of you." Silence stretched between them. Suddenly Braun asked, "Are you in trouble?" No reply. "If you are, tell me. Maybe I can help."
The long lashes lifted, and Tachyon looked him fully in the eyes. There was nothing young about the narrow face now. It looked as cold and old and as implacable as death. "I've had enough of your help for one lifetime, thank you."
Jack almost ran from the room.
Tachyon pulled off the soft brown fedora and crumpled it agitatedly in his hands. The tiny two-room flat looked as if it had been struck by a cyclone. Drawers stood open, a cheap picture frame stood forlornly empty on a scarred table. What had it held that was so significant it had to be removed? The police? he wondered. No, they would have been more careful. So Dani's killers had been here, and the police were yet to come, which meant Tach had to hurry. The newly purchased jeans felt stiff against his skin, and he tugged fretfully at the crotch while he riffled through the paperbacks that littered the front room.
A faint rasp sounded from the bedroom. Tachyon froze, crept cat-footed to the hot plate, and lifted the knife lying next to it. In a quick rush he crossed the room and pressed himself against the wall, ready to stab whatever came through the connecting door.
Careful, quiet footsteps, but enough vibration for Tach to tell that his opponent was big. Two sets of soft breaths from either side of the wall. Tach held his, waited. The man came through the door in a rush; Tachyon lunged in low, ready to drive the blade up beneath the ribs. The blade snapped, and gold light flashed across the dingy apartment walls. Jack Braun, forming his hand into a gun, placed his forefinger firmly between Tachyon's eyes, "Bang, bang, you're dead."
"GOD DAMN YOU!" In a blaze of temper he flung the broken knife against the wall. "What are you doing here?"
"I followed you."
"I never saw you!"
" I know. I'm pretty good at this." The implication was clear.
"Why can't you just leave ... me ... alone?"
"Because you're getting in way over your head."
"I can take care of myself"
A derisive snort.
"If it hadn't been you, I'd have taken you out," Tach cried.
"Yeah? And what if there'd been more than one? Or if they'd had guns?"
" I don't have time to discuss this with you. The police may be here any minute," the alien threw over his shoulder as he stormed into the bedroom and continued his search.
"Police! HOLD IT! What is going on? Why the police?"
"Because the woman who lived in this flat was murdered this morning."
"Oh, great. And why does this involve you?" Tachyon's mouth tightened mulishly. Braun gathered up the front of the alien's shirt, hefted him off the ground, and held him at eye level, noses almost touching. "Tachyon." It was a warning rumble.
"It's a private matter."
"Not if the police are involved it isn't."
"I can handle it myself."
" I don't think so. You couldn't even spot me." Tachyon sulked. "Tell me what's going on. I just might help you."
"Oh, very well," he snapped pettishly. "I'm searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of my grandson."
That took some explaining. Tachyon fired out the tale in quick staccato sentences while they finished pawing through the jumble, turning up absolutely nothing.
"So you see, I have to find him first and get him out of the country before the French authorities realize what they possess," he concluded, laying his hand on the doorknob. And heard a key rasp in the lock.
"Fire escape." Jack pointed back over his shoulder. They fled.
"Let's see what we've got." Braun paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon stopped wolfing down his enormous and very belated lunch and fished the paper from his jeans. Tossed it, only to have it land fluttering in the mustard jar. "God damn it, be careful," said Jack, aggrieved, and mopped at the paper with his napkin.
Tachyon continued to shovel it in. With an annoyed grunt the ace pulled out a pair of reading glasses and peered at the Takisians florid hand:
Gisele Bacourt wed Frangois Andrieux in a civil ceremony on December 5th, 1971.
One child, Blaise Jeannot Andrieux, born May 7, 1975. Gisele Andrieux killed in a shoot-out with industrialist Simon de Montfort's personal bodyguard, November 28, 1984. Both husband and wife were members of the French Communist Party.