* * * * *
“Fuck! Fuck!” Lincoln took his frustration out on the steering wheel and roof. “What now?”
“Revolution,” someone on his right said.
Lincoln looked over at Kris Lafitte’s smiling corpse sitting in his passenger seat. He nearly drove off the side of the bridge himself he was so freaked. After avoiding disaster, Lincoln turned to see Kris was still there.
He’s just in my head.
“You’re damn right I’m in your head,” Kris said. “And there’s a shitload of empty space in here.”
“What is happening to me?” Lincoln asked, not really expecting much explanation.
“Well,” Kris replied. “For starters, you need to learn how to drive. How could you have missed that car so badly?”
“I know, and it’s too late now.”
“It’s never too late, Link. Revolution, remember? You can turn this whole thing around.”
“I ain’t no stunt car driver, Kris.”
“Quit whining and turn the fuck around!”
Lincoln decided to take Kris’s suggestion, even if he was a figment of his imagination. With less than five miles of bridge left, he threw the car into reverse and slammed on the brakes. He braced himself and turned the steering wheel dead right.
The Jeep lost contact with the road.
The next instant, Lincoln was hydroplaning on a sheet of water. The centrifugal force pinned him to his seat. He tapped the brakes furiously. Mercifully, the Jeep slowed.
Lincoln slammed the car into neutral and put his full body weight on the brakes. The Jeep shuddered, rocked right, and finally settled in place. Lincoln let out a shaky breath and looked left, directly into the blinding headlights of the Crown Vic.
* * * * *
“Blue dog two, come in, over,” Larry said into his Nextel.
“Blue dog two here,” Shaw replied.
“Watch your six for a speeding Jeep, over.”
“Gotcha. There’s a barricade up ahead.”
Larry had anticipated something like this. “Okay, we’re gonna jump off in…Oh shit!”
“Blue dog one, come in. Blue dog one!”
* * * * *
Lincoln stared down death, as he had so many times in his life, truly unafraid. He shielded his eyes from the high beams coming at him and prepared for the impact of a mass of steel moving at least sixty miles per hour.
Lincoln could smell the burning rubber as Big Bald Ugly slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the right to avoid a collision. The Crown Vic fishtailed and smashed through the barricade, barely missing the Jeep.
With that mission accomplished, Lincoln put the vehicle back in drive and peeled out in the rain and oil slick pavement. He had to catch the Ford Taurus before they reached the detour.
* * * * *
Snake heard thunder overhead. He tugged at the white arm buried underneath the black bodies. At first, he only saw an endless arm, but then the top of Kristopher’s shaggy, dirty blond hair appeared.
Snake grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the boy out of the pile. He felt a tugging sensation on his pants leg. Snake looked down to see five or six black hands pulling him into the pile. He was sinking into the corpses, like they were a pit of quicksand. He struggled, but the hands were too strong.
Kristopher’s head twisted in his grip. It spun around until Snake was face to face with a dead, smiling Kristopher Lafitte.
“Hi Snake,” the head said amiably. “Hey, I always wanted to axe you something. Why do they call you that?”
“This ain’t happenin’.”
“Right, right. What’s the longest river in Africa? De Nile! Is this my sweet dream or your nightmare?”
Snake groaned. He was buried up to his waist. The hungry hands ripped off his clothes, pulled his hair, and scratched his naked flesh. Then, one hand found his right eyeball and plucked it out of his head. Another hand ripped off his left ear.
He heard Kristopher speaking.
“Congrats, Snake! You’re now a rich man. You’re gonna have more money than you know what to do with. You know how we use money in hell? We eat it. We eat and eat until we’re stuffed. And then we eat some more. We eat until we can’t speak. Until we can’t breathe. Until we can’t smell, see, or hear anything but the maddening rustle of paper. So, eat your heart out!”
* * * * *
Chapter Seventy-Two
I-10 West
Coral awoke one heartbeat at a time. Rain smacked against metal like a steel drum. Eyes closed, she experimented with movement, but her entire body was frozen. She was paralyzed.
It all came back. Someone had kidnapped her, just like Karen. A stifling, gaseous smell washed over her. Gasoline seemed to be in her pores. It took enormous will to open her eyes, and even then, they wouldn’t open all the way. She blinked the dashboard clock into focus and read the time: 4:05 p.m.
The seatbelt alarm dinged. The driver must have exited and left the car running. Shouting from outside the car confirmed her theory. The gas smell was getting worse. Sweat trickled down Coral’s cheeks and neck, pooling inside her blouse.
Maybe I’m at a gas station.
Her captor probably needed a bathroom break. Kidnapping was thirsty work and taking a mother and daughter had to be twice the trouble. Coral dreamed of a reunion with Karen. She felt some hope in the thought. But the hope evaporated when a burning smell joined the gas.
We’ve had an accident!
Coral envisioned a multi-car pileup on the rain slick highway. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flame igniting. Any minute there would be an explosion, and after that, none of this would matter anymore. She almost welcomed the thought.
More yelling. Probably paramedics, firemen, and police trying to save some lives but scared to get too close because of the gas leak. Something was definitely burning now. It would all be over soon.
She heard a loud popping noise that came in bursts, like gunfire.
Who’s shooting?
Coral attempted to move again. Her fingers quivered slightly but nothing more.
The popping abruptly ceased but there was still plenty of gas, fire, and smoke. Coral coughed violently, her throat and sinuses burning.
Someone ripped the passenger door open. Because she was facing her left side, she couldn’t see him or her. She felt a wave of relief. She was going to live! Coral hadn’t realized how much she wanted to live until the strong arms wrapped around her waist pulled her from the car.
A man’s gasping breath was hot against her neck. His face was hidden to her peripheral vision, but his strength told her everything she needed to know. He was good. He was a hero. And he was too late.
The explosion crept up on them like a bully behind the new kid on a swing set. A mighty push of air sent them skyward. The hero’s grip tightened but he wasn’t strong enough.
Coral floated in the dark, landing on her back in rough gravel and glass that tore at her skin and clothes. The rain tried to drown her from above. Coral couldn’t move her head to avoid the murderous droplets attacking her.
Something shifted in the gravel next to her. A hand grabbed her arm. The face attached to the hand swum out of the darkness and Coral gazed upon her savior. The shock of seeing Lincoln Baker’s distinct features inches from her own was too much. A mournful sound emanated from the darkness. As she stared at her son’s killer, Coral realized the sound was coming from her.
* * * * *
Chapter Seventy-Three
Angola, LA
After the staged embrace, Moses held Jhonnette with his piercing, mahogany gaze. Moses was a wise man; she knew he wouldn’t believe a word she had to say. And why should he really? For all he knew, she might be the culprit behind his current pain and suffering. She hoped their mutual need for survival could thaw his frosted glare.
Jhonnette became aware of the growing chaos around her. Doctors and nurses filled the treatment center, running around like hyperactive preschoolers as they gra
bbed medical supplies. The warden had said there would be no evacuation, so why all the commotion?
Jhonnette stepped into the corridor to catch an orderly, nurse, or anybody who could tell her what the hell was going on. They flowed around her as if she were a boulder in a river.
“You better move before you get trampled,” a smooth, even voice spoke from the bed.
Moses was smiling at her. Jhonnette returned to his bedside. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“I should really be thanking you,” Moses said, his eyes never leaving her face. “I can’t have my savior getting taken out of the picture, now can I?”
So he read Lincoln’s little note. Good.
With firmer footing to stand on, Jhonnette asked, “Do you know what all the fuss is about?”
“Looks like they’re moving supplies to the camps to prepare for the hurricane.”
“The warden said they were going to try and ride this one out.”
“Very unfortunate for us, isn’t it?”
Jhonnette nodded. “How are you feeling?”
He mulled the question over like a professional wine taster and then said, “When I was a kid, a friend’s cousin dared me to climb a tree and try to knock down an old wasp’s nest we all thought had been abandoned. I got up there, showboating and what not, and hit that wasp’s nest with a stick. Before I could blink, six angry wasps were on me. I fell out of a tree and landed on the roof of a neighbor’s old car with wasps stinging me the whole way down.”
“Ouch!”
“Right. Now multiply that pain times ten and you’d be close.” He smiled again, in spite of the pain.
Jhonnette was charmed, but reminded herself she was there for information, nothing more. In this condition, Moses was no threat to her father. He could rot here for all she cared.
“Don’t worry about that,” Moses said, misreading her expression of concern. “We’re not going anywhere either.”
As if to confirm this, an orderly walked over with a clipboard in his hands. “Takin’ dinna orduhs,” he said. “Sloppy Joe or Spam?”
Neither. Jhonnette caught Moses in the corner of her eye wearing the same expression.
“What’s it gonna be?” he asked again.
“I’m not planning on staying for dinner,” Jhonnette replied.
The orderly gave a knowing smirk. “Whetha’ or not you decide ta’ eat, you gone be here, Miss. Warden’s got da whole prison on lockdown.”
“I think what my daughter was trying to say was, is there anything on this evening’s menu that doesn’t come out of a can?” Moses asked. “I know that beggars can’t be choosers, but…”
The inmate gave Moses a strange look. Then he said, “Lemme go check.”
“Wow,” Jhonnette said after he’d walked away. “You’ve really got a way with people.”
“Some people,” Moses corrected, a shadow crossing his features.
“If you’re talking about Linc—”
“Shh! Not in here. You don’t know who’s listening.”
Jhonnette looked around the near-empty infirmary and gave Moses her “who the hell are you worried about” look. Her eyes settled on what appeared to be a corpse directly across from Moses’ bed.
Father?
“I apologize for being harsh,” Moses said, “but we need to take certain, uh, precautions in here. You’ve already taken a huge risk in coming. I don’t want that risk to be in vain.”
“Uh huh,” Jhonnette replied, barely hearing. Needing confirmation, she slowly unzipped the body bag. It was her mental image in the flesh. Panama X lay enshrouded in plastic, dead to the world.
Jhonnette searched his petrified features for proof of her parentage. Her shaking hands were drawn magnetically to his eye-patch. Without thinking, she removed it and shoved it down her blouse.
“What are you doing?” Moses hissed.
Silence was her only reply. Then the sirens started, and a surreal wailing sound emanated from the walls. Jhonnette jumped as a bedpan clattered to the linoleum floors
“Get back over here!” Moses beckoned.
Jhonnette let the image of her father’s corpse sear into her brain. She felt the old anger swelling and stretching beneath her skin and relished the feeling. Then she calmly re-zipped the body bag and walked back to Moses.
“Here comes the dinner committee,” he said. “That’s strange…”
She followed Moses’ gaze. Two armed guards in riot gear trotted toward them.
“What’s happening?” Jhonnette asked the guard in front.
“We’ve got an, uh, situation. You both need to come with us.”
“Like hell we do,” she replied, gripping the railing of Moses’ bed like she planned on swinging it at the man. “This ma—my father is injured and shouldn’t be moved.”
The guard gave Moses a cursory glance. “Sorry Miss, we’ve got our orders.” With sneaky dexterity, the guard grabbed Jhonnette in a bear hug, despite her loud protestations. The other guard looked at Moses as if to say, “What’s it gonna be?”
Moses didn’t know if he’d be able to walk, so he made one request. A moment later, Moses lowered himself into a wheelchair. The guard told Jhonnette he’d let her push Moses if she shut up.
* * * * *
“Where the hell are you taking us?” Jhonnette asked for the fifth time. They had exited the Treatment Center into the waiting storm outside. Flanked by guards, Jhonnette pushed Moses in the rickety wheelchair.
The guard with the name Jones stitched on his uniform gave her a dirty look. “Miss, please shut the hell up and just follow us.”
Jhonnette stopped. “Not until you explain what’s going on.”
“Listen Miss, we don’t have time for this shit.”
Moses’ strong hand found her wrist and squeezed. Jhonnette managed to stop herself from screaming obscenities at the guard and let out an angry exhale instead. The wailing siren muted as they entered the prison camp. Jhonnette pushed Moses down a wide corridor until they reached a large basketball gym. Cots were laid out military style in twenty or so rows, each with a footlocker at the base.
“Minimum security,” Moses whispered.
The inmates seemed docile as if they’d been drugged. She whispered this thought to Moses.
“They probably are,” he whispered back.
Jhonnette could tell he wasn’t kidding. Warden Winey had said they were going to try and ride out the storm. He probably ordered the cooks to mix some sedatives into the lunch sludge to calm the inmates.
“Stop here,” the other guard named Burton ordered.
Jones unlocked a small cell with a triple-enforced steel door. SOLITARY was printed in block letters on the front.
“I’m not going in there,” Jhonnette protested. “You might as well take us back to the Treatment Center right now.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Jones replied, bearing a determined smile. He swiftly removed something from his utility belt.
* * * * *
Moses saw this happen with the sluggishness of a bad dream. He screamed, “Wait! Don’t! We’ll go!” But he was too late.
Jones jabbed a taser into Jhonnette’s midsection. She spasmed like she’d caught a seizure. She would have collapsed backwards busting her head on the door had Burton not caught her mid-faint. He dragged Jhonnette into the cell and placed her on the cot.
“What about you, Pops?” Jones asked. “Wanna do the ‘lectric slide, too?”
“Why are you doing this?” Moses asked, hoping his voice didn’t sound as full of fear and despair as he felt.
“Don’t worry ‘bout that, Pops,” Jones replied. “The warden wanted to send a little message is all. Said he knew what you were planning and to tell you that it won’t work. Not unless one a you’s is related to Houdini.” He rolled Moses into the cell.
As Burton shut the door, locking them in, Moses was consumed by a rage that left purple spots in his vision. He felt reconnected with the spirit of the nineteen-year-ol
d boy who had once stabbed a guard to death inside this place.
* * * * *
Chapter Seventy-Four
Lake City, LA
Randy sat alone in his father’s study. The room was as silent as a grave. The muted flat panel television screen on the far wall silently broadcast Isaac’s rapid progress. The storm, which had inexplicably hung suspended in the Gulf of Mexico earlier that morning, had finally chosen its course. Swirling radar imagery depicted the hurricane’s outer wall over Lake City and most of Southwest Louisiana. The bleak visual resembled a death scythe.
The meteorologists had it all wrong, though. The storm wasn’t causing irreparable damage to the oil refineries along the Gulf Coast and decimating the wetlands. It was right here in this office. Randy felt its energy pulsating throughout his frame.
He stared at the expansive desk before him and stroked the solid, reassuring surface, remembering what he’d done to possess it. This desk had long ago belonged to Walter Simmons, the only item salvaged after that fateful fire. Randy took the desk places Walter could never have reached. He and Coral once joked, that Randy would one day replace the famous centerpiece of the Oval Office with this simple cypress desk from Louisiana. That dream had fizzled, however, after his failed presidential bid in 2000, his first unsuccessful political campaign since losing the mayoral election to Simmons back in ’72.
Randy’s thoughts turned to his father. “Well, Joseph, I didn’t get to the White House,” he said aloud. “But I got further than you ever thought I would.”
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