The Unearthing of Blackstone Read online

  He asked Jett, the same thing. As a young boy, he stood before his big brother and asked, “Are Ma and Dad really happy?”

  Jett shrugged, placed his red and black cap on his head and replied, “I guess. What’s happiness anyway and who cares? As long as they take care of you, that’s all that matters…”

  And that was the end of the conversation. Then, because Ace figured in his younger years he was a glutton for abuse as well as didn’t want to leave one stone unturned, he asked the third brother, moving down the line like a teacher does with her students after the apple disappears.

  “Yo’ Pierce, does Daddy really love Ma?”

  Pierce was the romantic of the group, the only one that favored Ma, but what a twist of fate — he acted just like their old man. A teenager at the time, he ran his fingers through his jet black hair and grinned.

  “I believe so, in his own special way.”

  What the hell did that mean? Ace’s little ten year old mind couldn’t make heads or tails of it and by the time he’d fixed his tongue to delve deeper into the matter, Pierce was gone with a group of friends to sleigh down a hill Ace wasn’t allowed to visit until several years later. It sucked being the youngest, and it stunk being adopted, too.

  Though Ace’s parents never made it a secret that he’d been adopted at the age of two, the details always remained sketchy. He knew his birth name, and the month and year he was born, but not much more than that. They had paperwork, and once he got of age, he wanted to see it. His wish was granted and he did what many people in his position would’ve done: searched high and low for his birth parents.

  He wanted to know where he came from and even as he sat there staring at his adoptive parents, Sarah and Gregory Blackstone, he still couldn’t shake the desire to find the answers to these pressing questions. A part of him felt a smidge of guilt due to his inability to suppress the urge, to drop it on the damn floor and walk away. But, he just couldn’t. They’d treated him well; matter of fact, he couldn’t have been raised much better, and what did they get in return?

  …Grief and a young boy who grew into a rebellious teenager and proceeded to do everything in his power to destroy their sanity and resolve. He’d given them nothing but trouble. But now, it was all water under the bridge, or was it?

  “So, what are you two kids talking about?” his father questioned, bringing him out of his hefty thoughts that had taken him by the hand and jerked him along the jagged path of Recollection Road.

  “Oh, the usual … Thanksgiving, missing grandchildren, your son’s refusal to settle down and the heart of a cheater.” His mother grinned all the way to her eyes as she took another tiny sip from her cup, leaving a trace of pink gloss behind.

  “Ahhhh, the norm. Are you bringing that pecan pie, son?” his father asked with dull eyes. It was his old man’s favorite.

  “I have no idea why we are talking about Thanksgiving so early.” Ace huffed, growing weary of his parents’ obsession with such topics. “Anyway, the answer is, ‘Yes.’”

  Ace used to hang out by the expansive pantry in their gigantic kitchen, melting into the shadows of the room. His mother knew he was there, nevertheless. He simply didn’t wish for her to acknowledge it. If his brothers found out he was spying on the woman and watching old re-runs of Julia Child, they’d pulverize him. She indulged him, pretending the boy was nowhere in sight. She’d toil away in the kitchen many nights, and holiday meals were always Ace’s favorite as a young child.

  He’d follow her every move as she moved pots and pans, and a variety of spices and utensils, around. With an eagle eye, he kept watch, not daring to blink as the woman created delicious deep-dish fruit pies, home-made buttery biscuits with apricot preserves and three-course down-home meals that would make the most discerning pallet fall to her feet in praise. This went on for years. Thus, he grew to love cooking as well. It soothed his jumpy nerves. He never openly discussed his adoration for elegant food preparation, but it happened, and it happened a lot, and now he had a reputation in the family for being able to bake a pie that would make someone want to slap their own mama.

  “What are you workin’ on now?”

  Ace looked at the man. His father appeared fifteen years older than he actually was, due to his previous life as a workaholic. A vigorous career had taken its toll until he was forced into retirement after a stroke that almost killed him. His father was a kind man, persuasive, slick with words, charismatic and gentle. He was all that one could want in a father, minus his corny sense of G-rated humor.

  “You know I can’t get into that, Dad. You ask me that all the time, and get—”

  “The same answer.” His father laughed. “Can’t hurt to try. I know you’ve got some exciting stuff.”

  “Your father is a terrible gossip, Ace.” With a smirk, his mother stood, her head held high and noble as she popped her hip, her hand resting against it as if she were posing to get her photo taken. “We’re speaking of Thanksgiving and Christmas so early because you’re a busy man. Sometimes I feel I must make an appointment just to speak to my own son.”

  Ma, that’s not true. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “ I don’t want you out of town this year, or any jazz like that. It has happened recently, you know. You need to be here, with us,” she said indignantly. “Anyway, please bring the pie and the caterers will handle the other desserts. I won’t have time to bake one biscuit, let alone do an entire feast.”

  Ace knew what she was referring to. The woman volunteered at the hospital during the holidays, and it was as if she’d never retired. People seemed to lose their minds during that time of year, so she went where she was needed. Thus, her accusations were not only hurled at her youngest child, but also at herself for her job, regardless of her volunteer status, still demanded a lot out of her. Babies decided to be born right before the great gift exchange or the football game was quite finished.

  He was used to his mother having to run away on holidays from when he was a child, and for her at least, it never got easier. He also knew though that something deep within her craved to be needed. Unfortunately — or fortunately, however the person viewing from the outside in wished to see it — she’d raised four independent sons and, despite their love of her, none had a ‘mama’s boy’ bone in their bodies. It was a double-edged sword. Sarah had taught them to be their own men, to take care of their business, but it bit her in the butt…and now when she needed them most, they couldn’t bring themselves to be something they weren’t.

  Ace exchanged a bit of small talk with his parents, then kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek and patted the old man on the shoulder before making his way towards the front door, closing the colossal thing behind him. Taking a few deep breaths, he walked to his parked jet black Bentley and slid onto the cream leather seats. On the drive home, he itched to play a song that always made him feel a bit warmer on the inside. It was a guilty pleasure, and if any of his friends or brothers got wind that he enjoyed listening to Bruno Mars, he’d be toast.

  “Ahhh, the hell with that! Let’s go with something a bit more nostalgic.”

  He nixed the idea of playing, ‘Grenade’ by Mr. Mars, and instead opted for, ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ by Nirvana, which took him back to his boarding and military school days. He sang loud with the music when rain began to pour down hard. His wipers went into overdrive, smacking and slapping against his windshield as he maneuvered down the street and entered thick traffic, on the way to his ninth floor penthouse back on Michigan Avenue.

  “HERE WE ARE NOOOOW! ENTERTAIN US!”

  ~***~

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brooklyn Greene found herself face down in a small puddle of her own dribbled saliva. When she came to, her assistant, Ivy was standing in front of her, her white robed arms crossed and a grin on her silly, chunky-cheeked face.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Brooklyn declared, popping to attention, trying to save face. She clamored around for her glasses, fighting slee
p once again as if she were Evander Holyfield in the land of the Zzzzzs. “Hand me the report.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes, snickered and disappeared into the adjoining laboratory. Brooklyn sighed. She couldn’t keep these hours anymore. Stifling a strong yawn, she widened her eyes, trying desperately to hang on to consciousness. Sprawled all around her were piles of gray dust and brittle broken bones…but this was no ordinary debris. These constituted the rare finds of human remains in the underbelly of a tiny storefront that had been flooded from one of Venice, Italy’s many downpours. Oh, how she loved Venice…

  Brooklyn had the delicate task of putting back together the skull of the human remains while the curator of the museum made sure the public knew of the fascinating discovery. She’d just gotten back from the Italian excursion and in typical fashion, she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Her jet setting afforded her trips worldwide, but her curious nature, hand-tailored from her occupation as an archeology anthropologist, made her not only an international history buff, but a lover of discovery and mysteries finally solved. One governmental program ended and another began, and before she could sink her teeth into it, she had been invited to the historic city of Rome to present her findings. It had been a breathtaking expedition, but she hadn’t had a moment’s rest. Now she was back in the States. She’d returned to her ‘hidden lair’ of the Field Museum in Chicago.

  “You know we have time, right?” Ivy chided as she handed her the manila folder. Brooklyn snatched it out the woman’s hand, laid it beside her and organized her supplies, straightening her brushes ‘just so.’ She reached for her camera and perused the images, looking closely as she zoomed in on some of the findings.

  “Ivy, I don’t like waiting until the last minute to have my work completed, you know that. What if something unexpected comes up?” She didn’t miss the woman’s lip twist like a boy scout knot as she rolled her eyes and sauntered away. Brooklyn grabbed her microscope, placed two of the bones under it and examined them closely, mumbling to herself.

  “Yeah…that definitely looks like it is from the mandible…female, most likely Caucasian…”

  We didn’t find the right temporal bone.

  Brooklyn surmised some of the debris was just that — the crucial skeletal pieces for reconstruction blown to bits. She’d make it work nevertheless; challenge accepted. A few more minutes turned to hours and before long, the museum had come to a hush. People tapped her shoulder and said their farewells. She gave her customary nod of ‘adios’ without lifting her gaze, then paused, shifted in her seat and picked up her cell phone.

  “Hi, I’d like to order a pizza please…delivery, yeah. It’s me, Frank.” She smiled into the phone. “I’ll meet you at the back door. I want my usual — a medium pizza with stuffed crust, extra cheese, extra onion, light sauce, green peppers and pepperoni. Thanks!”

  She laughed lightly and disconnected the call, then reached into her bag that was slung over the back of the metal chair. Digging deep, she pulled out an unopened bottle of water, cracked the seal and downed a fourth of it as if she were being timed.

  It was going to be a long night, and she was ready for it, with thoughts of pizza slices and mandibles to dust in mind…

  ~***~

  “Goddamn it!” Ace flung the heated sheets and thick comforter off his sweat-covered body so hard, they wrapped around one another, forming into a sloppy rope. They hit the floor with a thud. He wrestled with his lungs, trying to breathe and clear his mind of the horrors that continued to plague him. It was two in the damned morning, and he’d been rocked by yet another torrential nightmare. This was nothing new, just the story of his life, yet, he couldn’t deny the frequency was now affecting him in adverse ways and the intensity of the damned things now skyrocketed out of control. He much preferred to not deal with the issue head on. This was the one thing in his life he ran from, and the quicker his steps, the better. But the shit chased him into every dank alley, sullen corner and abyss of escape, dangling a rotten carrot over his head as he attempted to once again catch a few undisturbed winks.

  “Shit…” he mumbled as he got to his feet, his chest rising and falling so fast, he was afraid if he didn’t calm down soon, he could end up in a world of trouble. As he got himself together, he made his way across the vast, sterile bedroom. He paced around in the dark, the quiet making him sick, toying with his imagination, feeding into his own hysteria. Running his fingers through his hair, he gripped the strands with double fists, causing his eyes to slightly slant. He was beyond exhausted and running on fumes would have felt like a full tank at that point. He wondered if he could dive back into the bed and try his hand at slumber again. It looked so inviting, but he knew better. Once those eyes closed, the horses would come charging once again…taunting him, threatening his very life. He shook his head, disgusted with the notion. It was pointless.

  I am exhausted, but what the hell am I going to do about it?! There is nothing I can do!

  The whole restless night thing was getting old and worn out. He couldn’t get used to it, accept it, calm it, make it obey or go away. He’d become simply powerless, held hostage by his own mind. A huff escaped his lips. His feet pounded with each step as he drew towards his master suite bathroom, his mind made up. Once inside, he leaned against the sink, gripping the cool ceramic with both palms, feeling sorry for himself. He glared into his reddened eyes, backdrops to bright emerald irises, making the windows of his soul look like a damn Christmas ornament — Rudolph red against pine tree green.

  I can’t believe this shit. Well, I could go get my car washed, vacuum, put the dishes away in the washer, do another load of laundry…watch a little T.V. Then, I may as well go into work a little early, get some shit done. This has gotta stop…but it won’t…it fucking won’t!

  ~***~

  Ace couldn’t for the life of him figure out why the parking garage was so packed at six in the morning. Never the less, it was a welcome distraction. After his evening and early morning of severe night terrors, he was simply happy to be out and about, amongst the living. He jammed his MP3 Skull Candy ear-buds into his ears. ‘Been Caught Stealing’ by Jane’s Addiction blasted at the highest possible volume, and he couldn’t be audibly happier. He couldn’t help but bob his head to the catchy beat of a song that he embraced so closely, more than a child with a teddy bear on a stormy night.

  He stepped into the elevator and caught his reflection. Scratching the slightly raised, diagonal scar that ran across his right eyebrow, he peered at himself in the reflective steel doors and walls. He brushed his shoulders against several people who shot him an ominous look, letting him know he was taking up prime real estate with his sizeable body. With a smirk, he went about his business and coolly steepled his hands in the shape of a triangle, sculpting his already perfectly trimmed, dark brown faux-hawk. He then leaned slightly forward to check out his eyebrows and smooth them out, even the one kissed by the slight disfigurement. A noticeable glimmer shone in his jade-green eyes as he outlined the side of his perfectly trimmed goatee. A man with a stiff, reddened face bumped into him and cleared his throat.

  “Hey, do you think you have your music loud enough?! Geesh! We all can hear it! Show some consideration,” he said in a loud voice.

  A couple of people nodded in agreement; the others simply looked sheepishly around, more than likely afraid to say such words but their hearts no doubt mirrored the man’s sentiments.

  …Another grumpy old geezer trying to fuck up someone else’s fun... These types of motherfuckers make me want to beat them about their age-spotted heads with their own cane.

  Ace was in a bad mood, finally getting his steam back, calming down, and this old fucker came and farted on his resolve.

  “Sir, actually, no I don’t think it’s loud enough at all. I’m surprised you can actually hear it.”

  He took a gander at the man’s hearing aid, jammed in his left ear with long, wiry, dark hairs growing around it like sunflower petals. He then proceeded to re
move the ear set from the jack, drowning the man’s protests and curses in the blaring tune. Ace stood his ground, tickled to death at his own childish antics as the annoyed man clearly mouthed: ‘Asshole!’ Ace was typically the last one off, since his office was on the second to last floor available in the entire building.

  He turned his music down, waited for the elevators doors to split open like spanning angel wings. When they did, he stepped forward, embracing his golden, freshly polished ego and the God within. He knew better than that, however. Those wings must’ve been portals to Hell, because the Devil had entered, and his name was Ace Blackstone. As always, no one was there, except his two mannequins he’d affectionately named, ‘Herman’ and ‘Kellie.’.

  “’Sup Herman, man! How’s it hangin’?...Still stiff ’nd hard, huh?” He chuckled as he maneuvered past the plaster bastard with 1980’s ocean wave hair. Kellie was posed at his office door once he cleared the foyer area, standing there in her lacey, red lingerie number and her matted, blonde wig slightly off-kilter. He dusted her shoulder off, looked her up and down and whispered discreetly in her ear, “You gotta help Herman out, sweetheart. I know he isn’t really your type, but what do you have to lose?”

  He unlocked his office door, exposing the large area as it burst with light and flipped the switch on the ivory painted walls. Making his way over to his coffee maker, he grabbed his favorite brand — Maxwell master blend — and prepared it. Deciding it was a bit too quiet, he cracked open his window to allow the cool, fresh air inside. It mingled with the morning traffic music of honking cars and taxis. Soon, he felt more settled as he sat with a black, plain coffee mug filled with the dark nectar that he loved…