Rapture: Where are our Children (A Serial Novel) Episode 3 of 9

by Gary Sapp

Edwards watched the two young people, from two entirely into a crowd filled with youth. The world was so young at heart. Xavier couldn’t help but to think of his own boys. Suddenly he felt old and very tired.

  Perhaps this is the last generation of color that will know strife like this. He found that he was having an issue steadying his hand at the prospect of what these young people would be asked to do if and when that fateful time came. I could really use that cigarette right now.

  “I get the impression that you have something else on your mind.” He reminded her of what she said to him as the Circle disbanded for the day. “You didn’t want to speak of it in front of the others. I think it’s time that you spill it?”

  Grace tried to put her best face forward but Xavier saw all of the light disappear from her eyes. “I wish it was that simple.”

  “It is that simple, Grace. Try the most forward and direct path. It saves a lot of time. And it’s what you are best at.”

  “I’m worried.”

  “That’s understandable.” Xavier said. “A strong gust of wind whipped past them both carrying the sweet stench of an area brushfire that somehow ruined the serenity that the moment once had. Xavier lit his Newport and exhaled the smoke as far away from Grace as he could. “Quincy’s theoretically correct in his assumptions about Carver. The liberation of its residents is by far less strategically vital to us politically as our coming war with Pandora.”

  Grace nodded. “I agree with you both, but that’s not the worry I was speaking of.”

  Xavier took one more long last drag and doused the flame with his shoe. “I’m fine, Grace. You don’t have to expend any more energy than necessary worrying about me.”

  Xavier followed Grace’s gaze to where Warren Washington had jogged over and was now conversing with a school of Peacekeepers near the basketball courts. He had changed into battle gear: He wore a black hoody, khakis, and black boots.

  Grace said: “You won’t be fine if this Carver campaign as much as hiccups when the Peacekeepers go in. There is a reason why no one has tried to take Bishop, Deacon and all the rest. The way that place is configured. The locked gate to enter in the front; the way the driving lanes reduce themselves from eight, to four, to two in about half a mile. They have what could double as a prison wall bordering the project from the back. They pitch pigeons and have shooters guarding the top of the buildings 24 hours a day.”

  Xavier had remembered sitting in some of the tactical meetings with Quincy, Grace and Ronald Broward before he had ended up in Calhoun. But the plan that his second had contrived was technically all-encompassing, strategically sound, bold, daring, and just audacious enough to work. There would be Peacekeeper casualties most certainly. But at the conclusion of the day the ends would definitely justify the means.

  “Anyway, whether we succeed or not at Carver I am going to reiterate to you that you must not turn your back on Quincy Morgan or Warren Washington or anyone else closely associated with the former New Black Panther Party.”

  “I won’t.”

  She wasn’t satisfied. There’s more isn’t it, Grace.

  “What else is wrong?”

  Grace pushed one of her braids out of her eye. “Your brother’s stepdaughter has gone missing.”

  “Erica? When did this happen?”

  “I can’t pinpoint a specific day, but it was had to be just before 411 and your release from Calhoun.”

  Xavier pointed Grace in the direction of an old wooden bench. After they sat down, he smoothed out his slacks.

  “There is certainly no love lost between those two. And Denise often complicates things more than making them better.” He looked at Grace Edwards. “Is she still alive?”

  “I wish I knew for certain, Xavier.” Grace said quietly. “Your ex sister in law hired a private detective, a Roxanne Sanchez, to find her daughter. Ms. Sanchez is ruthless. She is efficient. I like her. If Erica Lovings can be found this woman will find her; I’m certain of that.”

  Xavier stood quickly and fastened the buttons on his jacket. He was struggling with the top button when Grace rose and helped him. She also straightened his tie for him. That look that Xavier saw in her eyes before had returned…and gave him pause.

  “If there is anything more, I hope that you will share it with me.”

  “Julian Moore is dead.”

  “What,” All of the dread Xavier was feeling boiled to the surface. “How…we must not have gotten all of James Carter’s men. They must have moved on him after—“

  Grace planted a gentle but firm hand on his chest. “No, that’s not it at all, Xavier. In his own mind Julian was trying to become a reformed gang banger. He had taken the mark, said the words. He had given you his word to follow your father’s mandates as best he could.” She said. “But he was still just a gang banger in the eyes of his enemies who shared the same skin color that he did.”

  “Damn, are you telling me that the Choir Boys got him?”

  “They did.” She nodded once and again and lowered her head. “You and I have spoken before about our need to rescue the good people who are suffocating under the choke hold of the Bishop and the Choir Boys. But I didn’t want to announce Julian’s murder in front of the others so they would wrongly think that you were motivated into acting by a sense of loyalty to a man who had protected you more than once while you were at Calhoun.”

  Grace Edwards was right of course, she was always right when it came to matters of state. Now that Ernestine was gone he would lean on her consultation and her expertise more than ever before. Damn you, Julian, he felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes. They were unexpected and unwanted. He bit them back but Grace had already grabbed him and pulled him into her embrace.

  “I appreciate you confidentially.” He said in a matter of fact tone and broke her grip. “I’m grateful for everything that you have done here today. You honor your House and you honor me.”

  They found themselves staring at each other in the minutes that passed. He could see his charcoal colored skin, sideburns and drunkard eyes in the reflection in her eyes. Likewise, he glared at her dark skin, her braids, and the look in her big brown eyes. She was a little slim for his taste and he liked a little red beans with his rice…a little sleek and nasty in his female and he couldn’t imagine this woman being like that at all.

  Finally, he said: “We are only to unleash this…what is it called… Scar campaign against the Rooster only in retaliation for the imminent threat of this Whirlwind being released on us.” He shook his head in mild disgust. “Although, even with all of your skills and resources, we still don’t know exactly what this Whirlwind is.”

  “No,” She admitted it to him. “But we only get one chance…and one chance only for Scar to be as effective as it needs to be.”

  “So it’s our only way of winning against Pandora.”

  Grace’s voice took on that dark tone again. “Scar isn’t about winning, sir, it’s only about giving voice to a message that will be to grave for them to ever ignore our cause ever again.”

  He exhaled deeply. “What an entangled web Quincy Morgan weaves for us.”

  “Xavier, Quincy Morgan may has the greatest talent for controlled aggression and violence that I have ever seen. He is also very good for the originality of our campaign’s names.” She flashed the ever slightest look of pride in her eyes. “But the devil and the details in both our coming operations are all mine.”

  Louis

  He watched.

  He waited.

  Moses Jackson’s grandmother dragged the 12 year old boy and his two younger siblings to an old crusty Baptist church early that cool spring morning. The routine hadn’t altered much since he’d started scouting this particular boy out about six weeks ago.

  Felicia Jackson:

  She was a fair skinned black woman in her early 60’s. She had dark circles under her eyes and wore her dentures and her stockings everywhere she went.

  And the show would always begin as she was l
eaving the old shot gun house with her grand kids. The older woman saying to her daughter, Moses mother, that someone in this house needed to give God some time back in return for all that he had provided them. Tracy Jackson would argue back that He shouldn’t expect a whole lot of visits from her then. She cursed out loud. God or Jesus hadn’t provided her with much over the past few years except these begging ass children all ways in the need of something she didn’t have. Matter of fact, she yelled as her mother closed the screen door and walked away with the kids, she’d be fuckin impressed if he dropped off a man at her crib who had a good job. That would impress the hell out of her.

  By the time that one sided conversation had ended Louis slid back into his Ford. A man is coming into your life, Felicia. And we do have a good job. You’ll see. Per usual, Tracy Jackson stormed out of that same screened in porch after her mother and the kids left, and was already out for her daily grind.

  Tracy Jackson:

  She was a shapely dark skinned Black woman in her early 30’s that had straight hair and she dressed the same every day: She wore a cut off shirt at the midriff that highlighted her tattoos and her stomach and lower back, tight enough pants to cause a yeast infection, and shoes bearing a six inch heal. The grind didn’t change as she continued her search where she left off from the day before…and the day before that—of a trick and then a hit of some crack or weed.

  Sunday mornings were the worse for Tracy.