by Evie Rhodes
To make matters worse, if that were possible, the New York Times, not to be outdone by some community newspaper, had managed to obtain a picture of Tracie Burlingame.
Its lead story boasted a picture of the sleek, beautiful clotheshorse that was Tracie Burlingame with the incredible flashing eyes, in between her two dead sons. The images vividly showed every detail of Randi and Rashod, frozen in a death mangle.
The headline read: SORROWS FROM A MOTHER’S WOMB. It was horrific beyond measure, horrific beyond human imaginings, yet it was happening.
The bodies of the boys were drained of blood. One of each pair of fifty sneakers had arrived at Alexandra’s office. The boy’s throats were stuffed with sunflower seeds. Their parents, friends, communities, ministers, teachers, and any bum on the streets had become one collective wail of outrage, fear, and pain as the news had spread out of their control.
It had been reported that fifty dead black boys, all eighteen years of age and under, had been murdered in Harlem in one night. And they all had one thing in common. They had all been highly gifted in one way or another: in the arts, music, writing, sports, science, medicine, or technology, to name a few.
They had been bright and rising stars, with the potential for great futures. There had even been a young and studied concert pianist among them. He had just recently returned from England, where he had played for the queen. Bright and rising little stars, all snuffed out in a night.
Rachel was weeping for her children. So was Tracie Burlingame.
The medical examiner could not begin to handle the massive autopsies that needed to be conducted. As a result, forensic scientists and pathologists were flying in from every corner of the United States.
Although Hubert Noskog could not have physically handled all the autopsies, he certainly knew exactly what they would find. He knew that all of them would be identical to Rashod Burlingame, with pieces of their anatomies missing and pieces of their brains having been absorbed.
He wondered if the others would agree, when they arrived, that this was not something that should be recorded outside the scientific and medical communities. He could not see how his colleagues would not arrive at this wisdom.
But he would have to wait and see. Harlem was a bloodbath, and not just in real blood. It was a political bloodbath and a hotbed the likes of which they had never seen. It was simply a nightmare.
The mayor of New York stared into Alexandra’s eyes as though he were a drunken pirate washed from the sea, who had somehow landed on dry, desert land.
“This is impossible,” the mayor said.
“Yes, it is,” Alexandra automatically replied.
“The governor called this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He said this is impossible.” The mayor seemed incapable of evoking the suave display of politics he was usually known for. He sat in shocked surprise, unable to tap into his usual reservoir of resources.
Alexandra sighed. They were getting nowhere fast with this conversation. The National Guard was posted outside the police station to ensure there would be no entry. There were two guards posted outside her own office door to prevent entry.
And all she and the mayor could agree on was that it was an impossible situation, which they already knew.
She had borrowed police recruits from every borough in the city. They were turning Harlem upside down in their quest for answers and were reporting in on the half hour. Extra telephone lines had been added.
They had twenty-four-seven coverage, so that no rock could go unturned. And still there was nothing.
There was not a drop of blood. There was not a fingerprint. There was no saliva. There was not a clothing fiber. There was not even a fiber of hair so far—nothing to link up the killer. There was nothing.
Nothing except swarming, angry parents, their representatives, and all the black constituency of New York City, which was hanging outside on her doorstep, demanding answers that neither she, the police, the police recruits, the mayor, nor the governor of New York had.
In the process she was also being beaten up for not investigating Ms. Virginia’s death at Visionaries. Because somehow it had leaked that all the words were missing off the pages in her bookshop as well. There was not a single word, in a single book, in the entire bookstore.
Save one.
Now that story was being linked in connection with the missing words in the Schomberg Center. The media was on a roll.
She had thought it was ridiculous when Maya had first reported it to her. Besides, Ms. Virginia had not been murdered. She had died of a heart attack, a natural cause. There had been no reason for her to investigate. Anyway, she had already had her hands full at the time, even if she had wanted to make a courtesy call.
She had better not find out Maya had leaked it. If she did, she would see to it that Maya never worked again in this lifetime. Maya told her things. She kept her abreast of the situation in Harlem. But Alexandra had always suspected that Maya resented doing it and was just biding her time.
If she had picked this time, her ass would be out on the streets sooner than she could say, “Boo.” That was for sure. She would not tolerate a lack of loyalty at this time.
She also wanted to know where the hell Lonzo was.
Monica had delved into Tracie’s background and had set up the detail on Tracie Burlingame’s house, albeit too late, because by the time they arrived, Tracie was gone. There was no trace of her or her remaining sons.
Given, of course, that they were still remaining.
Who knew?
She didn’t think they were in the morgue, but there was no way she could be absolutely certain of that at the moment. Nor could she be certain that they wouldn’t arrive there, just as Randi and Rashod had.
All of Tracie’s salons were being covered. The employees had all been questioned. There was nary a trace of her or her boys.
Alexandra had had Monica issue an APB for Tracie Burlingame because they needed her desperately. All the murdered boys had been killed in the same way as Tracie’s sons.
Maybe she knew something, even if unconsciously. In any case, Alexandra needed to haul her ass down to the precinct station, and she needed to do it fast.
And she couldn’t protect those boys or follow them, hoping they might lead them to the murderer, if she couldn’t find them.
There was a knock on the door, and the special edition of the newspaper was delivered to Alexandra. Normally there was no special edition, but with all that was going on in Harlem, the newspaper editors had decided to be accomodating. How very good of them, Alexandra thought.
The headline read: WHERE IS TRACIE BURLINGAME? the leaks in this case were endless.
Alexandra closed her eyes. She shook her head and reached into her center desk drawer. She had never thought she would do this again, but here she was at the mercy of old King Tobacco once again.
She took her lighter out of the center drawer. She lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. Ignoring the New York Law against smoking in its public buildings.
The smoke seared her lungs, which had been nicely dumping all the past years of cigarette tar built up in them. Alexandra choked and coughed, her lungs unaccustomed to the live shock of smoke.
The mayor of New York watched her for a time; then he echoed the headlines of the newspaper: “Where is Tracie Burlingame?” he said.
44
Anita Lily Mae Young awoke from the same dream at the same time as Tracie Burlingame, watching the many black babies sailing through the atmosphere.
She had no way of knowing this.
When she did awake, she wasn’t sure if she would be better off in this world or the other one. Both of them were treacherously scary.
The television and newspapers were full of nothing but Tracie Burlingame. The details of the deaths, and methods of the killing of her sons, were everywhere. A serial killer was on the loose in Harlem, and the offspring of Tracie Burlingame had been his primary target.
Anita cringed just looking at the woman on the electronic devices. She had seen her on television and on the Internet. Her image dominated the newspapers. The woman made her insides crawl.
Tracie Burlingame had suddenly been stamped all over her private residence. She was in her life. It seemed her image was everywhere she looked. She could not get away from her.
Somehow Tracie Burlingame had managed to invade her space, her thoughts, and profile herself into her very existance.
It was Tracie Burlingame in the dream, from whose womb the many black babies were dropping.
Anita never wanted to see her again. Anita didn’t want this particular vision. For the first time in her natural life, she was seriously regretting this sight. It was better sometimes that you didn’t see things, that you didn’t know nothing.
Right in front of her eyes the patchwork quilt floated, as though a testament to her gift and participation.
“Oh, my,” Anita moaned.
She had known that that girl was trouble from the first moment she laid eyes on her. But, the magnitude to which Tracie Burlingame had risen stunned even Anita. And that was only in this world.
There could be no measure for her role in the next. Her picture and those of her sons were everywhere.
Tracie’s eyes were like a chameleon. Anita could see their flashing depths, even though she wasn’t in front of her, live. Tracie Burlingame didn’t have persona—she was persona.
She was also the most dangerous black woman alive at this time.
Tracie had absolutely no clue to the truth of this.
Finally the last nail in the coffin was hurled Anita’s way. The story came on the news about the Schomberg Center. It was cordoned off, and the newscaster was reciting words that were unbelievable.
“It couldn’t be,” Anita mumbled as she stroked Pesky’s black, silky fur. But it was. The Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture had been destroyed. Rare archival treasures had been defiled.
Ms. Virginia’s store, Visionaries, had also been entered by a thief—a spiritual thief who had stolen all the words from the books. Although the media was only reporting and had no real clue to the meaning of this, Anita did.
They were hyping the stories and creating trails and links, though they could have no idea of the actual impact.
Anita sighed as though in great pain.
Mr. Schomberg, the original founder of the center, had dedicated his life to researching the history of African-Americans the world over after having been told that black people had no history.
His life’s work and dedication were all reflected in that center. He had proved that black people had roots, that they came from a powerful history. Now that had been defiled. It was disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful and intolerable.
All Anita could hear was the big bald-headed man stating, “I have come to collect the gifts. I am Me.”
“Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, God, no,” Anita whimpered.
Without a doubt she knew that a spiritual prophecy was now alive and manifesting itself in Harlem. She bowed her head at the horror of it. When the big bald-headed man had unblocked her vision, she hadn’t wanted to see or believe.
Anita ran to her door. She threw the extra bolt on it. She didn’t want any part of what was going on.
Although deep inside, way down on a level she wasn’t dealing with, she knew she was as much a part of this as if she had destroyed the Schomberg Center herself.
There would be no escaping it. Maybe she could reach the Master for guidance, before this went too far. What the hell was she thinking? It had already gone too far.
“It done went too far already,” she said to Pesky.
She pulled the rabbit closer to her for physical comfort.
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” she continued to moan as she closed all the shades on her windows. She wondered to what avail this would be, but she couldn’t stop herself from doing it. She knew there were forces out there that didn’t need to enter by the front door.
She also knew that she was one of the conduits that would have to help Tracie Burlingame. And the Me thing would not be happy. But she would have no choice. He would come.
He would come for Tracie Burlingame to destroy her.
No sooner had the words entered Anita’s mind than she was snapped into a trance and transported to a different place, where what she needed to know was given to her. The time was near.
Unbeknownst to Anita, mercy and grace had been granted to her for the times she had misused her gift. There had been many misuses and abuses over time by the people with their gifts.
It had not gone unnoticed.
If the abusers had ever known or understood the pain they had inflicted, or the parts they had played in the destruction of many—their respective roles as stumbling blocks for their own people—well, anyone with sense would have gotten down on their knees and never gotten up until forgiveness from above had been restored.
Until mercy and grace had been granted, as with Anita.
Now Anita would come full circle in her repentance and participate for the glory, for the change of things.
While she was there, she repented for the remission of her sins in the name of Jesus Christ. She was baptized and then sanctified with the spirit of the Holy Ghost, cleansing her gift and putting it on solid and holy ground.
She would never again peer through a card or through a crystal ball to see the things she would see. There was one who had never needed a device through which to see. While she was there, she also saw a man in a state of repentance.
“My Lord,” she said.
He was repenting in sackcloth and ashes, as though from long ago.
The old black preacher continued to pray in the sackcloth and ashes. His body was drenched in water. His face looked as though it were carved in granite. His startling silvery-gray hair against the tar-black skin had turned pure white.
He prayed in the gift of tongues, totally submerged in the spirit of the Holy Ghost. When he was finished praying, the chains that bound Tracie Burlingame would be broken. And so would the chains that bound the seed. But for now he needed to continue, as Tracie Burlingame journeyed closer to the Unspoken.
45
Me had been summoned to hold court with his master, just as before. The time for final judgement had arrived. Me was spiraling again, totally out of control. The wind was whipping with the fierceness of a hurricane. He was twirling, twirling, caught up in the spirit of the storm. There was nothing, as usual, that he could do about it.
He knew it would take him where it would. When the hurricane stopped twirling, he found himself standing on dry desert land under the scorching brightness of the blistering sun.
Legion knew he hated the light, which was precisely why he had brought him to this spot. It was called control. Blisters broke out on Me’s bald head and face, such was the heat of the sun.
He couldn’t see anything on the vast horizon. The earth had shaken under his feet. The wind roared in his ears like the voice of loud thunder, and then the world around him went pitch-black. It was just as if someone had come into a brightly lit room and turned off the light switch.
Me felt coldness within him—not in his soul, as he didn’t possess a soul, but in the inner parts of his being. Once he had possessed a soul, many eons ago; now it was gone. Once he had lived in a beautiful place, but not anymore.
He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on what was lost. What was lost was lost. There had always been a payment for all things.
Then he heard it: a sound like a zillion scabs being picked at the same time. It rumbled from the pit of his stomach and exploded inside him.
“Me!” came the rumble from inside him.
It shook his whole body. The blisters opened wide and began to ooze pus.
Me was being pummeled, pummeled with spittle. It rained down on him, turning into baseball-size hail. As soon as the hail hit the ground, it turned into balls of fire that rose up, searing his feet,
moving, moving, and scorching his skin along the way, but he did not burn.
He was one livid motion of burning, searing pain. The Quest. It was time. It was time for a visit from he who was above all of them. From he who had created the master plan that had landed them all in this predicament and had made him the leader in the process.
Me could feel his presence in all his power. Suddenly the blackness surrounding him came alive. The air shivered. Standing in his wake was the One.
The Ultimate One.
Me fell to his knees in front of the great power.
Legion took note of Me and his acquiescence, although he was not impressed. He considered people kneeling and bowing before him his just due. It was nothing less than what was expected from his underlings. He had taught them much, given them many powers, and shown them how to use them.
“Tracie Burlingame cannot be allowed. Are you aware of what that means, Me?”
“Yes, Legion.”
“A new spirit has been added to the dimension. Are you aware of it?”
“Yes, Legion.”
“He is here to aid the girl. He was planted long ago for that purpose. He knows about the Ancient Book of Prophecies. He has felt it.”
Me nodded.
“Souljah Boy.” Legion spat his name as though the very taste of it were dirt in his mouth.
Me nodded, shivered, trembled and burned, in the flames of fire in his spot of worship on the ground.
“You have the gifts,” Legion stated emphatically.
“In you, you carry centuries of evidence. You must use all your powers to ensure that this is where it stops, that there will be no, shall I say, special future generations to carry on. Tracie Burlingame is the host mother. Destroy the coming of things. Destroy what she will bear, in accordance as it is written. You must destroy the seed before its great birth. In order to do that, you must destroy Tracie Burlingame.”
Me nodded. He dared not speak.