John Miller - Death Draws Five

The smell of the sea receded. The floor creaked as massive weight shifted upon it.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe the old Fortunato is back. And the Bruddas bit off a little more than they could chew...”

There was an eternity of silence. Then the pain that he thought was ultimate agony exploded into agony multiplied exponentially as gentle angel wings lifted him up and brought to mercifully peaceful, painless Heaven.

New Hampton: Camp Xavier Desmond

Jerry was still tired when he woke up mid-afternoon. He was still tired, but he knew that he had to get going. He and John Fortune were safe for now, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. Literally, he thought, as he surveyed the forest outside the cabin window. John Fortune was still sleeping in the next bunk. The poor kid had been through Hell, Jerry thought, and he didn’t have the heart to wake him up. On the other hand, he didn’t want the boy to awaken, find him gone, and start wandering about the grounds looking for him. Even at Camp Xavier Desmond—or, as the kids called it, C-X-Dez—a new kid who glowed would attract an unwelcome amount of attention and cause unwanted speculation.

He left a note, telling him that he was not to leave the bunk under any circumstances—unless it caught fire or was hit by a meteor—and went off to the administrative office to find a phone. He dialed the office and was pleased when a sultry voice said “Ackroyd and Creighton. How may I help you?” in a sexy, French-accented contralto.

“Hello, Ezili—”

“Jerry!” the receptionist interrupted before he could say another word. “Are you still at the camp? Are you really all right?”

Jerry was touched by the authentic concern in her voice. He’d known Ezili for years, during most of which they’d had an on-again, off-again love affair, which unfortunately had recently been mostly off again. Jerry didn’t know if Ezili—who was named after the least forgiving aspect of her native Haiti’s love goddess—had been touched by the wild card and given a minor ace, or was merely very, very good at her favorite activity, which was sex. He didn’t love her, really, but he had feelings for her which he weren’t at all sure were reciprocated. As hot as she was in bed, she was cool out of it. It was nice to hear the concern in her voice.

“We’re okay. Got the message on I left on the tape?”

“Oui—”

It was his turn to interrupt. “All right. We’re still at the camp. We’re still all right. We still don’t have a clue as to what the Hell is going on. We could probably use some reinforcements, in case the bad guys show up again. I can’t imagine how they could trace us here... but...”

“Oui. I understand.”

“Is Jay there?”

Jay was Jay Ackroyd, senior partner of Ackroyd and Creighton. Though he looked more like a low-level bookie than an ace detective, Jay Ackroyd, both an ace and a detective, was one of the finest P.I.’s in the city. In fact, as Jay liked to say since his return from Takis, he was one of the finest P.I.’s on two planets. No one else could put that on their Yellow Pages ad.

“Non,” Ezili said, “he is still in Jersey on that Giant Rat of Passaic case. He hopes to be done with it today.”

“Who’s on call?”

Ackroyd and Creighton employed investigators of all types—nat, joker, deuce, and ace. What Jerry wanted was a boatload of aces streaming up Route 17 as soon as possible.

“Elmo Schaeffer,” Ezili said, as if reading his mind, “Sascha Starfin, and Peter Pann are the only aces.”

Jerry thought it over. It was a mixed bag. Elmo was a dwarf, stronger than any nat. Sascha was a blind telepath. Pann had his tinks. Not the strongest line-up in the world, but they all had their uses and Jerry was in no position to be picky.

“All right,” he said decisively. “Send them up.”

“I will,” Ezili said. “They will be there was soon as possible.”

“Great,” Jerry said. His stomach suddenly rumbled, and he realized that he was hungry again. “Listen, Ezili, I’ve got to go. Tell them to get here ASAP.”

“Oui,” she said. “And Jerry.”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, mon cherie. I have a feeling that much bad may still come out of this.”

“Yeah,” Jerry said. “Me too. But at least now we’re prepared.”

I hope, anyway, Jerry said as he hung up the phone. I hope.

Staten Island: Nighthawk’s Nest

Nighthawk’s hideaway was on a quiet little Staten Island street that could have been in just about any American small town. Cameo parked the car in the detached garage. Nighthawk unlocked the front door and then opened windows to clear out the stale air. He was the only one who had access to the house and it had been some time since he’d been there. Now that someone else knew about it, he’d sell it at his first opportunity. It was too bad, because he liked the place. It was nice and small, private and quiet, yet close to Manhattan. But that was all right. Plenty of houses fit the same bill.

He came back to the living room. Cameo was stretched out on the comfortable old sofa, eyes closed as if asleep. But as soon as he entered the room her eyes flew open, and there was something in them that told him that the old Cameo, the first Cameo he’d met, was looking out at him.

“Back are we?” he asked pleasantly.

Cameo just nodded.

“Would you like some tea, missy?”

“That would be nice.”

“Have to use lemon and sugar.”

“That’s all right.”

He got a couple of mugs out of the kitchen cabinet as he brewed the tea. It was organic Earl Gray, one of his favorites. His real favorite was Gunpowder, but that was best served with cream, and Nighthawk couldn’t keep perishables in his boltholes. They could have stopped for supplies, but somehow that wasn’t the first consideration on his mind when they were running for cover. Too bad. Donuts would have been nice, too.

He brought a tray with mugs, teapot, sugar, and lemon juice into his small living room. The furniture was cheap, but comfy. There were few personal touches about the room, or the whole house for that matter, but Nighthawk didn’t really accumulate material possessions. He knew too well what happened to them over time. For one reason or another, few seemed to last for very long.

“Here you go.”

He set the tray on the coffee table and took the comfy chair set at right angles to the sofa that Cameo had collapsed on. She looked awful. Beyond tired. Beyond frightened. He watched her as she poured a cup, added lots of sugar but no lemon. Her hands shook as they conveyed the cup to her lips. She took a little sip.

“I’m sorry about St. Dympna’s. But things have a way of working out for the best. I think we’re safe here, for now. I don’t think there’s a chance in Hell that the Cardinal will be able to find us here.”

Cameo shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “We’re safe? For now?”

Nighthawk nodded, sipping at his own cup. It was time, he thought to get down to what he really wanted from her.

“How old do you think I am, missy?”

“Umm.” Cameo hesitated, as if not really caring. “Maybe... sixty?”

Nighthawk chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “Nope. Not even close.” He looked at her, his dark eyes haunted by years gone by and the deeds done in them. “Next year I’ll be a hundred and fifty one. If me and world makes it to next year.”

“A hundred...” That caught her attention. She stared at him, her voice trailing off in astonishment.

“Why not?” Nighthawk asked. “The world has changed considerably since the wild card virus came down on Manhattan in 1946. People fly without machines. They leap tall buildings in a single bound. Why, some even can channel spirits through objects they’d used in their lifetimes. Is it so impossible to believe a man could live a hundred and fifty years?”