Monday July 25, 1988

"You're finished, politically," Devaughn said. His tone was almost jolly; Gregg wanted to smash his fucking face in. With Puppetman it'd be easy.

But Puppetman's gone. Dead.

"I'm not quitting, Charles," Gregg retorted. "Have you gone deaf? This is just a goddamn minor setback."

"Minor setback? Christ, Gregg, how can you say that?" Devaughn rattled the papers he'd brought. "The editorials are screaming. USA has a poll saying that eighty-two percent of the American public thinks you're nuts. ABC and NBC did overnight phone polls showing that you're now trailing Bush by sixty percent. CBS didn't even bother with that; by their poll, an even ninety percent of the public thinks you should flat out resign the nomination. As do L"

Devaughn did another turn of the deserted headquarters room.

"Jackson's really pissed, even if he's smoothing it over for you," he continued. "The committee wants your resignation in writing this morning. I told them I'd get it."

Gregg slumped in his chair. The television was replaying his-Tachyon's-breakdown again. Gregg got up and very calmly went to the set.

He kicked the picture tube in.

Devaughn raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. "Fuck the polls," Gregg said. He glowered at Devaughn as glass dribbled from his cuffs. "I don't believe in polls. Hell, let me debate Bush and I'll tear his nuts off. He's about as dynamic as dry toast. That'll turn the polls around."

"Bush won't debate you, Gregg. He won't come near a platform with you and he'll make you look like a fool when you insist. Resign, Gregg."

"Look, Charles, I'm the candidate. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter what you or anyone else thinks. This convention elected me and by god, I'm running. I've got Jacksonhe's charismatic.."

"He'll also pull out of the ticket if you try to continue this charade," Devaughn sniffed like a prissy English lord. Like Tachyon. "You broke down, Gregg. America saw you on TV acting like a gibbering fool and they wonder how you'd react in a crisis in the White House. They don't want your finger on the button, Gregg. And frankly, neither do I."

"Damn it, that wasn't me that broke down, I tell you. It was Tachyon doing it. He took over my mind. I've told you that now a hundred times."

"So you say. You'll have a hell of a time proving it, though, won't you? Frankly, Gregg, that's going to sound like just another weak excuse. Or are you claiming Tachyon did it to you in '76, too?"

"Goddamn you!" Gregg roared. He pushed Devaughn with both hands, and the big man rocked backwards, a suddenly frightened look on his face. "I'm not resigning!"

"Take your hands of me, Gregg."

Gregg looked at Devaughn. With Puppetman, I'd make the bastard crawl.. He took a deep breath and stepped back. He rubbed his hands on his pants as if they were dirty. "I've made up my mind on this," he said softly.

Devaughn stared at him scornfully. "Then they'll reconvene the convention whether you like it or not. If you fight, you come out with nothing. You'll be made to look like a total ass. Resign, and maybe you can salvage at least your dignity from this mess. That's my final piece of advice for you, Senator." He stressed the last word mockingly.

Gregg went over to the couch, picture-tube glass crunching under his wingtips. He flung himself down on it. He cursed monotonously to himself, Devaughn watching silently.

When he finally looked up, the words he spat out tasted like ash.

"I've been hanging on with my damn fingertips, and now you're getting your kicks jumping up and down on them until I let go, aren't you? Well, you get your wish. Tell Tony to write the damn resignation," Gregg said. "He can write whatever he wants; I don't care. You read it-you'll get the most fucking pleasure out of it. And tell Amy to make arrangements to get me and Ellen out of Atlanta. I don't want to see any reporters. You got it?"

Devaughn sniffed. His gaze was scornful and superior, and Gregg ached to tear it from his face, but he didn't have the power anymore.

"Tell them yourself. I don't work for you anymore." Devaughn shook his head. "I had it all for you and you blew it. I'm going to see if Dukakis can use my talents. "

Devaughn left the room with prissy dignity. A Secret Service man stuck his head in, glanced at Gregg and the shattered glass on the rug, and shut the door again. Gregg sat there alone for a very long time.

Somehow over the years he had managed to spend a lot of time in morgues. And no matter how beautifully appointed, how perfectly cleaned, nothing could hide the essential factthey were freezers for dead human meat.

"I appreciate your coming down here," the M.E. was saying as he led Tachyon into the operating room. His eyes slid to Tachyon's stump, and quickly away. "Especially after… but I've never seen anything like this, and you're the expert."

"No problem. It's sort of fitting somehow."

The M. E. helped him into gown and mask. They walked to the table. A wan-faced woman was clutching rib cutters to her chest, and eyeing the headless body with wary alarm.

The corpse had been slit from sternum to groin, the ribs cut and pulled- aside. But pale yellow fat was growing across the glistening intestines. The ribs were putting out bony tendrils. Skin had grown across the severed neck, and pooching up from the center of the neck, like a finger thrust into a drum, was a tiny bud. Tachyon bent in for a closer look. Fascinated and horrified and unable to stop himself.

"It's almost as if it's… trying to… to… "

"To grow a new head, yes." Tach jerked back when he realized the embryonic head had eyes.

What if they suddenly opened? Would Demise's power remain? Would he make good his threat even from beyond the grave?

Stupid! He's always killed from beyond the grave. Bending Tachyon slid his dagger from its boot sheath, and jabbed it sharply into a buttock. The body arched and jerked. "Shit!" screamed the woman, and the M.E. didn't stop running until he reached the door.

Clinging to the swinging door, he stuttered, "Wha… what the fuck is that?"

"A mistake. A major miscalculation on my part. My nemesis and a reminder not to play God. May I suggest that we dispense with the autopsy, and move straight to cremation?"

"Great. You'll get no argument from me. What about the ashes? Are there any next of kin?"

A humorless smile touched Tachyon's lips. "I suppose I stand in loco parentis. I'll take them."

"Doc, you are one weird dude," sighed the woman, and she snipped off a rib that had grown beyond the edge of the chest cavity.