by Brian Keene
Dugan sighed. “Well, I made my way up the coast, working odd jobs here and there. But everywhere I went it was the same, and I never stayed long. I felt like I didn't belong anymore, but I couldn't go home. I couldn't face Sharon.”
“And her memory followed you wherever you went?” Roy asked.
Dugan swallowed his emotions and nodded.
Kim's eyes grew misty. “That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.”
“I finally came back this month for our high school reunion, and when I walked into the Fire Hall and saw her across the room . . .”
He stopped and stared into her eyes. The love they had for each other was so strong that it rolled off them in waves. Seriously. I could feel it there in the vault. Once again, I found myself thinking of Michelle and T. J. again. What had I done to them? Not only was I dying of cancer, but it looked like the cops might do me in first. Even if we did make it out of here alive, it was just a matter of time. That would be time spent in a jail cell, kept away from them by iron bars and electronic locks. I'd see them only through a glass window; speak to them only through a phone. I'd die wearing an orange jumpsuit, and in the end, I would die alone. They would not be there to comfort me, and I would not be able to comfort them, to reassure them that it would be okay. I would be alone and so would they.
“I ended up marrying another friend of ours from school,” Sharon was telling the group, “but we divorced six years ago. He found a younger woman.”
“What happened to Lee?” Oscar wanted to know.
“He dodged the draft,” Dugan said. “He went over the border to Canada and died fifteen years later in a drunken driving accident near Niagara Falls. He wasn't wearing his seat belt.”
“I've been to Canada,” Roy mused. “Beautiful country.”
“What took you there, Mr. Kirby?” Sheila asked.
“My job. I was a sales representative for the foundry here in town. I traveled all over the globe before I retired.”
Sherm and I glanced at each other, and Roy caught the look.
“What?” he asked.
“The three of us worked for the foundry too,” I confessed. “We just got laid off.”
“Shut up,” Sherm hissed.
“Why does it matter, dog? They know who the hell we are already, don't they?”
He shrugged. “I guess. Fuck it. Who cares—” The phones began ringing again, interrupting him.
“That's the cops, wanting our list of demands. Guess we've delayed them and shown them we're in control long enough. Better give it to them this time before that annoying fucker breaks out his bullhorn again. They'll probably have the negotiator for the Quick Response Team on the line too. This should be fun. I'll stall them and see if we can get an ambulance for Carpet Dick while I'm at it. You stay here and make friends with the nice people.”
He ran out of the vault and answered the phone in Keith's office.
Sheila arched an eyebrow. “There's one thing I've got to know, Tommy.”
“What's that?”
“Why does he call John ‘Carpet Dick'?”
“Trust me, you don't want to know.” I turned my attention to Roy. “So you worked for the foundry too, huh?”
“Yes indeed. I gave them forty years of my life. Then I retired, and I've been bored ever since.”
“Why the hell did you retire in Hanover?”
“I'd seen the world already,” he explained, “and my wife had family here in town. We never had any children of our own, but both of her sisters lived here, and we had nieces and nephews to spoil. After my wife died though—well, I don't know. I guess I just had nowhere else to go. It's funny. Not funny humorous but funny in a sad sort of way. This town used to be a good place, the kind of place you wanted to retire in. Until the jobs dried up and the Baltimore folks began arriving. Now it's depressing. It's like the town has cancer—it's dying. I guess I'll just die with it.”
I shivered. John lay limp in my arms, and his skin was turning alabaster. I needed another cigarette. My arms were growing tired from trying to keep the pressure on his wound. My hands were numb and the sticky blood dried and flaked on them. It felt like glue.
I shifted my weight and reached into my pocket with one hand. I pulled out Lucas's cell phone, set it aside and dug into my pants again, finding a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I shook one out—only three left, and lit it up. Immediately, I felt the nicotine rushing through my veins.
“Should you be doing that?” Sheila arched an eyebrow.
I breathed out smoke and gave her a thin, tight-lipped smile. “Do you really think it matters at this point?”
“No, I guess not. I just thought you might set off the smoke alarms or something.”
If you only knew, I thought. Smoke alarms are the last thing I need to worry about from cigarettes. You know those little warning labels on the side of the pack? Those are what you need to worry about. It turns out the Surgeon General was right all along.
“The fire alarm is turned off anyway,” Sharon reminded her. “Otherwise, it would have gone off when Sherm had Lucas check on his truck.”
“Can I get one of those please, Tommy?” Kim asked. “That is, if none of the rest of you mind?”
“Actually, I could use a smoke too.” Oscar agreed. “A cigarette would taste really good right about now.”
Shrugging, I shook out the last two cigarettes, lit them, and put them in their mouths.
“Thanks.”
Kim inhaled deeply, a look of pleasure crossing her face. Her innocent, pouting lips expertly wrapped around the filter. She really was a knockout.
“It's kind of weird smoking at work. We have to take our smoke breaks outside, of course.” She giggled nervously, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
“Don't worry, hon,” Sharon said. “I won't tell Keith if you don't.”
“God, I hope he's okay.” Kim took another puff and the cigarette bobbed between her lips. “We haven't heard anything since Sherm took him to the office.”
“Don't worry,” I said. “Sherm wouldn't have killed him—if only because we'll need the leverage. Keith and Lucas both—they're fine.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked.
“Sure.” But I could tell they didn't believe me. That was okay. I wasn't sure that I believed me either. I'd been lying to my wife and son so why should lying to strangers be any different? I tried to change the subject.
“So what about the rest of you? What're your stories? Oscar?”
“Nothing special, really. I go to college in York and live with my parents here in Hanover because it's cheaper that way.”
“Girlfriend?”
He sulked. “What do you think?”
From Keith's office, I heard Sherm barking into the phone.
“We'll make you wait another fucking hour if you don't shut up and play ball. Got that, motherfucker? Good. Now, write this shit down.”
“What are you studying?” Sharon asked Oscar, raising her voice over Sherm's.
“Art. I want to be the next Todd McFarland.”
“Who's that?”
“He's a famous comic book artist. The guy that created Spawn. He's a multimillionaire now.”
“I never understood how grown men could read comics,” Kim said.
“Actually,” Roy corrected her, “today's average comic book readers are mostly adults in their thirties.”
Oscar laughed in surprise. “How'd you know that?”
“I read them myself, occasionally. They provide a fascinating look at pop culture. Characters like Superman and Batman and Captain America are our modern-day myths, much like Hercules and Zeus were to the Greeks. You can learn a lot about a society by studying its folklore.”
“That's right,” Sherm shouted, “and it better have a full tank of gas!”
“I read comic books too,” Benjy chimed in.
Roy smiled. “What are your favorites, Benjy?”
“Dexter's Laboratory and Scoo
by Doo. That's the only two that Mommy lets me read. She says the other ones are too scary.”
“Maybe when you're a little older,” Sheila assured him, kissing his head. I wished her hands were untied so she could smooth his hair, the way Michelle did with T. J. I thought it might make them both feel better—more secure.
“How about you?” I turned to Kim.
“Me? I have no life. I work here. I go home to my cat, Tessa. I curl up with a Karen Taylor book or maybe something by Nora Roberts, watch Will & Grace until bedtime, and then I go to sleep. Twice a week I take night courses at the community college. That's it. Boring, huh?”
“No boyfriend?”
“No. Men are pigs—at least the ones in this town are. My girlfriends and I go clubbing in York on the weekends, but the men there aren't much better. They're all either players or losers. Or married.”
“Or all three.” Sheila laughed.
“You got that right,” Kim agreed.
“Dance halls,” Martha stirred, “are nothing more than dens of iniquity, centers of obscenity. Do you enjoy them? The wickedness? The filth? Do you feel a stirring in your loins when you go there? When a man grinds against you? Your body is Christ's temple and you defile it with that behavior. Harlot! Jezebel! Then went Samson to Gaza, and saw there a harlot, and her name was Delilah . . .”
“Dammit, Martha, leave her alone,” Sharon warned.
“I will not leave her alone. I will have my say. This is her soul we're talking about. Only through knowing Jesus can she—”
“Martha,” I interrupted, “if you don't shut the hell up, so help me God I will shoot you. Right in the fucking head. I don't care if I stopped Sherm before or not. I'll do it.”
“Oh my . . .”
She was silent again, and the entire room exhaled in relief. Sheila winked at me and I smiled back. When Oscar's and Kim's cigarettes were down to the filter, I collected the butts and snuffed them out. Then I went back to John.
My headache was reaching the crippling point, and the nicotine hadn't helped much. I winced, rubbing my brow with one hand while keeping the pressure on John with the other. Both my hands were cramping. The tourniquet needed changing again, but I wasn't sure what to use. I considered Dugan's chambray work shirt and decided that it didn't really matter. To be honest, there wasn't much blood coming from the wound anymore, and I'd relaxed my grip a bit. It was hard to concentrate on John's situation. Hard to concentrate on anything. I'd never felt more exhausted in my life.
“Your head is hurting, isn't it, Mr. Tommy?” Benjy observed.
“Yeah. Yeah it is, buddy. Pretty bad.”
“I've got aspirin in my pocketbook if you want some,” Kim offered.
“Thanks.”
“You don't need aspirin,” Benjy insisted. “I can make your head better—and everything else too.”
“I wish you could, Benjy. I wish you could.”
And I did. I wished it more than anything. But I didn't believe. I thought back to the church, and my rant at God. If He existed, if He could help us by acting through Benjy, then why hadn't He answered me when I'd asked Him to? Why had He given me cancer to begin with? Maybe Benjy really could help me, but my lack of faith and my concern about what Sherm's reaction would be if he caught us overrode my urge to try. And I think, deep down inside, even more than those two things, I was afraid of being disappointed once again. I didn't want God to let me down one more time.
I reached out with my foot, snagged Kim's pocketbook from the floor, and slid it toward me. Then I rifled through it, found the aspirin, and downed four of them. I tried to ignore the other glimpses of her life inside the bag—birth control pills, cell phone, lipstick, car keys, breath mints, loose change, and pads. It made me feel like I was spying, like I was going through her panty drawer or something. I zipped the purse shut and kicked it back over to her.
“Hey, what about you, Tommy?” Sheila asked. “If Dugan and Roy are right, and this is Stockholm Syndrome, then you might as well finish telling us about you.”
“There's really nothing to say,” I insisted. “You guys already know about Michelle and T. J.”
“You started to tell your wife about something else when you were on the phone. And Benjy said you were sick, and he's never been wrong. There's something wrong, isn't there? Something more than just this robbery?”
“Like you guys really care? I'm fucking holding you hostage here.”
“I do,” Sheila whispered.
Benjy's head bobbed up and down. “You've got dark stuff inside you, Mr. Tommy. Black shadows. Not like the monster people in Mr. Sherm's head, but dark just the same. And it's spreading too.”
I sighed, wondering how to proceed.
Then I opened my mouth and said the words that I'd been unable to say to my wife.
“I—I have cancer.” At a very advanced stage, the doctor's voice echoed through my head.
“Terminal?” Roy asked.
“Yeah. It's terminal.” The word sounded like another gunshot. “It's spreading through my body like crazy. The doctor thinks I've got a few weeks at the most. Like I said, John, Sherm, and I got laid off from the foundry, and Michelle and me are already way behind on the bills. This just seemed like a good idea at the time—a way out of it all. A solution. It was like life handed me a real plate of shit, so I might as well make one good thing out of it. Dying of cancer was the downside, but it seemed like there was an upside too, and that was the chance to help my family in ways I'd never have risked before. What was the worst that could happen, you know? If they caught me, I'd be dead soon anyway. That was how I saw it. It didn't really hit me as to how this would affect Michelle and T. J. until I got here and things went bad. I guess I was cocky. I honestly didn't think we'd get caught. And I definitely didn't mean for anyone to get killed.”
I looked down at John, then back up at them all, meeting their eyes. In a way, it felt like I was cheating on Michelle by telling them this.
“Any of you ever hear the song ‘Hard Knock Life'?”
Oscar, Sheila, and Kim nodded. The others stared at me blankly.
“Well, if you've heard it, that pretty much sums up my life in a nutshell. It's a hard knock life.”
“Me and you both,” Sheila agreed. “Believe it.”
“Me too,” Kim said. Oscar nodded along with her.
Sheila I could understand, but I didn't see it with Kim and Oscar.
“Sounds to me like you two got it made, going to college and shit.”
“You think my life doesn't suck?” Kim snorted. “I mean sure, maybe I don't have cancer. That's horrible, and I'm sorry for you and your family. I really am. I still don't understand why you did this, but I do feel sorry for you. But I've had my share of hard knocks too.”
“Me too,” Oscar said. “Guys like you and Sherm have picked on me and fucked with me since the first grade. I've never had a date. I spent prom night jerking off in my bedroom, looking at porn on the Net. How pathetic is that?”
A tear ran down his face as he continued.
“Just once I'd like to have a life. All I do is read and watch TV and play video games and go to school. I'd just like to have a normal life, with some friends, and maybe a girl who liked me and didn't think I was weird or a geek. I don't think that's too much to ask.”
Kim's expression was sad and knowing.
“I know how you feel.”
Oscar laughed, but the sound was cruel and bitter.
“How could you know how I feel? You're beautiful. I bet you had a date to the prom.”
“You might be surprised, Oscar.”
“So then what do you want out of life, Kim?” I asked. “If you could have one thing?”
“Honestly? I just want to find a nice guy. That's it, plain and simple. A nice guy that would listen to me and take an interest in what I have to say. One that likes my cat and did little things just to show he cared. That's all it would take to make me happy.”
“I'd formally introduc
e you to John, but he's out of it right now. Maybe when he wakes up. He's a nice guy.”
I laughed a little too long and patted John's hand gently.
“Tommy.” Roy's voice was soft, and he spoke slowly.
“Yeah? What's up, Roy?”
“Tommy—”
“What, Mr. Kirby?”
“Tommy—son, I think your friend is dead.”
That's not funny, Roy. You better take that shit back right now.”
“John is dead, Tommy,” he repeated.
“Why you want to say some shit like that, man? Why you gotta fuck with me?”
I could hear the desperate tone in my voice, and I hated myself for it. I willed it to go away, but it increased instead as he tried again.
“He's not breathing, Tommy. He hasn't been for a while. I'm sorry, but it's true. Your friend is gone. He's dead. Look at him, son.”
“Shut the hell up, you old fart. Just shut the fuck up right now!”
“Tommy . . .”
“He's not dead. You don't know shit, man. You don't fucking know, okay?”
“Look at him, Tommy!”
“No! Now knock it off.”
“Look at him.”
“I SAID NO!”
Without thinking about it, I swung the pistol out from me at arm's length and pointed it at him. Gasping, they all scurried backward, trying to push themselves into the wall, trying to hide behind each other. Roy closed his eyes in fearful resignation. Kim whimpered. Sharon and Dugan cowered close together. Oscar let out a frightened squeal. Only Sheila held her ground. She bent her head and listened while Benjy whispered something in her ear. Then she looked up at me, her face serious.
“Tommy, Benjy says to check his pulse.”
“I don't need to check his pulse. He's alive.”
“He's not breathing.” Roy tried again. “It's over. How many more people have to die before you let us go, Tommy? Who's going to be next? Me? Kim? The boy?”
“Don't start with that shit! I told you to drop it!”
“His chest isn't moving. What do you think that means, Tommy? That he's sleeping? Of course not. He's dead . . .”
Now Sheila interrupted Roy. “Shut up for a minute, Mr. Kirby. Tommy, please. Just do it.”