his nose, then winced. "I guess that sounds kind of cold. But it's going to help so many people that I think the trade off is worth it."
Spector glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. "I've got to get going, Tony. Things to do. I may not get a chance to see you again for a while, but I can always look you up on Pennsylvania Avenue."
"Can you do me a favor before you leave?"
"Sure, name it."
"All my writing stuff is at the Marriott. I know we're getting the nomination tonight and I have to finish off the acceptance speech. There's a black briefcase on my bed. It's got everything I'll need, my laptop, CD player." Tony edged his shoulders up the bed, sitting up as straight as possible. "With Ellen's accident and the story about some assassin hanging around, there's nobody else to get it for me. I kind of got lost in the shuffle."
"Uh, I don't think they're just going to let me waltz up to your room to pick up your shit." Spector felt bad about crawfishing, but really didn't want to go back to the Marriott. He might see Barnett and have to kill the bastard.
"No problem. I'll write you out a note. Show it to the security people at the entrance and they'll take care of it. I can call the nurse at the front desk here, have her give you my room key."
Spector couldn't say no, much as he wanted to. "Okay. It may take awhile. Traffic is a bitch out there."
Tony smiled. Even with split, purple lips, the guy still came across like a winner. He took Spector's hand and shook it. "The team's still working."
"Right," Spector said, handing him a pen and a piece of paper. "I couldn't let you go outside looking like that. You'd need a mask to cover up all those stitches."
Tony grabbed him by the elbow. "That's it, Jim. Masks. That's the angle I'll work with. Something that really showcases joker's Rights." He let go of Spector and raised his hands.
"America, wear a mask for one day. See what it's like to be treated as something less than human."
Spector stood quietly for a moment. "I think it needs a little work. "
"No problem. Now that I've got the angle, the words will come." Tony began writing.
"I'll get your stuff back as soon as I can." Spector didn't shake his head until he was out of the room.
6:00 P.M.
Projected on the screen of the electron microscope, the wild card lay in its distinctive crystal pattern.
"Jesus," breathed Ackroyd. "It's beautiful."
Tachyon scraped back his bangs. "Yes, I suppose it is." He grimaced. "Trust us Takisians to create a virus to match our aesthetic ideal."
He swung around on the lab stool just as Hiram began to slide down the wall.
"Ackroyd!"
They each grabbed an arm, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. All three ended up seated on the floor. Hiram ran a hand across his eyes and muttered, "Sorry, must have blacked out for an instant."
Unlimbering his flask, Tach held it to Hiram's lips. Worchester gulped down brandy, then his head fell to the side as if his neck were too fragile to support its weight. An enormous, ugly scab crusted on his neck. Tach touched it with a cautious forefinger, and Hiram straightened abruptly. "Hey, can I have a sip of that?" Jay pointed with his chin to the flask. "It's been a hell of a week." The detective's Adam's apple worked as he gulped down the brandy. Ackroyd gusted a sigh, and wiped his mouth.
"There can be no doubt?" Hiram's eyes pleaded with Tachyon.
"None."
"But just because he's an ace ... well, that proves nothing. He'd have been mad to admit to the virus. He might be a latent."
An uneasy silence fell over the three men. Tachyon, squatting on his heels, gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Three floors above him Ellen Hartmann rested in her hospital room. Dreaming of her lost child. Never dreaming that her husband was a secret ace, and possibly a ruthless killer. Or had she known all along?
Jay cleared his throat and asked, "So what do we do now?"
"A very good question," sighed Tachyon.
"You mean you don't know?"
"Contrary to popular belief I do not have the solution to every problem."
"We've got to have more proof than this," said Hiram, pushing to his feet.
Ackroyd jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the screen of the microscope. "What more proof do you want?"