Murder Takes to the Hills (37 page)

I got what should be a wonderful shot of a small
girlchild
stretching out one hand in a gesture of tentative friendship to Fargo, while he bowed to her, forelegs outstretched and hindquarters raised in the universal invitation to play. It looked as if she were knighting him.

What could go wrong on a day like that?

Not much. My session at the firing range actually went well. I tried some headshots and surprisingly made most of them. My other shots were nearly all in the kill range, even with moving targets coming or going in different directions at different speeds.

I had just reloaded my trusty
Glock
9mm when the owner/instructor called, “Time’s up, Alex. And—sorry, but I’ve got another appointment, and he’s here. You done good, kid.
 
Here’s your certification, see you in six.”

I thanked him, and rather than hold up his waiting client still more by taking time to unload the weapon, I merely made sure it was on safe and shoved it in the rear pocket of my jeans.

Driving back to
Ptown
, I found myself in the beginnings of the weekend traffic and got off onto the old road in Truro, hoping to miss a few of the early-bird tourists. Just after crossing into
Ptown
I caught sight of Rho Bannister getting into
 
her car. I pulled in behind her, walked up and stuck my head into the passenger’s window.

“All set for the maiden flight of Lobster Airlines?”

“You bet!” She smiled. “I just had to come home and change clothes, I spent the morning putting the old wheel and undercarriage back on, even found a leaky old tire to go with it. And I was filthy.”

“You’re going to use the old parts?” That didn’t sound like Cassie.

“Lord, no!” Rho laughed. “They wouldn’t last a hundred feet at takeoff speed…not that you could
get
to that speed with one engine. No, this just lets us push it out of the hangar and work in a better light. More room and better air, too.
 
We’re still waiting for the parts to start the real work.”

“Makes sense.” I backed out of the window. “Give Cassie a hug, and safe trip to both of you.”

She gave me a snappy salute and pulled away.

As I started to follow her, I remembered the checks locked in the glove compartment. The bank, Alex, don’t forget the bank. I took the next left turn.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The bank parking lot was crowded early on this Friday afternoon. I had to park in the back and walk around to the big front doors. Inside, people were obviously cashing and/or depositing paychecks, taking out cash for the weekend, paying off loans, whatever. All of the free-form marble stands seemed in use, but toward the back I spotted one where a solitary woman was writing diligently in a small ledger, and figured I could fit beside her.

When I approached, she smiled and waved her hand, indicating stacks of various coins and a few dollar bills.

“Sorry to take up so much room.”

“No problem.” I smiled back. “I just have to endorse a couple of checks.”

“I’m a Girl Scout leader, but I think the bookkeeping for
a Fortune five hundred Company is probably simpler.” She
sighed.

I started to reply courteously when I noticed Cindy come out of some back office, looking down at a clipboard and making what appeared to be check marks.

Then I noticed three men crossing the area leading to the vault. Two of the men carried pistols that looked like .44 caliber to me, and the fat one carried something that looked like an Uzi.

The vault at Fisherman’s Bank had a history of being open during business hours. Centuries ago it had proved the bank was solvent; now it was tradition. There was a locked brass grille to keep out the curious or the souvenir-takers, and that was it.

It was not as foolish as it sounds. There was only one highway and a choice of two bridges off the Cape. Should robbers have come in a boat, there was a Coast Guard station with cutter and helicopter at the end of the beach.

Unfortunately, I felt, there were no fighter planes at our little airport—for I was now certain this was how the three men I watched would leave the Cape…in Cassie’s plane, quite possibly over her dead body.

But right now Cindy was my worry. She wasn’t watching where she was walking, and she was on a collision course with one of the men headed for the vault. I quietly slid my own pistol out of my pocket.

The woman next to me looked down at my hand and screamed, “A gun! Help, someone, she’s got a gun!”

“Shut up,” I hissed and automatically ducked. I pulled her down with me just as Fatso let fly with the Uzi. Chips of marble pinged and twanged all over the place but the sturdy marble table held, and as far as I knew, neither of us was hurt.

But the woman was still screaming for help. I gave her a kick in the butt. “Close your
effing
mouth, you idiot! I’m a cop.” I stretched it a little. “And you’re gonna get us killed. One more shriek and I’ll shoot you myself.” Maybe I was just the slightest bit nervous.

But she did shut up and lay moaning softly to herself. It was an improvement.

I peeked around the corner. Oh, dear God! Cindy had walked right into one robber’s arms as he started to shoot the lock off the vault gate. He had her left arm twisted painfully up against her shoulder as he fired three shots into the lock. On the fourth shot it flew apart and the gate swung open.

The man yanked Cindy inside with him, stuffed his pistol in his belt and started pulling at the large canvas bags with one arm.

“Come on, guys, get in here! I need some help.”

Fatso fired off a blast from the automatic for effect and then screamed, “Down, everybody down or you’re dead.” As he ran for the vault I couldn’t see anyone who wasn’t already down. I didn’t know if any were hurt or not.

I looked cautiously around, trying to spot the security men. I saw one of them on the floor. Hurt? Playing doggo? And I saw the third robber backing slowly toward the vault, gun in hand.

He called softly, “Now don’t panic, folks. Just lie quiet. We don’t want to hurt anybody. Just be cool and we’ll be
outa
here.” He sounded like the “nice guy” on my tape at home, and I was slightly encouraged.

Suddenly an aging security guard appeared from somewhere, walking slowly toward Nice Guy. His hands were held out, palms up, to show he was unarmed.

“All right, son, we don’t want to hurt anyone either, so just give me your gun and tell your friends to put theirs down and you can go. Nobody will hurt you.”

“Shut up, Dad, and lay down. You’re
buggin
’ me.”

“Now, son, just give me your weapon.” God, what was wrong with him? This wasn’t a kid misbehaving at the prom!

Nice Guy gave it to him, all right—high in the chest. I saw his white shirt turn red in front, and he went down.

Somebody screamed and Fatso treated us all to another spray of lead.

The guy I had decided was Frank bellowed, “Get in here!
Now! We don’t have all weekend!”

They got, and I took a moment to look out the large front window. As I had thought there would be, a car was parked in front of the doors, a man sitting in it. The passenger’s front door and both back doors were open, along with the trunk. They were ready to roll. Would they take Cindy with them?

Probably. I imagined their plans had been to grab a female hostage at random on the way out, just in case. Cindy had just offered up herself a little early. Now she was a chip in a poker game I couldn’t see the good guys winning. But I had to think of something. I could not let them leave here with Cindy. If they did, her chances were small. No way was I going to let that happen!
  

The cops would be here shortly. With Fatso Arnold Schwarzenegger, enjoying his Uzi, bullets would fly and you can bet Frank would have Cindy in front of him.

Think
, Peres!

They were moving out of the vault. First, Nice Guy carried out two big bags. Fatso managed one and, of course, his trusty weapon. Frank had let go of Cindy’s arm but had his pistol firmly against her back. He carried a large bag, somewhat clumsily in one hand, as they started across to the exit.

I could shoot him as he passed, but that had two drawbacks: even if I hit him fatally, he might shoot Cindy before he fell, or my bullet conceivably could pass through his body and into hers. I had to get his attention away from her. Stand up and yell?
 
Offer to swap Ms. Scout Leader for Cindy? Then I had my bright idea.

I stood up and fired six evenly placed shots across the top of the enormous plate glass window that covered almost the entire front of the bank. It came down in a swooshing, crackling sheet as graceful as a theatre curtain. Small pieces of glass covered the floor.

I screamed, “Cindy run, turn left!” I meant her to turn left outside the doors. The getaway car was parked to the right of the front doors. I was parked to the left. As the glass fell, Frank looked up at our window-fall, and his gun drifted off to the right. Cindy was already skittering across the glass. She slipped and went down on one knee but was up like a bird. She flung open one of the big doors as if it weighed a pound and was outside and turning left.

Then I fired again. Frank dropped his gun and grabbed his wrist. He lost his balance and fell. Had I really shot his gun out of his hand? I had been aiming for the middle of his back. Surely I wasn’t that shaky! I ran after Cindy, slowing as I passed Frank to kick his gun away. He was getting up as I went through the door.

I caught up with her at my car, we jumped in. I finally got the key into the ignition and we were away, the getaway car ahead of us and turning onto the street. I thought I heard sirens, but didn’t want to wait. There was Cassie, you see. And Rho.

As I raced a couple of blocks down Bradford and then turned to get over to Route Six, I said, “I think my cell phone is in the compartment. Call Cassie.”

 
“Number?” she asked.
 
I told her and she dialed. “Cassie, Cindy. Hold a minute.”

She turned to me. “Tell her what?”

“Her seafood charter just robbed the bank and shot it up and are headed for the airport. They are very, very dangerous. They will be there in six or seven minutes. Run or hide. Do not—repeat not—let them find you.”

She quoted me just about verbatim and hung up. Noticing she was shivering, I turned on the heater. I was sweating. “Now call Nacho, give her the scoop and ask for backup. I’ve only got six shots left.”
 
She made the call, put the phone back and pulled out a packet of tissues I keep in the compartment.

It was then I noticed her pants leg was bloody. “Darling, you’re hurt!” She was busy trying to staunch the blood and not having much luck. “Are you shot?”

“No. Just a cut from the glass. I’m okay. Thanks to you, angel, although I doubt Choate Ellis will be calling you angel when he sees his prized window.” We both laughed and she leaned her head against my shoulder for a moment and I felt wonderful.

As we turned into the airport I saw the big gray Chrysler stopped near the plane, already out on the ramp, motors idling. Frank and the getaway driver were visible in the cockpit. Nice Guy tossed the last bag into the cabin, climbed aboard, helped Fatso up the short ladder and closed the door. There was no sign of Cassie or Rho. Hopefully they had gotten away.

The men began to taxi toward the end of the runway to make their takeoff run into the wind. The only hope of stopping them would be to take my car out into the middle of the runway and block their takeoff. And I was not about to get us shot or sent airborne in a fireball.

“Well, it looks like they’re getting away. I didn’t see Cassie or Rho in the plane, did you?” Cindy asked.