Chapter 15 #3
Finn’s route got them to the back of the bank without incident.
It had also been his idea to ride in pairs as they approached because folks who might see them would have little concern about two riders.
Four at once would have made people pay attention.
Finn and Gideon were standing at the back door before Morgan and Dix dismounted.
Gideon rattled the door. “It’s locked but seems like it doesn’t have a bar, or someone forgot to bar it. That was careless.” He stepped aside and took a lock pick out of his vest pocket and handed it to Morgan. “You’ll need this. How many minutes left, Dix?”
Dix had to hold out his pocket watch at several different angles before he caught enough light to make out the position of the hands. He announced there were fifty-eight minutes remaining at the same time Morgan was opening the door.
Gideon gestured for Morgan to precede them. He got a good grip on Finn’s collar and pushed him forward. “We’ll go in together,” he told the boy. “Dix, you separate the horses like we talked about and keep an eye out here.” He closed the door.
“Matches?” asked Morgan. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“I put them in Finn’s pocket. Go ahead, boy. You light one.”
Finn felt around in his coat pockets, found them, and struck one against a wall. “How about that, Mr. Longstreet. I didn’t even feel him put ’em there.”
Morgan did not waste a moment or his breath admonishing Finn about being too impressed by Gideon’s sleight of hand. He was already moving to the interior door that led into the lobby. Behind him he heard a heavy thud followed by a string of colorful curses from Gideon.
“We’re all right,” Finn called to Morgan. “It was just the iron bar that should’ve been across door. Your brother found it.” He hunched his shoulders as Gideon squeezed harder around the back of his neck. “Ow, mister. It ain’t my fault it fell on your foot. I didn’t knock it over.”
“I could’ve shot you. Shut up and keep going.”
Finn averted his head as he lit another match. He and Gideon hurried after Morgan.
“Blow it out,” Morgan said when they came up behind him in the lobby. “No more until we get to the manager’s office. There are no windows in there. Come on. We only have to get past the tellers’ cages. You can make them out well enough.”
Morgan swore under his breath as he came up on Mr. Webb’s office.
“What is it?” Gideon asked.
“It’s locked. I need the pick again.” He held out his palm. He was conscious of every second that ticked away until Gideon put the pick in his hand. Putting his shoulder against the door, Morgan inserted the pick and carefully twisted it. He felt the lock give. The knob turned in his hand.
“Give me the pick,” said Gideon. He pocketed it. When his hand came up, he was holding his gun. “Go on. What are you waiting for?”
Morgan realized he was holding his breath. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Then he opened the door.
* * *
Jane paused outside the open doorway to the room where Max was being held.
She felt Marcie’s hand at the small of her back, urging her forward, but she resisted.
Max was lying on the bed, staked out as though for human sacrifice.
They had taken his boots. His hands and stocking feet were tied with strips from one of the sheets that Max had helped her take down from the clothesline.
It did not seem possible that it had only been a few hours ago.
Until Gideon made his announcement that they were guaranteed no more than one hundred minutes of life, time had passed very slowly indeed.
“I want to look in on him,” she told Marcie. “He was bound very tightly. Look at his hands. His fingers are swollen.”
“What do you think you’re going to do about it, Florence Nightingale?” He poked her with two fingers to keep moving.
Jane was satisfied that she had already done something about it.
At the sound of her voice, Max had lifted his head and was staring at her through his one good eye.
Jane immediately turned in the doorway and planted a hand on the frame on either side.
This barred Marcie from entering, but more importantly kept her face from his view.
When Max started straining against his bindings, she shook her head.
It wasn’t enough to keep him from doubling his efforts when Marcie’s face appeared at her shoulder.
“Max! Stop! Please, stop. Whatever happens, Max, you need to tell Morgan this is what I wanted. I want you to promise that you will do that for me. I could not ask Rabbit. It would not be fair to him.”
She had no idea whether Max committed to doing what she asked. Marcie grabbed one of her wrists and pulled it behind her back. He might have hurt her if she had struggled. She did not. She reminded herself that he was taking her where she wanted to go.
* * *
Gideon kicked the door shut once they were inside Mr. Webb’s inner sanctum.
No one moved until Finn struck a match and located a lamp.
He burned the tips of his fingers lighting it because he did not want to use another matchstick.
When Gideon cuffed him, he merely shrugged and sucked on his fingertips.
“Put the lamp on top of the safe,” said Gideon. “Then sit your ass in that chair.”
“Mr. Webb’s chair?” asked Finn. “Behind his desk?”
“Don’t get too excited. No one’s asking you to run the place.”
“Do what he says, Finn.” Morgan knelt in front of the safe. “And stay put.” Morgan set his ear to the safe’s door and spun the lock.
“He should watch, though,” said Gideon. “And learn. It might figure into his future.”
“Shut up, Gideon. I need to hear this, not you. Is there a glass anywhere around?”
“No.”
“Finn, look in Mr. Webb’s desk drawers.”
“Already found it.” Finn held it out to Gideon. “Right next to the bottle of sassparilly he takes for his rheumatism.”
“Clever boy.” Gideon passed the glass to Morgan, who put the open end flush to the safe door. Gideon pushed aside some papers on the desk and hitched his hip on the edge. He rested his Model 1875 Remington against his thigh.
Morgan pressed his ear against the bottom of the glass and spun the lock again. He began to work in earnest. He estimated he could safely take five full minutes to crack the combination. He decided he would use every one of them.
“How much time?”
Gideon checked his watch, a gold-plated timepiece that had once belonged to his father. It was the only thing he took from Zetta Lee when they parted ways. He used a thumbnail to flick it open. “Fifty-four, no, fifty-three minutes.”
* * *
Jane did not permit Marcie to push her into the bedroom. She walked in under her own steam, chin up, shoulders braced.
“You ain’t goin’ to the gallows,” Marcie said. “Or the—what’s that French thing with the blade that cuts—”
“A guillotine.”
“Yeah. You’re not goin’ there either. Like you told your man in the room, this is what you want. It’s real good of you to say that. Eases my mind some that it won’t come to rape. You’ll understand that I’ve had my fill of that accusation.”
Jane picked up the folded linens at the foot of the bed and carried them to the rocker. She set them down and turned to face him. Her eyes dropped to his gun belt. “You can put your gun on the dresser, or if you like, you can put it on top of the wardrobe.”
“What I like is to keep it at my side.”
“Your whores do not complain?”
His crooked grin changed the line of his scar. “Seems funny hearing you say somethin’ like that.” His eyes grazed her from head to toe. “I’ll give up the gun if you loosen your hair.”
Jane hesitated. The idea of this man touching her hair was repugnant. She had only ever unwound her hair for Morgan. He acted as if she were giving him a gift. Sometimes she thought it belonged more to him than it did to her, and now this man, this awful man, wanted to touch it.
“Yes,” said Jane. “Of course.” She put her hands to her head and began to remove the pins.
Marcie unstrapped his gun belt and put it on top of the wardrobe. “Guess you better come over here.” He crooked his finger at her. “I don’t think much of calling you Mrs. Longstreet. What’s your name?”
“I am Mrs. Longstreet, and I prefer that you remember it, but if it troubles you, you may call Frances. I would not mind that terribly.”
“Frances. That’s where you get your starch. I like Franny better. I have a notion that it’s a bit softer.”
“Do you think so?” Jane dropped her pins and combs on top of the linens and walked toward him. She stopped at the other side of the bed. “Shall I turn back the covers?”
He smiled. “You’re goin’ to stay all proper about it. I like that. No, you can leave the bed as it is and just lie down. I’ll cover you.”
Jane smoothed her apron with damp palms and nervously licked her lips. The brief darting of her tongue brought his attention to her mouth. She worked to keep her breathing steady. “I do not want you to kiss me.”
He cocked a wiry eyebrow at her. “What you want is five minutes, remember? Let me see what you have, Franny. Come here.”
Jane went. She did not have to feign reluctance.
And when he pulled her close, dug his fingers deep into her hair, and ground his mouth against hers, she did not have to feign despair.
Her husband loved to plunge his fingers into her hair, sift it, thread it, and this touch of Marcie’s was a violation.
She would not let it stand. She would not. The solution came to her as Marcie grabbed a fistful and yanked.
* * *
The pins clicked. The tumblers fell. Morgan put the glass on top of the safe.
“You got it?” Gideon asked.
“We’ll see. Stay where you are. Let me see if this works first.” Morgan placed a hand around the long brass handle and gave it a pull. The door opened, revealing neat stacks of bills, valuables, certificates…and one more thing.