George Martin - Suicide Kings

Tom tried to say something. He could only scream. Even in his unimaginable torment he knew that Meadows felt every bit of it, as strongly as he did. Yet the old hippie spoke as serenely as ever a martyr did through flames.

“Remember Dolores Michel, Tom?” he asked. “Our Lady of Pain? She couldn’t just take on herself the pain of others. She could also give that pain back.”

The Radical tried to raise a final fist of defiance. But that emotion crisped and burned to ash as well.

And in that agony, he died.

The quiet seemed unnatural. Noel became aware of the whimpers and cries from the wounded. The medal gleamed against Cameo’s chest, her hands still clutched around it.

But the demon was gone. There was a form lying on the ground. Noel got to his feet and tottered toward the body. He had to draw the gun with his left hand. The wound in his shoulder had left his right arm useless.

Shock brought him to a stop. Instead of a powerfully built man in his forties there was an emaciated figure with long grey hair and a beard like the remnants of a torn spiderweb. Blood streaked the body, drawing the insects. Noel holstered his gun and laid two fingers at the base of the man’s throat. There was a threadlike pulse. “He’s not dead,” he said. “Even after all that, the bastard Weathers is still not dead.”

“He is,” came Bugsy’s voice from over his shoulder. “That’s Mark Meadows.”

Michelle bubbled away the last of the Red House, swearing as she went. When she emerged from the rubble, the monster had vanished. The gunshots had died away too, as had the explosions.

She brushed away ash and cinders as she picked her way through the debris. Bugsy, Rusty, and Lilith stood grouped around a man lying on the ground. Bugsy was naked. She didn’t see Cameo or Gardener anywhere and that scared her.

“He should be killed,” Lilith was saying, with the matter-of-fact air of a person discussing whether to take the bus or a taxi.

The man on the ground was slight in build, almost emaciated. His face was lined and there was a shock of grey-blond hair on his head. A long, thin, scraggly beard covered what looked like a weak chin. He looked about the same age as Michelle’s father.

“But that ain’t Tom Weathers,” Rusty said, confused. “I dunno who that guy is, but he’s some other fella. And he ain’t that demon thing neither.”

“Yes and no,” said Bugsy. “He’s Mark Meadows. His ace is to turn into other people when he takes drugs, and he’s been on a really long, lousy trip. He’s the guy the Radical, I don’t know… hijacked, I guess.”

Rusty shook his head. “He’s just lying there. Doesn’t seem right to kill someone that helpless.”

Lilith rolled her silver eyes. “However it happened, it could happen again. Weathers is too dangerous to be allowed to live. And the only way to kill Weathers is to kill Meadows. They’re one and the same.”

“Well, not exactly,” Bugsy said, “but killing him is still the smart move. Even if he’s not Weathers now, he might turn back into Weathers when he wakes up.”

“I’ll do it,” said Lilith. “What’s one more death in the midst of

…” She gestured at the carnage around them.

Michelle stepped closer. She wondered again how Niobe could have fallen in love with this man. “There’s been enough killing here.”

“This is Tom Weathers,” Lilith said. “I will not allow him to simply walk away.”

“You don’t get to choose,” said Michelle. “You’re an assassin. You murder people in cold blood for money. And as far as I can tell, you feel no remorse for what you’ve done. That makes you a sociopath. You can cut the crusts off it all day long and you’ll never make that anything but a shit sandwich. Yes, I’ve killed people too, but I’ve never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me. I’ve never killed anyone in cold blood. I’ve never befriended someone so I could sneak in their room later and slit their throat. And just so we’re clear, I have never felt good about killing anyone, even when the choice was me or them. You can’t wash off what you’ve done with tea and crumpets and pretty clothes, Noel. That’s the biggest difference between us. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t mourn and regret what I’ve done.”

“I had no idea you were the only one among us who possessed such moral clarity and purity,” said Lilith. “By all means hug that close, Bubbles. As for Weathers… do whatever you want. It’s on your heads.” She walked away into the darkness.

Then Meadows groaned and opened his eyes. He sat up and looked up at them, dazed.

“Time to shit or get off the pot,” said Bugsy. “He fucking killed Cameo. In Paris he killed Garou and the owl guy and a bunch of security. He almost killed Klaus. If it weren’t for him and the Nshombos, Gardener would be alive. And how many more? Hundreds? Thousands? Mark Meadows may not be Tom Weathers, but he created him.”

“I did,” Mark Meadows said softly. There were tears in his big blue eyes.

“Seriously,” Michelle told him. “Don’t contribute.”

“If things were reversed,” Bugsy went on, “if it was us sitting there crying, Weathers would be peeling our brains open, scooping out the innards, and pissing down our necks while he laughed his ass off. He would have killed all of us as soon as look at us.”

“Yes,” said Michelle, “and if we kill him now, we might as well be Weathers. If we kill him now, it will be revenge, pure and simple.”

“Fine with me,” Bugsy snapped back. “What do you suggest, Bubbles?”

“Mercy,” she said. She looked at Rusty. He was holding his arm, which hung at an odd angle. Tears ran down his cheeks, leaving streaks of brown. His pain was naked and raw. So was Bugsy’s. And Michelle had no power to fix that. “Rusty,” she said, “how do you vote?”

Friday,

January 1

New Year’s day

The Red House

Bunia, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

“You’re still naked,” bubbles said.

“Yeah,” Bugsy said. “I keep meaning to go get my pants, but… I’ll get to it.”

Ellen lay where she had fallen, the golden medallion of the Lady of Pain in the grass at her side. The ruins of Nick’s hat rested under her head like a pillow. Her ruined face was peaceful. Like she was asleep. He kept expecting her to shudder the way she had when a chill touched her.

“She did it,” Bugsy said. “She broke the fucking Radical. None of us could have, and she… she did it.”

They were silent.

“We should leave,” Bubbles said.

“I will,” Bugsy said. “I’ll go. Just… just give us a minute.”

“You need a hospital,” said Noel, “now.” Under his breath, but not so quietly Wally couldn’t hear, he added, “And a sodding blacksmith, for all the good it will do.”

“Wait,” said Wally. It came out more like a gurgle. He shambled toward the garden and its pair of baobab trees, wheezing with the effort of every step. New pain lanced up his side; bone fragments shifting through his innards.

Behind him, Bubbles said, “What is he doing?”

“Saying good-bye,” said Noel.

Ghost came running up. She took his hand. He tried not to lean on her, so that he wouldn’t hurt her if he fell.

They stopped beneath the baobabs, where the first light of sunrise cast long shadows across the battlefield. Wally tried to reach up to pick seeds, but one arm didn’t work at all, and when he raised the other over his head, the pain took his breath away. Ghost saw what he was trying to do. Her feet left the ground. She floated up through the branches like an angel, picking seeds as she went.

To the tree, Wally said, “She’s a good kid, Jerusha. I think she’s gonna be okay. You woulda liked her. I’ll tell her all about you.” He looked around, at Noel and Bubbles and the rest. “I’ll tell everybody about you.”