Then he heard a scream.

The marrow-chilling wail, the ultimate sound of terror and despair, turned Jack's nerves to fire.

The scream bubbled away.

Jack lunged forward like a base runner diving for second and hit the door bar with both hands. The door thundered open, then slammed to a stop: Jack bounced headfirst off the metal as it stopped his dive. He growled as he ripped the door off its hinges, his power bathing the hallway in lucid golden light.

Alex James was lying on the landing, his face still set in a rictus of his final shriek, hand on the butt of his pistol. A chill danced up Jack's spine as he saw the face, and for the first time he realized the assassin might be a wild card.

Too bad for him, Jack thought.

No playing with this one. He wasn't letting this assassin get away like the hunchback.

Footsteps rattled on the stairway as the assassin spun around the metal guardrail at the bottom of the first flight. Jack caught a glimpse of a pale, scarred face and wild hair as the intruder ran down steps four or five at a time. Jack didn't bother to follow him down the stairs-instead he just vaulted the rail and dropped straight to the bottom of the second flight.

The assassin was right under him as he dropped-Jack kicked out as he came down, and his lashing foot caught the assassin in the side, hurling him off a wall and down onto the landing. Jack dropped to an easy crouch and spun to face the assassin. The man, face drawn with shock and pain, was picking himself up off the stained concrete.

Triumph roared like a hot wind through Jack's heart. Jack jumped in front of the assassin, planted both feet, and shot out a punch.

The man saw it coming and tried to jerk his head out of the way, but Jack's punch caught him in the side of the jaw. A spray of blood spattered the rough concrete wall. The assassin bounced off two different walls and pitched full length down the third flight of stairs, landing on his side. Jack's feet broke traction and shot backward. His upper body fell forward onto the palms of his hands.

Jack picked himself up, heart hammering, and shook blood from his knuckles. The assassin wasn't moving. Jack stepped cautiously toward the killer.

Something crunched under one foot. Jack lifted his heel and saw it was one of the assassin's teeth.

Streams of blood poured down the stairs from the killer's mutilated face. The crushed jaw was hanging by a strip of skin. Jack winced. He really needed time to get used to the results of serious violence, and he hadn't had it. He hadn't been in a fight since the Stacked Deck put down in Paris.

He knelt by the man and looked at the blood-spattered face. Maybe he'd seen the man before.

The killer's eyes opened and stared into Jack's.

Death reached out from the man's eyes and seized Jack by the heart.

There was blood everywhere, and all of it was his. Spector grabbed his dislocated jaw, took several deep breaths, and jammed it back up into the socket. He blinked away the tears, but not the searing pain. Spector stood slowly and leaned against the concrete wall.

Golden Boy wasn't moving and didn't seem to be breathing either. Spector hadn't really figured he could hurt Braun much less kill him, but was happy to be wrong. This was no time to be impressed with himself. He had to move. The fight had been quick, but noisy, and more Secret Service would show up any minute.

He slipped off his shoes with his free hand and started down the steps. One flight. Two flights. He wouldn't be far enough away until he lost count. They could test the blood from the landing and find out he was an ace. A killer ace. He pressed the edges of his torn cheek together with his thumb and forefinger. The flesh began to knit itself together. Was it ten flights now? How many floors would that be?

A door opened in the stairwell above him. Spector moved to the far wall and hugged it as he descended. He knew there was someone above him, looking up and down for a hand on the rail or someone looking back. He wasn't going to make that mistake. But what was his next move? He still had the key to 1031. It was risky, but he couldn't think of anything else.

His sides were killing him. Golden Boy had broken a couple of his ribs, too. Spector was breathing okay, though; at least his lungs hadn't been punctured.

He stopped at the landing on the tenth floor and took off his coat. His jaw had stayed connected to his skull, that was something, but he wouldn't be talking for a while. Spector used his coat lining to wipe the blood from his face and neck. Some of it was already crusting over and he had to scrape it off with his fingernails.

There were voices and rapid footfalls from above. Spector couldn't tell how far away they were or even if they were headed down. He was a dead duck here, though. That much was a sure thing. He spit into his palms and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to get any remaining bloodstains off. His jaw still felt like there was a circus strongman trying to pull it off.

Spector slipped his shoes back on and opened the door, then stepped out into the hall and made sure it shut quietly behind him. He folded his coat over his arm so that no blood was showing and walked slowly toward the open-air atrium. The lobby area was more crowded than the hallway, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He coughed as a bit of dried blood came loose in the back of his throat. A man at the railing turned and gave him a glance, then looked back up into the airshaft.

"Golden Boy," the man said, drunkenly, and pointed with an unsteady hand. Spector stared straight ahead and quickened his pace. He caught the movement of the corner of his eye. A Golden Boy glider spiraled slowly toward the ground floor. Spector knew it would hurt to smile, so he didn't try. He'd killed Braun and the Astronomer. Who else in the world could have done that? If he could get close enough to Hartmann it wouldn't matter that the senator was an ace. Spector would take him out, too.

He turned down his hallway and walked to the door of 1031. He'd gotten away again. It was almost like somebody was on his side. Maybe God was trying to make up for all those years of shit. Keep it up, Spector thought. He slipped his key into the slot, waited for the green light, and went in.

"The airline ticket was made out in the name George Kerby. "

Ackroyd's voice went very shrill on the final two words. Tachyon pulled his computer key out of the door, and pocketed it. As he stepped in, he heard Hiram rumble, "Tickets in the name of a ghost."

From Ackroyd. "Yeah, a ghost. A specter." "James Spector!" Hiram said.

"And both George Kerbys came back from the dead," Jay said. "She hired that son of a bitch Demise."

Their backs were to him. They hadn't noticed his quiet entrance.

"We have to let them know," Hiram said. He crossed the room, picked up the phone, and punched for the operator. "Connect me to the Secret Service."

At last they noticed him. Hiram staring at him with dread, Ackroyd with shuttered, snake-like eyes.

"It… it's not true, is it?" Hiram said desperately. "Tell me that it's all some hideous mistake, Gregg can't be." Pity filled him for the loss of dreams, and shattering of faith. "Hiram," Tach said softly. "My poor, poor Hiram. I saw his mind. I touched the Puppetman." The horror of it returned again, and Tachyon shuddered. "It is a thousand times worse than we could ever have imagined."

The strength drained from his legs, and Tach sat on the carpet, buried his head in his hands, and began to weep. Through his misery he heard Hiram say, "God forgive me."

What has He to forgive you for? I should have seen. Twenty years! I should have realized. I should have known! Wracking sobs made his chest ache. Tachyon realized he was spiraling into hysterics. Grimly he reached for control, and the sobs began to subside.