Ace in the Hole - By George R. R. Martin Page 0,127
at him like a forest of spears. He took off his shades, folded them, smiled into the blinding camera light.
He hoped the booze and sleeplessness hadn't made his eves too red.' "I've just finished a two-hour interview with the Reverend Leo Barnett," Jack began. He could hear automatic cameras making zipping noises as they fired at him. He gripped the podium and tried not to feel the earthquake that rocked his nerves.
"This convention has seen a lot of strange events, a lot of violence," he said. "Some people have been killed. Two attempts have been made on Senator Hartmann's life, both by wild card aces, and I have fought both those aces personally. The Reverend Barnett has claimed all along that wild cards have been responsible for much of the chaos that has plagued this campaign. After the meeting today, I can only agree with him."
Jack's forty-year-old media reflexes told him that the TV cameras' long lenses were zooming in. Except for the sound of automatic cameras and snapping shutters, the room was absolutely quiet. Jack screwed his face into an expression of deep sincerity and gazed steadily out into the audience, just like when, years ago, he'd played Eddie Rickenbacker telling General Pershing he wanted to fly.
"There are secret aces at this convention," Jack said. "There is one in particular who has a very influential role. He's responsible for a lot of the chaos here, for at least some of the deaths. I believe he can influence people at a distance to cause them to act in ways contrary to the law and their own interests. Other aces, murderous aces, work for him. They have tried to destroy his opponents by violence."
Jack could sense Barnett and Fleur standing to one side, their heads together as they tried to figure out where he was taking this. Jack gave the cameras a grim Clint Eastwood smile.
"After my interview this morning, I've concluded that that secret ace . ." Insert dramatic pause here, he thought. "Is the Reverend Leo Barnett."
Cameras began swinging crazily, trying to get Barnett's reaction. Jack raised his voice and shouted into the mike stand. "Barnett's behind the assassination attempts!" he said. Triumph sang in his veins. " I defy Leo Barnett to prove he isn't an ace!"
Barnett gaped at him. Fleur van Renssaeler's face was dead white, her mouth moving in furious, silent anger. Barnett shook his head slowly as if shaking off a punch, then stepped forward. Though he never intended to, Jack found himself backpedaling, surrendering the podium.
The preacher leaned over the microphones, hands in his pockets, and gave a shaky grin. " I don't know what Jack's up to, here," he said. " I came down for another reason entirely. But if it's what Jack wants, I'm willing to stand right here for however many hours it takes to assemble a team of doctors to give me the blood test." His grin widened. "I know I don't have the wild card, and anyone who says I do is a liar or ..." He cast a sidelong glance at Jack. "Deeply misguided."
Jack stared back into the preacher's blue eyes and felt his triumph drain into his black Italian wingtips.
Somehow, he thought, he'd fucked up again.
Spector turned on the tap over the bathroom sink and took a mouthful of water. He swished it around for a few moments and spat it out. The water was stained brown from the dried blood. Spector took another mouthful and swallowed it. He was as thirsty as he was tired. It was always this way when he had to heal up after a major injury.
He tested his jaw. It moved up and down without too much trouble, but side to side hurt like hell. He could feel the bone popping in its socket. After a few months it might not be so bad. All in all, things could be much worse.
He heard a sound at the door. Spector knew he didn't have time to get back under the bed. He looked around the bathroom. The only place big enough was the shower. He stepped inside just as the door to his room shut. Somebody was talking softly to himself in the bedroom, and Spector had an idea who it was. When the noises approached the bathroom, Spector held his breath. Again. Much more of this and he'd turn blue permanently.
He focused the death-pain. It was always there, always ready. He saw pudgy fingers on the edge of the shower curtain.