******
New Hampton: Camp Xavier Desmond
Jerry was still tired when he woke up mid-afternoon. He was still tired, but he knew that he had to get going. He and John Fortune were safe for now, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. Literally, he thought, as he surveyed the forest outside the cabin window. John Fortune was still sleeping in the next bunk. The poor kid had been through Hell, Jerry thought, and he didn’t have the heart to wake him up. On the other hand, he didn’t want the boy to awaken, find him gone, and start wandering about the grounds looking for him. Even at Camp Xavier Desmond—or, as the kids called it, C-X-Dez—a new kid who glowed would attract an unwelcome amount of attention and cause unwanted speculation.
He left a note, telling him that he was not to leave the bunk under any circumstances—unless it caught fire or was hit by a meteor—and went off to the administrative office to find a phone. He dialed the office and was pleased when a sultry voice said “Ackroyd and Creighton. How may I help you?” in a sexy, French-accented contralto.
“Hello, Ezili—”
“Jerry!” the receptionist interrupted before he could say another word. “Are you still at the camp? Are you really all right?”
Jerry was touched by the authentic concern in her voice. He’d known Ezili for years, during most of which they’d had an on-again, off-again love affair, which unfortunately had recently been mostly off again. Jerry didn’t know if Ezili—who was named after the least forgiving aspect of her native Haiti’s love goddess—had been touched by the wild card and given a minor ace, or was merely very, very good at her favorite activity, which was sex. He didn’t love her, really, but he had feelings for her which he weren’t at all sure were reciprocated. As hot as she was in bed, she was cool out of it. It was nice to hear the concern in her voice.
“We’re okay. Got the message on I left on the tape?”
“Oui—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “All right. We’re still at the camp. We’re still all right. We still don’t have a clue as to what the Hell is going on. We could probably use some reinforcements, in case the bad guys show up again. I can’t imagine how they could trace us here... but...”
“Oui. I understand.”
“Is Jay there?”
Jay was Jay Ackroyd, senior partner of Ackroyd and Creighton. Though he looked more like a low-level bookie than an ace detective, Jay Ackroyd, both an ace and a detective, was one of the finest P.I.’s in the city. In fact, as Jay liked to say since his return from Takis, he was one of the finest P.I.’s on two planets. No one else could put that on their Yellow Pages ad.
“Non,” Ezili said, “he is still in Jersey on that Giant Rat of Passaic case. He hopes to be done with it today.”
“Who’s on call?”
Ackroyd and Creighton employed investigators of all types—nat, joker, deuce, and ace. What Jerry wanted was a boatload of aces streaming up Route 17 as soon as possible.
“Elmo Schaeffer,” Ezili said, as if reading his mind, “Sascha Starfin, and Peter Pann are the only aces.”
Jerry thought it over. It was a mixed bag. Elmo was a dwarf, stronger than any nat. Sascha was a blind telepath. Pann had his tinks. Not the strongest line-up in the world, but they all had their uses and Jerry was in no position to be picky.
“All right,” he said decisively. “Send them up.”
“I will,” Ezili said. “They will be there was soon as possible.”
“Great,” Jerry said. His stomach suddenly rumbled, and he realized that he was hungry again. “Listen, Ezili, I’ve got to go. Tell them to get here ASAP.”
“Oui,” she said. “And Jerry.”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, mon cherie. I have a feeling that much bad may still come out of this.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said. “Me too. But at least now we’re prepared.”
I hope, anyway, Jerry said as he hung up the phone. I hope.