Death Draws Five

Chapter eight

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.”

Fortunato stripped off his hospital robe unselfconsciously and dressed in the underwear, jeans, socks, and pullover short-sleeved shirt that Digger had bought him. “What have I been doing in all those places?” he asked the reporter.

Digger flopped on Fortunato’s unmade hospital bed and gusted a deep sigh, shaking his head. “You think of it, you did it. You stopped a mugging in Brooklyn. You made a car swerve in Monticello and miss a kitten that had wandered into the road. Your face was seen etched in the dirt of an elementary school window in the Bronx.”

Fortunato glanced at him. “What?”

Digger shrugged. “Like I said, you’ve been a busy guy.”

Fortunato sat down and put on the running shoes Digger had bought. It was the first time in ages he hadn’t worn simple woven-straw sandals. He stood and walked about in a small circle, testing them. They looked garish and bulky, but felt good on his feet.

“I did none of these things,” he said. “Well—I did kill that ace, but I didn’t mean to. Not really.” His eyes narrowed and he spoke half to himself. “There were a couple of questions I’d wanted to ask him.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Digger said. “Mean to, I mean. What we have here is a genuine phenomenon. People want to believe in something, and it looks like you may be it. You’re big news, Fortunato, and you’re only going to get bigger. Maybe the next big thing. Listen, let me interview you on Aces! Corner on Entertainment Tonight. That’ll only be the first step. Within the week, you’ll be on Larry King Live. I guarantee it.”

Fortunato shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have time for this now. Maybe later, when things have settled down.”

Digger looked disappointed, but after a moment of reflection, nodded. “You’re right. We should let the mystery deepen. The tension build. Let the rumors swirl for awhile. Maybe a few hints in the written media, then, wham! I see a special, maybe on the E! Network.”

“Will that pay for the damage done to the Clinic?” Finn asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway of Fortunato’s room.

Fortunato turned to him. “I’m sorry about that, doctor. I really am. Perhaps I can make it up to you some day, but right now I’m checking out. I have to get going.”

Finn grabbed his arm as he went by. “I should examine you first.”

Fortunato stopped. There was a time when he would have pulled away angrily if someone laid their hands on him like that. But that time had passed. “I’m fine, doctor. You know I am.”

“Well, maybe,” Finn said. “But the police have been asking about you. I’ve been telling them that you’re hurt, under sedation—”

“All the more reason I have to go, before I get tied up in red tape.” He put his own hand on the doctor’s arm, but his touch was friendly. “I know you’ve done a lot for me, Finn. I appreciate that. I’ll do what I can to make it up to you. But right now I have to go after my son. He’s not out of danger yet.”

“Well...” Finn let his hand fall away from Fortunato’s arm. “All right. Where are you headed?”

“Branson, Missouri,” Fortunato said with a look of contemplation. He turned to Digger Downs. “Coming?” he asked.

Digger jumped up from the bed. “Sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Good, Fortunato thought. Because I still don’t have any money. He realized that before long he’d have to figure out a way to make some if he was going to remain in the world. He couldn’t depend on the good will of Aces! forever.

Digger joined him at the doorway and preceded Fortunato into the hallway. Fortunato paused for a moment and turned back to Finn.

“How’s Peregrine doing?” he asked.

Finn shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. Maybe even a little better. But she’s still got a long convalescence ahead of her.”

“There is something you can do for me.”

“Say goodbye for you?” Finn asked.

“How’d you know?” Fortunato said after the silence had stretched uncomfortably between them.

Finn shrugged again. “I read Tachyon’s dossier on you, remember?”

Fortunato nodded. “Yeah. I guess that the space wimp did have my number.”

He turned and left the hospital room. Finn watched him go in silence.

Branson, Missouri

Sascha Starfin was waiting for them near the baggage carousel. Jerry saw him immediately once he and Ray and Mushroom Daddy had fought their way past the crowds of women wearing MAGOG buttons.

“Sascha!”

The ace turned his head towards them as Jerry shouted and waved. Sascha’s height was accentuated by his thinness and his long neck. His hair, receding at the temples, was stylishly gelled so that a roguish curl fell over his broad forehead. His teeth were white and straight, his mouth expressive. It was his most expressive feature. He had no eyes, only an unbroken expanse of skin across the sockets that should have housed them.

“Jerry, glad you made it.” He turned to Ray. “Mr. Ray. Good to see you, as well.” His eyeless face turned unerringly to Mushroom Daddy.

“Wow,” Daddy said. “Spooky, man. How’d you know I was here?”

Sascha flashed another smile. “I’m telepathic, for one thing. For another, I can smell you. I didn’t know there was a cannabis-scented variety of Old Spice.”

Ray broke in before Mushroom Daddy could reply. “Did you book rooms in the hotel I mentioned?”

Sascha nodded, though he looked dubious. “Yes. The Manger, at the Peaceable Kingdom. Isn’t that a little way out of town?”

Ray shook his head. “We’re not here to see Boxcar Willie. Believe me, we’ll be close to the action.”

“The Manger?” Jerry said doubtfully. “What kind of hotel is that?”

Ray smiled. “It’s the kind where ‘There’s Always A Room For You, Even If You’re Not The Savior.’”

“Wait a minute,” Jerry said. “The Peaceable Kingdom. Isn’t that Barnett’s religious theme park?”

“Yep,” Ray said, “we’ll discuss it later. I’ve got to check some things out.”

He hustled away through the automatic doors and into afternoon beyond, where he jumped into the first taxi in line. Sascha puckered his lips in a thoughtful moue. “Ray left precipitously, didn’t he?” the eyeless ace said. “That man has secrets.”

They followed Ray outside into the warm summer afternoon on the fringe of the Ozark Mountains. Jerry shrugged as they went up to the cab currently at the head of the line.

“He’s a spook. He probably has more secrets than a madame in a high-class cathouse. But, you’re right. He’s been helpful so far, but really, how far can you trust these government types? Keep an eye on him.”

Sascha grinned, and made an okay sign with thumb and forefinger as Jerry opened the cab door.

“Where to, gents?” the cabby asked as the three slid into the air-conditioned comfort of his back seat.

“Peaceable Kingdom, the Manger,” Jerry said in a resigned voice.

The cabby cleared his throat as he eyed them, especially Mushroom Daddy, in the rear view mirror. “I see that you gentlemen have, uh, sophisticated tastes. If you’re interested in any of the real thrilling sights, stuff the tourists generally don’t get to see, I’m your man. Real joker acts. Some real wild ones, if you know what I mean. Aces, too, sometimes, with powers that’ll blow your mind. Totally unregulated gaming,” he said, glancing in the mirror at Sascha whose wild card nature was rather obvious.

“I didn’t know there was any of that in town,” Jerry said.

“Oh, sure,” the cabby said, nearly side-swiping a white stretch limo as he snuck through a red light at the last second, shooting the limo’s driver the finger and Jerry a shark-like smile. “Not in town, of course. The town is strictly for the squares. Lennon Sisters. Pat Boone. Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. That yodeling guy. You know, Un a Paloma Blanco.”

“Boxcar Willie?” Daddy asked.

“Slim Pickens?” Sascha asked.

The cabby shook his head. “Nah. That’s not him. Anyway, the real action is outside of town. The road houses. The exotic attractions. Like the river boats out on the lake.”

“River boats on a lake?” Jerry asked.

The cabby shrugged. “Close enough for the tourists. Some places have free access to all kinds of games, even to wild carders, which I hope you don’t mind me saying kind of stand out in this place.”

“I don’t mind,” Daddy said.

“Good,” the cabby nodded. “Roulette. Craps. Slots. You just got know where to look. And know how to not get caught cheating.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Jerry looked out the cab window as they passed through the town. All roads from the airport, it seemed, led through Branson. That was the point of them, after all.

Compared to Vegas, Jerry thought, Branson was kind of... mediocre. There was traffic, but more pick-ups and Winnebagos than limousines. They were lights, but fewer of them, and dimmer. There were hotels and theaters, but smaller, definitely less glittery. They were stolid brick buildings, not phantasmargorical palaces of exotic sin. The names on the marquees were more pleasingly familiar than exotic. There was, Jerry noted, a dearth of topless reviews but plenty of gospel choirs. One constant, though, was common to both tourist Meccas. There were plenty of buffets.

Branson wasn’t as big as Vegas, either. A trip down the strip took less than twenty minutes, and suddenly they were out in the open country of a small peninsula jutting out into Table Rock Lake. From a distance, the Peaceable Kingdom looked pretty much like any other theme park, its skyline dominated by a high Ferris wheel, a twisting roller coaster, and some whirling, whipping, and falling down really fast rides which Jerry never really saw the point of.

The cabby pulled up in front of The Manger, which, yes, did have something of a faux Middle Eastern look about it. “Remember what I told you,” he said as they decamped with their luggage. He zoomed back into the unrelenting traffic.

“Your bag, sir?” someone said. Jerry turned to see a joker in a bellhop uniform—if you could call faux Arabic robes and headgear a uniform—reaching for his suitcase. His third arm, coming right out of the center of his chest, grabbed the bag. Handy, Jerry thought, for a bellboy. The bellboy turned to Sascha and Daddy.

“I’ve already checked in,” Sascha said.

“I’m cool, man,” Daddy said to the bellboy.

“No luggage?” Jerry asked.

“Like, why should I bring clothes, man?” Daddy laughed at the self-evident absurdity of the idea. “If I need more I can always get some.”

If? Jerry thought. Good God, he’s not staying in my room.

They went through the large revolving door and the air conditioning hit Jerry in the face like a blast of frigid wind howling down from the North Pole. The lobby was dark, cold, and crowded. The decor was hotel-lobby modern, with a twist. There was faux marble, thick carpeting, palms and other plants commonly found in that ecological niche, and comfy chairs scattered around. The twist was in the decor.

The ersatz Middle Eastern theme was continued with walls made of pseudo adobe bricks (at least Jerry hoped that they were pseudo; it rained far too often in southern Missouri for adobe to be a viable building material) and wooden beams coming out of the walls acting as false support columns. Jerry half-expected piles of straw (or maybe fake straw) strewn around the simulated flagstone flooring. The hotel staff all wore burnooses, like they were extras from The Ten Commandments. Religious art and iconography was scattered all over the walls, all with a cute, if not kitschy turn.

It was all too much to take in. To avoid having to deal with it all, Jerry went around the knots of chatting guests, many of them women wearing MAGOG welcoming tags, and marched up to the check-in counter, followed by Sascha.

“What are all these middle-aged, Midwestern types doing here?” he asked in a quiet voice as they waited behind the red velvet rope for a clerk to check him in

“This is the Mecca of Midwest tourism,” Sascha said, equally quietly as the white-haired woman ahead of them turned to stare suspiciously, caught a look at Sascha’s face then immediately turned away. “But it’s also MAGOG’s national convention, and, luckily for us, The Manger is one of the convention hotels.”

MAGOG—Mothers Against Gods Or Goddesses—was one of those grassroots organizations that had sprung up over night after some social tragedy or another, in this case a school shooting by some doped-up losers who claimed to be pagans. Jerry wasn’t sure if MAGOG had actually ever accomplished anything over the years of its existence, but they sure knew how to generate noise and publicity.

One of the check-in clerks caught Jerry’s eye and gestured him up to the counter. Sascha and Mushroom Daddy followed. It went pretty much like all big-hotel check-ins, with some fumbling around with the name the reservation had actually been made under. The clerk gave him a key, and Jerry gestured over his shoulder to Mushroom Daddy.

“Better give him one, too,” he said, instantly knowing that somehow, someway, they would regret this.

Kentucky: Somewhere on the Road

The Angel and John Fortune were somewhere on a mountain road half way through Kentucky, singing along to a song on the Canned Heat tape playing in the eight-track.

The Angel wasn’t familiar with much in the way of popular music from the past couple of decades. Her mother had frowned on most of it and wouldn’t let her play it on the radio, and they never had much money for records, though her mother had a couple that she listened to obsessively, especially if she’d been drinking. Most of the people at the churches they attended over the years considered pop music the Devil’s music, and the Angel had been pretty willing to accept their opinion.

But some of the tapes that Daddy had in his van were actually pretty good. The Canned Heat one they were listening to was fun, and oddly appropriate to their current situation. She and John Fortune had listened to “On the Road Again” over and over until they knew the lyrics by heart, at least those they could understand. They just made up their own words for the ones they couldn’t, and sang along with the driving beat. She suddenly realized, almost guiltily, that they were having fun. She tried to stop.

“My dear mother left me when I was quite young,” they sang as the Angel negotiated a sweeping downhill curve. “She said, ‘Lord have mercy upon my wicked son.’”

Appropriate. How appropriate. She could hear her life in this old song. They could have been singing about her. She glanced at John Fortune. He was smiling, enjoying the adventure that his young life had turned into. He has a good heart, the Angel thought, as well as steady courage and compassion. Yet, the passing hours that they had spent together, had shown her that he seemed more of a boy than the Savior of the world. Is it possible, she wondered, that he hasn’t yet realized who he is?

“I ain’t got no woman to call my special friend,” John Fortune sang. He smiled at her, and the Angel felt a sudden warmth on her upper right thigh. She glanced down to see his hand resting there. She could feel the heat it radiated through the leather of her jumpsuit. She looked back up at him.

“You know, Angel,” he said, “you’re really beautiful.”

She could feel herself blushing, but worse, she could feel the curse of her body betraying her again. He was only a boy—even worse, her Savior. How sinful was she if she could tempt her Savior into carnal thought? She shook her head. “I’m just a soldier in the army of My Lord,” she said, looking grimly out the windshield.

John Fortune turned as much as his seat belt allowed, to face her. “I know you’re older than me,” he said, his expression pleading, “but not by all that much. What’s a couple of years?”

“Seven,” she said, concentrating on the winding road before them.

“Seven!” John Fortune said, as if she’d just proved his point. “That’s nothing! Why, my mom’s almost that much older than my dad. And I’m mature for my age. Everyone says so. Besides, we have so much in common—”

The Angel shook her head. “John—”

“We’re aces,” he pointed out reasonably. “Both of us. And, uh, we’re good aces, too. We use our powers to help people—”

“John—”

“Unless...” John Fortune suddenly looked downcast. He frowned at her, then sighed. “You must think I’m pretty stupid to think a hottie like you doesn’t have a boyfriend already.”

The Angel glanced at him, her heart in her throat at the sound of his voice. “No, John, no. I don’t think you’re stupid at all. And... you’re right, actually. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The recuperative powers of the young put a smile on his face again. “Well, great, then. Can we go out sometime? I promise you’ll have a good time.”

The Angel’s answer was interrupted as the van’s engine suddenly coughed, sputtered, and died right there on the highway. She glanced at John Fortune, and sighed. This was too much to deal with now. Too much.

“We’ll see,” she said, “but first we have to take care of this, this breakdown, whatever it is. Then we have to get to Branson, where you’ll be safe.”

John Fortune nodded confidently. “Sure. First things first. I’m willing to wait. For you. What do you think is wrong with the van?”

They were still on the long downward glide. The Angel took her foot off the brake and let gravity do all the work.

“I have no idea,” she said. “But I hope there’s a town at the bottom of this mountain with a service station in it.”

“Sure there is,” John Fortune said. He leaned forward and punched the Canned Heat tape out of the eight-track. “Let’s listen to this one again.”

He put “Surrealistic Pillow” in the tape machine and “Somebody to Love” blared forth.

“I like this,” John Fortune said. “You know, the chick singing sounds like that one who did that old song. You know?”

The Angel shook her head.

“‘They Built This City On Rock And Roll.’ Think it’s her?” John Fortune asked.

The Angel shook her head again.

“I have no idea,” she said, guiding the van down the mountain like a toboggan down a snowless hillside.

Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

Though Ray hadn’t exactly lied to Creighton, he had let him and Ackroyd both make unwarranted assumptions that he didn’t want to explain at this time. With Sascha on the scene, he decided he’d better split before the eyeless ace picked something awkward out of his mind. He had to report to Barnett anyway, and see exactly what the Hell was going on with Angel and the kid.

Ray made his excuses and dashed off, trying to diffuse any probes from Sascha by keeping a picture of Angel foremost in his thoughts. It wasn’t difficult. She had real eye appeal, even when she was being grumpy. Which was almost always. He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like in the sack. Wonder what that body looked like under all the leather. Maybe framed, for a change, with lace.

On second thought, Ray thought, screw the lace. He had the feeling that she was a woman who looked best naked. Or maybe wearing only a thin, slippery sheen of sweat.

“We’re here, sir,” the cabby said, interrupting the most pleasant thought Ray had had in months.

Ray tossed the driver a couple of twenties. He slung his bag over his shoulder, jumped out of the cab without waiting for change, and took the steps up and into the lobby. He went straight to the elevator bank and whisked himself up to the penthouse. To the tip of the great glass pyramid that was the headquarters of the huge entertainment complex Barnett had designed to separate the suckers from their money. The elevator came to a smooth stop, chimed softly, and let him out into a corridor that ended in closed double doors guarded by men in nicely tailored suits and dark sunglasses.

He went down the corridor with the jauntiness of a mastiff approaching a couple of Pekinese.

“Billy,” one said, stepping aside. “President Barnett is expecting you.”

He opened the door and Ray entered the antechamber where Sally Lou was playing at receptionist. She looked at Ray with the gleam of a hungry tigress in her eyes. “We heard you got shot,” she said.

“I got better,” Ray said briefly. He still hadn’t forgiven her for her prior treatment, but if she kept on looking at him like that he figured that eventually he’d forgive her for damn near anything. Angel was on his mind, but Sally Lou was definitely in reach. “Barnett—”

“—is waiting for you,” Sally Lou interrupted. “Go right in.”

Ray paused for a moment. “Later?” he asked.

Sally Lou looked at him coyly. “Maybe.”

Ray went by her desk to Barnett’s office door. He didn’t like games. It looked like Sally Lou did. He could put up with it for awhile if the end result was worth it, and it looked like Sally Lou might be. In the meantime, though, there was still a kid somewhere on the loose in the wilds of America in a van with Angel at the wheel.

Leo Barnett didn’t look too concerned about the still-missing John Fortune and the now-missing Angel, but then he rarely looked concerned about anything. He was on the phone when Ray came into his office, sitting behind his big desk of dark wood, cigar in hand, nodding expressively as he talked.

“I know talent is scarce right now, Sammy boy, but I tell you what—” He made some kind of face at Ray that the ace couldn’t interpret and gestured broadly for him to sit in the chair before his desk. Ray did. “You find me some boys who know how to do a job and will keep their mouths shut. Sure. Sure. Of course.” Barnett rolled his eyes. He hung up the phone and looked at Ray, smiling but shaking his head.

“I’ve got to find me some good boys, Ray. Boys like you who know how to take orders and keep their traps shut. Boys who have a little extra juice, you know what I mean?” Ray nodded. “Whatever happened to that Mechanic fellow?”

“Belew?” Ray shook his head. The Mechanic had led the first operation that Ray had ever been on—the failed attempt, through no fault of their own, to extract the American hostages from Iran, way back in the Carter Administration. “We haven’t crossed paths in years.”

“He’s a stud I’d like to have on our side when the Allumbrados come to town. How about that Straight Arrow?”

“Nephi Callendar? He’s a desk jockey now.”

“George Battle? He was just an ordinary joe, but tough as the dickens.”

“Uh.” Ray didn’t really want to get into much detail about Battle’s fate. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Pity.” Barnett looked up to the ceiling. “Oh Lord, see me through these trying times.” He looked back at Ray. “What can I do for you, son?”

Ray remembered something Barnett had just said. “The Allumbrados are coming to town?” he asked. “Contarini’s outfit?”

“Of course, son. Of course. We’ve got the baby Jesus. They’re going to come after him sure as Satan is frying souls in the Fiery Pit right this very minute.”

Ray nodded. That was good. He’d like to get his hands on Butcher Dagon again. This time he’d bite the bastard’s tail off at the root and strangle him with it. Still...“They’ve got a whole cadre of credenti and believers and shit working for them,” Ray said. “Some tough ass mercs. Some aces.”

“Don’t I know that? That’s why I’ve been on the horn all day trying to beef up my forces.”

“Who do you have?” Ray asked.

Barnett looked at him. “Well, there’s you.”

Ray nodded impatiently. “Yes.”

“And Angel, of course.”

Ray pursed his lips. “I don’t know about her.”

Barnett leaned forward, pointing his cigar at Ray. “Well, son, she got the baby Jesus. You got bubkiss. Besides,” he leaned back in his chair, took a deep pull on the cigar and blew smoke towards the Heavens, “she said the same thing about you.”

“What exactly did she say?” Ray asked with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, son. I know she can be difficult. But if you handle her right, she’ll eat right out of your hand.”

Ray frowned. “Well, who else do we have?”

Barnett put his cigar in his mouth, his hands behind his head, and his feet on his desk. “Well, there’s Sally Lou. But she’s not much use, unless we want to screw the Allumbrados to death.”

“She can do that?” Ray asked, startled. There was an ace... years ago. But she had disappeared.

“Don’t be so damn literal,” Barnett said. “Maybe she couldn’t really screw those boys to death. But she could tire them out some.”

“Oh,” Ray said. He waited for Barnett to go on, but when he didn’t he finally said, “That’s it, then?”

“Oh, there’s Alejandro. And we got boys with guns. Plenty of those. But so has the Cardinal. And this battle won’t be won with guns, I don’t think. I’ve got some guys on the line who might be useful.”

Ray nodded. He agreed with Barnett. It didn’t seem to be shaping up in Barnett’s favor, but long odds never made Ray run from a fight.

“Well, what about Angel and the boy?” he asked. “Are they okay? Are they almost here?”

Barnett sighed. “She’s out there somewhere with the boy in tow. I expect she’ll be reporting in sometime soon.”

“She’s out there somewhere?” Ray asked. “That’s the best you can do?”

Barnett poured himself a couple of fingers from the decanter that sat on the side of his desk, added some ice, and took a long drink from his tall glass, the ice cubes tinkling merrily against its side. “You’ve seen her. She’s a big, strong girl. She can take care of herself.”

I hope so, Ray thought. I really, really hope so.

Branson, Missouri: The Angels’ Bower

“A suite of our own,” Digger Downs said. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

Fortunato looked around the spacious living area with sofa, loveseat, wide-screen television and mini-bar. It was somewhat more luxurious than the quarters he’d shared with five score monks the past sixteen years or so. The angel decor, though, was not exactly to his taste.

“Does it have to be this... colorful?” he asked.

“Well...”

The room was done in pastel shades of green, blue, and pinkish-red that, despite their muted tones managed to be quite garish when taken together. The bathroom was black, pink, and white faux marble tiles which were laid in swirling patterns that hurt Fortunato’s eyes. He hadn’t been in Digger’s bedroom, but his had a round, bean-bag shaped bed that was enshrouded with gossamer thin fabric that looked like puce colored mosquito netting. Worse yet, there were photos and paintings, and even relics of all sorts all over the damn place

“It’s the best we could do on short notice.” Digger shrugged. “The place is crowded even by their usual standards. There’s some kind of big convention that’s taking a lot of the rooms.”

“Barnett seems to have brought himself a license to print money with this place,” Fortunato said.

Digger shrugged again. “Barnum was right, but we have our own fish to fry. What’s the plan?”

Fortunato roused himself. “Angel was bringing the boy here for some reason. Suppose we poke around a little and find out why?”

“All right,” Digger said, sensing another intriguing story line. “Anything specific we should look for?”

Fortunato shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re the investigative reporter.” Fortunato looked thoughtful. “A talk with the head man himself might be in order.”

“Barnett?” Digger asked. “Yeah. Go straight for the top, I always say.”

“Could you swing it?” Fortunato asked.

“Maybe.”

“One thing, though,” Fortunato said. “ I need to find some way to recharge my batteries.”

“If you’re looking to put hookers on the company charge card—” Digger started.

Fortunato grimaced. “It may come to that. Maybe. But I think I’ve moved beyond that. To something new.”

“Like what?” Digger asked, plainly intrigued.

“It’s all so new,” Fortunato said, “that I’m still not sure about it. But I’ll probably know it when I see it.”

“Probably?” Digger asked.

“Hey, man,” Fortunato said, “that’s the best I can do.”

Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger

“Is this a non-smoking room?” Mushroom Daddy asked.

Jerry, Mushroom Daddy, and Sascha were in the living room of their suite trying to figure out what to do next. It was furnished in a sort of 1950ish style that Jerry kind of liked, though the Naugahyde sofa was slippery and the orange carpet was a little bright.

Sascha looked at Daddy curiously. “No. You can light up if you want. Do you happen to have some decent cigars on you?”

Daddy shuddered. “Tobacco? Never touch the stuff, man. It’s, like, a killer.” He looked thoughtful. “Except of course for those groovy organic Cuban cigars that teenaged senoritas roll up on their soft, creamy thighs. Those are okay, every now and then.”

Jerry frowned. “What are you talking about, then?” A sudden thought struck him. “Not—”

Daddy nodded. He reached into an inside vest pocket and pulled out a baggie packed with rich green weed.

“Jesus Christ,” Jerry groaned. “You bought that with you on the plane?”

“Sure,” Daddy said. “I always take some weed along when I travel. It’s the best, man. Here, try some. Um, you don’t happen to have a water pipe on you? I couldn’t bring mine ‘cause I didn’t bring any luggage.”

Jerry collapsed on the Naugahyde sofa. I guess its true, he thought. God does take care of drunks, little children, and idiots. Sometimes, at least.

Sascha looked as amused as an eyeless man could. “No. I’m afraid I left my bong at home.”

“Oh, that’s okay, man,” Daddy assured him. “I brought some rolling papers.”

He sat down next to Jerry on the sofa and bent over the glass and chrome coffee table in front of it and dexterously rolled a fat joint.

“Got a light, man?” he asked Jerry.

Jerry shook his head. “No. I don’t smoke.”

“Here,” Sascha said. He tossed him a book of matches.

“Thanks, man.” Daddy carefully lit the joint and took a long toke. “Want some?” he asked, offering the jay to Jerry.

Jerry closed his eyes and shook his head. What the Hell, he asked himself. Why not? He accepted the joint and took a tentative pull. The smoke roiled down his throat and into his lungs. It was warm, but without harshness. Not a cough in the carload, as the old saying went. He looked at Mushroom Daddy in surprise.

“Smooth, huh?” Daddy said proudly. “It’s my own. I grow it organically. Totally chemically free. Nothing in it but good old Mother Nature’s goodness, man.”

“Let me have a hit of that,” Sascha said, crossing over to the sofa.

“Sure!” Daddy said. “You dudes can split that one while I roll another.”

Jerry took another hit and passed it to Sascha. He held the smoke deep in his lungs, then let it out in a fragrant cloud. It smelled great, Jerry thought. He could already feel himself starting to relax.

Sascha took a long hit. “Not bad,” he said in a choked voice as he held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. He finally let it out in a long whoooosh. “In fact, pretty good.”

Daddy was rolling a second joint when someone knocked on the door, and the three looked at each other, trepidation in at least two sets of eyes.

“Sascha, you get the door,” Jerry said. “Daddy, get your shit out of sight. I’ll turn up the air conditioner.”

There was another knock. It sounded loud and impatient. What, Jerry thought, his panic growing unaccountably, if it was the cops? They probably had some mean ass cops in Branson. He didn’t even want to think of what they’d do to someone caught smoking dope in the Peaceable Kingdom.

“Coming,” Sascha called out. He went up to the door and stood before it.

“Who is it?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t know,” Sascha said. “I can’t see.”

“Well,” Daddy said, “ask him.”

“Who is it?” Sascha asked the door.

“It’s me,” a voice called out gruffly. “Billy Ray. Sascha, that you? Open the goddamned door.”

“Dammit,” Jerry said. “The Feds.”

“Oh, man,” Daddy said. “The man. Oh, man.”

“Just a minute,” Sascha said.

“Open the windows—” Jerry said.

“Oh, man,” Daddy said. “Busted, man. Who’s going to take care of all my plants if they send me to the slam?”

“Can’t,” Sascha said. “Hotel windows. Can’t open them.”

The door rattled ominously.

“Are you guys in trouble in there? I’ll break the door down—”

“He will, too,” Sascha said.

Jerry made a helpless gesture with his hands.

“Open it. Open it. Maybe he won’t smell anything.”

Sascha nodded. He took the door off the chain and threw it open. Ray stood out in the hallway, hand up and ready to pound on the door again.

“Hello, Ray,” Sascha said with a smile. “Come on in, Ray.”

Ray entered the room suspiciously. “What the Hell is going on in here?”

“Nothing,” Sascha said.

“Nothing,” Jerry said.

“Nothing, man,” Daddy said, trying to shove the baggy full of weed further between the sofa cushions.

Ray stopped, sniffed the air, and frowned thunderously. “Are you guys smoking pot?”

Sascha, Jerry, and Mushroom Daddy looked at each other.

“Us, uh—” Jerry began.

“You’re holding out on me, you bastards?” Ray said. “I haven’t gotten high since I did some hash with a bunch of Afghani warlords. I had to smoke with them, of course. Had to put them at their ease.”

“Well,” Daddy said, “if you like Afghani hash, you’ll love—”

”Daddy—” Jerry began.

“It’s all right,” Sascha said, as if suddenly remembering that he could read minds. He sank down gratefully into the loveseat across the coffee table from the sofa. “He’s cool.”

“Of course I’m cool,” Ray said, sitting down next to Daddy. “What, you think I’m a narc just because I work for the Feds?”

“Course not,” Jerry said as Daddy produced the baggy of pot and an already rolled joint that he handed to Ray.

“Thanks,” Ray said. He lit up and took a toke. “Of course,” he said in a strangled voice, “if I was my old boss, that tight-ass Nephi Callendar,” he paused to blow smoke and take another hit, “your asses would all be headed for the nearest federal slam, right now. Hey. Very nice.”

Daddy nodded happily. “I grow it myself.”

Ray looked at him. “So, what’s the story, man, are you some kind of burned-out hippie, or are you an ace?”

Daddy shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that I can grow things. They taste good, and they do good things for your body and your head.”

“Maybe,” Jerry suggested, “you should call yourself the Green Thumb.”

Ray frowned, and then started to laugh. Within moments they were all giggling like hopeless fools. It felt good, Jerry thought. Really good. Ray handed Daddy the joint. He took a toke and passed it on to Jerry.

They sat together, smoking, talking, and laughing for the next hour. Ray turned out to be a fount of surprisingly amusing stories about foreign and domestic diplomats. Every now and then Jerry would just say, “Green Thumb,” and they’d all laugh again, though Jerry had the feeling that Mushroom Daddy didn’t see anything particularly funny in the name and was maybe seriously considering it.

They finally polished off their fifth or sixth joint and Ray looked at them all, seriously.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Room service, or buffet?”

They all thought about it for a moment, and then as one man said, “Buffet!”

Daddy gathered up his paraphernalia, but Ray made him leave it all in the suite. Together they descended in the elevator, to wreak havoc on the first buffet that they could find.

Peaceable Kingdom: Loaves and Fishes

Ray was ravenous. He wanted either food or women, vast quantities of either. It didn’t matter which, but he wanted them now. Everyone else seemed fixated on the idea of food, so that was all right with him.

They rode the elevator to the ground floor, passing the hotel restaurants in unspoken accord. They didn’t want to go sit down at a table, wait for a waiter to show up and take their drink order, come back and take their food order, go turn it into the kitchen, and then wait for the kitchen to cook it, wait for the waiter to go pick it up and bring it to their table, and after all that get only a miserly little plate of food and they were all pretty sure that a plate of rolls or a small loaf of wheat bread wouldn’t hold them in check while they waited.

They hit the street with hunger rumbling in their stomachs and anticipation roiling in their brains. Their eyes focused on the building before them. LOAVES AND FISHES!!! Steaks! Chops! Seafood! Salad! Deserts! All You Can Eat! They looked at each other and nodded, even Sascha. They had found their Mecca.

They descended on the restaurant like a swarm of locusts, and after paying their fourteen ninety five apiece at the door (Ray covered for Mushroom Daddy with his personal credit card, bitching that Angel still had Barnett’s.) they tore through the buffet line and salad bar, leaving devastation in their wake like a force five hurricane.

Ray got himself a steak, a couple of pork chops, and a roast chicken, whole. He decided to leave the carving station—turkey, ham, and lamb—for later. He piled on some mashed potatoes, french fries, buttered noodles, and corn on the cob. Dessert was tempting, but he had no more room on his tray. He took a large ice tea, unsweetened, at the drink station. He was pretty thirsty.

He joined Daddy, Sascha, and Creighton at the table where they were already plowing through their food. Sascha had taken the sweet route, going for all the desserts he could grab, including an entire Black Forest cake. Creighton had cleaned out the carving station, and had a couple of made to order omelets, while Mushroom Daddy, apparently a vegetarian, had about half the salad bar in front of him, as well as a selection of hot vegetables.

“This isn’t bad,” he said around a mouthful of potato salad, “but mine is better.”

“Green Thumb,” Sascha said.

No one laughed. Somehow it wasn’t as funny as before. Maybe they weren’t as stoned, or maybe they were all just concentrating on the food.

“Mmmm,” Creighton said, at least acknowledging Daddy’s remark.

Ray just kept on eating. The food was indescribably good. Ray wasn’t sure why. Sure, he was stoned and Daddy’s pot was potent. Powerful yet with a curious mellowing effect, it heightened Ray’s senses, intensifying his sense of smell, taste, and touch. He smiled as he popped a piece of steak in his mouth and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. Too bad Angel wasn’t here, he thought. He’d like to see her smoke a joint of Daddy’s weed. It would really loosen her up.

That was it. He felt really, totally, one hundred per cent relaxed for the first time in weeks. Probably months. He was back in Branson with few prospects, except a return bout with Butcher Dagon and an unknown number of henchmen with unguessable powers and abilities, but that was okay. That was in the future. He would handle it as it came, like he always did. Tonight he was just a guy enjoying a meal. If he wasn’t with friends, he was with comrades, and that was just about as good. He never had many friends in his life, but he’d had comrades plenty and he’d never let them down. He hadn’t won every fight he’d ever been in and over the years he’d lost some of the steadfast men who’d stood at his side. But that was life. At least he knew that he always did the best that he could and he never ran from a fight.

He tore off a chicken leg, and looked around as he bit a chunk out of it. Mushroom Daddy had just said something, he’d missed exactly what, that had set both Creighton and Sascha laughing. Daddy joined them and then he did, too. He laughed aloud at nothing, though apparently, if you believed Barnett, Armageddon was just around the corner and the fate of the world was hanging in the balance.

“Let it hang,” Ray said aloud. The others all looked at him.

“What?” Creighton asked.

Ray shook his head. “Nothing.” He looked around the table at the three, shaking his head. “You are three crazy sons of bitches.” He picked up his ice tea glass and tipped it in their directions. “I salute you all.”

They laughed, grabbed their glasses and returned the toast, and Ray laughed with them, the hardest of all.

Somewhere in Kentucky

It was the carburetor. Fortunately there was a small town at the bottom of the mountain with a service station. It didn’t have the right type of carburetor in stock, though the guy knew a guy with a junkyard that probably had a couple of old hippie vans laying around it somewhere. The Angel told them they were in a rush. She flashed the platinum card and the service station attendant managed to take his eyes off her (he barely seemed to notice that John Fortune was glowing) and he took off to find the part. The Angel checked themselves into the town’s single decrepit motel, figuring that some sleep on a real bed would do them some good. She’d told the mechanic where they’d be, and to come and get them as soon as he was finished.

“You know,” John Fortune said, after they’d checked in, “I’ve never shared a motel room with a girl before.”

The Angel forestalled a grimace. This, she didn’t need. She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “I have to take a shower.”

John Fortune nodded, his eyes wide as if he were considering the possibilities. “Sure,” he finally said. “I’ll just wait for you here.”

The Angel went into the bathroom and quietly locked the door. Maybe, she thought, if she drew this out as long as she could, John Fortune would get distracted by the TV or something. It didn’t seem likely.

The water came out of the showerhead at a trickle. She took as long as she could, but the mildew and fungus stains on the stall wall did not incline her to linger. The towels were paper-thin and didn’t really dry her body as much as blot it kind of fruitlessly. She wrapped a paper-thin towel around her form and stuck her head out of the bathroom, but John Fortune was lying on the room’s single bed, sound asleep, a bright aura shining all around him.

The Angel sighed in relief. He’d been very tired, she supposed. She watched him for a few minutes. His face was angelic, if not exactly God-like. He looked like everybody’s favorite son.

She dried herself as best she could and shrugged into her jumpsuit again. It was tough to put on while she was still damp. She wished that she’d thought to bring her duffel bag along so she could change into one of her spare suits, but it was still sitting in the Escalade back in New Hampton. She hoped that Ray had remembered to return the SUV to the rental agency before the late charges started to pile up. He probably hadn’t, though. He didn’t seem particularly dependable, even if he did seem to have some uses.

She tiptoed into the tine room and sat carefully in the creaky chair next to the bed. Something nagging at the back of her brain made her feel jumpy. It was a sensation that something was breathing on her. Snuffling about her in the dark. She put it down to nervousness about the Allumbrados somehow striking their trail. When someone knocked on their door in the middle of the night, she jumped.

It turned out to be the mechanic. He was finished with the van.

The Angel awoke John Fortune. He seemed groggy and at first was disinclined to get up. She felt his forehead in concern. He was hot, of course. She wondered if he was running a temperature, or if it was his ace metabolism acting up. She knew that it could take some getting used to. When her card had turned ten years ago it took months before she’d gotten used to hers. Her mother never had. She never believed her when she said she was hungry. That she was starving. She just called her a glutton, and said it was a miracle that she wasn’t a fat pig because of all the food she ate. It was hard to be hungry all the time.

She finally got John Fortune up. It was about three o’clock in the morning by her watch. She overpaid the mechanic enormously. She felt guilty about it, but as Ray had said, Barnett could afford it and after all she was doing God’s work.

They hit the road again in the dark. The Angel, even though she knew it would add a couple of hours to their trip, was more determined than ever to take the detour she’d been considering. Something was driving her. Calling her, really. She wondered if it was old ghosts.

Whatever the source, it could not be denied.

Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

It was dark by the time Nighthawk and his group arrived at the Peaceable Kingdom. A limo had been waiting for them at the airport and taken them to the suite reserved for them at The Angels’ Bower. The hotel was quite crowded.

They went up to their suite. Nighthawk thought it was a little kitschy, but kept quiet because Magda was quite taken with it and Nighthawk saw no need to stir up trouble. Usher was satisfied because it was comfortable. That was all he needed. Nighthawk checked in, and they waited. They didn’t have to wait for long.

The doorbell rang within half an hour and Usher answered it. A bellhop and a luggage cart piled high with massive trunks stood in the corridor outside. “Mr. Nighthawk?” the brightly scrubbed young man asked brightly.

“Inside,” Usher said, stepping back.

“Special freight delivery,” the bellboy said, wheeling the cart into the room.

Nighthawk nodded. He gave the boy a twenty. He knew what it was like to be in his position.

“Thanks,” the bellhop said. “Want me to unload the cart?”

“No thanks,” Nighthawk said. “We’ll handle it.”

“Have a nice stay at the Peaceable Kingdom,” the boy said at the door. Usher smiled at him, nodded, and closed and locked it.

“Our agent came through,” Usher said, taking a heavy trunk off the cart as Nighthawk watched.

“Of course,” Nighthawk said. He watched Usher and Magda unload and assemble their equipment for awhile, then suddenly stood and stretched. “I’m going to go for a walk. I want to get the feel of this place.”

“What are you sensing, John?” Usher asked. Magda looked up from assembling an automatic shotgun.

Nighthawk shook his head. “I don’t know, yet.” He nodded at the weapons they were unshipping from their padded trunks. “But we’ll need those before it’s all over.”

Magda grunted wordlessly and went back to assembling weaponry. There was something of satisfaction on her face. If it was in her, Nighthawk thought, she’d be whistling right now.

“Go find some food when you’re done,” Nighthawk said. “Needless to say, room service would not be a good idea.”

Usher shook his head sadly. “Grubbs always loved room service.”

Magda grunted wordlessly again as Nighthawk went out into the corridor and took the elevator to the lobby below.

It wasn’t that late, but the lobby was already quiet. Outside, the night was pleasantly cool. Nighthawk walked around the grounds. He didn’t have much company. The patrons of the Peaceable Kingdom seemed to be part of the early to bed, early to rise crowd, even when on vacation.

He passed by a couple of night walkers like himself, once a knot of two score or so women wearing name tags that proclaimed themselves to be members of MAGOG, whatever that was, probably on the way back to their hotel from some function or another that had just ended. They were chatting animatedly, clearly enjoying themselves.

The Peaceable Kingdom was, Nighthawk admitted, a nice, well-groomed place, sanitary and unthreatening where those who liked their fun safe and predictable could have a good time.

And why not? These people worked hard for their money. If they wanted someplace to come that was a little mysterious, a little exotic, yet catered to what they believed, upheld their view of the world and affirmed their place in it, that was fine by him. One thing that his long life had taught him was that people needed different things from life. The Peaceable Kingdom served the needs of its patrons admirably.

He was a little worried, though, about what might happen here in the next couple of days. Nighthawk hoped that the Cardinal and his team would stop the Angel long before she reached the Peaceable Kingdom with her charge. In Nighthawk’s experience high-powered weaponry and tourists didn’t mix very well.

He could have skipped all this. He could have faded off into the night or taken the train out of town with Cameo. But two things had held him back, one practical, one theoretical. Practically, he didn’t want to cut and run, leaving a pissed off Cardinal wondering what had happened to him. Contarini didn’t take desertion lightly, and Nighthawk didn’t want to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of what still might be a rather long life. Theoretically, his vision to the contrary, what if the Cardinal was right and the boy was the Anti-Christ? Revelations were extraordinarily difficult to interpret, and stranger things had happened in this world. Granted, not many. But the Cardinal, for all his demagoguery, was an educated man. He knew things that Nighthawk could not even begin to guess at. What if he were right, and the boy was the Anti-Christ, or, at least some kind of tool of the Devil. Nighthawk couldn’t walk away from this until he was sure, one way or the other. And his gut told him that it was all coming together. Soon. That all the forces for good and evil were gathering in once place. And that place was not called, this time, the Plains of Meggido, but rather Branson, Missouri, and that it was his fate to be among their number.

He had already traveled far on this holy road, and had learned much. He had to walk the final few miles and see what waited for him at the end of it, no matter how rocky or dangerous the way.