Bright Angels - Black Angels

By Ray Johnson

Logic tells us that if there are Bright Angels, there must also be Black Angels. Prior to meeting Zetta, Nathan believed in neither. Before encountering Zetta, Nathan felt that religion was something one did, rather than something one lived. Nathans religious views changed radically when he and Zetta traveled to Mount Zion Plantation, deep in the black water swamps of southern Louisiana.

Mount Zion Plantation was the ancestral home of three of the most beautiful Black Angels that the Dark Side ever created. The Greek Revival home at Mount Zion rivaled the most exquisite plantation homes of the Old South. Zetta, who was also stunningly beautiful, represented the Bright Side. Titanic forces were afoot, deep in the ancient quagmire where evil ruled and sane men feared to tread.

Ray Johnson again takes his readers on a perilous journey to the Dark Side. Beautiful angels, each serving different Gods, do battle for Nathans immortal soul. As with his previous novels, Bright Angels-Black Angels, holds the reader spellbound until the final page, gripping their attention like a riled swamp gator that refuses to let go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 14, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462839018

Book preview

Bright Angels–

Black Angels

Ray Johnson

Copyright © 2006 by Ray Johnson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Nathan Forest owned a successful private investigation firm. Even though forced to leave law enforcement at the behest of a woman, he was content with his second-choice profession. Zetta Sheridan, a new client, was as beautiful as Nathan was handsome. Nathan had never been south of New Orleans. Zetta had never even been to Louisiana. The fate of another beautiful woman was about to send them on a dangerous journey, a perilous trip into the southern black water swamps.

Chapter One

The night was dark and evil in Plaquemines Parish, deep in the Louisiana guag. A sinister platinum moon was rising above the bald cypress, reflecting off the black-water swamps that surrounded Mount Zion Plantation. The Greek Revival home loomed like a giant alabaster tomb, rising above a watery cemetery of bayous and foul-smelling bogs. The fetid swamps did their best to soak up the moonlight, refusing to give up their purchase on the night.

Pesky mosquitoes buzzed and languid fireflies blinked on and off as they circled through the cypress trees. Deep in the heart of the abysmal swamp a restless bull alligator thundered out a mating call, hoping for a companion on this night that reeked of evil. Few of the swamp creatures feared mankind, because men rarely dared to penetrate their brackish domain. No roads crossed the boggy ground to Mount Zion. To reach the sprawling plantation a person had to travel by pirogue, and then only with the sun at your back. No one was foolish enough to attempt the dangerous water journey during the hours of darkness, when fear and trembling rode with you like silent passengers in the shallow pirogue.

At one time the great plantation house stood high above the swamps. When Stonewall Jackson was thwarting Union troops in the Shenandoah Valley, the plantation sat amidst vast fields of fleecy cotton. But the fickle Mississippi has a mind of her own, even more so before the days of concrete levee and steel-re-enforced dams. The Mother of Waters changed course during the Great Conflict Between the States and irrepressible black swamp waters drowned the plantation land where King Cotton once reigned.

The plantation house was located in the far reaches of southern Louisiana, in an area where it is difficult for an outsider to distinguish water-soaked land from thick, muddied quagmire. The rising, malodorous waters brought a new owner to Mount Zion. The original owner was killed by a Union mini-ball during the battle at Cold Harbor and his heirs were eager to sell. The heirs had no faith in a Confederate victory and wanted to get out while there was still time left on the ticking Civil War clock. This new owner was cut from different cloth. His interests were neither North nor South, neither tariff nor free trade. While others were passionate about the war, political issues seemed to be of little concern to him. Privacy meant more to him than politics. The new owner arrived with a beautiful Black slave woman, a woman worth more than any forty field hands. The tall man who purchased Mt. Zion seemed pleased that fortune had nodded in his direction. The former owner had died at a propitious moment in time and the restless river now provided an isolated sanctuary, away from prying eyes, free from the rigors of unrelenting war.

The great house was as immaculate on this venal night as it had been in antebellum times. The six tall Doric columns were ivory shadows in the ashen moonlight. The verandah and upper balcony were freshly painted and the great home stood ready for inspection by the Ladies Garden Society, even though they did not know it existed. An ancient angel oak dominated the front yard. The giant tree was draped with wispy Spanish moss, dripping like feathery stalactites. But a malignant odor permeated the humid night air around Mt. Zion, drifting and spreading like blood on a carpet.

The original owner, the God-fearing man who died while fighting with the 18th Louisiana Cavalry, had named the plantation Mount Zion, to honor his faith. The new owner had not changed the name, which proved ironic. The magnificent home had escaped the ravages of the Civil War and stood as beautiful today as when first built.

There was another home on the Mt. Zion property. This second home was the original plantation house, built in Caribbean Planter Style. The older structure was almost a mile from the newer Greek Revival home. The roof was tall and sloping and the house rose off of the ground on brick pillars. The pillars were necessary to protect that particular style of home from Caribbean hurricanes. There were fewer hurricanes in southern Louisiana, but the brick pillars still prevailed.

There was activity in the Caribbean style home. Eerie candlelight flickered inside, causing a shallow, yellow lambency to dance through the tall windows. If someone walked quietly, being careful not to step on any of the sagging and creaking floorboards of the broad verandah, they could approach the windows and gaze directly into the living room of the once-gracious home. If they moved noiselessly, they could ease down the verandah until they were peering into the library. It was the third pair of windows that would grab their eyes and hold on like a riled mother gator.

At this brace of windows they could look directly into a room that would strike terror into their heart of hearts. This was a room where evil was welcomed, even embraced. The night air became thicker around the window, so thick you could sweep your hand and feel the danger. The haunting beat of a Rada drum seeped through the walls and slipped around dirty glass panes. Paint peeled and cracked on window frames that had remained closed for decades on end.

Inside the room were seven people, six of them looked as if they belonged. The seventh person, a twenty-three year old blond woman was out of place, an obvious outsider. The blond woman was tied, spread-eagled on the floor, surrounded by a ring of human skulls. Burning atop the skulls were tallow candles, slowly dripping hot wax. Hollow eye sockets stared blankly at the blond woman, causing her stomach to churn. She was naked, her firm body embarrassingly exposed to the other six. Her long hair was plaited into a single braid. The thick braid draped over her shoulder, nestled between modest breasts: firm breasts that did not fall to the sides, even though she was on her back.

The other six people had an aura of death about them, as yet not sensed by the blond woman. A tall White male is nominally in charge. He is handsome and erudite, with a small raised scar on his left cheek. He is thirty-eight and appears cultured, sophisticated. A beautiful Black woman is at his side. If it were not for the tall White man, the stunning Black woman would command the remaining four people. She is the true power in the ancient house. She is five feet, seven inches tall, with skin the color of milk chocolate. Her black hair is straight and long, unusual for a woman with her skin tone, unusual, but incredibly attractive. She is as beautiful as the White man is handsome, their color contrasting perfectly. Her breasts are magnificent, bordering on perfection: likewise with her raven hair. Though thirty-five, she has the taut body of a twenty-year-old and her beauty seems to increase the longer one watches her. She is like a flawless black diamond turned slowly, each facet revealing ever more radiance.

The remaining four people are also Black. One is dressed as a servant from antebellum days. She is moderately attractive, wearing a dress that looks like it came from an 1860 clothing catalog. Her matching apron and bandanna cause her to appear to be from the nineteenth century, rather than the twenty-first. She is the same age as the beautiful Black woman, but a tad chunky, yet pleasantly so.

The final three can strike terror into the mind and soul of the bravest: two males, one female. All are Black, but their skin is ashy and shallow, in dire need of oil and lotion. Their hair is nappy and unkempt, not Rastafarian dreadlocks, but truly disheveled. The males are wearing tattered cutoff trousers, no shirts or shoes. The woman wears a homespun graycloth skirt, but no blouse. Her breasts are not firm, like the tied-up white woman, but sag pendulously, as if small children had at one time clung to them.

But it is the eyes, plus the terrible stench, that separates the remaining three Blacks. The blank, staring eyes are blood red, as if ready to bleed. The eyes stare like pairs of ruby lasers, framed by dark-brown skin. One of the males sits cross-legged on the wooden floor, pounding out a haunting beat on the Rada drum. The woman with the sagging breasts moves sluggishly to the beat of the drum, shuffling her feet. All three gaze straight ahead, expressionless in the humid, candle-lit room.

Please don’t do this to me, the naked blonde woman pleads with everyone, hoping that at least one might show mercy. She remains hopeful that her virtue is all that will be demanded of her. She hates the beautiful Black woman for not coming to her aid. If the roles were reversed, she would help the Black woman escape. But there is no bond of sisterhood between them, no hint of sisterly charity.

The blond woman is trussed tightly; wrists and ankles tied to wooden pegs that were driven into holes in the floor. Her legs are spread mortifyingly apart. Throughout the night she has heard words that are foreign, if not in language, at least in spirit. Maman Loa, La Place, Hungan, none of the terms hold any meaning for her. The room is full of strange objects that disorient her. Grotesque Garde, protective charms, hang from the walls and another around the neck of the bulayer as he pounds on the Rada drum.

Your role is absolutely necessary, the tall White man answers her fervent plea in a voice that is rich and deep. He is wearing a light-tan planter’s suit, which looks out of place in a room filled with fear and practitioners of the black arts; a hot room that is better suited to shirt-sleeves. Plus, he gazed hungrily at her naked body it’s a task I willingly accept.

Look, I… I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here, the blonde continued her earnest petition. It’s evident that you don’t like strangers. I didn’t know that. Just let me go and I’ll… I’ll forget that I ever saw this place.

The drumming became a beat faster, quickening the heartbeats of those present.

On the contrary, the White man removed his jacket and handed it to the servant, we welcome strangers and we’re glad you came. His manhood began to stir.

Don’t let him do this to me, she begged the beautiful Black woman. The lust in the White man’s eyes frightened her.

You’re right, you shouldn’t have come. You ignored every warning sign. The Black woman’s voice was hauntingly beautiful, just how one would expect it to sound. She was slender, yet blessed with those large, firm breasts. She was dressed in a beige antebellum hoop dress, a color that accentuated her dark skin. Her eyes have an ever so slight slant, almost Oriental, perhaps a gift from some Yoruba ancestor.

You’re not really going to allow this, are you? You can’t just stand by and… and do nothing. The blonde woman was sweating profusely, partially from the heat, but the greater part from fear. Her neck was arched and sore, pained from lifting and straining to talk while tied to the pegs in the floor.

You made the decision to come here. The Black woman seemed ill concerned about the blond woman’s plight. Her long, lacquered fingernails appeared claw-like in the flickering candlelight.

The White man continued to remove his clothing, handing each article to the servant, who draped them over her arm. The blonde woman was both appalled and embarrassed, with hatred and anger vying for dominance. The thought of being raped was devastating. The thought of being raped with five people watching was horrifying. She hated the White man for what was about to happen, but she hated the beautiful Black woman even more for not stopping the sexual madness.

The Black woman glanced at her husband’s rising manhood, sensing his eagerness. Perhaps we should have saved this one and offered her to the Master. There was no jealousy lurking in her dark eyes; jealousy hoped for by the blonde woman. The blonde prayed that jealousy might be her salvation. Not being religious, her prayers went no further than the ceiling of the ancient home.

The White man shook his head slowly. The Master tends toward dark-skinned women, my dear. I’ve yet to hear him ask for blue eyes and flaxen hair.

Still, we must always consider his desires.

We’ll save the next Black woman that I’m certain will catch his fancy. This one wouldn’t do. He was now completely naked, his manhood eager for the unsolicited encounter. The blonde’s glistening body and desperate pleas had aroused him to the point of no return. Her breasts tugged at his cobalt-blue eyes like powerful magnets.

Please don’t do this. Listen to her. Let this… this master person see me first. She had no idea who the master was, but she hoped it was the owner of this miserable plantation that had ruined her life. She suspected that the White man and the Black woman were man and wife, but hated to accept the possibility, considering the circumstances.

She had stumbled upon Mount Zion by accident, while doing doctoral research on swamp ecology. She was now in the clutches of this crazy miscegenetic couple, an idiot servant, who dressed like Aunt Jemima and refused to answer her, and three foul-smelling automatons who pretended to be mute. She was afraid that she had blundered upon some secret religious rite and had infuriated the participants. She felt certain that they had incorporated her into their demonic rites. She had been unable to make them understand that she had no desire whatsoever to interfere in their religious beliefs. Her field was biology, not ethnology. Her only desire was to get as far away as possible from these sadistic people.

Young lady, the White man frowned and shook his head, "the last person you ever want to meet is the Master."

Get him. Let me decide for myself. She still hoped he might be someone she could reason with. She feared this racially mixed coterie, whom she suspected were all mentally unstable. She desperately needed to talk to a sane person. First to plead her case, and then to reassure her own sanity.

I can’t summon him. Only my wife has that power. He eased down on top of her, his manhood too anxious to be denied.

Your wife… ahhh… she groaned as he made entry. No, please stop… ahhh.

He acted as if he had true concern for her feelings, being as gentle as possible. The beautiful Black woman motioned to the woman with the sagging breasts. She nodded and shuffled from the room, returning shortly with a clucking black chicken. The bird had the same petrified look in its eyes as the blonde woman. The White man continued the unwanted intercourse, paying no heed to what was going on behind him.

The Black woman motioned with her head toward the blonde’s legs, which were still tied securely to the floor pegs. The servant woman knelt and untied each leg and then crossed them over the buttocks of the White man. The blonde could have fought being put in this more erotic position, but she opted for survival rather than battle. She had resigned herself to the humiliation of being raped in front of three women. She would suffer these indignities in silence and voice her protests later, in shrill terms. Once she returned to civilization, she would have all of them arrested and charged with rape. Hopefully Louisiana invoked the death penalty for rapists and their accomplices. She cursed her decision to go this deep into the swamps alone. Now she was paying for her false bravery; paying dearly.

The Black wife grasped the frightened black chicken by the neck. Then, with one lightning-fast whipping motion, she snapped the head from the body. Blood flew in every direction as the decapitated chicken bounced off the far wall. The woman with the sagging breasts shuffled and caught the headless bird, which was circling wildly, as if looking for its head. She held the twitching, blood-dripping bird over the intertwined couple.

The Rada drum moved a beat faster. The stifling heat was oppressive. Sweat poured off the muscular back of the White man. The blonde had begun to move in unison with him, hoping her sexual gyrations would bring him to a quick climax, bringing her torment to an early end.

The woman with the sagging breasts held the bleeding chicken over the writhing bodies, letting the hot blood drip and mingle with their perspiration. Some of the crimson droplets splattered in the blonde’s mouth, causing her to gag. She had her eyes closed, to blot out the horror, and did not see the blood coming. Once drained, the bird was cast aside, its part in the hellish ceremony now fulfilled.

The wife motioned toward the blonde’s legs. The servant and the woman with the sagging breasts took the blonde by the ankles and lifted her legs abruptly into the air. The blonde’s eyes popped open. She looked stunned because this strange action by the two women forced the man to abruptly end his torment. Was her punishment over? Had he taken his perverted fill of her? Her answer came in the form of a lustful smile. Another orifice was about to be violated.

No… no, damn you, don’t do that! I’ve never… ahhh she screeched in anguish.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, mixing with the chicken blood. She cried out with every powerful thrust. The two women still held her legs tightly and she was unable to fight off the indignation. Finally the combination of these incredible events caused the White man to climax. Her crying, the hot sweat, the women holding her while watching the erotic spectacle, this was too exciting and he climaxed with a vicious flurry, causing her to shriek even louder.

After what felt like an eternity, he slowly withdrew. The pain was intense, but she had survived. She had lived through the disgrace of rape and sodomy, compounded by the unfeeling women who helped her tormentor. But she had endured to fight another day. She had lost the battle, but she vowed to win the war. She kept her eyes closed after the final degradation. They would now let her go, humiliated and bruised, but still alive. She had played her role in their demoniacal ceremony. She slowly opened her eyes, while plotting vengeance.

She screamed out in terror. Standing over her, holding his manhood, was one of the foul-smelling Black males. Before she could protest, he made rough entry, stifling her cries with his hand over her mouth. All she could do was make pitiful muffled sounds. But the worst was yet to come for the blonde woman. She was about to be defiled by both of the red-eyed males. No orifice was safe from their ravaging. Before the night was over she would beg for death. The death she cried out for would come with sunrise and her body would never be found. The black water swamps would be her grave.

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Chapter Two

Nathan Forest was the owner of a successful private security firm in Los Angeles. He specialized in providing protection for the rich and famous of Beverly Hills, Toluca Lake, Malibu, and other exclusive enclaves where wealthy people congregated and made enemies. His firm protected ex-wives from irate husbands, husbands from treacherous ex-wives, questionable businessmen and shadowy real estate developers. He made a point of working no further south than Newport Beach and never past Santa Clarita to the north. There were plenty of millionaires in between to keep him busy. His forte was silence. He never disclosed a client’s name and wild dogs could not drag their problems from his files. His clients never had to worry about their private difficulties ending up on the front page of a supermarket tabloid.

He was tall, six feet three inches, and weighed a solid two hundred and twenty pounds. He worked out three times a week at the gym and jogged one mile every morning, usually in Coldwater Canyon. He was handsome, with dark-brown hair and piercing Caribbean-blue eyes: the hair was a gift from his father and the eyes from his mother. He carried a .40 Browning semi-automatic pistol. He liked the polymers, the Glocks and Steyr’s, but preferred the all-metal heft of the Browning. In his profession a quality weapon was an absolute necessity.

His office was on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, easy distance from Los Angeles International Airport and the Staples Center. He frequented both, one for ease of traveling, the other to watch the L.A. Lakers, his favorite basketball team. Like many men in their thirties, he found it difficult to believe that he had accomplished so little in thirty-four years. Like everyone, young or old, he hoped the best was yet to come.

He had married at twenty-two and divorced at twenty-four. The failed marriage did not trouble him because they had both been too young for a permanent relationship. They parted friends with neither feeling guilty. He brushed up against marriage again when he was thirty-one. The engagement caused him to change professions. Yet after leaving law enforcement, the engagement fell apart. He had come to the conclusion that perhaps he was not destined for a successful marriage. Now he was wedded to his business, often working late into the night at the office.

At the moment he was seated in a leather executive chair, looking out over smog-shrouded Los Angeles. His mind was wandering, his fingers vacantly tapping a gold Mont Blanc pen on a yellow legal pad. He had a 2 p.m. appointment with a new client. He did not know the name of the client and did not recognize the voice. He did his best to shy away from clients he knew nothing about. Mysteries always seemed to breed trouble. He preferred referrals, people with problems who came to him by way of a current satisfied client. That way they already understood how he worked and how expensive his services could be.

The intercom line buzzed, tugging him from his reverie. Yes?

Miss Sheridan is here to see you. The voice belonged to his attractive Vietnamese receptionist. Her tone hinted that this client was unusual, not the norm.

Good. Show her in, please?

Certainly, sir. His receptionist only addressed him formally when a client was nearby.

One minute later the receptionist opened his office door and ushered in an incredibly beautiful Black woman. She was five feet, six inches tall, but high heels added to her height. She had long hair that was pulled straight back and tied off with a white scarf: real hair, not extensions. She was wearing a white signature suit. The jacket had beaded bow trim with rhinestone accents throughout the front. The skirt stopped three inches above her knees, displaying long, slender legs. Her skin was a soft cocoa hue, like hot chocolate mixed with whipped cream. He guessed her age to be somewhere near twenty-five. He watched her with the trained eye of a detective, as if taking down her description for a report.

He tried to act casual as he extended his hand. Nathan Forest. Please sit down. He motioned toward a button-back leather chair with his left hand, but still held her hand with his right. Her beauty was mesmerizing. He finally released her hand, feeling foolish for having held it so long.

Her long nails reminded him of leopard claws. To further enhance the feline image, she slipped into the chair with the ease of a great cat, settling in for a night hunt. She gracefully crossed her legs and stared back at him.

This is Zetta Sheridan, Mr. Forest. The receptionist made the formal introductions. Her smile was pleasant, but the tone was icy.

He glanced at his receptionist, who was glaring at him with onyx eyes. Thank you, Kim.

The receptionist left in a barely concealed huff. There was more than just the beauty of this prospective client that had made him stare like a schoolboy. He felt certain that he knew her, and that was impossible. He did not know the name and he did not know the voice. And only a Trappist monk would ever forget the body.

You’re staring, Mr. Forest, she chided him gently.

Forgive me. He took his seat. I assume, looking as you do, that a great many men stare. He attempted to justify his obvious indiscretion.

Yes, but they’re all hungry. She came right to the meat of the matter.

The frank observation caused him to smile. And I’m not?

You’re just as bad. You have that same look, but it’s laced with confusion.

He frowned slightly, unhappy with her accurate observation. In the past, I’ve prided myself in an ability to maintain a poker face.

I’m certain you’re normally quite good at it. She smiled coyly, enjoying his mild torment. Her teeth looked as white as ivory against the smooth sable skin.

But not today?

Perhaps it’s the subject matter?

Not perhaps, for certain. I know you… he hesitated.

But you can’t place me?

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. And you’re one person that I’d never forget.

Is that a compliment, Mr. Forest?

"Nathan. I never want to be mister to you. And yes, it’s definitely a compliment."

You’re being ripped asunder. She could see that he was trying desperately to place her.

You’re right. This is killing me. Where have our paths crossed?

They haven’t, not in the way you’re thinking anyway.

Yes, he contradicted, they have, somewhere. Now it’s up to me to find out where.

Shall I help you? She smiled again, proposing a game of twenty questions.

Give me a moment first. He hated this frustrating feeling. It was like having a name on the tip of your tongue, but unable to call it forward. The name hid behind trees and rocks, just out of sight, playing hide and seek with his mind.

Take your time.

He fell silent for a moment as he studied her features. He frowned again and then said, An out-of-context word keeps coming to me.

What word, Mr. Forest?

Nathan. Just Nathan, please. The word is… he hesitated, embarrassed.

Yes, Nathan?

Pheromones.

Goodness, Nathan, that’s a terrible thing to say. You’re implying that I’m… I’m… she dropped her eyes, joining him in embarrassment.

That’s why I was hesitant. But it’s not the name or the voice or the… the…

Yes?

Or the body. I have this stupid feeling that I’ve… I’ve smelled you before.

Perhaps it’s my perfume? The former mild umbrage had vanished from her voice. She was again helpful, ingratiating.

No. It’s much deeper than that. More… more animal, for lack of a better word. He still felt foolish for accusing her of emitting an essence that was so powerful that it bewitched him. He berated himself mentally for talking like this to a prospective client. So much for professionalism, he mused.

If I don’t tell you, you might have a nervous breakdown. She smiled, amused by his torment.

Give me a little more time. Maybe the secret lies in your reason for being here.

I can assure you it does.

Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Since she stated that she was there on business, he felt he should broach the matter of his fees. Before we go any further, I prefer to tell any prospective clients that my services are rather expensive. This was the only part of the business he disliked, the financial matters.

I know, but I’m broke. I don’t have any money.

Her brashness caused him to smile, even though he tried not to. Yet you still want me to help you?

Of course.

Will I? He was not very enthusiastic about accepting gratis cases.

She paused and looked into his eyes. Finally she said, I can’t tell.

Maybe we should start with a tiny hint.

Fair enough. Very tiny?

Yes. I want to accomplish as much as possible on my own.

All right. My father is a Baptist minister and…

He held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. A grimace swept over his face. He drifted three years back in time, to a troubling episode that still plagued his memory. She gave him time to reflect, waiting patiently in silence.

Finally she said, Now I understand your pheromone comment. She did not think he would take it this hard. To her, the game had been a lark. To him, she now belatedly realized, the game was deadly serious.

He nodded slowly. You don’t look or sound like your sister, but something in the chemistry… again he drifted off, to another time, to another woman.

You must have been as close as she always said you were. Her tone changed, becoming very serious. No more guessing games, no more giggling.

We were. I assume you know that we almost got married.

She told me, but she never explained why the engagement ended.

"What did she say?"

That you two met when you were a policeman and things became very serious. I still have her ring. She went into her purse and took out an exquisite, one-carat engagement ring. She handed it to Nathan.

How… how did you come by this? He turned the ring over in his fingers, with memories flooding back from every glinting facet.

It was with her things.

What do you mean?

When she disappeared, we…

Disappeared? The news stunned him.

Yes. Didn’t you know?

No, he shook his head. I never met any of you. I had no way of knowing.

I’m sorry. I just assumed that you knew. She disappeared over two years ago.

Where?

Somewhere in Louisiana.

Louisiana?

Zetta nodded slowly. Somewhere south of New Orleans.

What was she doing there?

She looked embarrassed. Those were troubled times for her. She wanted to become more… more… the correct words escaped her.

Go on.

She felt she should become closer to her cultural roots, so to speak.

He nodded, as if he understood perfectly.

This doesn’t shock you, does it?

Her disappearance? he asked.

No. Her wanting to become more… more culturally aware.

You’re right, that doesn’t surprise me at all.

Why?

She never told you? This puzzled him, since it was the reason for the breakup.

No.

He took a deep breath, as if the story he was about to relate was very painful. He was about to dig up memories that he hoped were buried for good. Did she tell you how we met?

Zetta shook her head. Nathan stared at her more closely now. After he discovered her lineage, the resemblance, though subtle, was still there. She was even more beautiful than her sister, a remarkable feat.

I was with LAPD, working narcotics in South/Central. We had a tip about a crack house on 123rd Street. We caved in the front door around midnight and found eight people inside. Seven of them were obviously villains.

And the eighth was Terella?

As out of place as a cheetah in a library.

What did she tell you?

A sad story about being there to help one of the girls get off crack and away from prostitution.

And you believed her? She cocked her head.

Of course not. Everybody has sad stories, particularly during a narcotics bust.

What did you do?

I ran a record check. Terella Robbins, no make, no want. Never been arrested, student at Cal State Los Angeles, daughter of a Baptist minister, Miss Pearl Pureheart.

She was telling the truth?

It seemed that way, he nodded, reflecting back on the fateful night. My partner wanted to arrest her anyway. He didn’t believe the story.

But you stopped him?

Right, again he nodded. I told him that he’d have to shoot me first.

I take it that she had an immediate affect on you?

To say the least.

And one thing led to another?

He shrugged and pleaded his case, You know how she looks…

Looked, Zetta corrected him.

You seem positive about that.

I am. I know in my heart that she’s gone.

Rather than tangle with sisterly intuition, he continued with his story. You’re right, one thing led to another.

Which eventually led to your bedroom? Her tone was probing, yet not accusatory.

His eyes narrowed and he asked, Why would you say that?

Because, before she met you, she never stayed away from home overnight.

I… I take it your father was angry about her staying overnight?

He almost had a heart attack. She’d never acted that way before.

How much did she tell him?

Almost nothing. She finally made up a phony story for me and I was supposed to placate the family. She had the ring with the huge diamond and my father was certain that nobody from our area gave it to her, unless he robbed a jewelry store.

What did she tell you?

That she’d met a Black fireman, from Compton, and he’d given her the ring.

You sound like you didn’t believe her?

Of course I didn’t.

Why not?

She loved you and she’d tell me about all the places you’d take her.

Such as? This conversation was bringing back hurtful memories, dredging up recollections better left covered by the sands of time.

To the beach at Playa del Ray. Skiing at Big Bear. Boat trips to Catalina Island. Monterey Bay Aquarium. That wine-train tour of Napa Valley. Please, spare me, do I look that dumb?

What did you tell her?

I told her that she was engaged to a White man.

And she said?

At first she denied it. But she finally told me the truth and made me promise not to tell our parents.

Your parents hate White people?

Of course not. We weren’t raised that way. My father doesn’t care what color a person is, if they’re good.

Nathan nodded agreement, feeling the same way himself.

It was Terella, wasn’t it? Zetta had suspected this all along. She ended the engagement?

The intercom buzzed and interrupted them. The receptionist was becoming a bit querulous. Nathan was taking far too much time with this beautiful Black woman. She needed to derail him with other business. She told him about a call that she could easily have handled herself. He suspected as much and thwarted her efforts.

Tell Robert to handle the call. And please, no more interruptions.

All right! She did not attempt to conceal her ire.

He returned to Zetta. Forgive the interruption.

She’s jealous. Zetta surmised as much when she saw how the receptionist looked at him.

You see too much.

Eyes in the back of my head. That’s what Terella used to say. Back to you. It was Terella who worried about you being White, wasn’t it?

At first it didn’t bother her.

Trust me, she wasn’t raised that way. A loony professor at Cal State L.A. got into her head and convinced her that anything that wasn’t colored brown was bad. She decided to tell him that the professor’s favorite phrase was, If it’s white, it ain’t right.

The descriptive phrasing almost brought on a smile. It finally came down to that. Originally it was just my job.

Being a policeman?

He nodded thoughtfully. She felt that law enforcement was inherently prejudice against Blacks.

She didn’t talk you into quitting, did she? Zetta cocked her head, hoping she was wrong.

Yes. I wanted to keep her happy, so I resigned.

And became miserable?

"You do have eyes in the back of your head."

It’s the only gift the Lord gave me.

No, you’re dead wrong there.

She cocked her head again. What do you mean?

He made you incredibly beautiful.

Hmm, she smiled and said slyly, no wonder Terella fell for you. She also blushed. She recovered and guessed, So you stopped being a cop and became wretched?

Even worse. I went to work for an insurance company.

You hated it?

I detested every day I was there. But that job didn’t please her either. She decided that insurance companies still discriminated against Blacks by red lining.

So you quit?

He shrugged and defended himself. She was always so sincere, so intense…

She interrupted, asking, What next?

I tried working for a bank, but…

Don’t tell me. She was positive that banks refused to make loans to Black people?

I was rapidly running out of professions.

She was in college at the time and that professor almost drove our entire family crazy. Terella got on my father for having White ministers as friends. None of us could reason with her.

I couldn’t either. Anyway, the end result was that Whites and Blacks were never going to be able to live in harmony and she broke off the engagement.

Did you ask for the ring back?

No, he shook his head. I’d never do that.

It’s worth a lot of money.

I gave it to her without any conditions attached. He leaned over and gave the engagement ring back to her.

She returned it to a satin-lined ring box and then slipped it back into her white leather purse. She got worse as time went on. I assume she had trouble justifying giving you up and it only made things harder for her.

I can assure you it was hard on me. Why did she go to New Orleans?

We have some seldom-seen relatives who live south of New Orleans. She thought they might be true to their cultural roots. She was going to spend some time with them, and I assume, reestablish her ethnic identity. She rolled her eyes, as if her sister’s views were not hers.

Did it work?

Of course not. It was doomed to failure from the start. My father tried to tell her that our relatives are an amalgam of races. They’re Creole, part Black, part Spanish, part French, and I’m certain a couple of other races thrown in for good measure.

She didn’t believe him?

No. She thought he was just trying to dissuade her.

So she went anyway?

To a disaster. Once she got there she discovered that everything father said was true. Even worse, one of our cousins was married to a White man. I guess she had just lost you, foolishly, and this must have really bothered her.

What happened then?