Suicide Kings Read online

  “Nineteen sixty-nine,” Downs said. “San Francisco. Right after they shot those kids at Kent State. The Radical was in the People’s Park riot when the Lizard King fought Hardhat.”

  “Ah. Was T. T. even alive in the sixties?” Bugsy said.

  “Who?”

  “Todd Taszycki. Hardhat.”

  “No no no,” Digger Downs said. “Not that one. There was another guy who used that name back then. Very blue-collar. Didn’t have much use for the hippies.”

  “So when you say the Lizard King,” Bugsy said, “you mean Thomas Marion Douglas? Lead singer for Destiny?”

  “I sure do,” Downs said. “The Holy Trinity. Jimi, Janis, and the Lizard King. He was . . . he was amazing. I saw him in concert once. When he died, we really lost someone. That was a little before your time, though.”

  “Ninety-four was before my time,” Bugsy said. “Sixty-nine was the end of the Napoleonic wars. What was Weathers doing in San Francisco in the sixties? And where was he for those twenty-five years in the middle?”

  “Got me,” Digger said.

  Jackson Square

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  “And how do you feel today, Miss Pond?”

  Michelle opened one eye. A middle-aged woman wearing hospital scrubs was standing over her. “Like someone I don’t know just woke me up.” Her voice was still rough. And she was thirsty. Really thirsty. “Can you get me something to drink?”

  “I imagine so. I’m Mary. I’m supposed to check your vitals.”

  “I’m not dead.”

  “That’s pretty clear.” The woman moved out of her line of sight. Michelle wanted to crank her head around, but the fat made it impossible. When Mary walked back into Michelle’s sight, she had an Aquafina bottle in her hand. The water was sweet and cold, and Michelle drank almost the full bottle before gasping for breath.

  Then Michelle became aware of a noise. It sounded like a flock of birds, but she’d never seen big flocks of birds in Jackson Square. “What’s making that sound?”

  “That? Oh, that’s the faithful talking, honey.”

  “The faithful?”

  As she pulled a stethoscope from her bag, Mary nodded. “They’re the bunch of folks who’ve been bringing you these flowers, praying over you, making you the focus of their lives.”

  Michelle tried to move her leg, but couldn’t. It pissed her off to no end. “That’s insane.”

  Mary shrugged and stuck the stethoscope in her ears. “Honey, you’d be amazed. And, just to be fair, you did prevent a lot of them from dying horribly.”

  “I was trying to save my friends.”

  Mary put her hand on Michelle’s wrist and popped the business end of the stethoscope onto Michelle’s chest. “Doesn’t matter why you did it. Just matters that you did. Now be quiet for a minute.”

  Michelle ignored Mary as she poked around. There wouldn’t be any blood drawn. Needles broke when they came in contact with her skin. That had been happening ever since her card had turned.

  “Everything sounds good,” Mary said. “Same as it has for the last year.”

  Michelle wasn’t listening to her. Her attention was focused on the TV. The volume was still turned off, but there were images of herself flashing behind the blond anchor. One showed her at the height of her modeling career. Then there were publicity shots from American Hero. And finally there were pictures of her lying in Jackson Square after . . . after.

  Michelle had grown to love her fat. It was power and control, and it meant nothing could hurt her. But seeing herself . . . Bile rose in her throat. The whole world had seen her like that.

  Her body was a distorted mass. Rolls and rolls of fat rippled across each other. The cement under her had shattered. Most of her body was naked. Her pale flesh mortified by the summer sun. And everyone had seen it. Hot tears stung in her eyes.

  “Oh, damn it, honey,” said Mary. “They should have turned that off.” She walked to the set and punched the red button.

  “Why are they showing that now?” Michelle asked.

  “Because you’re awake now. You didn’t die when they took you off life support. You’re a miracle.”

  “I’m not a miracle. I’ve got a virus that changed me. It could have happened to anyone. Are people really that thick?”

  “Would you like to meet them?” Mary asked.

  “Oh, yeah, ’cause I’m definitely at my best,” said Michelle. “I love the idea of loads of strangers looking at me gape-mouthed while thinking I rescued them.” She shut her eyes. Why was she being such a bitch? “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Mary said, puttering around the room throwing dead flowers out and putting the empty vases in a box. “I imagine it’s something of a shock. Losing a year. That thing with your parents. And finding yourself, well . . . different.”

  It was impossible for Michelle not to giggle. Different. Yeah, she was different all right.

  Noel Matthews’s Apartment

  Manhattan, New York

  “Those are zlotys. What are you doing with zlotys? You don’t have a show in Poland.”

  He’d heard the phone ring, and thought Niobe was safely ensconced in a conversation, so he’d pulled out the zlotys and began preparing for his fast trip to Poland. Now, busted, Noel tried to scrabble the bills, and—more incriminating—a passport photo of his new male avatar form, under a book, but it was way, way too late.

  Niobe stood in the door of the bedroom he’d turned into an office. The desk was littered with decks of cards, linked metal rings, scarves, handcuffs, and padlocks. In a cage by the window a pair of doves billed and cooed, heads bobbing in that particularly silly fashion unique to doves. The tools of his trade.

  Right now the doves’ soft calls didn’t seem to be having a soothing effect on Niobe. Her thick tail was lashing, hitting the floor with heavy thumps as she stared at him with a look that was two parts angry and one part worry.

  “It’s nothing,” Noel mumbled. “I didn’t want to worry you. In your condi—”

  “Do not patronize me! I am not made of glass. I escaped from a federal facility and managed to elude every ace the government sent.”

  “Well, I helped a little,” he protested.

  “Granted, but either we’re a team or I’m out of here.”

  And even just the threat made his heart stutter. He gave her the truth. “There’s a man in Warsaw who makes the best forged papers in the business.”

  “And why do you need forged papers?”

  “It’s a little thing I’m doing for Siraj.”

  Niobe folded her arms across her chest. “Are you going to be in danger?”

  “A little. But I’m always in danger. From my former associates . . .”

  “And Tom Weathers.”

  “Him, too.”

  “And once you have these papers what are you going to do with them?”

  “Travel with them.”

  “Where?” Noel squinted, pulled at his lower lip. Niobe stormed forward until she stood right in front of him. “I will not be treated like a goddamn mushroom!”

  “Are we having our first fight?” Noel asked lightly.

  “You only wish. If you think this is me angry . . . well, you’ve got a lot to learn. Now where are you going?”

  “Kongoville.”

  “The place where Tom Weathers lives. The man who vowed to kill you.”

  “Well, he vowed to kill Bahir.”

  “And if he kills Bahir, won’t you be dead, too?”

  And suddenly Noel had to acknowledge that that loose feeling in the depths of his bowels was fear. He stood up, wrapped his arms around Niobe, and buried his face against her shoulder. The tension in her shoulders dissolved as she stroked his hair.

  “The PPA is dangerous, viciously dangerous,” Noel murmured into her hair.

  “Oh, my dearest, don’t do this. Let somebody else handle the PPA. The Silver Helix, SCARE, the Committee . . .”

  Noel smiled down into her f
ace. “Those idiots? You eluded SCARE, I ran rings around the Committee, and the Silver Helix is hamstrung with Flint and John facing trial. It has to be me.”

  Her hand went to her belly, fingers spread protectively. “Don’t you dare get killed.”

  “And have you really angry with me? Not a chance.” Her mouth tasted so sweet and he wished he didn’t have to leave.

  She broke the embrace and asked, “Do you have time to take me to New Orleans?”

  “Why on Earth do you want to go to New Orleans?”

  “Bubbles has woken from her coma.” Niobe’s eyes were glowing. “She’s my friend and I want to see her.” She touched her stomach again. “And I want to tell her about the baby.”

  “I thought we were keeping it secret until . . . we were sure. . . .”

  “Not from my closest friends.”

  Noel sighed, and while Niobe went off to change into something cooler he phoned Bazyli to tell him he’d be delayed.

  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 th
e 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.