He flopped into the black futon and reached for the TV remote control. His flight wasn't until ten the next day. There would be plenty of time to pack in the morning. He punched up WABC. The set crackled to life and Ted Koppel came into view.
"… little was known about this woman with transparent skin who chose to create her own kingdom in the center of New York City's Jokertown." Koppel's brows were knit together even more tightly than usual. "While police are saying little about the apparent murder, it was seemingly a very brutal affair. There is the possibility that an ace with abnormal strength was involved. Before giving you what limited background we have on this woman named Chrysalis, here's what Angela Ellis, captain of the jokertown precinct, had to say earlier today."
The video cut to a drab press area. A short woman with dark hair and green eyes stood in front of a nest of microphones. She coughed, then paused, and placed her hands palms down on the podium. "The woman popularly known as Chrysalis was found dead at her place of business this morning. Should the medical examiner determine that a homicide has occurred, this office will of course conduct a thorough investigation. We have no further information to give at this time." Voices of questioning reporters immediately rose into a roar. Ellis raised one hand. "That's it. We'll keep you informed as facts become available."
Spector reached for the bottle of whiskey he always kept by the futon. He twisted off the cap and took several swallows. "Shit." He'd never cared one way or the other for the bitch, but something about her being dead made him uneasy. There was blood and death in the air already, and while that ordinarily made him feel right at home he had a gut feeling that he was really going to be putting it on the line to make this hit. That was too bad, though. The money from the Shadow Fists was almost gone, and he needed another big score. This had dropped into his lap and he wasn't going to blow it.
Several more slugs of whiskey and Koppel's familiar monotone relaxed him. He drifted off to sleep wondering what the weather was like in Atlanta.
Tachyon hunched at the bar, ankles wrapped about the rungs of the high chrome stool. The light reflecting off the hanging wine glasses hurt his aching head, but he couldn't find the energy to look away.
Mirrors. The mirrors of the Funhouse shattering as the kidnappers had come for Angelface. A skull face reflected in a hundred different angles as he entered Chrysalis's boudoir on the upper floor of the Crystal Palace. The invisible lips painted a pale pink, the swirl of glitter across one transparent cheek, the blue eyes floating eerily in their bony sockets.
He had drunk in both those bars for more years than he cared to remember. Now the Funhouse was closed following Des's death a year ago.
What would become of the Palace?
Drunken self-pity brought tears to Tachyon's eyes, and he considered his bereft state.
"Hey, buddy?" asked the cheerful young bartender. "Another one?"
"Sure, why not." The bartender set up another brandy, and Tach raised it high. "To the lost and mournful dead." Tach drained the glass, scrawled his room number across the bottom of the bar bill, slipped off the stool. There was still a lot of activity in the lobby even at this hour, but he spotted no one he knew. Tachyon considered calling Jack, but he wanted to drink and talk about Chrysalis, and the big ace hadn't known her.
His aimless wanderings led him to the floor housing Barnett's party. Behind the doors he could hear the low murmur of voices. He stared hard at one door, willing Fleur to emerge. It didn't work. His silent scrutiny of the suite drew the attention of a Secret Service guard. Tach saw him coming, and stumbled back to the elevators.
Back in his own room he stared down at Blaise's tousled head. Sobs shook him as he knelt by the bed, and enfolded the sleeping boy in his arms.
Everyone always leaves me. Everyone I love leaves me. I love you so very much. Don't ever leave me.
CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday July 19, 1988
He'd been so drunk and upset last night that he hadn't noticed the message light on the telephone. Having now arrived at a state where his eyes focused and his head felt less like an enemy growth mounted on his shoulders, Tachyon sipped Alka-Seltzer and listened to the distant ringing. "Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic."
"This is Tachyon, get me Finn."
"Hi, doc, you must have heard by now."
" Yes. "
"Things are in an uproar here. There was a firebombing at Barnett's mission last night, and what I can only describe as free-form demonstrations in Chatham Square. I tried to reach you all afternoon."
"I didn't get back to the room until very late."
"I assisted on the autopsy. You want details?" Tachyon sighed. "I suppose I must."
Finn ran down the findings. In the background, Tach could hear a sharp four beat tapping as the pony-sized centaur danced on nervous dainty hooves. The joker physician con cluded with a wry, "It'll sure as hell be a closed-casket service."
"Damn, the funeral. When is it?"
"Tomorrow morning at eleven."
"I will of course be there."
"How are things down in your neck of the woods?"
"Confusing. I don't even know the current delegate count." He checked his watch. "Look, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow."
Snatching up a hat, Tachyon paused at the bathroom door, and yelled over the thunder of running water. "I'm off to breakfast with Jack. Meet me at ten-thirty, and we'll go over to the Omni. And be there."
There was no answer. Blaise was either plotting or sulking. Neither was an encouraging prospect.
"Ms. Morgenstern." Braden Dulles was younger than she was, but he had this State Voice he put on, an authoritative Ben Bradlee rumble like driving over a gravel road on a New England winter day, complete with frost crackling and the occasional squeak. "You have put this newspaper in a very difficult position."
She shifted in her bed, pulled a wad of pillow closer to her breasts. She had on a heavy blue-flannel nightgown. It was how she always did hotels: in winter leave the heat down, in summer crank up the air-conditioning and bundle up. She liked the insulation a lot of bedding gave her.
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.