Wild Cards: Death Draws Five

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

  I could, Fortunato thought, and I already did, at least partially. “You know that I turned my back on my powers when I left this country.”

  “So the story goes,” Barnett said. “But I’ve heard strange things about your recent doings in New York City. People say you came back from the dead and stopped an ace from destroying the Jokertown Clinic. Hell, people are saying you’re still in New York doing all kinds of miracles. Healing the sick. Curing the deaf. Turning baking soda into crack, for all I know.”

  “Careful,” Fortunato said. “Your prejudices are showing.”

  “Hell, man, the only thing I’m prejudiced against is sin. You know that.”

  Fortunato shook his head, as if unconvinced. “Was that your ace who attacked the Jokertown Clinic?”

  Barnett laughed out loud. “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that someone with some very powerful underlings wants me dead, Peregrine dead, and our son dead.”

  “That ain’t me,” Barnett said. “That’s the Cardinal’s boys.”

  “The Cardinal’s boys?” Fortunato asked.

  Barnett nodded affably. “Pay attention, now,” he said. “The boys after you are the Allumbrados, the Enlightened Ones, as they’re so puffed up with pride to call themselves. It’s an ancient and secret office of the Catholic Church. Goes way back. Has ties to another Holy Office that still exists officially, but hasn’t seen much action lately.”

  Fortunato frowned. “The Inquisition?”

  “That’s the one,” Barnett nodded. “These Papal boys are run by Cardinal Romulus Contarini. Real nasty stuff, actually. They hire all kinds of criminals and scum. Jokers and aces and real people alike—”

  “’Real people’?” Barnett was so smooth that Fortunato had to occasionally remind himself not to forget where the evangelist was really coming from.

  Barnett shrugged apologetically. “I don’t like to use the term ‘nats.’ It’s demeaning.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All right,” Barnett said. “Just between us, let’s cut the crap. You know that I’ve preached against the wild card, but it’s the virus I’ve preached against, not its victims. The virus has turned its prey into things both lesser and greater than human. They get my pity, my help, and whatever solace I can give them. But the virus—the virus has caused unimaginable misery in this world and it must inevitably be eradicated.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Fortunato said.

  Barnett shook his head. “I haven’t. But the world has. There’s no doubt in my mind that the end days are upon us. The signs are all around. Israel. Moral decay. The wild card itself. The downfall of communism.” He paused and looked seriously at Fortunato. “The boy, John Fortune.”

  Fortunato looked back just as hard at Barnett. “What about him?”

  “He is, without a doubt, Jesus Christ reincarnate. The Second Coming is upon us and the battle of the Millennium is about to start.” Barnett held out his hand, forestalling Fortunato’s incredulous reply. “Now hear me out. I’m not the only one who realizes that John Fortune will play a critical role in the upcoming Struggle. Contarini and his Allumbrados believe this as well. Only, wrong-headed as usual, the damned Papists think he’s the Anti-Christ. They believe that he must die, while I know, I know as well as I know the love of my God, that he must be shielded. He must be sheltered and protected until he realizes his fate and brings about the Kingdom of God on Earth.”

  Fortunato, who had edged forward on his seat during Barnett’s speech, sank back in the chair, flabbergasted at the ex-President’s words.

  “I know,” Barnett said at the stunned look on Fortunato’s face. “How can they be so wrong? How can they be that stupid? Well, God has, if you forgive the metaphor, thrown us a curve ball on this one. I could hardly suspect myself that He would chose a stained vessel such as Peregrine to be the mother of His Son, but God does work in mysterious ways—”

  “Wait a minute,” Fortunato interrupted, unable to contain himself any longer. “What about me?”

  “Well, what about you?”

  “I was there when he was conceived. I can assure you that this was not a case of virgin birth.”

  Barnett shook his head. “We all have a place in God’s plan. Some of us just aren’t aware of what that place is.”

  “And some of us,” Fortunato said, “are so certain that they think they can put others in their place.”

  “Well, just so. Look. I know you want to help the boy. I want to help the boy. I showed you my hole cards. Time for you to show me yours. Go ahead. Read my mind. I’m not faking it.”

  Fortunato smiled like a wolf. “All right,” he admitted. “I already did. That’s the only reason why I’m still sitting here, talking to you.”

  “Outstanding!” Barnett beamed. “You know I’m telling the truth then. You know that I’m sincere.” He stood suddenly and went over to a large window over-looking his domain. “C’mere. I want you to see something.”

  Fortunato levered himself out of the chair and joined Barnett at the window. He towered over the nat. They stood on the opposite side of many fundamental beliefs. But Fortunato had the distinct impression that Barnett was not only fearless in his presence, he was actually glad of Fortunato’s prowess and was confident that he could turn it to his service. If ego was a wild card power, Fortunato thought, he’d have it in spades.

  “Look down there,” Barnett said, pointing to the square below them, pulsing with activity.

  “At what?” Fortunato inquired.

  “At all of it. Because all of it can be yours.”

  Fortunato queried the ex-President with raised eyebrows.

  “You want money? It’s there for the taking. You want power? Say the word and your word is law. You want entertainment, excitement? It’s available in infinite varieties in infinite supply. It’ll never run out. You want women?” Barnett winked at him. “We’re grown men here. You like that sweet little blonde thing out there at the reception desk? You can have her. You can have damn near everyone in this place and let me tell you, the infinite variety, the gut-grabbing excitement of that will never run out, my friend.”

  Fortunato smiled again. “And in return all you want is my soul?”

  Barnett put his hand on Fortunato’s shoulder and laughed aloud. “Your soul? You think I want your soul? Your soul can go to Hell for all I care, and it probably will.” Barnett shook his head, chuckling. “No. I want your help. I want you to join with my little group as we stand against those damned Papists.”

  Fortunato put his hand on Barnett’s shoulder, and the smile on Barnett’s face slipped a bit as he gripped it hard. The decision came to him, suddenly it seemed, but with all the power of a revelation from God. Once this was over he would return to the monastery and rejoin his brothers on the pathway to enlightenment. But from now on he wouldn’t allow himself to be so single-minded. He would welcome messages, even visits, from the outside world, and perhaps he would someday walk in it again himself. But as nothing more than a father, as part of a family, and as a humble monk.

  “That’s fine, then, because I don’t want money. I don’t want power. Not even women. I just want to see the boy, and be sure that he’s safe.”

  “Hell, son, that’s easy enough. I could have him here in twenty minutes, if that’s what you want.”

  Fortunato frowned. “Why haven’t you brought him in earlier then?”

  “Jesus Christ, Fortunato, excuse my French, do you have to read my mind again to figure it out? The battle lines are drawn, son. Armageddon is coming as surely as the dawn, and we’re in the weak position. The enemy is legion. We are few and though our hearts are pure I’ve got more faith in guns and big, strong aces than I do in the virtue of our souls.

  “He’s safer where he is now. Sure, the Cardinal has made a couple of lame attempts on him, but my people have done all right so far in thwarting the old Papal ass-kisser. I want John Fortune here only when we’re
ready to meet them face to face and kick their sorry butts back to the Vatican.”

  “And you think my joining your side will tip the battle?”

  Barnett looked at him with a calculating expression. “Once you were the most powerful ace on the face of the Earth. Even that prissy little alien Tachyon thought so. Sure, there were guys around who could twist you into a pretzel. If you’d let them get their hands on you. But there was a time when there was nothing you couldn’t do.” He paused for a moment. “There was a time.”

  Fortunato smiled. “I’m back.”

  “Are you?” Barnett asked him. “I hope so. I truly hope so.” He went back to his desk, and toggled the intercom on his desk. “Sally Lou, sweetie. Get me Bruckner on the phone. Got a job for him. Thanks, honey.”

  “Who’s Bruckner?” Fortunato asked.

  Barnett smiled. “He’s the man you want when you have a special delivery that just has to make it through on time.”

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger

  Ray woke up feeling great. He had a touch of indigestion, but that was only to be expected considering the amount he’d wolfed down before staggering back to Jerry’s hotel suite. They had an extra bedroom since they hadn’t called Ackroyd yet, so he hit the sack instead of making his way back to his room in The Angels’ Bower and conked out like a baby who’d just crawled a marathon.

  He had no dreams, good or bad, and when he awoke it was with a totally clear head. There was no foggy pot-induced brain-cramping residue. He just felt fit and ready for the day. Ready for just about anything, in fact. He stretched lithely, feeling all his muscles glide smoothly in place, pain free and worry free for the first time in what felt like a long, long time. He went into the living room.

  Mushroom Daddy was still snoring on the couch. He watched him for a moment, regarding him like one would a favored dog, thinking that the hippie wasn’t that bad after all. Thinking that somehow this would all work out. Thinking that he’d like to see Angel again, but that would have to wait. He should, he thought, go over to the Bower and see Barnett and find out exactly where she and the kid were.

  Behind him, someone cleared their throat. He turned. Jerry and Sascha had come out of their bedroom. Jerry was yawning. Sascha was frowning.

  “What,” Sascha asked, “does Barnett have to do with all this?”

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Yazoo City, Mississippi

  The Angel and John Fortune reached Yazoo City by morning. The land through which they’d driven had changed from mountainous to flat, though the road became older, bumpier, and no easier on the old van. Sometimes the Angel thought it would take a miracle to get them all the way to Branson. Sometimes it seemed that it was only her faith that kept her going on this mad cross country trip, her faith and the eager innocence of the boy Savior sitting next to her, his eagerness for life radiating like heat.

  “What’s planted in all those fields?” John Fortune asked as they rolled by mile after mile of flat Mississippi Delta country whose rich brown soil nourished rows of waist high plants.

  “Cotton,” the Angel answered briefly. Cotton was still king in Yazoo, as it had been for centuries before her time. As it would be, probably, forever. It was a king she had no love for, nor loyalty to.

  They broke through the flat landscape and ascended the rolling hills that hemmed in Yazoo City, seat of Mississippi’s largest county, home to ten thousand citizens. The rest of Yazoo County’s population was scattered in small hamlets and rural enclaves, on farms and plantations, around swamps and along the Yazoo River itself.

  “Where’re we going now?” John Fortune inquired patiently. “Are we going to get to Branson soon?”

  “Soon,” the Angel assured him. She hadn’t told him about her planned detour. She could barely articulate the reason for it to herself, let alone John Fortune. “I want to stop here first and visit my mother. If that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” John Fortune said. He looked out the window, which had been rolled all the way down due to the van’s lack of air-conditioning. “Sure is hot.”

  That it is, the Angel thought.

  Heat was the most common sensation she recalled when she thought of her childhood. Wet, sticky heat that plastered her blouse to her back as soon as she put it on in the morning. That squeezed beads of sweat through her pores to trickle between her breasts and down her rib cage if she exerted herself the least little bit. Or even if she sat quietly in church while the fans rotated uselessly overhead.

  Although miles from the twisting bends of the Mississippi River as it flowed down to the Gulf of Mexico, Yazoo was moist. Alligators still roared in the night in her acres of swamp and the catfish raised in her myriad lakes was an important cash crop. There was more than a touch of the primeval about it. The Angel felt they’d turned back the clock to somewhere to the middle of the last century. Or even the century before that.

  “Nice houses,” John Fortune commented as they passed through a high-toned residential area. “Though some could use a new paint job.”

  “Old money trying to stretch,” the Angel told him. “It doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

  They drove by whitewashed two story homes and entered a part of the town where the houses were smaller and even more in need of paint. The lawns were wilder than the manicured yards of the affluent district, with cars up on blocks and ancient appliances scattered about as if their owners hadn’t enough energy to carry them further. Some—an old wringer washing machine here, and old sink there, even a toilet or two—had been turned into planters brimming with a profusion of flowers of all colors and descriptions, from tiny daisies white, blue, and yellow to columnar hollyhocks thrusting up to Heaven. Other abandoned appliances, especially the ancient refrigerators, were just rusting deathtraps, waiting for some kid to lock themselves in and suffocate.

  The Angel took the narrow, twisting lanes automatically, turning without thinking until on the edge of the poorest part of town she drove through an open wrought-iron gate into a tree- shaded park with a scattering of white stones and gray monuments like candy tossed on a gently rolling field of felt. She parked the van and it gratefully shuddered to a well-deserved rest. John Fortune looked at her from the corner of his eye, without turning his head.

  “Your mom’s here?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” the Angel said. She got out of the van and after a moment he followed her.

  It was quiet in the cemetery, and cool. Her mother’s grave was on the side of a hill sheltered by a giant pecan tree that spread its branches above a score of graves like a benediction. The slab was small, and bore only a name and two dates, 1961 - 2001. The Angel stood before it, then sank to her knees in the cool grass, putting her hands on the earth as if to caress that which lay underneath it.

  “Hello, Mama,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve come to see you again.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I know it’s been a long time since I been able to come by. I know I’ve been out in the world, which you told me was so evil and so dangerous, but there was just nothing here for me. Nothing for me to do, Mama. No way for me to live. You must understand that.”

  Her mother had not wanted her to go out into the world. She had told her, over and over again, of its traps and perils. After all, she’d gone out herself and had gotten nothing out of it but a bloated belly and a daughter cursed at a very young age. Probably from the tainted blood of her beastly father, whom she never spoke of. But maybe, just maybe, by the evilness of her own contaminated soul.

  “And I’ve been out in the world doing good. Really, I have. I bought someone to see you.” The Angel turned and beckoned to John Fortune, who was standing a respectful half a dozen paces back, watching uncertainly. He came forward as she gestured, and nodded briefly.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “You’re in Heaven, Mama, so you must know who he is. You must know something of what is planned for us poor sinners on Earth. You—”

  �
�Must know he is the Devil incarnate,” a voice said behind them.

  The Angel whirled, instinctively shielding John Fortune with her body. Behind them was an ancient mausoleum. Shimmering upon its cracked stone wall was a circle of darkness, a tear through the fabric of space. Two men and a thing had come through the tear. She recognized the Cardinal. The man with him was restraining something with a collar and leash that might have been human, but walked like a dog on four limbs. That had an inhuman face with deep set eyes and slavering jaws, and a long snout whose damp nostrils quivered as it sucked in great lung-fulls of air and tried to lunge at the Angel and her charge. A third came though the doorway and laughed. He was big and handsome as an angel with golden hair and large blue eyes and a strong, dimpled jaw. The Angel felt her stomach clench. She couldn’t tell if it was with fear, revulsion, or desire.

  “I told you Blood would find her eventually,” the Witness said.

  Contarini nodded. “Start with the girl. The boy is for later.”

  He let go of Blood’s leash and the joker/ace leapt forward on all fours like a hound, drool frothing on his gaping jaws. The Angel tossed a stern, “Stay here,” to John Fortune, and stepped to meet him.

  Blood sprung into the air screaming. She met him with a grim scowl, catching him with one hand on his throat and one on his crotch, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground with most of her strength. He hit like a bag of cement tossed from the roof of a five-story building, grunted, and got back to his feet. But he wavered as he came towards her, breathing heavily. The Angel could see that his heart was not in this.

  She smiled. Even though he was bigger than her, he was no match for her righteous strength. The only thing that had saved him from the full force of the body slam was the thick sward and soft dirt he’d landed on. Nothing, she thought, could save him from her fists.

  He leaped at her again, his powerful haunches launching him like a tiger. This time she met him with a hammering upper cut that spun him end over, sending him flying back in the direction he’d come. Contarini had to dodge his flailing limbs as he flew by.