Don't Ever Tell (9 page)

Dexter turned on the track lights in the kitchen. He spun a chair away from the table and pushed Thad, still weeping, into it. He bound Thad’s hands behind him with duct tape, and taped his ankles together.

Dexter set the roll of tape on the counter and headed to the living room, Thad’s fearful gaze following him. An entertainment center housed a wide-screen TV, DVD player, stereo system, receiver, speakers, and a collection of DVDs and CDs.

The CD library included many of Dexter’s favorite artists from the seventies and eighties. Scanning the album titles brought back good memories.

“You can’t decorate worth shit, but you’ve got great taste in music, my brother,” Dexter called into the kitchen.
Thad mumbled an incoherent reply.
Dexter selected a classic Stevie Wonder album,
Songs in the Key of Life
, and placed it in the CD player. “Love’s in Need of Love Today” kicked out of the Bose speakers. He turned up the volume higher.
Snapping his fingers, he strolled back to the kitchen. Glistening sweat saturated Thad’s face.
“You know one of the things I enjoyed most about being a cop?” Dexter said over the music.
Teary-eyed, Thad shook his head.
“Interrogating suspects,” Dexter said. “I had a real knack for it, if I do say so myself. When my partner and I played the old good cop, bad cop routine, guess who played the bad cop?”
Thad shook his head again. Sniffled.
“I did, of course. But the thing was, even though I really knew how to make a guy spill his guts, I was still bound by departmental policy, for the most part. I would sometimes think to myself—the
things
I would do to this asshole if I wasn’t a cop and he was hiding vital information from me.”
“But I don’t know anything!” Thad shouted.
Dexter gave him a patient smile. “I know, Thad, I know. At first, you guys never do.”
Dexter had left the frying pan full of bacon grease on the cook top. He switched on the burner underneath to the highest setting.
The grease began to sizzle and pop.
“Nothing like bacon grease,” Dexter said. “Back in the day, my mother used to fry chicken and catfish in it. Damn, that was some good eating.”
Thad had stopped crying. His reddened eyes were almost comically huge, and he was panting.
He struggled to break his bonds, but to no avail.
“What...what do you want from me?” Thad asked in a fragile voice. “I’ll do anything. Please...”
“You’ve been in communication with my wife, Thad.”
“I don’t know where she is, I swear, I don’t.”
Sighing, Dexter gripped the handle of the frying pan and lifted it off the burner. Tiny spatters of grease jumped onto his hand, stinging him, but it was nothing compared to the hot, thick oil bubbling in the depths of the pan.
He brought the pan across the kitchen toward Thad. Thad reared back in the chair, lips peeled back from his teeth in terror.
“Oh, God, no...please...”
Dexter tipped the pan, dribbling some of the oil onto Thad’s leg. Thad screamed and rocked wildly in the chair. The grease sank into the denim of his jeans, smoking and searing, and Thad’s thigh quivered as if gripped by seizure.
“You jumped ahead in our discussion,” Dexter said. “I haven’t asked you where she is. I only said you’ve been in communication with her.”
“Yes!” The thick veins on Thad’s neck stood out like cables. “Yes...I’ve talked to her...oh sweet Jesus...”
“Stick to the order of the questions.” Dexter returned the pan to the burner and lowered the heat to prevent excessive smoking. He wiped off his grease-spattered hand with a kitchen towel.
Head lowered, Thad was muttering weepy prayers and rocking. The oil had eaten through the denim and scorched his flesh. A sweet, meaty aroma flavored the air, and it wasn’t bacon.
“Next question, Thad,” Dexter said.
Thad’s head snapped up, sweat flying.
“Why have you been sending money to Betty?” Dexter asked.
“Joy... she wanted me to do it.”
“Why you? She has a handful of other relatives. She could have sent the money to them to give to Betty.”
“I...I don’t know. She trusts me, I guess.”
“Probably true. I also think the fact that you aren’t in her family was a factor. She thought I would be less likely to track down someone like you than I would one of her relatives.”
“I don’t know. I...I guess so.” He hissed in pain.
“You talked to Joy today?”
“No.” Thad whipped his head back and forth. “I haven’t talked to her in a long time... months.”
Dexter returned to the stove and picked up the frying pan.
“Okay, okay, it was...it was today!” Thad yelled.
Dexter brought the pan near Thad’s face. Frantic, Thad actually tried to blow on the bubbling grease, as if that would cool it off.
Dexter walked behind him. Thad craned his head around, watching, whimpering.
“God...no...”
Tilting Thad’s head forward with one hand, Dexter poured a generous measure of oil down the back of Thad’s neck.
“Aaaaahhhhh!” Thad thrashed so frantically that he tipped the chair sideways. Man and chair crashed against the tile. Thad knocked his head against the floor, but didn’t pass out. He probably wished he had—the flesh at the nape of his neck was bubbling like a slab of fatback, and the air was thick with the noxious fumes.
Dexter placed the pan on the burner again. About a quarter inch of grease remained.
“Tell the truth, that’s all I ask,” Dexter said. “It’s a simple matter of respect, Thad.”
Sobbing, face mashed against the floor, Thad said, “I talked to her today.”
“Of course. You know how I know? Because she called Betty, not long after Betty left you her lovely message. I talked to Joy, myself, I sure did.”
“Then why...why are you doing this to me...”
“We’ll get to that.” Hands on his knees, Dexter knelt so that he could gaze into Thad’s anguished eyes. “Listen to my next question very carefully. Don’t fix your lips to tell me another lie, because if you do, I’m going to pour some sizzling bacon drippings into your ear canal, which I think would be pretty damn excruciating and might even kill you.”
“Oh, Jesus...”
“Where does Joy call you from?”
“Atlanta! God, forgive me... she calls me from Atlanta...”
“Atlanta.”
“Yes!”
Dexter turned over the answer in his mind, like a jeweler examining the quality of a diamond with a loupe. Atlanta. The so-called Black Mecca. It was such a popular city for black folks that she probably figured she could blend in there, get lost in the chocolate masses, and start her life anew.
“Do you have a record of her address?” Dexter asked. “An envelope from a recent payment?”
“Shredded... all of them...like she tells me to do...”
“Can you remember if she lives in Atlanta proper, or a suburb?”
Thad squeezed his eyes shut. Gasped. “Not sure . . .”
Dexter pursed his lips. “She using a different name now?”
“Rachel...”
Rachel was his wife’s middle name.
“Last name?” Dexter asked.
“Hall...”
Rachel Hall. Clever. Hall was her mother’s maiden name, a fact that she probably didn’t realize that he remembered. He eventually would have figured it out, but he would have lost precious time in the interim.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Thad.” Dexter stood.
Chest heaving, Thad kept his eyes squeezed closed, as if he were wishing this entire experience were a nightmare from which he would soon awaken. Mild shock was likely beginning to set in.
“We’re not done,” Dexter said.
Thad’s eyes opened. His gaze was dim, but held a trace of terror.
“But... told you...everything...I know...”
“My wife robbed me—did you know that, too?’
Thad blinked fuzzily. “I...uh...”
“You knew, motherfucker. Where’d you think she got all the money she was sending you? Don’t fix your mouth to tell me that she happens to have a good job.”
“But...”
“She robbed me, and you’ve been helping her. I wouldn’t be the man I am if I let you go. Fuck me over, and I’ll fuck you ten times worse and every stupid bastard who helped you—that’s the kind of man I am, Thad. I believe in reckoning.”
“Please...” Thad was crying again, but hoarsely, as if his vocal chords were giving out.
Dexter picked up the frying pan. Bending, he balanced it over Thad’s head.
Whimpering, Thad attempted to turn his head away. He succeeded only in smearing his face in the blood, saliva, and liquefied flesh that had pooled on the floor.
Dexter dumped the remaining oil into Thad’s ear. It was that last serving that pushed Thad over the edge, because regretfully, the guy almost immediately blacked out. Blood, seething oil, and other unidentified substances spilled out of his ear canal and sautéed his neck.
Dexter replaced the pan on the cooktop and switched off the burner. He checked Thad’s pulse, and found what he had expected. The brain was the body’s engine—and the boiling grease had traveled through Thad’s ear canal and fried his brain like tempura.
Dexter let the man’s lifeless arm drop to the floor.
Time to clean up. Then he would be on the road again, with Georgia on his mind.

24

Asleep in his old bedroom, Joshua had the most vivid dream of his life.
He and Rachel were strolling barefoot along a pristine white beach, hand-in-hand. A summer sun smiled down on them, and a cool, salty breeze ruffled the comfortable white shirts and shorts that both of them wore. They were alone on the shore, the vast sun-spangled ocean on their right, stretching to a hazy horizon.
Something warm clung to his shoulder. He turned his head and looked into the innocent eyes of a child who was perhaps a year old. A boy. With soft skin the color of nutmeg, the child had Rachel’s eyes and nose, Joshua’s lips and cheekbones, a full head of dark, curly hair.
Justin,
he thought.
Our son.
Rachel looked at their child, then at him, and smiled—an expression of the purest joy, free of worry and fear. Her curly hair was auburn, not black, and she wasn’t wearing her customary glasses.

142
Brandon Massey

He brought Rachel’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
Let’s go to the house,
she said. She winked, seductively.
Justin looks like he needs a nap.
A house was ahead, on the left. It was a two-story Cape Cod, with lots of sun-silvered windows. A stone footpath, shaded by a palm tree, led from the shore to the house’s broad patio and a balcony staircase.
Justin tugged at his ear, drawing his attention away from the house. His son pointed excitedly at something in the distance: a ferry that bobbed on the ocean waves like a child’s bath toy.
That’s the ferry, little man,
Joshua said.
You’ve been on the ferry before, remember?
Justin only giggled, and tugged his ear again.
Rachel had walked ahead; she was waiting at the patio door, Coco at her ankles, tail wagging. He kissed his son on the forehead, and followed Rachel inside. . . .

He awoke in darkness, breathing hard. His face was wet, and he realized that perspiration wasn’t the culprit. He had been crying in his sleep.

He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. The dream had been so
real
. He touched his earlobe; he felt the soft flesh throbbing from when his son had tugged at it during the dream.
Justin.
It was the name he and Rachel had agreed upon, if they were blessed with a male child. His memory of the child’s innocent face, the smooth texture of his skin, and the sweet, baby-fresh scent of him was imprinted on his mind as powerfully as the recollection of a recent experience.
And what about Rachel? He’d never seen her with auburn hair, and she always wore her thin-frame designer glasses.

DON’T EVER TELL 143

A small shape shifted at the foot of the bed, reining his mind back into the darkened bedroom. Coco was sleeping with him on the king-size bed, and was having a dream of her own.

He’d tried to put the little dog in her kennel, where she slept at their house, but she had whined incessantly. Mom had banged on the door and yelled at him to make the dog shut up, or she was going to throw her outside and chain her to a tree in the backyard. When he brought Coco out of the kennel and put her in the bed with him, she had fallen into a restful slumber.

He could comfort the dog. But who could comfort him? The dream had left him with an almost paralyzing sense of loss, for it might never come true.

Would he ever see Rachel again? If she did return some day, would he ever be able to trust her? How could he trust someone who would leave him?

How could he trust someone who had lied about so much?

25

When she would look back, she would realize that everything that terrified her about Dexter Bates—everything that would make her regret the day they had met—was apparent on their very first date.

At exactly seven o’clock on a sultry July evening, Dexter rang the bell at her apartment in Hyde Park, a two-bedroom unit that she shared with a coworker. She was twenty-two years old and had lived in Chicago for only four months, and the excitement of the Windy City was a welcome change from the sleepy suburb in which she had grown up.

After checking herself in the mirror one last time, she went downstairs and met Dexter in the lobby. He was six feet tall, with the broad-shouldered build of a college athlete. Dressed in a navy-blue button-down shirt and gray slacks, hair neatly cut and mustache precisely trimmed, he resembled a young Denzel Washington.

She wore a light green sundress that flattered her figure, and open-toe heels that showed off her new pedicure. Her thick auburn hair, freshly styled by her roommate, spilled over her shoulders.

Whistling, Dexter scanned her from head to toe. “You’re so fine you should be against the law,” he said. She smiled shyly. “Are you going to arrest me, officer?” “You keep looking like this and I just might.”
He was a veteran of the Chicago Police Department, a

detective in the narcotics division. When he walked—chin raised, shoulders squared as if marching to a silent cadence— he looked as though he had the entire city on a choke chain.

She immediately felt safe around him, protected. She’d met him only a week ago. He’d strutted into the hair salon where she worked to chat with his cousin, the owner of the shop, and the gaze of every woman in there had been automatically drawn to him. In a sharp gray suit and Italian loafers, he radiated virile manly energy and cool authority.
Growing up, the only strong male presences in her life had lived on the television screen—watching Bill Cosby play Cliff Huxtable in
The Cosby Show
was like seeing the father she wished she could remember. Both her parents had died when she was a child, and her aunt had raised her, her uncle having passed, too.
Dexter must have possessed a sixth sense that drew him toward women like her, women who craved a powerful man, because before leaving the salon, he had walked by her station and introduced himself. He was polite, yet smoothly confident. In her peripheral vision, she saw the eyes of the other women narrow with envy when he asked for her phone number.
On their first phone conversation, he asked her on a date. Of course she wanted to go out with him. What woman wouldn’t have?
“Shall we?” Dexter said, and offered his arm.
She put her arm through his, and he escorted her to his car. It was a white Corvette convertible, shimmering like a pearl in the waning evening sunlight. The polished chrome wheels gleamed.
“You’re wondering how I can afford a ride like this on a cop’s salary,” he said.
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about it. I assume that you’re good with your money.”
“Right answer.”
He opened the passenger door for her. She settled onto the buttery leather. The interior was immaculate, and it held a new-car scent.
He got behind the wheel.
“I’m a neat freak. Guess it’s obvious.”
“I try to keep the apartment neat, too, but my roommate is messy. She leaves her clothes everywhere.”
“Slobs should be shot.”
His bluntness caused her to do a double-take.
He merely shrugged. “Better buckle up, baby.”
He exploded out of the parking lot, shifting the manual transmission almost violently. She braced herself as he veered around a corner.
“A powerful machine like this needs a powerful man,” he said, and winked.
She laughed uneasily, her stomach churning.
He drove with reckless abandon, as if he didn’t care about being pulled over by a traffic cop, and he probably didn’t. She didn’t know much about police officers, but she knew they protected one another, like members of an elite fraternity.
He took her downtown to a popular, expensive steakhouse. She was going to place her own order with the server, but Dexter took charge and ordered for the both of them.
“When you’re with me, I’ll take care of everything,” he said.
“Thank you. I’m not really used to that.”
“You’ve never dated a real man, sweetheart, that’s why.”
But she had dated authoritative men before, though none quite as electrifying as Dexter. In them, she saw, perhaps, the father she had never known. It was an unsettling idea— dating a man because he represented the father you had lacked as a child—but over time, she would come to seriously question if it might explain why she had allowed herself to be with him.
Dinner—a petite filet for her, a porterhouse for him—was delicious. But halfway through their meal, as they were chatting about sports—well, mostly she listened to him talk about the Bears—Dexter shouted at the server so suddenly that she dropped her fork against the plate.
“Hey, you, waiter!” He snapped his fingers and thrust his wineglass in the air. “Look here—my glass is empty. What the hell’s the matter with you? I’m paying all this money for our goddamn dinner and you can’t keep my glass full?”
The red-faced server offered an apology and scrambled to retrieve more wine.
“You spit in it, and I’ll arrest you,” Dexter called after him.
Dexter caught her watching the exchange.
“It’s a simple matter of respect,” he said.
“Could the server have only made a mistake?” she asked.
“Sure—and I’ll make a mistake when it’s time for the tip.”
He changed the subject, but the incident lingered in the back of her mind.
After dinner, they went to see a movie. Although she expressed interest in seeing a Julia Roberts romantic comedy, when they reached the box office Dexter bought tickets for an action film.
During the movie, he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Her pulse raced, and she let herself melt into him. He smelled good, of woodsy spice and soap. And he was so sturdy and strong, unafraid to speak his mind.
Perhaps his outburst at the server had somehow been justified. After all, he had paid a lot of money for the meal and deserved good service. She would not have demanded a wine refill in the same tone as he, but he was a man, not only a man, but a cop, and clearly had little time for foolishness.
He moved his hand from her shoulder to her bare leg. He stroked gently, insistently, and she shivered as ripples of pleasure passed through her.
“You’re so beautiful, you drive me crazy,” he whispered in her ear. “After this, we should go back to my house and chill for a while.”
“I’d like that,” she said softly.
Although she was not a virgin, she had never slept with a man on the first date. But then, she had never been on a date with a man as compelling as Dexter. Being with him was like being swept along on a strong, fast-moving river; his energy was so primal and magnetic he seemed impossible to resist.
After the film, walking back to his car, they were talking about the movie, strolling casually along the sidewalk—when a man burst like a jack-in-the-box from the shadows of the alley.
Snarling, he seized her arm.
She screamed, but the man slapped a grubby hand over her mouth and jammed a knife against her side. Pain pierced her, and she cried out against his dirty palm.
“Shut up, bitch, or I’ll cut your guts out,” he said. His eyes were savage.
She bit back a scream. He dragged her into the dimly lit alley and pinned her against the cold brick wall. Her purse strap rolled down her shoulder, and he grabbed the strap, snatched the purse away.
Dexter stood still on the sidewalk, his dark eyes like bullets.
Help me, please,
she thought.
Don’t just stand there! You’re a cop for God’s sake!
“Give up your wallet,” the guy spat at Dexter.
“Do you know who I am?” Dexter asked. His voice was low, almost a hiss.
“You’re the one who’s gonna pay me tonight.”
He drove the knife deeper into her side, slitting her dress, puncturing her skin. Kicking futilely, she shrieked against the man’s hand.
A gun suddenly appeared in Dexter’s grip, so quickly it was as if he had produced it from his sleeve like a magician conjuring a card. She hadn’t been aware that he was carrying a gun.
“Let her go,” he said. “Or you’ll be the one whose brains are gonna be hosed off the concrete tonight.”
She wanted to shout with glee.
Staring at Dexter, the man swallowed. He eased the knife off her. He took a step back, dropping her purse to the ground.
“My...my bad,” he said. “Stupid-ass mistake, man.”
Tears of gratitude flooded her eyes. Dizzy, she leaned against the wall.
Her only clear thought was that Dexter had saved her.
The guy turned to run, but Dexter charged forward and slammed the butt of the pistol against his face. There was a yelp of pain, and the ugly sound of cracking bone and cartilage.
The man folded over, went down.
Hugging herself, she slid along the wall, moving away. She was so stunned she barely felt her legs underneath her.
Dexter moved over the robber. He kicked him sharply in the ribs. The man let out a choked gasp and curled into a ball.
“You disrespected me,” Dexter said in a cool tone, as if kicking a man already down was as normal as strolling through a park.
“I’m... sorry...” the guy wheezed. “Please...”
“Not good enough.”
She saw a glint of metal. Blinking fuzzily, she realized that Dexter had put on a set of brass knuckles. He flexed his hand eagerly.
Her gut churned.
“Dexter... please, let him go,” she said. “I’m okay now. Let’s go, okay?”
Dexter glared at her as if she had interrupted a private party.
“Go back to the sidewalk and wait,” he said. “This is police business now.”
His tone was cold—and final.
She bent on wobbly knees, grabbed her purse, and backpedaled down the alley.
Dexter grabbed the guy by his collar and hauled him to his feet. The man pleaded, but Dexter cut his cries short with a hard punch to the stomach that undoubtedly busted several blood vessels.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with, do you?” Dexter asked.
He began to hammer the robber’s face and body with steady, workmanlike punches, brass shattering bone, the man’s drooping head knocking like a dummy’s against the brick wall.
Dexter chanted repeatedly with each blow: “Take my woman? Huh? It’s a simple matter of respect . . . need to learn respect . . . don’t you know who I am . . .”
She stumbled out of the alley and rounded the corner. Her stomach convulsed. She drew deep inhalations of the humid night air to halt the wave of nausea.
Run, girl.
The voice was as clear and bright in her head as the stars above.
Run, girl, go home, and don’t ever speak to him again.
But she didn’t go anywhere. She thought, perhaps crazily, that it was too late to get away, that he had already decided to make her the one, and if she tried to run away, he would make her sorry. Just like he was making that would-be robber in the alley sorry for what he’d done.
Several long minutes later, Dexter marched around the corner. His eyes shone. He looked strangely invigorated, and there was not a single drop of blood on his person.
It was as if the violent episode had never happened. She didn’t ask what had come of the robber. She was too afraid to ask, or to look.
“Come here.” Dexter pulled her to him and kissed her lustily, placing his palm possessively on her butt.
She sighed, let her body open against his... and felt something deep inside her surrender to his strength, his iron will. This man would take care of her. He would defend her, he would fight for her, and if his flash of sudden violence frightened her, maybe it was because she’d spent her entire life in ignorance of how true men of authority behaved.
That was what she believed back then.
He took her hand. “Let’s get out of here and go to my place.”
She went home with him.
And stayed for three terrifying years.