33
Double Helix
THEY HAVE SOWN THE WIND, AND
THEY SHALL REAP THE WHIRLWIND
Melinda M. Snodgrass
SPROUT WAS COMPLETELY AGREEABLE when I said I’d come to take her to her daddy. But now we are standing in Jackson Square and no daddy is in evidence. Her head is jerking from side to side like a hummingbird guarding its stash as she scans the crowds of emergency workers.
The sky looks like boiling soap scum and the hot wind, heavy with moisture, shakes blossoms off the azaleas. There is the roar of diesel engines as earth-moving equipment scoops up and deposits sandbags. I can see Ana standing on the top of the river walk frowning out across the river. I spot Bubbles walking swiftly beside a man in a suit. Something about him screams “politician.” She’s making good time because she’s surprisingly slim, a testament to how much energy she’s been expending.
Since she has met Drake and dealt with Drake it seems prudent to explain the situation to her. But I am currently Bahir and she knows Bahir from the battles in Egypt last year. She’s just as likely to flatten me with a bubble as listen to me. Which means—
“What the f*ck!?”
A warbling tenor wail breaks across my musings. It’s Bugsy and he’s spotted me.
“Holy shit! Bubbles! Ana!”
The covey of aces are pounding across the flagstones and cobblestones with murder in their eyes. I allow the muscles and tissue to soften and flow. The ace stampede stutters, slows, and comes to a confused and milling halt.
“What the f*ck?” Bugsy says again.
“Good you should ask,” I say, and thrust Sprout toward them. “This is Tom Weathers’s daughter. Weathers and the People’s Paradise have the nuclear ace.” They are goggling at me. “You know. Drake. Little Fat Boy, so to speak.” It’s a terrible pun. They don’t seem to get that, either.
“You’re that magician,” Ana says. “The one who kicked our butts on American Hero.”
“I’m an agent for Her Majesty’s government.” At least until Bruckner reports to Flint, I think. “I operate in the Middle East. Recently I’ve been working in Africa.”
“But you tried to kill me,” Bugsy whines.
“Well, not really. If I had wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You were making a dreadful hash of things, and I had hoped to make you reconsider your involvement. Therefore it had to look good.”
“Hey! We saved those people—”
“Not now!” I let it snap with command and they subside. “Weathers is a dangerous psychopath and President Nshombo and his sister are equally murderous. They now have a living nuclear bomb.” I overenunciate the final three words. “I’ve left a message for Weathers that I have Sprout and he’ll get her back when I get Drake.”
Hearing her name the woman suddenly says, “Where’s my daddy? Is he coming soon?”
Bubbles can’t help herself. She puts an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “He’ll be here soon. Would you like something to eat? Are you hungry?” And I realize that Bubbles really is kind.
“Actually we stopped in Iceland and I bought her breakfast while I waited for the sun to rise here,” I say.
“Why us?” Ana asks in her blunt way. “Why bring her here?”
“Because Weathers will try to kill me rather than make the exchange. I need your powers. Individually none of you can stand against Weathers, but together . . .”
“Yeah, well, I say you can just go f*ck yourself,” Bugsy says. “Why should we risk our lives?”
“Because Weathers won’t make a distinction between me and thee.” I give him a smile. “And my message strongly suggested that the Committee was behind this.”
“You f*cker,” Bugsy says miserably.
“You should broaden your repertoire of invective,” I say. “How do I get a cup of coffee?”
The day is dragging by. I sit on one of the benches in Jackson Square drinking the strong, chicory-flavored coffee and setting myself abuzz eating sugar-drenched beignets. Around my feet is a halo of crushed butts. I ran out of the Turkish cigarettes hours ago, and have been making do with Lucky Strikes. Ana, Gardener, and more disturbingly, an army of the dead are still working to raise the levees. Bugsy and I are keeping watch for Weathers. I’ve warned Bugsy that Weathers will do something surprising and to consider every possible avenue for an arrival, no matter how remote.
My phone rings. “Hi, babe,” I say as I answer. I know it’s Niobe. We’ve been calling each other every hour.
“Oh, Noel.” Her voice is husky with tears. “It’s your dad.”
It feels like a fist has closed hard around my guts. “Is he—” I can’t say the word.
“No, but he’s unconscious. I think it won’t be long now.”
I feel like a butterfly on a collector’s pin. I want to be with her. I want to see him. I need to be here for Drake. All I can manage to say is, “I don’t know what to do,” and there’s a five-year-old’s wail in the words.
“He said to tell you to ‘live forward.’ Then he was quiet for a long time, and then he murmured something. I think he was still talking to you. He said ‘for love is strong as death.’ Do you know what he means?”
The agony in my belly is gone. My throat is tight and my chest tight, but I’m oddly calm. “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”
“Are you coming home?”
“No. I need to be here for Drake.”
“Then I’ll be here for your father.” Her voice is very soft.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say and hang up the phone. “Good-bye, Dad. Godspeed. I love you,” I whisper. But the words are whipped away by the rising wind.