The Devil Will Come

by Justin Gustainis

  * * *

  Daniel Bright carried the two big suitcases behind the bank’s service counter, placed them on the nearest desk, and opened them. The four female tellers were staring at him as if he had just beamed down from a spaceship.

  “Listen to me,” Bright said, his voice harsh with tension. “I know that Louise has brought you into the picture, but I want to be sure that everyone understands what’s at risk here.”

  He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze both angry and pleading at the same time. “I know what you’ve been trained to do in the event of a robbery— I ought to, since I’m the one who trained you. But we’re faced with a situation that the training wasn’t designed for. If anyone here trips a silent alarm, my wife Marilyn dies, probably quite horribly. If anyone tries to sneak a dye pack in with the money, my wife dies. After the two of us leave here, if anyone calls the police or FBI before hearing from me, my wife dies.”

  Bright made a gesture toward the man in the Panama hat and sunglasses. “And I should mention that the threat against my wife isn’t the only one to worry about. He’s carrying a gun—” The man briefly pulled back his suit jacket to reveal the pistol stuck in his waistband. “—and I’m convinced that he’s prepared to use it, if necessary. Don’t any of you bet your life that he’s not.”

  Bright paused for a deep breath then continued, sounding a little calmer. “Look, I know how galling this is— believe me, nobody hates it more than I do. After we leave here, this man is going to drop me off someplace where I’ll have a long walk to get to a phone. After that, it’ll be our turn: the authorities will be notified, and we’ll all be giving statements and answering questions and looking at mug shots for days, probably. But right now, I need you, all of you, to help me save my wife’s life. Will you do that— for her sake?”

  The nods and murmurs of assent were unanimous. “All right, then,” Bright said quietly. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

  He turned to the man in the Panama hat. “What do you want first?” he asked grimly. “The tellers’ drawers?” Receiving a nod of assent, Bright said to Louise Fitzsimmons, “Will you open up the vault, please? That’s going to be our next stop.”

  * * *

  “Untie my hand,” Marilyn Bright said. “The right one. I want a cigarette.”

  “Sure,” the man named Steve said. As he approached the bed he added, “I’ll untie all four of ‘em, if you want. We got time.”

  “No, better not. If you do, I might forget and get out of bed. Don’t want to spoil the crime scene.”

  The man finished unknotting the cord from her wrist, handed her a cigarette from his pack, and lit it. He placed a small crystal ash tray with reach of her hand. “Don’t matter none,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll truss you all up tight again before I go.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to take the chance that these rope burns won’t match up with the way I’m tied,” she said. “Don’t forget: the FBI will be going over this place with a fine-tooth comb. They’ll check every little body hair, every bit of fiber— and every drop of your joy juice, which I can feel leaking out of me even now.”

  He looked toward her crotch, then with a mild leer said, “Damn, you’re right. And a mighty pretty picture it do make, too.”

  She took a drag on her cigarette then said, “It wouldn’t be so pretty if the forensics experts found a few drops of it in the kitchen, or someplace. She made her voice lower, in mimicry of a man’s: “Now Mrs. Bright, do you expect this court to believe that the intruder you’ve described tied you up, raped you, and then untied you and allowed you to wander around your house, leaving small quantities of his semen everywhere you went?” In her normal voice, she said, “No, it’s better if I stay like this.”

  He nodded his understanding and continued to stand there quietly, watching her smoke, noticing how careful she was not to let any ash fall on her.

  After a few minutes he said, “So, when are you gonna give hubby the news?”

  She extinguished her cigarette carefully. “Which news?”

  “About you and me. About our plans.”

  “That’s going to have to wait awhile, until all the fuss has died down, which could take some time. This bank robbery is going to attract a hell of a lot of attention— FBI, State Police, the media, God knows who else. Dan and I are going to be under the microscope, probably for months, and we’ll have to act completely normal.” She smiled ruefully. “So that means I’m stuck with the big dummy a little longer. Think I’m worth waiting for?”

  He smiled back. “Lady, I fuckin’ know you are.”

  “Well, all right, then. You just see that you do wait, instead of taking up with some bimbo. I’m not losing you now, after all we’ve been through.”

  “You know, I been thinkin.’” His smile was gone now. “When you do get around to tellin’ Danny-boy that you want a divorce, he’s liable to get pretty ugly about it. And even if he don’t, you’d most likely end up with only half of what he’s got, anyway.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s true. Community property, and all that.”

  “Besides, how you gonna hit him up for half of your share from this score? You can’t tell no judge about that.”

  “God, I hadn’t even thought about it, but you’re right,” she said, frowning. “So, what’ve you got in mind?”

  “Well, there’s all kinds of divorce, you know. There’s the kind we was just talkin’ about, with judges and lawyers and all that crap.”

  She nodded for him to go on.

  “Then there’s the other kind,” he said. “The one where hubby lies down one day and don’t get back up, on account of being dead.”

  Marilyn Bright let a slow smile spread across her face. “Now, that’s an idea with possibilities. I like the way you think, Steve.”

  He tried to look modest. “Well, I didn’t go to no fancy college like you and Danny-boy, but that don’t mean I’m a dummy, neither.”

  “Of course you’re not,” she said. “You’ve got natural smarts, like a fox.” She pondered for a while. “We’ll have to be very careful, the way we do it.”

  “Yeah, I know. But we got time to figure something that’ll look right, like a accident or somethin’.”

  “Absolutely. Then it’ll be just you and me. You and me and all that money….” She let her voice trail off, then said, “Listen, I’m wondering if maybe we shouldn’t leave a knife on the nightstand, just a little extra proof of how you forced me. Maybe you could even cut me, just a little. I can say you did it to scare me into lying still while you tied me up.”

  He shrugged. “We can do it that way, if you want.”

  “Tell you what, take a look in the kitchen. There’s a set of chef’s knives on the counter, in one of those wooden block things. Bring one in here, would you, honey? Get a big one.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I already knew how you like them big ones. Okay, just a sec.”

  She held her smile until he was out of the room, then quickly dropped her right hand down the side of the bed, reaching for something wedged between the mattress and box spring. Keeping the hand and whatever it held out of sight from the doorway, Marilyn Bright lay back again and listened for the sound of Steve’s returning footsteps. She did not have to wait long.

  * * *

  Rick Shartrelle took one hand off the steering wheel and removed his Panama hat, which he dropped to the floor of the van. The sunglasses remained in place, however, even though the day was cloudy. Shartrelle no longer needed them for disguise, but he liked to look at his image in the rear view mirror, and he thought the shades made him appear mysterious and dangerous.

  That’s how he had thought of himself all through the time spent in the bank: a silent, menacing figure, like one of the characters in Reservoir Dogs, a movie that he had seen several times. The tellers had apparent
ly seen the same film, since they had been scared green by his brooding persona. Rick Shartrelle had loved every second of it.

  Turning to his passenger, he asked, “You got it counted yet?”

  “I’m almost done,” Dan Bright said.

  A couple of minutes later, just as Shartrelle was turning onto a secondary road that looked to be all uphill, Bright said, “Looks like 284,960 bucks. Approximately.”

  Shartrelle broke into a grin, pumped his fist a couple a times and gave voice to a rebel yell. “Yee-haw!”

  As the van begun its climb of the pothole-strewn road, Shartrelle asked, “You usually have that much cash lying around at the bank?”

  “No, we don’t, as a matter of fact,” Bright told him. “But every other Friday is payday for about half the firms in the area. Most people who deposit their checks want some cash back to get them through the weekend. That adds up, when you consider the number of depositors we have.”

  “When in doubt, ask the expert,” Shartrelle said with a grin. “So, half of that comes to what?”

  “About 143,000 dollars. Keep in mind that my count could be off a little. It’s best to do this kind of work with a calculator, and I forgot to bring one.”

  “Well, we can count it together, once we get to the mine.”

  “Good idea,” Bright said, nodding. “Slow down, you’re going to turn right up here, just past the sign. See it?”

  Shartrelle applied the brake. “Sign says Road Closed, man. Are we gonna be able to get up there?”

  “Sure, no problem. They’ve just got a couple of sawhorses up at the top, probably to discourage kids from going parking. Easy enough to move them— I did it myself when I was there last time.”

  A few minutes later, the van came to a stop in a big, open area, near an old, weather-beaten sign that read “Knoxville Mining Co., Shafts #7 and #8.” Parked nearby was an old Toyota Corolla.

  The two men got out of the van. Shartrelle looked at the car and said, “When did you leave this heap up here?”

  Bright thought for a moment. “Nine days ago.”

  “How the hell’d you get home, after?”

  “Brought a bicycle with me. I broke it down and stowed part in the trunk, the rest in the back seat. Only took me ten minutes to reassemble it.”

  “Bicycle, huh? That’s pretty slick.”

  Bright shrugged. “I have my moments.”

  “Well, what say we spend some moments countin’ all that lovely money again, so we can make the split?”

  “Weren’t you going to call Steve, first?”

  “Shit, that’s right. He’ll be wondering how everything went.” Shartrelle reached into a pocket and pulled out the Tracfone he’d bought for 25 bucks at Wal-Mart.

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll make sure this junker is going to start for me.” Bright produced a set of car keys and walked over to the Toyota.

  Shartrelle switched the phone on and began to tap in numbers. From behind him, he heard the squeal of rusty metal as Bright got the Toyota’s door open.

  * * *

  Marilyn Bright, three of her four limbs still bound, was smoking another cigarette when the Tracfone on the mattress next to her started buzzing. She took one last drag and stubbed out the butt before answering. “Hello?”

  After a pause, Rick Shartrelle’s voice said, “What the hell’re you doin’ answering Steve’s phone?”

  “He’s in the bathroom, Rick. Can’t the poor guy even take a leak?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “I figured if nobody answered you’d get all bent out of shape, so I decided I’d better do it, okay?”

  “Oh.” Another pause. “How come he didn’t just take the phone into the can with him?”

  She let impatience show in her voice. “Gee, I don’t know, Rick, why don’t you ask him yourself? The toilet just flushed, so he ought to be out here in a second.”

  “Damn, I told him not to—”

  She heard it then, the sound from the tiny speaker that she had been waiting for— the sound of the shot.

  There was a clatter in her ear, as if someone had dropped the other phone onto hard ground.

  When she heard Shartrelle’s voice again, it seemed distant, and the words sounded like they were being squeezed out through tightly clenched teeth. “Bright, you bastard, you fuckin’—”

  Another shot stopped the obscene tirade.

  Dan Bright’s voice came on the line. You still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Sounds like you got it done.”

  “Yeah, even if it did take me two bullets. How’d it go on your end?”

  “Perfectly.” She let her eyes rest on Steve briefly. “Ligature marks, semen, and his fingerprints on a nice, sharp carving knife.” She made her voice sound panicky: “Honest, officer, after he raped me he said he was gonna kill me anyway. I managed to get one hand loose and reach our burglar gun just as he was coming at me with that big, big, knife. I had to do it!”

  “Okay, Ms. Streep, save it for the Grand Jury.”

  “Oh, I will, believe me.” She worked a fresh cigarette out of the pack one-handed. “So, how much did we get?”

  “About 285 K.”

  “Nice! That’s even better than we hoped.”

  “I know, I know.” The grin on his face was evident in his voice. “Look, I’d better go. There’s a lot of cleaning up to do, yet.”

  “Which shaft are you going to use?”

  “Number eight. That’s the deepest, according to the records.”

  She lit her cigarette, took a deep drag. “So, the earliest the gendarmes are likely to come busting in here is…?”

  “Three hours minimum. It’ll take me at least that long to finish here and drive over to Clark County, so I can come stumbling out of the woods looking suitably disheveled. But don’t worry if it takes longer.”

  “All right, I won’t. I’ll practice looking traumatized and sick with worry.”

  “And be sure you’re not holding that .38 when the cavalry gets there. Some of these SWAT guys will key in on the weapon, without thinking about who’s holding it. We don’t want some trigger-happy rookie opening fire before he knows the score.”

  She expelled smoke in a soft laugh. “Stop worrying, babe. The tough part’s over, and in a few more hours we’ll be home free.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Actually, I’m surprised it’s gone so well. I mean, I checked Rick and Steve out pretty thoroughly before we approached them, and those two are not exactly virgins. They’re supposed to be good at this stuff.”

  “Well, they were.” She looked again at Steve, who lay on his back in a puddle of blood, eyes staring at nothing, his face frozen in an expression of shock that was almost comical.

  A broad smile grew on Marilyn Bright’s face, the kind of expression you might associate with a lioness standing over the body of a fat zebra whose neck she has just broken.

  The smile stayed in place as she said, “But we’re better.”

  * * * * *

  Devil to Pay

  I heard a small sound, and glanced up from the claim form I was processing to see that a skinny double latte had appeared on my desk, as if by magic. Well, okay, it wasn’t magic, exactly. The cup had just been placed there by our new claims adjuster, Suzanne, who stood in front of my desk, looking down at me.

  I stared back, and it wasn’t exactly a chore. Suzanne was tall, and slim without being in any way skinny. Above her long, elegant neck, shortish brown hair dipped below one eye, in a face that was saved from conventional beauty by the wire-rimmed glasses she wore. The utilitarian frames conferred an air of erotic sternness typical of an actress who’d be cast to play the warden in one those “women in prison” movies. Suzanne’s face promised that same combination of sensuality, coldness, and cruelty.

 
I smiled thanks and reached for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

  The grin that she gave me could only be classified as evil. “Your soul, of course.”

  My hand stopped halfway to my hip pocket. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I want your soul.” The sardonic expression was still in place.

  I studied her for a second before saying, “I never sell my soul on a first date. What would you say to four bucks, instead?”

  She showed disappointment that may or may not have been genuine. “Well, okay, if you insist. But this isn’t a date, you know.”

  I handed her four singles and said, “You’re absolutely right. We’d better hurry up and have a couple, then— so you can find out if I come across, the second time at bat.”

  She stepped back from the desk and regarded me for a moment with her head tilted a little to one side. “We’ll see,” she said, then turned and walked off. Her firm ass wiggled a little in the semi-tight skirt she wore, but I didn’t stare at it. Not for very long, anyway.

  Suzanne had only been working in the Claims Department for a couple of weeks. I’d noticed several guys hit on her, with no apparent success. When she’d told me, and me alone, that she was making a run to Starbucks and asked if I wanted anything, I thought what any red-blooded guy would have thought: she wants me!

  Turned out, I was right— she did. But not in quite the way I’d imagined.

  After that encounter, I started paying more attention to what Suzanne was doing. I didn’t stalk her, really— I didn’t need to. It was a small office, and none of us was usually very far from anyone else. I didn’t exactly eavesdrop, either— but if I was in Suzanne’s vicinity and she was talking to somebody, I’d focus my hearing to pick up the conversation. I have very sharp ears.

  I overheard her say some interesting things.

  To Charlie, our intern: “You know, you could have a great career in this business, if only you’d sell me your soul.”

  To Doreen, one of our secretaries: “You’re ex-husband’s an asshole, all right. But if you sold me your soul, I’d help you get back at him, big-time.”