“Blaze one?”
“Yeah, like a doob.”
Dustin froze and didn’t respond. He hadn’t heard those terms before.
Albert rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you know what a joint is. As in pot? You know, a blunt? Doobie? Spleef?”
“Oh, that,” he said, nodding. He twisted the paper lengthwise, winding it tight. “Like this?”
“Close enough,” Albert said, striking a match. He held it out. “Hold it still.”
The red-hot glow exploded on the paper, tearing at Dustin’s vision. Once the paper resembled a torch, Albert took it and began a march through the maze of tables.
The fat man zigzagged a path to the back, where he was greeted by another door. “The supplies we need are in there.”
Albert grabbed the knob, but Dustin didn’t see it turn. “Locked?”
Albert smirked. “Not surprising. The District makes Mr. Carson keep it locked up. You know, to protect it from assholes like us.”
“Yeah, assholes like us,” Dustin mumbled, realizing they were about to commit more crimes.
Albert scowled and switched to a more commanding tone. “It’s a damn good thing we have these badges on, because it’s our duty as duly sworn officers to make sure everything is still here and accounted for. Can’t be too careful these days. Damn vandals are everywhere.”
Dustin laughed at Albert’s twisted sense of humor.
Albert gave the burning wad of paper to Dustin, freeing his hands for the lock pick set again.
As the fire quickly worked its way down the shaft of the giant doobie—as Albert had called it—Dustin worried about the flames. The heat was intensifying by the second, bringing his fingers into play. He looked around for a place to toss the paper and found it: the stainless steel wash sink. A Bunsen burner sat next to it, giving him an idea.
He opened the burner’s value with a quarter turn, then held the flame over the spout. The gas ignited in a poof, allowing him to dispose of the paper torch in the metal basin.
Dustin cranked the knob on the faucet, but the water pressure failed. Only a momentary trickle leaked out. It landed on the flame with a sharp hiss, sending a puff of smoke rising.
“Good idea with the burner. Gas still works,” Albert said, his fingers continuing to work the lock.
“Yep, but not the water. Pumps are out.”
“Got it!” Albert announced, straightening his posture. He opened the door, then pointed at the gas burner. “Move that a little to the right and see if you can turn it up a notch. I’m gonna need as much light as I can get.”
Dustin slid the burner across the smooth counter, making sure he didn’t stretch the rubber gas line too tight. He played with the valve and was able to open it a little farther than before. The flame grew brighter—about twenty percent, he guessed.
“That’s about as good as it’s gonna get,” Dusting said, moving to the supply room’s door. He held it open with his backside. The light from the flame penetrated the supply room, thanks to his slender frame.
The storage area was about the size of a racquetball court, with a central walkway down the middle. Both sides of the aisle were framed by a lower cabinet that ran from the front wall to the back. The twin, all-black storage compartments had a series of sliding doors along the front. Metal shelves sat on the countertops, each set back about six inches from the leading edge.
The room was crammed full of supplies, all arranged neatly by item: beakers, test tubes, glass bowls, rubber tubing, spare burners, gas masks, goggles, scales, plastic containers, jars of chemicals, and a host of other paraphernalia he hadn’t seen before.
A loose stack of cardboard boxes stood at the far end of the room, each roughly the size of a microwave oven and with their top flaps open.
Dustin guessed the chemistry teacher had recently finished restocking its supplies for the upcoming school year. The empty containers had the same name stenciled along their sides in blue ink: Blue Husky Supply. The company’s icon showed the head of a furry dog wearing safety goggles.
Albert grabbed a carton from the top of the heap and tucked its flaps inside. He put the box on the leading edge of the counter, using his generous belly to hold the container in place while his sausage fingers worked through the first section of supplies. He must have known exactly what he was looking for, as he worked quickly, with little hesitation between the items he packed. He slid the box over and continued until it was full, then picked it up with a grunt.
Albert brought it over and put it on the floor next to Dustin’s feet. “This one’s yours.” He returned to the cardboard stack, grabbing another carton and prepping its flaps for storage.
He filled the second box with stuff from the other side of the room. About half the items were from the metal shelf sitting on top of the cabinet, but the rest were pulled from inside one of the unit’s sliding doors. Dustin found it odd that his new friend never bothered to check the contents of the other doors, sticking only with the one in the middle.
When Albert finished, he carried the box through the door and stood near the burning flame with pinched eyebrows. “You coming, or what?”
Dustin wrapped his hands around the bottom of his box and picked it up, finding it heavier than expected. The abundance of heavy duty glassware clanked together as he moved.
Albert began his walk to the classroom door. Dustin followed, letting the storage room door close on its own behind him. He heard the heavy click of the self-locking mechanism when it engaged.
He was halfway through the classroom when a horizontal light appeared outside. It cut through the moonlit shadows like a knife through butter, its powerful beam dancing around in a familiar up and down pattern. A flashlight—getting closer.
Albert whirled around and whispered sharply, “Get down!”
Dustin followed Albert’s lead, dropping to his knees behind the closest lab station. He put the box down and leaned up to take a peek over the counter.
The ceiling lit up as the flashlight went into search mode. Whoever had been outside was now inside and checking out the lab.
Albert turned and spoke in an even softer whisper than before. “We stand up on three. Let me do all the talking. Okay?”
Dustin hesitated, letting the words sink in. They were busted. No doubt about it. He hated the idea of his permanent record being marred with a conviction for breaking and entering. And theft. A stab of pain slammed into his chest when he considered his future—a life behind bars.
Albert tugged on Dustin’s arm, snapping him out of his guilt-ridden trance. Dustin locked eyes with his fellow thief, bringing his attention to bear.
“Trust me,” Albert whispered. “Just follow my lead. Can you do that? Otherwise, we’re both gonna get jacked.”
Dustin gulped down a fleshy bulge of mucus, then nodded.
Albert stood up and so did Dustin, though his skinny legs wanted to make a run for it. The door wasn’t far away. Albert’s abundant size meant Dustin would easily get to the door first—a huge advantage if the flashlight wielder decided to give chase.
Dustin waited for his feet to begin their sprint, but they never moved. A second later, the flashlight beam hit him in the face from somewhere near the entrance door, blinding him.
“Identify yourself!” a male voice called out from behind the light.
“Deputy Sheriff Mortenson,” Albert said, his voice terse and to the point. He pointed a finger at Dustin. “And this is Deputy Brown.”
“What are you doing in here?”
Albert’s voice slowed and turned deeper. “My partner and I were on patrol when we noticed the door to the lab was open. We came inside to investigate.”
“Who was in here?” the man asked, his tone gruff. Possibly the night security guard.
“A couple of teenagers. But they took off as soon as we showed up.”
“You just let them go?”
“Look at me,” Albert said, rubbing his massive belly. He tilted his head as a grin took o
ver. “Do I look like the kind of man who runs?”
“No. I suppose not. What about your partner? He looks capable.”
“He’s new on the job. I didn’t want him chasing the perps down on his own. Besides, they dropped the boxes before they split, so nothing was actually taken. They’re right here, behind the tables. I can show you, if you like.”
“Okay, but no sudden moves.”
Albert picked up his box and put it on the table. “There’s another container here, if you’d like to see it.”
The man lowered the flashlight, then swung it to Dustin’s right, landing it on the active Bunsen burner.
Albert continued the ruse. “We figure the kids lit the gas so they could see what they were doing. Looks like they were here for supplies. My guess is they’re planning to cook some drugs.”
“Again?” the flashlight man asked.
“This has happened before?”
“Yeah, last summer. Never caught the kids who did it, either.”
“Then it must be the same group. With the power out and everyone scrambling, they must’ve assumed this was the perfect time to come back for more.”
“Damn it. I told the Principal we needed to put cameras in the storeroom. But nobody ever listens to me,” the man said, moving forward as he brought the light back to Albert. Only this time, the light wasn’t aimed at the fat man’s face. It was angled to the left and down.
The beam must have been reflecting off something because it was now showering the man’s face with light.
He was older, in his fifties or sixties, and Caucasian. Pale white, to be exact. Like he hadn’t seen the sun for years. Other than his thin gray hair and handlebar mustache, he looked mostly normal, Dustin decided. No real distinctive traits either, except his albino skin and his gray, weary eyes. They looked pushed too close together, like someone had used a vise on his head.
At least the man wasn’t wearing a security guard’s uniform. Nor did it appear he was armed. The nametag stenciled on his work shirt said Wade.
“I know I’m just the night janitor, but I swear, it’s like I’m invisible around here. It gets old. Fast. Just once, I’d like the Principal to listen to me.”
“Well, the Sheriff’s Department thanks you for your diligence. We can’t be everywhere all the time, so it’s important for citizens to stay alert and report anything they see. Especially now, when we’re in the middle of a crisis. Well done, sir.”
Wade smiled, looking relieved. “Thank you. Just trying to make a difference. Though after forty-two years, I still get no respect.”
“Forty-two years? On the night shift?” Dustin asked.
“Yeah. I prefer the quiet. Not a big fan of people in general. Or the whiny teenagers and their disrespectful ways. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think kids should be calling me Dennis. It’s Mr. Wade to them.”
Dustin had his answer. The pale skin was from decades of working the nightshift.
“Well, Mr. Wade, your dedication to this school is commendable,” Albert said, picking up the box from the counter.
“I think that should remain here. That’s school property,” Wade said. “I don’t want to get blamed for it going missing.”
“You won’t. I’ll make sure the Principal knows we have it and how helpful you were tonight. We’ll return it as soon as we have the glassware analyzed for fingerprints. These kids might be in the system.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Do you guys need any help? With the power out, I’m not going to get my weekly cleaning done tonight.”
Albert shook his head. “Nah, we got it. But thanks. If you could light the way, we’ll follow you out.”
“Don’t you fellas have flashlights? They’re standard issue, right?”
Albert answered without missing a beat. “You’d think so, but with the budget cuts and all, gear and batteries are kinda scarce. That’s why we’re usually assigned to the day shift.”
“But with the power out—” Wade started to say.
Albert finished his sentence, “—they called everyone in. It’s all hands on deck until this crisis is over.”
Wade took a few seconds, his eyes darting back and forth. Then he looked up and nodded. “I’ll lead you out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Franklin Atwater ran through the front door of his equestrian store and grabbed a flashlight from inside the solid metal cabinet on the left. He turned the beam on, using it to illuminate the rows between shelving units as he searched for the intruder. He came up empty in all seven aisles, then checked behind the lengthy checkout counter. No sign of anyone.
He didn’t understand it. The door was open but nothing had been disturbed. In fact, everything was exactly how he’d left it, both behind the counter and on the shopping floor. All of his inventory was still neatly organized and pulled forward to the front edge of each shelf, making them look full even though they weren’t.
It was time to check the office in the back. When he arrived, he found the door open. A knot formed in his gut, thinking about his sales receipts. He’d left them in the safe. A week’s worth.
He went inside and was met with a frightening scene. It looked like a tornado had rolled through. Paper was everywhere, covering his desk and the floor in a blanket of indiscriminate white.
Franklin pushed his boots through the layers of agonizing mess, then sat in the roller chair behind his six-foot oak desk. He exhaled, then spun around and removed a strategically placed montage of equestrian photos on the credenza to reveal a hidden wall safe.
The safe’s door was still locked, even though the rest of his workspace looked like someone had invited a herd of angry buffalo inside.
He spun the dial to enter the left-right-left combination before turning the handle. The door opened on the first try, revealing stacks of cash inside. Each had been wrapped with a rubber band and a paper receipt showing the bundle amount in his own handwriting. He ran a quick count—seven stacks—all there.
The drawers to his desk weren’t closed all the way, and neither were those of the mini-filing cabinet standing nearby. He checked the contents of both—someone had rifled through them, but he didn’t think anything was missing. However, he couldn’t be sure unless he spent hours putting everything back where it belonged.
Every item in his office had a specific spot assigned to it, something his daughter often complained about after Franklin scolded her about misplacing items. He always felt terrible about the reprimands but couldn’t control his unwavering desire for tidiness. It was who and what he was, courtesy of his years spent in the US Army.
If Franklin closed his eyes and slipped into his memories, he could still feel the raw power of his drill instructor’s baritone voice vibrating the layers of his skin. The man’s daily regimen of preachings had become etched in his soul, none of them more important than maintain order and discipline at all times.
Organization was his stress reliever. It wasn’t easy keeping a horse business turning a profit, all while raising a young girl as a widower.
When he first purchased the operation from an old-timer who wanted to retire, he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. At first, the clientele seemed taken aback when an outsider took over. But not just any outsider—a black man from the East Coast with no equestrian experience. It took a solid year of second-guessing and endless mistakes, but eventually he made it work. All was running smoothly. At least until now.
If the intruder was after something specific, he didn’t think it was cash or supplies. The safe wasn’t touched and the store hadn’t been looted. In fact, the inventory on hand appeared to have been completely ignored, indicating the burglar went straight to his office after breaching the entrance.
Since none of the walls were spray-painted and nothing appeared to be maliciously damaged, he was certain this wasn’t the work of tweakers looking for something they could pawn. Nor was it bored teenagers, out for a late-night thrill.
Then he remembered it. His vinta
ge 1911. The stunning stainless steel pistol his late wife, Michele, had bought for him as a gift on their tenth wedding anniversary. The same day she told him she was pregnant with their second child.
The .45 caliber firearm was his most prized possession, not only because of its age and model, but because it was the only memento he still had of Michele after their pull-behind trailer caught fire and claimed her life, and the life of their unborn child.
The fast-moving inferno consumed the camper in minutes, destroying everything they owned in the process. Well, almost everything. Everything except the clothes on his back and those Megan was wearing when they went out for a stroll while Michele stayed behind to take an overdue nap. If he hadn’t tucked the pistol inside the back of his waistband before their nature walk, it would’ve been consumed by the blaze as well.
Whenever he thought about his love for her, the unmistakable scent of burnt metal and scorched flesh would invade his senses. The tragedy happened while they were traveling West, shortly after he retired from his stint as a master welder with the Army Corp of Engineers.
Focus, Franklin, focus, he told himself, needing to get a grip on the moment. The painful memory cleared a few moments later, allowing him to focus on the present.
He stood up and pushed the roller chair away. He dropped to his knees, then leaned under the right side of the desk, putting his hand under the oak surface. His fingers went for the Colt, but it wasn’t there. The Velcro strap was hanging open. He checked again, feeling around in desperation, but the holster was still empty. His heart sank.
That’s what the thief was after—his prized handgun and last memento from the love of his life.
Right then, a new idea came unbidden into his mind. He scrambled to his feet and ran out of his office, then took a sharp right and cruised along the back wall until he made it to the far end of the checkout counter.
He flipped the barrier arm up and made a quick turn before scampering twenty more feet to the cash register. He put his hand under the counter and instantly found what he was looking for—the shotgun nestled in its spot.
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