Death Draws Five

by George R. R. Martin

  Fortunato nodded. He felt ashamed. He would have felt worse if he’d let himself dwell on it. Here he’d spent sixteen years gazing at his own navel, while this fat old joker was out in the real world, trying to make a difference. He looked around the church’s interior. It was nowhere as nice as the old Our Lady of Perpetual Misery. Fortunato particularly missed the icons that had been part of the old church. The old representations had been genuine works of art. Their replacements...

  Fortunato frowned as he looked at them closely.

  “I know,” Father Squid said, sadly. “We lost much that night Our Lady of Perpetual Misery burned to the ground. Many parishioners. But also some things nearly as irreplaceable as human beings.” He gestured at the mosaic upon the walls. The two headed male/female joker crucified on the DNA helix; the handsome, golden-auraed demon juggling his thirty pieces of silver; the two-faced scientist in his lab coat dispensing pain with one hand and relief with the other; the thin black man with curling ram horns and a bulging forehead hurling thunderbolts as he floated in the air. Another part of him bulged inhumanly large in his pants. “Crude as they are, these will have to do until a joker artist with more ability comes along.”

  Fortunato stared at the mural. The thin black man with curling ram horns and a bulging forehead hurling thunderbolts looked familiar. “That’s me,” he said, half fascinated, half horrified.

  Father Squid smiled. At least, his facial tentacles twitched. “It’s what your legend has become, my son.”

  “And that is?” Fortunato asked, still unable to take his eyes off the mural.

  Father Squid shrugged broad shoulders. “Like most things in Jokertown, theology is two-faced. You’ve become the fertility god who showers both fecundity and destruction upon his people. Pregnant jokers pray to you that their children be normal. Or at least not hideous. On the other hand, you’ve become a cult figure to certain of those with a destructive bent. Youth gangs in particular.”

  “The Jokka Bruddas,” Fortunato said.

  Father Squid nodded. “Among others. I deal with them frequently. Their clubhouse, as they call it, is an abandoned apartment building just across the street—”

  “Excuse me,” Fortunato said, as his cell phone went off. He fumbled with it for a moment, unfamiliar was he was with the controls, but finally got it working. “Yes?”

  “Fortunato?” a familiar, frenzied voice asked. “Digger,” it said, before Fortunato could reply. “Have you heard the news?”

  “News?” Fortunato looked at Father Squid. Father Squid shrugged. He shrugged back.

  “There was some kind of dust-up in Vegas. Your son’s been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” he heard himself repeating stupidly.

  “Yeah, and Peregrine, she... she was hurt. Apparently she’s been flown back to New York and is at the Jokertown Clinic—”

  “This must have happened hours ago! Why didn’t you find out about it until now?”

  “I was busy, all right?” Digger said defensively.

  “Busy doing what?” Fortunato asked.

  “Writing up your story at my apartment—then my girlfriend came by and one thing led to another, and I just turned on the TV—”

  Fortunato caught himself about to swear, then shut his mouth. He took a deep breath and ran through the Heart Sutra a couple of times. He didn’t feel any calmer when he was finished, but he realized that it was all water under the bridge and there was no use crying over it.

  “All right,” he said. He checked with the map of Jokertown that was still etched into the furrows of his brain. “I’m going to the Jokertown Clinic—”

  “I’ll meet you there—”

  “If you want.”

  ”I’m on the way. Keep the channel open and I’ll fill you in on the details.”

  “All right,” Fortunato said. He turned to Father Squid. “I have to go,” he said.

  The priest nodded ponderously. “God go with you, my son.”

  Fortunato nodded as he ran out of the church, Digger still yammering in his ear.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Las Vegas: Urgent Care Center

  Ray made sure that he was still bleeding a little when he checked himself into the emergency clinic. Experience had taught him that nothing proclaimed emergency like spurting blood. It was a sure way to jump right to the head of the line.

  After Angel had slammed her door in his face, he’d figured he had nothing better to do, so he decided to tie up some loose ends. He didn’t really feel like going down to the cop shop and lying his ass off to the locals, so, first things first, he went to his own room and changed into a set of old sweats. He left what was left of his suit in a pile on the bathroom floor, went down to the cab stand and had the taxi take him to the nearest emergency clinic.

  He paid off the cabby, striped off his short-sleeved tee, and dropped it in a garbage can as he approached the clinic, then walked into the front door holding the flap of torn skin and meat up against his upper chest. The receptionist took one look at him and had an orderly escort him to an empty waiting room. Once there he twiddled his thumbs, as usual waiting for the doctor to finish his sandwich or counting his Medicaid kickbacks, or whatever it was that occupied his time when he could actually be seeing patients.

  The tiny room was sterile and uninteresting. Ray looked at the poster of the little kitten dangling from a branch with the words “HANG IN THERE” emblazoned with bold yellow letters, and pursed his lips. All in all, it was better than being shot in the ass and having to sit in a cave in Afghanistan while awaiting medical treatment, but not by much.

  Well, he told himself, you asked for it.

  Speaking of asking for it, he reminded himself that he had some other unpleasant tasks to perform. Ignoring the sign that said “Please turn off cell phones as a courtesy to the doctors and staff,” he took his cell phone out and dialed Barnett’s number.

  There was a click after the third ring and a sexy and bored voice said, “Peaceable Kingdom, President Leo Barnett’s Office.”

  “Hello, Sally Lou,” Ray said. “Let me talk to the big guy.”

  “You mean President Barnett?”

  It was their little joke. He always called Barnett “the big guy” and she pretended that she didn’t know whom he meant. But Ray wasn’t really in the mood to drag this out for too long. “I don’t mean the Pope.”

  She must have heard something in the tone of his voice, for there was a click, a buzz, and then Barnett’s smooth voice was on the line, with more than a hint of distress in it. “Billy, my boy, what in the name of Melchisidek is going on there in Vegas, boy? I’m hearing strange tales. Strange tales indeed—”

  “Yeah, well, you should have actually been here.” Ray gave a concise report on the day’s activities, and then listened to a long silence on the other end of the line.

  “Disturbing,” Barnett finally said.

  There was no way to deny it. “Yes, sir,” Ray said. “You know that those Allumbrados have aces working for them as well as assholes with guns.”

  Barnett sighed. “So I’ve heard.”

  “One of them is Butcher Dagon.”

  “Have those damned Papists no sense of morality?” Barnett asked, outraged.

  “Well, Angel and I laid him out like a slab of cold meat. The local cops currently have him on ice, but I wouldn’t trust them to hold a lost dog let alone a bad guy the caliber of Dagon.”

  “Forget Dagon,” Barnett said flatly. “We’ve got to find Je—the boy before those murderous bastards kill him. Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

  “No,” Ray said, “but I’ve got a got an idea or two—”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and it suddenly opened. A young female doctor looked in. She was Asian, probably Korean, with big dark eyes and long, straight glossy black hair.

  “—Got to run,” Ray interrupted himself, and shut down his cell. He smiled at the doctor, who paused, frowning in the doorway. “Bet you’ve never stitch
ed up an ace before,” he said with a bright smile.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  New York City: St Dympna’s Home for the Mentally Deficient and Criminally Inclined

  Jerry quickly realized that they’d been transported to a Hellhole that would make Bedlam look like a day at Disneyworld.

  “Home sweet home,” the big blonde guy said, looking around disgustedly. He said it as if he didn’t really mean it. “You know,” he continued confidingly to Jerry, “I’ve got to say that this really sucks. The Cardinal gets to lord it up over at the Waldorf, while we have to scrounge around here in a building barely fit to be Blood’s kennel.”

  Jerry grunted noncommittally as the blonde guy, as if emphasizing his displeasure, aimed a kick at Blood’s ribs as his handler dragged him by on his leash. The kick landed solidly. Blood howled like a kicked dog while the blonde guy sneered his satisfaction.

  “You shouldn’t oughta do that, Witness,” the keeper said. “Blood ain’t done nothing wrong. You treat him like that, you confuse him, and then he’s hard to handle.”

  “He’s disgusting,” Witness said. “Get him out of my sight.”

  Grumbling, the handler pulled Blood away, tugging hard at his leash and saying in an aggrieved voice, “Come on, boy, come on,” while Witness looked on, grinning. Jerry felt sick to his stomach.

  Witness turned to him, his face suddenly wearing an expression of concern that didn’t quite look authentic. “How you doing, Dagon? You look pretty well beat. I guess that Ray is one tough customer.”

  Jerry, trying to speak as little as possible, only nodded.

  “I tell you what,” Witness said. “Why don’t you stay here and rest awhile? Get some medical attention. I’ll have some of the boys help you up to the infirmary. They’ll take care of you there.”

  Although his words were sympathetic, his voice had an underlying tone that Jerry interpreted as meaning, “Look out, I’m going to screw you now.”

  “Don’t worry about reporting to the Cardinal. I’ll go into Manhattan and do it. Though,” he gripped his left shoulder and swung it experimentally while grimacing, “I could probably use some medical attention myself. I think I pulled something here.”

  Jerry kept a look of elation off Dagon’s face. At least he knew where they were, that somehow they’d been transported back to Manhattan. That would make things easier, if they could only get out of St. Dympna’s, whatever the Hell this place was. Jerry nodded and made groaning noises in what he hoped sounded like an acquiescent tone.

  Witness brightened perceptibly, smiling like he’d just put one over. Apparently he was eager to get to this Cardinal and report. Maybe to tell him his particular version of events. Maybe to take all the credit for it. That was fine with Jerry.

  Witness barely restrained himself from rubbing his hands together with glee. He turned to the men who’d been holding a silent, sullen John Fortune by his arms. “Take the brat to the oubliette,” Witness ordered.

  That doesn’t sound good, Jerry thought.

  “You others help Dagon.” Jerry winced realistically as they put their arms around his waist. “Careful, dolts! Can’t you see that he’s injured?”

  The thugs murmured apologies that Jerry accepted with a feeble nod. Witness nodded, and with a final farewell bustled off, planning whatever stab in the back move he clearly intended.

  This, Jerry thought, was not a subtle guy. Probably more muscles than brains.

  As they shuffled off together, Jerry stopped, turned, and looked at John Fortune. “Be seeing you, kid,” he said.

  He said it as quickly and quietly as he could and still be sure that John Fortune heard him. He really didn’t have a firm grasp of Dagon’s voice, and he was a bad mimic anyway, as his utter failure as the Projectionist proved, so he just used his regular voice and hoped no one was really paying attention

  John Fortune glanced wildly back over his shoulder as two thugs hustled him down the hall, and their eyes met. For the first time since their capture, Jerry saw hope on the kid’s face. Jerry risked a single nod as he was shuffled off in the other direction. John Fortune had understood. He’d recognized Jerry’s voice, or perhaps he’d just recognized one of Jerry’s favorite tag lines.

  He knew that his shape-shifting bodyguard was still on the job.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  New York City: Jokertown Clinic

  The doctor had a white coat, a stethoscope, and the hindquarters of a horse. Palomino, Fortunato thought. Very handsome.

  His front end was good-looking, too, with a blondeish, Californian surfer dude cast to it, but underlain with an uncommon strength and thoughtfulness. Fortunato thought that this was a man who had seen a lot, been through a lot, and had paid a price for all the knowledge he’d won from life.

  “Bradley!” Digger said, glad-handing the joker doctor. Fortunato had met the reporter on the clinic steps, and Digger had commanded him to “Leave everything to me.” Considering the state that he was in, Fortunato thought that was a good idea. Digger seemed to know the place as well as the people in charge, and it took him only moments to get them up to Finn’s office.

  “Good to have you back from Takis,” Digger said to the doctor with what seemed to be a fair amount of sincerity in his voice. “That must have been some exciting trip. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  Finn seemed more weary than welcoming, but he returned the reporter’s handshake readily enough. “It was, and maybe I will,” Finn said. He glanced inquisitively at Fortunato who’d been silent since they’d been led into his cramped office by a legless joker in a nurse’s uniform. “Right now, I’m kind of busy.”

  “Of course,” Digger said. “You always are.”

  “Too many patients, too little time,” Finn said.

  “Right. Actually, we’re here to see one of them.”

  Finn questioned him with a raised eyebrow.

  “Peregrine,” Digger said.

  The doctor looked at then both. Fortunato returned his gaze steadily, his heart beating unaccountably fast, afraid that Finn would turn them away, afraid that he wouldn’t. “She’s in no condition to be badgered, Digger,” Finn said flatly.

  “No, you misunderstand,” Digger said soothingly. He looked at Fortunato. “You two have never met?” he asked.

  Fortunato shook his head. “No. I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Digger smiled his customary knowing smirk. “Dr. Bradley Finn,” he said, “this is Fortunato. He’s recently returned to New York from Japan.”

  Fortunato could see that Finn was impressed by the mention of his name. Despite having tried to drown his ego for the last decade and a half, he was more than a little pleased that it still did carry weight.

  “Fortunato.” Bradley moved around from behind his desk, his bootied hooves clicking hollowly on the carpeted floor. He held out a hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve read so much about you. Sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I’ve been away for a long time,” Fortunato said.

  “Well, nice to have you back.”

  “Not really,” Fortunato said. He released Finn’s hand. “I wish the circumstances of my return were different.”

  “Of course.” The centaur looked thoughtful. “You want to see Peregrine, I understand, but she was severely wounded—”

  “I want to know what happened,” Fortunato said. Even to himself his voice sounded dry. Curiously devoid of emotion. But it wasn’t missing, only constrained. He had to dam them all up. He was afraid what would happen if he gave into the feelings burning through his brain.

  “She was ambushed while being interviewed about her son’s, er, your son’s, I should say, card turning.”

  “Why?” Fortunato asked.

  “No one seems to know. Maybe it was a plot to kidnap the boy. He was missing after all the furor died down. But there’s been no ransom demand. They left a score of wounded bystanders. Half a dozen dead.” Finn shook his head at the mystifying cruelty of it all.
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  Fortunato’s heart started to race again, but he managed to control his voice low. “And Peregrine?” he asked.

  “She took more than half a dozen bullets, suffering massive internal injuries and severe wing damage. Frankly, it was fortunate that her husband had immediately arranged her transportation to the clinic. I doubt that they could have dealt with the vagaries of her wild card metabolism in Vegas.”

  “She’s going to be all right, though?” Digger asked.

  Finn shook his head. “Too early to tell. But she’s got a chance.” Finn gestured, encompassing the extent of his tiny office. “We may not look like much, but the Jokertown Clinic is state of the art when it comes to the treatment of wild carders, even for those suffering from such mundane things as bullet wounds. Even without Tachyon, we’ve got the most knowledgeable doctors in the world. That said, we just don’t know yet about Peregrine. She suffered damage to her internal organs. Part of her liver was pulped. Lost one of her kidneys. The delicate bone structure of one wing was smashed. There’s a serious question as to whether she’ll ever fly again.”

  Finn’s calm recital of Peregrine’s injuries made Fortunato feel as if he’d been shot himself. The sickness that burned in his gut because of the deaths of all the people he’d lost over the years came back. It had been gone when he’d been in Japan, but now it was back.

  “Can I see her?” he asked.

  Finn looked at him thoughtfully. “She’s resting. Maybe sleeping. Her husband’s with her. Just got back into town himself.” He clip-clopped over to his desk and activated the intercom. “Jesse,” he said, “check and see if Peregrine’s awake.” They waited in silence for a few moments until the nurse replied affirmatively. “Okay. Come to my office and escort mister, uh, this gentleman to her room, would you?”

  While they waited for the nurse, Finn lectured Fortunato about not tiring her out. Fortunato only half-listened. He was thinking about Peregrine. About the night they had made love and made their son, and Peregrine had supplied Fortunato with enough energy to defeat the murderous Astronomer in combat high in the skies over Manhattan. The next morning Fortunato had left for Japan. He’d seen her only once after that, some months later when she’d come to Japan on the World Health Organization sponsored tour. Occasionally he’d seen her photo in some magazine or newspaper. He’d never seen their son.