Dead Mans Hand

8:00 A.M.

Bre

The driveway looped around a series of gardens that were living advertisements of his horticultural skills. First was a Japanese miniature hill garden in the tsukiyama form, then an English shrubbery, and third a traditional flower bed blooming with a dozen different species of a dozen different hues. The driveway circled the flower bed and led past two greenhouses-one for tropical foliage, the other for desert species-and the A-frame house.

Bre

He went back into the bedroom that was sparsely furnished with a futon on the polished wood floor, a comfortable chair with a reading lamp and side table stacked with books, and a large wicker clothes hamper. Je

He watched the television as the computer tracked down the proper file. Most of the news was devoted to the Democratic National Convention, convening today in Atlanta. Nothing of substance had happened yet, but the analysis and predictions already seemed overblown and overdone.

Gregg Hartma

Bre

A lot of jokers were backing Hartma

Bre

Hartma

His schedule had come up on the screen, and it promised to be a full day. Archer Landscaping was in the middle of two jobs. Bre

Bre

He took his copy of Sakuteiki, Tachibana Toshisuna's classic treatise on garden design, from his reference shelf, but before he could look through it to get some ideas for the new job he stopped to stare at the image of a well-remembered woman that filled the television screen. He turned up the volume.

".. mysterious woman known only as Chrysalis was found dead this morning in the office of her nightclub, the Crystal Palace. The police have so far refused comment, but an ace of spades found on her body has linked the slaying to the mysterious bow-and-arrow vigilante known as Yeoman, who was responsible for at least fifty deaths in 1986 and early 1987."

Bre

"What's the matter?" she asked when she saw the expression on his face. "What happened?"

Bre

"Dead?" she echoed, unbelievingly. "Murdered."

"How? By who?" Je

"Report didn't say. But her killer tried to frame me by putting an ace of spades on the body."

"Frame you? Why?"

Bre

"The police-"

"The police think I did it."

"That's insane," Je

They'd been so busy that it hadn't seemed that long since Bre

"Someone set me up," Bre

He looked at Je

She leaned back, considering it. "Why?"

Bre

"The police would never find you if we stay here."

"Maybe," Bre

"We're building something here," Je

Let it go. It should be easy, Bre

He stood up. "I'm not letting anything go. I can't." Je

After a while he started the engine and drove away, alone.

Noon

Maseryk played the good cop, Kant played the bad cop, and both of them deserved rave reviews. Jay Ackroyd had seen the act before, though. Maseryk was lean and dark, with intense violet eyes. Kant was a hairless scaled joker with nictitating membranes and pointed teeth. As Jay ran through his story for the seventh time, he found himself wondering whether they swapped roles when the suspect was a joker. He took one look at Kant and decided not to ask.