It was the bank’s stone exterior that saved it from the fire. Barton went there first thing Monday morning, earlier even than usual. He had never been so excited to start his workday.
He found his place of employment slightly singed, but otherwise unharmed both inside and out. It was one of only two buildings that remained on the block. A few nearby structures were still smoldering. Smoking debris—paper and small bits of wood—littered the road, swirling slightly each time a horse cart passed. The road itself was hot in places and Barton could feel the heat coming through his shoes. A team of men hauled buckets of water up from the river to a hardware store that continued to smoke.
Barton thought this was what cities in war must look like—blackened and hollowed. Families crouched on the sidewalks, protecting small piles of belongings. Carts full of furniture, food, and other merchandise rattled down the street as business owners salvaged their wares. People wandered the block, like Barton, assessing the damage. Some were distraught. One man was crying, not audibly, but Barton could see him shaking, his face in his hands.
Barton, however, felt fine. Better than fine; in fact, better than he had felt in days, if not weeks. It was like the night before when he’d thought of everyone he knew who he believed should be miserable. Here now were actual miserable people. No need to imagine. These people had lost their homes, their worldly possessions, their livelihoods. Barton had lost nothing. Barton, in fact, was poised to gain. The fire had shown him so.
The image he had seen the night before, it was like something shimmering. Wavy, starry speckles had filled his vision, the way a man might feel before he passes out. But Barton wasn’t woozy. He felt strong. Because on the wave of this vision had come a plan, fully formed and brilliant.
He was going to steal money from the bank. And thanks to the fire, no one was ever going to know he was doing it.
Inside the First Bank of Spokane Falls, everything was quiet.
Much like Barton’s home, the bank was cool and dark. In fact, aside from what came through the building’s two front windows, there was no light at all; the power was out. Barton went around lighting oil lamps kept for this purpose. Electricity was still new to Spokane Falls, and even on days when there had been no disasters, its presence was not guaranteed. The oil lamps gave off a winter night’s glow, incongruous with the heat and smoke outside. It made the bank seem a world apart from the rest of the city. And in many ways, Barton thought, it was—a lone bastion of civilization and order in an otherwise orderless place.
He opened his office and set about making his preparations. The bank remained quiet, with Barton working uninterrupted until just past ten, when the Dweller twins arrived.
Barton heard the door of the bank open, and then the sound of two sets of feet trying to lay themselves upon the floor as gently as possible, as if Barton would not hear them—and if he could not hear them, he could not scold them for being late. Though he had not missed the Dwellers, had in fact preferred their absence, he felt he should take a hard line out of principle.
“This tardiness is unacceptable,” Barton yelled without getting up from his chair. “How do you men account for yourselves?”
The footsteps stopped and there was no further sound, but Barton knew, even without seeing them, that the brothers were conferring under their breath, arguing over who would be the one to speak for both. After a moment, footsteps resumed, this time a single set, and Jim’s face popped through the doorway. He scowled at Barton.
“You got a haircut. It looks weird.”
“Is that why you were late? Because of my hair? No? Then answer my question.”
“We weren’t sure if we were open,” Jim said.
“Of course we’re open,” Barton said.
“We heard there were looters and a riot. It’s martial law and the National Guard is coming to restore order.”
This was from Del, who appeared at his brother’s side. They were a strange vision taken in tandem; even after six years of working with them, Barton still thought so. The Dweller brothers were in their late thirties, a decade older than Barton, and yet they seemed to him childlike in many ways. Their moods swung from happy naivete to sullen insolence with little warning. They had identical boyish faces—too round, with eyes set too close together. Barton found them equally stupid and ugly.
“No looting here,” Barton said, with a wave of his arm. “So, no excuse for tardiness.”
He noticed both Dwellers had sandwiches in hand. Del’s mouth was full of bread as he spoke.
“You were afraid of rioters, but not so afraid that you couldn’t stop for a snack on the way?”
“We didn’t stop,” Del said. “We passed a man on the street who was giving them out. For anyone who was made destitute by the fire.”
“You two have been made destitute?”
“No, but he wasn’t asking for proof. And he had a lot of sandwiches. So we thought it was okay to take some.”
Barton’s anger flared, not for the Dwellers’ dishonesty, but for their oversight. If they liked him at all, they would have pilfered a sandwich for him too.
“Stop dallying and start your work.”
The Dwellers turned to leave, but then, as if in afterthought, Jim said, “There’s a man waiting to speak to you. We found him out front when we came in.”
A shimmering wave passed once more before Barton’s eyes. He knew this was the start of it. His plan had been made, and now it was time to act.
“I’ll fetch him straightaway,” Barton said.
“He looks poor,” Del said.
“You look poor.”
With that, the Dwellers withdrew, ostensibly to do something work related, though Barton doubted how productive they would be. They were the sort who could make a holiday of anything out of the ordinary, even a fire.