“Tell your children,” he said to them, “tell your family, your friends, your loved ones, and those evil ones you fear, that Fortunato is back from the dead.”
They all watched as, clad in his white robe, he ascended silently into the Heavens.
New York City: the Waldorf-Astoria
The Cardinal had had enough of St. Dympna’s, but neither could he force himself to enter the room of his Waldorf suite where the Cameo fiasco had occurred. Fortunately, the suite contained other rooms suitable for a war council, and Contarini had gathered Dagon and the Witness to hear Nighthawk’s report on the attack on the Jokertown Clinic.
Everyone had already heard a garbled account of events on the television, so they were prepared for the bad news that Nighthawk bought.
“And you could do nothing about it?” the Cardinal asked when he’d finished his report. Contarini used his iciest voice, which had reduced more than one bishop to helplessness over the years. Nighthawk, who had heard similar tones from the mouths of over-seers and slave owners, was used to it.
He shrugged. “The Witness chose to attack him thirty feet above the ground. I wasn’t in any position to help him. When they finally crashed to the sidewalk, the crowd was too thick to get through. By the time we I did, Fortunato had already ascended into the Heavens.”
The Cardinal made a bitter-lemon face at Nighthawk’s choice of words. “Why did he choose that tactic?” Contarini asked quietly, almost to himself.
Because he was vain and stupid, Nighthawk thought. He said aloud, “Because he craved glory, wanting it all for himself.”
Contarini fixed him with a killing stare. “We are not in this for self-glory.”
Nighthawk bowed his head, mainly to hide the smile that threatened to break out. “As you say, Cardinal,” he murmured.
Contarini continued to look as if he were sucking bitter lemons. “Well, no matter. We know where the Devil and his bitch is. We know that his powers have returned and that she is going nowhere for now. I’ll have them watched.” He steepled his fingers, tapping the tips together in rhythmic order. “We also know where their spawn is. Or at least where he’s going. For now he is out of our reach.”
Nighthawk turned, and gestured to Usher. The big man came forward carrying an old duffel bag.
“Earlier today I sent Usher upstate to look around,” Nighthawk said. “And he found a couple of interesting items.”
The Cardinal perked up, at least momentarily. “Such as?”
“Such as Blood, and his brother, skulking in the forest, afraid to come out. Fortunately hunger drove them into the open.”
“Where are they now?” Contarini asked in a voice that showed he was eager to mete out suitable punishment.
“Usher took them to St. Dympna’s, to await your pleasure.”
The Cardinal nodded.
“But before you punish them too severely,” Nighthawk said, interrupting Contarini before he could issue any foolish orders, “consider this.”
Usher passed over the old duffel bag and Nighthawk offered it to Contarini as if it contained jewels precious beyond number. The Cardinal sniffed dubiously.
“Yes, an old bag of clothes.”
Nighthawk nodded. “Clothes belonging to the one who calls herself The Angel.”
“Barnett’s whore?”
Nighthawk nodded again. The Allumbrados had been spying on Barnett and his organization for a long time. Sometimes Nighthawk thought that they knew more about what was happening in the Peaceable Kingdom than Barnett did.
The Cardinal smiled. Like most of the expressions that wormed their way across his patrician features, it was sinister.
“I begin to see the possibilities,” he said. “All we need is for her to stay in one place for awhile for Blood to track her down.”
Nighthawk nodded. “He’ll have a wide area to search. We know what roads she’ll probably take to Branson, but still, it will take some doing.”
“Yes.” Contarini thought for awhile. “But this time I’m taking no chances. Nighthawk, you and your team will await her at their final destination. Just in case they to elude my Allumbrados once again.” Contarini looked at Butcher Dagon and the Witness, who had the grace to look mildly abashed. “But that’s not going to happen this time, is it?”
Nighthawk watched Dagon and the Witness shake their heads vigorously, while Magda looked on stoically and Usher coughed to hide his smirk.
“And just to ensure our success,” the Cardinal said, “I’ll attend to this personally.”
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
West Virginia: Somewhere on the Road
The Angel was driving somewhere on a dark highway in the middle of West Virginia when fatigue hit her like a brick between the eyes. She was falling asleep at the wheel despite a massive intake of caffeine and sugar from her constant inhalation of Dr. Pepper and candy bars. She didn’t know if Jesus Christ could actually be killed in a car wreck, but she didn’t want to put it to a test. She saw a sign posted for a rest stop in twelve miles, and glanced at John Fortune, who was catching a little shut-eye in the passenger seat.
“There’s a rest stop up ahead, John,” she told him.
“I’m okay,” he said sleepily.
They’d been stopping every now and then for the Angel to hit the bathroom because of all the Dr. Pepper she’d been drinking. “You may be okay, but I need a few hours of sleep. We’ll rest until dawn, then push on.”
John seemed to wake up a little. “Hey, I can drive while you’re resting. Let me. I’ve almost got my license. I’m a pretty good driver.”
The Angel considered the idea. A couple extra hours on the road would put them that much closer to Branson. But in the end she shook her head. Maybe if he had his license. Without one, they were taking too great a risk. Besides, she didn’t really think she should trust someone who “almost” had his license on dark mountain highways.
“We can both use the rest,” she told him.
It was comfortable in the back of the van. It smelled vaguely of rich earth, vegetables, and herbs. There was room enough for both of them to stretch out. It felt odd lying down next to the boy who was Jesus Christ, the Angel thought, but his presence was both a comfort and a reminder of her awesome responsibilities. His divinity burned warmly like the sun-like halo that glowed around his head.
As she lay down, she tracked the next day’s route in her head. Branson lay in south Missouri, almost on the Arkansas border, about fifty miles east of Oklahoma. They had to traverse the rest of West Virginia, then cross Kentucky and most of Missouri. It didn’t seem like much. And it wouldn’t add much if she took the detour that had been on her mind the last couple of hours.
Dipping down into Mississippi wouldn’t be the most direct route to Branson, but it felt somehow safer to her. Somehow less traceable. And something was calling her. She felt a strong pull to home. A need to visit her origins again. Perhaps, something quietly told her, for one last time.
It wasn’t exactly a premonition. Nor a vision. Nothing that concrete. Just a calling through the dark southern night pulling her gently, like her mother crying in the gathering dusk for her to come home to dinner.
The Midnight Angel fell asleep with her Savior snoring gently at her side, memories of her childhood dancing like lost butterflies through her dreams.
Jerry collapsed, exhausted, into his seat in first class. Billy Ray occupied the seat next to him. Ray looked fresh as a daisy, but Jerry was still weak and in pain from the wounds he’d suffered back at Camp Dez. Not to mention his gunshot wound, and various bruises, scrapes, and cuts he’d suffered while making his way through the forest with John Fortune. His shape-shifting powers didn’t regenerate injuries, though by the very nature of his ace his recuperative powers were superior to those of an ordinary man—not to Ray’s. Despite being shot multiple times, clawed, strangled, and chewed upon over the past couple of days, the government ace looked fresh as a daisy as he sipped chilled orange juice.