“Pretty sure.”
“Okay, we’ll check it out later. Maybe The Majesty just sent her down to check on us.”
Narice didn’t feel that to be the case; the figure seemed to be hiding, but she let the matter go. “Where to now?” she asked.
He turned a corner and followed the signs directing them to the highway. While they sat at a light, he reached down and flipped up the console. Inside were buttons, a small GPS screen and a bunch of other electronic bells and whistles Narice could only stare at.
Saint looked over at her awestruck face and chuckled.
Her eyes narrowed in response but he chuckled again, then hit a switch and said, “Big brother. You there?”
Silence. Then the male voice Narice remembered hearing after her failed escape attempt came on and said, “Hey, little brother. I’m here.”
Saint replied, “Your buggy has bugs, so me and the lady took your gift.”
Big brother said, “Aw, man. I loved that buggy.”
Saint laughed. “Hey, not my fault. The cockroaches got to it first. We need you to call the exterminator.”
The voice gushed with anguish. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive it.”
Narice asked, “Why’s he sound so crushed?”
Saint’s voice was laced with amusement. “That sports car we were driving was his.”
Big brother came back on the line. “All right. We thought you might need the SUV, so exterminators are on site. You get yourself out of there.”
“Will do.”
“Little Touissant sends love.”
Saint nodded. Little Touissant was his sister Sarita’s nickname. “Sending love back.” He closed the panel and eased the big truck away from the light.
A few moments later, Narice heard a loud explosion that seemed to rock the very air. She quickly turned in her seat and looked back towards the direction they’d come. Through the truck’s tinted rear window she could see smoke pouring out of the garage. “Was it the car?”
He nodded. “Better to blow it now than to have it accidentally tripped by some poor citizen.”
As the sound of wailing sirens came out of the distance, Narice faced forward, prayed no one had been hurt, and fixed her eyes on the road.
They drove for a long time in silence. Saint looked her way a few times but didn’t say anything. He figured she’d talk soon enough.
A few minutes later, she did. “How did you know the car had a bomb?”
“I didn’t, but I thought about what I’d do if I were the bad guys and wanted to make sure the Eye wasn’t found.”
“Eliminate the people looking for it?”
“First thing.”
She shuddered again. “This is real, isn’t it?”
“’Fraid so, angel.”
Narice watched the scenery through the window beside her seat.
Saint asked, “You going to be okay?”
She chuckled softly, “When this is over, yes. Right now, I’m still adjusting. I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
Needing to think about something else beside the potential of her immediate demise, Narice asked, “Where are we headed?”
“Toledo to see Uncle Willie.”
“Should we call him?”
“No, cell phones aren’t secure. We’ll talk to him face-to-face.”
“Do you think he might be in danger?”
“More than likely, yes.”
Narice didn’t like the sound of that. “Well, they may be in for a surprise. Uncle Willie’s a retired cop. He can probably still handle his business, even at his age.”
Less than three hours after leaving Grand Rapids, the big black SUV cruised into Toledo, Ohio. Narice’s back and behind were stiff from the long ride, so when he stopped to get gas, she stepped out so she could stretch.
His hand on the pump, he asked her, “How you doing?”
Saint watched her stretch her arms above her head, innocently teasing him with the rise of her soft breasts. He turned away smoothly, so he wouldn’t be caught staring at the way the white silk tautened over her nipples.
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 pu
t 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 moment 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 smuggling 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.
Four
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 Institute. 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.
The Edge of Dawn Page 5
