"Please, call them," she said. "Matter of fact, call them this morning. Between eleven and one would be a good time, I think. I have a good feeling about it."

Joshua had known Rachel long enough to know not to question her "good feelings" about certain matters. She had an intuitive sense for some things that defied logic. It was why he sometimes referred to her as his "good luck charm. "

"Promise me you'll call, okay?" she asked.

"All right, I promise."

She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. "I've got to go open the salon. Sistas are beating our doors down with Christmas coming up."

He watched her return upstairs. The room was dull in her absence.

His thoughts doubled back to their conversation about her nightmare, and the dream man.

Just as Rachel had good feelings about things, Joshua had a bad feeling about this.

He was convinced that she had lied to him.

Chapter 2.

Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.

As quickly as possible, she left home to go open her hair salon. The longer she stayed in Joshua's presence, the worse she felt about what she'd done.

She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and large, winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, the December sun still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of golden sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.

Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that morning that nothing would have improved her mood.

Why had she lied to Joshua? He was sweet, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she'd longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.

But for so many reasons, she didn't believe she could give it to him. Not yet.

Last night's dream was fresh in her mind. After she'd awakened from the nightmare, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she'd lain awake for much of the night, plagued by the macabre visions that scored her mind's eye.

Was the dream a premonition? Yes, maybe. Hell, not maybe. Probably. She had a lifetime of experience with such things, and had learned to tell the difference between a dream that was a departure from reality-and a dream that foretold a possible reality.

She had to be careful, watchful.

In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was already heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.

In her three years living in Atlanta, Rachel had watched the South side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area's hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but Rachel welcomed it.

It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.

Stopping at a traffic light, Rachel flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn't looking for flaws, and she wasn't planning to apply make-up-she had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.

She was inspecting her new look.

Before moving to Atlanta, she'd worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she'd dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly 'do.

If someone who'd known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn't recognize her. She hoped.

She felt someone watching her, and she spun in her seat. An older man driving a Cadillac Escalade occupied the lane next to her. He winked and flashed a gold-toothed smile.

She ignored him and turned away. She was too damn jumpy and needed to calm down, get control of her day.

Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for "beautiful hairstyle." She and her business partner, Tanisha Banks, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one. Every time she arrived to work, she felt a rush of pride at how she'd achieved her dream.

Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she'd never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.

The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When Rachel pushed through the glass double-doors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the satellite radio, and saw Tanisha organizing magazines in the waiting area-copies of Essence, Hype Hair, Gospel Music Today, Ebony, and other glossy periodicals their clients read to pass the time.

"Morning," Rachel said. "I didn't expect you to be here already."

"Hey, girl," Tanisha said. "I've got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn't be rollin' in till eight."

Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. That week, her brown hair was styled in a twisted up-do with highlights that accentuated her hazel eyes. It looked fabulous, of course; Tanisha believed that each stylist's own hair was their best means of advertising, and Rachel tended to agree with her.

Tanisha was the first friend Rachel had made when she'd moved to Atlanta. They had worked side-by-side at a shop in College Park. Both of them were driven, talented at their craft, and ambitious. It was only natural that they would decide to step out on faith and open their own salon.

Tanisha frowned at her. "You feelin' okay? Your eyes are lookin' kinda red."

"I didn't sleep well," Rachel said, the understatement of the year. But she would never share anything about last night with Tanisha. Although Tanisha was a good friend, had been the maid of honor in her wedding, Rachel had drawn a firm line between what she would share with friends such as Tanisha-and what she would never share with anyone.

"When's your first appointment?" Tanisha asked. "Maybe you can catch a catnap in the back."

"I've got an eight-thirty, so I may just do that."

Swinging her purse from over her shoulder, Rachel went down the center aisle of the salon, automatically surveying the sixteen stylist stations as she walked, to ensure that each would be ready for business when their stylists arrived. For most of the day, every chair would be occupied with a mix of walk-ins and appointments. If sistas believed in one thing, it was keeping their hair done-it was no surprise that Madame C.J. Walker, the inventor of the hot comb, had become America's first black woman millionaire.

In the back, behind a door marked "Staff Only," there was a supply closet, a staff lounge furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV, a restroom, and an enclosed office. The office contained a bank of filing cabinets and two desks, one for Rachel, the other for Tanisha.

Rachel plopped into the swivel chair in front of her desk. The sofa in the lounge did look inviting . . . but she was afraid to go to sleep, lest she have another nightmare about him.

Besides, there was something much more important that she intended to do first.

She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside, there was a plastic bag from Walgreen's Pharmacy, sitting atop a black metal case.

She took the grocery bag inside the restroom, opened it.

It contained an early pregnancy test kit.

Rachel bowed her head, whispered a prayer, and tore open the box.

Chapter 3.

When Dexter Bates awoke, the world was so white and hazy he thought he'd gone blind.

Panic rising in his heart, he blinked, shook his head as if clearing away soot. His vision slowly came into focus.

He was behind the steering wheel of a car, lodged in a drift of snow on the side of a road. A vast, snowy plain filled the world beyond the windshield. Millions of fat snowflakes tumbled from the sky, like feathers plucked from angel wings.

The car was a Buick sedan, and cold as an ice-box; he shivered, his breath frosting in the air. A canvas, Army-style duffel bag, olive green, lay on the passenger seat beside him.

Where am I? How did I get here?

He'd spent the last four years of his life at Menard Correctional Center, a maximum security penitentiary in downstate Illinois. He was supposed to serve a ten-year sentence, but miraculously, parole had come through last month. He was scheduled to be released on Monday, December 18, a week before Christmas.

But he had no memory of being freed, of shuttling through the mandatory meetings and medical exams that accompanied the release of a prisoner. The last thing he recalled was lying on his bunk last night, fingers laced behind his head. Excited at the prospect of finally getting out of prison and getting his hands on his wife again.

She was, after all, the reason he'd been sentenced to that hellhole. The reason he'd been chopped down in the prime of his life. The reason he'd lost everything.

Although he had more immediate matters to deal with, when he thought of her, he couldn't repress a ripple of savage anticipation.

But the car in which he'd awakened . . . He didn't remember it. The authorities obviously didn't send cons out of prison with complimentary cars. The only logical explanation was that he had stolen it, had been driving on the snow-crusted road, lost control and spun off into a ditch, after which he lost consciousness, wiping out a portion of his short-term memory.

The story possibly explained his predicament. But it failed to satisfy him. It didn't feel right.

He opened the glove compartment. It was empty. Looking around, he also found nothing on the floors, the rear seats, or affixed to the sun visors. The interior appeared to have been recently vacuumed, too, the scent of lemon air freshener in the cold air, which was downright odd.

If he'd stolen the Buick, wouldn't there have been some items left inside that belonged to the owner? Even the metal ring on which the ignition key dangled was nondescript, and no other keys depended from it.

The situation didn't make any sense. It was as if he had been magically beamed from his prison cell bunk to the Buick, like a hapless character manipulated by alien forces in a sci-fi movie.

He was a rational, highly educated man. He'd attended the University of Chicago for undergrad, graduated summa cum laude, and earned his law degree at Northwestern University, finishing fourth in his class. But an explanation of how this had happened eluded his well-trained intellect.

He made a mental note, and moved on.

He took inventory of his possessions. He was dressed in a gray woolen cap, black ski jacket, cotton gloves, gray henley shirt, jeans, and boots. He didn't remember these clothes, but they might have been given to him by one of the charities that donated clothing to newly released cons. Many of the guys getting out didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, so the charitable donations could be a lifesaver.

In an inside jacket pocket, he found a cheap, faux-leather wallet. It contained his expired Illinois drivers' license, and a twenty-dollar bill. Courtesy of the charity?

He unzipped the duffel bag. He didn't recall the bag, either, but the charity might have provided that for him, too.

Inside, he found a couple of pairs of jeans, henley shirts, underwear, t-shirts, socks, and toiletries. All of the clothing was the correct size. It was like getting gifts from some secret Santa.

Buried deep in the bag, his fingers closed around a familiar, yet unexpected shape. He pulled it into the gray, snow-filtered light.

It was a sheathed knife.

He unbuttoned the leather sheath and withdrew the blade. It was a Buck woodsman hunting knife with a four-inch, clip point blade and a sturdy black handle. Light played dully on the razor-sharp edge.

What the hell is going on?

The charity would not have given him a knife. Obviously. The use of such a blade had landed him in the joint in the first place. Before his incarceration, he'd been an avid collector of knives and swords, with an arsenal of over a hundred pieces from around the world.

Perhaps the people who had given him the bag understood his tastes, his preferences. Which was absurd. Who would do such a thing?

None of it added up.

He clipped the knife to his inside jacket pocket, for easy access. Then, he searched through the rest of the bag.

He found a brown, nine-by-twelve envelope that contained his parole papers, signed and dated by the prison warden on December 18. Today? He would assume so until he learned otherwise.

There was nothing else. He turned the bag over, examining it. Three letters were stitched on the bottom, in blocky black script: IDS.

IDS? The acronym didn't evoke any recognition. But perhaps they were his mysterious benefactors. More mental notes.

Wind shrilled across the plains, scattering snowflakes across the windshield, rocking the car, and blowing freezing air inside. His teeth chattered.

He didn't understand a damn thing about how he'd wound up in this position, with these strange gifts, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to get out of here. In weather like this, you could freeze to death in a car.

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine was dead, the red battery light burning.

"Goddammit." He punched the steering wheel.

It was time to start pounding the pavement.

Climbing out of the Buick, wading through the snowdrift, Dexter checked the license plates. The vehicle had Illinois tags; he must be somewhere in the state. He'd been vaguely worried that he'd been marooned in some remote location, which would have made getting home to Chicago considerably more difficult.

Reaching Chicago was his immediate goal. His mother lived on the South side, and before the police had taken him into custody four years ago, Dexter had hidden certain valuables at her house. Planning for the time of his release. Who could have guessed parole would come so soon?

Before leaving the car, he opened the trunk. It was empty and swept clean, like the interior of the vehicle. Damn strange.

He started walking on the icy shoulder of the road, the duffel bag strapped across his shoulder. It was a narrow-two lane road, as-yet unplowed, that seemed to run through the middle of nowhere. He hadn't seen a vehicle pass, and the only dwellings he'd spotted appeared to be abandoned barns that wavered like mirages on the snowy horizon.

The thick membrane of clouds concealed the sun, but it felt to him like late morning or early afternoon. In prison, without benefit of the platinum Rolex that he'd worn in his professional life, he'd fine-tuned his internal clock.

He'd fine-tuned quite a few useful skills in prison, in fact.

Dexter had walked perhaps a mile when he heard a vehicle grumbling behind him. He looked over his shoulder, squinting to see through the falling snow.

It was a white Chevy SUV, headlights ablaze, tires churning through slush.

Dexter turned and swung out his arm, thumb pointed to the sky. He didn't really expect the driver to stop for him. He was a black man in America, and in the past could scarcely hail a taxi in downtown Chicago even when dressed in an Armani suit. Here, in such a desolate area, the chances of someone stopping to give him a lift were virtually nil.