I started to panic, then stopped. There was still one thing I could do. I went to my computer and searched for the police station nearest the house in Marigny, found the precinct closest to them and an e-mail address, sent a short but explicit note that explained what was happening, where, and that I was on the phone with him now. Then I sent it again a hundred times.
“Dean? What’s going on, there, buddy?”
“Gonna put her down, bruh, put the black bitch down like a rabid dog, and take care of her little black bastards. Then we’re comin’ fer you, boy, every last one of you, until every nigger knows their place.”
He kept humming the song, moving to the back of the house a step at a time with a little laugh every now and then. To be sure the police got my message I found their fax number and computer-faxed fifty copies of the note in large type so someone would be sure to notice it pouring out of the machine. For once I was glad to be a geek.
“Listen to me, Dean—”
“Shhh . . . Bitch is still asleep.”
In my earpiece I heard the bedroom door creak open, Lynn’s sleepy voice in the background, too slurred to make out what she said.
“Hey, baby,” whispered Dean. I heard Lynn gasp and try to scream; instead there was the sound of struggle, a punch, and I heard the breath go out of her with a dull thump. I remembered how much bigger Dean was, imagined him throwing Lynn to the bed like a rag doll.
“Damn it! What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted into the phone, helpless to stop him any other way.
“Quiet, boy, got my hands full right now.” His voice was strained, breathless. Lynn screamed for the children to run, until he gagged her. I heard sheets rip; Dean’s breath came in short bursts as they struggled.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Don’t you take the name of our Lord in vain, motherfucker,” he snarled. “God don’t care what happens to this nigger bitch any more’n he cares about your black ass.”
I listened to him hum that damned song as he went about his work. “Still there? What do you think, bruh? Is Dean at work here? Or somethin’ else?”
He headed down the hall to the kids’ room. I heard them weep as he entered, pictured Dean shoving seven-year-old Milton back down the hall to the master bedroom by the neck, two-year-old Shana tucked under his other arm like a football. Dean wouldn’t need the knife to handle the kids. I heard him throw them to the floor, slap them to shut them up while he bound them.
A new e-mail came in from the police that my messages had been received. “Is this for real? We’re in the middle of a citywide evacuation. . . .”
I typed a fast reply, “I swear to God, I have him on the phone now trying to slow him down, you have my permission to tap into my line if you have to verify,” and hit Send, waiting until they confirmed to relax. I just had to keep him talking until they got there. I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“Dean? You still there?”
“Yeah, boy.”
The children’s panicked howls had subsided to sobs; all I could hear from Lynn were moans and muffled cries through her gag as Dean snickered.
“They say beauty’s skin deep, don’t they, bruh? That true, nigger? Let’s take a look.”
There was a wet rip and new shrieks from Lynn; then she must have passed out from the pain; when I didn’t hear her anymore I couldn’t hold back tears. I felt helpless, even knowing help was on the way. The only question was if it would be in time.
“In the name of God,” I said. “If there’s anything of you left in there, stop this before it’s too late.”
“You started this, boy. You needed proof. Satisfied? Believe in us now, nigger?”
I must have screamed, and it all poured out, the rage, the fear and pain, and I denied him at the top of my lungs; I didn’t believe, it wasn’t anything but Dean at work and he was going to burn in hell if there was one, and if there wasn’t I would build one to hold him . . . I don’t know what else I said; it was drowned out by the sound of sirens in the background as the police finally came, close enough that he knew he could either finish his task or flee. I prayed Dean was still sane enough to run.
He hissed into the phone, “You did this, boy. Don’t know how, but it was you, you nigger bastard. We comin’ fer you, boy. Comin’ fer you . . .”
And the line went dead.
Someone from the precinct had the mercy to call an hour later to let me know Lynn and the kids were safe, the longest hour of my life. They found Lynn tied spread-eagle, tortured, bleeding, the kids hog-tied on the floor, forced to face the bed. They couldn’t find Dean. He got away before they could get inside.
I lost contact with Lynn and the kids until friends told me they’d been safely evacuated after the rescue to her mother’s house in the Bronx.
“The kids are fine as they can be,” she said. “The house sounds like it’s in one piece. Our street wasn’t hit bad, no flooding, just lost a few windows and shingles. Neighbors next door rode out the storm, they’re keeping me posted when they can.” There was a brief almost unnoticeable pause. “Still no word about Dean,” she added, as if he’d wandered off at the mall.
“How are you?”
“Oh, well. Everything works. Thank you for that. If he’d had more time . . .” She sighed, tried to laugh it off. “I won’t be wearing shorts or sleeveless tops for a while, but didn’t much anyway.”
I never asked what Dean did to her in the bedroom that night, what the children were forced to watch. All I knew was what I heard; that was bad enough. I was afraid to know any more. Facing what Dean was capable of meant either admitting I hadn’t known him at all, or that something else wore my friend like a Halloween costume and tried to destroy everything he loved.
I watched CNN news coverage of the hurricane aftermath with the same mute disbelief I felt witnessing the fall of the Twin Towers. It was hard to believe it was real, happening to us as we’d seen it happen to so many others in the last few years of earthquakes and tsunamis.
As days went by I couldn’t tell if the crisis was under control as the government claimed or if the city had descended into the surreal hell described on the news. Official reports tried to play down the crime, TV showed waterlogged devastation and hinted at unspeakable acts committed in the stadium, while online blogs painted a worse picture of the troops’ behavior. Poor black residents were made to look like animals, patrolling soldiers portrayed as storm troopers; if Dean was host to something that fed on fear, it was feasting now.
I went to a party planned before the hurricane that became a benefit for Katrina victims. I’d planned to skip it, but Winston talked me into it.
“It’s a healing thing, baby. Not just for you, but all of us, so you’re going. Meet you at your place at seven.”
It was at a loft in DUMBO, high under the Brooklyn Bridge, with a view of Manhattan outside factory-sized windows. I saw faces I hadn’t seen in ages, heard stories about friends and family in affected areas who were struggling to recover or helping others. The events of the last week started to blur with more drinks, passed joints, and mellow music, lulled by human voices exchanging soft consolation.
My cell phone rang, and I opened it. The signal was weak, so I stepped out onto the fire escape to get better reception. The number was blocked; the screen said Unknown Caller. I slipped the earpiece on and pushed the Talk button.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, bruh.”
“Dean.” It wasn’t a question. I had no doubt it was Dean’s voice, weak as the signal was, even if I knew it couldn’t be him.
“Oh, my nigger,” the thing that spoke like Dean breathed into my ear, from a place no calls could come from, would not come for days. “Oh, nigger, the things we have seen. You would tear your eyes from their sockets to forget them.” Then it laughed, a thick sound still filled with phlegm. “But not us, bruh. Not us. We like to watch.”
I shivered even though the air outside was warm as I listened to the impossible voice, looked back
through the window to watch the party still going on; music played, couples swayed on the dance floor, a distant world flickering light-years away, one I could see but never reach again in my lifetime.
“Where are you?”
“Like to know that, wouldn’t you, nigger? Like to know we’re not waitin’ downstairs for you, in your closet or under your bed. Never know for sure, will yuh, bruh?”
I didn’t want to hear the answer but had to ask. “Who are you?”
“Call us Legion, for we are many.”
“You lie,” I said. “There are no demons. Just excuses.”
“Come on, boy,” it said. “All people really want is a way to blame bad on someone else, God or the Devil. An easy explanation for why y’all take an eye for an eye instead of turnin’ the other cheek, why niggers get dragged to death behind trucks and fags tied up to freeze to death, even now....
“So it ain’t your fault. It’s ours. Don’t say we never give yuh nothin’.” I could hear the sounds of female shrieks and deep male laughter in the background. It chuckled again, just like Dean. “Gotta run. Got a date with an angel.”
The screams grew louder as the phone approached them and disconnected, after one last laugh from my dead good buddy.
They found me asleep on the fire escape, phone still in my ear, said I told them I dreamed I was on the phone with a long-lost friend, and then was in New Orleans looking for him.
I said I stood on dry land under a full moon at night, looked east at a flooded road ahead, water as far as the eye could see. The flood whispered to me like sirens of old; I felt a pull, looked down, and saw water rise over my feet and up my shins before I could back out.
Hushed voices rose with the waters as they covered my waist, my shoulders and head. Fully submerged I could hear them clearly as I watched my last breath bubble up out of my mouth to the surface, now yards away. My ears filled with an infernal chorus of “Dixie” as I struggled to ascend....
I looked down and saw the singers drift up from the depths in tattered Confederate gray, white hooded robes, sheriff uniforms, army fatigues, anonymous black suits, faceless men bound only by hate and fear. They sang as one, swung swords, sticks, billy clubs, pistols, rifles from muskets to AK-47s in rhythm to the steady beat of an unseen drum, like the inhuman sound of a giant heart.
Dean rose to the head of the hellish choir, a noose in one hand; his other gripped my ankle and pulled me back down as I fought my way up toward the light....
They found Dean a few weeks later—what was left—wedged between a Dumpster and the side of a truck someone had loaded with the last of their worldly goods or loot, too late to get out of town. Dean’s death went unnoticed in the torrent of news from Katrina, the far greater losses and atrocities; it was a small story worthy of note to only a few, but it was our story and we took it hard.
Life quieted down after that; Dean’s recovery led to our own.
I went to New Orleans a few months after the waters receded to help Lynn sell the house. The city was like an invalid who’d nearly died, still unsure of its chances for full recovery. It was stronger, saner, had regained some of its old fire, but there was a haunted look behind the eyes, the look of one who’d seen how close the end could be and would never be the same again. It was the same look I saw in Lynn’s eyes when she thought no one was looking.
Except for missing roof tiles and broken windows, Dean’s old family home was intact and ironically worth even more as survivors who’d lost homes looked for replacements. It sold for more than enough to move Lynn and the kids back North near her family. I flew back to Brooklyn where I felt at ease, if not entirely safe; it would be hard to feel safe anywhere for a long time.
When I got home, I took down the panorama of the Klan.
I was tempted to burn it, but that would mean I believed it was part of something supernatural, that it held contaminating magic of its own that could somehow influence others or even me. I was too civilized for that. Then I remembered what Dean had said; it doesn’t matter whether you believe in ghosts if they believe in you. The rational part of me wrapped the photograph and donated it to the Museum of Intolerance in Dean’s name before I called in the villagers with torches.
No one could tell me if Dean was dead or alive the night of the party. Water and weather conditions made it impossible. He was dead, case closed; they told Lynn she was lucky to get a body, much less an autopsy. She was still in shock over losing him, too distraught to remember or discuss changes in Dean before the end. I was left to find my own answers. There were none.
I don’t know what’s harder to live with, that Dean went off the deep end and fell back on the only solid ground he could find or that he’d confessed to being consumed by an ancient hunger. I’ll never know which was true, whether he needed a shrink or an exorcist, and I’m not sure I want to know.
I once saw a sign on a pillar in a New York City subway station, WET PAIN, written in bright red block letters on glossy white card stock. Back then I thought it was a joke or mistake, meant to read WET PAINT, but I could be wrong; as much as I don’t want to believe it, maybe sometimes a sign that says WET PAIN means exactly that.
The Taken
Tenea Johnson
For all of the construction committee’s planning, some details couldn’t be replicated exactly. So the barracoons that housed the senatorial sons and daughters had approximately two more square feet of space than those historically built for transatlantic slaves. As more hooded figures were shoved into the cage, Kristen Burke, ignorant of the inaccuracy, felt no gratitude for this small luxury.
She had been the first. First to be stripped down to her thin cotton shirt and silk leggings. First to be branded with ND just below her anklebone. First to have the tape and hood ripped off before they pushed her into the cage.
That was last night or maybe this morning. There were no clocks or natural light in the warehouse. She knew it hadn’t been more than a day since the agent—or what she thought was an agent—led her into the idling car that was supposed to take her to her father. When she woke up, cotton-mouthed and head pounding, Senator Burke was not among the men dressed in military black who hustled her through the cold and into the warehouse door. She’d screamed against the tape over her mouth, but by then she was here with grim-faced people who seemed to expect her screams.
Now three women shared the cage with her, shivering and bleary-eyed. She recognized Margaret Eastland from her parents’ dinner parties and Bridget Hardy from her mother’s campaign commercials. Kristen couldn’t place the young blond girl who leaned on her ankle where they had burned her. Though tears slid down her face, Kristen paid the pain no mind.
The warehouse was loud. Gates slid open and closed. Men yelled a language she couldn’t understand. Margaret Eastland kept screaming every few minutes, words garbled behind the tape still on her mouth. Somewhere out of sight, metal scraped against metal. Boxes hit floors, and behind all this more voices rose. Kristen couldn’t see where they came from, but they never stopped or even paused in their monotonous roar. More than once she thought her ears had started bleeding from all the noise. She would wipe at them spastically, only for her hand to come back clean, save for the sheen of sweat.
She wished Eastland would shut up. Or that Bridget Hardy would speak again. They’d shared a few words when Bridget first arrived. As soon as they dumped her in, she started asking questions. Her blue eyes boring into Kristen’s, she’d asked who she was, where had she come from, how long had she been there? Kristen Burke. Manhattan. She didn’t know. Two men had scooped Bridget off the street in front of her Upper East Side apartment with the same story that got Kristen off the NYU campus and into a dark sedan. Everyone who was anyone knew Eastland kept a place in Murray Hill, so they’d probably taken her from there. Kristen would bet on the blond girl too. All Manhattan, all in the last day or two. All senators’ daughters.
And sons. Five men filled the second barracoon.
Kristen didn’t
wonder who’d taken them. It was plain as the brand on her skin: ND, New Dawn. Rumors about the group ricocheted from the news reports to the Senate Floor to conversation over martinis at Saul’s Bistro. Of all the groups demanding reparations for slavery, none was more feared than New Dawn. They didn’t want educational vouchers or free medical care like the other groups, they wanted everything—land redistribution, financial compensation, and stock in every conglom that had benefited from slavery. And even by 2024, that was all the conglomerations. Worse, New Dawn didn’t believe in legislation or picketing or economic sanctions. They believed in results. The one and only press statement New Dawn ever issued said just that: “We believe in results.” Those words perplexed those outside political circles. It worried her father’s camp. Like Kristen, they knew what it took to get results.
A man in a black mask sat on a low stool outside Kristen’s cage. He’d been staring at Margaret Eastland for the last few hours, the hours she’d spent screaming. Now he looked in Kristen’s direction. He turned his eyes slowly, as if measuring each inch between them. Kristen’s lip quivered, and her shivers turned to jolts as he turned his full attention on her. Like the dozen other men outside the cages, he was dressed in all black, a mesh mask obscuring his features. It was hard to tell his height, but he seemed big holding a long stun stick. He tapped it on the floor every few minutes, sending blue sparks dancing along the concrete.
Kristen tried to look him in the eye, but the mask stopped her. It had an opalescent sheen, making it seem to float in front of his face. The Mask looked her up and down, stopping at her stomach, her breasts, her bent shoulders and sweaty face. The longer he looked, the more her throat tightened, the harder it became to breathe. She tried to distract herself, craning her neck to look into the men’s cage, but her skin prickled with the weight of his stare. Kristen turned back, looked down at the scratches on her hands, the dirt under her fingernails. After thirty minutes, she began to understand why Margaret Eastland screamed.
Whispers in the Night Page 24
