The Edge of Dawn

  “Supposedly. According to my father’s mother, I’m the spitting image of one of my great-, I don’t know how many greats, grandfather. Man named Galen Vachon.”

  “Sounds French.”

  “French, Spanish, Black, he was all of the above. Light-skinned Black Frenchman from Louisiana. Married an escaped slave woman named Hester he met in Michigan back before the Civil War. He supposedly loved her very much.”

  Narice wondered if he would ever slow down enough to love a woman very much. “So, what’s your full name?”

  “Legally, it’s Galen Anthony St. Martin.”

  “Galen,” she rolled that around on her tongue. “What name do you prefer?”

  “Saint, is fine.”

  “So you met your father’s mother?”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. After Myk tracked me down and told me we were brothers, he took me to Louisiana to meet her. She’s in her eighties but she is a pistol. I stop in and see her every now and then. She lives in Louisiana.”

  “She didn’t know about your birth?”

  “No. She didn’t even know I existed until Myk found my birth records.” He then turned to her and said, “Enough about me. Tell me about your school.”

  Narice knew that he’d shared as much of himself as he would for now, but she was hungry for every detail about him and his life. Only then would she know the man inside. “Sorry, if I’m prying.”

  “No problem.”

  His face was unreadable. It was almost as if he still had on the shades.

  Since he’d asked for a change in the conversation, she was just about to tell him about her school when the dogs bounded into view. They were barking, but it sounded more like a whine; like a kid in need of mama. As they came closer, a foul putrid odor filled the air.

  Narice wrinkled her nose. “What is that terrible smell?”

  Saint’s face reacted to the odor too, and in an exasperated voice he said, “Skunk.”

  Narice had never smelled a skunk before in her life. It was now unforgettable.

  The dogs were almost on them when Saint, his face still soured from the smell, yelled at them, “Stop!”

  The well-trained Rottweilers immediately halted. They were a few yards away but close enough for Narice to see their faces. Both dogs looked absolutely miserable.

  Saint walked up close, then bent down to their level and asked, “How many times are you two going to have to get sprayed before you leave those stupid skunks alone? We talk about this every summer. You know that stuff can blind you if it gets in your eyes. You think I’m going to go out and buy you seeing-eye dogs?”

  They dropped their heads like guilty children. Narice tried not to chuckle. She felt sorry for them.

  Saint’s voice softened with affection. “Dummies. Go on to the house and wait by the barn. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The dogs walked slowly towards the house. The stench was so strong, Narice could feel her eyes starting to water. She had no idea skunk spray was so acrid and potent.

  Saint used a hand to fan the foul air. “Good grief.”

  “Do you just give them a bath when that happens?”

  “Yes, but with tomato juice, and Portia’s not going to be happy having to deskunk them with the tomatoes she planned to can and turn into salsa. Those two are in big trouble.”

  Narice considered herself to be quite intelligent, but tomato juice? She’d never heard of such a remedy. Being with this man was giving her a whole new education.

  Saint was right, though, when they got back to the house, Portia was so upset over having to use her precious tomatoes, she fussed at the dogs in her native Portuguese the entire time she and Saint were washing them down. Narice was in charge of the blender. Her role was to puree the tomatoes, add a little water, and bring the juice out to the yard.

  Portia took another full pitcher of puree from Narice and switched languages from Portuguese to English just long enough to thank Narice, and say to Saint, “These are your dogs.”

  Rubbing juice into Jesse’s coat, he chuckled and asked, “Why is it when stuff like this happens, they’re my dogs but when they save the world, they’re yours?”

  “Because,” she told him, but she was smiling.

  Narice blinked. Save the world? Surely he was kidding, but with Saint and Portia it was hard to tell.

  By early afternoon, the humans were so covered with splatters of tomato juice that showers were necessary. Portia was sure the dogs would need to be treated again before all the stink was gone but decided to give them another bath later in the day. Saint prepared a lunch of BLTs and freshly made coleslaw, and they all sat outside under a big umbrella and ate. Narice appreciated having a man around who could cook, and cook well. As for his other talents…She glanced his way, and he gave her a quick lust-filled wink. They were well appreciated, too.

  After lunch, Saint and Narice were in the kitchen cleaning up when Portia walked in with a letter. She set it down on the kitchen table. “Mail, Saint.” Then she left them alone.

  Saint hung up his dishrag and picked up the envelope. He opened it, scanned it a moment, then handed it to Narice. It was a bank statement from a financial institution in Zurich.

  She glanced up at him, confusion on her face. “Why are you getting bank statements from Switzerland?”

  “It’s where I keep most of my money.”

  The bottom line showed he had a little over 1.6 million stashed away, give or take a few thousand Euros. “Why did you want me to see this?”

  “So you’ll know I’m not just a scrub who can’t afford a new coat.”

  She chuckled. “If I’m attracted to a man, his bank book doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to the man.”

  “Why are men so insecure?” she asked getting up and walking to him. She wrapped her arms around him and placed her head on his chest.

  He held her close. “Because we are,” he confessed and kissed her lightly on top of her head.

  “Why Switzerland, though?”

  “Because they’re discreet.”

  “And you need discretion?”

  “Yes. Because of what I do.”

  “Is that for your safety?”

  “Mostly. Only certain people know where to look to find me.”

  “And you prefer that kind of life?”

  “I do.” Or at least I used to. Having her around was making him question things about his lifestyle he’d thought were engraved in stone.

  “So, if at some time in the future I need your unique talents, what do I do, just send up the bat signal?”

  “If you need me. I’ll know.”

  She studied his eyes; she believed him.

  Since Saint had already stated his plans to leave the farm around eight P.M., Narice went up to her room around ten to seven to gather her suitcase and belongings. She’d enjoyed the short respite here at his home and didn’t want to leave, but they had an Eye to find and her daddy’s death to avenge. She wasn’t looking forward to the intrigue surrounding the search. The idea that Ridley and Gus Green were in cahoots didn’t sit well, but if Saint wasn’t bothered by the revelation, she supposed she could take it in stride, too. Gripping the handle of her pull-along suitcase, Narice, wearing a blue sleeveless blouse, blue shorts, and white running shoes took one last look around her borrowed bedroom and wondered if she’d ever see it again.

  Narice was a little melancholy when she joined Saint in the underground tunnel where he’d parked Lily, but she kept it to herself. The dogs, still looking sheepish, seemed to sense the imminent departure and followed Saint’s every move with sad eyes. While he loaded up the Caddy with provisions like coolers, bedding, and digging tools, Portia stood beside the dogs, looking grim, as if she knew the degree of danger ahead. Saint just looked like Saint. He had on the glasses again and his coat. The temperature outside was in the mid eighties yet he didn’t look a bit uncomfortable wearing the boot-length trench and the long-sleeved black Henley an
d black jeans he had on underneath.

  When Narice walked up, he held his hand out for her case. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Portia said, “It’s been nice meeting you, Narice. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  “Thanks, Portia. I hope I’ll be seeing you again, too.”

  Portia then walked over to Saint and gave him a strong, long hug. Her voice was thick with emotion. “Stay safe. Okay?”

  He hugged her back. “I will. You keep the home fires burning.”

  “I will. I’ll get in touch with our satellite friends and cut a patch into their system, that way if you need help you can just yell.”

  “Will do.”

  Saint hunkered down next to the dogs and ruffled their necks affectionately. “You two still stink, but take care of the house and Portia. Okay?”

  Jesse barked. Twice.

  James barked. Once.

  He gave each a final hug. When he walked over to the Cadillac, Jesse raised her head and began to whimper. Saint didn’t look back; he hated leaving the dogs as much as they hated seeing him go.

  Narice said, “Poor Jesse.”

  Saint shook his head and said quietly, “She does this every time I leave.”

  Placing his emotions under control, he stuck the key into the ignition. The head lamps came on, casting light on the shiny metal wall of the underground chamber. A few moments later the wall in front of them rose. As the car moved forward and the wall lowered soundlessly behind them, Jesse howled as if her heart were breaking.

  Once they were underway and could no longer hear Jesse’s mournful good-bye, Narice stared around at the metal tunnel they were driving through. Small lights were set in a horizontal line about midway up the walls. “Where’d this tunnel come from?”

  “Originally, it was an underground railroad route that connected four Quaker families that shared this land. I guess they moved a lot of escaped slaves through here. When Portia was thinking of buying the farm, the owner took her down to see the original tunnel, but most of it had collapsed.”

  “How long is it?”

  “About a mile. We had a company reopen it and shore it up, then had it excavated so it would accommodate cars, then put in these metal walls. It’s an alternative route out, just in case.”

  Narice wondered if he spent his whole life looking for alternate routes out. She supposed she was glad he had such experience, otherwise she might be somewhere with a gun-wielding Ridley in her face. Turning her mind from that she looked around at the darkness and the lights and wondered what those escaped slaves would think if they could see the tunnel now. “Where’s the exit?”

  “Inside of an old barn at the end of the tunnel.”

  “It isn’t noticeable?”

  “No more than the entrance was.”

  Narice remembered how the entrance had been camouflaged as an ordinary, every-day barn wall and was impressed by the cleverness of the builders.

  He drove on slowly. Moments later they emerged inside a dark, dilapidated barn. Through the barn’s missing slats, she saw a narrow dirt road outside. Before turning out, he waited for a moment; she supposed to make sure no one coming up or down the road would see them, but once the coast seemed clear, he glanced her way. “We’ll get some gas and head south.”

  She nodded and the search for the Eye of Sheba was on again.

  To Narice the drive back to civilization seemed to take less time than it had to leave it. After the dirt road turned back into a paved one, they were once again cruising through suburbia.

  The gas station they stopped in belonged to a well-known chain. Time wise, it was almost half past eight. The sun was low in the sky but light would be with them for a while longer.

  There were only a few customers at the pumps so Saint swung Lily to an empty spot then cut the engine. He undid his seat belt and reached deep into one of his pockets and pulled out a thick square of stuck-together bills.

  As he unwadded the paper, Narice looked on amused. “You have something against wallets?”

  He continued to unfold the bills. “No.”

  “Looks like it was put in a trash compactor.”

  He look up at her from behind the shades. “It was.”

  Her laugh shook her shoulders.

  He leaned over, gave her a quick but serious kiss, then got out.

  A happy Narice watched him stride confidently towards the door and thought back on the walk through the sunflowers this morning. His hands were as magical as that coat. Thinking about the pleasure he’d given her made her long for a nice hotel room, complete with a big bed and clean crisp sheets. Chastising herself for being so scandalous, she settled back into her plush leather seat and smiled contentedly.

  After paying the clerk inside, Saint walked back out to the pump. Lily was equipped with a double gas tank designed for long-distance driving, so filling her up was going to cost a fortune, but with half a fortune in his coat pocket, Saint didn’t care. He stuck the nozzle into the hole and watched the numbers on the pump dial begin to rise. It was going to take a few minutes for the tank to fill, so his eyes strayed to Narice. Lord what a woman. Just thinking about her made him hard all over again, a state he seemed to be in constantly lately. Her fault, of course, for being so bewitching and sexy and all those other adjectives. The memory of her soft plea of touch me was going to keep his blood hot for days.

  The Caddy’s tank was now filled to capacity, and the thump of the pump shutting off brought Saint back to the present. Shaking himself free of vivid thoughts involving Narice, a bed and himself, he pulled the hose free and closed the gas cap. A few seconds later he was back in the driver’s seat heading Lily towards I-75.

  Twelve

  Lily had a V-8 engine and 345 horses under her hood. With Saint behind the wheel and the cruise control set on eighty, it didn’t take long to cover the fifty-seven miles from Dayton to Cincinnati. The sunlight was fading, dusk was now descending, and Narice looked out of her window at the lights of Cincinnati. She’d never visited the city before, but knew it was on Ohio’s border with Kentucky.

  A bridge over the Ohio River took them into Kentucky. According to the map software Saint punched up on the dashboard’s small monitor, Interstate 75 ran 193 miles from the Ohio Kentucky border, then south to the Kentucky Tennessee line.

  Narice wondered where the cockroaches were, but told herself not to worry about them; they’d show up soon enough, she was sure. She looked over at the shadow-shrouded Saint. Since leaving Detroit they’d traveled over 250 miles; dodged helicopters, led a high-speed chase, and managed to not get blown up in Myk Chandler’s sports car. She’d stayed at his home, met Portia and his dogs, and now Narice felt as if she knew much more about Galen Anthony St. Martin, the person. She was glad to be with him; he was keeping her safe. That he kissed like he invented the concept was just the whipped cream.

  Saint’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Can you drive a stick?” Lily’s transmission was standard.

  “Yep. Since I was sixteen.”

  “Good. In the glove box is an extra set of keys. Hold on to them just in case.”

  Narice pulled opened the compartment’s door. The little light inside revealed a small stack of manuals, maps, and two keys on a ring. She took them out and put them in her purse.

  “Can you shoot a gun?”

  Narice’s answer was blunt. “No, and no desire to learn.”

  “You need to be able to protect yourself.”

  “I understand that, but I’ve never liked them. When the son of one of my sorors was shot and killed in a drive-by three years ago, that was it. No guns.”

  “Being able to handle a weapon could save your life.”

  “It didn’t save his.”

  “Narice—”

  She held up her hands: “No. No guns. I’ll hit the cockroaches over the head with a lamp or something, but I’m not learning how to pull a trigger.”

  “All right. I’ll leave it alone, for now.”

>   “For-ever,” she responded.

  Saint could hear the finality in her tone. He shrugged tightly. “Okay. For-ever.”

  “Thank you,” she said curtly.

  “You’re welcome.”

  They both felt the tension in the air. It wasn’t thick, but it was there.

  He asked, “Are we having our first fight?”

  The question was so out of the blue she chuckled softly. “Feels like it.”

  “How about we kiss and make up?”

  His outrageousness filled her with humor. “You are such a man.”

  To her surprise he pulled off the road, set the stick and brake, then turned her way. He beckoned her with a finger, and she leaned over the console separating their seats. In her sultriest voice, she asked, “Yes?”

  Saint met her lips with his. After what seemed like a sweet eternity, he murmured, “When a man wants you to learn to shoot, you’re supposed to listen.”

  He was slowly undoing the buttons on her blouse. Kissing him back with all the power of Eve, Narice countered, “When a woman says, to hell with a gun, you’re supposed to listen….”

  He put an arm around her waist and eased her to her knees on the seat so he could bring her closer, then temptingly brushed his mouth against the bared skin above her exposed bra. “What am I going to do with you?”

  As he began to explore her with his hands, she arched and stretched, “Whatever you like, as long as it doesn’t involve me and a gun.”

  Saint was unable to resist the lure of her mouth. He kissed her again, deeply, then pointed out, “You didn’t mind Uncle Willie having Arnold.” Saint was enjoying the way her nipples were rising under his passing hand. He slid the demi cup aside and bit her gently.

  Narice dissolved. She was finding it hard to keep up her end of the conversation, especially with him wickedly tonguing her nipples that way; she was pulsing everywhere. “And I don’t mind the one you have in your pocket either.”

  He backed up and looked at her speculatively, then said slyly while continuing to pleasure her breasts. “The one that goes bang-bang or the one that goes bang.”