But he wagged his arm anyway. He had nothing to lose.

Amazingly, the Chevy slowed. Dexter could make out an older black man behind the wheel. There was no one else in the vehicle.

The SUV grumbled a few feet past Dexter, and ground to a slushy halt. The passenger door opened.

Wasn't this some shit? Miracles never ceased.

Dexter approached the door. Heated air swirled from inside, and Dexter heard the melody of an Al Green gospel song, "He's Coming Back," bumping from the radio. He's coming back, indeed.

The old man had a lined face the color of walnuts, a thick white beard, and a blue driver cap that no one under the age of sixty-five would be caught dead in. He wore a quilted black parka, leather gloves. He peered at Dexter through gold-rimmed bifocals.

"Get on in, brother," he said in a gravelly voice. "It's all right."

"Thank you, sir." Dexter climbed inside, putting the duffel bag between his legs.

The old head scrutinized Dexter, tension coiled in his body. "Bitter cold out there. No kinda weather for a man to be walkin' in."

"God bless you for your kindness," Dexter said, in a crisp, humble voice. "I thought I would be walking for miles."

Comforted by Dexter's humility, the old guy appeared to relax. He cranked up the heater another notch, and offered his gloved hand.

"Cecil Jackson."

"Dexter Bates." Dexter gave him a firm shake, maintaining a respectful degree of eye contact.

Cecil resumed driving, snow and ice crunching underneath the tires. Dexter glanced at the dashboard, saw the clock read 10:21. An official-looking sticker on the left-hand side of the windshield referenced the city of Peoria. Peoria was about a four hour drive from the prison, and only a couple hours from Chicago.

"Was that your Buick stuck in the snow back there?" Cecil asked.

"Yes, sir. Hit a patch of ice, spun out." Dexter chuckled. "I haven't been in these parts for a while. I've forgotten how tricky these roads can be."

"I could try to pull you out."

"Thank you, but that's not necessary. The engine wouldn't turn over-I think it's the transmission. I've been having problems with it for a few weeks."

"Probably best to call a tow then."

"If you could drop me off at the nearest gas station, that would be fine, Mr. Jackson."

Cecil pursed his lips. "Where you headed, Brother Bates?"

"Chicago . . . Brother Jackson."

He nodded. "Uh-huh. That's a good piece from here. I'm headin' back home to Peoria. I was out this mornin' workin' for Meals on Wheels-takin' Christmas gifts and food to senior folk. Doin' the good Lord's work."

"Amen," Dexter said, rocking in the seat. "Why did you stop for me? I honestly didn't expect it."

"It's Christmastime," Cecil said. "And it was the Christian thing to do, of course."

"Not too many people would have stopped for a young black man. They would've been afraid."

"When I rely on the Lord, no weapon formed against me will prosper."

"You sound like you know your Bible, Brother Jackson."

"I've been leadin' men's bible study at my church for seventeen years, son-I better know it."

"What does the Good Book say about death?"

Cecil gave him an odd look, and Dexter wondered if he had shown his hand. Then Cecil thoughtfully tapped his lip with a gloved finger, perhaps deciding that this was an opportunity to spread the gospel to a wayward young brother.

"Well, it says a lot," Cecil said. "For example, before Christ resurrected Lazarus, the onlookers told him that the man was dead. Christ answered that Lazarus was only sleeping. Some folk believe death is like that-like sleeping. We will be awakened at the resurrection, if we believe in Christ."

"Like sleeping, huh? I like that."

Dexter slid his hand inside his jacket.

"So goodnight, Brother Jackson."

Perhaps sensing that something bad was about to happen, Cecil grimaced as if bracing for pain, and he uttered an unintelligible phrase that might have been an entreaty to God.

Dexter drove the blade through Cecil's parka and deep into his right kidney, twisting the knife as he plunged it into the old man's flesh. A startled gasp escaped Cecil's lips, and his grip grew slack on the steering wheel.

Calmly, Dexter took control of the wheel. "Careful now, we don't want to have an accident."

Grabbing the old head by the coat collar, Dexter pulled him out of the seat as if he were no more than a large, stuffed toy. Cecil went without protest, his body slack, eyes rolling drunkenly. Dexter forced him through the space between the front seats; as he removed Cecil, he squeezed his own body behind the wheel.

The Chevy's speed decreased when Cecil's foot left the gas, but Dexter kept the steering wheel steady. In a couple of seconds, Dexter had control of the accelerator, too.

He flexed his fingers on the wheel. It felt good to be driving again. It felt good to be free, the captain of his own destiny.

Sprawled on the rear seats, Cecil groaned and cried out for Jesus.

Dexter glanced in the rearview mirror at the old guy, his gaze as indifferent as if he were viewing a squashed bug on the sidewalk.

"I guess I've got to find somewhere to bury your body," Dexter said. "All these deep snowdrifts, so many choices. We'll find a nice one for you, Brother Jackson. That's the least you deserve for the good deed you did today. A comfortable place for you to lay your head.

"Until the carrion eaters find you."

Dexter parked the Chevy within a grove of ice-mantled pine trees, far away from the main road. A narrow path, freshly plowed, twisted through the pines and ended at a brick building, a warehouse of some kind, several hundred yards distant. But the area amidst the trees was deserted, heaped with snow as high as his head.

It suited his purposes.

He did not consider himself a killer. Unlike many young black men these days, he didn't regard himself as a thug, either. Strutting around in t-shirts and baggy jeans, teeth so encrusted with bling you could barely close your mouth, snatching at your crotch and spouting obscenities about authority figures you barely understood-all of that was foolishness to him.

He was a man of purpose. Killing Brother Jackson was a means to an end.

He'd simply needed the old head's vehicle to get home.

Moving with almost robotic efficiency, he climbed out of the SUV and went to the rear cargo door. He was counting on a responsible man like Brother Jackson being prepared for most eventualities that could occur while driving on a winter morning.

He lifted the door. Bingo. He discovered a roadside emergency kit: jumper cables, a couple of flares, a flashlight, a bundled cotton blanket, towels, an extra parka, thermal underwear, boots, leather gloves. A snow shovel. Even a bag of kitty litter, a nifty trick to provide traction.

"You were a regular Boy Scout, Brother Jackson," he said.

He went to the rear passenger door on the side of the SUV opposite the road. He placed the blanket and towels on the roof, checked Cecil's body.

Blood dampened the guy's parka. His eyes had glazed over, too, and he didn't have a pulse.

Dexter searched his pockets. Cecil, like a lot of old folks who didn't believe in credit cards, had a knot of cash in a silver money clip: two hundred and twenty dollars.

Dexter stashed the money in his pocket. He took Cecil's wallet, too, which contained his drivers' license and VA card. No point in making the job easy for the boys in blue, though, if history were a teacher, the cops wouldn't care much about whose deadly hand had cut down the elderly black man. The vicious murder of a pretty young white girl would dominate news headlines for weeks. But an old black man? He'd be lucky if his death merited a single paragraph in the back of the newspaper.

He began to wrap Cecil's body within the blanket, working methodically, as if mummifying him. Cecil had a slight build, but his limbs were heavy, and he was dressed in enough layers of heavy clothing to withstand the radiation from a nuclear blast.

Finished wrapping the body, he used the towels to mop the blood off the seat and floor. Later, he would clean the interior more thoroughly.

He flipped the snow shovel over his shoulder and trudged deeper within the pines, the snow around him like hardening cement. Standing amidst a tall drift, he began to dig.

He worked at a swift, machinelike pace. It was pure, invigorating labor. The chilly air felt good in his lungs. Although work like this reminded him of being in prison, it was not a bad memory.

Prison, though it broke the spirits of many men, had been good for him in numerous ways. Prison had stripped away the extraneous layers of his personality and exposed the brilliant gem in the center of it all. Prison had taught him patience. Prison had taught him that he could take anything that life threw at him-anything in the world-and still emerge victorious.

With a deep grave dug, he returned to the Chevy and collected the blanket-wrapped body. He lifted it out of the truck with the ease of a baker carrying a loaf of bread.

He had dropped the body into the grave and was shoveling snow over it when he sensed a darting motion in the corner of his eye.

He whirled, gripping the shovel across his chest like a rifle.

Nothing was out here. Only pine trees, and vistas of hard snow. He did not see any animals-nothing.

But the nape of his neck was cool and damp. Something had been there. Someone had been watching him.

Suddenly, there was a loud hissing noise, so close it was as if a large snake had twisted between his legs. He looked down.

No snake. Only the mantle of ice and snow covering the ground.

What the fuck?

He dropped the shovel and withdrew the knife. He hadn't yet cleaned the weapon. Blood stained the blade, dripped in bright red dots onto the pure white snow.

Gripping the knife, he moved forward, snow crackling underneath his boots.

The air was crisp-and utterly still. As if the morning itself were holding its breath.

He peered around a tree, in the area where the darting movement had originated. There was nothing there. No snake, nothing. Anyway, snakes were cold-blooded creatures and never would have exposed themselves to such frigid weather.

Although he loathed admitting it, perhaps his nerves were the culprit. He'd been out of the joint for only a few hours, but he'd been in prison for years, and in many ways, he'd emerged into a strange new world. Colors were brighter than he remembered, smells were sharper, objects moved faster. As if his life in prison had been a dream and now he was finally awake again.

He was still adjusting, that was all. Nothing to worry about.

He looked around again, saw nothing of interest, and sheathed the blade. He finished burying the old man's body, and drove the Chevy back onto the main road.

Once he arrived in Chicago and retrieved his belongings, he could get down to his real business.

Finding his wife.

Chapter 4.

Joshua met his longtime best friend, Eddie Barnes, for lunch. He and Eddie made it a point to get together for lunch at least once a week, to discuss business and catch up on whatever was happening in their personal lives. They alternated who picked the dining spot; this week it was Joshua's turn, and he selected The Fox Sports Grill in Atlantic Station-though he was almost certain Eddie was going to have a problem with his choice.

Atlantic Station was a popular live-work-play district in the Midtown section of Atlanta, with an abundance of upscale shopping and good restaurants. The establishment, true to its name, was a hot spot for watching prime sporting events: located in a cavernous space, the restaurant featured banks of plasma televisions and giant projection screens, an enormous bar, better-than-average food, and a wide selection of strong drinks.

At eleven-thirty, the lunchtime rush was kicking into high bear. A diverse crowd clad in suits and business casual clothing were gathering around the tables, and throngs of women laden with holiday shopping bags from stores such as Banana Republic and Dillard's were bellying up to the bar and ordering cocktails.

Sitting across from Joshua at a corner booth, Eddie looked around, and then glanced at the menu. "Man, I don't know. This joint is outta my price range, dawg."

"I knew you were going to say that. I think it's reasonably priced."

Although they had been best friends since middle school, they looked nothing alike. Joshua was tall and broad; Eddie stood maybe five-four and was skinny as a drink of water, as Joshua's mom liked to say. Joshua was clean-shaven and kept his hair cropped close to the scalp; Eddie had a dark mustache and a completely bald dome, giving him the appearance of a younger Montel Williams.

"The agreement was ten bucks or less, man," Eddie said, surveying the menu with a scowl. "You're outta order. Means I get to pick the next three spots."

Since high school, Eddie had been running a jack-of-all-trades, computer consulting business. He built computers from spare parts, fixed them, designed software, built web sites, probably hacked into web sites . . . he'd mastered virtually everything involving the machines. He was so good that when some of Atlanta's most prominent firms needed a consultant to give advice on their networks, security systems, or whatever, they called Eddie and paid exorbitant rates for his counsel.

Joshua estimated that, by now, Eddie was probably a millionaire. Not just because he ran a successful business, but mostly because he was the most tight-fisted person Joshua had ever met in his life.

Eddie drove the same Honda Civic he'd bought his senior year in high school, fourteen years ago. The car probably had a half million miles on the odometer, but Eddie kept up the maintenance religiously, and the car hadn't failed him yet. He rarely bought new clothes: Joshua was certain that the navy-blue hoodie and jeans Eddie was wearing that day came from the same pile of clothing he'd used to wear in high school.

The only thing Eddie splurged on was electronic gadgets. He was a big-time gear head. He used his Blackberry so frequently that it might as well have been surgically fused to his body.

As much of a cheapskate that Eddie had always been, Joshua never expected him to get married, but a decade ago, Eddie wed Ariel-a beautiful woman who shared his frugal ways. They had a two-year-old son and lived in a cozy Victorian in Candler Park.

"This place isn't that expensive," Joshua said. "Besides, I hear the food is good. I'm going to order a burger."

"You're going to pay nine dollars for a hamburger? Damn, dawg. I could buy four or five burgers at The Varsity for ten bucks."

"Come on, man. You earn enough to buy a meal here."

"It's not what you earn, it's what you save," Eddie said, his characteristic response whenever Joshua criticized his ultra-thrifty ways. "If you're a paycheck away from being homeless, you ain't financially independent, dawg. How many brothers and sisters in ATL pushing these new, leased luxury cars and wearing designer clothes could live off their savings for ten years if they lost their jobs or businesses?"