John Miller - Death Draws Five

“You okay?” Jerry asked anxiously.

“Bullet wound doesn’t look too bad,” Ray said. “Just a flesh wound to the thigh.”

“Yeah,” Ackroyd said, “but I think I broke my ankle when I fell over that damn log.”

Jerry looked at Ackroyd’s leg, and nodded. It was an easy diagnosis to confirm. A jagged splinter of bone was sticking out through Ackroyd’s sock.

Ray nodded. “It’s broke all right. Though,” he added as Yeoman joined them, “could have been worse. The shooter was about to pump another slug into you before our pal here bullseyed him.”

“Thanks,” Ackroyd said through clenched teeth.

Yeoman smiled thinly. “You’re welcome. I appreciate the effort that took.”

Ackroyd grunted. “I’m out of my head with pain.”

“Where’d you send Witness?” Jerry asked him.

“Top of the Statue of Liberty,” Ackroyd said.

Jerry frowned. “That’s closed for repairs, isn’t it?”

Ackroyd nodded. “It’s the only place I could think to send him where he couldn’t shoot any innocent bystanders.”

“Hope he falls down the stairs and breaks his frigging neck,” Ray said.

Jerry looked up and glanced around the parking lot. It resembled a bloody war zone with wounded men lying all around. Back up the hill, a semi-circle of stunned snake-handlers looked on. A couple of the thugs had gotten back on their feet and were edging off into the woods.

“Freeze, you dirty rats,” Jerry said in his best Cagney imitation.

And they did.

New Hampton: Snake Handlers’ Commune

Ray slumped wearily on the ground, momentarily breathing deeply of the gathering dusk, and wondered if he could stand again without collapsing. Better try it now, he told himself. It’s not going to get any easier. Somehow he pushed himself to his feet, swaying a bit until his head stopped swimming.

“You look like Hell, Ray,” Jerry said.

“Thanks.” He took a deep breath and almost toppled over. “I’ll be fine after I pass out for awhile.”

“Save the repartee,” Yeoman said. “You need medical attention, along with Ackroyd.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Only if we get the bleeding stopped,” Yeoman said. “You can’t have much left running though your veins.”

“Hey, guys,” Mushroom Daddy said, “I’ll go get one of the first aid kits from the snake handlers. They’ve got some really fine ones in case of accidents while playing their rattlers and shit.”

Yeoman looked around at the body-littered ground. “Some of these guys could use attention, too. I’ve seen fewer bodies on battlefields.”

So have I, Ray thought. Maybe too many battlefields. God, I’m tired. To Hell with standing up. He stretched out on the ground, and was asleep before Mushroom Daddy returned with the first aid kit.

Pennsylvania: Somewhere on the road

After a couple of hours the Angel figure it was time to pull over at a gas station to hit the bathroom, take on supplies, and make some phone calls. They stopped in a God-forsaken coal-mining town in Pennsylvania where the slag piles glowed redly like the pits of Hell and the stench of brimstone, or something very like it, smothered the air they were trying to breath.

The gas station, pumps, and even the parking lot was covered by a powdery gray dust that clung to everything like iron filings to a magnet. The Angel swiped her fingers across the gas pump, and they came away greasy with a fine-particled ash that was invisible in the air, but so pervasive that it had settled seemingly everywhere. She could imagine what the locals’ lungs looked like, and decided that the sooner they left this area, the better.

She put the nozzle into the van’s gas tank, and started pumping as John Fortune came out of the bathroom.

“Now that we have a chance,” he said, “I should probably call my Mom to let her know that I’m okay and not to worry.”

The Angel nodded. “That would be a good idea.”

“Should I tell her we’re going to Branson?” he asked.

“I don’t know about that. We don’t want the Allumbrados to discover where we’re going. The fewer who know our destination, the better.”

John Fortune nodded, considering. “You’re probably right. So, you know who the kidnappers are? Those Allumbrados?”

“They’re Papists,” the Angel said.

“Papists?”

“Catholics,” she explained.

“I thought they were criminals. What do the Catholics want me for?”

“They think...” She paused. She couldn’t lie to him and couldn’t think of a plausible evasion. “Well, you see, they think you’re the Anti-Christ.”

“The Anti-Christ?” John Fortune repeated, unbelievingly.

“The Devil,” she said. “Satan.”

“I know who the Anti-Christ is,” he said with some annoyance. “I saw The Omen. But—why? Why do they think I’m the Devil? And what are they planning on doing with me?”

“They’re bad men, John,” the Angel said. “I don’t know what they’re planning to do,” she finished lamely, and wished she hadn’t lied, even if only by omission, when he nodded skeptically. She ignored his question as to why they thought he was the Anti-Christ, hoping it would just go away, and was relieved when it did. At least for now.

“Okay. Then why exactly are we going to Branson?”

Here was a question she could answer. At least partially. “You’ll be safe there. There’s someone there who can protect you.”

“Jerry from the detective agency was protecting me—”

“And doing a fine job,” the Angel said scornfully.

“Well, yeah. There’s that,” John Fortune admitted.

“Look,” the Angel said. “I’m just an operative. The Hand—my boss in Branson has all the answers. He’ll be able to tell you everything. I promise.”

“Well—”

The Angel put her hand on his, feeling the warmth of his flesh. He was a handsome boy, thoughtful, it seemed, and good-natured. But either he was a consummate actor, or he really had no knowledge of who he was. She could admit no other possibility, except that maybe he was testing her. She already felt closer to him than she’d ever felt to anyone. Even her mother. She would do anything for him, sacrifice everything, to protect him.

“You must trust me,” she told him, all her heart in her words. “You must never doubt me. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe. You must believe that.”

John Fortune looked at her for a long, solemn moment, then he nodded. “I believe you.”

“All right,” the Angel said. “I will not fail your trust.”

“Cool,” John Fortune said. “Let’s go pay for the gas and lay in some supplies, and I’ll call Mom.”

“Right,” the Angel said.

They picked up a couple of six packs of Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew, candy bars, cupcakes, chips, and some sandwiches that looked reasonably fresh. The Angel paid with The Hand’s credit card. She could see now why Ray had insisted on taking it with him.

Since they were in a sheltered mountain valley and their cells didn’t work very well, they used the Angel’s pre-paid phone card to make a couple of calls. She let John Fortune call home first. He didn’t realize that his mother had been badly injured in the Las Vegas battle, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him about it. As she’d expected, nobody was home when he called, so he left a message on the answering machine. The Angel hoped Peregrine was still alive. She told John Fortune that she and Josh McCoy were probably out coordinating the search for him. She was sure, she added, that they’d get his message soon.

As John Fortune hauled their supplies to the van, she called The Hand. It rang several times before a bright voice answered, “President Barnett’s office.”