As she watched, the larger boy’s form seemed to shift and change, and a strange beast dropped to all fours on the bank where he’d stood: huge and hunched, a hyena larger than any lion, misshapen, monstrous, with gigantic black jaws. It opened them and roared challenge across the river.
Leopard Men. Child aces. Jerusha’s stomach churned.
The man in the leopard fez held up his hand in front of the were-monster. He started across the bridge, smiling. “You!” he called to Jerusha in heavily accented English. “It will do you no good to run.”
Jerusha closed her eyes. Her plants . . .
She imagined those roots on the western bank withering, dying, turning brittle and releasing their hold on the earth. As the Leopard Man shifted form, as the snarling, feral creature faced her on the bridge, Jerusha dropped, hugging the vines. There was a loud snap as the support for the improvised bridge gave way, and Jerusha was suddenly in the water, still clinging to the vines as the current took her downstream.
She heard a feline yowl of distress behind her. As she desperately clawed her way forward, she felt the children pulling at the vines also. As soon as her feet could touch the mud at the bottom of the river, she had the supporting tendrils wrapped around the trees on the other side release as well. “Let it go!” she shouted to the children as she clambered up the muddy slope. They tossed the remnant of the bridge into the river. “Run!” She gestured at the children. “Into the trees!”
She could hear the shouts from the opposite bank, and the click of weapons being readied. She didn’t dare look behind. She threw herself into the underbrush as automatic weapons cut loose, the bullets tearing chunks from the trunks and leaves all around her. She crawled forward. The firing stopped abruptly.
Gasping for breath, she chanced a look behind her. On the far side of the river, three of the soldiers were dragging a wet and furious Leopard Man from the water. The monstrous hyena thing was only a boy again, and the emaciated child simply stared across to where they’d vanished. They’d cross the river in pursuit, Jerusha was certain, but they’d have to find another way across. She’d bought herself time, but nothing else. If they could find help . . . Make that telephone call . . .
A hand touched hers: Cesar. “Follow me, Bibbi Jerusha. They’re all waiting for you.”
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Siraj’s money was deposited in the bank. Monsieur Pelletier was very popular. Mathias had been introduced as the location scout for Monsieur Pelletier, and was set up in a Hilton in downtown Kongoville. Noel had checked the room for bugs and found a boatload. The Leopard Men and the Chinese and Indians were definitely listening. Good.
A portion of Prince Siraj’s money went to buy a house on the outskirts of the city. Noel settled Mollie there, well supplied with food, Cokes, and a stack of romantic comedy DVDs. Jaako was with Cumming in Chicago. Noel didn’t want to think about how they would amuse themselves.
Noel had gone into the center of the city to monitor the traffic and security around the bank during the night. Tomorrow he would show Mollie the yacht. He hoped he wouldn’t have to actually get her into the hold of the boat. All she had to do was open a doorway.
On the way he’d checked in on Mathias and found him eating a room-service meal and reading Proust. Whatever floats your boat, Noel thought, and he realized that what floated his boat was just what he was doing. Pitting himself against implacable foes, and finding the victory.
He loved the game. It had been hard to leave it. But he loved Niobe more. And their son to come.
On the Lualaba River, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Wally took to calling the little girl Ghost. She haunted him.
Every waking moment of the day, she stalked him. Patiently. Relentlessly. And, like rubbing a lamp to summon a genie, merely closing his eyes for a few minutes brought her out of hiding. Always with that big knife.
It didn’t matter how far he traveled, nor how fast. Pushing the throttle of his stolen boat as far as it could go made no difference. Ghost kept up with him.
Sometimes, if he turned his head just right, and strained to see the riverbank through the corners of his eyes, he’d catch a brief glimpse of something pale drifting through the trees. Pacing the boat. Waiting for him to nod off again.
He’d tried sleeping in the boat, in the middle of the river. It made no difference. She floated across water as easily as she floated through the thickest jungle. In the end he gave up on that, because the boat didn’t have an anchor, so sleeping there presented additional risks beyond getting stabbed in his sleep.
And that was the problem. If he wasn’t traveling through the jungle—during rainy season, patches of skin crumbling away, new rust spots appearing daily, and with a dwindling supply of S.O.S pads—Ghost’s knife wouldn’t have been much of a problem against his iron skin. But he was. And sooner or later Ghost would figure it out; she was too persistent not to.
This far he’d been lucky. She kept aiming for the neck. Trying to slit his throat. How long before she found the holes in his shoulder, his arm, his legs?
Wally did the only thing he could: he didn’t sleep. Jerusha would have told him it was pointless. That nobody could go without sleep forever. And she would have been right. It was impossible not to sleep.
The cottony fog of exhaustion filling his head made the simplest tasks—reading a map, steering the boat, pitching a tent—almost insurmountable challenges. It felt like he was doing everything underwater, or that there was a layer of glass between him and the world. Two sleepless nights had turned him into a zombie. How far to Bunia?
But he pushed on. Because the longer he stayed at it, the farther he drew Ghost away from Jerusha and the kids. Ghost was a problem for Wally, but Jerusha wouldn’t have a chance against her.
He traveled the river from sunrise to sunset, from the first light of morning until the last glow of sunset faded in the west. And during the long, dark nights, he huddled by his campfire, fighting an exhaustion more powerful than any crocodile.
Thursday,
December 17
Paris, France
Simoon smiled, leaning against Bugsy’s arm. The soft Parisian fog was bitterly cold, but it looked gorgeous. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, the thick air making it seem ghostly. The steam rising from his cup of coffee vanished into the air, but the smell of roasted beans and the lingering taste of butter pastry and powdered sugar were immediate and oddly comforting. They walked slowly as dawn gradually turned up the dimmer on the whole world. The low clouds effectively hid east.
“It’s beautiful,” Simoon said. “I mean, oh, my God, I’m in Paris! I always wanted to come here, but I never . . . I mean . . .”
You thought there would be time, Bugsy thought. You didn’t figure on getting slaughtered before you could hit college. Who does? “It’s nice,” he said out loud.
She looked up at him, concern in her expression. The earring dangled. In the Paris morning, the one earring looked like the walk of shame. Someone seeing them together would think they’d been up all night talking and drinking and fucking and singing soft songs to each other. All the things you were supposed to do in Paris.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Sure. I just get a little nervous when it’s too cold to really bug out.”
“Why’s it too cold?”
“This?” he said, nodding to the fog, the frost, the pavement gone slick and dark. “When I’m swarming, I’ve got a lot of surface area. I’d go hypothermic in about a minute. There was this one Christmas when I was eighteen, I thought it would be funny to sneak into the neighbor’s house?”
“Let me guess,” Simoon said. “There was a girl.”
“And a lot of eggnog,” he said. “It wasn’t a good decision. Anyway, by the time I had enough of me back together that I was more or less human again, they had to take me to the hospital.”
“And that?
??s really what you were thinking about?”
Ellen’s face looked young with Simoon in it. Would she understand? Could someone who’d barely started her life and died see how sad it was to walk through a Paris morning and know she’d never be able to do it all for real? “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I’m thinking about.”
She didn’t push the issue. Maybe she was talking with Ellen in the weird back-of-the-head way they did. Here was a fucked-up thing. Romantic morning in Paris, coffee and fog, a beautiful woman on his arm. Possibly two beautiful women on his arm, depending how you counted it. And he felt lonely.
They made their way back toward the Louvre in relative silence. A cat scampered across the street before them. A boy on a moped skimmed through the growing traffic, laughing and earning a volley of honks and shaken fists from the people in cars. By the time they reached the museum, Bugsy’s coffee had gone tepid.
On the Congo River, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The pit is warm from the decaying bodies. The smell makes Michelle cough and gag. She crawls to Adesina. But when she tries to embrace her, she finds herself holding a wormy creature. Repelled, Michelle pushes the creature away.
“Adesina,” she says. But she doesn’t really want to see her. The smell and the decay and the rotting flesh make her want to throw up.
Michelle jerked awake. She was lying on one of the short bunks in the boat cabin. The light coming through the windows was grey. It was still raining. She got up, raked a hand through her hair, and quickly braided it. Joey would be ready to get some sleep.
As she came topside, she saw Joey huddled under a tarp. She looked very frail, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Whatever had been bothering her clearly hadn’t stopped when they left Kongoville.
Michelle grabbed one of the ponchos hanging next to the cabin doorway. It was already wet and she shivered a bit as she pulled it on. She pulled the hood up, then carefully made her way across the slippery deck to Joey.
“You should go belowdecks and get some sleep.”
Joey didn’t even blink as the rain hit her face. “I can’t sleep.”
Michelle sat down next to her. “Of course you can sleep. Go lie down. You’ll be fine.”
Joey stared out at the jungle that was slipping by. “You know what’s out there?” Her voice was cold.
“No,” Michelle replied.
“Death. If you walked out there, the fucking ground would bleed.” Joey grabbed her hand. “Can’t you feel it? Not even a little bit? Fuck, Bubbles, it smells. Decay and rot.” Joey squeezed her hand. Anyone else it might have hurt. She was strong for such a little thing. But Michelle was at a loss for how to help her.
Juliet would know what to do. But she wasn’t here, and for that, Michelle was very glad. If the number of bodies Joey was sensing was any indication, there had been massacres here.
Michelle looked into the jungle, hoping to see anything of the destruction that Joey was feeling. And silently, the jungle looked back.
In the Jungle, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
It was late afternoon, and they stood on a ridge overlooking a deep valley. They were trying to determine the best route down the face of the slope when Waikili touched her arm. She only needed the look on his blind face to know.
“Are they . . . ?” she asked Waikili. The boy nodded. “They’re close?” she asked. He nodded again, silently, and her stomach knotted in fear. Cesar was standing alongside her, and she saw the muscles twist along his jawline. “Cesar, take the children and get them down into the valley. Make them hurry. I’ll . . . I’ll try to stop them here.”
Cesar swung the weapon he carried from his shoulders. “I am staying here with you, Bibbi Jerusha.”
“So am I,” another of the older girls—Gamila—echoed, and suddenly they were all saying it, gathering close around her.
“No,” she said firmly. “You can’t. At least, not all of you. We have three weapons: Cesar, Gamila, and you, Naadir, all right, you three stay. But the rest of you must go. Quickly, now! You don’t have time, and I don’t want any argument from anyone. Go! Someone take Waikili’s hand; make sure that the young ones don’t get lost, don’t spill Eason on the ground . . .”
They obeyed, if reluctantly, and she watched the knot of children slip away into the foliage downslope as she wondered if she would see them again. Cesar, Gamila, and Naadir gathered around her, looking fierce and brave . . . though she could see the fear in their eyes and in the way their muscles tensed as they wrestled the heavy weapons in their arms.
“Spread out here at the ridgetop,” she told them. “Make sure you have a good view of our trail up the slope, they’ll be following it. And get yourselves behind the big trees. I’m going to stand here at the top, where they can see me. If they attack me, or if you see me attack them, then I want you to open fire. Now, listen to me—make it a short burst, just one, and then I want you to leave. Do you hear me? I want you to go find the others. Don’t look back, don’t worry about me. Just run. Promise me you’ll do that.”
They responded with solemn nods of their heads. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s get each of you set.”
The first sign she had of their pursuers was a flitting glance of a leopard fez downslope from her, the man’s form rising from the fronds of the undergrowth. He ran a hand over his mouth, staring at Jerusha, standing at the top of the ridge in the end of the trampled path left by a hundred feet.
He ducked back down again. She heard him call to someone.
A few minutes later, others appeared: three teenaged soldiers behind him armed with automatic weapons, the muzzles pointed at her. Jerusha was acutely aware that she was not Rusty, that if those weapons fired, she would likely be dead. The Leopard Man smiled up at Jerusha, his eyes masked behind aviator sunglasses, the fez bright in a shaft of sunlight piercing the canopy of the trees. “Ah, the plant lady,” he said in his accented English. “We meet once more, with no river to protect you this time.” The smile vanished. “I want the children you have stolen from us,” he said. “Give them to me, and I will let you go.”
“No, you won’t. That’s a lie,” Jerusha told him.
The smile touched his lips again. “The truth then. Give them to me, and I will make your death a quick and painless one.”
“You can’t have them,” Jerusha told him, and with that she opened her mind to Gardener’s wild card power.
She’d placed the seeds carefully, scattered along their trail. She’d touched each of them so that she could feel them in her mind, could caress the coiled power within. Now she wrenched them open: angrily, coldly. Vines sprang up from the floor of the jungle as Cesar’s, Gamila’s, and Naadir’s guns fired. Two of the soldiers went down; Jerusha wrapped a vine around the Leopard Man, feeling the vines slip as he shape-shifted. She tightened them harder, directing the growth of the plant: it whipped violently to the left, slamming the were-leopard against the massive trunk of an umbrella tree. She heard the ugly sound of its skull hitting wood, and suddenly there was only an unconscious man snared in her vines.
The gunfire had stopped; she hoped the children had obeyed her, but she didn’t dare look back to see if they were fleeing. Two more soldiers had appeared—she caught the duo in more vines before they could fire, snatching their weapons away, wrapping them so that they couldn’t move, and lashing them to the ground.
A grey-yellow shape bounded toward her from the left: the monstrous hyena thing. She chased the creature with the vines, but they were too slow. It roared as it came, its terrible mouth a snaggle of ivory teeth. A tree erupted from the ground in front of it, but the beast dodged to the side, and the branches that snatched at the creature slid harmlessly along its flank.
Jerusha plunged a hand into her seed belt, but she knew she was dead, that it would be on her in a moment.
More gunfire rattled from the ridge behind her, tearing the ground directly in front of the creature. The
were-beast snarled in defiance, a roar that made the hair stand on the back of Jerusha’s neck, but the creature turned and leaped away back down the slope, vanishing into the undergrowth.
Far down the slope, she saw the second child for an instant: with his gaunt, haunted face. Then he turned and followed the other boy down the hill.
It seemed to be over. The forest was hushed, even the birds silent after the clamor of the guns. Jerusha went to the Leopard Man, snagged in his cage of vines. She heard Cesar scrambling down toward her and she waved him back. “Go to the others.”
“You need me.” He hefted the gun. “For this.”
She knew he would do it, that he was more than willing to kill the man, that he knew as well as she did that there was no option here. She also knew that Cesar was still only a child—a child who had seen too much death and violence already. He didn’t need to be part of this. He didn’t need this memory to color all the others. She shook her head. “No.”
“If you leave them alive, they will come after us again,” he told her, his dark eyes stern. His lips pressed tightly together into a dark line.
“Go to the others,” she told him again. “Make certain that they’re all right, that there aren’t more soldiers after them. That creature may come after them next.”
Cesar stared at her for several seconds. Finally, he shrugged and went back up to the ridge; she heard him call to the other two.
“Let me go, plant lady, and I promise you I will leave,” the Leopard Man said. Jerusha turned to him. He was gazing at her. Blood drooled from a cut on his forehead and one eye was swelling shut. “I will take my men with me. Let me go. I swear this. The truth.”
“How do I know you will keep your promise?”
The man licked bloodied lips. “I give you my word. I swear to God. I swear on the lives of my wife and children, who will weep if I die.”
“You have children?”
The man nodded. “Yes. In my pocket, there are pictures. I could show you.”