Red Highway (12 page)

After they had gone abut a quarter of a mile, Virgil saw his chance. The guard up front and the one in the rear turned their attention away from the phalanx of prisoners to watch a grizzled farmer wrestle with an overturned tractor in a nearby field. Without a sound, Virgil slipped out of line then ducked behind a tangle of bushes. Then the others closed ranks, quietly and efficiently.

Virgil crouched in the bush for long seconds, the thorny twigs pricking his skin. While he waited, the sun slipped beneath the horizon, bathing the scene in a lavender glow and etching the bobbing forms in a silhouette of dark purple. The last man in line had nearly passed before his eyes when the guard in the rear noticed the absence. “Hey!” he shouted to the man up front. “We got a con missing!”

The fugitive took advantage of the confusion and bolted from the bush, heading downhill toward the bluff of the river that wound parallel to the road. He leaped into the water, just as something zinged past him and plucked at his shirt sleeve. It was followed almost immediately by a sharp crack from behind him.

Virgil hit the water and began swimming. His hands and feet churned and crashed through the cold water, supplementing and at times surpassing the swift current that carried him farther and farther away with each beat of his heart, doubling and redoubling the distance between him and his pursuers. Bullets chopped and splashed all around him, a few even sang within an inch of his right ear, but he was too busy scooping a progress through the dense river to take much notice. He ducked beneath the surface at frequent intervals to avoid as much fire as possible. At last, nearly a mile from the spot where he had dived in, Virgil crawled out, panting but unscathed, onto the opposite bank of the river. He lay there a moment to catch his breath, then scrambled to his feet and charged off into the scrub oak. It was almost dark.

Alex Kern looked the picture of prosperity as he led the way through the glass doors of the Wichita Savings and Loan Company. He was wearing a dark black suit of some shiny material with matching vest and set off by a bright red tie, the initials of which, elegantly woven into the silky material just beneath the knot, were not his own. The fawn-colored spats he had buttoned snugly over his gleaming black shoes were carefully chosen, for they matched exactly the expensive snap-brim hat he wore tilted over his right eye. He carried his small suitcase so effortlessly that no one would have guessed the heavy object it contained.

Virgil, entering on his heels, cut a similar but more subdued figure in a modest suit and darker felt hat, and carrying a suitcase identical to his partner's. Together, they crossed the highly waxed floor past the tellers' cages, set their burdens on the elbow-high bench along the far wall, and opened them. It was the work of a few seconds to assemble the lethal weapons and attach the drum clips. They were so efficient about it, in fact, that none of the bank's customers knew what was happening until the two strangers racked the first shells into the barrels and moved away from the bench. Then the small crowd fanned out in every direction, eyes on the two machine guns, hands in the air.

Alex smiled with all his teeth. “That's it, folks,” he said, balancing his weapon on one forearm, “just stay back and keep your hands away from your sides.… And stay away from the door!” He swung the gun on a middle-aged guard who had been inching toward the entrance. The guard stopped and moved away obediently.

“Down on the floor!” snapped Virgil, striding to the middle of the room. He held his machine gun tightly in both hands. “Now!”

The patrons reacted quickly to this prompting, and prostrated themselves, faces down, on the tile floor. “Not you,” said Virgil, glancing at the bank employees standing behind the long counter, some of whom had been in the act of lowering themselves to the raised platform in back of the cages. A fat man in a suit of some English cut was having trouble lowering his huge frame until Virgil placed the barrel of his weapon underneath the man's nose. Then he hit the floor like a felled oak.

Kern took a black cloth sack from his open suitcase, shook it free of its folds, and went over to the nearest cage, where he shoved it in front of a diminutive female teller. Her heavily mascaraed eyes widened visibly.

“Well?” he said calmly.

“Well … what?” The girl's voice was barely audible.

Alex's sunny manner vanished. “Fill it. To the top.”

The teller hesitated a moment, then took the bag and began stuffing stacks of bills into it from her cash drawer.

While she was busy with this, Virgil came forward and stepped around the end of the varnished counter. “Which one of you is in charge?” His eyes swept the line of bank employees standing against the back wall, hands raised.

A small man near the end stirred. “I'm the chief cashier,” he volunteered.

Virgil looked at him. The little teller looked quaint and birdlike with his pinch-nose glasses perched atop his shining beak. The green eye-shade and striped sleeve garters he wore added to the illusion, making him look like some rare species of prairie chicken. He didn't appear to be frightened, though his face was pale. “You know the combination to the vault?” Virgil waved the barrel of his gun toward the circular steel door looming massively on the wall behind the wooden cages.

After a minute, the man nodded. “I do.”

“Open it.”

“No.”

Virgil raised his eyebrows and glanced at Alex on the other side of the counter. His partner was smiling incredulously, gold tooth shining. Virgil turned back to the cashier and poked the muzzle of his Thompson into the man's face. “Open it,” he repeated.

The cashier shook his head and paled a shade further. The bank robber snatched the little man by his collar and drew him close, shoving the gun beneath his chin. The man grunted. “I'll blow your goddamn head off!” Virgil's voice was rising.

“I'm not allowed to open the vault unless the president is here.” Sweat broke out on the teller's face, but his tone was emphatic.

Virgil signaled to his partner. Alex knew what to do. He reached between the bars of the teller's cage, grabbed the female employee roughly by the shoulder, and thrust his machine gun against her neck at an upward angle. She whimpered, but didn't move.

“Now,” whispered Virgil to the head teller, “if you don't open the vault, this pretty little girl's brains will be splattered all over your nice clean bank. You want that?”

The cashier began to shake uncontrollably. Virgil yanked him off his feet. “Answer me!”

“I—” he gasped. “I can't. The rules—”

“Shoot her!”

There was a long silence. Virgil shot a glance at Alex. “What are you waiting for? Shoot her!”

Alex looked as pale as the girl he was holding. “I can't, Virge! Not just like that! Not in cold blood.”

“You weak-kneed son of a bitch!” Virgil released the chief cashier and swung the barrel of his machine gun so that it pointed at the girl's mid-section. She squirmed in Alex Kern's frightened grip and cried out hoarsely. Virgil had flipped the gun onto single shot and was about to squeeze the trigger when the chief cashier interrupted him.

“Wait!” he screamed. “I'll open the vault.”

“Boy, oh, boy!” Virgil rammed the shift lever into third and the heavy Oldsmobile left the ground, bouncing along the gravel road. “I never thought I'd be teaming up with a goddamn humanitarian! Boy, oh, boy!”

Alex held on tight to the dashboard. “I'm sorry, Virge. I told you before I wasn't no murderer.”

They rode in silence for a long time, watching the rutted cow path disappear beneath the sedan's hungry wheels. Finally Virgil spoke. “How much we get?”

“Lemme see.” Alex hefted the black cloth bag from the floor to the seat beside him. He began counting in stacks of a thousand. “Six, seven, eight, nine.…”

Virgil thought back to the days of Roy Farrell and the Moss boys. They had only gotten eight thousand in Apache. He wondered what those boys were doing now.

“… Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.…”

The Kansas countryside shot past the window, flat as a table top. There was a lot more green in the scenery than there was in Oklahoma. And a lot more green, Virgil mused, in the banks.

“… Fifty-three.… These others is in five-hundred-dollar stacks.… Fifty-four, five, six.…” He turned to Virgil, astonished. “Jesus Christ, we topped sixty grand!”

Virgil smiled and swerved around a particularly vicious-looking pothole. “The vault, boy. That's where the money is.” He shook his head. “To think that little sonuvabitch cashier almost kept us from getting into it. And you damn near helped him do it!”

“Cut it out. We got into it, didn't we? We didn't have to kill nobody to do it, either.”

“Stupid bastard.” Virgil spoke as if he hadn't heard Kern's remark. “I almost wish he'd give me an excuse to cut him down.”

He felt Alex watching him, and turned to face his partner. “What are you gaping at?” he demanded.

Alex shifted his eyes to the road ahead. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? You was looking at me like you just found out I laid your old lady or something. What's wrong?”

The other shrugged and avoided his eyes. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

They drove on in silence.

Earl Bishop swung shut the door of his patrol car and looked up at the stone facade that loomed above him. It was a hotel building, one of the newer ones in Wichita, its edges as clean and as sharp as new cardboard. Young though he was, in his fresh blue uniform and highly polished black visor, Patrolman Bishop seemed to go with these surroundings. He entered through the revolving door.

Once inside, he spotted the desk clerk, an alert-looking young man about his own age, and went over to him. “You in charge?” Bishop asked.

“I am until Mr. Wattler gets back from lunch. He's the manager.” The young clerk looked concerned. “Is something wrong?”

Bishop took a square of paper from the pocket of his tunic, unfolded it, and handed it to the clerk. “Is this man staying in your hotel?”

The clerk studied the circular. In the center, beneath the alarming black “Wanted,” was the picture of a pleasant-looking young man with fine features and a thick shock of black hair. He was smiling. “I'm not sure,” said the clerk slowly. “I haven't been here too long.”

“How about him?” The policeman handed him a similar document. A morose blond fellow with a pouting look stared coldly from the center of this one. The clerk recognized him instantly. “Sure!” he exclaimed. “He registered about a week ago.” He flipped through the pages of the open book at his elbow. “Here! This is it!” He turned the book so that the officer could read the hastily scrawled signature beneath his finger: “Oscar Miller, Room 280.”

Bishop noted the room number. “Is he in now?”

The clerk turned to look at the key board behind the desk. “He must be. His key's gone. You going up?”

The officer ignored the question. “Is he alone?”

“Search me.”

“No need.” Bishop headed for the carpeted staircase that would take him to the second floor. He hesitated with one foot on the bottom step and glanced back at the clerk. “There'll be a few more police coming in a little while,” he said. “Send 'em on up, will you?”

“Will do.”

Room 280 was the second door on the left. The policeman paused in front of it and listened. Music drifted out faintly from inside the room, and once he heard a bedspring creak. He took a deep breath and knocked boldly on the door.

Virgil was stretched out on the bed in his pin-striped trousers and BVD undershirt, smoking a cigarette. Beside him, the big floor model RCA vibrated as Bix Beiderbecke seized “Baby, Won't You Please Come Home?” from the rest of Frankie Trumbauer's orchestra, pushed it through his trumpet, and gave it a whole new dimension. Virgil sang along with it quietly, waving his ash-laden cigarette in time to the jumping music. The knock on the door cut him off in midlyric.

Sitting up abruptly, he put his cigarette out in the ashtray atop the radio. Alex and he had agreed upon a special knock should he come to visit the other, and that wasn't it. He reached beneath his pillow, picked up his Luger, and slipped quietly out of bed.

Earl Bishop had his fist raised to knock again when the door opened. For what seemed an eternity, he stood staring into the hardened face of the man he had come to get. Then the Luger barked. Something tore into his guts, burning a white-hot swath as it passed through him from belly to back. He clutched at his abdomen and felt his intestines squirm in his hands. Hot blood flowed over his fingers. Then he fell.

Virgil stepped over the policeman's body and catapulted through the doorway, straight into the arms of two more men in uniform. Something came down hard on the back of his head and he collapsed, but not before the toe of a glossily polished boot struck him in the groin. The floor came up almost as hard.

Chapter Twelve

Ballard escapes! screamed the two-inch-high headline. Tri-State Terror With Ten Others in Mass Break! Four columns went on to describe the details of the incident at the Kansas State Prison in Lansing.

Hazel rolled up the newspaper and slid it into the waste basket beside her desk. A colored section advertising a special Memorial Day Sale at Miami's biggest department store slipped free and fell to the floor. She sat there a long time, staring at the colorful debris. Then she snapped out of it and turned back to her typewriter.

Hazel was nearly thirty now, but she didn't look it. Her black hair showed no signs of gray and her oval face was unlined. The colorful print dress she was wearing contributed to the youthful image, as did the lighter make-up she had taken to using. At twenty-nine, Hazel appared to have been in suspended animation for five years. Which was very close to the truth.