The Poe Consequence Page 4

  “What do you think ‘NRL’ means?” Seth asked.

  “Probably someone’s initials.”

  “He sure likes writing them a bunch of times, doesn’t he?”

  “He wants the world to know he’s here, I guess,” Warren said. “Maybe if his parents cared enough he wouldn’t be here at all.”

  The elderly Latino man inside the store stared at them as they walked in.

  “Hello, señor,” he said. “May I help you?”

  “I need a pain reliever and a bottled water.”

  Finding what he wanted, Warren paid the man and immediately swallowed three of the green gel caps.

  “Are you Alfredo?” he asked.

  “Yes, señor. Alfredo Valenzuela.”

  “How long has your store been around, Alfredo?”

  “Over thirty years. But I don’t know how much longer I can stay here. The area’s gotten bad. People are afraid.”

  “Yeah, I noticed all that damn graffiti on your walls. Who’s this ‘NRL’ character, anyway?”

  “It’s not a person, señor. It’s a gang. They call themselves ‘The North Rampart Lobos’. The police try to help, but…” The man shrugged his shoulders in an act of sad resignation.

  At the mention of gangs, Warren felt an urgency to leave right away. As he neared his car, he heard a deep unfamiliar voice from behind.

  “Hey, man, got a dollar?”

  Warren’s heartbeat accelerated the instant he gazed into the eyes of a tough looking Latino man. “Sure,” he said, hoping the money paid their ticket out of there. “I think I got…”

  A violent shove from behind sent him tumbling headfirst toward the ground. Breaking the fall with his hands, he prevented his forehead from hitting the rough blacktop of the parking lot. When he scrambled around to look up, a gang of menacing Latino men surrounded him, and one of them, pale and thin with long hair and a pockmarked face, held Seth with an arm around his neck.

  “Let go of my son!” Warren shouted.

  “Shut up, asshole!”

  Warren whirled around. Behind him stood a frightening man who appeared to be in his early twenties with an obvious deformity, maybe a scar, over his left eye.

  The man holding Seth cackled like a hyena. “I think the boy’s gonna cry, King.”

  “Hey, little boy,” King said, “you don’t want to see your old man get hurt, do you?”

  Tears filled Seth’s eyes. “N-n-no. P-please…don’t…don’t hurt my Dad.”

  “Then follow my orders, you little shit. Bring me his wallet.”

  Warren handed the leather billfold to Seth. “Just do as he says, son,” he whispered. “Everything will be okay.”

  King seized the cash and examined what he held. “Fuck!” he shouted, slamming the wallet to the ground. “Twelve fuckin’ dollars?” His eyes bore a hole in Warren. “Change of plans, Nasty,” he said, stuffing the cash in his pants. “you packin?’”

  A small man wearing several necklaces and a Yankees cap reached into his jacket and flashed a gun.

  “Good. Thanks to our poor white friend over here, our blanco, we maybe gotta hurt someone. Go inside and take care of business.”

  Warren hoped Alfredo had an overhead camera somewhere and had already called for help. The police were their one chance. Still, Warren appealed to them.

  “We did as you asked,” he said to King. “Now let us go.”

  King brandished an evil looking grin then turned and nodded at the same gang member holding Seth. “Show ‘em how we let ‘em go, Ghoul.” Ghoul placed his foot against Seth’s back and propelled him forward. Everyone laughed as he cried out and tumbled to the ground.

  “God damn you!” Warren yelled, darting over to Seth. He felt him shaking as he wrapped his arms around him.

  “Come on, Seth,” he said, lifting his son off the ground. “We’re leaving.”

  The circle remained closed, moving as a group with Warren’s every step.

  “We ain’t done with you yet, asshole,” King said.

  “Yes…you…are!” Warren said, seething. “And don’t you fucking touch my son again!”

  The gang members started laughing and mimicking him increasing their volume with each repetition. “Don’t you fucking touch my son again.” “Don’t you fucking touch my son again.” “Don’t you fucking touch my son again!”

  King approached him. Warren didn’t say a word as he looked into the cold black caverns that passed for eyes.

  “What are you thinkin’, you white prick?” Huh? I’m not good enough for you, or somethin’?”

  “You got what you came for,” Warren said, struggling to remain calm. “Let us go. Please.”

  King backhanded him hard across the face. “Fuck you!”

  Seth started sobbing.

  “Hey, Luis!” King shouted. “Look at the little mama’s boy over here.”

  Luis walked toward Seth in the same determined manner that King had shown advancing toward Warren. Warren tried to pull Seth away but two of the men grabbed and held him from behind. Ghoul laughed as he wrapped his arm again around Seth’s neck. This time, however, he grabbed Seth’s hair with his other hand in an apparent attempt to hold his face still.

  In a bold, mocking tone, Luis said, “Hello, little baby.”

  “Dad, help me!” Seth cried out, his eyes looking wild with his head unable to move.

  Luis spit in his face. “You gonna cry again, little baby?”

  Ripping himself free with all the strength he had, Warren stormed toward King. “You sons of bitches feel like big men picking on a kid? Is that what you assholes do for fun? Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”

  Someone hit Warren hard from behind. He felt a shot of pain in the back of his head that dropped him to his knees. As his focus began to clear, he saw King standing above him. King reached down and grabbed a clump of Warren’s hair, forcing his head back into a painful, upward angle.

  “Who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to, you piece of shit? Nobody disses a Lobo like that, motherfucker! Nobody!”

  “Take my car, okay,” Warren said, fighting through the pain from his scalp. “Just let us go. Haven’t you done enough?”

  “You want me to take your car?” King asked, his anger rising again. “You think I’m a stupid Mexican, you fuckin’ white prick? So you can call the pinchi policía? Tell ‘em how to find us? I’ll show you what I think of your fuckin’ car!”

  King pushed Warren’s head away and turned toward a slim, bandana-wearing gang member dressed in baggy jeans and an L.A. Rams jacket. Twirling a knife through his fingers, he handled the weapon with a proficiency that rattled Warren even further. “Hey, Slice,” King bellowed, “give our friends here somethin’ to remember us by.”

  Warren didn’t know what to expect but feared the worst as this gang member with the knife rubbed his hands over the hood.

  “Luis,” the banger shouted, “venga aquí, cholíto!”

  “Slice is calling you, Luis,” King said laughing. “Get your ass over there.”

  “Watch this, little baby,” he sneered, putting his face a few inches from Seth’s.

  Luis hurried over to the car. His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning as Slice handed him the knife.

  “Remember, man, put some huevos into it, just like I showed you,” Slice said, grabbing his crotch.

  “I’ll show you who’s got huevos!” Luis shot back. He gripped the knife and raised his right arm, holding that position long enough to look back at Seth with a smile that nauseated Warren.

  The harsh, banging noise of the knife’s unyielding tip connected with the hood, followed by a shrill grating sound that seemed to rip through Warren’s gut as well. After Luis handed the knife back to the banger they called Slice, the two Lobos on Warren’s left and right grabbed his arms and pulled him over to the car to view Luis’ terrible handiwork. In large initials, the letters, ‘NRL’ screamed their silent, mocking memento.

  Warren’s attention veered from the car
to his son. Seth’s head slumped to the side and the part of his face still visible appeared white and motionless. He wondered if his son had gone into shock.

  “Seth!” he shouted. “Seth!” Are you okay? Say something! Seth!”

  At that instant, uncertainty vanished from his thoughts, replaced by an emboldening urgency of the matter at hand. His son needed him now more than ever before, and he realized with complete clarity that he’d require courage, calm, and intelligence to get them both out of there. Or, if he got lucky, an act of fate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The AK-47 lay hidden under a tattered blanket on the floor behind the front seat. Player drove and Face sat next to him. Cherry and Swat occupied the back.

  “Makes me feel right you puttin’ in the work tonight, Swat,” Cherry told him.

  “I won’t let Apache down, man” Swat said.

  “You’re not just honoring Apache, vato,” Face said, “you’re dignifyin’ all of us.”

  The time neared 11:00 o’clock. The engine sounded steady, aided by Face’s tune up earlier in the day. His knowledge of auto mechanics dated back to the days when he skipped school to hang out at the local Pep Boys with the store manager, Jessie, an ex-gang member who took a liking to the boy. With the exception of his sister, no one knew that Face stashed the money he earned from servicing cars in the neighborhood in order to make a deposit for a mechanic’s shop one day.

  “Still think they’ll be in the park, Face?” Cherry asked.

  “Yeah, I do,” he answered. “I learned some shit about those culeros when I was away, and I know where they go and when they go. That’s why we ain’t drivin’ up the main way. We’ll take the street past Alfredo’s Market to that dirt road they use for those maintenance trucks. It goes through the park so after Swat’s finished we’ll be outta there quick and easy.” Face looked at Player. “Cut your lights when we get in. When the time’s right I’ll tell you when to turn ‘em on.”

  Face’s eyes moved everywhere as they headed north, surveying the darkened working class area. His heart raced with a cold-blooded mixture of adrenaline and anticipation as he listened to Swat’s fingers dance a rhythmic drumbeat on the barrel of the gun.

  “For you, Apache,” he whispered.

  “There’s the market,” Player said, slowing down to make his turn.

  Face noticed something unusual before the others through the faded yellow lighting. “Look over there!”

  “It’s gotta be the fuckin’ Lobos!” Player hissed. “What should I do, Face?”

  “Don’t turn! Go straight! Straight!”

  Player accelerated, following Face’s instructions.

  “We wasn’t ready, that’s all,” Face said, his tone calm again. “Find a place to turn around.”

  “What the fuck were they doin’, man?” Cherry asked.

  “Jackin’ a car, maybe,” Face replied. “Hard to tell.”

  “Fuckin’ pendejos,” spat Cherry. “How many assholes they need to jack a goddamn car?”

  They drove another block before turning around. “I ain’t gonna take long,” Swat told them. “It’s payback time,” Face said, his voice cold and unwavering. “Get ready.” Face prepared to flash Diablo hand signals when something unexpected caught him off guard. Someone ran out from the market, a Lobo most likely, waving his arms and pointing to their car. He realized they’d been sighted and watched in growing anger as the Lobos started scattering like cockroaches, blowing any chance for Swat to get clean shots. He glanced back and watched him move his rifle back and forth without firing a round, as if confused about what to do.

  “Hurry!” yelled Player.

  “Take him out of the box!” Cherry yelled, imploring Swat to kill someone. “Shoot! Shoot somebody!”

  Face fell silent. A sudden rush of warmth circled inside his head like a speeding merry-go-round, causing a battle with dizziness that removed him from the action at hand. When that familiar sensation of increasing heat behind his eyes occurred, and flashes of light started streaming across his sight, he expected a vision to appear as it always had, one that would show approaching danger. But nothing came into view, just the split-second sound of a screaming voice followed by gunfire. Regaining his focus, he noticed something, someone, that seemed out of place. It was a white kid. A little huero! That changed everything. If that kid got hurt, or worse, killed, the police would have a real reason to care. His mind raced. He watched as someone dragged the boy with an arm around his neck, keeping the boy in front of him as a shield. Swat moved the rifle toward that direction.

  “Not the fuckin’ kid! No!”

  Face lunged forward and yanked Swat’s arm back. He didn’t know if he caused the firearm to go off or if Swat pulled the trigger at that same instant, but the shouts that blared from the direction of the boy ended in abrupt silence. As Player sped away, Face realized that the screams and gunfire were the same sounds he’d heard in his head moments before Swat fired. His ability to foresee peril always started with the same kind of dizzy spell he experienced in the car, but the sounds never occurred without images. This time, he felt as if he’d listened to a recording of something that hadn’t yet happened. Confusion dominated Face’s every thought. Where was the danger?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The blanketed body of Warren Palmer lay lifeless in the parking lot of Alfredo’s Market. Warren viewed his inanimate form, a phenomenon that seemed quite natural and real. He also observed the flashing red lights of three squad cars and an ambulance. He heard the police choppers circling in the sky, and saw their searchlights shining through the neighborhood. His main focus, however, centered on Seth. Watching his beautiful son, now a disheveled, lost little boy sobbing in the arms of a large, black policeman, Warren felt no peace in death. He had advanced within a few seconds of reaching Seth, his eyes shifting back and forth between the emotionless face of the gang member holding the rifle and his son entrapped in the arms of the one known as “King.” He thought back to the last few moments leading up to his death.

  As the car pulled up, the gangbanger who had gone into the market burst outside yelling about “Diablos” and “a drive-by.” In an instant, Warren found himself standing alone. The two muscular gangbangers who had been sandwiching him ran off in different directions. Warren looked at Seth, then toward the car in the street. He saw the end of a rifle protruding from an open window in the back.

  “Dad! Dad! Help!”

  King dragged Seth across the parking lot, using him for cover, but Warren closed in fast. The recollection of a loud voice from inside the car, followed by the sound of a gunshot, preceded his world fading to black. After the bullets ripped through Warren’s chest, his son’s cries brought him back to a momentary state of clarity. As Seth cradled him, Warren sensed his final breath drawing near.

  “Seth,” he whispered. Seth lowered his head, sobbing. “Dad, don’t die! Don’t die!” He looked into his son’s eyes. “I…love you, Seth.” Warren offered a fading smile, determined to finish what he had to say. “I promised…your mom…I’d…look after you. And…protect you.” He fought to gain another breath, struggling through the pain and enveloping darkness. “I…promise you I…will. Always.”

  Within the complete and silent blackness of death, a familiar sensation of his identity still remained. Detached from any perception of time, a sparkling light appeared, surrounding him at first, then transforming into a white, misty doorway mirroring his naked image. Warren watched the arms of his reflection reach out toward him, inviting him, and he instinctively knew that his wife, Michelle, waited on the other side. An all-encompassing serenity warmed his spirit, and he sensed a planned, peaceful finality.

  As Warren drifted toward his radiant destination, and the sights and sounds of his life separated and floated away like the discarded parts of a spacecraft, he suddenly stopped, drawn back by the final, lingering fragments of his earthly conscience. Just as a single cancer cell splits and starts to spread, Warren felt himself succumbing to a
malignant type of anger growing inside of him. He couldn’t be there for Seth anymore, couldn’t fulfill his promise to Michelle to raise and look out for him because of those worthless, cruel pieces of shit. Warren sensed he had some unfinished business. In his own way, he would make the world a better and safer place for his son. For both of the gangs responsible for his murder, there would be consequences.

  The final traces of the sparkling light faded away. In its place, a different kind of light revealed itself, one that Warren anticipated. Visions of Madame Sibilia paraded like a montage through his thoughts as the dawning realization of her true psychic powers started to unfold. She had been correct, there was another light. Predictions were now reality, denial was now acceptance, and Warren welcomed this afterworld with curiosity and purpose.

  A dark red glow drew him in and guided his way through a tunnel of translucent fog as individual strands of flashing light multiplied and twisted like a spider’s web across his field of vision. Advancing toward the blood-colored beam, he heard a faint noise, solemn and repetitious, beckoning him to come forth. Floating shadows, resembling human faces, slithered above him like night clouds drifting across the moon. With the emerging clarity of a camera adjusting its lens, he recognized the images of those gang members named King, and Slice, and that freak they called, Ghoul, who wouldn’t stop laughing. Warren’s gaze held steady on another recognizable likeness, as his own killer’s face hovered overhead like a poisonous balloon, inflated with the cold air of wickedness. A surrounding cluster of laughing faces soon engulfed his line of sight, dominating his direct and peripheral views and taunting him in a defiant challenge. He stared at them with revulsion and anger as the faces began to twist and stretch in violent, contorted motions, transforming into enlarged and monstrous creatures. He watched, trance-like, as the floating images departed in a sneering parade of ridicule and reminder, dissolving into nothingness. He continued to stare into the empty void, left with the visual echo of their recurring outline, sketched into the darkness of haunting recollection.