Obscure Blood

by Christopher Leonidas

  Soon freshened up, Lucinda made her way downstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Rummaging around the cupboards for a bowl, she heard the sound of a door closing and turned as Octa walked into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sunny moon!” he said and made his way to his wife and gave her a kiss.

  “Good morning. Where did you just come from?” she asked, kissing him back.

  “Had to get some stuff out of the car,” Octa said as he sat down on a chair.

  Lucinda nodded and turned back to her rummaging. Octa gazed at her as she found the bowl and rather firmly cracked a few eggs against its sides. He knew she had something on her mind. A few minutes later, she slammed the bowl of eggs she was whisking down on the counter and turned to Octa, who was waiting expectantly.

  “We need to tell him to leave the house,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  Octa’s smile disappeared. He knew this was coming.

  “You heard him last time. You know his history. He even once hurt his former roommate for snitching on him.” Her gaze flickered toward the kitchen door, as if, perhaps, Bob might walk in at any moment. She knew Bob had once stolen a bag of cocaine from a drug dealer during an arrest.

  Octa took a deep breath. “You don’t have to worry, love. I talked to him yesterday and told him that he has until next Monday to find a new place. After that, he won’t be our problem.”

  Lucinda visibly relaxed. “I’m glad you finally talked to him.”

  Octa nodded. “Bob is complex. He doesn’t really mean any harm, but the man sometimes forgets that his actions can have far bigger effects than he intends. In his mind, what he’s doing is right, so he becomes convinced.”

  Lucinda picked up the bowl. “I know Bob’s your partner, but don’t justify his actions. I just want him out of the house and besides,” she frowned as she picked up a whisk, “he lied all this time that he was getting a house. He was supposed to be here for two weeks and it’s been three months now.”

  Octa sighed. “I know. I had a feeling that he hadn’t been searching for a home. I even found one of his letters in the mailbox.”

  Lucinda huffed and whisked the eggs.

  Smiling slightly, Octa stood up and wandered off to the living room to watch TV. With breakfast ready, Lucinda joined him, balancing her tray on her knees. Enjoying her fried egg, sausages and toasted, wheat bread, she didn’t even notice when Bob entered the living room until he announced a bit too loudly, “I’m about to cook one of the best Asian dishes you guys have never tasted, so prepare to be amazed,” and bounded off to the kitchen. Octa and Lucinda looked at each other warily.

  He frowned as he pulled a pan out of the cupboard. Had it not been for her, he would still be living with his partner without a problem. Octa was fine with Bob, but Lucinda was the one who was getting irritated by his mere presence. She had to be dealt with.

  Preparing his dish of sardines with potatoes, Bob pulled out a tiny pouch from his jeans’ pocket, feeling the contents inside with his fingers. Quickly ladling out some of the food for himself and Octa first, Bob opened the pouch, and sprinkled what looked like a white powder into the pot.

  Bob smiled grimly. Untraceable, effective and perfect for a quick way out, he’d seen enough victims to know what happened once the poison had been consumed.

  Stowing away the pouch, Bob washed his hands and balancing the three plates in his arms, made his way to the living room where Octa and Lucinda were still watching TV, their faces passive.

  “Dig in,” Bob said, mock cheerfully, and sat the plates so Lucinda’s was in right in front of her. Lucinda reluctantly took her eyes off the TV and looked at the dish. It seemed harmless enough, but she wasn’t going to risk it.

  “You know I don’t eat anything besides my cultural food chain,” she said, eyeing her plate dubiously. Bob gritted his teeth. “You’ll like it once you taste it. You too, Octa. Try yours.”

  “I really appreciate you cooking, Bob, but I’m full for the day,” said Octa, flashing a small smile at Bob, who was silently fuming.

  “Well, why not save it for tomorrow?” Bob pushed, watching his plan fail.

  Octa didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Thanks, bud, but I don’t think I’ll be eating it. It smells good, but my stomach can only take so much. But it looked like a good effort though, from the looks of it.”

  Bob was furious. So much work and nothing gained.

  “Fine.” Picking up the plates, Bob stomped out of the room and threw the dishes in the sink before going up to his room with his own food. Lucinda kissed Octa on the lips, feeling safe with him beside her.

  A little while later, the house was quiet. Lucinda had gone to the post office for something and Bob was holed up in his room. Making his way up the stairs to the bathroom, Octa felt slightly uneasy at the eerie stillness of the place.

  After he was done, Octa had just finished washing his hands and drying them when he heard a sound. The bathroom door had been open, but he quickly moved forward to close it to just a crack. Looking through the slit, Octa felt his blood run cold. Bob walked past the bathroom, his gun in his right hand and his eyes alert as if he was searching for something, or someone.

  Octa stepped out cautiously as Bob disappeared on the stairs to the living room. He stayed quiet as he observed Bob going in a circle, then back and forth in the hallway, whispering “Where is he?”

  Octa felt more shocked than angry. He knew Bob wasn’t always the most rational of people, but this? Was Bob looking for him, because he wanted to kill him? The gun wasn’t just for show. The piece was ready to fire.

  Octa looked down at his watch. It was only two in the afternoon; Lucinda had been gone for a while so she’d be back any minute. His brain started to boil as he pictured unsuspecting Lucinda coming face-to-face with Bob’s gun. His brain going haywire, Octa felt rage. I welcomed Bob into my home, and despite Lucinda’s complaints, I’ve kept him here for almost three months and this is the thanks I get? Could Bob really do this? Turning, Octa hurried to his room, devising a plan.

  Meanwhile, Bob, who had been searching for Octa everywhere in the house, finally came up from the basement, feeling slightly defeated. Where the hell is he? He considered just calling off his plan, when he heard a noise – a door slamming. Slowly approaching the stairs, Bob tiptoed up, his senses alert for any movement or sound.

  He heard water running in the bathroom. Entering slowly, Bob went up to the shower curtain and flapped it open. There was no one there, just a bathtub with almost enough water to run down the sides. Suddenly, another door slammed and Bob startled. The sound had come from Octa’s room.

  Coming out, Bob quickly shoved his gun in the back of his pants and approached the door.

  “Octa?” Bob called out. “You okay?” There was no sound from the inside. Grasping the doorknob, Bob opened the door. This door was opened before when I was looking for Octa all over the house, he thought. The room was empty, but the big fan in the master bedroom was on. Damn fan. It was just the wind. Bob grumbled, but then he realized something. This means Octa’s not home.

  Just then, he heard the front door open, and walking up to the banister, saw Lucinda stepping in, her head down and eyes on her mail. Lucinda kicked the door shut as she flipped through the letters. Hearing a metallic click, she looked up and felt her scream die mid-throat. It was Bob, and he was pointing a gun at her. Frozen, she stared down the barrel of the gun and back at Bob, her face going white.

  Bob smiled frostily, “Well, you can’t act like you didn’t de…” his words died when he felt something cold under his throat.

  Octa had crept up behind Bob and was holding a knife to his partner’s throat. Lucinda backed against the front door as she took the scene in.

  “Lower your weapon, Bob.” Octa said, his voice calm and in control. Slowly, Bob lowered his gun, glaring hatefully at Lucinda. Suddenly, Octa whipped his hand out for the gun and grabbed it from him. Withdrawing the knife from Bob’s throat, Octa threw it
down and pulled Bob by his collar toward the bathroom.

  Lucinda snapped back to reality and started yelling for Octa. “Octa, what are you doing? Octa, stop!”

  Octa paid her no heed as he pushed Bob to the bathroom where the bathtub was full of water. Kicking him behind the knees, Octa grabbed Bob’s head and forced his head into the water.

  Bob struggled and tried to shove Octa away, but the man forced his head down even further into the water. Lucinda reached the bathroom and stared at the scene, horrified.

  “Octa, please! Don’t do this, please, stop,” she pleaded from the doorway.

  Releasing Bob, Octa stood up as Bob gasped and struggled to breathe. Going to the door, Octa pushed Lucinda out, slammed the door shut and locked it. As she hammered at the closed door with her fists, calling out his name, Octa went back to Bob and grabbing his head, pushed him into the water again.

  Bob tried elbowing Octa in the jaw, ribs, anywhere, but Octa tightened his grip on him, keeping him firmly beneath the water. Bob fought, but it was useless. Twenty seconds passed and his lungs were screaming for air.

  Octa pulled Bob’s head out of the water. “Please…” Bob gasped, his chest hurting as he took a quick breath, “Octa… please… I’m sorry…” but it was no use. Octa plunged his head back in the water. Bubbles boiled up, when he finally screamed, his lungs filling with water.

  Lucinda was still beating on the door, but Octa was determined to make this lesson one that Bob wasn’t going to forget.

  Sample of The Heart Of Blood

  Chapter 1

  Blood was spattered everywhere as she lay there. Maisey’s right leg was twisted underneath her, and her neck was cut in several places. Lucinda, watching from as close as she could, brushed away a tear that barely touched her cheek. She gazed at Maisey sadly as Octa loaded their dog’s corpse into the back of the van to take her away.

  Their dog’s untimely demise didn’t faze the couple much. Dogs don’t seem so precious to people once they’ve seen humans brutally murdered. As Octa got into the van, a Mustang sped up to the house and parked right in front of his van. Octa got out and walked heatedly toward the car as his brother, Juan, stepped out and loudly greeted him.

  “Long time, brother,” Juan said.

  “Aren’t you always a surprise? I see you’re in shape . . . quit drinking, did you?”

  A phone rang, and it was Octa’s. He answered it. The phone call came from a detective, Hell Cappucci, who was investigating the disappearance of Bob. The detective let Octa know that he would contact him just in case any more questions need to be answered.

  After the phone call, Octa observed Juan from head to toe. He didn’t quite resemble the man he once knew as his little brother. His face had become rugged, and he had a lot more scars than he used to. His eyes gave away the fact that he still battled with substance abuse, but he still had that familiar boyish smile.

  Juan had not been in the house when their mother was murdered. He was kicked out at an early age for vagabondage. Juan had a tendency to run away from home, so his parents kicked him out. He was sent to the Arthur G. Dozier School for boys in Marianna, Florida at age seventeen, and later on, he escaped from the school. For several years, no one heard from him, not until he resurfaced when Octa attended a volunteer meeting to help poor people. Since then, they had stayed in contact, but lost in touch eventually. Juan used to sell drugs and steal from others.

  Would he want revenge against the family for kicking him out? After everything Octa had gone through in the past few days, he started doubting Juan. Five days had elapsed since Octa had waterboarded Bob. He is afraid that Juan is a killer and wonders if he might try to kill his family too. If Juan wanted revenge from the family, that would have happened long ago. After all, who is left? Only Octa, it seems. What would give him real, serious reason for doubting Juan, who, right now, just seems like a punk sort of drug dealer—the dime a dozen type.

  “Me? Quit? Have you completely forgotten me?” Juan came closer and wrapped his arms around his big brother. “I’ve missed you . . . and Pa,” he said after a pause.

  “I’ve missed you too. Come inside, you little brat. Let’s talk about what in God’s name you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

  Octa put his right arm around Juan’s shoulder, as they walked toward the front door, when Lucinda called, “Love! Maisey’s still in the van!”

  “Well, look who it is! Almost didn’t see you there, Lucinda. I hope my brother is keeping you happy,” Juan said in a weirdly flirtatious manner. He eyed Lucinda as he gave her a mysterious smile.

  Lucinda looked at Octa and then at Juan, “Hello Juan, it’s nice to see you after so long.”

  “I need to take care of this real quick,” said Octa as he broke away from Juan.

  Octa hurried toward the van and called out to Juan that he should make himself comfortable inside till he came back. Lucinda escorted Juan through the door and told him how their dog had been killed last night by someone in the neighborhood who had threatened the dog for trespassing and for attacking him on several occasions. Lucinda could never believe such a thing. Maisey was a docile and caring animal. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Juan carefully listened as he noticed the attractive, still young-looking woman in front of him and responded with “tsk tsk” now and then as Lucinda told him how their little dog had died. I hate dogs, he mused to himself. I would kill every last one of those motherfuckers, and thought about the incident that happened to him in his childhood. A snarling, barking German Shepherd dog had run up to him and chomped onto his upper, right thigh, leaving several puncture wounds.

  He was shaken out of his thoughts when Lucinda asked whether he would like something to drink. As she made her way into the kitchen to fix him a scotch on the rocks, as Juan had requested, he scanned the living room.

  Every inch and corner were a lot better than the kind of places where Juan had spent his last six years. He got up and looked at the comfortable furniture and the dark carpeting. He decided that when he left this place, he would be taking some of the goodies with him, with his brother’s consent or without. My brother would understand, and he always knows, he thought to himself, smiling.

  Lucinda came back into the room surprised to see a standard 9-mm caliber pistol lying flat on the sofa where Juan had been sitting. She stood there shocked and frightened and saw Juan come hurrying toward her, with a menacingly devious smile on his face.

  About the Author

  Leonidas Christopher, born December 27, 1992, hails from Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He is an active US Marine. He lives his life practicing the adage that life should not be about how it is but about how we can make it. He spent his childhood aloof from his family, spent his time wandering around dangerous and poor zones learning, as he did, about life. He met strangers who later became his friends, and he discovered that they too had their own secrets buried within. As he grew up, his own tragedies were added to the awful memories and stories of his friends. Using these, he hopes now to make a difference for the better in other people’s lives.

  Visit his website at www.christopherleonidas.com