by Mike Nappa
After he’d been released from custody, The Raven and Trudi had finally had a chance to talk. She learned what happened with his pinky finger, and he began to understand her relationship with her ex-husband. They kind of hit it off. Not romantically—Trudi made that very clear, much to his disappointment. But he got over it, and they discovered they shared many of the same interests. After that they started hanging out as friends in almost a big sister/little brother kind of way. Trudi liked that. It felt good.
The Raven had to get permission from the Atlanta PD before being allowed to travel back to Oklahoma, and in the end they’d opted to send a plainclothes detective and a junior lawyer from the district attorney’s office to accompany him anyway. With all the new revelations spilling out every day about Max Roman, they wanted him to be both safe and available. Plus, there was a bench warrant waiting for Tyson Miller in Oklahoma, and they needed to get a plea deal worked out in order to keep him available for Georgia-based court proceedings.
Trudi understood why he’d gone back to Oklahoma City, why he even wanted to go back, and she was glad for him, in spite of the reason for his return. It would be a time of healing, a little reconciliation mixed with redemption and closure. She expected this trip might actually help to finalize the change in direction his life was taking.
She hoped so.
“Ms. Coffey,” Eulalie’s voice sang through the intercom and interrupted her train of thought. “Mr. Hill is here. He wants to know if you’re available.”
“Sure,” Trudi responded. She checked the clock and was surprised to see she’d been working for more than two hours and that it was already 11:45. Where does the time go when you get in a zone? she thought. She said, “Send him back.”
Samuel looks good, she admitted to herself when he came, grinning, into her office. Why does he always have to look good?
“Hey, Tru-Bear,” he said, flopping comfortably into one of the guest seats in her office. “Hot out there. Glad you’ve got air-conditioning.”
“Nice to see you too,” she said, returning his grin. “What’s that?”
He tossed a greeting card on the table. “Today’s my Uncle Rexy’s birthday. Thought you’d want to sign the card before I give it to him.”
“Of course. Thanks.” She scribbled an endearing Calvin & Hobbes quote inside and added her name at the bottom before handing the card back. “How goes the investigation?”
“Things are falling into place,” he said. “The case against that football player is airtight, thanks in no small part to The Raven’s testimony. Still, Gartrell’s intimate knowledge of Max Roman’s entire operation, and of the whole Nevermore circumstances, means he’s got plenty of leverage with the district attorney. And he knows it. Got a good mind for negotiations, that guy. When all is said and done, my guess is he ends up spending less than four years behind bars. We’ll have to wait and see, though.”
“And Max Roman? The paper says he’s going to go away for life.”
“Depends on if he’s tied to any specific killings, and who in the Justice Department is on his payroll. He’s still a man with money and influence, so that mitigates his circumstances somewhat. But given the trove of evidence Mama Bliss turned over, the cards are not stacked in his favor.”
She nodded. They’d done their job, she reasoned. Now it was time to let the legal system do its job. She had other things to worry about . . . like maybe a budding career as a film advisor. Heck, she might even try to write a screenplay someday. She tried not to think about that, though. First she had to do a background check on a maid in Chamblee.
“The Raven is back in town,” Samuel said. “He got back yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.”
“He—” Samuel stopped himself. “You knew that already? How?”
“I’m a detective, Samuel,” she teased. “I know things.”
“I— ” Again he was temporarily speechless.
“Have you heard from—” She paused, then decided it was no longer a secret and that she should just ask what she wanted to know. “Heard anything new from your, uh, family?”
The earlier joviality of his entrance faded a bit, but he still tried to smile. “They’re in a—well, let’s call it a lengthy transition period. No communication during the transition, which can take anywhere from six to twelve months. But I expect to hear some news before the end of the year. I’m sure all is fine. I made all the necessary arrangements last time I saw them.” He let silence fill the air for a moment, then said, “Thanks for asking. Thanks for caring.”
She nodded and looked at her hands. She’d been surprised to discover that she did care. She’d spent so many days hating Samuel’s son just because she was not his mother. But after seeing his face, after looking at his cherubic cheeks and his smiling eyes, she knew she was done hating. Bitterness is a root that only poisons me, she thought. She felt like that new attitude was growth, both emotionally and spiritually.
Now Samuel was standing. “Hungry?” he said. “How about if I take you to lunch today?”
His eyes sparkled, and she remembered again why and how she’d fallen in love with him in the first place. But today was not the day she was going to fall down that drain again.
“Thanks,” she said warmly, “but I’ve already got plans.”
“Plans?” His eyebrows inched upward. “A date?”
“None of your business, Samuel.” She laughed. Just then Eulalie’s voice broke in on the intercom.
“Ms. Coffey, your twelve o’clock is here.”
Samuel turned and looked curiously down the hall.
“Come on,” she said. “You can walk me out.”
The Raven was waiting in the reception area, right in the middle of a card trick for Eulalie. “I’ll finish this later,” he said, turning to Trudi and Samuel. “Detective.” He nodded in greeting at Trudi’s ex-husband.
“Raven,” Samuel said. Trudi could tell he was trying not to let his mouth gape.
“You ready?” The Raven said to Trudi.
“Yep. Where are we going?”
“If you don’t mind driving,” he said, “I’ve really been craving CozyFloyd’s BBQ lately.”
47
Darrent
Atlanta, GA
West Midtown
Friday, April 28, 12:22 p.m.
Fourteen days after Nevermore
Darrent Eugene Hayes sat in the driver’s seat of his wine-colored rental car, a Toyota Corolla from Hertz this time. From his vantage point in the corner of the Bank of America parking lot at 1775 Howell Mill Road, he had a clean view to the front door of Coffey & Hill Investigations across the street.
Darrent had been tempted to skip over to Taco Bell next door while he was waiting, to grab a burrito for his growling stomach, but he resisted the urge. He didn’t want to unnecessarily risk being seen—and identified—by some random video camera in the area. Maybe the bank’s ATM camera or security video inside the Taco Bell. When he eventually did get out of the car, he’d do his deed quickly, hiding his face under a hoodie as best he could, but even that would be dangerous, and he knew it. A chicken burrito simply wasn’t worth the added risk. He stayed where he was and let his stomach rumble.
The unsealed FedEx Letter envelope sat on the passenger seat next to him. He’d intended to wait until the office across the street emptied for lunch and then deliver it, but now he hesitated. He’d seen both Samuel Hill and The Raven go inside. A few minutes later, he’d seen Trudi Coffey and The Raven leave together. Then Samuel Hill drove away in a different direction. The receptionist had come out around twelve-fifteen, locked the office door, and walked across the street to the Kroger shopping center. From what he could tell, she’d decided to lunch at Piccadilly cafeteria today.
If he was going to do it, now was the time. He just wasn’t sure anymore that he was going to do it.
“Mama Bliss said she owes you, Samuel Hill,” he said to the empty car.
He let his mind work in silence for
a few moments, then he picked up the FedEx envelope and removed two 5x7 photos from inside it.
He looked at the first photo and grimaced. It was a residential compound, just hours after a suicide bombing and military raid had taken place there. The charred shell of the Toyota truck used in the attack carried a now-tattered black flag. Daesh had claimed the attack was retaliation for crimes against Islam committed by the “apostate” Saudi government. Nine bodies littered the ground, seven men and two women. Three of the bodies belonged to Daesh, five had been residents of the compound, and one was a CIA Fader in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Darrent couldn’t recognize the remains of the victims, but he knew one of the women had been young, no more than twenty-nine or thirty years old. She’d been an Arabian beauty too, with skin the color of fresh apple butter, deep brown eyes, and a fiery, happy spirit. He’d only met her once, but he’d liked her instantly. He had a feeling every man felt that way when meeting her.
If the attack had come only one day later, even twelve hours later, she would’ve been gone. They all would have been gone, moved to a new safe house, hidden in a new country, on the second leg of a well-planned Fade into obscurity. But life doesn’t always go according to CIA plans.
He slid the first photo behind the second and now saw a sad little boy, about six years old. His eyes were a light chestnut color, surrounded by long lashes and the chubby cheeks of childhood. He had been crying, Darrent knew, because Darrent had taken this second picture himself.
The boy was slumped in a window seat on a private airplane, winging his way away from his home, from everything he knew. Headed to an unknown world where all would change for him, where he’d never again feel his mother’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight, protecting him from suicide bombers and bloodthirsty soldiers bent on sending everyone to hell.
But maybe his father’s arms, Darrent told himself. Someday. Maybe.
He returned both images to the FedEx envelope and stared for a few minutes at the empty offices of Coffey & Hill Investigations.
“Mama Bliss said she owes you, Samuel Hill,” he said again. “And I owe Mama Bliss. That means her debts are now mine.”
That includes this boy, he thought. And Trudi Coffey.
He started the engine of his rental car. Maybe someday he’d deliver the pictures to Samuel Hill, he didn’t know. He just knew that right now, today, was not the time for that. He would wait. He’d put off paying his debts a while longer.
It’s what Bliss would’ve wanted, he decided. And besides, being a secret guardian of Samuel Hill’s only son might come in handy someday. Maybe someday soon.
Darrent Hayes eased his Corolla out of its parking space at the Bank of America building, then slowly pulled into the lunchtime traffic that crowded Howell Mill Road.
1
Dream
Seven Years Ago
Somewhere in New England
“Get. Down.”
He’s driving too fast, looking too often at his rearview mirror. The world outside us is a strange, pale kind of twilight. There’s no sun in the sky that I can see, yet there’s still some kind of half-light, as if day is resisting night, refusing to go to bed like an ill-tempered child.
The gun resting on the console between us is still warm.
I could take it, I think. I could grab that pistol while he’s distracted. But the steel in his voice makes me think twice. He did just kill a man, after all. I can still smell the wet, hot, copper spray that blew from the dead man’s body when the bullets hit.
The driver glances at me now, scowling.
It’s a tight fit, even for someone my size, but I slide off the passenger seat anyway and try to squeeze into the leg space below. Apparently I’m not good at this.
“Farther,” he snaps. “All the way down. So no one can see you, even if we stop at a red light.”
If we stop at a red light?
The sedan lurches left, hard, but the tires don’t squeal. He guns the engine and, briefly, I feel dizzy, like I might have a concussion, like I might throw up if I’m given half a chance. Instead, I press myself deeper into the floorboards until he glances at me and nods. Then he does a double-take.
“Don’t you spew in my car. You understand?”
I nod and close my eyes. Seems a lot to ask of me at this point, not to throw up. But I really don’t want to argue right now.
“You spew, and I’ll put you in the trunk with everything else.”
His accent is strong, harsh, and hard to follow. I’m not from New England originally. Didn’t grow up here, and never quite mastered the nuances of that brash northeastern accent. For instance, to me that last threat sounded like, “Yah s’puh an ahl pudya in tha trunk wid everthin else.”
It takes me a second to process what he’s saying, and that seems to make him angry. He taps the brakes and leans down toward me while making another left turn. “Yah unnerstan?”
I nod again. I understand. There’s nothing to do about it now except pay attention and make sure my mind translates his words—fast.
But there’s nothing to do about that now except pay attention and make sure my mind translates his words—fast.
“Wwhat do you want with me?” I ask. My voice sounds thin, like the pale light fading around us. I try to concentrate so I can translate his accent in my mind.
“You was in the wrong place at the right time,” he says. With my eyes closed, I can almost hear a grin in his voice. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m afraid to ask.
Afraid.
The car screeches to a sudden halt, and the back of my head smacks lightly on the glove box behind me. I risk opening my eyes, and I see him tapping the steering wheel impatiently. I can’t see the traffic, but I assume there’s a car stopped in front of us, maybe at a red light.
Now’s my chance, I think. Shove open the door and roll out into the street while the car is idling.
My legs feel deadened from this cramped space, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll just fall out of the car and crawl away on my hands and knees. Hopefully somebody out there will see me, someone will wonder what’s going on, and that’ll be enough for him just to let me go.
“What is that? Is that blood?”
His eyes flick in my direction, and I feel my chest tighten like thickening cement. Callused fingers flash toward me and grip my wrist. He yanks at my arm, and I suffer the needling pain of opportunity pulling away. “Di’ya geh bluhd in mah cah?” Did you get blood in my car?
“No, no!” I say. “It’s cadmium red. Oil-based. It’s what I was using when you, when you . . .”
He throws my hand back at me and hits the gas again, swerving to pass something in the street. I reflexively try to wipe at the drying paint on my fingers and tell myself again and again, Don’t throw up, Javie, don’t throw up.
The man barely looks at me, intent on speeding through the twilight streets of what I’m guessing is East Middlebury or Ripton by now. He’s found a deserted route and is all business. I think we’re heading out to the forestlands because I can see tall sugar maple and beech trees shadowing the sky above us.
I sneak a look in his direction while he’s occupied with the road. His cheeks are Pilgrim-pale, flecked with pockmarks that suggest he had a problem with teenage acne. His nose looks like a partially inflated balloon, bulbous and angry. He’s got thinning brown hair, a chin shaved clean, and clear blue eyes that seem out of place in that face. He’s wearing dark brown pants, a white button-up shirt, but no tie. And now his right hand is resting on that silver gun still stuck to the console between us.
“That’s how you do it where I come from,” he’s muttering to nobody. “That’s how we do it Southie style. Whitey B., you see that? Yeah, you saw that, wherever you are.”
“You’re from Boston?” I say, and even I’m surprised to hear my voice ask the obvious question.
His face relaxes into a proud grin. “Born and raised,” he says. Then he glances over at m
e and frowns. “Now stay down and shut up while I try and figure out these crazy-stupid roads out here in this crazy-stupid place.”
I nod. Outside, night has finally pushed aside the last complaints of daytime and taken its rightful place. The Southie flicks on the car’s headlights, but the vehicle doesn’t slow.
“Head down,” he barks at me. “I got no time to deal with a skiddah like you right now.”
Skiddah? Oh, Skidder. Boston slang for a worthless bum. Is that what I am now? I fold my arms onto the seat and bury my face into them.
I’m going to die.
There’s silence as we continue into what I can only assume is more countryside.
But if he wanted to kill me, why didn’t he do it back at the workshop? Why come in with guns blazing at Henri and then stop when he sees me?
In my mind’s eye I see a slow-motion explosion of bullets and flesh, a gruesome reminder of my recent past and the vivid memory-making mechanism that works in my brain. I force Henri away from my thoughts, training myself to forget, at least for the moment. I can’t relive that awful killing, not yet. Another day, another time, I’ll say my respects, bid poor Henri a thoughtful goodbye. Right now I have to think of other things or maybe I’ll go insane.
Don’t throw up, Javie. Don’t throw up.
It feels like at least an hour, maybe more, until he finally sighs and tells me I can raise my head.
“Almost there, skiddah,” he says. “You still beatin’ in that heart of yours?”
I nod, and then realize he’s looking at the road and not at me. “Yes,” I say. “Where are you taking me?”
“Taking you home, skiddah. Taking you to your new home.”
I want to ask what he means about a “new home,” if he’ll ever let me go. But all I can do is grieve. I had a chance, I think. Back there, when he stopped at the red light or whatever that was. I missed it. Lord, help my poor soul!
