Chapter Six – The Quest
"Be aware, Sara. There are evil spirits in human form that tread on this earth. Look in mirrors, look in shadows, look inside."
Ian Nottingham
The strain was beginning to show. Normally, Ian Nottingham was a nocturnal creature needing little sleep, seeking freedom from his oppressive life under cover of darkness while his master slept. He had given his life to another long ago, yet the night had provided some semblance of freedom…some precious moments to himself. But now, his normally alert eyes were starting to show signs of stress as he endured Sara's torment. He had a front row seat as he watched her from across the street. Her pain was his pain. Dark circles were surfacing beneath his eyes, etching a permanent look of sadness to his habitually somber face.
After his previous night's visits to Dante and Irons, Nottingham had tried to telepathically connect with Sara. His breathing would become shallow gasps as his eyes glazed over, concentrating on his ability to link with her; he trembled with the intensity of the connection to another human being. He had been successful in reaching his beloved, but her agony was too great to make himself distinguishable above the din of all the other voices in her head. He was sucked into the quagmire of her haunted mind, nearly suffocated by her demons as he struggled to be heard. He thought he could provide some comfort if she could have known he was with her, but he doubted that she was even aware of his presence. Nearly unable to break the connection, Nottingham choked down air as he withdrew from her mind, shuddering as he tried to regain himself. He collapsed to the floor of the safe house in his exhaustion.
After experiencing such trauma, he only briefly caught a fitful hour of sleep; being plagued by yet another dream centering on his ring Excaliber. In this very vivid dream, he was riding horseback ahead of a legion of wielders, both men and women. The leader of this group appeared to be a mighty female warrior whose face he had not seen before. Her raven black hair set off her piercing green eyes. He found himself peering through the eyes of a male warrior who rode alongside this powerful woman. The warrior's blood seemed to course throughout his own body, giving him a connection to the man, even in this illusion. The pounding hooves behind them filled his mind and his senses with images and vague unexplained memories of this strange union of men and women. At the peak of his vision, the forceful woman warrior gazed upon him, seemingly peering into his very soul, knowing Nottingham was contained in the body of the fighter by her side. Her lips moved but her words seemed to drift to his ears moments later.
"Evil abounds…Help the wielder." She had spoken directly to him. Her words repeated over and over, reverberating in his mind. Evil abounds…Help the wielder!
He awoke with a start, screaming a name.
"Banrighinn!" Breathlessly, he found himself on the floor of the safe house across from Sara's loft, reminded that he was still in search of the Witchblade. Why were these dreams clouding his mind now? He puzzled.
Until he found the blade, there would be no real rest for him...or Sara.
Shaking off the last vestiges of his dream, he glanced out the nearby window. The sun's position in the sky obscured his view into Sara's loft, so he took this opportunity to force himself to eat. On his long walk home from the Estate, he had stopped to buy a store of power bars and bottled water, not having the accommodations at his current location to keep much of anything else. Discarding the wrapper with a toss of his gloved left hand; he bit into the bar with little enthusiasm, chewing each bite methodically as he sat on the floor nearest the window. It was sustenance, nothing more. Staring into the far corner of the warehouse, he rested his head against the wall and slowly sipped his water from the bottle. The cessation of sound would have bothered most people, but absolute quiet and isolation had been a constant companion to Nottingham as he had grown to manhood. He had never felt the need to fill it with idle chatter or mindless noise. He was comfortable with only his own thoughts to keep him company.
In his mind, he planned his next move as he made himself eat another power bar. He would begin his renewed search for the missing Gauntlet.
He had to do something for her. Surely, there was some way he could help.
*****
His eyes opened slowly, having awakened at the sound of a nearby jogger making use of the pathway he had been calling home for the past two nights. Life went on around him, but his life had come to a grinding halt after he failed to cope with the smallest details. The minutiae of everyday living had proved to be insurmountable after he had come home from the Vietnam War. At first, all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hope it would all go away. Well…much of it did. After losing their home, his wife had left him, and his kids stopped caring. Life was getting simpler by the minute and Joe Harrison was as anonymous as anyone could be. He had even given up his name to the street, as was customary when you wanted to forget your past. His street name was Lefty, attributable to his right arm being lost in the war.
Deep inside Central Park, away from the eye of the local police, Lefty had found a spot for his cardboard abode under a tunnel. Only the occasional jogger ventured into this section of the park. Stretching, he rolled to one side to crawl from his belongings. As he emerged, he ran into a pair of military boots occupied by a man dressed in black. Looking up, Lefty was taken back by the intensity of the man's eyes.
"Good morning." The stranger said simply in an intimate hushed tone.
The homeless man remained silent hoping the intruder would go away. He had seen this man somewhere before. On the streets, Lefty had heard of a stranger known as Death's Angel. Over the years, the dark stranger had gotten the name from other street people for life or death accompanied him, making little distinction between the two. At times, he had shown kindness to many less fortunate, providing money and food on rare occasions. Mostly, the man doled out death like it was a gift to be shared. He had not believed the rumors of this man's existence, but the others had described him perfectly, and now he was standing before him. Death's Angel moved away, allowing Lefty to leave the safety of his box. He moved with predatory instincts and his carriage bore an air of military discipline with his precise movements.
"Look…I don't have anything you could possibly want." The homeless man began to plead.
"On the contrary…I believe you can help me greatly." Nottingham sustained his civility, recognizing the man's face from the alley the other night.
"What do you want? I know who you are." The words were out of his mouth before he could pull them back. It was never a good thing to know too much.
Nottingham tilted his head to one side; curious at this man who was beginning to show the courage it took to fight a war. He spied the green army fatigue jacket, which confirmed his thoughts that the man was ex-military.
"I will gladly share what has brought me to your…door, but I am curious. Who do you think I am?" Nottingham bowed his head and softened his facial expression to encourage the man to speak up. Squirming, it took the homeless man several minutes before he responded.
"On the street…they call you Death's Angel. I wasn't sure you were real, but here you are…" The man spoke quietly, not looking directly into Nottingham's eyes.
Ian had heard this name before. This was not the first time Death had been associated with him. Death was a constant companion.
"Tell me your name." Nottingham continued.
"Lefty." The older man obediently replied.
"No…your real name…if you will share it with me." Nottingham was not certain the man would provide his real name, but he wanted to commit the name to memory…out of respect.
"Joe Harrison. Sargent Joe Harrison." The man raised his chin and looked into Nottingham's eyes for the first time…in defiance. Perhaps he thought that if he were going to die, it would be with his real name on his lips…along with his rank.
Nottingham slowly reached into his pocket. Joe Harrison thought today was going to be his last. Instead of doling out death, as was his custom, Ian Nottingham pulled cash from his coat pocket.
"Sargent Harrison…" Nottingham nodded without taking his eyes from the man. Ian would have shared his own name with the ex-military man but he preferred to keep his anonymity. His street name of Death's Angel was appropriate enough, he thought. "I know you were in the alley near 47th and Lincoln…at the shootout the other night."
Joe Harrison knew this man had looked familiar to him. He remembered seeing him briefly, rescuing the female police officer being chased by those men. Joe had been thrown back into his own nightmare with the sound of automatic gunfire. The sights and sounds around him were no longer those of New York City. He struggled with reality as images of the war flashed through his mind, almost incapacitating him. He had sought shelter down a stairwell but broke for better cover after the shooting had stopped. Death's Angel had killed those men, but the young woman would have been murdered had he not intervened and come to her rescue. Her attackers were bent on killing her. Of this, he was certain. Joe was beginning to gain new respect for this dark stranger who could dispense death as easily as compassion.
"The young woman in the alley lost something very dear to her…a bracelet. Do you recall seeing it?" Nottingham peeled off two hundred dollars, holding it in his hand, awaiting Joe's answer. He knew the man did not have the blade in his possession, not feeling its' presence as he was sure that he would.
"No…I'm sorry. Put your money away. I won't be earning it. I didn't see a thing." Joe's voice was stronger. He would have helped if he could.
"Do you know where I can find the other two men that were in the alley? Their names?" Nottingham continued as he handed the money to the man before he could answer.
Joe gave up the names of his neighbors in the alley. He provided as much information about their habits so Nottingham could find them easily.
"Thank you, Sargent Harrison." The dark stranger nodded and turned to leave. Hearing his name spoken with such respect filled Joe with a pride he had not felt in a very long time. Joe called out to him.
"This woman…she must be special." The homeless man ventured. Nottingham made a half turn, looking back at the man.
"Very special, Joe…Very special." The voice of Death's Angel was as quiet as a prayer.
As Joe Harrison turned back toward his belongings, he found a paper sack full of food and more cash stuffed inside to the right of his dwelling. As he turned to yell his appreciation, Death's Angel was nowhere to be found. Joe wanted to pinch himself, not sure of reality. But the food and cash were real enough. His laughter echoed loudly in the tunnel as he sank his teeth into the first peach he had eaten in ages.
A sad smile crossed the lips of Ian Nottingham as the sound of Joe's laughter reached his ears. He wished he could have done more for the man…perhaps one day he would.
*****
Randall Briggs had spent the morning searching the alley where the massacre had occurred, ignoring the police crime scene tape that still blocked entrance to the narrow corridor. It must have been a real firefight, he thought. Blood was everywhere. If Nottingham had been there, and had walked away unscathed, it made Briggs feel a twinge of doubt that he was superior in all ways to Irons' assassin. Quickly blocking self-doubt from his mind, as he had done his whole life, he forged ahead, soliciting any information from the homeless trash that he had encountered along the way.
He knew he was getting their full cooperation after he left each one in a bloodied heap of sweat soaked filth. They would have admitted to killing Princess Di if he had asked that question. He had no doubt about his effectiveness in these interrogations. It was just a matter of time before he would find someone who knew something of the street trash he sought or about the police detective and her blasted bracelet. It amazed him that a billionaire like Irons could concern himself with such a tawdry matter as a scorned lover…a police detective at that. Briggs spied his next victim just ahead of him, down a darkened alley canopied from the afternoon sun by taller buildings adjacent to it.
"Where do you think you're going, ass hole?" Briggs always tried to open up with his usual charm. Grabbing the man by his collar, he spun him towards the nearest brick wall. The old man fell against it with a pained expression.
"I'm looking for any information on the shootout at 47th and Lincoln the other night. Now we can do this the hard way or my way. And old man, you won't like my way either." Briggs knocked the wind from the white haired man with a powerful blow to the man's solar plexus, crippling him. Between gulps of air, the man tried to speak.
"I wasn't…wasn't there, mister…Don't know nothin'." He lied. It was a pity for him that he was not better at it. Briggs smiled wickedly, just looking for another excuse to pummel the man.
As Randall Briggs saw it, luck was on his side. The old man lay at his feet, scarcely alive. Barely working up a sweat, Briggs had extracted some much-needed information from the old geezer on the other homeless vermin in the alley that night. Stepping back, the younger man cruelly kicked the old man at his feet for good measure…then smiled as he straightened his tie and wiped blood from his face with his handkerchief.
He would need a fresh shirt.
*****
The commotion down one of the alleys off Lincoln had caught Nottingham's attention. A small crowd had gathered around a man whose legs he could see from underneath the mass of people. A siren was sounding so he was sure help was on its' way, yet something drew him closer. He overheard the older man ranting about his attacker, barely audible. His wounds were severe, perhaps fatal, Nottingham thought.
"He was looking…for a bracelet, he said. I told him…don't know nothin' about no bracelet. He kept hittin' me…even after I gave him the names of the others…kept hittin'…kickin' me." The man was in considerable pain.
"Tell Lefty…the Preacher. He's comin' for 'em. I had to tell…had to." With that, the man lost consciousness. Nottingham was familiar with the signs of death. He was now certain this old man would not see tomorrow.
Nottingham kept well back from the crowd, turning in profile so no one person could see his face. It seemed Irons' man was ahead of him. The beaten man was face number two that Ian had recognized. The old man had been there that night, Ian knew.
His time was running out…her time.