John Miller - Death Draws Five

In the old days Fortunato would have read his mind without a second thought. Now, after the years in the monastery had leeched him of his arrogance and taught him something about humility, he thought about it first, then jumped into his mind anyway. His son’s life was on the line. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Barnett was involved some way in the attempted kidnapping, and this was a sure way to find out. What he read there, though, surprised him.

“Fortunato!” Barnett said, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure, a real pleasure, to finally meet you.”

Fortunato came forward and guardedly took Barnett’s hand. His handshake was firm and strong. His smile was sincere, as were his words of greeting. Barnett was genuinely glad to see him. “Sit down,” he said.

Fortunato did.

“Drink?” he indicated the cut glass container in easy reach on his desk. “Oh. Can Buddhist monks drink alcohol?”

“Some more than most men,” Fortunato said. “I don’t, however.”

“Fine, fine.” Barnett sat in his own chair and beamed across the desk. “Well. Glad to see that you’ve turned your life around and become a brother of the cloth. So to speak.”

“Forgive me if I seem impatient,” Fortunato said. “But there are some questions I’d like answered.”

“No doubt,” Barnett smiled back. “But couldn’t you read my mind to get your answers?”

I could, Fortunato thought, and I already did, at least partially. “You know that I turned my back on my powers when I left this country.”

“So the story goes,” Barnett said. “But I’ve heard strange things about your recent doings in New York City. People say you came back from the dead and stopped an ace from destroying the Jokertown Clinic. Hell, people are saying you’re still in New York doing all kinds of miracles. Healing the sick. Curing the deaf. Turning baking soda into crack, for all I know.”

“Careful,” Fortunato said. “Your prejudices are showing.”

“Hell, man, the only thing I’m prejudiced against is sin. You know that.”

Fortunato shook his head, as if unconvinced. “Was that your ace who attacked the Jokertown Clinic?”

Barnett laughed out loud. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. All I know is that someone with some very powerful underlings wants me dead, Peregrine dead, and our son dead.”

“That ain’t me,” Barnett said. “That’s the Cardinal’s boys.”

“The Cardinal’s boys?” Fortunato asked.

Barnett nodded affably. “Pay attention, now,” he said. “The boys after you are the Allumbrados, the Enlightened Ones, as they’re so puffed up with pride to call themselves. It’s an ancient and secret office of the Catholic Church. Goes way back. Has ties to another Holy Office that still exists officially, but hasn’t seen much action lately.”

Fortunato frowned. “The Inquisition?”

“That’s the one,” Barnett nodded. “These Papal boys are run by Cardinal Romulus Contarini. Real nasty stuff, actually. They hire all kinds of criminals and scum. Jokers and aces and real people alike—”

“’Real people’?” Barnett was so smooth that Fortunato had to occasionally remind himself not to forget where the evangelist was really coming from.

Barnett shrugged apologetically. “I don’t like to use the term ‘nats.’ It’s demeaning.”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right,” Barnett said. “Just between us, let’s cut the crap. You know that I’ve preached against the wild card, but it’s the virus I’ve preached against, not its victims. The virus has turned its prey into things both lesser and greater than human. They get my pity, my help, and whatever solace I can give them. But the virus—the virus has caused unimaginable misery in this world and it must inevitably be eradicated.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Fortunato said.

Barnett shook his head. “I haven’t. But the world has. There’s no doubt in my mind that the end days are upon us. The signs are all around. Israel. Moral decay. The wild card itself. The downfall of communism.” He paused and looked seriously at Fortunato. “The boy, John Fortune.”

Fortunato looked back just as hard at Barnett. “What about him?”

“He is, without a doubt, Jesus Christ reincarnate. The Second Coming is upon us and the battle of the Millennium is about to start.” Barnett held out his hand, forestalling Fortunato’s incredulous reply. “Now hear me out. I’m not the only one who realizes that John Fortune will play a critical role in the upcoming Struggle. Contarini and his Allumbrados believe this as well. Only, wrong-headed as usual, the damned Papists think he’s the Anti-Christ. They believe that he must die, while I know, I know as well as I know the love of my God, that he must be shielded. He must be sheltered and protected until he realizes his fate and brings about the Kingdom of God on Earth.”

Fortunato, who had edged forward on his seat during Barnett’s speech, sank back in the chair, flabbergasted at the ex-President’s words.

“I know,” Barnett said at the stunned look on Fortunato’s face. “How can they be so wrong? How can they be that stupid? Well, God has, if you forgive the metaphor, thrown us a curve ball on this one. I could hardly suspect myself that He would chose a stained vessel such as Peregrine to be the mother of His Son, but God does work in mysterious ways—”

“Wait a minute,” Fortunato interrupted, unable to contain himself any longer. “What about me?”

“Well, what about you?”

“I was there when he was conceived. I can assure you that this was not a case of virgin birth.”

Barnett shook his head. “We all have a place in God’s plan. Some of us just aren’t aware of what that place is.”

“And some of us,” Fortunato said, “are so certain that they think they can put others in their place.”

“Well, just so. Look. I know you want to help the boy. I want to help the boy. I showed you my hole cards. Time for you to show me yours. Go ahead. Read my mind. I’m not faking it.”

Fortunato smiled like a wolf. “All right,” he admitted. “I already did. That’s the only reason why I’m still sitting here, talking to you.”

“Outstanding!” Barnett beamed. “You know I’m telling the truth then. You know that I’m sincere.” He stood suddenly and went over to a large window over-looking his domain. “C’mere. I want you to see something.”

Fortunato levered himself out of the chair and joined Barnett at the window. He towered over the nat. They stood on the opposite side of many fundamental beliefs. But Fortunato had the distinct impression that Barnett was not only fearless in his presence, he was actually glad of Fortunato’s prowess and was confident that he could turn it to his service. If ego was a wild card power, Fortunato thought, he’d have it in spades.

“Look down there,” Barnett said, pointing to the square below them, pulsing with activity.

“At what?” Fortunato inquired.

“At all of it. Because all of it can be yours.”

Fortunato queried the ex-President with raised eyebrows.

“You want money? It’s there for the taking. You want power? Say the word and your word is law. You want entertainment, excitement? It’s available in infinite varieties in infinite supply. It’ll never run out. You want women?” Barnett winked at him. “We’re grown men here. You like that sweet little blonde thing out there at the reception desk? You can have her. You can have damn near everyone in this place and let me tell you, the infinite variety, the gut-grabbing excitement of that will never run out, my friend.”

Fortunato smiled again. “And in return all you want is my soul?”