Dead Mans Hand

"It's him," Je

Kant was at the bar. Even from across the room Bre

"She ain't been in for a couple of days."

Kant was disheveled and had a rank, reptile-house smell about him.

"You don't understand," he told the bartender. "I need her. I need the kiss!"

A woman sitting at the bar swiveled toward him, her face hidden by a cheap, glittery mask. "You sound like you need it bad, doll."

Kant turned to her. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath was a husky rattle.

"I'll kiss you, honey," the woman said. "Anywhere you want."

Kant growled wordlessly and struck her backhanded across the face, knocking her from the bar stool. She gazed up at him in terror as he towered over her, glowering like a madman.

"I don't need a filthy whore!" he screamed. He pounded his fist on the bar, then shuddered all over like a dog throwing off water. He brought himself under control with great effort and hissed, "I need the kiss!"

He whirled and almost trampled Bre

It was the easiest tailing job Bre

They followed him for half a dozen blocks to a shabby five-story apartment building. It was solid and functional looking, with no pretense toward elegance or security. Kant went in the lobby and after a moment Bre

Bre

"He's off the deep end," Bre

Bre

They went down the corridor and stopped in front of the door. It had rebounded out of its latch when Kant had slammed it, so that it was open a crack. Bre

The living room was decorated with obvious expense, but it was not to Bre

The room was empty. Bre

Bre

The room was dominated by a huge four-poster water bed with mirrors on the canopy and headboard. A bigscreen television stood against the wall opposite the bed.

Next to the television was what looked like a child's wading pool filled with sand. A pair of sunlamps were focused on the pool and Kant was in it, naked, with his eyes closed. He was rooting in the sand, mumbling aloud as he dragged himself through the grit as if he were frenziedly trying to wipe himself clean.

"Kant," Bre

The joker turned slowly. His face was a frozen mask of madness. There was an ugly oozing sore on his lower neck. He stared at Bre

Bre

The pistol whooshed and a feathered dart flew through the air, struck Kant's naked chest, and bounced off the hard, scaly skin.

Shit, Bre

"So close," Hiram said. He sighed hugely, got up from the couch, and went over to the wet bar to mix himself a drink. They were in Tachyon's suite at the Marriott, waiting for his return and watching the convention on television.

"Too damn close if you ask me," Jay said. Down on the floor of the Omni, another inconclusive ballot had just been tallied. A wave of sympathy voting had pushed Gregg Hartma

Hundreds of Hartma

David Brinkley had just predicted that Hartma

"Us?" Jay said, with a sidelong glance.

Hiram scowled, rubbing at the back of his neck under his collar. "Until I have proof that Gregg is the monster you claim, I'm still a Hartma

Mackie Messer could be cutting his liver out, Jay thought, but he didn't say it. Hiram was in bad enough shape already. Jay was trying to figure out what their next move would be if Tachyon never came back from his little showdown with Hartma

On the tube, Hartma

Jay got up and changed the cha