He trotted past the vehicles, searching, thinking. He rounded a corner.
Ahead, parked in front of an end unit and sitting in a pool of darkness, he finally found a good candidate: a white, 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.
It was, ironically, the same model Leon had used to drive when they were living in Detroit, except Leon’s was black. The body was spotted with rust, but the tires looked good, and the Georgia tag was current.
Best of all, the door was unlocked. It opened with a squawk.
He slipped inside. Cigarette burns scored the cloth seats, and the air stank of smoke and stale beer.
A pack of Newport Lights was nestled in the ashtray.
He grimaced. Newports. Just like Leon. He felt as if he’d traveled in a time machine back to Detroit, into some twisted alternate universe.
There were no keys in the ignition. He flipped down the sun visors. No keys there, either.
Blue lights suddenly whirled across the apartments.
He ducked in the seat, his nose almost aligned with the bottom of the faded steering wheel.
Raindrops plinked on the windshield. There was a leak in the seams of the roof fabric; cold drops fell and spattered on his head.
His heavy breaths soon fogged the windows.
Through the misted glass, he saw a searchlight playing across the buildings, tracking through the parking lot, raking across the vehicles.
Then, quick footsteps approached, splashing through puddles.
Corey reached inside his jacket for the lug wrench.
If they found him in the car, he would not go with them willingly. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He only wanted to save his family-and God help anyone who tried to stop him.
The footsteps went to the back of the car.
“Who the hell are the pigs after now?” a man’s raspy voice muttered.
The owner of the car. Damn.
A key jiggled into a lock. The trunk creaked open. The guy grabbed what sounded like a paper bag.
Now go away, Corey thought.
The trunk lid thunked shut. The guy cleared his throat, spat wetly.
Corey held his breath.
Don’t open the door, go back inside.
The guy spat again, muttered something under his breath about allergies.
Please, go.
Slowly, the footsteps splashed away. The searchlight moved on, too.
Corey closed his eyes, sighed.
He waited a few more minutes, and then he risked sliding up in the seat. The parking lot was dark and empty again.
He pulled out the lug wrench. He smashed the flat tip against the steering column and cracked it open.
Leon had boosted his Oldsmobile from a salvage lot. Every day when he wanted to drive, he had to hotwire it, and he’d taught Corey how to do it, too. Corey was not proud of the knowledge he’d picked up, but at the moment, it sure came in handy.
In the dark, he had to fumble at the rotation switch, but after a few tries, he had it. The engine rumbled awake with a dull roar, the muffler coughing like an old man with a bad case of emphysema. But the gas tank was almost full.
The subdivision where his family was being held was in Fairburn, a southwestern suburb. If he drove fast, he could get there within an hour.
60
In the bedroom, surrounded by soft lantern light, sitting on the mattress with her back propped against the wall, Simone struggled to stay awake. She had never been so exhausted in her life. It was late, perhaps midnight by then, but she was a night owl, so the hour had little to do with her weariness. Her fatigue came from the fact that she felt as if she had been fed through a meat grinder, in every way-physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
The only thing keeping her awake was her sixth sense that things were somehow building to a head, that a major breakthrough was looming on the horizon, and that if she fell asleep, she would miss it.
But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. Leon’s story about Corey had wounded her more severely than any of the physical abuse to which he had subjected her. She knew she shouldn’t have believed Leon, knew that he was a pure psychopath and, as such, every word he’d spoken could have been a lie calculated to hurt her-but her gut told her that his story had an ugly seed of truth. Corey might not have murdered a man in cold blood, but he had done something terrible, something far worse than burglarizing a few houses, and it was that suspicion, that awful doubt she now held regarding the father of her child, the man who had long been the love of her life, that threatened to break her spirit.
Groaning, she cradled her head in her chained hands. She squeezed fistfuls of her hair, her scalp burning.
Hold on, girl, she told herself. Hold on a just a little bit longer. A change is coming, a breakthrough is coming. You’ve got to stay hopeful.
Across the room, Leon opened the door. He carried a bottle of white wine, and two red Dixie cups.
His return jolted her to alertness as effectively as an electrical shock, tension coiling in her muscles.
“What do you want now?” she asked.
“Look what I’ve got.” He grinned, raising the bottle as if it were a magnum of the finest champagne. “A little vino to pass the time, some for you, some for me.”
She studied him carefully. His eyes sparkled; his movements were quick and jittery; his overall demeanor was jubilant. In his distorted perceptions, they might have been lovebirds who had gotten snowed in together at some log cabin in the Rockies. He appeared to have no idea that only a short time ago he had told her a story about her husband that had rocked the very foundations of her world.
With her last reserves of strength, she decided to toss her playbook of psychology theories and strategies out the window and go for broke. It was now, or never.
With deliberate casualness, she noted the gun holstered on his hip as he approached her. Somehow, she had to get out of these cuffs and get her hands on that gun. One without the other would not do. To get to Jada, she needed to be free, and once free, she needed a real weapon.
He sat in front of her on the mattress and poured her a cupful of wine, and then poured a serving for himself. A sweet, fruity aroma filled the air. She glanced at the label on the bottle: Arbor Mist, Peach Chardonnay. It was the same brand and flavor of wine her mom enjoyed, on those rare occasions when she indulged in drink.
It also gave Simone an idea.
Leon passed her the cup. “Cheers, ma cherie.”
She took a small sip; it was cold and delicious. “Wow, that’s so good. This is my mom’s favorite wine, too. Hmph. Probably the only thing she and I can agree on.”
Leon lowered his cup, eyebrows arched. “You and your moms don’t get along? You mean to tell me that Clair Huxtable and mommie dearest aren’t best of friends, don’t go shopping together for Blahniks at Bloomie’s and brunch with the Links sisters on Sundays?”
“No.” Simone shrugged, dropped her gaze.
“Whoa, why not, I sense a burden on your heart, a stone, a monkey on your back, something heavy, ease it off, darling, talk to me, come on, all right, unload those weighty feelings on your boy.”
“It’s kind of complicated.”
“All right, do tell, do tell, do tell.” He snickered like a child playing with matches. “Confessions time, this is gonna be good, spill those guts, I can feel it, oh yeah, lay it on me, sister.”
“I don’t know.” She sucked in her bottom lip. “I’ve never told any of this to Corey.”
“Good, good, good.” He poured her more wine, liquid close to running over the rim. “This can be between you and me, baby girl, that’s right, yeah, our little secret.”