John Miller - Death Draws Five

“My dear mother left me when I was quite young,” they sang as the Angel negotiated a sweeping downhill curve. “She said, ‘Lord have mercy upon my wicked son.’”

Appropriate. How appropriate. She could hear her life in this old song. They could have been singing about her. She glanced at John Fortune. He was smiling, enjoying the adventure that his young life had turned into. He has a good heart, the Angel thought, as well as steady courage and compassion. Yet, the passing hours that they had spent together, had shown her that he seemed more of a boy than the Savior of the world. Is it possible, she wondered, that he hasn’t yet realized who he is?

“I ain’t got no woman to call my special friend,” John Fortune sang. He smiled at her, and the Angel felt a sudden warmth on her upper right thigh. She glanced down to see his hand resting there. She could feel the heat it radiated through the leather of her jumpsuit. She looked back up at him.

“You know, Angel,” he said, “you’re really beautiful.”

She could feel herself blushing, but worse, she could feel the curse of her body betraying her again. He was only a boy—even worse, her Savior. How sinful was she if she could tempt her Savior into carnal thought? She shook her head. “I’m just a soldier in the army of My Lord,” she said, looking grimly out the windshield.

John Fortune turned as much as his seat belt allowed, to face her. “I know you’re older than me,” he said, his expression pleading, “but not by all that much. What’s a couple of years?”

“Seven,” she said, concentrating on the winding road before them.

“Seven!” John Fortune said, as if she’d just proved his point. “That’s nothing! Why, my mom’s almost that much older than my dad. And I’m mature for my age. Everyone says so. Besides, we have so much in common—”

The Angel shook her head. “John—”

“We’re aces,” he pointed out reasonably. “Both of us. And, uh, we’re good aces, too. We use our powers to help people—”

“John—”

“Unless...” John Fortune suddenly looked downcast. He frowned at her, then sighed. “You must think I’m pretty stupid to think a hottie like you doesn’t have a boyfriend already.”

The Angel glanced at him, her heart in her throat at the sound of his voice. “No, John, no. I don’t think you’re stupid at all. And... you’re right, actually. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The recuperative powers of the young put a smile on his face again. “Well, great, then. Can we go out sometime? I promise you’ll have a good time.”

The Angel’s answer was interrupted as the van’s engine suddenly coughed, sputtered, and died right there on the highway. She glanced at John Fortune, and sighed. This was too much to deal with now. Too much.

“We’ll see,” she said, “but first we have to take care of this, this breakdown, whatever it is. Then we have to get to Branson, where you’ll be safe.”

John Fortune nodded confidently. “Sure. First things first. I’m willing to wait. For you. What do you think is wrong with the van?”

They were still on the long downward glide. The Angel took her foot off the brake and let gravity do all the work.

“I have no idea,” she said. “But I hope there’s a town at the bottom of this mountain with a service station in it.”

“Sure there is,” John Fortune said. He leaned forward and punched the Canned Heat tape out of the eight-track. “Let’s listen to this one again.”

He put “Surrealistic Pillow” in the tape machine and “Somebody to Love” blared forth.

“I like this,” John Fortune said. “You know, the chick singing sounds like that one who did that old song. You know?”

The Angel shook her head.

“‘They Built This City On Rock And Roll.’ Think it’s her?” John Fortune asked.

The Angel shook her head again.

“I have no idea,” she said, guiding the van down the mountain like a toboggan down a snowless hillside.

Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

Though Ray hadn’t exactly lied to Creighton, he had let him and Ackroyd both make unwarranted assumptions that he didn’t want to explain at this time. With Sascha on the scene, he decided he’d better split before the eyeless ace picked something awkward out of his mind. He had to report to Barnett anyway, and see exactly what the Hell was going on with Angel and the kid.

Ray made his excuses and dashed off, trying to diffuse any probes from Sascha by keeping a picture of Angel foremost in his thoughts. It wasn’t difficult. She had real eye appeal, even when she was being grumpy. Which was almost always. He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like in the sack. Wonder what that body looked like under all the leather. Maybe framed, for a change, with lace.

On second thought, Ray thought, screw the lace. He had the feeling that she was a woman who looked best naked. Or maybe wearing only a thin, slippery sheen of sweat.

“We’re here, sir,” the cabby said, interrupting the most pleasant thought Ray had had in months.

Ray tossed the driver a couple of twenties. He slung his bag over his shoulder, jumped out of the cab without waiting for change, and took the steps up and into the lobby. He went straight to the elevator bank and whisked himself up to the penthouse. To the tip of the great glass pyramid that was the headquarters of the huge entertainment complex Barnett had designed to separate the suckers from their money. The elevator came to a smooth stop, chimed softly, and let him out into a corridor that ended in closed double doors guarded by men in nicely tailored suits and dark sunglasses.

He went down the corridor with the jauntiness of a mastiff approaching a couple of Pekinese.

“Billy,” one said, stepping aside. “President Barnett is expecting you.”

He opened the door and Ray entered the antechamber where Sally Lou was playing at receptionist. She looked at Ray with the gleam of a hungry tigress in her eyes. “We heard you got shot,” she said.

“I got better,” Ray said briefly. He still hadn’t forgiven her for her prior treatment, but if she kept on looking at him like that he figured that eventually he’d forgive her for damn near anything. Angel was on his mind, but Sally Lou was definitely in reach. “Barnett—”

“—is waiting for you,” Sally Lou interrupted. “Go right in.”

Ray paused for a moment. “Later?” he asked.

Sally Lou looked at him coyly. “Maybe.”

Ray went by her desk to Barnett’s office door. He didn’t like games. It looked like Sally Lou did. He could put up with it for awhile if the end result was worth it, and it looked like Sally Lou might be. In the meantime, though, there was still a kid somewhere on the loose in the wilds of America in a van with Angel at the wheel.

Leo Barnett didn’t look too concerned about the still-missing John Fortune and the now-missing Angel, but then he rarely looked concerned about anything. He was on the phone when Ray came into his office, sitting behind his big desk of dark wood, cigar in hand, nodding expressively as he talked.

“I know talent is scarce right now, Sammy boy, but I tell you what—” He made some kind of face at Ray that the ace couldn’t interpret and gestured broadly for him to sit in the chair before his desk. Ray did. “You find me some boys who know how to do a job and will keep their mouths shut. Sure. Sure. Of course.” Barnett rolled his eyes. He hung up the phone and looked at Ray, smiling but shaking his head.

“I’ve got to find me some good boys, Ray. Boys like you who know how to take orders and keep their traps shut. Boys who have a little extra juice, you know what I mean?” Ray nodded. “Whatever happened to that Mechanic fellow?”