One Blood Part One

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A curse terrorizes a group of people unaware of their hidden connectionsLincoln Baker, born a ward of the state, has gone from orphan, to gang banger, to basketball superstar, to lifer at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in the space of eighteen years. During his prison term, he meets Panama X, a powerful and mysterious father figure who gives Lincoln a reason for living – he must assassinate Randy Lafitte, the David Duke-esque Governor of Louisiana.Lincoln orchestrates the kidnapping of Karen Lafitte, Randy’s only daughter. But Randy Lafitte is a man who built his fortune by resurrecting a family curse from slavery to kill his own father. A curse that may or may not have been responsible for his son Krisopher’s death in the gang crossfire that sent Lincoln to prison for life. Randy will stop at nothing to save his daughter, even if it means admitting the curse is real. Even if it means committing greater atrocities.Three days after Karen’s kidnapping, an explosive cocktail of revenge, manipulation, serendipity, fate, truth, and redemption detonates throughout Louisiana. When the dust settles, the ending is as unexpected as it is illuminating. There are secrets sealed in our blood, you see. The best answers, as always, lie within.

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Content

One Blood
Copyright ©2011 By Qwantu Amaru

www.pantheoncollective.com http://www.facebook.com/onebloodbook

Prologue
1963 New Orleans, LA

uring the day, New Orleans’ most famous neighborhood was a tribute to architectural and cultural homogeneity. At night, the French Quarter’s multicultural legacy blurred into an unrecognizable labyrinth; especially in the eyes of the drunk and desperate. At the moment, Joseph Lafitte was both. Joseph careened down the dark alley and absentmindedly brushed at the dried blood beneath his nose with his free hand. His tailor-made shirt and pants were drenched with sweat and felt sizes smaller. He was overcome with the sensation that he was running in place, even though he was moving forward at a brisk pace. Because he was paying more attention to what was behind him rather than what was in front of him, Joseph tripped over a carton some careless individual had placed in his path. Upon impact with the concrete his cheek flayed open, but he barely felt the sting as his priceless nickel and gold plated antique Colt Navy Revolver clattered away into the darkness, out of reach. Even now, breathing as harshly as he was, he could hear someone behind him. Somehow they managed to stay just out of the range of his sight, but within earshot. 1

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Qwantu Amaru It was the ideal moment for them to pounce, but Joseph would not give in so easily. He pushed himself to his feet, his eyes like twin brooms sweeping the ground for his weapon. He located it near a dilapidated doorway. Clutching it once again, he felt some semblance of self-control return. Until his dead wife called his name. “Joseph? Joseph, where are you?” That was all the motivation he needed. He broke into a full gallop but couldn’t outrun what he’d seen back at the hotel, or what he’d just heard. They are toying with me. Trying to make me doubt my own mind. This was New Orleans after all. A place with a well-documented history of trickery and alchemic manipulation. He must have drank or eaten something laced with some devilish hallucinogen. For all he knew, his own son—Randy—had given it to him. Randy still blamed Joseph for the car wreck that took his mother’s life. Joseph had noted the murderous hue in Randy’s eyes after Rita’s funeral, and even though Joseph explained that it was an accident, he knew Randy would never forgive him. Was this Randy trying to get some sort of revenge? It didn’t matter. Randy was weak—always had been and always would be. As an only child, he grew up to be softer than cotton— Rita’s doing by babying and spoiling the boy. Have I underestimated my son? This thought, along with his first glimpse of light in quite some time, simultaneously assaulted him. Where am I? And why haven’t they caught up to me yet? 2

One Blood Maybe they want me to go this way. Joseph glanced down at the revolver that had once been carried by the great Robert E. Lee. He’d show them who had the upper hand; if Randy was behind this, he would soon be joining his mother. Rather than heading toward the light, Joseph turned left down another dark alleyway. The façade of the building was damp to the touch. Other than his troubled footfalls, there was no sound. Who knew a city nearly bursting at the seams with music could be this eerily silent? Joseph used the quiet to collect his thoughts. He’d spent that afternoon as he spent most Saturdays, sipping bourbon and talking shop with other New Orleans power brokers inside the private room in Commander’s Palace. He knew something was wrong as soon as Randy appeared at the doorway, motioning to him. “We have to leave New Orleans right now, Father,” Randy said in a hushed tone as Joseph entered the hallway. “What are you talking about, Boy, and why are you whispering?” Joseph replied, a little louder than he needed to. Randy jerked Joseph’s arm in the direction of the exit, his eyes pleading. “Something bad is going to happen if we don’t leave here right away.” “No, Son,” Joseph said. “Something bad is going to happen if you don’t remove yourself from my sight this instant!” And that had been the end of it. Randy left, looking back only once, as if to say, Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. 3

Qwantu Amaru Joseph returned to his drinks and colleagues. Afterward, he went downtown for a little afternoon rendezvous with a beautiful Creole whore. She came as a recommendation from his regular mistress, Claudette, who was on her cycle, and the girl certainly fit the bill. He made it back to the hotel just as the sun set and settled down for a drink or three after taking a steaming hot shower. In the comfort of his armchair, in the privacy of his suite, his thoughts returned to Randy. It was Randy’s eighteenth birthday and the boy had been acting oddly ever since he’d arrived in New Orleans two days earlier. In truth, he’d been acting strangely much longer than that. Joseph would never forget the revulsion he’d experienced when the maid in their Lake City mansion had shown him the pile of bloody rags at the bottom of Randy’s hamper. That disgust tripled once he found out the source of the blood. One night, Joseph waited until Randy exited the bath. The raw pink and black slashes across Randy’s forearms, thighs, chest, and abdomen were all the evidence he needed. Apparently Randy had taken to cutting himself in the wake of his mother’s death. Randy was barely a teenager and there was only one thing Joseph could think to do to keep from locking the boy up in a sanitarium. He sent him away to a French boarding school and commissioned some distant relatives to keep an eye on him until he graduated. If he survived that long. This weekend was supposed to be a celebration of sorts. Randy had returned from France a distinguished young man, and Joseph was ready to bury the hatchet. 4

One Blood But what if Randy doesn’t want it buried? What if he wants my entombment and has been patiently waiting all these years to get his revenge? Joseph grabbed hold of a lamppost to steady himself. A statue of a man on a horse loomed over him. His feet had brought him to Jackson Square. Surely, nothing bad can get me here, right? He’d believed the same to be true of his hotel room and that had definitely proven to be false. Joseph had been cleaning his prized revolver before sleep overtook him. The sound of the door opening brought him back to consciousness. Even though all the lights were still on, his bleary eyes could barely make out the two figures—a young black male and white female—standing in his doorway. Joseph sat up in his seat. “Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my room?” His hand quickly found the revolver on the table next to him. The man and woman looked at each other and Joseph heard a deep male voice in his head say, “Don’t worry, Joseph. It will be ova’ soon.” He felt the voice’s vibrations in his teeth and jumped to his feet. The young woman reached out to him and he heard her voice in his mind as well. “Don’t fight us, Joseph. It is so much better if you don’t resist.” Joseph felt wetness below his nose and when his hand came up blood red, he bolted around the woman, out of his room, and out of the hotel. 5

Qwantu Amaru Now he stood in the shadow of Andrew Jackson’s immortal statue, exhausted and nearing the end of rationality. A sudden thought occurred to him. Maybe this is all a nightmare. Maybe I’m still sitting in my chair snoring. He latched onto the idea. Hadn’t he heard recently that the best way to wake from a nightmare was to kill yourself? Where did I hear that? Ah yes, now he remembered. The Creole whore had mentioned her grandmother’s secret to waking from a bad dream. What an odd coincidence... Joseph stared down at the revolver as if it were some magic talisman. If this were a dream, it was the most vivid of his life. He could feel the breeze from the Mississippi River, the cold bronze of the statue beneath his hand, his sweaty palm wrapped around the hilt of the gun. And he could hear footsteps nearing. Rita’s voice rang out across the square. “Joseph, I’m here to bring you home.” His mind showed him an image of what Rita must look like after six years underground. He hadn’t cried at her funeral, but petrified tears streaked down his face as he gritted his teeth. I have to wake from this dream! The footsteps were getting louder and closer. He didn’t have much time. To offset his fear and still his shaking hand, he thought of how good it would feel to wake up from this nightmare. He put the gun in his mouth, tasting the salty metallic flavor of the barrel as his mouth filled with saliva. 6

One Blood God, this feels real. But he knew it wasn’t. He attempted to gaze at the statue of Andrew Jackson riding high on his horse. The statue was gone. As was the rest of Jackson Square. It had been supplanted by that damnable live oak tree in front of his Lake City mansion. He should have chopped that thing down long ago. Joseph let out an audible sigh of relief. It is a dream after all. “It’s time, Joseph,” Rita whispered in his ear. Knowing what had to be done, Joseph squeezed the trigger.

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PART I: REVENGE
“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.” ~George Bernard Shaw

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Chapter One
September 27, 2002 Friday Baton Rouge, LA

he Governor’s workspace was modeled after the Oval Office. A brazen blue and gold state seal was embedded in the center of the wall, behind an ornate mahogany desk. The words UNION, JUSTICE, CONFIDENCE surrounded a spread-winged pelican looking down on three hungry chicks. Below it, on top of a mahogany credenza, prized pictures depicted Louisiana’s fiftythird Governor, Randy A. Lafitte, holding court with the likes of sitting President George W. Bush and his own personal mentor and confidante, David Duke. Randy sat behind his desk, hunched over two satellite images depicting the path of what he hoped was the last hurricane of the season. According to these snapshots, the storm would make landfall somewhere between Mississippi and Texas in the next three days. Having survived innumerable hurricanes during the past eight years in office, he knew the playbook well. Randy made a mental note to set up a meeting with the Federal Emergency Management Agency, and then buzzed his secretary. 9

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Qwantu Amaru “Robin, get me fifteen minutes with the President. If his people give you any flack, remind them that he still owes me dinner for losing that bet.” “Yes sir.” While hanging up, he caught his reflection in the window. Sometimes Randy didn’t even recognize the elder statesman staring back at him. He smiled at the slightly distorted image. His hazel eyes brimmed with intellect and empathy. His laser-whitened teeth were attractive and reassuring. His square jaw and deep dimples, which his first campaign manager had often referred to as ‘the lady-vote getters,’ were working their collective mojo. And underneath the polish remained a hint of the young rabblerouser he’d begrudgingly outgrown. Underestimated from day one. Randy was counting on that underestimation as his second and final term as governor drew to a close. He didn’t possess his late father’s intimidating persona, booming voice, or piercing blue eyes, but that didn’t stop him from becoming the youngest man in the history of the state to hold a mayorship, and at fifty-seven he believed he had a strong chance of succeeding George W. Bush when he bowed out in 2008. The tragic events of September 11th would guarantee the need for strong, yet charismatic leadership in this country and Randy was just the man for the job. But that was still six years away. He checked the time. 4:20 p.m. His daughter, Karen, should be finishing up her birthday spa appointment and heading home, where a gleaming white Mercedes SLK roadster wrapped in a bright red bow sat in the driveway waiting. He wanted to make 10

One Blood sure her eighteenth birthday was the best one yet—after all, you only turn eighteen once. Randy did not have good luck when it came to eighteenth birthdays. Randy’s father, Joseph, died just three days after Randy turned eighteen and then ten years ago, his son Kristopher was killed three days after his eighteenth birthday by a thug gangbanger named Lincoln Baker. The papers sure had a field day with that one. They called Randy the ultimate survivor, captioned under horrible headshots of his deceased mother, father, and son. They rehashed all the terrible memories Randy had tried so desperately to banish into the darkness. It was no wonder he became so sick. Brain cancer was the diagnosis. It was 1994. His first term as governor was barely a month old when a team of neurological oncologists informed him that his odds of making it through the tumor-removal procedure were both “one in ten million” and his “only hope”. Without surgery, he’d be dead in six months. Randy replied, “hope is not a strategy,” and opted instead for an experimental radiation therapy. A year later, he was declared cancer free. But his hair never grew back; a small price to pay. The Ultimate Survivor became his mantra and he rode it all the way to a landslide second gubernatorial term in 1998, only to nearly lose it all when a radical militant organization called the Black Mob placed bombs in the bowels of the Isle of Capri Riverboat where Randy was scheduled to deliver his acceptance speech. Ironically, he owed his life to his daughter. Karen had overdosed earlier that day on Coral’s painkillers in a near-successful suicide attempt, so when the bombs went off, killing thirty-two people 11

Qwantu Amaru and injuring countless others, Randy was standing vigil at his daughter’s bedside with his hysterical wife. But the papers had it all wrong. Randy was no survivor. He was cursed. Cursed to watch his loved ones die. Cursed with tremendous success in his professional life and extreme incompetence in his personal life. And though they’d called his mother’s death a tragic accident, his father’s death a suicide, and his son’s death a murder—Randy knew better. The ringing of his cell phone rescued him from these thoughts. He brightened at seeing Lake City PD on the caller ID. There was only one man it could be, the Chief of Police himself. “Billy Boy!” he greeted Bill Edwards. “What’s up? How goes life in Pirate City?” “Hey ya’ Ran, you sitting down?” “No, I’m ice skating. Of course I’m sitting down!” Randy could tell his oldest friend, the classic worrier, was perturbed. Randy furrowed his brow. The last time Bill called him out of the blue, it was with bad news. “Ran, I really messed up this time. Paula’s dead. Please help me.” “You’re not in trouble again, are you? You know what? I don’t even want to know. I’ve got enough drama to deal with ‘round here. You seen the Weather Channel lately?” “This is serious,” Bill replied in a professional, measured tone with no trace of humor. “I just got a call from the Racquet Club. They say someone signed in trying to impersonate Karen. Did you or Coral order a massage for her today?” Randy’s good spirits vanished. “Coral did,” he answered. “It’s Karen’s birthday. Who took her spa appointment?” 12

One Blood “Jessica Breaux,” Bill replied. “They caught her going at it with one of the massage therapists.” He paused. “I’ve got another call coming through, hold on.” Bill clicked over, leaving Randy to contemplate his daughter’s disappearance as classical music played in the background. The first time Karen brought Jessica home from school, Coral warned him that the girl was nothing but trouble. Randy observed the teenager’s coal black hair, dark eyeliner, nose and tongue rings, dragon tattoos snaking around her biceps, fishnet stockings, peeling black fingernail polish, and agreed. He recalled thinking that something was seriously wrong with his kids—they just insisted on associating themselves with the lowest common denominators, first Kristopher and now Karen. Randy’s calm was wavering. He was used to getting calls about his wild daughter’s erratic behavior; it was something he had almost come to expect, much like high taxes or criticism from the press. But what Bill was alluding to was impossible. Coral and Karen had been assigned twenty-four hour security ever since Kristopher’s death. How could she have shaken her guards? Randy swallowed, tasting metal in the back of his throat. Where are my Rolaids? He jerked open the top left desk drawer, revealing his private pharmacy. Pulling too hard, the drawer flew out of its slot and clattered to the ground, scattering orange canisters, pill packs, and bottles filled with colorful elixirs around his feet. Before he could set things right, Bill clicked back over. “Ran, you still there?” he asked. “I’m right here, Bill. So what’s this Jessica business again?” 13

Qwantu Amaru Randy scanned the floor frantically and finally located the acid reducers buried beneath a pill pack of antibiotics. As he popped one, his heart-rate reducing beta-blockers called up to him, so he swallowed two of them as well. “One of my guys just found a wrecked motor bike out on Freeman Road by Barton Coliseum. Somebody tried to hide it in the weeds off the side of the road, but they must have been in a rush because it wasn’t hidden so good. He ran the plates and guess whose bike it is?” “Jessica’s, right?” Randy’s palms had turned to blocks of ice, a telltale sign he was about to experience a panic attack. He regulated his breathing, sucking in air for a count of four and pushing it out for a count of eight until he felt his heart-rate begin to slow. “My guy found two pairs of skid marks not far off,” Bill continued, “one most likely made by the bike, and another from a much larger vehicle—one with four-wheel drive. There was a bloody trail leading from where the bike was ditched to the start of the skid marks. It looks like whoever was bleeding was dragged to the vehicle from the ditch.” “Thanks for the details, Bill, but Karen doesn’t ride motorcycles,” Randy replied, squelching the evil vision of his daughter crushed beneath a Harley. “Ran, Jessica admitted to loaning her bike to Karen. Said it was a birthday gift. Do you get where I’m going with this? It looks like somebody knocked Karen off the motorcycle and into the ditch on purpose and then dragged her into the back of some sort of truck or S.U.V.” Clarity broke through Randy’s natural coping mechanisms of denial and rationalization. His eyes narrowed as he mentally recited 14

One Blood his personal mantra: confront the brutal facts, focus on what you can control, be proactive. He sucked in as much oxygen as his lungs could handle. “Okay,” he said, after exhaling. “So you think someone took my Karen. But that can’t be right, because if she was…kidnapped, there would be a ransom note, right? Where’s the note, Bill?” “That’s what that call was about,” Bill replied. “My guy found it in the bike’s glove compartment. It’s being delivered as we speak.” “Did he read it?” Bill’s hesitation told Randy all he needed to know. “Who else knows about this?” Randy asked, praying that Bill had contained this thing. “Come on, Ran. Let me do my job. If I don’t follow procedure, the Feds will be living in my colon.” “So you turned it over to the FBI?” “Not yet,” Bill replied, sighing. “Only Officer Abshire, myself, and the Racquet Club manager know anything.” “And we’re going to keep it that way, right?” “Haven’t I always been there for you? But please don’t ask me to risk my job. These first few hours are crucial; especially first contact, and frankly I could use the extra resources the Feds bring to the table.” “Don’t ask you to risk your job?” Randy repeated, seeing white spots before his eyes. “I believe smashing in your cheating wife’s head with a brick did a pretty good job of that. You wouldn’t have a job to lose if I hadn’t gotten you off, remember that.” “That’s not fair, Ran…” “It’s not about fairness,” Randy replied. “One hand washes the other. Always has, always will.” 15

Qwantu Amaru He could almost hear Bill’s brain working trying to come up with a suitable response. “But…but going public could help flush the kidnappers out—” Randy cut him off. “Save it. There’s more to this than you know. Meet me at the house in an hour and I’ll fill you in. In the meantime, I need you to keep things quiet for me. I can trust you to do that, right? “Of…of course. I—” “Good.” Randy hung up. He suppressed his urge to drown four Xanax in alcohol. He needed a clear mind to think. Panic was paralysis. Not an option. He closed his eyes; his mind flooded with scenario after scenario. Where are you, Karen? An angry tear snaked down Randy’s clenched face as he managed to slide the drug drawer into its slot. “Everything alright in here, sir?” Randy sat up quickly and saw his secretary standing in the doorway. “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine.” He turned and wiped away the moisture on his face. “I need you to cancel the rest of my appointments today. I have to get back home. Please call the chopper for me.” “Will do, sir.” Later, as he entered the helicopter cabin, Randy couldn’t get the image of that old newspaper headline out of his head. The Ultimate Survivor. He closed his eyes and saw his son’s lifeless blue irises staring back at him. The bloody handprints on his cheeks. Randy shut his eyes as tightly as he could until a single ominous thought remained. Maybe I really am cursed. 16

Chapter Two
Friday Lake City, LA

andy struggled to compose himself prior to arriving at the Lafitte plantation—his weekend refuge from the Governor’s mansion in Baton Rouge. His ancestor, Luc Lafitte, built the formidable waterfront estate in the early 1800’s. After World War II, his father reclaimed the family’s land and rebuilt the plantation. Upon inheriting the land, Randy erected what he thought of as his “American Chateau.” The only trace of what stood before was the weathered live oak tree just off the driveway that Randy believed would outlive them all. Randy stared at the tree, oddly named Melinda Weeps, still mulling over the best way to explain Karen’s disappearance to Coral. He decided to cross that chasm when he came to it. Bill pulled into the circular driveway in an unmarked car. Randy felt a migraine brewing. He greeted Bill and invited him inside. He sounded calm enough, even though the compulsion to rip Bill’s gun from his belt, shoot him, and then himself nearly overtook him. Instead, Randy opened the sealed envelope Bill handed him, unfolded the paper inside and read: 17

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Qwantu Amaru THE ONLY WAY THREE PEOPLE CAN KEEP A SECRET IS IF TWO OF THEM ARE DEAD BUT SOME SECRETS ARE JUST TOO BIG TO BE CONTAINED IF YOU WANT TO KEEP YOURS SAFE GO TO THE PAY PHONE ON AUGUST STREET BEHIND THE 7 ELEVEN AT EXACTLY 11 PM TONIGHT DO NOT BE LATE OR WE WILL KILL HER Randy looked up from the note and studied Bill as if he was a newly discovered species. “Did you or anyone else read this?” Bill met his gaze. “No. I took it from Officer Abshire and brought it straight here. What does it say?” Randy lowered his eyes. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” “That’s not gonna work this time, Ran. It’s my duty to know.” “Then arrest me for obstruction.” Bill stared at him incredulously and then looked away. After a moment he looked back. “I know a couple of good guys in the bureau who owe me favors. They know how to be discrete. Just say the word.” “Not a chance. Don’t you remember how badly they fucked up with Kristopher? I’ve got my own guys on this one.” “The same guys who can’t keep tabs on a teenage girl? I know this is a hard time for you, but you can’t trust Karen’s life to a bunch of hired guns.” “Bill,” Randy replied, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “If you want to help me out, make sure Officer Abshire forgets what he knows.” Bill opened his mouth but then nodded his head. “Okay, Ran. I want you to know I am making it my personal mission to find Karen. I won’t sleep.” 18

One Blood “Thanks. Let me know how things go back at the ranch—” “Hey, honey, I didn’t know you were home. Hi, Bill.” Randy and Bill turned to see Coral descending the grand spiral staircase behind them. Randy glanced over at Bill knowing they were both wondering the same thing—how long had she been listening to their conversation? She reached the landing and Randy took in her form-fitting (but appropriate for company, thank the Lord) blue, floor-length house dress. At least she had done her hair and makeup, a sign she was having one of her “good” days. “Hi, hon,” Randy said, leaning down to give her a peck on the lips. The fact that she was dressed gave another positive signal. At least three days a week, Coral would wake, decide getting up was too painful, and stay in bed the whole day. She’d been battling bipolar disorder since her first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, nearly three years before Kristopher had even been a thought. But even when she was at her worst, Randy refused to see Coral as a damsel in distress. She would always be the beautiful, vibrant angel he met years ago at the Consolata Cemetery in Lake City where his mother lay at rest. He always considered it providence that Coral’s grandmother’s gravesite lay just a few feet away from the Lafitte family plot. Two years after his father’s death, Randy came to a crossroads in his life and went to the burial ground to confer with his mother. As he stared at Rita Lafitte’s tombstone, he collapsed to his knees as shame and confusion overtook him. After a moment he looked up to find Coral standing beside him, sympathy and caring 19

Qwantu Amaru pouring out of her stunning blue-gray eyes like a beacon of hope. Everything fell into place. Through Coral’s influence, Randy found his purpose. Distraught over his parent’s deaths, he threw himself into public service. Coral was the perfect wife for a politician-on-the-rise—graceful, classy, with just the right amount of sweet, southern charm. They were poised to conquer the world. But Kristopher’s murder put his angel on an emotional rollercoaster where the valleys vastly outnumbered the peaks. Randy didn’t dare think of what Coral might do if she found out someone had kidnapped Karen. Coral regarded Bill with dismay. “What brings you to our neck of the woods, Bill? You haven’t come by, well, since before Paula… I’m sorry, where are my manners? Can I get ya’ll something to drink? Emmanuel can whip up some lemonade in a jif.” Bill gave Randy a quick look. “Thanks for the offer, Coral, that does sound delightful, but I’ve got to get back to the station. Ran, catch up with you later?” “Right. Thanks, Bill. Keep me posted all right?” As soon as Bill was outside, Coral punched Randy in the shoulder. “Oww, hon.” “I thought I told you not to bring him into my house. What will the neighbors think?” “He was acquitted, remember?” “Thanks to your lawyer buddies. I never understood why you helped him get off. And don’t give me that one hand washes the other crap.” Randy offered his softest look. “I just did what any friend would do, hon. You understand that right? Loyalty outweighs honesty.” 20

One Blood “Well not in my book. If you ever did anything that terrible, I would hope you would tell me the truth.” Coral frowned, putting a hand to her head. “See, now I’m getting a headache. I need to lie down before Karen gets home. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve planned a little surprise get-together for her.” “You did what?” “Well, eighteen is a big deal. My sisters and I are going to take her out to celebrate her womanhood!” Randy’s mind churned as he led Coral upstairs to their bedroom and tucked her into their California king bed. He had to come up with an excuse for Karen’s absence. After feeding her one of the more potent tranquilizers, he waited for the effects to manifest. “I have to tell you something, hon,” he said. “But you have to promise not to get too upset.” “I will promise no such thing Randall Albert Lafitte,” she whispered, already half asleep. Normally Coral’s use of his biblical name would have brought a smile, but he could manage little more than a thin grimace. “I sent Karen and a few of her friends to Cancun for the weekend. They should be touching down soon.” “Cancun?” Coral asked, eyes bursting open. “Randy, how could you?” “I’m so sorry, hon. It was just…Christy, you know Bill’s daughter, let it slip that they were planning to run away this weekend…” Coral’s face wrinkled in bewilderment. “Are you telling me that my husband, the most fiercely overprotective man I’ve ever known, just sent my daughter to Mexico unsupervised?” 21

Qwantu Amaru Randy forced a smile and replied, “That’s right, hon, this old dog learned a new trick this week. She was gonna go anyway. At least this way she goes with our blessing, clear expectations, and a small security detail…” Coral closed her eyes again. After a moment she said, “Well you could have consulted me first. She’s my daughter too, you know.” “I know, hon, there wasn’t much lead time on this one.” “Don’t let it happen again,” she said, her voice fading. Then, “You did good, hon. I’m proud of you…” Randy’s resolve hardened as he looked into his wife’s peaceful countenance. He waited until her eyelids twitched before retreating to his father’s study. Sitting at the desk, gazing aimlessly at his father’s enormous collection of rare books, Randy read the kidnapper’s note until he memorized it. He had a feeling the author was bluffing. Everyone had secrets, and obviously public figures had more to lose by exposing a clandestine fact than most. The genius of the term “secret” was that the kidnappers were betting on the fact that the recipient, in this case him, would automatically assume his most confidential revelation. Still, the reference to death bothered him and the last line, WE WILL KILL HER, could not have been any clearer. Randy glanced at his watch. Three hours had passed since Bill’s call. That left four to prepare for first contact with the kidnappers. This was getting him nowhere. He had to use his time wisely. There was only one man Randy trusted to get his daughter back—Snake Roberts—a tracker, bounty hunter, mercenary, and 22

One Blood Randy’s strong right hand. Snake’s loyalty to Randy was inscribed in granite. He grabbed the phone and dialed from memory. Voicemail picked up immediately. “Snake, it’s me. There’s an urgent situation that needs your expert attention. Potential for big money. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

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Chapter Three
Friday Just outside Lake City

here are you holed up these days, Snake?” Randy Lafitte asked in his typical “I’m the boss of you” voice. Snake Roberts stared at the traffic trickling past him as he sat on the roadside shoulder. “Yuh know me, Boss. If I can think, that means I need a drink.” He took a generous gulp of Snapple fruit juice and forced a belch. “Now, what’s this yuh say about a hefty payout? What’s the job?” Snake sensed Randy’s hesitation, which was unexpected because Randy never hesitated when it came to his needs. It had always been that way. Even fifteen years back in that piece of shit bar in Cameron, where they’d met. Snake had been sitting at his usual table in the quietest corner of the room, farthest from the door. A shot of Jamesons, one pint of Guinness, and one snifter of Bailey’s Irish cream sat on the table before him, beside a weathered copy of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake—what he thought of as his Irish quadruple mind fuck. The door opened, allowing enough sunlight inside to obliterate the bar’s number one feature besides the cheap liquor—ambient 24

“W

One Blood dimness. Snake was not a fan of daylight; it gave him headaches and irritated his freckled white skin. The bastard in the doorway clearly held sunlight in high regard; he had the nerve to keep the door open longer than necessary as he tried to penetrate the dim. “Who you looking for, boy?” the barmaid, Gertrude, asked the intruder. “Think you might be in the wrong place…” Snake doubted this because you had to go way out of your way down a less trodden tributary off the beaten path to find this hellhole. The visitor’s eyes scanned the room as he ignored Gertrude’s welcome, eventually coming to rest on Snake and his Irish posse. Blessedly, the man closed the door, then strode across the room to Snake’s corner. It took Snake’s eyes a moment to adjust, but he finally got a look at the fellow when he sat down—directly across from him. Gertrude’s description was on the money as usual. He had the height, build, and manner of a disciplined man, but at the same time he wore the face of a boy, and a privileged boy at that. But the eyes…the eyes were those of a man who’d seen a particular brand of darkness. Those eyes reminded Snake of his fellow Vietnam vets—men whose innocence was scrubbed away so thoroughly that only the sinewy layer of skin between air and taut muscle remained. But Snake knew that was the toughest layer the same way he knew the man before him had never seen a real war. He was too cloaked in indignant self-righteousness for that. “You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Roberts.” The manboy’s voice was a brilliant instrument, relaying all the right pitches of assertiveness, pleasantry, humor, and grit. 25

Qwantu Amaru If he wasn’t a politician, Snake would eagerly gobble down his own shirt. Then it came to him in a flash of insight. He’d seen this man-boy before, as recently as a few weeks back, and much to the delight of his shirt-phobic stomach, he was a politician. Having placed the face, Snake reached for the name. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr…” “My name isn’t important, but the work I’m offering you could be. I was told you were a man who could get tough jobs done, discretely. I’ve got such a job…” Fifteen years later, Snake was still cleaning up Lafitte’s messes. “I need you to find someone for me, Snake,” Lafitte said after a short pause. “And what do I do once I find this upstanding gentleman?” Snake replied, taking another sip of juice. Reminiscing was thirsty work. “It’s a woman. Her name is Desiree Deveaux. She was once a fortune teller calling herself Madame Deveaux, last known to live in New Orleans. I need you to find her by no later than tomorrow night and bring her to me.” “That it?” Another uncustomary pause. Maybe the instrument needed warming these days, the way an old car did. As if to confirm this, Lafitte cleared his throat. “Snake,” he said. “Someone took my daughter today.” So it begins. Snake had known this moment was rapidly approaching, but now that it was here, he almost felt bad…almost. “I’m sorry to hear that, Boss.” 26

One Blood “I can’t have the police or Feds involved in this.” “Of course not. Who needs ‘em.” “I’m speaking to the kidnappers in about two and a half hours. Once I know their demands, I’ll call you back so we can put together our game plan.” “What if they don’t have any?” “Excuse me?” “Demands, I mean. What makes yuh think they’ve got demands?” “Everyone wants something, Snake.” “But what if yuh don’t have what they want or can’t get it in time?” “I’m paying you a lot of money to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Lafitte hung up. Snake placed the cell phone in the cup holder. The square green sign just beyond his windshield announced Lake City’s municipal boundary. Snake had chosen his parking spot carefully, so he could remain within the city limits of Iowa (pronounced eye-a-way in Louisiana). He hated Lake City almost as much as he hated the sun. Everything about the city bothered him. How drivers were forced to take the Interstate just to get anywhere; the billboards advertising casinos where all they did was take his money; the Super Walmarts on every corner. The whole city smelled like a chemistry experiment gone bad because of the throng of chemical plants down by Lake Francis, and it was downright insufferable. People couldn’t even go to Prien Pines Beach anymore because of all the chemicals they dumped in the water. But most of all, he detested the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit. 27

Qwantu Amaru Who the fuck could get anywhere driving fifty-five? Snake dialed another number. “Well, Jhonnette, the Governor went for it, just like you said he would,” Snake said after his lover’s greeting. “Did you ever doubt me?” Jhonnette replied in that sexy, allknowing way of hers. Snake quelled the desire to proclaim his undying love. There would be plenty of time for that once this was finished. “Never that, my love. I’m putting everything in motion now. See you in a couple of days.” Snake hung up and exhaled. It was amazing how the world worked. A year ago he’d been lost. His gambling debts were sky high. Doctors had diagnosed him with chronic hepatitis and advanced cirrhosis. They told him that without a liver transplant, he’d be dead within a year. Then he’d met Jhonnette Deveaux at an old Blues bar in the French Quarter. After six months with her, Snake’s liver exams had returned to normal, he’d paid off his gambling debts, and had fallen madly in love. At first, Snake tried to manipulate Jhonnette as he did most women. But it was pointless. Jhonnette saw his every deception birthing. She saw everything—a gift from her mother. One night after lovemaking, she revealed his fortune. “You will be a millionaire in one year’s time.” He was now three days away from realizing Jhonnette’s prophesy. Whenever Snake found himself doubting the course they’d laid out together, he remembered that everything Jhonnette predicted had come to pass. Every single thing. And though he’d never admit it to another soul, Snake knew when Jhonnette put her hands on him during those long gone days of sickness, she’d healed him. 28

One Blood Certain of his future for the first time in recent memory, Snake cranked up the stereo, rolled the windows down, and fed his rented Mustang some gas. It was going to be a historic weekend. Lake City, here I come.

29

Chapter Four
Friday Location Unknown

aren Lafitte was lost in an unfamiliar forest. Fear drove her forward as she ran toward the light shimmering through the branches like a beacon. Arriving at the forest’s edge, she saw that the light was coming from a large house in the clearing. Less than twenty feet away, a man stood with his back to her wearing an orange fleece sweater and blue jeans. The man aimed a shotgun at something in the distance. Instinct commanded Karen to stay put. She held her breath, afraid to make the slightest sound. The hunter pulled the trigger on his shotgun. The backfire boomed like an explosion. What is he shooting at? The hunter prepared to fire again, then suddenly turned and glared in Karen’s direction as if he’d heard her thoughts. Karen ducked. She was shocked to discover that the hunter was her father. Her brother Kristopher was nailed to a post thirty feet away. A large, bullet-riddled target was painted on Kristopher’s chest, his face contorted in a twisted scream. 30

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One Blood Karen’s legs went numb and she crumpled to the ground. “Get the fuck up, bitch, before you make me hurt you,” her father growled. “Get up RIGHT NOW!” Karen blinked her eyes open, the strange dream seared away by a bright white light assaulting her sensitive irises. She squeezed her watering eyelids shut to protect them. She heard a click and the light disappeared. “’Bout goddamn time. You could sleep through fuckin’ World War III. Been tryin’ to wake your tired ass up for the past five minutes.” “Why’s it so dark?” Karen asked, shivering. She felt an unnatural grogginess, similar to the waking effects of the sleeping pills she “borrowed” from her mother from time to time. “Where am I?” The last thing she remembered, other than the fading dream, was speeding down Freeman Road on Jess’s Honda Ninja. Karen had really gotten into the biker scene last year and had become a fairly capable rider. When she was on a bike, everything fell into place. She could usually outrun her worries—with the exception of her number one concern, her eighteenth birthday. Or “cursed-day” as Kristopher had christened it. When Mom told her about the spa appointment, Karen saw it as another opportunity to do something she wanted to do today. It was her birthday after all, not theirs. Jess was happy to take her massage appointment; she could never afford such pampering on her own. All Jess had to do was sign in under Karen’s name. No one would be the wiser. “You betta stop axin’ questions and start followin’ directions, bitch, or somethin’ bad gone happen to you.” Big, abrasive hands pulled her into a sitting position. 31

Qwantu Amaru “Don’t touch me!” She tried to squirm out of his grasp but was slammed against a rough wall that cut into the flesh of her back. Her arms were tied and left to rest in her lap. Frightened at the echo of her desperate cries, she sobbed uncontrollably. “Please let me go. Please! I’ll do whatever you want!” Flashlight Man chuckled. “You’re damn skippy,” he said. “I’m gone give you some ground rules now. Rule number one, keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Rule number two—” “What do you want with me?” Karen wailed. “It’s not you we want,” he whispered. If not me, then who? An internal alarm went off. Ever since Kristopher’s death, Dad had warned Karen to be careful. “People will try to hurt me by hurting those I love most. All it takes is one slip up.” Her father was convinced that Kristopher brought on his demise by making that ill-fated trip to Simmons Park that day. That’s why he’d hired the extra security. Guards she became increasingly adept at duping and ducking over the years, and today was no exception. A cold hand touched her thigh. “Get away from me!” Karen twisted her head in all directions trying to see in the pitch black. “See, there you go violatin’ rule number one and it ain’t even been an hour yet.” “You won’t get away with this! My daddy—” The slap came out of nowhere, like the darkness itself had assaulted her, snapping her head into the wall. Her teeth clamped 32

One Blood down on her tongue, filling her mouth with the coppery taste of warm blood mixed with saliva. “Which leads me to rule number two. I’m yo’ daddy now. You do what I say, when I say, and you’ll be aight. If not, I’ll be forced to beat you like yo’ daddy, you understand?” Karen barely heard, much less understood. She swallowed some of her coppery flavored blood and her stomach quivered in near revolt. “And rule number three: If you don’t want to end up dead, don’t try to escape. You take whatever I give you and don’t give me any shit. I don’t give a fuck if you’re scared of the dark, needles, or if you don’t like to swallow pills. You take that shit like a good little girl, and we’ll be aight. Aight?” She felt him tie a thick rubber band around her upper left arm. The flashlight beam played on her arm as her oppressor pulled something out of his pocket. With the light out of her eyes she was able to make out a rotund black man of medium height. His face was not nearly as menacing as his voice, but his pitch black eyes held no trace of warmth. “This gone sting for a second. Don’t scream or make no sudden movements or I might miss the vein. We got to get you ready for the ceremony.” Ceremony? Karen clenched her jaw in protest as the needle entered her flesh. She closed her eyes. She was usually the one giving the injections, not receiving them. When Dad had fallen sick, the home care nurses taught her how to switch out his I.V.’s on nights when they weren’t there. 33

Qwantu Amaru Her nerves were so wracked the first time that she dropped four needles. Nevertheless, Dad calmed her down. He didn’t yell even once, although she saw how he flinched each time she inserted a new needle. Soon she could switch them out so swiftly Dad claimed not to notice. It had felt good being able to take care of him. Kristopher was gone and Mom was useless in her drug-induced fog. There was no way she was going to let Dad die and leave her alone with her mother. Flashlight Man said something else. Karen couldn’t hear him over the bass drum pounding of her heartbeat. Flashlight Man shook and then smacked her again. Karen felt disconnected from reality. Hypnotized by the flashlight’s beam—the sole source of illumination—the drug’s effects took hold. The light became her sun and she bathed in its warmth as it melted the ropes that bound her physical self. Nothing could hold her now because she was flying.

34

Chapter Five
Friday Lake City, LA

andy picked up the pay phone on the first ring. One of the advantages of being a high-ranking public official proved to be a nuisance tonight, as he had to drive fifteen minutes out of his way to lose the state trooper escort. He answered the phone with as much attitude as he could muster. “Speak.” “Do you like puppets, Randy?” The kidnapper used some sort of modulator to disguise his voice. “Puppets?” Randy’s face wrinkled in confusion. “No, I don’t. I just want my daughter back.” “I’m surprised to hear that, Governor,” the kidnapper replied. “I thought you were a master puppeteer. But even a master puppeteer must sleep, right? Can’t manipulate the strings all the time. Imagine what all those poor puppets do when they’re alone in the shop…” Randy’s ears were suddenly filled with a roar of static, which he realized was laughter. “Still waiting for the other shoe to drop, Randy?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just want to talk to my daughter.” “Well, everybody wants something, right?” 35

R

Qwantu Amaru Randy’s mind swam with déjà vu. He’d used those same words with Snake just hours ago. “Randy, are you still with me?” “Yes. I’m here. Now what do you want from me?” “I’m going to punish you, Randy,” the kidnapper replied. “But before we get to that, I need you to do some things. When I’m satisfied with your progress, then we can talk about you getting your daughter back. If I’m not satisfied, well, I’d think twice before getting into any moving vehicles, if you know what I mean.” Randy swallowed the obscenities forming in his throat. He took a few slow breaths. Let him think he is in control. Eventually, he’ll slip up and then you’ll have him. “I’m listening.” “In twenty-four hours, I expect to see a deposit of seven million dollars into my offshore account.” “You can’t be serious. There’s no way I can get that kind of money so fast.” Silence on the other end. “Are you still there?” Randy asked. “Did you hear what I just said?” “Don’t…” The menace in that single syllable petrified Randy’s core. “I don’t know what you—” “I can see how a man of your position and influence could begin to think of yourself as a master of the universe,” the kidnapper interrupted. “But don’t ever question my intelligence or my resolve again or I will put a knife through your daughter’s gut and make you listen to her last screams.” 36

One Blood Randy fought the urge to hang up the phone. An image of Kristopher, riddled with bullets, gave him pause. “Okay,” he said. “Seven million dollars. When do I get the account information?” “Did you think I would send you an e-mail?” the kidnapper replied through more static bursts. “It’s on the back of the note. Apply a liberal dose of lemon juice and voilà.” Invisible ink. Very clever. “Now listen carefully to this part, Randy. This money will purchase your daughter’s life for the next seventy-two hours. Understood?” “What happens after that?” “That depends on how well you do with the rest of my list. Now, get out a pen. Write down this number: 6-7-5-4-3-9.” Randy scribbled the numbers on the back of an old business card. “Read the number back to me.” Randy complied. “Can you guess what the number is for?” “Enlighten me.” “It’s a prison ID. Specifically, the ID of a VIP—very important prisoner. He’s a lifer at the Louisiana State Penitentiary. He is going to walk out of Angola at precisely eight o’clock Monday morning. If he doesn’t…do I need to say the rest?” Angola? Randy wracked his brain to place the prison ID number. Why did it sound so familiar? “Listen, I want to help you, but what you’re asking is impossible. Do you have any idea how long it takes to pardon someone? There’s a process. Public hearings with witnesses and lawyers. Committees that have to meet and vote…” 37

Qwantu Amaru “Not my problem. You’ve got the weekend to get it done. Also, don’t involve the police any more than you already have and don’t even think of calling the FBI or I will send your daughter’s severed head to the Capitol. I don’t think that would be very good PR, Governor.” Bill was right. I should have traced this call. I would have his location right now for sure… “You still with me, Randy?” “Yes. Yes, I’m still here.” “Good. I know what you must be thinking, but it wouldn’t have done any good. I can’t be traced or tracked. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? For every scud missile, there’s a patriot missile on the other side. For every police radar, a scrambler. And for every puppeteer, a very pissed off puppet. Let me reiterate, Randy, this isn’t about the money—” “Bullshit! It’s always about the money with you people!” Randy yelled, immediately regretting his outburst. “You should think of the money as a security deposit,” the kidnapper replied calmly. “Let me be clear. This is NOT about money. That would be too easy for slime like you. This is punishment.” Randy’s instincts kicked in. Keep him talking. Make him give something away. Something you can use to cinch the noose around his fucking throat. “You keep saying that,” Randy probed. “What am I being punished for? Why are you doing this?” “That’s for me to know and for you to agonize over. But I will leave you with this: From this moment forward, you are my 38

One Blood puppet and I am pulling your strings. I am going to make you do things you never imagined. Think back to when you first started manipulating the strings in your favor. Take your motivations at that point in time, multiplied one hundred fold, and you might come close to my level of hatred toward you. Consider yourself exceptionally fortunate that unlike you, my beliefs will not allow me to spill blood without provocation. But do not try me. This is one election you can’t steal. Get a good night’s sleep, Governor. You’re going to need it.” The line went dead. Randy stared at the phone for a long moment, the conversation replaying over and over in his mind. Finally, he hung up and returned to his car. He’d never smoked anything in his life but was overcome with a maddening desire to inhale cigarette after cigarette. And there wasn’t enough alcohol in this entire god forsaken city to numb his pain. As he started the vehicle and headed home, he frantically combed through his memories for any clue as to who could be doing this. Confront the brutal facts. Focus on what you can control. Be proactive. The answer came just before he climbed into bed. He nearly collapsed under the weight of the memory. Suddenly, it all made sense. “This is one election you can’t steal.” Randy looked over at his sleeping wife in alarm, as if she might wake up from the enormity of his revelation. But she stayed asleep, 39

Qwantu Amaru oblivious to how the room had suddenly started spinning beneath them. She has no idea who I really am. And she never will. The kidnapper had given him a major clue to his identity, but Randy needed to confirm his suspicions. He texted the prison ID number to Snake and ordered him to get the prisoner’s name as quickly as possible. Then he swallowed a couple of Coral’s sleeping pills, trying unsuccessfully to close the portal to his past. He doubted that even the miracles of modern medicine could drag him into unconsciousness after a day like this; but soon he passed into a fitful sleep, where his demons eagerly embraced him.

40

Chapter Six
39 Years Earlier 1963 New Orleans, LA

andy stepped out of the air-conditioned womb of the hotel into the kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells that made up his favorite street in his favorite city. He paused under the hotel awning, rubbing his hand through sandy blond hair, his clipped nails unconsciously brushing the still sensitive scar. His father had dropped him on his head as a baby—the first of many injuries. Randy wasn’t a baby anymore, though, and the delights of Bourbon Street beckoned. It was near dusk. The French Quarter was ablaze with the orange glow of electric lamps. The thick, sticky air hung suspended like spider webs of moisture, flavored by an eye-watering aromatic stew of magnolia, urine, cayenne pepper, and exhaust fumes. Randy’s virgin ears buzzed with dusky jazz and blues melodies echoing down a street too narrow to contain the soulful yet sorrowful notes. The foot traffic of hundreds of thirsty, starving visitors—beckoned by the holy trinity of cheap booze, cheap (yet exotic) eats, and cheap thrills—replaced automobile traffic. 41

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Qwantu Amaru Randy was here for none of these, although a few drinks would probably help ease his self-consciousness. He stood out like an aristocrat among the groveling masses in his blue blazer, polo shirt, and khakis, but knew the uniform would please his father. After all, Randy’s father was footing the bill for this little excursion, even though he was in the dark about Randy’s real reason for wanting to come to New Orleans. To keep up the façade of a celebratory party trip to the Big Easy, Randy had brought his partner in adolescent crime, Bill Edwards, along for the mission. Bill was a physical Adonis whose mental faculties were not much more advanced than a statue. His simple, go-with-the-flow attitude made him the perfect traveling companion. After the four and a half hour train ride from the heel of their boot-shaped state, into the big toe, Randy and Bill checked into the luxurious suite Joseph had reserved for today’s dual celebration of Randy’s graduation from boarding school and his eighteenth birthday. Atop the dresser his father had left them a stack of cash and a note instructing the boys to explore the city. He’d try to meet them for a late dinner. As the young men passed throngs of street musicians, hippy hustlers, and tourist shops, Randy considered New Orleans’ deceptive nature, the gluttonous beast beneath the cultured veneer. The city reminded him of a decrepit venus fly trap, opening up her decaying petals to emit what was left of her allure. Randy could relate to that kind of deception and duality. For an instant, Randy felt the presence of something dark, wet, hairy, and profoundly hungry stalking him. He looked over at Bill to see if any of this was registering. 42

One Blood His taller, bulkier buddy gestured excitedly at a sign advertising penny peep shows. “Check this out, Ran!” Bill whipped his head around and gaped at an attractive blonde who looked around their age. The girl glanced over her shoulder and gave Randy a look to which he’d grown quite accustomed. Southern girls played at being prim and proper but were easier to play than a pre-schooler’s recorder. “Forget those girls, Bill,” Randy said. “We’ve got other plans.” “You serious?” Bill asked, following the blond and her buxom red-headed friend into a nondescript bar. The sign outside read: Jean Lafitte’s Old Absinthe House. Lafitte, hmm. Maybe it’s a family-owned establishment. “Come on, buddy, let’s get some beers,” Randy said, turning Bill away from the bar and pointing him in the opposite direction. Randy actually had no idea where he was going, but knew what he was looking for. He found it down a dark alleyway three blocks off Bourbon Street. Explaining the essence of his plan to Bill, Randy got the response he anticipated. “No way, Ran. I ain’t goin’ to no fortune teller.” “Who said you were?” Randy pushed Bill out of the way. His eyes were drawn to the sign on the worn door before them. GOOD FORTUNES, it promised. Bill interrupted his reverie. “Somethin’ ain’t right about this place. Can we please go?” “Calm down, you big chicken,” Randy replied. “Drink your beer and wait for me.” Randy didn’t anticipate much help from a mere fortune teller, but hoped she could at least point him in 43

Qwantu Amaru the right direction. He was searching for a place where spells, curses, and secrets were traded. Where blood sacrifice was the only currency that mattered. And later at dinner, Bill would corroborate Randy’s story about how they’d spent their evening. Randy winked at Bill and turned the knob. “Now why you gotta go and do this, Ran. These places ain’t safe!” “Only one way to find out,” Randy replied, pulling the door open. Lavender spice tickled his nostrils as he moved into the building. “See,” he said, “what’s so scary about this?” Bill peered in briefly before Randy closed the door in his face. Randy stared up a candle-lit stairway. “Hello! Anyone here?” “Upstairs,” a girlish voice sang. Well, here goes nothing. Randy’s boldness was replaced with childlike fear and wonder. Swallowing his nerves, he slowly ascended the staircase, gazing cautiously at his surroundings. At the top, he was greeted by a golden light emanating from a room just off the landing. He looked around for the owner. The space was empty, but for a myriad of plants and a small round table in the center of the room. Light radiated from a globe in the middle of the table. Randy sat in one of the two chairs and examined the sphere. “You can touch it if you want,” a voice whispered, an inch from Randy’s right ear. He jumped up and whirled around, his gaze falling upon a beautiful woman with curly, black hair. Her height and youthful bone structure surprised him even more than her sudden appearance. 44

One Blood He’d always pictured fortune tellers as older and gypsy-like, but this woman looked barely older than him. “Did I scare you?” the woman asked, her green eyes glinting with mischief. Her near-white skin glowed from the light coat of sweat afflicting nearly everyone in this tropical town. “A little,” Randy admitted. “Why did you sneak up on me like that?” His eyes devoured the yellow summer dress clinging to her sultry Creole curves. “I like to get a good look at my customers before we engage.” “Are you satisfied with what you see?” he asked. He noticed that her delicate hands were wrapped in looping henna script. “Not quite. Come. Sit.” Randy sat before the beautiful prophetess. He felt an uncomfortable rigidness in his crotch. Stay focused. “What’s your name?” he asked. The woman smiled. “Madame Deveaux,” she spoke softly. Randy had to lean in to hear her. “You…you’re not…what I expected.” Their faces were inches apart. “People rarely are. So, what brings you to me?” Randy was losing himself in her eyes, forgetting his purpose. Willing himself from her hypnotic sway, he blurted, “I…I want to curse someone.” Her gaze sharpened. “I do not play games, young man. Nor should you.” “I’m very serious.” Now that his dark request was out in the open, his heart pounded against the walls of his chest like a giant trapped behind a great steel door. 45

Qwantu Amaru “We’ll see about that. How much money do you have?” “Money? I thought…” “You thought you could pay me in pig’s blood or some other foolishness?” “Favors,” Randy choked out, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I read…I mean, I thought you were paid in favors.” Madame Deveaux’s face softened as she erupted in laughter. “What’s so funny?” “You’re just a boy,” she replied. “Who could have possibly hurt you so deeply that you feel the need to hurt them in return?” Randy stared at the impossibly young fortune teller, trying to decide how much to reveal. Either she would believe him, or she wouldn’t. Either she could help, or she couldn’t. “My father,” he said finally. She nodded. “Our families are often the cause of our deepest pain. What makes your case so special?” Taking a deep breath, Randy began his story. It was amazing how easy it was to talk about this secret subject with a complete stranger. “He killed my mother. In a car accident when I was twelve. Tried to say it was some kind of accident, but I know he’s happy she’s dead…” After his mother’s funeral, Randy was often dragged to meetings his father had with a group of men that Joseph referred to as his brethren. Even at the age of twelve, Randy was well aware of what his father and his friends did to pass the time. After getting drunk, they’d pull out their white robes and hoods and head into 46

One Blood North Lake City to “maintain the order of things,” as Joseph liked to call it. Randy once asked his father why they had to patrol the area if that was the police’s job. Joseph snorted laughter and replied, “Look around the room, son. The police are right here. We just wear different uniforms at night.” One such night, the brethren were drinking heavily, their pores oozing the rotting oak aroma of Kentucky’s finest bourbon. Joseph, three sheets to the wind, began recounting the accident that took his mother’s life, looking Randy right in the eyes while doing so, as if daring his son to shut him up. According to Joseph, he and Rita were returning to Lake City from Shreveport on US-151, just outside of Deridder, when a stupid black child chased a ball or something into the middle of the highway, right into their path. “When I saw that niglet, I had a mind to do one thing and one thing only.” “What was that, Joe?” the brethren asked as one. “To jam down on the gas and run ‘im down!” The brethren howled like hyenas before the kill. “But then my stupid cunt of a wife grabbed the wheel and instead of hittin’ that niglet we hit a ditch. Well…I hit the ditch. Poor Rita flew out the windshield like a witch on a broomstick! Ha! Good riddance, I say.” “It was supposed to be me,” Randy whispered to Madame Deveaux. “It’s my fault she’s dead.” “How is it your fault?” Madame Deveaux asked. 47

Qwantu Amaru “On trips, I was the navigator, so I always got to sit up front with my father. But I was sick this time and couldn’t go, and she died because of it…” Randy began two different lives in the wake of his mother’s death. In public, he played the part of the grieving only son of the affluent businessman. He attended school, studied hard, and hung out with friends. But he never shed a tear. That would have brought on a severe beating from Joseph for certain. In private, he was in agony. He didn’t sleep, eat, or pray. His brain was on a never-ending doom loop. Before long, he fell apart like a long buried skeleton. One day, while desperately searching for some way, any way, to relieve himself of the crushing grief, guilt, fear, and shame, he took a steak knife in one unstable hand. Before he knew what he was doing, he slashed his upper forearm in a swift motion, reminiscent of a violinist with a bow. After nearly fainting from the sight of his own blood bubbling up to the surface of his pale skin like lava, the sensation of vertigo was quickly replaced by a surge of adrenaline and release. Eventually, he graduated to butcher knives and long precise cuts to his upper thighs. He even grew accustomed to the additional sting from the sour-smelling vinegar he used to cauterize his selfinflicted wounds. Nothing compared to the merger of pain and exuberance he experienced whenever he plunged a knife into his flesh. 48

One Blood “So you wish to curse your father to punish him for killing your mother, correct?” Madame Deveaux recapped. He nodded. “Why a curse?” Madame Deveaux asked after a moment’s reflection. “Are you afraid to get your hands bloody?” Randy stared at her over the shimmering globe. “No. I’m not afraid. But there is a certain symmetry to doing it this way. You interrupted me before I could finish my story…” One afternoon after the cutting started, Randy was wandering deep in the stacks of the Lake City Public Library, planning more self-inflicted incisions, when a book spine caught his attention. He pulled out the book called The History of Magic and cracked it open. Hope whispered to him from between the dusty pages. He devoured the tome, chock-full of true stories about apparitions, divination, witchcraft, and spirit-rapping. Afterward, he became obsessed with all things occult, reading everything he could get his hands on. Most of the books dealt with the homegrown magic of Hoodoo and the religion of Voodoo. They described New Orleans as the epicenter of American magic. Randy began daydreaming of one day possessing the power to bring his mother back from the dead. But those plans got derailed when their maid found his stash of bloody rags and damning books, prompting Joseph to ship him off to a boarding school in France. While exiled, Randy had the opportunity to meet distant relatives and learn more about his origins. His father had always expressed extreme pride for their ancestor Luc Lafitte, a French buccaneer famous for many things, including the founding of their 49

Qwantu Amaru hometown, Lake City, in 1802. However, Randy quickly learned that his French kin didn’t share the same affection for Luc. To them, Luc and his direct descendants were decayed branches that had thankfully rotted off the family tree. After weeks of searching the library of his boarding school for the French version of Luc’s story, Randy uncovered Le Roi des Pirates, (The Pirate King), which described the beginnings of the Lafitte lineage in America. Apparently Luc had made his fortune hijacking Spanish ships in the Gulf of Mexico, eventually settling down in Lake City. The Lafitte’s had always been an opportunistic clan, and Luc possessed the foresight to open a French trading outpost in Lake City that became a strategic center for French military operations. He married the daughter of a French aristocrat who eventually gave him a daughter and two sons. Luc’s life then became very unremarkable until his apparent suicide three days after his oldest child and only daughter, Melinda, threw herself from the roof of the Lafitte mansion on her eighteenth birthday. Randy combed through account after account of who was born to whom, who married who, and who died when. A dark trend emerged; Melinda’s suicide had started something. The more he read, the more he became convinced that fate put this knowledge into his hands at the precise moment when he could appreciate its significance. It was as if his mother were reaching out to him from behind death’s curtain and pointing the way. “Today is my eighteenth birthday,” Randy concluded. “And you want your father to die three days from now, just like Luc Lafitte, am I right?” Madame Deveaux asked. 50

One Blood Randy nodded. “What if you’re wrong? What if the curse doesn’t work that way?” Randy hadn’t considered this, but couldn’t let her know that. “Well…if it doesn’t work…I expect a full refund.” Madame Deveaux laughed. “You really have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, do you?” Randy suppressed the urge to lunge across the table and choke her laughs quiet. “Look, there are a hundred so-called fortune tellers in this town. Are you going to help me or not?” Madame Deveaux straightened. At once, she appeared taller and more present. Randy felt her essence envelop him from all sides, even though she never moved. “I am no fortune teller, boy,” she said. “I am mambo…ahh, I see you know this word, yes?” He nodded slowly. “So…you are a voodoo priestess?” “Yes. Now you know what and who you are dealing with. Do you still wish to proceed?” “Yea-yes,” he stammered. “Very well, Randy,” she replied after a moment. “Come back tomorrow afternoon and I will have everything you need.” Plodding down the stairs, Randy couldn’t remember when he had told her his name. “Oh man, am I glad to see you!” Bill exclaimed as Randy stepped out of the building. “What the hell took you so long?” Randy’s head buzzed. Madame Deveaux’s incense had done a number on him. “What do you mean? How long was I gone?” “Nearly two hours!” 51

Qwantu Amaru That long? “Well? What did she say?” Bill asked. “She said that I should get rid of any and all chicken shit friends.” “Come on, man. What did she really say?” In three days, Joseph is a dead man. “Ran? You with me buddy?” Randy looked over at Bill. “I need a drink. Then I’ll tell you all about it.” Randy stared back at the sign – GOOD FORTUNES. Am I really going to go through with this? He visualized his mother’s kind face and felt his jaw muscles clench painfully. For the first time in years he felt the compulsion to bleed himself. “Okay, no problem,” Bill replied. “Hey, cheer up…it’s still your day for another coupla’ hours. Let’s make the most of it.” Randy allowed Bill to wrap his arm around his shoulder and lead him back into the lights of the French Quarter. Over the next three days, Randy followed Madame Deveaux’s instructions without exception. She told him that sometime after midnight on the third day, Joseph would do something completely out of character. That would be Randy’s cue that the curse was in effect. Just when he’d convinced himself that he’d been swindled, his father burst out of the front door of their hotel, a drunken, disheveled mess. Randy suppressed his impulse to call the whole thing off and followed his father instead. Joseph was clearly scared out of his mind. The stench of his fear hung in the air like a trail of breadcrumbs as Randy lagged behind him. 52

One Blood Before long, Joseph reached Jackson Square. Randy found a spot where he could observe without being seen. He watched as his father knelt next to Andrew Jackson’s statue and placed a revolver in his mouth. It’s working. He’s really going to do it. Joseph looked up as if in prayer and a tall, black man emerged from the shadows. Randy stood. This wasn’t part of the plan. Joseph removed the revolver from his mouth at the sight of the black man and offered it to him. Randy ran across the square. Joseph sat in rapt attention as the black man spoke to him. Then the black man shoved the barrel of the weapon back into Joseph’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Randy watched the back of his father’s head torn apart by the bullet. He stopped in the middle of the square like he was the one who’d been shot. Finally, he found his voice and screamed, “Stop right there!” Randy broke into a run, but arrived at his father’s side too late. The murderer was gone.

53

Chapter Seven
Saturday Lake City, LA

oral Lafitte shot straight up in the bed like she had a lever attached; Randy moaned loudly in his sleep beside her. Frightened and a bit peeved at having been awakened, Coral tried to shake Randy out of his nightmare—with no results. She hadn’t seen her normally stoic husband in this condition since before Kristopher died. Thoughts of Kristopher brought her daughter’s image to the fore. Coral was desperate to speak to Karen. Karen was her baby, and she’d give anything to see her roll over and smile her father’s brilliant smile as she tried to retract her feet from her mother’s tickling. But her baby was in Cancun. Cancun? Coral was still amazed Randy actually permitted Karen to go so far away, on today of all days. Maybe he was learning some new tricks. Randy was finally still. She reached for his cell phone and punched in Karen’s number. Karen would answer Randy’s call for sure. Except she didn’t. The line went directly to voicemail, just like it did with the thirty or so calls she’d made over the last twelve hours. 54

C

One Blood Coral glared at her husband’s motionless form. Being married to Randy Lafitte was an exasperating existence. She was used to his controlling nature, but his behavior of late was just...strange. Not only had he refused to give her Karen’s hotel information (explaining they needed to “respect her privacy”), but he’d also left the house at 10:30 p.m. to go God knows where. He’d returned sometime after midnight without a word about where he’d been, leaving her in the dark, tossing and turning, unable to shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong. Now her anxiety was back and worse than ever. To rid herself of the Girls Gone Wild commercials playing on repeat in her mind, she went to the bathroom to take a Xanax. Then she headed down the hall to the spiral staircase. Halfway down the stairs she tripped on the shift of her robe and almost tumbled the rest of the way down. Descending with more care, Coral was reminded of how much she loathed all ten thousand square feet of this residence, which she’d come to think of as “the fortress.” That home architecture critic had nailed it when he’d concluded, “The Lafitte Mansion is less of a home and more of an ill-devised plan of a young man with too much money and not enough taste.” He’d rebuked their abode as “unnecessarily ostentatious” for the eighteen massive square columns, marble fountain, and antebellum staircase on the exterior, as well as the interior’s six bedrooms, ten bathrooms, two libraries, den, movie theatre, bowling alley, and connected boathouse for Randy’s yacht. All this space for three people orbiting each other like planets drowning in the ink of the cosmos. 55

Qwantu Amaru Gazing upon Lake Francis through the large bay windows in the great room, Coral reminisced about the one-story, middleclass home in Iowa, LA that she grew up in. She almost missed the cracks in the walls and water damage that gave her parent’s house so much character. This place was so immaculate it was practically sterile, with more than enough space to amplify the emptiness. Coral endured years of merciless taunting at the hands of the rich girls at her high school because she was poor. But now that she had more money than she ever dreamed of, Coral understood what fueled the mean girls’ spite. The more a person possessed, the greater the fear of losing it all. Nothing was promised. Besides, all the money in the world couldn’t prevent miscarriages or loved ones from being murdered. That’s why she admired Randy so. If it wasn’t for him and all he’d overcome, she might have given up after Kristopher’s death. She’d fantasized more than once about ending it all. But she couldn’t do that to him. And she wouldn’t do that to Karen. Coral watched the moonlight dance across the deck, waltzing with the lazy current. A vision came to her of a tornado sweeping across the water, whisking their mansion away, like in the Wizard of Oz. Wiping the slate clean once and for all. The thought was rather appealing. She wandered down a long expansive hallway adorned with portraits Randy commissioned of the Lafitte lineage. In classic bad taste, he placed his prized portrait of his father, Joseph, above the mantle in the great room. A breeze rippled through two shrouded paintings hanging at the end of the hall. Randy wanted to remove the portraits—one of Kristopher on his tenth birthday, and the other a family portrait—but Coral wouldn’t allow it. 56

One Blood In the end, they compromised on the black silk shrouds. Past the library was a hexagon shaped cul-de-sac with two closed doors opposite each other. Coral opened the door with a bright red STOP sign stuck to it and entered the freeze-frame world of an eighteen-year-old boy who would never reach manhood. The room was so full of Kristopher’s essence, it often felt haunted. Impervious to the eeriness, Coral went directly to the bed, running her hands over the LSU Tigers comforter and pillow on the full-size waterbed. She looked around the room at Kristopher’s posters of Larry Bird, Pete Maravich, and John Stockton interspersed amongst others of Cindy Crawford, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana. On the nightstand was a picture of the whole family taken at Kristopher’s senior awards ceremony. Coral almost didn’t recognize the pretty, middle-aged blond in the photograph. Her younger, smiling visage showed no trace of the crow’s feet, wrinkles and dark circles plaguing her from the mirror these days. Whoever said “time healed all wounds” had never outlived their child. Kristopher’s death had devastated their family, plunging them into the suffocating darkness of grief and despair. Once Coral began her torturous crawl back toward the light, the overwhelming support from the public awed and humbled her into taking control of her grief. She harnessed her pain and poured it into Catharsis in Crisis through Christ, her bestselling book about dealing with child-loss-related trauma by fully surrendering to the will of their Lord and Savior. As the book took up residence on the bestsellers list, Coral was thrust into the spotlight, the newly anointed expert on grief. 57

Qwantu Amaru But in reality, she was ill-equipped to deal with the people who came to her for answers on how to handle the excruciating deaths of their children. She couldn’t deal with the stories, each more tragic than the next. The pleading looks on their faces and the airy lifeless sound in their voices as they told their tales of woe were overwhelming. Coral became the opposite of the supposedly strong woman on the cover of that cursed book and retreated back into the darkness, taking Karen out of school in Baton Rouge and returning full-time to their home in Lake City. The irony of it all was that even though she’d written the book, and believed what she’d been writing at the time, it had been years since she felt the presence of God watching over them. Why would God throw tragedy after tragedy her way—first Kristopher’s death, then Randy’s bout with brain cancer, and Karen’s near suicide. Coral sighed. Karen was so much like her father, it was frightening at times. Impossible to read, unfazed by the bumps life threw her, and filled with so much charisma that no one could deny her anything she wanted. As a licensed child psychologist, Coral knew her daughter better than she knew herself, but Karen’s behavior of late left even her mother without answers. Coral did not like the fact that she couldn’t get ahold of her daughter. Lord knows what shenanigans Karen might be up to. She decided to try calling again. When she returned to their bedroom, Randy was awake. Coral could hear him rummaging through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “Coral!” 58

One Blood She sat on the bed. “Yes.” “Where the hell are you hiding the rest of those damn sleeping pills?” She yawned and stretched. “The same place I always keep them,” she replied, unfazed by Randy’s customary grouchiness. “In my overnight bag. It should be on top of the toilet right next—” “Got’em.” She heard him turn on the sink and a few seconds later he clicked off the bathroom light. “Nightmares,” Randy said, as he climbed into bed. “You were talking in your sleep,” Coral said. “Who is Isaac?” “Who?” “You kept repeating that name, Isaac.” Randy frowned. “I have no idea what—” Randy’s cell phone rang, interrupting his train of thought. He looked around frantically for it. Coral remembered her last call to Karen and picked it up off her nightstand. “Karen?” she answered. “Good evening, Missus Lafitte.” Coral recognized the deep country twang but couldn’t place it. “You mean, good morning don’t you, Mr.—” “Snake. Snake Roberts. You remember me don’t you ma’am? I was the one that found yuh son after he ran away.” “Yes…yes, of course I remember you. Do you know what time it is?” Why in the world is Snake Roberts calling? “Time to hand the phone over to yuh husband, don’t you think? We got man business to discuss; it’s best you don’t axe too many 59

Qwantu Amaru questions.” He gulped something and belched. “Aww…don’t you worry your perty little head now…I’m gonna find your daughter. Hopefully she’ll be better off than yuh boy ended up.” Find Karen? But I thought… There was no oxygen in the room. Coral lost her equilibrium and collapsed.

60

Chapter Eight
Saturday Lake City, LA

andy stared down at Coral, passed out on their bed. “Goddamnit, Snake, you had to call in the middle of the fucking night, didn’t you?” “Well if yuh don’t want to know where Madame Deveaux is holed up, I can always call back during nurmal bidness hours.” Randy heard the biting sarcasm in Snake Roberts’ thick, country twang and knew the man was one beer from a blackout. He checked Coral’s breathing and took the phone into the other room. “You found her?” he whispered. “A’ course. But yuh won’t be able to talk to her anytime soon.” “Why the hell not?” “Because she’s been dead for ten years. Heart failure.” “Dead?” “As Elvis.” “Shit!” “If it means anything to yuh, I did locate her daughter, Jhonnette.” “Her daughter? She can’t help me,” Randy replied. Then he thought of his father. “Wait. Maybe she can. Where is she, Snake?” “She’s in Nawlins. Do yuh want me to arrange a meeting?” 61

R

Qwantu Amaru “You know me too well, Snake. Fetch.” “Okay, Boss. Oh, there’s one more thing.” “What is it?” “I got the name of the guy yer supposed to spring from Angola.” “Who is it?” Randy asked, fully expecting to hear Roberts say the name of some Irish mobster. When it finally registered what Snake was saying, he almost choked on the rage bubbling up from his gut. “What did you just say?” “I said it’s Lincoln Baker. My source on the inside is a hunnert percent positive.” “But he killed Kristopher…” “I know. Fucked up, ain’t it, Boss?” “I’ll string Baker up by his balls. He wants to fuck with me.” “How you gonna manage that, Boss? Baker’s on twenty-threehour lockdown. Never leaves his cage.” Randy threw the phone across the bathroom. Punishment.

62

Chapter Nine
29 Years Earlier 1973 Lake City, LA

’m coming!” Juanita Simmons said, hurrying toward the front door. As she rushed through the opulent home she and Walter built after they won the election, she kept one hand between the heat of her thick dark hair and the nape of her neck. She hadn’t thought to tie it back while undertaking the momentous project of organizing her husband’s study, and now she was a sweaty mess, totally unprepared for company. Thankfully the cool hardwood floors beneath her petite bare feet provided brief relief from the heat. Theirs was the largest residence in North Lake City. She and Walter had many spirited discussions over the location of their new home. He longed to infiltrate the exclusively white neighborhood of Oak Park. “We have to break down these racial barriers, baby. If the first black mayor in the state of Louisiana can’t live where he wants, then who can?” It was a fair point. Juanita countered by reminding him racial tensions were higher than ever in the aftermath of the contentious 63

“I

Qwantu Amaru election between he and the hometown favorite, Randy Lafitte. Had Walter forgotten that a mere five years had passed since MLK’s assassination? Change came slow in the South. Yes, his victory symbolized progress. But society still had a long way to go. Truth be told, Juanita was not too keen on moving into a white neighborhood. While she was all for integrating the school system, when she walked around her neighborhood, she wanted to see her own people. It provided something Juanita had been searching for her whole life, the feeling of true security. However, the tall dark-skinned man standing on her porch was an unfortunate reminder that Juanita had bigger things to worry about than the race of her neighbors. Malcolm Wright, chief of Walter’s security team, grimaced at her through the peephole. This, in and of itself, did not alarm her. Malcolm, a childhood friend, only possessed two expressions— anger, for intimidation, and dismay, for all other situations. Malcolm actually had a pleasant enough face, although she could never get used to the pirate-esque eye patch covering his missing left eye. Though they dated briefly in High School, Juanita no longer trusted his wiry six-foot-four frame. He always seemed to be holding his coiled muscle back from some random act of violence. He was a living embodiment of the unfortunate misperception that the darker a person’s skin, the darker their heart. Juanita met Malcolm’s grim countenance with a scowl of her own. These days she associated Malcolm’s impromptu visits with agonizing pain. Opening the door, she silently prayed this wouldn’t be a repeat of six weeks prior, when Malcolm had shown 64

One Blood up at the house with an envelope containing pictures of Walter in a compromising situation with his white secretary. Even with the evidence splayed out on the coffee table before her, Juanita refused to believe what she was seeing. Her anxiety multiplied as Malcolm explained that Randy Lafitte was trying to blackmail Walter with the information, but Malcolm intercepted the package before it got to Walter. “So Walter doesn’t know that I know?” she asked. “No, but…” “Good,” she snapped. Before rationality could prevail, Juanita collected the envelope and its stinking entrails and bolted through the house until she reached the back deck. Standing upon solid wooden planks, she lit up a cigarette, ignoring her trembling hands, and set the envelope and its life-shattering contents ablaze. Juanita tried desperately to purge her mind of the contents of that envelope, but she couldn’t stop herself from drilling Walter about his whereabouts at every opportunity. One night, after finding lipstick stains on one of his dress shirts, she tore into him. Walter exploded in a cursing frenzy that reduced her to a tearful shambles, then left the house and didn’t return. Until last night. After five nights away, he showed up with roses and spent hours filling her heart with hope and her ears with tearful apologies. Then he made love to her like he would never see her again. This morning as he got ready for work, he said, “Today marks a new beginning for us.” 65

Qwantu Amaru “Let me guess,” Juanita said by way of greeting. “More bad news.” “Not exactly,” Malcolm replied. “But it is time we speak about this, don’t you think?” She ushered him through the foyer, which was decorated with pictures of her and Walter in various phases of their relationship. Juanita privately lamented, as always, at the lack of smiling children in the portraits. The last photo, before the hall opened into the living room, was of Juanita and her mother in front of their old house in neighboring Fisherville. “House,” was a bit of an overstatement; it was really little more than a one-bedroom shack surrounded by shanties just like it. But her mother did the best she could after Juanita’s father left them for another woman. She cleaned the homes of affluent white people and scraped together just enough money so Juanita could go away to college. Over the past few weeks, Juanita often caught herself marveling at her mother’s strength in the wake of her father’s betrayal. She’d never seen her cry or heard her badmouth her father. It wasn’t until her mother lay on her deathbed that she admitted the shame she felt over her inability to hold onto a man. At the time, Juanita’s mind showed her the image of an enormous python with her father’s head; her mother was desperately trying to hang onto the treacherous creature as it writhed in her tiny hands. In recurring nightmares, Walter’s face now supplanted her father’s. Juanita was her mother’s doomed understudy. Malcolm sat on the leather sofa looking uncomfortable. Juanita saw him wince when she opted to sit across from him in one of the old-fashioned rocking chairs, instead of joining him on the couch. Prickly silence settled between them. 66

One Blood “Burning that envelope hasn’t changed the facts, you know,” Malcolm said finally, undoing the quiet. “Walter is risking everything. And for what? For some blond bimbo? Doesn’t he realize what he stands to lose? Doesn’t he see how Lafitte is playing him?” “You know what I think?” Juanita asked, deciding not to indulge Malcolm’s negativity any longer. “I think you’re jealous. First you come out of nowhere during the campaign and offer help—which no one asked for, by the way—and now that he’s in office, you’re trying to ruin him. Is this how you treat your best friend?” Malcolm’s eye darted between hers in confusion. “Walter and I stopped being friends the moment I opened that envelope.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me, how many lies and excuses does a woman allow her philandering husband to feed her before she does something about it?” “Fuck you, Malcolm!” He recoiled, his jaws clenched. Finally, he replied, “You need to be directing that anger where it belongs.” Juanita’s shoulders slumped, defeated. She was exhausted. “You’re right, Malcolm,” she said. “I’m just so confused. You have no idea how hard this has been for me. Walter came back last night. He told me it’s over with her.” “And you believed him, right?” It wasn’t a question. She could tell from the incredulous look on Malcolm’s face that he thought her a fool. Just some idiot woman too blind to see the truth in front of her. Juanita had suffered so much since discovering Walter’s affair—the accusations, the denials, the fights, the hating and loving him at the same time. Things between them had begun so differently. 67

Qwantu Amaru Juanita and Walter met as undergraduate students at Dillard University. It was Malcolm who introduced her to Walter, his “best friend and future savior of the Afro-American race.” Juanita was immediately drawn to Walter’s strength, optimism, and chivalry. She was inspired by his bold vision to run for public office in a time when most black folks had been scared into silence by the Klu Klux Klan. His singing voice, a sonorous perfect tenor, had captivated her heart. They’d fallen in love during the March on Washington, standing side by side on the crowded steps of the Lincoln Memorial, accompanying Joan Baez as she sang “We Shall Overcome.” The two idealistic lovers married a year after Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. “What do you expect me to do, Malcolm? I still love him.” “And I still love you,” Malcolm confessed. “I always have. Let me take you away from this place. I can remove all of your pain.” Juanita gazed upon Malcolm, sensing his sincerity. It was true that once upon a time, she considered Malcolm to be her ideal mate. But he’d returned from his tour in Vietnam a stranger, speaking of Voodoo and violence. Her Malcolm was gone, replaced by an adopted persona named Panama X. Understanding dawned on her. “So that’s what this is all about,” she said, getting up. “You think I’m just going to leave this life I’ve scratched and clawed to build?” She paced before him like a lioness behind the zookeeper’s fence. “You may have the rest of these black folks fooled Malcolm, but not me. You forget that 68

One Blood I know you. Save your medicine man routine for someone who cares. The protection of Jesus Christ presides over this household.” Malcolm smiled, but his eyes were devoid of humor. “Where was Jesus when Walter was fucking that bitch seven ways from Sunday?” Juanita slapped him so hard her hand buzzed and blushed red for nearly a minute. Malcolm’s good eye darkened. The telephone rang and Juanita jumped, startled. “He-hello Miss Simmons.” It was Carla Bean, Walter’s secretary and lover. Juanita had thought she was impervious to surprises, but hearing that white whore’s voice set her back. “That’s Mrs. Simmons,” she replied. “What do you want?” And what the hell are you still doing working there? “Well, I hate to bother you, but Wally—I mean Walter—asked me to call and tell you he’ll be working late again tonight.” Juanita swore she heard Walter chuckle in the background. “Um, he said not to wait up. It’s going to be a long night.” Juanita dropped the phone. He’s lost his goddamn mind. I’m gonna help him find it. Walter and Carla’s imaginary laughter echoed through the halls of Juanita’s mind, consuming rational thought. She ran into the kitchen, opened the top drawer, and removed Walter’s silverplated revolver from its shelter of old dishrags. Malcolm was hot on her heels. “I don’t know what just happened, Juanita, but this is my burden. Not yours.” He closed the distance between them and tried to extract the gun wedged between her palms. 69

Qwantu Amaru “He’s my husband,” Juanita said, projecting her rage toward Malcolm as he twisted her left and right, trying to loosen her grip. In the struggle, Juanita’s index finger found the trigger and she inadvertently squeezed. The blast reverberated through her frame like a shockwave. She stared in horror at the bullet hole in the tile floor between them, inches from Malcolm’s feet. Juanita dropped the gun and the weapon clattered to the floor, coming to rest beneath the counter. From this vantage point, it was easy to pretend the revolver was just a harmless toy. Like, how before Carla Bean’s phone call, it had been easy to pretend Walter was a good husband. Oh God. What am I doing? “I’m so sorry!” Juanita wailed. Malcolm wrapped her up in his arms. His shirt was damp with musky perspiration. She heard the fear in his thudding heartbeat, but when he whispered to her, his voice was as calm as ever. “I have seen your sacrifices firsthand, Juanita. You gave up everything for Walter. School, your career, even those five children you said you wanted. And what has he given you besides this big, empty house?” Juanita collapsed against the cupboard, the layers of delusion starting to crack. “How could he do this to me?” she cried. “Oh God, I can’t live like this anymore! I have to confront him, Malcolm.” “I know you do,” Malcolm replied. “But you’re not going alone.” He stooped down and picked up the gun. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Just in case,” he said. 70

One Blood They arrived downtown at the Lake City Fathers Building as the light began to wane. Parked in the nearly empty lot, Juanita commanded Malcolm to wait for her. Slamming the door in the middle of his protest, she raced up the five flights of stairs to Walter’s office. The small waiting area was vacant, the secretary nowhere in sight. The oppressive silence was unnerving. Juanita opened Walter’s office door and surveyed the large space. Behind the desk, Walter’s large leather chair faced the window overlooking Lake Francis and the Riverwalk. A familiar scent tickled her nose. That bastard was wearing the cologne she’d bought him for their fifth wedding anniversary. She cringed at the visual of that homewrecking secretary smelling Walter’s neck and then seducing him with her eyes. He’s probably daydreaming about which way to fuck her tonight. A moan emanated from behind her. Against her better judgment, Juanita walked over to the closet. They’re in there! Gripped by a sudden masochistic need to catch him in the act, she jerked the door open. Walter was kneeling before the door, head bowed. He raised his face toward the light, recognition and fear filling his eyes. Duct tape covered his mouth. His hands were bound behind his back. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Walter! Who did this to you?” He grunted something in reply. As she struggled with the tape over his mouth, she heard a noise behind her. She whipped her head around just as a hard, jagged object smashed into her skull. 71

Qwantu Amaru She awoke sometime later. Her entire being was sore and bruised from rough treatment. She vaguely remembered her head being slammed repeatedly into the floor. She’d been hit with something else, too. The left side of her cranium was a sweaty, matted mess of hair, blood, and carpeting. Each breath was a scarlet torture. Dark, tentacle-like tendrils of smoke smothered her sight. Her arms were asleep. Above her head, her left wrist was handcuffed to one of the legs of Walter’s desk. A wet, sticky substance trickled down her thigh as she tried desperately to remember. Am I bleeding down there? Juanita licked her swollen lips, tasting sweat and tears. Something crashed on the other side of the room. She managed to maneuver into a seated position. The desk obstructed her view. Her throat threatened to close up on her. She lowered her head and covered her face from chin to nose with what was left of her blouse. Another crashing noise startled her back into action. Gray-black smoke flooded the office. Juanita jerked violently at her restraint as blinding, stinging beads of sweat streamed into her eyes. She cried out in frustration. The handcuff bit into her skin like a stainless-steel vampire. Using the blood as lubrication, she tried to free herself by yanking, jerking, and wriggling. Nearly delirious from the effort, Juanita tugged so hard she thought her veins would pop out of her arms. As the smoke tightened its death grip around her throat, she fought to remain conscious. Abruptly, the imprisoned hand pulled free. Juanita descended into a series of violent coughs as the office 72

One Blood began to burn down all around her. Wincing in pain, she crawled through the oppressive cloud of smoke toward the door. After four gasping crawls, she looked up to gauge how far she was from the exit. It seemed miles away. Then a voice spoke from a few feet in front of her. With the last of her strength dissipating, Juanita looked up. A tall figure, wearing a gas mask, stared down at her. “Help me,” Juanita gasped. Her throat was a smoke-filled corridor. The figure offered a muffled laugh. “Let’s see how bad he wants you now.”

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Chapter Ten
Nine months later 1974 Houston, TX

uanita lay on a lumpy mattress, legs spread wide. Harsh afternoon sunlight stabbed her through a small, barred window. Instead of giving birth in a hospital, Juanita was in the bedroom of a too small Frenchtown apartment, tucked inside the Fifth Ward ghetto. The one-bedroom safe house she refused to call home was now a prison. Malcolm patted her sweat-soaked face with a once-cool rag gone warm. Juanita took her eyes away from Malcolm’s dark face. Staring at the scar tissue where his left eye used to be brought unhealthy visions of birthing a baby Cyclops. She knew she needed to focus on bringing this baby into the world, but her mind was stuck in a putrid whirlpool of negativity. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. “Almost time, baby,” Malcolm said, grasping Juanita’s hand in his large sandpaper paw. “God, it’s so hot!” she gasped. “Everything is gonna be fine,” Malcolm said, looking over at Velma Baker, the midwife. Velma was a short and stout woman, 74

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One Blood fair-skinned like Juanita, known as much for her sense of propriety as her competence. “Right, Velma?” Velma responded by spreading Juanita’s legs even wider. “This is it, Juanita,” she said. “I need you to bear down now. Give us one last big push.” Heart-rate galloping, Juanita tightened her swollen abdomen until her vision burned and blurred from the sweat and strain. A scream escaped her lips. Despite her exertion, Juanita tried to visualize Walter’s hands gently dabbing the rag against her feverish skin. When she opened her eyes and saw Malcolm hovering over her like a living, breathing nightmare, she remembered Walter was gone forever. “I can see the head! Keep pushing, baby! Keep pushing!” Malcolm shouted. He sounded far away, as if he were in the apartment downstairs. Juanita couldn’t feel the mattress beneath her anymore. An allencompassing bitterness about the life that had been stolen from her left no room for other sensations. She was coldly certain that whatever was inside her, struggling to get out, would not, could not, be human. Babies were supposed to be born out of love, yet loathing enveloped her. Juanita squeezed her eyes shut and pushed like her very life depended on it. She needed to get rid of this hatred within her. After collapsing on the floor of Walter’s burning office, Juanita had resigned herself to perishing in the inferno. The next time she opened her bleary eyes, she found herself in the backseat of Malcolm’s car, alive. Once she was coherent, Malcolm explained 75

Qwantu Amaru how he burst into the office, found her lying on the floor, nearly lifeless, and dragged her to safety. She asked him repeatedly about Walter, but his only reply was, “I didn’t see him.” The newspaper helped Juanita fill in the blanks. After the Lake City Fire Department put out the raging fire, they found Walter’s barbecued body in the closet; a pair of bloody handcuffs connected to the desk; a twenty-two caliber pistol with rounds fired; and the body of Carla Bean—the secretary. The headline declared, “Foul Play Expected Cause of Death for Mayor Walter Simmons and Secretary: Missing Wife is Lead Suspect.” The police searched for weeks but were unsuccessful in identifying Juanita’s whereabouts. Meanwhile, Juanita and Malcolm took up residence in the ghetto safe house in Frenchtown. She tried to goad herself into leaving him and starting over on her own, but then the morning sickness started. That last night she and Walter spent together rendered more than a broken heart. It produced an embryo Juanita thought of as a curse from her dead husband. As she entered her third trimester, she learned Walter’s five million dollar life insurance policy and the bulk of his estate would be deferred to Lake City. To add insult to tremendous injury, Randy Lafitte, newly appointed mayor, vowed to the people of Lake City that Walter Simmons’ legacy would “live on” through his deeds. He pledged to build a community center on the Simmons Estate, named in honor of the first black mayor of Lake City. Watching Lafitte’s pronouncements, Juanita became convinced that he was the man in the mask inside Walter’s office. Lafitte had tried to blackmail Walter, and when that didn’t work, he used his 76

One Blood knowledge of the affair to set him up. He must have forced the secretary to call Juanita, knowing she would show up. Juanita’s survival was a happy accident. Had she perished in the fire alongside Walter and the secretary, there would have been many more questions to answer. With her gone, everything pointed solely in the direction of the jealous wife. Randy alone reaped the benefits. He got the money, the mayoral office, and a public mandate to make the changes he saw fit for Lake City. Whenever Juanita closed her eyes she saw Walter’s bloodied face staring up at her, pleading for her to save him. When Malcolm pledged that Lafitte would be justly punished for his crimes, she promised never to leave him. “Something went wrong during labor,” Malcolm said. “The baby is sick. Velma has to take him to the hospital.” Juanita wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t lit the fire that sealed Walter’s fate, but she was as guilty as the papers described. Her breasts lactated, swollen with life-sustaining nourishment. But Juanita knew how putrid she was on the inside. Her milk was poison, her birth canal a watery grave. Nothing could come out of her unscathed. Still, she needed to see for herself. “Bring it to me.” The infant was a helpless mass of wrinkled humanity squirming in the crook of Velma’s arm. “It’s a boy,” Velma declared. “Let me hold him.” Malcolm intervened. “There’s no time, baby. He’s not breathing right.” Juanita glared at him. 77

Qwantu Amaru “We’ve talked about this,” Malcolm continued. “We have to let Velma take him. She will make sure they fix whatever is wrong and that he ends up in a good home. And when the time is right, I promise I will find him and bring him back to you.” Back in Walter’s office, with everything burning around her, Juanita knew she was going to die; but then Malcolm pulled her from the burning tomb. Less than a month later, Juanita learned she was pregnant. Juanita didn’t believe in coincidences. It was no simple twist of fate that led her to Walter’s side. No miracle that Walter’s best friend saved her life and helped her pick up the shattered pieces of her porcelain existence. It was destiny. Juanita felt her purpose returning. She gathered herself and replied, “Malcolm, no! If he goes to the hospital, we’ll lose him.” “If we don’t take him now, we’re gonna lose him right here,” Malcom said softly. “I’m not willing to take that chance.” He motioned to Velma to get the baby. Juanita tried to sit up, but her arms were too weak. “Velma,” she admonished. “Don’t you dare take my baby!” “Wait,” Velma said in a shaky tone, trying unsuccessfully to break the tension. “What are we going to call him?” Juanita had considered only one name for a boy. The man Walter had patterned himself after. “Lincoln,” she replied. “His name is Lincoln.” Velma put the baby in the bassinette and hurried out of the apartment with Malcolm. Lincoln started crying. Each wail pierced Juanita to the core. Her body and instincts were on edge—she had to take action. In her mind, Velma Baker 78

One Blood had morphed from a dedicated helper to dark schemer. Juanita clawed at the wall for leverage, screaming, “You can’t take him, you bitch! You can’t take him!” The apartment door slammed, cutting off her baby’s cries. Despite tremendous pain, Juanita made it out of bed, but collapsed on weak legs. She crawled toward the door, just as she had during the fire, screaming and stretching out her arms to welcome her child into the world. As his cries drifted away, her pain grew too intense to bear. Curling her legs into her abdomen, she lay on the floor wishing for death. But not for herself. She passed into unconsciousness, fantasizing about how Lincoln would one day grow up to kill Randy Lafitte.

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Chapter Eleven
24 years later 1998 Houston, TX

mir Barber paused just outside of room 311 in the Houston Medical Center, preparing himself for what he would see when he pushed through the door. He rubbed his boot camp bald head compulsively. When he felt ready, he entered his mother’s suite with a nervous smile. Dear God. Amir gazed down at his mother in the aftermath of her stroke. Always the picture of strength, Juanita had degenerated into a muddy puddle, waiting for the sun’s rays to evaporate her into nothing. He whispered a silent oration to Ogou Balanjo, the Vodun spirit of healing, and set the flowers down on the nightstand. Kissing her clammy forehead, he sat down in the chair next to the bed, clasping her hands in his own. Amir traced his fingers over the faded scar on her left wrist. He’d always wondered about how she’d gotten it and had sworn to himself protect her against future harm. But he’d failed again. I never should have left home. 80

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One Blood Amir knew these thoughts were useless and unproductive. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if he’d stayed home after graduating from the University of Houston last year. Instead, he took his shiny new degree and enlisted in the Army as a Communication Operations Officer. He vividly recalled the look of betrayal in his mother’s eyes when he told her of his plans. Dad’s reaction had been predictably aloof. “This is something I need to do for me, Dad,” Amir said, as he and his father rested in the Kempo Dojo after their workout. Dad was still slightly out of breath. Amir realized for the first time his father was getting old. They were seated in front of a large mirror. Amir compared his twenty-two-year-old frame to that of his father’s. His father’s skin was dark and course, Amir’s fair and smooth. Amir’s skin tone was the only physical trait he’d gotten from his mother. Other than that, he was the spitting image of his father. “You know I was in the service, right?” Dad asked. Amir nodded. He knew all about his father’s tour of duty in ‘Nam. Anticipating his father’s next words, he said, “Dad, I know you always tell me that the Army is no place for the black man, but just hear me out, okay? I’m not some dumb eighteenyear-old kid. I went to college, just like you asked me to.” Amir swallowed his fear and continued the speech he’d been practicing for a week. “But if you hadn’t joined the Army, you never would have discovered Vodun, right? So in a way, it was a positive experience for you. And you recruited your men over there in Vietnam, so had you not gone, the Black Mob probably 81

Qwantu Amaru wouldn’t exist either. Shoot, you and Mom might never have gotten together.” Knowing his father’s one soft spot, Amir saved this point for last. “That’s not fair,” Dad replied. “You know me and your mother are going through a rough time.” “Believe me, I know, Dad. But once I go away to boot camp she will be all alone and she’ll need you. Ya’ll can get back together.” “Don’t change the subject. This is about you, not me. You want to join the white man’s army. You want to die defending a country that does not give a damn about your people. You want to be a pawn…when I raised you to be a king.” “You don’t understand, Dad. I read the book.” Amir watched his father’s good eye squint in anger as it usually did whenever anyone mentioned Inside the Black Mob, the unauthorized book written about his life and work. His father had maintained for years that one day he would write his own account and set the record straight. Amir continued, “I need to learn what you learned, Dad. I know you think I’m too young, but I’m ready to do my part in the Liberation. You and I both know the other men in the Black Mob will never respect me or follow me if I don’t do this.” His father’s only reply was to stand up and walk out, leaving Amir alone to consider his future plans. “Lincoln?” His mother’s voice startled Amir out of his memories. He looked down to see her gazing at him through pained eyes. “Who’s Lincoln?” Amir asked. 82

One Blood “No one. I’m so happy…to see you…my son.” She tried to smile, but paralyzed muscles on the left side of her face turned her smile into a sneer. “I brought you flowers, Moms.” “I…I saw. They’re…beautiful.” “How are you feeling?” She sneered again. “Looks worse…than it…feels.” Amir seriously doubted that. He brushed the hair off her forehead. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Moms?” “No…honey. I’m fine. Just…need to rest.” “Okay, Moms. Well, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. The loa will watch over you and protect you.” The following days blurred together for Amir, as an endless procession of doctors, nurses, technicians, and counselors did their best to help his mother recover and dissuade his growing fears that things were far worse than they appeared. On the fifth day, he entered his mother’s room to find her sitting up and crocheting. He felt a surge of hope at the sight of her. “Hey, Moms! What are you working on?” “Just keeping myself busy,” she replied, sounding almost as good as she looked. “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.” He took a seat. “What about?” “Hand me my purse.” He passed the bag to her and watched her dig around inside with a look of pained concentration, finally pulling out two yellowing pieces of paper. She reluctantly handed them over to him. 83

Qwantu Amaru Amir studied the faded newspaper articles. The headline of the first one read: “Gang Warfare Responsible for Simmons Park Massacre.” Amir recalled seeing the story on the news a few years ago. He’d forgotten how grim it was. Some high school basketball star, with gang affiliations, had shot up a bunch of gangbangers and cops in Louisiana. A group of first graders were caught in the crossfire, and a Louisiana state senator’s son, Kristopher Lafitte, died there as well. Amir winced as he read the gangbanger’s name—Lincoln Baker. “Moms, why are you carrying this old story around? And why did you call me by some murderer’s name the other day?” Juanita avoided his eyes. He asked her again. “That…that murderer is your brother.” “What?” Amir yelled. “Read the other article, Son. Please.” Amir wanted to challenge her, but decided to keep the peace for the moment. He unfolded the second article. This one was much older. Some of the type had worn away, but the headline told him everything he needed to know: “Foul Play Expected Cause of Death for Mayor Walter Simmons: Missing Wife is Lead Suspect.” “What the fuck?” “Watch your mouth, Kareem.” She coughed into her handkerchief. She only called him by his middle name when she was really upset. He hated his middle name. “Naw, fuck that, Moms!” Amir glared at her. “You used to be married to the first black mayor in Louisiana?” “He…Lincoln’s father…was murdered.” 84

One Blood Amir doubled over in the chair, choking back anger and confusion. The news hit him like opposing linebackers used to back in high school when Amir played running back. The thought of his mother with another man was inconceivable. If this was true, then everything he knew about his life was a lie. “This article says you’re the lead suspect…” “I know this is all very confusing, Son, but it’s time you know the truth.” She coughed violently again and wiped her mouth. “Amir, I waited too long to tell you all this and now it’s almost too late. I didn’t kill Walter Simmons, and Lincoln didn’t kill those people.” Her chest heaved from the effort it took to speak. Amir choked back tears. “I don’t understand. Just tell me what happened, Moms. Please?” His mother’s lips quivered as she said, “I’ve lost a lot in my life, Amir. But nothing has scarred me quite like the loss of your brother. If I tell you this, you have to promise me you will make things right with your father.” Amir didn’t really believe that was in the cards, but nodded for his mother to continue. A week after Amir learned that not only was Malcolm Wright not his mother’s first husband, but that he had a half-brother named Lincoln Baker, Juanita Barber’s chest rose and fell for the last time. But that chilly January day not only marked his mother’s death, it also coincided with the beginning of Randy Lafitte’s second term as Governor of Louisiana. A term nearly cut short by a bomb placed in the bowels of the Island of Capri Riverboat, where Lafitte was celebrating his re-election. 85

Qwantu Amaru As Amir prepared to bury his mother, he learned his estranged father had confessed to the attempted assassination of Governor Lafitte.

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Chapter Twelve
1998 Angola, LA

alcolm Wright exited the powder blue prison bus just inside the gates of the Louisiana State Penitentiary. The January air was brisk and cold. He took his first shuffling steps toward his cage, relishing the brisk wind after the stifling threehour bus ride from the detainment center in New Orleans. The rattling of the steel chains binding his hands and feet brought on a memory of the creak of the rope around his lynched father’s throat as his lifeless body twisted in the breeze. His father had been killed because he was the most successful sharecropper in Lake City and had the audacity to try and renegotiate his share of the yield. Malcolm was only five at the time, but old enough to comprehend injustice, even if it took him much longer to put a name to the endless well of anger filling his heart. Thankfully, his oldest brother Frederick had been able to secure work as a day laborer and provide for the five of them left— Malcolm, the youngest, their mother, and his three older brothers Ralph, Duke, and Ronnie. Frederick became an effective provider without turning into a stoic like their father. He married a woman, Abigail, blessed 87

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Qwantu Amaru with the gift of balancing out their mother’s alternating states of aggression, agitation, and depression. Ralph was the athlete of the family and a standout baseball player. But Ralph was playing ball in a pre- Jackie Robinson era, and his success had a direct correlation to the number of death threats he received. He eventually quit playing baseball for good and became a mechanic. Duke was the family scholar. He introduced Malcolm to texts by Frederick Douglass, Marcus Garvey, and Richard Wright. Duke was murdered during a peaceful protest in Selma, Alabama in the early sixties. Ronnie and Malcolm, the youngest of the four brothers, were only sixteen months apart and enjoyed the closest bond. When Malcolm was eighteen he followed Ronnie into the Nation of Islam. Years later, Ronnie followed Malcolm into the Black Mob, and the Black Mob led Malcolm to the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola. He sniffed at the air. Yes. This was the place. This was home. He turned toward the snapping sound coming from his blind side and saw photographers capturing his picture from behind the gates. He was grateful he’d finally be out of the public’s watchful eye. The trial had gone smoothly. Except for his last conversation with Amir. “Why did you do it, Dad?” Amir’s questions followed him all the way to his cell. “Mom told me everything.” Malcolm sympathized with the boy’s pain, but in time Amir would understand that, as always, Malcolm had done what needed to be done. Unfortunately, Amir didn’t yet understand sacrifice, what it took to bring about real change. 88

One Blood Just like in chess, the trick is to learn to win from a position of perceived weakness. Still, Malcolm was relieved his son finally knew some of the truth, even if the knowledge caused him great pain. Malcolm wondered if Amir would ever forgive him. He’d never wanted to lie to the boy, but Juanita had insisted they were protecting him. All Malcolm ever desired was to give Juanita the safety she craved and to provide their son, born two years after they lost Lincoln, with the benefit of their collective love and wisdom. And he’d been successful for a time. In the eighties, as the AIDS epidemic and crack infestation destroyed black communities from coast to coast, the four-block community within Houston’s Fifth Ward, known as Frenchtown, existed as a protected haven. Malcolm and his Black Mob created a veritable utopia for black businesses, schools, and families. Not even trickle-down Reaganomics could gain a foothold in Malcolm’s sovereignty. His word was law and he ruled with a murderous regard for the criminal elements infecting nearly every other ghetto. Malcolm made examples out of anyone who didn’t adhere to the Black Mob’s strict code of ethics. As a result, the community rallied around and insulated him from relentless attempts by the FBI and police to divide and conquer the Black Mob. Amir grew up healthy, intelligent, and conscious that his reality was different from many of his peers because his father had created a better world for him. But it wasn’t enough for Juanita. Despite his best efforts, every year that passed with no sign of Lincoln pushed them further and further apart. Eventually, Malcolm left Frenchtown, his wife, his 89

Qwantu Amaru son, and all that he’d built to find Lincoln. If he could do that, he could finally have his wife back. But now it was too late. “She’s gone, Dad,” Amir said, tears streaking down his face like shooting stars. The woman he’d loved since they were adolescents, the only woman he’d ever loved, died the day of his ultimate act of vengeance. She ascended before he could accomplish the two tasks he promised to complete—kill Randy Lafitte and find Lincoln. But she would not die in vain. Malcolm prioritized his next steps. He had been checked into the prison, strip-searched, clothed, and oriented on the ways of his new home. The guards kept asking him to state his government name. He answered, “Panama X” each time until the blows came and they dragged him to the hole. Juanita was raised a devout Catholic and never understood Malcolm’s conversion to the Nation of Islam. Then he returned from Vietnam claiming a new religion—Vodun. But it was his new first name—Panama—and the X connected to it, that upset her most, more than his foreign religious leanings. Juanita refused to call him anything but Malcolm. He’d tried in vain to explain to her that Malcolm Wright was born poor and weak, a man who lived in fear of whites—until his brother Duke’s murder transformed that fear to anger. That anger became focused power once he gave up his slave name and slave master’s religion, and his power grew exponentially upon his indoctrination into Vodun. 90

One Blood Sitting in the dark, damp hole, he knew the last vestiges of Malcolm Wright had died with Juanita. Panama X’s mission was just beginning, however. After speaking with Amir, everything fell into place. He now knew he’d been sent to Angola to reconnect with Lincoln Baker—the man Juanita believed was she and Walter Simmons’ long lost son. It was ironic that Lincoln had been under his nose all this time. He’d grown up in Lake City, a mere two hours from his birth mother. Lincoln had also struck a far more significant blow against Randy Lafitte than Panama X had ever managed. He killed the man’s only son. Panama X relished their first meeting. He could hardly wait to take the boy under his wing and begin working to bring his ultimate plan to fruition. Lincoln was the linchpin. Amidst all the evil he’d sown, Randy Lafitte had made one crucial mistake. He should have killed Juanita when he had the chance.

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Chapter Thirteen
Saturday Angola, LA

incoln Baker twirled a homemade toothpick in his mouth, staring at the collage of newspaper and magazine cut-outs pasted all over his concrete home. The tattered remnants seemed to glow in the early daylight. Bold titles and stories worked in harmony—pieces of a jigsaw puzzle reflecting the man in front of them through a mirror of words. Lincoln had stopped reading the articles a long time ago. Now, he just looked at the headlines, captions, and pictures, allowing his mind to drift. Crows just outside the block windows were engaged in an aerial clash over an insect. Finally, one crow cawed in victory and flew away with his prize. Lincoln’s heart soared with the avian soldier, wishing him well. Lincoln took a sip of lukewarm water from a chipped styrofoam cup imprinted with the letters LSP—Louisiana State Penitentiary. The oldest article, now barely legible, was entitled “Louisiana’s Best Kept Secret.” Another clipping from Parade magazine touted 1992’s Parade High School All-Americans as the future of the NBA. Next to it was a ruffled cover of Sports Illustrated. It showed three young men standing under the golden arches of McDonalds, 92

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One Blood their smiles outshining the famous trademark. The headline read, “The Real Big Macs!” But Lincoln barely saw these. His eyes always ended up on the headlines, “#1 Down the Drain: Angola Gets Top Draft Prospect,” and “Gang Warfare Responsible for Simmons Park Massacre.” He touched the papers hanging on the wall. One article showed a picture of a smiling face, obviously a yearbook photo, posted next to a mug shot of the same face. Although the pictures were taken many years prior, Lincoln looked pretty much the same. He’d accumulated more tattoos on his fair skin since his incarceration, but by and large he was like a meat-filled refrigerator left off too long—same appearance on the outside, but utterly ruined within. He stood up and approached the dented rusty piece of reflective glass—a joke of a mirror. Removing his sweatshirt, he applied shaving foam to his two-day stubble and took a slightly used bic razor to his face. As always, he contemplated taking the blade to his jugular, but it had been many years since he’d seriously considered suicide. Instead, after shaving, he examined the black skull with blood descending from both eyes inked on the muscled bulge of his right shoulder—the insignia of his gang, the Dirty Skulls. Only two people in the world knew about the nasty scar beneath his first tattoo. The man who’d burned the five-year-old orphan in his charge with a soldering gun, and Lincoln. As he grew older, Lincoln covered many of his visible childhood scars this way. Fascinated with reptiles, especially snakes, he saw each tattoo as a piece of new skin. But the tattoo just below the skull that read R.I.P. K.L. #44 was a daily reminder that the deepest wounds could never be shed. 93

Qwantu Amaru Lincoln thought about Kristopher Lafitte constantly. Even though he was ten years removed from the events that resulted in the death of his best friend, he couldn’t erase the guilt he felt for what he did and what he failed to do. The left side of the wallpaper reminded him of a time before the death and sadness. Back when the media depicted Lincoln as a basketball god. After his sentencing for the killings at Simmons Park, no one uttered a word about his bright future. Only words like gangbanger, juvenile delinquent, drug dealer, cop killer, and murderer were used to describe him now. The papers went from singing his praises to exposing his criminal past—starting with a convenience store robbery when he was eight. They described his upbringing, moving from the orphanage to foster home after foster home because no parents or blood relatives would claim him. They listed his many stints in juvenile detention centers. Their words damned him with the same question. Why? Lincoln had no answers for them. His adjudicators took his silence for guilt and condemned him to life behind bars. Infamy followed him from the streets into the cell, and Lincoln began to examine his life with the avid interest of a coroner probing a mutilated corpse for clues. His morbid curiosity became so great he broke down the wall of silence between himself and Moses Mouton, the man who’d given him the only real break of his life. To the outside world, Moses was a civil rights activist and devoted preacher. To Lincoln, Moses was the father he never had. Ironically, Moses had spent twelve years locked up in this very prison. 94

One Blood Lincoln was looking at four years in juvenile detention for two counts of armed robbery when he learned a deal had been reached and he’d been sentenced to house arrest. Lincoln was sure the judge had made a mistake—how could he be on house arrest when he’d been living in the streets for the past two years? The mystery was soon solved. The bailiff led him to a holding cell where a large, black man sat behind the table. He had the biggest hands Lincoln had ever seen and was reading a book called Native Son. Lincoln thought it was some shit about Africa. The man kept reading for a few moments, then lowered the book and looked at Lincoln like he’d just realized someone else was in the room. “Good, you’re here. Have a seat, Son,” the man said. “Who the fuck are you?” Lincoln replied, still standing. The guard grabbed the tip of his billy club. It’s okay, Hardy,” the man said to the guard. “Would you mind standing outside?” After the guard left the room, the man looked at Lincoln and said, “My name is Moses. Moses Mouton. I’m the reason you’re here and not headed for juvenile detention.” “Yo’ name Moses? Like in the Bible Moses?” “Exactly…I see you know the Bible.” “Not really, Bruh, I saw that Charlton Heston movie. Whatcha mean you the reason I ain’t goin’ to juvie?” “I told the judge I would make sure he never heard your name again in connection with gang activity. I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” 95

Qwantu Amaru “Whateva man, I don’t make no deals, already told the damn prosecutor that.” “This isn’t a deal, Lincoln,” Moses replied. “This is your last chance.” “Last chance for what, nigga? I’m a dead man. I walk outta here and the Skulls’ll think I ratted ‘em out. What kinda offer you got fo’ a dead man?” “Please don’t use that n-word around me. In addition to protection from your gang, I’m offering you something that I never had. I was just like you, Son.” “Let’s get one thing straight, Bruh, you ain’t nuthin’ like me,” Lincoln interrupted, getting up from his seat. “I don’t got time fo’ dis shit.” “And that’s exactly what I used to say,” Moses said, standing up as well, the book gripped in his hand like a Bible. “I liked selling drugs, using drugs, and even robbing people. Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t a minor when I got my last chance and they sent me up to Angola for twelve years. I was raised on these streets, just like you. My folks passed away when I was very young and my grandmother could never keep up with me—” “Look man, what all this shit got to do wit’ me?” “I’m trying to tell you why I want to help you, Lincoln. I’m trying to tell you why that white judge is entrusting you into my care. Listen carefully to me, Lincoln, because I’m only going to say this once.” Moses took a deep breath and sat back down. Something in his eyes made Lincoln sit, too. “Nobody has ever given a damn about you, Son. Nobody really gives a damn about any of our youth. You may not even give a 96

One Blood damn about yourself, and that judge is more than willing to get one more thug off of the streets, so you’re helping him out with your attitude. Now I told myself after I got released from prison that I would not and could not let my black brothers and sisters keep disappearing down the garbage disposal. I have a responsibility to you, and you have a responsibility to God not to squander the opportunities He’s giving you to change your life. So here’s the deal: you are going to be living with me from now on, you are going to obey your house arrest, you are going to go back to high school, and you are going to make something of yourself. And if you don’t, that gang you run with will be the least of your troubles. I may be a man of the Lord, but I’ll kill you myself…” Moses did not mince words. The terms of Lincoln’s house arrest stated that he was only allowed to leave Moses’ house to attend high school. The Dirty Skulls’ rival gang, the Scorpions, took advantage of the opportunity, using Moses’ home for target practice on several occasions. Each time, Moses locked Lincoln in the bathroom until he calmed down; but one night Lincoln snuck out of his bedroom window, looking to settle the score. After cruising through the Scorpions’ hood for a couple of hours, he returned to Moses’ home to find the windows to his bedroom locked. With no other choice, Lincoln went around to the front door and boldly rang the doorbell. After a moment the door swung open. Moses pulled Lincoln into the house by the front of his t-shirt and threw him down into a dining room chair. A rubber-gripped, silver-barreled .357 Magnum revolver lay on the kitchen table before him. 97

Qwantu Amaru “Pick it up.” Lincoln stared at the gun and back up at Moses. “I said, pick the gun up.” Lincoln reached for the weapon. Moses grabbed his hand before he could grasp it. “When you pick it up, you either shoot me or shoot yourself, you hear?” “I—,” Lincoln started. “I don’t want to hear anything but you clicking back the safety and a gunshot. Make your choice.” He released Lincoln’s hand. Lincoln reluctantly jerked the weapon up. He tried to speak, but nothing came. He held the weapon in front of him with shaking hands. “You want to kill somebody so bad, pull the trigger.” Lincoln’s senses were amplified. Moses’ Brut cologne was as omnipresent as the stench of his own fear. The ceiling fan in the living room was as loud as helicopter blades. Every pore on Moses’ livid face was apparent. Lincoln readjusted his grip. “What are you waiting for? Pull the trigger, big man.” Moses’ words came in slow motion. Suddenly Lincoln was nine years old again, with an older gang member holding his hand up while he pulled the trigger. The gun was so heavy in his tiny hand; the recoil almost knocked him over. In the distance, a kid not much older than himself lay twisted on the ground. He blinked the memory away and slammed Moses’ gun down on the table. “Fuck you, man! I don’t gotta do nuthin’ you say!” Lincoln screamed. Moses picked up the firearm and walked around to Lincoln’s side of the table. He pressed the barrel to Lincoln’s temple. 98

One Blood Lincoln flinched. Moses’ lips brushed against his earlobe. “You’ve got a death wish, Son. I’ll be doing you and everyone in this town a favor by putting a bullet in your head right now. You think you’re invincible?” Lincoln swallowed hard. “You ain’t gonna shoot” He was interrupted by the unmistakable click of the trigger being squeezed. It took Lincoln five seconds to realize he wasn’t dead. He had collapsed. Moses stood over him and whispered, “Boom. Lincoln Baker the gangbanger is dead.” The jingle-jangle of prison alarms dispersed Lincoln’s memories. It was 4:45 a.m. Most of the other inmates would be leaving their cells to work the eighteen thousand acres of farmland surrounding Angola. Before the Louisiana State Penitentiary became America’s largest and most violent maximum-security prison, it was a plantation. The slaves that worked the land back then were from Angola in Africa. Lincoln found it ironic that the ancestors of the slaves who originally toiled this land were still trying to get free. The statistics claimed that nearly ninety percent of Angola’s five thousand inmates would die inside the prison walls. On day one, Lincoln vowed he would never die inside this cage. Now, it was almost time to fulfill his prophecy. Nothing could take his hope away. He’d survived ten years of twenty-three hour lockdown and near total isolation and was done being a slave. Before sleep could claim him, Lincoln thought of the victorious crow and muttered, “It’s my time to fly the coop.” 99

Chapter Fourteen
Four years earlier 1998 Angola, LA

the yard. Lincoln swished a three-pointer. “Wasn’t expectin’ nobody.” “Well, someone’s expectin’ you. Bring your ass.” Lincoln followed the guard through a succession of gates leading to the visitors camp. There was something oddly familiar about him. Just before they reached the visitors camp, the officer shoved Lincoln into a shadowy corridor between the buildings. “What the fuck?” “Shhh!” the guard hissed. “Shut the fuck up.” Lincoln debated whether or not to break the hand pinning him to the wall. “Nigga…” A deep voice greeted him from the shadows. “Hello, Lincoln.” The guard released him and a moment later a tall, thin, darkskinned man with short gray hair emerged from the darkness. He strolled toward Lincoln nonchalantly, as if he could walk out prison anytime he wanted. 100

“B

aker. You’ve got a visitor,” the guard said, as he approached Lincoln and two fellow inmates shooting basketball in

One Blood Lincoln knew this man. Shit, everyone knew him. He was Angola’s most recent and most infamous resident—Panama X. Lincoln sized him up. They were both dressed in standard prison attire, but Panama X wore his as if they were vacation clothes. Appearing much younger than his years, Panama X exuded an aura of power and self-control. Awareness blazed from the man’s one good eye; a patch covered the other. Wonder how he got that? Lincoln got an uneasy feeling as Panama X’s good eye analyzed him. He’d heard stories that Panama X was some sort of voodoo priest and worshiped the devil. Supposedly he could possess a man just by uncovering the patch on his bad eye. Lincoln didn’t know about all that, but kept a watchful eye on that patch, just in case. Panama X looked over at the guard and smiled. “You were right, Amir, he does look just like his mother.” “What the fuck you just say?” Lincoln blurted. Panama X continued to gaze at Lincoln in silence, as if he were seeing a ghost. “I understand that you’re new here,” Lincoln warned through gritted teeth. “But you might want to watch yo’ mu’fuckin’ mouth.” The guard, Amir, planted a palm on Lincoln’s chest, pushing him against the wall. “Easy, Lincoln.” As Lincoln prepared to snap the guard’s wrist, Panama X intervened. “Let him go, Amir. He’s not going to cause trouble. Right, Lincoln?” Lincoln and Amir stared each other down for a moment, then Amir backed down. 101

Qwantu Amaru “There’s really no need to be rude, Brother Baker,” Panama X said. “I meant no offense, believe me. It is truly an honor to meet you.” Panama X extended his hand. Lincoln stared at it like it was a loaded weapon, then reluctantly grasped the man’s strong, smooth hand. “You know, Brother Baker,” Panama X whispered, “the handshake has destroyed more civilizations than any weapon.” “Brother Baker?” Lincoln asked, dropping his hand to his side. “There you go wit’ that Moslem crap. I ain’t got no brothers that don’t wear the red and black.” “Well, you’ve got one more now,” Amir interjected, staring at Lincoln intently. He pointed to the center of his chest. “But we wear the red on the inside, know what I mean?” Lincoln’s muscles tightened and twisted beneath his clothes as he prepared to give the guard an old-fashioned Dirty Skulls beat down just for daring to suggest what he was suggesting. Panama X continued, “It truly is a shame that we all have to meet like this.” Lincoln’s head was a mess. “What the fuck are ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout?” Panama X gave Amir a slight nod. “We don’t have much time,” Amir said. “I took this job inside Angola to make sure my Pops—” he leaned in Panama X’s direction, “—was taken care of.” Lincoln looked between the two of them and finally saw the resemblance. “But that’s not the only reason I’m here,” Amir continued. “I’m also here to find my half-brother.” He pressed a crumpled piece of paper into Lincoln’s hand. “Take this.” 102

One Blood “Keep an open mind, Lincoln,” Panama X said. “When you’re ready, you know how to find me.” With that, Amir and Panama X walked away, leaving Lincoln alone and more confused than ever. Lincoln waited until he got back to his cell before unfolding the note. The spidery handwriting on the wrinkled paper was difficult to read but Lincoln’s rage made it nearly impossible.
My Dearest Lincoln, God, I never believed I would be writing a letter like this

one. I never believed I would find you and have the opportunity to reach out to you in any way. I’m sure you must be confused that you read this whole letter before you decide to destroy it. Please. by everything happening right now. The only thing I ask is

to go by Juanita Simmons, but that was a lifetime ago, back when I was married to your father, Walter Simmons. I know I haven’t been a mother to you and I’m sure you’re

My name is Juanita Barber and I am your mother. I used

asking yourself, why now? Why after all these years am I just now hearing from this woman? Lincoln, baby, I knew the truth the moment I saw you on my

television screen looking at me with my own lips and nose. At

first I thought, how is this possible? How am I seeing someone that looks so much like he came from me, yet I don’t even know him? But I knew, Lincoln. I suppose I’ve always known. Lincoln, I’ve been looking for you your whole life. I lost

you shortly after you were born, but I never gave up the hope of one day finding you…

103

Qwantu Amaru It was too much for Lincoln. He covered his eyes with his hands as the letter drifted to the floor of his cell. Lincoln had always wondered about his real mother and father. His entire life had been filled with strangers standing in as family. But now he held a letter given to him by a man claiming to be his half-brother, written by a woman claiming to be his biological mother. For some reason the name Simmons kept ringing in his ears, but the only Simmons he knew was…Simmons Park. Goosebumps erupted all over his body and black stars descended over his vision. He couldn’t breathe. Overcome by foreign emotions, he kicked at the stone walls of his cell, overturned his cot, and knocked his few material possessions off the sink before falling to the floor, gasping for air. The next day, determined to get to the bottom of things, Lincoln called Moses. “Hello?” a boyish voice greeted. “Brandon?” Lincoln asked, a little choked up. He hadn’t spoken to his adopted brother in what seemed like forever. “It’s Lincoln.” “Hold on.” A moment later, Moses picked up the line. “Lincoln?” “Hey. I can’t believe that was Brandon.” “Yeah, he’s getting bigger every day. I’ll send you a picture.” Lincoln couldn’t even imagine it. “That would be great. He’s still not talking to me though.” “Give him time, Lincoln—he’ll come around. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until Sunday. What’s going on?” Lincoln thought about nixing the whole conversation, but then forged ahead, telling Moses everything Panama X and Amir had 104

One Blood said. He was certain Moses would write the whole thing off as fiction. Instead, Moses said, “So they finally found you.” Lincoln tried to contain his anger, but it grew more difficult with each breath. “Wait a minute, you knew about all this?” “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, Son. I just thought…well it doesn’t matter now.” “So, wait, this is real?” “I can’t tell you if this Amir is related to you or not, but yes, you are Juanita’s son.” Lincoln couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And what does Panama X have to do with this?” “I don’t know, but Panama X is not to be trusted, you hear me? He only told you all this because he wants something from you.” “What? What could he possibly want from me?” “That’s what scares me, Son. Scares me to death. My advice: steer clear of him and this Amir character. I’ll try to track down Juanita and clear this whole thing up. Can you hold on for me?” “Well, what else am I gonna do? I’ve got nothing but time.”

105

Chapter Fifteen
Saturday Lake City, LA

R

andy sat at his desk in the Governor’s office. His face contorted as he re-read the passage from The Pirate King.

Overwhelmed with grief over his daughter Melinda’s suicide, Luc Lafitte killed himself at the base of their live oak tree, just three days after her death. There was another prevailing theory as to what had overcome Luc, however. The slaves whispered about a voodoo curse… He looked up, dazed, and stared at the framed photo of Kristopher and Karen, taken when Kristopher was fifteen and Karen was five. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Randy’s last contact with Snake, and still no word. The kidnappers had given Randy plenty to keep himself busy. The Pardon Board had convened earlier that morning in an emergency Saturday session and voted in favor of releasing Lincoln Baker. Not that it had been easy. Randy had been forced to proffer exorbitant favors—the currency of politics. This was after he’d lined their pockets, of course, and promised that Baker would never actually see the light of day. 106

One Blood Randy’s thoughts turned to his wife’s mental state. Coral had been practically catatonic since learning of Karen’s disappearance. Episodes like this hadn’t exactly been rare since Kristopher’s death, but it did demand additional attention on Randy’s part. Attention he did not have to spare. “You really have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, do you?” Madame Deveaux’s admonishment continued to torment him after all these years. But it had all been a ruse, hadn’t it? There is no curse. I was used by the fortune teller. She hired someone to kill my father. Someone rapped on his office door. It was one of the mail boys. “Delivery, sir.” “Bring it on in, Chase.” Randy prided himself on his ability to recall names. Randy signed the release form and tore open the envelope. It contained a single DVD. There was no note. “Chase, do you mind setting this up in the DVD player for me?” Randy had never been good with technology. Chase made it happen and left Randy’s office as soon as the video started. At first there was nothing to see, just a pitch-black screen. Then Randy detected a faint bass drum pulsing in a rumpum-pum-pum, rum-pum-pum-pum rhythm. Next, the screen filled with an extreme close-up of his daughter’s face. Randy leaped from his chair in shock. Karen’s hair was a dirty blond mop atop her head, her eyes half-open and rolled all the way back. Dried blood lay suspended between her nose and the top of her mouth, her lips curled into a lazy smirk as if she were in on a private joke. 107

Qwantu Amaru A deep voice off camera began chanting. “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. 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.” Each time the speaker said, “I’m going to vomit blood,” a dark, viscous substance that looked a lot like blood was liberally sprinkled over Karen’s head and face. Throughout the dousing, Karen’s facial expression never changed. The speed and volume of the drums increased, becoming like a frantic tachycardia. Scattered shouts and moans punctuated pauses, creating a cacophony of chaos. The drums abruptly stopped. The speaker said, “Kristopher Lafitte, come forth. We welcome you back to the realm of the living.” Karen’s head, which had been listing to the left, straightened. She started convulsing and frothing at the mouth, as if in the midst of a powerful seizure. Then, as suddenly as it began, the seizure stopped. Karen’s chin dropped to her chest. 108

One Blood A conch shell rang out from the silence. Karen raised her head in response. She stretched her neck in a circular motion and then stopped dead center. Her eyes opened. Randy covered his mouth. Karen’s hazel eyes were gone. Randy stared into the piercing blue eyes of his long dead son, Kristopher. Any hope he’d reserved was replaced by a cold, murderous rage. The voice continued, “Kristopher Lafitte, I permit you to leave the door of the spirit world. Look upon my enemy, Randy Lafitte, who deserves just punishment. Torture Randy Lafitte in the following nights with the worst dreams. Make him writhe in pain, fear, and illness. After fulfilling your task, you will return to your world and this door will close. Thank you for your services. Be it so!” The screen went blank. After a while, Randy got up and reluctantly replayed the video. But this time he looked for any signs of trickery or tampering. You could do anything with digital technology these days. He probably would have watched it the rest of the day if Snake hadn’t called. “Snake,” Randy answered, trying to control the tremor in his voice. “For your sake you better have found her.” “Yup, Boss. I found Jhonnette Deveaux. What’s the plan?” Randy’s mind returned to the image of those crazed blue eyes screaming out of his daughter’s head. “Boss? You okay?” “Yes. Of course. Have Miss Deveaux meet me in New Orleans first thing in the morning. And make sure you have those other things I asked for.” 109

Qwantu Amaru “Sure thing, Boss. But I tell ya, this little chicky is a tough one. How you gonna get her to talk?” Randy smiled grimly, seeing Madame Deveaux’s face in his mind’s eye. “That’s not going to be a problem. Just make sure she shows up.”

110

Chapter Sixteen
Sunday New Orleans, LA

honnette Deveaux entered the Presidential Suite at the New Orleans Sheraton. A large, burly bodyguard ushered her through the door into an expansive sitting room. Randy Lafitte stood to greet her. “Glad you could make it on such short notice,” he said, looking her up and down appreciatively. “I’m sure you hear this often, but you look just like your mother. My sincerest condolences for your loss. I imagine it hasn’t been easy for you.” “Thank you,” she replied demurely, ignoring his outstretched hand. As she took a seat across from him, her eyes were drawn to Lafitte’s bald, freckled head. He used to have a movie star coif, but the brain malignancy had taken care of that. She wondered why he hadn’t grown his hair back like so many other cancer survivors. Still, he looked a whole lot better than the last time she’d seen him this close… It was June 1994, and Jhonnette had just passed her six-month anniversary working as a nurse at the Oschner Cancer Center in New Orleans. One afternoon, she and her colleagues learned 111

J

Qwantu Amaru they would be receiving a VIP—the recently elected Governor of Louisiana. He was coming in for a series of tests to see if his brain cancer was spreading. Curious, Jhonnette took a peek at the Governor’s chart. It certainly looked like Lafitte’s term was going to be cut drastically short. He had a malignant tumor the size of a plum in the pineal region at the base of his brain—one of the worst regions for a brain tumor. The pineal gland not only controls the body’s hormonal systems, it also regulates the sleep-wake cycle. As the body’s internal clock, its timer was rapidly counting down to zero for Randy Lafitte. He was receiving a debilitating amount of pain medication for the vicious headaches associated with his condition, as well as meds to help him get some semblance of regular sleep. Jhonnette was covering for a fellow nurse the next evening when her curiosity got the best of her again. After all, Lafitte’s story was famous. He’d lost both his parents as a young man and his only son had been killed the same year Jhonnette had buried her mother. Her heart ached for the suffering he’d endured, and since she knew she could make him more comfortable, she cautiously entered his room. As a young girl, Jhonnette learned she was an amplifier, blessed with the ability to magnify the unconscious thoughts of others and manifest their deepest, darkest secrets. She could also boost the body’s curative capabilities, a trick that always worked to endear her to whomever was blessed with her healing. Having the Governor as an ally could come in handy down the line. She stood next to his bed, pretending to check the telemetry monitor. His eyelids twitched in the midst of R.E.M sleep. Gently, 112

One Blood she placed her hands on his shaved head, sending energy through her palms to the diseased area. If she could just shrink the tumor a little bit, she might be able to alleviate some of his pain. Beads of sweat broke out on the Governor’s forehead from the increase in temperature. She was about to remove her hands when he forcefully grabbed her wrists. His eyes opened wide. As she struggled to get free, she noticed that the white of one of his eyes was completely bloodshot. “So you’ve come to finish me off, Madame Deveaux,” he slurred. Jhonnette froze. How does he know my mother? “Do it. Finish it!” In her panic to get away from him, Jhonnette felt a tremendous quantity of energy pour out of her. Lafitte’s hands dropped back to his sides, his tense neck relaxed, and his eyes closed again. Jhonnette ran out of the room as fast as her feet would take her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t outrun the memories she’d just lifted from Lafitte’s subconscious mind. One of the side effects of her ability was that she tended to receive trace information from the subjects of her healing. In her mind’s eye, she had seen a much younger Randy Lafitte sitting across a table from her mother. Her mother had said, “You’re just a boy. Who could have possibly hurt you so deeply you feel the need to hurt them in return?” She heard Lafitte’s reply. “My father.” 113

Qwantu Amaru She’d quit her nursing job the next day. Every action she’d taken since had been leading up to this moment—her reunion with Randy Lafitte. Only this time, she felt no sympathy for the man whose life she’d unwittingly saved. If she’d known then what she knew now, she’d have slit his throat. He doesn’t remember me. But he will. “The resemblance really is uncanny,” Lafitte repeated. Jhonnette smiled thinly. “Mother said you would say that.” “She knew we would meet?” “Karen had to turn eighteen eventually.” Lafitte’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my daughter’s name?” Jhonnette met his gaze. “Mother kept tabs on you,” she lied. “What do you mean, ‘Karen had to turn eighteen eventually’?” Lafitte pressed. “You know exactly what it means.” Lafitte sighed. “So, I’m guessing it’s no surprise to you then that she’s been kidnapped.” He stared at her intently. “I assume you know about the curse.” “Why else would I be here.” Lafitte leaned forward. “How do I save Karen’s life?” “You already know the answer to that question.” “I want to hear you say it,” Lafitte demanded. “You have to sacrifice yourself for your daughter. Or find a substitute that they will accept.” “What do you mean a substitute? And who’s this ‘they’?” Jhonnette allowed herself to smile internally. She had him. “They are the spirits you invoked when you resurrected the curse 114

One Blood to kill your father. And they demand the blood of a Lafitte, or else they will take you both.” “Bullshit,” Lafitte spat. “If you’re so convinced it’s bullshit, then why did you bring me here?” Jhonnette reached for her purse and stood up. “Alright. Okay. Let’s start over,” Randy backpedaled, motioning for her to sit. “You know I met your mother on my eighteenth birthday, right?” Jhonnette settled back into her seat. “I know you did your best to ruin her.” After his father’s death, Randy ran every fortune teller out of New Orleans. His own version of the Spanish Inquisition, minus the burning witches. Lafitte fidgeted. “I regret that. I truly do. I was young and angry.” Jhonnette stared back at Lafitte and thought of her impoverished childhood. The multitude of men she laid beneath as a teenager to put food on the table after her mother’s paltry fortune telling business dried up, along with her health. “That’s no excuse,” she said, her voice laced with bitterness. “Well, now I’m in a position to make good,” Randy grinned. “You have information I need and I’m willing to compensate you handsomely. What do you say?” Jhonnette sighed. “I don’t even know why I agreed to see you today.” “I’ll tell you why,” Lafitte replied. “Because you don’t want to see an innocent girl die.” “Let’s get one thing straight, Governor,” Jhonnette said. “I don’t give a shit about what happens to your daughter.” Lafitte flinched. 115

Qwantu Amaru Jhonnette smiled slightly. “You should’ve thought of this day before you got your wife pregnant. But since you don’t believe in the curse anyway, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” Jhonnette locked into Lafitte’s hazel eyes and subtly pushed energy at him. Her palms tingled with the release. Lafitte’s face shifted. One second, he was a reasonably charismatic politician; the next, he was a man on the brink of collapse. His eyes lost their focus and he started grinding his teeth, only stopping to offer a savage grin. “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he spoke slowly. “Your mother was a far more reasonable woman. Smarter, too. She knew her place. Am I going to have to teach you yours?” I’d like to see you try. Still, Jhonnette knew in Lafitte’s amplified state both his bite and bark would be bad news. She steadied herself. It was time to play her trump card. “There is someone else carrying your blood. Someone who could be sacrificed.” “You’re crazy,” Lafitte said. “I am an only child and my son is dead.” “Maybe Kristopher and Karen weren’t your only children.” He raised his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?” “I inherited my mother’s gift.” “Your mother was a scam artist. I’ve believed her lies for too long.” “Then why are we still talking?” Lafitte held his breath, and then exhaled in a rush. “Go on.” “To save your daughter’s life, and your own, you need to remember what you’ve done before it’s too late. The timing of 116

One Blood your daughter’s kidnapping suggests her abductors know as much as I do about your family history. They are using that knowledge to their advantage. Narrow down the list of people who could possibly know about the curse and you’ll find your daughter’s kidnappers. But remember, finding them won’t save Karen.” Lafitte smiled grimly. “Punishment, right?” He straightened in his seat. “Ms. Deveaux, why do you think I brought you here?” Jhonnette went along. “Excuse me?” “I needed to rule you out as a suspect, and there’s only one way to do that.” He paused and then yelled, “Come on in, boys!” A moment later, three large men surrounded Jhonnette. She mock-struggled as they lifted her from the couch and tied her to a straight-backed chair. One thug wrapped a tourniquet around her forearm while another produced a large syringe filled with clear liquid. “Psychic, huh?” Lafitte stood as the man handed him the syringe. “Bet you didn’t see this coming.” Jhonnette squeezed her eyes shut as Lafitte plunged the needle deep into her arm. She hated needles. Lafitte continued. “You see this Ms. Deveaux? This is sodium thiopental, otherwise known as truth serum. You’re going to help me find my daughter, whether you want to or not.” Jhonnette looked deeply into Lafitte’s eyes, projecting a final thought before the drugs took hold. Believe.

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Chapter Seventeen
Sunday New Orleans, LA

andy positioned himself in front of Jhonnette Deveaux. With his guards gone, he could get started. He was desperate for answers he was certain this woman possessed. Even though he’d removed the needle a long time ago, she still sat with her eyes clenched shut. He felt a familiarity with this woman that extended beyond the resemblance to her mother, but couldn’t place where he might know her from. Slapping her face lightly, he said, “Open your eyes.” She complied. “Where is my daughter? Where is Karen?” he asked. “I don’t know.” Already off to a bad start. “Who has my daughter?” She replied without hesitation. “Amir Barber.” “Who is he?” “Panama X’s son.” Randy suspected Panama X was behind this, but it was good to have confirmation. “Where is he keeping her?” “I don’t know.” 118

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One Blood Randy swallowed his frustration. “What has he done to her?” “She is a vessel.” “A vessel? What kind of vessel?” “A vessel for the baka,” she replied. Randy was more confused than ever. This woman was speaking gibberish. But he had to persist—she was his only hope. “What is a baka?” “A very powerful, evil spirit. It usually manifests in the form of an animal, but can also appear as a human.” So Panama X and this Amir person are trying to curse me? What do they expect to accomplish by doing that? “What is this baka supposed to do to me?” The woman had been responding with her eyes half open, but they suddenly widened. “The baka will destroy you and your family.” We’ll see about that. “How do I stop it?” “You can’t.” “Who can?” “Only Panama X is strong enough to control the baka.” A new question occurred to Randy. “How does Lincoln Baker fit into all this?” The woman started to speak, and then purposely bit down on her tongue. All that escaped was a pained wail. Randy repeated himself. “Tell me what Lincoln Baker has to do with this kidnapping.” “He…He is Juanita’s son. Panama X promised to find him.” She had to be talking about Juanita Simmons. Randy hadn’t heard that name in years. And this Baker thug was her son? Impossible. 119

Qwantu Amaru The next question rolled off his tongue, propelled by the flood of resurrected memories. “Is Lincoln…my son?” Her pained expression vanished. She tried to look away. Randy held her face in his hands and screamed, “Answer me!” “Possibly.” Randy quelled his temptation to choke the life out of her. He collected himself and asked, “If I kill him, will the spirits be satisfied?” “I don’t know if anything will satisfy them this time,” she said slowly. “What the hell does that mean?” “Looks…are deceiving.” Randy paced around the suite. So far all she’d given him was a name and some bullshit about bakas and spirits. He needed something more tangible to corroborate her claims. “How are you involved in all this?” “Snake Roberts.” Randy flinched. Snake has betrayed me? Motherfucking double-crossing bastard! Yet, it made sense. Snake was the inside man. How else could the kidnappers have known the details of Karen’s schedule and routine? Snake had positioned himself to profit off both sides of this little plot. Randy took a deep breath. He had to stay calm. Anger wouldn’t help him stop whatever Panama X and Snake had planned. “What is Snake’s plan?” he asked. “Snake will go to the prison to get Lincoln. Then he will bring Lincoln to you so Lincoln can kill you, if the baka doesn’t get to you first.” 120

One Blood Now that Randy had the answers he needed, he knew what he had to do. First, he called his men back into the room and told them to dispose of Jhonnette Deveaux. Then he called Bill Edwards in Lake City. “Bill,” he said when his friend picked up. “Tell me more about these discrete FBI guys.”

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Chapter Eighteen
Monday Lake City, LA

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oses Mouton stared down at the tombstone. The granite inscription was blurry at first, then cleared to reveal the Lincoln Baker 1974-2002

The strength went out of Moses’ legs. He collapsed before Lincoln’s grave. How did this happen? “What a shame, Moses,” a female voice spoke from behind him. “We couldn’t save him.” Moses turned to see Juanita as she’d been in the old days with Walter, at the height of her beauty and strength. Her butter pecan skin glowed with health, and her curly, auburn-tinged hair was pulled back into a bun, accenting her high cheekbones and strong jaw line. “Juanita?” “It’s okay, Moses. It’s not your fault. You did more for him than anybody.” “But it wasn’t enough,” Moses pleaded. 122

One Blood “This was all my doing,” Juanita replied. “I couldn’t find him in time. And now Malcolm has filled his head up with hatred and sent him off to his death.” Juanita’s face contorted as guilt and sorrow took over her facial muscles. “Lincoln was supposed to avenge me…for the life that was supposed to be mine. We all have ghosts, Moses.” “What is that supposed to mean, Juanita? Juanita!” Moses’ voice pierced his silent bedroom. The nightmare clung to him like a wet parachute and his shirt was soaked with perspiration. He peered into the darkness, trying to hold on to the essence of the dream. There was an immediate sense of relief realizing Lincoln was still alive, but it was quickly replaced by a growing feeling of dread. This was the second night in a row he’d awoken from this terrifying dream. Moses had to stop fighting Fate. He knew what he had to do. After leaving a note for his stepson, Brandon, he got dressed and headed out. The early morning sun illuminated his path. When she put on her best, Louisiana truly was beautiful. The so-called “Sportsman’s Paradise” was more than the sum of wetlands, swamps, and tracts of farmland. This morning it was reflective lakes, endless fields of rich green foliage, and sweet, pine-scented air. He contemplated his mission as he sped by all this, trying to outrun the ghosts from his past. Something epic was happening and Moses could feel Malcolm Wright’s fingerprints all over it. They’d grown up together, best friends, but over time Malcolm had changed, growing into a monster Moses barely recognized. Ironically, Moses had been the bad one when they were coming up. 123

Qwantu Amaru Malcolm had been the leader in those days. He was charismatic, extremely intelligent, and born devoid of the “love for his fellow man” chip. He channeled his anger into a fierce and focused hatred of whites which was always getting him in trouble. Moses, who’d always looked up to Malcolm, had been his willing accomplice. Walter Simmons had been a breath of fresh air when he moved into the neighborhood. Walter spent his days trying to figure out ways to build up his community while Moses and Malcolm spent most of their days trying to figure out what they could destroy. Whenever Malcolm or Moses wanted to skip school, Walter convinced them to attend. If the two troublemakers were planning to rob a store or go across town to jump some white boys, Walter put cash in their pockets and persuaded them to play pool until they forgot about their anger and frustration. Due to Walter’s influence and persistence, Malcolm cleaned up his act and started applying himself in school. Moses, who didn’t share their interest in books, grew jealous of Malcolm and Walter’s bond and continued going in the opposite direction. After Walter and Malcolm went off to college at Dillard University in New Orleans, Moses got caught in a botched burglary attempt. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years in the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola. Moses spent the next twelve years in what was, at that time, the bloodiest prison in America. While Moses served out his sentence, Malcolm and Walter became swept up in the burgeoning Civil Rights Movement. Moses tried to imagine Walter, the devout Christian, and Malcolm, Elijah Mohammed’s latest convert, traveling all over the South, helping out their fellow brothers and sisters in the struggle. 124

One Blood One night, just outside of Jackson, Mississippi, Walter’s car broke down. After walking nearly a mile, they were offered a ride by two white girls coming from a dance in the black section of town. Malcolm was staunchly against the idea, but Walter convinced him they had no other choice. Besides, they were just getting a lift to the nearest gas station. Not five minutes later, they were on the side of the road again, getting frisked by two angry Mississippi state troopers. The officers let the girls go, leaving Walter and Malcolm alone with the cops. Walter knew they had broken the worst of the unspoken rules between black men and whites—fraternizing with white women—but he tried to remain confident. A few blows to his head and shoulders shattered his poise. As Walter collapsed in a lifeless heap, Malcolm snatched away the other officer’s revolver. Malcolm shot the cop in the back. The cop that had hit Walter received a bullet right between the eyes. A week later, Walter was at Angola confessing the whole thing to Moses. Walter was concerned. After killing those two officers, Malcolm became convinced he’d discovered the key to breaking Black people’s chains, once and for all. He was obsessed with the idea of an army of Blacks trained in military tactics and ready to die for their freedom. In his mind, it was now kill or be killed. Somehow killing white men— and getting away with it—had made Malcolm fearless. When Walter was finished, Moses scolded him for being so stupid. The last thing he wanted was to see his friends joining him in prison, or worse. Amazingly, Malcolm and Walter were never caught. The authorities had bigger snakes to handle now that the Civil Rights 125

Qwantu Amaru Movement was in full swing and Afro-Americans from coast to coast were screaming for freedom. Walter wanted nothing to do with Malcolm’s plans to form a Black militia, and this caused a rift in their friendship that was never repaired. Shortly thereafter, Malcolm received the dreaded draft card in the mail. Project 100,000 had found another soldier for Lyndon Johnson’s Vietnam War. In his last letter to Moses before setting off to fight in America’s first racially integrated conflict, Malcolm described his fears of dying in some strange place. He also detailed how, if he lived, he would use his military training to become a General, leading Blacks out of oppression into something greater. While Malcolm was away at war, life went on. Walter continued to visit Moses in prison, and through the scratched panes of prison glass, a bond was formed. Eventually, Walter married Malcolm’s childhood sweetheart, a beautiful woman named Juanita. Juanita was the love of Malcolm’s life and Moses often worried about how Malcolm would react when he found out the news. After twelve years of hard time, Moses was finally released from prison. Committed to forging a new path, he served as a deacon at Walter’s church back in Lake City. Walter, still fighting the good fight, decided to give up his law practice to immerse himself in local politics. Meanwhile, Malcolm continued to fight for a country that had no respect for him or his rights. At some point, Moses’ letters to Vietnam started coming back undelivered. After a year of no news, word came down that Malcolm and several other black soldiers had deserted. Malcolm eventually resurfaced, not long before Walter, now mayor, was brutally assassinated—burned to death in his office 126

One Blood with his white secretary. The police found evidence linking the crime to Juanita, who had disappeared the night of the crime, along with Malcolm. When Moses learned the two of them were living together outside of Houston, he’d confronted them with some tough questions. Questions Malcolm had not been inclined to answer. Moses, convinced that Malcolm had fully succumbed to the dark side, made it his life’s work to undermine Malcolm at any cost. He’d been lucky to find Lincoln before Malcolm could get to him. Moses had managed to keep the boy on the straight and narrow for two years before that day at Simmons Park. But now that they were both sharing an address at Angola, Lincoln was under Malcolm’s thumb. The dream was clear—Lincoln’s association with Malcolm would be the death of him. Unless Moses could intervene. “We all have ghosts.” Moses turned onto Tunica Trace—the narrow byway also known as Hell’s Corridor that dead-ended at the front gates of the Louisiana State Penitentiary. He had to stop Malcolm’s plan, today, or else Lincoln would pay the ultimate price.

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Chapter Nineteen
Monday Lake City, LA

oral lay next to her snoring husband, staring into the darkness. The weekend had passed in an unbearable crawl. Despite Randy’s assurances to the contrary, Coral firmly believed that Karen was dead. There was nothing left inside her now. She wasn’t strong enough to bear even the remote possibility of losing another child. Not like this. And since she couldn’t save Karen, maybe she could do something even better, something that would reunite her with her children once and for all. She got up and walked across the suite to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. What if you’re wrong? What if Karen is still alive? Coral tried to ignore the voice, but it continued to badger her. What if you’re her only hope? A girl needs her mother, doesn’t she? Coral grabbed the bottle of Xanax. She filled her glass with water. Sweat broke out on her brow. Her hands shook uncontrollably. The walls were closing in on her. She saw her own terrified reflection in the mirror. She had around twenty pills left; she prayed it would be enough to do the 128

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One Blood trick. Coral closed her eyes and popped the first little white pill into her quivering mouth…and then the next…and the next. But she hadn’t even opened the bottle of pills yet. Her hand was empty and the glass was still full. Coral fumbled to open the bottle, but the top was stuck. She twisted the cap with all her might and it finally spun off. She turned the bottle over to shake pills into her palm but nothing came out. Randy must have taken the last one. Or maybe it’s just not your time. Coral threw the empty container on the floor in a fiery rage and sat down on the toilet seat. Stop being so weak! The voice in her head sounded just like her long dead grandmother, the famous disciplinarian and matriarch of her family. The only way Karen survives is if you’re strong for her—for the both of you! There’s no more time to feel sorry for yourself. Maybe Kristopher would still be around if you’d spent less time whining. “Stop it, just stop it!” Coral screamed. She looked at herself in the mirror, half expecting to see the ancient face of her grandmother, but the tired face staring back was hers alone. “What’s going on in there? Stop making so much noise!” Randy yelled from the bedroom. Coral collected herself and tried to straighten out some of the mess she’d made. As she drank down the glass of water, she noticed the empty bottle of Xanax she’d thrown on the floor. The bottle was overturned and there were pills scattered everywhere. 129

Qwantu Amaru Coral slid to her knees and put the pills back into the bottle— twenty-two in all. Placing the bottle in the medicine cabinet, she returned to bed. It was a long time before sleep found her.

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Chapter Twenty
Monday Location Unknown

y boys are on their way,” Snake said. “Is the girl ready for delivery?” Amir paced inside the dilapidated school where his crew was holed up. “Everything is under control.” “It better be. Everything’s been set in motion on my end. If yuh try and fuck me, it’s gonna get ugly.” “Don’t threaten me,” Amir replied in a calm, even tone. “We are both going to get exactly what we want.” “I want to know where yuh have the girl,” Snake demanded. “We pahtners, right? What if something bad happens to yuh boys? Yuh know Lafitte can’t be trusted.” “We’ve been over this a million times…the girl is my responsibility; you just worry about keeping Lafitte in check. Where are you now?” “Rayne.” “Good. Now let’s go over things one last time…” Moments later Amir hung up and exhaled deeply. Things were slowly falling into place. 131

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Qwantu Amaru The hardest part had been convincing Lincoln to join their cause. He wasn’t exactly the trusting type. But eventually his curiosity got the best of him, and after Panama X explained how Randy Lafitte had not only killed Lincoln’s father, but ruined his mother’s life as well, Lincoln was in. The first plan had been to incite a riot and use the commotion as a distraction so Amir could sneak Lincoln out of the prison. Panama X quickly vetoed that idea—far too risky. After much strategizing, the three of them had come up with the perfect plan. Actually, it was more than perfect, it was damn near elegant. Juanita Barber would finally be avenged. Amir visited his mother’s grave in Lake City often. Even though he knew he could speak to her spirit from anywhere, he felt closer, more connected, at the spot where her physical remains lay at rest. One day after one of his regular visits, he returned to his car to find a note pinned between the windshield and wiper. It read: Meet me at The Island of Capri. 7:00 p.m. Lucky Wins. I have information you need. Lucky Wins was a cheap Asian restaurant populated by septuagenarians who let slot machines digest their retirement while they consumed smelly chinese food. Amir gazed around the crowded space, searching for anyone staring at him with recognition. A fair-skinned beauty with dark hair nodded and waved at him from the far side of the room. With a face that could stop a war, her beauty pulsated towards him like a star about to go supernova. He tried to play it cool, but his stomach was hoola-hooping around in his mid-section. As lust 132

One Blood stirred in his loins, Amir realized how blinded he had been by his mission. Seeing this woman was like seeing food after starving for so long he’d forgotten he was even hungry. Amir made his way over to where she was seated. Not knowing what to say, he sat down and tried unsuccessfully not to stare. “You don’t get out much, do you?” she asked with a slight smile. Amir looked her over. She was a bewitching woman, probably in her early thirties. Her eyes were downright hypnotic—dark, piercing, and seemingly all-knowing. “I get out enough,” he replied. “This is my first time in a casino, though.” “Not a gambling man?” “I prefer to play people, not cards, slots, or dice.” “Interesting,” she replied. “How is that working out for you?” “Some people are easier to play than others, and some people are best not to play with at all.” She nodded and smiled. “And which type of person are you?” “I think you know.” He returned her smile. “So, what’s this all about?” “Let’s have a drink before we get to business,” she replied. She summoned the waiter and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Amir ordered a cranberry-orange juice. “Don’t drink?” she asked. “Nothing with alcohol.” “You must get that from your father.” Amir was caught off guard by the mention of his father. “You need to start talking, lady.” “Yes drill sergeant! Wow, you military types are a mess.” She chuckled, revealing a mouth of healthy white teeth. “Hmm… 133

Qwantu Amaru where do we start? Clearly, I know some things about you, yet you know nothing about me. Let me get you up to speed. My name is Jhonnette Deveaux and I want to help you.” The waiter returned with their drinks. “Help me with what?” Amir asked, taking a sip of juice. She grabbed a napkin, wrote something down, and passed it across the table. Amir read the name she had scrawled: Lincoln Baker. “What about him?” he asked, trying to control his annoyance. “Come on, Amir. Stop being so stoic. How am I supposed to help with you acting all nonchalant? Look, I know all about you, your father, and our friend there.” She pointed to the napkin. “I also know how you can set him free and why that is so important to you.” “Go on,” Amir replied. “What do you know about Kristopher Lafitte?” she asked between sips of her drink. “Besides who his father is and how he died? Not much.” “Did you know our beloved Governor’s father died three days after he turned eighteen?” “And?” “You think it’s a coincidence Kristopher Lafitte died on the exact same schedule?” Amir was intrigued. “What are you saying?” Jhonnette grabbed another napkin and scribbled something. Then she finished off her drink, stood and replied, “Karen Lafitte turns eighteen in two years. Think about it.” Amir did more than just think about it. In the weeks that followed his encounter with Jhonnette Deveaux, he became obsessed with the history of the Lafitte clan. She’d left her number on the napkin 134

One Blood and when he called, she didn’t sound the least bit surprised to hear from him. “How did you figure all this out?” he asked. “That’s none of your business,” she replied. “What you need to focus on is how you can use this information to free Lincoln and officially take the reins of the Black Mob from your father. That is your ultimate goal, right?” She had him there. Everything Amir had done since he turned eighteen had the same objective: to prove his readiness to lead. “I will help you,” she continued. “All I ask in return is a small percentage of the ransom.” “Whoa, lady,” Amir replied. “Who said anything about kidnapping anybody?” “How else do you expect to force Randy Lafitte to issue a full pardon for Lincoln’s release…” So as brilliant as the plan was, Amir could not claim credit. At every turn, Jhonnette Deveaux had been there providing valuable insight and guidance. Unfortunately, his attempts to turn her into more than an advisor had fallen flat. She was not interested in mixing business with pleasure. And whenever Amir inquired about her reasons for helping him, she’d simply say, “Randy Lafitte has ruined many lives; your mother wasn’t his only victim.” Due to Jhonnette’s cajoling, Amir finally conjured up the courage to perform the ceremony on Karen Lafitte known in Vodun as the sending of the dead. The sending of the dead ritual would result in a brutally slow death for Karen. First, she would undergo rapid weight loss, 135

Qwantu Amaru then she would cough and vomit blood. Finally, she would lose all strength, succumbing to the demon. Once this process was complete, Amir would return Karen’s inhabited shell to Randy so the baka could destroy Lafitte and return to the spirit realm. Punishment at its finest. Amir’s father had taught him the guiding principles that molded his philosophies and framed his purpose. Vodun was the recognition that all things, events, and living beings were inextricably bound together. The only religion borne out of revolution, this universal spiritual system rested on the common principles of magic. When dealing with a baka there was always a blood contract involved. With the sending of the dead, Amir, as the invoker of the baka, would be obligated to serve the baka in the afterlife. But in the case of a lost soul from the transitional realm like Kristopher Lafitte, the traditional contract could be waved by allowing the spirit to exact revenge against a common enemy with no negative consequences for Amir. Today the baka would complete its mission. Amir played out how the day’s events would unfold. At eight o’clock, Lincoln would be released from Angola. Once Amir received confirmation that Lincoln was safely out of prison and on his way back to Lake City, Amir would give the order for his men to make the final drop. The rest was up to Snake. Apparently, Jhonnette had Randy Lafitte’s enforcer under her thumb. When Amir had questioned the need for Snake’s involvement, Jhonnette was characteristically vague. “It never hurts to have a man on the inside,” she said. “Insurance.” Amir made his way down a narrow corridor to the control room where Moose, Zire, and Reef were posted up. 136

One Blood “What the fuck are you guys doing?” Amir asked. The men looked at each other. Moose spoke up. “We was just discussin’ who was goin’ to deliver the last drop.” Amir rubbed the back of his bald head. “Then it looks like I’m just in time. Where the hell are the Stooges?” “Trump and Salsa are ‘sleep,” Zire replied in his chronic smoker’s whisper. “Fat Pat just left to pick up our gal from the park.” “Thanks for the update, Zire. Just for that, you get to stay here with me while Moose and Reef deliver the drop.” Moose and Reef’s expressions did not betray any concern. These were good men. Ex-military, just like him. Dependable and disciplined. “Now here’s how it’s gonna go down…I want to speak to the Stooges once Fat Pat gets back. They’re Team One and ya’ll are Team Two. While they take care of the girl, ya’ll deliver the drop. Then ya’ll high tail it to the meeting point.” Moose and Reef nodded, then cleared out to carry out their mission. Amir turned to Zire. “You get those things I asked for?” “Of course. You ready for them now?” “Yeah. Thank you, Zire.” Once Zire’s footfalls faded, Amir grabbed a flashlight and made his way into the prayer chamber. Amir’s life had changed so much since his mother revealed the truth to him about his brother. “Set Lincoln free, Amir.” His ears rang with the last words his mother ever spoke. Running his flashlight over the room, Amir took inventory of the materials Zire had provided. The salt was clearly marked. 137

Qwantu Amaru There were three tall black candles. A box of fresh chalk sat on top of two packages of Karen’s blood. He touched the top package. Room temperature. Perfect. But where is the knife? He turned in a circle looking for his instrument and found it sitting in its leather sheath on a hook by the door. With all of the materials accounted for, Amir could proceed. Amir felt all the loa smiling down on him. It was time to begin. Using the chalk, Amir drew a large intricate design on the floor.

The design (called vèvè) was required to summon a loa, in this case Guédé Barons or Baron LaCroix—the loa of the dead. Amir carefully sprinkled the salt in a complete circle around the vèvè (for his own protection). Then he stepped into the center with the blood, candles, and knife. He squeezed Karen’s blood onto the large rectangle at the base of the vèvè. As he did so, he felt the ground beneath his feet tremor ever so slightly. He lit the candles, placing one atop each of the three asterisk-like symbols. He chanted in French as he did this, and 138

One Blood each time he repeated the mantra, he sprinkled more of Karen’s blood on the candles. Once the candles had been doused with blood, Amir sliced his palm with the knife and pressed his hand to the heart-shaped face. Then he stood, straddling the symbol, and waited for Baron LaCroix to manifest. He would need the loa’s strength to control the baka. If not, the results would be disastrous for everyone. Thirty minutes later, Amir lay on his cot, exhausted. He’d tried everything he knew to bring the spirit to him, but Baron LaCroix never showed. Maybe he didn’t yet have the strength. Perhaps it was an omen. Either way, he would try again once his men returned with the girl. Amir was nervous—Fat Pat should have reported back by now. Amir was in the middle of typing a message to Fat Pat on his twoway when he heard someone approaching. In moments, Fat Pat stood before him, sweating profusely, his face twisted with a wild look of fear. “What is it?” Amir asked, anticipating the worst. Fat Pat’s reply, however, was so far out of the realm of possibilities that it took Amir a few seconds to comprehend what he’d said. “Come again?” Amir asked. “It’s th-the girl…” Fat Pat repeated. “She’s gone.”

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Chapter Twenty-One
Monday Location Unknown

tickling sensation in her ear brought Karen into consciousness. With her eyes closed, she felt pressure on her chest like someone was giving her CPR. But the hands were concentrated on her breasts, not her breastbone. A male voice attached to those hands grunted, “Damn, girl.” His tongue probed her ear cavity as he humped her hard and fast. Karen’s pelvis convulsed in a sharp cramp. He twitched frantically on top of her and after a few shudders rolled away. Karen opened her eyes. She felt separated from what was happening to her body, as if it was another girl getting raped. How did I get here? Where is here? The charley horse galloping inside her abdomen brought her back to reality. Her lower back felt as if a migraine migrated there for the winter. She clutched and then rubbed her sore pelvis. “You aight, yo? Whassamatta?” “Cramps.” Karen exhaled as they subsided. “Cramps from what?” 140

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One Blood She pointed down. “You fo’ real?” He moved a few spaces away. “Damn. What we gone do now?” “Where…am I?” The past few hours were a blur. She vaguely remembered someone talking to her, telling her to get up in harsh whispers. She remembered the smell and feel of wet grass, too. Pain and wet grass. Where is my fucking shot? I wouldn’t be feeling this way if I had my shot… “I rescued you,” the voice said. Karen rolled over, gazing upon her hero—a short, bald-headed, black kid who looked to be around her age. The word “Shorty” was written in Old English lettering on his inner forearm. “Who are you?” she asked. “Don’t worry bout all that. I’ma take good care of you.” “How did I end up here?” The boy ignored her question and got to his feet. “You want somethin’ to drink?” “Is that your name on your arm?” Karen persisted. The boy walked out of the room without answering. Karen tried to focus. Bit by bit, snatches of memory began to return to her. Her new captor had liberated her from the small, windowless cell where the fat, sweaty black man, a.k.a. Flashlight Man, had been holding her prisoner. She’d been refused everything but the stuff in the syringe as they prepared her for the “ceremony.” Every time she tried to remember details about the ceremony, she saw she and Kristopher on the swings in their backyard beneath the curved branches of Melinda Weeps. 141

Qwantu Amaru Karen looked around the boy’s room. It was unremarkable except for a huge gun sitting atop the dresser. That gun is my ticket out of here. Karen was about to reach for the gun when Shorty reappeared. “Here, drink this.” He stood over her with a dixie cup full of thick, pink liquid. “What is it?” “It’s called Lean. It’ll make you feel real good. Slow everything down a bit.” Karen’s heart flip-flopped with excitement, the gun completely forgotten. She greedily gulped down the contents of the cup, praying it would numb her senses again. It tasted like watered down cough syrup with a kick. Thankfully, the drug worked fast. As she lay back and closed her eyes, a plan began to form. She just had to find a way to make the boy leave. But she couldn’t think straight; she kept nodding off. A vision of her father’s screaming face being ripped apart by a black panther forced her eyes open again. “I need tampons.” “Huh?” “I’m on my period, gonna bleed all over myself if I don’t get one.” “My moms got toilet tissue…that cool?” “No…is there a store…you know, around?” “Yeah…yeah, I’ll handle it.” He pulled on his sweats. Karen scanned the floor for the condom she prayed he’d used. There was none in sight. 142

One Blood “When I get back, we’ll figure out what to do next.” Once the boy was completely dressed, he dug around in his closet and emerged with a roll of duct tape. “Sorry, bruh. I can’t trust you to stick around while I’m away,” he said as he bound Karen’s hands to the posts of his bed in a spread eagle position. Karen didn’t resist. “Gots to make sure I get that reward, ya feel me?” Karen fixated on the word “reward.” In a brief moment of clarity, as she looked at her increasingly thinning arms, the idea that her life meant something to her kidnappers hit home. Her captor grabbed the gun off the dresser and left. Hopeless, Karen tried to maintain her high. The tears streaming down her face made it difficult, but she managed to drift off, even as her arms began tingling from the loss of circulation.

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Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday Angola, LA

aker? Baker! I know you hear me, boy! Time to wake up. The warden wants to see you.” Lincoln jumped at the sound of the man’s voice. He opened eyes caked with sleep and saw a redneck guard yelling at him through the cell bars. “What did you say?” “Are you deaf and dumb, Nigger? The warden wants to see you. Now. Let’s go.” Lincoln stretched. “What time is it?” “Time to get yo’ black ass over to these here bars and ‘sume the position.” After securing the handcuffs—every prisoner’s least favorite accessory—the guard yelled down the corridor. A moment later, Lincoln and the guard were only separated by air and opportunity. Lincoln held a happy vision of slitting the man’s throat with a used razor blade. He smiled at the balding, pudgy, white man before him. “What does the warden want to see me for? I’ve got to pack up my stuff. You know I’m fin to get out today.” The guard told him to shut up and yanked him out of the cell. 144

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One Blood Walking down the corridor of Camp J, Lincoln looked into the cells of the other lifers waking up to another day on the block. They all had variations of the same story. To outsiders, twentythree hour lockdown might seem unbearable, but to the prisoners of Camp J, there was a worse alternative. They could be at the injection center waiting for the poisonous kiss of the needle. Moments later, Lincoln walked out into the humid Louisiana morning. As his eyes adjusted to the morning light, he smiled broadly. He usually only got to spend three hours outside per week. When I get outta here I’m gonna sleep outside for a whole month! That’ll be the life! Lincoln got into the backseat of the patrol car and rested his head against the window, watching the other inmates trudging out for another day of work in the fields. He managed to get one hand inside his jeans pocket and fished out the crinkled photograph he carried with him at all times. Staring at the old picture of Juanita, given to him some years ago by Amir, he felt a mixture of anger and hope. Anger because she died before they could meet, and hope that he could do her memory justice upon his release. They had the same eyebrows, nose, chin, and mouth. And now they had the same dream. Revenge. Amidst his collection of wallpaper was an article Amir sent him a few days after their initial introduction. Lincoln requested proof of Amir’s authenticity and Amir had produced a worn article from 1973. The article accused a woman, Juanita Simmons, of killing her husband—the first black mayor of Lake City—and his secretary. 145

Qwantu Amaru The assassinated mayor’s name was Walter Simmons. Amir had circled his name and written YOUR DAD in the margin. Lincoln couldn’t believe that the park he had played, grown-up, and killed on—Simmons Park— was named after his biological father. At the end of the article Amir had written the phrase, MOM WAS FRAMED. Panama X filled in the rest of the blanks, telling him about the man responsible for Lincoln’s loneliness, pain, and suffering over the years. The man who’d robbed him of the chance at a better life. The man who had built an empire on the decayed bones of his father. Listening to X, it all clicked for Lincoln. He immediately began to read anything and everything he could get his hands on about Randy Lafitte. The more he learned about his enemy, the more he fantasized about the day when he would confront him and make him feel pain like he’d never known. He didn’t know if it was “his destiny,” like Panama X always said, but he was committed to vengeance, consequences be damned. First step: get out of Angola. Second step: get to Lafitte. Third step: kill him. Then improvise the rest. The car pulled up to the prison administrative office, but instead of stopping, the guard drove around to the back of the building. “What the fuck is goin’ on?” Lincoln asked. The guard ignored him. “I’m axin’ you a ques—” Lincoln swallowed the rest of his sentence as the guard turned around brandishing his bully club. “The warden told me to give you this.” 146

One Blood Lincoln started to protest, but a bully club to the temple shut him up. All he saw was a flash of light before his world turned black.

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Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday Lake City, LA

’m comin’,” Brandon Mouton shouted at the front door. “Quit ringin’ the friggin’ doorbell, would’ja?” Brandon shuffled from his bedroom to answer the buzzer. After fumbling for a minute with the three locks on the door, he opened it with a jingle from the cowbell tied around the handle. The early morning sunlight burst into the dark cave of the modest house, blinding Brandon and illuminating a narrow hallway with brown tile floors. Brandon rubbed his eyes until they adjusted to the morning sun. Then he recognized the short, bald-headed kid on the other side of the locked screen door. “Whassup, Shorty?” Brandon opened the screen door and greeted his homeboy with a pound handshake and a half hug. “What it do?” Shorty replied. “When you get back to the L.C.?” “Late last night. The trip was off tha slab! We won the tournament and guess who got that MVP?” “Yeah?” Shorty grinned. “That’s cool. Real cool. Proud of you man.” “Thanks. So what’s up? I know you didn’t wake my ass up to talk basketball.” 148

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One Blood Shorty lifted his wife-beater slightly, revealing the unmistakable black grip of a Glock .357. He was no longer grinning as he said, “I need your help, bruh. You gonna let me in?” Brandon suddenly wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. He looked up and down the street trying to think fast. An old, burgundy Oldsmobile Eight-Eight turned the corner in front of his house. “Come on,” Brandon interrupted, feeling exposed. He gestured for Shorty to enter. Once they got to his bedroom, Brandon sat down on the bed. “Aight Shorty, what we got to talk about?” “Man, you shoulda seen yo’ face when you saw my piece. Looked like a scared little beeyatch.” “Why you walkin’ around in the street with that goddamn gun anyway, Shorty?” “Why else? It’s for protection.” Shorty reached into the small refrigerator on the floor of Brandon’s closet and took out a Coke. “Protection from who?” Shorty got quiet and then said, “I found somethin’. Somethin’ important.” “You gonna tell me what it is?” “I’ll tell you what it’s about.” Shorty rummaged through his backpack and Brandon could have sworn he saw what looked like a box of Playtex tampons. Seconds later, Shorty handed Brandon the newspaper. “You seen this yet?” Brandon read the headline glaring back at him from that morning’s Lake City Advocate: “Governor Lafitte to Grant Lincoln Baker a Full Pardon.” He had tried so hard to shut out the memories 149

Qwantu Amaru of that awful day at Simmons Park. He could barely stand to look at the picture of Lincoln. Long gone were the days of looking up to his older brother, the basketball superstar-turned-murderer. Why did you do it, Link? “When is he gettin’ out?” Brandon felt a headache coming on. “Eight this mohnin’.” Brandon’s world was spinning. “Word?” “Yeah, Bruh. I can’t wait for Link to get back on the block.” Shorty beamed with admiration. Brandon thought he was going to be sick. “How…how is this possible?” To his surprise, Shorty answered, “Come wit’ me and I’ll show you.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four
Monday Lake City, LA

kay,” Brandon said. “Where is this thing you gotta show me?” “My house. Let’s cut through the woods.” They walked in silence through the forest, following a path that had probably been carved out by boys much like themselves years earlier. Eventually the woods cleared out and the path disappeared, revealing Shorty’s backyard. “Aight. This is what’s up,” Shorty said. “Somebody snatched the Governor’s daughter two days ago.” “Karen Lafitte? Bullshit! That woulda been all over the news.” “Not if they had a ransom. I caught them bringing her to Simmons Park, and then I followed them back to their hideout...” Shorty had been headed to school Friday morning when he got a text from one of his “customers.” He took a slight detour to Simmons Park to unload a couple of dime bags before class. After he made the drop, Shorty smoked a little of the product and then continued on his way to school. He was about to jump the fence (put up after the killings to keep trespassers out) when he detected 151

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Qwantu Amaru movement out of the corner of his eye. A fat guy and a musclehead were unloading a sleeping bag from the trunk of an Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight. The sleeping bag had a lock of blond hair sticking out of the top. “Really?” Brandon asked. “Then how did Karen get here?” “Well, I had a feeling that they might be watchin’ the place, know what I’m sayin’, so I pretty much just watched them come and go until I got their schedule down pat. Then last night I decided to check out the gym. You know I ain’t been up in that piece since before the shooting, bruh?” “Me either.” “Yeah, man. It was dark as shit up in there. That place used to be a lot bigger when we was kids, bruh…” It had been easy to open up the gym door, but not nearly as easy to find his way around in the dark once he was inside. The sliver of light coming through the door from the single functioning streetlight was swallowed by the darkness. Shorty wished he had something to prop open the door, but he couldn’t risk someone seeing the door ajar and coming in to investigate. He pulled out his flashlight and took a few cautious steps forward. The outside door closed behind him. The flashlight illuminated a paper-strewn hallway. He looked around for clues as to where they’d stashed the body. Shorty paused after finding a blond hair on the stairwell. He stopped and listened. Upstairs, someone or something was whimpering. 152

One Blood He took a few more steps. A female voice cried, “Where are you, Kristopher? I wanna see you.” “Come on, Shorty, that ain’t true,” Brandon interrupted. Shorty had told some tall tales in his life, but this had to be like Manute Bol tall. “You don’t believe me?” “Does ‘hell no’ mean anything to you?” “That hurts, B, really. But I knew you wouldn’t believe me, that’s why I brought you here in the first place. So come on if you comin’.” Brandon followed Shorty into the house. The place was a mess, as usual. Shorty’s rarely present mother was a packrat who had never found a piece of junk she didn’t love. Brandon checked his watch. He was going to be late for school for sure. Coach Torelli would ream him out if he missed the morning meeting. “We got to hurry this—” Brandon started to say as he stepped into Shorty’s bedroom. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A blond-haired white girl lay spread-eagled on Shorty’s bed. This couldn’t be Karen Lafitte. He had just seen her at Jessica Breaux’s homecoming after party. Karen had been named Homecoming Queen. There was no trace of that girl here. Her wrists and ankles were taped to the metal posts. Brandon saw track marks up and down emaciated arms. She looked like the concentration camp victims in his world history textbook. He stared at Shorty dumbfounded. 153

Qwantu Amaru “See. Told ya,” Shorty said smugly. Brandon took a step backward. He wanted to bolt, but was held transfixed by the scene before him. “What did you do, Shorty? What did you do?” “What the hell you talking bout? I saved her life!” Brandon looked away—Karen wasn’t wearing any panties. “This is sick, Shorty. What the hell is wrong with you?” “Wrong with me? You got this twisted, bruh.” Brandon barged past Shorty and started undoing Karen’s bonds. “What the fuck you think you’re doing? Stop!” “Make me.” Brandon had almost gotten Karen’s left ankle loose when he felt the gun pressed into his back. “I said, stop.” “You gonna shoot me, Shorty?” “I don’t want to, so don’t make me. Now turn around. Real slow.” Brandon’s heartbeat doubled as he got his second look at Shorty’s glock. “Come on, Shorty, you know me. We can work this out.” “I thought so,” Shorty said, taping Brandon’s hands behind his back. “But I guess I was wrong. Now sit down and cross your ankles.” Shorty took his eyes off Brandon’s face for a moment to tape up his legs. Brandon jerked his knee into Shorty’s jaw. It was a solid hit. Shorty tumbled off him, temporarily unconscious. Working his wrists, Brandon freed himself, tied Shorty up, then went back to work on Karen. Once he had her loose, he gently pulled her to her feet. Karen rolled her head back and looked up at him. “Isaac?” “Shhh. I’m fin to get you out of here.” 154

One Blood “Brandon! Fuck, bruh!” Shorty groaned. “What you do that for. Let me go, bruh.” “No way, Shorty. I’m gonna get Karen out of here and then I’m calling the police.” “I’m telling you, I didn’t do this! All you have to do is go over to Simmons Park and see for yourself. That’s where they had her. Just check it out before you do something crazy, please!” “You’re no good, Shorty. We’re getting out of here. I’m taking the gun, too, so don’t get any ideas.” As Brandon dragged Karen outside he realized he was in way over his head.

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Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday Baton Rouge, LA

ive me some good news, Bill,” Randy said, answering his phone. He gave up on his tie momentarily and sat on the edge of the tub inside his suite at the Marriott. He’d been waiting for Bill’s call for over an hour. “My FBI contacts have located Amir Barber,” Bill replied. “And he is Juanita Simmons’ son.” Randy slapped his knee with pleasure. Jhonnette Deveaux had turned out to be extremely helpful after all. “Bulls-eye. He’s the guy. Where is he?” “We’re triangulating his exact location right now.” “Excellent work,” Randy replied. “What are you going do to about Snake Roberts?” Bill asked. It was a good question. One Randy had given serious thought to over the past eight hours. “I’ve got Snake covered,” Randy replied. Snake would soon learn the penalty for disloyalty. “Bill, Karen’s fate is in your hands now. Bring my girl home to me.” “You can count on me, Ran. I’ll keep you posted.” 156

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One Blood Randy hung up, splashed his face with water, and finished his tie. He was going to need the power of positive thinking to get through all of this. Since Karen’s kidnapping, he’d just barely managed to keep from unraveling as the kidnappers continued to torture him. They’d sent two more DVDs, each one further documenting Karen’s regression from a healthy teenager to a pale, emaciated zombie. In the videos, Karen scratched at her arms, lined with the tell-tale marks of heroin use, while talking to herself like a schizophrenic. The look in her eyes was the worst though, like she was losing hope and humanity with each passing day. Randy just wanted her back alive, no matter what the condition. He was terrified of what today might bring if Bill couldn’t find her first. His cell phone rang again. Randy stared at the words, UNKNOWN CALLER, staring at him from the display. It was the kidnappers. He could only imagine what they would have to say. As he flipped open the phone, he was completely unprepared for the word that floated through the telephone receiver. “Daddy?”

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Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday Angola, LA

ake up, Lincoln. Rise and shine.” Lincoln crawled out of the darkness as if he’d been buried alive under six feet of nightmares and confusion. His head throbbed and his hands and feet were strapped into a chair of some sort. Strange voices spoke in hushed tones near him. There was a mask over his head, the kind of mask placed over an inmate’s head just moments before he imitated the “this is your brain on drugs” commercial from the eighties. Judging from the echo in the room, he knew he wasn’t in a holding cell. Where the hell am I? Rational thought gave way to adrenaline as fear bolted to the surface of his psyche. I’m strapped into the electric chair! His breath grew raspier as the mask stuck to his sweat-soaked skin. Suddenly, it was ripped off his face. Lincoln blinked as he tried to adjust to the bright lights. He heard snickering and laughter all around him. A tall figure in a dark suit stood before him. Lincoln immediately recognized his captor. “You? You’re responsible for this?” 158

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One Blood “I don’t know why you’re so surprised, Lincoln,” Kristopher Lafitte whispered. His sharp blue eyes shimmered crazily. “Did you really think they were just going to let you walk out of Angola?” “This ain’t happenin’.” Lincoln squirmed against the rough wood of the electric chair. “This ain’t real. You’re dead!” Kris stared back at Lincoln. “Death is relative, Lincoln. You should know that better than anyone. Remember? You killed me.” “Why…how…is this happening?” The smell of formaldehyde flooded Lincoln’s nostrils. The last time he’d seen Kris, his best friend had been laying at the base of the lone tree in Simmons Park, clutching his stomach, blood blooming between his long pale fingers. “Maybe I’m just a figment of your imagination, Lincoln. Maybe I’m your guilty conscience. Or maybe this…is…real.” “I don’t understand,” Lincoln mumbled. Suddenly they were back in Simmons Park. Lincoln leaned over Kris as his friend bled to death from a bullet wound in his stomach. Lincoln inched forward so he could hear what Kris was trying to tell him between his wheezes and gasps. Kris grabbed the back of Lincoln’s head in one bloody palm, pulled him within kissing distance and gasped, “It’s seven o’clock, Baker. You know where yo’ pardon is?” Lincoln opened his eyes. His head ached and nostrils burned. A voice spoke up in front of him. Swimming in confusion, he raised his head with some effort, the blur before him slowly materializing into solid form. Warden George Winey sipped his coffee and stared at Lincoln like he couldn’t decide whether he was pissed off or constipated. 159

Qwantu Amaru A guard stood beside Lincoln’s chair waving smelling salts under his nose. Lincoln pushed the man’s hand away from his face. “Assault is a criminal offense, you know.” “Save it for someone who cares, boy,” the warden replied. Lincoln gazed at the man who had presided over the prison with an iron fist for the past thirteen years. Lincoln refused to give Winey the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. Mind over matter, as Panama X liked to say. He leaned back and smirked like he was privy to an inside joke. “What’s so funny, boy?” “Nuthin’, bruh. I was just thinking about how wild you looked in that press conference the other day, but you lookin’ good now, boss— lost a little weight. I guess your wife’s Parkinsons is rubbin’ off.” The warden looked primed to jump over the desk and strangle Lincoln to death. “You ain’t outta here yet, you black idiot!” “You can’t do nothing to me and you know it, bruh.” Lincoln maintained his smirk. “I got a pardon signed by the Governor and I’m walking out of here, whether you like it or not. I bet you want to know how I managed to get myself pardoned. Sucks to be you then, cuz that’s one magic trick you’ll never figure out.” “Magic, huh, boy? You must be crazier’n a shithouse rat if you think you’re just walking out of here.” Winey sauntered around to the front of his desk holding a copy of Lincoln’s pardon. “The Governor gave us very specific instructions not to let you out until we heard from him. How you like the sounda that, boy?” “Sounds fine to me, bruh. It’s gonna be the last time you see me anyway, so you might as well get your fill.” 160

One Blood “Oh, I’ve had my fill,” Winey replied. “You actually have a visitor.” “A visitor?” Lincoln asked. “Yes. Mr. Roberts. He’s a friend of the Governor.” The warden’s smirk now mirrored his own. Lincoln remained stoic but his stomach ached. Something is wrong. The guard grabbed Lincoln by the arm and ushered him down a short hall to a small, windowless room. Lincoln met the steely gaze of a rugged-looking white man with long, silver hair and an equally unkempt silver beard. “Mr. Roberts,” the guard said. “Do you need me to stay?” “No, you can go.” Roberts fixed his faded gray eyes on Lincoln’s face. “Have a seat, Link.” “Name’s Lincoln. You don’t know me, bruh, so don’t try me.” “Come on, Link, I thought you were expecting me.” Lincoln stared back at the stranger. Something clicked. “You the Panther?” Lincoln asked, referencing Amir’s codename for their partner. “In the flesh.” Amir, you brilliant motherfucker. “Well, why the fuck didn’t you just say so?” Initially, Lincoln had been against partnering with someone from the outside, but once Amir explained that they had recruited one of Lafitte’s own men as an accomplice, it became Lincoln’s favorite aspect of the plan. “So what happens now?” Lincoln asked. “Well, that’s the easy part. The Governor should be calling the warden right now, ordering your release. When you get the word, 161

Qwantu Amaru go check out yuh things. I brought yuh some cash and left yuh a car parked just outside the gates. A silver sedan.” “Anything else?” “There’s tons of reporters outside. I suggest yuh don’t say shit to nobody. Just get to that car, and haul ass to the location in the envelope with the money.” “What then?” “Then we’ll meet up and head back to Lake City, together.” Lincoln considered this. Roberts didn’t get his portion of the ransom until Lincoln touched down in Lake City, so all seemed good. “Okay, I’m witcha. We done here?” “For now.” Moments later, a guard led Lincoln to collect his things. Lincoln took stock of all the material possessions he had in the world— barely enough to fill a shoebox. He took a deep breath—he was now just three doors from freedom. Lincoln noticed two strange envelopes mixed in with his personal effects. One was thick, stuffed with cash. The other was thin. He opened the thinner envelope as he made his way toward the front gates. Inside the envelope was a note containing a single sentence. Lincoln stopped in his tracks just fifty feet from the front gate as his palms went cold. He read the note again, just to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. They weren’t. It read, “Congratulations! You’re a dead man.”

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Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday Lake City, LA

randon stood in his bedroom, cordless phone in hand. Karen lay in his bed, sleeping peacefully. He wanted to call the police but Shorty’s words gave him pause. What if Shorty was telling the truth and he’d really been the one who rescued Karen? Though they had different ambitions in life, Brandon had a soft spot for Shorty. After all, they’d both lost brothers in the Simmons Park Massacre. Brandon owed it to his troubled friend to try and confirm his story. Leaving Karen to rest, he headed over to Simmons Park. The park, surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence, had been officially condemned after the killings took place, but everyone in the hood still used it to play ball, smoke out, and drink. But not Brandon. He hadn’t set foot on this cursed ground since that day. Everything looked just as he remembered, although weathered and worn from years of neglect. The faded, rainbow-colored jungle gym still stood beside the abandoned gymnasium—once a place of summer pool parties and community activities, now a hulking, beige husk with busted windows and cracked peeling walls. If a building could catch leprosy, this was it. 163

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Qwantu Amaru Brandon hopped the fence and saw a burgundy Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight turning the corner. He instinctively ducked, knowing that any neighbor would have more than a few choice words to say to Moses if they saw Brandon going into Simmons Park. Brandon pushed through the first pair of doors of the run-down gym and was immediately assaulted by stale air and the stench of rot. He headed up the stairs where Shorty had supposedly heard Karen’s cries. Soon Brandon stood in front of the only closed door in the corridor. He pushed it open and entered the tiny room. There was a mini refrigerator nailed to the floor, a toilet with no seat, and a giant Jamaican flag covering the entry. Brandon noticed a camcorder sitting atop a tripod in the far left corner. There was a crashing sound from below. Someone had thrown open the doors downstairs. They sounded like a herd of elephants as they approached the stairwell. Panicked, Brandon only had one thought—these must be the real kidnappers! They were now on the landing and rapidly approaching the guest room from hell. Brandon flattened himself against the wall next to the door opening, trying to calm his breathing and heart-rate with little success. In his head, he sounded like a broken vacuum cleaner each time he inhaled. Then Brandon remembered Shorty’s gun. The door blew open. An obese, dark-skinned man barged in, a sweaty black blob with gigantic bulging eyes. His huge eyes nearly tripled in size after Brandon hit him in his baby-making factory with the butt of the gun. All the intruder could say was a very surprised, “Ooof!” Brandon got tangled up in the Jamaican flag as he tried to flee 164

One Blood the room. A large hand clamped on his ankle and he fell to the floor, halfway between salvation and imprisonment. Brandon squirmed and tried to get out of the man’s reach. After bashing the man over the head with the butt of the gun, Brandon jumped up and ran toward the stairs. Unfortunately, he was too focused on what was behind him that he missed the first step. Badly. Brandon flew down the stairs headfirst. As his forehead came into contact with concrete, he heard gunshots.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Baton Rouge, LA

es, that’s right, Bill, I spoke to Karen…just a couple of minutes ago.” Randy sat in his Town Car on the way to the Louisiana Capitol Building. “So she escaped?” “Somehow, yes.” Randy’s mind returned to the all too short conversation he’d had with Karen as the motorcade glided through traffic. Her voice had been weak, wobbly, and shrill. She’d tried to tell him something, but with little success. He asked her over and over where she was, but her responses were incoherent and nonsensical. Then the line went as dead as Randy’s heart. Was this some sort of trap? “My men are ready to move in as soon as you give the word,” Bill said. Randy could barely contain his anxiety. “That’s good. Very good. But…please be careful, Bill. My daughter might still be caught up with them. Bring her back to me safely.” From far away, Coral heard someone banging on the door to her suite. It was probably the maid. “Go away!” 166
Baton Rouge, LA

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One Blood “Mrs. Lafitte?” a familiar voice called from the other side of the door. Coral looked through the peephole. It was Larry, the chief of her husband’s extra security detail. His bald, cone-shaped head looked extra pale in the incandescent light from the hallway. Randy was the first Governor in Louisiana’s history to hire his own security, in addition to the secret service. Larry was the fifth chief of security to serve the Lafitte family since Kristopher died. He rapped on the door again. “I’m not dressed, Larry.” “Come on, Mrs. Lafitte. Give me a break here. I’ve been out here banging for like five minutes.” “Okay, just give me a second please.” Coral put on her silk robe in a fluster. She opened the door and said, “Thanks for your patience.” The large man loomed over her like a canopy. The bulges of his concealed weapons peeked out from under his oversized sports coat. Something is wrong. “I need you to get dressed, Mrs. Lafitte. Something has happened and I need to get you out of here.” Coral knew the routine and went into the bathroom to grab her things. The morning newspaper sat on top of the toilet. She read the headline on the front page in disbelief. “Lincoln Baker Granted Full Pardon.” What the hell is going on? Five minutes later, she was dressed and heading out the front door with Larry behind her. 167

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The clamor outside Angola grew. Panama X listened intently. The volume of the screams indicated they were getting a first glimpse of their villain. But Panama X knew who the real villain was, and soon the public would, too. He waited patiently for the phone to ring down the hall, the signal that Lincoln was clear. The phone finally rang. Panama X stood and walked to the bars. A guard picked up the phone and nodded in Panama X’s direction. Panama X smiled from ear to ear.
Angola, LA

Angola, LA

Moses got out of the SUV and began the walk toward the penitentiary gates. Even though it had been years since his incarceration, the sight of the gates still brought on an intense loathing. The one benefit of his twelve-year stay, however, was that he still had allies on the inside who owed him favors. He was counting on them to get him access to Malcolm. The thought of acting the part of a prisoner, even for a cause as righteous as this, made him queasy. Nonetheless, he had no other choice. Lincoln’s life depended on it. Moses took a deep breath and pushed through the crowd gathered around the prison opening. What’s this protest all about? Then he saw his adopted son emerge from the security gate. What is going on here?

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One Blood
Angola, LA

Lincoln took his first steps toward freedom. He felt very exposed standing alone outside the security entrance. Armed guards had cleared a path for him to walk through the crowd of people behind the gate, but once he was outside, he would have no such protection from the angry mob. He’d received more hate mail and death threats than any other prisoner in Angola. Sweat bloomed on his skin. Lincoln noticed the line of reporters waiting for their chance to speak to him. Cameras would once again project his face all over newspapers and television sets across the fifty states. He felt like he had hungry piranhas swimming around in the pit of his stomach. “Did you think you were just gonna walk out of here?” Lincoln couldn’t find one friendly face amidst the hoards of people spitting and cursing at him. They had to be the families of the police officers and children killed during the Simmons Park Massacre. Lincoln’s sweat flowed freely. Head held high, he stared into the sea of hate-filled faces. Hopefully Amir was having better luck.
Lake City, LA

Amir noticed movement on one of the security monitors before him. Was that a man crouching in the bushes before the gate? “Yo, Moose,” he ordered. “Go check out the perimeter.” Amir squinted at the monitor. He did not need any more surprises—it was bad enough that they’d lost the girl. He glanced at his watch—8:05 a.m. Good. Lincoln should be free by now. 169

Qwantu Amaru Amir’s cell phone vibrated on his hip. His calm evaporated when he read the truncated text: “Somebody followed us…” Amir spun around to look at the monitors. Moose was at the front gate, on his back, with his hands covering his throat in a choking gesture. Spouts of what looked like oil spurted between his locked fingers. Four men stepped over Moose’s body and scaled the gate. Amir’s eyes opened wide as he yelled, “Ambush!”

170

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lake City, LA

here you are, maufucka.” Brandon was slowly regaining consciousness. The world had exploded all around him as the building was hit from all sides with a barrage of careening bullets. “Get the fuck up!” Brandon was jerked to his knees and he felt his shoulder pop out of the socket. He was pushed against the wall. His oppressor ducked down saying, “Gotta get the fuck up outta here.” He poked at Brandon’s dislocated shoulder with his gun. “Trump! Salsa!” Gunfire was the only response. “There a back way outta here?” Brandon shook his head. “Fuck! Okay…when I say, we gonna bust up outta here.” Brandon knew this was a horrible idea, but he was in too much pain to fight back. He was yanked to his feet as he contemplated the final minutes of his life. Using Brandon as a shield, the man shoved him toward the double doors. Death awaited them on the other side. Brandon mouthed the Lord’s Prayer. 171

“T

Qwantu Amaru “Our Father,” Bullets obliterated the front windows to the left of the main entrance. Shards of flying glass cut into Brandon’s cheek. “Which Art In Heaven,” The man checked his clip and safety. “Hallowed Be Thy Name,” Car doors slammed shut. Men yelled at each other to surround the building. “Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will Be Done, In Earth As It Is In Heaven,” The man commanded Brandon to kick the doors open. “Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread,” Sunlight blinded Brandon as the doors burst open into the day. He stared up into the mournful blue sky. “And Forgive Us Our Trespasses, As We Forgive Them That Trespass Against Us,” His captor once again yelled, “Trump! Salsa!” Brandon saw two men lying nearly on top of each other, their weapons in death clutches as blood pooled around them. “Lead Us Not Into Temptation, But Deliver Us From Evil,” Shorty appeared from underneath the bullet-laden Oldsmobile. Their eyes met for a long moment. Then Shorty ran across the field as the man pushed Brandon toward the car, shooting in every direction. “For Thine Is The Kingdom,” Shorty was decapitated by a shotgun blast at close range. “And The Power,” A burning sensation like ten hot irons tore open the flesh of Brandon’s shoulder. 172

One Blood “And The Glory,” They were at the car, opening the doors. “For Ever And Ever,” The man pushed Brandon into the passenger seat and started the car. Brandon closed his eyes as they plowed through the fence surrounding Simmons Park. “Amen.” Karen slept for an indeterminable length of time after she called her father. The boy, Brandon, who she barely remembered, had left her a note that he went out for food so she nodded off again. When she opened her eyes the second time, she was looking at the face of her dead brother. Kristopher smiled a strange, sad smile, his blue eyes full of pity and shame. Kneeling next to her, he blew the hair from her eyes. Karen tried to speak but Kristopher put one finger over her lips and shook his head. He motioned for Karen to follow him out of the house and they walked, side by side, brother and sister reunited. Until the sky exploded in a thunderous cacophony of gunfire. Karen fell into a ditch on the side of the road and put her face in the dewy grass, hands covering her ears. The gunfire boomed for what seemed like forever, but the silence that followed was far more ominous. Kristopher beckoned for Karen to get up, but she was terrified. Crawling on her hands and knees, she sought refuge in her brother’s arms. With his help, she found the strength to rise. 173
Lake City, LA

Qwantu Amaru Some part of her knew this couldn’t possibly be real, but she could smell her brother and feel his essence. A car rattled their way. Kristopher looked at Karen. “Trust him,” she heard him say in her head. Then he faded away. Through tears Karen watched a burgundy Oldsmobile approach. It looked like it had been used for target practice. Then she saw Flashlight Man’s eyes and mouth widen in surprise and anger. The car skidded to a stop just a few feet away. Kristopher’s words rang in her ears as she locked eyes with Brandon clutching his arm in the passenger seat. Trust him.
Lake City, LA

With arrest or death imminent, Amir took one confused moment to wonder how the hell they’d been found out. Then he sprung into action. He picked up his military issue UZI and hunkered down. The front gate exploded in a whine of metal. Amir heard the unmistakable bark of bullets leaping from the muzzles of Zire and Reem’s street sweeper shotguns. He knew they would rather die than go to prison. He wished it was that easy for him. Got to stay patient. Let them get past the first line of defense, waste some ammo, and then get what I’ve got for them. Crouching low, Amir switched off the safety on his weapon. A terrific boom shook him to the floor. What the fuck was that? 174

One Blood Amir thought of his mother’s beautiful face and his resolve hardened. No matter what happened, he could not die before fulfilling his mission. The intruders fired incessantly at the school, but Amir was at peace. Come and get it, boys.
Angola, LA

Panama X’s smile dissolved into a grimace as the crowd noise grew into an uproar outside the prison gates. On the television monitor outside of his cell, the local news interrupted The Price is Right to broadcast the Governor’s much-anticipated press conference. The reporter was speculating about what the Governor was going to address. Panama X wondered the same thing. He watched Randy Lafitte step out of the Louisiana State Capitol Building and approach the podium at the top of the famous stairwell. Panama X was struck by how ragged the man looked after eight turbulent years in office. Then he saw something only he could see. Randy Lafitte was infected. He’d had an encounter with a baka. But how? Amir. His son apparently had changed the plan. It still might not be too late. Lafitte opened with, “People of Louisiana…” The prison alarms sounded. Gunshots rang out. There was screaming. Panama X stared at Randy Lafitte on the television monitor and chanted under his breath. 175

Qwantu Amaru

“People of Louisiana,” Randy began, glancing down at his prepared remarks. “I called this press conference so I could address several topics of interest and put some rumors to rest.” His cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. “Regarding rumors that my daughter has been kidnapped,” he said, lips drawn in a tight smile, “those rumors are…unfortunately true.” He clenched and unclenched his fist in his pocket. “My daughter, Karen, was kidnapped two days ago. The good news is that she was returned to us safe and sound this morning. She’s currently in the care of some of the best doctors in this great state of Louisiana. “She’s fine, but the people responsible will pay dearly for this transgression of the law and invasion of my family.” A black eagle of fear spread wings inside his chest. “The mastermind behind this deplorable act is already in custody. Death row inmate Malcolm Wright, also known as Panama X, a man convicted of killing thirtytwo innocent people in a botched assassination attempt, planned the kidnapping of my daughter to try and pressure me into granting a stay of execution. Well, I do not take kindly to being blackmailed. Malcolm Wright lost his latest appeal to the Supreme Court and an execution date will be set as soon as the paperwork clears. My policy of swift justice for deplorable criminals like this is in full effect.” Randy’s desire to watch Malcolm Wright in his death throes was nearly as great as his desire to see Karen alive and well again. “I have to thank Chief Bill Edwards and the entire Lake City Police Department for their hard work during this investigation. Moving on, it appears that Hurricane Isaac will make landfall to the 176

Baton Rouge, LA

One Blood west of Baton Rouge sometime between eight and ten o’clock this evening, though, as we all know, this storm could change direction at any time. The President has declared states of emergency for Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. “Evacuation plans are in effect for Baton Rouge and surrounding areas. Evacuation teams are going door to door passing out hurricane preparedness pamphlets and encouraging the people in the low lying areas to leave. I urge everyone to take the necessary precautions. Remember, you can replace material things, but you can’t replace life.” He felt the crowd stirring with nervous energy. An image of Kristopher flashed in his mind. “Last, but certainly not least, is the question of why I have chosen to show Lincoln Baker clemency. The answer is not as difficult as you may expect. I’ve recently reviewed new evidence proving Mr. Baker’s innocence. This information was also reviewed by the Louisiana Pardon Board, which recently convened to go over the case. They have agreed that Mr. Baker should be released immediately and I cannot, in good conscience, let my personal feelings get in the way of doing the right thing. The moral thing.” Randy was immediately pelted by a barrage of questions from the cadre of reporters. Enjoy your brief freedom, Lincoln. Because it’s all going to be over for you soon. The reporters were lined up like a firing squad just outside the exit. They reminded Lincoln of a kennel of rabid dogs barking for 177
Angola, LA

Qwantu Amaru attention. Lincoln stared past them at a woman holding up a sign. Her expression was so frantic, Lincoln’s pulse jumped. He squinted trying to read the black lettering across white poster board. It said: DEAD MAN WALKING What the fuck? Lincoln felt a whoosh of air by his right ear. A bullet had just narrowly missed his head. A second bullet hit home and imaginary hands pushed Lincoln face forward. Blood seeped from the exit wound in his left shoulder. Chaos filled the air as people scattered, desperately trying to get away from the shooting. Some even ran toward the prison as if it were a safe haven. Lincoln got to his feet and made a dash for the front gate, more determined than ever to get the hell out of Angola once and for all. He got within reach of the gate when he was shot again—this time through the left bicep. Lincoln lost his balance and fell to the concrete, his skull bouncing off the pavement. White lights of pain burst in his field of vision and he closed his eyes against them. With his last lunge, he’d made it just outside the prison gates, but things had changed. The gate in front of him looked nothing like a prison gate; in fact, it resembled another gate he knew all too well. Lincoln tilted his head skyward. He read the bullet-riddled, square yellow sign posted a few feet above his head: Welcome to Simmons Park. No Cursing. No Fighting. No Horseplay. No Fence Climbing. Have Fun! 178

One Blood The concrete had morphed into gravel. Weeds sprouted through in several places. The alarms had stopped. There was no more screaming. 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 179

Qwantu Amaru 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 180

One Blood 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.”

End of Part One

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