The Woman Trapped in the Dark

by J. D. Mason

  * * *

  Naomi was the last one to show up and she slid into the booth at the restaurant next to DJ. He and James had been there since twelve thirty, waiting on Nay, who showed up at twelve fifty-five.

  “Do we have our money?” she asked in a whisper, looking at DJ. When he didn’t answer, she looked at James. “Do we?”

  “Tell her, DJ,” James insisted. “Or do you want me to tell her?”

  “Tell me what?” she asked, agitated.

  “Calm down, Nay,” DJ told her.

  “Tell me what, DJ?”

  James leaned in close to the two of them. “They want her dead,” he said, almost as if he couldn’t believe that this was finally happening.

  “Since when have you been so excited about taking a life, man?” DJ whispered, glaring at James.

  “Since half a million is at stake,” he said quickly, glaring back at DJ. “I told y’all this was going to happen. You don’t pay that kind of money to pick somebody up and babysit ’em for a few days.”

  All color washed from Nay’s face. “They want her dead? So, we can’t just let her go?”

  “That’s what they told me, Nay. I wouldn’t have signed on to this if I thought that this was what they were going to ask us to do.”

  “But you did sign on to it,” James reminded him. “And you pulled us into it. If we don’t do this, we all go to prison and nobody gets paid.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Naomi asked frantically. “What—how will they know we did this?” Naomi’s eyes stretched as wide as saucers. “That can’t happen,” she muttered. “I can’t do this. DJ, I can’t do this.”

  “Because boss lady’s going to tell ’em,” James said, staring back at DJ. “She knows DJ.” He shrugged. “He knows us.”

  Naomi looked as if she were about to cry, and shook her head. “No. No, this can’t happen. That can’t happen, DJ.” She started to raise her voice, but he grabbed hold of her hand to calm her down. “I can’t go to prison. I can’t leave my boys.”

  “Neither can I, Nay,” he said, hushed, to her. “I wouldn’t have dragged you into this if I knew this is what that woman wanted. I swear to God I wouldn’t have.”

  “I can’t stay here,” she said desperately. “I can’t stay with Thomas.” Tears started to fall.

  “This is fucked-up,” DJ said, leaning in close to her and whispering. “This isn’t who we are. And it’s fucked-up.”

  Nay looked like her soul had left her body, and staring back into his eyes were hazel orbs of nothingness. “Who’s going to do it?” She looked back and forth between the two men. “I can’t go to prison. I won’t. I need this money.”

  “We were felons the second we walked into that house and put our hands on her,” James coolly reminded them.

  “He’s right, DJ,” Nay said, with an expression on her face so cold that she didn’t even look like herself. “I have to get out of here, and that money is the only way my boys and me can be safe.”

  “You’re okay with taking a life?” DJ questioned, seeing the same disregard for that woman’s life in Nay’s eyes as he saw in James’s. “You think it’s going to be that easy?”

  Nay swallowed. “I don’t care about it being easy. It’s her life or mine, DJ. The only one I care about is mine and my boys’.”

  James huffed. “I never believed that they’d let her go in the first place. So this don’t surprise me,” he said, shrugging. “Not surprised that they want her dead and not surprised that I’m gonna have to be the one to do it.”

  There was no argument from DJ or Nay.

  James held out his hand, palm up, and stared at DJ while Naomi placed the key to that room in his hand. There was no stopping this now. DJ sat frozen in his seat as his brother stood up and left. Nay sat next to him.

  “We’ve broken all kinds of laws, D,” she sadly explained. “For the first time in my life, I’m able to save myself. You don’t know what it’s been like. No one knows,” she tearfully explained. “But if this is the only way that I can get away from him, then I’ll take it.”

  “And you can live with this in your new life with your new name in your new house? You can sleep at night knowing that you got all that at the expense of a woman’s life?”

  “Like I said. It’s hers or mine. I got children to think about.”

  The two of them sat there for the next ten minutes in silence. Could he spend a dime of that money knowing that it had that woman’s blood on it? Would he buy that house that Nia loved so much, live in it, raise his kids in it, sleep in it, knowing that she died in order for him to have it? He’d fucked up. DJ had been quietly coming to terms with that realization ever since he’d hung up the phone from talking to that woman. She’d found him, seen that he was weak, and she used him. Played his family against him, his hopes and dreams. DJ had been a fool.

  “Even if James does kill her,” he said quietly to Nay, “what guarantees do we have that the bitch who hired us to do this still won’t drop a dime on us and get us arrested?”

  Naomi leaned back, staring at him as her eyes began to water. “She—she can’t do that,” she muttered fearfully.

  Yes. She absolutely could. DJ had made his share of mistakes, but damn. This was one he knew without a doubt that he would never be able to live with.

  “Move, Nay,” he said, shoving her out of the booth.

  “Where you going?” she asked, following behind him. “DJ, don’t!”

  He unlocked his car door and climbed in behind the wheel. Nay climbed in on the passenger side.

  “If you stop him, we get nothing!” she yelled through tears.

  “Don’t you get it, Nay!” he shouted. “We never were going to get that money!” He started the car and peeled out of the parking lot.

  Naomi screamed.

  He’s Cold Product

  JORDAN HAD UNINTENTIONALLY dozed off several times since arriving at Abby’s bungalow in Blink late the night before. He’d also called Wells too many times to count, only to get his voice mail every time. It was just after noon when he opened his eyes again and immediately checked his cell phone. Wells still hadn’t called.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” he questioned irritably. He went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he strolled through the house again, noting the blood on the wall. His baby had put up a fight, but at what cost?

  Jordan went back into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and took it outside in the backyard. A random memory of Abby wearing cutoff shorts, planting flowers, and dancing and singing to Johnnie Taylor came to mind. That was the second time he’d seen her. Jordan had knocked on the front door that day, but when she didn’t answer, he followed the sound of the music to the backyard and caught her off guard. That’s when he told her the truth about who he was and what this house had meant to him.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was here about a month ago,” he reminded her. “You and your friend allowed me to take a tour of the house. Jordan,” he said. “Um … Abby, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I remember you.”

  “My father died in this house,” he eventually admitted after a long pause. “Thirty years ago, he was shot and died in the living room.”

  She took a deep breath. “So he lived here?”

  Again he hesitated. “He lived in Dallas; however, he was seeing a woman who lived here.”

  That day, he had no idea of the role that Abby was meant to fill in his life. But even then he knew that whatever impact she was to bring to his life, he’d never be the same. It was just a feeling, one that, even now, he didn’t fully understand and could never explain.

  He felt as if he were carrying hundred-pound weights on his shoulders, and like wrecking balls were tethered to his ankles. Jordan waged an internal battle with himself, believing he’d have her with him again in a matter of hours. His reputation would be shot, and his bank account a hundred million dollars lighter, but if it was the only way for him to get her b
ack, then she was worth every sleepless night, every penny. Best-case scenario? He’d see her again, alive, and before the sun rose on another day. Period. That’s the only thing that mattered.

  Twenty minutes passed. Jordan called Wells again, to no avail. The bastard wasn’t answering. Jordan’s rage was reflected in his message.

  “Get off your ass and call me!” he demanded.

  Minutes were ticking by faster than he wanted. The last thing he needed to see show up in his in-box was that contract, but just like that it appeared. The sender’s e-mail address was a jumble of numbers, letters, and symbols from some cryptic site. Transcoastal Natural Gas Pipeline Contract was the title in the subject line of the e-mail. Reluctantly, Jordan opened the e-mail and read the instructions.

  Signature required at the end of the contract and on the twelve addendums. Return no later than one hour after receipt. The note ended with account information for where his accountant needed to transfer funds. Jordan then clicked open the first contract document, and without even reading, found the signature block at the end of the document and entered his electronic signature. It sickened him to do it, but he continued signing these documents, feeling a step closer to her each time he did. He’d finally signed the final document and began the tedious process of reattaching them all to the reply e-mail. Before he could hit the Send button, his phone rang. It was Wells.

  “Tell me you have her,” he said anxiously.

  “Not yet.”

  Jordan pounded his fist hard on the desk and bolted to his feet. He placed his finger on the mouse to send the damn contracts.

  “But I’m sitting here looking at the people who I believe do.”

  Jordan held his breath for a moment and carefully sat back down. “What the fuck is going on, man? Tell me where you are.”

  “In a town called Richardson. It’s the next exit off the highway, just past the exit to Blink. Exit 122B, about ten minutes from where you are. I’m sitting in the parking lot of a Whataburger just off the highway. You can’t miss it.”

  “What makes you think these people have her?” he dared to ask.

  “I suggest you hang up and get over here. I’ll wait, if I can.”

  Adrenaline flooded his veins and instinct kicked in. Before he realized it, Jordan hurried from the house, climbed into his truck, and peeled out of Abby’s driveway. It wasn’t until he was a mile away from the house that he realized he’d forgotten to send that damn contract. Jordan was fucking losing it! “Shit!”

  It wasn’t like him to forget a thing like that. Should he turn around and go back to the house to send it? He had less than an hour to get it back to those people. But what if Wells found her? He didn’t have time. Jordan couldn’t go back. If Wells was wrong about this—

  Jordan tried swallowing the baseball-size lump in his throat as he drove. A dark and foreboding feeling washed over him. Jordan felt sick to his stomach. He had fucked up.

  Lessons from the Ancient Roots

  CALL IT A MIRACLE. Call it luck. Call it God. Hell, call it Shou Shou. Sometimes, things had a way of working themselves out. The trick was never to force a situation. Plato had been patient. That patience was driving Gatewood’s ass up the wall, and understandably so, but from where Plato sat, being patient had finally paid off. Whereas Gatewood had counted five days to find Abby, Plato looked at it differently. He’d had 120 hours to find her. A hundred and twenty hours somehow made the whole situation feel a lot less urgent.

  Crown Distributors was his only real lead to finding Abby Rhodes. And so Plato had come back to this place, parked, waited, and watched for a sign from on high, any kind of sign, really. He’d gotten it. That happy couple he’d seen this morning at breakfast, the blond woman and the brotha. Here they were again. Not a coincidence. Not by a long shot. She came out of the building, sat in his car for a few minutes, and then left. He started up his engine as soon as she did, and drove off. So did Plato. With a song in his heart and a chest full of hope, he started whistling a tune he liked. Who sang it? Old song, from the eighties. Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al.” Good song.

  * * *

  Yesterday Plato had gotten the break he needed, or at least the beginning of one. He’d accidentally stumbled across Blondie and boyfriend, the couple who, for some inane reason, had caught and held his interest at breakfast the other day. Plato had gone to scope out Crown Distributors because he didn’t have shit else as a lead to finding Abby, so why not? And there they were. Bonnie and Clyde. She’d come out of the building and climbed into his car parked in the lot.

  He’d followed the boyfriend after he’d left and the woman had gone back inside, but he’d lost him at the railroad tracks. Which was an embarrassment to Plato and a sure sign that living in the lap of luxury with the lovely Marlowe Brown was making him careless and taking away his edge. But that was another conversation that he needed to have with himself at another time.

  “I need you to run some plates for me,” he told Wonder Boy over the phone.

  It didn’t take long for Plato to get a text from that little genius he had come to depend on so much. He texted Plato a name, James Washington, and the dude’s address, a dump of a house in Clark City, just outside Blink. Plato had been shadowing Washington since late yesterday. Today the old boy had led him to this burger joint, where he joined another dude. Blondie showed up a while later. Whatever they were discussing looked serious. He started to play out a scenario in his mind on how the three of them could be involved in this.

  Little Abby had put up quite a fight the night she’d been taken. It wouldn’t be hard to surmise that maybe the men had taken her. The woman could’ve been there too, though. He quickly dismissed worrying over the details and called Gatewood.

  Fifteen minutes after the woman showed up, toothpick boy, or whatever the hell it was he was chewing on, got up to leave. The other two stayed behind. Shit. A Plato clone would’ve come in real handy right about now. Plan of action? Follow the dude? Or stay behind with the other two?

  “I’m here,” Gatewood said when Plato answered the phone. “Where are you?”

  Ah, yes! The cavalry.

  “Black sedan, back of the parking lot in the southwest corner. I’m pulling out now.”

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Plato saw a light-blue-and-silver pickup truck headed in his direction and soon caught a glimpse of Gatewood’s scowling face looking right at him.

  “I’m going after contestant number one,” he said with a nod. “Contestants two and three are inside. Black dude in a gold hoodie with a blonde sitting next to him.”

  Gatewood positioned his truck to pull into the parking spot backward while Plato went after Washington.

  He followed Washington and a few minutes later ended up on the highway, headed south. Was he leading him to Abby? Plato could only cross his toes and hope for the best. His phone rang and it was Marlowe, with Shou yelling frantically in the background.

  “Tell him to keep them peaches away from me! Tell me I can’t eat ’em. They’ll kill me if I do!”

  “I had to call,” Marlowe said, exasperated. “What the hell do you know about peaches?”

  “I can’t talk right now, baby. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Curse him if he try to bring me them damn peaches!” Shou shouted. “I’ll turn him blind! Make him forget his own name and yours too, Marlowe. You tell him!”

  “Auntie! Stop it. He doesn’t know anything about any peaches.”

  “Marlowe, I’ve got to go,” he said sternly.

  Plato didn’t have time for this. He hung up before Marlowe could say another word about her crazy-ass aunt and them damn peaches. He’d catch hell for it later, but he didn’t have to catch it now.

  “Shit!” Washington had been four cars ahead of him, but he turned off the road and Plato had missed the exit fucking around with Marlowe and Shou. “Gotdammit!” he cursed, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.

  P
lato spotted a sign telling him that the next exit was a mile up the road. He cut across two lanes to get onto the opposite side and skidded his car around, heading in the other direction. By the time Plato made it to the exit, the other car was nowhere in sight. When he came to a crossroad, he pulled his car over and stopped.

  “Where did that motha fucka go?” he muttered to himself.

  Straight? Left? He shook his head in disbelief. This was not happening and not now. Not when he was so damn close to finding her. Plato could feel it in his gut. This was one of those flip-a-coin moments. He had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it wrong. The same odds of getting it right, though. He pulled back into the street and turned left. Small, wooden homes, some perched on top of cinder blocks and almost all of them appeared to be abandoned, lined the street and made him feel like he’d been transported back sixty years. The only signs of life were laundry hanging out on the line to dry and an old woman sitting on her front porch in a rocking chair smoking a pipe, nodding as he drove past her house.

  Plato had been driving for nearly ten minutes on that road when he started to believe he’d made a mistake. He’d taken the wrong turn, ended up on the wrong road, and Abby Rhodes might very well be dead because of it. When he reached a dead end, Plato turned off the engine. He opened the door and stepped out of his car and walked over to a sign with an arrow on it pointing left. It was hard to see, and if you didn’t know to look for it, you’d surely miss it. But it was another road with a path worn into it by the tracks of tires. Over time, it had become overgrown, but someone had been on it recently, indicated by the weeds that had been pressed down into the dirt.

  He looked back at that sign and swallowed hard.

  “No, no, no, no,” he whispered in disbelief. “That’s fuckin’ impossible.”

  Plato’s big ass shuddered.

  MISS PEACHES’ SOUTHERN HOME COOKING. Was this what had Shou so up in arms? In smaller letters underneath it, it said HOME OF THE BEST PEACH COBBLER IN TEXAS.