Don't Ever Tell

by Brandon Massey

  “His job?”

  “Right, his job. Nuts, huh? But I was scared to death of him—he’s not the kind of man who takes no for an answer, and at that point my life, I was unsure about what I was looking for in a man, didn’t know what a good man was all about. So I gave in.”

  “But you never had a child with him.”

  “Lord, no. Dexter can’t have kids, Josh. He tried to get me pregnant almost immediately after we tied the knot—I think he wanted me to have a baby so he could have another way to pin me down, control me. But we did some fertility testing, and the doctors told us that he had a low sperm count.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh, yeah. Dexter was pissed, let me tell you. I thought he was going to tear apart the doctor’s office. He went to two more doctors, and both of them told him the same thing. So of course, Dexter turned it all around and laid the blame at my feet. He said that the doctors who tested him were jealous of him, and that I was the one who had a fertility problem.”

  “He’s a real piece of work.”

  “It’s all part of the nutty package that’s Dexter.”

  “Why did he attack you that night? I read the story of his arrest in a Chicago paper.”

  “Big shot narcotics detective arrested for attempting to murder his wife,” she said, with a rueful smile. “Well, Dexter’s always had this nasty jealous streak.”

  “So I’ve seen.”

  “We’d gone out to dinner that night. Some favorite steakhouse of his—we always went wherever he wanted to go. I saw this guy I’d gone to high school with, and he stopped by our table and made small talk for a minute, then went on his merry way.”

  “Was he someone you’d used to date?”

  “Never. He was only a friend from school, like years ago. But Dexter got real quiet afterward, which I knew was a bad sign. When we got home . . .”

  “He went ballistic.”

  “Accused me of seeing this guy on the sly, of being the biggest slut in the world...we had the battle royale of fights. I ran out of the house, to a neighbor’s, he chased me with a knife.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Now you know how I got these scars, huh?”

  “He should have gotten the death penalty,” he said, hands fisted. “So when he went to prison, how did you go about starting over?”

  “First thing I did was get an uncontested divorce. Then I went to court for a legal name change—I changed my middle name to my first name, and then took my mom’s maiden name, Hall. I knew Dexter would get out of prison one day and come after me, and I wanted to have a last name that I didn’t think he would know, or remember. At the same time, I didn’t want to totally cut my family ties, you know?”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “Although something tells me he probably figured it out.”

  “Yeah, he probably did—he’s got a mind like a steel trap.” She chewed her lip. “Anyway, because I was a victim of domestic violence, I was able to get a new social security number, tied to my new name. I bought Coco—he never allowed me to have a dog—and moved down here for a little while, to get my affairs in order. I’d been to Atlanta several times before, for hair shows and whatnot, so...”

  “You relocated to ATL,” he said. “And started working at a hair salon in College Park.”

  “Yep. And after a while, we bumped into each other at an art museum.”

  “I bumped into you, actually.” He chuckled. “You know how clumsy I am sometimes.”

  “How do you know I didn’t make sure that I happened to be in your way?”

  They smiled at each other, and it was a good smile, even better than the ones they had shared before Dexter had invaded their lives, because now, the veils of the past were being blown away and they were seeing each other as they really were—two people who had somehow managed to hook up and fall in love in a crazy world that often seemed dead set against ever allowing such a thing to happen.

  She got up and refreshed their coffee from a stainless steel carafe.

  “Baby, I’ve got a question for you that’s been burning a hole in my brain,” she said. “How the heck did you find me here?”

  “This might sound kinda crazy, but...I dreamed about this place.”

  “You did?”

  “I dreamed about it every night after you left.” “What exactly happened in this dream?”

  “We were walking on the beach out there.” He pointed toward the shore, a slice of which was visible through a nearby window. “I was holding our son, Justin, too. He was maybe a year old.”

  “Wow.” She was grinning, rubbing her belly.

  “Our lives, in the dream, seemed just perfect. Our lives probably weren’t really perfect, but they sure felt perfect because we were together, a family... just enjoying each other.”

  “Sounds perfect to me,” she said.

  “Honestly, I was pretty broken up when you left. But that dream made me want to find you all the more—made me want to get to the bottom of things. I found out that you’d hired a property management company. I found their number in your cell phone.”

  “How’d you get into my cell? I always kept it locked.”

  “You know my boy Tim’s got hacking skills.”

  “Oh, I forgot about him,” she said.

  “I met the woman at the property management place, LaVosha. She didn’t really tell me anything, except that you’d gone somewhere that was very dear to you. She was pretty adamant about preserving your privacy.”

  “Go, LaVosha. She’s good people. She sends a crew here once a month to do upkeep on everything.”

  “After she gave me that hint, it finally hit me: all the photos of the beach that you kept in our house. You were here.”

  She was nodding.

  “Every time I look at them, I think of being here, and I feel at peace.”

  “Tim magnified one of the photos on a scanner, we deciphered the words on the ferry, Hyde Island Queen, and we did a search online... and voila. Here I am.”

  “Bravo.” She clapped. “Now where is Coco? You didn’t bring her.”

  “Left her with Eddie. Speaking of which, when I got here I tried to call him from my cell and couldn’t get connected. Do you have a landline in the house?”

  “It’s not in service. One of the main reasons I come here is to be isolated—from everything.”

  “What if you have an emergency?”

  “Some of my neighbors have phones in their houses,” she said. “Anyway, remember, we’re on an island. Nothing gets here fast. It would take even an emergency helicopter a while to reach us here.”

  “There are no cops, no hospitals?”

  “None of that. Any emergency services would have to come from the other side. Some people here have boats, but they’re not exactly rapid transit.”

  “So if we get into a bind while we’re here...”

  “We’re on our own,” she said. She frowned. “Why’re you asking these questions? You think Dexter followed you?”

  “He’s still alive.”

  “Which means there’s always the possibility.” She glanced worriedly out the window, scratched her scalp.

  “Especially when he believes you’ve stolen one point seven million dollars from him.”

  “I was going to get to that,” she said.

  He leaned back in the chair, sipped his coffee.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  67

  Afterward, Rachel prepared a lunch of tuna salad sandwiches on wheat, iced tea, and chips. They took their meal on the balcony.

  The previously clear sky had become overcast, and the strength of the wind was gradually building. According to Rachel, forecasters predicted a storm to arrive by nightfall.

  In the midst of lunch—they were talking about New Year’s Eve plans as if purposefully avoiding the gravity of their situation—she asked, “Did you bring the gun I gave you? We’re going to need all the firepower we can get, Josh.”

  “I didn’t have the permit for the gun, so the
cops confiscated it.”

  “Damn. I forgot about that. Sorry.”

  “But I brought another one with me.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did. Did you think I would come here to protect my wife and child without bringing a weapon?”

  “Well excuse me” she said, and laughed. “Guess I was wrong.”

  “Damn right you were wrong.”

  A gust of wind blew their napkins off the table and sent them whirling across the balcony to the beach below.

  “Maybe we should get inside,” she said. “Then you can show me this gun.”

  “I’ll show it to you, all right.”

  They cleaned off the table and returned inside to the kitchen. He placed his overnight bag on the table and took out the stainless steel .357, the holster, and cartridges.

  “Whoa.” She gawked at the firearm. “Now that’s a gun. Makes mine look like a damn peashooter. Where’d you get it from?”

  “My dad.” He began to carefully insert rounds into the chamber.

  “Your dad? I thought he only cared about cars. Every time I’d see him, he’d ask if I needed an oil change.”

  “Cars are his main thing. But he always kept guns in the house, too. Mom never let him bring them around me, though.”

  “Big surprise there. Does she know he gave you this one?”

  “No, but only because Dad wanted to keep it secret from her. I could care less if she knows. I’m a grown-ass man.”

  She eyed him curiously.

  “Did you cut Mama’s apron strings after I left or something?”

  “You could say that. Long story short—we had words yesterday. I was respectful, but I made it clear that I wasn’t going to allow her to be in my business any more. I wasn’t going to tolerate her bad-mouthing you in my presence, either.”

  “Hallelujah.” She snapped her fingers and did a little happy dance beside him. “I’m proud of you, baby.”

  He finished loading the revolver. After double-checking that the safety was engaged, he fit the gun securely into the holster, and attached the holster to the waist of his jeans.

  DON’T EVER TELL 343

  “Now we’re a pair.” She patted the holstered piece on her hip.

  “How long have you had that gun, anyway?”

  “I bought both of them—the one I gave you and the one I have here—shortly after I moved to Georgia. Why?”

  “You any good with it?” he asked.

  “I’m a decent shot. I’ve taken lessons at a firing range.”

  “One thing we need to keep in mind, though—Dexter was wearing body armor.”

  “So we need more weapons, you think?” she asked. Hands on her waist, she looked around the kitchen. “Hmm, I’ve got a couple ideas. Ever made a Molotov cocktail?”

  “You have the ingredients for one?”

  “There’s a can of gasoline in the shed outside. Probably some oil, too. And I know I’ve got some rags and empty bottles somewhere in the kitchen here.”

  “Then let’s get to work. Might as well do it now so we’ll have it ready whenever we need it.”

  68

  He found gasoline and oil in the shed and used a portion of both to concoct a combustible mixture in a vodka bottle, employing an oil-soaked rag as a wick and securing it to the bottle with a strip of duct tape. He fit the Molotov cocktail snugly in a knotted pillowcase that he could sling over his shoulder for easy carrying.

  They also took all of the candles and kerosene lamps out of the cupboards and distributed them throughout the house, to be lighted as needed. With the building wind, there was the risk of a power outage, a common occurrence on the island according to Rachel. There was a backup power generator outside the house, but it had to be manually activated, and if they lost electricity after nightfall, Joshua wasn’t too keen on going outdoors to fool around with the generator, not when Dexter could be skulking around in the dark.

  For general lighting needs, the candles and lamps would have to suffice. Rachel had a couple of utility flashlights, with fresh batteries, that they would carry on their persons.

  In the powder room on the ground floor, he switched his glasses for contact lenses. During his last fight with Dexter, the loss of his spectacles had rendered him almost helpless. He had no intention of letting it happen again.

  “Can you come here for a sec, baby?” Rachel asked from the kitchen. “I need your help with something.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He gazed at his mirror reflection. His face was still swollen and bruised, his finger ached, and his eyes were as red as an insomniac’s. Based on his outward appearance, he had no reason whatsoever to feel good about himself.

  But he actually felt a building sense of optimism. Optimism about their chances to end this, once and for all. Optimism about resuming their lives with a fresh new outlook. Optimism about everything. It was such an unusual feeling for him that it was a bit unfamiliar, like walking in a new pair of shoes, but he liked it.

  “Baby?” Rachel asked again.

  “Coming.”

  She was at the kitchen counter with the roll of duct tape, a small paring knife, and a plank of cardboard she’d cut from a box. She’d taken off her jacket and T-shirt, and wore only a pink sports bra underneath.

  He tried mightily not to be aroused by the sight of her body, but the growing bulge in his pants betrayed him.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Umm, what are you trying to do?”

  “I want to tape this knife to my lower back.” She turned, showing him the smooth plane of her back. With her fingers, she indicated the area just above the swell of her derriere.

  “Right here.”

  “Okay. Looks very doable.”

  “Does it?” She glanced at him over her shoulder, winked. “You want to prove that?”

  DON’T EVER TELL 347 “I wish we could.”

  She twirled around to face him, hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “We’ll have plenty of time later,” she said.

  “Of all the times for us to start feeling horny, why now?” “I think it’s because we feel so alive. I mean, I’ve hardly

  gotten any sleep in the past three days. I should be passed out on the floor. But I’m positively crackling with energy.” She snapped her fingers. “Aren’t you?”

  “I’m hyped, ready to roll.”

  “Even though we know Dexter is probably coming soon,

  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.” He reached for the tape, cardboard, and the knife. “Nice secret weapon,” he said.

  “Dealing with him, we can’t be too prepared.” She turned

  around. “Tape this knife to the cardboard, and then fix the whole thing to the small of my back, please.”

  He did as she asked. She put on her jacket and tested it a few times. She was able to tear the knife away from the cardboard backing with only a quick, forceful tug.

  He checked his watch. It was a few minutes to five. Darkness was stealing over the island, and the strengthening winds were battering the palmettos and live oaks that surrounded the house.

  The lights flickered for a moment, and then came back on.

  “Time for the lamps,” she said. She lit two of the kerosene lanterns, and double-checked that their flashlights were functional.

  He sat on the sofa in the living room. He had the .357 on his hip, a flashlight dangling from his belt, and the Molotov cocktail strapped over his shoulder in a pillowcase.

  She sat next to him and turned on the television to the local news. A storm warning flashed at the bottom of the screen.

  “I think we’re ready for anything now,” she said. “Storms— and Dexter.” She uttered a humorless laugh. “Not much difference between the two.”

  “So now,” he said, “we wait.”

  The wind continued to increase in strength and velocity. It swept over t
he house, tearing at the eaves, howling around the walls, and hammering the windows like a barrage of fists.

  Sitting on the sofa, Joshua kept his finger on the flashlight, waiting for a blackout. The lights flickered several times, but remained on.

  Rachel put her hand on his arm. “What time is it?”

  “Almost six,” he said. “You think the ferry would’ve still run in this wind?”

  “It would take something much worse than this to keep the ferry on the mainland. A lot of people depend on it for their livelihood, you know. Children go to school on the mainland, all of the jobs are there ...trust me, the boat ran, and if Dexter was going to come today, he would have been on that last one.”

  Quietly, he nodded. He happened to glance at her hair, and on impulse, touched it.

  “I found out that your natural hair color is auburn,” he said.

  She gave him a curious look. “How’d you find that out?” “Tanisha told me.”

  “She would know, she dyes it for me. My hair used to be halfway down my back. I cut it and started to color it after I left home. It was part of my disguise, along with the glasses.”

  He ran his fingers through her soft, dark curls. He thought about his dream of the beach, and her auburn mane flowing in the sunlight.

  “I’d like to see it how it used to be,” he said.

  She started to answer, but then the electric lights dimmed, quieting her. Another gale shrieked around the house.

  Adrenaline sizzled through his veins.

  “This is it. Lights out.”

  As soon as he finished the sentence, the lights died, the TV screen fading to black. The power didn’t come back on.

  She had placed one of the kerosene lanterns in the living room and the other in the kitchen, giving them pale light, but the blackness that devoured the rest of the house was so thick it might have been a solid substance.

  On a sparsely populated, mostly undeveloped island, there were no street lamps to light the neighborhoods, no big buildings blazing in the night. He had lost power at their home in Atlanta yesterday, but that had been nothing compared to this.