's Wild Card Day dinner. They'd gotten there early. Both he and Beth had wanted to see all the notables make their entrances. Kenneth hadn't been particularly happy about Jerry borrowing Beth for the evening, but refused to come with them, saying there was too much work at the office.

Jerry stood up. "Want anything in the way of an appetizer?"

Beth sighed. "No. I'll save it for the main course." She waved him away.

Jerry wandered slowly over to a large table covered with salads, pates, breads, and a few things he didn't recognize as food. There was a crystal mobile of the Four Aces and Tachyon over it. There were also holograms of many of the more famous aces on the walls. Jerry knew better than to look for an image of himself. He picked up a plate and eased in across from Fantasy, who had a young man on either arm. Jerry had met her on the Stacked Deck world tour. Although his memory of that period was fuzzy, he did recall Fantasy as one of the most obviously sexual women he'd ever seen. Tonight she was wearing a long, pearl-colored skirt and matching semitransparent top. The dark nipples on her small breasts were all Jerry could see when he looked in her direction. He hoped Beth hadn't noticed him staring at the glamorous ace. Jerry put some pasta salad on his plate and turned to get some spinach quiche.

A brown-haired man with quick eyes and an easy smile leaned in next to him. "Real men don't eat quiche. At least real men who want to impress Fantasy."

Jerry put the serving spoon back in the quiche and looked down the table at the rest of the spread. "Thanks, I guess."

The man set down his plate, which was piled high with a little of everything, and offered his hand. "Jay Ackroyd."

Jerry shook it. "Jerry Strauss." Ackroyd looked like he couldn't place the name. "I used to be the Projectionist, then I turned into the giant ape. Now, I'm just rich." Ackroyd grinned. "Rich is plenty in this town." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. "If you ever need any PI work done, let me know. I could use a rich client for a change. Good luck with Fantasy if you decide to be that brave. I'd almost be afraid to get lucky with her myself."

Jerry took the card and slipped it into the jacket pocket of his tux. The room became suddenly quiet. A man walked in slowly, limping a bit. He looked fairly normal, but Jerry heard the word "joker" whispered by someone, followed shortly by the name "Pretorius." The buzz of conversation that started up had an edge of hostility. Jerry took advantage of the distraction to fill his plate, then he slipped back to his table, where Beth was still going over the menu.

Jerry hadn't seen Hiram yet, but that was no surprise. Killing Chrysalis, the Mistress of Jokertown, had kept his name in the news. The joker community had lined up against Hiram immediately. The media were being less than kind as well. The mood was ugly, and the trial hadn't even started yet. Still, it was unlikely that this Wild Card Day dinner would turn out as badly as the one two years before, when the Astronomer had crashed the party. Jerry was definitely glad to have missed that one.

A cool, unsteady breeze blew in off the terrace. Jerry set his menu to one side. Being rich and touched by the wild card had its advantages.

"I think I'm going to go with the filet mignon," he said. "How about you?"

Beth looked up, chewing her lip. She was wearing a black calf-length skirt and lavender blouse. "I see looking at Miss Tits over there has you in the mood for red meat."

"God, can't I get away with anything around you? If you were a guy, you'd look!"

Beth smiled. "I'm a woman and I still looked. Just jealous, I guess. I wish I had the body and the attitude to wear that kind of outfit." She set down the menu. "I think I'll pass on the main course and just wander over for a fruit salad. Fear of cellulite is a terrible thing. Lesser women have been broken by it, believe me."

"You have to have dessert, though."

"Well, if you insist. But don't tell Kenneth. He still has illusions of me regaining my schoolgirl figure."

"You look terrific." Jerry was about to be more specific when he saw a couple being seated a few tables away. The man was tall and thin, with dark hair. His eyes were luminous and the air seemed to swim around him. The woman with him was wearing a red silk dress that looked spray-painted on. She was gorgeous. It was Veronica. Jerry turned his chair away from them. It obviously wasn't that Veronica didn't want to get fucked. She just didn't want to get fucked by him.

"You okay?" Beth touched his hand.

"Yeah. I was just thinking about some stuff. You know, I have to do something with my life."

"Right," she said.

He knew she wasn't fooled, but appreciated that she just let it go.

They held the ceremonies for Tachyon. Jerry was surprised the woman with him wasn't Cody. Maybe it was just a professional relationship. There were empty tables.

As far as Jerry knew, that was a first for a Wild Card Day dinner. Shortly after Tachyon's arrival Hiram made his entrance. He was wearing a magnificently tailored dark blue suit, but looked thinner than when Jerry had seen him on the tour.

Hiram raised his glass and paused for a moment, waiting for his guests to follow suit. "To Jetboy," he said. "To Jetboy," Jerry and Beth said along with all the others. They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

Jerry heard Veronica laugh. She was probably doing it just to annoy him. No. More likely she was so busy thinking about sucking her date's prick that she hadn't even noticed him.

"Thank you all for coming," Hiram continued. " I hope you all enjoy your meal, on this, our special day. May be the coming year be kind to us all."

There was a smattering of applause. Hiram walked over to Tachyon's table, shook the alien's good hand, then went into the kitchen.

"Doesn't he usually float up to the ceiling or something?" Beth asked.

"Yeah. Maybe he just doesn't feel like it's appropriate. I think Hiram's a bit concerned what people are thinking of him right now," Jerry said. "The whole Chrysalis thing has to be a nightmare for him."

"Worse for her, bro. She's the one who got turned into pate."

Jerry started to say something, but Beth interrupted. "No. You don't have to say it. I feel bad already. He seems like a very nice man. But aces aren't always good guys, you know"

"I know"

"Bush is going to win the election, and if you think things are hard on wild cards now, just wait. Wild-card chic is going to be stone-cold dead before his term is over."

"It could be worse than the fifties." Beth reached over and touched his face. "With your history, I just don't want you to get hurt."

Jerry smiled. He ate it up when she acted concerned over him. If only Veronica cared even half that much. "Thanks. I think I'll be okay."

Their waiter walked over. "What will you have tonight, madam?"

" I think I'll have the fruit salad," Beth said.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about veronica. Three nights after the party he was sitting at home. Kenneth and Beth were chewing over the implications of a Bush presidency. Dukakis' pardon of Willie Horton, a joker who'd been convicted of rape, seemed to be the final nail in the coffin. The revolving-door ad, showing homicidal jokers being spilled out into the street, had been a master stroke. The Democrats were indignant, but the ad affected the public in the desired fashion. Jerry found it all too depressing. He called up Ichiko and Veronica was available.

Jerry was sure she hadn't recognized him. He'd thought of giving himself a male-model look, but settled on a more rugged face. His hair was dark and straight; he could do that now, too. Veronica looked almost the same as before. Her white cotton dress revealed just enough to get a man's attention without telling him too much. Jerry knew what she looked like naked, but remembering wasn't enough. Not tonight. Tonight he wanted to be inside her.

Taking her to a movie was probably a mistake. If anything could tip her to who he was, that was it. Still, he wanted to see Demme's Joker Mama on the big screen. He was sick of video.

"A friend of mine recommended you," Jerry said. "You were at the Wild Card Day dinner with him. He said you were terrific."

"You know Croyd?"

"Slightly," Jerry said. Croyd had to be Croyd Crenson, the Sleeper. Jerry had heard a few things about him, mostly bad. Obviously, Veronica wasn't looking for a nice guy.

On the screen a tight-knit group of jokers in human masks was holding up a bank, only to be interrupted by a duck-faced and mouse-faced duo with the same idea.

Jerry put his arm around Veronica and gave her shoulder a squeeze. She flinched. After a long moment she reached up and started stroking his hand.

She knows it's me, he thought. Her brain may not have figured it out yet, but her body knows it's me. He felt a chill, like something had gone bad inside him.

"Excuse me," he said, leaning in close. Her perfume was different from the expensive French stuff he'd bought her. "I'm not feeling well. I'd like to take you home."

Veronica looked up, surprised. Jerry pressed two hundred-dollar bills into her palm. Her hand was cold. "For your time," Jerry said, in a voice too close to his own. "I'm sorry."

He took her by the hand and led her out of the theater. Gunshots came from the screen behind them. The lobby smelled of overly buttered popcorn and stale candy. He excused himself, went into the men's room, and vomited as quietly as possible.

She was gone when he came back out.

Horses by Lewis Shiner

The woman on the other side of the coffee table had a blond crewcut and wire-rimmed glasses. She was around forty. No makeup, a man's gray sportcoat over a white T-shirt, loose drawstring pants. Dyke, had been Veronica's first impression, and so far nothing had changed her mind. "Things are just a little out of control right now," Veronica said. "It's not my fault. I need a little time."

The woman's name was Hannah Jorde. She sighed and said, "I'm so sick of hearing the same old shit." She put her glasses on the table and rubbed her eyes. "You're an addict, Veronica. I would have known that in two seconds, even if Ichiko hadn't told me. You've got every symptom in the book." She put her glasses back on. "I'm going to get you in a program. Methadone. It'll make you feel better, and keep you alive, but you'll still be an addict. Only you'll be addicted to methadone instead of heroin."

Veronica said, "I can quit-"

"Please," Hannah said. "Don't say it. Don't make me listen to it. I just want to tell you a couple of things, and I want you to think about them. That's all we can get done this first time anyway."

"Fine," Veronica said. She put her hands under her thighs because they had started to shake a little.

"You're an addict because you don't want to deal with what's going on inside you. You're not just killing yourself, you're already dead." She let the words hang for a second and then said, "What is it you do for Ichiko?"

"I'm a-" She stopped herself before she could say "geisha," Fortunato's approved term. "I'm a prostitute." Suddenly Hannah smiled. She could be pretty, Veronica thought, if she made a little effort. The right clothes, makeup. A wig for that awful haircut. What a waste. "Good," Hannah said. "The truth, for once. Thank you for that." She filled out a slip of paper and handed it across. "Start your methadone and I'll see you tomorrow"

A van with a loudspeaker passed her on Seventh Avenue. The recorded message reminded her that it was Election Day and she should exercise her constitutional freedom. Doubtless paid for by the Democrats. Everyone expected a landslide for Bush after the Democrats' disaster in Atlanta.

A man leaned out of the van and said, "Hey, baby, did you vote today?" She showed him the manicure on her right middle finger. That went for the American political system, too. What kind of freedom was it when the only people you could vote for were politicians?

She got in line outside the methadone clinic, pulling her coat tighter around her. It was embarrassment as much as cold. She didn't know which was worse, to be surrounded by so many junkies or to be taken for one of them. They mostly seemed to be black women and white boys with long greasy hair.

At least, she thought, she was still on the street. Ichiko had given her three choices: check into a detox center, see Hannah, or look for another job.

Her turn came and the woman at the window handed her a paper cup. The methadone was mixed in a sweet orange-flavored drink. Veronica drank it down and crumpled the cup. The black hooker behind her teetered up to the window on impossibly high heels and said, "Weeee, law, give me that jesus jizz."

Veronica threw the cup on the street and looked at her watch. Time enough to get uptown to Bergdorf s before her dinner date.

She should have guessed from the name he'd used to make the dinner reservation: Herman Gregg. But she didn't figure it out till she got to the table.

"Holy shit," Veronica said. The subdued light of the restaurant was enough, even for Veronica, to know the face. "Senator Hartmann," she said.

He smiled weakly. "Not senator anymore. I'm just an ordinary citizen again. But you can see why I didn't want to be alone tonight. You know what they say about politics and strange bedfellows."

"No," Veronica said. "What do they say?"

Hartmann shrugged and put the menu down. "How hungry are you?"

"I don't care. If you just want to go upstairs, that's fine." He'd already told her he had a room upstairs at the Hyatt. "Don't feel like you have to buy me dinner, like this is a real date or anything."

"Somehow this isn't quite what I expected. I'd heard so much about Fortunato and his extraordinary women."

"Yeah, well, Fortunato's gone. Things have fallen off a bit. If you're not happy, you don't have to go through with it."

"I'm not complaining. I guess you're more human than I expected. I kind of like that."

Veronica stood up. "Shall we?"

He was very quiet in the elevator, didn't touch her or anything. Just one hand on the elbow as they got out, to point her toward the room. Once inside, he locked the door and turned the TV on.

"We don't need that, do we?" Veronica asked.

"I have to know," Hartmann said. He took his jacket off and folded it over a chair, then untied his shoes and put them neatly underneath. He loosened his tie and sat on the end of the bed, his tiredness visible in the curve of his spine. "I have to know just how bad it is."

When Veronica came out of the bathroom in her bra and panties, he was in the same position. Bush was running almost two to one ahead of Dukakis and Jackson. Concession speeches were expected momentarily. She helped Hartmann off with the rest of his clothes, put a condom on him, and got him under the covers.

He didn't want anything fancy, just got right down to business. As he rocked against her, the election returns continued in a steady stream: "Texas now shows Bush with a staggering fifty-eight percent of the vote, and that's with thirty-seven percent of the precincts reporting." Hartmann's spasm happened quickly and left him on the edge of tears. Veronica stroked the small of his back, where the sweat had just broken, and made soothing noises. Just as he rolled off her, one of the TV reporters said his name and he sat up guiltily.

"Many of us must be asking ourselves the same question tonight," the reporter went on. "Could Gregg Hartmann have beaten Vice-President Bush? It was just two and a half months ago that Hartmann withdrew from the race after his loss of composure at the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta. That convention will long be remembered, not only for its bloodshed, but as a turning point in the nation's attitude toward victims of the wild-card virus."

She carried the used condom into the bathroom, knotted it, wrapped it in toilet paper, and threw it away. The odor of sperm almost gagged her. She sat on the edge of the tub and washed herself and then brushed her teeth, over and over, telling herself she didn't need a shot, not yet.

It was after two when Hartmann turned the TV off. Bush was a joke, Hartmann told her. His campaigning against drugs was sheerest hypocrisy, given what his CIA had done in Central America. His cabinet officers would never live up to his claims of ethics, and his "kinder, gentler" America would have no room for aces or jokers.

The wild-card issue meant little to Veronica. Fortunato, the man who had brought her in off the streets, was an ace. Her mother had been one of Fortunato's geishas and had meant for Veronica to have a college education and a real career. But Veronica had turned tricks anyway. The money was easy and it was easy as well to think of herself that way, as a whore. Together Miranda and Fortunato had decided that if she was going to sell her body, she might as well do it right. Fortunato had brought her back to his apartment and tried, unsuccessfully, to make her into one of his ideal women. She loved him in the way that people loved something sweet and not entirely of this world.

Because of Fortunato she'd met and had sex withother aces and jokers. None of them had seemed quite real to her either. There weren't even that many of them, not compared to unwed mothers or the homeless or old people, not enough to deserve all the attention they got. And it wasn't like it was a disease that other people could catch, like AIDS or something.

That thought gave her a chill. For a while the wild card had been contagious, and her sometime boyfriend Croyd Crenson had been spreading it. She'd been exposed to him but fortunately nothing had happened. She didn't want to think about it.

Eventually Hartmann fell asleep, the soft flesh of his stomach shaking with muffled snores. Veronica lay awake, counting all the many, many things she didn't want to think about.

She didn't sleep even when she got back to Ichiko's, around dawn. This time it was the idea of seeing Hannah again that kept her turning from side to side, chills moving up through her from her stomach.

She got up around noon and made a breakfast she couldn't eat. Ichiko walked her out to the cab or she might not have made it. Even then she tried to tell the cabby to stop, to let her out, but she couldn't find her voice. It was like being back in convent school, being sent to the principal, the oldest, scariest nun in the world.

She walked up the stairs and into Hannah's office. She couldn't feel her legs. She sat in the middle of Hannah's square, gray couch. Today Hannah wore jeans and a man's dress shirt and a cardigan with interwoven gold thread. Veronica couldn't take her eyes off the sparkles of gold.

"Did you have a chance to think?" Hannah asked her.

Veronica shrugged. "I've been busy. I don't spend a lot of time thinking."

"Okay, let's start with that. Tell me about the things you do."

Without meaning to, Veronica found herself talking about Hartmann. Hannah kept asking for details. What did he look like naked? What exactly was the taste in her mouth afterward? She sounded like she was only mildly curious. What was it like when his penis was inside her? "I don't know," Veronica said. "It didn't feel like anything."

"What do you mean? He was inside you, but you couldn't feel it? Did you have to ask him if he was in yet?" Veronica started to laugh, and then she was crying. She didn't know how it happened. It seemed to be somebody else. "I didn't want him there," she said. Who was that talking? "I didn't want him in me. I wanted him to leave me alone." Her whole body shook with sobs. "This is ridiculous," she said. "Why am I crying? What's happening to me?"

Hannah moved over next to her and wrapped her arms around her. She smelled like Dial soap. Veronica buried her head in the golden fibers of her sweater, felt the softness of the breast underneath. Everything gave way then and she cried until she ran out of tears, until she felt like a wrung-out sponge.

Standing in line, Veronica tapped her foot nervously on the sidewalk. One of the long-haired boys behind her sang a song about shooting up in a low, monotonous voice. "You know I couldn't find my mainline," he sang. He didn't seem aware he was doing it.

Veronica wanted the methadone, wanted it badly. What do they put in that stuff? she thought, and stopped herself before the laughter turned into the other thing again.

She put her hand into her purse and held on to a folded piece of paper with Hannah's phone number on it.

Veronica came in on a blast of cold air and stood for a second, rubbing her hands together.

"Flowers for you," Melanie said. She had a Russianlanguage textbook open while she watched the phones. Melanie was new. She still believed in Fortunato's program, that they were geishas not hookers, that men actually cared how many languages they spoke and whether or not they could discuss postmodernist critical theory. When she finished her telephone shift, she would be off to cooking class or elocution lessons. Then, that night, she would spread her legs for a man who only cared that she had lots of red-blond hair and big boobs.

"Jerry again?" Veronica asked. She threw her coat on the couch and collapsed.

"I don't see what you have against him. He's sweet."

"I don't have anything against him. I just don't have anything for him either. He's a nobody."

"A nobody with a ton of money, who thinks the sun rises and sets on you. Anyway, I've got him down for you tonight, from ten o'clock on."

"Tonight?" The walls seemed to close in around her. She couldn't breathe. "I can't."

"You have a date you didn't put on the computer?" Ichiko had bought a Macintosh over the summer and had computerized everything. The girls were responsible for keeping their own schedules current, and if one of them screwed up they all got yelled at.

"No, I… I'm sick."

"He's already paid and everything."

"Call him back. Will you? I have to go upstairs." She staggered up to her room and got in bed with her clothes on, doubled up, clutching a pillow to her stomach. From there she watched the street outside turn dark and the headlights of the cars sweep past. Liz, her chubby gray cat, climbed onto the' peak of her hip and began to knead the covers, purring loudly. "Please shut up," Veronica said.

Liz was another reminder of Fortunato. She had been Veronica's to start with, though she hadn't cared that much about her. Then Fortunato had formed some kind of bond with the cat. Liz used to follow him around his apartment, crying, and would get into his lap whenever he sat down.

When Fortunato left for Japan, it seemed like the cat was all Veronica had left of him.

Finally the cat settled down and started to snore softly. Veronica couldn't relax, and soon she was trembling. It wasn't like the shaking that came when she needed a shot. That part of her was quiet. This was something else. She wondered if it was the methadone, some bizarre allergy. The longer it went on, the more out of touch she became. She couldn't stop shaking. Was she dying?

She fumbled the phone off the hook and dialed Hannah's number. "It's Veronica," she said. "Something's wrong."

"I know that," Hannah said. "Why don't you come over?"

"Come over?"

"To my apartment."

"I don't know if I can make it. I feel so weird."

"Of course you can. Stand up."

Veronica stood up. Somehow it was all right. "Are you standing?"

"Yes," Veronica said.

"Good. Write down this address."

A few minutes later Veronica was in a cab. She looked down at her legs, saw her wool-knit A-line skirt wrinkled beyond hope. She got a mirror out of her purse and looked at her smudged eyeliner and bloodshot eyes. "I can't help it," she said out loud, and the words almost started the flood of tears again.

She knew she was on the edge of something. She didn't have the strength to keep herself from being pulled into it, but she could feel the depth of the chasm in the pit of her stomach.

Hannah lived on the third floor of a building on Park Avenue South that had escaped remodeling. The varnish was worn off the center of the stairs and the landings were raw concrete. Hannah met her at the door of her apartment. "You made it," she said. She seemed relieved and happy to see her.

Veronica could only nod. The apartment was two rooms and a kitchen. There was almost no furniture, only tatami mats and pillows, and an expensive stereo with huge speakers that sat in the middle of the floor. Japanese pen-and-ink drawings hung in cheap Plexiglas frames on the wall. The Oriental simplicity of it reminded her of the apartment she'd shared with Fortunato.

"Settle down anywhere," Hannah said. "I'll bring you some tea."

The music on the stereo was instrumental, one of those New Age things. It was an acoustic guitar in a weird tuning over lots of percussion. Like the rest of the room, like Hannah herself, it suggested a serenity that Veronica couldn't feel. Hannah brought her tea in a small, thick cup with no handle. The tea was green and vaguely sweet.

Hannah sat cross-legged on the couch next to her. "You look like you haven't been sleeping."

"I'm all knotted up inside. Maybe it's the methadone."

"It's not the methadone. It's three years of feelings trying to get out."

"Is it cold in here?"

Hannah touched her hand. The shaking got worse. "No," Hannah said. "It's not the methadone and it's not the temperature. It's just you." And then she leaned forward slowly and kissed Veronica on the lips.

It was gentle but not sisterly, warm but not demanding. Veronica shivered and held herself, feeling like she was fighting to keep from drowning. "You're confusing me…"

"You were already confused. When was the last time you enjoyed making love? When was the last time you lay next to somebody and got comfort out of it? When was the last time you thought you deserved to be happy? You don't have to answer me. I already know"

She stood up and took Veronica's hand. Veronica followed her, not to the bedroom, like she expected, but to the bath. Hannah started the water running and undressed her, carefully, not touching her more than she had to. The room began to fill with steam. "Get in," Hannah said, and Veronica got in the tub. The hot water stung her, made her face flush. "Your body is still very beautiful," Hannah said. "You've been careful with the needle." Veronica nodded. The hot water stopped her shaking and helped her relax. She felt drugged. Had there been something in the tea?

Hannah took her own clothes off and put her glasses on the edge of the sink. She was a little heavy in the waist, and her stomach curved without jeans to hold it in. Her underclothes left red lines around her waist and under her breasts. Still, she seemed beautiful to Veronica, her pale nipples, the discreet tangle of hair between her legs. Veronica found herself about to reach one hand out to touch Hannah's body, then stopped herself, ashamed and confused.

Hannah poured oil into the tub. It foamed and colored the air with the heavy green smell of wildflowers. Then she knelt beside the tub and kissed Veronica again. Veronica's mouth opened, against her will, and she tasted the mint tea on Hannah's breath. "What are you doing to me?" she whispered.

"Seducing you," Hannah said. "If I do anything that scares you or you don't feel comfortable with, just say so." She put her hands on Veronica's cheeks, then slowly ran them down her neck and shoulders. Veronica leaned back against the tub, eyes closed, her breathing coming raggedly. Hannah's small, soft hands moved to her breasts. "Oh," Veronica said. She was melting. Her entire body was liquid. She couldn't tell where it ended and the bathwater began.

This time when Hannah kissed her she leaned into it and put both arms around her.

By the time Hannah helped her into bed Veronica had no will of her own. She had no strength, no intelligence, only sensation. Hannah was slow and gentle and unafraid. She knew where to touch her and how much pressure to use. The first climax was the most intense Veronica had ever felt. It had been so long she barely recognized the feeling. There were others. They blurred into a continuum of pleasure.

And at the end of it came sleep.

Sunlight woke her. Her eyes opened and saw dark green sheets. The rest of it came back and she sat up quickly, holding the sheet against her. Hannah lay on her side, watching.

"What did you do to me? What was in that tea?"

"Nothing," Hannah said. "What happened was that we made love."

"This is too weird. I have to get out of here." She looked around the room for her clothes, reluctant to get out of bed naked with Hannah there.

"Wait," Hannah said. There was a stillness about her that Veronica found inescapable. "I know what's wrong with you. I'm an alcoholic. I was drunk for ten years and now I've been sober for six. I was married to a man that I hated, and I hated him just because I didn't want to have sex with him. It wasn't his fault, it was the way I am. Only nobody could tell me that was the reason."

"What's that got to do with me? Are you saying I'm queer?" There was a towel on the floor next to her. She wrapped herself in it and looked in the bathroom. Her clothes were folded neatly on the floor.

"Maybe you're not gay." Hannah raised her voice just enough for Veronica to hear her. "Though I believe you are. That doesn't matter. You hate yourself for what you're doing with your body. It makes you feel helpless. And helplessness is what addiction is all about."

Veronica buttoned her rumpled silk blouse and brushed at the creases in her skirt. "I got to go."

"I've got three o'clock set aside for you. If you want to talk some more."

"Just talk? Or do you fuck all your patients?"

There was a short, hurt silence. "You're the first. I suppose I should feel like I've pissed away all my ethics, but I don't."

Veronica opened the door. "I'll think about it," she said. Then she belted on her coat and ran down the stairs.

Jerry was waiting for her when she got back to the brownstone.

"Melanie said you were sick," he said. "I wanted to see if I could help."

"No, Jerry. It's sweet of you and all, but no."

"Where were you? Did you go out on another date?"

Veronica shook her head. "I've been to the doctor, that's all."

Jerry looked her up and down. obviously made the decision not to call her out. He sat on the sofa and looked at the flowers he'd sent her the day before, still on the desk by the phone, the card unopened. "I'm wasting my time, aren't I?"

"Jerry. What do you want me to say? You shouldn't have fallen in love with a hooker. I mean, what were you thinking about? Did you think I was available on a Rentto-Own plan?" She sat down next to him, touched his face. "You're a sweet kid, Jerry. Women should go nuts for you. Real women. That's what you deserve. Not some half-breed Puerto Rican junkie hooker."

Junkie, she thought. She'd actually said it.

"You're the one I want," Jerry said, looking at the floor.

"You don't even know me. You've got no idea. You're trying to catch up on twenty years overnight, and you see me as some kind of shortcut. Nothing happens that fast. Give yourself some time."

"Can I see you tonight?"

"No. Not tonight." She paused, got up her nerve. "Not ever. Not anymore."

"Why? I love you."

"You don't know what love is. You don't know what you're talking about. You've got some kind of stupid romantic ideas from all those movies you watch and they don't have anything to do with real life. I can't stand it. I don't want to be the only thing propping up this makebelieve world of yours. I'm not strong enough."

She stood up. "Veronica, please!"

She couldn't look at him. His face was all twisted, like he was trying not to cry. "I'm sorry, Jerry" she said. "You'll find somebody. You'll see." She ran upstairs.

It wasn't even noon, but she was wide-awake, her head clear. It made her nervous to feel as good as she did. She showered and put on jeans and a sweater and went downtown for her methadone. Okay, she thought, standing in line, feeling the November sun warm her hair. You can admit you're a junkie. You can admit you're tired of iturning tricks. What does that leave you?

All the girls had savings accounts in Ichiko's name. Half their earnings went into the fund every month, carefully monitored by the new computer. If Veronica gave up the Life, she could collect the money. It would keep her alive for at least a couple of years. Then what? Find some poor sap like Jerry and settle down to have kids?

She got to the head of the line. A boy in a white lab coat behind the window glanced at her card and gave her the dose. She drank it and threw the cup at an overflowing trash can. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough not to hurt, not to have the need. Heroin was more than that, more than an end to pain. It was the rush, the joy, the way the cool fire went through her like God's love.

She took a battered list of phone numbers out of her purse and started dialing. Twice she left messages on phone machines and the third time she got lucky. "Croyd?" she said.

"Himself. Where are you, darlin'?" His words ended with muffled clicks. She hadn't seen him in three months. He'd obviously slept, and woken in a distorted body. That was okay. Veronica could see past the surface.

"Chelsea," she said. "Want to get high?"

He was near the East River, in the waterfront apartment where she'd first spent the night with him, two years before. That was Wild Card Day, when the Astronomer had killed Caroline, and Fortunato had left for Japan.

When she was high, those memories never bothered her.

Croyd answered the door and Veronica stood and stared at him for a long moment. "I'd kiss you," Croyd said, "but I'm afraid I might hurt you."

"That's okay, I'll pass." The clicking she'd heard on the phone came when he shut his beak at the end of a word. He was over seven feet tall and covered with feathers. A thin membrane linked his arms to his sides. "Can you fly?"

He shook his head. "Too heavy. Shame, isn't it? I can glide a little, dive out of a second-story window. So it's not a complete loss."

His eyes were shiny black and the wrinkled feathers above them gave him a look of fierce intelligence. "I may be wasting my time," she said.

The beak opened into a smile. "The wings may not be functional, but the rest of me is."

Veronica shook her head. "I'm in trouble, Croyd. Have you got any coke?"

They sat at his kitchen table, a slab of pine with cigarette burns and peeling varnish. Veronica did two lines then passed the straw to Croyd. He snorted his into the small black holes at the base of his beak. Veronica wiped the mirror down with her index finger and rubbed it into her gums. "Better," she said.

"You sure you don't want to finish this conversation in bed?"

She shook her head. "I need a friend right now. Weird shit is happening to me. I can't get a handle." She told him about Hannah, about nearly throwing up after her last "date."

Croyd listened intently. At least he looked intent. When she finished he said, "It's probably stupid for me to say this. I mean, this is not in my best interest. But you can't go against what you feel. You need to see this woman again, in the light of day, and make up your mind about her. Maybe you are gay. So what? Do you really care what a bunch of square assholes think about your sex life?"

"I feel like I'm fourteen," Veronica said. "All these emotional roller coasters. I can't keep up."

"You want my advice, don't even try. Let it happen. And if you get in trouble, you can call me." It sounded like they were finished, but Croyd hesitated, like there was something else he had to say. "There's nothing else happened, right? I mean, no… no symptoms."

He was talking about that whole Typhoid Croyd business. She shook her head. "No. No sudden ace powers, no flippers on the ends of my legs. I don't think it did anything to me at all."

"It's just-I feel responsible, that's all."

"Don't worry about it."

He walked her to the door and she hugged him tight, despite the peculiar acid smell of his feathers. His hands rested flat against her back. "I have to be careful," he said.

"If I bend my fingers too much, these claws come out." He showed her the claws. There was a light of pleasure in his eyes when he looked at them.

"So long, Croyd," she said. "Thanks for everything."

She got to Hannah's office just before four. "I'm late," she said.

Hannah held the door for her. "It doesn't matter. There's nobody else scheduled for this afternoon." Then she said, "I'm glad you came."

Veronica was giddy from cocaine and nerves and couldn't sit down. Hannah took her usual position, in the chair across the table from the couch.

"How's the methadone working out?" Hannah asked. "Fine," Veronica said. "It's great." She walked behind the couch, turned around, leaned into the back of it. "No, it's not great. It's not enough. I still want to get high. I need it."

"Why?"

"Why? What a stupid fucking question. Because I like to feel good. Because when you're high, you don't care about wading through all the world's shit-"

"What shit?" Hannah said. "What shit are you living in that you didn't put yourself into? You've got everything backward. You think you can control your drug habit and you can't control your life. It's the other way around, you just don't know it. You have no control over heroin. It owns you. They call it horse, but it's really riding you. That's step one of what they call the Twelve-Step Plan. You have to admit you are powerless to control your addiction. And then, later on, you can learn to take responsibility for the rest of your life. As in 'the ability to respond.' Not blame, not control, but responsibility. Something you can live with."

Veronica shook her head. "That's all easy for you to say. But I don't have any kind of life. My mother is a washed-up whore who's pimping me now. I never knew who my father was, and I don't think my mother did either. I got no brothers or sisters to turn to. I learned all that shit Fortunato taught us, but it's not a college diploma. It's not going to get me _a soft job someplace. Look at the odds. I'm going to end up like the kids I went to school with. Fat and old, either divorced or married to a husband that beats me up on weekends." It was hard to believe. She'd actually talked herself right out of her cocaine high.

"So what is it you want?"

"Escape. I want a good-looking man with a fast car and a lot of money to come and take me away someplace."

"And then what?"

"Then we live happily ever after."

"That's bullshit, Veronica. You know better than that. If all you want is some man, you could have had plenty. What's the difference whether you're dependent on a drug or dependent on a man? There isn't any, and you know it." Veronica thought of Jerry, who would take her away if she would only let him. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

Hannah walked over to the window and looked out at the street. "When you walked in here I saw myself, six years ago. There's a fire in you. A heat. Sexual, emotional, spiritual. It's been too much for you, all your life. You had to use heroin to keep it from eating you up." She turned and looked Veronica in the eyes. "I want that fire. I want all you have. The two of us, together, burning until we burn each other up."

Veronica could not get her breath. She stood up, feeling the fabric of her sweater move against her tight, aching nipples. She walked to the door and locked it. The pressure of her jeans between her legs was maddening. She kicked off her shoes and pulled the sweater over her head.

"Show me," she said.

At fifteen she'd been in love with an eighteen-yearold pachuco, had fucked him at every possible opportunity, in the backseat of his car, in the park, once in the stairwell of her high school. It was always quick and brutal, and afterward she went home to her empty room.

There she could think about the boy and make herself come with her fingers, the way she could never come when he was inside her.

Since then she'd had sex with hundreds of men. None of them had made her come either, not even Fortunato, and as for love, she'd convinced herself it was just another he.

Hannah changed all of that. They made love five or six times a day. It was all so equal. For everything of Hannah's there was something of Veronica's. Afterward they slept in each other's arms. Under Hannah's gentle hands and tongue, Veronica found a responsiveness she didn't think was possible, not for anyone.

"Women don't come from having men inside them," Hannah told her. "I've read in books that we're supposed to, I've heard there are women who do. But I've never talked to one of them. Every woman I've ever talked to needs something more."

"More," Veronica said. "I want more."

She only left Hannah's apartment long enough to score her daily methadone. She wore Hannah's clothes, when she bothered to wear clothes at all. She did what Croyd had told her to. She stopped fighting and immersed herself in sensation: the smell and feel and taste of Hannah's body, the exotic foods and teas that Hannah prepared for her, the long nights of physical and emotional intimacy where nothing was forbidden.

Almost nothing, anyway. Veronica found herself talking for hours about her childhood, the terrors of Catholic school, the tangled genealogy of her aunts and uncles and cousins, the hypocrisy of Catholic sexuality in which teenaged girls routinely gave blow jobs but recoiled in horror from the thought of losing their sacred virginity.

It was Hannah that held back. She talked about her childhood, her ex-husband, her parents. She was an imaginative and enthusiastic lover, afraid of nothing. She had Veronica reading about addiction and feminism and Marxism and vegetarianism and everything else that was a part of her life. But she never explained the transition, the years between her drunken marriage and her sober counseling job.

There were hints. She had been part of some kind of radical feminist group. She never mentioned the name. "They believed in a lot of things I wasn't comfortable with," was all she would say.

"What sort of things?"

"Things that might appeal to somebody who was still full of anger and bitterness. Things you have to outgrow if you're going to get anywhere."

Veronica assumed she was talking about violence. Bombing or assassination or something else illegal. And because Hannah didn't want to talk about it, Veronica left it alone.

Veronica was the first to say "I love you."

It was dawn. They lay side by side, their hands between each other's legs, lips just touching. The pleasure was so strong that the words came out without her quite meaning them to. Hannah held her tightly and said, "It scares me when you say that. People use the word 'love' on each other like a weapon. I don't want that to happen to us."

"I love you anyway. Whatever you say. Whether you like it or not."

Hannah pulled far enough away to look into her eyes. "I love you, too."

"I want to kick the methadone. I want to get clean."

"Okay."

"I mean now. Starting today."

"It'll be ugly. I can get you drugs to help, but it's going to tear you apart. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"It's what I want."

"Give it one more week. We need to get out a little, get you back into the world. If you still want to do it next week, then we'll try it."

"I guess that's what I'm saying."

"I think I would like to do that," Veronica said. She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. They both pretended not to see the tears. "What do I tell Ichiko?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"You're going into counselor mode again." Hannah shrugged.

"I guess I tell her I'm moving out. That I'm through. I think she's probably figured that out already."

In fact Ichiko had. "I hope you will be very happy," she said. She hugged Veronica. "I can see already that you are. Here's a little money to make things easier." The amount on the check was larger than Veronica had any reason to expect. "Your trust fund, plus a little extra from me."

"I don't know…"

"Take it," Ichiko said. "Times are changing. I don't feel so good about this business, the way I used to. I look around, I see all this hatred. They hate jokers and aces. When I first came to this country, they hated me for being Japanese. Fortunato's father had to hide us during the Pacific War so they wouldn't put us into camps. People afraid of each other, hurting each other. My geishas don't help that anymore. When a man uses a woman, it doesn't make him a better man. Any more than having black people for slaves made white people better. In the end they only come to hate each other."

"What are you saying? Are you going to close down the business?"

Ichiko shrugged. "It's something I think about, more and more. There is all this pressure on me, these gangsters and big-money men wanting to take over the business. If I close down, they will go away and leave me alone. I have enough money. Who cares about money anyway?" She pushed the check toward Veronica again, and this time Veronica took it. "You go and be happy and find love where you can."

Veronica went upstairs and finished packing. Eventually she knew she couldn't put it off any longer and knocked on the door of her mother's room.

That afternoon they went to a movie together. They held hands like teenagers. At dinner afterward, over Chinese food, Hannah said, "I think you should bring some of your things over. Clothes and things. You know. And your cat."

"You mean move in."

Miranda had heard most of it from Ichiko, and what she hadn't heard she'd figured out for herself. She took Veronica's hands and held them both for a long time without saying anything. Finally she said, "You know I don't care that you're in love with a woman and not a man. You know I'm happy you're giving up… the Life. I never wanted that for you in the first place." She sighed. "Just be careful, darling, please. You've only known this woman for what, not even two weeks?"

Veronica pulled her hands away and stood up. "Mother, for God's sake."

"I'm not trying to rain on your parade-"

"Yes, you are. That's exactly what you're trying to do."

"I'm just saying you don't know her very well. I want this to work out for you, really I do, but it may not, and-"

"Save it," Veronica said. "I don't want to hear it. Just once, be happy that I'm happy. And if you can't, then keep your mouth shut about it." She walked out and slammed the door and took her things down to the cab where Hannah waited.

On the ride home, with Liz huddled nervously on her lap, Veronica started to shake.

"Are you okay?" Hannah asked her. "Did you get your methadone today?"

"I took it," Veronica said. "It's not that." Though the symptoms were much the same. She felt clammy and her bowels were knotted up. "I'm scared, that's all."

Hannah put her arms around her. "Scared? What are you afraid of?"

"I have my whole life in front of me. It's just out there, waiting. I don't know what to do with it."

"You live it," Hannah said. "That's all. One day at a time."

The next afternoon they walked down Fifth Avenue, looking in the windows. Veronica stopped in front of a blue-sequined strapless gown in the window of Sak's. "God," she said. "How gorgeous."

Hannah took her arm and led her away, smiling. "And how politically incorrect. That's just a harness men put you in. Come on. Let's get this money of yours in the bank before it turns to fairy dust or something."

They walked down to the Chase Manhattan and went in. There was a single line, marked off with red velvet ropes, far the Paying and Receiving tellers. Veronica stepped up to the back of the line, already six people long, and two more moved in behind her.

"I'm going to walk around," Hannah said. "I hate lines. They make me claustrophobic."

There was a nervousness in Hannah's eyes Veronica had never seen before. She remembered what her mother had said, realized how little, in fact, she knew this woman she was in love with. "You're not kidding, are you?"

"No," she said, her smile flickering like a bad fluorescent bulb. "I'm not." She stepped over the velvet rope and wandered off into the open part of the lobby. Veronica couldn't help noticing a good-looking blond kid a few feet away from her, filling out some kind of form at the service counter. Hannah saw him, too, and turned for a second look.

Veronica felt a stab of jealousy. The kid was in his late teens, dressed in expensive khaki pants, loafers, and a V -necked sweater with nothing underneath. He had a long black coat draped casually over one arm. His hair fell over his ears and collar and he had the start of a five-o'clock shadow. There was an effortless sexuality about him that was obvious to everyone around him.

Hannah smiled and shook her head. It looked like she was smiling at herself rather than the kid. She started to walk away. The man in line behind Veronica cleared his throat noisily. Veronica looked up, saw the line had moved, took up the slack. She looked back at Hannah just in time to see her stagger.

"Hannah…?" Veronica said.

Hannah caught her balance and took a couple of hesitant steps. It was like her shoes had heels that were too high for her. But Hannah never wore high heels. She turned and looked at Veronica.

Her eyes were wrong. There was something crazy in them, and in the way she smiled. Veronica looked at the long line that stretched out behind her. She didn't want to lose her place, but if something was really wrong… Suddenly Hannah began to run.

It was clumsy and slow, but it took the security guard by surprise. Hannah had the gun out of his holster and pointed at his head before he knew what was happening. "Hannah!" Veronica screamed.

The gun kicked in Hannah's hand. The shot boomed off the marble walls and the room went silent for a long second afterward. The bullet threw the guard against the wall, his face collapsed around the black hole in his cheek. He left a long red smear against pale stone of the wall as he slumped to the floor.

Veronica tried to jump the velvet rope and caught her foot. Hannah turned toward her as she fell and fired again, the bullet howling over Veronica's head. The silence gave way to screams and shouts of panic. An alarm went off, barely audible over the rest of the noise. The customers, most of them men in dark suits, ran for the doors. Hannah spun around to watch, a hideous joy on her face.

Veronica got her legs under her and ran at Hannah. Guards converged from all over the building, guns out. One of them shouted at Veronica, something like, "Hey, lady, stay down!" Another guard fired a shot over Hannah's head and Hannah fired back at him, twice.

By then Veronica was in the air.

She tackled Hannah around the waist and they slid across the polished floor. The gun came loose and skittered away. With the strength of absolute fear she pinned Hannah's arms above her head. "It's me, goddammit!" Veronica yelled. "What's wrong with you?"

Across the lobby a body hit the floor.

It was the blond kid in the sweater. He seemed stunned, paralyzed, as if he'd had a stroke. His face was distorted with terror and something else, some kind of alien presence. He started to raise one hand to his face, then jerked forward like a fumbled puppet.

And then, just as the guards swarmed over them, Veronica saw the light come back into Hannah's eyes. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Two pairs of hands pulled Veronica away. Two more bank guards and an NYPD cop shoved gun barrels into Hannah's face, screaming at her not to move. In seconds they had her in handcuffs and out the door.

Veronica tried to get loose and the guards tightened their hold. She strained to find the blond kid in the crowd. He was gone.

They took her to the precinct station in a squad car. At first they just wanted her story, over and over. Veronica told them she and Hannah were roommates, told them about the heroin, about the check she'd been taking to the bank. When they asked her what happened there, she told them she didn't know. "It wasn't Hannah," she said. "We've got a dozen witnesses that say it was."

" I mean, it wasn't her inside her body. It was like she was… I don't know. Possessed."

"Possessed? The devil made her do it?"

" I don't know."

She told the story again and again, until the words lost all meaning.

Then a cop in a suit came out of the darkness and said, "What do you know about a bunch that calls itself WORSE!"

" I never heard of them. Can I have a glass of water?"

"In a minute. Can you tell me what the initials stand for?"

"I told you, I never-"

"Women's Organization to Reach Sexual Equality. Now does it ring a bell?"

"No, I-"

"Last year there was a riot outside an abortion clinic. These people from WORSE sent five protesters and a cop to the hospital."

"Good for them," Veronica said.

"The cop died. Now do you think it's funny? There's at least seven incidents in the last year where these women have provoked violence in the streets. One of the people they've got it in for is your old employer. Fortunato."

"What's that got to do with Hannah?"

"Not much. She's only the president."

"What? That's impossible."

"I guess you know everything about her, right? How long did you say you've known her? Ten days?"

"She said she had nothing to do with those people anymore."

"You just said you'd never heard of WORSE."

"She never mentioned the name. She said she used to be part of some radical organization, but she didn't agree with their methods. She said it was over a long time ago."

A little man with pattern baldness and glasses said, "She's clean, Lou. She's telling the truth." The man was a low-grade ace, the weakest sort of telepath. The cops had ten or fifteen on staff to use as lie detectors.

"To hell with it then," the man in the suit said. "We're cutting you loose. But I don't want you away from a phone where I can find you for more than an hour at a time. You got that?"

"I want to see her," Veronica said.

"Forget it. Her lawyer's there. That's all she gets."

"Who's her lawyer?"

The man in the suit sighed. "Bud?"

One of the cops looked through the file. "Lawyer's name is Mundy." He whistled. "From Latham, Strauss. Hot stuff."

"Now get out of here," the man in the suit said. Two uniformed cops gave her a ride home, then followed her inside. They had a warrant, signed and sealed. She sat on the floor and watched them as they took the apartment apart. One of them found the sexual toys in the drawer by the bed. He held up the wooden ben wa balls for his partner to see, then looked over at Veronica. "Fuck you," Veronica said, blushing, close to tears. "Leave that stuff alone."

The cop shrugged and put the balls away. Finally they left. Veronica had watched them carefully. There was nothing in the apartment, not a single piece of evidence, to connect Hannah to WORSE.

As soon as they were gone, she called Latham, Strauss. The answering service took her number. She hung up and moved restlessly through the house, putting the Plexiglas framed drawings back on the walls, refolding clothes and putting them in the drawers, wiping down the cabinets. The phone rang.

"Veronica? This is Dyan Mundy."

"Thank God."

"I was about to call you when I got your message. Hannah asked me to. She wanted you to know she's okay, they haven't hurt her." The woman's voice exuded confidence, control, a kind of artificial warmth. Veronica visualized chin-length blond hair, gold rings, three strands of pearls. "There's no way I can get you in to see her just now. She understands that, and sends you her love."

Tears ran down Veronica's cheeks. "What happened? Did she say what happened?"

"She tried to explain, but frankly, her story doesn't make much sense. She apparently had some kind of out-of-body experience. She felt this shock and disorientation and then she was suddenly off to the side somewhere. Watched herself shoot the guard as if from a great distance. I don't know how well that's going to play in court. Do you know if she's ever been treated for an emotional disturbance? Is there any history of it in her family?"

"There's nothing the matter with Hannah," Veronica said. "Somebody else was in her body when the guard was killed. It wasn't Hannah."

"That's what she said."

"What about the blond kid?"

"What blond kid?"

"When Hannah got… taken over, or whatever it was, there was this blond kid. He just keeled over, like a zombie. Then at the end Hannah was back in her own body and I couldn't find the kid anywhere."

"I don't understand. What are you trying to make out of this?"

"I don't know. But I think that kid was involved somehow"

A long pause. "Veronica, I know you're upset. But you have to trust me. She's in the hands of the best law firm in the city. If anybody can save her, we can."

She couldn't sleep. She thought of Hannah alone in a damp and stinking cell, claustrophobic, terrified out of her mind. Nothing Veronica could do would convince the police-or even Hannah's lawyer-of what she knew to be the truth. Something that wasn't Hannah had pulled the trigger.

She called all of Croyd's numbers, with no luck. Jerry would gladly help, but what could he do? His brother's law firm was already on the case. And what good were lawyers against an entire bank lobby full of eyewitnesses? Hannah's smell was still in the sheets. It made Veronica crazy with longing. It was like a heroin habit, tearing up her guts. She couldn't lie there any longer. She put on running shoes and went out onto the street.

It was nine o'clock on a Friday night. The life of the city went on without her, as it always did. She drifted toward the light and noise of Broadway, hating the faces she saw around her, wanting to throw herself into the river of yellow cabs and pound on them and scream until the world stopped what it was doing and came to help. New York was the best city in the world to be happy in, and the worst if you were desperate. It towered over the helpless, sped by them in clouds of monoxide. It shoved past them on the street without apology, and left its garbage all around them to wade through.

Life meant nothing without Hannah. Without Hannah she would end up back on the needle, would find herself giving blow jobs on car seats for ten dollars a pop. Anything would be better.

That was when she saw the gun.

It was inside the glass display case of a pawnshop, just visible behind the guitars and stereos in the window. It was chrome-plated and heavy and spoke the word "power" to her.

She went inside. The man behind the counter was fifty going on twenty-two. Veronica had had too many tricks just like him. His hairpiece wasn't even the same color as the fringe around his ears. His polyester shirt was green, with horses on it, ten years out of fashion. It was unbuttoned to show his chest hair and gold chains.

"How much is that pistol?" Veronica asked him. "Now, what would a sweet little number such as yourself want with a big, nasty Smith and Wesson. 38?" He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall behind the counter. On the TV over his shoulder, two football teams smashed into each other.

"I'm not in the mood for bullshit, pal. How much is the gun?"

The man shook his head, smiling. " I see it all the time. Sweet little thing gets a little upset with her sugar daddy, maybe catches him with his hand in the wrong cookie jar, and suddenly she's got to blow him away. This is what television has done to modern society. Everybody wants to blow everybody else away."

"Look, pal-"

The man leaned forward. "No, you look. The law says I'm responsible for what I sell. I don't like your looks, I don't have to sell you shit." He straightened up and his voice softened. "So why don't you be a good little girl and run along home to Papa?"

In that moment Veronica saw her entire life as one humiliation after another, all at the hands of men, all of whom felt they were privileged to decide her destiny.

From the father who never acknowledged her, to Fortunato who told her how to dress and how to smile, to Jerry who expected her to love him just because he loved her, to the countless men who'd used her and walked away. She was sick of it. For once she wished she had Fortunato's power, could reach out with her mind and crush this pompous, ugly little man to jelly.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered. It should have distracted her, but instead she felt connected. The lights flashed with the rhythm of her breathing and she knew she was the cause. She felt the power flowing through the wires, flowing out of the grid and into her mind. The wild card. Croyd. It was happening. The picture on the TV rolled, then turned to snow. The second hand on the big electric clock next to it stopped, then swung back and forth like a pendulum, keeping time with the flashing lights. The man started to turn toward the TV and then went pale. He sat down slowly, his arms crossing tighter, as if he were cold. Sweat beaded his face.

"Are you hurt?" she asked him.

" I don't know" His voice was weak, and higher than it had been.

She hadn't crippled him, apparently. Beyond that she didn't care. "Give me the gun."

"I… I don't know if I can."

"Do it!"

He got onto his hands and knees, fumbled a key into the lock, slid the back of the display case open. He had to use both hands to lift the gun onto the counter. Veronica reached for it, then realized what she'd done. Why did she need a gun?

She ran into the street, waving for a cab.

She got as far as the holding tank on nerve alone. The beefy, red-haired guard outside the lockup refused to let her any farther and Veronica tried to do to him what she'd done in the pawnshop. Nothing happened.

She felt a surge of panic. She had no idea what the power was or how it worked. What if she couldn't use it again right away? What if she needed something that had been in the pawnshop as a catalyst?

"Lady, I told you, this is a restricted area. Now, are you going to get out of here or do I got to call somebody?" Panic turned to helplessness, helplessness to anger. What good was this power if she couldn't use it to help Hannah? And with the anger it came. The lights flickered and the music from a TV inside the lockup dissolved in static. Suddenly she could hear the prisoners screaming. The man staggered, leaned forward to support himself on his desk. "Jesus Christ," the man said. "Jesus Christ."

"Where's the keys?"

"What'd you do to me, lady? I can't lift my fuckin' arms."

"The keys."

The man slumped into his chair, unsnapped the keys from his belt, and slid them across the desk. Behind Veronica a man's voice said, "Charlie?"

Veronica concentrated on the voice without turning around and heard the man slump to the floor. The third key she tried fit a control panel next to the steel lockup door. A motor wheezed and the door bucked but didn't open. She realized she was still disrupting the electricity and forced herself to relax.

The door slid back. There were four cells inside. Three of them held drunks and addicts and derelicts. In the fourth were four black prostitutes, and Hannah. All of them but Hannah were screaming for help.

Hannah hung from a pipe in the ceiling by her trousers. Her face was swollen and purple and her tongue stuck straight out of her slack mouth. Her eyes bulged. A patch of hair had been ripped out by the zipper in her pants and a drop of dried blood still clung to her scalp. Veronica threw herself at the bars, her screams lost in the voices around her. She felt the keys tugged out of her hand and one of the hookers opened the cell from inside. Veronica ran to Hannah and held her with one arm around her waist, the other hand tugging at the knotted pant leg around her neck.

She refused to think. Not yet. Not while there was still something left to try. She laid Hannah's body out on the sticky gray floor of the cell. She pushed the swollen tongue aside and dug vomit out of Hannah's throat with her fingers. She blew air into her lungs until she lost all breath herself.

One of the prostitutes had stayed behind. She looked at Veronica and said, "She a wild woman before she die. Bitch went completely crazy. Never saw anything like it. We couldn't get near to her."

Veronica nodded.

"I tried to stop her, but there weren't no way. Girl was crazy, that's all."

"Thank you," Veronica said.

Then the cell was full of police, guns drawn, and there was nothing she could do but raise her hands and go along with them.

She waited until she was alone with two detectives before she used her power again. She left the two of them barely conscious on the floor of the interrogation room and walked out into the night.

The street was headlights and horns honking, blaring jam boxes and shouting voices, all of it too bright, too loud, too overwhelming. Inside her it was the same. Her mind would not shut up. Hannah was her life, the only thing that mattered. If Hannah was dead, how could she still be alive?

The thought was white-hot, too painful to touch. Better, she thought, to just think of herself as already dead. She watched a bus roar past her and wondered what it would feel like to go under its wheels.

Then she remembered the look on Hannah's face as she lay on the floor of the bank, as her consciousness came back into her. She remembered the prostitute in the cell. Crazy, wild woman, the prostitute had said.

Someone had done this to Hannah. Somewhere in the city there was someone who knew what had happened, and why.

Not dead, Veronica thought. Hannah is dead, and I'm not. Someone knows why.

It turned into a refrain, a mantra. It brought her back to Hannah's apartment, took her inside. She lay down in Hannah's bed and held one of Hannah's shirts to her face and breathed the smell. Liz crawled up onto the bed next to her and started to purr. Together they lay there and waited to, see if the sun would ever rise.

Mr. Nobody Goes to Town by Walton Simons

Jerry pushed the intercom button and stared up at the closed-circuit TV A cold wind whipped at him, stinging his-face and ears. Overeating at Thanksgiving dinner hadn't given him much in the way of winter fat. But it was only early December, he could keep working on it. "Who is it?" said a polite female voice over the intercom.

Jerry recognized Ichiko. "Jerry Strauss. I'd like to come up and talk to you about Veronica. Or, at least, get warm."

There was a buzz and the automatic door bolt clicked open. Jerry pushed his way in and walked into the sitting room, rubbing his hands. A woman sat on the low couch. She was tall, with long brown hair, distant eyes, and soft features. She stared past Jerry toward the street. Jerry walked to the door of Ichiko's office and knocked. "Come in."

Jerry slipped in and sat down in the chair opposite Ichiko's desk. The office was more high tech than Jerry had expected. There was a computer on her credenza and a bank of TV screens showing the outside of the building and the sitting room. Jerry had only seen the one camera; the rest must be hidden. Ichiko was wearing a dark blue dress. Her eyes looked tired, but she managed a smile. "Thanks for seeing me," Jerry said. "I was just wondering if you had any idea how I could find Veronica, or even contact her."

Ichiko shook her head. "She moved all her belongings out a few weeks ago. She didn't tell me about her future plans."

"Do you have any ideas at all?"

"No." Ichiko pressed her fingertips together. "Really. Would you like to try someone else as a companion?"

"No. I don't know how I got into this situation in the first place. It's not really like me. Veronica was special, I guess."

All women are special. Men as well, I suppose.' Ichiko stood. "I'm sorry I've been unable to help you, Mr. Strauss."

"It was just a shot," Jerry said, standing and taking a step toward the door.

Ichiko looked up at the monitors. A red light was flashing under one of them. Two young Oriental men were staring up at the screen. One of them pulled out a can of spray paint. He held it up to the camera. The screen went dark. "Damn," Ichiko said. She pushed the intercom to the sitting room. "Diane, get in here now."

Jerry heard footfalls outside and the door swung open, almost hitting him. The young woman shut the door behind her. Her already pale complexion had gone white. "They're at the outside door," she said. "Two Egrets."

"What's going on?" Jerry backed away from the door and stood behind the desk with Ichiko and Diane. "Immaculate Egrets. Street thugs," Ichiko said. "We've refused to pay them protection money. I used to be able to threaten them with the return of my son, but it's been so long."

"Fortunato?" Jerry asked.

"No, Santa Claus." Diane's voice was trembling, but she managed a quick stare that made Jerry feel like a six-year-old.

Jerry looked at Ichiko's desktop. There was a picture of Fortunato. He picked it up and sat in the chair, studying the photograph.

"What are you doing?" Ichiko's voice was calm and curious.

"The best I can," said Jerry. "Either one of you got a mirror?"

Diane fumbled in her purse and handed him a compact. Jerry stared into it and started changing his features and skin tone.

"Jesus," said Diane. "No wonder Veronica was spooked by you."

Jerry ignored the comment and handed her back the compact. He turned to Ichiko. "How do I look?"

"A little more forehead," she said.

There was a pounding at the office door, then laughter. "Diane, let them in," Jerry said, trying to force authority into his voice.

The girl opened the door and stood back. The two Egrets walked into the room like foxes entering the henhouse. They saw Jerry and stopped.

"What do you want?" Jerry said.

"Pay up," said the larger of the two kids. He took a step forward. Jerry stood up slowly. He could only make himself a little taller, but he'd pushed the limits.

"Get out, scum." Jerry folded his arms into what he hoped was a mystical-looking position. "Get out, or I'll turn you into something like this."

Jerry let his facial features go completely. He let his jaw sag and rolled out a huge, blue tongue. He flattened his nose and elongated his ears. Flaps of skin from his forehead began to melt over his brow.

The Egrets ran, bouncing off each other in the office doorway. A gun popped loose and skidded across the floor. Jerry walked around the desk and picked it up. It was cold, blue, and heavy. He tucked it into his coat.

"They might be waiting for me outside," he explained. "Your face," Diane said, wincing. "Fix it or something." Jerry closed his eyes and let his body image take his face back to normal.

"You have done me a great service," Ichiko said. "If you truly wish to find Veronica, a group called WORSE may be hiding her. However, I suggest you hire a professional to take up the chase. They're dangerous women from what I hear."

Jerry nodded. "Thanks." He stared at Diane. She looked away. Scaring her was more fun than he wanted to admit. He blew her a kiss and walked slowly out of the office and into the cold streets.

Ackroyd sat behind the cluttered desk, a manila folder conspicuous in the center. His right eye was slightly swollen and dark. "Want a drink?" he asked as Jerry sat down. "It's all part of the service."

The old metal chair creaked as Jerry settled into it. "No. Oh, well. Don't want to be a bad guest."

Ackroyd opened a drawer and pulled out a glass and bottle of scotch. He wiped out the glass with a tissue. "Straight up all right?"

"Sure. A little week-before-Christmas cheer can't hurt." Jerry needed it for his nerves. The folder was pretty thick. Maybe there was a lot more to know about Veronica than he suspected. "Not going to indulge yourself?"

Ackroyd shrugged. "I've got a bit of a headache today."

"I noticed your eye. I hope you didn't get it while you were working, you know, doing what I asked." Jerry picked up the glass and took a larger-than-normal swallow.

"Jokertown's getting tougher and tougher. Mostly nats stirring up trouble. It's kind of open season on wild cards nowadays." He opened up the folder. "Which brings us to your little lady Veronica."

"She's not exactly my lady." Jerry wasn't sure what Veronica was to him anymore, whether he really cared or she was just a lingering obsession.

"Whatever. To start where you lost track of her, she got involved with a woman named Hannah, who just happened to be involved in a rad-fem group."

"WORSE," Jerry said.

"Real good." Ackroyd stroked his chin. "You kept that to yourself. It'll help if you tell me everything you know from now on. Anyhow, whether there was anything sexual between Hannah and Veronica isn't clear. You heard about the bank murder not long back?"

"I think so. Woman shot a guard to death or something, then killed herself in jail." Jerry pictured Veronica with another woman, then took another stinging mouthful of scotch.

"That was Hannah. Veronica broke into the precinct and found the body. Apparently, she has the power to make men sick. I've known a few women like that myself."

"Anyway, that's how she got past all the cops. After that she went to ground. Rumor is that Hannah's buddies are hiding her out. I could try to infiltrate WORSE, but I don't think I'd get past the physical. Did you ever feel sick around her?"

"Not the way you're meaning it." Jerry exhaled slowly. "If she had some kind of ace, she never used it on me."

"Just curious." Ackroyd gingerly fingered the mouse under his eye. "An interesting sidebar to this. There's a rumor that Hannah was possessed or something when she shot the guard. Could be nothing. Could be an ace power."

"Then maybe Hannah didn't really commit suicide." The scotch was kicking in and Jerry was fighting off the image of Veronica's head between her lover's legs.

"Hard to say. I'll keep my ear to the ground." Ackroyd picked up the bottle. "Cash customers get a second shot if they want it."

"No thanks. Keep looking for Veronica." Jerry straightened his shoulders. "I think I'll look into Hannah's murder myself. Who's the officer in charge of the investigation?"

"Lieutenant King, homicide. Don't get in his way." Ackroyd cocked his head to one side. "I like you. Why don't you leave the detective work to me? I'm a trained professional. Years of rigorous study in detective school. Well, weeks anyway. I know my way around. You-"This is something I really want to do. I found out about WORSE, you know." Jerry felt focused for the first time in weeks. It might be real purpose and it might be just the scotch. "How tall is King?"

"Just under six feet." Ackroyd gave Jerry a long, slow look. "I know a little about your history. This may or may not apply to you, but it's not a good time to be a public wild card."

"Mine doesn't play anymore, Mr. Ackroyd. If you do know my history, you should be aware of that."

"Whatever you say. I'll let you know if I turn up anything on Veronica." Ackroyd smiled, his mouth hard and small. "And be careful."

The office wasn't exactly what Jerry had anticipated. The cream wallpaper and walnut wainscoting were an unexpected relief in the otherwise deprived depths of Jokertown. Pretorius was an unusual lawyer, though. Successful, too, or Hiram Worchester wouldn't have hired him.

"Mr. Strauss. Thank you for coming." Pretorius extended a large hand. Jerry shook it and sat down. Pretorius ran a hand through his white hair and leaned back in the chair. "As you know I've been hired to defend Hiram Worchester. Since you were on the world tour with him, I thought we might use you as a character witness."

"Well, I can't say that I know Mr. Worchester very well. I was having problems myself then, you know. Dr. Tachyon had just gotten me out of my ape body. The people who knew him said Hiram was acting in a very strange manner, especially in Japan. That's kind of secondhand information, though." Jerry extended his palms. "The few occasions I've seen Hiram since, he's been very courteous and decent. I don't know if that's any help to you."

"Hard to say. You build a case in little ways, sometimes. We might need your testimony, and we might not." Pretorius pushed his wire-rim spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "Are you planning on taking any sort of vacation or business trip in the near future?"

"No," Jerry said. "Not as far as I know"

Pretorius nodded. "Good. I appreciate your time. We'll contact you if the need arises."

"Just out of curiosity, how are you going to plead? My brother's a lawyer," Jerry explained, "he'd be disappointed if I didn't at least ask."

"Well, in the interest of professional courtesy, I'll tell you that we're pleading not guilty." Pretorius took a deep breath. "Diminished capacity. Not an argument I care for much, but this is a unique case." He snorted laughter. "Of course, they all say that."

"Thanks. Let me know if you need me." Jerry stood and headed for the door. He didn't want Pretorius to walk him. He'd heard about the leg. "And good luck."

Pretorius stayed behind the desk. "Thank you, Mr. Strauss. We are most certainly going to need it."

Jerry leaned against the railing and stared west at Ellis Island. The Staten Island Ferry was one of the few things that hadn't changed in the time he'd been an ape.

Kenneth stood silent behind him, his collar turned up against the chilling breeze that ran across the water, churning the surface into whitecaps.

"Winter already," Jerry said.

"Yeah. I suspect it's going to be a hard one."

"Got your shopping all done?" Jerry asked.

" I still have a little wrapping left to do. You?"

"Believe it or not, I actually got it done." Jerry held his gloved palms to his face and blew into them, trying to warm his nose. " I hope Beth likes what I got her. I didn't really know what to get the woman who already has everything."

Kenneth made a face Jerry couldn't quite read. It didn't look happy. "I'm sure whatever you got her will be fine," he said, still staring at the water.

Jerry waited a long moment before speaking again. "Did it bother you that Mom and Dad made such a fuss over me?"

Kenneth turned and looked into Jerry's eyes. " I hated you for it. At the time. They just never had much use for me, but they died trying to get you back."

"Oh." Jerry looked away.

"It's not that way now. You didn't cause them to ignore me. They chose to. I was afraid to hate them, so I hated you instead. I was into hate when I was younger."

"Self-righteous anger gives such an uncluttered perspective of the world. Makes life simple. I guess we need that when we're young." Kenneth put his hand on Jerry's shoulder. "But believe me, I'm tremendously happy to have you back. You make us feel more like a family." Jerry shrugged. "If you'd wanted a kid, you'd have had one, I figure. Now you're saddled with me. I'm supposed to be your older brother and I feel like such a burden."

Kenneth raised an eyebrow. "You know better than to fish for compliments with a lawyer, even if he is your brother. But in the interest of your constant need for reassurance, I'll confess that you're a welcome addition to the household." He paused. "And Beth loves you very much."

Jerry wished Kenneth seemed as glad to say it as he himself was to hear it. "Thanks. She's really great. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"That makes two of us."

Jerry leaned in. "I'm not sure she knows that."

"I think she does. Work is important to me. But Beth is always at the center. I found that out when she left me a few years back." Kenneth exhaled slowly, his breath condensing into mist. "I thought I was tough. I learned otherwise. No, I don't think we have any misunderstandings in that area anymore."

"Speaking of work, how is that going?" Jerry felt a twinge of nausea.

Kenneth paused. "It's not what I expected when I was in law school. There's more compromises than you might expect. I defend big-money clients. Justice is purchased at least as often as it's served, but we do what we can within the system. Fifteen years ago I might have been representing the joker squatters over there." He pointed. The ferry was at the point of its nearest approach to Ellis Island.

Jerry didn't think Kenneth wanted to talk about his work. He almost never did. "God, I feel like garbage all of a sudden." His stomach was knotting worse than before.

Kenneth put a hand over his mouth. "Me too. I hope it's not the flu. Christmas is no time to be sick."

"Amen to that, brother," Jerry said. "Let's find a place to sit down."

Jerry swallowed hard. He wasn't sure he could pull this one off. He hadn't figured on Lieutenant King being black. Changing his skin color and hair texture was no problem, but inside he knew he was still pure whitebread. That was going to be hard to hide.

King always took a long lunch on Thursday. Jerry would have at least half an hour before the man he was impersonating came back. He bit his lip and walked into the room.

Everyone he could see snapped to look at him. Many were reading books or newspapers, which they immediately put down or hid away. The office clattered to life with the sound of fingers on keyboards and paper shuffling. People were afraid of King. That was good. Jerry could use that. A short young man wearing glasses walked up to him quickly.

"You're back early, sir," the young man said. "Anything up?"

"You have to ask?" Jerry managed to sound tough. He tried to relax enough to enjoy his own ability to intimidate. "Get me the file on Hannah Jorde."

The man jerked his head back like someone had shoved a bee up his nose. "But…"

"Do it now. I'll be in my office." Jerry turned away, his hands shaking slightly. Ackroyd had reluctantly given him the layout of the room and Jerry headed over to King's office. The door was closed. Jerry turned the knob. It was locked.

Jerry's stomach went cold and he sagged against the solid oak door. Shit, he thought, what now? He fumbled in his pocket for his own keys and got them out, then pressed the end of his finger against the lock. He made the flesh and bone softer and began to push them inside. It felt like the bone was going to tear through the skin at the tip of his finger, but he shoved it in further. He hardened up a bit and turned his hand. The lock clicked. Jerry softened up and withdrew his aching misshapen finger, then quickly re-formed it to its original shape. He opened the door.

The office didn't look big enough to belong to a lieutenant. Jerry sat behind the desk and looked it over. There was a stack of paperwork, a few files, and a gold pen-and-pencil set for fifteen years of service to the force. Jerry leaned back in the massive rolling chair. The young man walked in, set down the file, and gave him an expectant look. "Will that be all, sir?"

Jerry nodded. "Close the door on your way out. And no calls."

"Yes, sir." The man slipped out and closed the door quietly behind him.

The file was about twenty pages or so thick. There was a transcript of Hannah's interrogation, which Jerry only skimmed. She'd said someone traded bodies with her long enough to kill the guard, and the police didn't buy it. Neither side backed off during the conversation, but Hannah didn't sound hysterical or near suicide. Not to Jerry anyway. He flipped quickly past the photos of her dead body. Even alive, she wouldn't have been that pretty. He couldn't figure out why Veronica would have slept with her. At the end of the file was a composite drawing labeled "possible suspect." The young mans features looked familiar, but Jerry couldn't place him for a moment or two. Then it clicked.

"David too-fucking-good-to-be-true. St. John Latham's boy wonder," he said softly.

Maybe there was a God, and Jerry was getting a late Christmas present.

The street was cold, windy, and poorly lit. Jerry pushed his gloved hands into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket as far as they would go. He needed some thing to occupy his time. Kenneth and Beth had been cuddling on the couch, and he didn't particularly feel like watching foreplay. He figured following David was likely to be anything but boring. Besides, if he had something to do with Hannah's murder, Jerry could find him out and look like a hero. Jerry had started out the evening as a pretty boy, figuring David would be hanging out with the beautiful people. There weren't many that fit that description in Jokertown, and that was where they were now. Jerry had bought a beat-up hat off a hatchet-faced joker to hide his nat features.

David was about thirty yards ahead of him on the other side of the street. Jerry didn't want to get too close. Not yet, anyway. The police-sketch resemblance to David was probably a coincidence. Then again, anything could happen, especially in Jokertown after hours.

David slowed his pace and stopped in front of an alley mouth, turning to look inside. He paused a second, then went in. Jerry cut across the street. A gust of wind whipped a Jokertown Cry up off the pavement and into his face. Jerry pulled it away and trotted into the alley. He heard footfalls ahead. David's, he figured. He could also hear muted laughter and what sounded like a scream.

Jerry's mouth went dry. This wasn't really how he'd planned to spend the evening. An Adonis like David should be out picking up gorgeous girls, or boys at least.

Jerry took a deep breath, chilling his throat, then walked in.

Jerry saw the light when he stepped around the dumpster. David was just stepping inside. Jerry walked up slowly, trying to appear casually interested. The entrance looked like it had been stuck onto the garbage-stained bricks of the alley wall. A joker stood at the door, looking silently at him. He wore a black silk garment that fully covered his shapeless body. His smiling face was peculiarly stiff.

Jerry tried to step past and get inside. The joker grabbed him by the shoulders and pivoted him around. "No," the joker said softly. "This is a private club." Jerry turned to give an indignant look, but there was another scream from inside. He took a step back and wandered off down the alley. Jerry looked at the dumpster as he walked past it. A torn-up gray coat stuck out slightly from inside. Jerry laughed to himself. He was rich and not used to being kept out of any place. He tucked his bomber jacket carefully under some of the less repulsive garbage and pulled out the coat. He shrugged it on and winced. In Jokertown, even frozen garbage stank. Jerry uglied himself up by enlarging his ears and nose and giving himself fleshy whiskers all over his face. No way that sack-of-potatoes doorman would recognize him now.

Jerry shortened one of his legs and loped down the alley toward the club entrance.

He was almost inside when the doorman started tittering and pulled him back out. Jerry's deformed jaw dropped.

"You didn't really think a few cosmetic alterations would get you in, did you?" The doorman waved him off. "As I said, our clientele is very special."

Jerkoff asshole, Jerry thought, then wondered if the joker could read his mind. He trotted back down the dumpster to retrieve his jacket and headed home.

The phone message from Ackroyd was brief.

"I figure you already know this, but Hannah was supposed to be defended by one Dyan Mundy of Latham, Strauss. Nothing new on Veronica. Somebody more crass would mention money, but I know you're good for it. still…"

Jerry had been out trying to pick up a waitress at his favorite seafood restaurant. Her lack of positive response had prompted him to have several shots of whiskey before starting on his flounder. He'd put on a pot of coffee when he got home and had downed half of it before heading to the law office.

He'd seen Dyan Mundy a few times and pretty much stayed out of her way. She was easily six feet tall, built like an Eastern European athlete, and had her brown hair slicked back. A pair of glasses and a no-nonsense attitude completed her ensemble. She was between meetings when Jerry got to the office. Her desk was uncluttered. There was a picture of her family on one corner. She was as large as her husband and two children combined. A row of dying plants sat on the windowsill.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Strauss?" She seemed somewhat nonplussed at his request to see her.

"It's about the Hannah Jorde case," Jerry said. "I understand you were her attorney-briefly, of course." Dyan leaned back in her chair and tapped her fingertips together. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you what little I know. She was arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder. I spoke to her briefly about the case. She was very confused, but lucid. Completely committed to this body-switching story. Her suicide surprised me. It seemed inconsistent with her overall attitude. I guess you can never predict those things."

Jerry nodded. "You saw her alone?"

"Yes. No. David came along at Mr. Latham's request. But he got sick just before we got to her cell and had to leave."

There was a sharp knock at the door. It opened before Dyan could say anything. Latham stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"Ms. Mundy, even an attorney of your limited experience knows better than to discuss a case in such a casual manner. I suspect Mr. Strauss is doing nothing more than gathering gossip for party chatter." He stared hard at Jerry. "I'm sure Ms. Mundy has business to attend to and would appreciate your leaving."

Jerry stood. "I'm sorry if I created any kind of problem." He brushed quickly past Latham, who closed the door behind him. Latham's voice sounded like a buzz saw cutting into soft wood. It was going to be a long afternoon for Dyan Mundy.

Snow Dragon by William F. Wu

… And this was for her father and this was for her brothers if she has 'em, and this was for her mother, and this and this was for her Nordic grandfathers…

Underneath Ben Choy, on the squeaking narrow bed and rumpled sheets, the large, round tits of the cute white girl jiggled rhythmically. Her pale blond hair was splayed out over the sweat-stained pillowcase, her eyes now squinted shut against the glaring bare light bulb overhead as her breath came faster. Outside the little room, down the hall, someone flushed the community toilet.

… And this was for every one of her white relatives, and this was for the KKK, and this was for Leo Barnett, and this was for the father of every white girl he had ever liked. This was his revenge against all of them. And this and this and this.

Later, his breath regained, Ben sat up between Sally Swenson's spread legs. He turned sideways to lean back against the peeling yellow paint of the thin interior wall, one of her legs under his lower back. Then he extended his own legs under her other knee, to hang over the edge of the bed. The sheet had fallen to the floor.

She roused herself enough to prop his two pillows under her head and looked at him with big, guileless blue eyes.

"Is it always this hot in here?" she asked. "Even this time of year?"

"Yeah." Ben glanced at the one window in the room. On the outside surface, misshapen ice rippled the glow from the streetlights below. On the inside, a mist of condensed moisture had been streaked by drips running down the wooden sill.

He turned to look at her. A sheen of sweat still covered her heart-shaped face and she smiled slightly, uncertainly, as he looked at her. She had liked what he had just done to her. That was for her father, too, whoever he was.

"Don't you pay a lot more for the heat?"

"No." He swung the pendant on his neck chain back to the front, from where it had slipped over his shoulder. It was an old Chinese coin his grandfather had sent him, held by the chain strung through the square hole in its center.

"Is it included with the room?"

"Yeah." Idly, Ben slid a hand up her inner thigh to twirl her blond pubic hair around one finger. A real blonde. "It's a cramped, disgusting little room, but the landlord pays the heat. The radiator is hard to control, so I'd rather have it too hot than freeze to death."

"Makes sense to me."

He studied the skin over her pelvis and upper thighs. She was so white that she didn't have even the slightest hint of an old tan. Maybe she couldn't tan at all.

"What's downstairs? It was dark when we came in."

"Grocery store." And she didn't seem to mind lying there talking while still spread wide open. She was really white. And cleanly, purely pink.

"A Chinese grocery store?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "You can get anything there, really."

"Do you mind my asking questions?"

"No."

"Doesn't this room bother you? I mean, it's so small. You don't even have a phone, do you?"

"I hang out in the Twisted Dragon. Anybody wants me, they come there. Or call. I just sleep here."

"Or screw girls here." She giggled playfully, quivering her tits.

"Yeah." He had picked her up a few hours ago in the Twisted Dragon. She had wandered in alone, wide-eyed and curious, her vulnerability plain to see. Among the street toughs and jokers, this slightly chubby and very attractive nat had turned most of the heads in the place but Ben was under no illusion that she was very bright.

Another victim. Ben, do you simply hate all women? Or just yourself, even more?

Ben clenched his teeth against his sister Vivian's accusation. It seemed to echo in his mind. She had made it many times.

"I've never been to Chinatown before," Sally said shyly.

"Or Jokertown."

She shook her head tightly, with a self-conscious smile, her big eyes glowing.

"And you want someone to show you around." Ben gave her a cynical smile.

Her face was pink now, too.

You like them dumb and helpless, don't you? Vivian had said that plenty of times, too. Not to mention the impressive bra size.

"I want a drink." Ben pushed Sally's outside leg away and got up. Even the aged hardwood floor was fairly warm. He picked through the clothes he had scattered earlier and found his underwear. It was the Munsingwear brand, with the pouch in the front. He began to dress. Ben put on a black turtleneck over a gray thermal shirt and blue jeans and black boots. As an afterthought he added a light blue sweater. Once he was dressed, he pulled a small piece of white paper wrapped in a wad of tissue out of his pants pocket.

It was an intricately folded sculpture, one he had been practicing more often lately, representing a Chinese dragon. Satisfied that it was in good condition, he stashed it again and picked up a brush from the little table that had come with the room. He paused when he saw her looking at him. She hadn't moved.

"Do you want me to go with you?" she asked.

"Don t care." He turned away to face the small mirror standing on the table and brushed his hair back into place. "Do you want me to stay here?"

"Don't care."

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Don't care."

He tossed down the brush and shrugged into his padded brown stressed-leather jacket. JETBOY STYLE! the poster for the jacket had said. Fadeout's money had paid for it after a recent job.

"Why do you wear those baggy pants?" She giggled again.

Ben's jaw tightened. "I'm going down to the Twisted Dragon."

Stung, she watched him, only her blue eyes moving as he stomped to the door.

He knew his lack of interest hurt her more than any rejection would have; he didn't care about that, either. Nothing of value was in the room for her to take. He left the door standing open without looking back.

Ben paused just inside the door of the Twisted Dragon to brush snow off his shoulders and to shuck his leather jacket. The snowfall outside was gentle and the breeze not too cold, really, but he was so used to his overly heated room that the night seemed colder than it was. Anyhow, the twinkling, colorful Christmas lights over the stores and other decorations in their darkened windows had put him in a bad mood. It was a white people's holiday that had nothing to do with his heritage.

I like Christmas, anyway. Vivian always answered his objections the same way, every year.

Even in the Twisted Dragon, a tape of instrumental versions of Christmas carols was playing faintly in the background. A two-foot green plastic Christmas tree on one end of the bar blinked red and green lights. He started down the aisle away from it.

"Hey, Dragon."

Ben turned again.

"You know Christian? He wants to see you." Dave Yang, a short, stocky Immaculate Egret with a frequent but forced smile had come down the aisle behind Ben and now jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.

Ben studied the phony smile carefully. Then he glanced at the tall British mercenary with pale blond hair who was lounging on a bar stool. He faced this way with a smirk as he leaned back against the bar. Christian was a new player in the Shadow Fist organization.

"I met him once; that's all." Tingling with tension, Ben followed Dave back up to the bar and eyed Christian without a word.

"And what do you drink, Mr. Dragon?" Christian raised an eyebrow.

"Baileys on ice." Ben did not relax.

The bartender nodded and turned to get it.

"A sweet tooth, eh?" Christian laughed, crinkling his lean, weathered features. "The mercs I know would call that a lady's drink, but no fear. You require a new twist on the old joke: `What does a man drink, who can turn into a tiger or dragon or any other animal at will? Answer: Anything he wants to.'"

Ben clenched his jaw. Under the smooth words, the Britisher's tone was taunting.

"So," Christian continued. "Have you reversed your name Chinese-style? Is it Mr. Dragon or Mr. Lazy?"

"What did you want to see me about?" Ben demanded. "And they say we Brits have no sense of humor. Ah, well." Christian sipped his drink, then turned to the Immaculate Egret as he swirled the ice in his scotch and water. The bottle of Glenlivet was on the bar behind him. "What are you drinking? Plum wine or some such?"

"Bourbon and water," said Dave, grinning again. "You buying?"

"One Beam's Choice and water," said Christian over his shoulder. He did not bother to make sure the bartender heard him. "You mustn't be so vague, or people will hand you cheap goods. Now, then." His tone hardened. "Leave us."

Without taking his eyes off Christian, Ben saw that the Immaculate Egret walked away without a word. He hated to see the arrogant white man assume that kind of power here in Chinatown. Christian had all these Immaculate Egrets, members of a Chinatown street gang, doing his bidding without question. Still, the move told Ben how much power Christian had here. He would not be a man to cross in a room full of Immaculate Egrets.

"Sit down, Dragon. We have business."

Ben hesitated. Since joining the Shadow Fist organization, he had taken all his orders from Fadeout. He had never worked for anyone else.

"You have heard, haven't you, that I am an authoritative member of the umbrella organization that runs this part of town?"

Ben's jaw tightened again. Christian might be drawing him away from Fadeout or this might be some kind of loyalty test Fadeout had set up. For that matter, with Fadeout's ace ability to turn invisible, he could be sitting undetected on the damn bar right now observing Ben's every move.

Ben shrugged elaborately and sat down, patting the pocket with his paper sculpture and Cub Scout knife out of nervous habit. He would have to watch himself very carefully.

Christian spun his stool and set down his glass, hunched confidentially over the bar. "I want you to take a package out to Ellis Island. You are not to report this message or this instruction to anyone at all. Understood?"

Ben nodded, staring at the bar in front of him. He understood; whether or not he would obey was another matter. When the bartender brought his drink, he left it untouched.

"And you will get it from the Demon Princes."

Ben looked at him in surprise. "You're doing business with a joker street gang?"

"They hit a Shadow Fist courier this afternoon and took our package."

"So you want me to clean up your mess."

"Indeed." Christian snickered and ran a callused hand through his pale blond hair. "Our Immaculate friends think of themselves as tough, but they are really just a well-armed adolescent mob. I'm told the Demon Princes are the largest and meanest independent gang in Jokertown."

"That's right." Ben knew they allowed only jokers in their gang and were led by a guy named Lucifer. They were involved in petty crime and small protection rackets, but had a code of no violence against jokers.

"Our amateur commandos can probably take them, but one never knows. You do it instead."

"What kind of package am I looking for?"

"A padded manila envelope with blue powder in plastic bags inside." He gestured with his hands, indicating a size that would just fit into the patch pockets of Ben's jacket.

It was probably the new designer drug called rapture, Ben guessed.

A drug runner, Vivian's voice said disgustedly. "Where are the Demon Princes?"

"Your problem, mate."

"How do I get to the island?"

"Am I your mum? Make like a birdie and fly, for all I care. Or swim like a fish, but mind the pollution." Ben's stomach tightened at the man's sneering tone, but he said nothing.

"You haven't touched your drink."

"Have we finished business?"

"That we have."

Ben shrugged and took a swallow. He tried to think of something to say; if he could draw Christian out, he might learn more about where he stood. However, he couldn't think of anything.

The big problem was that he didn't know exactly how powerful Christian really was. He certainly didn't doubt that the man was a major player in the Shadow Fist organization. Of course, no one could force Ben to follow his orders tonight, but he had no idea what the consequences would be if he refused.

Christian seemed to have all the Immaculate Egrets here now jumping to do his bidding; if he decided to eliminate Ben, he seemed to have plenty of soldiers to pull it off. On the other hand, the courier job sounded nasty, too. Finally he decided that he would definitely be better off doing the job and keeping an eye on the newcomer in the future. At least, it was the better of two bad options.

"I must confess to a certain fascination with your name," said Christian. "Picked it yourself, I assume?"

"Yeah. I took it from a guy out of Chinese literature. He was a thief, but sort of a good guy."

"Ah! A kind of yellow Robin Hood."

Ben smiled slightly. Some knowledge of his heritage was one of his few sources of pride. Even most of the Chinatown people around him didn't know the origin of his nickname.

If only you lived up to the original Lazy Dragon, Vivian said with a sneer in his mind. You don't deserve your name.

"Enough chitchat." Christian drained his glass and set it down with a decisive clunk. Without another word, he got up and sauntered into the back, toward the storerooms and kitchen.

Ben wouldn't learn anything more from Christian tonight. He took one more gulp of his drink and slid off the stool, moving to the rest room. His face and throat were warm with the liqueur.

Inside, he took the small oblong piece of soap from the dirty sink and wrapped it in toilet paper. Then he stuck it into another pants pocket. Supplied with potential reinforcement, he returned to the bar to pull his jacket on again.

More than a few of the Immaculate Egrets glanced up at him from their booths and tables, but no one moved or spoke. Ben knew from their studied reserve that they were aware he was doing Christian's bidding. He had no idea if they approved or not.

If not, they might express their opinion with Uzis sometime later tonight.

Ben stepped outside and drew in the sharp, cold air as he glanced around. Only a few people were in sight, all of them down the street toward other Jokertown nightspots. The snow was falling softly in big, wet flakes. A light film of white snow covered the sidewalk and street, darkened by occasional footsteps and the streaks of tire tracks.

The snow on the sidewalk just outside the Twisted Dragon was stamped to water by many feet, but one very large pair of footprints was accompanied by the twin tracks of a small two-wheeled cart. The Walrus, who had his newsstand over on Hester and the Bowery, was making his nightly rounds of Jokertown bars, hawking papers and magazines. He wasn't far ahead, by the look of the tracks, and he often stopped to talk affably with his customers.

Ben hurried after him.

No one can save you from yourself, Ben. Vivian's voice had thankfully been out of his mind while he had been measuring Leslie Christian. Now it came back with a reminder no less condescending than Christian himself. His sister had never approved of anything he did.

"Shut up," he muttered out loud as he walked down the deserted sidewalk.

Ben was in a vise; he had no question about that. Fadeout, for whom he had been a top aide for some time now, was on one side. The other side remained a mystery.

Get out, Ben. Get out of this life right now. Just run for it. They'll never know what happened to you. Vivian had said that more than a few times, too.

"I'm no coward," Ben muttered aloud. It came out in more of a whine than he had intended.

It's not cowardice. It's the smart thing to do.

Ben gritted his teeth and tried to shut out the voice as he walked faster. He failed.

If Fadeout is testing your loyalty, then he represents both sides and you'll pass the test by reporting this mission to him right away.

"Obviously," Ben growled under his breath.

If Christian is testing your loyalty to Fadeout for someone else, or for his own purposes, you flunk the test by reporting to Fadeout.

Ben hurried faster; he was almost running now from the insistent voice.

Then again, someone might have decided to take you out completely by sending you on an impossible mission, or a setup of some kind.

The mission could be suicide… reporting to Fadeout could be suicide; so could not reporting it.

Fadeout could be watching right now.

Suddenly panicked, Ben whirled and looked around. Fadeout could turn invisible, but he couldn't avoid leaving footprints in the snow. None had followed Ben out of the Twisted Dragon.

The sound of Vivian's giggle echoed in his mind. "Shut up!" he shouted aloud to the empty street. Angry at himself now, Ben spun again and strode fast through the falling snow. Nobody was going to scare him off. He would eat Demon Princes for a late-night snack. He finally spied the Walrus at Chatham Square, waddling out of the offices of the Jokertown Cry. As always, he was in shirt sleeves, a rotund figure of oily blue-black flesh barely more than five feet tall: Tonight he wore a red Hawaiian shirt with orange, blue, and green birds of paradise all over it and he pulled his little wire cart behind him toward Ernie's.

Get out while you can, Ben. If you die, I die, too. Ignoring Vivian s voice in his mind, Ben jogged carefully after the Walrus in the snow. He didn't know him well, but they had spoken a few times. The Walrus was an endless font of jokes and gossip; everyone, including Ben, liked him.

"Hi," Ben said breathlessly as he slowed down to fall in step alongside the Walrus. The Walrus knew him only as a frequent patron of the Twisted Dragon, in his human form.

"'Evening, Ben," said the Walrus, looking at him from under a battered porkpie hat. Tufts of stiff red hair stuck out from under it. Twin tusks curved down around his mouth. "I sold all my Chinese papers back at the Twisted Dragon. May I interest you in something else?"

"Forget it; I cant read Chinese, anyway. But, uh, I need to find some Demon Princes."

"Mmm, well. They aren't exactly customers of mine. I don't know as how they read. No, sir."

"Come on, Walrus. You hear everything."

"An urgent matter, eh? You're running around on a snowy night like this, during the holidays and all."

"Look, I don't have a lot of money. Right now, that is. But my time always comes."

"I'm just a talkative cuss making rounds. No money necessary" The Walrus nodded pleasantly. "But I don t know that I can help you, Benjamin."

Ben shrugged, trying hard to come up with something he could trade.

"I see the Twisted Dragon has a new regular," said the Walrus airily, looking up at the swirling snow. "English, by his accent."

That was what he wanted. Ben hesitated; talking about the Shadow Fist Society was never a good idea. Then he decided to take the risk-he was in serious trouble anyhow, and wasn't even sure just how bad it was. "Leslie Christian. Highly placed, just moved right in. Word is he tells stories of being a merc all over the world."

"And I hear a note of disapproval."

Ben shrugged.

"I tried selling papers tonight at Hairy's Kitchen. Business was bad, though. Most of the patrons were illiterate, I think."

No, Ben. You don't owe Christian anything. "Thanks, Walrus." Ben grinned and spun in a little twist of snow. As the Walrus continued to pull his little cart down the sidewalk, Ben jogged the other way.

Ben, stop. I'll stop you. Somehow, someway, I'll stop you. If not tonight, someday. Stop ruining our life and our home

Ben had heard it all before. He jogged on down the cold streets. For now, at least, the voice stopped. Outside Hairy's Kitchen, Ben slowed down to let some pedestrians go by and then looked in the big picture window. Eight Demon Princes were lounging around a big round table at the back. Lucifer himself wasn't there; the guy in charge had a head that looked like it was covered with purple grapes, except for dark circles for his eyes and mouth, and he wore an expensive black leather jacket. Next to him, a companion with a flattened fish head like that of a flounder stuffed pizza into his mouth with hands shaped like split, mitten-shaped fins.

Empty plates were piled up on the table. The joker gang members were laughing and poking fun at each other. Their weapons. AK-47s, Uzis, and AR-15s, were casually slung around the backs of their chairs.

The rest of the place was deserted. Even Hairy and his help had retreated to the kitchen. The Demon Princes had been bragging, and no one, including them, doubted that a response was due from the Shadow Fists.

Without backup, negotiation was out of the question for Ben.

On missions for Fadeout, he had always had protection for his comatose body. Now he was on his own. Ben walked briskly around the corner into an alley and took the folded paper dragon out of his pants pocket.

In the alley, he stopped next to a dumpster with an open lid. There he unwrapped the dragon carefully; finding it in good condition, he dropped it to the layer of snow. Then he grabbed the top of the dumpster and jumped to get one leg over it. With a rolling motion, he fell gently into a foul-smelling pile of cardboard, newspaper, and garbage. Only the cold made the stench bearable. Be careful, at least, Vivian said reluctantly.

Ben wriggled around until he was lying on his back in a reasonably comfortable position. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated on the folded paper lying outside the dumpster.

In a second, he could feel himself growing.

As the folded paper became massive reptilian flesh and organs and scales, Ben looked out with the dragon's eyes at the mouth of the alley. Ben walked his forty-foot long, four-footed, wingless body forward on short legs. No one saw him cross the cold, broken pavement toward the sidewalk.

When he turned the corner of the building, pedestrians on the sidewalk suddenly scattered into the street. Even the most hardened denizens of Jokertown didn't want to cross him. Ben's clawed feet could not work a door latch, so he coiled himself outside the door.

Through the glass, he saw grapehead suddenly rise half out of his chair, pointing at him. Ben shot forward, smashing his massive head through the door; as he raced down the aisle inside the restaurant, the door snagged on the thickest part of his neck and ripped from the wall. In front of him, the Demon Princes grabbed their assault rifles and fired as they dove for cover.

Ben felt line after line of bullets tear into him, but the size and speed of his dragon body carried him forward, crashing into the table. The remains of the door hung around his neck like a collar. He snapped twice at the stunned jokers in a blood fury, biting one in half each time. More bullets ripped into him, but now the Demon Princes were running for the door, firing wildly.

He struck after them like a giant rattlesnake and bit the legs off grapehead, leaving stumps that spurted jets of blood over the smashed table. Then he darted forward again and snapped the fish head off that joker's neck. As he spat out the head, he heard heavy footsteps thumping through the doorway.

As pain dulled his vision, Ben saw the remaining Demon Princes scramble past a large figure cloaked in a black velvet cape and hood. The intruder, gigantic for a human but much smaller than Ben's dragon, wore a fencing mask under the black hood and marched forward angrily.

It was the joker known as the Oddity, in its winter attire.

Ben had never met it before, but he knew the approach of an enemy when he saw it. He clawed his body around to face his adversary. Pain shot throughout his long torso. His coordination was off and his body slow to respond. Though his cold-blooded reptilian constitution was tough, the bullets had torn flesh away from the bone up and down his body and he could no longer move properly.

"This is Jokertown," the Oddity intoned fiercely, in the harshest of its three voices. "You have no business here, ace. Not even with a street gang."

Ben could see the shapes moving and shifting underneath the black velvet cloak. The Oddity had once been three people who were now fused together and whose parts were forever mixing and matching in painful motion. He tried to talk back, but only hissed and growled in his dragon throat.

"Is that you, Lazy Dragon?" The Oddity lumbered toward Ben and reached out with one heavy, muscular white arm and one slender, feminine arm-both its hands were masculine but artistic and sensitive. "I've heard rumors about you on the street. But whoever you areyou need to learn to leave jokers alone."

Ben gathered himself and struck forward again, snapping his jaws. He missed the Oddity, who threw its arms around Ben's clamped jaws and squeezed like an alligator wrestler. The arm that had been soft and smooth was slowly gaining in weight and thickness; soon both its arms would be heavy and muscular. One hand had started to become feminine. Ben tried to wrench his jaws open again, but they were held fast.

Now Ben rolled, thrashing wildly; the tables and chairs shattered around him. What was left of the door broke and fell from his neck. Glasses, mugs, and dishes tinkled to shards. The Oddity was flung loose, its own great body adding to the destruction in a swirl of black velvet stained with the shiny blood of Demon Princes and Ben himself.

Anxiously, watching the Oddity, Ben struggled to untwist his long body. His short legs scrabbled helplessly for a moment on the debris as he tried to stand. To one side, the Oddity had lumbered to its feet and was clumsily advancing through the smashed furniture.

The Oddity reached out with its arms again just as Ben felt his claws gain some traction. He opened his jaws and darted downward to the Oddity's legs, but his failing neck muscles were slow and crooked. As Ben's teeth clacked hard on empty air, the Oddity again caught his mouth shut in an iron embrace.

Ben's dragon body was slowly dying. His vision was a blur as he squirmed and convulsed to buck the Oddity off his face, but his movements were even more painful now and less in control. The Oddity continued to ride him, even when they slammed into a wall, smashing the wallboard and splintering the support beams.

With a sudden searingly hurtful convulsion of his entire length, Ben flipped his long tail around and knocked the Oddity's ankles out from under it. The Oddity crashed onto its back, releasing Ben, and crunched broken dishes and glasses even further. Ben opened his jaws again and snapped wildly, getting no more than a mouthful of black velvet.

Shaking free of the cloth, Ben scratched again for a brace under his feet and tried one more time to slash the Oddity's torso with his fangs. He was slow and clumsy now, disoriented and frustrated by his inability to move his huge body the way he wanted. The Oddity again wrapped up his long snout in arms that were slick and shiny with sweat and blood. This time it was the Oddity who pushed off the floor with one massive leg, rolling to one side.

Ben felt a thrill of fear as he was flipped onto his back by brute strength; the lights spun above him in streaks. Suddenly the Oddity got new purchase against the floor and heaved to one side, the fencing mask an expressionless mock before one of Ben's eyes as the Oddity's arms twisted Ben's dragon neck. He heard a loud snap… and found himself lying in the cold dumpster outside, surrounded by trash and garbage.

Ben did not dare attract the Oddity's attention now. The bar of soap he had taken from the Twisted Dragon had not been carved; if the Oddity or anyone else came after him, he had no protection. He waited, listening.

The night had turned much colder. The snow fell heavily in fine white flakes that came swirling endlessly out of the night sky on a wind growing harsher as he lay there. Occasionally a car swished through the slush on the street, but the slush was hardening to ice. Everyone was quiet in the presence of slaughter.

From the sound of voices murmuring cautiously, he knew that a small crowd had gathered outside the door of Hairy's Kitchen. From the footsteps and the shift in the voices, he knew when the Oddity had made its way out of the wrecked establishment and wandered down the street to the depths of Jokertown. Ben climbed out of the dumpster, dropped to the ground, and peered around the corner.

The crowd was already breaking up. Now that Ben's dragon was again a scrap of paper and the Oddity gone, the spectacle had ended.

Glancing about alertly for Demon Princes, he slipped through the shattered doorway and hurried past the wreckage in the aisle to the remains of the table where they had been carousing. So far, Hairy and his staff were still holed up in the back or maybe off the premises completely. He could not help seeing some of the remains of the jokers he had so easily torn apart a few minutes before.

Ben stepped over a blood-red chunk of human flesh and felt a sudden gag in his throat. He stifled it, looking away. In the heat of the struggle, in dragon form, he had fought desperately, biting and slashing Demon Princes with abandon. He had felt different, somehow, at the time. The fight had been necessary, and as a dragon, he had fought the way a dragon must.

Now it was hard to believe he was the same person, inside, as the one who had slaughtered these people so quickly and easily.

It was you, all right, Vivian said with quiet anger. Ben had killed before in his animal forms and would do so again. In most cases he had never faced the remains in human form afterward. Now, however, the bloodshed sickened him. It just hadn't seemed the same a few moments ago.

He clenched his human jaws this time and forced himself to keep searching.

Ben couldn't be sure the package was here; one of the Demon Princes might have had it on him or they might have stashed it earlier this evening. It might have been carried by one who got away. As he looked around, gusts of cold wind blew through the restaurant, rattling dishes and debris and sending napkins flying. After a moment of picking pointlessly through the pieces of furniture and broken dishes, he turned to the torso of the grape-headed joker.

Ben winced and tried to look only at the shiny black leather jacket, adorned with fancy zippers and silver studs, not at the stumps of the joker's legs or the spray of blood all around him. Quickly he patted down the joker and felt a bulge in a large zippered pocket. Gagging from the smell of blood, he retched once.

You have no right to be sick at this, Vivian said accusingly. You caused it.

Ben called up enough saliva to spit and wiped his hand on his sleeve. Then he unzipped the pocket. Holding his breath against the bloody stench, he pulled out a small padded manila envelope.

A siren wailed in the distance, coming closer. That was fast for the Jokertown Precinct. Still, even Fort Freak had to respond when someone made a mess this loud and public.

Ben had to be sure. He pulled open the flap of the envelope and looked inside. The envelope was stretched to its limit by plastic bags jammed with blue powder, sealed by cellophane tape. It was rapture, a designer drug from the labs of Quinn the Eskimo-a Shadow Fist product that was sheer poison.

A drug runner, Vivian said, sneering with hatred and contempt.

He closed the flap, secured the envelope in one of the big patch pockets on his leather jacket, and walked briskly out of Hairy's Kitchen into the worsening storm.

Ben had forgotten about Sally Swenson until he was walking down the filthy hallway to his door. Hoping she had changed her mind and left, he unlocked the door and slipped inside the stifling heat of the room. By the slant of light from the door, he could see her blond hair still splayed out on the pillow much as it had been when he had left. In the heat, though, she had kicked off the sheet, which lay rumpled at the foot of the bed. She was breathing slowly and deeply.

"Sally." He reached down to wake her and then stopped. Overall, she had seemed harmless enough, and he expected to be back well before dawn. The last thing he needed now was a hassle with her.

He turned on the lamp and set the door carefully so that it was in the jamb but not latched. The door was warped and the irregular shape helped hold it in place.

Then he set the knob to lock. Tonight he would have to do without the dead bolt.

You can still get out of this, Vivian said quietly, hopelessly.

"Hope this works," he muttered to himself, ignoring her voice. He took the manila envelope out of his jacket and put it on the floor. Then he undressed, before he began to sweat in the warmth. When he was naked, he took out his Cub Scout knife and the bar of soap he had taken from the Twisted Dragon.

He paused. A cold-blooded creature like a dragon was too vulnerable on a winter night like this. He needed a creature that could tolerate the weather, cross the water to Ellis Island either by air or water, and still hang on to the package. It also had to be a creature that could intimidate the unknown persons he would meet; that was a given on a mission like this.

"Now, then," he whispered, mostly just to hear a friendly voice. He got to work. When he had finished, he set his soap carving in the middle of the floor and slipped into bed next to Sally. She did not stir. He pulled up the sheet, closed his eyes, and concentrated on his carving of a polar bear.

In a few seconds, Ben stood up on all fours, raising an ursine body of considerable bulk under a heavy layer of white fur. He took the doorknob gently in his teeth and walked backward, pulling the door all the way open. Wondering if he could actually get out of the room, he picked up the manila envelope gently in his mouth. Then he squeezed his furry weight through the doorway with effort. He heard the aged wood crack as he pushed free into the hallway.

The hall was almost too narrow for him to turn, but he managed. He dropped the drug packet for a moment and pulled the doorknob until he heard the latch snap into place. Satisfied that his human body was as safe as it could be, he picked up the package and padded downstairs. The streets were even colder and more blustery than before. Fine snowflakes fell fast, swept by the gusts of wind. The snowfall had become a blizzard that had nearly cleared the sidewalks of lower Manhattan. Even so, Ben was completely comfortable in this body.

A polar bear was not the strangest sight most people had ever seen in or near Jokertown. As Ben padded along Canal Street at a soft jog through the whipping snow, the few pedestrians still hurrying for shelter gave him a wide berth, but that was all the reaction he got. Right now, his biggest worry was some street punk with a powerful gun who would shoot him on impulse.

Finally, Ben thought to himself as he reached the Lexington Avenue subway. He hurried down the steps, out of the harrowing wind. At the bottom, he trotted past the token booth and hopped over the turnstile.

A cop standing to one side put a hand on his sidearm, but it was only a defensive move. Ben trotted to the platform, scattering a small crowd of people who gasped in surprise. He glanced them over, saw no one reaching for a gun, and relaxed.

"It's real," one lady whimpered. "Somebody call the cops. Damn, I hate these subways nowadays."

"Bet it's an ace," said an older man.

"Looks more like a joker," snickered a teenaged boy. "Quiet; he'll hear you," hissed the first lady.

" I knew it was cold out, but this is ridiculous," said another man. "Say, what's he got in his mouth?"

"You ask him," said the teenager.

Ben ignored them. When the train stopped and the doors opened, a small knot of people froze in place, staring at him. Then they hurried to exit from other doors and Ben boarded.

He had to sit down in the center of the aisle just inside the doors; even so, he blocked the way. No one else entered his car, and several of those already there suddenly got out at this stop after all, through other doors. The rest simply stared impassively at him.

Ben was relieved when the train began to move. At each stop on the way to the southern tip of Manhattan, he glared out as soon as the doors opened. The people on the platform all flinched and either found another car or decided not to ride the subway tonight at all. Not very many people were out at this hour, on a night like this.

Finally, at Battery Park, he stepped off the train and hurried away. He knew he was too long to fit through the exit turnstile, however, and had to leave by jumping the entryway again. Then he trotted up the steps and back out into the storm.

In the park itself, Ben leaned into the icy, gusting snowfall as he trotted toward the water. He figured this was as close to Ellis Island as he could get on land, since a passenger ferry stopped here during the day between trips to Liberty Island and Caven Point, New Jersey. The bitterly cold wind off the Hudson River where it opened into the Upper Bay blew into his face, and he knew he had chosen well. The heavy fur and layer of fat insulated him just fine.

Now for the fun part, he thought to himself. He set the manila envelope down in the snow and picked it up again, this time completely enclosed in his mouth.

Ben inhaled deeply through his nose and plunged into the freezing waters. He was relieved to find that he was still comfortable. In fact, he could swim just fine, paddling with all four legs and holding his eyes and nose above the surface.

Behind him, the lights of Manhattan glowed with spectral white beauty through the blizzard. He didn't lift his head to look forward toward New Jersey and the various islands, fearing that he would need all his energy to swim the distance to Ellis Island. He only focused on the lights of Ellis Island itself. The waves splashed against his face, making it hard to see, but he was able to blow out any water that got in his nose.

The polar-bear body was powerful and suited to a long swim in frigid waves. He just kept paddling through the darkness. Though he couldn't judge the distance very well, he was pleasantly surprised that he wasn't tiring.

Suddenly, however, he felt a tremendous desire to give up, to turn around. It surprised him; he fought it, focusing his eyes on the lights ahead. The very water seemed thicker, the waves stronger, the wind harder.

Maybe he was getting tired, after all. He tried to guess how far he had to go. It might have been several hundred yards, but suddenly it looked like more. He forced himself to keep swimming.

It's farther to go back now anyway, he told himself. Actually, he didn't really feel tired at all. He just felt a compulsion to turn around and swim away.

Leslie Christian wouldn't think much of that.

Ben churned his legs in the water, harder and harder.

Suddenly a wave. of fear swept over him, making his stomach muscles clench. It came without thought or logic; he felt a primal panic rising in him, lifting the ursine hackles on the back of his neck and shoulders. He kept swimming, but his legs were reluctant, weakening with dread.

Another crest of fear rose in him, and he stopped swimming. His huge body bobbed in the tossing waves, held aloft by his fur and layer of fat. Ellis Island, no more than a light or two in the distance, filled him with revulsion. As he looked at it through the blizzard, the island grew blurry and seemed to shift even farther away from him.

Ben blinked a splash of water out of his eyes, trying to focus. Even the falling snow ahead of him seemed to turn oddly in his vision. He was disoriented, scared, and wanted to go home.

He forced his legs to start kicking again, in a dog paddle. Instead of turning, though, he paddled straight ahead. He concentrated on his legs, just to keep them moving. The island, the fear and dread of the unknown he would meet there, and this strange panic that had struck him were still present, but he ignored them. Two legs at a time, pushing against the water, filled his mind. That was all: one, two; one, two.

Ben kept swimming.

The trip seemed to take forever. At last, however, he entered a cone of bright light and dared to look up. It was a single powerful lamp on one of the buildings; others near it were burned out. Ellis Island was a rectangle, with a ferry slip in one long side that created a horseshoe shape. The 'island was smaller than he had expected, maybe less than two city blocks.

Now that he knew he was going to make it, he slowed down, looking for signs of life. Only certain windows illuminated from inside suggested anyone was here, but in this weather that was no surprise. He paddled into the ferry slip, still looking around, and finally reached up to the dock with his front legs and pulled himself out of the water.

On an impulse, he shook himself, spraying icy water in all directions.

As he got his bearings, he became aware of an unpleasant smell. It reminded him of garbage barges, but the smell was more varied, and worse. Fortunately, the hard wind was blowing it away from the island.

He squinted his bear's eyes into the rush of snow against his face. The main building was maybe six stories' worth of brick and limestone trim, considerably longer than a football field from left to right as he faced it. At each corner, copper-domed observation towers stood another forty feet higher than the roof against the storm. The building had an old look, as though it was from the turn of the century, but Ben was no student of architecture.

An eerie feeling of being watched from behind ticked the back of his neck. He turned to look as his hackles rose, but nothing was behind him except the water. The sensation persisted and he looked up, to see only the heavy snowfall swirling down at him.

A movement in the shadows to his left caught his eye. He turned, tensing. Someone took a wary step forward. "What do you want?" a woman's voice demanded. Ben hadn't expected anyone to be outside here. Also, he couldn't talk as a bear. He only watched as the speaker came forward another step. She walked upright, at least six feet tall. Her face was that of a ferret: black nose, wedge-shaped head with round ears, and a black mask around her eyes over buff fur. Her fur shifted toward silver on her abdomen. Most notably, two-inch fangs curved downward from her mouth.

"Careful, Mustelina," said a young man's voice. " I never saw him before."

Ben looked at him. He was a strange bushy bundle of average height for a man, steely gray in color.

"Shut up, Brillo," said Mustelina. "A joker's a joker. What's your name?"

Ben shook his head and tried to shrug, still watching them suspiciously. At least he understood what Mustelina was doing out here; she was made for this weather, nearly as much as he was. She probably handled the blazing, humid New York summers better than he would in this form. Brillo, too, was apparently warm enough out here. "What if he's not a joker?" Brillo yelled harshly against the wind. "What if he's a real polar bear?"

"Oh, get off it, will you?" She took another step toward Ben. The wind rippled her white fur. "Can't you talk at all?"

Ben carefully swayed his head from side to side in a definitive gesture that Brillo could not deny. Then he inclined his head toward the main doors of the big building. His mouth was still clamped shut.

"Bloat better meet him," said Mustelina firmly. "Come on." She walked along the ferry slip toward the main doors with a springy, prancing step, her head bent against the wind.

Ben padded after her, keeping an eye on Brillo. Brillo stayed away from him, though, as they both approached the entrance.

As Ben drew closer to the building, he looked up at the huge triple-arched doors that reached up into the second story. Over them, snow lay on some kind of concrete birds flanking an insignia in relief. Thousands of people could be in a building this size.

"Bloat runs things here," said Mustelina as she pulled open the heavy door.

An incredible stench hit Ben's sensitive ursine nose. He forced himself to walk inside, his stomach rebelling. Mustelina and Brillo followed him.

Ben blinked in the light of the huge room, which had apparently been a lobby at one time. Then he stopped in surprise as the door slammed shut behind him. He was staring face-to-face with the most repulsive joker he had ever seen.

Bloat was monstrous in size, a gross mountain of flesh maybe fifty feet wide and eight feet high. His head and neck looked normal enough at the top and his shoulders and arms were ordinary, but they stuck out uselessly from the incredible mass of his body. Five inlet pipes of some kind jabbed into his body. The stench originated with a resinous black sludge that had accumulated around him on the floor.

Several jokers were hanging around, of all shapes. Some were nearly lost in the shadows at the edges of the big room. At this hour, most of them were probably asleep. Those who were here turned to look with suspicion and hostility at Ben.

"Bloat," said Mustelina, with a fervent awe in her voice. "This joker just swam all the way out here to join us and climbed out of the water. He can't even talk."

"Really?" Bloat's voice was a thin squeak. "Another guest? Welcome, my friend." Bloat peered down at him from his greater height. His expression revealed a leering suspicion his voice had not conveyed.

Ben nodded his bear's head in greeting, feeling a tingle of alarm. He really didn't know much about this place at all.

Mustelina had said Bloat ran the show here, but Ben wished Leslie Christian had told him exactly who should receive the drug packet. And if he had to defend himself, he would have to drop the packet in order to bite anybody. "He's no joker!" Bloat shrieked. "He's an ace of some kind!" Suddenly he glowered sternly at Ben. "You're no glamour boy, though, are you?"

Ben froze, his pulse racing, wondering how Bloat knew all this. Maybe the rapture was for him, after all. "That's right," Bloat shouted gleefully. "That packet's for me! Hand it over!"

Ben tensed, looking up at Bloat's face, suddenly realizing that the huge joker was reading his thoughts. The jokers around them turned expectant, their hostile eyes fixed on Ben. Ben shuffled around to keep them all in his vision. From what he could see, he could defend himself, but a fight wouldn't help him complete his mission. "Watch him," Bloat warned in his high voice. "Don't let him get away."

"May I?" a commanding male voice asked. A youngster strode out of the shadows with a springy step. He was slender and vibrant, bristling with energy-maybe seventeen years old, dressed in jeans and an oversized purple turtleneck sweater. A short, dark-haired teenage girl stood behind him.

Ben looked from him to Bloat and back.

"Oh, all right, David," Bloat said with exaggerated indulgence. "Make sure. But I've already read his mind, so I know. So there."

David pranced right up to Ben. He grinned with large, even teeth in a handsome face that needed a shave. His blond hair was shaggy and one shock of it fell into his face over bloodshot, watery eyes. He held out one hand. Ben hesitated, studying David's confident, self-mocking smile. Without the power of speech, surrounded by unknown jokers, he saw little choice of action. He opened his mouth and let the envelope slide forward a little, smelling beer on David's breath as he did so.

He heard shuffling feet and nervous, high-pitched laughter high above him. As David, still grinning, edged forward carefully and took the package, Ben looked up and saw an observation gallery at the third-floor level over the main floor. The people up there were only shadows. "Ugh," said David, laughing too hard. "Polar-bear saliva."

At first no one laughed. Then Bloat's high giggle pierced the air and the jokers laughed along with him. David was no joker, though. Neither was the girl behind him.

"So you don't know who he is," Bloat gloated at Ben. "Well… I'm not going to tell you!" He laughed again at his own cleverness.

Ben glanced at the door. His chances of running were negligible. His paws couldn't even work the doorknob. David drew out a packet of the blue powder. He tore a hole in the plastic with the tip of his little finger and then stared at the tiny blue stain on his skin with a sudden fascination.

"Well, David?" Bloat squeaked impatiently.

"That's the stuff, all right," David said softly. "Rapture." He grinned crookedly at his finger and then looked up at Bloat with glowing eyes. "Let's just say I wanted to make sure we get credit for the rent we pay."

"David," Bloat whined. "I don't cheat my friends." He looked around and spotted a tall, slender woman cowering in the shadows. "Giggle, you cutie. This is the one I promised you. Give her some, David."

Giggle crept forward carefully. She wore loose, bulky winter clothes and soft shoes, but as she moved, she laughed quietly. Yet the expression on her face was one of torture and anguish.

"Everything tickles her," Mustelina said softly to Ben. "Even the feel of clothes on her body and the floor when she walks. Every sensation makes her laugh, but she hates it."

"It's called rapture," said David, holding out the packet. "It activates on contact with the skin… and it's strongest locally."

Giggle ventured forward slowly and stuck an index finger into the hole in the plastic. She drew it out and looked at it. First she smiled shyly. Then she snatched the packet out of his hands, giggling helplessly at her touch on the plastic. She poured the powder into her palm and smeared it on her face and neck. Gasps and laughter rose up on all sides.

"It's Bloat's," said David warily. "And very expensive." Bloat laughed in shrieking delight, however, entertained by the spectacle as Giggle dropped the packet on the floor and stripped off her bulky sweater and the blue T-shirt under it. She knelt and began desperately rubbing the rapture all over her bare arms, shoulders, breasts, and stomach.

"You won't stop feeling tickled," said David. He leered at her obvious pleasure, idly rubbing the blue stain on his finger with his thumb. "But you'll love it now"

As everyone watched Giggle, Ben glanced around carefully. He couldn't get out without help.

Giggle had stripped naked and was squatting on the floor, smearing rapture on her thighs. She giggled at the sensation, but no longer looked tortured. Now her face had a dreamy glow.

Ben watched her in a kind of detached horror. Rapture was a nasty drug and she was drenched in it. Still, he was in too tight a spot to worry about some stranger.

Bloat was laughing louder than ever and his joker followers imitated him. David watched Giggle with rapturous enjoyment. The young woman who had entered behind him was now standing alongside him, looking at Giggle with wistful amusement in her pretty blue eyes. "David," she said softly, twisting a finger around one of her black curls of hair. "Who's the polar bear?"

"You got me, Sarah," said David, his eyes still glowing at Giggle.

"I want to jump him," said Sarah. "I wonder what rapture feels like to a bear."

Ben's ursine ears caught her words even through the riot of other voices. No one else had heard her.

Ben backed away a step, wondering what she meant. If she just wanted a ride, Ben could do that. If she meant sex, she was really crazy. Ben looked around quickly, sure that he was physically stronger than anyone he could see. That told him nothing about what ace abilities might be present here.

Giggle was dancing, naked and smeared with blue, inside a circle of jokers. They were clapping in rhythmic unison, still laughing and shouting encouragement as the rest of the packet of rapture was passed around. Bloat hooted and laughed and wiggled his stubby appendages helplessly.

Suddenly Giggle spotted Ben. Swaying from side to side and giggling, she pranced toward him, her smile white inside her blue face. The circle around her parted, still clapping, and she came to Ben, still dancing and twirling.

The circle re-formed to surround both of them. Someone started a chant to go with the rhythmic clapping: "Bear! Bear! Bear!" Giggle laughed and grabbed Beds ears, dancing from side to side.

David and Sarah were now in the front of the circle, still within Ben's hearing. The blond youth studied Ben with his watery, bloodshot eyes. Then he put his arm around Sarah and shrugged. "Go ahead, for all I care."

Ben tensed, watching Sarah, ready to leap forward to attack or to dodge away, as necessary.

She didn't move. Suddenly a force struck Ben's mind, sending him reeling-shoving him out of the polar bear. In his vision, the swaying blue shape of Giggle rippled and blurred. The clapping and chant of "Bear!" overwhelmed him.

Disoriented, he pushed back, growling almost without meaning to. He was hot now beneath his fur and fat inside this place and he did not understand what the force was. The room suddenly seemed to tilt as the mysterious force pushed him away from the sight, hearing, and tactile feeling of the bear.

Ben was lost in a blur of closing darkness, just barely able to make out Sarah seeming to grow larger in his mind. Panicked, unable to hang on to the bear, he focused his concentration on his human body back in Chinatown. He pictured his room, his bed, his nude body in the bed next to Sally. He concentrated harder and finally, belatedly, spun dizzily back into familiar darkness.

Vivian felt Ben's confusion. She had been sleeping in the dark room, grateful for the rare solitude, but her mind came awake suddenly. Ben's mind, disoriented and not present, was no longer controlling their body. The feeling was intuitive, but reliable.

Vivian's mind came instantly awake. She eagerly hurried to blink their eyelids, move their arms and legs, to make them hers, not theirs-or his. She came awake, took control of their body, and felt the change once again.

It didn't hurt at first, exactly, but her adrenaline flowed into her bloodstream and the shifting of blood from the change caused throbbing in her head, her chest, and her pelvis. Her bones ached as their shape and size altered, her pelvis growing and her shoulders and rib cage narrowing. Her head and face hurt sharply as their shape changed. She felt some of the sensation of an elevator dropping suddenly or a roller coaster suddenly starting a steep downgrade.

The shifting of soft tissue was less intense, but it rippled and moved on her chest, between her legs, on her face, through all of her muscles. Then the physical changes stopped and left her breathing hard on the bed in Ben's room. She opened her eyes. The layer of ice on the window softened the glow of light from outside.

Carefully, as she always did after changing from rider to driver in their body, she slid one hand to her chest. Her breasts were small but certainly female. At the same time, her other hand moved between her legs, where she found what she expected. She was Vivian, as Ben still called her from childhood-or Tienyu, as she called herself now.

She cleared her throat softly. It was her voice.

She could feel Ben's presence now, too. He had probably been killed in his animal, she guessed, and his mind was reeling from the surprise. That's what would have caused him to lose control of their body momentarily.

For an indefinite period, however, he would now be riding in their body while she did what she wanted. Like she had done as a rider, he could communicate conscious, direct thoughts to her, but they could not read each other's minds unless the message was deliberate and willful on the part of the sender.

Right now Ben apparently had nothing to say.

Next to her, Sally stirred languorously and turned on her side toward Vivian. Vivian remained motionless, not wanting to wake her. Sally's hand eased across her waist, however, in a casual caress and slid down between her legs.

Vivian tensed, then gently moved to get out of bed, away from Sally's hand. She was hoping Sally was still mostly asleep. However, as Vivian sat up and put her feet on the floor. Sally raised up one elbow.

"Who are you?" she said sleepily. "Where's Ben?" Vivian got up and moved away from the bed. "I'm Ben's sister. Ben's gone."

"Gone? Jeez, why didn't hey, what were you doing in bed with me?"

For a moment Vivian stood uncertainly in the steamy room, naked except for the coin on her neck chain. She toyed nervously with it. Then she switched on the lamp.

Sally flinched, squinting in the sudden light, and pushed herself up into a sitting position.

"Get out," said Vivian.

"What? Come on, Ben said he didn't care if I spent the night. What time is it, anyway?"

"I said get out." Vivian glanced around for Sally's clothes and snatched up her big flesh-toned bra, stiff with its underwire. "Here." She threw it at Sally.

Sally pulled it away from her face, fumbling for something to say and not thinking of anything.

Then, as Sally began putting it on, Vivian picked up Ben's pouched briefs and looked at them, making a mental note to buy something that would fit better tomorrow. At least he had kept to their basic bargain; the jeans were baggy on him, but would fit snugly around her pelvis. The thermal undershirt, turtleneck, and heavy winter socks, of course, were gender neutral, and she had never bothered to own a bra. Ben's boots were always a little loose on her, but not much; their feet only altered a little during the change and the socks made up some of the difference.

Sally's face was bright red and taut with anger, but she had nothing to say. Once her bra was on, she kicked away the sheet and stood up, turning her back to Vivian as she finished getting dressed.

Tomorrow morning Vivian would find the building manager, pretending to know nothing of Ben's whereabouts. She would play the role of Ben's worried sister and take over the rent. From what she remembered when Ben first took the room, the manager wouldn't care if she lived there as long as the rent came on time.

Bundled up in her scarf and winter coat, Sally glanced back over her shoulder. "Thank you for being so considerate," she snapped. "If I don't get killed out there at this hour, I'll freeze to death." She yanked open the door and stomped out, her blond hair swirling.

Vivian suppressed a twinge of guilt. If Sally was old enough to get picked up in the Twisted Dragon, she was old enough to get home at night. As Vivian closed the door and locked it, she grudgingly decided she couldn't blame her brother too much. Sally did look very nice and, of course, she had been willing.

"Say good-bye, Ben," she taunted in a whisper. Good-bye, Ben muttered sourly in her mind.

Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen by Walton Simons

The courtroom was jammed with people. There seemed to be almost as many reporters as had been at Bush's inauguration two weeks before. The rest were friends, or enemies, of Hiram's, or just the idly curious. There were no jokers in the room, Pretorius being a notable exception. Kenneth had managed to get Jerry a seat.

"All rise."

The judge walked in and the noisy courtroom grew silent. The old magistrate made her way to the bench and sat down slowly.

The judge cleared her throat. "In the case of the People of the State of New York v Hiram Worchester, I understand that the prosecution has seen fit to reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter. Is that correct?"

The prosecutor rose. "Yes, your honor."

"And how does the defense plead?" the judge asked. Pretorius arose. "Guilty, your honor."

"A plea bargain, as anticipated," Kenneth said, above the muttering of the courtroom crowd.

"Mr. Worchester," the judge said, "please rise." Hiram complied, standing as straight as his size would allow.

"Given your stature in the community and the unusual circumstances involved in this case, I see no real benefit to yourself or society in imprisoning you. Therefore, I sentence you to five years probation. Any use of your wild-card ability during that time will constitute a violation of your probation. An individual with your unique gift should be ashamed that it was used to take another life. Society has grown tired of such foolishness. Hopefully, in the future you will be a positive example for us all. If not, you will find the court unsympathetic."

Hiram nodded weakly and wiped his brow. Pretorius stood and put his arm around him.

The heavy wooden doors slammed open at the back of the room. A four-armed joker man pushed his way inside. "Murderer. You're nothing but a rich murderer."

Two officers grabbed the joker, pushed him to the floor, and cuffed him.

"We're going to get you, Worchester," the joker screamed as they dragged him from the room. "We're going to see you dead, just like Chrysalis."

"Jesus." Jerry nudged Kenneth. "Chrysalis is dead and it was an accident. Don't they know that? Hiram was crazy. He's suffered enough."

"Possibly," Kenneth said. "Though the people who cared about Chrysalis might disagree with you. As they say, it depends on whose ox is getting gored."

Pretorius and Hiram began pushing their way through the crowd toward the doorway. Reporters clustered around them like sperm on an unfertilized egg.

"I wouldn't want to be in Jokertown tonight," Kenneth said.

"No kidding," Jerry said.

David Butler was driving a beat-up old Chevy. That was weird enough. Jerry hadn't intended to end up in Jokertown and certainly wasn't happy about it. Neither was his cabbie. He'd decided this was a good time to check up on David again. Jerry had tailed him a couple of times since losing him at the peculiar club, and had wound up bored to death. Once he'd even ended up at the opera.

They passed a building with a big red heart painted on the wall. Valentine's Day was less than three weeks away and the only person he wanted to give flowers or candy to was Beth. That would just piss Kenneth off. Not that anything had been said along those lines, but he'd detected a touch of resentment from his brother every now and then. That was the least of his worries now. He was tailing a possible murderer through Jokertown in an off-the-meter cab. Besides, it was beginning to snow.

He'd almost decided to give up and tell the driver to take him home when a car at the far end of the street exploded into fire. David's car skidded to a stop, straddling the curb. Jerry's driver slammed on his brakes and crashed into a light post. Steam began hissing from under the car's hood. Debris from the flaming car clattered onto the cab. A large group of jokers poured out of a side street. Several of them noticed the cars and pointed.

"Holy shit," Jerry said. "Get us the hell out of here." The cabbie turned the key. There was a brief clicking sound, then nothing. "She's shot. We'll have to run for it." Jerry clambered out of the car. David had abandoned the Chevy and was ducking down a side street. The group of jokers was moving toward them. Jerry couldn't understand what they were saying, but from the tone it wasn't friendly. He sprinted after David. A knot of jokers moved to cut him off, but Jerry turned the corner a good ten yards ahead.

He began to change. Jerry thickened his brow ridge and lumped up his skull a bit. He put ugly knots on the backs of his knuckles. It wasn't much, but should keep him from being taken for a nat.

David, still running, turned and saw Jerry and the pursuing jokers. David stepped it up and began to put some distance between them. Jerry gritted his teeth and ran harder. The cold air stung his throat and chest, and he had to be careful to keep his Italian leather shoes from slipping on the ice-slicked pavement. The snow began to thicken and swirl in the wind.

There were screams up ahead. David rounded a corner and disappeared from view. Jerry kicked hard after him with the last of his strength. He slipped down as he turned the corner and found himself at the edge of a crowd. There were at least two or three hundred jokers jamming the street. Several cars were on fire, casting a flickering glow against the surrounding buildings. A large, overstuffed dummy was being thrown around and torn at. Worchester in effigy, no doubt.

Jerry couldn't see David, but there was an open alley mouth nearby. Jerry walked over and slipped into the alley. It was empty. At least as far as he could tell. A few feet down there was a door hanging halfway off its hinges. Jerry pushed it open and stepped inside. He waited a few moments for his eyes_ to adjust, but still couldn't make out much. He stepped out of the dimly lit doorway and strained to hear any movement inside the room, but there was only a faint dripping noise. After a few long moments, Jerry turned back to the door and was about to push it open when a group of nats walked past. There were five of them, two boys and three girls. They were young, barely twenty, if that. One of the women had spiky dark hair, the other was shaved bald. They were flanking the blond boy who was obviously their leader. David.

The crowd of jokers roared. Jerry peered over the kids and saw the mob part. A nine-foot-tall joker with green skin moved toward the. center of the mob. It was Troll, and perched on his shoulders was Tachyon. There were a few angry shouts, but most of the jokers got quiet. Jerry heard a growling noise behind him. He turned and saw a pair of green eyes staring at him. They were too far apart to belong to a house cat. Jerry lengthened and pointed his own teeth. If there was a fight, he wanted to have some kind of weapon. One of his fangs cut painfully into his lower lip.

"Listen, my friends," Tachyon shouted. Jerry could barely make out the words, but calling the jokers his friends was being a little presumptuous after what had happened with Hartmann in Atlanta. "I understand your anger, but this is not the answer. The fires you're starting here will only burn down your own homes and kill your own people. Hiram Worchester is not your enemy. Ignorance and blind prejudice are the true foes every joker must face. And the only way to defeat them is through decency and dignity."

"Let's have some fun," David whispered.

"Go back to your homes now," Tachyon continued. "Set an example for everyone, whether they're jokers, nats, or aces." Tachyon raised his arms in a pleading manner. David's two girls grasped him tightly by the shoulders and his body shuddered.

Troll laughed. He picked Tachyon up by the back of his lab jacket and let him dangle, feet kicking. The crowd began to yell.

"Troll," Tachyon screamed. "What are you doing?" Troll tossed Tachyon cartwheeling into the mass of jokers. Tachyon landed amid a tangle of bodies. Jerry could see him struggling to get back up.

"Let's build a fire the Fatman can see all the way up at Aces High," Troll shouted. The crowd howled its approval and fists punched the air.

Jerry heard another growl behind him, closer this time. He took a deep breath and bolted from the door, slamming into David and the two girls, knocking all three of them out into the street. Troll saw the commotion at the edge of the crowd and looked directly at them, his face showing panic. The giant joker swayed for a moment, then collapsed.

The girl with the spiked hair helped David up. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Jerry rolled over and saw the bald girl standing over him. She raised her leg to kick him in the face. Jerry twisted out of the way and took the blow on his shoulder, then bit through her blue jeans into her calf. The girl screamed and tore away from him, then turned and limped after her retreating friends. Jerry spat the taste of blood from his mouth and struggled to his feet. Jokers were running everywhere. The fires were spreading. Troll wobbled into a standing position and moved toward Tachyon, who was still shielding himself with mind-controlled jokers. Troll cut his way through to the Takisian and gently lifted Tachyon up onto his shoulders. Tachyon gave him a questioning look, then motioned him to get moving. Troll shouldered his way back through the dispersing crowd. The clinic was only a few blocks away. Jerry figured it was the safest place to be and began plowing through the jokers after Troll.

Jerry heard sirens from several different directions, all getting closer. He bounced his way to the edge of the mob and onto the sidewalk just as a police car swung into view. A bullet slammed into the brick wall behind him, spraying him with tiny rock fragments. Jerry didn't know who'd fired the shot and didn't want to find out. He dodged down a side street and headed for the clinic.

Blaise made Jerry nervous, scared him even. The red-haired boy stayed at the window for half an hour, watching the rioting with a smile on his face. Sirens, both police and ambulance, had been passing by all night. Once, Blaise turned to Jerry and said, "Fire and blood. So much of it. So beautiful." Other than that particular twisted observation, he'd seemed to regard Jerry as invisible. Jerry sat there in silence, folding and unfolding his check.

It was 2:00 A. M. before Tachyon got back to his office. The right side of his face was bruised and puffy and his good arm was in a sling. "You should have waited, Jeremiah," he said as he collapsed into his chair. "On a night like this, money is less of a concern."

"It's not about money." Jerry handed the check over. "But I might as well give it to you anyway. I was doing something else down here. How is Troll, by the way?"

"Confused and embarrassed. He doesn't remember throwing me. I went into his mind and there's simply a blank spot during that period. Like he was blacked out."

Tachyon touched the purple skin above his eye and winced. `The timing for such an incident couldn't have been worse.

"Could we talk alone for a few minutes?" Jerry looked over at Blaise.

Blaise glanced hatefully at Jerry, then looked at Tachyon, who was pointing to the door. The younger Takisian stood his ground for a moment, then stalked out of the room.

Tachyon sighed. "Now, what is it you want to discuss?"

"What happened to Troll was no accident. He wasn't in his own body when it threw you. Somebody else was."

"You've heard the reports about people having their bodies switched with someone else? There was a bank robbery-"

"Yes," Tachyon interrupted. "We have a mother and daughter in our psychiatric ward who claim their minds were somehow switched by a third party. Do you believe that's what happened to Troll?"

"I know it," Jerry said. "And I think I know who's behind it, too."

"Who?" Tachyon snapped out of his exhausted state. "David Butler. He works at my brother's law firm, Latham, Strauss." Jerry leaned forward in his chair. "I've been tailing him off and on, and he was at the riot tonight with some of his friends."

Tachyon sighed and nodded. "A year ago I might have been tempted to intervene myself, but I've seen the folly of that. I think our best course is to turn Mr. Butler in to the authorities. You're not making any of this up?"

"Of course not," Jerry said. "I don't go around accusing people of being criminals unless I'm sure of it. My brothers a lawyer."

Tachyon pushed the intercom button on his phone. "Could you get me Lieutenant Maseryk?"

Jerry wasn't sure this was such a good idea, but Tachyon seemed sold on it. What kind of prison could hold David anyway?

Jerry was sitting on the couch outside his brother's office. Presumably, he was there to have lunch with Kenneth. But he was really there to see the look on David's face when the police came for him. He'd made Tachyon find out for him where and when the arrest would be made. It was a small price to pay for the information he'd provided. Seeing the young Adonis arrested would provide him with some much-needed satisfaction.

He was thumbing through a copy of Aces. There was a paragraph on him in the "Where Are They Now?" section. They'd also printed a picture of Jerry as the giant ape with the word "retired" underneath. Little did they know.

The doors opened and two detectives walked in. At least Jerry assumed that was who they were.

"Could you ask David Butler to come out and see us?" the older of the two asked while flashing a badge. "It's an official matter."

The secretary made a quick call and David appeared moments later. He stopped short and frowned when he saw the policemen, then recovered.

"David Butler?"

"Yes, how can I help you?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions." The policemen walked up to him. "If that's all right with you?"

"Certainly," David said stiffly. He turned to the secretary. "Tell Mr. Latham I may be out all afternoon."

"Of course," she said.

"Shall we go?" David asked.

The detectives stood on either side of David and walked him from the room.

Jerry sighed. He'd hoped that David would react a little more, not that he'd expected him to break down and confess. But a little whimpering would have been nice.

Hopefully, that would come later. Jerry was only sorry he wouldn't be there to see it.

He was asleep when the phone rang. Jerry picked it up and yawned into the receiver. "Sorry, hello."

"Jeremiah." It was Tachyon. His voice was somber."I 'm afraid I have some bad news."

Jerry sat up. "Not too bad, I hope. I'm not sure I'd be up for that."

"David has escaped."

"What?" Jerry yelled without meaning to. "How did it happen?"

"The police were interrogating him and getting nowhere, so they decided to call in a skimmer, someone who can pick up surface thoughts." Tachyon paused. "David panicked and switched bodies with one of the officers. He made the man knock out his partner, then returned to his own body. The officer blacked out from the shock. Then, apparently, David just walked out. No one has seen him since."

"Great, Doc." Jerry didn't want to sound angry, but he was. "Thanks for calling."

"I'm sorry, Jeremiah. I did what I thought was best."

"I know. Good-bye. " Jerry hung up and flipped through his Rolodex for Jay Ackroyd's number. Maybe Jay could get a lead. If not, it was out of Jerry's hands.

Jerry sat on the couch in his projection room, massaging his crotch. He'd watched the first half of Jokertown, but had stopped when Nicholson got his nose slit. It was just too damn depressing. He'd popped in a porn video, but it wasn't doing much for his morale, either. He had another porn movie, jokers and Blondes, but that might be a little weird for his taste.

He turned off the TV and sighed. He'd had a couple of shots of whiskey and his brain felt as soft as his penis was hard. He thought of Kenneth and Beth upstairs, probably fucking like weasels. "Enjoy yourselves. Don't think of poor, old Jerry. Have an orgasm for me."

He'd considered sneaking up to their bedroom door and listening on several occasions, but had never actually done it. Maybe tonight would be the night. He got his feet under him, wandered into the living room and up the stairs. He stopped at the top and steadied himself on the banister. Beth was probably a great fuck. It would be consistent with her character. She was great at everything else. He took a step toward their bedroom door.

No, he thought, you're not that far gone yet. It's none of your damn business. Shame on you.

Jerry turned and headed for the upstairs bathroom. He quickly stripped and turned on the shower. The water was cold, like the air outside, but it didn't seem to help.

Nowadays Clancy Can't Even Sing by Victor Milan

The tall man opened his mouth and said, "Beware. There is danger here."

Mark Meadows swayed like a radio mast in a high wind, sat down on the hood of a black stretch limo parked in front of the store to wait the dizziness out. It had been a woman's voice, tinted with Asian accent like ginger flakes.

The slim, blond twelve-year-old girl with him watched him closely, concerned but not afraid. She'd seen these spells before.

He looked up and down the block. Fitz-James O'Brien Street was about the same as always. This fringe of the Village had grown rougher the last few years. But so had the world. And people left him pretty much alone.

He had friends.

You guys are getting pretty restless, he thought. He felt furtive stirrings in the back of his brain, but no more words came unbidden.

Deciding her father was all right, the girl began to swing pendulumlike on her father's arm, chanting, "We're home, Daddy, we're home." Her voice was that of a four-year-old. The rest of her was twelve.

He gazed down at her. A rush of love suffused him like a hit of windowpane. He pulled her close, hugged her, and stood.

"Yeah, Sprout. Home." He opened the door beneath the smiling hand-painted sun and the legend COSMIC PUMPKIN-FOOD FOR BODY, MIND amp;