Read Wild Cards: Death Draws Five Online
Authors: John J. Miller,George R.R. Martin
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Fiction - Fantasy, #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction - General, #Fantasy, #Heroes, #General, #Fantasy - Contemporary
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 stitched 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.
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.
The nurse’s face looked relatively human but for the brightly patterned scales that covered it in lieu of normal skin. Her arms were oddly sinuous, almost boneless, and she had too many fingers. She looked at Fortunato curiously, but was professional enough to simply say, “This way, sir.”
As Fortunato followed her out of Finn’s office he could hear the ever-optimistic Digger Downs say, “Now, Dr. Finn, about this spaceship you took back to Earth, I heard that you stopped at many planets along the way—” He heard Finn sigh as if he realized he couldn’t escape Downs’ relentless interrogation, and then they were out of earshot.
The corridor was clean, quiet, and dimly lit. It smelled like a hospital. Not even the burning pungency of strong antiseptic could wipe out the odors of fear and pain and death and, somewhere underneath it all, hope. The nurse opened the door to Peregrine’s private room, one of the few in the clinic, and shut it softly after Fortunato slipped quietly inside.
The room was darker than the hallway outside, and Fortunato’s hypersensitive senses rebelled against the hurt and pain he could discern, not all of which emanated from the bandaged form on the bed attached to a raft of tubes and machines monitoring her heart, lungs, and brain.
A man sat in a chair by the side of the bed. He looked up as Fortunato entered, fear and pain in his eyes. He looked ordinary enough, fairly handsome with blonde hair and a darker beard. He nodded at Fortunato, and stood.
“I’m Josh McCoy.”
Fortunato nodded. He had never seen the man but he knew the name. “I know. I’m—”
“Fortunato.” McCoy said. “I know.”
Fortunato moved to the foot of the bed. “How’s she doing?”
“Sleeping, now. Trying to get some strength back...” McCoy’s voice trailed off as he looked at Peregrine’s quiescent form.
Somehow, seeing her lying there made Fortunato feel inadequate and inept. Like somehow he’d failed her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t with her,” he said, surprising himself as he realized the truth of his statement.
“Not your fault,” McCoy said. “I just wish I’d been there myself.”