“Jerry, what happened in Vegas, anyway? How’s my Mom?”
They hadn’t had a chance to talk over the events of the previous days. Now was as good a time as any, but Jerry didn’t get into details. Actually, he didn’t know Peregrine’s fate anyway. He didn’t want to lie to the kid, but neither did he want to depress him unnecessarily.
“So, my Mom’s all right, then?” John Fortune asked after Jerry told him a sanitized version of the battle at the Mirage, and how he had eventually rescued him from St. Dympna’s.
“Maybe—watch out!”
He grabbed John Fortune’s arm, steadying him, before he could trip over the fallen tree that blocked their path. They weren’t following an actual trail. They were just wandering aimlessly through trees. While that tactic might throw off pursuit for the moment, Jerry knew that it wasn’t a feasible long-term strategy. He didn’t know what kind of technology Dagon might have access to. Night scopes. Heat detection devices. If Dagon had anything high tech with him, or maybe some kind of ace, they were sunk. He could only hope that the attackers hadn’t planned on a night hunt through thick forest.
“A road!” Jerry exclaimed as they stumbled out of the trees and onto a dirt path. “Thank God!”
“It’s not much of a road,” John Fortune said.
And it wasn’t. It was a simple dirt lane leading deeper into the woods.
“But it’s all we’ve got,” Jerry said, “and it’s got to lead somewhere.”
“I’m kind of hot in this sweatshirt,” the kid said.
“All the more reason to hurry. The sooner we get on down the road the sooner we find someplace we can relax. But you’ve got to leave that hood up for now, and keep your hands in your pockets. Otherwise you’ll betray our position by glowing like a king-sized firefly.”
“I understand,” John Fortune said, “but I can sure use something to drink.”
They went down the trail. It curved in lazy swathes through the forest, but it was smoothly surfaced gravel, without potholes or ruts, well-maintained, and nice and level. At least they didn’t have to worry about tripping over unseen branches anymore.
“Hey!” John Fortune said. “A light.”
Jerry nodded. He had spotted it himself. It was dim, rather diffuse. As they walked up the curved road they could see that it looked like a flashlight, or something of that relative size and power, sitting on the ground. It cast its light upon a wooden sign standing before an even smaller dirt lane, perhaps a driveway, diverging from the road. As they approached Jerry could see the figure of a small garden gnome leaning against the sign, as if he were guarding the turn-off.
Jerry looked up at the sign. The small floodlight only illuminated part of it.
“Nursery...” Jerry read aloud. He and John Fortune looked at each other.
“Some kind of garden store?” the kid asked.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe they have a telephone. We can call for help.”
“Maybe.”
“What are you folks doing out in the woods so late at night?” a tiny voice asked.
Jerry felt his heart surge up into his mouth. He grabbed John Fortune by the arm and yanked him backward, stepping in front of him. Jerry looked frantically in all directions.
“Hey!” John Fortune said, peering around him. “It’s the garden gnome. It speaks.”
“Of course I speak,” the gnome said. “Why the Hell not?”
Jerry looked down at him. What he had thought was a two-foot high statue was a little man... or something resembling such. He had a fat, jolly face and a white, pointed chin beard, and wore garden-gnome type clothing.
“Cool,” John Fortune said. “Do you live here?”
“Sure do,” the gnome said. “I keep on eye on the place at night. You folks in trouble or something? I heard some gunshots earlier, but that’s not too unusual around here. At least in hunting season, which this ain’t.”
“Uh—” Jerry began.
“You bet,” John Fortune said. “Kidnappers are after me. They have guns, but we don’t.”
“Kidnappers!” the gnome exclaimed.
“Uh—” Jerry said.
“Yep. I’m John Fortune. I just became an ace. My Mom’s Peregrine, the ace. You know, she has a TV show, Peregrine’s Perch, but she and my Dad also make movies.”
“I guess you do need help,” the gnome said. He pressed a button on the floodlight control panel, then shut off the light.
Jerry felt as if he were drowning in darkness. “What’d you do that for?”
“No sense lighting up our location if guys with guns are looking for you.”
“Good idea,” John Fortune said. “Are you going to help us?”
“Sit tight,” the gnome advised. “I rang for the boss. He’ll be here in a minute.”
“The boss—” Jerry began.
“He owns this land,” the gnome said, waving airily about. “And he don’t allow no hunting. Not even of kids.”
They stood silent for what seemed a minute. Maybe two. “Where is he?” Jerry asked, getting impatient.
“Right here,” a low, deep voice said, not six feet from Jerry’s side. A light suddenly flashed in his eyes, strong enough to almost blind him. He automatically threw up a hand and turned his head aside. The light went from Jerry’s face to John Fortune’s, who let out a plaintive, “Hey,” and blinked.
“Say,” said the garden gnome, “you’re not the boss.”
The man with the flashlight looked down, surprised. “Shut up,” he said when he saw who had spoken, “before I stomp you flat.”
No doubt about it now, Jerry thought. Dagon’s men had found them, damn it. Again. They were infuriatingly competent. There were actually two of them this time. The man with the flashlight and a silent companion.
“You won’t be talking so big in a minute or two, fella,” the gnome said.
“I said, shut up.” The man raised a hand canon with a gigantic bore, spotlighting the blinking gnome with his flashlight.
“Hey—” Jerry said. He knew the man was going to shoot. Even a glancing hit would tear the gnome to pieces.
From nowhere there was a sound in the night as if the mother of all mosquitoes buzzed past them. The tough guy with the pistol grunted, like someone punched him in the gut. He swayed on his feet, staring at the aluminum arrow shaft planted directly in the center of his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” his companion said.
The man with the flashlight looked at him. Jerry could see that the arrow had gone nearly all the way through his body. Half a foot protruded from his back and blood dripped off the razor-tipped four-bladed head.
“Son of a bitch,” Dagon’s man said, and he fell on his flashlight, bringing darkness again to the night as his companion wildly sprayed bullets into the trees all around them. Jerry felt a shock burn across his forehead like a blow from a red hot poker. He fell to the ground and with a frantic last effort dragged a bewildered John Fortune down with him. He held him tightly, covering him with his own body as best he could as his consciousness faded away.
Jerry woke with the feeling that he was being watched. Closely and relentlessly. He was in a strange but comfortable bed in an unfamiliar room. He was laying on his side, looking right at a wall so he couldn’t see much of the room, but Jerry was certain that he’d never been in it before.
He turned suddenly away from the wall, and immediately regretted it. A wave of pain rushed through his head, accompanied by a swarming nausea that was even more distressing. He swallowed hard and put his hand to his forehead, which he discovered was swathed in a soft, thick bandage. He looked into the room and saw his audience and suppressed an urge to groan aloud.