A ragged cheer went up, then Jackson and Tachyon headed for the limo, smiling and shaking hands as the spectators crowded in around them. Jackson pressed the flesh with practiced ease, but Tachyon looked distinctly uncomfortable. "What now?" Jay asked Tachyon when he reached the limo.
"Jesse wants us to talk to the jokers outside the Omni," Tachyon explained. He was wilting in the Atlanta heat. "He and I together. His positions on wild-card issues are just as strong as Hartmann's, if they will only listen…" He gave a long deep sigh. "Jay, if you have other leads to follow up, there's really no need for you to come along."
Jay thought about it for a moment. As far as he knew, he didn't have a single lead that was worth a damn. He shrugged. "Might as well," he said, "can't dance."
Inside the limo, the air-conditioning was cranked up and cooking, but Tachyon wilted visibly once out of the public eye. Even Jay could see how much he dreaded facing the jokers who had gathered in front of the convention center, many of whom considered him a traitor for deserting Hartmann in his hour of need. "They hate me now," he said with despair, glancing through the tinted windows at the crowds.
"Only some," Jackson said as the limo came to a stop. "It's not as if you switched your support to Barnett. I'm not that unacceptable, am
I?"
"Not to me." Tachyon squeezed Jesse's arm. Jay wasn't sure who was reassuring whom. "And you will convince them. I know it."
"Well, help me a little."
"I will do my uttermost best," Tachyon declared.
The limo doors were thrown open, and they climbed out one by one. Secret Service men in dark suits and sunglasses were watching the crowd suspiciously, and a squad of uniformed cops had cordoned off a narrow path from the limo to the flatbed truck, hung with red Jackson banners, where the microphones were waiting. Jokers pressed closely around them on all sides. Some stared in dead silence. Others grinned and yelled out their support. Still others screamed obscenities. Everyone was cooking in the heat.
"How can they hate them so?" Tachyon asked plaintively of no one in particular. "They are pitiful, and so brave. So very brave."
The cops struggled to hold back that sea of twisted humanity as the jokers surged forward. Slowly, the party began to make its way down to the truck. Hands were thrust at them from all sides, between the linked arms of the policemen, over their shoulders, around their backs. Jesse moved along one side of the line, grabbing each hand in turn, giving it a quick squeeze, then moving on to the next. Tachyon, less enthusiastic, worked the other side. An elderly man with gills spat in his face. Others tried to kiss his ring.
Jay kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, several paces behind. Straight Arrow walked beside him, keeping a careful eye on Jackson. The ace's broad forehead was dotted with sweat.
Overhead the. Turtle slid across the sky. Sometime during the night someone had painted HARTMANN! across his shell in silver letters three feet high.
A vast, pale wall of moon-faced flesh suddenly loomed up behind two policemen, broke through the cordon, and waddled toward Tachyon. Secret Service men reached for their pistols. "No, it's okay," Jay said, "that's Doughboy. He's simple-minded, but he won't hurt him." Straight Arrow weighed Jay's words, gave a curt nod. The Secret Service relaxed. Doughboy and Tachyon exchanged a few quiet words. The alien looked like he was going to break down and cry.
"I hate this," Straight Arrow muttered.
Somewhere in the crowd, a chant of "traitorl" went up. Tachyon stopped and hid his face in his hands. Jesse had to put an arm around his shoulders and whisper encouragement in his ear to get the Takisian going again. Even then, Tach's smile looked like it had been pasted on. The alien grasped the flipper of a legless joker who had thrust it up between a policeman's legs. He said a few words, smiled, moved on. More hands reached for him.
A thin teenager in worn leathers slid through the crowd, smiling, just three people down the line. How the hell could anyone wear leather in this heat? Jay wondered briefly.
He was glancing away when something-the hunger in that lean face, the bright glitter in the boy's eyes-caught his attention and held it.
Tachyon touched-oh so lightly-the twisted fingers of a foul-smelling joker whose huge boils oozed with pus. He looked a little green, but he forced a smile.
One of the boy's shoulders was higher than the other.
"NO!" Jay screamed, moving forward, hands sliding out of his pockets.
The boy grasped Tachyon's hand. "I'm Mackie Messer," Jay heard him say as the buzz saw kicked in.
"I was in medical school in 1946," Mr. Bones said between sips of tea, "when the wild card came down out of the sky. My deformity was slight, but enough to get me banished from school. It was unusual enough to be a black man in medical school, but a joker black man couldn't be tolerated."
"You use your antennae in your work, don't you?" Brennan asked.
Bones nodded. "After a while I discovered that they've given me a sixth sense, somewhere between taste and smell and touch that's probably about as hard to describe as sight to a blind man. Through the years I've learned to use it to help detect wrongness in my patients."
He put down his cup and turned to Jennifer as she moaned loudly, the first sound she'd made in hours. He ran his antennae over her body, listened to her heartbeat, and said to Brennan, "Give me my bag."
Brennan brought it over and put it beside him. He reached in for a hypodermic and a bottle of clear fluid, and gave her an injection. Her breathing was fluttery and rapid, her forehead was beaded with sweat. She sat straight up and cried out, "Daniel, where are you, Daniel?" It seemed she couldn't see him even though he was standing right next to her.
Bones moved over and gestured for Brennan to take his place. He knelt down and held Jennifer. She clung to him fiercely and her skin was cold even though she was soaked with sweat.
"Daniel," she murmured, and suddenly went limp. Brennan looked at Bones desperately, who reassuringly put a large-knuckled hand on his shoulder.
"It's all right, son, let her down gently. I think she's passed the crisis point."
Brennan held her at arms' length and looked at her. She seemed to be sleeping deeply. Her breath was firm and measured. He let her down against the pillow and she sighed and turned over.
"She needs sleep," Bones said. "I'm going to give her a sedative and I don't want her to be disturbed for at least twenty-four hours."
A vast sense of relief swept through Brennan. "She'll be all right?" he asked.
Bones nodded.
"Thanks, doctor-I mean, Mr. Bones. What do I owe you?"
Bones shrugged lean shoulders. "I don't have set fees. My patients pay what they can."
Brennan reached for his denim jacket, which was slung over a chair next to the sofa. He took a flat roll of money from a secret pocket sewn into the inside and gave it all to Bones.
"This is all I have with me," he said. "If there's anything else you ever need, call this number and I'll do what I can." Brennan scribbled the number down on a piece of paper he took from Father Squid's secretary and handed it to him. Bones riffled through the money Brennan had given him. "You're very generous," he said.