True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  And her mother must be devastated. George looks at his gloved hand, remembering the feel of her hand beneath it. She wore a skirt and blouse, a delicate gold chain at her neck, and her eyes were desperate. Because she thought he was one of them. She thought he was evil. And all he could do was tell her to give them the one hour as she pulled away from his concealed face, as he took the saddle shoe in his hand.

  He had no way to tell her how he walked away from Nate’s car earlier while reaching for his cell phone to call for help. But then, well, then Nate said that thing about bait right when he noticed her and her daughter heading into the bank. And that was all he needed to see, because he knew it. He just knew it. They were the bait. And he couldn’t tell her how he turned back to Nate’s car, crouched low, bent inside the passenger door and pulled hosiery over his head before slipping the sweatshirt on over his jacket. In his rush, he couldn’t maneuver his sweating fingers into the tight leather gloves and so shoved those gloves into the sweatshirt pocket instead. She had no way of knowing that he picked up the gun on the seat, joggled it, swore and threw it back down, then grabbed it again only to try to help. She never knew how he sweat profusely as he accepted that there was no other way to protect them. She’d never know that he couldn’t live with himself if he’d kept walking.

  She doesn’t know still that he’s on her side.

  * * *

  Time is a chameleon. It changes its skin, disguising mere moments beneath a forged eternity. Five minutes have passed. Amy’s gaze shifts from the two armored truck guards standing outside the small office to the tellers in the lobby down the hall. She visually patrols, her eyes stopping on everyone to be sure the police are not being summoned. But are they doing the right thing? Minutes matter in cases like this. Do you follow the orders of a criminal mind?

  “Would you like to freshen up, Mrs. Trewist? Your legs are cut up pretty bad.” The bank manager motions to her knees. “I’ll have one of the tellers help you.”

  Amy looks at her legs. Pavement grit is pressed into the raw scrapes and blood begins to cake on top of it all. She straightens her skirt, pressing out a wrinkle, and feels an injury on her hand. A deep, stinging scrape covers one side of her right palm, the hand that reached for Grace’s shoe. “No. No, thank you.” She squeezes her eyes shut and tips her head down for a moment. “Someone might call,” she finally says. “I have to wait for her. Do you understand?” She needs to run to Grace when she sees her. She needs to bargain if the phone rings. “Do you? I can’t be in the bathroom washing up. My daughter needs me to wait here.”

  Turning back to the window, she wills her love to Grace with one slow breath after the other until she hears only the deep whistle of air entering and exiting her body. Her lips form the few prayers she knows and when the driver of the armored truck offers her a chair, her body sinks into it.

  Every time a telephone rings, her heart skips a beat. Is there a message about Grace? The last message she had was from the man who took her shoe, who spoke quietly to her. Her left hand rubs the back of her right, remembering his hold on it. She closes her eyes again, trying, trying to recall every single one of his words.

  “Let them have the money.” His voice sounded compressed beneath the stocking. It was like a voice coming from beneath a cheap Halloween mask, darkly hollow. “Your little girl,” he said, crouching there, his hand on the shoe after she’d pulled back, shocked by his distorted face. “I’ll do what I can to help her. Cripe, just give them the hour or, really, give them the hour or I don’t know.” He stood then, his head turning toward the armored truck while he backed away, as though checking to be sure it wouldn’t leave without him.

  And she noticed his hand again, the one holding Grace’s pink saddle shoe, the hand with that ruby ring, reaching up to wipe the perspiration dripping down his face. She had never seen a hand tremble that much. It looked like the shoe would shake right out of his hold.

  “Wait,” she pleaded with him, sensing some shred of assurance in his words.

  He turned and started to run toward the truck. But he stopped, and one last time he looked long at her. “Be strong.”

  Those were the last words, the last message about Grace. Be strong.

  She looks out the bank window at the cars driving past, then down at her own hand. It shakes now much the way his did then.

  * * *

  George draws his hand over his masked face and looks back at the child. That’s when he makes a silent vow that has him straighten the ruby ring on his pinky beneath the glove, then brings him to his feet. He walks to the front of the truck and bends low as Elliott continues driving. “The girl.” There it is, the control. Finally. For her. His voice is quiet and steady. “If one hair is out of place on her head today …” He pauses until Reid turns and looks at him. “I’ll kill you. I don’t care about the money, I don’t care who you are.”

  With that, he turns and walks the length of the truck, past a built-in computer workstation, past a shelf holding two bomb-protection blankets beside two bullet-resistant vests. He sees it all, unwilling to believe that he is a part of the threat for which it is all intended.

  The child doesn’t respond to his presence. Kneeling near her, George tips his head down so that his concealed face won’t frighten her. He keeps his touch gentle and carefully slips her stockinged foot back into the saddle shoe, ties the laces snug, then double ties the bow and leans against the wall beside her. In a few moments, he reaches into his windbreaker pocket and pulls out a candy. Loosening the wrapping, he holds it out. White snowflakes edge the bright green candy wrap.

  “Here,” he says softly. “Do you like candy?”

  She doesn’t move except to let her eyelids close, blacking out George and everything around him. Her hands hang limp, not responding to his offer.

  “God help us,” he whispers.

  Three

  THEY DRIVE IN SILENCE. GEORGE stands in the back with the child and Nate sits on the side bench as Elliott heads two towns east, following the prescribed route to the truck’s next scheduled stop. Elliott detours briefly, though, pulling into a large shopping mall. He parks at a busy rear delivery entrance near a popular department store. A new wing is being added to this side of the mall and lumbering construction vehicles add to the parking lot commotion.

  George isn’t sure if the detour is part of the plan, or a move evading alerted authorities. Watching out a side window, he sees that Reid, who slipped out of the truck at the mall’s main entrance, now maneuvers a plain white cargo van into the space behind the armored truck. The vehicles are parked back-to-back, with the armored truck obscuring the van rear entry with its own open rear doors. Heavy truck traffic passes through making noisy deliveries and crossing paths with construction vehicles. Reid arranges orange cones at the front corners of the van as though it’s supposed to be there. He sets paint buckets and a sawhorse alongside it, waving hello at a passing truck driver as he does so. Horns blare, voices rise, scattered pedestrians hurry past and no one looks twice.

  So there’s the truth of it all: The best hiding place is in plain sight.

  The money transfer starts right away. But as the one-hour window advances, their tense movements and low voices on edge, their thudding footsteps, all of it bothers the child. She twists in her seat as they pass bags and stacks of money from one vehicle to the other.

  “Go, go!” Reid orders at any pause.

  The motion of it all flows together in one wave of money. George doesn’t know Reid or Elliott and cannot guess what they are capable of. He decides the best way to get the child safely out of this situation is to cooperate. And watch. And wait. So he works beside Reid on the truck, passing the money to Nate and Elliott on the van. He doesn’t care where the van came from or how any of this has been arranged. It’s imperative to just go with things, smooth, part of the wave.

  The quandary, for him, is finding a fissure. There has to be one; there always is. Maybe it’s the child, brought in to this as a guara
ntee but ultimately becoming the crime’s flaw. Her fussing continues as she twists around beneath her seat belt. George takes two heavy parcels of banded bills that Reid set at his feet. Though the truck’s rear doors are opened to the van, if he tries to slip off with the child, the others will stop him. He passes the parcels to his brother, all while keeping an eye on her. He is as much a hostage as she is.

  When the girl’s fussing grows louder and she begins crying, George glances over his shoulder at her, momentarily breaking the flow. When he does, Reid shoves a heavy package at him, throwing him off balance. Before Reid can turn to lift another clear bag of money, George takes him by his shirt and hurls him toward the front of the armored truck.

  Maybe it’s Reid, the fissure that will undo this crime. When Reid rises from the bench he’d fallen onto, Nate insinuates himself between the two men. “George,” he says quietly, holding his brother back. He hitches his head toward the rear of the truck. “Give Elliott a hand on the van, why don’t you?”

  George eyes his brother, then turns back toward the child. Her ponytails are matted flat, tears soil her face. Rage and intent and emotional challenges and unspoken threat, her eyes have seen it all and her ears have heard it. She watches George approach and his life feels over for having a part in this. Completely over.

  That’s when he stops and turns back to Nate. “Go to hell,” he whispers through the wet hosiery on his face. Elliott continues stacking heavy bundles in the van, each bundle landing with a dull thump. She hears that, too. That’s what this is all about, that one noise. Money. “All of you, all right?” George meets each of their eyes. “I’m done.”

  Nate blocks Reid’s attempt to confront George. “Let’s finish this,” Nate insists, “without messing up.” Reid looks long at him before turning to transport the remaining cash.

  George just walks away. He approaches the child, bends down and unstraps her from the seat belt. She watches his concealed face as he lifts her tenderly in his arms, holding her against his chest. One hand supports her weight, the other cradles her head when it drops on his shoulder. He carries her through the truck’s open doors directly onto the windowless van and slowly paces with her.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers, feeling her thin neck beneath his open palm. “Mommy’s coming, Mommy’s coming. Pretty soon now.” He walks her to a side seat and sits her gently in it, crouching beside her and simply waiting.

  In less than five minutes, as Nate moves the sweatshirts and weapons from the truck to the van, he fills George in on what’s happening. “Elliott’s taking the truck to the next bank on the schedule. It’s only a mile away, so he’ll be right on time.” He straightens the stack of sweatshirts piled on one of the van’s rear seats.

  “That’s crazy. Why not leave it here and be done with it?”

  “The bank’s expecting it. It’s a way of buying more time, having that armored truck parked outside their building like it should be. Normal, man. If it doesn’t show up, it’ll draw more attention.”

  “Well what about surveillance cameras? They’re everywhere now.”

  “And there are ways around them, it’s all been taken care of. Elliott will park the truck in its usual place, put on a civilian jacket over his uniform shirt and slip out the side door unnoticed at the right opportunity.”

  “Just like that? Piece of cake?” George asks, picturing the distraction surely planned that will allow Elliott to do this. Some two-bit purse snatch, or a trip and fall. Something will happen to get any pedestrians’ attention off Elliott exiting that truck.

  “Hey. It’s as simple as we make it. There’s a little diner near there, he’ll stop in and have himself a coffee, maybe a sunny-side up egg, and be one of the everyday people. All normal, all part of a busy Monday morning. Normal, man.” Nate shakes his head, smiling. “It’s genius, really. He’ll walk away from the truck, never turn a head, and an empty car will be waiting for him, parked on the street, after his breakfast.”

  “And what about us?” George asks then. “Now what?”

  “We’re going to my place. Reid’s driving us there.”

  “Your place? Cripe, are you crazy?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. I get tile deliveries all the time. No one will think twice about a van making a delivery there. Normal, guy. Get it?” he asks as he turns and walks to the front passenger seat and takes the orange cones Reid had retrieved now that they’re done.

  George shakes his head, then looks to the girl sitting quietly. Eventually he pulls the candy from his pocket again and loosens the snowflake wrapping. She watches his gloved hands and when he offers her the candy, she takes it, her small fingers slowly pulling the chocolate from the paper. She holds the soft candy in her fingers for several moments before raising it to her mouth and taking a tiny nibble. Her other hand toys with the shiny plastic wrapping. As she crinkles the snowflake paper in her fingers, she starts to murmur, “Mumumum.”

  “She’s coming,” George tells her, glancing to the front of the van. “Pretty soon, sweetheart,” he whispers.

  * * *

  Amy freezes. Even her breathing stops. Yes. There. She minutely tips her head. It’s the wail of sirens growing louder. She spins then and catches the eye of one of the truck guards. He had given her a cool damp cloth to press onto her wounds while she sat at the window.

  “It’s okay,” he reassures her. “We waited an extra ten minutes. To be sure.” His reluctant smile tries to soothe her. “You know. For your daughter.”

  An extra ten minutes. She can’t imagine holding on an extra ten seconds, not after surviving an eternal hour capable of pushing anyone to the brink. But when she stands to meet the uniformed police officers swarming the bank, the room fades. She reaches her arms out to balance herself, but her knees give out and she falls in a soft heap to the floor.

  In an hour? Time changes shape again. A minute? His hand is over hers. She expects it to be ice cold. But it is warm. Careful not to hurt her hand beneath it. This isn’t a hand that would pull a trigger. It seems more the working hand of a grown man, a capable hand that earns a living, that brushes hair, that raises a fork, that appreciates fine things with its touch, its maturity. It wears a beautiful ruby ring, the stone deep red, and suits his calming voice. She’ll be okay. Amy strains to keep that voice familiar in her mind, to believe him. Be strong. But when she looks up at his face, those twisted features mock her.

  “Mrs. Trewist,” a voice says. She feels his hand still, warm and assuring. “Mrs. Trewist,” the voice continues. The hand pats hers insistently and Amy opens her eyes to his mask. She turns quickly away.

  “Amy, come on now,” another paramedic encourages. He holds an oxygen mask to her face while another attendant rubs her arm, trying to revive her. “That’s right, wake up now,” he says as she pulls herself up and sucks in a deep breath of the clear oxygen. Someone’s hand supports her neck and shoulders. Voices and uniformed officers blur around her; a paramedic helps her back into the chair. One voice grows clearer as it approaches, its authority quieting the others as he moves through the room and comes into focus.

  “Mrs. Trewist, I’m Detective Hayes. I need to ask you some questions.”

  Amy nods and presses her hair off her face. “Have you found her? Is Grace okay?”

  “No, I’m sorry. We haven’t found her yet. Is there someone you would like us to call to be with you? Your husband? A friend?”

  She looks at him, confused. What’s real, what’s not? Had Grace been kidnapped? Did Mark pass away the year before? “My husband?”

  “Yes. If you’ll give us his cell number. Or is there a work number where we can reach him?”

  This is no dream. She hadn’t gone through the five stages of grief for nothing. But the one stage she hadn’t reached was removing her wedding ring. She touches it on her finger. They have no way of knowing that at thirty-three years old, she’s already widowed. “My husband’s been dead for nearly a year.”

  A beat of silence precedes
their brief apologies. Their serious manner softens a little. But still, they need her to relive the trauma of her daughter being kidnapped as she repeats the story to these local police and once more to federal authorities. The details are already permanent fixtures in her mind, sights and noises that will never leave.

  “Grace!” she called, feeling her daughter’s hand wrenched out of hers. And the sounds of scuffling feet behind her, and Grace crying out once, only once in fear before going silent—they all seemed magnified. They were the only sounds that existed in that moment.

  Then came the sound of that voice. “Don’t say another word,” the man holding Grace warned through the nylon pulled over his head. He shifted her limp child higher in his hold.

  When she started to answer, when she begged, “Please,” when she explained, “She’s just a baby,” he backed further away until she quieted. It was then, when her hand cupped her mouth, that his orders began while her daughter hung wilted beneath his curved arm. As he spoke, as she first heard the sound of words about needing one hour, her eyes never stopped recording everything: his expensive jacket, his leather shoes, a watch. Yes, there was a watch on the arm around Grace, where his jacket sleeve was raised. A heavy silver watch.

  And the motion never stopped. For every step he took away from her, she stepped toward him in an eerie synchronized dance. Everything blurred with the realization that she was about to lose her child.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she cries now. “If I talked, if I moved, I just didn’t know what he’d do.”

  “Was he armed?” Detective Hayes asks.

  Amy closes her eyes and draws a long breath. Her head vaguely nods. “Yes.” And a new image takes a dark shape as the detective asks for details about the weapon. It’s theoretically minutiae, specifics she’d seen and registered in a brief three-minute window.

  The trembling begins again then, with details that aren’t trivial at all. With firearm minutiae that are in her daughter’s presence right now, affecting Amy physically as she looks at her shaking hands.