Prologue
RAPHAEL HOYT STARTED the drive home from Kentucky, heading to South Carolina. In more ways than one, it would have felt good to pull the trigger and take Tempest out of play, but she was really efficient at her job. She had a God given talent for stroking the right vein in a man to remind him of a small moment they shared together which made him feel important. His one moment with Tempest Fateman was shared five years ago on a dance floor.
He recalled the moment with pain and clarity. He hated pedophiles. Honestly, he hated any man who preyed upon defenseless women. Phillip, or Phil Weston, was the worst type of predator. A slimy man who took a job as a janitor at an all girl’s school and spent his nights drugging the young girls so he could have his way with them. Unfortunately, Raphael caught him in the act when he arrived to fulfill the contract.
Then people saw Mr. Exit’s face.
He’d almost gotten caught on camera had it not been for Tempest. She should have been long gone, but she stayed behind for a hair to ensure that all surfaces were cleaned leaving no trace evidence. Mr. Exit made that task difficult to complete. Phil angered Mr. Exit to the point he’d been sloppy in the execution of the task leaving evidence not only on the floors, but the ceilings, the walls and pieces of gray matter stuck in the air vents. Raphael also found himself high in his emotions, thinking about what his sister and niece had endured at the hands of her husband.
“Mr. Exit, I’m going to break the rules this one time,” Tempest said, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him onto the makeshift dance floor she’d created. “Look at me, look into my eyes, can you feel my body against yours?”
“Yes, I can,” Raphael replied.
“Good, my name is Tempest,” she said. “I know you should only know me as Wrong Way, but my name is Tempest. Can I ask yours?”
“Raphael,” he answered, forgetting his anger momentarily, loving the feel of her in his arms. “I am Raphael.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Let’s finish the song, exit through the side door, and go our merry ways. The body has been staged, the cops will tie him to the other crimes, and the rest is for the history books. Our work here is done, Raphael,” she said softly, rubbing the center of his back like a mother would during a child’s nightmare, only the way that Tempest moved against him felt more like a long-lost lover reminding him of a better time.
Wrong Way was no longer a member of the Crew. She returned home and became a housewife. Her husband would get that comforting touch from her. She was his problem now.
RAPHAEL REMAINED IN Louisville two additional nights, double checking the Muldrake home for signs of the Glitter Man as well as ensuring Wrong Way’s vision hadn’t come back. Moreover, he wanted to make sure she wasn’t pulling a fast one on him pretending to be sightless. Taking to high ground, he watched Tempest feed the chickens, completely unaware a black Eastern Hog Nose snake was near her dainty feet. The well-built and overly handsome husband of hers pushed the slithery serpent out of his wife’s path, and she didn’t seem to be aware at all that she was so close to a nonvenomous snake. If there was one thing Raphael knew about Tempest Fateman, the lady didn’t care for reptiles of any sort.
Convinced of her inability to see and his inability to glean any traces of glitter near the family, he made his way down I-64, headed towards Lexington. The 10-hour drive back to Hilton Head seemed long and boring, and for a moment, he hoped for a phone call. Not that he was anxious to take a life, but it would be preferable to listening to his own thoughts about Tempest having a family, which for the oddest reason didn’t set well with him.
Lately, it seemed to be the going trend with his fellow Technicians. A couple of years back, Mr. Mann had gotten himself a wife and kid and had recently added another one. Then Mr. Stop went to check out the wife of a skip trace and ended up in Missouri with a wife and kid himself living in a sod house with a living roof. Or at least, so he’d heard. What really chuffed his chaw was that Mr. Yield, that monosyllabic caveman, went and got himself hitched to a little lady out of Missouri as well, which is where Tempest picked up her piece of trouble that left her blinded.
“I know one damned thing,” Mr. Exit mumbled to himself, “I’m staying the hell out of Missouri.”
He drove nearly three hours before needing a cup of coffee and a bathroom break. Just outside of Red Ash, Kentucky, Raphael pulled into a Welcome Center. He usually chose the Welcome Centers that were brightly lit, on a state property, and normally devoid of too many weirdos in the early parts of the evening. The latter parts of the night he could not attest to, but at a little after four in the afternoon, making the stop was a safe bet.
The sound of a barking dog caught his attention. A tall man with a scraggly beard and suspicious eyes checked the bushes where the dog had located an object. Raphael stood next to the black SUV for a moment observing the man, who became uneasy, collecting his animal and moving back to the pickup that had mud caked over its license plate.
“Hmmph,” Mr. Exit mumbled, checking his inner coat pocket for his favorite weapon. Raphael climbed into his truck, which had the engine still running, and backed up, parking with the butt end towards the bushes where the dog had been sniffing, leaving the door unlocked. Due to his profession, the inner lights of his vehicle were disabled, lessening the opportunity to be spotted by the interior lights of the vehicle. The dog had ceased to bark, but the truck hadn’t moved, and the driver’s eyes were focused on the rear-view mirror, watching the bushes.
Raphael walked past the old truck, nodding a greeting.
“Hey, I can keep an eye on the dog if you need to run inside and handle some business. My dog can get mighty antsy if I’m gone too long,” Raphael said to the man.
“Yeah, I’ll put him on a leash. You can keep an eye on him that way. If the windows are down, he’s just gonna jump out,” the guy said, dragging his eyes away from the rear-view mirror.
“Go on, I’ve got him. What’s his name?”
“Butchy. I’m Theodore,” the man offered.
“Nice to meet you, Theodore. I’m Ian,” Mr. Exit said, giving his middle name. “Come on, Butchy. Let’s take a little walk so you can water the hedges.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I mainly stopped to stretch my legs, get a bad cup of coffee, and grab a bag of chips from the machine. I’m trying to get Knoxville before nine to get 40 winks,” Mr. Exit offered.
“Great, be back in a jiff,” Theodore said, heading to the bathroom.
Mr. Exit held Butchy’s leash and walked toward the vending machines. The few bills he had in his pocket were used to score a bag of nuts, chips and a cold, sugary sweet drink. His back was to the truck while Butchy whined.
“Okay. Okay,” Mr. Exit said, walking the dog to a nearby patch of shrubs. Butchy raised his leg, providing yellow water to the plant that hadn’t asked for any precipitation. The dog, satisfied that he too had relieved himself, barked happily at his owner’s return.
“Thanks,” Theodore said, taking the dog back to the old pick up.
“No worries. Safe travels,” Mr. Exit said, taking the snacks to his own vehicle. He sat behind the wheel, placing the snack and drink on the backseat. His bladder would have to wait for the next exit, which was at the Tennessee state line on the other side of Jellico.