The Edge of Dawn

by Beverly Jenkins

Narice looked from one brother to the other. “You two do favor.”

  “No, we don’t,” the brothers replied in unison.

  “Yes, you do. You have the same cheeks, the—”

  “No, we don’t,” they said again, firmer this time.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. Myk, let me go and get my purse so I can give you my credit card number.”

  He asked, “What for?”

  “So I can pay for what I’m going to choose.”

  “Your credit isn’t good here—your money either. Just pick out what you need. Me, I have to get to work.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. It’s the least Sarita and I can do.”

  “But—”

  He smiled, then turned to his brother. “Are you going to stick around?”

  “Depends on whether we can find the book or not.”

  “Okay, but don’t leave town without letting me know. I’m on my way to pick up something you’ll probably need.”

  Saint looked confused.

  Myk waved him off. “I’ll see you later. Narice, there’s a suitcase you can use in the hall closet.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, thanks for everything.”

  He left without a further word.

  In the silence that followed his exit, Narice took a slower stroll through the clothing; picking out pieces here and there, holding items against her torso in an attempt to gauge how the garment might look once she had it on. Through it all, Saint waited and watched silently. Narice was very conscious of his presence. “You know, you’re going to go blind wearing sunglasses inside all the time.”

  “I’m already blind, that’s why I wear them.”

  Her eyes swung to his. “They’re prescription?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You never asked.”

  She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t did I?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Narice’s guilt stung her. She’d had no business being so judgmental, but he was so unlike the men she was accustomed to being around. “How long do you think we’ll be on the road, that way I can figure out how much stuff I’ll need to take.”

  He shrugged. “No idea.”

  “A week’s worth maybe?”

  “Sounds good.”

  So she spent the next few minutes gathering jeans, tops, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and other practical wear. Choosing those garments made much better sense than trying to run from the bad guys in Bandolinos and Dior suits with tight skirts. Speaking of Bandolinos, the Chandlers had also provided a slew of shoes: sandals, hikers, running shoes, and dress flats. Narice stuck her left foot into a sandal and the right into a running shoe. Both fit well, so she put them with their mates and set them in her keeper pile.

  Narice was pleased with her choices; she didn’t need to take much with her, she had tons of clothes at home. The only thing she hadn’t spotted yet, and she prayed they were here somewhere, was underwear. She shot a quick look at Saint. She really didn’t want to ask him, but she needed more underwear than the single change she possessed now. “Is there underwear here, somewhere, I hope?”

  “Try checking the rest of those boxes on the coffee table.”

  Sure enough, one of the gold boxes held three sexy brassieres and matching panties. The jewel-tone colors and the lace trim were just her style. A quick search through the other boxes turned up more underwear, a couple of camisoles, pajamas, and a robe. She walked the boxes over to her keeper pile. “Does your brother really bring clothes in like this for his wife?”

  “Clothes, jewelers, furriers. He bought so many clothes for her when they first got married, lots are still in bags and boxes in her closet. She has enough stuff for three women.”

  “Does he do it to impress her?”

  “Nope. Does it because he loves her.”

  “I see,” Narice replied. Most women never got that kind of love. Narice thought it best to change the subject. “I’m going to take all this upstairs and get dressed.”

  After breakfast, Narice and Saint went out to the van. Last night, the darkness kept them from fully assessing the SUV’s damage, but now that it was morning, the big dent on the passenger-side front wheel well was quite apparent. The paint had been badly scratched on the driver’s side. There were bumps and bruises on the doors, and a headlight was broken. “Considering what we went through, it looks pretty good,” he said pleased. “Gives it some character.”

  Narice wasn’t sure if character was the word, but as long as it could outrun a helicopter, she didn’t care how it looked. “So where do we go first?”

  He looked at his watch. “I need to get a headlight, then we can find a bookstore.

  Wearing a short-sleeved blue blouse, matching shorts, and her new running shoes Narice climbed into the passenger seat and clicked in her belt. “You know,” she said as he got in on his side, “I’ve been thinking about the clue daddy left in the quilt.”

  He stuck the key in the ignition and turned on the engine. “What about it.”

  “It said, ‘then go Home’. I’m wondering if he meant our home, the house I grew up in?”

  “Is it the same house where the fire was set?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s swing by there after I get the headlight and see what we can see.”

  She nodded her agreement, but in reality Narice dreaded the prospect of revisiting the scene of her father’s death.

  Saint made a few calls and found an auto shop that could replace the light. An hour later, the work was done and he was driving down Forest Avenue on the city’s east side en route to Narice’s home. She’d been pretty quiet most of the morning. He didn’t press, figuring if his childhood home had been torched and someone he loved had died in the fire, he’d be pretty silent, too.

  Per her directions, Saint took a left onto Sheridan Street and drove halfway down the block. On their left was a large city playground filled with kids on swings, in the sandbox, and shooting hoop. On the right, the charred remains of Simon Jordan’s house. Saint eased the SUV to the curb and cut the engine.

  For a moment, Narice didn’t move to get out. She sat there looking up and down the street at the familiar houses. The memories of playing in the park when she was young rose to mind as clearly as the happy sounds of the children playing there now. Her eyes finally settled on the blackened wood and bricks that had once been her home and the grief filled her throat. Pushing it aside, she took hold of the door’s handle and swung the heavy door open.

  Saint could feel her pain. “Are you sure you want to do this, now?”

  “Now or later, it’s all the same.”

  She got out and he followed.

  The roof was gone. Yellow police tape cordoned off the perimeter. A sign nailed onto the temporary plywood door declared the place condemned and warned trespassers to stay out.

  Narice held the yellow tape up so she could duck under it, then she and Saint stood there for a moment scanning the hulk.

  Narice said softly, “Well, daddy, we’re here. Now what?”

  Saint asked, “You don’t think the Eye’s in there somewhere, do you?”

  “I doubt it, that would be too obvious, but it’s too dangerous to go inside and look.” She studied the house again. “I wonder why he wanted me to come here? He said, home, and this is home.”

  She turned to Saint hoping he had a theory.

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Narice walked slowly around the burned perimeter, stepping over wood and around scorched furniture and other debris. Her first trip here had been the day before the funeral. In her pain and sorrow all she could do was stand in front of the remains and weep for her father and for herself. Coming here today, she’d hoped the purpose behind the visit would give her the strength and distance she’d need to look for whatever clues might be contained in the ashes, but grief still had the upper hand.

  When Saint looked up and saw t
he tears standing in her eyes, his heart went out to her. “How about we go to the bookstore? I don’t think we’re going to find what we’re looking for here.”

  She discreetly wiped her eyes. “You’re probably right. If there was anything valuable it’s long gone.”

  A woman’s voice interrupted them. “Well, good morning, Narice.”

  Thelma McNeal had been the Jordans’ next door neighbor for thirty years. Narice took in a deep breath and looked over to where the woman stood on her back porch. “Good morning, Mrs. McNeal.”

  Once upon a time, Thelma McNeal had been hot. With her dark brown skin, beautiful full figure, and jet black hair, she drove the neighborhood’s husbands and widowers wild. She drove their wives wild too, because Thelma had many of those husbands sneaking in her back door at night. Now, the years of alcohol abuse and fly-by-night sugar daddies had drained her beauty and aged her well beyond her sixty years. Her skin was now mottled and creased, the eyes bleary. One of the reasons was easy to see. It was barely 10:30 in the morning and Thelma was already buzzed; probably from the brown liquor in the glass she had in her hand. Her platinum-blond wig was on slightly crooked and the once traffic-stopping curves were now just bulk beneath a flowered muumuu that should have been turned into a dust rag years ago. Her other hand held her current yap dog against her formidable chest. Like all little yap dogs, it had the nerve to growl and bare its teeth.

  Mrs. McNeal ignored the dog and said to Narice, “Sorry about your daddy’s passing. I was in North Carolina burying my sister the day the fire broke out.”

  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 peopl
e 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.