John Miller - Death Draws Five

The tiny room was sterile and uninteresting. Ray looked at the poster of the little kitten dangling from a branch with the words “HANG IN THERE” emblazoned with bold yellow letters, and pursed his lips. All in all, it was better than being shot in the ass and having to sit in a cave in Afghanistan while awaiting medical treatment, but not by much.

Well, he told himself, you asked for it.

Speaking of asking for it, he reminded himself that he had some other unpleasant tasks to perform. Ignoring the sign that said “Please turn off cell phones as a courtesy to the doctors and staff,” he took his cell phone out and dialed Barnett’s number.

There was a click after the third ring and a sexy and bored voice said, “Peaceable Kingdom, President Leo Barnett’s Office.”

“Hello, Sally Lou,” Ray said. “Let me talk to the big guy.”

“You mean President Barnett?”

It was their little joke. He always called Barnett “the big guy” and she pretended that she didn’t know whom he meant. But Ray wasn’t really in the mood to drag this out for too long. “I don’t mean the Pope.”

She must have heard something in the tone of his voice, for there was a click, a buzz, and then Barnett’s smooth voice was on the line, with more than a hint of distress in it. “Billy, my boy, what in the name of Melchisidek is going on there in Vegas, boy? I’m hearing strange tales. Strange tales indeed—”

“Yeah, well, you should have actually been here.” Ray gave a concise report on the day’s activities, and then listened to a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Disturbing,” Barnett finally said.

There was no way to deny it. “Yes, sir,” Ray said. “You know that those Allumbrados have aces working for them as well as assholes with guns.”

Barnett sighed. “So I’ve heard.”

“One of them is Butcher Dagon.”

“Have those damned Papists no sense of morality?” Barnett asked, outraged.

“Well, Angel and I laid him out like a slab of cold meat. The local cops currently have him on ice, but I wouldn’t trust them to hold a lost dog let alone a bad guy the caliber of Dagon.”

“Forget Dagon,” Barnett said flatly. “We’ve got to find Je—the boy before those murderous bastards kill him. Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

“No,” Ray said, “but I’ve got a got an idea or two—”

There was a soft knock on the door, and it suddenly opened. A young female doctor looked in. She was Asian, probably Korean, with big dark eyes and long, straight glossy black hair.

“—Got to run,” Ray interrupted himself, and shut down his cell. He smiled at the doctor, who paused, frowning in the doorway. “Bet you’ve never stitched up an ace before,” he said with a bright smile.

New York City: St Dympna’s Home for the Mentally Deficient and Criminally Inclined

Jerry quickly realized that they’d been transported to a Hellhole that would make Bedlam look like a day at Disneyworld.

“Home sweet home,” the big blonde guy said, looking around disgustedly. He said it as if he didn’t really mean it. “You know,” he continued confidingly to Jerry, “I’ve got to say that this really sucks. The Cardinal gets to lord it up over at the Waldorf, while we have to scrounge around here in a building barely fit to be Blood’s kennel.”

Jerry grunted noncommittally as the blonde guy, as if emphasizing his displeasure, aimed a kick at Blood’s ribs as his handler dragged him by on his leash. The kick landed solidly. Blood howled like a kicked dog while the blonde guy sneered his satisfaction.

“You shouldn’t oughta do that, Witness,” the keeper said. “Blood ain’t done nothing wrong. You treat him like that, you confuse him, and then he’s hard to handle.”

“He’s disgusting,” Witness said. “Get him out of my sight.”

Grumbling, the handler pulled Blood away, tugging hard at his leash and saying in an aggrieved voice, “Come on, boy, come on,” while Witness looked on, grinning. Jerry felt sick to his stomach.

Witness turned to him, his face suddenly wearing an expression of concern that didn’t quite look authentic. “How you doing, Dagon? You look pretty well beat. I guess that Ray is one tough customer.”

Jerry, trying to speak as little as possible, only nodded.

“I tell you what,” Witness said. “Why don’t you stay here and rest awhile? Get some medical attention. I’ll have some of the boys help you up to the infirmary. They’ll take care of you there.”

Although his words were sympathetic, his voice had an underlying tone that Jerry interpreted as meaning, “Look out, I’m going to screw you now.”

“Don’t worry about reporting to the Cardinal. I’ll go into Manhattan and do it. Though,” he gripped his left shoulder and swung it experimentally while grimacing, “I could probably use some medical attention myself. I think I pulled something here.”

Jerry kept a look of elation off Dagon’s face. At least he knew where they were, that somehow they’d been transported back to Manhattan. That would make things easier, if they could only get out of St. Dympna’s, whatever the Hell this place was. Jerry nodded and made groaning noises in what he hoped sounded like an acquiescent tone.

Witness brightened perceptibly, smiling like he’d just put one over. Apparently he was eager to get to this Cardinal and report. Maybe to tell him his particular version of events. Maybe to take all the credit for it. That was fine with Jerry.

Witness barely restrained himself from rubbing his hands together with glee. He turned to the men who’d been holding a silent, sullen John Fortune by his arms. “Take the brat to the oubliette,” Witness ordered.

That doesn’t sound good, Jerry thought.

“You others help Dagon.” Jerry winced realistically as they put their arms around his waist. “Careful, dolts! Can’t you see that he’s injured?”

The thugs murmured apologies that Jerry accepted with a feeble nod. Witness nodded, and with a final farewell bustled off, planning whatever stab in the back move he clearly intended.

This, Jerry thought, was not a subtle guy. Probably more muscles than brains.

As they shuffled off together, Jerry stopped, turned, and looked at John Fortune. “Be seeing you, kid,” he said.

He said it as quickly and quietly as he could and still be sure that John Fortune heard him. He really didn’t have a firm grasp of Dagon’s voice, and he was a bad mimic anyway, as his utter failure as the Projectionist proved, so he just used his regular voice and hoped no one was really paying attention

John Fortune glanced wildly back over his shoulder as two thugs hustled him down the hall, and their eyes met. For the first time since their capture, Jerry saw hope on the kid’s face. Jerry risked a single nod as he was shuffled off in the other direction. John Fortune had understood. He’d recognized Jerry’s voice, or perhaps he’d just recognized one of Jerry’s favorite tag lines.

He knew that his shape-shifting bodyguard was still on the job.

New York City: Jokertown Clinic

The doctor had a white coat, a stethoscope, and the hindquarters of a horse. Palomino, Fortunato thought. Very handsome.

His front end was good-looking, too, with a blondeish, Californian surfer dude cast to it, but underlain with an uncommon strength and thoughtfulness. Fortunato thought that this was a man who had seen a lot, been through a lot, and had paid a price for all the knowledge he’d won from life.

“Bradley!” Digger said, glad-handing the joker doctor. Fortunato had met the reporter on the clinic steps, and Digger had commanded him to “Leave everything to me.” Considering the state that he was in, Fortunato thought that was a good idea. Digger seemed to know the place as well as the people in charge, and it took him only moments to get them up to Finn’s office.