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Peter stirs his spoon through the sugar-saturated milk in a half-eaten bowl of Alphabet Apes cereal. It’s been a week since Baker City, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about murder. The doing it. The not doing it. All the ramifications of either decision.
His father is right about him. Peter’s spent his entire life trying to be normal. But how could he ever be normal?
The sad truth is, Elsie isn’t the first reporter to play him for a story. There’d been a substitute teacher his junior year who was actually a newspaper man. A pair of black suits that tried to convince him they were F.B.I. instead of writers for a conspiracy website.
Repeatedly, Peter’s had to change identities, moving to a different city whenever an encounter got dangerous. Each time told to start over. Each time, losing more of himself through the experience. How could anyone be normal with a life like that?
Peter swirls the milk. Though he’s not the murderer his father hopes he’ll be, maybe he can keep his dad interested in closing more cases by pretending. He won’t have to go through with hurting anyone. But he might learn enough about the process to understand what his dad is trying to teach him.
Maybe things will be clearer if Peter can learn more about the world the way his father sees it. And besides, it would give him a chance to help a few more families along the way.
But he can’t just say he’s plotting a murder. Oliver Roberts is far too smart to fall for that. He’ll have to go through the planning, so when they talk over details he won’t get caught in a lie.
The germ of an idea manifests in Peter’s mind. He pushes himself away from the table and snatches his grocery list off the side of the refrigerator. Clicking the top of a ballpoint pen, he flips the list over to a blank page and starts writing. He doesn’t stop until his cereal is bloated and soggy. Bunched together like tiny letter-shaped inner tubes.
Peter can plan a cereal prize giveaway. It wouldn’t be hard to print up some fake prize codes and wait for someone to claim the reward. He can tell his dad their prize will be an axe to the face instead of a little plastic toy. That should do it.
He winces at the bloody image painted in his head. The imagery makes him queasy. He has to figure out some way of pulling it off without chopping people up.
Peter goes back to writing, continuing until his hand cramps. He takes the sheets of rambling thoughts and looks for a safe place to keep them. He settles on hiding the papers under the socks in his dresser. When he closes the drawer, he keeps his fingers on the handles. A sudden, unexpected wave of relief pours out of him. He closes his eyes as every tense muscle relaxes.
Years of aching shoulders, cramped guts and pressurized brain matter seem to melt away. It’s like trying to be good all these years has been suffocating him, but he’s been too intent on succeeding to notice. Now that he has the beginnings of a plan for murder, it’s just as his father described.
Peter feels a deep, soothing peace he’s never felt before.
He collapses on the nearby bed, a smile on his face. After a while, his cheeks ache from the effort, but the fact that he’s able to smile genuinely for the first time makes the expression expand. He closes his eyes and lets the serenity wash over him. He melts into the mattress and feels himself drifting to sleep.
It’s dark when he wakes up again. A storm howls outside the apartment and it looks like midnight, even though it’s hardly a quarter after four. Peter rubs the sleep out of his eyes and turns his head to glance at the dresser.
He feels a connection to his make-believe project that’s different from anything he’s ever felt before, even with another person. He gets up and caresses the top of the drawer holding his secret. The wood grain seems to curl against his palm like a cat stretching into its owner’s hand.
Peter opens the closet and pulls a dark hooded sweatshirt off its hanger. He tugs it over his head and marches out of the room, grabbing his keys off the counter as he makes his way to the front door. Peter turns the knob to lock it, and for the first time since he moved in, doesn’t have the urge to double check it when the door slams closed behind him.
His windshield wipers have a hard time keeping up with the rain once he gets out on the road. As much as he’s ready to get to the bank, an accident would delay the entire project. Even with the downpour, it’s only a fifteen-minute drive.
He enters the sparsely populated lobby, glad he made it in before closing. The teller nods a silent hello. Peter has to hold himself back, so he doesn’t skip to the counter.
“Good evening. Can I help you?” The teller is polite, but judging from the startled look on his face, Peter realizes he must look like a crazy person. Lord knows, he feels like one.
Peter passes him his bank card and driver’s license. “I want to withdraw the balance of my savings, please.”
The man glances at the identification. “I’m happy to help with that, Mister Wilson. Let me pull up your account.”
The teller’s nametag catches Peter’s eye. “Thank you, Sam.”
His fingers dance across the keyboard with a practiced flourish, Sam’s face scrunched in concentration. He bites his lower lip and his eyes flit back over the counter. “Mister Wilson, you’ve done a wonderful job building up this savings account. Unfortunately, I’m not able to handle this much cash in a standard transaction. Can you wait a minute while I get my manager?”
Nodding, Peter agrees to wait. What kind of person would have considered the bank wouldn’t have twenty thousand dollars stashed in the vault? Peter stomps his foot on the thin carpet, frustrated at his inability to think ahead to something as important as this.
He watches Sam hurry to a grouping of desks near the back of the bank. He whispers to a woman seated behind one of them. She bobs her head, slowly rising as Sam gestures in Peter’s direction. The woman approaches with a wide smile. Even from across the lobby, Peter can tell she pays way too much attention to her dental hygiene. Her teeth glow from behind muted red lips. Peter feels compelled to force a carafe of coffee over them to make them seem less perfect.
“Mister Wilson. Such a pleasure to see you this evening. Do you mind if we discuss your withdrawal in my office?”
Peter follows her to a small windowless room. She pulls the door closed behind him. He sits in one of two cheaply upholstered chairs while she wiggles her voluptuous body through the opening alongside the desk that fills the center of the room. She makes it to her chair and settles into the leather. She leans forward and folds her hands on the desktop.
“Sam tells me you’d like to withdraw the entirety of your savings this evening. Is there anything we can do to keep your business with us?”
Peter looks around the office for a plaque or sign with the woman’s name. It must be a generic office the entire staff uses because there isn’t a single personalized trinket anywhere. He imagines her proper office is the plain desk out front with no privacy. “If you don’t mind my asking, who are you?”
Her laugh is too loud for the space. “Forgive me. I’m Valorie Scruggins. Manager of this branch. Now, about your withdrawal...”
“I’m not switching to another bank,” Peter announces.
Valorie’s voice lilts nervously. “Well, that’s good to hear. With the quantity of your request, I’d worried we’d offended you.”
“This is a great bank.” Peter leans forward, wanting to express the importance of his request. “I still need my cash.”
“If you’re planning on making a large purchase, have you looked at our auto loan and mortgage rates?”
Peter knows the Scruggins woman is just doing her job, but a fluster of agitation is building up, anyway. He wants the ability to tell Oliver he’s taking action the next time he calls. “It’s more of an investment thing. Not something I need a loan for since I have the money. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, I do!” Valorie pulls a piece of paper out of an office supply organizer on the desktop. A pen appears from the inside pocket of her blazer and she makes a note. Valorie is not nearly as graceful a note taker as Jeanne. The pen is cheap and drags dry lines dotted with globs of ink across the page. “Unfortunately, with the number of electronic transactions we do, we don’t keep that much physical cash on hand. The best I can do tonight is a five-thousand-dollar withdrawal. I can send a request to our main branch first thing tomorrow for the remaining funds. They should be able to release your balance by the end of the week. Is that acceptable?”
Peter stares at her while he processes the information. It would be acceptable for her to empty the teller’s tills and whatever they have in the vault so he can leave with full pockets. But if she truly doesn’t have it, there’s plenty he can accomplish with five grand. “How will I know when the rest of my money is ready?”
Valorie hands him a business card with one of six phone numbers circled. “It will be here Friday afternoon. Call me before you head down. I’ll make sure it’s stacked and counted before you get here.”
Peter takes the card from her, noting that the bank is so cheap she shares a business card with five other people. She picks up the office phone’s handset and relays the agreement to the teller out front.
Valorie hangs up and smiles. “It will be just a few minutes.” She busies herself sorting the Post-Its, so they’ll be perfect for the next person dragging a customer into the space. Her eyebrow raises as she steals a glance at Peter.
“You look like you want to ask me a question.” Peter can feel the corner of his mouth rise a bit in response to her curiosity. The sensation catches him off guard.
Her giggle reminds him of cheerleaders he wasn’t brave enough to ask out in high school. “We rarely handle cash transactions this large. We do a lot of certified checks and wires, but not cash. It feels just a little like a bank robbery, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been in a bank robbery.” Peter rubs his chin as he wonders what she’s getting at.
Valorie erupts with girlish laughter and her cheeks flush. “Mister Wilson, you are funny.”
“Please, call me Peter.” He tries to look cool. He thinks the banker might be flirting with him. “You said you’ll be working Friday when I come get the rest of the withdrawal?”
Her blush deepens. “What kind of manager would I be if I took Friday off while everyone else has to work?”
“Are you a coffee drinker?” Peter’s still preoccupied by her blazing white smile. If he’s going to spend more time with her, he will want the glow to dim a bit.
“With three coffee shops five minutes away, it’s impossible not to be,” she answers.
“When I call, why don’t you bring me the money at the coffee shop on the corner instead of me coming here? It might make for a more personal banking experience.”
She bats her eyes at him. “You want me to deliver it to you?”
“Sure. If you have one, bring a briefcase to put the money in until the hand-off. Then, it really will be like a high-roller heist.”
Valorie’s blush extends down her neck and into her ample cleavage. Peter notices her breath quicken as she considers the idea. A moment later she gushes, “Well, in the movies the person doing the drop gets paid.”
“True,” Peter agrees.
“So, what are you going to get me?” Valorie leans forward, resting her folded arms against the desk.
“Whatever you want, milady.” He gives her his best secret-agent wink and adds, “As long as it’s on the coffee shop menu and the total is less than fifteen bucks. I’m not made of money, you know.”
They laugh together. She overcomes the light moment and asks, “You’d trust me to walk around with your money like that?”
“You’re a bank manager. Isn’t that what you do all day, anyway?”
“I suppose so. But what will stop me from running off with the cash?” Her smirk is devious.
Peter feels confident. “It’s not enough cash to get far on, really. But it’s enough that if you lost it, it’d be bad for business.”
She jumps with surprise when the office door swings open and Sam comes in with a thick envelope that looks ready to burst. It takes him a second to pick up the flirtatious vibe in the room, then he shoots Peter a look that says he’s been trying to get Valorie to blush like that since his first interview.
The bank manager stands, smooths her jacket, and straightens her collar. She snatches the envelope from Sam and hands it to Peter as if she’s a maiden handing him a sacrificial offering. He rises from his seat, taking it in both hands to feel the weight of it. He shoves it in the front pocket of his sweatshirt without counting it.
“Until we meet again.” He bows low. As he straightens, he winks at Sam, who is easily flushed as red as Valorie, but it’s clear it’s not because he’s feeling flirtatious.
“I look forward to our meeting Friday, Mister Wilson.” She does her best to sound professional but twirls her hair in her fingers like a girl fifteen years her junior. Her smile is as genuine as it is broad.