Читать книгу At Home in Dry Creek - Janet Tronstad - Страница 13

Meanwhile, in the pickup truck parked in the night shadows outside the barn, Floyd Spencer had been watching Barbara and the sheriff and muttering to himself. His timing had been lousy ever since he’d robbed that bank with Neal and Harlow.

It’d been his first robbery and he’d since decided that he just didn’t have the stomach for crime. Everything had turned out badly. His two partners were behind bars and they were likely to turn informant on him next week if he couldn’t get a message to them and let them know that he needed more time to get their money into those off-shore accounts.

He had buried his own money in his backyard so deep that even his dog couldn’t find it. He was too nervous to move it inside under his bed. He didn’t know when he’d ever have the courage to dig it up.

But it was the other men’s money he had to worry about first.

Floyd had been watching Neal’s wife off and on over the past two weeks to see if she ever went to the prison to see Neal. If she did, Floyd would try to get her to take a message to her ex-husband about the additional time he needed to open those off-shore accounts. The message couldn’t be anything obvious, of course, or the people at the jail would stop it from getting to Neal.

Floyd couldn’t spend too much time watching the ex-wife, however, because he didn’t dare call in sick to his job at the bank. He hadn’t planned on the whole thing taking so much time.

It had all sounded so simple when Harlow had planned it. But, these days, Floyd couldn’t even take a long lunch at the bank. It hadn’t been his bank that had been robbed; Floyd wasn’t that stupid. But it had been the bank in a nearby town, and the jittery nerves had spilled over to his bank. He hadn’t thought about that happening.

Everyone was watching everyone these days, and Floyd sure didn’t want to make anyone suspicious enough to remember that he’d called in sick on the day the other bank had been robbed. He had thought it would be easy to do everything Harlow had asked. But it wasn’t as easy as Floyd had thought it would be to transfer money into those accounts without anyone knowing about it. He’d found the instructions to make the transfer, but he didn’t see how it could be done secretly. Harlow and Neal had each set the accounts up in partnership with another person so, even in jail, they said they would be alerted when the money was in the accounts.

Floyd didn’t know how all of that was to happen. He was a bank cashier, not a thief—well, until now, that is. All he knew was that Harlow was clever enough to do whatever he said he was going to do and Neal followed the other man’s directions. Harlow had been the one who’d talked Floyd into helping them rob the bank. He would never forgive Harlow for that. Robbing that bank had been the worst mistake of Floyd’s life.

But there was nothing to do about it now except to go forward and try to find some time alone with Neal’s wife. If she wouldn’t help him, Floyd thought he’d take a day off work and try to impersonate a clergyman going to visit Neal. It was a long shot, but who else would care about Neal except someone who was paid to care, like a minister?

Floyd didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t take time off work. Maybe he should leave some money for Barbara Stone at the bakery just in case he needed to go to his back-up plan.

Floyd vowed that if he got out of this mess, he’d never break any laws ever again. He wouldn’t even cross the street against the light. He’d come to the conclusion that his nerves just weren’t good enough for a life of crime. He couldn’t sleep. He’d barely eaten since he’d helped rob that bank. Once he got the money into those offshore accounts, he planned to go to a hypnotist and try to get the memory of what he’d done wiped out of his mind.