Wild Cards: Death Draws Five

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

  The Cardinal perked up, at least momentarily. “Such as?”

  “Such as Blood, and his brother, skulking in the forest, afraid to come out. Fortunately hunger drove them into the open.”

  “Where are they now?” Contarini asked in a voice that showed he was eager to mete out suitable punishment.

  “Usher took them to St. Dympna’s, to await your pleasure.”

  The Cardinal nodded.

  “But before you punish them too severely,” Nighthawk said, interrupting Contarini before he could issue any foolish orders, “consider this.”

  Usher passed over the old duffel bag and Nighthawk offered it to Contarini as if it contained jewels precious beyond number. The Cardinal sniffed dubiously.

  “Yes, an old bag of clothes.”

  Nighthawk nodded. “Clothes belonging to the one who calls herself The Angel.”

  “Barnett’s whore?”

  Nighthawk nodded again. The Allumbrados had been spying on Barnett and his organization for a long time. Sometimes Nighthawk thought that they knew more about what was happening in the Peaceable Kingdom than Barnett did.

  The Cardinal smiled. Like most of the expressions that wormed their way across his patrician features, it was sinister.

  “I begin to see the possibilities,” he said. “All we need is for her to stay in one place for awhile for Blood to track her down.”

  Nighthawk nodded. “He’ll have a wide area to search. We know what roads she’ll probably take to Branson, but still, it will take some doing.”

  “Yes.” Contarini thought for awhile. “But this time I’m taking no chances. Nighthawk, you and your team will await her at their final destination. Just in case they to elude my Allumbrados once again.” Contarini looked at Butcher Dagon and the Witness, who had the grace to look mildly abashed. “But that’s not going to happen this time, is it?”

  Nighthawk watched Dagon and the Witness shake their heads vigorously, while Magda looked on stoically and Usher coughed to hide his smirk.

  “And just to ensure our success,” the Cardinal said, “I’ll attend to this personally.”

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  West Virginia: Somewhere on the Road

  The Angel was driving somewhere on a dark highway in the middle of West Virginia when fatigue hit her like a brick between the eyes. She was falling asleep at the wheel despite a massive intake of caffeine and sugar from her constant inhalation of Dr. Pepper and candy bars. She didn’t know if Jesus Christ could actually be killed in a car wreck, but she didn’t want to put it to a test. She saw a sign posted for a rest stop in twelve miles, and glanced at John Fortune, who was catching a little shut-eye in the passenger seat.

  “There’s a rest stop up ahead, John,” she told him.

  “I’m okay,” he said sleepily.

  They’d been stopping every now and then for the Angel to hit the bathroom because of all the Dr. Pepper she’d been drinking. “You may be okay, but I need a few hours of sleep. We’ll rest until dawn, then push on.”

  John seemed to wake up a little. “Hey, I can drive while you’re resting. Let me. I’ve almost got my license. I’m a pretty good driver.”

  The Angel considered the idea. A couple extra hours on the road would put them that much closer to Branson. But in the end she shook her head. Maybe if he had his license. Without one, they were taking too great a risk. Besides, she didn’t really think she should trust someone who “almost” had his license on dark mountain highways.

  “We can both use the rest,” she told him.

  It was comfortable in the back of the van. It smelled vaguely of rich earth, vegetables, and herbs. There was room enough for both of them to stretch out. It felt odd lying down next to the boy who was Jesus Christ, the Angel thought, but his presence was both a comfort and a reminder of her awesome responsibilities. His divinity burned warmly like the sun-like halo that glowed around his head.

  As she lay down, she tracked the next day’s route in her head. Branson lay in south Missouri, almost on the Arkansas border, about fifty miles east of Oklahoma. They had to traverse the rest of West Virginia, then cross Kentucky and most of Missouri. It didn’t seem like much. And it wouldn’t add much if she took the detour that had been on her mind the last couple of hours.

  Dipping down into Mississippi wouldn’t be the most direct route to Branson, but it felt somehow safer to her. Somehow less traceable. And something was calling her. She felt a strong pull to home. A need to visit her origins again. Perhaps, something quietly told her, for one last time.

  It wasn’t exactly a premonition. Nor a vision. Nothing that concrete. Just a calling through the dark southern night pulling her gently, like her mother crying in the gathering dusk for her to come home to dinner.

  The Midnight Angel fell asleep with her Savior snoring gently at her side, memories of her childhood dancing like lost butterflies through her dreams.

  Jerry collapsed, exhausted, into his seat in first class. Billy Ray occupied the seat next to him. Ray looked fresh as a daisy, but Jerry was still weak and in pain from the wounds he’d suffered back at Camp Dez. Not to mention his gunshot wound, and various bruises, scrapes, and cuts he’d suffered while making his way through the forest with John Fortune. His shape-shifting powers didn’t regenerate injuries, though by the very nature of his ace his recuperative powers were superior to those of an ordinary man—not to Ray’s. Despite being shot multiple times, clawed, strangled, and chewed upon over the past couple of days, the government ace looked fresh as a daisy as he sipped chilled orange juice.

  “You look like Hell,” Ray said.

  “I feel like it. Tell me Ray, are we going to get any more government help on this deal?”

  That was the major question to Jerry’s mind. It had gone unasked during the war council they’d held the night before in the offices of Ackroyd and Creighton after coming back to the city. Jerry, Ackroyd, and Billy Ray had been the main participants. Josh McCoy had also sat in, and would report back to Peregrine. She was apparently out of danger, but she wouldn’t get out of the hospital for days yet. Maybe weeks.

  They’d briefed McCoy, bringing him up to date on what they knew of John Fortune’s current location. Ray had confirmed that John Fortune was on the way to Branson by checking in with his office. Though he’d been less than forthcoming when it came to revealing what office he was actually currently operating out of.

  They could use all the help in recovering Fortune they could get. Though free from the kidnappers, he wasn’t exactly home safe. Jerry had thought McCoy had been hallucinating when he’d told them that Fortunato had turned up to help in the search, but Ackroyd had surprised Jerry by confirming McCoy’s story from subsequent news coverage, even though no one seemed to know Fortunato’s current whereabouts. It seemed that the legendary ace had disappeared after some strange goings-on concerning an unidentified D.O.A. ace.

  “Well,” Ray said, “you know I can’t really talk about those things...” He gestured encouragingly, it seemed.

  “Sure, sure,” Jerry said. “I get you.”

  Plausible deniability, Jerry thought. That was all the government seemed to care about nowadays. Ray’s partner, Angel, had reported, saying that she on the way to Branson, Missouri with the kid, but Ray couldn’t explain why she was taking him there. Maybe, Ray suggested, something John Fortune had revealed to her had made the trip necessary. Jerry couldn’t imagine what that possibly could be, and Ackroyd hadn’t been happy with Ray’s feeble non-explanation. But they had to live with it. Another thing they had to live with that Jerry wasn’t happy about was Brennan’s absence.

  “You’re moving out of my backyard,” Yeoman had said after the battle at the ophiolatrists’ compound. “I was happy to help around here, but with the boy gone and the government now involved...” He’d looked thoughtfully at Ray and shook his head.

  Ackroyd had been happy to see Yeoman sign off. Jerry hadn’t been, and still wasn’t. The archer had proven his worth more
than once during the past couple of days. Jerry was sure that they’d be sorry that Yeoman wasn’t lurking somewhere, shaft nocked to bowstring, watching their backs. But all and all, Yeoman was right. This wasn’t his fight.

  They decided to send Sascha to Branson immediately, to scout out the territory and make arrangements for lodging, and Jerry and Ray would follow the next day, as soon as they both had a chance to catch their breaths and rest their battered bodies. Ackroyd was out of it. He’d already disobeyed doctor’s orders by checking out of the hospital. There was no way he could an active part in the rest of the case on his damaged leg. His absence was another great loss to the team, but there was nothing they could do about it.

  Once their plane took off, Ray showed that he wasn’t interested in idle chitchat. He reclined his chair, put his feet up, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep. He was impeccably neat, even while sleeping, though he snored.

  For Jerry the hours crawled like legless elephants. He wished he were like Ray. Tough and untouchable, able to bounce back from any physical ailment, take anything in stride.

  Jerry still hurt physically. His body was one big bruise, inside and out. Mentally he still felt guilty for losing John Fortune. The in-flight movie was the sucky Britney Spears remake of the tolerable Desperately Seeking Susan. All he had to occupy his mind were thoughts about his empty personal life. Images of Ray’s partner found their way into his tired brain. Angel. She was a striking woman. He wondered what Ray knew about her, and decided that he’d pump the government agent, subtly, of course, for info about her when he woke up.

  “Magazine, sir?”

  The steward awoke Jerry out of his introspective haze by holding a selection of magazines before him. Business Week. Harpers. Esquire. A familiar-looking photo on the magazine a top the pile caught his eye. “Fortunato’s Incredible Return to New York,” the headlines blazed. “Famous Ace Seeks Unknown Son. Exclusive Report by Digger Downs.”

  “Thanks,” Jerry said. “I’ll take this one.”

  He took the brand new issue of Aces! from the pile, and settled back to read about Fortunato’s return to New York, until somewhere over Kentucky when he fell asleep and dreamed an uncomfortable dream in which he and Ray walked the streets of Branson, Missouri, searching for John Fortune, and were in turn stalked by man-sized walking zucchinis.

  All Jerry could think was, Why zucchinis?

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  In the air to Branson

  Ray woke up soon somewhere over Missouri. He sat carefully unmoving for a few moments, taking stock of the parts of his body that hurt, and the parts that didn’t. Hurt came out ahead, about ten to one.

  He sighed and slowly moved his seat to the upright and locked position. Regeneration had never been painless, but lately it was taking more and more out of him. It took longer and hurt harder. He wondered if some day it would take as long for him to heal from a wound as it took an ordinary man. He wondered if someday his face might not repair itself. If his kidneys and liver and heart might not return to full working order. If skin and flesh and muscle and bone might not knit together again into a raveled whole.

  He glanced over at Creighton, twitching in his sleep like he was having some sort of delicious dream, slumbering like a baby, without a care or a worry. God, Ray thought, what would it be like to be a simple P.I.? Catch a few criminals, catch a few zzz’s. Compared to his life, it sounded idyllic

  Creighton jerked awake a few minutes later. He glanced wildly at Ray, but seemed to calm down almost immediately when he realized where he was. For a moment it looked as if he were going to say something, but then thought better of it and remained silent. Good, Ray thought. I have enough shit of my own to worry about.

  Ray sat up straight all the way down to Branson, carefully drinking his orange juice until the steward came by to collect all cups and trash. He wouldn’t have minded a good, stiff drink even if the alcohol interfered with his body’s repair work. It was, however, his iron clad policy not to mix drinking and flying. Booze coupled with unexpected turbulence was a sure recipe for disaster.

  As it turned out, this flight was as smooth as a walk in the park, as was the landing. Taxi-ing to the gate was interminable, even though the Branson airport wasn’t exactly Tomlin International. Taxi-ing to the gate always annoyed Ray. He was the first to stand and rescue his carry-on from overhead storage, being careful because of course the baggage could have shifted during flight. He dragged Creighton’s bag down as well, handed it to him, and headed off the plane, Creighton half jogging to keep up.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” the P.I. asked.

  Ray wasn’t sure. He was just eager to get it on, to find John Fortune and deliver him to Barnett. To finish with this nonsense and start exploring other options. He wasn’t sure just yet what they might be. Hell, he had no fucking idea. Suddenly he just wanted to finish this while his skin was relatively whole.

  Was he, Ray wondered, suddenly developing a sense of caution? And if so, was that a good or bad thing?

  My God, Ray thought, not introspection, too.

  They stopped as they entered the terminal proper though the covered walkway. A big white banner with big block letters painted in red was strung up near their gate. “WELCOME MAGOG,” it proclaimed.

  Underneath, before, and around the banner were scores of women. Women dressed in pantsuits. Women wearing sensible shoes and plain, long dresses. Women with teased hair. Women with bouffant hair. Women whose hair was like the girls’ hair at Ray’s senior prom back in Montana in the 1970’s. All had adhesive tags on their blouses that said: “Hi! My Name Is” in big letters above a white space that had names like Lurleen and Ellen Sue carefully filled in with felt-tip markers. They were all talking and embracing and standing in knots and groups and generally clogging the flow of foot traffic. Ray and Creighton stopped, stood, and stared.

  “What the Hell is MAGOG?” Ray asked.

  “He was like, a demon in the Bible, man,” a voice said behind them. “Or maybe a giant. I forget which.”

  Ray and Creighton turned as one, stared, then looked at each other in wonderment.

  “What the Hell are you doing here?” Creighton asked.

  Mushroom Daddy smiled brightly. He was freshly bathed and smelled only very, very faintly of cannabis overlain by what must have been a gallon of Old Spice. He was probably wearing his best clothes, which, Ray thought, made him look like a Salvation Army reject only forty years out of date. He had on a purple silk shirt and a paisley tie and vest to match, and suede bell bottoms with vertical red and orange stripes. He made Ray’s eyes hurt.

  “Well, man, I had to come to get my van, man. I called Jerry’s office and told them all about how that chick stole my van, and they told me what flight you were taking so I decided I’d better follow you guys and see about, like, getting my van back.” He looked a little hurt. “I couldn’t afford to sit up in first class, though.”

  Ray closed his eyes. When he opened them there was a narrow, dangerous cast to them. “Creighton’s office told you what flight we were on?”

  “That’s right, man.”

  Ray shifted his gaze to the P.I. “Now, Ray—” Creighton protested.

  “Hey, man,” Mushroom Daddy interrupted, “are you a P.I., too?” he asked Ray.

  “No. I’m with the government,” Ray said.

  Daddy pulled away. “Like, the CIA, man?”

  Ray laughed. “CIA? Those pussies? They’re afraid of us, man.”

  “Oh.” Daddy thought it over. “That’s okay, then.”

  Ray and Creighton exchanged another glance, then shrugged.

  “All right,” Creighton said. “Well, we’ll see you around... Daddy.”

  Mushroom Daddy shook his head. “Uh-huh, man. I’m sticking with you guys until I get the van back.”

  “I don’t think—” Creighton began, but Ray took his arm.

  “Excuse us a moment,” he said to Daddy, and pulled Creighton away a few feet. “We can�
��t have this brain dead hippie stumbling along after us, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and probably getting it shot off. I wouldn’t mind that so much, but he’d probably get us shot to Hell and back, too.”

  “What are we going to do with him then?” Creighton asked.

  Ray stood still, thinking, his lips twitching in distaste. “Bring him along for now. We can always find some pretext to dump him later. Or maybe get his ass thrown in jail for awhile.”

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” Creighton said.

  “Who gives a shit about being fair?” Ray asked. “I’m talking about survival.”

  Creighton looked him in the eye, then glanced away. “All right. I see your point. Anyway, maybe he’ll be useful. Somehow.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “Like tits on a bull.”

  An indeterminately aged woman whose frosted blonde hair was piled atop her head like a plate of onion rings glared at him like he’d farted in church or something. Creighton went off to talk to Daddy as Ray found himself under the woman’s suspicious scrutiny. He tipped an imaginary hat to her and walked away. She harrumphed to herself as he joined Creighton and Daddy, thereby confirming her worst suspicions.

  I know, Ray thought, where she’s headed. Along with all the rest of the kooks.

  He sighed to himself, realizing that it was his destination, too.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  New York: Jokertown Clinic

  “The Aces! hot line had thirty-seven calls concerning you last night,” Digger Downs told Fortunato excitedly. “Most reported that you’d come back from the dead, rising out of a manhole in front of the Jokertown Clinic to defend it against a crazed ace who was attacking it for unknown reasons. Most said that you were dressed in a white robe, had a glowing halo, and ascended back into Heaven after crushing this unknown ace with a single blow.”

  “Did you bring the clothes?” Fortunato asked. His monk robes had long since gone into the hospital’s incinerator.

  “Sure.” Digger paused and handed him a couple of shopping bags. “There were a hundred and seventeen calls this morning,” he went on. “You’ve been spotted all over the city, as far east as Massapequa on Long Island, north to the Catskills, and west to Binghamton.”