Part 41 (1/2)

She had to get out of there. As her swollen eyes adjusted to the dark, she realized she was still next to the room where Bill had died. She could just make out the bathroom floor in the dim light filtering through the far window. There was no sign of his body but a dark trail of blood on the floor tiles. Blinking the tears away, she noticed something small on the ground not far from the vent grate. It was a key. It had no markings on its face, but she knew what it was.

The key belonged there, laying in a dark pool of blood. No one would know what it could do. No one would even notice it lying on the floor. If anything, it would become police evidence. It was safe.

Somewhere in the building the bankers were scrambling to find the keys and cover their tracks, but it wouldn't be enough. Ms. Cunningham and the feds were putting a case together. The police would come and raid the vault. Tony would find the records of the robberies in Box 547. He would find the gold. The bankers would be brought to justice. It would be all right, she told herself. It had to be.

Beatrice peered down into the darkness below her. The ladder must lead all the way to the lower level and the tunnels. It was how Max had escaped. Beatrice said a silent prayer that her friend was still down there waiting for her. All of the jewels Doris had stolen were down there too. She had saved it all for Beatrice. Doris had done monstrous things, but maybe she had tried to make it right. Maybe her mother had loved her. Maybe.

As she craned her neck up toward the open louver high overhead, she could just barely see a glimmer of light.

EPILOGUE.

Friday, August 28, 1998 Ramone pushed Iris through the door of the Greyhound station. It was a haze of stale smoke and day-old coffee. Stained yellow ceiling tiles hung overhead. Plastic benches with torn vinyl cus.h.i.+ons lined the walls opposite the front desk. Nothing had been updated in the station since the 1970s. It was like stepping back into one of the abandoned rooms of the bank. The cracked linoleum s.h.i.+fted under her feet. Iris staggered to one of the benches and sat down.

Ramone lit a cigarette and studied the schedule posted on the board above the cas.h.i.+er. Names of cities and departure times jumbled together on the wall.

Cincinnati 6:00 p.m.

Charleston 6:30 p.m.

Chicago 8:00 p.m.

They would be on their way to some random place in mere minutes. A lump swelled in her throat. What about her car? Her clothes? Her apartment? The grim look in Ramone's eye told her everything she didn't want to know. It was gone. All of it.

Her purse was sitting in an abandoned police cruiser in the alley behind a hotel. A police officer was dead. Her apartment would be swarming with cops within the next few hours, unless Carmichael and Bruno stepped in. Either way, she was now a missing person. Carmichael hadn't minced words. They had to disappear.

”So, where you think you're headed?” Ramone offered her a filterless cigarette from his crinkled pack. He wasn't coming with her.

She took the smoke with shaking fingers. He lit a paper match, and she sucked the flame through the tobacco until it burned all the way down her throat. She wished it hurt more. At least pain made sense.

He set the heavy duffel bag down on the seat next to her. It jingled like a sack of quarters, but it wasn't. Iris's eyes flew up to the clerk behind the desk reading a magazine. The woman didn't blink at the sound.

Iris took another long drag and picked at the scratches on her knee. Her pant leg was ripped. Her s.h.i.+rt was covered in soot and tiny dark spots. Blood. It was Detective McDonnell's blood. She could barely hear Ramone talking as blood stared back at her.

”Charleston's nice this time a year.”

Iris forced a weak smile. ”Where will you go?”

”It don't matter. n.o.body's gonna look for me.”

”What about this?” Iris motioned to the bag.

”That's gonna be in Charleston or someplace with you.”

”Don't you want it?” She figured all of the jewels and cash Randy stole from the deposit boxes were worth a fortune.

”I'll be fine. I've grabbed a few things here or there. I ain't gonna be poor.” He winked at her. ”Besides, from what I seen of rich people, it don't pay to be one of 'em. Too much money ain't good for you.”

Iris nodded. ”I can't take it.”

”The h.e.l.l you can't. You gonna need to get set up somewhere. That takes money.”

”But none of this belongs to me. It's . . . stealing,” she whispered with her eye on the clerk.

”Stealing from who? Do you really think anyone is ever going to be able to sort it out now?”

”But shouldn't we turn all of this over to the authorities?” It was what the detective would want, she thought, eyeing the blood. He would want justice.

”And who do you think those authorities are exactly? Did it ever occur to you that the people who stashed all that gold are the same people sitting at city hall right now? Do you really think they are gonna let you walk into a police station, talkin' about what you've seen? Gonna let you testify?” Ramone looked at her dead in the eye, and she knew he was right.

The detective would want her to live, she told herself. Then he shouldn't have dragged her into the vault, she argued back, but that wasn't fair. She was the one who had gone looking for something in that bank. She had stolen keys. She had disturbed the ghosts. She had found the body. What had she really hoped to find? she wondered. It wasn't money. She didn't want Randy's blood money. It was something else. Tears welled up in her eyes. The girl she'd seen peering out a window of the bank tower might still be trapped inside somewhere. Beatrice.

Beatrice had opened safe deposit boxes and left behind keys and odd clues, cryptic notes and candles. Not just candles. Prayers. Maybe she had felt guilty too. Iris looked down at the torn seat next to hers and tried to imagine how it had looked twenty years earlier when it was new. Beatrice might have sat on that very bench. If she'd made it out of the building alive at all.

”What happened to Beatrice, Ramone? Did she manage to get out?”

”We're runnin' out of time, Iris.” He motioned to the clock over the clerk's head.

”Tell me. I need to know.”

”Why you chasin' ghosts? Haven't you had enough of this?”

”Please. I need to know she's okay.” Iris wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

”Why?” He glared at her, then gave up. ”Truth is, I don't know. n.o.body kicked up much fuss when she went missing, except me and Max's brother, Tony. Guess he thought if he found Beatrice, he'd find Max. We checked all the places we could figure and then some. The detective even sat up in Lakeview Cemetery every day for a month.”

”Cemetery? But if Beatrice was dead, shouldn't he have been checking the . . . ?” Iris's voice trailed off before she uttered the word ”morgue.”

Ramone nodded, catching her meaning. ”We checked there too. No, the cemetery was a long shot, but Tony seemed to think the girls would show up there. I think he still checks there from time to time . . . At least, he did.”

”Why?”