May 11, 4:35 a.m.

 

It’s here.

I am engulfed by a flutter of panic like a first time rider when the roller coaster chugs out of the station. Gripped with that gut-clenching lurch as it pulls up that first long rise, knowing there is no turning back, no escape, only the inevitable and terrifying conclusion. For weeks, I have pushed this moment from my thoughts and now, it’s here.

Fear flickers through me, an electric crackle, and is gone. I am wiped clean of mortal concerns as the plunge begins, a plummeting kaleidoscope of swiftly changing darkened colors, while a shriek born of wind speed howls outside the windows. Inside the car we float weightless, pain and life suspended like a silent fermata before the final crashing chord.

Simon cowers in the corner, terror stamped into his features. This is no roller coaster. For us, there are no safety bars, no protections, no supporting rail. I look at Simon, frozen and bereft, but feel no sorrow, no regret. Insulated as a babe in amniotic sac, I hurtle towards death. The birth into the unknown.

~~~~

May 11, 4:27 am

 

“We’re seven minutes behind schedule, people. Let’s hustle.”

Charles nudged Simon down the path while I ran ahead to unlock the control box. Despite the seven minute lapse, our operation was running according to plan. Except for Simon. Charles had brought him in at the final stage, and I didn’t know what to do about that.

I unlocked the control box, and positioned the levers to open the door for the first car on the gondola lift. Turning, I saw Charles pat his pockets, his mouth puckered in a sour frown while Simon shuffled his feet on the flagstones. The kid’s head tilted and moonlight frosted the lenses of his glasses, turning them opaque. He was the image of an earthworm, pale and squirming before the sting of the hook.

“Unbelievable! Sorry, gentlemen, I’ve got to go back,” Charles announced. He bunched his fists and let out a growl. “You two jump on the lift. I’ll catch the next one and meet you in the parking lot.”

“Simon, you better go with him,” I said. The boy hesitated. “Go on, I don’t know what he forgot, but he might need help.”

Simon turned without a word and set off down the path, but Charles turned with a scowl. “Beat it, kid. I’ll be back before you know it.” Simon stood at the midpoint between us, head swiveling.

“Let him go with you, Charles,” I pleaded. “I’ll get to the parking lot and warm up the van.”

Charles put his hand in his pocket, his face bland. I had not foreseen this and it bit into me hard.

“All right, then, Simon,” I said, given no choice. “Hop aboard.”

We climbed into the gondola. I grabbed hold of the handle to slide the door shut, and paused to look back at Charles. He had not moved. His hand was still in his pocket, and I knew what he had there. His face wore no expression, its barren planes rimed by moonlight. After a long moment, I slammed the door.

The car pulled away with a jerk, and the landing receded into the patchy morning fog as we crept out over the void like an ant on the slenderest blade of grass. I tried to steady my breath, to keep looking back at the mountain, to focus on the beauty, to think only of that. But, under the pull of an irresistible fascination, I walked to the front of the car and looked out the forward facing window.

At first I noticed nothing to warrant my suspicions. Then, as I squinted, peering into the dim light, I saw the knot. A giant clot of rusty chain, wrapped and rolled so that the links formed a tangled embrace around the cable. My heart leapt, and I clung to the idea that failsafe measures would kick in, ensuring our protection, even as I understood that Charles would have it handled. I watched the knot heading, inexorably, for the next pulley where it would clog and shudder, peeling the housing away from the cable, and we would fall away, free.

That moment, caught in the fabric of time, stretched and rolled down the mountain, down freeways and rivers, beyond the oceans and the stars, past eternity, and then was gone in the drop of an eyelid. I looked at Simon, drooping in the corner seat, and ran to the control panel, popping open the cover and slamming my hand down on the emergency brake. The car stopped with a jerk and sway.

Now what?

Through the misted window, I watched a dark and distant shape move on the landing toward the control box, melting into its shadow. The override switch. With a shudder, the car resumed its movement, the hum reverberating through me like a tolling bell. The knot moved toward the pulley system, hitting it with an angry screech of metal on metal. The cable whined and shook us in the car like a kid going after that last stubborn Milk Dud, and then we dipped sharply downward and, with a final wrenching groan, achieved freefall.

~~~~

 

May 11, 3:12 am

 

Simon, it turned out, is a highly skilled safecracker. All those days I’d greeted him in passing as he shoveled snow or trimmed hedges, a shank of dirty yellow hair curtaining his cherubic face, I’d never considered that the wheels turning in his head produced anything more remarkable than dust. My mistake.

We were both employed by Il Paradiso lodge and ski resort, a Rocky Mountain replica of some winter palace in Italy. I am the Chief Gondolier, which is a fancy way of saying that I run the aerial tramway. And because I’m a sport, most days I’ll charm the passengers with renditions of Venetian boat songs, interspersed with a little Bob Dylan or Santana, delivered in my moderately good tenor voice. Hey, it’s a living.

These are wealthy patrons. Most of them could paper the walls of their mansions with hundred dollar bills and still have enough left over to stuff the pillows of their guest houses. I stir their happy memories of Venice or the Dolomites, so I make bank on tips and the salary’s not bad either.

Apparently there are folks who can work under this kind of exposure and remain immune to the pull, uneaten by ambition or desire. The realization that I’m not one of them came as an unwelcome smack upside my ego. I can’t square it with the good guy image I have of myself. I’d begun to feel like a tightrope walker, balanced on a thin line above temptation, and when life threw me a couple of curve balls to juggle, I began to wobble. That’s when Charles approached me with his offer, and I accepted.

The vault at Il Paradiso is in the basement, behind three locked steel doors and a mesh metal gate. Between us, Simon and I could produce the three keys needed for the doors and, under siege by a hefty pair of bolt cutters, the gate made like the walls of Jericho, and we were in. As a trusted employee, I knew all the right numbers to punch into the security system to put the alarms to sleep and with the night manager snoozing off a light sedative, it was a walk in il parco.

The fact is, Charles was no more than a glorified spectator in the execution of our plan. Silly me for thinking he was actually going to get his hands dirty, and crack the vault. So, yeah, he was the main brain but the nitty gritty was all me and Simon. Charles didn’t even wear gloves, as he didn’t plan to lift a finger to help with the rough stuff. I suspect flirting with the risk of exposure gave him a thrill, like flouting a condom on a one night stand.

All three of us learned our burglar technique from the school of television crime drama, which dictates dark rooms and flashlights. Problem is, I don’t have enough hands to hold the flashlight and do my business, so I asked Charles to hold the light, pointed at my tool bag, while I put on my gloves and rifled through, pulling out all the required pieces. The guy actually complained, like I should have remembered to bring my third arm.

Simon was doing his bit and with a minimum of fuss, the tumblers fell into place and the vault was ours. This is where all the rich guests stow their jewels and excess currency, where the cash drawers from the gift shops and dress shops and salons reside overnight, and the accumulated wealth of the privileged class lounges about, rubbing elbows with its own kind. We stuffed the loot into an oversized duffel and prepared to scram.

We retreated into the custodial locker room, which was behind door number one, and dumped the bags in the middle of the floor while we peeled off our night gear and prepared to return the tools to the locked cabinets, as if we’d never borrowed them. I was stuffing the tool bag onto its designated shelf when I whirled with a muffled gasp.

“Hear that? Someone’s coming.”

Frantically, I motioned for them to check the corridor ahead while I tidied up. By the time they’d returned, giving the all-clear, I’d finished my arrangements. Simon and I shouldered the backpacks containing our clothes and personal items.

Charles grabbed the goody bag, announcing, “I’ll be in charge of this one, gentlemen.”

Simon stepped up and put a hand on the bag. “I think we should split it now.”

“That would be unwise,” said Charles. “We need to clear this area.”

“What’s to keep you from—“

I gripped Simon’s shoulder. “He’s right, man, we gotta move. I’m sure Charles is good for it.”

Charles gave me a cold grin. He pulled back his sleeve and peered at his watch. “We’re seven minutes behind schedule, people. Let’s hustle.”

~~~~

May 10, 10:01 pm

 

My shift ended at ten o’clock. I hit the locker room where I took off my black and white striped polo, red kerchief, and sash, shoving them into my backpack, throwing my black pants and flat-crowned hat on top. My heart raced like a rat on a wheel while I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went to the staff snack bar, where I ordered a club sandwich and a coke. I took a bite and chewed, but couldn’t swallow. I spit into a napkin and stared at the plate, watching a smear of mayonnaise turn translucent as the minutes ticked by.

At five minutes to eleven, I took the stairs to the ninth floor, moving slowly so that I wouldn’t be out of breath when I got to the room. The hallway was silent and deserted, the sound of my footfalls swallowed by the thick carpeting. I knocked at Suite 941, and Charles let me in.

I’d never been in a suite at Il Paradiso. It seemed to unfold and expand as I looked around. Platforms and staircases, balconies and archways, melded with paintings, sculptures, and a grand piano to form a multi-dimensional, multi-textured living environment of almost unbearable luxury. The outer wall was a sheet of glass and I imagined the view, in daylight, would be breathtaking.

“We’re in here,” Charles said, leading me past a Chinese folding screen made of fine crimson silk. I rounded it and was surprised to see the yellow-haired kid from the grounds crew sulking against the window. “Do you know Simon?” Charles asked. I raised my hand in a hello and Simon shot back a “hey”.

“Let’s get started.”

I noticed neither of them was sitting, so I followed suit and stood, listening to Charles speak, his voice pompous, the tones rising and falling like a restless ocean.

“Simon took me on a field trip last night and we’ve fine-tuned the plan from the last time we met. I’ll let him fill you in on the details and we’ll finalize the arrangements.

Simon took the floor, laid out the plan, and made sure I understood the changes, while Charles paced in the background like a caged tiger. As Simon wrapped it up, Charles returned to the table, positively simmering with satisfaction.

“We’re on for tonight.” He said, as he leaned forward, palms on the table among myriad pieces of paper where he’d worked out our strategy. Any questions?”

“Yeah, actually,” I said. “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t look like you need the money. What’s your issue?”

He snorted. “My issue?” He pushed back from the table and threw his arms out to his sides, palms up. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the baubles and toys with a hostile eye. “I’m bored. Let’s leave it at that. Anything else?”

We stared at each other while I wondered whether to pursue the subject and decided not to. I cleared my throat. “Why’d you pick him?” I asked, gesturing toward Simon. “He’s just a groundskeeper. Plenty of other guys carry the same keys.”

Charles looked smug. “Simon,” he said, “is going to crack our vault.”

~~~~

May 10, 2:14 pm

 

Pe' ll'aria fresca pare già na festa... I had a captive audience of seven and after I secured the door and we started moving, I struck a pose and assumed a contemplative expression, singing softly at first and then with more vigor as I sensed their interest and acceptance of my offering.

The family of four was clearly delighted, the two young daughters giggling into each other’s shoulders. An elderly gentleman with eyebrows like a shelf of snow relaxed the death grip he had on the seatback and smiled at his wife who reached over and patted his hand. Charles smirked from the far end of the car.

O sole mio, sta 'nfronte a te! I finished to a light round of applause. The old man’s wife caught my eye. She was dressed in an immaculate rose petal traveling suit, greying chestnut hair smooth under a matching hat. Her eyes were kind, the color of brown m&m’s. She cocked her head and asked, “What does it mean, this song?”

I dropped into the seat next to her. “It is about a man who’s weathered a great storm, but now he sees the sun is shining and he is so happy and so grateful that he can’t help but sing it. And, best of all, his heart is filled with joy and hope for the one he loves, for he sees the sun shine most brightly in her face.”

The woman smiled and leaned back against her seat. “Thank you for that,” she said and, closing her eyes, spent the remainder of the short journey with her inner thoughts, a serene smile on her rose-colored lips. The rest of us stared out the windows at the spectacular sun-washed vistas as we ascended the mountain.

We bumped gently onto the landing. I opened the door and with a dramatic gesture, bowed them out. The gigglers’ father tipped me a twenty, the woman’s husband trumped that with a fifty, and Charles pressed a hundred dollar bill into my hand with a note that said Suite 941, 11 tonight.

~~~~

May 10, 8:24 am

 

Daytime signals assaulted my sleep, working to pull me from an uneasy slumber. Pale sunlight painted a stripe across my face through a broken slat in the blinds, bathing my eyelids in warmth. Two doors down a dog barked, and grumbling motors passed by the window at varying pitches.

I tried to ignore it all and stay asleep, but when I felt a furtive weight on the mattress and a careful lifting of the sheet, I knew it was over. Tiny fingers scrabbled at my tummy and I curled my knees up, defending my tickle spot. Like a nibbling rabbit, the fingers poked and tickled, getting around my best defenses. When the bunny started giggling, I made a grab for her, capturing her nibbling fingers and smothering her in a ferocious hug while she screamed with laughter.

“Why is there a bunny in my bed? Shouldn’t you be in bunny school learning how to hop and gnaw on carrots?”

She took my face in her two frail and tiny hands, patting my cheeks so that I looked straight into her solemn brown eyes. “Mommy said I don’t have to go to school today. Can we play checkers?”

Inside my chest, a gong sounded with a dull, vibrating thud. The smile started to slide off my face but I grabbed hold and kept it steady.

“Checkers?” I shook my head. “Mmmm, I’m not sure I know how to play checkers.”

“Yes you do! Yes you do!” she shrieked, punctuating her claim with a jab to my ribs.

“I guess we’ll have to see. Go rack ‘em up.”

She ran off, singing, down the hall. I shrugged into my robe and followed the smell of coffee. Pouring myself a cup, I grabbed a chair at the small, scuffed table where I could rub the shoulders of my tired wife. Her eyes were puffy.

“You all right?” I asked softly.

She stared down at her uneaten toast, then closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. Tears squeezed through her lashes and splashed on the tablecloth.

“She seems good,” I started. “It looks like—”

“There’s blood in her urine again, her temperature is elevated, and she threw up her breakfast.”

“But she’s on the list now. This will work out. I know it. I feel it.”

“Me, too. I’m sure you’re right. It’s just…” There was a long pause full of shaky breaths. ”It’s just so hard to get through each day. And how on earth are we ever going to pay for this?”

When your child is dying, wasting before your eyes, you do everything you can, every desperate measure, and you tell yourself not to worry about the cost.

But you do.

~~~~

I kissed my two girls goodbye, holding each one for a long moment, drawing in their sweetness and their strength. I grabbed my pack and hopped the bus for work. I leave them the car whenever I can. In case.

I got off at my stop and walked the short distance to the Italian-styled village that marked the lower entrance to Il Paradiso. Here there were restaurants and gift shops, artisan’s workshops, candy kitchens, and all manner of tourist-drawing enterprises. The village is geared to attract ordinary people, although an upper-income is implied. Only the richest can afford to board the gondola and spend time at the top.

Tucked among the shops is a courier service so that folks don’t have to limit their shopping to what they can carry. They simply ship it home or to their friends as gifts. I entered the courier’s and waited my turn in line. At the counter I said, “I’d like to have a couple letters delivered securely. Can we arrange it for tomorrow morning?”

~~~~

Actually, I’d written five letters. One for my wife, which I’d tucked in my underwear drawer. With it, was the one for my precious bunny, the hardest one to write. How can words ever convey what I want them to know? Do actions speak louder? I hope my actions may resurrect the good guy I once was.

I’d done my research and written a letter to the head of the Robbery unit at the local precinct, marked URGENT, and explaining how, under duress, I’d agreed to help Charles Dahl rob the vault at Il Paradiso. I told them that if my plan worked, they would find Charles’s fingerprints on the flashlight we’d used and which was secured in my locker in the basement. I also suggested they might be able to use the sample of Charles’s handwriting I hoped to pilfer from him during our last planning session and which might, with any luck, yield another print or two. I expressed my wishes for the successful capture and prosecution of one Charles Dahl, but I had my doubts. He’d have the best counsel money can buy.

I’d written a letter to the president of Il Paradiso Inc. in which I apologized for my behavior and explained that, if all went according to plan, the stolen property could be found in a locked cabinet in the custodian’s room where I keep some tools and equipment for the running of the gondola. I planned to make a quick exchange, having prepared bundles of cut newsprint and bags of pebbles, stowing them in the cabinet.

I think that after Charles sees me off in the gondola and lets go of that gun in his pocket, he’ll open the duffel. He’ll see my deception and understand the ramifications, and he will laugh. He will be delighted. There’s nothing like a good chase to get the blood pumping and drive away the dregs of boredom. The higher the stakes, the bigger the thrill, and he’ll be playing for his life.

The last letter I wrote was the first one I mailed. It was addressed to my insurance agent, confirming my plans to increase my life insurance coverage to the maximum allowed by law and containing my check for the first premium payment. He received it last Thursday.

~~~~

I changed into my gondolier costume and signed in for my two o’clock shift. I held the door open and welcomed seven passengers aboard; a young couple with two giggling daughters, an old couple holding hands, and Charles Dahl.

I smiled and started singing.