Chris Milton hadn’t pulled the trigger on anyone, although it was true that he had carried a loaded revolver into the bank forty years ago on the day that would change his life forever. Chris had never intended to use the weapon; it was strictly for show—to frighten the bank employees into compliance—and to give him a fighting chance if the cops showed up before he could make his escape.
Everything had gone smoothly, though, inside the bank. He herded everyone into the back, customers and employees alike, forced the manager to open the safe, and loaded his canvas duffel bag to the brim with cash and bearer bonds. The whole operation had taken maybe five minutes, max, and then he had rushed out the front door of the bank and into the blazing sunshine, feeling the sticky heat envelope him like he was stepping into a sauna.
Nikki had been sitting at the corner of Main Street and Broadway as planned, the big engine in the stolen Plymouth rumbling softly as the car waited patiently at the curb. With Nikki driving and the engine tuned perfectly by Chris, there was no way the cops could ever catch them.
Jake Vaillancourt was next up on the starting line in his customized Charger, all red paint and shiny chrome and hundreds of horsepower. Jake hadn’t been defeated at Reservoir Road in almost a year; it had gotten to the point where nobody even wanted to take him on—why bother? He piped up and said, sure, he’d be glad to race against Nikki, he didn’t mind kicking a girl’s ass.
For just a second, Chris regretted telling Nikki she could race his car. He had only done it to make that wuss Jimmy Littlefield stop yapping. Okay, maybe he had also done it to get an in with Jimmy’s cute little sister. The fact that her bigshot judge father was going to freak out if he ever discovered she had been hanging out with the likes of him was nothing more than sweet icing on a very delicious cake.
But racing Jake Vaillancourt? That was a different story altogether. Chris had been there the last time Jake lost a race at Reservoir Road—Jake had been so angry he had put Beetle McDonough in the hospital after the race. Oh well, he thought, too late to back out now.
Chris watched Nikki as she familiarized herself with the Barracuda. The car was midnight blue, nothing flashy but it was fast—Chris and his brother Joe had made sure of that. “This is a beauty,” she said.
Chris grinned. “Detroit steel, baby.”
Nikki laughed and said, “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
“Let’s go then,” Chris answered.
“Aren’t you getting out?”
“Hell, no,” Chris answered. “I told you you could race my car, but you ain’t racing it by yourself.” He knew the extra weight of his nearly two hundred pounds would almost certainly guarantee a loss, even if they hadn’t been racing someone as good as Jake Vaillancourt, but he had volunteered his car to get close to Nikki Littlefield and he wasn’t backing out now.
The cars lined up next to each other, Jake splitting the air with his noisy Charger, revving the engine ceaselessly, trying to intimidate Nikki, who was letting the Barracuda’s engine burble softly, waiting for the starting signal.
Carrie Johnson, who was rumored to have slept with every single Reservoir Road driver, stood between the two cars, ten feet in front of them, and flashed her arm down with the red bandanna and the race was on—for about ten seconds. After that it was all Nikki Littlefield. She smoked Jake Vaillancourt by three car lengths; roughly the Reservoir Road equivalent of winning the Indy 500 by lapping the rest of the field three times.
Chris was stunned. Nikki drove that car like it was a part of her. The Hurst shifter meshed cleaner than Chris had ever seen it do; Nikki was butter-smooth and babied the car even though she got more out of it than either of the Milton brothers ever had.
After the race, Jake Vaillancourt glowered at Nikki and Chris but punched nobody; he just reversed course in front of the maintenance building and screeched back up Reservoir Road, turning right onto Turkey Ridge Road and slinking back to town.
Chris had sprinted out of the bank and dived into the passenger seat; a wide grin plastered on his face as he tossed the heavy duffel into the massive back seat. “Go, go, go!” he had shouted, as Nik had wheeled the car away into the street, headed for freedom. That was when it had all gone to hell.
Chris found out later that one of the tellers had tripped a silent alarm while he had been busy moving everyone into the rear of the bank. The cops were on their way before he had even begun to load up his bag, and in a town the size of Coatesville, they didn’t have all that far to go.
Nikki pulled the car away from the curb, turning onto Broadway and accelerating smoothly, with the intention of making for the Interstate five miles away and disappearing. The cops were right behind them, though, and opened fire. First the right rear tire, then a fraction of a second later the left, and the stolen Fury III was suddenly and irrevocably crippled.
After that first street race, Nikki and Chris were together practically every minute of every day. It was a wonder her father didn’t find out, but he was busy with his circuit court judging and all. Nikki raced that Barracuda more than Chris did, driving it like a jockey rides a thoroughbred, coaxing more out of that car than Chris or anyone else could believe. She beat everyone; she was the best driver Compton had ever seen.
So it was a simple thing, then, to convince her to drive the car for Chris when he decided to hit the bank in Coatesville, fifteen miles and a world away from Compton. Coatesville was a thriving little hamlet hard by Lake Winnipesaukee, benefiting from the tourist trade money that came nowhere near Compton, which boasted only dying saw mills and one struggling shoe factory for industry.
For her part, Nikki was in search of adventure—racing at Reservoir Road had opened up a thrill-seeking side to her personality that she had never before known existed. When Chris broached the subject of knocking over Coatesville’s only bank in early July, she was on board immediately; he made it sound so simple and she saw it as a chance to prove her love to Chris and also to drive fast with stakes even higher than those at Reservoir Road.
July 3, 1968, just before the Independence Day holiday, was the date Chris selected to hit the bank. He said it symbolized his and Nikki’s independence from her father and everyone else trying to hold them down, but in reality was he just bored and sick of Compton and looking for some action and an adrenaline fix.
Sitting outside the bank in the stolen Plymouth Fury III, sixty feet down the curbside from the front entrance where Chris had disappeared just a few minutes before, Nikki was not the slightest bit nervous. The day was hot and humid, a real scorcher, and almost nobody was on the street. The few people that were out moved in slow-motion, like they were fighting their way through molasses.
Occasionally a car would drive slowly past, motoring toward some unknown destination, but the road was practically clear. Nikki began to feel drowsy. She wished Chris would hurry up; she was starting to feel a little exposed, even though there were no cops around.
She checked the rear view of the stolen Plymouth they were using as a getaway car and saw Chris burst out the front entrance of the bank at a dead run. The heavy door smashed back into the wall and shattered, glass glittering a thousand different colors in the sun behind him as he sprinted to the car, the heavy canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
He tossed the bag into the rear and dived headlong into the passenger seat next to Nikki, shouting, “Go, go, go!” She accelerated smoothly onto Broadway, the Fury feeling sluggish and boxy under her command compared to the ‘Cuda, but she had it performing magnificently anyway.