His sister in Salt Lake City didn't know where he was. Neither did either of his ex-wives. Wife number one asked if he was in trouble, and said, "Oh, good," when Jay admitted that he was. Wife number two offered to engage Jay's services on a little matter of alimony. He took it under advisement.
His college roommate didn't remember him.
The journalism professor he'd listed as a reference on his job application was entirely fictitious.
The phone company had no record of any calls from his home number yesterday.
Jay tried Crash at Aces just in case, but no, there hadn't been word one from Digger. Mr. Lowboy still wasn't worried. He was telling them to save space in the August issue for a real Digger Downs blockbuster. "Real good," Jay said glumly, wondering if the news of Digger's grisly death would fit Lowboy's definition of blockbuster. This time maybe Digger was really going underground for a story. Crash asked him if he was having any luck.
"Lots of it," Jay told her. "All bad. I don't suppose he had any friends on the staff there? One of the other reporters, maybe? A poker buddy, a drinking companion, the best man at his weddings, that kind of thing? Somebody who'd let him crash on his couch until all this blew over?"
"No," Crash said. "He was too good. The other reporters resented the way he always got the big assignments and the cover stories. You should have heard them gripe when Low boy sent him on that tour around the world. Digger can be charming when he wants, but he'd very competitive when he's going after a story"
"Damn," Jay said. "Did the guy have any friends at all?"
"Well," Crash said, thinking, `he must have.' "Famous last words," Jay said.
"I know a lot of people thought Digger was a pain in the neck. He could be very abrasive, but he had a sweet side, too. You'd be surprised. A lot of the people he wrote up just loved him " She paused thoughtfully. "Well, at least until the stories came out," she amended., "Terrific," Jay said with a minimum of enthusiasm. "Listen," he started, "maybe you can-" His mind went off on a tangent, and the words stopped coming.
"Jay?" Crash asked after a moment of silence. "You okay?", "Fine," he said. "But I just had this real weird idea."
Noon
The sun was a shiny coin flung high in the sky, obscured by a haze of pollution and a sheath of angry clouds that were motionless in the thick air. The heat and humidity made it hard to breathe as Brennan and Jennifer waited patiently in the queue that was shuffling forward into Our Lady Of Perpetual Misery. Jokertown always took care of its own and Chrysalis was going to have a fine send-off.
People walked, crawled, hopped, and slithered into the church past a couple of bored cops who were stationed at the entrance. At least the city had enough sense to assign Kant, their tame joker cop, to this duty, but Brennan wondered what the police were supposed to detect in a gathering where masks were common. They barely glanced at Brennan, who was wearing a full-face mask, reserving most of their attention for Jennifer, who looked a lot better in black than Brennan.
The church was packed. The pews already full, Brennan and Jennifer found standing room in the back next to the droning fans that were trying to move the stifling air. Chrysalis's casket sat near the altar, covered with a carpet of flowers. There was a vast, hurried mumbling as the Living Rosary Society told their beads as they said their prayers for the repose of Chrysalis's soul.
The procession began after the final paternoster. A joker altar boy led the way, bearing a bronze helix hung with Joker Jesus. He was followed by two others-an altar boy with no visible mouth and an altar girl with too many-swinging censers that sent clouds of sickly-sweet incense billowing into the already redolent air. Other servitors followed, including priests who would assist at the funerary Mass. Father Squid brought up the rear, wearing his finest surplice. It was embroidered with a scene depicting a nat Madonna turning her back on joker Jesus while a pair of jokers and a small, delicate, red-haired man wearing a white lab coat took Him from the helix and wrapped Him in funerary cerements.
They passed the front pew where the principal mourners sat. Tachyon, wearing a brilliant scarlet and gold waistcoat, sat next to a tanned, uncomfortable-looking man in a black suit. Next to them was a man with a death's-head face. This last, Brennan realized, was Charles Dutton, Chrysalis's silent partner in the Palace. Various Palace employees sat in the pew behind them, but neither Elmo nor Sascha were present.
Father Squid reached the altar, set his missal in place, then turned to the crowd and raised his arms wide and said in his sad, soft voice, "Let us pray."
The Mass began. It was similar to the infrequent Catholic masses Brennan had attended as a child, but with some unfamiliar twists of symbolism and ritual. Everyone took off their masks with the first prayer. Brennan looked around apprehensively for the cops, but either they'd never entered the church or were off in another part of the congregation. He and Jennifer removed their masks and no one gave them a second glance.
During the Mass there were only a few references, veiled in strange symbolism, to the Mother, reflecting the ambiguous role she played in the Church of Jesus Christ, joker, theology. Praise for the Father was effusive and tainted with an air of placation, as if He were the vengeful God of the Old Testament, the God who saved with one hand and damned with the other.
During Communion the altar boys and girls went out into the congregation bearing small hampers that had been blessed by Father Squid. The hampers contained loaves of bread that the servers passed out to the people sitting at the heads of the pews, who broke off bits for themselves before sending them on.
After Communion Father Squid summoned Tachyon to the altar to deliver the eulogy. As Tachyon approached the rail Brennan suddenly realized that the church's father, the small, delicately featured man with red hair, looked exactly like Tachyon. That, he thought, would make any man feel strange, but the alien's vast ego was probably capable of dealing with it.
The only somber element about Tachyon's clothing was a black ribbon tied around his upper right arm. His scarlet coat, hung with gold braid and piping like tinsel on a Christmas tree, looked out of place at a funeral. But, Brennan reminded himself, Tachyon was heir to an alien culture that had all kinds of odd sensibilities.
Tachyon took his place behind the lectern and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe at his eyes. It was hot in the church and Tachyon's velvet coat looked stifling. He was red-faced from the heat and his coppery curls were damp from perspiration. His eyes, too, were red, and Brennan realized that he'd been crying. Tachyon's emotional displays made some think less of him, but not Brennan. More than once Brennan had seen the iron underneath Tachyon's foppish exterior and in fact he envied Tachyon his ability to show emotion.
Tachyon looked out over the congregation. His expression was solemn; his husky voice was so soft that it was difficult to hear him over the thrum of the fans.
"Exactly one year ago on the twentieth of July, 1987, we gathered in this church to bury Xavier Desmond. I spoke his eulogy, as I shall speak Chrysalis's. And I am honored to do so, but the melancholy truth is that I am weary of burying my friends. Jokertown is a poorer place because of their passing, and my life-and yours-is diminished by their loss." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
A eulogy is a speech in praise of a person, but I am finding this one to be very difficult. I called myself Chrysalis's friend. I saw her frequently. I even traveled around the world with her. But I realize now that I didn't really know her. I knew she called herself Chrysalis and that she lived in Jokertown, but I didn't know her natal name or where she'd been born. I knew she played at being British, but I never knew why. I knew she liked to drink amaretto, but I never knew what made her laugh. I knew she liked secrets, liked to be in control, liked to appear cool and untouched, but I never knew what made her that way.
"I thought about all of this on the plane from Atlanta and decided that if I couldn't speak in praise of her, at least I could speak in praise of her deeds. A year ago, when war waged in our streets
and our children were in danger, Chrysalis offered her places-her Palace-as a refuge and fortress. It was dangerous for her, but danger never disturbed Chrysalis."
"She was a joker who refused to act like a joker. The crystal lady never wore a mask. You took her as you found her, or you could just be damned. In this way, perhaps, she taught some nats tolerance and some jokers courage." Tachyon stopped again to wipe at the tears that suddenly ran down his cheeks, then continued with a brighter, louder voice that gained strength as he spoke.
"Because we worship our ancestors, Takisian funerals are even more important than births. We believe our dead stay close by to guide their foolish descendants, a belief that can be terrifying or comforting, depending on the personality of the ancestors. Chrysalis's presence, I think, will be more terrifying than comforting because she will require much of us."
"Someone murdered her. This should not go unpunished."
"Hate rises like a smothering tide in this country. We must resist it."
"Our neighbors are poor and hungry, frightened and destitute. We must feed and shelter and comfort and aid them. "
"She will expect all this from us."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the congregation, his eyes shiny with tears, but also, Brennan thought, with strength and hope that he had somehow imparted to those gathered to mourn Chrysalis's death. A bank of votive candles burned near the lectern. Tachyon went to it, then turned to face the congregation again.
"In one year," he said, "Jokertown has lost two of its most important leaders. We are frightened and saddened and confused by the loss. But I say they are still here, still with us. Let us be worthy of them. Win honor in their memories. Never forget."
Tachyon held out his right hand and cut the pad of his forefinger with a knife he pulled from a boot sheath. He held his finger over the flame of a candle, extinguishing it with a drop of his blood.
"Farewell, Chrysalis."
Tachyon stepped from the podium and made his way back to his place in the pew and Brennan suddenly realized that, like Tachyon, tears were running down his cheeks, too.
1; 00 P.M.
When the doorbell played "Old McDonald Had a Farm," Jay knew he had the right place.
A housekeeper opened the door. "Yes?" she asked.
Jay smiled his most ingratiating smile. "Bob Lowboy," he said, holding out a hand, "from Aces magazine."
"Nobody's home," she told him. "Jessica's at school, and Mr. von der Stadt won't be back from work till seven."
"No problem," Jay told her. He held up the camera he'd borrowed from his favorite pawnbroker. "I just need to get a few more shots of the farm for our story on Miss Jessica and her little animals."
The housekeeper looked suspicious. "That other reporter, Mr. Downs, he took all kinds of pictures."
"Ruined," Jay said. "A little accident in the darkroom. These things happen." He glanced at his watch. "Look, won't take me more than ten minutes, but I have to get a move on."
She frowned. "Maybe I ought to phone Mr. von der Stadt at the brokerage," she said.
"Be my guest," Jay said, "but I'm due at the next shoot in thirty minutes, and you know what crosstown traffic is like this time of day. We'll just run the story without art."
The housekeeper's frown deepened. "Well," she said, "maybe it would be all right. Just for a minute."
"Real good," said Jay. He stepped into the house.
She led him upstairs. The farm was on the top floor. Rather, the farm was the top floor. "You be careful you stay on the path now," the housekeeper warned him as she unlocked the special fire door. "That Mr. Downs, he almost stomped on one of the horses."
"That's Digger for you," Jay said.
The door swung open, and Jay looked around in astonishment. Digger hadn't exaggerated. It was Iowa in an attic. To his right, a herd of cows munched away on a handful of real grass tossed down in the middle of a fake-grass field. To his left, alone behind a chicken-wire fence, a bull the size of an especially husky mouse snorted threateningly. Beyond them were other fields, other animals. "That's an elephant," Jay said.
"He was Miss Jessica's Christmas present," the housekeeper said. "How come you're not taking any pictures?" Jay turned and looked at her. "Photography is an art, you know. You don't expect me to work with you right here looking over my shoulder, do you?"
It actually worked. "Well, okay," the old woman said. "No more than ten minutes, mind you." She closed the door behind her.
Jay took the footpath across the fields toward the complex of farm buildings under the windows, past a flock of sheep and some very short sheepdogs, a muddy trough crawling with pigs, toy tractors, and plastic farmer figurines, and a ramshackle henhouse. Chickens the size of marbles squawked and fluttered at his approach. The animals weren't all to scale, but he supposed he shouldn't be picky.
The house stood surrounded by haystacks, next to the traditional red barn and a tall grain silo. It was a painstaking replica of an old-fashioned woodframe farmhouse, as lovingly detailed as any dollhouse. It had painted wooden shutters, a bronze weathervane that moved when he touched it, and real cloth curtains in the windows. On the porch swing, a plastic hired hand sat with his arm around a plastic farmer's daughter. An iced pitcher of lemonade stood on the little table beside them.
Jay got on his knees and pushed open the front door with his fingers. He peered in just long enough to glimpse a living room full of antique miniatures before a tiny collie rushed out and began to bark at him wildly. "Sonofabitch," Jay said. The dog snapped at his nose. "Nice dog," he said, pulling his head back quickly. "Shut the fuck up, nice dog." The collie kept on barking. If only he'd brought a bone.
"Digger," he whispered urgently. "You there?"
He thought he heard a rustle of movement from one of the upper stories, but it was hard to be sure with the racket the collie was making. Jay peeked in one of the third-story windows. He saw a woman's bedroom, all lace and frills, pale blue walls covered with butterflies, a canopied four-poster bed. Nothing moved. It was a little dusty. How do you clean the inside of a dollhouse anyway?
Jay thought about that for a moment, while Lassie danced around him and yapped. He considered seeing how far he could punt the collie with a nice hard finger flick, but restrained himself. Instead he bent over the farmhouse and lifted off the roof.
Digger Downs, all three inches of him, was huddled on the floor of a tiny, windowless closet, trying to hide under a pile of doll clothes. He screamed when he saw Jay staring down at him, leaped up, and made a run for a staircase. Jay got him on the third step, lifting him into the air by his collar.' "Don't kill me," Digger shrieked in a tiny shrill voice, arms flailing as he dangled between Jay's fingers. "Oh God, please don't kill me."
"I only pick on guys my own size," Jay said. "Nobody's going to kill you. We're getting out of here. Be quiet."
He dropped Digger into his coat pocket barely an instant before the housekeeper returned. "Mr. Lowboy," she said, in a disapproving tone, "I have Mr. von der Stadt on the line, and he'd like a word with you."
"No can do," Jay said. "Gotta run." The collie was barking up a storm, jumping around on his shoe, trying to climb up his pant leg to the pocket where Digger was hidden. "You think she's trying to tell us something?" Jay asked innocently.
Chrysalis's only pallbearer was a green, nine-foot-tall joker who easily lifted her coffin and, cradling it in his arms as if it were a shoe box, led the procession into the churchyard.
By the time Brennan and Jennifer had followed the crowd of mourners into the tiny graveyard, the joker and Quasiman were lowering the coffin into the open grave.
Father Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water, said the final prayers for the dead, and stepped back as Jokertown buried another of its own. A long line snaked around the grave. Each person dropped a handful, pawful, or clawful of dirt onto the coffin, then paid their condolences to Father Squid, Tachyon, and the uncomfortable-looking man who'd been sitting with Tachyon in the f
ront pew. He was a big man with a weathered face that was florid under his tan. He was sweating from the heat and twitching from the private storm of emotions that was raging, barely checked, inside him.
"Hello, Father," Brennan said, taking the hand of the priest.
"Good to see you again, Daniel," Father Squid said, returning his handshake with his powerful, but friendly grip. Tachyon threw himself at Brennan, hugging him with naked emotion that Brennan tolerated with good grace. He drew back after a long moment and held Brennan at arms' length, examining him critically. "We must talk. Come."
Tachyon led Brennan deeper into the graveyard until the only ones who could hear them were the carven angels on the tombstones surrounding them. Tachyon glanced back at Jennifer, who was watching them curiously from Chrysalis's graveside. "The beautiful blonde must be Jennifer," Tachyon said. "Yes."
"I'd say you're a lucky man, but that would seem less than apt when you're being framed for murder. Is that what brought you back?"
"Partly," Brennan said. "Mostly I'm here to find who killed her."
"And how are you progressing?"
"Not too well," Brennan admitted. "Any theories?"
"I thought Kien might have done it," Brennan said doubtfully.
Tachyon seemed even less thrilled by the notion. "That makes no sense. We had a deal that took you out of the city and ended the war. Why would he risk restarting the whole killing cycle?"
"Who knows?" Brennan shrugged. "I'm just going to keep poking until something jumps."
"Just make sure it doesn't jump on you," Tachyon admonished. "I wish I could aid you, but I must return to Atlanta. You will keep in touch?"
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