Hatchet grew more at ease as he contemplated the simplicity of Woody’s tasks. It’s moving a fucking trash can and a dolly and maybe not even that. He resolved that a child, a monkey, a well trained German shepherd could do it. Then he just has to hang around and make sure no one is in the fuckin counting room after the deposit convoy leaves the barn. That’s it. It’s simplicity beyond simplicity. I’m being paranoid.
So he checked his watch then he checked it again then checked it again. He purposed the muscles and tendons in his legs to guard against cramps then switched to hanging from the pole later in the day to release the strain, hoping a variety of physical positions might also alleviate any opportunistic swiviet within him. Vibratory hints of the church services sang to him in the shell of the chute. Some of the rivets and welds fizzled in the grip of low-end frequencies. The counting machines went to work above him like so many flightless birds scampering and flapping with insane speed. The men up there rarely spoke and if they did, it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear. He breathed deep and imagined himself on a rock in the desert observing the river of the sky towing the high foamy clouds across the entire continent.
Time came for his final preparation. With careful silent movements, he removed the last and bulkiest item from his sack: a large padlocked locked deposit bag stuffed with bundles of paper to simulate the heft and feel of real cash. Hatchet untied the knot of black clothes and tucked them into is shoulder bag. Muted squeals from automotive tires and the whumps of closing doors lifted from the lower end of the chute. The escort team had arrived and were jockeying their caravan of vehicles.
He heard the sally port open and close.
He heard movement near the sliding door. A voice at the top of the chute piped through the intercom speaker at the bottom, telling the team below that the cash was about to drop. An instant of light filled the tube and he heard the bag sliding toward him with an elongated zip then the light was gone and ninety-some-odd pounds of filthy unmarked bundled cash landed against his chest and he released the decoy to thud against the lower door. Almost at once, he heard the door slide. Light permeated the tube then left him again to the silent, stealth laden darkness. He listened as the engines sparked to life then he let the cash drop to the lower door.
A small pin light clinched in his teeth, the two small drawstring sacks over his arm, he shimmied three meters up the tube with his back and feet applying the supportive pressure. At the upper door, he concentrated his faculties, listening for movement or voices on the other side. Once he felt sure the room was vacant, Hatchet removed a knife from his front pocket and worked the exposed spring in the latch on the sliding door and the door cracked. A thin blade of light sliced across his face. Again, he listened. Nothing.
Hatchet could not have know that minutes before the Suburbans arrived in the garage, a member of the janitorial crew had found Woody Hightower’s body in the service elevator two floors above and informed the Guardians who called 911. Word of a dead man spread through the now almost vacant building. Several of the more paranoid members of the force suggested that a dead body and vandalism could portend some sort of attack. These feel like diversions, one of them said. It took three of them five minutes to debate several outlandish possibilities as a sedge of paramedics and firefighters toiled over Woody’s body. The smell of his soiled clothes percolated the immediate atmosphere around the lift approximately one hundred gerrymandered feet from the counting room.
So he checked his watch then he checked it again then checked it again. He purposed the muscles and tendons in his legs to guard against cramps then switched to hanging from the pole later in the day to release the strain, hoping a variety of physical positions might also alleviate any opportunistic swiviet within him. Vibratory hints of the church services sang to him in the shell of the chute. Some of the rivets and welds fizzled in the grip of low-end frequencies. The counting machines went to work above him like so many flightless birds scampering and flapping with insane speed. The men up there rarely spoke and if they did, it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear. He breathed deep and imagined himself on a rock in the desert observing the river of the sky towing the high foamy clouds across the entire continent.
Time came for his final preparation. With careful silent movements, he removed the last and bulkiest item from his sack: a large padlocked locked deposit bag stuffed with bundles of paper to simulate the heft and feel of real cash. Hatchet untied the knot of black clothes and tucked them into is shoulder bag. Muted squeals from automotive tires and the whumps of closing doors lifted from the lower end of the chute. The escort team had arrived and were jockeying their caravan of vehicles.
He heard the sally port open and close.
He heard movement near the sliding door. A voice at the top of the chute piped through the intercom speaker at the bottom, telling the team below that the cash was about to drop. An instant of light filled the tube and he heard the bag sliding toward him with an elongated zip then the light was gone and ninety-some-odd pounds of filthy unmarked bundled cash landed against his chest and he released the decoy to thud against the lower door. Almost at once, he heard the door slide. Light permeated the tube then left him again to the silent, stealth laden darkness. He listened as the engines sparked to life then he let the cash drop to the lower door.
A small pin light clinched in his teeth, the two small drawstring sacks over his arm, he shimmied three meters up the tube with his back and feet applying the supportive pressure. At the upper door, he concentrated his faculties, listening for movement or voices on the other side. Once he felt sure the room was vacant, Hatchet removed a knife from his front pocket and worked the exposed spring in the latch on the sliding door and the door cracked. A thin blade of light sliced across his face. Again, he listened. Nothing.
Hatchet could not have know that minutes before the Suburbans arrived in the garage, a member of the janitorial crew had found Woody Hightower’s body in the service elevator two floors above and informed the Guardians who called 911. Word of a dead man spread through the now almost vacant building. Several of the more paranoid members of the force suggested that a dead body and vandalism could portend some sort of attack. These feel like diversions, one of them said. It took three of them five minutes to debate several outlandish possibilities as a sedge of paramedics and firefighters toiled over Woody’s body. The smell of his soiled clothes percolated the immediate atmosphere around the lift approximately one hundred gerrymandered feet from the counting room.
Edit 11.12.2018