Adesina kissed Michelle’s cheek. “You saved me. I held on because I knew you would find me.”
Michelle couldn’t speak. It felt like there was a golf ball in her throat from the tears. It had been so long since she’d felt . . . since she felt happy. She wondered if she had ever really felt happy before.
“Michelle,” Adesina said. “Michelle, now you need to go help the others, you need to go to the Red House.”
“I don’t want to leave you!” Michelle replied, alarmed. “I just found you.”
Adesina cocked her head to one side like a praying mantis. “This is the other reason why I brought you here. It wasn’t just to help me. It was to help them. I’ve been in their dreams, too. I know what has been happening to them and so do you. You must go soon. Because I’ve been in his dreams, too.”
And then Michelle saw a barrage of new images. A compound in the jungle. Children being rounded up and given shots. Then there were images of Tom Weathers killing people. Lots of people.
She didn’t need to see more. She sighed. “Of course I’ll go,” she said. Adesina removed her front legs and the wonderful warmth and happiness slid from Michelle. And she felt cold inside again.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Joey asked.
Michelle held Adesina up to Joey. “I need you to take care of her for a while. Take care of all of the children here.”
Then Michelle got up. She brushed past Joey and went to find someone who knew where the Red House was—and who would take her there.
Monday,
December 28
On the South Bank of the
Aruwimi River
Near Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Ghost loved peanut butter.
She sat behind Wally, on one of the long, low benches that lined the interior of the APC, silently scooping peanut butter out of a jar with her fingers. She still hadn’t spoken, but neither had she become insubstantial since letting Wally hug her. If anything, she followed him more closely than ever now.
The APC wasn’t the easiest thing Wally had ever driven. He knew how to drive a stick, and even some mining equipment, but this thing had more gears than he was used to. And it handled strangely, too. But he more or less managed to keep it on the bumpy, muddy roads leading to Bunia. They’d passed another roadblock this morning, but the soldiers and Leopard Men had waved the PPA vehicle through without a second glance.
Which suited Wally just fine. The last thing he wanted was to get into a fight while Ghost clung to his side. Also, it gave some of his wounds time to heal.
Wally chanced taking his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the booklet he’d found in the APC. It was a wire-bound booklet of laminated map pages. Together they covered the greater Bunia area, depicting topographic details, roads, power lines, garrisons, military installations, trains . . . everything he might have needed to make a strategic assessment of the area, if only he could read French. If only Jerusha were here.
A green “X” had been marked on one map page with a grease pencil, at what appeared to be a compound on the outskirts of town: the central laboratory for the PPA’s child-ace project. Wally figured he’d make it there in a few more days. This river road along the Aruwimi would take him most of the way. He was in the homestretch, now.
But with every mile, Ghost became more nervous, more agitated. She inched closer and closer to him. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. Whatever they’d done to her, Wally guessed it had happened at Bunia.
Wally pulled over for a bathroom break around midafternoon. He parked the APC in the shadow of a trestle bridge that spanned the tall embankments on either side of the river. Ghost followed him into the brush. It took a lot of gesturing before she got the gist of what he was up to, but he finally managed to convey enough that she backed off a little bit to give him privacy.
He’d just finished and was washing his hands when Ghost came running back. She grabbed his hand, pulling frantically toward the APC. Tears glistened on her cheeks, dripping from eyes wide with terror.
Wally knelt, so that she could look at him face-to-face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you see something?”
With one hand, Ghost gave his arm another panicky tug. With the other, she pointed at the bridge. Wally looked up, suddenly worried they’d been spotted. The bridge was empty.
Somewhere not far away, a train barreled down a set of tracks. The sound echoed faintly across the grassy plains: tikka-tch-tch-tikka-tch-tch . . . It goaded Ghost into deeper panic.
“You’re afraid of the train? What’s on the train?” Wally asked. Maybe she’d been taken to Bunia on a train. He pointed at the bridge, then at Ghost, and shrugged. Is that how they took you from your family?
Ghost shook her head. She pointed in the direction of the approaching train—it was louder now—and then curled her lips into a snarl. She held two fingers in front of her mouth, like fangs, then contorted her hands into the semblance of claws.
Leopard Men. There were Leopard Men on that train.
Wally thought about the maps. Of course. They’re pulling reinforcements back to defend Bunia.
The first smile in many days spread across his face. He laid his hands on Ghost’s arms. “Wanna see something neat?” He winked.
First, he backed the APC a ways up the road. Just in case. Then he scrambled up the embankment to the bridge truss and started to climb. The wooden boards creaked precariously under Wally’s weight, but they held. By the time he pulled himself atop the rail bed, he could see sunlight glinting off the approaching train.
Wally laid a hand on one rail, concentrating. The steel turned orange beneath his palm. He willed the rust to spread; like a lit fuse, it streaked up the rail past the end of the bridge. Wally stomped his foot, hard enough to shake the bridge. The ruined rail sloughed apart. In a few seconds there was nothing left but flakes of corroded metal wafting down to the river.
The train was close now. It rounded the bend. Wally jumped onto the embankment, then half slid, half tumbled down to the road. He carried Ghost back a safe distance, behind the APC.
The crash was spectacular, if Wally did say so himself.
Cyrene, by the Nile
Old Egypt
The Nile sighed, gurgled, and whispered as it flowed past. The moonlight coaxed silver from the ripples, and seemed to edge the fronds of the date palms with pale halos. A desert wind rattled in the palms with a sound like castanets.
Noel, pacing along the river, paused and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of dust, dung, river reeds, and dried lemons simmering with lamb. He let the tension leach out of his muscles.
It was done. Nshombo was dead. The Chinese and Indians were pulling out of the PPA, viewing it as a bad bet. The conquered African nations were beginning to exert local control again. Noel had come to Egypt, and still in a manic high, fueled by quarts of whiskey-laced coffee and not enough sleep, he had poured out the entire story to Niobe. She had been appropriately admiring of his cleverness.
The bad news—Weathers was still obsessed with Noel Matthews, and seemed to care not one jot that the PPA was collapsing. Of course Weathers had killed the hero of the Revolution. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he might not be all that popular back in Kongoville.
Noel had slept the entire day. Unable to sit still he had headed out for a walk before dinner. Gravel crunched beneath his soles as he resumed his stroll. He heard voices and recognized Niobe’s soft alto and a boy’s piping tenor. Noel stepped through flowering hibiscus bushes and found Niobe and Drake seated on a marble bench. A tray with glasses and a pitcher of fruit juice rested on the ground at their feet.
If there was no change in the voice, the year had certainly wrought changes in the boy’s body. Drake had shot up and slimmed down. His hair was longer, brushing at the tops of his shoulders. They both looked up at Noel’s approach, and he saw the more manifest changes—the lump in Drake’s forehead that marked the place where Sekhmet rested, and t
he age and sorrow that lingered in the back of his eyes. Drake might only be fourteen, but Sekhmet had lived through decades of grief and loss.
But maybe some of that grief is Drake’s, Noel thought. The boy had killed (inadvertent though it might have been) his entire family and town, and wiped out thousands of PPA soldiers. He too possessed a lifetime of grief and guilt.
But suddenly he was just a teenage boy. He bounced up, nearly upsetting the tray, and called to Noel, “Hey, Noel, sit next to your sweetie.”
Niobe offered him a glass of juice. As their fingers met they had that momentary silent communication that flows between married couples.
Are you all right?
Yes, love.
I’m glad you’re here.
So am I.
She came into the circle of his arm, and Noel kissed the top of her head.
“Has there been any sign of Weathers?” Noel asked.
Drake nodded. “He scouted once, but I don’t think he wanted to tangle with the firepower here. We may be mostly jokers, but there are some aces in the mix and . . . and . . .” He hesitated and suddenly seemed like a child again.
“It’s okay, you can say it,” Niobe said with a smile. “There’s you with the powers of Ra.”
Noel took a sip of his drink. It was a mix of peach and pomegranate, sweet and sharp all at the same time.
“Dinner’s in an hour. I’ll leave you two to snuggle.” Drake gave them a teenager’s leer, then slumped as he reacted to something only he could hear. “And I’ve got a ton of algebra homework to do.” He walked away.
Noel cocked an eyebrow at Niobe. “Homework?”
“He is only fourteen and he needs to be a wise ruler, not just a powerful one.” She smiled. “It was actually Sekhmet who told him he had to find tutors. She puts a lot of emphasis on education.” She fiddled with the fringe of the sunset-colored shawl she wore, then walked back to the bench and picked up a folded paper off the tray. She offered it to him mutely.
Noel opened it and looked down at a picture of Weathers raining down death and destruction onto another city.
“This has to stop. He’s tearing up cities and killing people because of you.”
Noel ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think I know that? I can’t fight Tom Weathers. Or do you just want me to surrender and let him kill me?”
“Of course I’m not suggesting that.” Her tone was sharp. “You could work with the Committee.”
“They’re idiots.”
“Then help them not be idiots. You’re clever and you know how to do this . . . this sort of thing.”
“Kill Weathers. Just say it.” She looked distressed and he realized how harsh he must have sounded. “I thought you didn’t want me to kill anymore.”
“I didn’t, but Weathers has to be stopped, and what is happening in the Congo has got to be stopped.”
“I got rid of Nshombo.”
“They are still torturing and killing children.”
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to kill these child aces.”
“I would never forgive you if you did, but you can help destroy the labs where they’re making them.”
That pulled a bitter laugh from him. “I thank you for your belief in my abilities, but I’m not that powerful.”
“And you’re a leader and a planner. The Committee has powerful aces, but no leadership.”
“Lohengrin would disagree with that.”
Niobe shrugged. “He means well, but he’s a dreamer. You’re a pragmatist. You’ll think of a way to deal with Weathers, but in the meantime at least shut down the labs.”
Noel studied her features washed pale by the moonlight. He saw no softening, only determination. He realized this was the woman who had risked everything, faced down the armed might of the American government to save one little boy.
Could he really do less?
But he wanted it to be over.
She seemed to read the thought. She laid a hand on his cheek. “Do this. I think it might be the only way for you to find peace.”
On the Road to Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The incident with the train brought about another change in Ghost. She started to talk.
Wally couldn’t understand what she was saying, any better than she understood him. But she chattered at him in her little-girl voice, and that made him happy. She sounded like a normal little girl. Less like a ghost every day.
And, as they passed through villages on the way to Bunia, she talked to other people, too. About Wally. Based on her gestures and the boom! boom! boom! sounds she made, he guessed she was telling them about his fight with the Leopard Men, and the barge he’d sunk, and the train he’d derailed. Especially the train. They loved the part about the train. They clapped him on the back, burbling, offering the strangers food and places to sleep.
Bunia must have been a pretty big city, because Wally started noticing cell phones. Each time Ghost finished her tale, a dozen folks whipped out their phones and began texting. And that’s when the story really spread.
Tuesday,
December 29
Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The sun rose on columns of oily smoke dotting the horizon, on every point of the compass. But mostly in the direction of Bunia.
Wally and Ghost had acquired an entourage. A small but growing convoy of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and even bicycles trailed their stolen personnel carrier. The people riding them waved shovels, machetes, picks, wooden boards, and anything else they could scrounge.
Wally hated it. These folks would get themselves killed. But he couldn’t make them understand.
Ghost refused to leave his side.
More smoke on the horizon.
The radio in the APC came alive with chatter. Wally couldn’t understand the actual words, but he didn’t need to. He recognized the urgency; the jumble of traffic as people spoke over one another; the plaintive sound of soldiers requesting orders; the barking of harried commanders trying to gather information.
He’d listened to the same kind of chaos on a few Committee ops. It was the sound of things going wrong.
United Nations
Manhattan, New York
Noel teleported directly into Lohengrin’s office. The eye patch ought to have made him look rakish and dangerous. Instead the German looked oddly young and vulnerable.
“Scheisse! Oh. What do you want?”
“How can I help?”
Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
They hit another roadblock about fifty miles outside Bunia. Regular troops patrolled this one; Wally saw no sign of the elite Leopard Men. Not that these soldiers needed the help. They had a tank.
The troops took one look at the line of vehicles strung out on the narrow road behind Wally’s APC and raised their weapons. One spoke into a radio handset. The tank turret swiveled, lining up a shot that would kill a hundred people.
Wally was out and charging for the tank in an instant. Bullets ricocheted from his body and from the armor of the personnel carrier. Something wet and warm trickled down his neck. Motors whirred. The tank barrel eased lower.
Wally leapt, hands outstretched. The tank imploded in an orange cloud. Iron fists made short work of the tank crew. Then Wally turned on the other soldiers, but they had dropped their weapons. Hands in the air, they stared behind him.
He turned. A villager had scrambled atop the APC, and was brandishing the machine gun with a wicked grimace. But it didn’t matter that the soldiers had surrendered. They were overrun by a wave of angry Congolese, wielding brickbats and hope.
That evening, Wally borrowed a phone. The only number he could remember was Jerusha’s. She didn’t answer; he left a message on her voice mail.
“Um. Hey, there, Jerusha. This is Wally. You know, from . . . well, you know. Anyway, I figure that by now you must have gotten in touch with the Committee, and you got al
l them kids safe and sound. Sure hope so. I’m still on my way to Bu—to that place we talked about. I’ll get there soon. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. I hope you are, too. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.” But he knew that was unlikely. So, just in case, he added, “And, Jerusha? Thank you. For everything.”
Wednesday,
December 30
Blythe van Renssaeler
Memorial Clinic, Jokertown
Manhattan, New York
“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”
Jerusha looked up at the glowering Finn. A nurse—a joker with purple skin and arms and legs that looked like they’d been twisted from balloons—hovered anxiously behind him in the doorway. She straightened, leaving the clothes half stuffed into the garbage bag she had taken from the can. Her seed pouch was lashed to her waist; the belt had gone twice around her cadaverous form. She wiped at her arms, bloodied from where she’d pulled out the IVs. They looked as if they belonged to someone else: skeletal, skin hanging empty from the framework of her bones. She avoided looking at the figure of herself in the glass as she turned. “Figure it out, Doc. You’re a smart guy.”
“I haven’t released you.”
“I’ve decided to release myself.”
“Jerusha, you’ll die if you leave here.”
“That’s kind of inevitable, isn’t it? On the whole, I’d rather be dying where I might be able to do some good, rather than here in your sterile room. No offense.”
“You can’t be thinking of going back to Africa.”
“Why not? I’m black.” When Finn just stared at her, his mouth slightly open, Jerusha laughed drily, the amusement ending in an exhausted, hacking cough that bent her over.
Finn started toward her, and she took a step back from him, straightening. She wiped at her lips—touching her face was always a shock. It didn’t feel like her face, but some impossibly thin stranger’s. She swept a hand over her short hair: the tight curls were dry, brittle, and fragile. “It’s a joke, Doc. I need to find Rusty, and I need to find him before”—she stopped, took a breath—“while I can. I’m doing exactly that unless you can tell me right now that you can cure whatever that child did to me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you can do that, Doc.”