One Blood

by Amaru, Qwantu

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Monday

  Angola, LA

  “Baker? Baker! I know you hear me, boy! Time to wake up. The warden wants to see you.”

  Lincoln jumped at the sound of the man’s voice. He opened eyes caked with sleep and saw a redneck guard yelling at him through the cell bars.

  “What did you say?”

  “Are you deaf and dumb, Nigger? The warden wants to see you. Now. Let’s go.”

  Lincoln stretched. “What time is it?”

  “Time to get yo’ black ass over to these here bars and ‘sume the position.”

  After securing the handcuffs—every prisoner’s least favorite accessory—the guard yelled down the corridor. A moment later, Lincoln and the guard were only separated by air and opportunity. Lincoln held a happy vision of slitting the man’s throat with a used razor blade. He smiled at the balding, pudgy, white man before him.

  “What does the warden want to see me for? I’ve got to pack up my stuff. You know I’m fin to get out today.”

  The guard told him to shut up and yanked him out of the cell.

  Walking down the corridor of Camp J, Lincoln looked into the cells of the other lifers waking up to another day on the block. They all had variations of the same story. To outsiders, twenty-three hour lockdown might seem unbearable, but to the prisoners of Camp J, there was a worse alternative. They could be at the injection center waiting for the poisonous kiss of the needle.

  Moments later, Lincoln walked out into the humid Louisiana morning. As his eyes adjusted to the morning light, he smiled broadly. He usually only got to spend three hours outside per week.

  When I get outta here I’m gonna sleep outside for a whole month! That’ll be the life!

  Lincoln got into the backseat of the patrol car and rested his head against the window, watching the other inmates trudging out for another day of work in the fields. He managed to get one hand inside his jeans pocket and fished out the crinkled photograph he carried with him at all times. Staring at the old picture of Juanita, given to him some years ago by Amir, he felt a mixture of anger and hope. Anger because she died before they could meet, and hope that he could do her memory justice upon his release. They had the same eyebrows, nose, chin, and mouth. And now they had the same dream. Revenge.

  * * * * *

  Amidst his collection of wallpaper was an article Amir sent him a few days after their initial introduction. Lincoln requested proof of Amir’s authenticity and Amir had produced a worn article from 1973. The article accused a woman, Juanita Simmons, of killing her husband—the first black mayor of Lake City—and his secretary.

  The assassinated mayor’s name was Walter Simmons. Amir had circled his name and written YOUR DAD in the margin. Lincoln couldn’t believe that the park he had played, grown-up, and killed on—Simmons Park— was named after his biological father.

  At the end of the article Amir had written the phrase, MOM WAS FRAMED.

  Panama X filled in the rest of the blanks, telling him about the man responsible for Lincoln’s loneliness, pain, and suffering over the years. The man who’d robbed him of the chance at a better life. The man who had built an empire on the decayed bones of his father.

  Listening to X, it all clicked for Lincoln. He immediately began to read anything and everything he could get his hands on about Randy Lafitte. The more he learned about his enemy, the more he fantasized about the day when he would confront him and make him feel pain like he’d never known. He didn’t know if it was “his destiny,” like Panama X always said, but he was committed to vengeance, consequences be damned. First step: get out of Angola. Second step: get to Lafitte. Third step: kill him.

  Then improvise the rest.

  * * * * *

  The car pulled up to the prison administrative office, but instead of stopping, the guard drove around to the back of the building.

  “What the fuck is goin’ on?” Lincoln asked.

  The guard ignored him.

  “I’m axin’ you a ques—” Lincoln swallowed the rest of his sentence as the guard turned around brandishing his bully club.

  “The warden told me to give you this.”

  Lincoln started to protest, but a bully club to the temple shut him up. All he saw was a flash of light before his world turned black.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monday

  Lake City, LA

  “I’m comin’,” Brandon Mouton shouted at the front door. “Quit ringin’ the friggin’ doorbell, would’ja?” Brandon shuffled from his bedroom to answer the buzzer. After fumbling for a minute with the three locks on the door, he opened it with a jingle from the cowbell tied around the handle. The early morning sunlight burst into the dark cave of the modest house, blinding Brandon and illuminating a narrow hallway with brown tile floors.

  Brandon rubbed his eyes until they adjusted to the morning sun. Then he recognized the short, bald-headed kid on the other side of the locked screen door.

  “Whassup, Shorty?” Brandon opened the screen door and greeted his homeboy with a pound handshake and a half hug.

  “What it do?” Shorty replied. “When you get back to the L.C.?”

  “Late last night. The trip was off tha slab! We won the tournament and guess who got that MVP?”

  “Yeah?” Shorty grinned. “That’s cool. Real cool. Proud of you man.”

  “Thanks. So what’s up? I know you didn’t wake my ass up to talk basketball.”

  Shorty lifted his wife-beater slightly, revealing the unmistakable black grip of a Glock .357. He was no longer grinning as he said, “I need your help, bruh. You gonna let me in?”

  Brandon suddenly wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. He looked up and down the street trying to think fast. An old, burgundy Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight turned the corner in front of his house.

  “Come on,” Brandon interrupted, feeling exposed. He gestured for Shorty to enter.

  Once they got to his bedroom, Brandon sat down on the bed. “Aight Shorty, what we got to talk about?”

  “Man, you shoulda seen yo’ face when you saw my piece. Looked like a scared little beeyatch.”

  “Why you walkin’ around in the street with that goddamn gun anyway, Shorty?”

  “Why else? It’s for protection.” Shorty reached into the small refrigerator on the floor of Brandon’s closet and took out a Coke.

  “Protection from who?”

  Shorty got quiet and then said, “I found somethin’. Somethin’ important.”

  “You gonna tell me what it is?”

  “I’ll tell you what it’s about.” Shorty rummaged through his backpack and Brandon could have sworn he saw what looked like a box of Playtex tampons. Seconds later, Shorty handed Brandon the newspaper.

  “You seen this yet?”

  Brandon read the headline glaring back at him from that morning’s Lake City Advocate: “Governor Lafitte to Grant Lincoln Baker a Full Pardon.” He had tried so hard to shut out the memories of that awful day at Simmons Park. He could barely stand to look at the picture of Lincoln. Long gone were the days of looking up to his older brother, the basketball superstar-turned-murderer.

  Why did you do it, Link?

  “When is he gettin’ out?” Brandon felt a headache coming on.

  “Eight this mohnin’.”

  Brandon’s world was spinning. “Word?”

  “Yeah, Bruh. I can’t wait for Link to get back on the block.” Shorty beamed with admiration.

  Brandon thought he was going to be sick. “How…how is this possible?”

  To his surprise, Shorty answered, “Come wit’ me and I’ll show you.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Okay,” Brandon said. “Where is this thing you gotta show me?”

  “My house. Let’s cut through the woods.”

  They walked in silence through the forest, following a path that had probably been carved out by boys much
like themselves years earlier. Eventually the woods cleared out and the path disappeared, revealing Shorty’s backyard.

  “Aight. This is what’s up,” Shorty said. “Somebody snatched the Governor’s daughter two days ago.”

  “Karen Lafitte? Bullshit! That woulda been all over the news.”

  “Not if they had a ransom. I caught them bringing her to Simmons Park, and then I followed them back to their hideout...”

  * * * * *

  Shorty had been headed to school Friday morning when he got a text from one of his “customers.” He took a slight detour to Simmons Park to unload a couple of dime bags before class. After he made the drop, Shorty smoked a little of the product and then continued on his way to school. He was about to jump the fence (put up after the killings to keep trespassers out) when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. A fat guy and a musclehead were unloading a sleeping bag from the trunk of an Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight. The sleeping bag had a lock of blond hair sticking out of the top.

  * * * * *

  “Really?” Brandon asked. “Then how did Karen get here?”

  “Well, I had a feeling that they might be watchin’ the place, know what I’m sayin’, so I pretty much just watched them come and go until I got their schedule down pat. Then last night I decided to check out the gym. You know I ain’t been up in that piece since before the shooting, bruh?”

  “Me either.”

  “Yeah, man. It was dark as shit up in there. That place used to be a lot bigger when we was kids, bruh…”

  * * * * *

  It had been easy to open up the gym door, but not nearly as easy to find his way around in the dark once he was inside. The sliver of light coming through the door from the single functioning streetlight was swallowed by the darkness. Shorty wished he had something to prop open the door, but he couldn’t risk someone seeing the door ajar and coming in to investigate. He pulled out his flashlight and took a few cautious steps forward. The outside door closed behind him.

  The flashlight illuminated a paper-strewn hallway. He looked around for clues as to where they’d stashed the body. Shorty paused after finding a blond hair on the stairwell.

  He stopped and listened.

  Upstairs, someone or something was whimpering.

  He took a few more steps.

  A female voice cried, “Where are you, Kristopher? I wanna see you.”

  * * * * *

  “Come on, Shorty, that ain’t true,” Brandon interrupted. Shorty had told some tall tales in his life, but this had to be like Manute Bol tall.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Does ‘hell no’ mean anything to you?”

  “That hurts, B, really. But I knew you wouldn’t believe me, that’s why I brought you here in the first place. So come on if you comin’.”

  Brandon followed Shorty into the house. The place was a mess, as usual. Shorty’s rarely present mother was a packrat who had never found a piece of junk she didn’t love.

  Brandon checked his watch. He was going to be late for school for sure. Coach Torelli would ream him out if he missed the morning meeting. “We got to hurry this—” Brandon started to say as he stepped into Shorty’s bedroom. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  A blond-haired white girl lay spread-eagled on Shorty’s bed. This couldn’t be Karen Lafitte. He had just seen her at Jessica Breaux’s homecoming after party. Karen had been named Homecoming Queen.

  There was no trace of that girl here. Her wrists and ankles were taped to the metal posts. Brandon saw track marks up and down emaciated arms. She looked like the concentration camp victims in his world history textbook. He stared at Shorty dumbfounded.

  “See. Told ya,” Shorty said smugly.

  Brandon took a step backward. He wanted to bolt, but was held transfixed by the scene before him.

  “What did you do, Shorty? What did you do?”

  “What the hell you talking bout? I saved her life!”

  Brandon looked away—Karen wasn’t wearing any panties. “This is sick, Shorty. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Wrong with me? You got this twisted, bruh.”

  Brandon barged past Shorty and started undoing Karen’s bonds.

  “What the fuck you think you’re doing? Stop!”

  “Make me.” Brandon had almost gotten Karen’s left ankle loose when he felt the gun pressed into his back.

  “I said, stop.”

  “You gonna shoot me, Shorty?”

  “I don’t want to, so don’t make me. Now turn around. Real slow.”

  Brandon’s heartbeat doubled as he got his second look at Shorty’s glock. “Come on, Shorty, you know me. We can work this out.”

  “I thought so,” Shorty said, taping Brandon’s hands behind his back. “But I guess I was wrong. Now sit down and cross your ankles.”

  Shorty took his eyes off Brandon’s face for a moment to tape up his legs.

  Brandon jerked his knee into Shorty’s jaw. It was a solid hit. Shorty tumbled off him, temporarily unconscious. Working his wrists, Brandon freed himself, tied Shorty up, then went back to work on Karen. Once he had her loose, he gently pulled her to her feet.

  Karen rolled her head back and looked up at him. “Isaac?”

  “Shhh. I’m fin to get you out of here.”

  “Brandon! Fuck, bruh!” Shorty groaned. “What you do that for. Let me go, bruh.”

  “No way, Shorty. I’m gonna get Karen out of here and then I’m calling the police.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t do this! All you have to do is go over to Simmons Park and see for yourself. That’s where they had her. Just check it out before you do something crazy, please!”

  “You’re no good, Shorty. We’re getting out of here. I’m taking the gun, too, so don’t get any ideas.”

  As Brandon dragged Karen outside he realized he was in way over his head.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday

  Baton Rouge, LA

  “Give me some good news, Bill,” Randy said, answering his phone. He gave up on his tie momentarily and sat on the edge of the tub inside his suite at the Marriott. He’d been waiting for Bill’s call for over an hour.

  “My FBI contacts have located Amir Barber,” Bill replied. “And he is Juanita Simmons’ son.”

  Randy slapped his knee with pleasure. Jhonnette Deveaux had turned out to be extremely helpful after all.

  “Bulls-eye. He’s the guy. Where is he?”

  “We’re triangulating his exact location right now.”

  “Excellent work,” Randy replied.

  “What are you going do to about Snake Roberts?” Bill asked.

  It was a good question. One Randy had given serious thought to over the past eight hours.

  “I’ve got Snake covered,” Randy replied. Snake would soon learn the penalty for disloyalty. “Bill, Karen’s fate is in your hands now. Bring my girl home to me.”

  “You can count on me, Ran. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Randy hung up, splashed his face with water, and finished his tie. He was going to need the power of positive thinking to get through all of this. Since Karen’s kidnapping, he’d just barely managed to keep from unraveling as the kidnappers continued to torture him. They’d sent two more DVDs, each one further documenting Karen’s regression from a healthy teenager to a pale, emaciated zombie.

  In the videos, Karen scratched at her arms, lined with the tell-tale marks of heroin use, while talking to herself like a schizophrenic. The look in her eyes was the worst though, like she was losing hope and humanity with each passing day. Randy just wanted her back alive, no matter what the condition. He was terrified of what today might bring if Bill couldn’t find her first.

  His cell phone rang again.

  Randy stared at the words, UNKNOWN CALLER, staring at him from the display. It was the kidnappers. He could only imagine what they would have to say.

  As he flipped open the phon
e, he was completely unprepared for the word that floated through the telephone receiver.

  “Daddy?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Monday

  Angola, LA

  “Wake up, Lincoln. Rise and shine.”

  Lincoln crawled out of the darkness as if he’d been buried alive under six feet of nightmares and confusion. His head throbbed and his hands and feet were strapped into a chair of some sort. Strange voices spoke in hushed tones near him.

  There was a mask over his head, the kind of mask placed over an inmate’s head just moments before he imitated the “this is your brain on drugs” commercial from the eighties. Judging from the echo in the room, he knew he wasn’t in a holding cell.

  Where the hell am I?

  Rational thought gave way to adrenaline as fear bolted to the surface of his psyche.

  I’m strapped into the electric chair!

  His breath grew raspier as the mask stuck to his sweat-soaked skin.

  Suddenly, it was ripped off his face.

  Lincoln blinked as he tried to adjust to the bright lights. He heard snickering and laughter all around him. A tall figure in a dark suit stood before him. Lincoln immediately recognized his captor.

  “You? You’re responsible for this?”