"So close," Hiram said. He sighed hugely, got up from the couch, and went over to the wet bar to mix himself a drink. They were in Tachyon's suite at the Marriott, waiting for his return and watching the convention on television.
"Too damn close if you ask me," Jay said. Down on the floor of the Omni, another inconclusive ballot had just been tallied. A wave of sympathy voting had pushed Gregg Hartmann to 1956 votes of the 2082 needed to nominate. Jackson and Dukakis had both lost support, and the tiny Draft Cuomo movement had melted away entirely. Only the Barnett forces were holding firm.
Hundreds of Hartmann supporters, with victory so close they could taste it, were dancing in the aisles, waving their green and gold placards, chanting, "Hart-mann, Hart-mann," over and over while the chair gaveled for order. The convention floor was a sea of Hartmann green and gold, surrounding a few stubborn islands of Jackson red, Dukakis blue, and Barnett white.
David Brinkley had just predicted that Hartmann would go over the top on the next ballot when one of Leo Barnett's people rose and moved to suspend the rules "to allow the Reverend Leo Barnett to address the convention." All of a sudden half of the hall was on its feet, screaming at the podium. The couch whuffed in protest as Hiram sat back down. "Damn him," Hiram said, "but it's a good move. Barnett will never get to the floor, but we'll have to vote down the motion, and that will take time. It might cost us some momentum."
"Us?" Jay said, with a sidelong glance.
Hiram scowled, rubbing at the back of his neck under his collar. "Until I have proof that Gregg is the monster you claim, I'm still a Hartmann delegate. By rights I ought to be there right now" He looked at his watch. "What could be taking Tachyon so long?"
Mackie Messer could be cutting his liver out, Jay thought, but he didn't say it. Hiram was in bad enough shape already. Jay was trying to figure out what their next move would be if Tachyon never came back from his little showdown with Hartmann. And what if he came back and said Greggie was innocent? That would be enough for Hiram, but Jay was of a more suspicious nature. Could Hartmann's ace powers be potent enough to twist even Tachyon to his will? Jay didn't think so, but he'd been wrong before. He was glad he'd ignored Tachyon's advice about the jacket; it was safely back in its garment bag, hanging in the closet.
On the tube, Hartmann's people asked for a voice vote on the motion to suspend the rules. Barnett's supporters objected, demanding a roll-call vote. A Hartmann delegate asked for a voice vote on the motion for a roll-call vote. The chair stopped to consult the parliamentarian.
Jay got up and changed the channel. The other networks were showing the same thing, as was CNN, but he found an old movie on Ted Turner's superstation. Colorized, unfortunately; Cary Grant was a strange shade of pink. Jay left it on anyway. Hiram was annoyed. "Damn it, Popinjay," he said. "Put the convention back on."
"Gimme a break, Hiram," Jay said. "They're arguing about whether they ought to vote about how to vote on whether some guy can give a speech."
"Yes," Hiram snapped, "and it might just be crucial. If you want to see Topper so badly, just say so and I'll buy you a cassette. George Kerby was never that color, dead or alive." Jay looked at him sharply. "What did you say?"
"I said that George Kerby was never-"
"Shit!" Jay swore. "Goddammit."
"What is it?" Hiram said. He came ponderously to his feet. "Jay, are you all right?"
"No," Jay said. "I'm dumb as a plank. George Kerby, George Fucking Kerby. The assassin, Hiram! Chrysalis was being clever. The airline ticket was made out in the name George Kerby."
Hiram Worchester was scarcely a slow man. "Tickets in the name of a ghost," he said.
"Yeah," said Jay. "A ghost. A specter."
"James Spector!" Hiram said.
"And both George Kerbys came back from the dead," Jay said. "She hired that sonofabitch Demise."
Hiram knew what Demise was capable ou "We have to let them know," he said. He crossed the room, picked up the phone, and punched for the operator. "Connect me to the Secret Service."
The door opened. Dr. Tachyon stepped quietly into the room, head bowed. Hiram looked at him with dread, the telephone momentarily forgotten in his hand. "It… it's not true, is it?" he said desperately. "Tell me that it's all some hideous mistake, Gregg can't be…"
Tachyon looked up with pity in his lilac eyes. "Hiram," the alien said softly. "My poor, poor Hiram. I saw his mind. I saw the Puppetman." The little man shuddered. "It is a thousand times worse than we could ever have imagined." Tachyon sat on the carpet, buried his head in his hands, and began to weep.
Hiram stood there with his mouth open. Jay had never seen him look so used up, so beaten, so fat. He took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it as if he had never seen a telephone before, his face gray as ash. "God forgive me," he said, in a barely audible whisper. Then he hung up the phone.
It was Brennan's day for fighting lizards. Kant was strong, but in his frenzy he forgot whatever combat techniques he knew. Brennan blocked Kant's taloned hand as it raked at his eyes, caught the cop's other wrist, and flung him hard against the bed's footboard. Kant crouched, panting, and when Brennan leapt on him, he flicked open a switchblade he'd grabbed from the heap of clothes piled next to his sand pool. Brennan changed direction in midleap, but wasn't quite fast enough. The knife slashed open his T-shirt and the skin underneath, drawing a line of blood from belly button to nipple across Brennan's stomach and chest.
Wraith walked out of the wall as Brennan flung himself to the other side of the bed. Kant saw her and his eyes bugged out of his head. He twisted frantically from side to side, trying to watch both Jennifer and Brennan at the same time.
"We're not going to hurt you," Jennifer said in her most soothing voice. "We want to help."
"Help me?" Kant asked, his voice high-pitched, hysterical, and mean. "If you want to help me, get me the goddamned kiss!"
Brennan lunged across the bed, grabbed Kant's knife wrist, and yanked hard, pulling Kant down. The knife plunged into the mattress. Brennan leaped on him and Kant twisted savagely, gutting the water bed.
Water spewed from it as if a dam had broken. Brennan and Kant tumbled apart and the cop washed up next to Jennifer, wet as a wharf rat, sputtering and spitting. He grabbed Jennifer, drew the knife back to slash. She ghosted. He swung through her, teetered off balance, and Brennan grabbed him from behind and rammed him through the screen of the television set. It exploded with a loud crash. Kant hung inside it, stunned, until Brennan pulled him out. The cop was- dazed and bleeding from a dozen cuts on his face and chest. Brennan slapped the knife from his hand and kicked it away, then pushed him down and sat on his chest. "What's this about a kiss?" Brennan asked.
Kant moaned, unconsciously licking the blood that ran from his nose and lips.
"Is it Ezili? Do you want her?"
Kant tossed his head from side to side. His eyes were stunned and glazed, but there was still a powerful need in them.
"Noon!" he howled. "That bitch."
"What then?" Brennan demanded, shaking Kant by the shoulders.
"The Master. Ti Malice. His kiss, so sweet, so sweet." Brennan and Jennifer exchanged baffled glances. "Who's Malice?"
"My master."
Brennan suddenly remembered where he'd seen a sore like the one on Kant's neck. "Is he Sascha's master, too?" Kant shook his head, still dazed and bewildered, and Brennan slapped him to get his attention. "Sascha;- the bartender at the Crystal Palace. Is Malice his master, too?"