This is useless, he thought. Too much ground to cover. Too many places for the boy to hide. There had to be another way—
There was, Fortunato suddenly realized. If he could do it.
He rose up again into the sky and hung above the camp like an unseen specter. He simply had to try. There was no other recourse.
He had to move his astral body through time as he had through space. It was the only way he could hope to track the movements of John Fortune, and the killers who were after him.
New Hampton: the woods
Ray batted annoyingly at a flight of gnats that descended upon them as they moved from shadow to sunlight, swarming like a tiny pack of famished wolves on fresh, undefended meat. Ackroyd stood next to him in a clearing in the woods. They had already been to the house where Creighton had spent the night, but his host had already gone out to search for the kid. They’d picked up a guide, a funny little fellow by the name of Kitty Cat, and he’d gone ahead on the trail to try to scope out Yeoman’s current position. That was the name Ackroyd had used when talking about their host.
“So, you know this Yeoman character?” Ray asked. He was a little irritated. It was mid-afternoon, and hot. It wasn’t so bad among the trees, though they tended to block the cooling wind. He’d already resigned himself to the fact that he was going to ruin his suit. He was sweating so profusely that no amount of dry cleaning would get out the perspiration stains, not to mention the various blobs of dirt, muck, and otherwise unidentifiable forest debris. He wished he’d had time to change to proper fighting attire, but even if he had, his clothes were now sitting in an unclaimed suitcase somewhere at Tomlin International.
Ackroyd tried to take a deep breath without sucking in some gnats, and didn’t succeed. “Jesus,” he said, gagging and spitting, “we may have bugs in the city but at least they’re decent-sized roaches that you can chase into a corner and step on. This is all way too, too natural, to be healthy.” He waved ineffectually at the undiminished horde of gnats and took another resigned breath. “But Yeoman—well, you couldn’t say that I actually know the murderous son of a bitch, but I worked with him on some stuff, back, Jesus, was it really thirteen years ago?”
Ray shrugged as Ackroyd’s mind wandered momentarily in the past. “If you mean Chrysalis’s murder, yeah it was that long ago.”
Ackroyd looked at him sharply. “What do you know about that?”
“I’ve read the dossier. If you remember, at the time I was occupied by other things.”
“Oh yeah,” Ackroyd said. “Mackie Messer ripped you from chest to balls on the floor of the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta. Live, on TV.”
“Yeah.” Recalling that still pissed Ray off. “My star turn on television. I had plenty of time to read when I was recovering in the hospital. A lot of stuff connected to that case is pretty unclear. At least officially. You were involved—somehow. So was this vigilante. This guy Yeoman, the papers called the ‘Bow and Arrow Killer.’”
Ackroyd shook his head. “My main interest was catching Chrysalis’s murderer.”
“And Yeoman’s main interest?”
“The same.” Ackroyd said.
From the look on Ackroyd’s face, it seemed to Ray that both men were involved in the case for personal rather than political or financial reasons. Chrysalis had been an important person about Jokertown. Ray had seen her in the flesh once or twice. Though “seen her in the flesh” was something of a misnomer, since her flesh was actually invisible. She was all bone and blood vessels and interior organs covered by ghostly muscle. Kinky. But not really his type. He liked it when they had some meat on them. And you could see it. Kind of like Angel, in fact—
Ray jerked his train of thought back to the present. “Is he an ace?” Ray asked. “The dossier wasn’t clear on that point. Like the compiler wasn’t sure.”
“I’ll tell you,” Ackroyd said, “I’m not sure myself. I’ve seen a lot of wacky powers over the years, but being real good with a bow an arrow just doesn’t seem... likely. And he got in plenty of situations where a little super-strength or super-speed or mind control or some damn thing would have been useful—only he never seemed to use anything like that.”
“What’s he like?”
Ackroyd looked at him. “I told you. He’s a murderous son of a bitch. As soon as put an arrow through your eye as look at you.” Ackroyd paused to hawk up another gnat. “You’ll like him.”
Ray swallowed his retort as a little creature about two feet tall came scurrying through the grass towards them. It was Kitty Cat, the guide they’d picked up at Yeoman’s house. He was completed covered with a calico pelt and had feline-irised eyes. Otherwise, he looked fairly human for a two-foot tall joker. He was talking quietly into a cell phone as he came out of the forest into the small meadow where he’d told Ray and Ackroyd to await his return.
“Okay,” he said. His voice was rather deeper than Ray would have expected from such a tiny frame. “The Boss has a group of guys in his sights. He doesn’t know who they are, but they’re sure as Hell not locals. Care to come up for a look?”
“Sure,” Ackroyd said.
Kitty Cat looked uncertain. “Can you guys can make it through the woods without raising too much of a racket?”
“I majored in sneaking in detective school,” Ackroyd said.
Kitty Cat nodded. “Uh-huh. Well, these guys all got automatic weapons, and they’re as likely to nail my tiny little ass they are yours if they hear something crashing through the woods. So for Christ’s sake, be careful!”
“I’ve managed to sneak past a few trees in my day without tripping over myself,” Ray said.
“Let’s go then.” Kitty Cat hitched up the fanny pack embroidered with “Hello Kitty” that he wore slung over his shoulders like a backpack.
Ray nodded at Ackroyd, and the dick followed the joker back into the woods. Ray had to hand it to him. He was good at sneaking. They could have all been tiny little jokers for all the noise they made. It helped that they followed Kitty’s trail and that he kept them away from fallen leaves and other ground debris. It was cooler inside the trees, and darker. Ray started to feel the excitement start to ratchet up, and he had to concentrate to keep a silly grin off his face. Now, if this Yeoman was as good as he supposed to be, he thought, maybe he’d lead them to some real action.
He came out of nowhere, wearing cameo forest fatigues and a dark, short sleeved shirt. The skin of his face and arms were painted with stripes of green, brown, and black paint, and he was carrying a strung bow with an arrow loosely nocked to the string. He’d drifted out from behind a shield of leafy branches like smoke. No. Ray would have smelled the smoke. Like a shadow of moonlight on a dark, quiet night. Ray smiled to himself. This Yeoman was good.
They stopped. Ackroyd wore a disgusted, jeez what now expression, but he kept his silence as Yeoman faced them with a finger held to his lips. Kitty Cat vanished somewhere into the forest. Yeoman waved them on, his very posture telling them to be quiet and careful.
They crept forward, slipping through the branches from behind which Yeoman had emerged. It was a thick shrub, facing the edge of a small forest glen where five men were sprawled in various attitudes of tired discontent. They watched the men fan themselves and bitch.
“Dammit, Angelo,” one said, “I thought you were bringing the water.”
“Me?” Angelo, young yet vicious-looking, replied with sullen anger. “What am I, your donkey? Lincoln freed the slaves, man.”