Emily no doubt had insurance to cover any loss, so he didn’t feel too guilty about taking her things. He would not steal anything that appeared to be family heirlooms or otherwise carried sentimental value. His goal was not to cause Emily any harm but rather to improve his own lot enough to enable him to care for Henry until he could find a solution to his employment dilemma. How he was going to do that he was not sure. But that was a long-term plan, and his present concern was more immediate: putting food on the table and clothes on their backs.
The living room offered more promise. The furniture appeared fresh and well kept, with clear plastic covers protecting the gold and brown paisley embroidery from dirt and dust. On the cherrywood bureau along the far wall, elaborate silver picture frames stood proudly facing the room. MacNally lifted the one on the far left and examined the black-and-white photo: Emily in a wedding dress with her husband, both coifed and smiling stoically for the camera.
He set that frame down and moved to the next one. A young boy sat on his proud parents’ laps. Emily looked similar to how she appeared when he had seen her in the bank, so this was likely taken recently.
MacNally could not help but mentally draw the comparison to his own life, and what could have been. His own Doris, taken from Henry and him, denied the joy of building memories together as a family. Photos on the bureau. Fancy sofas and wood furniture. A home. His job, an income, a future. Promise. Instead, he had none of that. Taken from him as if ripped from the clutches of hope.
Next photo: Emily’s husband, dressed in military garb, with medals pinned to his chest. Apparently, he was a World War II soldier, and had done well for himself-most impressively, he made it home alive. How could a man dodge bullets and bombs, enemy aircraft and ambushes half a world away in a hostile foreign country, and return home alive-yet Doris could be murdered in the safety of her own home in a middle-class New Jersey suburb? It didn’t seem likely, and it didn’t seem fair.
The final picture showed Emily’s war hero soldier wearing a police uniform. The man was a cop. MacNally felt a sense of urgency well up in his stomach. He had better hurry and secure what he needed, then get the hell out of there.
He climbed the plush olive carpeted stairs to the second floor, and moved through the rooms. He learned that the boy’s name was Irving, and that Emily’s husband was James. MacNally slipped into the master bedroom where furled bed sheets were neatly folded, frilly pillows topping the mattress. Very little mess or clutter.
He checked the dresser drawers and found an unlocked metal box that contained a stack of used bills-twenties and tens, from what he could tell. He didn’t stop to count it-he would do that later, in the safety of his car-and continued pulling out drawers.
MacNally ran his hand amongst the clothing, feeling for anything of value that might be hidden beneath. In the fifth drawer on James’s side of the chest, his index finger jammed against something hard. MacNally separated the folded sweaters and found another metal box. He pulled it out and popped it open. Inside, a black handgun. It was worn around the edges and sat atop an index card with hand scrawled writing: “Luger P08 taken off the body of a German soldier I killed, Battle of the Bulge, 1/20/45.”
MacNally lifted the weapon out of the box and stared at it a moment, then realized it could be of use to him. He slipped it into the waistband of his pants.
In a hinged wooden box, MacNally found a silver high school ring-which he left, figuring it had some value to James-and a gold-toned bracelet with two halves that inserted with a spring lever into one another. Engraved on the face were two block letters: J. and S. He looked at it a long moment-it could fetch him some decent money-but this, too, might mean something to its owner, so he wouldn’t take it; he would merely borrow it.
He almost had everything he needed, with one exception: he slid the door to James’s closet aside and found a leather satchel on the top shelf. He splayed it open, then selected a few shirts and several pair of pants, estimating by visual inspection that they would be close to fitting him. The saying Beggars can’t be choosers came to mind-or, in this case, Thieves can’t complain too heartily if the stolen pants are a little baggy.
He tossed in a few pair of socks, a belt, and sunglasses, and was about to zip the satchel when he saw a cardboard box on the floor marked “Winter.” He pulled it out and checked inside: gloves, a knit ski mask-which he shoved into the satchel-wool socks, and two scarves.
Somewhere off behind him, the shepherd began barking. MacNally whirled, his heart rate suddenly galloping, and remembered he had tied down the dog. But it served as a reminder that he needed to get moving. If the animal kept barking like that, someone might call the police-and when they realized which house it was, the cops would double time it over.
MacNally slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder and ran out, down the stairs, and was headed to the back door-avoiding the dog, who had now identified the man who’d given him the headache-when he stopped and returned to the living room. He grabbed one of the silver picture frames, shoved it into his bag, and left.
AS THE AFTERNOON SUN STARTED fading and moving toward the horizon, MacNally sat in the car beside Henry, the engine idling. “You sure you’ve got this down?”
“I’m sure. Do you know what you’re going to do?”
MacNally grinned. He liked Henry’s confidence. “Sure do.” He gathered the items he needed to bring in with him, then pushed open the car door. “See you in five minutes, with a few bucks in my pockets.”
“Hopefully it’s more than just ‘a few.’”
MacNally pushed through the double doors and entered. First National Thrift was a knot of activity, with several people in line and all the teller stations full. Emily September was where she had been when he was last in the bank.
He walked over to the counter and pulled out a piece of paper from a cubbyhole beneath the glass top like he had seen another customer do on one of his earlier visits, and removed the ballpoint pen from its slot. He wrote his note as he had rehearsed it countless times in his mind. He folded it in half and took his place in line.
There were five people ahead of him, which would give him time to get everything sorted out. He removed the ski mask from his pocket and pulled it over his head, leaving it rolled up above his ears. Next came the silver frame he had taken-the beauty was that he was going to return it to its rightful owner-and then carefully slipped the Luger from his pocket, shielding it with his body from the three security guards.
Everything was in place. He looked up and realized he was next. But Emily had just taken a new customer-shit, he had not planned on this. His eyes darted around, analyzing each teller and where each was in her transaction. No-he had to see Emily, or his plan would not work.
“Next person in line,” a woman two stations down from Emily said.
“Oh,” MacNally said, chuckling. He turned to the man behind him and said, “Go on. I forgot something.” He looked down at the floor-at nothing-and pretended to be busy. He no doubt looked foolish, but he continued the charade while the customer walked around him and up to the teller.
He did this once more-had anyone been watching they would’ve known something was wrong-but Emily was now available, and MacNally nearly jumped when she called for the next in line.