One Blood (25 page)

His father looked confused for a moment, but then his face lit up. He chuckled. Whenever he laughed, his eye patch shifted.

Amir reached up and gently corrected it. “What’s so funny?”

“
Your mom’s not loco, Amir. Her
loa
’s name is Loko, with a K. He’s the
loa
in charge of nature, sanctuaries, and most importantly, justice. Do you understand?”

Amir understood his father’s words, but he didn’t get how a ghost could ride a person. “Loko is a ghost?”

“
Not a ghost. A spirit. Do you remember your invisible friend? What was his name again?”

“
Arnold.”

“
Arnold, right. Well, was Arnold a ghost?”

“
No way. It was just that I was the only person who could see him.”

“
Exactly, Son. The
loa
are just like that. You can’t see them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

“
But why is she dancing like she’s possessed or something?” Amir asked.

“
Because she is. Your mom’s been possessed by Loko. But it’s okay. Look at her. Does she look like it hurts?”

Amir focused on his mother. She appeared happier than he’d ever seen her.

“
Okay. I get it. Do I have a special spirit, too?”

His father smiled down at him. “You are a descendant of Simba, and Simba rules the sea. When you are older, I will show you how to contact him and many other
loa
.”

“
How many spirits are there?”

“
Too many to count. There may be as many
loa
as there are humans. Whole families in fact.”

“
Are they all good like Loko?”

His father looked away and stared at Juanita for a long instant. “No, Son. They’re not all good. But they all have a purpose. Like you and me and your mother.”

“
What’s my purpose, Dad?”

Again, his father turned away as if in deep thought. “Son, I think you and Loko have a lot in common. You both exist to make sure there is always justice.”

Amir thought about his father’s words and asked, “Dad, when I’m older, will I have to dance around a fire like Mom to talk to the spir…I mean, the
loa
?”

“
No, Son.
Loa
just like a good party. But if you ever truly need a
loa
, you only have to call them…”

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Monday

Lake City, LA

“
Where the hell is it?” Fat Pat asked. They’d been driving around for almost twenty minutes.

“
I could have sworn it was on this street,” the kid replied. “It’s around here somewhere, I’m sure of it. Make a left at the next light.”

Fat Pat knew when someone was giving him the runaround. He eased the car into the next lane. The structure on his left was definitely not headquarters.

“
What the fuck is this shit?”

“
St. Mary’s Hospital…that’s where you wanted to go, right?”

“
You skinny fuck…I told you to take me to the old school!”

“
Listen man, I’ve lost a lot of blood, I got a hurt arm, and you expect me to be able to pay attention?”

“
You ain’t slick, kid.” Fat Pat looked at his captive with new eyes. The kid was definitely in bad shape and besides, Fat Pat could use some stitches of his own. He’d gotten a few deep cuts in his scalp when those bastards shot through the glass at Simmons Park.

How the hell am I supposed to walk into a public hospital with guards and everything and get out in one piece?
It’s a fucking hospital. They got doctors everywhere. Creep in, hijack one of them maufuckas, and then move the fuck on.

Fat Pat was never good at planning, but he felt good about this one. On impulse he grabbed his cell phone and called Amir. If anyone could have made it out alive, it would be Amir. No answer. Fat Pat closed the phone. He was on his own.

“
Aight,” he said. “We go in, but if you try any slick shit, a lot of innocent people gone die, including yo’self.”

“
Scout’s honor,” the kid replied.

Fat Pat just had to figure out what to do with the girl. She was still passed out in the backseat, but he knew she wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“
Don’t try no shit,” Fat Pat said to the kid as he got some rope out of the trunk to tie her up.

* * * * *

Brandon watched as Gordo walked around to his side of the car and yanked the door open.

“
Get the fuck out.”

Brandon did as he was told.

“
Now take this rope, Boy Scout, and tie this bitch up.”

Brandon took the rope, leaned into the backseat, and manipulated the rope into slipknots—easy to create and easy to get out of. He had a vested interest in protecting Karen. She was the missing link in this whole mystery, the only person who could answer his questions about whether Shorty had kidnapped her or if it had been someone else.

After he finished her knots, Gordo pulled Brandon to his feet and steered him toward the hospital entrance. Brandon’s legs were warm jello as they walked; Gordo’s large gun bore into his left side.

Two paramedics stood by the entrance smoking cigarettes. Brandon inhaled deeply, held the air there, and allowed faintness to take over his body.

* * * * *

Fat Pat ignored the stares and raised eyebrows assaulting him as he dragged the kid toward the Emergency Room with bloodstains all over them. When a toy cop security guard stared a bit too long, Fat Pat prepared to act. Unfortunately, he was not ready for what the kid did less than ten feet from the Emergency Room.

They’d been moving along at a good pace when the kid’s body went limp and he crumbled.

Fat Pat froze. One of the paramedics saw Brandon collapse and jogged over to them. Fat Pat hid his gun inside the back of his sweats. He knelt over the kid and pretended to check the kid’s breathing.

Fuckin’ amazing day. This is like a fuckin’ movie. I guess I’m the bad guy.

The hero arrived a second later.

“
Let me check him out.”

* * * * *

Brandon felt Gordo move out of the way, counted to five Mississippi, and opened his eyes. He stared into the paramedic’s face.

The guy was clearly confused by the liveliness he saw in Brandon’s eyes. Then the paramedic fell over on top of Brandon.

Brandon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his racing heartbeat.
Thank God Gordo didn’t catch me with my eyes open.
What now?

Brandon waited for the sounds of more people approaching. Surely someone had seen what happened. The only sound was Gordo’s hoarse breathing. The paramedic’s body rolled off him. Brandon was pulled up by his t-shirt.

Brandon recalled a game he used to play with Lincoln when he was a kid. He’d act like a corpse and Lincoln would have to lift him up and carry him around the house, showing the “body” to everyone. What a fucked up game.

Brandon applied the principle now and completely relaxed every muscle in his lanky frame. He quietly rejoiced at the sounds of Gordo’s mighty struggle to get him over his shoulders. Opening his eyes and looking down Gordo’s expansive back, he saw the lump of the man’s weapon and grabbed for it.

* * * * *

Fat Pat was fed up with all the discomfort he’d suffered at the expense of Amir’s stupid plan. He resolved to start shooting the next time something went wrong. All this knocking people out, quiet revenge tactic shit was not his forte. Fuck a plan, he was going to walk into the ER, brandish his weapon, and make some shit happen.

He paused for a moment under the blessed shade of the hospital awning and then approached the second paramedic. It took a very long time for the paramedic’s droopy eyes to make it from Fat Pat’s shoes to the body slumped over his shoulders.

This kid must be stoned out of his mind. Either that or he’s a retard.

“
You…see what…happened?” Fat Pat said, out of breath.

“
Nawww, man,” Droopy replied, dragging out his words.

“
Your boy fainted out there.” Fat Pat pointed at the other guy. “You should go help’m out.”

“
Yeah? Oh shit, yeah.” He glanced at Brandon. “Whasswrong wit’ the kid?”

“
Heat stroke,” Fat Pat replied, surprised at his own cleverness.

“
Damn. I feel’m. It’s hotter’n two fat hos trapped in a Pinto in the desert.”

“
Fo’ sho’,” Fat Pat said, digging in the back of his sweats for the gun. He came up empty.

Where is it?

The stoner left to help the other paramedic. A moment later, Droopy yelled for help.

Fat Pat reached for his gun again. Strike two.

The fuck?

Fat Pat glanced back at the paramedic. Droopy was looking down at his fallen comrade. He held Fat Pat’s gun in his hand like some alien artifact.

Fat Pat groaned and dumped the kid on the ground.

* * * * *

As soon as Gordo’s back was turned, Brandon dashed into the hospital. The ER was half-full, but the people seeking help were too absorbed in their own problems to be concerned with him. Brandon did a full 360-degree turn before finally locating the inter-hospital phone on the wall. He ran over, picked up the receiver, and quickly punched zero for the operator.

An automated voice politely told him that all lines were busy.

Fuck!

Brandon’s eyes scanned his surroundings. He needed to find a place to hide. He spotted a door marked ‘Hospital Employees Only’ and slipped inside. Gordo staggered into the building, gun back in hand. He turned around in a slow circle until something on the linoleum floor caught his attention.

Brandon backed off the door as Gordo followed the trail of Brandon’s blood to his hiding spot. In moments, he ran toward the door like a wild bull at the rodeo. A bullet whizzed by Brandon’s ear and slammed into the wall as he turned toward the empty hallway and ran for his life.

* * * * *

Chapter Forty

Monday

Baton Rouge, LA

Coral watched her father carving in the woodshed adjacent to their home. He was making the pony he promised for her fifth birthday.

“
The wood tells a story,” he said. Shavings fell to the floor by his work boots. “I walk through the woods out back. I see a tree stump. Tree stump starts talking. Says…I’m no tree stump. I’m a footstool. I’m a jewelry box. I’m a birdhouse. But I ain’t no tree stump.”

He looked down at Coral. He wanted to know if she understood.

She nodded, even though she couldn’t figure out how a tree stump could talk without a mouth.

“
So I listen to Mr. Tree Stump. I let’m tell me his story. While I’m carvin’, I’m listenin’. And the story comes down like all them shavings you got there. Can you hear’m talking?” He held the clump of wood that had grown horse legs out to Coral.

She pretended to listen.

“
What’s he sayin’, Curly?”

She shrugged.

“
Well, one day when you’re older I’ll teach you the secret. My pop—your Granpop—taught me when I was just a bit older than you. He taught me how to be still and silent and how to listen…oh so carefully. Would you like me to teach you?”

Coral imagined all the ponies, frogs, butterflies, ladybugs, and unicorns awaiting her in the woods behind their house. “More than anything,” she replied.

“
Would you like to try now?” he offered.

Coral was frightened. He held the knife out to her, hilt first, but she shook her head no. He pulled the knife back out of sight.

“
Maybe when you’re older,” he said, shrugging. “Lemme show you how. Gimme that piece of wood over in the corner, Curly.”

She got up and lugged a sizeable piece of firewood over to her father’s workbench.

He secured it in his hands and started carving. Carving so fast his hands became a blur. Smoke rose from the desk. Her father’s face took on a dark shade of concentration.

Coral backed away, afraid.

“
He’s talkin’ to me, Curly. Talkin’ fast. Can’t hardly keep up. It’s that tree, Curly. Melinda Weeps. It’s the doorway. Oh God. So much death.” He was sweating and crying as he carved.

Coral had one foot out the door of the shed. She didn’t want to hear what her father was telling her. She wanted out of here. She wanted Mommy.