Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 120, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 733 & 734, September/October 2002

To Live and Die in Midland, Texas by Clark Howard

Authors often have favorites among their stories, and this tightly woven crime caper is one that particularly pleased its creator, Clark Howard. Mr. Howard is a five-time winner of EQMM’s Readers Award, a top true crime writer, and an Edgar Allan Poe Award winning short story writer. Though the setting for the tale is a place famous in connection with our current President, Mr. Bush is not one of the story’s characters.

Frank Raine wasn’t supposed to drink alcoholic beverages. He had been out on parole from the Texas penitentiary up in Huntsville for just a week, and he knew full well that the Tanqueray and tonic in front of him on the bar could put him back in the place they called The Walls for another two, maybe three years. He wasn’t supposed to associate with known felons, either, but he was about to break that rule, too, waiting as he was in a small Houston bar to meet his old cellmate, Jesus Ortega. Because the Spanish pronunciation of Ortega’s given name was Hay-soose, everyone called him “Soose.” Raine had not seen him since Soose made parole some eight months earlier, but when Frank walked out of the joint a week ago, a message from a gate trusty had been passed to him, a phone number on a scrap of paper, and when he called it a couple of days later, Soose answered. Now, as Frank Raine took his first tangy sip of the T-and-T, Soose walked in the door and Frank rose to greet him. The two men embraced and exchanged amigos. Soose was carrying about thirty extra pounds, and Frank patted the Latino’s belly. “Who’s the father, man?”

“Very funny,” Soose replied, unofifended. “It’s hard not to put on weight living with my mother, man; she never cooks small. Come on, let’s get a booth in the back.” Soose bobbed his chin at the bartender, who was also Hispanic. “Double Jack Daniels, carnal,” he said. Carnal meant street brother; all Hispanic males understood it.

The two men sat in a back booth and made small talk until Soose’s drink had been set in front of him. Then Soose got down to business.

“Man, you getting out last week was like the answer to a prayer. How’d you like to split a cool two million four ways?”

“What kind of cool two million?” Raine asked.

“Dollars, baby,” Soose replied with a dazzling smile. “Greenbacks. Currency. And all unmarked.”

“If you’re talking an armored truck or something like that, I’m not interested,” Raine told him. “I’m waiting for Stella to get out next week so’s we can get back together. I’m not looking for anything high-risk right now—”

“It ain’t high-risk, Frankie,” his friend assured him. “That’s the beauty of it. The cash ain’t even gonna be in a vault; it’s gonna be in a footlocker, just like one of those you buy at Wal-Mart. Only this one is painted gold. There’ll be maybe two, three, four security guards or local redneck cops looking after it. You, me, and one other guy can take ’em down with no sweat.” Soose smiled again: two rows of the kind of teeth you see in toothpaste ads. “Interested now, amigo?”

“Maybe,” said Raine. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

Soose leaned forward on the table, his dark face becoming grave. “How much you know about Texas, man?”

Raine shrugged. “Good cops. Lousy prisons.”

“No, I mean about Texas history.”

“Not much. My people stole it from your people.”

“Yeah, but besides that.” Soose took a sip of his Jack Daniels. “Let me give you a little history lesson. After the gringos stole it from the Mexican people, Texas was annexed as a state in eighteen forty-five. For a long time, it didn’t have no real borders; it jus’ went on forever. Because of its size, some smart gringos decided to put in the state’s charter that it could be divided into five smaller states if the people living here voted for it.”

Raine frowned. “Five different states?”

“Yeah. Think about it. Today it would mean ten U. S. Senators instead of two.”

“Whoa,” Raine said quietly, pursing his lips in a silent whistle.

“Whoa is right,” Soose agreed. “Anyway, when the Civil War came along, Texas went with the Confederacy, so it was no longer part of the United States and its original charter was no good no more. Then, after the war ended, Texas was readmitted to the Union in 1870 under a new state charter. This one left out the right of Texas to divide itself up. But there’s a lot of feeling around that with a vote of the people, it could still be done. Not into five states, but into two: North Texas and South Texas. Just like North and South Carolina, North and South Dakota.”

“What’s all this got to do with a two-million-dollar score?” Raine asked.

“I’m getting to that,” Soose told him. “You ever hear of an oil burg named Midland?”

Raine frowned. “Sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why.”

“It’s over in West Texas, in the middle of a huge wasteland that just happens to have an ocean of oil under it. ’Member about twelve, fifteen years ago, a little girl fell in a well? Baby Jessica...”

“Yeah, I remember that. It was front-page stuff for two or three days. They got her out, right?”

“Yeah. Everybody that could read knew about it. Midland is famous for it. That and the fact that President Bush started in the oil business there. He calls it his hometown, says he wants to be buried there.”

“You’re not working up to something that involves the President and Secret Service, are you?” Raine asked prudently. “Because if you are—”

“No, man, you think I’m crazy?” Soose demurred. “Jus’ listen, okay? There’s this big private building in Midland called the New Petroleum Club. All the big-shot oilmen are members. They hold private parties there, business meetings, political pow-wows, that kind of stuff. A week from now there’s gonna be a big fundraising luncheon there to start piling up money to run a slate of independent candidates in the next state election who will support a movement to divide Texas into two states, north and south. They’re gonna call themselves the Partition Party. A hundred of the wealthiest men in the state are behind it. I’m talking oilmen from central Texas, cattlemen from the Panhandle, telecommunications people from Houston, natural-gas pipeliners from El Paso, millionaire cotton farmers from the Rio Grande valley, shipping big shots from Galveston, you name it. There’s money from all over Texas behind this idea. A hundred of the wealthiest men in the state are gonna meet in Midland for this fundraising luncheon and kick in twenty thousand bucks apiece to put the first two million into this new political party’s campaign chest.”

“Yeah, but they won’t bring cash,” Raine said, “they’ll bring checks—”

“Wrong. They will bring cash. This is all under-the-table money. These guys don’t want any record of their donations. This is how they get around the federal limit on political donations. You’ve heard politicians talking about ‘soft’ money? Well, this is what they call quiet money.”

Raine was staring almost in disbelief at his friend. “All one hundred of these guys are bringing twenty grand to this luncheon — in cash?”

“You got it. Fresh currency, mixed bills, from different banks all over the state, unmarked, and—”

“Untraceable,” Raine finished the sentence for him.

“Right. And it all gets dropped into that Wal-Mart footlocker that’s painted gold and sitting in front of the head table. When everybody’s dropped their money in, those hick cops I tol’ you about will put it in the back of a station wagon to drive it to a local bank to be put in a vault. But between the club and the bank—”

“It’s exposed,” Frank Raine said quietly. He drummed his fingertips silently on the table. Slowly his expression morphed into the set, steady look of a man who had just established for himself an irrepressible goal. “How’d you hit on this?” he asked.

“I worked in the oil fields over in Midland while I was on parole. Me and this gringo kid named Lee Watts worked for an old-timer named J. D. Pike. The guy’s an old wildcatter, been rich three or four times, married three or four times, gone broke three or four times. Right now he’s supposed to have enough money to be on the list of oilmen invited to the luncheon, but fact is he’s almost flat busted. He’s got some oil leases over in Louisiana that he’s sure are gonna hit, but he needs a stake. He could go out and borrow the dough, but then he’d have to share the profits if he hit a gusher. So he asked Lee if he knew anybody who might be interested in a quick and easy score for big bucks. Lee came to me with it.”

“And now you’re coming to me,” Raine said. “Why?”

Soose looked chagrined. “Come on, Frank. I’m small time compared to you. I can go along on a score like this, but I can’t plan it. I can’t pull it all together. It needs a jefe.” Soose pronounced the last word “hef-fey.” It meant chief.

“Who all’s in on it?” Raine asked.

“Just the guys I tol’ you about: old man Pike, Lee Watts, an’ me.”

“What kind of split you figuring on?”

“I already talked that over with the others, without mentioning your name, just your reputation. We agreed to give you forty percent, eight hundred grand, to engineer the whole job. The rest of us would split a million-two even: four hundred grand each.”

“What about front money? Guns, getaway car, other expenses?”

“Old man Pike said he still has a little cash left for that.”

Raine sat back and chewed on a piece of hard, dead skin next to one of his thumbnails. He was an ordinary-looking man, some good features, some poor, not the kind that many women looked at twice, but those who did were serious about it. He was graying at the temples and had a not unattractive scar above his right eyebrow where he’d been hit with a bottle once. It was his eyes that told the most about him: They said don’t lie to me and I won’t lie to you. It was best to believe them.

“When is this big luncheon planned for?” he asked Soose.

“A week from Wednesday.”

Today was Tuesday, Raine thought. That gave them seven days before the day of the job. Stella would be getting out on Thursday; that would give Raine enough time to work on her, to give her the “one last job” routine. And it would give him time to check out the others on the job: an old man, a kid from the oil fields — it might be too thin from a personnel aspect.

“What about this guy who brought it to you?”

“Lee? He’s okay. Texas poor, you know, but not trash. Good kid. Got a steady girl but they ain’t married yet. Wants to buy a motorcycle shop with his end of the take.”

“And the old man?”

“A little shaky,” Soose admitted, “but tough. You prob’ly wouldn’t want him in on the actual heist, just before and after.”

“Can you set up a meet for Saturday?”

“Sure, perfect time. Everybody comes to Midland on Saturdays; nobody’ll notice us.”

“Not in Midland. The old man must be known there; the kid too, maybe even you. Make it someplace else.”

Soose thought a moment, then said, “We could meet in Odessa, about twenty-five miles away. Just south of town there’s a public park called Comanche Trails. There’s picnic tables around. I could pick up some tostados and salsa and beer; we could eat while we talk.”

“Good. Make it this Saturday, three o’clock. Listen, I need a car.”

“You can take mine, carnal. It’s a sweet little ninety-one Chrysler with leather, runs like a dream. I’ll use my mother’s car and she can use my sister’s car. My sister’s expecting; she’s eight months along and don’t drive much anyhow.” Soose’s expression firmed. “So, we’re set for Saturday, camarada?”

“Yeah,” Raine nodded. “We’re set for Saturday. In Odessa.”

On Thursday morning, early, Raine got out of bed in a Holiday Inn south of the main drag in Waco. He showered, shaved closer than usual, and dressed in new slacks, a pullover Izod, and new loafers. He had bought some Alberto V05 the previous night to color the gray streaking his temples, but decided against using it. He figured what the hell, Stella would be older, too; as practical and right-on as she had always been, she would expect him to be different, too.

At a Denny’s out on the highway, he had a heart-attack-on-a-plate for breakfast — eggs, sausages, biscuits and gravy, and coffee. Then he got into Soose’s car and drove the eighteen miles out to Gatesville, where the women’s prison was.

Stella came walking out with two other discharges, both Hispanic, at ten o’clock. She was wearing a plain cotton dress that buttoned up the front, low-heel oxfords with white socks, and carried a brown paper bundle with her personal items in it. Raine walked up and took the bundle from her.

“I’ve got a car over here,” he said. “And a room for a couple of nights in Waco.”

She merely nodded. Raine put an arm around her shoulders and walked her to the car. He could tell she had tears building up in her eyes, but she held them back. In the front seat of the car, she took a tissue from the pocket of her dress and dabbed her eyes dry. Then she forced a smile and brushed two fingertips across the hair at his temples.

“You’re getting gray.”

Raine smiled self-consciously. “You aren’t.”

“I color mine,” she said.

“Can you do that in there?” he asked, surprised. Stella threw him a cynical look.

“You can do anything you want to on the inside. You should know that.”

He shrugged. “I guess I thought things were different in a women’s prison.”

“Inside is inside,” she said quietly.

He asked how her mother and sisters were, she asked how his father was.

“Dead,” he told her. “Finally drank himself to death.”

She asked him about his parole, told him about hers. He asked if she wanted to stop and get something to eat; she said no, but asked him to pull over somewhere and park. He turned off on a dirt road. She opened the bundle on her lap and handed him a small school photograph.

“She’s fourteen now, Frank. This is her eighth-grade graduation picture.”

Unlike Stella, Raine could not keep all the tears in; one escaped from each eye and stung his freshly shaved cheeks. “My God, she’s you all over again—”

“I think she’s got your eyes,” Stella said. “So direct and serious.”

After a while, they drove on.

“Mother says she’s a good kid,” Stella told him. “Gets good grades. Bags groceries at a Kroger store on weekends. Runs around with a good crowd.”

“That’s important,” Raine said solemnly.

“Don’t we know it now,” Stella agreed. “Lord, it seems like a hundred years ago when we left that little Tennessee town on a Greyhound bus to set the world on fire. What a couple of crazy kids we were. I’m glad Lucy’s not like us.”

“Yeah, me too,” Raine replied softly.

They were silent for the rest of the drive to Waco.

When they got to the motel and he unlocked the door for her, Raine said, “You need some clothes. There’s a big mall just down the road—”

“Clothes aren’t the only thing I need,” Stella told him, putting down her bundle and unbuttoning her dress.

Raine watched her. She was heavier than he remembered, as Soose was, as he knew he himself was; but the thighs had the same roundness, the hips the same sensual jut, the breasts the same buoyancy, the lips the same unspoken invitation and promise. When they got into bed, the familiarity of all the places he began to kiss and lick and bite made him able to ignore the stale prison smell of her.

After she shopped for clothes and changed into something new, they went to a steakhouse for dinner. While they ate, Stella said all the things Raine knew she would.

“I want to go home, Frankie. I want to go back to that little hick town in Tennessee and get a job in some store uptown and come home every night and fix supper. I want to be a mother to Lucy for these last few years before she’s all the way grown up. I haven’t held her in my arms since she was six years old, Frankie—”

Her voice broke and Raine took her hands across the table. “I know, honey, I know—”

“Do you, Frank? Do you really?”

“Sure I do. But how, Stel? How can we go back? Everybody in town knows us, everybody will remember us. They know what we’ve been, where we’ve been. You might be able to get a job, but what about me? You think anybody would hire me? I’m a two-time loser: the Tennessee reformatory and now the Texas pen. I couldn’t get a job delivering newspapers.”

“There must be some way, Frank.” Stella’s voice had pleading in it, and desperation. “Just because we’ve made mistakes shouldn’t mean we have to pay for them forever. There’s got to be a way to start over.”

“There is,” he told her. “Change our names. Get new identities. It’s not hard to do. Then find a place to settle down, buy a home. Florida maybe, or California. Get a little business of some kind. A franchise, maybe. Like a video rental store, something like that.” He paused a beat, then added carefully, “Only to do those things we’d need a stake, money to get us started—”

“What if we could both find work somewhere new? We could start saving and—” Her hopeful words stopped suddenly, broken off by the reality of the moment. A knowing look clouded her face. “A stake, you said. You’ve already got something lined up, haven’t you?”

“Not exactly lined up, but a good possibility. A guy I celled with in Huntsville brought it to me. It sounds quick and clean, plus the money is serious. But I’d have to take a closer look at it.”

“How serious — the money?”

“Eight hundred grand. Cash. Untraceable.”

“Suppose we get it — what then?” Stella asked. “Head for Mexico? Lease some lavish villa in Acapulco or Puerto Vallarta? Buy a new boat? Clothes, jewelry? Live like rich people for a few months, a year, until we’re broke again? That’s the usual plan, isn’t it, Frank?”

“No,” he said quietly, eyes lowered as if the suggestion were shameful. “No, not this time.” He looked up at her. “I’m tired, Stel. I want to go home, too.”

“Don’t lie to me about this, Frank.”

Anger flashed across his face. “I don’t lie to you about anything, you know that.”

Now Stella lowered her own eyes. “I’m sorry.”

They finished dinner and walked a pier that bordered Lake Waco until the mosquitoes became too much for them and they headed back to the motel.

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” Stella said, her arm in his as they walked. “You always told me it was better to talk about serious things in the morning, when your mind was fresh. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

On the way they came to a liquor store. “Want me to get us a bottle of Tanqueray?” he asked.

“Why not?” Stella said. “Be like old times.”

They spent Thursday and Friday nights at the motel in Waco, then got up at dawn on Saturday and started driving west across Texas. At nine o’clock they stopped in San Angelo for gas and breakfast. Then they covered the remaining 130 miles and drove into Odessa from the south just after one o’clock. They checked into another Holiday Inn and Stella went for takeout food while Raine washed up and changed shirts. During the trip, Raine had told Stella all about the job and what he knew about the men involved.

“I’ll get a better handle on things after the meet,” he said as they sat on the bed and ate Big Macs and fries. “Then you and I can decide if we think it’s worth the risk. If we decide it isn’t, we’ll back off, just like you want.”

They had talked incessantly about their options during their hours in the car: Their goal was to make a life with their daughter Lucy before it was too late; their choices — try it the honest way, tough it out, see if it could be done — or do it the easy way, a quick, clean job, a good take, and this time play it smart, don’t blow all the cash on the good life. No. Instead, use it slowly to build a new life, a respectable life, one they could bring Lucy into.

There was now a tacit agreement between them. Frank would not go in on the heist unless it was a sure thing — a really sure thing — or at least as close to one as thieves ever got. It had to be too good to pass up.

But if they went for it, and it came off okay, and they were in the clear, they would hole up somewhere — somewhere modest — and start putting together their new life. There would be no Mexican villa, no high life, no boat — nothing like that.

And this would be their last job.

Their very last.

Raine picked up a city map at the motel desk and located Comanche Trails Park. He got there early and took up a parked position where he could watch the others arrive. It was one of those hot West Texas days when the air was heavy and your lips got puffy and dry if you stayed outside too much. Only about half of the picnic tables were in use, mostly by young Hispanic families. Soose had picked a good place to meet; Hispanics tended to notice little, mind their own business, and forget everything that did not concern them.

The kid, Lee Watts, got there first, driving a beat-up old Dodge Ram pickup. He had a gawky, oil-field-roustabout look to him: deeply tanned, buzz-cut blond hair, tight Wranglers, white shirt with the cuffs rolled up a couple of turns, pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He looked around for the others, didn’t see them, and walked to a picnic table to wait. The table was in the far corner, off to itself. Smart, Raine thought.

Next came the old man, J. D. Pike, thin as a whip under a tan Stetson, ancient face as leathery as a work saddle, eyes concealed by mirrored sunglasses, Western shirt closed at the neck with a Bolo tie. As he emerged from his pickup, which was much newer than Lee’s, he saw the younger man at once and ambled over to him.

Soose showed up in an older-model Chevy sedan and got a large restaurant takeout box from the trunk. When he was halfway to the table, Lee went out to meet him.

“There’s an ice chest of beer in the backseat.” Soose bobbed his chin toward the car, sending Lee to get it.

While Soose was opening the box of food and dealing out paper plates, Raine got out of the car and walked casually over to them. Lee and old man Pike turned their attention his way, studying him as he approached.

“Hey, carnal!” Soose said when Frank walked up. The two exconvicts embraced. Soose introduced the others to Raine, then waved his arm over the table. “Tostados, tacos, taquitos, tamales — the works. And some good Cerveza to wash it down.”

As they began to eat, Raine said quietly, “Well, it’s your job, Mr. Pike. Why don’t you tell us about it, start to finish, just like we don’t know nothing at all.”

Pike laid it out for them, pretty much the same way Soose had laid it out for Raine in the bar. It gave Raine an opportunity to scrutinize and evaluate the old man, to scope him out: the way he talked, how his eyes moved, how steady his hands were while proposing armed robbery. By the time Pike had finished, Raine was convinced that the old man was solid. Lee he would check out later, with Soose. But for now, when Pike asked, “Well, what do you think?” Raine nodded approval.

“Sounds good. I’ll check the layout this afternoon. If it looks good, we’re on.”

Soose and Lee smiled broadly, while Pike pursed his lips and clasped his hands together on the table, relieved.

“We’re going to have to work fast,” Raine said. He was eating little, since he had eaten lunch earlier with Stella. The others, appetites apparently whetted by the job looking to be on, were wolfing down the food. “We’ll need front money right away” he told Pike.

“I’ve got five thousand in my pocket right now,” Pike said. “And I can get more, not much, but a little.” The old man was being flat-out honest, Raine felt, which was good.

“I don’t think we’ll need that much,” Raine said. “I’ll take a grand for personal expenses. Give Soose three grand.” To Soose, he said, “Pick up a couple of good, cold, throwaway pieces for you and Lee. Nothing big and bulky, no long barrels, no automatics. 38 Specials with four-inch barrels if you can get them. No hollow-point cartridges; if we have to shoot anybody, I don’t want them to die. And pick up an AK-47 for me, just for show; I’ll need it to cover the guards while we get the footlocker into our car. Also pick up three big bandanas for masks.” Raine turned to Lee. “I want you to go back to Houston with Soose. He’ll get you a fake driver’s license. Next Tuesday you’ll use it to rent a car at Houston International. Pay cash and get something ordinary-looking, four-door sedan, but with a boss engine — a Buick or an Olds. Have it back here by five o’clock Tuesday afternoon. You can follow Soose back and you two can get a motel room somewhere on the other side of Odessa for the night.” Raine drummed his fingertips on the table. “That’s all I can think of right now. Mr. Pike, let us have the money and give me a phone number where I can reach you.”

While Pike counted out hundred-dollar bills from a roll he took from his pocket, Raine noticed that Lee was cleaning off their picnic bench and taking the refuse to a nearby trash can. When he saw Raine watching him, the younger man grinned sheepishly. “Can’t litter,” he said, almost in embarrassment. “Got to keep Texas beautiful.”

Raine gave him a thumbs-up in approval.

The next day, with Soose driving, he, Raine, and Lee headed for Midland, twenty-five miles north. Stella stayed behind in the Odessa motel. Raine had told her at dinner the previous evening that the job appeared good on the surface, but he wanted to check out every last detail of it before making a final commitment. Stella was pleased that Raine was being so cautious; in the past he had pulled jobs on the spur of the moment if they looked even passably good. That, of course, was what had caused them to draw six-to-ten in the Texas pens.

The drive north was along a girder-straight highway across a parched, yellowish-gray land that was the surface of the Permian Basin caprock. It would have looked like some lifeless planet far away except for the skeleton-scaffolded oil-well pumps bobbing up and down in endless monotony to suck up some of the millions, perhaps billions, of barrels of crude that had been discovered when the first gusher popped nearly eighty years earlier.

When they got to Midland, they drove through Old Town first, then cruised slowly through a mostly deserted downtown section that looked like it was just stoically waiting out the dry, heavy-heated day until closing time. The only activity was in a small plaza where people sat on park benches eating ice cream cones, and young mothers in pairs and trios pushed their toddlers in strollers and gossiped.

“Wasn’t always like this,” Lee said from the backseat. “Time was, when crude was thirty-five dollars a barrel, this ol’ town was jumping seven days and nights a week. People had so much money, they broke sweat trying to think up new ways to spend it. Hell, we used to have a Rolls-Royce dealership right here in town. And just about ever’body who had a producing well owned an airplane.” He grunted softly, remembering. “Fancy country clubs all over the place. Big parties all the time. But not no more. Big things now for most folks is shopping at Wal-Mart and going to the high school football game on Friday night.”

“You lived here all your life?” Raine asked.

“Yeah, mostly. My old man was a rigger; tried to put together enough money to buy some mineral rights and put in a well of his own, but he never made it. We never was dirt poor, but we was definitely part of the lower class in Midland. In high school I never got invited to no swim parties or dances that the rich kids had at the country clubs. Never wore nothin’ to school but old hand-me-down jeans and work shirts from my old man and brothers. Believe me, it weren’t no fun living like that in Midland, right in the middle of a town full of rich oil people and their kids. We wasn’t but a step up from the Mexicans.” Lee glanced uneasily at Soose. “Nothin’ personal, man.”

Soose said nothing, but seated next to him Raine noticed a slight clenching of his jaw. Cellmates learned to recognize little things like that about each other. Soose had not liked the remark, but it was not important enough to make an issue of it. The job came first.

“Soose tells me you want to buy a motorcycle shop,” Raine said, changing the subject.

“Yeah. I figure a small Suzuki dealership somewheres, not in no big city, and not around Midland for sure, but maybe up in the panhandle. Amarillo or thereabouts.”

“And you’ve got a girl, right?”

“Yeah. Name’s Wendy. She comes from the same kind of fam’ly I do: got nothin’ and gettin’ nowhere. She works out at the Dairy Queen right now. We plan on gettin’ married soon’s we can get out of this dead-end town.”

“What does Wendy think of you being in on a job like this?” Raine asked casually.

“She don’t know about it,” Lee replied earnestly. “She wouldn’t put up with nothin’ like that. You don’t think I’d—” Abruptly the younger man stopped talking and, where he had been leaning forward to converse, now sat back and grinned knowingly. “I get it. That was a test, right?”

“Sort of,” Raine admitted. “Where you gonna tell her you got the money to buy that shop?”

“I figure to find a place for sale and tell her the owner’s bringing me in as a partner to run it and pay for it in, like, five years. She won’t know the difference.”

“You won’t be leaving Midland right away, will you?”

“No, sir. I figure that might look suspicious. We’ll wait awhile. People hereabouts know I been looking for a shop; they won’t think nothin’ of it if we leave in six months or so.”

“Good thinking,” Raine told him. “It’s a good plan. Just stick to it. Don’t let the money go to your head.”

“I don’t aim to,” Lee Watts assured him.

After Lee guided them on a general tour of the area, Raine had him show them the New Petroleum Club. On the way, they passed the original Petroleum Club. “That’s the old place,” Lee said. “Goes back to the days of the wildcatters. Inside, it’s like being on the Titanic. Got this huge grand staircase leading to the dining room. People who belonged there weren’t just worth millions, they was worth billions. But it’s kind of been going downhill for quite a while now.”

“But this isn’t where the big fundraising luncheon’s being held, right?” asked Raine.

“No, sir. That’s at the New Petroleum Club. Hang a right at the next corner, Soose.”

The New Petroleum Club sat on a low mound of manicured rye grass, a cobblestone drive leading to it from the highway north of town. It was a high-tech building, all glass and chrome and polished tile, valet parking under a modernistic porte-cochere, huge U.S. and Texas state flags flying from tall silver poles.

“This here was built by the younger crowd that missed the big bonanza,” Lee said. “They come along later: high-level people with Mobil and Conoco and Texaco — the ones that’ve got millions but not billions. There’s a back road over behind it where Mr. Pike says they’ll be bringing the money out...”

From a narrow, blacktopped farm-to-market road running several hundred yards behind the club grounds, Frank Raine could see the less impressive rear facade of the building. There was a small loading dock off to one side, backed by service doors that he guessed accessed the club’s kitchen, food lockers, and service facilities. The other side of the lower rear was a blank wall. The upper part of the rear wall had cantilevered windows floor to ceiling all the way across the structure. At the moment they were closed by horizontal blinds.

“That the dining room?” Raine asked, anxiety rising in him at the thought of a hundred Texans gathered up there watching the robbery. But Lee relieved his mind.

“No, sir. Mr. Pike said that was a big conference room that won’t be in use the day of the luncheon. The actual luncheon will be around t’other side where the dining room faces a big duck pond. Mr. Pike says won’t be nobody here ’cept kitchen help. Mostly, uh—” he nodded toward Soose.

“Hispanics,” Soose said.

“Yeah,” said Lee. “Mr. Pike figures when all the cash has been tossed in, the footlocker will be closed up and security guards from the Permian Basin Merchant’s Bank will carry it out back to a van or SUV — he don’t think they’ll go to the expense of an armored truck, not for just a two-mile drive. Anyhow, there’ll also be a couple or three local cops out back, maybe city, maybe county, for an escort. The footlocker’s to be driven straight uptown where the president of the bank will be waiting to put it in the vault. Mr. Pike says they’ll prob’ly be extra alert for an ambush ’tween here and town — but he don’t think they’ll expect nothing right here at the back door.”

“He’s right,” Raine agreed. “They’ll be concentrating on loading the locker into whatever kind of transportation they’ve got. This is the place to do it, all right.”

Raine’s eyes darted around the back of the building. Two kitchen workers, wearing white culinary coats, came onto the dock and emptied trays into disposal cans. Raine studied them, then turned his attention to two rows of cars between the club and where they were parked.

“What are those cars over there?”

“That’s club employee parking.”

As they were looking, a new Lincoln drove in and parked in a reserved space nearest the club. Two men got out, one short, wearing a sport coat, the other tall and lanky, in a red Western shirt.

“The short guy is Mr. Sims,” Lee said. “He runs the club. Other fellow’s Ross Tabb. He organizes big hunting trips up to Canada and down to Mexico for the rich men. He’s a professional rifle and pistol shot, too; got lots of trophies and stuff. Ever’body calls him ‘Red’ ’cause he don’t never wear nothin’ but red shirts.”

“Will he be at the luncheon?” Raine asked.

“Oh, hell no. He ain’t in the same league with these oil men; he’s just hired help.”

Good, Frank Raine thought. Last person he wanted around during a big heist was some hotshot hip-shooter who liked to show off!

Soose drove them back to Odessa. On the way, Raine was quiet, contemplative. At one point he said to Soose, “Pick up three of those white coats the kitchen workers wear, one for each of us.” Later he said, “Get a box of surgical gloves, too.”

When they got back to Odessa, they dropped Lee at his pickup, then Raine and Soose went to a local bar and had a drink.

“Well, what do you think, carnal?” Soose asked.

Raine shook his head. “I don’t know. It looks almost too good.” Briefly he bit his lower lip in thought. “I keep looking for some weak spot, something that can glitch up on us, but I can’t find anything. One thing I’ve learned is that there’s no such thing as a completely perfect heist — but this one sure looks close to it.”

“Maybe this is our once-in-a-lifetime shot, carnal. Guys like us don’t get many chances in life. There’s things I want to do for my mother before she dies, you know? Get her a nice house. Take her on a trip back to Mexico to see her sisters and brothers. She’s had a hard life, an’ a lot of it’s been my fault. I want to give her a few good years, you know? Maybe this is my chance to make it.” He paused a beat, then added, “Yours too, amigo.”

“Yeah,” Raine agreed quietly. “Maybe this one is it. Maybe this is the one every thief looks for in life. The dream job.”

After several moments of silence, Soose said, “So? Do we go?”

Frank Raine nodded solemnly.

“Yeah. We go.”

The next morning, after eating breakfast at a Denny’s, Raine said to Stella, “I want to take you up to Midland, honey. I want you to see where this job is going down, and I want to find a spot where you can hook up with Pike, the old man who’s bankrolling the job. You’ll take him to a place where Soose, Lee, and I will come directly after the job. We’ll dump the getaway car and all five of us will head back to the motel in Odessa in the car you’re driving. That’s where we’ll cut up the take.”

“Why not just have the old man come to the motel and wait there with me?” Stella asked.

“Because I don’t trust him,” Raine said evenly. “I don’t trust anybody anymore, except you. And I don’t want you trusting anybody either, hear me? Nobody.”

“Sure, baby,” Stella replied quietly. “Whatever you say, Frankie.” The tone of his voice had somehow frightened her for a moment. She had never heard him talk like that before a job. He was, she realized for the first time, a lot harder, colder, than before he went to prison. Texas pens, she had heard, did that to a man.

After breakfast, they drove up to Midland and cruised around the area for a while. Raine showed Stella the New Petroleum Club and the escape route he had planned. “As soon as we score, we leave the club and hang a left on this farm-to-market road so we can skirt around downtown Midland to pick up Interstate 10 back to Odessa. We’ll find a place uptown for you to meet old man Pike, and someplace to go on the farm-to-market road for all of us to hook up.”

They scouted the farm-to-market road first and located a cornfield about two miles from the robbery site. There was a dirt road that gave tractor access to the field, but fifty yards off the paved road a car could not be seen from there or from the farmhouse far across the field. From the dirt road to the Midland city limits it was exactly four-point-three miles. “Can you remember that?” Raine asked.

“Sure,” Stella said quietly. “Four-three. April third. That’s Lucy’s birthday, Frank.”

He glanced at her, chagrinned. “Yeah, that’s right. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

Uptown in Midland, they selected Centennial Plaza, a once-popular park for rollerbladers and skateboarders until a city ordinance banned them, and now just a lazy location for people to sit on benches or stroll in the thick summer air. They parked and got out and entered the plaza, sitting down on the first bench they came to. “How about this spot for picking up the old man?” Raine asked.

“Suits me,” Stella agreed, shrugging.

As they were sitting there, a bright green older-model pickup truck, gleaming in mint condition, pulled up and parked. A boy and girl about sixteen got out and went across the street to an ice cream parlor. Several minutes later they came back out again with large double-dip cones and walked laughing and teasing into the park, where they sat across from Raine and Stella. They sat there, bumping shoulders, nudging one another, whispering and giggling, catching ice cream drips on their tongues, while Raine and Stella watched them in amusement. The boy’s name, they overheard from the banter between them, was Jerry, and the girl’s name was Sue. After they had been sitting there a short time, the young couple became aware that Raine and Stella were staring at them. Jerry blushed and looked down at the sidewalk, but Sue confronted the situation.

“Is there something wrong, ma’am?” she asked, in a not unfriendly tone.

Stella smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, hon. We didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that you two remind us of ourselves. You know, back when we were your age.”

“Oh.” Now Sue blushed as Jerry had. “Well, we’re not really this silly all the time.”

“I know. Being silly is just having fun.” Stella squeezed Raine’s knee. “Isn’t that right, hon?”

“Yeah, sure, right,” Raine replied appropriately. He patted Stella’s hand. “Well, we’d best be going along,” he added.

As they were leaving, Stella threw the young people a parting smile. “You kids have a fun day. Time enough to be serious when you get older.”

But when she and Raine were back in their car, Stella’s smile faded and a cheerless expression replaced it. “Where in the hell did our lives go, Frank?” she asked dolefully.

Raine did not answer.

Late in the morning on the day of the job, Soose pulled up to the motel in his mother’s car, with Lee right behind him in a rented gray Buick Century four-door. As they were parking, Stella was just driving away to go pick up J. D. Pike, whom Raine had called the night before to set up the meeting. Raine watched Stella driving off, then hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and along with Soose got into the Buick with Lee.

“Got everything?” Raine asked without preliminary.

“All in the trunk,” Soose told him.

“Okay,” Raine said. “Let’s go.”

All three men were quiet on the drive north. Getting ready to steal, seriously steal, with guns, was, Frank Raine imagined, a lot like going into ground combat in a war. It was a tight time, a nervous time, a time to be mindful. It was no time for idle conversation. None of the three men said a dozen words the entire trip.

When they arrived at the entrance drive to the New Petroleum Club, Raine saw that the member parking lot was filled with Lincolns, Cadillacs, BMWs, and an array of other high-ticket automobiles. “Looks like a nice crowd,” he said evenly.

He had Lee drive back to the employee lot and park where they could see the rear loading dock. A station wagon was parked at the dock, its tailgate down. Two overweight men in khaki uniforms, wearing gun belts, were lounging against one fender, smoking and talking.

Raine and the two men with him got out of the Buick and opened the trunk. Each of them tied a blue and white bandana around his neck and tucked it down under the front of his shirt where it could not be seen. Then they slipped into white cotton coats like the club’s culinary workers wore. They pulled on surgical gloves and took rags to wipe down the interior of the car and the guns they would use. Soose and Lee each stuck a pistol in their waistband; Raine, after checking the magazine and safety, slipped the AK-47 under the right side of his white coat and held it in place with the fingertips of his right hand. Then they loitered at the open trunk as if engaging in idle conversation before leaving for the day. Inside, they felt like frogs were loose in their stomachs.

The footlocker of cash was carried out onto the loading dock by two other men uniformed in khaki, escorted by Mr. Sims, the man whom Lee had pointed out as the manager of the club. The two guards at the station wagon moved toward the loading-dock steps to help them.

“Let’s go,” Frank Raine said. “Nice and easy.”

Raine and Soose began walking toward the loading dock, keeping the station wagon between them and the dock. Lee closed the trunk and got back into the Buick. He swung it around and drove slowly across the lot toward the club. As Raine and Soose got close to the dock and Lee drove up near the station wagon, all three pulled their bandanas up over the lower part of their faces. Raine and Soose stepped around from opposite sides of the station wagon. It dawned on the guards just a second too late what was happening. As the two nearest the tailgate reached for their holstered pistols, Soose clubbed one of them in the temple with his gun, and Raine butt-stroked the other across the jaw with the AK-47. Both of the men dropped like sandbags. Raine swung the AK-47 around on the other three.

“Be smart, boys,” he warned tensely. “Don’t get killed protecting somebody else’s money.”

“We hear you,” the club manager said, voice wavering.

Lee stopped the Buick near them and popped the trunk from inside.

“Put that footlocker in the trunk,” Raine gestured with the AK-47. “Put your guns in there, too — very carefully.”

As the guards were doing what they were told, Lee hurried around and snatched the ignition keys from the station wagon, and Soose relieved the two fallen men of their sidearms. The guards set the footlocker in the trunk, along with their guns, and Soose tossed in the two extra pistols he had. Lee came hurrying back around to get behind the wheel of the Buick. Just as he started to get in, a single rifle shot split the air and a .30–30 slug hit him dead-center in the middle of the forehead.

Shocked by the suddenness of it, all five men at the tailgate of the station wagon dropped into a reflexive crouch. Raine’s eyes swung like searchlights, trying to find the source of the shot. Soose stared in horror at the ugly, walnut-size hole in the fallen Lee’s forehead. Brain matter was already slowly mushrooming out. Then both Raine and Soose detected movement close to them and swung to see Sims, the club manager, pulling a chrome automatic from under his coat. Raine quickly brought the AK-47 around to firing position, but Soose was a split second ahead of him and shot the man twice in the chest. Then there was another single rifle shot and Soose had a hole in his forehead just like Lee did.

Now Frank Raine saw a flash of red and knew where the shooter was, and in the same split instant knew what the glitch was in this dream robbery of theirs. Lee’s words came back to him: “...Ross Tabb... organizes big hunting trips... professional rifle and pistol shot... don’t never wear nothin’ but red shirts...”

The flash of red Raine had seen was in the cantilevered window on the second floor of the club, above the loading dock. A red shirt. A professional rifleman. The glitch in their dream job. A backup sniper.

Raine moved in a crouch behind the station wagon. The faces of both standing guards were paper-white, with visible sweat running down from under their hats. “You two drag your friends over there under the loading dock,” Raine ordered. One of them glanced tentatively at the club manager, who was on the ground, clutching at his chest, the heel of one foot digging spastically at the asphalt. “Never mind him!” Raine said harshly. “He chose to die, now let him! Get your friends and move!” Each guard grabbed one of the unconscious men and began dragging him to the shelter of the dock.

Raine’s eyes riveted on the second-floor window, waiting for the flash of red he knew would come again. When it did, seconds later, he rose and raked the upstairs with a long burst from the AK-47. The man in the red shirt spun completely around and pitched backwards through the cantilevered window, falling with a heavy thud to the concrete dock, then lying still as a shower of glass rained down on him.

A dozen men burst out onto the dock from the kitchen. Raine fired a quick burst of rounds over their heads and they fought like slaughterhouse sheep to get back inside.

Suddenly it was very quiet behind the New Petroleum Club. Raine tossed the AK-47 into the trunk of the Buick, grabbed two of the four pistols taken from the guards, and stuck them on each side under his belt. Slamming the trunk lid, he stepped over to Lee and took the keys to the station wagon from his lifeless hand. The heavy circulation of gunpowder in the air somehow got under the bandana covering his face and made him sneeze twice, heavily. Behind the wheel of the Buick, engine still running, he threw the car into gear and sped around to the front of the building. It did not surprise him that no one was in sight out front; everyone, even the valet parking attendants, had probably run to the rear of the club to see what all the shooting was about. Heading down the cobblestone drive to the road, Raine pulled down the bandana and exhaled what he was sure was the deepest breath he had ever taken. Maybe, he thought, he had beaten the glitch after all.

At the road, he swung right and accelerated. There was a quick catch in his chest, but he ignored it. He checked the odometer as his mind drew up the numbers he needed: two miles to the cornfield where Stella waited with old man Pike; change cars; four-point-three miles from there into Midland; then pick up Interstate 10 to Odessa—

Another quick catch seized his chest. He frowned. What the hell—?

Then he found out. At the two-mile point, there was no cornfield. There was nothing on either side of the highway except fiat, gray dirt, parched by an eternity of sunlight, then sucked dry by grasshopper pumps, and finally left to die under patches of scrubby mesquite.

Raine’s head began to throb. Wait a minute. Did he have the distances reversed? Was it four-point-three to the field, then two miles to Midland—? Pulling to the side of the road, he shook his head violently. No. He had the distances correct. Come out of the New Petroleum Club drive, hang a left on the farm-to-market road— Hang a left. He had turned right.

Son of a bitch! He could not believe it. A stupid wrong turn and now he was in an identifiable car on the wrong side of the meeting place.

He couldn’t go back; the law would be coming toward him from Midland. He couldn’t go forward; that would mean leaving Stella behind. Anyway, every little jerkwater town in that direction would soon have its deputies out watching for the Buick. Maybe he could hide the footlocker someplace, ditch the car, and hoof it back to the cornfield; plan things from there—

Just then, something caught his eye. Far off across one of the gray flats. It was bright green, like an artificial oasis in a wasteland. Where had he seen it before? As he watched, he could make out two figures moving about—

The two kids from town that he and Stella had briefly talked with. The green oasis was the boy’s shiny pickup truck. Jerry, that was his name. The girl was Sue.

There was a tractor road leading out to where they were. Putting the Buick in gear, Raine drove up to it and turned in. When he was halfway to them, he heard the crack of a small-bore rifle, and made out what they were doing: target practicing at tin cans and bottles. Jerry was probably teaching Sue how to shoot. Memories of himself and Stella from years back flooded his mind.

When Raine drove up, the two teenagers walked over to the car. He got out, smiling. “Doing a little shooting, huh?”

“Yessir,” Jerry said. He was holding a .22 lever-action Winchester. A bird gun. “We ain’t trespassing or nothing,” Jerry assured him. “This here’s open land.”

“I didn’t stop because I thought you were trespassing,” Raine said easily. “I want to buy your truck.”

“Buy my truck?” Jerry and Sue exchanged surprised looks.

“Yeah. I’m kind of a collector of old-model vehicles. I remembered yours from the other day in town.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Sue. “That’s right. In the park.”

“Yeah. I’ve been driving around looking for you. I’ll give you twenty thousand for it. Cash.”

“Twenty thousand! Why, mister, the book on this here model ain’t but about six—”

“Anyhow, we don’t want to sell it,” Sue said. “This truck is special to us. For a special reason.”

Jerry blushed beet red. “What she means,” he quickly amended, “is that her and me’s been restoring this pickup together since we was freshmen in high school. It means a lot to us.”

“Fifty thousand,” Raine said.

“Fifty thousand! Are you crazy, mister?” Jerry’s mouth was hanging open.

“We don’t want to sell it,” Sue said firmly. “At no price.” She linked arms with Jerry. “Like I said, it’s special.” She squeezed his arm.

“She’s right, mister,” Jerry said, though a little reluctantly now. “It’s not for sale.”

Raine drew one of the pistols from under his coat. “Look, kids, I need that truck and I ain’t got time to argue with you.” He bobbed his chin at Jerry’s rifle. “Lay that bird gun on the ground.” Jerry did as he was told. “Give me the keys.”

“They’re in the ignition,” Jerry said.

Raine backed over to the truck and looked inside; the keys were there. Stepping over to the Buick, he removed those keys, put them in his pocket, and popped the trunk with the dashboard button. “Okay, kid,” he said to Jerry, “grab one handle of this footlocker and help me set it in the back of your pickup.” They moved the locker of cash into the truck bed, up close to the cab so it could not easily be seen by oncoming traffic. Raine reached in, flipped up the buckle latches, and opened the lid. Both he and Jerry momentarily stared in awe at the contents: stacks of currency, sheaves of hundred-dollar bills, banded in bundles of fifty. Bank-stamped in red: $5000. Fingering out ten of them, Raine tossed them on the ground at Jerry’s feet.

“Fifty thousand dollars, kid, and nobody’ll know you’ve got it. All you’ve got to do is say I stole your truck—”

“We don’t want your damned money, mister! And you’re not taking our truck, neither!”

It was Sue speaking. She had picked up Jerry’s rifle and had it leveled at Raine, who was still holding the pistol, but had it down at his side.

“Look, miss, put the rifle down,” Raine said patiently. “We both know you’re not going to shoot me—”

“Oh no?” the girl said — and squeezed the trigger, exactly as Jerry had taught her.

Frank Raine felt a .22 short round rip into his right side. He staggered back two steps but did not fall; the slug had missed his hip bone.

“Lord, Susie, you shot him!” Jerry shrieked.

Raine stared at the girl. A thought surfaced of his own daughter, Lucy, fourteen, back in Tennessee. This kid couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her—

“Oh my God!” Sue bawled. “What did I do? Oh Lord—!” She threw the rifle away from her as if it were a rattlesnake. Turning, she ran crying across the barren flat. Jerry looked apprehensively at Raine, and the gun he held.

“Go on,” Raine said, bobbing his chin at the fleeing girl. Jerry bolted and ran after her.

Shoving the pistol into his coat pocket, Raine twisted his arm around his back, feeling for blood and an exit wound. He found none. Pulling his coat back, he pulled up his shirt and looked at the hole in his side. It was small, puckered, bleeding slowly. Taking a sheaf of currency from the open footlocker, he pressed it over the wound and hitched up his trousers to tighten his belt and hold it in place. A five-thousand-dollar pressure bandage.

Securing the lid of the footlocker, he got into the green pickup and drove away, leaving the Buick and fifty thousand dollars on the ground behind him.

On the way to the meeting place, Raine passed the entrance drive to the New Petroleum Club. He could see two police cruisers with light bars flashing in front of the place. In the next two miles before he got to the cornfield turnoff, a third cruiser, siren wailing, sped past him without a glance.

Raine’s side burned like it had a lit highway flare shoved into it. He knew that every bump along the rutted tractor road was pumping an extra spurt of blood out of him, but he was sure he could make it. All he had to do was get to Stella and she would take care of him. When they got back to the motel in Odessa, she could swab it with iodine, pull the slug out with a pair of tweezers, squeeze a tube of antibacterial ointment into the wound, and pack it with gauze pads to stop the bleeding.

He would give old man Pike the green pickup and his share of the take at the cornfield. After Stella cleaned Raine up at the motel, the two of them would head south on some of the hundreds of back roads that covered southwest Texas like dusty veins.

Pike was pacing back and forth when Raine drove up. At the sight of the green pickup truck, he pulled a chrome pistol from under his coat; he put it away when he saw that the driver was Frank Raine.

Stella blanched at the sight of Raine’s blood as he got out of the truck. “My God, Frankie-!”

“Never mind,” he said sharply. Then to Pike, “Get the tailgate down and drag that footlocker back.”

“Where’s the other boys?” Pike asked as he did what Raine wanted.

“Dead. They had a sniper at the second-floor window.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Pike. “Was he wearing a red shirt?”

“Yeah. And I made it a lot redder.” To Stella, he said, “Open the locker and count out four hundred grand for Mr. Pike.” Raine leaned on the side of the truck and pulled out the other pistol he still had in his waistband, holding it loosely at his side.

“What about the eight hundred thousand them other two boys was gonna split?” Pike asked.

“I’m taking that,” Raine said flatly. “You get the share that was agreed on. Everything left over is mine.”

Pike hooked both thumbs over his belt buckle and nodded thoughtfully. “That slug you take come out the back?” he asked casually. Raine shook his head. “No? Then I’m afraid you ain’t gonna make it, son,” the old man said quietly. Stella stopped counting and stared at him. “Look at the color of that blood you’re losing,” Pike said. “It’s damn near black. If that bullet didn’t go all the way through you, then it’s in your liver. You ain’t gonna live an hour, if that.”

As the old man spoke, Raine’s vision blurred and his throat went dry and constricted. He lost all feeling in his right arm and hand; the gun he held dropped to the ground. Five seconds later, Raine dropped to the ground, too. Stella rushed over and knelt beside him. “Oh, baby—”

Pike stepped over and picked up Raine’s pistol.

“Sorry, honey,” Raine whispered, and closed his eyes.

“Well, little lady, looks like it’s just me and you now,” Pike said. “You know, you ain’t bad looking. There was a time I’d’ve taken you and the money. But at my age, I tend to look less at younger women and more at older whiskey. So I reckon I’ll just have to end it for you like it ended for him.”

“Can’t we talk it over?” Stella asked. She was still kneeling beside Raine, her hands on his body, one of them slowly working into his coat pocket for what she felt there. Pike was shaking his head.

“Sorry, little lady, but my mind’s made up.”

“Have it your own way,” Stella said, and started working the trigger of the pistol in Raine’s coat pocket. She fired four times, right through the pocket, and hit Pike with all four shots, in the chest, every one of them in a six-inch pattern. Just like the young Frank Raine had taught her years ago.

Pike was thrown back half a dozen feet and fell like a tree. Stella pulled the bandana from around Raine’s neck, took the gun from his pocket, wiped off her fingerprints, and then put it back. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

“Goodbye, baby,” she said.

At the footlocker, she took several bills out of a number of sheaves until she had counted out fifty thousand dollars. If they thought all the money was still there, they wouldn’t come looking for anybody else. Fifty thousand was enough for her to get home to her mother, and to Lucy; to get settled and start over.

In the car she had come in, Stella circled around Midland and got on the interstate back to Odessa. Once there, she would wipe off her prints, abandon the car, and buy herself a Greyhound ticket. She would go back home on the bus.

Just like she left.