The Other Brother (2 page)

Footsteps hammered across the floor. From the kitchen, he couldn't see the intruders, and they couldn't see him either. The kitchen was at the end of the hall, and the table was in the corner, tucked away from the doorway.

But they would soon find him.

Mama looked at him. Fear shone in her eyes.

Isaiah hated that she'd been pulled into this situation. He could have stayed with a lady friend, laid low for a while. But the danger in doing so was that these guys might hurt Mama in order to get back at him. He'd seen it happen too many times. He had to stay home to protect her.

"What have you done?" she asked in a whisper that nonetheless held a note of accusation.

He hadn't told her anything about the fight at the party. Trouble had shadowed him all his life. Mama would know from bitter experience that he was mixed up in another mess.

"Go down to the basement," he whispered. He motioned to the narrow door behind the table; it led to the cellar. "I'll handle this."

She shook her head. Tears trickled down her face. How many times had she wept for him? It amazed him that she had any tears left.

"I'll call the police," she said.

"You know I'm still on parole," he said. "Those clowns might arrest me "

Mama only looked at him, and a surprising thought hit him: That was what she wanted. She was sick of him and would rather have those assholes send him back to prison.

He couldn't say that he blamed her. He had been a burden for her since the day he was born.

But he wasn't going back to jail, ever again.

"Please, Mama," he said. "Downstairs. Hurry."

Choking back a sob, Mama quickly pushed away from the table. She opened the cellar door and descended into the darkness beyond.

He heard the thugs at the front of the house, overturning furniture and tearing through the bedrooms. Something shattered. Probably one of those expensive vases Mama had bought.

His hands tightened into fists. Mama didn't deserve to suffer for his deeds. He was going to take care of these motherfuckers.

Standing, he lifted his shirt and closed his hand around the Glock's cold grip. He'd paid a lot for this piece. Now it was time to see what it could do.

He moved to the kitchen doorway and peered around the frame.

One of the thugs was coming down the hallway. He was a black man, wide as a refrigerator, a doo-rag capping his dome. It wasn't Dreads or Baldie, but a different brother, another member of the crew. Doo Rag's eyes were slits of onyx.

Doo Rag had a gun, too. The gun in his hands looked like a cannon at first, but it was really a shotgun, sawed-off, probably a twelve-gauge, nonetheless an absolutely lethal weapon.

Doo Rag spotted him and pulled the trigger.

So did Isaiah.

The gunfire was deafening in the house, underscored by a boom of thunder.

Buckshot plowed into the door frame, splinters flyingand part of the buckshot spray ripped into Isaiah's shoulder. He screamed and staggered sideways, knocking against a counter.

He quickly regained his composure. He'd been shot before; this was only another battle in the ongoing war of his life. He didn't feel much pain yet, but he knew it was coming, an express train of agony on the way.

Looking into the hall, he noted with satisfaction that he'd drilled the thug between the eyes. Doo Rag lay sprawled on his back in the hallway, lips parted in an unfinished prayer. Dead.

Isaiah felt nothing-no sorrow, no pity. Although it wasn't the first time he'd killed a man, each time he did it he felt less for his victim, and in his moments of introspection, that bothered him, made him wonder if he'd lost his humanity.

But he didn't have time to think about that right now. There were, by the sounds of it, at least two more men in the house. One of them poked his head into view at the end of the corridor. Baldie.

He fired at Baldie, and the thug jumped out of sight. He'd missed him.

Pain gnawed deep into his shoulder. He looked at his wound, saw dark blood soaking his shirt.

Dizziness swam through him.

I can't go out like this.

But he was fading. His legs buckled and he spilled onto the linoleum like a drunken uncle. He hooked his hand around the table leg and pulled it, fuzzily thinking he could use the table as a shield. The table tilted to the floor, hot food and lemonade spattering around him.

Isaiah hauled the table in front of him, propped his back against the row of cabinets, and positioned the Glock atop the edge of the table to steady his aim.

His vision was beginning to get blurry.

Gotta focus.

Ahead of him, the hallway was empty. But he knew they were out there. He felt their cruel eyes on him. They were waiting to make a move.

Gotta hold on.

A door creaked open. Mama rushed out of the basement to his side. Her eyes were red from crying.

"Get away," he said, but his voice came out as only a ragged whisper.

"I'm not letting my baby die," Mama said. She wrapped her arm around his waist and started to drag him across the floor toward the basement door.

"Mama, no "" He tried to resist her, but he was too weak. They had moved from behind the table, making themselves easy targets.

Mama's jaws were set. "I'm not leaving you out-"

Gunfire rang out. He squeezed his eyes shut, certain the bullet was going to find him.

Warm blood sprayed against his face. But he felt no pain.

Mama.

"No!" he cried.

She slumped against him, her body as limp and heavy as a sandbag. He tried to hold her against him with his good arm, but he lacked the strength. She slid out of his grasp and thudded to the floor. Blood pooled around her lips, and for an absurd moment, it looked as if she were okay, as if she'd merely fallen asleep wearing red lipstick.

Isaiah wanted to believe that she was only asleep. The urge to deny what had happened to her was nearly overwhelming.

He touched her chest. She was still; she wasn't breathing.

She was gone.

Grief clenched his heart like an iron fist.

The photo of Mama and his father, happy during their brief affair, lay nearby, mocking him with the dream of what could have been.

He reached out and snagged the picture in his quivering fingers. He fixed his gaze on his father.

This is your fault, and I'm going to make you pay.

If his father had done right by them, they never would have been here. They wouldn't have been living in the ghetto, he wouldn't have grown up plagued by trouble, and Mama never would have led such a hard life. None of this would ever have happened to them.

No matter what, I'm going to get you for this.

A booted foot materialized from out of nowhere and caught him under the chin. He flipped backward and hit the floor, the photo flying out of his hand. He blinked groggily.

Two faces swam into view above him: Dreads and Baldie. They were grinning.

Thunder roared, and lightning flashed, shadows jumping crazily around the two men, as if they were not simply two thugs there to settle a score, but were the devil's minions, come to deliver his soul to the foulest depths of Hell.

Snarling like a bad actor in a gangster movie, Baldie ground the photo under his heel.

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it, motherfucka?" Dreads said.

Isaiah tried to raise his hand and fire the Glock, and discovered that he couldn't move his arm. He no longer had the gun, anyway. He'd dropped it somewhere.

But Dreads still had his gun. It looked like a nine millimeter. Once you were popped with something like that, your ass wasn't getting back up.

Dreads aimed the weapon at his chest.

Isaiah thought about his father again.

No matter what, I'm going to get you ...

Dreads pulled the trigger.

Isaiah spiraled into darkness, his promise of vengeance following him into oblivion.

No matter what ...

Part One

FAMILY MATTERS

All happy families are alike, but an unhappy family is unhappy after its own fashion.

-Leo Tolstoy

Chapter 1

rI n Gabriel Reid's thirtieth birthday, he looked Death in the U face for the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

Monday, June 6, began cold and dreary in metro Atlanta. The temperature stalled in the fifties, twenty degrees lower than normal at that time of year. Tombstone-gray clouds gathered in the sky, signs of a coming storm. A bracing wind blustered out of the northwest, forcing residents to don jackets and sweaters and complain of the unseasonable weather, and reminding transplanted Yankees of what they'd left behind.

Standing at the panoramic office window overlooking the green spaces and wind-rippled lake at Reid Corporate Park, Gabriel felt a chill, too. In spite of the heated air blowing into the conference room and the wool Hugo Boss suit he wore, coldness sank into his flesh, settled deep in his bones.

Shivering, Gabriel rubbed his hands together.

The chill lifted suddenly, as if it had been a brief touch by a ghost.

Birthday jitters, he thought. He turned thirty today. His life was going so well for a thirty-year-old man a thirty-yearold black man, especially-that he couldn't help feeling anxious. Undeservedly blessed. As if someone in power was going to decide he didn't deserve his good fortune, and would snatch his life from under his feet without warning.

Unlike many successful people who'd battled through difficult circumstances on their climb to the top and feared falling to the bottom of the ladder, Gabriel never had tasted rough times. His anxiety had no basis in past struggles. He led a charmed, enviable life, always had. T.L. Reid, his father, had made sure of that. Pops had vowed that no child of his was going to endure the troubles he'd faced on his own path to prosperity. Gabriel and his baby sister, Nicole, knew nothing but good times and happiness.

Still, each new birthday brought deep reflection on the state of his life, and reflection led to worries that a hammer was going to fall and smash everything he prized to bits. Gabriel didn't understand the source of the anxiety. But it sat on his stomach like a sour, undigested meal.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his brooding. His father stepped into the room.

Looking at his father was like viewing himself after a twenty-five-year, digital age progression. They shared the same lean, six-foot build. The smooth, mocha complexion. The unusual eyes a shade of gray, like tarnished nickels. They both had close-cropped haircuts and neatly trimmed goatees, too, though streaks of silver ran through his father's hair.

The main difference was in their facial features. Although they were a handsome pair, obviously father and son, his father's face was all sharp angles, while Gabriel had a soft, baby face.

Folding his arms over his chest, Pops leaned against the long, mahogany conference table. "Morning, Gabe. Still in here thinking about the fortune you're going to be earning us?"

Reid Construction offered services in real estate development, general contracting, program management, property management, and construction. It was one of only a handful of black-owned corporations of its kind in the United States. His father, Theodore Lee Reid, known in the community as T.L., had founded the company twenty-seven years ago, building it from a one-man operation to a nationally recognized firm that employed a hundred and fifty people and had enjoyed revenue in excess of fifty million dollars last fiscal year.

Gabriel had worked in the company, in various capacities, for much of his life. He'd been promoted to vice president of operations two years ago, upon completing his MBA at Emory. According to their succession plan, he would assume the CEO mantle in five years, but the truth was that since Gabriel had been a toddler, his dad had been grooming him to become the leader. Everything he'd learned about the business, he'd learned at his father's feet.

To hear Pops tell it, Gabriel was already filling his father's giant footsteps. In the client meeting that had concluded fifteen minutes ago, Gabriel had closed a deal that would add nine million dollars in revenue to the coffers of Reid Construction. A massive project for terminal renovations at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, it was the most lucrative contract Gabriel had ever steered from inception through completion without his father's guiding hand.

"Thanks, Pops," Gabriel said. "But you know I couldn't have done it without you"

"All I've done was help you stretch your wings. You've been soaring on your own for a while now. I'm proud of ' YOU.

Gabriel smiled, but something in his smile must have looked false, because Pops approached him, his brow creased.

"Something wrong?" Pops asked. "You look as if the deal has fallen through"

Gabriel glanced out the window. The stormy sky swirled like a whirlpool. A fine drizzle had begun to snap against the glass.

"I just feel too lucky sometimes," Gabriel said. "As if things can't keep going this well for me. You know what I mean?"

"I'd never let anything bad happen to you" Pops put his arm around Gabriel. "I take care of my family. Since when have I let you stumble?"

Gabriel knew the answer: never. Pops took care of his family, like he said. That was his father's primary duty-to ensure that his wife and children were taken care of, in every sense. The family home was an estate in a secluded neighborhood, the mansion full of every conceivable creature comfort. Gabriel and his little sister had attended the city's best private schools. They'd taken exciting family vacations twice a year, and Gabriel had seen more exotic locales by the age of twelve than most people saw in a lifetime. When Gabriel reached college age, he attended Morehouse College, Pops's alma mater, to complete his undergrad work, and, of course, a lucrative position at the company had been awaiting him upon graduation. He'd never even worked for anyone other than his father.

But Pops's attention to Gabriel's well-being went further than that; he was there whenever the winds of ordinary life threatened to blow Gabriel in the wrong direction, too. When a bully had taunted Gabriel in sixth grade, Pops had placed a call to the principal and gotten the bully's parents involved in remedying the situation. When Gabriel failed to make the cut for the freshman high school basketball team, Pops had talked to the coach, and, miraculously, Gabriel found himself suiting up for games. As recently as five months ago, when Gabriel had been ticketed for speeding on 1-85, Pops had called a judge-a golf buddy of his-and the ticket was thrown out and a warning issued to Gabriel instead.

No problem was too minor for Pops's benevolent involvement. Once, Pops had been visiting Gabriel and had opened the refrigerator to get a beer. He'd apparently been dissatisfied with the amount of food inside, because when Gabriel came home the next day, the refrigerator was stocked with enough provisions to feed a family of five, and a note attached to the door said, "My boy has to eat well."

Gabriel appreciated his father's concern, but he often thought Pops went too far. He was a thirty-year-old man, for God's sake. When was Pops going to realize that and stop intervening whenever he hit a pothole in his life?

"I've never let you fail," Pops said. "Is that a true statement?"

Gabriel wanted to tell his father to back off, but he couldn't. He loved his dad, and his father only wanted the best for him. He didn't want to spurn his father's assistance and hurt his feelings.

Gabriel summoned a smile. "That's true"

Pops squeezed his shoulder. "Anyway, why are you hanging around here? It's your birthday your thirtieth birthday. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"

"I've got work to do, Pops. I've got another meeting at eleven; then I need to put in a call to-"

"All that can wait, man. I'm not asking you to take off. As your boss, I'm ordering you" He grinned. "My boy's not gonna spend his thirtieth birthday working all day."

"Well, if you say so. Thanks"

"You've earned it, son"

Pops's words echoed in Gabriel's thoughts as he walked to his office to retrieve his belongings. You've earned it, son.

Had he really earned anything? Or had he only been lucky to be born into the right family?

His executive assistant was an elegant, silver-haired black woman affectionately known as Miss Angie. She smiled at him as he passed by.

"Someone's got a delivery from a certain young lady," Miss Angie said.

"Is that so? Let me check it out" He walked inside his office. It was a cavernous space, clean and orderly, full of polished mahogany furniture, comfortable leather chairs, vibrant art work, and lush plants. Pops had hired an interior decorator for him.

A vase full of colorful lilies, tulips, and roses stood on the large desk. A Mylar balloon announcing HAPPY BIRTHDAY! floated above the bouquet.

He read the card attached to the vase.

Happy Birthday, Babyface, the card read. It was signed, Love, Dana.

She'd had flowers delivered to his job. His fiancee sure knew how to surprise him.

He called Dana's number, but got her voice mail. Dana was a pediatrics resident at Emory and probably was in the midst of making her rounds. He left her a message asking her to call him back on his cell phone.

As he left, he told Miss Angie he was going home for the day and asked her to reschedule his meetings.

"T.L. already told me," she said.

"Oh, okay."

Pops was always one step ahead of him.

"Have a great birthday," Miss Angie said. "Tell Dana I said hi."

When Gabriel pushed through the glass double doors to exit the building, the rain was coming down harder. He opened his umbrella.

Reid Construction was headquartered in a sprawling, slate-gray, two-story building on a hundred-acre plot of land located near Cascade Road in southwest Atlanta. Lots of big windows, shady trees, and meticulous landscaping lent the headquarters an air of quiet professionalism.

The vast parking lot, full at this time of morning, offered three reserved spaces in the row nearest the entrance. The first slot, for the CEO, was occupied by his father's black Mercedes-Benz S600 sedan; the second one, vacant, was for the chief financial officer, who was out on vacation; the third spot was for the vice president of operations, Gabriel. Rain drummed against his white Lincoln Navigator.

Driving away from the building, windshield wipers clicking across the glass, Gabriel switched on the radio. On V-103, a news reporter talked about a forecast for heavy rains and potential flooding, and cautioned drivers to slow down.

Slow down yeah, right, Gabriel thought. You'd have a better chance of negotiating world peace than you would convincing Atlanta drivers to slow down.

He switched to another station. Jill Scott was singing "Golden," a midtempo groove about living life to the fullest.

Tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat, Gabriel started to feel better. His life was good; better than good, it was wonderful. He should be thankful and enjoy it. Stop waiting for disaster to strike. After all, a lot of people would kill to be in his shoes.

He pulled into a Shell gas station. As he refueled the Navigator, ruminating on the good old days of cheaper gasoline and trying to keep from getting wet, his cell phone rang.

"Hey, Birthday Boy," Dana said. "How's your day going?"

Although rain was falling in sheets, hearing Dana's voice was like sunshine breaking through the clouds.

"Great," he said. "Thanks for the flowers. That was a nice surprise"

"I'm glad you liked them. You still at the office? It sounds like you're outside in the rain."

"I'm going home. I closed the airport deal, so I took the rest of the day off. Pops's orders"

"Hmph. How nice of him."

Dana made no secret of her dislike for how much influence his father had on him. Dana and Gabriel had argued only once-happy couples didn't argue, in Gabriel's opinion but the single argument they'd had came from her opinion that Gabriel was his dad's puppet. Her accusation had infuriated him. He loved his father, admired him, wanted to be like him. But he was ultimately his own man and made his own decisions. How could she say such a thing?

That argument had nearly ended their relationship. Since then, she tread carefully around the subject, but rarely passed up an opportunity to hint at her displeasure.

"He means well, Dana," Gabriel said. "I'm his only son."

"He tells you what to do as if you're a kid. You aren't twelve. You're thirty years old."

Gabriel clenched his teeth. She'd voiced the same thoughts he'd had earlier. But he didn't dare share that with her. It would be like siding against Pops.

"I don't want to talk about this right now," he said. "It's my birthday, remember?"

"Sorry," she said. "Anyway, congrats on closing the deal. That's great news"

"Thanks," he said. He almost added, Pops was impressed, too, and decided against it. He didn't want to give her a chance to take another cheap shot at his father.

"I'm really looking forward to tonight," she said. "Eat light today because I plan to fatten you up ""

She was coming to his house that evening to cook dinner. She was such a fabulous cook that he'd been anticipating the meal for almost a week.