Orfyn

 

 

“The parking lot is too visible,” Stryker says as we conceal ourselves in the shadows outside the back door. “We need to try our luck in the old garage.”

“What garage?” I ask.

“It’s about a quarter mile away, hidden behind some trees. But there’s a camera on the roof that will capture our getaway.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I like to get a feel for what I’m dealing with, just in case.”

With my artist eyes, I see the fine details that most people never notice. I suppose that a guy who’s trying to stop gun violence pays attention to the things put in place to maintain order.

“Is that why you wanted me to bring paint?” I ask.

“You’re smarter than you look, Art.” He flashes me his grin.

I remind myself this is Stryker’s version of a compliment.

He takes the lead, and we stick close to The Flem’s ivy-covered walls. When we reach the end of the building, he signals, and we dash across the yard until we reach a bunch of tall, scraggly bushes.

“Head to the big oak,” Stryker directs. “Go!”

We’re hopscotching our way from shadow to shadow when I hear pounding feet behind us.

“Someone’s coming after us,” I whisper.

We dart left, toward a strand of birch trees. Adrenaline surges through me like a tidal wave, even though we’re not doing anything wrong … yet.

“Wait!” A girl’s voice calls out.

Did Anna follow me? Then I realize it’s not her. “It’s Lake.”

“Why did you tell her about tonight?” Stryker accuses.

“I didn’t!”

We wait for her to catch up.

“I saw you guys from my … my window,” Lake says. “What are you doing out here at night?”

Stryker says, “We need to leave for a couple of hours.”

“Does this have something to do with Marty?” she asks.

I nod.

“Then I’m coming.”

“Lake, we’re taking one of their cars,” Stryker says. “You don’t want that kind of trouble.”

“I get to decide what kind of trouble I want.” The moonlight shines on her determined face, reminding me of a Roman statue.

“Fine,” Stryker says, as if Lake hadn’t already made the decision for all of us.

We follow Stryker to a line of trees, and as we get closer, I spot the old brick garage. He points to the left corner of the roof. “The camera is mounted there. Make a wide arc and approach from the back. Then climb up and put your paint to good use. Got it, Art?”

“Me?”

“It’s your mission. I’m just the driver.”

This is the time he chooses to be the sidekick?

I never got caught painting in the alleys, and I’m not about to let it happen now. I zigzag from tree to tree, then make a break across the open field—which is when I spot a bobbing light. I drop to the ground. Someone with a flashlight is heading straight toward me. I say a quick prayer that he can’t hear my thumping heart. I’m not sure if it was God’s doing or my dark clothes, but the Not-A-Guard, as Lake calls them, passes within feet without noticing me.

I wait until he’s out of sight, then make my way to the back of the garage. It’s only one story, but the walls have to be ten feet tall. The gutter running along the corner is too mangled to hold my weight, and there’s no doorway or window sill to use as a foothold.

As I’m slinking around the building, looking for a way up, I stumble upon a metal barrel in the tall weeds. I roll the rusty barrel to the wall and carefully stand on it. I feel its lid start to give way and leap up, grabbing hold of the roof’s edge as the barrel crumbles beneath my feet. It’s not lost on me that with Stryker’s height, this would’ve been a cinch.

I pull myself up, but when I stand on the ancient slate tiles, they crack in protest, sounding as loud as a sonic boom—at least, they do to me. I freeze, expecting to see Not-A-Guard returning to nab me, but the only sound I hear is my own heavy breathing. I get down on my hands and knees, splaying as wide as possible, then crab-crawl across the roof. By the time I reach the back of the camera, I’m layered in sweat and covered in decades of rotted leaves and who knows what else. I’m sure I smell terrific, too.

I grab my tube of black paint, squeeze a dab on my finger, add a hefty gob of spit, and smear it on the camera’s lens. Just enough to make anything seen through it blurry, but not enough to make anyone think it’s anything more than grime. Only then do I allow myself a moment to catch my breath.

I whistle softly and soon hear running feet approaching me. I’m more relieved than I’d ever admit that it’s only Stryker and Lake.

“Mission accomplished. Help me down.” I hang off the roof’s edge, and Stryker reaches up, taking the weight off my fall.

“Nice job,” he says. “If the art thing doesn’t work out, you can always lead a life as a cat burglar.”

Thanks for the confidence, Stryker. And what’s a cat burglar, anyway?

As we approach the door, he asks Lake, “Do you still have Jules’s keycard?”

“No. I left my room for a bite to eat and couldn’t find it when I got back.”

I catch Lake’s eyes. “Jules must’ve told them you had it.”

My belief in her good intentions drops a few more notches.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stryker says. “There’s no card reader.”

I test the handle, and it’s locked. I’m debating whether I should try to kick in the door when Stryker saves me the embarrassment. He pulls out his wallet, selects a credit card, and slips it between the door and the jamb. After he wiggles the card and jiggles the handle, the door opens.

“Care to tell us how you learned to do that?” Lake asks Stryker.

“I’ve met my share of locked doors.”

Stryker turns on the flashlight he thought to bring and reveals an old pickup truck next to a van with The Flemming Academy, Since 1902 on its side. As we approach the truck, a mouse skitters out from underneath, scaring the crap out of me. For the record, even Stryker jumped.

“We need to find some keys,” he says, rubbing his hands and eyeing the van.

Lake begins searching the garage, Stryker scours the vehicles, and I rummage through the tiny office. I can’t help but notice a calendar with a picture of a girl in a bikini, doing an admirable job of representing July 2002.

I rejoin them. “Nothing. Anyone know how to hotwire a car?” I joke.

“I do,” Stryker says.

Lake and I turn to look at him. Should I be surprised anymore?

“The van will be the easiest,” he says while opening its rust-pocked driver’s door. “Find me a Phillips-head screwdriver, wire cutters, and electrical tape. And work gloves, if you can.”

Lake and I collect what he needs, even the gloves. Stryker takes off the plastic casing around the steering column and tosses it on the ground. He spends a moment studying the tangle of wires, then cuts two red ones and wraps them together.

Country music blasts from the radio, shortening my life by a year or two. I lean into the van and turn off the noise threatening to destroy our plan.

Lake pulls out a piece of gum.

“Battery still works,” Stryker says calmly. He strips another wire and holds it as if it’ll explode. “Just a precaution, but I wouldn’t be touching this van right now.”

Lake and I lurch away.

Stryker touches the bare wires against each other. Sparks fly, and the engine rumbles to life. “One more step.” He grips the steering wheel and starts jerking it to the right and left, grunting with each turn.

“Careful,” Lake says. “You’ll break it.”

“That’s the point.” He yanks the steering wheel hard, and it lets out a sharp, metallic snap. He turns the wheel easily in both directions and flashes his Stryker-smile. “The Flem Van, at your service.”