One Blood (32 page)

And her.

The woman emerged through the midst of the dancers like a wraith, almost as if the tree had spit her out. She, too, wore a white dress and matching white head wrap that covered much of her rich, curly black hair. Her fair skin was quite a contrast as well, with everyone else’s skin tone somewhere between brown and “blue-black” as his mother called extremely dark-skinned folks. This woman could have passed for white were it not for that African nose and full lips. She was the first woman he’d ever seen more beautiful than Juanita.

Malcolm’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her.

“
Welcome friends,” the woman said in a commanding voice that reverberated throughout the crowd. “Tonight we come together to celebrate new life.” She gestured toward a woman who was clearly three or four months pregnant. “Tonight let us dance with the
loa
in celebration. Tonight let us call out to Papa Legba to protect this woman, to protect her new family, to protect all of us in these trying times of change and persecution.” Her eyes linked with Malcolm’s as she said this.

Malcolm stood transfixed. He probably would have remained that way had Ronnie not dragged him into the house to meet with three young men, who wanted to know more about the Nation of Islam. After a truncated version of his standard speech about the need for black people to unify and learn the truth about their white oppressors (he had to get back outside), Malcolm handed each man fliers containing information about the two area mosques. The men headed out back. Malcolm followed them until Ronnie stopped him.

“
So what do you think?” Ronnie asked.

All Malcolm could think about was the woman, but he said nothing.

“
What’s got you so quiet?”

Malcolm was about to answer when the reason for his silence walked into the kitchen.

Ronnie glanced between them and gave a slight chuckle before saying, “Forget about her, Malcolm. She’s way too far gone to convert.”

Malcolm couldn’t have agreed more but he replied, “Couldn’t hurt to try.” He walked over to where she stood pouring herself a glass of water.

“
Hello, Sister,” he said. This was the customary Muslim greeting toward a woman.

She glanced up at him, and smiled provocatively. “If I were your sister, that would be most unfortunate, don’t you think?”

Malcolm took a step away, too aware of Ronnie’s eyes boring into his back. Islamic women didn’t dress or talk like this one. Islamic women were modest to a fault. Malcolm doubted she could even spell modest.

“
It’s okay, Brother,” she mocked. “Thank you for coming to our little gathering tonight. What questions do you have?”

Is she trying to convert me?

Malcolm decided to play along. “Those people, the dancers, I noticed they seemed a little distant. Is that normal?”

“
They were each being ridden by a
loa
.”

“
What is a
loa
?”

“
You would call it a spirit, I guess.”

“
Reminds me a bit of people speaking in tongues in church, except for all the dancing,” he replied, smirking against his better judgment.

“
So you do have a sense of humor, Brother X.” She smiled in return.

“
Can you tell me the significance of the etchings on the tree?”

“
The
vèvé
on the
Poteau Mitan
, you mean?”

His face must have reshaped in confusion because she laughed again. “It’s French, Haitian French to be exact. Certain ceremonies in Vodun require a
Poteau Mitan
, or tree, as you called it. It is the doorway through which the
loa
exit and return. The
vèvé
are used to call them forward.”

Malcolm nodded as if he understood a word of what this crazy woman was saying. He’d decided approaching her was a bad idea until her next question stopped his thoughts cold.

“
Do you believe in coincidence, Malcolm?”

“
How…how do you know my name?”

“
I know a lot more than that,” she replied. “My name is Desiree Deveaux and I am going to show you your destiny.”

* * * * *

Chapter Fifty-Five

Before sunrise, Hurricane Isaac had been on a trajectory to make landfall in Southeastern Alabama and along the Florida panhandle. A little over six hours later, the storm had been upgraded to a Category Five and changed course. Isaac was expected to make landfall at approximately 8:00 p.m. near Baton Rouge. The National Storm Center contacted the Governor’s office advising full-scale evacuations from New Iberia to Lake City.

* * * * *

Monday

I-10 West

“
Can’t yuh make this bucket go any faster?” Snake screamed at Shaw from the backseat of the Crown Victoria.

Shaw nodded, but his jaw tightened as he gripped the steering wheel.

Larry sat next to Snake and tried to diffuse the situation. “Boss, the tracking device shows her about twenty-four miles ahead of us.”

“
So, step on it!”

“
We’re doing almost ninety-five,” Shaw interjected.

“
We’re gaining on her, Boss,” Larry added. “ She’s been sitting still for the past twenty minutes.”

“
Sitting still? I feel the same way! First you dickwads take an hour to locate me. A fuckin’ hour!” Snake glared at his hapless employees. “Fuckin’ incompetence. One a yuh’s should’ve been tracking Coral, while the other got me. And I don’t wanna hear no excuses outta you, Shaw. You were the one that let her get away from yuh with the gun she shot me with. Twice!”

Snake clutched his chest, still sore and raw from Coral’s bullets. How the fuck had Lafitte’s zombie of a wife gotten the drop on them all? Thank God for Kevlar and Coral’s shitty aim. His head hurt more from Lincoln’s bashing.

He was gonna make that bitch pay. They’d had an airtight plan, and it had all gone to shit. What was most shocking was the way he’d been played by Jhonnette. He should have known better than to trust a damn woman. Women had been the downfall of great men since Adam and that cunt Eve.

“
We still gaining?” Snake asked.

“
Fifteen miles and closing, Boss.”

Snake nodded. Getting Coral back was the key to making Randy pay. Then he’d turn his attention back to Jhonnette.

I’m not out the game yet.

* * * * *

I-10 West

Coral was trapped in bumper to bumper traffic. The missing pieces to her son’s murder and daughter’s kidnapping were falling into place and the picture unfolding horrified her. Snake’s confession that he’d been ordered to kill her son rattled around in her mind incessantly.

Ordered by whom?

The answer was obvious. The answer was hell.

After everything that had happened and everything she’d learned, Coral found it hard, but not impossible, to believe Randy could do such a thing. Randy had a special talent for shielding his thoughts and feelings from the outside world. Shoot, he’d been keeping her in the dark for years.

Randy had never handled tragedy in a positive manner. After Kristopher died, she’d seen a side of Randy that scared her so much she’d blacked it out. But seeing him on TV and how he’d been behaving lately brought back memories of Randy locking himself in the bathroom and coming out with a rash of razor slashes all over his bare arms and chest, a terrifying blankness in his eyes.

Years later, she finally understood the feeling.

My marriage is over.

No comfort came with this realization. She grabbed one of Shaw’s guns and put it in her Gucci bag. There was comfort in that, at least. Her eyes glazed over as she saw herself shooting Snake over and over again. There had been such a rush of exhilaration when she’d pulled the trigger and watched him slump over.

Traffic moved forward a quarter-inch. Coral groaned in frustration. There was no escape. She remembered the first time she heard her son using those exact same words. It had new meaning to her now. What had Kristopher feared most in those last days?

The answer was the key to solving the mystery surrounding his death. Still, solving Kristopher’s murder wouldn’t save Karen. Would it? Watching the stalled traffic, Coral realized only a miracle could help her now. On cue, the gas light flashed on the dashboard. She was in luck because there was a service station up ahead.

* * * * *

Lake City, LA

Brandon feared for his life. There had been no ruse or subtle introduction before the torture started. The two cops (one wearing a Chief’s badge) burst into the holding cell and kicked the younger officer out. The Chief pistol-whipped Brandon twice before he could blink.

The pain was like running face-first into a brick wall. The man not wearing the Chief’s badge stood behind Brandon and picked him up. He locked both hands underneath Brandon’s chin and pulled his neck while arching his back. The cop inserted his fat, mustard-tasting fingers into Brandon’s mouth and spread the corners open into a grotesque clown’s smile.

The Chief wiped off the bloody butt of the gun and twisted a silencer muzzle on the tip of the barrel.

Brandon attempted to yell, but the officer behind him applied more pressure to his windpipe, choking all sound into a senseless gurgle. Brandon’s vision blurred and sharpened like there was a TV antenna embedded in his skull.

The Chief shoved the muzzle of the gun inside Brandon’s mouth. Drool dribbled down both sides of his lips and met with salty tears pouring from his eyes and snot dripping from his nose. The veil of security had been jerked from Brandon’s eyes. No one was coming to save him.

Brandon looked into the frigid eyes of the Chief and saw no humanity—only murderous purpose. A corpse couldn’t argue or plead innocence.

“
How long does this take?” the cop behind him asked.

“
He’ll be unconscious any minute now.”

“
And what then?”

“
Then, we get Ran’s girl to identify—” A knock on the door interrupted his speech.

“
Shit,” the Chief groaned, pulling the gun out of Brandon’s mouth.

Glorious amounts of air poured in, nearly choking Brandon as bad as the man’s hands. He took a huge breath that left him dizzy, then started yelling. As the sound escaped Brandon’s lips, the man behind him squeezed his larynx without mercy, transforming his yell to a guttural moan until Brandon lost consciousness.

* * * * *

LA-1 South

It was starting to rain. Jhonnette remembered the hurricane and turned on the radio to get an update. Rather than a progress report on the storm, however, the reporter was detailing the sad state of affairs in Lake City. Apparently, a young black man had gone on a killing rampage.

He’d begun the morning at Simmons Park where he’d shot seven people dead. Then he’d strolled into the Emergency Room at St. Mary’s Hospital with a bomb, detonated the device, and killed six more. He was currently in custody at the Main Branch of the Lake City Police Department.

The reporter ended his commentary saying, “And most interesting of all, the shooter has been identified as Brandon Mouton, the adopted brother of Lincoln Baker, pardoned just this morning by Governor Lafitte. It appears Mouton was working in conjunction with a man named Amir Barber, who died earlier in St. Mary’s ER. There are also accounts that Governor Lafitte may have been lying this morning when he stated that his kidnapped daughter, Karen, had been found. We have eyewitness accounts from several physicians who saw Karen Lafitte in the St. Mary’s parking lot at the time of the explosion. More to come...”

Jhonnette switched off the stereo. None of that had been part of her plan.

Lincoln spoke up from the backseat. “I don’t give a damn what they said, he didn’t do it. Brandon’s a good kid.”

“
This is really bad, Lincoln,” Jhonnette said. “They’ve already released his name and they’re tying these crimes to him. The plan is collapsing. Amir is dead and Karen Lafitte is in their custody. It’s time to cut our losses, don’t you think?”

Lincoln looked at Jhonnette, eyes hardened by resolve. “I’ve gotta get back to Lake City and save Brandon. That’s what I gotta do.”

“
Lincoln, Lake City is like…one hundred and fifty miles away,” Jhonnette replied, dismissing his idea. “There’s a hurricane on the way. And besides, that would be playing right into their hands. He’s in custody! You think you can just walk into the LCPD and break him out of there?”

“
I know it sounds impossible,” Lincoln replied. “But I have to do this.”

“
What about Moses?” Jhonnette asked. “You can’t save them both, you know.”