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EIGHTY-EIGHT

IT’S NOW 10:31 A.M. Blair, standing in the shadows of the gas station across the street from the bank, blows into his hands. Gloves would have been smart.

But it shouldn’t be long now. Marcie’s been inside a half hour.

That front door will open any minute now. Probably one of the employees will hold the door for Marcie while she lugs hundreds of pounds behind her in duffel bags, using those luggage carriers she brought.

As if on cue, the front door opens. A man in uniform, security, holds the door, pushes a kickdown to keep it open.

Here we go.

A woman rushes out. But not Marcie. A younger woman, college age. Then another person. Then another. People flooding out of the bank.

He takes a step forward, listens. An alarm of some kind coming from inside the bank?

“Marcie, what the hell did you do?” he whispers.