The Darkness to Come (15 page)

“Mom, that’s just crazy. Rachel would never cheat on me. I know her better than that.”

Mom sneered. “Just like you knew you and her would always be together, ain’t that right?”

Chastened, Joshua bowed his head.

But his mother had raised an idea that he’d never considered. Could Rachel have left him for another man? Could her letter have been a total fabrication to fool him while she ran off with some guy?

The thought was so painful it nearly made him ill.

No, it’s bullshit
.
Rachel loves me—I know that. She wasn’t cheating on me, and she hasn’t left me for another man. I don’t believe it.

But he hadn’t believed that she would leave him, either, and she had done it, hadn’t she? How could he really know what she was doing, and why? He’d thought they shared a soul connection, and he wanted, desperately, to believe it. But doubts were growing in him like cancerous tumors.

Mom came to the sofa and sat beside him again. She patted his hand.

“It’s gonna be alright, baby. You with Mama now.”

“I just . . . I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.”

“You ain’t gonna want to hear this.” She held his hand. “But you need to let her go.”

“Let her go? But we’re married, we exchanged vows. I can’t just walk away.”

She leveled her thick finger at him. “Get this straight, boy: she walked away from
you
. And let me tell you—ain’t no judge in divorce court gonna give a damn thing to a woman that’s done run out on her husband to be with another man. You’ll get to keep the house, if you want it.”

“You’re way ahead of me. I’m not thinking about divorce.”

“You better start thinkin’ ‘bout it. ‘Cause she ain’t comin’ back.”

“But she promised she would.”

Mom shook her head sadly, as if he were a mentally challenged child.

“You’re a good man,” she said. “You deserve a woman who appreciates you.” She glanced at Coco in the pet carrier, mouth twisted with contempt. “Not some heifer who’ll leave you high and dry, and then expect you to take care of her pissy little rat dog.”

In the kennel, Coco whimpered. His mother had always despised the dog, probably because she belonged to Rachel.

“I’m going to take things one day at a time,” he said. “That’s about all I can do right now.”

“You welcome to stay here as long as you want. You eat dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.” Although he hadn’t eaten anything since earlier that afternoon, stress had stolen his appetite.

“You need to eat somethin’.” She shuffled toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna heat up them chicken and dumplins. Go on and put your stuff in your bedroom. I’ll get the bed ready in a bit.”

He sighed. When she was in mothering mode, there was no stopping her. “Okay, Mom.”

“And take that little rat dog outside to pee ‘fore you let it out that cage. If it pisses on my carpet, we gonna have a problem.”

“Yes, Mom.”

From the kitchen doorway, Mom smiled at him. “In spite of what’s done happened, it’s real good to have you home again, baby.”

Joshua smiled blandly, and happened to look at his father. His dad’s eyes were shut, but he was shaking his head, as if to say:
How pathetic. My grown-ass son has moved back home.

Joshua vowed to himself that he wouldn’t be there for long. One night, two at the most.

By then, if not sooner, he hoped to have an idea of what to do about Rachel.

Chapter 23

Like a manta ray gliding through deep sea waters, Dexter cruised around the night-darkened streets of St. Louis, Missouri.

He’d visited the city twice before; his former law firm had a large client based there. His fondest memory of St. Louis was of staying at an opulent downtown hotel, and having the client’s executive assistant—a fine, redbone sista with booty for days—bent over an upholstered chair while he hammered her from behind and gazed out the window at the city’s famous giant arch.

He smiled wistfully. Those had been the good old days. Although married, he’d routinely taken advantage of the plentiful opportunities to have sex with other women. It was just sex; there was no relationship, no genuine emotion involved. He’d saved his heart, devotion, and deepest commitment for his wife.

And look at what she had done to him in return. The ungrateful bitch.

The GPS system directed him to a subdivision on the city’s outer limits. A tall, wrought iron fence ran along the perimeter of the property, festooned with holiday lights. Shrubbery garlanded with more lights flanked a large sign that read,
Juniper Estates
.

There was no gate; Dexter drove through the wide entrance. The community’s grandiloquent title was misleading. The residences were hardly estates. They were modest ranches and two-story homes with partial brick fronts and Hardiplank siding.

He followed a gently curving road. The houses and lawns were dusted with snow that resembled white frosting on a cake. Residents had gotten into the spirit of the holidays. Every yard boasted light displays; some of them had representations of little baby Jesus in the manger, reindeer, Santas, and snowmen.

Dexter’s heart swelled. The holidays always had been his favorite time of year. Traditionally, he would buy a lavish gift for himself: a Rolex, a new knife, an Italian suit. The tradition had been put on hold during his incarceration, but he aimed to resume it this year, in the boldest, most meaningful way.

He was going to give himself the gift of vengeance.

He drove around a bend. The home he sought was ahead, nestled in a cul-de-sac at the end of the block.

It was a basic two-story model with an attached garage. Neatly maintained shrubbery entwined with Christmas lights, which happened to be shut off. The rest of the house was dark, too.

Had his wife warned Thad about him? Had Thad, frightened, gone somewhere else to spend the night—perhaps in the arms of a lover?

It was a possibility.

It was half-past eight. Thad could have been out to dinner, or working a night shift somewhere. There were many possible answers as to why the house appeared to be vacant.

But in these situations, prudence, usually, was best. He would park around the corner, cut the engine, and wait for a while. Anyone going to the house would have to drive past him.He wasn’t worried that someone would identify him as a threat. An hour ago, he had ripped the “License Applied For” tag off the Chevy, and replaced it with a set of Missouri tags that he had stolen off a car parked at a strip mall. And the battered Chevy had the further advantage of being so ordinary, it was virtually invisible.

Like me
, he thought.

After his shoplifting spree at the gas station, he’d spent some time reflecting upon his unusual talent. Wondering where it had come from, how, and why. He had not arrived at any conclusions, had not even formed any concrete theories. He had spent the last four years in prison, and his bid had been free of incident. Nothing unusual had happened to him in the joint.

And his pre-prison life had been equally mundane. He’d lived life in the fast lane: expensive cars, lots of money, sex with beautiful women, drugs. Although it would have seemed an extraordinarily exciting existence to another brother, to him, it was just everyday living.

Obviously, a talent to walk the earth invisible did not spring from everyday living. Something had happened to him, at some point in his life, to awaken—or instill—the cloaking ability. But what?

Maybe I was abducted by aliens
.
Little green men beamed me into their starship, injected me with extraterrestrial syringes, and zapped me back down here to roam the world as a guinea pig.

Although he was merely passing the time, musing ridiculous scenarios, a face surfaced in his mind like a full moon: a white-jacketed, middle-aged black man with skin so light he appeared biracial, curly brown hair, glasses, and inquisitive eyes.

Dexter sat up straighter in the seat.

Where have I seen that face before?

He couldn’t remember. The man might have been only a figment of his overheated imagination. But hadn’t he dreamed of the man last night, too?

Dexter never, ever forgot a face. When he thought of the guy, his heart rate accelerated, as if the man was an actual, flesh-and-blood person, someone with whom Dexter had experienced a very negative interaction.

The face retreated into the murk of Dexter’s subconscious mind.

He would wait, patiently, for a revelation. He was good at waiting when it suited his purposes.

He sank down into the seat again. His breath plumed in front of him, like answers yet to be fully formed.

About twenty minutes later, a pair of headlights broke up the blackness inside his car. Someone was coming.

He stayed low in the seat, hat pulled over his head.

A white Toyota SUV drove past, music bumping from the speakers. He recognized the song: “Santa Claus Comes Straight to the Ghetto,” by the immortal James Brown.

The truck headed toward Thad’s house.

“Invisible,” Dexter said. His heart beat like a tribal drum, and he spoke solemnly, as if he were supplicating some powerful, pagan god. “Make me invisible.”

A darting movement . . . a hissing of phantom serpents . . . and soon, the warm force field shrouded him.

He didn’t understand the source of this talent, and perhaps never would, but he didn’t need to comprehend the workings of it in order to use it for his advantage.

He selected a Bowie knife, checked to ensure that he had the roll of duct tape that he had taken from Betty’s house. Then he got out of the car.

* * *

The Toyota was pulling into the garage as Dexter approached at a brisk jog. There was a black Honda Accord already parked inside, on the left. The driver switched off the Toyota’s engine and doused the lights. The garage door began to rattle downward.

Dexter slipped inside between the vehicles.

No one sounded an alarm. His cloak was fully intact.

The garage door thumped shut against the concrete floor. Weak yellow light filtered from an overhead bulb and glimmered on Dexter’s blade.

The driver’s side door opened. A tall, athletically-built, dark-skinned brother with dreadlocks climbed out. He wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and Timberlands. It wasn’t Thad; it was probably his lover.

“I’ll check the house first, all right,” the guy said, in a rumbling, Barry White baritone. “You sit tight.”

“You’re so sweet, Malik,” the passenger said, in a soft, lisping voice that seemed to be the exclusive province of openly gay men. It was Thad, for sure. “Be careful, baby.”

Malik was clearly the man of the relationship. Dexter had figured as much. Their exchange also proved that his wife had warned Thad about him.

Malik shut the door. Dexter was only a few feet away, at the rear of the vehicle, and still Malik didn’t see him.

But he was going to feel him.

When Malik turned to walk toward the door that connected the garage to the house, Dexter grabbed the tail of his jacket, hiked it up, and rammed the blade deep into his right kidney. Malik screamed, a surprisingly high shriek for a man with such an authoritative voice.

Dexter twisted the knife savagely, and a spasm shuddered through the man’s body. He grabbed a fistful of Malik’s dreads and pushed the guy to the floor, easing the blade out of his flesh. Malik dropped like a sack of potatoes, twitching weakly and moaning. A puddle of blood began to form around his body.

Dexter felt lighter, and cooler. He checked himself, saw the force field had vanished; his body was clearly visible to him again. Did intense physical activity disrupt the energy field? He didn’t know.

He knew only that it was too late to turn back now.

Inside the vehicle, Thad was staring at him, eyes full of terror.

Dexter reached for the door handle on the driver’s side. Thad hit a button, snapping down the power locks before Dexter could gain entry.

“You’re only going to make this harder on yourself,” Dexter said.

“Go to hell!” Thad picked up a cell phone.

Dexter knelt to Malik—the guy had gone still and silent—and found a ring of car and house keys resting in his curled fingers. He mashed the button on the keychain to disengage the car locks, and jerked open the driver’s side door.

Thad cowered against the passenger door. He was a mocha-skinned guy, girlishly thin, with a clean-shaven face, a fade haircut, and diamond stud earrings in both ear lobes. He clutched the cell phone in his trembling hands.

 Dexter saw the phone display, and relaxed. Thad hadn’t completed the call.

“Please . . . don’t kill me,” Thad said. Tears slid down his cheeks.

“Put down the phone. We don’t need the cops here. I only want to talk to you.”

“You won’t kill me?” Thad was almost hyperventilating.

“If you tell me what I want to know—no, I won’t kill you. Let’s go inside and chat.”

“Okay.” Thad appeared to relax.

“Come on,” Dexter said.

“Liar!” Thad flung the cell phone at Dexter’s face.

The phone smashed like a brick against Dexter’s forehead. He reeled backward, momentarily stunned.

Thad had hopped out of the truck and was scrambling to the connecting door. Dexter shook off his daze, and chased after him.

Thad had taken his keys out of his pocket. He was fumbling to unlock the door. He looked over his shoulder, and Dexter threw a right hook at him that connected squarely with his jaw. The back of Thad’s head thunked against the wall, and his knees buckled, sending him to the ground, unconscious.

Standing over him, Dexter massaged his fist.

“Our talk isn’t going to be friendly now.”

Dexter unlocked the door and pulled Thad inside the house by his legs. It was a lavishly decorated home, which Dexter would have expected of two men living together. The rooms were painted bright colors. The furniture had soft edges, smooth lines, fluffy decorative pillows on the sofas and chairs. Lots of photos of the lovebirds. An abundance of live plants. Intricately carved, wooden figures of nude men.