Busted Flush

It doesn’t hurt, precisely, but it feels like the skin wants to tear before it suddenly softens, stretches, and shifts. I’m back to myself with the fatigues hanging a bit on a body that is slimmer than Bahir’s.

“Why is it, sir, that our proxies always fight worse than the tin pot dictator’s fanatics?”

I manage to maintain my bored drawl, but it’s an effort. Why couldn’t the politicians and the Helix let me kill Weathers back when I’d first offered? Instead they wait until the PPA’s tanks and army have rolled across the border and Britain is scrambling to mobilize the army and Royal Marines to assist the Nigerian forces, and I get interrupted when I’m taking care of Dad.

Mum has a conference in Wells, and had asked me to look out for him. We’d had a very bad night last night. He had been in a great deal of pain and the hours between the morphine injections had dragged like centuries. In the midst of this I’d had to transform into Lilith and jaunt off to Nigeria to scout for a place to effect the assassination. Thank God Nigeria and Britain are in the same fucking time zone.

I help myself to a cup of coffee, and wash down a couple of lid poppers. Flint notices. “Do you need more of those?”

“I wouldn’t say no. Got to fuel three people, don’t you know.”

“When did you do it?”

“This morning. I’d considered killing Weathers in his tent last night, but he was fucking someone, probably Snowblind, and I would have had to kill her, too. If I were spotted the Committee might wonder why Lilith was killing another member of the Committee. And since I always assume that what can go wrong will go wrong in these situations I opted to wait.”

“Must have made for an uncomfortable night.”

I nod, but it wasn’t for the reason he thought. I hadn’t waited out the night in Nigeria. I’d hopped back to Cambridge and sat with Dad until sunrise, then teleported back to Nigeria, killed the Radical, teleported to London to report, and now . . . I check my watch . . . I should get back to Cambridge in time to prepare his breakfast.

“And to answer your question.”

I try to remember what the fuck was the question.

“Our fellows aren’t fanatics, and we do try to maintain a modicum of civilized behavior.” I can’t help it, I glance down at the blood flecks that pepper my Kevlar vest. “Oh, not you. You’re our agent of last resort, the place where morality gives way to necessity.” That hangs between us, then Flint adds, “You need to be debriefed.”

“No, sir, I need to go home. I left my dad alone.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. Dying, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” The word emerges from between gritted teeth. Of course, why should I expect sympathy? I kill for my country. He must think that death holds no power for me.

Dadeee.

I put a hand to my head as if that will somehow silence that voice.

It’s frighteningly quiet when I arrive in the hallway outside Dad’s bedroom. I don’t hear the thin whimpering moans that had tormented me all night. I rush into the room. He’s managed to get himself propped up against the elaborately carved wood headboard. There’s a luminous, almost translucent quality to his skin, and for an instant I have the illusion that I can see the vibrant colors of the starburst-pattern quilt through his hands. He has the Bible resting on his lap. It’s open to a color plate. A picture of Abraham brandishing a knife while the child Isaac lays passively atop the stone altar. A brilliant stream of golden light pours through an opening in the clouds, pinning Abraham like a bug.

The smile of welcome loosens the knot in my chest, tension leaches out of my muscles, and my legs start trembling. I drop into the chair beside the bed. “You’re all right,” I say inanely.

“Well, I’m still dying, but the pain isn’t so bad this morning.” He glances out the window where a breeze is bending the overtall grass, and shaking the fall-splashed leaves on the big oak. “Or perhaps I can just bear it better when I can look out and see the world. Look, the leaves are starting to turn.”

“Would you like me to carry you outside?”

“That would be lovely.”

He whimpers when I pick him up. I feel my guts curdling with frustration, anger, and guilt, and then it hits me. Dad doesn’t have to suffer between morphine injections. I can go anywhere in the world. I speak Arabic and a smattering of Pushtu. I can get heroin in Afghanistan.

I get him settled on a chaise lounge, and drop into the grass beside him. The blades prick through the fabric of my slacks. I pick up a fallen leaf and study the tracery of dark veins through the rampant colors. When I look up my father is gazing down at me fondly, but with a faint crease of worry between his graying brows.

I cough to clear the obstruction in my throat. “What?”

“I’m worried about you.”