The Poe Consequence Read online

  The muffled, drum-like beating that had continued as an audio backdrop intensified into a feverish pitch. The sound of a heartbeat, rhythmic and powerful, penetrated his spirit and prevailed over angry and urgent thoughts. Words from Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart took on a life, and a reality, of their own.

  Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased

  It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant.

  Was it mere coincidence that he’d found his father’s poem, A Victim’s Time, stuck inside the pages of The Tell-Tale Heart? Warren didn’t believe so. He saw the poems as omens, as foreshadowing the events that were now destined, when the destruction of the heart is the only answer.

  It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

  Warren stood still and remained calm as darkness now enveloped him. From the insulating blackness, two eyes appeared, about the size of a man’s fist. In chilling recognition, he stared in awe as one of the eyes transformed into a bluish hue, appearing diseased through a transparent layer of mucous-like fluid. He watched the eye enlarge and thicken until it covered the other like an apocalyptic eclipse. Warren now stared at the one large socket of decaying, blue horror directing its gaze at him. As he peered at the ocular spectacle, aware of the unspoken message before him, he deduced the meaning from a defining line of The Tell Tale Heart.

  I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it.

  Warren understood that this defining moment directed his judgment and guided his purpose. He thought of Seth. His anger surged forth with lava flow intensity, seeking a release through the cracks of his interior. Images of the gang faces encircled his thoughts in a nightmarish shell, stimulating his obsession for revenge against those who represented all that was vile.

  Because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim.

  Warren felt resurrected, baptized in the whirlpool of contempt and retribution. From here on, each murderer would pay for his deed with his own life, feeling Warren’s frigid hand upon their heart until death announced the final beat. To learn appreciation for life, they, too, must die. And in their last moments, struggling through their final breaths, his recitation of A Victim’s Time shall honor his father’s message of heroic sacrifice by ending the life of those who honor none but themselves.

  The appropriate time of death, of course, will honor Poe.

  When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight.

  Four o’clock, when the beating stops and the silence proclaims victory of right over wrong.

  There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart.

  Warren’s own murderer would now be the first to die.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kevin stared at his digital desk clock, his eyes feeling as red as the numbers moving another minute ahead to twelve thirty-three a.m. He sat alone in his office at The Los Angeles Times building, alternating between the taped interviews from the L.A. County Men’s Central Jail and reviewing the data scribbled inside his notebook. His upcoming article detailed the modern day Hispanic gangs of L.A., a subject of local historical interest stemming from their origins in the 1930’s, decades before the more renowned Bloods and Crips existed. The information he accumulated on the violence and drug trafficking carved an emotion that left him feeling hopeless and disheartened. The consistency of young people killing each other seemed without end. And for what? Drug profits, turf rights, evening scores, wearing the wrong colors. What these gangs considered important were the nuts and bolts of their existence; what they lived, killed, and died for. Kevin viewed their entire way of life as a pitiful and misguided means to a dead end.

  He stretched his arms and walked over to the window. At this time of night, with the multitude of lights shimmering through the blackness, everything seemed so peaceful. He knew better, however. He couldn’t avoid thinking about the dichotomy that existed between the illusion from his vantage point and the harsh reality of the streets. The more time he spent on his research, the more cynical he grew about anyone’s ability to prevent the mushrooming gang culture taking over the city. Running his hands over his face, he ruminated about how the facts of life could sometimes be so damn overwhelming, and how he used to depend on alcohol, morning, noon, and night, to dull his senses and offer the coping mechanism he craved to sustain him. With a bit of effort, he banished the thought from his mind.

  The sound of his cell phone startled him. He recognized the caller I.D. and answered, part curious, part cautious.

  “Kevin, it’s Carl Atkinson.”

  Lieutenant Atkinson had met and befriended Kevin at an L.A.P.D. community affairs event and had been instrumental in working with the Sheriff’s Department to arrange the interviews from Men’s Central Jail. He’d been the necessary mediator for Kevin, coming from a background as a respected figure in two of the LAPD’s successful anti-gang programs.

  “It’s an odd time to be hearing from you, Carl,” Kevin said, feeling uneasy.

  “I’m at the station with your nephew, Seth. You need to come down here right away.”

  Kevin’s heart raced. “What is it? What happened? Where’s Warren? Is he okay?”

  More silence. “I’m sorry to tell you, Kevin…your brother’s been killed.”

  Kevin’s mind went numb. For several seconds he couldn’t speak. “What? What did you say?” he asked, struggling for his voice.

  “Warren was murdered tonight in a drive-by shooting,” Atkinson explained. “He got caught in the middle of a gang war. I’m very sorry.”

  Kevin somehow found his chair and sat down. His eyes burned with hot tears. “What…what about Seth? Is he all right?”

  “He’s unhurt, but we’re concerned about his mental state. We’ve got people keeping a close eye on his condition.”

  “Does he know about Warren?”

  “It seems your brother died trying to save Seth from a dangerous situation. He was killed a few feet in front of him.”

  “Oh…my…God,” Kevin whispered. “Where did it happen?” Atkinson didn’t answer for several moments. “Alfredo’s Market,” he replied.

  “I sent him there! Jesus Christ, I sent him there!”

  “Damn it, Kevin, listen to me! Seth told us why you sent them there, but this wasn’t your fault, you hear me? I tried to explain the same thing to him, too. That market’s been around forever so your recommendation made sense.”

  “You’re wrong, Carl,” Kevin replied, his thinned voice not sounding like his own. “I’m to blame. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “Just get down here, all right? Seth’s been traumatized pretty bad. He needs you.”

  Kevin closed his eyes, making no effort to wipe away the tears cascading down his face. “I’m on my way.”

  He dropped the phone on his lap, staring as if in a hypnotic trance toward the unlit part of the office. When he attempted to stand, he collapsed back into his chair, his legs wobbly and devoid of willpower. He lowered his head on his desk and sobbed uncontrollably, calling out to his brother.

  “Warren…Warren, I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…it’s all my fault…How could I have done this to you?...I’m sorry, Warren...Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At a time before the North Rampart Lobos killed his older brother and two uncles, Rafael ‘Swat’ Carranza showed great enthusiasm as a thirteen-year-old learning to shoot a gun from these three veteranos. First practicing with his uncle’s hunting rifles, he acquired killing skills early, proving to be a quick study with various types of handguns. His father had promised to teach him, but that was before his murder conviction, his 187, sent him away a week after Rafael’s ninth birthday. From then on, his brother and uncles, more than his two-job-a-day mother, raised Rafael and molded him the Diablo way. They taught him how to think, fight, and shoot, all
in preparation for the day when he would be “checked in,” initiated, into the gang.

  Before he reached his fifteenth birthday, two years after he started banging, Rafael’s reputation for accuracy with a gun earned him the name ‘Swat’ in reference to the well-known police sharpshooters. In the next few years, his mastery of assault rifles solidified his standing and brought him the distinction as the most reliable Diablo for a drive-by.

  Swat figured he had earned everyone’s respect, so Face’s interference at the market left him seething with anger. If that Lobo asshole, that culero, used some kid as protection, so what? Swat knew a split second more is all he needed to blow a hole through that motherfucker’s head. Everyone would have been talking about that kill for months. But Face started yelling at him and throwing him off his game, and he settled instead for the Lobo running out from the shadows Swat remained agitated, smoking cigarettes and staring into the darkness until he fell asleep around two-thirty.

  As the numbers on his clock glowed three forty-three a.m., Swat dreamed of a familiar vacated warehouse where donated produce had been stored and the ricocheting sounds of target practice rang unheard from the constant rush of the nearby freeway. The graffiti-coated door swung open to reveal his brother and two uncles standing at the entrance, laughing and beckoning him inside. He noticed their eyes changing shape as he approached, compressing from circles into the recognizable form of bullets. A yellowish white flash of light exploded from their sockets as they started blinking every few seconds, and within another minute the three of them disappeared in an instant.

  Swat entered the warehouse feeling an intense excitement, almost sexual in nature, as he rejoiced in the beauty of a stash of weaponry he never imagined possible. Hundreds of shiny guns and rifles, gathered in a mountainous formation of destruction, arose with a peculiar heat that warmed his flesh like a summer sun. Admiring, probing, and stroking different selections from the extensive stockpile, Swat spotted the trigger-half of an AK-47 sticking out from the same old blanket he always used to hide his weapon on a drive-by.

  Swat reached out toward the rifle with a steady hand, moving the blanket aside and lifting the gun into the air. He saw this as an omen, destiny’s offering at killing the Lobo still holding that kid. Wasting no time, Swat clutched the rifle to his chest and strutted out from the warehouse toward Alfredo’s Market. He’d achieve his greatest accomplishment without the help of anyone else, and not even Face could stop him. He found it unusual that the light of day had turned black without his having noticed any transition, leading to a strange and disturbing sensation. His machismo, which empowered him earlier, felt shaken. His composure and determination had been eclipsed by an eerie echo to his footsteps, punctuated by the menacing stillness of a cold, gloomy night. Swat followed the sudden sound of a raspy, murmuring voice he couldn’t quite distinguish. The pale blur of a lone streetlamp offered nothing more than a foggy haze, making each step seem treacherous, and each moment, significant.

  “Swat…Swat, over here. Swat…Swat.”

  The repetition of the voice, weak yet urgent, drew him in, pulling him forward. He stopped. He stood outside the yard of the Alvarado Street Diablos. He recognized the wall, and then the voice. He peered through the stingy light at the bleary portrait of Apache. The spirit of his old friend called to him, summoning him. “Swat,” the whispering voice beckoned. “Come closer.” He bent down, touching the painted image with his hands. An unusual dampness grew thick and heavy, as small liquid streams descended from numerous cracks on the wall. Swat strained his eyes to peer closer at his fingers, startled at the recognition of blood, sticky and black red. He placed his hands on the dripping wall again, puzzled by the unsettling coolness of the blood. Within seconds, a violent freeze attacked his fingertips, shocking him into tearing his hands away. Without warning, the streetlamps flashed over and over, alternating between split seconds of intense light and complete blackness, as if in cadence to a soundless, frenzied drum roll. As Swat stumbled backwards into the street, Apache’s whispers escalated into maddening screams.

  “Swat! Help me! Help me!” Swat watched in disbelief as the ghastly skull that had been Apache’s face turn and direct its hellish gaze on him. “We’re dead, Swat! Dead! All of us. Dead!”

  Now the pattern of the streetlamps changed. They were no longer turning on and off in rapid sequence. The darkness had extended in duration, interspersed by two quick bursts of light, a pattern that kept repeating. An odd, rhythmic tom-tom now accompanied each blast of light, leaving him gripped by confusion and undeniable alarm. A sudden constriction in his chest intensified, and he soon recognized that the rhythm of the drum he’d been hearing now beat in direct time with his own heart. He started to panic, running through the infuriating streetlamp rhythm of light and dark. The pain worsened as the pounding sound increased. He continued running. Away from what? He didn’t know. Where? He didn’t care.

  Swat bolted up in bed. His consciousness downshifted from relief into anger as soon as he realized that a stupid nightmare had left him in a cold sweat and short of breath. He looked at the clock.

  “Shit,” he muttered, “three fifty. What the fuck kind of dream was that?”

  Swat rubbed his face and flinched in pain at the surprising swelling circling his right eye. In the darkness of his room, his fingers seemed to touch melted wax, and when he looked at the clock again, he felt troubled by the gauze-like fuzziness of his vision. Swat started to reach for the lamp switch when he reeled back in bed, seized by the same sharp pains in his chest and drum-like pounding in his ears that haunted him in his nightmare.

  “What’s…happening…to…me?” he gasped.

  Out of nowhere, a whispering voice answered him:

  “I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes.”

  The electro-shock reaction of Swat’s jerking body resulted in nothing stronger than a faint cry of dismay and fear. He lay there, helpless, as the unrelenting pain in his chest continued to strike like a rhythmic hammer to the beating of the drum.

  “There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart.”

  An intense chill forced him into a rage of violent shivers, making his blood feel like a frozen current beneath his tattooed skin. Whoever occupied his room seemed within reach when he spoke, so Swat started flailing his arms in a desperate attempt at capture. Overcome by the increased pain, he careened on his side, face to face with the numbers on his clock. At three fifty-four, unable to move, he wondered if he was dying. The quiet of his room changed into something sounding like an invasion of rats scampering close by on the floor. Swat cowered in his bed. The squealing was of an intensity he had never imagined.

  “Looking to the floor, I saw several enormous rats traversing it. They came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the scent of the meat.”

  A throng of frenzied rodents enshrouded Swat in a clawing, scratching body cast of agony. Throwing themselves at whatever exposed areas they could find, the pickaxe claws of the creatures dug in and held on through the hardened chill of his flesh, clinging to every inch of Swat’s body in a ferocity of pain and purpose. As the numbers on the clock reached three fifty-nine, Swat was neither aware of the length of time the rats had remained, nor their disappearance from his room. His ordeal had short-circuited his sanity and turned his mind into the cerebral equivalent of an empty gun.

  The voice spoke again, echoing inside Swat’s head like a death knell.

  “The valiant solder’s blood will spill

  On red-stained lands of sacrifice

  The unknown stranger lies as still

  Apart from honor’s noble price

  Two victims of a time to kill

  Beware the heart as cold as ice.”

  Swat’s heart clocked out with a final beat. The time was four o’clock.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seth sat by himself during lunch period, separated from his classmates behind a wall of green bushes, eating a pea
nut butter and jelly sandwich he’d made that morning. He had returned to school last Tuesday, so that now made five days out of seven eating peanut butter and jelly. Seth lived with his Uncle Kevin now, and there weren’t the kinds of things like turkey or tuna fish or some good leftovers like before. Before. Nothing really mattered anymore. Once his mom died, lunches never tasted the same anyway. She was the best sandwich maker ever. He started making his own lunches when she got too sick to stand, with his dad helping out sometimes. Now his dad was gone, too.

  Seth had been living with his uncle for almost two weeks, and most of the boxes from the move remained unopened. The two that were completely emptied had contained most of his clothes, but he still couldn’t find his favorite pair of jeans and Ryan Sheckler T-shirts, the most awesome skateboarder ever. Dinners had been picked up ready-made from the market, but sometimes he ate at Burger King, or the pizza place down the street. Uncle Kevin claimed he’d been too busy with the funeral, and paperwork stuff, and moving, or visiting Grandma, to have had a chance to put the house in order, but that didn’t stop him from just sitting on the couch and drinking. Seth never realized his uncle drank so much. After a couple of glasses he went from not having much to say to talking about all sorts of stuff. But Seth didn’t pay much attention. Why should he listen to him? His dad listened to him and got killed. That’s all Seth needed to know. His uncle’s the reason his father got shot that night. The night of the Mexicans.

  When he returned to school, he didn’t feel like hanging out with anybody, not even his two best friends, Freddy and Mike. After a while they started to stay away so they must have gotten the message. His teacher, Mrs. Fisher, met with him and said to come see her for any reason if he wanted to talk. She told him she still expected Seth to try his best. Yeah, right. He didn’t feel like trying at all. He didn’t want to listen in class, or take notes, or do his homework. He just didn’t care anymore. A part of him knew he needed to go back to school, but he didn’t want to deal with the pain that came with it, like watching the other kids dropped off and picked up by their parents. Or eating the homemade sandwiches that their moms made.