Don't Ever Tell

by Brandon Massey

  In celebration of the holiday season, a lush, lighted wreath garlanded the fireplace. A seven-foot high artificial Douglas fir towered in the family room, boughs bedecked with glittering ornaments and twinkling lights; an equally tall, similarly decorated tree stood in the living room near the bay window. Collectibles of honey-skinned Santa Clauses, angels, and elves stood here and there, spreading holiday cheer.

  Virtually every room featured photos of them. Romantic snapshots of their honeymoon in Hawaii. Pictures of them at various restaurants, or attending parties with friends. Tons of photos from their wedding.

  Although it was a large home, it was cozy, rich with the warmth of the life they had created together. Looking around took the edge off his anxiety. Turning back to the computer, he opened Microsoft Outlook to check his business e-mail.

  Four months ago, he had left the graphic design firm where he’d been employed for several years and started a freelance graphic design business. He had long aspired to branch out on his own, but self-doubt had always prevented him from making the move.

  Rachel had encouraged him to pursue his dream. She did very well with the hair salon, she said, and she could afford to keep up their household while he got his business up and running. “You’re going to be successful,” she had told him. “You’re talented and hardworking. I know it’s going to work for you.”

  Her confidence in him was all the push he needed. He launched Moore Designs with a few thousand dollars in start-up capital, a computer loaded with design software, and an iron determination to prove that his wife’s faith in him was justified.

  Business had been going well, better than he had expected. He specialized in book cover designs for small and large publishers, corporate identity packages, brochures, posters, and Web site design. Although he’d begun as a oneman shop and hadn’t planned on hiring employees anytime soon, due to demand he’d begun farming out certain projects to independent contractors.

  His e-mail client was unable to connect with the mail server. He tried to open Internet Explorer to browse the Web, and that didn’t work either. Sporadic Internet connectivity was an issue he’d experienced frequently as of late. As much as he loved doing business online, it seemed to bring as many headaches as it did benefits.

  While he was attempting to connect to the Web again, Rachel came downstairs, Coco trailing on her heels.

  Rachel wore an oversized pink T-shirt, house slippers, and glasses with thin designer frames. Her short hair puffed out in a curly halo. Watching her stroll toward him, the T-shirt clinging to her body, he felt a delicious heaviness in his center that almost made him forget about last night’s brush with terror. Almost.

  “Morning, baby,” she said. “I thought we were going to sleep in?”

  “Oh, well, I realized I needed to wrap up some pressing projects before the holidays,” he said, which was partly true. “Coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  He opened the cabinet and grabbed a coffee mug. He fumbled the cup. It clanged onto the Corian countertop, the impact chipping the mug’s rim.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “You don’t have to apologize.” There was no harsh judgment in her eyes; there never was. “Happens to the best of us.”

  He carefully took out another cup and poured coffee for her. She took it from him, and then set it aside and came into his arms.

  The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. Standing on her tiptoes, she tilted her head backward to look up at him.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Love you, too.”

  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever.”

  “Okay.” He smiled, a little taken aback by her affection. “Ditto.”

  “All right, Patrick Swayze.”

  She snuggled against him. Her body felt good against his, a perfect fit, as if this was exactly where both of them were supposed to be, enveloped in a gentle embrace.

  At such moments, it was easy to believe in soul mates. In destiny. He was probably just a hopeless romantic, but sometimes he believed God had created Rachel just for him, and him for her.

  But the memory of last night was a thorn pricking his thoughts.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  He felt her body tense.

  “Fine.” She moved out of his arms and picked up her coffee.

  “Remember any bad dreams?”

  She shook her head. She added cream and sugar to her coffee, stirred it with a spoon.

  “Who were you fighting?”

  The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered onto the countertop.

  “What?” She picked up the spoon, frowning.

  “You had a nightmare. You were kicking and swinging like you were fighting someone—you even started choking at one point. The whole time, you were screaming at a man. I know it was a man, because you called him a bastard.”

  The crease in her brow deepened. “I don’t remember that at all.”

  “Not at all?”

  She dropped her gaze, shook her head. “I have no idea who I could’ve been screaming at, either.”

  “Whoever it was, you were terrified of him.”

  Cupping the coffee mug in both hands, she shrugged.

  “Dreams are just ...well, dreams,” she said. “They don’t always hold a meaning—sometimes they do, I admit, but not always. How many times have you had a dream about something that was totally make-believe?”

  “Pretty often. But you should’ve seen yourself, Rachel. I mean, you were really fighting.”

  “Did I kick the guy’s ass?” She smiled mischievously.

  “I don’t know. I woke you up. I was getting worried.”

  “You should’ve let me sleep through it. I would’ve finished kicking this mystery guy’s ass and then our conversation this morning would be, ‘Baby, you were beating the hell out of somebody in your sleep last night. Hope it wasn’t me.’ ”

  She was trying to make him laugh, and it usually worked. But he pursed his lips tightly.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Thinking about how you were acting...it wasn’t funny at all. Even Coco was upset.”

  Sitting between them, Coco glanced from him, to Rachel, as if corroborating his story.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to tell you,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, it was just a meaningless nightmare that I can’t remember. That happens to everyone sometimes.”

  From her tone, he could tell she didn’t want to discuss the subject further.

  “Sure, okay,” he said.

  Coco whined to be picked up. Rachel plucked the little dog off the floor and cradled her in her arms, cooed to her softly.

  “Since we’re not sleeping in, I’ll get ready for work,” she said.

  “We can go back to bed. I can work later, no biggie.”

  “Nah, I better go.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. “Busy time of year, baby. Sistas are beating our doors down with the holidays coming up.”

  He watched her return upstairs. The room was dull in her absence.

  His thoughts doubled back to their conversation about her nightmare, and the dream assailant. He didn’t know who the nightmarish figure might have been—but he knew one thing for certain.

  She had lied to him.

  4

  Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.

  As quickly as possible, she left home. The longer she stayed in Joshua’s presence, the worse she felt about what she’d done.

  She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, but the December sun was still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.

  Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that nothing might have improved her
mood.

  Why had she lied to Joshua—again? He was kind, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she’d longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.

  But the truth would break his heart.

  Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind. After she’d awakened, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she’d lain awake for almost an hour, worrying.

  Worrying about him—the man whose name she dared not voice, not even internally, out of an almost superstitious fear that doing so would conjure him out of the ether like an evil spirit.

  But she’d received very disturbing news about him yesterday. News that had almost certainly brought about her nightmare.

  Don’t think about it, girl. Worrying never solves anything, does it?

  In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was already heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.

  In her three years living in Atlanta, she had watched the south side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area’s hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but she welcomed it.

  It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.

  Stopping at a traffic light, she flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn’t looking for flaws, and she wasn’t planning to apply makeup. She had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.

  Instead, she was inspecting her new look.

  Before moving to Atlanta, she’d worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she’d dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly ’do.

  If someone who’d known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn’t recognize her. She hoped.

  Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for “beautiful hairstyle.” She and Tanisha, her business partner, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one.

  Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she’d never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.

  The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When she pushed through the glass doubledoors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the radio. Tanisha was organizing magazines in the waiting area—copies of Essence, Hype Hair, Gospel Music Today, Ebony, and other glossy periodicals.

  “Morning, Tee,” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

  “Hey, girl,” Tanisha said. “I’ve got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn’t be rollin’ in till eight.”

  Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. This week, her brown hair was styled in a twisted up-do with highlights that accentuated her hazel eyes. It looked fabulous, of course. Tanisha believed that each stylist’s own hair was her best form of advertising, and Rachel tended to agree.

  Tanisha was the first friend Rachel had made when she’d moved to Atlanta. They had worked side-by-side at a shop in College Park. Both of them were driven, talented at their craft, and ambitious. It was only natural that they would decide to step out on faith and open their own salon together. “You enjoy the party last night?” Rachel asked.

  “It was real nice,” Tanisha said. “Y’all had everything there—except single, fine men with good jobs.”

  “You know if I knew any single men, I’d hook you up.”

  “Single, fine men with good jobs, girl. Not single, bucktoothed, cross-eyed, broke-ass men.”

  In spite of her weariness, Rachel laughed.

  “Girl, you just don’t know,” Tanisha said. “It’s rough out there.”

  Tanisha had never been married, but she wanted to be. She’d wasted five years of her life playing house with a man who believed marriage was only a piece of paper. A year ago, she’d finally gotten fed up with his refusal to commit to a permanent arrangement. She had moved out, bought her own town house and a show-quality Pomeranian she’d named Mr. Bixby, and jumped back into the dating pool.

  “You’ll find someone,” Rachel said.

  “Easy for you to say. You’re married.”

  “The man for you might not look exactly like you think he will, Tee. You’ve got to look at a man’s character. Would you want a pretty boy with a good job—who beats you?”

  “Hell, no. I wouldn’t let any man touch me. Shit.”

  “You get my point. It’s all about character.”

  “All I know is, you should thank God that you aren’t out there any more. Josh is a sweetie.”

  Thinking of Joshua laid a leaden heaviness on her shoulders.

  “I thank God every day,” Rachel said, and sighed.

  Tanisha frowned. “Hey, you feeling okay? You look exhausted.”

  She would never share anything about her dream—or what had produced it—with Tanisha. Although Tanisha was a good friend, Rachel had drawn a firm line between what she would share with friends such as Tanisha and what she would never share with anyone.

  “Putting on the party was a lot of work,” Rachel said. “I’m still kinda tired.”

  “When’s your first appointment? Maybe you can catch a catnap.”

  “I’ve got an eight-thirty, so I may just do that.”

  Swinging her purse from over her shoulder, Rachel went down the center aisle of the salon, automatically surveying the sixteen stylist stations as she walked, to ensure that each would be ready for business when their stylists arrived. For most of the day, every chair would be occupied with a mix of walk-ins and appointments. If women believed in one thing, it was keeping their hair done. It was no surprise that Madame C. J. Walker, the inventor of the hot comb, had become America’s first black woman millionaire.

  In the back, behind a door marked STAFF ONLY, there was a supply closet, a staff lounge furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV, a restroom, and an enclosed office. The office contained a bank of filing cabinets and two desks, one for Rachel, the other for Tanisha.

  She plopped into the swivel chair in front of her desk. The sofa in the lounge did look inviting...but she was afraid to go to sleep, for she might have another nightmare about him.

  Besides, there was something else she needed to do first.

  She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside, there was a plastic bag from Walgreen’s Pharmacy, sitting atop a black metal case.

  She took the bag inside the restroom.

  It contained an early pregnancy test kit.

  She spoke a prayer, and tore open the box.

  5

  On Monday morning, after spending the weekend at the hideout in central Illinois, Dexter finally returned to Chicago.

  Before leaving, he thoroughly wiped down the house for fingerprints, and he vacuumed for hairs, too. It was highly unlikely that the law would trace him to the place, but taking such precautions was second nature. Once a cop, always a cop.

  The story of the missing prison transport van, guards, and inmate had been circulating on the news since Saturday. The reports featured a penitentiary mug shot in which he wore his beard. Although the cops had not formally announced a manhunt, the machinery would be revving up, and within a few more days—sooner if they discovered the sunken vehicle and its gruesome cargo—the machine would be rolling at full steam across the entire region.

  It didn’t concern him. When the subject of escape inevi
tably came up in bullshit conversations with fellow inmates—inmates jawed about what they’d do if they broke free like regular folk talked about what they’d do with lottery jackpot winnings—he’d always said that if he got away, he would go to Brazil. He had no more intentions to flee to Brazil than he did the moon, but the gossipy inmates would do the job of spreading disinformation and muddling the cops’ search.

  It was a clear, crisp morning. The Chevy Caprice, though ten years old, was in good condition, outfitted with a new set of tires.

  He slipped on a cheap pair of sunglasses that he found clipped to the sun visor, and started the engine.

  He tuned to a radio station that played music from the seventies, when music was music—unlike the bullshit that dominated radio airwaves today. He motored down the highway to the tunes of Earth, Wind, and Fire, Sly and the Family Stone, The Ohio Players, Parliament-Funkadelic, and other classic sounds. He sang along loudly to just about every song, sometimes flubbing the lyrics but pushing on anyway.

  At a gas station, he refilled the tank. He had to go inside to pay with cash. A potbellied, hayseed cop was at the food counter getting his daily fix of free coffee and donuts. He glanced at Dexter, but it was the bland, appraising look that cops tended to give everyone.

  Shortly before noon, the downtown Chicago skyline came into view on the horizon. Warm tears unexpectedly pushed at his eyes.

  Goddamn, it felt good to be going home.

  A half-hour later, he took the exit for Ninety-fifth Street, the major east-west road on the South Side. It wasn’t a direct route to his destination, but he wanted to drive around for a little while, immerse himself again in the city that had been his home for thirty-four of his thirty-eight years.

  In spite of the cold weather—it was in the mid-thirties and the infamous hawk was out in full force—people were hanging out on street corners. They were most of them young brothers, in their late teens or twenties, clad in parkas and skully caps, talking shit and looking hard at everyone driving or walking past. They reminded him of inmates milling in the yard: grown men who had nothing productive to do with their time. The jagged skyline of downtown was visible in the hazy distance, but the business that took place within those towers was as meaningless to these men as constellations in the night sky, light years’ distant.