Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (56 page)

As the translations rattled on, Marcus pulled his thoughts, and his eyes, away from Olena.
A man of the cloth?
he wondered. That didn’t describe El Monstro. Or Nimble Dick. Or John the Pharaoh. Or any of the jokers he thought they’d match him with. They couldn’t mean …

A door on the other side of the arena opened. A hooded figure lumbered through.

No!
Marcus thought.

As if refuting him directly, the announcer shouted, “Bring in the Holy Redeemer!”

No, they can’t do this!

The door slammed shut behind the priest. Father Squid reached up and pinched back his hood with his fingers. He stared at Marcus. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look horrified. But Marcus couldn’t say what emotions did lie in the dark depths behind his large, round eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer intoned, “the serpent and the holy man! Only one of them can leave this Garden of Good and Evil alive. Who will it be? Which one should it be?” He reminded them that they could place bets electronically right up to the moment of first contact. That was the first thing that hushed the crowd, as many heads turned down to their mobile phones.

Father Squid approached him with his heavy steps.

“What are you doing here?” Marcus snapped. “You’re messing up everything. You can’t be here!”

The priest shook his head solemnly. “I’m the only one who should face you, Marcus.”

“This a death match!”

“Who better than a priest to face death with?”

The man’s calm annoyed Marcus. His fists turned to stones. Resentment surged through him. “Stop talking nonsense.”

Shouts and jeers rained down on them, the audience urging them to fight.

“Marcus, God put us in this ring together. Nothing happens without his will. I understand it now.”

Marcus wanted to grab him and shake him. He almost punched him. He wanted to. He was ready to. That’s why he was here, to beat someone down. To kill. But … he couldn’t make his fists do what they’d have to. He thought,
This is Father Squid.

Father Squid looked away from him. He let his eyes range over the crowd. “We’re not here for them. We’re here so that you can become the man you are destined to be.”

And then Marcus understood. The realization hit him with a physical force, stunning him, but also clearing the clutter from his mind at the same time. “You … you volunteered to fight me, didn’t you?”

“I’m here to give you the last thing that I can. It’s the only way you’ll get out of here. Kill me, Marcus. Give in to the rage that you’re holding back. Just this one last time.”

The announcer piped up, saying something to the audience. Marcus concentrated through the announcer’s voice and the crowd’s taunts and the urge inside him to lash out. It was still there. He still breathed it in. It still egged him on. Just start it, his body seemed to be saying. Start it, and let death happen. He fought to get a word out. “Why?”

Father Squid closed the short space between them. He grasped Marcus by his forearms. Marcus tensed. His coils bunched, every inch of him screaming to unleash. The crowd roared, thinking something was finally going to happen.

The priest spoke slowly, clearly. “Because I led you into this hell. Because I’ve had my life, filled as it was with crimes—and with wonders. But for you, Marcus, the meaning of your life and work on this earth is before you. You can yet be a great man. I’ve always seen it in you, from the very first time I saw you—a frightened, angry fugitive, seeking help but not knowing how to ask.”

“But you—”

Father Squid tugged on his arms, sharply. “Because there’s no other way! And, as God sees and knows and plans all, this must be what he plans for us. No matter what you do, I absolve you. Now fight me!” The priest let go of Marcus’s arms, pulled back, and slapped him.

The blow tossed Marcus to the side. Fury rushed through him. He swung back, fists cocked, poisonous saliva flooding his mouth. The crowd loved it. They rose to their feet.

“Kill me!” the priest bellowed. He slapped him again. “You have the rage. I see it in your eyes. Do what your body wants. Fight. Hate me, Marcus, for standing between you and your love. Kill me, and go with her and be free. Cut the bullshit and do it, Marcus!”

Marcus almost obeyed. He was so close. Father Squid was right there in front of him, offering the path to everything Marcus thought he wanted. Freedom. Olena. But hearing profanity come from the priest’s mouth was another slap, one that brought with it a memory. Marcus saw the spinning of a teacup, thrown from his hand, chipped by his frustration. He heard that curse word, but to his shame it was his mouth that uttered it. A word said in anger. A teacup thrown. Chipped. He’d always regretted that. Always been ashamed of it. Always wished he could take it back.

“It’s the only way out of here for you, and for me,” Father Squid said, shoving him with one powerful arm. “I cannot take my own life, but I can give it. I give to you. It’s okay, Marcus. Really. I’m not afraid. I will face my reckoning. If God allows it I’ll see my Lizzie again, and that will be the greatest gift of all. What are you afraid of? Just do it. Poison me. And then do it. I’ll feel nothing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Marcus could poison him. He knew that. The father’s aquatic skin, he figured, would absorb his venom in an instant. And then what? Break his neck? Choke him? It could be done, but knowing that he could just confirmed that he wouldn’t. It was strange, how calming that realization was. He was going to lose everything. He would never have that life with Olena. He would likely die in the moments to come. He wouldn’t have that future that Father Squid imagined for him, but he felt a resigned satisfaction at all of this. He could stay true to himself. He could go forward into his last moments without shame. He could make both Olena and Father Squid proud. That mattered more than anything else. The only thing he couldn’t do was what the priest asked him.

Marcus glanced up at Olena. He saw in her face that she understood, looked more concerned than ever. Even from a distance, he could see her lower lip quivering. Slightly, ever so slightly, she shook her head. That was what Marcus needed. He slid forward and grasped Father Squid by the arms, just as the priest had done to him a moment before. “You really loved her, didn’t you?”

“Lizzie?” the priest asked, coming in close to support him. “Yes, with all my heart. Loving her has kept me human. She was in every act of kindness I did.”

“I’m sure she’s waiting for you. You’ll see her again, but not by my hand. That simply cannot happen. You mean too much to me.”

As he spoke, the priest’s facial tentacles went slack. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were again the ones Marcus had always known. Calm. Sad. Wise. A tear escaped one corner and trickled down into his tentacles.

Turning from him, Marcus projected his voice to cut through the crowd’s commotion. “No, I won’t do it. This man, he saved me. You understand that? When I was nobody, miserable, lost: he took me in and taught me I could be something. And you want me to kill him? No, I won’t.” He turned to Baba Yaga. His tongue quickened. “And fuck you, bitch, for starting all this. You got nothing on me. Not anymore. Not when you ask me to do this.”

The old woman had risen from her seat. The crowd, looking from the players in the ring up to the standing woman, hushed.

Glaring down at Marcus, Baba Yaga’s lips moved. She said, “Kill him if you want to live. If you want the girl.” Her voice was just a whisper, but Marcus heard her clearly enough. Or did he see the words on her lips? Or just feel them, pressed from her mind to his? Whichever it was, there was power in that voice. Command. That voice could have told him to do a lot of things and he would’ve, especially for Olena. But this one thing he wouldn’t do. Marcus shook his head.

Baba Yaga stared down. It was nearly impossible to hold her gaze. Marcus had seen hard men. He’d faced monstrous jokers. He’d killed men who wanted to kill him. But none of them had a face as deathly fierce as this old woman. The anger in her eyes pummeled him, seared him.

Watching must have unnerved the crowd. Whispers passed through the audience. Uncomfortable shifting. A few rose and then stood, unsure what was happening. One man, sounding drunk, said this wasn’t what he paid for. The woman next to him shushed him.

“Marcus,” Father Squid said, “you could still—”

“Never,” Marcus said.

“I only wanted a future for you.”

“A future with your blood on my hands? Never.”

Baba Yaga’s voice was small and cold, and yet reached them clearly. “You defy me? Foolish boy.” She puckered her thin lips. She sucked in her cheeks, leaned forward, and spat.

The spittle fell through the wire mesh and down toward Marcus. Such a small action from such a small woman.
Pathetic,
he thought,
if that’s the best she can do
.

Father Squid smashed into Marcus’s side and shoved him away.

The small gob of spit landed where Marcus had been a moment before. It splattered on the side of Father Squid’s cheek. The priest yanked his face away, but not quickly enough. He pressed his fingers to his tentacled cheek. He staggered. His body went rigid, fingers jerking spasmodically. His black eyes bulged, as if a great pain had bloomed inside him and he just then understood it.

Marcus slid toward him. He reached out, but Father Squid twisted away. He walked a few stiff steps before one of his legs buckled. In the complete hush of the arena, Marcus heard the snap of bone breaking. Not just once but again and again, a whole concussion of fractures. Father Squid went down. At first he grasped his leg, but he let go when it began to bend and twist. And then his other did the same. His head snapped back, banging against the floor. His torso bulged as if living things were moving beneath his skin. He rolled over and tried to push himself up. A wave rolled up his spine, audibly snapping vertebrae as it did. His arms and legs wouldn’t support him. They were shattered, rubbery things, writhing.

And then he did rise, but not by his own power. The terror on his face made that clear. His body levered up from the floor, slowly, excruciatingly, supported on legs that were no longer legs. When he was upright, his eyes found Marcus. With great, trembling effort, he said one long, drawn-out word.
“Lizzzzzzzzie…”

Before he was finished, the name rose into a scream. His torso snapped back from his middle and he became a molten form morphing out of all recognizing. His face went liquid. His eyes held their shape but they swam within the shifting chaos. His mouth was still a mouth and it screamed and screamed …

Until it stopped. Until all the horrible motion ceased. Marcus stared, recognizing what stood on the floor beside him, but not believing it. In the silence of the arena, Marcus—and everyone else—stared at the strange structure that was and wasn’t Father Squid. The priest had been transformed into a prayer bench, complete with padded platform for the knees and an upper shelf for the faithful to lean against, heads bowed. Trapped in material that wasn’t exactly flesh but wasn’t wood or metal or plastic either, the father still breathed. His mouth stretched wide across the front portion of the bench. He saw still, through eyes that no longer had a face. Instead, they looked up from the shelf on which one of the faithful might tent their hands in prayer.

Galahad in Blue

Part Nine

FRANNY HAD FLASHED A
badge at a cabbie, and shoved the handcuffed Berman into the back of the cab. He hadn’t been gentle. They had wasted weeks, even shut down the investigation when all the while this man had held the key. And had kept silent while people died. Thinking about Father Squid and all the others trapped in a nightmare had Franny’s hands clenching in impotent rage.

Wingman goggled at him as he blew in the door of the precinct, shoving the producer ahead of him. “Book this asshole.”

“Okay. For what?”

“Attempted murder, assaulting a police officer, kidnapping, conspiracy … hell, being an asshole for that matter. Captain?”

“He’s in,” Homer said, still looking poleaxed.

Franny nodded. Homer called down to Sergeant Squinch and took control of Berman. Franny pushed through into the bullpen. Michael Stevens, seated at his desk, looked at him. Strain had etched lines around his eyes. He looked like a man who had lost everything. Franny ignored him, strode across the room to the office door, gave one pre-emptory knock and walked in. Maseryk looked up, a Jovian frown creasing his forehead. Surprisingly Mendelberg was also there, seated in a chair across the desk from the older man.

“Black, what the fuck?” the joker woman asked.

“I know where they’re holding our missing jokers,” Franny said. The two captains exchanged glances.

“Yeah, we do too,” Mendelberg said.

Maseryk shot her a glance. “That might be a bit of an overstatement. We know they’re someplace that ends in stan.”

“How did you? Never mind … I’ve got more than that. They’re in Kazakhstan, in a town called Talas,” Franny said.