Terminal
Brian Keene


From award-winning author Brian Keene comes a darkly suspenseful tale of crime and the common man—with a surprising jolt of the supernatural…

Tommy O’Brien once hoped to leave his run-down industrial hometown. But marriage and fatherhood have kept him running in place, working a job that doesn’t even pay the bills. And now he seems fated to stay for the rest of his life. Tommy’s just learned he’s going to die young—and soon. But he refuses to leave his family with less than nothing—especially now that he has nothing to lose.

Over a couple of beers with his best friends, John and Sherm, Tommy launches a bold scheme to provide for his family’s future. And though his plan will spin shockingly out of control, it will throw him together with a child whose touch can heal—and whose ultimate lesson is that there are far worse things than dying.


Brian Keene

TERMINAL


For Geoff Cooper, Michael T. Huyck Jr., and Michael Oliveri.

We are ka-tet. All for one and one for all…


To many men life is a failure

A poison worm gnawing at their heart

Then let them see to it

That their dying is all the more a success

    
—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Thus Spake Zarathustra


Rejoice, young man, in thy youth

But know that God will bring thee

Into judgment

    
—ECCLESIASTES 11:9


“I’m going to kill the bastard!”

    
—BABY FACE NELSON TO JOHN DILLINGER


“Forget it and grab the money!”

    
—JOHN DILLINGER TO BABY FACE NELSON


		Farewell happy fields


		Where joy forever dwells


		Hail horrors, hail…


—JOHN MILTON, Paradise Lost


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Thanks to Cassandra; Sam, who came along at just the right time; Anne Groell for the French Sushi; Josh Pasternak; Rich SanFilippo, for the bat and the murder ballads; Ed Gorman; Larry Roberts; Alan M. Clark; Duane Swierczynski, my partner in crime; Cullen Bunn; Judi Rohrig; Officer Tom O’Brien (no relation to the main character); Maria Cotto, for the swearing lessons; Carl, for help with the drugs; Matt Warner (drop and give me 1,000); Gina Mitchell; Mark Lancaster, for once again being my eyes and ears; Adam Pepper, who read this on the back of scrap paper; John Urbancik, for reading this during the carnival instead of going to Heaven by answering three easy questions; and finally, to the memory of the foundry sage Robert Fitro, whose wisdom is not forgotten.

Author’s Note: Though Hanover, York, and many of the locations in this novel are real, I have taken fictional liberties with them. If you live there, don’t look for your bank. You probably won’t find it.


ONE


Life’s a bitch, then you die. That’s my philosophy in a nutshell, and it was reinforced that morning.

“Mr. O’Brien, perhaps you’d better sit down.”

That didn’t sound good. Neither did the fact that we were doing this in his office, instead of the examination room.

I shrugged. “It’s okay. I can stand.”

A fancy degree in an expensive-looking frame hung on the wall. I focused on it, wondering how much it cost him to go to medical school. How much money did he make? I bet it was more than I made working at the foundry.

He cleared his throat, glanced down at the desk, and looked back up at me.

“Mr. O’Brien—”

Here it comes. My cholesterol is too high. I need to quit smoking and drinking and eating rare steaks and baked potatoes with a shitload of butter and sour cream or I’ll be dead before I’m thirty.

“—you have cancer.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t say anything, even if I’d known what to say. There was a big lump in my throat, and it grew as he continued. My ears felt hot and began to ring. Something moved around deep down inside my stomach, a sloshing that made me queasy and afraid at the same time. The doctor seemed to shrink and swell in front of my eyes, and his voice echoed around the office. Everything started to spin and my head grew light, like I’d stood up too quick or something.

“I’ve conferred with several associates of mine, all of who specialize in this. The diagnosis is certain. The cancer is spreading throughout your throat, particularly the esophagus, as well as your jaw, chest, and lungs. It’s gotten into your lymph nodes. Those are the lumps beneath your armpits. Worse, the disease is spreading at an alarming rate. It’s what we term Grade Four—extremely serious and very, very aggressive.”

I stared at him, then decided to sit down after all. If I hadn’t, I think I would have collapsed. My legs felt like spaghetti. Outside, I heard the clackety-clack-clack as the receptionist banged away on her keyboard. The keys seemed very loud in the silence.

“Cancer. Well shit.”

“Yes.”

“That ain’t good.”

“No.”

He folded his hands, sighed, and waited for me to speak.

I was having trouble doing that. Fear kicked in, thrumming in my gut like a subwoofer.

“So—am I going to have to get one of those holes in my neck? You know, those tracheotomy things? A voice box like that guy Ned on South Park?”

“Mr. O’Brien. Tommy. I know this is a shock, but I need to make sure that you understand.”

He removed his glasses, rubbed his forehead, and sighed again. Then he put the glasses back on, folded his hands neatly on the desk, and looked at me. I knew that look. It was a look that said I’m not fucking around here.

“Your cancer is at a very advanced stage. At this point, chemotherapy and treatment on the throat lesions would be ineffective, as would removal of the tumors and steroid therapy. Truthfully, I’d be hesitant even to do an exploratory on the growths at this point. As I said, a Grade Four tumor is very aggressive, and you have multiples. Literally dozens, in fact. To be honest, I’ve never seen so many in a patient before. I’m afraid the outlook is terminal. I am truly, truly sorry, Tommy. You have my deepest regrets. Had we caught it earlier—” He shrugged and found something to look at on his blotter.

“Shit,” I said again. “Terminal. Huh.” It felt like somebody had hit me in the stomach. After a few moments, the doctor stirred.

“I don’t understand, Tommy. Why didn’t you come in earlier, at the first sign?”

“I don’t have any health insurance, Doc. The foundry keeps us below thirty-five hours a week so they don’t have to pay for it. State law, you know? And my wife only works part-time at the Minit-Mart over on Eisenhower and Carlisle Street. She doesn’t have any insurance either.”

The doctor nodded and fell silent again.

“Can’t you cut them out? The tumors?”

“It would be futile, Tommy. The success rate is very low and the surgery is quite invasive. The cancer has spread rather quickly, expanding into the rest of your body. Your esophagus is—not good. The tumors in your jaw have sent tendrils into your brain, like roots, if that helps you to understand it better. That’s where the headaches are coming from. Several of the growths have fused with your spine. There is simply no way that we could remove them all, and even if we did, you’d be horribly disfigured. We would literally have to remove your jaw and your nose. There are prosthetics for that, of course, but they are very costly.” He stared back down at the blotter, fiddling with a pen.

There was more, but I didn’t hear it. The doctor showed me pamphlets that I pretended to understand. Even though he already knew the answers, he asked again if I smoked (I did), drank (only a few days during the week, Friday night after work, and on the weekends), used drugs (once in a while, but only weed), worked near radiation (nope, just foundry dirt and molten iron), family history (my mother had breast cancer), or had a father who was exposed to Agent Orange in Vietnam (my father was in ’Nam but came back as an alcoholic). He nodded as I confirmed each one.

The doctor offered me some medication to make the nausea and pain easier, wrote a prescription for something (but I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t really understand what it was for), and asked me to come back in a couple days so we could discuss arrangements.

“What kind of arrangements? What’s there to discuss?”

He explained the difference between a hospital stay and a hospice, and told me that I’d have to make some tough decisions. He’d be there to help me with them.

“Is that appointment going to cost money? ’Cause I don’t get paid again for another two weeks.”

“Well”—he seemed taken aback—“I’m sure we can arrange something, Mr. O’Brien.”

I was Mr. O’Brien again, soon as he saw that he wasn’t getting thirty bucks right away for another office visit.

“I know all about the difference between hospitals and hospices, Doc. Hospitals just fuck you in the ass. Hospices try to make you comfortable first, then they fuck you in the ass.”

“Mr. O’Brien—”

“Just tell me how long.”

“Tommy—”

“How long, goddamn it?”

Outside, the receptionist stopped typing. The office was very quiet, so quiet I could hear my heart beat, pounding like a bass line in my favorite Snoop Dog song.

“Well, it’s hard to be certain of course, Mr. O’Brien, but I’d say you have approximately one month to live. Certainly no longer than three.”

That was it. He showed me to the door.

Outside, the sun was shining, and it felt good on my face. I could smell the honeysuckle growing alongside the building. A bird hopped across the parking lot in front of me. Several more chirped and sang to each other in the trees. A gnat, the first one I’d seen this spring, buzzed my ear. I resisted the urge to squash him, letting him live instead, so that he could fly away and bother someone else.

Winter had come and gone, and now it was spring. The season of renewal. That magical time of year when Mother Nature takes her clothes off, puts on a thong bikini, and shouts: “Let’s party!”

Everything was coming to life while I was dying.

I was terminal.

That was when my knees gave out, and everything got dark.

* * *


I don’t know how long I lay there. A minute maybe, but it seemed like more. Nobody noticed, so it couldn’t have been that long. I skinned my hand on the pavement, and wiped the blood on my baggy jeans.

The truck didn’t want to start right away. It coughed, the same way I’d been doing. I ended up having to pop the hood and hit the starter with a hammer. Then it turned over. The power button on my stereo was broken, so I’d wedged a toothpick in and taped it in place to keep the power on. As the engine sputtered and choked, the radio came on. Howard Stern was interviewing a midget. I thought about all the guys I’d heard call in to the Stern show over the years, dying of cancer and wanting him to fulfill their last wishes—usually to get laid by a porno star.

My wish was that this would all be a dream. It couldn’t have been real, could it? Maybe the doctor was wrong.

My hands started to shake, and everything began to spin again. Howard’s voice grew muffled, like it was coming down a long tunnel. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, waiting for it to pass.

I didn’t feel much like laughing, so I turned off Howard and put in Eminem’s The Eminem Show instead. The thudding bass made my headache worse. Eminem was rapping about dying tomorrow and wondering if the people left behind would feel love and show sorrow or if it would even matter.

I turned the stereo off and drove in silence.

There was no way I was going back to work, but I couldn’t go home yet either. My hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. I stopped at a gas station, bought a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up. I inhaled, savoring the smoke. The nicotine rushed through my veins and everything was okay after that. My hands quit shaking. The headache became dull. I was awake and alert. I felt alive. Alive. For the time being, at least.

* * *


That was how it all started. Everything that came after—John and Sherm, Murphy’s Place, the plan, Wallace and his crew, the robbery, the standoff, the fucking bloodbath—all of it started with that trip to the doctor. I hadn’t even wanted to go. Michelle made me when the headaches got really bad. Maybe if I hadn’t gone, none of this would have ever happened. But it did. All of it; the bank, the hostages, Sheila and Benjy. Especially Benjy. Especially him…

That was how it started.

Let me have another cigarette, and I’ll tell you what happened next. 


TWO


Like I said, I couldn’t go back to work at the foundry, but I couldn’t go home yet either. Michelle got off from the Minit-Mart at two, and by then, she’d have picked T.J. up at day care. They’d be waiting for me, and Michelle would have questions. Questions I wasn’t sure how I’d answer.

Instead of going back to our crib, I drove around town on autopilot—just aimlessly cruising the streets and back roads and alleys. I’d grown up here, lived here, and the way things looked, was going to die here, and I knew those roads forward and backward.

After a while, I experimented with the radio again. Pink was getting the party started. I turned it back off. Radio sucks these days, with the exception of Howard Stern. Pretty soon, I guess he’ll be gone too, and then I don’t know what the fuck people will listen to. I popped in Dr. Dre’s The Chronic instead. Perfect background music. I kept the volume low and turned the bass down so it wouldn’t make my head hurt more.

Eventually, I rolled by the trailer park where I grew up. The old trailer that I’d lived in with my parents was in pretty bad shape. The landlord was renting it to a group of migrant workers up from Mexico for the summer to pick apples at the orchard in Fawn Grove. There must have been twenty of them living there, and I couldn’t imagine how they all fit under that roof. It had been crowded when it was just the three of us, before Dad left.

I was born Thomas William O’Brien, but everybody called me Tommy. Everybody except for my old man, who didn’t call me much of anything, and my mom, who called me “asshole,” “little cock-sucker,” and “shit-for-brains.” I was white trash from white trash, and I admit it. Around here, you’ve got no choice. Everybody in this town is trash, and everyone is poor. The only difference is the color of their skin, what they drive, and whether they listen to metal, rap, or country music. If you live out in the suburbs, you’ve got a chance, but here in town it’s always the same story.

Hanover used to be a pretty happening place. But when the jobs started disappearing, it changed. First we lost the cigar factory, then the box plant, and even the recycling center. The shoe factory moved to Mexico and the paper mill relocated to North Carolina. Then the mall shut down after the big chain stores pulled out. Eventually, we were left with the foundry and not much else. If you were good at bending a wrench, you could get a job at one of the garages or dealerships. If you wanted to be a telemarketer, there were still a handful of those jobs available. But most people either had to commute out of town or stay here and work in the foundry or some other meaningless minimum-wage gig. Even commuting didn’t offer much hope these days. It seemed like the rest of the country was starting to get hit hard as well. The town used to be alive. Now industrial ghosts haunted every street and corner. The skeletons of dead factories rusted where they stood, providing shelter for the homeless and the rats. The abandoned buildings were depressing and stank of hopelessness and despair. They reminded me of my father. He’d stunk of the same things.

My old man was a horrible father. A drunk. He worked night shift at the foundry, then hit the bars that catered to third-shift drunks like him. He’d drink every morning from six till about noon, then he’d come home and smack my mom and me around until he went to sleep. Then he’d get back up and start the whole routine over again. I hated the bastard. My earliest memory is of me biting his leg to get his attention, and him kicking me across the kitchen floor. That pretty much set the tone for our relationship.

He died when I was seven. Skipped town with a waitress from the VFW, and two days later their car was hit by a train down in Westminster. Killed them both instantly. I remember thinking that something was wrong with me because I didn’t feel sad. There was no crying, and the people on Mom’s soap operas always cried when someone died. But I didn’t cry for him, not then and not since.

Mom didn’t work, so we lived on WIC stamps, government cheese (which makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the world) and the paychecks from her string of boyfriends. She dated truckers, mostly. Some of them were assholes. Some weren’t. I liked one guy in particular; we called him Swampy Pete because he was from Mississippi. He used to bring me comic books back from his long hauls across the country, and he taught me how to play baseball and how to fish. I was pissed off when Mom dumped him for a cement truck driver with no front teeth. I didn’t speak to her for a week, and to get back at her, I busted out our picture window with a baseball bat. She beat my ass for that one.

When I was sixteen, Mom got breast cancer. She died halfway through the treatments. But it wasn’t the cancer or the treatments that killed her. One of her boyfriends did. He caught her slow dancing at the bar with another man. He waited for her outside, and after last call, when she and her new friend came stumbling out, drunk off their asses and laughing it up, he shot them both. Mom got it in the stomach and didn’t die right away, so he shot her again. And again. And again. Then he killed himself. Sucked on a gunmetal dick and pulled the trigger as the cops surrounded him.

I cried that time. I cried a lot. After the funeral, I lived with my friend John and his parents until we graduated, since my grandparents were long dead and I didn’t have any aunts or uncles.

* * *


While I was lost in thought, the toothpick popped out of the stereo. I bent over, feeling around for it, and almost slammed into a telephone pole. It would have been ironic, dying like that. In a way, it would have been like what happened to my mother. But I swerved, found the toothpick, and jammed it back into place.

I drove by my old high school and stopped for a moment back behind the gym. I saw myself, sixteen and hanging out in that very spot, cutting class and smoking cigarettes and selling weed to the jocks and the National Honor Society kids. John used to chill there with me. We’d known each other since first grade, grown up together, gotten in trouble together. Now the two of us, along with our friend Sherm, worked together and drank together at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights.

Cancer. Terminal cancer. Growing at an alarming rate. One month to live, probably… I was going to have to tell John. He would have to watch over Michelle and T.J. for me. I took another look at the school. That was where I’d met Michelle. Where we’d first started dating. How was I going to tell her? I couldn’t. There was no way. It would destroy her. Eventually, I replaced Dr. Dre with Tupac, and continued on down the road. Snubbing a cigarette out in the ashtray, I coughed, felt something loosen in my throat, caught it in my hand, and looked. My palm was slick with blood and saliva. Nothing new—that had been going on for weeks. But now I knew why. Before this, I’d figured it was just a sinus infection. Lots of guys get them from the foundry dust.

I wiped my hand on my pants as I drove by Genova’s Italian Restaurant. They had the best subs in the fucking world; fresh rolls piled high with meat and cheese and veggies. I was definitely going to miss those. I was going to miss a lot of things.

On my way out of town, I passed by the big hill that John and I used to sled down every winter when we were kids. Past the newsstand where I’d gotten my first summer job, delivering weekly newspapers (I’d toss them all in a Dumpster behind the Laundromat and collect my pay from the newsstand owner—lasted three weeks before he caught on). Past the bowling alley, where Michelle and I would go sometimes, when we could find a babysitter for Tommy Junior (I haven’t told you much about T.J. yet—but I will. It just hurts to talk about it, you know?). Past the Fire Hall, where we had our wedding reception. Past the movie theater that still showed The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight on Saturdays. Past the strip mall and the fast-food joints.

Past my whole world. My entire existence. The place I’d known for twenty-five years. It wasn’t much, but I liked it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d liked it until that moment. I mean, I hated this fucking town; the smell of the foundry hung over everything and the dirt from it coated our cars, and the people here just seemed so beaten. They looked tired and worn-out. They didn’t wish for a better life, because they didn’t know that one was possible. All they knew was taxes and late charges and shutoff notices and interest and child support payments. The town was full of churches and temples: Take your pick—Catholic, Episcopalian, Jewish, Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Baptist, we even had a Mormon temple. But despite all those choices of worship, the town had no faith. No belief. The only thing the people of Hanover believed in was that no matter how bad things were, something worse was lurking around the corner. I’ve got to admit, I thought this way too. I called it my “Theory of Gravity”—no matter how high you flew, gravity was there to pull your ass back down and smash you to bits. Everything was so run-down—the buildings, the people, the cars—everything. But despite all that, right then, I loved it. I loved it all.

I cruised out of town, took Dogtown Road, and drove through the woods and up to the top of The Hill. We called it The Hill because you could see the entire town from the top of it. I parked, turned off the truck, and just sat there, looking down on everything. I’d always wanted to see more of the world, but I’d never had the chance. Now I never would. This was my world, this town, these woods and fields. They were my world and not for much longer. Michelle and I had always talked about going on vacation; something within a day’s drive—maybe a trip to Washington, DC, to see the White House and let T.J. gawk at the dinosaur bones in the Smithsonian, or head down to Baltimore to visit the Inner Harbor and take T.J. to the National Aquarium. We’d never had the money to do it though, and even if we had, the foundry paid me at the end of the year for any unused vacation time—and that money came in handy. I found myself wishing now that we’d gone, that we’d visited the museums and the attractions. I imagined lifting T.J. up to see the sharks at the aquarium, or maybe holding Michelle around the waist and staring at the nation’s capitol at nighttime from our hotel balcony, and looking out at all the lights. She liked romantic stuff like that, and to be honest, so did I (though I’d never admit it to John or Sherm—especially not to Sherm). Another headache kicked in then, this one so bad that it made my teeth hurt. I tried cracking the joints in my neck and rubbing my temples, but it refused to go away. Resolved to suffer, I got out of the truck and stood at the top of the hill, stepping to the edge and silently watching my world below. A breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, and I thought about how it felt on my skin, that cool air. It felt good. It felt so damn good. I didn’t want it to end—just wanted that wind to keep blowing forever. I would miss the breeze when it was gone. I can’t describe it. It was just one of those little things we all take for granted, you know? We never think about the air we’re breathing or how we actually breathe it—our lungs working twenty-four/seven without us ever consciously willing them to.

But the breeze never dies, does it? It just moves on, unlike us. Eventually we stop moving. I watched the treetops sway in the wind. The leaves were new and green. Just a few months ago, everything had been white and brown and barren. Now the snow was gone, and the whole countryside was alive. A dandelion grew at my feet, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Without thinking, I plucked it from the ground and brought it to my nose—killing it. For a second, I felt guilty about that. I couldn’t smell its scent at all so I let it slip from my fingers.

* * *


When I was a kid, one of my mom’s boyfriends was a big Iron Maiden fan. He’d listen to them all the time while working on his car or puttering around the house. Being a hip-hop fan, I was never into heavy metal, but a snatch of lyric came back to me now: “As soon as you’re born, you’re dying.” I hadn’t understood the line at the time, and he’d explained to me that from the very moment we’re born, our cells begin to break down, effectively starting the dying process. It continues all of our lives, until we’re old and gray. It was happening inside me as I stood there on the hill, except that while my good cells were dying, bad cells were growing; growing at an alarming rate, according to the doctor.

I glanced down at the ground. Michelle and I had once made love on that very spot when we were in high school. We’d stopped coming to The Hill after we got married, but sometimes we’d joke about dropping by again, just for old times’ sake. Now we never would. That was when the full enormity of it sank in, hitting me with the impact of an airplane slamming into the ground. I sank to my knees.

Soon, I wouldn’t feel the wind in my hair and see the green leaves sprouting or the dandelions blooming. I wouldn’t feel the sun or be able to watch the clouds floating by overhead. I would never attend my high school reunion and laugh at those same National Honor Society shitheads who I’d sold pot to, the same ones who were working in fast-food joints or selling used cars now. Michelle and I wouldn’t be going on vacation, or even to the bowling alley, and John and Sherm were going to have to hang out by themselves at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights, and my foreman was going to have to find somebody else to run the Number Two molding machine at the foundry, because I wasn’t going to be doing it for much longer. I wouldn’t be standing there for eight to ten hours a day, wincing every time a hot piece of metal landed on my arm, or picking foundry dirt out of my teeth and ears, or rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet because they hurt from standing so long, and even that I would miss because feeling pain at least meant that I was still alive.

I was never going to catch the new X-Men movie or watch the Orioles make it back to the World Series or see the Steelers go to the Super Bowl and kick some ass. I would never find out what happens next season on 24 or hear the new Wu Tang Clan disc. I’d never take T.J. sledding down the same hill John and I had rocketed down as kids. Never know what Michelle was getting me for my birthday this year, because there would be no more birthdays or anniversaries or Christmases, because no, Virginia, there is no fucking Santa Claus and even if there was, the only thing the fat fuck would leave in my stocking would be a lump of coal, shaped like a tumor and growing at an alarming rate.

I coughed more blood and stood back up. I was scared and my hands shook so bad I could barely light my next cigarette. But eventually I got it lit, so that was okay. The nicotine coursed through my body like rocket fuel.

Never again would I stand in the doorway to T.J.’s bedroom late at night and just watch him sleeping, mystified and speechless at the sheer power of the love I had for him. I wouldn’t hold my wife while she slept next to me, stroking her hair and breathing her scent and feeling her warmth beneath the sheets. I would never hear them tell me they loved me, and I wouldn’t be able to tell them. At that moment, I wanted to tell them so bad. I got back in the truck, drove out to the cemetery, and visited my mother’s grave at the other side of town. It had been years since I’d stopped by, and it took me a while to find the tombstone because I couldn’t remember exactly where it was. There were no flowers or trinkets covering the spot, and brown, withered weeds had grown up around the stone.

“Hi, Mom.”

I noticed the wind had stopped blowing.

I stood there for a long time, smoking and thinking, and dying. I talked to Mom but she didn’t talk back—just like it had been when she was alive.

After a while, I got back in the truck and went home.


THREE


It was dark by the time I got home, and the lights were on in the trailer, their soft yellow glow shining out onto our scraggly crabgrass-and-dandelion yard. Our place wasn’t much; just a double-wide with shitty brown vinyl siding, and an old wooden deck that was starting to sag in the middle as the untreated lumber slowly rotted away. The trailer sat on a quarter acre lot with one anorexic tree and a prefabricated toolshed that John and Sherm helped me put together two summers ago. I’d always said that when I grew up, I wouldn’t live in a trailer—but of course, I’d been wrong.

I sat there in the darkness, smoking my cigarette down to the filter and trying to get my emotions in check. It was a struggle. Finally, I went inside.

When I walked through the door, Michelle had just finished giving T.J. a bath. She was sitting on the couch reading an Erica Spindler novel, and he was plopped down in front of the television, watching SpongeBob SquarePants and getting Goldfish cracker crumbs all over his pajamas.

“Hey, baby.” She looked up from her book. “How was your day? You’re a little late. I was starting to get worried.”

I shrugged out of my jacket and flopped down beside her.

“I went back to work after the doctor’s appointment. Worked a little overtime to make up the hours.”

“Daddy!” T.J. flew across the room and jumped in my lap, peppering me with wet, Goldfish cracker kisses.

“What’s up little man?” I ruffled his hair and hugged back, squeezing him tight. When I look back on all of this now, I think that moment with T.J. in my lap, more than anything, was the toughest. That’s the one that almost destroyed me.

I swallowed hard and forced a smile.

“Were you a good boy today?”

He nodded. “Guess what? At day care, Missy Harper said she liked me, and I told her she could be my girlfriend, but Maria is my girlfriend too.” He shoved another fistful of crackers in his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a chipmunk’s.

“T.J., don’t stuff so much in your mouth,” Michelle scolded. “I thought Anna Lopez was your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and what about that little blond girl, Kimberly? Didn’t she like you too?”

“They’re all my girlfriends.” He grinned around a mouthful of half-chewed crackers, then jumped down from my lap.

“My little Mack Daddy is a player.” I laughed. “Like father, like son, right babe?”

Michelle punched me in the shoulder, and T.J. giggled.

“So what’d the doctor say?”

My mouth opened but nothing came out. I wanted to tell her. Believe me, I wanted to tell her more than anything in the world. I was fucking scared, and Michelle could have made it better. She wasn’t just the woman I loved. She was my best friend. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt her that way. I couldn’t bring her world crashing down. Maybe I just needed time to process it, but at that moment, I couldn’t let Michelle know.

I’ve often wondered if things would have been different if I had.

“Everything’s cool,” I lied. The words felt stuck in my throat. “Just a bug. Must have picked it up at work.”

“A bug? You’ve been sick for a couple weeks, Tommy. And you’ve lost weight too. You don’t look good.”

“I know, I know. But he said it wasn’t anything to worry about. Besides, I needed to drop a few pounds anyway. Those baggy jeans weren’t getting so baggy anymore.”

One of my Mom’s boyfriends used to say, “If you’re gonna lie, Tommy, then lie big.” That was what I did. I lied real fucking big. It was a preview of the days to come.

“Did the doctor give you a prescription?”

“Yeah.” I dug myself deeper. “But I didn’t get it filled. We ain’t got the money right now. I’ll do it next week.”

“Bullshit.”

I winced. We’d both gotten into the bad habit of cursing in front of T.J., but Michelle was worse at it than me. I glanced over at him, but he seemed oblivious, absorbed in the cartoon again.

“Not bullshit, Michelle,” I lowered my voice. “After tomorrow, I don’t get paid for another two weeks. Tomorrow’s check has to pay for the truck inspection and yours has to go to groceries and day care. The credit card payment is already late too.”

“So is the electric. It came today.”

“Shit.”

She frowned, then brightened.

“We’ve got my bingo money. You can get your prescription filled with that.”

Every Friday night, while I was drinking down at Murphy’s Place with John and Sherm, Michelle dropped T.J. off at her parents for a few hours and played bingo at the Fire Hall with her girlfriends. Most of the time she lost, but occasionally she’d win, and she kept that money in a coffee can under her side of the bed. She was saving it up to take her Mom on a bus trip to New York City, one of those day-trips to see a musical and do some shopping. She’d been squirreling the winnings away for over two years.

“No way, babe. That’s your money. I can do without the medicine for a while. I’ll just take aspirin instead.”

“You’ve been taking aspirin, and they’re not helping.”

“Aspirin are good for my heart. The commercials say so.”

“Tommy…”

“Goddamn it, Michelle, I said no!”

Silence. I hadn’t meant to snap, and I think I was just as shocked as she was. I hated the wounded look in her eyes. Immediately, I felt like an asshole. My temples began to throb, heralding the onset of another headache. My teeth hurt, and I fought back a cough, knowing there would be blood in it. I could taste it at the back of my throat.

T.J. whimpered, his cartoon forgotten, and Michelle looked wounded.

“I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry…”

She shrugged.

I got up from the couch, picked T.J. up, and gave him another squeeze.

“Daddy didn’t mean to yell,” I told him. “I just had a really bad day and I’m a little grumpy. That’s all.”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” he said, then hopped down.

“I’m sorry too,” she said, softening. “It’s sweet of you to think of me and Mom’s trip, but you need to take care of yourself, Tommy. You need to think of T. J and me. What would we do if you got really sick?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, I just shook my head. The pain exploded behind my eyes and I fought to keep from showing it. A metallic blood taste welled up in my mouth. I collapsed back onto the couch.

“You’re right,” I croaked. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow. But we’re not using your bingo money and that’s final. I’ll see if I can slide on the inspection. I can put some mud over the sticker so the cops don’t see it.”

“Will that work?”

“It has before. It’ll be okay as long as it doesn’t rain and wash the mud off.”

I got up and walked unsteadily to the kitchen, feeling Michelle’s eyes on me. She knew I didn’t feel good, but she also knew better than to keep harping on the subject. Instead, she put her book down. “T.J., it’s time for bed.”

He turned to face her, and said, “Bullshit.”

There was a brief pause. Then we both laughed, and what little tension remained in the room dissipated.

“What did you just say?”

“I don’t want to go to bed,” T.J. pouted. “I want to watch SpongeBob.”

“You’ve seen this one a million times,” Michelle said firmly. “It’s time for bed. And don’t use that word anymore.”

“What word?”

“The bad word you just said a second ago.”

“What bad word?” He was grinning now. “You and Daddy said it.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

“But why?”

Michelle rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Never mind.”

She scooped him up from the floor and carried him to me.

“Tell your father good night.”

He held his arms out. “Good night, Daddy.”

I took him from her and hugged him tight against me. He kissed my cheek and wrinkled his nose.

“My whiskers bothering you?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “but your face is wet, Daddy.”

I realized then that I’d been crying. I hadn’t known.

“Daddy’s been sweating. I worked hard today. You go on to bed now.”

I kissed him and he kissed me back again, carefully avoiding the wet patches this time. Then we did our familiar, nightly ritual.

“We boys?” I asked with a grin.

“Yeah boyyyyy, we boys!”

“Night homeboy.”

He giggled. “Night homey.”

I smiled, and gave him another kiss.

“Nighty-night. Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, little man. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Michelle carried him down the hallway, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator door and paused, letting the draft of cold air wash over me. I pulled out a can of beer and shut the door. The pop of the tab sounded like a gunshot in the silence. My ears rang, and in my head, I heard Michelle asking me again what would happen to her and T.J. if I got really sick. The throbbing in my temples got worse. I put the cold can against my head; letting it numb me until I felt better, then drained it. Cheap beer had never tasted so good. I grabbed the aspirin bottle from atop the fridge, shook four out into my palm, and washed them down with another can of beer. Down the hall, Michelle was reading T.J. a bedtime story—The Lorax by Dr. Seuss. That had always been my favorite when I was a kid, and now it was T.J.’s favorite too. The only difference was that he had a mother who actually read it to him. I’d had to read mine for myself, under the blankets with a flashlight. Michelle was a good mother, and a good wife too. I loved her so damn much, and when I saw how T.J. adored her, it made me love her even more. I never cheated on her, not even once. I know that doesn’t sound like such a big thing. You’re not supposed to cheat on your wife. But trust me; in this town, everybody, and I mean everybody, is banging somebody else. Despite the odds, I never stepped out on her, and I know she didn’t fuck around on me either. I knew that I was going to marry her the first time I saw her, halfway between homeroom and Mr. Shue’s eleventh-grade English class. She had long, blond hair, blue eyes, a body that was the bomb—and a smile that seemed to glow. Sounds corny, but fuck—I’m no poet. I only know that there really is love at first sight, because I felt it then. I was living proof. Or dying proof, I guess.

Of course, she’d hated me at first. She thought I was an immature jackass, and to her credit, she was right. But I persisted. It took me two months just to get her to agree to go out on a date with me. We went to the movies, then to the diner. Afterward we drove up to The Hill in my Toyota (the same car that was repossessed a few years ago when we fell behind on the payments). That was the first time I ever made love. I’m not talking about fucking. I’d had sex with plenty of girls by then. No, this was something different. Neither of us were virgins (in this town, if you don’t lose your virginity by the time you’re fourteen, you might as well become a priest or a nun) but we were both nervous. I wanted it to be good for her—I mean really good. She didn’t orgasm, I think because we were both so self-conscious. I figured that I’d blown it, but she said she didn’t care, and sure enough, we went out again the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. And we never stopped.

Unlike most of our classmates, we didn’t get married right out of high school. By the time we’d graduated, I had decided that I wanted to go into the military, college not being an option. For me, going to college would have been like somebody saying, “Hey Tommy, would you like a trip to Mars?” So the military was really the only way to go. Figured I could do four years and get money for college that way. I drove to York and talked to the recruiters, and ended up deciding on the Marines, but two piss tests that showed positive for marijuana later, I was back on the street looking for a job.

When I was young, I’d always sworn that I would never be like my father, that I wouldn’t be a slave to that dirty foundry all of my life. Even if my old man hadn’t been a total fuck-up, the foundry would still have screwed up our lives. Growing up, John’s dad had been really cool, and the foundry still affected their family. His dad had worked seven days a week shift work, and was never home, not even on Christmas Day. He busted his ass for his family, a family that he never got to spend time with, and died of a heart attack three years ago, seven years away from retirement.

I wasn’t going to go out like that. I promised myself that I wouldn’t. I’d move, go to York or Harrisburg or maybe even Baltimore, and find a real job. Just leave this town and never look back. But Michelle was there, and so was John, and so was everything else I knew. Like most people, I ended up staying. I guess I never really had a choice. I wonder if anybody in this town ever does.

I wonder now if things would have turned out the way they did had I left. The bank robbery and what happened with Benjy and the others. But I guess it doesn’t matter. If I had to do it all over again, I’d stay, even knowing what I know now. Michelle was worth it. She and T.J. were worth everything. They were the only two things that mattered.

After getting turned down by the Marines, I started out bagging groceries, but that didn’t last long. Eventually, like it or not, I got a job at the foundry, because it was either that or work part-time at the bowling alley or one of the convenience stores or fast-food joints—or collect unemployment. Michelle and I moved in together, living in a tiny second-floor apartment over the hardware store. Six months later, we got married. Her parents lent us the money for a down payment on the trailer and John and Sherm helped us move in. We bought a big-screen TV we couldn’t afford, Michelle got a job at the Minit-Mart, I picked up some extra shifts at the foundry, T.J. came along, we got deeper in debt, the trailer depreciated in value like all trailers do, and everything was right with the world.

Then I got cancer. End of story. Fade to black…

I wondered what Michelle’s life would have been like if we hadn’t hooked up. Would she have gone to New York and become an editor for some big publishing house? Or maybe moved to Philadelphia and opened some bookstore-coffeehouse-type thing? She loved to read, and I know she would have been good at something like that. Instead, she’d settled for T.J. and me; picked this run-down trailer over a fancy apartment looking out over Times Square. She’d chosen us and she’d chosen this town, and I loved her for it.

I heard her in the bedroom, reading. She was just getting to the good part.

“And at that very moment, we heard a loud whack! From outside in the fields came a sickening smack of an axe on a tree. Then we heard the tree fall.”

You need to think of T.J. and me. What would we do if you got really sick?

Heard the tree fall…

The pain came barreling back then, crashing through my head so fast that I almost screamed. My stomach churned. I lurched into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the convulsions began. I turned on the exhaust fan so that Michelle wouldn’t hear me, and collapsed in front of the toilet.

I was choking. I couldn’t breathe, and my vision blurred. This wasn’t like before. Something pink and black and solid rushed up from inside me and splashed into the bowl, leaving a trail in the water.

What the fuck?

I’d just thrown up a piece of myself.

I knelt in front of the toilet for a very long time and just stared at the debris. I’d never been more scared in all my life than I was at that moment.

* * *


When I came out, after gargling with half a bottle of mouthwash, Michelle was back sitting on the sofa, engrossed in her book.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just another headache is all. It’ll go away.”

“You were in there for a long time.”

“I had to take a monster shit. You don’t want to go in there for at least an hour. Better not light up a cigarette either!”

“Tommy,” she gasped, smiling, “you’re horrible!”

“Hey”—I smiled back—“you asked.”

We sat there for a while and she told me about her day. Irritating customers buying lottery tickets and paying for cigarettes in loose pennies and her manager’s latest personal crisis and the joke of the day that the potato chip delivery guy had told them. The most boring shit in the world, and usually I tuned it out, but not then. Not this time. I wanted to listen, wanted to hear it all. Wanted to know every detail. Wanted her to know that I loved her and that I was really interested in what she had to say.

The phone rang, interrupting her story of what happened when the lottery ticket machine broke down. We both looked at it.

“It’s probably my mom,” she groaned.

I reached for the phone. “She’s going to wake T.J. up, calling this late.”

“I know. I’ve told her.”

I picked it up on the third ring, and said “Hello?”

There was a pause, followed by an electronic whir, and then a nasal, female voice that I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Hello, may I please speak with Mr. Thomas O’Brien?”

“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested. Put us on your Do Not Call list.”

“I’m not selling anything, sir.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Are you Mr. Thomas O’Brien?”

I sighed, exasperated.

“Yes. Now who the hell are you?”

“Mr. O’Brien, I’m calling from Gulf Financial Credit Services, in regards to your Visa account.”

“I don’t have a credit card with Gulf Financial.”

“Yes, I know that, sir. We’re a collection agency, and we’re handling your account on behalf of Visa. Are you aware that your account has exceeded the credit limit and is currently past due?”

“Well no shit, Sherlock. That’s why we haven’t been using it.”

“When do you plan on making a payment, Mr. O’Brien?”

“When do you plan on getting a real job?” I countered. “Don’t call here again, you bitch!”

I slammed the phone down, and immediately felt better. Fucking around with telemarketers. There’s nothing like it in the whole world.

“Who was that?” Michelle asked.

“A bill collector.”

“Which one?”

“The credit card.” I sighed. “Guess they want their money too, just like the insurance company and the phone company.”

“Well, they’ll just have to wait. We need to pay the electric company with your next check in two weeks. Like I said before, they sent us a shutoff notice. And don’t forget, we’re behind on the mortgage.”

“But we need that to pay for the phone. Guess I won’t get the medicine after all—and don’t start on me about it!”

“But you have to.”

“I don’t see how. Jesus, I wish we’d hit the lottery!”

“It’s okay, Tommy,” she soothed. “We’ll get by. We’ll figure something out. We always do. T.J. and I can always count on you.”

She stood up and wrapped her arms around me. When she hugged me, I almost sobbed. Instead, I hugged her back and bit my lip, fighting to keep my emotions in check.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” I whispered into her ear. “I really do, Michelle. I want you to know that.”

She pulled back, giving me a puzzled look.

“What’s wrong, Tommy?”

I shrugged, fighting back the tears.

“I don’t know. Long-ass day, is all. Long, long day…”

“You’re tired. Let’s go to bed, baby.”

I nodded. My face was buried in her hair, and it smelled so good. I took a deep breath, inhaling her scent.

Holding hands, we walked down the hall, undressed, and slipped beneath the covers. The cool sheets felt good on my skin. We cuddled in the glow of the television. Within minutes, Michelle was breathing softly, sound asleep. I was always amazed at how easily she could fall asleep. I watched her for a long time, the rise and fall of her breasts, the way her forehead wrinkled up as she dreamed. This was when she was most beautiful.

I smiled, content.

Then I remembered I was dying. The fact popped back into my head from out of nowhere. Most people don’t think about dying, especially at the age of twenty-five. The cop walking his beat isn’t dwelling on it, even though he knows that there’s a chance it could happen to him every night. The drunken driver isn’t pondering the ramifications right before he flies through the windshield and becomes a bloody skid mark on the road. For people like that, death happens quickly. It may be there in the back of their head, knowing that it could happen, but they aren’t thinking about it at every second.

What about the everyday schmuck? Do they think about dying when they get up in the morning, take their shower, and spill coffee on themselves during their commute? Do they dwell on it while the boss is hollering at them? Fuck no. Of course not. Human beings don’t walk around thinking about death because we don’t really believe that it’s going to happen to us. Sure, we know that it will happen eventually. Maybe sometimes we even stop and consider for a moment that it could be today. But we don’t know for sure. We’re never one hundred percent positive. Let me tell you, when you know for sure that it’s going to happen, and that it will happen soon, you can’t think about anything else. I tried to, though. I tried to change the subject with myself. I thought about our debt, and how much we owed, and I wondered how the hell we’d ever get out of it. Wondered how Michelle and T.J. would survive it after I was dead. Would they be forced into bankruptcy and living on the street? I watched her sleeping and thought about T.J. and the Lorax and the sound of the axe cutting down the last Truffula tree. The very last one. And after it was gone, everything in the Lorax’s forest had turned to shit. I knew I had to do something, but at that point I wasn’t sure what. The volume on the television was turned down low, so it wouldn’t wake T.J. up. There was a cop show on, and in it, three guys were robbing a bank.

I fell asleep watching it. It looked pretty easy on TV.

I wondered if it was that easy in real life.


FOUR


So, let me get this straight. You’ve got hair on your dick? Not on your balls but on your dick?

On the shaft?”

“Yeah.” John took another bite of his bologna sandwich. “Doesn’t everybody? You mean that you guys don’t?”

Sherm and I arched our eyebrows at each other, and after a second’s pause we started howling. I sprayed soda across the lunchroom table, I laughed so hard.

“John,” I wiped the soda up with a napkin, “how many guys have you seen in porno movies with hair on their fucking dicks?”

He shrugged. “I just figured they shaved, dog. A lot of those guys shave their balls, you know.”

Still howling, Sherm turned to the table behind us.

“Yo, Louis, check this shit out. John’s got hair on his dick!”

Louis, who ran the Number Four line, looked perplexed.

“What, you mean like around the balls? Don’t we all got that?”

Sherm nodded at John. “Tell ’em.”

Frowning, John’s ears began to turn red.

“I’ve got hair growing up the sides of my dick. It goes about halfway up. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

The entire lunchroom exploded in laughter. John’s ears turned completely scarlet.

“I’m gonna start calling you Carpet Dick.” Sherm chuckled.

That was pretty much how it went every day. We’d file into the lunchroom at twelve, head back out at twenty-five after—just enough time to take a piss or call home before the bell rang and we had to be back in our work areas. Sometimes we talked about sports; how the Orioles and the Ravens and the Steelers were sucking, or listened to the various NASCAR camps debate the drivers; who’d forced who off the track and whether Ford was better than Chevy. Other times it was swimsuit models and porno starlets, or music, or hunting, or the latest movie, or what happened at the strip joint on the edge of town. In between these topics, we razzed each other constantly because that’s what guys do.

I bring this up, not because it’s important that my best friend was a mutant with a hairy dick, but because it was the last good time I can honestly remember before things turned to complete shit. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d been diagnosed with cancer; told that I was dying and that there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it, thrown up a very large and disgusting piece of myself in the toilet, lied to my wife, and learned that the credit card was shut down, the electricity was about to follow, and we couldn’t afford to pay for any of it. But it got worse. It got a lot fucking worse.

The whole day had been progressively bad. I overslept and was almost late for work. I felt like shit. Part of it was depression. It’s not every morning that you wake up and remember that you’re dying. But that’s what I did. I got up, looked at the alarm clock, cursed, shuffled to the bathroom, pissed, and as I was shaking it off, I remembered.

But it wasn’t just the depression. My head was killing me. I swallowed four aspirin with my first coffee, and they had no effect. I stopped on the way to work, bought another cup of coffee and some cigarettes, and puked the coffee back up a few minutes later. The cigarettes tasted like dried dog shit, but I smoked them anyway. My coughing fits came in spurts, and each time one struck, my head felt worse. All morning long, I hocked bloody phlegm into black piles of foundry dirt and covered them up with my boot so that nobody would see them. The heat was bad. By nine in the morning, the temperature inside the foundry usually hovered around ninety-five degrees. That morning was no exception, especially around the furnace and ladle areas, where it was considerably higher. I ran the Number Two line, which was about fifty feet from the furnace. It was scorching in my area. The company provided us with free sports drinks that they kept in big coolers at different areas on the floor. I drank and drank, but it still seemed to sweat right through me. I felt like I had a fever. My mouth tasted funny too—a sickening, sour mixture of sports drink and tobacco and bloody saliva. Sweat ran into my eyes beneath my safety goggles and my skin felt tight and itchy.

The foundry wasn’t just hot; it was dirty and loud too. All day long, forklifts rumbled, dumping hoppers full of scrap metal into the furnaces. Every time they backed up, there was a deafening BEEP BEEP BEEP that made my temples throb. People paged each other over the intercom all day long. Each breath brought more dirt into my lungs. When I went home at the end of each day, our shower turned black as I scrubbed the iron particles and grime from my pores. I was never completely clean until the weekend, when I had two extra days to get the grit out of my system. My arms were a crazy quilt of pockmarks, where burning flecks of metal had spattered them over the last five years. I used to watch the old-timers, wondering if they had started like me. Most of them had ugly burn marks that put my little scars to shame. All of them suffered from a terrible, racking cough; what we jokingly referred to as “black lung.” I remember my old man had it, before he ran off with the waitress and did us all the favor of getting killed. 

That morning, while I stood there sweating and aching, I wondered if maybe the foundry had given me cancer. Maybe Michelle and I could sue them. Then I lit up another cigarette and decided that it didn’t really matter one way or the other where I’d gotten the cancer. The Number Two line mold machine—specifically, a ten-foot-by-fifteen-foot steel-and-hydraulic monstrosity—was called The Hunter, since that was the name of the company that manufactured it and because “compression mold maker” was too much of a mouthful for some of our more illiterate coworkers. It compressed tons of black sand into small four-foot-by-four-foot block molds. These blocks had a pattern inside of them. In my case, the pattern was of a power steering gear. The molds exited the machine and traveled down a roller belt to the pouring department, where they were filled with molten metal and sent to the next department via conveyor.

The sand entered the machine through a funnel at the top. Beneath this funnel was a small, cramped space where the pattern was kept. When the sand poured in, the pattern, along with the other three walls of the space, would squeeze together and form the mold. Around ten that morning, I was wedged into the space between the pattern and the walls with a socket wrench in hand. I had to change patterns because we were starting production on a different mold after lunch. The machine was locked out, a safety procedure that involved the operator shutting off the power and putting a big red tag on the power button, warning everyone that turning it back on would be a very bad idea.

Except that Juan didn’t know it would be a bad idea because Juan couldn’t read English, including the warning in English on the lockout tag.

Juan was a good guy. He threw darts with his crew down at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights, was willing to trade lunches, and had been teaching me to swear in Spanish. We’d gotten as far as Chocho, Chíngate, Chinga tu madre, and Hijo de la gran puta. Now I was learning how to use them in a complete sentence.

That morning, he stopped by my machine, noticed my line of molds was getting low, looked around, and didn’t see me inside the machine. Figuring that I was in the bathroom or on break, and being the good guy that he was, Juan decided to help me get caught up on production. He removed the lockout tag and turned the power on.

I was still inside when I heard the hydraulics kick in. The motor shrieked to life a second later. I immediately dropped my socket wrench and sprang for the funnel. Juan pressed the first button and I heard a heavy rustling as two tons of sand filled the hopper above my head. I shouted, but with his earplugs and the noise from the furnace, he never heard me. Clearing the funnel, I grasped the angle iron and pulled myself out. I slid down the ladder, and he finally noticed me cursing at him in both English and Spanish.

“Juan! What the fuck are you doing, man? You could have killed me!”

“Yo, I’m sorry Tommy!” He held his hands up in front of him. “I didn’t know you were in there. I figured I would—”

“Save it, man! For fuck’s sake, dog, what the hell were you thinking? Don’t you know what this is?” I fingered the lockout tag.

“I couldn’t read it.”

“Well you better fucking learn!” I grabbed him by the shirt, and his eyes grew wide. He pressed against me, and I shoved him backward, slamming him into the machine. His teeth clicked together, and I saw the anger building inside him. It was boiling inside of me as well.

“Let go of me, puta!” he shouted.

“Chinga tu madre, motherfucker! I’ve got a fucking wife and kid, man.” I ranted. “You want them to have a husband? Huh, bitch? You want them to have a father?”

He brought his knee up to my groin, but I blocked him. Enraged, I threw him to the ground. Juan landed in a pile of greasy shop rags and rolled to his feet, fists clenched. Growling, he circled toward me. I came in low, feinted left, and plowed into him with a right. He went down again.

“I. Could. Have. Died.” Each word was short and clipped, and punctuated with my fists.

“Don’t hit me no more, Tommy! I’m sorry, yo!”

He flung his hands up in front of his face, and I realized what I was doing. What the hell was wrong with me? I was fucking dying anyway! Why take it out on Juan? Was this one of the seven steps of coming to grips with my terminal illness, beating the shit out of my coworkers?

I dropped my fists to my side and stood there panting.

“I’m sorry man. You just scared me is all. Dammit, Juan. Look for these things from now on, all right?”

He nodded, mumbled something in Spanish, then let me help him up. He limped away toward the bathroom, still muttering under his breath. I finished changing the pattern, then zoned out till lunch, not thinking, not speaking. An automaton.

* * *


After we were done teasing John about his hairy dick, we filed out of the lunchroom. I was on my way to take a leak when Charlie had me paged.

“Thomas O’Brien, please report to the office. Thomas O’Brien, please report to Mr. Strauser’s office. Thank you.”

Charlie Strauser was the plant manager. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a decent guy. I got the feeling that when he had to give us shit, he was just following the shit dished out on him from above. And you know what they say about shit and hills and the force of gravity. I knew what this was about—the fight with Juan. It had to be. Somebody saw us and reported it, or maybe the little fucker had decided to drop dime on me. I didn’t need this shit, and to be honest, I couldn’t see getting fired for it. Last year, Big Greg and Marty got into a knock-down, drag-out brawl over Dale Earnhardt Junior forcing another driver off the track, and Big Greg put Marty in the hospital for three days. But they didn’t lose their jobs. Still, at the very least, I’d get a few days’ suspension—probably without pay. And that paycheck was the one thing Michelle and I really needed right now.

I opened the door to the plant offices and stepped through it, savoring the air-conditioned coolness. The door swung shut behind me, and the silence was loud. Gone was the whine of the machines, the buzz of the grinders, the roaring furnaces. They’d been replaced by the quiet sounds of typing, and a phone ringing somewhere behind one of the closed doors. I walked down the hall, my boots leaving black footprints in my wake. Reaching Charlie’s office, I knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer, but I heard a voice inside, so I opened the door and peeked in.

Charlie was seated at the desk, his back to me while he talked on the phone. Without looking, he motioned for me to come in. I closed the door behind me, and stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Finally, I sat down in one of the oversized chairs and tried not to eavesdrop.

“No, I don’t think it’s what needs to be done. For Christ’s sake, Steve, you’re talking about half my work force. Half! And yet you don’t expect me to cut production. The night shift is shorthanded as it is, and attrition on the day shift always goes up in the summer…”

I tuned him out and looked around. On the desk was a family portrait; Charlie, his wife, and their two kids. Both looked about my age, maybe a little younger. Pencil holder from one of our vendors. Stapler. Big computer with the company logo flashing as a screen saver. Coffee mug, also with the company logo. A Far Side calendar. In-and-out basket. A few assorted other items. All in all, it was much cleaner than my work area.

But what really caught my eye was the wooden desk plaque. It read: I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.

“Fine,” Charlie continued. “That’s fine. No, I’m not being facetious, Steve. Whatever you say is how it goes. You’re the boss, right? And since you’re the boss, I’ll let you explain it to the media when they show up this afternoon.”

He slammed the phone down, then swiveled around in the chair to look at me. I froze, gaping in shock. His face was…

“Sorry about that, Tom. That was the main office.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Strauser.”

I stared at his face.

“Is it Tom, or Tommy, or Thomas? What do you prefer?”

“Tommy’s fine, sir.”

“I let your foreman know that I needed to see you, so he has somebody else running the Number Two machine.”

“Okay.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked like a character from a Marvel comic book. His skin was pale, and his face and neck were covered with red and blue lines, like somebody had drawn on his skin with a Magic Marker. He stared back at me, and I tried to tear my eyes away, but couldn’t.

“Cancer,” he said, and I jumped in my seat.

“W-what?”

“Cancer. I’ve got cancer, Tommy. The blue and red lines on my face and neck. You’re staring at them. Don’t worry; everyone else has as well. It’s part of my treatment.”

“Oh.” Speechless, I felt like I was back in the doctor’s office again. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Strauser.”

“Charlie, Tommy. Everybody calls me Charlie.”

“Well, that’s messed up, Charlie. I’m sorry to hear that you’re sick.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

He shrugged, and I felt like punching him in the face. How could he be so nonchalant? He had cancer, for fuck’s sake!

“The doctor’s pretty positive that they got it all. I’ve got a few more treatments, then we’ll know for sure, but I think that I’ll be sticking around a while longer. Somebody needs to run this place. And I’ve got a grandbaby on the way—our first. Don’t want to miss that!”

“Oh. Well that’s good.” I felt like puking. My fingers clenched the chair arms, digging deep. He was quiet for a moment. He shuffled some papers around on his desk, took a sip of coffee, and dropped a pen into the pencil holder. Then he sighed, sounding a lot like my doctor had before he’d delivered the bad news.

“Tommy, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Here it came…

“Look, Mr. Strauser, if this is about what happened with Juan, he was the one that—”

“Relax, Tommy. I heard what happened, and it sounds to me like you were justified—though don’t you dare quote me on that, because I’d deny it. Juan will be getting written up later today for not following safety procedures. But this isn’t about that.”

A new headache started up then, centered in my left temple and spreading like fire.

“Tommy, I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve been having some problems. The economy is down, and as a result, so is our production. You’ll recall a that few months ago we laid off everybody with three years or less tenure?”

I nodded, not liking where this was going.

“Well, that hasn’t had the desired effect that senior management hoped it would have. As the economy worsens, so does our profitability. So now they’ve made the decision to have another round of layoffs. This time it affects those employees with four to six years of tenure. Unfortunately, you fall into that group.”

“I—you’re laying me off?”

“I’m sorry, Tommy. I really am.”

“Shit!”

“It’s not just you, Tommy. I’ve got the unhappy duty of telling thirty-three more of your fellow workers this afternoon. It takes effect at the end of the shift today. Believe me, that’s not my decision. Management says studies show if you terminate an employee or lay them off on a Friday, there’s less chance of workplace violence. Not that I think we have to worry about that with any of you guys, but again, it’s not my choice.”

I sat there, speechless.

“You’ll need to turn in your time card, and any safety equipment or company tools that you have in your locker or at your machine.”

“Okay.”

He reached in a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and slid my paycheck across the desk to me.

“Here’s your check for this week and next week, as well as your severance pay and payment for your unused vacation time. I hope it will help.”

“I’m out of a job.” It wasn’t a question. I was just stating it out loud, trying to get used to the sound of it.

He lowered his head. “I’m sorry, son.”

“Damn. Well, I guess that’s it then.”

I started to rise, but he held up his hand.

“Tommy, wait a moment. Can I tell you something?”

I sat back down, nodding.

“I’ve worked here a long time. In fact, I started out on the Number Two line, just like you. Back then, we only had three lines total, and two men per line. Believe it or not, your father worked with me. Do you remember much about him?”

“I remember that he was an asshole.”

Charlie grinned. “That he was. That he was indeed. He was a drunk, and he liked to fight. I never got along with him, and neither did anybody else. In fact, when you applied here, I was hesitant to hire you. Like father, like son, you know? That’s what they say. Odds were you’d be an asshole too. But I did take you on, because we needed workers. I figured maybe you’d last a month before we had to fire you for calling in sick and missing days. Or maybe insubordination.”

I stared at him, listening.

“But we didn’t. You surprised me, Tommy, and after about six months, I realized just how unfair I’d been to prejudge you like that. You’re nothing like your father, and I want you to know that. You look like him, yes. God, you look so much like him that sometimes I almost call you by his name. But you’re not him. You’re a good man, and a good employee. Be proud of that. I’m very sorry to lose you. I’ve got to tell this to a lot of people today, but I wanted to tell you first. I felt that I owed you that much.”

“I appreciate it, Charlie. Thanks.”

“I know that right now things must seem pretty grim. But they won’t be for long. Of that you can be sure. You’re a young guy and a hard worker. You’ll be able to find a job. I’m positive of it. And I’ll be glad to give you a reference, tell them that you were a model employee. The important thing is to not let this get you down. Too many guys in this town, guys like your father, would use this opportunity as another chance to get loaded and beat up on their families or knock over a liquor store. You’re better than that. Don’t dwell on it. If there’s one thing that this fight with cancer has taught me, it’s not to dwell on the bad things in life.”

I was gripping the chair so hard that my fingers had gone numb.

“That’s all,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that.”

I stood up, shook his hand, and walked to the door.

“Thanks again, Charlie. Thanks for being straight with me, at least.”

“Like I said, Tommy. Don’t dwell on it. You’ll be fine. You’re young and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

I closed the door behind me, then I ran. I ran down the hall and into the foundry. I ran to the bathroom and exploded through the doors. I almost didn’t make it in time. The puke and blood sprayed between my fingers as I lurched into the first stall and collapsed to my knees. There was a lot of it. The soup I’d had for lunch, blood, spit—and more of my insides. This time, it was something gray, like an uncooked sausage, covered in blood and what looked like diluted motor oil.

You’ve got your whole life ahead of you…

I puked and I cried and I puked some more. I crouched there until I felt like an empty skin. I looked at the piece of myself floating in the water and I howled. Charlie echoed in my head some more.

Don’t dwell on it. You’re young and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I was young, twenty-five. I’d never live to see twenty-six. My whole life. I had my whole life ahead of me.

And that added up to not much time at all…

* * *


On the way home, I stopped at the bank to cash what would be my last paycheck. Five hundred dollars. That’s what I was worth. One week’s pay, five years’ worth of severance, and my unpaid vacation. Five hundred bucks. And once the immediate bills were paid, that would leave us with two hundred.

The line at the bank was long. It was Friday and everybody else in town had gotten paid too. Apparently, like me, none of them trusted direct deposit. I got stuck between a thin, jittery woman with three crying kids, and a wheezing old man that stank of arthritis cream. It took a while, and as we shuffled slowly forward, I counted the security cameras to pass the time. Then I counted them again, along with the tellers, the exits, the windows, and everything else. I counted four nondigital cameras; six tellers; one exit (though I was guessing that the employees had a fire exit somewhere); two windows, plus the drive-thru. This bank, my bank, was less than ten minutes from two major highways, plus dozens of back roads.

“Fuck it.”

The skinny woman gawked at me, pulling her three kids close to her. I grinned until she looked away.

“Fuck it. Fuck ’em all.”

I moved forward and the cameras watched me silently.

I didn’t care. Grinning, I gave them the finger.

* * *


The guy who said that money isn’t everything was obviously never poor. Money is everything—

the root of all happiness. I read in a magazine that the number one thing married couples fight about is money. People lie for money, cheat for money, steal for money, and kill for money. They kill themselves and each other for dead presidents on pieces of paper. Money is what makes the world go round. Lying on your deathbed, you might be judged by the company you kept while alive or the way you treated your family or what those you love really thought about you; but even this stems from money. Maybe it seems like the two are mutually exclusive, but they’re not. The more money you have, the better you can treat your family. Money allows you to provide more of the things they need. The friends you have around you are determined by the size of your wallet. Do you think Donald Trump hangs out with homeless guys and crack addicts all day long? In the end, it’s all about the green. To paraphrase the Beatles, “and in the end, the love you make is equal to the cash you make.”

Want a roof over your head? That takes money. Want to eat? Money. To get the money, you’ve got to have a job, but even that takes money. How are you going to get to work every day?

Drive? The car costs money: gas, insurance, repairs. Take mass transit? Those bus tokens aren’t free. Ride your bike? Hey, even most service stations are charging a quarter for the air pump these days.

It’s very simple. In our society, you can’t live without money. I wasn’t going to be living much longer, but Michelle and T.J. would be. I was sick and tired of seeing Michelle wear worn-out panty hose with runs in them and fashions from five years ago. Tired of getting T.J.’s toys at yard sales. Tired of buying generic brands that tasted like cardboard. Tired of saving aluminum cans to turn in for beer money. Tired of living from paycheck to paycheck and never getting ahead or saving money for the future. Tired of us being poor just because of where we lived and how we’d grown up.

My wife and my son could have better lives after I was gone. They deserved it. I wanted T.J. to go to college and be somebody smart—not work in a dirty foundry like his old man and his grandfather had done. I wanted them to be happy.

Happy.

Happiness equals money. Money equals happiness. It’s fucking arithmetic. When I look back on it now, I don’t know. Would all of this have happened, would I have come up with the idea if I hadn’t been dying? Probably not. Instead, I would have busted my ass five days a week for shit pay, until alcohol’s soft middle age crept up on me and I died of a heart attack, probably while on a fishing trip with John and Sherm or sitting in the bleachers, cheering on T.J. as he made the winning touchdown for the school (because I had no doubt that he’d be a quarterback when he got to high school). Even a heart attack would have been preferable to the cancer—but then again, what chance at a better life would I have been able to offer my family?

That guy, the older guy who remained a white trash loser and went on to die, he could have never given them the chances that I wanted to provide. And those chances—that better life—could only be paid for with money.

The cancer was killing me, eating away at my insides. In a few weeks, it would leave me a husk, like the shells that locusts leave behind on the trees, a hollow shell that used to be Tommy O’Brien. But while it was doing that, while it was gnawing away, it was also liberating me—freeing me to take risks that I would have never taken before. Allowing me finally to do something to make our lives better.

I drove home. It was bingo night, and Michelle had already taken T.J. over to her mother’s house, so I was alone in the trailer. I undressed, and took a good long look at myself in the mirror. I looked like shit. Two black, puffy circles hung beneath my eyes. My skin was pale, feverish; and my jaw and neck were swollen. My cheeks were puffy too. It looked like I had the mumps. My teeth hurt, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the cancer or the fact that I hadn’t been able to afford a dentist in five years. I’d lost weight—like an anorexic on the Atkins diet. Most of all, I just looked tired. Beaten.

I wasn’t beaten, at least, not entirely, but I was tired. Tired of this trailer and thrift shop clothes for my wife and yard sale toys for my son. Tired of this way of life. I was sick of it all, and I was going to do something about it.

I stepped into the shower and let the water wash over me. It seemed to help my headache, so I leaned into the spray, letting it pound against my temples and forehead. My skin had gotten sensitive over the past week, and the stream felt like sandpaper against the sore parts, like it was grinding away the old Tommy and revealing what lay beneath. It felt like a baptism. I thought about the bank.

I was going to do something. What was the worst they could do to me if I got caught? Life in prison? Lethal injection?

Those sentences both added up to less than a month…


FIVE


Sherm grinned, took another swig of beer, lit up a cigarette, and said, “Fuck me running. They laid us off, boys!”

From the battered jukebox in the corner, the Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin Man” had segued into Marvin Gaye’s “Inner City Blues.” I lit up a cigarette of my own and wailed along with Marvin inside my head—wanting to holler and throw up my hands while inflation grew and bills piled up. Marvin Gaye had known what time it was. He died young too.

“So what are we going to do, you guys?” John stared into his shot glass, as if the answer could be found there. In a way, I guess it could.

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re going to stand in the unemployment line and get our asses signed up. Shit, dog, we got the whole summer free! We can sleep all day, party all night, and let the government send us a fat check every two weeks.”

“That’s all right for you, Sherm,” John scoffed, “but I got fucking bills to pay. You know how little money you get on unemployment? Bobby Ray Hall was on it for six months, and he only got a quarter of his hourly pay.”

“Bobby Ray Hall swept floors and scrubbed toilets for a living, and he got minimum fucking wage. We’ll do okay. Better than him at least.”

I said nothing. Instead, I lit up a smoke and signaled Angie to bring us another round. Angie was a damn good waitress, the best Murphy’s Place had to offer—and she still took good care of us despite the fact that Sherm had fucked her a few times, then dumped her. Hell, there weren’t many women in this town that he hadn’t slept with, except for Michelle—and maybe John’s mom. And to be honest, I’m not even sure about that last one.

It wasn’t that he was good-looking. He wasn’t. Well, okay, he wasn’t butt ugly or anything, but he wasn’t Brad-fucking-Pitt either. His nose was too big for his face, and his wiry frame was more coiled than muscled. He always wore a battered Ford cap, usually backward, and his hair stuck out from underneath it. Most of the time, his fingernails were black from the foundry dirt and grease underneath them. Despite all this, women seemed to really dig Sherm. I think it was his attitude—he had that bad boy thing down to a science and it worked for him. The women he slept with fell into two categories: those who thought they could change him and those who were just freaks.

The freaks were every weekend—and never the same girl two weekends in a row. Sherm liked it rough, and he’d give it to the freaks that way. Once, when he was really drunk, this girl from the video store dug her nails into his back, raking them down as she came. They went so deep that she left scars; right through one of his tattoos. Sherm, in the heat of the moment, punched her in the jaw. He didn’t mean to do it, he claimed later, and he felt like shit immediately after it happened, but that still didn’t make it right. Any woman with an ounce of sense would have gotten the hell out right then and there. But not this freak. Nope. She not only liked it, she begged him to do it again. So he did. He hit her again. Later on, he told us that it was the best nut of his life.

The women who thought that they could change him usually fared worse than the freaks, at least on an emotional level. Sherm’s serious relationships had a shelf life of about one month, and they always panned out the same way. Girl meets Sherm. Girl is attracted to the hurting little boy she thinks is hiding inside the bad boy image, the soft heart beneath the “I-don’t-give-a-shit”

exterior. Girl tries to heal the little boy. Girl gets hurt after investing all her love and emotions, finding out that somewhere along the way, Sherm got fucked over so badly by a woman that he doesn’t trust anything with breasts, especially her. Girl is destroyed. Girl is devastated. Girl is ruined for life. Girl leaves in tears and Sherm loses himself in another freak until the next relationship.

Did he treat them like shit on purpose? I don’t know. Probably not. But I do know that the dude could get pussy, and that was one of the reasons we hung out with him. If you’re a guy, you’ll understand that.

Women thought Sherm was broken, and immediately they wanted to fix him. And maybe they were right. Maybe he was broken. But what they failed to understand was that Sherm didn’t want to be fixed. He liked the way he was.

I watched him squirm in his seat. He was always twitching, and talking a little too loudly, like he was trying extra hard to have a good time. I always had the impression that just underneath that party hard exterior, there was a guy waiting to snap and go postal. But he made me laugh. I think that’s why we loved him so much. Sherm could make you laugh like nobody else. That was how John and I first met him. He moved here four years ago, all the way from Portland. He never told us the whole story, but I got the impression that he’d been in some trouble out there; he knew a lot about guns and shit. Maybe he came east looking to get away from whatever it was. He got a job at the foundry, and the first time we saw him, he was standing behind us at the time clock, making sarcastic comments under his breath about everybody who walked by. He had us laughing so hard that tears literally ran down our faces. We introduced ourselves, invited him out for a beer, and that was all it took.

Sherm could make you laugh—but he could piss you off just as quickly. He could cut you with his words; his tongue was like a razor, and he knew how to use it. One comment from Sherm could slice your jugular. He was good at tearing things down—things you cared about. He’d borrow money and not pay you back. He liked to pick fights when he was really drunk. He was always right about everything, even when he was clearly wrong. And sometimes, just sometimes, you got the impression that he’d sleep with your wife if he knew that he could get away with it. Half the town wanted to hug him, and the other half wanted to strangle the living shit out of him. With the exception of John and my family, I’m closer to Sherm than I am with just about anyone else in the world, and I’ve wanted to do both. But the bottom line is this. He may have been crazy, he may have been completely fucking mental and immature and cocky, and sometimes he may have pissed me off so bad that I wanted to shoot him, but at the end of the day, he was my friend, and that’s all that mattered to me. Him and John. My best friends, guys I’d take a bullet for.

I had to tell them.

Angie showed up with another round, and set the beers and shots down in front of us. She started to speak but then flinched, as if she’d been goosed. Still holding the serving tray, she reached behind her back and grabbed Sherm by the wrist.

“Hey,” she called out to the bar, “did anybody lose a hand? Because I found this one halfway up my crotch!”

She held his arm up for all to see. The room erupted with laughter, and Sherm grumbled something under his breath. Then everyone returned to their conversations, their dart games, the pool table, and who was going home with whom later on that night. I asked Angie to take a round over to Juan and his crew to make up for our fight earlier in the day. Somebody fed another dollar into the jukebox and now it segued from Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” to something new by Method Man. Like I said before, it was that kind of town and that kind of bar. John chuckled into his beer. “She busted you, Sherm! Angie got you good!”

“Shut up, Carpet Dick…”

John. Good old John. Nobody, other than me, had ever treated him with any respect. Not his family. Not his teachers. Not the other kids. How many times had he been called stupid in his life? Way too many to count. But that’s because he really was stupid. I’ve known John most of my life, and I’ve never known him to be clever. When we were kids, I was always bailing him out of trouble. Like the time he threw rocks at Mr. Nelson’s trailer, breaking all of the windows in the front. I confessed to it and took the rap just to keep him out of trouble, and Old Man Nelson marched over to my house, foaming at the mouth, and demanded that my mother pay for the damage. She just laughed and, after he stormed away, she beat the shit out of me. Later, when I could sit down again without wincing, I asked John why he did it. I don’t know, Tommy. I guess I just like the sound of breaking glass… That was John in a nutshell. Old Man Nelson hadn’t done anything to him. He hadn’t done it to be malicious. He just liked the sound of breaking glass. He didn’t know why he did things—he just did them. But I loved him anyway. Sherm, crazy enough to drink gasoline and piss on a fire; and John, dumb as a fucking fencepost. I loved them both, though I would have never told them that.

But I would have to tell them about the cancer. I had to tell somebody. Both the secret and the disease were eating me up inside.

I took a sip of beer and my nose started running. I wiped at it and my index finger came away glistening and red. John and Sherm both got quiet and I looked up to find them staring at me.

“Yo man,” Sherm pointed, “your nose is bleeding and shit.”

“Fuck! Okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t either of you drink my beer.”

I shoved a soggy napkin up my nostrils to stop the flow, got up from the table, and weaved toward the bathroom. Juan caught me, wrapped an arm around my shoulder and slurred out a drunken half-English, half-Spanish apology. I told him that it was okay, peeled him off of me, and waited in line for the bathroom. Eventually, the door banged open and a fat, drunken redneck in a beer-stained flannel shirt stumbled out. I slipped inside, carefully avoiding stepping in the puddle of piss on the floor.

I stared into the mirror and what I saw didn’t look good.

“Son of a bitch…”

I ran some paper towels under the cold water, then wadded them up and held them to my nose. I leaned my head backward, giving me an unobstructed view of the dingy bathroom ceiling. Somebody had managed to scrawl graffiti up there, between the dim lightbulb and the spiderwebs; SUICIDE RUN KICKS ASS and NUKE GUMBY and that popular old standby EVELYN IS A HO, along with the phone number where you could supposedly reach her for a good time.

After a few minutes, the bleeding slowed to a trickle and stopped completely. I cleaned my face and washed my hands, then wiped the droplets of blood from the sink and garbage can. Considering the bathroom’s filthy condition, it was useless, but I did it anyway. The nausea hit me with no warning just as I was finishing. I bolted for the stall and the hot bile erupted, spraying through my fingers, spattering the walls and running down my forearms. Something hard pushed itself up through my throat. I fell to my knees, and the stench from the toilet made me puke more. The bowl was caked with brown and yellow stains and I noticed that I was kneeling in something wet. But what I threw up was even grosser. Unless I was mistaken, I’d just thrown up my own feces. It seemed impossible, but that’s what it looked and smelled like.

Just the sight of it—the very thought—made me puke a third time. There was enough force this time to cause a splash-back effect, and brackish toilet water hit my face, dripping from my nose and eyes and cheeks. I stayed there, heaving and crying and gagging, until there was absolutely nothing left to come up. My stomach cramped and my throat burned, like I’d drunk battery acid. I knew it would only get worse in the days to come. This was only a taste of what the cancer had in store for me.

For the second time since entering the bathroom, I cleaned myself up as best I could. My mouth tasted like shit (literally) and I lit up a smoke to correct the problem. Then I returned to the table. John and Sherm had ordered another round while I was gone, and now I had two beers in front of me. The cold soothed my throat. I made quick work of them both, and signaled Angie for another. She arched her eyebrow in concern, but took the order.

“Coke?” Sherm asked.

“No, another beer.”

“No man, I mean your nose. You been doing coke?”

“I don’t fuck with that shit. You know that. All I do is weed.”

“You sick then?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a little under the weather. Look, it was just a nosebleed, Sherm. It’s no big deal.”

“You should get that shit checked out, dog,” John mused. “I once heard about a guy that bled to death from a nosebleed.”

“That’s just an urban legend.”

“What does that mean?”

“An urban legend? You know, like alligators in the sewer and the hook-handed killer at lover’s lane. Shit like that.”

John looked surprised.

“You mean they made that guy with the hook up?”

I sighed and took a sip of his beer.

“Hey, that one’s mine!”

“Thanks.”

Sherm watched two girls wiggling next to the jukebox. “I still say it’s coke.”

“It’s not coke, dammit!”

“Yo, tell that bullshit to someone else, Tommy.”

“Let’s drop it, okay?”

“Shouldn’t be fucking with that white powder, man. It’ll make your dick shrink.”

“I said it’s not coke, you asshole!”

“Well what is it then?”

“It’s not coke. It’s fucking cancer!”

John choked on his beer. Sherm stared at the girl’s ass a moment longer, then slowly turned to me.

“Say what?”

I lowered my voice. “I’ve got cancer. There, you satisfied now?”

“That shit ain’t funny, Tommy.”

“Do I look like I’m joking, Sherm?”

The words hung in the air, but I was happy to be free of them. I felt lighter somehow. Lighter, but guiltier too. I’d lied to Michelle about it, only to turn around and tell my best friends. In the background, somebody was playing another somebody-done-somebody-wrong song on the jukebox. John sat speechless, looking like someone had punched him in the stomach. Sherm fumbled with his Zippo, lit another cigarette, snapped the lighter shut a little too loudly, and shook his head.

“You’ve got cancer?” he repeated. “Since when?”

“I found out yesterday.”

John set his beer down and shifted away from Sherm’s cigarette smoke.

“Is it from smoking? I bet it is.”

“Maybe. Who knows? I don’t know what it’s from, John. But it’s not good.”

“So what are they going to do?”

“Nothing they can do, according to the doctor.”

Sherm twitched in his seat. “You mean the shit is terminal?”

I nodded.

“That’s fucked,” Sherm whistled, summing everything up. “That is so fucking fucked, then fucked some more.”

John’s mouth worked but no words came out. Angie brought six more beers (in addition to my order, Juan and his friends had repaid the round) and we sipped them quietly. Somebody scratched on the eight ball. His drunken curses and the jeers of those around the table sounded extremely loud. A girl announced to the bar that she was horny. Over on the jukebox, the song had changed again. John Mellencamp was singing that he was born in a small town and that he’d die in a small town. I knew exactly how he felt.

“B—but you can’t have cancer, Tommy,” John finally stammered. “You’re only twenty-five!

Cancer’s what old people get!”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “I’ve got it, John. It’s not just old people, man. Babies get cancer, little kids—and guys our age.”

“I bet it was from smoking. It’s got to be, right?”

Sherm exhaled a cloud of smoke toward him and looked at his dwindling cigarette.

“Not to change the subject, but did you guys hear that the state legislature wants to outlaw smoking in bars?”

“Yeah”—I nodded—“but that’s one thing I’m glad I won’t be around to see.”

“Word.” He snuffed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “So how long did they give you? What are we looking at? A year?”

“One month, probably. No more than three.”

“Only a month? Shit…”

“Yeah.”

“Did—did you tell Michelle and T.J. yet?” John asked.

I shook my head. “Can’t, dog. I don’t know how to tell them. T.J.’s just a little kid. He won’t understand this shit. And Michelle…”

The lump in my throat cut off the rest. I drank some beer, washing the emotion down, and leaned back in the chair.

“I can’t tell Michelle. There’s just no way.”

“You’ve got to tell her!”

“Well, when I get home tonight and tell her about losing my job—she’s already stressed, you know? We’re fucking broke and the bill collectors are on our asses again. They keep calling and calling. She doesn’t need this shit on top of everything else.”

“Man, fuck the bill collectors!”

“She doesn’t need the stress right now, John.”

“But you’re going to tell her eventually, right? You’re gonna have to.”

“No, John, I’m not. Not if I can help it. I love her, man.”

“Well this is a hell of a way to fucking show it, Tommy.”

Saying nothing, Sherm shook out another cigarette from his pack and watched us quietly.

“What?” I snarled. “You got a fucking problem with me, John?”

John held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, bro. I just can’t believe this shit. You with cancer. It’s just so fucked up.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed my temples. “Yeah, it is. I’m sorry too. The truth is, I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. I’m really scared.”

Sherm lit the cigarette and started spinning his lighter on the table.

“Life sucks, then you die.”

I laughed bitterly. “You know, I was just thinking that same thing the other day.”

He looked me in the eyes. “Well then live your life so that it doesn’t suck, man. Shit, Tommy, you know that it’s coming, right? The doctor said it was terminal. You’re gonna fucking die, dog! So I say live your life to the fucking fullest. You should be home right now, with Michelle and T.J., or on a trip together or some shit. Why waste it in this shit hole of a bar?”

Choosing my words carefully, it was a moment before I spoke.

“Because you guys are my friends. And who knows—this could be our last time together in this place.”

John turned pale. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

He started to reply, then suddenly burst into tears. It startled me, scared me in fact. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen John cry. Not once, not even in fifth grade when Seymour Peters beat him up for making fun of his name. But he was doing it now. Big, goofy, good-natured, dumb as a stump John sat there bawling like a baby.

“Hey—” I reached for him. “Come on.”

“It ain’t fucking fair, Tommy! Why’s it got to be you? Why? It ain’t fair!”

He jerked to his feet, shoving his chair away from him. It slammed into the table next to us, sending beer bottles crashing to the floor and spilling into their owners’ laps.

“Hey, you stupid motherfucker! Look what you just did!”

The guy nearest to John jumped up. He was huge, and it seemed to take him forever to rise to his full height. He jabbed a large finger into John’s chest and glowered down at him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch? What’s your problem?”

Stammering and blinded by tears, John started to apologize and offer to buy the next round. But before he could complete his sentence, the other guy’s friends were jumping to their feet as well. They were spoiling for a fight, plain and simple, and I knew that even if we bought them another round, there’d still be hell to pay. There were seven of them and three of us. Not good odds. Sherm glanced over at me.

“I’ll tell you one thing. You’re right about this being our last night together in Murphy’s Place.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, because we’re about to be barred from coming back.”

“Sherm, I don’t—”

He sprang up, lightning quick, and his hand darted out, snatching an empty beer bottle and smashing it on the edge of the table. My reluctance to fight instantly vanished. The grin on his face was contagious, and I matched it. A surge of adrenaline and nicotine and alcohol-fueled bravery rushed through my body, and it was the greatest feeling in the world. There is no such thing as a fair fight. If you grow up like I did, that’s the first thing you learn, long before you know your ABCs or multiplication tables. You don’t learn it from watching some purple dinosaur or a bunch of puppets. You learn it from your surroundings. If you’re going to fight, fight to win. And if you’re going to win, win by any means possible. Kick. Claw. Gouge. Bite. Punch. Repeat as necessary. Win. And that was exactly what I intended to do. Win. Unfortunately, Angie stopped us before it went any further.

“Take it outside, guys. Now! Murphy’s gonna call the cops!”

“They started it,” Sherm said, not taking his eyes off his target.

“Bullshit, you sons of bitches are the one’s that started it, knocking our beers over and shit. Bunch of pussies!”

Murphy swung around from behind the bar, three-hundred-plus pounds of wiry black hair and hard fat, an aluminum baseball bat clutched in both meaty hands.

“I don’t give a fuck who started it. You continue it in here, or in my parking lot, and I’ll have the police down here so fast your goddamn heads will spin. That includes all of you. Tommy, John—Sherm—you guys go first. Get in your car and leave. I see you out there waiting for these guys, and I’m calling the cops. Am I making myself perfectly fucking clear?”

“But Murph,” Sherm protested, “we’re regulars.”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re regulars or not. I won’t have this in my place. Out!”

“This sucks, yo.”

Murphy nodded at the others. “The same goes for you guys. You try to follow them outside and start some shit, and you’ll spend the night in jail. I can goddamned guarantee you that.”

Now that I’d pretty much decided what I was going to do with my last days and how I was going to make sure my family was taken care of, the last thing I wanted was police involvement. I wanted to stay below the radar. I caught Sherm’s eye, nodded toward the door, and smiled at Angie. She squeezed my shoulder, saying nothing.

“Thanks, Angie.” I handed her my last ten-dollar bill, wondering what the hell I’d do for gas money. “Thanks for everything.”

She softened. “It’s cool, Tommy. Don’t sweat it. Now get going before the cops get here. Murphy’s plenty pissed off right now, but he won’t rat you guys out. Just in case though, I wouldn’t come back for a while.”

I nodded. “Trust me, Angie. You won’t be seeing me again.”

“Stop that. It’s just for a few weeks, Tommy. It’s not like you’ll never be back.”

Instead of replying, I just gave her a sad smile.

The other guys stepped away, and Murphy recruited several patrons to act as bouncers. Without giving anybody an excuse to start swinging, we walked to the door. The last thing I heard as we left the bar was the jukebox playing Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper.”

But I did fear him. I was scared of the son of a bitch, and I knew that I’d be meeting him soon.

* * *


My nose started leaking blood again in the parking lot, and I daubed at it as we walked to John’s car.

“That was fun,” I snickered. “Good way to spend a Friday night.”

“Thanks for taking my back, guys,” John mumbled apologetically. “I wasn’t sure what I’d do if all seven of them jumped me.”

“Should have thought of that before you started bawling like a baby.”

“Fuck you, Sherm.”

“Fuck you, Carpet Dick.”

All three of us started laughing then, great bellyaching laughs that left us breathless after they’d passed. We climbed in the car, John behind the wheel, Sherm stretched out in the back, and me riding shotgun.

“Yo, let’s hit the diner,” John suggested. “I’m hungry.”

“That’s cool with me,” Sherm shrugged. “I could use some coffee.”

They looked at me for approval.

“Sure. Sounds good. We need to finish talking anyway.”

“Christ,” Sherm adjusted his Ford cap. “There’s more bad news?”

I shook my head. “No. But you guys asked me what I was going to do. I figured I’d tell you. I owe you that much.”

They were my best friends, and I loved them. I really did. But I didn’t trust them for this. I didn’t trust John because he was stupid and I didn’t trust Sherm because he was crazy. But I was going to tell them anyway. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or the fact that we’d just thrown down together, but right then, I decided to tell them everything.

John put the car in gear, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

“So what are you gonna do?” Sherm asked. “You’re not going to cap yourself or something like that, are you?”

“No, suicide is for pussies.”

“Well what then? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to rob a bank.”


SIX


Get the fuck out of here, Tommy! Rob a bank. You really had me going for a second. Why you bullshitting us?”

When I didn’t reply, John gripped the steering wheel even harder while Sherm twitched in the backseat.

“Are you fucking crazy?” John continued. “That cancer’s ate away at your brain, dog! You ain’t robbing no bank!”

I smiled. “You heard what Sherm said back at the bar. Live like there’s no tomorrow. Life’s a bitch, then you die. Well, I intend to grab the bitch by the balls before I go.”

“Word.” Sherm agreed. “That’s how I’d do it.”

“But that’s crazy! What about Michelle and T.J.? Why would you do that to them?”

“I’m doing it for them, man! They deserve a better life, better than the one I can give them. What the hell do you think will happen to them when I’m gone? We sure as shit don’t have any life insurance. You think they can make it on what Michelle gets paid at the Minit-Mart?”

“The same thing happens if you go to jail, Tommy. How are you gonna support them behind bars? Do you want to go to jail? You know what happens in there? You ever watch Oz? The homeboys try to fuck you in the ass and make you their prison bitch, or else you end up with the skinheads just to stay alive!”

I put my hand on his shoulder.

“John, if they bust me and I go to jail, so what? What’s the worst thing they could give me? Life in prison? Big deal. I don’t have much of that left anyway. Life in prison is a maximum sentence of one month for me. Think about it. I’m fucking dying, man. Hell, I’d probably be dead before it even went to trial.”

Chewing his lip, John slowed down to turn into the diner.

“Keep going,” Sherm said.

“I thought you wanted coffee?”

“I do, but that was before Tommy dropped the robbery bomb on us. The middle of the diner isn’t the place to be talking about this shit. Use your head. ‘Hello, police? We heard about the bank robbery on the news tonight, and just last week, my husband and I were enjoying a piece of apple pie at the diner, and we overheard Tommy O’Brien and his two hoodlum friends talking about doing that very thing.’ See what I mean?”

“So where are we going?” John quit chewing his lip and began chewing the cuticle on his thumb instead.

“How about the lake?” I suggested.

“Works for me,” Sherm agreed, “but let’s stop first. I still need smokes and coffee. I’m jonesing bad, man.”

We stopped at a twenty-four-hour drugstore, the kind that sold nicotine patches right next to the cigarettes, and Sherm went inside. John was quiet, gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead while we waited.

Finally, I couldn’t stand his silence any longer.

“What, John? What’s wrong now?”

He continued staring ahead. His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

“I don’t want you to die, Tommy. I’m scared.”

“I don’t want to die, John. I’m scared too.”

He loosened a bit, sinking back into the seat and staring out the window. I got the impression that he was looking at something far away and out of sight.

“Remember when we used to ride our bikes out the old Bowman Road? We’d go swimming down in the creek, and afterward, we’d stop off at the newsstand and you’d buy comic books and I’d buy baseball cards.”

I nodded, smiling. “Wish I still had those G. I. Joe and Transformer comics, and the one where Spider-Man got his black costume. Those are worth a lot of money now. And even if I didn’t sell them, they’d be cool to pass on to T.J., you know?”

“Yeah. My mom threw my baseball cards out. I’m still pissed about that. Do you remember the Millers who lived on Bowman Road? They had that Doberman pinscher. What was his name?”

“Catcher,” I answered. “Jesus Christ, I hated that fucking dog.”

“Me too. Sometimes Catcher was outside and he’d tear down the driveway after us when we rode by. Remember when he bit Rich Wagaman?”

“Oh hell yeah! Took eleven stitches to sew his leg up and he couldn’t do anything the rest of the summer.”

“I was always scared of Catcher—but you, Tommy, you weren’t scared of nothing. I’ll never forget that day we were riding to the creek, and I slowed down, listening for the dog. He came running toward us and I was so scared I fell off my bike. I almost shit my pants. Then, just as he was about to bite me, you pulled out that squirt gun with the lemon juice in it and you shot him in the eyes. Right in the eyes! He yelped and ran away and after that, Catcher never fucked with us again.”

“Busted a cap in his ass.” I smiled, remembering. “And four years later he got run over by a tractor. Fucking beautiful.”

“You’ve always been there for me, Tommy. With Catcher and with everything else, you know?

You’re smarter than me and you’re not afraid of anything or anyone, and you always had my back. I—I don’t know what I’ll do without…” He trailed off in frustration.

“Look,” I said softly, “it’s not like you’re gonna be all alone. You’ll still have Sherm.”

“That’s not the same, Tommy. Sherm didn’t grow up with me. And besides…”

The door to the store opened and Sherm stepped out, balancing three jumbo coffees, a pack of cigarettes, three slices of pizza, and a two-liter bottle of soda. He flashed a grin as he walked toward us.

“Besides what?” I asked.

“Sometimes—sometimes Sherm scares me,” he whispered. “Sometimes I think he’s crazy.”

“Me too.”

Sherm opened the door and handed me the coffee holder, then slid into the backseat.

“You too what?”

“We were both saying that we needed a coffee.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Tommy.”

“Okay. In that case, we were both saying that you were an asshole.”

“Now that I believe.” He handed out the pizza and we drove away without speaking. John popped in some old school, Ice-T’s Home Invasion. We ate and drank and smoked and nodded our heads in time with the rhymes and beats. The silence and the rhythms were broken only by my occasional fit of coughing.

Finally, Sherm asked, “So you really do have cancer? You’re not just fucking with us? This isn’t a big joke?”

“It’s true, man. I wouldn’t make some shit like that up.”

“And you’re serious about this bank robbery then?”

I nodded.

“And you really think this is what’s best for Michelle and T.J.? You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I am. I can’t think of any other options, and believe me I’ve tried.”

“All right then. Here’re some things to think about.”

“Wait a minute,” John interrupted. “Who made you the expert on robbing banks?”

“Shut up and drive, John.” He turned to me again. “You got a location picked out yet?”

“Yeah, I figured my bank. I cased it today when I deposited my check.”

“Your bank. Okay, so you’ll be wearing a ski mask then?”

I paused. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Of course you hadn’t. If you had, you’d realize what a fucked-up idea that is, robbing your own goddamned bank without something to disguise your ass. You go to that bank, what, every Friday?”

I nodded. “At least. Sometimes more.”

“That’s no good, man. They’ll recognize you. Shit, none of the banks here in town are any good. What if the teller went to school with you guys or knows Michelle or something?”

“Well then the same thing goes for York or Gettysburg,” I countered. “This county is small enough that everybody knows everyone else sooner or later.”

“Six degrees of Tommy O’Brien and shit.”

“What’s that mean?” John asked.

“It’s a game,” Sherm told him, “like with the actor, Kevin Bacon.”

“That’s the guy in Flatliners, right? I don’t remember him ever robbing a bank.”

I frowned and Sherm blew smoke in his face.

“So you’ve gotta go with a ski mask,” he continued. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Couldn’t I just disguise myself some other way?”

“Yeah, but how the fuck you gonna do that?”

“I don’t know. Pull my hat down low. Get a fake beard or mustache. Maybe use a bottle of bleach and dye my hair; so I look like Eminem.”

“You already look like Eminem. It’s no good. People would still recognize you; surveillance camera footage would make the ten o’clock news. Somebody would drop dime on you.”

I thought about it and realized that he was right.

“What about a clown?” John asked. “I saw that in a movie once. Bill Murray robbed a bank dressed like a clown. That movie was funny as shit!”

I arched an eyebrow. “You know, that’s actually not a bad idea at all. If the cop asks ‘What did he look like, ma’am?’ ‘Well, Officer, he had a big red nose, curly red hair, and big floppy shoes.’

What do you think, Sherm?”

“It’s no good. Been done too many times. You go around dressed like a clown, especially in a small town like this, and you’re going to grab attention before you even get to the bank. They’ll see you getting out of the car—‘Look, Mommy! A clown!’—shit like that. You’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Yeah, I see your point. Makes sense.” I wondered if Sherm had considered this same thing before. He certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.

“What about hitting an armored car instead of a bank?” John asked. “You see them all the time, making stops at grocery stores and places like that.”

“No good. Forget about armored cars. You ever see all those little holes in the side? That’s where the shotgun sticks out. You’d need a small army and a lot of prep time to knock over one of those. And people would get killed, sure as shit. Let’s say you ambushed them while they were unloading at an ATM or something. The standard procedure is for the driver to floor it and get the fuck out of there when somebody tries to jack them. While he’s taking off, there’s another dude inside the truck shooting at your ass, plus the ones outside the truck—usually one or two guys.”

He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, took a sip of coffee, lit up another smoke, and continued.

“So an armored car is out. It has to be a bank. Now you’ve got to decide if you want this to be a note job or a takeover.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Note job is simple—you hand the teller a stickup note and a bag to put the money in, she empties her drawer into the bag, and you walk. With a takeover, you’ve got to bum rush the place. With a note job, you’re probably only gonna get three grand at the most, and probably not even that unless it’s a payday or welfare day. Takeover, you’ll get a lot more.”

“Three thousand bucks.” I thumped the dashboard in frustration. “That’s not going to pay for shit. We owe that much just on the credit card.”

“If you’re serious about this, then I say go for the takeover. You try pulling a note job and walk into that bank with a ski mask on, they’ll freak out before you even reach the teller. That measly three grand ain’t worth all that. Banks, especially the ones around here, don’t keep much in the drawers. If you want big cash, you’ve got to do a takeover and hit all their drawers and their vault. Small-town banks like ours, you could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand. Probably even more if you hit Baltimore or Philly instead.”

“Yo, how do you know all this?” John asked, echoing my own thoughts.

“Simple, Carpet Dick. I watch a lot of Court TV.”

“Sherm, I wish you wouldn’t call me Carpet Dick.”

I mulled over the takeover approach.

“So what—I just walk in with a ski mask on and demand money? Won’t they recognize my voice?”

“Fuck yeah, if you use your regular bank. Here’s my suggestion. If it was me, I’d hit that bank inside the little strip mall on the edge of town.”

“You mean the one that sits between McSherrystown and Hanover?”

“Exactly. It’s on Route 116, so within minutes you’ve got access to all those back roads and woods and shit. More importantly, you’re within a few minutes of Route 30 and the Maryland border, and not far from Interstate 83. There are all kinds of ways to get out of there and vanish with a fucking quickness. Plus, the bank is small, and right now, it’s forty-four shades of fucked up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Check this shit out.” He grinned, and the sharp outline of his face almost looked like a skull in the glow of his cigarette. “They just got bought out by a bigger bank, right? So they’re in the process of switching everything over. They don’t have bandit barriers or bulletproof glass or anything like that. Just the same old cameras and alarm system they had before. The tellers aren’t real alert because they’re burned out—explaining the new bank’s regulations to their old customers who aren’t exactly happy with the change. It’s fucking perfect, dog! That strip mall doesn’t get much traffic. Ain’t no Wal-Mart or Target there. All they’ve got is the dry cleaners and that Chinese place. Quick in, quick out, and you’re gone before five-oh even arrives.”

“Sweet.” I had to admit, I was warming to the idea. Sherm made a lot of sense, and he was bringing up lots of stuff that I hadn’t thought about.

“So you go in there like a motherfucking O. G. and scare the shit out of them. Holler and curse and start a ruckus. Get yourself a backpack or something to hold the cash. Hit the drawers, the vault, then get the fuck out.”

“Make sure they don’t give you any dye packs either,” John piped up, apparently becoming an instant expert as well. “I saw it on the tube. Once you go outside, you’ve got about ten seconds till those little fuckers explode. Then you’re dyed bright red, making you pretty easy to find, and the money is useless, because it all burns up.”

“Actually, and I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this, John is right,” Sherm nodded. “But you ain’t gotta worry about that shit. This branch doesn’t allow their tellers to slip dye packs into the money anymore.”

“Why not?”

“They got sued a few years back. A teller up in Buffalo slipped a dye pack into a robber’s take. The robber ran out the door, the dye pack went off, and the explosion injured a little old lady who was coming in to cash her social security check. She sued the bank and never had to worry about social security again. One thing they do have though is a tracking device—a little piece of plastic, thin enough to be hidden in between the bills. Works just like a Lo-Jack does on cars, and the cops can trace you with it. So make sure they don’t slip you one. And to be extra fucking careful, check your shit after you’re down the road.”

I stared out the passenger window, watching the night flash by. Sherm had given me a lot to think about, and the more I thought, the crazier the whole thing seemed. I wasn’t a bank robber. I wasn’t like the idiots on America’s Most Wanted. I was just a poor white trash schmuck, trying to feed his wife and kid, give them what they deserved rather than what they had. 

But I was dying.

“Seems like an awful lot,” I sighed. “How the hell am I going to pull this off all by myself?”

“You’re not.” Sherm grinned. “I’m gonna help you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Straight up, Tommy. You said it yourself. No way you can pull this shit off by yourself.”

“I’m in too,” John promised.

“Fuck that.” I spat. “No way I’m letting either of you guys get involved in this shit. I need you guys to look out for Michelle and T.J. after—after I’m gone.”

“That’s why I want to help,” John argued. “You can’t do it by yourself, Tommy. Sherm said so. If we help you, then there’s a better chance it goes right. Which makes things better for them.”

“No way, John! No fucking way. End of argument.”

“Tommy, I love Michelle and T.J. as much as you do. I was best man at your fucking wedding. I was there when T.J. was born. I want to help them, and the best way to do that is to help you.”

“Forget it!”

“Fuck that.”

“He’s right, John,” Sherm said. “You know what you’re looking at if you get caught? First time offender, you’re looking at forty-one to fifty-one months. We’re talking a haul of more than ten thousand dollars easily; so add one more offense. We stole it, so add two more. Use a weapon or even fucking display one? Add a bunch more. You could end up in there for half your life, and unlike Tommy, that’s a lot of fucking time.”

“I don’t care.” He stuck his lip out stubbornly. “I want in on it.”

“Pull over, now,” I demanded.

“Why?”

“Because I’m gonna bitch-slap the living shit out of you, that’s why.”

He slowed down, gripped the wheel tightly, and looked at me.

Slowly, deliberately, he said, “If you don’t let me help, I’ll tell Michelle.”

I opened my mouth but he cut me off.

“I mean it, Tommy. You’re my friend. I need to do this. And if you don’t let me, I swear to fucking God I’ll tell her everything. The cancer. The robbery. Everything.”

I looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it.

“Please?”

“Okay.” I sighed, exhausted. “All right, you’re in. But Sherm, I still don’t understand why you want to help.”

“Hey, man,” he flashed his teeth, “we’re boys. Besides, I believe we can actually pull this shit off, and I’m bored in this town. Hanover fucking sucks, yo. This will be the first fun thing I’ve done since I left Portland.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Like a fox, man. Crazy like a motherfucking fox.”

John parked at the lake and we stared out at the water in silence. The moon reflected off the rippling waves. Somewhere in the darkness, a whippoorwill cried out. John popped out Ice-T

and slipped in Ice Cube’s War and Peace disc instead. I suddenly felt very old, and very tired, and I wondered if I should plan my funeral in advance, or leave that detail to Michelle after I was gone.

One thing was for sure. If we pulled this off, she wouldn’t have to worry about paying for it.

“So where do we get the guns?” I asked. “We don’t have time for the seven-day waiting period and the background check.”

“I know a guy,” Sherm leaned forward. “He lives in York, down on South Queen Street. One for me, one for you—should cost us about two hundred even. Let me hit him on the cell and see if he’s around.”

“What about me?” John frowned. “Don’t I get a gun?”

“No,” Sherm told him. “You’re driving the getaway car.”

“Cool! Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Two hundred bucks? Sherm, all I’ve got is this last paycheck and I just deposited it this afternoon.”

“So? You got an ATM card, right?”

“Yeah, but we needed that money for bills. What the hell am I gonna tell Michelle if she finds out I spent it?”

“Dude, think about it. In less than a week, you’ll have all the money you need to pay the bills. All the money you fucking need…”

He flipped open his cell phone and made a call. John ate his slice of pizza and I smoked. Ice Cube’s “Until We Rich” played softly, the lyrics matching the echoes of what Sherm had said. Finally, Sherm snapped his cell phone shut and poked John in the back of the head. 

“Let’s go, boys. We’re taking a trip to York. He’s got what we need.”

* * *


Halfway to York, as we stopped at an ATM machine, I felt the world closing in on me. I coughed blood, spat it out, and grimaced at the rawness in my throat. It felt like somebody had sandpapered my insides.

While Sherm and John waited impatiently in the car, I fumbled my wallet out of my pocket. My fingers didn’t seem to work properly. They felt thick and swollen. I fished out the card and slid it into the slot. The machine asked me for my pin number and it took me two tries to get it right. I entered the amount for withdrawal. Two hundred dollars.

It asked me if that was the correct amount. I pressed YES.

It asked me to please wait while it dispensed my cash.

As the bills, all twenties, rolled out of the machine, I knew there was no turning back. I’d lied to my wife about the cancer, and now I was going behind her back like this with the money, draining our account. Sure, in the long run, I was doing it for her and T.J., but it was still fucked up. And now, on top of everything else, we were going to go buy guns with the cash. Just like real-life gangsters.

I put the money in my wallet and crammed the wallet into my back pocket. It felt heavy, like it was made out of lead.

No turning back now, I thought.

The enormity of it all hit me then, and for the next few minutes, I forgot all about the fact that I was dying.

I looked up at the moon, pale and cold and lifeless, and saw my face in its reflection.

“No turning back now…” the moon whispered.

I got back into the car and slammed the door. It sounded like a gunshot, and John and Sherm both jumped. A gunshot—or a closing coffin lid.

Sherm fired up a bowl and passed it up to me. I inhaled, trying not to choke—and trying to ignore the bad feeling in my gut. A feeling that had nothing to do with cancer.


SEVEN


So what’s this guy’s name again?” I asked Sherm as we drove into the city.

“Wallace.”

“Is that his first name or his last name?”

Sherm shrugged. “I don’t know. Never asked the dude. I just know him as Wallace. That’s what everyone in his crew calls him.”

We rolled down West Market Street, past crumbling brownstones and crack houses, abandoned factories and burned-out apartments, tattoo parlors and seedy bars. York is a small city, but it has the crime rate of a big metropolitan area. If you look on a map, it sits right in the middle of things, an hour or less from Baltimore and Harrisburg, and within a few hours’ drive of Philadelphia, Washington, DC, Pittsburgh, and New York. This makes it ideal for drug gangs, mostly crews from New York City and North Philly, but some from as far away as Chicago and Detroit. Back in the day, the Greek Mafia had controlled most of York’s crime, but those days are gone—old and feeble like the men who made them, men who were now serving life terms upstate. Their children had turned their backs on a life of organized crime, and the families died out, replaced by the gangbangers.

John turned onto South Queen Street. A drunken Hispanic woman lurched in front of the car and he swerved to avoid her. She shot him the finger, shrieked something in Spanish, and stumbled on. He sank down in the seat, turning off the Cypress Hill disc we’d been jamming to.

“Sherm,” he whispered, “we’re the only white people down here.”

“Chill, John. You don’t fuck with nobody and nobody will fuck with you.”

“What’s the big deal, John?” I asked. “You’ve been to downtown York plenty of times.”

“Yeah, but not late at night like this. We could get carjacked or something. Mugged. It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”

Sherm snorted. “No way in hell somebody is gonna jack you for this piece of shit.”

We stopped at another traffic light. The car stereos around us competed for supremacy, melding into one solid bass line. On the corner, some kids played in a puddle, long after they should have been in bed. Rough-looking women, possibly their mothers, leaned into car windows, flashing cleavage and haggling over the cost of blow jobs. I missed Michelle and T.J. and I wanted to be home with them, not driving around in the ghetto, looking for guns. I felt tired—and sick. There was blood in my throat and the taste was nauseating.

John looked back at Sherm. “What’s the address again?”

“Forty-two. Two-story brick up here on the right. But he doesn’t do business in his crib. We’re supposed to meet him in the alley out back.”

“How come?” I asked.

“He’s got kids and shit, man. He doesn’t mix business and home life.”

“Oh, a drug dealer with principles…”

“Yo, how often do you smoke weed, Tommy?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Once or twice a week maybe. Tonight. Whenever you bring it around, I guess.”

“That’s right. And where the fuck do you think I get it from? You think I just pick it up at the grocery store?”

“Okay, point taken.”

“Hey,” John piped up, “since you got cancer, now you can smoke all the weed you want, right? I think it’s legal if you got cancer. Isn’t it supposed to help keep you from throwing up and shit?”

“Shut up, Carpet Dick!” Sherm and I said at the same time.

John parked the car under a broken streetlight and we got out. Crack vials and shattered glass crunched under our feet. I kicked a dirty diaper out of the way. The graffiti on the house next to us said PROSPER C. JOHNSON & THA’ GANGSTA DISCIPLES and 630 ROOSEVELT

CRU and NSB RULZ, and wished that someone named Donny B. would rest in peace. The air smelled like spoiled milk. Somebody hollered something unintelligible. In the distance, a baby screamed, and was answered by the mournful wail of a police siren. A feral cat glared at us from behind a trash can.

Sherm pointed a finger at John. “Now listen up. You keep quiet, Carpet Dick. I mean it! These guys don’t fucking play.”

John gave him a two-fisted thumbs-up sign, then grabbed his nut sack when Sherm turned away. Rolling my eyes, I motioned for him to follow us.

We stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Halfway across, the light changed to green and the traffic surged toward us from both directions. John froze like a deer caught in headlights as the cars bore down upon him. A horn blared, then another, as somebody shook their fist through the driver’s side window.

“Get out the road you stupid motherfucking wigger!”

He started to raise his middle finger but I ran back, grabbed his wrist, and dragged his ass across.

“This is Sherm’s play. Don’t fuck it up. Just keep quiet and don’t do or say anything, okay?”

He nodded.

We followed along behind Sherm and approached the alley. Two black guys, both a few years younger than us, guarded the entrance like it was a pirate’s cave.

“Be cool,” I reminded John.

“Like ice.”

Sherm held his hands out to the two guys and grinned.

“What up, Markus? Yo, Kelvin, how they hanging?”

They shrugged.

“What up, Sherm? Who your friends? They five-oh?”

Sherm laughed. “No dog, this is Tommy and John, my boys from out in Hanover. They’re cool. They got some business with the man and shit. He knows we’re coming. I hit him on the cell earlier.”

“Yeah,” Kelvin nodded. “He said you was coming by. Didn’t think you’d have company though. You usually flying solo.”

“Not tonight. These guys are the ones buying. I’m just making the introductions and shit.”

“Hi.” John offered his hand, and was answered with noncommittal stares. Sherm lit up a cigarette. “So—is Wallace around?”

“He in the house watching TV with his baby girl,” Markus responded. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

He sidled off and into the house. Kelvin motioned for us to follow him into the alley. It was dark between the buildings, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I lit up a cigarette and the darkness seemed to surround the flame, engulfing it, trying to extinguish the glow. The alley smelled like stale piss and rotten garbage, and there was something sticky beneath my feet, clutching at my sneakers like glue. I didn’t want to imagine what it was, and I tried not to look down. As we walked, John tried to make small talk with Kelvin, but Kelvin just ignored him. A door slammed and then the light at the end of the alley was blocked as two more figures entered: Markus, and a guy that I assumed must be Wallace. He was huge; at least six-three and probably two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it hard, chiseled muscle. His shaved head gleamed in the darkness and a gold hoop earring hung from each ear. He carried a cardboard box under one bulging arm. Silently, he appraised us.

“You check them?” he asked Kelvin, pointing to John and me.

“Not yet.”

“Well what the fuck are you doing, nigga? Don’t just stand there! Pat them down!”

“It’s cool, Wallace. They with Sherm. He vouched for them and shit. Sherm wouldn’t flip on us.”

“I don’t give a damn if they with the Pope. Check their shit now!”

Rough hands patted us down.

“Hey—” John started to protest but a warning glance from Sherm shut him up. Markus stepped back. “They’re clean.”

“You five-oh?” Wallace asked me, inches from my face.

“No, I’m not a cop. I—I work in the foundry, out in Hanover. I make molds. Well, I did anyway.”

He grinned, then chuckled, and began to laugh, loud and hearty. After a moment, Markus and Kelvin laughed along with him, joined finally by Sherm, then John, who decided to go with the flow. Personally, I didn’t get the joke.

Wallace wiped his eyes. “The foundry, huh? Man, that shit will kill a nigga. I couldn’t work a job like that. Know what I’m saying?”

“I wouldn’t either,” I said, “but I gotta feed my wife and kid.”

His hard face softened.

“Word. I know what you mean, dog. I’m in the same exact situation. You got to take care of your kids. They all that’s important. What’s your name, man?”

“Tommy.”

“A’ight, Tommy. You cool, I can tell. Irish, like your boy Sherm here, right?”

I nodded.

He turned to Markus and Kelvin. “Irish is the white niggaz. They were slaves too. The white man called them indentured servants, but it was the same shit. If you’d have stayed in school, you’d know that. Ya’ll want to talk about a revolution? The motherfucking Irish was off the hook. Still are, with that Republican Army and shit.”

I said nothing. Wallace relaxed.

“Sherm says you’re looking to buy some handguns.”

I shuffled my feet, hesitating. Now that it came down to it, I didn’t want to say it out loud. It seemed like another act of finality.

“Yeah, I need two. They’re for—”

“No”—he held up a hand—“don’t tell me what they’re for, dog! The less I know, the better. That way I can’t flip on you, and it don’t come back to me.”

I nodded.

“Those are nice shoes,” John said to Markus. “I need a pair like that. Where’d you get them?”

“Ganked them from a white boy down at the mall,” Markus replied. “He looked a lot like you. Hell, coulda’ been your brother.”

“Oh… I don’t have a brother.”

“Shut up, John…” Sherm warned.

Wallace opened the shoe box. Two pistols lay inside.

“These here are Smith & Wesson .357s. You can load a .38 special or .357 magnum round in them. Depending on what you’re using them for, I’d go with the magnum round. Shoot a guy in the back of the head with that, and the motherfucker’s spine will come out his nose and shit. Ain’t no safety on these; they’re revolvers, so don’t shoot your dick off if you’re sagging. They’ve got an exposed hammer, so you can thumb it back for a real easy shot. Two hundred. Cash up front. No checks or credit cards accepted.”

“What about ammunition?” I asked.

He grinned. “I look like Walmart to you, dog? Any store like that will have ammo. Ain’t you got hunting stores out there in Hanover—all them crazy redneck motherfuckers running around shooting at deer and rabbits and shit?”

“Squeal like a pig, boy,” Kelvin drawled.

“Yeah, we do. We’ve got all kinds of places to buy ammo. I’m just a little low on cash right now, is all.”

“Come on, Wallace,” Sherm urged, “hook us up, man. All the business I’ve given you, why you want to do us like that? Shit, I’ve practically paid for your last year’s rent!”

He grinned, considered it, then shrugged. “A’ight, but only because you’re a good customer, Sherm, and because I like your boy Tommy here. Those are six-shooters. They’re fully loaded. You all can keep what’s in ’em. You need more than that, though, it’ll cost you extra.”

“No, twelve rounds should be all right,” I said. “Hopefully, we won’t have to fire them at all.”

“These are just insurance,” Sherm explained.

“Whatever, dog. Like I said, I don’t want to know. Less I know the better. Just make damn sure you understand the drill. You didn’t get them from me and I never heard of any of you. The serial numbers have been filed down, and I wiped the prints off before I put them in the box. They all yours now.”

I handed him the money and he handed me the box. For one crazy instant, I wanted to reach out and snatch the money back from him, tell him that I’d changed my mind and it was all just a terrible mistake. But I didn’t. Instead, I accepted the box. It was heavier than I’d thought it would be.

Wallace counted the money, folded it, and stuffed the wad into his pocket.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

“A’ight, Wallace, we out.” Sherm rapped fists with him and turned to leave. “I’ll catch you next week, yo.”

“Later, Holmes.”

He turned to me, presented his fist, and I rapped it.

“You’re okay, Tommy. For real. It was cool doing business with you. Come on back again sometime and we’ll chill. Maybe play some chess and shit. You play chess?”

“Yeah—a little. Learned it when I spent a weekend in County for unpaid speeding tickets.”

“There ya go. Jailhouse chess—the same thing I play. We cool then. Later, dog.”

“Thanks.”

I trailed along behind Sherm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John stop. Saw him turn to the three of them. Saw him smile. Saw his hand wave slowly. Saw his mouth open and say…

“Later my niggaz. Peace out.”

I froze, cringing at what I’d just heard.

Wincing, Sherm whipped around. Still smiling, John turned toward us, saw the horrified expression on our faces, and stopped.

“What? What are you guys looking at? What did I do wrong?”

“Say what?” Markus spat. His face was ashen. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Wallace took a step forward. “Somebody please tell me that this stupid motherfucker did not just drop the N-bomb.”

“You’re damn straight he did,” Kelvin growled. He reached inside his baggy pants pocket, and I saw him clench something. I knew what it was before he pulled it out. Without thinking, I ripped the lid off the box and reached inside.

“Hold up!” Sherm stepped between us, hands outstretched. “Just hold up a fucking minute. Let’s not do something stupid, ya’ll.”

“Stupid? STUPID?” Wallace pulled a gun of his own. “You hear what that racist piece of shit said? How’d you like it if we called you a honky or a wigger? Get your skinny Irish ass out of the way, Sherm!”

John was terrified. “I’m s-sorry, you guys! I didn’t think it was a big deal. You call each other that all the time on the radio. I was just being friendly.”

“Oh what, so now you Eminem, you punk-ass bitch?” Kelvin stalked toward him, pistol in hand. I don’t know what kind it was, but it was big, bigger than the one I was holding.

“Wallace”—Sherm placed his hand on the man’s chest—“he’s retarded, man. Slow. He don’t know what he’s saying. He’s got like a fourth-grade reading level and shit. Let’s just let it drop, okay? You and me are cool, and you seen for yourself that Tommy is cool, right? Do you really think we’d bring a fucking Klansman around?”

Seething, Wallace glanced from Markus and Kelvin, pointing their guns at John and me, and then to me, pointing my gun at Kelvin. He looked down at Sherm’s hand, and Sherm pulled it away. Slowly, his scowl vanished and Wallace actually grinned.

“Look’s like we got us a Mexican standoff, boys. Chill out, ya’ll.”

Kelvin didn’t move. “You heard what this punk-ass, motherfucking, cocksucking wigger said.”

“And I said chill the fuck out, goddamn it. You step the fuck off right now, Kelvin, or I’ll bust a cap in your ass instead. Don’t you go forgetting who’s in charge here. I’m the one that’s deep in this street. You work for me.”

Shaking, Kelvin’s eyes never left John’s. Only his nostrils twitched, flaring in the dim light. He seemed frozen with rage.

Wallace glanced at Sherm.

“Don’t bring that motherfucker back here, Sherm,” he warned. “Not ever. If Kelvin and Markus don’t kill him, I damn sure will. I don’t want to see him in my hood again. Not anywhere near here.”

“I hear you, man. Don’t sweat it, Wallace. You won’t be seeing him again, I swear. You know my word’s good. We cool?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and spat on the cracked pavement. “We cool.”

“Better hope I don’t see you on the streets,” Kelvin threatened John a final time. “If I do, that’s it for your ass!”

They stood down, lowering their pistols. All three men were shaking with rage. I lowered my own gun, and it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten to cock the hammer.

* * *


Ouch! Cut it out, Sherm!”

John took one hand off the wheel and rubbed the knot on his head.

“Why’d you hit me, dammit?”

“Because you’re a dumb ass,” Sherm shouted, leaning forward to smack him again.

“Ouch! Knock it the fuck off, Sherm. You’re gonna make me wreck.”

I’d sat quietly, simmering. Finally, I could keep my mouth shut no more.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? ‘Later my niggaz’? The fuck is that? You actually said that shit. What the hell were you thinking? Why not just go down there dressed in a fucking white sheet and burn a cross in their yard while you were at it?”

“You know I ain’t like that, Tommy. I ain’t no racist. I said niggaz, not niggers. There’s a difference. They say it in the songs all the time. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

I was so angry I couldn’t even respond.

Sherm smacked him again. “We told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Why couldn’t you just do that?”

John pouted. “I was just trying to be friendly. That’s all. I like black people and they seemed like cool guys to hang out with. Remember when I was going out with Rhonda? She was black, and I never said anything wrong to her. I didn’t mean to offend nobody. Honest!”

And that’s the thing. He really hadn’t meant to offend anybody. He’d genuinely been trying to be friendly. John didn’t have a racist bone in his body. He was just John. Big, simple, stupid John. And he was going to drive the getaway car…

I leaned back in the seat and rubbed my temples. My head was killing me. Well, actually, it was the cancer that was killing me, but the headache was helping it along quite nicely. I sighed, wondering if my friends would beat both the disease and my head to the punch, and do the cancer’s work themselves. At the rate we were going, it was a distinct possibility. We were quiet for a while. John sulked and Sherm smoked and I massaged my head. My eyes grew heavy. It had been a long night and I was exhausted. Daylight was just a few hours away, and Michelle would be wondering where I’d been all night. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell her. After a while, I spoke. “You guys want to hear something weird? Back there in the alley, when things got tense? I felt alive. For a few moments, I forgot all about the disease. I forgot that I was dying.”

“You ask me,” Sherm replied, “and that’s how I’d rather go out. Given a choice between dying in some crummy hospital bed or being gunned down in a blaze of glory—I’d pick the gunfight every time. And I’d pump some slugs in the motherfuckers before I was gone. I’d kill everyone in sight. I’d…”

He kept talking, but I fell asleep in the middle of it. Looking back now, I wish I’d stayed awake and listened.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.


EIGHT


I was at a funeral. I didn’t know whose. It must have been for somebody important because the turnout was enormous. For some reason, it wasn’t taking place inside a church. Instead, we were at the old, abandoned movie theater downtown, the one where little Kaitlin Roberts had been killed about ten years ago. I was fifteen when that happened. They found her body, along with the bodies of a homeless guy and a mailman inside the vacant theater, which had closed down a year earlier when the multiplex opened across town. Their killer was never caught and their deaths haunted the town to this day.

That was how I knew it was a dream. Who in their right mind would hold a funeral at the location of a series of grisly murders?

Disembodied, I floated above the proceedings, watching as the crowd of people filed by a coffin made out of solid gold. The coffin lid was closed, and I wondered who lay inside. I listened to the hushed murmurs and whispers of the crowd below, but couldn’t make out anything other than sobs. Just by willing it to happen, I drifted down for a closer look. Michelle and T.J. were there, which surprised me. Michelle looked beautiful in her black dress—

not the type from Wal-Mart or Target or the Goodwill store. No, this was something you’d see on television, a gown you could picture Julia Roberts promenading around in at an awards show. A huge diamond sparkled on her finger, and a matching set dangled from her ears and around her neck. T.J.’s hair was slicked back and he wore a little black suit and tie, with matching black shoes. This outfit was new as well. His Sunday clothes (when Michelle’s mother took him to church) had consisted of a pair of tan Osh Kosh and a fraying sweater. I couldn’t believe how great they looked. This was the kind of clothing they’d always deserved, the kind I could never provide. Expensive. Brand-name. I figured they must be happy now. But when I looked closer, I saw that they were crying. Black mascara streaked down Michelle’s face, making her look like a raccoon. T.J.’s little Adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he battled one great sob after another. The grief looked too big for his tiny frame. My heart broke to see them like this, in pain when they should have been happy. Judging by their appearance, they had everything in the world. Why were they so sad? Who had died? Who was in the coffin? Michelle’s mom? No, I spied her in the crowd, coming toward T.J. She picked him up in her arms and held him close.

I started to go to Michelle, but Sherm and John pushed past me—through me. A shiver ran through my body. Sherm was decked out in gold chains, and several fat gold rings adorned his fingers. John was actually wearing a tuxedo, something he hadn’t been able to afford even for our high school prom. John was crying too, as hard as Michelle, and Sherm held them both. But I noticed that he held Michelle a little too tight, and that she let him, and for one second, I was insanely jealous.

None of them seemed to notice me.

That was when I understood. The clothing. The gold casket. Even the money it must have cost to rent out the old movie theater. We’d done it. We’d pulled off the bank job without a hitch, and now my wife and son were taken care of. Sure they were sad, but grief passes; passes quickly if the bills are paid. They’d be okay in the long run.

I smiled, a sense of peaceful satisfaction engulfing me.

A silver and red-gilded banner hung over the casket.

I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return,

please hold me until I get back.

I floated toward the coffin, figuring I might as well pay my respects to myself. After all, this was a dream. No telling what would happen when the real thing came. There might not be a bright light or a chance to look down on my loved ones from above. Better to do it now, while I still could. Besides, who ever gets the chance to visit their own funeral?

The coffin was amazing. The softly flickering candles reflected on its surface. Etched in calligraphy was my name: THOMAS WILLIAM O’BRIEN followed by my date of birth and date of death. Below that, it said simply: Beloved Husband and Father. I put my hands on the lid, and though I was a ghost, it felt solid enough, cool to the touch. I opened it, grunting with the effort—and then looked down.

And I screamed.

Because the thing lying in the coffin, lying in the fancy box with my name carved into it—that thing wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. There was no way. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even human. I screamed again, but if anybody else heard me they didn’t show it. Staring up at me was a blackened, putrescent lump of protoplasmic jelly. A rough outline of a human body; a pulped, swollen thing that could have been a head—were it not the size of a watermelon; two frail, stubby twigs for arms and a matching set for legs. But it was the midsection that was the worst. Something rotten and vile bubbled from the open chest cavity, spurting little gouts of fluid, like a volcano spurts lava right before it blows entirely, and orange-sized tumors jiggled like Jell-O. Brown liquid oozed out of the body, filling the coffin with putrid sludge. Beneath the pools and pulsating tumors, I heard something growing. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. It sounded a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies popping in milk.

Those are cancer cells, I thought. And they’re growing. Growing at an alarming rate. Retching, I took a step backward and the thing opened its bulging eyes. They looked more like tumors than eyeballs and the veins inside the whites weren’t just black—they were fucking obsidian. They swiveled toward me, then the thing spoke. When it did, several teeth fell out into the coffin. Its voice was like a belch.

“Hello Tommy,” it rasped. “Do me a favor, will you? I have gone out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

“The hell? What the fuck are you?” The bile burned my throat, and I wondered how that was possible in a dream.

“I am cancer. You have me. At a very advanced stage.”

I shut my eyes, but it lashed out, grabbing my wrist with one liquefied arm. Something that felt like warm oatmeal ran down my palm and dripped onto the floor.

“You’re terminal, Tommy, so live like there’s no tomorrow! Life’s a bitch, then you die!”

I opened my eyes again and yanked my arm away. It was covered with slime. The thing smiled at me through bleeding, ulcerated gums.

“Watch this.”

It exhaled something that smelled like the inside of a septic tank. Thin, weblike tendrils slithered out of its pores and twisted through the crowd, wrapping around the people, coiling around Michelle and T.J., Sherm and John. When the tentacles touched them, something black and inky began to worm its way through their veins, visible beneath the flesh. Immediately above the infected spots, their skin began to wither and turn brittle, large pieces flaking off and falling to the floor.

“What are you doing?” I choked.

“I am you and you are me and they are we,” it sang. “You infect the ones you love, Tommy. You are a sickness. You are poison in their veins. What more could they expect from a white trash loser like you?”

“Fuck you!”

“You’re no good, no good, no good,” it sang again, “Tommy you’re no goooood! Come on and get down with the sickness! Open up your veins and let me flow into you…”

I reached for Michelle and T.J. and they fell apart in my arms. I choked, breathing them in. Staggering backward in horror, I bumped into Sherm and he did the same. Then John disintegrated too. All that was left of them were piles of ash.

I started to scream a third time, but the thing’s stench grew stronger, overwhelming me. It continued to swell and pulsate. I turned away, revolted.

Behind me, the thing in the coffin exploded, showering the room with itself. Something wet and reeking and grayish red landed on my head.

I bent over and vomited on my shoes, still trying to scream…

* * *


… and I was still doing both as I woke up with a view of the bedroom floor. I heard Michelle gasp in dismay as a plastic garbage can was shoved in front of my face.

“Here baby! Hit the can! Hit the can, Tommy!”

I convulsed, half-on the bed and half-off, and then I erupted once more.

“Oh Christ, Tommy—hit the can! The can!”

“GAAAAAHHHHH…” I replied. It felt like the lining of my throat was trying to crawl out through my mouth. I clenched my eyes shut as the spasms overtook me. In the background, I heard Michelle run to the closet in the hallway and grab a bath towel. I opened my eyes and saw blood in the trash can. Before Michelle could come back and see it, I wadded up some tissues and dropped them on top of the mess.

“What’s wrong with Daddy, Mommy?”

“He’s sick, baby. Go on back out in the living room and watch cartoons. Mommy will be out in a minute.”

“Does Daddy have the flu? Is he going to be okay?”

“Now, T.J.!”

I gagged, tried to talk, to reassure him, and found the words cut off by another cramp. It was warm and foul; beer and tequila and the remains of what little bit I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours. It splattered into the can with a wet sound, and now Michelle was retching too. Without looking, she threw the towel at me and with one hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom. Blood, mucus, bile, and more of what looked like my insides followed it. Then came the dry heaves. My stomach churned and cramped, cramped and churned, but nothing more was left. When it was over, I lay back on the bed, gasping for air. The stench was overwhelming, and I rolled over again as a final case of dry heaves seized me.

I threw more tissues into the trash can. The toilet flushed and I heard the water running. Michelle came out of the bathroom a minute later, wiping her mouth.

“Long night?” she frowned.

“I’m sick.”

“No shit, Tommy. How much did you have to drink last night?”

She wasn’t shouting, but it felt like it. Her voice was shrill, cutting into my head like a power saw. Groaning, I rolled away from her and buried my head in the pillows.

“How much?” she demanded, and pulled the sheets away from me.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Not much. Few beers and a couple shots of tequila.”

“You didn’t get home till six—I’m betting you had more than that.”

“Un-uh. Seriously, that was all.”

“Then where the hell were you?”

Well first, honey bun, John, Sherm, and I almost got into a scrap at Murphy’s Place. Then we hatched plans for a bank robbery and took a drive out to York, where we visited the hood. I used the last of our savings to buy two guns, and we almost got our asses killed by the brothers when John decided to prove that he was down with the Rainbow Coalition.

“We went to Murph’s.” That wasn’t a lie. “And then we just drove around. Went out to the lake for a while.” That wasn’t a lie either. “Sherm broke up with this girl he’s been seeing and he was a little depressed.” That was a straight-up, bold-faced lie and she knew it immediately.

“Bullshit, Tommy. Sherm’s a player. He probably just wanted to get into some mischief and dragged you two along.”

I shrugged.

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

“Anything happen at work yesterday?”

I didn’t like the way she was looking at me.

“No,” I hesitated. “Why?”

“I heard the foundry is laying people off. It was on the news this morning. Jenny Orosel told me they’re getting rid of the guys with four to six years of tenure.”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you about that. It’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it? And the rest of us will get stuck doing twice the work.”

“But don’t you fall into that group? The group getting laid off? You’ve been there five years.”

“No,” I lied. “I was worried about it, but the axe didn’t fall on me. We lucked out, I guess.”

“Tommy?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Of course not, Michelle. Why?”

“Because Jenny said that you were one of the guys that got laid off. You and John and Sherm.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know where the hell she heard that. We’ve all still got our jobs. We were sweating it, though.”

“I’m worried. Money is already tight. If you get laid off…”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it. Take care of everything.”

“What do you mean?”

Before I could lie to her some more, I belched uncontrollably and grimaced at the taste. Michelle did the same, fanning her nose in disgust.

“God, Tommy, you stink. You stink but I love you.”

“Love you too.” I leaned up to kiss her and she backed away, protesting, which was good, because my head began swimming and I had to fall back onto the mattress before I passed out. She didn’t notice that, but she did notice how pale I was.

“You really do look like shit, babe. Let me feel your head.”

“I’m all right. It’s just a hangover.”

She insisted and I finally gave in. Her hand felt cool and dry against my forehead, and I closed my eyes.

“I think you’ve got a fever.” The worry in her voice had gone up a few notches. “You’re burning up.”

“I’ll be fine. Can you just get me some aspirin and my smokes, and maybe make some coffee?”

“Okay. Why don’t I get you an ice pack too?”

“That’s okay. I’m going to get in the shower in a few minutes. Just need to wake up first.”

She hesitated, caressing my brow, and smiled.

I managed to return the smile, but it felt like my teeth were going to fall out, just like the thing’s in the dream had done. After she was gone, I forced myself out of bed, sitting up slowly and groaning in pain as I put one foot on the floor, then the other. My joints ached and it felt like somebody had kicked me in the ribs. I wanted to go back to sleep, to shut my eyes and forget about everything, just lie there dying in bed. But I couldn’t. For starters, I needed to clean out the trash can before Michelle saw the blood in it—and the other stuff, the black stuff that had come from deeper down inside me. After that, I wanted to make the most of our day. We didn’t have many days left and I wanted to enjoy every one of them.

With a lot of effort, I stepped into a pair of sweats, picked up the can, and stumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and filled the can, then dumped it, watching as little pieces of myself swirled down the drain. After I rinsed it out, I sprayed it with disinfectant. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and what I saw wasn’t fucking pretty. I hadn’t turned into the thing in the dream, not yet, but Michelle was right. I really did look like shit. I looked old. Not twenty-five but thirty-five. Forty even. The skin on my neck and chin was swollen and puffy, and my eyes were two sunken brown circles. The stubble on my cheeks looked rough and spotty—almost as if the cancer was killing the hair follicles in some places, like somebody had sprayed patches of my face with Michelle’s hair remover. The same thing was happening on my chest. The hair that was left was turning prematurely gray. I followed the silvery trail down to my navel, and noticed just how loose the sweats were around my waist. Michelle had been right. I’d definitely lost weight.

I wasn’t going to be able to hide what was really going on for much longer. Michelle was smart, and soon she’d figure out for herself that this wasn’t just the flu. And when she did, she’d know I’d been lying to her. Then the truth would come out, in all of its ugly glory. I hated myself for lying to her. She wasn’t just the love of my life. She was my best friend, too. I trusted her, and remained faithful to her in a town filled with cheating spouses. I respected her, and she did the same for me. This just wasn’t right, and it hurt me in ways the cancer couldn’t. I showered and shaved, and by the time I finished up, Michelle had my coffee and the first cigarette of the day waiting for me. The combination of the hot water, nicotine, and caffeine took care of most of the aches in my back and sides, and the headache was reduced to a low rumble.

“You look better,” she said, while I sat on the floor with T.J., watching Yu-Gi-Oh. “Want some breakfast?”

“No, I better not. My stomach’s still a little queasy.”

“Okay.”

I tried to concentrate on the cartoon but I couldn’t. A commercial came on for a hair loss cure and I wondered why the hell they were advertising that during the time of day when kids watched television. T.J. stirred next to me.

“Daddy, can we go to the park today?”

“I don’t think we’d better, babe,” Michelle told him. “Daddy’s still not feeling good.”

“I feel better,” I insisted. “That shower helped. It’s just my stomach now. Tell you guys what. Let me have a few more cups of coffee and then we’ll go to the park. Sound like a plan?”

T.J. cheered, then his cartoon came back on and he was completely absorbed. I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of coffee. Michelle wrapped her arms around my back and nuzzled my neck. Her breath tickled my skin, and I breathed her in: vanilla-sugar and shampoo. Clean. Healthy. She gave me goose bumps.

“You sure you feel like going out? I can take him by myself. Let you get some sleep…”

“No,” I turned, kissing her on the forehead. “Seriously, I’m all right. It’ll do me some good to get out. It’s springtime. Can’t stay cooped up in the trailer watching TV all day. Especially these Japanese cartoons. They all look the same.”

“I love you, Tommy O’Brien.”

“I love you too, babe. I really, really do.”

She pulled back a little and stared into my eyes. Her forehead wrinkled in concern. I wanted to tell her, felt overwhelmed with guilt for not telling her, but I couldn’t.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just…”

I struggled for the words, something I’d never said to her before in all the years I’d known her.

“…Just hold me, okay? Just hold me and don’t let go.”

She did, and she loved me enough not to ask me why.

* * *


We went to the park, and I pushed T.J. on the swings and seesawed with him and played horseshoes and told Michelle to quit worrying about him falling off the monkey bars. We bought ice cream (thank God Michelle had cash and we didn’t have to use the ATM) and sodas, and we brought along a loaf of bread to feed the ducks. We tore the slices into little pieces and the ducks converged on us as we tossed the bread into the pond. T.J. and Michelle both laughed when a swan got brave enough to take the pieces right out of their fingers. Then T.J. played with some friends from day care while Michelle and I curled up on the blanket together. We didn’t talk—we didn’t need to. We had that comfortable vibe where both partners are happy just to be together. The sunlight felt warm on my face, and it caught the highlights in Michelle’s hair, making the strands shine like spun gold.

After his friends had scattered and gone off with their parents, T.J. ran up to us.

“Daddy, do you feel better now?”

“Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Will you play with me then?”

“Sure, little man. What do you want to play?”

“Cops and robbers! Cops and robbers!” He jumped up and down.

“Okay,” I stood up, joints popping, trying to hide the pain in them. “Who do I get to be?”

“You’re the robber and I’m the policeman. You have to rob a bank, and I get to put you in the jail.” He pointed to the monkey bars, indicating that they were the playground’s version of prison.

“Rob a bank?” I paused as something twisted and uncoiled deep down inside of me. “How about I just kidnap Mommy and give her a spanking instead?”

“Noooo,” he stomped. “If you’re gonna be a robber, then you have to rob a bank. That’s the way you play it.”

I looked at Michelle for help but she lay there on the blanket, smiling at me.

“He’s got a point, Tommy. Bad guys don’t help old ladies across the street. They rob banks.”

The unease grew.

“Maybe Mommy can be the bad guy,” I suggested.

“Girls aren’t bad guys,” T.J. fumed. “Only boys. That’s why they call them bad guys, Daddy.”

“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll be the bank robber.”

The words seemed to hang in the air after they left my mouth, but T.J. was cheering and started giving me instructions. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.

“This tree is the bank. Mommy can be the person who works at the bank. When you rob it, you have to say ‘Stick them up’ because that’s what they do on the police shows.”

“I told you he’s watching too much TV,” Michelle whispered, getting to her feet.

“Okay,” T.J. shouted impatiently, “let’s go!”

Michelle leaned against the tree, and said, “Welcome to O’Brien Savings and Loan. My name is Michelle. How can I help you today?”

“Ummm, stick ’em up,” I mumbled. “Give me all your money.”

“No, Daddy! You have to yell it, and you have to point your fingers like this.” He stuck his index finger straight out and cocked his thumb.

“How can I help you, sir?” Michelle asked again, giggling.

“Stick ’em up,” I said halfheartedly. My breath wheezed in my chest and my head began to hurt again.

“Louder, Daddy! And do the gun!”

“Come on, Tommy,” Michelle hissed. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being a spoilsport?

Make him happy and play the game the right way.”

My heartbeat was racing, throbbing in my temples.

“STICK THEM UP!” I shoved my finger pistol under Michelle’s nose. “Put the money in the bag and nobody gets hurt!”

“That’s more like it,” she whispered. Then she raised her voice, and yelled, “Oh no! We’re being robbed! Help! Help! Police!”

This was T.J.’s cue and he didn’t miss it. He ran toward us across the grass, shouting “WHOO

WHOO WHOO” in an imitation of a police car siren. He stopped behind us and pointed his own finger pistol at me.

“All right, you bank robber! Reach for the sky!”

“Don’t shoot,” I hollered, warming to the part. “I’m dropping my gun. Don’t shoot.”

But he did anyway. He made the little “KA-POW” noises, then stopped, staring at me in frustration.

“What?” I asked, perplexed.

“You’re supposed to fall down, Daddy. That’s what you do when I shoot you.”

“Oh.” I clutched my stomach and groaned. “Looks like you got me, copper. I’m a dead man.”

“You’re going to jail,” T.J. informed me. “Get up, you robber!”

“Don’t I get to go to the hospital first?”

“No.” He started to giggle.

“My hero,” Michelle cried and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Officer. Would you like to stay for some cookies and punch?”

“No thank you, ma’am,” T.J. drawled. “I’ve got to take this bad guy to jail.”

He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed myself to my feet, letting him lead me to the monkey bars prison. I ducked down and slipped between the bars, crouching in the sand.

“When can I get out, Mr. Policeman?”

“Never. Bank robbers have to stay in jail forever.”

“But I have a family, sir. A wife and three kids and a dog.”

T.J. paused, and his face grew serious.

“Daddy?”

“What, buddy?”

“Do bank robbers really have families like that?”

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again. I struggled for the words, any words, anything.

“Sometimes they do, I guess. Not all bank robbers probably start out as bad guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe they are just poor and don’t have any other way to get money. Or maybe they’ve got a sick little boy at home who needs medicine or a mommy that needs to see a special doctor who’s really expensive.”

“So is robbing banks wrong?”

“Yeah, little man,” I fumbled, “it’s wrong. It’s definitely a bad thing.”

His brow creased in confusion. “Then how can all bank robbers not be bad guys?”

“I’m sure that most of them are, T.J. But some are just regular guys—guys like Uncle John or Uncle Sherm. Guys like me. They just get caught up in something that they can’t get out of, no matter how badly they’d like to.”

He thought about this, then asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Daddy—would you ever rob a bank?”

“No, T.J., of course not. I’d never do that.”

“Never ever?”

“Never.”

I’d been lying to Michelle and now I’d just lied to my son. At that moment, I welcomed death from cancer because it was no less than what I deserved.

“Not even if we were sick? Not even if we really needed the money?”

“Nope. Not even then. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have to go to jail and I wouldn’t be able to see you and Mommy.”

“That would suck.”

The abruptness of his statement made me laugh and I was grateful, because the laughter kept me from screaming. It kept me sane.

“Yeah, you’re right, little man. That would suck. Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we play something else now?”

“Okay, Daddy. What do you want to play?”

“How about hide-and-seek? I’ll even be it.”

“Sweet.” He scampered away.

“Hey,” I called after him, “can I come out of the jail now?”

“No,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You have to count from there.”

I wrapped my fingers around the bars that separated me from my family, closed my eyes, and began to count.

The chills had almost left me by the time I got to twenty.

* * *


Later, after we’d gotten home, I grilled some steaks and made baked potatoes and corn on the cob for dinner, while Michelle gave T.J. a bath. We ate, and when the meal was finished, the three of us curled up together on the sofa with a bowl of microwaved popcorn, and watched The Lion King for the four hundredth time. It was just as good as the first time we’d seen it—

except for the part when the father dies. That had always choked me up before, and it really knocked me on my ass now. T.J. fell asleep between us during the last half hour, and when it was over, I lifted him in my arms and carried him to bed. He stirred, mumbled something, then went right back to sleep. I kissed him on the forehead, smoothed his rumpled hair, and shut his door, leaving it open a crack to protect against monsters, just the way he liked it. Michelle and I finished the popcorn; and then we made love, right there on the couch. She smelled just as good as she had that morning—the vanilla-sugar lingering in the air. When it was over, we snuggled together, still naked, smoking and soaking in the afterglow. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t need to.

After a while, she fell asleep too. I carried her to bed, pulled the blanket over her, kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair just like I’d done with T.J., and crawled under the sheets next to her.

I didn’t sleep.

* * *


I wish that I could tell you it was a good day, but it wasn’t. Except for the panic and guilt attack during the game of cops and robbers, and my battle with nausea earlier that morning, it should have been the perfect day. Sounds like it was, doesn’t it? Well you weren’t there. You weren’t inside my head. I should have been grateful—should have loved every minute of it, every second. Except I didn’t. How could I? How the fuck was I supposed to? My wife and son had enjoyed a beautiful spring day as a family, and in their hearts they thought that there would be thousands more of those days to come.

But I knew better. I knew that this would be the last. And that knowledge was a fucked-up thing. It ate at me in ways the cancer never could. It devoured me from the inside. If I shared that knowledge, it would destroy them. And by not sharing it, I destroyed what we had. I lay there in the darkness, listening to my wife breathing next to me, and my son snoring softly down the hall. Anger suddenly overwhelmed me. Silently, I cursed God and the Devil and the tobacco companies and the doctor and my vanishing father and bitch of a mother and the owners of the foundry and everybody else I could think of. Most of all, I cursed myself. The thought occurred to me that maybe I should just commit suicide. Sign up for a life insurance policy with a big payout and take one of the pistols and blow my brains out the back of my head. But that would never work. Most insurance companies would want some kind of physical, and they’d find out about the cancer right away. Besides that, I didn’t think they paid out if you killed yourself.

Still, it would be an easy way out, a way to stop the lies and the pain and the sickness, a way to stop the dread I constantly felt in my gut, the dread that was consuming me, gnawing at me like a worm.

I tossed and turned. The sheets stuck to me. After a while, I got up and tiptoed to the front door. I opened it quietly, knowing that if Michelle woke up now, I’d have no choice but to come clean. Slipping outside, I made it to the truck, opened the door, killed the dome light, and reached under the seat. For one terrifying moment, I couldn’t find the box, and all kinds of things went through my head. Michelle had found it or a neighbor had stolen the guns or maybe the cops knew about the buy. But then my fingers brushed against it, and I pulled it out, relieved. I lifted the lid and the pistols stared back at me in the moonlight, whispering of a means to an end. Robbery. Suicide. Peace. Whatever I wanted, they were more than happy to provide it. They were shiny, happy things, full of promise and release.

Still considering my options, I put the lid back on the box and carried it over to my toolshed. I popped the combination lock and stepped inside, shutting the wooden door behind me. I flicked on the overhead light and a terrified mouse scampered in one of the dark corners. One of my mom’s boyfriends had once given me an Old Milwaukee barroom mirror, and I still had it, hanging on the wall next to my tool bench. I opened the box, pulled out one of the .357s, and lifted it up, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I placed the cold barrel to my temple. The gun looked big—bigger than on TV. Then I opened my mouth and put it inside, pressing it against the back of my throat, tasting the metallic tang of oil. I gagged. No. There was no way I could do that. No way I could ever pull the trigger and do myself.

Still watching my reflection, I pulled the gun back out and pointed it at the mirror.

“This is a stickup, motherfucker! Put the money in the goddamned bag and nobody gets hurt!”

I smiled. That was a lot easier and a lot better.

I repeated the words again. And again. They became a mantra and I practiced till they were perfect.

Still smiling, I locked up the shed and put the guns back under the seat in the truck. There were a few more things I had to do—just to make sure this was the road I wanted to take. But the words in the mirror stayed in my head. I slipped into the trailer, and lay down next to Michelle. I had no trouble sleeping after that.


NINE


The next morning was Sunday. On Sunday, God may have rested, but I was still dying, and trust me, that was a very fucked-up thing to remember upon waking. I lay there in the bed, disoriented, aware of nothing but the sound of my cells turning bad and ganging up on me. I imagined that I could hear them, scurrying like ants through my body. At least I wasn’t puking—

yet. I fumbled on the nightstand for my cigarettes, lit one up, and tried to force the thought from my mind.

I thought about anything else I could, anything that didn’t involve dying. The time Michelle and I played hooky from school and went down to the Baltimore-Washington airport to watch the planes from the observatory. How beautiful she looked on our wedding day. When we moved into the trailer and Michelle and Sherm got into an argument because Sherm scratched the dining room table while he was unloading it, and how John and I laughed when she shut him down with just a look. The day she came home from the doctor and told me that he’d confirmed the home test, and she was indeed pregnant. T.J. being born, and when I first saw him, I thought there was something horribly wrong because his head was cone-shaped. The relief I felt when the doctor explained that it was normal. The first Christmas that T.J. actually opened his own presents, and got excited over them. When John and Sherm and I took him fishing off the dam at Three Mile Island, and how we hadn’t caught any fish but T.J. came home with a stringer full of new curse words. T.J.’s first day at day care, and how he clung and cried and screamed not to go—and how happy and smiling he was when the day was over and he told us how much fun he had. The first time he said, “I love you, Daddy.” That one, that memory, kept the thoughts of dying out of my head the longest. But it also brought them crashing back in the hardest. I rolled over onto Michelle’s pillow and breathed in the aroma that she’d left behind. I could still smell her, but not as strongly as I would have been able to a few months before. That realization brought it all back again and soon, her pillow was wet, as was my face. Eventually, the sounds of cartoons drifted in from the living room, and I heard the hiss of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. I couldn’t smell it no matter how hard I tried. I blew my nose, clearing out the bloody snot, and tried again, but I still couldn’t smell it. I stayed in bed, smoking the cigarette down to the filter and feeling depressed.

At the moment, the best thing in the world I could imagine was to pull the sheets and comforter up over my head, curl into the fetal position, and just lie there, drifting in and out of consciousness until the cancer finally did me in—hopefully while I was sound asleep. I was never one of these people that believed in that chronic depression bullshit, never bought into the psychobabble and self-help books and feel-good pop psychology of people like Dr. Phil and Oprah. Michelle thought that Dr. Phil and Oprah both walked on water and shit gold bricks. I thought they were both assholes. I mean, if the two of them were so goddamn good at dispensing advice on how to control your life, then why couldn’t the fat fucks control their calorie intake? They were phonies—rich people who made their money telling others how to fix their lives, while their own lives were a fucking mess. I’d never taken Prozac, Paxil, or any of the other antidepressants that, according to the disclaimer on the commercials, had common side effects like bleeding from the eyes, fatal nose warts, and spontaneous human combustion. It was all bullshit; just mass-produced medication for phony diseases that existed simply to make the drug companies richer, and I wasn’t buying into it.

Listen up. Are you or a loved one depressed? Well, now there’s good news. Here’s Tommy O’Brien’s plan to cure yourself: Shut the fuck up. That’s all. Shut the fuck up and get on with it. Life’s a bitch, then you die. It’s that simple. Depressed? Shut up and get the fuck over it. Move to fucking Calcutta or Baghdad or Compton, then come back and tell me how bad you have it. But I was depressed. Depressed and angry. It wasn’t fair. Why should I have to die now? Why did it have to be me? I was too frigging young for this to be happening. But it was, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Part of me wanted to lie there in bed and another part of me wanted to run through the streets, screaming “Fuck you!” to God and the tobacco companies and the foundry and my parents and the government and our president and the rich and this fucking town and everybody in it. I wanted to rage, to let my anger spill out of me. I wanted to smash things, break stuff—just destroy everything in sight and burn it all to the fucking ground and laugh amidst the ashes.

But I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t run into the street. Instead, as the nausea hit, I made the now-familiar morning run from the bed to the bathroom, and I puked. Then I flicked on the exhaust fan so Michelle wouldn’t hear me, puked some more, showered, and puked again. I brushed my teeth and winced. My gums were tender and they started to bleed. The mouthwash burned them too, and I squinted my eyes shut and rode out the pain. After rinsing my mouth and getting dressed, I lit up another smoke and walked down the hall to join my family. T.J. was sprawled out on the floor again, still wearing his pajamas and picking at a half-soggy bowl of Cheerios with blueberries floating in milk. His eyes never left the screen. It looked like he’d gotten some sun during our visit to the park the day before. Michelle did too. She cracked two eggs and dropped them into the pan. They’d gotten some sun, but I was still as pale as the egg whites.

“Morning, babe.” She pecked my cheek as I leaned into her from behind, smelling her hair and giving her a squeeze.

“Good morning.” I did my best to sound happy and awake. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” she purred. “Especially after—well, you know. How about you?”

“Okay, I guess.” I poured myself a mug of coffee. “You guys are up early.”

“Yeah, I promised my mom that we’d go to church with her. She’s been bitching that T.J. and I haven’t been there with her in a few weeks. I think she just likes to show us off to her friends. You want to go along with us?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, hon. Church gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You sure it’s not just that you don’t want to spend time with your mother-in-law?”

“Well yeah, now that you mention it. Your mom gives me the heebie-jeebies too.”

“Tommy!”

Laughing, she smacked my ass with the greasy spatula. I yelped in surprise.

“You take that back, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What are the heebie-jeebies?” T.J. piped up.

“It’s a present your grandma gave me,” I told him, and Michelle turned away, snickering. “What ya’ watching, little man?”

“Justice League Adventures. It’s my new favorite cartoon on Sundays.”

“And who’s that big green guy? The Hulk?”

“No, Daddy, that’s Jonn Jonzz, the Martian Manhunter. He’s getting ready to fight Vandal Savage but…”

I’d known that, of course. I’d been raised on Marvel and DC. Successfully getting him off the subject of his grandmother’s effect on me, I tuned him out, nodding in the appropriate places and expressing dismay over the character’s plight when required. All the while, I searched for the aspirin. I found them, washed four down with my coffee, and resurfaced for air just as T.J. was finishing up.

“…can outrace Superman because Flash is the fastest man on Earth!”

“Cool!” I responded.

Michelle was staring at me. The bacon was draining on a paper-towel-covered plate. The eggs looked just about done.

“What?” I asked.

“How many aspirin did you just take?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Will you please get that prescription filled today? I mean it, Tommy. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It’s Sunday, Michelle. The pharmacy ain’t open on Sunday.”

“Yes it is, and you know it is too. You look like shit, Tommy. Maybe you need to get a second opinion while you’re at it. Whatever you’ve got, it sure as hell isn’t getting any better.”

That’s because it’s growing, I thought. Growing at an alarming rate. In fact, Michelle babe, I’m afraid it’s terminal. And soon, it will be later my niggaz and peace out!

“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in defeated surrender. “I’ll go get the prescription filled today. This morning in fact.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” She kissed me on the cheek, gave my hand a squeeze, and flipped the eggs onto a plate.

“Now come eat.”

I looked at the eggs and bacon and wanted to puke again. I felt the bile rise in my throat, burning me, but I fought the urge down and smiled.

“Looks great.” I licked my lips and sat down at the table.

I almost told her the truth then. The words were on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed them down again, and the taste was bitter.

“We’ve got to get ready for church,” Michelle said. “Come on, T.J., turn that thing off and go get dressed.”

“Five more minutes,” he negotiated. “It’s almost over.”

“Now,” Michelle countered, “or no ice cream after church. Besides, you’ve seen this one already.”

“I never get to do anything…”

Begrudgingly, he stomped down the hall to his bedroom. Michelle followed along behind him, arguing. As soon as they were gone, I got up, dumped the food into the garbage can, covered it up with paper towels, then changed bags. By the time they were finished, I was washing the dishes and Michelle was none the wiser.

T.J. was wearing his tan Osh Kosh and fraying old sweater, and it reminded me of my nightmare. I shivered, despite the scalding dishwater, as I recalled those cancerous tentacles wrapping around him.

“How was breakfast?” Michelle asked.

“Great.” I smiled. “Bacon was crispy, just the way I like it. Eggs were great too. Thanks for making it.”

“Must have been. You wolfed it down quick enough.”

I nodded and forced another smile.

“Okay, we’ve got to jet. We’re late and Mom’s going to have a fit. Will you be here when we get back?”

“I promised John I’d help him change his timing belt, then I’ll pick up the prescription. Should be home by two or three at the latest.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” She gave me another quick kiss, and I hugged T.J. and told him to have fun. Michelle made a fuss about me getting soapsuds all over his clothes, and T.J. giggled. Then she ushered him out the door.

I stood at the kitchen window and watched them walk down the sidewalk together, hand in hand. I cried. I cried for a long time and used a dishrag to dry both my hands and my face. Then it was off to the bathroom again for another battle with my stomach. This time, it came out both ends, and there was blood in both my vomit and my stool. After about twenty minutes, when I felt like an empty, dried-out bag of skin, I stood up and got on with the business of dying.

* * *


The truck didn’t want to start right away. It felt about as healthy as I did. When I finally got it running, I stopped at the big supermarket on Carlisle Street with the pharmacy inside. I had lied to Michelle about my plans. There was nothing wrong with John’s timing belt, and in fact, I didn’t even plan on seeing him all day. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day hanging out with John and Sherm. There were other things that I needed to take care of instead. I had a To Do list for the day…

I walked through the produce section, past the paperback rack and the aisles for bottled soda, potato chips, and pet supplies before I found the pharmacy. There was a big guy behind the counter, dressed in a white lab coat with a name tag that said CASEY. He looked more like a club bouncer than a pharmacist.

“Good morning.” He grinned. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a prescription that I need to get filled. Wasn’t sure you’d be open today, to tell you the truth.”

“Yep, we’re open on Sundays. That’s why I’m stuck here today instead of at home watching the game. People get sick seven days a week. Let’s take a look at your prescription.”

I handed him the crumpled-up piece of white paper. He unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and carefully deciphered the doctor’s handwriting.

“Hmmm, eighty milligrams of OxyContin, to be taken twice daily. Not a problem. Should be about fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

“I just need to see your insurance card, and I’ll also need your date of birth.”

I looked down at my feet. “I don’t have any insurance.”

“That’s okay. Lots of people in this town don’t have health insurance.” His voice was still friendly, but his smile had drooped a few notches. “Will you be paying by cash, credit, or debit card?”

“Um, none of them right now,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me how much it was going to be. That way I know how much to set aside for next week.”

He paused, studying me. “Well, eighty milligrams per day, taken twice daily—that comes to six hundred and fifty dollars per month.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Six hundred and fifty bucks? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“You’re lucky, pal. Just be glad that your doctor didn’t put you on one hundred and sixty milligrams. That would be even more expensive. On the street, they call OxyContin the poor man’s heroin, but there’s nothing poor about it.”

“What do you mean, ‘on the street’?”

“OxyContin, if taken properly, is released slowly into the body. It’s a time-release capsule. But drug addicts circumvent the time release by crushing the pills and inhaling or injecting the powder. It gives them a heroin-like high, supposedly. The cops blame it for part of the rise in crime across the country here lately. Between that, and the fact that there’s no generic version, the prices stay high.”

“Well, this is bullshit, man. I can’t afford this.”

His smile completely vanished.

“Look, buddy, I don’t set the prices. If that’s not affordable for you, then talk to your doctor. There are generic versions of other painkillers that he can prescribe.”

“How cheap would they be?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere from three to five hundred a month.”

“Nothing cheaper?”

“Not unless you want to walk over to aisle six and get yourself a bottle of aspirin or ibuprofen.”

“Well, I guess that settles that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Look, don’t take it personal, okay? I’m sorry for bothering you. Just been trying to figure out what I’m going to do, and this may have helped me make up my mind. Thanks for your help, Casey.”

“Whatever you say. Hang in there.”

Without another word, I turned and left the counter. I’d promised Michelle that I would get my prescription filled. As far as I was concerned, I’d tried. Now there were no doubts in my mind about what I had to do. The bank robbery was the only way, even if just to pay for my painkillers.

Before I left the store, I remembered that I was down to three cigarettes. I strolled up to the customer service booth and flashed the girl behind the counter my best flirtatious smile, the same one that had finally won Michelle over.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Boy, I really hope so. I put a five-dollar bill in the soda machine outside and not only did it not give me a soda, but it won’t give me my money back either. I think it must be broken or something.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

“No it ain’t. Do you have one of those little envelopes that I can fill out for a refund from the vendor?”

She didn’t, of course, and I knew that. The store automatically refunded your money on the spot, then squared up with the vending company later on. But I played stupid.

“I can take care of it for you right now, sir.”

“You can? Awesome! That would be great. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but five bucks is five bucks, you know what I’m saying?”

She nodded in sympathy, filled out a little piece of paper, had me sign it, and gave me a crisp, new five-dollar bill. Easy money, and soon, there’d be more where that came from. I climbed back into the truck, drove across the street to the discount tobacco store, and bought a fresh pack of smokes. I walked out with a buck in change, enough for a soda later on. Then I went to the library, second on my agenda for the day.

* * *


The library was only open for limited hours on Sunday, and I had to wait until somebody unlocked the doors. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful, balmy spring day, I stood there shivering on the sidewalk. Eventually, I got back in the truck and let the heater run. I rubbed my hands together in front of the dashboard vents, trying to get some circulation in my numb fingers. By the time the librarian showed up, I was almost warm. I gave the librarian my driver’s license, signed in for a computer, and logged onto the net. I typed ALTERNATIVE CANCER TREATMENTS into the search engine, waited a moment, and got seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand matches. The sheer amount of information was pretty daunting. There was information on herbs and supplements and vitamins, some of which were supposed to prevent you from getting cancer (too late for me on that one), and others that were supposed to help combat it, either taken separately or with prescribed medication from a doctor. I clicked on a few links, but the herbs were just as expensive as the painkillers my doctor prescribed. Next was heat therapy, which supposedly killed the cancer cells from the inside out. One week of intensive therapy cost seventeen thousand dollars, and the recommended treatment was a minimum of two weeks. Just a little bit out of my price range. Other cures and treatments involved acupuncture, something called applied kinesiology, emulsified vitamin A, Cesium Chloride, holistic meditation, vitamin E, essiac tea, ellagic acid, mushrooms (that didn’t sound too bad), marijuana ingestion (that didn’t sound too bad either), Aloe Vera extract, Rife technology, infrared treatment, mistletoe pills, hypothermia (which kind of invalidated the heat treatment theory and cost the same amount), peroxide therapy, hyperbaric units, flax oil, high doses of vitamin C, shark cartilage, kelp, harmonic vibration therapy, whale song therapy, and thousands more—each one more whacked and expensive than the last. It was all bullshit. There were doctors and clinics outside the US that I could visit for help, but I couldn’t afford gas money to York, let alone a plane ticket to Argentina or Switzerland. I slammed the keyboard in aggravation and the librarian gave me a stern look of admonishment. A new headache pounded behind my eyes. Frustrated and angrier than ever, I logged off and stormed out of the library. I had two more things on my To Do list for the day.

* * *


Okay, so I was definitely going to die. I’d given up all hope of there being any last-minute reprieve. The doctor wasn’t going to call and say that it had all been a mistake, just one of those crazy mix-ups. Traditional medicine wasn’t going to work, and the alternatives were no fucking alternative.

My life was a bitch, then I died. End of story. It was time to shut the fuck up and get on with it. Get on with dealing with it. Get on with dying. And especially time to get on with making plans to cover my ass and my family. The bank job was only part of that insurance policy. Next on my list was the funeral parlor. Stop and think about it for a minute. How many people really get to plan their own funerals? Not as many as you might think. I figured that I’d take advantage of the opportunity.

I’d driven by the Myers Funeral Home a thousand times, but I’d never been inside. I guess it’s that way for most people. A funeral home isn’t the kind of place you go to hang out on a Friday night. You don’t go there unless you have a very specific reason. There were only two other cars in the parking lot, a black hearse and a matching black BMW. I got out of the truck and stared at the building. My mother had been taken care of by the funeral home across town, and this was the first time I’d seen this one up close. It was pretty daunting—cold, gray granite walls and huge weeping willow trees that kept the place hidden in their sprawling shadows. Tall pillars and a stone archway crowned a set of red marble stairs that led up to the main doors.

Swallowing hard, I climbed them. Dead leaves crunched under my feet. After a moment’s pause, I went inside. It was quiet, quieter than the library, and it smelled like a hospital. You know that chemical, antiseptic smell? I don’t know what I expected—flowers maybe, or even formaldehyde—but not that empty air.

An older man with jet-black hair and a matching black suit met me in the lobby and smiled politely. He smelled just like the rest of the place. When he shook my hand, his palm was like dry ice.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Anthony Myers. Welcome to the Myers Funeral Home. I’m pleased to be of service.”

“How you doing,” I mumbled, letting go of his hand. “I’m Tommy. Tommy O’Brien.”

“How do you do, Mr. O’Brien?”

His usage of Mister in front of my last name made me think of the doctor. I shrugged it off.

“How can I be of assistance to you today?” he asked.

“Well,” I struggled, unsure of how to put it, “I need to check into funeral prices and stuff like that.”

He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded. “I see. I see. Well, Mr. O’Brien, let me assure you that both of my sons and our entire staff are ready and able to assist you. This is a family-owned and -operated business, so we understand families quite well. We want to ensure that your immediate needs as well as your anticipated needs for the future are fully satisfied.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. It sounded like he was reading off a cue card.

“Normally, we have family counselors on hand to answer your questions, but since this is Sunday, I’ve given them the day off. That’s one of the benefits of being the owner. I will, however, be more than happy to assist you. Curiously enough, do you have fire insurance, Mr. O’Brien?”

The question threw me for a moment.

“No. Why?”

“Well, many people do, yet the chances of a fire are one in one thousand three hundred. You have automobile insurance, I presume?”

Rather than telling him that the policy was about to expire if we didn’t pay the premium, I just nodded.

“Of course you do. All drivers in this state are required to. Yet the odds of being in an accident are only one in two hundred and fifty.”

“So what’s your point, Mr. Myers?”

“My point is that your odds in this case are one in one. It’s a service that everyone eventually needs. And my family has been providing that service for over a half century. In short, we can help you.”

“Okay, okay. I get the picture. Look, let me be straight up with you. I’m not interested in a sales pitch. I need cold, hard facts, not a brochure.”

“I understand, and I apologize if I came across that way. We don’t view it as selling, Mr. O’Brien. Easing a difficult time is our objective. We offer nothing less than total perfection, and we demand that of ourselves as well. You may be wondering how we do that. Well, by not losing our compassion for the families we serve. Who is the deceased, if I may ask?”

“I am. I’m the—the deceased. Well, I will be soon, at least. I—I have cancer. At a very advanced stage.” I almost added It’s growing at an alarming rate but didn’t. 

He paused, then found his way around the roadblock and back into the sales pitch.

“I see. How regretful. How tragic. You certainly have my condolences, Mr. O’Brien. You would not be the first person we’ve assisted in a similar situation, but it always saddens me deeply. Of course, prearranging your funeral service is something we can assist you with as well, obviously. People often feel uncomfortable talking about it. Many think that prearrangement means a preoccupation with death, but that is simply not true. Rather, it is a personal tool for a family’s emotional and financial preparation. Many of our customers prearrange their own funerals. In your case, I think it is very much the right and honorable thing to do. Have you conferred with the rest of your family?”

“Not exactly. Sooner or later I guess I’ll have to, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. It’s hard to bring up.”

“I certainly understand. Well, the first step is to get together with your family. Offer them your thoughts and listen to theirs carefully as well. I would strongly recommend that you pursue that course of action before we proceed. If you consider it for a moment, Mr. O’Brien, you’ll see that your funeral will most directly affect your family, so it is essential to include their suggestions in your plans. When will you have the opportunity to speak with them regarding this? Perhaps they could accompany you back here, or we could make an appointment to meet with you all in your home?”

“To be honest, right now, I just wanted to get an idea how much it was going to cost and everything, you know? What all’s involved and stuff like that?”

“Very well.” He gave me a curt nod and continued. “Normally, the next step, as I said, would be to arrange a conference between myself and your family members. During that meeting, we would discuss the funeral choices that will help to create a tribute that is appropriate and meaningful to you all.”

“Is there a charge for that?”

“For the counseling meeting with the family, Mr. O’Brien?”

“Yeah. How much does that cost?”

He cleared his throat and began to repeat himself. “Well, that’s all part of the process, you see. Funding a prearranged service eases the financial burden on your family members. It allows you to be assured of an adequate fund for future payment. However, in a case like yours, an exception would have to be made. If you don’t mind my saying so, I take it that I’m correct in assuming that a five-year financing plan is not something you’d be interested in?”

“Yeah, you could say that. In five years, the whole thing would be kind of moot.”

“I see. And how would you be paying for any services rendered by us?”

“Cash and up front.”

He brightened.

“Have you given any thought as to what type of service you would like?”

“I don’t know. I’m Irish, so I guess a wake would be kind of cool. I could see my friends hanging out and getting drunk over the casket, you know? Pump some tunes in, maybe turn the bass up. That would be all right.”

“Sadly, I’m afraid that we do not allow alcoholic beverages on the premises, Mr. O’Brien. You need a liquor license in the state of Pennsylvania to do that.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay. My wife would have probably shit a brick if we did something like that anyway.”

He flinched, then asked again.

“So, other than a wake, do you have any preferences?”

“What do you recommend? To be honest, I really haven’t been to too many funerals. My dad died when I was young and I don’t really remember his. My mom’s was a few years back, but it wasn’t much. Don’t take that personally, though. Mom didn’t have any money. Your competition across town did that one. Didn’t they go out of business since then?”

He gave a polite chuckle.

“Yes. Indeed they did.”

“Well, there you go.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between us and I could feel the sales pitch building in him again.

“Hey, Mr. Myers, let me ask you something. You ever see that horror movie where the undertaker is shrinking people’s corpses down and turning them into dwarves? Had those flying silver balls in it and this little kid and an ass-kicking ice-cream delivery guy that fought them?

Phantasm, I think it’s called?”

He frowned. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of viewing that particular film. Why do you ask?”

“Well, in the movie, the undertaker sticks a long needle in this one guy’s body, and pumps this yellow stuff into his veins while his blood is pumped out. The whole machine looks like two blenders strapped together or something. Just wondered if that’s how it happens in real life.”

“I can assure you, Mr. O’Brien, that kitchen utensils are not used during the embalming process.”

“Oh. Well, in any case, that movie was the bomb.”

“Perhaps we should get back to discussing your service.”

“Sure.” I could tell that I was getting under his pompous skin, and I liked it.

“Keep in mind that your service should represent an opportunity for your friends and family to reflect on your life and to honor your memory. There is, of course, no single style of funeral. No one template. That is why I must insist on input from you. I can offer suggestions, of course. There is a lot to think about, Mr. O’Brien. Without sounding morbid, my staff can help notify your loved ones, arrange everything, take care of securing the death certificate and the necessary permits—”

“Permits? You mean you need a permit to get buried in this state?”

“Indeed.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“So what else can you guys do?”

“Well, we would also coordinate all the details of the service with the clergy involved. If I may ask, are you a religious person, and if so, what doctrine?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully, “but I intend to find that out before the day is over with. That’s actually next on my list of things to do.”

“I see,” he said, even though he clearly did not. “Well, whatever you decide your religious denomination is, Mr. O’Brien, we can arrange that for you as well.”

“What about—my body and stuff? What happens with it after I’m dead?”

“We would, of course, take care of your body and arrange it for cremation or burial. Do you have a preference regarding these two choices?”

“I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t really matter once I’m gone, does it? It’s not like it’ll hurt or anything. What’s cheaper?”

“That depends on a number of factors. For example, although you said you were paying with cash, do you have any veteran’s burial allowances or social security benefits to draw upon?”

“No. I don’t even have a job anymore. I got laid off on Friday.”

“Hmmm. Again, you have my condolences. Even though you have indicated cash payment up front, we do have a wide range of payment and financing options available for you.”

I had to give Mr. Myers some serious props. The guy was a true salesman. I’d walked onto the lot wanting to buy a Kia and he was trying to sell me a Porsche.

“Whether you decide to be buried or cremated, or perhaps even to be placed in an aboveground vault, I would suggest a funeral service, as well as a visitation ceremony. If you are on display in a casket, you’ll want one that is, shall we say, aesthetically pleasing. Many other funeral homes in the county would attempt to convince you to purchase a more expensive casket than you require. I believe we have something that would fit your needs. For example, we have steel caskets starting at only eight hundred and ninety-five dollars.”

“Steel? Do I really need one made out of steel? I’m just as happy with a pine box. Seriously. It doesn’t matter when I’m dead, right?”

I remembered the solid gold coffin from my nightmare, and shivered.

“Quite. But though it doesn’t matter to you, it might be of some importance to your loved ones. I can assure you, Mr. O’Brien, that while we do have caskets to fit every budget, we do not offer a pine box.”

“Well, what about cremation then?”

“Were you to choose cremation, you would have two basic choices. Immediate cremation of the body would be the first, and least expensive. Or, if you prefer, you could have a complete viewing and funeral service, after which we could cremate the remains. That is what I would recommend.”

“But cremation is definitely the cheapest?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Brien, cremation costs less than burial or entombment. However, for a more accurate price, we will have to include the services you choose for the entire funeral. Whatever you decide, we here at Myers Funeral Home will guide you through each step of the process, even after death.”

Smiling, he stepped closer, flashing his perfectly capped teeth. This close, I could see the silver roots in his jet-black hair. I shivered again.

“Are you okay, Mr. O’Brien?” He stuck out a pale, liver-spotted hand and I backed away from it.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just cold, is all. It’s all part of what I have. The cancer.”

“It is indeed a shame. May I ask how long… ?”

“Three weeks maybe. A month. Possibly more. Nobody seems to know for sure.”

“Then time is of the essence.”

“You’re telling me.”

I hung around for a while longer. We talked about the additional cost of a gravesite versus cremation and he quoted me several prices, none of which we would be able to afford. I’d have to make arrangements with Sherm and John to give some of my cut from the bank to Michelle once I was dead, to help pay for the service. Like I said, the guy was a good salesman. Death was his business and business was extremely good. Didn’t matter who was in office at the White House or what was going on in the world. People died every day. He was a professional about it. But I felt very unsettled by the time we were done. While we talked, the temperature in the building kept falling. Or maybe it was just me. I don’t know. All I know is that when I left, I was freezing, and it took ten minutes in the sun to warm me up again. I wondered if my body would be that cold after I was dead and lying on a table inside that place, in one of the rooms Mr. Myers hadn’t shown me. They said that hell was a hot place, full of fire and brimstone, but now I wondered if maybe hell was cold, a frozen wasteland covered with ice and raining hailstones the size of softballs.

I checked my To Do list. I was hoping that with my next and final stop, I might be able to get some answers to those types of questions.

I was going to church. It was time God and I had a little talk.

* * *


Mass had been over for a few hours and the church was empty when I went inside. I peeked through the doorway in the vestibule, staring at the dimly lit interior. Candles flickered off the stained-glass windows, and I caught the faint hint of perfume and shoe polish and bubble gum, all left over from earlier services. I thought about the fact that my wife, son, and mother-in-law had been here only a few hours before me. What would Michelle have said if she saw me there that afternoon?

The doors swung shut behind me as I entered. I walked slowly down the aisle, touching the backs of the pews as I went. My wedding ring knocked against the wood of each one, reverberating loudly in the silence. Up ahead, above the altar, an eight-foot Jesus Christ looked down at me from His cross. It was pretty frightening. I’ve never understood how that image was supposed to bring peace and comfort. There was nothing comforting about a man nailed to wood. I watched Him now. His eyes were unblinking, His face contorted in agony, the drops of blood from His crown of thorns frozen on His forehead for all time. I stared back at Him. He didn’t look like a wooden statue. He looked very much alive, as if He could climb down off that cross at any second and speak to me.

Speak to me, I thought. Prove Yourself. If You’re real, like they say You are, then say something to me, dammit!

“May I help you, my son?”

I screamed. Whirling in fear, I banged my hip against the pew, and cried out again, this time in pain.

The shocked priest held out his hands.

“I’m sorry, young man. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“That’s okay, Reverend.” My heart hammered in my chest.

“Father.”

“Father. Sorry. That’s okay, Father. It’s cool…” I gasped for breath, forcing my racing pulse to slow down before I died of a heart attack, cancer or no cancer.

“Are you okay, son?”

“Yeah.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Yeah, I’m fine, Father. Just a little jumpy is all. You scared me good.”

He started to apologize again and stopped, a look of recognition dawning in his eyes.

“Why—you’re Susan Stambaugh’s son-in-law, aren’t you? Tommy. Tommy O’Brien?”

“Um… I…”

“Yes, of course. You married her daughter, Michelle. I met you at the Christmas Eve candlelight service last year. I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been quite a while. How wonderful to see you. Your wife and son were just here this morning in fact.”

I jumped again. The last thing I needed was this guy figuring out who I really was. If he told Michelle’s mom that I’d been here, that I’d been in church, she would tell Michelle, and that would lead to all kinds of questions. Questions that would only cause trouble, questions for which I had no answers because I’d been lying all this time.

So I lied again.

“Sorry, Reverend—I mean Father, but you must have me confused with somebody else. I just moved here from Lancaster. My name is John. John… Sherman.”

I had to fight to keep from cracking up at the pseudonym, but the priest didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh. I see. Well, I must be mistaken then. It is remarkable, though. You look a lot like him. Quite uncanny.”

“Sorry. Wrong guy.” I shrugged, feeling sheepish.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and I began to worry that he didn’t believe me. Then he spoke again.

“Do you require confession, Mr. Sherman?”

“Uh, no. Not at the moment. Look, to be honest, Father, I was hoping that I could have a couple minutes alone with God. I haven’t spoken to Him in a while and I think I need to.”

“Certainly. It happens to us all, I’m afraid. Nothing to be embarrassed about, believe me. But are you sure that I can’t assist you? Would you like to speak with me? Perhaps I can offer guidance, a friendly ear or a bit of understanding. I am the Lord’s representative after all.”

“No, no—I think I’d better take it up directly with Him, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course. This is God’s house, after all. I am just His servant. I’ll leave you alone now. However, if you need me, I’ll be in the rectory right next door. Think it over, okay? I may be able to help you, son. I’d like to try. It’s my job. Think about it.”

“Thanks, Father. I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later. But right now, I just need to pray.”

“I understand.” He smiled, gave a short half nod, half bow, and then left. I was alone again with Jesus. He hadn’t moved, still just hanging out, glaring at me from above. Slowly, I shuffled to the front, my baggy jeans brushing against the carpet with a SWOOSH. I knelt, gripped the rail, stared up at Jesus, and prayed aloud.

“Dear God…” I began, then stopped, struggling for the words. After a moment of silence, I found them.

“What the fuck is Your problem, You son of a bitch? I mean, what—just because I haven’t talked to You since I was a little kid, You decide to give me cancer? Is that it? Where were You, huh? If You wanted me to talk to You so bad, You could have let me know. You never wrote or called or sent me a burning fucking bush. What was I supposed to think? I grew up in a fucking hellhole, man. Do You have any idea what that was like for me? Do You? You’re supposed to be omnipotent, so maybe You do. I used to lie in bed at night and pray for You to help me, but You never did. You never lifted a finger. Where were You? Can You imagine what it was like to live with my father? I was glad when he died. Glad. Is that a sin? Is that why You did this? Is it because I hated You when Mom died? I hated her too, but still—why’d she have to go out like that? It’s fucking bullshit, man. Did You do it to punish me for something?

“You’re a total bastard. I quit believing in Your ass a long time ago, and do You know why?

Because You didn’t give me a reason to believe. That’s all I needed. Just a reason. But You couldn’t give me one. I thought about it sometimes, sure. When Michelle and I got married and we said our vows, I thought about it then. And when T.J. came along—man, I thought about it long and hard. They’re the best things that ever happened to me. The only good things in this fucked-up life. I thought that maybe You gave them to me—that maybe You really did exist. I believed, if only for a little while. So where do You get off, huh? Who the fuck are You? It’s not enough that we’re poor and that I’m raising my family in a trailer, just like I was raised? It isn’t enough that the little rich yuppie kids at T. J’s day care are already calling him white trash? On top of all that bullshit, now You’ve got to give me fucking cancer too? How dare You. Even if You’re pissed off at me, what did they ever do to You? Why do they deserve this? Is this Your idea of divine justice? ‘Tommy doesn’t believe in Me so I’ll leave his wife a widow and his son an orphan and they’ll be poorer than ever before.’

“Why me? Huh? Tell me that—why did it have to be me? Why not one of these asshole billionaires that drain their companies and their stockholders dry, then do two months in some minimum security, golf resort prison? Why not them? Or why not some pimp or crack dealer in York or Baltimore? Am I no better than they are? Why not give it to some terrorist or something?

“Look, I’m too young to die, God. I want to be with my family. I want to watch my son grow up. I want to see him play football and go to college and get a chance to have all the things I never did. I want to grow old with my wife. I love them so much and I don’t want to be separated from them. I just want one more time around. That’s all I’m asking for. Just a little more time to spend with them. A little more time to live. Please! I don’t want to die. I’m so fucking scared of dying. Please…”

I wasn’t aware that I was crying until the first hot tears hit the railing.

“Please! Please tell me. I don’t understand. What’s it all about? You give us this nice planet and people go around fucking it up, and You let them get away with it. You let them slide. You give us war and famine and poverty and disease and racism and serial killers. Your followers fly airplanes into buildings and send their own children into shopping centers to blow up Your other followers, and You don’t do anything about it. You could stop it. You could stop it so easily, but You don’t. Why? Why don’t you step in?

“Why? Why do You put us through this shit? Why did You give me cancer? Did I break the rules? Do You sit up there on Your cloud with a pair of measuring scales, balancing out the good and bad deeds we’ve done in our lives? Is that what it’s about? Or is it simpler than that?

Maybe I was right before. Maybe You’re just pissed off that I don’t believe in You. Maybe that’s where You get your power—from belief. And if enough of us don’t believe in You, then You’ll just fade away, the same way the old gods did. Is that what happened to Zeus and Odin and all the others? You cease to exist if we don’t believe? And since I don’t believe, You’ve got to put a stop to that shit?

“If You wanted me to believe in You, then You should have been there for me. You should have given me a reason to believe! Showed me that You really do exist.”

My tears fell like rain, and the lump in my throat strangled my words. With the tears came blood, trickling from my nose. I smeared them across the polished banister and raised my head, looking Jesus in the eye.

“Help me. Show me that You exist. Save me and I promise that I’ll never doubt You again. I’ll go to church. I’ll start living right. I’ll quit drinking down at Murphy’s Place and smoking weed and watching porn. I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Just take it all away. Take away this pain You gave to me. All You have to do is show me. I don’t understand what it is You want from me. How am I supposed to know unless You tell me?”

The figure on the cross didn’t answer. Instead, He was silent, looming over me.

“Give me some proof. That’s all I’m asking for. Give me a sign—one single, simple sign.”

Silence.

“Cure me,” I whispered. “Make this cancer go away and let me live.”

I still felt sick. I was still dying. I’d become what I hated in other people by giving in to the culture of blame. It was time to move on. I stood up and wiped my bloody nose on the back of my hand.

“Then fuck You. I knew You wouldn’t help. You can’t help me because You don’t exist. You’re not real. You’re just another fairy tale, like the Easter bunny and Santa Claus. You can’t help me. I’ll do this my way.”

There was no lightning bolt or angel with a flaming sword. God didn’t show up and smite me down for my sacrilege. Jesus didn’t climb down from the wall and bash my head in with His cross. The priest would have probably said that was because He was a loving God, a forgiving God, but I knew it was really because He didn’t exist. I’d given Him a chance to prove me wrong, to show me that He was there for me, for all of us.

I’d gotten nothing. Nothing from God. Nothing from the government. Nothing from my doctor or the medical establishment or my employer.

The only person I could rely on to take care of my family was me. And pretty soon, I’d be gone.

It was time to get on with it.

It was raining when I walked outside. While I’d been inside the church, the beautiful, warm weather had vanished, replaced with dark, ominous clouds. I welcomed them. The downpour washed over me and it felt like a baptism. Dying, I was reborn.

I got back in the truck, and drove home—feeling more alone and depressed than ever before. But I was also beginning to feel something else. Something new. Determination. A feeling of peace settled over me, and I liked the way it felt.

Then the fear set in once again, washing it all away.


TEN


The next three days were pretty busy. We went over the plan, cased the bank and the strip mall where it was located, stole license plates for John’s car, mapped escape routes, and planned for everything we could think of that might possibly go wrong. I was still lying to Michelle—getting up for “work” each morning, then spending the day at John’s grungy bachelor pad crib instead, playing video games and watching porno and getting high when we weren’t planning the robbery. (My marijuana use was way up—it’s true what they say. It really does help curb the nausea.) For an extra touch of realism, Sherm even dropped by the foundry and got some dirt to rub on our clothes, hands, and faces, so that it looked like we’d been working. The only thing I didn’t have to fake was the fatigue. The cancer took care of that for me. Finally, Thursday came and it was time.

The morning of the robbery, Michelle had an early shift. When I woke up, she and T.J. were already gone. She’d left me a note on the refrigerator: “Tommy—I forgot to tell you. I tried to use the ATM card last night after I picked T.J. up, but it was declined. It says that we’re minus two hundred dollars! Can you please call the damn bank today and find out what happened?

Does this have to do with the layoffs? This is why I wish you’d let me help you do the bills. Love you, Michelle.”

It was good that they were gone, since I couldn’t seem to stop throwing up. Part of it was the disease, but a lot more of it was my nerves. I’d been over it in my head a hundred times, but now that the day was actually here, I was scared shitless.

John was scared too, and I saw it on his face when he arrived to pick me up. Neither of us mentioned it. We didn’t really talk at all. Instead, we listened to Outkast and sang along a little too loudly. We stopped at Sherm’s and he slid into the backseat, cup of coffee in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other.

“You sure about this, Tommy?”

I nodded in confirmation.

“Then it’s on.”

John let out a strangled sigh and we drove toward the edge of town.

“Carpet Dick, tell me that you checked the car over yesterday like I told you to, right? Turn signals and brake lights and everything are working? Filled the tank up, checked the oil and all of that shit?”

“Yep, we’re good to go.”

“Then let’s go over this shit one more time,” Sherm suggested. “And slow down. The last fucking thing we need right now is to get pulled over for speeding.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay, this is how it goes. When we get to the strip mall, John parks behind the Chinese place, next to the big garbage Dumpster. There’s no traffic back there, garbage pickup isn’t until next Monday, and the Chinks don’t go outside for a smoke break until noon, so nobody will see us. After that, Tommy, me and you walk around the side, pull the ski masks down, and burst hard-core through those bank doors. No fucking names. You don’t call me Sherm and I don’t call you Tommy while we’re in there. Just remember, and I mean it, Tommy—this has to go down hard. That means yelling and cussing and shouting and pushing people around and shit. We need to get their attention with a quickness. It’s the only way this thing is gonna work. We’ve got to let them know who’s in charge. We may have to bloody a few noses or punch some motherfucker in the mouth to get their attention. There will probably be some violence. Be ready for that.”

“But no shooting, right?” I wanted to make sure we were absolutely clear on this point.

“Right man, no shooting. The guns are just for show. Worst-case scenario, I shoot a hole in the ceiling.”

I shook my head. “No, Sherm. No shooting at all. We agreed on that from the beginning.”

“Relax. Like I said, it’s a worst-case scenario. And this is gonna be easy. You’re getting worked up over nothing, dog. You’ll see.”

“Now what if I hear you guys shooting?” John asked. “Then what?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck did I just say, John? Did I stutter or something? There’s not going to be any shooting. You just stay in the car and keep out of sight.”

He took a sip of coffee, calmed down, and continued.

“Once we’re inside and have everybody’s attention, we do the takeover. With John in the car, we won’t have an extra person to watch the door and make sure that the hostages don’t try to make a break for it. So when we go through, turn the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. We’ll make them all lie down on the floor, away from the door. That should make it easier to cover them. The door will be in your sight the whole time, so you’ll know if somebody else is coming. You hit the cash drawers while I hit the vault. Like I said before, we don’t have to worry about the dye packs. Just check your shit and make sure they don’t slip you one of those tracking devices. Once we’ve got the cash in the backpacks, we haul our asses out the door, get to the car, and we’re gone before five-oh even arrives.”

“That’s where I come in.” John sat up straight.

“Yeah, John, that’s where you come in. Let’s see how well you were paying attention. What route are we taking?”

“York Road and 116 to Codorus Road, if there’s no cops on our tail,” he recited from memory.

“After that, we take the old Glen Rock road to Jefferson, then out past LeHorn Hollow, through Shrewsbury and down to the Maryland border.”

“Beautiful. You remembered. What if we go with plan B and head toward Littlestown instead?”

“Head toward Littlestown, then we drive over the border into Westminster, and grab the 140 to 795.”

“In either case, where do we go when we’re in Maryland?”

“Cockeysville. Plan A, we take the Susquehanna Trail to Interstate 83, then grab the Cockeysville exit. Plan B, we take 795 to Interstate 83 and again grab the Cockeysville exit. Once we’re there, we take Cranberry Lane up to the woods, go down the old service road that leads back to the power lines, park out of sight in behind the trees, switch the license plates on the car, split up for a little bit, then, if nobody has found the car, we meet back there after dark.”

“Then we count the money,” Sherm finished, “and start living large.”

“You really think we’ll nab that much?” I asked.

“Yo, I’m telling you; a bank like this in a town the size of Hanover, we could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand today. Most of that goes to you, of course, but even with the little cut that Carpet Dick and I are taking, it’s still all good.”

“Especially since we’re laid off,” John agreed.

I tried to picture it, tried to imagine holding that much cash in my hands, smelling it, feeling the paper between my fingers, and found that I couldn’t. But that was okay. In a little less than an hour, imagination wouldn’t have to suffice. It would be a reality. Sherm’s crib was on one edge of Hanover, near the lake. The strip mall and the bank were on the other side, right on the border with McSherrystown. On a normal day, it took twenty minutes to drive from one side to the other. But that day, it seemed to take an instant, like we were traveling at light speed.

John turned into the parking lot. He gripped the steering wheel hard and his knuckles popped. I noticed they were white. Staring straight ahead, he drove around behind the strip mall and parked next to the Chinese restaurant’s garbage Dumpster—just like we’d planned. The look on his face was one of resolve. He reached for the keys, but Sherm stopped him.

“No, just let it run. Last thing we need is for you to shut this car off, and we come out with the money and it doesn’t fucking start again.”

John shrugged.

“Is the coast clear?” Sherm asked, craning his head around.

“I didn’t see anybody,” John’s voice was hushed, somber. “There’s a Drovers Water delivery truck over there, but it’s empty. Look’s like it’s just the three of us. You guys see anyone?”

I shook my head.

“Cool. Me neither.” Sherm placed a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Not really.” I coughed.

“What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”

“For the past week, I’ve been throwing up nonstop, and this morning was no different. Even when I’m not puking, I feel like I’m going to any second. Puff Daddy is remixing shit in my head, along with a military drum corps and a few howitzers and some scientists setting off nuclear bomb tests, and every inch of my body hurts. I’ve got aches in places where I didn’t even know you could get aches. Sometimes my fever is hot enough to fry an egg on my head, and other times it just makes me sweat a little, but it’s always there. I’ve been bullshitting my wife. She’s on the verge of figuring out that I lied to her about our finances, and once that shit hits the fan, it’s only a matter of time before she learns what else I’ve been lying to her about. Like the fact that I’ve been laid off, and I’m still pretending to go to work. Or the fact that I’m fucking dying. God ain’t gonna step in and cure me because I recently learned that He doesn’t exist. Oh, and before I forget, in about two minutes, I’m gonna rob a fucking bank. So no, Sherm, I’m not all right. I’m really not. But thanks for asking, man. Thanks a lot. That means a lot to me.”

“Yo, can that sarcasm shit. You want to quit? Because this is our last fucking chance here, Tommy. Once we get out of this car and enter that bank, there ain’t no going back.”

I stared at him, stared at John, closed my eyes, and opened the door. His words echoed in my head.

Ain’t no going back…

My mind had already been made up.

“Let’s do this.”

* * *


There are certain moments in your life that, when you think about them later, happen in slow motion. In reality, it probably took us thirty seconds. But sitting here now, when I replay it in my mind, it took hours. Everything was in bullet time, like in The Matrix. I can step outside myself, and envision it from someone else’s view, as if it’s a movie, changing camera angles and adding a sound track.

Sherm and I got out of the car. We pulled the ski masks down over our faces. Beneath our jackets, each of us clutched a pistol in one hand. We each had a large backpack slung over our shoulders. The smell of fried rice and rotting garbage hung thick in the air—so thick, that even my diminished sense of smell could pick it up. For a second, I thought I heard the sound of a car, coming down the alley behind the strip mall, but it was too late, too late to call it off. We were already moving. What had been put in motion couldn’t be stopped. We didn’t falter. We didn’t look back. Without saying a word, we walked around the side of the restaurant, turned the corner, and there was the bank.

Just as Sherm reached for the door, it opened toward us. An old lady stepped out, blue hair done up in a perm. She was clutching a deposit ticket in one hand and rifling through her purse with the other. She stopped, gawked at us, then let out a little gasp. Her deposit ticket slipped from her quivering hand. Rather than floating to the sidewalk, it seemed to hover in the air, suspended in time.

“Oh my…”

Sherm growled in slow motion.

“Get… back… inside… the… bank… bitch!”

He shoved her forward into the lobby, and she kept repeating “Oh my… Oh my…” like a mantra. She clasped a silver crucifix hanging around her neck. Another person noticed us, an older, bearded man wearing faded blue jeans and a chambray work shirt. He was at the end of the line, his eyes registering surprise and disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something but Sherm cut him off.

“All right motherfuckers! Everybody hit the goddamn floor, NOW! Right fucking now! Let’s go!”

“You heard him, assholes,” I shouted. “Do it! Get the fuck down! Move!”

Now all of the customers in line turned, and as time slowed even more, I sized them up, studying every detail. A pretty woman about our age clutched the hand of a young boy. Looking at him reminded me of T.J., and I forced the image from my head. The boy looked just like the woman, hair the color of honey, high cheekbones, a short nose, even the same complexion. Both had frightened, wide eyes. She pulled the boy to her side, shielding him as best she could. There was no ring on her finger. Divorced, or a single mom. In front of them was an elderly bald man with glasses and a cane. He shook so badly that his knees knocked together and I thought he might collapse. There was an overweight guy in a Hellboy shirt, obviously the victim of too many nights spent reading comic books and wolfing down candy bars and potato chips, and in front of him, a hefty, solid man in his late thirties, wearing a leather jacket and polished black boots. He looked like a biker. He had steel in his eyes instead of fear, and I knew right away that we’d have to watch him carefully. Rounding out the group were two tellers, one young and blond, the other middle-aged and dyed auburn; and a slick, oily guy in a suit that just had to be the manager. His name tag read KEITH and below that, BRANCH MANAGER. He smiled, as if believing he was the victim of a hidden camera show.

“I SAID GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Sherm bellowed, and this time, they understood. They screamed as one, except for the guy in the bike leathers, who stood completely still, and Keith the Manager, who kept on smiling. The old woman toppled over in mid “Oh my” as Sherm pushed past her. She hit the floor hard, and was silent. The contents of her purse spilled out around her, and she rubbed the crucifix intensely. The young mother crouched down, pulling the kid with her. The boy’s eyes went from Sherm and me to the old woman and the old man, and he whispered something to his mother. The bearded guy dropped to the carpet and so did the fat boy, pulling the velvet line ropes along with him. The brass poles crashed onto the floor and I noticed a dark, wet stain on his fly. It was spreading fast. The younger teller froze in midtransaction, a stack of twenties falling from one limp hand and fluttering to the floor like green-and-white butterflies. Her other hand reached slowly beneath the counter.

“You hit that goddamned alarm and I’ll cap your cute little ass, sweetheart,” Sherm warned her.

“Get your fucking hands up where I can see them. Don’t make me tell you twice!”

She froze, biting her lip in fear, while the older teller started to cry.

“Both of you get out here and get down on the floor with the rest of them. Now!”

The biker remained standing.

“Do what we want and nobody gets hurt,” I chimed in, trying to sound sincere but hard-nosed at the same time. “We’re just here for the money.”

I reached out and flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

“Hey”—Sherm whirled on the biker—“are you fucking deaf? Get the hell down on the floor. Now, asshole!”

The biker kept his hands in the air and slowly started to kneel.

“You”—Sherm waved the gun at Keith the Manager—“get the fuck over here.”

“We-we’ll cooperate f-fully, gentlemen. There’s n-no need for violence.”

“If I want your fucking opinion, I’ll beat it out of you.”

He motioned again with the pistol, and Keith did as he was told. Sherm was too busy watching him to notice the biker drop to one knee and reach inside his coat. Slow motion switched to stop time as he clutched something inside his leather jacket and drew it out. I caught a glimpse of a holster and the bank’s fluorescent lights flashed off of something metal. I opened my mouth to warn him and Sherm both, and found that I couldn’t.

“Let’s go.” Sherm told Keith again. “Come on! I’ll fucking drop you right there, man.”

The biker pulled out the handle of a pistol, not as large as ours, but it looked like it would do the job just as well. Then the handle was out in the open and so was the rest of the gun. I blinked the sweat from my eyes and in that fraction of a second he was aiming at Sherm. Time snapped back to normal and chaos came with it. My paralysis shattered.

“Sherm! Look out! He’s got a gun!”

The biker whipped toward me and suddenly there was an explosion. I staggered backward, expecting to feel the bullet punch through me. Instead, the biker’s hair puffed up in the back of his head, as if caught in a breeze, and then his brains and little fragments of skull exited through his forehead, splattering onto the carpet. At first, I thought that I’d gone deaf, but then my ears began to ring over the screams of the customers. In shock, not understanding what had just happened, I turned to Sherm. Smoke billowed from the barrel of his .357, and the stench of it filled the lobby.

“Sherm,” I hollered, “what the hell are you doing?”

“I said no names, goddamn it.”

“You said no shooting too. What the fuck did you do?”

He grabbed Keith by the sleeve of his suit jacket and shook him hard, but the manager didn’t seem to notice. He just stared in horror at the dead body on the floor. I coughed, then looked back down at the biker. Blood was pouring from his head like water from a faucet. It didn’t look anything like the movies. The whole front of his head was gone—

scattered about the floor and embedded in the carpet. I fought to keep from puking. The old man with the cane, the comic geek, and the younger teller did it for me, all three at once. The little boy glanced at the gore, then closed his eyes and buried his trembling face against his mother. She just stared in shock, her face blank.

“You said no shooting.” I shouted again.

“Just keep them down on the floor and get the cash drawers,” Sherm ordered. “Keith, you and I are gonna open the vault. Any questions?”

“I—I c-can’t open the—”

Sherm punched him in the mouth. Crying out, he stumbled back a few steps, his knees buckling, then he regained his balance. Blood trickled from his split lip.

“Let’s be real fucking clear. Lie to me again and you’ll be sucking on a .357 round instead of my fist. Vault! Open! Now! Do you have any questions?”

Wiping the blood from his mouth with the front of his tie, Keith led Sherm down a hallway to the back. I stepped over the biker’s body and headed toward the cash drawers. His head was still leaking blood, and the comic book guy, now that he’d finished puking, was still leaking piss. The stench of it all, combined with the gun smoke and sweat and overall fear in the room was nauseating, and I felt sick again.

“Can’t breathe…” the old man gasped.

“Everybody just stay down,” I choked. “It’ll all be over soon. We just want the money.” It sounded stupid and empty in my ears.

The mother whispered to her son. He inched forward.

“Benjy, keep still.”

“But Mommy, he’s sick. Both of them are sick. One in the head and the other one here and here and here.”

He touched his jaw and throat and chest, and I wondered if he was talking about me. But there was no way the kid could know about my cancer.

“And so is that old man,” the boy continued. “He’s going to die.”

I stepped toward them and the boy froze, watching me.

“Please,” the mother begged, “he’s only five. Please don’t hurt him.”

I swallowed. “Just keep him still. Okay?”

I checked them all one more time. The comic book guy was done pissing himself, and lay facedown on the carpet. The bearded guy and the tellers did the same, but with more bravery. The bearded guy gripped the older teller’s shoulder, repeating over and over beneath his breath that it would be okay. The old woman let out another “Oh my” and stroked her cross, praying to God and Jesus and all the Saints to save her. The old bald man lay on his back, looking pale and sweating profusely. His cane lay discarded to the side, his glasses sat crooked, and I noticed he was panting.

Poor guy, I thought. He must be scared shitless.

So was I.

I glanced quickly at the door. The coast was still clear.

The first drawer, the one the blond teller had been using, hung open. Despite everything that had happened, I’ve got to admit that I smiled beneath my ski mask when I saw all that cash. Dead presidents smiled back at me. Ignoring the change, I scooped up the stacks of bills and dropped them into my backpack. Then I hit the next drawer and did the same. Already my backpack felt heavier, and I wondered how much cash was inside. An excited thrill shot through me, but then I remembered the guy that Sherm had shot and I felt sick again. I moved on to the third drawer but it was locked.

I walked back out from behind the counter, checked the door again and nudged the young blonde with my toe.

“Give me the keys to the drawers.”

“They’re on the counter.”

“Show me.”

She rose to all fours and pointed. At the same time, the little boy, Benjy, began crawling toward the old man.

“Hey! Kid! Get back over there with your mom.”

“Benjy!” She jumped to her feet, hands held out in submission. “Please, please don’t shoot him. Benjy, get back here, now!”

“But Mommy, that old man’s going to die if we don’t help him. His heart is sick.”

“Hey,” I shouted again, and realized that I’d raised the pistol without even thinking about it. I lowered it halfway. “I mean it. Get down now!”

The mother clawed at her son’s arm, but he slipped free and scurried to the old man’s side. She was crying now, black mascara running down her face as she pleaded.

“Please, sir. Please don’t shoot my son.”

I took five or six quick strides and stood over them. The old man’s pale skin was turning blotchy, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

“My… heart…”

“Oh shit!” I rubbed my head through the ski mask. He was having a heart attack. Part of me wanted to give him CPR and the other half wanted to finish up and get the fuck out of there.

“Can’t… breathe… hurts…” Sweat ran off of him like rain. While I was still trying to decide what to do, Benjy reached out with both hands and touched the old man’s chest. That was when we heard the gunshots.


ELEVEN


At first, I thought Sherm killed Keith. Then another gunshot rang out and I realized that they were coming from outside. The customers started screaming again, growing louder and more frenzied, and Sherm ran out from the vault, pushing Keith in front of him as a human shield.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” The no-names rule had completely gone out the window. I’d slipped and called him by his name when he shot Leather Jacket. Now they knew my name as well.

“I don’t know, man. Somebody’s shooting outside.”

“Five-oh?”

“Fuck if I know, Sherm. I ain’t sticking my head out to see.”

Another gunshot boomed across the parking lot. Just then, a bloodied and haggard figure stumbled through the front door. Sherm and I raised our pistols at the same time. John shrieked.

“Don’t shoot! D-don’t shoot, you guys! It’s m-me—John!”

He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers—

dark blood, almost black. It soaked through his sweatshirt and jacket, and little flecks of it decorated his neck, cheeks, and forehead. He’d been gutshot, and I’d seen enough movies to know that wasn’t a good thing. Images of Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs rushed through my head. I started toward him and almost tripped over the old man and the kid.

“Tommy,” John pleaded, “help me, man! Please? My stomach is hot—it’s burning up. It’s on fire. Hurts! F-fucking shot me…”

Deciding that the old man and his heart attack would have to wait, I ran to John, catching him as he sank to the floor. Sliding my hands under his armpits, I dragged him farther inside the lobby, away from the door. He whimpered, but whether from fear or pain I don’t know. His breath smelled sour and he spoke through clenched teeth, his words harsh and clipped.

“C-can’t believe he fucking s-shot me…”

“Shhh,” I soothed. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re going to be all right, John.”

His hand slipped away from his stomach and I caught a glimpse of the wound peeking out at me from beneath the burned fabric. It didn’t look good. I sat down, crossed my legs, and cradled his head in my lap, wiping the bloodstains from his face with my shirtsleeve. Tears slid from his eyes, and the panic in his voice increased.

“Oh, it h-hurts! I’m gonna d-die, Tommy! My stomach feels h-hot. It’s hot and it f-feels like somebody p-punched me. I’m dying!”

“You’re not gonna die, John. You hear me? You’re not going to fucking die!”

“I’m scared, T-tommy. I don’t w-want to d-die. I don’t want to g-go to hell. I’m afraid of hell. Don’t l-let me die. Don’t let me go to hell!”

He coughed blood. A lot of blood. Red froth bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his chin in long, ropy strands. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I got sick.

“There’s no such thing as hell, John. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still, dog.”

“I-I don’t w-want to die. Don’t want to d-die. Please… S-scared of hell…”

“Stop it, John!”

“Can’t catch m-my breath. Can’t c-catch… He shot me, man…” His voice was weak now, barely a whisper. “My stomach is g-getting cold now. Maybe I-I ate something b-bad.”

“Who, John? Who did this to you, man?”

“Kelvin… H-he was st-strung out…” Even as he struggled for breath, John was hyperventilating like a fish out of the water.

Kelvin. I knew the name from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it. Before I could ask him more, Sherm interrupted.

“Get the fuck over there with the rest of them, lie down, and keep quiet!” Sherm shoved Keith toward the group, who did as he was told. Keith had a black eye now to go along with his split lip—something Sherm must have given him while they were inside the vault. Sherm crossed the lobby in four quick strides and knelt beside us. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him.

“John, look at me. Kelvin did this?”

Gasping for breath, John nodded.

“Hey, S-sherm! Where you been? C-cold—I’m cold. My stomach is c-cold. I can’t feel my legs. J-just let me lie here for a little b-bit. N-need to c-catch my b-breath…”

I looked up at Sherm.

“Kelvin? That’s the guy that was with Wallace when we bought the guns?”

“Gotta be. The one that John called ‘nigga.’ ”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I stripped off my jacket, balled it up, and slid it behind John’s back. Then I yanked off my ski mask and placed it over the hole in his front. John screamed, thrashing in my arms as I pressed down on both.

“Hang on, John. Hang on, man. We’ve got to stop the bleeding.” I ran my hand across my face, realizing too late that it was covered in John’s blood.

“J-just gonna lie here for a b-bit…”

“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?” Sherm yelled. “Put your mask back on.”

“Screw that! We’ve got two dead bodies, Sherm. Two people have died. Two!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And John probably isn’t that far off. We need to get the hell out of here, yo.”

“What do you mean two? I only shot the one guy.”

“The old guy,” I pointed, “is having a heart attack. He’s probably dead by now.”

“He’s okay, mister.”

Our heads snapped around at the same time. It was the kid, Benjy. He smiled at us, lying calmly next to his mother again. I looked at the old man and he was okay. In fact, he looked better than okay, better than he had from the moment we’d entered the bank. As if to verify this, he swallowed hard, adjusted his glasses, and spoke.

“I’m fine. Must have just been my angina acting up. If you boys leave now, why, I don’t think any of us saw anything. Right folks?”

“Shut up and lie back down.” Sherm warned.

I was too stunned to reply. I’d seen the guy with my own eyes and I knew it wasn’t angina. He’d been dying. His heart had quit on him. But now he looked fine. He was back to normal—

healthy.

Before I could mention this to Sherm, the glass in the front door exploded. A split second later, I heard the shot.

“Drop!” Sherm pulled me down with him.

“That’s your ass, motherfucker.” Kelvin strolled up to the door and calmly raised his pistol. The smile on his face was terrifying. It vanished when he saw us.

Sherm hollered, “Kelvin, what the fuck?”

Kelvin paused, staring in confusion at the figure in the black ski mask that somehow knew his name. He was jittery and sweating, and I could tell that he was tweaking. He’d been using whatever drug he was dealing that day, and he was now higher than a kite. Probably crack or crystal meth—whatever it was, he was jacked to an insane level from it.

“Sherm? That you, dog?”

“Hell yeah it’s me, man. Put that shit down, yo.”

“Sherm, you crazy goddamned Mick. Check you out, pulling a bank job and shit.” He laughed, shaking his head in stoned disbelief.

“I-I d-don’t w-want t-to d-die…” John moaned. “D-don’t l-let h-him…”

“What the hell are you doing, Kelvin? What are you on, man?”

“Careful,” I whispered, “looks like he’s mad fucking juiced. Stoned as shit.”

“I can see that,” Sherm hissed back. “Just watch your ass.”

We were clustered together around John, and Kelvin sighted on each of us, moving his pistol back and forth. I thought about pulling mine out, but if I did, I’d have to let up the pressure on John’s wound. Already the blood had soaked through the ski mask and it was quickly becoming a sticky mess in my hands.

“Check this shit out,” Kelvin continued, as if we were having a friendly talk in a bar. “I was finishing a transaction and shit in the alley behind the Chinese place. Two kilos and cash, a sweet fucking deal. Did me a little celebrating right before I got here—just enough to get me buzzed. Must have done a little more than I thought, know what I’m saying? And then—the cherry on top of the fucking ice cream. Finished up the deal, then I saw your boy there, sitting in his car like he was waiting for something. Motherfucker looked nervous and he should have. Told him what the fuck would happen if I saw him on the streets. Little punk ass bitch got served. That’s all.”

“For Christ’s sake, Kelvin. Wallace told you to drop that shit. John didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Fuck Wallace! That nigga don’t know everything. But you do, Sherm. You know how it is. Business is—”

Sherm fired, rolled, and fired again. The first shot missed, but it was enough to stun Kelvin. He staggered backward in stoned surprise, desperately looking for cover. The second shot caught him right between the legs. Shrieking, Kelvin squeezed off his entire magazine, emptying it into the sidewalk. The bullets slammed into the pavement and ricocheted around us, gouging wood and punching into brick. Blood poured from Kelvin’s ruined groin as he slipped into shock. Still moving, Sherm leapt to his feet, ran toward him, and shot him in the throat. Kelvin’s fluttering hands went from his dick to his neck. A look of surprise registered on his face as he collapsed, twitched, then lay still. Sherm stood over him, placed the barrel against his forehead, and squeezed the trigger one more time. I tore my eyes away at the last second. The customers were by then in a complete state of panic, screaming and crying and praying and clawing at the carpet. But I’ve got to give Sherm credit. He’d been right. Despite the gun battle going on in their midst, they listened to what he’d told them to do. They didn’t run, didn’t even get up. As planned, we’d come in hard-core, established who was in charge, and they obeyed. Then, over their screams and the ringing in our ears, we heard another sound. Sirens. Police sirens. Coming closer.

“G-getting colder…” John moaned. His eyes were shut. “H-help m-me, Tommy. I d-don’t want t-to die and g-go… t-to hell. I’m so s-s-scared, man… P-please d-don’t let m-m-me d-die!”

Sherm looked out across the parking lot.

“Shit! Get him up, Tommy. We got to bail. Let’s go, man!”

He picked up Kelvin’s pistol, released the magazine, saw that it was empty, and threw it down. The shattered remains of the door swung shut behind him, with Kelvin’s body wedged between it and the frame.

I rose, struggling to lift John to his feet. He groaned in agony, shuddered, then passed out. I was thankful for that. His face had grown chalky, and his entire midsection was soaked with blood.

“Sherm, we’ve got to get him to a hospital. He’s fucking dying…”

“Fuck that. If he can’t travel, then we’ve got to leave him behind, man. We’ve got to jet.”

“Bullshit!”

“Not bullshit. You want to wait around and get caught, that’s fine by me. I’m getting out. May be hard for you to hear, but that’s the way it is, dog. That’s just the way it’s got to be. He’d agree with me if he was conscious.”

At that moment, I hated him. He was one of my two best friends, but I hated him all the same. Sherm fished through John’s pockets for the keys, swore, then checked them again. He gave up finally and slapped his head in frustration.

“Fuck fuck fuck! I don’t believe this shit.”

“What?”

The sirens were drawing closer, accompanied by the squeal of tires.

“We’re fucked, that’s what. We’re fucked in the ass.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s wrong, man?”

“Carpet Dick left the keys in the fucking car.”

“Oh shit…”

Sherm had told John to keep it running. John had listened, even while shot in the stomach and with Kelvin chasing after him.

Panting, Sherm ran for the door. Suddenly, he slid to a stop and ran back toward me. The blaring sirens were on top of us. Brakes squealed. Tires slid to a stop on the pavement. Car doors swung open and slammed shut.

“Shit,” he grunted. “No way we can make it to the car now.”

A radio squawked. Voices called out to one another. Official-sounding voices. Voices that were clearly not fucking around.

“Boys,” the old man muttered, “I think you just ran out of time.”

There was something in Sherm’s eyes that reminded me of a cornered wild animal, ready to bite. He jumped to his feet.

“Everybody into the vault. Now!” He fired his last bullet into the ceiling to emphasize his point. Still crying, they did as they were told, stumbling forward. Sherm was their shepherd and he herded them like a flock of frightened, bleating sheep.

All except for Benjy. He crawled toward John and me over broken glass, his eyes shining and bright—sympathetic.

“Your friend is hurt, mister. He’s hurt bad.”

“Don’t be scared,” I smiled, trying to reassure him. “He’ll be okay.”

“No he won’t. He’s dying. He has blood coming out of his stomach. If we don’t fix him soon, he’ll go to see Jesus or maybe the monster people, and then he can’t come back. Not ever.”

“Let’s go, Tommy.” Sherm roared.

Outside, I heard the unmistakable electronic squawk of another radio.

“I can fix him like I fixed Sandy,” Benjy told me.

“What? Who’s Sandy? What are you talking about, kid?”

“Benjy, come here—now!” His mother froze, caught between the other hostages and her son.

“Lady, if you don’t get your fucking ass in here, you’re next. Tommy, if you’re coming, then you better come now. Grab that fucking kid or John or shoot them both or whatever, but let’s go.”

Footsteps outside. Right outside the door, just out of sight. Cautious and stealthy, but hurried as well. And more sirens on the way. Lots more, by the sound of it.

“Your name is Benjy?” I asked him.

He nodded, his big round eyes frightened and confused, but excited at the same time.

“Benjy, I’m going to do something that might be a little scary. I need you to cover your ears, okay?”

“Okay, mister.”

He placed his small hands over his ears and in that instant, he reminded me so much of T.J. that I almost started crying. Instead, I pulled the pistol, pointed it at the shattered glass on the front door, and fired a warning shot. The gun kicked in my hand, snapping my wrist upward, and the blast was deafening. I could actually feel it push against my eardrum. The remaining glass in the door crashed to the ground, covering Kelvin’s sprawled corpse with jagged shards. Immediately, my shot was answered by surprised shouts of “Down! Down!” and “Call for back up!” followed by scrambling, retreating footsteps. I took a deep breath.

“All right, listen up out there! If we see one fucking cop stick his fucking head through that fucking door, we’ll kill him and everybody else inside this goddamned bank. You got that, you motherfuckers?”

There was no answer, but I was pretty sure that they understood the message. I grinned. Hard-core, original gangsta shit. The ringing in my ear was as loud as the gunshot. It felt like it was plugged with a ball of wax.

Reaching down to ruffle the kid’s hair, I saw the blood on my hands and thought better of it. Instead, I winked at him. He winked back and smiled. I began dragging John’s unconscious body toward the vault, and Benjy tagged along beside me.

“It’s going to be okay,” I told him.

“I know. I’m not scared too much anymore.”

“Well, that’s good.”

As we talked, I noticed my eardrum vibrating. I had to strain just to hear him and each time I spoke, it vibrated some more.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“My name?”

I paused, readjusting John’s weight. Blood flowed from the wound, leaving a trail behind us.

“My name is Tommy. Come on, we have to hurry up and lay my friend down again.”

“How did you know my name was Benjy, Mr. Tommy?”

“I heard your mother call you that.”

“Oh.” He considered this and looked back up at me.

“Mr. Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“I can help your friend. I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up. I’m going to fix people so they’re better.”

“All right,” I humored him, “let’s go back here with the others, then we’ll help him.”

“You’re sick too, Mr. Tommy. You know that, right?”

I almost dropped John. It felt like Kelvin had shot me in the stomach too.

“W-what did you say?”

“You’re sick too. Not your ear. That will go away in a little bit. But you’ve got bad things growing inside you, like spiderwebs. Black things. It’s okay, Mr. Tommy. I’ll make you feel better.”

He lowered his voice.

“Your other friend is sick too, but it’s different. He has the darkness inside his head, and it’s getting ready to bubble out. It’s going to be soon. The monster people are whispering.”

Having forced the others into the vault at gunpoint, Sherm poked his head back into the lobby, gave me a warning glance, and began reloading his .357, pulling the bullets from his pocket.

“Where did you get those?”

His voice sounded like the buzz of a bee.

“At the sporting goods store. Why?”

“I thought when we bought the guns from Wallace that we said we only needed six in the chamber. That we didn’t need more bullets. You said there wasn’t going to be any shooting, Sherm.”

He walked toward me.

“Figured it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” He cocked a thumb at Kelvin’s body. “And aren’t you glad that I did?”

He bent down over the body of his first victim, the guy in the leather jacket who had pulled a pistol. His head was still dribbling blood. Sherm picked up the man’s weapon, checked the chamber, and pocketed it with a smile.

“Thirty-eight special. Loaded too. Not bad. Might come in handy before this shit is over.”

My ear seemed to be clearing up a bit, just as Benjy had promised. The sounds were rushing back, and I could hear the commotion outside again.

Sherm began rummaging through the dead man’s pockets. He found a silver cigarette lighter and kept that too. Then he rolled the body over and pulled a wallet from the corpse’s back pocket. He flipped it open and looked at the driver’s license. A second later, he snorted with laughter.

“What?” My headache had apparently decided to come back with my hearing. Outside, the cops were starting to move closer again.

“It says here that the guy’s name was Mac Davis.”

“You mean like that singer back in the seventies?”

“Yeah. Too frigging cool, dog—I shot Mac Davis!”

He said it casually, but there was a hint of something else beneath the words. Sherm was starting to lose it. Hell, I don’t know. Looking back on it now, I think maybe he’d lost it long before we ever walked into that bank. Sherm may have been my friend, but I never trusted him one hundred percent. Neither had John. Our conversation from the night we drove to York looking for guns echoed in my mind.

“Sometimes Sherm scares me,” John had whispered. “Sometimes I think he’s crazy.”

“Me too,” I’d replied.

“Me too.”

Sherm looked up. “You say something?”

“Nothing. Yo, we got to get moving, Sherm. The cops are creeping up again. Give me a hand with John, okay? He feels like a sack of potatoes.”

“What’s that on the floor, mister?” Benjy asked Sherm, pointing at his feet. Something bright and shiny had fallen from Mac Davis’s jacket.

A badge.

“Oh fuck me running.”

Sherm closed his eyes, removed his ski mask, and ran a hand through his greasy hair. The guy in the leather jacket, a.k.a. Mr. Mac Davis, recently deceased, hadn’t been a singer like his namesake. He’d been a police officer. I would find out later that he’d been off duty, coming home from the night shift.

“Sherm,” I choked, “you shot a fucking cop…”

Then I threw up all over my shoes.

* * *


We left Kelvin and Mac Davis lying where they were, and finished cramming the hostages into the vault. The group was obedient and followed our orders—sitting on the floor quietly with their backs against the steel walls. Benjy returned to his mother, and when I caught her eye, I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She glared back at me and looked away. The old woman caressed her cross, stroking it lovingly, and muttered an occasional “Oh my” and the fat guy in the Hellboy shirt was panting like a dog. Both of the tellers sniffled, their tears slowly drying up as the reality of the situation hit them and shock set in. The bearded guy in the chambray shirt continued to soothe the older teller, assuring her that it would all be okay. He looked at her the way I looked at Michelle sometimes, and it was so easy to see—written all over his face. I wondered just how long he’d been using this bank. How long had he been in love with her? Did she even know about it?

Sherm rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a roll of duct tape. He grinned, and the sweat on his forehead glistened beneath his dirty hair.

“Okay,” he announced. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We don’t want to kill any more of you—”

“Why stop now?” Keith sneered. “You’re on a roll. Do you get points for each one you kill or something?”

Sherm slapped him hard across one cheek, then the other. Then he clutched Keith’s left earlobe between his index finger and thumb and gave it a savage, jerking twist. Keith howled in pain, glaring back at him with hatred burning in his eyes.

“Say one more word, asshole. I fucking dare you.”

Keith opened his mouth, glanced at the frightened looks of his employees and customers, who shook their heads in silence to urge him to keep quiet, and shut it again.

“Now,” Sherm continued, “as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. I’m gonna duct tape your hands behind your backs. If you all promise to behave, I won’t tape your feet or your mouths shut—well, except for you, Keith. While I am doing this, my associate, Tommy, is going to make sure that none of you move. If you do, he is going to shoot you in the fucking face. Fair enough?”

He directed the question to them but looked at me as he asked it. I nodded in understanding along with the rest of them.

“Good.”

I wondered why he had brought a roll of duct tape along with him when the plan had originally been to get away, but I didn’t ask.

“Mommy,” Benjy whispered, “I have to go pee.”

“Do it in your pants,” Sherm said, jerking his thumb toward the comic book fan. “It was good enough for fat boy over there.”

He knelt by the old woman. Trembling, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Oh…”

“What’s your name?” Sherm asked her.

“Martha.”

“Martha, so help me God, if you say ‘Oh my’ one more time, I’m going to cut your head off and stump fuck your neck. Do you know what a stump fuck is?”

“N-n-no…”

“A stump fuck is when I insert my penis into the orifice provided by the wound and I fuck it.”

He thrust his hips back and forth.

“O—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare fucking say it.”

Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out.

“Too bad. I could have used a good nut.”

Despite his threats, Sherm allowed Martha to keep her hands in her lap. I guess he figured she wasn’t a threat. He taped her wrists together, and moved on to the elderly bald man.

“Give me your cane. You ain’t going to be needing it anytime soon. We’re not going anywhere.”

The old man did as he was told. Sherm slid it across the floor toward me and wrapped his hands together too.

“You boys are in a lot of trouble,” the old man observed.

“No shit?” Sherm scoffed. “Thanks for letting us know, Pops. I hadn’t figured that out yet. Anything else you want to let us in on?”

“Why make it worse by taking hostages? Why not just let us go?”

“I’m sorry, your name is?”

“Roy. Roy Kirby.”

“Well, Roy, the reason I’m not letting you go is so if the cops bust in here with tear gas and pepper grenades and laser sights and body armor and all that shit, I can use you as a human shield. I figure that’s why you survived your heart attack—for me to use as cannon fodder. Sound good?”

“Then keep me,” Roy offered, “and let the others go. At least let the boy have a chance.”

“Sorry. No.”

“But he’s just a little boy.”

“And you’re just an old man. But both of you will make excellent cannon fodder. You know what I’m saying?”

“I’ll pray for you,” Roy said.

“You do that, Pops. But I think Martha over there has that covered already.”

He kicked the cane closer to me, pushed Roy back against the wall, and moved on to the next hostage—the comic book geek, whose real name turned out to be Oscar. After Oscar came Dugan, the bearded guy with the crush on the older teller.

“Dugan? That your first name or your last?”

He eyed Sherm like he was a squashed bug. “None of your business.”

While Sherm taped Dugan’s wrists, I checked John’s pulse. It took me a moment to find it, but it was there—weak and slow—but still there. He moaned, beginning to regain consciousness. I could only imagine the agony he’d be in when he woke up. My own pain was coming back as well, now that the adrenaline rush had left my body. My head hurt so bad that my vision blurred. I tried not to let on and stood back up, using my foot to keep the pressure on his makeshift tourniquet.

“How is he?” Sherm asked.

“Not good. Not good at all. He’s going to die, Sherm. You know that, right? Kelvin shot him in the stomach. He’s going to fucking die.”

“Nothing we can do about that now, Tommy.”

“He’s our friend, man. Of course we can do something about it. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Benjy stirred in excitement.

“I can help him, Mr. Tommy. I really can.”

“Sit down, kid,” Sherm warned him, finishing up with Dugan’s hands.

“Benjy!” His mother looked anxious again.

“It’s okay,” I told her, and turned to Benjy. “Sit down for me, buddy. Okay?”

Pouting, he let out a frustrated sigh but did as he was told. I thought of T.J., doing the exact same thing when Michelle told him to turn off Justice League Adventures and get ready for church.

“What’s your name?” I asked his mother.

“Sheila.”

“Okay. Just try to keep him still, all right?”

She nodded.

“That man is going to go see Jesus soon if we don’t help him. Or maybe the monster people. Tell them, Mommy. Make them believe me.”

She pulled him close and whispered something in his ear. Benjy leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, clearly unhappy with this turn of events.

Meanwhile, Sherm had moved on to the older teller, Sharon. She grimaced in pain as he pressed her wrists together.

“Does that hurt?” he grinned.

She nodded, and Sherm pressed down harder, leering.

“Leave her alone,” Dugan growled, “or so help me I’ll—”

Sherm wheeled on him, shoving the barrel of the .357 under his nose. Dugan didn’t even flinch. He had some big brass balls, I’ll give him that.

“You’ll what? Kick my ass? Kill me? Motherfucker, you are in no position to threaten me. I’m in charge. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“I don’t care what you do to me, but if you hurt Sharon, I’ll come back from the grave just to watch you fry.”

The light went on in Sherm’s eyes. He stood up, grinned at me, and looked back down at them.

“Ohhhhh, I get it. I see now. You’re slipping her the old salami. Goddamn, why didn’t you just say so, Dugan? It’s cool, man. You’re popping the old Viagra and Sharon here is your piece of ass, and you don’t want anybody else sticking their dick in her. Shit, I can respect that. Here’s to you, player.”

Dugan sputtered, his face turning scarlet.

“You foul-mouthed little white trash punk. Take this damn tape off of my hands and we’ll see how tough you are.”

Sherm’s grin vanished, his voice growing serious again.

“Relax. She’s all yours, Dugan. And Tommy there can have Sheila. Old women and milfs don’t do it for me.”

“What’s a milf?” Roy whispered.

“Mom I’d Like To Fuck,” Oscar mouthed back.

Roy closed his eyes and shook his head.

Sherm ignored them and turned his attention to the young, blond teller.

“Now you on the other hand…” He ripped off another piece of duct tape and crouched down beside her. “What’s your name, girl?”

“K-k-kim.”

“Kim.” He rolled it around on his tongue. “That’s a pretty name. Yo, Kim, check this shit out. I’m gonna be a rich man, soon as I get out of here. Maybe you can come with me. We’ll go live in the Bahamas and shit, run around naked all day and get high.”

He leaned forward to kiss her and she shut her eyes, cringing against the wall. Sherm finished binding her hands, then grabbed her face with one hand and drew her toward him.

“C’mon, baby, what do you say? Dude like me and a fine girl like you? You don’t have to be a star to be in my show. Give me those seven digits so I can give you a call when this is over.”

“F-fuck off, you piece of shit.” The curses sounded strange coming out of her mouth, as if she wasn’t used to saying them.

Sherm’s eyes grew wide, but his response was cut off as Keith burst into laughter. Tears streamed down the manager’s face, leaking from his swollen eye. His busted lip pulled back in a sneer as he chuckled.

“Good for you, Kim.”

Sherm finished with Kim and stood up, turning his full attention to Keith.

“I saved the best for last.”

Sherm stepped toward him and Keith stopped laughing. Suddenly, he looked very small and very afraid.

“Tommy, make sure they stay quiet. Keith and I are gonna go have a nice, private talk.”

“But what about the cops?”

“Five-oh won’t be bothering us for a while. They’re still trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“How do you know that?”

“These cops weren’t responding to the robbery. I’m sure of that. When a silent alarm gets triggered, the police dispatcher puts it out to the cars immediately. They get this strong-ass warning tone on their radios—they can hear it even if their radio is turned down. It’s kind of like the Emergency Broadcast System. In a town like Hanover, they’re required to have a minimum of two units respond. One unit takes the rear and the other takes the front, so each cop is diagonal from the other. But here’s the thing, dog. When they do this, there are no lights and no sirens. Five-oh doesn’t want to alert the bank robber that they’re on the way.”

“But we heard sirens.”

“Damn straight we did. We heard a shitload of sirens, which tells me they were responding to the shots fired in the back alley, when Kelvin shot John, then followed him around to the front. If they’d known it was a bank robbery they were rolling up on, they’d have done this whole thing differently. They were looking for Kelvin. They found us instead.”

“You’re pretty smart for a white trash hood,” Keith observed. Sherm ignored the comment, but I saw him flinch. Worse, he was starting to twitch again, and that was never a good sign when you were dealing with Sherm. When Sherm began to twitch, bad things happened.

“So what about us?” I asked. “What’s next?”

My mind raced. All I could think of was Michelle and T.J. She was at work, ringing up cigarettes and lottery tickets and maybe thinking of me too. He’d be at day care, maybe having a snack or drawing a picture of the three of us as stick figures.

“Well, you bought us some time, shooting out the door like that and talking smack to the cops. You surprised me, dog. That was some smart thinking, man. They don’t know what the fuck is going on now, except that they’ve got an unknown number of hostages and gunmen up in here. They’ll pull back, set up shop, and let their dispatcher know what’s going on. Pretty soon, dispatch will call here for the bank contact and have them walk outside with a predesignated signal that everything is cool and it was a false alarm, or that the bad guys are gone.”

He turned to Keith.

“Who’s the bank contact?”

“I am.”

“There ya go.” Sherm grinned at me. “Easy enough to find that out, right?”

“So we’re sending him out when they call?” I asked.

“Oh hell no. Even if he gave them the all clear, there’s no way we could get out of here now. They’d have to come in and double-check. So when Keith here doesn’t respond, they’ll hunker down outside, try to contain us. They’ve probably already got us surrounded, so stay the fuck away from the windows. Hanover doesn’t have a SWAT unit, so they’ll call for York County’s Quick Response Team. Those guys will take at least an hour to respond—maybe more. They’ll want to bring their armored vehicles and their helicopter and shit. Make sure the taxpayers know that their money is being used.

“Meanwhile, they’ll have every available officer here, except for one poor schmuck who’ll be responding to other calls—and I’m betting that even he will creep close to the scene. It’s the day shift, so we’re probably talking five to seven cars, four detectives, a platoon supervisor, probably a captain, and definitely the chief. He’ll want to have his picture on the front page of The Evening Sun tonight. Sooner or later, a police negotiator will try to contact us. When Quick Response shows up, they’ll have a second negotiator trying to deal with us too, if needed. I’ll handle all of that. They might try to break windows or shoot in tear gas and pepper spray grenades, or maybe send in that little surveillance robot, but that should be hours from now.”

“Fuck! What the hell do we do if they fire tear gas?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. If we need to, we’ll seal the vault with us inside. I don’t think the gas can get in here. Until then, we chill. We’ve got plenty of time to figure shit out.”

“So we just sit tight? That’s your plan?”

“For now, yeah.”

“But—”

“Once we get the negotiator to play ball with us, we’ll get a ride out of here, a car or maybe a Humvee or something. Take a few of the hostages with us as insurance and let the others go as a good faith gesture.”

“And they’ll give us that?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know, Sherm. Why not just make a break for it now? We could go out the back.”

“That’s no good, yo. They’ve got us surrounded already. Even if we could make it to John’s car, they’d bum rush it as soon as we were inside. You’re just gonna have to trust me on this, Tommy.”

He turned to Keith.

“Your office is across the hall, right?”

“Yes. But there’s no money in there.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the money anymore. What I do give a fuck about is if your office has windows. Are there any windows in it? Don’t lie to me, Keith, because if we get in there and I see a cop peering through the glass at me, I’m gonna cap him, then I’m gonna rape your ass with the barrel of this pistol and cap you too.”

“No,” Keith swallowed, “there aren’t any windows.”

“Good. Okay, this is how it’s gonna be. Keith and I are going to have a chat and wait for the cops’ phone call. You stay here with them, Tommy. And keep that fucking kid under control.”

“What about John, Sherm? What do we do about him?”

He didn’t answer. I don’t know if he didn’t hear or if he was just ignoring me. Instead, he yanked Keith up by his hair and shoved him out the vault door. Then he turned back to me.

“Keep your shit together, Tommy. We’ll get out of here and get John some help and you’ll see Michelle and T.J. again.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

He flashed that grin of his.

“Trust me.”


TWELVE


After Sherm left, my headache swelled, exploding in the space between my eyes. I sat back down, keeping the pressure on John’s wound, and felt like dying with him. You know how in books and movies they sometimes describe pain as being blinding? I’d never really thought it was possible until that moment. For a second, I really was blind. Frustrated, I knocked my head against the steel wall, and that made it worse. I felt completely and utterly helpless. But it was more than just the pain. I tried to breathe and found that I couldn’t. Something welled up inside of me—a sense of sorrow and grief and guilt unlike anything I’d ever felt before. It was like I’d swallowed a balloon, and it was inflating inside my chest. At the same time, my lips began to swell, as if someone had cracked me in the mouth with a baseball bat. I could feel my heartbeat pulsing in them as they grew. That was when the tears started; hot, self-pitying tears that didn’t stop.

“Oh my,” Martha breathed.

“Wow…” Oscar whispered.

“Ummm, are you okay?” Kim asked.

I tried to respond but all I could manage was a long, grieving whine. John’s blood coated my arms and hands. It had been warm at first but now it was cold. Cold and sticky. He was dying. I was dying. Mac Davis and Kelvin were dead. Before this was over, there was no telling who else would join them.

“We are so fucked.” I leaned my forehead against John’s and sobbed. I felt like I was going to burst.

“You could give yourself up,” Roy commiserated. “Don’t you understand, son? There’s still time to save your friend, still time to get him to the hospital. Nobody else has to get hurt. The way I see it, you didn’t do any of the shooting. It was your friend, Sherm, that killed those two men.”

“That’s right,” Dugan agreed, sitting up straight. “We can all vouch for that. We could sneak out now, while he’s busy with the manager. Then you surrender and we’ll tell the police that you helped us escape.”

I shook my head and wiped my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, willing the tears to stop, the pain to go away. The mucus on my sleeve was pink, and I wasn’t sure if it was John’s blood or my own.

“No. That won’t work, man. It’s too late. John’s dying and I may as well be dead and it’s my fault. All this shit is my fault. My wife and my kid… I deserve whatever happens next. Everything’s fucked.”

Roy tried again. “I’m sure that your wife and child would want you to do the right thing. You want to see them again, don’t you? They’ll want to see you alive, right?”

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Kirby. I’m already dead.”

“What do you mean you’re already dead? Surely, your sentence wouldn’t amount to the death penalty. Your friend perhaps, but not yourself. You’re just an accomplice, and if you help us, it could only go in your favor.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m dead already—was dead before we walked in this fucking bank.”

The bloody ski mask felt like a heavy sponge. Laying John’s head on the floor, I ignored Roy’s question and placed John’s lifeless arm over the tourniquet. I didn’t like leaving him, but I had no choice. I taped up Sheila and Benjy as quickly as I could, trying to be as gentle as possible. I felt bad about doing it, but I knew Sherm would do worse if he came back and found their hands free. Then I ripped the duct tape from Oscar’s wrists. He cringed, scooting back in fear.

“P-please don’t kill me…”

“Give me your shirt.”

“What—why?”

“Because that ski mask is worthless and I need something to stop my friend’s bleeding, and because Hellboy is for pussies. The Punisher is the real shit.”

“I-I don’t think I should—”

“Oscar.” I sighed. “I’m having a really bad day. You have no idea what it’s been like. So don’t make things worse, okay? Just give me the fucking shirt and quit arguing with me.”

“Do what he says, son,” Roy advised Oscar. “He’s the man in charge.”

“But I—I don’t want them to see me.” He eyed Kim and Sheila. “I’m fat. They’ll laugh…”

“Now’s definitely not the time to get embarrassed,” Dugan told him. “Suck it up.”

Mortified, Oscar slowly stripped the shirt off and handed it to me. His hands were shaking, and so was his belly. It looked like a big bowl of gelatin. Clearly uncomfortable, he tried to cross his arms over his breasts. At the very least, the dude was sporting a pair of C cups.

“Sorry, Oscar, none of that. Give me your wrists again.”

For an overweight comic book geek, he moved pretty fast.

Oscar’s foot lashed out, catching me in my shin. He paused, his face registering shock and surprise in the fact that he’d actually succeeded, and then he swung at me with one meaty fist. I caught it, twisted his arm behind his back, and yanked—hard. Something grated inside, near his shoulder, and Oscar howled.

“Shut up. Shut up you fat piece of shit or I’ll give you something to scream about! Do you understand me, motherfucker? Do you?”

Blubbering, he let his arms go limp. I tied him up with the duct tape again, and I wasn’t gentle about it either. Then I pressed the shirt against John’s bullet wound. He and Oscar moaned in unison. As I finished, Sherm burst through the door, his gun drawn and ready.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing, man. Fat boy just decided that he wanted to play hero is all. I dealt with it. Where’s the manager?”

Ignoring my question, Sherm started toward Oscar, a storm brewing in his eyes. Suddenly, every phone in the bank began to ring at the same time. I think that all of us jumped.

“That’s the cops. About fucking time too. I’ll handle them. Stay here and keep them quiet. Shoot the fat boy if he acts up again.”

He ran back out of the room. The phones rang three more times and stopped. The vault was silent once more. For a moment, I wondered where Keith had been when Sherm ran back into the vault. Wouldn’t he have had a chance to escape? Maybe Sherm had bound his feet with duct tape as well.

“You guys could have helped me,” Oscar accused the rest of the hostages. “We could have rushed him. It could have all been over by now.”

They didn’t respond. Oscar leaned back against the wall, wincing as his shoulder pressed against it. Tears of shame and rage ran down his face. The rest of them looked away, studying the ceiling, the floor, the cash and valuables drawers, and the safety-deposit boxes—anything but him. Everybody except for Benjy and Sheila. Benjy was staring at John, and Sheila was watching me.

“Your friend, the one that’s an asshole, his name is Sherm?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“He mentioned Michelle and—?”

“T.J.”

“Right, T.J. Are they your wife and son?”

I nodded and turned my attention back to Oscar. “You smell like piss, man.”

“Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough?”

I suddenly found myself almost apologizing to him, but I didn’t.

“I—I don’t mean any offense,” Sheila continued, “but did you ever stop to think about how this would affect Michelle and T.J. before you did it? Don’t you care about what’s going to happen to them if you go to jail? I can see how much you love them. You were crying earlier…”

“Yeah, of course I thought about how it would affect them. I was doing this for them.”

“What—the money?”

“Yeah, the money. What else? You don’t rob banks for blank deposit slips.”

“But you must have known that the consequences wouldn’t be worth it. No amount of money is worth that.”

I snorted. “Worth it? Consequences? You think I don’t know? Is it worth it to see my wife and son wearing decent clothes and not shit we got from the Goodwill? Is it worth it to not eat government cheese and generic corn, and to be able to buy my son a toy once in a while? Is it worth it to have heat and electric in the same month, and not have to decide between the two?

To have health insurance, and not have to swallow a bottle of aspirin every time you get a toothache? To finally have some money, other than the minimum wage bullshit I earn? Yeah, I thought it was worth it. Don’t fucking tell me about consequences. You don’t know consequences, Sheila.”

She clenched her bound fists and her voice rose in anger.

“I don’t know? Try being a single mom on welfare sometime. Don’t talk to me about government cheese. I ate it growing up and I swore that my children never would—and now Benjy’s eating it too. How do you think that makes me feel? You have no idea. And at least your son has a father. At least you’ve got a job. I can’t get anything, not even fast food. Who wants to hire a single welfare mom who can’t find a babysitter?”

“Can everybody please quit fighting?” Benjy pleaded, and we both stopped. Sheila glowered at me, and the others were silent. Across the hall, I heard Sherm talking on the phone to the police.

“No, I ain’t giving you my fucking name. If you gotta call me something, then call me Slim Shady—the real Slim Shady.”

Despite the fact that he was possibly unraveling, this struck me as the funniest thing I’d heard in a while, and I started to snicker. It was just so bizarre. Two people were dead, John was dying, hostages had been taken, we were facing jail time or worse—and Sherm was making Eminem jokes. Sheila smiled too and after a moment, so did Kim and even Oscar. The others didn’t get the joke.

“I’m sorry,” Sheila apologized. “It’s none of my business. You just seem like a nice guy. Too nice to be involved in something like this.”

“You know what they say about first appearances,” Dugan said under his breath. I ignored him.

“I’m sorry too.” I smiled at them all and turned back to Sheila. “So what happened to his father?

He bail out on you or something?”

“I’d really rather not talk about this, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh come on,” I prodded. “What else are we gonna do to pass the time? Tell me.”

She didn’t say anything at first, and I figured that I must have hit a nerve. Maybe the guy bailed on them before Benjy was born, or maybe he was abusive or Benjy had come from a drunken one-night stand. I started to tell her that I shouldn’t have asked, that it was none of my business and we should just drop the whole subject, and then she told me.

“This is hard to talk about. He—I don’t know who Benjy’s father is. I… I slept around a lot when I was younger.” She held her head up and looked me in the eye, challenging me to say something. Her lower lip trembled.

“You were with more than one guy around the time he was conceived?” Sharon asked. The whole group was focused on Sheila now, hanging on her every word.

“Yeah. Like five or six. I don’t remember for sure. I was young, and it seemed like the only way I could get attention was through sex.”

“Harlot,” Martha spat, but at least she had moved beyond the traditional “Oh my.” She clutched her crucifix necklace with her liver-spotted hands, and the look on her face was pure disgust.

“I think it’s pretty cool,” Oscar said, his embarrassment at being bare-chested in front of the women and getting his ass kicked forgotten. “It’s like empowerment, you know? Using sex as a form of empowerment.”

Dugan and Kim rolled their eyes at the same time.

“It wasn’t anything like that,” Sheila said. “It wasn’t empowerment. It was fucking pathetic. I was a slut.”

“You shouldn’t put yourself down like that,” Oscar admonished her.

“Look,” Sheila frowned. “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m not going to be sleeping with you while we’re hostages in this goddamned bank vault, so you can stop the bullshit.”

“You should be ashamed,” Martha crowed. “You admit to promiscuity. You are blaspheming against the Holy Spirit—taking Our Lord’s name in vain. That is the ultimate sin, and one that cannot be forgiven, no matter how much you might beg. You will regret this before the day’s end.”

“Wait a minute.” Ignoring Martha, I held up my free hand, keeping pressure on John’s wound with the other. “So what happened after you got knocked up? You couldn’t figure out which guy it was?”

“No. By the time I figured out I was pregnant, it was too late. It was near the beginning of my senior year. I missed two periods in a row, and started getting sick in the morning. I was throwing up all the time and didn’t know what was wrong with me. I finally went to the doctor and he told me that I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe it, but it was true. My main boyfriend got so pissed off. He called me a whore and dumped me, then my parents kicked me out. There was no way I could afford a paternity test, and back then, the laws in Pennsylvania were different, so I couldn’t get an abortion. I ended up dropping out of school. Actually, that’s why I was depositing money in my savings account this morning when you guys came in. I’ve been saving enough to take some classes and get my GED It’s hard, because I can only put a little away at a time, but I can’t find a job without one.”

Benjy seemed oblivious as we talked. He fidgeted, uncomfortable with having his arms tied behind him, and kept watching John.

I don’t think any of us knew how to respond to Sheila’s story. It was just so unbelievable that she would open up and admit something like that to a bunch of strangers, especially given our situation. But she told it with such openness and sincerity. We all just sat there, silently mulling it over. I noticed that none of us would look directly at her or Benjy. Finally, Roy cleared his throat.

“Your son is special, isn’t he, Sheila?”

“Well yeah, he’s special. He’s everything to me. Benjy is all I’ve got.”

Roy smiled, nodding his head.

“I’m sure he is, and it’s easy to see that he’s a wonderful boy. But that’s not quite what I meant. Benjy can—do things, can’t he? Special things, perhaps?”

Sheila turned away from his questioning stare. A small vein in her throat fluttered and I could tell that she was scared. Not scared of being a hostage. This was something more. Something primal.

“What are you getting at, Mr. Kirby?” Sharon asked.

“Before Tommy’s friend here was shot”—he cocked his head toward John—“I was dying. Plain and simple fact, my friends—I was dying. I lied to Tommy and Sherm, and said that it was just angina to protect the boy, but the truth is that I was having a massive heart attack. It would have been my third, so trust me when I tell you that I’m a bit of an expert on the subject. It feels like nothing else. Heart bypass surgery is no picnic. My wife Nora, God rest her soul, died of ovarian cancer three years ago. Her heart was healthy as a horse. But mine—I’d always had trouble with my ticker. It’s hereditary. My father had it and his father before him.”

“So why aren’t you dead, then?” Dugan asked. “I was watching. The kid didn’t perform CPR or anything like that. He just placed his hands on your chest.”

“Yes. Yes he did. That was all. He just put his hands on my chest. I was scared for him, worried that he’d get shot, but I was too weak to resist. I didn’t have any breath to speak with. He kept his hands there. My chest felt warm at first, then the pain vanished. By the time Sherm shot that second man with the gun, the one that seemed high on drugs, I was fine. Better than fine, in fact. Despite our circumstances, I haven’t felt this good in years.”

Dugan snorted. “He’s not the new Messiah. You heard Sheila’s story. I’d hardly call that an Immaculate Conception. No offense.”

“None taken,” Sheila murmured.

“I’m not suggesting that,” Roy insisted. “I’m just saying that Benjy has a gift. A healing touch.”

“Maybe you were mistaken,” Kim said. “Maybe it was just stress. I know that I was scared and it felt like I was going to have a heart attack too.”

“No young lady, I’d like to think so, but I wasn’t mistaken. Of this I am absolutely sure. This little boy—Benjy—healed me. I truly believe it. That’s why I offered myself to Sherm if he’d at least let Benjy go free. He’s a remarkable young man.”

Blushing, Sheila smiled. “Thank you. I never told anybody before. I’m not even sure why I’m admitting it now.”

“That’s easy,” Dugan grunted. “It’s a case of Stockholm Syndrome.”

“What’s that?” Kim asked.

“It’s when you bond to your captor—in our case, Tommy. It’s sort of a survival strategy for victims in hostage situations. They call it that because of a hostage situation during a bank robbery in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1973. When it was all over, one of the women became engaged to one of her captors, and another hostage started a defense fund for the robbers.”

“That usually takes a while to happen,” Oscar said. “We’ve only been in here for like an hour or so.”

Through the walls, Sherm was shouting into the telephone.

“We’ve got plenty of C-4 and we’re not afraid to use it. Anybody so much as peeks their head through that door and we’ll blow the whole goddamn building up!”

There was another sound too—a muffled, frantic thumping that punctuated his words. I wondered what it was and decided that I didn’t want to know. It was probably Sherm roughing Keith up.

Roy spoke up. “Regardless of how much time has passed, I think we can all see who’s bad here and who’s good. You’re not one of the bad guys, Tommy. Not at heart. That much is plain, despite what you may have done so far today. And there is still time for you to make amends.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Mr. Kirby.”

“I know that you don’t want to see anybody else get hurt. And I know that you love your wife and son and that you want to see them again. That’s all I need to know, Tommy.”

“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you’re playing? You’re just sucking up to me, hoping I’ll slip up or go easy on you.”

“No, I’m being genuine.”

“Whatever.”

Dugan stretched his foot out and touched Sharon’s shoe with his own. She smiled, and inched closer to him. For a moment, I wished their hands were free, just so he could slide an arm around her and comfort her.

“This is some heavy shit,” Oscar breathed. “I’m supposed to be at work right now. Jeez, I hope I don’t get fired. That would suck. I’m already behind on my student loan.”

Kim muttered, “I’m already at work. And I guess I’ll miss class tonight too.”

Across the hall, the thumping continued but now Sherm was quiet. It was growing weaker, slower.

We waited.

Finally, the thumping stopped and never started again.

* * *


John was fading quickly. I tried hard to take my mind off of it.

“So,” I said to Sheila, “let’s recap. You got knocked up and had Benjy. You don’t know who his father was. And Benjy can heal people by touching them. Did I get it right?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not. Really. I’m serious.”

“It’s insane,” Kim interrupted. “I mean, no offense, Sheila, but we’re all under a lot of stress here. Maybe you’re just—I don’t know, maybe this is how you’re dealing with it.”

“That wouldn’t explain how he healed me,” Roy interjected.

“It’s crazy,” Kim insisted.

“It’s not that crazy,” Oscar said. “There are millions of cases of people healing others by the laying on of hands.”

“How do you know that?” Sharon asked.

He shrugged. “I read Fortean Times and Fate magazine. My comic book shop sells them.”

Benjy sang softly, oblivious. I recognized the tune as one T.J. had also sung around the house, something from a Japanese cartoon. I missed my son. At that moment, I would have traded all the money in the bank for another chance to hug him.

“So what else can he do?” I asked Sheila.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know—can he like turn water into wine and levitate and all that stuff? Part the lake maybe?”

Kim joined in. “And turn one fast-food Kid’s Meal into thirty?”

“No. He just heals people; that’s all. He can tell when somebody’s sick and he makes them better.”

An idea occurred to me.

“Can he—you know, raise the dead?”

“No! Of course not.”

“How did you first find out about his abilities?” Roy inquired.

She paused, collecting her thoughts.

“He was about three months old. We were living in a one-room efficiency apartment down on the square right overtop the old pawnshop. I didn’t have anybody else to help me with him—

my parents kicked me out when I told them I was pregnant. They said I was a slut and that I’d ruined their precious lives. Anyway, Benjy woke up around midnight and wanted his bottle. I had like one eye open, you know? I wasn’t just tired—I was exhausted. I put a glass bowl of water in the microwave to heat it up, so I could warm the bottle in it. Benjy was crying and I wasn’t paying attention and the water got too hot and when I went to pull it out, the bowl burned my fingers. Not badly, but it really hurt. I finally got the bottle heated and as I was feeding him, Benjy wrapped his tiny little fingers around my own and the pain went away—just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“I didn’t really think anything more about it at the time. Figured it was just one of those things, you know? But then, when Benjy was three, I saved what little money I could and got him a dog from the animal shelter for his birthday. We named her Sandy, and she was the cutest little beagle that you’ve ever seen. She was really good with him. Gentle. Benjy pulled on her ears and her tail and Sandy just sat there and let him. You love that dog, don’t you, baby?”

He nodded, aware now that he was the subject of conversation.

“A year later, I got a few months behind on the rent. The landlord was a real asshole—wouldn’t work with me at all. One morning, in the middle of winter, two sheriff’s deputies showed up with an eviction notice. They threw us out in the street while it was snowing. I remember it was so cold and I didn’t have any idea where we would go. I was afraid to go back to my parents.”

She paused, her voice choked with emotion.

“The deputies gave us time to pack a bag and that was it. While they had the door open, Sandy got out. I guess she was scared by all the commotion, because she ran out into the middle of the street, something she’d never done before, and got hit by a car. It was horrible—the screech of the car’s brakes—and then there was this horrible thump and she was yelping and flopping around on the pavement. I remember thinking that. ‘She looks like a fish on land.’ The driver of the car didn’t even stop. He—the bastard just kept going. Before I could stop him, Benjy ran toward the curb. I chased after him, afraid the same thing was going to happen to him.”

She took a deep breath, clearly upset.

“When we reached Sandy, I saw right away that there was nothing we could do. Even if we’d had the money for a vet, she was dying and the vet wouldn’t have been able to save her. There was blood coming out of her nose and mouth, and her belly—her insides… they were sticking…”

She shuddered, unable to complete the story.

“I made her feel better,” Benjy picked up where his mother had left off. “I touched Sandy and her insides went back into her tummy and the blood stopped coming out. In a few minutes, she was all better again. I love my Sandy.”

He craned his head up to Sheila.

“Mommy, when will we get to see Sandy? Soon? She’s all alone at our apartment, and I bet she’s hungry. I bet she has to go potty. I do too.”

“Pretty soon, baby. Pretty soon…”

“Don’t count on it.”

Sherm stepped back into the vault. I noticed that Keith wasn’t with him and I thought again about the thumping sounds.

“Nobody’s going anywhere unless they want to leave in a fucking body bag. At least not until the cops give us a way out of here. Then maybe a few of you can go with us. If the kid’s got to piss, then make him cross his legs.”

He winked at Kim and she scowled back at him. He stared at each of them in turn.

“So what’d I miss?” he asked me.

“Nothing much. Just chilling out, keeping this pressure on this bullet hole in John’s stomach, trying to keep him from bleeding to death.”

He ignored my sarcastic tone.

“What about you?” I asked. “What’d you tell the cops?”

“Made sure they understand who the fuck is in charge around here.”

“And who is in charge?” I asked.

“We are, dog. What’s up with that tone in your voice?”

“Just seems like you’re the one that’s suddenly making all the decisions. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yo, I’m just trying to get us out of here, Tommy. Feel free to jump in anytime.”

“Don’t sweat it.” I sighed. “What else did you tell the cops?”

“They’re supposed to call back in half an hour for our list of demands. All they know right now is that there’s six of us, armed to the teeth, and that we’ve got a dozen or so hostages.”

“Your math’s a little fuzzy, isn’t it, son?” Roy asked.

“Shut the fuck up, you old fart. Who asked you? What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Where’s the manager?” I prodded.

“Keith? He’s in the other room. Don’t worry—he ain’t going nowhere. I got him taped up good and tight.”

He stalked around the vault like a caged animal.

“I’m hungry. Kim, you ladies got an employee refrigerator or something like that?”

“No. We go out during our lunch breaks. All we have is a watercooler.”

“Shit. It figures.” He pulled out his smokes, shook one out of the pack, and snapped his lighter open. The click echoed in the silence. He inhaled, tapping his foot nervously. Then he snapped the lighter shut. Then open again. Then shut. He repeated it over and over, seeming mesmerized. All the time, his restless twitching increased.

“I tell you, it’s the work of the Devil,” Martha spoke up. “Satan is among us. Just as the pastor at my church said he would be. The Imp is alive and well and his acolytes walk our very streets. They hold us in bondage. These are the end times.”

“Be quiet,” Sharon admonished her. “We don’t need that kind of talk right now. It’s not doing anybody any good, so just be quiet.”

“I will not be quiet! These men, that boy—they are evil. Their unholy influence is spreading amongst you. Already you are tainted. It will all end in blood. Only blood can wash it clean, just as it did in the Old Testament. The blood of the innocent is required. The blood of the lamb.”

“I think I liked you better when you were just saying ‘Oh my,’ ” I groaned.

“What the hell’s she calling the kid evil for, Tommy?” Sherm asked. “You and me I can see. We’re the bad guys, the bank robbers. But why the kid? What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know. She’s fucking snapped, man.”

I held my breath, waiting to see if the others would give away Benjy’s secret, but they didn’t. I could tell that Sheila was relieved too.

“Mister?” Benjy looked up at Sherm. “Mister, you’re sick. You know that, right? It’s in your head, like bees. The darkness. The monster people are inside it and they’re eating at you.”

“The Devil,” Martha squawked. “The Devil is in his head. All of them. They’re name is Legion for they are many, and they gnash and bite with their sharp little teeth and claws…”

Dugan, Sharon, Sheila, Kim, and I all told her to shut up at the same time. Sherm began to fidget again.

“How’s Carpet Dick? And why is fat boy half-naked? And why does the kid think I have a beehive in my head?”

“John’s—not good. He’s alive, that’s about it. Oscar’s shirt is what’s keeping him from bleeding to death, and I’m about to need another one.”

“Well then, Kim can donate hers.”

“Fuck you,” she spat.

“You keep offering, baby, and I’m gonna take you up on that. Besides, what are you worried about? You got a bra on, right? Or maybe, on second thought, you better donate that too.”

“It will take your friend a while to die,” Dugan said. “A gut shot is painful as hell, which is why he’s passed out, but unless he goes into circulatory shock or if there’s a lot of internal bleeding, then there’s still time to get him to a hospital. His own shit will eventually poison him to death, but it takes a while. If circulatory shock sets in, or if he loses much more blood, he’s probably going to slip into a coma. You need to get him some help before that happens. At least let some paramedics come in here and work on him. If he goes into a coma, chances are that he won’t come back out.”

I shifted my grip on the bloody shirt. My hands were beginning to cramp up.

“Did you ask the cops to get an ambulance for him?”

“Nope. You think they’ll really do it?”

“Jesus Christ, dude—it’s worth a shot. He’s fucking dying, Sherm. Tell them we’ve got a wounded hostage or something. Then they can take John to the hospital, and maybe they won’t even find out he was with us.”

“Oh get real, Tommy. What the fuck have you been smoking? They’ll tag him as one of the robbers as soon as he wakes up. You really think that idiot could hold up under questioning?

They’d sniff him out in a second; and then he’ll drop dime on us.”

“What does it matter if he gives us up, Sherm? Huh? They’ve already got us surrounded. Everybody in here already knows our names. Let’s do like Dugan said. Have some paramedics come in here.”

“Yeah right. And what do we do when they turn out not to be paramedics but fucking SWAT

commandos, huh? You want that on your head? That’s just asking to be captured.”

“They wouldn’t be that stupid, Sherm. They know there would be a bloodbath if they tried something like that. We’ve got to do something, man. This is my fucking gig, goddamn it. I’m in charge.”

“Okay, man, chill the fuck out, for Christ’s sake. I’ll ask them to get an ambulance for us when they call back.”

He slid down the wall and took a seat on the floor next to John and me. Then he snubbed his cigarette out and lit up another. At that moment, I don’t think I’d ever needed a cigarette so bad. Not even when the doctor diagnosed me with cancer. The secondhand smoke drifted over to me, and I breathed it in, relishing it.

“Yo, can I get one of those?”

“Sure.” He handed me the pack and the lighter. I noticed that it was the silver lighter that he’d stolen from Mac Davis. He glanced around the room again, and sighed.

“Damn, I’m hungry. I could eat Kim up right now.”

Sherm stared at Kim. Kim stared at Oscar. Oscar stared at the floor. Dugan and Sharon stared at each other. Sheila stared at me and I stared at her. Roy stared at all of us and Martha kept her eyes shut tight, whispering prayers to Jesus to save her from the Devil’s minions. Benjy stared at John, Sherm, and me, and I wondered what he saw.


THIRTEEN


We sat in silence for a long time. Sherm finished cleaning out the vault, emptying the cash into his bag. Eventually, through Sheila’s timid pleading and my logical prodding, Sherm agreed to let me escort Benjy to the bathroom. Sheila begged to come along with us, but Sherm refused, making her stay behind.

I led Benjy out into the hallway. I actually felt nervous about leaving John and the hostages behind. Keith’s office, with his name emblazoned on the door, was directly across the hall from the vault. There were four more closed doors to the right, plus a fire door and a skinnier door at the end of the hall that had to be the janitor’s closet. The fourth door had a sign marked RESTROOM.

“How you holding up, little man?”

“I’m okay, Mr. Tommy”—he looked up at me and gave his crotch a squeeze—“but I’ve got to pee really, really bad.”

I suppressed a smile. “Well then, we better get you taken care of.”

I walked him to the door and pushed it open, making sure there were no windows inside. There weren’t, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Can you—do this by yourself?”

“Yes. Like I tell Mommy, I’m not a little kid anymore, Mr. Tommy. I’m in kindergarten now, not day care. I’m a big kid.”

“Kindergarten! I guess you are.” Despite the situation, I stifled a laugh. “Okay, I’ll wait for you out here then.”

He went inside and closed the door behind him. A few moments later, I heard the seat go up and then the sound of him peeing into the bowl. I leaned back against the door to the janitor’s closet and closed my eyes, letting out a heavy sigh and craving a cigarette. Cracking my neck, I bumped the door with my head.

Inside the closet, something bumped back.

I was instantly alert, my headache forgotten. Raising the pistol, I put my ear to the door. There was a stifled electronic beep, like a cell phone or a video game with the volume turned down low.

In the bathroom, Benjy flushed the toilet. I cursed. The noise drowned out everything else. Cautiously, I reached for the closet doorknob with one trembling hand. I heard a rush of water as Benjy began washing his hands. He was singing another song from a kid’s show, but I didn’t recognize this one.

I counted to three and twisted the knob and flung the door open, shoving the handgun forward.

“Freeze motherfucker! Don’t you fucking move!”

It was dark inside, but I could make out a shape. It was human and it was alone.

“Don’t shoot! Oh Jesus, please don’t shoot me.”

“Get the fuck out of there, right now. Come here!”

A middle-aged black man in a blue delivery uniform stumbled out into the hall. Trembling, he waved his hands above his head, clutching a cell phone in one of them.

“Mr. Tommy,” Benjy called from behind the closed door, “what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Benjy, you stay in there, buddy. It’s okay. Just don’t come out yet.”

Down the hall, I heard Sheila yelp inside the vault and Sherm telling her to shut up. The black man’s lip quivered. A patch over his left pocket said LUCAS and over the right was another that said DROVERS WATER.

“Who the fuck are you, man? How’d you get in there? What were you doing in the closet?

Answer me!”

“I-I’m Lucas. I’m the d-deliveryman.”

Sherm stuck his pistol out of the vault, followed by his head.

“What the hell is going on, Tommy? Who the fuck is that?”

“He says his name is Lucas. Apparently, he delivers the water bottles for the cooler. I just found him hiding in the janitor’s closet.”

“Oh fuck me running! Bring that son of a bitch here. Now!”

“Benjy,” I called, trying to keep my voice calm, “come on out now, buddy.”

Timidly, he opened the door and peered outside. His little hands were still dripping soapy water. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Lucas, and he started to shut the door again.

“It’s okay, Benjy. Go on back to your mom and let Sherm tie you up again.”

“But Mr. Tommy—”

“Listen to me now, Benjy. Just do it. I promise that everything will be all right.”

“Okay, Mr. Tommy.”

He trotted off toward the vault, with Sherm keeping an eye on him the whole way down the hall. I waved my pistol, indicating to Lucas that he should follow.

“Keep your fucking hands up where I can see them.”

“It’s cool, man. It’s cool. Just don’t shoot me, you hear? I didn’t mean any harm. I was just scared, man. I was real fucking scared.”

“Who did you call on that cell phone?” I asked.

He flinched.

“N-nobody!”

Keeping the pistol trained on him, I snatched the cell phone from his grasp. The lights on the keypad were still lit up and the screen showed the last number dialed. 911

“Oh shit. You called the cops?”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t shoot me, mister.”

“What were you doing in there anyway? How did you get inside the bank?”

“I was just doing my job. That’s all. I deliver the water and pick up the empty bottles every Thursday. Finished up the bank’s delivery and I was in the bathroom washing my hands when I heard the shooting start, so I hid inside the closet. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I figured it was a robbery of some kind.”

“Guess you were right.”

I followed him down the hall and shoved him into the vault ahead of me. Sherm appraised him with a grim smile.

“Well, well, well. Check this shit out. What do we have here? A late guest to the party?”

A look of recognition flashed between Lucas and Sharon and Kim. Sherm and I both caught it immediately.

“Oh, I see you’ve already met the ladies?” Sherm pulled out the duct tape. “Sit your ass down, now.”

“I’m sorry, Lucas,” Sharon said.

“Shut up!” Sherm pulled off a strip and began to bind the driver’s hands behind his back. Lucas began to shake.

“Look, I-I got a wife and two kids at home, and another one in college. Please don’t kill me. I’m begging you here, man. I’ll do anything you guys want.”

“What I want is for you to shut up,” Sherm snapped.

He turned to glare at Kim and Sharon and they shrank back against the wall, straining against their duct tape bonds.

“When exactly were you going to tell me that this guy was in the bank with us?”

The menace in Sherm’s voice was almost palpable.

“We didn’t know,” Sharon protested. “Honestly, Sherm. When you rounded us up, I figured that he must have gotten out. I wasn’t exactly paying attention to everything that was going on when the shooting started.”

“You’re lying, bitch.”

“No, I’m not. I swear to you, it’s true.”

“Goddamn it, leave her alone,” Dugan yelled. “She’s telling you the truth.”

“You stay out of it, tough guy. I warned you all what was gonna happen if you tried playing us.”

Finished with binding Lucas, he stood over Sharon.

“We honestly didn’t know, Sherm,” Kim pleaded. “We didn’t try to play you or anything like that. Why would we? It’s like you said, you’re the man in charge. Please, you’ve got to believe us.”

“Yo, Sherm?”

“What, Tommy?” His eyes didn’t leave Sharon and Kim.

“I found this on him,” I held up the cell phone. “He’d dialed 911 on it. Guess he talked to the cops. I don’t know what he told them but it probably wasn’t good.”

Sherm bent down and grabbed Lucas’s face in his hands, pulling him close.

“What the fuck did you tell them?”

“N-nothing. I didn’t say—”

Sherm moved like a piranha. He flashed forward and bit down on Lucas’s nose with his teeth. Lucas screamed and blood began to well from the corners of Sherm’s mouth.

“Stop it,” Kim yelled. “Leave him alone.”

Sherm shook his head back and forth like a dog and then let go. Sharon and Kim were screaming. Lucas’s mangled nose dripped blood onto his blue uniform. He was crying.

“That’s for lying to me,” Sherm wiped his crimson mouth on his sleeve. “Do it again and I’ll bite one of your fucking fingers off. Or maybe I’ll munch on one of these pretty ladies instead. Bite their titties off and shit. How would you like that? Maybe go down on them and get that clit between my teeth and then—CHOMP! Hell, I might even chew off one of fat boy’s nipples over there. If you think I’m playing, you just try me.”

“No sir,” Lucas wheezed, “I don’t think you’re playing. I believe you’d do just that.”

“Good. Now, tell me everything, from the beginning. And remember, Lucas, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Lucas took a deep breath through his mouth. Bright red blood welled up from his nose and tears still ran from his eyes.

“I… I’d just finished delivering the bank’s weekly water supply, and picking up the empty bottles. My truck has been having trouble with the oil—got a leak in it. Been asking the maintenance department to fix it, but they couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a flashlight. So I checked the oil level before I went to the next stop. I got my hands dirty so I came back into the bank to wash them. Normally the bathroom is for employees only, but Keith said it was okay. I was in the bathroom washing my hands when I heard the shooting. I was scared and didn’t know what was going on, so I hid inside the janitor’s closet. I… I called the police on my cell phone, and then I called my dispatcher at work, and told them to call the police too. I tried calling my wife too, but she wasn’t at home. I’d just hung up with the police a second time when your partner caught me.”

“So you talked to five-oh twice? What did you tell them?”

“Not much, really. Just—”

“Careful,” Sherm warned. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, Lucas. I’m still hungry.”

The deliveryman glanced at Sharon and Kim, and swallowed nervously. Blood ran down his face. He licked his lips and continued.

“I-I t-told them that the bank was being robbed, that there was shooting and that there might be some people dead or hurt. I didn’t know how many of you there were or how many people were inside. That’s all. They asked me a bunch of questions but I couldn’t answer any of them because I was in that dark closet and couldn’t see anything. So they told me to sit tight. Said they’d get me out of here. The second time I talked to them, they told me that the Quick Response Team was on the way from York and that everything would be okay. Look, let’s be reasonable. What was I supposed to do, given the situation? I was scared.”

I needed another cigarette. Not sure what to do with the cell phone, I slipped it into my pocket.

“What do you think, Sherm?” I asked.

He exhaled and shook his head.

“No problem. We’re not going to sweat this. If they were going to rush us and try to take the bank based on what this asshole told them, they’d have tried it by now. We stick to the plan. We’re okay for now.”

“John’s not okay, Sherm.”

“I know that, dog. I meant other than him, we’re okay. That cool with you?”

I nodded.

Lucas looked at Sharon.

“Where’s Keith? A little while ago, when I was still in the utility closet, I thought I heard—”

“You’re not asking the fucking questions,” Sherm spat, “so sit back and shut the hell up. Don’t worry about Keith. He’s taken care of and he ain’t going nowhere.”

He lit up another cigarette, took a deep drag, and when he spoke again, it was with a much calmer tone.

“Tell me something, Lucas. Did your truck have oil in it?”

“W-what?”

“The engine? You know, that big thing under the hood that makes the truck run? You said that it had been burning up oil and that you’d been having trouble with it. So when you checked it this morning, was it okay? Does it work?”

“Yeah, it runs. Maintenance worked on it some. Burned about a half quart, but there’s still plenty of oil in it.”

“See? Now we’re getting somewhere. And it’s the one that’s parked out back, next to the Chinese restaurant’s garbage Dumpster?”

“Yes.”

I remembered seeing the truck when we’d rolled up in John’s car. It seemed like years ago now, rather than hours.

“Are the keys still in the truck, or do you have them on you?”

“I have them with me. They’re in my left pocket.”

“Good.” Sherm smiled. “Shit, this is perfect. Let’s go take a look and see what we got. You’re going to stick your head up to the back window and tell me how many cops are swarming around your truck and our car?”

“There is no window,” Sharon interrupted. “The only way to see out back is to open the fire door. But if you do that, you’ll set off the fire alarm.”

“Where do you guys go to smoke, then? I didn’t see an ashtray out on the front sidewalk.”

“No, there isn’t one. The girls go… out back.”

“So I’ll bet the alarm is disengaged during the day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she reluctantly admitted. “Keith turns it off so Kim and some of the other girls can smoke outside. He doesn’t want them doing it in front of the bank. The company that owns the mall doesn’t allow it, and Keith worries that it might offend some of the customers.”

“Well, no problem then, as long as the alarm is off.” He grabbed Lucas by the arm and dragged him to his feet. “Come on, man. Let’s go check out the situation with your truck.”

I was confused, so I spoke up before he could leave.

“Sherm, what the hell are we gonna do with his truck?”

He shoved Lucas toward the vault door and turned to answer me.

“I told you that I’d find us a way out of here, right? Well this is it, dog. This is our ticket home. We use a few hostages as human shields, slip out the back door, and make our getaway. If we can’t make it to our car, we use his truck. Then the cops come in and get Carpet Dick some help. Sound like a plan to you?”

I shrugged.

“You’re running the show right now, so whatever you say goes, I guess.”

“Well, it’s what I say. Any more questions?”

“No.”

“Okay. Watch them till we get back.”

As they walked down the hall, I heard Sherm ask Lucas how much a bottled water delivery driver made in a week. His laughter echoed off the walls.

In my arms, John was still dying.

Martha paused in her prayers.

“Oh my.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, Martha.” I sighed. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

* * *


And John was still dying when my pocket began to vibrate.

I gasped, in spite of myself, and the hostages jumped with me, unsure of what I was up to. Oscar’s man breasts jiggled in fright. They eyed me warily while I slapped at my pocket. Then I calmed down, remembering that I’d stuffed Lucas’s cell phone inside my pants.

“It’s okay,” I assured them, “the delivery driver’s cell phone is buzzing. He must have it on silent ring or something. Everything is cool. Just scared me for a second, that’s all.”

I let out a nervous laugh and they relaxed—as much as they could given the circumstances. 

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the phone. The display screen was lit up, glowing green under the fluorescents. It identified the incoming call as VERA . I wondered who Vera was. Probably his wife. Lucas said that he’d tried calling her but that she hadn’t been home. Maybe now she was returning the call, or maybe news of the bank robbery was on the air, and she was calling to make sure he wasn’t still at the bank.

His worried wife was calling him to make sure he was okay. Somehow, I knew that was it. The bank was on his route, and Vera wanted to make sure that he wasn’t still there. Michelle would have done the same thing. For a brief second, I thought about answering it and letting Vera know that Lucas was okay, that his truck was still working fine and that he couldn’t come to the phone right now, but pretty soon, we’d all be home safe because Sherm had promised it. But I didn’t. Instead, I wondered what my own wife was doing. If I had been in Lucas’s shoes, Michelle would have been worried sick about me. Of course, she had no reason to think I was here at this bank, one at which we didn’t even have an account. I was supposed to be at work. Still, I wondered if she’d heard about the hostage situation yet. I wondered how much the cops really knew about us and how much had made it out onto the airwaves. If she didn’t know yet, she would soon. A customer would tell her or they’d have the radio on or she’d find out when she got home. I searched my brain but for some reason I couldn’t remember what time Michelle got off work.

The phone quit vibrating and the screen went black again.

Without thinking, I pressed the TALK button and dialed home. There was a static whir, then the phone began to ring.

“Who are you calling?” Sheila asked.

Ring…

I ignored the question.

“He’s calling the police,” Roy said. “I just knew that you’d do the right thing, Tommy. And we’ll make sure we tell them too. We’ll tell them that it was Sherm that killed those people. Right, everyone?”

Ring…

“Sure we will,” Sharon agreed.

Ring…

“Tommy?” Sheila tapped her foot, trying to get my attention.

Ring…

And then our answering machine picked up and my own voice said, “Hi. You’ve reached the O’Briens: Tommy, Michelle, and T.J. Please leave your digits after the tone. Peace out.”

My mouth was parched.

“Michelle, it’s me. Are you there, babe? If so, pick up.”

They were all watching me now, silent. There was no sign of Sherm or Lucas. Outside the bank, there was a muffled electronic shriek, as if somebody was testing a microphone or a radio.

“Michelle? You there?”

No answer. I hung up and stared at the phone. Then I dialed again, calling her at the convenience store. It rang twice, then she picked up.

“Thank you for calling Minit-Mart. This is Michelle. How can I help you?”

I opened my mouth but the words didn’t want to come out. Her voice was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, but at that moment, it filled me with dread. I had to force myself to speak.

“Hello?” she said again. “Is there somebody there?”

“I—”

“If this is another crank call, we don’t appreciate it. I’m hanging up now.”

“Hey, babe,” I croaked, “It’s me.”

“Tommy? God, you don’t sound good at all. I didn’t recognize your voice at first. How are you feeling?”

“To be honest, I’ve had better days.”

“Are you still at work?”

“No,” I lied, “I went home sick.”

“Well then, I hope you’re resting.”

“Yeah,” I said, omitting the details, “you could say that. I guess I am. Just sitting here.”

“How about this? I get off at twelve-thirty. I’ll come home, fix you some chicken soup, and then we can watch Days of Our Lives together before I go pick T.J. up at day care.”

I coughed a small amount of blood and swallowed it back down so the hostages wouldn’t see it.

“Sounds good, except for watching Days. You know I hate that soap opera crap.”

“But it’s getting good again. Stefano is back from the dead.”

“Stefano is always back from the dead,” I rasped. “Anytime they need the ratings, they figure out a way to bring him back.”

“Hang on a second, babe.”

“Okay.”

I heard her in the background, ringing up a customer. While she was gone, I wished I had the powers of a soap opera character. They cheated death every fall when it was time for the ratings sweeps. Then Michelle came back on the line.

“Sorry about that, babe. Some jackass wanted to pay for lottery tickets with his food stamps. Anyway, I’ll be home soon, if the traffic isn’t snarled too bad.”

“Traffic? What are you talking about? Was there an accident or something?”

“You mean that you haven’t heard? A bunch of guys tried robbing the bank in that little strip mall on the edge of town. It’s all over the news. Apparently, they botched the job and now the cops have it surrounded. There’s hostages and everything. A couple of people are dead already. I guess you didn’t have the TV or radio on, huh?”

“No. No, I hadn’t heard. I must have missed that.”

“Hang on again, okay, sweetie?”

She rang up another customer and came back.

“Anyway, they held up the bank and traffic is screwed up all over town because of the police roadblocks.”

“Wow. How about that…”

“Tommy, what’s wrong? Tell me. I know you’re not just sick. I can hear it in your voice. Look—

I am your wife and I want you to be honest with me. That’s what our entire marriage is based on. Trust. You’ve never lied to me before, and I don’t want you to start now.”

And there it was.

I paused, unsure of how to proceed. Then I plunged ahead.

“Michelle”—I took a deep breath—“I’m in the bank.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, then she gasped.

“What?”

“I’m in the bank, Michelle. The one that’s getting robbed.”

“Oh my God! Tommy! Oh, baby, are you okay? Are you hurt? How did you get to a phone?

What were you doing in the bank? That’s not our bank. What’s going on?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I broke down. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Tommy, what are you talking about? Did you try to stop them or something? Did they take you hostage? Are you hurt?”

“No, but John is. John’s hurt really, really bad. He’s dying, Michelle, and it’s all my fault. This whole fucked-up mess is my fault. It’s always my fault, all the time.”

“John is with you? Tommy, I don’t understand any of this. Why is John there? Is he okay? What’s going on?”

“We…” I couldn’t finish. I was aware that all of the hostages were staring at me.

“Tommy? Talk to me, baby! Why were you guys at that bank?”

“Michelle,” I sobbed, “I just wanted you to know that I love you and that I’m sorry. Okay? I love you and T.J. and I only did this for you.”

“Tommy, you’re scaring me! What is going on?”

“We were the ones—the ones on TV. We’re the guys that robbed the bank.”

She paused.

“Where’s Sherm?” I heard the suspicion in her voice.

“Sherm’s here too, Michelle. All three of us are. We’re the ones that did it. I lied to you about getting laid off. Jenny was right. They canned us.”

She paused again and then exploded.

“Goddamn it, Tommy, you asshole. That is so not funny. Do you think that’s funny? It’s not. Quit screwing around! You scared the shit out of me, you son of a bitch. If you’re feeling good enough to play phone pranks, then maybe you’re well enough to go to work. What if T.J. had been with me right now? He’d be freaking out. Bastard! I can’t believe you—”

“Michelle… Michelle, listen to me. Listen very carefully. I’m not playing here, baby. This isn’t a joke. I’m serious. I’ve never been more serious in my fucking life. John, Sherm, and I decided to rob the bank. I did it for you and T.J. To take care of you after… after I’m gone. Michelle, you were right when you said that whatever I had wasn’t getting better. I lied to you about that too, honey. I lied to you about everything and I’m sorry. I’m not just sick. I’ve got—”

The words were stuck in my throat.

“Tommy?” I could hear the shocked fear in her voice and it broke my heart. Cancer. I’ve got cancer. It’s growing at an alarming rate. I’m afraid it’s terminal. Life’s a bitch, then I die. Later my niggaz! Peace out!

But the words would not come. I still couldn’t tell her. Not even then, when I was confessing to everything else. I still wanted to protect her from that most awful knowledge.

“Tommy? Are you still there? Tommy?”

“What I did, I did for you guys. I just wanted you and T.J. to have a better life, better than the one I’ve given you. You both deserve it. When I got sick, it didn’t seem like anything else mattered anymore. So we robbed the bank. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this, Michelle. I swear to God, it wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Sherm said that there wouldn’t be any shooting. He promised me. But it got out of my control. He’s taken over the whole thing. You’ve got to tell them that, okay? Tell the police that Sherm said there wouldn’t be any shooting. And tell T.J. that Daddy never meant for this to happen. Tell him that I’m sorry and that I love him very, very much and that I’m proud of him.”

“Stop it, Tommy! Just stop it, right now! You’re scaring me. I don’t understand any of this. Please tell me what’s—”

Then I heard footsteps coming down the hall, accompanied by Sherm whistling an old Public Enemy song.

“Michelle,” I whispered, “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go right now. I love you, baby. I need you to know that. I love you so much. I’m sorry—for everything.”

“Tommy! TOMMY!”

I pressed END and shoved the phone back in my pocket just as Sherm walked back into the vault.

“What’s up, yo? Did I miss anything good?”

I shook my head. So did the others.

“Then why are you crying, Tommy?” he asked.

“I’m just worried about John. That’s all. He’s fucking dying, Sherm. Do I have to remind you of that every minute?”

“You think I don’t know that, Tommy? For fuck’s sake, quit bringing it up.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it. We’re all just a little hyped right now.”

“This duct tape is hurting my wrists,” Kim complained.

“Get used to it, sweetheart. Maybe if you promise to be nice to me, I’ll cut you loose a little later on.”

I kept the pressure on the gunshot in John’s stomach. At this point, I wasn’t even sure if it was doing any good. I kept forgetting, like while I was on the cell phone. And Sherm had neglected to do it when I took Benjy to the bathroom. I tried to take my mind off of it again.

“So what’s up with Lucas and the truck?”

“I taped him up and put him in the bathroom. Figured we were getting too many people in here to watch all at once, and there’s no way in hell he’s getting out of there anytime soon. I found some glue in the janitor’s closet and squirted it in the lock. Only way that door is getting opened is if somebody busts it down.”

“Great. So now what do we do if we have to take a shit?”

“Go on the floor.”

“Nice. I hope you got his keys first.”

“Yeah, I got the keys, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to use them or not.”

“How come?”

“There’s five-oh all deep between us and the truck. When they call again, I’ll negotiate—see if I can get them to pull back so that we can get to it.”

“Do you really think the cops are gonna go for that, Sherm?

“They will if we start killing hostages and throwing them out the fucking door.”

Upon hearing this, Oscar’s and Kim’s eyes widened. Sheila shuddered. Roy shifted against the wall. Dugan stroked Sharon’s foot with his own and silently mouthed assurances. Martha prayed under her breath.

Benjy stared at me.

I stared back, and for a split second, an image of Sherm placing his pistol to the back of Benjy’s head flashed through my mind. A crystal-clear flash sparked as Sherm squeezed the trigger, and I heard Sheila screaming. No. There was no way that I was going to let that happen. Enough people had died already. I didn’t want any more deaths on my conscience, especially not that little boy’s.

I tried to keep my voice calm and level.

“Quit playing, dog. It’s not gonna come to that. Right?”

“Sure it could,” Sherm disagreed. “If I don’t start getting some cooperation from those cops, if shit doesn’t start going my way, then I’ve got no problem capping a few of these fuckers to get some attention.”

“You don’t mean that,” Roy replied. “Surely you understand that they’d give you the death penalty for something so heinous.”

“Old man, I’ve already qualified for the death penalty today. The way I see it, a few more bodies ain’t gonna make a whole lot of difference at this point. In fact, it may just hurry the whole thing along.”

“Sherm,” I reasoned with him, “if you start killing hostages and throwing them out the door, the cops will bum rush this place. Soon as they hear the first gunshot, they’ll be in here. They’ll have tear gas and pepper spray and automatic rifles and Kevlar body armor and laser sights; all kinds of other shit. We’ll be outgunned and outnumbered. You kill any more of these people and you might as well be committing suicide for all of us.”

“Signing our death warrants?”

“Fuck yes!”

“Isn’t that better than sitting on death row, Tommy?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but a loud electronic squawk cut me off.

“SHADY! SHADY, THIS IS DETECTIVE RAMIREZ! WE ARE STILL WORKING ON YOUR ORIGINAL DEMANDS. IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I’M GOING TO CALL YOU AGAIN ON THE BANK’S TELEPHONE AND GIVE YOU AN UPDATE! I CAN’T STRESS ENOUGH HOW IMPERATIVE IT IS THAT YOU PICK UP THAT PHONE WHEN I DO. THERE’S NO NEED TO MAKE THIS ANY WORSE THAN IT ALREADY IS. NOBODY ELSE HAS TO GET HURT, SHADY. IF YOU PICK UP THE PHONE, WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS!”

“Oh look”—Sherm grinned—“the police finally figured out how to make their bullhorn work. The batteries must have been dead before.”

“Is this Ramirez the same guy that you talked to before?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s a real weasel. Let me tell you, I’d like to take a shot at him too before this is all over. Fucking police negotiators…”

The voice on the bullhorn continued to bellow.

“Who the hell is Shady?” Roy asked, confused.

“I am,” Sherm said proudly, “I’m the real Slim Shady. So won’t you please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Forget it,” I said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Can one of you tell me who Shady is?” Roy insisted.

I stayed silent.

“Is that Sherm’s nickname or something?”

“No,” Oscar told him, “it’s the nickname of a rapper.”

“Oh. I must admit that I’m not familiar with most rap music.”

“You’re not missing anything,” Sharon said. “A lot of juvenile, thuggish, masochistic dick-swinging, if you ask me.”

“Which we didn’t,” Sherm growled.

“All they rap about,” Sharon countered, “is their drugs, their cars, their guns, their bitches, their bling-bling, and who has done the most jail time.”

“What’s bling-bling?” Roy whispered to Sheila.

“Money. Gold jewelry. Stuff like that. Flashy things.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not all they rap about,” I protested. “They tell stories about the streets. It’s just street life from their perspective. And not all of that is negative either.”

Roy bent his legs, frowning in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Sheila asked him.

“Arthritis is acting up a bit. But my ticker still feels fine.”

He gave Benjy a warm smile and turned to Sharon.

“So you’re saying Tommy, John, and Sherm robbed this bank in part because of the type of music they listen to?”

“I’m saying it’s got to factor in, sure.”

“Sorry, Sharon, but I’ve got to call bullshit on that,” I interrupted. “That’s like blaming the fucking Columbine shootings on The Matrix. I mean, no offense, but I know who the real me is, versus any image I might pick up from a song.”

Sherm slowly turned.

“Let me tell you something, all of you. I don’t know you and you don’t know anything about the real me, other than I’m the son of a bitch who’s holding a gun. That’s all you need to know too. None of you know the real me. And you ain’t gonna either. So stop fucking caring and asking questions.”

“Well,” Roy countered, “maybe we will know you before this is over.”

At first, I didn’t think Sherm was going to respond, but then he did.

“You better hope not.”

* * *


What do you guys think happens to us when we die?” Kim asked.

We’d sat in silence for a long time, and I think the question surprised us all. For the last half hour, our only conversation had taken place when Sherm finally took over for me and kept the pressure on John’s wound. I’d planned on using the opportunity to finish emptying the cash drawers in the lobby, but as I inched my way down the hall, I realized the cops would be able to see me behind the counter from outside in the parking lot. It pissed me off. Somehow, Sherm had ended up running things, and when I finally did decide on a course of action, I couldn’t follow through on it.

“Seriously,” Kim insisted. “We could all die in here today. What do you guys think happens to us after we’re gone?”

Oscar flinched. “That’s a pretty morbid question, don’t you think?”

Kim shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about it. I miss my mom and dad, and my little brother. I wish I could talk to them one more time, you know? I don’t want to die. I’m too young. I want to get married and have kids and—”

“Nobody is going to die, sweetheart,” Sherm said, “as long as you all follow orders, and as long as those fucking cops out there don’t piss me off.”

Kim pointedly ignored him.

“My family and I used to go to church when I was a little girl, but it’s been a long time since I’ve talked to God. I still believe in Him, I guess. But I wonder if I’d go to heaven if we don’t make it out of here?”

“I don’t think God cares how often you go to church,” Roy commented. “He’s probably more concerned with how you lived your life. That’s what guarantees you a place in Heaven.”

“Ha!” Martha spat on the floor.

“What the hell is your problem, bitch?” Sherm was twitching again, slapping the barrel of the handgun against his leg.

“Hell is not my problem,” she answered. “It is your problem.”

“How many times did you see The Passion, Martha? I bet it was the only movie you’ve seen in the last twenty years.”

“None of you know anything about how to get into Heaven. As it says in the New Testament, ye must be born again! You must know Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior. You must ask him to forgive your sins and let him into your heart. Then, and only then, can you enter into Heaven.”

“Well shit,” Sherm snorted, “that sounds simple enough. I had no idea it was that easy. I’ll get right on that. Nothing like a little insurance, right?”

Laying the gun on the floor, he got down on his knees, raised his head up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands together in prayer.

“Please God, please don’t let me go to hell; especially if they don’t have any cigarettes there. That would really suck. All that fire and nothing to smoke. Or worse yet, if the only thing they have is Ultra Lights. But if you do decide to send me there, could I get a room next to Tupac and Biggie? That would work. Or maybe between Sam Kinison and Bill Hicks? That would be great because at least I’d have something to laugh about. Oh, and before I forget it, God, I’d be honored if you could be my personal savior and assistant or whatever this crazy bitch just said I needed to ask you to be. Amen.”

He started to stand up, then paused.

“P.S., good food, good meat, good God let’s eat!”

He picked up the gun again and grinned at Martha.

“How was that? You think I can get in through the gates now?”

“Mock the Lord all you want,” Martha replied, “but when the hour comes your prayers will be real. You will beg. You will wail and gnash your teeth and pull out your hair in your sincerity. But He will not hear you because you have the Devil inside you already. And He will not hear your friend either because your friend has committed the ultimate sin. He has blasphemed against the Holy Spirit. All of you have! Scripture tells us that there is no pardon or forgiveness for that. The Imp has been loosed upon the earth, and it makes a mockery of the healing gifts of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Only he can heal!”

“What the hell is she talking about now?” Sherm asked me.

Martha was about to spill Benjy’s secret. I threw up my hands in annoyance.

“I have no fucking idea. Does it really matter, Sherm? It’s all bullshit anyway. Bullshit for the masses. There is no God, plain and simple. God is nothing more than Dog spelled backward. You really want to know what happens when we die, Kim? Nothing. That’s what happens. Nothing at all. We get burned to a crisp or thrown in a box and put in the ground, while the dirt slowly presses in on us a little bit more each year.”

“That’s pretty fatalistic,” Sheila said.

“Is it? I don’t know about you, Sheila, but the way my life has turned out, it doesn’t sound like a bad choice at all. Sleep is okay. Death might be better. You don’t have to think anymore or feel anymore—or even be anymore. You’re just blank, empty. An afterlife where you had to experience all of those things again would just suck.”

Even though I said it, and even though I believed it, I still didn’t want to find out if it was true. I’d proven to myself that God didn’t exist (or maybe He’d proven it to me), but I was still afraid of dying, afraid of taking that final breath and not being able to take another. Afraid of closing my eyes and not opening them again. I thought of John, shot in the stomach and stumbling into the bank, pleading with me to save him because he was afraid of dying. I’m scared of hell, Tommy!

“Well, though I’m not quite as vocal or strident as Martha, I am a believer,” Roy said. “I believe in God and I also believe that Jesus died for our sins. I try to be a good Christian, but nobody is perfect and we all make mistakes. I guess the point is just that you atone for your sins and try to live right, the way God would want you to.”

“I used to believe,” Sharon said, “but these days, I just don’t know. I really don’t. With all that’s going on in the world, it’s hard to believe in a supreme being that would just let it all happen.”

“Word,” I agreed. “The Arabs think that only they are right, and so they hate the Christians and the Jews. The Jews think the same way, and so they hate the Arabs and the Christians. The Christians? Same thing. Their way is the right way so they hate the Arabs and the Jews. And you know why they hate each other? Because God told them to. They kill each other because He said so. They worship the same guy—they just call Him by different names! Religion has fucked this planet up from day one.”

“I don’t know about that,” Roy countered. “Some of the so-called religious leaders, perhaps, but not religion itself.”

“Osama bin Laden ordered his followers to fly airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, right?”

“Correct. And he was a religious leader—”

“Who was acting on what God told him to do,” I finished.

“Allah is just another name for Satan,” Martha shrilled. “Thou shall have no other gods before Me!”

“Actually,” Oscar tried correcting her, “Tommy and Mr. Kirby are both right. The Arabs, Jews, and Christians all believe in the same God. He just has different names. It’s his prophets that they disagree with.”

Martha glared at him with eyes like razors, and Oscar got quiet again. Sherm jumped to his feet, head cocked and listening.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Thought I heard something,” he mouthed. “Voices. Quiet, soft. Check the hall and the lobby.”

I opened my mouth to protest and Sherm cut me off.

“You wanted to be in charge, Tommy.”

Gripping the pistol in my sweaty hand, I crept out into the hall. It was silent and empty. I tilted my head and listened. Nothing. Outside, there was the distant squawk of police radios and the buzz of voices, but inside, there was nothing. I tiptoed toward the lobby and peeked around the corner. It was empty, except for Mac Davis and Kelvin. The dead cop’s eyes stared back at me. A fly crawled across his face.

I ducked back into the vault.

“Anything?” Sherm asked.

“Nothing”—I shook my head—“except for Kelvin and that cop. Their bodies are still lying on the floor.”

Sherm frowned.

“I could have sworn I fucking heard something.”

We grew quiet again, and I replaced Sherm at John’s side.

“So you don’t believe in an afterlife of any kind, I take it?” Roy asked me.

“No, I don’t. There’s no heaven or hell. When we die, we turn into worm food. That’s all. Even worms got to eat.”

“I heard that,” Sherm agreed.

“But what about the soul, Tommy?” Roy continued. “That has to go somewhere, doesn’t it?”

“There’s no such thing as a soul, Mr. Kirby.”

I was surprised to see Dugan nodding in agreement with me.

“I’ve seen men die,” he said slowly, “but I never saw what happened to their souls after. I never saw any leave their bodies, that much I know.”

“Where have you seen men die?” Sherm sneered.

“You must be born again,” Martha broke in before Dugan could answer. “You must be washed in the blood of the lamb! Only blood can do it—blood and sacrifice! The blood of the innocent! The blood of the lamb!”

She stared at Benjy, and Sheila stared back in alarm. None of us responded and she fell silent again.

Blood of the innocent lamb. I didn’t like the sound of that, or the way she’d looked at Benjy when she said it.

“What about ghosts?” Sharon asked.

Sherm snickered. “What about them?”

“Aren’t they proof of some kind of an afterlife?”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“No, but just because I haven’t seen one doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in them. I’ve never seen a polar bear either, but I know that they exist. Why can’t the same thing be true for ghosts?

There are enough eyewitness accounts, photographs, even video footage.”

I thought about it for a moment.

“John thought he saw a ghost once, back when we were kids. Or at least he thought he did. Down at the old quarry between Spring Grove and Hanover. We used to go swimming there. Supposedly there’s a town at the bottom of it. The dam burst back in the twenties and the town was just left standing when the waters flooded the mine. A few kids have drowned there over the years too. It’s supposed to be haunted. People say they see white, human-looking shapes down under the water. But I never saw anything.”

“So you don’t believe in them?”

I shook my head.

“No, I guess I don’t. Ghosts or God. It’s all the same thing, isn’t it? Don’t they call him the holy ghost?”

Nobody responded, and I figured they’d finally shut up and quit asking questions. I found myself wondering again if they’d be this nice to me if I wasn’t one of the guys with a gun. After a few minutes, Oscar stirred. His bare chest had goose bumps.

“Personally, I’ve always believed in reincarnation.”

“What’s that?” Sheila asked.

“Reincarnation? It’s the belief that we’ve all had previous lives before this current one we’re living. It’s commonly accepted in many religions—not Christianity of course, or Judaism, but many others.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” Sherm said. “It means like I could have been Billy the Kid or D. B. Cooper in a past life. Wouldn’t that be the bomb?”

“No doubt,” Oscar said with a straight face. If Sherm noticed the underlying sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t let on.

“Edgar Cayce believed in it,” Oscar continued. “He was a great healer, died in 1945. Back then, they called him a ‘psychic healer,’ but today I guess he’d just be considered a homeopathic practitioner. Whatever you want to call him, he definitely left his mark on the world. He used to do readings and stuff and tell people who they were in their past lives. The transcripts of the readings are all on file at the Association for Research and Enlightenment in Virginia. There must be thousands of them.”

“Sounds like New Age crap to me,” Dugan grunted. “I never bought in to all that worshipping crystals and singing to the whales crap.”

“Some of that is a little far-fetched,” Oscar admitted, “but a lot more of it has been proven outside the mainstream scientific community.”

“So what were you in a previous life?” Sherm scoffed. “A frog or a slug or some shit like that?”

Oscar’s ears and neck turned red.

“Wait,” Sherm continued, “I know! You were a fucking tapeworm, right? A tapeworm hanging out of a dog’s ass?”

“You can laugh all you want, but I believe in it. I really do. You guys ever hear of Joan Grant?”

We shook our heads in unison.

“Her first book, Winged Pharaoh, came out back in 1937. It took place in ancient Egypt and at the time, the critics hailed it as a brilliant historical novel, because she so realistically captured what it must have been like to live back then. People couldn’t believe how accurate the descriptions were. It was like you were walking through Egypt; the sights, the sounds, the smells. But the thing is, it wasn’t her imagination. Joan Grant had lived it before, as Sekeeta, the daughter of the pharaoh and later on, a priestess-pharaoh herself. She also lived in Egypt decades later as a man named Ra-ab Hotep, and as Ramses II. Besides all of that, she also remembered previous lives in Greece from the second century B.C., in medieval England and in sixteenth-century Italy. She went on to write seven more historical novels, though she called them posthumous autobiographies.”

“And do you really believe in that nonsense?” Dugan arched his eyebrow.

“It’s not nonsense. It’s no more far-fetched than believing in ghosts or in God and the Holy Trinity, is it?”

“Blasphemer!” Martha pointed a crooked finger at him. “See how their evil influence has corrupted you? Now you commit the ultimate sin as well. You blaspheme against the Holy Spirit. Oh, the pits yawn wide for you, young man—for all of you. There must be blood, now. Great quantities of blood. Torrents and rivers and oceans of it. Only blood can wash…”

Sherm pointed his gun at her and pulled the hammer back.

“Martha. I’ll say this nice and slowly and I’m only going to say it one more time, so make sure you pay attention. Shut! The! Fuck! Up!”

Her mouth clamped shut and she did as she was told.

“I know what happens when we die,” Benjy piped up.

“Quiet down, baby,” Sheila shushed him.

“No,” Sherm shrugged, “might as well let him go. Shit, everybody else has made a contribution. Let’s hear his.”

Sheila eyed him carefully.

“Seriously,” Sherm said, “I want to hear this. It’s gotta be good, better than fat boy’s or Martha’s ideas at least.”

“Go ahead, Benjy,” I encouraged him.

He nodded.

“When people die, they go into a bright place that leads to another, bigger bright place. The first bright place is supposed to make you feel safe, but it isn’t, because it’s full of the monster people. The monster people are made out of darkness, but they can hide in the light and when they do, you can’t see them. They turn invisible in the light. All you can hear is their voices.”

Sherm jumped, and I wondered what was bothering him.

“If you’ve been bad,” Benjy continued, “the monster people won’t let you go on to the bigger bright place. Instead, they take you with them, to a dark place, and then you can see them. They’re scary-looking and they’re mean. They smell icky and they…”

Benjy shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and went on.

“That’s what happens if you’ve been bad. You don’t get to go to the bright place. You stay in the darkness with the monster people. But if you’ve been good, then Jesus comes, and he rescues you from the monster people, and he takes you to live with him in the bright place. It’s very nice there, and you get to see everybody else who’s died.”

When he’d finished, our reactions were mixed. Sheila and I smiled at each other. Roy, Kim, Sharon, and even Dugan grinned. Sherm clapped his hands in a slow, sarcastic way. Martha stared at Benjy.

“Blood of the lamb,” she muttered over and over again. “Blood of the lamb…”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Sheila snapped. “Why can’t you just shut up?”

“I keep saying it because it is true. Only blood will wash this clean now. Innocent blood. As the Lord instructed Abraham, saying to him to make an offering of his son, Isaac, so shall He command us now. The lamb for the offering.”

“I don’t understand what you’re going on about. What are you saying? What do you mean?”

The word started in Martha’s throat as a moan and increased to a sirenlike wail.

“Expiation! Expiation is what I’m talking about. Great sin has happened here today, and only expiation will set things right again in the eyes of God. We must offer up your lamb.”

Sherm lashed out with his foot, and his boot crashed across her mouth. Her dentures flew across the vault, landing next to Mr. Kirby, and blood spurted from between her crushed lips. Martha cried out more in anger than from pain.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” Sherm screamed. He slammed the end of the pistol barrel against her forehead and thumbed the hammer back. The soft click sounded deafening.

“Sherm”—I held out my hands in protest—“hold up. Wait a second! Think about this, man.”

“Fuck that. Ain’t nothing to think about, Tommy. I’ve had it with this old cunt.”

“I hear you, dog. I hear you. We’re all sick of her shit. But think, man. If you shoot her now, the cops will rush this place. You know that. We talked about it already. They’ll be on us like white on rice, just like they would have been if you’d shot Lucas or Keith.”

At the mention of the delivery driver and the manager, he jumped. His muscles were coiled, like a snake ready to spring forward and strike its victim.

“Don’t do it, son,” Roy chimed in. “Things are bad enough already.”

“I am not afraid,” Martha spat, blood running down her chin.

Before Sherm could reply, we were all suddenly distracted by a new sound. A low, sonorous thrumming that seemed to come from overhead. As we turned our eyes to the ceiling, the noise grew louder, rapidly approaching.

THUNKA THUNKA THUNKA THUNKA THUNKA

“What the fuck is that?” Oscar shouted. His eyes were wild and scared. It was right over our heads and it sounded like the ceiling was going to collapse, like a construction crew had decided to drive a bulldozer on top of the roof or something. The bank felt like it was shaking. The steel walls vibrated against our back as the sound rocked the building to its foundation.

“Finally!” Dugan’s shout was one of joy and relief, but his face was apprehensive.

“They’re coming in,” I hollered, leaping to my feet and pointing the pistol at everything and nothing.

“Is that a tank?” Oscar shouted. “Do they have a tank?”

“Oh God,” Kim whimpered, shutting her eyes. “This is it. We’re going to die…”

The noise increased, exploding around us, making speech next to impossible.

“This is it… This is it… This is it… We’re really going to die…”

Benjy tried to put his shoulders up over his ears, to shelter them from the thunder. Even in my panic, I found myself wishing that his hands were free. He was just a little boy. I was terrified and I could only imagine how he felt.

“Sherm,” I yelled over the deafening roar, “what the fuck are we gonna do?”

“What?”

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? THEY’RE COMING IN.”

“Relax, yo. It’s just a helicopter.”

“What?” I cupped my hand to my ear and gripped the gun tighter. My palms were sweaty.

“A HELICOPTER. IT’S A FUCKING HELICOPTER.”

I gaped at him, my heart racing in my chest, then the noise started to subside. The speed and rhythm decreased, and then stopped altogether. Finally, all we could hear was the distant, muffled whine of an engine, then even that stopped.

“They’ve landed.” Sherm grinned. The look on his face was very close to joy.

“Who landed? What the fuck are you talking about, Sherm? That was a goddamned helicopter. Who was in it?”

“The York County Quick Response Unit,” he said with obvious pride. “They finally arrived. Sounds like they landed in the parking lot.”

“Oh great,” I sighed sarcastically.

“Damn straight,” he replied. “Now things should get really interesting around here.”

His laughter seemed almost as loud as the chopper’s blades had been, and just as sharp.


FOURTEEN


Eventually, we all relaxed again, as best we could given the circumstances. I convinced Sherm to bring in one of the big bottles of water for the cooler, and we gave everybody a sip. I dribbled some down John’s throat too.

Sherm was bored.

“So tell us, Dugan. How long have you been banging Sharon?”

Corded, ropy muscles rippled underneath Dugan’s chambray work shirt as he bristled, straining against his bonds.

“Why, you little piece of shit. You’d better hope I don’t get loose, boy. I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

Sharon tried to shush him, but Dugan ignored her.

“I won’t have him talking that way about you. Enough is enough!”

Sherm laughed. “Hey, man, all I did was ask you a question. But since you don’t want to answer nicely…”

He picked up the gun and walked toward Dugan.

“I’ve fucking had it with you people. I don’t care if the commando squad is here or not. It’s time for somebody to die.”

My heart started racing in my chest.

“Come on, Sherm.”

“Stay out of this, Tommy.”

“Hey,” Roy stammered. “Now wait just a minute, Sherm. Wait a darn minute!”

“Nope. I don’t think so, Roy. I asked him a simple question and he decided to call me names and threaten me instead. I don’t play that shit.”

Dugan stared at the pistol in Sherm’s hand. His eyes were defiant and filled with hate. He did not speak.

Sherm leveled the gun at him.

“We met in high school,” Sharon interrupted. “We were sweethearts when I was a junior and he was a senior.”

Sherm glanced down at her, smiled, and looked back at Dugan.

“See, your girlfriend answered politely.”

He sat down again. Dugan fumed, and Sharon looked embarrassed.

“So you were high school sweethearts. Sounds like the perfect romance. Go on.”

Dugan began to speak.

“I got drafted in ’69, and two weeks after I graduated, I was on my way to basic training at Fort Bragg. I couldn’t afford college, and there was no way I was dodging the draft, running off to Canada like some of the freaks from this town. I was with the First Cavalry in Vietnam. Sharon wrote to me at first, but—”

He trailed off, and Sharon continued for him.

“But I was still in school and still young, and Vietnam seemed so very far away.”

Her voice was quiet, thoughtful and apologetic all at once. I got the feeling that she was talking to him more than the rest of us.

“While he was over there, I watched my friends date and go to the prom and the Sadie Hawkins dances and to the drive-in on Friday nights, and all I did was sit at home, waiting to hear if he was alive or not. Waiting for a letter every day and crying myself to sleep on nights when one didn’t show up.”

“Until Lee.” His voice was hoarse, and even after all these years, the memory still bothered him—whoever Lee was.

“That’s right. Until Lee.”

“Another boyfriend?” Kim asked, and I wondered if this was the first time she’d heard about her coworker’s life outside the bank.

“Sort of. He was nothing like Dugan, and I didn’t love him—but he was there and Dugan wasn’t, and one night we ended up together in the back of his Mustang.”

“You got pregnant?”

“No, nothing like that. We used protection, even back then. But two of Dugan’s friends saw us, and they wrote to him and told him about it. After that, he stopped writing to me. He—he never came back home.”

“I did two tours of duty, just to get her out of my head.” Dugan sighed. “But it didn’t work. When I got out, I came home to a country that I no longer recognized. I flew from ’Nam to Hawaii, then from there to San Francisco. I was supposed to change planes in California and fly to Baltimore, and then make it back here to Hanover. I was dreading coming back—I hurt inside from all the things I’d seen and done, and I couldn’t bear to face Sharon. You see, I was young and stupid, and while the war made me older in some ways, it didn’t help me to understand women any better. I didn’t understand that she was young and that what she did with Lee was because of that. She loved me, but she needed somebody. It wasn’t fair that she should spend her senior year like that, not knowing if her boyfriend was alive or dead. I just wish I’d known then what I know now.”

“When I got off the plane in San Francisco, there was a big protest going on inside the airport. Some of the protesters started calling me a baby-killer and all kinds of other garbage. They spat on me! I was so shocked that I just walked away. I walked. I think that messed with me in ways the war never did. And after what had happened with Sharon, it was the final straw.”

“I can’t believe they spat on you,” Oscar said. “They didn’t talk about that in school. They barely even covered Vietnam. It’s like it didn’t happen, so they don’t want us to know about it.”

“Yeah,” Dugan nodded, “that sounds about right.”

The smile on his face was grim, and I noticed tears streaming down Sharon’s cheeks.

“So what happened next?” Roy prompted.

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 Scooby 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 introduce 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.”


FIFTEEN


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.”

Before I could reply, a series of coughs rattled my chest. Bloody phlegm and spittle shot out of my mouth and onto John’s shirt, mixing with his own. It looked bright and fresh against his darker, dried stains.

“Tommy, check his pulse.”

I looked at the two of them, mother and son. They seemed so sure, so urgent.

“Please, Mr. Tommy,” Benjy pleaded. “He doesn’t have much longer until he goes to see Jesus. The light is coming. It’s just a little pinprick right now, but it’s getting bigger.”

Something in Benjy’s voice, an honesty that only a child could convey, forced me to calm down. If you have kids, then you know what I’m talking about. I looked into those big, innocent, brown eyes—eyes that should have been home watching cartoons instead of being held hostage in a bank vault, and my heart shattered.

John’s chest wasn’t moving beneath my hand. It probably hadn’t been for a while. I just hadn’t noticed.

“He’s my best friend,” I sobbed. “We grew up together, goddamn it. I’ve known him since we were little kids. It isn’t fair for him to end up like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I always watched his back, kept him out of trouble. And look what I did to him now…”

Using his feet, Benjy pushed away from Sheila and scooted across the floor toward me.

“He’s not dead yet, Mr. Tommy.”

Hunched over, I pressed my lips to John’s cold forehead—and froze. A soft puff of air, so slight that I almost missed it, escaped his lips. Quickly, I put my fingers to his throat.

“He’s breathing. Barely… but there’s no heartbeat. He’s still breathing but I can’t find a pulse.”

I felt a weak flutter beneath my fingertips, then nothing. I checked again for another breath, but all that came out of his gaping mouth was a small trickle of blood.

“Oh Christ! Come on, John—breathe.” I pounded on his chest in frustration. “Breathe man.”

“Mr. Tommy, I can help him, but we have to do it now. He’s almost to Jesus. He’s on his way, now. The light is getting brighter.”

He’s on his way now! Look out! Jesus H. Christ, here he comes! Coming at an alarming rate!

“Mr. Tommy!”

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

“I can’t, Benjy. If Sherm comes back in here and finds your hands untied…”

“Then you’ve got to stall him,” Sheila insisted. “Benjy only needs a minute or two.”

“She’s right, Tommy,” Roy said. “We’ve all heard what the child can do. I’ve felt it myself, and I know that you saw it. You believe, whether you want to admit it or not. And even if you don’t, isn’t your friend’s life worth the chance?”

John’s face was completely drained of color. His skin looked like snow. Snow…

One winter, when we were about ten years old, school got canceled one day because of a snowstorm the night before. John and I spent the day with some other kids, sledding down the big hill on the outskirts of town, the same hill I’d gone to the afternoon I was diagnosed with cancer. At the bottom of the hill was a short grassy strip, littered with beer bottles and fast-food bags, and beyond that, the road leading from Hanover to Spring Grove. Not a major road, but busy just the same. Truckers used it as a shortcut between towns, rather than taking the highway. The storm had dumped about two inches of sleet on top of the snow, so the hill was one big mountain of solid ice. Kids were flying down it at breakneck speeds, turning their sleds at the last moment to avoid going out into the road. All except for John… He’d done it on a dare. A stupid dare. Richie Wagaman had called him a pussy—told him that he didn’t have the balls to ride his sled straight across the road and into the field on the other side without stopping to look for traffic. Rich bet him a House of Pain cassette (remember, we were kids and House of Pain was still the bomb back then). John looked down the hill, glanced up both sides of the road, saw that there was no traffic coming, and took the bet. I pulled him aside and tried talking him out of it, but unlike he usually did, John wouldn’t listen to me this time. Instead, he just stared at Richie and his friends, clustered together and calling him a pussy, laughing to each other and any girl within earshot about how chicken shit John was. The next thing I knew, John ran to the edge, threw the sled down, jumped onto it (landing on his belly), and rocketed down the hill like a runaway train. Kids were cheering and shouting—and then we all heard it at the same time, the loud blast of a truck horn. The Department of Transportation’s dump trucks had been out early, covering the roads with salt and cinders, but all that did was make them slicker. There was a hiss of air brakes as the trucker tried to stop, and then the back end of the trailer began to fishtail, taking up both sides of the road. I tried to scream but my breath caught in my throat as John shot across the grass and directly into the path of the jackknifed truck. Time seemed to slow down then, just as it had done on the morning of the robbery. The truck slid toward John, John flashed across the road, and the truck slid on by and crashed into a snowbank, sending brown snow and cinders and dirt flying high into the air. The cloud obscured everything, and there was dead silence from the kids on the top of the hill.

The cloud settled, and the trucker clambered out of his cab, unhurt but shaking an angry fist. There was still no sign of John…

And then we saw him, clambering off his sled and waving at us from the other side of the road. I’ll never forget how my panic dissolved, how grateful I was to see him at that instant. To see him alive—there in the snow.

Alive…

I knew what I had to do.

“Benjy, come here.”

He finished sliding over to me, his eyes alert and urgent.

“How can you—make him better? What do you need to do?”

“I need to touch him, Mr. Tommy. I have to put my hands where that other man shot him.”

The thought of Benjy’s little hands touching that bloody mess made my stomach turn. Not to mention the image of what Sherm would do if he came back and caught us.

“Couldn’t you touch him with your head or your foot or something? Maybe rest your forehead on his?”

“No, Mr. Tommy. It has to be with my hands. I don’t know why, but that’s the way it always works.”

I took a deep breath, glanced down at John, and focused on Benjy.

“Okay. I’m going to take the tape off your wrists. But Benjy, you’ve got to promise me that you won’t try to get away. If you do, I don’t know what Sherm might do. He could get very, very angry and we don’t want that to happen right now. You were right about him. He might be sick too. I don’t want him to hurt your mommy or any of these other people. So you can’t run away, okay?”

“Okay.” He nodded. “I promise, Mr. Tommy. I just want to help. I’m good at helping.”

“All right,” I agreed. “Hold still. This might hurt a little.”

I ripped the duct tape from his thin wrists as carefully but as quickly as possible. He gritted his teeth and I could tell that it hurt him, but he didn’t make a sound. Just like T.J. would have done. He rubbed his wrists and gave me a reassuring wink. It seemed absurd, this little boy trying to reassure the bank robber who was holding his mother and him captive. But I took comfort in it. Maybe that was part of his power—not just healing people, but also making them feel better in general. Then he knelt over John, placing his palms on the bloody wound.

“I’ll make it all better.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I believe you.”

And I did. I actually did. For the first time in my life, I believed in something other than my wife and my son. I’d demanded that God prove himself to me. I’d expected it immediately, but maybe this was more His style.

While Benjy got started, I crept to the vault doorway and listened. There was silence on the other side. I thought again of that strange, muffled thumping I’d heard earlier and wondered what it had been. It occurred to me that we hadn’t heard a peep from Keith or Lucas since Sherm had taken them away. Keith was right across the hall. Shouldn’t we have heard from him? And where was Sherm? I craned my head around the corner, trying to eavesdrop, but the only sound was the blood ringing in my ears. What the hell was going on?

As if in answer to my question, I heard the faint but unmistakable trickle of piss hitting toilet water, followed seconds later by a long fart. At least I now knew where Sherm had gone and what he was doing. But then it hit me. Sherm had also told me that he locked Lucas inside the bathroom and squirted glue in the lock. So was it Sherm or the delivery driver I heard now?

There was no way to be sure. Had Sherm lied, and if so, why?

I glanced back over my shoulder. Benjy’s eyes were closed and he rocked back and forth, still holding his hands over the bullet’s entry point. The others craned their heads forward, focusing on him, absolutely transfixed by what they were seeing.

I don’t know what we expected. Maybe we’d seen too many movies or read too many novels. There was no glow, no heat, and no blinding flash of white light. Trumpets didn’t sound and no heavenly chorus appeared before us. But one thing did happen. Immediately, John’s chest began to rise and fall. His breathing was harsh, ragged—but his lungs were working again and that was all that mattered.

I’d gotten the proof that I’d demanded. I believed.

And in that newfound belief, I was both exhilarated and terrified.

“Jesus…” Oscar breathed.

“This is—I’ve never seen anything like it,” Kim gasped.

Down the hall, a toilet flushed. Whoever was in the bathroom, Sherm or Lucas, was finishing his business. I reached down, scooped up the torn duct tape that had bound Benjy’s hands, wadded it into a ball, and stuffed it in my pocket.

“Sharon, there’s only the one bathroom in this place, right?”

She didn’t take her eyes off Benjy and John. “Umm, yeah. The one down the hall. It’s the fourth door past Keith’s office, next to the janitor’s closet. That’s all.”

“That’s what I thought. Okay, everybody listen to me carefully. Whatever happens, we can’t let Sherm find out about this. He’ll go ape shit if he sees that I freed Benjy. Even worse, I don’t know what he’d do if he figures out about Benjy’s—power. If he even believes in it, that is.”

“You think he’d try using the boy as a bargaining chip, don’t you?” Roy asked, still watching the miracle unfolding before our eyes.

“It’s a possibility. Shit, it’s more than a possibility. So I’m going to stall Sherm. I’ve let him bum rush this whole thing and it’s time I took it back. Keep an ear out for us and keep quiet for fuck’s sake. If I can’t keep him in one of the other rooms, I’ll start coughing really loud. If you hear that, it’s your signal to get back into your positions. Sheila, if that happens, you’re going to have to do your best to keep Benjy’s hands hidden. Everybody clear?”

They nodded in unison, all except for Benjy.

“Benjy, do you understand, buddy?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed down harder. I caught a glimpse between his fingers and saw something that looked like flesh-colored cheesecloth. It appeared as if John’s skin was growing, knitting itself back together over the wound in weblike strands.

“He can’t hear you when he’s like this,” Sheila explained. “He goes into a trance or something. But I’ll make sure.”

“Okay.”

John’s breathing was audible by then, and more regulated.

I wanted to stay and watch, wanted it more than anything in the world, but I couldn’t. Instead, I took a deep breath, felt my lungs wheeze in response, and walked out into the hall. I felt helpless and powerless. The desk plaque from Charlie Strauser’s office back at the foundry flashed through my head.

“I have gone out to find myself,” I whispered. “If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

Then, even softer, I added, “Peace out.”

The door to Keith’s office was closed. There was a slim window in the door and I could see that the lights inside the office were off. I knew that Sherm must have turned them off, rather than the cops cutting the power on us, because the lights in the vault and the lobby still worked. I turned and looked back. From this spot, even if Sherm were standing directly in front of the vault, John and Benjy would be hidden from view since they were in the corner. I paused, listening. In the bathroom, somebody was washing his hands. Outside, the police called out to one another and their radios crackled with garbled orders and updates. A big part of me wanted to turn left, walk out into the lobby with my hands up in the air, and keep going straight out the door, staring down the barrels of a hundred rifles. Maybe they’d shoot me, and maybe not. What did it matter? I was dead already. I’d seen Benjy’s power, and I knew that it worked. But even if Benjy cured me, without Michelle and T.J. in my life, I would be dead inside anyway. The bathroom door opened and Sherm walked out, still clutching the .357. He jumped when he saw me, and I caught a glimpse of something behind him, something lying on the floor in the shadowy bathroom. Before I could make out what it was, he raised the pistol and pointed it at me. I shouted in surprise, thrusting my hands out in front of me.

“Chill, Sherm! Fuck, man, it’s just me.”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy!” He lowered the gun nervously. “I almost shot you, man. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I wanted to see what was going on and talk over some shit.”

“I was taking a dump, yo. Don’t go in there for a while.”

“Thanks for the warning. I won’t.”

“Probably those refried beans I had last night—or the tequila.”

“Where’s Lucas?”

“Who?” He jumped again, trying to hide his surprise.

“The delivery guy. The driver. You said that you locked him in the bathroom, Sherm. So how’d you get back inside if you just took a shit?”

“Oh, him. The water dude. Yeah. When I needed to go, I just moved him into the janitor’s closet. He’s fine, dog. Chill. I didn’t hurt him or anything like that.”

I chose my words carefully.

“But you said that you’d squirted glue in the lock after you locked him inside. How did you get the door open again?”

“Must not have been as strong as I thought it was.”

“Oh.” He was lying, and I knew it. I just wasn’t sure why.

He glided toward me. His feet didn’t seem to touch the carpet. He stank. Armpits and stale, sour sweat, and cigarette smoke, along with a faint hint of cordite.

“So what’s up?” I asked.

“Just finished with the police negotiator again. Same asshole that was on the bullhorn—

Ramirez. Why is it that those fucks act so nice, like they’re your best buddy in the whole wide world and the only chance you have to survive is by listening to them? They pretend that they’re so concerned about your fucking well-being and meanwhile, all they want you to do is let the hostages go so they can storm the place and shoot your ass and make the five o’clock news. God, that shit pisses me off. That’s why I was hoping the Quick Response guys would have a negotiator too. Just once, I’d like to fucking deal with a negotiator that was just straight up with me.”

“What do you mean just once?”

He winked. “Nothing. I’m just playing. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, the cops will be busy for the next hour or so. Couldn’t get them to go for backing away from the truck, so instead, I gave them a list of demands like you wouldn’t believe. And they still think there are more of us in here than there really are. So while they’re fucking around with that, let’s have some fun with our guests.”

“We need to talk first,” I said, positioning myself in front of the vault door. “Without them listening.”

“Let’s go in here, then.” He pointed to Keith’s office. Then he raised his voice and hollered at the others. “Listen up! We’re gonna be next door for a second. If any of you fuckers try to run out while we’re talking, just remember that we’re right across the hall. You’ll be dead before you take three steps.”

“Yes, sir,” Roy called. “You’re the boss, after all.”

“That’s right, I am. And you better remember it, old man.”

“We won’t try anything,” Sharon assured him.

There was murmured consent from the rest of them as well.

“After you.” I tried to grin. It felt false.

“You all right, yo?”

“Yeah. Just the cancer eating at my fucking stomach. It hurts, like I drank acid or something. Every time I burp it burns the hell out of my throat.”

“That must suck.”

He opened the office door and flicked the light switch. Behind us, hidden from sight in the vault, John coughed.

“How is he?” Sherm asked, stepping into the office.

“Still out cold, pretty much. Dugan says that he might not wake up again.”

In the vault, I suddenly heard John mutter, “W-what’s happening? Where’s Tommy and Sherm?

Who are you?”

Sherm turned around. “You say something, Tommy?”

“Not me,” I shook my head. My heart was pounding. “It was probably Martha. She’s been rambling the whole time about God and shit. She’s a real religious nut.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

I followed him into the office and left the door halfway open behind us, just in case any of them really did try to run. The room was small and windowless. There was a coatrack, a potted and anorexic palm tree, and a few pictures of flowers on the wall. A big desk dominated one end of the office, and the leather chair behind it lay on the floor. I could see the silver wheels sticking out from behind the corner of the desk. Another chair sat in front of the desk. There was no sign of Keith, but there was a picture of him on the top of the desk, standing in front of the Washington Monument. His arm was around a smiling woman, and two smiling kids stood in front of them. The .38 Sherm took from Mac Davis rested on the desk beside the picture.

“So what’s up? What’d you need to talk about?”

“You tell me, Sherm. John’s not good at all, man. Any word on the ambulance yet?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t what you want to hear. They won’t send one. I asked them, but they wouldn’t do it. Fucking cops.”

“Did you tell them that John was one of us, or that he was a wounded hostage?”

“A hostage, dog. But they still wouldn’t budge.”

“Why?” I sputtered. I knew it didn’t matter, knew that John was getting better at that very moment. But I still had to distract Sherm and it was still aggravating. He shrugged, not answering.

“Come on, Sherm. What reason did they give you?”

He shrugged a second time, his eyes flickered, and I knew then that he was lying again. He hadn’t even mentioned it to the cops.

“Sherm—”

“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?”

I pushed past him, rounding the corner of the desk and reached for the phone. He grabbed my arm and tried to yank me back. The phone slipped from my hands and I shoved him, grappling for it.

And I found Keith.

Strips of duct tape covered his nose and mouth. His face was purple and his eyes bulged in their sockets, frozen in death. The tiny veins inside of them had ruptured, and the whites turned blood red. His feet had left black scuff marks on the wall and desk, where he’d kicked at them in what must have been his death throes. I remembered that muffled thumping sound, and I gaped at Sherm in horror.

“Little fucker tried to holler out to the cops while I had him on the phone,” he explained. “I put him on to verify what I was telling them and instead, he started talking smack. Almost told them there was only the three of us and that John was wounded. So I slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, just to keep him quiet. But he still wouldn’t shut up. So I put one over his nose too. Figured I’d just teach him a lesson—let him suffocate for a minute or two, then take it off. Fucking asshole went and died on me before I could do that, though. Heh. You should have seen him, yo. Kicking and straining and shit. His head looked like it was gonna explode.”

“So you killed him?”

“It was the only way, Tommy. I couldn’t shoot the fucker. Like you said earlier, if the cops heard another gunshot, they’d have been on us like white on rice.”

“Motherfucker… this is some bad shit, Sherm.”

“Yo, it’s not my fault, Tommy. Neither of them were my fault.”

“Neither of them? What are you talking about? Who? Do you mean Lucas?”

“Yeah, Lucas, the delivery driver. Dude wanted to try and make a dash out the back door when we were checking on his truck. Tried to slip out of my grasp, even though I had the gun pointed at the back of his head. Couldn’t let that happen, but I couldn’t shoot him either.”

“You said he was locked in the bathroom, Sherm. You said he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Are you telling me you lied about that too? You killed him and didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you everything. I didn’t want the rest of the hostages freaking out on us.”

“So what really happened to him then?”

“I drowned him in the toilet.”

I ran a hand across my face and sighed.

“You killed him too.” It wasn’t a question.

“Just like Keith. Had to do it, man. But hey, I didn’t lie, right? I said he wouldn’t be a problem anymore and he isn’t. I’m telling you, dog, it was the only way.”

“That’s not what I mean, Sherm.”

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. He shrugged and lit up another cigarette.

“I don’t get you, man. What the hell is your problem? I warned you we might have to be hard-core on this from the beginning. So why you breaking my balls about this now?”

“Why kill him at all, Sherm? For fuck’s sake, man. I mean, have you lost your fucking mind? Do you have to keep wasting people? Isn’t this shit bad enough already? Can it get any fucking worse?”

He shrugged again. “It’s bad, sure. But it could get a lot fucking worse, Tommy. A lot worse. I’m starting to think we ain’t gonna make it out of here alive, bro.”

Unable to keep the edge out of my voice any longer, I snapped.

“Not if you keep killing people we won’t. Jesus fucking Christ in a jumped-up frigging sidecar, Sherm! How many people have to die before you’re done? Kelvin. That cop, Mac Davis. Lucas. Now Keith. Maybe John. How many? How many do you have to kill? We need a fucking plan, man. What the hell are we going to do?”

“Seriously? ’Cause I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Of course, seriously. What’s the plan?”

“I think we should have some fun. You know. Make the most of what time we have left. Take that Kim chick for example. Did you see the ass on her? God, I’d love to pound that. And those ripe little tits? I’d like to chew my way through them.”

He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch, rubbing it through his jeans. I shook my head in disgust.

“That’s your great master plan? Bang Kim?”

“Well, what the hell else we gonna do, Tommy?”

“We surrender,” I suggested. “Tell them that you and John were just unwilling accomplices. I’ll take the rap.” It sounds stupid now, but at the time, I really did believe it would be that easy—

believed that they’d just let John and Sherm off with a slap on the wrist and a don’t-do-it-again.

“Fuck that shit. That’s all good for you, man, but John and I ain’t dying of cancer. You think they’ll just let us walk? What the fuck have you been smoking, Tommy? I’m looking at the death penalty, easy. They’ll give me a lethal injection, then strap my ass down in the electric chair just to make sure. And like I told you before, even if Carpet Dick lives, he’ll get at least forty-one months. They know they’ve got dead bodies already. They can see Kelvin and that dead cop from where they stand. No way, yo. We ain’t walking out of here.”

“Fine. Then John and I can surrender, and you can stay and negotiate separately.”

He raised the .357 and pointed it at me.

“No, Tommy. You must not have understood me. Let’s try this again. I said we ain’t walking out of here.”

My stomach felt cold and the bottom dropped out of it. Automatically, my hand dropped to my waistband, searching for my own weapon. Only then did I realize that I’d left it lying on the floor next to John and Benjy. Out of the corner of my eye, I considered the dead cop’s .38, still lying on the desk. But if I reached for it, he’d drop me before I could grab it.

“Goddamn it, Sherm…”

“Remember who planned this shit,” he warned me. “You couldn’t have pulled this off without me. Now, you still want to walk outside?”

“What are you gonna do, Sherm? You gonna fucking shoot me?”

He fingered the trigger, smiled, then relaxed.

“No, man, I ain’t gonna shoot you. I was just playing. But I want you to realize that you’re not thinking straight. That’s exactly what would have been waiting for you if you’d tried walking outside. A bullet. A fucking storm of lead.”

I let go of the breath I’d been holding.

“Look,” he continued, “we all knew the risks when we went into this. You were dying anyway, you said. You didn’t have to worry about getting caught. And as for John—hey, Carpet Dick was dumb enough to come along, even after we both told him not to. So whatever happens with him—well, shit happens. Life’s a bitch, then you die. That’s the rule, man. You can’t do anything about it. He made his decision.”

“And what about you, Sherm? What made you want to come along, knowing that we might end up just as fucked as we are right now?”

“I told you before, yo. We’re boys. I was bored with Hanover. Shit never happens here. I haven’t done anything fun like this since I left Portland.”

“What, you mean you’ve done this before? And this is fun to you?”

His face grew serious again. “Tommy, you got no idea some of the things I’ve done. Some of the shit I’ve pulled.”

I shivered.

He smiled.

“And yeah, this is fun. And it’s about to get funner.”

“Funner ain’t a word, Sherm.”

“Neither is surrender. At least not in my dictionary. So we cool on that?”

I looked down at Keith’s stiffening corpse, then back up at the gun still in Sherm’s hand.

“Yeah. Sure, man, I’m cool with that.”

“All right then. How about we go get this fucking party started?”

He stepped toward the door. I coughed, loud and hard, hoping that the others could hear me in time.

“You all right?”

I rubbed my throat, hamming it up as best I could.

“Yeah. Just thirsty, is all. My throat is really raw. I wish there was something to drink up in here.”

“There’s sodas in the office down the hall. They’re warm though. You want me to get you one?”

“That’d be great, man. Thanks, dog.”

“No problem.”

Before either of us could move, the phones began to ring.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he whined. “What the hell do they want now?”

They rang again. And again.

“Ain’t you gonna pick it up?” I asked.

“No. It’s just that asshole Ramirez, wanting to blow some more smoke up my ass.”

Three more rings.

“I don’t know, Sherm. It might be important.”

Four more.

“Fuck them.”

There was a squawk from outside, then Detective Ramirez’s voice boomed over the still-ringing phones.

“SHADY! SHADY, THIS IS DETECTIVE RAMIREZ! SHADY, I NEED YOU TO PICK

UP THE PHONE! I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU IMMEDIATELY REGARDING

YOUR REQUESTS. IT’S IMPORTANT. PLEASE PICK UP THE PHONE!”

Two more rings.

“SHADY!”

Sherm gritted his teeth.

“Oh, man, I hope I get a chance to shoot that motherfucker in the face before this is over.”

He grabbed the phone from its cradle and brought it to his ear.

“Yo. This is Shady. What the fuck do you want now, Ramirez?”

He listened quietly, then said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. You been smoking the crack that you have in the evidence locker or something?”

Another pause.

“No man, I told you what my name was.”

A third pause.

“No.”

Slowly, Sherm raised his eyes to me.

“O’Brien? No, I never heard of him either.”

My heart jumped into my throat.

“Yo, I’m telling you Ramirez, I don’t know any Tommy O’Brien or this fucking John dude. Of course I’m being straight with you.”

He started to twitch. It began with a vein in his neck. It throbbed and pulsated like a snake twisting and coiling. Then his eye began to flutter. He sat down on the corner of the desk and his leg began to kick wildly back and forth.

“Well maybe the bitch is crazy. You ever consider that, Detective?”

Oh no…

Sherm looked up again. Glaring, he pointed to the chair and pushed it toward me with his foot.

“Let me get this straight, Ramirez. This crazy bitch calls 911, tells the operator that her husband and two of his friends are the ones robbing the bank, and that one of those friends is hurt, and she knows all of this because her husband called her from the inside. Is that what you’re telling me? Sounds like bullshit to me. ’Cause how could somebody have called from in here if you guys are controlling the phone lines? Who you playing?”

Michelle. Michelle had dialed the police after I hung up with her. She’d been worried, frantic, freaked the fuck out. And in that state, she’d told them everything, given them our names, begged them to tell her that it wasn’t true, that her husband who had never lied to her before was lying now because there was no way he could be involved in something like this, no way he could be involved in a bank robbery, could he?

Without even realizing it, my own wife had dropped the dime on us. And now I was fucked. Now we were all fucked. Because Sherm was fucked and as a result, he would fuck the rest of us.

“Portland?” Sherm barked into the phone, “What about it? Never been there in my life. I’m East Coast all the way, dog.”

A pause. Sherm began tapping the handgun against his leg.

“Tampa? No, I ain’t never been to Tampa either. I’m telling you, Ramirez, you’re barking up the wrong tree, dog. Bowwow, yippee-yo, you know what I’m saying?”

A longer pause.

“I don’t care what they’re faxing you! Fax this, motherfucker…”

A very long pause. Time seemed to slow.

“San Francisco? Shit. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Ramirez. I’m impressed. How’d you guys find out about that? I didn’t think anybody knew about San Francisco.”

The longest pause yet, and I stopped breathing.

“Yeah. Uh-huh. Look, give me fifteen minutes. I need to talk this over with Tommy and John. No, I ain’t trying to bullshit you, man. I’ve been straight up with you so far, right? Well yeah, of course not about the names and shit, but I ain’t killed anybody. You still got all your hostages, right? Just give us another fifteen minutes. That’s all I’m asking for. Let us arrange how we want to surrender and shit. Then you can slap the cuffs on and be the hero. Get your picture in the paper and on the news.”

My eyes widened in surprise. Sherm turned the pistol toward himself and peered down the barrel.

“No, no, no! No good fucking faith gestures. I ain’t releasing anybody early. Fifteen minutes. I’m hanging up now. You get back on that bullhorn, or call me before the time is up, and it’s on your head. Is that understood? Until we surrender, I’m still in charge inside this bank, motherfucker. Clear?”

He slammed the phone down and stared into the gun.

I closed my eyes and sighed.

“Sherm. I—”

“Shut up, Tommy. Just shut the fuck up.”

His voice was tired, emotionless. Beaten. I’d never heard him sound like this, and I think that scared me more than anything.

He shook his head sadly.

“Goddamn it, Tommy. You just had to call Michelle.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. There was no point in denying it. “I had to.”

“How did you do it?”

“I stuck Lucas’s cell phone in my pocket because I didn’t know what else to do with it. While you were gone, I used it to call her.”

He placed the gun flat on the desktop, but kept his hand on it. I couldn’t help but notice that the barrel was pointing at me. The hole looked very big, bigger than I’d realized. The dead cop’s .38

lay next to it. Both were out of reach.

“Why? That’s all I want to know, dog. Why would you do some stupid shit like that?”

“Because she’s my wife, man. Because I love her. I owed it to her, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. All I know is that it was a dumber move than even Carpet Dick could have come up with.”

I could see on his face that he really didn’t know, and that he never would. Sherm would never understand. How could you explain love to a guy like Sherm? Remember when I said that all the women wanted to fix him because he was broken, but that he didn’t want to be fixed? Well, this was part of it.

“You—you want to tell me why it was so dumb?”

His voice remained flat and emotionless.

“Because now they know, Tommy. Now they fucking know. They know that there’s only the three of us. They know that Carpet Dick is wounded. They know our names, our backgrounds, our… They know everything. It gives them a leg up on us. Gives them leverage. We’re fucked.”

“I’m sorry, Sherm. I was just sick of lying to her, man. I’m fucking sorry.”

“I know”—he shrugged—“but that doesn’t exactly help matters now, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

We sat in silence for a moment, then I tried again.

“What was the deal with those cities the negotiator read off to you? Tampa and San Francisco and shit? What was that about?”

“Nothing. Everything. Like I said, now they know. But that ain’t important right now. You still got the cell phone?”

“Yeah. It’s in my pocket.”

“Good. Give it to me.”

He held his free hand out to me. The other one remained on the gun. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled it out. My hands were slick with sweat.

“Thanks.” He studied it carefully. “Nice phone. One of those expensive kinds.”

With a sudden burst of rage, he threw it across the room. It smashed into the wall and fell to the floor, the casing cracked. I flinched, but managed to keep from jumping in my seat.

“I just want to know one thing, Tommy.”

“W-what?”

“Was it worth it? Talking to Michelle? Hearing her voice? Was it fucking worth it?”

I didn’t hesitate, but my voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah. Yeah, Sherm, it was.”

“Okay then.”

He lifted his head, looked me in the eye and grinned.

“W-what now?”

His grin got wider.

“They’ll probably try to do some surveillance, see if they can verify the situation. Might try to get a camera inside, maybe one of those little robotic units or a pole scope or something. We’ve got fifteen minutes left. After that, all bets are off.”

“So what do we do?”

His demeanor changed again. Once more, his tone was light and friendly—just my buddy Sherm, who’d never pointed a gun at me in his life and who didn’t have a secret past that I knew nothing about.

“We go with my plan, dog. We have some fun. You still thirsty?”

“Uh, sure. Yeah, I could use a drink.”

“I’ll go get you one of those sodas, do a quick check, and make sure everything’s secure; and then we’ll start.”

“Start what?”

“The party, man. Let’s get this party started.”

With a wink, he grabbed his pistol and hopped off the desk. Turning his back to me, he walked out of the office and turned left down the hall.

Fifteen minutes. But if Sherm found out about Benjy or John or any of the other stuff, the shit could hit the fan long before then.

The dead cop’s .38 stared up at me with that one good eye.

I picked it up, tucked it underneath my shirt, and hurried for the vault.


SIXTEEN


John was sitting up and staring at Benjy in wide-eyed amazement. Both of them smiled at me as I rushed in. The others looked tense, except for Martha, who had her eyes tightly shut and her head bowed in prayer. I wondered what I’d missed. Things had changed, however subtly. Something was going on, something more than John’s miraculous recovery. I figured they must have overheard Sherm’s and my conversation.

John was breathless. “Tommy! Holy shit, you’re never gonna believe what’s happened. It’s incredible.”

“I know all about it,” I said, trying to quiet him. “But we got more important things to worry about right now.”

I had their attention.

“Listen up, all of you. Sherm’s going to be back here any second now. The cops know who we are. They know that it’s just the three of us holding you. My—my wife called them, after I talked to her.”

“Michelle?” John gasped. “She ratted us out?”

“She didn’t mean to, dog. She was just worried. Anyway, Sherm’s not acting real steady right now. He says that he’s going to surrender and let you guys go, but I don’t know if he means it. I’ve made up my mind—I’m going to get you out of here, but I need to find a way to talk to the cops and let them know I want to surrender. Any ideas?”

“I could fake another heart attack,” Roy suggested, glancing uneasily at the others, especially Dugan. At the time, I chalked it up to stress. Had I known…

“No.” I shook my head. “That won’t work. Sherm would probably just let you die in here. I found out that he didn’t ask for an ambulance for John, so I can’t see him getting one for you.”

Benjy slid backward, wiping John’s blood on his pants.

“Shit, I almost forgot. Benjy, come here. I need to tie your hands up again.”

Without a word, Benjy scurried back over to his mother.

“Come on, Benjy, don’t do this. You know I’m not gonna hurt you, buddy.” I looked around.

“Where the hell is the duct tape?”

“Tommy.” John was wide-eyed. “We can’t surrender. They’ll take us to jail.”

I knelt beside him and gave him a hug. He was surprised at first, but then he squeezed me back, tight.

“I’m glad you’re alive, man. You have no idea…” My voice cracked.

“Tommy, don’t cry. It’s okay now. That little kid saved me. Ain’t it wild?”

“Yeah, it’s something, that’s for sure. But we can’t let Sherm find out about him, John. Sherm can’t know what he can do, okay?”

“Why not?”

I sighed. “Something’s wrong with him, John. Something bad. Remember when you said that sometimes Sherm scares you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s just say that I’m learning the reasons why. You’ve got to trust me on this, bro. There’s a lot of stuff about Sherm that we didn’t know. Stuff that happened before we met him, before he came to town.”

“What kind of stuff, Tommy?”

“Don’t worry about it right now. I’ll tell you later.”

He felt his stomach, letting his fingers trace over the spot where the wound had been. 

“Now listen, John. I’m telling the cops that you weren’t involved with the robbery. You drove us here and didn’t know what we were planning. We just told you to sit in the car and wait. Next thing you know, Kelvin tried to carjack you. He shot you and you ran into the bank for help. That’s how you got here.”

“But Tommy—”

“No buts, John! You shut the fuck up right now and listen to me. That’s what I’m telling the cops and that’s what you’re gonna tell them too. You got that? Enough people’s lives have been destroyed today. I almost lost you, man. You almost fucking died. I’m not going to let anything else happen.”

“That’s very noble,” Dugan said. I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but I ignored it. John nodded in understanding, then reached up and grabbed my shirt in his bloody fists.

“No more arguing,” I pushed his hand away.

“No, it’s not that, Tommy. I’ve gotta tell you something else. Wait till you hear this.”

“What?” I was only half-paying attention to him. Remembering my discarded pistol, I glanced around for it, only to find that it wasn’t where I’d left it. It was gone—just like the duct tape. I started to get a very bad feeling.

“Tommy—there was a light.”

That stopped me cold.

“W-what? What are you talking about, dog?”

“There was a light, a bright light. I remember getting shot, and I remember a little bit of running to find you guys, but not much after that. Just pieces here and there, like skipping around on a DVD or something. Gunshots. Sherm hollering at somebody. Sirens. I guess I went to sleep for a while. I remember it being cold, really fucking cold. I don’t know how long I was out. But when I woke up and looked down, you were bent over me, pounding on my chest and telling me to breathe. I told you that I was okay, but you didn’t hear me. That’s when I figured out that I was looking down at my own body, just like in the movies. I was here in the vault but I was floating above the rest of you.”

The image made me think of my nightmare. I kept looking for the gun and listening for Sherm’s return while John continued.

“There was a light outside in the hall, and voices too. I tried to go to the light, but the voices stopped me before I could reach it. I couldn’t see anybody, but I felt them all around me.”

It seemed that God had decided to show me more proof after all. In fact, it looked like He was going to shove the proof up my ass.

Ask and you shall receive…

“Who? Who’d you feel?”

“The voices. They told me that I wasn’t allowed to go into the light and that I had to come with them instead. I was scared, Tommy. I was so fucking scared. And then you guys disappeared. You and all these other people. I was alone in the vault with just the voices. They kept telling me to go with them.”

“He wasn’t going to see Jesus,” Benjy murmured. “He was going to see the others. The monster people. The ones inside Mr. Sherm’s head.”

“I don’t know about it being Jesus,” John said, “but it sure was something.”

I was starting to panic. Benjy’s hands were still loose, the tape and the gun were missing, my best friend who couldn’t add two plus two on a good day was sounding like some New Age prophet, and according to our six-year-old healer, Sherm had monsters living inside his head.

“The light vanished,” John continued, “like somebody had turned it off. I still couldn’t see them, but I could feel their breath on me. It stank, man—like the jiffy johns at the ballpark. They were shouting at me, calling me names and cursing me out. Then they started pushing me. I tried shoving them back, but there was nothing there. They moved quickly. One of them bit me, and I screamed. Its teeth, man—you know how it feels when you get a tattoo? That pinching feeling?

That’s what their teeth felt like, except sharper. I kept trying to hit the fuckers, but it was like punching air.”

I turned in a circle, looking for the gun. Dugan eyed me suspiciously.

“Then, all of a sudden, I felt something warm on my chest. It was another pair of hands—but they didn’t belong to those things in the darkness. The light came back—just a pinprick, but man was I glad to see it. It started getting brighter and brighter, and there was somebody standing inside it. I know it sounds crazy, but there was. A man, but I couldn’t make out much else. Then he touched me and I felt better. Just like that. The next thing I remember, I woke up, and that kid was taking his hands off my stomach.”

“That’s really something, man.”

“You know what else, Tommy?”

Sherm would be back any second. The last thing I wanted to hear any more about at that moment was John’s confirmation of life after death—especially given my current situation.

“John—listen, dog, did you see my gun? I left it lying right here next to you. I’ve got this .38 but we need to find the .357 before Sherm does. He’ll go fucking nuclear if he finds out I lost it.”

“Nope. When I woke up, the kid told me to close my eyes for a few minutes and rest. Then he had me open them again. That was when you walked in. I didn’t see a gun.”

“How about the rest of you? Anybody see my .357? And the duct tape?”

Benjy looked like he was ready to cry, and Sheila wouldn’t meet my stare. Neither would Sharon, Kim, or Oscar. Roy found something interesting to look at on the floor and Martha continued to pray. Only Dugan looked at me, and the sneer on his face disturbed me. 

“Yo, Tommy! Come out here a minute.”

It was Sherm, and it sounded like he was right outside the door. I froze, wondering how much he’d overheard. I motioned to Benjy to stick his arms behind his back.

“What’s up, man?” I called.

“Check this shit out. The cops have got a—well shit! Never mind. The fucking thing is gone now.”

Footsteps, then he entered the vault.

Quickly, Benjy folded his arms behind him. If Sherm noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, he took a gulp from the soda can he’d brought me, set it on a shelf, and proceeded to polish his pistol on his shirt. He leaned against the heavy steel door with one leg cocked behind him, and grinned.

“Hey, look who’s up and about. Damn, I’m surprised to see you awake. Must hurt like hell. How you feeling, Carpet Dick?”

John tried to smile. “I’m okay, Sherm. How are you?”

“Ready to party. Ready to get it on. Ain’t that right, Tommy?”

“Whatever you say, Sherm.”

His laughter sounded like a barking dog.

“Whatever I say? Well shit, that leaves us with all kinds of possibilities, don’t it? Hear that, Kim baby? Whatever I say.”

Kim didn’t reply. She glanced anxiously at Dugan, and that bad feeling in my stomach came back again.

“Some of us need to use the restroom,” Roy spoke up, “and unless you want it getting messy in here, you’ll have to come up with a place for us to do that.”

“Just sit tight,” Sherm said. “Nobody is leaving this room right now. I just caught the cops trying to send a little robot through the front door—one of those NASA-looking motherfuckers with the spy scope and shit. That’s what I wanted you to come look at, Tommy. It scurried back out before I could smash the fucker. Rolled right overtop of Kelvin.”

“They probably just want to make sure we’re gonna keep our end of the bargain,” I said.

“What bargain?” Roy asked.

I looked directly at Sherm when I answered him.

“Sherm says he’s gonna let you guys go in fifteen minutes. Right, Sherm?”

“Yeah, but the fucking robot still pisses me off. I told them not to do any shit like that. Wonder what they saw on the spy cam? What do you say, Kim? Maybe we should give them a live sex show to watch!”

Kim opened her mouth, started to reply, and seemed to think better of it. She glanced at Dugan, then quickly turned away.

“Come on, now,” Sherm scolded her, “you better be nice to me. I’m about to set you all free. I promise that after the next fifteen minutes, none of you will have to worry about this shit anymore. Hell, I guarantee it.”

I realized then, with a sinking feeling of finality, that there was no way Sherm was going to let them walk out of there.

I ran through the rest of it in my head. Benjy had told John to shut his eyes. Benjy had acted afraid of me when I came back in, as if he thought I might be mad at him. Dugan’s whole Stockholm Syndrome attitude had changed. The duct tape was missing and so was my handgun. The gun was missing.

The gun…

“Let’s start with you, Kim. And no sense in fighting me.”

Sherm crossed the floor, reached down, and stroked Kim’s long blond hair with his dirty fingers. She closed her eyes and shuddered in revulsion. At the same time, Dugan brought his arms out from behind his back. The duct tape around his wrists was gone, his hands were free, and my .357 was in them.

“Don’t you fucking move, you white trash piece of shit!” he spat. I yanked the .38 from beneath my shirt and pointed it at Dugan. Sherm whirled, raising his own gun. He clutched Kim’s hair in his other hand, yanking it hard. Her head jerked upward and she moaned.

“Drop the gun,” Dugan ordered, “and let her go, or so help me God I’ll shoot you where you stand, you son of a bitch. I mean it!”

“You might,” Sherm answered calmly, “but I goddamned guarantee you that I’ll shoot back. And if I’ve got time left before I die, I’ll fucking shoot Sharon too.”

As if to make his point, he aimed the gun in Sharon’s direction, still keeping his eyes on Dugan and Kim’s hair firmly clenched in his fist.

I inched closer to them. John was breathing heavily next to me.

“Drop it, Dugan,” I shouted. “Come on, man. It’s two against one. There’s no way this is gonna work, and you know it.”

His eyes didn’t leave Sherm’s as he spoke to me. “You’re not shooting anybody, Tommy. You don’t have it in you. Trust me, I know. I’ve killed before, in ’Nam.”

“Try me, you stupid motherfucker. I mean it, Dugan. Put down the gun, now.”

Dugan’s eyes flashed from Sherm to me and back to Sherm again. His hands were shaking, and the pistol barrel wobbled up and down.

“Hard to hit anything with your hand shaking like that,” John chipped in.

“Shut up!” Dugan hissed, but I heard the doubt creeping into his voice.

“Your choice, Dugan.” Sherm kept his gun aimed at Sharon. “Go ahead and shoot me. Maybe you’ll hit me or maybe you’ll hit Kim or maybe you’ll hit the wall and the ricochet will kill somebody else. No matter how it goes down, though, I’m gonna take out your piece of ass before I die.”

“Shoot him,” Sharon moaned, “I love you, Dugan. Now shoot him.”

“Shut up, bitch!”

“Oh shit…” Oscar breathed.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” Martha recited over and over, her eyes still closed.

“I…” Dugan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

My palms were sweating and the .38 slipped. I tried to hold it steady again. Sweat ran into my eyes too, stinging them, making me half-blind.

“Dugan, I mean it. I’m not fucking around here, and neither is Sherm. Think about Sharon, man. Do you really want to see her get shot? Sherm said he’d let you guys go.”

Even as I said it, a part of me deep down inside wished Dugan would do it, wished he’d squeeze the trigger and shoot and end all of our misery by taking Sherm down. But friendship won out. I don’t know why, but it did. Maybe it was because I felt like Dugan had betrayed my trust, betrayed my good intentions. Maybe all of them had. They’d pretended to be nice and concerned, but all the while they were just playing me.

“I mean it, Dugan,” I warned him a final time. “Drop that pistol or I will shoot you.”

“Don’t listen to them, baby,” Sharon pleaded, closing her eyes. “Tommy won’t do it. And don’t worry about me. Just do it.”

“I said shut your mouth, bitch.” Sherm’s own grip on his pistol tightened. I inched closer, keeping the cop’s .38 centered on Dugan. My chest was pounding so hard that I thought I might be having a heart attack. My throat felt constricted and I needed to cough, but I knew if I did it was going to be a bad one, leaving me helpless to do anything else. I fought it off and tried to ignore the bloody phlegm building at the back of my mouth.

“Last chance. This thing ain’t got no safety, so…” Sherm smiled, and his knuckle popped as he gently squeezed the trigger.

“No,” Dugan cried out, “don’t! I’ll drop it. Don’t shoot Sharon. Look, I’m putting it down. I’m putting it down, you son of a bitch.”

He laid my pistol down in front of him. Letting go of Kim’s hair, Sherm kicked the weapon out of Dugan’s reach and told John to pick it up. John got up from the floor and obeyed without a word.

“Lie down on the floor, Dugan. I want you fucking kissing it. Do you understand me? You’re gonna lick that floor like it was Sharon’s pussy.”

Dugan complied, but now he didn’t look like the brave vet. He looked like a scared old man. Squatting, Sherm placed the gun against the back of his head. Sharon begged Sherm not to hurt him. Oscar closed his eyes, joining Martha in prayer.

“Tommy”—Sherm was still looking down at Dugan—“how the fuck did he get your gun?”

His voice was nothing more than a cold whisper. John licked his lips and shot me a nervous glance.

“I don’t know, man. I guess I must have forgotten it when we were in the office…”

“Why weren’t his hands tied? I told you to fucking tie them.”

“They were, Sherm.”

“The hell they were.”

“He must have gotten loose.”

Standing, he prodded Dugan with his foot.

“Get up, asshole. And if you so much as fucking flinch, John is gonna do your girlfriend right here, gutshot or not. Cover her, Carpet Dick.”

Hesitating, John pointed the pistol at Sharon.

“John,” Roy breathed, “you don’t have to listen to him, son. Neither of you do. You’ve seen what comes after this. You’ve been given another chance. Don’t waste it or make a mockery out of it.”

“What the fuck is he going on about?” Sherm shoved Dugan forward. I stuck the .38 in my waistband and held my hands out in front of me. “He’s scared. That’s all. We all are. Just chill out, Sherm.”

“Fuck that. They’re scared. You’re scared. I’ll fucking give all of you something to be scared about. Move it, tough guy!”

He pushed Dugan again, and the older man stumbled. For a second, I thought Sherm might shoot him where he stood. I could see him fighting with the rage building up inside of him. It shone on his face, reflected in his eyes. Sherm was on the verge of snapping. Monsters in his head… That was what Benjy said. Sherm had monsters inside his head.

“Tommy, take Dugan into Keith’s office. And so help me God, if he fucking gets loose, I’m capping your ass first. Carpet Dick, you stay here and guard the rest of them—”

Up to this point, Sherm had been distracted by Dugan’s revolt, but now he froze, staring at John. He’d finally realized that John was more than just awake, more than just alert. He was healed.

“W-what?” John stammered. “What’s up, Sherm? Why you looking at me like that?”

“You were gutshot…” Sherm’s voice was one of shocked disbelief. “You were dying, John.”

“Ummm…”

“What the hell happened to you, Carpet Dick? What is this shit?”

“I-I g-got better. I guess it wasn’t as bad as it looked, Sherm. Honest.”

“Wasn’t as bad as it looked? Kelvin shot you in the fucking stomach, John. You’ve got blood all over your shirt and all over your arms and face. Where the hell is the bullet hole?”

“Um…”

“You’re fucking sitting up and smiling now. What the fuck is this shit?”

Terrified, John looked to me for help.

“Tommy?”

Sherm’s head whipped back to me. The business end of the .357 came with it.

“What the fuck is going on, Tommy? Where’s the bullet wound in John’s belly? How can he be better? I thought he’d just regained consciousness—not his fucking health.”

“I don’t know, man. I honestly don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, goddamn it! I want to know what the hell happened here. Gunshot wounds just don’t magically disappear. What the fuck is going on?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Excuse me,” Roy interrupted quietly, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if I overheard correctly, you gave the police a fifteen-minute ultimatum. I’d just like to point out that the time has passed. Perhaps you should call them?”

Sheila was holding her breath, staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. The others were silent too. Then, in that horrible stillness, I heard something that stopped me cold—the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot in the lobby. A tentative, stealthy footstep. Oscar twitched and I thought that maybe he’d heard it too. A second later I heard another. Before Sherm could notice, Martha spoke.

“Ye are of your father the devil, and the works of your father ye will do.” She tottered to her feet, weak but determined.

“What the hell is your problem now, bitch?”

“Saint John, chapter eight, verse forty-four. You are legion and your time has come. Your father awaits you. You will know hell for all eternity.”

“Legion, huh?”

“Yes.”

Sherm moved slowly, spoke calmly—then the darkness inside of him finally erupted. The monsters broke free.

“Fuck this.”

He pulled the trigger, and the top of Martha’s head disappeared from the nose up, splattering wetly onto the wall behind her. And onto the ceiling. And onto the floor. And onto Roy. She rocked back and forth on her feet. Her lips moved, with nothing but red above them.

“Oh my…”

She swayed one more time, then crumpled to the floor.

The screams and confusion were instantaneous. Sharon and Kim and Oscar shrieked at the top of their lungs. Roy cried out that he was blind, not comprehending that it was the inside of Martha’s head that covered his eyes. Benjy cringed against his mother, screaming for it to be over, crying that he couldn’t help the old lady; that she’d already gone to meet Jesus. John yelled too—but I couldn’t understand what he said. My ears were focused on the sounds from the lobby. There were more of them. Coming closer. Coming fast. Coming hard. The sound of booted feet and harsh, barking voices. There was more breaking glass, too, as windows were shattered by tear gas grenades.

Smoke still pouring from his barrel, Sherm spun around again and pointed the gun at me.

“Fuck all of this,” he growled. “Fuck it all.”

I aimed with the .38, but before I could squeeze the trigger, Dugan brushed past me. Sherm shot him in the chest. Dugan hunched over, his eyes squinted shut in pain, but he refused to drop. Stumbling forward, he slammed into Sherm just as Sherm fired again. The explosion was muffled at point-blank range. The back of his shirt turned red. Shuddering, Dugan cried out. He pressed forward, and managed to knock Sherm to the ground, pinning him beneath his wounded and bleeding body.

Tear gas began to flood the vault. My eyes felt like they were on fire, and the acrid smell stopped my lungs when I breathed it in.

“Go,” Dugan roared at us. “Sharon, get the hell out of here. Roy, get them out.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Sharon cried, but the others were heeding his words. Kim and Oscar sprinted past me while I stood gasping, trying to catch my breath. Screaming, they ran out the door.

“Wait,” I shouted, then broke into a coughing fit. Between the tear gas and the cancer, I couldn’t breathe.

“Tommy, they’re getting away.” His eyes tearing, John started after them in confusion, then took a step back toward Sherm, who struggled to free himself from Dugan’s crushing weight. Dugan clutched his wrist, slamming it again and again onto the floor, attempting to knock the pistol from his grip.

In the hall, stern voices shouted “Police officers! Down! Get down!”

“Tommy,” John hollered again, his voice frantic.

I couldn’t answer him. The cough I’d been battling to contain rattled my chest. My lungs and throat exploded, filled with raw, red, unbearable pain. I sank to my knees, praying for it to end. Deep inside me, something moved, dislodging itself from my body. As it tore free, long ropy strands of bloody saliva dripped from my lips. The loose piece pushed upward, then stopped. Gasping for breath, I found that I couldn’t breathe. I was choking on a piece of myself. Half-blind from the tear gas, John ran past me, intent on chasing down Kim and Oscar. He still had my pistol in his hand. I tried to cry out, tried to warn him not to go outside, that the police were there, but I just choked. My ears started to ring, and my heart and head were pounding—craving oxygen and threatening to burst. Dropping my pistol, I waved an arm at him but he never saw me.

“Police! Drop your weapon and get on the ground, now!”

He froze in the doorway and the roar of rifles shook the vault. A second later, I heard his body hit the floor. Inside my head, I screamed his name.

“T-tommy…” John wheezed.

The ringing in my ears grew louder. White spots appeared at the edges of my vision.

“Mr. Tommy,” Benjy cried out.

Weakly, I tried to wave him away, tell him to stay down. I sank lower, thrashing and clawing at the floor, trying to breathe.

“Benjy,” Sheila screeched, her face red from the gas, “get back here!”

“He’s dying, Mommy. Jesus is coming for him.”

Jesus is coming and boy is he pissed, I thought. Later my niggaz. Peace out. I’m going out to find myself now…

With one hand still clutching Sherm’s wrist, Dugan grabbed his face and slammed his head against the floor. Enraged, Sherm bellowed in pain and managed to latch on to Dugan’s ear with his teeth. He tore his head away, taking a chunk of flesh with it. Dugan screamed. Their blood covered each other. Struggling, Sherm rolled him over and landed on top. Straddling the older man, Sherm finally ripped his pistol hand free and raised the gun. Then my vision blurred completely. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t smell. But I could still hear. I heard voices. Sherm and Dugan. The cops. The hostages. And other voices too. Squeaky voices, sharp and cruel. They were coming closer.

Suddenly, there were hands on me, tiny hands. I rolled over and my vision came back. Benjy stared down at me, his eyes filled with fear and sadness.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tommy. Mr. Dugan made me do it. He made me untie him so he could get your gun. I didn’t want to. I tried to tell them you were a nice man but they wouldn’t believe me. They said it was the only way we could get out.”

My constricting throat bulged as I struggled to answer him.

“Lie still, Mr. Tommy. Lie still. We have to hurry.”

I felt his fingers wrap around my throat. They were warm—so warm. The panic and fear vanished, as a wave of calm washed over me. The shouts, the struggles, the gunshots and voices—all were distant now, muted. Even Benjy’s voice seemed to come down a long tunnel. The only thing I could hear clearly were those other voices, the ones I couldn’t see. I knew what they belonged to, and I was afraid.

Then, suddenly, I could breathe again and the voices vanished. The warmth continued to spread through my body, flowing like water. I could feel it burrowing, hunting out the cancer cells and destroying them as it went. It flowed through my head and my chest, my lungs and my throat. The tightness in my jaw disappeared and my throat was soothed. The persistent, crippling headache that I’d lived with for the past few months vanished. The warmth filled me, making me whole again.

And there was a light…

“You’re all better, Mr. Tommy.”

Looking down at me from above, with the fluorescent lights glowing over his head, he looked very much like an angel.

I was all better. I knew it instinctively, deep down inside. The cancer was gone, just like John’s gunshot wound and Roy’s heart attack and Sandy the dog and all the others that Benjy had helped in life.

My cancer had been growing. Growing at an alarming rate. I’d been dying. And now I wasn’t anymore. That meant I would have to face the music, face the consequences of what had happened since the moment I’d decided to rob the bank. All the lies and deceit. All the pain this would cause Michelle and T.J.—and the pain I’d caused these poor people around us. John. Keith. Martha. Lucas. Mac Davis. Even Kelvin. So many people. So much pain. So much death. Dead because of me. They’d done nothing to deserve it. They’d just been living their lives. And because of me they were gone. The weight of it all crushed down on me. 

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed to Benjy, and he smiled.

“It’s okay, Mr. Tommy.”

Then Benjy lifted his hands and the sounds came rushing back. There was a gunshot; close enough to rattle my teeth. Sherm succeeded in ramming his pistol under Dugan’s chin and pulled the trigger.

Sharon’s wail filled my ears. She clawed at her face in complete despair while Roy and Sheila cowered against the wall.

Throwing Benjy beneath me, I crouched over his body, sheltering him with my own, and raised the .38. Sherm pushed himself up from Dugan’s bloodied remains and clambered to his feet. He was unsteady, shaking his head and working his jaw back and forth. Snot and blood ran down his face.

“Get out of my head,” he screamed.

I got the feeling he wasn’t talking to any of us.

“Sherm? Put the gun down, Sherm.”

His watering eyes focused, and he pointed the gun at Benjy and me.

“Ain’t this a bitch? What the fuck are you doing, Tommy? Using the kid as a human shield? You think I won’t shoot you if you got that little brat with you? You think five-oh won’t kill you?

You’re wrong, bro. Wrong on both fucking counts.”

“Attention,” a deep voice yelled from outside, “you inside the vault. Throw down your weapons and come out slowly with your hands on top of your heads.”

“It’s over, dog. The cops are in the building. They’re right outside the door. Nothing else we can do. Let them go. Nobody else is going to die,” I pleaded with Sherm.

“Fuck that. It ain’t over till I say it’s over.”

“This is your last warning,” the cops shouted. “Throw down your weapons, place your hands on your heads, and come out of the vault slowly. We will not tell you again.”

“You gonna shoot me, Sherm? You gonna shoot the kid?”

“Life’s a bitch, then you die, Tommy. Remember?”

I was speechless.

“Come on, Tommy! Isn’t that what we said? Life’s a bitch, then we die, so why not grab it by the horns? You remember that shit? Well, I got to tell you, bro—this is definitely the most fun I’ve had since I left Portland. Today was a good day.”

“Sherm—”

“A good day to die.”

“Sherm—don’t!”

“Get ready, Tommy. Here comes the boom.”

He grinned that trademark grin, and for the first time in my life, I saw beyond the party guy with the hard-as-nails exterior, past the broken little boy that all the girls wanted to fix. It was like I’d been peeking at him through a window all this time, and at that moment, somebody opened the curtains, giving me a clearer view. Sherm’s grin was a glimpse inside his head, and there were monsters inside. There were lots of monsters.

And then the grin grew wider, stretching the skin on his face, turning into a leer. Broader still, and Sherm looked past me, his eyes widening in surprise. He stood immobile, except for that expanding grin, a smile that split his face in half. His trigger finger tightened. I pulled my trigger first. Sherm squeezed his a second later.

Everything exploded.

The cops behind us shouted something, but it was lost beneath the roar of Sherm’s gun, and the answering volley of their own. Terrified, Benjy screamed, and Sheila reached toward us in horror. She shrieked without sound. Something punched me in the back, right in the kidney—a cop’s boot maybe, or a riot club. All of a sudden I was having trouble breathing again. The guns roared again, and Sherm’s grin split impossibly wide, wider than his face. Teeth and flesh and strands of gristle flew as the smile ripped his head apart. It vanished in a cloud of fine, red mist, but I swear that for a second, I could see the grin superimposed over the spray. The cloud grinned. His body stood there, refusing to fall, still clutching the pistol, while the gunshots echoed around the vault. When his body finally toppled over, I was sure that I could see his grin plastered on the wall behind it.

Sherm was gone, but that was okay, because Benjy was fine. Benjy was safe. Benjy was quiet. He wasn’t crying anymore. I tried to tell Sheila to stop screaming, tried to tell her that he was okay, that he was underneath me, but I couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. Something sharp was poking me in the side, but I didn’t know what it was. The room was suddenly getting cold. A shadow fell over us and a black boot stomped down on my hand. I screamed as the bones in my wrist and fingers shattered. The pistol slipped from my grasp. Roy shouted at somebody to be gentle with me, but his pleas were ignored. Sharon slumped over Dugan’s body, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands still duct-taped behind her back. Sheila had freed her hands and clawed at me, shrieking Benjy’s name over and over again. Once more I tried to soothe her, but several pairs of rough hands rolled me over. I gasped, as the sharp thing pressed into me again, and that was when I realized that I was bleeding. There was a lot of blood. But not all of it was mine.

And then I saw why Benjy was so quiet and still and why Sheila was screaming. Sherm’s grin smiled at me from the bloodstain on the wall.

I started to black out then. The room started spinning. I was dimly aware that I’d thrown up again. Sheila slapped and clawed at my face, and one of the cops pulled her back. Faces stared down at me. Cop faces. They weren’t friendly.

Blood trickled from my mouth as I whispered to them.

“I’m going out to find myself…”

“Just lie still, you piece of shit. Paramedics are on their way, though I don’t know why we should save a scumbag like you.”

“If I should get here before I return,” I continued, “please hold me until I get back…”

“What did he say?”

I opened my mouth to repeat it and a scream tumbled out instead. I screamed for a long time and finally something inside my throat ripped.

Then I shut my eyes.


SEVENTEEN


Let me have another cigarette.

Thanks. Contrary to what you might have heard, these things aren’t like gold in here. This is a nonsmoking facility. Even the guards aren’t allowed to smoke. So no, cigarettes aren’t gold. They’re the fucking Holy Grail.

When it was all over, the cops found Lucas in the bathroom and Keith in his office. Sherm had wracked up quite the body count: Keith, Lucas, Mac Davis, Kelvin, Martha, and Dugan. Six counts of murder. But it didn’t stop there.

So what else do you want to know? I’ve pretty much told you everything. I said it before and I’ll say it again. Life’s a bitch, then you die. That’s my philosophy in a nutshell, and one that’s been reinforced over and over since that day.

Except that you don’t die. Life’s still a bitch, the biggest bitch of all, in fact. But you don’t die. It’s the others around you that die. The ones you love. The innocent. The ones who didn’t deserve it. And that is the biggest bitch of all.

Jesus didn’t get me, and neither did the monster people, and I have no doubt that the voices I heard belonged to them. The cancer didn’t kill me either. Benjy saw to that. I still don’t know how he did it or what that strange power of his actually was. It could have been God or Satan or something that would have given Fox Mulder from The X-Files a hard-on. Maybe it was magic. Maybe not. All I know is that it was real. I’m living proof. The cancer didn’t kill me because Benjy cured the cancer.

The bullet from the SWAT team’s rifle didn’t kill me either. I lost a kidney and a lot of blood, and now I’ve got a scar on my side that looks like a shark bite, but I didn’t die. On the emergency room table, when they removed the shrapnel and what was left of my kidney, they found no evidence of the cancer. After Michelle called the cops, my name and face were flashed on the news, my doctor and Casey the pharmacist and even Mr. Anthony Myers, the funeral home director, contacted the authorities and told them what they knew. While I recovered in the hospital (they wanted to make sure I was healthy enough for arraignment), the doctors conferred with my doctor, and checked and double-checked the diagnosis. Final analysis—no traces of the cancer remained in my system. If it hadn’t been for my doctor standing by his initial analysis, they’d have probably all thought I made the whole thing up. I think most of them did anyway. The bullet that took my kidney also took Benjy’s life. It passed right through me and hit him. The police commando who fired the shot couldn’t see him beneath me in the confusion. All he saw was my gun. There was a hearing, and a panel determined that the shooting was justified and the officer acted correctly. The media had a field day with it, and the officer ended up quitting the force anyway.

I saw on the news that Sheila was going to sue the police department over it, but before that ever happened, she was dead. She committed suicide one month after the robbery. Witnesses said she walked in front of a bus during rush hour. Just stepped right off the curb. The bus driver couldn’t stop in time. According to the papers, she’d been distraught over the death of her son. Distraught? Yeah, I fucking damn well guess she was. When I think back to what Benjy had looked like… His chest was—it was open, and…

I don’t want to talk about that anymore.

Maybe Martha was right all along. Crazy old Bible-thumping “Oh my…” Martha. Maybe a blood sacrifice was the only thing that could wash away the sins we committed, the innocent blood of a lamb. Maybe Benjy was the expiation that she said the Lord required. I was a sinner and I asked to be saved. The Lord granted my wish but took Benjy’s life in return. That’s the only way I see it. I’ve tried and tried to wrap my brain around it. Why was he given such a unique gift, only to have it taken away—to have his life taken away? Expiation makes sense to me—

and at first, I hated Him even more for it. Hated Him, and feared Him too. They tried John and me separately. We both had public defenders. Neither knew what the fuck they were doing, or didn’t care, or both. John got ten to fifteen years and is eligible for parole in eight. I was sentenced to a term of not less than fifty years and not to exceed my natural life. Natural life—what the fuck is that? I’m up for parole in fifty years, maybe. John and I both testified that Sherm masterminded the whole thing in response to my cancer, and that we were just a couple of duped accomplices, and the bank security cameras documented much of it, but all that defense did was save me from getting a death sentence.

A death sentence… I think about that a lot, especially at night. Of being strapped into the electric chair and what it would feel like as all that electricity surged through my body. Of being tied to a gurney and feeling the cool wetness of an alcoholic swab on my arm (to prevent infection), followed by that final sting as the needle delivered a lethal injection. I think a lot about death.

Michelle. Well, she hung in there during the trial. She showed up every day, looking as pretty and beautiful as the day I’d met her. Sometimes she brought T.J. and other times she came alone, while her mom babysat. The trial was hard on her, but it was harder on him. She sat behind me and she held my hand when the verdict was read, and she didn’t cry. She stayed strong. Roy, Oscar, Kim, and Sharon testified at the trial. None of them brought up Benjy’s abilities. Oscar tried to, just the once, but the prosecutor objected and his statement was stricken from the record. I don’t know what happened to any of them after that. Except for Roy. Here’s a weird thing. The bank security cameras captured the heist, but when it came to Benjy’s healing acts, all the footage became snow. An electronic glitch I was told. My lawyer tried to use that in our defense, but it didn’t work.

During the trial, I was a guest of the York County prison. After sentencing, they moved me to the D block of the Cresson State Prison Facility. It’s not so bad here. Definitely better than county jail. Nobody has tried to rape me or make me his bitch. We’ve got cable TV in the cells, and monitored Internet access once a week. I watch a lot of Howard Stern and Comedy Central, and anything with girls in bikinis. They’ve got me working in the library, which beats the hell out of slaving in the kitchen. I lift weights in the gym, something I never had time to do before on the outside, and I read a lot. Elmore Leonard. Richard Laymon. Western novels by Ed Gorman. The Bible. Like I said earlier, I guess you could say that John’s vision and Benjy’s powers made me a believer. In fact, I’m scared not to believe. I asked God for some proof and He sent me some, Old Testament style.

In addition to the books, I read the newspaper too. I get the Hanover Evening Sun, though I have to wait an extra day for it to be delivered. It’s weird to read about my old hometown, and to know that it continues to go on, that the people I knew survive and get on with their lives, even though I’m not there anymore.

I only have one cellmate, a guy named Edgar, who’s in here for killing his girlfriend while driving drunk. She went through the windshield, flew about fifty feet, and smashed her head open on a retaining wall. Died on impact. Edgar was charged with vehicular manslaughter, except that Edgar insists he wasn’t driving. He just can’t prove it.

Same situation as me, if you think about it. I didn’t kill anybody in that bank. I just can’t prove it. Inside this place, we’re all innocent. Except for in our hearts. Our hearts convict us, and in my heart, I’m guilty as sin. I killed those people. Their blood is on my hands. Innocent blood. Blood of the lamb. Expiation.

Michelle only came to visit once a month, since it was a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Hanover. She brought T.J. to the prison once, on the first visit, and that just about broke all three of us. He couldn’t understand why he had to talk to Daddy through a telephone, and why I couldn’t come around to the other side of the thick glass window and give him a hug. I’ve never seen him cry so hard.

I didn’t sleep that night, and a few days later, Michelle and I agreed it would probably be better not to bring him. I don’t call them, because you can only call collect from prison and we don’t have the money for that.

Her last visit was two months ago, and the last letter I got from her was yesterday. It wasn’t even from Michelle. It was from her attorney, letting me know that she was initiating divorce proceedings. I didn’t expect that, but I guess I can’t blame her. I’d love to know where she got the fucking money to do that, though. Maybe another guy. I can’t picture her and T.J. with someone else. Can’t imagine her making love to another man or T.J. calling someone else Daddy. It makes my stomach hurt in ways the cancer never did. It’s a hollow, wrenching kind of pain.

That’s all. There’s nothing else to tell.

Okay, well there is one other thing.

I said that except for Roy, I didn’t know what had happened to any of the hostages. But I know what happened to Roy after the trial. And I know what happened to Sandy, Sheila and Benjy’s dog. And to John. Especially John.

Sandy was the first, just a brief end-of-the-broadcast item on the news. “A tragic ending to this brave dog’s story.” They recounted how Benjy was killed in the bank by a stray bullet, and how Sheila had committed suicide by stepping in front of a bus one month later. Apparently, Sandy was taken to one of these no-kill animal shelters after Sheila’s death, and got adopted by a new family. She’d been with her new owners for a week when she was hit by a car. They found her in the yard, dead. There were no witnesses. In fact, nobody heard brakes or tires, or even the sound of Sandy yelping. One minute she was playing in the yard. The next minute, she was roadkill. That was two weeks ago. Roy’s obituary appeared in the paper last week. He died of a sudden massive heart attack. The newspaper mentioned that he was a retired sales representative for the foundry, and that he was survived by several nieces and nephews, just like he’d told us in the vault. A sidebar article mentioned that he’d been a hostage during the robbery. John died last night.

Even though we’re both in the same prison, I’ve never seen him. I haven’t seen him since the robbery. I wanted to, but he was in A block and I was in D. We had no contact with each other, and inmates aren’t allowed to send each other mail, even if they’re in the same prison. He was here. My best friend was here with me the whole time, imprisoned inside this fucking building, and I couldn’t see him because we were on different blocks. Each block takes meals and goes out into the yard at different times. I kept hoping that I’d run into him in the library one day, but I never did. John never was the type to read.

One of the correctional officers told me about it at breakfast this morning. They found him in his cell around midnight. He was dead. The coroner hadn’t released an official report yet, of course, but the cause of death appeared to be a gunshot wound to the stomach. That was impossible, since none of the inmates, the guards, or even his cellmate had heard a shot. It was unlikely that a pistol could have been smuggled into the prison in any case. They’d tested his cellmate for powder residue, since the two of them were locked in their cell at the time. There was no trace. Now A block is locked down and everybody is being questioned. They want to talk to me later today too. Routine questioning, they said. But there’s nothing routine about it. What am I supposed to tell them? That the hole in John’s belly is the one that Kelvin put there?

That Benjy healed it and now that he’s dead it’s come back? That Benjy could perform miracles and the miracles died with him?

At least I tried to save him. At least there’s that. Look, I don’t know what the final outcome is. I don’t care if you believe in what Benjy could do or not. All I know is that I believe. I wanted proof and I got that proof. But I never meant for Benjy to get harmed. That’s not what I wanted. 

Life handed me a crap hand. But I played the cards I was dealt. I still don’t know what happens to us when we die, but I know this—I tried to do the right thing. In the end, when everything turned to shit because of my stupid, fucked-up mistake, I tried to do the right thing. And in my heart, I believed.

I still do. I don’t know if that gives me redemption or absolution, but I know that, wherever he is, Benjy has forgiven me. He knows I tried to save him, and he knows that I’ve found belief. Maybe that’s enough.

Edgar has six more months till he’s out. On the wall, he’s got a short-timers’ calendar. Every morning when he wakes up, he marks off the days until his release by putting a big, black X through them.

I started a short-timers’ calendar too. Started it right after I got back from breakfast, in fact, as soon as I heard about John. I haven’t cried yet for my friend, because I think I’ll probably be seeing him soon. It won’t be Jesus coming for me. I think it will be the voices, the voices that John said he heard. The ones that I heard too. The sharp, cruel little voices. I remember Sherm, right after he’d killed Dugan. He was shouting at something to shut up and get out of his head. I think Sherm knew the voices well. I think they’d been whispering to him for a long time before we even met him.

I just crossed off a day on my short-timers’ calendar. I don’t feel good at all. I’m weak, and I’ve started losing weight again. My throat hurts and the headaches are back, along with the nausea. Last night, I got a nosebleed while I slept. My pillow was crusted with dried blood this morning. I have cancer. At a very advanced stage. It’s growing, growing at an alarming rate. It’s terminal.

The court sentenced John to ten to fifteen years in prison. He was eligible for parole in eight years, but he got out much earlier than that. I was sentenced to a term of not less than fifty years and not to exceed my natural life. That’s not much time. Not much time at all. It’s a death sentence.

There’s only one thing left for me to do. In a little while, I am going out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back. Please hold me until I get back.

Please—hold me.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR 


BRIAN KEENE is the two-time Bram Stoker Award winning author of several novels and short story collections, including The Rising, Fear of Gravity, No Rest For The Wicked, and City of the Dead (the sequel to The Rising). His work has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines, and several of his novels and short stories have been optioned for film. He has also edited several anthologies. He lives somewhere on the border between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Insanity, where he spends too much time writing, walking his dog, pulling bank jobs, and drinking tequila. He enjoys planning crimes with his readers. Contact him at www.briankeene.com.


Other Books by Brian Keene:


THE RISING

CITY OF THE DEAD

FEAR OF GRAVITY

NO REST FOR THE WICKED

NO REST FOR THE WICKED REDUX

NO REST AT ALL

TALKING SMACK (audio book)

4X4 (with Geoff Cooper, Michael Huyck & Michael Oliveri)

As Editor:

BEST OF HORRORFIND

BEST OF HORRORFIND II

Be sure not to miss


THE HOLLOW


the next exciting novel from


Brian Keene


Coming from Bantam in Summer 2006.


Read on for a special preview…

THE HOLLOW

On sale in Summer 2006


It was on the first day of spring that Big Steve and I saw Shelly Carpenter fucking the hairy man. Winter had been a hard one. Two books to write in five months’ time. Not something I recommend doing, if you can help it. There was a lot of pressure involved. The sales of my first novel, Heart of the Labyrinth, caught my critics, my publisher, and even myself by surprise. It did very well—something that a book of its kind isn’t supposed to do, especially a mass-market paperback with no promotional campaign behind it.

So, flush with success, I quit my day job—only to learn that I wouldn’t be getting a royalty check for at least another year. We’d already blown through the advance: mortgage payments, car and truck payments, new living room furniture for my wife, Tara, and a new laptop for me. Plus, I’d spent quite a bit of my own cash traveling to book signings.

If I’d had an agent, maybe he would have explained that to me. Or maybe not. Personally, I’m glad I don’t have an agent. They require fifteen percent of your earnings, and I was broke. I could have gone back to work at the factory, but I figured that if I applied myself to the writing, I’d be making about as much money as I would at the factory anyway, so I decided to follow what I love doing.

Tara still worked, insisting that she pay the bills while I stayed home and wrote, but we couldn’t survive on just one income. Thus—two more books for two different publishers in five months’

time, written just for the advance money, which would see us through the winter. Nice chunk of change, but when you totaled up the hours I was working, the advance for the next two novels came out to about a buck eighty an hour.

But we needed the money.

The pressure got to me. I started smoking again, and drank coffee nonstop. I’d get up at five, make the daily commute from the bed to the coffee pot to the computer, and start writing. I’d work on one novel until noon, take a break for lunch, and then work on the second novel until late evening. After a full day of that, I’d take care of business—reading contracts, responding to fan mail, checking my message board, giving interviews—all the other things that constitute writing—and then go to bed around midnight.

During those rough months, I’d have gone insane if not for Big Steve. Tara brought him home from the pound to keep me company during the day. Big Steve was a mutt—part beagle, part Rottweiler, part black Lab, and all pussy. Despite his formidable size and bark, Big Steve was scared of his own shadow. He ran from butterflies and squirrels, fled from birds and wind-tossed leaves, and cowered when the mailwoman came to the door. When Tara first brought him home, he hid in the corner of the kitchen for half a day, tail between his legs and his entire body shaking. He got used to us fairly quick, but he was still frightened by anything else. Not that he let it show. When something—it didn’t matter what, the Ferguson kid or a groundhog—stepped onto our property, the Rottweiler inside him came out. He was all bark and no bite, but a robber would have had a hard time believing that. Big Steve became my best friend. We watched TV together. He listened while I read manuscript pages out loud to him. He liked the same beer as me, and the same food. Most importantly, Big Steve knew when it was time to drag my ass away from the computer. That was how we started our daily walks, and now they were a scheduled routine. Two per day—one at dawn, shortly after Tara left for work, and the second at sundown, when she was on her way home. Tara commutes to Baltimore every day, and it was at those times—when she first left and when she was due home—that the house seemed especially lonely. Big Steve had impeccable timing. He’d get me outside and that always cheered me up.

Which brings us back to Shelly Carpenter and the hairy man.

When Tara left for work that morning, on the first day of spring, Big Steve stood at the door and barked once—short and to the point.

Behold, I stand at the door and bark; therefore I need to pee.

“You ready to go outside?” I asked.

He thumped his tail in affirmation, and his ears perked up.

I clipped his leash to his collar (despite his fear of anything that moves, there is enough beagle in Big Steve to inspire a love of running off into the woods with his nose to the ground, and not coming home for days). We stepped outside. The sun was shining, and it felt warm on my face. Tara and I had planted a lilac bush the year before, and the flowers were blooming, fragrant and sweet. Birds chirped and sang to each other in the big oak tree in our backyard. A squirrel ran along the roof of my garage, chattering at Big Steve. The dog shrank away. The long, cold winter had come and gone, and somehow, I had made it through. I’d finished both manuscripts, Cold As Ice and When the Rain Comes. Now, I could finally focus on the novel that I wanted to write. I felt good. Better than I had in months. The weather probably had something to do with that. Now it was spring. The time when nature lets the animal kingdom know that it’s time to make lots of babies. Spring, the season of sex and happiness. Big Steve celebrated the first day of spring by pissing on the lilac bush, pissing on the garage, pissing on the sidewalk, and pissing twice on the big oak tree—which further infuriated the squirrel.

Our house is sandwiched between Main Street and a back alley that separates us from the Fire Hall. The Fire Hall borders a grassy vacant lot and a park, the kind with swings and monkey bars and deep piles of mulch to keep kids from skinning their knees. Beyond the playground lies the forest—twenty square miles of protected woodland, zoned to avoid farmers or realtors from cutting it all down. The forest is surrounded on all sides by our town, and the towns of Seven Valleys, New Freedom, Spring Grove, and New Salem. They all have video stores and grocery outlets and pizza shops (and our town even has a Wal-Mart), but you wouldn’t know it while standing inside the forest. Stepping through that tree line is like traveling through time to a Pennsylvania where the Susquehanna Indians still roamed free and the Quakers and Amish were yet to come. At the center, at the dark heart of the forest, was LeHorn’s Hollow, source of central Pennsylvanian ghost stories and legends. Every region has such a place. LeHorn’s Hollow was ours.

An artist friend of mine once visited us from California. Tara and I took him for a walk through the woods, maybe half a mile inside, and he said something that has always stuck with me. He said that our woods felt different. I’d scoffed at the time, reminding him that his own state had the majestic redwood forests (Tara and I had spent part of our honeymoon walking amongst the coastal redwoods, and I’d wanted to live there ever since). But he’d insisted that our small patch of woods was different.

He said they felt primordial.

After Big Steve finished watering the yard, he tugged me toward the alley, his ears perked up and tongue lolling in hopeful anticipation.

“You want to go for a walk in the woods? You want to sniff for some bunnies?”

He wagged his tail with enthusiastic confirmation.

“Come on, then.”

He put his nose to the ground and led me forward. Shelly Carpenter jogged by as we reached the edge of the alley.

“Hi Adam,” she panted, running in place. “Hi Stevie!”

Big Steve wagged the tip of his tail and darted between my legs.

“Oh, come on, Stevie. Don’t be shy! You know me.”

Big Steve’s tail thumped harder, confirming that yes, he did indeed know her, but he shrank farther away.

Shelly laughed. “He’s such a fraidy cat.”

“Yeah. Runs from his own shadow. Out for your morning jog?”

“You know it. Isn’t it beautiful today?”

Her thin T-shirt was damp with sweat, and it clung to her bouncing breasts, revealing perfection. Her pert nipples strained against the fabric, hinting at the dark areolas beneath. Before she could catch me leering, I looked down. Mistake. Her gray sweatpants had ridden up, hugging her crotch like a second skin.

I glanced back up. Shelly was staring at me.

“You okay, Adam?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Sure. I was just thinking about my deadline.”

“You’re always daydreaming.”

“That’s the way it is with writers.”

“How’s the next book coming?”

“Good.” I smiled, and bent down to pet Big Steve. Mistake number two. My face was inches from her groin. I imagined that I could smell her sweat—and something else. Something intoxicating. The scent of a woman.

What the hell was wrong with me?

She placed a hand on her hip and arched her back. “What’s it going to be?”

I jumped. “W-what?”

“The book.” Her breasts bounced up and down as she began jogging in place again. “What’s it going to be about?”

“I’m not sure yet, actually. Still working it out in my head. But it’s going to be big.”

“Well, I’d better let you get back to work, then. See you. Tell Tara that I said hi.”

“Okay. Will do. See you later.”

She raised her hand and waved, then blew Big Steve a kiss. We stared after her as she jogged down the alley and crossed over into the park. I watched her perfect ass moving beneath her sweat pants. Then she vanished from sight. The next time I saw that ass, she was bent over a log and the hairy man was grinding his hips behind her.

Big Steve panted, then turned around and licked his balls.

I knew how he felt. My erection strained against my jeans.

I took a deep breath, trying to stave off the guilt that welled up inside me. I’d never cheated on Tara, but the opportunities were there. Not dozens of them; at least, not yet. But there were several women who’d brought bourbon and crotchless panties to my book signings, and asked me to sign their breasts with magic marker. They sent me emails telling me how much my writing turned them on. Genre groupies. It was flattering and tempting and great for selling books. But it was surprising too—especially considering my modest success. I often wondered if it would get worse the bigger I got.

The thing I was most afraid of was myself—my own libido.

But I’d never done anything. And my overreaction to Shelly’s workout attire left me feeling puzzled and guilty.

At the time, I dismissed it. Just something in the air.

I know now how right I was.

Big Steve strained against his leash, urging me forward. We crossed the alley and walked onto the field, heading in the same general direction that Shelly had gone. Steve put his nose to the ground, catching a scent.

In the branches of the oak tree, two squirrels began humping away, making babies. I wondered if Tara and I would ever have a baby. Then I thought of the miscarriage. Sadness welled up inside me.

Steve tugged at the leash, chasing the bad memories away like the good dog that he was. The wet grass soaked my shoes and his paws. I took us around the playground. It wouldn’t do to have the neighborhood children come flying down the slide and land in a pile of dog shit. As if reading my mind, Big Steve dutifully dropped a pile in the grass. Then we moved on. Paul Legerski’s black Chevy Suburban roared down the alley. He blew the horn and I waved. My next-door neighbor, Mike, started his lawnmower. It sputtered, stalled, and then sputtered again. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking out their springtime return from southern climates. But beneath it all there was another sound. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. But Big Steve’s ears were up and his head cocked. He’d heard it too.

As we stood there, it came again—a high, melodic piping. It sounded like a flute. Just a few short, random notes, and then they faded away on the breeze and weren’t repeated. I looked around to see if Shelly had heard it, but she was gone, as if the woods had swallowed her up. 

In a way, I guess that’s what happened.

The musical piping drifted toward us again.

Big Steve planted his feet, raised his hackles, and growled. I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s nothing. Just some kid practicing for the school band.”

It occurred to me that it was Monday morning, and all the kids were in school. Then Steve’s haunches sagged and he returned to normal, nose to the ground and tail wagging with excitement over every new scent.

The narrow trail leading into the woods was hidden between two big maple trees. I don’t know who made it, kids or deer, but Big Steve and I used it every day. Dead leaves crunched under our feet as we slipped into the forest, while new leaves budded on the branches above us. I stopped to light up a cigarette while Big Steve nosed around a mossy stump. I inhaled, stared up into the leafy canopy over our heads, and noticed how much darker it was, even just inside the tree line.

Primordial, I thought.

I shivered. The sun’s rays didn’t reach here. There was no warmth inside the forest—only shadows.

The woods were quiet at first, but then came to life. Birds sang and squirrels played in the boughs above us. A plane passed overhead, invisible beyond the treetops. The winding path sloped steadily downward. We picked our way through clinging vines and thorns, and I spotted some raspberry bushes, which gave me something to look forward to when summer arrived. Blue tinted moss clung to the squat gray stones that thrust up from the forest floor like dinosaur skeletons. And then there were the trees themselves—tall, stern, and proud.

I shivered again. Stepping over a fallen log, I wondered again who’d made the path, and who used it other than Big Steve and myself. The most we’d ever gone was a mile into the forest, but the path continued on past that. How deep did it run? All the way out to the other side? Did it intersect with other, less-used paths? Did it go all the way to LeHorn’s Hollow?

I mentioned the hollow earlier. I’d only been there once, when I was in high school and was looking for a secluded spot to get inside Becky Schrum’s pants. I remember it well. 1988—my senior year. We saw a Friday the 13th flick (I can’t remember which one), and when it was over, we cruised around in my ’81 Mustang hatchback.

Eventually, we found ourselves on the dirt road that led to the LeHorn farm. The farmhouse and buildings had stood vacant for three years. Nelson LeHorn had killed his wife in 1985, and then disappeared. He hadn’t been seen since. His children were scattered. His son, Matty, was doing time in the Cresson State Penitentiary. His daughter Claudia was married and living in Idaho. And his youngest daughter, Gina, was teaching school in Brackard’s Point, New York. Because the old man was legally still alive, the children were unable to sell the property. So it sat, providing a haven for rats and groundhogs.

The LeHorn place sat in the middle of miles of woodlands, untouched by the explosive development that had marred other parts of the state, surrounded by a vast expanse of barren cornfields, the rolling hills not worked since the murder. In the center of the fields, like an island, was the hollow.

I’d parked the car near the house, and Becky and I had talked about whether or not it was haunted. And like clockwork, she was snuggled up against me, afraid of the dark. I remember glancing toward the hollow as we made out. Even in the darkness, I could see the bright, yellow NO TRESPASSING and POSTED signs, hanging sullenly from a few of the outer tree-trunks.

Becky let me slip my hand into her jeans, and her breathing quickened as I delved into her wetness with my fingers and rubbed her hard nipples beneath my palms. But then she cut me off. Not wanting to show my annoyance and disappointment, I’d suggested we walk to the hollow. I hoped that if her level of fright increased, her chastity might crumble. The hollow was a dark spot, created by four sloping hills, leading down to a place where no chainsaw roared nor axe cut. A serpentine creek wound through its center. We heard the trickling water, but never made it far enough inside to see the stream. Because in the black space between the trees, something moved.

Something big. It crashed toward us, branches snapping beneath its feet. We never saw it, but we heard it snort, and I can still hear that sound today. A deer, probably, or maybe even a black bear. All I know is it scared the shit out of me, and I’ve never been back to the hollow since. Big Steve brought me back to the present by stopping suddenly in the middle of the trail. He stood stiff as a board, legs locked and tail tucked between them. The growl started as a low rumble deep down inside him, and got louder as it spilled out.

I’d never heard him make a sound like this, and wondered if I’d mistakenly clipped someone else’s dog to the leash.

As if summoned from my memories, something crashed through the bushes. Big Steve’s hair stood on end, and his growl deepened.

“Come on, Steve. Let’s go!” I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge. The noise drew closer. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled.

The branches parted.

I screamed…