She knew for certain what she had already suspected. She was the only one at the table who wasn't in on the plan. 'What the hell's going on?'
'Okay, keep it cool,' Jared said. 'Don't get your panties all in a twist.'
She heard her son snicker beside her, and she shot him a look that immediately silenced him like only a mother could.
Jared sat forward, elbows on the table, his hands together in a fist at his lips as if to protect his words. Melanie followed his eyes as he swept them across the restaurant's dining room. Oh, sure, now he was suddenly concerned about not drawing attention to himself?
'I told you before there's a big job I want to do. When the time's right. Well, the time's right.'
'Why today?'
He readjusted himself, sighing into his fists as if he shouldn't need to explain himself to her. If he said the time was right, she should just believe him. Five years ago, that's all he would have needed to tell her.
'There's a bank branch about a half mile up the road to the left,' he began in a hushed tone. Melanie and Charlie, almost in unison, scooted closer to the table. 'On an ordinary Monday there's usually a stash of cash that comes through. Area businesses depositing their weekend takes. But Monday was Labor Day. Huge weekend. Families eating out, shopping. Extra travelers on 1-80. Should be a nice chunk of change that came in those doors yesterday and today. Wells Fargo won't get to this location to pick it up until after closing today.'
'You can't be serious.' Melanie didn't even bother to disguise her disbelief. 'You can't possibly be thinking of knocking off an armored car?'
'Keep it down, Mel.' But he wasn't angry with her. Ever since he got out of prison, he seemed so calm. Almost too calm. 'Not the car. The bank. I figure we do it right before closing time.'
Then he sat back, finished, picking up the fork again.
Charlie seemed satisfied, also sitting back and chugging some ice from his glass, crunching it. His jerking left foot was now quiet. Melanie looked from one to the other. They couldn't be serious. A bank? That was totally out of their league, and yet neither of them looked to be joking. Neither of them looked the least bit concerned or anxious.
'Let's get out of here,' Jared said, suddenly tossing the fork aside, pulling out his wallet and tugging loose a couple of ones and a folded ten-dollar bill. 'Forget the stock market. This is my way of doubling my money.' As they watched, he carefully placed the ten in the middle of the table before flipping it over a couple of times. Melanie could see the bill had been cut in half. Jared folded the two ones and slid the ten in between, letting it peek out just enough. Then he put the money on top of the ticket, set his water glass on a corner and was ready to go.
Melanie had to admit she was impressed. And when Jared casually tossed the cellular phone into a corner trash can in the parking lot, she found herself thinking they might actually be able to knock off a bank.
CHAPTER 10
11:30 a.m.
Platte River State Park
Andrew struggled with the bag of MatchLight charcoal, tugging it with his one good hand to try to get it out of the trunk of his car. He was disappointed to see it was only a ten-pound bag. It felt like a twenty-five-pounder. As if to compensate for his pathetic weakness he tucked the bag under his arm and grabbed the six-pack of Bud Light, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that crawled up his good shoulder, across the back of his neck and over his wounded arm. He was tired of making the trips back and forth to the cabin, though it was less than fifty yards. Actually, tired wasn't the appropriate word. He was irritated. Even now, with his good arm and hand full and a pain dancing from one shoulder to the other, he considered grabbing the fishing rod and tackle box. But the approaching thunderheads convinced him to leave the fishing gear for now. It was just as well. It would only be one more disappointment if he realized he couldn't cast left-handed.
He noticed a slice of color moving through the trees, a car making its way up the road. With no free hands available, Andrew raised his chin in an effort to wave to the driver of the Ford Explorer. He waited, wishing he hadn't been so stubborn in thinking he could carry both the charcoal and the beer, feeling the pull in his wounded shoulder even though it wasn't bearing the weight. Again, he tried ignoring the pain, refusing to put anything down, especially not now. Not in front of his friend.
He watched Tommy Pakula pull up beside him. Before he got out of the Explorer he was shaking his finger at Andrew.
'You sure you should be carrying all that, Murderman?' Tommy asked, but he didn't embarrass Andrew by attempting to relieve him of his burden. An ex-fullback, Tommy stood about three inches shorter than Andrew but with broad shoulders and biceps that stretched his T-shirt sleeves. He grabbed his own cooler and Bag-N-Save sack from the back seat. 'I brought some filets since it looks like we won't get any fish.'
'Don't sound so relieved.'
'Hey, don't get me wrong. I was looking forward to the fishing part. I just don't particularly like eating fish. My idea of a cookout is tailgating in the parking lot before a Huskers game. You know, with a nice thick slab of real meat, fresh out of the cooler. Not fishing all afternoon and only catching some puny six-inch thing that needs to be cleaned before you cook it.'
'I told you we wouldn't be eating it. This is a catch-and-release lake. Besides, you're missing the point. Fishing isn't necessarily about catching fish.'
'Right, sure.' Tommy set the cooler on top of the Explorer just long enough to swipe sweat from his forehead, his hand continued over the top of his head, a habit he had developed since he began shaving his head. Andrew wondered if Tommy needed to remind himself that he no longer had hair or if he simply liked the feel of it. 'I didn't realize you were like the Zen master of fishing.'
'You'd see what I mean if you'd just give fishing a chance.'
'Yeah, right.'
Tommy picked up the cooler, and Andrew led the way to the cabin, trying not to flinch from the pain, though his back was to his best friend and he wouldn't notice.
'So, what did the doctor have to say? How many more weeks you stuck in that fucking slingshot?' Tommy asked.
'At least three,' he managed to say without sounding out of breath.
'Holy crap, that's a bitch. How can you even write?'
'Very slowly.' He put down the load outside the cabin so he could open the screen door for Tommy. That courtesy, Tommy allowed, and he squeezed in past him.
'That's partly why I'm so far behind deadline,' Andrew found himself repeating anytime someone mentioned his writing, the subject tripping some kind of automatic guilt response. Truth was, his injury was only a small part of the manuscript's delay. He didn't want to admit the real reason, as if the simple admission would seal his fate. Andrew Kane didn't believe in fate or luck. Then he realized that Tommy didn't care, probably hadn't even heard Andrew's lame excuse. Instead, he was checking out the four-room cabin.
'This place is pretty cool,' he said before ducking into one of the back bedrooms.
'Yeah, I love it,' And he did. It wasn't as rustic as it looked. Though the walls were lined in knotty pine and the ceiling made up of rafters, there was also a skylight of small paneled windows, a modern bathroom and shower, a furnace and A/C unit. The kitchenette featured a full-size refrigerator, an electric range and a microwave that had been added since Andrew's last visit. The screened-in porch that overlooked the lake and the treetops was where he'd be spending the majority of his time, hopefully working late into the night as he had in the past, writing by the flame of a lantern.
This had been his retreat, his sanctuary, and it had never failed him…yet. He had penned his first book here, but he hadn't been back for several years, too busy to afford himself the luxury of its solitude, its isolation. Instead, he usually ended up writing bits and pieces in airports, waiting for his next flight, or in hotel rooms over cold, mediocre room service. Who would have thought being a writer would include so many hours on the road and in
