17
Claude the guard struggled to rise on the slippery bank floor, his arthritis making his hips sing. He’d been watching his life flash by like an old silent movie when the first shot had snapped him awake. He knew the sound of a .357, and that wasn’t it.
He went to where Beasley and the scarecrow lay on the floor and checked each man for a pulse. Both were dead as doornails. Just to be safe, he pried the guns from their fingers and deposited them on Highland Moss’s desk. He’d once caught a baby shark on a fishing trip. It was dead when he went to take the hook out, yet still managed to bite his hand. Evil, he’d learned, was capable of some mighty strange things.
He glanced at Ricky Smith and the older guy holding the gun. For the life of him, Claude could not figure out where the gun had come from. One moment the older guy’s hands were behind his head; the next, he’s holding a piece. Claude had guessed the robbers were wearing Kevlar vests beneath their shirts, which anybody could buy these days. The older guy had figured this out, too, and drilled them both in the face.
And the way he’d popped them. Lightning fast, without flinching. That was something that did not come naturally. It was practiced, and usually for good reason. Claude felt a hand on his shoulder, and glanced at Ricky Smith.
“Where’s Hi Moss?” Ricky asked.
Claude pointed at the door that led to the vault. Beasley had dragged Hi Moss and two bank employees back there five minutes ago. Then, they’d heard a muffled gunshot.
“They’re all in there,” the guard said.
Highland Moss was fading fast when Valentine and Ricky Smith reached him, the floor of the bank’s vault pooled with his dark blood. His two employees were crying their eyes out, and Valentine led them out of the vault, then returned to find Ricky kneeling next to Moss.
“Hey, Ricky,” the bank manager said weakly. “Long time no see.”
Ricky said something in reply that sounded like a squeak. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and his face was ashen.
“You run across Beasley?” the bank manager whispered.
Ricky found the strength to answer him. “He’s dead. Mr. Valentine shot him.”
“What about his partner?”
“Mr. Valentine got him, too.”
Moss gave Valentine an approving look. Then said, “Before he shot me, Beasley said something about being voted off the island. Made it sound like it was the reason he was robbing the bank. Any idea what he meant?”
Ricky swallowed hard and shook his head.
“Me neither.” Moss blinked, then blinked again, and a layer of his self seemed to float away. His breathing grew shallow and his chest caved in slightly, and Valentine braced himself for what was about to follow. Ricky knelt down beside him.
“Anything I can do,” Ricky whispered. “Anyone you’d like me to call?”
The bank manager thought about it, then shook his head.
“Not enough time,” he whispered.
By the time the EMS crew arrived, Moss’s tenure on Earth was over. As the medics swarmed into the vault, Valentine and Ricky went back into the bank with the employees. The overhead sprinklers had shut off, and they found two dry seats to sit on.
Ten Slippery Rock police officers arrived a few minutes later. Both genders of officers were built like gladiators, with pumped-up bodies and the bad attitudes that seemed to accompany people who spent too much time in the gym.
The musclehead in charge was a sergeant named Rod Gaylord. He was in his mid-forties, had an abundance of freckles, and acted like he’d never been around a homicide scene before. Valentine watched him and his team pick up the weapons on Highland Moss’s desk, then touch the victims’ bodies. They were destroying the crime scene, not that he thought any of them knew what that meant. Gaylord grabbed the bank guard and started to pull him outside. Valentine got up and walked toward the two men.
“Get back in that chair, mister,” Gaylord said, pointing a finger at him.
“But—”
“No buts. I’ll question you when I’m good and ready.”
“I need to talk to you,” Valentine insisted.
“I said sit down,” the sergeant snapped.
Gaylord looked nervous as hell. Like he knew this was the defining moment of his career and he was about to blow it. From his pocket Valentine removed the Glock he’d used to shoot the robbers and handed it to the sergeant.
“I shot them,” he said.
Gaylord stared at the gun like it was an alien baby. His heavily freckled face turned bright red. Looking at the guard, he said, “I thought you shot them.”
“No, sir,” Claude said. “It was Mr. Valentine here.”
Gaylord turned the gun over in his palm. To Valentine he said, “You got a license for this, mister?”
Valentine got the license from his wallet and handed it to him. He went to the firing range twice a week and practiced fast-drawing from his ankle holster, always hoping he’d never have to put the skill to use.
“That was some fine shooting,” Gaylord said.
“I got a little lucky.”
“Two bullets, two dead men. I wouldn’t call that luck. What brings you to Slippery Rock?”
A television news team was at the front door banging on the glass. Valentine watched the sergeant wave them away. Telling Gaylord he was here on a job would not add anything to the sergeant’s day. This was his town, and he’d be offended that Valentine hadn’t checked in with him. So he used the same lie he’d told Polly. “I’m a retired cop. I’m writing my memoirs.”
“You don’t say. Got a publisher?”
That was fast. “Not yet,” Valentine said.
“I need to question Claude here, then ask you some questions. Don’t go running away, you hear?”
The sergeant said it with a slight smile on his face, but there was no smile in his voice. He pointed at a chair, and Valentine dutifully crossed the room and sat in it.
Praying there were no troopers on the highway, Polly floored the accelerator of her Acura Integra. That morning, her life had seemed to be getting back on track. She had a new boyfriend, and her career selling real estate for Century 21 was finally taking off. It had taken her a long time to feel really independent, not just financially but also in her head, and with a single phone call she’d seen it all fall apart.
She’d been in a closing when her mother had called. Retired with nothing to do, her mother called when she was bored, creating emergencies to get her daughter on the line. Polly had grown tired of it, and she’d snatched the phone out of her assistant’s hand. “What’s up?”
“Did you hear the news?” her mother asked.
With which Polly had gotten royally pissed. She wasn’t going to make it in real estate by being Momma’s little girl. In a cold voice she’d said, “Look, Mother, can’t this wait until later? I’m in a closing and they’re ready to sign —”
“Your ex-husband walked into a bank robbery this afternoon. There were a pair of robbers. Somehow they got shot to death. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Ricky? In a bank robbery? Are you sure?”
“Yes, honey. It’s all over the radio and the TV. One of the robbers killed Hi Moss. I’ll let you go.”
“Is Ricky okay?”
“Yes, dear. Ricky’s fine.”
Polly had hung up the phone and put her hand over her mouth. It was like she’d been told one of her brothers had nearly died. Only, it wasn’t one of her brothers, it was her lousy prick of an ex-husband. Yet it did not stop her from bursting into tears.
The highway’s narrow two-lane blacktop had turned blurry, and Polly swiped at her eyes and punched the
