Lock Artist

by Steve Hamilton

  Bigmouth looked more and more frantic as he went through the room, eventually getting to the point where he was pulling the furniture away from the walls. When he got to the lady’s dressing table, he knocked over at least fifty bottles, nearly every one exploding when it hit the hardwood floor. A few seconds later, my nose was overwhelmed by several thousand dollars’ worth of high-class perfume.

  “The fuck is this thing supposed to be?” he said. “If you were some kind of rich Jew bastard, where the fuck would you hide your safe?”

  The more agitated he got, the more I felt totally calm. I shuffled through a few of the letters sitting on the desk. I picked up five or six of them and handed them to Bigmouth.

  “What? What are these?”

  I pointed to the name that appeared on every envelope. Robert A. Ward.

  “His name is Ward. So what?”

  The coin finally dropped in his head.

  “Oh, what? So he’s not Jewish? Is that what you’re saying? Okay, excuse me, he’s not a rich Jewish bastard. He’s a fucking rich gentile bastard? Are you happy now? Are you gonna stop clowning around and help me find the fucking safe?”

  I pointed to the bed. It was a king size, with a Persian rug underneath it. The only rug in the room.

  “What? You think he hid the diamonds in his mattress? Are you trying to be funny again?”

  I took one corner of the rug and waited for him to take the other. As we pulled, the rug and the bed on top of it both slid across the smooth hardwood floor. When we had pulled it as far as we could, I went around and looked at the floor we’d uncovered.

  There it was. If it’s the most precious thing in the world to you, whether you think about it consciously or not, you want it right underneath you when you sleep.

  There was a recessed handle in the floor, with an iron ring that fit inside like an old-fashioned trapdoor. I pulled up on the ring and opened it. The door to the safe was round and only about six inches in diameter. The way it was embedded so far under the floorboards … This is going to sound a little strange, but it actually made me feel claustrophobic. To this day, I still feel that a safe should stand free, so you can see the whole thing, run your hands along every inch of its skin.

  I had to get down on the floor with my face as close to the safe as possible. Then I had to get my fingers on the dial. Instead of a turning handle, it had a simple knob that you’d pull up once you had the right combination dialed. I gave it a quick pull, but I knew this time around it wouldn’t be open.

  “Do your magic,” Bigmouth said to me. “See if you can get this one open even faster, eh?”

  Fat chance of that, friend. I started spinning the dial, parked all of the wheels, and then reversed. I picked up a wheel, then another, then another, then another.

  Then one more.

  Five wheels! I’d never even seen a safe with five wheels before. Meaning this wasn’t gonna be easy.

  I felt for the contact area, parked the wheels on 0, and started doing my thing. Go back to contact, park at 3, back to contact.

  Was that one already?

  I went to 6. Damn, this was so hard. I felt like I was reaching down a well.

  “How long you think this is gonna take?” Bigmouth said. Living up to his nickname yet again. “You about half done, ya think? A quarter done?”

  I sat up for a moment, shaking out my hands.

  “Is it open?” All excited now.

  I shook my head, put both hands up, and shooed him away.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll be right over here. Quiet as a mouse.”

  I wouldn’t bet on that, I thought, but I’ll do my best to pretend you’re not here.

  I went back to the dial and kept working my way through. I could feel the contact area well enough, but it was so damned hard to tell when it was getting short on me. I had to keep my neck at an uncomfortable angle to get close enough, with most of my weight on my right arm. It kept falling asleep on me, so I had to keep stopping to shake it again.

  “We’re getting deep into the game here.” Bigmouth was sitting over on the bed now. “I bet the other guys are starting to get anxious down there.”

  When I looked up this time, I saw that he had taken off his jacket. There was a gun tucked into his waistband. It’s official, I thought. On that checklist the Ghost had drilled into my head … sure signs that the crew you’re working with is nothing but a bunch of fucking amateurs who will surely get all of you sent to prison or even killed. Yeah, these guys had just checked off every single box.

  I took a deep breath and went in again. Time to really focus here, I thought. Get in, get out, get away. And never look back.

  When I was finally through with my first pass, I thought I had four numbers. I knew I needed one more. If you set the combination yourself, you can use the same number twice, but most people don’t do that.

  I went back through and narrowed down the numbers I had. When I got to the 27, I felt it narrow down to 26, and then also to 28. Aha, I thought. Now I’ve got them. Come to think of it, I’ve got a 1, 11, 26, 28, 59 here. That’s 120 different possible combinations, but I’ll bet anything you used your birthday here, plus your wife’s birthday. Then maybe the year you got married? If the birthdays are first, then we’re talking what, only four possibilities instead of 120. For which I would thank you very much.

  I started on the first possibility, 1-11-26-28-59. It takes a long time to spin out a five-number combination, because you’ve got to pass the first number four times, then the second number three times, then the third number twice, then the fourth number once, then go to the fifth number and then finally go back the opposite way to trip the lever. I worked it all the way through and pulled up on the knob. Nothing.

  I heard Bigmouth standing up. He was walking across the floor now. I shut him out and kept going. Second possibility, 1-11-26-59-28. Four passes, three, two, one, back, turn. Nothing.

  Bigmouth was saying something. The words not even registering now. I am far, far away, at the bottom of the sea. I am so close to opening the treasure chest.

  Third possibility, 1-11-59-28-26. Four passes, three, two, one, back, turn. Nothing.

  Pop pop pop. Just like that. Noises from somewhere on the surface.

  “Oh shit.” Bigmouth’s words breaking through. “Holy fucking shit.”

  His feet pounding on the boards now. I am yanked back to the surface, blinking and gasping for air. The last of the four combinations left down there behind me, unspun. I slide over to the window where Bigmouth had been standing. I see the black van out front, parked haphazardly, both front doors wide open.

  Then the noises again. Louder this time, coming to me even through the closed window. Pop pop pop.

  As I struggle to my feet, I see the man running down the driveway. It is Heckle or Jeckle, whichever one of them will carry which imaginary name because it’s about to be carved on his tombstone as another man comes into view behind him. He moves quickly for his size. He’s wearing a gray jacket with white letters across the back. Before I can read what the letters say, he crouches and extends the gun in his hand, both hands on the grip in a way that tells me he has done this many times before. He has practiced this exact thing over and over again. Shooting at a paper target perhaps, but the geometry is exactly the same. He squeezes off two more rounds. His target is fifty feet away from him, but I see the dark little circle appear on Heckle or Jeckle’s back. He goes down with his arms spread wide, like he’s doing a swan dive onto the hard ground.

  Another man, wearing another gray jacket, comes into view. As he looks at the dead man on the ground, the shooter turns and runs toward the front door of the house. A second later, I can hear the door opening, directly below me. Meaning it would be a good time for me to move.

  I leave the master bedroom, move down the hallway as quickly and quietly as I can. When I get to the end, I can see down into the foyer. The front door is open now. I don’t see anyone, but I can hear footsteps not far away. I
don’t want to make a break for it yet. The stairway is too long, and whoever is down there will have such a clear shot at me, he’ll have time to pull up a chair before shooting.

  I know this feeling. Sitting here and waiting. Trying to stay silent. This is familiar country for me.

  Another sound from downstairs. Smoothly mechanical. Metal on metal. Then footsteps. Moving slowly.

  A crash. A yell. Feet scrambling on the floor. Then the blast, obliterating every other sound in the world. Until the ringing in my ears fades and I hear the inhuman, not-even-animal screaming of something way beyond pain.

  That goes on forever as I back up down the hallway. Footsteps coming up the stairs now. I need to make a choice. Jump out a window? Risk breaking both my legs? There must be some other way out, another door through another room, another set of stairs, because you wouldn’t build a house this way, not with one long deathtrap of a hallway, but I don’t have time to find that other door.

  Unless I just take my shot and hope for the best. I open a doorway to a bathroom, then another to a bedroom. I go inside and close the door softly behind me. Another high window, this one overlooking the side of the house. Another thirty-foot drop.

  Okay, think. He doesn’t know how many of us are in this house. That’s one thing that works for me. Although wait … did Bigmouth even get downstairs yet? Is that him screaming down there right now?

  I go to the door and listen hard. A minute passes. Two minutes. If he opens this door, I thought, I’ll hide behind it and try to surprise him. It’s my only shot.

  Another minute. Then finally a voice.

  “I give up!” Bigmouth, from somewhere down the hall. “Don’t shoot, okay? I’m unarmed!”

  No response.

  “I’m coming out now! I’ll have my hands up, okay? There’s no reason to shoot me!”

  A door opening. Footsteps in the hallway.

  “You see? No gun, man! I totally give up. You got me.”

  Then heavier footsteps, from the other end, coming closer.

  “Hey, wait a minute.

  Hey. Hold on now. Let’s not do anything crazy, huh? Hey, come on.”

  The footsteps louder, closer. Bigmouth’s voice on the edge of hysteria.

  “No! Hold on! Wait!”

  One second I’m standing behind my door, the next second the door is exploding and knocking me backward. Bigmouth is falling on top of me. He clutches at me like he means to use me as a shield. I knock his hands away, and he’s on his feet now. He’s going back toward the door and then he stops, as the man with the shotgun is right in front of him now. A silver badge on his gray jacket. But he’s not a cop. No, sir. He’s private security, which means he could do just about anything at this point. The double-barreled monstrosity in his hands is aimed right at Bigmouth’s chest.

  I have just enough time to see the man’s face. Ugly and red. The sick little smile of a man who finally has the license to use his gun on real flesh and blood.

  The next second … Bigmouth reaches for his belt. Then the blast, more than just sound, a hard metal thing punching in through my ears. The side of Bigmouth’s head disappearing. Not so much exploding or falling but just … not there anymore. A sudden spray of blood and bone and gore on the wall and the window and the curtains and in my eyes. Bigmouth’s body still standing, not even aware of what has happened yet. Until it finally starts to tilt sideways against a chest of drawers like a man leaning against a lamppost, then finally collapsing, his legs folding and the top half of his body falling backward in a way that no living thing would ever fall.

  The man with the shotgun stood there watching this. Then when it was done he finally seemed to notice me. I was crouching against the far wall. He looked at me for a while, not moving.

  “You’re just a goddamned boy,” he said.

  I didn’t know if that meant I was off the hook. Then, as if to answer that very question, he breached the shotgun and rummaged around in his pocket with his left hand. I pushed off the wall and came right at him, with as much force as I could gather.

  He tried to swing the butt of the shotgun, but because it was breached he didn’t have any leverage or any reach with it. At the last moment I ducked down and hit him low, taking out both knees. I tried to keep rolling through him, even as he grabbed at me with his free hand and tried to pin me with his legs.

  I kicked at him until eventually I struggled free. Then I was on my feet and running down the hallway, imagining him grabbing for the shells and reloading. Down the stairs, on the edge of falling with every step. A great pool of blood at the bottom, the Ox’s torn-apart body in the middle of it. Then another mind-shattering blast, ripping through the chandelier and raining down glass all around me.

  I was through the open door. Into the cold air. That’s when something came swinging at me from out of view. The arm of the other gray-jacketed man, hitting me across the neck like a branch from one of those trees I could see in the distance.

  I was on the ground now. Looking up at the sky, which seemed to be spinning counterclockwise. It made me think back to the only other time in my life I had been captured like this. Only I had no reason to fear for my life then. I had no reason to wonder if they’d stand me up against a wall and rip me apart with a shotgun.

  I felt myself being turned over, the handcuffs being slapped tight on my wrists.

  “We’ve got you now,” a voice said. “You ain’t going nowhere.”

  Seven

  Michigan

  1996 to 1999

  *

  There was an antique store a few blocks down from the liquor store. They had a few old locks there, and the old man who owned the place seemed to already know about me, so I didn’t have to break him in with the whole pantomime routine. I found the locks, some with keys, some without, took them all to the counter, and the owner looked them over and charged me five dollars total.

  I took the locks apart and put them back together again. I practiced using my makeshift tools to open them. I had four picks now, and two tension bars, all of them just thin strips of metal I had filed down into different sizes, all of them stuck into rubber erasers that I could use as handles. I was learning by trial and error, and it didn’t take me long to figure out it was all a matter of touch. How much tension you put on the lock, and how you lift each tumbler, one by one, until the whole thing turns free.

  I got damned good at it. I really did. That was my summer. Me and a pile of rusty old scrap metal.

  Then the day came. The Wednesday after Labor Day. They were just about to start fixing up the high school around then, so you’re going to have to trust me to paint the right picture here. Start with a main building that hadn’t been touched in forty or fifty years. Tired gray bricks, windows that were too few and too small. Surround the whole thing with concrete and fencing and tall light poles. Then spread a dozen trailers all over the place, as if dropped at random. Those were the temporary classrooms to handle the overflow of students.

  Or let me put it another way. The day I came to this prison I’m sitting in right now, the day I stepped out of the Corrections Department van and took my place in line at the processing center—I was ready for it. I was ready because I had been through something pretty similar once before. The way it looked that day, the soul-crushing grayness of the place. Above everything else, the way my stomach turned inside out at the thought of spending so much time there, unable to leave.

  Yeah, I’d been there. All on that Wednesday after Labor Day, when I stepped off the bus and took my place as a member of the incoming freshman class at Milford High School.

  The first thing I noticed was the noise. After those five years at the institute, to suddenly find myself surrounded by over two thousand kids with healthy, normal voices. That main hallway was as loud as a jet engine, everyone talking and shouting on that first day of school, some of the boys chasing each other, pushing each other into the lockers, aiming sharp-knuckled punches at each other’s shoulders. I felt like I was
walking into an insane asylum.

  There were a lot of other new freshmen, of course. Most of them probably looked as overwhelmed as I was, and probably didn’t say much more than I did, either. Even so, it didn’t take long for me to stand out. Every class I was in, the teacher would make a big deal about introducing me and telling everyone else about my “unique circumstances.” The “challenge” I was bravely facing. Everybody welcome Mike, eh? Just don’t expect him to say thank you in return. Ha ha.

  I’m not sure how I got through that first day. It’s all a blur now, looking back on it. I didn’t eat lunch, I remember that much. I kept walking through the hallways, eventually finding myself back at my locker. I felt utterly lost and alone as I stood there, just spinning the dial on my locker, over and over.

  The next morning, as I was getting ready to go back to that school again, I admit it … I started thinking about suicide. I rode on the bus in my own little cocoon of silence among the roar of the other kids.

  The next day, when I got home I actually started looking around to see if I could find any pills. Uncle Lito had his own bathroom. I usually didn’t have any reason to go in there, but that evening, while he was minding the store, I took inventory of his medicine cabinet. There was aspirin and cough syrup and hangover medicine and jock-itch cream and a thousand other things, but nothing strong enough to do what I had in mind.

  I wasn’t driving yet, but still, I thought maybe I could take his car, get up some speed, and then aim right for a tree. Or hell, for those concrete embankments under the railroad bridge. Talk about a proven death trap. My biggest worry about that was that I wouldn’t get the car going fast enough, or that I’d hit something else first and end up just wounded and fucked up and in huge trouble but still very much alive.

  What a cheerful turn my little story has taken here, I know, but this was pretty much a running theme for that whole first semester at the high school. Nobody talked to me. I mean nobody. As that first semester went on, it got colder, and darker. I was getting up at six in the morning, in total darkness, to catch the bus at six forty to get to school by seven fifteen, not just going to this place I hated so much, but doing it before the sun even started thinking about coming up.