Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

Nate couldn’t help but smile. All humor faded, though, when he saw the weariness that remained on her face. She was voicing everything he’d dared to hope these past few years was true. And yet now that she was relating it, it felt nothing like how he’d dreamed it would be. An impression came over him-walking out onto thin ice, cracks spiderwebbing around his feet. Any direction he moved could put him under. He struggled to find the right next step. To find what was right for her.

He cleared his throat. “Pete had his good points, too.”

“Yeah.” Janie carried the portrait to the kitchen and set it against the back door. The spot for trash. “But I will never forgive him for walking out the way he did.”

Nate recalled standing on the beach that fateful day as Janie, still dripping from her near drowning, argued with her date. He thought, again, Now would be a really good time to not say anything.

Still facing the door, she lowered her head, and her lovely shoulders rose once and fell. When she turned, her eyes were wet, but she held herself together. “I’m scared, Nate. I’m really goddamned scared.” She stayed by the door way across the room from him, as if any human proximity were painful right now. “I keep wanting to get Cielle out of here while you do this, but a woman and a girl on the run from these guys? Might not be a safety improvement.” She ran a hand through her chopped blond hair. “I suppose I’ll do what I have to when I have to.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Here.” He felt a need to avert his gaze and realized he was no longer talking about safety.

“I don’t want you to leave either.” The scoop of skin visible at her collar turned pink as it did when she was trying not to cry. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The diamond glinted at her left hand. “But I’m afraid to count on you.”

“You can.”

“People don’t change.”

“I changed once.”

“Yeah.” Not quite a smile. “For the worse. ”

He sensed, over his shoulder, the empty space above the mantel where the portrait once hung. “Then I can change again.”

Walking out, he felt her gaze on his back. He stepped over the loose brick on the porch and headed for the curb. As he reached the Jeep, a mangled hand snared the driver’s-side handle and tugged the door open for him. Charles, bowing like a chauffeur, his smart-ass grin showing off a few chipped teeth.

“You’re going to the bank?” he asked as Nate climbed in.

Nate tugged the door closed, turned over the engine. “Yes.”

“To do what ?”

Nate smiled as he pulled out, leaving Charles behind.

A surreal elevator ride up to the eleventh floor, a numb walk through the lobby, and out onto the bank floor, the site of five homicides that he himself had perpetrated. Nate had timed his arrival to coincide with the lunchtime swell. Lots of customers, lots of distraction for the busy staff. The trolley housing the complimentary coffee had been restored to its upright position, though he noticed a ding in the metal side, no doubt where one of the gunmen had kicked it over. After pouring himself a cup of decaf French roast, he took his place at the back of the substantial line.

Which gave him plenty of time to relive where the bodies had fallen, how the blood spatter had misted, and countless other subtleties that left his stomach roiling. As he trudged forward in the teller line, his fingers worked Urban’s key nervously in his pocket, digging his nail into the indentations of the stamped number-227. The damn box was less than twenty yards away, but the distance between here and there felt like a marathon.

When he’d finally made his restless way through the velvet-rope switchbacks, a tense young teller greeted him, bringing him up to speed on the policies for renting a safe-deposit box. Was he aware that a checking account was required? Already have one. Each time, he would need to show his driver’s license and sign in to gain access to his box. No problem. His signature would be double-checked against the signature card. Swell. Safe-deposit boxes were either three by five, five by ten, or ten by ten. Which would he prefer?

“You know?” he said, tapping his hands on the lip of the teller window. “I’m a little bit superstitious. I have a lucky number, and I was hoping I could-”

“Happy to look for you, Mr. Overbay.” She went back to nibbling at her thumbnail, a thin pendant cross jiggling against the front of her sweater.

“Two twenty-eight,” he said. “My first street address.”

She clicked around on the keyboard, her eyes darting at intervals from the screen to his face. Her jumpiness was making him uneasy, and yet how could she suspect he had an ulterior motive? “I’m sorry. That number’s taken.”

He feigned disappointment.

“I could get you three twenty-eight?” she offered.

He took a casual sip of coffee. “How about two twenty-nine? Two twenty-six or — seven?”

“Two twenty-six it is.” She guided him through a few forms, then handed him a familiar-looking key-226.

He rubbed the number as if it were a lucky rabbit’s foot. Then dropped the key into his left pocket. “Thank you.”

“I’ll buzz you through, and the guard will take you back to your box,” she said. As he stepped away, she reached beneath the glass and rested her hand on his sleeve. “I didn’t want to embarrass you, Mr. Overbay, but thank you for what you did for us Tuesday. I was here.”

Her fingernails, on second look, were chewed to the quick. Her face raw from sleeplessness. He pictured that face pressed to the tile, gunfire erupting overhead as she’d prayed for her life. And here she was a few days later, doing her job as best she could and trying to put it behind her.

He touched her hand, and she nodded a few times rapidly and turned her focus to the next customer.

After leaving the counter, he noticed a stout manager at the end of the teller line staring at him, phone to his ear. Did he recognize Nate as well? The man offered a cordial little smile, and Nate returned his attention to the job before him.

Pausing before the teller gate, he made a fist around Urban’s key in his right pocket. Squeezed. Cielle’s life rested on the next two minutes.

A harsh buzz announced the gate’s unlocking. He took a deep breath and stepped through. The security guard, an older gentleman with a fringe of blond mustache, nodded in greeting. As Nate headed toward the massive laid-open door of the vault, his steps slowed, the stutter of gunfire replaying in his head. There’s where the bank manager had toppled over, roses of blood blooming on her stiff pink suit. The glass day gate creaked open, and Nate stepped into the vault, eyeing the corner where he’d unloaded two bullets into the robber’s stomach. He looked down. His feet, precisely in the spot they’d been when he’d felt that letter opener sink into the flesh of his shoulder. He will make you pay in ways you can’t imagine.

The security guard had said something.

“Sorry?” Nate said.

“You okay, sir?”

He took a nervous sip of coffee. “Yeah, fine.”

He had to pull it together. Stepping forward, he eyed the nests of boxes. Everything repaired, just as Pavlo had promised. Nate ran his fingers across the small metal doors until he reached what he was looking for.

Danny Urban’s safe-deposit box.

Directly below the one Nate had just signed up for.

The guard fussed among the keys fanning from an overburdened ring. “Let’s see, two twenty-six, right?”

Again Nate slid his hand into his pocket. His right pocket. “That’s the one.”