Backflash. Part 14

So Noelle wasn't worried about being caught sitting on several hundred thousand dollars. What had her shaky and nauseous was something much simpler; she was dehydrated. Having to sit for over six hours every night in this d.a.m.n wheelchair or the other wheelchair, actually, up till tonight without any opportunity to leave it for any reason at all, meant she'd been avoiding liquids as much as possible the last eight days.

Six hours without a bathroom isn't easy, if you stay with a normal intake of liquids, so Noelle had been cutting back, and finding it a little chancy anyway, and by tonight the drying-out had begun to affect her. She knew it already in the van driving up to Albany, but she didn't dare do anything about it then, with the whole night in front of her, so she'd been hanging in there, feeling sicker and sicker, until by now what she was most afraid of was dry heaves; and dry they'd be.

Apart from the physical discomfort, though, she was having no trouble with this job. Since she and Tommy had split up, it had been harder to find strings to attach to, so money had often been a problem, which tonight should go a long way to solve.

And another good thing about this crowd was, none of them felt he had to hit on her. Parker had his woman Claire, and the other three all seemed to understand that she was simply another member of the crew, and it would screw things up entirely if they got out of line. Also, they probably knew she could be difficult if annoyed; they might even have heard about the guy she'd kneecapped in St. Louis.

It would probably be better all around if she found some other guy on the bend to hook up with, but she'd gotten along before Tommy and she'd get along now, and if another guy appeared, fine. It would certainly be easier, though, if Uncle Ray were still alive.

It was her father's older brother, Ray Braselle, a heister from way back, who'd brought her into the game, over her pharmacist father's objections. Ray Braselle had been around for so long that once, in describing the first bank job he was ever on, he'd said, "And I stood on the running board," and then he'd had to explain what a running board was.

Uncle Ray was all right, though old as the G.o.ddam hills. But the people he ran with were more like Parker; tough, but not just smash-and-grab, always with a plan, a contingency, ways in and ways out. For guys like that, a good-looking girl could frequently be part of the plan, and if she was a pro herself, steady and reliable, not a hooker and not a junkie, who knew how to handle a gun, an alarm system or a cop, so much the better.

Uncle Ray liked to spend his free time living off away by himself, in a scrubby ranch he had in Wyoming, north of Cheyenne, up in the foothills before the high mountains toward Montana, and it was there that a horse rolled on him some kind of accident, no way to be sure exactly what happened and the body wasn't found for six days. After that, Noelle still got the occasional call from guys she and Ray had worked with, and on one of those jobs she'd met Tommy Carpenter, and they'd lived together for a few years until all of a sudden it turned out Tommy was afraid of the law, so here she was on her own. And feeling mighty sick.

Should she ask Mike to get her a gla.s.s of water? No; the very idea made her feel even worse. What would happen if she tried to drink water and she threw it up, right here in this chair? Down to the nurse's office, no way to avoid it; the change of clothing, the examination, the discovery of the money; ten to fifteen in a prison laundry.

Hang in there, she told herself, and to Mike she said, "Mike, could we stay in one place for a while? I feel like s.h.i.+t."

"I thought you did," he said. "Before you start feeling better, let's go talk to the purser."

"Good."

They'd done this on two other nights, so the purser would be used to the idea. Half an hour or so before the s.h.i.+p would dock, they'd go to the purser and Mike would quietly explain that Jane Ann was feeling kind of bad, a little worse than usual, and would it be okay if they got off first, the instant the s.h.i.+p was made fast? Hey, no problem. No problem twice before this, and it should be no problem tonight.

Getting to the purser's office meant another elevator ride; Noelle gulped a lot, and breathed through her mouth, and held tight to the wheelchair arms, and didn't at all have to put on an act for the other people in the elevator.

The purser's office was open on one side, to an interior lobby, with a chest-high counter. The purser himself was there, with two of his girl a.s.sistants, all three of them in the blue and gold uniforms. He wanted them to call him Jerry, and he gave them a big smile as they approached: "Hey, Mike. How you doin, Jane Ann? Enjoyin the ride?" n.o.body ever asked anybody if they were winning or losing; that was considered bad taste.

"Not so much, Jerry," Noelle told him, and swallowed hard.

Jerry looked stricken, as though he thought the s.h.i.+p was to blame, and Mike leaned close to him to say, "I hate to be a pest, Jerry, asking special favors all the time-" as the phone on the desk behind the counter rang and one of the girls answered it.

"Hey, no problem, Mike," Jerry said. "I can see Jane Ann's ready to call it a day. You be down in that lounge again, you remember? and- Excuse me."

Because the girl who'd answered the phone wanted to say a quick word to Jerry, who tilted his head toward her while continuing to face Mike and Noelle.

One strange thing about all these hours in the wheelchair was the way it changed your perspective on everybody else. They were all big people now, and she was little. Seated in the wheelchair, she was too low to actually see the countertop, but could look at an angle up past it at the faces of Jerry and his girl a.s.sistant as the girl, in low tones that nevertheless Noelle could hear, said, "The cas.h.i.+er's cage say they're not getting any change."

Jerry looked blank, but continued to smile at Mike and Noelle. He said, "What?"

"People want to cash in now," she told him, "and they're sending down the chips, but nothing's coming back up."

Here we go, Noelle thought. One twenty-seven by the big clock on the wall at the back of the purser's office. Here's where the hairy part begins. Sooner or later, cops are going to come aboard, and they're going to want to know if there are any anomalies here tonight, any odd or unusual pa.s.sengers, and will they look at a girl in a wheelchair? Sooner or later they might, but not if she's long gone, off and away from here.

"Excuse me," Jerry said, and turned away from them, and made a quick phone call. Four numbers; internal. Calling the money room. Waiting. Listening. Waiting. Looking confused.

Exactly one-thirty. Jerry hung up, and stood still for a second, frowning this way and that, trying to decide what to do. Mike said, "Jerry? Something wrong?"

"No, no," Jerry said. 'Just a little, uh, communication problem. Excuse me, one second." He made another internal call, and this time it was answered right away, and he said, "It's Jerry. We're not getting anything up from the money room, and when I called down there there's no answer. Can you beep your guy at the top of the stairs? Well, can you send somebody over, see what's up? Thanks, Doug."

Mike, sounding worried, said, "Jerry? Is there gonna be a problem?"

"I'm sure there isn't," Jerry promised him. "Maybe there's an electric failure down there, who knows what. They'll take a look."

Mike, more confidential than ever, said, "Jerry, the reason- See, I'm responsible for Jane Ann."

"I know, Mike, and you do a great-"

"Yeah, but, see, if there's gonna be a problem Jerry, I gotta get this girl home."

"Don't you worry, Mike, we'll get Jane Ann home, there isn't going to be any reason not. You've got my word on this, okay?"

"Would it be okay," Mike asked, "if we stuck around here to find out what's going on? You know, just so we know. I mean, if we gotta get the medevac helicopter, we oughta know that right-"

Jerry blanched, but rallied. "If it comes to that," he said, "we'll move fast, don't you worry, but it isn't gonna come to that. Sure, stick around, I'm happy to have the company. Jane Ann? Anything I can get you?"

"Oh, no," she said, and put a trembling hand over her mouth.

Jerry looked as though he couldn't figure out which of his problems he should worry about most.

One thirty-three by the big clock, and the phone rang. The same girl a.s.sistant answered, then said to Jerry, "Doug."

"Right. Jerry here. Yeah? What? Holy s.h.i.+t, I I I mean h.e.l.l! Jesus! What are we- Yeah, okay, I'll come up, too, who knows what the f.u.c.k we're supposed oh, G.o.d. I'll come up."

He slammed the phone down and gave Noelle an agonized look, saying, "I do apologize, Jane Ann, I'm very sorry, that isn't like me, to use language like I was just I'm overwhelmed."

Mike said, "Jerry? What is it?"

"I've gotta go see the captain." Jerry was well and truly rattled.

Mike said, "Jerry, don't leave us like this. What's going on?"

Jerry looked both ways, then leaned over the counter and gave them a harsh stage whisper: "We've been robbed!"

"What?" Mike was as astonished as Jerry. "You're kidding me, n.o.body could-" Then, moving as though prepared to fling himself between Noelle and an approaching bullet, he said, "They're on the s.h.i.+p? You've got robbers on-"

"No, no, they- I don't know, apparently they came in through the door in the hull, there's a separate door there, I don't know if you ever noticed, the armored car, at the dock-"

"No," Mike said. "They came in through some door in the hull? The side of the s.h.i.+p, you mean?"

"And I guess back out again," Jerry said. "With the money."

Noelle said, "Jerry?"

He leaned close to give her a solicitous look, and to say, "Don't worry, Jane Ann, we'll still get you off, just as soon as we dock."

"Thank you, Jerry," she said, "but that's not what I wanted to say. Jerry, do you realize what this is? It's piracy!"

Jerry reared back, thinking about that. "By golly, you're right," he said.

Noelle said, "Look for a man with an eye patch." And, despite how miserable she felt, she smiled.

At one forty-five they made the announcement over the loudspeaker. The money room had been robbed by gunmen who escaped in a small boat. More money was coming from the bank and would meet the boat, and people who still had chips to turn in would be able to do so while exiting the s.h.i.+p. There would be two exit ramps, so if you didn't want to cash in any chips you wouldn't have to wait on that line. All pa.s.sengers would be required to give their names and addresses and show identification to the police when debarking, but otherwise would not be detained. The s.h.i.+p, its crew and its owners apologized for any inconvenience.

The s.h.i.+p was abuzz with excitement and rumor, and Mike and Noelle stayed well away from it. Mike asked permission to stay in the purser's office till they landed, to protect Jane Ann, and the distracted Jerry agreed, but they didn't hear any more about what was going on. The action had apparently moved to the security office.

When at last they docked in Albany, Jerry was as good as his word. He personally escorted them to the lounge near the exit, he spoke to the first police officers who boarded, and there was no problem about departure from the s.h.i.+p.

Mike showed his fake chauffeur's ID, gave Jane Ann Livingston's spurious address in a mansion on the Hudson, and three minutes after the s.h.i.+p had tied up at the dock he was pus.h.i.+ng a thoroughly beat-up Noelle down the gangplank and through the departure building and out to the parking lot, where for the last time he did the elaborate ramp arrangement that got her wheelchair into the van. Then he got behind the wheel, and drove them away from there.

The second traffic light they hit was red, and while stopped he looked at her in his inside mirror and said, "How you doing?"

"Ask me," she told him, "three beers from now."

10.

Ray Becker woke up. Holy s.h.i.+t, he fell asleep!

Around ten he'd driven away from the cottages and down into a nearby town to a pizza place, where he got a small pizza and a can of c.o.ke, and came back, and sat here on the porch in the dark, looking out at the black river, with the living room and kitchen lights on in the cabin behind him, and while he ate he thought about where he'd go, once he had his hands on the money.

He wished he could just get completely out of the United States, but he didn't dare. He wasn't sure he could cross any border without ID, and he didn't have any ID he'd care to show anybody official. And if he went somewhere else in the world, what would he know about the place? The laws, the systems, the ways things worked. What would he know about how they handled things? He'd be crippling himself, that's all, and for what?

No, he'd have to stay in the States, which meant he'd have to go somewhere that was both out of the way and far from home; he wouldn't want to run into any old high school pals on the street.

But it couldn't be just anywhere. There were states, for instance, like Florida and Louisiana, that had a floating population of petty crooks and therefore had a lot of police forces alert to the idea of checking out any strangers who hung around too long. For similar reasons, big cities like New York and Chicago were out; but they were out anyway, because Becker had never felt comfortable in big cities.

He'd thought about Oregon and he'd thought about Maine, but the idea of the weather in both those places daunted him. On the other hand, if he went too far south, he'd stand out too much.

Maybe some place like Colorado or Kansas. Move in to some medium-size town, just settle in for a while, then get fresh ID, invest some of the money in a local business, start a new life.

ID wouldn't be a problem, he knew how to do that. You'd choose a good-sized city Omaha, say, or St. Louis and look in the newspaper obits there for the year you were born, where you'd eventually find a child that had died before its second birthday. Using that child's name, you'd write to the Hall of Records in that city to ask for a copy of your birth certificate. Using that, you'd go to the nearest Social Security office and explain you'd lived outside the U.S. since you were a kid, with your parents, but now you were back and you needed to sign up. With those two pieces of ID, and the same off-sh.o.r.e story, you'd go get your driver's license, and all of a sudden you were as legit as any citizen in the country.

Kansas, he thought, that's where I'll go, check it out, see if that's the place for me, and on that thought he'd fallen asleep.

Only to spring awake, with the realization that he'd almost made a huge mistake. A huge mistake. If the robbers came back with the money and Ray Becker was sprawled in this chair asleep, that would be it. No questions. No more chances.

Kansas? Bottom of the Hudson River, more likely.

The lights are still on! What time is it?

He was trying to look at his watch and jump up from the Adirondack chair, both at the same time, when a voice said, "Whadaya suppose they left the lights on for?"

Becker froze. Someone in the kitchen, directly behind him. He stared ahead of himself, out at the blackness that contained the river, and he listened very hard to the s.p.a.ce behind him.

A second voice: "Maybe so they could find the place from the river." Younger, more nasal, than the first voice.

"We'll leave it the way they left it," said a third voice, older and heavier and beerier, like the first one. And how the f.u.c.k many of them were there? "We want those boys walkin in here all fat and sa.s.sy."

Now he knew why he'd come awake. He must have heard them arrive somehow, a car door slamming or the front door opening or whatever it was.

Get off the porch; that's the first thing. Slowly and silently, without attracting attention, get off this G.o.ddam porch.

Becker eased forward off the Adirondack chair onto his hands and knees. Behind him they were talking, making themselves at home, opening and closing the refrigerator door. A beer can popped.

The screen door off this screened-in porch was ahead and to the right, and it opened inward. Becker crawled over there, found the door by feel, pulled it a little way open, and for a wonder it didn't squeak. Holding the door with his left hand, he s.h.i.+fted around to a seated position, then slid himself forward on his rump into the doorway, until his feet found the log step out there between porch level and the ground.

Easing himself out, and down onto that step, without letting the door slam, was d.a.m.n tricky, but he did it, holding his hand between door and frame at the last, until he could get his feet under him, and reach up to the k.n.o.b. He pushed the door open just a bit to free his hand, then eased it shut.

Darkness outside, with canyons of light vaulted from the windows. Becker eased along next to the building, peeked in the kitchen window, and saw three of them, all now with beers in their hands.

Bikers. Two big old rogue elephants, bearded and ponytailed and big-gutted, and one young ferret, all three of them in the black leather those boys like so much. One of them was the leader, and was telling the other two where to position themselves for the ambush to come; this one in this room, that one in that room.

Becker went back to the side of the porch, away from the light, then hurried around the next-door cottage to his pickup truck. From there he could see, gleaming in the living room light over there, three big motorcycles. So that's what had waked him, those hogs driving in. d.a.m.n good thing.

When he'd first rented the pickup, he'd removed the interior light, so it stayed dark when he gently opened the pa.s.senger door. There was a narrow storage s.p.a.ce behind the bench-type seat, that you got to by tilting the seatback forward. Not much room back there, but enough for the shotgun he'd taken from the trunk of his patrol car when he'd ditched it, and also for the two handguns he'd always carried; his official sidearm, a Smith and Wesson Model 39, a 9mm automatic with an eight-shot clip, and his extra, a little Smith and Wesson.38 Chiefs Special, a very concealable revolver with a two-inch barrel.

For present purposes, he left the automatic, pocketed the revolver in case he needed to do in-close work, and headed back for the lit-up cottage, carrying the shotgun at port arms.

And now at last he looked at his watch: five minutes to two! Jesus Christ, they'll be back any minute! He had to get rid of those people, he had to get those lights switched off.

It's getting complicated again, G.o.ddam it, it's getting screwed-up again. Get it under control. Don't let things spin away into disaster like every other time, this is the last chance, the last chance. The last chance.

The leader first. Moving cautiously along, stooped to stay under the shafts of light, Becker found him in the bedroom off the kitchen, in semi-darkness, looking through the mostly shut doorway at the kitchen, patiently waiting. He had a beer can in his left hand, a big automatic in his right, like the one Becker had left in the truck.

Take care of this now. Take care of it all right now. Get it simple again.

Becker rested the tip of the barrel of the shotgun against the wood frame at the bottom of the screen over the window. The window was open, so it was only the screen in the way. Focusing past it, not seeing the screen at all when he did, Becker aimed the shotgun carefully at the center of the back of that head, just at the knot in the ponytail. His finger slowly squeezed down on the trigger.

FOUR.

1.