Fugitive Family

He smiled. It was really too bad, because in actuality—this more than any other time—was his finest hour. And the critics would never know because this time he wasn’t just acting, he was being. He didn’t have props; he had tools of the trade. Real gun, real backpack, and in the parking lot a real getaway car. He glanced at the security guard. His blood looked real because it was real. The security guard was really the only victim here. The bank could spare the money. The bank manager deserved to spend his life behind bars. Unfortunately, the guard didn’t deserve to forfeit his life. But first-offense bank robbers usually only got a slap on the hand, and this heist was designed to warrant so much more.

He hadn’t expected to feel such a rush. But, then, this was his first time in the lead role, and obviously it was where he belonged. Soon, the world would recognize his talent.

And, really, his talent wasn’t robbing banks.

He’d been planning this robbery for almost a year. There would be no mistakes and soon everything he wanted would be his. He knew this bank and its personnel inside and out. He knew that Wednesday was a slow day and that two major businesses made cash deposits right before noon.

He inched closer to the teller. He’d chosen her because not only was she the youngest, but she was also the new girl on the block.

“Faster, Helen,” he urged. “Make it work.”

She froze, fingers trembling, and slowly looked up. He grinned, not that she could see. He blinked a couple of times, hoping she’d notice the brown eyes.

She finished loading the money: all she had, all the tellers on either side of her had, all the money she could reach.

He grabbed the backpack. He turned, pushed aside a toddler and headed for the door.

He had the money.

He skidded to a stop just before reaching the door, turned one last time to survey the damage, and this time, he didn’t just aim his finger for the pretend itch under his chin.

He put his whole hand there.

The mask popped off like a rocket. He frantically grabbed at it, holding it in front of his face, up, down, and to the side, all the while knowing he’d mastered the perfect look of surprise. Then, with the mask held just below his chin, he looked straight at the surveillance camera.

ONE

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

The voice, deep-pitched and steady, seemingly coming from nowhere, almost caused Greg Bond to drop his hammer. No one would have noticed. They were all busy. Wiping sweat from his brow, he forced himself to stay calm and listen for the sound of his own voice. It only took a moment to find the source, but the noise coming from the construction site drowned out whatever the radio news commentator might be saying next.

He located the radio. It took all Greg’s will not to grab it, turn up the volume and listen to what the next chapter of his life might be.

He fell to his knees, ear pressed to the speaker, and listened as a monotone Paul Harvey wannabe managed four whole sentences.

“The body of Rachel Cooke was discovered earlier this morning in a deserted farmhouse in Yudan, Kansas. Her husband and the prime suspect, Alexander Cooke, already wanted for the murder of a security guard during a bank robbery last April, is still at large. The whereabouts of their six-year-old daughter, Amy Cooke, is unknown. Authorities believe she is still with her father and in danger. In other news…”

The radio commentator switched to the weather, as if the shocking discovery of someone’s wife, mother, best friend, and a fifty-percent chance of rain deserved to be mentioned in the same breath. Greg’s grip on his hammer loosened abruptly. The tool dropped to the ground. In all honesty, he’d forgotten that it was in his hand.

“Hey, Greg, you all right?”

Truth. Always stick as close to the truth as possible.

At one time he believed in telling the truth. He’d said it over and over to the authorities, to himself, to God. “I did not kill my wife. I did not rob the bank.”

The truth didn’t seem to make much of a difference then and it wouldn’t work now, so he said, “I’m fine. Thought I heard the word tornado.”

Greg picked up the hammer. Right now his heart was doing all the pounding he could handle. Funny, even after all these months, six to be exact, he’d still held out hope that Rachel was alive.

Never mind the blood. Never mind the words of his friends and neighbors. Personal opinion mattered little when compared to a video.

Vince Frenci, owner of the radio, shook his head and drawled, “Tornados knock things down—we build them back up. That’s life. It’s also job security.”

But Greg knew life wasn’t that easy. And security was fragile at best.

“I’m fine,” Greg repeated, slipping the hammer into his belt and heading for his toolbox. Greg’s coworkers called him a man of few words. Personal stuff didn’t get bantered. He didn’t socialize after work, and the few times wives had suggested “Hey, let’s fix Greg up with…” he’d begged off.

They knew he had a daughter. They knew he’d moved to Nebraska a few months ago.

Gazing past the other five construction workers, their tools, their questioning looks, Greg focused first on the elementary school parking lot and then onto G Street. It would take him all of ten minutes to get to the truck and pick up Amber from the babysitter. What he had to decide was how to quit work without arousing suspicion, followed by an even tougher decision: whether it was time to disappear or time to take a stand. Or maybe he was right where he needed to be.

As if demanding a decision now, the vacuum that seemed to envelope him after hearing the news story suddenly ceased and the noise and hustle of “real” time returned.

“Yeah, everything’s all right,” Vince Frenci yelled to the owner of Konrad Construction, who no doubt had noticed Greg’s momentary halt. “Greg just zoned out for a moment. I think he’s checking out Mrs. Henry, the third-grade teacher. Hey, I was in her class twenty years ago. I still wake up crying.”

“Maybe I’m not all right,” Greg said, loud enough for Vince to hear. “I feel funny—maybe I’m dizzy. Maybe the sun’s getting to me.”

“Oh, dizzy?” Vince said. “Oh, la, la. Then, it’s not Mrs. Henry. It must be that new first-grade teacher. She certainly made you light-headed yesterday. She makes me dizzy every time she gets outta her car. Better run down there, Greg, before she gets away.”

Greg shook his head. They’d gone from teasing him about the seventyish gray-haired grandmother teacher to razzing him about the twentyish red-haired first-grade teacher. His daughter, Amber, would be in her class. Of course he was interested in her. All he’d done so far was introduce himself.

And, of course, his coworkers had noticed.

Yesterday, he’d almost enjoyed the attention. It made him feel almost normal. Now he was terrified. Normal wasn’t allowed. Not until whoever had ruined his life was caught and behind bars. Today, he couldn’t listen to his coworkers joke as if it were just another day, as if it were a world where everything and everyone looked and did just what they should. His world was no longer like theirs. They believed that when they left work for the day, they’d always have a home to go home to, a good woman waiting, security.

He’d believed that once, too.

The body of Rachel Cooke was discovered earlier today…

The site foreman squinted at Greg and hollered. “You’re dizzy? Well, sit down before you fall down. We’ve got forty days without accident. I want forty more.”

“I’m dizzy, too,” Vince called.

“Yeah, but you were born that way,” the foreman snapped.

Greg wavered. He checked out his coworkers. With the exception of Vince, they were all back to work. Sweat poured down their faces as it poured down his. Dirt edged around their collars, soaked into their knees and elbows, and found its way under their fingernails. This corner of the parking lot had caved in during recent rainstorms. Their job was to repair it before the first day of school.

None of them looked like they were thinking about the words on the radio.

It was all Greg could think about.

“You want someone to drive you home?” the foreman offered.

“I’ll do it!” Vince volunteered.

Greg wasn’t surprised. Vince probably knew more about construction than the rest of the crew combined. He certainly knew more than Greg, yet the man never missed an opportunity to find something else to do. He was the advice giver, the joke teller, the “just a minute” excuse maker. But when all was said and done, and know-how was needed, Vince was the man.

Greg packed his tools up and headed for his truck. “I can drive. It’s just a headache and some dizziness.”