One Blood (39 page)

In addition to distorted vision, Moses’ temples throbbed. He was blessed to have survived being shot. God was truly with him. He touched the gauge over his upper leg that covered his gunshot wound. A sharp, sudden pain shot up from his thigh.

How am I supposed to get to Malcolm like this?

Moses shut down his pessimistic thoughts. He was here for a reason, and that reason would reveal itself in time. Across from him, a group of EMTs lifted an occupied body bag onto a steel slab with a resounding thud. There was no official prison morgue at Angola, and many bodies were held inside the infirmary awaiting autopsy and eventual internment.

Rattling wheels nearby broke his train of thought. Moses turned to see a mountainous black inmate trudging toward him with the food cart. He caught the man’s eyes and what he saw sent shivers of gooseflesh over his body. He saw death in the man’s eyes.

Moses attempted to maneuver his injured body into a seated position as the inmate moved in for the kill. No stranger to prison-style murders, Moses spotted what looked like a shank cupped in the palm of one of the big man’s large mitts. Back in the 1950’s, during Moses’ incarceration, this type of killing was the preferred method. He was surprised at how little things had changed.

The would-be killer was three beds away. Moses looked around frantically for a guard, nurse or, doctor. No luck, the EMTs were long gone. Moses had no chance of defending himself against an enemy of this caliber, so he cleared his throat and called out to the inmate. “Excuse me. Yes you. Can you help me out with something?”

The inmate stopped in his tracks. Moses noticed something strange about the man’s movements. He tilted his head to the left, as a dog did when called.

“
Did you hear me? Please, I need your help.”

The inmate drew closer.

Moses heard him mutter something under his breath. It wasn’t until he was a bed away that Moses realized the man was humming the song “Roughside of the Mountain,” one of Moses’ favorite hymns.

Moses could tell something was wrong with him. His eyes shone dully and he kept ducking his head as he pushed the cart. This boy was as retarded as he was big. Unfortunately, the revelation did nothing to ease Moses’ fears.

The inmate adjusted his grip on the shank. “Whadaya want, suh?”

Moses knew it wouldn’t be long before the simpleton buried a shank in his neck or chest. His body tensed as he braced for impact. “Sorry to bother you,” Moses said, his voice shaking. “Where is the doctor? I’m in terrible pain.”

“
Doc’s busy.” The man stood at the foot of the bed scratching his head. His face went blank as a sheet of paper. Then, all the life rushed back in. “I gotcha lunch here.”

“
I see that. What else do you have for me?”

The inmate drew a blank again, and then offered a beautiful smile that lit up his whole face. He pulled out a green tray from the back of the cart that held a plate of pineapples, grapes, and cantaloupe along with a small plain yogurt.

Well, if it’s my time to go, I go with my eyes open.

Moses considered his life and recalled the pain of losing his parents to a serial burglar at age eleven. He felt each of the twelve years he lost rotting in Angola for his own stupidity. His remorse over not being able to save Walter overwhelmed him. He re-experienced his choking regret when Lincoln was sent away to prison as a teenager for the rest of his life. He’d almost given up all hope when Lois, his beloved wife, died of breast cancer just three years into their marriage. And now, instead of redeeming himself, Moses was going to die inside the Angola infirmary. It wasn’t fair.

“
You look jus like my ole granpappy,” the man said, intruding on Moses’ thoughts of fatality. “He from ova in Nawlins, like me. You from Nawlins?”

Moses didn’t know where this was going, but decided to play along. “What’s your name?”

The man scratched his head again. “Names Rodrick, but they all call me Man.”

Moses could see why. “Well, Man, I’m not from Nawlins like your granpappy, but I’ve been there.”

“
I ain’t been dere in a long time,” Man said, downcast. He looked down at his hand. Then his face lit up again as he brandished the weapon in Moses’ face.

Moses was immediately confused. Most shanks consisted of a sharply filed toothbrush, piece of glass, or other penetrating object protruding from a napkin or rag-wrapped handle to mask fingerprints. But this shank was missing the sharp object. Man placed the folded napkin on the tray and went back to his cart. He looked at Moses and raised his pointer finger over his lips.

Moses mimicked the gesture as Man looked sneakily from left to right like a child with a secret. Then he straightened up and said, “Betta eat up.”

Moses stared at the wad of paper and saw that it wasn’t a napkin but a carefully folded note, written on toilet paper.

“
Storm’s comin’. I hate the rain. Be makin’ crazy shadows in my cell.” Man took another furtive glance around the room, “You gone need yo’ strength, suh. Bishop tole me so. I’ll go and see ‘bout that doc fo’ ya’. He get you nice and strong again.”

Moses waved his thanks as Man pushed the cart down the corridor toward the exit. Moses stared at the folded paper for a full minute before opening it. Words were scripted on the inside in a careful hand. He gave the infirmary a quick scan and read it:

Pop, if you’re reading this it means it’s not too late to make things right. Brandon’s in trouble back home. I’m going to try and save him. I’m going to make up for last time. For my whole life really. I’m going to set things right, Pop. You can trust the woman. She’s gonna try to get you outta there. I can never repay you for what you did for me, all I can do is try to make things even. After that, who knows?

Your son forever,

LB

Lincoln’s words brought tears to Moses’ eyes. He read the note again through blurred vision to confirm just how grave the situation had become.

Brandon’s in trouble
, the note said.

When Lincoln used the word “trouble,” it was not the same as when the average person used that word. Moses had to assume the worst.

There was a commotion in the infirmary. A civilian woman entered and rushed over to Moses.

The woman.

Lincoln had written that she could be trusted, but Moses had a natural ability for reading people. This woman, whoever she was, could not be trusted. Trustworthy or not, a moment later she jumped into his arms.

“
Daddy! Thank goodness you’re okay!”

* * * * *

Chapter Seventy

Lake City, LA

Brandon’s suspicion of a trap strengthened when Officer Jeff left him unguarded in his small cubicle.

“
Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll be right back for you.”

Brandon gripped the cop’s uniform in his sooty palm. “Where are you going?”

“
I’ll be right back. I’ve got to create a little distraction. Now, for christ-sakes, keep quiet, alright?”

Here we go.

Brandon searched for possible escape routes. Who was he kidding, he couldn’t outrun a sloth. He examined Officer Jeff’s cubicle and the first thing he noticed was a small vanity mirror. Brandon lifted it and stared at a stranger.

He was a wreck. His neck was swollen, eyes blackened, nose bloodied, and scalp bruised.

Officer Jeff’s computer beeped, taking Brandon’s attention off himself for a moment. Brandon touched the mouse and the screen lit up, revealing the MSNBC homepage.

“
Monster Barrels toward LA Coast,” the headline screamed.

Brandon clicked on the local news link on the left toolbar to read the headline; “As Issac Approaches, Chaos Erupts in Lake City.”

Brandon read the short article, realizing two things. One—the media sensationalized everything. Two—he was truly fucked. He winced at a photo depicting body bags laid out on the Simmons Park basketball court. For a moment, he lost track of where, or more importantly,
when
he was.

“
It’s all happening again,” a resident of the Village was quoted as saying.

After finishing the article, Brandon pieced together the rest for himself. A series of improbable coincidences had conspired to leave sixteen dead bodies across town and one suspect. The article didn’t mention him by name, but described a black male, approximately six-foot-four inches, as the prime suspect.

All happening again.

That day, Mr. Diaz had known something would happen. He had gathered the Skulls in one spot, in the center of the basketball court. Then the Lafitte kid showed up and tipped Murda off that the Scorpions were hiding close by, all hell broke loose. By the time Lincoln arrived, it was almost over.

He wouldn’t have even been there if it weren’t for me.

Guilt pierced Brandon’s soul. He’d treated Lincoln terribly these past ten years, upset that first his role model and then his mother had abandoned him. As he cycled through various “what ifs,” he could hear Moses in his head saying, “
Everything happens for a reason, Brandon.”

And really, what could Brandon do about any of this? Under the current circumstances, nothing. But if he could find out why Kristopher Lafitte had shown up that day, at least he might be able to find closure, and possibly prove Lincoln’s innocence.

Brandon had lost all faith in the cop—he’d been gone too damn long. He nervously tapped his feet. Was there any worse torture than hope?

Brandon was half-tempted to break for the door. Remembering what had happened to the kids who ran at Simmons Park, Brandon remained still, waiting for the inevitable.

Fire engine sirens punctured the walls of the police department.

Officer Jeff reappeared. “It’s time to get you out of here, Brandon.”

Brandon stood. Officer Jeff peeked out into the corridor and gave Brandon a hold signal. The noise outside had reached an all-time high, the roar of sirens mixed with the elevated voices of an angry mob. Intermittently, he could hear someone on a bullhorn trying to maintain order, but not having much success.

“
Okay, this is what we’re gonna do…” Officer Jeff quickly explained his plan. He handed Brandon a bundle of clothing.

Brandon ripped off his tattered Nike t-shirt and put on the purple tuxedo pants and matching top with the letters LHS imprinted diagonally across the front. Generous vomit stains ran across the front as well. Brandon reluctantly pulled on the Dr. Seuss-esque top hat that was the final touch of any good marching band uniform.

Officer Jeff looked him over and lowered the brim of Brandon’s top hat so he could barely see, or be seen.

“
Okay,” Officer Jeff said. “You look great. Time to roll. Just don’t forget what I told you.”

Officer Jeff’s plan worked out so well they walked right past the Chief who was returning to his office in a huff after dealing with the press and convincing the fire department that everything was under control. Moments later, they stood in the adjacent parking lot. Brandon wanted to kiss the pavement he was so happy. Officer Jeff directed him to an unmarked police cruiser.

Brandon wondered again why this cop was taking such a huge risk. Then he remembered how Lincoln had been that day at Simmons Park. For some people, there was no halfway of doing things. Officer Jeff was like that.

As Brandon stepped into the cruiser, he saw Karen Lafitte sitting in the backseat with her head turned toward the window. She wore a black wig, dark sunglasses, pink miniskirt, and white halter top.

Brandon tapped her shoulder gently. “Hey, you okay?”

“
Leave her be. She’ll be alright as soon as we get outta here.” Officer Jeff pulled out of the lot, leaving the LCPD behind in a cloud of dust. Once the station was out of view, Officer asked, “So, where to?”

Karen lifted her head from the window and said, “Home.”

Brandon’s arms broke out in gooseflesh upon hearing the voice emanating from Karen’s mouth. That voice, definitely not feminine, barely sounded human.

Officer Jeff stared at him in the rearview, clearly as unnerved as Brandon.

Brandon swallowed the fear lodged in his throat. “You heard her, Officer. Take her home.”

* * * * *

Chapter Seventy-One

I-10 West

Lincoln sped down the highway, maintaining a comfortable distance between his Jeep and the Crown Victoria containing Snake Roberts and Big Bald Ugly. The younger man and Coral were about five miles ahead of the Crown Vic in the white Ford Taurus. Rain pounded the cars without mercy.

They were the only cars headed toward Lake City; the eastbound lanes were gridlocked. The shifting traffic patterns confirmed what Lincoln was hearing on the 640 AM weather advisory. A detour thirty miles ahead would re-route them either north or east. All traffic entering Calcasieu Parish had been cut off.