“Oh, that’s good,” Amy said admiringly. “That’s real far.”
“I’ll go get the ball,” Tracy said. “You wait here.”
And she was running, running for her life, her feet flying across the fields. It was 1:18. If she was late, they would wait for her. Or would they? She ran faster. Behind her, she heard Amy calling, but she paid no attention. The farm workers were moving in the other direction now. Tracy yelled at them, and they stopped. She was breathless when she reached them.
“Anythin’ wrong?” one of them asked.
“No, n-nothing.” She was panting, fighting for breath. “The little girl back there. One of you look after her. I have something important I have to do. I—”
She heard her name called from a distance and turned. Amy was standing on top of the concrete wall surrounding the lake. She waved. “Look at me, Tracy.”
“No! Get down!” Tracy screamed.
And as Tracy watched in horror, Amy lost her balance and plunged into the lake.
“Oh, dear God!” The blood drained from Tracy’s face. She had a choice to make, but there was no choice. I can’t help her. Not now. Someone will save her. I have to save myself. I’ve got to get out of this place or I’ll die. It was 1:20.
Tracy turned and began running as fast as she had ever run in her life. The others were calling after her, but she did not hear them. She flew through the air, unaware that her shoes had fallen off, not caring that the sharp ground was cutting into her feet. Her heart was pounding, and her lungs were bursting, and she pushed herself to run faster, faster. She reached the wall around the lake and vaulted on top of it. Far below, she could see Amy in the deep, terrifying water, struggling to stay afloat. Without a second’s hesitation, Tracy jumped in after her. And as she hit the water, Tracy thought, Oh, my God! I can’t swim…
BOOK TWO
12
New Orleans
FRIDAY, AUGUST 25—10:00 A.M.
Lester Torrance, a teller at the First Merchants Bank of New Orleans, prided himself on two things: his sexual prowess with the ladies and his ability to size up his customers. Lester was in his late forties, a lanky, sallow-faced man with a Tom Selleck mustache and long sideburns. He had been passed over for promotion twice, and in retaliation, Lester used the bank as a personal dating service. He could spot hookers a mile away, and he enjoyed trying to persuade them to give him their favors for nothing. Lonely widows were an especially easy prey. They came in all shapes, ages, and states of desperation, and sooner or later they would appear in front of Lester’s cage. If they were temporarily overdrawn, Lester would lend a sympathetic ear and delay bouncing their checks. In return, perhaps they could have a quiet little dinner together? Many of his female customers sought his help and confided delicious secrets to him: They needed a loan without their husbands’ knowledge…They wanted to keep confidential certain checks they had written…They were contemplating a divorce, and could Lester help them close out their joint account right away?…Lester was only too eager to please. And to be pleased.
On this particular Friday morning, Lester knew he had hit the jackpot. He saw the woman the moment she walked in the door of the bank. She was an absolute stunner. She had sleek black hair falling to her shoulders, and she wore a tight skirt and sweater that outlined a figure a Las Vegas chorine would have envied.
There were four other tellers in the bank, and the young woman’s eyes went from one cage to the other, as though seeking help. When she glanced at Lester, he nodded eagerly and gave her an encouraging smile. She walked over to his cage, just as Lester had known she would.
“Good morning,” Lester said warmly. “What may I do for you?” He could see her nipples pushing against her cashmere sweater, and he thought, Baby, what I’d like to do for you!
“I’m afraid I have a problem,” the woman said softly. She had the most delightful southern accent Lester had ever heard.