Don't Let It Be True

by Jo Barrett

  Dylan woke up on Saturday morning and felt a rush of adrenaline. He didn’t feel guilty in the least for the crime he was about to commit. Bo Harlan had it coming.

  If anything, he felt bad about lying to Kat. He’d already told her that he’d be at the tavern with Wyatt, shooting darts.

  Dylan reached his arm out across the bed and realized that Kat had already gotten up. Hmm. This was strange. Usually Kat woke Dylan up on Saturday mornings, drew the shades up high, and ordered him to “Rise and shine, sweet cheeks.”

  Dylan noticed that she’d been in a funk last night when she got home from the hospital. She hadn’t bothered to eat any of the chicken Wyatt ordered from Hunan Palace, and she’d snuck off to bed early while Dylan and his brother watched Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  “Kath-leeen,” Dylan called out. There was no response. He rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and ambled to the kitchen.

  Kat was nowhere to be found, but then he saw her. Sitting out on the balcony with her feet up on the railing. A cup of steaming coffee in her hands.

  She was smoking a cigarette, too, which startled Dylan.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee from Kat’s French press, slid open the balcony door, and stepped out into the sun.

  “Good morning, my fiancée,” Dylan said.

  She looked up at him, and Dylan saw that her face was streaked with tears. The woman who never cried. Alone. On the balcony. In her pajamas with the monkeys all over them. It was almost too much for him to bear.

  Dylan set his coffee cup on the patio table and rushed over to Kat’s side. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Seeing her like this, his heart swelled in his chest and he felt as if he’d been punched.

  Kat shook her head and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “I’m losing a child,” she said.

  Dylan didn’t understand. “You’re…pregnant?” He placed his hand on top of Kat’s head, and patted her hair.

  “His name is Diego Ramirez. Yesterday I told his parents that he wasn’t going to make it.”

  Dylan sucked in his breath. “Oh, hon. I’m sorry.” He knew that Kat’s hospital work was difficult. She’d lost children before, but this time she was taking it more personally than the others. He suspected it was because of Kat’s personal health situation, the fact that she was unable to bear children of her own.

  “What can I do?” Dylan asked. “Tell me.”

  Kat shrugged her small shoulders. “Nothing. Dr. Levin said there was nothing left.”

  “Does the family need money?”

  “Why, you got some?” Kat snapped.

  Dylan felt like he’d been slapped. He drew his hand away, but then realized that Kat didn’t mean anything by it. She was in pain.

  “You know what I mean,” Dylan said. “Do they need something to tide them over?”

  “They need a healthy son.”

  Dylan stared out at the Houston skyline. Storm clouds were moving in from Galveston and the air smelled like rain.

  He began to rub Kat’s shoulders. “You believe in miracles, don’t you?”

  Kat stabbed out her cigarette. “Don’t you mean fairy tales?”

  Dylan stared out into the distance. “I think it’s time for a miracle.”

  Thirty-seven

  Dylan, Wyatt, Steve, and C. Todd huddled behind the Enron Building. The rain was pounding down, fast and furious, covering the cement sidewalk in a slick sheet of water.

  Dylan had instructed Achmed to circle the building every ten minutes. They’d driven C. Todd’s wasp yellow Hummer, which stood out among the other vehicles on the road. Dylan figured that most felons would drive a low-key sedan, and that the cops wouldn’t suspect a bunch of guys cruising around in a Hummer. The fact that the getaway car was yellow was actually a positive, he figured.

  Dylan surveyed his posse. Wyatt was wearing his usual jeans and polo shirt with the collar upturned at the neck. In his hand, he carried a small gym bag that held the Mylar suit.

  C. Todd Hartwell was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a visor—just your everyday Saturday outfit. In his hand was his requisite can of Red Bull.

  Steve was wearing snakeskin loafers, red velvet pants, and a loud Hawaiian shirt. On his head was a hat cocked sideways that Dylan recognized as being the type of hat preferred by pimps and drug dealers.

  “I said to dress normal.” Dylan scowled.

  “This is normal,” Steve hissed.

  “Dude, it looks like P. Diddy threw up all on you,” Wyatt said.

  “Drop it, Wyatt. He’s wearing what he’s wearing,” C. Todd huffed. The oilman chugged his Red Bull.

  Wyatt clapped his hands. “Okay, gentlemen. Let’s go find us some oil.”

  Dylan and Steve lifted the heater and lugged it toward the loading dock. They were soaking wet. It was pouring rain. And the mosquitoes were out in full force.

  Wyatt limped behind them carrying the gym bag. He shook the water out of his hair. “I’m wet,” he announced.

  C. Todd Hartwell saluted them and said, “Wish me luck. I’m off.”

  The oilman disappeared around the front of the building. After a few minutes, his face appeared inside the glass windows of the service entrance and he buzzed them inside with the key he’d gotten from Bo Harlan’s secretary.

  The four guys ambled into the service elevator and made their way to the penthouse floor.

  Inside the elevator, Wyatt began to unhook his belt and take his jeans off.

  “You’re changing in here?” C. Todd asked.

  “Faster this way,” Wyatt said.

  He kicked off his tennis shoes, dropped his jeans, and stripped off his shirt.

  “You’re making fun of my threads and you’re wearing tighty-whities?” Steve asked, pointing at Wyatt’s underwear.

  Wyatt grunted. It was difficult for him to change while standing on his prosthetic leg, so he sat down cross-legged on the elevator floor. Unzipping the gym bag, he pulled out a silver jumpsuit. He pulled it on one leg at a time, shimmied the suit up his body, and zipped the hood down over his head.

  “You look like Dustin Hoffman in that movie about the plague,” C. Todd said.

  “Outbreak,” Steve said. “That movie blew ass.”

  Dylan tried not to crack a smile. These were his partners in crime. Siskel and Ebert.

  The elevators doors whooshed open and Dylan, C. Todd, and Steve hoisted the huge heater down the hallway. Wyatt—in his space suit—limped behind them. They checked around the hallways constantly, to make sure no one was around. But the building seemed empty at this hour. Houston’s best and brightest weren’t known for working Saturdays.

  “Welcome to Titan Energy, boys,” C. Todd Hartwell said, as they reached the office suite.

  C. Todd Hartwell swiped the key across the slit in the door and smiled when he heard the click.

  “Ta-da.” C. Todd swept open the door and the four men streamed into the inner sanctum.

  Dylan glanced around. Bo Harlan’s office furniture was big and expensive. There were huge leather couches in the waiting room, along with real oil paintings on the wall. A bronze sculpture of a life-sized eagle rose up from the large mahogany entry-way table.

  The boardroom was even more exquisite, and Dylan sucked in his breath. He’d read somewhere that the conference table had been hewn from a single piece of virgin Canadian maple.

  C. Todd Hartwell let out a low whistle as the four men made their way past the floor-to-ceiling windows with expansive views of the Houston skyline.

  “Prime real estate,” he sniffed.

  “Which one is Harlan’s office?” Wyatt asked. His voice was muffled behind the Mylar suit.

  C. Todd Hartwell pointed down a long hallway lined with cubicles. “The big swinging dick suite on the end,” he said.

  The doorway at the end of the hall was closed tight. Wyatt pointed to a tiny red light that was making a small arc on the carpet outside the office.

  “Don’t get too close,”
he warned. “Or you’ll trip the sensor.”

  Steve and Dylan set the heater down on the floor.

  “Over here,” the oilman said, pointing to a plug in the wall.

  Dylan plugged in the heater and cranked it up. The key to the whole operation was to raise the heat slowly, so that the alarm wouldn’t detect a change in body temperature when Wyatt approached it. The Mylar suit was to keep Wyatt’s body heat from triggering the alarm as he worked to dismantle it.

  The heater started churning out hot air. Steve wiped his brow, took off his pimp hat, and used it to fan his face.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We wait,” Dylan said.

  After ten minutes, the heat inside the hall was unbearable. Dylan was drenched with sweat. He looked down and saw that his shirt was soaking. He mopped his brow and pushed his wet hair out of his face. A mosquito had gone to town on his wrist, and Dylan saw five red welts inflamed on his skin.

  The three other guys looked just as miserable. They were all sopping wet from the rain and now drenched in sweat from the heat.

  Wyatt pulled a thermometer out of the gym bag and checked the temperature. “We’re ready.”

  “Good luck, brother.” He and Wyatt bumped fists.

  Dylan, Steve, and C. Todd watched as Wyatt limped toward Bo Harlan’s door. He moved slowly, as if gravity was weighing him down. After each step, he’d pause and check the thermometer before taking another step.

  Dylan glanced behind him to make sure no one was coming. It would be just their luck for some random employee to show up on a Saturday evening to check his e-mail or something.

  Wyatt had nearly reached the end of the hallway. He approached the alarm site and checked the thermometer again.

  As if on cue, Bo Harlan’s door swung wide open, and the hallway was flooded with a bright white light.

  “Oh holler out!” Steve shouted.

  A piercing scream erupted, a woman’s scream; and Dylan watched as Wyatt reacted. His brother jumped in fright and then pivoted on his heel to run, but his prosthetic foot got stuck on the carpet and he pitched forward onto his face.

  Dylan stared in disbelief down the hallway as the woman who’d just come out of Bo Harlan’s office let out another rip-roaring scream.

  What on earth…

  Thirty-eight

  Kat’s face was contorted in fear as she stared at the man in the silver bio-tech suit who’d just fallen on his face.

  “You better run! I’m calling the police!” she screeched, kicking the man over and over again in the ribs.

  “Oh Jesus Lord Almighty,” C. Todd Hartwell muttered.

  Kat looked up. Her mouth dropped open in recognition as she realized that Dylan was trying to hide behind Steve.

  “Dylan. Charles. Grant.” Kat’s voice boomed. “What on God’s green earth…”

  “You in trouble now, dawg,” Steve said, snickering.

  Dylan scuffed his shoe along the carpet. He’d been caught in a lie. And not just a little lie—this one was a doozy.

  But maybe it was his turn to be angry. After all, what the heck was Kat doing inside Bo Harlan’s office!

  Dylan crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I guess I could ask you the same question.”

  Wyatt rolled over on the floor and said, “Jesus, Kathleen. You about killed me with that super ninja karate kick.”

  Kat stared at Wyatt lying on the floor in the silver Mylar suit. “Wyatt! Is that you? Why are you wearing that ridiculous costume? And why is it so hot in here?” She glanced down the hallway and spotted the heater. Then she pivoted around and looked at the alarm panel on the wall.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, shaking her head. She stared at Dylan, and her eyes were angry little needles. “Dylan, what have you gotten your brother into?”

  “Me! Hell, Kathleen. Wyatt owes half a million bucks to these guys in Vegas! I didn’t drag him here.”

  “This is about money?” Kat snapped. She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot now. The death tap. It scared the crap out of Wyatt, and he scrambled to his feet and stood in front of her, looking sheepish and ashamed.

  “Bo Harlan’s got a map that he stole from me,” C. Todd Hartwell announced. “And I want it back.”

  Kat checked her watch. “Well, he’ll be here in…oh, I don’t know…let’s say five minutes, so maybe you should ask him yourself. Instead of trying to break into his office like a bunch of thieves! You should be ashamed!”

  “Us!” Dylan said. “What about you, Kathleen? Just what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Language,” Kat said, in a firm tone.

  “Sorry,” Dylan grumbled.

  Steve started to giggle.

  “I’m helping Shelby Lynn Pierce redecorate Bo’s office. They left about twenty minutes ago to pick up sandwiches so I assume they’ll be back any minute now.”

  “We’re fucked,” Steve said, glancing wildly around the office.

  “I’m not leaving without my map,” C. Todd Hartwell announced.

  “What map?” Kat asked.

  “Nothing you’d understand,” C. Todd said.

  “Let me guess. A seismic shoot of some land you want to drill,” Kat said, matter-of-fact.

  C. Todd turned to Dylan. “She’s good.” The oilman began to march toward Bo Harlan’s office.

  Kat stood and blocked the office door, her arms crossed over her chest. “You will not be stealing anything from this office, C. Todd. Sorry, but I guess you’ll have to find your own way to drill for oil.”

  “Whose side is she on, brother?” C. Todd asked Dylan.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Dylan replied. He walked to the wall outlet and unplugged the heater. When he glanced up at Kat, he saw that she was fuming. Gosh, he’d never seen her act this mad.

  She was staring at him as if she wanted to break off their engagement. This was not good. Not good at all.

  At that moment, Dylan heard voices coming from the lobby of Titan Energy.

  “Shhhh. They’re back!” C. Todd hissed.

  “Hide!” Kat commanded them.

  Dylan sprang into action. He and Steve grabbed the heater and pushed it under a desk.

  “Where to?” Wyatt whispered, clutching his gym bag to his chest.

  Kat pointed to a coat closet. “In there! Fast!”

  The four guys raced toward the closet. The problem was, it was barely big enough to hold them. So they had to squeeze in. Two by two. Dylan was facing C. Todd Hartwell. Wyatt was facing Steve. Each guy was nose to nose, with their groins pressed up against each other.

  “This is gay!” Steve hissed.

  Kat slammed the closet doors.

  Dylan could hear Kat’s voice just outside the doorway. “I hope you remembered my potato chips,” she was saying.

  Bo Harlan and Shelby Lynn were laughing about something. In fact, they sounded like they were having a ball.

  “Why is it so hot in here?” came a man’s voice that Dylan recognized as Wild Bo Harlan’s.

  He heard Kat giggle. “I think you feel hot, Bo, because you’re standing next to Shelby.”

  Dylan clenched his teeth together. Kat was now saving him. He didn’t like this one bit.

  The smell inside the closet was a cross between dead rat and stale gym clothes. Dylan attempted to hold his breath. Steve was wearing ten pounds of bad cologne; C. Todd reeked of whiskey; and everyone had bad BO.

  Dylan was staring straight at C. Todd who was staring straight back at him. He noticed that C. Todd was about a half-inch taller than he, and wondered if it was the shoes. But he remembered C. Todd was wearing flip-flops.

  Steve and Wyatt were also staring at each other. Wyatt towered over Steve in his silver space-looking suit, and Steve had somehow managed to race to the closet with his pimp hat cocked sideways on his head. Dylan glanced at C. Todd and saw that the oilman was trying to restrain a laugh. The ridiculousness of their predicament soon dawned on each of them.


  Wyatt in his silver Mylar suit.

  Steve with his pimp hat cocked sideways on his head.

  It was painful. The four of them squeezed in, trying not to make a sound.

  C. Todd started to snicker. Dylan started hiccupping to keep from laughing. Steve and Wyatt glared at them, which made C. Todd and Dylan start to laugh even more.

  Dylan heard Kathleen ushering Bo Harlan and Shelby Lynn hurriedly into Bo’s office. He heard the door shut loudly, and figured that it was time to make their getaway.

  “Time to bounce!” Steve said.

  Dylan swung the closet door open and peeked out. Bo Harlan’s office door was shut. He waved for the guys to follow him. They tumbled out of the closet and hurried toward the reception area.

  “Wait!” Steve whispered. “What about the heater?”

  “Leave it!” Dylan hissed.

  A man’s voice sounded loudly behind them. It was Bo Harlan coming out of his office, with Shelby Lynn and Kat in tow. Dylan raced for the front door of the Titan offices. Wyatt was limping quickly, trying to make it as fast as he could, but his leg gave out and he tumbled to the carpet. Dylan turned and raced toward his brother. He crouched in front of Wyatt and said, “Piggyback.” Wyatt jumped onto his brother’s back, and Dylan huffed toward the door. The four guys slipped out into the hall.

  They bounded into the service elevator and stabbed the button for the bottom floor. All four of them were breathless, sweaty, snorting, and laughing their heads off.

  Steve and Wyatt high-fived each other.

  “I don’t know what y’all are celebratin’,” C. Todd grumbled. “We didn’t get the map.”

  “At least we’re not going to jail, dawg,” Steve said.

  The four guys swept out the back door and into the loading dock. They spotted Achmed about a half block away and chased him down. Achmed edged the Hummer over on the curb and waited as they climbed in.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Dylan said. “Except we lost a thousand-dollar heater.”

  “Sorry.” Achmed shrugged. “But I still get paid, right?”

  “Just drive, Abdul,” C. Todd commanded.

  Dylan rested his head on the seat rest. He realized that without the map, he and Wyatt were up the proverbial shit’s creek. And now Kat was pissed off at him, too.