Expired (8 page)
15
A
nita was in a deep, unconscious state of mind. Sometimes when she entered these states, there were others who would visit and talk to her. Right now she was alone. “Master, where are you?” she cried out, but there was no answer.
nita was in a deep, unconscious state of mind. Sometimes when she entered these states, there were others who would visit and talk to her. Right now she was alone. “Master, where are you?” she cried out, but there was no answer.
Sometimes the old wise one would help her out, but he was not to be found in this realm. All she could hear was the echoing of the atmosphere.
There was the patchwork quilt again, floating through the air. The quilt was her haunting. She couldn't seem to distance herself or back away from it, as she sometimes did when she received unpleasant sights and revelations. The manifestation of the quilt would not be deterred.
As she watched, one of the black patches transformed to a silky white. It was the purest white she had ever seen. It quivered in the breeze.
Anita was being pulled down deeper into the realm. She had never been as deep as this before. She struggled but couldn't regain consciousness. Her gift allowed her the knowledge of knowing when she was in an alternate state of mind, and usually she could bring herself out.
However, this time she couldn't.
As she descended, she saw babies. “Oh, my God,” she said. Dear God, there were a lot of them. So many little black babies. A force was snatching them and then wrapping them, bundling them up. Her eyes opened wide in amazement. The babies were being wrapped in pure, silky white swaddling. Anita shivered.
She entered the second realm. Here, there were women, crying out from their given tasks. Their wombs opened up, bursting forth with more babies, who were immediately snatched, wrapped, and bundled in the pure, silky white swaddling.
She entered the third level. Suddenly a white arrow shot through the air, descending with the speed of light. Where was it going? Anita didn't dare blink. She watched as it pierced the realms and landed in the soil that was Harlem. Anita gasped.
She thought of the patchwork quilt that was Tracie Burlingame. She thought of the huge bald-headed man, and as she did, she received a vision. Books upon books upon books floated past her. The cover art and the pictures were intact; however, all the books had no words in them. The pages were all blank . . . save one.
Â
Â
Tracie Burlingame could no longer fight the currents, and she was whisked down into the black, gaping hole. Her screams went unheard as she fell through the realms.
As she descended, she saw babies. “Oh, my God,” she repeated exactly the same words as Anita. Dear God, there were a lot of them. So many little black babies. A force was snatching them and then wrapping them, bundling them up. Her eyes opened wide in amazement. The babies were being wrapped in pure, silky white swaddling. Tracie gasped.
She entered the second realm. Here, there were women, crying out from their given tasks. Their wombs opened up, bursting forth with more babies, who were immediately snatched, wrapped, and bundled in the pure, silky white swaddling.
Then she saw someone she recognized. “Oh, no. No!” What was happening to her? Tracie screamed, a hollow sound that bounced off the atmosphere.
A woman was looking at her. When Tracie peered across the atmosphere, tiny electrical shocks seized her body.
The image that had appeared before her was her own. The woman spread her arms, opened her legs, and so many little black babies dropped from between her legs. They were falling into the atmosphere and disappearing. She couldn't see where they were going. Tracie howled. She screamed until her throat was raw. It was to no avail.
She entered the third level. Suddenly a white arrow shot through the air, descending with the speed of light. Where was it going? Tracie didn't dare blink. She watched as it pierced the realms and landed in the soil that was Harlem. Tracie gasped.
Then she saw a patchwork quilt quivering in the wind. She was treated to a sight of a huge bald-headed man. The biceps on the man were stunning. As soon as she saw him, she was treated to a vision.
Books upon books upon books floated past her. The cover art and the pictures were intact. However, all the books had no words in them. The pages were all blank . . . save one.
Tracie Burlingame and Anita Lily Mae Young were entwined in identical visions. And this was only the beginning.
16
D
re watched Rashod enter The Lenox Lounge from a back table. It was too bad they weren't here to enjoy some of the jazz the lounge was famous for. Dre in particular had a real ear for jazz. Rashod, on the other hand, didn't know a thing about jazz; all he knew was hardcore hip-hop. He didn't listen to the soft stuff.
re watched Rashod enter The Lenox Lounge from a back table. It was too bad they weren't here to enjoy some of the jazz the lounge was famous for. Dre in particular had a real ear for jazz. Rashod, on the other hand, didn't know a thing about jazz; all he knew was hardcore hip-hop. He didn't listen to the soft stuff.
One way or the other, it was a moot point, because the brothers were here in direct opposition to each other, so neither of them would notice anything other than their antagonism.
Spotting Dre, Rashod made his way over and took a seat. The two young men sized each other up without speaking.
Finally, Rashod said, “So, what do you want?”
“I want you to show some respect to my mother,” Dre replied nastily.
Rashod rose from his seat. “You know what? I don't need this.”
In a flash, Dre covered the distance between them and slammed Rashod back in his seat. Rashod hit the chair with a dull thud, the air knocked out of him. “I'm not playing with you, Rashod. This is a family meeting, minus the rest of the family.”
Rashod jerked out of Dre's grasp, but he didn't move from the seat.
Satisfied, Dre took his seat again while the bartender eyed them nervously, hoping there wasn't going to be trouble.
Rashod turned his seat around so he could watch the bar. He took out his little mini sketch pad and a small piece of charcoal that he used for tight situations like this one. He intended to trace the bar and its occupants. His fingers had nimbly begun to move across the pad.
Dre looked at him. He was going to say something and then chose not to. He really didn't care if Rashod sketched, as long as Rashod kept his behind plastered to that chair. In a softer voice Dre said, “Rashod, Tracie's hurting over Randi. She has three sons left. You're one of them. You need to knock off the bull.”
Rashod's fingers had mysteriously taken on a life of their own, and they now traveled across the pad with the speed of light. Rashod had absolutely no control over them. It was strange. He had never quite sketched with this depth before. He didn't interfere, because he couldn't.
Instead, he decided that as long as he was a prisoner in this chair, he might as well converse with Dre. He loved his brother, although Dre was a pain in the ass at times. And in Rashod's opinion, Dre had no sight at all when it came to Tracie. “Tracie is what she is, man.”
“What she is, is your mother, son.” Dre lapsed into the code of speech of the New York City streets. Rashod didn't care. He refused to be sucked in by some meaningless, street maternal code meant for bonding, like two animals in a mating dance.
“What she is, is a destroyer. She destroys everything she touches. That's why Randi's dead. She should never have touched him.”
Dre sighed. There was just no reality when it came to Tracie and Rashod. Sometimes he wished he had been born into another family, one without the drama.
“Look, Rashod, all I'm saying is, Tracie is worried about all of us now that Randi's gone. You're making it harder. She's your moms. You could at least stop by the house to check her out. Or not be so damned cold when she talks to you.”
Rashod's fingers still moved across the pad. He looked at it and frowned, still unable to stop the flight of the charcoal. “Dre, look. The chemistry just ain't right with me and Tracie. You know that. Why the hell you think I hit my pipe? So I can forget about her. Besides, she doesn't care about us; all she cares about is money.”
“That ain't truth, man, and you know it.”
“What I know is that you're blind when it comes to Tracie Burlingame, Dre, and one day it could cost you.” Rashod looked down at the completed sketch. His fingers had ceased moving of their own accord.
Generally, he traced whatever was in his line of vision at the time. He had set out to trace the bar, along with its occupants. He had also intended to trace Dre's crazy face. However, that was not what he had produced. In fact, he wasn't quite sure what he had produced, but it was definitely not what had been in his line of vision.
Seeing the strange look on Rashod's face, Dre leaned over the table to look at the sketch. Rashod was a talented artist, he knew. He had a way of capturing things in a certain light.
What Dre saw on the pad made his blood run cold. A man was chained to a bed, outfitted in what one would take to be black leather and chains. His face was a picture of raw agony, his head was thrown back, his mouth was opened, and a spirit rose up, hovering just above him.
Around his neck and shoulders were chains. Drops of rain, descended from the ceiling of the room, pelting the man. The body of the man looked as though it was surrounded and caught up in a haze.
The man in the picture bore an eerie resemblance to their brother Michael Burlingame.
17
T
he following morning Tracie was dressed in her workout clothes, poised and back in control. She had shaken off her dream the way a construction worker shakes the dust from his clothes.
he following morning Tracie was dressed in her workout clothes, poised and back in control. She had shaken off her dream the way a construction worker shakes the dust from his clothes.
Not being able to handle what she'd seen, her consciousness had simply discarded the information. Tracie had absolutely no recollection of the dream.
The doorbell rang. Tracie opened the door to see Monica and Lonzo standing on her porch.
She looked beyond them to see that an early morning jogger was out. Her next-door neighbor was walking her little Pekingese dog. Other than that, the neighborhood was just waking up, with the exception of the two wide-awake detectives who were standing before her.
Tracie brought her attention back to the two of them. She stared at Lonzo. “I don't believe I caught your name the last time we met, Detective,” she said to Lonzo. “Of course, I know yours,” she told Monica.
Lonzo smiled seductively at Tracie while drinking in every inch of her. “I'm Detective Alonzo Morgan. Most people call me Lonzo,” he said. He extended his hand. Tracie didn't bother to shake it. After a moment of hanging his hand in the air, he felt foolish and pulled it back with a sheepish grin.
“What do you want?” Tracie hadn't moved out of the doorway, nor did she invite them in.
“We need to talk to you again, and we'd like to search Randi's room,” Monica told her.
“Why?”
Lonzo jumped in. “There have been some new developments, and we need you to identify something for us.” He hoisted the duffel bag on his shoulder.
Tracie hesitated, then decided to let them in. They looked at the broken shards of glass from the table all over the floor, then back at each other. Finally, they looked at Tracie.
Tracie, observing their reactions to the broken glass, said, “I dropped my coffee cup.”
Monica shook her head. “Hmmm,” was all she said.
Monica took in every detail of the room, including the video recorder with its red light on, recording every move. She was tempted to ask Tracie to turn it offâit made her uncomfortableâbut then again, they had nothing to hide, so she said nothing.
Lonzo got right to the point with Tracie. “We've got a note that we think is connected to your son's death.”
A chill found its way up Tracie's spine.
“It was an accident. Why would someone send a note? Somebody's probably playing games. Randi was known for sitting on rooftops and meditating. It's part of what made him a great ball player.”
Monica was not going to play the game again with Tracie. She was growing tired of Ms. Denial. “The note said âatonement.' What would Randi need to atone for?”
Tracie stalked to the door. She had no tolerance for this. She couldn't talk to them. These fools were going to get another one of her sons killed. “I've heard enough. I want you out. I don't have time for this.”
Lonzo opened the duffel bag. He removed the plastic-covered Karl Kani boot. “Do you recognize this, Miss Burlingame?”
He held the boot up in front of Tracie's face. She was unable to hide her shock. She was visibly shaken.
“The killer had it delivered to us, along with the note,” Monica said. “They enjoy these little games. Is it Randi's?”
Tracie couldn't find her voice, so she nodded.
“He only sent one boot. This isn't a game, Tracie. Nor was Randi's death an accident. Someone murdered your son,” Monica said. She watched Tracie steadily.
“The medical examiner said there was stark terror in Randi's eyes, Tracie. His windpipe was clogged with sunflower seeds. The bastard most likely asphyxiated him, then drained the blood from his body, for God's sake, before flinging him from the roof.” Monica paused, out of breath because she was so upset. She was trained to stay in control, but between the horrific nature of this young boy's murder and his mother's aloof, supreme manner, she was definitely losing her cool.
“I don't suppose you think Randi did that to himself. Do you?” It was all she could do to keep from screaming at Tracie Burlingame. Monica was completely exasperated with her.
“Somebody wanted him to atone for something. Any idea what that might be?”
Tracie didn't answer. Monica advanced on her slowly.
“He drained the blood from your son's body, Tracie,” Monica stated once again for effect.
Normally she would have withheld this type of information from a grieving parent, but Tracie Burlingame was not being on the ups with her, and she sensed it.
In fact, Tracie was making her sick to her stomach, so there would be no mercy here. She wanted answers.
Still, there was no answer forthcoming from Tracie.
Monica reached into her pocket and pulled out the plastic bag holding two pieces of a silver broken heart. “Do you recognize this?” she asked.
“No,” Tracie said.
“Damn it, Tracie, do you know what we might be dealing with here?”
Tracie's expression was remote. It was very clear there would be no answers coming from her.
“Okay,” Monica said with finality.
If Tracie Burlingame wanted to be the ice princess, so let it be. She knew there would be a definite price to pay for her iciness.
Other books
Written in the Stars by Sherrill Bodine, Patricia Rosemoor
Tiger Bound by Doranna Durgin
Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence by Davies, Dorothy
Suicide Run (The Infected Book 5) by Gowland, Justin
Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle
With Friends Like These... by Gillian Roberts
The Spear of Destiny by Julian Noyce
Revive Me by Ferrell, Charity
