Rapture: Where are our Children (A Serial Novel) Episode 3 of 9

by Gary Sapp

with his unpleasant business with her. He had already picked his ex-wife’s brain about the when’s and the where’s of Erica’s whereabouts and so far they’d come up empty. Now, he wanted some answers to the next obvious question rattling along in a parent’s brain. “Why didn’t you come to me directly when you thought Erica turned up missing?”

  Denise shrugged her shoulders once. “Look, Chris, I know how you feel about my daughter.”

  Chris felt a new wave of anger wash over him. “How I feel about her?” Chris exhaled threw his nostrils. “I want you to remember that I felt enough for her to help raise her since she was like six or seven years old, Denise. I care about what happens to her.”

  “But you don’t love her, Chris. You never have loved her.”

  “Of course I…” Chris’ words lost their traction and they fell off a cliff.

  “You see what I mean,” Denise’s laugh held no humor. “You can’t even lie to me and say it. Damn you, Chris, Erica didn’t mean to hurt you the way she did.”

  Chris leaned in close. The barbecue sauce on Denise’s ribs had been spiced in honey and he could smell it on her breath. “Then what other name would you have for it?” He asked her and noted that they’re little exchange had brought on some curious glances from the other the patrons whose tables and booths were closest to theirs. Chris stood up to wave the attention of the teenaged waitress down while flashing his bureau shield bright and shiny to anyone who might pay too much attention to their private conversation. “Check please,”

  They walked the half a block necessary to reach their parked cars. A strong gust of smoky, cold wind hit both of them in the face. Chris tried and failed to distinguish whether this particular whiff was from Parker’s grill or from one of the dozen forest fires that continued to plague the metro area. No matter what you say, Denise, it took a well thought out process to attempt to pull what that girl—

  Denise pressed a breast against his shoulder when they reached her Civic. “I prayed for you the other night.”

  “Did you?”

  Denise frowned and he knew it wasn’t because of the smoke or the cold wind. “Why wouldn’t I, Chris?” She folded her arms over and planted her butt on the Civics’ driver side door. “My God, you work for one of the most high profile agencies in the country, Chris. Between the explosion at the youth center and the hostages being held at the theatre, I knew that you were involved in all that somehow.” Denise’s gaze softened once again. “Of course, I had no idea you were one of those people being held inside Fox until after it was already over.”

  “I’m sorry, “Chris put his hands on her shoulders. “I couldn’t have been easy for you not knowing where Erica was and then adding all of that madness to your life that involved me as well.”

  “And we opened the Triage Center at Atlanta General for the first time since the quake happened a month ago. It hit me all at once how serious everything really was. All the RN’s were put on 24 hour call, but I never left the hospital once during the whole thing. The first responders kept bringing in bodies from both scenes…and then the nightmare recycled itself again when that crazy woman you arrested set off those bombs on the streets on the other side of town a few days later.”

  “Yea, it’s been crazy…”

  Denise had used the opportunity to pull his body closer to her. He got a full feel of her breast as she pushed them against his chest and his manhood responded to the exchange far quicker than he’d expected. He tried to take a half a step in retreat but she smoothly spun and pinned him to her to driver side door. She rested her head on his chest. He could smell her hairspray and perfume.

  “I kept praying…hoping that I wouldn’t see you carried in on one of those gurneys.”

  “I know…look, Denise,” He tried to peel her off of him and yet the feel of her breast, the smell of her was intoxicating to say the least. In the two years since their divorce Chris had known few women—by his choice. After he and Denise got over the initial furor that all divorces go through, they entered an interesting, if unorthodox phase that led to the present arrangement.

  They began to have sex again.

  Chris felt that he didn’t have the time or energy or interest to pursuit hardcore relationships with other women. Catherine Siegel, he finally learned the family name of the woman who had been his date who died at the Fox Theatre, had only been his fourth or fifth date since their divorce finalized. Denise had been the woman he had fulfilled his sexual needs with for the most part over the last couple of years.

  “Denise, listen, I need to go.”

  “That’s cool. Why won’t you come over to the apartment for a while after we both get off work tonight?” She asked and released in him just enough so that he could breathe his own air. “You said that Roxanne is supposed to call you around ten. We can be together when she does. You can pack a bag and spend the night—“

  Chris was shaking his bald head. “I don’t know about that, Denise.”

  Just as quickly she slid back in his arms again and everything had started all over for him, all the progress he had made a second earlier was gone. “Please Chris; I don’t want to be alone tonight.” She said, her voice purring with each word. “And it has been a couple of weeks since…since we’ve been together like that.”

  Denise’s grip increased from a strong attachment to a vice grip and she twisted his head back in her direction to kiss him. She pushed her tongue between his lips, out again, and then nibbled at his ear lobe as she reached and found his fully responsive manhood in his slacks. Her tongue, her hands, all of her so inviting…but…

  “Denise,” He said. “Stop.”

  “What’s wrong with you, sir,” She shot back at him angrily. “Oh, yea, I get it. I fucking get it, Angel’s in town and suddenly you can’t find the time to spend with me.”

  Chris raised his voice to meet her tone. “Dr. Hicks-Dupree is here in Atlanta at the request of the FBI.” He planted his fist on his hips. She had folded her arms. It was on, just like in the good old days of their marriage. “Besides she is a married woman. And I’ve told you, I’m telling you again this afternoon, that thing that occurred between us happened only once and it was years before you and I were married. Damn, Denise, we’ve been over this countless times. I don’t understand why can’t you get this through you head?”

  Denise slammed her hands down on her wide hips. “Oh, I get it alright, sir,”

  “Denise…” Chris looked at his watch. He had tons of work to do but no specific place he had to be at the moment, but she didn’t know this. “Look, Denise, I need to go.”

  “Don’t run from me, Chris.”

  “I’m not running.” Yet, he was walking as fast as his legs and a stomach full of grilled chicken salad and ginger ale would carry him a half a block over to where his car was parked.

  “You know, you’re right, baby. I apologize. This really ain’t got anything to do with Angel.” Denise’s angered look had faded into something that looked almost like hurt. Hurt might as well been a foreign film in an American theatre when it came to Agent Christopher Prince’s ex-wife Denise Prince. She only seemed to know anger and annoyance and a little furor performances thrown in for good measure. “It’s about her isn’t it? It’s always been about the only woman you’ve truly ever loved.”

  Chris ground his teeth together. They’d drawn a small audience of passerby’s on the adjacent sidewalk. A driver or two had slowed enough to hear a sentence or two before moving back on to the business of driving. Chris thought he saw a man who looked too young to walk with a cane hide his cell phone from his view when Chris spotted him.

  Chris exhaled from his nose again, and knew his skin was far too dark to redden from embarrassment but he was embarrassed for the both of them all the same. Strife between a relatively young man and woman of color in a predominately Black neighborhood in the streets of Atlanta is nothing new or news worthy despite your efforts to change our image in the media, little brother.

  “Leave
it alone, Denise.” Chris said when he thought he had gained enough distance between them. “Leave the dead alone.”

  But the rage was on her now. This show, friends and neighbors, was just beginning. “Fuck that, it’s you that won’t leave shit alone, Chris.” Denise screamed in his direction. “I could never compete with you dearest Hoshi. I know you, Chris. I know you don’t sleep around. In fact, I’ll even wager that you’d rather go home tonight and masturbate to one of your drawings of that woman then physically be with me.”

  “That’s enough, Denise.”

  “Angel Hicks-Dupree…Hoshi Givens…what’s her name, the woman you said died in that theatre the other night, yea I guess I don’t compare to any of them. I guess my skin is too damned dark for your taste.”

  “That is enough, Denise.” Chris fired back and if bystanders heard the conversation then to hell with them as well.

  Denise seemed to shrink a little after he had raised his voice to a near max. She seemed shaken and uncomfortable under his hardened gaze that he usually reserved for the vilest of humanity he’d investigated in his career. But Denise had crossed a line with him mentioning two women who had died so tragically and so young.

  He loosed his fist and struggled to regain his sense of calm. This absolutely was the feeling that reminded him of his marriage to this woman who he still