He screamed and rolled off the bed, then crawled underneath it. There was no sound of gunfire. He moved his lower jaw and hands. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. Spector slid out from under the bed and turned on the table lamp. He was alone in the room. The air-conditioner kicked on. He jumped.

"Fucking nightmare." He shook his head and pulled himself back up onto the bed. "Jesus, what a fucking nightmare."

He fumbled for the TV control and switched it on. It was another old movie. He recognized John Wayne. For some reason seeing the Duke calmed him down. He reached under the night table and pulled out his bottle of whiskey. There was barely half a swallow left. He picked up the phone to order another bottle from room service. Tomorrow he was going to find someplace else to stay. Somebody was going to miss the real Herbert Baird soon, and Spector didn't want to be staying in his room when the police came knocking. He could call the hotel from wherever it was he wound up staying to see if Tony had left a message. He wished like hell it was all over and he was back in Jersey.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thursday July 21, 1988

"You bastard!"

The bow fell from the strings with a discordant squeal. Hiram glared down at Tachyon. His eyes, buried in pasty rolls of fat, glared red.

"Hiram, it is late. We are all under a good deal of stress. So, I'm going to ignore that."

Worchester struggled visibly for control, then said, "I've left twenty-seven messages for you starting on Tuesday evening."

Tachyon clapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh, Ancestors, Hiram, forgive me. Today… yesterday," he amended, checking his watch. "I was in New York for the funeral-"

"Did you see Jay?" asked Worchester. "Jay?"

"Ackroyd."

Memory kicked in Jay Ackroyd-a small-time private investigator, part-time ace and full-time friend of Hiram's. He was some kind of projecting teleport who had used his power on Wild Card Day 1986 to rescue Tachyon. out of a ticklish situation.

"Oh, him. No."

"Come with me. We have a major problem. One I think only you can solve. Thank God, it doesn't seem to be too late."

"If it had been, you really would have something to feel guilty about."

Tachyon snapped shut the violin case and fell into step with Hiram.

"So what is this all about?"

Worchester kept his voice very low. "Chrysalis hired an assassin."

"What?"

The big man snapped his fingers in front of Tachyon's face. "Wake up, Tachyon."

"Blood and line, I can't believe this."

"Believe it. Jay is seldom wrong about things like this. Even if he's somehow mistaken, can we afford to take a chance?"

Cold lead seemed to have settled into the pit of Tach's stomach. "Have we any idea of the target?"

"Jay thinks it's Barnett, but for safety's sake I think we can't rule out anyone. Security must be increased on all of the candidates. Our problem is how to alert the Secret Service without revealing all that we know. My god, it would all be lost then."

Hiram's voice faded to a basso rumble. The words lost meaning, and Tach sat in a private hell staring at the knuckles of his right hand as they slowly turned white.

"… he killed Chrysalis, and now he's going to kill me."

"You don't want to believe."

"Help me."

"NO!"

"Jesus Christ! Have you heard a word I've been saving?" Sweat had formed dark rings beneath the ace's armpits. "What are we going to do?"

"I'll tell the Secret Service that I was randomly skimming in a crowd, and picked up the surface thoughts of the assassin. His intent, but not his target or his method."

"Yes, yes, good." A new worry intruded. "But will they believe you?"

"They'll believe me. You humans are all so impressed by my mental powers." He patted Worchester's arm. "Do not worry, Hiram. We will stop him."

It was sheer bravado. And Tach had a feeling that Hiram knew.

"You sure this is where you want out, ma'am?" the uniformed driver asked, craning to peer through the window at the tent city sprung up like post-rain mushrooms in Piedmont Park. Day was really starting to happen, paling the flames of the occasional camp fire dying on the trodden grass. "I'm sure," she said and stepped out. The air was already congealing with a colloid of heat and wet, and diesel fumes, and the smell of secretions, human and not quite. She shut the door. The cruiser pulled away.

She resisted the urge to shoot the car a bird. When she'd asked for police protection, they'd just stared at her. Hoping to contain hysteria and speculation, the Atlanta police were stonewalling on the Peachtree murder. Even Ricky's name was being withheld, ostensibly pending notification of his mother in Philadelphia. Sara's involvement had not been announced either; perhaps in part as a buy-off gesture, the APD spokeswoman was telling the press that the murdered man's companion was being held under protective custody.

Sara knew full well that the Atlanta police were trying to damp dynamite in a mason jar-the explosion, when it came, was going to be that much worse for the attempt. All the same she was glad of it. Ricky's colleagues would learn his identity soon enough, and infer that she was the woman who'd been' with him when he was slain.

She dreaded what would happen then. She didn't even have a stirring of temptation to use the inevitable interrogation to try to expose Hartmann. She knew how futile that would be; Tachyon had done his job too well.

She put on her broad-brimmed hat, hoisted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. The intrepid reporter-now free lancewalking among the wretched of the earth, not to mention the butt-ugly, gathering their stories of anguish and repression: an act good for a few hours in the middle of a crowd.

She was afraid to be alone. Deathly afraid.

She began to limp up the hill.

9:00 A.M.

Gregg didn't think he'd slept much at all the night before. The last ballot hadn't been cast until early morning, and then there'd been a mild staff celebration in the green room-he'd broken the eighteen-hundred-vote barrier. The hope was that the momentum would swing him to 2,081 and the nomination by evening. "Three hundred votes. Piece of cake," deVaughn had said.

And Gregg didn't care. He didn't care.

Gregg stood at the window of his suite looking down at the crowds swirling below in the morning sunshine-Hartmann supporters, mostly, from the hats. He rubbed his eyes, sipping on black coffee in a Stvrofoam cup. The coffee burned in his stomach; Puppetman burned in his head.

"Goddamn it, you have to feed me," Puppetman wailed, and with the voice came the presence's agony-that feeling of slow starvation.

"I can't." Gregg could feel that emptiness in his own stomach, a steady craving. "I want to, but we can't. You know that. "

"We don't have a fucking choice, not any more." Puppetman clawed at him with mental talons. Gregg's fingers clenched the heavy curtains. The sight of people walking in the morning sunshine mocked Puppetman's hunger. He wanted them. He wanted to leap down like a panther and ravage them. His fingers whitened with the intensity of his grip.

"Back in New York-" Gregg began, but Puppetman cut him off.

"Now! We won't get to New York for another week. I can't wait that long. You can't wait that long."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Gregg raged back in desperation. "It's not me, it's Gimli. We have to do something about him. Give me another day," Gregg pleaded. "Now!"