“Give it to Wellington,” they whispered together.
The manager? Are you crazy?
“Wellington,” they repeated.
His body shook. It’s stolen money!
“He knows.”
He knows it’s stolen? How? Were they waiting to see if he would take the money? Had the voices set him up?
“Is there a problem, Mr. Finch?” called the manager through the curtain.
Jon backed into the shelf like a caged animal. “N- no. No problem.”
There was a click on the hard floor outside the curtain, followed by a sliding sound. A briefcase slid into view.
“Will you be needing your briefcase?” said the manager.
What was going on? Jon stood there, frozen.
“Take it,” whispered a distant voice.
“Ah—yes,” said Jon, picking it up, “Thank you.”
Please, please, please tell me what is going on, he begged the voices.
“Charlie Wellington had a son,” they whispered.
Charlie? From the note?
The sound of a curtain sliding caused Jon to spin around, but it was not his curtain.
“Two boxes,” said a voice just outside.
“Very good, sir,” said Wellington. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir, could you bring the other?”
“Sure,” said the man who had occupied the booth next to his.
Jon heard two sets of feet walking away. He opened the briefcase and quickly began transferring the money. All but three stacks fit neatly into the case. He tried to stuff them in his pants, but the bulge was prominent in his skinny jeans. Even if he broke it down into small wads, it would have been hard to conceal in his pockets. He held the bending stacks in his hands and looked around. Sitting on the floor, next to the divider post between the booths, was a red backpack with the zipper open. Jon peered into the empty compartment. It was deep and dark enough to hide the wad of bills. He doubted the man would realize it was there until long after he left the bank.
He stuffed the three stacks deep into the hole.
Immediately a voice screamed in his head. “What are you doing?!”
“No!” screamed another.
A third chimed in. “He’s the enemy!”
Jon stared at the dark hole. Why didn’t you say something before I threw it in?!
“We don’t read minds.” He could hear the sarcasm dripping from the words.
What? You’ve been reading my mind for the last ten minutes!
“Not reading,” said a distant voice.
“Listening,” said another.
Listening? Reading? What’s the difference? He hovered over the bag. Would they see him shove his hand in?
“Thanks for putting up with me,” said the voice of the bag’s owner. Jon’s hovering hand retreated.
“Is there anything else we may assist you with?” The manager’s voice sounded close.
“No. I’ll be on my way.”
It sounded like the man was leaving without his bag. Jon pressed his hands against the sides of his booth and exhaled.
“Sir,” said the manager, his voice filling the hollow room. “You forgot your bag.”
Jon watched in horror as the bag slid from view. He had no idea what he had done, but it felt bad. Very bad. Who was this enemy the voices apparently feared? He didn’t sound threatening. He sounded disgruntled, and broke. Did the voices want him to stay broke? How much had he given him? Probably thirty thousand dollars anyway. That was a lot of money.
The door to the vault room opened and closed, and his enemy was gone, for the moment. Jon closed the briefcase, closed the lid on the safe deposit box, and exited the booth.
The manager turned to him. “Did the case meet your needs?”
“Yes,” said Jon, gripping the handle. “It did.” Jon studied the man’s face, as if for the first time. He looked noticeably nervous. Why? There appeared to be no end to the questions—Jon’s head was starting to hurt. He just wanted it all to be over with.
The manager moved past him and retrieved the safe deposit box from the shelf. “If you’ll follow me, please.” He carried the box back into the vault with Jon on his heels. When he saw that Jon was in position to watch him secure the box, he slid it into its socket, and locked it in with the key.
“Your key,” he said.
Jon took it.
“Now, if you have no objection, I’ll accompany you to the lobby.”
He had a ton of objections, but he shook his head no.
They climbed the stairs slower than Jon would have liked, then strolled through the double doors at the top. Jon kept his head down as they passed through the lobby—and past the front door...
Jon looked around. “Where are we going?”
“There is one more formality,” said the man.
Formality? The formality of them slapping cuffs on him and throwing him into the jail cell next to his father?
The manager disappeared into an office with an enormous oak door, and Jon’s courage began to fail again. If he made a run for it, could he make it out of the bank before they took him down? There were at least three security guards, and one was standing right next to the door.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Finch?” said the manager, coming back into view.
Jon wiped his forehead. “No. No problem.”
“Then please, have a seat. This will only take a moment, then you can get on with your day.”
It took every ounce of willpower for Jon to push himself over the threshold into that office but, once inside, seeing that there were no authorities waiting to arrest him, the adrenaline released.
“Are you okay, Mr. Finch? You seem nervous.”
He swallowed. “No. Ah, I just have a touch of something.”
The manager flashed his crooked teeth. “We’ll make this quick then. Please, have a seat.” He closed the door with a thud, circled the desk, and sat down in his plush chair. “I have to say, I knew someone would come for the money eventually, but I’m surprised it is someone so young.”
Well, there it was. He knew it was too good to be true. It was the inevitable certainty of his life. Nothing this awesome could ever happen to him.
The manager leaned back in his chair. “At first I thought you might be a young, undercover cop straight out of the detective academy looking to make a huge score.” He laughed a squeaky laugh. “And then those questions about Elliot James... I didn’t know what to think.” He paused, then sat forward. “You obviously didn’t come prepared to take any money out, that’s why I thought you were a cop. But then when you came out of your booth, I knew you had stumbled onto this.”
Jon lifted his chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man’s thin lips stretched, and his crooked, slightly yellow teeth popped out again. “You’re not with the police, and you’re not a treasure hunter. I think you stumbled onto something which led you to the key.”
The temperature in the room climbed ten degrees as the man leaned over his desk looking like the Grinch who stole Christmas. Jon braced himself for what would come next.
“Was it all there? All 2.6 million?”
2.6mil...? Was there really that much?! Jon’s eyes fixed on those of the manager’s. There didn’t seem much point in trying to hide the truth any longer. “I don’t know how much there is,” he said, “but it’s a lot.”
“My father said he never spent a dime of the money. He said he put it back where it belonged. So when I stumbled upon that safe deposit box with Donald Finch’s name on it, I knew it was in there. I just knew it!”
“And now you want it back,” Jon blurted.
The manager stared at Jon, an odd expression on his face. “I don’t want that money,” he said, his voice intense. “It’s nothing but a blight. Because of that money, I have worked my whole life to restore our family’s name.”
“Ah... O-kay.” Jon tried to grasp what he was hearing. “So you’re—going to give it to the police
?” It had to be something like that.
“If I had had the key, that money would have been burned in a pit years ago. The last thing I want is a media circus with our family name being dragged through the mud, yet again. I’m glad to see it go. I don’t care who you are, so long as you’re not the police or a reporter. Take it! You have my blessing. But I do expect one thing in return.”
Jon sat frozen. Was it really his? Once again, cynicism kept him from savoring the thought. There was always a catch.
The manager wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. “Take one million and give it to this retirement village. My mother has suffered ten lifetimes for money she never saw a dime of. Do this, and you’re free to walk away with the rest.”
Jon couldn’t say the words fast enough. “You have a deal.” He looked down at the paper sitting on the desk. It said: “Pleasant Oaks Retirement Village, 225 Third Street.”
“And, Mr. Finch,” the manager said sarcastically, “I don’t ever want to see you in this bank again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
David stood on the sidewalk in front of the bank with only one thought in his head. My wife is going to kill me. $650 a year for two safe deposit boxes? Who was going to pay for that? He certainly didn’t have that kind of money.
He looked up at the sky. I hope you have a plan, because when that credit card bill comes in, Sharon’s going to divorce me. Unless that’s your plan! There was no response, of course. There never was. All he had was the messages, and those were only interested in steering him through some new gauntlet of terror. It didn’t seem to matter to God if he was happy about it or not. Apparently, there was some grand, divine plan being shaped, and, for some reason, God wanted him to make it happen. Did he not care that he had lost his best friend? Did he not care that his wife and children were terrorized? Was he so focused on the big picture that he had lost the ability to feel the pain of those fighting this battle for him?
As he stood, clutching the red backpack in his hand and grinding his teeth, his eyes landed on a sign across the street. The raging sea of anger became as smooth glass. In bold letters, on a sign that had to be twelve feet long, were the words: EYE CARE.
David’s response was immediate and visceral. Then why don’t you throw me a bone! Haven’t I given enough? Am I not doing enough? His eyes brushed across the store fronts on the other side of the street and bounced on three more words hidden amongst the noise. Eye Gave Everything.
He took a step back as the familiar feeling of truth washed over him. That deep part of him that allowed him to recognize which words were messages, and which were not, was revealing something to him. It wasn’t simply the idea that the earth and everything in it came from God, there was something more. With this message, there was a sense of deep, personal loss, as though God had given to humanity what was most precious to him. David could feel the emotion weeping from each word on a level he could never fully comprehend. Yet he understood one thing. God wasn’t asking David to do anything he hadn’t already done, or to give anything he hadn’t already given. God had given everything.
He let the words trail off—and a sense of embarrassment washed over him as he became aware that he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk with tears streaming down his cheeks. He quickly brushed an arm across his face and looked down at the empty, red backpack in his hand. His other hand dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. With a few clicks, the phone dialed Karen Knight.
“Hello?”
“Karen, this is David. How are things going there?”
He could hear the smile in her words. “You’ll never guess who I ran into at the police station.”
“Jonathan Blake?”
“That’s a good one, but no. I ran into Agent Collins and Cooper, and check this out. You remember when Collins made that comment about the supernatural?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the plot thickens. Apparently Ross Blake and the killer in the blue car both experienced a blackout during the time of the murders.”
“I’m sorry, what blue car?”
He could hear a puff of air escape her lips. “Why are you in the news business again? Don’t you ever check the AP on your phone?”
“The Associated Press? They have an app for that?”
“Okay. I’m going to pretend that you’re not completely useless and continue on as if this is going really well. In the last two weeks, here in Massachusetts, there have been four cases where suspected murderers have confessed to a loss of time during the time of the murder.”
“So they’re copycats.”
“Copycats? How do you imagine that? Have you heard anything about murderers experiencing blackouts in the news lately?”
“No.”
“That’s because they aren’t being reported. You can’t copy something if you don’t know about it.”
“They have to be reported somewhere. How does something like this just slip by the media?”
“Investigative journalism is dead, David. Most news agencies just get the police report, slap it on the teleprompter, and call it a day. No one is digging anymore, for the same reason soda doesn’t come in a glass bottle and everyone buys formica furniture at Walmart. Doing something right takes time, and time is money. But don’t get me started.” She sucked in a breath and rolled on. “This isn’t an isolated thing either, Collins let it slip that there were other cases outside of Massachusetts, maybe nationwide.”
“Okay, that’s just weird.”
“Something really strange is going on here. And after talking to Ross Blake, I was sure he was innocent.”
“Really?”
“I mean, he’s not the most even-tempered man I’ve ever met, but you should have seen him. He was absolutely convinced his son committed the murder, as if he could not imagine himself capable of such a thing. He had me convinced. But if these blackout events are happening all over the place, it might be that he did do it, but there was coercion involved.”
“Like hypnosis or something?”
“Maybe the government is working on some kind of weaponized psychotropic drug, and Collins and his department are playing damage control.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Creepy doesn’t even begin to describe it.” He could hear the shiver in her voice. “So, anyway. Have you come up with anything else?”
“Nothing more yet. I deposited the food and I’m outside the bank.”
“Okay. Well, get a cab and come to the police station. I’ll hover around Collins and Cooper and see if I can glean any more useful tidbits.”
“I’ll see you in a few, then.”
“Okay, see you soon.” The phone went dead.
David slid it in his pocket and lifted his head. The traffic on the downtown street was moderate, but there was no sign of a taxi. A shiny, black Porsche approached, slowed to a crawl, then pulled into a parking space in front of him. The man in the driver’s side climbed out, circled to the back, and opened the trunk. Within seconds four suitcases sat on the road behind the parked sports car. David stepped back to give the man room to put his bags up on the sidewalk.
“Can I help you with those,” he said, noticing the frantic look on the man’s face.
The man looked up from under a sweat-covered brow. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Can I help you with your bags?”
The finely dressed man shot a look up the street, gripped two bags, and said, “Yes. Thank you. Yes.”
David swung the backpack on his shoulder, grabbed the remaining two suitcases and followed behind the man. “Where are you going?”
“Just to the corner,” he said.
“No. I mean, where are you headed? Are you going on vacation?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, laughing. “I’m going on vacation.”
A bus lumbered by and came to a stop at the corner in front of a local Greyhound station. The man checked his watch and walked faster.
“Are you t
aking the bus?”
“Yeah,” said the man brusquely. It was clear he had no desire to discuss the details of his trip, if it even was a trip. David had seen an expression like his before, the many times his mother had fled a broken marriage.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
The man’s face lost its hard determination. “I’m sorry. I’m a little preoccupied. I really appreciate the help.” He came to a stop at the side of the bus.
David popped to the side to avoid running into him. “I’m glad to help.”
The man looked down the street and then back at David as if seeing him for the first time. “People like you are a dying breed,” he said, almost sorrowfully. “Wolves eat the sheep. I’m so tired of being a wolf.” His countenance was labored.
David didn’t know how to respond.
“Here,” said the man, holding out his car keys. “I’m not coming back, so why not give it to you?”
David blinked at the keys, then slowly lowered the suitcases to the ground.
“She’s paid for,” he said, forcing the Porsche keys into David’s hand. “Title’s in the glovebox. I intended to give it to my son, but he’s too busy to care.” His lips pressed. “It’s not easy doing the right thing. The wrong thing never gets hard. You just hop on and before you know it, you can’t imagine how you got so far from what you know is right.” He tilted his head as though working the thought out for the first time. “What’s your name?” he said, suddenly.
“David.”
“Don’t take the easy path, David. Do what’s hard. It’s so easy to cut corners when building a house. Don’t be lazy. If you put the effort in to build the house right, you won’t have to spend the rest of your life fixing it.”
Again. David stood, speechless. He didn’t dare ask the man a question. Whatever crisis had caused him to flee his life and his possessions had temporarily impaired the man’s ability to control his own emotional state.
David tightened his grip on the keys. “Are you—sure about this?”
“I signed the title for my son but in the last sixty seconds you did more for me than my son has done in the last six years. Keep it.”
VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller) Page 14
