Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  One of the threads led to Peanut.

  Peanut: a puppet since the mid-seventies, one of those he’d used during the tragedy of the ’76 convention. The joker was a sad, simpleminded man whose skin had been turned brittle, hard, and painful. He’d been Gimli’s associate within the defunct JJS, and his right arm had been hewn off by Mackie Messer just over a year ago—Peanut had come between Mackie and the Nur al-Allah’s sister, Kahina. Arrested with others in the organization after Gimli’s death, Peanut had been quickly released after Gregg’s office interceded on his behalf.

  Peanut had always been troubled by his friend Gimli’s deep hatred of Gregg. Peanut had admired the Hartmann he knew. After his release, he’d even worked as a volunteer for the NYC campaign staff, canvassing the Jokertown district during the primary.

  Peanut was like an old lover. Gregg knew all the buttons to push.

  No one paid much attention to Gregg. Most of the jokers went barefaced, flaunting their jokerhood, but enough of them still wore the masks that Gregg was not overly conspicuous. He lingered at the edge of the tents, on the fringes of the crowd around the bonfire. He sat against a tree bearing a wind-tattered “Free Snotman” poster.

  Sweat rained from his face onto the headlands of his Black Dog T-shirt.

  He could see Peanut off to his right. Gregg dropped the bars around Puppetman—the restraints faded far too fast, emphasizing just how feeble was his hold on the power. Puppetman lanced out toward Peanut, examining the colors of the joker’s dim mind and looking for something … tasty.

  The hues of Peanut’s mind were simple and plain. It was easy to separate the strands and find the ones Puppetman could use. With Peanut, as with so many of the jokers he’d taken, those strands were linked to sex. Puppetman knew that—no matter how they might deny it—most jokers loathed their appearance. They hated the thing they saw in the mirror. Many found other jokers just as repulsive. Fortunato had been one of dozens who profited from that truth: there was a vigorous, thriving market in Jokertown for nat prostitutes willing to entertain joker customers.

  Peanut suffered as much as anyone from the stigma. His body tissues were unpliable and ridged. His face looked as if he’d slathered mud over it and then baked it in the sun. At the joints of his limbs, the skin often cracked and split, leaving pus-filled, slow-healing sores and scabs. Peanut was ugly, and Peanut was just smart enough to realize how slow-witted he was. For a nat, that was an unhappy combination. In Jokertown, especially, it was far worse.

  For Peanut (Gregg knew) sex was a rare mingling of pain and pleasure. His erections hurt and the leathery skin there cracked and bled from the friction of sexual contact. For days afterward he’d suffer.

  Yet the wild card hadn’t dampened the urges or stopped him from craving the release the act brought; if anything, his drive was stronger than normal. Peanut was a regular customer of the cheapest J-town whores; when he couldn’t afford even their businesslike ministrations, he’d masturbate in his flop, quickly and guiltily.

  Puppetman knew that, knew it well. There were many times that Puppetman thought the wild card had been designed strictly for his benefit.

  Caressing Peanut’s mind, he saw the pulsing yellow of lust and knew that it had been days for him. The urge was there, already strong. Puppetman reached out, slowly brightening the color and saturating it until there was room for little else. Gregg, watching, saw Peanut grimace. The joker rose and walked away from the fire. Gregg waited, then followed behind.

  There were tints and shades within the golden primary: an orange wash of muted sadism; the azure desire for nats; a coral-green preference for oral stimulation. Puppetman had seen such facets in every puppet. Desire was always complicated and sometime contradictory. Normally such things remained subdued or even denied—stuff of fantasies and masturbatory visions, minor whorls in the flood. But Puppetman could make the tendencies flare, make them dominant passions. He could force someone to become a violent rapist or a humiliated slave; he could make them seduce a child or a friend’s spouse.

  It was a favorite trick.

  Do whatever you want. Just make it quick. Remember Gimli …

  Puppetman snarled at the reminder. He prodded brutally at Peanut’s mind and waited to see what would happen.

  Peanut wandered to the edge of the encampment where a stand of trees held darkness. He seemed agitated, his whole body turning as he glanced from side to side. Gregg watched from the cover of one of the tents as Peanut seemed to come to a decision and headed into the trees.

  Gregg pursued.

  He almost ran into the joker.

  Peanut had stopped a few yards into the woods. Gregg could hear what had caused him to halt: the panting groans could be only one thing. Peanut was standing motionless, watching the hidden joker couple as they screwed. The colors of his mind were confused, uncertain.

  Puppetman touched him again.

  Feel it? You can’t just stand there and watch. Look at her. Look at her legs wrapped around him. See how she moves her ass under him, lifting her hips so he drives in deeper, eager, and hot and wet. That could be you. You want her. You want to feel her legs tighten around your hips, you want to feel your cock deep in her warmth, you want to hear her sighing in your ear and telling you to fuck her, fuck her deep and hard and good until you explode inside her …

  Peanut tugged at his belt buckle with his one hand. The joker’s pants pooled around his ankles.

  But she won’t want you. Not Peanut. You’re disgusting and ugly, all hard edges. You’re stupid. She’d be disgusted; she’d feel dirty and violated …

  Puppetman could feel the lust and anger building in concert. He orchestrated it, adding pressure until he felt it simmering. You’d have to be the master. It’s what you want, what she wants. I know you. I know what you’ve thought when you stroke yourself … Puppetman was sighing himself, ready. Ready to feed at last.

  Peanut squatted down, hunting in the underbrush. When he straightened, Gregg could see a thick branch clutched in his fist. The joker raised the weapon.

  Go ahead. Hit him and take the bitch. You want it. You must …

  And Gregg heard deep, mocking laughter.

  Gimli. Where are you, damn you! Gregg cursed. Where are you hiding?

  Why, right here, Greggie. Right here. Gimli laughed and in that moment, the dwarf’s wall slammed up as it had every time these past few weeks. Puppetman howled in frustration as the strings to Peanut were suddenly, jarringly, severed.

  “No!” The shout might have been Gregg, might have been Puppetman. Puppetman flung himself against the mental barrier, trying to break through before it was too late. Peanut, startled, turned to see the figure in the clown mask. The stick dropped from his hand as the pair on the ground struggled to their feet.

  What’s the matter, Greggie? Can’t control your goddamn pet?

  Puppetman, exhausted and weak, cowered inside. Gregg fled, panicky at being seen. He’d never been caught before, never been noticed. Branches whipped at him as he ran blindly. Peanut shouted after him in alarm.

  But there was no escape from Gimli’s voice. Gimli was always there—as Gregg shoved his way through the tent encampment, as he stumbled from the park back into the streets, as he found his way back to the Marriott.

  How much longer can you hold him, Greggie? the dwarf taunted. A day? Maybe two? Then the bastard’s going to fucking eat YOU. Puppetman’s going to tear loose and fucking eat you whole.

  Spector couldn’t see them across the lobby, but he knew they were there. A knot of people, Hartmann and his entourage, were moving toward him. There wasn’t much noise. Spector took a step out to meet them. People were looking in his direction without noticing him. His pulse quickened as they got closer. Cameras flashed around Hartmann. Hartmann held out his hand to Spector.

  Spector reached out and noticed he was wearing white gloves and a black leotard. People began to laugh and point. Spector gritted his teeth and locked eyes with the senator. He could feel Hartm
ann’s blood boiling with pain, his ragged breathing, his heart trip-hammering into oblivion. An instant of satisfaction, then it was over. He fell to the floor. Absolute silence. The camera flashes continued, strobing around them. Spector kicked him over with his foot. It was Tony. His face was horrible, caught in a last scream.

  Hartmann laughed and Spector looked up. He was surrounded by Secret Service. They drew their guns and pointed them at Spector. The barrels looked impossibly large.

  Spector was opening his mouth to say something when the first shot took his lower jaw off. He tried to back away, but more bullets knocked him off his feet. Pieces of him were being ripped away. One of his eyes went dark. He’d been shot before, but it had never been like this. He could feel the rain of slugs pushing his body across the floor. Several of his fingers were gone off one hand. He held up the other in front of his face. It was still perfectly white, not a drop of blood on it. His other eye went dark.

  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

  1:00 A.M.

  “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 saying?” 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.

  5:00 A.M.

  “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 freelance—walking 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 Styrofoam 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 anymore.” 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!”

  “Please…” Gregg was nearly sobbing. His head throbbed with the pain of holding Puppetman back. He wanted to rip his skull open and gouge out the demanding power with his bare hands.

  “SOON, then, goddamn it! Soon, or I’ll make you crawl again. I’ll strip you naked and make you beat yourself off in front of the press. Do you hear me? I’ll eat you if I can’t have anyone else. Gimli’s right in that.”

  Puppetman raked his mind again and Gregg gasped with the pain. “Leave me alone!” he shouted. His knotted fingers tore the curtains from the wall in a fury. They crashed to the ground in a thunder of rods and hooks. Gregg hurled his coffee cup across the room, splattering the plush furniture and burning his hand. “Just leave me alone!” he screamed, his fingers dragging at his face.

  “Gregg!”

  “Senator!”

  Ellen had come from the bedroom. At the same time, Billy Ray burst in through the hall door. Both of them stared at Gregg and the wreckage of the room, Ellen with a stark horror on her face, and her hands folded protectively over her stomach. “My god, Gregg,” she said. It was a whisper this time. “I heard you arguing … I thought there was somebody else here…” Her voice trailed off.