He was surprised at how much he wanted to do that. At how much he desired her. His hand was still out. All he had to do was touch, to say the right words garlanded with his new Gift.
He withdrew his hand. Set it on his lap and covered it with the prosthetic. That was very nearly harder to do than anything he'd ever done in his life.
She's angry and furious because this means that more people will be hurt. She cries for them, not herself. But you, Greggie ... you're just disappointed. You're feeling irritated because this means Gregg Hartmann won't get the publicity he wants. You're a sham. You're an ass.
"We're not done, Hannah," he said, ignoring the voice. "There's another way - if you're willing to trust me."
"I still don't know you well enough to trust you."
"Father Squid tells me that you couldn't trust Quasiman in the beginning, either."
That nearly brought the tears again. "Poor Quasi ..." Hannah covered her mouth with her hand, then wiped at her eyes as she looked out at the skyscraper canyon around them. "What is it you want to do, Gregg?"
"First, I have to know how much you're willing to risk," he said.
Hannah tossed her hair defiantly. "To expose the Sharks? Anything."
"This would be a true gamble. If it doesn't work, we'd have nowhere else to go. It would involve playing almost our full hand, laying it all out in the open. All or nothing. Either we cause things to break loose, or we find out once and for all that no one cares." And just incidentally, it will also give me the most exposure. Yes! I should have pushed for this from the beginning.... "On the other hand with hindsight and the publicity from the break-in, I think it's probably the way we should have gone in the first place. What do you think?"
"You're saying that we go public anyway - just lay it all out for everyone to see."
"Yes. And I think I know how."
"I'm still listening."
"Great." Gregg smiled at her. "First I think we'll stop midtown and see someone...."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
"Are you ready, Mr. Hartmann?"
Gregg gave the floor director a grim-faced nod and a thumbs-up. He hadn't expected to be this nervous. He'd been on Peregrine's Perch a dozen times or more over the years, though the last time - a few months after the debacle of the '88 convention - had been an unmitigated disaster. Stripped of Puppetman, shamed by Tachyon's brutal mind-controlling, and unable to speak freely with Tachyon there on the stage with him, he'd only reinforced his image as a man with a few loose wheels.
He was ready this time. This time would be much, much different.
Through the thick stage curtains, Gregg could hear the audience settle into silence. On the backstage monitor, he saw the house lights dim. The band swung into "Peri's Theme" as a single spot plucked Peregrine's announcer out of the darkness. "From our studio high atop New York City, here she is: PEEEEERRRRRegrine."
The announcer's spot flicked off. A trio of searchlights arced out over the open balcony of the studio, lancing the New York skyline with blue-white lines. In the intersection of the three beams, Peregrine appeared, the searchlights gleaming from her snow-white wings and blue-sequined flying costume. She soared into the applause, flying through the open studio windows and onto the stage as the audience roared. She smiled into their adulation and blew her traditional kiss to the back row.
As the applause died, Peregrine let her wings fold behind, no longer smiling but looking seriously into the front camera. "Thank you," she said "Thank you very much. Tonight's format is going to be a little different. As you know, our original schedule had Elephant Girl, Tom Cruise, and Cosmos & Chaos. They've consented to appear on a later show because of the importance of what we're going to talk about tonight."
The stage curtains billowed open behind Peregrine, revealing the traditional set: a couch, Peregrine's stool - the Perch. Gregg was standing alongside the couch as the curtains opened. Peregrine offered him a hand and turned her cheek. He gave her a perfunctory kiss, being careful - as the makeup people had warned him - not to actually touch skin. "Gregg Hartman," she announced to the camera.
The applause that followed was polite but hardly overwhelming. Peri's live audience, at least recently, tended to be largely jokers. Since the rise and fall of the Rox, New York had lost much of its luster as a tourist city, and nats tended to stay away from anything having to do with the wild card. Hartmann's reputation among the jokers was mixed. To some he was still the saviour of J-Town; to others, he'd been tarnished by the '88 failure and his recent stand against the Rox. He could feel their coolness toward him, washing from the tiers of seats like a winter wind.
Not yet. They aren't ready yet.
Peregrine had wanted to tape the show. It was Gregg who had insisted on the live audience, knowing that he needed them. He nodded to them now: his tools. For the last four days, the network had been running teasers: a black-and-white still picture of Peregrine's empty set and the legend underneath: WARNING: WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO LEARN ON FRIDAY WILL SHOCK YOU. The secret of Peri's guest list held; speculation and curiosity had peaked. The promos and resultant publicity had resulted in huge lines for tickets to the show; it was estimated that Peri's Nielsen ratings would go through the roof tonight.
The newfound power inside Gregg ached.
In the last few weeks, he'd consolidated their information. Gregg had called everyone with whom he had a vestige of influence, asking questions with a growing enthusiasm, researching the erratic trail of the Sharks and uncovering a filmy web of deceit and ugliness that amazed even him. He'd consulted with Furs, once one of his campaign directors and now a media consultant, deciding with him, Hannah and Father Squid the best way to present their case. What they'd put together was powerful, powerful enough that even Gregg was moved by it.
He didn't hate the Sharks as Hannah did. He loved them. They were going to turn things around for Gregg Hartmann, and tonight, tonight was the beginning.
Peregrine took her perch. Gregg sat on the couch. "I don't think Gregg needs introduction. He's an ex-Senator from New York, a man who won the Democratic nomination for president before an unfortunate incident ended that dream, a man who has always been a champion of the rights of people of the virus."
Peri patted Gregg's hand - his left hand - and smiled at him. "And I find, Gregg, that I don't know quite where to start. What you've brought for us tonight... well, let's just say that it's nearly unbelievable."
"Unfortunately, it's all too real, Peri," Gregg answered "My investigations have convinced me of that. As to where to start, well, let's begin with a fire."
Furs had chosen and edited the footage. The studio monitors flickered; an orange inferno, a harsh roar, and the camera pulled back to show a church steeple lost in hell, wreathed in flame and smoke as sparks danced toward the sky. The scene shifted to news footage from the next morning: destruction, the ruins of the church steaming in the mist, the street a snarl of firehoses and equipment, twisted and blackened bodies sprawled in rubble.
The video was at once horrible and fascinating.
"The Church of Jesus Christ Joker burned last Black Queen Night," Gregg's voice said over the film. "We all remember that disaster, when over a hundred innocent jokers were murdered by an arsonist who blocked the church doors and then set fire to the church while those inside were worshipping. The alleged arsonist was found, but not before he killed himself in an accidental explosion. The official explanation is that the arsonist acted alone. But that's not what the chief investigator of the fire believes. I'd like you to meet Hannah Davis, whose task it was to find the arsonist."