The Edge of Dawn (14 page)

Her voice was resigned. “I know, and I keep telling myself those people will hurt me if they get the chance, but, seeing a crash like that isn't something you can just up and forget.”

“I understand, but the folks after us
will
hurt you, Narice. Don't ever lose sight of that, okay?”

She met his eyes.

“It's real important.”

“I haven't forgotten what they did to my father.” And she wouldn't.

He drove them around for another thirty minutes. When he was finally convinced there was no one behind them, he left the inner city and headed west.

They rode through suburbia with its condos and wide four-lane streets lined with car dealerships, restaurants, and strip malls. They drove past drugstores, electronic stores, and mile-wide discount outlets. Narice waited for him to turn in somewhere, but
he kept driving. In fact, he drove until the streetlights vanished and the road they were traveling became dirt and rutted with holes large enough to make Lily rock back and forth like a toddler taking its first steps. Out of her window Narice could see nothing but black. “Where are we?”

“Farm land.”

“Your friend lives on a farm?”

“Owns the farm to be exact.”

Because Saint impressed Narice as being overwhelmingly urban, it never occurred to her that he might have friends who farmed; she certainly didn't.

She sat silent when he turned onto a narrow dirt road and drove on another few miles. He lowered his speed to a crawl, then made another turn onto another dark, narrow road. Eventually the headlights illuminated a house that appeared to be a good-sized two-floor place. The structure was a weathered gray and had a wide old-fashioned sitting porch on the front.

Saint blew the horn. Twice. A light mounted on the roof of a big barn right in front of them came on and the beam lit the surroundings like day for night. A few moments passed, then the barn's corrugated metal door began to rise, and as it did, he drove in.

Once they were inside, Narice could see that the barn was filled with tools of all kinds: shovels, hoes, rakes, wheelbarrows. There were handtools like saws, hammers, and screwdrivers hanging from a board on the wall nearest her side of the Caddy. Narice tried to
pick out more of the interior's details, but her attention was grabbed first by the barn door slowly closing behind them, and then by the wall they were sitting in front of. It began to rise, not horizontally as the barn door had done, but separating vertically into two. She stared curiously at the halves now sliding farther and farther apart, and at the lighted corridor she could see ahead. “Where the heck are we?” Being around him was like traveling with a human amusement park.

“Underground.”

She stared at the shiny metallic walls lining the passageway; walls that certainly weren't put in by any farmers. The place resembled more the entrance to a secret installation or bunker.
Lord, where is this man taking me now?

A woman with Hispanic features, maybe in her fifties, waist-length black hair with silver streaks stood at the end of the passage. She had on a long multicolored robe and was leaning on a cane, but what really drew Narice's attention were the two huge black-and-brown Rottweilers seated statue-like on either side of her legs. Their heads were big as ponies, and they looked powerful enough to take down a grown man. Oddly enough, both canines were wearing heavy vests around their massive bodies. The garments reminded Narice of bulletproof vests, but who would put that on dogs?…
Curiouser and curiouser,
Alice said to herself.

Saint smiled at the welcoming committee and was
glad to see Portia up and around. She still had her cane, but she'd assured him when he talked to her last week that she was healthy and on the mend. Jesse and James looked healthy, too.

He sensed Narice's curiosity, but right now he cut the engine, then leaned his weary head back on his seat and let the adrenaline slide from his soul.
It's good to be home,
he noted genuinely. For a few long moments he savored the relief of arriving here in one piece, then turned his head Narice's way. “Stay here for a moment. Have to prepare the dogs.”

Narice didn't know what he was talking about, but complied and remained in the van when he stepped out. She watched the woman on the cane give him a strong hug that, yes, made Narice wonder about the woman's identity and her role in his life. Not that it was any of her business; but still…Reminding herself that she had no ties to Saint, she waited to see what would happen next. He clapped his hands and the dogs charged. Startled for a moment by the sight of the dogs eating up the short distance, then knocking him down, Narice relaxed when she realized he and the dogs were playing. He wrestled them and rolled on the ground while they played, barked happily, and repeatedly licked him in the face. It was obvious the man and dogs were friends. He finally stood, gave them both a scratch behind the collars, then signaled them to follow him over to Narice's side of the car. He opened the door and said to Narice. “I want you to step out kinda
slowly, then ball up your fingers and let the dogs smell the back of your hand. Okay?”

Narice eyed the dogs. “Okay.”

“Are you scared of dogs?”

“Not usually. No.”

“Good. Come on out, slow though.”

Narice did as she was told. She exited, then held out her hand for the dogs to sniff. They approached her individually. Saint introduced her to the first one. “This is Jesse.”

Narice extended her curled up hand. Jesse sniffed the skin, looked up into her face as if memorizing it, then sat beside Saint.

“And this is James.”

Narice stood silent for the second encounter. James checked her out much the same way Jesse had, then went to sit down on the other side of Saint.

“And I am Portia. Welcome to our home,” the woman said with a Spanish-inflected voice.

Narice looked to the beautiful woman whose long thick hair almost hid her face. “Thank you. I'm Narice.”

Portia gestured towards a metal staircase. “Come. Would you like something to drink or eat?”

Narice asked for the facilities instead and Portia said, “Of course. Right this way.”

When Portia turned her head, hair fell back to reveal the left side of her face and an ugly red scar that ran from just below her eye to her chin. The wide scar
marred the otherwise unblemished beauty of a woman in middle age. Narice dropped her eyes so she wouldn't embarrass herself or Portia by staring. When Narice looked up again, she found Saint watching her from behind his shades.

Metal stairs framed by wooden walls led up from the underground room, so after Saint retrieved the quilt and Narice's suitcase, humans and dogs began the climb. Narice looked back to see the lights going out behind them. It soon became so pitch black, the Cadillac appeared to have disappeared.

At the top of the steps was a wall of wood. Portia pushed on a panel and the wood slowly swung inward. She led Narice and the rest of the small party through the opening and into a dimly lit pantry. A surprised Narice watched the wood swing close again and realized it was the pantry's back wall. A few steps later, past shelves of canned goods and other food stuffs, they stepped out into a large shadowy kitchen lit only by the light on the stove.

Portia said kindly, “This way, Narice.”

Narice was shown to a restroom near the kitchen. When she returned, the kitchen was lit up and an apron-wearing Saint was at the stove cracking eggs into a bowl. Portia was seated in a chair at the table. The dogs were lying on the floor at her feet.

Saint said to Narice, “I'm making omelets. Want one?”

“No. Thank you, though.”

Narice took a seat at the table and wondered if he had
lied to her about having a wife. Rather than make herself crazy, she let the subject go and concentrated on what he was doing. He was going in and out of the fridge and pantry gathering items for cooking as if he lived here. The proverbial lightbulb went on above her head. She asked without ceremony. “Is this
your
home?”

She thought she saw a smile flash across his outlaw's face for just a second, but she decided it had to have been her imagination.

He glanced over at Portia, who appeared impressed that it hadn't taken Narice long to figure out the situation. “How'd you guess?”

“You look like you're real comfortable cooking over there. You know where all the pots and pans are, and where the food is stored. Then, there's the dogs.”

“What about the dogs?”

“They were so happy to see you.”

He looked over at the dogs. “You guys hear that? You blew my cover.”

Jesse barked. James didn't move.

Portia reached down and patted Jesse's head. “This lady's real smart, isn't she Jess?”

Jesse barked again.

Portia laughed. “You're right, much smarter than that model he had with him last summer.”

Saint cracked, “Both of you need to see a pet shrink.”

Portia met Narice's eyes and winked.

A short while later, Saint sat down at the table to eat his omelet and toast. While eating, he checked out
Narice and wondered what it might be like to have her at his table all the time. Granted it was fantasy; Narice was far too fancy for a man raised in foster care, but fantasy was all he had. He wanted her and he wanted her bad. He glanced over at Portia. “So what's been going on?”

“I should be asking you. All the chatter says you've upset quite a few people over the last few days.”

He shrugged. “So what else is new?”

Narice studied them. Was Portia privy to his secrets, and what had she meant by chatter?

Saint bit into toast. “I ran into our old friend, Gus Green.”

Portia's eyes flashed distaste. “That bastard. Did you slit his throat?”

“No, we were in a bookstore. Narice didn't want blood all over—” He looked at Narice, “Who were those people again?”

Narice chuckled softly, “Clifford the Big Red Dog and Dora the Explorer.”

Saint waved his fork. “Yeah, them.”

Portia dropped her head in what appeared to be amusement at Saint's ignorance of children's books and programs. “You were right, Narice. My granddaughters love them.” She then cocked her head and asked, “Do you have children?”

“Yes, about two-fifty.”

Portia's eyes widened.

Narice laughed. “I run a school.”

“A teacher?” she said with surprise. She then bent
and said to Jesse, “Did you hear that, Jess? She's a teacher.”

Jesse barked, twice.

Portia replied to the dog. “You are so right. It is about time he brought home someone with an IQ higher than James over there.”

Narice laughed.

Saint rolled his eyes and went back to his food.

Once Saint was done eating, he turned to Portia. “Now, tell me about this chatter.”

In response she gave him a questioning look, but Saint nodded for her to continue. He knew Portia was concerned about Narice being privy to their conversation, but he wanted her included. Narice was smart and a member of the team. Keeping her in the dark would be disrespectful to her and to her intelligence.

Portia silently deferred to his judgment, then spoke: “I heard your old friend Gus Green cursing over the wire earlier, so I sat down and listened.”

“What was he cussing about?”

“You,” she said with a smile. “Come. I recorded it. You can hear it for yourself.”

They rose and Portia and the dogs led them down a
hall that led to a large metal door. Portia then reached into the pocket of her flowing robe and pulled out a small gray device. Holding it like a remote, she pointed it at the door. In response the door slowly swung wide, showing that it was as thick as the door on a bank vault.

The first thing Narice noticed when she stepped inside the room was the coolness of the air. The second was the jaw-dropping display of electronic equipment. It was as if she'd stumbled into a wizard's workshop. There were computers and scanners, printers and monitors. There were large audio speakers against one wall and components with dials and screens that glowed with green light. The equipment filled tables, sat on shelves and on boxes. All of it seemed to be pulsing with life, but Narice had no idea what most of it was used for.

Saint gestured her to a seat.

Narice sat down and stared around like a tourist in the command center at Kennedy Space Center. “This is very impressive, Cyclops. Very impressive.”

His response was pitched low. “Glad you like it.”

His voice was as vivid as his shaded eyes, and Narice's heart tripped over itself. Needing some calm, she turned her attention to Portia only to see a very knowing smile on the woman's scarred face. Portia didn't say anything, however, instead she took a seat at one of the tables and hit a button on one of the units. Electronic static came over the speakers and filled the room, followed by what sounded like people arguing. A second later, a man could be heard clearly shouting,
“How the hell am I supposed to know how he did it? Just find his ass! No! Leave the damn fence there! The techies will pick it up later. There they are! Get the car!”

The sounds of footsteps and car doors slamming followed that.

Portia pushed another button. “Now listen to this. It's a phone call Gus placed about an hour ago.”

Green was saying, “No, sir. He managed to elude us.”

An electronically altered male voice spoke next and said, “Explain to me how he got away again.” In spite of the distortion, the speaker's impatient tone was very clear.

“The tech people say it's some kind of spray. It melts fences.”

“Melts fences?” the other man demanded skeptically, disbelievingly.

“Yes, sir.” Gus's voice was small. His guilty voice reminded Narice of the children sent to her office for discipline.

The echoing voice then asked Gus. “Do you know where they are now?”

“No.”

“Then dammit, find them! Kill St. Martin if you have to, but bring me that woman.”

“Easier said than done, sir. St. Martin's no chump.”

“I don't care if he's Batman. Get him out of the picture and bring me the Jordan woman, or I'll get somebody to do it for you.”

Narice felt fear run down her spine. Who did the
voice belong to? Was there yet another player at the table of this deadly game?

Portia turned it off and looked up at Saint. “So, now you know what the chatter was about.”

Narice was almost afraid to ask. “Who was the man speaking with Green?”

Portia shrugged and admitted. “I don't know. I should have his identity in another few hours.”

Narice wanted to ask how, but decided she didn't want to know.

Saint asked Portia, “Have you heard anything from The Majesty?”

“Yes, she called in by pic phone this morning. Look over at that monitor there.”

Portia rolled her chair over to a keyboard and began to type. A few moments of silence followed, then The Majesty appeared on the screen. She was veiled and robed in her signature purple and black. “St. Martin,” she said from the monitor. “I hope you and the Keeper's daughter are well. The cockroaches have been so bold as to try and poison me, but did not succeed.”

Narice was shocked by the news, but glad to hear The Majesty had survived the attempt on her life.

“Keep me abreast of your progress. May the Eye keep you safe.”

Then she was gone.

Saint said, “That's it?”

Portia nodded. “Yep.”

He then said, “Do we know who Gus is working for?”

“So far, no. And no one wants to claim him. My preliminary contacts think this is a rogue operation.”

Narice looked to Saint for an explanation.

He said, “It means, Gus and his buddies were sicced on us by someone without proper authorization.”

Portia added, “Somebody that probably doesn't want to be found, but we'll find him. I'm really hoping it's someone tied to Ridley.” Then she added venomously, “I knew he wasn't dead. I would have felt it if such evilness had left the earth.”

Saint said, “I don't care who he's tied to as long as he's found and stopped.”

“I'm on it.”

Narice knew that there were a lot of twenty-and thirty-something women who were tech masters, but someone Portia's age was a rarity and Narice was impressed. How had Saint and Portia met? Why did Portia have such animosity towards Ridley? Was it because Ridley was responsible for Saint's imprisonment? Narice's questions were stacking up like rush-hour traffic on the freeway.

Portia asked Saint, “So where do we stand on the Eye?”

Narice thought,
We?

As a result of the conversation that followed, Narice learned that Portia knew all about the Eye, but Saint spent the next thirty minutes bringing her up to speed
on the most recent developments: like the bomb in the Grand Rapids garage, their visit with Uncle Willie, and the high-speed chase in Ann Arbor. Portia didn't know about the quilt, though. Narice showed it to her and Portia seemed moved by the beauty. “This is phenomenal. And your father did this before he was killed?”

“Yes.” Narice then told her about the symbols and what they meant.

“So, it's like a treasure map?”

“Yes, in a way.”

Portia ran her palm over the fabric. “Your father was very talented. A man with such creativity didn't deserve such a terrible fate.”

“I agree.”

Portia looked up at Narice. “He'll be avenged. You'll see.”

“I hope you're right.”

Portia stated firmly, “No, he
will
be.”

Narice didn't argue. An unexpected yawn escaped Narice then. It had been a long day.

Saint could see her tiredness. He wanted to take her upstairs, put her in a warm tub, and hold her while she slept. The fantasy took him by such surprise, he had to mentally shake himself to remember what he'd been about to say. “Ready to crash?”

Narice nodded. “Yeah. I'm dead.” And she was. Now that she'd had an opportunity to relax, she could feel fatigue slowly creeping up and taking over.

“Portia will show you where you can sleep.”

“Thanks.” In reality, she wouldn't have minded cuddling in bed with him, but she buried that thought.

Saint didn't want her to leave. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning.” Narice gave him one last backwards glance, then followed Portia and the dogs back into the hallway.

The room Portia took Narice to was upstairs on the second floor. It was large and old-fashioned. Starched white curtains covered the windows that ran the length of the back wall. There was a big four-poster bed made of brightly polished cherrywood. A matching nightstand stood beside it. A sit-down vanity with a big wooden mirror stood against another wall. The hardwood floors and a ceiling fan also caught Narice's eye. “This is nice.”

“I like it in here, too. There's a bathroom through that door. Has a shower. Towels are in the cupboard. Is there anything you need?”

“No. You've been very kind.” Narice put her suitcase on top of the bed spread then undid the zipper. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost seven years. We bought this place together.”

“Really,” Narice replied looking over at Portia.

Portia's dark eyes danced with amusement. “It's not what you think. He and I are the best of comrades, and that's all. I needed a place to live and so did he. It turned out to be an ideal investment.”

Narice didn't want to admit how relieved she felt
hearing Portia define her relationship with Saint. “I just can't see him as a farmer.”

Portia laughed. “He couldn't either, at first. Now I think he enjoys being out here in the quiet. Helps him heal.”

Narice wondered what kind of healing Portia was referring to, and realized she now had more questions than ever about the mysterious Saint. She yawned behind her hand. The questions would have to wait for another time, though. Right now, all she wanted was a shower and some sleep. “What time is rise-and-shine around here?”

“Usually seven
A.M
.,” Portia replied, “but we'll let you sleep in.”

Narice replied gratefully, “Thanks.”

“You get some rest. And Narice, thanks for bringing him home.”

In light of what she'd seen and heard over the last few days, all Narice could say was, “You're welcome.”

After Portia's departure, Narice took her shower. Done, she dressed herself in a pair of blue silk man-style pajamas she'd picked out at Myk Chandler's in-house department store. Her crawl into bed was interrupted by a knock on the door. She answered, “Yes?”

“It's me.”

Narice couldn't help it. His voice made her smile. She climbed off the bed and went to the door feeling like a sixteen-year-old.

She opened the door and found him standing on the
other side. The magic coat was gone. He was dressed in all black and the shades hid his eyes.

Saint knew he didn't really have a reason to be standing at her door, but he'd convinced himself it was because he wanted to make sure she was okay. In reality he just wanted to see her. “The room okay?”

“Yes. Portia told me I could sleep in in the morning.”

Saint could smell the freshness of her skin and the scents she'd used in her shower. “Portia lies, a lot. I clang the breakfast bell at six.”

Narice shook her head. “It's four now. I am not getting up at six.”

“Not even if I make you whipped cream?”

The words touched her like she imagined his kiss would; deep, dizzying. She remembered him declaring he'd wanted to make love to her; not that she'd taken him seriously, but she did remember. “That's a very tempting offer,” she admitted softly, “but, no, not even for whipped cream.”

His smile stroked her. “You make it hard for a brother to please you.”

The phrase,
“please you”
made her heat rise, but she set it aside and told him truthfully, “You've been keeping me out of harm's way. That pleases me more than all the whipped cream in the world.”

Saint smiled down. “Then I'll go with that.” He wanted to raise his hand and slowly trace the shape of her jaw. Forcing down the urge, he said instead, “Sleep tight.”

Narice could feel her body responding to his unspo
ken call. Her nipples had tightened and a warmth was spreading out from her thighs, reminding her again how long it had been since she'd been with a man. “You, too.” Reluctantly, she backed up and then shut the door softly.

Saint was left standing there looking at her now closed door. Portia passed him in the hall on her way to bed and cracked, “Not accustomed to being on this side of the door are you?”

He smiled.

“I like her. She's classy and she's smart. Try not to mess it up.”

“Go to bed,” he told her with a grin. “I'll see you in the morning.”

She lifted herself on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Glad to have you home. Don't stay up too late.”

He gave her a squeeze then went to his room.

After taking his shower, Saint picked up the phone by the bed. The line was a secure one so calling and checking in with Myk and Sarita wouldn't compromise them or him. He talked to Sarita first, and then to his brother.

Saint asked, “Any repercussions from harboring a known fugitive?”

Myk laughed. “No. I got a few calls asking if I'd seen you. I just told them no. Simple lies are always the best. Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Saint caught him up on the events since leaving Detroit.

Myk said, “Well watch your back. I forgot to tell you the full manual on Lily is in the glove box along with the registration and authorization from GM giving you permission to drive their test vehicle. Is it still in one piece?”

“Barely.”

Myk's resulting silence made Saint chuckle. “You're so easy to get. The Caddy's fine. You go on back to bed. I'll check in when I can.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

“Good night, big brother.”

“Bye, Saint.”

Saint set the phone back into its cradle, then while the women slept, he and the dogs went back downstairs to check out the Caddy. He found the manual just where Myk said it would be. He read a bit then said to the dogs, “Hey listen to this. The windows are one and half inches thick and bulletproof.”

Jess watched him intently. James was asleep.

“It says the body panels are kicked up with bullet-resistant steel panels.” Saint looked down at Jess and asked, “I wonder what the difference is between bulletproof and bullet-resistant?”