Expired

by Evie Rhodes

  “Then he will,” Mrs. Peyton had told her.

  She had anointed Tracie’s head with oil, told her to get on her knees, and there they had prayed together. Tracie’s little heart had reached out and yearned for Christ to heal her, and he had.

  The following morning a wound that would have definitely required stitches was completely closed and healed on its own. Tracie had been delighted. “It’s healed,” she had told Mrs. Peyton. “It’s healed.”

  “I know, child. All you have to do is believe. That’s what I told you.”

  Where had that memory come from? My God, that had been so long ago, she’d forgotten about it. Nothing else like it had ever happened to her.

  Suddenly a picture of the old black preacher at the church flashed in her mind. She felt a profound sense of comfort. She could see the Bible with its two flames of fire shooting up on the sides. She could almost reach out and touch it. She wished she had.

  On her way to the bathroom the phone rang. She picked it up to hear Whiskey’s voice. She arranged for a special courier whom both Whiskey and she trusted to deliver the guns to him from her salon.

  She wondered what had made him change his mind and suggest this, but whatever it was, she was grateful. She didn’t ask questions. It was too much to deal with all that was happening plus Whiskey and his weapons.

  She was beginning to hate him, his dangerous aura, and his weapons that she had made a mint off of, not to mention his extreme selfishness.

  The real deal was, Whiskey had had a momentary change of heart with a little help from outside forces. He had decided that with all her troubles, she didn’t have to do it personally, as long as she agreed to the arrangements—which she did.

  The truth of it was, Whiskey had decided that Tracie Burlingame was too hot on the streets of Harlem. He quickly wanted to disassociate himself from her after learning that it had rained blood in Harlem, following the same pattern as the deaths of Tracie’s sons. The police would be all over her.

  Soon. Very soon.

  Whiskey, being the shrewd man that he was, simply decided it was time to part company. Time to move his assets straight out of Harlem. Harlem was raining blood. Whiskey didn’t want to get splattered with any of it.

  Besides, Whiskey would never admit it in a million years, but he was scared, in a major way. Me had stepped to Whiskey on a personal level and simply told him, “I am Me. You will leave Tracie Burlingame alone.”

  Me had stared at Whiskey.

  Something in Whiskey’s bowels shook loose. Whiskey nodded without ever saying a word.

  “Good,” Me said.

  He had taken his leave of Whiskey then, but not before Whiskey heard the symphony of voices that swelled in him. Not before someone sneezed, and it wasn’t Me.

  And not before he witnessed a legion of snakes writhing and slithering inside Me’s form, their lizardlike tongues whipping out and swallowing people, actual people, whole. It was all Whiskey could do to keep from fainting like some punk.

  Yes, it was raining blood in Harlem, but that was the least of all that was going on. Whiskey hadn’t wanted any part of it.

  Tracie lay down on her bed after her conversation and arrangements with Whiskey. Then she wondered, where was her son Andre Burlingame?

  Tracie Burlingame trembled at the thought.

  42

  Dre. Andre, actually. Andre Burlingame. He sat in a semi-stupor in Souljah Boy’s crowded living room. Souljah Boy had a one-bedroom apartment in the Abraham Lincoln projects, and every room in the house was stacked and littered with books, papers, DVDs, videos, tapes, and recordings of every kind.

  There was barely anywhere to sit. Souljah Boy had moved a stack of manuscripts, essays, and papers from a small footstool so Dre could sit down.

  Dre had gone to Souljah Boy’s apartment in his current state after having been summoned by one of his many confidential contacts to 139th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue the night before to shoot photographs of another murder that had taken place in Harlem.

  He had already delivered the ones of Randi to his contact. They were at the Amsterdam News. He wasn’t going to let them bury his brother’s life like so much garbage, so he figured the close-ups would shake somebody into action. He hadn’t counted on the second set of photographs he was to take being of his brother Rashod. But they were.

  He had arrived to discover that another one of his brothers had been slain. It had shaken him to his very core. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t stay on the streets. It looked as though somebody was trying to kill all of them.

  So he had gone to Souljah Boy’s apartment. He didn’t know where his mother was. He didn’t know where his now only brother, Michael, was. He’d been calling the house, and no one answered. He’d paged Tracie and gotten no answer, either. He hoped they weren’t dead, too.

  He had sat on the footstool with Souljah Boy’s aging documents and many papers scattered at his feet. He had not moved from that spot since his arrival.

  It wasn’t helping matters that Souljah Boy was different, too. More reserved—he didn’t know—more something, as if he had been dipped in a ray of light or something. His world was being turned upside down.

  Souljah Boy’s face had a sheen almost like when a person sweated hard and glistened with the moisture of it, except that Souljah Boy’s face was dry.

  He looked as if he had swallowed the sun and it was shining from inside him. Maybe he was just losing it . . . seeing things that really weren’t there.

  Finally Dre had voiced his worst fear: “I hope Tracie’s not dead.”

  “She isn’t,” Souljah Boy replied.

  Dre looked over at him from lowered long, silky lashes inherited from Tracie. “How do you know? Rashod is, you know.”

  “I know Rashod is. But Tracie isn’t.”

  “Somebody’s killing my family, man. Straight up. Maybe we’re next. We should have police protection or something.”

  “You don’t need police protection, Dre. Nobody’s gonna kill you.”

  Suddenly something stuck out in Dre’s mind. “How did you know Rashod was dead? I just told you.”

  “I hear things, Dre.”

  Dre nodded. That was probably true. Souljah Boy was plugged into his own brand of information sources. Dre let it drop. He’d never known Souljah Boy to tell a lie in his life, even when they were kids. Even when Souljah Boy knew that the truth would land them in hot water, especially with Tracie. He would tell it anyway. Then they would all endure Tracie’s wrath.

  Dre had constantly told him to stop doing that truth crap when they could get in trouble, but Souljah Boy had his own mind.

  “The truth will set you free,” he had told Dre once when they were in trouble.

  “The truth will get our asses kicked,” Dre had replied. And sure enough, it had. But that hadn’t ever stopped Souljah.

  Dre was silent for a time. Souljah Boy just watched him intently.

  “How do you know, man, that we won’t be next?”

  “Because I know.”

  “How do you know?” Dre repeated, not satisfied with Souljah Boy’s answer. Though he would never admit it, he suddenly found himself wanting to hear some of Souljah Boy’s religious ramblings. He needed to hear something, anything that was going to make him feel better.

  But whereas Souljah Boy usually answered almost any question with some type of spiritual coating, he had not done so, so far.

  Souljah Boy sighed.

  He knew Dre couldn’t handle much, but he was seeking comfort in the spirit. Souljah Boy needed to give him something. Maybe it was time he grew up to the real world anyway.

  “Your family is under the protection of Jesus Christ, Dre.”

  Dre snorted, although subconsciously this had been exactly what he was looking for. “You think so, son? Then why are two of my brothers dead? Some protection.”

  Souljah Boy was patient. “Sometimes things happen for a reason. They are for a higher purpose. Besides, Dre, just beca
use they’re dead doesn’t mean they aren’t under his protection.”

  Dre was exasperated. “Stop talking to me in riddles, Souljah. Dead is dead. They’re dead.” Dre began to wring his hands so Souljah Boy wouldn’t see them trembling, but of course, he did.

  He had known Dre would tremble before he actually did.

  “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—’ ”

  Dre cut Souljah Boy off. “Don’t start this again, Souljah.”

  Souljah Boy got up. He went to the bookshelf. He removed a big old black and gold, ancient-looking book. It was so dusty he had to blow dust off the cover. He returned to sit across from Dre.

  He opened up the Bible, turning to the Twenty-third Psalm.

  “This is exactly where it does start, Dre. Close your eyes and just listen and feel. Don’t question. Just listen. Okay?”

  Dre nodded, even though he was starting to feel somewhat foolish. He had always told Souljah Boy not to do this, to live in the real world; now he was listening because he suddenly didn’t know what was real anymore. His world as he had known it was gone.

  So what was there?

  He realized he didn’t know. Which meant he had nothing to lose by listening. Besides, Dre had always known there was something special about Souljah Boy, that he was different.

  He didn’t know what it was exactly, but he knew that Souljah Boy was connected in a different way from the rest of them. Maybe whatever looked over Souljah Boy, whatever resided with him, would protect Dre and his family, too.

  What was left of it. After all, Souljah Boy, as far back as he could remember, had always been a part of his family.

  Definitely there was something that was moving with him. It always had been. Dre had just never accepted it or really looked at it, was all.

  “Okay,” he agreed, closing his eyes. “Go ahead and read, Souljah.”

  “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Amen.’ ”

  Souljah Boy finished reading the scripture.

  As Dre listened to the reading with his eyes shut tight, images had appeared before him. He had heard the words differently. The word “application” had sounded in his mind as though on the wings of the wind. Application. He would have to apply those words to what was happening.

  He opened his eyes. “I was wrong, wasn’t I, Souljah? I said Harlem wasn’t the valley of death. I said, ‘This is Harlem, not the valley of death.’ But I was wrong wasn’t I? Harlem is the valley of death.”

  “In Harlem, Dre, is both death and life for us and our people. Believe that.”

  Dre couldn’t stop himself. He was waterlogged. He would have been embarrassed if his life weren’t in such tragic condition.

  The tears slid from his eyes unabashedly.

  And he had been so mean to Rashod the last time he had seen him, while he sat there drawing some stupid sketch—actually maybe not stupid, but definitely weird.

  Dre regretted his attitude. He wished he could take it back and do it differently. But now he couldn’t. Rashod was dead, too. Rashod was one of the images he had seen while his eyes were closed and Souljah Boy was reading from the Bible.

  Souljah Boy rose from his seat. He laid the old Bible on a table. He hugged Dre. In that instant Dre felt the arms of many holding him, although all he saw was Souljah.

  Souljah Boy released him and stood back. “Go home to Tracie, Dre. She needs you to come. She’s at home now.”

  Souljah Boy pulled Dre to his feet. Then he issued him a prophecy. “There are many more hurdles to overcome, Dre, but your family will survive. There is one who can save all. Have faith.”

  With that, Souljah Boy showed Dre the door.

  Dre arrived home to find things just as Souljah Boy had said. Both Tracie and Michael were there. However, there had been no time for teary reunions, recriminations, or explanations.

  The minute Dre had entered the house, Tracie, having received a phone call from Renee Santiago and having awakened from having exactly the same dream once again, had instantly declared to both Dre and Michael, “Come on. We have to go.”

  From the tone in her voice and the look in her eyes, they had both known it was no time for questions.

  And with that, Tracie Burlingame had fled the brownstone with her two remaining living sons in tow. They had left with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

  She had managed to escape only moments before the police arrived.

  The number one girlfriend, Renee Santiago, had delivered one high-placed favor. Not only had she put Tracie Burlingame up on what was going on and the fountain of blood that was spraying Harlem, she had also imparted some serious wisdom unto Tracie, which was good, because she would definitely need it.

  Her parting words to Tracie were, “Have faith, girlfriend. Have faith.”

  43

  Alexandra had known that was it, the beginning of the end of many things, the instant the mayor of New York crossed the threshold into her office unannounced. It had all exploded right in her face, just as she had feared. She knew it was true as she stared across her desk at the mayor.

  She ran a hand through her short blond curls. She resisted the urge to gnaw on the eraser of the pencil that was beckoning to her.

  The phones were ringing off the hooks. There were fifty young black male bodies sitting on ice in the morgue. There was no way to tell if there would be more.

  The FBI was there; pictures of the dead boys and details of the murders were being downloaded to the top profilers in the country, down in Quantico. Oh, and the Schomberg Center had been defiled.

  “Desecration” was the word that kept leaping to her mind, although the Schomberg Center was not a religious organization. She did not dare utter the word “desecration” out loud. In her private thoughts was where that word would have to remain.

  If she had said that word aloud, the mayor might have gotten up from his chair and personally strangled her with his bare hands.

  The dead body of a security guard had been found at the Schomberg Center, and the pattern of the killing did not match that of the other murders. It was a different style and a different killer, to be sure.

  The center had been completely, well, “defiled” was the only word that stayed with her. The walls had been slashed by a sharp knife, cut to ribbons—thousands of shreds of drywall, as though it had been fed through a shredder.

  And the head of Othello had been cut off. It lay in thousands of broken pieces, scattered across the floor.

  Rare archival manuscripts, books, and historical records were missing. Well, maybe “missing” was not a totally accurate description. The books were there. The papers were there. The recordings were there. But there were no words on any of the pages or in any of the recordings.

  Literally thousands of pieces of paper, maybe millions—who knew for sure? Anyway, all the precious, ancient, historical African-American documentation that had resided in the Schomberg Center was missing the words.

  All the pages were . . . well, they were blank.

  The gallery where the Harlem Writers’ Guild usually held its meetings, which boasted the artistic depictions, replicas, pictures, and images of some of the most famous African-American authors in the world, had been defiled as well, their images melted across the canvases in grotesque caricatures.

  It was as though a liquid fire had appeared and, not being able to stand the sight of the authors, had simply melted away their images in a flame of fire but had left the backdrop on whic
h the images were placed untouched.

  Their birth dates and their dates of death were missing as well, as though someone had attempted to erase their very existence from the earth. It was stranger than hell. So far, the many experts who were currently jamming the Schomberg Center had no reasonable explanation for how this could be.

  There was just absolutely no way, they all insisted in unison, that pictures on a canvas could be burned away with such extreme heat without destroying the canvas itself. In fact, from what little they could tell, as far as they were concerned, the entire room should have burned down, and yet it still stood.

  The lettering that depicted the names and dates of birth and death had simply disappeared from the canvases. But there was no trace that any lettering had been melted in the fire—the lettering was just simply not there.

  It was a good thing the Schomberg Center had had the foresight to keep photographs of the photos in the galley, as well as a lot of the rare archives, manuscripts, and literature on CDs, disks, microfiche, and in hard-copy photographs, tucked away in a vault at Chase Bank; otherwise, it would have been hard to believe they had really been there.

  Except, perhaps, by those people who had seen it with their own eyes.

  The restoration of these works, although stored on some of the highest technology the country had to offer, would still be an awesome job. And some of the older stuff was still stored on microfiche.

  African-American art critics, photographers, historians, researchers, writers, and scholars were flying into Harlem from around the world, from as far away as Israel, at the very minute that Alexandra sat in the hottest pressure cooker of her career, across from the mayor of New York.

  The photographs of Randi Burlingame, dead and broken on 135th Street, which had been delivered by a so-called anonymous source, were blown up on the front page of the Amsterdam News, and all that Alexandra could not have imagined had come true.

  The wire services had instantly picked up on the serial-killing grounds of Harlem. The news was being broadcast to every corner of the world, along with the photographs of Randi Burlingame, to which Rashod Burlingame had now been added.