Spector bit his fingernails. He hated trusting anyone. "Okay. Now tell me what I have to do for you. There is something, right?"

"Just refill my glass. Brandy. The bartender will know what kind." He pulled off the mask and tossed it onto the table. Spector turned away. The man's face was identical to the mask. His skin was yellow and tightly drawn over the prominent facial bones. He had no nose. The joker stared at him with sunken bloodshot eyes. "Well…"

He quickly put on his disguise, then picked up the glass. "Back in a minute." He opened the drapes and stepped out. The men were sitting about twenty feet away. They stared at him as he walked to the bar. He was sweating again.

"Refill," he said, after getting the bartender's attention. The man did as he was told. Spector walked slowly back toward the booth. Only one of the men was looking at him, but he was looking hard.

"Here you go," he said, delivering the drink. "And here I go."

"You might want to keep the outfit," said the skull-faced man, "I think you're going to need it." He pulled the curtains closed.

Spector walked with measured slowness to the door. Both men were still seated.

As soon as he stepped outside, Spector ran. He sprinted down the icy sidewalks, a caped vision of death, until his breath was gone. Slipping into an alley he took off the cape and mask and tucked them under his coat, then headed home.

He had gone to bed drunk for the third time in as many nights. It eased the pain enough for him to sleep. He was not sure if he really needed sleep anymore, but he had gotten used to it in the years before his death.

There was a clicking noise. Spector opened his eyes and took a deep breath, dimly aware that something was happening. The door opened slightly, revealing a crack of light from the outside. Spector rubbed his eyes and sat up. As he fumbled for his clothes the door stopped short, held by the chain. He backed toward the windows while pulling on his pants.

As he shrugged into his coat, he heard something hit the floor. The door closed. Spector smelled smoke and rotting citrus. His eyes began to water and he wobbled on unsteady legs. He had to move or the gas would knock him out. He opened the window and kicked out the screen, but caught a foot on the windowledge and fell onto the fire escape. He landed off-balance and smashed his head against the snowcovered steel railing. The pain and cold air cleared his head momentarily. There was a man above him on the fire escape, hurrying downward, and he heard another one banging up the stairs from below. They would both be on him in a moment. Spector struggled to stand. The man below had turned to climb the last flight. Spector leapt at him, catching the man offguard, driving him toward the railing. Spector heard the man's spine snap on impact. He gathered himself and ran down the stairs, leaving the man screaming on the landing.

From two stories above the street he leapt. His feet skidded on the icy pavement as he landed, and his body crumpled beneath him. He fought for breath and managed to roll over. A woman wearing mirrored sunglasses was bending toward him. She was holding a hypodermic. He recognized her just as he felt the needle sink into his flesh.

Spector came to in a hallway, his hands and feet securely bound with nylon cord. The woman who had drugged him supervised as two men wearing heavy coats and mirrorshades carried him into a dark room. As long as they were wearing the protective glasses, he could not lock eyes with them. Spector was dumped in a hard wooden armchair. The room had an old smell, like an attic or long deserted house. "Ah, Nurse Gresham, I see you're back with our troublemaker." The voice was that of an older man; his tone was firm and cold.

"He was a handful, though. Somebody else got killed." The man clucked his tongue. "Then, he's as dangerous as you said. Let's have a good look at him, shall we?" Spector heard stone creaking as the ceiling above him opened. The moon and stars shone brightly through the skylight. He had lived in the New York City area his entire life. Smog and city lights made it hard to see the stars at all, yet here they shone hard enough to hurt his eyes. His interrogators remained outside the lighted area.

"Well, Mr. Spector, what do you have to say for yourself?" Silence. "Speak up. Bad things happen to people who waste my time."

Spector was scared. He knew that Jane Gresham worked for Dr. Tachyon at the Jokertown clinic, but the man questioning him was definitely not Tachyon. "As far as I can tell," he said, "you people came after me for no reason at all. I'm sorry that guy got killed, but it wasn't my fault."

"That's not what we're talking about, Mr. Spector. Three nights ago you murdered one of our people for no reason. He was merely trying to satisfy your need for some drugs."

"Look, you've got everything wrong." Spector figured he must have stumbled into a big-time dope operation. Nurse Gresham could be stealing all kinds of drugs at Tachyon's clinic. "The deal went down fine. Somebody else must have done it."

There was a hum, and an old man moved forward into the light. He was seated in an electric wheelchair. His head was abnormally large and sparsely covered with white hair. His thin body was twisted, as if forces inside it were trying to move in different directions. His skin was pale, but healthy, and he wore thick glasses.

"Do you remember this?" The old man held up a coin. Spector recognized it instantly. It was an old penny that he had taken from Mike's body. Since it was the size of a half-dollar and dated 1794 he had saved it, thinking it might be worth something.

"No," he said, stalling for time.

"Really? Look at it carefully." The penny shone blood-red in the moonlight.

Spector had heard enough to know he was in deep trouble. Gresham and the old man were going to kill him. If he was going to stop them, now was the time. "Nobody move, or I'll kill this old guy the same as I offed your pusher friend." They laughed. "Look at me, Mr. Spector." The old man leaned forward. "Use your power on me."

Spector locked eyes with him and tried to share his death. He could feel it wasn't working, for whatever reason. The old man seemed to be blocking him off somehow. He slumped beaten into his chair.

"Sorry to disappoint you. You're not the only one to have extraordinary powers. Untie him, Nurse Gresham."

The woman reluctantly did as she was told. "Be careful of him," she warned the old man. "He could still be dangerous." Spector did not feel dangerous. Whatever he had gotten himself into, it was certainly no run-of-the-mill drug operation. "How do you know about me? What do you want?"

"Nurse Gresham kept a very complete file on you at the clinic." The old man opened a notebook and began reading. "James Spector, a failed CPA from Teaneck, New Jersey, infected by the wild card virus nine months ago. You were clinically dead upon arrival at the Jokertown clinic. Since you had no living family members to object, Dr. Tachyon revived you with a now-abandoned experimental process. You spent six months in ICU screaming uncontrollably. Finally, with the help of medications you were brought back to sanity. You disappeared approximately three months ago. Coincidentally, an orderly died mysteriously the same day. It's all here. Very complete."

"Bitch." Spector tried to locate the nurse in the darkness. "Now, now," said the old man. "If I let you live, Mr. Spector, you may get to like her."

"You'd let me live?" He realized it was the wrong way to put it. "I mean-"

"Realistically," the old man interrupted, "you have a great talent. Aces are rare, you don't just flush them down the toilet. You could be quite useful to our cause."

"What cause?"

The old man smiled. "You'll find out if we accept you into our.. . society. But before we even consider that, you'll have to prove your value. We have a little job for you, but with your abilities and the information we'll give you, it shouldn't be too hard."