“You’re here,” she said.
“I’m here.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
She glanced back at McCoy. “John?” she asked.
“He’s—he’s missing, but okay, as far as we know.”
Peregrine made a supreme effort and nodded. She looked again at Fortunato. “What’s this all about?”
That helpless feeling crawled around like a snake, biting Fortunato in the gut. “I don’t know,” he said. “What’s it ever all about? Some nut probably. Some fucking nut. You take care of one. Another takes his place. There’s no shortage of nuts—” Fortunato caught himself. He took a deep breath.
“I’ve never asked you for anything,” Peregrine whispered in words so low and slow that Fortunato could barely hear her. “But find him. Find him and bring him back safe.”
The snake coiled in Fortunato’s gut and clamped down on his intestines with its sharp fangs. He was being sucked into it all again, after almost sixteen years away. But how could he say no to his son’s mother? How could he not go find his son?
McCoy released Peregrine’s hand and stood up. “I’m coming with you.”
Fortunato shook his head. “No.”
McCoy’s fear and pain turned to sudden anger. “Don’t tell me no! You made him—I raised him. I changed his diapers. I helped him learn how to walk and talk. I helped him to grow into a good kid. Where were you all that time, you, you big hero?” McCoy’s voice rose with his anger. “Where were you?”
“Josh...” Peregrine said, reaching out to him.
Fortunato shook his head. “I just... I just don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”
“He’s right, Josh,” Peregrine said in her soft, pained voice. “He’s made for this.”
I was, Fortunato thought. But that was a long time ago. Now, I just don’t know...
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Fortunato took his leave, but they had already seemed to have forgotten him. McCoy sat next to her, his head against the mattress by her side. Her hand rested on it, so weak it was barely able to stir the strands of his hair. McCoy had earned that place by her side through sixteen years of ceaseless loyalty. Fortunato had tossed it aside.
He left the room, went down the corridor and took a side staircase down to the lobby. He didn’t want to see Finn again. He sure as Hell didn’t want to see Downs. He didn’t really want to be alone either, but he didn’t have much of a choice with that.
He looked out at the street. It was fairly quiet this time at night, but there were still occasional cars, a taxi or two, trucks off on their delivery rounds. Pedestrians went by singly or in groups, without a glance his way. No one knew who he was. Why should they?
His son was out there. He didn’t have a clue where. He didn’t have a clue as to who took him or why they took him or what his condition was. In the old days he might have gone to Chrysalis. She knew everything that happened in this city, most things of import that happened in the world of wild carders. But she was dead. Once he might have gone out of his body and searched for clues himself, but those days, like his powers, were gone. He had thrown them away, just like he’d tossed Peregrine aside. And for what?
“Hey, old man.”
The voice that startled Fortunato out of his reverie was that of Carlos, spokesman for the Jokka Bruddas. He was accompanied by the behemoth with the pustule-ridden face whom Father Squid had called Ricky.
“Where’s the rest of the crowd?” Fortunato asked.
Carlos shrugged. “Don’ worry about them. It’s your skinny old ass that’s in trouble.”
If Fortunato hadn’t recently been hammered by the double emotional blows of Peregrine’s wounding and his son’s kidnapping, he would have been amused. Now he was just angry at these kids for wasting his time.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Carlos shrugged again. “Don’ get snappy with me, dog, when I’m doin’ you a favor. Father Squid sent us to get you. He didn’t say what the problem was, but he said to get you and bring your ass back to the church andale, baby.”
Fortunato couldn’t imagine what the priest wanted, but knew that it must be important. “All right, let’s go.”
He started down the street, but Carlos grabbed his sleeve.
“This way, esse. We got a drive waiting.”
Following Carlos down the street, he turned left into the alley running alongside a wing of the Clinic, and suddenly thought, Where’s Ricky? He turned around to see the hulk behind him, grinning like a melting wax dummy as his fist descended in a blur.
Fortunato’s last thoughts were, Christ, I am getting too old, and darkness dropped on him like a falling cliff.
The Angel moaned softly as the Witness’s clenched fist opened and caressed her cheek, down along her jaw line. She had always been sensitive there. But she didn’t want him to touch her. Did she?
He stared dreamily into her eyes and said, “Knock, knock. Time to hit the road, Angel.”
She woke up, startled and confused. Billy Ray was standing in the open doorway between their connecting rooms. She realized that she must have left it unlocked when she’d collapsed into bed... how long ago, exactly?
She sat up, pulling the sheet up to her shoulders.
“What time is it?” she mumbled.
“Ten thirty two,” Ray announced crisply.
“I—it was already later then that—”
“In the A.M., sweet cheeks.”
She blinked at the realization that she’d slept so late, and blinked again when she realized that she was naked under the sheet, and Ray was staring at her.
The government ace, dressed in another impeccable suit, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed fresh from an untroubled night’s sleep. The bruises had disappeared from his face and all visible cuts had healed. He came into her room moving apparently without pain, though the Angel noted he moved gingerly when he sat down on the room’s other bed. Any other man she’d ever known would still be in a hospital. He smiled at her as he sat down, with none of the wild ferocity she’d seen when he was in the midst of battle. He had seemed to like the fighting. More than that, he’d reveled in it—
“What’s the matter?” Ray asked, his grin still in place.
“Oh.” The Angel forced herself to focus. “Nothing. What’s the plan?”
“The plan? We can discuss it in the car.” He stood and stretched like a sleek and self-satisfied cat. “You still look pretty beat, but we have things we have to do. Although,” he said with a thoughtful look, “if you want to catch a few more winks —“
The Angel sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself almost angrily.
“You don’t have to coddle me,” she said.
“No, but I’d like to,” Ray said with a leer. She just looked at him, and he shrugged. “Go take a shower. It’ll wake you up.”
That, the Angel thought, was a good idea.
“I could soap your back—” Ray offered as she stood with the sheet firmly wrapped around her. She stepped over the sweaty pile of clothes she’d discarded by the side of the bed, grabbed her duffel bag and headed for the bathroom. She slammed the bathroom door and, finally thinking clearly, locked it. “Anyway,” Ray called out through the door, “you can grab some more zzz’s in the car if you’re still tired.”
Car? The Angel thought. She turned the shower to cold and stepped under it. The icy torrent took her breath away and made her heart beat faster. For a moment she thought that it would be fun to have someone to soap her back. Maybe her front as well. Her hands slid over her flat abdomen, skirting the eight-inch scar that crawled over it like an ugly snake and the touch of it against her fingers banished all impure thoughts. She turned off the water. She dried herself, all but her hair, letting that hang down her back in an unmanageable curly mass. She took her spare underwear and black jumpsuit out of the duffel bag and dressed. When she came back into the bedroom. Ray was lying on the extra bed, legs straight out and crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head, watching some weird movie with masked wrestlers on the Spanish station. He glanced up at her.