Famous (The Soul of the World Book 1) by David Skato (best book reader .txt) 📗

images, but he was sure that it was that of Rochelle. She was smiling with a group of people appearing to be at a picnic. He looks to the left and sees a bigger image of Rochelle from high school wearing a cap & gown. He took a whiff and realized that there was something other than the gasoline in the air.

The man slowly turns around with his hands up, but his fist stayed clenched tightly. Jessi immediately recognizes that it’s Harnando Vasquez.

“That was fast.” Vasquez calmly states.

Dontae’ couldn’t get that smell out of his head. What was it?

“Who killed Rochelle?” He demanded.

“He's coming. And he can't be stopped.” Vasquez continued.

Again, Dontae’s thoughts go to the smell. It was familiar but the mix of adrenaline and trying to make sure Vasquez didn’t make any sudden moves diluted his sense of direction.

“Who? Who's coming?” Dontae’ shouted.

“Lock your hands behind your head!” Jessi shouted.

Vasquez did not comply with the request.

“Why did you take the evidence? Who are you working for?! Talk!” Dontae’ Shouted.

At that moment, he knew what the smell was. His heart dropped to his knees. It was that smell when you turn the eyes of a bar-b-que grill on but forget to light it. It was the smell when the city workers digging in the ground break a pipeline by mistake. It was the smell of natural GAS. Dontae’ took a second to view the surroundings and realized that Vasquez had not only spewed gasoline throughout the house, but he had also turned on the eyes of the stove. This wasn’t a hideaway. This was a suicide.

“Hold fast because the one true king will rise and who shall be able to stand?” Vasquez said as he opened his hands, revealing a lighter. “Amen,” He states as he strikes it.

Dontae’ tackles Jessi sending them both crashing through the large bay window and onto the green lawn as the house explodes, sending fire, brick, and glass in every direction. The explosion sends a fireball several feet high, lighting a once dark field of cows chewing cud and briefly glancing at the light. The detectives lie on the ground, covered in debris. They both sit up quietly, trying to take in what had just happened. What kind of cult could convince a police officer to hide evidence, quit his job, and then blow himself up? Whoever these people were, they were dangerous. The once clean air was now fiery red as pillars of smoke raced to the sky as far as the eyes could see. The once silent night was now filled with the sound of crackling fire and the smell of burning wood.

The night was still and quiet outside of the large urban building that Dontae’ and Sandy called home. She had really liked the city and found it so wonderful that the man she loved did also. This was just one of the many things they had in common. She had grown up in Suwanee, Georgia, with one sister in a borderline poor but very religious family.  When she told her mother that she was moving in with Dontae’, she could recall the old lady’s preachy voice. “You don’t need to be shacking up with no man. All he going to do is leave you barefoot and preg-ant.” She never pronounced the “n.” That was the biggest fear for her children; to get pregnant. Not drugs or alcohol. No. Just pregnant. That was a fate worse than death in this family.

This was driven by the fact she, herself, was a single mother for years before she met Sandy’s stepfather, Mr. Garry.  Sandy’s biological father died in a horrible plane crash when she was about four. He was headed to see his family in St. Louis when the large 747 went down just before landing. Everyone died. It was one of the worst traveling events in American history. Sandy didn’t know how to feel at the time because the crash was a big deal but not because of the 337 souls that perished, but because of one. There was a famous baseball player on the plane that overshadowed the rest of the deaths. The crash came to be known as the Jose’ Camelo crash. She guessed that if her father had been a singer or something just a bit more famous, it would have been the Joseph Mayhew crash. It wouldn’t have made a difference. He was gone, and she didn’t know how to react. She cried at the funeral but only because she was supposed to. She didn’t remember much, but she did remember thinking that her mother must have worn shoes that were too tight because she stood at the burial site barefoot and pregnant.

Sandy stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing the dishes smiling while humming a tune she couldn’t get out of her head. Tonight was going to be perfect. She had prepared Dontae’s favorite meal, which consisted of smoked turkey necks, white rice, and mac & cheese. She fantasized about the smile on his face once he walks in and sees the spread laid out for him. Although she trusted Dontae’, she wanted to make sure he knew what he was missing if he cheated on her while she was in Suwannee. Not all women can throw down in the kitchen. She wasn’t a bad lay either. She laughed at the thoughts.

In the living room, the still air became stale and musty. A black mist started to seep under the door, almost oozing across the hardwood. At the center of the room, the mist stopped and began to form into a figure of a man. The mist grew thicker and darker to the point where it started dripping inky black soot on the floor. The arms protruded out slowly, and the fangs grew sharp. The eye sockets deepened, and the skull became firm. The Carasaca now stood in the middle of Sandy’s living room.

Ω

Dontae’ and Jessi lean on her car as firefighters continue to spray water on the