Expired (15 page)
33
M
ichael Burlingame had stood rooted to the spot, fighting off waves of nausea as he stared at the corpse that used to be his brother, Rashod Burlingame.
ichael Burlingame had stood rooted to the spot, fighting off waves of nausea as he stared at the corpse that used to be his brother, Rashod Burlingame.
The coroner, knowing who he was, had obliged his request to visit with his brother alone.
“The Burlingame family is one troubled lot,” the coroner had mused aloud to himself after receiving Michael's call.
He had already dealt with the mother. Now here was Michael Burlingame. He wondered briefly if the other son would show up. Actually, there really weren't too many of them left.
The medical examiner had retreated to his office, allowing Michael some privacy, although he could see him through the glass partition. He would rather have skipped being party to the boy's sorrow if he could have.
He knew that the boy's street name was Rebound, a namesake of his basketball skills. But in his opinion he didn't seem to be rebounding too well from the well-placed blows to his family. Despite the detectives, the medical examiner knew that something dark and sinister had been unleashed in Harlem.
Something nameless.
Hubert knew they were not just chasing a psychopath. They were chasing an entity, an entity that was quite possibly foreign to themâor to any police force, for that matter.
Some of it he couldn't explain, but examining Rashod's body gave him the heebie-jeebies, for lack of a good solid medical term. There just was no term for what he was seeing and feeling.
And it was a good thing he had decided against mentioning it, because he would definitely have been at a lost to find precise words with which to explain it.
For instance, he hadn't highlighted in his report that part of Rashod's brain was missing. It was basically his memory bank. It was similar to what you saw in advanced Alzheimer's patients. Parts of the brain just disappearedâevaporated as though they had been absorbed.
But this was a young, healthy boy in his prime, with no previous medical or personal history of any memory loss. It was, well, bizarre, to say the least. It was like missing pieces of a patchwork quilt. Some of the pieces seemed to have been, well, somehow hollowed out. And, it wasn't only the brainâthere were literally hollowed-out parts throughout different organs of the body.
He'd had an uneasy feeling about Randi Burlingame's death, too, when he examined him. Only the symptoms in his brother Rashod were not found in Randi, although the same feeling persisted surrounding both their deaths, if that made any sense.
The circumstances of both their deaths were the same. Both had been asphyxiated. Both had sunflower seeds stuffed down their throats. Both had their footwear missing. Both bodies were drained of blood. But here was where the similarities ended. Internally Randi Burlingame possessed the whole of his brain and innards.
Rashod Burlingame did not.
The ME glanced over at Michael. Michael's face had taken on a skeletal quality. There were dark-rimmed circles under his eyes, and his cheekbones stood out starkly against his skin, like sharp-pointed bones. His eyes had taken on the quality of a startled deer caught off guard in the bright headlights of a car. And he moved as though he had suddenly been afflicted with arthritis. His motions were stiff and awkward. He was barely a shell of the lithe, swift young man the coroner had met such a short time ago.
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Michael simply stared at Rashod, unable to believe he had predicted his own death and had in fact actually sketched out the details in advance. It was too fantastic a thing even to contemplate. So were the events that led to his learning of Rashod's death in the first place.
Michael had been taking in a new high-action adventure flick at the Chelsea Theater on Twenty-third Street. He had arrived early, just as he always did, so he was comfortably ensconced in his seat with hot buttered popcorn, a box of Milk Duds, and a Coke while the previews were running.
He had no plans for cruising the streets or of ever suiting up in black and chains againânot after what had happened to him. His heart beat like a trip-hammer whenever he thought about the incident.
He could not get the image of red, bloody teardropsâfalling from the ceiling, landing on top of his head, and dripping down the sides of his faceâout of his mind. Blood had actually rained down on him.
Nor could he forget the piercing wail of his plea for mercy. He had lived an out-of-body experience, and it had shaken him to his very core. Hell, he had thought that only happened to freaks, like people who participated in those weird psychology experiments.
He hadn't known it was real.
So he had gone to the movie, trying to take imaginary flight from the stress levels that were building up in his head. A mind-blowing, fantasy-oriented, high-action beat-'em-down flick was just what he needed, or so he thought.
Just before the main feature was scheduled to run at about seven p.m., Michael had found Rashod, hovering in front of him in a dreamlike state, blocking his view of the screen. He looked mangled, almost like a balloon someone had sucked all the air out of. He was wheezing, and something was streaming from his open mouth.
He had reached out for Michael. When he did, Michael felt as though he were being wrapped in a soft, silky cocoon. It was a feathery-like feeling.
Rashod had leaned over and whispered, his voice rasping in Michael's ear, agony tingeing his every word, “This is it, little brother. Checking out. Time's up, just like I showed you.”
Michael had sat frozen in his seat, not believing his own eyes. Rashod had begun to flicker like a lightbulb that was not screwed in tight. Then pieces of him began to disappear, as though he were being absorbed.
It was the same type of aura Michael had witnessed on him when they were kicking it in his room.
The last thing Michael felt was a blast of frigid air, directly in the spot where Rashod had stood in front of him. He heard a sucking sound. Then he literally felt the spirit of Rashod evaporate, like mist into thin air.
And then he couldn't feel him at all.
He saw his brother lying broken on the concrete. Michael couldn't feel a thing. The theater faded from around him; it ceased to exist.
Michael witnessed the broken and shattered shell of Rashod Burlingame, lying dead against the hard sidewalk. The landscape of his death visually affected him as though he'd been hit with a sledgehammer.
Reality returned. Michael clutched the back of the seat in front of him. His heart thundered so loud in his ears that he couldn't hear the sound track on the movie.
He leaned over as he noticed what looked like a white sheet of paper that had been left on the empty seat.
If Michael had any doubt about what he had witnessed, that single sheet of paper told a story more powerful than any words. It was the sketch Rashod had shown him of his pending death at his apartment.
His brother had left him a legacy.
Suddenly Rashod's words reverberated through the recesses of Michael's mind: “Tracie's door has the shadow of death on it, man.”
It wasn't possible. Yet as he stood staring at Rashod, the evidence was hard to deny. Rashod was in fact dead. Michael had felt him die. Then somehow Michael had been transported to St. Nicolas Avenue, where Rashod had drawn a final breath. He had seen his body sprawled on the street.
Rashod had left him something to be remembered. He had left him a message just as sure as Michael was standing there. Rashod had sketched a gruesome scenario, and in it he had been the key player. Or was he?
Michael reached inside the body bag. He ran five fingers down Rashod's bloodless face, as though Rashod might feel the tender gesture.
Inside his new home next to Ms. Virginia, Rashod felt Michael's pain. He shivered at the touch from the world he was no longer apart of.
34
M
e wasn't sure he liked his newest resident. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he did not. Yeah, he had a few minor gifts: sketching and a strong sense of telepathic communication, for sure.
e wasn't sure he liked his newest resident. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he did not. Yeah, he had a few minor gifts: sketching and a strong sense of telepathic communication, for sure.
Rashod had managed to reach his brother Michael just before Me sucked out his spirit.
That alone was unusual. Me had never once had it happen before. Usually he was in total dominance. Rashod Burlingame had been an exception. But still, he wasn't of the caliber of the other residents in state.
Over time, Me had collected extraordinary gifts. In him resided artists, painters, sculptors, musicians, authors, singers, politicians, sports figures, and even some ministers of the clergy known the world over.
Rashod Burlingame was not of this breeding, and yet he had been stamped and profiled to be in residence. The boy was a junkie, plain and simple. To Me that fact alone had overridden Rashod's gifts. He had no discipline, no stamina. He had been corrupting and polluting his mind and his body while he lived.
He was a sack of nothing, despite his minor-league gifts.
In fact, Me had been watching Rashod all along. He had been absorbing pieces of him before his comrade killed him, and immediately afterward he had stolen his spirit.
Even though Me had absorbed parts of his brain and other organs in his body, Rashod's gift had still been strong. Pieces of his brain were physically missing, but his ability to perform was not.
The drugs had weakened Rashod and made him transparent, while he still possessed the spirit of life. But his gift and insight had been intact; he had grown in direct opposition to Me's absorbing him.
And it had not escaped Me's notice that the boy had extraordinary will. His strength was phenomenal. He had reached his brother, before the final execution as well as before the absorption of his spirit by Me.
That in itself was exceptional.
Me looked at him and saw the same sullen attitude and insolence the boy had possessed while alive.
“Don't get on my nerves, Mr. Burlingame. You are a guestâa temporary one, to be sure.”
Me was almost exhausted from the stream of words he had spoken; generally he used as few words as possible. But this Rashod, he disturbed his spirit.
Rashod glared at Me from under the thick molasses of Me's dark skin. His lips stretched into a thin veneer of distaste. He looked at Me with what could not be mistaken for anything except disdain.
He was his mother's son, all right. “Go to hell,” he told Me emphatically, without a twitch of fear.
Me viciously backhanded his left biceps. He watched Rashod's head whiplash from the blow. “Don't talk back to me, boy. You're here because you're the nurtured seed of the host, nothing short of that.”
Rashod snorted but made no other response.
In that instant, Me knew that he would have to greet the other brother, Michael. He would have no time to waste. He knew that Michael would be at Rashod's very soon.
He had not counted on this; however, provisions would have to be made. His current plans would have to be delayed for the moment. He had planned to get around to Michael, sucking up the aftermath of his spirit once Me's comrade killed him.
Michael was most definitely on that hit list.
In addition to that, Michael Burlingame was another seed of Tracie Burlingame, the host. Me had already missed devouring the spirit of Randi Burlingame.
He would have to launch a counterattack thanks to Rashod Burlingame's brilliance. Well, it would be one of majestic proportions.
He would have to be very careful. He could not take Michael's life, because that would force a confrontation with his comrade. Michael was tied like an invisible umbilical cord to Tracie Burlingame. Therefore, it was not worth the risk of killing him himself.
His comrade was salivating after Tracie. Me knew he both needed and wanted the distinctiveness of Michael's blood. It would not do to force his hand too soon. The time would come.
He figured his comrade would tire of playing with Tracie soon. When that happened, Me would be there. But it would not do to engage him in a personal vendetta at this time, upsetting the plan or the powers.
However, he would pay a little visit to Michael Burlingame. But he certainly would not go in his present form. No. This meeting would require a different entity. Rashod Burlingame had managed to leave a trail, a link that must be destroyed, erased at all costs.
Rashod glared at Me as though he could read his thoughts, causing an alien feeling to come upon him. A feeling that said, “formidable opponent.”
That feeling, never before felt by Me and unbeknownst to him, would prove to be prophetic.
35
T
racie was in a dark, foul mood, and she knew she was facing a storm of humongous proportions. Even though Rashod was dead, she would still have to deal with Whiskey. There would be no time for mourning. As soon as he was out of the way, she would begin putting a plan in effect to learn the identity of the person who was destroying her life.
racie was in a dark, foul mood, and she knew she was facing a storm of humongous proportions. Even though Rashod was dead, she would still have to deal with Whiskey. There would be no time for mourning. As soon as he was out of the way, she would begin putting a plan in effect to learn the identity of the person who was destroying her life.
She would come straight to the point with Whiskey, who had no respect for her current circumstances. When he wanted to see her, he wanted to see her. Period.
Here she had another dead son, and she could not even attend to his memory until Whiskey's desires had been met. In that instant she hated him with a passion, but business was business.
She would tell him she wanted the guns moved now.
She arrived at the club on Malcolm X Boulevard and strutted over to the bar. There was an old jukebox spinning off sounds. Some things never changed in Harlem, and this place was one of them. The blue strobe lights flashed streaks across Tracie's features.
As soon as she sat down, the bartender approached her. “I'll have a double Rémy Martin,” she spat before he had a chance to ask.
He looked surprised.
He pulled out the bottle and poured the drink. He had been working in the liquor business so long, he prided himself on being able to guess a person's drink from a mile away, but Tracie Burlingame had just put a stitch in his game.
She downed the drink in one gulp and handed him the glass. “I'll have another.”
He poured. She gulped that one, too.
She handed him the glass. He poured again. Same drill. Again she handed him the glass.
It was becoming a ritual. This time he hesitated.
Tracie slipped a hundred-dollar bill from her bra. She put it on the bar in front of the bartender's face. Her gaze was unwavering.
He poured the drink. This time she took a sip and set the glass in front of her. He heaved a sigh of relief and hightailed it away from her to serve another customer.
Whiskey walked in. Tracie spotted him out of the corner of her eye. She gave no acknowledgment of his approaching presence. Upon reaching her, he ran his finger along her cheek. Her cheek was cold, smooth to the touch. Tracie didn't twitch a muscle.
She was one cool customer, Whiskey observed.
“I want the guns moved.”
Whiskey sucked his tongue. “Ta,ta,ta,ta,ta. Do you think you can be involved with weapons of blood and vengeance?” He hesitated, then smoothly slid into his French accent: “Caro, without having it touch you?”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear while entangling her hair in his hand and turning her face smoothly toward him. “They stay until I say they're moved. I'll give the order soon. Oh, and you seem to keep losing things, Caro. I wouldn't want you to lose those guns.”
Whiskey slid an envelope into her purse, disentangled his hand from her hair, and walked out of the bar. Tracie didn't acknowledge the cash or his leaving.
Lonzo breezed past Whiskey on his way into the bar. He was officially off duty and had decided he needed a drink.
He noticed Tracie Burlingame immediately. Quickly he moved into her sphere. He took the seat on the bar next to her. She glanced over at him, drained her glass, and then signaled the bartender.
It was getting to be a long night.
The bartender came over, and before Tracie could speak, he said, “I don't thinkâ”
Tracie cut him off sharply. “I'm not paying you to think. I'm paying you to pour my drinks.”
“It's all right,” Lonzo jumped in quickly.
“Really, it's all right, Willie; I'll make sure Ms. Burlingame gets home. Give me a seltzer water.” Seeing as Lonzo was a cop as well as a regular, Willie backed off. He tossed an exasperated glance in Tracie's direction before walking off.
When he returned, Tracie said, “I'll take another one; that way I won't have to bother you again in a few minutes.” Willie bit his tongue, pouring another drink. The woman drank like a fish.
Lonzo stood, stretching his arms and legs. “Excuse me for a minute, Ms. Burlingame, I need to use the restroom.”
Tracie didn't even acknowledge his words. First Whiskey, now this; they were like parasites draining her flesh.
Somewhere in the distance a phone rang. Willie answered and walked up to Tracie. “You're Tracie Burlingame, right?”
“I am.”
“This is for you.” He handed her the phone.
The now familiar distorted voice floated over the wire. “You can run, but you can't hide, Li'l Caramel. Oh, and I'm sorry about Rashod. His death and all, you know. Consider him another contribution to my endowment in my thirst for blood. You know?”
Tracie couldn't believe her ears. She hissed into the phone, “Screw you.”
“Are you angry at me, Tracie? It's only a game. We could meet if only you'd be willing to travel back in time.”
A loud click ended the call.
Tracie was fuming. She would find this child-eating monster if it was the last thing on earth that she did. He could count on it. She was so furious, she could hear her own blood supply pounding in her ears. Her blood pressure was skyrocketing.
First she would have to make sure that her other two sons were safely tucked away. The audacity! This maniac actually thought killing her sons was a game.
She would kill this bastard.
She stood up, steady as a rock despite the amounts of alcohol she had consumed. She threw another couple of crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter for the bartender's trouble of having to deal with her tonight.
She left the bar before Detective Lonzo Morgan had a chance to return from the men's room. He was an incompetent dog of magnified proportions. He couldn't even find her son's killer.
Upon Lonzo's return from the men's room, Tracie Burlingame had vanished.
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