by Gary Sapp
to quite those who he himself had stirred to a fever pitch.
“Past is Prologue. The present watches us from the shadows. The future—the Vision of our Future is far from secure…still, I challenge each and every one to remember your feelings of pain, feelings of loss and feelings of suffering that you have gone through up until today. I am here for you if you will have me. I will continue to fight with my last ounce of strength for our people’s rights. I stand before you ready to complete what others in my beloved family have started. I am a Prince. I know that there are hundreds of Carver’s nationwide that need liberating. There are thousands of children of color that need our protection. Make no mistake though—friends and neighbors, boys and girls—those who believe in and would support the twisted ideologies of a Serena Tennyson and Pandora are out there ready to pick up the pieces of the broken pathetic banner of hate and violence. There is more madness to come. Just know that I have your back. A new Board and Circle who will govern wiser than before will have your back. A new detail of Peacekeepers who will be stronger than before will have your back. A House in Chains will rise from the ashes of what came before will have your back.
He held both of his arms up and spoke quickly one final time into another loud ovation.
“I was once asked a question: I was asked what I see when I visualize our people’s future—and someone answered for me that he saw days filled with misery and pain.
“That was a lifetime ago.
“The next time that your brother or your sister ask you the same—the very next time someone ask you what do you see when you visualize our people’s future.”
Christopher Prince…the One…the most dangerous man in the entire world paused only briefly.
“Tell them that I see days and nights full of joy and a thousand year reign.”
All who had gathered before him cheered his name and wept until their tears had long dried and sang songs of remembrance and danced as one giant body.
And then the leader of a House in Chains began to hop in place—stomp in open defiance against any and all who would seek absolution or forgiveness if they dared oppose his House.
5000 people stomped with him.
Thomas
The good book stated over and over that the wages of sin resulted in death.
Juice spilled as Thomas Pepper carved meat away from breast bone of his turkey, tossed it on his plate next to his canned peas and instant mashed potatoes and pressed the PLAY button on his DVR again. He was watching the replay of Chris Prince’s speech from a month ago at the Georgia State Capital for the third time today.
This time however, he forwarded to the final five minutes that he had book marked. And then he took a page full of notes while he watched this portion over and over again to his satisfaction while he ate. He took particular notice to Chris’ facial actions and tried to match his words to those subtle but important things that had gone unsaid that rain soaked evening in Atlanta. When did you make this critical decision in your heart, Chris?
Thomas jotted down in his notes that he believed that it must have happened when he found his brother nearly dead in that compound. Guilt could be a powerful instrument for change. The wages of sin often result in death, he thought again.
And yet, was Thomas Pepper thinking of the man on his television screen or himself—
A terrible pain struck him in the midsection that forced his silverware from his hands.
Stubborn and determined Thomas sat himself back up. He sat the food aside and penciled in a few last notes. Chris’ speech would prove invaluable for him to finish the last chapters of his book. He rubbed at his bearded face which was quite the contrast of when he ran his fingers over the hundreds of sheets of paper of his manuscript. What he had written—what he’d personally experienced in far too many of these pages astounded him.
Thomas peeked at one of the many chapters that he had dedicated to Serena Tennyson. He rubbed his beard again. He wondered if the critics…and the public in general would look unfavorably at the shadow of sympathy that he cast on her—especially as her personal story drew to a close. Sympathy was not what he wanted. It damned sure wasn’t that would have been the voice she would have asked him to speak in for her. And yet, he was the speaker for the dead. The chapters on Louis Keaton and Xavier Prince…and Lucy Burgess were all told with his voice.
And then there was the problem of the living.
To this day, Thomas Pepper still wondered who this other wing—this other person was that Serena swore was her other half was. Thomas would have sworn on a thousand bibles that it would have to be Dr. Angel Hicks Dupree of course. That made the most sense. And yet, Thomas realized that very little of what came six months or so before made any sense, especially from the eyes of those who were not directly involved.
Serena Tennyson was a changed woman, especially after she and Danielle Rohm returned from their short trip to Memphis. And it was far more to this transition than Louis Keaton’s blood and flesh under her fingernails.
He ran his thick fingers across the finished pages once again. This was a book that his editor and publisher were impatiently waiting for. They had actually requested that he finish it a month or so ago so their people could handle the final edits, set the typeset and have the hardcover design put in place by tomorrow. Thomas Pepper couldn’t be angry with them for wanting to capitalize on Black Friday and the beginning of the holiday rush in the retail market.
And his publicist reminded him that although he had unequaled access to some of the game’s most high profile players he was facing stiff competition from others in both public and private life this go round. There were rumors of books coming from federal agents, CNN personalities and even a handful of Pandora sympathizers who had been ousted since a Whirlwind devastated Atlanta.
A Whirlwind, he thought while he sat back in his easy chair, not the Whirlwind. Thomas was unsure of what exactly that devastation might have been but it looked as if the country had avoided it thus far.
And he had continue to joke with his publishing brethren that it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t live long enough to finish writing this—
And then a pain with some depth and volume spilled his large frame over onto the floor.
20 minutes later Thomas Pepper wiped the tears away from his eyes and lifted himself up off of the floor.
They would have to wait a while longer for his manuscript and that was damned fine by him.
Although his store cooked bird had cooled he still savored the taste as he finished his meal. Even an unholy man needed to celebrate Thanksgiving in his own way. It was early afternoon for sure, but he would brave the chill in the air and the pain in his abdomen and keep at least one promise today.
He scanned his notes again. Watching the DVR reminded him to check on a couple of specific passages on Chris Prince. Thomas was convinced more than ever that the murder of the former FBI Agent’s step daughter was more than a footnote to all of this. He was also convinced that Keaton had little if anything to do with the young woman’s brutal killing as well. I do think that you know something, Doctor. Angel had refused to return his calls in the last month, especially with her official testimony to a Federal Grand Jury fast approaching. You are hiding something, Doctor, and that something falling into the hands of the Feds is the least of your concerns. She was fighting for her career and even perhaps fighting for her freedom as well—but Thomas would bet his life that wasn’t what had silenced her so far.
He finally worked himself over to his desk. He worked the combination of his safe until it popped open and stuck his work inside and slammed the door shut behind it. He’d interviewed more than a hundred people for their individual accounts of the events that had shaken a country at its core.
But he wasn’t suddenly trembling because of that acknowledgment.
Walking down his own personal memory lane of what happened to him, what could have happened to him and what happened because of him had been an exercise he didn’t want to repeat t
oday.
He checked his watch and decided that it was time to change his clothes for his guest that would be soon arriving. He took four of his prescriptions after he had showered and used the bathroom. In his bedroom he picked out one of the two pair of jeans that he owned and grabbed the lone pair of old sneakers from off the shelf. He grabbed a jacket big enough to warm him but light enough to allow his arms and hands some freedom of movement.
Thomas had a job to do.
And then a new round of pains floored him.
He was forced to try to raise himself again from off all fours. I’m not going to be able to get up this time. He knew that there was a service button located near the bed’s headboard. If he could reach it…and that was a big if…he could ring one of the desk nurses who could start earning that time and half by helping him get back to his feet. And yet, Thomas did not crawl towards the button that would bring him aid.
Thomas Pepper prayed instead.
He knew that both of his doctors disapproved of his plans to truck out of this facility today—especially considering the chill in the air and the deficiencies in his immune system. He didn’t want to hand anymore ammunition to either one of those women that would endanger his chance to keep his promise.
He heard a knock on his room door.
He bit his bottom with determination as he struggled to stand again. He was
