Dead Mans Hand

"Nothing but my goddamned instincts," Jay said bitterly. "Did they build her the trap she wanted?"

"They told her there was no such thing," Jube replied. "Pity," Jay said. "Pity."

The Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery was nearly empty. A few scattered penitents were kneeling on the scarred wooden pews, head-or heads-bowed in silent prayer to the god who was more real to them than the clean-featured Jesus of the old Bible. The hunchback called Quasiman was puttering about the altar, humming to himself as he dusted the tabernacle. Dressed in a sharply pressed lumberjack shirt and clean jeans, he moved in a stiff, jerky ma

"Hello," Bre

"Hello." Quasiman's eyes were dark and soulful, his voice soft and deep. "He's in the chancellery"

"Thanks-" Bre

Father Squid was sitting behind his battered wooden desk, reading a book. He looked up and smiled when Bre

Father Squid was an immense, squat man in a plain cassock that covered his massive torso like a tent. His skin was gray, thick, and hairless. His eyes were large and bright, and gleamed wetly behind their nictitating membranes. His mouth was masked by a fall of short tentacles that dangled like a constantly twitching mustache. His hands, closing the book and setting it on the desk before him, were large, with long, slim, attenuated fingers. Rows of circular pads-vestigial suckers-lined his palm. He smelled faintly, not unpleasantly, of the sea.

"Come in, sit down." He regarded Bre

Bre

Father Squid looked troubled. "I can guess. The death of Chrysalis. I knew that you two were… close… at one time."

"The police say I killed her."

"Yes, I'd heard."

"And not believed?"

Father Squid shook his head. "No, my son. You would never have killed Chrysalis. While I can't say that I approve of some of the things you've done, only he who is without sin should cast the first stone, and I'm afraid that the antics of a far from unblemished youth have left me unable to claim spiritual purity." Father Squid sighed. "Chrysalis, poor girl, was a sad soul searching for salvation. I hope that now she has at least found peace."

"I hope so, too," Bre

"The police-" Father Squid began.

"Think I did it."

The priest shrugged massive shoulders. "Perhaps. Perhaps for now they are grasping at straws, but will eventually set their feet upon the proper path. I'll not deny you my help if you are determined to proceed on your own. If, that is, I know anything of value." He rubbed the spot where his nasal tentacles gathered. "Although I ca

"Maybe you can help me find someone who does know something."

"Who?"

"Sascha. He does belong to your church, doesn't he?"

"Sascha Starfin is a faithful churchgoer," the priest said, "though, upon thinking about it, it has been quite a while since he's partaken of Communion."

"He's disappeared," Bre

Father Squid nodded. "That may be. Have you tried his mother's apartment?"

"No," Bre

"The Russian section of Brighton Beach," Father Squid said, giving specifics.

"Thanks. You've been a big help." Bre

Father Squid looked solemnly at Bre

"And very strong hands."

Father Squid nodded. "That is true. But you can take his name off your list of suspects. As you may know, it has become something of a nat fad to acquire joker remains-bodies, skeletons, what have you-as conversation pieces. Quasiman was guarding our cemetery last night. At least I hope he was. He forgets things, you know"

"I've heard. Was he there all night?"

"All night."

"Alone?"

Father Squid hesitated a beat. "Well, yes." Bre

Father Squid raised his hand in benediction. "God go with you. I shall say a prayer for you. And," he added quietly as Bre

7:00 P.M.

A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalks outside the Crystal Palace, and four police cruisers were parked out in front, a fifth by the alley in back.

As Jay climbed out of the cab, he recognized Maseryk standing beside one of the cop cars, talking on the police radio. The building was sealed off. The steps up to the main entrance had been blocked with sawhorses, and a yellow crime-scene ba

The gawkers watched everything with interest, muttering to each other all the while. It was the usual Jokertown street crowd, mostly jokers, with a slumming nat or two standing nervously on the fringe. Hookers cruised the sidewalk across the street, soliciting right under the noses of the cops. Off to one side, four Werewolves in gang colors and Mae West masks were having a fine old time cracking wise to each other. A few Crystal Palace regulars stood looking on.

Maseryk hung up the phone. Jay walked over. "So," he said, "the murderer return to the scene of the crime yet?"

"You're here," Maseryk pointed out.

"Droll," Jay said. "Find any prints?"

"Plenty. So far we've got yours, hers, Elmo's, Sascha's, Lupo's, you name it. What we're not finding are the files."

"Ah," said Jay noncommittally.

"There's such a thing as knowing too much for your own good. Kant thinks our motive is somewhere in those secret files."

"Real good," Jay said, watching a very nice rear end in a tight leather miniskirt sway past. "For a lizard." He was turning back to Maseryk when he noticed a hooded shape standing in the mouth of an alley half a block away.

"I'll tell him you said that," Maseryk said, with the barest hint of a smile.

"The thing of it is," Jay said, "if Kant finds that cache of information, he may get more than he bargained for. Motives are like fingerprints, too many are as bad as none at all." He glanced back toward the alley. The hooded man stood in shadow, watching the Palace. His head turned, and Jay caught a brief flash of metal as the light reflected off the steel-mesh fencing mask beneath the hood.