The Darkness to Come (26 page)

“So? I’m not scared of him. I’m not backing down like some punk.”

“I’ve never heard you talk like that.” Eddie made a show of looking underneath the table. “You grow a pair of steel balls in the past couple of days?”

Joshua didn’t laugh. “Listen, this guy scared my wife so badly that she ran away. Her running has messed up everything for us, in so many ways. I’m pissed at her for lying to me—but I’m even more pissed at him for what I think he did to
her
, and what he probably thinks he’s gonna do to me, and to her again.”
And to our unborn child
, Joshua thought, but didn’t say. “So hell no, I’m not running from him. This is my life, Rachel’s life. I’m not gonna back down and let this motherfucker take it all away. If he wants to throw down . . .” Joshua squeezed his hand into a fist as massive as a sledgehammer. “Let him bring it.”

Chapter 42

Dexter finally found his wife’s house.

She lived in a subdivision called Pine Trace, a neighborhood of spacious homes with attached garages, brick fronts, and Hardiplank siding. Expansive lawns, many featuring holiday decorations, lay wheat-brown and dormant in the winter weather. Dense forestland bordered the community, giant pine trees standing like silent sentries.

Her house was near the end of the block, in a cul-de-sac. It was a two-story model on perhaps a third of an acre, with white siding and green plantation shutters. A Christmas wreath hung on the front door, and a tree was visible through the partly opened blinds on the bay window.

There were no cars in the driveway, but they might have been parked in the garage. The blinds on the other windows were shut, preventing him from peeping inside and ascertaining whether anyone was home.

Dexter doubled back to an intersection within the community’s network of streets, and made a right turn. He’d spotted a ranch house with a Century 21 “For Sale” sign in the front yard. He pulled into the driveway, verified that there was a lockbox on the front door.

A sticker on the rear bumper of Tanisha’s Mustang read, “I’d love to be your realtor.” Evidently, she had moonlighted as a real estate agent. Anyone driving past would assume that she was showing this house to a prospective buyer, and if his wife’s man drove past on the intersecting road on his way home, the place was mostly out of his line of sight.

He got out of the car and invoked the cloak of invisibility.

He hiked back to the house. A cold wind sliced down the streets, stirring up phantoms of dead leaves. A drizzle had begun to fall from the tumorous gray sky. On the radio, he’d heard a forecast of a winter storm advisory for late morning and early afternoon.

It wouldn’t match the storm he planned to unleash on his wife’s illegitimate husband.

There was a black mail box posted at the corner of the driveway. Dexter opened it and skimmed the mail. He found only a few advertising circulars, a red holiday card envelope from Eddie and Ariel Barnes in Atlanta, and a couple credit card offers addressed to Joshua Moore.

So that was the guy’s name. Joshua. Or perhaps he went by Josh.

You’re going to tell me where my wife has gone, Josh.

When Tanisha had confessed that his wife had gone on the lam, she said no one knew where she had gone, including her illegitimate husband. Dexter found that claim specious. Josh might not know precisely where his wife had fled to, but he would know
something
, and he was going to share it with Dexter.

Dexter stuffed the mail back in the box and sauntered across the walkway. Two miniature Christmas trees stood on either side of the door, and there was a long, narrow sidelight on the right of the door, the pane covered with a gauzy curtain.

He pushed the doorbell. Why not? He was invisible. If Josh opened up Dexter would clock him in the jaw, and it would be on.

Sonorous chimes rang throughout the house. A dog started yapping—annoying, piercing barks.

His wife had always wanted to get a dog. He hadn’t allowed it. A dog demanded time, money, energy, attention. A married woman had no business taking care of a dog; she ought to be taking care of her husband.

No one answered the door. He did not hear footsteps thumping through the house, either.

Barking, the dog pressed its nose to the sidelight curtain. He could see the outline of the animal’s small head through the fabric. It looked like one of those little Mexican dogs.

He rang the bell again, waited. No answer.

Turning away from the door, Dexter crunched through the bed of wood chips at the front of the house, went to the west side of the property. There was a first-level window on this side, covered with blinds, but if he lost his cloaking in the midst of his break-in, he would be visible to someone driving past.

He stalked to the rear of the house. A large wooden deck was attached to the back. It was furnished with patio furniture—a table, four chairs. A big barbeque grill, covered with a blue tarp, stood off to one side.

Dexter imagined his wife and her illegitimate jackass husband on the deck, grilling burgers and hot dogs and then sitting down to eat, like a happily married suburban couple. Fire licked his heart.

He was going to make the bitch suffer for this.

Beyond the perimeter of the back yard, the land was given to woods: pine trees, skeletal elms and oaks, bone-thin shrubbery. Wind howled like an avenging angel through the forest, nipped at Dexter’s exposed earlobes. His cloak had faded, likely due to his growing anger. It didn’t matter; the woods offered sufficient cover.

A French-style patio door opened onto the deck, the segments of windows covered with blinds. Dexter tried the knob. Locked.

His attempt at entry brought the attention of the little dog. It scampered to the door, barking.

Dexter put his lips to the door. “Keep up that barking, and I’m going to crush your head under my boot like a grape when I get inside.”

The dog whimpered. He heard the light patter of tiny feet as it skittered away.

Dexter unzipped his jacket and laid his fingers on the crowbar he’d taken out of his Chevy before he ditched the car at Tanisha’s. The tool jutted from the waistband of his jeans like a question mark.

He waited until the wind picked up again, and when it was at a high, reedy pitch, he swung the crowbar at one of the window panes in the door. Glass shattered, tinkled to the floorboards.

Dexter stuck his hand through the jagged maw. His fingers found the deadbolt lock, and twisted.

The door opened.

Chapter 43

Prescott Property Management was located downtown, on Auburn Avenue. Auburn Avenue, known as “Sweet Auburn,” was a stretch of roadway that once had been called “the richest Negro street in the world.” In the segregated, pre-Civil Rights era, it had been a showcase for black-owned financial institutions, churches, markets, professionals, entertainers, and politicians.

After desegregation allowed black businesses to spread across the metro area, the money left, and economic turmoil settled in for a decades-long stay. In the past several years, however, as urban revitalization projects swept the city, Auburn Avenue was on the upswing, too, with new office buildings, mixed-use developments, and houses springing up regularly.

Joshua swung his Explorer into the parking lot beside the company’s office. He hadn’t called ahead of time to ask about Rachel. He doubted they would share anything about her business over the phone with a stranger. He wanted to talk with them face to face, feel them out, and figure out the best way to get the information he wanted.

Wind slashed at his face as he trudged toward the building. The mottled gray sky spat an icy drizzle that weather forecasters predicted would soon become a full-fledged winter storm. Joshua hoped to conclude his business downtown and get home before conditions worsened, because everyone knew Atlantans couldn’t drive in bad weather.

Prescott Property Management operated out of a one-story, red brick building, sandwiched between a law firm and a realtor’s office. An “Open” sign hung on the glass entrance.

Inside, there was a small waiting area, and a receptionist, a grandmotherly black woman, at a front desk. Behind her, there was a work area with a black woman and a black man sitting at cubicle-style desks, and an enclosed office in which the woman whose photo he’d seen on their Web site was talking on the phone.

“Good morning, young man,” the receptionist said. “How may I help you?”

Joshua cleared his throat. He’d been hoping to fabricate a plausible story he could use to uncover clues about Rachel, but nothing had come to mind. “I’d like to talk to someone about managing a rental property of mine.”

“Certainly. What is your name?”

“Joshua Moore.”

She slid a clipboard and pencil across the desk to him. The clipboard bore a sheet of white paper that listed questions about his property.

“Please complete this form, Mr. Moore. Mrs. Prescott will be with you shortly.”

Joshua sat in the waiting area and skimmed the questionnaire. It asked for his property address, whether it was a single-family home, condo, duplex, or town house; whether it was currently leased; the rent that he charged or wished to charge; if he ever intended to use the property himself; and other questions.

Reading through the inquiries failed to give him any ideas. He twirled the pencil in his fingers, glanced around the waiting area. Photographs of properties for rent were tacked to the walls, but none of them sparked inspiration.

“Mr. Moore?” a woman asked, startling him. It was LaVosha Prescott. She strode toward him, smartly dressed in a green business suit and black pumps. She offered a professional smile and extended her hand.

“Hi.” Joshua stood, dropping the clipboard in his haste. He picked it up, and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You can give that to me,” she said. “Have you filled it out yet?”

“Not exactly.”

“No problem. We’ll review everything in my office. Follow me, please.”

In her office, he took one of the leather wingback chairs in front of her desk. On the desktop, she had a photo of a handsome man that he took to be her husband, and a shot of a young girl that was probably her daughter. No pictures that gave him any clues.

LaVosha sat in a high-backed executive chair and laced her fingers on the burnished oak desk. “Tell me about your property, Mr. Moore.”

“It’s a place that my wife and I own jointly, actually,” he said, wondering where the lie came from. “She’s already had dealings with your company. I was dropping by to check up on things.”

LaVosha gave him a quizzical look. “And your wife’s name is?”

The office had been pleasantly warm, but it suddenly felt like a furnace to Joshua. He was no good at lying. “Rachel. Rachel Moore. I think she called you earlier this week?”

LaVosha’s expression was guarded. “Yes, she did call me.”

The woman didn’t offer anything else. Why? What had Rachel said to her? Had she warned this woman about him?

“Rachel sort of kept me in the dark about the property,” he said. “Matter of fact, it was all her idea to buy it. I wasn’t involved in the purchase. It’s not until recently that I found out that your company was managing the place.”

“We may be.”

Joshua nervously pushed up his glasses on his nose. Why was this woman stonewalling him?

“I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about your business arrangement with Rachel,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything, Mr. Moore. My dealings with your wife are confidential.”

“Is that your company policy, or is that by her request?”

“Does it matter?”

“Please, Mrs. Prescott. This is important. I mean, this could be a matter of life and death—I’m not exaggerating.
I need to know
where my wife has gone, for her safety.”

LaVosha shook her head. “Mr. Moore, you’re asking me to divulge information that my client explicitly asked me to keep confidential. I can’t jeopardize her trust. It would be unethical, and I don’t do business that way.”

“But I have to help her!”

LaVosha pushed back from her desk, eyebrows arched. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that . . . you’re my only hope here. Her ex-husband is stalking her. If he finds her, I won’t be there to protect her. I think he already tried to kill her once.”

“If it’s a matter of life or death, why don’t you call the police?”

“They can’t help us. I don’t even know where this guy is—all I know is that he’s looking for Rachel.”

“Which means that the fewer people who know where she’s staying, the better.” LaVosha pressed her lips together and rose from her chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moore. I can’t help you.”

“I don’t believe this.” Slumped forward, Joshua removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you tell me
anything
?”

LaVosha crossed her arms, sighed. She glanced at the photos of her family on her desk, and her gaze softened when she turned back to Joshua.

“I can tell you that Rachel loves her property dearly,” she said. “It’s been . . . a part of her for a very long time.”

His gut tightened. She had given him a significant clue. He would have to mull it over to decipher her full meaning, but it was more information than he’d had when he arrived at the office, and if he could figure it out, just might lead him to the truth.

“Thank you,” he said.

Chapter 44

The patio door opened into the kitchen. Dexter closed the door behind him.

The little dog was nowhere to be found. It had gotten the hell out of dodge, apparently. Smart mutt.

He stood on the threshold for a couple of minutes, letting everything sink in. Trembling with a degree of excitement that he rarely felt.

Four years of obsessing about his wife. Four years of imagining how it would feel to get his hands on her again. Four years of dreaming about the terror he’d see in her big, pretty eyes as he choked the life out of her.