Brain Storm - Cat Gilbert (top 10 inspirational books .txt) 📗
- Author: Cat Gilbert
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Book online «Brain Storm - Cat Gilbert (top 10 inspirational books .txt) 📗». Author Cat Gilbert
WE MADE OUR plans for moving the gold over lunch. Getting in and out of the bank without raising red flags was the main problem. Having been declared dead, at least the police weren’t looking for us, but it also meant that even if we could get Trinity into the bank without being seen, she’d never make it into the vault past security. Not with her recent demise being the breaking news and as recognizable as she was.
The only other person with access to the box was Mama D. The very thought of sending her in gave me the chills, but we were out of options. It was either that or leave the gold behind and neither Trinity, or Mama D were willing to do that.
It took us about two hours, but we managed to pull together what I thought was a pretty good plan. Mac’s contact was in nearby Hot Springs and not only was he good at moving money around, he apparently was a whiz-bang at making fake ID’s. I couldn’t help but think how incredibly convenient that was when Mac told us about it. I could only hope that this psychic sense thing that told me Mac could be trusted was dead on the money, or I was going to be extremely put out.
We’d get the new id’s, and then Mac and I would go into the bank, disguised of course. Mac was handling that portion, and I could hardly wait to see what he would do, what with all the talent he had in that arena. Trinity and Jonas were just too difficult to conceal so they would be stationed outside. Mama D would go in, retrieve the gold and get out. Just that simple, except for one little thing.
Gold weighs a lot. I don’t care what you see in the movies, those guys are not carrying a bag of gold bars. Jonas had put pen to paper and figured out that a half million in gold at today rates, would weigh in at 15-20 pounds, and that was after gold had soared in price. Depending on the going rate when Trinity had figured the total, it could easily be 30 pounds or more. It didn’t seem like that much, but 30 pounds of compact weight that you’re trying to hide is vastly different from a 30-pound child slung over your hip.
“There’s no way Gram could walk with that kind of weight, and what if something goes wrong? How do we get her out fast?” Trinity and Mama D were doing the dishes and Mac was busy putting them away. Jonas and I were at the table pouring over his notes, trying to figure out a way to get Mama D in and out with the gold without much success.
“Too bad we can’t just slap some wheels on it and roll it out.” I threw my pencil on the table and watched it roll along, stopping just short of disappearing over the edge. I was tired, frustrated and worried. It would be so much easier to just forget the whole thing, but there was a part of me, deep down, that said that was the wrong thing to do. We just hadn’t hit on the answer yet.
I finally noticed that everyone had stopped what they were doing to stare at me.
“What?” I asked totally clueless. I thought back over what I had just said, and it finally hit me. We could just roll it out.
* * *
WE DECIDED TO hit the bank mid-afternoon the next day, missing the lunch crowd. With any luck, whoever was watching would be tired by then and not paying close attention. There was no question in my mind that they would be watching. Other than turning something up on Mac’s cabin, which was highly unlikely considering all the precautions he’d taken, their only way of locating us was to watch the places we might turn up. Right now, they had no way of knowing if we had left town or not. That was all about to change.
Within minutes, we were heading south, on our way to Hot Springs and Mac’s contact to get the new ID’s. Mama D would use her real name to get into the vault and then switch to her new identity. Mac had already taken care of my new paperwork, in the event we had to run, but I needed some form of id in case of a problem at the bank, and he didn’t want to use my new id for that.
I watched out the window as the Arkansas countryside slid by with a heavy heart. In a matter of hours, we would be leaving the state and odds were good, I’d never be back.
Mac turned onto Highway 5, the old back way into the Springs and as we neared the East Gate to Hot Springs Village, where Keith and I had lived, memories came flooding in. I had loved the drive home. After running after bad guys and seeing the seedier side of life during the day, driving the 40 minutes home, through the winding, wooded hillsides was the highlight of my day. About halfway home from Little Rock, the two-lane highway twisted around, through a grove of trees, their branches stretched over the road. As you came around the last curve, you passed the overlook of the long valley spread out below, surrounded by mountains. If I got lucky and hit the overlook right at sunset, the sight was breathtaking.
I hadn’t seen that view in over six months. A stark reminder that this was no longer my way home. I thought back over everything that happened in the past year. Losing Keith had been devastating, and the past few days had been nothing, if not brutal. Everything had changed. Everything was different now.
As we passed the turn off into the Village, I felt hot tears sting my eyes. This was the last time I would be here. In a matter of minutes, I would become someone other than Taylor Morrison. Considering everything that had happened, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Lost in thought, we were in Hot Springs before I knew it. Looking up, I saw we were on Central Avenue, the famous bath houses lining the road on one side, while local shops, filled with tourists crowded the other. Our goal was the mall at the other end of town. If I had been paying attention, I could have directed Mac to take the cutoff through Gulpha Gorge and bypassed the congestion, but I’d missed my chance and now here we sat stuck in traffic.
“What is that, in front of me?” Mac asked, impatiently. “Is that a duck? Because it looks like a giant duck, and it’s full of people.”
I leaned over at his question to see around Jonas, who was sitting in the passenger seat, his big frame blocking any view to the front. Sure enough, we were behind a Duck Tour. The huge amphibious vehicles cruised from the Bathhouse area over to the lake where, to the delight of the tourists, they plowed into the water for a boat tour of the area.
“It’s fine, Mac. They keep up with traffic. You can’t see, but there’s a line of cars in front of them, holding things up. There’s usually a tie up here.” Tapping the steering wheel with impatience, he didn’t look too convinced. “I’m surprised you don’t know that seeing as how you’ve been following me for years and your contact is here.”
“I don’t follow you. I just keep tabs. And no, I’ve never been here. I don’t come to him. He comes to me. Today is an exception.”
“Funny, your covert contact is here in the Springs, Mac. Kind of ironic really.”
“Why?” he asked, catching my eye in the rear view as he inched slowly forward.
“Covert operative, spy, whatever he is, he’s located in what used to be the biggest den of iniquity in the States. I find that sort of amusing.”
At his incredulous look, Trinity began to fill him in on Hot Springs’ notorious past. Mama D even pitched in a few details. Most of the tourists came to see the bathhouses, famous at the turn of the century, known for the healing power of the hot mineral water. People had come from all over the world for treatments. Franklin Roosevelt and Babe Ruth were known to frequent the bathhouses. It was the gambling dens and the moonshine, though, that attracted the likes of Al Capone and Bugsy Malone.
Few people realized that when Las Vegas was just a speck of dust in someone’s imagination, Hot Springs, Arkansas was the place to see and be seen. At one time there were more than ten casinos in the town, the mob so ensconced that the governor had to bring in a task force to shut them down. Now the only gambling was at Oaklawn Park, a premier horse racing facility, smack dab in the heart of Central Arkansas and another place to expect traffic problems. Mac was going to have to drive right past it. He was going to be thrilled, I was sure.
The traffic had finally cleared, and we were fast approaching the race course. In season, you could sometimes catch a glimpse of the field making the final turn into the stretch as you passed, but this afternoon the track lay empty.
I had never gone to the races. I’d driven by, even sat in the parking lot on a few mornings, when I was early for an appointment and watched them take
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