by Evie Rhodes
Campbell took a seat across from Lombardo.
Lombardo smacked his hand on the desk. “There’s no doubt, huh?” Deep inside he had known it was too easy, but he had ignored the feeling. Grudgingly he had to admit that somebody with Shannon’s street smarts wouldn’t make a mistake like that.
Besides, he wasn’t a young thug; he didn’t come from the same cloth as these kids. He was an old-school planner. He would try hard to get away with whatever he was going to do.
Campbell said, “They’ve all been checked out. They’re clean. No records. No nothing. There is one thing we can prove.”
Lombardo brightened. “What’s that?”
“Adultery.”
Lombardo frowned.
“Shonda Hunt works for Tawney Davenport. It looks like she’s been giving Shannon more comfort than Tawney.”
Lombardo whistled. “Our boy doesn’t travel far for his sympathy. Still, he’ll slip. When he does I’ll be there because I’m his looking glass.”
Campbell knew Lombardo wasn’t letting this go. For some reason Shannon rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe because Shannon had pushed him in the hospital and gone down on him, breaking the legendary choke hold Lombardo had on him. He had to admit Shannon Davenport had moves on him.
He also knew it didn’t help that Shannon kept addressing Lombardo as a cracker. It was pure nastiness on Shannon’s part and definitely not helping with Lombardo’s attitude.
Newark was one of the few pro-black cities in the country. Primarily it was run and controlled by blacks at least on the surface. There was a black mayor and a black city council. He knew a lot of blacks resented having white officers in their neighborhoods policing them. He guessed Shannon was of this breed.
Still, he was tired of all the piss-ass games on both sides of the fence. He was getting too old for this crap. He had become a police officer because he felt that his people needed their own heroes. That they needed to handle their own problems. But there were days when he felt he was fighting a losing battle. It seemed that for every one of them they got off the streets for distributing their poisons and violence, ten more popped up to take their place.
Ten more were anxious to prove themselves, to be in the know. They wanted to be invincible. If it wasn’t that, then there were ten million black kids in the country wanting to be the next Michael Jordan. As if bouncing a basketball would be their savior. They never took the time to look at the odds.
Campbell thought about the three young brothers from Newark who had written that book called The Pact. They had struggled from these same neighborhoods, but they had beaten the odds and lived to tell about it. They had become doctors and dentists working in their own neighborhood.
They even had their own clinic. He wished more young black kids would read that book, be inspired, and follow that example.
Instead he felt like he was faced with a million to one who wanted to be top-dog criminals. What a thing to aspire to. They didn’t want to look weak in front of their friends. So there was a constant cycle of proving one’s self. And the game was getting deadlier and bloodier by the day.
Campbell sighed, picking up the phone. He punched a button. “Shannon Davenport is free to go.”
A short while later Lombardo tapped on the bars of Shannon’s cell. Shannon, who had been leaning back on his bunk, opened his eyes.
“Just remember. I’m your looking glass,” Lombardo told Shannon with a gleam in his eye.
A police officer appeared behind Lombardo with the paperwork and keys.
Discovering the primary source of his release from the murder charge, later that day Shannon decided to thank Shonda for being stand-up. They stood outside on her front porch.
“You didn’t have to help me,” Shannon said. He looked out across the street thoughtfully. “I owe you.”
Shonda put a soft hand to his cheek, looking deeply into his eyes. Shannon mistakenly believed the glow that peeked out from her eyes was warmth.
She looked up at him, adoringly and with a keen sense of want. “I did have to help you,” she said softly.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what friends are for,” she whispered like a breeze in his ear.
It was a good thing Shannon never went into the house, because he would definitely have gotten an idea of what a breeze suddenly turned into a cyclone could do.
Nana Mama, who was peeking out from behind the curtain, observed the face her granddaughter was showing Shannon Davenport. It was trickery, nothing but pure trickery.
Trembling the old woman hurried back to her room as fast as her years would allow. Picking up the phone she punched in the number of the one woman she knew she could talk to.
Mama.
Chapter 21
When Ballistic had stated he wanted a fear deeper than the depths of hell to fall on Rico DeLeon Hudson, he had meant it. Literally.
So far Trey, Warren P., and Bobby had done a good job of taking down Rico’s houses and tracking down his right-hand man, Eight Ball. Taking him out of his misery had been Ballistic’s pleasure.
If he hadn’t needed to give Eight Ball’s head to Rico to make his point, it would have become a trophy to be hung up on the wall as one of his many accomplishments.
Milkbone’s death was a bonus.
He happened to step out of Rico’s Jeep at an opportune moment. He just wanted this little punk to know that he never slept. That he could be wherever he was, controlling the situations, slipping in and out, like a ghost in the night.
He had acknowledged Rico’s little grandstand play at Spence’s funeral. It was pure child’s play. But Rico had mistakenly stepped over the boundaries. He had disrespected a bond, so for that he would have to pay dearly. And today was the day. Ballistic would take care of this personally. An eye for an eye.
Rico’s cell phone was ringing off the hook because a number of his stash houses and street lieutenants had been hit. Some of them were minor players, but coldly and systematically Ballistic was spreading his web.
And Rico hadn’t gotten the most important call of all yet. But he would.
The saying goes, as a man thinketh so is he, and Ballistic was a man with very dark thoughts. He was also a carrier. He carried out whatever came to his mind. It was all a game to him. It was a very dangerous one because Ballistic had no conscience. There was no stop mechanism in his brain, nothing that registered compassion or sympathy. No regrets for pain and sorrow.
He was like a machine covered in flesh. An open vessel for whatever evils spewed forth from the land. And he was loving his position. He had cheated death more times than he could remember. The testament was in the hole in his throat and the limp he walked with.
However, these weren’t handicaps. They were badges of honor. He wore them as though they were prestigious. They were a salute to the Darkling. Evidence that he was a man who would pay what he owed, for receiving more than one life.
Ballistic was sometimes a man of two faces. Not both of them were his. He looked into the red eyes of his German shepherd. The unusual color mesmerized him.
He crossed his legs, diverting his attention from the dog, giving a full-force impact of his presence to Kesha, Rico’s lady.
She was sitting in a chair across from him in Rico’s living room. Ballistic acknowledged silently that the boy had taste in both living large and women. Kesha was a tasty-looking little morsel. However, her sensuality didn’t faze him in the least. He had long ago lost any sexual appetite he might have had.
Sex was a weakness for most men. It had caused the downfall of many of them. Ballistic knew he would never be among such numbers. He had no desire for women other than what he could use them for. They were simply tools, a means to an end.
For a brief moment Ballistic got caught up in the reverie of his past. He had been sodomized repeatedly from the age of five to the age of thirteen by his mentally ill stepfather.
The man should have been institutionalized, but in the black community cou
nseling, psychiatry, or anything that smacked of it was taboo. Doctors were for white people. Churches were for black people. Unfortunately neither antidote had been enlisted to help Ballistic, although his mother was a staunch Christian.
She was a Christian who never seemed to see the face of evil, though. Not in its purest form. Only now after so many losses was she beginning to recognize it. Even though she’d had recent cause to come in close contact with it, she would never fathom the magnitude of it that had burst forth from her own womb.
The deranged twisted systematic stripping away of Ballistic’s sexuality stopped on his thirteenth birthday. That was the day Ballistic put a bullet in his stepfather’s head and buried his body beneath the cellar, leaving his mother to raise two children on her own. She thought he had simply walked out and left her a single parent.
Ballistic left her with her thoughts. Doing so was easier than the truth. That had been his first body. After that he had sat over that grave in the dark on many a night summoning the powers of darkness, getting high as a kite. Two things had come from it. He never had a craving for women. And he had come upon a power to be reckoned with.
Ballistic pulled his thoughts back to the present.
Kesha shivered as a glow peeked out from the depths of Ballistic’s coal-black eyes. She’d never seen such emptiness. There was no way she could appeal to this man.
She felt it deep in her bones. There was nothing to connect to. Sitting before her was not an ordinary thug or gangster, and she knew that, instinctively.
No. Although this man possessed the physicality of humankind, his spirit was not such. Kesha could feel waterfalls of sweat pouring from between her armpits.
She looked at the German shepherd, then back at Ballistic. With astonishment she saw that the pupils of both their eyes were red. Something dark clawed at her memory banks, but for the life of her she couldn’t put her finger on it. So instead she shivered as though she had been thrown in a freezer.
She looked over at Bobby, Warren P., and Trey. Her eyes pleaded with them to reconsider, to help her. Although they put up a good front, each one of them was as terrified of Ballistic as she was. They would be no help, she realized with a pang.
Looking back at Ballistic through his eyes she fast-forwarded through a tunnel, tons of dirt fell on her face and her body suffocating her. She tunneled through pure blackness. There was no light. Finally, he released her.
Kesha heaved trying to get air. As quickly as she had been transported through the tunnel of Ballistic’s eyes, she found herself back, bound and gagged in the face of darkness. She had taken a mind trip into the depths of hell, seeing her own burial in the process.
He smiled. Kesha nodded, her heart hammering in her chest, knowing her death was sealed, and she had been given an opportunity to stare it in the face.
She was only glad her daughter wasn’t there. Her sister was babysitting for Ebony. Thank God. She would be spared the same fate as her mother because Kesha knew if Ebony had been there for this monster, it would have made no difference. He would take whatever life was in the house.
Ballistic tilted his head just as Kesha raised hers a bit higher, her chin pointed in a position of pride. He felt his first stir of admiration as he realized she was facing her death without pleading, begging, sobbing, or crying. Respect tingled through his body. He’d seen men who didn’t have her strength.
Then he nodded at the dog that had been awaiting his silent signal. In that moment Kesha knew what had been tingling at the base of her memory. She was staring at a man marked by the devil. The revelation broke out a new sheen of sweat on her skin. She didn’t believe she’d ever been that close to evil until now.
In a flash she knew this was about more than hustling, gangbanging, clocking dollars, and wearing designer clothes. It was about more than the game they had all played. This was high stakes, and it was not on the grounds or by the rules with which they were used to playing.
In Ballistic’s eyes she saw more than mere revenge. She saw eyes that weren’t his. She saw, simply put, damnation. And an eye for an eye.
“Lord Jesus,” was all she said aloud, but in her heart she sent out a prayer for all of their very souls. She prayed for forgiveness in the last hour. They had been dancing with the devil and didn’t even know it.
At Ballistic’s nod the German shepherd attacked the bound Kesha. He sank his clawed teeth into her soft skin, tearing her to shreds. The girl’s screams were quickly silenced as the dog tore her windpipe from her throat.
He shook her like a rag doll. Mercifully by this time Kesha’s spirit had separated from her body so there was no more pain and terror. It was just as well she had been spared the sight of her own body being ripped to shreds, and gasoline being thrown in her face.
Quickly they doused the entire house with gasoline. On a look from Ballistic they lit the match torching the girl and the house.
Ballistic limped back out the way he had come. The only thing left was the Darkling, whose howls of anger reverberated in the intense burning flames of the house as he stared at the darkened, black charcoal carnage of the body on the floor.
As the spirit had separated from the body the Darkling had missed an opportunity to gather it as one of his own, and he was incensed with anger.
Unknowingly Ballistic silently saluted him, not knowing that in the flesh he had hit his mark, but in the spirit he had missed his shot.
The Darkling didn’t accept misses.
Chapter 22
Mama watched as Aisha climbed from the car with her mother. Nikki, Aisha’s mother, looked shell-shocked. She was a young mother. She had given birth to Aisha at the age of fifteen. She was neither equipped nor prepared for the fate that had befallen her daughter.
On the other hand Aisha’s eyes shone bright with both fear and knowledge. Mama keyed in on it straightaway, although Nikki hadn’t a clue. They had just come from the second round of doctor visits empty-handed. None of them were able to provide a clue as to why Aisha had suddenly lost her speech.
They were chalking it up to emotional and psychological. Asking all kinds of insane questions. To which Nikki had taken deep offense. Her daughter was not crazy. Neither was she for that matter.
That’s why she never went to doctors. But she was so afraid for her daughter she had relented. She wished she hadn’t, because they didn’t seem to know a damn thing.
Knowing she was stressed out, Mama called out to Nikki from her front porch, “Nikki!”
Nikki turned at the sound of Mama’s voice.
“Child, bring that baby over here to me,” Mama yelled out to her. She wanted to see the child up close as well as find out if she might be able to get a moment alone with her.
Tears shimmered in Nikki’s eyes as she did what Mama requested. When she reached the front steps of the porch Mama didn’t waste any time. “What’d them there doctors say, Nikki?” she said while gathering Aisha close to her apron strings for a warm hug. The child was trembling. This angered Mama.
“Aw, you know, Mama, they said the same old thing. Bottom line is they just don’t know. I’m gonna have to try to apply for some special schooling or something because she can’t attend regular classes anymore. I don’t have that kind of money.”
Mama drew Aisha closer to her while she stared in Nikki’s eyes. “Now, you hush your mouth about money, child. You’re gonna have what you need. I got a few dollars put away for emergencies. This is one if I ever seen it. So you just find out what you need and let me know.”
“No. Honestly, I couldn’t—”
Mama cut Nikki off in midsentence. “You can and you will. I ain’t fixing to take no for an answer. Now, why don’t you go lie down and rest a bit? I’m going take Aisha inside with me, give her a slice of my lemon meringue pie, and she and I’s going to spend some time together. Okay?”
Nikki nodded, grateful. She hugged Mama before leaving the porch. “You’re a godsend. I’ll come back for her in a little while.”
Although Nikki thought that an odd statement she only nodded. Everybody knew Mama wasn’t like the rest of them. She never had been. She’d fed, babysat, and clothed more babies in their neighborhood than any of them could remember. And she’d always been prone to strange sayings.
Now she was coming to the rescue again with money. Nikki said a silent prayer for Mama and went into her house. Mama gathered up Aisha, taking her straight to her sitting room where she could get to the bottom of things.
Aisha loved Mama; she always had. Mama was sweet and warm, and had always provided Aisha with all the things grandmothers were for. Aisha felt especially close to her because her own grandmother had died when she was younger. She had overdosed in a drug house.
The scars on her arms from Old King Heroin had been a testament to the pain living inside the woman. Her arms had been covered from top to bottom in tracks. There wasn’t an inch of flesh that hadn’t been scarred from the needle.
Although she was a junkie she had loved, as well as provided for and nurtured, her daughter and granddaughter. Her death had left a deep void in both Nikki’s and Aisha’s life that had never been filled.
Nikki stretched out on the couch in the living room after kicking off her shoes. She was exhausted. She had been a nervous wreck as well since she discovered that Aisha could no longer speak. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
Mama cut Aisha a nice slice of pie and sat down next to the child after pouring her some cold milk as well. This was going to be delicate because of Aisha’s age. But she knew what Aisha had seen. She only needed to make her speak of it. She had to face it, so she could begin the healing process. That couldn’t happen unless she overcame her fear.
Papa, who sat in the living room but could see into the sitting room, cut his eyes in Mama’s direction. He’d told her not to meddle, but he’d known better. He’d been reading Scriptures on a nightly basis ever since Mama had uttered the words rockabye, baby.