One Blood (20 page)

The only sound was from someone nearby bouncing a basketball on concrete.

Lincoln got to his feet. His injuries had vanished, and so had the pain. He gaped at his surroundings in bewilderment.

The park before him was immaculate.

Everything was exactly how he remembered it. The lawn was manicured. The gate was rust-free. The recreation center looked like it had been built yesterday.

A familiar sound interrupted his thoughts. He hopped the gate with ease, just as he’d done as an adolescent. As he made his way toward the basketball courts, he was struck by how the place smelled, like wet copper.

He rounded the side of the building and saw a bouncing basketball. The ball bounced at half-court, straight up and down, all by itself.

What the fuck?

Goosebumps covered his forearms. He had to exert real effort to move from the spot where his feet had taken root.

His feet eventually propelled him toward the bouncing ball. He felt eyes crawling over his skin as he moved closer and closer to touching the ball. He looked around one last time and on its next up-bounce, Lincoln snatched the ball out of the air.

Everything changed.

The sky turned from cloudless to overcast. The spotless park was gone, replaced by a trash- and junk-strewn place, with red graffiti sprayed everywhere. Upon closer inspection, Lincoln realized the graffiti was actually chalk outlines all over the basketball court. There were words written by each outline. The names of the chalk people.

He held the basketball to his chest and looked around wildly. The wind howled. Sudden acid rain pummeled him. Lincoln watched in horrid fascination as the chalk outlines disintegrated and pooled toward him in the center of the court.

It didn’t look like spray paint anymore. He was ankle deep in a puddle of blood which had begun to run up his legs as the rain rolled down them.

How is this happening?

The pain from the bullet wounds was back. Lincoln had been holding the basketball in a death grip and let it go. The ball fell to the ground and continued bouncing on its own. The park immediately changed back to the clean, serene environment.

But not everything was the same. There was a message written in the bloody spray paint on the spot where the basketball bounced. Though tempted to grab the ball again so he could get a better visual of the message, Lincoln thought better of it. Instead he read between bounces:

LOOKS ARE DECEIVING

I’m going crazy.

Lincoln looked back down at the message. It now read:

HE WILL DIE

Who will?

Lincoln’s hands were on fire, like they’d been dipped in acid. He turned them palm side up and saw two shapes burning into the flesh. He screamed in agony even as he saw what the final design would reveal.

On one hand was the bloody outline of a body, and on the other was a name:

Moses.

Lincoln closed his eyes. A single tear escaped and rushed down his cheek. Then a sound like metal grating against metal crashed in his ears. His eyes shot open.

He became painfully aware of two things: he was back at the prison lying on the ground, and someone was kneeling over him.

He stared into the unmistakable gray eyes of Snake Roberts for the second time in an hour. Roberts grimaced and said, “Time to go, Link. We gotta get you outta here.”

Lincoln grasped Snake’s hand and then hesitated.

Is this a trap?

Snake looked back at Lincoln and smiled coldly. “Either you come with me right now, or you die here. The choice is yours.”

* * * * *

PART II: REVELATION

“
You know as well as I do that people that die bad don’t stay in the ground.”

~Toni Morrison

Beloved

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty

12 Years Earlier

1990

Lake City, LA

Karen sat beside her brother on the old bench under the shade of Melinda Weeps. This had been their Sunday ritual for as long as she could remember. After attending first mass at Our Lady Queen of Heaven with Momma, she and Kristopher would spend the afternoon relaxing under the curved branches of the old live oak tree with Abby, their nanny.

Today was Abby’s birthday. She wore a pretty flower-print dress that she had made herself. Her many bracelets and bangles clanged together as she filled their cups with homemade iced tea.

“
How old are you?” Karen asked. Abby was a Cay-jun, which Abby had once explained meant she was part Indian and part Acadian. Karen thought it was silly that it wasn’t spelled the way it sounded, and had no idea what an Acadian was. It sounded like a race of aliens. Kristopher said Acadians were just Canadians who had migrated south, like birds did in the winter.

“
Make her guess your age,” Kristopher interrupted before Abby could respond.

“
If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, duh,” Karen said.

“
Calm down, chillun,” Abby replied with a smile. “Today I turn sixty-eight.”

“
Quick, Karen,” Kristopher said. “How much older than you is Abby?”

Karen looked at Abby’s wrinkled skin and black hair (she confessed to Karen that she still dyed it) and thought she must be a thousand years older. Karen knew it was a simple math problem and after doing some quick figuring said, “That’s easy. I’m six, so that means Abby is sixty-two years older than me.”

“
Very good, kiddo,” Kristopher replied.

“
And you’re fifteen, so she’s...umm, fifty-three years older than you.” Karen stuck out her tongue at her brother and he tried to snatch it out of her mouth. Karen evaded him and took another sip of the delicious iced tea.

A sharp rustle shook the limbs above them and a few leaves fell into Karen’s cup. “Aww no,” she whined.

Kristopher jumped up to investigate.

“
What is it?” Karen asked.

“
Probably just a squirrel or the wind,” Kristopher reported, unable to find the culprit.

“
Or it could be Isaac,” Abby said.

“
Isaac?” Karen and Kristopher asked, almost in unison.

“
Who is Isaac?” Kristopher asked.

“
Isaac is a ghost who haunts Melinda Weeps and this land.”

“
A ghost!” Karen exclaimed.

“
Yes,” Abby said, standing up to clear her dress of leaves. “It’s about time ya’ll learned of yo’ family’s hist’ry here. What ya’ll know about ya’ll ancestor, Luc Lafitte?”

“
Besides the fact that he founded Lake City?” Kristopher replied, rolling his eyes.

“
Yes. Besides dat.”

“
Well, he was also a pirate who got shipwrecked in Lake City while fleeing from the Spanish,” Kristopher said.

“
Dat all you know?” Abby asked.

Kristopher shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Abby gestured for the children to follow her to the swing set nearby. “Chillun, let me tell you what really happened after Luc Lafitte landed on dese here shores.”

Abby cleared her throat as she pushed Karen on the swing. “When Luc Lafitte landed, dere was already people living here. Lake City was a meetin’ place and safe house fo’ runaway slaves in dose days. Da Injuns dat lived here had been helpin’ da slaves dat came through by providin’ ‘em wit’ food and shelter while dey waited for da ferryboat to take dem out to da Gulf of Mexico. Back den, Mexico was free territory dat extended all da way into wat ya’ll know as Texas. Did you know dat Karen?”

Karen shook her head.

“
Luc Lafitte and his men wrecked dere ship and came to shore to steal some supplies from da Injuns. Dey found da camps of da runaway slaves instead. Luc Lafitte was a very cleva man and somehow convinced da runaway slaves dat had been livin’ peacefully with da Injuns for some time, dat dey was being set-up by da Injuns and da Spanish.”

“
How do you know that?” Kristopher asked.

Karen could tell from his challenge that he was very interested.

“
You gonna let me tell my story?”

“
Sorry,” Kristopher replied. “Please go ahead.”

“
Okay. Well, Luc told da slaves dat he and his men had come because dey wanted to help dem defeat da Injuns and help dem to freedom. Dis couldn’t be furda from da troof. Luc’s crew was outnumbered and he was just tryin’ to stir up trouble cuz he knew he would need protection from da Injuns and da Spanish. It took him a little while to convince da slaves to stop runnin’ and start fightin’, but soon Luc Lafitte and his army of runaway slaves had killt almost every Injun and Spaniard.”

Karen’s mind was alive with visions of pirates shooting arrows at Indians as they tried to throw their tomahawks at them.

“
Durin’ all of dis,” Abby continued, “Luc took a fancy fo’ one of da Negro females in da camp and wouldn’t you know it, she turnt up pregnant befoe long. Luc decided to put down roots and create a safe port for French commerce through West Lake and Prien Lake. He and da slaves built da first house in Lake City right chere, and dat’s how da Lafitte Plantation was born.”

Karen was reminded of another Sunday when Abby had explained that their home had once been the site of the Luc Lafitte Civil War Museum. Their grandfather, Joseph Lafitte, had torn down the museum and built a mansion. After he passed away, Daddy tore that house down to build the home in which Karen and Kristopher grew up.

A thought occurred to Karen and she asked, “Did they kill all those Indians right here? Is that where the Ghost comes from?”

Abby looked over at her and replied, “I’m sure some a’ dose Injuns met their maker here, but dat’s not da story of da ghost.”

“
Come on, Karen,” Kristopher said. “Let Abby finish.”

“
Okay,” Abby said. “So where was I?”

“
Luc Lafitte built his plantation and fell in love with a slave,” Kristopher replied.

“
Ahh, yes. Thank you, chile. So as I said, Luc and da slaves had a deal. But as more and more Frenchmen and Cajuns migrated into da area, da runaway slaves lost dere equality. Lafitte married da daughta of a rich French settla’ and quickly forgot about his chile by da slave. Dat chile grew up workin’ in da first version of what would later become da Port of Lake City, unloadin’ and reloadin’ French ships all day.”

“
Good story so far, Abby,” Kristopher interrupted. “But what does all this have to do with the ghost?”

“
Yeah, Abby,” Karen agreed. “We wanna hear about the ghost.”

“
Alright, alright. My grammie told me dis story when I was jes a lil’ girl, even younga dan you, Karen. Grammie used to say dat histr’y always repeats itself, and dat knowing yo’ histr’y helps you to avoid making da same mistakes in da here and now.”

“
Mom says that too sometimes,” Kristopher interjected.

“
And yo’ momma know what she’s talkin’ bout. But I bet da reason she never told ya’ll dis story is because she’s forgot a bit about yo’ family’s hist’ry.”

“
What do you mean?” Karen asked.

“
I mean dat obviously Luc Lafitte’s descendants didn’t keep as good of records as dose slaves dey tricked and betrayed. Luc Lafitte’s illegit’mate child, a boy, grew up in da shadows of dis here plantation, pretty much forgotten by his real fatha. His name was Isaac…Isaac Lafitte, as was da custom for slaves to take on da last name of dey massa. Isaac and his motha worked in da big house until he was big enough to start workin’ at da port. You know sweepin’ and moppin’, stuff like dat.”

Karen’s eyes widened and she looked over at Kristopher. She knew it wasn’t a coincidence that Luc’s son was named Isaac, just like the ghost. She just couldn’t figure out how he went from working at the port to becoming a ghost.

“
Da Lafitte Plantation and da Port of Lake City was bustlin’,” Abby continued. “Befoe long, da township of Lake City was born, but in dose days it was called Port City. Port life was toughenin’ Issac up and he was growin’ into quite da young buck. His momma died on his seventh birthday, leavin’ him to raise his baby brotha and sista by himself.”

“
That’s so sad that his mommy died,” Karen said. “Isn’t that sad, Kristopher?”

“
Yeah, a real tear-jerker,” Kristopher replied. “Go on, Abby.”

Abby continued. “Da story behind da ghost of Melinda Weeps begins when Isaac was around twenty years old. He only had one more year to work off his family’s debt, and was one of da best employees down at da port, still providin’ for his younga brotha and sista who was workin’ as servants in da big house.

“
One day Luc’s youngest daughta, Melinda, showed up at da port. She wanted to see her daddy’s business, but as soon as she saw Isaac throwing dose fifteen pound rice bags with dat muscular frame of his, da sightseeing tour ended. It seems like she had inherited her fatha’s taste fo’ dark meat.” Abby cackled.