John Miller - Death Draws Five

The Angel felt lost. “How—Creighton? The bodyguard? He’s here, too?”

“Yep,” Ray said. “That’s him over there. The kind of geeky looking skinny guy. He’s a shape-shifter. We all got here via Blood.” He held his hand up, forestalling questions. “Don’t ask. It seems that these Allumbrados have a couple tricks up their sleeves we didn’t know about, including this joker-ace named Blood who can zap people transdimensionally from, say, Las Vegas to New Hampton. I got zapped here last night, right when Dagon’s boys—actually, supposedly they were led by Witness, but I never saw him—hit the camp. Creighton got the kid out, but lost him in the woods, later.”

“Witness?” the Angel asked, trying to keep up.

“Yeah. Your blonde boyfriend from Vegas,” Ray said laconically. “Remember?”

Blushing, she did. If the Angel felt lost before, now her head was swimming. “All right. Who’s the other man?”

“A guy I know named Ackroyd. He’s a dick”

“Must you swear so much?” the Angel asked, annoyed.

“I’m not swearing. Je—I mean, Go—uh, gosh. The guy’s a dick.” Ray sighed at the look on the Angel’s face. “A detective. A private investigator. He’s Creighton’s partner. He just brought a team of ops to help find the kid.” He turned and waved to them. “Hey, Popinjay,” he shouted, “come over and meet Angel!” Ray looked back at her. “He hates that nickname. I use it every chance I get.”

She rolled her eyes, got out of the Escalade, and stretched. She was hungry again, but this was no time to think of her stomach. John Fortune, the poor boy, was wandering somewhere around the woods. He was probably tired, and much more hungry himself. She could feel her Lord’s pain as her stomach rumbled in sympathy.

Ackroyd strolled up to the Escalade, followed by his companion. Ackroyd was a small man in a rumpled suit without a tie. Creighton was also small, in less formal clothes that fit him like he’d stolen them from someone who was bigger than him. He had a bandage high on his forehead. His real face was much less handsome than the one he’d worn in Las Vegas. She wondered why he’d changed it. He was young, but there was something about him, a sadness in his eyes, that showed that much was missing in his life. She wondered if his heart was filled with Jesus. It seemed unlikely.

“Nice wheels,” Ackroyd said sardonically. “Did you steal them off some geezer on a camping trip?”

Ray grinned. “What’s your ride these days, Popinjay?” Ray asked, then his face took on a sudden look of dismay. “Oh, that’s right. You’re from ‘The City.’ You never learned how to drive.” He looked around searchingly. “Where’s the subway stop that dropped you off in this god-forsaken place?”

“Yeah,” Ackroyd responded. “It is pretty rural.” He indicated his companion. “You know my partner, Creighton, I believe.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “She met him the first time he lost the kid.”

Ackroyd grinned, but there wasn’t much humor in his expression. “Good to see that you’re still an all-around asshole, Ray.”

The Angel made a noise in her throat that was something between a derisive snort and an exasperated prayer, probably because for some obscure reason she felt somewhat compelled to defend Ray. Just a little, anyway.

“We’re here to do a job,” she said forcefully. “Not engage in juvenile repartee and spray testosterone around like skunks marking their territory.”

Ackroyd’s eyebrows went up. “Skunks mark their territory?” he asked Creighton, who only shrugged. He turned to Ray. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” she said, aggrieved.

“This is Angel,” Ray said. He stood next to her, smiling. “She’s new,” he added, as if that explained everything.

Ackroyd nodded. “How’d the Feds get on the case already?”

“We’re not—” the Angel started to say, and Ray stepped hard on her foot. She shut her mouth and glared at him, momentarily too outraged to speak.

“—at liberty to say how we learned about it,” Ray said. “Confidential sources, and all.”

The Angel suddenly realized that Ray wanted to let Ackroyd and Creighton still think they worked for the government and not The Hand. She could see the wisdom in that. In fact, she should have thought of it herself. She castigated herself silently for a moment, then chipped in brightly, “That’s right.”

“Uh-huh,” Ackroyd said. He looked at Creighton, who shrugged again.

The Angel could tell that Ackroyd was suspicious. Suspicion seemed to be in his nature. But there was really nothing he could do, except disbelieve them. He seemed a man of little faith.

“So,” Ray said, “got any clues as to John Fortune’s current whereabouts?”

Ackroyd smiled. “Clues? Is that what we need?” He looked at Creighton as if for confirmation. “Jeez, Ray, it’s great when you Feds turn up to tell us that we need clues and all. I don’t know if that information came in Detecting for Dummies. That’s the book Creighton and I use to solve all our cases. Right, partner?”

“Knock off the horseshit, already,” Ray said. “Angel is right.”

“Yes,” the Angel chimed in. “Our job is to find the boy. Sparring with each other isn’t helping.”

Ackroyd sighed. “Wisdom from the mouth of babes.” He held up a hand to forestall another outburst from Ray or the Angel, or both. “But, you’re right. Both of you. What do you propose?”

The Angel felt Ray’s eyes on her. They were calculating. Though lust lay behind the calculation, he did seem to be focusing somewhat at least upon their job. “Well,” Ray said, “there’s two of us, and two of you. Why don’t we split our teams?”

“Good idea,” Ackroyd said. “I’ll go with Angel—”

“Uh, no,” Ray interrupted, shaking his head. “You and me, Popinjay. We’re a team. Like the old days.”

Ackroyd frowned. “Only if you knock off the ‘Popinjay’ crap.”

“All right,” Ray said.

“All right.” Ackroyd turned to Creighton. “I should talk things over with your little helper from last night.”

“Right.” Creighton spoke for the first time. His voice, the Angel thought, was the same as before, as deep and soft as his eyes. He seemed a gentle soul, unsuited for his profession. “There are some other things we should check out. Brennan told me about another settlement up the road that John Fortune might have stumbled into last the night. Or Dagon’s men, for that matter.”

“Right,” Ackroyd said crisply. “Check it out. Be careful.” He fished in his inside jacket pocket and tossed a cell phone to Creighton. Ackroyd frowned. “Too bad the kid wasn’t carrying one of these. All this tramping around the countryside wouldn’t be necessary. Anyway, be careful. Watch out for cows and other wild animals. And if you spot any of Dagon’s men—call immediately.”

“That’s right,” Ray said. “And we’ll come kick their asses.”

“Let’s hope,” Ackroyd said. “Come on. I’ll catch you up on all our ‘clues.’”

The Angel could hear the quotation marks Ackroyd’s sarcastic tones put around the word as he and Ray went off down the road together. She looked at Creighton. He returned her gaze. Lust was lurking in the depths of his sad eyes. Men, she thought.

“The commune is down the road apiece,” he said, “We can walk to it.” He gestured towards the ridge with the summer camp nestled at its base. “This area is called Snake Hill. Used to be known for all the rattlesnakes around here, sixty, seventy years ago. Don’t worry. They’re all gone now.” He frowned. “At least, supposedly most of ‘em are. Anyway, their presence attracted a, a religious community, I’d guess you’d call it.”