“This is a magic painting, Karen. You do like magic, don’t you?”
She nodded and thought of Kristopher’s obsession with magic. He had loved pulling tricks on people. Cold sweat accumulated in the cups of her underarms despite the robust air conditioning.
“Your brother wasn’t scared when he was here visiting me.”
She looked back at him in surprise.
“What? Daddy didn’t tell you that Kristopher and I were friends? For shame. He was a bit older than you are now when he came to see me. How old are you, Karen?”
“Sev…seven.” Her words came out in a low whisper.
“Ahhh…yes, seven. You’re too young to die, Karen. Just like your brother. He thought he was saving you. Yet here you are getting weaker by the moment. It’s the sending of the dead, you see. Oh, how I will enjoy seeing Kristopher again.”
The vault burst open.
Karen looked into the vault’s black maul and saw hell.
Faustus was right next to her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her chair toward the vault.
Karen struggled mightily while he chanted an oddly familiar song:
Say hey!
Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword.
Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.
Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword.
Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.
Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.
But the blood is marked for him.
Karen was in the vault, surrounded by the overpowering stench of death. The walls inside the vault were lined with shelves flush with the decapitated heads of children. Their purple-black tongues lolled from petrified faces. She tried to get up from her chair, but she was petrified, too.
All the while Faustus continued chanting:
I say hey! I’m going to vomit blood, it’s true.
Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword.
Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.
Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.
My blood is flowing, Dantò, I’m going to vomit blood.
My blood is flowing, Ezili, I’m going to vomit blood.
My blood is flowing, Karen, you’re going to vomit blood.
Faustus’s face shifted into that of a bald-headed black man with a compassionate face. The man looked genuinely sorry for what was taking place. Then the door slammed shut.
Karen opened her eyes. She was back in Uncle Bill’s office. Her stomach twisted and tightened as her abdomen expanded almost to the splitting point. She opened her mouth to scream and instead emitted a solid stream of putrescent blood and bile that coated the ceiling. Her eyes bulged from their sockets like round, white solitaires.
She vomited until she couldn’t see the white ceiling paint anymore. Until she couldn’t breathe or feel anything except for the acid-filled corridor where her esophagus and throat used to be. Until she became one with the darkness inside her.
* * * * *
Jeff Abshire had to find out what was going on in his precinct. And the answer was a door away. All he had to do was open it and look inside.
If Chief Edwards catches me, I’m fucked.
That left Jeff with one option. Don’t get caught.
Using a lock pick kit, he worked on the knob to the chief’s door. After jimmying it a few times, it came open.
A wet, coppery smell wafted out into the hallway. His eyes watered as he wrinkled his nose.
What died in here?
The answer became clear once his eyes settled on the Chief’s tattered couch. Karen Lafitte lay on her back, eyes wide open, choking on her own bloody vomit.
Christ!
Jeff rushed into the room and quickly turned the girl on her side. He slapped her back, gently at first and then harder until she coughed away the remaining regurgitation.
It was like the exorcist in here.
What could have caused this type of eruption?
Karen’s eyes opened and focused on him. One of her irises was hazel and the other was a sharp, shocking blue.
Is that natural?
“Karen, it’s gonna be alright,” Jeff reassured her. “I’m gonna get you some help. We’re gonna get you outta here. Hold tight.”
Jeff left her on her side, realizing that the only person who might be able to explain what was going on was the black kid. It was time for some answers.
* * * * *
Chapter Sixty-Two
Ten years earlier
1992
Lake City, LA
Brandon opened his eyes. Shorty was staring at him. “Hey ya, Brandon. ‘Bout time you woke up.”
Brandon sat up on his floor mat and looked around the gym. Most of the other kids were asleep. Mr. Diaz was standing near the gym doors speaking in heated whispers with Miss Beatrice, the after-school program supervisor. He looked in their direction and Brandon quickly ducked back into a sleeping position.
Why the hell were they having nap time anyhow? Hadn’t they stopped that last year? Usually at this time, he and the other kids were outside playing dodge ball, baseball, or basketball. But when the bus dropped them off in front of the park today, Miss Beatrice was there waiting for them. She quickly ushered the children into the gym, as she did on days when it looked like rain. But there wasn’t a cloud in sight.
How long have I been asleep? Lincoln was supposed to pick him up early for tee ball practice.
“Brandon…Bran?” Shorty tapped him on the shoulder.
“Yeah, Shorty?”
“I’m tired of layin’ here. Let’s go outside and play.”
Brandon should have seen this coming. His friend was incapable of obeying the rules. “We’ll catch a whuppin’ for sure if we do that.”
“Not if everybody goes.”
“How?”
“Through the back,” Shorty answered, gesturing toward the double doors in the back of the gym.
“What about the alarm?”
“Broken,” Shorty replied. He snaked over to the back wall and pushed one door open. Brandon held his breath waiting for the alarms to shriek, but they didn’t. Still, something was telling him not to go outside. He attempted one last excuse. “Miss Beatrice is makin’ cookies.”
“Don’t nobody want them hard-ass cookies.”
“Okay,” Brandon replied, giving in. He looked around one last time for Mr. Diaz, but he was no longer in the gym. After giving Shorty the all clear, they crept from mat to mat waking up all of the kids, pressing their index fingers to their lips so everyone would keep quiet.
Once everyone was awake, Brandon took over the operation. He bubbled with the excitement of doing something wrong and possibly getting away with it. Lincoln, Mr. Diaz, and even Miss Beatrice, were the furthest things from his mind.
He got all the kids lined up and told them to wait for the signal. Then he and Shorty led everyone outside as quietly as they could. Brandon made it to the jungle gym in record time. A second later, Shorty tapped him on the shoulder.
Shorty pointed at the basketball court. Mr. Diaz was talking to an older boy Brandon had seen somewhere before.
“That’s Murda,” Shorty whispered in admiration.
Brandon knew Murda was the leader of the Dirty Skulls, which meant the other boys with him must’ve been the rest of the gang—except for Lincoln. Lincoln never spoke of his gang days, but Shorty had told him all he needed to know. Brandon recognized Shorty’s older brother, Stacie, standing next to Murda. The wind carried faint snatches from the conversation, but not enough to piece together what was being said.
“Ole Pooh Butt looks nervous,” Shorty whispered in Brandon’s ear.
Normally, Shorty’s nickname for Mr. Diaz would crack Brandon up, but not today. Something just didn’t seem right.
Mr. Diaz abruptly turned his back and walked away from Murda and the gang, with Murda yelling at him. The other Dirty Skulls were laughing. Then someon
e called out to Murda from the fence.
It was a white kid. Kris something. Brandon knew him better as number forty from Lincoln’s basketball team. What was he doing here?
“Oh shit, they got guns!” Shorty shouted.
The Skulls pulled out weapons from the front of their pants as the white boy approached. A lump of fear grew in Brandon’s throat. Something very bad was about to happen.
His friend Jennifer gripped his hand and pulled him away from the crowd of eager kids, back toward the gymnasium. When the shooting started, it came as suddenly as a summer rainstorm.
* * * * *
Chapter Sixty-Three
Monday
Lake City, LA
“Wake up, Brandon. Wake up!”
Brandon snapped out of unconsciousness. He looked up into the face of the young officer who’d been interrogating him, Jeff Abshire. The cop’s face was flushed and he was out of breath. He stared at Brandon with a crazy gleam in his eyes.
“Okay, kid. No more games. I’m gonna ask you one question and if you lie to me, I’m gonna kick your ass, lock you up, and throw away the key.” He paused to take a deep breath. “What the hell is wrong with the Governor’s daughter? What did you do to her?”
Brandon studied Officer Jeff’s strained face. There was a fifty-fifty chance the man would actually believe him. “I didn’t do anything. We’re both victims here. I’m the one who saved her…” Brandon recounted the morning’s events as faithfully as he could remember them.
Once Brandon finished telling the story, Officer Jeff blinked for what seemed like the first time since bursting into the cell. “Okay, kid. I believe you. Somebody in here doesn’t want you talking, but you’re the only witness I’ve got. I’ve got a deal for you. I’m gonna help you get out of here, and you’re gonna help me put away the bastards that are tearing our city apart. Deal?” Brandon nodded. “Get up and follow me.”
“Is she okay?” Brandon whispered to Officer Jeff, as they made their way down a corridor lined with holding cells.
“She’s alive. Now shut the hell up. You’re supposed to be a dangerous killer.”
I’m out of the net and into the barrel.
Officer Jeff escorted him through a throng of officers and inmates. Brandon wondered if this was a trick designed to further implicate him by making it seem like he’d tried to escape. Unfortunately, Brandon didn’t have many other options. It was either trust this man, or go back to his cell and wait for the Chief to finish the job.
As if sensing Brandon’s unease, Officer Jeff whispered, “We’ve just got a little farther to go.”
They emerged into the central containment area where they’d fingerprinted and photographed Brandon hours earlier. There were cops everywhere. Brandon couldn’t distinguish friend from foe.
“Keep your head down no matter what. Just keep your feet moving.”
Brandon did as he was told. Even if he got out of here, he would be living on borrowed time. No matter how he spun it, without the girl to prove his innocence, he’d be replacing Lincoln in Angola.
* * * * *
Chapter Sixty-Four
Ten years earlier
1992
Lake City, LA
Lincoln’s mind was gone and he was glad. He gripped the cop’s gun tighter. There was no time to think. Killing was the only thing that made sense.
Running to the park, his mind’s eye saw everything with the cold calculation of an assassin. The Dirty Skulls stood in a semicircle around half court, shooting across the park at the men Lincoln had seen coming out of the woods. Lincoln veered toward the second group of adolescents he recognized as Scorpions by their black t-shirts.
Then, he saw the children clustered around the jungle gym. Everything started moving faster.
Lincoln hopped the fence and charged across the field as bullets whizzed by his head. He caught a Scorpion by surprise and shot him in the back.
Grabbing the kid’s piece, Lincoln raised both guns and started blasting, cutting down one Scorpion, then two, then three. His left gun jammed so he dove onto the grass to take cover. Then he saw Kris duck down behind a park bench.
One of the Scorpions pointed his gun at Kris. Lincoln took aim and shot the Scorpion in the chest. With kids out here, he couldn’t afford to miss. So he didn’t.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one shooting.
More cops arrived and opened fire on everyone. Helicopters flew overhead.
A bullet grazed Lincoln’s forehead and knocked him off his feet. He landed on top of another gun. Good. He shot at the black t-shirts from the ground. When he ran out of black t-shirts, he shot at cops. He pushed forward, crawling over bodies. He had to make it to Kris and Brandon.
He reached the basketball court, just a few feet away from his friend. Murda and the other Skulls had fallen back to the gymnasium and most of the Scorpions had congregated around the jungle gym. Kris stared at Lincoln and tried to get up, completely unaware of the Scorpion rounding the tree behind him.
As Lincoln aimed at the Scorpion and pulled the trigger, a bullet fired from somewhere behind Lincoln pierced his shoulder, throwing off his aim. Lincoln’s bullet passed through Kris’s midsection, pinning Kris against the tree. The bullet that hit Lincoln spun him around. He locked eyes with a rugged-looking white man with long gray hair.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a grinning Scorpion moving in to finish Kris off. Lincoln charged across the court, oblivious to the crossfire. He painted the tree trunk grayish-red with the Scorpion’s brain and skull fragments. Kris was gasping for air as Lincoln reached him. Lincoln stared at Kris’s stomach in disbelief. There was so much blood. Kris reached up and pulled Lincoln toward him.
“Shh…don’t talk.”
Sirens filled the air around them.
Kris smiled and blood dribbled down his chin. His eyes shot up over Lincoln’s shoulder.
Lincoln turned and put a bullet through a Scorpion no older than thirteen. He grabbed the gun from the kid’s hand and looked around. The helicopters were still there, but most of the cops were down, or calling for more backup. Black boys dressed in red and black littered the park. All dead?
Desperate hands tugged his shirt.
“Isaac?”
Lincoln turned back to his friend and said, “Kris! Stay wit’ me, bruh! Stay wit’ me!”
“Can’t. Hurts. Breathe.”
“I know, Kris. Helps on the way, man. Just hold on. Please.”
“I’m…ready.”
“No you’re not, Kris! You’re not going anywhere.”
“Will…Karen be safe now?”
“Stop talkin’, Kris. You wastin’ too much energy.”
“Melinda…Weeps!”
“Just relax, Kris…you ain’t makin no sense, just relax.”
“Cursed,” Kris gasped. He slumped over.
“Kris?” Lincoln shook him. “Kris!”
Kris stared past Lincoln, past pain, past life.
Something wet caressed Lincoln’s ear. He looked up to see Murda standing over him with blood dripping down his right arm. Another gun blasted and Lincoln was bathed in his gang brother’s blood. Murda fell on top of Lincoln and Kris, the three of them locked in an embrace of death.
Lincoln remembered Brandon. His strength waning, he threw Murda off him and got back to his feet. More cops had arrived. Lincoln grabbed a gun off another dead body and started blasting.
How many dead? He’d lost count. Only the living counted.
He couldn’t locate Brandon, and now there were too many police and not enough Skulls. Lincoln stood at half court, his clip-on tie swung over his shoulder, his powder blue, button down Oxford and khaki Dockers covered with blood. The police surrounded him and ordered him to drop his weapon. Why didn’t they just shoot?
Kris was right, I am cursed.
Lincoln put the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger. Click. Click-click. Click-click-click. Empty—
Then they were on him, beating
him with clubs, guns, fists, and feet. He didn’t resist. From the ground, he stared at Kris’s startling blue eyes glaring back at him. As he passed out, he envied Kris. Sometimes death was a gift...
* * * * *
Chapter Sixty-Five
I-10 W
Tap.
Tap-tap.
Lincoln opened his eyes.
Someone was tapping on the windshield. Lincoln rolled his sore neck and stared into the eyes of a dead man. Kris grinned down at him like a lunatic.
Kris had a billy club in his hand and started hammering against the windshield.
Lincoln flinched and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Kris was gone. Something was still tapping on the windshield, however. There were also loud metallic plongs. The Jeep vibrated as large chunks of ice battered the car from all directions. The rational part of him wondered how in the hell it could be hailing in Louisiana.
Lincoln sat up in the seat, groaning from the effort. His butt was asleep and he was sore in muscles he never even knew he had.
Plong-plong!
Ice bashed the Jeep. Then, crack! A spiderweb formed in the upper right-hand corner of the windshield after a baseball-sized chunk of ice exploded there. It sounded like a firing squad was shooting at the car.
Outside, people ran for cover.
Lincoln expected the hail to slack off, but after another few minutes, it grew in intensity. His instinct was to dive into the backseat and ride it out, but as his body awakened, so did his bladder. If he didn’t make a move soon, he would urinate on himself.
Finally, the storm calmed down a bit. Lincoln tucked Jhonnette’s gun into the waistband of his hospital pants, grabbed the car keys, and opened the door. He limped from the Jeep to the Quick Stop rest area in bare feet. His bladder kept him from returning to the vehicle.
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