His facial muscles relaxed. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth formed into a shallow smile. This seemed to signal a kind of forgiveness of her insubordination. He glanced around, as if realizing for the first time where they were. He nodded. "So where does that leave us?"
Julia looked at Stephen, his big hairy face open to her, anxious for an answer. She moved her attention back to Allen. He was more cynical than his brother, more cocksure, even now when he was scared and unsure.
"Where that leaves us is alone."
thirty-nine
"So what do you suggest?" Allen asked.
She returned his gaze for a time, then turned her head to stare vacantly at the sidewalk beyond the patio's perimeter. Feet clad in various forms of shoes strode across her field of vision, but her mind registered none of them. Their situation was like a hole, into which she tried to fit a myriad of solutions. As idea after idea flashed into her mind, she'd size it up, hold it next to the hole, discard it for the next one. After a minute she looked up.
"Evidence. Whatever we eventually do—go to the media, go to the cops—we need to bring evidence. I have something from Vero, memory chip. It may be all we need, but it's encoded. I may have fixed that, but until we know for sure, we should turn over a few rocks, see what we find."
"We're going to investigate?" Allen's voice was high with disbelief.
"Have to," said Julia, distracted by the plan forming inside. "I can pull some info off of various data banks, find out what the Bureau knows, maybe the status of the investigation in Chattanooga. That may lead us to more clues, more avenues of discovery. We don't know yet what we're looking for exactly, but that's how all investigations.
start. Before you know it, the pieces fall together, and you have enough to make a case."
"Where do we start?" Stephen asked, ready.
"I'm thinking.
"Well, no matter how you cut it, we're on the run," Allen said. "I've never been on the lam before, but I imagine it can get expensive—food, transportation, hotels."
"And no credit cards," Julia said. She'd obtained her new car this morning from a rent-a-lemon place that accepted an extra fifty bucks and photocopies of her driver's license and LED creds in lieu of a major credit card. Now she was almost out of cash, and she hadn't considered where she would get more without leaving a paper trail.
"How about this?" He nodded at a business across the street. "That's a branch of a bank my dad uses. We called him this morning. He arranged a cash withdrawal in Stephen's name. I don't have my ID. We get the money, go somewhere, decide what to do."
"You've thought this through," she said, impressed.
"Leave it to Allen to nail the money angle," Stephen quipped.
"Speaking of which . . ." Allen's eyes made a sweep of the dishes.
Stephen pulled out his wallet and dropped two bills on the table, a big grin pushing away the hair around his mouth. "Allen sans cash," he said. "I never thought I'd see the day. Be right back."
He stood, stepping back from under the umbrella to avoid pushing it up by his towering height. He stepped over the patio's railing into the blazing sun. He squinted in one direction, then the other, waited for a car to pass, and jogged across the street. Julia marveled at the gracefulness of his movements.
"I need to make a call," she said. She tossed her napkin onto her plate and stood, pulling the gym bag up by its strap. "I saw a phone inside."
"I'll go with you."
"Suit yourself."
She tugged open the big French door that serviced the restaurant and stepped in. Over her shoulder, she said, "I'm only calling my mother. You don't have to—"
Then she saw him: crossing the street, as though he'd been watching them from a nearby storefront, and he'd seen Stephen go into the bank. Everything faded away. She saw only him, moving as if in slow motion, letting a car pass, darting behind it. Straight for the bank.
"What? What?" Allen's words sounded muffled, far away.
Jet-black hair, sticking up in spots. Thick-framed glasses. Tall and muscular.
"Julia, you're pale as a ghost."
She pushed past him, back onto the patio.
"Allen . . ." She pointed.
The man was standing in front of the bank's front window, peering in.
"What? I . . ." Allen started, then: "That looks like . . . I thought you said he was dead. You said he got blown away. That can't be him."
"It is him. That's the guy I saw the cops kill last night."
Her hand went to her pistol. It rested on the handgrip as she watched the assassin pause for a woman exiting the bank. He slipped into the space behind her, and the glass door closed. He was inside.
forty
"It wasn't him." Allen was leaning close to her, his hand on her shoulder. Already they were drawing stares.
"You know it was." But how? She had not seen a bruise or cut or bullet wound.
He echoed her thoughts: "How can that be?"
"I don't know. I just—don't know." Her mind poked at possibilities, but none of them made any sense. "We have to get Stephen out of there." She pulled out her mobile phone, flipped it open, and dialed 411.
"I thought we didn't want to use cell phones."
"They already know where we are." She recited the name of the bank. Ten seconds later, a computer voice informed her it was making the connection at no additional charge.
Allen said, "He might follow Stephen into the bathroom. Or the way these guys are, just go after him right in the lobby."
"I know, Allen. Shut up a second."
The receptionist inside the bank answered. Julia made her voice low and gravelly. "There's a bomb inside the building. In two minutes, you're soup." She flipped the phone shut. Two minutes would not give the bank manager time to consider his options.
"Soup?" Allen asked.
"Nice image, huh? If you were that receptionist, think you'd be giving the manager an earful about evacuating the building?"
"I'd probably just leave."
She looked at him. If he was joking, he showed no sign of it.
"Let's hope she's cut from a different bolt."
She hoisted the gym bag to her side, pulling the strap over her head to cross her body like a bandolier. She didn't want to lose it if things got crazy. They walked around the tables in front of them and stepped over the railing. She hoped Stephen would pile out with the crowd and beeline it for them. She'd lead them around the corner to her car, staving off the killer with her pistol, if necessary.
The bank doors swung open, and a nicely dressed woman shot out at the head of a massive knot of people. They pushed and shoved and exploded from the narrow doorway, spilling into the street. Cars braked and stopped. Somehow, the word had spread to the three-story building's upper floors; Julia could see bodies moving quickly out of the front-facing offices.
"Yell at him when he comes out," she said. "Tell him to run, just run. Anywhere."
She stepped off the curb. She was considering going into the bank. A movement in a second-floor window caught her eye.
It was Stephen.
He was looking through the closed window at the insanity on the sidewalk below, then he raised his head, searching for Allen and Julia. She waved her arms. He spotted her and shrugged.
Come on! she motioned.
He nodded and pushed up on the frame. It wouldn't budge. He leaned over and made a hammering gesture. Someone had nailed the windows shut, probably upon retrofitting the building with central air. He tried again. She could see his face contort. With a crack she could hear from across the street, the window frame splintered and the glass panel rose six inches . . . Another heave and it opened to a foot . . . then another two—enough for him to climb through.