"Nothing but my goddamned instincts," Jay said bitterly. "Did they build her the trap she wanted?"

"They told her there was no such thing," Jube replied. "Pity," Jay said. "Pity."

The Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery was nearly empty. A few scattered penitents were kneeling on the scarred wooden pews, head-or heads-bowed in silent prayer to the god who was more real to them than the clean-featured Jesus of the old Bible. The hunchback called Quasiman was puttering about the altar, humming to himself as he dusted the tabernacle. Dressed in a sharply pressed lumberjack shirt and clean jeans, he moved in a stiff, jerky manner, dragging his left leg behind him. The wild card virus had twisted his body, but had also given him extraordinary physical strength and the ability to teleport. He put the tabernacle down and watched Brennan as he approached the altar.

"Hello," Brennan said. "I'm here to see Father Squid."

"Hello." Quasiman's eyes were dark and soulful, his voice soft and deep. "He's in the chancellery"

"Thanks-" Brennan began to say, but stopped when he realized that Quasiman was staring at him with unfocused eyes. The joker's jaw was slack and a line of spittle drooled down his chin. It was obvious that his mind was wandering. Brennan simply nodded to him and went through the door at which he still pointed.

Father Squid was sitting behind his battered wooden desk, reading a book. He looked up and smiled when Brennan knocked on the open door. Or at least he looked as though he smiled.

Father Squid was an immense, squat man in a plain cassock that covered his massive torso like a tent. His skin was gray, thick, and hairless. His eyes were large and bright, and gleamed wetly behind their nictitating membranes. His mouth was masked by a fall of short tentacles that dangled like a constantly twitching mustache. His hands, closing the book and setting it on the desk before him, were large, with long, slim, attenuated fingers. Rows of circular pads-vestigial suckers-lined his palm. He smelled faintly, not unpleasantly, of the sea.

"Come in, sit down." He regarded Brennan with the benign affection with which he usually faced the world. "Here I am reading the words of an old friend"-he gestured at the book, A Year in One Man's Life: The Journal of Xavier Desnwnd-"and another old friend appears. Though"-he wiggled his long fingers in reproach-"it would have been nice if you had dropped by to see me before you vanished. I was somewhat worried about you."

Brennan smiled with little humor. "Sorry, Father. I told Tachyon my plans, trusting he'd pass the word to those who cared. I hadn't figured on ever returning to the city, but recent events have made me change my mind."

Father Squid looked troubled. "I can guess. The death of Chrysalis. I knew that you two were… close… at one time."

"The police say I killed her."

"Yes, I'd heard."

"And not believed?"

Father Squid shook his head. "No, my son. You would never have killed Chrysalis. While I can't say that I approve of some of the things you've done, only he who is without sin should cast the first stone, and I'm afraid that the antics of a far from unblemished youth have left me unable to claim spiritual purity." Father Squid sighed. "Chrysalis, poor girl, was a sad soul searching for salvation. I hope that now she has at least found peace."

"I hope so, too," Brennan said. "And I'll find her killer."

"The police-" Father Squid began.

"Think I did it."

The priest shrugged massive shoulders. "Perhaps. Perhaps for now they are grasping at straws, but will eventually set their feet upon the proper path. I'll not deny you my help if you are determined to proceed on your own. If, that is, I know anything of value." He rubbed the spot where his nasal tentacles gathered. "Although I cannot conceive what I would know that would be useful in tracking her killer."

"Maybe you can help me find someone who does know something."

"Who?"

"Sascha. He does belong to your church, doesn't he?"

"Sascha Starfin is a faithful churchgoer," the priest said, "though, upon thinking about it, it has been quite a while since he's partaken of Communion."

"He's disappeared," Brennan said, more concerned with tracking down Sascha's body than with the state of his soul. "You know that he lived at the Palace. I think he's gone into hiding because he witnessed the murder."

Father Squid nodded. "That may be. Have you tried his mother's apartment?"

"No," Brennan said. "Where is it?"

"The Russian section of Brighton Beach," Father Squid said, giving specifics.

"Thanks. You've been a big help." Brennan rose to leave, then hesitated and turned back to the priest. "One last thing. Do you know where Quasiman was early this morning?"

Father Squid looked solemnly at Brennan. "Surely you don't suspect him? He has the gentlest of souls."

"And very strong hands."

Father Squid nodded. "That is true. But you can take his name off your list of suspects. As you may know, it has become something of a nat fad to acquire joker remains-bodies, skeletons, what have you-as conversation pieces. Quasiman was guarding our cemetery last night. At least I hope he was. He forgets things, you know"

"I've heard. Was he there all night?"

"All night."

"Alone?"

Father Squid hesitated a beat. "Well, yes." Brennan nodded. "Thanks again."

Father Squid raised his hand in benediction. "God go with you. I shall say a prayer for you. And," he added quietly as Brennan left, "for Chrysalis's murderer. With you on his trail, he shall certainly need someone to pray for the repose of his soul."

A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalks outside the Crystal Palace, and four police cruisers were parked out in front, a fifth by the alley in back.

As Jay climbed out of the cab, he recognized Maseryk standing beside one of the cop cars, talking on the police radio. The building was sealed off. The steps up to the main entrance had been blocked with sawhorses, and a yellow crime-scene banner was draped across the door. There were lights in the third-floor windows. He figured they were giving her private rooms a real good hard look. A couple of uniforms prowled through the rubble-strewn lot next door, shining flashlights into holes, looking for God knows what.

The gawkers watched everything with interest, muttering to each other all the while. It was the usual Jokertown street crowd, mostly jokers, with a slumming nat or two standing nervously on the fringe. Hookers cruised the sidewalk across the street, soliciting right under the noses of the cops. Off to one side, four Werewolves in gang colors and Mae West masks were having a fine old time cracking wise to each other. A few Crystal Palace regulars stood looking on.

Maseryk hung up the phone. Jay walked over. "So," he said, "the murderer return to the scene of the crime yet?"

"You're here," Maseryk pointed out.

"Droll," Jay said. "Find any prints?"

"Plenty. So far we've got yours, hers, Elmo's, Sascha's, Lupo's, you name it. What we're not finding are the files."

"Ah," said Jay noncommittally.

"There's such a thing as knowing too much for your own good. Kant thinks our motive is somewhere in those secret files."

"Real good," Jay said, watching a very nice rear end in a tight leather miniskirt sway past. "For a lizard." He was turning back to Maseryk when he noticed a hooded shape standing in the mouth of an alley half a block away.

"I'll tell him you said that," Maseryk said, with the barest hint of a smile.

"The thing of it is," Jay said, "if Kant finds that cache of information, he may get more than he bargained for. Motives are like fingerprints, too many are as bad as none at all." He glanced back toward the alley. The hooded man stood in shadow, watching the Palace. His head turned, and Jay caught a brief flash of metal as the light reflected off the steel-mesh fencing mask beneath the hood.