This being a workday, it was fairly quiet inside. She spotted a few seniors walking the mall for exercise, young women pushing infants in baby strollers, and a couple of teenagers who looked like they should have been in school with the rest of the kids their age.
The bookstore was down by the food court.
When they got there, Saint told her, “You go on inside. I want to grab a cup of coffee.”
Narice wasn’t sure she wanted to be on her own. With so many cockroaches sniffing around, she didn’t want to wind up being snatched again, but since the food court was in shouting distance, she nodded her agreement and walked into the store.
The young male employee behind the counter verified that the book Narice wanted was indeed on the shelves and then pointed her in the right direction.
Narice walked to the back of the store and when she saw it, she snapped it up like the day’s winning lotto ticket. A heartbeat later she had it opened and was browsing through to make sure it was the same book recommended by the Smithsonian lecturer. Happily, it was indeed. In the front were the symbols used by the slaves, and Narice scanned them with a rising excitement. There was the Monkey Wrench. She couldn’t wait to sit down with both the book and the quilt. She looked up to see if Saint had come in yet, but he hadn’t, so she closed the book and browsed through the section to see if there were any more quilt books that might aid them in the search.
“Do you like quilts?”
The male voice caused Narice to turn. He was tall, black, and wearing a green leather eye patch. She was surprised to find him standing beside her because moments earlier she’d had the store to herself. He smiled, showing her two gold incisors that seemed to gleam under the store’s light and Narice could feel her fear rising. Even though she’d never set eyes on him before, she knew by the eye patch that this was the man, Gus Green. The man Saint accused of spying on the ANC for the South African government. “Yes, I do like quilts,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray how scared she was. Her book in hand, she nodded politely. “I need to go pay for this. Excuse me.”
She moved to step by him but he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Why are you running off, Ms. Jordan? We’ve only just met.”
“Let go of me.”
He grinned that gold at her again, then looked at the book clutched in her hand.
“Let go!” she snarled louder.
He didn’t. Instead he asked in a calm voice, “Now, with all that is swirling around you, why are you here buying that particular book?”
“I will scream,” she promised angrily.
Only then did he raise his other hand and allow her to see the loaded syringe it held, and her eyes widened with fright. “And it will be the last sound you’ll make for quite some time,” he promised. His voice hardened, “Now, tell me about the book.”
Keeping a frightened eye on the needle, Narice lied. “It’s for a friend. I promised I’d buy her a copy when I ran across one.”
She couldn’t tell whether he believed her or not. Trying to keep her fear under control so she could think, she cast another hasty glance around for Saint.
Green seemed to have read her mind. “If you’re looking for St. Martin, he’s occupied with some friends of mine. He won’t be back anytime soon, if at all. So, let’s go.”
Hearing that Saint wouldn’t be around to offer his unique brand of assistance made her knees go rubbery for a moment, but she forced herself to hold it together. As he tried to make her walk towards the door at the back of the store, the Detroit in Narice surfaced and she shouted indignantly at the top of her voice, “Get your hands off of me!”
She swung her purse. He blocked it, giving her the blink of an eye she needed to knee him in the groin as hard as she could.
He yelled and immediately grabbed his fire-filled genitals. Eyes bulging with pain and surprise, he dropped to his knees. Moaning, he toppled sideways like ice cream falling out of a cone.
A breathing hard and angry Narice wondered if she should let him know he’d dropped his syringe.
Seven
Saint nursed his coffee at a seat in the back of the food court so he could keep one eye on the bookstore and the other on the lookout for the folks in the black sedan. He knew they were in the mall somewhere; he could smell them. Sure enough, a minute or so later they strolled into view. Wearing dark suits and shades, they looked like refugees from a Blues Brothers convention. Saint wondered if they were too dumb to realize they stood out like Klansmen at an NAACP fundraiser, or if they just didn’t care.
To draw attention to himself, he made a show of knocking over his cup, then jumped up from his seat to keep the coffee from flowing down onto his coat. Pretending not to see the agents, he quickly snatched a handful of napkins out of the table dispenser to sop up the mess. When he was done, he tossed the napkins in the trash, paused a moment to assess his coffee-damp hands, and strolled to the restroom situated a few steps away. A discreet look back showed them following him like rats behind the pied piper. Saint simply shook his head. He enjoyed tangling with arrogant government types because their egos made his job easier.
Once inside the restroom, Saint quickly positioned himself behind the door, then reached into his coat and took out his hinged nightstick reinforced with lead inserts to give it an extra kick. He snapped it out to its full length then held it high like Sammy Sosa waiting on a pitch.
The first cockroach to enter was just drawing his gun when Saint hit a home run across the bridge of the Black man’s nose. Blood gushed, the man screamed and fell to his knees. A blow to the back of the head rendered him instantly unconscious. Contestant number two’s blue eyes went wide seeing his companion go down, but before he could react, Saint whirled and cracked him across the knees. Number Two groaned then buckled. A lightning fast crack on his back made the man cry out. A second rap across the jaw dropped him like a sack of potatoes and he joined his partner in dreamland on the brown tiled restroom floor.
It had taken the adrenaline-charged Saint less than ten seconds to put both men out. Breathing harshly, Saint exhaled slowly and willed his heartbeat to slow. He picked up their guns, pocketed them, then quickly rifled through their suit coats for ID. He stuffed those into his coat as well. He’d check them out later. Still breathing harshly, he folded the baton, put it back into its hiding place in his coat, and then washed his hands at the sink. Moments later, he stepped over the unconscious cockroaches and left the restroom to go check on Narice.
Saint hurried into the bookstore just in time to hear Narice shouting. The kid behind the counter looked up in response to the sounds of what was obviously a Black woman going off, and met Saint’s eyes with a questioning look. Saint told him, “That’s my wife, I’ll handle whatever it is.”
Saint kept walking, but reached into the deep outside pocket of his coat and placed his hand on his gun.
He found her at the back of the store in the kids’ section. Saint was so surprised to see Green lying on the floor, he stopped confused. Narice for her part was standing off to the side. Her tear filled eyes were furious.
Saint asked quickly, “Are you okay?”
“Now I am.”
She handed him the syringe. “Here.”
Saint’s eyebrow rose. “Where’d you get this?”
“It’s his. He was going to use it on me.”
Saint turned startled eyes on Green who was obviously in great distress, “So what happened to him?”
“I kneed him in the nuts.”
Saint’s surprise etched his face, then he began to chuckle.
Green, who had managed to drag himself to his knees, but was still bent over from Narice’s attack, glowered at Saint and growled, “I thought she was a lady,” and he cast a malevolent glare at Narice.
Narice shot him a go-to-hell look, then asked Saint, “Where were you?”
“In the bathroom stepping on some cockroaches.”
That pleased her. “Good. Can we leave now?”
He gri
nned. “Sure. Give me a minute, though. I want to talk to my man here.”
Saint pulled out his gun and walked over to where Gus was still struggling to breathe. Green appeared pale and ashen, but Saint knew that a knee in the nuts will do that to you. He reached into the man’s coat and pulled out his gun. “The next time you put your hands on her, a knee is going to be heaven compared to what I’m going to do to you.”
“How was that Thailand prison, Ridley sent you to?” Green threw back. “When did you get out?”
Saint snatched Green up so quickly and with such force Green didn’t see the large, exotically sculpted knife in Saint’s hand until the glittering point was pressed against his shuddering throat. “I should cut your traitor’s throat right here,” Saint gritted out.
Though Green was sweating profusely, he tossed back boldy, “But you won’t.”
Saint’s responding smile was filled such hate it seemed to shine as bright as the knife. “Won’t I?”
Even though Narice wanted these cockroaches out of her life, she didn’t think this was the place to be gutting anyone. They were in the children’s section at the back of the store and it was pretty shielded but, they were in the mall for heaven’s sake. “Saint—”
He didn’t seem to hear her. Instead he told Green, “While I was in that prison I used to dream about all the many ways I was going to kill Ridley when I got out, and you’re this close to helping me practice making my dreams come true.”
Green smiled dismissively, but when the blade pricked him just enough to make him bleed, his features registered horror.
“Saint!” Narice whispered harshly. His anger was so real he was scaring her. What had Ridley done to him?
“Stay out of this,” he snapped coldly.
Narice’s hand went to her hip in offense.
Green was now visibly shaking.
Saint said softly and firmly, “The only reason you’re not dead right now is Narice.” He then showed Green the syringe. “You were going to use this on her. What’s in it?”
Gus seemed real scared now. “Just something to put her to sleep.”
“For how long?”
“Three, four hours. That’s all. I swear.”
Saint said to Narice. “Angel, go pay for your book. I’ll meet you up front. Tell Ms. Jordan, ‘night night’, Gus.”
Gus could see the syringe in Saint’s left hand and he began to shake even more.
“Say it!” Saint demanded in a cold emotionless voice.
Gus shot a terror filled eye to Narice. “Night-night,” he said in a high-pitched voice.
Narice left.
At the counter the young male employee said, “I see you found the book.”
She nodded and gave him a twenty and a ten to pay for the book. While she waited for him to make change and place the book in a bag, she noticed the crowd of people standing near the food court. “What’s going on over there?”
“Security found two guys beat up in the bathroom.”
Saint walked up then, and Narice searched his face to see if it held a clue as to what transpired between him and Green after she left them alone, but the shades made his true expression unreadable. A few seconds later, Narice left the book store escorted by a silent, jaws tight Saint.
Once they got back to the Caddy, Narice assessed him silently as he took out his keys and clicked off the alarm. He then used the small sensor from his pocket to check the vehicle for explosives. While he slowly walked the device around the perimeter, she realized she still knew very little about him. Yes, they’d been together for a couple of days now and had been through some stuff, but who was he really? Who was this man who’d talked about gathering info for the UN, walked around with hi-tech prototypes in his pockets, and carried a knife large enough to carve a Thanksgiving turkey? She felt a shiver go through her bones and hoped it wasn’t someone walking over her grave.
Inside the SUV now, Saint sat a moment before turning on the engine. He needed to calm down. He’d almost lost it back there when Green taunted him about the prison. Saint had issues when it came to Ridley and the issues ran deep. Were it not for Ridley, Saint would never have been thrown into a Thailand prison to be beaten and degraded; would never have been snake bit or had to fight rats for food. Just thinking about that hell hole enraged him all over again.
He then heard Narice say coolly, “Thanks for riding to the rescue, sheriff, but the schoolmarm doesn’t like having her head snapped off when she’s just trying to help.”
Saint met her eyes. She was mad. He could tell. Tight-lipped, he dropped his head onto the steering wheel for a moment, then looked her way. “You’re right. You didn’t deserve that. I was just so mad—”
“I thought you were going to geld the man right there. Clifford the Big Red Dog and Dora the Explorer would not have been happy.”
“Who?”
She waved him off. “Never mind. What happened between you and Ridley?”
“It was a long time ago.” And that’s all he said.
As he started the engine and backed the SUV out of the parking space, Narice stared unfocused out of the window. She had no idea where they were going next, and for now, she didn’t care. All she really wanted was off this merry-go-round. She thought back to the first night she met him and how frightened she’d been. For the last two days, she’d been able to set that fear aside because she and Saint seemed to be an okay dynamic duo. Now came the reminder that this was the most serious mess she’d ever had the misfortune of being involved in. She truly was Alice, only the characters in this Wonderland were car bombs, dead men, sinister helicopters, and cockroaches. It was way more drama than she needed. She just wanted to find the people responsible for killing her father and let the authorities take it from there.
He merged onto the Ford Freeway and headed west towards the heart of the city. Narice didn’t bother looking in her mirror for black sedans; that was his job. Hers was to figure out the markings on her daddy’s quilt, so, while he drove she took the book out of the bag and opened it.
The table of contents listed various topics, but one in particular focused on the secret signs in slave quilts. She flipped through the pages to that chapter and began to read.
When Narice came up for air, the SUV was parked and the engine was off. She looked up and saw water. Startled, she realized with pleasure that they were on Belle Isle. She looked his way and saw him sitting behind the wheel, his emotions hidden behind his shades. “I haven’t been here in years.”
Belle Isle was a 704-acre island in the Detroit River. In the 1700s the French called it Hog Island because of all the wild pigs. In the early 1880s, Frederick Law Olmstead, the man who designed New York’s Central Park, was commissioned by the city fathers to design a plan for the undeveloped island. Under his vision it became a park.
When Narice was young, her father would bring her here on summer Saturday mornings and they would swim at the beach, fish, ride their bikes, and rent canoes. Back then there had been the beautiful Scott fountain to marvel over, scores of flowers, an outdoor casino, and an aquarium that had the biggest catfish she’d ever seen. It was an oasis amidst the concrete and asphalt where residents threw barbecues, family reunions, church picnics, and graduation parties.
Now, she was here and older but the awe of the river and its slow-moving freighters still touched her like it had when she was young. She opened her door and stepped out. Paying Saint no mind she walked down to the water’s edge. Once there she looked out over the river and fed herself on the memories of the past, the silence, and the peacefulness of the surroundings. Spying an old weather-beaten tree stump a few steps away, she thought it looked like a perfect place to sit, so she did.
Saint was still simmering over the encounter with Gus. With him in the picture, The Majesty and her supporters were facing another formidable enemy. Green had no scruples. None. A few years ago, there were rumors that he’d had been hired by various U.S. government agencies to conduct covert operations
the U.S. couldn’t afford to conduct overtly because of political reasons, but like most such jobs, there’d been no paper trail to confirm or deny the allegations. Was this one of those operations? When the President asked Saint to take on this job, he’d made it clear that no one was to know Saint was acting at his request. Nagal was a touchy subject within the administration not only because of its port but because The Majesty would not be controlled should she and her candidates carry the election.
Who is Green working for? He needed to find that answer ASAP. It was bad enough having to deal with Ridley who was probably representing his own interests in the search for the Eye, in spite of what the generals were told or led to believe. The Ridley Saint knew trafficked in drugs, illegal weapons, and young boys. In the past, political connections kept him from being thrown in jail. Saint had a sneaking suspicion those same connections floated the story of Ridley’s death in a boating accident to keep him from being exposed.
Saint looked out at Narice standing beside the water. God what a woman. Green had probably scared her to death, but the lady refused to be a victim. Whether she was running away from Ridley or bringing Green to his knees, she was a woman a man didn’t mind having his back. Being a loner, Saint had never worried much about interpersonal relationships, but having her upset with him didn’t sit right, so he went to make peace.
Narice didn’t say anything when he walked up and stood beside her. For a moment the chirps of the birds and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore were the only sounds.
Then he asked, “Did you ever come here for the Fishing Derby?”
In spite of her mood she smiled. “Every year until I got too old. Never caught a thing, though.”
“Me either. Sarita caught a big perch one time. Named it Lucky. When Gran threw Lucky in the cornmeal and put him in the skillet, Sarita cried for days.”
Narice chuckled.
In the silence that followed, Narice looked around at the fresh-cut grass and the towering healthy trees. “Did you ever rent the canoes?”