Suicide Kings Read online

  Most of the guests had congregated around the long tables where the appetizers had been laid out, near the windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Wally munched on miniature hot dogs bathed in fancy ketchup while eavesdropping, trying to find a conversation he could join. The battle in the Sudd dominated most of the conversations. Wally had seen a blurb about it on one of those big stock-ticker things in Times Square during the cab ride to the Empire State Building.

  “The PPA has overstretched itself,” declared Snowblind in her elegant French-Canadian accent. If silk could talk, thought Wally, it would sound like Snowblind. “There’s no need for the Committee to involve itself. Once the Caliphate regroups, this will be over quickly.”

  Brave Hawk shook his head. “Not if Ra gets involved. Old Egypt doesn’t have much use for the Caliphate.”

  Wally didn’t have much of a head for political discussions, and truth be told he wasn’t all that keen on Brave Hawk anyway. So he wandered farther down the table, where the hors d’oeuvres included grapes, smelly cheese, and pear slices marinated in port wine. Those were pretty good.

  Tinker and Burrowing Owl argued about the World Court. The pending war crimes trials of Captain Flint and the Highwayman were almost as divisive an issue as the fighting in Sudan. Burrowing Owl thought it was a meaningless show trial; Tinker thought both men deserved to be tried before the world. “Oy, Rusty,” said Tinker. “What do you think?”

  Wally shrugged. “Um . . .” What did he think? “I think they did a real bad thing, killing all those folks. But I think they did an even worse thing by making that poor little boy do it.”

  Burrowing Owl frowned. “Yes, but what about sovereignty and jurisdiction?”

  Wally sighed, wishing it was time to sit down and eat.

  Jerusha Carter’s Apartment

  Garden District

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Her cell phone chirped before the bell on the microwave went off. That puzzled her, since it was an hour earlier where her parents were, and they would usually still be sitting at the Thanksgiving table at this point. She picked up the cell from the entrance-hall table, glancing at the number on the front.

  It wasn’t her parents; it was Juliet Summers. Ink. Strange. She knew Ink, of course, but they certainly weren’t close.

  “Hey,” she answered. “Ink. What’s up?”

  “Jerusha? I need your help.” There was someone shouting, no, cursing in the background. A woman. “That’s Joey. Those scumbag LaFleurs convinced a judge to give them that court order. They’re gonna pull the plug on Michelle.”

  Jerusha was shocked. Michelle Pond—the Amazing Bubbles—had been lying comatose in Jackson Square for more than a year, since the day she saved New Orleans from destruction by absorbing the blast of a nuclear explosion. For the past six months, her estranged parents had been fighting in court to obtain a court order allowing them to terminate their daughter’s nutrition and hydration.

  Jerusha could not believe they had actually won. “If they do this, what do the doctors say will happen to Bubbles?”

  “No one’s certain,” said Ink, “but their best guess is that given the massive amounts of nutrients that Michelle has been consuming every hour, and with a body as dense and heavy as hers, the results would be very quick. Her bodily processes could begin to deteriorate almost immediately—increased heart rate, blood pressure, organ failure. Death in no more than three hours, maybe sooner.” Ink sighed. “Or maybe she’ll just starve to death.”

  On Thanksgiving. The LaFleurs had a ghastly sense of irony, Jerusha thought. “What can I do?” She was no lawyer. The Committee had no legal standing within the United States.

  “You can help me stop Joey,” Ink replied. “She’s gone crazy. She’s pulled up every halfway fresh corpse in the city, and some that aren’t so fresh. She says she’s going to kill the LaFleurs as soon as they show their faces in Jackson Square.”

  Hoodoo Mama. I should have known. Joey Hebert had been born angry, as far as she could tell, and being turned down by the Committee had not improved her disposition.

  “She won’t listen to me,” Ink was saying, “and you’re the only one in New Orleans who might have the power to stop her before someone gets hurt. But you gotta get down there quick. You hear me?”

  The shouting in the background continued. Joey, Jerusha realized. Then Ink was yelling back. “Damn it, Joey. Calm down, girl. You’re gonna bust an artery.”

  The phone went dead. “Ink?” Jerusha said.

  Nothing.

  She flipped the phone shut. The microwave bell rang in the kitchen. She could smell the turkey.

  Jerusha put her phone in the pocket of her jeans and grabbed her keys.

  The Clarke Household

  Barlow’s Landing, Massachusetts

  “I see,” margaret Tipton-Clarke said, in a voice that meant she didn’t see at all. “So you’re . . . dead?”

  Jonathan Tipton-Clarke, or Jonathan Hive, but most often Bugsy, had known that bringing his girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner was going to be tricky. He hadn’t appreciated the full depth of the issue. His mother kept asking difficult questions. His older brother Robert and sister-in-law Norma were scowling over their plates of cranberry sauce and turkey like sour-faced bookends without the books. The twin sisters were grinning with near cannibalistic delight. It just wasn’t going to be a good night.

  Ellen was very pretty—thin, blond, dressed in a dark charcoal item that clung in all the right places without seeming slutty. It, like all of Ellen’s best dresses, had been designed especially for her by the ghost of Coco Chanel. The cameo she wore at her neck looked like it had been picked to go with the outfit more than the other way around. Just to look at her, she fit perfectly with the Tipton-Clarke family decor. Classy, expensive without having neon “nouveau riche” on her forehead. The earring was maybe a little bit off, but that was really nonoptional.

  True, she was almost two decades older than Jonathan, which would have been a little weird all on its own. More the issue was that she wasn’t exactly his girlfriend. She was the ace who could channel the spirits of the dead. The dead like his girlfriend.

  Aliyah didn’t wear Ellen with quite the same style that Ellen wore the dress.

  “Yeah,” she said, using Ellen’s mouth. “I . . . I died back when the Caliphate army was attacking the jokers in Egypt, right before they formed the Committee? If you read about it, they might have called me Simoon. That was my ace name on American Hero. There was an ace on the other side called the Righteous Djinn? In Egypt, I mean. Not on the show.”

  When Aliyah got nervous, she ran her sentences together and everything she said turned into a question. When Jonathan got nervous, bits of his body broke off as small, green, wasplike insects, so it was hard to really fault her. He took a bite of stuffing. It was a little on the salty side, as usual, but if he kept his mouth full he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. That seemed the best strategy.

  “That must have been terrible for you, dear,” his mother said.

  “Oh, I don’t remember it,” Aliyah said. “I wasn’t wearing my earring. At the time. I mean, I was a sandstorm when it happened, so it’s not like I had any clothes on.”

  One of the twins, Charlotte he thought, leaned forward on her elbows. Her smile was vulpine. “That’s just fascinating,” she said.

  “Well, Ellen can only pull me back from the last time I was wearing my earring.”

  “No,” Charlotte (or maybe Denise) said. “I mean you fought naked?”

  Aliyah blushed and stammered, her hands moving like they weren’t sure where they were supposed to be. With a small internal sigh, Jonathan decided it was time to go ahead and lose his temper. “She was a sandstorm,” he said. “Big whirly scour-your-flesh-to-the-bone sandstorm. The kind that could kill you.”

  Charlotte’s smile turned to him. There was a little victory in it. I could kill you, too, he thought, and Charlotte yelped and slapped her thigh. She pulled up a small, a
cid-green body with crumpled wings.

  “Oops,” Bugsy said. “Sorry.”

  “You act like you can’t control those things,” Charlotte said. Or maybe Denise. “You aren’t fooling anyone.”

  “Is it possible,” Bugsy’s older brother said in a strangled voice, “to have a simple, calm, normal family meal without going into detail about the naked dead women with whom my brother is sleeping?”

  “Spirit of the season,” Jonathan said. “I mean, unless there’s something else to be thankful for.”

  “Excuse me,” Aliyah said, stood up, and walked unsteadily from the room.

  “So, Robert,” Jonathan said. “Have you and Norma gotten knocked up yet, or have the doctors decided there’s no lead in the old Wooster pencil after all?”

  “That is none of your—”

  “Oh, Robert, he didn’t mean anything by—” their mother said.

  “Norma!” Denise (or maybe Charlotte) said. “I’ve been so worried but I didn’t dare—”

  With his brother’s penis squarely on the chopping block, Jonathan pushed his plate aside and followed Ellen to the den. The room glowed in the festal candlelight. Two wide sofas in leather the color of chocolate seemed cozy, looking out through the glass-wall picture window at the angry Atlantic Ocean. Ellen sat on one, legs tucked up under her. He could tell by the way she held herself that the earring wasn’t in.

  “I told you so,” he said.

  “You really did,” Ellen said. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  “The nice thing about Jerry Springer is that you get to throw chairs. I never get to throw chairs.”

  “And your mother,” Ellen said. “She’s the worst of all.”

  “There is that Demon-Queen-Directing-Her-Monstrous-Horde quality to her. It was more fun when Aunt Ida was still around. She was much worse.”

  “Aliyah felt awful. I told her I’d apologize for her.”

  “For getting beaten up by my family? Doesn’t that usually go the other way?”

  “It usually does,” Ellen said coolly.

  Before Jonathan could think of a good answer, his cell phone started the ring tone he’d set aside for the United Nations. Committee business calling. He dug it out of his jacket pocket, held up a single finger to Ellen, and said hello.

  “Bugsy! I hope I’m not interrupting,” Lohengrin said.

  “Not at all,” Jonathan said. “What’s up?”

  Ellen rose, shaking her head slightly, and headed back toward the ongoing train wreck of the Tipton-Clarke Thanksgiving. Jonathan put one hand over his ear to block out the voices.

  “Can you come to New York?” Lohengrin asked. “There’s something we need to discuss. An assignment.”

  Jonathan nodded. Truth to tell, it was moments like these that made working with the United Nations fun. “You bet, buddy. I’ll be there with bells on,” he said. Then, “You know, I could probably have fit about three more b’s in that if I tried. Betcha buddy, I’ll be by with bells on my—”

  “Jonathan? Are you okay?”

  “I may be a wee teensy drunk,” Jonathan said. “Or I might hate my family. Hard to tell the difference. I’ll be in New York tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

  Lohengrin dropped the line, and Jonathan put his cell phone away. The voices in the dining room had changed. With a sick curiosity, he made his way back to the table.

  “You always did that, Maggie, ever since you were a little girl,” Ellen said, pointing an antique silver butter knife in his mother’s direction. “Salt, salt, salt. You’d think God never gave you taste buds.”

  His mother’s cheeks had flushed and her lips pressed white and bloodless. Ellen turned to consider Jonathan, except whoever she was, it wasn’t Ellen. The familiar eyes surveyed him slowly. She snorted.

  “Aunt Ida?” he said.

  “I like this Ellen of yours, Johnny,” Ida said. “I’m surprised she puts up with you. Sit, sit, sit. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a well with you just looming there.”

  “How did—?” he began as he sat.

  Ida held up the silverware. “I always said this set was mine, and now I’ve proven it, haven’t I? Robert, dear? Pass the potatoes, and let’s see if she’s oversalted them, too. Maggie, stop looking at me like that. I was right, you were wrong, and no one is in the least surprised. Thanksgiving is a time for family. Try not to ruin it.”

  Stellar

  Manhattan, New York

  “Ana?” wally whispered. “can I sit with you?”

  “Sure.”

  Wally followed her through a maze of round tables draped in billowing tablecloths. The lights were set low; candlelight and the glow from the skyline glinted on wineglasses and silverware. He nodded or waved at the few folks he recognized.

  Ana led him to a table near the middle of the room. Wally’s own chair creaked precariously. He sat between Ana and the Llama. They’d never worked together, but Wally had met the South American ace at other Committee events. Wally always thought he looked a little like a giraffe, what with his long neck and all, but never mentioned it. “Hey, how ya doin’, fella? Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Hi,” said the Llama, chewing on something. That seemed strange, since the waiters hadn’t brought any food out yet. They didn’t even have bread on the table.

  The Llama seemed distracted. Wally realized he was busy glaring across the room at the Lama.

  Wally turned to Ana. “So how’s Kate these days?”

  “Good, I guess. She’s glad to be back in school, but it’s probably kinda weird. I think she misses us. She doesn’t miss this stuff, though.” She pointed to the cyan United Nations banner hanging over the head table where Lohengrin, Babel, and a few others sat.

  “Yeah.” The Committee had lost much of its allure for Wally over the past couple of years. For some reason he kept sticking with it, even though he’d found better ways to make a difference in people’s lives. A real difference. Plus, these shindigs weren’t the same without the old crew.

  As if reading Wally’s mind, Ana asked, “Do you still keep in touch with DB?”

  “Sure do.” They’d gone to war together, Wally and the rock star. Twice. They’d been through a lot.

  He looked around the room. Except for Ana, none of the people he knew best were around. In addition to Kate and DB, Wally missed Michelle, who was still down in New Orleans and apparently not doing too good. King Cobalt, his first friend from American Hero, had died in Egypt. So had Simoon, who had been pretty nice to Wally.

  Except that she wasn’t entirely dead, not all the time, anyway. Bugsy and Simoon were going out, which Wally couldn’t begin to understand. All he knew was that Bugsy spent most of his time these days with Cameo, who had joined the Committee last year in New Orleans, before she lost her old-time hat. They were having their own Thanksgiving.

  Thanksgiving was a time to be with family. But what family? More and more, his visits home to Minnesota made him feel lonely and isolated. He thought he’d found a family, of sorts, with the Committee. And that had even been true for a short time. But he didn’t feel at home with the Committee any longer. And so Wally had tried to help other families, on his own, but now even that seemed to be going away.

  A little cheer went up throughout the room when a stream of servers emerged from the kitchen. They brought out turkey, chicken, goose, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, three kinds of gravy, cranberries, corn bread, spinach salad, fruit salad, and pumpkin, pecan, apple, and cherry pie. They even brought out a turducken. Wally wouldn’t have known what that was if he hadn’t heard Holy Roller and Toad Man discussing it once, back before the big preacher had left the Committee to return to his church in Mississippi. Wally missed him.

  He couldn’t imagine anybody eating so much food. And that made him think of Lucien, his little pen pal. A single table here probably held more food than his entire family saw in a month.

  “You’re looking glum,” said Ana.

  “Just missing folks, I gue
ss.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Like, see, I got these pen pals. It happened because I saw a commercial late at night during a Frankie Yankovic marathon. You know, for one of those setups where you send in a few dollars to help out a kid somewhere?”

  Ana smiled. She took a drumstick from the platter at the center of the table. “That’s great, Rusty.”

  “Well, I got a few of them. But this one kid, his name’s Lucien, and me and he got to be pretty good friends, writing letters back and forth. But his last letter said—”

  Babel started tapping her wineglass with a butter knife. It chimed through the dining room.

  Lohengrin stood. He waited for a hush to fall over the room before speaking. The kitchen clamor ebbed and flowed as servers passed through double doors to the dining room.

  “Ja, ja. Welcome. My friends, we are the United Nations Committee for Extraordinary Interventions.” Polite applause. “Today we gather to celebrate our achievements and be thankful for the opportunities we’ve been given. And the world has much to be thankful for since our inception, no?” His laughter actually sounded like ho-ho-ho. Like Santa Claus, if Santa wore magical armor. Before meeting Lohengrin, Wally had never known anybody who laughed like that for real.

  If Lucien and his family had much to be thankful for, it had nothing to do with the Committee. In fact, it seemed to be the only thing Rusty had done in the past couple of years that actually improved somebody’s life. But it didn’t even begin to make up for what he and DB had done in Iraq.

  The German ace droned on and on, peppering his remarks with references to “my predecessor,” as though there had been some kind of special ceremony to transfer the reins of power when he took over the Committee. Everybody knew that John Fortune had bowed out quietly but quickly after becoming a nat for the second time. Rumor had it he was traveling the world, though to what end, nobody could say.

  But thinking about John Fortune and his travels gave Wally an idea.