THE PREDATORS

THE PREDATORS

Justin Gustainis

Justin Gustainis attended college at the University of Scranton, a Jesuit university that figures prominently in several of his writings. Following military service, he held a variety of jobs, including speechwriter and professional bodyguard, before earning a Ph.D. at Bowling Green State University in Ohio. Mr. Gustainis currently lives in Plattsburgh, New York, where he is a Professor of Communication at Plattsburgh State University. His two novels in print are The Hades Project, and Black Magic Woman.

Dan Bright waved to his daughter Shelly, who had just boarded the school bus and found a seat at the window. She waved back, but was then drawn into a conversation with two other fourth-graders sitting nearby. They were still conferring, solemn as diplomats, when the bus pulled away from the curb.

A few minutes later, Bright let himself in through the front door of his big, old house and walked down the length of the central hallway to the kitchen, from which the scents of breakfast still lingered.

His first step into the kitchen revealed that his wife Marilyn was still sitting at the dinette table, a cup of coffee in front of her. But something had changed: her posture, usually relaxed and lazy in the morning, had given way to tension and alertness.

Bright's next step showed him why. There was a man sitting opposite his wife, a man with sunglasses and a hat and a gun.

The gun, a big automatic, was resting on the dinette table, its barrel lined up with the center of Marilyn Bright's chest.

Bright stood perfectly still. The man glanced up, showing no surprise at Bright's return.

“Come on in," he drawled. "Join the party."

Before Bright could say anything, another male voice spoke from directly behind him.

“Go on, sit down. You won't be late for work. Hell, they're not even expectin' you 'til around 9:30."

As Bright walked stiffly over to the table, the first man said with a grin, “Yeah, ain’t that what they call banker's hours?”

* * * * *

Louise Fitzsimmons fished a couple of Advil out of the bottle she kept in her desk and washed them down with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. Every tree, flower and bush in town was apparently blooming this morning, and the pollen had Louise's sinuses pounding like a jackhammer.

She tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the computer printout in front of her. It was a record of the bank's financial activity from the day before and Mister Bright always asked her for a brief summary as soon as he arrived in the morning. She checked the clock on her desk: just past 8:40. No need to hurry, then. It was Louise's job as Assistant Manager to open up at 8:00, but the bank was closed to customers until 10:00, and Mister Bright never arrived before 9:30. There was plenty of time.

But half a minute later, as Louise looked up at the sound of the employees' door opening, she realized that there was no time left at all, because Mister Bright, impossibly early, had come through that door and was headed straight for her office. Louise's headache took a sudden turn for the worse.

Trailing along behind Mr. Bright was a man Louise had never seen before. He wore a Panama hat and aviator-style sunglasses with a navy blue suit, and for an instant Louise flashed on an image of Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter from that movie she'd seen on HBO, but she banished the frivolous thought at once.

Nancy Burgess, the head teller, called to the stranger from behind the counter. "Sir, I'm sorry, but the bank isn't open yet. Sir? Sir!"

Without breaking stride, Mr. Bright turned his head toward Nancy and snapped, "Shut up -- he's with me!"

Even from where she was sitting, Louise Fitzsimmons could see Nancy's eyes widen. Mr. Bright never talked to employees like that. Hell, Louise had heard him fire people with more politeness than most executives would use when hiring them.

As Mr. Bright reached the door of her office, Louise saw that his face was pale and tight, like a cancer patient whose Demerol is overdue. He plopped down in one of Louise's visitor chairs, but his companion remained standing near the door. After a silent nod to Louise, the stranger turned his attention to the counter, behind which the four tellers were preparing for the day's business, even as they gossiped in whispers about Bright's outburst.

"Louise," Mr. Bright said, "I've got a problem, a big one, and I'm going to need your help."

Louise nodded, her puzzlement growing by the second. Looking up at the other man, she said,

"Sir -- I'm, sorry, but I don't know your name -- you're welcome to sit down, if you like."

The man turned to her again and, with a slight smile, shook his head. Then he went back to his survey of the tellers.

"Mister Bright," Louise began, "I don't --"

"They've got Marilyn."

Louise's mouth remained open, but no sound came out.

"They'll kill her if we don't do exactly what they want," Bright said grimly.

"They, uh, I mean -- they who?"

Bright jabbed a thumb in the direction of the stranger. "This one and his partner."

Louise closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mister Bright, I don't mean to be stupid, I really don't, but I just don't understand what's going on."

Bright took in a big breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

"I know, Louise, it's a shock." He spoke slowly, deliberately. "I feel like I've been pole-axed, myself. But I need you with me on this. Will you help me, Louise?"

Louise had started nodding before Bright finished speaking. "Yessir. Of course, sir. Whatever I can do."

"All right, then. Let me try to explain this mess we're in. There isn't a lot of time."

Louise nodded again, frown lines furrowing her brow.

"I walked Shelly to the school bus stop this morning. I wasn't gone more than fifteen minutes. When I got home, there were two strange men waiting, this guy--" Bright pointed with his chin, "--and another one. They must have been waiting for me to leave before they broke in. They had guns. They said they'd kill us both if I didn't agree to do what they wanted. I believed them. I still do."

Bright leaned forward in his chair. "They want me to help them rob the bank, Louise."

Louise Fitzsimmons said nothing, but her eyes started blinking rapidly, making her look like the ingenue in some old silent movie.

"The other man is still in my house, with my wife. She's a hostage, Louise. Both these guys have cell phones. They showed me."

As if on cue, the man standing by the office window reached into the pocket if his suit coat and produced a gray cellular phone, held it for a moment where Louise could see it, then replaced it in his pocket. He did all of this without once taking his eyes from the tellers' counter.

"If I don't do what they want," Bright said grimly, "or of anything goes wrong, this man will call his partner, who will run. But before he leaves my house, he told me, he'll take a few minutes to leave me a 'present,' as he called it. He said it would be something that would give me an upset stomach for the rest of my life."

Bright's voice broke on the last couple of words, but he regained control with a visible effort that took at least half a minute.

Finally, he said, "Now you know why I need you on my side, Louise. Will you help me?"

"Of course I will, Mister Bright. Anything you want, you know that."

"We have to play this their way, until I'm sure that Marilyn is safe. That means no police, no FBI, nothing. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And they already know about the various tricks that we use during robberies. They've apparently done their homework." Bright's voice was bitter. "So, no dye packs, none of the marked bills, no taking bills out of the drawer that sets off the silent alarm. None of that, understand?"

Louise sent a single, terrified glance in the direction of the man in the Panama hat, then turned back to her boss. "Yes, sir, I understand. Completely."

"I hate this as much as you do, believe me," Bright said. "But until Marilyn is safe, they're calling the tune."

He stood up.

"They had me bring suitcases in my car, to hold the money. Once I get them, he and I will be going behind the counter, to the tellers' drawers and then the vault. While I'm out getting the suitcases, I want you to talk to the tellers. Explain the situation, and tell them we need their quiet cooperation. Be very sure you make clear what's at stake here, all right?"

Louise got to her feet. "Yes sir. You can rely on me, Mister Bright."

As she walked on unsteady legs toward the tellers’ counter, Louise Fitzsimmons thought about her boss’s wife, who she both knew and liked.

Poor Marilyn, she must be terrified. I hope these bastards don't hurt her.

* * * * *

Marilyn Bright lay naked and spread-eagled, her wrists and ankles tied to the four posts of the queen-size bed she normally shared with her husband. Her blonde hair was in wild disarray now, her lipstick smeared, her taut body covered with a sheen of perspiration.

The man grunting on top of her was the same one who had been sitting at the family breakfast table when Dan Bright returned from seeing his daughter off to school. The man had been lightly disguised then, with a hat and big sunglasses. But he had taken those articles off some time ago, along with the rest of his clothes.

As the man thrust into her, over and over, Marilyn Bright strained and writhed against her bonds, leaving angry red marks on her flesh. Eyes closed, breath coming in gasps, she was whispering into the ear of the man, whose face was buried in the side of her neck. “Yes, like that, like that, oh God, Steve, yes, just like that, faster, yes, just like that, baby, oh yes, oh my God, yesss. . . .”

* * * * *

Daniel Bright carried the two big suitcases behind the bank's service counter, placed them on the nearest desk, and opened them. The four female tellers were staring at him as if he had just beamed down from a spaceship.

"Listen to me," Bright said, his voice harsh with tension. "I know that Louise has brought you into the picture, but I want to be sure that everyone understands what's at risk here."

He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze both angry and pleading at the same time. "I know what you've been trained to do in the event of a robbery -- I ought to, since I'm the one who trained you. But we're faced with a situation that the training wasn't designed for. If anyone here trips a silent alarm, my wife Marilyn dies, probably quite horribly. If anyone tries to sneak a dye pack in with the money, my wife dies. After the two of us leave here, if anyone calls the police or FBI before hearing from me, my wife dies."

Bright made a gesture toward the man in the Panama hat and sunglasses. "And I should mention that the threat against my wife isn't the only one to worry about. He's carrying a gun--" The man briefly pulled back his suit jacket to reveal the pistol stuck in his waistband."--and I'm convinced that he's prepared to use it, if necessary. Don't any of you bet your life that he's not."

Bright paused for a deep breath then continued, sounding a little calmer. "Look, I know how galling this is -- believe me, nobody hates it more than I do. After we leave here, this man is going to drop me off someplace where I'll have a long walk to get to a phone. After that, it'll be our turn: the authorities will be notified, and we'll all be giving statements and answering questions and looking at mug shots for days, probably. But right now, I need you, all of you, to help me save my wife's life. Will you do that -- for her sake?"

The nods and murmurs of assent were unanimous. "All right, then," Bright said quietly. "Thank you. I won't forget this."

He turned to the man in the Panama hat. “What do you want first?” he asked grimly. “The tellers’ drawers?”

Receiving a nod of assent, Bright said to Louise Fitzsimmons, “Will you open up the vault, please? That’s going to be our next stop.”

* * * * *

"Untie my hand," Marilyn Bright said. "The right one. I want a cigarette."

"Sure," the man named Steve said. As he approached the bed he added, "I'll untie all four of 'em, if you want. We got time."

"No, better not. If you do, I might forget and get out of bed. Don't want to spoil the crime scene."

The man finished unknotting the cord from her wrist, handed her a cigarette from his pack, and lit it. "Don't matter none," he said with a shrug. "I'll truss you all up tight again before I go."

She shook her head. "I don't want to take the chance that these rope burns won't match up with the way I'm tied," she said. "Don't forget: the FBI will be going over this place with a fine-tooth comb. They'll check every little body hair, every bit of fiber -- and every drop of your joy juice, which I can feel leaking out of me even now."

He looked, then with a mild leer said, "Damn, you're right. And a mighty pretty picture it do make, too."

She took a drag on her cigarette then said, "It wouldn't be so pretty if the forensics experts found a few drops of it in the kitchen, or someplace. She made her voice lower, in mimicry of a man's: "Now Mrs. Bright, do you expect this court to believe that the intruder you've described tied you up, raped you, and then untied you and allowed you to wander around your house, leaving small quantities of his semen everywhere you went?"

In her normal voice, she said, "No, it's better if I stay like this."

He nodded his understanding and continued to stand there quietly, watching her smoke, noticing how careful she was not to let any ash fall on her.

After a few minutes he said, "So, when are you gonna give hubby the news?"

She extinguished her cigarette carefully.

"Which news?"

"About you and me. About our plans."

"That's going to have to wait awhile, until all the fuss has died down, which could take some time. This bank robbery is going to attract a hell of a lot of attention -- FBI, State Police, the media, God knows who else. Dan and I are going to be under the microscope, probably for months, and we'll have to act completely normal." She smiled ruefully. "So that means I'm stuck with the big dummy a little longer. Think I'm worth waiting for?"

He smiled back.

"Lady, I fuckin’ know you are."

"Well, all right, then. You just see that you do wait, instead of taking up with some bimbo. I'm not losing you now, after all we've been through."

"You know, I been thinkin.'" His smile was gone now. "When you do get around to tellin' Danny-boy that you want a divorce, he's liable to get pretty ugly about it. And even if he don't, you'd most likely end up with only half of what he's got, anyway."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that's true. Community property, and all that."

"Besides, how you gonna hit him up for half of your share from this score? You can't tell no judge about that."

"God, I hadn't even thought about it, but you're right," she said, frowning. "So, what've you got in mind?"

"Well, there's all kinds of divorce, you know. There's the kind we was just talkin' about, with judges and lawyers and all that crap."

She nodded for him to go on.

"Then there's the other kind," he said. "The one where hubby lies down one day and don't get back up, on account of being dead."

Marilyn Bright let a slow smile spread across her face. "Now, that's an idea with possibilities. I like the way you think, Steve."

He tried to look modest. "Well, I didn't go to no fancy college like you and Danny-boy, but that don't mean I'm a dummy, neither."

“Of course you're not," she said. "You've got natural smarts, like a fox."

She pondered for a while.

"We'll have to be very careful, the way we do it."

"Yeah, I know. But we got time to figure something that'll look right, like a accident or somethin'."

"Absolutely. Then it'll be just you and me. You and me and all that money. . . ." She let her voice trail off, then said, "Listen, I'm wondering if maybe we shouldn't leave a knife on the nightstand, just a little extra proof of how you forced me. Maybe you could even cut me, just a little. I can say you did it to scare me into lying still while you tied me up."

He shrugged. "We can do it that way, if you want."

"Tell you what, take a look in the kitchen. There's a set of chef's knives on the counter, in one of those wooden block things. Bring one in here, would you, honey? Get a big one."

He gave a bark of laughter. "Yeah, I already knew how you like them big ones. Okay, just a sec."

She held her smile until he was out of the room, then slowly brought her right hand over the edge of the mattress and down the side of the bed, where it remained. Then she lay back and listened for the sound of his returning footsteps. She did not have to wait long.

* * * * *

Rick Shartrelle took off his Panama hat and dropped it on the floor of the van, but kept the sunglasses on. He no longer needed them for disguise, but he liked to look at his image in the side view mirror, and he thought the shades made him appear mysterious and dangerous. That's how he had thought of himself all through the time spent in the bank: a silent, menacing figure, kind of like Clint Eastwood in one of those old Spaghetti Westerns on TV. The tellers had apparently seen the same movies, since they had been scared green by his brooding persona. The Bank Robber with No Name. Rick Shartrelle had loved every second of it.

Turning to his passenger, he asked, "You got it counted yet?"

“I'm almost done," Dan Bright said.

A couple of minutes later, just as Shartrelle was turning onto a secondary road that looked to be all uphill, Bright said, "Looks like 284,960 bucks. Approximately."

Shartrelle broke into a grin, pumped his right fist a couple a times and exclaimed "Yee-haw!"

As the van begun its climb of the pothole-strewn road, Shartrelle asked, "You usually have that much cash lying around there?"

"No, we don't, as a matter of fact," Bright told him. "But every other Friday is payday for about half the firms in the area. Most people who deposit their checks want some cash back to get them through the weekend. That adds up, when you consider the number of depositors we have."

"When in doubt, ask the expert," Shartrelle said with a grin. "So, half of that comes to what?"

"About 143,000 dollars. Keep in mind that my count could be off a little. It's best to do this kind of work with a calculator, and I forgot to bring one."

"Well, we can count it together, once we get there."

"Good idea," Bright said, nodding. "Slow down, you're going to turn right up here, just past the sign. See it?"

Shartrelle applied the brake. "Sign says Road Closed, man. Are we gonna be able to get up there?"

"Sure, no problem. They've just got a couple of sawhorses up at the top, probably to discourage kids from going parking. Easy enough to move them -- I did it myself when I was there last time."

A few minutes later, the van came to a stop in a big, open area, near an old, weather-beaten sign that read Knoxville Mining Co., Shafts #7 and #8. Parked nearby was an old Toyota Corolla.

The two men got out of the van. Shartrelle looked at the car and said, "When did you leave this heap up here?"

Bright thought for a moment. "Nine days ago."

"How the hell'd you get home, after?"

"Brought a bicycle with me. I broke it down and stowed part in the trunk, the rest in the back seat. Only took me ten minutes to reassemble it."

"Bicycle, huh? That's pretty slick."

Bright shrugged. "I have my moments."

"Well, what say we spend some moments countin' all that lovely money, so we can make the split?"

"Weren't you going to call Steve, first?"

"Shit, that's right. He'll be wondering how everything went." Shartrelle reached into a pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

"While you're doing that, I'll make sure this junker is going to start for me." Bright produced a set of car keys and walked over to the Toyota.

Shartrelle switched the cell phone on and began to tap in numbers. From behind him, he heard the squeal of rusty metal as Bright got the Toyota's door open.

* * * * *

Marilyn Bright was sitting naked on the side of the bed smoking another cigarette when the cell phone next to her rang. She took one last drag and stubbed out the butt before answering. "Hello?"

After a pause, Rick Shartrelle's voice said, "What the hell're you doin' answering Steve's phone?"

"He's in the bathroom. Can't the poor guy even take a leak?"

"Well, yeah, but --"

"I figured if nobody answered you'd get all bent out of shape, so I decided I'd better do it, okay?"

"Oh." Another pause. "How come he didn't just take the phone into the can with him?"

She let impatience show in her voice. "Gee, I don't know, Rick, why don't you ask him yourself? The toilet just flushed, so he ought to be out here in a second."

"Damn, I told him not to --"

She heard it then, the noise from the tiny speaker that she had been waiting for, the sound of the shot.

There was a clatter in her ear, as if someone had dropped the phone onto hard ground.

When she heard Shartrelle's voice again, it seemed distant, and the words sounded like they were being squeezed out through tightly clenched teeth.

"Bright, you bastard, you fuckin’ --"

Another shot stopped the obscene tirade.

Dan Bright's voice came on the line. You still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. Sounds like you got it done."

"Yeah, even if it did take me two bullets to do it. How'd it go on your end?"

"Perfectly." She let her eyes rest on Steve briefly. "Ligature marks, semen, and his fingerprints on a nice, sharp carving knife."

She made her voice sound panicky:

"Honest, officer, after he raped me he said he was gonna kill me anyway. I managed to get one hand loose and reach our burglar gun just as he was coming at me with that big, big, knife. I had to do it!"

"Okay, Ms. Streep, save it for the Grand Jury."

"Oh, I will, believe me." She worked a fresh cigarette out of the pack one-handed. "So, how much did we get?"

"About 285K."

"Nice! That's even better than we hoped."

"I know, I know." The grin on his face was evident in his voice. "Look, I'd better go. There's a lot of cleaning up to do, yet."

"Which shaft are you going to use?"

"Number eight. That's the deepest, according to the records."

She lit her cigarette, took a deep drag. "So, the earliest the gendarmes are likely to come busting in here is . . . ?"

"Three hours minimum. It'll take me at least that long to finish here and drive over to Clark County, so I can come stumbling out of the woods looking suitably disheveled. But don't worry if it takes longer."

"All right, I won't. I'll practice looking traumatized and sick with worry."

"And be sure you're not holding that .38 when the cavalry gets there. Some of these SWAT guys will key in on the weapon, without thinking about who's holding it. We don't want some trigger-happy rookie opening fire before he knows the score."

She expelled smoke in a soft laugh.

"Stop worrying, babe. The tough part's over, and in three or four hours we'll be home free."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Actually, I'm surprised it's gone so smoothly. I checked Rick and Steve out pretty thoroughly before we approached them, remember, and those two are not exactly virgins. They're supposed to be good at this stuff."

"Well, they were."

She looked again at Steve, who lay on his back in a puddle of blood, eyes staring at nothing, his face frozen in an expression of shock that was almost comical.

A broad smile grew on Marilyn Bright's face, the kind of grin you might associate with a lioness standing over the body of a fat zebra whose neck she has just broken.

The smile stayed in place as she said, "But we're better."

The End