Peachy Villains Page 9

  “Let's hope, baby,” Momma Peach said and let out a silent fart. “Oh, Mr. Sam, what have you done to poor Momma Peach.”

  Michelle backed away a few steps and fanned the air. “Oh, Momma Peach, aren't we in enough trouble as it is?” she begged.

  Momma Peach pointed at her tush. “Baby, I can't control this end. She can barely control this end.” Momma Peach pointed at her mouth. “Blame Mr. Sam and his blasted chili. Better yet, arrest Mr. Sam for making lethal chili. Lock him up and throw away the keys.”

  As Momma Peach fussed about Sam's chili, Max Moroz walked back to the couch in his trailer and sat down to think. Lindsey Sung had given him two choices: kill Momma Peach and live, or die knowing someone else would kill her instead. Max wasn't in any mood live as a guilty man, but he wasn’t in any mood to die, either. “The woman must die, then,” he whispered, “and I must find a new detective to capture me.” Max leaned forward, picked up his milk jug, and took a few drinks of water. “Now, how am I going to kill that woman?” he asked himself. “I must be careful to leave a clue that will tell the new detective that all guilt points at me.”

  Max set down his milk jug, grabbed his cigar, stood up, and walked over to the tiny kitchen in his trailer. He opened a wooden drawer and withdrew a very sharp and deadly kitchen knife. “Ah yes,” he said and raised the kitchen knife into the air and examined the blade, “this will do nicely. Now, I must lure that woman back into my trailer and complete my mission.”

  Max put the kitchen knife down, turned away from the kitchen area, and focused on his clown suits, arrayed in garish colors against the wall. “Which one should I wear?” he asked himself and grinned. “One last performance...and it will be my very best. And when the curtains fall, the world will know that Max Moroz was a man of talent, skill, and brilliance.”

  Outside in the rain, Lindsey Sung made her way back into the dark woods and began following the fence around toward the front of the fairgrounds. “Mr. Hayman, tonight you die,” she whispered as the rain soaked her leather jacket. With those words, Lindsey vanished into the night.

  Chapter Six

  Momma Peach began to hum a sweet old Christian hymn as she walked through the rain toward Lance Potter's trailer with her hands tucked behind her back. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,” she hummed, feeling confident that she was protected by a special and powerful love. “How sweet the sound…especially on a night like this,” Momma Peach continued.

  Michelle watched Momma Peach from the back entrance of the main tent, keeping a careful eye on Max Moroz's trailer. The light in the old man's trailer was still on but he had yet to show his face. Michelle wasn't sure how Lindsey Sung and Max Moroz were connected, but she did know that two spiders were more dangerous than one. However, Lindsey Sung was the more poisonous spider, Michelle thought, as her eyes watched Momma Peach walk through the rain. Sure, Max Moroz was a deadly killer, but his motive for murder was personal. Lindsey Sung killed without emotion or regret, conscience or concern for innocent life. Max Moroz's conscience appeared to be in a state of torment, pleading for silence and peace. Men like Max were like a wounded dog that could easily bite again, and had to be taken seriously—and Michelle intended to take Max very seriously. Yet, her true concern was Lindsey Sung. The woman was a killer working for deadly men, and she had to be stopped. “Where did you go, Sung?” Michelle whispered to herself. “Are you going after Hayman? If you are, you might be in for a little surprise.”

  Momma Peach stopped walking, glanced over her shoulder at Max's trailer, and nodded her head. Knowing that her baby was watching her back gave her enough confidence to enter the mouth of madness on a rainy night. That's exactly how Momma Peach felt: as if she was willingly entering a lion’s den, or the lair of a grizzly bear, except she knew she would find an insane, hideous clown ready to crawl out like a forbidden nightmare. “Oh, stop it,” Momma Peach begged. “I don't need to see such spooky images in my mind. Now go back and sing about how sweet the grace of the Lord is.”

  As Momma Peach forced herself to begin humming again, Max Moroz slowly opened the door to his trailer, spotted Momma Peach standing in the rain, and grinned. “It's a wet night, isn't it?” he called out in an accented voice that sent chills through Momma Peach.

  Momma Peach turned around and spotted Max standing in the doorway to his trailer. She lifted her right hand and wiped rainwater away from her eyes. For a few seconds, she almost felt as if she were back in Sam's little desert town, caught in the dark storm, fighting for the truth against an unknown shadow. But then her mind cleared and she focused on Max Moroz's murderous face. “I don't have time to be bothered, old man,” she called out. “I still have to prove you killed poor Mr. Potter, rest his soul.”

  Max searched the rain, hoping Momma Peach's words didn't reach the annoying cops who were wandering back and forth through the circus. The coast was clear. There wasn't a cop in sight. “Perhaps a little tea on a rainy night?” he asked in a voice just loud enough to reach Momma Peach's ears. “A nice cup of hot tea and a little chat, yes?”

  “What words do you want to put in my ears?” Momma Peach asked and carefully walked over to Max's trailer. “Old man, I ain't got time for games, no sir, and no ma’am. I’m gonna bring you down and stuff you into the jailhouse, oh give me strength, yes sir and yes ma’am.” Momma Peach pointed at Max. “You killed poor Mr. Potter and now I am gonna prove it, so don't waste my time playing games or I'll pop you so hard you'll hear bells from your old schooldays ringing in your head.”

  Max glanced around again. He didn't like Momma Peach mouthing off in an open area for prying ears to hear. “We need to talk,” he said in a voice that came out stern and serious. “Our performance needs to be altered.” Max swung his head back into his trailer and waited. Momma Peach glanced at the main tent, felt Michelle watching her, nodded her head, and walked into Max's trailer.

  When she stepped inside, Max sat down on his couch. “Close the door.”

  Momma Peach closed the door, removed the hood from her head, straightened out the damp cloth covering her hair, and waited. Max picked up his cigar, took a puff, and sat very silent for a few minutes, leaving Momma Peach standing in confusion; or so he thought. “You gonna fix me some tea or what, old man?” Momma Peach finally asked, pretending to sound annoyed.

  “In time,” Max promised. “You can sit down if you wish.”

  “I will stand,” Momma Peach said and let her eyes walk around the trailer. Max's vintage clown suit was laying over the small table. The sight of the suit conjured scary images of demented clowns chasing her through a house of broken mirrors. “Oh, give me strength,” Momma Peach whispered.

  Max saw Momma Peach set her eyes on his famous clown suit. “Do you like clowns?” he asked.

  “I used to like clowns, now I’m not so fond of them anymore.” Momma Peach looked at Max. She wasn't sure which was worse: the face of a madman or the face of an insane clown? “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I am a man of conscience,” Max stated and puffed on his cigar, “and I have set you in motion to investigate my mind, yes?”

  “So it seems.”

  Max nodded his head. “Perhaps I was too hasty, though?” Max suggested. “After all, even though I am a man of conscience, I am also a man of clear common sense.” Max frowned. He didn't like back-pedaling on a mission. He wanted Momma Peach to discover the truth and set his conscience at ease. Now he would have to add more torment to his life and wait patiently for a second investigator to appear. Of course, he thought, the idea of a second murder did hold a strange and fascinating appeal to him. Murder, he mused, appeared to be a performance for the ages. Murder could be performed and remembered for many years to come, allowing him to once again stand in the main ring, under the big tent, with the spotlight on him alone. Yes, backpedaling was an unpleasant chore that set a sour taste in his chest—but then again, perhaps his conscience could endure punishment while he stepped into his costume and walked out
into the ring again. “Do you have any family?” he asked Momma Peach.

  Momma Peach looked into Max's creepy eyes. The old man was beyond spooky to her. “I’m not here to talk about my personal life, old man.” Momma Peach fought back a chill. In her mind, she saw a dark funeral home infested with a nest of deadly, hungry clowns with red glowing eyes. “Oh, stop it,” she scolded herself.

  Max took a puff of his cigar. “You seem...uncomfortable,” he told Momma Peach. His eyes grinned.

  “I ain't uncomfortable, old man. I am downright spooked. This here circus ain't right if you catch what I mean. This here circus is cursed. And you, old man, are part of the curse. You are a poison.”

  “Oh?” Max asked and put down his cigar. He slowly folded his arms together. “In the old days, when I performed in Russia, the nights were long and dark and the winters cruel and endless. Men's hearts were hungry for life and women were desperate for light. In those days,” Max spoke in a low voice, his Russian accent growing rougher, as the sight of a pale-lit circus shrouded in snowy fog and ice crystals appeared in his mind—a circus filled with dead men and forgotten women applauding mere shadows. He came out of his reverie and settled down into his seat. “Mister Max Moroz the Great Performer was a warm light in a dark world. I made the lifeless laugh and entertained meaningless minds...but the children,” Max said, “the children mattered most.”

  “I doubt that,” Momma Peach stated.

  Max balled his hands into two tight fists and hit his couch. “The children matter!” he insisted. “The children mattered because I understood the dungeons they were locked in, in those little frozen villages and lifeless cities. I understood their nightmares. I understood their fears. I understood everything because I was once one of the lost children myself.” Mac's eyes grew dark with rage. “Little Max Moroz grew up in a cold, lifeless frozen orphanage, after all. His mother gave him a wonderful name, and then she died. In the orphanage, little Max Moroz was beaten with belts, hit with fists, smacked with hands, sent to bed starving and hurt...little Max Moroz endured thirteen years of nightmares before his escape.” Max glared at Momma Peach. “Poor little Max Moroz was locked in a freezing basement, forced to walk over frozen ground in his bare feet, thrown into snow-covered work sheds and ordered to wash clothes in water with ice floating in it.” Max held up his wrinkled hands. “Ever wash clothes in frozen water, lady, with your bare hands, in the middle of a Russian winter?”

  “No,” Momma Peach said, keeping her voice steady.

  “Of course not,” Max said and lowered his hands. He grew silent. When he did speak, the rage had left his voice. “Humor,” Max finally said, “kept me alive. When I escaped, I worked with the little circuses that came and went. I would tell funny little anecdotes to distract my tormented mind. In time, a main character came to life...a clown. No more little Max, tormented and frozen. I was Mister Max Moroz, the clown, the performer.” Max looked into Momma Peach's eyes. “A simple clown who became little Max Moroz's teacher.”

  Momma Peach bit down on her lower lip. “Isn't it a bit late to complain about your childhood, old man?”

  “Is it?” Max asked. “Perhaps the years have passed, lady, but the memories are still very much young and alive in my mind.”

  “Uh huh,” Momma Peach said and deliberately rolled her eyes, “you're fishing for a bleeding heart and ain't gonna find one in me. You killed an innocent man and that ends the road of compassion, old man. I could care two rotten peaches what kind of childhood you had. All I care about is sending you to prison.”

  Max picked back up his cigar and took a puff. Yes, he thought, he was going to enjoy killing Momma Peach instead of letting the woman capture him. As a matter of fact, the more he stared at Momma Peach's scowling face, the more the thought of killing the woman excited him. “You speak dangerous words,” he told Momma Peach. “You Americans pretend to own the world. You're all so arrogant, living in a fantasy world in which you deem yourselves kings and queens while innocent people suffer in other parts of the world.” Max tapped his cigar on his knee. “You know no sacrifice, no honor, no bravery. No suffering. You are overstuffed pigs feeding off the spoils of the poor, living in filthy pride that someday will be destroyed.”

  “Listen, punk,” Momma Peach snapped and pointed a hard finger at Max, “many—and I mean many—good men and women have died to make America free. Sure, America might take a turn downhill toward a pile of manure once in a while, maybe more often than we’d like, but that doesn't mean we disrespect what America stands for. Men stormed Normandy beach and fought the enemy mighty brave...men marched out to fight for independence against the British, cold and hungry...men sweated in the hot jungles of Vietnam and shivered in the frozen winters that soak Korea. So don't you ever, and I mean ever, insult their memory and tell me we don’t know honor or bravery, you punk!”

  Max tapped his cigar on his knee again. Momma Peach's eyes told him to stand down. It was time to switch gears. There was no sense in venting his displeasure over a country that was not his own. His personal opinion of America was on mute. He needed to focus on his victim and begin setting the stage for his performance—a forced performance, perhaps, but a performance nonetheless. So what if Lindsey Sung had threatened his life? The woman, without realizing it, had actually renewed his crumbling spirit of performance. “I left a clue for you,” he spoke in a cold tone. “The clue will be revealed tomorrow night at midnight. Come back to the circus...alone. When you arrive, come to my trailer, lady, and you will receive more instructions.”

  “I ain't in the mood for games.”

  “Neither am I,” Max said. He put down his cigar, reached under the couch, and pulled out a gun. “Here, catch,” he said and tossed the gun at Momma Peach. Momma Peach caught the gun on instinct, then realized her mistake and threw the gun down onto the floor. “Very good,” Max said and pulled out a second gun from underneath the couch and aimed it at Momma Peach. “Now I have your fingerprints on a murder weapon. Now,” he added with a sinister grin, “you will do as I say. Return tomorrow night at midnight or face a very harsh penalty, lady.”

  “You're one sick potato,” Momma Peach growled at Max. “I’m gonna tear you a new one but right, yes sir and yes ma’am. I am gonna tan your hide from here to the Mississippi River! Oh, give me strength.”

  “Get out of my trailer...for now at least,” Max hissed at Momma Peach. “Return at midnight, alone. No cops. If you fail my orders, you will—”

  “Yeah, yeah, suffer a harsh penalty. You ain't saying nothing I haven’t heard before, you rotten hack.” Momma Peach kicked the gun on the floor at Max. “I will be back at midnight with my thinking cap on.”

  “Perhaps,” Max said and pointed at the door with his gun. “Leave.”

  “Before I do,” Momma Peach said, “tell me one thing.”

  “The hour is late, lady.”

  “Oh, who cares,” Momma Peach snapped. “All I want to know is why you went off your medicine,” Momma Peach said and stormed back outside into the rain, leaving Max sitting alone on his couch.

  “Well?” Michelle asked as soon as Momma Peach returned to the main tent.

  “That old Russian is crazier than a cat trapped in a room full of rocking chairs,” Momma Peach sighed. “Baby, Max Moroz is planning something really bad...either he's gonna kill me or frame me or make me kill someone else.”

  “What do you mean?” Michelle asked.

  Momma Peach explained about the gun Max tossed at her. “My fingerprints are all over that gun now. That old skunk caught me off guard. Oh, I could piledrive that old man straight back to Old Mother Russia.”

  Michelle bit down on her lower lip. “Momma Peach, let's go back to the station. I don't think Lindsey Sung will return tonight and Max Moroz isn't going anywhere. My guys will watch the grounds...I hope,” Michelle said and wrapped her arm around Momma Peach. “Let's go get some coffee.”

  Momma Peach looked into Michelle's face and nodded her head. “I could
use a cup of coffee, baby,” she said and let out a fart. “Mr. Sam, I am gonna piledrive you next, if my stomach survives the night, that is!”

  Lindsey Sung crouched down behind a parked cruiser and studied the sleepy police station. The station looked tired, old and worn-down; it weathered the hard rain like an old man wondering if he was going to catch pneumonia or not. Inside the station, Lindsey assumed, were a few police officers pulling the night shift, probably sitting around drinking coffee and eating donuts and getting fat. Killing off a few lazy cops wouldn't be a problem. Doing so unnoticed would require careful planning and perfect timing. Because Michelle's car was nowhere in sight, Lindsey knew she had time to spare and didn't rush her thoughts. She wanted to extract Lionel Hayman without any complication. When she heard the back door to the police station open, she focused her attention on a tall, thin man in his early fifties who stepped outside and jogged over to a police car. He sat a minute in the cruiser and then drove away. “Perfect,” Lindsey grinned and slunk over to the back door. “Perfect.”

  The sound of an approaching car caused Lindsey to run back behind the police car she had been hiding behind and crouch down. Michelle pulled up into the back parking lot of the station, parked in her usual spot, and exited her car with Momma Peach. Lindsey watched her hurry over to the back door, unlock it with a special key, and step inside with Momma Peach close behind. The sight of Michelle and Momma Peach caused her concern. The two women were obviously on duty and had come from some location, possibly the circus, which meant they might have spotted her leaving Max Moroz's trailer. If that were the case, Lindsey knew she would have to return and kill Max instead of allowing Max the opportunity to kill Momma Peach. “You two were supposed to be away for the night,” she hissed. “Where have you been?”

  Lindsey felt anger and fury grip her heart as her patience began to melt away. How had a simple stop in a small, hick town caused so many problems for her? She had managed to run the black market drugs right under the noses of the FBI, CIA and DEA. Now she was crouched behind an old cruiser, drenched in rain, trying to figure out how to extract Lionel Hayman from a run-down police station. Furthermore, the building was infested with Momma Peach and Michelle Chan. “You'll pay,” Lindsey hissed at Michelle and looked out into the pouring rain. “Your friend will pay...Max Moroz will pay...they will all pay.”