N THE DISTANCE, down the dark, dusty country road, an old beat-up sedan, steam belching from beneath its hood, pulled over onto the shoulder. Its single occupant took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked it out the window, pulled a baseball cap down to cover his brow, and opened the door.
Dressed in black, he zipped his jacket around his large torso and walked toward two men standing at the edge of a newly-planted barley field. Two cars were parked along the opposite side of the road. The crescent moon shed just enough light to cast an eery fluorescence on one man’s starch-white shirt and a fine shadow on the freshly tilled ground.
“I want out,” grumbled the man in the white shirt in a well-rehearsed demand. He seemed educated, businesslike—yet scared, unsure as to how his request would be received.
“When we started, I told you you’d be in it to the end,” muttered the other man in a deep voice. “I know of only two ends. One, when the project’s finished; the other, when flowers are placed on your grave.”
The big man in black kept his back turned to the moon. The man in the white shirt was a banker at the local branch. He had never seen either of the other men’s faces. He only knew they meant business.
“I know. I know. That was then. Now you have three million, seven. If I take nothing, you’re almost as well off as if we finished moving the entire amount.” Was he convincing enough?
Now the big man in black moved in. “Mr. Penrod,” he growled, giving the banker a poke in the chest with his gloved hand, “your wife is a beautiful woman, your children worship you, and you go to church every Sunday. We wouldn’t want any of that to change, now would we?”
Mr. Penrod answered in a low whine. “No, but it gets more risky every day.”
“But you didn’t think it was so risky sleeping with the teller, did you?” he sneered. “You’ve got two weeks to get it done. We clear the accounts every night, then the money’s moved twice by the following morning. The Swiss bank account is only a number. Your money is already in your account. By the time your kids are old enough to go to college, you’ll have enough to educate three more bankers just like you, and still live like a king. And there’s no chance you’ll be caught. When you’re finished and we’re gone, it’ll look like the teller was the only one. You’ll get reprimanded for not watching close enough, but you’ll be in the clear.” The man gave the banker one last, threatening poke.
Without another word, the black-clad man lumbered over to his car. The door squeaked open on its rusty hinges—its interior light failing to illuminate—and the old car groaned as its driver settled back onto the tattered seat. Riding on no more than half of its eight cylinders, the engine sputtered and turned over, sending a cloud of smoke from its exhaust. As the heap pulled away and rattled off down the dusty road, the banker noticed the license plates were missing.
“You can go, now,” the smaller man said. “She’ll be watching you.” The banker shook his head as he climbed into his car. “I don’t look forward to it.”
Paul and Nancy were ready for bed. “I’m not sure I like it here,” Nancy, seated on the bed, announced as she brushed her long dark hair.
Paul made a few more passes with his toothbrush and spit what was left of the foamy paste into the sink. “What?...Why not?” They hadn’t even finished unpacking.
Nancy’s hairbrush dropped to her lap. “This morning as you pulled away, I was standing in the doorway. Mr. Briggs was there...at the corner...watching me.”
Paul rinsed his toothbrush, banged it on the edge of the sink, and put it in the cup on the counter top. “I didn’t see him.”
“I did. He gives me the creeps.”
“He seems like an okay guy.” Paul replied, stepping into the bedroom. “He helped us unpack.”
“I know, but even that was weird. Didn’t you notice? He only picked up the boxes that went to our bedroom, even if we needed to move something else first.” Nancy tossed the brush on the nightstand. “It seemed like everywhere I went in the house today, he was directly above me. I could hear him walking around upstairs the whole time.”
“It’s probably nothing. I haven’t heard a thing all evening.” He turned to face the door to the hall and noticed headlights flash across the living room curtains. “Maybe that’s him coming home now.”
Nancy stood and leaned to look down the hall. The car’s engine shut off, just outside their kitchen window. They could faintly hear the door to the upstairs open and close. Nancy flipped off the light switch, and the two of them quietly slipped under the covers, listening for any sound from above.
“I don’t hear a thing,” Paul whispered.
Nancy rolled out of bed again and reached up to slide open the window. “Think I’ll let in some night air.” Then with a gasp, she jumped back away from the window. “Someone’s looking in!”
Paul pounced to his feet and parted the curtain. “I can’t see anyone.”
“I saw him,” Nancy whimpered. “A shadow against the street light.” She started to cry. Paul pulled her close.
“Your imagination just got away from you, talking about spooky things and all.”
Nancy jerked away from him, climbed back into bed, her back to him, and wept silently.
“What! Now what’s wrong?” Paul breathed out three short bursts of air. Then he climbed into bed beside his wife. I don’t understand her, he thought as he pulled the covers up.
Deek finished his report and asked Maryann if she’d like him to walk her to her car.
“Sure. That would be nice. Just let me switch the calls to county.” She dialed in the necessary numbers and gathered up her sweater and purse. They weaved their way through the well-lit parking lot. “Thanks again,” she said. “I’ve never felt like I needed an escort until the last few weeks.”
Maryann was known around town as a man-hunter—loose, like her red curly hair, single, always searching to “bag” the next trophy, and rarely intimidated, even by the most ravenous male—if he had money, that is.
Deek, married and middle-aged, had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested. “This is crazy,” he sighed, opening her door. “We’re not any closer now than when this whole thing started.”
She could only shrug her sexy shoulder as she climbed in behind the wheel. “Well, goodnight, Deek.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
Deek angled back toward the building and climbed into his fiveyear-old Taurus. It belonged to the department, and—if you didn’t count the dull spots where the paint had worn off—was the only unmarked car in the fleet, except the new Pontiac Grand Am the captain drove. Whenever any of the other officers needed to go plainclothed, they borrowed Deek’s car.
Just as he pulled out of his space, he gave the impound yard a sidelong glance. He lurched to a stop; someone was in there! A thin column of steam wafted up from the hood of the old Chevy they’d impounded on a DUI the week before. He squinted at the gate. Its lock was gone, the chain hanging from wire. He grabbed the radio. “One-nineteen, one-twenty-one...Mitch?” he said in a whisper.
“One-twenty-one, go ahead, Deek.”
“What’s your twenty?”
“I’m at thirteen hundred, East Canyon Road. What’s up?”
Deek was short of breath. “I think we’ve got a break-in at the city impound. How soon can you back me up?”
“ETA is four minutes. Hold on, we’ll go in together.”
Deek slid his service revolver from the holster beneath his jacket. He slipped from the car. Remembering the bulletproof vest he kept hanging next to his desk, he almost started in the direction of the building. But something propelled him instead over to the impound gate, where he crouched to wait for Mitch. His mind raced. The battered Chevy belonged to Howard Reid, a harmless old drunk. Probably had gotten nabbed while out getting himself a new bottle.
He peered around the gate post, his heart about to burst. He was kind of rusty since his days in L.A.
Suddenly a flash burst from the direction of the Chevy, followed by the distinct report of gunfire. A searing pain shot through Deek’s side. The dark world spun all around him. He managed to raise his head in the direction of the lot, and saw the figure of a large man rush past and disappear into the shadows. Something seemed familiar, Deek thought, before slipping into unconsciousness.