Wild Cards: Death Draws Five

by John J. Miller; George R. R. Martin

  The gas station, pumps, and even the parking lot was covered by a powdery gray dust that clung to everything like iron filings to a magnet. The Angel swiped her fingers across the gas pump, and they came away greasy with a fine-particled ash that was invisible in the air, but so pervasive that it had settled seemingly everywhere. She could imagine what the locals’ lungs looked like, and decided that the sooner they left this area, the better.

  She put the nozzle into the van’s gas tank, and started pumping as John Fortune came out of the bathroom.

  “Now that we have a chance,” he said, “I should probably call my Mom to let her know that I’m okay and not to worry.”

  The Angel nodded. “That would be a good idea.”

  “Should I tell her we’re going to Branson?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about that. We don’t want the Allumbrados to discover where we’re going. The fewer who know our destination, the better.”

  John Fortune nodded, considering. “You’re probably right. So, you know who the kidnappers are? Those Allumbrados?”

  “They’re Papists,” the Angel said.

  “Papists?”

  “Catholics,” she explained.

  “I thought they were criminals. What do the Catholics want me for?”

  “They think...” She paused. She couldn’t lie to him and couldn’t think of a plausible evasion. “Well, you see, they think you’re the Anti-Christ.”

  “The Anti-Christ?” John Fortune repeated, unbelievingly.

  “The Devil,” she said. “Satan.”

  “I know who the Anti-Christ is,” he said with some annoyance. “I saw The Omen. But—why? Why do they think I’m the Devil? And what are they planning on doing with me?”

  “They’re bad men, John,” the Angel said. “I don’t know what they’re planning to do,” she finished lamely, and wished she hadn’t lied, even if only by omission, when he nodded skeptically. She ignored his question as to why they thought he was the Anti-Christ, hoping it would just go away, and was relieved when it did. At least for now.

  “Okay. Then why exactly are we going to Branson?”

  Here was a question she could answer. At least partially. “You’ll be safe there. There’s someone there who can protect you.”

  “Jerry from the detective agency was protecting me—”

  “And doing a fine job,” the Angel said scornfully.

  “Well, yeah. There’s that,” John Fortune admitted.

  “Look,” the Angel said. “I’m just an operative. The Hand—my boss in Branson has all the answers. He’ll be able to tell you everything. I promise.”

  “Well—”

  The Angel put her hand on his, feeling the warmth of his flesh. He was a handsome boy, thoughtful, it seemed, and good-natured. But either he was a consummate actor, or he really had no knowledge of who he was. She could admit no other possibility, except that maybe he was testing her. She already felt closer to him than she’d ever felt to anyone. Even her mother. She would do anything for him, sacrifice everything, to protect him.

  “You must trust me,” she told him, all her heart in her words. “You must never doubt me. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe. You must believe that.”

  John Fortune looked at her for a long, solemn moment, then he nodded. “I believe you.”

  “All right,” the Angel said. “I will not fail your trust.”

  “Cool,” John Fortune said. “Let’s go pay for the gas and lay in some supplies, and I’ll call Mom.”

  “Right,” the Angel said.

  They picked up a couple of six packs of Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew, candy bars, cupcakes, chips, and some sandwiches that looked reasonably fresh. The Angel paid with The Hand’s credit card. She could see now why Ray had insisted on taking it with him.

  Since they were in a sheltered mountain valley and their cells didn’t work very well, they used the Angel’s pre-paid phone card to make a couple of calls. She let John Fortune call home first. He didn’t realize that his mother had been badly injured in the Las Vegas battle, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him about it. As she’d expected, nobody was home when he called, so he left a message on the answering machine. The Angel hoped Peregrine was still alive. She told John Fortune that she and Josh McCoy were probably out coordinating the search for him. She was sure, she added, that they’d get his message soon.

  As John Fortune hauled their supplies to the van, she called The Hand. It rang several times before a bright voice answered, “President Barnett’s office.”

  She recognized the young Secret Service agent who was always so polite and helpful.

  “Hello, Alejandro,” she said. “It’s the Midnight Angel. Let me speak to the President.”

  “Angel! Where are you? Do you have the John Fortune with you? All heck has broken out and President Barnett is really worried about you all.”

  “We’re fine,” the Angel assured him. “We’re somewhere in Pennsylvania right now, but I’m bringing him in.”

  “Is Billy with you?”

  “No.” The Angel paused. “We had to leave him behind. Let me speak to the President.”

  “Well, okay. Hang on while I transfer the call.”

  There was static filled silence for a moment, then Barnett’s booming voice came on the line.

  “Yes, Angel, is that you?”

  “Yes. I have him. We’re coming in.”

  “By plane?”

  She could hear the excitement in his voice.

  “No, sir. We’re driving. Someone may be on our trail. At least, I’m assuming it’s a possibility. We’ll stick to the secondary roads, so expect us late tomorrow, probably.”

  “Excellent,” The Hand said. “What about Ray. Is he with you?”

  “No.” She frowned. “I had to leave him behind.”

  “Oh. All right. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. Disappointing, though. I’ll have to talk to him—Sally Lou, not while I’m on the phone.”

  Coldness suddenly clutched the Angel’s heart. Disappointing, the Angel thought. Yes, very.

  “All right,” The Hand said. “Good plan. Listen. Call in only if there’s an emergency. The less said on the airwaves, the better, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Angel could only imagine what was going on with The Hand and Sally Lou. Actually, she realized, she couldn’t, but it had to be sinful. She heard a giggle in the background, hung up, and got out of the booth.

  “Can I drive for awhile?” asked John Fortune, who’d been waiting outside the booth with one last sack of junk food.

  The Angel rummaged in the bag and picked out a package of little glazed chocolate donuts.

  “Do you have a license?”

  “Well...”

  “Better not then.”

  They went together to the old van, the Angel marveling not only at the fact that she was traveling cross-country with her Lord and Savior, but that he was also accepting her orders so meekly and graciously. She didn’t know if this was the Jesus she wanted facing Satan and his spawn in the final confrontation, but for now she was happy that he seemed so amiable and willing to go along with the program. It certainly made her job easier. She could sort out the theological implications later, when they were safe and sound in the bosom of The Hand.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Jokertown: The Jokertown Clinic

  Fortunato woke if not a new man, at least feeling like one. He didn’t know how long he had slept. It felt like days, but it couldn’t have been. He sat up and removed the drip line from inside his right elbow and stripped the other tubes and wires from his arms and chest. He swung his feet over the side of the hospital bed and put them on the linoleum floor. Like all hospital floors everywhere, no matter what time of the year, it was cold on the bare bottoms of his feet.

  He was still sitting on the side of the bed, considering this koan-like factoid, when Dr. Finn came flying into the room at a gallop, followed by a pair of nurses w
heeling in the heart starter.

  They all came to a skidding halt, Fortunato watching curiously as Finn leaned against the metal railing at the foot of Fortunato’s bed, breathing heavily. The doctor didn’t look happy.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, “you scared the crap out of us. Again. Why did you disconnect your heart monitor?”

  “Oh.” Fortunato turned and looked at the machine hanging above the bed, which was showing a disconcerting flatline. “My apologies, doctor. I wasn’t thinking. About my own condition, anyway.”

  Finn sighed. “Tachyon always told me that dealing with aces drove him nuts. Now I know why.” His gaze suddenly narrowed. “Wait a minute. Let me look at you.”

  “I feel fine, doctor.”

  “Yeah, and you shouldn’t. That’s why I want to look at you.” Finn clattered around the bedside and tilted Fortunato’s head so that he could see the right side of his face better. “Amazing. Not only is the swelling gone, but the bruising has disappeared as well.” He unwrapped the bandage around Fortunato’s forehead. “The cuts and abrasions have all healed.” He looked thoughtfully at Fortunato and prodded him in the abdomen with stiffened fingers. “Does this hurt?”

  Fortunato shook his head. “No.”

  “Well, it should. Your spleen was bruised.”

  “Was, doctor,” Fortunato said. He stood and stretched. Everything felt fine. He rotated his shoulders experimentally. Even the knots of pain that had been in his shoulder blades for months had vanished. “It seems as if my powers have—”

  He never finished the sentence. The window of his private room suddenly blew inward, showering Fortunato, Finn, and the joker nurses in a storm of sharp glass shards. One of the nurses was clipped on the back of the head by the blind’s valence and fell to the floor with the blinds draped over his unconscious body. Finn reared in sudden fear, nearly slipping on the tile floor despite the little booties he wore over his hooves.

  Fortunato stood, cognizant of the glass shards that littered the floor like sharp-edged diamonds, and looked out the window. A smirking figure, floating in the sky outside, spoke. “You can run and hide, spawn of the Devil, but your evil cannot escape my righteous wrath.”

  Fortunato grinned without humor, his lips peeling away from his gleaming white teeth. “You speak in clichés,” he said. “Whoever you are.” He stepped forward, elevating himself off the floor to avoid the scattered slivers of window glass. “Stupid ones, at that.”

  “I am the Witness to the Revelation,” the Witness said. “My truth overshadows your lies, demon-bred.”

  “Whatever.” Fortunato drifted towards the shattered window. “I’m betting you have something to do with my son’s kidnapping. I’m glad you tracked me down. We have some business to attend to.”

  Finn, stooping over the unconscious nurse, looked up to see Fortunato, dressed in his white hospital gown, glide out of the clinic through the shattered window into the dusk. The ace waiting outside had an eager, welcoming expression bordering on the ecstatic.

  Fortunato drifted out into the night, forty feet above the Jokertown street. The Witness glowed like an incandescent bulb, already attracting the attention of passers-by. A crowd formed on the street below, their faces turned up to the night. People pointed, eagerly waiting for whatever weirdness was about to happen.

  It was just another summer evening in Jokertown.

  Fortunato wondered if any one of them remembered the last time two men had faced each other over Manhattan in wild card combat. Not the strange stories that had become part of the fabric of Jokertown life, but the real facts concerning the confrontation between him and the Astronomer in the sky over the city.

  He settled into the lotus position while the Witness looked on, sneering. It was a lot more comfortable sitting on air than it was on the hard floor of the meditation hall, even if his ass was hanging out of the back of his hospital gown. But that was all right. Fortunato wasn’t modest in regards to his body. He rested his forearms on his crossed legs and looked at his opponent across the street.

  “Comfy?” the Witness asked.

  “Yes,” Fortunato replied calmly.

  “Then die, Hell-spawn,” the Witness said through clenched teeth. His eyes glowed green and he brought his hands down, parted them, then brought them up again in a circular motion, starting the gesture to release his spasm of destructive force.

  Fortunato remembered the lesson he had learned from his battle with the Astronomer. When that combat had started he’d put up multiple layers of protective shielding which the Astronomer had burnt away with fireballs he’d pulled out of his crazed mind. When it had been time for his own offensive thrust, Fortunato had chanced all on one blow. He’d gathered nearly all the energy he possessed in a single pellet that he concentrated to a pinpoint behind his navel. When he’d released it, it had blown through the Astronomer’s body like a high-powered rifle slug, but it hadn’t killed him or even injured him. It had barely inconvenienced him.

  He’d only defeated the Astronomer by becoming a void. By becoming a vacuum that accepted everything the Astronomer threw at him, which he’d let pass through like a meteor flashing harmlessly through the sky.

  Now his sixteen years of Zen training enabled him to become that much more empty. That much more of a waiting target, expression composed, eyes closed, and utterly unhittable.

  If the Witness was surprised at Fortunato’s passivity, he didn’t show it. He hurled a massive bolt of power at the indifferent ace. It struck Fortunato and passed through him without ruffling his white robe, and spattered on the stone wall of the Jokertown Clinic behind, punching in windows and dislodging casements from the first to the upper floor.

  And sucked in by the awful vortex of power that he created, the Witness was pulled towards Fortunato like iron filings to a magnet. Fortunato opened his eyes right before they collided. He reached out and grabbed the Witness by the lapels of his cheap suit and said, “Fall.”

  And they did.

  They plummeted thirty-five feet, Fortunato atop the screaming Witness. The spectators on the street below saw them coming and scattered. The two aces hit the ground like sacks of cement and Fortunato felt the Witnesses’ body burst like a water balloon dropped from a three-story building

  He stood and looked at the Witness’s wrecked and leaking body. The ace was either smiling or grimacing. It was all the same to Fortunato. The Witness managed to make a come closer gesture with his right hand, and Fortunato kneeled down and put his ear close to his foe’s bleeding mouth.

  “There are two... Witnesses in Revelation,” the ace gasped, his chest laboring to bring air into his punctured lungs. “I have... a brother.”

  Fortunato nodded serenely. It was not welcome news, but not totally unexpected. He knew that this affair was far from over. His astral form had lingered at the chaotic rescue at the country store long enough to know that the strange woman who called herself the Angel was, for whatever reason, taking the boy to Branson, Missouri. He was certain he could find them there easily enough. Just as he was sure there would be more minions of the Witness who would try to stop him. The only way to save the boy was to do what he’d done to the Astronomer’s conspiracy. Take off its head. It wasn’t a prospect that he relished, or even anticipated, but he was committed. There was no other way to save his son.

  Fortunato stood looking down at the Witness, and watched him die. It didn’t take long. When he was sure that the Witness was no longer breathing, he looked up at the crowd that had assembled around them. All kinds of people had gathered in the mob. Young, old, Jokers, a few nats. White, Hispanic, Asian, and one old black man who wore a glove on his left hand, perhaps, Fortunato thought, hiding a joker deformity.

  “Tell your children,” he said to them, “tell your family, your friends, your loved ones, and those evil ones you fear, that Fortunato is back from the dead.”

  They all watched as, clad in his white robe, he ascended silently into the Heavens.

  New York C
ity: the Waldorf-Astoria

  The Cardinal had had enough of St. Dympna’s, but neither could he force himself to enter the room of his Waldorf suite where the Cameo fiasco had occurred. Fortunately, the suite contained other rooms suitable for a war council, and Contarini had gathered Dagon and the Witness to hear Nighthawk’s report on the attack on the Jokertown Clinic.

  Everyone had already heard a garbled account of events on the television, so they were prepared for the bad news that Nighthawk bought.

  “And you could do nothing about it?” the Cardinal asked when he’d finished his report. Contarini used his iciest voice, which had reduced more than one bishop to helplessness over the years. Nighthawk, who had heard similar tones from the mouths of over-seers and slave owners, was used to it.

  He shrugged. “The Witness chose to attack him thirty feet above the ground. I wasn’t in any position to help him. When they finally crashed to the sidewalk, the crowd was too thick to get through. By the time we I did, Fortunato had already ascended into the Heavens.”

  The Cardinal made a bitter-lemon face at Nighthawk’s choice of words. “Why did he choose that tactic?” Contarini asked quietly, almost to himself.

  Because he was vain and stupid, Nighthawk thought. He said aloud, “Because he craved glory, wanting it all for himself.”

  Contarini fixed him with a killing stare. “We are not in this for self-glory.”

  Nighthawk bowed his head, mainly to hide the smile that threatened to break out. “As you say, Cardinal,” he murmured.

  Contarini continued to look as if he were sucking bitter lemons. “Well, no matter. We know where the Devil and his bitch is. We know that his powers have returned and that she is going nowhere for now. I’ll have them watched.” He steepled his fingers, tapping the tips together in rhythmic order. “We also know where their spawn is. Or at least where he’s going. For now he is out of our reach.”

  Nighthawk turned, and gestured to Usher. The big man came forward carrying an old duffel bag.

  “Earlier today I sent Usher upstate to look around,” Nighthawk said. “And he found a couple of interesting items.”