Free Heat by Stuart Woods

would have to be very careful not to sweep her into his arms when he saw her. The daughter, he meant, chuckling to himself.
    On Main Street he passed the Bank of St. Clair, and, on impulse, pulled into a parking spot. He might as well start getting respectable, he thought. He got out of the truck and walked toward the building. He opened the front door, stepped in and immediately knew something was wrong. A young man was backing toward him and, across the marble floor, a guard stood, a riot shotgun held tensely at port arms. He’d never seen a bank guard with a shotgun before he thought, as the man continued to back toward him, apparently oblivious of his presence. Before Jesse could move, the man bumped into him.
    The younger man spun around, his face full of surprise, and Jesse saw the pistol coming around. Instinctively, he grabbed the man’s wrist, made the gun point toward the ceiling and twisted hard. The gun came away in his hand. At that moment, all hell seemed to break loose. Jesse saw the guard’s shotgun swing toward the robber and, flinching, he turned his body away. The shotgun went off at exactly the moment that the front window of the bank caved in.
    The robber flew toward Jesse, knocking him off his feet, then there was another shotgun blast. Jesse thought it was the third. He looked out onto the streetand saw another young man, looking frightened, standing next to a pickup truck and yelling.
    â€œCome on, Dan, get out of there!” he screamed.
    Dan was lying on top of Jesse, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The young man outside suddenly figured this out and leapt into the pickup. As he did, a police car suddenly appeared, skidding sideways into the truck, and another squad car rammed the pickup from behind. The driver started out the truck’s door, but before both his feet had made the ground there were half a dozen gunshots, and the young man was lying on his face in the street.
    Jesse pushed the robber’s body off him and started to get up, but he was pushed back onto the floor by a large foot. The bank guard was standing over him, pumping the shotgun.
    â€œHold it, Frank!” somebody shouted from the street, and the guard stepped back, still pointing the weapon at Jesse.
    â€œI don’t think he’s one of them,” the voice said, and then Pat Casey was helping Jesse to his feet.
    â€œWell hello, Pat,” Jesse said. “I was just coming in to open an account. Does this happen every day in St. Clair?”
    Casey laughed. “Put down the shotgun, Frank; this is a customer.”
    The bank was suddenly filled with policemen, and Jesse was herded off to one side. Eventually, somebody took his particulars, accepted his money and gave him a temporary checkbook. The man called Ruger watched from an office and talked with Casey, occasionally nodding at Jesse.
    Jesse finished his business and left for the motel, to collect his things. On the way he reflected on the bungled robbery, and it occurred to him that at least one of the robbers, the one he’d taken the gun from, had been shot unnecessarily, after Jesse had the pistol.The other one had been shot down very quickly, too, but Jesse hadn’t seen that as clearly.
    He remembered Jenny Weatherby’s comment that no one would dare commit a burglary in St. Clair. Now he knew why. He bet himself that there were no prisoners in the city jail.

CHAPTER

12
    J esse packed his things, then checked out of the motel and drove up Main Street. He parked in front of police headquarters, went inside and asked for Pat Casey. Casey, who was sitting in a glass-enclosed cubicle, waved him into his office and into a chair.
    â€œWhat can I do you for, Jess?”
    â€œI just wanted to thank you, Pat. I arrived in this town less than twenty-four hours ago, a complete stranger, and now I have a job and a very nice place to live and you to thank for all of it.”
    â€œI’m glad to be of help. I’m