Where are our Children: A Novel: Complete and Uncut, Page 3

  Chapter Two

  A dysfunctional family is still a family nonetheless.

  -Saul Pepper tells his son Thomas over dinner in 1972.

  Angel

  Blanche Coffee House; Griffin, Georgia. 2nd Day

  Outside the Blanche Coffee and Pancake House in Griffin, Georgia, two FBI agents were securing the buildings perimeter, pretending to be a vacationing couple holding hands, while out on an early morning stroll. 50 feet closer, a third agent lit a cigarette and leaned back against a light pole. Inside the restaurant, a fourth agent scooped the last morning newspaper out of the machine and secured it under his arm pit.

  Dr. Angel Hicks-Dupree knew that the Blanche Coffee and Pancake House had survived a fire that gutted its infrastructure in the late 1960’s, a change of ownership 1982 when the founder died of Lupus, numerous recessions, and the Great Recession of the last few years. But will it survive a federal incursion this morning?

  She watched a fifth agent enter the premises, order breakfast at the register, and angle towards where she sat alone. It was far too early in the morning to play hide and seek with the feds, even one as good looking as this one, so she crossed one pants leg over the other and waited for him to approach her booth. She also knew that it was also far too early for most human beings to pour gin into their coffee so she doubled the content in her cup to improve her odds of getting it right.

  Dr. Angel Hicks Dupree:

  She was a curvy brunette in her mid-thirties. She had heavily arched brows curved above her big brown eyes. She wore rose colored lipstick over exaggerated thick lips and walked with a limp that grew more pronounced as she stressed. Angel’s lips were a gift from a former lover who had had bottomless pockets and an erotic imagination. The limp was the result of brief but wicked bout of polio when she was ten. She wore a pungent fragrance of perfume to douse the smell of alcohol rising up out of her pores.

  “Dr. Hick-Dupree, my name is Special Agent Nicholas Sheridan of The Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He said, as way of greeting her. “Would you mind if I share this booth with you?”

  Angel flashed him a wicked, playful smile.

  Special Agent Nicholas Sheridan:

  He was of medium height and weight, tanned to a tone that Angel wondered where his previous assignment had been, clean shaven, and had grayed early in life and now wore the snowcapped hairdo like it was a badge of honor. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ban. Angel kept the wickedly playful smile on her thick lips for a bit longer than she usually would, the one she reserved for attractive me she could sleep with, but probably would not.

  “It’s your ass.” And a fine one, she did not add. And just as Sheridan’s backside hit the chair she did say, “Champion didn’t tell me where he was going.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Angel drank from her coffee cup for a taste of her gin laced liquid courage. “You and your people have been out searching for Joseph Champion. Whatever lead you may have had has led you here.”

  Sheridan exhaled and arched a bushy brow in curiosity. “What gave us away?”

  “You people are always so busy. I’m sure you don’t have enough time for me to explain.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Damn. You are probably right, but I’m curious anyway.”

  Angel explained the agent’s faulty positioning before the waitress arrived at the booth with Sheridan’s cup of coffee, with packs of cream and sugar in a saucer. She automatically started to refill Angel’s cup but the doctor shook her head and thanked her all the same.

  “So are you going to explain to me what your involvement with a federal fugitive might be, Doctor? Joseph Champion is a person of interest in the shooting of President Adolphus Sweet. He is the most wanted man in the world. ”

  “Alright, Nicholas, where do I begin?” She asked, and stole another sip of her drink. “Joseph has made overtures about turning himself over to your people. He told me that he is prepared to produce prudent and specific information on Serena Tennyson’s strategies and Pandora movements.”

  “Champion’s made these so called overtures before.” Sheridan said with a trail of bitterness in his voice.

  “He wants to turn himself in. He told me that.”

  “Which brings me to my next question, Doctor?” Sheridan said. “Why did he come here? Forgive me, but you are living here in the middle of nowhere in South Central Georgia.”

  “Joseph and I share ties, Nicholas. Check your records. We were both recruited and became card carrying members of Pandora. It didn’t take long for me to realize what madness Serena is capable of. I resigned after only a few months. Joseph Champion wasn’t as bright.”

  Sheridan smiled. She recognized the gesture for what it was: She’d saved him some time and energy for having to extract that information, that he should have already had filed on from her.

  “Okay, then back to my original line of questioning, Doctor, If Joseph Champion really wants to do the right thing and turn himself in to the authorities, then why won’t he?”

  “He doesn’t think you can protect him.”

  The waitress had returned with Sheridan’s breakfast of bacon and eggs cooked over easy. Sheridan excused himself and took three bites of the eggs, and a single bite of the crispy bacon, wiped his mouth, and urged Angel to go on.

  “There honestly isn’t much to tell, Nicholas,” She said. “He called me on my cell at my practice and informed me that he was in town to see a local man, another former Pandora agent who was running from Serena as well. After I arrived at the hotel we argued about him turning himself in. He was emotional. We drank a lot. We had sex. It went back and forth like that for a while. I don’t remember a lot of specific details other than our sexual chemistry haven’t eroded over time.”

  Sheridan struggled to keep a straight face. “Did this man, who Champion mentioned, ever show? Did you even overhear a phone call he may have made?”

  “No. Sorry. Joseph never even gave me his name or what his function was in Pandora’s organization. I could tell that they had important business though. Like I said, Nicholas, other than what I’ve told you, last night was a blur on my radar.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Is it? He can’t have gone too far. I’m sure with all of your resources and influence you will track him down sooner or later. In the meanwhile, you are stuck with little old me?” Angel spread her arms over her head for effect, the gin working its old magic in her bloodstream.

  “Yes, Doctor, little old you, a former Pandora recruit who happens to be the real reason that we ventured down to this shithole in the first place.” Sheridan said to her surprise. We she cocked her own curious brow he added, “On two different occasions this agency had retained your services in a consulting capacity, the results have been…productive on each case. You are very good in your field of expertise.”

  “Thank you,” Angel said seriously. “My work in Clinical Psychology means everything to me. The Deputy Director seems to respect my opinions.”

  “He does. He speaks fondly of you, almost if he has a very soft spot for you in his heart.”

  It’s probably a hard one and it hangs around a little further South than his heart. “Listen, Nicholas, you say that you and these other agents came down here looking for me?”

  “We did.”

  “Then this must all be about that phone call I had with Louis Keaton around ten days ago now. Again, during that little season of madness that I spent as an operative in Pandora, Louis was a patient of mine. I’m sure you already know this as well.”

  “I am aware of your relationship with Keaton, Doctor.” It was time for Sheridan to flash his own mischievous grin at her. Angel surmised that mischievous looked good on this federal agent. “And your phone records indicate it’s been 11 days since you last spoke to Keaton, actually. But forgive me, I’m interrupting.”

  Angel sat her cup in a saucer and read the statue that Sheridan had produced from The Justice Department reminding her of federal regu
lations to allow wiretapping of phone lines to prevent terrorism in by foreign and domestic means. The waitress returned and filled Sheridan’s cup once more. He paid his bill with a government credit card and tipped her with a ten dollar bill to finalize her dismissal.

  “Louis Keaton was a troubled man.” Angel heard herself say.

  “He is still a troubled man.” Sheridan unlatches his briefcase, produces a laptop, which he has up and booted with the care and precision of a man who has more than a familiarity with contemporary technology. “I want to get your opinion of what you see here.”

  Sheridan’s computer is equipped with a split screen. The video feed on the left side is from one of the big networks documenting the bombing of The Andrew Young Center upstate in Atlanta with the usual coverage angles. The one on the right side, while not as nearly a clean feed, is far more interesting, and catches Angel’s attention. This feed is from a surveillance camera perched on the side of an adjacent building. It is time stamped. Angel recognizes the figure of an undersized man who was wearing a denim jacket, flannel shirt and faded jeans and ankle length cowboy boots. Louis Keaton.

  “Oh my, God,” Angel ignored her coffee cup and nearly reached for her gin stash itself almost out of habit, but thought the better of that decision. “I haven’t watched the news this morning. How many more casualties were added to the list during the night?”

  “I didn’t get an update. And I don’t like to speculate specifics on such things, though I suspect the number will grow over the coming days.”

  “I’m sure it will,” She settled for a subtle sip out of her cup. She watched the time stamped footage once again with it showing Louis holding something in his hand, then the youth center exploding into a ball of fire. “I am not going to argue with you about what that camera implies, Nicholas.”

  “That footage doesn’t imply anything.” Angel heard Sheridan’s voice take on a stern tone. “Keaton’s there on scene. He is a known operative of Pandora. They have taken openly taken responsibility and credit earlier this morning for the terrorist act known as 411.”

  “Give me some latitude here. We both believe Keaton to be a troubled man. But he is a man known to be a pedophile, a man who has repeatedly molested children, especially young boys.” Angel said. “Blowing up buildings has not been his MO. That is not who this man is.”

  Sheridan eyed Angel a second or two after his cell phone rang. He begged the doctor’s pardon and began to listen to the party on the other end, an agent named Green. He makes a sudden decision that she should be in on the conversation and he puts the speaker on and lays the cell, face up, on table.

  “…We’ve been monitoring your conversation, sir, and there is no sign of Champion.” Agent Green was saying. “I have received intel that a dead body had been discovered four blocks from your present location. He is a white male who was either in his late 40’s, or early 50’s. There was no ID on him.”

  “Is there an immediate cause of death?” Angel asked Sheridan, as she was familiar with FBI procedures in the time she’d spent working with them.

  “Agent Green,” Sheridan said. “Answer the doctor’s question.”

  “Yes, sir,” Green sounded unsure of whether this violated protocol or not. “He suffered a gunshot wound to his forehead at close range. It was a small caliber weapon. The body is still warm so the evidence points that it occurred in the past six to 12 hours. It will take three to four hours before we get the ballistics back from the lab.”

  “Expect those reports back in no more than two hours. Walker’s crew is known to pull miracle off from time to time, especially with proper stimuli to motivate them. I will have The Deputy Director to give them a call as soon as I’m finished here.” Sheridan powered down his laptop. “Agent Green, does any evidence support a theory that this gunshot was self-inflicted.”

  “Unlikely. There is an absence of residue on his fingers and his wrist. You’ve trained us not to speculate—“

  “I have at that, Agent Green. Let’s make an exception this one time, go ahead”

  Agent Green said, “I think it was a robbery. As I already told you he has no Id or wallet at all. His pants pockets were turned inside out. And a couple of his fingers are discolored as if there were rings there once. I believe the perpetrator lifted the jewelry off him before he got out of dodge.” The man concluded by saying, “I would advise Agent Walker to report her findings to the local police department.”

  “I disagree, Lance. We will stay on top of this ourselves and examine it closer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Angel could hear the younger man groan in the backdrop before the line was severed.

  Agent Sheridan drained the last of his coffee. “As I said, Doctor, we came looking for you.”

  “Why? I don’t see where I can help you.”

  “I need you in Atlanta. I need you aiding in the 411 investigation.”

  “What could I offer you in an investigation like this?” She wiped sweat from her brow, grabbed her gin stash out of her purse for Sheridan to see, and stood to leave. “And as you can see, Nicholas, I’m in no condition to help you. You have good people in there, in Atlanta already. Christopher Prince is personal friend of mine, he runs the field office, and most importantly is one hell of a Special Agent…”

  Sheridan breaks eye contact for the first time in the past few minutes. He pushes his coffee cup away from him in disgust.

  Angel abruptly sits down and flops back in her seat.

  “Something has happened to Christopher hasn’t it? Sheridan compounds her concerns when he fails to reply immediately. “Where is Agent Prince?”

  “No one has seen or heard from Agent Prince since yesterday morning.”

  “He’s notorious for not answering his cell.”

  Sheridan nodded in agreement. “He is notorious for not answering his private cell phone. Agent Prince’s partner told her superiors that Prince had an appointment with his private doctor for a follow up from an annual examination. He never showed. Agent Tabitha Blue hasn’t been able to raise him on his company line. Agent Prince never misses a call on this line. No matter what time of day he receives a call he always answers this phone.”

  Angel searched the ceiling of the restaurant and then the floor for answers. Where could Christopher be?

  Sheridan: “There is more.”

  Angel exhaled. “There always is.”

  “The 411 attacks are not centered on the bombing of The Andrew Young Center alone. Atlanta’s Mayor, Ernestine Johnson has died of complications stemming from some type of poisoning. And currently, there is a siege still underway at The Fox Theatre in Midtown Atlanta.” Sheridan hesitated for a long time, and Angel’s dread grew. “Agent Blue told her superiors that Agent Prince mentioned that he had ticket to show there the night the siege began. He had a date. I believe he is there and is amongst the hundreds of hostages that are being held inside.”

  Angel felt her teeth chatter. She suffered through a spell of nausea that fortunately passed as quickly as it came.

  She stood again.

  “I’ll need to run home. I’m going to grab a hot shower and grab some personal belongings.” Angel looked down at him squarely in his eye. “And I’ll need some time to sober up.”

  Agent Sheridan stood next to her. “I’ve anticipated your assistance and have a car waiting outside for you to handle in private business you may have.”

  “I’m in,” Angel muttered to herself than to the man standing next to her. “I’m all in.”

  “Be careful what you are volunteering for.” Sheridan rubbed the back of his snow white head. “I’m under orders, by Deputy Director Rice, to solicit your services. I follow orders, Doctor Hicks-Dupree. Still, I want you to know that I didn’t ask for you. And my boss has left it to my discretion how long you assist on this case.”

  Angel nodded soberly. “I understand, Nicholas.”

  Agent Sheridan brushed off his suit and straightened his tie. “No, Doctor, I highly doubt that you.
Let me explain myself further. What others in my field of work call taking initiative I call being insubordinate. What another man in my position may proclaim someone as being a free spirit, I would name that same person reckless.” He leaned over her. “You are reckless, Doctor. You’re past ties to Pandora, the way you lead your personal life, everything that encompasses you presents a clear and present danger to the honorable men and women who still serve their country through this bureau. I will not tolerate any screw-ups from you.”

  Sheridan reached down into her purse and scooped the tin flask of gin out of it. “I hope that I have made myself perfectly clear on my expectations of you during your consultation.”

  “Crystal clear, Nicholas.”

  “And from this point moving forward you will address me as Agent Sheridan or Sheridan.”

  “Yes, Agent Sheridan.”

  She had lived a reckless life. And Sheridan was right, for both personal and professional reasons; her presence during this investigation was a clear and present danger to all involved including Christopher Prince, assuming he still lived.

  But as long as Angel Hicks-Dupree loved, her redemption was possibly still at hand.

  She was alive.

  As she turned towards the exit of the restaurant she gathered that one of Sheridan’s agents hadn’t gotten the message that she had joined their ranks, or that Joseph Champion was nowhere to be found in this vicinity.

  “Agent Sheridan, I pointed all of your people out. Why is one of your men still sneaking around outside?”

  Agent Sheridan straightened out his tie again and looked as if something on the floor had gained his attention. “He’s not one of my men, Doctor, he’s one of yours.”

  Angel glanced in the stranger’s direction and then took a second, longer look at the man who was standing outside the restaurant. She sighed in disbelief to the fact that what Sheridan said was true.

  Doctor Seth Dupree was peeking through an open blind of the Blanche Coffee and Pancake House.

  As long as Angel lived, her redemption was possibly still at hand.

  She was alive.

  She was alive and she had an angry husband to face.

  Seth

  The Dupree’s private family residence, East Griffin, Georgia, 2nd Day

  “We’re not done talking yet,” Seth watched his wife drop to her knees and reach along the side of the bed for her travel bag she’d always kept packed and ready to go on a moment’s notice. “And now where do you think you’re going?”

  Angel looked back at him, sighed, and rolled her big brown eyes at him. “Atlanta. I’m needed in Atlanta, Seth.”

  Seth pointed at the carpet. “You’re needed here. We’ve got to fix whatever is wrong with our marriage.”

  Angel, impervious, went back to the business of what she was doing as if a word hadn’t been exchanged between them. She got to her feet, switched on the widescreen with the remote and pumped up the volume past 40. The sound faintly echoed as their bedroom and seemingly every other room this Victorian styled house was oversized for two people and even with the expensive furniture loitering throughout, looked as if no one lived there.

  There have been too many big fights that have taken place under this roof as well, Angel, too many tears shed. Tonight, if only for one night, he promised those tears would not come from him.

  Dr. Seth Dupree:

  He was six feet tall and still fit even now that he was in his early forties. Friends had started calling him The Gray Man about ten years ago. He had sparkling gray eyes and had more streaks of gray in his hair and whiskers than he liked. He had always possessed the unique ability to look comfortable and relaxed, yet professional, whether the day dictated him wearing a three piece suit or a golf shirt and slacks.

  He wasn’t looking comfortable or relaxed right now.

  “Make me understand what any of what has gone down in Atlanta has to do with—“

  “Quiet.” Angel planted her long, manicured fingernail close enough to his full to his thin lip to touch. “I want to hear this.”

  A razor thin blonde stood as close to the barricades of a building. Seth scanned the area immediately behind her, an electronic sign noted the structure as The Historic Fox Theatre. Historic, it just plain looks old, Seth thought. Some of the roof’s paneling had torn from the hinges and looked if it would completely off if a strong gust of wind whipped in right now. Well, knowing how the city’s luck rolls these days, a wild wind event would be the only type of storm they would get. Seth reasoned to himself. Atlanta and most of northern Georgia was suffering through what some meteorologist experts were calling the Drought of the Century. There hadn’t been significant rainfall in metro Atlanta in nearly a year. And wildfires had begun running rampant on the outskirts of town, especially to the North and West of downtown. Some days the city looked more like LA encompassed in thick soup bowl of smoke, instead of the smog America’s second largest city suffered through.

  Sections of panels and tile were torn from the right side of the building as the camera scanned the protestors who’d begin camping out of there. Seth rubbed at his day old beard, and shook his head at his own stupidity. Of course there are torn panels and patches of damage in those spots, he thought, how could I have forgotten about the tremor the region suffered about two weeks ago. Seismologist had measured the quake at 3.3 and the center of it near Columbia, South Carolina, the Atlantic fault shifting again after lying nearly dormant for half a century.

  And now Atlanta was suffering through this latest challenge.

  Heavily armed police units, armed with high powered rifles struggled to keep citizens behind the barriers. Seth’s gray eyes took notice of a group of half dozen young men and women of color who chanted the same theme over and again, especially when the television cameras focused on them. One of them would ask, Brothers and sisters, what do you see when visualize our people’s future? And the others would answer in chorus, we see days filled with misery and pain. Most of the protestors were ordinary, everyday Joes, but the camera seemed to highlight the presence of clans of young men dressed in Khaki suit and sneakers. The Peacekeepers; the media is focusing on them to stir the pot…and yet he endured a chill strong enough to burn at his shoulder blades, or are these vigilante numbers higher than anyone assumes they are.

  Seth rushed to widescreen, located where the power button was, and slammed the set off.

  Angel swore at him.

  “You got in an unmarked car back at that restaurant with federal agents didn’t you, Angel. This,” He pointed his thumb back at the blank television screen. “This is about Christopher Prince isn’t it?”

  Angel had folded her arms, which tugged at her blouse, exposing a little cleavage. Knowing his wife as he did, Seth was sure the act was intentional, to throw his concentration off. “The FBI believes that Christopher is one of the hostages being held in that theatre. Agents of Pandora are holding them there. Everyone inside that place is in danger. Sheridan got on a plane when we left; he is putting his hostage negotiating team together, right now, as we speak. You know I’ve consulted with the feds before, Seth, you know I’ve worked directly with hostage negotiators. That car, as you spoke of, is outside waiting on me right now.

  “This isn’t about those hostages, for you, Angel,” He heard his voice rise, thought about the FBI agents planted 50 feet or so from where he was standing, made him instantly regret doing so. “This is about Christopher Prince. You’ve always loved him.”

  “Oh stop being so melodramatic, Seth.” Angel had opened her travel bag, replaced a short sleeved blouse with a longer sleeved one to protect her from the night’s chill up there. “Just stop it already. You know our story, our history together. Our fathers were cops, partners for ten years together. That partnership of theirs evolved into a lifelong friendship, where such relationships between black men and white men were rare and were frowned upon in the Deep South. Chris and I played together as children. My father even trusted him enough to babysit me
. In time their partnership ended when my father moved on to the US Marshalls and then eventually to the ATF. And although their friendship fractured somewhat when Isaac Prince founded a House in Chains, their children still kept in touch.

  She stopped with her activates for a minute and Seth watched her big browns mist up. “He’s my best friend in this world. Of course, I care about what happens to him.”

  Seth inhaled, exhaled, and stood as tall as his 6”1 frame allowed. “I understand that, Angel. He is your best friend. I am your husband.”

  Angel’s eyes lost the mist. “And for that, I pity you.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  Angel tossed a bra into her bag and stepped in his direction. He thought she would embrace him, but she stopped just short of where he was standing, and brushed the back of his cheek with her soft hands. He felt aroused in spite of himself. He wanted to be angry right now. “You’re a good man, Seth Dupree. You’re a damn good husband. You deserve a damn good wife. I’m not a good wife. I’m not…she struggled to find the right word…I’m not sure that I know how to be one.”

  She turned her back on him to resume her packing. He wrapped his arms around her with such suddenness, that he engulfs her smaller frame with his own. The scent of her perfume, the relaxer in her hair is intoxicating. She throws her head back and exposes her neckline…collarbone…and the top of her breast to him. She reaches back and finds his manhood already stiffening against her buttock.

  She was the one usually seducing him during times of crisis in their marriage. And honestly…she is at it again. She’s been seducing me from the moment we walked into the bedroom. I’m just late to the gathering. But he would let her claim another victory in this war between them, if only she didn’t go. “I’m begging you to stay,” Seth said as he ran his lips along her neck line. “We can fix this.”

  Angel gently but firmly removed herself from his embrace, spun around, and smoothed out her clothes. “I have to go, Seth.” She announced to him. “I’ll call you as often as I can. I’m sorry.”

  He snatched at her arm with quickness beyond reason, beyond relief. Anger had superseded reason and he found himself in unexplored territory and it was lost of him exactly what to do next.

  Angel gave him his answer.

  He needed to defend himself.

  Angel pushed his hand off of her and attempted to knee him with her right leg in the crotch. Perhaps it was some type of male intuition that caused him to be prepared for such a maneuver as he blocked her first and second attempt successfully with the lower half of frame. Unfortunately, that left his topside vulnerable for a counter attack and Angel took full advantage. She jabbed him twice above his right eye socket with her left fist.

  She’d proven herself ultra-flexible and even athletic during their exotic romps in bed, but here physical strength was proving far more just a nuisance as she connected again with another punch that hurt, this time on his jaw.

  He found an opening as she swung wildly and missed, and used all of her 125 pounds against her and shoved her at the top of her arm, sideways on to the bed. Don’t escalate this, he thought, whether it was intended more for him or her he could not say. She cursed at him again. Angel’s big brown eyes were full of fire and brimstone and focus.

  This time she kicked at him and found success as the inside of his thigh and crotch paid a steep price. For the first time since this episode began Seth felt the bite of almost unbearable of pain.

  He backhands his wife.

  The world stops…and so does Angel…and her suddenly frail body lands on the bed flat on her back.

  “Oh, my God,” Seth dove on top of the bed and on top of her. “Angel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And he is filled with dread not only in the fact that he has struck a woman for the first time in his life, but he has struck a woman with federal agents parked on the curb outside his house. He has allowed his anger and more so his pride to put his career, to put his freedom in jeopardy.

  “Get. Off.”

  “I’m sorry.” Seth said pointlessly again. He wished he could take it all back.

  They stayed in that position, that odd position with him on top her, almost pinning her down for what had seemed a long time. He took some assurance, selfishly so, that the FBI didn’t hear this exchange, because the doorbell hadn’t chimed, or they hadn’t knocked the door down and a score of agents hadn’t piled in the room and jumped on top of him.

  Instead he and his wife looked into one another’s eyes. He looked into her magical big browns, and he could see his gray’s reflected in hers. She didn’t try to punch him anymore, or head butt him, or even bite him. In fact, her body went lax; she exposed the other side of her face, the one that wasn’t slightly swollen to him.

  “I deserved that, Seth.” When he tried to speak, she shook her head slowly, and shushed him as softly as one of her kisses on his cheek might have been. For the entire dishonor I’ve brought to our marriage, I deserved it.” A single ran down her smooth cheek and it frightened him more than any moment during the fight. She didn’t cry at their wedding. She didn’t cry when she suffered bouts of pain in her leg as the result of her bout with polio as a young child. She didn’t even cry when they buried her father. But she was crying now. Go ahead, Seth, you get one more shot at me, for the future dishonor I would bring to you if I stay.”

  He felt suddenly ill. “I don’t want that, Angel. I don’t want to fight with you at all.”

  He backed off of her and she sat up and perched her weight on her elbows. “I’m allowing you a free shot. I’m advising you to take it.” She said, in a low dangerous voice. “Because if you ever lay a hand on me after my offer expires, I’ll kill you Seth; you know what I’m capable of. There are already three people buried because of me.”

  Angel pushed herself off of the bed. Seth reached to help her, but she slapped his hand aside. He guesses that she has decided to shower after she reaches Atlanta because she limped over to the bedroom mirror, touches up her face, brushes her hair, and changes from one button up blouse to another. Seth saw his reflection close in behind her, but he keeps a cautious distance between them.

  “You’ve always told me that you have been responsible for two deaths, Angel.”

  “There’s Brody.” She said, her blouse still fully open, exposing her bra and cleavage to him in the mirror.

  Seth nodded. “He was the fugitive who came looking for your father during one of the times he left you in that old house alone. After three days of being his hostage, he made a sexual advance on you and you stabbed him to death.”

  It was her turn to nod. “Eight years later, a young man named Kenny Traylor learned his valuable fatal lesson.”

  “He did.” Seth said as she buttoned the blouse at last, doused perfume on each wrist and put her trinkets in place. “He learned that when a woman says no she means it. You defended yourself and your actions were cleared in a court of law.” When Angel spun around she grabbed her bag and began to exit their bedroom. He stepped in her path but retained the separation between them.

  “Angel, what is this third incident?” He asked his wife. She had shared the other two instances with him…again, tearlessly…on their wedding night.

  “My mother died birthing me,” Angel said as a matter of fact and without emotion. “So I’m responsible for killing her too.”

  Seth lost all of the strength in his leg and tumbles to the edge of the bed and seems paralyzed in his attempt to move thereafter.

  Angel limped to the mouth of the doorway and spokes to him without turning to face him; perhaps the tears have found a home on her face again. “I’m screwed up, Seth. I am a drunk…a functional one considering the detail I pay my work, but a drunk nonetheless.”

  “Are you a whore as well?”

  Now she did face him, and did she have the audacity to for anger to be plastered on her brow or was the look lodged there meant to mean something else? “I don’t like to be alone.” Angel could nothing more as her
look softened.

  “And us?” Seth asked. “You specialize in Clinical Psychology, Dr. Angel Hicks- Dupree. You specialize in the integration of the science, theory and clinical knowledge for the purpose of understanding, preventing, and relieving psychologically-based distress or dysfunction and to promote subjective and behavioral well-being and personal development.” He’d memorized the definition over the years. “What is the diagnosis for us moving forward?”

  An hour later Seth learned that even the king sized mattress couldn’t hold his weight on its edge and he’d slipped aimlessly to the floor. He had a bed, bedroom, and a home that was already too large for a couple, grew exponentially larger and lonelier still now that he was alone after Angel had given the best answer she could muster to his last question and had left for Atlanta with the FBI. He was still staring at the bedroom’s doorway where she’d stood, even now.

  There was a pop, and then a bang rising from the surround sound in their bedroom that startled him. And for the first time Seth realized that during his scuffle with his wife, they had somehow managed to switch the television back on. He was now viewing how a scene had played out from the first night of the siege that had been caught on amateur video. Shots had been fired from inside the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, and some of the protestors and other curious citizens were scattering for cover. Half dozen Peacekeepers had drawn their weapons in response and had taken what Seth surmised as strategic positing around the building. Where are you going, Angel? He asked himself. What are you getting yourself into?

  For all of his life, Dr. Seth Dupree felt he was holding his breath—waiting; he hoped to still mend his broken heart.

  He hoped to breathe again.

  He hoped.

  Seth reached for his cell phone and hit a private investigator he had on speed dial. The man was a pig both in size and appearance, but had proven professional, trustworthy and damned good at finding Angel’s whereabouts over the years. He finally answered on the third ring. He spoke in a sleepy voice. The other man, Lawson, listened to Seth’s latest complaints about Angel. Seth knew putting the man up in motels in Atlanta would be expensive—but instead of the private dick quoting him a rate on his retainer he said, “Doc, why don’t you invest that money in a good lawyer. Or even a bad lawyer.” Seth felt the phone slip from his fingers and fall to the carpet, but the speaker had been engaged. “Man, you’re a surgeon. I know you are used to fixing things.” The other man hesitated, clearing morning bile from his throat. “You’re not going to fix her, Doc.”

  The private detective hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Seth got to his knees, crawled to the nightstand, got the phonebook out to find Lawson’s replacement. He flung the phonebook and toppled an expensive vase from the other side of the room instead and found himself sitting on the carpet as he had before.

  Another hour later Seth had gotten himself together enough to make two more phone calls; the first was a straight forward call to the HR department of Atlanta’s General Hospital. Dr. Seth Dupree had been assigned to a statewide trauma team. They’d already seen action after last month’s earthquake and subsequent tremors. He was required to train with the team out of their main base of operations at the Atlanta General Hospital location for four weeks out of the year.

  He couldn’t see a more ideal time to train than right now.

  The General’s HR department would contact his own workplace and finalize the deal. If he needed more time in Atlanta, he’d had some vacation weeks available to him.

  He began dialing the second number…stopped with four digits still remaining…thought long and hard about completing the call…and pressed the end button, terminating his call to the other party, for now.

  The Gray man got to his feet, grabbed his own travel bag from his side of the walk in closet, pulled out the pistol that he had stored inside of the bag, filled the chamber with bullets, set the alarm on the door and remembered his wife’s answer to his formal question about them moving forward before she had turned and walked away from him.

  Our vows say through sickness and health, Seth. She had said. I think I qualify for well beyond sick. I want a divorce, Seth. Please grant me one.

  For all of his life, Dr. Seth Dupree felt he was holding his breath—waiting; he hoped to still mend his broken heart.

  He hoped to breathe again.

  He hoped.

  And then he locked the front door behind him.