Jay gaped at him. The notion of the prissy little alien prince working for the Soviets was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. He would have been less surprised if Tachyon had confessed that he was really an elf. "Why?" was all he could manage.

"Hartmann," Tach replied. "He suspected the existence of the monster. Now Hartmann has found out about him, and our connection."

"Connection?" Jay said. "He is Blaise's tutor."

"Oh hell." Jay sat down. He didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. Laugh, probably; he could always count on Tach to take care of the weeping.

"This is the bludgeon with which Hartmann seeks to cow me," Tachyon declared. "I'm probably going to jail, Mr. Ackroyd. But I'll see him stopped before I go."

"You want me to pop this guy away."

"Yes. Already the FBI and the Secret Service have been alerted. They are combing Atlanta for George."

"Are you still a commie?" Jay asked, straight-faced.

Dr. Tachyon clutched at the little doily he wore at his throat, and drew himself up to his full height. "I? Consider, Mr. Ackroyd."

"Yeah," Jay said, "I get your drift." He stood up. "Well, hey, it's all ancient history to me. Let's go pop this commie somewhere."

Tachyon gave him a grave little nod and went to the bedroom. "Blaise," he called.

"You're taking him?" Jay was surprised. "I mean, he knows?"

"Of course. Come, child," he said to Blaise. The teenager shot him a venomous glance, but Tachyon missed it. " I want you to have a chance to say farewell to George."

Captain Angela Ellis stamped out a cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and immediately lit another. She strode up and down before the chair in which Brennan sat, her frustration evident in her staccato pacing.

"How long do you think you can remain silent?" she asked Brennan.

Brennan looked directly at her for the first time in twenty minutes. "Forever," he said softly.

"Christ! Why were you sitting in a car before the Crystal Palace at ten-oh-five this morning? What had been your relationship with Chrysalis? Did you kill her?"

Brennan turned away, his face utterly blank, apparently totally devoid of feeling and emotion.

Maseryk, sitting in the rear of the room, cleared his voice. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but I don't think he'll say anything."

Ellis whirled on him. "Somebody's got to say something! Some idiot let it leak that we've collared Yeoman, the bowand-arrow killer, and there's gotta be a hundred reporters yammering at the sergeant on the front desk, and about half a dozen federal agencies are sending agents over to `look into the affair,' as they put it."

"As far as I know," Brennan said softly, "there's nothing illegal in sitting in a car. There's nothing illegal in carrying a bow and arrow."

"Are you saying you're innocent? Are you saying you're not this Yeoman?"

Brennan said nothing as Ellis whirled on him. "You have no identification and your description matches that of a man wanted for desertion from the United States Army."

"Superficially," Brennan said.

"Close enough," Ellis ground out, "so that we can hold you until the feds arrive with this deserter's dossier. Which includes his fingerprints."

"As you will," Brennan said, returning his gaze to infinity. Ellis ground out her cigarette, then crumpled the empty pack. "All right," she said. She opened the door to the interrogation room and called in the patrolman who'd been standing outside. "Put him in the lockup. Maybe a few hours in a cell will loosen his tongue."

The cop nodded. "All right, tough guy, move it."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea-" Maseryk began, but Ellis nailed him with a stare, and he fell silent.

The cop led Brennan through a warren of interrogation rooms and offices, then downstairs to the general lockup. There were more than a dozen hardcases in there, waiting for bail to be arranged or other legal papers to be processed. They were a surly, tough-looking group.

The jailer grinned as he opened the door and gestured for Brennan to enter. "Got someone famous for you guys to meet. His name's been in all the papers," he said. "You've heard of Yeoman, the bow-and-arrow vigilante? Well, here he is." He chuckled again, slammed the door, and sauntered back up the corridor.

Brennan felt their hard stares and waited for the inevitable. It didn't take very long.

"Shoot," someone said from the back of the cell. "He don't look too tough to me."

"He looks like a pussy," someone else said.. "Take away his bow and arrow and he's just a pussy."

There was some low, cautious laughter. The man who spoke first pushed his way to the front of the cell where Brennan stood with his back against the bars. He was a big, tough-looking nat with tattoos crawling up and down his arms and a nose that'd been broken more than once. The second speaker was shorter than Brennan, but powerfully built. His head was bald and his face was a network of scars. They approached Brennan side by side as the others in the cell backed away.

"He is a pussy," the first said. "Here pussy, pussy, pussy. We got something for you."

Brennan watched without expression. When they came within reach, he pivoted sideways and lashed out with his right foot, catching the short one in the groin. The man went down with a gurgle and then threw up all over himself. Brennan grabbed the other by the arm and whirled him face-first against the cell's barred door.

The door shook when the thug rammed up against it. His left arm went through the bars. Brennan reached out and grabbed his hand, then yanked his arm back into the cell, wrapping it between two bars. He howled as his arm snapped. Brennan grabbed a handful of greasy hair and shoved his head forward as hard as he could. It pushed through the bars, but not without leaving a lot of skin and one ear behind.

His howling grew louder, and Brennan turned to face the rest of the cell.

"Anyone else?" he asked quietly.

There were mumbled denials, then a high, feminine voice said, "How about me?"

The mob of thugs parted like the Red Sea and there were awed, unbelieving whispers as Jennifer walked naked through the rear wall of the cell. She ran to Brennan and threw her arms around him. "Take a deep breath," she said, and they sank through the floor of the cell.

It was like nothing Brennan had ever felt before, almost like what dying might be like. They went through the floor and landed, light as feathers, on the floor of the room below the cell.

Brennan ducked out of Jennifer's arms and glanced around quickly. It was dark and quiet. They seemed to be in some kind of file-storage area.

"Let's see if we can find you some clothes somewhere," he said to Jennifer, but she didn't answer. She looked dazed and drawn, and only turned to look at him when he touched her arm. He suddenly realized what a strain it must have been ghosting him. His mass was well over anything Jennifer had ever attempted to dematerialize before. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Jennifer nodded, but even that seemed to be too much of an effort for her. She collapsed limply on the dusty floor. He bent over her. She was breathing long, shallow breaths. Her pulse was weak and thready.

She obviously needed medical attention, but Tachyon, the only doctor Brennan trusted, was in Atlanta. At any rate, he had no time to agonize over it. They had to move. They needed a place to hide and recover. They needed a sanctuary.

They were being followed.

Jay looked away from the taxi's sideview mirror. "Somebody's on us," he said.

"What?" Tachyon turned all the way around and gaped out the back rear window, staring suspiciously at the Volvo immediately behind.

Jay touched his arm. "Easy. He's good. You'll never spot him that way. Cabby." The detective fished out his wallet. "There's an extra fifty in it for you if you can lose the gray Dodge. Back about three cars."