“Morning,” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”
“Hey, girl,” Tanisha said. “I’ve got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn’t be rollin’ in till eight.”
Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. That week, her brown hair was styled in a twisted up-do with highlights that accentuated her hazel eyes. It looked fabulous, of course; Tanisha believed that each stylist’s own hair was their best means of advertising, and Rachel tended to agree with her.
Tanisha was the first friend Rachel had made when she’d moved to Atlanta. They had worked side-by-side at a shop in College Park. Both of them were driven, talented at their craft, and ambitious. It was only natural that they would decide to step out on faith and open their own salon.
Tanisha frowned at her. “You feelin’ okay? Your eyes are lookin’ kinda red.”
“I didn’t sleep well,” Rachel said, the understatement of the year. But she would never share anything about last night with Tanisha. Although Tanisha was a good friend, had been the maid of honor in her wedding, Rachel had drawn a firm line between what she would share with friends such as Tanisha—and what she would never share with anyone.
“When’s your first appointment?” Tanisha asked. “Maybe you can catch a catnap in the back.”
“I’ve got an eight-thirty, so I may just do that.”
Swinging her purse from over her shoulder, Rachel went down the center aisle of the salon, automatically surveying the sixteen stylist stations as she walked, to ensure that each would be ready for business when their stylists arrived. For most of the day, every chair would be occupied with a mix of walk-ins and appointments. If sistas believed in one thing, it was keeping their hair done—it was no surprise that Madame C.J. Walker, the inventor of the hot comb, had become America’s first black woman millionaire.
In the back, behind a door marked “Staff Only,” there was a supply closet, a staff lounge furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV, a restroom, and an enclosed office. The office contained a bank of filing cabinets and two desks, one for Rachel, the other for Tanisha.
Rachel plopped into the swivel chair in front of her desk. The sofa in the lounge did look inviting . . . but she was afraid to go to sleep, lest she have another nightmare about him.
Besides, there was something much more important that she intended to do first.
She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside, there was a plastic bag from Walgreen’s Pharmacy, sitting atop a black metal case.
She took the grocery bag inside the restroom, opened it.
It contained an early pregnancy test kit.
Rachel bowed her head, whispered a prayer, and tore open the box.
Chapter 3
When Dexter Bates awoke, the world was so white and hazy he thought he’d gone blind.
Panic rising in his heart, he blinked, shook his head as if clearing away soot. His vision slowly came into focus.
He was behind the steering wheel of a car, lodged in a drift of snow on the side of a road. A vast, snowy plain filled the world beyond the windshield. Millions of fat snowflakes tumbled from the sky, like feathers plucked from angel wings.
The car was a Buick sedan, and cold as an ice-box; he shivered, his breath frosting in the air. A canvas, Army-style duffel bag, olive green, lay on the passenger seat beside him.
Where am I? How did I get here?
He’d spent the last four years of his life at Menard Correctional Center, a maximum security penitentiary in downstate Illinois. He was supposed to serve a ten-year sentence, but miraculously, parole had come through last month. He was scheduled to be released on Monday, December 18, a week before Christmas.
But he had no memory of being freed, of shuttling through the mandatory meetings and medical exams that accompanied the release of a prisoner. The last thing he recalled was lying on his bunk last night, fingers laced behind his head. Excited at the prospect of finally getting out of prison and getting his hands on his wife again.
She was, after all, the reason he’d been sentenced to that hellhole. The reason he’d been chopped down in the prime of his life. The reason he’d lost everything.
Although he had more immediate matters to deal with, when he thought of her, he couldn’t repress a ripple of savage anticipation.
But the car in which he’d awakened . . . He didn’t remember it. The authorities obviously didn’t send cons out of prison with complimentary cars. The only logical explanation was that he had stolen it, had been driving on the snow-crusted road, lost control and spun off into a ditch, after which he lost consciousness, wiping out a portion of his short-term memory.
The story possibly explained his predicament. But it failed to satisfy him. It didn’t feel right.
He opened the glove compartment. It was empty. Looking around, he also found nothing on the floors, the rear seats, or affixed to the sun visors. The interior appeared to have been recently vacuumed, too, the scent of lemon air freshener in the cold air, which was downright odd.
If he’d stolen the Buick, wouldn’t there have been some items left inside that belonged to the owner? Even the metal ring on which the ignition key dangled was nondescript, and no other keys depended from it.
The situation didn’t make any sense. It was as if he had been magically beamed from his prison cell bunk to the Buick, like a hapless character manipulated by alien forces in a sci-fi movie.
He was a rational, highly educated man. He’d attended the University of Chicago for undergrad, graduated summa cum laude, and earned his law degree at Northwestern University, finishing fourth in his class. But an explanation of how this had happened eluded his well-trained intellect.
He made a mental note, and moved on.
He took inventory of his possessions. He was dressed in a gray woolen cap, black ski jacket, cotton gloves, gray henley shirt, jeans, and boots. He didn’t remember these clothes, but they might have been given to him by one of the charities that donated clothing to newly released cons. Many of the guys getting out didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, so the charitable donations could be a lifesaver.
In an inside jacket pocket, he found a cheap, faux-leather wallet. It contained his expired Illinois drivers’ license, and a twenty-dollar bill. Courtesy of the charity?
He unzipped the duffel bag. He didn’t recall the bag, either, but the charity might have provided that for him, too.
Inside, he found a couple of pairs of jeans, henley shirts, underwear, t-shirts, socks, and toiletries. All of the clothing was the correct size. It was like getting gifts from some secret Santa.
Buried deep in the bag, his fingers closed around a familiar, yet unexpected shape. He pulled it into the gray, snow-filtered light.
It was a sheathed knife.
He unbuttoned the leather sheath and withdrew the blade. It was a Buck woodsman hunting knife with a four-inch, clip point blade and a sturdy black handle. Light played dully on the razor-sharp edge.
What the hell is going on?
The charity would not have given him a knife. Obviously. The use of such a blade had landed him in the joint in the first place. Before his incarceration, he’d been an avid collector of knives and swords, with an arsenal of over a hundred pieces from around the world.
Perhaps the people who had given him the bag understood his tastes, his preferences. Which was absurd. Who would do such a thing?
None of it added up.
He clipped the knife to his inside jacket pocket, for easy access. Then, he searched through the rest of the bag.
He found a brown, nine-by-twelve envelope that contained his parole papers, signed and dated by the prison warden on December 18. Today? He would assume so until he learned otherwise.
There was nothing else. He turned the bag over, examining it. Three letters were stitched on the bo
ttom, in blocky black script: IDS.
IDS? The acronym didn’t evoke any recognition. But perhaps they were his mysterious benefactors. More mental notes.
Wind shrilled across the plains, scattering snowflakes across the windshield, rocking the car, and blowing freezing air inside. His teeth chattered.
He didn’t understand a damn thing about how he’d wound up in this position, with these strange gifts, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to get out of here. In weather like this, you could freeze to death in a car.
He turned the key in the ignition. The engine was dead, the red battery light burning.
“Goddammit.” He punched the steering wheel.
It was time to start pounding the pavement.
* * *
Climbing out of the Buick, wading through the snowdrift, Dexter checked the license plates. The vehicle had Illinois tags; he must be somewhere in the state. He’d been vaguely worried that he’d been marooned in some remote location, which would have made getting home to Chicago considerably more difficult.
Reaching Chicago was his immediate goal. His mother lived on the South side, and before the police had taken him into custody four years ago, Dexter had hidden certain valuables at her house. Planning for the time of his release. Who could have guessed parole would come so soon?
Before leaving the car, he opened the trunk. It was empty and swept clean, like the interior of the vehicle. Damn strange.
He started walking on the icy shoulder of the road, the duffel bag strapped across his shoulder. It was a narrow-two lane road, as-yet unplowed, that seemed to run through the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t seen a vehicle pass, and the only dwellings he’d spotted appeared to be abandoned barns that wavered like mirages on the snowy horizon.
The thick membrane of clouds concealed the sun, but it felt to him like late morning or early afternoon. In prison, without benefit of the platinum Rolex that he’d worn in his professional life, he’d fine-tuned his internal clock.
He’d fine-tuned quite a few useful skills in prison, in fact.
Dexter had walked perhaps a mile when he heard a vehicle grumbling behind him. He looked over his shoulder, squinting to see through the falling snow.
It was a white Chevy SUV, headlights ablaze, tires churning through slush.
Dexter turned and swung out his arm, thumb pointed to the sky. He didn’t really expect the driver to stop for him. He was a black man in America, and in the past could scarcely hail a taxi in downtown Chicago even when dressed in an Armani suit. Here, in such a desolate area, the chances of someone stopping to give him a lift were virtually nil.
But he wagged his arm anyway. He had nothing to lose.
Amazingly, the Chevy slowed. Dexter could make out an older black man behind the wheel. There was no one else in the vehicle.
The SUV grumbled a few feet past Dexter, and ground to a slushy halt. The passenger door opened.
Wasn’t this some shit? Miracles never ceased.
Dexter approached the door. Heated air swirled from inside, and Dexter heard the melody of an Al Green gospel song, “He’s Coming Back,” bumping from the radio. He’s coming back, indeed.
The old man had a lined face the color of walnuts, a thick white beard, and a blue driver cap that no one under the age of sixty-five would be caught dead in. He wore a quilted black parka, leather gloves. He peered at Dexter through gold-rimmed bifocals.
“Get on in, brother,” he said in a gravelly voice. “It’s all right.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dexter climbed inside, putting the duffel bag between his legs.
The old head scrutinized Dexter, tension coiled in his body. “Bitter cold out there. No kinda weather for a man to be walkin’ in.”
“God bless you for your kindness,” Dexter said, in a crisp, humble voice. “I thought I would be walking for miles.”
Comforted by Dexter’s humility, the old guy appeared to relax. He cranked up the heater another notch, and offered his gloved hand.
“Cecil Jackson.”
“Dexter Bates.” Dexter gave him a firm shake, maintaining a respectful degree of eye contact.
Cecil resumed driving, snow and ice crunching underneath the tires. Dexter glanced at the dashboard, saw the clock read 10:21. An official-looking sticker on the left-hand side of the windshield referenced the city of Peoria. Peoria was about a four hour drive from the prison, and only a couple hours from Chicago.
“Was that your Buick stuck in the snow back there?” Cecil asked.
“Yes, sir. Hit a patch of ice, spun out.” Dexter chuckled. “I haven’t been in these parts for a while. I’ve forgotten how tricky these roads can be.”
“I could try to pull you out.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. The engine wouldn’t turn over—I think it’s the transmission. I’ve been having problems with it for a few weeks.”
“Probably best to call a tow then.”
“If you could drop me off at the nearest gas station, that would be fine, Mr. Jackson.”
Cecil pursed his lips. “Where you headed, Brother Bates?”
“Chicago . . . Brother Jackson.”
He nodded. “Uh-huh. That’s a good piece from here. I’m headin’ back home to Peoria. I was out this mornin’ workin’ for Meals on Wheels—takin’ Christmas gifts and food to senior folk. Doin’ the good Lord’s work.”
“Amen,” Dexter said, rocking in the seat. “Why did you stop for me? I honestly didn’t expect it.”
“It’s Christmastime,” Cecil said. “And it was the Christian thing to do, of course.”
“Not too many people would have stopped for a young black man. They would’ve been afraid.”
“When I rely on the Lord, no weapon formed against me will prosper.”
“You sound like you know your Bible, Brother Jackson.”
“I’ve been leadin’ men’s bible study at my church for seventeen years, son—I better know it.”
“What does the Good Book say about death?”
Cecil gave him an odd look, and Dexter wondered if he had shown his hand. Then Cecil thoughtfully tapped his lip with a gloved finger, perhaps deciding that this was an opportunity to spread the gospel to a wayward young brother.
“Well, it says a lot,” Cecil said. “For example, before Christ resurrected Lazarus, the onlookers told him that the man was dead. Christ answered that Lazarus was only sleeping. Some folk believe death is like that—like sleeping. We will be awakened at the resurrection, if we believe in Christ.”
“Like sleeping, huh? I like that.”
Dexter slid his hand inside his jacket.
“So goodnight, Brother Jackson.”
Perhaps sensing that something bad was about to happen, Cecil grimaced as if bracing for pain, and he uttered an unintelligible phrase that might have been an entreaty to God.
Dexter drove the blade through Cecil’s parka and deep into his right kidney, twisting the knife as he plunged it into the old man’s flesh. A startled gasp escaped Cecil’s lips, and his grip grew slack on the steering wheel.
Calmly, Dexter took control of the wheel. “Careful now, we don’t want to have an accident.”
Grabbing the old head by the coat collar, Dexter pulled him out of the seat as if he were no more than a large, stuffed toy. Cecil went without protest, his body slack, eyes rolling drunkenly. Dexter forced him through the space between the front seats; as he removed Cecil, he squeezed his own body behind the wheel.
The Chevy’s speed decreased when Cecil’s foot left the gas, but Dexter kept the steering wheel steady. In a couple of seconds, Dexter had control of the accelerator, too.
He flexed his fingers on the wheel. It felt good to be driving again. It felt good to be free, the captain of his own destiny.
Sprawled on the rear seats, Cecil groaned and cried out for Jesus.
Dexter glanced in the rearview mirror at the old guy, his gaze as indifferent as if he were viewing a squashed bug on the sidewalk.
>
“I guess I’ve got to find somewhere to bury your body,” Dexter said. “All these deep snowdrifts, so many choices. We’ll find a nice one for you, Brother Jackson. That’s the least you deserve for the good deed you did today. A comfortable place for you to lay your head.
“Until the carrion eaters find you.”
* * *
Dexter parked the Chevy within a grove of ice-mantled pine trees, far away from the main road. A narrow path, freshly plowed, twisted through the pines and ended at a brick building, a warehouse of some kind, several hundred yards distant. But the area amidst the trees was deserted, heaped with snow as high as his head.
It suited his purposes.
He did not consider himself a killer. Unlike many young black men these days, he didn’t regard himself as a thug, either. Strutting around in t-shirts and baggy jeans, teeth so encrusted with bling you could barely close your mouth, snatching at your crotch and spouting obscenities about authority figures you barely understood—all of that was foolishness to him.
He was a man of purpose. Killing Brother Jackson was a means to an end.
He’d simply needed the old head’s vehicle to get home.
Moving with almost robotic efficiency, he climbed out of the SUV and went to the rear cargo door. He was counting on a responsible man like Brother Jackson being prepared for most eventualities that could occur while driving on a winter morning.
He lifted the door. Bingo. He discovered a roadside emergency kit: jumper cables, a couple of flares, a flashlight, a bundled cotton blanket, towels, an extra parka, thermal underwear, boots, leather gloves. A snow shovel. Even a bag of kitty litter, a nifty trick to provide traction.
“You were a regular Boy Scout, Brother Jackson,” he said.
He went to the rear passenger door on the side of the SUV opposite the road. He placed the blanket and towels on the roof, checked Cecil’s body.
The Darkness To Come Page 3
