Chill Factor

Prologue Monday, 3:00 p.m. Lucy Ames, a plump fifty-five-year-old divorcee, swept into the Texas Citizens Branch Bank on a crisp May afternoon and waited her turn in silence, not chatting with other patrons as was her custom. Instead, she hummed "Bad Moon Rising" and spent the brief wait noticing the rich viridian carpet, rose marble counter, and Ms. Darlene Flores pecking away at her computer. Lucy didn't usually bank at the Webster branch. Nevertheless, she'd come to make a withdrawal. When the woman ahead of her, wearing an outrageously short, poppy-print dress, turned from the counter to exit through the glass doors, Lucy laid an empty book tote in the window and smiled at the teller. The tote was empty now because Lucy had removed the only item it carried, a .38 Police Special. She pointed the gun at the teller. The young man had worked at this branch two years, Lucy recalled, long enough to know the rules and not panic, long enough to know how to act during a holdup, although this branch had never been robbed. At six-month intervals, the bank's security officer instructed branch employees in proper robbery procedures. Lucy knew the young teller would not try to be a hero. "I will shoot you, Jonathan," she said amiably, "if anyone in this room makes a stupid move. Do you hear what I'm saying?" Jonathan nodded, his Adam's apple doing a little bob as he swallowed. He wore too much Paco Rabanne cologne, and someone had ironed his shirt without enough steam, leaving a wrinkled patch on the left shoulder. "I don't want anyone pushing alarm buttons." Lucy raised her voice so the other employees would listen up. "And I don't want any of that messy bait money smearing dye all over me." The murmur of speculations faded to silence. Lucy beamed a smile around the room. Her dazzling smile was her best feature -- the Shepherd had told her so repeatedly. "What I want you to do, Jonathan, is scoop all the real money from the teller drawers -- never mind the change or that clever tracking device -- and stuff the bills into this bag. I want you to do this without ever blocking my view of your movements. You hear what I'm saying?" He nodded again, Adam's apple bob-bobbing. "Good. That's very good. I really don't want to hurt anyone, but I've been practicing with Mr. Colt here." She raised the .38 a tad, level with Jonathan's nose. "I want you to know I can put ten rounds out of ten in the bull's-eye." She waited for the young man's skinny face to register that he understood. She felt certain the other employees and the two patrons would understand as well. The bank did not retain an armed guard, because an independent study had determined guards were less cost-effective than video cameras. After today, no one in this town would see Lucy's face again, so video cameras didn't worry her. "But before you begin, Jonathan, I want everyone except you and Ms. Flores and Mr. Simpson over there to lie facedown on the floor, arms and fingers extended." When no one moved, Lucy flashed her dazzling smile again. "You can do this now, folks. Right now." The air rustled with movement. "Excellent. Now, Ms. Flores." Lucy flicked her gaze from assistant to manager. "I know that you and Mr. Simpson hold dual keys to the vault. I'd like you to open it and bring me the bags you've prepared for the Brinks pickup that's due later this afternoon." Darlene Flores' eyes widened with surprise at this insider knowledge. Brinks pickups were supposed to be randomly scheduled, but routines surfaced nonetheless, and the truck could be counted on between three and four o'clock on any Monday. The assistant manager would've been even more surprised to know that she herself had divulged this tidbit one morning when she and Lucy chatted ovRogers, Chris is the author of 'Chill Factor ', published 2001 under ISBN 9780553580730 and ISBN 0553580736.