Happy reading,
Beth
To Paul and Jeffery—all my love
Contents
Note to Readers
The plan was ready. His weapon cleaned, primed, loaded. His target identified and surveilled. His escape mapped out. Contingencies decided. The time had come.
He stashed his gun in an accessible place on his person, then covered it with his long shirt, his jacket. By this time tomorrow, he’d be out of state, on his way to his next small-town target as he made his way to the Mexican border. To freedom.
Wayne Moore strapped on his grandfather’s watch, the only thing he had left of his grampa’s. His father had given it to him just days before he’d died. Wayne acknowledged the familiar tangle of regret, longing and disgust he experienced when remembering his father. A complicated legacy. A love-hate relationship. Jacob Moore had taught him well. Some lessons were learned on their homemade backyard shooting range and some at his father’s side as they held up gas stations, diners and liquor stores. Others were taught with fists and belts. His dad’s last lesson had been taught through his failure.
Wayne shook his head, remembering. His father had gotten careless, cocky. Had taken on a large city bank without adequate backup, without considering all the ramifications and obstacles. Had seen only his past successes and the promise of a bigger payday. He’d paid for his hubris with his life, shot by the security officer as soon as he fired his own weapon.
Lesson learned. Stick to small jobs. Keep it simple.
Small-town banks had smaller payouts, but also a smaller risk of capture. And the number-one goal, above the take, was not to be captured. Stay out of jail and be free to do another job on another day. Wayne wasn’t sure how many days he had left, but if he didn’t get some money for all his medical bills, they were sure to end sooner rather than later.
After a last check of his supplies, his weapons, his escape plan, Wayne climbed in his old beater sedan and headed for his target.
Five excruciating months had passed since Helen had been murdered. Five months of grief, loneliness and, most of all, guilt. He hadn’t taken her life, but that didn’t exonerate him from his other wrongs. He’d taken her for granted, not given her what she deserved, acted the fool when he’d had a good woman who loved him.
Dave Giblan sat at Helen’s graveside, his bad leg stretched in front of him and the moisture from the latest spring rain soaking through his jeans. He made biweekly visits to her grave, often bringing flowers to brighten the still-raw earth from her burial. Flowers he should have given her more often while she was alive. Instead, he’d laughed at his boss’s advice to show Helen his feelings, his appreciation of her. Now it was too late.
Grunting as he shoved to his feet, he swiped at the damp seat of his jeans and whispered, “Bye, Helen.” Turning, he headed back to his pickup. He still had a slight limp, minor pain and stiffness following the surgery to repair his broken leg last December. The accident, a fall from a ladder, had been so random, so senseless...and just a few days before Helen was murdered. He lost both his girlfriend and his job within days of each other.
The McCalls swore that