Blood Men by Paul Cleave Read Free Book Online Page B

million dollars,” Wellington answers, “but this time of year, we stock up on more cash. We have to reload the ATM machine four to five times more often and people are always coming in for cash. Christmas is still a cash business,” he says. “Not everybody has a credit card.”
    “So how much?”
    “About five million.”
    “And how much was taken?”
    “We still have to add up what’s here—but if you want a quick estimate, we think we’re talking somewhere around three million dollars.”
    “And the procedure in a bank robbery?”
    “It’s simple. Do what the robbers tell you to do. Press the silent alarm, and if you have to come out to the vault, make sure you load in the dye packs.”
    “And they loaded them?”
    “Yes. They would have gone off by now.”
    “How do they work?”
    “They’re magnetic. We store them next to a magnetic plate that controls them. You take them away from that, and it activates a timer. They explode five minutes after they’ve been moved. It ruinsall the money, covers it all in red ink. Covers the robbers in ink too.”
    “How long until you can get an amount?”
    “An hour. Two at the most.”
    The blocks of remaining cash vary between orange, blue, green, and purple—fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. Schroder wonders exactly what three million in cash would look like physically. He wonders how heavy the bags would have been.
    “So the tellers loaded the bags,” he says, thinking out loud.
    “Yeah. Nobody else came back here.”
    “The robbers never examined the bags, right? According to witnesses, and looking at the footage, they grabbed the bags and another victim and left.”
    “So?”
    “So why load the bags with hundreds?”
    “What?”
    “I don’t see any red blocks of cash—the hundreds. The bank tellers could have loaded the bags with any amount. The bags would have weighed the same. Why not load them up with five- or ten-dollar notes?”
    “Maybe they thought the robbers would check.”
    “Even so, they could have loaded the smaller amounts on the bottom. The robbers would never have known unless they tipped it all out.”
    “Maybe they were scared and thought that was the way to go.”
    “Maybe,” Schroder says.
    “It’s a good point though,” Wellington says, “and something we might consider implementing in case, god forbid, this ever happens again.”
    “You do that,” Schroder says. “And get me some amounts,” he says, and turns his back on the vault and heads upstairs.

chapter eight
    I was eight years old when I had the urge to kill my first animal. I was nine before I finally did it. It was about a month before my dad got taken away. I don’t know what created the urge. I think it’d been there all along, sleeping deep inside me, hidden—then one day woken.
    The police showed up at the house on a cold July day. The sun was out but had lost the battle to winter; the air was so icy cold, the mist that formed in front of your face when you exhaled could almost be snatched up and broken in two. It was the kind of day you didn’t want to get out of bed for. The trees were bare and the leaves had turned to slush on the ground, slush that would stick to your shoes, then get left behind on the carpet inside. It was a Wednesday morning. Usually the most exciting thing about Wednesdays was that they weren’t Mondays. Of course this Wednesday started out a whole lot different. It began with me standing at the window in my school uniform watching the police cars pull up, sure they werethere for me, that somehow, in some way, somebody had found out it’d been me who’d killed the neighbor’s dog. I watched the cars come to a stop and men spill into the driveway, and I thought about running, just heading out the back door and jumping the fence, only I didn’t know where I’d go. No, rather than run, I would lie.
    The police surrounded the house. They came up to the front door. I was crying when my mother answered it. I had moved