THREE DAYS to DIE (14 page)

      There was a plain white van parked in the warehouse; they checked it, but it was empty.

      They searched the rest of the main floor and then outside in the shipping yard and the boiler house, but Aaron was nowhere to be found. They went back inside and climbed the rough stairs to the cannery's second floor.

      They checked the maintenance room, but it was empty.

      They tried the office, and Michael found a soft drink cup with a ring of condensation around its bottom edge. He thumbed off the lid and saw a few small pieces of ice floating in the bottom.

      "Someone was here," he said, "and not too long ago."

      Willy looked at Michael with fear growing in his spectacled eyes. "Do you think they have Aaron?"

      "I don't know. Probably."

      "Do you think they'll come back?"

      "Yes, Willy, they'll most certainly be back."

      They left the cannery and agreed to meet again later in the day.

      Michael dropped Willy off at his home and drove off in search of Aaron – hoping he might get lucky this time.

Chapter 35

Smooth

       The black van circled the block under cover of heavy rains and fog that darkened the downtown neighborhood of Community Plaza Bank. When Souther was satisfied, he directed Beeks to park just down the street from the front entrance. Beeks pulled up to the curb and killed the engine.

      Souther glanced at the bank's large clock. 9:25 a.m.

      Aaron listened to the rain pattering on the roof of the van, his heart in his mouth. Random thoughts bounced around in his head like bingo balls, and whenever he managed to grab one, it was either too depressing to contemplate, or it made no sense whatsoever. One by one he tossed them back in the hopper with the others.

      His eyes went wide, as Souther opened the glove box and pulled out a fifth of whiskey.

     
Great,
Aaron thought,
I get to rob a bank with a bunch of drunks.

      "To a successful heist," Souther said, unscrewing the cap. He took a huge swig and passed the bottle to Beeks. Beeks took an even bigger drink and passed the bottle to Aaron.

       Aaron passed the bottle to Needles without drinking.

      "Wait a minute," Souther said. "Let the kid have a drink."

      "Oh, no thanks," Aaron said, blushing. "I've never drank alcohol before."

      Souther laughed. "Go ahead," he insisted. "You're a tough guy, right?"

      Aaron hadn't ever thought of himself as a tough guy, and his experience with Tom had soured him on whiskey. But he was certainly curious, and the thought of drinking with the men excited him. Besides, it was a welcome distraction.

      "I guess one small drink won't hurt," he said.

      He took the bottle in both hands, raised it to his lips, and tried to take a small sip. But as he tilted his head back, the whiskey sloshed forward in the bottle and about four shots flushed down his throat and up his nose. He lurched forward, nearly dropping the bottle, and coughed so deeply his eyes nearly blew out of their sockets.

      His world grew dark as colorful paisley patterns flashed about in a sea of black tea. The gang could only laugh while he coughed and snorted, his ears glowing bright red as the fiery spirits ignited his sinuses. He had never snorted gasoline through a straw and held a match to it before, but now he knew how it would feel.

      Finally a flood of tears signaled the end of the worst, and Aaron looked up at the others. "Holy crap," he croaked, trying to catch a breath. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and the drool from his chin as a burning warmth welled in his stomach and heated the back of his head.

      "What do you think, kid?" Souther asked, still laughing. "Smooth, right?"

      "Right," Aaron wheezed.

      The bottle went around again, but this time when the whiskey came to him, Aaron passed it on.

Chapter 36

Nothing but a Smile

      Souther put the bottle back in the glove box then stepped out onto the sidewalk and rolled the van's side door open.

      Needles climbed out, then leaned in and dragged a particularly bulky duffel bag toward him and pulled out three assault rifles, a 9mm pistol, two smoke bombs, and a small, old-fashioned kitchen timer. He handed Souther and Beeks each a rifle and took the third rifle and the two smoke bombs for himself.

      Souther laid his rifle on the front passenger seat and picked up the 9mm. He released the magazine into his gloved palm, topped it off with bullets and clicked it back into the handle. He set the pistol on the floor of the van and went through the same routine with the assault rifle.

      Aaron watched all of this with interest and blurred vision. He had seen Needles and Beeks carrying guns with them into the banks they robbed, but he hadn't been inside to see how they used them.

      "Why do we need guns, anyway?" he asked, thinking about it.

      Souther picked up the kitchen timer and slipped it into one of his pockets. "You can't rob a bank with nothing but a smile, kid," he said, then added, "but don't get any ideas about carrying one yourself."

      Beeks handed out Aaron's colorful ski masks. Souther removed his fedora, pulled on his blue vertical stripes and replaced the hat. Needles donned the green horizontal stripes and Aaron his familiar pink polka-dots. Black circles again, Beeks stayed at his assigned post in the driver's seat. He clicked on his radio and made himself comfortable.

      Needles grabbed four empty duffel bags and a large black-plastic trash bag from the back of the van. He handed the trash bag to Aaron, and a quick radio check completed the gang's preparations.

      "It's showtime, boys," Souther said. Then he and Needles shouldered their rifles and, without waiting for Aaron, trotted down the block toward the bank.

      As Aaron scrambled out of the van to join them, his hand landed on the 9mm pistol left lying on the floor. He looked at Beeks – who was watching the street, radio at hand – then slipped the pistol into a pocket of his jumpsuit.

      He leaped out of the van, slammed the side door shut, and double-timed it down the block through the rain to catch up.

      The big clock read 9:30 a.m.

- PART TWO -

The Big Job

Chapter 37

Trick-or-Treat

 ...  9:40 a.m.

---

      Aaron removed his hands from his ears and glanced around the room. It was as if a bomb had gone off: teller windows shattered; desks and chairs overturned and riddled with bullet holes; two dozen hostages flat on their stomachs, covered with debris.

       He stood, bones buzzing with adrenaline, and had to fight the urge to laugh. Here he was, in the middle of a bizarre, violent, life threatening situation, and he was
getting into it.
For a few precious moments nothing else in his turbulent adolescent world existed.

      Souther and Needles reloaded and surveyed the hostages.

      "Okay, listen up!" Souther said. "Which one of you idiots knows the combination to the vault?"

      Silence.

      "I didn't bring a damn can-opener, people!" Souther shouted. "Who has the combination to the fucking safe?"

      The hostages glanced at one another, but no one dared speak.

      Souther grit his teeth and fired, flipping a random hostage violently onto his back where he lay dead. The other hostages screamed and recoiled in horror.

      Aaron's lungs seized up, as if a cement truck had backed up over his chest. He sank to his knees as his brain, succumbing to a neuron overload, switched off.

      Needles held his position.

      "You'd better hope the combination didn't die with that guy," Souther yelled.

      Amidst the chaos, a lone hostage cried out. "I have it! I know the combination! God, please ... I'm the one ..."

      The others continued to scream and moan.

      Souther fired another three-round burst into the ceiling. "Would you shut the hell up?" he shouted, and a heavy hush lay over the room.

      A frail, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses got cautiously to his feet and raised his hands, trembling inside his three-piece suit. On his name tag: BANK MANAGER.

      "And who are you?" Souther asked.

      "I-I'm the manager," the man said.

      "I got that, you idiot. What's your
name?
"

      "Oh, uh – it's Walden ... J-Jim Walden."

      "And how long have you been manager here, Jim?"

      "I-uh – seventeen ... yes ... s-seventeen years next month."

      "Okay, Jim," Souther said. "Go with him." He gestured toward Needles.

      Needles patted Jim down and had him gather up the empty duffel bags. Then he took him at gunpoint and headed for the basement vault.

      "Okay, everyone!" Souther said. "My young friend here will accept your donations, now." He indicated Aaron.

      Still short of breath and barely lucid, Aaron struggled to his feet and pulled the plastic trash bag out of his jumpsuit pocket. He held it open and stared out at his audience. The abject terror in their eyes mirrored his.

      "Everything goes in the bag." Souther said. "That includes cell phones, people!"

      Aaron moved from hostage to hostage like a battery-powered Halloween robot playing a sick game of trick-or-treat. Ladies surrendered their jewelry and purses, men their watches and wallets, their tortured souls reaching out to Aaron like diseased prisoners clawing the dungeon turnkey.

---

      The massive stainless-steel vault door was circular and about eight feet in diameter. It was polished to a mirror finish, with a large brass-spoked handle in its center.

      Jim was hunched over the fluted dial, betting his life on completing his assigned task. His hands shook, and he dripped with sweat. He peeled his glasses from his face and wiped them dry with his handkerchief.

      Needles prodded him in the back with his rifle barrel. "Let's go," he said. "I could've opened the damn thing myself, by now."

      "I'm trying," Jim said. "God in heaven ..." He replaced his glasses and continued to tickle the sensitive dial. "I-I just need the last ... lousy ..."

      He stood and proudly spun the handle, then pulled hard against the weight and swung the massive door aside.

      "Okay, let's
move,
" Needles said, gesturing with the barrel of his gun. Then he followed Jim into the vault.

---

      Aaron's trash bag was getting heavy; he pictured it ripping wide open and wondered what he would do if it did.

      He came upon the dead hostage – the frozen expression of death by surprise. Aaron tried to lift the bulky bag over the sizable pool of blood that had spread into the surrounding carpet, but the thin black plastic just stretched and dragged through the blood, leaving a crimson trail as he passed.

      The blue smoke effect was rapidly dissipating as Souther paced the floor in the center of the lobby, his rifle hanging in one hand, his eyes and teeth flashing through the holes in his ski mask.

      "Let's be generous, shall we?" he said. "A wedding ring is not worth your fucking life."

      Jim Walden appeared from the back dragging four heavy duffel bags; he was soaked to the skin with sweat and looked to have aged ten years. Needles followed, a stride behind, the barrel of his rifle making a dent in Jim's back.

      Souther was openly pleased. "I'll take those," he said.      Jim slid the straps off of his narrow shoulders and the money slumped to the floor at Souther's feet.

      "Go join the others," Souther said.

      Jim nodded and did as he was told. As he passed the dead hostage, he paused to spread his suit jacket over the victim's face.

      Souther saw that Aaron was finishing up as well. He pulled the little kitchen timer out of his jumpsuit pocket, set the dial to five minutes, and placed it on the carpet between the empty smoke canisters. Then he stepped back and looked around at the hostages.

      "Listen up!" he shouted. "When that bell rings you are free to go about your business." He indicated the timer. "Until then, stay where you are and no one else gets hurt."

      He and Needles gathered up their loot and headed for the door. Aaron brought up the rear, dragging his bag behind him.

      Suddenly he stopped, let go of the bag, and pulled the gun out of his pocket.    

      "
I QUIT!
" he screamed, and a deafening silence absorbed his words like a padded coffin.

      Souther turned to see the barrel of his 9mm pointing straight at him. He recalled having left the gun on the floor of the van and kicked himself for being an idiot.

      "Nice move, kid," he said calmly. "What's going on?"

      The enormity of Aaron's predicament burst upon him like a thunderclap and his heart dropped into his shoes.

     
This monster would just as soon kill me right now as wipe his nose,
he thought.
But I can't just shoot him – can I? Oh, God ... what have I done ...

       His thoughts trailed off. Time slowed and the pistol grew heavy in his hands. For a brief torturous moment he considered turning the gun on himself. Then he began to cry.

      "I can't do this any more," he said. "I can't do this to these people."

      "It's just stuff, kid," Souther said, sounding coldly imperious. "They'll get over it."

      Aaron held the gun steady. "That's
bullshit!
" he shouted. "They won't get over it! One of them is dead because of you! You murdered him!" He quickly wiped his eyes with the arm of his jumpsuit, knocking his ski mask slightly askew. "Do you know what I think? I think you're nothing but a big bully! You act tough all the time to cover up the fact that inside you're a coward – a blood-thirsty psycho who kills people because he can't think of a better way to get things done!"