"You!" Jack roared. "Who the hell are you?" Ackroyd looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Jay Ackroyd," Straight Arrow said. "Private cop. They call him Popinjay."

"I had the bastard!" Jack shook his fist in rage, crushing his pack of cigarettes. "I could have turned him into JELL-0! Aw, fuck!" He threw down the pack of cigarettes and kicked it into the crowd.

"Where'd you send him, Ackroyd?"

"Popped him," Ackroyd said.

Straight Arrow grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. "Where'd you send the assassin?"

"Oh." Ackroyd licked his lips. "New York. The tombs." Straight Arrow took his hands off the detective and straightened in satisfaction. "Good," he said.

Jack wanted to knock Ackroyd into the next country. "He walks through walls!" he yelled. "He's out by now!" Straight Arrow's face fell.

Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance. Jack looked around the scene, the two wounded men, Jackson kneeling by Tachyon, the Secret Service with their guns out, the crowd wailing and moaning in shock, TV cameras taking it all in… He'd lost again, Jack realized. Another tragedy he couldn't stop. Everything was slipping through his fingers.

And no one was going to profit from any of this besides Leo Barnett.

He was in a room surrounded by big niggers and bars. For a moment Mackie thought he was dreaming. Then he became aware of the hot gobbets of alien meat clinging like melted plastic to his face and the front of his jacket.

His right hand held air. His left was stiffened into a blade, vibrating, ready to take Dr. Tachyon's head off his shoulder. But he was no longer in the brightness of the Atlanta street and there was no Tachyon.

"Nein!" he screamed, slamming the heels of his hands against his forehead. "Nein, nein, nein!"

He had failed again. It wasn't possible. But he had failed. A hand clamped his shoulder. Nausea tsunami crashed from one side of his stomach to the other as he turned to find himself staring up at a gigantic black with a hairless dome of head and a gold ring in his ear.

"Hey, man," the giant said in a mild voice, "how fuck you get in here?"

Mackie screamed again, this time making no attempt at words. He made his hands do things, then, and. then it was other people who were screaming, and when the screaming stopped he ran straight through the bars of the holding cell, down green echoing corridors that reeked of puke and sweat and fear, and downstairs and out into the grimy sunlight of New York.

He had to get back to Atlanta at once. To redeem himself in the eyes of his master, his love.

The first thing Gregg did was shake Jesse's hand. Puppetman raced outward from the touch, opening the man's mind eagerly. It was an exquisite mind, one that felt things deeply. That was, after all, the best kind. There was a wash of deep orange-red there now, a memory of something very painful and horrible. Gregg knew what that would be.

Jackson hadn't changed his jacket; it was still spattered from Tachyon's blood. The sight of it made Gregg uneasy, a fluttering of guilt returning that made Puppetman mock him, inside.

"Reverend, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice and after such a horrible afternoon. How… how is Dr. Tachyon?"

"Clinging to life. In critical condition. The doctors say there was too much damage to reattach the hand." Jackson's long, dark face frowned. "A terrible event, Senator. A very terrible event. I have not seen such cold, sick violence since the Reverend King was assassinated."

Puppetman watched Jackson's emotions carefully. There was horror and fear, and revulsion, but none of it was directed toward Gregg. Which told him that Tachyon was still remaining silent about Puppetman.

Good. Then it doesn't matter-yet-that Mackie didn't finish the job.

There was only a faint yellow ochre of distaste inside Jackson directed at Gregg, and Puppetman easily pushed that back down, scrubbing it with the respect he knew Jackson had for Gregg's stand on common issues.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Reverend," he said. "Please, take a seat. I've told my aide to contact your staff and have a change of clothes sent over. Would you like anything to drink?"

Jackson declined with a wave of his hand and took a chair; Gregg sat on the couch opposite him. He steepled his hands in front of his face as if trying to decide what to say.

"This isn't a time I'd choose to say any of this," Gregg said at last. "Not after this afternoon. But maybe this is the best time. We need to end the violence here. We need to unify the convention and start to work on the real campaign against Bush."

"I know what you're going to say, Senator. You should know that my staff wants me to say 'no.'" Jackson seemed easy and comfortable despite the trauma of the afternoon. He sat crosslegged, his big hands cupped around a knee. The dark stains on his jacket made the image eerily surreal. Outwardly, he was cool, collected, almost indifferent.

Puppetman knew better. Inside the man was suddenly eager. He could see it; bright, electric blue, flashing like lightning. "They want me to say `no' because they're convinced that with Dr. Tachyon's support, our Rainbow Coalition stands to win here," he continued. "No half-victories, Senator, but everything."

"I've had a friendship of nearly twenty years' standing with Dr. Tachyon," Gregg said. "He's a prideful and very stubborn man. The truth is that you and I are only taking votes away from each other and allowing Barnett to win. The truth is that if the presidential candidate isn't me, it also won't be you. I think we both know that, no matter what we'd like to believe. If I don't win here, Leo Barnett will be the candidate. The attack on Tachyon today has only strengthened his position."

Puppetman could feel Jackson's irritation with that. It was no secret that the two ministers didn't care for each other. Jackson was an idealist, on the far left fringes of the party as Barnett was to the right. Gregg let Puppetman caress that irritation until Jackson visibly scowled.

"Reverend, you don't know why Tachyon came to you," Gregg went on. "My staff wanted to release this to the press after Tachyon withdrew his support, but I didn't let them, in deference to those twenty years of friendship. Tachy… well, there's no graceful way to put this. In the last few days, the doctor has become involved in a relationship with Barnett's campaign manager, Fleur van Renssaeler. I don't know whether she seduced him or he her-it doesn't matter, I suppose. But when I confronted him with it, he exploded. Said the relationship was none of my business. I insisted that indeed it spas-understandably, I think-and pressed harder." Gregg made a sour, chagrined face. "I probably said some things I shouldn't have said. Our argument was bitter and harsh. He walked out. The next I heard of him, he was making the announcement that he was withdrawing his support."

Gregg smiled sadly. "I can understand why he would turn to you, Reverend. We have our differences, but I think someone looking at our records and our public stands would find us very similar. We're both against prejudice and hatred of any kind; we'd both like to see all sides coming together to work in harmony. We've worked together on the platform fight; I know our ideals are the same."

In Jackson's mind, Puppetman pushed here, pulled there. "That sounds like one of your campaign speeches, Senator." There was a faint smile on his face. "I've heard the rhetoric before."

"And rhetoric is cheap. I know. I also know that if you look at my voting record, if you look at what I've done as chairman of SCARE, at how I've reacted to any joker or civil rights legislation, then you'll see that we're not very far apart. I think we could work together well."