One Blood (36 page)

Karen was tormented by horrific nightmares after Kristopher’s burial. She’d see his bloody corpse in her closet and hear his feet thudding about in his bedroom. She started avoiding sleep altogether; then the visions started torturing her days as well.

It was her father’s idea to send her to Dr. Gerard Faustus, the child psychiatrist of choice for Lake City’s affluent. Faustus offered psychiatric immersion to cure everything from early signs of homosexual behavior to eating disorders. Even at her young age, Karen had heard horror stories of normal kids going to Dr. Faustus and morphing into blabbering lunatics locked inside padded chambers where no one could hear their screams.

Her father drove her there that first and only time. It was one of the few moments of her childhood where she could remember being alone with him. She idealized her father and it was easy to understand why. He was tall and strong, with a laugh that could make anyone smile. When he looked at her, it was like staring in the mirror.

He could also be playful, but that day he was sullen and brooding. Karen begged him not to leave her there alone, but he just kissed her forehead and turned her over to a smiling female attendant.

After checking in with a pretty, dark-haired receptionist, another attendant led Karen down a dark, narrow hallway lined with doors. Each psychiatrist’s domain had a nameplate identifying him or her. A much wider door with no nameplate stood at the end of the hallway. The other doors were painted white, but this last entrance was a deep brown mahogany.

It looked like the kind of portal that people got lost behind.

The attendant rapped on the door. After a brief moment, it opened. The room that revealed itself turned out to be far less imposing. Several bookcases lined the wall closest to her. Child psychology books with titles like “Speaking to Children So They Hear You” and “Adolescent Depression” lined the bookshelves. Against the opposite wall was a steel square that Karen recognized as a vault. Artificial light emanated from an ornate crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room. There were no windows.

A slim man with a gaunt face and dark hair stared at her through black, passionless eyes. He sat at a modern desk underneath an inkblot mural that seemed to shift as Karen looked at it.

Karen turned to run back the way she came but the attendant blocked her way. The attendant carried her into the room against her will, and seated her in a high, straight back chair, built to put her eye level with Dr. Faustus.

He smiled. “So,” he spoke in a firm yet boyish voice. “What do you think of the place?” Karen shrugged.

“
It’s the mural, isn’t it? You saw something that scared you?”

She looked at the painting above his head. The inkblot now resembled a giant sea turtle.

“
Tell me…what do you see, Karen?”

She was too confused to speak.

“
This is a magic painting, Karen. You do like magic, don’t you?”

She nodded and thought of Kristopher’s obsession with magic. He had loved pulling tricks on people. Cold sweat accumulated in the cups of her underarms despite the robust air conditioning.

“
Your brother wasn’t scared when he was here visiting me.”

She looked back at him in surprise.

“
What? Daddy didn’t tell you that Kristopher and I were friends? For shame. He was a bit older than you are now when he came to see me. How old are you, Karen?”

“
Sev…seven.” Her words came out in a low whisper.

“
Ahhh…yes, seven. You’re too young to die, Karen. Just like your brother. He thought he was saving you. Yet here you are getting weaker by the moment. It’s the sending of the dead, you see. Oh, how I will enjoy seeing Kristopher again.”

The vault burst open.

Karen looked into the vault’s black maul and saw hell.

Faustus was right next to her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her chair toward the vault.

Karen struggled mightily while he chanted an oddly familiar song:

Say hey!

Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword.

Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.

Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword.

Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.

Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.

But the blood is marked for him.

Karen was in the vault, surrounded by the overpowering stench of death. The walls inside the vault were lined with shelves flush with the decapitated heads of children. Their purple-black tongues lolled from petrified faces. She tried to get up from her chair, but she was petrified, too.

All the while Faustus continued chanting:

I say hey! I’m going to vomit blood, it’s true.

Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword.

Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.

Hand me that basin, I’m going to vomit blood.

My blood is flowing, Dantò, I’m going to vomit blood.

My blood is flowing, Ezili, I’m going to vomit blood.

My blood is flowing, Karen, you’re going to vomit blood.

Faustus’s face shifted into that of a bald-headed black man with a compassionate face. The man looked genuinely sorry for what was taking place. Then the door slammed shut.

Karen opened her eyes. She was back in Uncle Bill’s office. Her stomach twisted and tightened as her abdomen expanded almost to the splitting point. She opened her mouth to scream and instead emitted a solid stream of putrescent blood and bile that coated the ceiling. Her eyes bulged from their sockets like round, white solitaires.

She vomited until she couldn’t see the white ceiling paint anymore. Until she couldn’t breathe or feel anything except for the acid-filled corridor where her esophagus and throat used to be. Until she became one with the darkness inside her.

* * * * *

Jeff Abshire had to find out what was going on in his precinct. And the answer was a door away. All he had to do was open it and look inside.

If Chief Edwards catches me, I’m fucked.

That left Jeff with one option.
Don’t get caught.

Using a lock pick kit, he worked on the knob to the chief’s door. After jimmying it a few times, it came open.

A wet, coppery smell wafted out into the hallway. His eyes watered as he wrinkled his nose.

What died in here?

The answer became clear once his eyes settled on the Chief’s tattered couch. Karen Lafitte lay on her back, eyes wide open, choking on her own bloody vomit.

Christ!

Jeff rushed into the room and quickly turned the girl on her side. He slapped her back, gently at first and then harder until she coughed away the remaining regurgitation.

It was like the exorcist in here.

What could have caused this type of eruption?

Karen’s eyes opened and focused on him. One of her irises was hazel and the other was a sharp, shocking blue.

Is that natural?

“
Karen, it’s gonna be alright,” Jeff reassured her. “I’m gonna get you some help. We’re gonna get you outta here. Hold tight.”

Jeff left her on her side, realizing that the only person who might be able to explain what was going on was the black kid. It was time for some answers.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixty-Two

Ten years earlier

1992

Lake City, LA

Brandon opened his eyes. Shorty was staring at him. “Hey ya, Brandon. ‘Bout time you woke up.”

Brandon sat up on his floor mat and looked around the gym. Most of the other kids were asleep. Mr. Diaz was standing near the gym doors speaking in heated whispers with Miss Beatrice, the after-school program supervisor. He looked in their direction and Brandon quickly ducked back into a sleeping position.

Why the hell were they having nap time anyhow? Hadn’t they stopped that last year? Usually at this time, he and the other kids were outside playing dodge ball, baseball, or basketball. But when the bus dropped them off in front of the park today, Miss Beatrice was there waiting for them. She quickly ushered the children into the gym, as she did on days when it looked like rain. But there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

How long have I been asleep?
Lincoln was supposed to pick him up early for tee ball practice.

“
Brandon…Bran?” Shorty tapped him on the shoulder.

“
Yeah, Shorty?”

“
I’m tired of layin’ here. Let’s go outside and play.”

Brandon should have seen this coming. His friend was incapable of obeying the rules. “We’ll catch a whuppin’ for sure if we do that.”

“
Not if everybody goes.”

“
How?”

“
Through the back,” Shorty answered, gesturing toward the double doors in the back of the gym.

“
What about the alarm?”

“
Broken,” Shorty replied. He snaked over to the back wall and pushed one door open. Brandon held his breath waiting for the alarms to shriek, but they didn’t. Still, something was telling him not to go outside. He attempted one last excuse. “Miss Beatrice is makin’ cookies.”

“
Don’t nobody want them hard-ass cookies.”

“
Okay,” Brandon replied, giving in. He looked around one last time for Mr. Diaz, but he was no longer in the gym. After giving Shorty the all clear, they crept from mat to mat waking up all of the kids, pressing their index fingers to their lips so everyone would keep quiet.

Once everyone was awake, Brandon took over the operation. He bubbled with the excitement of doing something wrong and possibly getting away with it. Lincoln, Mr. Diaz, and even Miss Beatrice, were the furthest things from his mind.

He got all the kids lined up and told them to wait for the signal. Then he and Shorty led everyone outside as quietly as they could. Brandon made it to the jungle gym in record time. A second later, Shorty tapped him on the shoulder.

Shorty pointed at the basketball court. Mr. Diaz was talking to an older boy Brandon had seen somewhere before.

“
That’s Murda,” Shorty whispered in admiration.

Brandon knew Murda was the leader of the Dirty Skulls, which meant the other boys with him must’ve been the rest of the gang—except for Lincoln. Lincoln never spoke of his gang days, but Shorty had told him all he needed to know. Brandon recognized Shorty’s older brother, Stacie, standing next to Murda. The wind carried faint snatches from the conversation, but not enough to piece together what was being said.

“
Ole Pooh Butt looks nervous,” Shorty whispered in Brandon’s ear.

Normally, Shorty’s nickname for Mr. Diaz would crack Brandon up, but not today. Something just didn’t seem right.

Mr. Diaz abruptly turned his back and walked away from Murda and the gang, with Murda yelling at him. The other Dirty Skulls were laughing. Then someone called out to Murda from the fence.

It was a white kid. Kris something. Brandon knew him better as number forty from Lincoln’s basketball team. What was he doing here?

“
Oh shit, they got guns!” Shorty shouted.

The Skulls pulled out weapons from the front of their pants as the white boy approached. A lump of fear grew in Brandon’s throat. Something very bad was about to happen.

His friend Jennifer gripped his hand and pulled him away from the crowd of eager kids, back toward the gymnasium. When the shooting started, it came as suddenly as a summer rainstorm.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixty-Three

Monday

Lake City, LA

“
Wake up, Brandon. Wake up!”

Brandon snapped out of unconsciousness. He looked up into the face of the young officer who’d been interrogating him, Jeff Abshire. The cop’s face was flushed and he was out of breath. He stared at Brandon with a crazy gleam in his eyes.

“
Okay, kid. No more games. I’m gonna ask you one question and if you lie to me, I’m gonna kick your ass, lock you up, and throw away the key.” He paused to take a deep breath. “What the hell is wrong with the Governor’s daughter? What did you do to her?”

Brandon studied Officer Jeff’s strained face. There was a fifty-fifty chance the man would actually believe him. “I didn’t do anything. We’re both victims here. I’m the one who saved her…” Brandon recounted the morning’s events as faithfully as he could remember them.

Once Brandon finished telling the story, Officer Jeff blinked for what seemed like the first time since bursting into the cell. “Okay, kid. I believe you. Somebody in here doesn’t want you talking, but you’re the only witness I’ve got. I’ve got a deal for you. I’m gonna help you get out of here, and you’re gonna help me put away the bastards that are tearing our city apart. Deal?” Brandon nodded. “Get up and follow me.”