Armand's face changed, but Spector couldn't be sure it was a smile. He slid into the driver's seat and cranked the Regal up.

"Buckle up, Shelly," Spector said, fastening his seatbelt. She did as she was told. Tony groaned as Spector punched the accelerator. They screamed off into the night.

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday July 22, 1988

The darkness should have been soothing. Instead, the air-conditioner droned like some slumbering evil beast and demons capered in the dim reaches of the ceiling. Gregg could feel his hands trembling. He tottered on the edge of an anxiety attack. The panic threatened to overwhelm him and set him screaming.

"Gregg?" Ellen whispered alongside him. Her soft hand touched his chest. "It's only six. You should be sleeping."

"Can't." He could barely even choke out the word, afraid that if he opened his mouth again he might start screaming. Her hand stroked his cheek, and slowly the panic receded, though the shade of it remained behind. He lay there stiffly, feeling Puppetman crawl inside at the touch, like a slug just underneath his skin. "I'll be glad when this convention is over, no matter what," Ellen said.

"I'm blowing it, Ellen." Gregg closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath that did nothing to calm him. The apparitions continued to dance behind his eyelids. "It's all falling apart around me, the whole thing."

"Gregg… Love.. " Ellen's arms came around him, her body snuggling close, and she hugged him. "Stop. You're just letting the stress get to you, that's all. Maybe if you saw Tachyon, he could prescribe-"

"No," he interrupted vehemently. "There's nothing a doctor can do." Ellen drew back at his sharp tone, then returned.

"I love you," she said, empty of any other comfort.

"I know." He sighed. "I know. It's a damn good thing. God, you've been so understanding, the way I've been acting… " For a moment, he was on the verge of confessing, of just letting the whole madness spill out just to have an end to it. Then Puppetman wriggled inside, a reminder, and he carefully pushed the power back down.

You can't say it, it told him. I won't let you.

"You're worrying too much. The nomination will come or it won't. If not this year, you'll be in a good position for '92. We can wait. We'll have time to let the baby grow up a little." He could feel her smiling bravely-her own little obsession. "You'll have enough to keep you busy with our son or daughter. A little part of us."

Ellen took his hand and placed it on the swell of her stomach just below her navel. "Feel it?" she asked. "It's been kicking up a storm lately. Getting more active every day, stronger. It's waking up now. There, feel that? Say hello to daddy, little one," she crooned.

Gregg suddenly wished that she was right, that it was over. Ellen had brought up the subject after the hectic months of the tour; he'd been surprised at how easily he'd agreed. It seemed right, a symbol of normalcy after the violence and hatred. It had taken months; he'd been so pleased when they'd found Ellen was finally pregnant. Despite everything, he'd wanted the child as much as she did. He'd enjoyed playing the proud, prospective father. Even the power within had seemed to share the happiness.

A little part of us.

Now he could hardly remember that at all. The pride and love and hope had been driven away by Puppetman's needs. There was a faint fluttering beneath his fingertips. Ellen laughed with the baby's movements.

Let the baby grow up a little.

And Gregg nearly pulled his hand away as if burned. The suspicion was like a physical blow. He knew, and with the knowledge, Puppetman howled inside.

The difficulties with Puppetman had started slowly and intermittently only -a few months ago. The Gimli-presence had been faint and weak and unformed then, easily pushed away. Getting more active every day, stronger.

"Oh, my god," Gregg whispered. The fetus kicked again, softly. He let the power slip out, just a touch. He looked inside Ellen, at the primal colors of the fetus.

There, wrapped around the child's emotional matrix like some strangling vine, there were other hues. Very familiar tints and shades.

Gimli had said it: No, not dead. Just changed. It took me a long time to get back..

"I can't believe it myself, sometimes," Ellen laughed. "It's so incredible to feel it, to know that this life-our child-is growing inside me."

Gregg lay wide-eyed, staring at her stomach and his hand. "Yes," he told her. "Yes, it's incredible."

"I wonder who it'll look like?" Ellen patted Gregg's hand. "I'll bet it'll take after you," she said.

It can't be true, he told himself. Please don't let it be true. But he knew it was.

7:00 A.M.

"Jesus Christ, stop plucking at me! I don't need this shit!" Jack gripped the Takisian's hands, and flung them away like a man flicking water. "Jesus."

Tach firmly quashed the irritation he felt rising like gorge in the back of his throat, but still said in slightly aggrieved tones, "I was concerned. You could have been killed."

The snap of a lighter as Jack lit a Camel. "Well, find another way to show it. By the way, you look like shit."

"Thank you so very much. I didn't sleep last night."

"Hey, ditto."

"Jack, what happened? It was all so garbled on the news reports. I'm standing there brushing my teeth when I see you plummeting into the piano." He cocked his head to one side, and considered. "Which is, I suppose, the only fortuitous thing to come out of this mess."

"Fortuitous, hell. I was aiming for that damn piano." Then in a few staccato sentences the ace outlined the rest of the evening; Sara's clumsy come-on, Jack's plan for taking the journalist out of the way, the arrival of the horrifying hunchback, the fight. Cognac-flavored vomit hit the back of Tachyon's throat, and he bolted for the bathroom.

"Now what?" Jack called.

Tach emerged wiping his mouth on a wet washcloth. "Sara, where is she now?"

"Hell, I don't know. She went out of that room like a missile, and I can't say I blame her. I haven't seen her since." Tachyon pressed his hands to his face. "Mothers of my mother forgive me. I didn't believe her."

"What?"

"She came to me Monday night. Tried to tell me she was in danger. I wouldn't listen." The import of what he had just said struck him, and Tach lurched back into the bathroom.

He was down to stomach juices. The acid burned on its way up. Like the acid eating away at his trust, his certainty. Hartmann is an ace.

Help me. You'll be sorry.

Arms embracing the toilet, the ceramic rim cool against his burning cheek Tach murmured, "Help me."

Jack lifted him to his feet and asked, "How? What is it you need? What the hell's going on? Why did you bring up a secret ace on Monday? Talk to me, Tachy."

"Not now, Jack. Not now. I must find Sara."