One Blood

by Amaru, Qwantu

  * * * * *

  Karen lay curled up in fetal position on the backseat. She thought of Kristopher’s message to trust Brandon. Yeah right—she’d never trust anyone ever again. Besides, Kristopher was only a hallucination brought on by the drugs. Her cramps flared up and she found herself praying for drugs. She coughed violently for the second time in less than a minute. Her blood-tinted mucus splattered the seat.

  God, what is happening to me?

  * * * * *

  Fat Pat focused on the road as the steering wheel dug into his generous belly. All the streets appeared alike. He smacked the steering wheel repeatedly in frustration. Trump had been the driver, not him.

  Fat Pat glanced over at the lanky kid in the passenger seat with dried tears on his face. Then he checked on the girl in the backseat.

  How the fuck did this happen?

  Fat Pat looked at what was left of his watch. It had stopped at 8:23 a.m. Unbelievable. The whole saga at the park had lasted less than ten minutes.

  He examined his options. Salsa and Trump were dead, and he assumed the same was true for Amir and the boys back at headquarters. Yet he had gotten away pretty much unharmed. And, he still had the girl.

  What kind of dumb luck is this?

  The original plan was fucked. It was up to Fat Pat to make the best of a bad situation. The girl was his ticket out of this whole mess. Nothing could happen to him as long as he kept her close.

  Fat Pat’s mind turned to the ransom. Amir hadn’t told anyone in the crew where the money was. If Fat Pat could just figure out the location of the dough, he’d be set for life. He needed information though, information he could only get from one place.

  “Kid,” he began. “Kid! Look at me. Wake up.”

  The kid rolled his head toward Fat Pat’s voice.

  “Where the hell are we?”

  All he got was a blank stare.

  I’ll wake your ass up.

  Fat Pat dug his pointer finger into the bullet hole in the kid’s shoulder until he howled in pain.

  “Good. You’re awake. Now tell me where the fuck we are?”

  “Ain’t telling you squat.” The kid rolled his head back toward the window.

  “Wha—maufucka is you crazy? You think you in pain now? You don’t know pain, kid.”

  The car drifted off the pavement toward a ditch. Fat Pat hit the brakes just in time. The car skidded to a halt.

  “See what you made me do, lil’ nigga? I should just blast yo’ ass right now.”

  The kid met his gaze. “Go ahead.”

  Skinny lil’ nigga got balls. Either that or he’s crazy.

  Fat Pat grabbed the gun and pressed it against the kid’s sweating nose.

  The kid’s eyes showed no sign of fear as he whispered, “Do it.”

  Fat Pat applied pressure on the trigger. Then the girl popped up and grabbed for the gun.

  Aw hell naw. These maufuckas done lost they minds.

  He wrestled the gun back and grabbed the white girl by the throat, choking her until she went limp.

  The kid let himself out of the car and rolled down into the ditch.

  Fat Pat watched the kid pick himself up off the ground. His scream caught in his throat as he took in the deserted surroundings. They were smack dab in the middle of the train district—the perpetually deserted train district. Amir had actually considered setting up shop around here before deciding on the old school, which gave Fat Pat some sort of reference point. He was close to HQ!

  “Nice try, maufucka,” he said, leveling the gun at the kid. “Now let’s try this shit again. You gone tell me how to get where I wanna go or am I gone have to end yo’ life right here?”

  “Okay, okay,” the kid replied. “Where you trying to get to?”

  “The ole’ schoolyard,” Fat Pat replied without hesitation.

  * * * * *

  Baton Rouge, LA

  “Why are we stopping here?” Coral asked, confused. Larry had pulled the sedan over in front of a small building. The tattered sign declared its name as Here Today, Gone Tomorrow.

  “This is the safe house I told you about,” he said.

  “A pawn shop?”

  Larry got out and opened Coral’s door, ignoring her question.

  Coral looked from the open door, to the pawn shop, then back to Larry. She pulled out her cell phone and started dialing.

  Larry snatched the phone out of her hands and stashed it in his suit pocket. “No cell phones.”

  “What are you…you have no right! I want to speak with my husband!”

  “Strict orders, ma’am. No contact from cell phones.”

  Coral was fuming. “So when can I speak with him?”

  “We have a secure line inside, ma’am. You can call him from there.”

  Grumbling, Coral took Larry’s extended hand and got out of the car.

  A man in his late twenties with long, unkempt dark hair met them at the door. He glanced at Coral and then fixed his gaze on Larry. “About damn time. What took you so long?”

  Larry shrugged and ushered Coral inside.

  “And you are?” Coral asked, once across the threshold. She’d been wrong to call this a pawn shop. It was actually an Army/Navy store.

  “Shaw Roberts.”

  “Snake’s brother?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Is this your store?”

  “Correct again. Just got discharged from the service. Bought this place off this crazy Vietnam Vet. Poor guy’s daughter had him committed.”

  Larry cleared his throat. “The phone is in the back, Mrs. Lafitte.”

  Shaw led her through the store, which was cluttered with enough camouflage and rupsacks to equip a small army. Larry brought up the rear. Soon Coral found herself in a storage area that seemed to have everything except for a phone.

  “Where is it?” She asked.

  Shaw pivoted and thrust a rag over Coral’s mouth. “It’s right here.”

  Coral plummeted toward unconsciousness with one thought assaulting her.

  I’ve got to warn Randy

  * * * * *

  Angola, LA

  The Reception Center, also known as Death Row, was in chaos.

  The narrow corridors echoed with the screams of condemned men. Some were throwing flaming reams of toilet paper at the guards, while other banged on their cell bars with tin cups and sticks.

  Panama X observed the pandemonium from his cell. Stoic on the outside, internally he was concerned about Lincoln. He hadn’t expected his young protégé to escape from Angola without incident, but all this screaming and shooting had not been part of the plan.

  Panama X shut his eyes, blocked out the commotion, and dove inward to the place inside himself where time did not exist. From this contemplative space he considered what he’d detected in Lafitte while watching his speech.

  Lafitte’s aura had been orange-brown, a clear indicator of spiritual infection. But from whom?

  The answer revealed itself in the form of a picture.

  He saw a dark room. Tied to a high-backed chair was a girl in a sheer white dress. Behind her was the shadowy figure of a drummer dressed in ceremonial garb. A deep, inhuman voice was chanting. Panama X pushed himself into the mind of the girl. She was trapped in a steel cage watching a figure emerge from the shadows of her subconscious. The figure was very familiar to the girl; she did not fear him. But this presence in her head was not alone.

  She’s the doorway.

  Panama X got a brief glimpse of the spirits overtaking the girl’s mind and body before being violently expelled from her psyche and coming face to face with his own son.

  Amir?

  The vision froze. Amir stood before the girl with a horsewhip in his hand. Flecks of blood were suspended in the space between the whip and the girl’s upturned face. Amir’s expression was triumphant. He clearly had no clue as to what he’d done.

  Why did you do this, Amir? Why couldn’t you be patient?

  “He’s doing it for you
,” Juanita spoke from a corner of his mind.

  He turned to find her standing behind him in his cell. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon her. She wore a flowing white gown and looked like an Orisha goddess—so beautiful his chest ached.

  “Juanita,” he whispered. “My love. Why have you come to me now?”

  She turned away. They were no longer in his cell. They were standing in their old kitchen in Frenchtown. This was only a memory.

  “He looks up to you, Malcolm,” Juanita said. “Sometimes I think he wants to be you.”

  He remembered. This was the fight they had after Amir announced he was going to enlist in the army.

  “I’ve already spoken to him,” he said. “He won’t listen.”

  “I know there’s a part of you that’s pleased,” she replied. “You finally have what you’ve always wanted—your perfect soldier.”

  He winced at her words. “You know I can’t control him. He has his own path to walk, just as you and I have. But yes, maybe the military will finally instill some discipline in him.”

  Juanita faced him. “He’s going to follow you to his death. I refuse to be a part of your insanity any longer.”

  “My insanity? The same insanity that has protected this family for over 20 years? You are the one who refuses to move on, Juanita. You are the one who has never fully embraced your own son because you can’t get over the child and life you lost.”

  “Damn you, Malcolm,” Juanita replied, as tears streaked down her face. “I wish I had died in that fire. Then I wouldn’t have to live with a coward for a husband—a man who talks revolution but refuses to strike back at his enemy. A man who sends his own son to fight his wars for him…”

  “This was not a part of my plan,” Panama X whispered, alone again in his cell. It was pointless to torture himself in this way—what was done was done. He needed to find out everything he could about the spirits he’d sensed back in Karen Lafitte’s mind. Only then could he set things back on course.

  Amir was going to have to suffer the consequences for overstepping his abilities. Lincoln, he knew, would fend for himself.

  Sometime later, the riot guards stormed into Death Row to collect him. Panama X was ready. As the guards clamped on the cuffs and walked him out of Death Row, he prepared himself for the final phase of the journey he’d begun 29 years earlier.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  29 years earlier

  1973

  Lake City, LA

  Moses read his sermon for the mid-week service at Old Emmanuel Baptist Church for the fifth time. It was good, but missing something. He picked up the phone and dialed Walter Simmons—the most gifted orator he knew. Walter always gave great advice on how best to communicate God’s message.

  He dialed three times and got a busy signal on each try. Moses decided to swing by Walter’s office on the way to church.

  The scent in the air reminded him of the lilacs he’d once planted on the grounds of the Angola prison cemetery. As he rounded Lake Shore Drive and the Civic Center, he saw thick smoke pouring out from the top floor of the City Father’s building. Moses’ heart-rate spiked in response.

  There were three cars in the parking lot: Walter’s yellow T-Bird, Juanita’s Cadillac, and a beat up Pinto he knew belonged to Walter’s secretary. The smoke was coming from a generous crack in Walter’s favorite window. Moses sprung out of the car and raced up the stairs to the top floor.

  The fifth floor landing was abandoned; a dark curtain of smoke rapidly coated the ceiling. Moses looked around frantically for something to break down the door to Walter’s office. He’d decided on the secretary’s chair when something hit the door with tremendous force from the inside. A moment later, another battering force banged against the door and it buckled.

  A black man spilled out, head first, wielding a heavy metal chair. The man hit the ground and sprung back up, turning back to pull someone else through.

  Juanita!

  Even through burning eyes, Moses knew she was unconscious. He peered into the doorway as sweat poured into his eyes and smoke scorched his throat. Except for an all-encompassing flame rapidly devouring the office, he couldn’t see anything.

  Moses managed to pull the couple back to the stairwell. Then he closed the reinforced door to put one more obstacle between them and a fiery grave. The temporary reprieve gave him an opportunity to see who he’d saved.

  Malcolm Wright opened his good eye and stared at Moses with a furious desperation that chilled Moses’ blood. Malcolm tried to speak, but only a cough escaped.

  “Where’s Walter?” Moses screamed.

  Malcolm looked away.

  Moses pushed at the door. Intense heat seared the palms of his hands and he screamed with pain and frustration. Fire engines still some distance away matched his wailing.

  Moses backed off the door and saw Malcolm half dragging, half carrying Juanita down the stairs like a heavy suitcase.

  Did Malcolm have something to do with this?

  Moses shook off the ridiculous thought. Instead of letting his mind wander down crooked paths, he lent Malcolm a hand. Soon the three of them burst out the front door into an orange-brown Louisiana dusk. Moses wanted to stay and wait for the firefighters, but Malcolm made it clear he was getting out of there.

  After a few violent coughs, Malcolm said, “I’m taking Juanita with me.”

  “What happened up there, Malc? Where’s Walter?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Malcolm said grimly. “And I don’t have time to tell you.”

  With that, Malcolm carried Juanita over to her car, put her in the backseat, and sped off without looking back.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Monday

  Baton Rouge, LA

  Randy stepped back from the podium atop the steps of the Louisiana State Capitol building, the tallest capitol building in the United States. He’d survived another round in the boxing ring of public opinion by bobbing and weaving through flurries of tough questions. Credibility intact, Randy’s thoughts returned to Karen. He prayed that the Lake City arm of his sting operation had been successful.

  Randy’s cloak of calm threatened to slip away, but he held it together by sheer will. He was deathly afraid of the consequences if he lost his head. Gazing down at the grand staircase, one step for each of the fifty states (listed in the order of their admittance to the Union), he steadied himself. His eyes settled on the quotation chiseled in stone beside the main entrance:

  “We have lived long, but this is the noblest work of our whole lives…The United States take rank today among the first powers of the world.”

  Flanked by his usual secret service escort, Randy re-entered the Capitol and strode down the striking Memorial Hall, adorned with the likenesses of several Louisiana luminaries. When he made it to the bank of elevators, he waved off the secret service man shadowing him and entered the elevator alone.

  He straightened himself out in the reflective metal of the elevator doors as the numbers jumped in gleeful diagonals. The elevator settled to a halt on the twenty-seventh floor and Randy exited onto the promenade of the Observation Deck, which overlooked the city of Baton Rouge.

  Here he would have complete privacy.

  His thoughts turned to his old adversary. Panama X had assumed that Randy would be so distraught by Karen’s kidnapping that he’d make a mistake. He probably hoped Randy would just lie down and die. Somehow, Randy always beat the odds.

  Panama X’s luck, however, had run out. At this very moment, he was being moved to the solitary confinement wing in Camp F, the Injection Center. Imagining Panama X in his final death throes brought a rare smile to Randy’s face.

  The bars were back on his cell phone. He dialed Bill Edwards to find out the outcome of the morning’s activities. Voicemail picked up and Randy left a quick message for Bill to call him back with an update.

  Storm clouds billowed around the needle of the C
apitol tower. The hurricane would be the perfect cover for the Lake City and Angola operations. This time tomorrow, no one would ask too many questions about what had happened in Lake City, and no one would care that Lincoln Baker had been killed while trying to exit the prison. He’d be just another dead nigger in the right place at the wrong time.

  His cell phone vibrated. It was Snake Roberts. But that was impossible because Snake Roberts was supposed to be dead.

  “Snake?”

  “Yuh fucked with the wrong one, Boss.”

  “Excuse me?” Randy asked, trying to figure out how Snake had survived.

  “Your boys missed. Now we’re comin’ for ya, Boss. And we’ve got your wife.”

  He has Coral? How?

  “Bullshit,” Randy said, stalling for time.

  “Yuh willin’ to call my bluff?” Snake asked.

  “Let’s say I believe you,” Randy replied, wondering how he’d lost the upper hand. “What do you want?”

  “At first, all I wanted was yuh money,” Snake said. “Now that yuh tried to have me killed, that won’t do anymore. Not at all. Yuh gonna have to do much better.”

  Randy could tell that the backstabbing bastard was really enjoying this.

  “Are you afraid to get your hands bloody?”

  He heard the echo of Madame Deveaux’s question in his mind. She’d been right all along, of course. If he’d taken care of things himself from the beginning, none of this would be happening. He remembered the tall, black man who’d shot his father.

  A voice spoke up in his head, get him close and then bleed him like the leech he is.

  “Yuh still there?” Snake asked.

  “I’ll match the seven million dollars I’ve already paid your friend, Amir Barber,” Randy said. “Meet me at my place in Lake City at 6 p.m. tonight and I’ll make you a rich man. You bring my wife, I’ll bring the money, and we’ll make a trade.”