“We’re here to do a job,” she said forcefully. “Not engage in juvenile repartee and spray testosterone around like skunks marking their territory.”
Ackroyd’s eyebrows went up. “Skunks mark their territory?” he asked Creighton, who only shrugged. He turned to Ray. “Who’s your girlfriend?”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” she said, aggrieved.
“This is Angel,” Ray said. He stood next to her, smiling. “She’s new,” he added, as if that explained everything.
Ackroyd nodded. “How’d the Feds get on the case already?”
“We’re not—” the Angel started to say, and Ray stepped hard on her foot. She shut her mouth and glared at him, momentarily too outraged to speak.
“—at liberty to say how we learned about it,” Ray said. “Confidential sources, and all.”
The Angel suddenly realized that Ray wanted to let Ackroyd and Creighton still think they worked for the government and not The Hand. She could see the wisdom in that. In fact, she should have thought of it herself. She castigated herself silently for a moment, then chipped in brightly, “That’s right.”
“Uh-huh,” Ackroyd said. He looked at Creighton, who shrugged again.
The Angel could tell that Ackroyd was suspicious. Suspicion seemed to be in his nature. But there was really nothing he could do, except disbelieve them. He seemed a man of little faith.
“So,” Ray said, “got any clues as to John Fortune’s current whereabouts?”
Ackroyd smiled. “Clues? Is that what we need?” He looked at Creighton as if for confirmation. “Jeez, Ray, it’s great when you Feds turn up to tell us that we need clues and all. I don’t know if that information came in Detecting for Dummies. That’s the book Creighton and I use to solve all our cases. Right, partner?”
“Knock off the horseshit, already,” Ray said. “Angel is right.”
“Yes,” the Angel chimed in. “Our job is to find the boy. Sparring with each other isn’t helping.”
Ackroyd sighed. “Wisdom from the mouth of babes.” He held up a hand to forestall another outburst from Ray or the Angel, or both. “But, you’re right. Both of you. What do you propose?”
The Angel felt Ray’s eyes on her. They were calculating. Though lust lay behind the calculation, he did seem to be focusing somewhat at least upon their job. “Well,” Ray said, “there’s two of us, and two of you. Why don’t we split our teams?”
“Good idea,” Ackroyd said. “I’ll go with Angel—”
“Uh, no,” Ray interrupted, shaking his head. “You and me, Popinjay. We’re a team. Like the old days.”
Ackroyd frowned. “Only if you knock off the ‘Popinjay’ crap.”
“All right,” Ray said.
“All right.” Ackroyd turned to Creighton. “I should talk things over with your little helper from last night.”
“Right.” Creighton spoke for the first time. His voice, the Angel thought, was the same as before, as deep and soft as his eyes. He seemed a gentle soul, unsuited for his profession. “There are some other things we should check out. Brennan told me about another settlement up the road that John Fortune might have stumbled into last the night. Or Dagon’s men, for that matter.”
“Right,” Ackroyd said crisply. “Check it out. Be careful.” He fished in his inside jacket pocket and tossed a cell phone to Creighton. Ackroyd frowned. “Too bad the kid wasn’t carrying one of these. All this tramping around the countryside wouldn’t be necessary. Anyway, be careful. Watch out for cows and other wild animals. And if you spot any of Dagon’s men—call immediately.”
“That’s right,” Ray said. “And we’ll come kick their asses.”
“Let’s hope,” Ackroyd said. “Come on. I’ll catch you up on all our ‘clues.’”
The Angel could hear the quotation marks Ackroyd’s sarcastic tones put around the word as he and Ray went off down the road together. She looked at Creighton. He returned her gaze. Lust was lurking in the depths of his sad eyes. Men, she thought.
“The commune is down the road apiece,” he said, “We can walk to it.” He gestured towards the ridge with the summer camp nestled at its base. “This area is called Snake Hill. Used to be known for all the rattlesnakes around here, sixty, seventy years ago. Don’t worry. They’re all gone now.” He frowned. “At least, supposedly most of ‘em are. Anyway, their presence attracted a, a religious community, I’d guess you’d call it.”
“Ophiolatrists!” the Angel hissed.
“Huh?”
“I hate ophiolatrists!” the Angel said.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New York City: Saint Dympna’s Home For the Mentally Deficient And Criminally Inclined
The Cardinal was furious. He slammed the cell phone down on the oubliette’s floor and it shattered into miscellaneous bits of plastic and unidentifiable electronics. He was in the basement of St. Dympna’s with Usher, Magda, and Nighthawk, and the Witness, examining the damage that the big break out had caused when the call came from upstate. The old pile of stones was pretty much intact, though the same could not be said for the credenti who had been manning it. Some of the released prisoners had chosen to take revenge and they’d come out of the oubliette mad and armed with looted weaponry. Such a copious amount of blood had not been spilled in the old asylum in over fifty years. Then came the phone call from the younger Witness relaying the news from upstate. It wasn’t good.
“The reception is terrible!” the Cardinal swore furiously. “How do they expect me to even hear, let alone condone their whining excuses?”
Nighthawk only shrugged. He knew better than to interrupt the Cardinal in mid-rant. The Witness—the Asshole, as Nighthawk thought of him—tried to catch Nighthawk’s eye, but he refused to look at him.
“How many of those morons does it take to capture one boy?” Contarini asked rhetorically. “Even if he is the Anti-Christ?” He turned his gaze directly on Nighthawk. “It took only you to capture a girl after the idiots here let her escape. Just you! How many men do they have with them?”
“Twenty-six,” the Asshole answered.
Ass-kisser, Nighthawk thought. The man would sell out his own brother to gain favor with the Cardinal.
Contarini took a deep breath, struggling to control his fury. “Can those fools do nothing right? Must I handle everything, personally?” He glanced at Nighthawk. “Cameo was not as you promised, but at least you took care of her.”
Nighthawk kept silent, and only nodded, half to himself. He had taken care of her. He had given her sixty thousand dollars in cash and personally escorted her to the station where he put her on a train headed west. He had told her to go somewhere, anywhere. To get out of the city and stay out until she saw from the news that it was safe to return. She was a sensible girl. She took his advice.
She even gave him the silk choker from around her neck without hesitation when he asked for it. After he saw her off safely, he searched a couple of pawn shops until he found a cameo that was quite similar to the one that she’d worn, mounted it on her choker, stained the silk with some blood he’d gotten off a juicy beefsteak he’d purchased at a grocery store, and presented it to the Cardinal as proof that he’d handled the Cameo problem.
Contarini, if not delighted, had at least been mollified.
That was all right with Nighthawk. The Cardinal was never going to treat him like family. It wasn’t, Nighthawk realized, so much that he was black, though that was probably part of it. More like he was an American and, worse, a wild carder. But again, that was all right. He had gotten what he wanted out of this crazy affair. He felt better than he had in years, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted off his soul. He felt truly young again, without guilt or worry. His ultimate goal now was to extricate himself from this fiasco with a whole skin. It would not be easy. Things were not going the way Cardinal Contarini wanted, and when that happened bad things tended to happen to those around him.