Cards in the Cloak

by Jeremy Bursey

  ***

  In early 1940, Norman had given up on the random search through the miles upon miles of the Argonne Forest and decided to approach the problem from a different angle. In the bitter, snow-drenched cold of January, he marched along the streets of Washington, D.C. from his hotel to the National Mall, passing one monument after another, to reach the one place on Earth that he knew could cut his research down to a bare minimum. He headed, with the gusto of an ex-military man, straight for the U.S. Department of War.

  It was a long-shot, of course. He assumed the department would have records of every fallen soldier accounted for in that awful war that he had spent an hour of his life fighting. But he had no guarantees. He hadn’t actually visited the War Department before. He wasn’t even sure if he could get in, especially now that he was a civilian. But he came to the nation’s capital to try. He needed as much information on Maxie McWalter as he could find.

  He was barely in his forties, but he was starting to feel the wear and tear of age on his joints. With every brisk stride he took, he heard a pop coming out of his knees. With every swing of his arms, he could feel the blood rushing to his wrists. With every quick step, he felt his lungs struggling a little harder to keep up. He tried not to let the signs of his fading youth deter his progress, but he could not deny his slower reaction time to people on the street bumping into him, or veering away from walking into a lamppost as he’d correct his path from hitting a passerby. The freezing temperatures did not help his case, either.

  Eventually it came time to cross the street. And as soon as he glanced to his left, he realized that he had made a big mistake. A cab was coming right for him. And the familiar man in the dark cloak that he had seen twice before in his life was belly-surfing on its roof, his bony hands stretching out to intercept him.

  The wheels on the cab began to screech, but the slippery conditions on the road kept it from stopping. Norman, who had struggled to get his legs moving to a run, was much too slow to escape impact. The cab was coming, and it was going to slam through him.

  That was, until Norman felt something hard knocking him against the shoulders. Before he could blink, or even process the horrible crunching he had heard coming from behind him a second later, he found himself skidding stomach first across the icy road into the snowbank along the curb, and a series of pedestrians hopping over him to rush into the street. When he rolled over to see what had happened, he found a group of strangers racing for the body of a businessman who was halfway under the cab’s front bumper.

  The crowd gasped in horror, but none of them seemed to notice the cloaked cab surfer sliding off the hood and standing over the body. But Norman did. He stared right at the phantom and growled.

  The phantom, unwilling to move away from the body, twirled his fingers around in a perfect circular motion. Norman took that as the universal sign for “turn around.” He rolled over to stare at the buildings in the opposite direction. When he rolled back a few seconds later, he saw that the cloaked figure was gone.

  Norman felt an emptiness wash over him. This was the third time he had escaped death in the last twenty-two years, and each time seemed luckier than the last. He wasn’t sure how many more lucky breaks he’d catch if this man in a dark cloak continued to stalk him.

  He pulled himself out of the snow and got to his feet. But, before he could take a step toward the crowd and examine his protector’s body for himself, and perhaps whisper his thanks in spite of knowing the guy would never hear it, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

  “My God,” said a woman behind him. “Are you all right?”

  Norman’s chest and stomach were on fire. The road may have been icy, but it was still like sliding on gravel.

  “No,” he said.

  “Can I do anything to help? Take you to a hospital? Take you to a psychologist?”

  Norman shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t believe that happened. My God.”

  Norman felt his forehead, but he couldn’t find any blood.

  “Am I injured?” he asked. “I can’t tell.”

  The woman felt around his skull. Then she pressed against both sides of his chest. Then she felt the side of his neck. None of her actions triggered any signs of bruising or general discomfort.

  “Any of that hurt?”

  “A little.”

  Norman suddenly realized he was staring into her eyes. She had these intense green eyes that glowed in the overcast sun. They outshone most everything on this block.

  “You sure I can’t take you to the hospital?” she asked.

  “I could actually use a coffee first.”

  She thought about that. Seemed a bit confused by the suggestion. Surely he needed a doctor. But then her eyes registered another thought, as if maybe getting out of the cold was the smarter move. She took his hand.

  “Good idea. Get you out of this cold. It can’t be healthy for you.”

  She started leading him down the walk toward the businesses to the south.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Nancy,” she said. “Nancy Sawyer.”

  “Norman. Norman Jensen.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Thank God you’re still alive, Norman Jensen.”