The Edge of Dawn (9 page)

Narice said sincerely, “Thank you, and my condolences to you and your family, too.”

Mrs. McNeal smiled sadly. “She was a good sister and a good friend. I'm the only one left now out of the six girls my mama had.” She bent to kiss the dog, “Aren't I sweetums. The last of the Welch girls. Yes I am, yes I am.”

Narice looked at Saint. He tossed back a raised eyebrow.

Thelma's eyes went to the burned-down house. “Po-lice said it was arson.”

“Yes, that's what they told me, too. Did Daddy ever mention anything to you about being threatened by anyone?”

Mrs. McNeal shook her head. “No, but some government men came by here yesterday afternoon and asked me the same thing.”

Saint asked, “What did they look like?”

“One Black. One White. The White man had red hair. Black guy had a patch on his eye.”

“The one with the patch sounds like Gus Green,” Saint said.

“Friend?” Narice asked.

He shook his head. “Foe.”

“What did you tell them?” Narice asked.

“Nothing. Once the government gets in your business, you can't get them out. They're like a cranberry stain on your best Thanksgiving tablecloth. Besides, I had nothing to tell.”

Narice looked back to the house.
What had daddy meant? Where would a clue be?

Mrs. McNeal's voice broke into Narice's thoughts. “He your new husband?”

“No. A friend.”

“Your daddy said your husband got married again. Two little girls.”

Narice's body and voice stiffened. “Yes.”

“Pity you all couldn't make it.”

“Yes, it was.”

“First time I ever heard of a woman having to pay her man alimony.”

Narice didn't reply.

Saint saw the tightness in Narice's jaw and realized there was more going on here than just pleasant conversation between neighbors. Mrs. McNeal's eyes were gleaming with dislike as she asked, “What was your husband's name again?”

“Brandon.”

“That's right. I remember that time you both came home for Thanksgiving. That was right after the wedding, wasn't it?”

Narice decided this interview was over. “Yes, it was. It was nice seeing you again.”

“Do you want me to tell Larry you said hello?”

Narice's manners kicked in and she stopped. “Please do.”

“Larry's my son,” Mrs. McNeal told Saint. “Married to a doctor down in Atlanta. She gave up doctoring for a while so she could stay home and raise their son. He's almost three now.”

“That's nice.”

Narice began to walk back to the tape.

Mrs. McNeal's caustic voice followed them, “My Larry was sweet on Narice growing up, but he wasn't never good enough. She was college bound,” she added sarcastically, then cracked bitterly, “No staying home and being a wife and raising babies for Narice.”

The dog was barking his two cents also, but by now, Narice was striding to the truck. The heat of her anger competed with the sun beaming down. No, she hadn't wanted to stay home, go to the local college, and marry dumb, dull Larry McNeal. Her father raised her with the belief that her life lay beyond the confines of the city of Detroit and he'd been right.

Inside the van now, Saint looked over at the silent Narice as he started the engine. “You okay?”

“No. I want to snatch that blond wig off of her head
and beat her with it,” she tossed back between gritted teeth. “If I was Larry, I'd live in Atlanta, too. Crazy old heifer.”

Saint's eyes were wide as saucers. “Narice?”

She shot him a look, “What?”

He chuckled. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

“You can take the girl out of Detroit, but you can't take the Detroit out of the girl.”

Saint grinned. “I'm glad to know you, Ms. Thang.”

She cut him an amused glance. “Just drive, Cyclops.”

Once they were underway, he headed up Sheridan to Gratiot and took a right. At Van Dyke they took another left and Narice couldn't help but notice the changes in the area. A Sears store had been on the corner of Van Dyke and Gratiot during her childhood. During the seventies and eighties it and other big-name department stores fled the inner city for suburbia. As a result this corner remained a vacant lot for many years. Now, to her surprise and delight, there was a big, fabulous senior citizen high-rise on the spot. With its well-manicured grass and stands of multicolored lilies and black-eyed Susans, the complex stood at the intersection like a beacon of hope and progress.

When the traffic light turned green, Saint didn't turn. Instead, as horns honked behind him, he pretended to fiddle with the radio. Just as the yellow slipped to red, he slid through the light.

Narice was confused. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to see if we were being followed.”

She said skeptically, “Okay.”

“If someone was tailing us, the light's caught them.”

Pleased by the ploy, she said approvingly, “You are definitely smarter than the average bear.”

“And you're much prettier than BooBoo or Ranger Smith.”

She laughed.

Their eyes held and she could feel the call of their mutual attraction filling the space like sensual music. She turned away so he couldn't see her response. “Do you think we were followed?”

“If not now, we will be. Gus being in the neighborhood is not good news, but it's not a surprise.”

“Who is he?”

“He used to work for the State Department but lost his job for selling state secrets. I thought he was in jail.”

“Have you run up against him before?”

“Yes, and he's a killer. Period.”

“Where'd you first meet him?”

“South Africa.”

“What were you doing in South Africa?”

“A little fieldwork for the UN.”

Not sure what that meant, Narice studied him closely. “Why was Gus there?”

“To be a mole for the South African government.”

Narice's confusion must have shown on her face because he explained further. “Gus's job was to infiltrate
the African National Congress and report back to the government.”

“And he did that?”

“For money, some people will do anything.”

Narice was stunned. “How did he sleep at night?”

“Knowing Gus, probably very well. If you don't have any loyalties you don't need a conscience.”

Narice supposed he was right; history was filled with Benedict Arnolds of all races, but she made a mental note not to trust Gus Green under any circumstances.

Once they reached the entrance to the highway, they merged onto the eastbound Ford Freeway.

Saint kept his eyes out for tails. If Gus and his cronies were in town, they were bound to show up sooner or later, and Saint put his bet on sooner. As he passed the Alter Road entrance a black car sped down the ramp and merged into traffic. Saint smiled. There they were, right on time. He didn't have to see the plate or registration to know who they were. The black no-frills sedan screamed federal issue. “We're being followed.”

Narice twisted around in her seat.

Saint said, “See that big black box a few cars back?”

She did. It looked like your standard everyday government car. Back home in Maryland, they were everywhere. “Are you sure it's them?”

“Pretty sure, but let's find out.” Traffic was fairly light, so he moved into the far-left lane and eased the speed up to eighty.

Narice kept her eyes glued on the mirror next to her
window and waited to see what the black car would do. It sped up and began jockeying through the traffic in an attempt to keep up. “Too bad we can't lead them to some place like Moscow.”

Saint chuckled. “I vote for Rio—better food.”

“Are we still going to the bookstore?”

“I don't see why not.”

“What if they put a bomb in the car while we're gone? Won't it be hard to keep an eye on the car if we're inside?”

“Yep, but I've got it covered.”

Narice had no idea what that meant, but she'd learned to let him handle the technicalities of keeping them a step ahead of the bad guys. A few moments later, he parked and cut the engine.

The mall had grown in size since Narice shopped here last. There were a lot more stores and the parking lot was huge. Narice got out. He did the same, then pointed the clicker on his keys at the SUV to lock it and she assumed to arm the alarm. A quick look around the immediate area showed no black sedan, so Narice followed him to the mall door.

This being a workday, it was fairly quiet inside. She spotted a few seniors walking the mall for exercise, young women pushing infants in baby strollers, and a couple of teenagers who looked like they should have been in school with the rest of the kids their age.

The bookstore was down by the food court.

When they got there, Saint told her, “You go on inside. I want to grab a cup of coffee.”

Narice wasn't sure she wanted to be on her own. With so many cockroaches sniffing around, she didn't want to wind up being snatched again, but since the food court was in shouting distance, she nodded her agreement and walked into the store.

The young male employee behind the counter verified that the book Narice wanted was indeed on the shelves and then pointed her in the right direction.

Narice walked to the back of the store and when she saw it, she snapped it up like the day's winning lotto ticket. A heartbeat later she had it opened and was browsing through to make sure it was the same book recommended by the Smithsonian lecturer. Happily, it was indeed. In the front were the symbols used by the slaves, and Narice scanned them with a rising excitement. There was the Monkey Wrench. She couldn't wait to sit down with both the book and the quilt. She looked up to see if Saint had come in yet, but he hadn't, so she closed the book and browsed through the section to see if there were any more quilt books that might aid them in the search.

“Do you like quilts?”

The male voice caused Narice to turn. He was tall, black, and wearing a green leather eye patch. She was surprised to find him standing beside her because moments earlier she'd had the store to herself. He smiled, showing her two gold incisors that seemed to gleam under the store's light and Narice could feel her fear rising. Even though she'd never set eyes on him before,
she knew by the eye patch that this was the man, Gus Green. The man Saint accused of spying on the ANC for the South African government. “Yes, I do like quilts,” she said, hoping her voice didn't betray how scared she was. Her book in hand, she nodded politely. “I need to go pay for this. Excuse me.”

She moved to step by him but he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Why are you running off, Ms. Jordan? We've only just met.”

“Let go of me.”

He grinned that gold at her again, then looked at the book clutched in her hand.

“Let go!” she snarled louder.

He didn't. Instead he asked in a calm voice, “Now, with all that is swirling around you, why are you here buying that particular book?”

“I will scream,” she promised angrily.

Only then did he raise his other hand and allow her to see the loaded syringe it held, and her eyes widened with fright. “And it will be the last sound you'll make for quite some time,” he promised. His voice hardened, “Now, tell me about the book.”

Keeping a frightened eye on the needle, Narice lied. “It's for a friend. I promised I'd buy her a copy when I ran across one.”

She couldn't tell whether he believed her or not. Trying to keep her fear under control so she could think, she cast another hasty glance around for Saint.

Green seemed to have read her mind. “If you're
looking for St. Martin, he's occupied with some friends of mine. He won't be back anytime soon, if at all. So, let's go.”

Hearing that Saint wouldn't be around to offer his unique brand of assistance made her knees go rubbery for a moment, but she forced herself to hold it together. As he tried to make her walk towards the door at the back of the store, the Detroit in Narice surfaced and she shouted indignantly at the top of her voice, “Get your hands off of me!”

She swung her purse. He blocked it, giving her the blink of an eye she needed to knee him in the groin as hard as she could.

He yelled and immediately grabbed his fire-filled genitals. Eyes bulging with pain and surprise, he dropped to his knees. Moaning, he toppled sideways like ice cream falling out of a cone.

A breathing hard and angry Narice wondered if she should let him know he'd dropped his syringe.

Saint nursed his coffee at a seat in the back of the food court so he could keep one eye on the bookstore and the other on the lookout for the folks in the black sedan. He knew they were in the mall somewhere; he could smell them. Sure enough, a minute or so later they strolled into view. Wearing dark suits and shades, they looked like refugees from a Blues Brothers convention. Saint wondered if they were too dumb to realize they stood out like Klansmen at an NAACP fundraiser, or if they just didn't care.

To draw attention to himself, he made a show of knocking over his cup, then jumped up from his seat to keep the coffee from flowing down onto his coat. Pretending not to see the agents, he quickly snatched a handful of napkins out of the table dispenser to sop up
the mess. When he was done, he tossed the napkins in the trash, paused a moment to assess his coffee-damp hands, and strolled to the restroom situated a few steps away. A discreet look back showed them following him like rats behind the pied piper. Saint simply shook his head. He enjoyed tangling with arrogant government types because their egos made his job easier.

Once inside the restroom, Saint quickly positioned himself behind the door, then reached into his coat and took out his hinged nightstick reinforced with lead inserts to give it an extra kick. He snapped it out to its full length then held it high like Sammy Sosa waiting on a pitch.

The first cockroach to enter was just drawing his gun when Saint hit a home run across the bridge of the Black man's nose. Blood gushed, the man screamed and fell to his knees. A blow to the back of the head rendered him instantly unconscious. Contestant number two's blue eyes went wide seeing his companion go down, but before he could react, Saint whirled and cracked him across the knees. Number Two groaned then buckled. A lightning fast crack on his back made the man cry out. A second rap across the jaw dropped him like a sack of potatoes and he joined his partner in dreamland on the brown tiled restroom floor.

It had taken the adrenaline-charged Saint less than ten seconds to put both men out. Breathing harshly, Saint exhaled slowly and willed his heartbeat to slow. He picked up their guns, pocketed them, then quickly rifled through their suit coats for ID. He stuffed those
into his coat as well. He'd check them out later. Still breathing harshly, he folded the baton, put it back into its hiding place in his coat, and then washed his hands at the sink. Moments later, he stepped over the unconscious cockroaches and left the restroom to go check on Narice.

Saint hurried into the bookstore just in time to hear Narice shouting. The kid behind the counter looked up in response to the sounds of what was obviously a Black woman going off, and met Saint's eyes with a questioning look. Saint told him, “That's my wife, I'll handle whatever it is.”

Saint kept walking, but reached into the deep outside pocket of his coat and placed his hand on his gun.

He found her at the back of the store in the kids' section. Saint was so surprised to see Green lying on the floor, he stopped confused. Narice for her part was standing off to the side. Her tear filled eyes were furious.

Saint asked quickly, “Are you okay?”

“Now I am.”

She handed him the syringe. “Here.”

Saint's eyebrow rose. “Where'd you get this?”

“It's his. He was going to use it on me.”

Saint turned startled eyes on Green who was obviously in great distress, “So what happened to him?”

“I kneed him in the nuts.”

Saint's surprise etched his face, then he began to chuckle.

Green, who had managed to drag himself to his
knees, but was still bent over from Narice's attack, glowered at Saint and growled, “I thought she was a lady,” and he cast a malevolent glare at Narice.

Narice shot him a go-to-hell look, then asked Saint, “Where were you?”

“In the bathroom stepping on some cockroaches.”

That pleased her. “Good. Can we leave now?”

He grinned. “Sure. Give me a minute, though. I want to talk to my man here.”

Saint pulled out his gun and walked over to where Gus was still struggling to breathe. Green appeared pale and ashen, but Saint knew that a knee in the nuts will do that to you. He reached into the man's coat and pulled out his gun. “The next time you put your hands on her, a knee is going to be heaven compared to what I'm going to do to you.”

“How was that Thailand prison, Ridley sent you to?” Green threw back. “When did you get out?”

Saint snatched Green up so quickly and with such force Green didn't see the large, exotically sculpted knife in Saint's hand until the glittering point was pressed against his shuddering throat. “I should cut your traitor's throat right here,” Saint gritted out.

Though Green was sweating profusely, he tossed back boldy, “But you won't.”

Saint's responding smile was filled such hate it seemed to shine as bright as the knife. “Won't I?”

Even though Narice wanted these cockroaches out of her life, she didn't think this was the place to be gutting anyone. They were in the children's section at the
back of the store and it was pretty shielded but, they were in the mall for heaven's sake. “Saint—”

He didn't seem to hear her. Instead he told Green, “While I was in that prison I used to dream about all the many ways I was going to kill Ridley when I got out, and you're this close to helping me practice making my dreams come true.”

Green smiled dismissively, but when the blade pricked him just enough to make him bleed, his features registered horror.

“Saint!” Narice whispered harshly. His anger was so real he was scaring her.
What had Ridley done to him?

“Stay out of this,” he snapped coldly.

Narice's hand went to her hip in offense.

Green was now visibly shaking.

Saint said softly and firmly, “The only reason you're not dead right now is Narice.” He then showed Green the syringe. “You were going to use this on her. What's in it?”

Gus seemed real scared now. “Just something to put her to sleep.”

“For how long?”

“Three, four hours. That's all. I swear.”

Saint said to Narice. “Angel, go pay for your book. I'll meet you up front. Tell Ms. Jordan, ‘night night', Gus.”

Gus could see the syringe in Saint's left hand and he began to shake even more.

“Say it!” Saint demanded in a cold emotionless voice.

Gus shot a terror filled eye to Narice. “Night-night,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

Narice left.

At the counter the young male employee said, “I see you found the book.”

She nodded and gave him a twenty and a ten to pay for the book. While she waited for him to make change and place the book in a bag, she noticed the crowd of people standing near the food court. “What's going on over there?”

“Security found two guys beat up in the bathroom.”

Saint walked up then, and Narice searched his face to see if it held a clue as to what transpired between him and Green after she left them alone, but the shades made his true expression unreadable. A few seconds later, Narice left the book store escorted by a silent, jaws tight Saint.

Once they got back to the Caddy, Narice assessed him silently as he took out his keys and clicked off the alarm. He then used the small sensor from his pocket to check the vehicle for explosives. While he slowly walked the device around the perimeter, she realized she still knew very little about him. Yes, they'd been together for a couple of days now and had been through some stuff, but who was he really? Who was this man who'd talked about gathering info for the UN, walked around with hi-tech prototypes in his pockets, and carried a knife large enough to carve a Thanksgiving turkey? She felt a shiver go through her bones and hoped it wasn't someone walking over her grave.

Inside the SUV now, Saint sat a moment before turning on the engine. He needed to calm down. He'd almost lost it back there when Green taunted him about the prison. Saint had issues when it came to Ridley and the issues ran deep. Were it not for Ridley, Saint would never have been thrown into a Thailand prison to be beaten and degraded; would never have been snake bit or had to fight rats for food. Just thinking about that hell hole enraged him all over again.

He then heard Narice say coolly, “Thanks for riding to the rescue, sheriff, but the schoolmarm doesn't like having her head snapped off when she's just trying to help.”

Saint met her eyes. She was mad. He could tell. Tight-lipped, he dropped his head onto the steering wheel for a moment, then looked her way. “You're right. You didn't deserve that. I was just so mad—”

“I thought you were going to geld the man right there. Clifford the Big Red Dog and Dora the Explorer would not have been happy.”

“Who?”

She waved him off. “Never mind. What happened between you and Ridley?”

“It was a long time ago.” And that's all he said.

As he started the engine and backed the SUV out of the parking space, Narice stared unfocused out of the window. She had no idea where they were going next, and for now, she didn't care. All she really wanted was off this merry-go-round. She thought back to the first night she met him and how frightened she'd been. For
the last two days, she'd been able to set that fear aside because she and Saint seemed to be an okay dynamic duo. Now came the reminder that this was the most serious mess she'd ever had the misfortune of being involved in. She truly was Alice, only the characters in this Wonderland were car bombs, dead men, sinister helicopters, and cockroaches. It was way more drama than she needed. She just wanted to find the people responsible for killing her father and let the authorities take it from there.

He merged onto the Ford Freeway and headed west towards the heart of the city. Narice didn't bother looking in her mirror for black sedans; that was his job. Hers was to figure out the markings on her daddy's quilt, so, while he drove she took the book out of the bag and opened it.

The table of contents listed various topics, but one in particular focused on the secret signs in slave quilts. She flipped through the pages to that chapter and began to read.

When Narice came up for air, the SUV was parked and the engine was off. She looked up and saw water. Startled, she realized with pleasure that they were on Belle Isle. She looked his way and saw him sitting behind the wheel, his emotions hidden behind his shades. “I haven't been here in years.”

Belle Isle was a 704-acre island in the Detroit River. In the 1700s the French called it Hog Island because of all the wild pigs. In the early 1880s, Frederick Law
Olmstead, the man who designed New York's Central Park, was commissioned by the city fathers to design a plan for the undeveloped island. Under his vision it became a park.

When Narice was young, her father would bring her here on summer Saturday mornings and they would swim at the beach, fish, ride their bikes, and rent canoes. Back then there had been the beautiful Scott fountain to marvel over, scores of flowers, an outdoor casino, and an aquarium that had the biggest catfish she'd ever seen. It was an oasis amidst the concrete and asphalt where residents threw barbecues, family reunions, church picnics, and graduation parties.

Now, she was here and older but the awe of the river and its slow-moving freighters still touched her like it had when she was young. She opened her door and stepped out. Paying Saint no mind she walked down to the water's edge. Once there she looked out over the river and fed herself on the memories of the past, the silence, and the peacefulness of the surroundings. Spying an old weather-beaten tree stump a few steps away, she thought it looked like a perfect place to sit, so she did.

Saint was still simmering over the encounter with Gus. With him in the picture, The Majesty and her supporters were facing another formidable enemy. Green had no scruples. None. A few years ago, there were rumors that he'd had been hired by various U.S. government agencies to conduct covert operations the U.S. couldn't afford to conduct overtly because of political
reasons, but like most such jobs, there'd been no paper trail to confirm or deny the allegations.
Was this one of those operations?
When the President asked Saint to take on this job, he'd made it clear that no one was to know Saint was acting at his request. Nagal was a touchy subject within the administration not only because of its port but because The Majesty would not be controlled should she and her candidates carry the election.

Who is Green working for?
He needed to find that answer ASAP. It was bad enough having to deal with Ridley who was probably representing his own interests in the search for the Eye, in spite of what the generals were told or led to believe. The Ridley Saint knew trafficked in drugs, illegal weapons, and young boys. In the past, political connections kept him from being thrown in jail. Saint had a sneaking suspicion those same connections floated the story of Ridley's death in a boating accident to keep him from being exposed.

Saint looked out at Narice standing beside the water.
God what a woman
. Green had probably scared her to death, but the lady refused to be a victim. Whether she was running away from Ridley or bringing Green to his knees, she was a woman a man didn't mind having his back. Being a loner, Saint had never worried much about interpersonal relationships, but having her upset with him didn't sit right, so he went to make peace.

Narice didn't say anything when he walked up and stood beside her. For a moment the chirps of the birds
and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore were the only sounds.

Then he asked, “Did you ever come here for the Fishing Derby?”

In spite of her mood she smiled. “Every year until I got too old. Never caught a thing, though.”

“Me either. Sarita caught a big perch one time. Named it Lucky. When Gran threw Lucky in the cornmeal and put him in the skillet, Sarita cried for days.”