“You can help me stop Joey,” Ink replied. “She’s gone crazy. She’s pulled up every halfway fresh corpse in the city, and some that aren’t so fresh. She says she’s going to kill the LaFleurs as soon as they show their faces in Jackson Square.”
Hoodoo Mama. I should have known. Joey Hebert had been born angry, as far as she could tell, and being turned down by the Committee had not improved her disposition.
“She won’t listen to me,” Ink was saying, “and you’re the only one in New Orleans who might have the power to stop her before someone gets hurt. But you gotta get down there quick. You hear me?”
The shouting in the background continued. Joey, Jerusha realized. Then Ink was yelling back. “ Damn it, Joey. Calm down, girl. You’re gonna bust an artery.”
The phone went dead. “Ink?” Jerusha said.
Nothing.
She flipped the phone shut. The microwave bell rang in the kitchen. She could smell the turkey.
Jerusha put her phone in the pocket of her jeans and grabbed her keys.
The Clarke Household
Barlow’s Landing, Massachusetts
“I see,” margaret Tipton-Clarke said, in a voice that meant she didn’t see at all. “So you’re… dead?”
Jonathan Tipton-Clarke, or Jonathan Hive, but most often Bugsy, had known that bringing his girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner was going to be tricky. He hadn’t appreciated the full depth of the issue. His mother kept asking difficult questions. His older brother Robert and sister-in-law Norma were scowling over their plates of cranberry sauce and turkey like sour-faced bookends without the books. The twin sisters were grinning with near cannibalistic delight. It just wasn’t going to be a good night.
Ellen was very pretty-thin, blond, dressed in a dark charcoal item that clung in all the right places without seeming slutty. It, like all of Ellen’s best dresses, had been designed especially for her by the ghost of Coco Chanel. The cameo she wore at her neck looked like it had been picked to go with the outfit more than the other way around. Just to look at her, she fit perfectly with the Tipton-Clarke family decor. Classy, expensive without having neon “nouveau riche” on her forehead. The earring was maybe a little bit off, but that was really nonoptional.
True, she was almost two decades older than Jonathan, which would have been a little weird all on its own. More the issue was that she wasn’t exactly his girlfriend. She was the ace who could channel the spirits of the dead. The dead like his girlfriend.
Aliyah didn’t wear Ellen with quite the same style that Ellen wore the dress.
“Yeah,” she said, using Ellen’s mouth. “I… I died back when the Caliphate army was attacking the jokers in Egypt, right before they formed the Committee? If you read about it, they might have called me Simoon. That was my ace name on American Hero. There was an ace on the other side called the Righteous Djinn? In Egypt, I mean. Not on the show.”
When Aliyah got nervous, she ran her sentences together and everything she said turned into a question. When Jonathan got nervous, bits of his body broke off as small, green, wasplike insects, so it was hard to really fault her. He took a bite of stuffing. It was a little on the salty side, as usual, but if he kept his mouth full he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. That seemed the best strategy.
“That must have been terrible for you, dear,” his mother said.
“Oh, I don’t remember it,” Aliyah said. “I wasn’t wearing my earring. At the time. I mean, I was a sandstorm when it happened, so it’s not like I had any clothes on.”
One of the twins, Charlotte he thought, leaned forward on her elbows. Her smile was vulpine. “That’s just fascinating,” she said.
“Well, Ellen can only pull me back from the last time I was wearing my earring.”
“No,” Charlotte (or maybe Denise) said. “I mean you fought naked ?”
Aliyah blushed and stammered, her hands moving like they weren’t sure where they were supposed to be. With a small internal sigh, Jonathan decided it was time to go ahead and lose his temper. “She was a sandstorm,” he said. “Big whirly scour-your-flesh-to-the-bone sandstorm. The kind that could kill you.”
Charlotte’s smile turned to him. There was a little victory in it. I could kill you, too, he thought, and Charlotte yelped and slapped her thigh. She pulled up a small, acid-green body with crumpled wings.
“Oops,” Bugsy said. “Sorry.”
“You act like you can’t control those things,” Charlotte said. Or maybe Denise. “You aren’t fooling anyone.”
“Is it possible,” Bugsy’s older brother said in a strangled voice, “to have a simple, calm, normal family meal without going into detail about the naked dead women with whom my brother is sleeping?”
“Spirit of the season,” Jonathan said. “I mean, unless there’s something else to be thankful for.”
“Excuse me,” Aliyah said, stood up, and walked unsteadily from the room.
“So, Robert,” Jonathan said. “Have you and Norma gotten knocked up yet, or have the doctors decided there’s no lead in the old Wooster pencil after all?”
“That is none of your-”
“Oh, Robert, he didn’t mean anything by-” their mother said.
“Norma!” Denise (or maybe Charlotte) said. “I’ve been so worried but I didn’t dare-”
With his brother’s penis squarely on the chopping block, Jonathan pushed his plate aside and followed Ellen to the den. The room glowed in the festal candlelight. Two wide sofas in leather the color of chocolate seemed cozy, looking out through the glass-wall picture window at the angry Atlantic Ocean. Ellen sat on one, legs tucked up under her. He could tell by the way she held herself that the earring wasn’t in.
“I told you so,” he said.
“You really did,” Ellen said. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“The nice thing about Jerry Springer is that you get to throw chairs. I never get to throw chairs.”
“And your mother,” Ellen said. “She’s the worst of all.”
“There is that Demon-Queen-Directing-Her-Monstrous-Horde quality to her. It was more fun when Aunt Ida was still around. She was much worse.”
“Aliyah felt awful. I told her I’d apologize for her.”
“For getting beaten up by my family? Doesn’t that usually go the other way?”
“It usually does,” Ellen said coolly.
Before Jonathan could think of a good answer, his cell phone started the ring tone he’d set aside for the United Nations. Committee business calling. He dug it out of his jacket pocket, held up a single finger to Ellen, and said hello.
“Bugsy! I hope I’m not interrupting,” Lohengrin said.
“Not at all,” Jonathan said. “What’s up?”
Ellen rose, shaking her head slightly, and headed back toward the ongoing train wreck of the Tipton-Clarke Thanksgiving. Jonathan put one hand over his ear to block out the voices.
“Can you come to New York?” Lohengrin asked. “There’s something we need to discuss. An assignment.”
Jonathan nodded. Truth to tell, it was moments like these that made working with the United Nations fun. “You bet, buddy. I’ll be there with bells on,” he said. Then, “You know, I could probably have fit about three more b’s in that if I tried. Betcha buddy, I’ll be by with bells on my-”
“Jonathan? Are you okay?”
“I may be a wee teensy drunk,” Jonathan said. “Or I might hate my family. Hard to tell the difference. I’ll be in New York tomorrow. Don’t worry.”
Lohengrin dropped the line, and Jonathan put his cell phone away. The voices in the dining room had changed. With a sick curiosity, he made his way back to the table.
“You always did that, Maggie, ever since you were a little girl,” Ellen said, pointing an antique silver butter knife in his mother’s direction. “Salt, salt, salt. You’d think God never gave you taste buds.”
His mother’s cheeks had flushed and her lips pressed white and bloodless. Ellen turned to con
sider Jonathan, except whoever she was, it wasn’t Ellen. The familiar eyes surveyed him slowly. She snorted.
“Aunt Ida?” he said.
“I like this Ellen of yours, Johnny,” Ida said. “I’m surprised she puts up with you. Sit, sit, sit. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a well with you just looming there.”
“How did-?” he began as he sat.
Ida held up the silverware. “I always said this set was mine, and now I’ve proven it, haven’t I? Robert, dear? Pass the potatoes, and let’s see if she’s oversalted them, too. Maggie, stop looking at me like that. I was right, you were wrong, and no one is in the least surprised. Thanksgiving is a time for family. Try not to ruin it.”
Stellar
Manhattan, New York
“Ana?” wally whispered. “can I sit with you?”
“Sure.”
Wally followed her through a maze of round tables draped in billowing tablecloths. The lights were set low; candlelight and the glow from the skyline glinted on wineglasses and silverware. He nodded or waved at the few folks he recognized.
Ana led him to a table near the middle of the room. Wally’s own chair creaked precariously. He sat between Ana and the Llama. They’d never worked together, but Wally had met the South American ace at other Committee events. Wally always thought he looked a little like a giraffe, what with his long neck and all, but never mentioned it. “Hey, how ya doin’, fella? Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Hi,” said the Llama, chewing on something. That seemed strange, since the waiters hadn’t brought any food out yet. They didn’t even have bread on the table.
The Llama seemed distracted. Wally realized he was busy glaring across the room at the Lama.
Wally turned to Ana. “So how’s Kate these days?”
“Good, I guess. She’s glad to be back in school, but it’s probably kinda weird. I think she misses us. She doesn’t miss this stuff, though.” She pointed to the cyan United Nations banner hanging over the head table where Lohengrin, Babel, and a few others sat.
“Yeah.” The Committee had lost much of its allure for Wally over the past couple of years. For some reason he kept sticking with it, even though he’d found better ways to make a difference in people’s lives. A real difference. Plus, these shindigs weren’t the same without the old crew.
As if reading Wally’s mind, Ana asked, “Do you still keep in touch with DB?”
“Sure do.” They’d gone to war together, Wally and the rock star. Twice. They’d been through a lot.
He looked around the room. Except for Ana, none of the people he knew best were around. In addition to Kate and DB, Wally missed Michelle, who was still down in New Orleans and apparently not doing too good. King Cobalt, his first friend from American Hero, had died in Egypt. So had Simoon, who had been pretty nice to Wally.
Except that she wasn’t entirely dead, not all the time, anyway. Bugsy and Simoon were going out, which Wally couldn’t begin to understand. All he knew was that Bugsy spent most of his time these days with Cameo, who had joined the Committee last year in New Orleans, before she lost her old-time hat. They were having their own Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving was a time to be with family. But what family? More and more, his visits home to Minnesota made him feel lonely and isolated. He thought he’d found a family, of sorts, with the Committee. And that had even been true for a short time. But he didn’t feel at home with the Committee any longer. And so Wally had tried to help other families, on his own, but now even that seemed to be going away.
A little cheer went up throughout the room when a stream of servers emerged from the kitchen. They brought out turkey, chicken, goose, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, three kinds of gravy, cranberries, corn bread, spinach salad, fruit salad, and pumpkin, pecan, apple, and cherry pie. They even brought out a turducken. Wally wouldn’t have known what that was if he hadn’t heard Holy Roller and Toad Man discussing it once, back before the big preacher had left the Committee to return to his church in Mississippi. Wally missed him.
He couldn’t imagine anybody eating so much food. And that made him think of Lucien, his little pen pal. A single table here probably held more food than his entire family saw in a month.
“You’re looking glum,” said Ana.
“Just missing folks, I guess.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Like, see, I got these pen pals. It happened because I saw a commercial late at night during a Frankie Yankovic marathon. You know, for one of those setups where you send in a few dollars to help out a kid somewhere?”
Ana smiled. She took a drumstick from the platter at the center of the table. “That’s great, Rusty.”
“Well, I got a few of them. But this one kid, his name’s Lucien, and me and he got to be pretty good friends, writing letters back and forth. But his last letter said-”
Babel started tapping her wineglass with a butter knife. It chimed through the dining room.
Lohengrin stood. He waited for a hush to fall over the room before speaking. The kitchen clamor ebbed and flowed as servers passed through double doors to the dining room.
“ Ja, ja. Welcome. My friends, we are the United Nations Committee for Extraordinary Interventions.” Polite applause. “Today we gather to celebrate our achievements and be thankful for the opportunities we’ve been given. And the world has much to be thankful for since our inception, no?” His laughter actually sounded like ho-ho-ho. Like Santa Claus, if Santa wore magical armor. Before meeting Lohengrin, Wally had never known anybody who laughed like that for real.
If Lucien and his family had much to be thankful for, it had nothing to do with the Committee. In fact, it seemed to be the only thing Rusty had done in the past couple of years that actually improved somebody’s life. But it didn’t even begin to make up for what he and DB had done in Iraq.
The German ace droned on and on, peppering his remarks with references to “my predecessor,” as though there had been some kind of special ceremony to transfer the reins of power when he took over the Committee. Everybody knew that John Fortune had bowed out quietly but quickly after becoming a nat for the second time. Rumor had it he was traveling the world, though to what end, nobody could say.
But thinking about John Fortune and his travels gave Wally an idea.
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
The mood was ugly in Jackson Square. The triple spires of St. Louis Cathedral glistened in their spotlights; nearby, Andrew Jackson waved his hat atop his rearing horse. That was normal enough, but as Jerusha approached, she realized that the crowd ahead of her was… wrong. The stench of death hung around them, and their faces were stiff and unresponsive.
Zombies.
There were at least a couple dozen, more than she’d seen Hoodoo Mama raise up for a long time. At least with Thanksgiving the usual crowds in Jackson Square were sparse, though there were still enough onlookers watching from a wary distance to make Jerusha nervous.
Joey and Juliet were standing at the makeshift wooden “shrine” that enclosed Bubbles, its planks adorned with ribbons and handwritten testimonials. The thick pipes of Michelle’s feeding tubes stabbed into the white cloth that covered her body, which had sunk so deeply into the soft ground that pumps had to remove the water that would otherwise have flooded the depression. Jerusha could hear Joey shouting into the night. “Fuck them. Goddamn leeches. They stole her fucking money. Now they want to kill her, too? Well, fuck that.”
Ink was standing next to Joey, an arm around her, her voice so quiet that Jerusha couldn’t hear it. Whatever she was saying, Joey didn’t like it. Her zombies muttered and groaned. “I ain’t gonna let that that cocksucker of a father and her cunt mother screw Michelle again. I ain’t.” Her lips were pressed into a tight line. A hardness came over her thin face. She ran a hand through the tangled shock of brown hair, ruffling the bright red streak. “I’ll fucking rip them both into a hundred fucking pieces. I swear.”
“Ink, Joey,�
�� Jerusha said loudly, skirting the edge of the zombie crowd. “Listen, you can’t…”
She stopped at the sound of sirens, cutting through the low whine of the pumps driving Michelle’s feeding tubes. Along Decatur Street, a small motorcade pulled into the square, pulling up on the far side of Bubbles’s shrine, near a large grey electrical box. Jerusha plunged a hand into the open zipper of the pouch at her waist, fingering the seeds inside.
NOLA SWAT police officers piled out of the first three black vans, their faces masked by riot helmets, armed with what looked to be shotguns. Ira and Sharon LaFleur emerged from a limousine, accompanied by another phalanx of policemen.
Jerusha had always pictured them as villains, monsters who would steal money from their child. She’d expected their sins to be written on their faces, but they weren’t. Ira was balding and overweight, looking pudgy and ineffectual; Sharon’s face was drawn and haggard and thin, but the lines were those of a model: like her daughter’s face, what Bubbles might look like in another quarter century. They looked ordinary.
“Motherfuckers!” Hoodoo Mama shrieked, and her zombies howled with her. Ink had both arms around Joey, clinging to her desperately. Joey pointed at the LaFleurs. “You miserable cocksuckers! You stay the fuck away from her, you hear me!”
Sharon LaFleur looked at them, hand over mouth. The zombies started to shamble toward them. The cops shuffled nervously, weapons up and ready. “Joey, you can’t!” Jerusha shouted.
Joey shook her head. “You kill her,” she screamed at the LaFleurs, “and I’ll just raise her up again. She’ll be the biggest fucking zombie in the whole goddamn world. You hear me, you cocksuckers?”
Ira LaFleur nodded to the officers nearest the grey box, which now had a panel open. The low whine of the pumps driving Bubbles’s feeding tubes suddenly vanished. The silence was more terrible than any sound could have been.
The zombies screamed as one, wordless. They advanced.
“Damn it.” Jerusha pulled her hand from the pouch, fisted around the contents there. She flung them wide. As soon as the seeds hit the ground, they were rising, a wriggling carpet of vines that tore through the pavement of Jackson Square. Kudzu. Jerusha guided the growth in her mind, snarling the vines around the zombies’ legs, bodies, and arms, encasing them in living green chains. She coiled them around Joey and Ink for good measure. Hoodoo Mama glared at her, cursing wildly.
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