But still, but still… Gregg Hartmann had to be stopped. Gregg Hartmann had to pay.

But Sara Morgenstern didn't want to die. To follow Andi oh-so-ungently into that night she could not believe was good. That was the covert caveat of George Steele's suggestion, neither hidden nor overtly stated.

But what, what chance do I have with that-thing-after me? The laughing, twisted leather boy, who humme to himself and walked through walls. She could not hide forever. And when he found her..

She shook her head, whipstinging her cheeks with the ends of her hair, blinded by hot sudden tears.

Onscreen the blue woman cleaned up in the End Game. Sara hoped it made her happy.

3:00 P.M.

"Stop it." The steady angry flipping of the magazine's pages ceased.

"Why?" Blaise's tone was challenging.

Tach reined in his temper. Poured another brandy. " I am trying to think, and it is irritating me."

"You always stop using contractions when you're pissed."

"Blaise, please."

Propping the phone beneath his chin, Tach called Sara's room. The distant ringing echoed mournfully over and over again.

Tach drummed his fingers on the table, touched the disconnect button and phoned the desk. Blaise's magazine flew across the room like a terrified bird. "This is boring sitting here watching you be stupid! I want to go out."

"You have forfeited that right."

"I don't want to be here when the CIA comes to get you." The boy's grin was ugly.

"Goddamn you."

Fist upraised, Tachyon charged across the room. The knock at the door arrested him before he could strike the child. Hiram and Jay Ackroyd were in the hall. Hiram looked like death. Ackroyd's face was puffy and swollen, and a lot of colors that a face shouldn't be. Tachyon's stomach formed into a small, tight ball, and tried to retreat into his spinal cord. He stepped reluctantly back to let them enter.

Hiram waddled to the window. For the first time in all the years he had known him, Tachyon realized that the ace was not using his gravity power to reduce his own weight.

Worchester's footfalls were ponderous in the suite. Ackroyd seated himself on the sofa, and laid a garment bag across his knees. The silence stretched like cobwebs between the three men and the boy.

Ackroyd jerked his head toward the door. "Lose the kid."

"Hey!" Blaise burst out.

"Blaise, go."

He gave his grandfather a smirk. " I thought I'd forfeited the right."

"GO, damn you!"

"Shit, just when things were getting interesting." Blaise held up his hands, palms out. "Hey, no problem. I'm gone."

The door closed behind him, and the silence resumed. Nerves fraying, Tachyon flung out a hand. "Hiram, what the devil is this?" There was no reply from the ace.

Ackroyd said, "You gotta run a blood test, Doc. Right now."

Tachyon smirked and indicated the room. "What? Here?" The detective grimaced. "Don't be dense, and don't be cute. I'm too fucking tired and I hurt too much to deal with it." The man's fingers trembled slightly as he unzipped the bag. "This is Senator Hartmann's jacket from Syria."

Tachyon stared in blind terror at the black stain on the cloth.

This was it. He could no longer postpone the discovery by reason of convoluted Takisian honor. Sara's accusations would be proved or disproved in old blood.

"How did you come to possess this?"

"That's a long story," Ackroyd said wearily, "and none of us have the time. Let's just say I got it.. from Chrysalis."

"It was… well… sort of a legacy."

Tachyon cleared an obstruction from his throat, and asked cautiously, "And just what do you think I am going to find?"

"The presence of Xenovirus Takis-A."

Moving like an automaton, Tachyon crossed to the dresser, poured a drink, threw it back. " I see a jacket. Anyone could buy a jacket, doctor it with virus positive blood-"

"That's what I thought." Hiram's voice was a 'rusty grinding sound. "But he's," a jerk of the head toward Ackroyd, "been through too much. The link from Syria to this hotel room is clear. It's the sen-it's Hartmann's jacket."

Tachyon pivoted slowly to face Worchester. "Do you want me to do this thing?"

"Do we have any choice?"

"No. I don't suppose we have."

All the way to the Marriott, Puppetman nudged at the gnawing guilt inside Billy Ray. It was a delicious snack, soured and spiced with frustration. Gregg could feel Ray reliving the moment of Ellen's fall again and again, and he knew that every time Billy felt his fingers graze Ellen's hand. Ray sat in the front seat of the limo and watched the traffic far too carefully, blinking too often behind his mirrored sunglasses. Gregg could feel Carnifex aching to strike out at something, someone.

So Simple, Puppetman chortled. He'd do anything if he thought it might make up for his mistake.

Remember that, Gregg told him. Tonight, maybe.

Now that it was over, Gregg was beginning to feel more normal. The numbness and feeling of being split in half was receding. Part of him still hated what he'd done, but after all what choice had he had?

None. None at all.

There was nothing else we could do, right? Absolutely. Nothing else.

Puppetman was smug.

When Billy opened the door of the campaign staff room for Gregg, a cardboard Peregrine floated out. Someone had whited-out her costume and penned in pubic hair and enormous nipples on the bare breasts. "Flying Fuck" was stenciled on the side.

The place was a happy chaos. Gregg could see Jack Braun in one of the bedrooms with Charles Devaughn and Logan. Half the Ohio delegation seemed to be in the living room of the suite, dipping into the booze stashed behind the wet bar and waiting for their own meeting with Devaughn. Junior staffers were riding the phone lines while volunteers bustled in and out. Room service trays littered the floor near the door, the carpet was sticky with spilled soda. The place smelled like a week-old pizza.

Gregg watched the mood shift as soon as he entered. Puppetman felt the hysterical jubilation darken as the noise level dropped to nothing. Everyone turned to look at Gregg.

Devaughn broke away from Jack and Logan. His well-groomed figure cut a wedge through the crowded room. "Senator," he purred. "We're all very sorry. How's Ellen?",

Puppetman could feel very little actual sorrow or concern inside his campaign manager-Devaughn felt nothing unless it directly impacted him, and then everything was a crisis-but Gregg nodded. "She's doing a good job of pretending that she's a lot better than she is. This has been a blow to all of us, but especially to her. I'm not going to stay here too long, Charles. I need to get back to the hospital soon. I just wanted to touch bases. I know I haven't been much help to you people…"

"You're mistaken there, Senator. That press conference at the hospital-" Devaughn shook his head. The yuppie-cut hair stayed perfectly in place. "John's meeting with Florida, Georgia, and Mississippi right now; it looks like we might be able to swing a lot of the Southern Gore delegates away from Barnett."

They're heavily into the strength of the family unit and that type of thing; we've got a lot of sympathy pull to use there." Devaughn didn't even notice the callousness of the remark, though aides around them audibly gasped. "Christ, man… one of them exclaimed.

Devaughn simply plowed on. "I've been talking with Jack and the West looks solid, too." Devaughn couldn't keep the grin from his face. "We've got it, Senator," he said eagerly. "We're within 150-200 votes of the majority, and the swing our way is getting deeper. Two more ballots, three at the most. Barnett's drifting and going nowhere, and we're picking up everyone's defectors. It's all over but the VP decision. You'd better start making your final decision on that."