"Doctor, I don't know what you want me to do. Even assuming that I gave any credence at all to what you're saying-"
"Get help."
Intent on his own words, Hartmann almost missed Tachyon's. "Hmm?"
"Get help, Gregg. Find a therapist. I'll find you a therapist-" Suddenly Tachyon realized how impossible that was. A therapist would have to be told too much, and it would all come out. Somehow, it could all unravel. Tachyon's face twisted in frustration. He did not like the only answer he could see. "We're going to spend a lot of time together, Gregg."
"What do you mean?"
"As of now, I am your physician. You are under my care." Gregg spat laughter, turning his back on the doctor. "No," he said. "Uh-uh. I don't need a damn shrink because Puppetman's gone. You're not even human, Doctor. I doubt you're particularly well-qualified to act as a psychologist."
"Consider it a compromise position. It will guarantee my silence."
"I tell you the power's gone, and the power was at fault."
"And we go around again? Admit the truth of what I'm telling you, Gregg. You won't even look at me. I saw your guilt, Gregg. You can deny-even to yourself-but I know the truth. It's time for you to start facing the reality."
Long silence stretched between them. Finally Gregg said, "All right, Doctor. I'll grant you a compromise politicians are used to them. Your silence for my business, huh? I suppose you'll need some paying customers when the funds are cut off."
Tachyon did not dignify the insult with a comment. "I will contact you as soon as I return to New York."
"Fine." Hartmann sighed. He tried to give that professional smile of his and failed. Walking over to the suitcase, he swung it o$' the bed.
"Well, this is it, then. I'm going to pick up Ellen. She's understandably confused and hurt by all of this." The selfconscious smile flashed again. "I'm going to tell her I'm sorry, too. Goodbye for now. I guess I'll be seeing you soon…" Hartmann thrust out his hand to Tachyon.
Tachyon stared in bitter disbelief at the proferred hand. He wondered if this was not some final, cruel joke of Gregg's. Hey, all's forgiven. Let's shake and make up. Buddies again.
But I can't shake, you bastard. You saw to that. Hartmann suddenly realized what he'd done and yanked back his hand. He didn't say anything. He went to the door and opened it. They left the room together.
"Walk with me to the elevators?" asked Hartmann. "No."
"I'll be calling for that appointment, then."
Tachyon watched him walk away-a soft, overweight man with pale white scalp like wings where the hair had receded. He had always thought of Gregg as a dynamic, handsome man.
Now he realized that that too had been a function of his power. Was I wrong to speak the truth about his power? Perhaps it would have been better to simply let him believe in his possession by Puppetman and Gimli.
NO! He escaped punishment. I'm not going to let him escape the guilt.
But for all intents and purposes Puppetman was dead. Now it was up to Tachyon to keep it that way. Which meant he had to remain close to Gregg Hartmann. The thought was nauseating.
The alien walked to the stairwell. Sat down on the concrete step and leaned his head against the cold metal handrail. His arm was throbbing again, claws of pain that seemed to rip up his arm and into his shoulder. This might very well be the place where Jack had died, he thought wearily. And, right down there, Gregg killed his own child.
I'm dead too. But nobody's realized it yet because I'm still walking around.
Eight days in July. Eight days in which to lose so much: his oldest friendship on Earth; his belief and respect in Gregg Hartmann; the love and respect of his jokers.
His hand.
His innocence.
But jack hadn't died. And he wasn't dead yet either. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Tis, and get on with the business of living."
But I have to deal with Hartmann! his mind wailed. "Tough. Someday after he's dead and buried you can present a paper on him at the AMA." He began to climb the stairs.
11:00 A.M.
"I don't need it!"
"Stop being such a royal asshole, your Takisian excellency." Jack unfolded the chair and placed it by Tachyon's hotel bed.
"I've managed all morning without you or that damned wheelchair."
"Yeah, and look at you, you look like something the cat threw up."
"You should be out looking for Blaise," Tachyon said. He was propped up on pillows suffering whitely.
Jack sighed. "The police are looking for him. The FBI has been alerted. Even that fatuous jerk Straight Arrow is poking around. What can I do that they can't?"
Tachyon's face was haunted. His one hand clutched the bed covers. "I must find my grandson. I must. He's all I have left."
Jack sat on the room chair, and reached for a cigarette. "The police say he was with that Popinjay guy, that Jay Ackroyd, at the hospital Saturday night after your operation."
They were watching the TV in the waiting room. One- of the nurses remembers, that something on the TV caught their attention, and that Popinjay turned to Blaise and said "You wanna go play detective?' Or words to that effect."
"Ideal." Tachyon bit his lip. "If Popinjay has involved my grandchild in one of his intrigues…"
"The police are trying to find out what channel they were tuned to." Jack shook his head. "I wasn't any help there either. I was partying Saturday night." Depression invaded him. "I thought the right candidate had got the nomination."
"I have been trying to phone Hiram," Tachyon said. "I thought he might have seen Blaise, but he's vanished too."
"He left yesterday morning."
"No he didn't. I inquired, and he hasn't checked out of the hotel.
"
"I saw him in the lobby. He was carrying a trunk." Tachyon frowned. "Jay and Hiram are the closest of friends. If Ackroyd were in trouble, Hiram would be the person to whom he would turn." Tach dropped into a thoughtful silence.
"Since they're all missing they aren't going to be very much help to us. What you need is some rest."
Tachyon leaned back against the pillows. "You are right." He closed his eyes. "Perhaps I should try again to detect Blaise's mind signature. Would you please turn out the lights?"
"It might help my concentration." Almost inaudibly he added. "I am weary. So very weary."
"Will it disturb you if I have a belt of bourbon?"
"Not at all."
Jack turned out the light, leaving only the trickle of sunlight coming in under the drapes, and then he carried his cigarette in the direction of the bottles on Tachyon's table. He put some ice in a glass, then reached in the near darkness for one of the bottles. It turned out to be James Spector's ashes. He put the urn down and picked up another bottle. It seemed to have liquid of the right color. He poured.
Scotch. Damn.
It was sure one of those days.
It all felt very strange.
Gregg didn't know the Secret Service guards who rode with him in the rented limo on the way to Ellen's hospital. Their faces were unfamiliar and they didn't speak to him. They were strangers, hidden and masked by dark glasses, dark blue suits, and dark frowns.
They would always be strangers. Their minds were locked away and Gregg no longer had the key to open them. It felt very strange to be so silent in his own head, to be unable to sense the tidal flow of feelings around him, to find it impossible to swim in the bright salt ocean of emotion, to be powerless to change its swift currents.
This must be what it's like to go suddenly blind or deaf or mute. Then: Puppetman? he mind-called again, and again there was only the echo of his own thoughts.
Dead. Gone. Gregg sighed, feeling lost and sad and hopeful all at once, looking at the people around him, touching him, and yet isolated. Apart.
He didn't know if he'd ever get used to that.