Busted Flush Read online

  “I’m sorry you were worried,” she said. “But the only way you can really keep me safe is to not send me out here at all. And that would just piss me off.”

  “I know, and you can get killed crossing the street at home. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop worrying.”

  She smiled. “I love you, too, John. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. Get some sleep, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  NEW YORK CITY

  Kate and Ana shared an apartment on the Lower East Side. They went home from the airport, and Ana crawled into bed for another round of sleep. Kate checked in on her, then went to see John.

  While she and Ana had gone for austere college chic in a close-quarters studio, John lived in his mother’s penthouse overlooking Central Park. Peregrine was in Los Angeles for the second season of American Hero and had given her son the run of the place.

  Kate felt the disconnect every time she went there. She’d grown up with Peregrine on TV and all over the covers of magazines. She was an icon, probably the most visible and famous wild carder ever, with her stunning presence and spectacular wings. And here was Kate, dating her son.

  The penthouse was beyond posh. It wasn’t opulent or over the top—that was just it. Everything was tasteful and perfect, from the clean lines of the gray leather sofa set and glass coffee table, to the giant arrangement of hyacinths on the twelve-seater dining-room table. Real flowers, not silk, changed every week by the housekeeper. Last week had been orchids.

  John grew up with this. He walked in here, and it was home. Kate still felt like she’d landed in a photo spread in Vogue. She was getting used to it—it was definitely easy to get used to. But sometimes she wondered if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole.

  She set her bag by the wall of the living room and took a deep breath, happy to be anywhere that didn’t smell like a third world country.

  “Hello?” she called. Her voice echoed.

  “Hey!” John appeared from the kitchen, a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. She was on him in a heartbeat, arms over his shoulders, pulling herself into a kiss. Awkwardly, hands full, he hugged her back. Their kiss was warm and long.

  “Hi,” she said when they managed to separate.

  “Hey,” he said, his smile bright. “Let me put this down so we can do this right.”

  John set the bottle on the coffee table, where two glasses were waiting. Kate pulled him down to the sofa next to her.

  The light from the other room glinted off the lump in his forehead. Sekhmet. A scarab-like joker living in John’s head. She gave him his power—he wasn’t an ace on his own, not anymore. But Kate didn’t like to think about it, that she and John were never really alone. Right now, moments like these, John was all hers.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” John said. “You still look beat.”

  “I’m just starting to wake up.”

  She pulled her leg across his lap, half straddling him, and kissed him again. She rested her hand on his cheek, ran it across his curly hair. His lips moved with hers while his hands crept under her shirt, pressing against her back. She drew on his warmth, and the tension faded. They sighed together.

  “Welcome home,” he said.

  “Thanks. It’s really, really good to be here.” She could curl up in his arms and never leave.

  “Yeah. I worry less when you’re with me.” He ducked his gaze, hiding a smile. “If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d have lasted this long.”

  So serious. Of course he was, this wasn’t a game. The pundits sometimes joked: what, you kids think you can save the world? But they could. They did. Little parts of it at a time.

  Not wanting the anxiety to creep back, she joked, “And if it weren’t for you, I’d have a million dollars and be the designated ace guardian of San Jose.”

  He laughed, and she laughed with him, their heads bowed together. He said, “You really want to be the designated ace guardian of San Jose? Showing up for your guest appearance on Dancing with the Stars?”

  “Oh, my God, no. Poor Stuntman. No wonder he went to work for the government.”

  John’s eyes held uncertainty again. Still worrying.

  “John, I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t want to be anywhere but right here.”

  Their next kiss was slow, studious almost, like neither one of them wanted to miss a single sensation. He worked her shirt off, and she helped, raising her arms, leaning into his touch as his hands slid up her back. He dropped her shirt on the floor, then tipped her back onto the sofa, and it was some time before they actually made it to bed.

  Kate heard a voice. She thought she was dreaming, some kind of weird, lucid dream, because her eyes were closed, but she felt awake. Familiarity intruded. John’s voice, muttering.

  But it wasn’t John. He wasn’t speaking English. She opened her eyes.

  He was looking at her, but it wasn’t him. Part of him belonged to Sekhmet, and sometimes she took over. The look in his eyes became older, harder, more experienced. That other gaze was looking at her now, with an expression that was both sad and annoyed. The situation was complicated: Isra the joker had been waiting for a great ace with whom she could join her powers and become Sekhmet, the handmaiden of Ra. But John didn’t become Ra. He’d been cured of the wild card virus. Isra might call herself Sekhmet, but she never got the power she’d longed for. There was no Ra, now. Her frustration with John, and with those around him, was plain, whenever she came to the fore.

  The voice whispered in Egyptian. Kate wished she knew what she was saying. She was afraid the joker was saying, “This won’t last.”

  Self-consciously, Kate pulled up the sheet to cover her chest. “I wish you’d leave us alone,” she whispered.

  Isra heard her. “You’re children. Just children. You don’t understand.”

  Kate frowned. “That’s not fair. After what we’ve been through, after what you’ve put John through—”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’s such a boy.”

  “No. You ask too much of him.” But how could she argue with something that was so much a part of him?

  “You are just a child.”

  Angry, Kate started to sit up, ready to yell another retort. But John closed his eyes, sighed, and seemed to sleep again.

  She touched John’s arm. “John? John, wake up.” She kissed his bare shoulder, then again, until he stirred.

  “Hm? What’s wrong? Is it the phone?” He thought Jayewardene was calling with a new disaster. He started to sit up, but she held him back. It was John this time, looking out of his own eyes.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you up.”

  Only half awake, he stroked her cheek absently. “You okay?”

  She thought about telling him he’d been talking in his sleep—or that Sekhmet had been talking in his sleep. She’d told him on other nights when it had happened. This time, she didn’t. “I had a nightmare or something. It’s nothing.”

  Then John’s phone did ring. They both lurched at the noise. Reflexively, he grabbed it and listened. His frown deepened. Jayewardene. Had to be.

  “Got it. Okay. We’ll send someone down,” he said, then hung up.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “There’s been an explosion in West Texas. Feds are saying a grain elevator went up, but that’s not what the people on the ground are saying.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Terrorists. Sabotaging the oil.”

  “Oh, my God. And we’re going?” She pushed the covers back. But John shook his head.

  “Lilith and Bugsy can go. They can check things out and report back before we’ve even gotten to the airport.”

  “But I want to go—they’ll need people, there’s got to be some kind of rescue operation—”

  “We don’t know the story yet, so you’re not going.”

  “John, I want to go. If you’re trying to keep me safe—”r />
  He smirked at her. “Are you ever going to stop arguing with me?”

  “You ought to be used to it by now.” She tried on a smile. Hoped he knew she was teasing.

  He ignored the phone for the moment, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. Which was just what she needed. She leaned into him and kissed back.

  And for a moment, everything was just fine.

  Double Helix

  AN ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION

  Melinda M. Snodgrass

  “I THOUGHT WE WERE going to Texas,” Bugsy says, seconds after we arrive in the bar on the twenty-eighth floor of the Beekman Tower Hotel. We’re still in our party clothes. The blogger surprised me by actually knowing how to dress. Unfortunately the piping on his tuxedo shirt draws attention to his burgeoning paunch.

  Through the wide window I can see tendrils of fog swirling around the Brooklyn Bridge. The long gray streamers are like fingers plucking at the guy wires, and for an instant I consider what that music would sound like.

  “We are. And while John might prefer for us to gallop off like white knights, I prefer that we go smart. We need information about this explosion.”

  “It was big, and we sure as shit know it wasn’t a grain elevator.” He rubs at his scalp, and gives me his signature sneer.

  “Yes. And I don’t think you’d look good bald, toothless, and bleeding from your eyes, ass, and nose.”

  He blanches and takes his hand out of his brown hair. “Nuclear?”

  “I’m going to find out.”

  “How? If the government is trying to cover it up—”

  “They’re idiots to try. There are seismic monitors all over the world. We work for the UN. One of our affiliated organizations is the International Atomic Energy Agency.”

  “Will they tell us?”

  I lie. “I have a boyfriend who works for them.”

  There’s a central area in the room delineated by art deco–style metal columns. It holds the bar, some comfortable sofas, and a baby grand piano. I take Bugsy’s hand, lead him over, and push him down onto a couch. “And while I talk to him you’re going to have a drink and relax. Try the green apple martini. It’s really good.”

  I retreat into the observation area on the left, and sink down at one of the small tables. I use the Silver Helix phone. The signal is heavily scrambled and it will put me directly through to Flint. I also keep a close watch, and sure enough a small green wasp lands on a small serving table.

  “Yes.”

  “Gruss Gott, Liebling.” I give it a throaty purr.

  “Ja,” comes Flint’s reply. I love that I work for someone smart. It helps me continue to suffer the Committee.

  “I need to know about the explosion in Pyote, Texas,” I continue in German. If a bug could look disappointed this one would. The wasp gives a sharp buzz and flies back into the main bar.

  Over the phone I can hear papers rustling, and I reflect on generational differences. I only carry a pen because they can make quite a decent weapon. My notes are on my Palm, my BlackBerry, my phone, and most often in my head.

  “They’re still crunching the data from the monitoring stations. I can’t give you the exact magnitude yet.”

  “Just tell me if it could have been conventional explosives.”

  “No.” Flint anticipates my need. “Do you need a suit?”

  “I’ll need two.”

  “How will you explain that?”

  “You’re my boyfriend in the IAEA.”

  “Right. One more thing. Could it be Siraj?”

  “If we . . . they have a nuke and Bahir doesn’t know about it, then Bahir’s usefulness is definitely at an end. Ciao.”

  The natural flora of Texas burns well. Our boots are soon streaked with black soot. In the distance a single tree stands naked and twisted, ghostly in the light of a nearly full moon. In places there are black hummocks of varying sizes. Closer examination reveals dead jackrabbits, coyotes, cattle, and a few horses. Lilith’s long hair is plastered to my sweat-damp cheeks. Because of the helmet I can’t pull it loose. I purse my lips and try to direct a puff of air, but I can’t get the right angle.

  It’s not just the heat of a Texas night or the bulky lead-lined suit that creates my discomfort. I feel like my skin is crawling, prickling, burning. Even though I know the various radioactive particles aren’t actually penetrating my suit, I decide we’re not going to stay long.

  We can’t get close to the former town of Pyote. We know it’s crawling with federal agents and scientists from the NRC because at my suggestion Bugsy had unlimbered a few hundred wasps before donning the suit. They have been scouting for us. What they’ve seen is a large crater, a handful of blackened buildings, and dozens of burning oil wells. Ironically, the grain elevator is still standing. Occasionally a National Guard helicopter goes thrumming by overhead, the wash from the rotors stirring the ash, searchlights sweeping across the devastation. So far none of them have spotted us, but it’s only a matter of time.

  I become aware of a new sound over my helmet’s radio. It’s Bugsy’s teeth chattering. “Shit, this is what it looked like. In Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” A handful of his wasps crawl across the back of his gloved hand. They don’t look well.

  “Exactly like it.” I pause for an instant, then add, “Only there were a lot more people and buildings in Japan.”

  He turns so he’s facing me and we can see each other through the faceplates. He looks hurt and angry and very young. “You know what I mean. This is awful. People need to know about this. They need to see what one of these bombs can do. It’s been sixty years. Everybody’s forgotten.”

  “You go, tiger.” But it’s all bravado. There’s a quivering in my gut like I’ve never experienced before. Such is the power of The Bomb.

  Bugsy turns away. Shame is like a taste on the back of my tongue. This is his country, and someone has attacked it in a particularly horrible way. I lay a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m scared, too.”

  In this direction we can see a plume of fire. The hot wind racing across the West Texas plains bends and dips the flames, revealing the black shadow of a pump jack. I wonder how long the steel can withstand the heat from the burning oil.

  Bugsy points at the burning oil well. “Do you suppose that’s why they did it?”

  “These fields are almost played out.” I shake my head. “There wasn’t enough oil here to make any appreciable difference.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “As a warning? Next time it will be Alaska or the refineries in the Gulf.” I put an arm around his shoulders. “We need to get out of here.”

  I-20 runs right by Pyote. A portion of the interstate is now inside the federal cordon, so the vast emptiness of West Texas seems even emptier given the dearth of traffic. It’s also 1:20 A.M. as Bugsy and I stand in the coin car wash in Pecos hosing off each other’s suits. We’re on the outskirts of the town, which seems to consist entirely of fast-food joints, auto body shops, and junkyards conveniently located for the cars that can’t be fixed. Every small American town seems to possess this leprosy as if it were a protective asteroid belt shielding the core planet. Not that the center represents any kind of nirvana.

  Once the suits have been sluiced off we climb out. The pungent reek of male sweat fills the still air. I’m hoping Bugsy’s stink is so strong that he won’t notice my particular musk. I can change the form, but my body chemistry remains the same, and men’s and women’s sweat smells different. I know from my training that we need to rinse off any errant particles that might have penetrated the suit so we turn the hoses on each other.

  The water pours out of the hose at high pressure. I actually find the pounding soothing on the sore muscles in my back. My T-shirt and jeans cling to my skin. Behind my lids it feels like I’ve used eye drops made from sand. It doesn’t occur to me until I turn around that getting a soaking as Lilith will provoke quite such a reaction from my companion. Bugsy’s eyes are unfocused, and he’s sporting
a gigantic hard-on that presses against the fabric of his wet trousers. I can understand why—when you’re faced with this much death the urge to life is strong. It’s also Bugsy. He doesn’t see much action. A man who changes into bugs at stressful or exciting moments would not be the ideal lover.

  “You want to . . . ?” His voice is husky. “It would only take a few minutes,” he says.

  “An excellent reason for me to say—no.”

  A car glides past and I realize a fraction of a second too late that it’s a police cruiser. My gut clenches and I reach for Bugsy, but the cop has spotted us and we’re pinned in the glare of his spotlight. The lights start flashing, and he noses up into the car wash bay.

  The cop is a large, shadowy form standing prudently behind his open car door. “What are you two up to?” The drawl is hard and suspicious.

  I’m acutely aware of the Hazmat suits, and I can’t seem to think. Bugsy steps in. He is quick. I’ll give him that. “Uh . . . wet T-shirt competition. We’re practicing.” There’s a faint interrogatory rise to the words. I hope the cop misses it.

  I also hope he’s a redneck and not a Baptist. He shines his flashlight on my chest. The leer dispels any doubt as to which camp he belongs. “Well, you two better get on out of here. There’s a bunch of Feds just down the road, and they’re detaining everybody who ain’t local—and some who are.”

  “Thanks, sir,” Bugsy says. The cop steps back into his car and drives away.

  “Good save,” I offer the compliment because I want to get Hive out of Texas, and I’m afraid it won’t be easy.

  “You didn’t say anything,” Bugsy says.

  “I was the prop.” I’m looking for the right approach when Bugsy makes it unnecessary.

  “Can you get me home? I gotta write my blog.”

  “And tell the world what?”

  “That a nuke went off here.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  I study him. He really doesn’t get it that sometimes—often—the truth is overrated. But I take him home to Washington, D.C.