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Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower
Barnett had conceded that Fortunato should have a chance to greet his son in relative privacy, so Fortunato was waiting alone for the truck when it rumbled to a halt by the Bower’s rear service entrance. It disgorged three passengers from the front seat, and took off again with a farewell blast of its air horn. The driver seemed to be in a hurry.
Fortunato recognized all three. Billy Ray, of course. The woman who called herself the Midnight Angel. And his son. His eagerness at finally seeing the boy for the first time face to face was tempered by the realization that something had gone terribly wrong during the last moment of the rescue. He couldn’t bear, for the moment, to delve into their minds
“He didn’t mean it,” the Angel said.
Ray’s teeth were clenched against the pain shooting through his hand. He gripped it the wrist with his other hand.
“I’m sorry,” John Fortune said worriedly. “I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t control it for a moment—”
“It’s okay,” Ray said in a strained voice. “I’ll be all right in a little bit.”
He held the fingers of his hand apart from each other as they curled in pain. They were burned so badly that their skin was black and flaky. Fortunato could smell the stink of seared flesh.
“Ray,” he said, “are you all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” Ray said shortly. “I should go get some salve for this burn.”
“What happened?” Fortunato asked.
“An accident,” Ray said. “I’ll be all right.”
Ray was sincere in his attempt to ease the boy’s obviously troubled mind, but Fortunato could detect uncertainty in his voice and manner. Not for his own ultimate recovery, but at what really lay behind his injury. Fortunato only nodded.
“Thank you for bringing my son back safe,” he said. He turned to the Angel, and nodded at her as well.
“My pleasure,” Ray said.
“Take care of your hand,” Fortunato told them. “We’ll talk more later.”
“I’ll go with Billy,” the Angel said, glancing back at John Fortune, who was holding back with a worried expression on his face. “We’ll talk soon, John,” she said, but the boy only nodded.
As they went by him, Fortunato could sense something was growing between the two of them, and he refrained from looking any deeper into their minds. He felt only gratitude for what they’d done for him. He felt as if he would be in their debt forever.
He looked at the boy, and John Fortune looked uncertainly at him. He wondered what he should say. “Hello,” Fortunato finally said.
“Hello,” his son replied.
Fortunato could see himself in the boy’s features, in the golden tan color of his skin. But Peregrine was there, too, and it made him sorry for what he had missed over the years. Of what could have been his. But those years were over and done with. There were more to come, and those were the years which concerned him.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
His son nodded. “Mom showed me pictures. She said you were the most powerful ace ever, but you gave it up.”
“Did she say why?” Fortunato asked.
Fortune looked thoughtful, as if Fortunato’s question had put aside the fear and doubt that had been foremost in his mind. At least for a moment, anyway. “She said that you couldn’t pay the price of being an ace anymore. That the world weighed heavy on you, and you had to leave it behind.”
“Your mother,” Fortunato said, “is perceptive. And most kind.”
It struck Fortunato for the first time exactly why Peregrine had been so protective, perhaps overly so. She wasn’t afraid so much of crazies out to kidnap him for gain or harm him for thrills. She was afraid of his very nature, afraid that the dynamite he carried in his genes might explode at any second.
Looking at him you saw a handsome, easy-going boy on the verge of manhood. But if you knew his background, if you lived with it every second of every minute of every hour of your life, you knew that some day he was going to explode and most likely die. His genes were infected with the wild card. There was no doubt about it. Both his parents had it, so it was sure that he did. It awaited only expression, in many cases caused by some surprise or shock that would turn his card; then it would kill him.
But he had beaten that, hadn’t he? His son had a chance for glory. He’d grabbed the one in a hundred chance to be an ace. But even so, turning an ace could be almost as great a curse as turning a joker, or drawing the black queen. The names of ace victims were legion, from the earliest days of the wild card on. Brain Trust. Black Eagle. Kid Dinosaur. The Howler. Hiram Worchester. Desperado. The list went on and on. Fortunato couldn’t remember all the aces who’d suffered because society eventually turned on them.
That was why Peregrine had protected their son so fiercely. Fortunato saw it now. Seeing his son in the flesh for the first time, he knew why she did it. And he knew that, ultimately, she was doomed to fail.
“I’d like to call Mom,” John Fortune said. “Tell her that I’m safe.”
“That’s a good idea,” Fortunato said. “Do you want anything else?”
Fortunato could tell that he held back something. Something he was afraid to or was unwilling to discuss with this stranger that was his father. Finally, he said, “I’m awfully hungry.”
“Let’s get you some food, then. I have a suite in the hotel. We can order room service. Talk and get to know each other a little.”
“Cool.” John Fortune smiled.
Ah, Fortunato thought, the resilience of the young.
“Mom told me about you,” John Fortune said, “as soon as I was able to understand why I had a different name from my Dad. But now that you’re here and all, what should I call you?”
“Call me Fortunato, if you want. And I’ll call you John.”
“Sweet,” John Fortune said. “Fortunato.” He tried it out, and smiled. He seemed to like the sound of it.
Fortunato put out his hand. John Fortune reached to take it, then hesitated. It was clear that he was afraid, but not for himself. He was afraid that his touch would burn Fortunato, like it had burned Ray.
Fortunato took his son’s hand it. He was prepared. His relaxed, smiling face didn’t change expression. But he was glad that he’d just taken on a load of energy. He built a wall, a buffer, between his flesh and his son’s. Otherwise, caught in the trap of the boy’s hand, his own hand would have cooked, would have burned worse than Ray’s. He released John Fortune’s hand, and together they turned and went through the hotel’s service entrance.
“Are you going to stay in America for awhile?” John Fortune asked. He seemed to be totally unaware of the heat his body was generating. His skin looked normal, except of course for the for the glowing halo. It wasn’t flushed or even sweating.
“Yes,” Fortunato said, the fear again biting his insides like a great viper. “Yes, I am.”
He suddenly realized that his son might not have drawn an ace,
after all.