Her blood froze. Not my baby, no.
Mesmerized with his task, he didn’t stir at her entrance. She sidled closer and peered over his shoulder, her shirt stuffed in her mouth, her gut tight.
He was pounding what looked like a cell phone. He had smashed it, literally, to smithereens.
“Mom!”
Simone whirled as a closet door behind her slid open. Jada and a large black Labrador bounded out, the dog’s tongue lolling happily.
Jada leapt into Simone’s arms.
“Oh, God, oh, my baby,” Simone cried. She clasped her daughter to her and sank to her knees, tears weaving down her cheeks. She sobbed into Jada’s hair, smelling her, feeling her, making sure she was okay, and she was, she was alive, everything was fine, everything was going to be fine.
78
Later that night, Special Agent Falco and her partner, Agent March, visited Corey at Grady Memorial Hospital in downtown Atlanta.
Although the bed Corey had been assigned wasn’t intended to accommodate three people, Simone and Jada had slipped under the sheets and snuggled close to him, and the nurses on duty granted them an exception to hospital rules.
Otis sat watch in the upholstered chair near the bed, reading his Bible by soft lamplight. He had brought Jada’s speech processor, which she had gratefully slid on. Jada normally didn’t wear it when she slept, but Corey suspected that she would insist on having it on at all times for a while.
Corey had allowed himself to finally drift off when Falco and her partner knocked on the door. He snapped awake, tense, and Simone and Jada awoke instantly, too, clinging to him.
“Excuse me.” Otis rose from the chair and moved to intercept the agents. “I’m afraid this is not an appropriate time for questioning. Please give this family some peace.”
“It’s okay,” Corey said wearily. He wiped his eyes, looked at the agents. “Don’t you people ever sleep?”
“Once a week, on Sundays.” Falco strolled to the foot of the bed; March remained near the door. “How you holding up? Heard you took a shot in the shoulder.”
“It’s not too bad.” Corey raised his good arm and tapped the dressing that covered his gunshot wound. “Considering everything that happened, I figure I got off easy.”
“Gates certainly didn’t. But I think you know that.”
“I don’t take any pleasure from it. I used to think he was a friend. But that wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been fooled, I guess.”
Falco gripped the railing at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were red with fatigue, but glinted with steel resolve.
“Where is Sharpe?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He got away.”
She scowled. “He got away? Again? After all of that? Don’t bullshit me.”
“It’s the truth. I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to need a full, very detailed statement from you,” she said. She cut her gaze at Simone. “And you, too.”
“Happy to,” Simone said. “We only want to put this behind us.”
“What about me?” Jada asked.
Falco frowned at Jada. “That’s up to your parents, sweetie.”
“I don’t think so,” Simone said, with a glance at Corey. “Our daughter’s dealt with enough.”
Corey agreed. Although a physical exam had confirmed, thank goodness, that Jada had not suffered any abuse at the hands of Leon’s partner, he’d seen the inside of the trailer where the dog hoarder, Ed Denning, had taken her, and it was nightmarish and pathetic. The county’s animal control services had been notified, and Denning had been taken into custody for psychiatric counseling.
“We’ll chat tomorrow, then,” Falco said. She straightened, glanced at her watch, sighed. “Actually, that would be today. They ought to be discharging you later in the morning. Do me a favor and don’t skip town.”
Falco turned to leave. Simone gave Corey an expectant look.
Corey cleared his throat. “I’m not finished yet, Agent Falco.”
“No?” Falco retreated from the doorway. “I’m listening.”
“You’ve been wondering all along why Leon came to me in the first place.” He paused. Every gaze in the room was fixated on him.
He went on. “To put everything in perspective, let me tell you what happened sixteen years ago. . ”
79
Ten days later, Corey rented a sedan and drove to Detroit.
Simone and Jada stayed behind in Atlanta, under the vigilant protection of a private security firm and a black, Labrador retriever-Great Dane mix with which his daughter had fallen in love during her ordeal at Ed Denning’s house. For reasons only she knew, she named the dog Ophelia.
It was a fine day for a road trip. Under a warm sun and cloudless skies, Corey traveled I-75 North from Georgia into Tennessee, from Tennessee into Kentucky, from Kentucky into Ohio, and from Ohio, finally, into Michigan.
When the hazy Detroit skyline appeared on the burntorange horizon around seven o’clock that evening, Corey felt an iron vise tighten across his chest. He had never thought it would feel good to come back home, but it did. It felt damn good.
He exited the interstate at 7 Mile Road, which would take him to the East Side. To Conant Gardens.
As the last vestiges of daylight surrendered to night, Corey parked in front of the house.
A FOR SALE sign stood in the weed-infested front yard. The windows were boarded with plywood. The garage door, which had once protected a man’s prized Cadillac, hung askew on damaged tracks like a lopsided grin.
Corey slung the strap of his overnight bag over his good shoulder, and went inside.
In the front room, he clicked on a flashlight. The air was warm and musty. The dust-filmed floors were bare of furniture, stripped of carpet. Cobwebs draped the walls and doorways.
He knelt to where a good man had once bled to death on his own living room floor. The carpet that had been soaked in blood had been removed, but as he traced his fingers across the faded floorboards, his skin tingled at the point of contact.
He sat on that spot, propping his overnight bag beside him. He dug a small, battery-operated lamp out of his bag and set it up a couple of feet away. It gave off pale, ethereal light.
And then, he waited.
He was prepared to wait all night and through the next day, and longer, if need be, but after he had been sitting on the floor for about an hour and a half, the front door banged open.
Corey straightened as Leon came inside. He wore glasses with chunky black frames, an Afro, and a thick, woolen beard. He was dressed in a black business suit, starched white shirt, black tie, and oxfords.
Trying to pass himself off as a college professor, a Cornel West look-alike, maybe? The disguise worked, except for the gun he was pointing at Corey.
“I’ve been following you all damn day, ever since you left ATL this morning,” Leon said. He panned a flashlight around the room. “What the fuck did you come back here for? Haven’t you heard that you can never go home again?”
“I’m doing penance,” Corey said.
“What?”
“You surely know what penance is, Leon, a smart guy like you. Self-punishment, reparation for acts I committed-or in this case, was accessory to.”
“You need to get over it already.” Leaning against the wall, face half-concealed in shadow, Leon tapped out a cigarette and lit it with Mr. Rowland’s lighter. Taking a puff, he shook his head. “I’ve never met someone so unable to put the past behind him, to move on. You didn’t even kill the bastard. You were going along with me like your weak-willed ass always did, yet here you sit indulging in this ridiculous and overblown act of self-flagellation. It’s not going to change anything, deal with it, suck it up.”
“See?” Corey said. “You once said we were just alike, but that’s the difference between you and me. You can gun down someone and then go grab a beer somewhere. I see something like that, and it haunts me for the rest of my life.”