11
L
ater that night, after the drop-off, Tracie watched from the back door of the basement as the truck pulled out into the street. In the darkness of the alleyway Tracie, too, was being watched.
They watched her watching the truck. They watched as she slowly closed the heavy door. The hard-rock gaze bore into the slender figure of Tracie Burlingame as though it might burn a hole in her very being.
After securing the basement that now held Whiskey's shipment, Tracie headed back upstairs. Just as she passed her office, the phone gave a shrill ring. She jumped in the shadowy darkness.
Startled, she frowned, hesitated, and then decided to answer the ringing phone. She walked into her office, not bothering to flick on any lights. Standing in the eerie darkness, suddenly the room had an off feel to it. She reached for the phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. “Hello, Tracie Burlingame.”
Tracie heard a muffled sound on the other end of the phone. Finally, a man's voice, which sounded distorted on the crackling wire, floated into Tracie's ear. It was weird. It sounded as though the voice were coming from under water.
She heard a low, deep, throaty laugh. Then he spoke. “Well, well, well. Tracie Burlingame.
The
Tracie Burlingame.”
Tracie gripped the receiver tightly. She frowned into the darkness. A streak of moonlight streamed through the window, casting shadows in the office. “Hello. Who is this?”
There was no answer. Tracie was about to hang up the phone when the voice burst forth loudly.
“I wouldn't hang up if I was you.”
Slowly Tracie returned the receiver to her ear. She looked around the room, peering into the darkness. The streak of moonlight allowed her some light. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
Still, a slight trace of uneasiness crept into her voice. “Who is this? What do you want?”
“That question is a little bit late, Tracie. Just a wee bit.” Softly the voice began to hum, “ âRock-a-bye, baby . . .' ”
Tiny beads of sweat appeared on Tracie's forehead. She gripped the receiver even tighter.
“What?” she said.
On the other end of the line, the man's voice was singing softly and distorted, “Rock-a-bye, baby, on a rooftop; when the wind blows, the body will drop. When the bough breaks, the body will fall, and down will come Randi with no boots at all.” The man laughed.
Tracie dropped into the nearest chair. Her eyes opened wide. Her body shook. Her hand quivered on the telephone receiver. The whites of her eyes glowed in the darkness.
“Stop it. My God. You killed my baby? Why? Oh, God. Who are you?” she asked, the questions tumbling over one another in her confusion. It was one thing to lose her son, but for some maniac to call her up making a nursery rhyme out of his death was crazy. She was chilled to the bone. She didn't quite know what to make of it.
The distortion of the voice grew stronger on the line. “I freed your son, Tracie. I needed to be endowed. You should be licking my feet. Let's just say I have alleviated a certain weight for him. That sounds so much more pleasant, don't you think?”
Tracie couldn't find her voice. Her shallow breathing was the only sound in the room.
“I'm a collector, Tracie. I'm a collector of very fine things. Things that are rare, you might say. I'm also fair. I beeped you just before Randi was thrown from the roof. You never bothered to answer the page. You are a very self-absorbed young lady. Maybe we could have talked . . . entered into a little bargaining. Perhaps you could have saved his life, but I guess it's just a bit late for that now.”
Tracie's body shook more violently. She felt a stream of water gliding down her armpits, soaking the sides of her body. She struggled with a memory. Suddenly, she recalled her beeper going off on that day.
When she worked out, she really didn't like to be disturbed. Everyone who knew her knew that. So she hadn't really paid attention to the page.
“Oh, my God,” the strangled words erupted from her lips.
“Don't bother to call God, Tracie. He's too busy for the likes of you. Oh, and don't bother to call the police, either. They couldn't follow a clue if I taped it to their foreheads with an arrow pointing them in the right direction.
“I watched them from the roof that day. Took them at least a half hour to get around to coming up on the roof to see what was going on. They were too busy counting broken bonesâin the absence of blood, of course. That, I added to my collection.”
Tracie took in a sharp breath. He didn't miss it.
Arrogantly and forcefully his voice shot across the wire, saying, “Oh, you didn't know.”
Tracie wept. He was not moved.
“How inefficient of the police not to tell you the body had been drained of its blood. You might say that I am possessed of many skills. Embalming is only one of them. I'm self-taught, so to speak. A legend in my own right.”
Tracie tried to block out what he was saying; there was a deafening roar in her ears. It grew with the magnitude of a tidal wave.
“You got that side business to think about, too,” the voice continued. “Whiskey has been known to be an unpleasant man in matters of business. I do love a parallel world, Tracie. Sort of makes things tidy by my estimate.”
There was a pregnant pause.
Then, “Little Caramel?” he licked his lips. There was a distorted smacking sound.
“I love the sound of that name. It fits you. Makes me think of your soft, caramel-colored skin. You look so soft and chewy. I think this will be my special little nickname for you. A little deference between friends. What d'you say, Tracie?” Reckless, hysterical laughter shot through the wire.
“Don't talk about this to anyone, Little Caramel, or I'll mail another one of your sons to you in bits and pieces. Eeny-meeny-miny-mo. Catch a son. Which one will go?”
Tracie's heart skipped a beat. “Why? Please. Don't do this.”
Her whining pissed him off, made him very angry. “Shut up, Miss Burlingame. I detest whining. I also don't like repeating myself. I already told you why I snuffed out your egg. What are you, stupid? I'm wearing the pants here, and I'm calling the shots. I'm in charge. That's something you don't want to ever forget. If you keep your mouth shut, then maybe I'll send a clue to the police.”
More laughter crackled across the line. “Instead of mailing one of your sons to you . . .” He paused for a moment. “Maybe I'll send them enough clues to help you find me, Little Caramel. In the meantime you and I are going to engage in the rules of the street. A little street warfare, you might say. The first rule being, nobody likes a snitch.”
Tracie's trembling increased. She managed to swallow past the lump in her throat and stutter out, “I . . . won't tell anybody.”
“Oh, I know you won't, Little Caramel. You and I are the same in many ways. You're a collector of fine things, too.”
The voice turned singsongy again. “ âRock-a-bye, baby . . .' ” It dropped to a whisper. “Check, Little Caramel, so soft and chewy. Till next time.” A resounding click went off in Tracie's ear. The voice was gone.
Tracie heard a sound near the steps outside her office. She listened closely, peering into the darkness. Sweat was dripping from her chin. It ran down the cleavage of her blouse. She slowly and carefully opened her desk drawer and pulled out a handgun. She reached for the clip and slipped it into the gun.
Not too far away she heard it again. Something scraped against the floor. Tracie walked out of the office. She pointed the gun in the direction the sound was coming from.
The hairs on her arms stood up. She didn't hesitate. She pulled the trigger. A shot rang out.
Immediately Tracie flipped the switch, flooding the room with light. She looked across at her target. She hoped it was the maniac on the phone and she had gotten lucky. She knew that thought was extreme, but she was desperate.
She had not gotten lucky. Scurrying across the floor was a rat. Tracie's shoulders heaved. She didn't know if she should be relieved or not.
Outside on the street, Whiskey flipped his cell phone shut. Mission accomplished. Everything was secure. His gold pinkie ring glistened under the streetlamps. He had one thing on his mind. She had been on his mind all afternoon. Her name was Tracie Burlingame.
Try as he might, he couldn't get her out of his system.
12
R
ight after Tracie Burlingame received the worst phone call of her life, a strange phenomenon bestowed itself on Harlem. Beneath the ground, underneath layers of soil, a shaking began. It was really just a light tremor to begin with. But it built itself into a full-scale quaking before anyone really understood what was happening.
It shook the borough of Harlem so thoroughly and quickly, it left reams of doubt in its wake. It was over almost before it had begun. Strangely enough, it left not a trace in its wake, save the actual experience.
The mystifying effect was only felt in Harlem. None of the other boroughsâBrooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, Queensâor even the rest of the borough of Manhattan was affected. Therefore, Harlem would have a hard time reporting this phenomenon.
After a while the people of Harlem began to be unsure if that was what they'd really felt. After all, this was the East Coast, and earthquakes happened out west. There had never been one recorded before in Harlem. It left not a trace, although it shook them so thoroughly it would have rocked on the Richter scale had it been recorded.
The quake became an inside joke. In some circles it became taboo even to speak about it. The truth notwithstanding, it couldn't be proven or explained.
People would be thought crazy, or just trying to reclaim a spotlight they had been slowly losing with each generation. The only attention they had these days was when politicians descended upon Harlem to kick off the African-American vote or to raise money.
Maybe it was a sign. Who knew? People were beginning to be unsure it had even happened.
But there was one man who knew what it was. He knew it was definitely a sign. He knew it meant it was time for a shift in the balance of things. That was why he was in Harlem. It was time to collect the gifts.
He stood watching the killer of Tracie Burlingame's son playing phone tag with her. Tiring of this and knowing it was a good thing that he had come when he did, he decided to move on. He would scour grounds for the night that were more fertile, far more fertile.
He needed to take care of the gifts. He would start with the minor ones and build up. Like the Legos he played with. He loved Lego because he could start out with one colored little block and build and build, until it was towering far above the ground.
Tracie Burlingame was worth much more than the talents of her sons. Inside her, unknowingly, she carried the pattern of many of the gifts to come in Harlemâand one very powerful gift that must be prevented at all costs.
When the time came, he would suck the gifts right out of her being. Yes. He knew Miss Burlingame was a spiritual patchwork quilt. He also knew that she waxed prophetic.
This fool, his comrade, wanted to play with her and toy with her. He was playing with her flesh. Me would take down her spirit. He would not play with her. When the time came, he would destroy her.
What she carried in her being was valuable beyond words. It could alter the course of history. What she carried was also dangerous, because it reflected out to people with the vision, such as the Louisianan seeress.
But just as he had told the seeress, she would see more than that before it was all over. Then she would die. That he hadn't told her.
Well, he knew for a fact that Tracie Burlingame would only be allowed to hold on to what she had for so long. After all, Tracie was nothing more than the host, so to speak. Satisfied with the greatness and wisdom that had been granted him, he walked the streets of Harlem.
He walked with his tall frame hunched over. His huge hands were stuffed in his pockets. His bald brown globe of a head gleamed under the streetlights as he ducked into the shadows to avoid the glare beaming from the lights.
He decided he would begin with a small gift. He headed over to 125
th
Street. The woman who owned this bookstore was a disseminator of information. He watched the woman as she began the process of closing down the dusty old store.
As he watched, he noted the certificates and little gold plaques hung on the walls, which reflected her achievements and those of others. Her little shop was chock-full of books. She had black history books. There were books on theology and the seminary, African-American books, memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies as well.
Even the ceilings of her store depicted the gifted and famous. Posters hung with pride from the sagging ceiling. There wasn't an inch of space that didn't reflect black pride.
He smiled ruefully to himself. All the books crammed onto the shelves of the dinky, dusty little shop reflected pieces of him in one way or another. That was the puzzle he could not allow some smart-alecky know-it-all to try to figure out. That was one of the reasons he needed to collect the gifts.
He watched the old woman with the silky gray hair, every strand laid in place. No doubt she was one of Miss Burlingame's elite clientele. Her carriage was erect. She carried herself proudly, tall, with a hint of arrogance.
Her air was like that of the great professors who, once they had taught their students the astuteness and wisdom of how to arrange the words of the English language to create vision, preened at their own images. They preened at the continuity of vision they had pumped out.
Oh, but he knew. This woman had taken up space here in the hopes that, between the pages of the knowledge she sold to the public, there would be one who would string together the truth about him. Well, she would not see it in her lifetime. It was time for her to join the others. They must all be gathered together.
He walked into the shop just as Ms. Virginia, as she was known through out the borough, had closed out the register. He stood with his brown, bald head gleaming under the single bulb she had left on while closing the shop.
He found the light irritating, but it was necessary for now. Later he would crawl and hunker down into his little room of darkness, where all was right with the world . . . where he could recuperate from the light.
Ms. Virginia looked up at his entrance. “I was just closing, young man.”
She was a nice woman who always wanted to help someone in need. Sometimes just as she was ready to close her doors, someone would run through needing that last-minute item. Students looking for research, or others who just couldn't wait till the next day. She was always accommodating. She loved books. She could talk about them for hours, even when she was about to close.
The man didn't respond.
“Well,” she said, “if you really need something, just go ahead; I'll spare you the time.” She smiled engagingly at the man.
He didn't move. So she asked, “What's your name?”
“Me,” he said.
She looked up from marking the cash-out envelope. “Young man, I meant your given name.” She knew about all the strange names the kids gave themselves these days. She personally thought it was ridiculous. Why didn't anyone like to use his or her Christian name these days?
“I know what you meant,” he said. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Something in his tone was downright disturbing. She peered through her bifocals at him. Suddenly his being erupted in raucous laughter, but his mouth never opened. A symphony of voices swelled up from within him. But his lips didn't move.
He decided he did not want to kill this old woman in a way that would bring them running just yet. But die she would. He already had a place picked out for her. Besides, this shop needed to be closed down. Her death would provide that. He saw the fear well up in her eyes, bulging behind the bifocals.
She looked out onto the street. Ms. Virginia was shocked that she didn't see anyone. This was a 125
th
Street in Harlem. There were always people on the street when she closed her shop, but not on this night. He wasn't moved by her search. He knew he had the area locked down.
She thought about the secret button that had been installed in case she was in trouble. All she had to do was hit it. The police would be immediately summoned. As she discreetly tried to reach for the button, she discovered that her hand was struck with a paralysis, and she could not move it, try as she might.
The man stood stock-still, watching her. His face was a mask devoid of any expression. His features molded together, forming a sort of blandness. He wanted to get this over with. He was still standing under the single lightbulb. He could feel the rays beaming down on him. Beads of sweat popped out on his head and face. He hated the light.
Slowly as she watched him, she felt the tentacles of his being absorbing her. It was a weird feeling, like being sucked in by a sponge. She began to understand that she was dealing with something sinister, dark, not of normal understanding.
The man was giving her the creeps. The shock of this information rooted her to the spot. And while her mind screamed in protest, not a single word or scream left her lips.
The man watched her steadily. He could actually be merciful at times. There were times when he handled things in what he called his gentle way. He liked this woman. He liked her strength and her dignity despite the circumstances.
She would be a welcome addition. Still, that didn't change anything. He would have no choice but to swallow her gift; he would just do it mildly. He would spare her the vengeance that he sometimes struck with.
He slipped off his army jacket and showed her his biceps. The faces immediately began to speak to her. They rose up under his skin, their features live and animated. Some of them travailed in great agony. All of them were well trained and under his command for when he needed to use their voices.
And they spoke to her about things past and present, things she could identify with. Spoke to her about the mysteries in her books, all of which would be recorded in her mind, then erased as information not needed.
The man opened his mouth, and Ms. Virginia beheld an unimaginable sight. The words stored on the many pages in all the different books floated off the pages and into the mouth of the man who stood before her. He swallowed the words whole.
Unable to fathom or hold up under such an unholy sight, Ms. Virginia felt a small explosion in her chest, like a tiny fire being ignited. Then she fell to the floor.
The man checked her pulse. There was none. Ms. Virginia had died on the spot of massive heart failure. Me opened her mouth. He put his mouth to hers, sucking out her spirit, along with her gift. He absorbed them inside himself, and Ms. Virginia took her place in his biceps along with the others who had gone before her.
Her gift tasted sweet. It was the gift of intelligence.