Wild Cards 13 : Card Sharks Read Free Page B

fire communicated from below. Door barred with a steel rod - looks like one of those used in concrete work. The sacristy window is broken out from inside - that's how the priest made it out." Her head was pounding. With a sigh, she released the record button.
    Stretching, she leaned her head back, glancing up at the steeple. She thought for a moment that she saw someone up there, a figure staring down at her from one of the gargoyle-crowded ledges. She blinked and shaded her eyes against the sky-glare, but saw nothing. Just tired. You've had about three hours sleep in the last thirty-six hours.
    "You ..."
    Hannah whirled around with the word. A man, a thing was standing behind her. He was humpbacked, deformed, a lump of twisted limbs. "Jesus -" she half-shouted involuntarily, then took a deep breath. "Listen, you aren't allowed here. This is a crime scene."
    The creature took a limping step toward her. Hannah retreated. Back home, people touched by the wild card virus were almost unknown; in the few months she'd been in New York, she'd never had close contact with any of the jokers, the people altered by the virus. She found that she didn't like the experience much at all. A fear that this joker might infect her made Hannah shiver; she'd read the news stories about how one of them ran around New York unknowingly passing the virus several years ago. Almost worse, it was hard not to stare at the joker and that made her embarrassed, and she found herself covering the embarrassment with anger.
    He took another step. Again, she gave ground, wondering whether she should call for Harris.
    "Listen," she said. "I've already warned you."
    "You ..." the apparition repeated again. His mouth twitched, and he seemed to look far away before his gaze focused on her. As Hannah watched, his right arm disappeared from hand to elbow, as if it had been wiped from existence by some cosmic eraser. There was no gush of blood; the arm just popped out of existence. The joker stared at the spot where it had been as if he were as surprised as Hannah. A few seconds later, the arm reappeared. The joker prodded it with a curious forefinger, as if to make sure it was really there, then turned back to Hannah.
    "I'm sorry," he said, "but I belong here. I work here, and ... I keep seeing you," he said. "Sometimes I remember, sometimes I don't. Right now I do, and I know that you will ... find out who did this." The joker's speech was ponderous, yet it wasn't as if he was slow or retarded. Rather, it seemed that he was receiving too much input, as if there was so much happening inside his head that it was difficult for him to maintain his train of thought. He seemed to be straining to remain coherent. When he did speak, the words were well-articulated, but he frowned. He seemed to be listening to interior voices, scowling as he tried to keep his mind on what he was saying.
    "You work here?" Hannah noticed now the telltale dark stains on his hands and the ash smeared into his clothing. A long fresh cut adorned his right cheek, the blood dried to a brown scab. Hannah remembered the reports of the first firefighters on the scene. "You're the one who pulled the priest out, aren't you? The one called Quasiman."
    The being nodded, almost shyly, and gave her a fleeting, apologetic smile. "I did?" he answered, as if surprised. "Maybe .. I think I might remember ..."
    "You were lucky."
    "No joker's exactly ... lucky." Again, that shy, quiet smile. There was an openness to the man, an odd friendliness belied by his deformed appearance and the strength evident in the knotted muscles of those arms and legs. Hannah waited for him to say something more, but for several seconds, Quasiman simply stared up at the steeple, as if he were standing there alone.
    "Hey!" Hannah said. The ugly creature looked at her and blinked as if he were seeing her for the first time. "I need to talk with you about the fire. Something you saw, something you heard, may give us a lead on who did