“Absolutely not,” the ferret had insisted. “You and Miss Muffet here”—he gestured toward Carolyn—“are better off sticking to a country where you know the ropes. But that doesn’t mean goin’ back to your old stomping grounds. You better make damn sure to stay clear of any place you visited prior to going on the run. And don’t even think of calling the ‘people who knew you when.’ Do that and you’re toast.”
Carolyn was the one who noticed that Lanny never said the word “Donovan” in their presence. If differentiation was needed between their old and new identities, he’d always say “back when you were in the world.”
Some attributes, however, remained unchangeable in the short term, and they became the weakest links in their new identities. Height, weight, and fingerprints, for example, were not forgeable, though over time, age took care of two out of three. People on the wrong side of the law had tried for years to alter their fingerprints, but never with any meaningful success. About the best you could hope for was a lot of pain and a collection of scar tissue that would draw more attention than the original prints themselves.
The art of disappearing hinged entirely on one’s ability to be so normal as to deny people the desire to ask probing questions. “You’ve got to live like Mr. and Mrs. John Doe,” Lanny had told them a thousand times. “No one ever questions a white shirt with a blue suit, but get all snazzed up and you may as well be wearing a sandwich board:
LOOK AT ME
.” No bow ties, no flashy dresses, no expensive anything—not that they could have afforded much, anyway.
And, of course, no kids.
Well, they’d drawn the line on that one. Truth be known, Travis was an accident. Once conceived, however, they saw him as their gift from God. In a world of deception and pain, he was their one source of genuine pleasure and pride. Carolyn shuddered at what he was going to think of them when he heard the truth.
But these were thoughts for another time, she told herself as she slid in behind the steering wheel of her Celica. At the moment, she needed to focus on necessities: tools and weapons and food and clothing. All of these things were packed in the staging area, ready to go. The question that plagued her now was whether there’d be time to collect them. There were supplies back at the trailer, all packed in duffel bags and stored in a locked closet, but she didn’t dare go back to the only address the police would know. Those things were gone forever now; special things. In blatant violation of the rule against mingling identities, she’d sneaked a couple of old photos into those bags, along with one of Travis’s favorite teddy bears from way back when. It hurt to leave them behind.
Every second that ticked by was a liability, and they were prepared to survive with nothing but their family and the clothes on their backs. Everything else was gravy.
Well, everything but money. Cash was the one ingredient that made everything else work. Jake always talked big, swearing that if push came to shove, they could always get money, but Carolyn knew as well as her husband that he could never threaten some clerk’s life just for the cash in the kitty. Even in their most desperate times, he’d never done that. The “plan” required Carolyn to make a trip to the bank—the single weakest link in the chain. Banks were funny places, highly secure, and populated by people who were paid to be paranoid. Every place you went in a bank, your picture was taken, and there was no way of knowing how closely those pictures were scrutinized, or by whom. Today, however, she’d have to risk it.
The drive took a half hour; a full ten minutes longer than she’d anticipated. She nosed the Celica into a space outside of the Safeway, on the other end of the parking lot. Although the lot in front of the bank was virtually empty, the potential for a quick getaway seemed less important than the benefits of blending in with the other midday shoppers. The last thing she wanted was for the bank security guy to be able to say, “Yeah, I saw that lady get into a silver Celica.” It was safer to be seen disappearing down the sidewalk.
She killed the engine, and instantly, her heart started pounding hard enough for her to hear. This truly was it. Everything they’d struggled so hard to hide was moments away from discovery.
“Stay cool,” she told herself aloud. She took a deep breath, held it, then let it go. “You can do this.” Straightening her shoulders, she checked her hair in the mirror, then climbed out of the car.
She tried to look as normal as possible as she walked along the covered sidewalk, down the full length of the nondescript little strip mall. In her tight-fitting Levi’s and her short, jet-black hair and matching onyx eyes, she knew she was attractive, even at thirty-six, and her quick, light stride showed it. A couple of college-age guys approached her head-on, and as they passed, she could feel their heads pivot to watch her going-away side. Ordinarily, those glances felt nice, but today they reminded her that this was a day to be invisible, and she worked harder at being anonymous.
She’d made it nearly all the way to the bank door when she froze.
I’ve got nothing to carry the money in.
The original plan had called for her to bring an ugly, oversize purse from home, but it lay stuffed into the same closet as the duffel bags. What was she supposed to do now? The little fashion bag slung over her shoulder this morning was barely large enough for her wallet and keys. Even her sunglasses didn’t fit inside.
The persistent flutter in her stomach grew larger by the second.
You’d better come up with something fast.
She took a few moments to inspect her surroundings, then . . .
The Safeway!
She turned abruptly and headed back the other way, drawing yet another look from the college boys, who by now had to believe that she was on the prowl. She smiled politely but otherwise ignored them as she walked through the automatic doors and into the cavernous grocery store.
“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the first cashier.
A haggard woman with mostly gray hair and an unhealthy pallor turned to face her. With no one in her line, she looked vaguely relieved to have someone to talk to. “Hi!”
The cheerfulness of the greeting caught Carolyn off guard. “Um, hi.” She tried to match the lighthearted lilt but fell way short. “Listen, I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
Carolyn did her best to smile and keep eye contact, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from darting all around. She felt . . . exposed. “Well, I’m not sure if you’re allowed to do this,” she began, conscious of an unnatural waver in her voice. “I’m wondering if I could have a shopping bag?”
If the clerk suspected anything out of the ordinary, she showed none of it. “Of course,” she said as she reached for a shelf somewhere below the register. “Plastic or paper?”
Carolyn grinned. “Paper, please.”
The Johnston’s Corner branch of Phoenix Bank and Trust was nothing special—just a community bank, serving the needs of suburban families and the service businesses that supported them. Jake had felt that a smaller bank would have fewer rules and regulations to deal with. In homage to its clientele, the place was devoid of pretense; no big chandeliers, marble floors, or gilded teller cages. Phoenix Bank and Trust was a working-class establishment, catering to customers for whom tile floors, fluorescent lights, and wood-paneled teller stations were just fine.
The lobby was packed, as it usually was around lunchtime, and Carolyn waited as patiently as she could, seated in one of the imitation-leather guest chairs in the tiny lobby. Elusive bank logic prohibited tellers from helping customers with their safe-deposit boxes. Such was the domain of the manager and assistant managers whose elevated status was marked by tiny desks in a carpeted corner, separated from each other by shoulder-height glass partitions. Of these various anointed ones, all were serving other customers; mostly young couples with the sheepish look of people trying to qualify for loans they weren’t sure they could afford.
As Carolyn waited, the chairs around her filled with still more customers, each awaiting his or her own audience with the senior staff. Conversation flowed easily among these people, allowing her to relax just a bit. No one seemed to suspect anything. In the ten minutes that Carolyn sat waiting, she checked her watch at least twenty times.
Every second is a liability.
She was oblivious to the constant, nervous tapping of her heel against the floor.
What can possibly be taking this long?
As if on cue, all the meetings concluded at once, and the desk-dwellers motioned for the next wave. It didn’t seem fair to Carolyn that the lady who’d been waiting for only a minute or two got to speak with someone at the same time she did.
A hunky young guy—maybe twenty-five, with eyes that matched his blue Oxford button-down—extended his hand to Carolyn. “Hi,” he said, flashing an expensive smile. “My name’s Jeff. How can I help you?”
His voice was so smooth and his smile so genuine that Carolyn wondered just how many pretty young hearts had melted under the heat of his greeting. Fifteen years ago she might have been one of them, but today she was in a hurry, and the tone of her voice said so.
“I need to get into my safe-deposit box,” she said, handing him her key ring.
Jeff’s smile changed from personal to businesslike but never disappeared completely. “Yes, ma’am.” He left for a few seconds, then returned with the other key and a signature card. “Here,” Jeff said. “I need you to sign this.”
After Carolyn scrawled her name on the card, Jeff compared it to the sample signature above it. “First visit in five months,” he observed.
Carolyn launched a glare that rendered Jeff instantly repentant. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Brighton. That’s none of my business.”
Carolyn said nothing, but her look told him that she couldn’t have agreed more. Together, they walked into the vault, and Jeff used a set of rolling stairs to reach the Brightons’ box. The lock seemed stiff, resisting his efforts to turn it. Finally, he pulled the door open and slid out a long black metal container. He handed it down to her. Carolyn could tell that he wanted to comment on its weight, but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.
“You want a viewing room, I trust?” Jeff was sucking up to her now as he climbed backward down the steps.
Carolyn smiled patiently. “Yes, please.”
Jeff led the way to one of two six-foot-by-four-foot cubicles and opened the door for his customer. “Take your time,” he told her.
“Thank you.”
Inside, Carolyn locked the door, and after a quick scan overhead for security cameras, she opened the box and smiled. There it was: $62,000 cash. She’d forgotten what that much money looked like, all broken into hundreds. She pulled the Safeway bag from under her jacket, and as she stuffed the banded bills inside, she tried not to think about how much interest the money could have earned over the years, had they invested it properly. Yet another reality of life on the run.
Not that there’d been much choice. IRS regulations required banks to report large cash transactions, so that was out of the question. So were other standard investment vehicles. The key to this particular fund was instant and total liquidity. If and when the day came that the Brightons needed their cash, they would want it right by-God now; there’d be no time for a phone call to some broker. They could have kept it in the house, she supposed—in fact, for a while, they’d done just that, but not here in Phoenix. Farm Meadows was such a frequent target for burglars that many of Carolyn’s neighbors had stopped locking their trailers during the day, just to save the wear and tear on their doors and windows. Then there was the risk of a fire. All things considered, the safe-deposit box made the most sense.
Carolyn wondered if the bag would be big enough to hold it all. The space seemed to be filling up faster than the box was emptying. It was heavier than she’d expected, too.
What’s this?
As she reached back to get the last of the bills, she found a pistol: a little .380, just slightly bigger than her hand. She didn’t remember this from the memorized plan, but leave it to Jake to think of everything. She dropped the magazine out of the grip and took a look. Sure enough, loaded to the top. Like there was ever a doubt. She eased back the slide and found one more in the chamber. Jake was a planner, all right. He must have envisioned some scenario where she’d have to use more than words to get to the staging area, and he wanted her to be prepared. For the hundredth time over the years, she wondered if she’d have the guts to fire a gun, then she shooed away the thought and concentrated on her next move.
It turned out that there was plenty of space in the bag for the money, with enough room left over to fold the top closed. Slipping the .380 into her jacket pocket, she hefted the bag under her left arm and, with her right arm clutching the deposit box, opened the door to retrieve her keys from Jeff.
“Carolyn!” a lady’s voice boomed. It was Mary Barnett, her next-door neighbor, sounding for all the world like they hadn’t seen each other in years. “How wonderful to see you!” Virtually deaf, Mrs. Barnett—“Mrs. Bullet Boobs” to the boys—was incapable of quiet speech.
Oh, God.
“Hi, Mary. How are you?” She waved to get Jeff’s attention. He acknowledged her with a nod but appeared to be stuck on the phone.