“No one’s going to kill me. You want to take a shot at it, Oreo Boy?”
“Why would I want to do that—when I’ll be the doctor who performs your autopsy after you die?”
Anger smoldered in Dexter’s chest. He pulled, uselessly, at the cuffs.
“Let me go,” he said.
But Devereaux spun away in the chair. Facing the stainless steel shelves, he began to prepare a syringe.
“I hate needles,” Dexter said, voice trembling. “Keep that away from me and let me out of here.”
“We collected you from your most recent victim’s house to place you under observation for the night,” Devereaux said. “With the high-risk crimes you’ve been committing, it’s only a matter of time before your spree of violence comes to an end. There are several tests that we wish to conduct . . . while you are still alive.”
Devereaux turned around, gripping a syringe that looked large enough to knock out a gray whale.
“I told you to stay away from me with that goddamn needle,” Dexter said.
Devereaux squirted a jet of golden fluid from the needle’s gleaming tip.
“Where would you like it?” he asked, with a devilish grin.
* * *
When Dexter awoke, he was back in the dead woman’s garage, fully dressed, lying on the cold concrete floor. Early-morning sunlight slanted through narrow, rectangular windows in the top of the garage door and shone in his eyes.
Shielding his face, he sat up, and groaned. His body was sore, as if he’d been pricked with a hundred needles.
That mulatto motherfucker.
Dexter didn’t remember much of anything after his illuminating chat with the mad scientist. He’d flitted in and out of consciousness all night while that asshole had run his tests on him in the van.
He got to his feet. The dead woman’s body had gone undiscovered since last night, but that wouldn’t much longer. He needed to clear out of there before someone arrived.
He’d memorized his wife’s address. He had the keys to the Mustang in his hand.
Devereaux and his team would be following, watching. He was going to give them a show for the ages.
Chapter 41
“So Rachel was married before,” Eddie said. He shook his head as he tapped sugar and cream into his coffee. “Damn, dawg. The jaw-droppers keep coming, don’t they?”
That morning, Joshua and Eddie had met at Aurora Coffee, an indie coffee shop on Moreland Avenue, in the east Atlanta neighborhood of Little Five Points. Eddie had picked the spot. Aurora had some of the best—and most inexpensive—java in the city. With its New Age, industrial design and minimal frills, it wasn’t somewhere you went to luxuriate in sensory impressions, but a Starbucks had opened a short distance away and Aurora was still packing in customers, so they obviously knew their stuff.
Stifling a yawn, Joshua sipped his double latte. He needed the caffeine jolt. After his late-night telephone conversation with Thad, he’d been unable to sleep. He was tormented by the idea of Rachel married to cold-eyed Bates, and an endless series of questions revolved restlessly through his mind.
He hoped that Eddie, with his knowledge of computers and information databases, could help him root out a few more of Rachel’s secrets. Eddie had brought one of his laptops to the shop, to take notes during their conversation.
“What I don’t understand is why she lied to me,” Joshua said. “I wouldn’t have stopped pursuing a relationship with her if she’d said that she’d been married before. I wouldn’t have cared.”
Eddie pointed to the inmate record of Bates that lay on the table; Joshua had made a color copy for him. “If I’d been married to a crazy brother like this, I might not have told you about it, either. She was probably scared to death, man. She knew this dude would eventually be released from prison and would come after her.”
“I can understand that, but she should’ve told me. I don’t know what to believe about her any more.”
“She was trying to cover her tracks, I think. Make it harder for him to find her. She couldn’t do that if she told the whole world about her past.”
“I’m not ‘the whole world.’ I’m her husband.” Joshua set down his coffee cup so forcefully that liquid slopped over the lip.
Eddie raised his hands defensively. “You’re right, dawg. She should’ve told you the truth. I’m not agreeing with what she did. I’m only trying to see things from her perspective.”
Joshua checked himself. Eddie was not a suitable target of his anger; the only appropriate target was Rachel. She had to explain to him why she’d lied. In the past, he’d never asked her the tough questions, and had accepted her tendency to gloss over details about her background. No more. The next time he spoke to her, he was going to apply the full-court press and not let up until she had spilled everything. He deserved at least that much.
“Joy Bates,” Joshua said, and the name felt like a four-letter word coming from his mouth. “That was her married name—Thad said ‘Rachel’ is actually her middle name. I want you to find out everything you can about her. Where she was born, where she lived, where she went to school, if she has any close relatives, if she was ever married to someone before Dexter, if she has any children—everything.”
Eddie had been typing furiously on his laptop. At the mention of children, however, he looked up, scowling.
“You think she might’ve had kids by this dude, man?”
“No—well, I hope not.” Joshua thought about the child of his that Rachel claimed she was bearing. He wanted to believe that Rachel, in spite of all the lies she’d told him, hadn’t lied about her pregnancy, and that their child would be the first for her. Joshua couldn’t explain why that was so important to him, but it was.
Nodding, Eddie resumed pounding the keyboard. “We’ll assume that she lived in Illinois before she moved to ATL, since that’s the state where Bates did his time. Didn’t she always say she lived in Chicago before she relocated?”
“Yeah, but her word doesn’t count for much right now,” Joshua said with a sour expression. “But based on this guy’s prison record, I guess it’s a sensible assumption.”
“I’ll start with her marriage records and the details of Bates’ arrest, backtrack from there.” Eddie grinned. “Hey, I might be able to find out everything you want to know without cracking into any private databases.”
“Whatever it takes, Eddie. Hit me on my cell when you have something. I’ve got to make a run after I leave here.”
“Where you going?”
He told Eddie about the property management company, and his suspicions that Rachel owned property somewhere in Georgia.
“Speaking of property, can you add that to your research?” Joshua asked. “See if she owns something down here.”
“That’s a matter of public record, too. Piece of cake.”
“Good. Maybe that’ll tell us where she’s staying.”
“Maybe.” Eddie looked up from the computer. “Wanted to ask you—you toting that piece?”
“The gun? I left it at home. I don’t have a permit to be carrying it around everywhere with me, remember?”
“I don’t know, man.” Eddie glanced at Bates’ inmate profile. When he looked up at Joshua again, concern shone in his eyes. “This dude, Bates, sounds like a psycho. What if he finds out where you live?”
“So? I’m not scared of him. I’m not backing down like some punk.”
“I’ve never heard you talk like that.” Eddie made a show of looking underneath the table. “You grow a pair of steel balls in the past couple of days?”
Joshua didn’t laugh. “Listen, this guy scared my wife so badly that she ran away. Her running has messed up everything for us, in so many ways. I’m pissed at her for lying to me—but I’m even more pissed at him for what I think he did to her, and what he probably thinks he’s gonna do to me, and to her again.” And to our unborn child, Joshua thought, but didn’t say. “So hell no, I’m not running from him. This is my life
, Rachel’s life. I’m not gonna back down and let this motherfucker take it all away. If he wants to throw down . . .” Joshua squeezed his hand into a fist as massive as a sledgehammer. “Let him bring it.”
Chapter 42
Dexter finally found his wife’s house.
She lived in a subdivision called Pine Trace, a neighborhood of spacious homes with attached garages, brick fronts, and Hardiplank siding. Expansive lawns, many featuring holiday decorations, lay wheat-brown and dormant in the winter weather. Dense forestland bordered the community, giant pine trees standing like silent sentries.
Her house was near the end of the block, in a cul-de-sac. It was a two-story model on perhaps a third of an acre, with white siding and green plantation shutters. A Christmas wreath hung on the front door, and a tree was visible through the partly opened blinds on the bay window.
There were no cars in the driveway, but they might have been parked in the garage. The blinds on the other windows were shut, preventing him from peeping inside and ascertaining whether anyone was home.
Dexter doubled back to an intersection within the community’s network of streets, and made a right turn. He’d spotted a ranch house with a Century 21 “For Sale” sign in the front yard. He pulled into the driveway, verified that there was a lockbox on the front door.
A sticker on the rear bumper of Tanisha’s Mustang read, “I’d love to be your realtor.” Evidently, she had moonlighted as a real estate agent. Anyone driving past would assume that she was showing this house to a prospective buyer, and if his wife’s man drove past on the intersecting road on his way home, the place was mostly out of his line of sight.
He got out of the car and invoked the cloak of invisibility.
He hiked back to the house. A cold wind sliced down the streets, stirring up phantoms of dead leaves. A drizzle had begun to fall from the tumorous gray sky. On the radio, he’d heard a forecast of a winter storm advisory for late morning and early afternoon.
It wouldn’t match the storm he planned to unleash on his wife’s illegitimate husband.
There was a black mail box posted at the corner of the driveway. Dexter opened it and skimmed the mail. He found only a few advertising circulars, a red holiday card envelope from Eddie and Ariel Barnes in Atlanta, and a couple credit card offers addressed to Joshua Moore.
So that was the guy’s name. Joshua. Or perhaps he went by Josh.
You’re going to tell me where my wife has gone, Josh.
When Tanisha had confessed that his wife had gone on the lam, she said no one knew where she had gone, including her illegitimate husband. Dexter found that claim specious. Josh might not know precisely where his wife had fled to, but he would know something, and he was going to share it with Dexter.
Dexter stuffed the mail back in the box and sauntered across the walkway. Two miniature Christmas trees stood on either side of the door, and there was a long, narrow sidelight on the right of the door, the pane covered with a gauzy curtain.
He pushed the doorbell. Why not? He was invisible. If Josh opened up Dexter would clock him in the jaw, and it would be on.
Sonorous chimes rang throughout the house. A dog started yapping—annoying, piercing barks.
His wife had always wanted to get a dog. He hadn’t allowed it. A dog demanded time, money, energy, attention. A married woman had no business taking care of a dog; she ought to be taking care of her husband.
No one answered the door. He did not hear footsteps thumping through the house, either.
Barking, the dog pressed its nose to the sidelight curtain. He could see the outline of the animal’s small head through the fabric. It looked like one of those little Mexican dogs.
He rang the bell again, waited. No answer.
Turning away from the door, Dexter crunched through the bed of wood chips at the front of the house, went to the west side of the property. There was a first-level window on this side, covered with blinds, but if he lost his cloaking in the midst of his break-in, he would be visible to someone driving past.
He stalked to the rear of the house. A large wooden deck was attached to the back. It was furnished with patio furniture—a table, four chairs. A big barbeque grill, covered with a blue tarp, stood off to one side.
Dexter imagined his wife and her illegitimate jackass husband on the deck, grilling burgers and hot dogs and then sitting down to eat, like a happily married suburban couple. Fire licked his heart.
He was going to make the bitch suffer for this.
Beyond the perimeter of the back yard, the land was given to woods: pine trees, skeletal elms and oaks, bone-thin shrubbery. Wind howled like an avenging angel through the forest, nipped at Dexter’s exposed earlobes. His cloak had faded, likely due to his growing anger. It didn’t matter; the woods offered sufficient cover.
A French-style patio door opened onto the deck, the segments of windows covered with blinds. Dexter tried the knob. Locked.
His attempt at entry brought the attention of the little dog. It scampered to the door, barking.
Dexter put his lips to the door. “Keep up that barking, and I’m going to crush your head under my boot like a grape when I get inside.”
The dog whimpered. He heard the light patter of tiny feet as it skittered away.
Dexter unzipped his jacket and laid his fingers on the crowbar he’d taken out of his Chevy before he ditched the car at Tanisha’s. The tool jutted from the waistband of his jeans like a question mark.
He waited until the wind picked up again, and when it was at a high, reedy pitch, he swung the crowbar at one of the window panes in the door. Glass shattered, tinkled to the floorboards.
Dexter stuck his hand through the jagged maw. His fingers found the deadbolt lock, and twisted.
The door opened.
Chapter 43
Prescott Property Management was located downtown, on Auburn Avenue. Auburn Avenue, known as “Sweet Auburn,” was a stretch of roadway that once had been called “the richest Negro street in the world.” In the segregated, pre-Civil Rights era, it had been a showcase for black-owned financial institutions, churches, markets, professionals, entertainers, and politicians.
After desegregation allowed black businesses to spread across the metro area, the money left, and economic turmoil settled in for a decades-long stay. In the past several years, however, as urban revitalization projects swept the city, Auburn Avenue was on the upswing, too, with new office buildings, mixed-use developments, and houses springing up regularly.
Joshua swung his Explorer into the parking lot beside the company’s office. He hadn’t called ahead of time to ask about Rachel. He doubted they would share anything about her business over the phone with a stranger. He wanted to talk with them face to face, feel them out, and figure out the best way to get the information he wanted.
Wind slashed at his face as he trudged toward the building. The mottled gray sky spat an icy drizzle that weather forecasters predicted would soon become a full-fledged winter storm. Joshua hoped to conclude his business downtown and get home before conditions worsened, because everyone knew Atlantans couldn’t drive in bad weather.
Prescott Property Management operated out of a one-story, red brick building, sandwiched between a law firm and a realtor’s office. An “Open” sign hung on the glass entrance.
Inside, there was a small waiting area, and a receptionist, a grandmotherly black woman, at a front desk. Behind her, there was a work area with a black woman and a black man sitting at cubicle-style desks, and an enclosed office in which the woman whose photo he’d seen on their Web site was talking on the phone.
“Good morning, young man,” the receptionist said. “How may I help you?”
Joshua cleared his throat. He’d been hoping to fabricate a plausible story he could use to uncover clues about Rachel, but nothing had come to mind. “I’d like to talk to someone about managing a rental property of mine.”
“Certainly. What is your name?”
“Joshua Moor
e.”
She slid a clipboard and pencil across the desk to him. The clipboard bore a sheet of white paper that listed questions about his property.
“Please complete this form, Mr. Moore. Mrs. Prescott will be with you shortly.”
Joshua sat in the waiting area and skimmed the questionnaire. It asked for his property address, whether it was a single-family home, condo, duplex, or town house; whether it was currently leased; the rent that he charged or wished to charge; if he ever intended to use the property himself; and other questions.
Reading through the inquiries failed to give him any ideas. He twirled the pencil in his fingers, glanced around the waiting area. Photographs of properties for rent were tacked to the walls, but none of them sparked inspiration.
“Mr. Moore?” a woman asked, startling him. It was LaVosha Prescott. She strode toward him, smartly dressed in a green business suit and black pumps. She offered a professional smile and extended her hand.
“Hi.” Joshua stood, dropping the clipboard in his haste. He picked it up, and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You can give that to me,” she said. “Have you filled it out yet?”
“Not exactly.”
“No problem. We’ll review everything in my office. Follow me, please.”
In her office, he took one of the leather wingback chairs in front of her desk. On the desktop, she had a photo of a handsome man that he took to be her husband, and a shot of a young girl that was probably her daughter. No pictures that gave him any clues.
LaVosha sat in a high-backed executive chair and laced her fingers on the burnished oak desk. “Tell me about your property, Mr. Moore.”
“It’s a place that my wife and I own jointly, actually,” he said, wondering where the lie came from. “She’s already had dealings with your company. I was dropping by to check up on things.”
The Darkness To Come Page 20
