“I figured we needed speed.”
“Well, I wanted bulk. If the bomb hadn’t got us, that chopper certainly would have had we been in that small car. Remind me to send General Motors a fan letter.”
Myk laughed. “We got a make on the chopper from the rear camera.”
Saint turned his head. “What camera?”
Myk said slyly, “You’re not the only one with prototypes, my brother. There’s a camera mounted in the taillights and the headlights. Here are the pics.”
The photos were black-and-white shots of the helicopter. Saint’s jaw tightened grimly. It wasn’t possible to know whether the clowns flying the chopper were intent upon murder, but it sure seemed like it. “Do you know who they were?”
“I ran the make of the copter through some channels and all I got back was—it’s government issue. Could be Justice, Defense, could be stolen for all we know.”
Mykal Chandler was head operative for a clandestine government group called Nia. In Swahili the word meant purpose, and the purpose of Myk’s organization was to rid the city of crime and drugs by any means necessary. Myk and Sarita met during one of Nia’s stings. “Well, the pilot was a good one. Flew that bird like he ran folks off the road for a living.”
“That might be an angle to check out.”
“Maybe, but don’t spend too much time on it. I know your plate’s full.”
“Never too full to help if you need it.”
Saint was unaccustomed to asking for help; he usually operated on his own, using his own people, contacts, and resources. He knew his brother was being sincere and that Myk in his own way was offering the help to strengthen their bond, but Saint’s personal issues kept him from wholly accepting the friendship and familial ties his brother wanted him to embrace.
“How’s the lady holding up?” Myk asked.
Saint smiled almost wistfully. “Real well, considering there have been three attempts to stop her in the last twelve hours.”
“Three? I know about the bomb and Sarita told me about the chopper. What else happened?”
Saint spent the next few minutes telling the story of Uncle Willie, Arnold, and the fake Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Myk chuckled, “Guess you won’t have to worry about him taking care of himself in a pinch.”
“Oh, no. Arnold was a serious piece of fire power. Serious.”
They then talked about the quilt.
Myk was impressed. “Hell of a way to hide a map.”
“No kidding. Can we decipher it is the question, though. Narice knows of a book that might help. We’ll check it out in the morning.”
Silence crept up between them for a few long moments. Myk finally said, “Well, welcome home.”
Saint held his brother’s eyes. “Thanks. How’s Sarita doing?”
“Running everything as always. We’re well, too.”
Saint cracked, “Sorry to hear that second part.”
His brother answered with sparkling eyes. “Don’t hate.”
Saint grinned. Sarita was the only woman Saint had ever loved. In his youth, he’d imagined growing up and asking her to marry him. Little did he know he’d be the one to introduce Sarita to Myk and that they’d fall in love. Sarita knew nothing about Saint’s feelings for her, but Myk did. In a way that knowledge made the brothers closer, but it had also added another edge to their relationship, before Saint saw how happy Sarita was with her marriage and with Myk. In the end, Saint came to accept the fact that although Sarita loved him, she loved him like a brother and would never love him the way she did her husband. “Is there coffee?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Well, I’m going to grab a cup, and clean up. We’ll talk more later.” Saint left the office.
Sarita showed Narice into a spacious bedroom that had its own attached bathroom. The room’s furnishings were done in varying shades of green. “You can bunk here for the night.”
Narice always prided herself on her good taste and her ability to arrange a room, but the furniture and appointments in here left Narice in awe. Everything from the lamps to the drapes to the huge bed were elegant and stylish.
“How are you and my brother getting along?”
Because Narice had no idea how much Sarita knew about her brother’s role in the search for the Eye, she chose a simple answer, “We’re doing fine.”
“Saint’s unique.”
“That he is.”
Sarita looked about to say something else, but apparently changed her mind. “Well, let me get you some clean clothes. You’re taller than I am, but we should be able to find you something to put on. You go ahead and relax, and I’ll be back later.”
Sarita walked to the door then turned back to say, “Oh, I left some insect-bite cream in the bathroom on the counter. Hope it helps.”
Narice smiled. “I hope so, too.”
Then Narice was alone. She opted for the shower instead of a bath. As tired as she was, she was sure that if she got into the huge black tub, it would feel so good, she’d doze off, slide under the water, and drown.
After the shower, Narice wrapped herself in one of the huge towels in the cabinet Sarita pointed out before her exit, then stepped back into the bedroom. On the bed was a fluffy white robe with the tags still on it, a nightgown, also new, and a pair of blue footies, also new. Narice wondered if Sarita had a department store hidden in the house? Putting that silly thought out of her head, Narice got dressed.
Later, downstairs in the kitchen, Narice and Saint sat with Sarita and Myk around the table. Narice saw that Mykal Chandler was dark to Saint’s light. Sarita’s handsome husband had dark skin, a mustache, and dark eyes. Although he and Saint were about the same height, Myk was more muscular. Saint’s body looked as powerful, but was leaner. The cut of their jaw and the slope of their cheeks showed their shared parentage.
As the conversation flowed, Narice learned that Sarita ran a neighborhood center in the inner city and that her husband was a big-time architect and philanthropist. The talk then turned to the Eye. To Narice’s surprise the Chandlers were pretty much up to speed on all that had occurred, even the discovery of the quilt.
Mykal said, “I never knew anything about slave quilts. I’ll be going on the net later to see what I can find. Fascinating when you think about it.”
Narice then told them about the lecture she’d attended and how beautiful and moving the quilts were. “Many of the symbols are African-based. Some were from secret societies. Different colors meant different things and some quilts even carried symbols designed to protect the quilt itself.”
Saint raised an eyebrow. “Like magic?”
“I suppose you could call it that, yes. That book I told you we needed should help us figure what our quilt means, at least I hope.”
The clock on the wall showed it was nearly midnight. Sarita yawned behind her hand, then said, “You all will have to forgive me, but its been a long day. There’s a health fair going on at the center that kicks off at eight A.M., so I need to go to bed.”
Mykal Chandler ran a sympathetic hand up his wife’s back. “You do too much.”
She preened under the slow back massage he was now giving her. “That’s because there’s a lot to do, Mykal.”
He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, and she giggled, “You are so bad.”
She took him by the hand. He was smiling down at her with such love in his eyes, Narice made herself look elsewhere. Before her own marriage fell apart, she wondered if Brandon, her ex, had ever looked at her that way, but she couldn’t remember. Back then she’d been so focused on scaling the corporate mountain, everything else became secondary. Everything. Including her marriage.
Narice turned to Saint. Because of the sunglasses, she couldn’t see his eyes but he seemed to be enjoying the interaction between his sister and brother. Once Narice and Saint were alone, she said, “They seem like a very happy couple.”
“They are, but when they first got married, I hop
ed they wouldn’t be.”
Narice cocked her head his way. “Why?”
“Come on outside with me. I need to stretch my legs after all that driving.”
Narice tossed back. “Is this a date?”
He grinned, then said, “Maybe.”
Narice could feel herself succumbing to him again, and for this moment in time decided not to fight it but to enjoy it.
The moment they stepped out of the doors, she felt the cool night breeze and smelled the water of the Detroit River. Because she’d been half asleep when they first arrived here, she’d had no idea until now just how close the Chandler home was to the river. To her right she could see the Christmas-like lights of the Ambassador Bridge that connected Detroit to its Canadian neighbor, Windsor, Ontario. The darkness kept Narice from seeing the landscaping around the deck where she stood, but the solar lights in the ground lined a wood-plank walk that sloped down to a dock on the river’s edge. “It’s peaceful out here.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Why were you mad about your sister being in love?”
He looked at her.
“Or is it supposed to be a secret?”
He dropped his head in what appeared to be amusement, then asked, “You’re Miss Cleo now?”
“Being psychic has nothing to do with it. You brought this up. How long have they been married?”
“It’ll be a year in February.”
“She’s obviously happy.”
“I take full blame. I introduced them.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“She was supposed to marry me.”
Narice was confused. “You can’t marry your sister. That’s illegal and strange.”
“She’s my foster sister. We aren’t blood.”
“Oh.”
Admittedly, a small part of Narice was disappointed knowing he loved someone else, but the thinking parts of herself were convinced it was good news. Now, nursing an attraction for him was entirely out of the question. “Why didn’t you tell her how you felt before she got married?”
“She sees me as blood. Telling her would have made her real uncomfortable around me, and that’s not what I want.” Saint then studied her in the dark. “Why am I telling you this?”
Narice shrugged. “No idea, but talking sometimes helps clarify things.” She then added, “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. Does anyone else know?”
“Yeah, Myk.”
Narice went still. “He knows that you’re in love with his wife?”
“Was. I’m not anymore. It’s a long story but to make it short, when Sarita wound up in the hospital last year, I told him. He took it well, I thought.”
He then turned to Narice and explained, “Sarita is unique, no other woman in the world has her fire or her strength. Before she married Myk, she ran that neighborhood center of hers on no money—none, but she still managed to do after-school tutoring, meals for the shut-ins, and Christmas trees and Christmas dinners for families unable to afford their own.”
Narice was glad she’d met Sarita and come to like her before hearing Saint’s evaluation. To hear him talk, the woman was Mary McLeod Bethune and Dorothy Height wrapped up in one. No sister liked being compared to a saint knowing she’d fall short. “Do they have any children?”
“No—not yet.”
They let the silence rise again and Narice could hear the wind in the trees. She thought about the rainstorm they’d encountered down by the state line. “Do you think that weather’s coming this way?”
He lifted his head and looked around. The wind was rising. “Maybe.”
Narice let the breeze bathe her face. Out here, she didn’t have to think about choppers, or quilts, or dead men lying in Uncle Willie’s doorway. The blustery gusts seemed to blow away all of her tension and anxiety. “I could stay out here all night.”
“So could I.”
Narice smiled, “That’s right, you are nocturnal, aren’t you?”
He grinned in the darkness.
“Well, I’m kinda nocturnal myself, truth be told. I enjoy the quiet and the relaxation after a hard day, especially on a stormy, windy night like this. Makes you want to curl up with a good book.”
“Or a good woman, Saint thought.
Narice met his eyes then looked away. She was glad for the darkness.
Saint then said, “You’ve been a trooper through all of this. I know it can’t be easy.”
“No, it isn’t, but I have a feeling it’s going to be harder the closer we get to finding the Eye.”
“You’re right, but I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”
The genuine feeling in his words touched her. “I know.”
Silence again.
Narice could feel the tiredness of the day catching up with her. In another time and place she could have stayed out here with him all night, but tomorrow was coming and maybe so were the cockroaches. “I need to go to bed. If I can find my way back to the room your sister gave me.” She laughed.
“It is a big place. Come on. I’ll show you.”
Upstairs outside of Narice’s door they stood facing each other as if this were indeed the end of a date, and she felt as nervous as a sixteen-year-old. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You, too. Get some sleep.”
“Thanks.”
While he watched, she slipped into her bedroom and softly closed the door.
After she was gone, Saint stood in the hallway, thinking about her, and wondering what it was about her that had made him open up to her the way he had. Other than Myk, no one knew how he felt about Sarita, why in the world had he told her?
Unable to answer the question, Saint shook himself free, then headed off to his own bed.
Six
Narice awakened the next morning to the sound of knocking. Turning over in bed, she peered around blearily then remembered where she was. “Yes?”
“Are you awake?” Saint called through the door.
“Yes,” she groused sleepily. Narice had never been a morning person, and doubted she ever would be.
“Come downstairs a minute. Something I want you to see.”
Narice raised up wearily. “It’s not more cockroaches, is it?” Lord, don’t let it be cockroaches. Not at this time of the morning.
Saint laughed. “No cockroaches. This is something you’ll like.”
Narice didn’t believe him, but got out of bed anyway.
After attending to her morning needs and brushing her teeth, Narice, still wearing her robe, left her borrowed bedroom. Unfamiliarity with the layout of the big house sent her in the wrong direction again at first, but she finally came across the staircase. It led down to the large, well-furnished sitting room she’d been so impressed with last night. This morning, the big wooden door was ajar and Saint stuck his head around it. “Mornin.’ We’re in here.”
But when Narice walked in she couldn’t see the we he’d referred to because she was too busy staring at the racks and racks of women’s clothing; all hanging on hangers, all brand-new and bearing price tags. She saw blouses, slacks, dresses, suits, so much merchandise, in fact, she couldn’t see the furniture.
Out of the racks stepped Myk Chandler. “Morning, Narice.”
“Morning,” she replied, still looking around at the mini department store.
“Sarita said you needed some clothes, so I had a friend bring some things over. Pick out what you need and I’ll send the rest back.”
Narice stared at him as if he’d grown another head. She turned to Saint. He was wearing his signature coat and leaning casually against the fireplace mantel. Covering his eyes were the shades, so lord knew what he was thinking, but he was smiling. “Pretty scary, isn’t it?” he asked, gesturing to the clothes. “He does this to Sarita all the time. She’s trying to find him a twelve-step program, but so far, no luck.”
Amused, Narice began to slowly move through the clothes, looking at blouses, fingeri
ng skirts. There was a small stack of boxes on one of the coffee tables. Some of the boxes were pale blue, others gold, a few were ivory but all bore the names of the city’s finest stores: Nordstrom’s, Lord & Taylor, Marshall Fields. She gave Myk a questioning look.
He responded, “Those, too.”
A curious Narice picked one up. A peek inside revealed a beautiful indigo nightgown trimmed with lace. The sensual gown lay in the box delicately layered between folds of scented tissue paper. Just looking at it let Narice know it would slide over her body like a caress. Her eyes strayed to Saint and found shaded eyes watching her with a powerful intensity she could feel. Swallowing in her suddenly dry throat, she closed the box and moved on.
She snaked her way through shorts, swimsuits, sun-dresses and skirts. There were capris and jeans; bathrobes and packages of fine pantyhose. She shook her head. “There’s so much here.”
Saint pushed himself away from the mantel. “Need help deciding?”
Narice eyed him, and said, “Maybe,” then added dubiously, “but not from you.”
He placed his hand over his heart as if she’d wounded him, “Why not?”
She laughed. “Look at how you’re dressed?”
He studied himself for a moment.
Myk interjected drolly, “She does have a point.”
Ignoring them, Saint strode over to a rack holding a bunch of blouses. After a few silent moments of hunting he held up an ivory silk number that made Narice’s mouth water. He asked, “So, you wouldn’t wear this?”
Narice knew the blouse would be an asset in any woman’s closet. “Well, yes.”
He moved over to another rack and held up two long-sleeved cotton sweaters—one red, one black. “How about these?”
“I’d wear those, too,” she confessed. Both would be perfect for the chilly summer nights of August. She asked, “So, should I apologize and say, you have great taste, even if you dress like the hero in a spaghetti western?”
Myk’s laugh filled the room.
Saint ignored him. “Yes.”
She smiled. “I apologize. You do have great taste.”
Myk said proudly, “Runs in our genes.”