Death Draws Five

Chapter seven

Fortunato watched as the wild-eyed woman with long black hair roared into the parking lot and proceeded to kick major ass. There was no other way to put it. He would have gladly joined her, but his insubstantiality prevented him from being anything more than an invisible cheering section as she rescued the boy from his abductors.

He watched her rattle off down the road with his son safely in the seat next to her while the still-standing kidnappers tried to roll the flipped Lincoln off their screaming compatriot. Once they succeeded the man didn’t stop screaming. He was in bad shape, with crushed legs and probable internal damage. He needed a hospital, fast.

That reminded Fortunato. Even though his body was safe in a hospital bed, he was actually not in great shape. His spirit had been away from it for quite awhile. While he had achieved much, his success wouldn’t be quite as dramatic if his body perished because he’d left it alone for too long. It was time to go back.

The transition wasn’t instantaneous, but it seemed faster than the trip out. For one thing, he knew where he was going. He didn’t hesitate. He just aimed himself south and flew on the unseen, unfelt etheric winds. For another thing, he had far more energy than he’d had in years. The vigor he’d absorbed from the rich black earth was still singing through his system like high-octane fuel. He didn’t know how much was in his tank, but he was determined to utilize it as best he could. He pushed himself hard, and it was a good thing that he did because he arrived at the clinic just in time.

He opened his eyes to see a frantic Dr. Finn standing over him. His hospital gown was torn open, exposing his chest, which had been smeared with some messy goo. Finn was holding two shiny metal paddles that were hooked up by thickly insulated wires to a machine that had been newly wheeled to his bedside.

“Clear!” Finn yelled, and the nurses jammed around Fortunato’s bed stepped backward.

Fortunato opened his eyes and grabbed Finn’s hands before he could slap the defibrillating paddles onto his chest. He was pretty sure that he didn’t need an electric jolt his heart.

“Fortunato!”

Fortunato couldn’t tell if Finn had shouted in fear or relief, or both. The paddles sagged in the doctor’s grip. “I’m all right, doctor,” he said. “Really. I don’t think I need this.”

“What happened?” Finn asked. “We thought we’d lost you. The monitor showed your heart beat slowing down over the last hour or so, until we couldn’t get a reading and we thought it had stopped.”

“I was gone,” Fortunato said. “For a bit, anyway. Now I’m back.”

Finn handed the paddles to the nurse who was hovering anxiously over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off his patient. “Gone—like on a trip? Were you astral projecting?”

Fortunato nodded.

“Then your powers have returned?” Finn asked.

Fortunato nodded again, cautiously. “It seems so. It’s all so new, that I’m not sure.”

“Uh...” Finn cleared his throat. “They’re not... activated... like in the old days?”

“You mean by Tantric magick and the intromission of my sperm?” Fortunato asked. “That was before your time. How’d you know about that?”

“I’ve read your file,” Finn said. “You’re an unusual patient with unusual powers and presumably unusual strengths and weaknesses. Dr. Tachyon kept extensive notes on you, as he did on many aces and jokers—”

Fortunato laughed quietly. “I hope you didn’t believe all the bad stuff he said about me.”

Finn smiled. “Tachyon was—is—highly opinionated.”

Fortunato’s laughter turned to a sigh. “I’m sure I gave him cause.”

He stared at the ceiling, hardly believing that this notion had come into his head. What am I thinking? Fortunato thought. I must be tired. Over-wrought from the action of the past couple of days. I am getting old.

“What’s the matter?” Finn asked.

“Nothing,” Fortunato said. “I’m just tired. I need some sleep.”

Finn looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. Do you need anything for the pain?”

Fortunato lay back on the pillow and took stock of his body. The pain from the beating he’d suffered at the hands of the Jokka Bruddas hadn’t entirely vanished, but it had receded from the forefront of his consciousness, going deep into bone and muscle where it was a dully-throbbing presence. He could stand it. He shook his head.

“No,” he said, surprised. “It’s not too bad.”

“All right,” Finn said. “We’ll leave you then.” He stopped at the doorway after the others had streamed out of the room and looked back at Fortunato, shaking his head. “Aces! You always make the worst patients. No more gallivanting around in your astral form. You need rest. Get some.”

“All right.” Even if the boy was safe for the moment, Fortunato still had to be sure of his eventual rescue. But now he knew how to track him anytime he wanted to. Finn was right. Now he needed rest.

Finn switched off the overhead light as he left the room, leaving Fortunato discommoded by the annoying LED lights and rhythmic blips from the machinery and monitors connected to him. He thought that the distractions would make it difficult to sleep, but he was wrong. He closed his eyes and went out almost instantaneously.

While he slept his unconscious mind shunted energy throughout his body, repairing damage old and new, restoring tissue, strengthening ligaments, and mending tendons worn with use and age.

For the first time in years Fortunato slept, and did not dream.

New Hampton: the Snake-Handlers’ Commune

“I’m sure there’s some way we can fix all this,” Jerry said.

Uzziah shook his head. “I’ve seen many things happen in this here church over the years. Many strange and awful things.”

“Uh-huh,” someone in the audience said.

“I’ve seen people possessed by the Holy Spirit fall on the floor and shake like the good Lord himself had put His icy hand on their spine.”

“Amen,” some in the audience called, and there were scattered echoes as others took up the cry.

“I’ve seen people prophecy in tongues no longer spoken in this world of woe.”

The response came louder as the parishioners gathered about their preacher.

“I’ve seen people DRINK POISON and TAKE UP SERPENTS with no harm come to them.”

The cries of the audience reverberated in the tiny church, and Jerry found himself inching backwards, slowly and carefully, as he realized that this might be his best opportunity to escape.

“But NEVER. NEVER in all my days have I EVER seen someone so possessed, so consumed, so TAKEN UP by the Holy Spirit that WALLS could not hold them, TONGUES could not tell of them, PRAYER could not contain the energy that DROVE them to their worship, AMEN.”

Someone rattled a tambourine and the band started playing loudly and raggedly. The service, so unexpectedly interrupted, was suddenly whole again.

The dancing and praying and testifying was back up to full speed as Jerry slipped through the hole that Angel had smashed through the wall in her inexplicable frenzy to escape. Outside, the afternoon was turning toward dusk. He had to report to Ackroyd, then they had to go after Angel and the kid and rescue them both from whatever had possessed her so unexpectedly.

Something was wrong, though. It took Jerry a moment to realize that it was the music coming from the church. There was no electric guitar. He stopped, and Mushroom Daddy, following behind, almost walked right into him.

“Hey,” Daddy said, “you’re not splitting, are you man?”

Jerry started walking again. He didn’t have time to waste on hippie burn-outs no matter how nice they seemed to be. “Can’t talk now, uh, Daddy. Got to get after Angel.”

“Groovy. That’s all cool, man,” Daddy said, falling in beside Jerry now that he’d been noticed. “We got to go after Angel. And my van, man. I got to get it back.”

“Sure, Daddy,” Jerry assured him. “We’ll get it back for you. She probably had a good reason to take it. I’m sure she had. Fastest way might be to call it in to the Troopers. You got the license plate and tag number somewhere?”

Jerry hoped that wouldn’t be too much to ask, but by the look on Daddy’s face maybe it was. “Uh, man, I don’t know about that. It’d be a bummer to call the pigs in. I don’t know how they could help us.”

“They can find the van through the plate number,” Jerry said patiently.

“Well, probably not, man, because I made ‘em myself.”

Jerry stopped and looked at him. “You what?”

“Yeah, made ‘em myself, man. In my garage. I’ve always been pretty good with my hands. Saves me over thirty bucks a year, that doesn’t have to go to, like, the state and the military industrial complex.”

Jerry frowned at him. “Even the yearly renewal tag?”

Daddy looked proud. “That’s the easiest part, man. Color Xerox and rubber cement.”

“I don’t suppose you remember the numbers you put on the plate, or wrote them down or something?”

“Why would I, man? They’re just numbers. They don’t mean anything.”

Jerry sighed. “No, I guess they don’t,” he said. We can still call in the Troopers, Jerry thought. There can’t be too many thirty-year-old VW vans on the road. And she couldn’t have gotten far.

They’d reached the dirt parking lot in front of the snake handler’s tumble-down barn. Then he froze as he realized there were far too many cars.

“Hello, boys,” a voice said from inside one of them. “What are you two doing wandering around here?”

I know that voice, Jerry thought. I’ve heard it before. He shaded his eyes, trying to look through the glare of the sun shining off the car’s windshield.

“This chick friend of his stole my van, man,” Daddy chimed in helpfully. “We’re looking for it.”

“That’s funny,” the voice said. “So are we.”

Jerry’s hand dropped to his side. He thought for a moment of going for the gun Ackroyd had given him, which he was carrying snugged in a holster against the small of his back. But he knew that would be suicide. He’d recognized the speaker’s voice, he saw the others emerging from their vehicles.

It was Witness and more armed thugs.

New Hampton: The woods

Kitty Cat raced into the clearing as fast as his tiny legs could carry him.

“Trouble!” he called out. “There’s trouble at the snake handlers’!”

“What is it?” Yeoman asked.

“Cauliflower called my cell. He’d gone to check out the commune because he heard a lot of noise over there. Got there too late to see all of what had happened, but saw your partner—” he nodded at Ackroyd—“and Mushroom Daddy get taken by a bunch of armed thugs.”

“Mushroom Daddy?” Ackroyd asked.

Yeoman gestured. “A local character. Harmless. He lives on Onion Avenue. He has some kind of weird ace—he grows the best produce in the area.” He turned back to Kitty Cat. “What’s happening now?”

“Cauliflower says they’re beating them up. Daddy and that Creighton guy. Beating them up and asking them questions about the boy, but they can’t answer ‘em.”

Ray looked at Brennan. “How far’s the compound from here?”

“Cross country, a couple of miles.”

“All right,” Ray said. “Let’s move.”

They paused, looked at Ackroyd. “Go ahead,” the private investigator said, “I’ll follow as best I can.”

Yeoman nodded decisively. “Kitty Cat—show him the way.”

“All right,” the tiny joker said.

“Follow me,” Yeoman said, and he and Ray took off through the woods.

They left Ackroyd behind in moments. Yeoman moved fast, Ray thought, but not super-humanly fast. He set a good pace, but Ray held himself back, necessarily following the archer down the thickly-forested hillside. Minutes passed, perhaps four or five, then they burst out of the woods onto the verge of a familiar road that ran along the hillside like an asphalt ribbon.

Yeoman leaned over, breathing heavily. Ray had broken a sweat, but his breath was still normal. “Stick to the road,” Yeoman told him. “You’ll move faster on it than cross country. This is Lower Road—”

“I know,” Ray said. “The compound?”

“Left. Uphill all the way. You’ll see a gated dirt road with a sign. You can’t miss it. I’ll follow as quickly as I can.”

“Do that,” Ray said.

He started down the road at an easy lope. Yeoman kept pace for the first ten or fifteen yards, then Ray started to pull away. He ran like an animal, just for the sheer physical enjoyment of feeling his muscles work like parts of a well-designed machine, without thought of what he would find when he came to the end of his run. Like always when fighting or exercising or screwing, Ray lived in the moment, concentrating on the play of muscle and tendon, of flesh and bone fighting against gravity, of mind and will battling the inevitable depletion of the energy that ran the machine of his body.

The road went uphill at a steady grade. Within moments he was breathing hard, gasping for oxygen that he needed to fuel his system, but Yeoman was a hundred yards back, moving okay for a nat, but beaten badly, Ray thought, just the same. Beaten badly. He looked at the slope looming before him and sucked in a long shuddering breath between clenched teeth. This hill wouldn’t beat him, either.

He leaned into it, pumping his arms harder as he lengthened his stride. The captives might be undergoing unspeakable tortures now at the hands of the kidnapper gang, but that was only part of what drove Ray. Not even the major part of it.

It was the hill under his feet that pushed him on, harder and harder, his breath whistling now like a dying bird as it escaped his throat. The damned hill was trying to slow him down. Trying to beat him. Trying to clip the wings off of his feet. But he wouldn’t let it.

He was in a full sprint when he saw the turnoff, and had to slow down so he wouldn’t get tangled up while he turned onto the dirt path leading into the woods. It went uphill, again. The grade was steep, right up the face of the hill, not rising gently along its edge.

He ran on the left shoulder as the path twisted and banked through the trees. It seemed like a long time before he saw the parking area, but it was probably only a few minutes. The lot was still a hundred yards distant as the meandering path leveled out. Between the intervening trees and the surrounding cars he couldn’t quite make out what was happening. A couple of big, dark sedans were parked in haphazard angles in the open space before some run-down wooden buildings. Barns or something. At least half a dozen men were standing around, watching something that was out of his range of vision.

His head started to swim, so he slowed down a little, realizing that he was on the verge of total system collapse as his muscles burned the last of the energy available to them. Fortunately, he would arrive on the scene in seconds and speed was no longer of the essence. Now silence was.

He took long, deep breaths. He tried to make his steps lighter, as if he were gliding over the ground. As he approached he got a better view of what was happening. He didn’t like what he saw.

He counted fourteen men in the parking lot. He figured this Mushroom Daddy was the hippie-looking guy being held with his arms pinned behind his back by one of the thugs. Two others held Creighton, Ackroyd’s partner, while a third systematically beat him with a truncheon. Eight others stood around watching. Ray grinned. Those were odds that he could enjoy.

No one had seen or heard him yet as he came closer and closer. No one... no one... no one...

Someone finally spotted him and opened his mouth to yell as Ray launched himself into the air. He landed on the hood of a car, catapulted off, bounced back to the ground, and hit the Allumbrado as he went by. He pulled his punch, but only a little.

Seven left.

Two were standing next to each other. Ray went down, his leg shot out in a sweeping arc, and cut them to the ground. Ray rolled forward, once, and was on them. He grabbed one by his jacket collar and head-butted him into unconsciousness. The other tried to crawl away. Ray grabbed his belt and dragged him back, kicking and screaming. He wrapped a hand in his greasy hair, made a disgusted face, and slammed his head, face first, into the packed dirt of the parking lot, smashing his nose flat and stunning him like a steer in a slaughter house hit between the eyes with an ax. Ray left him choking on his own blood.

Five left.

Ray scrambled to his feet and saw that he had run out of luck. The man standing six feet from him had drawn a pistol. Well out of Ray’s reach, he smiled and aimed carefully as Ray launched himself. The gunman squeezed off two shots then lost his smile as he realized that actually he wasn’t well out of Ray’s reach. Ray’s grin turned savage as one of the shots ripped past his ear and the other tore through meat and muscle high on his right shoulder, punching a hole clean through from chest to back. Ray didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He hit the man around the waist, like back in the days before his ace turned and he was playing six-man football in high school in Montana, only now his ace had turned. He was hurt and jazzed with adrenaline and pain and less conscious of his own strength. He felt the man’s ribs crack as he slammed him hard against a car fender and the shooter screamed as internal organs pulped.

Four left.

Two stood side by side, their automatics out. For the first time Ray remembered Yeoman and he wondered how long it would take the bowman to reach the battleground. The two thugs squeezed off shots that whined off the car’s fender, ricocheting into the night. Ray knew he wasn’t strong enough to throw a car at the shooters, so he threw the only thing he had, the body he still held. They ducked, splitting apart, and Ray went in on the heels of the dead man. More shots rang out and he felt the pain of a fiery poker drilling though his left thigh and upper right chest. He drew a deep breath, his smile a death’s mask, relieved when he realized that the bullet had missed his lung. That would have been trouble. Then he was on them. He grabbed a wrist and waltzed one around so that he blocked the other’s shot. He snapped his captive’s forearm and the injured man dropped his gun, screaming. The other, his eyes wide with fear, tried to blast through his comrade. Ray, wearing his captive like a bulletproof vest, rushed the shooter, who fired and back-pedaled as fast as he could. He clicked empty and Ray hadn’t felt any more impacts. Either he was beyond feeling, or his impromptu shield had absorbed all the shots. He tossed the body away and fell on the shooter, who screamed and threw his pistol. The automatic hit Ray in the cheek, the sight slicing it and pissing Ray off even more. Ray’s hand closed on the thug’s flailing arm and he pulled him close and wrenched his shoulder out of its socket. The man screamed. For good measure Ray grabbed his other arm and pulled that one out of its socket as well. The Allumbrado fell to the ground still screaming, and Ray turned.

Two left.

They were standing next to each other, ten feet from Ray. The others, who were holding the hippie and Ackroyd’s partner, had not moved. Two left, and one was unarmed. Ray recognized him. It was the blonde asshole who had abused Angel in Vegas. Ray smiled.

But the other was holding an automatic rifle and pointing it right at Ray’s chest. He realized there was no chance of dodging automatic rifle fire from the distance of ten feet. Fired from that close it could dish out more pain and destruction than he could deal with. It would certainly incapacitate him, and then it would be simple to deliver the coup de grace. Ray had never had to regenerate from a bullet between the eyes, and he didn’t want to try it for the first time so late in his career. He knew his only hope was to keep them talking as long as he could. He leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths.

“Witness,” he said, brushing futilely at the seeping bloodstains that had utterly ruined his suit, “what brings you to these parts?”

The blonde man frowned. “You recognize me?”

“Sure.” Ray took a deep breath to slow down his hammering heart. “I saw you in Vegas, picking on girls.”

Witness laughed. It was not a jolly sound. “Yes. I remember you now. Someone told me your name. Billy Ray, isn’t it?”

Ray nodded.

“So,” Witness said thoughtfully, “the federal government is involved. We weren’t sure, but we thought it might be when your partner made off with the boy.”

“My partner?” Ray asked. Then it struck him. “Oh, Angel.”

“Is that her name?” Witness said. “She’s quite striking. I’ll enjoy it when we meet again. Well.” He thought for a moment, then he glanced at the man who’d kept Ray covered the whole time. “I don’t think he can tell us anything more. Kill him.”

Ray tensed, ready for a desperate jump, knowing it would be useless.

New Hampton: Snake-Handlers’ Commune

Jerry felt as if he’d gone a couple of rounds with Marciano in his prime or maybe Jake LaMotta, like in Raging Bull. He grimly held on to his consciousness and just as grimly tried not to puke on his shoes as Witness’s man worked him over with a sap loaded with lead pellets, stopping every now and then to ask questions about John Fortune that he couldn’t answer.

The sudden appearance of Billy Ray was like the arrival of an angel on Earth. His captors stopped beating him. Ray was a blur of motion as he charged heedlessly into a fight against impossible odds, but after a moment or two Jerry had the sudden hope that perhaps the odds weren’t all that impossible as Ray cut through his foes like, appropriately enough, an ace through nats.

His hope, however, was short-lived as Witness and the last of his otherwise unoccupied henchmen got the drop on Ray. Everyone was watching the drama, Jerry realized, even the thug who’d been holding him while his pal sapped him down. He went limp, sagging forward with all his weight, and his right arm broke free of his captor’s grip.

“Hey!” the man exclaimed, yanking on Jerry’s left arm and turning him half around.

Jerry concentrated and held his right hand out, rigid as a knife. The additional pain barely registered on his consciousness as the bones of his middle three fingers lengthened and tore through the flesh of his fingertips. He didn’t have time to get fancy. He just punched out with a knife-hand and caught the man in the throat. His fingers penetrated flesh and the man gurgled, released Jerry, and grabbed his throat.

Jerry fell. His fingers slipped out of the man’s throat, and blood spurted from the wound, big time. It looked as if he’d hit the carotid artery. His tormentor collapsed, gagging and choking into the bloodstained dust at his feet. Jerry fought down a wave of nausea as arcing gobbets of blood splattered his shoes. He’d seen death close up before, but it was never easy to take. Death entailed real pain and suffering and even though these guys were assholes who hadn’t thought twice about beating him to a pulp, Jerry wouldn’t, couldn’t, descend to their level. He still felt bad about having to kill.

But only for a moment. He had other things to worry about.

The other thug lifted his sap and took a step toward Jerry. He froze suddenly when an arrow came out of nowhere and bulls-eyed the gunman holding down on Ray. The thug with the sap looked around frantically, but there was no sign of the archer.

I owe him again, Jerry thought, and he kicked the thug in the knee. There was a satisfyingly loud crack, and he went down screaming. Jerry turned towards Mushroom Daddy with the thought of freeing him, as there was a mad scramble for the fallen rifle. Witness grabbed it.

“Hold it,” he screamed, waving it from Ray to Jerry to Mushroom Daddy and the man restraining him. “Come out of the woods, you murdering bastard! Come out or they all get it! Now!”

“You even look like you’re going to start shooting,” a calm voice said from the forest, “and I’ll put you down like a mad dog.”

“I’m an ace!” Witness screamed. “A frigging ace! A fucking arrow can’t take me out! I’ll hang on long enough to hose down all your friends. Depend on it!”

Yeoman came into the clearing without making a sound, an arrow strung to his bow, the string pulled back to his cheek.

Witness laughed. “What we have here is the classic Mexican stand-off.”

“We can take him, Yeoman,” Ray panted, bleeding from at least four wounds that Jerry could see.

The man holding Daddy’s arms looked worried. He let the hippie go, and started to move backward. Witness glanced at him. Jerry could see that his eyes were crazed with fear.

“Don’t move! Any of you!”

“I’m on your side,” the man said.

“I SAID NOBODY MOVE!” Witness screamed.

Mushroom Daddy looked at his captor. “That’s what happens when you side with fascists. Bummer for you, man.”

“Shut up,” Witness shouted. “Let me think.”

“Why don’t you just back up, get in one of those cars, and get out of here,” Jerry suggested.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Witness sneered. “Then your pal could shoot me in the back.”

“Why don’t we put all the weapons down,” Ray offered, “and go hand to hand? Me and you. Mano a mano.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Witness asked. “You think I don’t know that you’d all jump on me? You think—“

Spittle flew from Witness’s mouth as he raged on, and Jerry was about to shout “Look out!” when there was a strange popping noise in the air, near Witness. Jerry heard a familiar voice mutter, “Shit!”

Ackroyd was at the edge of the parking lot, carrying Kitty Cat piggyback, the joker’s tiny arms entwined around his neck. Ackroyd was heaving great shuddering breaths, like he’d just run a marathon, which was close enough to the truth. His right hand was pointing towards Witness, but it was shaking with Ackroyd’s effort to control his fatigue. Suddenly, simultaneously, Witness vanished as in-rushing air made another “POP!” as he disappeared, and another, louder noise exploded as one of the thugs nailed Ackroyd with a slug from his automatic.

Ackroyd whirled, spilling Kitty Cat, and fell heavily over a log marking the parking lot’s boundary. Jerry spied the shooter, who was kneeling and still aiming at Ackroyd. No one was near him. Jerry shouted “NO!” as the thug started to squeeze off another shot at his helpless target, but the gun went off harmlessly into the air as Yeoman’s arrow hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him right on his ass. Jerry ran toward Ackroyd. Ray reached his side first and kneeled down by him.

“Ah, Jesus,” Ackroyd panted. “M-missed the bastard,” he paused to take a deep breath. “Missed him with my first try.”

“You okay?” Jerry asked anxiously.

“Bullet wound doesn’t look too bad,” Ray said. “Just a flesh wound to the thigh.”

“Yeah,” Ackroyd said, “but I think I broke my ankle when I fell over that damn log.”

Jerry looked at Ackroyd’s leg, and nodded. It was an easy diagnosis to confirm. A jagged splinter of bone was sticking out through Ackroyd’s sock.

Ray nodded. “It’s broke all right. Though,” he added as Yeoman joined them, “could have been worse. The shooter was about to pump another slug into you before our pal here bullseyed him.”

“Thanks,” Ackroyd said through clenched teeth.

Yeoman smiled thinly. “You’re welcome. I appreciate the effort that took.”

Ackroyd grunted. “I’m out of my head with pain.”

“Where’d you send Witness?” Jerry asked him.

“Top of the Statue of Liberty,” Ackroyd said.

Jerry frowned. “That’s closed for repairs, isn’t it?”

Ackroyd nodded. “It’s the only place I could think to send him where he couldn’t shoot any innocent bystanders.”

“Hope he falls down the stairs and breaks his frigging neck,” Ray said.

Jerry looked up and glanced around the parking lot. It resembled a bloody war zone with wounded men lying all around. Back up the hill, a semi-circle of stunned snake-handlers looked on. A couple of the thugs had gotten back on their feet and were edging off into the woods.

“Freeze, you dirty rats,” Jerry said in his best Cagney imitation.

And they did.

New Hampton: Snake Handlers’ Commune

Ray slumped wearily on the ground, momentarily breathing deeply of the gathering dusk, and wondered if he could stand again without collapsing. Better try it now, he told himself. It’s not going to get any easier. Somehow he pushed himself to his feet, swaying a bit until his head stopped swimming.

“You look like Hell, Ray,” Jerry said.

“Thanks.” He took a deep breath and almost toppled over. “I’ll be fine after I pass out for awhile.”

“Save the repartee,” Yeoman said. “You need medical attention, along with Ackroyd.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Only if we get the bleeding stopped,” Yeoman said. “You can’t have much left running though your veins.”

“Hey, guys,” Mushroom Daddy said, “I’ll go get one of the first aid kits from the snake handlers. They’ve got some really fine ones in case of accidents while playing their rattlers and shit.”

Yeoman looked around at the body-littered ground. “Some of these guys could use attention, too. I’ve seen fewer bodies on battlefields.”

So have I, Ray thought. Maybe too many battlefields. God, I’m tired. To Hell with standing up. He stretched out on the ground, and was asleep before Mushroom Daddy returned with the first aid kit.

Pennsylvania: Somewhere on the road

After a couple of hours the Angel figure it was time to pull over at a gas station to hit the bathroom, take on supplies, and make some phone calls. They stopped in a God-forsaken coal-mining town in Pennsylvania where the slag piles glowed redly like the pits of Hell and the stench of brimstone, or something very like it, smothered the air they were trying to breath.

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 wheeling 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 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.