Van Renssaeler had an interesting history, Hannah discovered, almost as interesting as his father's. In the late sixties and early seventies, a rising young lawyer in a powerful firm, he'd also performed gratis work for the UN and WHO. Now established and well-respected, blessed with his family's wealth, with looks and with a brilliant legal mind, Brandon moved in high circles. Among his friends and companions were senators and representatives, corporate executives, and presidential advisors. He separated from his first wife in the late sixties, though they never officially divorced. He and his current paramour attended all the right functions and appeared regularly in the Society pages of the Times. They looked to be very happy.
Brandon van Renssaeler's marriage had not been so pleasant.
And it seemed his ex-wife lived in Jokertown.
"It's hot, Hannah," Quasiman said.
"Like Saigon, huh?"
"Have I been there?"
Hannah sighed. "Yes." The side parlor of the brownstone was at least 90° inside, though the foyer had been cool enough. The person who escorted them in — an older man who looked perfectly normal — had begun sweating. "She needs the heat," he said and smiled. "You'll see. She's waiting for you in the rear room."
The man left them. The heat was quickly transforming Hannah's bangs into matted, dripping ringlets. Hannah had Worn a coat against the early October chill; she took it off and loosened the first button on her blouse with her good hand. It didn't do much good; under the sling that held her left arm, her blouse was already soaked. Her pantyhose were sticking to her uncomfortably. "Let's go in," she said to Quasiman. He didn't answer. His legs were missing below the knee. Hannah touched his arm softly, squeezing. "Wait for me," she told him, even though she knew he couldn't hear, then called out loudly "Hello? Mrs. van Renssaeler?"
"Come on in, my dear. Don't be shy." The voice sounded like that of a mature woman — a soft, pleasant alto.
Hannah followed the sound of the voice into the back room.
The room was dominated by a thick oaken branch, as if a tree had jabbed one of its lower limbs into the house from outside. The only other furniture in the room was a small couch with a coffee table on which sat a plate with pastries and a sterling tea service with a cup and saucer set alongside it. The couch was obviously a concession for visitors. Hannah knew that the woman in the room could never use it.
The joker's bald head and upper body was that of a human melded with a cobra. The skin was covered with bright, multi-colored scales, and the folds of a fleshy hood hung on either side of her neck. The arms were human enough in appearance, but scaled like the rest of the body. Even the naked breasts were scaled, the nipples still faintly present as patches of darker color. Below the breasts, she was entirely serpent; the long, thick body coiled around the oaken branch. Hannah estimated that, stretched out, the woman might be fifteen feet long or more.
The head bobbed, swaying back and forth. The eyes were round like a human's and lidded, but with the vertical golden irises of a snake; from her scaled woman's lips, a long forked tongue darted quickly out and back. The hood swelled briefly, then subsided. "Aah," she said. "There you are. My goodness, what happened? Your poor arm, and the scratches on your lovely face."
"I'm much better than I was a few days ago," Hannah answered.
"I'm happy to hear that. Father Squid told me that you'd been injured helping find the awful person who burned down the church. Come in. Please, don't let my appearance alarm you, my dear girl, and call me Lamia — Mrs. van Renssaeler is too long and tiresome, and not really true anymore, after all. Sit down, sit down. The scones are cranberry; I had them delivered from the corner bakery this morning and they've assured me that they're absolutely delicious. Normally, I would go myself and pick them out, but I'm afraid that I become rather torpid in the cold. I'd fall asleep halfway there. Ahh, well … I'll be most upset if you don't try one. The tea's Earl Grey — do you use cream? Some of us Americans don't, I know, but there's cream next to the service."
The woman smiled, and the tongue slithered in and out again. "Thank you," Hannah said. "This is, ummm, just fine." Under Lamia's intent gaze, Hannah one-handedly poured tea into the cup and took a scone. She took a polite bite and set it down on the linen napkin folded on the table. "Your baker was right," Hannah said. "They're delicious."
Lamia seemed pleased. Her smile went wider as Hannah took a sip of the tea. "Now then, what can I help you with? Father Squid asked that I tell you anything I know, but you were rather vague over the phone. I understand this has something to do with Brandon?"
Hannah set the cup down; the china rang delicately. Expensively. "I'm not entirely sure, Mrs — … Lamia. Maybe. Does the name Card Sharks mean anything to you?"
It did. Hannah could see it in the way the woman's head drew back, the sudden brilliant color that washed through the scales of her chest, and the spreading of the cobra-like hood. Hannah pressed the advantage. "It's possible that an organization by that name was responsible for the fire. They may also be responsible for many more acts of violence against wild card victims." Lamia had regained control of her body. The color faded, the hood collapsed around her neck. "The name van Renssaeler has come up several times in the stories I've heard," Hannah continued. "And I wondered — "
The end of Larnia's tail lashed. "- whether Brandon was part of it. I suppose his dislike of jokers is fairly well documented. May I ask you something? Will you be discreet if I tell you what I know? If they knew I were telling what I know, I'm afraid that they'd do something. I'm not so worried for myself, you understand, as for my daughter. They might harm her to harm me, and I couldn't bear that. I'd rather take this secret to my grave, as terrible a burden as it has been to me these twenty-five years."
"I don't know what I can do with anything you tell me yet," Hannah said. "But if you don't tell, these Card Sharks will continue to do what they've been doing. They'll kill and hurt and destroy, if not your daughter, then someone else's." Hannah shifted on the couch, and the healing wound pulled. She grimaced.
"Oh, look at you," Lamia said. "And listen to me. You've already put yourself in danger, haven't you? And you didn't need to. You look beautiful and normal; you're safe from them. Clara's safe enough, too; she's been safe since I left when she was five. I …" The tongue darted: in and out. The scales glittered as she rearranged her long body on the branch. "I've been using Clara as an excuse for a long time. This is rather like lancing a boil, isn't it? The infection can't heal while it's buried beneath the surface. Everything has to be exposed to light and air to clean away the toxins. My God, the lives that were lost in poor Father Squid's church — I weep for those poor souls! If only I'd spoken sooner…."
Her voice was so pained that Hannah leaned forward and shook her head. "No. You couldn't have known about that. Even if you had, who would you have told that would have believed you?"
Lamia smiled at her sadly. "You're so kind, my dear. And you're right; I mustn't blame myself. This guilt I've carried, it's like a rock in my gullet or a meal that won't digest."
"Guilt because you didn't tell anyone about the Card Sharks?"
Lamia's head moved slowly back and forth. "No. Not that. You don't have any children, do you? When you do, you'll understand. There are joys to children that only a parent — a mother — can know. You love them sometimes more than you love yourself. And because of that, there are pains…."
Lamia's body wriggled, the muscles rippling in a wave down the length of her body as she moved closer to Hannah. The joker sighed, the hiss of a serpent. "Let's get on with this, then…."