The Edge of Dawn (23 page)

“I'm sure they do, but my daddy died in an arson fire and I need your help putting the man who did it in jail, so, if I have to sit here until it snows, I will.”

“You got his stubbornness, you know.”

Narice smiled. “Thanks.”

Camille drew up as if offended. “That wasn't a compliment.”

“I'll take it as one because Simon Jordan was a good man who didn't deserve to be burnt to death in his own bed.”

The old woman shook visibly under the force of Narice's words. “You don't pull your punches, do you?”

“If this happened to your daddy, would you?”

Camille studied Narice as if seeing her in a different light. “I remember your mother. Died young.”

“Yes, she did.”

Then she said to Narice's surprise. “Simon raised you well.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, go on back to where you come from,” Camille told her, then went back inside the house. Narice was so outdone, and then angry, she wanted to punch something.

Saint returned with what old folks called, a mess of fish. Not bothering to ask Aunt Camille's permission, he used one of the shovels from the boat to dig a small pit in her hard-packed front yard, started a fire, then cooked the fish on a spit he made out of sticks and twigs. The aroma was heavenly.

“Smells good,” Narice told him.

Saint looked up from tending the meal. The tiredness on her dirty face tugged at his heart. “Be ready in a bit.” He then asked, “Any headway?”

“No. She did tell me where the outhouse was though.”

“That's progress.”

“I suppose.”

Saint poked at the fire. “It'll be dark in a few hours. There's a two-man tent in with the supplies on the boat. I'll pitch it, and after you eat we'll get you washed up, and you can crawl inside and crash.”

Narice stretched her weary bones. “Best plan I've heard all day, but I wouldn't put it past her to duck out on us after gator time.”

“I'll keep an eye on the Wicked Witch of the Okefenokee, don't worry.”

Their eyes held and all the wonderful and special feelings Narice had for him welled up inside and made her go still. Where would she be if he hadn't stolen her away from Ridley that first night? Since then he'd protected her, fed her, made love to her. It was entirely possible that Narice might have been able to find Aunt Camille on her own, but it wouldn't have been as much fun. “Thank you, Galen Anthony St. Martin.”

“For what?”

“For having my back throughout this whole craziness.”

He answered softly, “You're welcome. Thanks for saving my bacon, too. Like I said, helluva sidekick.”

Mutual affection shone in their eyes, even if he did have on his shades.

The fish was hot. Narice had to juggle the smoking pieces of delicate white meat in her fingers to cool them off before she could put them in her mouth. Then came the taste. It was so good, she groaned, “Oh, baby you can cook for me anytime.”

Saint chuckled. Only he knew that hearing her call him baby had his heart grinning like the village idiot. He'd take the sound and its affect to his grave. “Glad I could help a sista out.”

Narice had been so hungry but, now, she was in swamp heaven. “Oh, this is good.”

Saint was glad he'd brought back a full catch because the fish were small and the curvy, and obviously starving Ms. Jordan had already eaten three.

When Camille came out and stood on the porch, Narice and Saint went still. The woman looked over at them and they back at her.

Narice said, “You're welcome to join us.”

Silence.

Then Camille asked, “If I show you where the Eye is will you leave me in peace?”

Narice felt like she'd been hit in the chest with a Louisville Slugger. She stared in amazement at Saint, then stammered to her aunt, “Uh-uh, yes. Yes, ma'am. We'll leave.”

“Good. I'll see you in the morning. Sleep in the barn. Storm's coming tonight.”

She went back into the house, leaving Saint and Narice to stare at the now-empty space where she'd stood.

In the silence that followed, a still-awed Narice cracked, “I guess we won't be needing that truth serum after all.”

“Guess not.” Saint was stunned. “Man.”

“She blew me away, too.” Narice rubbed her arms. “I've got goose bumps.”

They eventually went back to eating but neither had much to say.

After they finished the fish, Saint was kicking down
the fire with the toe and soles of his boots and Narice was wondering how and where she could bathe when Camille stepped out onto the porch dragging a big wooden barrel. Both Narice and Saint stopped to stare.

The old woman called out. “There's a pump behind the barn. Wash that stink off you.”

Saint cracked. “I think she means you, Ms. Jordan.”

Narice laughed and punched his arm in one motion. “Shut up.”

Camille went back inside. Saint went to retrieve the barrel.

The water was cold but Narice didn't care. The fat bar of soap she found lying in the tub smelled like spearmint and lathered up real well. Narice had never seen or smelled spearmint-scented soap before and wondered where Camille had purchased it. In the end, the soap's provenance didn't matter; she was clean.

Because her small stash of clothes were in her suitcase inside Lily, Narice was forced to put her capris back on, and the extra black T-shirt Saint had brought along. Unfortunately her open-toed sandals would be useless in the days ahead, so she stuck her bare feet back into her still-damp hikers.

With Saint's help, she dumped out her bath water and he pumped more water for his turn in the barrel. While he washed Narice used the pump's water and the spearmint soap to try and wash the stink out of her jeans and halter blouse. When she was done she laid the garments over a nearby bush and hoped they'd be dry come morning.

Now, they were ready to explore the barn. On the heels of Camille's storm warning, Saint thought the barn might be a wiser choice than the tent he'd proposed they sleep in earlier, but once inside the dark and gloomy building they could see the evening sky through the massive hole in the roof. Evidently the place hadn't been used in quite sometime because all manner of small animals scurried for cover when the humans ventured farther in. Narice had put up with a lot of scary stuff since this little adventure began, but she was drawing the line at sleeping with rodentia. Spider webs thick as 400-count sheets were everywhere. They were so large Narice had no desire to see their arachnid owners. “I think outside may be better.”

Saint saw a river rat as big as his foot slide out of the barn between a large gap in the wallboards. “I think you may be right.”

Saint pitched the tent and after securing the ground stakes as well as he could, he spread the sleeping bag that had been bundled with the tent on the ground and bowed to Narice. “Your suite is ready, madam.”

She grinned. “Thank you kind, sir.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then crawled in. He took up a seat nearby to keep an eye on Camille, then pulled out his handheld; he needed to find Portia.

The storm blew in later that night with the force of something brewed up by Hollywood; the wind screamed, the trees bowed, the rain poured, and the lightning and thunder went at it. Inside the tent, Narice was jolted awake by Saint's hasty entrance.

“Damn it's bad out there.”

She scooted over to give him room while he fought to close the zipper on the wind-whipped flap. Once that was done, he slid in behind her and pulled her close. The sounds of the storm were loud and Narice was certain the canvas would be torn from them but the stakes held and so did the little tent. He pulled a tarp over them, and although she could feel the dampness of his clothes and body, having him near made her content, so she drifted back to sleep.

One minute Narice was dreaming of making love to Saint on a black sand moonlit beach and the next a sound loud as a hotel fire alarm bolted her awake. Saint shot up, gun in hand. They saw Aunt Camille's face staring back at them from the opening in the tent flat; she had a hammer and an iron skillet in her hand. “You two coming with me, or not?”

A stern-faced Saint drew his gun down and let out the breath he'd been holding. “Lady, you almost got your head blown off.”

She responded by rolling her eyes and leaving.

Saint, seeing the angry look on Narice's face said in ghettoese, “That's
yo
auntie.”

She laughed then punched him in the arm.

Narice's auntie was waiting for them when they ex
ited the tent. She told them, “If you got business to do before we leave, hurry up. Ain't got all day.”

They headed towards the outhouse. Narice stopped to check on the jeans and blouse she'd set out yesterday; they were soaking wet from the storm. She sighed with disappointment.

When they returned to Camille, she said, “You won't need the boat. Bring some shovels. You got digging to do.”

Saint asked, “How far away are we going?” Her answer would impact how much stuff he'd be able to bring along.

“Mile or two.”

Saint and Narice went to the boat to get what was needed. Twin backpacks holding survival items like water, first-aid kits, and dried food had been packed back at the Caddy so they each grabbed one and strapped them on. Narice picked up a shovel and a hoe. Saint grabbed up a shovel and the rocket launcher.

When they hooked back up with Aunt Camille, she took a long look at the launcher Saint was carrying on his shoulder. “That necessary?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

She eyed it for another second or two. “Then don't miss.”

Saint hid his smile. “I won't.”

Camille led the way. Holding a tall, whittled walkingstick, she set a pretty good pace for a woman of her years. She didn't talk, so they didn't either.

Narice felt good after her sleep last night and her muscles were no longer tired. Even though the pack was heavy she didn't notice it because she was too busy being wowed by her surroundings; the trees, the birds, the sounds, all added up to a breathtaking experience. There were signs of the storm, however. The ground was muddy, there were trees down, and limbs littered the narrow trail. There were also a lot of mosquitoes. Them Narice could have done without.

The trek ended a while later in a clearing of sorts. The vegetation was waist-high but in the center stood the remnants of an old stone fireplace and chimney. The stones had been bleached white by time and weather. Narice wondered if it was the old Jordan homestead. Across the field she could see crude markers and wooden crosses stuck in amongst the weeds.
A cemetery?

Camille said to them, “See that chimney? The Eye's buried about three feet down.”

Saint wasn't looking forward to all that digging. “Three feet.”

“Or four. When my brother brought that thing back from overseas, I told him it was going to bring trouble. Now he's dead.” She asked Narice, “Did he tell you it was here?”

“No. He left me a quilt, and Saint and I sort of figured it out.”

Camille nodded knowingly. “My quilt.”

Narice cocked her head. “Your quilt? You made the quilt?”

“Yes, in case we got too old to remember.”

Narice was speechless.

Camille cackled, “Oh, you assumed your daddy made the quilt.”

“I did.”

“Just like you assume I'm a crazy old woman living this way 'cause I can't do no better.”

Narice didn't lie. “Yes.”

Her bright eyes hardened. “Park Service wanted me to leave this land twenty years ago. Said I had no right to it. When I showed them my great gran's deed signed by General Sherman himself, they backed off for a little while, then sent some goons around to scare me out. Cowards waited until I was gone reed hunting and tore up the place. Punched holes in the roof, ran off all my livestock, set fire to the barn. I stayed. Told them they'd get the land only after I died and that I'd shoot anybody that came around wanting to prove me wrong. They left me alone after that.”

Narice understood now. “I see why you don't like company.”

“Thought you might,” she tossed back emotionlessly.

“Why do you stay?”

“I was born here, and I'll die here. Most folks are scared of the swamp, but if you respect it, it'll respect you. Seen a lot of strange things living in here.”

“Like what?”

“Ghosts of the slaves that died in these waters. Sometimes at night you can hear the chains rattling and children crying on the wind.”

“Slave ghosts,” Narice echoed skeptically.

Camille nodded. “Back when importing slaves became illegal, the slave owners would sneak their African captives into the south by way of these black-water channels. Sometimes the boats made it, sometimes they didn't.”

“And these ghosts are the slaves who died in the swamp?” Narice believed there was a spiritual world and that what Aunt Camille described was possible, but the analytical side of herself was real skeptical.

“Seen ships from outer space carrying men that wasn't men. Got one set that visits me quite regular.”

Now that was a bit too out there for Narice to swallow. She wondered if her aunt was suffering from a mild form of dementia.
Men from outer space?

Aunt Camille read her mind. “You're still assuming, aren't you?”

Narice jumped like a child caught wrist-deep in the cookie jar.

Camille smiled. “That's okay. Believe what you want. After today, I'll never see you again, anyway.” She then turned to Saint. “Start digging beneath the chimney.”

That said, she turned and set out walking back the way they'd come.

Narice, feeling properly chastised, said, “Now in the movies, cranky old women like her turn out to have hearts of gold.”

Saint wasn't buying it. “I don't think your auntie's ever been to the movies.”

An amused Narice shook her head and slipped off her pack.

 

They dug for the better part of the morning. Beneath the rain-softened topsoil the ground was hard as rock, and made for slow, back-breaking going. For what felt like the hundredth time, Narice used her foot to push the blade of the shovel into the unyielding earth. The force necessary for the movement set off a burn in her knee and the ball of her foot that because of all the digging was constant. “I'm sending Ridley my bill for the knee replacement I'm going to need.”

“Me too,” Saint said, tossing out dirt beside her. They'd dug about two and a half feet down. Now they were digging through clay.

Narice set the shovel again. “This stuff hasn't been soft since the dinosaurs walked.”

“You got that right.”

An hour later they hit pay dirt. A small bundle wrapped in a piece of tarp was unearthed by Narice's shovel. Her eyes shining, she looked at Saint.

He said, “You do the honors.”

An overwhelmed Narice dug it free then pulled it out of the hole. While he looked on, she very carefully unfolded the frayed tarp and revealed the small tin box hidden inside. Borrowing his knife, she cut away the rope holding it closed and opened the top. Inside, wrapped in another piece of tarp was the Eye of Sheba. Even after being buried for over six decades it glis
tened like a star in the night. “Do you think the story about King Solomon getting this from the Queen of Sheba is true?”

Saint had no idea.

“It's certainly beautiful.”

They marveled over it for a few moments longer, then Narice put it back in the tin box and tied it closed again. Saint picked up his coat and stuck the box in an inner pocket, then he and Narice began throwing all the displaced dirt back into the hole.

They were almost done when Narice looked up to see Aunt Camille enter the clearing. She was waving her rifle and walking fast. “Now what?”

Saint saw her too, and cracked, “Maybe she's bringing us lunch.”

Narice studied the old woman's agitated face. “Something's wrong, Saint.”

They dropped their shovels and hurried to intercept her.

She was winded but said clearly, “Those folks you brought that rocket shooter for are here. Eight, nine of them coming up the bank like slavers.”

Saint quickly scanned the land behind her. “Did they see you?”

“Probably. I shot two of them. When they scattered I took off.”

Saint was impressed. “All right, Miss Camille, you and Narice take cover over in those trees.”

Saint waited until the women were safely hunkered
down behind the wide trunk of a tree to his right, then took up his own position behind the chimney. The clearing gave him a panoramic view of the surroundings. While keeping a sharp eye out for cockroaches he fed the launcher some shells, then settled down to wait.

It wasn't a long one. Three men; thin, brown-skinned and wearing bad suits and pointed toe shoes crept into the clearing. Aunt Camille said eight or nine. Minus the two she shot, that left three maybe four unaccounted for. Saint didn't wait, he hit the trigger to see how many more he could flush out. The first volley of shells blew up the clearing like a bomb going off in a war zone. He heard screams and cries but closed his ears and fired again; this time to the left of his initial strike. Once again, he heard cries, then came the sound of returning automatic gunfire. The bullets were strafing the area around him so fiercely Saint had to lie flat to keep his head from being sheared off. Ammo exploded around him like hellish rain keeping him pinned down and unable to fire back. He felt like an extra in the movie
Scarface.

The nineteenth-century chimney was no match for the twenty-first-century firepower now blasting it to pieces. Another automatic weapon joined the fray and began adding its bullets to Saint's dilemma. He got nicked a few times, which made him mad, and by habit he ignored the familiar burn. Instead he concentrated on crawling as fast as he could to a safer spot. It was time to get out of Dodge.

The bullets peppered the ground on both sides of him, but he made it to one of the trees on the outskirts of the clearing and hoisted the launcher on his shoulder. His returning volley caused mayhem and chaos. He blasted, then blasted again. On the heels of his last blast, a voice aided by a megaphone filled the clearing. “This is the Georgia Highway Patrol, I want everybody, and I do mean everybody to drop their weapons and show themselves.”

Saint thought he heard a chopper off in the distance but with all the other noise he wasn't sure if he'd heard it or not. He was sure he'd been nicked by a few bullets, though, and looked down at the blood on his arm and cursed. He scanned nearby for his coat and saw it lying on the ground near the chimney; so much for immediate first-aid.

Narice heard the voice on the megaphone too, but worried that it might just be another Ridley trick she stayed put. During the shooting, she did her best to keep out of harm's way, but Aunt Camille had fired back like Rambo. Narice hoped she'd have half her aunt's courage when she reached her eighties. In the meantime, though, she could see Saint in his spot amongst the trees and that he was holding his arm. She was trying to come up with a way to get over to him and see how badly he'd been hit when she felt something hard placed against the back of her head. She went still instantly. Aunt Camille whirled. Too late. It was Ridley.

“If you move old woman I'll kill her.”

In the silence that followed, he said, “Stand please, Ms. Jordan.”

Narice stood on shaking legs and took a deep breath to calm herself.

Like Aunt Camille, Saint saw what was playing out too late. By the time he realized what was happening, Narice was standing and Ridley had his gun on her. The megaphone hadn't been a trick; the area was now teeming with uniformed officers and government types in suits and ties. They were lining up the cockroaches for questioning. When they saw Ridley holding Narice hostage they all drew their guns.

Saint called out, “Let her go, Ridley.”

“I'll let her go in exchange for the Eye.”

“It's still underground,” Saint told him. “There's no way you're going to make it out of here alive anyway, so let her go.”

Saint could see the officers watching him and Ridley. The desperation in Ridley's eyes was easy to see and Saint knew that a cornered criminal was a dangerous one. One of the Georgia state troopers had maneuvered himself to Saint's side, and asked quietly, “Who is he?”

“Arthur Ridley. Prime Minister of a little country called Nagal.”

“Prime Minister?”

“Yeah.”

“And you?”

“Name's St. Martin. Special Envoy to the President.”

“The President? Of the United States?”

“Yeah.”

Saint turned his attention back to Ridley who was now forcing Narice to walk in front of him like a shield. Ridley announced in a loud voice, “Ms. Jordan and I are going to leave now.”

Saint had no intention of letting him leave with his sidekick. There were at least fifteen officers and agents circling the clearing and all had their guns drawn on Ridley. “Let her go, Ridley. No way you can get out of here alive.”

“Back off, St. Martin, or I'll kill her just like I killed Simon.”

Saint shook his head. He wondered if it was a life of privilege or arrogant stupidity that made Ridley announce his role in a murder within earshot of so many lawmen and women.

The trooper next to Saint called out authoritatively, “Sir, drop your weapon and let the lady go.”

Ridley's reply was to shoot at the officer, but before anyone could react, the man next to Saint asked in surprise, “What the hell is that?!”

Saint looked where the man was pointing and saw Jesse and James hurtling across the open grass. He yelled to the policemen, “Hold your fire!”