Card Sharks

***

  Down the hallway to the storeroom where supplies were stored, linens washed, and needles sterilized. I had never paid much attention to the sterilization process - doctor's arrogance, that. After all, Margaret handled it. Now, I was about to educate myself. I wanted to know the make-up of our final needle wash. If all was well I could release this paranoid fantasy about Faneuil.

  It was hot in the storeroom. Through the south facing window I could see a line of monsoon clouds billowing purple, black and grey against the moon lit sky. Occasionally lightning shot jagged and orange from the belly of the clouds. A sharp gust of wind sent sand rattling against the dingy glass. Alarmed by the sharp reports, the flies sleeping like fat black raisins on the ceiling let out a crescendo drone, and stirred nervously. Flies are a constant in Africa. You stop noticing them after a while. I almost didn't notice this batch.

  Instead I flipped on the light. Crossed to the solution. Awakened by the light the flies came spiraling down drawn by the scent of sweat and hide from my centaur body. One big motherfucker landed on my withers, and bit down hard. Grunting in pain and annoyance I cranked my torso around, and smashed the fucker. Blood squished against my palm. Disgusted, I turned back to look for a towel, and froze.

  The flies were hovering over Doctor's special solution.

  Sterilizing solutions all have one thing in common - they contain detergent. Flies don't like detergent. Whatever was in Doctor's Special Needle Dip, it wasn't detergent.

  Suddenly paranoid, I closed the door to the storeroom behind me, and approached the tray. The needles looked like tiny deadly missiles as their points glittered beneath the surface of the fluid. I removed the tray, and set it aside. I then used the tried and true doctor approach to anything unknown. I dipped the tip of my little finger in the solution, and tasted it.

  It wasn't soap, or Clorox, or alcohol. It was dilute human serum. For a second the room took on the quality of a merry-go-round. I closed my eyes, and backed up so abruptly that I drove my ass into the far wall. It bruised the dock of my tail, and hurt like a motherfucker. The pain counteracted the faintness.

  All the old spy movies of my youth rose up and clamored for attention. I knew I had to hide my presence in the room, and I knew I had to have a sample of the solution. I quickly filled and corked a pipette with the liquid. I was just returning the needles to the solution when I smelled smoke. Terrified, I threw open the door, and slammed it immediately shut again at the sight of flames belching from Faneuil's office. Frantically I searched for escape. There was no way I was going to get my fat horse butt out that window. In my case it literally was out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  Snatching up a towel from the linen cabinet, I wet it with tap water, then tied it across my face. I remembered clips from one of Dad's stirring firefighter dramas, so I stood to the side of the door as I opened it. Fire belched in as if shot by a small dragon. Once that initial billow passed I held my breath, and jumped through into the hall. My tail ignited as I vaulted over the fire, and boy did that serve as an incentive! If the ASPCA wouldn't get on you, I have a great way to encourage race horses.

  I turned right, and was running like a motherfucker for the lobby and the hospital. We had sixteen patients occupying beds in that ward, and I had to get them out. As I approached the lobby I could hear shrill cries of terror, and the racking coughs of people who are dying from smoke inhalation. The doorway leading to the hospital was a sheet of flame. I'm as brave as the next man, but I'm not suicidal. It was clear a second fire had been started in the ward, and if I tried to save them I would only succeed in joining them in death.

  The fire was advancing from both fronts now, about to capture me in Hell's own pincer. The sounds of agony faded from the hospital. I turned and raced for the front doors.

  They were locked.

  Panic was hammering in my throat. Sixteen people had died because someone was trying to murder me. My knuckles were white as I gripped the push handle, and rattled it impotently. But they had not considered one fact. I'm a joker with the body of a pony. Pit ponies in the mines in Britain can pull up to three times their own weight. I'm strong.

  Whirling, I lined up my ass with the thick glass, and let fly with both hind feet. The glass starred and cracked. One more kick, and glass formed a crystal waterfall. I had to jump the access bar. It was a little like threading a needle. I caught my hindfeet, and fell into an ungainly heap on the steps of the clinic.

  As I lay there panting, and hurting (my burned tail hurt like hell), a bullet sprayed concrete dust into my face. I was on my feet and running in an instant.

  I don't know how I thought of this in my terror and pain, but I found my hand going to the pocket of my lab coat, and the precious pipette of serum. Amazingly it was still intact. There was a mind numbing crash of thunder from directly overhead, and the heavens opened up. Within seconds the dusty streets of Kilango had become rivers of sticky mud. I was slogging for my van. I had to get out. Get to Nairobi.

  And do what? I wondered. In an instant a lifetime of loving support from friends and family had vanished. I was a joker and I distrusted all nats. I reached the van. Yanked open the side door, and clambered in. My hooves sounded like a chorus of castanets on the metal floor. Trembling I pulled the keys from the ashtray, thrust them into the ignition, and turned.

  Silence.

  These assholes thought of everything. I was out of the van, and running for the steep incline of the Ngong Hills. The high wire fence which surrounded Kilango looked intact, but there was a place where the kids had clipped out an opening, and then carefully folded the wire back into place to hide their sin. I had used it myself, and had kept the secret. There was the sharp report of a high powered rifle being fired, and an angry supersonic bee ripped along my hip. I shrieked, bucked, and resumed running.

  Where were those fucking guards? I wondered. Of course, there were only two of them, and they might be drugged or dead, or maybe just not give a shit because I was a joker, and someone had just declared open season.

  My lungs were laboring, and my legs felt like four pillars of jelly by the time I reached the ridgeback. I thought about heading north along the ridge toward Nairboi, then realized that my hunters had probably thought of that. Machakos, Konza, Kajiado - all were too distant for a tired centaur to reach. I stared down into the shadow well of the Rift Valley. The game preserve was below. I'd take my chances among the flora and fauna of Africa. Hide out until the heat was off, make my way cautiously north, then climb back over the Ngong to Nairobi. I again reassured myself of the safety of my precious pipette.

  I stood dithering on the edge of eternity - literally in my case - and wished for a flashlight. My pursuers threw some light on matters. If you've never seen a high powered rifle fired at night it is a sight designed to stand your hair on end. A tongue of flame several feet long gouts from the barrel of the rifle. Macho military types are always telling you how great this is because it pinpoints the bad guys for you. Well, that's swell if you're a macho military type, and you also have a gun, but I was a terrified doctor who'd never fired a gun in his life, and I fucking knew where the bad guys were - they were chasing me!

  I dove off the crest of the hill, and in a shower of pebbles and dirt began my skittering descent into the Great Rift Valley.

  ***

  By ten o'clock I was a wreck. The sun looked like a polished bronze disk in the sky. Heat and dust hazed the horizon. I had no water. No sun screen. No lip balm. My face and scalp were cooked, my lips blistering. The burned dock of my tail was agony, and without a tail I was tormented by flies.

  Occasionally I had passed a watering hole, but the film-encrusted, muddy water looked awful. I'm also a doctor. I knew it was the little gollywogs swimming around in that ugly water that were going to tap dance in my bowels. But sooner or later I was going to have to drink, and then the real fun would start.

  My grand plan about hiding wasn't working out so great. The Rift Valley is pretty sparse. Expanses of
grassland are occasionally dotted with spreading, flat-topped trees which sprout like desiccated mushrooms. Despite the Long Rain season there was a lot of dust, and that was what kept me running. My hunters were in vehicles, and the dust rose like a peacock's plume from the spinning wheels, pinpointing their location and warning me that despite my best hopes they were not giving up. The pursuit continued.

  I was nearing the end of my strength, so I sank down in the sparse shade of a Jacaranda tree, tried to regulate my breathing. I closed my eyes trying to relieve their burning, and wished for dark glasses. A Snickers bar. A Coke. A miracle.

  Like a half-remembered song I could now faintly hear the drone of the jeep engines. Wearily I unfolded my legs, and lurched to my feet. I had to grab for support from a low hanging branch as a wave of dizziness took me. The agonizing run continued.

  Thankfully God looks out for fools, little children, the United States of America, and jokers. My miracle occurred. As I trotted through a stand of thorn trees I struck gold. The grasslands on the other side were dotted with impala. I hesitated just under the branches of the final tree. Compared. Our hides were an almost perfect match. I gave an experimental sniff to my armpits. Very much a human scent. Rubbed a hand across my side. Sniffed again. Not human. Not animal. Something different - joker scent. Would the impala accept me?

  Bending at the waist, I dropped my head as close to the ground as possible, attempting to present the profile of a grazing impala, and edged toward the herd. A big buck lifted his head, snorted, and shook those lyrate horns. The entire herd tensed for a moment. The buck and I regarded each other. With the highlight of white over his liquid brown eyes he had the quality of a lovely and frightened girl. I tried to appear non-threatening. It worked better on the impala then it's worked on most women I've tried to date. The buck snorted a final time, and resumed grazing.

  I slipped into the center of the herd, and cast about for any shed or broken horns. Yes, I know, it was a dumb idea, but I wasn't thinking too clearly at that point. Needless to say I didn't find any.

  The droning of jeep engines began to break up the quiet of the afternoon. The impala herd came to quivering alertness, and then I saw the inherent flaw in my plan. The hunters would come. Spook the impala. The impala would run. If I couldn't keep pace with them Finn would die.

  The great stampede began. Within minutes my lungs were close to bursting, each exhalation like fire across my throat. I was falling farther and farther back in the herd - back where the sick and the young were running.

  I started to cry. Decided I wouldn't be shot in the back. I plunged to a halt, and whirled to face them. There were two jeeps bouncing and jouncing across the veldt. In one a man stood upright, one foot balanced on the dashboard, the other in the seat, and his knee locked against the back of the car seat for support. There was a rifle at his shoulder. He called out something, and the jeep began to slow. My skin was crawling, looking for cover. Tears and snot gouged slimy trails through my dust encrusted face.

  There was the ear-splitting crack of gun fire. The shooter in the jeep flung away his rifle, his arms wind-milled, and he collapsed backwards off the jeep. I looked around wildly. It was a silly reaction, but I suddenly realized that I was patting myself all over my chest as if to ascertain I really wasn't shot.

  My pursuers spun their jeeps in tight U-turns, and began to haul ass out of there. There were two more shots, and another guy in the first jeep and one in the second jerked from the impact. There was the gnashing and grinding of gears, the squeak from too old brakes, and a mud and dust covered Mercedes truck pulled up next to me.

  "He's not on the endangered list, Mosi, guess we should have let 'em shoot him," said J.D. "And now you've gone and killed that guy." J.D. shook his head piously, and tisked.

  There was a flash of ivory in ebony as Mosi grinned at me, tossed up his rifle, and caught it by the barrel. He slid the rifle into the truck, and then maneuvered himself back through the window. When he thrust his arm back out he was holding a wad of Kleenex.

  I blew my nose, wiped the moisture from my face. The kleenex was mud-caked trash in my hands. "How ... how...." I stammered.

  "One of our scout planes spotted the vehicles. We figured poachers, and came out to check," Mosi said.

  It suddenly all struck me as hilarious, and I began to whoop with laughter. They were staring at me, J.D. with some consternation, and Mosi with fatherly understanding.

  "No, no poachers," I finally managed to gasp out. "'Cause somebody just declared open season on jokers."

  ***

  The tie up of this sordid little story took only a day. Mosi and J.D. got me back to Nairobi. The solution in the pipette proved to be AIDS-infected human serum. The posse saddled up, and headed out to Kilango, only to find Faneuil and Margaret had already split.

  Of the three gunmen who were shot, two were dead, and all the survivor could tell us was that he had been hired by Faneuil to torch the clinic and kill me.

  Two men had been assigned to head the medical investigation; Pan Rudo, a doctor with the World Health Organization, and Philip Baron von Herzenhagen of the Red Cross. Rudo was an elderly, elegant man with an almost terrifying brilliance. Herzenhagen was a fat, blond white guy who looked like a stuffed tomato after a few hours in the African sun. It was Herzenhagen who had the bad taste to ask me how I felt - after all, I'd been "administering vaccinations to the children of Kilango for months. Infecting them with AIDS. Inadvertently ... of course." As if that little addendum made it all okay. He ended the interrogation with the solicitous suggestion that I might want to seek counseling, but the show of concern didn't fool me. He had wanted to make me fed bad. I eyed him, and said in a level voice, "I bet you wet the bed, set fires, and tortured animals when you were a kid." I then turned my back on him, and walked out. I remember there was a little choke of sound from Rudo. Whether laughter or outrage I never knew. As for Herzenhagen, I never saw him again until he waltzed across my television screen as a special advisor to the Vice-President in charge of eradicating jokers on the Rox. It seemed a perfect role for him.

  The Kenyan authorities and I searched through Faneuil's and Margaret's personal effects seeking some explanation for the horror they had perpetrated. We found none. I really hadn't expected to.

  The cops tried to see if I could shed any light on the motive. After all, this man was a doctor. All I could tell them is that doctors are people too with the same hates and fears and biases as the rest of our tribe. And unfortunately, the list of healers who had turned to murder is a long and honored one. Faneuil had been a psychopathic bigot - end of story.

  Still, it bothers me how he got out of Kenya. Out of Africa. He must have had help in high places. Which scares me, and sometimes keeps me awake at night. Memories of a young boy with a sweet voice also return to haunt me occasionally. In 1990 Jonathan wrote to tell me Daudi had died. And all I could think was that I'd killed him. It was Tachyon, or rather his example, who helped me get past it. I looked at him, and remembered how guilt had nearly destroyed his life.

  I have a lot of people left to heal. I'm not going to blow it on guilt. Yes, I have been an unwitting accomplice to Faneuil's murders, but my conscience is clean. I just wonder if the same can be said for Faneuil - wherever he hides?

  Yes, I'm afraid it can. The world has said it's okay to hate us. Maybe next they'll say it's okay to kill us. Faneuil is just waiting for vindication. He's sleeping the sleep of the righteous.

  The Ashes of Memory

  3

  Hannah threw the transcripts down on Malcolm's desk. "I want Harris fired, Malcolm. I want his ass out the door."

  Her fury had been building all day, though Hannah wondered if her ire was because Harris hadn't done his job or because his failure had dumped the task on her. But if Dr. Finn's tale had not been enough, listening to the depositions of the fire victims under his care had fueled the inward anger.

  Jokers or not, no one deserved what they'd gone through.

&n
bsp; Harris missed being on the receiving end of Hannah's wrath: he was out when she returned to the office not long after noon, and the fury had gone to glowing embers under the work awaiting her. The initial lab report had been on her desk, confirming that traces of jet fuel had been found in the remnants of the basement plants; the materials in the delayed fuse were still being checked. Dr. Sheets's autopsy reports came in the late afternoon: nothing unusual there other than the bizarre variety of forms among the dead: CO levels in the blood and tissue samples indicated that most had died from smoke inhalation long before the flames reached them.

  Hannah had requested a database check on convicted and suspected pyros in the city; the list was depressingly long. Aces like Jumping Jack Flash she discarded - there'd been nothing to suggest a wild card power had been involved in the fire. Those who were still incarcerated or already in jail, those who never torched occupied buildings, and those who had never indicated any wild card antipathy she moved to the bottom of the list. There were still a dozen names left in the priority category. She'd decided to take Arnold Simpson, another of the agents, and interrogate the first one - a Kevin Ramblur, a street gang kid with the nickname of Flashfire who, it was suspected, had been responsible for snatching lone jokers from the street and setting them afire - when the floor clerk brought in Harris's transcripts.

  "Pete said to give you these, and that he'd talk with you in the morning," the clerk said. "He had a doctor's appointment."

  Harris had given her a long litany of "not available for deposition" and sketchy logs. They were garbage; utterly useless even if she hadn't already known that all of them were outright lies. That had fanned the dull anger back into rage, and Hannah stalked down to Malcolm's office rehearsing her first words.

  "I'm not kidding, Malcolm. This is either incompetence, deliberate sabotaging of my case, or both."

  Malcolm Coan, District Director of the Arson Bureau, New York State Department of Justice, had the eyes of a Great White, dark and frighteningly expressionless. The rest of his demeanor did nothing to dispel the illusion of a predator, nor did the fact he insisted that all his subordinates address him by his first name lend him any friendliness. Everything about the man was sharp and edged - the lines of his face, the carefully manicured nails, the fresh starch on his white shirt, the careful crease of his pants. He picked up the reports Hannah had thrown down on the empty expanse of his desk, shuffled them carefully so that the edges aligned, and then leafed through them without a word as Hannah paced in front of him, too agitated to sit down. Finally he placed the reports precisely in front of him and looked at her with those dead, unreadable eyes. He waited.