Gabriel's gaze finally met his own and fixed it with a steely earnestness. A horn sounded; engines accelerated.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Thank you," Braxton said. "Make some calls tomorrow morning. I'm sure you have more than a couple of people who owe you."
"Yes, sir."
"Good man."
CHAPTER 53
Jael St. Clair sucked at the last potent half inch of her Marlboro, then exhaled and watched the smoke join the dense haze surrounding her. Finally, she allowed herself the first smile of the new day. It had taken hours to filter through the names and follow the hidden trails. Now, as she pushed back from her laptop, she knew she had her answer in the minute details of online land records and an archival issue of the New York Times. No need to call the arrogant "black granite" asshole back at noon, because by then Stone and the lawyer would be long dead. She lit a fresh Marlboro off the old one.
The last of the police cars left shortly before dawn. From his reclining position in the back of his pickup, parked at the rear of the cancer clinic, Rex listened to the police scanner through an earbud and waited for signs it was all clear.
He had followed Brad and Jasmine to the Sonic drive-in from the hospital, but decided not to linger in the neighborhood when they went to her law office. Instead, he set up shop where he could watch the EZSleep, figuring Stone would make his way there eventually.
The storm that followed had pounded the camper shell like incoming artillery, and he thought at least once he was surely going to be killed by a tornado.
The storm had really screwed up his surveillance. At times the EZSleep disappeared entirely in the downpour, especially when the power went out. The rest came in spasmodic jerks of time, like an old fuzzy surveillance video with gaps containing the most important parts. He did see Brad Stone, Jasmine, and the red Mercedes, the cable truck, and a white SUV. Then came thunder that sounded like gunshots, a tall blonde with big tits who came running past, and not a whole lot later the police. The police scanner told him cops had an all-points out on Brad and Jasmine.
"Buddy, you are in a heap a trouble," Rex said quietly under his breath. "Y'mama wouldn't like it at all." He crawled over to the tailgate and waited again, looking for any sign of law enforcement. Some people put down his talk of warrants and an unsavory past as bravado. But he knew from experience that once the cops got wind of his warrants and the crimes behind them, they'd shoot first and not bother with questions.
Rex lifted the shell's window and climbed out, unlocked the driver's door, and got in.
"Now where the hell would you two go?" he asked himself as he started the engine and put it in gear. They couldn't go to anybody they knew, nobody they were related to, any place they had ever been before. They had to have a new vehicle and a safe place to hide. And the police knew that as well as he did. Rex hoped he knew Stone better than they did.
He pulled out onto Highway 82 and headed into town. Maybe, he thought, retracing Brad's steps might produce some answers.
"Now, God," he said, looking up through the windshield at the brightening sky, "I know you and I don't have the best of relationships. But I certainly would appreciate any pointers you can spare." It was about as close as Rex ever got to praying. That it was his best bet right now bothered him mightily.
CHAPTER 54
Loud, muffled thuds ripped apart the seams of my solid, dreamless sleep. The thuds came again, louder, faster. Then, a man's voice: "Jasmine!"
I jerked awake then. Hazy light frosted the windows and filled the room with soft quilted colors. Then a key rattled the front dead bolt.
I sat up. Jasmine's exquisitely black hair and the red hues of her brown sugar skin connected with the deepest parts of my heart. Then I remembered my faint dream and realized it had been more than illusion. I wanted to wonder more about this when the front door slammed opened and a man's voice boomed in from the front room.
"Jasmine?"
Her eyelids snapped open wide, revealing bright wisteria eyes that distilled the sunshine and threw it back, deeper and more intense.
"Girl? You here?"
Footsteps thudded closer; old boards creaked.
I sat up and realized I was naked except for my briefs. I stretched over and fumbled around on the floor before locating the Ruger.
"No," Jasmine said as she touched my shoulder. I stopped with my hand still outstretched, fingers curling around the butt of the pistol. I turned my head toward Jasmine and saw she was dressed in an oversize, gray Valley State T-shirt that came dawn to midthigh. From there down it was all beautiful skin.
"It's okay." She sat up.
I didn't move my hand until she said, "In here, Uncle Quincy."
The door opened. As I sat up in the bed, a man of average height and build with light mocha skin, an embroidered dashiki-style shirt, and matching brimless hat walked in. His facial structure reminded me more of Vanessa and less of Jasmine. His eyes were a pale blue and his face touched a memory I could only feel and not remember.
I had seen this man once before in my life. In Jackson, at the Christmas party that had been the end of a beginning that had not really started for Vanessa and me. Quincy Thompson was Al Thompson's son, Vanessa's brother, Jasmine's uncle.
He looked at Jasmine, then me. His eyes did this three or four times, and with each iteration Quincy's face twisted itself deeper into a mask of rage that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
"You gonna be the white man's whore, just like your mama?" he raged at Jasmine. "She always talking black and sleeping white like a brother ain't good enough for the likes of her!"
"Uncle Quincy-"
"Don't uncle me, girl! Don't you have any pride in your race? Any loyalty? You so damned ashamed of being black you want to have a light-skinned baby?"
"You're off base, Uncle Quincy." Jasmine's tone was low, even, and forceful. She got quickly out of bed and stood face-to-face with Quincy Thompson. She was taller by an inch or two even in her bare feet. She had the strong legs of an ice-skater and well-defined muscles that rippled as she moved.
"You made Mama's life miserable carrying on and I am not going to let you do the same thing to me." Her voice was calm and full of steel and made me pray I would never have to face off against her in court or anywhere else.
"Honey, be true to your race," Quincy said.
"I will be true to myself," Jasmine said, "and not to some prehistoric notion that all black women are the exclusive property of black men."
"You've got a sassy mouth, girl. But it's not going to save you from that white man's jungle fever."
Quincy threw me a white-hot, fastball glare burning with hate. The pitch came high and inside, identical to the one LAPD detective Darius Jones had thrown. Anger rose in my chest, but anything I'd say would only fuel his rage.
"My life is my own, Uncle Quincy." Jasmine's cool voice diluted my anger and helped me understand they had been through this conversation before. "I will not allow black men to own me any more than I will allow white men to tell me what to do. I will not trade one form of oppression for another."
Quincy Thompson opened his mouth, then shut it quickly when nothing came out. He stared at Jasmine for several long moments. "You're making a big, big mistake letting some white plantation boy come down from the big house and get into your pants," Quincy said. Then he whirled on his heel and headed toward the door. He stopped and fished in his pants pocket and pulled out a bright pink slip of paper.