Authors: Evie Rhodes

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense

Expired (25 page)

BOOK: Expired

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“My Lord Jesus,” was all Ms. Virginia could utter.

Suddenly Rashod was glad for Rozzie. Everybody thought she was a crazy woman. She was a bag ladyâwore winter clothes on ninety-degree days, and things like that. She walked around Harlem picking up things off the ground and putting them in her bagâinvisible things that no one but her could see.

That woman shot more heroin than any three men put together. Her arms were covered with scabs and sores.

Rashod had had the pleasure of witnessing this once when she was looking for a place to hit. There wasn't a clear spot on her arms. The tracks trailed every inch of her flesh.

She was the one who had taught Rashod about the Bible. She had even dragged him to a small out-of-the-way church one Sunday, where, in a lucid, moving moment, he had gotten baptized and accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.

He had figured he didn't have anybody else, so what did it matter? Roz had also taught him about Jesus being descended from the house of David. She knew all about the houses of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, too.

Roz had loved Jesus with all her heart. Without a doubt she was one of the most hard-core junkies Rashod had ever met. But she had been absolutely convinced when it came to Jesus Christ.

Rashod had felt sorry for her.

She had deserted and abandoned her daughter for old King Heroin. She hadn't seen her daughter for many years. She spent almost every waking moment of her life trying to forget about her child by shooting heroinâthat and picking up invisible things from the ground.

One day when they were getting high, Rashod had finally asked her the question: “Roz?”

“Yeah?”

“What is it that you're always picking up from the streets of Harlem and putting in your bag?”

Her runny eyes had cleared for a moment. She had stared at Rashod directly. “Why, I'm collecting the souls, Rashod. I'm collecting the souls for my brother, Jesus. Satan is trying to hide them. But he can't hide them from my brother, Jesus.”

T
racie had been taken to a safe house. The church. She was stunned when she realized that arrangements had been made for her to stay at the Pentecostal House of Prayer. It was the same church she had visited, with the two flames of fire burning beside the Bible.

She was given a small private bedroom and connected bath on a separate floor from the church. Her boys were given equal accommodations, except they were sharing a room.

It appeared they had been expected, and they were welcomed warmly. What in heaven's name had brought her back to this same church, seeking refuge? She didn't know, but she was grateful. It was a strange set of circumstances, to be sure.

After seeing that Dre and Michael were settled in, she went to her own room. She was still ruminating over the fact that Souljah Boy had merely touched the cut Pee Wee Morgan had made in Dre's neck, and the flow of blood had been instantly stanched. The scar itself had healed.

It brought back memories from long ago.

What was happening to her life? She didn't know. Or maybe the question should be, what was happening to the life she used to have? In any case, she was too exhausted to ponder so many questions to which she had no answers at the time.

And it was a good thing she didn't know that in another part of the brownstone, not so far away, there was a man praying for her in sackcloth and ashes, and he was coming up on the third dayâbecause that bit of information would surely have freaked her out.

There was a quiet knock at the door. “Yes?” Tracie called out.

“It's Reverend King,” a quiet voice answered.

It was the pastor with whom the arrangements had been made for her and her sons to stay the night.

“Coming,” Tracie had said.

She pulled open the door to find the Reverend King standing with a Bible, two candles, two candlestick holders, and a lighter in his hands.

“I thought you might enjoy having these. If you light the two candles on either side of the Bible, it can produce salve for the weary soul.”

The Reverend King smiled and handed her everything he had in his hands. He pointed to a table that was situated under a crucifix.

“There's a good spot for it. Good night.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Tracie said, touched by his generosity of spirit and not believing her good fortune in receiving the Bible and candles when she had been yearning to go sit in the church and just look at it. But she hadn't wanted to ask.

“Good night, Reverend.”

“Good night, child. Sleep tight,” the pastor said, and then turned away to descend the stairs. Tracie would never know that he had watched her the day she entered the church, while she stared at the Bible and its leaping flames of fire. He'd known that she would return.

Tracie smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had called her “child” or bidden her to sleep tight. But his words were exactly the medicine she needed after her ordeal. She would need a good night's sleep because the next day she needed to visit the old woman.

She also needed to find out why, at the last count, fifty young black boys had been slain in Harlem in the same manner as her sons.

In a single night.

Had Pee Wee killed all those boys? If so, why? She knew why he had killed Randi and Rashod. But why would he kill all those other boys? And how could one person massacre fifty young males in a night?

Some of them, it was reported had been taken out of their beds from their homes in the middle of the night. Slaughtered before sunup. This was a nightmare.

Tracie couldn't remember ever hearing of such an odd atrocity. The police had an APB out on her, thinking that because of the nature of her own sons' murders, she might be able to shed some light on this insane situation. Now that Pee Wee was dead, they would certainly step up the pace.

Thus, she had needed to seek shelter in the church. Somewhere that no one she knew would ever think to look for her. The refuge at the church was courtesy of Souljah Boy, though what would make him pick this one out, she didn't know.

Then there was Ms. Virginia's store and the Schomberg Center. All the words were missing from the rare manuscripts there, just as Renee had reported happening at Ms. Virginia's store, Visionaries. Tracie had thought that Renee was losing it at the time.

Apparently she hadn't been.

Now Renee had added something new to her story. Apparently it had recently been discovered that the only book in Visionaries that didn't have the words missing was the Holy Bible. It was intact. Every letter, every word, and every page of the Bible was exactly as it had been.

Tracie knew that Renee had played her part; now it was up to her. Renee had given her valuable information; there was nothing more that she could do. Renee was the number one girlfriend, without a doubt a valuable ally.

Tracie's head had begun to ache from the constant flow of questions. She was confused, and she didn't understand any of it. But she knew that the matter wasn't closed with her discovering her sons' killer. And Pee Wee Morgan's death was not bringing closure to the entire situation.

In fact, if anything, it had created more of a puzzle.

Now she needed to know if her sons were part of a bigger picture. Was Pee Wee playing her to hide the massacre he had planned to inflict on Harlem?

If so, he had played her right up until the end, just like a fiddle. Were her sons' deaths just a cover for what was to come?

She had to talk to that old woman. She had seen something connected to her. Tracie needed to know what it wasâsoon. It was the only possibility she could think of, and she wasn't going to take no for an answer.

Anita Lily Mae Young would talk to her if it was the last thing she did. She just needed to know why. That was all. Why? Why were her sons really dead? And why were fifty other boys just like them dead as well?

“Stop it. Just stop it,” she told herself aloud.

Tracie went over to the table. She set up her Bible and lit the two candles. Suddenly there was a warm feeling of serene peace that came over the room as she stared at her own personal copy of the Bible and the two burning flames of fire.

What a treasure.

She stared at the picture of holiness. Her eyes grew heavy with sleep. Tracie sat down on the edge of the bed and continued to stare at the gilded words that read: HOLY BIBLE.

The leaping flames cast shadows on the wall.

Before she knew what had hit her, Tracie was lulled into a deep unconscious state, where she stood before the
Unspoken.

D
re and Michael couldn't sleep. It was no wonder. Michael dropped across one of the twin beds while Dre paced the room like a caged tiger. He couldn't get the image of Souljah Boy out of his mind.

Neither could he forget about his healing.

Michael, for his part, was boiling over like a pot that was on high heat and full of steam. He had thought about things and thought about them. There was only so much thinking he could do. Michael got up and opened the small window in the room, welcoming the gentle evening breeze.

He flopped back down on the bed and put his hands behind his head. He watched Dre pacing. He tried to keep his nerves under control because Dre's pacing was making him want to scream.

Instead he said, “Dre, I used to be a masochist.”

He felt like a man in a confessional. Relief swept through his body at the release of the words.

Dre stopped pacing. He leaned his lanky frame against the wall. He stared at the crucifix hanging on the wall. Then he turned to Michael. “Yeah, I know that. Are you looking for absa . . . absa . . . what's that word?”

His voice trailed off for a minute while he thought about it. “Are you looking for absolution?”

Michael smiled. “Naw, man, I already received it. It sort of rained down on me.”

Michael glanced at the crucifix and saw the image of a tortured man, hanging in agony, but through it all he felt the man's honor, bravery, and something else. He tried to think what it was that he was feeling.

Humility. Christ had been a humble man.

And through his pain and agony he had shown great power. This man had shown him his power. He just hadn't known what he was seeing at the time. And if that was the case, it had to mean that despite how it looked, everything was going to be all right.

“How did you know? Michael said.

Now it was Dre's turn to smile. “Let's just say I lived with you, son. It don't make no difference what you was, Rebound. It's what you are now and maybe what you will be that's the sum of the total, brother. You know what I mean?”

Michael looked at him. “Thanks for the love, Dre.”

“No doubt it's your props. You're not the only one who's not what they appear to be.” Dre didn't elaborate, and Michael didn't push it.

“I saw Rashod,” Michael said, changing the subject.

“You went to the morgue?”

“Yeah, I saw him there, too.”

Dre gave Michael one of his what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about looks. He sat down on the bed across from him. Michael rose from his bed. “Do you mind if I light one of these candles?”

“Naw.”

Michael lit the candle and returned to sit across from Dre. “Rashod's body is in the morgue, but his spirit isn't.”

“You'd better put a spin on this, Rebound, cuz I ain't feeling you.”

Michael sighed. “His spirit ain't at peace, Dre, because he needs our help, and this ain't done.”

“The hell it ain't,” Dre said. Then he clamped a hand to his mouth, remembering where he was. “Sorry, I ain't mean to say that, but you know what I mean.”

Michael nodded.

“It's over. That punk cop Lonzo is down for the count. That's all there is to it.”

Michael smiled. “Is that so? Then why are we here?”

Dre clamped both hands to his head and shook it, as though he could free himself. “Lay it out, man. Straight up. After all, we've got all night. Souljah Boy showed up on the roof of the Lenox Terrace apartments as a spirit, not a man, and he's as real as I know, so just break it down, brother. It looks like I ain't going nowhere.”

Michael untied his sneakers. “You heard about the other fifty boys that were murdered?”

“Who hasn't? Man, you think the toy cop did them, too?”

Before Michael could answer, a distinct voice called out both their names. “Rebound? Dre?” The voice belonged to Rashod. They had both heard him.

They turned in the direction of the door, where the voice had come from. They saw Rashod, hovering and flickering just like the lit candle.

“We ain't got time to be tripping, so listen up. The toy cop ain't all there is, Dre. There's more. We gone have to get ready to hold court in the streets, cuz there's a new kid on the block, and a few Glocks and Uzis ain't going to kill him.”

Dre rose from the bed. He stared at the image of his dead brother.

Rashod stared back. “Are you feeling me, Dre?”

BOOK: Expired

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