Suicide Kings by George R. R. Martin and Melinda M. Snodgrass Read Free Book Online

India?”
    “What? No. But I was wondering, since your tour is winding up soon—”
    “—Yeah, one more month, then we’re back in the States. God damn it, S’Live, I told you to leave it—”
    “—if you’d wanna go to the Congo—”
    “—bongo drums? We don’t play much world music—”
    “—no, I said Congo, like the country—”
    “—country? Yeah, I hate that shit, too. What the hell is that? Hey, Rusty, I gotta go, I think I smell smoke. Take care of yourself, pal!”
Click.
    Well, cripes.
Wally had figured that if anybody would join him on a trip to Africa, it would be Drummer Boy. They’d been comrades in arms (and arms, and arms) more than once. But it seemed that DB was busy with his old life.
    Wally thought about other folks he knew. Kate was real nice, but it sounded from Ana like she’d had enough of traveling for a while. He would have asked Ana, too, but she’d told him the Committee was sending her to China. The government there had specifically requested Ana’s consultations on a series of giant dams they were building.
    He toyed with the idea of contacting Jamal Norwood. Stuntman had probably learned a whole lot about finding missing people while working for SCARE. Plus, he was real tough. And he sorta owed Wally for all that stuff he said back on
American Hero
. But Jamal would never agree to help him. Plus, Wally didn’t want to travel with somebody who disliked him so much. Even he could foresee an awkward and unpleasant conversation.
    One more name sprang to mind: Jerusha Carter. Gardener’s ace couldn’t be better suited to traveling through Africa. She was perfect for the trip in just about every way. He even knew her, a little bit.
    It took some calling around to other Committee members before he gotJerusha’s cell number. Wally reclined on the bed in his hotel room. The mattress groaned; somewhere halfway across the country, a telephone rang.
    “Hello?” A weary voice, thick with fatigue. Behind it, what sounded like voices raised in quiet song, like they were singing hymns or something. Not like in church, though. It sounded more like a vigil.
    “Um, hi. Jerusha?”
    “Yes.” Her voice got distant, and the background noise got louder, as if she was holding the phone away from her face to look at the caller ID. “Who is this?”
    “It’s me, Wally. Gunderson. You know, Rustbelt? We worked together when the Committee sent us to Timor.”
    “Oh,
Wally
. I thought I recognized your voice.” A pause. “What’s up?”
    “I was wondering—um, are you okay? You sound real tired. No offense or anything.”
    “Uh . . . it’s been a tough few days down here. Did you hear about Michelle? Her parents?”
    “Yeah. It’s a bad deal.” The thought of Bubbles helpless like that—at the mercy of others—made him think of Lucien, and brought on another pang of anxiety.
    “Really bad.” Jerusha sighed, loudly. “Anyway. What’s up?”
    Wally didn’t know the best way to broach the subject. He plunged ahead: “Do you wanna go to Africa with me?”
    “Why is Lohengrin sending you to Africa?”
    “He’s not,” said Wally.
    Another pause. “Huh?”
    Wally explained the situation.
    “So . . . you want me to go to the PPA to help you find your pen pal?”
    “Yep. Well, no, I mean, I thought we’d go to the Congo, where Lucien’s from.”
    Jerusha said, “That’s
in
the PPA.”
    “Oh.”
    “Ugh, Wally . . .” Wally recognized that tone. It was the sound of somebody cradling her head in her hands. “Say. Why did you ask me?”
    Oops. “Well, you’re real smart. And you know about jungles and stuff. And you’re, um . . .”
    “I’m what?”
    “Black.”
    “Uh-huh.” Jerusha’s tone here was a little harder to read. Maybe heshouldn’t have said that. “Look. What you’re trying to do is very sweet. But I think you’re biting off more than you can chew. Even with that giant jaw of yours. Besides, I have my hands full down here.”
    “What