Read Online Wild Cards 15 - Black Trump by George R. R. Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: George R. R. Martin
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tink darted around his head, buzzing. Peter swatted at it irritably.
"Let's see the picture," Jay said. He didn't bother asking if he'd gotten it. Pann had been with Pinkerton's in Chicago for nine years before Jay hired him away. He was as good as they came. Not to mention being a wild card.
Peter handed him the file folder. Jay opened it and took out a mug shot, a glossy enlargement of the face of a young woman. It was a terrible picture, but she was still beautiful. He showed it to Jerry Strauss. "Hannah Davis," he said. "This is a blowup of her fire department ID photo."
"I remember seeing her on Peregrine's Perch ," Jerry said. His Rondo Hatten face suddenly brightened. "I get it," he said eagerly. "We're going to find her."
Jay shook his head. "Nah," he said. "The feds are."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Ray was not a happy camper on the flight back to D.C. He and Crypt Kicker sat across the aisle from each other, the only passengers in the small courier jet winging back home at supersonic speeds.
"Jesus, Bobby Joe," Ray said, "how could you work for that scum?"
Puckett shrugged ponderously. When he spoke it was even more difficult to understand him. Since Ray had crushed his windpipe his every breath was accompanied by a gasping wheeze that sounded just awful. Ray often wondered what incredible spark of vitality kept the dead ace going and going after suffering such tremendous physical damage. Maybe it was as Puckett himself believed, a touch of the divine.
"Well, I'm sorry, Billy, but they told me they was doing the Lord's work."
"I don't pretend to know God's mind," Ray said, "but somehow I doubt that he wants all jokers and aces wiped from the face of the earth."
Puckett shook his head ponderously. "That's not what their serum does," he said. "It helps people, not kills them. Why, I feel better already."
"WHAT!" Ray jumped up in his seat and backed away from Puckett as far as he could get. "You let them inject you with the Black Trump?"
"Sure," Puckett wheezed. "And I don't feel bad at all."
"You stupid son of a bitch," Ray groaned. "You just stay over there. Keep your distance."
Jesus! If Crypt Kicker was infected, maybe he'd caught it too. He'd fought the dead ace, touched him, for Christ's sake. Ray suddenly ran to the plane's tiny bathroom and locked himself in. He scrubbed his hands furiously, part of himself saying that this was foolish, that it was probably already too late. Another part of his mind said well, maybe not.
Puckett was an unusual case. He was an ace, for one thing. For another, he was already dead. How the Black Trump would affect him would be anybody's guess. Maybe it wouldn't affect him at all.
Ray went back into the cabin and sat as far away from Puckett as possible.
"I'm sorry, Billy," the dead ace said in an apologetic voice. "I didn't mean to hurt you when we was fighting. I just want to do the Lord's work and avert suffering and all."
"That's fine," Ray said. "You just do it over there while I stay here."
An hour passed and Ray began to think that maybe he was worrying for nothing. Puckett, after all, was the most indestructible being he a ever run across. Nothing could do the motherfucker in. Nothing could -
Puckett suddenly turned from his seat in the front row to face Ray sitting in the back.
"I feel strange, Billy. Did it get hot in here?"
Ray stood slowly, staring at Puckett. "No, Bobby Joe, I don't think so."
Puckett pawed at the hood that covered his face, finally pulling it off to reveal his grotesque features. Puckett had killed himself before his ace had turned so strangely. He'd put a gun in his mouth and blown away most of his right cheek and his eye. That part of his face was a hideous ruin. The other part was even uglier. It was speckled with dozens of tiny hemorrhages. His remaining eyeball was filled with blood and was a sickly purple color. As Ray watched, Crypt Kicker's eyelid started to leak blood and a black fluid ran from his nose down over his mouth and
"Let's see the picture," Jay said. He didn't bother asking if he'd gotten it. Pann had been with Pinkerton's in Chicago for nine years before Jay hired him away. He was as good as they came. Not to mention being a wild card.
Peter handed him the file folder. Jay opened it and took out a mug shot, a glossy enlargement of the face of a young woman. It was a terrible picture, but she was still beautiful. He showed it to Jerry Strauss. "Hannah Davis," he said. "This is a blowup of her fire department ID photo."
"I remember seeing her on Peregrine's Perch ," Jerry said. His Rondo Hatten face suddenly brightened. "I get it," he said eagerly. "We're going to find her."
Jay shook his head. "Nah," he said. "The feds are."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Ray was not a happy camper on the flight back to D.C. He and Crypt Kicker sat across the aisle from each other, the only passengers in the small courier jet winging back home at supersonic speeds.
"Jesus, Bobby Joe," Ray said, "how could you work for that scum?"
Puckett shrugged ponderously. When he spoke it was even more difficult to understand him. Since Ray had crushed his windpipe his every breath was accompanied by a gasping wheeze that sounded just awful. Ray often wondered what incredible spark of vitality kept the dead ace going and going after suffering such tremendous physical damage. Maybe it was as Puckett himself believed, a touch of the divine.
"Well, I'm sorry, Billy, but they told me they was doing the Lord's work."
"I don't pretend to know God's mind," Ray said, "but somehow I doubt that he wants all jokers and aces wiped from the face of the earth."
Puckett shook his head ponderously. "That's not what their serum does," he said. "It helps people, not kills them. Why, I feel better already."
"WHAT!" Ray jumped up in his seat and backed away from Puckett as far as he could get. "You let them inject you with the Black Trump?"
"Sure," Puckett wheezed. "And I don't feel bad at all."
"You stupid son of a bitch," Ray groaned. "You just stay over there. Keep your distance."
Jesus! If Crypt Kicker was infected, maybe he'd caught it too. He'd fought the dead ace, touched him, for Christ's sake. Ray suddenly ran to the plane's tiny bathroom and locked himself in. He scrubbed his hands furiously, part of himself saying that this was foolish, that it was probably already too late. Another part of his mind said well, maybe not.
Puckett was an unusual case. He was an ace, for one thing. For another, he was already dead. How the Black Trump would affect him would be anybody's guess. Maybe it wouldn't affect him at all.
Ray went back into the cabin and sat as far away from Puckett as possible.
"I'm sorry, Billy," the dead ace said in an apologetic voice. "I didn't mean to hurt you when we was fighting. I just want to do the Lord's work and avert suffering and all."
"That's fine," Ray said. "You just do it over there while I stay here."
An hour passed and Ray began to think that maybe he was worrying for nothing. Puckett, after all, was the most indestructible being he a ever run across. Nothing could do the motherfucker in. Nothing could -
Puckett suddenly turned from his seat in the front row to face Ray sitting in the back.
"I feel strange, Billy. Did it get hot in here?"
Ray stood slowly, staring at Puckett. "No, Bobby Joe, I don't think so."
Puckett pawed at the hood that covered his face, finally pulling it off to reveal his grotesque features. Puckett had killed himself before his ace had turned so strangely. He'd put a gun in his mouth and blown away most of his right cheek and his eye. That part of his face was a hideous ruin. The other part was even uglier. It was speckled with dozens of tiny hemorrhages. His remaining eyeball was filled with blood and was a sickly purple color. As Ray watched, Crypt Kicker's eyelid started to leak blood and a black fluid ran from his nose down over his mouth and
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