Busted Flush

Double Helix

I WILL REDEEM THEM FROM DEATH

Melinda M. Snodgrass

“KIDS COME OUT OF eggs. I really shouldn’t be telling you this. Carnifex will kill me when he gets back, but Jesus, she lays eggs,” Stuntman is saying, and his disgust is evident in the way he almost chews the words as if looking to spit them out.

SCARE has brought in an RV to serve as a command center. Outside, the fallen Ferris wheel has lost its little cars like nuts spilling from a branch. A harsh wind is blowing, carrying dust through the door to coat the floor in grit. It carries the faint scent of corn dogs and cotton candy. The wind seems to be pursuing me across continents and time zones.

“Where is the director?” I ask blandly.

A fearsome hailstorm begins beating on the metal roof with a sound like giants banging pots together. I have to lean in to hear him. I’m back to being Noel. It feels odd and I realize I have been morphing between Lilith and Bahir for days with scarcely a stop in to visit me.

“In Paris. The attorney general is arranging for a plane to get him and Lady Black back. That creepy Committee chick teleported them to the Louvre and dropped them inside.” I’m a touch offended at the appellation of creepy. That’s not how men usually react to Lilith. “Since it was after hours, every alarm in the world went off and they got arrested.”

I hide my pleasure at the memory. My last words as I dropped them and teleported away were, “Art is broadening, Mr. Ray. Take the opportunity to improve yourself.”

Stuntman shakes his head. “And the arrests aren’t going to stop there. Warrants have been issued for Bubbles and Lilith. God, I’d love it if I could catch Fat Chick before Ray gets back.”

“This Genetrix . . .,” I nudge.

“She’s gotta fuck somebody to lay a clutch, so we’ve been trying to trace her that way.”

“While I admit sex in times of stress can be a lovely release, why would she want to . . .” I make a gesture toward my trousers.

“She can’t have the clutches without sex, and the freaks are helping them. They’re like little mini-aces.” His hand indicates something about two feet tall. I have to feign ignorance, but I had seen the power at work last night. “And the powers are always different. That’s how she got out of BICC.”

I wish him luck on the search, and tell him we’ll pool information. I then step outside and proceed to backstab him. The street is awash with runoff from the abrupt thunderstorm. The air smells of ozone and dust and desert plants trying to grasp at the rare and valuable moisture. The smell of carny has finally faded.

I use my BlackBerry to log on to the VICAPP network that lists criminal activity across the fifty United States. The network tells an interesting story of two ATMs that have been mysteriously emptied of money. I’m finding it hard to read, my eyes seem filled with grit. I pop another Black Beauty and continue. The security camera on the first robbery shows only the top of a head. As if the robber is on his knees. Or a dwarf. Or perhaps . . . a mini-ace.

In the same vicinity as the ATMs there has been a rash of stolen cars, abandoned after they run out of gas, and a carjacking. One of the perps had been caught. A midget. He’s in custody in Center, Texas.

I locate the place on Google Earth, unbutton my collar and loosen my tie, and unhook my belt, transform into Bahir, and make the jump Between. It’s a relief to feel the flesh pull and shift and return to Noel. The binding in my crotch was becoming rather uncomfortable.

Center is another dismal Texas town that looks as if it has been dropped like a turd by a passing bird. It’s easy to locate the jail. I walk in. The officer behind the desk is young, with a too-prominent Adam’s apple, a shock of straw-colored hair. He tries to hurriedly hide the girlie magazine he was perusing beneath the desk. “Help you, sir?”

“Do you have an impound here? My car was jacked near Cross Plains.”

“We may have the guy.” He opens the gate and invites me back.

Jails the world over have the same smell. Stale booze, sweat, shit, piss, and blood. We walk down the hall while I check for security cameras. There is one, but the indicator light is dark. There are a surprising number of cells for such a small burg. I hear labored breathing as we approach the last one.

A tiny figure is seated on the thin mattress of the cot. He leans back against the wall, a hand pressed to his chest. He is whispering softly to himself. A prayer? A string of curses? I can’t make out the words. A shock of carrot-colored hair falls across his sweat-beaded forehead.

I shake my head. “No, not the guy.” The cop looks disappointed, but I don’t want to spend time filling out paperwork for a crime that never happened.

The street is lined with low-end businesses. I slip behind the 7-Eleven and transform back into Bahir. I make the jump directly into the cell.

The little man opens his eyes and looks up at me. They are pain-filled but brightly intelligent, with a wry light in their cinnamon depths.

“Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” he rasps.

I press a finger to my lips, lift him in my arms, and take us out of there.

It’s all mental, but I feel too tired to travel very far. I spent a relatively pleasant evening in the Old Town of Albuquerque, New Mexico, a few years back. There was a nearly deserted parking garage directly across the street. I jump us to the top floor. It’s deserted. Americans really do hate to walk. I allow my features to shift back to me.

“Thanks for the rescue,” the little man says, “but why?”

“I’m looking for Niobe,” I say as I lay him down on the cold concrete floor.

“That’s nice.”

“You’re the one who caused all the chaos at Cross Plains.”

“Yep.” The word resonates with pride and something else . . . love is the only way I can describe it.

“Got her some traveling money and a car, did you?” I kneel at his side.

“Might be.”

I keep a flask of brandy on me at all times. Along with cigarettes, a gun, and a knife, it means I’m prepared for almost anything. I hold it to his blue-tinged lips and he sips hungrily.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where to find her?”

“Nope.”

Again there is a wealth of information in a single word. There is determination and, unfortunately for me, not a hint of bravado. Clearly the homunculus is dying. Hurting it will only hasten its death, and probably won’t garner any results.

My knees are aching so I sit down and now the rough concrete is digging at my seat bones. Usually I’m not this aware of physical discomfort. I must really be tired. Trying to keep my tone very conversational I say, “You know I won’t be the only person who will figure out how to find you.”

“You seem brighter than they are,” he says.

“Granted, but they do have the resources of the American government.”

“And Mom has us.”

My reaction surprises me. Instead of finding it unbelievably creepy I find it sadly touching. “Your mom?”

There’s a faraway look in the strange eyes as if he’s hearing a distant voice. “Yes. She loves us . . . love you, too.” For an instant I think he’s talking to me, and there’s a sudden tightness in my throat. I shake my head hard. “I did my best,” he whispers softly toward the stained concrete overhead. His eyes close briefly and the pain-wracked features soften.

A pager starts to buzz. Breath-stopping panic constricts my chest and sets my gut to aching. I start pulling them out. I can’t remember where I put them. I assign pockets for each pager. Why can’t I remember? Which one is it? Oh, Christ, not that one, please. Not yet. Not yet.

It’s not the med-alert pager. It’s the Committee pager. I’m holding one in each hand. The urge to throw John Fortune against the wall is strong. Instead I mute the page and thrust it back into a pocket. I start to put away the med-alert when a small hand closes on my wrist.

“Who’s sick?” The tone is gentle.

I answer. “My dad.” Why did I answer?

“I’ve had one. Mom’s had one,” the little man adds quickly. It snaps into place. There are more than two people in this garage. She’s here, too. “So she would know when we were dying. ’Course she knew anyway. We’re part of her.”

“You always die?” A mute nod. “How many?”

“One hundred and seventy-nine. I remember all their names.”

“He has a name?”

“Of course I do. I’m her son, I’m Baxter. You don’t forget your children.” I’m suddenly back in my parents’ yard.

“And what did you get?”

“You.”

The sob erupts from my chest, tears across my throat, and echoes in the garage. The little man lays a hand on my arm. I wave him off with one hand, cover my eyes with the other. “I’m all right. Just tired.”

I pull away my hand and stare into his eyes. Can she see me? Or does she only know what he’s telling her? I try to look through him to the woman. “I’ll bring him to you.”

“What?”

“I can bring him to you. So you can see him before he dies. I just need to know where you are.”

“Don’t do it, Mom. It’s a trick. He’ll hurt Drake.”

“No!” Urgency makes my voice rough. “Don’t let him die without seeing you.” It hurts to swallow. I don’t know this man who’s suddenly living inside my skin. Bloody hell, I’m melting down. Dad, are you listening?

The homunculus grips my hand. “She says to bring me to her,” he whispers, and he tells me where they are.

It’s like carrying a corn husk or a nautilus shell when the inhabitant has vacated. I can’t pinpoint a hotel room so we arrive in the parking lot. The asphalt is cracking and there’s only one car. The Rube Goldberg contraption on the hood and the faint smell of rancid grease and french fries indicate that it’s been rejiggered to burn cooking oil. The motel is two stories with exterior entry. Just a concrete strip. The sign declares it to be the Sleep Inn. Underneath it used to read AMERICAN OWNED, but someone has tried to paint over it. As I hurry past the front office I smell the pungent aroma of vindaloo.

I’m taking the stairs two at a time. Is he still breathing? I can’t feel his heart over mine, which is wildly beating. They have the corner room at the far end from the office. A pudgy young teenager is holding open the door. I recognize him from the photo Ray displayed. I rush into the room. It’s dingy, the spreads are threadbare, but it’s meticulously clean.

She’s waiting. The photo from BICC doesn’t capture her. In the photo she’s ugly. In person, her life and soul are in her gray-green eyes. She spares me not a glance. She gathers Baxter into her arms, and settles onto the end of one bed holding him in her lap. It’s hard for her to arrange the fat, bristly tail, but I scarcely notice that. It’s a pietà.

“It’s okay, kiddo. Momma’s here.” She has a warm, low voice with a husky little catch in it, and that overlay of East Coast money. The little ace reaches up and tangles his hand in the chocolate-colored hair that falls over her shoulder. “Drake,” Niobe says. “Would you go get me a Coke? I think there’s still a few cans in that machine.”

The nuclear ace goes.

“Is that wise?” I ask.

She shrugs. “You either brought people or you didn’t. And I don’t want him to see this. He knows too much about death.” She leans forward and gently kisses Baxter on the forehead. The small chest is barely rising and falling.

She’s softly humming. I don’t recognize the tune. I stand there feeling gauche and decidedly de trop, but I can neither move nor look away. So, this is death when you care.

I try to remember all the deaths I’ve dealt. I can’t.

I try to remember if I cared. I didn’t.

I try to picture holding Dad when he passes. I can’t.

I’m afraid.

The death is so subtle that I miss it. Only Niobe’s soft sobs tell me it’s happened. She closes Baxter’s eyes, quickly kisses each cheek, and hurriedly lays him down on the bed. The small body melts, leaving only a smear on the worn bedspread. She looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears, but she seems at peace.

“Thank you.”

I squat down in front of her. “How do you bear it? I don’t think I can.”

She pushes her hair behind her ears. She is frowning, thoughtful. “You’ll do it for him. Because you love him, and he wouldn’t leave you alone if you were dying.”

And that says it all. We sit together in silence. Then she asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Noel Matthews. I can get you out of here. They’re going to kill him.” I jerk my thumb toward the absent Drake. “And if you try to stop them they’re going to kill you, too. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I can not leave him. That’s what I can do.”

“He’s a living bomb. They’re right, he’s too dangerous to be allowed to live.” I can feel my frustration rising.

“A lot of people are dangerous, and when they kill they mean to. Drake is a little boy. He doesn’t . . . didn’t want to hurt anybody. We have to give him that chance.”

“Why do you care so much?” I ask.

The sensitive, overly soft mouth tightens with determination. “Because this is one death I can stop.”

The door opens. “I had to get an orange pop. There wasn’t any more Coke,” Drake announces. His eyes slide across the stained bedspread and slide away. He goes to Niobe and gives her a rough and awkward hug. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. She hugs him tight.

I can’t believe I’m hearing myself saying, “All right, I’ll take you both, but I’ve got to make a little change first. . . .”