Lock Artist

by Steve Hamilton

  Got that?

  So on Brian’s lock, I could tell that the last number of the combination was 23. So far so good. Clear the cams, spin to 3, and start on the super sets.

  “Somebody get a hacksaw,” Brian said. “He’s gonna be here all day.”

  “Give him a chance,” one of his teammates said. “Maybe he has ESP or something.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? That wouldn’t be ESP.”

  Everybody shut up, I thought. Go away and leave me alone for a few minutes. I worked it back to 9, then to 23, then to 13-23, then 17-23, working my way up the dial, bumping that second cam, feeling it move just the right amount and then staying smooth on the reverse to make sure I didn’t jar it out of position.

  Wham! Brian slammed his fist on the locker next to me. “Are you seriously going to open this lock? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “He’s not telling you anything,” Griffin said. “In case you hadn’t noticed …”

  “Yeah, okay. I get it. He’s a fucking mute.”

  I looked up at him for one second, then went back to the lock. I started the second set, hoping to God that the second number wasn’t all the way up the dial. Hoping to God that I could do it at all. What the hell was Griffin thinking, anyway? Why the hell did I have to do this in front of everybody?

  7 next. I went 7-13-23, then turned back to keep the set going.

  I heard a door open.

  “Shit, it’s Coach!”

  Mr. Bailey, the football coach, came into the room. “What’s going on in here?” he said. “Brian, why aren’t you dressed?”

  I dialed 7-17-23.

  The lock opened.

  “What are you doing, young man?” Coach Bailey said to me. “Are you his personal servant now? He can’t even open up his own locker?”

  He was holding a playbook in one hand. I made a writing motion to him. He took a blank page from the book and handed it to me. Then he fished a pen out of his pocket. I wrote 7-17-23 on the paper and gave it to Brian. Then I gave the coach his pen back. Nobody else had said a word yet.

  “Everybody outside while Mr. Hauser gets himself dressed,” Coach Bailey said. “Have you forgotten what week this is?”

  That’s how it began. I remember it so well because I can trace so much of what would happen next right back to those few minutes. If I had had any idea …

  But no, I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. I hadn’t learned that some talents cannot be forgiven.

  Ever.

  Eight

  Connecticut

  January 2000

  *

  It was the second time in my life I had been in handcuffs. The man lifted me to my feet and pushed me back inside the house. We stepped through the broken shards from the chandelier. Past the spreading pool of blood and what was left of the Ox’s body.

  “Holy fuck,” the man said. “I can’t believe this.”

  His partner was standing there in the foyer. He had come down the stairs, the shotgun still poised in the shooting position. The barrel was pointed at my chest.

  “Put the gun down,” the first man said.

  His partner didn’t move. He was looking at me now like he was in some kind of trance. That sick little smile still on his face.

  “Ron, put the gun down!”

  That seemed to snap Ron out of it. His eyes came back into focus, and he lowered his weapon.

  “Ron, I don’t even know what to say right now. Did you call the police yet?”

  Ron shook his head.

  “Come on,” the man said to me. He led me into the kitchen and put me on one of the tall stools, next to the center island. He picked up the phone and started dialing. From where I was sitting, I could still see Ron standing out there in the foyer. He was looking down at the floor. At the carnage he had created.

  The man got through to the police, gave them the address, told them to expect a horrible scene when they got here. But the last remaining suspect was in custody, he said. As I listened to him, I could feel the cold steel of the handcuffs biting into my wrists.

  The man hung up the phone. “Ron, they’re on their way!”

  He came over to me. He wiped his face with both hands and then leaned over the little sink that was set into the island. For a moment, I thought he was going to throw up, but he pushed himself back up and looked at me.

  “What the hell just happened?” he said. “How many men did he kill? Four?”

  The man went to the refrigerator and opened it. He pulled out a can of Coke and pulled the tab. Then he drained half of it in one gulp.

  “Ron, what are you doing in there? Are you okay?”

  He listened for an answer. After a few seconds, we could hear Ron saying something, but it sounded like he had moved farther away from us.

  “Why don’t you come in here with us? Where are you?”

  We started to make out the words. Something like, “The suspects were armed I saw the guns the suspects were armed I saw the guns the suspects were armed I saw the guns.” Over and over again.

  “Holy shit,” the man said. Then he came over to me and put his can of Coke down on the island, right in front of me. He went behind me and undid one of the handcuffs. I had no idea what the hell he was going to do, until he brought the free cuff around and fastened it on the faucet, below the handle.

  “You stay right here, son. I’ll be right back.”

  Then he left the room to go see what his partner was up to. Leaving me alone there. Just me and the handcuffs.

  I looked at them closely. I remembered what I had been thinking, the one other time I had worn them. How simple they were. The way the teeth on the loop fit into the ratchet. How the ratchet seemed to be the only thing holding on …

  I heard the man calling for his partner. I didn’t know how long I’d have.

  I saw a pair of scissors on the far side of the island. If I stretched out my arms, could I reach them? I stood up and tried.

  Stretch for it, damn it. A few more inches.

  I felt the handcuff biting into my left wrist, but with one more lunge I was able to put one finger into one handle of the scissors. I pulled them over and put them down in front of me. Then I grabbed the can of Coke and transferred it to my cuffed hand. I picked up the scissors again and jabbed the sharp point into the soft aluminum.

  I started cutting. I was spilling Coke all over, but I didn’t care. When I had a thin strip cut out, about two inches long and maybe a quarter inch wide, I put the can down and started working the end of the strip into the handcuff’s ratchet.

  If I can just slip this in over the teeth, I thought, the ratchet will have nothing to grip anymore. The whole loop should slide right out.

  The metal was so thin and brittle. It was taking me too long to work it in. Damn it! I could hear sirens in the distance now. They’d be here soon.

  Relax. Concentrate. Don’t force it. Let that thing slide right in. Right over those teeth. That’s it. A little more. A little more. One more notch—

  Boom! It was open.

  Just as I saw the face of the man coming back into the kitchen. His eyes grew wide as I pushed the stool over and went for the back door. I pushed it open and I was outside in the cold air, running toward the trees, the man yelling behind me.

  I saw the last dead man to complete the foursome, Heckle or Jeckle, this one lying on his back at the edge of the garden, his lifeless eyes staring right up at me as I jumped over him. The voice still yelling at me to stop. I ran into the woods, the branches whipping at my face. Running as hard as I could, past the point of suffering, until I could not breathe anymore. Not looking back until I was sure I was alone.

  I kept going through the woods until the sun went down. Moving as fast as I could, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. I found a stream and washed the blood from my face and hands, the water so cold it made my skin ache. My jacket was still splattered with the inside of Bigmouth’s skull, and I couldn’t get it anywhere near clean. So I
had to take it off, even though it was already not warm enough. Not for being outside in the woods for this long.

  I stumbled around and hid behind trees as I heard sirens in the distance. I imagined a team of men coming after me, beating their way through the underbrush, led by a pack of baying bloodhounds.

  In the end I came upon a train station. There were several taxicabs waiting out front, the drivers standing together in a pack and smoking. I circled around and came up on the station from the track side. There were no trains in sight, but I was hoping that I’d have one more shot to catch one back to New York City.

  I tried the door to the waiting room, but it was locked. The sign told me that the lobby hours were over at nine, and that if I didn’t have a ticket already, I could buy one on the train. I looked in at the clock, saw that it was almost ten. I didn’t know when the next train would be coming. A cold wind hit me and I started to shake.

  I looked over at the cabdrivers. There was no way I could approach them. A seventeen-year-old kid with no coat, his hair still wet. The police no doubt looking for me, with a decent description from my brief custody. Even the train would be a risk, but what choice did I have?

  I sat down with my back against the cold brick wall, waiting to hear the rumble of the train. I sat there and shivered, feeling hungry now on top of everything else. I must have dozed off somehow, because the next thing I remember was being jarred awake by the train releasing its air brakes. The train was right there in front of me, huge and humming. I got up slowly, feeling as stiff as a ninety-year-old man. The doors opened and people started getting off. Well-dressed men mostly, a few women, all of them making the late trip back home from the city. Now they were ready for a good meal with their families. I stayed on the edge of the scene like a stray dog.

  Then I realized that this train had come east from the city and would keep going east, deeper into Connecticut. Maybe I should get on anyway, I thought. Get the hell out of here.

  No, I thought. I don’t want to do that. I want to go back home, even if home is nothing more than a single room above a Chinese restaurant. It was all I had in the world just then, and I would have given everything I had to be back there.

  Most of the passengers were getting into their cars now. Starting them, turning on the lights, driving away. A few passengers were taking taxis. I had two choices now. Either wait for a westbound train, or pretend I just got off this one. Try to blend in with the crowd here, get into a cab, and pay him to take me all the way to back the city.

  I knew it was less than forty miles. Not that outrageous, especially if I showed the driver some money up front. I had a couple hundred dollars with me, some of the money Bigmouth had given me the night before. I took out five twenties and walked up behind the last man waiting for his taxi. When it was my turn, there was only one cab left. A good omen, I thought. He’d be glad to have me as a customer now.

  “Where you heading to, sir?” The driver was black, and he had a soft Caribbean accent. Jamaican, maybe.

  I made a writing motion. He looked at me with confusion until he finally got the message. He took out a pen and tore a sheet out of a notebook he had lying on his front seat. He watched me as I wrote on the paper. That slightly entertained look, what an interesting twist this is, a man who must write me a message, what will happen next? The whole scene I usually hated so much, but on this night I just wanted the man to understand me as quickly as possible.

  I need to go to the city, I wrote. I know it will be expensive.

  I handed him back the pen and paper, and then I showed him the twenties in my hand.

  “You want me to take you all that way?” That singsong lilt in his voice. “I’d have to charge you for the round-trip.”

  I nodded my head. Good enough, kind sir. Let’s get rolling.

  He didn’t move yet. He looked me up and down.

  “Are you okay, young man? You don’t seem good to me.”

  I put my hands up. I’m perfectly good, no problem here. Thanks for your concern.

  “You’re wet and cold. Please, get in the cab.”

  Glad to, I thought. I got in and counted the seconds until he finally put the cab in gear and left the station. My ears were still ringing from the blast of the shotgun. I could still smell the blood. I wasn’t sure if the driver could smell it, or if it was just me. Something I’d be smelling for the rest of my life.

  The driver picked up the radio. This is it, I told myself. The dispatcher will know about the search for the fifth man, the one who got away. The driver will turn and look at me, and he’ll know in an instant. If I’m lucky he won’t run the cab right off the road, will simply tell me to sit back and not to try anything funny, because he has to turn around and take me to the police station.

  Somehow, though, the dispatcher hadn’t gotten the word. Thank God for bad communication between law enforcement agencies and public transportation. The driver kept driving. I didn’t relax even then, because every time a voice would break through the static on the radio, I’d figure it would be the bulletin finally coming through. Maybe a special code that I wouldn’t recognize but the driver would know. Code 99 or whatever the hell it would be, meaning watch out for a fugitive on the run. Respond with the appropriate code if the fugitive is in your cab. The police will set up the roadblock for you.

  The code never came. The driver took me all the way into the city, softly humming a tune the whole way. I took the paper back from him and wrote down an address a few blocks away from the restaurant. Don’t let him know exactly where you’re going. One more precaution, just in case.

  The fare ended up being $150, including tip. The man thanked me and told me to get inside because it was too cold to be running around like a fool with no coat. He seemed to want to tell me a few other things, but I tipped an imaginary hat to him and walked away.

  When he was gone, I went down the street, turned the corner, and saw the restaurant. The lights were glowing in the dark. Customers were lined up at the counter, even this late at night. I went through the side door, up the stairs, and into my little room.

  There, in the shoebox, the white pager was beeping.

  Nine

  Michigan

  June 1999

  *

  Last day of school. I had one more year left, of course, but it still felt like a big day to me. Griffin would be going to art school in Wisconsin. Not far enough away from home to suit him, but he apparently didn’t have many other options. I wasn’t sure how well I’d do without him, but Mr. Martie took me aside that day and told me that a couple of the art schools were asking about me. They had seen some of my stuff at a district-wide portfolio day, and they were already liking my “special circumstances.” It made a good angle for them, I guess. The Miracle Boy healed by art.

  “This could be your big ticket,” he said. “You know what happens to you at art school?”

  I shook my head.

  “All that good natural technique you have? All that detail? They’ll beat it right out of you. They’ll be so threatened by it, they’ll make you start throwing paint at the canvas like a monkey. By the time you graduate, the only thing you’ll be able to do is teach art to high school kids.”

  Okay, I thought. I’m glad he’s excited for me.

  “On the plus side, you’ll probably get laid a lot.”

  I gave him a nod and a quick thumbs-up. He patted me on the shoulder and then left me alone.

  I kept thinking about it for the rest of the day. Maybe I’d end up at Wisconsin with Griffin. Or hell, any art school that would take me away from this place. I had this feeling in my chest, this helium lightness that I’d never experienced before. When school let out and we all had this long summer stretching out in front of us, I wondered what the evening would hold for me. There were parties, of course. I wasn’t exactly a party animal, as you can imagine, but I knew Griffin and all of the other art students would be doing something that night.

  He had arranged to pick me up at the
liquor store right after dinner. I was waiting outside when he arrived in his red Chevy Nova with the plaid seats. When he got out of his car, I pointed at myself and made a driving motion.

  “No, I’ll drive.” He looked over at Uncle Lito’s old Grand Marquis. “Come on, get in.”

  I pointed at him, made a drinking motion, spun my hands around both ears, then made like a man driving like a maniac. He got the general idea then. So that’s how we ended up in the Grand Marquis. It was total style, of course, with the two-tone finish, light brown and dark brown. Big dent in the back fender. Just over a hundred thousand miles on it, and smelling like a cigar factory. It was the only way to hit a summer night in Milford, Michigan, on the last day of school.

  We drove to the house of one of the girls in our art class. There were a dozen people sitting around in folding chairs, looking bored. We hung around a few minutes, then moved on to the next. The sun went down. The air was turning cool.

  We kept making the rounds and ended up at another art student’s house. It hadn’t been a winning formula yet, but here, finally, things were looking up. There were a lot of people there, for one thing, and the growing darkness seemed to be a signal to everyone that the real party was just beginning. There was loud music coming from the backyard, smoke rising in the sky from a barbecue. I found my classmate and shook her hand, didn’t flinch when she wrapped her arms around me. She whispered in my ear that I could have anything I wanted in my life if I kept working hard enough. The kind of thing you say only after a few beers on an empty stomach.

  She dragged me into the backyard, where the music was so loud it hurt. She was into obscure techno music, as I remember, so all the kids were dancing away or voguing or whatever the hell they were doing. Another six or seven kids were jumping up and down on a trampoline, bumping into each other and almost falling off the damned thing. The one oblivious adult stood flipping burgers at the grill, a thick pair of acoustic headphones on his ears.