but like Emmeline MacCorkle, he too was still recovering from the


epidemic.




She dragged her foot so she wouldn't step out of her shoe again as she


made her way across the lobby to the decrepit, scarred desk in front of


the windows. Franklin had confided that MacCorkle had purchased all


the furniture thirdhand from a printer's shop. His thrifty nature had


obviously compelled him to overlook the ink stains blotting the wood


and the protruding splinters lying in wait for an uncautious finger.




It was sinful the way MacCorkle treated his employees. She knew for a


fact that he didn't pay any of his loyal staff a fair wage, because


poor Franklin lived a very modest life and could barely afford to keep


his mother in the medicinal tonic she seemed to thrive on.




She had a notion to go into MacCorkle's brand-spankingnew office, with


its shiny mahogany desk and matching file cabinets, and tell him what a


cheapskate he was in hopes of shaming him into doing something about


the deplorable conditions he forced his staff to endure, and she surely


would have done just that if it hadn't been for the possibility that


MacCorkle would think Franklin had put her up to it. The president


knew they were friends. No, she didn't dare say a word, and so she


settled on giving MacCorkle a look of pure disgust instead.




It was a wasted effort, he was looking the other way. She promptly


turned her back to him and pulled out the desk chair. Dropping her


things down on the seat, she genuflected in as ladylike a fashion as


she could and pushed her petticoats out of her way. She adjusted the


tongue of her shoe, slipped her foot back inside, and quickly retied


the stiff shoelace.




The chore completed, she tried to stand up but stepped on her skirt


instead and was jerked back to the floor, landing with a thud. Her


purse and gloves spilled into her lap as the chair she'd bumped went


flying backward on its rollers. It slammed into the wall, rolled back,


and struck her shoulder. Embarrassed by her awkwardness, she peered


over the top of the desk to see if anyone had noticed.




There were three customers left at the tellers' windows, all of them


gaping in her direction. Franklin had only just finished filing her


documents in the file cabinet behind him when she fell. He slammed the


file drawer closed and started toward her with a worried frown on his


face, but she smiled and waved him back. She was just about to tell


him she was quite all right when the front door burst open with a


bang.




The clock chimed three o'clock. Seven men stormed inside and fanned


out across the lobby. No one could mistake their intentions. Dark


bandannas concealed the lower part of their faces, and their hats, worn


low on their brows, shaded their eyes. As each man moved forward, he


drew his gun. The last one to enter spun around to pull the shades and


bolt the door.




Every one in the bank froze except for Sherman MacCorkle, who rose up


in his chair, a startled cry of alarm issuing through his pinched


lips.




Then Franklin screamed in a highpitched soprano shriek that


reverberated through the eerie silence.




Like the others, she was too stunned to move. A wave of panic washed


through her, constricting every muscle. She desperately tried to grasp


control of her thoughts. Don't panic . . . don't panic . . . They


can't shoot us . . . They wouldn't dare shoot us. . . The noise of


gunfire. . . They want money, that's all . . . If everyone


cooperates, they won't hurt us. . . .




Her logic didn't help calm her racing heartbeat. They would take her


four hundred dollars. And that was unacceptable. She couldn't let


them have the money . . . wouldn't. But how could she stop them? She


took the wad of bills out of her purse and frantically searched for a


place to hide it. Think . . . think. . . . She leaned to the side


and looked up at Franklin. He was staring at the robbers, but he must


have felt her watching him for he tilted his head downward ever so


slightly. It dawned on her then that the gunmen didn't know she was


there. She hesitated for the barest of seconds, her gaze intent on


Franklin's pale face, and then silently squeezed herself into the


kneehole of the ancient desk. Quickly unbuttoning her blouse, she


shoved the money under her chemise and flattened her hands against her


chest.




Oh, God, oh, God . . . One of them was walking toward the desk. She


could hear his footsteps getting closer and closer. Her petticoats!




They were spread out like a white flag of surrender. She frantically


grabbed them and shoved them under her knees. Her heart pounded like a


drum now, and she was terrified that all of them could hear the


noise.




If they didn't spot her, they would leave her money alone.




A blur of snakeskin boots, spurs rattling, passed within inches. The


smell of peppermint trailed behind. The scent shocked herţchildren


smelled like peppermint, not criminals. Don't let him see me, she


prayed. Please, God, don't let him see me. She wanted to squeeze her


eyes shut and disappear. She heard the shades being pulled down,


sucking out the sunlight, and she was suddenly assaulted with the


claustrophobic feeling that she was in a casket and the man was pushing


the lid down on top of her.




Bare seconds had passed since they'd entered the bank. It would be


over soon, she told herself. Soon. They wanted only the money,


nothing more, and they would surely hurry to get out as quickly as


possible. Yes, of course they would. With every second that they


lingered, they increased the odds of being captured.




Could they see her through the cracks in the desk? The possibility was


too frightening. There was a half-inch split in the seam of the wood


all the way down the center panel, and she slowly shifted her position


until her knees were rubbing against the drawer above her head. The


air was thick, heavy. It made her want to gag. She took a shallow


breath through her mouth and tilted her head to the side so she could


see through the slit.




Across the room the three gray-faced customers stood motionless, their


backs pressed against the counter. One of the robbers stepped


forward.




He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt, similar to the clothing


the bank president wore. Had he not been wearing a mask and holding a


gun, he would have looked like any other businessman.




He was terribly polite and soft-spoken.




"Gentlemen, there isn't any need to be frightened, " he began in a


voice that reeked with southern hospitality. "As long as you do as I


say, no one will get hurt. We happened to hear from a friend of ours


about a large government deposit for the army boys, and we thought we


might like to help ourselves to their pay. I'll grant you we aren't


being very gentlemanly, and I'm sure you're feeling mighty


inconvenienced. I'm real sorry about that. Mr. Bell, please put the


Closed sign in the window behind the shades." The leader gave the


order to the man on his right, who quickly did as he was told.




"That's fine, just fine, " the leader said. "Now, gentlemen, I would


like all of you to stack your hands on top of your heads and come on


out here into the lobby so I wonXt have to worry that one of you is


going to do anything foolish. Don't be shy, Mr. President. Come on


out of your office and join your friends and neighbors." She heard the


shuffle of feet as the men moved forward. The gate squeaked as it


opened.




"That was nice and orderly." The leader oozed the praise when his


command was promptly followed. "You did just fine, but I have one more


request to make. Will all of you please kneel down? Now, now, keep


your hands on your heads. You don't want me to worry, do you? Mr.


Bell would like to lay you out on the floor and tie you up, but I don't


think that will be necessary. No need to get your nice clothes


dirty.




Just squeeze yourselves together in a tight little circle. That's


fine, just fine, " he praised once again.




"The safe's open, sir, " one of the others called out.




"Go to it, son, " he called back.




The man in charge turned to the desk, and she saw his eyes clearly.




They were brown with golden streaks through them, like marbles, cold,


unfeeling. The man named Bell was coughing, and the leader turned away


from her to look at his accomplice.




"Why don't you lean against the railing and let the others take care of


filling up the bags. My friend's feeling poorly today, " he told the


captives.




"Maybe he's got the influenza, " Malcolm suggested in an


eager-to-please voice.




"I'm afraid you might be right, " the leader agreed. "It's a pity


because he so enjoys his work, but today he isn't up to entertaining


himself. Isn't that right, Mr. Bell? " "Yes, sir, " his cohort


said.




"Are you about finished, Mr. Robertson? " "We got it all, sir. "


"Don't forget the cash in the drawers, " he reminded him.




"We've got that too, sir.




"Looks like our business is almost finished here. Mr. Johnson, will


you please make sure the back door isn't going to give us any


trouble?




" "I've already seen to it, sir."




"It's time to finish up, then." She heard the others moving back into


the lobby, their heels clicking against the floorboards with the


precision of telegraph equipment. One of them was snickering.