Inmate 1577

21

MacNally pushed through the glass doors of First National Thrift. A chill wind slapped against his exposed lips, but he was only vaguely aware of it. He made eye contact with Henry, who was in the Chevy, idling double-parked at the curb. He popped the passenger door open as MacNally slid between the chrome bumpers of the stationary vehicles, then jumped into their car.

MacNally slammed the door. “Go!” But he did not need to say that-before he could finish the one syllable word, Henry had already accelerated hard, shoving MacNally against the seat, his head whipping backwards.

In the corner of his eye, MacNally saw the guard he had passed on his way out of the bank come bursting through the doors, yelling and pointing at them. “Shit.” It escaped MacNally’s mouth without much thought. He didn’t want to distract Henry from doing what he needed to do: Drive. Fast, yet in control. He yanked off the ski mask and tossed it in the backseat.

“Did you get the money?”

“Got the money. Just concentrate on getting us out of here.” He looked over at his son. Henry was just a kid. What was he thinking involving him in something like this? But it wasn’t like he could’ve robbed the bank, found his car in the parking lot, and then made a successful getaway.

As had been the case the past three years, he had Henry and Henry had him. That was it. No friends, no neighbors, no one else they could rely on. Fortunately, Henry was tall for his age, and wise beyond his years. Both made this job possible.

“Whoa-” Henry yelled as he swerved to avoid a car that had run a stop sign.

MacNally had to grab the heavy satchel, which had flown off his lap and onto the bench seat between him and Henry.

“How much did we get?”

Clutching the overstuffed bag, MacNally had been wondering the same thing. “Don’t know. Don’t worry about it-just concentrate on driving.” He shifted the satchel on his lap. “A lot. That was a good bank, lots of wealthy customers.”

“Guess I won’t need to mow anymore lawns.”

A simple comment, but it was like a dagger to MacNally’s heart. He pushed the guilt aside and brought his thoughts back to the road ahead of them. “We need to make a few turns. And we should change cars, too.”

Out of MacNally’s peripheral vision, a green sign whizzed by: Welcome to Georgia.

“Why?” Henry asked.

“Back when we left, I think I saw a guard come out of the bank. If he got a look at the car-”

Before MacNally could complete his sentence, the whine of a siren wound to life behind them.

Henry and MacNally shared a glance. But it was quick, because Henry apparently made his own choice, absent discussion: he floored the accelerator and the Chevy’s engine muscled up with a vicious roar, propelling them forward as the speedometer needle wound around toward seventy. On a residential street, it was a dangerous move-but there weren’t many options. They had the money in hand, and-something MacNally had not thought of…he had used a handgun. That would make it armed robbery. He didn’t know the law, but he had read enough in the newspaper about Machine Gun Kelly and Bonnie and Clyde to know that associating weapons with banks led to long prison sentences.

Such a prospect was something he would have to live with-he was an adult and he had made the decision to move forward with their plan. It was simple. He had to provide for his son. And given his circumstances, this was the only way he could think of doing that.

But despite the wisdom beyond his years, Henry was not even a teenager. MacNally could not stand to think of a life behind bars for him. What did they do with kids, anyway? They couldn’t put them in cells with grown men, could they?

All this ran through his head as Henry swerved, swung the car left and right, ran stoplights and generally did a yeoman’s job of handling a big, heavy vehicle. Still, MacNally wished it was him behind the wheel. He didn’t know if he could do any better, but he felt powerless to control their destiny.

Henry accelerated again. MacNally twisted his torso to look behind them-the cops were about four car lengths off their rear bumper, falling back rapidly as they darted forward.

Before they pulled away, MacNally saw that there were two officers in front. And they did not look happy.

“Shit-”

MacNally swung his head back around to see another police cruiser ahead of them, in the distance, its lights rotating. His eyes darted around, looking for a way out. “There-turn left!”

Thirty feet ahead was a side street. Henry yanked the large wheel toward their escape route and the Chevy tilted hard and fast-slamming MacNally up against the right passenger door.

But their tire struck a pothole and the left side of the hulking vehicle left the asphalt and sent them skidding into the curb and up onto the lawn of a house. They smashed through the front window and came to rest with the hood protruding into the living room.

Something was sticking into MacNally’s right thigh, pinning him down. He turned to Henry, whose nose was dripping blood from colliding with the steering wheel.

“Get out. Go on, just run!”

Henry popped open his door and fled. It slammed behind him and MacNally watched as his son darted behind the nearest house, out of sight.

And in that moment, two police cars pulled into the street behind him. He leaned toward the driver’s seat, pulling on his leg-but a piece of metal was jammed against it and he was pinned in place.

He looked down at the satchel stuffed with money. He thought of Henry, of a young son on the run. No money, and now no father, no mother. Nothing and no one.

Tears filled his eyes as he heard guttural yells coming at him from both sides of the car.

“Don’t move!”

“Hands-gets your hands where we can see them!”

MacNally craned his neck left and right. Officers stood on both sides of him, their pointed handguns staring accusingly at him through the two broken windows.

He struggled to free his arms, then complied with their order.

“Where’s the other guy?” one of the men said.

MacNally looked up at the cop. “What other guy?”

“The one who was driving.”

“Just me,” MacNally said, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I was driving.”

“That’s a load a horseshit,” the officer said to his partner. “His leg’s good and stuck, no way he was driving. ’Sides, I saw two men in that car.”

“Me, too,” said a cop from the other cruiser. “Not a man. A kid. Maybe twelve, fourteen.”

“Pete, Roger, search the neighborhood. Stan, call this in and tell ’em we got ourselves a fugitive. Then start a canvass. Find the sum-bitch. I’ll deal with this asshole.” The three men ran off.

So that’s what he was now. An asshole bank robber who broke into an innocent woman’s house, terrorized her dog, and stole her belongings. For what?

MacNally let his head fall back against the seat. Wondering how this had happened. Three years ago he was an upstanding citizen with a good job, a good marriage to a bright woman, and a young son.

As he lay there, he realized that he no longer had any of them.