Read Online Suicide Kings by George R. R. Martin and Melinda M. Snodgrass - Free Book Online
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protector from Wally’s metal fingers; there were a
lot
of scratches. He pawed through that binder frequently, then. And his mouth had been moving as she had read the boy’s poorly scrawled letter—he’d obviously memorized it.
Wally’s simple tenderness and compassion made her want to hug him. She just wasn’t sure it made her want to go with him.
Jerusha sipped at her coffee. The cup rattled on the table as she set it down. “I’ve been looking at maps, and I called Babel and talked to her a bit after your phone call.” Jerusha saw the hope rising in Wally’s eyes with her statement, and she frowned in an effort to quash it.
You’re not doing this. You’re not.
“Wally, she’s really not happy with the idea of you going to Africa, and she’s doubly not happy with you taking another Committee member with you. . . .” Jerusha paused, wondering if she really wanted to say the next words. “
If
I did this,” she said, with heavy emphasis on the first word and a long pause after the phrase, “or no matter
who
ends up going with you, Wally, I agree with Babel that you don’t want to go directly into the PPA. What looks best to me would be flying into Tanzania and crossing over Lake Tanganyika, especially since you say that Lucien’s in Kalemie, right on the lake.”
The hope in Wally’s face was now transcendent and obvious. “So . . . you’re coming with me?”
Sure. I’m black, aren’t I?
she wanted to retort angrily, but she only shook her head. “I still have work here. All the marshlands that need to be reclaimed before the next big storm hits here . . .”
Alone. Out in the swamp. Alone.
Wally looked down at the table, dusted with the remnants of beignets. “I guess you make the plants grow a lot faster . . .” She saw him start to rise, his shoulders lifting. “Well, thanks for looking at those maps. That will help.” His face scrunched up stiffly, the stiff iron skin over his eyes furrowing. “So where’s this Tanzania place?”
Jerusha sighed. “Tanzania is . . .” she began. Stopped.
He won’t last five minutes out there on his own.
She realized that somewhere in the midst of this, she’d made the decision.
What’s here for you? You’ve nothing. No friends, just Committee work. And when Michelle dies, now
you’ll
get the blame for that, not the Committee. You have a chance to save a life. . . .
“Oh, hell,” she said. “I’ll show you on a map on the way over.”
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
Michelle reaches a hand out in front of her face. Five fingers.
That’s good.
She pulls her legs up to her chest, reaches down, feels her feet. “That’s better,” she says. Even though she’s in the pit again, she’s happy about her feet and hands being back.
The spider pops down in front of her, points up to the edge of the pit. “Yeah, leopards, I know. I’m really the wrong person to try and scare with kitties.”
The spider grabs Michelle’s hair. Its body lengthens and grows and the four middle legs shrink into its torso. The mandibles slide back into its head and the eight eyes move toward each other until there are only two.
Sitting on Michelle’s lap is a little girl, maybe eight or nine. She wears a threadbare dress. The pattern is faded, and in the dim light of the pit it’s a mottled grey. The girl places her hand over Michelle’s mouth, then leans forward and whispers in her ear.
Michelle whispers back, “I can’t understand you.”
The girl pulls away from her, and a tear slides down her cheek. Michelle reaches up and wipes it away. “I’m sorry,” she says.
The girl puts her hands on either side of Michelle’s temples. The girl shuts her eyes and suddenly Michelle is slammed by a barrage of images.
Trees limbs whip her face as she runs. Vines grab at her legs, but she can’t stop. She can hear her own harsh breathing. Are they closer now? Close enough that they can reach out and . . . a claw rips open her back.
She
lot
of scratches. He pawed through that binder frequently, then. And his mouth had been moving as she had read the boy’s poorly scrawled letter—he’d obviously memorized it.
Wally’s simple tenderness and compassion made her want to hug him. She just wasn’t sure it made her want to go with him.
Jerusha sipped at her coffee. The cup rattled on the table as she set it down. “I’ve been looking at maps, and I called Babel and talked to her a bit after your phone call.” Jerusha saw the hope rising in Wally’s eyes with her statement, and she frowned in an effort to quash it.
You’re not doing this. You’re not.
“Wally, she’s really not happy with the idea of you going to Africa, and she’s doubly not happy with you taking another Committee member with you. . . .” Jerusha paused, wondering if she really wanted to say the next words. “
If
I did this,” she said, with heavy emphasis on the first word and a long pause after the phrase, “or no matter
who
ends up going with you, Wally, I agree with Babel that you don’t want to go directly into the PPA. What looks best to me would be flying into Tanzania and crossing over Lake Tanganyika, especially since you say that Lucien’s in Kalemie, right on the lake.”
The hope in Wally’s face was now transcendent and obvious. “So . . . you’re coming with me?”
Sure. I’m black, aren’t I?
she wanted to retort angrily, but she only shook her head. “I still have work here. All the marshlands that need to be reclaimed before the next big storm hits here . . .”
Alone. Out in the swamp. Alone.
Wally looked down at the table, dusted with the remnants of beignets. “I guess you make the plants grow a lot faster . . .” She saw him start to rise, his shoulders lifting. “Well, thanks for looking at those maps. That will help.” His face scrunched up stiffly, the stiff iron skin over his eyes furrowing. “So where’s this Tanzania place?”
Jerusha sighed. “Tanzania is . . .” she began. Stopped.
He won’t last five minutes out there on his own.
She realized that somewhere in the midst of this, she’d made the decision.
What’s here for you? You’ve nothing. No friends, just Committee work. And when Michelle dies, now
you’ll
get the blame for that, not the Committee. You have a chance to save a life. . . .
“Oh, hell,” she said. “I’ll show you on a map on the way over.”
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
Michelle reaches a hand out in front of her face. Five fingers.
That’s good.
She pulls her legs up to her chest, reaches down, feels her feet. “That’s better,” she says. Even though she’s in the pit again, she’s happy about her feet and hands being back.
The spider pops down in front of her, points up to the edge of the pit. “Yeah, leopards, I know. I’m really the wrong person to try and scare with kitties.”
The spider grabs Michelle’s hair. Its body lengthens and grows and the four middle legs shrink into its torso. The mandibles slide back into its head and the eight eyes move toward each other until there are only two.
Sitting on Michelle’s lap is a little girl, maybe eight or nine. She wears a threadbare dress. The pattern is faded, and in the dim light of the pit it’s a mottled grey. The girl places her hand over Michelle’s mouth, then leans forward and whispers in her ear.
Michelle whispers back, “I can’t understand you.”
The girl pulls away from her, and a tear slides down her cheek. Michelle reaches up and wipes it away. “I’m sorry,” she says.
The girl puts her hands on either side of Michelle’s temples. The girl shuts her eyes and suddenly Michelle is slammed by a barrage of images.
Trees limbs whip her face as she runs. Vines grab at her legs, but she can’t stop. She can hear her own harsh breathing. Are they closer now? Close enough that they can reach out and . . . a claw rips open her back.
She
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