As he reached the Chevy, the delivery van drove across the parking lot, to the exit. He was too far away to see the driver, and the van soon vanished in traffic.

Perhaps it was a coincidence. Paranoia was not his nature. But neither was an inclination to disregard a possible clue.

Lips pursed thoughtfully, he got in the car.

Sitting in the cold automobile, he read the St. Louis address on the personal check that his wife's homo friend had given to Betty. He keyed it into the GPS unit, and received confirmation that the address was valid.

After mounting the device on the dashboard, he resumed driving.

He reflected, again, on what had happened outside Betty's house: his apparent invisibility to the postal carrier. Logic suggested that it was a fluke. The white man had simply ignored him, as they were often prone to do when they felt secure in their environment. If they had been in a rougher neighborhood, the guy would have either crossed the street to avoid brushing past Dexter, or discreetly rested his hand on the pepper spray that postal workers carried to ward off vicious mutts.

But intuition told Dexter that his eyes had not deceived him, that the weird darting movement in his peripheral vision and hissing noise occurrences were somehow related to him becoming genuinely invisible to the mail carrier. He remembered the tangible, heavy sensation of warmth and the feeling of being protected as the mail guy walked past. It was as if he had slipped on a cloak of . . . well, invisibility.

The idea was so incredible, so ridiculous, that he laughed out loud. A cloak of invisibility? That was some shit out of Dungeons & Dragons, one of those role-playing games that teenagers played into the wee hours of the morning.

But what if it was true? What if he really could become invisible? Not invisible in the metaphorical way that Ralph Ellison had written about, the sad way the lives of black people rarely merited a blip on the mainstream public's radar screen-but invisible for real?

If it were real, he could not begin to comprehend how such a thing was possible. His professional training was in law, and his undergraduate degree was in political science. He had no knowledge of the paranormal, parapsychology, or whatever the hell category something like this would fall in.

But you didn't have to know how a car was built in order to drive one. If he could verify this ability, and harness it for his ends . . . the possibilities were tantalizing.

First, he had to test it. He had to be sure.

He had been traveling on Interstate 55 South, cutting a swath down Illinois; the highway would take him all the way to St. Louis. Currently, he was about an hour from Bloomington, several hours away from his destination.

He took the next exit. To put his theory to the test.

An Amoco gas station was coming up on his right. He pulled into the slot beside one of the fuel islands, cut the engine.

At that late afternoon hour, the gas station was moderately busy. Cars crusted with snow, ice, and road salt idled at the pumps. There was a steady stream of customers in and out of the station, eyes squinted against the endless snowfall.

He tried to recall what had happened at the onset of the invisibility phenomenon. The darting motion in his peripheral vision, and the hissing noises, always had begun without any conscious effort on his part. He didn't know how to bring it about willfully.

He opted for the direct approach.

"I want to be invisible," he said. "Right now. Make me invisible."

As he was thinking about how foolish he sounded verbalizing his intent-like some overly imaginative kid wishing to fly into the air like Superman-it started.

A shadow slipped cat-quick at the edges of his vision.

Dexter didn't spin around to follow the movement this time; he sat rigidly, heart pounding.

A loud hissing, like the angry protests of a bag of snakes trapped inside the car.

Invisible. Make me invisible.

Darting . . . hissing . . . darting . . . hissing . . . .

Heaviness settled over his shoulders, actually causing him to slump forward in the seat, as if someone had placed an extra-thick woolen blanket over him. With the heaviness came warmth, and peace. His heart slowed from its rapid pace to a relaxed rate. The darting and hissing receded.

It's the cloak.

He examined his hands. His gloved hands were faintly visible to him, like the extremities of a ghost. They were blurred by a force field of some kind that outlined his entire body; an aura, about an inch from his flesh, that resembled a rippling heat wave.

A delicious chill of wonder coursed through him.

Did the strange energy surrounding him somehow refract light? Was that how it worked? He wasn't sure-physics had not been his favorite subject in school.

He looked in the rearview mirror. He couldn't see himself at all in the slice of glass. Like a vampire invisible in reflective surfaces.

Feeling giddy, he opened the door.

Although wind screeched across the parking lot, conjuring whirlwinds of fine snow, Dexter didn't feel the gust, or the coldness of outdoors. He was as warm as if he were insulated in a heated space suit.

He walked toward the gas station. There was a young white woman in an orange ski jacket and jeans strutting ahead of him, reddish hair blowing in the wind. Although he was only a few feet behind her, she pulled open the glass door to the building and didn't pause to hold it open for him.

But that could have been normal, everyday rudeness. It didn't mean he was invisible to her.

He shouldered through the door and went inside.

He hesitated on the threshold, unsure how to test his supposed power. Wave his arms like a bird and see if anyone noticed? Jump up and down? Stand in someone's face, invading their personal space?

As he was deliberating, a Hispanic guy barreled inside and bumped against him.

Turning, Dexter automatically started to say, Hey, asshole, watch it-and then he caught himself.

The Latino paused, as if he had knocked against a piece of furniture in his path, but he didn't look at Dexter.

Because he doesn't see me.

A couple people were leaving the counter and coming toward the doors. Dexter moved aside. They didn't glance his way.

It was compelling evidence to make a case for invisibility. But the lawyer in him desired evidence beyond a reasonable doubt.

He got an idea. It was risky, but unlike most people, he thrived on a certain amount of risk. It kept life interesting.

Besides, it was the only way to know, for sure, whether his newfound gift was real.

He went to the tall coolers at the back of the store and removed a large bottle of Minute Maid orange juice.

Then, he strolled through the aisle filled with snack food, and loaded his pockets with a few Slim Jims, a couple bags of Jay's potato chips, and a pack of Twinkies. The goodies bulged out of his jacket pockets, visible to anyone who looked.

As he moved toward the front, he saw a highway patrol officer. The cop was at the beverage station dispensing coffee into a giant plastic mug, looking around the store appraisingly in the way that cops did.

But his gaze slid past Dexter. It was amazing. Most cops noticed black men without fail, so much so that Dexter had theorized that they carried some kind of Black Man Radar.

I'm invisible to the cops, too. Goddamn.

At the front counter, he selected a pack of Big Red chewing gum.

Laden with junk food, he walked toward the doors. His heart was hammering. This was the true test. Would someone stop him? Would the cop come after him?

He felt the cloak of invisibility around him, a cocoon of warmth, protection.

He pushed through the glass door, and went outside.

No one yelled at him to stop. No one said anything.

A grin spread across his face. It's real. My god, I'm invisible.

He dumped the stolen food onto the passenger seat of the car. He studied the fuel pump. A sign advised that pre-pay was required after six pm. His watch read half-past five.

He considered another test-filling the tank with gas and then driving off-but he didn't think he could get away with that one. Only his physical body was invisible; the Chevy was not. The gas station attendant might not see him, per se, but their system would register fuel being withdrawn from the pump, and they would see his car speeding away.

He couldn't risk it. He had discovered a new, exciting talent, and he had to be smart about its use.

He filled the tank with gasoline. It took over forty dollars to top off the Chevy; the price of gas had escalated insanely during his prison stint. It had used to cost only twenty-five dollars to gas up his Mercedes.

But he'd been living in another world back then, in more ways than one.

Visible, he thought. Make me visible again.

Within seconds, the layering warmth that had enveloped him faded, the force field dissipated, and he once more felt the chilly air. His invisibility had worn off.

He returned inside the station and paid for the gas. The coffee-guzzling cop, camped like a guard dog near the donuts, noticed Dexter for sure that time, sizing him up with a lazy arrogance that made Dexter's jaws tighten.

When Dexter walked out of the building, he invoked his invisibility once more. Protected, he located the cop's patrol car parked on the side of the building, and used his switchblade to slash the two front tires.

No one noticed. But the cop would, later. Asshole.

Getting back in his Chevy, driving away, Dexter couldn't stop grinning. Then, he started chuckling. And then, laughing.

I'm unstoppable, he thought, roaring into the snowy afternoon. How can anyone stop me? They can't see me.

Chapter 22.

That night, Joshua sought refuge at the most unexpected of places: his parents' house.

He couldn't bear to stay home. Unavoidable reminders of Rachel permeated every inch of the house, from the largest elements to the minutest details: from the colors she had elected to paint each room to the silk flower arrangement on the dining room table; from the wedding photographs on the fireplace mantelpiece to the selection of food in the refrigerator.

Even his office, the only room that was exclusively his, was a testament to her influence: she had selected the furniture, her framed bridal portrait leaned on the edge of the desk, and when he switched on his computer, the screen saver was a stunning photo of a volcanic mountain in Hawaii, where they'd honeymooned.

He couldn't take it any more. He needed to get away from her, away from it-it being the home they had created together. It felt like a giant, living creature to him, in much the same way that houses were often supernaturally alive in haunted house movies; the place was suffocating him, walls pressing in on him from all sides, every photograph taunting him, until his only recourse was to throw some clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag, pack up Coco in her pet carrier, and flee to his parents' house.

He never would have expected to go to his parents for assistance. His dad wouldn't be of any help at all, and God knows his mother knew how to bring the drama. But he had never been in a situation like this, and in these bewildering circumstances, he craved familiar places and people. Things he understood. Because he certainly didn't understand his wife and why she was doing this to them.

He thought of going to Eddie's, but the idea was short-lived. Eddie would be sympathetic to his plight, but for Joshua, seeing Eddie, his wife, and their young son in their comfortable home, enjoying familial bliss, would be another poignant reminder of everything he worried he was losing.

Driving, Joshua came up with a lie to explain to his mom what was happening: Rachel had gone out of town for a couple days for a hair convention, and he wanted to spend some quality time with his parents. It was the holidays, after all.

He thought his mother might buy the story. He didn't dare let her know the truth. She'd be so enraged she might decide to hunt down Rachel herself.

His mother answered the door. Although it was only eight o'clock, she was already dressed for bed in her bathrobe, and multicolored rollers bristled from her hair.

Over her shoulder, Joshua saw his dad. As expected, the old man, clad in his pajamas, was dozing in the recliner, ragged snores rumbling from his chest.

Joshua settled on the sofa, placing Coco's pet carrier beside him.

"What you doin' here, boy?" Mom asked. "Somethin' wrong?"

"It's like this, Mom." Joshua cleared his throat, and started to spin his story. But she stopped him.

"You been cryin'," she said. It wasn't a question.

How did she know? Before leaving the house, he had squeezed a few drops of Visine into his eyes, and in the car, he'd repeatedly checked his eyes in the mirror to make sure they looked clear and normal.

"What are you talking about, Mom? I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Standing in front of him, she bunched her fists on her waist. "I'm your mama, boy. I know you, and you been cryin'. What's wrong?"

Heartache tore through Joshua like a serrated blade. He turned his head, blinked back tears.

"You can talk to me, baby," Mom said softly. She sat beside him on the sofa. "It's trouble with your wife, ain't it?"

"No." But he couldn't look at her. Tears hung heavy in his eyes, like lead weights. Why did his mother have to be so damn perceptive?

"I know it is." Gently, she rubbed his broad back. "Let it out, baby. Let it all out. Mama's here for you."

Joshua sucked in a hitching breath. And then, he told her what had happened, leaving out the part about Rachel's pregnancy. He had promised Rachel he would keep it a secret, and though she was gone, it was important, to him, to keep his word.

"That bitch!" Mom rocketed off the sofa and stormed across the living room. His dad, who normally slept so soundly an atomic bomb blast couldn't rouse him, opened his eyes and cocked an eyebrow.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," Joshua said. "I didn't want you to overreact."

"That low-down, lyin', dirty bitch!" Eyes blazing, Mom tilted her head back to the ceiling, shrieking so loudly it was as if she wanted Rachel to hear her, wherever she might be on the planet. "Bitch! No-good harlot! How dare she leave my son? How dare she?"

His dad's eyelids had slid shut. Typical of him-once he confirmed that the uproar had nothing to do with him, he tuned out.

Mom paced heavily across the room. In her rage, the belt of her robe had come unloosened, her nightgown flapping as she moved back and forth.