Suicide Kings
Manhattan, New York
Nick moved differently than Ellen. Where Ellen seemed to view the world from about three degrees back, Nick leaned five degrees forward. Where she was always just a little touched by melancholy, he was all about anger.
Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he just didn’t like Bugsy.
“All right,” Nick said into his telephone. “I owe you one.”
“Well?” Bugsy said.
Nick hung up the phone, kicked Ellen’s legs up to rest on the coffee table, and shrugged. “She was in treatment until the mid-nineties. The big reform movement that shut down all the asylums was the end of that. She was supposed to get treatment through a local clinic, but it never happened.”
“So what? She just vanished into the air? Where does that leave me?”
Nick considered Bugsy with silent impatience. In Ellen’s spare bedroom/office, the fax machine rang twice. Bugsy looked over his shoulder, and when he looked back, Nick was smiling.
“That,” he said, “leaves you on the couch.”
Bugsy struggled for a comeback as Nick rose from the couch and walked to the back of the apartment. He even walked like a guy. It was creepy.
Nick’s voice came from the back, low and conversational. He laughed twice. Bugsy looked at the room. It still smelled of old curry. The earring was in the bedroom, laid gently by the book Ellen was reading before she fell asleep. He rose to his feet, paced a little, then sat down and turned on the television.
CNN was all about New Orleans. The visuals were astounding. Thousands of bright, soft-looking bubbles rising through the air, floating in the Gulf Coast breeze. Now and then, a detonation would set off a chain reaction, bright cascades of light that made the most glorious fireworks look tame. The news anchor was talking about the airspace over the city being shut down, about the travelers stuck in the city, about the cost and inconvenience. The Amazing Bubbles was coming back to life, and Bugsy found himself both surprised and delighted. All that energy floating in the Louisiana sky had once been a nuclear fireball, and now it was coming out slowly, over hours and days, as something beautiful. Mardi Gras in December. The biggest, loudest, least convenient celebration ever of the simple fact that New Orleans still lived.
He forgot the business of the Sudd and the Caliphate and angled back toward the office to get Ellen. Nick was in her chair, leaning forward, telephone handset pressed between shoulder and ear. Bugsy, his mind still on the news channel, was almost surprised to see him.
“. . . with the Internal Revenue Service,” he said. “I’m trying to get in touch with Kimberly Ann Goodwin. Or possibly Meadows or Cordayne, the records aren’t clear, but I have her social . . . oh, did she? Well, that makes sense. Do you have that? Of course.”
Nick looked up. “Declared bankruptcy and changed her name five years ago,” he said. “I’m getting the new . . . Hello? Yes, that’s right. Thank you.” Nick patted the desk, then looked up at Bugsy, miming the act of writing. Bugsy pulled a notepad and pen from the storage closet and handed them over. “All right. Great. Yeah, and do you have a good contact number for her?” Nick went silent. “You’re kidding,” he said. He shook his head and wrote something on the paper. “Okay. That’s great. You have one, too.”
Maybe Nick was trying not to look smug as he passed the notepad back. If so, it wasn’t his best effort. Bugsy took the pad. Kimberly Joy Christopher, it said. Then a phone number with a 541 area code, and block letters: risen savior spiritual center.
“She’s found Jesus,” Nick said. “Apparently, they’re living together.”
“You rock,” Bugsy said, stuffing the paper into his pocket. “But come look at the news. You’ve got to see this.”
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
“We are a great people. A great people,” the taxi driver said in rapid-fire French. “Africa held many great kingdoms long before the whites came out of their caves.”
The traffic in Kongoville was manic, with three and four lanes being formed by jostling cars on a two-lane road. Cranes loomed over the city like contemplative dinosaurs. There were vast piles of rubble where shanties and older buildings had been razed in preparation for another The People—The People’s Theater, The People’s Hall of Justice, The People’s department store, laundrette . . .
Even in early December the air-conditioning in the car was blowing full blast. Add that to the music pouring from the radio and the driver’s commentary, and it was hard for Noel to gather his thoughts for his upcoming meeting with President-for-Life Dr. Nshombo. Noel wore a perfectly tailored Italian suit, an opal and diamond ring on his little finger. He didn’t want Etienne Pelletier to seem too upscale. He hid the avatar’s golden eyes behind dark glasses.
Noel found the taxi driver’s assertion of lost African kingdoms both understandable and sad. He had spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and the populace there shared the same sense of racial, national, and geographic pride, completely at odds with their actual situations. In the Middle East you heard how Baghdad had streetlights when Europe was mired in the Dark Ages. In Africa it was the lost kingdoms.
They were all the dreams of conquered and economically depressed people reacting against Western might. Noel contemplated how Prince Siraj’s three-hundred-dollar-a-barrel oil had almost brought Europe and America to their knees, and how the PPA’s conquests in Africa were denying the West vital resources. Payback’s a bitch, he thought.
A large stone structure caught his attention. That was new since his last visit to Kongoville. Whatever it was it shared that Albert Speer style of architecture that was favored by the good Doctor. “What’s that?” Noel pointed.
The driver turned down the radio, and said quietly and respectfully, “That is the tomb of Our Lady of Pain.”
Noel pulled back a cuff and glanced at his watch. He had time. “I would like to see that.”
The driver pulled over and parked. Noel walked up the stone steps. They had already begun to wear. There must have been literally thousands of people through the door, he thought.
The single room was high and cavernous. High above him Noel heard the squeaking of bats that turned the tomb into a cave. The center of the room was lit by a powerful spotlight that shone down on a crystal bier. Inside lay a beautiful young woman. The embalming job had been exquisite. Her burnished black skin seemed soft and pliable, no one had forced a false smile onto her mouth, and the way her lashes brushed at her cheeks gave the impression she was only sleeping. Around her neck hung an enormous gold medal suspended by a purple velvet ribbon.
For a moment Noel reflected on this desperate need of dictatorships to worship their dead. Lenin, Mao, this child. The English never did such a thing. No one kept Victoria on display. Even the Americans aren’t so crass.
“A people’s hero,” the driver murmured.
“What did she do?” Noel asked.
“She took our pain into herself and healed us.” The man bowed his head.
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
And on day five, Michelle rested.
She’d been able to stand up yesterday. It felt weird and she was a little wobbly, but it wasn’t impossible.
Today she was almost as thin as she’d been when she was modeling. There was still energy in her. She felt heavier, even though she looked skinny. That seemed to be the legacy of what had happened. She was heavier all the time now. With no mirror, she couldn’t tell how she looked, but the jeans and T-shirt Juliet had bought for her felt like they fit.
The temple seemed sad. The flowers had dried up and Juliet and Joey had thrown them out. The girls were waiting outside for her in the soft drizzle.
Michelle knew what she had to do next.
There was a loud murmur outside. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought it was the faithful. But they had evaporated during the rain of bubbles. What awaited her outside were reporters.
Michelle let a tiny bubble form
on the tip of her finger. It was hard and bright and she shot it to the night sky. It burst high above the temple—a small pop that no one would notice. Then she turned and walked out the door.
On the Lukuga River, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
They wended their way downriver. Every bend in the river took Wally a little closer to Nyunzu. And, he hoped, Lucien.
Now he understood what Lucien had been referring to in his last letter, about the soldiers who hurt Sister Julie. But it had been worse than he’d feared. Lucien’s village, Kalemie . . . it was one of the worst things he’d ever seen, even counting all the stuff he saw and did for the Committee. He hated himself for waiting so long before he came to Africa. “Jerusha?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you think she meant, back in Kalemie? The nun, I mean. Sister Julie.”
“Meant about what?”
“About them taking the kids. About changing them.”
Jerusha was quiet for a long time. The boat bobbed and swayed when he glanced over his shoulder, looking for hippos and crocs. Up front, Jerusha kept one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the river, watching for the same dangers. Finally, she said, “I don’t know, Wally. I wish I did.”
The putt-putt-putt sound of their little motor echoed up and down the river, bouncing between the dense jungle to either side. Water gurgled quietly beneath the prow, where their boat gently peeled back the murky waters of the Lukuga. Not like the patrol boats. Those things cut through the water like a knife.
“That patrol boat had kids on it. Kids with guns.” It reminded him of Iraq. Kids . . . I don’t want to fight kids.
“Yeah,” said Jerusha. “It did.” He didn’t need to look at her to know how she felt. She was sad. Wally was getting to know her moods, the nuances of her emotions, just from the tone of her voice. Somehow that felt like a small bright spot in what was otherwise turning into a pretty bad deal all around.
“Do you think that’s what she meant? Turning the kids into soldiers? Like maybe they’re gonna do that to Lucien?”
“I don’t . . . Ouch.” She slapped at her neck, then flicked a squashed bug into the river. The sharp slap ricocheted down the river. “I’m afraid it might, Wally.”
“Me, too. I figure Nyunzu must be where they’re doing it. It’s where they’ve got Lucien at. But he’ll be okay once we get there. They all will, all those kids.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Wally fell silent, thinking. The river forked again. As always, Jerusha took the wider branch. A small island, just a sliver of brush and trees, separated them from the other branch. Wally could see the water on the other side. All around them, the jungle chattered, shrieked, and sang with life. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. Or, I mean, you know, what I almost said.”
She was silent again. This time, he knew, she was cocking an eyebrow at him. An expression halfway between bemusement and irritation. He could picture it.
“Sometimes I say dumb stuff. But I don’t mean anything by it, okay?” As soon as the words came out, Wally realized this was a dumb thing to say, too. It could give her the wrong idea. Then she’d hate him, and he really, really didn’t want Jerusha to hate him. They were partners now, and had to work together. He needed her help. But that wasn’t all of it. He just . . . wanted Jerusha to like him.
“I mean, I don’t always say dumb stuff. Sometimes people think . . . aw, heck. Remember that thing with me and Stuntman? Back when we were all on TV?”
Guardedly: “Yyyyyeeeeessss.”
“I didn’t say that stuff.”
Jerusha laughed. Not a real gut-busting laugh, but it was still the most he’d heard her laugh since they started traveling together. “I know, Wally. Everybody knows it.”
Wally sighed. That was a small relief. “Well, okay. That’s good. I just wanted to . . .”
He trailed off again as they passed the last bit of island. The two branches of the river rejoined behind them. Neat. It reminded him of canoe camping trips, back home.
Wally turned around just in time to see the boy on the prow of the hidden patrol boat leveling his rifle. “Get down!” he yelled. Jerusha must have seen his expression, because she was out of the pilot’s chair and diving under the gunwale almost before the warning passed his lips.
Tat-tat-tat. Tat-ping-tat. The boy squeezed off two bursts. One round cracked off Wally’s bicep and sent up a white spray from the river. Another shattered the windscreen. “Jerusha?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “I—”
But then Wally couldn’t hear anything except the howl of a motor. A big motor. Jerusha reached up from her hiding spot to wrench the wheel, aiming for the riverbank.
The Leopard Man yelled something. The patrol boat roared out of its hiding spot. It streaked like an arrow toward where they would make land. More bullets whizzed past them. Wally stood. Their boat rocked precariously, but he tried his best to shield Jerusha.
Ping-ping-ping. Hailstones falling on a tin roof.
Twenty feet to shore. Ten feet.
“Jerusha, stay behind me!”
At the last second, she wrenched the wheel again and killed the motor. They swung around, keeping Wally between her and the patrol boat as they bumped up against the roots of a massive mahogany tree leaning out over the water.
Pingpingpingpingpingping.
He crossed the boat in one stride, bullets pattering harmlessly against his back, and grabbed Jerusha under the arms. “Hold on,” he said. And then, as gently as he could, he hurled her into the jungle.
It nearly capsized the boat. Water slopped over the gunwales. A crash and an oof! emanated from somewhere in the brush. Wally spun to face their attackers, hoping to heck that Jerusha wasn’t hurt.
The Leopard Man shouted another order. The soldier at the wheel—the only other adult on the patrol boat—gunned the engine, wedging them between Wally and the shore. Two kids stood up front, along with the Leopard Man. The driver was in the middle; another kid stood in the stern.
Wally jumped onto the prow of the other boat, to keep them from going after Jerusha. The Leopard Man scrambled backward, out of the reach of Wally’s arms, yelling another order. All three kids (they’re just kids!) opened up with their rifles. All Wally could think about through the cacophony of gunfire was putting an end to this before a deadly ricochet killed one of the kids, just like what had happened to poor King Cobalt back in Egypt.
Wally called up his wild card power and lunged forward, reaching for a rifle with both hands. The kids tried to scoot out of reach. One barrel crumpled in his fist. The second rifle he didn’t quite manage to grab, but he grazed it with a finger, which was all he needed to command the iron inside the gun to disintegrate. It crumbled.
The third kid stopped firing, but the driver pulled his sidearm and extended his arm toward Wally’s head.
Cripes! Don’t you guys pay any attention? You could shoot one of these kids! Wally pushed the two disarmed boys into the river. It wasn’t entirely safe there, but it was a lot safer than standing next to Wally while people shot at him. Then he spun, grabbed the gun in the driver’s outstretched hand, and squeezed.
The driver screamed. Wally flipped him halfway across the river.
The third boy darted past him and jumped to shore, followed closely by the Leopard Man.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” Wally charged after them.
The kid hadn’t gone a dozen yards when the earth under his feet erupted in a mass of vines. They enveloped him in seconds. Right on, Jerusha!
The Leopard Man skidded to a halt. He spun to face Wally, and melted.
No, he didn’t melt. But his body flowed like soft wax, becoming low and sleek while the yellow-and-black spotted pattern on his fez oozed down, covering his body with fur.
The big cat snarled, revealing a mouthful of fangs. Muscles rippled under the fur with deadly grace as it prowled back and forth, growling. Then, like a spring uncoiling, it leapt. Fangs c
licked against Wally’s throat. Inch-long claws scrabbled ineffectually at his shoulders and chest. The leopard fell off him and collected itself for another try.
“Aw, come on, fella. Give it a rest, would ya?”
The leopard lunged again. Wally caught it in midair with a punch to the nose. He heard a crack. The big cat dropped to the earth like a sack of potatoes. It wobbled to its feet, and crawled off into the jungle, mewling.
Wally called into the jungle. “Jerusha? You okay?”
Please, please, please . . .
“I’m okay.” She emerged from behind a dense screen of foliage, rubbing her armpits. “Just a little bruised.”
“Oh, cripes, did I hurt you? I’m real sorry.”
Jerusha shook her head. “Don’t sweat it. I’m pretty sure they didn’t expect you to fling me into the jungle like that.” The corners of her mouth twisted into a wry half smile. “Neither did I.” She touched his arm. “It was good thinking, Wally. But next time, try to give me some warning, okay?”
Wally blushed. “Okay.”
She nodded toward the rustling kudzu vines where the kid from the patrol boat struggled to free himself. “Well. Let’s see what he has to say, huh?”
Monday,
December 7
On the Lukuga River, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Nyunzu. Nyunzu. Nyunzu.
Wally rapped his fingers on the gunwale, wishing their boat had a larger engine, the river a stronger current. He’d already pushed the throttle as far as it could go. Crack. Another hairline fracture appeared in the sun-rotted wood under his hand. He stopped tapping. But he couldn’t contain the anxiety; his leg bounced up and down, almost of its own accord. Soon the boat bobbed in time with the rhythm of his impatience.
“Hey, Wally.” Jerusha turned. “You’re gonna give me seasickness. River sickness.” Her smile didn’t touch her eyes. She was worried, too.
“Sorry.” Wally directed his attention to the river, turning the wheel slightly to keep them in the center of a mild bend. Jerusha went back to watching for surprises: patrol boats, submerged logs, hippos, crocodiles . . .