Death Draws Five wc-17

by George R. R. Martin

  He had so many questions he wanted to ask Porter, but he couldn’t ask them now. Not in front of the Cardinal. He hated to see the revenant go, but Porter had to go back to wherever he’d come from before the situation blew up in their faces. There’d be other opportunities to get answers to his questions. Now, for the benefit of all involved, Nighthawk knew that he had to end this scene as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “Mr. Porter,” he said in polite tones, “would you come here for a moment? There’s something I’d like you to see.”

  Porter looked at him from across the room. “I’d love to, but you see—” He interrupted himself, laughing. “Of course. I have legs that work now. One forgets after doing without for so long.” He glanced down at Cameo’s limbs. “Such slender, pretty ones, too. I would have been quite the popular chap in the old days. But, no, of course, I suppose it wouldn’t have been the same.”

  He stood with a sigh, and Cameo swayed as her body broke contact with the chair. She reached out as if to steady herself against the chair’s arm, then snatched her hand away before touching it. She looked from Nighthawk to Contarini, ignoring the two who stood behind her like door guards in a medieval hall.

  “It didn’t go as you expected.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Contarini stared at her, frowning. “No. It didn’t. Not at all.”

  Nighthawk didn’t like his expression, or the inflection of his voice. It didn’t take a revelation to realize what the Cardinal was contemplating. The only question was how far the Cardinal dared to go.

  “Nighthawk.” The churchman snapped the ace’s name without looking at him, his terrifying gaze reserved solely for Cameo. “Take this... take our... visitor... out of my sight.”

  Nighthawk suddenly relaxed. Whichever way Contarini wanted to go, he, Nighthawk, would actually be in control of Cameo’s destiny. And he’d find a way to work things out.

  Nighthawk went to her side. “Come with me,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him, made a move to her handbag. Nighthawk shook his head briefly, almost imperceptibly, but she noticed. She looked at him for what seemed a long time, and then she finally nodded.

  “Take her to St. Dympna’s,” Contarini said in detached, almost uncaring tones. He gestured vaguely. “Usher and Magda will accompany you.”

  “I don’t need—” Nighthawk began, but Contarini interrupted him with a lion’s roar.

  “Don’t tell me what you need or don’t need!” he shouted. “I tell you what to do. You obey. Capice?”

  Nighthawk bowed silently. Usher moved as quietly as a jungle cat on a deep pile carpet, and before Cameo had a chance to react, he grabbed her handbag away from her. She made a single convulsive motion toward snatching it back, but Usher just shook his head and held it out of her reach.

  “Uh-uh,” he said. He looked inside, and frowned. He reached in and took out a battered old fedora that had definitely seen better days. “What’s this?” he asked, bemused. “I thought you were lugging a hand cannon around with you, and it’s just an old hat?”

  “Don’t let her touch it,” Nighthawk said warningly.

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Usher agreed.

  Cameo glared at Nighthawk, who offered her the slightest of shrugs.

  Nighthawk glanced at Contarini. The Cardinal stared with eyes wide open at nothing at all but the scene of loss and devastation playing in his head. Nighthawk could almost feel sorry for him, if he didn’t dislike the stiff-necked old bastard so much. Magda, taking her cue from her beloved leader, wore a lost-soul expression that also would have been touching if Nighthawk hadn’t known her better. She looked as if she wanted to comfort Contarini, but was stopped by the fact that human emotions were so foreign to her that she just didn’t know how to do it. Only Usher looked cool and composed, and openly wondering as he observed the by-play between Nighthawk and Cameo.

  Nighthawk could do nothing now. He could only get the girl away from Contarini as quickly as possible. And then see what he could do about St. Dympna’s.

  “Come with us,” he said quietly, and for once something went right. She nodded, and followed him without a word, Magda and Usher bracing her like prison guards on death row. Nighthawk looked back as they left the library to see Contarini still staring fix-eyed at nothing.

  Christ’s supposed Shroud was tossed carelessly over Cole Porter’s unoccupied reading chair.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Las Vegas, Nevada: The Mirage

  The blood had been the hardest thing. That, and the screaming. The Angel couldn’t decide which was worse. She also didn’t like the memory of the Witness’s lips grinding against hers, but she was a warrior for the Lord and she could deal with wounds and indignities. It was the suffering of the innocents that bothered her so.

  She’d fought for The Hand before, but never in a battle this intense. It wasn’t so much her and Ray fighting the Allumbrados. The fighting had been fine. Thrilling, even. Except when it came to the Witness. The Angel knew that she hadn’t acquitted herself well with him. But she realized she shouldn’t dwell on that. Or on the blood. Or on the screaming, especially of the innocent tourists caught in the indiscriminate firing. Of Kitty O’Leary, screeching like a maniac behind her desk. Of Peregrine and the bloody sheet wrapped around her as they took her off on a gurney. She shouldn’t dwell on all that, she knew, because it was part of the Lord’s plan. But the blood—

  “Hey.”

  The Angel’s eyes focused and she realized that Ray was standing before her.

  “You okay?”

  His once immaculate suit was torn into rags. His body didn’t look much better. His face was battered and bloody. A vivid purple welt like the scar from a noose colored an arc around his neck. A flap of skin and meat hung down from his upper chest, exposing the muscle underneath, as well as a glimmer of bone. He was still bleeding from half a dozen body wounds and he held his side as if he had broken or at least rearranged ribs.

  But he’d proved himself more competent than she thought he’d be. He’d handled himself quite well and his fighting technique had been, well, a revelation. He was faster than she was, if not stronger. And, she had to admit, much more deadly with a killer instinct that at times was frightening.

  “Yes,” she finally lied. The next sentence came out unbidden from her mouth. “Tell me something.”

  Ray brushed at his cheek, smearing a trail of clotting blood. “Sure.” He waited a moment, frowned, and then asked into the silence between them, “What is it?”

  The Angel forced herself to focus. “Do you ever get used to the blood?”

  “The blood?” She could see that he was puzzled. It was almost as if she’d asked him if he ever got used to the air he breathed, or the food he ate. “If blood bothers you, you’re in the wrong line of work, ba— uh, Angel. The people we deal with bleed all the time.” He grinned, and it was not comforting. “Better them than us, but we have to bleed too, sometimes. It’s the nature of the job.”

  She nodded. She believed his words, but she wasn’t sure that she understood them. She’d have to pray over it and seek the Lord’s guidance.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Now?” The word came out of Ray as a long sigh. “Now we wait for the paper pushers to show up and start asking stupid questions.”

  The Angel looked around the auditorium. It was quieter now than during the attack, but almost as chaotic, though the chaos had a controlled feel to it, as the men and women in EMT uniforms worked to alleviate the pain and suffering that surrounded them.

  It wasn’t long before a florid-faced man with a dark rumpled suit and short rumpled haircut that screamed “COP” approached, looking as if he’d rather have a gun than a notebook in his hand as he faced them

  “Now just who the Hell are you two?” he asked unpleasantly. “Witnesses said you two played a major part in the fight—”

  “Somebody had to protect the citizens while you were out chugging donuts,” Ray s
aid.

  “Just a minute—”

  “I’m going to reach into the back pocket of my pants,” Ray said, “and get my I.D.” He frowned. It was not a pleasant sight. “If the pocket’s still attached to my ass.” Fortunately it was, and the I.D. wallet was still in it. He took it out and showed it to the cop. “I’m Agent Billy Ray. Secret Service. This is Agent Angel.”

  “You—” the Angel started to say, but he froze her with a look.

  That doesn’t, she thought as the cop frowned at Ray’s I.D., happen very often.

  The cop looked up. It was hard to say if the realization that the Feds were on the case made him more or less truculent. “Ray. Yeah, I guess I heard of you. Well,” he said gruffly, “you’ll have to come down to the station and make a statement.”

  “Certainly, officer.” The Angel was amazed at the sudden courtesy in Ray’s manner and tone. “Do you mind if I stop bleeding first? Maybe change out of my rags? Get my broken ribs bound up?”

  The cop’s florid features grew redder. “No,” he said shortly.

  “Excellent, officer.” Ray took the Angel by her upper right arm and moved off. She went with him without a murmur. “We’ll stop by as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow morning. Whatever the doctor says.”

  The cop opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He waved them on.

  “You didn’t have to lie,” the Angel said when they were out of his hearing.

  “Lie?” Ray asked innocently.

  “I’m not a Secret Service agent.”

  “Did I say you were a Secret Service agent?” Ray shook his head. “No.”

  “You said—”

  “I said ‘Agent Angel,’” Ray quoted himself. “And didn’t you tell me yourself that you’re an agent of the Lord?”

  “I,” the Angel paused. “Maybe. I—I probably said ‘instrument of the Lord.’”

  Ray shrugged. “Agent, instrument. Let’s not get technical. Now, be quiet for a moment.”

  They’d reached the exit, which was blocked by uniformed cops. The Angel didn’t even listen to Ray’s explanation as he showed them his identification. Something about clearance levels and need-to-know and having to report back to the chief immediately as to what had happened. She was suddenly so tired that she really didn’t know how he’d managed it. The sleepless hours, the exhausting travel, the mentally and physically draining combat had finally caught up with her. Suddenly they were outside the auditorium.

  People stared at them as they went through the lobby, but the Angel for once hardly noticed, let alone cared. She could hear the buzz of conversation. They were already whispering about the “Mayhem at the Mirage,” as she and Ray went to the elevator bank. Unsurprisingly, no one else got on the elevator with them as they went up to the connecting rooms that Ray had rented earlier.

  Ray looked at her judiciously in the hallway outside their rooms as he handed her the electronic key for her half of the suite. She took it from him, and managed to insert it into the lock on the third try. She opened the door and stumbled into the room.

  “You’d better get some rest—” Ray began, and she closed the door in his face.

  She thought about taking a shower, but barely managed to peel off her torn and bloodied fighting suit and slip off her sweat-soaked underwear before collapsing onto the cool, welcoming bed.

  If she dreamed, she didn’t remember.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  New York City: Jokertown

  Fortunato ditched Digger Downs at Tomlin International as soon as they cleared customs and reached ground transport outside the terminal. He’d had enough of the man’s company on the long flights across the Pacific and over the country. He needed some time to himself, some time to think about his return to a land he’d left behind sixteen years ago along with a life he had no desire to renew.

  Before getting into the cab waiting in line at ground transport, he took a few hundred in expense money from Downs, as well as a cell phone so they could keep in touch. Fortunato marveled at the slim piece of equipment before he slipped it into the pocket of his robe. Portable phones had gotten a lot smaller since the last time he’d used one, but Fortunato was sure that they wouldn’t be the only marvel to meet his eyes.

  The cabby glanced up into the mirror as he pulled away from the curb. He had a turban and a long, thick beard, and he wore white robes. He spoke barely understandable English.

  “Where to, Mack?”

  It was, Fortunato reflected, good to back in the good old U.S.A. And that was the question. Where to?

  “Manhattan,” Fortunato said. Who in New York, he pondered, did he still have ties to?

  Peregrine. He had no idea where she lived or what her phone number was. Besides, she was still in Vegas with the boy. His mother was dead. Miranda...Veronica... the last he’d heard from her had been a telegram telling him of Ichiko’s death. He’d ignored it. He could hardly drop in on her now, even if he knew where to find her. There were others, but time had not been good to his friends, allies, and or even his foes.

  Xavier Desmond, the one-time unofficial mayor of Jokertown and one of the best clients Fortunato had when he ran his string of geishas, had been dead over fifteen years. Cancer had taken him soon after that memorable round the world trip on the Busted Flush, right after Fortunato had taken up the monastic life.

  Chrysalis, purveyor of fine drink and even better information, had followed Des into death not long after. Her Crystal Palace had burned to the ground.

  The amiable Hiram Worchester, one of the aces Fortunato had been closest to back in the day, had gone down for her murder. Though not a lot of news had reached Fortunato while he’d been isolated in the monastery, that had, and it had shocked him. He understood that Hiram had retired from public life. Even his fabulous restaurant, where Fortunato had first met the unbelievably beautiful Peregrine and had commenced his final battle with the Astronomer, was no more.

  Yeoman, whom he’d traveled with to the gut of the Swarm... there had been a bond between them born of mutual respect and shared danger. But as far as Fortunato knew there hadn’t been an Ace of Spades killing for a long time. He had no idea what had happened to his one-time comrade. They hadn’t exactly been swapping Christmas cards the last decade and a half.

  Even Tachyon, the whiny little space wimp, was gone. He’d run back to Takis when the going had gotten tough. First he’d come to the monastery begging for help. Then he’d gone back to his own planet, trapped in a woman’s body, like... like a man running to a monastery on a distant and remote island, cutting himself off entirely from his old life. Cutting himself off from family, friends, lovers, comrades, and enemies. Cutting himself off from everything.

  Christ, Fortunato thought, is that what it’s come down to? Unflattering self-comparison to that little alien Fauntleroy?

  Fortunato stared out of the taxi window, knowing that he had to get out of the awful, self-pitying, introspective mood into which he’d fallen. It wasn’t doing him, nor anyone else, any good. He had—

  “Stop,” he said suddenly, and the cabby took him for his word. He yanked the taxi’s wheel hard right and they squealed to a halt against the curb. The cabby thrust his head out the window and screamed words at the driver of the car behind them, who had swerved and barely missed side-swiping the cab, and was now going down the street with his hand sticking out the driver-side window, middle finger extended.

  “Amateur!” the cabby screamed as his final insult. He caught Fortunato’s eye in the rear view window. “Your destination, Mack?”

  Fortunato nodded. Even if this wasn’t his destination, he realized he’d better get the Hell out of that cab if he wanted to live through the first day of his return to New York.

  “Yes, this’ll do.” He got out of the cab and nearly did a double take when he saw the fare. He counted off a couple of bills and added a ten. “Here you go.”

  The cabby didn’t seem overly excited by a ten-dollar tip. Times had cha
nged.

  “Thanks, Mack,” he said, and roared off to his next adventure, almost clipping a passing Caddie as he pulled away from the curb.

  Fortunato looked around. He should have been surprised to find himself in the heart of Jokertown, but he wasn’t. It was almost as if he’d been magically drawn to there. As if he were a pigeon who’d returned, almost unconsciously, to home territory. He smiled to himself. Jokertown hadn’t changed much. It was just as dirty as it had been in his day. Just as crowded. Just as damned funky.

  He put out a hand to touch the curb-side glass and plastic phone booth that was plastered with handbills advertising the next rave at the Freak Zone (The Hottest New Joker Hang! Nats With Masks Welcome!). Pedestrians with too many or too few limbs, with fur, with feathers, with skin like leather, with skin like silk, with extra mouths, noses, ears, or eyes, passed him by without a glance. To the jokers he was nothing, just a tall, skinny black guy. Maybe a nat, maybe a hidden joker. Maybe strung out, maybe grossed out. It was all the same to them. They had their own problems.

  He used to be Fortunato. Tachyon had once called him the most powerful ace of all. Once, they all would have known who he was.

  He didn’t know where it came from, but sudden anger churned his gut as if he’d ingested a five-star curry. He knew it wouldn’t go away, so instead he focused on it to the exclusion of all else, building a pyre that burned hotter and hotter until he could incinerate all the frustrations of the last day.

  The last day? he asked himself. How about the last sixteen years?

  “Hey, old man, what you doing?”

  The voice was young, careless, and uncaring. It tore Fortunato from his standing meditation to the dirty, noisy present of the Jokertown street. He focused his eyes on a group of kids standing around him. There were half a dozen of them. They weren’t threatening, but Fortunato had the sense that they could be, in a heartbeat. All the pedestrians around them had suddenly faded from the scene. Their innate urban dweller senses perceived imminent danger and they either crossed the street or turned and retraced their steps when they saw the knot of juveniles surrounding the lone man.