John Miller - Death Draws Five

“He’s in conference now,” she said in the snootily superior voice that she liked to use on the Angel.

“I don’t care if God the Father Himself is in there planning Armageddon with him,” the Angel said in a tone that made John Fortune stare at her in surprise. “Connect me with him. Now.”

Pleased when Sally Lou connected them without another word, she barely gave The Hand the chance to say Hello before she blurted out their situation. He took it like he took everything else. With calmness and poise.

“Can you hold out for twenty minutes, honey?” he asked sedately.

“Twenty minutes? I don’t—”

“You’re going to have to,” he said just as soothingly. “Twenty minutes. That’s all. I promise you.”

The Angel took a deep breath. She had The Hand’s assurance. Though he was just a man like everyone else and a sinner as well, he had never let her down. In any important sense, anyway. “All right,” she said. “Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” Barnett confirmed. “Where are you, exactly?”

She told him.

“Fine. Get to the highway. Wait by the Yazoo City on-ramp. Don’t move from that spot. Help is on the way. Gotta go make it happen.”

He hung up. The Angel listened to the dial tone than looked at John Fortune, who was gazing at her with a trusting expression.

“Help is on the way,” she told him. Though how in the world it would arrive in such a short time was utterly beyond her.

Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

Ray tried to explain his position as they took the escalator down to the elevator bank in the lobby, but Jerry wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Mushroom Daddy listened with amiable interest while Sascha just listened, as usual.

“It’s not like I lied to you,” Ray said. “Or even wanted to lie. You and Ackroyd made some unjustified assumptions the first time you saw me, and went right on assuming from then to now.”

“And you let us,” Jerry pointed out for the fifth or sixth time. “You let us think you and Angel were working for the government.”

Ray shrugged. “There’s no skin off your nose, is there?”

“No skin off my nose?” Jerry said, just this side of outraged. “It’s a lot different thinking that we were going into this with government backing—or at least governmental knowledge and consent—and then discovering that the ‘government’ in this case was Leo Barnett.”

“Hey,” Ray said, “he was the President once, wasn’t he?”

“Was,” Jerry said. “That’s the operative word.”

Ray shrugged. “Look, you’re an ace. If you call changing your face an ace—”

“I do more than change my face,” Jerry said hotly.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. I’m not saying you’re a deuce, exactly. But you know how it is. The life of an ace is complicated. You can’t tell me you’ve never had a secret or two. Especially if your power is changing identities. Hell, your name’s probably not even Creighton.”

That stopped Jerry cold. Ray was right. Righter than he knew. Jerry’s whole existence was based on shifting identities. On lies he constantly told others. And himself. He was never just plain old Jerry Strauss. Most of the time he was someone else. The Projectionist. The Great Ape. Lon Creighton. Jerry Creighton. Alan Ladd. Butcher Dagon. Everybody but Jerry Strauss.

If Ray realized that he scored, he kept quiet about it. They eventually made it to the elevator bank, and Ray punched the button for the penthouse. The boys were on guard in the corridor. They must have received word of some kind of possible attack, because they had their handguns out and leveled as the elevator doors swished open.

“Hey, man,” Daddy said. “That’s so not cool!”

“Relax,” Ray said to both Daddy and the Secret Service men. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

One put up his weapon with an audible sigh, the other was more hard ass about it. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, pointing the barrel of his gun to the floor, but not holstering it. “Billy Ray. A blind guy. A hippie—”

“Don’t worry,” Ray said. “I’ll tell them not to kick your ass.”

“We’ve got to see Barnett,” Jerry said. “Is he in?”

“He’s already got company,” the armed agent said doubtfully, “but...”

“I’ll vouch for these guys,” Ray said.

“Even the hippie?”

“He’s undercover CIA,” Ray said quietly as he went on by. The others followed him.

Sally Lou was on the phone when they entered the waiting room. She jumped nervously as Ray and the others tramped in.

“Guilty conscious?” Ray asked.

“Why, why ever would I have a guilty conscious?” she asked.

“Just a joke,” he said. “Buzz the big guy. Tell him we’re coming in.”

“He’s with someone—”

“So am I,” Ray said.

Ray led the way. In the office Barnett was behind his desk, beaming. Sitting before the desk frowning was someone Ray hadn’t seen in years. “Fortunato,” he said. He stopped. The others piled up behind him.

“Come in,” Barnett said affably. “You’ve bought some friends, I see. Good, good. We’re just sitting around here chatting, trying to decide who’s gonna go to Yazoo and pick up John Fortune in”—Barnett checked his watch—“just about fifteen minutes from now.” Barnett looked at Fortunato. “Billy Ray would be a good choice, don’t you think?”

Fortunato didn’t look totally convinced, but he nodded nonetheless.

Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower, coffee shop

John Nighthawk and his team sat in the hotel coffee shop, enjoying a late breakfast.

Usher had a plate piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon and ham, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, with toast, and a side of pancakes. He was still of an age when he could eat and eat and not put on an ounce. Magda had a cup of grapefruit juice and toast. Dry. She didn’t particularly worry about her weight, but was of an age when she took nothing joyful out of life, and always would be. Nighthawk had his coffee and donuts. He was of an age beyond caring about his weight. It helped that he had an ace’s metabolism.

He scanned the sports page, noting last night’s box scores. He was pleased to see that the Dodgers were doing better. Hanging at about five hundred, Brooklyn still had room to improve, though as a life-long Dodger fan he had little room to complain about the last thirty-five years or so. Still, with Gooden joining Strawberry in retirement two years ago, the last tie to Reiser’s glory years had been cut and they were casting about for a new leader and new team identity. This Reyes kid looked good. His headlong style of play reminded Nighthawk a little of Honus Wagner.

His cell rang. He flipped it open, listened, and said a few quiet words. He hung up, and looked at his team. “Enjoy your breakfast,” he said. “It starts soon.”

Usher nodded and shoveled half a pancake, loaded with butter and syrup, into his mouth. Magda grinned and started to pray aloud. Nighthawk put the paper down and took a drink of coffee. It was cold. Suddenly, so was he.

Yazoo, Mississippi: the Highway Interchange

The van’s engine chugged like an asthmatic with a smoker’s cough and the door rattled against the frame like a skeleton with rheumatism.

“We’d better stop and switch places,” the Angel.

“Ah,” John Fortune said, “I’m doing okay.”

“Yeah,” the Angel said, “but we’re headed for the highway. I’d better take over. Park it and slide over. Better not turn the ignition off. I don’t know if we could get it started again.”