Busted Flush, Page 3

  I hope we will stay in touch. Your friendship means a lot to me.

  Yours,

  Niobe

  * * *

  At least Niobe’s e-mail made me feel better. I missed Ink, but not as much as I thought I should. And it made me feel like a lousy girlfriend. But I was feeling disconnected from a lot of things these days.

  My cell phone began to buzz. I picked it up and saw a text message from John Fortune asking me to come to his office at the UN. Crap. I really didn’t want to go down there. I left the rest of my e-mails and turned off the computer.

  “Look, you know I hate to ask this,” I said.

  Fortune sighed and put his head in his hands. Oh, great, I thought. The guilt trip. Passengers boarding now for the nonstop . . . stop that! “I just need a rest,” I said. “It’s been over a year and I’ve done too many missions.”

  “But that’s why we need you,” he said, lifting his head from his hands. “You’ve done mission lead. You were in Egypt. You were at Behatu Camp. How many people can say they stopped genocide in the Balkans?”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them again, Fortune was staring off into space. I knew that Sekhmet was talking to him. And, boy, did that give me the willies. I mean, who would want a massive scarab living under the flesh of your forehead, attached to your skull, and communicating with you via God-only-knows-what? Ew. I didn’t know how he did it—living with someone else constantly in his body, always listening in on every conversation. Not to mention the giant scarab forehead zit—not a look I’d recommend.

  “I know you need a break, but the way things are going, I just don’t know if I can spare you.” He gave me his “I’m a sensitive guy” smile. I was pretty sure that last bit was Sekhmet’s doing. “Here’s the thing,” he continued. “Jayewardene wants a team to investigate charges of genocide in the Niger River Delta. The People’s Paradise of Africa is making the accusations, and it’s turning into a massive political shitstorm.”

  “Another genocide?” I said. My stomach clenched and I thought I might be sick. “I don’t think I can do another genocide.”

  And then he gave me that “do it for the world” look. Honestly, I liked him better when he was just a PA on American Hero.

  That John Fortune had been a nice guy. This John Fortune was so absorbed with whatever it was that was driving him so hard that he didn’t care about much else. Except maybe Curveball.

  “I’ve done plenty for the Committee, so don’t try to act as if I haven’t,” I said. “I need a break. You could send Gardener or Brave Hawk. They’ve only been around for a few months. They’ll be fresher.”

  “But you would be the best choice if we have to do an African mission,” he replied. “If it really is genocide, a woman as lead would be better PR. You could do that whole teary-eyed/angry thing you do.”

  “Gardener is a woman,” I said. I glared at him, but I didn’t say anything else. He frowned and then stared off into space again. Sekhmet was talking some sense into him—I hoped.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

  “I’m going to see Ink in D.C.,” I told him.

  “Fine,” he replied, “take your cell phone.” But I could tell he wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. He was planning his next big thing.

  When I got to Washington the next day, I had to walk from my train stop to Ink’s apartment. There weren’t even any joker cabs here, and the subway looked crammed.

  I had a key and let myself in. There were clothes strewn everywhere and newspapers and magazines piled up on every available surface. I dropped my duffel and started tidying up. It would annoy her to no end. She said she could only find things where she left them.

  I’d been at it for a while when my cell started buzzing. I looked at the screen. It was Ink.

  “Hey, baby,” I said, answering.

  “You made good time,” she said. “You’re not cleaning up the apartment, are you?”

  I looked around. The newspapers and magazines were in neat piles and the clothes had been put in the laundry or folded and put away. The bed was made with clean sheets, and I’d put the dishes away.

  “No—of course not—I know how you feel about that.”

  “Liar. You are such a liar.”

  “It’s true. I am a filthy liar,” I replied. “Unlike you, who’s just incredibly messy.”

  “I’ve got to work late,” Ink said. “How about you meet me here and we can get some dinner?”

  I rolled my eyes. More walking.

  “Sure, honey. Whatever you say.”

  The SCARE offices reminded me of BICC. Cold, impersonal, and indifferent to human needs.

  They held me at the front desk until Ink came down to escort me upstairs. It was annoying. Just because I worked for Jayewardene and the UN and not for the U.S. government, I was being treated like I might be a security threat. Honestly, if I had wanted to I could have blasted the front desk area to smithereens.

  The elevator opened and Ink stepped out. It was still a surprise to see her now. The short, spiky hair was gone; in its place was a sleek bob. She didn’t have her tats on all the time, either. And instead of her ubiquitous Converse high-tops, she was wearing pumps. Her business suit was tasteful and modest in a sober gray. It made me want to weep.

  We were in the elevator when Ink got up on her tiptoes and kissed me.

  “What was that for?” I asked.

  “I missed you,” she said. “Good grief, I can’t even kiss you without you thinking something weird is going on. You haven’t been having those nightmares again, have you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You have,” she said. “And you’ve been having those flashbacks, too.”

  “John asked me to lead a group to Nigeria,” I said, hoping to change the topic.

  “I hope you turned him down. You don’t need any more stress.”

  Annoyance ripped through me. My mother had once said that it wasn’t the big stuff that screwed up relationships. It was the little things—the everyday stuff that went on and on, annoying the hell out of you. I hated that Ink’s concern and attention were so grating. And I really hated the fact that she was right. “Yeah, I turned him down, but I told him I was available if he needed me for anything else.”

  Luckily, the elevator doors opened and she didn’t have a chance to reply. As we walked through Cubicle City, I noticed that a lot of the employees were giving Ink sympathetic looks. She nodded to a couple of them.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “In a minute.”

  We stopped in front of a large door. Ink slipped a key on her wrist coil into the lock. When the door opened, we were in a beautiful waiting room. There was a desk at one end next to a second door. Ink went to the desk and sat down behind it. “Grab a chair,” she said.

  I got a chair and dragged it next to her desk, then plopped down in it. The phone rang and she answered it.

  “Yes, this is the office of the director,” Ink said. “No . . . I’m sorry . . . He’s out for the rest of the day.”

  There was a pause.

  “Of course, I would be happy to answer any questions.”

  She stuck out her arm and I could see words scrolling across it: There’s nothing more I would rather do this afternoon than talk to you. And your inane questions will ensure that I’ll never get this half hour of my life back.

  “Yes, the new director is wonderful to work for.”

  As long as you don’t mind a self-absorbed, narcissistic jackass with penis-size issues.

  “Of course, we’ll all miss Nephi Callendar. As Straight Arrow he was a force for good and as head of SCARE he looked out for the best interests of the American people.”

  She put her leg up on the desk so her skirt fell back a little, and I could see in Gothic lettering:

  Who was a decent human being, unlike this new guy, who has the IQ of warm milk. Of course, Nephi would have had a conniption fit if he had known
that you and I were more than “best” girlfriends.

  “But the new director has some exciting plans for the department.”

  She lifted her shirt so just her stomach was bared. Written on it was: When he isn’t working out or obsessively cleaning his office every hour. What a freak! And not in a good way.

  “Well, his plans are secret at the moment. It would be inappropriate for me to reveal them at such an early date. I’m certain that when he’s ready, he’ll be making an announcement to the press. Yes, of course. I was happy to help.”

  “I didn’t know that Callendar quit,” I said.

  “He didn’t quit. He retired. It happened while you were at BICC. He really did take a chance on me. After all, I’d only done PA work on American Hero. But he said that he needed all the aces he could get working for him and what I’d done on AH was just as hard as anything I’d do here. Crap, I am so depressed.”

  I stood up and went around her desk to hug her. “Don’t worry about it. If this doesn’t work out, I’m sure I can get you hooked up with the Committee.”

  “Let’s just get some dinner and go home,” she said, coming over and kissing me. Then she said, “I’m pretty sure I can think of a fun way to pass the evening.”

  I was walking through Behatu Camp. It must have been early morning because the heat hadn’t really hit yet. My footsteps made puffs of dust along the unpaved street. The mountains ringing the village were so close I thought I could smell snow. How many centuries had people been fighting over those indifferent Balkan peaks? All this dying—for what?

  Lying a few feet in front of me was a girl. She was only ten or so. It was hard to tell because she was so thin. I didn’t want to get any closer, but it was part of my job. I squatted down next to her and pushed the hair back from her face. There was a deep gash along her neck. Blood was pooled underneath.

  “I found another one,” I said loudly.

  “We’ll get there in a minute.” Was that Curveball? Or maybe Earth Witch?

  I touched the girl’s face. There were bruises and small cuts. Her lips were swollen. I didn’t need to see the rest of her body to know she’d been raped. That’s what happened here. Women, girls, grandmothers were all systematically raped and tortured. That’s why we were here. We were supposed to stop it.

  But we were too late for her.

  Her eyes snapped open. White, unseeing eyes. I jumped back and fell on my ass.

  “Murderer,” she said. “Killer.”

  Blood spurted from her mouth, covering me.

  “Wake up!”

  My eyes opened, but for a moment, I didn’t know where I was. Ink gave me a hard shake. “C’mon, Michelle. Wake up.”

  “I’m awake,” I said. But my mouth was dry and it came out as a croak.

  “Jesus, you scared the crap out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said woodenly. I could smell fear sweat on myself.

  “You should just quit the Committee,” Ink said as she grabbed her robe and slid from the bed. I heard her go into the kitchen and turn on the faucet. Then she came back and handed me a glass of water.

  “I can’t quit,” I said. The water was cold and tasted so good it hurt.

  “Why not? You don’t need the money.”

  The sheets were damp with sweat, so I went to Ink’s closet, pulled out a fresh set, and then started stripping the bed.

  “I can’t quit because I still have work to do for them.”

  “Have you even told them what’s been going on with you? You’ve got post-traumatic shock, for crying out loud.”

  I jerked one of the pillows out of its case. “I don’t recall when you got your psychiatric license.”

  “Fuck you!” she snapped, yanking the sheets off the bed. “I hate this macho bullshit you’re doing. You don’t have to impress me. I know you. I know your heart. I know you’d give anything to help someone else. But you can’t rescue the entire world.”

  A hard lump was stuck in the back of my throat. I was not going to cry. I hated women who cried. “Please, can we just leave it alone?” I turned away. If I looked at her I would start bawling.

  “Fine,” she said. I could hear her tucking and snapping the sheets. I turned back around to help her.

  We finished making the bed, then got back in. But she stayed on her side and I stayed on mine, as if there were a chasm between us. I guess there was, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

  Double Helix

  THE SWORD SHALL NEVER DEPART

  FROM THY HOUSE

  Melinda M. Snodgrass

  STANDING AT THE WINDOW in Flint’s office looking out at the traffic. Unlike New York, horns still blare and engines cough and rev, but even with our North Sea platforms and the Nigerian oil, gas is very expensive and the number of cars on the roads is substantially reduced.

  “There have been a number of incidents in the oil fields. The People’s Paradise is casting it as oppressed locals reacting against the central government in Lagos, but it’s happened very suddenly and it seems very well targeted. I think the President-for-Life Dr. Kitengi Nshombo has a strong interest in securing those oil fields for himself.”

  “We can’t lose that oil. Bruckner would be very upset if he couldn’t run his truck.” It’s part of my persona that I keep everything light and rather sarcastic, but in truth I feel a surge of very real fear that cuts through the fog of exhaustion that seems to enfold me. What if there wasn’t gas to run the ambulances? What if I wasn’t around and Mum couldn’t get Dad to the hospital?

  “And now the damn UN and the Committee are getting involved.” Flint actually rises from his chair. Even with the reinforced floor I feel the wood flexing and trembling as he walks to join me at the window. “You must reduce their effectiveness. Separate them from Jayewardene. The UN with an army of aces is a distressing development and the secretary-general seems very eager to use them.”

  “Look, it would be rather bad form for me to remove Jayewardene, but Nshombo . . .” I allow my voice to trail away suggestively. “I could pay a little visit to Kongoville.”

  “His sister would only take his place. He’s a true believer in his Socialist Paradise and murderous in pursuit of his beliefs, but she is a sadist and would be much worse. Also, the real power there is this ace, Tom Weathers. He has an alarming array of powers. Any one of them would be potent. Taken together . . .” He pauses. “I think he may well be the most powerful ace in the world.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my case, remove a cigarette, and tap it on the lid. The silver gives back a distorted image of my face. “That may be, but I’m betting a bullet in the back would still kill him.”

  “It may come to that, but not just yet. If the ruling class in Kongoville starts dying while they’re locked in a dispute with us . . .”

  “Right you are. Clean hands, plausible deniability, and all that.”

  “Is there any way for you to break up this Committee?”

  “I’m trying, but I only have nights. And not every night because Noel Matthews also has a life as a stage magician.”

  “I thought Lilith does her best work at night.” It’s bizarre hearing ponderous sexual innuendo from those stone lips.

  “Yes, well, but I can only fuck so many men a night, and my choices are a little limited. But if Lohengrin and DB were to go after each other . . .” The image is irresistible—Lohengrin’s sword against DB’s sonic attack. It would be an interesting match-up. “It wouldn’t be hard. Men are so predictable.”

  Flint cocks his head in query. “Only because you are playing the slut. Why do you do that? Is that how you view women? And you’re not very charitable toward men, either.”

  “Yes, but I hate people. They are universally such shits.”

  “Hmmm.” And then Flint is back to Africa. “Try to get posted to Africa. That way we can control the information coming back.”

  All this talk of controlling information and stopping an investigation finally registers in my sleep
-deprived mind. “We’re sure nothing is going on in the Niger Delta . . .”

  “Perfectly sure. And we will not allow the PPA to invade on a pretext.”

  “And if they do?”

  “They’ll be dealt with.”

  The room has a sour, musty smell. I want to open the window, but it’s a raw day with wind and rain squalls. Dad’s breath seems to rattle in his chest, and his skin looks gray. I need to keep him warm.

  I shouldn’t be here. I should be in New York with Lohengrin. But I had to come home. Even though I canceled dinner I can still teleport into Lohengrin’s bed. He’d probably prefer that. To be fair the big German ace doesn’t begrudge the money he spends on me. God knows, he’s got enough with all his product endorsements.

  Thinking about food has my gut clenching with hunger. I can’t remember the last real meal I ate. A cup of tea is at my elbow, and a plate of macaroons I picked up at the bakery sits on the bedside table. But Dad wants me to read to him. Once he falls asleep I’ll eat. He hands over the Bible with a shaking hand. It’s open to the Psalms. I just start reading. They’re all the same to me.

  “ ‘I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, therefore will I call upon him as long as I live. The sorrows of death compassed me . . .’ ” My voice cracks, and an aching vise closes my throat. “Excuse me.” It comes out as a rasp.

  I plunge into the bathroom until I compose myself. It takes a long time.

  Wearing loose-fitting clothes that will accommodate Bahir’s bulk I decide to stop at the Highwayman’s favorite watering hole for a pint. I need to wile away another hour until the sun has set. I check my watch. That will put me in New York at 2:00 A.M.