Read Online A Simple Plan by Scott Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Psychological, True Crime, Murder, Brothers, Treasure Troves, Theft, Guilt
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rested beside me on her back, holding my hand to the tautness of her belly. We were underneath the blankets; I was pressed up tight against her. The room was cold. Ice was forming along the edges of the windowpanes.
I listened to the sound of her breathing, trying to guess whether she was asleep yet. It was slow and steady, which made it seem like she might be, but there was a tenseness about her body, as if she were listening very hard for something to happen. I caressed her stomach, a light, feathery touch. She didn’t react.
I was starting slowly to slip into sleep myself, thinking of the bag of money sitting right beneath us on the floor, and of the dead pilot out in his plane in the darkness, with the ice and the orchard full of crows, when Sarah turned her head and whispered something at me.
“What?” I asked, struggling back awake.
“We should just burn it, shouldn’t we?” she said.
I raised myself on my elbow, looked down at her in the darkness. She blinked up at me.
“People don’t get away with things like this,” she said.
I lifted my hand off her belly and brushed the hair from her face. Her skin was so pale, it seemed to glow. “We’ll get away with it,” I said. “We know exactly what we’re doing.”
She shook her head. “No. We’re just normal people, Hank. We aren’t sneaky, we aren’t smart.”
“We’re smart,” I said. I brushed my hand across her face, making her shut her eyes. Then I laid my head down beside her on her pillow, snuggling up against her warmth. “We won’t get caught.”
I’m not sure if I actually believed this: that we were unassailable. Certainly I must’ve been aware even then of the dangers of our course, must’ve felt some fear when I stopped to consider all the difficulties yet to be overcome. There were Jacob and Lou and Carl and the plane and a hundred other ways that I could only guess at through which trouble might come and find us. On the most basic level I must’ve been scared simply because I was committing a crime. It was something I’d never even considered doing before, something far enough beyond my realm of experience to give me a lost feeling in and of itself, even without the fear of punishment that hung all about it like an aura. But I don’t think these thoughts weighed on me then as much as they do now, in hindsight. I think I was happy then; I think I felt safe. It was New Year’s Eve. I was thirty years old, contentedly married, with my first child soon to be born. My wife and I were lying curled up in bed together, having just finished making love, and beneath us, hidden away like the treasure it was, sat $4.4 million. Nothing had gone wrong yet; everything was still fresh and full of promise. I can look back now and say that in many ways this was the absolute apogee of my life, the point to which everything before led upward, and from which everything after fell away. I don’t think it was possible at that moment for me to believe we could ever be punished for what we’d done: our crime seemed too trivial, our luck too great.
Sarah was silent for a long time. “Promise me,” she said finally, taking my hand and placing it back on top of her stomach.
I tilted my head and whispered in her ear, “I promise we won’t get caught.”
Then we went to sleep.
3
I AWOKE around eight the next morning. Sarah was already out of bed; I could hear her showering in the bathroom. I huddled there beneath the covers, warm, still a little sleepy, and listened to the pipes creaking under the pressure of the water.
The pipes in my parents’ house had made a similar sound whenever someone opened a faucet. As a child, Jacob had told me that there were ghosts within the walls, moaning, trying to escape, and I’d believed him. One night my mother and father had come home, drunk, and started dancing in the kitchen. I was six, maybe seven years old. Roused by the noise, I arrived just in time to see them, wrapped in each other’s arms,
I listened to the sound of her breathing, trying to guess whether she was asleep yet. It was slow and steady, which made it seem like she might be, but there was a tenseness about her body, as if she were listening very hard for something to happen. I caressed her stomach, a light, feathery touch. She didn’t react.
I was starting slowly to slip into sleep myself, thinking of the bag of money sitting right beneath us on the floor, and of the dead pilot out in his plane in the darkness, with the ice and the orchard full of crows, when Sarah turned her head and whispered something at me.
“What?” I asked, struggling back awake.
“We should just burn it, shouldn’t we?” she said.
I raised myself on my elbow, looked down at her in the darkness. She blinked up at me.
“People don’t get away with things like this,” she said.
I lifted my hand off her belly and brushed the hair from her face. Her skin was so pale, it seemed to glow. “We’ll get away with it,” I said. “We know exactly what we’re doing.”
She shook her head. “No. We’re just normal people, Hank. We aren’t sneaky, we aren’t smart.”
“We’re smart,” I said. I brushed my hand across her face, making her shut her eyes. Then I laid my head down beside her on her pillow, snuggling up against her warmth. “We won’t get caught.”
I’m not sure if I actually believed this: that we were unassailable. Certainly I must’ve been aware even then of the dangers of our course, must’ve felt some fear when I stopped to consider all the difficulties yet to be overcome. There were Jacob and Lou and Carl and the plane and a hundred other ways that I could only guess at through which trouble might come and find us. On the most basic level I must’ve been scared simply because I was committing a crime. It was something I’d never even considered doing before, something far enough beyond my realm of experience to give me a lost feeling in and of itself, even without the fear of punishment that hung all about it like an aura. But I don’t think these thoughts weighed on me then as much as they do now, in hindsight. I think I was happy then; I think I felt safe. It was New Year’s Eve. I was thirty years old, contentedly married, with my first child soon to be born. My wife and I were lying curled up in bed together, having just finished making love, and beneath us, hidden away like the treasure it was, sat $4.4 million. Nothing had gone wrong yet; everything was still fresh and full of promise. I can look back now and say that in many ways this was the absolute apogee of my life, the point to which everything before led upward, and from which everything after fell away. I don’t think it was possible at that moment for me to believe we could ever be punished for what we’d done: our crime seemed too trivial, our luck too great.
Sarah was silent for a long time. “Promise me,” she said finally, taking my hand and placing it back on top of her stomach.
I tilted my head and whispered in her ear, “I promise we won’t get caught.”
Then we went to sleep.
3
I AWOKE around eight the next morning. Sarah was already out of bed; I could hear her showering in the bathroom. I huddled there beneath the covers, warm, still a little sleepy, and listened to the pipes creaking under the pressure of the water.
The pipes in my parents’ house had made a similar sound whenever someone opened a faucet. As a child, Jacob had told me that there were ghosts within the walls, moaning, trying to escape, and I’d believed him. One night my mother and father had come home, drunk, and started dancing in the kitchen. I was six, maybe seven years old. Roused by the noise, I arrived just in time to see them, wrapped in each other’s arms,
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