The Lock Artist (23 page)

“Here,” he said, slowly pulling a black garbage bag from his back pocket. “Do your thing.”

When the door was fully open, I could see that my thing would consist of taking many bundles of cash and putting them into the bag.

“That’s what three-quarters of a million dollars looks like, in case you’re wondering.”

Looks just fine to me, I thought. A hundred twenty-dollar bills in each bundle, that meant 375 bundles. I started shoveling them into the bag, a handful at a time.

“Take it easy,” he said. I think he was about to bend down and start helping me when he stopped himself short. “Did you hear that?”

I stopped and listened. I shook my head. I didn’t hear anything.

“That’s what I mean. It’s quieter now.”

We both stayed where we were for a moment. It came to him first.

“The furnace. It’s off now.”

He was right. That constant humming in the background. It was silent now.

“Hurry up and fill up that bag,” he said, “but do it carefully.”

Impossible to do it both ways at once, but I did what I could. I slid the bag up close to the safe and grabbed bundle after bundle, shoving them all inside.

“Maybe it overheated,” Gunnar said. “Or hell, maybe it ran out of fuel. Is it my imagination, or does it not even feel as hot in here anymore?”

I was hoping it was his imagination, but I was afraid it wasn’t. I had stopped sweating, even though I was working so hard putting the money in the bag. How long would it take for the room temperature to sink back close to normal?

“We’re going to have to be even more careful,” Gunnar said. “Are you ready?”

I nodded to him. He reached down and picked up the bag. I closed the safe and got to my feet. He started moving and I followed.

One step, shift. One step, shift.

When we were close to the sensor again, I held my breath. The air was definitely cooler now. There was no doubt about that. Gunnar took a step. Then another step.

The light flashed red.

“Stop,” he said.

We both froze.

The light went back off. It stayed off. Now it was decision time. Depending on how the alarm system was set, either it made allowances for the occasional trip, or it didn’t and the system was calling the central control board that very second. If the alarm was silent, we’d have no idea. Until the vehicles came roaring down the street.

“Even slower.” Gunnar leaned forward, watching the sensor. This time he slid his foot across the floor. One inch. Another inch. We were moving impossibly slow now. It would take hours to get back to the door. It would take days.

Patience, I told myself. If you have nothing else in this world, you have patience.

We were right in front of the sensor now. A tilt of the head would set it off. A blink would set it off. You are a statue. The rotation of the earth is the only thing moving you. Your hair is growing faster than you’re moving.

Slowly. Slowly.

It felt like forever, but finally we were past the sensor. Not that we were out of the woods yet. There was another twenty-five, thirty feet of floor to
cover. Back around the corner, into the kitchen. Watching the far sensor now. Not assuming anything. Not pushing it. If it went off one more time, we’d probably have to make a break for it.

Step by tiny step. Through the kitchen. To the door. The thermostat was there on that wall, so Gunnar reached out and reset it to normal. Just another way to cover our tracks. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. I could see his legs shaking. Then he started moving again, kept going until he got to the back door. He reached for it, pulled it slowly open. When the door was open far enough, he turned his body sideways. Inch by inch, out the door. I could feel the cool air rushing into the room.

“Really slow now,” he said. I’d already figured that part out. The good news is that all that cool air would help bring the temperature inside back to normal, so that it wouldn’t even feel like somebody had cranked the heat up. The bad news is that we were more vulnerable now than ever.

A minute later, his entire body was out the door. I did my own slow-motion turn and slide. As I finally worked my way out, he reached above me and gently pulled his jumper wire through the doorway. Then he started slowly closing the door. When it was almost there, he gave the wire a quick pull as he closed the door in the same motion. Either the contact on the magnetic switch would be preserved, or else once again we’d have to hope that the system would have a little bit of tolerance built in for occasional random trips.

Either way, it was time for us to get moving.

We went around the side of the house, stopping before we got to the front, looking up and down the street. Everything was still quiet.

We both crossed the street. The cool air felt good in my lungs, but we had no time to savor it yet. We both ducked in under the thick brush and started making our way back up the canyon slope. As we did, I saw him take out his cell phone and hit a speed dial key.

“We’re on our way.” He hung up and got back to work climbing. It was a hell of a lot harder going up the slope than it had been coming down, but I knew we didn’t want to risk having Lucy come down the lower street. Not if we didn’t have to.

We grabbed onto branches and vines and rocks, pulling ourselves up, yard by yard, but eventually we both emerged onto the upper road. Lucy was there by the car.

“What took you guys so long?” she said.

Gunnar gave her a quick kiss and told her to get behind the wheel. He
went around and got in the passenger’s side. I got in back. When we were finally rolling, he picked up the bag and threw it over the seat to me.

“I’m serious,” Lucy said. “What the fuck took you so long?”

Gunnar started laughing. If I could have, I would have joined him.

Lucy drove us back down the canyon road, back to Sunset Boulevard, while I took off the coveralls and then twisted myself back into my fancy suit. It was almost midnight now, but the street was still full of traffic. All of the clubgoers were just hitting their stride now, and the lines still snaked down the sidewalk.

We pulled back into the same parking spot. Lucy turned off the car, and only then did she turn around and really get a good look at me.

“You look like shit, you know that?”

She wetted a napkin with her tongue and tried to clean me up.

“Just go inside,” Gunnar said. “Go in the bathroom first.”

“He looks like he just rolled down a mountain.”

“Just go,” he said. “I’ll take the car back home. You guys’ll get a cab, right?”

“No problem, babe.” She kissed him again. A long one this time.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said.

“It was worth it.”

“I don’t care. You made it out. That’s all that matters.”

A little more slobbering over each other and then he finally kicked us out of the car.

“Hold on,” she said as the car rolled away from us. “If you’re gonna look like that, I need to match.”

She bent over and ran both hands through her hair. When she stood back up straight, her hair was an unruly mess.

“Let’s go, Michael. Excuse me,
Mikhail
. It’s time for Phase Two.”

So after failing to open that lock . . . I didn’t think the day could get any worse.

Then it did.

When I was back to work in my hole, I took the envelope out from under my shirt and put it on the ground under the wheelbarrow. I started digging, throwing the dirt into the wheelbarrow until it was full. I rolled the dirt over to the woods and dumped it. Then I hid the envelope behind a tree.

I had worked for two hours straight under the brutality of the midday sun when I saw Amelia come out of the house. She didn’t come to me. She didn’t come anywhere near me. Instead she stayed on the little back patio, turning a crank on a big umbrella over a table until it was open.

Time for a water break, I thought. A perfect excuse to go over near her, to give her that drawing.

Before I could act, she was gone. Back in the house for a few minutes while I kept digging and watching. When she came back out, there were three other people with her. The dreaded Zeke again, plus one more guy with bleached blond hair done up in spikes, and a girl with hair dyed to look like pink cotton candy. The four of them sat down at the table, laughing and drinking from a big pitcher of ice tea or something. Cool in the shade of the umbrella, young and funny and goddamned perfect. They didn’t seem to notice me there at all, not more than twenty yards away.

I was thirsty as hell by then, but I didn’t dare go near them. I kept digging and trying not to listen to their laughter. When things got quiet, I looked up and saw the blond guy and the cotton candy girl kissing each other. Zeke and Amelia were sitting close now. They weren’t exactly kissing at that
moment, but it looked like Zeke was staring into Amelia’s eyes and stroking her hair.

A few more minutes of talking and arguing and laughing, then more silence. I was afraid to look up again. When I finally did, they were all staring at me. No, worse than that, they were drawing me. The Lakeland High School art mafia apparently, all four of them, each with a pad of paper and a pencil. Watching me intently and trying to capture the sight forever. The young convicted juvenile probationer repaying his debt to society and to the family into whose house he had entered illegally. Miserable. Sweaty. Filthy. Barely more than an animal. A beast of burden.

“Don’t stop!” Zeke called to me. “This isn’t supposed to be a still life!”

More laughter.

I started to get dizzy again. The sunlight beating down on me so hard, for so long. I don’t know how I lived through that day. I really don’t.

When it was over, I retrieved my envelope from behind the tree, put it on the top of the pile, and then dumped my last load of dirt on top of it. A fitting burial.

I can’t overstate what that day had done to me. I really can’t. When I was new to the school and feeling like I had absolutely nothing, that was a bad time. But now it wasn’t just a matter of having nothing. It was having nothing and knowing exactly what it was that I didn’t have. What I’d
never
have. I had seen it in living color that day. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing it for one more minute.

Somehow, it all seemed to come back to that one stupid lock. Like if I had been able to open it, everything would have turned out differently.

Crazy, I know, but I fell asleep with that thought ringing in my head. The lock with the serrated pins. The lock that beat me.

I woke up. I sat straight up in my bed and looked around the dark room.

That’s it, I thought. That’s why I couldn’t open that lock.

I got out of bed and grabbed the first clean clothes I could find. It was just after 2:00
A.M.
I rummaged through the things on my desk, found my handmade tools. The pieces of scrap metal bent into the right shapes. I put them in my pocket, grabbed the keys and a flashlight, and sneaked out of the house.

I drove across town on the dark, deserted roads. I had no business being
out there, nothing beyond a simple idea so insane I couldn’t even begin to stop myself. I drove all the way to the Marshes’ house, seeing it now in the darkness as I had seen it the very first time. Only now I was alone, and I had a different kind of mission to accomplish.

I parked a good quarter mile away, left the car on the side of the road, and began walking. A regular, normal pace. When I got close to the house, I slipped into the backyard. I made my way back to the tree line, picking up the shovel on the way. I found the last mound of dirt I had made, then pushed the dirt aside, making my way down to where I had buried the envelope.

Careful, I thought. You don’t want to damage it any more than you already have.

When I found the envelope, I picked it up and brushed the dirt off. I stepped behind one of the bigger trees and switched on the flashlight. The envelope looked a little wrinkled, and of course it was dirty as all hell, but it had stayed pretty flat. I opened it and took out the picture and examined it carefully in the thin beam of the flashlight. The corners were a little dinged up. Some of the lines had been rubbed until they were blurry. Overall, though, it didn’t look too bad. Someday I’d have to write a letter to the company who made the envelope and thank them.

Now the tricky part. I turned off the flashlight and made my way to the house. I went to the back door, put my head against the window right next to it, and listened. Last thing I needed was Mr. Marsh standing in the kitchen, raiding the refrigerator for a late-night snack.

Nothing. Silence. It was time to do this. I pulled out my tools and got to work on the lock. As I worked over the pins, I started to appreciate how good the locksmith’s tools really were. I would have given anything at that point to have them in my hands. But no, I thought. These will have to do. As long as I have the right idea, these will work.

Serrated pins, that’s what the man had said. If a mushroom pin had one notch, then a serrated pin must have more than one, right? That’s what “serrated” means. So instead of one false set on each pin, there were many. Like what, three? Four? Five?