"But King…" The words "I'm sorry" still felt too small to contain all that Lott carried and wanted to convey to King.
King waved him off. "Enough. We need you. I need you. We can't do this thing on our own."
"I just don't want to be alone anymore." Lott buried his face into the sheets. A hand rested gently on his head.
"You're not alone. Not as long as you have people around you who love you."
La Payasa never wanted to be her mother. Her mom was unable to survive without a man. It was that simple. Born in Mexico, her mom was married three times. Each time a husband left or died, she hooked up with another one within months. Her life was its own prison, trapped by being functionally illiterate with her third-grade education and thus captive to the whims of her men. Her third husband moved to Indianapolis to find factory work. Her whole life revolved around pleasing him. Her long hair was worn in a bun, the way he liked it. She spent her days cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children, the way he envisioned a good wife should be. There was little of her mother in her own life.
La Payasa was not much different from her mom, moving from Black to King, her life defined by what others wanted of her and fitting in with their wants. Following their dreams and not her own. Yet she stood in the room at King's bedside as if having been granted an audience. Percy and Lott she knew. Not the girl. And not the one who, while lying down in a hospital bed, commanded the entire room.
"You're with Black and his crew," King said.
"I know the story that's been written about me." La Payasa ignored the weight of eyes in the room and focused on King. He had a way about him, like Black. He could draw you in. Unlike Black, there was a gentleness behind that hard exterior. A burning sense of caring. "But what if I'm actually one of the good guys?"
"You asking or telling?"
"Both, I think."
"What about Black? Aren't you helping him?"
"I'm hoping to help everyone."
King recognized that air about her: damaged but resilient. She reminded him of Lady G. "Nobody does it alone. Black and brown, we have a lot in common. And we need a place we all make together. Bring folks together in a positive way."
"I don't know, hese."
"You know what?" King turned to all of them. "I believe that Dred has united enough of the gangs and controls enough of the drug flow in this city to open the flood gates. To sink the streets, our streets, to lows and depravity and desperation we've never known. I believe the police are powerless because they can't build a case against someone they barely know. They're too busy cleaning up the messes left by the front lines of this war to get near him.
"Well, the police aren't in this alone. This is our community. These are our streets. Those are our brothers and sisters and children shedding their blood and losing their lives out there. Day after day in senseless waste. We're always fighting the same fight.
"This struggle has been going on forever. The players may change, the philosophies may differ, but there would always be war. On the one side you have the warlord, simple in his own way, who was always chasing that dollar no matter what the cost, and would use and climb over anyone he could to amass power. On the other side, you had the idealistic church wanting everyone to believe the same things and follow the same rules. You'd think they were on opposite sides but they were two sides of the same coin. Neither was as all good or all evil, as all right or all wrong, as the other side would make them out to be. In fact, both would do both good and terrible things to get what they wanted.
"And I'm tired.
"Tired of sitting on the sidelines. Tired of waiting for someone else to come along to solve our problem. Tired of not caring. Running around out here, asking folks to care, to look out for one another. That ain't snitching, that's caring.
"Most days we are gray people leading gray lives. We keep our heads down and mind our own, hoping things will work out. We keep on keeping on. Shadows in a world of black and white, of light and dark, waiting out a war and hoping that we don't get caught in the crossfire.
"But we live in the crossfire.
"Every once in a while, we're faced with a decision. An opportunity. The chance to do something right, something we don't have to question or wonder about. Something we know is true." King turned to Lady G, then faced them again. "When we find what's true, we hold on to it. We're moved by it. And we act on it. This is one of those times. Some might say it'd be better to get out of their way and let Dred and the police scuffle it out. But this is our community, too. There comes a point, maybe when one side goes all in to wipe out the other, when you can't stand on the sidelines anymore. You have to pick a side. We will take this war to Dred and we will end it. Our brothers and sisters are out here, lost and misguided. But they're not beyond hope. They're not beyond redemption.
"Do you know how I've always thought of you? As knights. Knight means servant, and to be a leader you must serve. Sometimes we've forgotten that. Lost our way. I know I have. Faithful service is not always acknowledged. And you aren't a good knight until you've been tested. You've all been tested. Each of you in your own way. Now it's time to serve our people one more time."
They burst into applause, they couldn't help themselves. King stirred something in them. They dared to hope. They remembered what they could be. The nurse burst in to shoo them back in the hallway. Pastor Winburn followed her, his "clergy" identification badge pinned to his suit jacket. He waited until the nurse finished her duties, nodding politely to her as she left.
"You have your serious face on. What happened?" King asked.
"King, there's something I got to tell you. It's about Prez."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
King slouched over his knees. The pain in his side and neck faded into afterthoughts as he reached over toward his clothes. The ones he was brought in with had to be cut from him. Pastor Winburn had brought a change of clothes upon hearing King had awoken.
"What are you doing?" Pastor Winburn handed him his clothes.
"I need to see the body."
"You know I can't let you do that, King. Family only."
"I'm the closest thing to kin that boy's got."
"Still…"
"Do me this solid."
A black T-shirt with the word "Resistance" across the top. Underneath were portraits of his heroes. Sojourner Truth. Marcus Garvey. Angela Davis. John Carlos and Tommie Smith. Rosa Parks. Frederick Douglass. Harriet Tubman. Malcolm X. Dr Martin Luther King Jr. The shirt stretched over his muscular frame, showing off his thick arms. Pastor Winburn took the liberty of purchasing a new pair of black Chuck Taylors to replace his blood-splattered set.
Taking tentative steps, King walked slowly down the hall, his legs still getting used to being upright. He slung his leather coat over his arms in front of him, following Pastor Winburn as if a bereaved relative.
The cold room had a blue tint to it. A single body on a metal table, a sheet drawn over it. The medical examiner, a ghost in blue scrubs, pulled back the sheet. The side of Prez's face reduced to a hole exploded out; even cleaned up, a cavern of flesh and skull ruined his former eye. Scores of bruises riddled his chest. Some strange wounds not made by blade, gun, or fist had the stink of magic about them.
Cantrell worked a double tour, exhausted but undaunted. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he watched the pantomime play out from the next room. King broken up about the boy's death, his meaty hands slammed into his skull as he paced about. His mouth opened in a voiceless cry. The boy was like they all were: born into a family, into a situation, given a lifetime of choices and experiences to shape what he became, takes the path of his life, and then it was over. All that remained were the people left in his wake who mourned him. Lives he touched, for good or for ill. The same ride for everyone. Cantrell gave him a moment after the pastor left before he walked in.
"I don't know what you plan to do or how someone like you carries this. Don't know if you pray, go see your pastor, or go to where you lay your hea
d and plot your comeback."
"Might do them all." King didn't turn at the sound of the detective's voice. Prez stared at him. The hole in his face held a steady gaze and gave voice to all of King's doubts and failings.
"Let us handle it."
"You got any leads?"
"Do you? I know, I know. No snitching." Cantrell threw his hands up as if backing off.
"It ain't that. There's what I know versus what you can prove."
"What do you mean?"
"I know who did it, but can't prove it."
"Give me a name."
"What good's a name going to do you? You can't act on it. Can't get a warrant. It won't provide you any witnesses. I might as well tell you my horoscope for all the good it will do you."
"Every little bit helps."
"You know and I know Dred's behind this. Behind all of this mess. But you're trapped by rules and laws."
"And you're not? King, don't let me find you on the wrong side of some vigilante shit. I will come down on you just as hard as I would Dred."
"I know."
King returned to his room. Wayne. Lott. Percy. La Payasa. Lady G. They assembled at his word and waited for him. He paused to take in the scene. Here they were gathered together for the first time in far too long. His knights. Battered. Bruised. Tested. But they'd come out the other side. They weren't many, but they might be enough.
"What's the word?" King asked.
La Payasa stepped forward. "Dred's muscling up. Taking stock of who he got left." Unadorned, she didn't know how she fit in with this crew. They were family and she was the outsider.
"Making way the hounds of war." Knowing what it was like to be the new person in a tightknit group, King touched her lightly on her arm. His smile welcomed her as an equal.
"Something like that."
"Where?"
"Camlann." La Payasa's expression turned sour, as if she'd eaten some bad cabbage.
"What is it?" King asked.
"It's a place. Site of some new building project or something. But you don't understand. Word was loud on the street."
"Too loud?"
"Yeah, like they want people to know."
"A trap," Wayne said.
"That's what I think," La Payasa agreed.
"Then I'll give him a mouse to spring it," King said.
"King, I don't think that's wise," Wayne said.
"I can't ask you to join me." King turned to the rest of them. "Any of you. But I need to stop this madness."
"Then you'll need this." Lady G removed a bundle from her purse and handed it to King. The weight felt familiar and right as he unwrapped it. Even before he saw it, he knew part of him had returned. A 9mm, gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips. His Caliburn. "I kept it for you."
"Let's do this."
Lee's place consisted of a mattress and a box set as the lone furnishings in his bedroom. Plastic Totes held his clothes. Scattered newspaper and leftover Chinese takeout boxes buried the phone. Lee realized it took a particular brand of self-loathing to put himself through this relationship. On the good days, he rationalized that he was in this for the experience. Omarosa was a fine piece of ass and a great lay. And she provided solid intel as a notquite-on-the-books confidential informant. He wasn't planning on bringing her home to meet his mother. That conversation wouldn't go well: "Hi, Mom. This is Omarosa. She makes her living taking off drug dealers. She may even be a prostitute on the side, but she's hell in the sack. How many grandkids do you want?" It was what it was: itch-scratching. A perfect, walk-away arrangement. By all rights, checking his man card, he shouldn't have any gripes.
But then there were the bad days. The days when he woke up, alone, and had time to think about his life. The days when he suspected he was ultimately without anyone who cared about him. A boss who despised him, a partner who tolerated him, and Omarosa, a woman who expressed nothing but open disdain for him, fucked him as if he were beneath her — all but held her nose while doing him — and if she had two kind words for him, they were never strung together in the same sentence.
Omarosa slowly twirled before him, her hips moving in full controlled circles, each muscle knowing exactly what it was doing. All Lee could do was stand there like a grinning idiot hick — what she often reduced him to — simply happy to be in the same room as her. She gyrated close to him, her ass rubbing against his crotch and then pulling away. He reached out to grasp her, but she eluded him, while staying on beat to the music. She danced close again. He raised his hands, but stopped short, fearing she might abandon him again. With a tantalizing slowness, she peeled his shirt off of him, lifting it over his now-raised arms. His thin chest and muscled arms had a wiry strength to them. He thought better of wrapping them around her.
"How come we never go to your place?" Lee asked.
"Because I don't want you to know where I live." Omarosa took a half-step back. "What's the matter, too on point? Did I hurt your feelings?"
"Would you care if you did?"
"Would you want me to? Besides, you wouldn't survive in my world."
"I'm up to my shitter in your world now."
"Lovely. Anyway, despite where you think you are, you're not. You couldn't… swim in the waters I do." It was said that when the angels fell, the ones who fell on land became fairies and the ones who fell into the sea became selkies.
"I'm a pretty good swimmer."
"Not that good."
"Why you gotta be that way?"
"You need to know, all things come to an end."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning this is our last time together."
"Just like that?"
"How did you think it was going to end?"
"I…"
Omarosa pressed a lone finger against his lips. "It ends the way all stories do. With bloodshed. And anger. And pain."
"What are you talking about?"
"There's a thing tonight."
"What sort of thing?"
"King. Dred. Maybe the Mexicans."
"Fucking beaners in the mix? Where?"
"Camlann. The new site."
"Over by the zoo."
"Yeah."
"How are you mixed up in this?"
"Do you really want to know? Have you ever? Or would you rather do what you came to do?"
He knew much more than he let on. He could be a clever "cracker-ass cop" that way. It wasn't as if she were his only ear to the streets. He heard the whispers of the street thief called Omarosa. Talked about like she was a legend. By the time he realized he was sleeping with her, there was no way to bring her in and explain away that he'd been banging her for months. "When?"
"Everything will be over in the morning. One way or another, the story ends tonight."
"Shit, Omarosa…"
"You've got a decision to make. I won't be back again. There's too much blood on my hands. It may take decades to wash clean."
"Blood?"
"Tick tock. Me or the crews. You can't have both."
"Damn it, Omarosa. I ought to take you in."
"You could try."
A steeliness hardened in her voice. He'd heard it before though she attempted to keep it hidden beneath the velvety lilt of her voice and honeyed measure of words. But it was always there, sharp as a sword's edge. Just once he wanted to test her. To take her full measure. His weapon lay on his jacket in the chair, never far from him, especially when he was with her. Just once. Not that he knew what he'd do with her. Shit. Maybe Cantrell would know. He couldn't let her walk away. Not like this. He wanted to taste her one more time. Just once. He turned from her and scooped up his gun in the same movement.
When he turned back around, she was gone.
"Camlann," Lee said, hoping she could still hear him. "I'll see you there."
Rain drizzled, splattering on the oily surface of the street. They were within eyeshot of the Indianapolis Zoo, its trees lit with blue lights. Wayne turned the van off of Washington Street onto a little u
sed drive under the bridge along the White River Parkway. The White River itself created a zone of relative peace, separating one world from the next. A nexus point, a natural ley line as Merle had once explained to them. The overcast sky drove a miserable chill into their bones. A mural decorated the wall, in a faux children's painted style. Blue, pink, and violet stick figures held hands while walking along grassy knolls toward a crude cityscape. On the other side, similarly painted rainbow-colored figures hung outside the windows of a school bus under a picturesque blue sky lit by a bold yellow sun.
The abutment of the bridge formed a concrete shelf littered with bags of trash and Styrofoam cups and plastic bottles mixed among the scattered leaves. The number 1516 etched into the concrete had eroded to the point where it read more like ISIS. The words "eat you good" had been spraypainted higher up along the embankment. And Wayne thought about trolls as a train rumbled above them.
Overgrown bushes obscured the trail beside the bridge, a leaf-strewn path of brown and yellow. Little more than ragged scruff known mostly to those who lived in the other Indianapolis. Away from the gleaming buildings of downtown and the bright light of tourist attractions. The invisible Indianapolis. Beneath bridges. Under the city. In abandoned lots. A wire fence provided an illusion of security, but the links on one side had been severed and it was drawn back as easily as a curtain. They entered a mini wilderness of brown grass, scattered bushes, and vine-choked trees. They weaved their way between the trees until the path opened up into a field. Then they came to a second ley line as the railroad tracks created a buffer, cutting off the outside world from the secret things kids enjoyed exploring and fantasizing about. Magical things. A world which made perfect sense to those still able to wonder and dream. This site was well chosen. Secluded. Cut off. The city fathers planned on dumping low-cost housing according to the Not In My Back Yard crowd. For Dred, it was an abandoned warehouse of stored magic.
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