“Karen Watson?” said Collins suddenly.
She swung around and looked in his direction. “Oh, you scared me,” she said.
“What are you doing lurking in the coffee room?”
“Lurking? I’m not lurking.”
He threw a glance at Agent Cooper. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
She could see the suspicion in Cooper’s eyes, but also the resignation. It was clear that Collins held the higher rank; Cooper was forced to take his leave, however reluctantly.
“I’ll be in the lobby,” said Cooper, with casualness she was sure he didn’t feel.
Collins filled the doorway of the break room. “So, you still looking for a scoop, or are you here on David’s behalf?”
She considered her words carefully. There was a greater chance he would release information if he saw her as an ally. “Just helping a friend,” she said. “My desk at the station is cleared off, and I’m already working on leads in New York.”
“Are you now?” he said with a slightly playful grin. You’re just innocently eavesdropping on our conversation from the break room?”
“Eavesdropping? You think a little too highly of yourself. I was getting tea.” She indicated the machine with a Price Is Right wave of her hand.
The humor left his face; his look was unexpectedly cold. “Stay away from this story, Karen.”
“What story?”
“Powerful people do not want this to get out; you might find your job in New York suddenly filled by another.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Consider it advice from a friend. Go to New York and start your new life. There’s nothing to see here.”
She leveled her eyes at him. “And how could I possibly do that now that you’ve dangled the carrot in front of my nose?”
He stepped into the break room, and she leaned back on her heels. “Take it from someone who knows. Following this junk only produces one thing, humiliation. Before you know it, even The Enquirer won’t hire you and you’ll be working at some local news station in the backwoods of North Dakota doing corporate-sponsored pieces and community-service promos.”
She grinned. “That’s impressive. Did you work that one out on your own or is that in your field manual?”
By his expression she could tell he realized he wasn’t getting anywhere with her. “Can’t say I didn’t try,” he said, backing toward the door. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around then.”
“Before you go,” she said, pursuing him slightly. “I don’t imagine you’ll tell me how far-reaching this blackout condition is, or how it causes innocent men to become killers?” She let the statement hang in the air, relishing in the uncomfortable way it choked the oxygen from the room.
The right corner of his mouth crept up. “There is a strong possibility,” he said, leaning in close, “that it’s extraterrestrial. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The cab driver talked the entire way to the bank, but Jon responded with short answers, never making eye contact in the rear-view mirror. He trusted the voices when they said the cab driver would not recognize him, but there was no sense giving him a good look now.
“Here we are,” said the cabbie. He slapped the meter and called over his shoulder, “$26.54.”
Jon slid $27 through the opening. “Keep the change.”
There was no response from the cabbie, who probably expected more.
Jon opened the door and climbed out onto the moderately busy sidewalk in front of the Norfolk County Savings and Loan. It felt larger than he remembered it, but perhaps it was the daunting fear that made it so. With eyes toward the ground, he walked up to the wall of glass doors and, without a glance to either side, entered the lobby.
There were many more people than he had imagined: tellers, loan officers, receptionists, and almost a dozen customers—so many eyes, not to mention the cameras. It was statistically impossible for none of them to have seen his face plastered on the news. And even if no one had seen him, he would likely draw attention anyway with his spiky hair, gauge plugs and black fingernails. His nerves wavered as he came to a stop in the center of the lobby.
A faint voice in his head said, “Be calm.”
Another sounded. “They don’t know.”
He wanted to scream at the voices. How could they ALL not know?! Someone had to have seen the news! There were dozens of people on the first floor of the bank. This was a bad idea, a very bad idea.
He took a breath, stole a peek at one of the security cameras, and forced himself forward into one of the teller lines. No one appeared to pay any attention to him, though he felt like his sweat glands were squirting sweat straight out. He rubbed his hands and concentrated on his rate of breathing.
“You’re safe,” said a warm female voice.
He slid his hand into his pocket and felt for the key. All he needed to do was hand the key to the teller and say, “I’d like to open my safe deposit box, please.” No one would ask questions. It would be okay. He would be in and out in no time.
The line inched forward, and Jon continued to stare at the floor, ignoring the man in the line next to him who seemed to keep looking in his direction, and ignoring the man in front of him who didn’t seem to want to stay facing forward. Every time he turned casually to look back toward the entrance of the bank, Jon’s body tightened. Why did some people have to be so nosey?
Finally the nosey man took his turn at the teller window, and as Jon moved to the front of the line, he felt fully exposed again. He kept his eyes on the nosey man’s back and focused all his effort on keeping his face and chest from trembling.
Finally it was his turn. The teller waved him forward. “How may I help you?” she said as he approached the counter.
Fully aware that he was sweating, and possibly trembling, he attempted to play it off. He coughed into his sleeve. “Sorry, I’m fighting something, but hopefully it will pass.” He took the key out and looked down at the number. “I’d like to get something from my safe deposit box, please.”
“Sure thing,” she said. “What’s the number?”
“2362,”he mumbled.
“I’m sorry, what was the number?”
“2362,”he said, louder.
Her fingers made their clickety-click sounds on the computer keyboard. Her eyes studied the screen. “Name please?” she said, looking up at him.
Name? They needed a name?! His chest gave an involuntary quiver. What would it be under? Jon tried to remember the signature on the letter, but even that wouldn’t come to him.
“Sir, I need the name on the account or the account number.”
“Finch,” he blurted.
She gave him a blank stare.
Finch? Was he out of his mind?! Why would the man who wrote the letter use his friend’s name on the account? He would have used his own name, or an alias. Jon began to squirm.
The teller looked at him expectantly and said, “First name?”
Jon took in a breath and exhaled the only name he figured it could be. “Donnie,” he said. Then he corrected. “Donald Finch.”
She looked at the computer, and back at him. “You’re Donald Finch?” she said.
Jon straightened up. “No. He’s my grandfather.”
She slid away from her computer. “One moment.”
One moment for what? One moment while she went to get security? One moment while she went to get the box—which had the potential of being equally disastrous? He gripped himself internally. Be cool!
He watched her walk behind the other tellers and pass through the divider wall into the lobby to where two men in suits stood talking. One was a handsome, middle-aged man with black hair that was graying on the sides. The other was a lean man with Coke bottle glasses.
Jon’s mind whispered, “Hide your face.”
Hide? From who? Had one of the men seen his face on the news? The voices had promised no one in the bank would know him. Jon turne
d and put his back to them, pretending to look at something on the other side of the room.
“He hasn’t ssseen you,” said a voice, elongating the s sound.
Where were you a couple of minutes ago when I needed a name for that key you gave me?
Another phrase formed. It had a masculine tone to it. “The young man with his back to us?” it said.
Was that one of the men with the teller? He could feel their eyes burrowing into the back of his thin neck.
“I’m sorry, Mr. James. I’ll be up in a minute,” said the same voice.
Jon’s body shivered as fear snaked through his ribcage. Could it be Elliot James? Betrayal gripped his heart. How could the voices tell him it was safe and then lead him straight to Elliot James? Was it purposeful, or simply a miscalculation? If it was a mistake, what other things did the voices not know?
“Excuse me? Sir?”
Jon spun toward the teller window. The tall, lean man with thick glasses stood there, staring at him. Jon couldn’t help but snap a glance toward where he had been standing a minute before. The middle-aged man was gone. His eyes snapped back to the name plate on the man’s chest. It said, Wellington. Jon felt a wave of tension release in his gut.
“I’m the bank manager. I can assist you with your box. If you’ll follow me, please,” he said, directing Jon to the end of the teller line. Jon walked parallel with him, past two teller stations to where a waist-high door opened up to allow him access. “This way, please.” He led him past a thick, oak door and down a wide set of finely carpeted stairs deep into the bowels of the bank.
Halfway down, Jon said, “Who was that man you were talking to upstairs?” in as casual a tone as he could muster.
“Why do you ask?” said the manager.
“Just curious,” said Jon, noting the suspicion in the manager’s tone. He regretted he had said anything.
“That was Elliot James, president of the bank.”
It was him! It was their conversation he had overheard! But—how was that possible? He hadn’t heard the manager’s voice, another man’s voice had spoken his words, Jon was sure of it. Something, or someone had relayed them to him.
The man stopped and sized him up and down, then looked up at the cameras on the wall. “You really don’t know who he is, do you?”
Jon shrugged. “Am I supposed to?”
His face looked briefly puzzled, then shifted to something unrecognizable. “You probably recognize him from television. He ran a ton of ads in the last election cycle when he ran for the Senate.”
As he mentioned it, Jon did remember seeing some of those ads. “So I take it he didn’t win,” he said, continuing to make it sound like he was only mildly interested.
“He dropped out of the race.”
“Why?”
The man looked irritated. “There were allegations of bank fraud—not by Mr. James, but by others who work in the bank, which have been proven false. Mr. James, being the man of integrity that he is, chose to table his campaign and put all of his resources toward clearing the bank of the baseless charges. He helped us restore our good name, a name we have all worked hard to uphold.”
The intense look on the manager’s face caused Jon to take a subtle step back. “I wasn’t implying anything.”
“In the end, all anyone has is their reputation. I can’t imagine anything being more important.” There was intent in the man’s words, and a fire in his eyes.
All Jon could think to say was: “I agree.” And he left it at that. There was obviously something going on here, and the last thing he wanted to do was get in the middle of it.
The man straightened himself and continued down to a set of double doors at the bottom of the stairs. He swiped his security card, and a loud click filled the stairwell. The doors swung open to reveal a large steel room with a bank vault at the far end, two curtained booths to the right, and a security guard at a desk. The enormous, stainless steel vault door behind the guard stood open. Jon could see the safe deposit boxes within. He could only imagine what untold riches were stored in that magnificent, shiny tomb.
“May I have your key, please?” said the manager, his hand extended.
Jon placed it in his palm.
“Follow me, please.” He led him in and retrieved a box from one of a thousand shiny, silver doors in the wall. When he handed it over, the weight of it cut into Jon’s forearms. The manager locked the door and placed the key on top of the box. “If you will follow me,” he said, “I will show you to your booth.” He led him out and over to the booths. One was occupied by a man in black, scuffed dress shoes, the kind his father had in the back of his closet—exactly the same kind. His father wasn’t the dress-shoe type, so the shoes were always a curiosity to Jon. How odd that this man would be wearing the same shoes. The manager slid the next curtain aside. “Please let me know if I may assist you further.”
Jon entered the cramped booth, set the box on a waist-high shelf, and closed the curtain. This was it. The moment of truth, the point in time when his whole life could change. It hardly looked large enough to contain a fortune, but stacked to the brim with hundred dollar bills... What were the chances, though? Even if the man who wrote that letter was smart enough to rob a bank for that kind of money—which he doubted—how could he ever possibly give it up?
There was no point in debating the topic with himself, the answer was in front of him. He reached out and grasped the lid with his fingertips, but froze as the curtain for the booth next to him slid open.
“Um,” said a voice just outside his own curtain, “could I get a larger box? This one’s not going to work.”
“I’m afraid that’s the largest we have,” said the manager.
A larger box? What was he storing in the bank that he needed that large of a box? It must have been exceedingly valuable.
“Then could I get a second box?”
“Certainly. It is an additional $325 annually, uninsured. If this suits your needs, I’ll bring another.”
“Sure. What’s another $325?” The man’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Because apparently I’m made of money.”
The manager responded in a monotone. “One moment, I’ll retrieve a second box for you.”
Odd. Why would someone so concerned about their lack of finances want to store two large safe deposit boxes full of valuables in a bank? Maybe he was rich because he was a tight wad. It didn’t matter. Jon turned back toward his own box, but couldn’t help but overhear the man mumbling in the next stall. He probably thought the walls were thicker.
“Maybe I could sell a kidney,” he said quietly to the air, “or cut back on this week’s groceries, because everyone knows having a full belly is overrated.”
What a curious man. He was clearly not wealthy, and yet someone had forced him to come to the bank and store something against his will. Jon couldn’t imagine the man’s predicament, but he appreciated his cynicism. It even brought a smile to his face. In some small way, it made him feel a little better about his own situation. But not much.
His face returned to its solemn position, and his hands again found the lid of the box. Enough messing around. It was time to tear aside the veil of mystery and see what the future held.
He flipped the metal cover up, and all the breath left his body. Sitting before him, fit as tightly as physically possible, was exactly what he had imagined: stacks and stacks of used, one hundred dollar bills. More money than he had ever seen in his entire life! There had to be millions! He began ripping stacks out of the box and setting them to the side. How far did it go down? Did they reach all the way to the back? He pulled and stacked until there was a tunnel deep enough that there could be no doubt. The entire metal box was filled to the brim with hundred dollar bills! He took a step back and looked at the piles on the shelf and in the box. Adrenaline surged, then disappointment.
He had nothing to carry it in!
He stood there, eyes wide, taking shallow breaths. He hadn’t actually believed tha
t he would find anything. Nothing like this ever happened to him. His big dreams were always crushed. Always. And now, without thinking, he had set himself up for yet another defeat. There was no way he could ever get back into this bank with all the news agencies running his face at the top of every hour. This was it, his only chance. He turned back toward the curtain, and took a deep breath. Maybe the manager had a container he could borrow or purchase. No, that would be suspicious! Who comes to the bank and unexpectedly realizes they need a large container? His fists squeezed; where his nails dug in, the skin burned.
Why didn’t you tell me?! he screamed inwardly.
No answer emerged from the recesses of his mind. The voices had set him up for failure. They could have told him. They could have prepared him. Even now, they could speak, but they chose to be silent. Well—he wasn’t about to let this slip through his fingers. He slipped out the curtain, leaving it closed. The manager was standing with the bank guard. “Excuse me,” said Jon, lifting a hand.
Instantly a voice ripped free from some deep, dark place inside, as though it had been held captive. “Return to the booth!”
“Yes? Can I help you, sir?” said the manager turning his way.
“No,” said Jon, leaping back to the booth. “Sorry, no, I’m all set.” He pushed in through the curtain and fixed it behind him.
“Are you sure?” said the manager, outside the booth.
“Yes. I’m sure.” Jon attempted to keep his voice from shrilling. “I was mistaken.”
WHAT WAS THAT ALL ABOUT! screamed Jon into the void of his subconscious.
This time a voice responded, but it was clearly labored. “He knows.”
Jon’s heart raced. The manager knows who I am?!
“David,” said another voice.
David? Who’s David?!
“We didn’t know.”
“You knew.”
“It was hidden from us.”
What was hidden? Who’s David? How do I get this money out of the bank?! Jon was beginning to freak out. Why didn’t you tell me I needed something to carry the money in?!
“You don’t.”
I can’t just walk out of here with stacks of money stuffed in my shirt!
VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller) Page 13