McCurdy walked after him, staring hard at his back, hard enough that the vagabond should have felt hot pokers burning through his shirt and into his skin.

A name.  It was a start.  Hawksmoore...  McCurdy hadn’t heard the name before.  Not even during the war.  And he had been around many Brits during the war.  One even became a real good friend.

McCurdy stepped out into the light, not the least bit concerned about looking around for any of his escort’s dangers.  The brit was doing that just fine.  He had something else to worry about anyway.  McCurdy had a feeling, one of those nagging feelings that tugged at your guts like a twisted torture device, a feeling that told him he had something dangerous closer to him than any demons.  The feeling told him he was about to be traveling with a boy that bothered him more than anything from another world.

McCurdy had an imagination, he always had.  It kept him going during long summer days working the fields with his pa; boring farm work that he learned to hate more than the freeloading Easley clan that bothered them all of the time, hitting pa up for money, food, whatever he was willing to give.  No account good-for-nothings that lived off the people around them like parasites.

And McCurdy’s imagination was kicking him like a mule about now as he followed behind the boy, trotting back to town.  A boy that was not a boy; a boy that looked, acted, and talked like someone from another time...

Yeah, McCurdy’s imagination was grinding the gears ... demons ... time travel....  What was next?

The boy, if indeed he could be called that, was remarkably fit, and set a pace that had McCurdy somewhat breathless by the time they were back in Perfection.  Sebastian Hawksmoore did not seem remotely bothered by the scrutiny McCurdy was offering, either, and had put the handgun away as there was nothing for him to shoot at.  The weapons he had were the same as McCurdy's, back at the plane; army Colts, M1911a's, and he seemed very familiar with them.

All seemed well here; the dog was out on the porch and offered up a few wags of her tail, but did not rise from her patch of sunlight.  Hawksmoore stopped and surveyed the aircraft with a dubious look, as if not entirely convinced that this conveyance was safe, then looked back at McCurdy. "Where shall I take a seat ?"  he asked, and fetched a pack from the side of the porch.

McCurdy used the man’s fetching of the pack to take a moment and catch his breath.  He was still not entirely sure he wanted the man with him, but he might be his only lead to the cross.  The crucifix on his belt, the talk of emeralds, Father Dean knowing him....  It was thin, but it was all McCurdy had to grab onto right then.

McCurdy checked his pistols in their cubby under his seat while the “boy” was away and ensured the plane had not been tampered with, walking around it, checking the fuselage, knocking on the fuel tank, ensuring the engine hadn’t been poked or prodded by anyone with sticky fingers or malice on the mind.  McCurdy was normally a trusting soul, but recent events swept that away like a tornado sweeping the front porch of a straw house.

McCurdy worked at removing the cover over the passenger seat and cleared the cubby of his satchel.  He transferred that to the wing supports, tying it securely against the wind that would be trying to rip it loose.  “There’s a seat for you now,” he said to Hawkesmoore.  “Unless you want to ride on the wing.  I’ve carried people that way before.  Jenny’s come with two seats, but there were times I had to carry more than one.  Up to you.”

McCurdy made no move to get inside the Jenny; instead he carefully lit up a Camel and leaned on the plane.  “Won’t have time to talk without yelling once we’re up there and I like my voice the way it is.  So how about you give me a bit of background on this flight.  You can start with how that padre knew who you were and why he had a low opinion of you.”

The boy Hawksmoore observed these actions with a thoughtful look on his face, the sharp eyes noting each move.  Once the seat was cleared for him, he nodded.  "Shan't want to cling to it, it's still quite a ways south."  he said.  "I cannot speak for why the priest didn't like me, unless it was my costume down south."  He unfurled part of the wrappings of his gear, to reveal black fabric, yards of it, which formed some sort of long vest, or more properly, vestments.  Once the vest was put on, Hawksmoore could pass for a black-clad priest, and it covered the strange gun-carrying harness and trousers quite well. "I certainly don't recall ever meeting him, and I have an eye for faces.  Why he knew of me, I imagine it is because I know about the last time the Cross was used."  The gaze that met McCurdy's eyes was direct and calm, but then McCurdy had the distinct sense that it would be dangerous to play poker with this lad.

And, even clad in sweeping skirts of a robe, he nimbly climbed into the plane.

McCurdy just stared at the lad and tipped his hat back on his head, dragging on his cigarette.  “This just gets better and better,” he mumbled.  “Okay, yur flyin south.  I got that part.”  He reached into the cockpit and started fumbling with the choke and throttle controls, setting them just right for a single-starter.  “I reckon you have some idea of why I am here now too, since you so easily talk of the cross, and since you saw me at Father’s Dean’s.  So my next question is what are we going south for?”  McCurdy backed away from the plane and looked at him, waiting for the answer so he could go around and turn the prop.

"You came to speak to that priest, and I found you at Chang's, so you're after the Cross," the boy said, the level gaze fixed on McCurdy. "And I shan't ask your business, if you don't ask mine; I'll even tell you what I know, if you will contain your curiousity.  The cross is a relic that enables the wielder to force demons to their bidding.  I call them demons, for that is what they appear to be.  And they are quite dangerous, even to me."  Then he shut up again.

McCurdy just stared at him for a moment.  Unblinking.  “Aha...” he finally mumbled.  “I guess yur after the cross then.  And you must know where it is if yur wantin to get South so quick.”  He was doing well to contain the questions beating at the door in his head, surprising even himself. Every time the fella opened his mouth it only sparked more questions in McCurdy’s head.

But instead, he started to move around to the front of the plane, and then stopped himself, turning back toward Hawksmoore.  “Are we going anywhere in particular down South...?”

"I have no use for the Lupino Cross," Hawksmoore replied, the sharp eyes fixed on McCurdy's.  He seemed miffed at having to answer more questions, but was responding to them anyway. "You may go wherever you wish down South; I have my destination already."  The frosty scowl added, 'and I'm not wanting to tell you more.'

"I see."  McCurdy stripped off his coat, stepped up to reach under his seat, and pulled out his brace of pistols.  He slipped the shoulder holsters over his back and arms and situated the Colts where they needed to rest, one under each arm.  Then he slid back into his coat and adjusted his hat in the afternoon sun.  After all that he suggested Hawksmoore might want to get out of the plane.

"If you ain’t after the Cross then I can’t leave yet.  And I may not be going the same direction as you when I find out what I need to know before I can leave.  I have prior commitments that I need to honor before I can take on yours.”  He stopped there and waited for the boy’s move.  He didn’t figure he’d get out and he sure felt the boy would try to steal his plane now.  But McCurdy lost his lead on Brother Clary and he needed to find another one or else he was dead in the air.

Hawksmoore glared at him, with eyes that seemed so much older than a stripling's eyes should be.  At last, he spoke. "Very well," he said, in reluctant defeat, in a resigned and level tone. "I know where you want to go, and I will assist you in finding the Cross, and in return I want passage to Brazil.  My Spanish is excellent, and I speak four native tongues, as well as Portugee.  You shall have need of that."

“Brazil!”  McCurdy moved the hat back on his head again and set his hands on his hips.  “I’ve been many places, but I haven’t been to Brazil.”  He shook his head.  “Don’t mind takin you there, that’s for sure.  But it’ll be expensive ... petrol and such.  Of course, you don’t act like money is much of a concern.”

He waved his hand as if that wasn’t an issue anyway and frowned in thought.  “And I don’t want anyone thinkin I’m pressin ’em into anything.  If you can get me to the next leg of where the man I’m lookin’ for is headed then I won’t hold you to helpin me find the cross.  That fella will lead me to it.  Father Dean was my lead to him and with him dead, I need another.  If you can be that lead until I find another, that’ll be great.  And I’ll still get you to Brazil with no questions about why.”

He started walking toward the prop to give it a spin.  “So where do I need to point the compass?”

Sebastian Hawksmoore stifled a sigh with effort, clearly believing that he was being pressed into service, and making him look like a sullen teenager in admittedly strange costume.  "I can handle expenses well enough, I should think."  he said. "There are very few places where the man who has the Cross might be, so I will escort you thither."  Thither...he actually said thither, and meant it.

"South." was the disgruntled, but still civil reply, as to direction.  Hawksmoore watched keenly as McCurdy spun the prop, to start the engine, then to jump into the cockpit to get to the controls.  The Jenny taxied easily along the road, raising a huge cloud of Texas dust, and soared up into the blue sky.

The Jenny moved along well enough, buffetted now and then by a cross wind, which McCurdy's passenger was taking easily enough.  The sun was lowering into the west side of the sky as they proceeded south, toward the Gulf of Mexico.  There were storm clouds building down here, grey and white clumps that promised a thunderstorm.  (McCurdy, roll v. flying, % dice !)

McCurdy didn’t like the look of the storm clouds.  “We’ll need to set down if those clouds get any darker and it gets too dangerous to fly,” he yelled over the sound of the engine and the wind.  “Don’t want to risk not making it.”  He canted the wing slightly, adjusting his heading a bit to skirt the building storm and descended some one hundred feet.  He wouldn’t get caught flying too high this time...

The plane shivered and shifted with the turbulence, but the only response from his passenger was a grim, watchful look.  McCurdy dropped the plane down, feeling the winds kicking up, and then saw birds fluttering strangely out of the dark clouds...more like bats than birds.

Then one landed on the cowling, bat-wings flapping madly, clawed hands clinging to the canopy as its mad little red eyes glared at McCurdy and it hissed - it was a cat-sized monster, a gargoyle, or....a gremlin.  The claws dug in, sending up splinters, then Hawksmoore drew one of his pistols and shot it, splashing purple ichor all over them. More were flitting down to the plane, with an unearthly chittering sound.  McCurdy was fighting to control the plane.

There were too many; they were all over the plane, pulling Hawksmoore's hair and scratching him, flapping in McCurdy's face, and clawing at the plane, chewing on the cables.  Suddenly the Jenny's engine quit, and two more came clawing out of the engine housing, joining the swarm on the rest of the plane.

The Jenny was falling like a stone...and she was going down over water.

There wasn't much for McCurdy to do except try to keep the plane from hitting the water nose first.  Through the purple ichor on his goggles and the flapping bats, he looked for any sign of a beach or land.  If he could glide her down on her belly, especially near some type of land, they would be much better off.

Struggling with the stick, more intent on it than on the bats, he did all he could - using every ounce of his skill and his muscle - to keep his plane from killing the both of them....

McCurdy guided the plane down, fighting the sluggish controls, and the impact was horrendous.  His forehead hit the cowling, and the blackness sucked him down for a few seconds, then he came to.   The left wing was torn halfway off, and the plane began to sink.  His passenger unconcernedly shot more of the creatures, and then they suddenly scattered, flapping off back into the sky.  The first drops of heavy rain began to fall.

Water was coming in, soaking McCurdy's feet.  "Look - there - "  he heard Hawksmoore say, and then he saw a sight that was familiar enough - a Junker.  He hadn't seen one since the war.

A Junker was indeed headed their way, with pontoons on it - a seaplane.  Sure, it had been painted over in red and white, but it was still a German plane.  The water was up to their hips now, and Hawksmoore was unbuckling his harness, ready to abandon the plane.  The Junker set down, splashing in a genteel fashion, and taxied close, and the pilot called out in German; then in English, "You are OK ?"

McCurdy waved at the man -- an odd sight indeed to find a german junker and an american jenny in the same patch of air without trying to shoot each other.  He started to get up and a bolt of pain hit his head.  He gritted his teeth against the pain and carried on, grabbing his small satchel from beneath the seat and ensuring he still had his pistols.

Lost my damn plane! he thought as he raised to sit on the fuselage.  McCurdy sat and shook his head, checking his forehead for blood.  Then he looked at the other pilot and waved his hand again.  "Sure could use a tug," he said through a smile, despite the situation.

McCurdy's forehead at the hairline was sticky with blood, but nothing seemed to be too deep or requiring stitches.  His passenger was gathering up his gear, ready to depart already. The Jenny was indeed going down.  The Hun, a lanky blonde with a mild expression, eyed this development with a dubious look, though he had smiled when McCurdy did.

"Dot I don't think will be possible, she is sinking," the German said, his thick accent further reminding McCurdy of The War. "But to hitch-hike, that I can give you."  He caught the bundle of gear that Hawksmoore chucked at him, with another few rapid words in German.

The junker was being used as a cargo plane, to judge from the crates and the ropes and netting; the only seats were the pilot's and co-pilots, the co-pilot's seat being currently occupied by a very large, handsome snake sunning itself.  "I was going North," the Hun added, after getting the two men safely aboard.
"I will pay you to go South," Hawksmoore said in English, then spoke in German, pulling the bag he'd used to pay with at Chang's from his pocket.

McCurdy watched chunks of green rock change hands...the Hun's eyebrows lifting up in surprise, then watched as the last of the fusilage of his beloved plane sank below the water.

McCurdy turned his eyes from the emeralds and stared at the sinking plane beneath him.  A plane that had been with him for many years — even through part of the war.  He sat silently, somberly as the water started rising toward his knees; witnessing the slow death of a friend.

He did not want to abandon her, but he knew when to retreat.

Hawksmoore surveyed the sinking aircraft, and flicked his steely gaze back to McCurdy, then reached out his hand to help McCurdy aboard the Hun's Junker.  "You seek something important," he said, in tones that almost sounded as if he might actually be human, after all. "Although you have not kept your end of the bargain, you intended to do so, and we had an Accord.  Come along.  I will see you safely on your journey."

The German had the grace to say, "I'm sorry," in a suitably sympathetic tone, and then went to tend to his flying.  The Junker rose smoothly from the spray of bubbles that was all that remained of McCurdy's beloved Jenny....

....and landed well, causing some concern among the boat-going locals and clipping some leaves off the trees, on the mighty Amazon herself.  It was clear that the Hun had been a fighter pilot, and McCurdy knew where to look to figure out what Jasta...the Second, from the markings on the man's jacket.  This fellow had flown with some seriously good pilots.

 The docks were full of fishing boats, and the German taxied up to an empty spot to let off the travellers.  Hawksmoore hopped out quickly, with his gear, and bade the German a lengthy farewell, in German; then he waited for McCurdy to disembark. The city had a decidedly Spanish flavour to it; the buildings, and the language that drifted on the late afternoon breezes.  And he couldn't help but wonder that Hawksmoore was as alert as could be.

McCurdy nodded at the pilot, his respect for the man apparent, and then turned to Hawksmoore.  He watched him for a moment before turning his eyes to the city and wondered if his spotty Spanish would help him here.  He decided he’d wait to see.

Speaking to the locals was not foremost on his mind though, and it showed in the frown he wore.  He was wet, he was tired, and he had lost his plane.  All three combined to make him feel quite irritated.  He cut his eyes at Hawksmoore again.

“Do you know the man that has the cross,” he asked abruptly.  “Brother Clary he’s called.  You tell me you know where the cross is.  Let’s get it all out in the open if you don’t mind.”

Sebastian Hawksmoore drew up short, his eyes hardening again, and focused his attention on McCurdy. It was rather like having a bird of prey sizing you up as dinner.

"I am not yours to command, Yankee," he said in short, crisp tones. "I know not more than what Chang spake of him - a description and a destination.  I avowed to take you thither."  Again with the odd words.  Then he set down his pack, pulled out a black cowl, which completed a monklike look to the youth, hiding his face.  He slung the pack back over his shoulder, effortlessly, and set off along the planking, the hobnails in his boots striking a spark off a nailhead set in the wood.

"Come along," he said, over his shoulder, "There's one place I know of where someone keeps close watch."  He then led the way off into the city, striding with a strong pace.  The warehouses and docks gave way to homes, some shabby, some not so shabby, and continued on to grander buildings that seemed to be leading to the centre of town.

McCurdy glared at Hawksmoore’s back as he followed.  His irritation had increased to mild anger at the rebuff from the “boy.”  This adventure is getting really complicated, he grumbled inside of his head as Hawksmoore led him deeper into the city.  Too many secrets.  Much too many secrets.

McCurdy didn’t like being dependent on anyone for anything if he didn’t need to be.  And he didn’t need to be dependent on Hawksmoore.  But for some reason, the boy thought he needed to keep McCurdy in the dark.  And McCurdy wanted to know why.

That was the only reason he bit his tongue and marched on behind the fake priest, his eyes boring holes into his back, his frown drawing furrows in his brow like a plow in soft dirt.  He wanted to know why...

McCurdy's guide seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading on into the centre of town, and was probably the most prickly individual McCurdy had seen in a long time - out of keeping with the youthful appearance, to be sure.

It was at an old, cracked building, many times patched, where the shade of a tree kept a person on a chair in shadows, that the boy stopped at last.  The person on the chair was a little old lady, wisps of white hair peeking from the wrap on her head, her brown face a network of crinkles as she smiled at Sebastian Hawksmoore. A heavy serape was wrapped around her, even in the heat, and a faded skirt covered her legs, though McCurdy could see bony ankles and feet clad in a leather moccasins.  There was a glint of gold at her throat, and she seemed happy.

Hawksmoore stopped, and knelt down on one knee, and reached out to hold the old woman's hands, in the most human and gentle gesture that McCurdy had ever seen.  She spoke Spanish, rapidly, beaming at him with a nigh toothless smile, and he responded.  McCurdy caught a few words; "it is good to see you again", "sweetheart", "have you seen," the last two phrases coming from Hawksmoore.

She spoke then, close to his ear, still smiling, and finally she sat back and touched his face with her crooked hand, and said in Spanish, "Farewell, my dear one."

Hawksmoore rose, kissing the hand he still held, and backed a few paces away.  The little old lady was holding the leather pouch now, the one that held the gold and the emeralds.  When he turned back toward McCurdy, there were tears on the sharp planes of his cheeks. "He was here yesterday, with Hornsby.  Hornsby travels our path and left from Manaus only this morning.  They can be overtaken.   There is only matter more I must attend, and then I will go."

He flipped the hood lower over his face and headed off into the market, striding rapidly, not waiting for McCurdy to follow, or speak, or anything.  The next place he was headed was a beautiful old Spanish Church.  He stopped cold when he reached the entrance, standing there still as death, looking within at something or someone, spoke something McCurdy could not hear, and then stepped aside and back a few paces, reaching for something in his shoulder pack.

Mysteries were in McCurdy’s blood.  Always had been.  It was why he chose to be a cop, it was why he chose to quit to start his own business.  McCurdy was fairly good at solving those that came his way too.  And Hawksmoore had come his way.

McCurdy had nodded politely at the old woman as he passed away from her to follow the mysterious boy, looking at her carefully, memorizing her face, her features, her manner.  Too affectionate to be his mother.  Much too affectionate.  And calling her sweetheart....

McCurdy blinked as his thoughts returned to the present and he moved to the side to get out of the direct line of the dark doorway.  He did not like the exposure he was feeling.  His hands idly rose toward his shoulder holsters as he kept one eye on Hawksmoore and the other on the church entrance.