Rossiter was crouched down in the back aisle of the convenience mart, a huge humped figure, trying to decide between Cape Cod Chips and Sierra Chips—why didn’t Maggie tell him which kind she wanted when she sent him out on the errand—when he heard a young voice (he, at first, thought it might be a girl) tell the clerk, “Empty your cash register.”
Rossiter eased his gun out as he peered through three other aisles, past cans of soup, pet food, boxes of pasta, at the kid in the gray hoodie holding an ancient Saturday Night Special.
“Sure,” the clerk said. “Sure thing.”
Still crouched, silently, Rossiter crab-walked his way toward the end of the aisle. Like many big men, he was light on his feet.
On the TV above the counter, Bruce Willis jumped from a helicopter onto the top of a speeding truck.
Distracted by the movie, the kid said, “Jesus.”
The clerk, also distracted by the movie, said, “I seen it when it was in the movies.”
“You think he uses a stunt double?” the kid asked.
“The sequel’s not so good,” the clerk said.
At the end of the aisle, Rossiter stood and shouted, “Freeze! Police!”
The kid dropped his gun as Rossiter’s cell rang.
Keeping his gun trained on the kid, Rossiter, one-handed, answered his phone.
On the other end of the line, Maggie said, “Harry’s escaped.”