Unspeakable (27 page)

To the teller at his window, Cecil said, "I'll have what he's having," quoting a well-known movie quip and producing the pistol he'd had tucked into his pants beneath his shirt since dressing that morning.

Behind him he heard his co-worker say, "Fuck," which, with his Spanish accent, sounded more like fawk.

"What I really want is all that money you keep on hand on Fridays," Cecil told the teller. Every Friday was payday at the tire plant miles outside of town. Employees stopped by this bank to deposit their checks and take out cash for spending money. The bank always had plenty of cash on hand on Fridays.

Carl's teller whimpered, "Oh my God."

"Shut up or die, bitch," Carl growled at her.

Cecil's teller was more cooperative. She produced a canvas bag stuffed with banded legal tender.

"Thank you," Cecil said politely when she pushed it across the counter.

"Connie, are you crazy?" the other teller hissed.

"Well I don't want to give my life for this stupid bank job, do you?"

"You're gonna fawk up your parole, man," Pepe was saying.

" 'Xcuse me, pal, I'll just be a sec." The biker had returned. He shouldered in between Cecil and the counter. "Say, ma'am, I was recounting my money outside, and you... What the fu—" Cecil slammed the barrel of his pistol into the biker's mouth, cracking several teeth and busting his hairy lip. The blood that spurted onto Cecil's shirt was the same color as the monogram on the breast pocket.

Several things happened at once.

Pepe said, "You fawking crazy, man," and Cecil told him to shut up. Carl's teller screamed and ducked beneath the counter. Carl swore, "Shit!" The biker staggered backward from the blow. Then, realizing what he'd interrupted, bravely made a lunge for Cecil's gun.

But it was Carl who shot him in the throat.

Pandemonium erupted. Up till now, nobody who wasn't directly involved had realized that a robbery was taking place. Men and women alike began screaming and ducking for cover. The woman with the stroller shrieked and threw herself over her baby, protecting him with her own body. The baby started wailing.

"Myron!" Carl shouted.

"Yeah, Carl?"

"Give us the bag."

Myron was wearing a stringy black wig beneath a baseball cap to conceal his distinctive hair. Sunglasses shielded his strange eyes. Had the guard not been distracted by the earlier commotion at the teller's window, Myron might not have made it past him carrying the duffel bag from which he removed a sawed-off shotgun before tossing the bag to Cecil.

Brandishing his pistol, Carl jumped onto the counter and shouted for everybody to stay down while Cecil went around with the duffel bag and began dumping the contents of the cash drawers into it. No exploding bags with blue ink for the Herbold brothers, thank you very much. Myron was covering the bank guard, who looked ready to heave onto his polished shoes.

"Hey, you," Carl shouted down at him. "Do you have a gun?"

"Yes, sir," the guard replied between chattering teeth. "Get his gun, Myron." Myron did as he was told. "If he moves, kill him," Carl instructed.

"Okay, Carl."

But Myron got confused and a little trigger happy when two local policemen rushed in. Later, a special edition of the town newspaper devoted entirely to the robbery explained that the two patrolmen had been alerted by a passerby that something was amiss inside the bank. Courageously but imprudently, they didn't wait for backup and instead went in alone. Immediately assessing the situation, one of them fumbled for his pistol. But before it had cleared his holster, Myron shot him with the shotgun. Upon seeing his partner practically cut in two, the second cop wet his pants and sank to his knees, covering his head with his arms. With a burst of ill-timed bravery—or maybe simply adrenaline—the bank guard sprang up. Myron shot him with the second barrel.

"Goddammit," Carl spat, sounding thoroughly disgusted with the tide of blood spreading across the marble floor. "Reload, Myron."

"Okay, Carl."

Cecil zipped the duffel bag. "Ready. Let's get the hell out of here."

"I don't think so."

Connie the teller was now cupping a pistol between her hands. But she didn't address the warning to Cecil, Carl, or Myron. She directed it to the second cop, who had regained his courage and was reaching for his gun.

Connie the teller shot him straight through the heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

E
zzy watered the leafy plant in the living room window. He had given up on the African violets. They were goners. As for the living room plant, he didn't have the faintest idea what it was called or whether or not it needed watering. Maybe he had already overwatered it. But when Cora came back, she might take the African violet decimation better if at least one of her plants had survived.

Ezzy always thought in terms of "when she came back." Not "if she came back." He hadn't allowed himself to think that she wouldn't.

He hadn't allowed himself to get too depressed over yesterday's wasted trip to see Parker Gee, either. His visit to the dying man had used up a day; that had been the extent of its value to him. Well, that and the decision it had forced him to make: He was dropping the McCorkle case. It was over for him. He was calling it quits. For the last twenty-two years he had been chasing his tail. He was tired. Through. Finished. He wanted his life back. He wanted his wife back. It was over. Forget about it.

This morning he had awakened with renewed resolve to expunge it from his consciousness. Of course, he didn't delude himself that this was going to be an easy withdrawal. Breaking a twentytwo-year-old habit was no small feat. Keeping busy at something else would be key. So he had moved from room to room trying to remember the million and one projects on Cora's "honey do" list that he had never gotten around to doing.

Thus far he had repaired the cord on the floor lamp in the den. He had oiled the hinges on the back door. He had replaced the casters beneath the legs of the sofa and had determined that no way in hell did he know how to stop the ceiling fan in the bedroom from wobbling. He scheduled an electrician to fix that.

Problem was, Cora ran a tight ship, so Ezzy quickly ran out of projects. After watering the unidentified plant, boredom set in with a vengeance. Was he hungry? Maybe. Should he go to the Busy Bee for lunch? The same crowd would be there. Same nosy questions. He wasn't in the mood.

So he heated up a can of Wolf brand chili and carried a bowl of it and some crackers into the den. He turned on the TV set just for the background noise, finding comfort in any human voice. Way behind on his reading, he picked up a three-month-old edition of Reader's Digest and scanned the index looking for something to spark his interest.

He was well into the account of a man being swallowed by a whale like the Sunday school story of Jonah when the local noon news came on. The lead story was of a bank holdup that had left two policemen, a bank guard, and a customer dead. The thieves had escaped with an undisclosed amount of money. Although the community was small, it was a rich bank because of the nearby industry—a tire factory.

Security cameras helped identify the robbers as prison escapees Myron Hutts and Carl Herbold, along with Herbold's brother Cecil, a parolee who lived and worked in the town. Astonishingly, bank employee Connie Skaggs had also participated in the robbery. The thirtytwo-year-old childless divorcee, described by a co-worker as "just a regular person," was captured on videotape fatally shooting one of the policemen.

"We're confident of catching these killers and bringing them to justice," said the emotional chief of police, who had lost half his force when two of his four officers tried to thwart the robbers.

"You don't go shootin' cops in this town and get away with it." The Herbolds and their accomplices were to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Ezzy's chili cooled as he listened to the report about the net that law enforcement agencies had thrown over Arkansas, the northwestern corner of Louisiana, and northeast Texas. The reporter on the scene then returned control of the broadcast to the anchorman, who introduced a psychologist. Dr. Something-or-Other launched into a monotonal lecture on the traumatic toll such a violent event takes on witnesses and the families of victims. Ezzy muted the sound. Mechanically spooning the tepid chili into his mouth, he stared at the silent television screen. The psychologist's segment was followed by a diaper commercial. That preceded one featuring a woman showing off her daisy-fresh toilet to an envious neighbor. Like an old firewagon horse, Ezzy was charged and ready to run. His earlier resolve was as dim a memory as the necktie he got last Father's Day. Minutes ago, his spirit had had the wherewithal of a couch potato. Now it felt energized, eager, pumped.

He had been the first lawman to tussle with the Herbold brothers. He had been the first peace officer to jail them. Now they had committed a violent crime in a neighboring state and were on the lam.

Carl and Cecil had been mean boys. Psychologists would probably attribute their meanness to being without a father during their formative years, to their weak and passive mother, to their harsh stepfather who had tried to discipline them but hadn't loved them. Was it any wonder they'd been ornery youngsters?

But they were men now. Accountable. Now they were being mean because they liked it. After this morning's holdup and murder, they had nothing to lose. Men who were going for broke were the most dangerous. The Herbolds needed to be caught before they hurt someone else. Suddenly Ezzy was on his feet. He carried his chili bowl into the kitchen and splashed cold water over it. The water instantly congealed the chili grease into an orange wax, but Ezzy left it in the sink that way.

Grabbing his hat, he was out the door and into his car in seconds, moving with more vigor and sense of purpose than he had since it was suggested that he retire.

***

The central room at the sheriff's department was empty save for one officer manning the telephone. He broke a smile when he saw Ezzy. "Hey, Ezzy. What brings you 'round?"

"Hey, Souder. How's it going?"

"You liking retirement?"

"It's okay."

"Take some gettin' used to, I guess."

"I guess. Is your new boss in?"

"Yeah, yeah," the officer replied. "Just came back from lunch over to the cafe. Brought back a piece of Lucy's coconut cream pie."

"Think he'll mind if I pop my head in?"

"You know where the door's at."

Ezzy knocked politely. Sheriff Ronald Foster looked up from his slice of pie, licked meringue from the corner of his mouth, and motioned Ezzy in. He was a spit-and-polish graduate of Texas A&M. He had won the election for sheriff by a wide margin because he was built like a wrestler and had a strong, confidence-inspiring demeanor. He was a solid family man with a pretty wife and three children; he was a deacon in the Baptist church. Sharp blue eyes telegraphed both "I love Jesus" and "Don't fuck with me." He had a Marine haircut and, if Ezzy was right, he fancied himself to be a lot tougher than he was.

If he was irritated by Ezzy's unannounced visit, he was too polite to show it. His handshake was firm, dry, and hearty. "Sit down, Ezzy. Sit down. Want some of this pie?"

"No thanks. Looks good, though."

"I've never known Lucy to make a bad one."

Taking the offered seat, Ezzy asked how he was liking the job, and Foster replied, "Can't complain." And when he asked Ezzy about retirement, Ezzy lied and said the same.

"I'm sure you heard about the bank robbery up in Claredon, Arkansas, this morning," Ezzy began.

"The wires have been humming. Big manhunt is underway, even down this far."

"That's why I'm here, Ron. I thought maybe you could use an extra deputy." The young man, who was occupying the chair Ezzy still considered his, fixed an unblinking stare on him. "What for?"

This was the tricky part: pleading his case without suggesting that Sheriff Foster wasn't up to the job. "Just in case those boys come down this way again."

"So you heard about yesterday?"

Yesterday? Yesterday? What about yesterday? "Yeah," Ezzy said, faking it. "Over at the Busy Bee. The boys over there were talking about it this morning."

The new sheriff shook his crew-cut head. "Still can't figure why Cecil would show up here. My guess is that he just wanted to throw everybody off track. He and Carl must have been planning this robbery for months, if not years. It was too well organized. I reckon Cecil thought a good diversion would be to come down here to see his stepdaddy."

"Nobody ever accused those boys of being stupid." Cecil was here yesterday to see Delray? As soon as he left here, he was going to call on Delray, see if he could get any more information out of him. The sheriff's next statement dashed that plan.

"Cecil went to the house first, then created quite a scene at the hospital. Got everybody all bent out of shape."

Ezzy nodded, although he had no idea what he was agreeing with. "That's what I heard."

"With Delray in critical condition, that's all that deaf lady needed."

"Damn shame, all right." Although Ezzy was tucking away the shocking information Foster was inadvertently giving him, in the back of his mind he was thinking, Since when have I becomesuch an adroit liar?