Mitchell said, "John, I think I left the light on in my office. You want to check it for me?"
Koliba waved at him. He said, "Sure thing," turned around and headed back up the aisle past the machines.
Mitchell walked over to a section of metal shelving that stood along the back wall near the door. He placed the attache case on a middle shelf, reached up to the top shelf above his head, and took down an identical Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde black vinyl attache case with a strand of copper wire wrapped around it once, the ends twisted several times to bind them together.
He said to himself, You don't have a choice. He couldn't walk back out there and pull Alan out of the truck and hit him in the mouth and call the police. That would be good, but how could he do it? Alan had a gun and he was going to kill them. He was certain of it. Maybe he was afraid. He said to himself, Of course you're afraid. You didn't want to do it this way. And he said to himself, But if you don't you'll be dead, and so will Barbara. So do it.
Mitchell looked at his watch. He waited thirty seconds before he turned to the door.
Alan slid behind the wheel again and got Barbara into the seat next to him, within reach. She was awake, groggy but out of her buzz and he didn't want her behind him.
Sitting there, holding the.38 on the window ledge, he told himself to get out, right now. Flip it in gear, floor the gas pedal and get the hell out.
But he had seen the money. Jesus, all those tens and twenties filling up the case. It was there. The guy had it.
But if the guy was pulling something…
Get out of here and call him.
No, there wasn't time for any more screwing around. It was right there in the case.
If it's still in the case.
If the guy wasn't out in ten seconds…
The door opened. Mitchell, with the attache case at his side, was walking out into the light.
Alan put the gun on him, after a moment shifting it from the ledge to the windshield as Mitchell walked into the beam of the headlights and came directly toward the front of the truck. He stopped where he had stood before and raised the attache case to the front of the hood.
"Your money," Mitchell said. "Now let my wife go."
Alan shifted the.38 to his right hand and rested it on the dashboard, the barrel almost touching the windshield.
"Open it."
Mitchell hesitated. "You saw the money."
"I want to see it again."
"I'm tired," Mitchell said. "I don't want to play anymore."
He took the case off the hood and started around to the passenger side of the truck.
"Hold it there!" Alan turned the gun on him.
But Mitchell kept moving, reached the door and pulled it open. "I said I'd pay you." He took Barbara by the arm and helped her out, swung the attache case up, his eyes holding on Alan, and dropped it on the seat. "Here. I'm paying you."
"Open it!" Alan screamed it at him. Mitchell slammed the door. "You open it." He walked off, still holding Barbara's arm, keeping her close to him, around the front of the truck and through the beam of the headlights.
"Hold it there! Man, I'll bust you-both of you!"
Mitchell stopped, thirty feet from the truck now, and looked around.
"You got it. What do you want me to do, count it for you?" He turned, holding Barbara, and kept going.
Alan had the.38 on him, dead center on his back moving away, halfway to the door of the plant.
But the black attache case with the wire around it was next to him, right there, two feet away. He glanced at it.
Open it. Do it quick.
His hand reached over and felt the twisted ends of the wire, wrapped around each other two or three times, as stiff as a coat hanger.
They were almost to the building, in the arc of the high spotlights that spread down over the pavement.
"I count to three-you're dead!"
Mitchell stopped. He didn't turn around. He moved Barbara in front of him and pushed her gently, so that if she reached out now she could touch the door.
Alan held the gun on Mitchell's back and kept his eyes on him as his free hand untwisted the wire. He felt it come loose and bent the top strand back, out of the way. He glanced at the case then, turning it so the front of it faced toward him.
He looked toward Mitchell again and began to bring in his hand holding the gun.
"You move, man, you're dead!"
He laid the.38 on his lap and turned to the attache case with both hands.
Mitchell said to his wife, "Barbara, how're you doing?"
He saw her nod. "I'm all right. A little sick."
"When I touch your back, go through the door fast. Don't hesitate. I'll reach in front of you and open it."
"Mitch-"
"Right now," Mitchell said, and moved with her, his hand flat against her back.
Alan saw them. He caught a glimpse of them over his shoulder. He wanted to pick up the gun and blast away, catch the guy before he got inside. But even as he saw them he knew it was too late, the way he was twisted around, his thumbs on the metal clasps of the attache case.
This was what he had come for and he had to open it. Right now.
It was in his mind, for part of a moment, that the case wasn't broken. The lock wasn't sprung. It was closed now. It didn't need the wire to hold it. But again he was too late. His thumbs were already pressing open the clasps.
The panel truck, with super-rite drugs lettered on the body and Alan Sheldon Raimy inside, exploded, blew apart in a burst of fire and scattered pieces of itself all over the Ranco Manufacturing parking lot.
Koliba turned from the shattered window in the door to look over at Mitchell standing with his arm around the lady in the raincoat.
"Was he in it?"
"Who?"
"Jazik," Kolib said. Like, who else?
"I don't know," Mitchell said. "Somebody was."
"I'll call the fire department. Twice in two days. We're keeping them guys busy, eh?" Koliba started to move away. He glanced back to see Mitchell taking his attache case from the metal shelf against the wall. "You want me to call the cops too?"
"If you want to," Mitchell said. He was taking the lady by the arm again as he looked at Koliba. "But who're they going to arrest?"