The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 (20 page)

 

In Cory's car, the modicum of tension that had risen when Lester Dragg first got in had dissipated after they reached Highway 99 and turned south. Lester was drinking his second beer, and having found the gun Billie Sue had bought for him, had it tucked securely under his left thigh.

Billie had turned on the radio, found a country-and-western station, and was humming along to a Freddy Fender song about wasted days and wasted nights.

“How far are we going?” Cory asked Billie Sue after a bit, as if he did not already know. Lester answered for her.

“Don't you worry about how far we're going, Mr. Screw,” he said with a loud belch. “Jus' keep on driving.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Damn straight on that. You ain't the boss out here.”

The rain had increased by now to a heavy downpour, and Cory kept his speed at 55 as they kept driving, monotonously, past the next off-ramp, past the next lights up ahead in the California rural darkness, and then through stretches of nothing but the wet night.

Cory had checked his odometer at the rest stop where they picked up Lester, so he knew when they passed the off-ramp for Stockton that they were within a half-hour or so of their destination. That was confirmed by a highway sign just outside Stockton that read
MODESTO
25.

Inside the car, the windshield began to steam up from the body heat of the occupants.

 

Hardesty by now had come up to within a dozen car lengths of Cory's Buick and was following in a trained law enforcement pattern of nondetection observance: a frequent change of lanes in the flow of traffic, occasionally exiting the highway at an off-ramp, then crossing the underpass street and reentering via an on-ramp, where he accelerated just enough to again come within range of Cory's blip on the monitor.

Next to him, Duffy's head was leaning against the passenger window and he was not quite snoring but breathing heavily.
Drunken fool
, Hardesty thought. He began to contemplate pulling over, putting a round into Duffy's temple, and dumping him on the side of the road. He even considered killing them all: four bodies in that storage garage, locked in with a bicycle lock he had purchased that morning—hell, it might be weeks before anybody noticed the stench and found them. By then he would be living easy down in Argentina, where there was no extradition treaty with the U.S.—assuming that he was ever even
connected
with the bodies.

Suddenly, as he was considering his options, Hardesty saw Cory's blip leave the highway at an off-ramp next to a sign that read
MODESTO NEXT RIGHT
.

I'll be damned
, he thought, as he approached the same off-ramp. That was the town where the bank heist went down.
Could it be that the money never left town?

Hardesty shook his head in disbelief.

 

Lester Dragg directed Cory along the outer limits of Modesto to a small industrial district of modest factories and warehouses until they came to a cul-de-sac, where he had Cory turn in.

A block down, at the dead end, was a high cyclone fence with a slider gate in its center. Above the gate was a sign:
SECURITY STORAGE RENTALS
. Just below the sign and to the left was a solid concrete post housing an infrared, touch-sensitive digital keypad under a two-inch-thick Plexiglas cover. All of it was brightly lit by an overhang of sulfur lights.

“Pull up to the gate, screw,” Lester Dragg ordered Cory. “Keep the motor running.” Stepping out of the car, he showed Cory the .38 automatic he now held in one hand. “Don't try anything funny, see? I mean business.”

“I'm cool,” Cory replied. “All I want is my hundred grand.”

As Lester walked over to the entry post, Cory eased his left hand down to the Ruger pistol under the seat.

Billie noticed his movement but said nothing. She rested one hand on her purse, where she had the .25-caliber Guardian.

 

When Hardesty saw that Cory had pulled into a cul-de-sac, he immediately turned off his headlights and parked. Scoping out the situation in front of him, he made a quick, trained assessment that he had to act quickly or chance losing Cory's car inside the security fence, which might or might not have an exit gate at the rear.

Next to him, Duffy was in what looked to Hardesty to be a drunken stupor; he was slouched down in the passenger seat, wheezing quietly through his nose. Take care of him later, Hardesty decided, and got out of the car, not closing the door all the way to avoid noise.

Stealthily, in the cover of shadows, he moved in a low crouch toward the security fence, service revolver in hand.

 

At the gatepost Lester touched a series of imprinted squares on the Plexiglas that were directly over the infrared keyboard numbers below it. With each touch, a soft beep sounded. After selecting eight numbers, Lester touched a side key marked
ENTER
. As soon as he did, a buzzer sounded and the gate began to slide open.

Lester hurried back to get in the car.

 

Hardesty by now had moved as close to Cory's car as he could get without exposing himself to the gate's sulfur lights. The air around him was humid and he was sweating.

Taking a chance that the three people in Cory's car were all watching the sliding gate and none of the car's rearview or side-view mirrors, and crouching as low as he could, he crossed the deserted street and dashed into shadows on the opposite side. Remaining totally still, watching the car until he was certain his movement had not been detected, he took a deep breath, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face clean of perspiration.

Calculating the distance to the gate, wondering how long it remained open after each code entry, he moved forward inch by inch toward the edge of the sulfur lights' reach.

 

When the gate was all the way open, Lester Dragg ordered, “Go! Inside, make a right turn!”

Cory shifted gears and eased the Buick over a speed bump on the entry drive. Once inside, as ordered, he turned right.

“Go down to Section D and turn left,” Lester said. “You'll see the signs.”

Cory handled the steering wheel with one hand as he slipped the Ruger up with his other and rested it against his left thigh.

 

Hardesty saw Cory's car make its right turn inside the fence, and seconds later he heard a buzzer again and the gate began to slide closed.

Straightening from his crouch, he broke into a run, pistol at the ready in case he was seen, and sprinted toward the moving gate. It seemed to be moving faster than he was running.

Son of a bitch!
he thought. Fresh sweat broke over his forehead and ran past the corners of both eyebrows into his eyes, stinging.

The gate lumbered on, like a train.

Hardesty's heart pumped like a jackhammer.

 

After they'd turned into Section D of the facility's interior and driven about fifty yards past a succession of identical closed garage doors, Lester told Cory to stop.

“Pull up in front of number 276 there.”

Cory eased the Buick to a stop and turned off the ignition, leaving the key in it.

“Okay, get out, screw.” Lester touched the back of Cory's head with the gun. “Don't try nothing funny.” In the rearview mirror, Cory saw Lester look over at Billie Sue. “You get out too, sugar.”

As Cory opened the driver's door and slid out, he quickly slipped the Ruger under his coat into his waistband.

“Stand over there,” Lester ordered Cory. “Come over here, sugar,” he told Billie. He handed her his gun. “Keep him covered.”

Lester turned his attention toward a large combination padlock on the garage door handle.

Billie stood with Lester's gun pointed at Cory. Her expression was stern, fixed in concentration; her eyes met with Cory's in the pale light of a single bulb above the garage door. Remaining where he had been told to stand, Cory shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. Whatever.

With a sharp click, Lester jerked the big padlock open. “All right!” he said triumphantly. Throwing the latch, he rolled open the overhang door and a light came on inside.

The eyes of all three turned to look.

Two dust-covered gray canvas sacks lay there, padlocked at one end, with one of them slit partly open to reveal bundles of bank-banded currency.

A million two.

 

Hardesty watched from the end of the Section D drive.

He had barely made it through the closing gate, the weight of which had impacted his right elbow, causing, he was certain, a minor fracture. It hurt like hell. But he was not about to let it bother him. Switching the gun to his left hand, he had taken off at a trot in the direction Cory's car had turned.

When he reached Section D and looked down the drive of identical garage doors, he saw Cory's car parked partway down, in front of a square of light shining out from what appeared to be an open garage door.

Bingo
, he thought.

A million two.

Holding his right elbow tucked close to his side to try to relieve the throbbing pain of the fracture, he began walking at a brisk pace toward the square of light, perspiration once again wetting his forehead and his palms. When he was almost there, he paused, knelt down, placed his pistol on the ground, and briskly rubbed the palm of his left hand on his trouser leg to get it completely dry. Having to hold the gun in his left hand, he did not want it slippery as well. Having come this far, everything had to be perfect now, no slip-ups.

Pleased with himself for being so careful, Hardesty stood back up, gun in hand, and cautiously resumed his approach. But after a few steps he froze and flattened himself in the foot-deep inset of one of the garage doors.

Someone had emerged from the lighted open garage door.

 

Cory, ordered by Lester, came out of the garage, reached into the Buick, and pressed the button to pop open the trunk. Seeing Cory's duffel and Billie's overnight bag, Lester threw Billie a suspicious look.

“Planning a little trip with this screw, sugar?” he asked tightly. “Gonna leave poor Lester behind, maybe?”

To Cory he snapped, “Get that junk out of there—quick!” Cory removed the two pieces of luggage and set them inside the garage. “Now put the two bank sacks in the trunk and get back inside,” Lester directed.

 

Peering from his concealment at what was going on, Hardesty saw the money sacks put into Cory's trunk and the two men move back into the garage.

Now or never, he decided.

Moving quickly, he reached the open garage door and confronted the three people inside.

“Freeze!” he shouted, leveling his gun. “FBI!” To Lester he ordered, “Drop that weapon, Dragg!”

Lester stopped cold, the gun at his side, but he did not drop it.

Hardesty stepped over to Billie Sue and jerked her next to him, pointing his gun at her head. “Drop that weapon, Dragg, or I'll kill your woman!”

Lester laughed and raised his gun. “Go ahead, kill her. I don't need the lying bitch no more.” Aiming at Hardesty, he squeezed the trigger.

The automatic's hammer came down on an empty chamber.

Looking aghast at the gun, Lester rapidly worked the trigger three more times before realizing in horror that the gun was not loaded.

Then it was Hardesty who laughed. “You brainless, lowlife moron,” he said, pushing Billie Sue aside. “You're too stupid to go on living.”

Hardesty shot Lester twice, dead center in the chest, exploding his heart, slamming his body back eight feet, dropping him like a man hit by a truck. Then he turned his gun on Cory, who was reaching for his Ruger. But before Hardesty could fire, his head was hit at close range as Billie Sue shot him in the temple with her Guardian 25.

Cory had his Ruger out now, and he and Billie Sue faced each other with guns leveled. They stood like that for a long, taut moment. Then Billie Sue spoke.

“Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Let's,” said Cory.

 

The sliding gate opened automatically from the inside for vehicles wanting to exit. Cory eased the Buick out, their own luggage back in the trunk with the million two, the bodies of Lester and Hardesty securely locked behind them in Unit 276, the rental on which, Billie Sue pointed out, was paid up three months in advance.

We're free and clear now
, Cory thought. Billie was snuggled up beside him. There was nothing else to worry about. All the pieces were now in place.

All the pieces—

Except for Duffy.

The first bullet hit the Buick's windshield, shattering glass in Billie's face. She screamed.

The second shot was low, smashing into the car's radiator. Cory swerved and slammed sideways into the back of a van parked in front of a warehouse. When the Buick came to a jolting halt, steam gushing from under the hood, a third bullet burst the driver's-side window and grazed the back of Cory's neck before plowing into a seatback.

Cory saw Duffy now, stumbling toward the car like a drunken madman, brandishing a pistol and shouting.

“You don't put anything over on me!” he yelled. “No, sir!”

Kicking open the driver's-side door, Cory rolled out, firing his own weapon. The two men exchanged shots, one of Duffy's rounds striking Cory in the right side, an in-and-out hit that spun him but did not bring him down, while four of Cory's bullets laced Duffy's chest, sending him flailing back like a rag doll.

As Cory struggled over to the car, his sense of smell was hit with the acrid fumes of gasoline. One of Duffy's shots had hit the gas tank.

In the car, Cory found Billie sobbing, hands covering her face, blood trickling down between her fingers. “Come on, baby,” Cory said, taking one of her arms and dragging her across the seat.

Then another shot cracked through the silence and hit the car. Duffy, not quite dead, had managed to fire one final round, and it hit the Buick's already punctured gas tank. The rear of the car exploded in a burst of growling flame.