Blood dampened the guy’s parka. His eyes had glazed over, too, and he didn’t have a pulse.
Dexter searched his pockets. Cecil, like a lot of old folks who didn’t believe in credit cards, had a knot of cash in a silver money clip: two hundred and twenty dollars.
Dexter stashed the money in his pocket. He took Cecil’s wallet, too, which contained his drivers’ license and VA card. No point in making the job easy for the boys in blue, though, if history were a teacher, the cops wouldn’t care much about whose deadly hand had cut down the elderly black man. The vicious murder of a pretty young white girl would dominate news headlines for weeks. But an old black man? He’d be lucky if his death merited a single paragraph in the back of the newspaper.
He began to wrap Cecil’s body within the blanket, working methodically, as if mummifying him. Cecil had a slight build, but his limbs were heavy, and he was dressed in enough layers of heavy clothing to withstand the radiation from a nuclear blast.
Finished wrapping the body, he used the towels to mop the blood off the seat and floor. Later, he would clean the interior more thoroughly.
He flipped the snow shovel over his shoulder and trudged deeper within the pines, the snow around him like hardening cement. Standing amidst a tall drift, he began to dig.
He worked at a swift, machinelike pace. It was pure, invigorating labor. The chilly air felt good in his lungs. Although work like this reminded him of being in prison, it was not a bad memory.
Prison, though it broke the spirits of many men, had been good for him in numerous ways. Prison had stripped away the extraneous layers of his personality and exposed the brilliant gem in the center of it all. Prison had taught him patience. Prison had taught him that he could take anything that life threw at him—anything in the world—and still emerge victorious.
With a deep grave dug, he returned to the Chevy and collected the blanket-wrapped body. He lifted it out of the truck with the ease of a baker carrying a loaf of bread.
He had dropped the body into the grave and was shoveling snow over it when he sensed a darting motion in the corner of his eye.
He whirled, gripping the shovel across his chest like a rifle.
Nothing was out here. Only pine trees, and vistas of hard snow. He did not see any animals—nothing.
But the nape of his neck was cool and damp. Something had been there. Someone had been watching him.
Suddenly, there was a loud hissing noise, so close it was as if a large snake had twisted between his legs. He looked down.
No snake. Only the mantle of ice and snow covering the ground.
What the fuck?
He dropped the shovel and withdrew the knife. He hadn’t yet cleaned the weapon. Blood stained the blade, dripped in bright red dots onto the pure white snow.
Gripping the knife, he moved forward, snow crackling underneath his boots.
The air was crisp—and utterly still. As if the morning itself were holding its breath.
He peered around a tree, in the area where the darting movement had originated. There was nothing there. No snake, nothing. Anyway, snakes were cold-blooded creatures and never would have exposed themselves to such frigid weather.
Although he loathed admitting it, perhaps his nerves were the culprit. He’d been out of the joint for only a few hours, but he’d been in prison for years, and in many ways, he’d emerged into a strange new world. Colors were brighter than he remembered, smells were sharper, objects moved faster. As if his life in prison had been a dream and now he was finally awake again.
He was still adjusting, that was all. Nothing to worry about.
He looked around again, saw nothing of interest, and sheathed the blade. He finished burying the old man’s body, and drove the Chevy back onto the main road.
Once he arrived in Chicago and retrieved his belongings, he could get down to his real business.
Finding his wife.
Chapter 4
Joshua met his longtime best friend, Eddie Barnes, for lunch. He and Eddie made it a point to get together for lunch at least once a week, to discuss business and catch up on whatever was happening in their personal lives. They alternated who picked the dining spot; this week it was Joshua’s turn, and he selected The Fox Sports Grill in Atlantic Station—though he was almost certain Eddie was going to have a problem with his choice.
Atlantic Station was a popular live-work-play district in the Midtown section of Atlanta, with an abundance of upscale shopping and good restaurants. The establishment, true to its name, was a hot spot for watching prime sporting events: located in a cavernous space, the restaurant featured banks of plasma televisions and giant projection screens, an enormous bar, better-than-average food, and a wide selection of strong drinks.
At eleven-thirty, the lunchtime rush was kicking into high bear. A diverse crowd clad in suits and business casual clothing were gathering around the tables, and throngs of women laden with holiday shopping bags from stores such as Banana Republic and Dillard’s were bellying up to the bar and ordering cocktails.
Sitting across from Joshua at a corner booth, Eddie looked around, and then glanced at the menu. “Man, I don’t know. This joint is outta my price range, dawg.”
“I knew you were going to say that. I think it’s reasonably priced.”
Although they had been best friends since middle school, they looked nothing alike. Joshua was tall and broad; Eddie stood maybe five-four and was skinny as a drink of water, as Joshua’s mom liked to say. Joshua was clean-shaven and kept his hair cropped close to the scalp; Eddie had a dark mustache and a completely bald dome, giving him the appearance of a younger Montel Williams.
“The agreement was ten bucks or less, man,” Eddie said, surveying the menu with a scowl. “You’re outta order. Means I get to pick the next three spots.”
Since high school, Eddie had been running a jack-of-all-trades, computer consulting business. He built computers from spare parts, fixed them, designed software, built web sites, probably hacked into web sites . . . he’d mastered virtually everything involving the machines. He was so good that when some of Atlanta’s most prominent firms needed a consultant to give advice on their networks, security systems, or whatever, they called Eddie and paid exorbitant rates for his counsel.
Joshua estimated that, by now, Eddie was probably a millionaire. Not just because he ran a successful business, but mostly because he was the most tight-fisted person Joshua had ever met in his life.
Eddie drove the same Honda Civic he’d bought his senior year in high school, fourteen years ago. The car probably had a half million miles on the odometer, but Eddie kept up the maintenance religiously, and the car hadn’t failed him yet. He rarely bought new clothes: Joshua was certain that the navy-blue hoodie and jeans Eddie was wearing that day came from the same pile of clothing he’d used to wear in high school.
The only thing Eddie splurged on was electronic gadgets. He was a big-time gear head. He used his Blackberry so frequently that it might as well have been surgically fused to his body.
As much of a cheapskate that Eddie had always been, Joshua never expected him to get married, but a decade ago, Eddie wed Ariel—a beautiful woman who shared his frugal ways. They had a two-year-old son and lived in a cozy Victorian in Candler Park.
“This place isn’t that expensive,” Joshua said. “Besides, I hear the food is good. I’m going to order a burger.”
“You’re going to pay nine dollars for a hamburger? Damn, dawg. I could buy four or five burgers at The Varsity for ten bucks.”
“Come on, man. You earn enough to buy a meal here.”
“It’s not what you earn, it’s what you save,” Eddie said, his characteristic response whenever Joshua criticized his ultra-thrifty ways. “If you’re a paycheck away from being homeless, you ain’t financially independent, dawg. How many brothers and sisters in ATL pushing these new, leased luxury cars and wearing designer clothes could live off their savings for ten years if they lost their jobs or bu
sinesses?”
“I guess you’re going to tell me,” Joshua said, used to the lecture.
“Bet you could count ‘em on one hand.” Eddie wriggled his fingers for emphasis. “Financial independence is being able to tell your boss to kiss your ass, walk out the door, and live a normal life for years without getting a check from anybody.”
“As cheap as you are, you could probably live two lifetimes on the money you’ve socked away.”
“Hey, that would be all right.” Eddie grinned, bobbed his head. “But I get to choose the next three lunch spots, seriously.”
“Fine. So long as you don’t have me waiting in line at a local soup kitchen.”
“Whatever, man.” Eddie laughed.
The waitress stopped by their table. Joshua ordered the chop house burger, and a Coke. Eddie asked for chips and salsa—one of the least expensive items on the menu—and a glass of water.
After the waitress departed, Eddie said, “So what’s been happening, dawg? How’s Rachel?”
Joshua felt his gut clench. “She’s okay. We’re gearing up for the holidays, you know?”
“What was that look for?”
“What look?” Joshua made his facial expression as blank as possible.
“When I said her name, you looked like you were in pain—like I’d punched you in the belly or something.”
Joshua couldn’t fool Eddie. They had been friends for too long. Eddie had probably read him as easily as he read the programming code that he loved to study.
“I don’t know how to put this,” Joshua said. “But do you ever get the feeling that you never truly know someone?”
“All the time. Ariel shocks the hell outta me with something at least once a week.” Eddie grinned with evident satisfaction. “Welcome to married life—finally.”
In a recent discussion about marriage, Joshua had told Eddie that he didn’t understand why people claimed that marriage was such hard work, that his own marriage to Rachel was pain-free, a joy. Eddie had told Joshua to wait until the honeymoon was over.
“I know, you think I’ve been living in some wedded-bliss dream world for the past six months—and maybe I have,” Joshua said. “But I think this is something different.”
“What do you mean?”
Joshua pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you, Eddie. This stays between me and you.”
“ ‘Course, dawg.”
“I think Rachel’s got some secrets. About her past. Stuff she’s never told me about and doesn’t want to tell me about.”
“Don’t we all?” Eddie shrugged. “Damn, I thought you were gonna say something serious.”
“This is serious to me. It all started when she had a nightmare last night. She was fighting some guy in her dream. When I asked her about it this morning, she said she didn’t remember any of it, had no idea who she might’ve been struggling with.”
“Maybe she doesn’t. Do you always remember your dreams? I sure don’t.”
“I know but . . .” Joshua sighed. “I thought she was lying, that’s all.”
“She could’ve been. She might not have wanted to talk about it, ‘cause it would dredge up bad memories.”
“I guess so.”
“All I know is, everyone has secrets, some of ‘em good, some of ‘em bad,” Eddie said. “You haven’t told Rachel everything about yourself, right?”
“I’ve told her the most important stuff about me.”
“All of it?” Eddie’s gaze was keen. “Every deep, dark secret?”
“I don’t have any deep, dark secrets.”
“Maybe you don’t. But some folks do, dawg. Some people have been through some rough shit in their lives—shit they don’t want to tell anyone, including a spouse. You’ve gotta respect that.”
“You think I’m overreacting?”
“Nah, I think you’re just starting to learn what being married is all about. You can’t sweat every little detail about your wife. She’s not gonna be perfect, just like you aren’t perfect. But you’ve gotta love her anyway for who she is, overall.”
“Makes a lot of sense,” Joshua said. “I guess I’ll let it go.”
“Rachel’s a great woman. You two have a good thing going. You’ll hit a rough patch every now and then, like most married folk do . . . but there’s no sense in rocking the boat without having a damn good reason.”
“Let’s hope I never have a reason, then,” Joshua said.
“Nah, man,” Eddie said sagely, shaking his head. “You’re gonna have a reason one day, trust me. But you better hope that when you have one, that boat doesn’t sink.”
* * *
After lunch, Joshua was walking through the underground parking garage, going back to his car, when he remembered his promise to Rachel to call the restaurant group to whom he had submitted the proposal last week.
Matter of fact, call them this morning. Between eleven and one would be a good time, I think. I have a good feeling about it.
It was half past twelve. Joshua climbed inside his Ford Explorer, pulled up the company’s number on his Blackberry and called them.
Fifteen minutes later, he hung up. Dazed.
They had hired him to do the corporate identity package. Their deal with another design firm had fallen through that same morning, and they had been wading through a slew of proposals and been on the verge of contacting a different designer—when Joshua had called. Joshua’s timing couldn’t have been better, they said. He must’ve been psychic, to know exactly when to call. It was downright uncanny.
Sure is, Joshua thought, marveling over his wonderful, mysterious wife. Uncanny.
Chapter 5
Late that afternoon, Dexter disembarked a CTA bus that put him within four blocks of his mom’s house, in the old South side neighborhood where he’d grown up.
He’d cleaned the rest of the blood from the Chevy’s interior, wiped it down to remove his prints, and left it sitting in a strip mall parking lot in Harvey, a South Chicago suburb with a serious crime problem. Leaving the doors unlocked and the key not-so-discreetly tucked underneath the sun visor, he was positive some petty hoodlum would boost the car in a matter of a few hours, and by the time the snow melted and the cops found Cecil’s body, his vehicle would have been dismantled through a chop shop and all but untraceable.
In spite of the cold weather—it was in the mid-twenties and the infamous hawk was out in full force—people were hanging out on street corners. They were all of them young brothers, in their late teens or twenties, clad in parkas and skully caps, talking shit and looking hard at everyone driving or walking past. They reminded Dexter of inmates milling in the yard: grown men who had nothing productive to do with their time. The jagged skyline of downtown was visible in the hazy distance, but the skyscrapers and the business that took place within them were as meaningless to these men as constellations in the night sky, light years’ distant.
Dexter strutted down the sidewalk, duffel bag swinging from his shoulders. As he approached a knot of the youths, all of them glanced at him, threateningly, but while the others looked away, one of them, a tall, muscled youngster with a big forehead, continued to glare, as if Dexter had invaded his territory. The kid didn’t recognize him, and an unfamiliar man was easy prey on these mean streets.
He met the kid’s glare with one of his own.
Don’t even think about it, young buck. I’m not in the mood.
The kid lowered his gaze, backing down.
Although the players on these streets were different from the ones he’d known in his youth, some things never changed. There were Alpha males, the leaders of the pack, and then there were Betas, the meek followers who bowed their heads when an Alpha strode past. In every environment of his life—these streets, college, law school, the corporate law firm, prison—Dexter had been an Alpha. Dominance ran in his blood.
His mother lived in a modest, one-story brick home with dark shutters that st
ood on a square island of crusty snow; all of the houses in the neighborhood were located so close to one another that if you stuck your arm out the side window, you could touch the wall of your neighbor’s home. Warm light glowed at the front windows of his mom’s place, and twinkling Christmas decorations adorned the shrubbery and window frames.
While driving from Peoria, he’d stopped at a pay phone, called his mother, told her he’d been released and was coming home that day. She had squealed with joy. If his expectations held true, she was busy preparing a royal feast in his honor.
He rang the doorbell, waited.
He heard shuffling footsteps, and felt himself being examined through the fisheye lens in the door. Then the door flew open and his mother shrieked.
“Dex, baby! Oh, my Lord!”
“Hey, Mom.”
She pulled him inside and into her arms. In her early seventies now, his mother was a short, delicate woman with hair gone almost completely white, and big, sad brown eyes. She’d had much to be melancholy in her life. Her husband, Dexter’s father, had died of lung cancer seven years ago, Dexter had served time in prison, and Dexter’s little brother Leon had never been worth a damn. It was enough to batter a woman’s spirit.
Of course, Dexter had long understood that women were the weaker sex anyway. His father had taught him all about that, had told him how he’d molded Mom from a sassy young siren into the deferential matron who accepted that her proper role was serving the men in her life. Dexter had aimed to impart the same lessons to his own wife—until his prison stint had interrupted her schooling.
But soon, class would resume.
“Look at my baby.” Teary-eyed, sniffling, Mom stood back and examined him from head to toe. “You look good.”
This was the first time she’d seen him in four years. He hadn’t allowed her to visit him in the joint. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him led around in shackles and wearing that ugly orange jumpsuit.
The Darkness To Come Page 4
