EQMM, August 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Yes.” Billie looked down at the display again. “What's that little one over there in the corner?”

  “Oh, that. That's a Guardian twenty-five caliber automatic. Not very powerful. Only holds six shots—”

  “I'll take that also.”

  “It's two-fifty. And you'll have to pay for another waiting-period waiver, you know.”

  “That's okay. I'd like bullets for both of them too.”

  “Well, I'm not licensed to sell ammunition. I have some of my own, however, and I can load each piece for you for fifty dollars. Let's see now, that comes to thirty-one hundred dollars even. You did say cash, didn't you?”

  “Yes.” Billie stepped over to another counter, turned her back on the pawnbroker, and counted the exact amount from her purse. Moments later, she left the pawn shop with the two loaded pistols in a plain brown bag.

  * * * *

  The night of the escape was upon them.

  Cory packed a few belongings in a duffel bag and retrieved his service revolver, a .357 Ruger GP-100, which he was required to wear only when assigned to perimeter duty outside the walls of the prison, or on tower duty inside.

  Out at his car, he put the pistol under the driver's seat and spread a vinyl raincoat on the ground behind the car. With a pen light, he scooted under the car and located one of the tracking devices Hardesty had attached to the car's muffler. Removing it, he scooted back out, tossed the device into some bushes, and drove off to pick up Billie Sue at the Motel 7.

  In her room at the motel, Billie had also packed a small overnight bag she had and put the little Guardian automatic in a pocket of her coat. She wrapped the larger pistol she had bought for Lester Dragg in a newspaper which she put into a grocery bag that contained a six-pack of beer. Then she sat down to wait for Cory.

  Hardesty, wearing his usual service revolver as well as a .32 caliber backup pistol in an ankle holster, drove his own car onto the prison staff parking lot just as Deputy Warden Duffy exited the administration building and came onto the lot to join him. As Duffy got into Hardesty's passenger seat, he unobtrusively adjusted himself to accommodate the pistol he had stuck in the waistband of his trousers.

  “Everything okay?” he asked nervously.

  “Everything's fine,” Hardesty replied quietly. He drove off the lot and turned onto the highway toward Sacramento.

  As they drove, Duffy looked off in the distance at the night lights just coming on at the prison dairy farm where Lester Dragg had started work that day, and from where, with Duffy's help, he was probably blithely escaping at that very moment. Duffy's mouth went dry. From an inside coat pocket he took a flask and drank from it.

  “What the hell's that?” Hardesty asked gruffly.

  “Scotch,” Duffy said. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks,” Hardesty said. “But you go ahead.” Let the fool get smashed, he thought. Be easier to handle him that way.

  Reaching to the dashboard, Hardesty turned on the tracking monitor and watched its small screen fade from black to blue. Adjusting a dial, he watched a blip materialize on the location of the apartment building where Cory Evans lived. The blip settled and remained steady. Hardesty frowned. Cory's car was not moving yet.

  * * * *

  Cory drove up to the door of Billie's room at the motel. Watching for him out the window, she came out at once and he opened the trunk to put her bag in with his duffel.

  “What's that?” he asked, bobbing his chin at the grocery bag she carried.

  “Six-pack of Budweiser,” she said. “I figured we could drink one each and give the rest to Lester.”

  They got in the car. Billie took two bottles of beer into the front seat and set the grocery bag on the backseat. Cory started the car and pulled away from the motel. “Can't say I'm going to miss that dump,” Billie muttered to herself.

  Twilight had settled and low clouds were hanging in the sky like gauze. The first light raindrops hit the windshield and Cory turned the wipers on low. “Looks like Lester might get a little wet walking to the highway,” he said.

  Billie Sue glanced at him but said nothing.

  * * * *

  Hardesty was watching the blip on the monitor. It was still not moving. Glancing down at the car's digital clock, he wet his lips. Something was wrong. He began turning the monitor's frequency dial.

  “What's the matter with that thing?” Duffy asked testily. “Isn't it working?”

  “It's working fine,” Hardesty snapped. “Have another drink.”

  Still north of Sacramento, they now passed the rest stop where Cory and the woman were to pick up Lester Dragg. Hardesty drove another mile, then turned into a truck stop and parked.

  Leaning forward, he manipulated the frequency dial more slowly and a few seconds later was able to pick up a new blip, this one moving away from

  Sacramento toward them. It was a signal from the second tracking device Hardesty had placed on Cory's car.

  That son of a bitch, he thought. He crossed me. Hardesty's jaw tightened. Okay. Fine. Now there wouldn't be a split of any kind.

  He would leave four people locked in that storage garage.

  * * * *

  At the rest stop up the highway, Cory pulled his Buick into a spot next to several cement picnic benches and turned off the headlights.

  “How will he know we're here?” he asked Billie.

  “He'll know.”

  “How do we find him?”

  “He'll find us.”

  At that moment, a knuckle rapped on the passenger-side window. Billie unlocked the door and got out. In the subdued light of the rest stop, Cory saw her embrace a slim figure with a head of thick black hair combed straight back. “Hey, baby,” he heard a male voice say.

  “Hey, sugar,” Billie answered. “Get in the backseat; there's a little surprise for you.”

  As Lester got in the backseat, Billie slid back in front next to Cory. “Okay, let's go,” she said. “Cut over to Route Ninety-nine and head south.”

  * * * *

  Hardesty watched the blip of Cory's car as it drove away from the rest stop and swung left onto the state highway going south. Calculating that he was about six miles behind Cory, he pulled back onto the highway and eased down on the accelerator to catch up.

  “That gadget working all right now?” Duffy asked edgily from the passenger seat.

  “Working just fine.” Hardesty threw the deputy warden a disgusted look. Couldn't depend on anybody anymore, he thought. “Have another drink, why don't you? Help you to relax.”

  “Don't mind if I do,” Duffy said, retrieving the flask from his inside coat pocket again. As he drank, he felt the reassuring grip of the pistol sticking out of his waistband. Nobody was going to pull anything over on him, he thought, a little woozily. No, sir.

  Outside, the pesky rain increased to a steadier downpour. Hardesty turned the car's windshield wipers on to high. The slap-slap-slap of the rubber blades made Duffy feel a bit drowsy. His eyelids lowered a little.

  * * * *

  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 & 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 from 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 non-detection 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 sulphur 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 dead end 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 gate post, 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 sulphur 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 sulphur 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 two-seventy-six 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 trousers 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.