Wild Cards [07] Dead Man's Hand (11 page)

That left seven little Indians. Seven real strong Indians: Wyrm, Quasiman, the Oddity, Black Shadow, Bludgeon, the Sleeper, and Doug Morkle, whoever the fuck
he
was.

Wyrm was an ugly bit of business, a major player in the Shadow Fist Society. Jay had run into him once, had heard him threaten Chrysalis, in fact. That had been almost two years ago, but Wyrm looked like the kind of guy who held grudges. The only problem was the M.O. Strong as he was, Wyrm killed with his bite, pumping his victims full of venom. Jay didn't recall any bite marks on Chrysalis, but it was worth checking. The autopsy would certainly show the presence of poison in her system.

Quasiman was a caretaker at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery. Much stronger than Wyrm, the hunchback was a teleport, too. He could have gotten in and out of the Palace without being seen. He was supposed to be on the side of the angels, but every so often part of his brain drifted off to another dimension or something, and then there was no telling what he might do. An unlikely suspect, but still...

The Oddity was one Jay already had his suspicions about.

Black Shadow was another lunatic vigilante. Hated crime and liked to kill criminals, or maybe just break all their arms and legs if he was in a good mood. Maybe Shad had learned that Chrysalis was involved in some kind of criminal activity. Maybe she'd learned his real identity and threatened to expose him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Again, though, the M.O. was a problem. Shad was only slightly stronger than the human norm. The whispers said he was a creature of the darkness, a vampire who drank light and heat instead of blood, that he killed by draining all the warmth from his victims. He didn't break heads. Jay crossed him off.

Bludgeon was a brutal seven-foot-tall joker whose right hand was twisted into a permanent fist. He'd been a Shadow Fist until he proved too violent and stupid even for them, and they'd cut him loose, thanks in no small part to Jay and Hiram Worchester. That deformed fist of his could mash bone and brain real easy, and Bludgeon would probably enjoy every minute of it. The only thing was, he was dumb as a stump and twice as ugly. No way he'd penetrate the Palace security on his own, and Jay couldn't imagine why Chrysalis would ever agree to meet with him. But maybe there was something Jay didn't know yet. He left Bludgeon on the list.

Croyd Crenson, the Sleeper, was a free-lance operating on the fringes of the law. His powers changed every time he slept, but usually included super strength, and in the later stages of each waking period he was a speed freak given to fits of paranoid rage. Jay didn't recall that Croyd had any beef with Chrysalis, but if he was far enough gone in amphetamine psychosis, that might not matter. So if the Sleeper was awake, and if the strength had stayed with him this time, and if he'd taken enough crank to fuck up his judgment, and if Chrysalis somehow provoked him into a psychotic rage ... Jay decided there were too damn many ifs. The Sleeper got penciled out.

Then there were five. Wyrm, Quasiman, the Oddity, Bludgeon, and Doug Morkle. "Who the fuck is Doug Morkle?" he asked Flo when she came back with the coffeepot. She didn't know either.

He sighed and paid his bill, overtipping as usual. He was on his way out through the revolving door when he saw the newspaper folded up next to the punk with the green mohawk in the first booth. Jay just revolved all the way back around, walked over to the booth, and picked up the paper. "Hey," the mohawk objected.

"Shit," Jay said, scanning down the column of newsprint,

"they got Elmo." Riding the D train out to Brooklyn, the story said. A goddamn Guardian Angel made the arrest; he bet the cops really loved that part.

Jay decided that Doug Morkle would keep.

Brennan had never been inside Aces High before. It was a nice place. It seemed the kind of place where two old friends-old acquaintances, at least-could sit down and have a nice, civilized chat about murder and related subjects. He hoped that Maseryk would think so, too.

He finished his drink and waved away the waiter when he tried to bring another. Outwardly he was as patient as always, though inside he was as tense as a joker at a Leo Barnett rally. Maseryk was hard and tough. There'd been whispers about him in Nam when, like Brennan, he'd commanded a long-range recondo team. But there were always a lot of strange rumors in Nam.

Brennan recognized Maseryk the moment he spotted the waiter leading him to the table. He hadn't changed much over the years. A compact man, Brennan's size and build, he moved with the same easy grace and economy of movement. He had thinning dark hair, pale skin, and intense violet eyes. He still had the air of brooding menace about him that Brennan remembered from Nam.

"Hello, Captain," Brennan said as Maseryk slid into the chair across the table from him.

Maseryk stared at him. "Do something to your face?" he asked.

When Brennan had infiltrated the Shadow Fists, he'd had Dr. Tachyon give his eyes epicanthic folds so he'd fit in better with the Asian gang. Maseryk, of course, had last seen him years before the operation.

"It's the eyes, Captain. Asian eyes are all the rage nowadays."

Maseryk grunted and sat down. "I'm just a lieutenant now"

Brennan nodded, gestured at the waiter. "It's your party," Maseryk said.

"Two more Tullamore's, then. On ice."

"Very good, sir." The waiter bowed a precise millimeter, then left.

Brennan wondered where to begin and in the wondering they sat in silence until the waiter returned with their drinks. "Do you care to order now?" he asked, stepping a pace backward and holding his pen poised expectantly over his pad.

Maseryk glanced at the unopened menu before him on the table. "I hear the blackened redfish is pretty good, though on a cop's salary I've never had the opportunity to try it."

"It is very good, sir," the waiter said, faintly astonished that anyone could possibly think otherwise. He turned to Brennan with a raised eyebrow and poised pen. "And you, sir?"

"Seafood salad."

"Very good, sir." The waiter collected the menus and was gone.

Maseryk took a sip from his drink, set it aside. "So what's this about? Neither of us are exactly the type to get together to talk over the good old days we spent chasing Charlie through the jungle."

"Chrysalis's murder."

Maseryk grunted. "You said that. What was she to you?"

"We were lovers."

Maseryk's eyebrows rose. "Chrysalis had a lot of lovers. You the jealous kind?"

"Come off it," Brennan said flatly. "Why would I be talking to you if I killed her? You had no idea I was involved in this until I called you."

"Murderers sometimes do strange things," Maseryk said, "..to call attention to themselves."

Brennan snorted. "I thought the bow-and-arrow vigilante was your prime suspect."

Maseryk looked at him carefully. "A playing card was found on her body," he admitted, "but it wasp t the ordinary kind of card he used. This was a fancy one from Chrysalis's own antique deck."

Brennan nodded. Something that had been bothering him since his break-in at the Palace suddenly clicked into place. "And the rest of the deck is missing."

"That's right," Maseryk said. "How did you know?" Brennan smiled tightly. "Someone told me that Jay Ackroyd was at the Palace early that morning."

"That's right, too," Maseryk said. "He found the body."

"Why was he there?"

"You're awfully full of questions," Maseryk said. "You're not thinking of interfering with an ongoing police investigation, are you?"

"I want her killer brought to justice. If you find him, fine. If I do..." His voice trailed off and he shrugged. "Look, Brennan," Maseryk said in a sudden, hard voice, pointing his forefinger at him, "none of this vigilante shit--"

"If you did your job," Brennan replied, in a voice just as hard, "there wouldn't be any need for this vigilante shit. I could be home where I want to be, instead of putting my ass on the line."

Maseryk was about to reply when the waiter appeared at their table and slipped their plates in front of them. He glanced from one man to the other. "Will that be all?"

Brennan tore his gaze from Maseryk's and nodded at the waiter. "For now."

"Enjoy your meal, sirs," the waiter said, and hustled away.

"If you answer my question," Brennan said in a soft, conciliatory voice, "I'll give you another' one you should ask somebody."

Maseryk looked at him a long time, then finally sighed. "All right. I'll bite. The PI said Chrysalis had hired him to be her bodyguard. He did one hell of a job."

Brennan nodded thoughtfully and picked at his seafood salad.

"Well," Maseryk prompted, "what do you have for me?"

"Ask the Oddity what he, she, whatever, was looking for in Chrysalis's bedroom last night."

Maseryk scowled at his dish as Brennan speared a bit of crab. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?" he finally asked.

Brennan shook his head. "Not now. I have nothing you'd believe." He popped the crab in his mouth and chewed, his gaze far away.

Maseryk frowned. "You better not be jerking me around."

"Enjoy your meal," Brennan said.

Maseryk nodded, cut another slice. "I will. It's a damn fine fish. Damn fine."

They ate their food, saying little. Neither was much for small talk and both were absorbed in their own thoughts. Maseryk refused the waiter's offer of coffee and dessert when they had finished. Brennan ordered a cup of tea.

"I'll be in touch," Brennan said as Maseryk rose from the table.

"Don't do anything foolish," Maseryk advised him. Brennan nodded. The. waiter set a teacup in front of him and left. Brennan lifted the cup to his lips. He frowned. There was a note on the saucer. It was written on a ragged scrap of paper in a childish, impossibly tiny hand.

"If you want to no what the Shadow Fists are hidding," it read, "go to Stoney Brook, 8800 Glenhollow Rode. Be carfull. " Brennan quickly looked around the restaurant, and then immediately felt foolish for doing so. Someone had to be trailing him-or reading his mind. Someone knew as much about what he was doing as he did. It gave him a chilly, uncomfortable feeling, as if he were the hunted instead of the hunter.

He looked again at the note. It was unsigned, of course. It appeared as if it were sent by someone who was friendly, and seemed childishly innocuous with its semilegible scrawl and misspelled words. Brennan decided to check out the tip it offered, but also to follow its final hint and be very, very careful indeed.

2:00 P.M.

Kant didn't look pleased to see him. "I thought we got rid of you yesterday," he said.

"The reptile ranch was closed, so I came here," Jay said. "Where's your partner?"

"Out to lunch," Kant snapped at him. "Like you. Only with you it's a permanent condition." He showed his teeth. They were still pointed.

"Is that a joke?" Jay asked. It was, he was almost sure of it. He turned to a passing uniform. "Kant just made a joke," he said. The cop ignored him. "I don't think he was real impressed."

"You keep playing games with me, I'm going to make you real sorry" Kant promised. His moment of levity had obviously passed. "What the fuck do you want?" he asked irritably, rubbing at a big green scab under his collar. The starch must chafe his scales.

"I want to talk to Elmo," Jay said.

Kant was so surprised he stopped scratching his scab. "Get the hell out of here before I throw you out."

"You again?" Maseryk said as he sauntered up to the desk. He was chewing on a toothpick. It must have been a good lunch.

"He wants to see Elmo," Kant told his partner, in a tone that suggested it was the funniest thing imaginable. Maseryk didn't laugh. "Why?"

Jay shrugged. "Might as well, can't dance."

"Elmo isn't talking," Maseryk said. "We told him he had the right to remain silent, and damned if he didn't take us up on it."

"He'll talk to me," Jay said.

Kant and Maseryk exchanged glances. "And you'll tell us what he said?" Maseryk suggested.

"Wouldn't be sporting," Jay said.

Kant gave him one of his sideways blinks. "Get out of here before I lose my temper. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"Uh-oh," Jay said. "You hear that, Maseryk? Your partner was threatening me with police brutality. Do all lizards have such nasty dispositions, or is it just him?"

Kant came around his desk. He towered over Jay, all teeth and scales. "That's it. C'mon, asshole. Let's dance." Jay ignored him. "I've got a proposition for you," he said to Maseryk. "Why don't you tell your partner to go sun himself on a rock while we talk privately?"

Maseryk looked at Kant. "Give us a moment, Harv"

"You're going to buy into this bullshit?" Kant said. Maseryk shrugged. "He might have something." They walked down to an empty interrogation room. Maseryk shut the door, swung a chair around, and sat down with his arms crossed on its back, studying Jay with those piercing violet eyes. "This better be good," he said.

"It's a modest little deal, but I think you'll be amused by its presumption," Jay said. "You give me ten minutes with Elmo, I'll give you the name of the ace-of-spades killer."

Stony Brook-or, as the note had said, Stoney Brookwas a small suburban town in Suffolk County, Long Island. Brennan stopped at a gas station in his rented Toyota to ask directions to Glenhollow--thank heavens his unknown informant had managed to spell that right Road. It ran nearly parallel to Long Island Sound, and in fact turned into a wandering county road through sparsely settled, heavily forested country soon after Brennan turned onto it. A few houses were directly on the road, more stood back out of sight on meandering dirt lanes.

Brennan kept looking for number 8800, but missed it the first time by. He stopped when he saw number 8880 on a mailbox next to a dirt lane; checked for nonexistent traffic, then did a careful three-point turn and headed back down the road, this time driving even slower. This time he passed number 8700 without finding the address he was looking for, but remembered going by an unnumbered lane that could have been the missing 8800.

Brennan pulled over to the side on a relatively wide section of the road. He parked, got out of the car, and went to the trunk where he had stashed his bow case. He glanced up and down the road. There was still no traffic. He opened the bow case and with practiced, assured ease, assembled his compound bow. He drew the string smoothly. His shoulder burned, but he decided he could handle the pain. He slipped his hood over his head and then faded into the trees crowding the roadside, the hunter returned to the forest.