BEVERLY JENKINS
THE EDGE OF DAWN
To Karen Simpson, April Shipp,
and all their quilting sisters
for keeping the traditions alive
Contents
One
Arson. The word and its implications echoed inside thirty-seven-year-old Narice…
Two
Narice awakened around noon to the smells of coffee and…
Three
After the audience, Fulani escorted Narice back to the bedroom…
Four
The quilt wasn’t very large; its size would barely cover…
Five
Once they hit I-75, Narice asked, “Where to now?”…
Six
Narice awakened the next morning to the sound of knocking.
Seven
Saint nursed his coffee at a seat in the back…
Eight
While Saint drove, Narice continued to mull over the handwritten…
Nine
Saint was asking himself the same question and came up…
Ten
Once Saint was done eating, he turned to Portia. “Now,…
Eleven
Portia was seated in front of a monitor, fingers flowing…
Twelve
Lily had a V-8 engine and 345 horses under her…
Thirteen
After another thirty miles of twists and turns on the…
Fourteen
Hours later, Narice awakened in the bed. The slow realization…
Fifteen
After slipping on the hotel’s robe, Narice padded back into…
Sixteen
Saint reached into his pocket for the small bottle of…
Seventeen
Traveling the channel turned out to be slow, hard work.
Eighteen
One minute Narice was dreaming of making love to Saint…
Nineteen
Portia took Narice to the Atlanta airport. From there, Narice…
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Books by Beverly Jenkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
Arson. The word and its implications echoed inside thirty-seven-year-old Narice Jordan like remnants of a bad dream. Arson. No matter where she turned the word was there, laughing, taunting, reminding her that the fire responsible for her father’s death had been deliberately set. According to the Detroit police a person or persons unknown had poured gasoline around the perimeter of Simon Jordan’s home, then tossed in a match. The memorial celebrating his life had been held yesterday, and now a broken-hearted Narice stood waiting in her motel room for a cab to the Detroit airport for her pre-dawn flight back home to Baltimore.
She hadn’t been able to sleep, so she was staring at a twenty-four-hour stretch with no rest. Both mind and spirit were exhausted. The cab company dispatcher promised the driver would arrive by three A.M. According to the gold watch on Narice’s brown wrist, it was just about that time now.
As if cued, a knock sounded on the door. “Who is it?” she asked through the wood. A peek through the tiny spy hole showed a short, stocky brother dressed in an ill-fitting olive green suit.
“You called a cab?”
Narice undid the locks and opened up. “Yes, I did.”
He showed her a smile. “You Ms. Jordan? Going to the airport?”
She nodded. “Let me get my bag.” Narice had already settled her bill, courtesy of the check-out service on the TV, so she had no need to go down to the desk. She took a quick look around the room to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind. Satisfied, she grabbed up her purse and the handle on the wheeled suitcase. Exiting, she closed the door softly behind her.
It was dark. The air was still close and sticky like it is sometimes in mid July. As she followed the driver down the stairs she could feel the heat building up inside her black suit, but she paid it little mind. She was too busy mentally blessing the cabbie for being early. She hated rushing through airports.
The yellow cab glowed eerily under the glare of the big lights ringing the parking lot. The heels of her pumps clicked loudly on the pavement. The driver opened the passenger door and took the suitcase from her. “I’ll put it in the trunk. You get on in.”
Before doing so, Narice fished around in her shoulder bag to make sure she had her ticket. After putting her hand on it, she bent to get into the back seat and froze at the sight of the well-dressed White man in the corner with the gun in his hand. “Come in, Ms. Jordan. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Fear made her instinctively back up and away, but the stocky body of the driver firmly blocked her path.
“Get in,” the cabbie ordered.
“No!” she yelled, but before she could tense her body for fight, the driver stuck a gun in her ribs. She stilled.
He whispered harshly. “Do you want your family to bury you, too?”
Narice’s head snapped around. Did he know something about her father’s death? Afraid, she said, “Who are you?”
He answered by forcing her into the cab. The door slammed shut beside her and her fear climbed. She stared at the man in the shadowy corner. He was smiling. “Put on your seat belt, Ms. Jordan. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
She eyed the man warily. “Where are you taking me?” Every horror imaginable played vividly through her mind.
“Just put on your belt.”
Auto safety was not her concern. “Where are we going?”
“Relax. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Relaxing was impossible; she was scared to death. As the cab pulled away, she prayed someone had seen her being pushed into the cab and that they would call the police, but she didn’t hold much hope.
They left the motel lot without incident, turned onto Woodward and headed downtown. Narice could see a few other cars traveling the same route, but at this time of morning traffic was sparse. The cab stopped at a red light and a police car cruised up and stopped a lane over. Narice’s hope soared. She had to let them know she needed help. She gave a quick look over at the man seated in the shadows. He had his gun pointed her way. “Sit back against the seat, Ms. Jordan. Slowly, please.”
Her hope withered. Tight-lipped, she complied. A few seconds later she watched the light turn green. The police rode beside the cab through the next two lights, then the officers must have received a call because their car suddenly accelerated. Lights flashing, they roared away.
Narice felt very alone. Another look over at the shadowy man showed his slow, pleased smile. She was fighting to keep herself under control so she could think, but it was hard. What is this about? Where am I being taken? Who are these men? A million questions screamed for answers. “Where are you taking me?”
“The better question is why?”
Her reply was terse. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because you hold the key to a long-lost treasure.”
“What kind of treasure?”
“A beautiful blue diamond known as the Eye of Sheba.”
Narice had no idea what he was talking about. “I think you snatched the wrong person. I don’t know anything about a diamond.”
“But your father did.”
Narice stilled. She studied him for a moment and wondered what was really going on here. She noted that he’d spoken about her father in the past tense. “You knew my father?”
“Once upon a time. Yes.”
“He died in a house fire last week.”
“I know.”
“The police are calling it arson. Do you know who set the fire?”
“If I tell you too much now, you may not tell me what I wish to know later. Let’s just enjoy th
e ride, shall we?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Arthur Ridley and that is the last answer I intend to give.”
Narice didn’t know what to do or think. Her father had never mentioned a diamond. Maybe this is all just a big mistake, she thought, hoped, but the man named Ridley seemed convinced and that made her more afraid.
The cab was almost downtown now. Narice had been born and raised in Detroit. She was as pleased as all Detroiters over the revitalization of the city. Some pockets of blight still remained, however, and they were now cruising through one such strip. The light ahead was red, so the cabbie slowed to a stop.
Out of the darkness appeared three squeegee guys dressed in black. Their faces were hidden behind ski masks and they immediately began spraying the windshield with clear liquid and wiping the glass clean with rags. Narice’s hopes for rescue rose once more, but before she could come up with a way to get their attention, Ridley said softly, “One word or one move and I shoot you, Ms. Jordan.”
She heard the driver up front shout angrily. “Get the hell out of here!” but the men ignored him and kept on spraying and wiping.
The driver hit the locks and threw open the door, “Dammit. I said—” He got out, intending to threaten them with his gun but one of the men had already drawn his own gun and had it in the cabby’s surprised face. Narice drew in a frightened breath then jumped, startled as the door beside Ridley was yanked open and a big gun stuck in his face before he could react. It was all happening so fast, Narice didn’t know where to look.
Ridley was told, “Give me the gun.”
He handed it over.
“Now, get out.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I shoot you right here.”
For the first time, Ridley looked up into the masked face behind the gun. Narice saw Ridley smile. He said, “I recognize that voice. Fancy meeting you here, St. Martin.”
The man in the mask didn’t appear surprised that he’d been recognized. “The pleasure is all yours.”
“You’re on this hunt, too?”
“I am.”
Ridley turned to the anxious-looking Narice and warned, “Don’t trust a word this man says, Ms. Jordan. He’d torture his own mother.”
That bit of advice got Ridley yanked out of the cab and thrown against the side of the vehicle. Hard.
The men out front were busy frisking the furious driver and the man with Ridley seemed occupied as well, so Narice slid over to her still-closed door and, trying not to draw attention to herself, slowly slipped off her pumps and tucked her shoulder bag close to her body. Taking a discreet look around to make sure no one was paying her any attention, she eased open the door and took off at a dead run. Narice had no idea where she was going but knew she needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and that cab. As she darted across the wide lanes, dodging cars and hearing horns blowing, she also heard a male voice holler with surprise, “Get her!” but by then she was in full stride.
Narice had run track in both high school and college, but that had been over a decade ago, and she hadn’t done it wearing an expensive Italian suit with a straight skirt, but she had a head start on any pursuit, and after hiking up the skirt her old training kicked in. Running like an athlete and not like the fancy CEO of Jordan Academy that she was, her strides took her off the main drag and into the side streets. It was not the part of town anyone should be in at night and lord knew how much broken glass she might step on, but she had no choice.
She saw a car and she tried to wave it down but the driver, an old man, looked at her as if he were terrified and sped off. She ran on, hoping to spot a police car, a bus—anything or body that might save her from the man whose footsteps she could hear pounding the pavement behind her.
Saint, his long black coat flapping around him, wasn’t happy about chasing this woman down. He snatched off his mask and crammed it into his pocket. He stuck his hand in his other pocket, found his shades and put them on. No one had anticipated she’d run. She was supposed to be a school principal, for heaven’s sake, not Flo Jo, but she was hauling and he was doing well just to keep her in sight. When he saw her try and stop a car only to have the car roar off, he felt relief. The last thing he needed was for her to be rescued by some good Samaritan and have to hunt her down all over again. She darted between two old houses and he increased his speed.
Narice looked back. To her dismay he was gaining on her. A blink later, he ran her down, threw a powerful arm around her waist, and swung her up and off her feet.
“Let me go!” she screamed. He slapped a hand over her mouth to keep her from waking the neighborhood. She bit him.
He snatched his hand away and yelled, “Dammit!”
She immediately tried to take flight again, but he had the presence of mind to grab her arm and yank her back. “You bit me?!”
She swung her purse but he ducked. She brought her nails up to claw his face, but his forearm blocked the attempt just in time. He grabbed her wrist and held, while she stood glaring back furiously.
Saint stared down. “Bite me again and I’ll paddle your fancy little behind.”
An unimpressed Narice pulled against his hold and snarled, “Let me go!”
He looked down at her as if she both amazed and amused him. “Didn’t expect you to be this much trouble.”
She opened her mouth to scream again, but he clamped his hand over her mouth so quickly she had no time to make a sound.
“I’m with the good guys, crazy woman. I’m not going to hurt you, but you’re starting to get on my nerves. Do you understand?”
Narice’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Now,” he said menacingly, “I’m going to take my hand away and we are going to walk back. If you scream, I’m not going to be happy. You got that?”
She didn’t give a care about his happiness. She wanted away from him, now.
He very slowly lifted his hand away from her lips, all the while holding her eyes prisoner with a gaze shrouded by dark glasses. Narice asked herself, What kind of man wears shades at night?
As he led the balking Narice back the way they’d come, he kept a gentle but firm hold on her arm. He stopped next to a new-looking sports car, then reached down and pulled open the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
Narice looked up at him and didn’t move.
“Get in.”
“No!” she declared.
He raised his eyes to heaven as if seeking divine strength or guidance, then placed his large hands on her waistline, and very slowly, and much too easily, raised Narice to eye level. She stared into the shades, and in spite of her show of bravado she was shaking.
“I’m through playing with you, now,” he spat out in a deadly serious tone. “I’ve let you hit me and bite me. No more.”
Just as easily, he set her down again. “Get in the damn car.”
Enraged, she gave him a look, but obeyed.
Seconds later he got in on the driver’s side. Her shoes were on the seat. He handed them to her. “Put on the seat belt.”
Snarling, she stuffed her feet back into her pumps, fooled with the belt and strapped herself in. From somewhere in the car a phone rang. Narice looked on while he hit a button on the dash. A male voice came into the car asking, “Everything under control now, little brother?”
“Yes,” Saint said, glancing over at Narice’s sullen face. “Now, sign off so I can get the hell out of here.”
“Keep her safe.”
“I’m the one you should be praying for.”
A laugh came in response to that quip, then the connection went silent. A second later, the powerful car barreled back out into the street.
He told her, “That was a stupid stunt you pulled back there.”
“Trying to keep from being snatched off the street is not stupid,” she countered testily. “Where are you taking me? What did he mean, keep me safe? No one’s going to pay a ransom for me, you know.”
H
e didn’t reply.
“Kidnapping is a felony.”
“So is biting a man.”
Frustrated, she settled back against the seat while her mind feverishly searched for a plan that would free her from this mess. “Are you after this Eye of Sheba, too?”
No answer.
He drove out of the city and onto one of the state’s major east-west highways, I-96. They were headed west.
She asked again, “Where are we going?”
“Make yourself useful and grab those CDs out of the glove box.”
“Where are we going?”
“To meet a queen who’s going to give you a million dollars. Now, put in a CD.”
Narice didn’t care for his sarcasm. “Do you do this sort of thing all the time? Snatching women off the streets, I mean?”
“Yes, and most of them are much better company.”
“Then let me out at the corner and you can find somebody else.”
“Sorry, Teach. Can’t do it.”
She stared at him across the darkness. “How do you know I’m a teacher?”
He replied easily, “Read your file. You didn’t think Ridley picked you up at random, did you?”
“Are you working with him?”
“Not hardly.”
“Then whom?”
“Friends.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glanced her way. “If I told you I was sent by the President would you believe me?”
Narice didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Then maybe this will convince you. You’re Narice Jordan. Thirty-seven. Divorced. Founder and principal of Jordan Academy, a ritzy private school in Maryland. You cater to the children of UN diplomats, D.C. power types and the occasional superstar athlete. How am I doing so far?”
She held his gaze but refused to acknowledge his accuracy or buy that he knew the President. Her silence didn’t seem to bother him, though.