The Edge of Dawn (6 page)

She finally responded to his question, “I'm a little stiff, but otherwise okay. I'm also hungry, but I want to make sure Uncle Willie is okay.”

Pierced by the sharp arrow of lust, Saint had a sudden hunger too, but he ignored it; or at least attempted to. “We can eat after.”

Narice agreed. Right now, making sure Willie was okay took precedence over her empty stomach.

She waited and watched Saint do the windows and found herself studying his hands. They were capable hands; the fingers long, the skin scarred in a few places. He wore a carved silver band on the ring finger of his right hand. The ring's exotic make made her curious about its origin. She wondered about his origins as well. Who was he really, and what kind of life prepares a man to be so wary he looks for bombs wired to his car? It was quite obvious he was not your everyday, run-of-the-mill brother. He'd mentioned having a sister and she'd heard the voice of his brother. Did he have other family members as well—a wife, children? Where had he trained to be who he was?

Saint looked up from tossing the dirty towel into the waiting trash can to find her watching him. It was impossible to know what she might be thinking, but he was thinking that she'd be a sister worth pursuing if this job weren't so important and she weren't so classy. Saint knew a dessert fork from a salad fork, and over the years had attended his share of state dinners and embassy balls, but he didn't like the high life. His two half-brothers, Mykal and Drake, both powerful and wealthy men were accustomed to life's finer things and enjoyed them. For Saint, the good life meant having a
bed to sleep in and enough food in your stomach; growing up in foster care gave him an appreciation for simpler things. So, no, he wasn't going to get mixed up with the elegant Narice Jordan no matter how sweet her nipples looked. He didn't wear suits and he didn't shave; women like her expected both.

Narice continued to be haunted by Ridley. Who knew where she might have ended up had Saint and his squeegee partners not shown up. She wondered if he would now volunteer more details. “How did you know I was with Ridley?”

“Friends of mine have had him under surveillance. They figured he'd make a move on you after the funeral, and he did.”

“What will happen to him?”

“Deported, maybe. He's a Canadian citizen, but there's no guarantee he'll stay put because he's as slippery as he is deadly.”

“So, we'll probably see him again.”

“More than likely.”

Narice added one more worry to her growing list.

 

Uncle Willie's name was really William White. He wasn't blood, but because he'd been her father's best friend he'd become an uncle of the heart. Narice directed St. Martin to the small blue-and-white bungalow without trouble. Uncle Willie lived within hollering distance of the Toledo Zoo. When she was growing up, the frequent trips to see him had always
coincided with a trip to see the animals, so by the time Narice was nine years old, she could find his house with her eyes closed.

Saint parked by the curb and took a moment to survey the place. Two windows upstairs facing the street. Probably bedrooms. One big picture window downstairs. Living room, more than likely. He opened his door and stepped out. Taking a moment to scan the layout of the block, he noted that it looked like most urban sides of town. There were a few vacant lots and a boarded-up home two doors down, but there were also freshly painted fences, flowers in pots and in window boxes. All the homes had their lawns cut and he saw kids riding bikes near the convenience store on the corner. He checked the street for parked cars that might hold men watching Uncle Willie's house but saw none.

A white wire fence encased Uncle Willie's well-kept flower-filled front yard. Guests had to come through the gate in order to access the stone walk that led up to the wide, old-fashioned porch. Narice put her hand on the gate and wondered how many times she'd done this before in her life? A modest estimate placed the count somewhere in the hundreds, she'd bet. Uncle Willie and her daddy fished together, went to regiment reunions together, played cards, drank brown liquor, and always, always told lies together. The memories brought tears of grief to her eyes. Her father hadn't deserved such a terrible death. She wiped the water away and opened the gate.

William White, all six foot two and three hundred
pounds of him, stepped out of the house and onto the porch. When he saw Narice, his eyes lit up like the Fourth. “Baby girl!”

Saint watched Narice hurry up the steps and be hugged fiercely by the big man with the gray hair. White held her like his life depended upon it, and Narice hugged him back tightly. Saint could see she was crying and his heart began to pound in sympathy. Tears ran down the retired cop's cheeks as he rocked her and crooned comfort.

Narice let herself cry. Since leaving her father's grave site, her greatest desire had been to be held and salved this way. She'd wanted someone to hold her who'd loved Simon Jordan as much as she, and who'd understand her tremendous heartache. William White was that someone because his pain and grief equaled her own.

Narice finally stepped back. She ran her fingertips over her eyes and knew she probably looked a mess, but she didn't care. Out of the blue, a hand appeared offering her some tissues. She took them from St. Martin with thanks, blew her nose and said, “William White, this is St. Martin.”

Uncle Willie looked the sunglasses-wearing Saint up and down, then asked, “What's he trying out for, Cyclops in
X-Men 5—The Black Mutants
?”

Narice coughed and laughed. She couldn't see Saint's eyes, but she sensed he was not amused. “I don't think so, but let's go inside.”

Saint followed them to the door, but paused a mo
ment to look up and down the street for cockroaches before going in.

Inside, Uncle Willie was asking, “You all want something to eat? I just did some chops on the grill. Always cook too much so I won't have to cook later in the week. You're welcome to join me.”

“Thanks, I'm starving,” Narice gushed appreciatively.

Willie looked at the silent St. Martin. “What about you, Cyclops? You hungry?”

Saint gave up. He smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Willie smiled back. “Then come and get it.”

The grilled chops had been brushed with a sweet dark barbecue sauce that got all over Narice's hands and lips. It had been a long time since she'd tasted 'que this good, and just being around Wild Willie, as her daddy called him, lifted her spirit.

While they ate the chops, cole slaw and baked beans, they talked about Simon's death.

Willie said to Narice softly, “Sorry I didn't come to the funeral.”

“That's okay. I understood your reasons.”

“Hate to have the last memory of someone I love be of them lying there all stiff and still—funeral home paint all over their face.” He shuddered. “Hate funerals.” He went silent for a moment, then turned her way and asked, “Was it a good turnout?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Good. Knew it would be. Everybody loved him.”

In light of all that had happened, Narice thought he needed to know the truth about the death of his best friend. “Not everyone, Uncle Willie. The police said it wasn't just a fire. It was arson.”

Willie stared. Visibly shaken he set down the jar holding his green Kool-Aid. His dark eyes radiated anger and emotion. “Arson? You didn't tell me the fire was set.”

“I know, but it was bad enough that
I
knew.”

Willie stared at Narice, then at the silent watching Saint. “Lord, have mercy. Glad you didn't tell me. I'd be in Detroit right now, busting heads. Nobody deserves to die like that. Nobody.” His gray mustached lips tightened. “Damn,” he whispered. Tears ran down his face again. He wiped them away and asked, “So what are the cops up there doing? Are they looking for the arsonist?”

“Yes, buy they weren't sure how long it might take. They said they'd get in touch when they had something.” She then asked, “Do you know anything about the Eye of Sheba?”

His head turned sharply. “Why?”

His abrupt and wary answer made Narice pause and observe him for a moment. She picked her words carefully, “Because it might be the reason daddy died.”

Willie looked at Narice, then at Saint before sighing heavily. “I told him bringing that thing back to the States was a bad idea. I told him.”

Saint asked, “What do you mean?”

“He wanted to help the king, but I thought smug
gling it out of the country and then hiding it would be more trouble than the damn thing was worth.”

“Do you know where he hid it?”

Willie shook his head, saying, “No, but he did hide it. That much I know. Somebody after it?”

Narice nodded. “And after me because they think I know where it is.”

“The king's family?”

“Yes, but she's with the good guys, I hope.”

Willie turned on Saint. “You look like military. You in on this, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose side?”

Saint nodded towards Narice. “Hers.”

Willie seemed to relax. “Good. I got something I want to show you.”

While he was gone, Narice looked over at Saint. His statement that he was on her side had done funny things to her insides. She'd always gone through life under her own steam; she'd never wanted a man to declare himself on
her
side. Brandon, her ex, could certainly attest to that.

Uncle Willie returned carrying a large box. Saint hurried over to help relieve the elderly man of the heavy burden, but Willie glared. “Back off, Cyclops. I'm all right.”

Saint stepped back.

Willie placed the box on an empty kitchen chair and Willie said, “Six weeks ago, Simon drove down here so we could go to Atlantic City. He had this box in the car.
Told me if anything happened to him, I was to give the box to you.”

Narice's face creased with puzzlement. She walked over to it. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. I tried to give him the third degree, but he said it was personal, so I left it alone. You think the folks wanting the diamond were already after him?”

Narice nodded. After meeting with The Majesty, Narice was fairly certain that had been the case. More than likely agents of the opposition had contacted him and demanded the return of the Eye. When he refused, they'd set the house on fire. Farouk did say all roads led to those opposing The Majesty. “Well, let's see what's in here.”

Inside were old notebooks, letters, and newspapers. In the middle of the pile she found an old address book. She slowly turned the pages. The familiar scrawl of her father's handwriting brought grief to the surface once more, but she was determined to find out what else the box held, so set her emotions aside and dug deeper. More letters; his high school yearbook. There were a few pictures, too. One, a black-and-white picture of a twelve-year-old Narice at the beach on Belle Isle. She looked at the skinny, grinning kid that was herself and smiled. She set it aside. The last photo pulled at her heart painfully and the resulting tears flowed unchecked down her brown cheeks. Hands shaking, she lifted it out of the box. It was framed and had been taken on her parents' wedding day. Her daddy looked solemn in his fancy suit; her mother, dressed in
yards and yards of white silk and lace, looked beautifully dignified. Their young faces stared at Narice across time. She ran a slow finger over the faces and felt the knot of grief grow in her throat. When her mother died, Narice and her father had gone through the rest of their lives without her. Once again, Narice's pain echoed; he hadn't deserved to die alone among the flames. She put the photo aside and picked out the last item. It was cylindrical, wrapped in brown paper and tied closed with string.

A curious Narice set it on the table and carefully opened the paper. Inside, lay the most beautiful quilt she'd ever seen.

The quilt wasn't very large; its size would barely cover the top of a small coffee table. Midnight blue and black were the dominant colors, but the threading and the appliquéd symbols were done in gleaming golds, greens, and reds. Squares of soft purple velvet framed the two vertical edges. Each corner had a penny stitched to the fabric. Narice had never seen anything like it. Moved by its beauty, she turned to Willie. “Do you know where this came from?”

“Nope,” he confessed.

Both he and Saint came closer in order to get a better look. Narice draped the quilt over the top of the box and held up the edges so everyone could see the intricate design. She ran her hands lightly over the textured
surface, then using her fingers pinched her way around the outside edges.

Willie asked, “Hoping he hid something inside?”

She nodded, then felt something. Turning to St. Martin, she whispered, “Bingo!”

He grinned back. “You're learning.” He reached into his coat and handed her a small closed pocketknife. “Use this.”

Narice shook her head with amusement. Forget Cyclops. St. Martin was really Inspector Gadget.

Narice very carefully slit a few of the threads on the edge then handed the knife back to Saint. Using the red tips of her manicured fingers, she slowly withdrew a folded piece of paper. Unfolded, it read:
Narice
.
If Willie has given this to you, I'm probably dead. To find the Eye use this quilt first, then go Home.

The idea that he knew he wouldn't be around when she retrieved the quilt made Narice's anger at the unknown killers flare again. She handed the note over to the men to read. Once they had, Saint reached into his coat and took out a butane charcoal lighter. He flicked on the flame. Holding the note, he carefully set it afire, then walked the small flaming note to the sink Seconds later, it was ash.

Willie looked on with surprise. Narice now accustomed to Saint and his magic tricks, directed her attention back to the quilt. It was certainly gorgeous. Last summer, she and a few of her sorors had attended an Underground Railroad lecture at the Smithsonian Insti
tute. On display were dozens of old quilts used by escaped slaves to find their way North to freedom. Her daddy's quilt bore a startling resemblance to those displayed. She only wished she could remember the meanings behind the symbols.

Saint eyed the quilt and confessed, “If this is our map, we're in trouble.”

Narice was more optimistic. “We have to go to a bookstore.”

“Why?”

“There's a book I need. If this quilt
is
our map, we have to learn to read it.”

She saw his eyebrow rise.

He said with an impressed tone, “You are getting good at this, aren't you?”

“Just trying to keep up with you,” she tossed back easily.

He grinned beneath the glasses and she turned away because her heart was beating fast and she didn't want him to know he'd affected her.

Willie was still peering at the symbols. “That looks like water there.”

Narice agreed. There were three wavy lines beneath what appeared to be a box within a larger box. “And a sun. This is a monkey wrench,” she stated proudly. She recognized the four-sided square with its signature half-triangle points on each corner. According to what she could remember from the lecture, the monkey wrench signaled potential runaways to gather their
tools—escape would be soon. She explained this to Willie and Saint, then confessed, “But does daddy mean to literally gather tools?”

They didn't know.

Saint had a suggestion. “Let's do it this way. I'd think your daddy would try and keep this as simple as possible.”

Narice agreed.

“So, why does he want us to gather tools? What would we need them for?”

Willie shrugged and offered, “To tear something down—dig something up?”

Saint replied, “That's as good a guess as any. We'll stop at a hardware store and pick up some basic tools. Shovel, pickaxe—whatever else we think may come in handy.”

Narice wondered if her father had done the quilt himself? Her gut said, yes. During the Jim Crow years of the forties and fifties, Simon Jordan had been a very successful tailor. Not until segregation was broken did he get the chance to pursue his lifelong dream of becoming a medical doctor. He'd always loved puzzles and rubrics and reading about ancient objects of mystery like the Rosetta Stone. It would be just like him to leave his behind. She smiled and looked up to heaven where she could just see him seated in a comfortable chair, kicked back with his feet up, watching and wondering if she'd be clever enough to figure it out.
I'll figure it out, daddy, just wait. And I'm going to find the arsonist, too,
she pledged silently.

Narice rolled the quilt back up in the thick brown paper and retied the strings. “That's enough drama for now. Uncle Willie, you go and watch your ‘Wheel of Fortune.' Cyclops and I will clean up the dishes.”

Saint nodded.

Willie who loved Vanna White, grinned. “You'll get no argument here. I love a good mystery, but I have to see my Vanna.”

He left the kitchen and Narice and Saint were alone. Narice suddenly felt very self-conscious. Truthfully, she knew the reason—it was the over six-foot-tall man with the dark glasses watching her so silently. Reminding herself she was way past the age of being turned inside out by a bearded stranger, she took a deep breath to regain control. Then she put the stopper in the large stainless-steel sink and turned on the faucet. I'll wash.”

“I'll dry.” He shrugged out of his trench coat and laid it over one of the kitchen chairs while she found the dish soap and put a few squeezes into the running water. She put the silverware in the water and washed them first.

“I always do the plates first,” Saint, said drying a bunch of the now-clean forks and knives with the blue stripped dish towel in his hand.

Narice glanced up at him and countered, “Well, when the silverware goes in my mouth, I want it clean.”

Saint guessed that made sense. “Never thought about it like that. Guess I'll be washing the silverware first, from now on.”

She smiled then moved on to the plates and glasses. Very conscious of his silent presence, Narice rinsed the sudsy plates in the companion sink and put them one by one in the green plastic dish drain on the counter. He reached for a wet plate just as she was putting the last plate in the drain. Their hands bumped. The sizzle of the contact made them quickly draw back.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“That's okay.”

Their eyes met. She hastily looked away.

Saint could feel the heat rising between them; he was pretty sure she could feel it, too. He didn't push it, however. He'd already told himself he wasn't going to get involved, but he could still feel the electricity of her touch.

The rest of the dishes were finished without incident, and by the time “Wheel of Fortune” was done, so were they.

Narice dried her hands and took off the apron. Fending off Saint's growing nearness made her want air. Maybe a walk in Aunt Pearl's garden would help. Aunt Pearl was Uncle Willie's late wife. She died a few months after the death of Narice's mother. The double passings hit both husbands hard; each had lost their loves at an early age, but that mutual grief made them blood brothers forever.

Before Aunt Pearl died however, she'd had the mother of all gardens. Narice said to St. Martin, “I want to see if Aunt Pearl's garden is still here.”

Saint didn't know why that was important to her, but he didn't want her going anywhere alone, so he followed.

Outside, Narice felt like she'd stepped into paradise. She hadn't been to visit in over a decade. In her absence the garden had grown and spread like a tropical forest. Narice had been nine years old when she helped Aunt Pearl put in eight Rose of Sharon plantings along the yard's left fence. Now those plants looked to be twelve feet high and were covered with glossy green leaves and blooms of white, red, and pink. Crowding the remaining three fences were more Rose of Sharons, towering lilacs, and stands of green forsythia bobbing in the evening breeze. There were red and white daisies, purple coneflowers and in the back of the yard, a stand of milkweed in full bloom. To her delight, orange and black monarchs were fluttering around the milkweed's blossoms, searching out the nectar.

Saint couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a monarch butterfly in the States. He'd grown accustomed to seeing them on his visits to Central and South America, but here—he hadn't seen one in an urban neighborhood for years. He could tell the sight made Narice happy. She was smiling. That was a good thing. The last couple days couldn't have been easy for her; she'd earned these few hours of peace.

Narice took Saint on a tour of the garden, pointing out different species of flowers, clueing him to the fact that monarchs rarely fed on the milkweed plants they were born on.

“How do you know so much about monarchs?”

She answered easily, “Aunt Pearl and Uncle Willie have always had milkweed in the yard, and I learned from them. Aunt Pearl was a science teacher.”

“She and Willie divorced?”

“No, she died when I was young. A drunk driver hit her on her way to church one Sunday morning.”

Narice watched a robin land on the edge of the birdbath, dip his beak to drink, and fly away. The peace and quiet was a sharp contrast to all she'd been through; she didn't want to leave. Thinking about Aunt Pearl made Narice realize that Uncle Willie was the only person in her life now with a direct link to her past and to her parents. She turned to ask Saint about his past, when the silence exploded with what sounded like a cannon fire going off in the house, followed by Uncle Willie bellowing, “Cyclops! Get in here! Now!”

But Saint was already running towards the patio—gun drawn, coat flying behind him. “Hide!” he barked back at Narice.

He vanished into the house and Narice took off for the far end of the yard. Shaking and scared, she fought the mosquitoes for a hiding place amongst the tall, wide-leafed milkweed. Slapping at the bloodthirsty insects, she huddled and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, she saw Saint step out onto the patio. The sunglass covered eyes swept the yard for her. “Narice!” he yelled.

She heard the anxiety in his voice, but it took her a moment to beat back the insects. “Down here.”

When she stood, he seemed to visibly relax. “You okay?” he asked walking to meet her.

“I've been bitten a million times, but I'm all right. What's going on?”

“Come on in. Uncle Willie caught some cockroaches.”

Inside, the two foreign born men seated in the front room on the blue sofa looked scared to death. Narice didn't blame them; the huge gun Uncle Willie had leveled on them had a barrel large enough for her to crawl in and go to sleep. She'd be scared, too. Only then did she see the dead man on the floor in the foyer. She quickly averted her eyes from the disturbing sight. “What happened?” Narice whispered.

“You okay, baby girl?”

“Yes, Unc.”

“Wanted to make sure. These two, well three, came to my door posing as Jehovah's Witnesses, only they weren't carrying Bibles.”

The men's heads dropped in what appeared to be both embarrassment and shame. “They asked if they could come in for water. I told them no. I went to sit back down and they slit my screen, reached in, and unlocked the door. I calmly pulled
Arnold
here out of the grandfather clock, and when the first one crossed my threshold, I blew him away. These two I invited in for tea.”

Narice knew this was a serious matter, but…“The gun is named
Arnold
?”

“Yeah,” Willie replied with pride. “After the Termi
nator.” He never took his eyes off of his guests. “Minute I saw it in the catalogue—knew I had to have it. Knew what I was going to name it, too.”

Narice shook her head and scanned the big gun. “Is that thing even legal?”

Uncle Willie said, “Cyclops, what do they teach you in the military?”

Saint didn't miss a beat. “Don't ask. Don't tell, sir.”

“Exactly.”

Narice smiled. “Never mind. What are you going to do with, them?”

“Already had Cyclops call the cops. My buddies should be here momentarily. In the meantime, Cyclops, search 'em. Let's see who they are.”

Saint said, “I think we already know,” but he had the two men stand up one at a time. From the anger in their eyes, it was plain they didn't like it, but with
Arnold
still trained on them they had no choice but to cooperate.

The two men and their dead friend had on them passports verifying that they were indeed from The Majesty's country of Nagal. Saint also found enough fake ID in their wallets and suit-coat pockets to supply the entire senior class at a local high school. Saint laid the passports in a line on the carpet. While Narice looked on, he produced a camera from the recesses of his magic coat and photographed the faces and information on each one. “Get me an envelope, angel, if you would please?”

“Look in the desk in my bedroom,” Willie told her helpfully.

Narice returned and Saint stuffed the passports, the fake social security cards, and driver's licenses into the large manila envelope. He licked the top and sealed it. He then asked the visitors, “You guys ever been to Guantanamo Bay? The U.S. government has a five-star bed-and-breakfast you'll really like.”

One of the men spit at Saint.

Uncle Willie warned ominously, “Do that again, and you're going to join your boy over there by the door.”

The man's eyes blazed, and he sneered. “There are more where we came from. Thousands more. We will not rest until the Eye is found.”

Saint cracked, “Glad to hear it. Just tell your buddies not to forget their Bibles.”