The Holdup

Chapter 4

4

The local station is a short drive out of the town limits. It's a small, square building that sits on a patch of land in the middle of nowhere. The interview room is even smaller and squarer. There's a table screwed into the floor, two chairs, a door, CCTV camera and nothing else.

I notice the air con is turned off. And no offer of water, either. Not very friendly, if you ask me.

The sheriff doesn't sit down, either. She paces around the room, making slow circles around me.

"Are you gonna tell me what this is about?" I ask.

"Come on, Mr Ronsen," Dooley says. "You know far more about it than me."

I sigh and recline in my chair.

Dooley leans over the table and stares me in the eyes.

She narrows her eyelids.

"Alright," she says, straightening up. She leaves the room and returns soon after with a thin grey cardboard file. She slaps it on the table in front of me. Opens it up. Spreads out a series of large glossy colour prints. There's an armoured truck hooked to the back of a recovery vehicle. It has the name Western & Main Bank on the side. The rear door is wide open, battered and bruised. The front end mashed like it hit a wall.

"Okay, here's the deal," the sheriff says. "We're looking at an armed assault on an armoured truck, two security guards in A&E and five million in cash missing from the back. Guards say there were four men in black wearing blue, green, red and gold Luchadore masks. All carrying M16s.”

She pulls out a photo from the bottom of the spread. The Chrysler I woke up in. A smouldering wreck with two dead bodies inside. "I asked around before I knocked on your door, Mr Ronsen. Seems you've been in town a couple of weeks already. So much for passing through."

I laugh. "And that makes me your prime suspect, does it?"

Dooley shrugs. "You can understand why."

She watches me for a reaction.

I don't give her s**t.

"What's a Brit from over the pond doing in a place like Rattlesnake?" she continues.

"I'm on my holidays."

"This ain't a holiday place."

"I dunno," I say. "Sun, sand, scenery. What makes you so sure I'm one of your guys?"

"Because I know the type—and you're definitely the type . . . Where'd you get that lump on your head?"

"I'm a lanky bastard. Happens all the time."

"Funny, the ceilings in that motel look pretty high to me," Dooley says.

As she talks, I scan the photos. There's a number on the side of the truck: 4012.

What's the betting the time of the robbery matches the other numbers on my wrist?

Truck number: 4012.

Time: 09:20.

Shit.

I withdraw my hands from the table and stuff 'em in my pockets. I'm thinking this could be one of the few chances I get to find out what the hell is going on. So I decide to poke around a little.

"Looks like some heavy work," I say. "Scary characters."

Dooley nods. "Armed. Organised. In and out in seconds. Stopped 'em on the highway after a blind bend. No CCTV or nearby police units. Nothin' within five miles. Never mind the hole they made in the road."

"Smart guys."

"Yup," Dooley says, perching herself on the end of the desk. "But then they go and crash the damn getaway car."

I laugh. "Really?"

"What happened out there, Mr Ronsen?" Dooley says, watching me for my reaction again.

I shrug. "What I don't get is, there were two bodies in the car, right?"

"That's right," she says.

"You said it was a four-man crew."

"Yeah, that covers the barbecued meat in the car, you and another mystery man." Dooley says. "My best guess is he skipped town."

"You find any cash in the car?" I ask.

"What do you reckon?" she says.

"Any prints on the van? From the car?"

Dooley doesn't answer.

"Sounds like a dead end to me.” I stand up out of my chair. "I assume I'm free to leave."

"You're free to leave the station," Dooley says. "Not to leave town. Unless you wanna be pursued as a fugitive."

"A fugitive who hasn't been charged?"

"Oh, I can bring charges, Mr Ronsen. Maybe the case ain't watertight yet, but I can damn well bring charges. And if you run against those charges, then it's not gonna look too good, is it now?"

Dooley opens the door to the interview room. She escorts me out through the station and opens the main door. I step outside into the blistering heat. She stands inside the door.

"So, you giving me a lift into town?" I ask.

"There's a bus stop over the road. There's one every couple of hours."

I shrug. "It's a nice day. Maybe I'll walk."

"Most people would have demanded a lawyer," Dooley says.

"I've got nothing to hide, Sheriff."

"Apart from a big old bag of money," she says.

"Like I said, I'm on holiday."

"Well enjoy it while it lasts," Dooley says. "I'll be looking into you, Mr Ronsen."

Dooley closes the door behind her. I set off towards town. I'm walking all of five minutes when I hear the rush of tyres and the roar of an engine coming up behind me. A blue van pulls in front of me and skids to a stop a few feet away. A door slides open and two big men in ski masks jump out.

Before I can run, they grab hold of me. I fight back. Get one in a headlock and pin the other against the van by the throat. But there's a third, leaping out from behind the wheel. He's got a hood and a baton. He hits me in the small of my back. They team up and get the better of me. And before I know it, I'm in the back of the van, hooded, beaten and pinned to the floor.