One Blood

by Amaru, Qwantu

  “Let me go, Dad! Something’s wrong with Mama!”

  “Shh, Son. Everything is okay. Your mama is okay.”

  How can Dad say these things?

  Juanita jumped up and down like a human pogo stick. She was dangerously close to the fire again.

  “What’s wrong with her, Dad?” Amir looked into his father’s dark, lined face and saw not a trace of worry.

  “Nothing is wrong, Son. Your mother is just being ridden.”

  “Like a horse?”

  “Exactly. Except she’s being ridden by a spirit. A loa.”

  Amir was confused.

  “This is a special moment for your mother,” his father explained. “She’s finally accepting the teachings of Vodun and now she’s joining with her special loa, Loko.”

  “Loco?” Amir asked, reminded of the Mexican kids at school. “Mom’s going crazy?”

  She looked crazy bouncing around the blaze like a human moth.

  His father looked confused for a moment, but then his face lit up. He chuckled. Whenever he laughed, his eye patch shifted.

  Amir reached up and gently corrected it. “What’s so funny?”

  “Your mom’s not loco, Amir. Her loa’s name is Loko, with a K. He’s the loa in charge of nature, sanctuaries, and most importantly, justice. Do you understand?”

  Amir understood his father’s words, but he didn’t get how a ghost could ride a person. “Loko is a ghost?”

  “Not a ghost. A spirit. Do you remember your invisible friend? What was his name again?”

  “Arnold.”

  “Arnold, right. Well, was Arnold a ghost?”

  “No way. It was just that I was the only person who could see him.”

  “Exactly, Son. The loa are just like that. You can’t see them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  “But why is she dancing like she’s possessed or something?” Amir asked.

  “Because she is. Your mom’s been possessed by Loko. But it’s okay. Look at her. Does she look like it hurts?”

  Amir focused on his mother. She appeared happier than he’d ever seen her.

  “Okay. I get it. Do I have a special spirit, too?”

  His father smiled down at him. “You are a descendant of Simba, and Simba rules the sea. When you are older, I will show you how to contact him and many other loa.”

  “How many spirits are there?”

  “Too many to count. There may be as many loa as there are humans. Whole families in fact.”

  “Are they all good like Loko?”

  His father looked away and stared at Juanita for a long instant. “No, Son. They’re not all good. But they all have a purpose. Like you and me and your mother.”

  “What’s my purpose, Dad?”

  Again, his father turned away as if in deep thought. “Son, I think you and Loko have a lot in common. You both exist to make sure there is always justice.”

  Amir thought about his father’s words and asked, “Dad, when I’m older, will I have to dance around a fire like Mom to talk to the spir…I mean, the loa?”

  “No, Son. Loa just like a good party. But if you ever truly need a loa, you only have to call them…”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Monday

  Lake City, LA

  “Where the hell is it?” Fat Pat asked. They’d been driving around for almost twenty minutes.

  “I could have sworn it was on this street,” the kid replied. “It’s around here somewhere, I’m sure of it. Make a left at the next light.”

  Fat Pat knew when someone was giving him the runaround. He eased the car into the next lane. The structure on his left was definitely not headquarters.

  “What the fuck is this shit?”

  “St. Mary’s Hospital…that’s where you wanted to go, right?”

  “You skinny fuck…I told you to take me to the old school!”

  “Listen man, I’ve lost a lot of blood, I got a hurt arm, and you expect me to be able to pay attention?”

  “You ain’t slick, kid.” Fat Pat looked at his captive with new eyes. The kid was definitely in bad shape and besides, Fat Pat could use some stitches of his own. He’d gotten a few deep cuts in his scalp when those bastards shot through the glass at Simmons Park.

  How the hell am I supposed to walk into a public hospital with guards and everything and get out in one piece? It’s a fucking hospital. They got doctors everywhere. Creep in, hijack one of them maufuckas, and then move the fuck on.

  Fat Pat was never good at planning, but he felt good about this one. On impulse he grabbed his cell phone and called Amir. If anyone could have made it out alive, it would be Amir. No answer. Fat Pat closed the phone. He was on his own.

  “Aight,” he said. “We go in, but if you try any slick shit, a lot of innocent people gone die, including yo’self.”

  “Scout’s honor,” the kid replied.

  Fat Pat just had to figure out what to do with the girl. She was still passed out in the backseat, but he knew she wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  “Don’t try no shit,” Fat Pat said to the kid as he got some rope out of the trunk to tie her up.

  * * * * *

  Brandon watched as Gordo walked around to his side of the car and yanked the door open.

  “Get the fuck out.”

  Brandon did as he was told.

  “Now take this rope, Boy Scout, and tie this bitch up.”

  Brandon took the rope, leaned into the backseat, and manipulated the rope into slipknots—easy to create and easy to get out of. He had a vested interest in protecting Karen. She was the missing link in this whole mystery, the only person who could answer his questions about whether Shorty had kidnapped her or if it had been someone else.

  After he finished her knots, Gordo pulled Brandon to his feet and steered him toward the hospital entrance. Brandon’s legs were warm jello as they walked; Gordo’s large gun bore into his left side.

  Two paramedics stood by the entrance smoking cigarettes. Brandon inhaled deeply, held the air there, and allowed faintness to take over his body.

  * * * * *

  Fat Pat ignored the stares and raised eyebrows assaulting him as he dragged the kid toward the Emergency Room with bloodstains all over them. When a toy cop security guard stared a bit too long, Fat Pat prepared to act. Unfortunately, he was not ready for what the kid did less than ten feet from the Emergency Room.

  They’d been moving along at a good pace when the kid’s body went limp and he crumbled.

  Fat Pat froze. One of the paramedics saw Brandon collapse and jogged over to them. Fat Pat hid his gun inside the back of his sweats. He knelt over the kid and pretended to check the kid’s breathing.

  Fuckin’ amazing day. This is like a fuckin’ movie. I guess I’m the bad guy.

  The hero arrived a second later.

  “Let me check him out.”

  * * * * *

  Brandon felt Gordo move out of the way, counted to five Mississippi, and opened his eyes. He stared into the paramedic’s face.

  The guy was clearly confused by the liveliness he saw in Brandon’s eyes. Then the paramedic fell over on top of Brandon.

  Brandon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his racing heartbeat. Thank God Gordo didn’t catch me with my eyes open. What now?

  Brandon waited for the sounds of more people approaching. Surely someone had seen what happened. The only sound was Gordo’s hoarse breathing. The paramedic’s body rolled off him. Brandon was pulled up by his t-shirt.

  Brandon recalled a game he used to play with Lincoln when he was a kid. He’d act like a corpse and Lincoln would have to lift him up and carry him around the house, showing the “body” to everyone. What a fucked up game.

  Brandon applied the principle now and completely relaxed every muscle in his lanky frame. He quietly rejoiced at the sounds of Gordo’s mighty struggle to get him over his shoulders. Opening his eyes and looking down Gordo’s expansive back, h
e saw the lump of the man’s weapon and grabbed for it.

  * * * * *

  Fat Pat was fed up with all the discomfort he’d suffered at the expense of Amir’s stupid plan. He resolved to start shooting the next time something went wrong. All this knocking people out, quiet revenge tactic shit was not his forte. Fuck a plan, he was going to walk into the ER, brandish his weapon, and make some shit happen.

  He paused for a moment under the blessed shade of the hospital awning and then approached the second paramedic. It took a very long time for the paramedic’s droopy eyes to make it from Fat Pat’s shoes to the body slumped over his shoulders.

  This kid must be stoned out of his mind. Either that or he’s a retard.

  “You…see what…happened?” Fat Pat said, out of breath.

  “Nawww, man,” Droopy replied, dragging out his words.

  “Your boy fainted out there.” Fat Pat pointed at the other guy. “You should go help’m out.”

  “Yeah? Oh shit, yeah.” He glanced at Brandon. “Whasswrong wit’ the kid?”

  “Heat stroke,” Fat Pat replied, surprised at his own cleverness.

  “Damn. I feel’m. It’s hotter’n two fat hos trapped in a Pinto in the desert.”

  “Fo’ sho’,” Fat Pat said, digging in the back of his sweats for the gun. He came up empty.

  Where is it?

  The stoner left to help the other paramedic. A moment later, Droopy yelled for help.

  Fat Pat reached for his gun again. Strike two.

  The fuck?

  Fat Pat glanced back at the paramedic. Droopy was looking down at his fallen comrade. He held Fat Pat’s gun in his hand like some alien artifact.

  Fat Pat groaned and dumped the kid on the ground.

  * * * * *

  As soon as Gordo’s back was turned, Brandon dashed into the hospital. The ER was half-full, but the people seeking help were too absorbed in their own problems to be concerned with him. Brandon did a full 360-degree turn before finally locating the inter-hospital phone on the wall. He ran over, picked up the receiver, and quickly punched zero for the operator.

  An automated voice politely told him that all lines were busy.

  Fuck!

  Brandon’s eyes scanned his surroundings. He needed to find a place to hide. He spotted a door marked ‘Hospital Employees Only’ and slipped inside. Gordo staggered into the building, gun back in hand. He turned around in a slow circle until something on the linoleum floor caught his attention.

  Brandon backed off the door as Gordo followed the trail of Brandon’s blood to his hiding spot. In moments, he ran toward the door like a wild bull at the rodeo. A bullet whizzed by Brandon’s ear and slammed into the wall as he turned toward the empty hallway and ran for his life.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Forty

  Monday

  Baton Rouge, LA

  Coral watched her father carving in the woodshed adjacent to their home. He was making the pony he promised for her fifth birthday.

  “The wood tells a story,” he said. Shavings fell to the floor by his work boots. “I walk through the woods out back. I see a tree stump. Tree stump starts talking. Says…I’m no tree stump. I’m a footstool. I’m a jewelry box. I’m a birdhouse. But I ain’t no tree stump.”

  He looked down at Coral. He wanted to know if she understood.

  She nodded, even though she couldn’t figure out how a tree stump could talk without a mouth.

  “So I listen to Mr. Tree Stump. I let’m tell me his story. While I’m carvin’, I’m listenin’. And the story comes down like all them shavings you got there. Can you hear’m talking?” He held the clump of wood that had grown horse legs out to Coral.

  She pretended to listen.

  “What’s he sayin’, Curly?”

  She shrugged.

  “Well, one day when you’re older I’ll teach you the secret. My pop—your Granpop—taught me when I was just a bit older than you. He taught me how to be still and silent and how to listen…oh so carefully. Would you like me to teach you?”

  Coral imagined all the ponies, frogs, butterflies, ladybugs, and unicorns awaiting her in the woods behind their house. “More than anything,” she replied.

  “Would you like to try now?” he offered.

  Coral was frightened. He held the knife out to her, hilt first, but she shook her head no. He pulled the knife back out of sight.

  “Maybe when you’re older,” he said, shrugging. “Lemme show you how. Gimme that piece of wood over in the corner, Curly.”

  She got up and lugged a sizeable piece of firewood over to her father’s workbench.

  He secured it in his hands and started carving. Carving so fast his hands became a blur. Smoke rose from the desk. Her father’s face took on a dark shade of concentration.

  Coral backed away, afraid.

  “He’s talkin’ to me, Curly. Talkin’ fast. Can’t hardly keep up. It’s that tree, Curly. Melinda Weeps. It’s the doorway. Oh God. So much death.” He was sweating and crying as he carved.

  Coral had one foot out the door of the shed. She didn’t want to hear what her father was telling her. She wanted out of here. She wanted Mommy.

  “Spirits wouldn’t leave him be. They drove him to it. Tried to kill himself, he did. Lincoln stopped’m. Spirits didn’t like that. They wanted him so they used Randy to get him.”

  Wood fell to both sides of the workbench in a torrent as her father twisted and turned the log in his big, calloused hands. It was starting to take shape.

  “They want Karen, too. It’s her turn.”

  “How do I stop it?” Coral screamed, an adult voice emanating from her child’s frame.

  Her father carved on, then suddenly went rigid. “All done,” he whispered. “Beautiful.” He spun around in the chair.

  Coral looked up into her father’s face and found Kristopher gazing down on her. She screamed.

  “I want you, Mommy,” he said, grinning. “I want you and Daddy.” Kristopher grabbed the carving off the table and showed it to his child mother. He dangled the severed head of a bald, black man in front of her. The eyes bulged, the nose snorted, and a long, pink tongue lolled from blue lips.

  Coral couldn’t stop screaming.

  “Go ahead. Scream all you want. No one is coming.”

  Coral opened her eyes. Shaw Roberts sat on a stool across from her, watching some morning game show on an old 1970s era TV. It took her a moment to regroup, but then she remembered where she was. Here Today, Gone Tomorrow.

  “Bad dream?”

  Coral looked away. Her nose was running. She touched one nostril tenderly and gasped when she saw red blood superimposed on the pale skin of her finger.

  The dream was fading. It had felt so real.

  Coral could smell the remnants of the chloroform he’d used to subdue her. She was bound to a chair. A wave of despair washed over her.

  “You can ignore me now,” Shaw said. “But you’d better get used to talking to me. I’m the only friend you got.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re just a no count thug-for-hire under your brother’s thumb.” Her words surprised her.

  Shaw stood and glared menacingly. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me. What’s your cut? Or are you just the fall guy?” She shook her head in disgust. “You’re just too dumb to see what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  The back of Shaw’s hand connected with the side of her face. Coral’s head rocked; she saw stars. Fresh blood bloomed on her busted lower lip.

  “Told you to watch your mouth.” Shaw stomped out of the room.

  Gotcha.

  Coral closed her eyes and let her head clear. Once her ears stopped ringing she caught the television announcer saying, “We interrupt our coverage of Hurricane Isaac to bring you a Fox 29 News Breaking Story.”

  Footage rolled of Lincoln Baker’s release from Angola.

  A connection fired deep in her synapses as she watched her son’s killer walk
to his freedom.

  How did he get free?

  Randy. Pardon. Karen. Kidnapping. Kristopher. Murder. My. Fault.

  The words chased themselves through her subconscious, until she finally put it together. Randy lied to her about Karen because he hadn’t thought she could handle the truth. He’d been right to lie.

  What kind of partner am I? What kind of mother?

  Coral had been passive for too long. Prayer and meditation, solutions she’d preached in her book, would not get her very far in this situation. For the first time since the day before her son’s murder, Coral was wide awake.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-One

  Monday

  New Roads, LA

  As Jhonnette exited the room, Lincoln tried to remember his last moment of clarity.

  He’d been lying on the ground just outside of Angola—people screaming all around him. Roberts was kneeling over him.

  “Either you come with me right now, or you die here.” The words seemed to be coming from a voice right next to his ear.

  Lincoln bolted upright in bed and glanced around wildly. For a second, he swore he smelled the sour tobacco scent of Roberts’ breath.

  What happened next?

  The only thing he remembered was waking up in this hospital bed. He needed to stay focused. First things first, he had to contact Amir and confirm Jhonnette’s story.

  * * * * *

  Jhonnette paced in the hallway searching for a nurse. She needed a few minutes to clear her head, as well as take a much-needed potty break. She’d been running pretty much non-stop since three o’clock in the morning. Her bladder’s burden relieved, her mind returned to Lincoln. She was still a long way from gaining his trust and needed to accelerate the process before it was too late.