by R. L. Stine
Reva headed along the narrow corridor toward the escalator that would take her to the main floor. What a morning! she thought, very pleased with herself.
Her little jokes had gone off even better than she could have hoped. Lissa’s face turned red as a tomato, Reva thought, chuckling. Maybe it’ll never go back to its natural pasty color!
What a drip.
Mitch will be much better off without her. She’s such a waste of time.
The little surprise she had cooked up for Robb had gone really well too. She had to laugh. There he was, ready to begin a management career, but the only thing he was going to manage was a line of drooling kids from a chair in Santa Land.
She probably shouldn’t have played those jokes, Reva thought. But why not? Why not get a few laughs?
Besides, Mitch, Robb, and Lissa were all lucky to have jobs.
Despite her jokes, Reva was certain they were grateful to her.
Of course they were grateful. They had to be.
Everything was going so well. Reva had seen on Rawson’s clipboard that Mitch was assigned to electronics, Lissa to the book department.
Hope she doesn’t get too many paper cuts opening the book cartons, Reva thought nastily.
She knew that Mitch had overheard her request to Rawson, so he had to know that Reva was interested in him. She hadn’t been very subtle about it. But subtle wasn’t Reva’s style.
Later, she decided, she’d pay a visit to Mitch and be even less subtle.
Yes, this was definitely starting out to be fun.
Walking jauntily, Reva was just a few yards from the escalator when a hand grabbed her from behind and pulled her roughly around the waist.
“Hey!” she cried, trying to pull free. “Let go—”
Another hand clamped hard over her mouth.
Despite her struggles, she found herself being dragged into a darkened supply room.
Chapter 8
A LITTLE SCARE
Reva’s heart thudded in her chest. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness. She couldn’t break away. She couldn’t scream.
Then, to her surprise, the hands that had pulled her into the empty room loosened and let her go.
Reva spun around, anger overcoming her fear.
“Hank!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
He laughed that familiar, high-pitched laugh. His dark eyes glowed in the dim light of the supply room, his expression mirthful, amused.
“Did I give you a little scare?”
She stared back at him, unwilling to let him know just how much he had terrified her.
“Just paying you back for Sunday night,” he said, still grinning, his face close to hers.
“What do you want?” she snapped, edging back toward the open door. “Did you come here just to pull that dumb joke?”
His smile broadened. “I work here,” he said.
Reva’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Huh?”
“You heard me. I work here. Starting this morning.”
She took another step toward the door. “You got a job here? Someone hired you?”
His smile faded. His eyes burned into hers. “I didn’t need you to get a job. I did it on my own.”
She uttered a scornful laugh, twisting her face into a sneer. “So where’s your broom? Or did they only issue you a dustpan?”
He didn’t react to her sarcasm. “I’m working in the security department,” he said quietly. “An assistant. I watch the security monitors.”
Reva shook her head scornfully. “Perfect job for you, Hank. Watching twelve boob tubes all day long and getting paid for it.”
He jammed his large hands into his jeans pockets. Her remark had gotten to him. “Hey, you know I’m into electronics,” he said, sounding defensive. “Who fixed your VCR last week?”
“Who fixed your brain?” Reva cracked. “You’re just following me around, Hank. That’s the only reason you got a job here. You can’t believe that I broke up with you. But I did.” Her voice hardened, her eyes grew cold. “It won’t do you any good. We’re through, Hank. So leave me alone.”
As much as he tried to conceal it, Hank’s face revealed that her words had stung him. “I needed a job. That’s all,” he said but without conviction.
Then he grabbed her arm. “Listen, Reva—”
“Let go!”
“I didn’t do anything to you,” he said heatedly. “You have no reason to give me a hard time.”
“Let go. You’re hurting me!” she cried.
He let go of her arm but didn’t back away.
He’s so big, Reva thought, so powerful, so strong. If he really wanted to hurt me, he could do it easily.
“I’ll be watching you, Reva,” he said with sudden menace.
“What?”
“I’ll have twelve monitors. I’ll be watching every move you make.”
Even in the darkness of the empty supply room, Reva could see his anger. As she backed away from Hank into the corridor, his words echoed in her mind and she felt a chill, a cold tingling down her spine—the chill of real fear.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Clay, what’s with the knife?” Pam asked.
He shrugged. “Just playing.” He continued opening and closing the blade.
He always has to be fiddling with something, Pam thought, watching his hands. He can never just sit still.
“Hey, man, that’s not a Boy Scout knife,” Mickey said, scratching his head. “Where’d you get it?”
“Found it,” Clay said, an odd smile forming on his lips.
They were sitting in Mickey’s small, boxlike living room. Pam slouched low in the worn cushions of the threadbare couch, Clay in the wooden chair across from her, Mickey on the floor, his back against the couch, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, two unwrapped candy bars in his lap.
Across the room the TV was on, a rerun of some Police show. No one paid any attention to it. The wind howled outside the narrow living-room window, rattling the glass.
The sound of a pop-top being pulled could be heard from the kitchen just behind the living room. They could hear Mr. Wakely shift in his chair at the kitchen table. He’d been sitting there since Pam had arrived, finishing off two six-packs of beer. She’d heard him get up once to go to the refrigerator and pull out another six-pack.
“He’s been drinking nonstop ever since he lost his job,” Mickey confided, lowering his voice to a whisper. “He’s heartbroken. I can’t even talk to him about It.”
“Has he tried to find another job?” Pam whispered.
Mickey shook his head. “He hasn’t left the house. Except to buy beer.”
“Some Christmas this is going to be,” Clay said glumly, slapping his palm with the side of the knife blade.
“Where’s Foxy?” Mickey asked, tearing open one of the chocolate bars and taking a big bite.
“He had to work late tonight and then go someplace with his parents,” she replied, her fingers playing with a ripped bit of fabric in the arm of the couch. “You know he got a job.”
“Huh? Where?” Mickey asked, chewing.
Pam rolled her eyes. “At Dalby’s. Do you believe it?”
Clay snickered bitterly. “Foxy got a job at your uncle’s store and you couldn’t?”
Pam’s expression darkened. She could feel the anger building inside of her, like a volcano ready to explode. “I have my cousin Reva to thank,” she said through gritted teeth.
“She’s a cold wind,” Clay said, twirling the knife in his hand. He smiled, pleased at his poetic description.
“She’s a liar. That’s what she is,” Pam said heatedly, surprised at the force of her own emotion. “Someday I’m going to tell her what I think of her.”
“Why not do it right now?” Mickey suggested, gesturing toward the phone on the low table beside the couch.
Pam considered it briefly, then shook her head. “It’s not worth it. First thing you know, Uncle Robert would be calling my
dad, and it would start a big family fight.”
“So?” Clay asked, staring at her with his hard, steel gray eyes.
“So I don’t want to wreck my parents’ Christmas too,” Pam told him, still playing with the frayed couch fabric. “I don’t want to start a world war. I’d just like to get back at Reva somehow.”
From the kitchen they could hear the top being popped off yet another beer can. “I hate your uncle too,” Mickey said angrily. “Look at what he did to my dad. A month before Christmas.”
Clay burst out humming a loud, off-key version of “Deck the Halls,” twirling the knife as he sang. He stopped abruptly and jumped to his feet, the diamondlike stud in his ear catching the light from the floor lamp. “Can you guys keep a secret?”
Pam gazed up at him. She’d only seen that gleeful expression on his face once before, when he’d ditched the police cruiser.
“Yeah, sure,” Mickey said, pulling himself up straight.
“No. I mean it. Really,” Clay said, starting to pace quickly back and forth across the small room.
Mickey pulled himself up beside Pam on the couch. They both followed Clay with their eyes, wondering what had gotten him so worked up. “What’s your secret?” Pam asked.
“Come on, man. You know you can trust us,” Mickey added.
Clay stopped pacing and leaned against the windowsill, staring out into the darkness. “I’ve been working on a little plan,” he said quietly, so quietly they had to struggle to hear him.
They waited for Clay to continue. But instead, he walked over to the TV and turned up the sound. Then, glancing toward the kitchen, he pulled the wooden chair over to the couch and straddled it right in front of Pam and Mickey.
Hugging the chair back, he began to speak in a low, excited voice, glancing toward the kitchen every few seconds, obviously determined that Mr. Wakely wouldn’t hear what he was saying.
“I have this plan,” he repeated. “I know it’ll work. It’s a way we can have a good Christmas. I mean, get presents and stuff.” He glanced nervously toward the kitchen, then turned his eyes on Pam. “And it’s a way you can get back at your cousin.”
“Huh?” Pam stared at him, confused. “Clay, what are you talking about?”
“I’ve already worked it out with the night security guard at Dalby’s,” Clay whispered excitedly, leaning close to Pam and Mickey. “I’m going to rob the store.”
Chapter 9
THE PERFECT CRIME
“Maybe you two would like to come along?” Clay asked.
Mickey laughed and playfully slapped Clay’s shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?”
But Pam knew immediately that Clay was serious. Clay, she knew, didn’t really have a sense of humor. He didn’t kid around or say things to get a reaction from people.
Clay meant what he was saying.
The intensity on Clay’s face quickly convinced Mickey that Clay really was planning to rob Dalby’s. And now Clay continued to stare expectantly at both of them, as if awaiting an answer.
“Hey, Clay, come on!” Pam exclaimed. “I can’t rob my own uncle’s store!”
Clay’s eyes filled with alarm, and he stood up to clamp a hand over Pam’s mouth. He peered toward the kitchen, listening for any sign that would indicate Mr. Wakely had heard. Then, slowly, he pulled his hand away from Pam’s face.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I forgot.”
“Don’t sweat my dad, man,” Mickey assured Clay. “He’s so out of it, he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Let’s just keep it down anyway,” Clay said sharply. He sat back on the chair, his long arms dangling over the chairback, his legs straddling the seat. “Listen, Pam, it won’t be like an actual robbery,” he explained. He opened his knife and began tapping the blade against his open palm again. “It’ll be sort of like Robin Hood. Know what I mean? We’ll take some stuff from the rich and give it to the poor for Christmas—namely us.”
Mickey giggled again, nervous laughter. “I don’t believe you, man.”
“Well, believe it,” Clay said seriously, tapping the knife blade harder against his hand.
“I can think of easier ways to get back at Reva,” Pam said, this time remembering to whisper.
“Yeah,” Mickey said, scratching his jaw nervously. “Robbing a big department store could be dangerous, you know?”
The wind picked up, rattling the window hard. Clay whipped his head around, as if expecting to see someone standing behind him. Seeing no one, he turned back to his friends, his expression still hard and serious.
“It’s not going to be dangerous at all,” Clay said in a flat, expressionless tone. “It’s not even going to be a real robbery.”
“What are you talking about?” Pam asked.
A chair scraped across the floor in the kitchen. Mr. Wakely let out a groan. Clay raised his hand, signaling the others to be quiet. A few seconds later they heard quiet snores from the other room. Mickey’s dad had fallen asleep.
“I know John Maywood,” Clay said, relaxing a little as the rhythmic sound of the snoring continued to float into the room. “He’s the night security guard. He’s an old friend of my dad’s. Your dad must know him too, Mickey.”
“Yeah. Sure. I know who John Maywood is,” Mickey said, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.
“Well, Maywood is real sore that your dad got fired,” Clay told Mickey. “When I told him I had this idea about robbing the store, Maywood just laughed. He thought it was an excellent idea. He hates the Dalbys. He said right away that he’d help me.”
“Help you? How?” Mickey asked.
Pam sat staring at Clay in silence, wondering how far Clay really would go with this, wondering how far he’d already gone.
“Maywood said he’d open a back door and let me in. Then he said he’d let me take whatever I wanted. No problem. He’ll even stand guard for me.”
“Wow!” Mickey exclaimed, twisting the candy-bar wrapper in his hand. His expression became thoughtful as he considered everything Clay had said.
“Won’t Maywood lose his job?” Pam asked. “Won’t the police know right away that he let you in?”
“Not if I make it look like a real robbery,” Clay replied excitedly.
“You mean—”
“I mean, I have to make it look like I knocked him out or something. Maybe tie him up. Hit him over the head. You know. Just hard enough to make it seem real. Maywood said he could handle it from there.”
“But what does he want in return?” Pam asked suspiciously. “He’s not going to go through all this to help you rob the store just because he hates my uncle so much.”
“No. You’re right,” Clay said quickly. “He has a list. You know, some things he wants me to steal for him. Not a whole lot. Just some stereos and a fur coat. Toys for his kids.”
“This is crazy, Clay,” Pam said. “It’s just crazy.”
“What about the alarm?” Mickey asked. “Is Maywood going to help with that too?”
Clay nodded.
Pam could see that Mickey had already cast aside any doubts and was ready to join Clay in this plan.
In a way she couldn’t blame Mickey. She knew how upset he was seeing his dad fired like that and then watching his dad fall apart the way he had.
She could understand Mickey’s desire to carry out a plan that would avenge his father.
Pam had a lot of the same feelings.
Not just because Reva had lied to her once and said there were no vacation jobs at the store. It wasn’t the first time Reva had lied to her, had kept her down, had made sure that Pam knew her place. Their entire lives, Reva had treated Pam as an inferior, as a poor relation, as a nuisance to be snubbed, to be looked down upon, to be taken advantage of.
Well, thought Pam, maybe Reva hadn’t been like that for their entire lives. There had been a time when they were friendly, when they confided in each other, when they did things together.
All that had changed when Aunt Julia, Reva�
��s mother, had died.
Everything changed. Especially Reva.
She had cut off any close ties they had had. Overnight she had turned cold to Pam, had become cruel and superior.
Is she angry, Pam wondered, because my mother is still alive and hers isn’t?
No. That was too crazy. The idea that Reva, who had everything, could be jealous of Pam was just too absurd. Pam refused to believe it.
But then why was Reva always so horrible to her?
Pam realized that in the past three years she had grown to hate her cousin. Reva’s refusal to let Pam have a job was the final straw.
The final straw. . . .
To Pam’s astonishment, she found herself seriously considering Clay’s plan.
“But how do we get into the safe?” Mickey asked. “Maywood can’t get us into the safe, can he?”
“No. No safe,” Clay told him flatly. “We’re not going to steal money. I promised Maywood that. We’ll just take clothes, and radios, and CDs, and stuff. Anything we want for Christmas.”
That bit of information made Pam feel a little easier. Robbing a safe seemed much more serious than grabbing some jeans and CDs.
“And there’s no way the police will know we’ve been there?” Mickey asked.
A loud snort from the kitchen made all three of them jump. They froze, listening hard until the regular and gentle snoring resumed.
“There’s no way the police will know,” Clay assured Mickey. “If the alarm doesn’t go off, the police don’t come. And Maywood told me he won’t trip the alarm till we’re gone.”
“And then,” asked Mickey, thinking hard, “when the cops finally do show, Maywood tells them he didn’t see anything? He can’t identify us?”
“That’s right,” Clay replied, a grin slowly forming on his narrow face.
Pam saw that Mickey was grinning too. “Neat!” he exclaimed. He turned to Pam. “It’s an excellent plan, isn’t it?”
Pam shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly.
“Come on, Pam—” Mickey urged.
“There’s no danger. Really,” Clay told her.
