Pinstripes of dusty sunlight wrapped the high interior walls. The quiet was complete.

"I don't think anyone's here," w.i.l.l.y whispered, unnerved. The air was very warm, and as he tugged off his sweatshirt he saw that Aaron's BMX bike still leaned against the same wooden post where he had left it. He walked to it and draped his jacket over the seat.

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."

w.i.l.l.y 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, w.i.l.l.y, they'll most certainly be back."

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

Michael dropped w.i.l.l.y off at his home and drove off in search of Aaron a 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 b.a.l.l.s, 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, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the cap. He took a huge swig and pa.s.sed the bottle to Beeks. Beeks took an even bigger drink and pa.s.sed the bottle to Aaron.

Aaron pa.s.sed 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 c.r.a.p," 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sault 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 pa.s.senger 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 a.s.sault 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 a.s.signed 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 a who was watching the street, radio at hand a 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 d.a.m.n can-opener, people!" Souther shouted. "Who has the combination to the f.u.c.king 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, succ.u.mbing 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! G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l up?" he shouted, and a heavy hush lay over the room.

A frail, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed gla.s.ses 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 a it's Walden ... J-Jim Walden."

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

"I-uh a 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 ma.s.sive stainless-steel vault door was circular and about eight feet in diameter. It was polished to a mirror finish, with a large bra.s.s-spoked handle in its center.

Jim was hunched over the fluted dial, betting his life on completing his a.s.signed task. His hands shook, and he dripped with sweat. He peeled his gla.s.ses 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 d.a.m.n thing myself, by now."

"I'm trying," Jim said. "G.o.d in heaven ..." He replaced his gla.s.ses 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 ma.s.sive door aside.

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