Julie Garwood - Come the Spring

sucking out the sunlight, and she was suddenly assaulted with the

claustrophobic feeling that she was in a casket and the man was pushing

the lid down on top of her.

Bare seconds had passed since they'd entered the bank. It would be

over soon, she told herself. Soon. They wanted only the money,

nothing more, and they would surely hurry to get out as quickly as

possible. Yes, of course they would. With every second that they

lingered, they increased the odds of being captured.

Could they see her through the cracks in the desk? The possibility was

too frightening. There was a half-inch split in the seam of the wood

all the way down the center panel, and she slowly shifted her position

until her knees were rubbing against the drawer above her head. The

air was thick, heavy. It made her want to gag. She took a shallow

breath through her mouth and tilted her head to the side so she could

see through the slit.

Across the room the three gray-faced customers stood motionless, their

backs pressed against the counter. One of the robbers stepped

forward.

He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt, similar to the clothing

the bank president wore. Had he not been wearing a mask and holding a

gun, he would have looked like any other businessman.

He was terribly polite and soft-spoken.

"Gentlemen, there isn't any need to be frightened, " he began in a

voice that reeked with southern hospitality. "As long as you do as I

say, no one will get hurt. We happened to hear from a friend of ours

about a large government deposit for the army boys, and we thought we

might like to help ourselves to their pay. I'll grant you we aren't

being very gentlemanly, and I'm sure you're feeling mighty

inconvenienced. I'm real sorry about that. Mr. Bell, please put the

Closed sign in the window behind the shades." The leader gave the

order to the man on his right, who quickly did as he was told.

"That's fine, just fine, " the leader said. "Now, gentlemen, I would

like all of you to stack your hands on top of your heads and come on

out here into the lobby so I wonXt have to worry that one of you is

going to do anything foolish. Don't be shy, Mr. President. Come on

out of your office and join your friends and neighbors." She heard the

shuffle of feet as the men moved forward. The gate squeaked as it

opened.

"That was nice and orderly." The leader oozed the praise when his

command was promptly followed. "You did just fine, but I have one more

request to make. Will all of you please kneel down? Now, now, keep

your hands on your heads. You don't want me to worry, do you? Mr.

Bell would like to lay you out on the floor and tie you up, but I don't

think that will be necessary. No need to get your nice clothes

dirty.

Just squeeze yourselves together in a tight little circle. That's

fine, just fine, " he praised once again.

"The safe's open, sir, " one of the others called out.

"Go to it, son, " he called back.

The man in charge turned to the desk, and she saw his eyes clearly.

They were brown with golden streaks through them, like marbles, cold,

unfeeling. The man named Bell was coughing, and the leader turned away

from her to look at his accomplice.

"Why don't you lean against the railing and let the others take care of

filling up the bags. My friend's feeling poorly today, " he told the

captives.

"Maybe he's got the influenza, " Malcolm suggested in an

eager-to-please voice.

"I'm afraid you might be right, " the leader agreed. "It's a pity

because he so enjoys his work, but today he isn't up to entertaining

himself. Isn't that right, Mr. Bell? " "Yes, sir, " his cohort

said.

"Are you about finished, Mr. Robertson? " "We got it all, sir. "

"Don't forget the cash in the drawers, " he reminded him.

"We've got that too, sir.

"Looks like our business is almost finished here. Mr. Johnson, will

you please make sure the back door isn't going to give us any

trouble?

" "I've already seen to it, sir."

"It's time to finish up, then." She heard the others moving back into

the lobby, their heels clicking against the floorboards with the

precision of telegraph equipment. One of them was snickering.

The man in charge had turned away from her, but she could see the

others clearly now. All of them stood behind the circle of captives.

While she watched, they removed their bandannas and tucked them into

their pockets. The leader took a step forward, then put his gun away

so he could carefully fold his bandanna and put it in his vest

pocket.

He stood close enough for her to see his long fingers and his carefully

manicured nails.

Why had they removed their masks? Didn't they realize that Franklin

and the others would give the authorities their descriptions . . . Oh,

God, no . . . no . . . no . . .

"Is the back door open, Mr. Johnson? " "Yes, sir, it is."

"Well, then I expect it's time to leave. Whose turn is it? " he

asked.

"Mr. Bell hasn't taken a turn since that little girl. Remember,

sir?

" "I remember. Are you up to it today, Mr. Bell? " "Yes, sir, I

believe I am."

"Then get on with it, " he ordered as he drew his gun and cocked it.

"What are you going to do? " the president asked in a near shout.

"Hush now. I told you no one would get hurt, didn't I? " His voice

was horrifically soothing. MacCorkle was nodding when the man named

Bell fired his shot. The front of the president's head exploded.

The leader killed the man in front of him, jumping back when the blood

from the wound he'd inflicted spewed out.

Franklin cried, "But you promised . . .

The leader whirled toward him and shot him in the back the head.

Franklin's neck snapped.

"I lied."

The ceremony was unique. The guest of honor, Cole

Clayborne, slept through it and the celebration that followed. An hour

after most of the guests had departed, the effect of the unnatural

sleep was wearing off.

In a stupor, he floated somewhere between fantasy and reality. He felt

someone tugging on him, but he couldn't summon enough strength to open

his eyes and find out who was tormenting him. The noise was making his

head ache fiercely, and when he finally began to wake up, the first

sounds he heard were the clinking of glasses and loud, rambunctious

laughter.

Someone was speaking to him, or about him. He heard his name, yet he

found it impossible to concentrate long enough to understand what was

being said. His head felt as though there were little men inside,

standing between his eyes, pounding his skull with sharp hammers.

Was he hung over? The question intruded into his hazy thoughts. No,

he never got drunk when he was away from Rosehill, and even when he was

home, he rarely had more than an occasional beer in the heat of the

afternoon. He didn't like the aftereffects. Liquor, he'd learned the