They were leaving the security office when one of the cops who’d just answered a ringing phone yelled out for them to stop.
“Hey, Mr. Ray,” he called, “it’s headquarters.”
Ray stopped with a sigh and a put-upon expression on his face. He had something, the Angel decided, of a martyr’s complex.
“They need your help.”
He looked slightly mollified. “Sure,” he said, glancing at the Angel. She looked away, rolling her eyes. “What about?”
“It’s Butcher Dagon.” The Angel had a sudden bad feeling that was quickly confirmed. “He’s escaped.”
Ray shrugged. “That’s your—”
The Angel laid a hand on his arm. “We can’t let him run lose. Think of the innocents!”
“In Vegas?” Ray asked.
“You know what I mean,” she replied.
Ray sighed again. His expression was clouded, but the Angel knew that she had him half-convinced.
“I’ll go on ahead. I can handle things at the New York end. You take care of Butcher Dagon.” She added what she realized would be the clincher. “Only you can handle him.”
Ray paused to consider. “Well. Yeah. All right.”
The Angel paused as well. She really hated to do this, but she had no choice.
“One other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t have any money. I’ll need the credit card.”
Ray’s expression turned pained, but he nodded, somewhat regretfully, the Angel thought, and handed it over.
“Take good care of it,” Ray thought and added, with only the slightest hesitation, “and yourself.”
It was, the Angel thought, rather sweet of him to be concerned.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New York City: St Dympna’s Parking Lot
“Let’s go,” Cameo said flatly. She took off her old, battered hat and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Cadillac Seville she’d hot-wired moments before.
Nighthawk gave a final wave to whoever the fellow was who looked like Butcher Dagon as he and the boy peeled out of Dympna’s parking lot. He looked at Cameo. She looked back. She seemed different, somehow.
“I’m driving,” Cameo said.
Nighthawk shrugged. It was all the same to him. He went around the car and got into the passenger’s side and had just settled down when Cameo gunned it. They hit a pothole, bounced, and roared out of the lot, jouncing about like Mexican jumping beans. Nighthawk grabbed the dashboard and watched Cameo. She had a tight smile on her face. Her eyes, her whole expression, were harder, somehow tougher. As if she were a different person.
Maybe, Nighthawk thought, she was.
“You all right, missy?” he asked.
“No thanks to you,” she replied shortly. The inflection of her voice was different. Her words were as hard as her expression. Nighthawk wondered who he was dealing with now.
“You’re not Cameo, are you?”
She snorted. “We’re all Cameo, honey.”
Nighthawk nodded. “If you say so.”
“Where are we headed?”
“I’ve got some places around town,” Nighthawk said. He thought for a moment. “How about Staten Island?”
“Staten Island?” Cameo asked. “It stinks. It’s the sticks.”
“It’s quiet. It’s out of sight. We’ll be able to rest and talk some.”
“Talk?” Cameo asked. “About what?”
“About a job I want you to do for me.”
Cameo glanced at him as she skidded around a corner practically on two wheels.
“You’ve got your nerve,” she said.
Nighthawk nodded. “That I do, missy. That I do.”
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New York City: Jokertown
From far away, from under a league of water or perhaps a thousand yards of cotton batting, Fortunato heard someone call his name. But he couldn’t answer. He was wrapped in a cloak of weakness, a cocoon that isolated him almost completely from the world.
And all of his senses told him one thing: pain. Horrific, mind-numbing, soul-eating pain that should have killed him but ironically was helping him cling to the edge of life. Pain, and from somewhere far away, insignificant insect-like vibrations that touched the edge of his consciousness.
“Father! Father Squid! Jesus Christ, come here, quick!”
There was a momentary cessation of vibration, then the whole floor quivered as if something very heavy was approaching very quickly. Then there was peace again.
“Is he still alive, Father?”
Pressure on his face, gentle, as if tendrils of a willow tree blown across his features by a soft wind that smelled faintly of the sea.
“He is.”
Fortunato was still hiding too deep in his consciousness to understand the surprise in the voice.
“It’s a miracle, Father.”
“I don’t know about that. That mental cry for help must have penetrated nearly every corner of Jokertown. Only a powerful ace could have done it. Only a powerful ace could survive a beating like this.”
“Then the old Fortunato’s back?”
“I don’t know about that, either, but if we don’t get him some help fast, we’ll never find out.”
“It took a long time to find a single man hidden in a falling down building, even if he was just across the street from Our Lady.”
“We did the best we could for him, now it’s out of our hands. Call 911. Tell them to get here quick. I’m afraid to move him ourselves.”
There were shuffling vibrations along the floor of comings and goings.
“But, good God, Father, what happened to these others? It looks like they’ve been torn to pieces by wild beasts. There’s Carlos... that has to be part of that big guy... they’re all from that gang.”
The smell of the sea receded. The floor creaked as massive weight shifted upon it.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe the old Fortunato is back. And the Bruddas bit off a little more than they could chew...”
There was an eternity of silence. Then the pain that he thought was ultimate agony exploded into agony multiplied exponentially as gentle angel wings lifted him up and brought to mercifully peaceful, painless Heaven.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New Hampton: Camp Xavier Desmond
Jerry was still tired when he woke up mid-afternoon. He was still tired, but he knew that he had to get going. He and John Fortune were safe for now, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. Literally, he thought, as he surveyed the forest outside the cabin window. John Fortune was still sleeping in the next bunk. The poor kid had been through Hell, Jerry thought, and he didn’t have the heart to wake him up. On the other hand, he didn’t want the boy to awaken, find him gone, and start wandering about the grounds looking for him. Even at Camp Xavier Desmond—or, as the kids called it, C-X-Dez—a new kid who glowed would attract an unwelcome amount of attention and cause unwanted speculation.
He left a note, telling him that he was not to leave the bunk under any circumstances—unless it caught fire or was hit by a meteor—and went off to the administrative office to find a phone. He dialed the office and was pleased when a sultry voice said “Ackroyd and Creighton. How may I help you?” in a sexy, French-accented contralto.
“Hello, Ezili—”
“Jerry!” the receptionist interrupted before he could say another word. “Are you still at the camp? Are you really all right?”
Jerry was touched by the authentic concern in her voice. He’d known Ezili for years, during most of which they’d had an on-again, off-again love affair, which unfortunately had recently been mostly off again. Jerry didn’t know if Ezili—who was named after the least forgiving aspect of her native Haiti’s love goddess—had been touched by the wild card and given a minor ace, or was merely very, very good at her favorite activity, which was sex. He didn’t love her, really, but he had feelings for her which he weren’t at all sure were reciprocated. As hot as she was in bed, she was cool out of it. It was nice to hear the concern in her voice.