Deception on All Accounts Page 3

  With each visit he tried to learn something new about the bank. He had determined there were no perimeter alarms or motion detectors. It was easy to see there were no video cameras and that the still camera located at the front door would photograph a robber only as he left the bank. That camera was most likely triggered when the alarm was set off. This would be done by panic buttons or when the bait money was pulled from its trap in the teller drawer. That was easy enough. Make sure no one could reach a panic button, don't leave by the front door, and get the money before the money drawer was transferred from the vault to the teller window and plugged into the alarm system.

  The shrieking of the smoke detector in the hallway jolted Johnny back to the present. He was standing with both guns pointing at an imaginary being before realizing his little fire had made too much smoke. He put the guns down, walked to the hallway, pulled the front off the smoke detector, and yanked out the battery.

  “Enough, already,” he yelled. The battery reminded him of the dye pack he had disposed of earlier. “Gutsy broad,” he muttered under his breath as he walked back to the kitchen and thought about the danger of the game he was playing. Then, he smiled smugly to himself while his thoughts returned to how cleverly he had outsmarted the bank and its lackluster attempt at security.

  The only thing left on the table was the brass casing from the bullet that had killed Gordy. Johnny picked up the casing and walked out into the garage where he pulled the plastic lid off a red coffee can and let the casing fall in a pile of brass casings, all identical. He made a practice of picking up all of his brass when target shooting so he could trade them later at the gun show. That casing was no different from all of the others.

  He returned to the kitchen and picked up his government-issued Colt .45 semiautomatic. He couldn't afford to take the chance that Gordy's deadly bullet could be matched back to his favorite piece. His daddy had given him this gun and he didn't want to lose it. He held the gun in his left hand, pushed in the recoil spring plug, and turned the barrel bushing. The procedure was second nature to Johnny. His dad, a Korean War veteran, had taught him to take apart this gun when he was only twelve years old. When the gun's internal notch disengaged, the spring plug fell on the table and the barrel came off with ease.

  He walked down the hall to the bedroom and picked up a piece of hand luggage that resembled a bowling bag. He unzipped it, pulled out a red cloth, and unwrapped a shiny new gun barrel. He held the barrel up to his face and felt it, smooth and cold against his cheek.

  He carried the barrel back to the kitchen where he began reassembling his gun with the new barrel. Now his Colt could never be matched to the bullet that had killed Gordy, and they would have no casing to match to his firing pin.

  Johnny then walked out to the garage and placed the sacrificed barrel on the workbench. He reached to a high shelf, felt for an empty beaker, then placed it on a small hot plate. He cracked the back door of the garage and flipped the switch on the box fan. He carefully removed a blue glass bottle of nitric acid from a nearby cabinet and set it next to the burner. Gingerly, he removed the stopper and poured the caustic liquid into the beaker. As the hot plate began to heat the acid, Johnny picked up the gun barrel with bamboo tongs and placed it in the beaker, careful not to allow a splash. He unplugged the hot plate before the acid got too hot, before it started to boil. Then he left the warm acid to do its work and went back into the house.

  First, he turned on the television. Nothing yet. Then he tried the radio. Finally, the hourly newscaster reported the horrible crime that had taken place that morning at a small branch of Mercury Savings Bank. The information was sketchy, she reported, and there were no leads on the gunman.

  Johnny turned off the radio and slipped into the shower to clean up. When dressed in khaki pants, pullover shirt, and loafers, he stood in front of the mirror and stared at his face. “Willie would be proud of you, Johnny Boy,” he said to the reflection in the mirror.

  Willie was Johnny's dad and resided in Huntsville now. He had been convicted of murdering two women as they sat in their car outside a beer joint in Jasper. The women looked to Willie like they were rich, but when he tried to rob them they didn't have a cent of cash on them. So he had just capped them right there anyway, gotten into his car and driven away. There hadn't been any eyewitnesses, but Willie had gotten careless and, a few months later, after having one too many drinks, his secret slipped out. The sheriff went to Willie's house and talked him into letting him in and there lay his gun, in plain sight on the coffee table. After matching the bullets that killed the women to Willie's gun and his fingerprints to those on the door handle of the car, Willie was sentenced to death row. Johnny always thought his dad got a raw deal. The sheriff had no search warrant and therefore should not have been able to get at Willie's gun. But they did, and that was that—indisputable proof. Willie was a killer.

  Johnny picked up his car keys and satchel and went back to the garage. The gun barrel had already disintegrated into the acid. Johnny turned off the fan, closed the back door, and poured the acid back into its original container. The garage door groaned once again as he backed his ten-year-old Mustang out of the driveway and drove toward Blue Lake.

  The lake road was fairly empty as he drove past Glory Park, around the lake toward the dam. He could see three sailboats, their puffy white sails blowing in the strong breeze. Several fishermen dotted the side of the lake, perched on rocks, holding on to fishing poles and staring into the water. Johnny hadn't grown up in the country and had never been fishing. But it was something he thought he'd like to do.

  He parked in front of Blue Lake Bank and entered the lobby carrying his satchel. He walked straight to a buxom woman with blond, streaked hair sitting at a desk in front of the vault.

  “Hi, hon, I need in my safe deposit box. Can you do it for me?”

  “Oh, sure. Just follow me, sir.”

  Johnny followed the woman into the safe deposit vault where he signed for entry to the box and handed her his key.

  “Did you want to use one of the privacy booths, sir?”

  “Yes, ma'am.” Johnny winked at the woman. “And I'd love for you to join me. How private are they?”

  “Oh,” she giggled. “Not today, sir.”

  Johnny locked the door of the privacy booth and quickly transferred the contents of his bag into the metal box—except for $500 he decided to hold out for spending money. He closed the box, carried it back to the vault, and relocked the outer door.

  “Thanks, honey,” he said as he walked past the clerk's desk.

  The clock in the lobby chimed and Johnny looked up. It was twelve noon. He hadn't realized it, but he was hungry. He threw the empty bag into the trunk of his convertible, climbed in, and drove toward Tulsa.

  The Tulsa Oil Center office building housed a very plush restaurant and Johnny loved the atmosphere. He could sit for hours and eavesdrop on the big-bellied oil men in ten-gallon hats and lizard-skinned boots making million-dollar deals. He loved to watch the old geezers make contracts over liquid lunches and stinking cigars, sealing them with only a nod and a handshake.

  If he was lucky, he thought, he could get one of the secretaries there to buy him lunch.

  Chapter 3

  It was almost 3 P.M. when Sadie turned off the highway two miles southwest of Eucha, crossed the cattle guard, and drove up the lane toward the small, white farmhouse. Joe, her beautiful paint-horse stallion, saw the car coming up the hill and ran the entire fence line to greet her. Sadie didn't usually make it home until after six o'clock, but today was different. They could count it as a sick day, a vacation day, or whatever they wanted, but she had had enough. Gordy was dead and she felt responsible. She wished she could somehow start the day over, erasing the horrible events of that dreadful morning.

  She eased her car to a stop beside the faded blue pickup that had once belonged to her dad. She rolled down her window, turned off the ignition, and stared at the old truck. She missed her dad, Jim Wa
lela. His friends had called him “Bird,” shortened from the English version of his name—Hummingbird. He always knew how to handle tough situations, and Sadie wished he was here so she could revert into a little girl, crawl up on his lap, and cry on his shoulder. But he had been dead for almost ten years now and the only thing she had left of him was the farm, that old truck, and her paint horse, a stallion named Joe.

  Sadie's mom, Cathryn Walela, had tried to sell the 80-acre farm right after Sadie's dad died, but the Bureau of Indian Affairs stopped her. Bird was a full-blood Cherokee and the farm was Indian land, part of the original allotments handed out to Indians just before Indian Territory became the state of Oklahoma. By federal law, half of the land belonged to Sadie, the only heir with Indian blood. Sadie was half Indian and her mother loved to call her a half-breed. But Sadie didn't care anymore what her mother called her—the farm belonged to her now. Cathryn Walela had remarried, moved away, and finally given up interest in the farm.

  Sonny, a huge wolf-dog, ran up to the car, placed his front paws on the driver's door, and gave Sadie a lick on the face. Sadie smiled as tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She reached out and rubbed his soft, furry head.

  “You always know when I need a kiss, don't you?”

  Sonny barked and eagerly followed her inside the house where she exchanged her skirt and blouse for a pair of jeans and a shirt. As she picked up the white blouse she had worn to work, she noticed, for the first time, a smudge of blood on the sleeve near the elbow. For a moment, she felt sick as the vision of Gordy came rushing back to her. She folded the blouse and placed it in a used grocery sack, grabbed a book of matches, and carried the bag outside. There, she placed it in the trash barrel as if giving the piece of clothing its own ceremony and final resting place. Then she dropped a match on it and watched it slowly burn.

  When she came back inside, she realized not only did she not want to be at work, she didn't want to be at home, either. The breakfast dishes stared at her from the sink and suddenly the walls of her tiny farmhouse began closing in on her. She plucked one of three cowboy hats that hung in a row by the back door and pushed it down firmly on her head. Sonny, who had been watching her with curious eyes, knew hat meant horse. The wolf-dog jumped to his feet, ran to the back door, and barked.

  “You're right, Sonny. Let's get out of here.”

  Sonny had come to the farm when he was only a few weeks old by way of her uncle Eli Walela, who had found the mother wolf hit by a car. It took the old man almost an hour to find the den, hidden less than fifty yards away. There, he found the two youngsters patiently waiting for their mother, who would never return. Eli took the pups home and decided to keep the scrawny one, naming him Little Wolf. He carried the other pup through the pasture to Sadie's house, knowing she would never refuse an old man and the smell of puppy breath.

  Sadie named her pup Sonny and fed him warm baby cereal and milk every four hours, night and day, until he was big enough to eat puppy food. Exactly how much wolf blood flowed through Sonny's veins, Sadie wasn't sure. But the fear of owning a wolf-dog had dwindled away after six years of companionship unequaled by any dog Sadie had ever known. Sonny's beautiful silver coat and stunning blue eyes reflected his heritage, as well as his natural instinct to distrust strangers. His love for Sadie was apparent, and today he seemed to feel Sadie's pain.

  When she entered the barn, tiny particles of hay dust floated in the air around her, reflected by the sunshine that filtered through the cracks in the side of the building. Sadie slung Joe's halter over her shoulder and gave a whistle at the back door of the barn. The stallion trotted toward her in all his splendor, tossing his head. Sadie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and Joe stuck his big nose against her shoulder. She stroked his forehead with one hand, grasped his mane with the other, and whispered gently to the huge animal. Then she took the bridle off her shoulder and slipped it over his big wide nose, past his baby-blue eyes, up and over his mousy ears. The horse accepted the bit between his teeth and ducked his head so she could fasten the buckle of the bridle. The reins fell to the ground and the grand horse waited patiently as Sadie returned to the darkness of the barn.

  She came back with the saddle and horse blanket almost dragging the ground. With Joe standing perfectly still, she placed first the blanket on his broad back, then heaved the saddle up and over him. As she tightened the cinch, he snorted in anticipation. Sadie took the reins in her hand, tucked her boot in the left stirrup, and threw her right leg over Joe's back.

  This strong, big-headed stallion had been a surprise present from her dad the day she graduated from college. The spindly-legged colt was snow white with a brown spot on his forehead, centered right between his ears. A long, fluid brown marking covered his throat, spreading down and across his chest. Another covered his underbelly and flank, cresting just short of his backbone. Last, a brown tip punctuated his long white tail. These were the markings of a champion, and now as a full-grown horse he had the attitude to match. Sadie loved Joe and felt alive on his back as he responded to the slightest movement of the reins and the touch of her knees.

  Sadie and Joe, with Sonny close by, turned down the trail toward the creek, which carved its way indiscriminately through her land. The afternoon sun felt good on her back. She patted the horse on the neck and talked to him as they rode slowly into the pasture. At last she was light-years away from the bank and the political machine that ran it, away from the madness, the robber, the death that lay on the floor just a few hours earlier.

  This farm, this horse, and this dog gave Sadie a refuge and a lifeline back to her ancestors. Her father had ridden these hills before Sadie was born and had promised they would always be hers. She had to fight to keep them, but they were hers.

  Sadie relaxed and let Joe proceed at his own pace. Sonny, busy sniffing out rabbit holes, made a playful, mad dash for one and then another. Sadie contemplated the balance of nature. She knew Sonny would kill other animals—it was a survival instinct. She wanted to believe that humans were on a higher plane. But were they? For a moment, her thoughts strayed back to Gordy as he fell forward, dying in a pool of blood. He had died so needlessly. She wrestled away from the gloom by concentrating on her surroundings.

  Springtime in northeastern Oklahoma brought the color and fragrance of blooming wildflowers, and Sadie savored the aroma of moist black soil as they rode closer to the creek. She dismounted and walked over to the bank of the stream. With her boot, she pushed back the grass while Sonny bounced over to help her investigate. Suddenly, she could smell the slight odor of onions.

  “Look, Sonny. Look at that. It's our wild onion patch.”

  Sadie looked around for something to dig with while Joe grazed on tender green Bermuda grass. When she picked up a short stick and began to dig in the soft soil, tears began to well up in her eyes and stream down her face. She stopped digging, sat down on the bank of the creek, and sobbed.

  She cried for the loss of her friend and comrade, Gordy. She cried for the loss of her father and grandmother. She cried for the loss of her childish innocence and for the sudden overwhelming loneliness she felt. She cried for an angry corporate world hostile to her very being, and she cried for the dark soul of a killer. She cried for the violation and the vulnerability she felt in her heart at that very moment.

  Sadie sat on the bank of the creek, pulled her ankles up against her buttocks, and stared into space, transforming her senses into a blank slate. After the tears had cleansed her head, memories of her grandmother began to emerge. She smiled and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. It had been Rosa who had taught her to survive no matter what came along in life, including the verbal abuse she would eventually endure from her white mother. And now today, Sadie needed that strength more than ever.

  She shoved the sharp end of her stick in the ground, fighting with uncomfortable thoughts of her mother. Living in a house with her mother and grandmother had taught Sadie, at a te
nder age, what it took to swim in the river that flowed between Indian and white—and not drown.

  After she made holes close to the young plants, she relaxed, then turned the stick around and used the wishbone shape at the other end to gently push up the soil while she pulled the onions upward with her other hand. The white, pearl-shaped onion heads easily broke free.

  Sadie gathered her onions, carried them over to Joe, and placed them carefully in her saddlebags. The sun had begun its descent in the western sky, casting a tangerine-pink glow over the meadow.

  With Sadie on Joe's back again, the horse walked easily, and his movement rocked Sadie into a peaceful state. As they reached the pasture next to the barn, Sonny barked a warning and ran ahead to meet a man leaning against the corral gate.

  From a distance, Sadie recognized her uncle's bowed legs, created by decades spent gripping the girth of a horse. His clean, faded jeans hung low on his slender hips, held up by a tooled leather belt and silver buckle.

  “Osiyo, Sadie.” Eli held his white straw hat over his head and waved.

  “‘Siyo, ‘siyo.” Sadie echoed the Cherokee words of greeting as Sonny returned to her side, wagging his tail.

  Eli dropped what was left of his Camel cigarette on the ground and pushed it into the dirt with his old cowboy boot. Sadie slid off Joe's back and gave her uncle a hug.

  Her uncle Eli lived on adjoining property with his wife, Mary. He had returned to live on his portion of the family's Indian land after he and Sadie's dad had spent their high school years at Chilocco Indian School in north-central Oklahoma. There the teachers had tried to rid both of the young Indians of their native language and assimilate them into the white man's culture. The school was only half successful. They did indeed learn to live shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors without the animosity their father had held toward the white intruders. But, working together, they never forgot their language.