Suicide Kings

6

Tuesday,

December 1

Mwalimu J. K. Nyerere

International Airport

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

Dar es Salaam. The name translated as “safe harbor”-at least, that’s what the guidebooks Jerusha had read claimed. Jerusha hoped they were right.

They flew into Mwalimu J. K. Nyerere International Airport. An aide from the American Embassy was there waiting for them-that was certainly the Committee’s doing-and he walked them through Customs. Jerusha didn’t attract much notice as they walked through the airport, but Wally certainly did. She saw people pointing and whispering, heard them chattering and calling to each other. A crowd followed at a judicious distance as the aide shepherded them from the airport lobby and out to the waiting limo.

The heat and humidity of the outside air hit them like a physical blow as the doors opened. “Cripes,” Wally said. “It’s hot here.”

The aide was openly grinning. “Welcome to Africa,” Jerusha told Wally. “We both need to get used to it.”

As they drove eastward back toward the city, she stared out from the darkly tinted windows. The area directly around the airport was dominated by industry: warehouses and businesses served by a double-lane divided highway. The landscape was rather barren: between the buildings there was bare, brown earth punctuated with scrub brush. It reminded Jerusha of the American Southwest and the parks her parents had worked, except that the Southwest was never this humid.

The driver turned north off the divided highway after a bit, though, and they were driving among houses. There were lots of kids: laughing, running after each other, huddled in groups around adults or parents, playing ball. The aide was rattling on as he had been since they’d left the airport, talking about how proud they were to be hosting two such famous American Hero members as the famous Rustbelt and Gardener, how they believed in good relations with the United Nations, how Ms. Baden had called the embassy herself.

Jerusha listened to him and answered with polite nods and short replies, but Wally stared out toward all those kids. She watched him watching them, as if he were looking at each face hoping to see his precious Lucien there. She wondered what he was thinking.

They drove past a winding river heading toward the sea. Here the trees were thick and dense, more like what Jerusha imagined Conrad’s “Africa” might have been. They caught a glimpse of deep blue water running out to the horizon: the Zanzibar Channel. The limousine pulled onto another large divided road and continued north. Wally’s eyes were closed and he was snoring softly; Jerusha envied him. The jet lag was pulling at her and she wished the aide would stop talking. She leaned her head against the window, staring out at the strange world drifting by.

Then she lifted her head again. “What is that?” she asked, pointing. The aide turned in his seat.

“Oh-that’s a baobab tree,” he said. “Lots of native tales about them. The baobabs are one of the symbols of Tanzania-of Africa in general, in fact. We have one of the oldest baobabs in Dar es Salaam on our compound grounds.”

The baobab loomed in the central divider, as if a divine hand had ripped a gigantic tree from the ground and rammed it upside down back into the hole with the root system dangling from the top and overhanging both sides of the highway. The trunk was enormous and thick, furrowed with deep ridges, and green leaves fringed the branches here and there. The tree looked powerful and ancient, at home here like an ancient, gnarled oak might dominate a forest back in the States.

Jerusha stared at it and touched her seed pouch. “A baobab, eh?” She would remember that. “Listen,” she said to the aide. “I-we-appreciate your taking us to the embassy, but it’s important that we get to Lake Tanganyika as soon as possible. We’re…” Jerusha didn’t know what Barbara had told the ambassador, but it didn’t seem wise to mention that they were intending to cross over into the People’s Paradise. “… we’re supposed to meet someone there. It’s Committee business. We have to keep it quiet.”

“Ahh.” The aide pursed his lips, tapping them with a forefinger. “There’s a man,” he said. “A joker, Denys Finch. He’s a bush pilot flying out of a little airport a few miles north of the embassy. Sometimes we have him courier for us, or take dignitaries out to the national parks or up toward Kilimanjaro.”

“Could you take us to him?” Jerusha asked. Wally was still snoring. “Now?”

A shrug. “The ambassador wishes to have dinner with you, but that’s not for a few hours.” He tapped on the window separating their compartment from the driver and gave the man directions. Jerusha heard the word “Kawi.” Then the aide turned back to her with a smile.

“We’ll go there now,” he said.

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

There are more corpses in the pile this time. Adesina is curled into a fetal position on top of the pile. Michelle crawls toward her. The limbs slide as she puts her weight on them. Some of them feel squishier. She can’t see the bodies clearly. All she can see is Adesina-who is still curled in a ball, but rocking back and forth. Her hand trembles as she reaches out and touches Adesina’s temple. And as soon as she touches, images explode in her mind.

Adesina runs through the forest. The leopards give chase. Clothes tear on branches and thorns.

She’s in a village. There are ugly little houses made of concrete blocks and corrugated tin roofs, painted in bright colors: yellow, blue, and green. Children play in the unpaved street, their feet kick up puffs of dirt that hover in the still air.

Michelle sees Adesina among them. She’s wearing the same blue-and-white checkered dress. Her feet are bare. Her hair is braided, and someone has wrapped the braids around her head so they look like a crown.

The children are laughing. In the shaded doorways of the houses, women gossip while they watch the kids. It’s warm and the air smells heavy with rain.

Bursting into the town come a trio of jeeps. Each has three men riding in it. The men are armed and shots ring out. The women grab the children and cover them with their bodies. Michelle wants to bubble-wants to do something to help. But she knows she would be useless. This memory is stuck in Adesina’s head.

The men are dressed in green camouflage uniforms. Their heads are shaved and some of them wear leopard-skin fezzes. Machine guns are slung over their shoulders. They train the weapons on the women and children, then start shouting orders in French. Michelle understands about half of what they’re saying. She tries not to feel afraid-it’s difficult. She’s in the well of Adesina’s fear.

Michelle looks around the village, trying not to let the fear distract her. There are tires piled up at one end of the street. A couple of thick-wheeled bicycles lean against the tires. No help there.

The guns go off again. The women and children moan and cry. Michelle looks at the soldiers. Some have their guns pointed in the air. The rest have their guns trained on the villagers.

And then she knows it’s time to go. It doesn’t matter what happens next in the dream or vision or memory or whatever this is.

Adesina woke Michelle from her coma. And now it’s time for Michelle to repay the favor. But she can’t do it trapped in her fat and afraid to use her power.

Kawi

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

“Wally.” Jerusha Nudged him. “We’re here.”

Wally jerked awake, and accidentally scratched the window glass with his ear. Nuts. He looked around, ready to apologize to that nice fella from the embassy, but he had already stepped out of the car. Jerusha looked like she was trying not to laugh. They shared a look and shrugged at each other.

Wally followed Jerusha from the cool, air-conditioned cocoon of the embassy limousine into an equatorial steam bath. He’d first felt it when they landed, but he’d been so comfortable dozing in the car that he’d almost forgotten where he was.

When he and his brother were kids, before his card turned, one of Wally’s favorite things was visiting their aunt Karen and uncle Bert up in Ely, Minnesota. Bert had built a sauna into their basement. A proper sauna, lined with spruce, and an exterior door that opened just a few dozen feet from their dock. Wally loved the smell of the spruce, the tingle in his nose, the sizzle of the stones.

He and his brother used to take turns pouring water on the stones, until the sauna was so steamy it hurt to breathe. They’d stoop lower and lower as the steam rose, until it was unbearable. Then they’d dare each other to run down and dive in the lake in their skivvies. It wasn’t cold at all, even in October and November, if you were fast enough. On a crisp, still night you could see the steam rising from your skin when you stepped out of the sauna.

Tanzania in December felt a little bit like that sauna. Except you couldn’t control the temperature, and saying “uncle” didn’t make your brother stop pouring water on the stones. Wally didn’t handle humidity as well as he had before his card turned.

It was the rainy season here. The shorter of two, Jerusha said. That meant it was ninety degrees every day, with three inches of rain in both November and December.

They were parked on a patch of hard-packed red earth, along a road bounded by dense greenery on both sides. Wally made a mental note to ask Jerusha about the trees; everything was so green. Across the road, a handful of temporary huts clustered around a large, open-ended corrugated steel Quonset hut. Part wood, part metal, the huts looked like they’d gone up quickly and wouldn’t be around very long. Wally could just make out an airplane in the shadows of the Quonset, and what might have been a landing strip in a clearing through the trees. They weren’t too far from the ocean; Wally could smell it, on the strongest gusts. Mostly, though, he smelled humidity and what might have been the stink of burning garbage.

A trio of kids ran past them, laughing and shouting to each other. They were kicking a ball down the street. It appeared to be a crushed-up plastic water bottle wrapped with tape. Wally wondered what they were saying, if their game had any rules, and if Lucien played something similar.

“Uh, Jerusha?” said Wally. “Where’s here?”

She said, “I think this is a town called Kawi. We’re just a few miles north of the embassy. There’s a bush pilot here who can fly us to Lake Tanganyika.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I told him”-she nodded her head in the direction of the aide, who was knocking on a door next to the hangar across the street-“that we’re on Committee business, meeting somebody at the lake. If anybody asks, I sort of implied that it’s all very hush-hush. So just play along and we should be fine.”

“Okeydokey. That sounds real good,” he said. “Way to go, Jerusha!” He gave her a thumbs-up and a smile.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she stared at his shoulder. Her eyebrows rose. “Wally? Did you know you’re… rusting?”

Wally craned his neck to peer over his shoulder. Little splotches of orange dusted his skin. Sure, it was wet here, but he’d hoped this wouldn’t have started quite so fast. “A www, heck.”

“Does that hurt?”

Huh. Nobody had ever asked him that before.

“Nah,” said Wally. “Not when it’s just on the surface like that.” He fumbled through his pockets until he found some steel wool. A few quick rubs turned the splotches into a red dust. The slightest of breezes carried it away.

Jerusha still looked upset. She was frowning. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Sometimes. When it’s humid outside.”

“Humid? We’re heading into the jungle. During the rainy season.”

“Don’t worry. I got lots of S.O. S pads with me.”

Jerusha frowned, looking doubtful. She started to say something, but stopped when the sound of raised voices echoed across the street.

They turned. The aide was talking to a fellow with grey skin, dark little eyes deep in his round face, and a snout topped with a thick horn. He was a big guy, too, built like a fire hydrant. Wally remembered the Living Gods, jokers that had taken the forms of the gods of ancient Egypt. Kinda like the way Wally had grown up around open-pit iron mines and ended up with iron skin. This fella seemed to be something similar, only here in Africa his jokerism had taken the form of a rhinoceros.

The aide waved Jerusha and Wally over. They joined him. To the rhino guy, he said, “Here they are. Jerusha Carter and Wally Gunderson.” To Wally and Jerusha, he said, “This is Denys Finch. He’s the pilot I mentioned.”

“Best pilot in the bush,” said Finch.

Wally held out his hand. “Pleased to meetcha, guy.”

Finch looked him up and down, his stubby little ears twitching like crazy. He did the same to Jerusha, then looked at the aide again. “Oh, no,” he said. “Not this time. I’ve had it with your bloody tourists.”

The aide looked embarrassed. “Not tourists, Mr. Finch. I told you, they’re here on business for the Committee. The United Nations.”

“Yeah, you and your so-called dignitaries.” Finch spat in the dirt. “Comin’ all the way to Tanzania, askin’ me to fly them around. ‘Ooh, Mr. Finch, show us Kilimanjaro. Ooh, Mr. Finch, show us the lakes, show us elephants and hippos and the real bloody Africa so we can take a few holiday snaps before going home to brag about our safari adventure.’ Then it’s thank-you-Mister-Finch-good-job and before you know it they’re headed back to their proper Western hotels for proper Western food and proper Western air-conditioning.” He spat again. “Wankers.”

The embassy aide tugged at his collar, blushing. Wally understood the gist of Finch’s tirade, if not every word.

“Hey, fella, we’re not tourists,” he said. “Not like that. Promise. We might be here awhile.”

“Is that so? Then where’s your kit?”

Wally frowned. “Kit?”

Finch rolled his eyes. It looked like he was mad enough to hit somebody with that sharp horn of his. Wally sidled in front of Jerusha.

“Yes, kit,” said Finch. “Provisions. Gear. Tents and the rest.”

“Actually,” Wally said, “we were kinda hoping you’d help us with that.”

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

The woman was disgusting, a mass of flesh draped in a light, silky material. Noel wondered if they’d used a circus tent. They had to have something covering her for modesty’s sake, but it had to be light given the sultry heat.

Michelle and Niobe were deep in conversation. Ink hovered at the edges of the conversation, and the terrifying Hoodoo Mama stalked the edges like a protective rottweiler.

“We’ve been married almost a year, and… I’m pregnant,” Niobe trilled. Then all of the females let out that peculiar shrill squeal reserved for news of an impending whelping. Even Noel’s large, no-nonsense, horse-faced English mother had produced the sound when they’d relayed the news to her.

Michelle rolled her head toward him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I might surprise you.”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, Michelle, be nice. Though we did have to try real hard,” Niobe added, and Noel closed his eyes as peals of female laughter rolled past his ears. He wondered if he would have understood these tribal responses if his mother had chosen to raise him as a girl rather than a boy.

But if she had he wouldn’t have Niobe, which indicated his brain wiring was male even if his parts were confused.

Michelle smiled at Niobe. “Would you get me a cup of lemonade? Ink can help you.”

Both Niobe and Ink looked startled. Noel gave Michelle a cynical knowing smile. As the two women walked away he moved in close to her. He noticed that she lay in a crater formed by her massive weight in the moist soil of New Orleans.

“That was a little in-artful,” he said. “So, what is it you want to say to me?”

“Are you out of the spy business?”

“I left the Silver Helix, yes.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

“That’s all the answer you’re getting.”

“So you are up to something. I thought Niobe looked worried. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s upset.”

Noel found himself just glaring at the woman, hating to admit that she was perceptive.

“Tell me or I may just have to get a message to Jayewardene and the Committee.”

“I’m getting very tired of being blackmailed,” Noel said.

“Tough.”

He hesitated, but realized he had no choice. “Very well, I’m engineering a little regime change in the Congo.”

He thought he saw something flash in the back of Bubbles’s eyes when he said Congo. “Oh, great, that worked out so well the last time.” And her scorn and disdain drove away all thoughts about her reaction.

“If all goes well the final act will be taken by Tom Weathers,” Noel gritted.

“When I hear the phrase ‘all goes well’ in conjunction with you I immediately get hives.”

“I’d say that’s the least of your problems.”

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

“Okay, so why is it you can’t stand Noel?” asked Juliet, when he and Niobe finally took their leave.

“I met enough self-aggrandizing dickweeds when I was a model,” Michelle replied. “Every time Noel pops in, he spends the entire time looking down his nose at everyone.”

Joey laughed. “He thinks his shit don’t stink. Yeah. Not to mention he was the fucker who stole that Sprout kid and got that cocksucker Weathers all pissed off.”

“People rarely change who they are at their core,” Michelle said. “Sure, occasionally, someone stops doing all the crappy stuff they used to, but most folks will revert to form if given the chance. Noel’s got responsibilities now. He’s got a wife and a baby on the way, but he’s still playing spy. The more he screws around with Tom Weathers, the more he puts himself, Niobe, and the baby in harm’s way.”

“He seems to make Niobe happy,” said Ink.

Joey shrugged. “He knocked her up, you mean?”

“Looks like,” Michelle replied. “I confess, it’s giving me the hard-core willies, but it’s what she wants. I don’t care if they used a spatula and a turkey baster.”

Juliet nodded, then changed the subject. “Have you had any more dreams?”

“They’re not dreams. And yes, every night, just about. I’ve got to get to her…”

“You’re assuming she’s a real person.”

“I know the difference between dream real and real real. These dreams about Adesina are real. They smell, for crying out loud. When was the last time you had a dream that smells?”

“Never. But how is she even alive if she’s really in that pit?”

And how long will she stay alive? That was a question Michelle hadn’t wanted to ask, even in her own thoughts.

“Time to tear the roof off the temple,” she announced. “Has the square been cleared?”

“The police have it cordoned off.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“About fucking time.” Hoodoo Mama hopped up, grinning. “One roof, coming the fuck off.”

Michelle smiled at Joey, but only for a second. The guilt of what they’d done still ate at her.

Then there was a loud snapping noise, like cheap firecrackers. The midnight sky appeared above her. She could see the blue-white light of the stars. There were zombies walking across the joists, some carrying plywood, others grabbing chunks of the roof and pulling it off.

Michelle told Ink and Hoodoo Mama to leave. Juliet started crying. “ Bbbbbut, I want to be with you.” Her nose was red.

Michelle wished she had a Kleenex to dry her tears. At the same time, she felt irritated with Juliet. There were worse things happening in the world.

“And I wish I had a pony,” Michelle said. “But I don’t know how this is going to work. I just want you safe when I start.”

Joey put her arm around Juliet. “C’mon, Ink. Bubbles is a dick-flavored pain-in-the-ass, but she’s right about being careful. She swallowed a nuke, remember?”

“You do know I didn’t actually eat that nuke, right?”

Juliet gave Michelle a kiss on her forehead. “I love you,” she whispered. A wave of stomach-churning guilt poured through Michelle as they left.

She waited until she couldn’t hear them anymore. Then she waited longer. Above her she saw a sparrow fly down and perch on one of the joists.

“Joey, get that goddamn zombie bird off my temple,” Michelle said. The sparrow gave a nasty squeak, then flew off. Some of its moldy feathers drifted down to her.

It was time to get down to it.

For a moment, she was terrified, but then the thought of bubbling again zinged through her body. It wasn’t as good as sex, but it was damn close. Michelle flexed the fingers of her hand, and then opened them to the sky. One first, she thought. See how it goes.

Liquid heat slid down her arm into her palm. She watched as the bubble grew. It wavered slightly, and she let it go. It drifted up and bounced against the wooden beams, then rose toward the pale stars.