DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.
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The scrawled note read You owe me a favor.
The ace of the New York Yankees' pitching staff blinked in bewilderment. He'd been signing autographs for an hour, scribbling his name on anything fans thrust at him, "personalizing" the autographs on demand (because more time would be wasted in arguments if he didn't), hardly ever looking up (though he was dimly aware that a line still extended beyond the curve of the stadium). He wasn't prepared for this curt message, written with something like mascara on what appeared to be a torn-off section of a brown paper grocery bag.
Confused, he looked at the man who'd handed it to him.
He had to look for a full minute before he accepted what he was seeing. Who he was seeing.
My God. Is the gray hair real, or dyed - some kind o' disguise?
Either way, the face under that thatch of hair was a young man's face. Only the eyes were old...disillusioned and bitter. They bored into him, daring him to deny the owing of that favor.
Clayton Jones thought fast. "Listen up, everyone!" he yelled. "I just got a sign from, uh, one of our coaches, that I've signed five hundred autographs. An' I gotta stop at that point, so I won't hurt my pitchin' hand. I'm sorry." As the fans in line let out moans, he put a comradely arm around the gray-haired youth. "But you, my friend," he continued loudly, "are entitled to a bonus gift for bein' number five hundred! Come with me, an' I'll give you yer pick o' some Yankees gear."
He led Ben Hawkins inside the stadium - slowing his gait to accommodate the younger man's obvious difficulties. The miracle worker who'd brought him back from death's door now had to shuffle along, clutching his midsection. He was clearly in pain, unable to straighten completely. As if that weren't handicap enough, he was carrying his left arm in a sling.
Jonesy was appalled. What in God's name -? Samson told me he was in bad shape when he left Carnivale, but I thought he'd recover. Never expected this.
He took Hawkins into the Yankees' locker room, which was otherwise deserted, the season opener having been over for hours. When he'd closed the door behind them, he opened his mouth to say something - only to hear Hawkins ask, with suddenly boyish naivete, "Had you really signed five hundred autographs?"
Jonesy laughed in spite of himself. "I got no idea. But it was startin' to feel like five thousand."
Hawkins had another, more serious question. "What the hell happened to you in New Canaan? I thought you were dead till I found out you were pitchin' again!"
Jonesy grimaced. "Made the damn-fool mistake o' tryin' to rescue Sofie. An' she shot me."
"Shot you?"
"Yep. With a gun she took off Varlyn Stroud, after I'd knocked him out." Shaking his head, he continued morosely, "I reckon she left me for dead. She may o' been in shock an' not realized who I was - I dunno. I ain't never heard no more o' her. I'm sorry if I seemed to abandon you that night.
"The bullet hit my pocket knife an' was deflected, so it didn't do much damage. But I still had to get the wound treated by a doc in the New Canaan camp - couldn't o' made it any farther. I pretended I'd never left the place after you an' me went there as converts. Said my 'kid brother' had left, but I'd stayed, an' been shot by God-knows-who in the course o' that night's 'riots.'
"I had the good luck not to be seen by anyone who coulda connected me with the carnival. But by the time I was able to catch up with it, you'd left. Why did you do that? Samson was worried sick about you!"
Hawkins said glumly, "He'd o' had a lot more to worry about if I stayed. Trouble follows me, if you ain't noticed."
"Huh. Maybe so. I gotta ask - how come you still got medical problems? Did you lose your powers, somehow? Or can a healer never heal himself?"
Hawkins sighed. "No, I still got my powers. An' I coulda healed myself o' most injuries, just not these. It's because o' the kind o' weapon Crowe used. He slashed me with a scythe that had already killed another Avatar."
"Another what?"
"Oh, sorry. I thought Samson woulda told you the name for what Crowe an' me are. Avatars. My pa was one too, an' Crowe murdered him, beheaded him with that scythe. That warn't even a fair fight."
Jonesy muttered uneasily, "Shit." After a moment's thought, he said, "What Samson did tell me was that Crowe was dead, no doubt about it, when him an' the other carnies got you outta that cornfield. So how the hell did he come back to life? Do you know?"
Hawkins shook his head. "Don't have a clue. Damn it," he burst out, "I was usin' a weapon that had killed another Avatar, too! I actually killed him with it. An' now, from what I read an' hear, he seems to be as healthy as a horse. While I'm a cripple."
"Ain't no justice in the world," Jonesy acknowledged. He swallowed hard. Then he squared his shoulders and said, "About that favor...of course I owe you, an' there ain't nothin' I won't do for you. Or at least try to do."
"Better not make promises," Hawkins said quietly, "till you hear what I'm gonna ask."
"I think I know. You ain't strong enough to go after Crowe again, an' you want me to kill him. Right?"
"Wrong."
Jonesy was taken aback. What else could he want?
"I'd rather put off tryin' to kill him till I figure out what went wrong last time," Hawkins explained. "Ain't no point riskin' lives to kill a man if he won't stay dead."
"That makes sense," Jonesy agreed. "But then, what do you want me to do?"
Hawkins looked him in the eye and said steadily, "I want you to kidnap a child."
"Kidnap a child?" Jonesy had been standing, but at this point he had to grope for a stool and sit down. Quickly.
"Lemme explain." Hawkins produced a folded newspaper. "First...there's an article here, 'bout Crowe givin' a speech. Read the part I underlined."
Taking the paper in suddenly shaky hands, Jonesy began reading the passage aloud. "Brother Justin told the crowd, 'I'm deeply grateful to God for the loved ones who surround me today. Sister Iris, who's been with me from the start. Dear -' " He paused, grunted in surprise, and looked up at Hawkins, who nodded grimly. " 'Dear Sofie. And the light of our lives, Adam, who turned three last month.' "
Looking up at Hawkins again, he blurted out, "Sofie's still there? What the hell is she, his wife? Lover? Chief disciple?"
"Damned if I know. He told me she was dead, an' I didn't know no different till I read this yesterday."
Jonesy said angrily, "Maybe you were right in the first place, 'bout her havin' gone over totally to his side! Could be she was never really held hostage, it was a trick to lure you into a trap. An' when she shot me, she knew exactly what she was doin'."
"Could be," Hawkins agreed. "But what concerns me most now is that child. Crowe didn't mention no one but them three people - an' Iris is his sister, middle-aged an' unmarried. The child has to be Sofie's."
"Yeah, I see that. But -"
"Sofie's an' mine," Hawkins said urgently. "Remember, Jonesy? You saw us makin' love in the truck that night!"
Jonesy nodded slowly. "That's right, I did. But she coulda been with Crowe later."
Hawkins wasn't buying it. "Not in the right time frame. Remember what else you an' me both saw, that night in New Canaan when you stopped me from tryin' to kill him? He was makin' a pass at her, an' she turned him down.
"So it ain't likely they'd had sex any time prior to that. Later, sure. But if the kid turned three last month, he can't be Crowe's. He's gotta be mine. An' I can't live with the thought o' that sumbitch raisin' my son!"
Jonesy took a deep breath. "No," he said firmly. "You shouldn't have to."
"I ain't well enough to go get him myself, or I would -"
"I know."
Kidnappin' a child. A child who won't know me, who'll be scared to death - my God!
If I get caught doin' such a thing, I'll be lynched.
But I do owe Hawkins. An' what's more, I can imagine how I'd feel in his place. No father could tolerate his son bein' raised by a demon.
"I'll rescue your boy for you," he vowed. "Or die tryin'."
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When Ben Hawkins was alone, he downed the better part of a bottle of whiskey in a vain attempt to alleviate his numerous aches and pains.
It did, however, soothe what was left of his conscience.
Poor Jonesy, all worked up 'bout my son...but he never woulda agreed to do what I asked if I told him the truth.
The kid probably is mine. But he could be Crowe's, if he came a few weeks early. An' I don't give a rat's ass which of us is his pa.
When I get my hands on him, I'll be able to sense if he's an Avatar of Light. My Prince.
If he is, I'll raise him as my son.
If he ain't...I'll anoint a new blade by whackin' his head off.
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The End