The stranger laughed again and gave me a "wake up and smell the coffee" look.
"Okay," I admitted, "he ran out on me, but that doesn't mean he'd welch on a deal. Vernell's an upstanding businessman. He'll turn up, and when he does he's gonna be mad as hell that you bothered me!"
I leaned forward like I was going to get out of my chair, but he stopped me. There was no going through this man.
"Why, you're a little wild thing, huh?" he said, but he laughed as he spoke, like he found my situation amusing.
I tossed my head and forced myself to stare back at him. I wanted to cry, or scream, or do any one of a thousand things, but I wouldn't. "I'm not afraid of you, you know. You can walk around like a big man when you're carrying a gun, but if you meant to kill me, I'd be dead by now."
"You think so, do you?" he asked softly. His face was eye level with mine and he was watching me. "And you're not afraid, not even the least little bit?" He moved closer and I backed as far as I could go into the chair. "You know me that well, do you?"
I couldn't move. He was coming closer and closer and I just couldn't move. That's when he leaned in and kissed me, his hand sliding around my neck and pulling me closer to him, crushing my lips against his. I started to squirm, trying to push away, but he held me fast. He wanted the control, I knew that. This was no kiss of passion. I felt myself spinning, caught up in the sensations that swirled around me: the way he smelled like old wood, the way his leather jacket was warm butter on my skin, the way my heart jumped into my throat, and the way my body started to respond, against my will, to his touch.
He stopped as suddenly as he'd started, rocking back on his heels and smiling a smug little grin like now we both knew something.
"Scared now?" he said.
"Don't you ever do that again!" I said, working to catch my breath.
He laughed, knowing how my body had responded, knowing I was powerless to stop him. He rose up onto his feet and towered over me. "I'll be watching you, Maggie Reid. Find Vernell for me, and I might be able to help him out. I'm the only guy not looking to shoot him on sight."
Oh, right, like I believed that! Did he think he could just burst in here, hold me at gunpoint, and then expect me to believe every word he said? "Do you think I'd trust anything you said or did?"
He jammed the gun in his pocket and cocked his head slightly to the left. "Let's hope you do, Maggie Reid, because Vernell Spivey's life depends on it."
He turned around and walked out the door, out into the garage and into the cool evening air. A moment later, in the distance, I heard the roar of a motorcycle starting up and taking off down Vernell's quiet little street.
I brought my fingers up to my lips, touching the skin that still tingled from the rough feel of his kiss. I stood there for a few minutes, thinking. What in the hell had just happened here? And why hadn't I made one move, in the moments he'd been gone, to call the cops?
Chapter Four
Sheila came rushing back into the house half an hour later. Her hair was windblown from my convertible and her eyes were huge.
"Mama," she said, her voice breathless with anxiety, "we've gotta lock these doors! Some guy is watching the house!"
"What?" I moved over to the window, staring outside at the well-lit driveway. I didn't see anything.
"Yeah, Mama, and he's not doing a real good job of hiding, either. When I got to the top of the street, there he was, leaning against his motorcycle and just staring back down here!"
I tried not to react. I bet this was just what he expected her to do, see him and warn me. Just his way of letting me know he was going to be on the two of us like ugly on an ape.
"It was probably just some guy smoking a cigarette. Your imagination's in overdrive, Sheila."
"You didn't see this guy, Mama. He's tall, and built like a WCW wrestler." Sheila's eyes were huge. "He was wearing nothing but black, even his hair was black. Mama, I swear to God he's watching us!"
"He wasn't wearing a helmet?" I asked.
Sheila gave an impatient shake. "No, Mama, his helmet was on the seat of his bike. It was one of those helmets with a dark windshield over the face. I'm telling you, I know he's dangerous. Once, in this movie, you know, this guy that looked just like him took this socialite captive. And she didn't want him to touch her, but he did anyway and man, Mama!"
"Sheila, stop! You are letting your imagination get the better of you. Now let's stay on task. We don't have time to fool around with strangers on motorcycles and other nonsense such as that." I looked around Vernell's office. "I don't think we're going to find a thing here. We might as well go on home."
Sheila shrugged. "Good idea, maybe that man's still up there. You'll understand me completely when you see him. I'm telling you, he's watching us."
I put my hand on her shoulder. "Honey, it's good that you've got your eyes open, because there is a slight chance that whoever is responsible for your daddy disappearing may come sniffing around us." Sheila's eyes were as big as silver dollars. "I mean, honey, Daddy did make a pile of money, at least on paper, and sometimes people get a little crazy when money's involved."
"Oh my God!" Sheila shrieked. "I could be a kidnapped debutante! I could get shoved in a trunk and…"
"Sheila! Enough! You're not even a debutante. I'm just saying be careful."
Sheila pouted. "Well, Daddy said I was going to make my debut this year."
I kept my mouth shut. Vernell probably meant to showcase Sheila on one of his mobile home commercials. I could hardly see Vernell descending the staircase at the Greensboro Country Club, dressed in his blue polyester leisure suit, escorting Sheila to her debut. No way. Besides, debuts were nothing but glorified selling blocks for young women from high-dollar families. I mean, look at the symbolism. White dresses, proud fathers. It was nothing but a meat market and nothing for my little girl.
"Come on, honey," I said. "Set the alarm and let's go home. For all I know, Vernell's been found and was only on a spur-of-the-moment vacation."
"Yeah, right," she muttered, "and I'm a computer nerd."
"Sheila!"
"All right, all right!"
We walked out through the garage and Sheila hit a switch on her remote control keychain.
"The system is armed," a disembodied voice said. "Step away from the house and resume your business."
"Where did your daddy find that thing?" I asked Sheila, but she was already sitting in the driver's seat. Great, I thought, now I get to risk life and limb twice in one night.
"Mama, I'm telling you, there was a man on a motorcycle right up here." Sheila pointed to a street lamp at the head of Vernell's cul-de-sac. I looked at the empty spot. It was only the kind of place where someone would stand if he wanted to be obvious. He was warning me. A thrill of fear ran circles around my stomach and crawled up my neck. Until now, Vernell's little sojourns into trouble hadn't been more than harmless accidents. With the arrival of an armed gunman, Vernell had stepped into a category five hurricane of bad karma.
"He's gone," she said, throwing the car into first and peeling out of Vernell's pricey neighborhood. In a few moments Sheila was whizzing across Greensboro, traveling down Battleground Avenue like it was an obstacle course and running yellow lights just as they turned red.
"Sheila, slow down!" I grabbed the sides of my seat as Sheila rushed the split between busy Battleground and Lawndale Avenue. The strip of road, crammed with restaurants and stores, was deluged by suburbanites, all looking to ease the burden of soccer practice and overtime with fast food and video games. My little VW would be no match for a chunky Suburban.
Sheila ignored me, reaching over to switch the radio from my favorite country station to her favorite alternative rock station. I leaned back and tried to breathe. One of the boys in our band, Harmonica Jack, is a big proponent of breathing as a way to nirvana. It wasn't working. To complicate the matter further, a motorcycle wove slowly in and out of traffic, following us about a football field away.
S
heila cranked up the volume, and a woman started moaning about love. Sheila sang along as if she actually knew something about angst. I shook my head and kept my eye on the moon of a mirror that clung to the passenger-side door. Sheila's purse chirped and she fumbled around inside it, all the while driving, singing and running yet another yellow light. I checked; the motorcycle was still with us. It had to be him. He was just the type to dart through red lights.
"Yeah?" Sheila said into the microsized receiver. Irving Park Country Day School apparently failed to instill cellphone etiquette into its students.
"No way!" This was followed by: "You didn't! What did he say? He does?" Sheila's voice softened. True love was apparently waiting in some distant corner of the city. Her tone changed. "No," she sighed. "I can't. We're worried sick about my dad. He's gone off somewhere. I'd better stick close to home. Maybe when he gets back." Her voice trailed off.
I was watching the motorcycle creep up, then fall back, trying to think of what to do next. Sheila's conversation drifted into my consciousness as if on a time delay.
"I think you should," I said suddenly.
Sheila looked over at me, her eyebrow raised. "Should what, Mama?"
"Spend the night with Ashley. That's who it is, isn't it? And that's what she's asking, isn't it?" I looked in the mirror again. "Might take your mind off things a little, and you have a phone. I can always reach you. Besides, nothing's gonna happen tonight. Go on."
Sheila mulled it over, then completely blew it and ran a red light, narrowly missing a blue Lincoln. This accomplished two things: We lost the motorcycle and Sheila was startled into letting me take control.
"That's it!" I said. "You go spend the night with Ashley and get a grip. Your daddy's probably fine. There's nothing you can do in a state like this. Tell her we'll be there in three minutes."
Before Sheila could come up with a good reason to protest, I had yanked her out of the car and deposited her on Ashley's doorstep. Ashley lived in one of the huge old mansions that rimmed Fisher Park. The streets were fairly dark. The house was a fortress of security and Dobermans. There was no better place to leave Sheila. Besides, if push came to shove, Ashley's mother had a black belt.
I jumped into the driver's seat of my little car and pulled back out onto Elm Street, slipping under the huge shadow cast by the First Presbyterian Church. I knew what I'd find if I went home. My new friend would be waiting. There was really only one option left.
Chapter Five
heard Harmonica Jack before I saw him. Jack lives in a converted warehouse on the edge of Greensboro's business district, teetering on the line that divides the gleaming, multistoried office buildings and funky antique shops from the broken-paned abandoned shells of older, once useful warehouses.
I pulled off Elm Street, turned down the narrow alley to Jack's parking lot, and stopped in front of the loading dock Jack uses for a front door and living-room window. I cut the engine and heard the gentle lisp of his harmonica float out into the crisp fall evening. He was playing something slow and sweet and incredibly sad. For a moment I couldn't move, but he saw me, stopped playing, and began to walk toward the car.
His wiry, blond hair stood out in spikes from his head, as if taking off in different directions. He was wearing a faded green-plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Even fully clothed, Jack looked too thin. And he was barefooted. It's being barely sixty degrees, he was begging for a cold.
"Didn't your mama teach you no better?" I called out, pointing to his feet as he stepped closer to the car.
"My mama figured I'd get cold at some point and take care of myself," he said. He peered in the window at me, squinting in the glow of the streetlight that illuminated his tiny parking lot.
"What happened to you?" he asked. "Maggie, your nose is all puffy and it looks like your eyes are turning kind of black."
I tried it one more time. "I ran into a door at the police station," I said wearily.
Jack leaned back, cocked his head to one side, and sighed. "I knew you'd get up with him somehow. I just never figured him for the type to use violence."
I leaned my head against the steering wheel. "He didn't," I moaned.
Jack pulled open the car door and patted my shoulder. "Those doors can take their toll on you, can't they?" he said. "Yep. Gotta keep your eye on 'em. You never know when they'll take it into their heads to attack! Come on inside. I've got just the thing for a door whuppin'."
I didn't even bother to try and explain further. Sooner or later, Jack would pull the whole tale out of me. He always did, after a lengthy session of New Age breathing and transcendental meditation to realign my karma. Jack seems to think I'm uptight. On the other hand, I figure he's spent a little too much time smelling incense and assuming convoluted yoga positions. But he's trustworthy, and he's my friend. He's also a good seven years younger than me. I only mention that on account of sometimes he seems to get ideas, and I have to remind him that a relationship between the two of us would never work.
Jack pulled me up onto the loading dock and into his living room before hitting the door opener that brought the rusty metal bay door sliding down on its hinges. He wandered over to the counter in his tiny kitchen, pulled two wineglasses down from a rack, and grabbed a half-full bottle of red wine from a cupboard.
"There's more to this than meets the eyes," he said, chuckling to himself. "Come on over here."
We walked across the echoing loft, crossing the wooden floor to his living room area.
"Have a seat," he said, motioning to his battered old sofa. He put the wine and glasses down on the coffee table then walked over to the tiny potbellied stove that pumped out heat like a furnace. He fiddled with a knob on the front of the stove, then, when it satisfied him, moved back over to his place next to me on the couch.
"You're in trouble again, aren't you?" he asked. He reached past me for the wine and started to pour it into the glasses. He moved slowly, as if we were having a casual conversation, without a care in the world.
There's something about Jack. Something that makes me tell him the unvarnished truth, something warm that makes me want to curl up inside his confidence. And something else, I just can't quite put my finger on it. It's a feeling I get, every now and again, like there's something I'm missing about him. I don't know. I just know now isn't the time to go looking for trouble.
I looked at the ceiling, then reached for my wineglass. "Jack, I'm in a load of trouble, I think." I looked over at him. "I can't go home tonight, and maybe not for a while. Do you think I could… I mean, I don't mean, but what I need is…"
"Maggie," Jack said, "of course you're staying here. What about Sheila, she coming too?"
I guess sweetness turns me to mush. I spilled it all right then and there: how Vernell was missing; how Marshall did me, and finally, I told him about the Shadow.
"Something's bad wrong, Jack," I finished. "You believe me, don't you?"
Jack set his wineglass down on the coffee table and reached over to take my hand.
"Of course I do, Maggie. Why wouldn't I?"
I sighed and curled my fingers around his. His hand was warm and dry, his grip gentle, yet strong. He believed me, I knew that much.
"We need a plan, huh?" he said.
I nodded and reached for my wineglass, staring out the windows that flanked Jack's stove. Something had moved in the parking lot. I stared harder, trying to isolate the area where I'd seen movement, then shook myself. Maybe it was only a dog, looking for food in the trash can.
"So?" Jack said.
"So… what?"
"Don't we need a plan? Don't we need to start talking to people Vernell knows, see if we can find out what's up?" Jack was twirling his wineglass slowly between his fingers.
I saw a flash of dark out of the corner of my eye again. "There's something out there," I said. "Look!"
Jack turned and peered through the window. The parking lot was empty. The streetlight cast a perfect moon of yellow light onto my Beetle. Nothing mo
ved. He stood and walked over to the window, staring hard into the night, then glancing back at me.
"Maybe it was the wind," he said softly.
The "wind" chose that moment to begin banging on Jack's loading-dock door.
"Maggie," Detective Marshall J. Weathers said, "I know you're in there. Please open the door."
Jack sighed and shook his head, then looked at me. "Well?"
I stood up and nodded, facing the huge cargo-bay door. Jack punched the garage-door remote and the heavy metal began to rumble.
The fact that Marshall Weathers had tracked me down to Jack's house was not at all unusual. At one time he had made it his business to know the ins and outs of my life. He knew I'd come to Jack. So that part didn't bother me. What bothered me was that he'd said "Please open the door." Please. That sent a little tingle of alarm moving through my body. Marshall Weathers knew something and it wasn't good. Why else would he be so nice? Nice wasn't usually his style.
The door rose with creaking uncertainty, catching on the cogs and hesitating as it shook its way open. Marshall stood there, still wearing his suit, frowning.
He ignored Jack and stepped onto the ancient wood floor of the warehouse. He looked instead at me, his frown softening.
"Maggie, I'm afraid I have some bad news." My stomach flipped over and a cry tightened my throat. "They've just found Vernell's truck out at the airport. Honey, I'm sorry, but there's a body inside and the description fits Vernell. I'm on my way out now."
I stood there in stunned silence, tears welling up in my eyes and spilling over. Jack stepped up to my side and rested his hand on my shoulder.
"You want me to come look, don't you?" I asked. My voice wouldn't raise any louder than a whisper.
Marshall nodded. "If you think you could."
I stepped toward him, unaware of how I moved because it all seemed like someone else's bad dream. Vernell was dead?
My mind flashed on Vernell holding Sheila and dancing around the delivery room in the seconds after she was born, smiling, tears rolling down his thin cheeks. Then I saw him out in the backyard at our first house, holding a green garden hose up in the air, his thumb over the nozzle. The water shot up, arcing and falling down around him and three-year-old Sheila, and they laughed and laughed as the sun hit the water and created a rainbow.
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