"I can't answer that," Hannah said, but she could. No, it wouldn't be me. It'd be Myricks, or probably Malcolm himself. Not me.
"I know you can't," Father Squid was saying. "And it's not really fair of me to ask. I'm sure you'll do whatever you can. Behind your professional mask, you have a kind face."
"Father -"
"I know, that sounds trite. But it's true. Forgive me for my meanness and pettiness, but I think they chose you because they think a young, attractive, and relatively inexperienced woman will fail and they don't think that matters. I think it's because a fire in Jokertown isn't deemed to be worth the effort of the best people in your department, because they really don't care if a murderer of jokers is ever found as long as they can show that they made some effort. I also think that they made the wrong choice if that was their thought. So ... where do I start, Ms. Davis? What can I tell you?"
Hannah wanted to respond angrily, but she had found herself nodding inside to each of his arguments. She retreated into routine. "Had you received any threats recently? Do you know of anyone with a grudge against you or your church?"
"My child," he said softly, sounding for all the world like Bing Crosby in The Bells of Saint Mary's, "I receive threats regularly, at least once or twice a month, and the list of those who might conceivably have reason to be annoyed with me is impossibly long. You don't have the manpower to check out each and every one of them. Besides, I'm a recognizable and easy target. I'm out in public every day. I never lock the doors to the church or to my house. If someone wanted to kill me, there were a thousand easier ways to do it. Ways that needn't ... that needn't have killed -"
Father Squid's voice broke. Tears welled in his eyes, and he brought up a hand to wipe them away. "My dear God," he husked out, his voice quavering. "All those poor, poor people ..." He gave a great, gasping sob that pulled Hannah from her seat. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but she held back. She told herself it was only because she was being professional, not because she didn't want to touch a joker. After a few moments, Father Squid brought his hands up and knuckled his eyes with an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry ... All last night and this morning ... every so often I would remember and find myself crying. Each time I think I've finally cried myself dry I find that there's still more grief underneath, layers and layers of it." Father Squid looked at her with stricken eyes. "Ms. Davis, what kind of monster would do a thing like this? Those innocents ..." The tears began again; this time he let them fall unashamedly down his face and into the tentacles.
"Father, you said that you 'remember.' What do you remember?"
"It ... it all happened so fast. It was Black Queen Night, after all, and so the church was full. ..."
"Black Queen Night?"
Father Squid smiled at that, briefly. "You are a newcomer, aren't you? September 15th is Wild Card Day, ever since that day in '46 when Jetboy failed us and let the alien virus loose. The world remembers on that day, but the 15th is the day for the nats and the aces - the ones the virus left untouched or the ones it made into something more than human. In a way, the 15th is a day of celebration. But the 16th, though ... the 16th is for Jokertown. The 16th is for sadness. The 16th is when we remember the 90% of those who are forced to draw from the wild card deck get the Black Queen - the killer. And we remember that in some ways they're the lucky ones, because almost all of the rest of us get the Joker, the bitter card. We became freaks."
Father Squid spat out the last few sentences. His gaze had gone distant. "When did you become aware of the fire?" Hannah asked, and that brought Father Squid's glance around to her again.
"I noticed a haze about the time I was saying the benediction. I remember thinking that I should have turned on the ceiling fans. Mighty Wurlizter ..." Father Squid stopped again. Muscles knotted in his jaw. He swallowed hard. "... began playing and people started singing. There was a lot of coughing - I noticed that, too. I found myself clearing my throat. And then ... I saw a flame ... at the side door ..."
The voice broke again. Hannah said nothing, letting Father Squid compose himself before proceeding. "Then it was just chaos," he said finally.
"You didn't see anyone, didn't hear anything from the basement, didn't smell anything?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Father Squid smiled apologetically. "I remember thinking that this was just like the movie. You know - Jokertown, with Jack Nicholson and Marilyn Monroe?"
"What do you mean, like the movie?"
"You've never seen it?"
"A long time ago. I remember something about a plot against the jokers, some rich guy ..." Hannah shrugged.
"They wanted to burn down Jokertown. They wanted to burn everything, all of us."
The slow voice came from Hannah's left, in the corner of the room. Hannah jumped, startled - she hadn't heard anyone enter and she couldn't imagine how anyone could have slipped behind her from the doorway.
Someone had. She recognized the humpbacked figure. "Quasiman," she said aloud, identifying him for the tape recorder. The joker glanced at her.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Do I know you?"
"Don't you remember? You talked to me yesterday. Your ... your right arm was missing then."
"It was?" Quasiman shrugged as if he'd forgotten the entire incident, then went to Father Squid's side, looking down at the priest with an infinite tenderness on his strange, slack-muscled face. "How are you, Father?" he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "I'm sorry. I saw, but I didn't know ... I couldn't get them all out. Only a few ..."
Father Squid had reached up with his hand. He clasped the hunchback's shoulder. "You did more than anyone else could have. I owe you my life." Quasiman nodded, then he stiffened alongside the bed, looking off into distances only he could see.
"What's the matter with him?" Hannah asked. She hated looking at Quasiman even more than Father Squid. Something about him made her shudder in revulsion.
Father Squid shook his head. "Parts of him just go away at times. Sometimes parts of his body will just vanish. Other times it's his mind or his memories - often he doesn't remember me or what happened yesterday or where he is. Sometimes - like now - he just shuts down entirely."
"How long does it last?"
"A few seconds. Minutes. There's no way to tell."
Hannah started to ask another question, but Quasiman's eyes came back into focus then, and he was staring at her. "I remember you now," he said. "I needed to tell you - Father Squid is right. The fire was like the movie. You need to look into that. You ought to watch it."
"Why? How's a movie going to help me?"
"It was real," Quasiman insisted, and Father Squid's soft voice followed.
"Some of the events in the movie were based on facts," the priest said. "The script was written with the actual story in mind. There was a conspiracy, if not exactly one in the movie, back in the late '50s. '59, I think."
"Yes," Quasiman said. He was gripping the railing of the bed, and Hannah, fascinated, watched the metal bars bending under the pressure of the joker's fingers. Whatever Quasiman's other problems, he was incredibly strong. "There's a lot we need to know. Start with the movie," he said. "You have to."
"I don't think so," she told him. "I'm sorry, but we're not going to catch our torch by looking up a thirty-plus year old plot. I have a lot of leads to follow, good ones -"