"Would you muss my wedding dress?" he asked. That was how he referred to the white linen suit he had had made for the occasion.

"No, you're too beautiful."

"Tell you what, if you'll call yourself Mrs.Oxenhandler for the rest of your life, I'll tell you where you're going on your honeymoon."

" Jackson, I keep telling you: nobody would choose to be called Mrs. Oxenhandler. You're stuck, you were born with it. Can you imagine my cops calling me Chief Oxenhandler? They couldn't keep a straight face."

"I think that's a very dignified name for a chief of police," Jackson said, trying to look hurt.

"It's a very dignified name for someone who handles oxen," she said.

"Well," he sighed, "I guess you'll find out where you're going on your honeymoon when you get there."

She pulled the sheet over her head. "You won't even tell me then!" she cried. She pulled down the sheet again, and he was standing in the bedroom doorway, looking splendid in his new suit.

"See you at the courthouse," he said.

"In Judge Chandler's courtroom, and you'd better be there early!" she called after him. She fell back on the bed. She would always remember that picture of him, standing in the doorway in his white linen suit and gold tie, with his hair still wet.

Holly got out of bed, brushed her teeth and got into the shower, reaching for the shampoo. She had let her hair grow, and it was nearly down to her shoulders, though she wore it up when she was in uniform, which was most of the time. She was allowing herself two hours for the process-washing, rolling and drying her hair, putting on a little makeup, which she rarely wore, and getting into the short white sheath that would be her wedding dress.

Daisy lay on the bathroom mat, watching her through the clear glass shower door, waiting patiently for her breakfast and to be let out. Holly laughed. Daisy would be her maid of honor; Holly had trained her to carry the bouquet all the way to the front of the courtroom before handing it to her. Daisy could do anything.

Holly felt that she could do anything, too. She was bursting with happiness and expectation and with trying to figure out where Jackson was taking her on her honeymoon.

She got out of the shower and called her office's direct line.

"Chief Barker's office," her secretary and office manager, Helen Tubman, said.

"Hi, it's me. What's happening?"

"Nothing, and if something were happening, I wouldn't tell you," Helen said. "It's your wedding day, so I want you to hang up and do whatever you're supposed to do on your wedding day."

"How many are coming?" Holly asked. She had posted an invitation on the squad room bulletin board.

"Let me put it this way," Helen said, "if there's a murder in the middle of Beach Boulevard this morning, the body will have to lie there until you're married and on your way to the airport."

"Oh, God," Holly said. "That many?"

"That many."

"Tell me their names, and I'll put them to work."

"I'll do no such thing," Helen said. "Now you go get beautiful, and don't bother me again." She hung up.

Holly hung up the phone, laughing, then went to feed Daisy and let her out into the dunes for her morning ablutions. She felt completely, insanely happy.

The men assembled after breakfast, and the leader set up a drawing pad on an easel and ran them through their individual roles once more.

"Any questions?" he asked.

A hand went up. "Under what circumstances are we authorized to fire?"

"Danger to your own life or another of us," the leader replied. "The two guards will already be disarmed, so, unless a civilian is packing, we're not going to have to deal with being shot at. Of course, there's always the chance that some cop will wander in to cash a check and come over all brave, but the sight of our shotguns is going to put the fear of God into anybody who understands what a shotgun can do."

"Are we authorized to kill, if necessary?" the man asked.

"Only if absolutely necessary," the leader replied. "But if it becomes necessary, don't hesitate. But remember, the police will work a lot harder on a murder than a robbery."

The man nodded.

"Anybody else?"

Nobody said anything.

"Just remember: nobody moves until the armored car leaves. The guards will be locked in and safe, and they've got a radio." He looked around. "All right, we drive separately to the shopping center, and each of you waits beside your car. Enter and leave the van one at a time through the front passenger door. Let's go."

The group broke up and went to the four cars parked outside. The leader gave them a ten-minute head start, then he pulled on his gloves, got into his coveralls, hung the dust mask and goggles around his neck and put on his hard hat. He got into the van and drove out of the building, closing the garage door behind him with a remote control. He left the town and drove east, toward Orchid Beach. Half an hour later, he pulled into the parking lot. It was a big shopping center for a small town, anchored by a huge supermarket, with other stores strung out along both sides. The lot was three-quarters full. He drove up and down the lanes, stopping whenever he came to one of his men. Each was wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses and latex gloves. Each entered by the front passenger door, then moved to the rear and took a seat on one of the facing benches. After twenty minutes, all the men were in the van, costumed in their jumpsuits, masks, goggles and hard hats. They began loading their weapons from the ammunition on the bench beside them.

Each had four clips of 9mm ammunition and a box of double-aught shotgun shells. Each loaded four shells into a shotgun, racked one into the chamber, then loaded one more shell. Each put the spare ammo into the side pockets of his jumpsuit.

The leader glanced at his watch. "Right on schedule," he said. Each weapon had had its serial number removed. None would ever be traced, except to the factory where it had been manufactured years before.

As he turned the van into the parking lot, the armored car entered the other end of the lot, exactly on time. He parked the van and switched off the engine. "It's going to get hot in here," he said, "but I don't want anyone to notice a van with the motor running."

He watched as the two guards on the armored car went through their drill; they looked bored. As they unloaded, a civilian, a man, drove up in a convertible, got out and went inside. The guards regarded him closely, then entered. They were inside the building for less than two minutes, then returned to their vehicle and entered it through the rear door, locking it behind them. The driver put the car into gear and drove out of the parking lot.

The leader waited while the armored car stopped for a traffic light, then turned left onto Highway A1A. "Here we go," he said. He started the engine and drove to the spot outside the main entrance that the armored car had just vacated. "Hats, masks and goggles on," he said. He waited ten seconds, then looked at his wristwatch, a chronograph. He pressed a button. "Two minutes," he said, "starting now."

Everybody got out of the van and started for the front door.