They’d briefed McCoy, bringing him up to date on what they knew of John Fortune’s current location. Ray had confirmed that John Fortune was on the way to Branson by checking in with his office. Though he’d been less than forthcoming when it came to revealing what office he was actually currently operating out of.
They could use all the help in recovering Fortune they could get. Though free from the kidnappers, he wasn’t exactly home safe. Jerry had thought McCoy had been hallucinating when he’d told them that Fortunato had turned up to help in the search, but Ackroyd had surprised Jerry by confirming McCoy’s story from subsequent news coverage, even though no one seemed to know Fortunato’s current whereabouts. It seemed that the legendary ace had disappeared after some strange goings-on concerning an unidentified D.O.A. ace.
“Well,” Ray said, “you know I can’t really talk about those things...” He gestured encouragingly, it seemed.
“Sure, sure,” Jerry said. “I get you.”
Plausible deniability, Jerry thought. That was all the government seemed to care about nowadays. Ray’s partner, Angel, had reported, saying that she on the way to Branson, Missouri with the kid, but Ray couldn’t explain why she was taking him there. Maybe, Ray suggested, something John Fortune had revealed to her had made the trip necessary. Jerry couldn’t imagine what that possibly could be, and Ackroyd hadn’t been happy with Ray’s feeble non-explanation. But they had to live with it. Another thing they had to live with that Jerry wasn’t happy about was Brennan’s absence.
“You’re moving out of my backyard,” Yeoman had said after the battle at the ophiolatrists’ compound. “I was happy to help around here, but with the boy gone and the government now involved...” He’d looked thoughtfully at Ray and shook his head.
Ackroyd had been happy to see Yeoman sign off. Jerry hadn’t been, and still wasn’t. The archer had proven his worth more than once during the past couple of days. Jerry was sure that they’d be sorry that Yeoman wasn’t lurking somewhere, shaft nocked to bowstring, watching their backs. But all and all, Yeoman was right. This wasn’t his fight.
They decided to send Sascha to Branson immediately, to scout out the territory and make arrangements for lodging, and Jerry and Ray would follow the next day, as soon as they both had a chance to catch their breaths and rest their battered bodies. Ackroyd was out of it. He’d already disobeyed doctor’s orders by checking out of the hospital. There was no way he could an active part in the rest of the case on his damaged leg. His absence was another great loss to the team, but there was nothing they could do about it.
Once their plane took off, Ray showed that he wasn’t interested in idle chitchat. He reclined his chair, put his feet up, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep. He was impeccably neat, even while sleeping, though he snored.
For Jerry the hours crawled like legless elephants. He wished he were like Ray. Tough and untouchable, able to bounce back from any physical ailment, take anything in stride.
Jerry still hurt physically. His body was one big bruise, inside and out. Mentally he still felt guilty for losing John Fortune. The in-flight movie was the sucky Britney Spears remake of the tolerable Desperately Seeking Susan. All he had to occupy his mind were thoughts about his empty personal life. Images of Ray’s partner found their way into his tired brain. Angel. She was a striking woman. He wondered what Ray knew about her, and decided that he’d pump the government agent, subtly, of course, for info about her when he woke up.
“Magazine, sir?”
The steward awoke Jerry out of his introspective haze by holding a selection of magazines before him. Business Week. Harpers. Esquire. A familiar-looking photo on the magazine a top the pile caught his eye. “Fortunato’s Incredible Return to New York,” the headlines blazed. “Famous Ace Seeks Unknown Son. Exclusive Report by Digger Downs.”
“Thanks,” Jerry said. “I’ll take this one.”
He took the brand new issue of Aces! from the pile, and settled back to read about Fortunato’s return to New York, until somewhere over Kentucky when he fell asleep and dreamed an uncomfortable dream in which he and Ray walked the streets of Branson, Missouri, searching for John Fortune, and were in turn stalked by man-sized walking zucchinis.
All Jerry could think was, Why zucchinis?
In the air to Branson
Ray woke up soon somewhere over Missouri. He sat carefully unmoving for a few moments, taking stock of the parts of his body that hurt, and the parts that didn’t. Hurt came out ahead, about ten to one.
He sighed and slowly moved his seat to the upright and locked position. Regeneration had never been painless, but lately it was taking more and more out of him. It took longer and hurt harder. He wondered if some day it would take as long for him to heal from a wound as it took an ordinary man. He wondered if someday his face might not repair itself. If his kidneys and liver and heart might not return to full working order. If skin and flesh and muscle and bone might not knit together again into a raveled whole.
He glanced over at Creighton, twitching in his sleep like he was having some sort of delicious dream, slumbering like a baby, without a care or a worry. God, Ray thought, what would it be like to be a simple P.I.? Catch a few criminals, catch a few zzz’s. Compared to his life, it sounded idyllic
Creighton jerked awake a few minutes later. He glanced wildly at Ray, but seemed to calm down almost immediately when he realized where he was. For a moment it looked as if he were going to say something, but then thought better of it and remained silent. Good, Ray thought. I have enough shit of my own to worry about.
Ray sat up straight all the way down to Branson, carefully drinking his orange juice until the steward came by to collect all cups and trash. He wouldn’t have minded a good, stiff drink even if the alcohol interfered with his body’s repair work. It was, however, his iron clad policy not to mix drinking and flying. Booze coupled with unexpected turbulence was a sure recipe for disaster.
As it turned out, this flight was as smooth as a walk in the park, as was the landing. Taxi-ing to the gate was interminable, even though the Branson airport wasn’t exactly Tomlin International. Taxi-ing to the gate always annoyed Ray. He was the first to stand and rescue his carry-on from overhead storage, being careful because of course the baggage could have shifted during flight. He dragged Creighton’s bag down as well, handed it to him, and headed off the plane, Creighton half jogging to keep up.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” the P.I. asked.
Ray wasn’t sure. He was just eager to get it on, to find John Fortune and deliver him to Barnett. To finish with this nonsense and start exploring other options. He wasn’t sure just yet what they might be. Hell, he had no fucking idea. Suddenly he just wanted to finish this while his skin was relatively whole.
Was he, Ray wondered, suddenly developing a sense of caution? And if so, was that a good or bad thing?
My God, Ray thought, not introspection, too.
They stopped as they entered the terminal proper though the covered walkway. A big white banner with big block letters painted in red was strung up near their gate. “WELCOME MAGOG,” it proclaimed.
Underneath, before, and around the banner were scores of women. Women dressed in pantsuits. Women wearing sensible shoes and plain, long dresses. Women with teased hair. Women with bouffant hair. Women whose hair was like the girls’ hair at Ray’s senior prom back in Montana in the 1970’s. All had adhesive tags on their blouses that said: “Hi! My Name Is” in big letters above a white space that had names like Lurleen and Ellen Sue carefully filled in with felt-tip markers. They were all talking and embracing and standing in knots and groups and generally clogging the flow of foot traffic. Ray and Creighton stopped, stood, and stared.