He had drunk in both those bars for more years than he cared to remember. Now the Funhouse was closed following Des's death a year ago.

What would become of the Palace?

Drunken self-pity brought tears to Tachyon's eyes, and he considered his bereft state.

"Hey, buddy?" asked the cheerful young bartender. "Another one?"

"Sure, why not." The bartender set up another brandy, and Tach raised it high. "To the lost and mournful dead." Tach drained the glass, scrawled his room number across the bottom of the bar bill, slipped off the stool. There was still a lot of activity in the lobby even at this hour, but he spotted no one he knew. Tachyon considered calling Jack, but he wanted to drink and talk about Chrysalis, and the big ace hadn't known her.

His aimless wanderings led him to the floor housing Barnett's party. Behind the doors he could hear the low murmur of voices. He stared hard at one door, willing Fleur to emerge. It didn't work. His silent scrutiny of the suite drew the attention of a Secret Service guard. Tach saw him coming, and stumbled back to the elevators.

Back in his own room he stared down at Blaise's tousled head. Sobs shook him as he knelt by the bed, and enfolded the sleeping boy in his arms.

Everyone always leaves me. Everyone I love leaves me. I love you so very much. Don't ever leave me.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday July 19, 1988

He'd been so drunk and upset last night that he hadn't noticed the message light on the telephone. Having now arrived at a state where his eyes focused and his head felt less like an enemy growth mounted on his shoulders, Tachyon sipped Alka-Seltzer and listened to the distant ringing. "Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic."

"This is Tachyon, get me Finn."

"Hi, doc, you must have heard by now."

" Yes. "

"Things are in an uproar here. There was a firebombing at Barnett's mission last night, and what I can only describe as free-form demonstrations in Chatham Square. I tried to reach you all afternoon."

"I didn't get back to the room until very late."

"I assisted on the autopsy. You want details?" Tachyon sighed. "I suppose I must."

Finn ran down the findings. In the background, Tach could hear a sharp four beat tapping as the pony-sized centaur danced on nervous dainty hooves. The joker physician con cluded with a wry, "It'll sure as hell be a closed-casket service."

"Damn, the funeral. When is it?"

"Tomorrow morning at eleven."

"I will of course be there."

"How are things down in your neck of the woods?"

"Confusing. I don't even know the current delegate count." He checked his watch. "Look, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

Snatching up a hat, Tachyon paused at the bathroom door, and yelled over the thunder of running water. "I'm off to breakfast with Jack. Meet me at ten-thirty, and we'll go over to the Omni. And be there."

There was no answer. Blaise was either plotting or sulking. Neither was an encouraging prospect.

"Ms. Morgenstern." Braden Dulles was younger than she was, but he had this State Voice he put on, an authoritative Ben Bradlee rumble like driving over a gravel road on a New England winter day, complete with frost crackling and the occasional squeak. "You have put this newspaper in a very difficult position."

She shifted in her bed, pulled a wad of pillow closer to her breasts. She had on a heavy blue-flannel nightgown. It was how she always did hotels: in winter leave the heat down, in summer crank up the air-conditioning and bundle up. She liked the insulation a lot of bedding gave her.

She worked her eyelids ponderously up and down. She was normally a morning person. But last night after Tachyon had brushed her off-the bastard!-she'd been completely out of resources, had no idea what to do but take her chances returning to her room, where she slept the sleep of the clinically depressed. She turned an eye toward the clock radio on the nightstand. 8:00 A. m. If Dulles's call hadn't roused her she might have gone on until afternoon.

When she didn't respond, Braden went on, "It has been of concern to us here that you have of late been conducting what appears to be a personal vendetta against a major candidate for the presidential nomination."

Bitterness popped like a blister. "Your fair-haired boy, you mean."

"The Post has a tradition of awareness of its responsibilities as the newspaper of record in the nation's capital. Senator Hartmann is obviously the best qualified candidate at this point in time."

"You think this point in time's a good one to put a psychopathic ace in the White House? Christ, all Ronnie Reagan's done is invade some new country where we didn't belong every two years. This man-this creature-feeds on human misery, Braden."

Anguished silence. She could just see the expression on- his Young Patrician face, the constriction around the nostrils, the deepening of the network of grooves beyond his age that surrounded his mouth and radiated from the corners of his eyes, which he cultivated because they lent him gravitas. As if he'd just detected an aroma of dog turd within the sterile hallowed sanctum of the Post.

"We feel your… obsession… does credit neither to you as a journalist nor to us as a paper. Your latest report, if I may call it that, was simply incredible. Even were we inclined to accept such a farrago of wild accusation and innuendo, our legal department would never let us print it."

"And this attempt by Leo Barnett to smear Senator Hartmann-really, Sara, how could you have lent your name to such a, well, frankly sleazy undertaking?"

"Barnett's people didn't ask me, Braden. I didn't know anything about it, I swear to God." She clung to the receiver as if it was the only thing holding her up. It was cool talisman hardness on her cheek.

"You told me the allegations were true. Yet within hours Senator Hartmann had issued a denial, which we feel to have been quite convincing."

Because you wanted it to be. She tried to envision the Post accepting such an offhand denial of dubious dealing from a politician they didn't shine their golden light upon. A Nixon, a Robertson, even a Bush; they'd hunt him to the end of the earth.

But she could not speak. She had a good reporter's patter when she needed to draw people out. Somehow, though, the spoken word always managed to betray her when she tried to express something that really mattered to her.

"Finally, Ms. Morgenstern, we are very concerned that you have evinced no intention of returning to New York. You are the acknowledged journalistic authority on Jokertown. We find it most unsettling that you refuse to take an interest in the murder-which involved the use of ace powers, I might add-of one of that community's most prominent citizens. One I was given to understand was a personal friend of yours. It would seem your story lay there."

"The story's here, Braden. This is bigger than a killing in Jokertown. This concerns everybody-you, me, aces, jokers, people in Uganda, the whole world. The president has so much power, so many-" She stopped herself before she stumbled and fell headlong. That was a reason she'd always preferred the written word; the ones you spoke tended to get away from you. She drew a breath.

"Besides, Braden, he's here. Chrysalis's murderer is here. Didn't you read my article?"

"Are you suggesting Senator Hartmann personally beat Ms. Jory to death?"

"No. Damn you, Braden, don't be so obtuse. He had it done he used his ace, he used his position, what the hell difference does it make? He's still guilty, just like a mafia don who orders a hit."

Dulles sighed. "I truly regret that it has come to this. Your personality disintegration has seriously degraded your professionalism. We therefore feel it is in neither your best interests nor ours for your association with this newspaper to continue."