One Blood (17 page)

“
When is he gettin’ out?” Brandon felt a headache coming on.

“
Eight this mohnin’.”

Brandon’s world was spinning. “Word?”

“
Yeah, Bruh. I can’t wait for Link to get back on the block.” Shorty beamed with admiration.

Brandon thought he was going to be sick. “How…how is this possible?”

To his surprise, Shorty answered, “Come wit’ me and I’ll show you.”

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Four

“
Okay,” Brandon said. “Where is this thing you gotta show me?”

“
My house. Let’s cut through the woods.”

They walked in silence through the forest, following a path that had probably been carved out by boys much like themselves years earlier. Eventually the woods cleared out and the path disappeared, revealing Shorty’s backyard.

“
Aight. This is what’s up,” Shorty said. “Somebody snatched the Governor’s daughter two days ago.”

“
Karen Lafitte? Bullshit! That woulda been all over the news.”

“
Not if they had a ransom. I caught them bringing her to Simmons Park, and then I followed them back to their hideout...”

* * * * *

Shorty had been headed to school Friday morning when he got a text from one of his “customers.” He took a slight detour to Simmons Park to unload a couple of dime bags before class. After he made the drop, Shorty smoked a little of the product and then continued on his way to school. He was about to jump the fence (put up after the killings to keep trespassers out) when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. A fat guy and a musclehead were unloading a sleeping bag from the trunk of an Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight. The sleeping bag had a lock of blond hair sticking out of the top.

* * * * *

“
Really?” Brandon asked. “Then how did Karen get
here
?”

“
Well, I had a feeling that they might be watchin’ the place, know what I’m sayin’, so I pretty much just watched them come and go until I got their schedule down pat. Then last night I decided to check out the gym. You know I ain’t been up in that piece since before the shooting, bruh?”

“
Me either.”

“
Yeah, man. It was dark as shit up in there. That place used to be a lot bigger when we was kids, bruh…”

* * * * *

It had been easy to open up the gym door, but not nearly as easy to find his way around in the dark once he was inside. The sliver of light coming through the door from the single functioning streetlight was swallowed by the darkness. Shorty wished he had something to prop open the door, but he couldn’t risk someone seeing the door ajar and coming in to investigate. He pulled out his flashlight and took a few cautious steps forward. The outside door closed behind him.

The flashlight illuminated a paper-strewn hallway. He looked around for clues as to where they’d stashed the body. Shorty paused after finding a blond hair on the stairwell.

He stopped and listened.

Upstairs, someone or something was whimpering.

He took a few more steps.

A female voice cried, “Where are you, Kristopher? I wanna see you.”

* * * * *

“
Come on, Shorty, that ain’t true,” Brandon interrupted. Shorty had told some tall tales in his life, but this had to be like Manute Bol tall.

“
You don’t believe me?”

“
Does ‘hell no’ mean anything to you?”

“
That hurts, B, really. But I knew you wouldn’t believe me, that’s why I brought you here in the first place. So come on if you comin’.”

Brandon followed Shorty into the house. The place was a mess, as usual. Shorty’s rarely present mother was a packrat who had never found a piece of junk she didn’t love.

Brandon checked his watch. He was going to be late for school for sure. Coach Torelli would ream him out if he missed the morning meeting. “We got to hurry this—” Brandon started to say as he stepped into Shorty’s bedroom. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

A blond-haired white girl lay spread-eagled on Shorty’s bed. This couldn’t be Karen Lafitte. He had just seen her at Jessica Breaux’s homecoming after party. Karen had been named Homecoming Queen.

There was no trace of that girl here. Her wrists and ankles were taped to the metal posts. Brandon saw track marks up and down emaciated arms. She looked like the concentration camp victims in his world history textbook. He stared at Shorty dumbfounded.

“
See. Told ya,” Shorty said smugly.

Brandon took a step backward. He wanted to bolt, but was held transfixed by the scene before him.

“
What did you do, Shorty? What did you do?”

“
What the hell you talking bout? I saved her life!”

Brandon looked away—Karen wasn’t wearing any panties. “This is sick, Shorty. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“
Wrong with me? You got this twisted, bruh.”

Brandon barged past Shorty and started undoing Karen’s bonds.

“
What the fuck you think you’re doing? Stop!”

“
Make me.” Brandon had almost gotten Karen’s left ankle loose when he felt the gun pressed into his back.

“
I said, stop.”

“
You gonna shoot me, Shorty?”

“
I don’t want to, so don’t make me. Now turn around. Real slow.”

Brandon’s heartbeat doubled as he got his second look at Shorty’s glock. “Come on, Shorty, you know me. We can work this out.”

“
I thought so,” Shorty said, taping Brandon’s hands behind his back. “But I guess I was wrong. Now sit down and cross your ankles.”

Shorty took his eyes off Brandon’s face for a moment to tape up his legs.

Brandon jerked his knee into Shorty’s jaw. It was a solid hit. Shorty tumbled off him, temporarily unconscious. Working his wrists, Brandon freed himself, tied Shorty up, then went back to work on Karen. Once he had her loose, he gently pulled her to her feet.

Karen rolled her head back and looked up at him. “Isaac?”

“
Shhh. I’m fin to get you out of here.”

“
Brandon! Fuck, bruh!” Shorty groaned. “What you do that for. Let me go, bruh.”

“
No way, Shorty. I’m gonna get Karen out of here and then I’m calling the police.”

“
I’m telling you, I didn’t do this! All you have to do is go over to Simmons Park and see for yourself. That’s where they had her. Just check it out before you do something crazy, please!”

“
You’re no good, Shorty. We’re getting out of here. I’m taking the gun, too, so don’t get any ideas.”

As Brandon dragged Karen outside he realized he was in way over his head.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Five

Monday

Baton Rouge, LA

“
Give me some good news, Bill,” Randy said, answering his phone. He gave up on his tie momentarily and sat on the edge of the tub inside his suite at the Marriott. He’d been waiting for Bill’s call for over an hour.

“
My FBI contacts have located Amir Barber,” Bill replied. “And he is Juanita Simmons’ son.”

Randy slapped his knee with pleasure. Jhonnette Deveaux had turned out to be extremely helpful after all.

“
Bulls-eye. He’s the guy. Where is he?”

“
We’re triangulating his exact location right now.”

“
Excellent work,” Randy replied.

“
What are you going do to about Snake Roberts?” Bill asked.

It was a good question. One Randy had given serious thought to over the past eight hours.

“
I’ve got Snake covered,” Randy replied. Snake would soon learn the penalty for disloyalty. “Bill, Karen’s fate is in your hands now. Bring my girl home to me.”

“
You can count on me, Ran. I’ll keep you posted.”

Randy hung up, splashed his face with water, and finished his tie. He was going to need the power of positive thinking to get through all of this. Since Karen’s kidnapping, he’d just barely managed to keep from unraveling as the kidnappers continued to torture him. They’d sent two more DVDs, each one further documenting Karen’s regression from a healthy teenager to a pale, emaciated zombie.

In the videos, Karen scratched at her arms, lined with the tell-tale marks of heroin use, while talking to herself like a schizophrenic. The look in her eyes was the worst though, like she was losing hope and humanity with each passing day. Randy just wanted her back alive, no matter what the condition. He was terrified of what today might bring if Bill couldn’t find her first.

His cell phone rang again.

Randy stared at the words, UNKNOWN CALLER, staring at him from the display. It was the kidnappers. He could only imagine what they would have to say.

As he flipped open the phone, he was completely unprepared for the word that floated through the telephone receiver.

“
Daddy?”

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Six

Monday

Angola, LA

“
Wake up, Lincoln. Rise and shine.”

Lincoln crawled out of the darkness as if he’d been buried alive under six feet of nightmares and confusion. His head throbbed and his hands and feet were strapped into a chair of some sort. Strange voices spoke in hushed tones near him.

There was a mask over his head, the kind of mask placed over an inmate’s head just moments before he imitated the “this is your brain on drugs” commercial from the eighties. Judging from the echo in the room, he knew he wasn’t in a holding cell.

Where the hell am I?

Rational thought gave way to adrenaline as fear bolted to the surface of his psyche.

I’m strapped into the electric chair!

His breath grew raspier as the mask stuck to his sweat-soaked skin.

Suddenly, it was ripped off his face.

Lincoln blinked as he tried to adjust to the bright lights. He heard snickering and laughter all around him. A tall figure in a dark suit stood before him. Lincoln immediately recognized his captor.

“
You? You’re responsible for this?”

“
I don’t know why you’re so surprised, Lincoln,” Kristopher Lafitte whispered. His sharp blue eyes shimmered crazily. “Did you really think they were just going to let you walk out of Angola?”

“
This ain’t happenin’.” Lincoln squirmed against the rough wood of the electric chair. “This ain’t real. You’re dead!”

Kris stared back at Lincoln. “Death is relative, Lincoln. You should know that better than anyone. Remember? You killed me.”

“
Why…how…is this happening?” The smell of formaldehyde flooded Lincoln’s nostrils. The last time he’d seen Kris, his best friend had been laying at the base of the lone tree in Simmons Park, clutching his stomach, blood blooming between his long pale fingers.

“
Maybe I’m just a figment of your imagination, Lincoln. Maybe I’m your guilty conscience. Or maybe
this…is…real
.”

“
I don’t understand,” Lincoln mumbled. Suddenly they were back in Simmons Park. Lincoln leaned over Kris as his friend bled to death from a bullet wound in his stomach. Lincoln inched forward so he could hear what Kris was trying to tell him between his wheezes and gasps.

Kris grabbed the back of Lincoln’s head in one bloody palm, pulled him within kissing distance and gasped, “It’s seven o’clock, Baker. You know where yo’ pardon is?”

Lincoln opened his eyes. His head ached and nostrils burned. A voice spoke up in front of him. Swimming in confusion, he raised his head with some effort, the blur before him slowly materializing into solid form.

Warden George Winey sipped his coffee and stared at Lincoln like he couldn’t decide whether he was pissed off or constipated. A guard stood beside Lincoln’s chair waving smelling salts under his nose.

Lincoln pushed the man’s hand away from his face. “Assault is a criminal offense, you know.”

“
Save it for someone who cares, boy,” the warden replied.

Lincoln gazed at the man who had presided over the prison with an iron fist for the past thirteen years. Lincoln refused to give Winey the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. Mind over matter, as Panama X liked to say. He leaned back and smirked like he was privy to an inside joke.

“
What’s so funny, boy?”

“
Nuthin’, bruh. I was just thinking about how wild you looked in that press conference the other day, but you lookin’ good now, boss—lost a little weight. I guess your wife’s Parkinsons is rubbin’ off.”