Night Flyer Read online

  The first time he had ripped his shirt open it was by mere chance, but when he discovered that it was this innocent action that called down power from heaven, he knew he had experienced a calling, and it was a calling that came with a high price. He became the target of shootings, stabbings, and even acid, but because of his otherworldly power, it was all without injury. He had become an exceptional street fighter, being bilingual in Italian and English, and even though he had never studied martial arts, he taught himself how to couple leverage with his strength so as not to hurt an opponent that was much weaker than himself. Only the ones with weapons, anger and determination to kill him or someone else, got his full load of strength. In them he was faced with tricks, unfairness in combat, and nothing less than death at the outcome.

  But Gabe was not a killer. At most he would defeat them, secure them, and take them to the police station, press charges against them, and have them thrown in jail. At first he was nothing more than one of the good guys who stepped in when needed, but he got to be such a regular customer, eventually the police hired him on as a sort of guardian of the streets, a secret weapon that they called Night Flyer, reminiscent of the shirts he wore that advertised his plane.

  Gabe, being a secret weapon, had to remain mysterious. He couldn’t let people know about his unusual abilities that set him apart from every other man on the street. To look at him you would never know that he could see in the dark, or about the laser beam that exuded from their glittering blue orbs, or that they could cut through steel and concrete. In fact Gabe had many assets he didn’t feel should be made public, especially the fact that he could fly. When he discovered this gift, he knew he would need a flying suit, and with the help of the Police Department, had it specially made out of a thick, synthetic stretch fabric lined with steel alloy, and the color was a light gray ash, giving him the appearance of a flying ghost. Although his presence was almost translucent in the skies, the steel alloy picked up a radiance that made him seem to streak from one place to another, making any observers reel in surprise. This, along with discharging electricity from his fingertips, or surrounding himself with a force field were just part of the package that he used only when he had to. Even though these things could boggle the mind, that wasn’t all. The most unusual gift he’d been given was a sort of radar. He could be in any place in the city, and the moment trouble started Gabe would feel a pulsing of waves from the source of the trouble, and would hone in on it, receiving the range, altitude and direction of the trouble in the city.

  Within only seconds he was on his way on land, sea, or air, to take care of it.

  For the most part, Gabe had to stay hidden, to stay out of the limelight, as they say, to appear to others as nothing more than the average Joe on the street. He didn’t want any glory for what he did because he didn’t do it for that. He did it because all his life he’d been a victim of bullies, and the streets were full of them. But most of all, he had also learned that the drama of the sky was still his friend, and with a hand made of lightning it had reached down and took the shy, timid, nerdy pilot with a child’s dream and transformed him into the amazing Night Flyer—a superhero that had been created in heaven.

  Chapter 2

  EAR-SPLITTING sirens screamed while the smell of hot rubber on dirty asphalt filled the air. Revolving lights erratically painted the buildings with moving color as two cars went barreling down the dark city streets, one chasing the other. These swiftly moving vehicles spun out of control as they slid around corners, and skidded through stoplights, barely missing pedestrians that were crossing the streets.

  A dark-haired man driving the first car leaned out, fired his revolver at the cop car behind him, the blast knocking out the left headlight. Turning back around, he noticed that he was nearing the Queens Bridge that stretched over the East River. If he could just get across it, he’d be home free, so he floored his accelerator, daring to go even faster. He kept his eyes on the bridge up ahead, and saw—he froze with fear. What the hell? The damn thing was pulling apart. Why was it opening up now? He looked back to see how close the cop car was, and felt his heart give a giant leap. The damn cops were close enough to smell his sweat as it dripped down his frightened face. If he couldn’t get over that bridge he would be trapped. There was only one thing he could do. He had to jump it, so he sped up, going even faster, wanting to get there before the gap in the bridge got too wide. He grimaced with pain when the siren’s ear-splitting sound seemed to stab his brain and gave the fear that plagued him dancing feet as it boogied up his spine. With a quick look in his rearview mirror he could tell they were getting way too close for comfort. He moved his eyes away and looked back toward the bridge, stupidly hoping the bridge’s rusted gears would slip, break, clog, fall off. Something! Anything!

  But it kept moving.

  Wider—wider—the bridge lifted.

  A sane man might have stopped, jumped out of the car and run for his life, but a desperate man, a man crazy with fear would race onto the bridge that spanned the shifting waves of the East River, and keep going, even though it might mean disaster. Fear and desperation fought for his soul. Fear told him it was up too far, and he could be jumping into sure death, but desperation told him that with any luck that once-in-a-lifetime daredevil move would take him to freedom. Fear urged him to stop now, but the claws of desperation was an excellent persuader, and he gave heed to nothing but his desire to escape. With his foot on the accelerator, he held his breath as his speedometer began to climb. As he watched it, the pointer moved erratically, finally reaching a three-digit number. It made him dizzy. Knowing he was going over, at that moment he wished with everything in him that he could sprout wings and fly, but he was still anchored down beneath the seat belt when his car went airborne. His pulse did a tap dance, and he might have sighed a breath of relief when he made it to the other side, but at the last moment the car took a nosedive, he lost control, and the impact of the car on the asphalt and steel knocked him out. With a wild, bouncing roll, the car began tumbling until it broke through the side rail, and plunged headlong into the water.

  *

  Just then someone from out of a crowd pointed toward the sky, and yelled, “Look!”

  Everyone looked up just in time to see a streak of lightning moving across the sky so fast it was only a flash that flew from one end of the sky to the other in a matter of seconds. They watched as the light glittered and glowed. Was it lightning? Was it a comet with a glittering tail? A rocket? No! It was a man—a hero—a savior in time of need. As they watched they saw a sharp pinpoint of light shooting from his eyes, piercing the darkness, the narrow light growing wider and wider until it surrounded the car that was going down into the shifting waters of the river. At that moment this unbelievable flying creature quickly changed his direction and flew toward the river and dove in.

  His body made a clean cut through the water, his sharp, glowing eyes piercing the deep while he looked for the car and the passenger inside. Only seconds had passed until he spotted him, and he darted through the murky water, freed the limp body from the seat belt, grabbed him around the waist, and rose quickly toward the surface. At last bursting through the face of the shifting fathoms, he soared into the sky, and sliced through the wind and clouds until he knew he’d found a safe haven called Sacred Heart. After making sure his cargo was still alive, the mysterious creature pounded on the door, turned like a whirlwind, rose up into the sky, and cut through the darkness with his lightning presence until he was out of sight.

  *

  The man that lay drenched in river water might have lain there for hours, or only minutes, but by the time he woke up he was wrapped in a blanket, and lying on a couch in a room of dark wood, burgundy walls, religious paintings and artifacts, all set off by biblical themed tapestries. Above it all was a picture of Jesus with nail-pierced hands indicating toward His burning heart that was surrounded by a crown of thorns. When he heard someone mumbling he looked down and saw a man dressed
in a robe kneeling by his side praying.

  My God, where the hell am I?

  Just about then the praying man looked up. “Well, I see you’re awake,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I’m Father Joseph, the priest of this parish. I was saying my evening prayers earlier when I heard the pounding on the door. When I rushed to open it, I certainly didn’t expect to see you lying on the front steps of the church. I hope it was okay that I took those wet clothes off you and dried you off. You couldn’t have been comfortable all wet like that.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re at Sacred Heart.”

  “Sacred Heart? What’s that?”

  “It’s a church. A Catholic church here in the city. May I ask your name?”

  The man thought for a moment, trying to remember his name, and then said, “Deuce. Deuce Gannon.”

  “Deuce. Rather strange name, isn’t it?”

  He looked at the Father through darting eyes. “Has anyone been here looking for me?”

  “No. Were you expecting someone?”

  “No, not…not especially. I just wondered.”

  “Do you remember what happened to you? How you got hurt?”

  “I remember my car hitting something…” He winced at the pain. “And water, but nothing…my mind’s all…foggy. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sure it’ll come to you. Considering the wounds you’ve sustained, I wouldn’t recommend going out again tonight. I’ve got you a bed made in the back. We keep it in case we have unexpected company. I suppose you fit in that category, so you’re more than welcome to it. Considering what happened to you, the scrapes and bruises seem minor for the most part, but you still need a lot of care, and according to the doctor you need to be watched in case of a concussion.”

  “You called a doctor?”

  “Yes, of course. You were out cold and bleeding. Sacred Heart has a kind of open door policy to those who need help, so the need for a doctor does come up occasionally. For…uh…visitors such as yourself, for instance.”

  “Thank you for not taking me to the hospital. If I can find my wallet I’ll be sure to reimburse you for whatever the doctor did, and the bed, of course.”

  Father Joseph reached into his garment, got it, handed it to him, and then looked at him with wise eyes. “The police were chasing you, weren’t they?”

  Deuce was silent for a moment, knowing he’d been found out. “Did you call them?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that until I hear your side of the story.”

  Deuce sighed. He knew he owed this man the truth since he was helping him, so he looked up at him, and said, “I don’t know how much you know about the Crimson Club in town, but I was invited to a closed game in their back room. Things got out of hand, I was accused of cheating, a fight began, and someone called the police. When the sirens began to sound we all began running in different directions. Somehow or other, they got on my trail, so here I am.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m known around town as a high stakes gambler. I travel between New York, Chicago, and Vegas. Anywhere there’s chumps who need to be relieved of their loot, that’s where you’ll find me.”

  “So you were cheating these men out of their hard earned money.”

  “Yeah, okay, maybe so, but they were trying to do the same thing to me. I’m just better at it than they are. Besides, these men come into the game knowing the score, okay? It was a closed game of poker where a lot of money was involved, and some poor loser became resentful because I was winning. That’s all there was to it. Hell, I know a few tricks of the trade, and over time I’ve gained a reputation, which is probably the reason the cops latched onto me. Now, if you’ll hand me my clothes I’ll get out so I won’t dirty up your nice clean church.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. If you have a reputation it’s because you earned it. It’s your fault, no one else’s. I appreciate you…uh…being straight with me…is that the phrase? I’m not much on slang, or the vernacular in your world. All I know is you need help, and that’s what I do. If you gamble that’s your thing. My thing is helping people when they need it, so be still and be quiet. You’re here for the night at least.”

  Deuce snickered at his answer. He knew he was going to like this old geezer, so he shrugged, and said, “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  “That’s better. As for payment, actually there wasn’t a whole lot to do. A few well-placed bandages, a little rest, a few pain pills and you should feel like new in the morning…according to the doctor. By the way, there’s a shower in the room, and a few items you might find useful such as something to sleep in, clean underwear, a robe…uh…you might want to burn your other clothes.”

  Later, as Deuce lay in the bed, he couldn’t sleep even though he was tired, and greatly relieved that he’d lucked out and found this place. What was the name again?

  Oh, yeah—Sacred Heart.

  * * * *

  Deuce Gannon began his young life as a gambler and a fraud. He came to know cards as if he’d brought them with him from out of his mother’s womb. When he learned sleight of hand, it wasn’t to entertain his friends with feats of magic, it was to cheat the other players. This helped him slip aces from the bottom of the deck without being detected, furtively push one up his sleeve, or even slip it beneath his thigh when no one was looking. His favorite card was the deuce—the wild card—the card that made winners out of losers. The deuce was his key to riches, and with it, he took everyone’s money without apology. Rich men, poor men, and men who had more money than sense, and even little old grandmothers who would bet the last dollar of their Social Security checks.

  But Deuce didn’t care. They all contributed to Deuce’s favorite charity—himself.

  But that was then, and this is now, several weeks later.

  The longer Deuce stayed at the church, the more comfortable he became. At first he was only recuperating, but as one day turned to two, Deuce had begun to feel at home at the church and didn’t want to leave. He blamed it on Father Joseph. He was a comfortable man. Soft spoken, smiling, and gentle. Deuce felt free to go to him for anything. Advice, or even questions about the changes that had taken place in him. That’s when he knew that he didn’t fit in the world outside anymore, and looked back at the night he first came to Sacred Heart.

  The night of his burning bush.

  The night everything changed.

  The night he found God on the front steps of Sacred Heart. Father Joseph took him under his wing, taught him, gave him food, clothes, and even called him “son,” but all that was after the dream he’d had that night in bed.

  He dreamed he had died and gone to Hell.

  He saw the flames, even felt them, and then he saw Satan sitting there playing cards. When he invited Deuce to come and play with him, Deuce, familiar with the setting and the game, went over and sat down. But it was the stakes that had him sweating.

  If he won he could leave, but if he lost—Hell was his home.

  He sat there watching Satan pull the same tricks he had pulled himself to win a game, but no matter how many sleight of hand moves he made, he could never trump Satan. When the game was finally over, he was grabbed by a group of demons and wrestled toward the lake of fire—until Deuce mercifully woke up in Father Joseph’s arms.

  “Now, now, son, it’s okay.”

  “Oh, God, Father, I…I was in Hell.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but you’re not in Hell now, my son. You’re with me.”

  From that moment on, Father Joseph became his mentor, his friend, and his confidant.

  He knew that what he saw that night might have only been a dream, but it was real enough to put him on the straight and narrow, and make him give his heart to God. But, Deuce, not one to do anything small, went all the way, and found himself in the ministry.

  It was along about that time that
Father Joseph died, and in his will he requested that Deuce take his place. It was an unusual request, but because the Father was highly respected and admired, the church put aside its rules and his request was honored. It was okay for a while, but with Father Joseph not there to talk to anymore, Deuce began having doubts. He’d reached for the stars, and found they were only gas. It helped him face the fact that the calling he thought he’d received the night of the car chase was made of gas too, giving him a dream that was generated from too much alcohol in his system.

  For the first time he was ready to admit that he’d been wrong, and face the fact that the best thing he could do for himself and everyone else was to leave the ministry. Not only would it cost him a life of dedication and service, not to mention a good hiding place, it was a life that was actually made of gold. But what did it matter? The gold wasn’t his, and it never had been. So, if he lost it, who would care? Not him, not God, and not the church. But since he didn’t have the courage to call it quits, he kept putting it off and spent his time frustrated, locked in a place where it was dark and quiet. Sometimes it got so bad he felt just once he’d like to yell, knock over a candelabra, or kick a pew, but obedient priest that he was, he suffered in silence. As a result he walked in the darkness on silent feet, not saying prayers of dedication, but having fantasies about a life outside the polished walls of the church.