hesitate. She pulled the trigger. A shot rang out.
Immediately Tracie flipped the switch, flooding the room with light. She looked across at her target. She hoped it was the maniac on the phone and she had gotten lucky. She knew that thought was extreme, but she was desperate.
She had not gotten lucky. Scurrying across the floor was a rat. Tracieâs shoulders heaved. She didnât know if she should be relieved or not.
Outside on the street, Whiskey flipped his cell phone shut. Mission accomplished. Everything was secure. His gold pinkie ring glistened under the streetlamps. He had one thing on his mind. She had been on his mind all afternoon. Her name was Tracie Burlingame.
Try as he might, he couldnât get her out of his system.
12
R ight after Tracie Burlingame received the worst phone call of her life, a strange phenomenon bestowed itself on Harlem. Beneath the ground, underneath layers of soil, a shaking began. It was really just a light tremor to begin with. But it built itself into a full-scale quaking before anyone really understood what was happening.
It shook the borough of Harlem so thoroughly and quickly, it left reams of doubt in its wake. It was over almost before it had begun. Strangely enough, it left not a trace in its wake, save the actual experience.
The mystifying effect was only felt in Harlem. None of the other boroughsâBrooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, Queensâor even the rest of the borough of Manhattan was affected. Therefore, Harlem would have a hard time reporting this phenomenon.
After a while the people of Harlem began to be unsure if that was what theyâd really felt. After all, this was the East Coast, and earthquakes happened out west. There had never been one recorded before in Harlem. It left not a trace, although it shook them so thoroughly it would have rocked on the Richter scale had it been recorded.
The quake became an inside joke. In some circles it became taboo even to speak about it. The truth notwithstanding, it couldnât be proven or explained.
People would be thought crazy, or just trying to reclaim a spotlight they had been slowly losing with each generation. The only attention they had these days was when politicians descended upon Harlem to kick off the African-American vote or to raise money.
Maybe it was a sign. Who knew? People were beginning to be unsure it had even happened.
But there was one man who knew what it was. He knew it was definitely a sign. He knew it meant it was time for a shift in the balance of things. That was why he was in Harlem. It was time to collect the gifts.
He stood watching the killer of Tracie Burlingameâs son playing phone tag with her. Tiring of this and knowing it was a good thing that he had come when he did, he decided to move on. He would scour grounds for the night that were more fertile, far more fertile.
He needed to take care of the gifts. He would start with the minor ones and build up. Like the Legos he played with. He loved Lego because he could start out with one colored little block and build and build, until it was towering far above the ground.
Tracie Burlingame was worth much more than the talents of her sons. Inside her, unknowingly, she carried the pattern of many of the gifts to come in Harlemâand one very powerful gift that must be prevented at all costs.
When the time came, he would suck the gifts right out of her being. Yes. He knew Miss Burlingame was a spiritual patchwork quilt. He also knew that she waxed prophetic.
This fool, his comrade, wanted to play with her and toy with her. He was playing with her flesh. Me would take down her spirit. He would not play with her. When the time came, he would destroy her.
What she carried in her being was valuable beyond words. It could alter the course of history. What she carried was also dangerous, because it reflected out to people with the vision, such as the Louisianan seeress.
But just as he had told the seeress, she
Immediately Tracie flipped the switch, flooding the room with light. She looked across at her target. She hoped it was the maniac on the phone and she had gotten lucky. She knew that thought was extreme, but she was desperate.
She had not gotten lucky. Scurrying across the floor was a rat. Tracieâs shoulders heaved. She didnât know if she should be relieved or not.
Outside on the street, Whiskey flipped his cell phone shut. Mission accomplished. Everything was secure. His gold pinkie ring glistened under the streetlamps. He had one thing on his mind. She had been on his mind all afternoon. Her name was Tracie Burlingame.
Try as he might, he couldnât get her out of his system.
12
R ight after Tracie Burlingame received the worst phone call of her life, a strange phenomenon bestowed itself on Harlem. Beneath the ground, underneath layers of soil, a shaking began. It was really just a light tremor to begin with. But it built itself into a full-scale quaking before anyone really understood what was happening.
It shook the borough of Harlem so thoroughly and quickly, it left reams of doubt in its wake. It was over almost before it had begun. Strangely enough, it left not a trace in its wake, save the actual experience.
The mystifying effect was only felt in Harlem. None of the other boroughsâBrooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, Queensâor even the rest of the borough of Manhattan was affected. Therefore, Harlem would have a hard time reporting this phenomenon.
After a while the people of Harlem began to be unsure if that was what theyâd really felt. After all, this was the East Coast, and earthquakes happened out west. There had never been one recorded before in Harlem. It left not a trace, although it shook them so thoroughly it would have rocked on the Richter scale had it been recorded.
The quake became an inside joke. In some circles it became taboo even to speak about it. The truth notwithstanding, it couldnât be proven or explained.
People would be thought crazy, or just trying to reclaim a spotlight they had been slowly losing with each generation. The only attention they had these days was when politicians descended upon Harlem to kick off the African-American vote or to raise money.
Maybe it was a sign. Who knew? People were beginning to be unsure it had even happened.
But there was one man who knew what it was. He knew it was definitely a sign. He knew it meant it was time for a shift in the balance of things. That was why he was in Harlem. It was time to collect the gifts.
He stood watching the killer of Tracie Burlingameâs son playing phone tag with her. Tiring of this and knowing it was a good thing that he had come when he did, he decided to move on. He would scour grounds for the night that were more fertile, far more fertile.
He needed to take care of the gifts. He would start with the minor ones and build up. Like the Legos he played with. He loved Lego because he could start out with one colored little block and build and build, until it was towering far above the ground.
Tracie Burlingame was worth much more than the talents of her sons. Inside her, unknowingly, she carried the pattern of many of the gifts to come in Harlemâand one very powerful gift that must be prevented at all costs.
When the time came, he would suck the gifts right out of her being. Yes. He knew Miss Burlingame was a spiritual patchwork quilt. He also knew that she waxed prophetic.
This fool, his comrade, wanted to play with her and toy with her. He was playing with her flesh. Me would take down her spirit. He would not play with her. When the time came, he would destroy her.
What she carried in her being was valuable beyond words. It could alter the course of history. What she carried was also dangerous, because it reflected out to people with the vision, such as the Louisianan seeress.
But just as he had told the seeress, she
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