things behind, people get one glimpse of the jungle and go screamin’ back to their hotel. I find it, take it here, and then sell it to lucky blokes like you.”
Jerusha said, “This stuff isn’t stolen, is it?”
“Bite your tongue!” Air whooshed through the pilot’s flared nostrils. “I’m an honest businessman.”
Wally edged in front of Jerusha again, just in case. “Hey, she’s just asking, is all.”
“Just so we’re clear, mate. I don’t steal, but I don’t run a charity here, either.”
“Huh?”
Finch rolled those tiny little eyes again. “You’re gonna pay for what you take, right?”
“Oh, sure, you betcha.”
“Thing is,” said Finch, “I’m sure the Committee is good for it, but I can’t wait around six months for a check to arrive from the United States. Not many banks around here that would honor it anyway, right?” He chortled, slapped Wally on the back. Most people flinched after doing that, but not Finch; it looked like he had pretty thick skin. The clang echoed through the warehouse.
“Right, I guess. So, um, what does that mean?”
“It means I run an honest cash-only business.”
Wally looked at Jerusha. She shrugged. What else could they do?
The outfitting trip turned out to be an expedition in its own right. Though she’d offended him with her question, Jerusha won a bit of grudging respect from Finch once they got down to business. She had done her homework, and had compiled a list on the way over from New York. Wally knew they were doing this on the spur of the moment, but he had no idea just how unprepared they’d been.
He’d been camping up in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. Preparing for a trip like that was nothing compared to this.
It was one heck of a list: Packs. Safari vests (with extra pockets). Biological water filtration bottles. Chlorine tablets. Painkillers; antibiotics; antidiarrhea medicine; rehydration salts. Pocketknives; machetes, for hacking through brush; compasses; toilet paper; rope. Flashlights; electric lanterns; a handheld GPS unit. Lots of batteries. Sleeping bags. Tents.
For Jerusha they also bought insect repellent, mosquito netting, and antimalarial tablets. Wally hadn’t been bitten by a bug since his card turned. Jerusha got a wide-brimmed hat, too. Sunburn wasn’t much of a danger for Wally, but he bought a pith helmet for the fun of it. He’d always wanted a pith helmet, ever since watching Tarzan the Ape Man (the original, not the remake). It would keep the sweat and rain out of his eyes.
Finch made a big deal about footwear. It had to be comfortable, he said, but it also had to let your feet breathe. Wally decided to go barefoot. It would be more comfortable than anything else, and besides, Finch didn’t have any secondhand boots or hiking sandals that wouldn’t get shredded by Wally’s iron feet. As long as he was extra careful about rust, going barefoot wouldn’t be a problem.
Finch made an even bigger deal about the satellite phone. “Don’t lose this bloody phone,” he said, shaking it in their faces. “This is your lifeline to the outside world. Your cell phones will be worthless in the jungle.” He gave them a long lecture explaining how to use the phone. Wally tried to follow as best he could, but he secretly hoped Jerusha was getting it.
They unrolled one sleeping bag after another, trying to find a pair that hadn’t been afflicted with mildew. Finch asked Wally, “Committee does this to you a lot, does it?”
“Does what?”
“Sends you off to the arse end of the world without any provisions.” Finch’s ears twitched. “Seems like a bloody awful group to work for, if you ask me.”
“Uh, no. I mean, it happens sometimes. But not all the time.”
Jerusha chimed in. “Our trip to the lake is an emergency. There wasn’t time to get properly outfitted back in the States. We had to get here as quickly as we could.”
“Ah, right. Right. So you said, so you said.” Finch didn’t sound entirely convinced.
After two hours, they had almost everything they needed. Jerusha haggled with Finch, so in the end it cost them just under half of the cash they’d pooled.
Then it was time to leave. They bundled up their gear and followed Finch outside. Wally offered to carry Jerusha’s pack for her, but she didn’t seem to like that.
Finch disappeared into the hangar. Wally lingered outside with Jerusha. “I don’t think he believes us,” he said. “What should we do?”
Jerusha frowned. She looked tired. “What can we do? Stick to our story until he gets us to the lake.”
“Oy, tin man!” Finch pointed at Wally. “Get over here. Help me push her out.”
Wally set his pack down next to Jerusha. Little eddies of red earth swirled around him as he clanged over to the hangar. The dust clung to the sweat on his legs; it looked like the worst case of rust he’d ever had.
Wally had never flown in such a small airplane, even back in Egypt. He’d flown in helicopters, but those were UN things, and still larger than this plane. He cupped his hands to a window glass and peered inside. It looked like it could seat maybe four or five, or fewer with gear.
“Grab her like this,” said Finch, “gently.” He leaned on the diagonal strut that braced the wing to the fuselage. Looking at Wally’s hands, he added, “And don’t scratch her.”
Together they eased the plane outside. Finch made a musky smell when he exerted himself. Wally could have moved the plane himself, but it looked kinda fragile.
Actually… once they got it outside, in the sunlight, it looked really fragile. Long cracks spiderwebbed a couple of the windows; the fuselage had silvery gouges where the white paint had been scraped away; the wings had pits and dings and one thing that looked like a homemade patch. And the huge landing gear appeared to be more patch than tire.
“Hey, Mr. Finch? Is this safe?”
Finch’s nostrils flared again. “Tourists,” he muttered.
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
CNN was broadcasting it live. So was every other major news outlet. Juliet told Michelle it was being streamed live on the Internet.
Michelle had been bubbling for almost twelve hours now. She was still as huge as she had been, but she could tell she was getting lighter.
The bubbles were pouring from her hands. As many bubbles as she could release. She kept them dense enough that they didn’t just pop, but light enough to float away. Just making a bunch of soap bubbles wouldn’t do, and every other variation she had thought of had risks. She’d tried to make the bubbles somewhat pop-able; it was impossible to have the kind of control over them that she wanted. Even now, even hours since she’d begun bubbling, the power was still clawing through her. It was exhausting trying to keep it in check.
On the TV there was a long shot of the temple with the stream of bubbles rising from it. Then there were overhead shots, but these were on a loop since they’d shut down the Louis B. Armstrong Airport and closed New Orleans to all air traffic. Now they were cutting away to viewer video.
In every frame they showed, pretty, iridescent bubbles floated and bobbed like a child’s playthings. They went up, up, up and then floated here and there, carried by the prevailing winds, until they slowly started to fall back to earth.
It was raining bubbles in New Orleans.
The TV showed a long shot of a young man in front of the Super Dome, preening for the camera. “Yeah, I know she saved the city, but damn, couldn’t she have done this bubble thing somewhere else?”
The camera cut to another shot. A harried-looking woman held a toddler on her hip.
“I’ve got babies to think about. You don’t know what’s in those things. Oh, they look pretty enough, but have you tried to keep a baby away from one of them? They put everything in their mouths. I saw American Hero. She can make those things blow up.”
Michelle yelled at the TV. “ These aren’t blowing up! They’re not supposed to!”
“See, that’s part of your damn problem, Bubbles.” Joey turned down the TV sound. “You worry about what fuckers think about you. Me? I don’t care.”
“Did you tell Juliet about us?” Michelle blurted. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought.
