"Mother?"
The manikin nodded and pointed. Brennan turned to follow her. gesture and saw two homunculi dragging at a pullcord attached to a dark tapestry that covered the chamber's back wall. They pulled back the tapestry and Brennan stared at what was revealed.
There was a wall of flesh growing over a trestle against the back wall. It was gray and pink and purple and pulsated with a rippling rhythm, like a swimming manta ray. It was totally featureless. A dozen or so of the manikins hung from or clung to the flesh. Some were clearly attached to the thing, growing from cords attached to their heads, limbs, or stomachs. Others were just nestling against it as if for security or comfort.
"What is it?" Brennan asked in a whisper.
"Mother," the little Chrysalis said. "We are her children. She cannot see, nor talk aloud, but she speaks with her mind. She knows, she remembers everything we whisper to it while we rest in her bosom. Our lady gave her-and us-refuge. In return she remembered for the Lady."
"She can't talk?" Brennan asked.
The homuncula shook her head. "Only through her children."
Brennan, who thought he'd seen just about every kind of joker imaginable, shook his head. He wondered where Chrysalis had found it-her, actually-and how they had made their bargain. It was a story he would like to hear, but now there was no time. Later he and the little people could sit down and puzzle it out. Now he still had a murderer to uncover. "How can I talk to Mother?" Brennan asked.
"Through us. Or," she said, "you might find what you're looking for in the Lady's journal."
"Her journal?" Somehow that sounded easier than dealing with Mother. And she was there for questioning if the journal didn't pan out. "Where is it?"
"Right there," the homuncula said, pointing at a leatherbound volume sitting on top of the cluttered desk.
As Brennan reached for it he heard a soft scuttling step where there was no one to make it. He drew back barely in time as something invisible and metallic swung through the air, caught his cheek, and ripped it open, leaving a bloody gash. Between him and the diary a pair of brown eyes floated five and a half feet from the ground.
There was loud chittering and many of the homunculi ran for the dark corners of the room as Fadeout materialized, pointing a pistol at Brennan.
"Surprise, surprise!" he said, grinning. "Drop your damn bow."
10:00 P.M.
The park was as hot and humid as a hooker's mouth. Fires burned everywhere, and shouts and snatches of song echoed through the trees as they wandered from tent to tent, from campfire to campfire, looking for Sascha.
In this hour, this night of triumph, even supposed nats like he and Blaise were welcome. Everywhere they went, jokers shook their hands and slapped them on the back. Drinks were being thrust at them every time they turned around; Hartmann buttons were pinned on their clothing at each stop. The night was heady with aroma; sausages sizzling on a hibachi, hobos stew simmering over a campfire, a pair of squirrels turning slowly on a spit. The sound of beer cans being popped surrounded them like a thousand aluminum crickets. People were drunk, stoned, excited, turned on, fucked up, and generally crazed, but it was a happy kind of insanity. Gregg Hartmann was going to be president; he was going to kiss it and make it better; for the jokers and all the other poor damned souls in the park, Camelot was just around the corner.
Jay wondered how they'd feel the morning they all woke up and realized that somehow Camelot had turned into Mordor.
"I want to go back to the hotel," Blaise whined yet again. "This is bor-ring."
"Hey," Jay told him, "this is history in the making. Look around. Taste it. Smell it."
Blaise sniffed the air suspiciously. "That's just beer," he said. "Beer and piss."
Jay had to laugh; that sounded like one of his lines. "Maybe you'll make a PI yet, kid."
"I'm tired of all these stupid jokers," Blaise said. "You should let me mind-control them. I bet they're just lying to you, I bet they all know Sascha. I could make them tell us."
"No," Jay said. "When we find Sascha, you can take him, make him tell me the truth. That's all."
They found Doughboy all alone in a field, playing with a manhole cover. He was throwing it like a Frisbee, flinging it twenty, thirty yards across the grass, then scrambling after it to throw it again. It didn't fly as well as a Frisbee, but Doughboy didn't seem to mind. There was nothing but innocent, childlike joy on his great round face. But when Jay called out, the joker stopped and looked guilty.
"We're looking for Sascha," Jay asked him. "He used to work at the Crystal Palace. Have you seen him anywhere?" Doughboy slowly shook his head from side to side. "I wath juth playing," he said.
Blaise laughed. "I know a good game he can play," he said. Doughboy's face went waxen, and he began to take off his clothes with thick, clumsy fingers.
Jay swung around. "Let him go," he snapped.
"Why should I? You can't make me." Jay slapped him.
Blaise stood there, his eyes hot with anger, his cheek as red as his hair, and for a second Jay was afraid of what he might do. Then, suddenly, he looked away. "Okay," he mumbled. "I'm sorry."
"All right," Jay said, after a long moment. "It's forgotten. C'mon. Sascha's still out there somewhere."
"How did you find me here?" Brennan asked Fadeout. "Wait, don't tell me," he added before the ace could say anything. "Lazy Dragon."
"Very astute," Fadeout said sarcastically. "He lost you when you were grabbed by the police, but. he picked you up again at the church by running down your usual haunts."
"And you followed me here."
"Quite right." Fadeout looked around. "You do know the most interesting people." He reached over and picked up Chrysalis's journal. "But this is what I've come for. This will give me more power than Chrysalis ever had-because I won't be reluctant to use the information."
Brennan couldn't believe that he'd come so close to finding what he needed, only to have it snatched away at the last moment. He made a move to reach for Fadeout, but the ace swung his gun up and pointed it at Brennan's midsection. "Uh-uh, wouldn't want me to have to shoot you?" he asked as the miniature Chrysalis moved.
She'd been standing on the desk next to Fadeout, and as he pointed his pistol at Brennan she leaped and grabbed it by the barrel. Fadeout looked at her in shock as her weight dragged the barrel toward the floor. He cursed and shook the gun, but she wouldn't let go.
As Brennan shouted, "No!" he pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed loudly in the confined chamber. The bullet ripped the miniature Chrysalis off the barrel and sent her flying through the air. She spattered against Mother like a broken rag doll. Mother made no sound, but extruded long, humanlike arms that cuddled the broken body against her mattress of flesh.
Brennan kicked the gun from Fadeout's hand, and with the same smooth motion backhanded him across the face and snatched the diary.
Fadeout went down, blood from his crushed lip dribbling on his chin. He put a hand to his mouth to wipe it away and mumbled, "You're dead now, you bastard," and threw something at Brennan. It hit his chest and bounced onto the desktop. It looked like a carved bit of potato.
Brennan backed away as the potato expanded, taking on black bands of fur, a large, chubby body, and a round, funny face with big black circles on its eyes.
The giant panda grinned at him. It was cute as hell with its fat, furry body and comical face. It was also twice Brennan's weight and had formidable talons and bright, sharp, shining teeth.
"Kill him, Dragon," Fadeout directed.