Wild Cards: Death Draws Five (37 page)

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 City: 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.”

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.

J
erry 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.