“They’re killing jokers. Killing people.” The words came stumbling out, and suddenly, shockingly, the kid was crying, big gasping sobs from deep in his belly, tears streaming down his face. Kavitha grabbed a towel by the side of the bed and started dabbing at his cheeks with practiced motions, as if she’d done this before. As if she’d been doing this for days.
“Tell me what happened,” Michael said, in his calmest cop voice. On one level, he couldn’t believe Kavitha had kept this from him—but he held the anger down, waiting for the facts.
And the story came spilling out. Sandip had been recruited a few weeks ago by the kidnapping squad; one of the disgruntled Tamils he’d tried to join up with had been a joker involved in the scheme. Sandip knew the basics of how to handle a gun, part of his revolutionary aspirations, though he’d never shot one outside the range. He didn’t mind waving one around to scare people, though. Especially given how much money they’d paid him to do it.
“And not just money. Free drinks, as many as I wanted, and women too. Fucking gorgeous women just waiting for us. Machan, you should have seen the setup they had over there.” The kid’s eyes were wide and glassy.
“Over where?” Michael asked sharply.
Sandip huddled in on himself, and Kavitha put a protective hand on his arm. “I can’t remember. They never really told us anything, but I heard some of them talking about it. Some tiny country, something stan?”
This was important. He had to tell the captain, as soon as he got the whole story. The kid was still babbling. “I don’t know where it was, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He kept going on about how cool it had seemed, at first. Sandip had thought he was living the dream. And then they’d let him see the killings.
Now he was crying again as he talked, the words stuttering between jagged sobs. “I mean, they told me what was going on, but it’s different when you see it. They said joker fight club, I figured it was gangsters, big guys, fighting it out to prove their manhood, y’know? Those were the kind of guys I was helping to grab. But the first real fight I saw, it was this little man, with glasses—he looked like a schoolteacher. Like the guy who taught my freshman history class. I kind of hated Mr. Matthews, but I didn’t want to see him ripped apart into little pieces! The other guy started chomping on what was left of his stomach, and that’s when I knew I couldn’t keep doing this.” Now Sandip was crying so hard that he couldn’t talk anymore, and Kavitha took up the story.
“That’s almost all of it,” she said. “When they came back to New York on that trip, he took off. Got shot in the shoulder, but got away. He was too scared to go to the hospital, so he called me. It was the day your parents came for dinner. I snuck out that night, took some of our money, and rented him this place. Got medicine, bandages, dug the bullet out of his shoulder, patched him up and prayed that he’d survive it. You should have seen the shape he was in.” Her voice was high, trembling.
Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A week. You’ve kept this from us for a week?” No wonder she’d been wound up so tight; keeping secrets wasn’t in Kavitha’s nature. It must have been killing her to lie to them like this. That didn’t make him any less angry. Rage was churning in his stomach.
“Michael.” Kavitha stood up, came two steps closer, close enough that he could smell her fear. Although, perhaps wisely, she didn’t touch him. “I knew you’d have to arrest him, send him to jail for a long, long time. But he’s just a kid. That’s what they do, you know.” Her voice was shaky now, close to breaking. Kavitha took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “To keep the brutality going—they take children, and make them part of their battles. We can’t punish the children for what the adults have done.”
Michael shook his head. His chest felt as if it were being stabbed with knives. He’d never thought heartbreak could feel so literal, so real. “Kavitha, you know better. He participated. Sandip is old enough to know what he was doing when he took those people to their deaths.” She’d always been so committed to doing what was right. It was part of why he loved her. He’d known how she felt about family, but he’d thought she was better than this.
The boy was quieter now, doubled over and hugging his knees, swallowing his sobs.
She spread out her hands, helplessly. Despite everything, Michael was struck once again by how beautifully she moved. “He’s my little brother,” Kavitha said. “You should have seen him, bloody, with a bullet in him. He asked me to help him. I thought if I hid him for a little while, until it was all over…” She trailed off, clearly not sure what possible good ending there could have been.
If she had only come to him right away—he could have found some way to make it right. To protect the boy; as a juvenile, if Sandip had come in and told his story right away, maybe Michael could have saved him. But now it was too late. “You lied to me for a week. You let these bastards continue their operation unimpeded. How many people did they grab, in the last week?” He could see the words hitting Kavitha, see her bracing against their assault.
How could they come back from this? Michael realized that she was never going to wear his ring, not now. He couldn’t offer it to her after this, even if he understood on some level why she’d done it. He couldn’t keep living with her; he could barely look at her. Oh, Isai. Sweetheart. This was going to tear their little girl apart. And Minal—would she still marry him? Or would he lose her too? If he made her choose between them, Michael didn’t know who Minal would pick.
Kavitha stepped back, away from him. Let her hands fall to her sides. “What are you going to do, Michael?”
She knew the answer; she knew him too well. “What I have to.”
Michael said the words, feeling the weight of them fall like a knife between them, cutting the ties that bound them together. “Sandip Kandiah, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law…”
Those About to Die …
Part Six
STANDING JUST OUTSIDE THE arena, hidden behind the doors that opened into it, Marcus told himself, Just one more time.
One more, and this is all over.
He knew he would hate himself for it later, when he was far from here and could look back. But that would be then. This was now. He had to get out of here. With Olena. He would do this for her, and then they would be free. They’d hide somewhere nobody knew him. It wouldn’t matter where, because he’d have Olena.
Just one more death, and then never again.
The music died down and changed tempo. The announcer called for the crowd’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been an amazing night so far,” he claimed, “but now it’s time for the main event—a death match. Not since the time of the ancients, of Rome’s mighty glory, have gladiators risked their very lives in the arena. But this bout goes even further back than that. Back to the very beginning. Back to the Garden of Good and Evil.”
A different voice cut in, speaking a different language. Russian, Marcus guessed. And after that still another language, perhaps Chinese.
Marcus thought, The world’s watching, but he hoped that wasn’t true. Both for himself, and for what it meant about the world.
The English announcer picked up again, saying the first competitor, ladies and gentlemen, showed his murderous talent just days ago. He comes armed with the weapons the wild card virus gave him. Welcome him, ladies and gentlemen! The Infamous Black Tongue!
The doors in front of Marcus flew open. The rush of sound trapped in the small, claustrophobic space hit him like a physical force. He slithered into the bright lights of the arena. As soon as he was through, the doors shut behind him, trapping him inside. That was all right, though. He knew the way out. To kill. And he knew this arena. It was a friend. He passed through a rippling wave of tension in the air. Like heat but not. Like a scent but scentless. He sucked it in, feeding off it, filling himself with the rage he was going to need.
His eyes darted up to Ba
ba Yaga’s box. She was there, like always, with the twisted old man beside her. But this time someone sat on her other side, looking uncomfortable and nervous. And beautiful. Olena. She wore a tiny, tight red dress, and had her hair pulled up. She could’ve been a model, or a starlet on the arm of some Hollywood actor. He hated that she was so close to that evil woman and that horror of a man. Hated that the black-suited guards lined the back wall, a half dozen of them, staring at the arena from behind black sunglasses. They shouldn’t be anywhere near Olena. He closed his eyes, reminding himself that once this was over she was going to be his. He would take her away from all this. That’s what mattered.
When he opened his eyes again, Baba Yaga reached over and set a hand atop Olena’s. She held it there, watching Marcus. The message was clear.
When the commotion died down the announcer continued. Facing the serpent would be a soldier of death disguised in godly robes. For years he pretended to be a man of the cloth, when he was really a man of the blade, a soldier of fortune with a past soaked in blood. They all knew the name he went by now. They’d all seen him in action.
As the translations rattled on, Marcus pulled his thoughts, and his eyes, away from Olena. A man of the cloth? he wondered. That didn’t describe El Monstro. Or Nimble Dick. Or John the Pharaoh. Or any of the jokers he thought they’d match him with. They couldn’t mean …
A door on the other side of the arena opened. A hooded figure lumbered through.
No! Marcus thought.
As if refuting him directly, the announcer shouted, “Bring in the Holy Redeemer!”
No, they can’t do this!
The door slammed shut behind the priest. Father Squid reached up and pinched back his hood with his fingers. He stared at Marcus. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look horrified. But Marcus couldn’t say what emotions did lie in the dark depths behind his large, round eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer intoned, “the serpent and the holy man! Only one of them can leave this Garden of Good and Evil alive. Who will it be? Which one should it be?” He reminded them that they could place bets electronically right up to the moment of first contact. That was the first thing that hushed the crowd, as many heads turned down to their mobile phones.
Father Squid approached him with his heavy steps.
“What are you doing here?” Marcus snapped. “You’re messing up everything. You can’t be here!”
The priest shook his head solemnly. “I’m the only one who should face you, Marcus.”
“This a death match!”
“Who better than a priest to face death with?”
The man’s calm annoyed Marcus. His fists turned to stones. Resentment surged through him. “Stop talking nonsense.”
Shouts and jeers rained down on them, the audience urging them to fight.
“Marcus, God put us in this ring together. Nothing happens without his will. I understand it now.”
Marcus wanted to grab him and shake him. He almost punched him. He wanted to. He was ready to. That’s why he was here, to beat someone down. To kill. But … he couldn’t make his fists do what they’d have to. He thought, This is Father Squid.
Father Squid looked away from him. He let his eyes range over the crowd. “We’re not here for them. We’re here so that you can become the man you are destined to be.”
And then Marcus understood. The realization hit him with a physical force, stunning him, but also clearing the clutter from his mind at the same time. “You … you volunteered to fight me, didn’t you?”
“I’m here to give you the last thing that I can. It’s the only way you’ll get out of here. Kill me, Marcus. Give in to the rage that you’re holding back. Just this one last time.”
The announcer piped up, saying something to the audience. Marcus concentrated through the announcer’s voice and the crowd’s taunts and the urge inside him to lash out. It was still there. He still breathed it in. It still egged him on. Just start it, his body seemed to be saying. Start it, and let death happen. He fought to get a word out. “Why?”
Father Squid closed the short space between them. He grasped Marcus by his forearms. Marcus tensed. His coils bunched, every inch of him screaming to unleash. The crowd roared, thinking something was finally going to happen.
The priest spoke slowly, clearly. “Because I led you into this hell. Because I’ve had my life, filled as it was with crimes—and with wonders. But for you, Marcus, the meaning of your life and work on this earth is before you. You can yet be a great man. I’ve always seen it in you, from the very first time I saw you—a frightened, angry fugitive, seeking help but not knowing how to ask.”
“But you—”
Father Squid tugged on his arms, sharply. “Because there’s no other way! And, as God sees and knows and plans all, this must be what he plans for us. No matter what you do, I absolve you. Now fight me!” The priest let go of Marcus’s arms, pulled back, and slapped him.
The blow tossed Marcus to the side. Fury rushed through him. He swung back, fists cocked, poisonous saliva flooding his mouth. The crowd loved it. They rose to their feet.
“Kill me!” the priest bellowed. He slapped him again. “You have the rage. I see it in your eyes. Do what your body wants. Fight. Hate me, Marcus, for standing between you and your love. Kill me, and go with her and be free. Cut the bullshit and do it, Marcus!”
Marcus almost obeyed. He was so close. Father Squid was right there in front of him, offering the path to everything Marcus thought he wanted. Freedom. Olena. But hearing profanity come from the priest’s mouth was another slap, one that brought with it a memory. Marcus saw the spinning of a teacup, thrown from his hand, chipped by his frustration. He heard that curse word, but to his shame it was his mouth that uttered it. A word said in anger. A teacup thrown. Chipped. He’d always regretted that. Always been ashamed of it. Always wished he could take it back.
“It’s the only way out of here for you, and for me,” Father Squid said, shoving him with one powerful arm. “I cannot take my own life, but I can give it. I give to you. It’s okay, Marcus. Really. I’m not afraid. I will face my reckoning. If God allows it I’ll see my Lizzie again, and that will be the greatest gift of all. What are you afraid of? Just do it. Poison me. And then do it. I’ll feel nothing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Marcus could poison him. He knew that. The father’s aquatic skin, he figured, would absorb his venom in an instant. And then what? Break his neck? Choke him? It could be done, but knowing that he could just confirmed that he wouldn’t. It was strange, how calming that realization was. He was going to lose everything. He would never have that life with Olena. He would likely die in the moments to come. He wouldn’t have that future that Father Squid imagined for him, but he felt a resigned satisfaction at all of this. He could stay true to himself. He could go forward into his last moments without shame. He could make both Olena and Father Squid proud. That mattered more than anything else. The only thing he couldn’t do was what the priest asked him.
Marcus glanced up at Olena. He saw in her face that she understood, looked more concerned than ever. Even from a distance, he could see her lower lip quivering. Slightly, ever so slightly, she shook her head. That was what Marcus needed. He slid forward and grasped Father Squid by the arms, just as the priest had done to him a moment before. “You really loved her, didn’t you?”
“Lizzie?” the priest asked, coming in close to support him. “Yes, with all my heart. Loving her has kept me human. She was in every act of kindness I did.”
“I’m sure she’s waiting for you. You’ll see her again, but not by my hand. That simply cannot happen. You mean too much to me.”
As he spoke, the priest’s facial tentacles went slack. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were again the ones Marcus had always known. Calm. Sad. Wise. A tear escaped one corner and trickled down into his tentacles.
Turning from him, Marcus projected his voice to cut through the crowd’s
commotion. “No, I won’t do it. This man, he saved me. You understand that? When I was nobody, miserable, lost: he took me in and taught me I could be something. And you want me to kill him? No, I won’t.” He turned to Baba Yaga. His tongue quickened. “And fuck you, bitch, for starting all this. You got nothing on me. Not anymore. Not when you ask me to do this.”
The old woman had risen from her seat. The crowd, looking from the players in the ring up to the standing woman, hushed.
Glaring down at Marcus, Baba Yaga’s lips moved. She said, “Kill him if you want to live. If you want the girl.” Her voice was just a whisper, but Marcus heard her clearly enough. Or did he see the words on her lips? Or just feel them, pressed from her mind to his? Whichever it was, there was power in that voice. Command. That voice could have told him to do a lot of things and he would’ve, especially for Olena. But this one thing he wouldn’t do. Marcus shook his head.
Baba Yaga stared down. It was nearly impossible to hold her gaze. Marcus had seen hard men. He’d faced monstrous jokers. He’d killed men who wanted to kill him. But none of them had a face as deathly fierce as this old woman. The anger in her eyes pummeled him, seared him.
Watching must have unnerved the crowd. Whispers passed through the audience. Uncomfortable shifting. A few rose and then stood, unsure what was happening. One man, sounding drunk, said this wasn’t what he paid for. The woman next to him shushed him.
“Marcus,” Father Squid said, “you could still—”
“Never,” Marcus said.
“I only wanted a future for you.”
“A future with your blood on my hands? Never.”
Baba Yaga’s voice was small and cold, and yet reached them clearly. “You defy me? Foolish boy.” She puckered her thin lips. She sucked in her cheeks, leaned forward, and spat.