Coral slid to her knees and put the pills back into the bottle—twenty-two in all. Placing the bottle in the medicine cabinet, she returned to bed.
It was a long time before sleep found her.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty
Monday
Location Unknown
“My boys are on their way,” Snake said. “Is the girl ready for delivery?”
Amir paced inside the dilapidated school where his crew was holed up. “Everything is under control.”
“It better be. Everything’s been set in motion on my end. If yuh try and fuck me, it’s gonna get ugly.”
“Don’t threaten me,” Amir replied in a calm, even tone. “We are both going to get exactly what we want.”
“I want to know where yuh have the girl,” Snake demanded. “We pahtners, right? What if something bad happens to yuh boys? Yuh know Lafitte can’t be trusted.”
“We’ve been over this a million times…the girl is my responsibility; you just worry about keeping Lafitte in check. Where are you now?”
“Rayne.”
“Good. Now let’s go over things one last time…”
Moments later Amir hung up and exhaled deeply. Things were slowly falling into place.
* * * * *
The hardest part had been convincing Lincoln to join their cause. He wasn’t exactly the trusting type. But eventually his curiosity got the best of him, and after Panama X explained how Randy Lafitte had not only killed Lincoln’s father, but ruined his mother’s life as well, Lincoln was in.
The first plan had been to incite a riot and use the commotion as a distraction so Amir could sneak Lincoln out of the prison. Panama X quickly vetoed that idea—far too risky. After much strategizing, the three of them had come up with the perfect plan. Actually, it was more than perfect, it was damn near elegant.
Juanita Barber would finally be avenged. Amir visited his mother’s grave in Lake City often. Even though he knew he could speak to her spirit from anywhere, he felt closer, more connected, at the spot where her physical remains lay at rest. One day after one of his regular visits, he returned to his car to find a note pinned between the windshield and wiper. It read:
Meet me at The Island of Capri. 7:00 p.m. Lucky Wins. I have information you need.
* * * * *
Lucky Wins was a cheap Asian restaurant populated by septuagenarians who let slot machines digest their retirement while they consumed smelly chinese food. Amir gazed around the crowded space, searching for anyone staring at him with recognition. A fair-skinned beauty with dark hair nodded and waved at him from the far side of the room.
With a face that could stop a war, her beauty pulsated towards him like a star about to go supernova. He tried to play it cool, but his stomach was hoola-hooping around in his mid-section. As lust stirred in his loins, Amir realized how blinded he had been by his mission. Seeing this woman was like seeing food after starving for so long he’d forgotten he was even hungry.
Amir made his way over to where she was seated. Not knowing what to say, he sat down and tried unsuccessfully not to stare.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” she asked with a slight smile. Amir looked her over. She was a bewitching woman, probably in her early thirties. Her eyes were downright hypnotic—dark, piercing, and seemingly all-knowing.
“I get out enough,” he replied. “This is my first time in a casino, though.”
“Not a gambling man?”
“I prefer to play people, not cards, slots, or dice.”
“Interesting,” she replied. “How is that working out for you?”
“Some people are easier to play than others, and some people are best not to play with at all.”
She nodded and smiled. “And which type of person are you?”
“I think you know.” He returned her smile. “So, what’s this all about?”
“Let’s have a drink before we get to business,” she replied. She summoned the waiter and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Amir ordered a cranberry-orange juice.
“Don’t drink?” she asked.
“Nothing with alcohol.”
“You must get that from your father.”
Amir was caught off guard by the mention of his father. “You need to start talking, lady.”
“Yes drill sergeant! Wow, you military types are a mess.” She chuckled, revealing a mouth of healthy white teeth. “Hmm…where do we start? Clearly, I know some things about you, yet you know nothing about me. Let me get you up to speed. My name is Jhonnette Deveaux and I want to help you.”
The waiter returned with their drinks. “Help me with what?” Amir asked, taking a sip of juice.
She grabbed a napkin, wrote something down, and passed it across the table. Amir read the name she had scrawled: Lincoln Baker.
“What about him?” he asked, trying to control his annoyance.
“Come on, Amir. Stop being so stoic. How am I supposed to help with you acting all nonchalant? Look, I know all about you, your father, and our friend there.” She pointed to the napkin. “I also know how you can set him free and why that is so important to you.”
“Go on,” Amir replied.
“What do you know about Kristopher Lafitte?” she asked between sips of her drink.
“Besides who his father is and how he died? Not much.”
“Did you know our beloved Governor’s father died three days after he turned eighteen?”
“And?”
“You think it’s a coincidence Kristopher Lafitte died on the exact same schedule?”
Amir was intrigued. “What are you saying?”
Jhonnette grabbed another napkin and scribbled something. Then she finished off her drink, stood and replied, “Karen Lafitte turns eighteen in two years. Think about it.”
Amir did more than just think about it. In the weeks that followed his encounter with Jhonnette Deveaux, he became obsessed with the history of the Lafitte clan. She’d left her number on the napkin and when he called, she didn’t sound the least bit surprised to hear from him.
“How did you figure all this out?” he asked.
“That’s none of your business,” she replied. “What you need to focus on is how you can use this information to free Lincoln and officially take the reins of the Black Mob from your father. That is your ultimate goal, right?”
She had him there. Everything Amir had done since he turned eighteen had the same objective: to prove his readiness to lead.
“I will help you,” she continued. “All I ask in return is a small percentage of the ransom.”
“Whoa, lady,” Amir replied. “Who said anything about kidnapping anybody?”
“How else do you expect to force Randy Lafitte to issue a full pardon for Lincoln’s release…”
* * * * *
So as brilliant as the plan was, Amir could not claim credit. At every turn, Jhonnette Deveaux had been there providing valuable insight and guidance. Unfortunately, his attempts to turn her into more than an advisor had fallen flat. She was not interested in mixing business with pleasure. And whenever Amir inquired about her reasons for helping him, she’d simply say, “Randy Lafitte has ruined many lives; your mother wasn’t his only victim.” Due to Jhonnette’s cajoling, Amir finally conjured up the courage to perform the ceremony on Karen Lafitte known in Vodun as the sending of the dead.
The sending of the dead ritual would result in a brutally slow death for Karen. First, she would undergo rapid weight loss, then she would cough and vomit blood. Finally, she would lose all strength, succumbing to the demon. Once this process was complete, Amir would return Karen’s inhabited shell to Randy so the baka could destroy Lafitte and return to the spirit realm.
Punishment at its finest.
Amir’s father had taught him the guiding principles that molded his philosophies and framed his purpose. Vodun was the recognition that all things, events, and living beings were inextricably bound together. The only religion borne out of revolut
ion, this universal spiritual system rested on the common principles of magic. When dealing with a baka there was always a blood contract involved.
With the sending of the dead, Amir, as the invoker of the baka, would be obligated to serve the baka in the afterlife. But in the case of a lost soul from the transitional realm like Kristopher Lafitte, the traditional contract could be waved by allowing the spirit to exact revenge against a common enemy with no negative consequences for Amir.
Today the baka would complete its mission. Amir played out how the day’s events would unfold. At eight o’clock, Lincoln would be released from Angola. Once Amir received confirmation that Lincoln was safely out of prison and on his way back to Lake City, Amir would give the order for his men to make the final drop.
The rest was up to Snake. Apparently, Jhonnette had Randy Lafitte’s enforcer under her thumb. When Amir had questioned the need for Snake’s involvement, Jhonnette was characteristically vague. “It never hurts to have a man on the inside,” she said. “Insurance.”
Amir made his way down a narrow corridor to the control room where Moose, Zire, and Reef were posted up.
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Amir asked.
The men looked at each other.
Moose spoke up. “We was just discussin’ who was goin’ to deliver the last drop.”
Amir rubbed the back of his bald head. “Then it looks like I’m just in time. Where the hell are the Stooges?”
“Trump and Salsa are ‘sleep,” Zire replied in his chronic smoker’s whisper. “Fat Pat just left to pick up our gal from the park.”
“Thanks for the update, Zire. Just for that, you get to stay here with me while Moose and Reef deliver the drop.”
Moose and Reef’s expressions did not betray any concern. These were good men. Ex-military, just like him. Dependable and disciplined.
“Now here’s how it’s gonna go down…I want to speak to the Stooges once Fat Pat gets back. They’re Team One and ya’ll are Team Two. While they take care of the girl, ya’ll deliver the drop. Then ya’ll high tail it to the meeting point.”
Moose and Reef nodded, then cleared out to carry out their mission. Amir turned to Zire. “You get those things I asked for?”
“Of course. You ready for them now?”
“Yeah. Thank you, Zire.”
Once Zire’s footfalls faded, Amir grabbed a flashlight and made his way into the prayer chamber. Amir’s life had changed so much since his mother revealed the truth to him about his brother.
“Set Lincoln free, Amir.”
His ears rang with the last words his mother ever spoke.
Running his flashlight over the room, Amir took inventory of the materials Zire had provided. The salt was clearly marked. There were three tall black candles. A box of fresh chalk sat on top of two packages of Karen’s blood. He touched the top package. Room temperature. Perfect.
But where is the knife?
He turned in a circle looking for his instrument and found it sitting in its leather sheath on a hook by the door. With all of the materials accounted for, Amir could proceed. Amir felt all the loa smiling down on him.
It was time to begin. Using the chalk, Amir drew a large intricate design on the floor.
The design (called vèvè) was required to summon a loa, in this case Guédé Barons or Baron LaCroix—the loa of the dead. Amir carefully sprinkled the salt in a complete circle around the vèvè (for his own protection). Then he stepped into the center with the blood, candles, and knife. He squeezed Karen’s blood onto the large rectangle at the base of the vèvè.
As he did so, he felt the ground beneath his feet tremor ever so slightly. He lit the candles, placing one atop each of the three asterisk-like symbols. He chanted in French as he did this, and each time he repeated the mantra, he sprinkled more of Karen’s blood on the candles.
Once the candles had been doused with blood, Amir sliced his palm with the knife and pressed his hand to the heart-shaped face. Then he stood, straddling the symbol, and waited for Baron LaCroix to manifest. He would need the loa’s strength to control the baka. If not, the results would be disastrous for everyone.
* * * * *
Thirty minutes later, Amir lay on his cot, exhausted. He’d tried everything he knew to bring the spirit to him, but Baron LaCroix never showed. Maybe he didn’t yet have the strength. Perhaps it was an omen. Either way, he would try again once his men returned with the girl.
Amir was nervous—Fat Pat should have reported back by now. Amir was in the middle of typing a message to Fat Pat on his two-way when he heard someone approaching. In moments, Fat Pat stood before him, sweating profusely, his face twisted with a wild look of fear.
“What is it?” Amir asked, anticipating the worst. Fat Pat’s reply, however, was so far out of the realm of possibilities that it took Amir a few seconds to comprehend what he’d said.
“Come again?” Amir asked.
“It’s th-the girl…” Fat Pat repeated. “She’s gone.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-One
Monday
Location Unknown
A tickling sensation in her ear brought Karen into consciousness. With her eyes closed, she felt pressure on her chest like someone was giving her CPR. But the hands were concentrated on her breasts, not her breastbone.
A male voice attached to those hands grunted, “Damn, girl.”
His tongue probed her ear cavity as he humped her hard and fast. Karen’s pelvis convulsed in a sharp cramp.
He twitched frantically on top of her and after a few shudders rolled away.
Karen opened her eyes. She felt separated from what was happening to her body, as if it was another girl getting raped.
How did I get here? Where is here?
The charley horse galloping inside her abdomen brought her back to reality. Her lower back felt as if a migraine migrated there for the winter. She clutched and then rubbed her sore pelvis.
“You aight, yo? Whassamatta?”
“Cramps.” Karen exhaled as they subsided.
“Cramps from what?”
She pointed down.
“You fo’ real?” He moved a few spaces away. “Damn. What we gone do now?”
“Where…am I?” The past few hours were a blur. She vaguely remembered someone talking to her, telling her to get up in harsh whispers. She remembered the smell and feel of wet grass, too. Pain and wet grass.
Where is my fucking shot? I wouldn’t be feeling this way if I had my shot…
“I rescued you,” the voice said.
Karen rolled over, gazing upon her hero—a short, bald-headed, black kid who looked to be around her age. The word “Shorty” was written in Old English lettering on his inner forearm. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry bout all that. I’ma take good care of you.”
“How did I end up here?”
The boy ignored her question and got to his feet. “You want somethin’ to drink?”
“Is that your name on your arm?” Karen persisted.
The boy walked out of the room without answering.
Karen tried to focus. Bit by bit, snatches of memory began to return to her. Her new captor had liberated her from the small, windowless cell where the fat, sweaty black man, a.k.a. Flashlight Man, had been holding her prisoner. She’d been refused everything but the stuff in the syringe as they prepared her for the “ceremony.” Every time she tried to remember details about the ceremony, she saw she and Kristopher on the swings in their backyard beneath the curved branches of Melinda Weeps.
Karen looked around the boy’s room. It was unremarkable except for a huge gun sitting atop the dresser.
That gun is my ticket out of here.
Karen was about to reach for the gun when Shorty reappeared. “Here, drink this.” He stood over her with a dixie cup full of thick, pink liquid.
“What is it?”
“It’s called Lean. It’ll make you feel real good. Slow everythin
g down a bit.”
Karen’s heart flip-flopped with excitement, the gun completely forgotten. She greedily gulped down the contents of the cup, praying it would numb her senses again. It tasted like watered down cough syrup with a kick.
Thankfully, the drug worked fast. As she lay back and closed her eyes, a plan began to form. She just had to find a way to make the boy leave.
But she couldn’t think straight; she kept nodding off. A vision of her father’s screaming face being ripped apart by a black panther forced her eyes open again.
“I need tampons.”
“Huh?”
“I’m on my period, gonna bleed all over myself if I don’t get one.”
“My moms got toilet tissue…that cool?”
“No…is there a store…you know, around?”
“Yeah…yeah, I’ll handle it.” He pulled on his sweats.
Karen scanned the floor for the condom she prayed he’d used. There was none in sight.
“When I get back, we’ll figure out what to do next.”
Once the boy was completely dressed, he dug around in his closet and emerged with a roll of duct tape.
“Sorry, bruh. I can’t trust you to stick around while I’m away,” he said as he bound Karen’s hands to the posts of his bed in a spread eagle position.
Karen didn’t resist.
“Gots to make sure I get that reward, ya feel me?”
Karen fixated on the word “reward.” In a brief moment of clarity, as she looked at her increasingly thinning arms, the idea that her life meant something to her kidnappers hit home.
Her captor grabbed the gun off the dresser and left. Hopeless, Karen tried to maintain her high. The tears streaming down her face made it difficult, but she managed to drift off, even as her arms began tingling from the loss of circulation.
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