Most Wanted (10 page)

P
eaches exited the cab a few blocks away from the docks. What happened from here on out would determine her destiny. Mickey told Peaches that a man in a black hoodie would assist her. He would know who she was and that she was just to go to the dock in Hopewell and wait on the far east side. Even though it looked a little dangerous, she knew that her father would never steer her wrong.

She went to the designated spot and looked around for the person who was supposed to find her. The only problem was that all of the men were wearing navy and black hoodies at the docks. There were huge ships and vessels in the water by the dock. Peaches didn’t have a clue why her dad would send her here. How would she escape Virginia by boat?

Still dressed as Lamont, her heart was pounding as she nervously stood by a ship on the east side until she heard noise come from over her shoulder. “Pssst, pssst.” It startled her. “You Mickey’s peoples?”

She was almost scared to answer the grungy-looking man. She had seen too many cop shows, and her emotions and imagination were running wild. Could it be the police on her trail? Had the person she was waiting for been made by the police and now this was an undercover? Then she took a deep breath and tried to get her mind right. Or was it the man her dad wanted her to meet with?

“Yes, Mickey sent me.” She turned around to get a better look at the frail, older white man who only stood about five foot five with blond facial hair. He introduced himself, “I’m Frank, come on.” He motioned and then started walking.

Peaches followed Frank through what seemed like a maze, passing various workers and countless boxes and freight in the shipyard. He walked her down to an area with huge cranes and big metal boxes the size of a two-level building. Peaches by now had figured out she would be riding with the man Frank to another city. However, he stopped before the boat she thought that they were heading to.

“This is where you will be staying. Get in here,” he directed her, pointing to a cramped space in the front of a large metal box.

“In where?” she asked, dumbfounded. “It’s dark in there,” she said, glancing around, “and there is barely any room. Is there any air in that thing?”

Frank leaned in and looked her dead in the eyes. “Listen here, from what I understand you don’t have no time to be asking no questions whatsoever. I’m only doing this ’cause I owe Mickey a big favor. Now, this ain’t first class I know, but there’s no other way. If you go to any airport, bus terminal, or train station, you will be made. Do you understand? This is the only way out of the bear trap that they got set up for you. The choice is yours, but I advise you to jump in before they lift this cargo or you won’t be able to make it on this shipment to Miami.”

Peaches looked around, still unsure if she could trust Frank or if being locked in a hot metal box was a good idea.

He saw her thinking. “Now go on, get in now, gal. I’ll come and check on you to see if you are okay. In the meantime, to try to pass a little time.” He went in his pocket and passed her a pocketsize, handheld, battery-operated television that doubled as a radio.

She could not hide the uncertainty written on her face; although reluctant, she jumped in and he closed the heavy metal door. All she had was the dark and her thoughts to get her to Miami.

Soon after, Peaches felt the crane attaching to the box she was in, and seconds later, the box lifted with her inside and it dumped on to the boat. The noise rang her ears. She could hear commotion of all the workers giving directions, making sure the boxes were level. Peaches broke into a sweat. She was scared and fearful for her life when another box was placed on top of the one she was in. She wondered what she would do if her container collapsed from all the weight. But as she heard the squeaky noise of another container being placed beside hers, she knew there was nothing she could do—she was trapped in. There was no turning back.

If she made any noise or didn’t calm herself down, she would be facing life behind bars; she had to take the chance of possibly being crushed.

How did her life get to this point? Mickey taught her everything she knew and he never prepared her how to run for her life; the problem was there was absolutely nowhere to run to.

Instead of driving herself crazy, all she could do was pray to God. He had saved her before and hopefully He would spare her again. Hopefully He would send someone to save her, like He had sent when she was seven years old when her mother was laying on top of her for two days dead.

She pulled out her headphones from her bag and tried to get a channel on the handheld television.

“Richmond’s most brutal and baffling murder of this decade,” is how the
Times Dispatch
described it, and the local news stations couldn’t get enough of the story. Without fail, each time any of the networks recapped the horrific crime, they rolled footage from in front of Tony’s bail bondsman business, cordoned by the all-so-familiar yellow police tape. Halfway through the segment, the image was replaced by a shot of Beauty Boutique and its owner—Peaches Brown—with the word
SUSPECT
prominent above the television screen. Out of all the cute pictures on her Facebook page that she had posted, they selected the worst. The not-so-attractive picture they used was one that someone had tagged her in.

 

Three days had passed since the ordeal, but with Peaches the images nesting in her head were still as vivid and graphic as the moment they’d happened. Like right now, she could still smell the liquor wafting from Tony’s hot breath. Though she wanted so hard to block it out, she could feel his arm braced against her neck, the other pawing at the waist and button of her jeans. The noise wouldn’t stop. She could still hear the others cheering him on. Eric calling for next, then Mark going back and forth about if he’d be next, like she was a new Porsche they were test driving. She could still see the wild, hedonistic glint in their eyes as she begged for help.

She, a helpless rabbit caught in their snare.

But the mirth quickly drained from their faces once the rabbit got her hands on the gun. Her father always said, it ain’t never fun when the rabbit got the gun. The first shot, muffled by the inside of her purse, sounded like a firecracker. Her wrist barely jerked, the nine ejaculated the first bullet through the hole of the barrel, piercing the leather of the purse, then Tony’s navel. Even right now, inside the eight feet by forty feet cold, dark, metal prison she’d been confined in for the past ten days, she could still smell the pungent odor of the gunpowder from the next fourteen shots that were fired.

When Tony was hit for the first time in the chest, he screamed out, “My God!”

Peaches whispered, “God helps those who help themselves,” and continued to pull the trigger. Tony ate three more hollow points before meeting his God in person. Mark’s fate was the same, and Eric’s destiny was still unclear. As far as she knew, besides Peaches the only other person breathing after the smoke cleared was Charles, the judge’s son, and he was on life support.

Being cooped up in an oversized metal shoe box was no joke. She wasn’t claustrophobic, at least not that she was aware of, but for some stupid reason the walls felt like they were closing in on her. Maybe it was a form of seasickness, she thought, before dropping down taking a seat on the uncomfortable sleeping pad.

The walls continued to inch in closer and she closed her eyes. She took a long, deep breath through her nose, and after mentally counting to twenty, she told herself,
It’s going to be okay. God did not bring you this far to leave you.

She exhaled through her mouth.
He leadeth me beside still water.
Then took in another one.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.
A third time.
I will fear no evil because God is with me.

By the fourth time,
It is He who will comfort me. God, not man, not anybody. God!
Filling her lungs with oxygen, she told herself,
God knows my heart.

Saying the Twenty-Third Psalm over and over helped her cope, but it didn’t change the fact that when she opened her eyes, the four walls stood still, but not the movie playing inside of her head. She knew it wasn’t really a movie, just her thoughts, but physically she felt like she was watching a DVD—clear and vivid—chronicling her life. Oddly, the movie began at the present (her on the cargo ship hiding in the dark container) and from there it double-timed in reverse.

In a matter of seconds a year had gone by, and just like that she was twenty again.... A few more seconds, she was seventeen, going across the stage picking up her diploma. The pace of the reverse picked up and five more years were gone—she was twelve and it was her birthday. She could still see herself with Shirley Temple curls and makeup all over her face that she had novicely applied (but nobody could tell her that), leaning over the birthday cake and blowing out the candles, wishing her momma could be there with her; then it faded to black. When the next scene began, to her surprise and dismay, she was . . . seven.

Her birthday wish had come true, sort of in a twisted way. She was in the room of the small two-bedroom housing project that she lived in with her mother and her boyfriend Mickey. She was playing with a Rubik’s Cube that she had gotten from a friend at school. Even as a kid she was always wise beyond her years and smarter than the majority of her peers. It didn’t take long for her to make all the colors on all the sides match.

She was excited and knew that her mother would be proud of her. Her momma was in her bedroom with the door closed. Peaches knew that she was taking her feel-good medicine. Momma didn’t like to do the medicine in front of her, but she’d seen it before. She’d seen Momma stick herself in the arm like they do at the hospital. Momma always felt better immediately afterward, just like at the hospital, except this one time—it sounded like Momma had slipped on something and had fallen down. She put her face through the door. “Is you okay, Momma?” But Momma didn’t answer back. Not even to say what she usually would say, “Get away from the door and go play.”

Her excitement turned to anxiety. Peaches didn’t know why, or where it came from, but a voice told her to enter the room and check on her momma. First she didn’t listen to the voice and said she wished her daddy was there, he would now what to do, but almost none of her wishes ever came true.

Momma once told her—the time she saw her crying because she hadn’t gotten the pony she wished for—that wishes were only to be used for special occasions. That’s it, that’s all. Peaches didn’t know what could’ve been more special than a pony, but Peaches didn’t tell her momma that.

She called out to her “Momma” again and knocked on the door harder, and just like the first time, Momma didn’t answer. Peaches was scared. She heard the voice again and it told her that Momma needed her help. The voice was coming from inside of her; she could feel it deep down in her stomach.

Even though it was going to cost her a spanking, Peaches listened to her gut, put her hand on the doorknob, and walked into the bedroom. Momma would probably be mad and fuss at her; she’d just have to tell Momma she felt it in her stomach and the voice told her to come in. It was strange because Momma didn’t fuss at all. Instead, she laid there on the floor, her face frozen like a popsicle, with her medicine sticking out of her arm.

There was a knock on the door of her prison, which broke her thought. She wasn’t expecting visitors, so she was silent and held her breath, praying to the man above that she had not been discovered.

“Are you okay?” Peaches exhaled after she recognized that it was Frank’s voice, he was still her only ally right now. She hadn’t even realized that she’d been holding her breath until then.

Inside the sealed metal cargo container, she answered, “I’m cool. How much longer?”

She was onboard
The Sea Voyager,
a privately owned humongous cargo freighter, illegally. Frank had given her a sleeping bag—which was more comfortable than the floor, but it barely kept the chill off during those first few nights—a case of bottled water, some fruit, a loaf of bread, and a pack of turkey, but she really didn’t have much of an appetite anyway. She had left everything that could connect her to Virginia in Virginia, including her smartphone and iPad, which she really wished that she had to help pass the time. The only things she didn’t abandon were an old duffle bag with a few articles of clothes and two hundred thousand in cash.

Frank said, “About eight more hours and we will be in the Port of Miami.”

“Thank God,” she said.

In return, Frank said, “God helps those who help themselves.”

The six simple words chased chills up her spine, but she said under her breath, “Amen to that.”

P
eaches felt a little uneasy as she was trying to blend in as she waited at a restaurant with outside seating on Biscayne Boulevard not far from the Port of Miami. People came and went and didn’t even glance at her. They were either eating or talking with their lunch companion or chatting it up on their cellies. Peaches loved the fact that no one was paying any attention to her, and she kept trying to tell herself that fitting in here may be easier than she thought.

Miami was definitely a different vibe from the small city she was born and raised in. And after being cooped up in the metal box for ten days, fresh air was . . . so refreshing. After the grueling three-day journey,
The Sea Voyager
had finally docked at the Port of Miami. It took two and a half hours for the giant cranes to unload the cargo container she was in and another hour before Frank could get her out unseen and on her way.

The first thing she did after setting feet on dry land was find a pay phone, which was a harder task than anticipated, but when she did she called the number her father had given her. The man who answered asked if she had money and told her to catch a cab to this specific restaurant, and here she was waiting.

While she sat there with her eyes covered behind the big Gucci sunglasses, two police officers walked up, casing the place, as if they were looking for someone, maybe her, she thought to herself. She was about to get her duffle bag and purse and take off. As she was playing out the pros and cons in her head, if she should go or stay, one of the officers approached her. Her heart dropped; then he asked her, “Is someone using this chair?”

“It’s yours,” she said as she let on a slight, warm smile.

Checking her Michele watch, she was surprised by how quickly the time was passing now that she was off the barge. If her calculations were correct, she had about five more minutes before her ride would be there to pick her up. She was clueless as to what her benefactor would look like; all she was told was to look for a man with a salt and pepper beard behind the wheel of a black Ford pickup truck.

Hell,
she thought,
that could be anybody.
She wished that she had gotten a better description of him, but he was supposed to be a friend of her father’s. The stranger was from Mickey’s past, whom up until this crisis had come about he’d never made mention of. Her father told her, “Just dial this number the moment you reach Miami and ask for Matteo.”

Peaches had thought that she knew all of her father’s friends. She and her father shared pretty much everything and, for the most part, there were no secrets between the two of them. Mickey entrusting her to a man she had never heard of seemed odd, but she knew her father must have trusted this man with his own life six times over to put hers in his hands. That alone was good enough for her.

Peaches looked up after she had placed the five-dollar tip on the table for the friendly waitress and saw a black Ford double-cab pickup truck. The lights on the truck flickered on and off three times. Peaches grabbed her duffle bag and headed toward the back passenger’s side. When she was almost halfway to the truck, it crossed her mind that she wished she had more information on the driver of the ride. Especially when the passenger’s side door opened and a man got out who didn’t have a beard, and if he would’ve had one he was still be too young to have been gray. “Matteo?”

“Naw, lil’ momma. I’m Sticks,” said the sexy chocolate drop who stepped out of the truck. Peaches almost melted on the spot, embarrassed to be meeting such a handsome man after being locked up in a crate for days. She’d had better days. She was about to turn around when the Sticks guy said, “Matteo’s right there.” He gestured with a nod making it known that Matteo was the driver.

Just then, an older man leaned forward. “Come on, pretty girl, hop on up in here.” Then he spoke to Sticks, “Junior, act like you got some home training and help the girl with her bags.” He put the truck in Park. “The lady been waiting long enough because you couldn’t decide what sneakers to put on.”

Peaches glanced down to take a peek at what kind of tennis shoes Sticks had on, but the irony of it was he didn’t have any on. He sported a pair of Air Jordan flip-flops with snow-white, fresh out of the pack ankle socks.

Matteo peeped her checking out his son’s footwear and said, “He’s always holding me up, just like he’s doing me now. I was going to leave him, so he decided to do the Miami thing and slip his slippers on and bring his black ass on.”

“A’ight, Pops, I got this covered,” Sticks said to his dad while relieving Peaches of the weight of her duffle bag she was carrying.

“That’s all you got?”

“Besides my purse. I’m traveling light, on the account that I was in a real hurry when I left.”

When Sticks smiled he had a beautiful set of white teeth that complemented his dark chocolate smooth skin. “But what do you have in here? Bricks?” he asked.

“Junior, you lift all those weights, I know you not complaining,” Matteo said, overseeing everything.

Peaches couldn’t help but notice his nice physique; his muscles were poking out in a nice way from under his crisp, brand-new white T-shirt.

After placing her bags in the bed of the truck, he took her hand, helping her into the front seat. He then slid into the back seat of the cab.

Peaches felt a little uncomfortable being in the car with two strange men who she didn’t know and had never met before in a city she knew nothing about. The fact that she was riding shotgun with someone sitting right behind her only intensified the uneasiness she felt even more. As a young girl, Mickey had taught her to never let anybody whom she didn’t trust sit behind her in the car. Plenty of supposed to be street dudes who had violated that rule of thumb died by a shot to the back of the head or being suffocated to death. The two men seemed to be nice folks and she knew her father would never put her in harm’s way. So, she just chalked it up to them being gentlemen and allowing her to sit in the front seat.

“Girl,” Matteo said, glancing up over at her. “If you ain’t the spitting image of yo momma.”

Shocked by his comment, Peaches replied, “I didn’t know that you knew my mother.” It was a compliment that Peaches had heard before. “Everybody says that.”

“Heck yeah, I knew your mother. We all go way back.” Matteo sort of glassed over as if he was reminiscing about something. “Me, Mickey, and your momma. Boy, we dug Richmond a new asshole back in the day. Those were some good times.” He smiled as he focused on the road.

Peaches smiled. She wanted to ask about those good times, because she mostly heard dark things about Emma. She looked over at Sticks, and he seemed lost in dark thoughts. She wondered why he didn’t share his father’s sentiments about the old days back in Virginia. Had he known her mother? As much as she wanted to know, she didn’t think this was the right time or place to be caught in her memories and feelings about her mother. She had much more current issues that needed all of her focus right now, so she decided that she would save those questions for Matteo later. Matteo made small talk the entire drive, until they finally came to a stop in front of a nice size house in a neighborhood called Weston Hills.

Matteo and his son set her on the top floor of their home. Her temporary home was their fully finished attic that had been converted into a bedroom suite. Matteo said, “This room is yours for as long as you need. Make yourself comfortable, so feel free to have the run of the house.”

Sticks dropped her duffle bag on the oversized brown and black zebra print chair. He didn’t seem as friendly as he was when they first met. Peaches said, “Thank you,” to them both.

“I’m going to have Junior show you the rest of the house and a few of the amenities you will need to know. If you need anything, just let me know and I’ll get it for you. I want you to feel right at home here.”

She nodded “okay” but wasn’t sure that she could ever feel at home in a strange city, having to always look over her shoulders, especially under the current circumstances, but she would have to make do.

“Towels and such are in the closet in your bathroom over there,” Matteo pointed out. “I’m not sure what you drink or like to eat, but make a list and Junior, he will get it for you.” Matteo was going out of his way to make sure that she felt at home.

“Okay, thank you,” she said. “I will try not to be too much bother.”

“Don’t be silly, pretty girl. You ain’t no bother at all. In fact, it’ll be nice to have a woman around the house,” he said with a wholesome smile, then changed the subject. “Your father said you were a master artist and was good at changing your appearance.”

“Yes, sir,” Peaches nodded. “I’m pretty good with makeup,” she said modestly.

“Well, the things you need for that, make a list and send Junior for it. And he will show you where to keep those things at.” He lowered his voice. “I have a special hidden place for all of those things right over there.” He pointed to a mirrored wall.

She redirected her attention and Sticks walked over to it. He did something with the light switch, then grabbed the remote to the television and the wall opened. She couldn’t believe her eyes; it was like something off of television.

“Oh, wow.” She was definitely surprised. “No one would ever know about this.”

“That’s the idea,” Matteo said with a smile, proud of his secret compartment.

It was a small room, but it had everything in it one needed to survive for a few days. There was a full-size bed, a small dresser, a small bathroom over to the right. There was a television, a radio, a laptop, a small refrigerator, microwave, a set of dishes, along with some perishables.

“This is where you will retreat just in case the police comes here or anything of that nature.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“No need to thank me. Your father is a very good man and he loves you with all his heart.” He thought for a second and then shared, “Once he helped my son out of a real complicated jam and never breathed a word of it to a soul. That’s the type of thing that people like me never forget. Though we could never repay him, the least I can do is keep you safe and free. And as long as you are under my watch, that’s what I intend to do, or like that rapper boy say, die trying.”

She smiled. “Mr.—”

He cut her off, “It’s Matteo, no need for the formal misters and all that kind of stuff. We are family, my dear.”

“Sorry, it’s out of respect. But as I was saying, I simply can’t express to you my appreciation,” Peaches said, but couldn’t help but let her mind wander off to what were the circumstances around Mickey helping Sticks. But her thoughts were quickly interrupted.

“Oh, before I forget to tell you, I have this doctor flying in from the Dominican to do a minor little procedure to alter your fingertips,” said Matteo.

“Really?” That one caught Peaches off guard. She hadn’t really heard of such a thing, nor had she known that there was a way that one could alter their fingerprints. She couldn’t believe that this was her life at this moment. It was almost like irony; for years makeup and imaging had been her passion, and now it was going to be one of her key ways of survival.

“I didn’t know anything like that was possible.” She asked, “Does it hurt?”

Matteo obviously sensed her apprehension. He scratched the side of his head, exaggerating deep thought, before saying, “I heard that it’s slightly painful for few minutes after.” Then he smiled. “But it’s better than the old way?”

The smile was assuring, but Peaches had to ask, “I’m almost afraid to hear, but I have to know. What was the old way?”

“To dip the tip of your fingers in acid. And trust me”—he looked at her—“it burnt like the dickens.”

Peaches looked into his eyes trying to figure out whether he was joking or not. Matteo would have made a good poker player because he was almost impossible to read.

“You are joking, aren’t you?” But there was something about Matteo that told her that he didn’t go around making up things.

“As I was saying,” he said, ignoring her question, not wanting the poor child to be scared shitless at something that she would have to get done. To lighten the mood, Matteo changed the conversation. “As I was saying, I don’t want you to hesitate about making yourself at home. Whatever is ours . . . is yours. If it’s something you want that’s not here, don’t hesitate to let either of us know. You hear me?”

Matteo was so hospitable and gracious, the only thing that Peaches could say was, “Thank you. To the both of you.”

Then came the conditions. Matteo said, “Now the only thing I ask of you . . .” At that moment Peaches knew it was too good to be true, but she listened to what he had to say. He looked in her eyes and said firmly, “Under no circumstances do I want you to leave this house or go anywhere unaccompanied by either me or Junior.” He put his finger up, and added, “At least until we know for sure that it’s cool to do so. I promised Mickey that I’d watch your back.”

“Okay,” she said with no complaint. Even if she did, she wasn’t in any position to do so. Besides, Lord knows she needed somebody to have her back.