Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2)

by D. W. Moneypenny

  “It’s the same as your other phone. I put your SIM card into this phone, so people can dial your number, and it will ring this phone,” Mara said.

  “You can do that? Will my dad be able to call me?” Buddy said, wide-eyed.

  “I don’t know if your dad will be able to call you on this phone, but, if he does, I want you to call and tell me right away. Okay?”

  He grabbed the phone and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Okay,” he said and left the shop.

  Mara turned and glared at her brother.

  He stepped back from the counter, holding up his hands. “What?”

  “Did you prompt him to get him to stop crying?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Why did you have to make him think that I could fix this cell phone? Look at it. There is no way it can be repaired.” She waved her hand at the mess on the counter.

  “I felt bad for the guy and wanted him to stop crying. From the looks of things, so did you.”

  “Well, I did, but I think we might have missed an opportunity to get him to accept that his father is dead, and he won’t be able to talk to him anymore. Why didn’t you prompt him to think that instead?”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Sam said.

  “Why not?”

  “When I prompt someone, the thought only stays with them temporarily.”

  “So, in a few minutes, he’s going to start crying again and think I can’t fix his phone?”

  “I doubt it. People go back to their normal way of thinking when the prompting wears off. Unless he has a tendency to cry all the time, he probably won’t cry unless something else sets him off. As far as him thinking you can fix the phone, he’s probably more inclined to think you can fix it than not. I mean, that’s why he brings it to you, right?”

  “Still, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this mess.”

  “You can fix it, if you set your mind to it.”

  “This is not a repair job. This will be complete fabrication. I’d essentially have to build a new phone from scratch.”

  “Well, you better get started. I’ve got to get over to Mrs. Zimmerman’s for tutoring. If I’m late again, she’ll make me write another essay on historic tragedies brought about by tardiness and that means I won’t get out early for Friday afternoon basketball.”

  * * *

  Bruce jogged up to the shop’s door, reached around Mara and pushed it open for her. Mara looked relieved and smiled as she struggled with carrying the Philco 90 radio and her keys at the same time.

  “Thanks,” she said, walking outside onto the sidewalk and turning back to the door. She noticed that Bruce was wearing a light-blue oxford shirt and khaki slacks instead his usual jeans or shorts with a bicycle-themed T-shirt. His hair seemed combed as well. “Please tell me that you are not going out looking for another job. I don’t think I could run this place without you.”

  “No, I like the job I have. I’m going to a meeting with some potential sponsors of the ride we do down the coast every spring. I have been informed that I needed to look a little more presentable.”

  “Well, you do. Thanks again,” she said as she turned to walk next door to Ping’s Bakery. From the corner of her eye, she swore she saw Abby’s Nissan Sentra turn right at the end of the block and disappear. She looked back at Bruce, who was leaning in the doorway. “Have you talked to Abby today?”

  “No, should I have? She’s probably in school. It’s the middle of the day,” Bruce said.

  Maybe Mara was being paranoid. Of course Abby would be in school. “I was wondering if she had stopped in when I was preoccupied in the office or something.”

  “Not today.”

  “Okay, thanks again.” Mara sort of waved with an elbow.

  Bruce cocked his head. “Are you all right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “That’s the third time you’ve said thanks in about fifteen seconds.”

  “A lot on my mind, I guess. Good luck with your meeting. Could you lock up when you leave? I’m going to a late lunch with Ping. I should be back by 2:30 or so.”

  “You bet,” he said.

  “Thank—See you later.” Mara grimaced and continued to the bakery.

  * * *

  Mara fiddled with her napkin and silverware as she sat at the large round table in the back of Anda!—a Spanish tapas restaurant that she and Ping had taken to frequenting, largely because it was a quiet place, especially after one o’clock when their short lunch rush appeared to end. Ping spoke into a cell phone, apparently to a vendor who provided some finished baked goods of one kind or another. Lost in her own thoughts, she wasn’t really paying attention. She was starting to get the sense that life was spiraling out of control again, as it had after the crash of Flight 559. Not that life had ever gotten back to normal, but things did quiet down for a couple weeks. At least until a child’s voice starting coming out of the radio casing and out of Melanie Proctor. That was bizarre.

  Ping tapped the face of his phone with a finger and put it down on the table. “Sorry about that. Now, where were we? Oh, right, I don’t think me keeping that old radio shell is going to do anything to resolve anything.”

  “Ping, keep it for the time being. The last thing I need to deal with right now are disembodied voices coming from who-knows-where.”

  “Eat your food,” Ping said. He picked up a grilled shrimp impaled on a toothpick and waved it at her. “Hiding the radio is not going to help you figure out what is going on. More likely than not, the voice is associated with you, not the radio. After all, the voice we heard come out of Mrs. Proctor was the same, was it not?”

  “Yes.” Mara sulked and pushed some paella around on her plate. “But why should I have to figure out what it wants?”

  “It sounded to me like the child was calling to you.”

  “It was calling to Mar-ree, not Mara,” she said.

  “I got the impression it was a childish mispronunciation.”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “No, but it’s as good a guess as any, don’t you think?”

  “Whatever. I suppose.”

  “Mara, don’t stick your head in the sand. You need to figure out what this is. It could be very important. These things don’t just happen. There’s usually a reason for them. Something is going on, and you may need to be prepared to address it.”

  “What would you suggest I do?”

  “Did you try to address the voice when you heard it in the shop?”

  “No. I was too freaked-out to strike up a conversation.”

  “Perhaps we should try to contact whoever it is and see what she wants.”

  “How would you propose we do that? Post something on Facebook and see if she comments?”

  “I would recommend that we spend some time together at the warehouse. I told you the other night that you needed to engage with your abilities, to practice. Not only will it help you deal with your issues around the shop, with things fixing themselves without you consciously wanting them to, but maybe we can figure out what to do about this voice that is haunting you.”

  “Haunting? Haunting?” Mara’s eyes bugged out.

  Ping raised his hand and lowered it. “Not so loudly. A bad choice of words. I did not mean to imply that you were being contacted by a dead person. That’s probably unlikely.”

  “Unlikely?”

  “Mara, we don’t know who it is, if it is a who. What I do suspect is that, if you keep ignoring or hiding from it, you are leaving yourself open to an unpleasant surprise. Why not try to figure it out, together?”

  Mara relaxed and sat back in her chair. “Okay. How about tonight? I might as well face up to whatever it is sooner rather than later.”

  “Drop by the bakery when you close up the shop, and we’ll drive over,” Ping said.

  CHAPTER 21

  As they had done two days ago, Prado and Merv showed up at 7:00 in the morning to watch Christopher Bartolucci, the manager at Rivercore Northwest Bank,
arrive at work. Prado insisted that Merv’s clothing had to match exactly so as not to raise the suspicions of the other bank employees. They parked across the street because the lots immediately adjacent to the bank were empty. A lone car with two occupants staring at a bank before it opened was bound to draw attention.

  Prado glanced at his watch and lifted a small pair of binoculars to his eyes. A maroon Buick pulled into the bank manager’s marked parking spot. “I do appreciate a man who is a slave to routine,” Prado said, more to himself than to Merv, who still looked like the bank manager’s doppelgänger. “Right on time and, as usual, sporting a white pinpoint oxford and olive khakis. Today’s tie color appears to be a black-and-olive pattern. We’ll pick it up at J. C. Penney at the other end of the mall when it opens.”

  In the passenger seat, Merv fidgeted with the clasps on the leather briefcase propped up between his legs on the floor below the dashboard and said, “I’m sure he doesn’t buy everything he wears at J. C. Penney. What if we don’t find the tie?”

  “Given Mr. Bartolucci’s nearly obsessive devotion to uniformity and habit, I’d be surprised if we don’t. But if not, I’m sure we can find one that is equally unremarkable using the same color palette. You only have to pass as the manager for a few minutes after the armored truck delivery is made this afternoon.”

  “You mean we, right? You’re going in with me,” Merv said.

  Prado lowered the binoculars, turned his head slowly and locked his narrowing eyes on Merv. “No, I am not going in with you. That is not how we planned and practiced this little venture. I’m staying out here to keep an eye on things, in case something unanticipated happens. You’ll go into the bank when the manager leaves for lunch. You’ve got your webcam like before, so I can follow what’s going on inside. That way, all the bases are covered.”

  “All your bases are covered. I’m the one whose ass is on the line in there.” Merv jerkily pointed to the bank across the road. “What happens if something goes wrong? You’ll scoot along and leave me holding the bag, right?”

  “Wrong. What if a police cruiser happens by while you are in there?”

  “What if it does? I’m the bank manager. It’s not like I’m sticking a gun in a teller’s face and slipping her a note to give me all the money. I’m going to walk in, load up the briefcase and walk out.”

  “Exactly. And, if I’m tagging along, that’s going to look odd to the bank employees, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t want you there holding my hand. Why can’t you go in and play like you’re a customer? I’d feel a lot better knowing you were in there with me, just in case.”

  “You understand that I won’t be armed. If things go wrong, there is not much I can do from inside the bank. At least if I’m behind the wheel of the car, we will have a better chance of making a smooth getaway. It will take longer if we both have to make a break for the car.”

  “If you’re in there with me, I know we’re in this together,” Merv said, looking down like a sulking child. “If not, I don’t think I would be comfortable doing this.”

  Prado slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “You might have said something earlier when we were planning and doing the practice run.”

  Merv shrugged. “I guess it didn’t occur to me.”

  “Okay, here’s how it’s going to go. You do everything exactly the way you practiced it. I will go in the bank a few steps behind you, stand in the lobby area and pretend to fill out a deposit slip. After you pick up the money and I see you returning from the secured area, I’ll exit the bank ahead of you so I get to the car first. That way, I’ll be in place if we need to make a hasty retreat. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Yeah, that’s acceptable.” Merv nodded.

  “Let’s go get the tie.” Prado started the car and threw it into gear with more force than he intended.

  * * *

  Five hours later, the shopping center parking lot was abuzz with cars and shoppers hauling packages, bags and food to and fro. As he watched the armored car pull away from the bank, Prado had no concerns with this kind of suburban camouflage around. Struggling to put on his newly purchased tie, Merv grunted in frustration from the passenger seat.

  “I can’t seem to get the hang of this. Can you give me a hand?” He looked over to Prado, who stared out the windshield toward the bank’s main entrance.

  Without looking at Merv, Prado said, “Hand me the tie.”

  Merv yanked one end of the tie, slipped it from beneath his collar and held it up in front of Prado’s face. Taking the tie, but still not looking away from the bank, Prado wound the tie around his own neck over his collar, methodically flipping and tucking it into a neat Windsor knot. He loosened the knot and removed the looped tie over his head. “Here, slip it on.

  “Got it.” Merv turned up his collar, positioned the tie and tightened it around his neck. He then adjusted the webcam in his shirt pocket. “Are you ready to test the camera?”

  “There’s no need for the camera if I’m going to follow you into the bank, now is there?” Prado said.

  “I guess not.”

  “Make sure you take the briefcase with you. And remember not to get too greedy. Only put as much money in the briefcase as would look natural when you walk out of the secured area. You don’t want to walk out with dollar bills bulging out the seams or look like you’re hauling a pile of bricks. The goal is to walk away with no one being the wiser. Understand?”

  “Got it.”

  Prado straightened in his seat. “Okay, there’s our bank manager, heading to lunch. Are you ready?”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way.” Merv reached for the door handle.

  Prado grabbed Merv’s shoulder. “Hold on. Let’s allow Mr. Bartolucci to get to where he’s going. Remember, you don’t need to bump into him this time.”

  Merv bobbed his head up and down. “Right, right.” He sat back in his seat and watched the bank manager walk into the sub sandwich shop. After a moment, he glanced at Prado, asking with a look for permission to continue.

  Prado replied by releasing his grip on Merv’s shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you,” Prado said.

  Merv nodded and stepped out of the car carrying the brown leather briefcase. He glanced over at the sandwich shop to make sure Bartolucci wasn’t backtracking for some reason, then turned toward the bank. Before he reached the entrance, Prado got out of the car and followed.

  Inside the bank, a security guard, a different man from the chatty one Merv had encountered during his practice run, simply nodded his head and made no attempt to talk or ask why the bank manager had returned so soon. Taking this as a good omen, Merv paused to look back, through the tinted glass doors, to see Prado casually strolling toward him. Another good sign. Merv smiled, began to feel confident. This thing felt like it was going to go off without a hitch.

  He turned toward the door leading into the secured area, and, as before, a buzzer sounded at his approach, followed by a click. He pulled open the door and stepped out of the bank lobby. A blonde teller to his right caught his eye, and he gave her a slight dip of the head without saying anything. He turned to the left toward the bank manager’s office.

  “Mr. Bartolucci?” It was the blonde teller calling after him.

  His heart raced. As he turned, she approached him in the hall. “Yes, um—” He glanced down and saw a gold name tag on her blouse. “Um, Rose. What can I do for you?”

  “The day off? You said you would think about it and let me know when you got back from lunch.” She blushed a little. “I hate to be a nag, but my husband needs to make the reservations.”

  “Oh, no problem. Of course go ahead. You can take the day off.”

  “Did you figure out who would fill in for me?”

  “Let me worry about that. You just enjoy yourself.” Merv turned and headed toward the office. Once he got there, he closed the door and sat behind the desk with the briefcase in his lap. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

>   Merv rolled his eyes and said, “Yes?”

  Another woman—this one older, with gray hair tied into a severe bun on the back of her head, wearing a matronly navy dress adorned with little white daisies—stepped into the office. Her face was scrunched up into what Merv could only estimate was a snarl. She lifted her hand to her lace collar as if she were trying to hold herself back from saying something inappropriate.

  “I thought we agreed that Rose could not have that day off. She has not worked here long enough to accumulate a vacation day, and there is no one to fill in for her.”

  Merv leaned forward to get a look at the woman’s name tag, but the light was putting a glare on it, forcing him to twist his head to the left to get a readable angle on it. “Well, I, um, I changed my mind, I suppose, Mildred.” He looked blankly at her.

  “So what are we going to do? Are you going to be a teller for a day? Because at this point that may be our only option.”

  Merv stood, inadvertently dropping the briefcase on the desk with a clatter. “Look,” he said, “we can worry about this later. I promise I will figure something out. Can you please excuse me for a few minutes?”

  Looking as if she had swallowed something sour, Mildred turned and stomped out of the office.

  Merv scurried around the desk, picked up the briefcase and walked back down the hallway toward the tellers. Studiously avoiding making eye contact with anyone, he walked behind the row of teller windows and turned left, where he found the metal door of the safe ajar, as it had been during his previous visit.

  Glancing around, determining that Mildred had not followed him and that no one else seemed interested, he used a finger to push open the heavy door, enough for him to slip into the safe. As he’d seen during the practice run, the courier bags of cash were on the metal table in the middle of the narrow bunkerlike room. He placed the briefcase next to the bags, unclasped it and pulled open the top so that it looked like a baby bird waiting to be fed. Next he untied the closest courier bag, reached inside and pulled out a bundle of bills. One-hundred-dollar bills. Perfect.

  It took only about two minutes to transfer enough bundles to fill the briefcase. There were bundles of twenties as well, but Merv only packed away a couple of those. Since he had limited space, he wasn’t going to waste very much of it on twenties.