KnockOut

now empty of life.

Buzz Riley came to stand by him. “I’ve heard of this group, of course, got bulletins on each of their jobs. Mac and I even discussed them over lunch the other day. He said they always knew when a bank got a cash delivery from the Federal Reserve. I knew they killed all the bank security guards on their way out, but I’ll tell you, Savich, I never dreamed they’d come here to Georgetown. Neither did Mac. None of us were very worried, even though Mac brought up that shoot-out of yours at the Barnes and Noble. I’ll tell you, when the guy shoved that thirty-eight in my ear, I thought I was a dead man.” Buzz paused a moment, swallowed hard. “Thanks, Savich. Lordy, when I tell my kids how you brought one of the robbers down and saved my life, expect a dozen excited calls.”

“We’re about even on that score, Buzz.”

Buzz waved that away. He said, his voice still hyper, “You know, when I heard women were part of the group, I didn’t know if I believed it, in my gut, you know? I mean, Bonnie Parker hit the scene long before I was even born. But this, Savich, bringing her kid with her to rob a bank. Can you figure that?”

No, Savich couldn’t figure it.

“That girl—she was vicious, whacked out. I bet I’ll be seeing more white hairs than I had five minutes before these bozos came charging into the bank.” Buzz put his hand on Savich’s arm. “You know what? When I believed in my gut I’d reached the end, I saw my grandmother, isn’t that strange? I think I was a little kid and she was yelling something at me.” He swallowed, shook his head.

Savich said, “It was close, but only Mac got hurt, that’s what’s amazing, with all those bullets flying around.”

“We lucked out. We surely did.” Buzz grinned over at Sherlock, who was speaking to the assistant manager. “Your wife, right? Mac told me about her, said she was a pistol, said he was looking forward to seeing her at the gym.”

AFTER THREE HOURS OF exhaustive debriefing at the Hoover Building, Savich took a call from Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post. Jumbo said only one word, “Why?”

“One of the robbers had a gun in the security guard’s ear. He was going to kill him for the sport of it.”

Jumbo was silent for a moment. “That’s Buzz Riley, right? Retired cop?”

“Yes.”

A pause, then, “I spoke to him. He told me that girl was going to kill you too. Jeez, Savich, that was a hell of a risk you took.”

It beat lying there watching Buzz get his brains blown out, Savich thought, and knew his own brains had been on the line too. He said what he’d said a dozen times already, the last time to Director Mueller himself: “I had no choice and no time. I had to act.” Savich could hear Hardy typing on his laptop.

“Oh, yeah, I checked the hospital. The girl you kicked in the gut— of all things, you injured her duodenum, and maybe her pancreas, something the doctors only see in auto accidents. My friends at the hospital tell me she’s in surgery. She’ll probably make it, but she’s not going to be a happy camper for a while. You know her name?”

Of course they knew all the robbers’ names now. “Good try, Jumbo. You know I can’t give that out yet.”

“I hear the FBI agents who’d just pulled up outside the bank brought down the fourth bank robber as he was fleeing. That right?”

It was, but Savich said, “We’re still sorting everything out. I’m sure you can get all the details from Mr. Maitland.”

More typing on the laptop, then, “Hey, Savich, I wouldn’t be surprised if a bank customer sues you for endangering his life.”

He wouldn’t be surprised either, Savich thought as he punched off his cell, given the deadening fear and the human need to blame someone when bad things happen. And the robbers were all dead except for the teenage girl. As he pulled on his jacket, he remembered the hundred-dollar bills scattered over the bank floor, some of them float-Ing on the rivulets of blood from Jennifer Smiley’s neck. He closed his office door, saw Sherlock, and went to her.

“Good move with your cell,” she said, and hugged him. He held her carefully, a habit now, since her surgery two months before. “I’ve told everyone else, but not you, Dillon. We were on the road in a minute, no longer. We heard everything on the speakerphone. Riley told me the girl was going to kill you, Dillon, she was just going to shoot you and dash out of the bank, laughing.” She hugged him tighter.

Agent Ruth Warnecki said, “He’s alive, Sherlock, and I’d say he deserves a pizza.” She paused, turned to stare hard at Savich. “Sherlock might be used to you playing fast and loose with your hide, but I’m not. I’m asking you real nice, Dillon, don’t do that again, okay?”

He managed a grin. “Do you know I was at the bank to check on Sean’s college fund? There was some sort of entry error that I couldn’t deal with online.” He shook his head, laughed at life’s improbabilities. He said, “You’re right, Ruth, a pizza sounds good.”

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK that night, Mr. Maitland called to tell him they’d found the getaway car, the image captured by ATM cameras. It was a black Dodge 2008 Grand Caravan, with swivel seats and a backseat TV. It had been stolen four days earlier from a Cranston, Virginia, dentist, and left on a side road outside Ladderville, Maryland. There was no sign of the driver but lots of fingerprints.

“I guess they should call it the Gang of Five then, since someone had to be driving that van,” Savich said.

“Let’s just hope this bozo’s prints are in the system.”

2

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Thursday night, three days later

The first time she spoke to him was at midnight.

It’s you, it’s really you. I can see you. Can you hear me?

It was a child’s voice, high, excited, with light bursts of breathing.

He heard her voice at the edge of sleep. At first he didn’t understand, thought maybe it was Sean, but then he saw her—the shape of her small head, then a tangle of long, dark brown hair, and he thought, Yes, it’s me. Who are you?

I can really see you, just like I could see my dad. He died, you know. Your name’s Dillon and I saw you standing in front of that bank on TV, and listened to the TV people tell what you did.

At first Savich didn’t know what she was talking about. You saw me on TV?

Oh, yes. I told my mama you were a hero. You took care of those bank robbers, made them real sorry. She said you were crazy, said what if there’d been kids in the bank?

Raise your face so I can see you. Who are you?

She shoved back her hair and looked straight at him. I’m Autumn.

Autumn. Now he saw her small, triangular face, her child-white skin, beautiful eyes, a lighter blue than Sherlock’s, framed with absurdly long lashes, freckles across the bridge of her nose, but there was something wrong, something—Can you see me, Autumn?

Oh, yes. You’re all dark.

How did you get to me?

I haven’t tried to call anyone since my dad died. Last night I thought real hard, and tried to picture your face, but you wouldn’t come. Then tonight, I saw you in my mind standing in front of the bank, and there you were. I think you’re rich, Dillon, real rich.

No, I’m not rich.

You’re inside-rich and you’re wide open, at least tonight you are. Mama’s afraid, she’s always afraid; well, I’m afraid too, since I’m the one who saw them. Mama said we have to hide real good or they’ll find us. She jumps out of her skin whenever anybody comes close. I do too. They’re real scary, Dillon. I told her I’d ask you what to do. Mama started to shake her head at me like she always used to do, then she didn’t.