Crossing Market Street, she strolled into Lord & Taylor, hoping to go unnoticed. But Nola wasn't the type of woman whom people didn't see.
“Hi, Nola,” said a floor manager from men's clothing. “How was the trip to New York?”
“Fine,” she said without breaking stride.
When she reached the steps that led to her office, she was almost running. Making her way to the second floor, she walked into the executive offices and smiled pleasantly at the receptionist.
“Good morning, Ms. Langston,” she said as Nola walked past.
“Good morning,” Nola said, strolling into her office and locking the door.
She opened the closet and began to move the boxes that littered the floor. Most contained pictures and samples from the upcoming fall lines for various designers. When she got to the final box, however, she found what she was looking for.
Opening it carefully, she removed a diamond necklace and a three-carat ring. And then she removed a binder that was worth far more than both of them combined.
Nola flipped through the documents that the binder contained, and took out the paperwork she'd need. She put on the
necklace and the ring, then stripped out of her clothes and extracted a strapless linen dress from the closet.
She left her office wearing sunglasses and the dress, with nothing beneath it but perfume. The papers she needed were neatly folded in a small black purse as she stepped out into the summer air for the three-block walk to the Center Square building.
She needed the walk to clear her mind, because she knew that what she was about to do could literally cost her life.
But she would have to make her move now. There was really no other choice.
She was going to get the money, just as she'd always planned to do. And then she would be rid of Frank Nichols forever.
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Jamal untied his shirt and removed the scarf from his head with one hand. With the other, he pointed the gun at the man they'd forced to drive them from the scene of the shooting.
“Turn over there and go underneath the highway,” Jamal said as they approached I-95 from a side street.
The beady-eyed man looked at him, then glanced down at the gun. “Look, I got some money, if that's what you want.”
“Shut up, and pull over there!”
Keisha, sitting silently in the back seat, watched as the man pulled beneath the overpass and stopped the car between a pile of old tires and a stack of discarded furniture.
“Get out,” Jamal said, trying not to acknowledge the quickening double thump of his heart.
The man looked at him in disbelief.
“I said, âGet out!'” Jamal shouted, raising the gun.
The man scurried to leave the car.
“Wait a minute,” Jamal said quickly. “Pull your pants off.”
The man looked back at Keisha in embarrassment, then at Jamal, as if to ask why.
“Pull 'em off!” Jamal shouted. “Your shirt, too!”
Keisha watched nervously as Jamal snatched the keys from the ignition, pushed the pudgy man from the car, and got out behind him.
“Open the trunk,” he said to Keisha, tossing her the keys and pointing the gun at the man.
Keisha got out, walked to the trunk, and unlocked it. Then she watched the man standing at the trunk with Jamal pressing the gun to his temple.
“Get that shit outta there,” Jamal said, pointing to the spare tire and other supplies in the trunk of the car.
The man's eyes begged Jamal to stop. When it was clear that he wouldn't, the man emptied the trunk and waited for the inevitable.
“Get in,” Jamal said.
The man climbed in, bending and twisting until his girth fit inside the cramped space.
Jamal closed the trunk as Keisha watched. Then he walked around to the front of the car and got in.
“Get up front,” he told Keisha.
She did as she was told. But as Jamal drove from beneath the overpass with his head on a swivel and merged onto I-95 North, Keisha looked back at the trunk, hoping that the man inside wouldn't become another body.
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The gray-haired, leather-faced cop in car X2 had been a police officer for most of his adult life. He'd seen everything there was to seeâfrom Black Panthers stripped naked on Cecil B. Moore Avenue to police officers arrested in drug-dealing scandals.
Still, the news of the commissioner's death shocked him. And as he listened to the dispatcher's voice reading a description of the black man with dreadlocks who'd allegedly murdered the commissioner, he was reminded of his own mortality.
Reaching down to adjust the volume on the radio, he glanced at the traffic about a block ahead and to his right, and watched as a blue Neon merged onto I-95 at the Bridge Street entrance.
The car swerved slightly as it cut off a minivan and burst into traffic. That wouldn't have been enough to draw the attention of the officer, who often saw aggressive drivers on this stretch of the interstate.
But as he sped up slightly and pulled closer, he noticed that the back of the car was resting almost entirely on its rear wheels, even though there was no one sitting in the back seat.
As he reached for his radio to call in the tag, he hoped that there was a reasonable explanation for the extra weight in the trunk.
In case there wasn't, he unsnapped the holster on his gun.
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Jamal glanced at Keisha, then looked in the rearview mirror and watched the police car lingering two cars back.
“It's a cop behind us,” he said, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he sped up to fifty-five.
Keisha followed his eyes as he looked in the mirror again. When she saw the police car, her breath came fast and heavy.
Jamal switched to the far left lane. Keisha looked back and saw the cop do the same.
“Don't worry, baby,” Jamal said, looking in the mirror. “We gettin' outta this.”
He looked in her eyes and saw that she wanted to believe him.
She was, despite her womanly facade, a little girl who'd been waiting all her life for a knight in shining armor.
He wondered if he was the one.
Jamal nodded toward the mirror. “If he try to stop us, I'm jettin'. I can't shoot and drive at the same time, so take this.”
He reached into his waistband and handed her his gun.
“You ain't scared, is you?” he asked as she took it.
“No,” she said, turning it over in her hands.
“Why not?”
Keisha paused to think for a moment. “I always did what I was supposed to do,” she said, chambering a round as she'd seen him do. “Now I wanna see what it's like not to.”
Just then the cop pulled directly behind them and blasted his siren once.
Jamal kept going.
He blasted it again, this time accompanying the siren with the whirl of his dome lights.
Jamal maintained his speed.
The cop pulled up to their rear and bumped it slightly.
That's when Jamal bolted. Skidding into the middle lanes as nearby cars braked and swerved to avoid them, Jamal pushed the car as hard as he could, but the cop switched lanes and pulled up beside the fleeing vehicle.
Jamal and the cop looked at one another as they rode side by side. But only for a split second.
Jamal braked suddenly and jerked to the right, cutting off a tractor trailer. A second later, he switched lanes again, moving to the right and falling in beside the truck.
The cop tried to follow, but he was going too fast, and shot past as the truck exited at Academy Road. While Jamal raced to get in front of the truck, the cop braked and skidded to a stop,
backed up, and turned onto the exit ramp. But as he sped around the arcing exit in an effort to catch up to Jamal, he was trapped behind the slow-moving tractor trailer.
Meanwhile, Jamal sped to the top of the ramp, made a hard left, and skidded onto Frankford Avenue.
By the time the time the cop caught up, the empty car had been left running on Frankers Avenue. Jamal and Keisha were headed for a nearby housing project, running for their lives.
Sarah Anderson
had spent the last fifteen minutes walking through the neighborhood, trying to clear her thoughts. But the walk hadn't worked for her. She was still angry, still filled with guilt over her daughter's disappearance, and still lost as to what to do next.
She walked into the church hoping that the Senior Women's Ministry that met there on Thursday afternoons hadn't canceled in the wake of everything that had happened.
When she heard the chorus of amens that always accompanied the prayers of Mother Wallace, she knew that the women were there. And she was grateful, because she needed them now more than ever.
Walking slowly up the steps toward the sanctuary, she could hear bits of the prayer floating out toward her.
“And bless Sister Sarah,” Mother Wallace said, her strong voice pounding each consonant and stretching each vowel until
the words sounded more like a sermon than a prayer. “Bless her like you blessed her namesake in the Bible. Bless Keisha, the fruit of her womb, as you blessed Jacob. Bring her back safe, so the world can see the glory of the Lord.”
Sarah could hear the smattering of hallelujahs that followed every word. And as she walked into the back door of the sanctuary, watching the women holding hands as they reached over pews in a circle of prayer, they sensed her presence. And one by one, their voices went silent as they watched her walk down the very aisle that Keisha had walked the night before.
Mother Wallace opened her eyes to see who had joined them. When she saw that it was Sarah, she stopped her prayer in mid-sentence and said, “Amen.”
“Come over here and join us, Sister Sarah,” she said, standing up with a sympathetic smile.
The two women sitting with Mother Wallace stood also. They made their way to the edge of the pews and reached out, silently inviting Sarah into their midst.
She stumbled down the aisle and fell into their arms as the effects of her sleepless night showed through. Her red-rimmed eyes were filled with tears. But none of them fell.
Mother Wallace saw the pain in her face. “It's all right, honey,” she said as if she were talking to a wounded child. “You with us, now. Go ahead and let it out.”
The tears still refused to come. Instead Sarah smiled weakly and responded as her husband would have. She was still the first lady of the church. And no matter what she was going through, she still had to minister to others.
“I see you saved a seat for Mother Johnson,” she said, nodding toward the empty space in the middle of the pew. “We're going to miss her. Especially at times like this, when God's prayer warriors need to be out on the battlefield.”
“She ain't gotta worry âbout none o' this now,” Mother Green said, lifting her chocolate face toward the heavens. “It's sad, what happened, but God knows best.”
“Yes, He does,” said Mother Wallace as she took Sarah's elbow and gently led her to a seat. “How's Pastor?”
“He's fine,” Sarah said, knowing, just as they all did, that this was a lie.
“Any news about Keisha?” Mother Wallace asked sheepishly.
“I heard they think that Nichols boy took her,” said Mother Jones. “I just hope he didn't ⦔
The other women cast disapproving stares in Mother Jones's direction and she allowed her words to trail off. But everyone knew what she was going to say. She hoped that Jamal hadn't hurt Keisha.
Sarah chose not to look at Mother Jones. Instead, she looked inward and stood face-to-face with the reality that she might never see her daughter again.
That sobering thought caused tears to slide down Sarah's cheeks as Mother Wallace stepped forward and folded her in her arms. Sarah's weeping gave way to sobbing as she rested her moist face against Mother Wallace's ample bosom.
Sarah found comfort in Mother Wallace's arms. It was the kind of comfort that her husband couldn't give, because only another woman can truly understand the loss of a mother's child.
“It's all right, baby,” Mother Wallace whispered, slowly rubbing Sarah's back as the tears flowed. “God is gonna fix this. He's gonna fix all o'this.”
Sarah closed her eyes and listened to Mother Wallace's soothing voice. She thought of the rocky relationship she had with her daughter and the contentious marriage she shared with John. And as she did so, she felt herself hurtling down an emotional sliding board and landing in the sands of regret.
“I just wish I would've done something differently,” Sarah said between sobs. “I wish I would'veâ”
“Sshh,” Mother Wallace said while continuing to rub Sarah's back. “Ain't nothin' you coulda done.”
Mother Green chimed in. “Just do what you can right now,” she said softly.
“But first, let them tears go,” Mother Jones added empathetically. “Let âem come down, baby. That's God's way o' washin' away the pain.”
They stood there for the next few moments, comforting her as she cried. When the sobbing eased, Mother Wallace released Sarah from her arms and stared compassionately into her eyes.
“Go home, Sister Sarah,” she said with conviction. “Your husband needs you now more than he ever has before. No matter what happens, he's gon' need to know that you there for him. Besides the Lord, you might be the best thing he's got left.”
Sarah looked up into Mother Wallace's eyes and mouthed a silent
thank you.
Then she wiped away the last of her tears, turned on her heel, and walked out of the sanctuary doors to do what she must.
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Having convinced the deacons and the sisters to go home after assuring them that he was okay, John Anderson wandered aimlessly through his house. He tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach while watching and waiting for Sarah to return.
He knew when he walked back into the living room and glanced toward the pictures on the mantelpiece that the time for wandering had ended.
Slowly, he crossed the room and took their wedding picture in his hand. He held it up and blew the dust from the glass pane, then lifted it to his eyes and gently touched it with his fingertips.
He examined the smile on his wife's face, and tried to remember the last time she'd looked that way. He couldn't. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled at all.
He put down the picture and sighed, then looked toward the heavens and prayed that God would forgive him for what he was about to do.
Walking up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Sarah, he opened the closet, reached up to the top shelf, and felt among the dust bunnies. His fingers closed around a familiar shape.
When he pulled down the sawed-off shotgun and looked at it in his hands, he was almost sorry that he still had it. He didn't want to revert back to the man he'd been so long ago, a man who'd done terrible things.
He still remembered every detail of the last job he'd done with a shotgun like the one he was holding. It was one of the last jobs he had done for the family, just prior to his father's murder. And though he'd convinced himself that John Senior's death was the thing that prompted him to leave the family business, he knew that was a lie. He left the business because he'd found out the hard way that he could never kill for a living.
It had happened thirty-five years before, on a summer day that bathed North Philly in a quiet too complete for city streets. John had received an order from his father. And just as he was instructed, he had told no one.
When dusk turned to evening and evening turned to night, he had gotten into the car that his father had left parked for him on Susquehanna Avenue, near Don's Doo Shop. He drove one block south on Fifteenth Street, and made a slow right turn onto Diamond. As he cruised toward the pale moon that hung like a giant clock in the midnight sky, he saw his target, and his heart began to beat faster.
The Cadillac Eldorado he drove crept slowly alongside a
small-time dealer who'd had the audacity to challenge John Senior. He rolled down the windows and stopped the car. Then he leaned over and aimed the sawed-off shotgun. The man's horrified face turned toward him just as the gun belched fire. The buckshot slammed into his flesh, and the impact threw him back into one of Diamond Street's massive brownstones.
When it was done, the man lay bleeding on the sidewalk, his shocked eyes staring up into a star-speckled, purple summer sky. John only saw that look for a second before he peeled out and drove the car to a South Philly chop shop.
But he never forgot that look. And though few people ever knew what he had done, John was left to deal with the guilt long after his father went to his grave.
It was the guilt that had driven him to the ministry. He believed that if God could forgive him, then perhaps he could forgive himself. But it had never worked that way for John. Not completely, anyway. He still carried the memory of his victim's lifeless eyes, staring into the sky as if to ask God why.
As he stood there in front of his closet, packing the gun into a small black gym bag, John thought of the other secrets that drove him to his knees every day to seek forgiveness, secrets that were born of his lusts.
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Nola walked past the giant clothespin outside Center Square, careful to survey the area for the detective she'd elduded earlier.
Though she didn't see him, she still had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. The sensation made her walk faster.
Nola pranced into Center Square's cavernous lobby, and through the glass doors leading to the bank, ignoring the lustful stares that she normally thrived upon.
There was business to handle. And if she'd learned anything from Frank Nichols, it was that business was the most important thing in life, and everything in life was business.
She walked over to the counter near the door, removed a fountain pen and a piece of paper from her purse, and filled out a withdrawal slip for a million dollars.
As second signer on the checking account for Alon Enterprises, the business through which Frank had begun laundering money at her suggestion, Nola was the only person other than Frank who was authorized to access the account.
She'd never touched the money before. Frank would have killed her if she did. But now, things would be different.
Nola smiled as she took the slip, crossed the lobby, and walked past the couch where new customers waited nervously for loans that would never come.
As she rounded the glass partition and headed toward the rear offices, a secretary tried to stop her, but Nola pranced past the woman as if she didn't exist.
By the time the secretary caught up with her, she'd already opened the regional vice president's door.
“Mr. Johannsen?” she said with a radiant smile. “Do you have a moment?”
She walked over to the red-faced man whose receding blond hair was arranged in a stiff comb-over.
“I always have time for you, Ms. Langston,” he said, waving away the secretary as he got up to embrace her and kiss her hand.
The secretary backed out of the office and closed the door. Nola sat down and watched Johanssen spin fantasies while staring at her across his desk.
“I've got a little problem,” she said, putting her forefinger between her teeth, as if she were nervous about something.
He watched her mouth on her finger, and his face turned redder by the second.
“I can't imagine you ever having a problem,” he said with a sly smile.
“I need to make a withdrawal from my business account, and I need it in half an hour,” she said in her best damsel-in-distress voice.
“That shouldn't be a problem, Ms. Langston.”
He got up from his chair and walked around to the front of the desk. “Do you have a withdrawal slip?”
“Yes,” she said, reaching into her purse and handing it to him. “It's for a million dollars.”
Johanssen licked his lips nervously, knowing that he'd have to overstep his authority to complete such a huge transaction. The FDIC would have to be contacted, and so would company headquarters. It could cost him his job.
“Can you help me, Mr. Johanssen?” she asked, looking up at him with her eyes stretched wide and her mouth slightly open.
He looked at her ample lips and supple legs until desire overcame good sense.
“Maybe we can help each other,” he said, walking over to his office door and locking it.
“I think that can be arranged,” she said, stepping out of the dress she was wearing.
When Johanssen turned around and saw her delicious body standing naked before him, he began to tremble with desire.
And as he prepared to take her, Frank Nichols was exiting the minivan with Marquita in tow, getting ready to take back what was his.