by Lee Chambers
the pineville heist
L E E C H A M B E R S
Table of Contents
title page
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty one
twenty two
twenty three
twenty four
twenty five
twenty six
twenty seven
twenty eight
twenty nine
thirty
thirty one
thirty two
thirty three
thirty four
thirty five
thirty six
thirty seven
thirty eight
thirty nine
forty
forty one
forty two
about the author
copyright
dedication
acknowledgement
one
AARON LOOKED STERNLY at himself, his reflection staring back at him. His dark hair was wispy, and his handsome, sharp features were accentuated by his smart designer clothing. He straightened up, relaxed his arm, shook his wrist to release the tightness, and then brought the open book in front of his eyes again. He glanced briefly at the page, inhaled a deep breath and then lowered the book to his side, so he could face the floor-length mirror attached to the back of his closet door.
“But to my mind, although I am a native here, and to the manner born, it is a custom. More honored in the… in the… Shit.” Aaron crumpled shut his eyes in frustration and sighed, releasing the remaining air from his lungs, deflating in front of the mirror. He raised the book, a copy of Shakespeare's 'Hamlet', and scanned the sea of words for the correct line.
Just as Aaron found his place on the page, he heard the familiar creak of the staircase. His father's weight made that type of creak. Without knocking and much to Aaron's chagrin, Derek Stevens, Aaron's dad, swung open the bedroom door and waltzed inside.
“Didn't you hear the intercom, Aaron?”
Aaron simply glanced at the reflection of his father, without turning away from the mirror. Dressed in a shark-skin suit and a slick black tie, Derek was stone-faced, as usual, with slightly receding hair and deeply-set eyes. Even with the same sharp features and clean cut appearance as his son, the similarities ended there; the fifty-year-old man couldn't remember, or perhaps didn't care to, what it was like to be seventeen. Yet, just like Aaron, Derek's clothes were all designer labels; his hair styled as slick as his wardrobe. And both of them, father and son, looked sullen and utterly unimpressed with the other.
“I'm leaving now. Let's go!” Derek barked, marching out of Aaron's bedroom in a huff. Aaron closed his eyes in frustration and opened them slowly, sharing a knowing look of annoyance with his reflection. Then he turned on his heels and scuffed the shag carpet as he crossed the massive room to his even more massive desk. Picking up a red binder lying next to his top-of-the-line computer system, Aaron dragged himself away, passed the various shiny, pretty objects in a room filled with high-end toys and gadgets, stereo equipment, exercise gear, a big screen TV, and shelves lined with Blu-Ray and Playstation game cases.
From the exterior, it appeared like Aaron had everything a kid could ever want. But, Aaron had learned to be jaded by the materialism of his father's lavish estate, gifts and clothing. Growing up surrounded by luxury tended to make the rest of the world seem shitty and unforgiving. While growing up in Pineville, population 3902 confirmed it.
Aaron hurried down the sweeping marble staircase to the front doors, a massive set of double doors. Made of solid oak inset with elaborate geometric windows, the doors together totaled ten feet high and eight feet across. They lead out to a marble porch, which was decorated with elaborate potted plants, trees really. As Aaron hurried down the slate walkway lined with an impeccably maintained and elaborate bed of bright flowers, he glanced over his shoulder for a glimpse of the colossal mansion he hated, an imposing structure similar to the homes featured in architectural magazines. In the distance, the smokestacks of an old mill loomed over the main street of a quintessential small town.
The town was settled nicely next to rocky cliffs and featured tree lined streets and fresh air; a haven for bringing up a family. Wire flower pots lined with moss and brimming with flowers and vines hung from every other lamp post, and blue banners that featured the upcoming town centennial floated gently in the breeze on the other lamp posts. This quiet place, which was once rich with an industry on the move, was now a simple town with many closed storefronts. Only the basic amenities of a grocery store, a fire station, a bank, a travel agency and several other essential community staples remained.
“Took your sweet time,” Derek snipped as Aaron slid into the backseat of an idling limo, its door already open. The limo immediately pulled away from the palatial Stevens residence and rolled down a meandering driveway, through a pair of wrought-iron gates surrounded by perfectly-trimmed, thick, green hedges, and into the outside world.
Derek was busy typing on his smartphone, while Aaron opened his red binder, where he had tucked the well-thumbed Hamlet book. He started mouthing lines to himself, drifting away from the frosty tension in the limo and immersing himself into a completely different reality. “By the way, I can't make it Monday,” Derek murmured off the cuff, killing the silence.
Breaking his concentration, Aaron's wide hazel eyes shifted to his father before he slapped the book shut. “Your play,” Derek continued, nodding at the book. “I'm going to be tied up all day finalizing the mill situation. Anyway, you'll survive, right?”
“I did for all the others,” Aaron replied, nonchalantly. He stared at his father for a moment, feigning the nonchalance he had voiced.
An irritating shrill ringtone permeated the limo as Derek's phone illuminated in his hand. Derek brusquely snapped it open and, while intensely staring into Aaron's eyes in a contest of wills, barked, “This better be good news, Phil.”
Aaron turned to look out the tinted window, disappointment brimming in his eyes, cutting a frown on his forehead. He watched as the town began to stream by his window. Suddenly, Derek's comment was followed by a loud crack, as he ploughed his fist into the door panel.
Drawing back his knuckles, Derek looked disapprovingly at the blood that had risen to the surface of his skin. “I've already deposited the five million. What more do they want?” he said, suddenly calmer. “The mill's not worth it, Phil. I'd rather mothball the place than accept that…” Derek paused, noticing that Aaron was watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Look, I'll call you back,” he concluded the call abruptly.
“What's that about?” Aaron asked, with a hint of concern in his voice. It wasn't like his father to raise his voice and show anger.
“It's just business.” Derek then deftly deflected the conversation as he always did. “Maybe if you took some classes on how the real world works instead of learning how to prance around in leotards, you'd understand a little more about what it is I do.”
Aaron rolled his eyes at the typical remark. “You mean sitting in your office pissing off the whole town while you get richer and richer?”
He had a point; pretty much everyone in Pineville worked at the mill, making money for the Stevens family, money truly taken off their own backs. The mill was a processing plant that turned the nearby woods
into practical requirements for the home as well as into works of art.
The success of the mill was all thanks to Derek Stevens; he invested in the mill in the mid 80's before the boom and benefited from it greatly. Derek was a savvy investor who went to New York with his inheritance when he was young and made a killing on Wall Street before returning to his family's roots back in Pineville.
In the beginning, Derek was a local hero. He was respected and liked. Admired for his kindness. The town existed because of the mill. For if there was no mill, there was no Pineville. Off the beaten track a bit, Pineville had no other options for growth; no options to sustain itself. Tourism maybe. But, other than being a pretty town, it had no drawing features. The town needed the mill and, for years, it prospered.
Nowadays, however, Pineville was finding it tough as the market of finished wood products was changing. The Chinese were largely to blame. Even though Pineville's products were better, the Chinese hustled in on the market by cutting corners, paying low wages and undercutting on prices. Everyone wanted a deal and suddenly the boom of the 80's and 90's disappeared and customers moved away from Pineville quality to cheap flat-pack, easy to assemble stuff. No one wanted to cough up for quality anymore. Times were getting tough, hard to survive.
The once respected Stevens' name was now a curse. While the mill faltered and bordered on collapse, the man most closely associated with the business, Derek Stevens, still enjoyed his vast wealth. Angry that the recession wasn't affecting the town equally, many of Pineville's residents, and mill workers, were turning on the Stevens family. The town was on the verge of bankruptcy and they needed someone to blame.
For most, the writing was on the wall. As majority stakeholder, rumor had it that Derek was about to make the harsh decision to shut down the mill. The announcement would be a blow. People feared for their future. There were many that were downright mad and outraged that Stevens seemed too interested in protecting his personal wealth.
Recently, the signs were going up. For sale. For rent. Foreclosed. Homes began flooding the market. All at once. Everyone was trying to sell, but no one was about to buy into what may soon become a ghost town. A blip on the map. Thanks for visiting Pineville. Gone.
And Aaron was caught in the middle. The only son of the rich man on the hill. Still seen as part of the cursed Stevens' clan, yet disdainful of his father's actions.
“Hearing you right now it becomes more and more obvious every day how right your mother was,” Derek said, shaking his head, returning his attention to the text messages on his smartphone.
“About what?” Aaron asked quickly. Discussions about Sandra Stevens always got the hair on Aaron's neck up. Struck down with breast cancer in her prime, the loss was crushing for 14 year old Aaron. As his Dad was always at the Mill or away on business, Aaron gravitated to his mother. It was Sandra that raised him and encouraged his creative endeavors. Losing her was tough. Now a single parent, Derek was forced to be a father and he wasn't having an easy time.
“How you just don't… get it.” The words “get it” hung around in the air like a bad smell. Aaron had heard it all before, of course, but this time it seemed more personal an insult than usual–it was only a matter of time before his emotions would untangle from the knot in his stomach and join the heated conversation.
“Get it? Yeah, well, listening to you lately makes me realize how wrong she was about you!” Aaron said in an explosive outburst, as he pointed his finger precariously close to his Dad's face.
Derek waved his hands. “Stop the car.”
two
A pair of eyes unplucked themselves from the road to look into the rearview mirror. “Sir?” the driver enquired, as the limo rolled up on Main Street.
“Stop the goddamn car!” Derek spat, saliva beading in the corners of his mouth.
The driver immediately slowed the limo next to a white van, just as it was about to pull out from the curb. Aaron heard the squeal of the brakes and took it as his warning signal to get ready to be ejected. “You want me to walk from here? It's your fault I'm already late.” But, it was pointless. Aaron could see the serious look on Derek's face–daggers protruding from his irises, with the cutthroat vengeance of a businessman who had done his share of dog-eat-dog deals. “Fine!” Aaron shouted as a parting shot, exiting the limo into the cool morning breeze.
The chill in the air was all the more eerie when the man behind the wheel in the white van pounded his fist on the horn, honking in protest at being cut off by the limo. Aaron kept his eyes on the ground, until he heard Derek call out, “Hey!”
Aaron turned back to the limo just as the Hamlet book was contemptuously tossed out of the lowered rear window. It hit him in the chest and fell to the ground, in a shallow puddle that had pooled near the gutter. Aaron cursed under his breath as he squatted to pick it up.
As he straightened and stepped onto the sidewalk, he watched the limo disappearing in a cloud of exhaust smoke. His eyes aimlessly crossed paths with the man in the white van, who was looking directly at him. Although a beard consumed much of his face, above it, the man's beady bloodshot eyes were piercing and fixated on Aaron. He pumped his balled hand at Aaron as the driver pounded on the horn again, letting rip with a blare that almost tore holes in Aaron's eardrums.
Aaron started walking as the bearded man and his partner peeled away in the white van and then he glanced down at the damp squelchy object in his hand. “Oh man!” The book was sodden and dripping. He shook it off as he walked up Main Street, passing outside the town's bank.
With a strip of silver chrome running along the exterior, the bank almost appeared futuristic in comparison to the surrounding stone and brick buildings. However, the Pineville Savings and Loan was still very much in Pineville, evidenced that morning by a handwritten sign, hanging in the bank's window: Gone To Lunch. Rosie.
Leaving behind the confines of the overly cheerful Main Street to take a shortcut through the woods, Aaron began to push the limo ride with his father into the recesses of his mind. Here he was, in the forest, his favorite place to get away from everything–the materialism, the expectations, the boredom. Towering, ancient tree trunks surrounded him, along with the sounds of a babbling brook and a few birds, chirping in the branches above. This was Aaron's own private stage where he could rehearse, relax, and forget about his troubles. Nobody would judge him, he could speak his lines as loud as he wanted, and nobody would burst in and boss him around. It was just him and nature.
A twig snapped, and Aaron stopped in his tracks. He looked around to make sure his private oasis wasn't invaded by an intruder. Nothing–then a flash of movement. A rabbit, running from its burrow. Aaron sighed and smiled at himself. “Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane!” he called after the fleeing rabbit.
Aaron continued to stroll deeper into the forest; thick brush at his legs made him walk in high steps, while spindly branches near his face made him duck and weave. As it became denser, he pushed the copy of Hamlet inside his red binder, and slotted both into his jacket, zipping it to his neck. The shadows were closing in around Aaron; the sky was now barely visible through the shroud of intermingling tree boughs. He looked up, looking for the sun, only to find the towering pines he knew so well reaching toward the sky. He forged on, looking for the path he had accidentally strayed from.
Breaking off a piece of branch, Aaron emerged onto a muddy pathway, smudged with tire tracks. At the end of a long line of tread marks, the white van was parked, with dirt specks sprayed all across its back doors. Aaron's brow furrowed. “What the hell?” he thought as he tentatively plodded in the direction of the van, each footstep mired in muck.
Slowly, Aaron leaned over to peer inside the driver's side window. There was no sign of the bearded man, just the interior of a well-lived-in van, with a dangling tree air freshener and empty paper coffee cups. Then something caught his eye–beneath the car seat, there appeared to be a pair of gloves and some kind of uniform rolled up, like it was hastily
hidden away.
Another crack caught Aaron's ear. Much farther away this time. Probably just the rabbit, hopping along. Probably.
three
Jake in a sweat-stained checkered shirt, filled out by burly shoulders, worked away with a shovel. This was the bearded man. He stopped to catch his breath and then turned to another man just as gruff-looking who was standing over him watching. “Pass it over, Gordie.”
The man, Gordie, a clean-shaven 30-something, handed Jake what he wanted–a stuffed green backpack. Jake shoved it into the freshly-dug hole and admired it for a second. It looked tiny and lost inside the large hole.
“Should I put a stick in to flag it, Gordie? He won't be able to find it without a bloody tour guide.”