She worked her eyelids ponderously up and down. She was normally a morning person. But last night after Tachyon had brushed her off—the bastard!—she’d been completely out of resources, had no idea what to do but take her chances returning to her room, where she slept the sleep of the clinically depressed. She turned an eye toward the clock radio on the nightstand. 8:00 A.M. If Dulles’s call hadn’t roused her she might have gone on until afternoon.
When she didn’t respond, Braden went on, “It has been of concern to us here that you have of late been conducting what appears to be a personal vendetta against a major candidate for the presidential nomination.”
Bitterness popped like a blister. “Your fair-haired boy, you mean.”
“The Post has a tradition of awareness of its responsibilities as the newspaper of record in the nation’s capital. Senator Hartmann is obviously the best qualified candidate at this point in time.”
“You think this point in time’s a good one to put a psychopathic ace in the White House? Christ, all Ronnie Reagan’s done is invade some new country where we didn’t belong every two years. This man—this creature—feeds on human misery, Braden.”
Anguished silence. She could just see the expression on his Young Patrician face, the constriction around the nostrils, the deepening of the network of grooves beyond his age that surrounded his mouth and radiated from the corners of his eyes, which he cultivated because they lent him gravitas. As if he’d just detected an aroma of dog turd within the sterile hallowed sanctum of the Post.
“We feel your … obsession … does credit neither to you as a journalist nor to us as a paper. Your latest report, if I may call it that, was simply incredible. Even were we inclined to accept such a farrago of wild accusation and innuendo, our legal department would never let us print it.
“And this attempt by Leo Barnett to smear Senator Hartmann—really, Sara, how could you have lent your name to such a, well, frankly sleazy undertaking?”
“Barnett’s people didn’t ask me, Braden. I didn’t know anything about it, I swear to God.” She clung to the receiver as if it was the only thing holding her up. It was cool talisman hardness on her cheek.
“You told me the allegations were true. Yet within hours Senator Hartmann had issued a denial, which we feel to have been quite convincing.”
Because you wanted it to be. She tried to envision the Post accepting such an offhand denial of dubious dealing from a politician they didn’t shine their golden light upon. A Nixon, a Robertson, even a Bush; they’d hunt him to the end of the earth.
But she could not speak. She had a good reporter’s patter when she needed to draw people out. Somehow, though, the spoken word always managed to betray her when she tried to express something that really mattered to her.
“Finally, Ms. Morgenstern, we are very concerned that you have evinced no intention of returning to New York. You are the acknowledged journalistic authority on Jokertown. We find it most unsettling that you refuse to take an interest in the murder—which involved the use of ace powers, I might add—of one of that community’s most prominent citizens. One I was given to understand was a personal friend of yours. It would seem your story lay there.”
“The story’s here, Braden. This is bigger than a killing in Jokertown. This concerns everybody—you, me, aces, jokers, people in Uganda, the whole world. The president has so much power, so many—” She stopped herself before she stumbled and fell headlong. That was a reason she’d always preferred the written word; the ones you spoke tended to get away from you. She drew a breath.
“Besides, Braden, he’s here. Chrysalis’s murderer is here. Didn’t you read my article?”
“Are you suggesting Senator Hartmann personally beat Ms. Jory to death?”
“No. Damn you, Braden, don’t be so obtuse. He had it done—he used his ace, he used his position, what the hell difference does it make? He’s still guilty, just like a mafia don who orders a hit.”
Dulles sighed. “I truly regret that it has come to this. Your personality disintegration has seriously degraded your professionalism. We therefore feel it is in neither your best interests nor ours for your association with this newspaper to continue.”
“You’re firing me?” Her voice rose toward the ceiling. “Say it, Braden. Just have the balls to say it.”
“I’ve said everything that needs to be said, Ms. Morgenstern. I will add my personal hope that you will soon seek therapy. You have too much ability to throw it away over addiction.”
“Addiction?” She could barely produce the word.
“Addiction to fear. Addiction to excitement, to the thrill of being a central figure in a vast and shadowy and menacing mystery. Addiction is the disease of the eighties, Sara. Good-bye.”
She heard a click and the white-noise line. In her mind she could see Braden Dulles’s hands, already scrubbed to a pink-white luster, washing each other in air.
She threw the phone across the room and rose from the bed to dress. She felt like a cracked porcelain doll. As if any movement, any random breath of air, might splinter her all over the carpet.
9:00 A.M.
Tach noticed with a flare of almost guilty pleasure that even among the greats of the nation he was still newsworthy. The discrete hints that he and Jack had dropped yesterday had borne fruit. Reporters milled and jostled, ran microphone tests, camera checks. Jack had done a nice job of stage-managing the entire affair, selecting a table flush against the low divider separating the atrium coffee shop from the walkway. A tech snapped on a floor light, bleaching the big blond ace. Jack squinted, and shaded his eyes.
“Bad night?” inquired Tach, sliding into a seat opposite Jack. He kept his voice very low to avoid the foam phalluses that were already thrusting in their direction.
“Late night. We had that challenge to Rule 9(c) governing the apportioning of delegates formerly committed—”
“Jack, spare me the tedious details. Did we win or not?”
“Yes, thanks to me, which set us up to win the California challenge.” Jack took a sip of coffee, and lit a cigarette. “Do you have any idea how we’re going to play this scene?”
“No.”
“Great,” came the sour reply.
The edges of Tachyon’s mouth quirked. “I suppose I could just come around the table, and give you a great big kiss.”
“I’d kill you.”
Tach shaded his eyes with a hand, and scanned the crowd, noting the presence of Brokaw and Donaldson. Peregrine, who always knew how to time an entrance, came flying down from the tenth floor. The beating of her great wings fluttered menus and ruined blow-dried hairdos. Cameras swiveled up to document her landing.
Tachyon reached out to her with his telepathy. Good morning, sweet one, ready to shill for us?
All ready, Tachy, dearest.
“Mr. Braun, Doctor, aren’t you rather unusual breakfast companions?” sang out Peri.
“In what way?” asked Tach blandly.
Sam Donaldson picked up the ball, rapping out his question in his sharp staccato manner. “Your antipathy for one another is well-documented. In a 1972 interview with Time magazine, Doctor, you said that Jack Braun was the greatest betrayer in American history.”
Jack stiffened, and ground out his Camel. Tachyon felt a momentary regret at what he was going to be put through.
“Mr. Donaldson, you might note that that interview is sixteen years old. People change. They learn to forgive.”
“So you’ve forgiven Mr. Braun for 1950?”
“Yes.”
“And you, Mr. Braun?” sung out Buckley of The New York Times.
“I have nothing to forgive. What I have are regrets. What happened in the 1950s was a travesty. I see it happening again, and I’m here to sound the warning. Dr. Tachyon and I share more than just a past. We were drawn together because of our admiration for Gregg Hartmann.”
“Then the senator arranged for your reconciliation?”
“Only by example
,” said Tach. “He was one of the driving forces behind last year’s World Health Organization tour to investigate the treatment of wild cards worldwide. The senator spoke movingly of reconciliation and the healing of old wounds.” Tach glanced at Jack. “I think perhaps both of us took that lesson to heart.”
“We also have another bond,” said Jack. “I’m a wild card. One of the first. Tachyon’s spent forty-two years working among the victims of that virus.”
It was a pleasant overstatement, but Tach didn’t correct him. It would have brought up the fact that for thirteen years, from 1950 until 1963, Tachyon had been a useless alcoholic derelict, roaming the streets and gutters of Europe and Jokertown. And the reason for his disintegration and deportation had been those fateful hearings before HUAC, and Jack’s betrayal.
“… and we don’t like what’s been happening in this country. The hate is back, and we fear it.”
Tachyon fought free of the memories.
“Then you accuse the Reverend Barnett of fanning the flames of hatred and intolerance?” asked a serious-faced young man from CBS.
“I believe Leo Barnett is acting from principle—as he sees it. But so was the Nur al-Allah in Syria, and in that sad country I saw innocent jokers stoned to death in the streets. Is that anguish something that we wish to see translated to our country?” Tach shook his head. “I think not. Gregg Hartmann—”
“Is a secret ace, and a killer,” came a thin, tight voice from the crowd.
People drew back, repelled by the madness in Sara’s narrow face. Tachyon came half out of his chair.
“Shit!” muttered Jack.
“What are you going to do, Dr. Tachyon? He’s one of yours. One of the devil’s stepchildren, and only you can stop him.” Tears blurred Sara’s words.
“Do something. Mind-control her. Something,” whispered Jack.
And make a bad situation worse? he shot back in a bitter telepathic message to the ace.
The crowd of reporters had turned on the woman like a pack scenting blood. She blanched and shrank back.
“Miss Morgenstern! On what … Do you … evidence … does the Post…”
The clamoring voices rose in intensity. To Tachyon’s overstretched nerves the sound seemed to take on a physical manifestation, a wave about to break over that fragile form. Sara whirled and vanished into the crowd of interested onlookers. Tachyon stared at the eager hungry faces of the press, and bowed his head. They had to be fed.
Mothers of my mother, forgive me, he prayed, and threw Sara to the wolves.
“That unfortunate girl does not deal well with stress,” he called in a clear, penetrating voice. “Yesterday’s revelations concerning her and Senator Hartmann—”
“Then there was an affair?” snapped Donaldson.
“No. The child was in love with the senator, and could not accept his continued refusal. I think she is torn between love for him, and a desire for revenge. Remember, hell hath no fury…” His voice trailed away.
“Yeah,” put in Jack. “I tried to interest the young lady in my charms during the tour, but she was obsessed with the senator.”
“Sad,” concluded Tachyon. But not as sad as what I’ve just done to her.
“Who the hell are you?” Sara demanded shrilly. The man who had hold of her arm ignored her. Or maybe the tumult of questions and rage breaking over them like a tsunami drowned out her words.
Something in his manner said he was ignoring her.
The discreet security goons had come out of it first, of course, advancing in their dark three-pieces, muttering into throat mikes as they converged on her. She was standing there erect and alone, challenging in her tea-green skirt and long-sleeved white blouse, chin elevated above a ruff considerably more modest than Tachyon’s. She let the noise roll off her. She had spilled the truth out on the carpet like a turd shining and stinking in the hot TV lights, where it could not be overlooked or covered up. Now she would accept the consequences.
A hand caught her wrist. She turned, ready to aim a kick for a gaberdine crotch. Instead of a husky young jock, it was a small, gray, balding man with a round belly hanging in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. The watchdogs weren’t even close.
Now the gray man was towing her out a side door with the modest but irresistible authority of an East River tug. The security toughs got caught up in the back eddies of delegates and reporters shouting questions at each other. Her last view of the function room was Jack Braun staring after her with his face rumpled up into a look of Sonny Tufts’s bemusement, Tachyon beside him gazing about with neurasthenic dismay, like an underfed Regency buck whose man’s man just farted in the wardrobe.
Her rescuer—or whatever the hell he was—dragged her down a corridor past incurious idlers, into a side service passageway. He used the momentum he’d imported to spin her around, back to a wall. A pack of reporters charged by, down the corridor, baying on the wrong trail.
“Is not the way to go about it,” he said. He had the kind of gruff avuncular face only TV character actors have. His accent was … Russian?
Sara lost it. This was simply too strange. She yanked her hand away, panicked more by the fact of contact than any ramification.
He pressed in on her. “No! You must listen. You are in very great danger—”
You’re telling me, buster. She squirmed past him and raced away, throwing a high heel in the process, toppling into the wall, scraping along, supporting herself with her hands while she kicked frantically to free herself of the other.
“Little fool!” the man yelled after her. “The truth you have can kill!”
The shoe finally came away, cartwheeling into the far wall. She ran.
10:00 A.M.
Gregg didn’t remember sleeping at all during the night.
At six, Amy called to give him the early morning schedule and remind him of a seven o’clock breakfast meeting with Andrew Young at Pompano’s. By seven-forty-five he was in conference with Tachyon, Braun, and other key lobbyists and delegates about the Joker’s Rights plank and the party platform. At eight-ten, it was minor difficulties with the Ohio delegation, which seemed to consider Gregg a favorite-son candidate since he’d been born in their state, and felt they deserved privileged access to him; eight-thirty was a discussion with Ted Kennedy and Jimmy Carter concerning tomorrow’s nomination speeches. Amy and John Werthen huddled with him to confirm the rest of the morning’s schedule, then Gregg spoke briefly with Tony Calderone about the progress of his acceptance speech.
Around nine-thirty, Tachyon came storming up complaining that Sara Morgenstern had finally gone too far. He informed Gregg of her outburst downstairs. “She’s entirely insane,” the alien raged. “Paranoid, delusions of persecution. We have to do something about her.”
Gregg agreed with that more than Tachyon could know. She’d become unpredictable and dangerous, and he didn’t dare use Puppetman to neutralize her. There was too much danger of Gimli’s interference. With the problems he’d had with Puppetman in the last few weeks, he couldn’t afford the chance. A public scene would ruin everything.
A little after ten, he was finally able to retreat to his room for a few minutes. Ellen was away handshaking with delegates and campaigning outside; their rooms were blessedly deserted. A headache was pounding against his temples, and it had Gimli’s voice.
Why worry about Morgenstern? Sure, she’s a fucking loose cannon, but she’s not the problem I am, is she? You could handle her if you dared let Puppetman out. Can you feel him yet, Greggie? Can you hear him howling for his fix? I can. You will too, any time now.
“Shut up, damn you!” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he heard the faint echo of his voice.
Gimli laughed. Sure. I’ll be quiet for a little while. After all, I’ve already got you talking to yourself. Just remember that I’m still here, still waiting. But then, I doubt you’ll forget that, will you? You can’t.
The voice went away, leaving Gregg moaning and holding his head. One problem
at a time, he told himself. Sara first.
He composed himself, reaching for the phone and dialing. There was the slight hiss of a long-distance connection, and then the phone at the other end rang. “Hartmann in ’88,” a voice said with a strong Harlem accent. “New York office, Matt Wilhelm speaking.”
“Furs, how are things up north?”
There was a laugh from the other end of the line. Wilhelm—also known in Jokertown as Furs—preferred his joker name, as Gregg knew. “Senator, it’s good to hear from you. I should have known it was you coming in on this line. Everything’s going smoothly, if a little slow. We’re waiting for the official announcement that you’re our nominee, then we’ll move into overdrive. How’s Atlanta?”
“Hot and steamy, and awfully warm down on the floor, from what I understand.”
“Lots of resistance to the plank,” Furs said. Gregg could imagine the joker’s leonine features set in a scowl. “I expected as much.”
“I’m afraid so. But we’re going to keep hammering away at it.”
“You do that, Senator. In the meantime, what can Furs do for you?”
“I’d like you to make a few phone calls. I could do it myself but I’ve a meeting in a few minutes and Amy and John are tied up with this platform business. You or someone on our staff got the time to give me a hand?”
“Absolutely. Go ahead.”
“Good. First, check with Cuomo’s office—be sure to relay thanks for his help yesterday with File and Shroud and find out exactly when he’s expected to arrive in Atlanta tomorrow. I want to know what arrangements have been made, and be sure one of our people picks him up at the airport. Then call our headquarters in Albany and have someone there confirm my reservation for the first week in August; Amy says she’s never heard back from them. I also need you to call and make certain the New York apartment’s ready for Ellen on Monday time into Tomlin, by the way, but John will be calling you with those details.”
“Got it, Senator. Anything else?”