CHAPTER SIXTEEN

April 2 2001

Isaiah did not trust this new guy. He had already looked up Harold's name in the phonebook, bought a map of the borough and after circling two areas, walked along the streets, the Kutumbe Club disappearing in the distanced. , took out a map of the city, circling two addresses as he checked the streets. This area of the city had been populated by Africans and in the distance until he finally arrived at the door of a brownstone and rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, a woman who looked mixed blood answered. She wore a bathroom too large for her over a hastily put on slip and bra, the former showing the label on the outside.

"I'm kind of lost," he asked, "mind if I come in?"

"Who is it, honey?" came a voice in the background.

"No one," said Grace in a British accent. A crumpled beige blouse and plaid skirt were flung on the back of the chair.

John's "former flame" looked the typical spinster daughter who decided to settle down after a little rebellion.

It looks, thought Isaiah, that John was her little rebellion.

Everything about Harold spelled education and distinction. He had the manners of one whose father was influential enough or wealthy enough to send their son to Oxford. Harold was in his forties, certainly not the person seen with a young chick. This woman was more his style. He came out of the bedroom, dressed as though he quickly threw on his pants and trousers. "Didn't I tell you not to invite anyone?"

"Well he's lost."

"Are you sure he's not that old boyfriend of yours?" asked Harold as if the above mentioned boyfriend was only fit to wash her feet.

"What old boyfriend?" snorted Grace.

"The one you were talking to."

"How'd you know?"

"Because I heard you on the other line!" He then changed his tone to a more compassionate tone as he walked over to Isaiah. "We're in a strange city, darling. I was worried about you."

Grace blushed and waited until Harold put his arms around her and glared at the visitor.

"Couldn't be you, you're not her type. She likes the round faced pudgy type. What address were looking for?" he asked Isaiah.

"Not one in particular. It's the one here." He handed Harold a slip of paper. "It's somewhere on Fifth Avenue."

Harold looked at it and pointed out Isaiah's mistake. "Someone gave you the wrong directions. You're supposed to turn off on this ramp, not that one." Wait there, I'll get you a map and draw you the correct route."

Five minutes later, Isaiah was on his way to the Kutumbe Club. He ditched the map in the nearest trash bin.

He entered the club, mingling with the patrons, pretending to overindulge in drink. He spotted her, short curly hair and coffee skin swaying with the crowd. She wore a red halter-top and white pedal pushers. She danced with a young man, being careful not to get too close. Her movements were shy.

Virgin, thought Isaiah, just the right type for a sacrifice. He moved in closer, like a lion encircling its prey. He separated the couple, pretending to have to go to the bathroom.
Gradually, he used the crowd to push her towards the door. He could see her hollering to her boyfriend, but there was too much noise.

Easing through the crowd, like a snake slinking through thick grass, he came up behind her and put his hand over her mouth. Quickly, he shoved her towards his car, duct taped her mouth, and tied her wrists together. "You are about to be raised to such privileges as you never imagined," he said as he threw her into the truck of his car.

Isaiah drove through the darkened streets, avoiding the busy thoroughfares, sticking to the alleys and back lanes, keeping his headlights on dim, and watching for cops.

Perhaps he would have his new associate make the sacrifice, but then he decided that this Obango might just not have the stomach for such. After all, one could not write scripts and hold a killing knife at the same time.

The place for the sacrifice was a lone building, once part of the New York zoo, before the animal rights people figured that housing animals in cages was a no-no.

The concrete floor still held the odor of countless lions and tigers pacing their new homes. Where once bushes and trees thrived, only patched of brown grass sprang up. There was a rumor that a certain low rate movie company used the grounds as a setting for their movies—the type where ghouls walked dripping with blood and girls screamed as vampires sank their fangs into their necks. Now Isaiah was to outdo this fantasy for he planned his own type of horror.

He made a call on his cell phone, gave John the directions, and waited, his heart pounding with the anticipation. No more was there need for those silly notes that brought the attention of that FBI branch. No more did he have to watch them scurry after one false lead after another. Now they would wonder why this next victim would not wind up in a country field as the first. The first girl had been a diversion. He laughed silently as he thought of these Americans guarding their daughters, keeping them in the cities, away from the countries close for his taking.

"Mm Mm!"

He listened to the cry of the bound girl, pounding against the inside of the truck of his car. He knew she could not escape for Isaiah had sealed the back so the only way she could come out was if he opened the trunk. Of course, he had air holes put in. The victim had to be alive to see the impact of the sacrifice.

Half an hour later, the van drove in with the animals sedated.

In the original Sect of the White Lion, the killer of the beast came out face painted with ochre stripes, armed with only a small flint knife. The sacrifice of the White Lion was not without cost. Isaiah decided to change the rules. He carried a harpoon.

Several men approached, all dark, carrying flashlights made to look like torches. They made a circle around the frightened lion who snarled. No one except Isaiah was brave enough to go against a half- grown cub.

Now one of the men opened up the trunk to Isaiah's car and dragged out the girl.

"She must be a virgin," said Isaiah, "Call for the Priestess."

A fat woman dressed in a long dress of faux lion skin approached the girl and stood over her holding a long white stick. Two other women came besides her, both carrying a large canvas with poles that they put around the priestess and the intended victim.

Isaiah waited with anticipation as the fat woman made her examination. .

The fat woman soon raised her arms. The other women removed the canvas from around the terrified and ashamed girl.

"She is!" shouted Isaiah. "Let the sacrifice begin!"

At once, the followers danced around in a circle, chanting in their tribal language. Roughly translated, it went something like this:

"Oh Great Lion! Oh Great Lion! Oh Great Lion!
We dress ourselves in your skins!
We mar your blood with that of the Maiden
We stand against our enemies, unafraid!"

His right hand outstretched, Isaiah motioned to John. "The sacred stone!"

The FBI agent handed him a small rock painted with several wavy symbols.

Isaiah held up the rock "The spirit of the Great Lion imprisoned since the last century! Now to be released to enter the bodies of the devotees!"

The words of the devotees ascended in unison. "Kill! Kill! All betrayers kill!"

"Raise it over the maiden's head, Obango and strike her on the head for the spirit cannot be released unless spilled by blood!"

John hesitated. "The honor should be yours."

"Would you face the lion yourself?"

"I would. A virgin is too weak and puny."

"And you consider yourself a more worthy than I?"

" No, but would not a maiden be more for you then this imitation fierce lion?"

It was then that the crowd noticed the small size of the formidable beast. "Is this the sect?" mocked one man, "to not enjoy the struggle of man against nature?"

"Where is the father lion or the lioness?"

"Yes bring them out! If Obango is a real man, he can fight them. Give him the flint knife!"

Their chanting was so loud they did not hear the figures moving through the tall grass and circling around the concrete.

John took the knife, walking around like a gladiator, boasting that he now had the power and that Isaiah forfeited his right to wear the white skin.

All this boasting was expected and Isaiah took no notice as he approached the terrified girl. Two of his followers approached and carefully unlocked the back of the van.

Suddenly a male voice rang out. "All right you're under arrest!"

The Kenyans were startled. They became as mute, faced not with a male and female white lion but a man and a woman, both armed. Swiftly, the man handcuffed them to the side of the van and quickly jumped off the back.

"I'll rescue the girl."

"Jarod you haven't ti-"

At that moment, Isaiah raised the rock, ready to crush the girl's skull, and fell. Before he hit the ground, Jarod had grabbed the whimpering girl, removed her bonds, and handed her over to Rachel. Just as the Profiler was about to put the girl in her car, one of the members of the White Lion withdrew something from his pocket.

At that moment, John raised his badge in one hand, his gun in another. "FBI, you're all under arrest!"

The sect member whirled around and fired

John did not know what hit him. All he saw was the flash. It was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in the hospital.