After the long, hard day, Jennifer slept, but Brennan could not.

He was on the edge of exhaustion, but his head felt curiously clear and light. His brain wouldn't shut off and allow him the rest he needed, so he slipped quietly out of bed, dressed, and went out into the night.

It was hot and sticky. The heat wave smothering the city was unrelenting even at night. The streets were full of people, wandering, Brennan thought, in an aimless search for answers to their own particular problems, answers as elusive as those Brennan was seeking.

A new variable had shown up to further complicate the equation of Chrysalis's murder: the mysterious master, Ti Malice, and his apparent accomplice, Ezili Rouge. Sascha was his servant, and so was Kant. The cop had used a strange term to refer to those in thrall to Malice. He had called them "mounts." Brennan couldn't even begin to guess what that meant.

A crowd had gathered in front of an all-night drugstore a few blocks from the hotel. Brennan joined them, curious as to what caused their hushed expectancy, and saw that the television set in the window was tuned to a news channel that was recapitulating the day's chaotic events in Atlanta.

Jack Braun had been murdered, the newscaster said. Brennan couldn't believe it. When he was young, Brennan had been a big fan of Golden Boy, idolizing him because he was handsome, strong, and fearless. He was everything a hero should be. He sheltered the weak and protected the helpless as a living embodiment of the heroic ideal. As Brennan had gotten older, he learned that heroes could be hollow when he realized that Golden Boy had betrayed his friends in a moment of weakness and fear. But his continuing belief in the heroic ideal had been part of what had drawn him to the military.

There Brennan had learned firsthand how difficult it was for ideals to flourish in an imperfect world. He'd been sent to defend Vietnam. Instead, because of inefficiency and incompetence, avarice and stupidity, he'd helped devastate it. Then those in charge of the mess just walked away, leaving the Vietnamese people in the hands of the murderous thugs they'd sworn to defend them from.

Stung by the pain of that lesson, Brennan had walked away himself, had tried to isolate himself by abandoning the rest of humanity. But he discovered that old ties, always remembered, are impossible to forget, and new ties, once forged, are impossible to ignore.

Let Barnett and Hartmann, Brennan thought, play their games in Atlanta. Let them hoist placards, wear funny hats, and make speeches full of empty, impossible promises. In the end they could do little that would matter. Despite his fine intentions and noble vows, Hartmann would still be constrained by a system crippled by incompetence, inertia, and injustice. Barnett, too, would face the same roadblocks if he ever tried to put his despicable plans into operation.

In the end, Brennan thought, it came down to protecting your comrades, your friends, and your family. Brennan knew he would always be ready for that. And if, as with Chrysalis, he was too late to protect, he would make sure that anyone who harmed his people once would never do so again.

Brennan smiled wryly. Noble sentiments, he thought, but actually he wasn't getting very far in exacting retribution. Brennan stared unseeingly at the television screen. He needed more information, but his sources had all dried up. There was nothing on the street. Sascha had disappeared, perhaps under orders from the mysterious Malice. Fadeout was obviously more interested in using Brennan to get rid of Kien and to help find Chrysalis's files…

Perhaps that was the answer. Chrysalis knew everything that went on in Jokertown. Perhaps her information cache had the answers Brennan needed. But the files were well hidden. Knowing how fond she was of secrets, Brennan doubted that she told anyone where she kept them.

Except perhaps for one man. One man who was something of her confident. One man whose lips would be sealed by unbreakable vows of silence. One man who had received a strange bequest from her.

The time had come, Brennan decided, to call in all debts.

His mind made up, Brennan turned back to his hotel room and a few hours' sleep. He smiled as the cat following him also turned, darting quickly through the shadows. He considered stopping and offering him a lift, but decided that Lazy Dragon could use the exercise.

Saturday July 23, 1988

… walked faster, his feet bare and bloody, rushing after the heavy man in the bulky black coat. He shouted after him, but nothing broke the dreadful silence but the sound of his feet. The steps grew narrow, making it harder to keep his balance as he rushed down into the darkness. When he reached the platform suspended over that stygian gulf, the man was there ahead of him. Just the sight of that back, hunched and ominous, filled him with fear, and when the man began to turn, the terror rose inside him until he thought he would choke. The featureless white face lifted, the wet red tentacle tasted the air. Its howl and Jay's scream sounded together in a horrible cacophony.. ..

"You pissed your pants," a voice sneered. "Some ace." Jay sat up. His suit was rumpled, his side ached, and his head was pounding. Some kid was standing across the room with a smirk on his face like Jay was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. The kid had a refined, prissy little face, a French accent, and an attitude. His hair was so red it hurt to look at it. Jay wanted to pop him to the South Bronx, but he figured he'd better not. Groggy as he was, he seemed to recall that this was Tachyon's grandson.

"Where's Gramps?" Jay asked as he lurched to his feet, ignoring the boy's gibes. There was broken glass all over the carpet; it crunched when he stepped on it. It was all over the couch, too, and a few shards fell off Jay when he stood. He noticed the shattered windows for the first time. When the hell had that happened?

The kid shrugged. "His bed wasn't slept in," he said. "Maybe he finally caught one of his bimbos."

"Figures," Jay said. "I pass out on the goddamn couch with a perfectly adequate bed empty in the next room." He went over to the bar, glass breaking under his heels, and stared at the booze for a moment until he found an unopened bottle of cognac. A little hair of the dog, he decided, real good.

"You're Popinjay." The kid was as arrogant as Tachyon. Not to mention almost as tall.

"Jay Ackroyd," Jay corrected. "So who are you, Kid Tachyon?"

"Blaise. I'm one quarter Takisian," he added proudly. "Don't let it bother you, I'm one quarter Croat myself." Jay tossed back the cognac. It burned against the back of his throat on the way down. He splashed a little more into his glass. And kept splashing. The glass was one third full. One half. Three quarters. Jay tried to put down the bottle. He kept pouring. Filled the glass to the brim. Poured it over his head.

The liquor stung when it hit his eyes, blinding him. He tried to say sonofabitch. Instead he heard himself singing "I'm a Little Teapot," in a high falsetto voice. With all the little motions. Somewhere along there the cognac glass slipped from his fingers and rolled across the carpet.

When his vision cleared, Blaise was standing in front of him, arms crossed, smiling in satisfaction. "Takisians don't let anybody make fun of them," he told Jay. "Watch what you say. I can make you do anything I like." He laughed. "Now you're wet at both ends."

"Real good," Jay said. He smelled like cognac and piss. "You'd make some detective."

"Really?" Blaise had managed to miss the sarcasm; Jay was grateful for that much.

"No shit. Of course, you still got a few things to learn."