Whispers in the Night (32 page)

Lil' B and 'Dre moved quickly to the bookcase, and snatched the figurines from the shelves. They were made of gold, and showed a mélange of partners—men, women, and animals—in a profusion of sexual positions. Lil' B dropped them into his pillowcase, along with an engraved set of silver bells and an African mask, then gestured 'Dre closer.

“Check downstairs, yo. Grab up anything worth takin',”
he whispered, pointing back to the kitchen.

'Dre nodded, moved past the dining table, with its centerpiece of black candles, and through the kitchen. On impulse, he pulled open each kitchen counter drawer as he passed it, noting the contents, not sure what he was looking for. There were ladles and wooden spoons, plastic bags of spices, silverware, knives, and tongs, and in the last drawer, closest to the basement stairs . . .

Dozens of key rings, identical to the set Tonk had shown him. Three keys and a tiny golden phallus. 'Dre felt a thrill along his spine, and waved to Lil' B.

B shook him off, pointed to the basement door.

'Dre acquiesced. He opened the door and felt for a light switch. Finding it, he clicked it on, flooding the stairwell with reddish light. As he moved slowly down the wooden stairs, each step filled him with a sense of
wrongness,
of apprehension, that loosened his bowels and squeezed sweat from his brow. He just wanted to leave this place....

He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around him. It was as Tonk had said: a dungeon. In the dim red light, he could make out the bare brick walls set with chains and manacles, a pair of stocks, an inverted wooden cross. Several rough wooden benches were scattered throughout, some sporting large metal rings at each end. At the foot of the stairs was a flaking, life-sized painting of a woman standing in a red circle, wrapped in a flowing black robe that looked like wings. She wore a necklace of small skulls, and clutched a small trident in one hand, and a coiled serpent in the other. Beside the painting was a wall display that held whips, scourges, pinchers, and other implements of torture. As 'Dre reached up and touched one of the braided leather whips, he felt his pulse thunder in his head and realized he was hard, his cock bulging full in spite of his fear. Or perhaps, because of it.

He looked over to his left, through a beaded curtain, and saw the changing room; masks and robes and harnesses hung from hooks along the wall, waiting. Now he pushed aside the curtain, stepping deeper into the red-hued darkness . . .

Above him, something hit the floor hard enough to shake the very house. The red lights dimmed, then brightened again. 'Dre stood stock-still, frozen by fear, not knowing what to do, and then . . .

Another sound. Something scraping across the bare dining room floor.

He couldn't wait any longer. 'Dre took the steps two at a time, turned through the doorway into the kitchen . . .

The front door was open.

Lil' B was on the dining table, flat on his back, his knees bent at the table's edge, his arms outstretched, waving helplessly. Above him, holding him down, one hand across Lil' B's mouth, slowly turning the boy's head, something big. Some-
one
big. And black and wide. Like a mountain.

As 'Dre watched, horrified, Julian lowered his mouth to B's exposed neck; 'Dre could hear the muffled screams as the man sank his teeth into the soft folds of Lil' B's throat, worrying his head from side to side like a feeding lion.

The pistol was on the floor, near the table. As B gurgled and died, 'Dre rushed forward and swept it up, sliding a bullet into the chamber and pointing it in a single motion.

“Freak mothafucka!” 'Dre screamed. “Now you dead!”

The big man raised one hand contemptuously, and carved a design into the air with his fingertips; the symbol hung there, glowing, incandescent, then dissipated.

The boy pulled the trigger.

Again.
Click.

Now Julian pushed away from B's quivering corpse, and smiled. His teeth were filed to points, with blood and bits of flesh in the corners of his mouth. Without thinking, 'Dre reached back and threw the useless pistol with all his strength; the man ducked aside, and slowly moved toward the terrified boy.

'Dre stumbled back into the kitchen, his legs weak, his heart pounding to burst. Looking around, he grabbed a pan from the stovetop, threw it, then another, and another. Julian slapped them aside; they clanged off the walls like carillons. Desperate, filled with fear, 'Dre searched frantically for something . . .

And then he saw the open drawer. Filled with knives.

He grabbed a handful of cutlery, bloodying his hands on their edges. Screaming, he drew back and heaved them at Julian's face. The man turned his head reflexively, his hands raised in defense....

'Dre threw them at Julian's face, save one. And with that one clenched in his fist, in that instant that Julian's eyes were turned away, 'Dre leapt, and plunged the steel blade into his chest....

 

 

'Dre was crying as he climbed the stairs. It took him a long time to reach the second floor. He didn't know how many times he'd stabbed Julian. He'd kept stabbing him until he stopped moving and his hands were soaked past the wrists with black blood and the wooden knife handle had slipped from his fingers. Then he cut his throat.

“
Tonk!
We gotta go, man.” 'Dre sniffed, wiped his nose. He could feel the wine in his belly trying to come up. “We gotta go. . . .”

He moved down the hallway to the front bedroom. The bedroom where they'd watched her.

It seemed like hours ago. More than hours. More than a lifetime.

Finally, he stood at the door. Tonk's pants and shoes were in a pile on the floor. 'Dre guessed he'd figured to surprise her in her sleep, gun in his hand, his pants off, hard and ready to hit it. But this house held surprises of its own.

'Dre pushed the door open.

The woman stood naked in the center of the bedroom, and smiled when she saw him. Skin like honey and cream. Tonk was kneeling in front of her, in his sweatshirt and socks, his eyes white, pupils rolled back in his head. She was holding a cell phone in her left hand, the pistol in her right; the barrel was in Tonk's mouth.

“There you are, little one. You're just in time,” she cooed softly. “My Julian isn't picking up. Is that him you're wearing?”

“Wait,” 'Dre muttered, pleaded. “Please don't . . .”

“You beg for him? This thief? This ravisher? His death should take . . . weeks!” She wet her lips, shuddered. “Here, then, is my mercy. My
sweet
mercy.”

She pulled the trigger. The blast blew out the back of Tonk's head, spinning him across the floor, splattering the wall behind him with blood and brains.

'Dre howled like a wounded animal and fell to his knees, as she tossed the cell phone over her shoulder and turned the gun on him. Still smiling, she reached down between her legs, then raised her hand to her lips, slowly licking her fingers. “That was good for me. And you?”

'Dre was sobbing uncontrollably, his mind all but broken by the unceasing horror of this night. He was ready to die now; this hideous world he'd stepped into when he crossed the threshold was no longer his own.

“Do you have questions, little one? Do you want to know the secrets that elude reason, that threaten your very sanity? Do you hunger for . . . darkness?”

“
No!
No more!” he screamed. “Just kill me, just
kill
me . . .”

She circled around to stand at his back. He waited for the bullet to come. His loins afire, he waited....

“Liar. Your flesh betrays you. Now I see you clearly. Your . . . desires. My Julian made a grave mistake. It was you who should have come home with me. And all this would have been avoided.” She leaned down, behind him, above him, her naked breasts on the back of his neck, her hands running down his body to his thickened cock, her breath in his ear. “My house in disarray. My protégé, slain by your hand. What am I to do? How can I know if you are worthy of my secrets, my clever, courageous boy? I have so much to teach you. How will you show me your devotion?”

She reached under his chin and tilted his head back. 'Dre could smell her perfume, musky, and forbidden. He sighed, his mouth open, as she kissed the tears from his eyes.

“Let me tell you,” she whispered. “Let me tell you how. . . .”

 

 

It was nearly dawn.

Redbone was dozing in the car, with the windows rolled up and the radio playing softly. The dashboard lights glowed red.

'Dre didn't bother to wake him; he merely placed the barrel of the pistol against the glass and pulled the trigger three times.

He wiped off the gun and dropped it in the street, turned, and walked back to the house on Twelfth Place. There was so much to do, what with the blood and the bodies and the trash in her second house across the street, where all the crew had watched her. He'd have to clean up, get rid of any evidence that they'd been there. She insisted the upstairs be kept neat. For the other guests who liked to watch.

So much to do, so much to learn. The protective charms and exercises and rituals. The wards that could stop guns from firing, the glamour that could cripple minds. He knew he was in for a long apprenticeship. After all, Julian had been her most dedicated disciple. And 'Dre had killed Julian. Easily.

'Dre looked up at the window as he came up the walk to the front door. She was standing in the waxing light, wearing a black leather harness and domino mask. 'Dre pulled out his new set of keys, stepped through the door, and locked the gate behind him.

L.R. Giles

“K
aryn?”

She didn't answer. Synthesizer music and a mass choir sang from her television speakers; it had to be her fiftieth time seeing the ad, but it still entranced her just like the first.

“Karyn, you in here?” She heard heavy footfalls in the hallway. Reggie—her best friend—had a key to her place and no problem letting himself in. “I'm coming into your bedroom. I hope you're not naked. Well, I kind of hope you are, but it's awkward saying it out loud.”

He stuck his head in.

“Pajamas,” he said, “Damn. So much for nakedne—” His attention shifted to the screen. “Is this it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where—”

Karyn pointed to the right of the screen as the video cut to a group of four. Three men, one woman. “That's her in blue.”

“You two look alike.”

She glared. “You need to work on your flattery.”

“Get naked and I'll retract the statement.”

She groaned and raised the volume with her remote control.

“—come be enlightened at this four-day celebration and conference at the grand opening of the new Heavenly Duty Worship Center. Bishop Horace Sinclair invites you to change your life for now and forever—”

Bishop Horace Sinclair, spiritual leader to thousands, perhaps millions when you counted his television ministry. That's who the ad campaign was really for.

Sinclair's Power and Purpose Conference had been in the works for the last two years, set to coincide with the grand opening of his new worship hall, Heavenly Duty. It was a fifty-million-dollar megachurch designed to hold a congregation of thirty thousand. In the spiritual community it was the biggest of big deals. All of the celebrities of gospel, ministry, and evangelism would be in attendance, plus a crowd of eager worshippers that could rival a Super Bowl audience.

And Karyn's mother would be in the midst of it all, utterly enraptured.

Her mom had been a loyal follower of the good bishop for most of Karyn's life. From his original services in high school gyms, to his first church in the suburbs of Portside, Virginia, to now, Jessica Manning was a servant to God first and Horace Sinclair second.

Over the years she'd established a place in the good bishop's inner circle, thus her prominent appearance in the Power and Purpose ads. Her access to church resources—and The Bishop himself—had many of the other church members, particularly the women, dipping into the Envy bucket of the Seven Deadlies.

All despite having a daughter like Karyn.

The ad ended with ticket and contact information, though Karyn was willing to wager there were no more tickets. It was long rumored the conference would sell out. And it wasn't like there was much time left. It started tomorrow.

She clicked the television off and turned to Reggie.

“Well?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Well what?”

“Are you going?”

Her gaze flitted to the two tickets wedged into the molding over her mirror—front row seats, a gift from Mom. She shrugged.

“I think you should,” he said.

“I know what you think. It's easy for you to think that. You didn't grow up with her . . .” She searched for a word powerful enough to construe the years of degradation she suffered at her mother's hands. “Rants. She threw more scriptures in my face than those crazy apocalypse guys on the corners downtown.”

“But it's been a while. Things could be different now. I've seen Bishop Sinclair on TV and he focuses strongly on forgiveness. Maybe your mom—”

“Has forgiven me?” Her voice was hot venom. “And what exactly is she forgiving me for, Reggie?”

He raised his hands—one palm out, the other grasping a large, padded manila envelope. “It will never be said that Reggie the Wise does not know when to shut up.”

Karyn, angry at Reggie for going where she didn't want to go, but equally mad at herself for being angry at Reggie, hopped off the bed and disappeared into her walk-in closet. It was easier to cool off when she couldn't see anyone, when she couldn't
feel
the waves of emotion wafting off them.

She tugged the day's clothes off hangers. “What's that envelope you're holding?”

“Don't know. I grabbed your mail on the way up.”

“Open it.”

As she sifted through her denim, she heard the envelope rip. Then, “Speak of the Dev—” Reggie caught himself, and then finished, “It's from your mom.”

She poked her head out and saw him holding a leather-bound Bible and a sheet of paper. “Her note says ‘God told me to send you this.' ”

He opened the Bible's cover, chuckled.

“What?” she asked.

“It's autographed by Horace Sinclair.”

Karyn's face twisted. The guy autographed
Bibles?
The cynic in her nearly overloaded; she left that one alone. “Let me see.”

Reggie tossed it to her.

Her day immediately took a turn for the worst. She caught it and felt the warmth immediately. The heat spread from her hands, up her arms, hit her chest, and went supernova through the rest of her body. Reggie and her bedroom blinked away. There were—

The Bible smacked the floor. Karyn leapt backward, banging her head against the closet door. She became limp and slid to her butt. Her legs felt like cooked spaghetti and her breathing was ragged.

Reggie knelt over her but did not touch her. Not yet. “What did you see?”

“Someone's going to . . .” The images were still fresh in her mind, still shocking. “Someone's going to kill Horace Sinclair.”

“What?”

Adrenaline flowed through her. She sprang to her feet and sprinted around Reggie in search of her cell. Had to call Mom.

In her wake she heard Reggie say, “Why is it never the winning Lotto numbers?”

 

 

The first time it happened, she was eleven years old.

They'd been visiting her grandparents in Stepton, a small, close-knit community where most folks—at least on the black side of town—knew Jessica Manning and her daughter, Karyn. It happened in the market when Jessica bumped into an old friend from high school and began to chew the man's ear about her church, Heavenly Duty. Karyn saw his eyes gloss over before he politely excused himself, claiming a forgotten appointment.

Hastily he said, “It was good to see you again, Jessica.” He shook Mom's hand, and then turned to Karyn. “And you, too, Little Bear.” He patted her head, and she cringed. Not from the odd nickname, but from the pictures flashing suddenly through her mind.

She saw the man on a ladder, trimming branches on a tree. An electrical line was tightroped through the foliage. He did not notice the wire until his trimmers bit into it, and then it was too late.

The man quick-stepped to the checkout line, leaving Karyn nearly in tears.

“Mom, he's in trouble.”

Mom's attention was on a leafy head of lettuce. “You got that right, you can tell he don't know Jesus.”

“No.” And she told her mother what she instinctively knew to be the man's fate if no one interceded on his behalf.

Jessica Manning heard her daughter out, her expression unchanging. When Karyn was done, Jessica nodded. Karyn thought her mother would stop the man before he got away.

Instead she said, “I won't have you making up any more stories.”

“No. I'm not making it up. I saw—”

“Only God can see the future, little girl. Now stop this nonsense.”

Karyn panicked. She didn't want the man to get hurt and she also knew what her mother said wasn't true. She'd learned otherwise in Sunday school. “What about prophets, Mom? They can—”

Her mother's palm cut off the words like a severed limb. The slap echoed in the aisles. “Don't you ever try to turn the teachings of the Lord to support lies. Do you hear me?”

Karyn nodded, tears rimming her eyes. She didn't say another word.

The next day, it was her grandpa Tom who gave them the news of Darren Telfair's electrocution while trimming branches off his sycamore tree.

Karyn ran from the breakfast table sobbing, leaving her grandparents perplexed.

Jessica came to her room, a sullen look on her face. Karyn felt horrible for her mother, the guilt she must've felt for not warning Mr. Telfair.

The sympathy for her mother dried up quickly, though.

“See what you've done?” Mom asked.

Karyn's sobs receded.

“We can sometimes speak things into being,” Mom said. “That's why it is of the utmost importance to keep our minds focused on God and positivity, just like Bishop Sinclair says. I don't know what made you tell that story yesterday, but . . . ” She trailed off, perhaps realizing the lunacy in her logic. “I don't want you to blame yourself. It must have been Darren's time. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

It got no better over the years. As she and her mother grew further apart, the visions grew stronger, clearer.

As an adult, she had more control over her ability. A mere touch wouldn't trigger the visions, not unless the premonition was so horrible her learned defenses could not fend it off. Like now.

She tried to call her mother, but got her voice mail.

“Today is a day that the Lord has made. You have reached the voice mail of Jessica Manning. I'm unable to take your call right now, but if you—”

Karyn clicked End, redialed the number, and let it ring three times. Voice mail, again.

“Damn it.”

Reggie hovered over her. She often found comfort in his presence. His bulky girth and fuzzy beard always reminded her of Baloo the Bear from
The Jungle Book
. It was what she loved most about him. But today, there was no comfort to be found.

He fumbled for words. “Are you sure about what you saw?”

Her eyes narrowed, and he dropped his gaze. They'd known each other long enough—been through enough—for him to know her visions were
never
wrong.

She paced the length of the apartment, unsure of what to do next. She'd learned long ago the police weren't an option. She'd be written off as a nut, and if the shooting went down her advance knowledge would propel her to the top of the suspect list. If she could just get a hold of her mother . . . despite their differences Jessica Manning, like Reggie, knew her daughter's visions were always on point.

Mom would make sure Bishop Sinclair was out of harm's way. She valued his life over her own.

Probably even over mine,
she thought bitterly.

She shook it off and tried Mom's phone again. No luck.

“Reggie, do you have a suit?”

“Unfortunately. Why?”

“Because, if I can't get my Mom on the phone tonight, we have to figure out a way to save Horace Sinclair.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay, again. Suit? Why?”

“You're going to be my date to the Power and Purpose Conference.”

 

 

The next eighteen hours were a blur of brainstorming, caffeine, and anxiety. Karyn kept touching the autographed Bible, unsure of what she hoped to see. There were no more visions. As far as her extraordinary gifts were concerned, Horace Sinclair would still die before his congregation if she did not act.

It was eight in the morning before she gave in to the inevitable. “Go home and change, Reggie.”

By nine-thirty, Reggie was wedged in the passenger seat of her Toyota Prius, looking like a clown-car passenger. “So, what's the plan?”

“I don't know exactly. Talk to security, try to use my mother's name for leverage.”

“Sounds like a long shot.”

“Maybe not.” She turned onto Northwest Boulevard; it would bring them up on the tail end of the new Heavenly Duty Building. “It's early. The conference doesn't start until eleven. Maybe we can make them listen if they're not too concerned with a crowd yet.”

“Maybe.”

As the blocks and the buildings sailed past them, Karyn couldn't help but notice how dead Portside was this early on a Sunday. All was still; the only movement was the wind through the branches of cypress trees planted in the sidewalk. In a way it was ominous. As if she was already too late, and instead of having the death of Horace Sinclair on her conscience, the demise of the world would be.