Death List (8 page)

AFTER THE BRUTAL DEATHS of Kenyatta's people by Kingfisher's hit men, Kenyatta had called one person in and given him one assignment: find out which ones were responsible, then handle it if you can. It hadn't taken the man that long to find out who had given the order, and when he reported back that it was the Kingfisher, he was then given another order. If you can't get the big fish, get the next biggest fish in the pond. Even that order proved quite hard to do. The next biggest fish was Kingfisher's right-hand man, Sam. Sam was as hard to reach as the Kingfisher-almost.

It took a while for the Creeper to find the weak link. He had the uncanny ability of being able to pry into things that ordinary men would have long given up on. The Creeper believed that every man had a weakness, somewhere; all you had to do was search for it, and eventually it would come to light.

In the case of the Kingfisher's right-hand man and trusted personal bodyguard, Sam, the truth wasn't too hard to dig up. Once the Creeper found out that Sam had a wife, two girls, and a four-year-old boy, it was just a matter of time. The man who had helped order the death of four members of Kenyatta's organization would eventually show up at his home. Only the Creeper didn't have the patience to wait until Sam decided to pay his wife and kids a visit. He decided to hurry the matter up. Having already been given his orders, he didn't bother to check back with Kenyatta. He did to the best of his ability just what had been asked of him.

Mary, the woman who had made the mistake of bearing two children for Sam, knew nothing of Sam's business. All she knew was that he made a good living. He was the first black man she had ever lived with who took care of her and her children so well that she never worried about money problems. Whenever she needed money, she just called Sam and explained to him what she needed it for and how much. It didn't really matter that she didn't have a marriage license; Sam took care of her better than the man she had married earlier in her life. That marriage hadn't lasted but two years, and in those two years she caught more hell than the average woman ran into in a lifetime. But the marriage had been legal. She kept the proof of her first marriage locked up in an iron chest in the closet, but she didn't really need it. The two girls who belonged to Sam were more proof than any piece of paper could ever be.

Her two girls by Sam were both born out of wedlock but, as far as she was concerned, Sam was her husband even though they had never gone before a preacher. He was good to all of his children. Whenever he bought something for the girls, he made sure he brought the boy something too. The girls, one three and the other fifteen months, were treated like small dolls by their father whenever he had the time to be around them. Most of the time he wasn't home, but he made sure they never wanted for anything. It was one of the few joys Sam really got out of life, buying things for the kids-things that he wasn't able to have when he was a child because of money problems.

The small family lived happily in this manner until the day that Mary saw a strange man bringing her son David home. The man was monstrous and ugly. Mary wondered how the preschool could allow such a person to work for them, but at once she regretted her thoughts. Even this human being had to live. It was for sure he hadn't made himself, so who was she to complain about his looks. Overwhelmed by pity, she opened her door wide, allowing the man who clutched her struggling son to enter.

"What did he do at school?" she managed to ask as they entered the house. "Do you have to hold him so roughly?" she inquired, as David tried to twist out of the vicious hold the man had on his arm. Tears rolled from David's eyes, even after the man released him. The man glanced around the house.

He noticed the expensive carpet on the floor and the dark brown wall-to-wall fabric that matched the golden colored furnishings. The couch and matching chair, the marble coffee table, the solid marble end tables, all gave an idea of the good life that was being lived here.

"Oh, Sam don't do too bad for himself, do he?" the man inquired. His voice was low and carried a sharp note in it.

At the mention of Sam, Mary's heart seemed to freeze. She realized at once this wasn't something her son had done at school. The man had used David as an excuse to get inside the house. Oh, my God, she thought to herself. Suddenly the baby girl started crying in her playpen, which was kept right in the front room.

As she started to go to the child, she said, "There must be some mistake somewhere. This Sam you're talking about, he doesn't live here."

She had to pass between the man and the coffee table to reach the child. He reached out and pushed her back.

"If I were you, honey child," Creeper said coldly, "I wouldn't worry too much about that child crying."

"Well, you don't happen to be me!" Mary yelled at him as she attempted to jerk her arm free.

What happened then seemed more like a dream to her than reality. It had been so long since someone had put their hands on her. His hand came up slowly, or so it seemed to Mary, and he slapped her across the face twice.

"Now, honey child," he began in that same singsong voice, "I want you to cooperate with me." Seeing the defiant look come into her eyes, he grinned. "This is no joke, girl. If you love your kids, you will do just what I ask of you."

He shoved her down on the couch, causing her housecoat to fly up, but she paid small heed to that. If rape was all the man wanted, she was willing if only he'd get it over with and leave-leave just like he came, without really harming anyone. But in the back of her mind she knew it wouldn't be that simple. This man wasn't interested in fucking her. She could sense something monstrous and grotesque about him, an evil that she couldn't completely grasp.

Shuddering with repugnance she managed to ask, "What is it you want?"

"Why, child, I've already told you. Sam. I want the big shot, Sam the man." His laughter came then, cold, chilling, frightening.

She tried again. "Please, I've already told...." The lie froze in her throat. The man had produced a straight razor from his pocket and opened it quickly.

"That's right, child," he said in that same funny tone. "I'm not here to play games. Now, if you keep lying, I'm going to cut that boy's throat right in front of you."

Could this be true? Could it really be happening? She wanted to pinch herself to see if she was asleep. Mary tried to close and reopen her eyes. It was just too much to believe. The man couldn't possibly be so bloodthirsty as to kill her son. The very thought of it was too much for her mind to accept.

"Please!" She made a small feeble gesture with her hand, trying to express what she couldn't find the words to say. She still couldn't believe that the man would hurt her child. "Listen, I don't have any way to reach Sam. He calls me."

The words were hardly out of her mouth before the man went into action. He didn't waste any time. It was as if he were butchering a cow. He snatched the small boy to him and drew the sharp razor across the boy's throat before she realized what had happened. The quick flow of blood that came from the wound brought her to her senses. The man pushed the boy away and the small child fell onto the floor.

An animal cry of pain came from the woman then, as she stumbled down beside the child. There was nothing she could do. As she clutched the child to her, his life's blood ran out in her lap. From the floor she glared up at the Creeper, shocked almost out of her mind.

"One down and two to go," he said in a quiet voice as he moved over towards the little girl in the playpen. She was still a toddler. She stood there looking up at the man with her arms outstretched for him to pick her up.

Something deep down inside Mary warned her that her anguish would have to be controlled if she want ed to save the rest of her family. "Please, no more," she cried, "I'll call him." With those words she started to weep. The outburst was not convulsive but sheer grief. A grief that would never find that gratifying relief in tears.

"Mommie, Mommie," the dark-haired three-yearold cried, "what's wrong, Mommie?"

Mary pulled the child to her, her arms gripping the child tightly. Mary was a tall woman in her late twenties. Built heavy from delivering babies, she now had the body of a woman-a big woman. Large arms that spoke of strength-she was a woman who could work in the fields beside her man if it was ever necessary.

The little child with the pigtails running down each side of her head began to cry. She wanted the tall man beside her to reach down and pick her up.

Impatiently, the Creeper reached down and rubbed the child's head. In his other hand he held the bloody razor. Mary glanced up from where she was kneeling, her heart almost stopping.

"Please," she begged, "I'll call, I'll call." Her hands groped wildly for the phone. "Get mommie the phone," she said to the small child beside her. The little girl ran off at once, pulling the telephone off the end table and dragging it back toward her crying mother. Tears continued to run down Mary's cheeks, but no sound came out. She knew the little boy she held in her lap was gone. Now the only thing she could hope for was to save her girls. Sam, big, strong Sam-he would know how to handle this madman! The thought flashed through her mind as she tried to remember the number he had given her to call in case of an emergency. Desperately she dialed the number, only to find out that she had called the wrong one. She stopped and tried to get her mind right. She had to think right. She fought down the desire to throw herself against the madman. It would be useless. No matter how strong she was, there was something about the man that spoke of pure danger. Even as fear-ridden as she was, she wondered if Sam would be able to do anything with him. She couldn't see this skinny man being able to contain all that strength. No, Sam would handle him when he got here.

Apprehension filled her very soul as she watched the man stroke her child's head. "Please, leave the baby alone," she managed to say. "I'm making your call for you, so just leave my child alone."

The man's hand stopped in mid-air. "Okay, dear," he said softly, as he turned away from the playpen. "Just get the call through."

Vaguely she heard another voice on the other end of the phone. "Sam," she blurted out, "I've got to speak to Sam!" It took a few seconds, then she heard his strong voice on the line. She blurted out something about one of the children being hurt, then begged him to come home at once so that he could rush the child to the hospital.

The message got across to Sam. He made a hurried excuse to Kingfisher and left.

If there was one thing Sam didn't want, it was one of his hood friends ever coming in contact with his family. For some reason, he believed if he kept his friends away there would never be any problem. None of the dirt that he dealt in would rub off. He would have been hard pressed to explain it himself if asked, but either way he made sure none of his friends ever visited him while he was staying with Mary.

For a brief moment after Sam left, Kingfisher was undecided on whether or not he should have some of the boys follow him. But just as quickly as the notion came into his head, he dismissed it. Sam was his most trusted man, and if he couldn't trust Sam, who the hell could he trust? Later he was to regret having made that decision, for if he had followed through with it, he might have been able to put an end to his troubles right then and there.

It took Sam less than thirty minutes to reach his beautiful red-brick home in Conant Gardens, a black neighborhood that only the blacks with above-average incomes could buy into. He pulled into the driveway. As he jumped out and ran for the front door, he was surprised that Mary hadn't come out to meet him. The woman was able to carry the child just as well as he was, and if it was as serious as she said, she would have been waiting for him at the door.

As he ran across the well-kept lawn he noticed the front door was cracked halfway open. He jumped up on the porch and didn't stop until he had burst through the front door. Then he stopped abruptly. At first he couldn't believe his eyes. His mind didn't want to accept what he saw. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, only to find the sight still there when he reopened them. The first thing that came to his sight was his baby daughter, her pen pushed in front of the front door so that whoever entered would have to walk around it to get into the front room. The small child lay out on the clean mattress, clean except for the dried blood around the slit in her neck. Other than that, it was as if the little girl was sleeping.

Even as he stumbled over to her pen, his mind told him that it had been done with a razor. He started to reach down and pick up the child, but again his mind informed him that it was a useless action; the baby was dead. Tears blinded him as he staggered around the pen.

Then he saw Mary. She was tied to the end of the marble coffee table. Her throat was cut, too, and she had cuts across her face as if she had tried to fight until the end. But the dead children lying around the room showed how useless it had been. His three-yearold girl was lying close to her mother, only her throat was not cut. The madman had deviated. Instead of the razor, he had strangled the little girl with her own pigtails.