Criminal Destiny

by Gordon Korman

  Now we’re all looking at our watches. He has to be at Kefauver in twelve minutes, so he should be coming out any second. 1:49, 1:50, 1:51 . . .

  Malik starts to panic. “What happened to the guy you can set your watch by?”

  “Cool your jets!” Amber exclaims, but I can see she’s just as wired as he is.

  And then there he is, a minute behind schedule, and walking fast to make up the time—George.

  As he steps through the gap in the trees into the parking area, the three of us emerge from cover and block his path.

  “Out of my way, kids. I’m in a hurry.”

  Malik raises the crowbar menacingly. “Sorry, mister. I need your van keys and your uniform.”

  He laughs. “No, seriously. I’m running a little late.” His eyes narrow as he recognizes us. “Hey, you were in the Bearclaw yesterday. What do you want?”

  Malik rears back the crowbar like a baseball bat. “I already told you. Your keys and your uniform. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  The man steps forward, and tries to shove Malik out of his way. But Malik doesn’t shove so easily, and stands his ground.

  Amber speaks up. “Don’t you get it, George? He’s going to crack your skull open!”

  George continues walking. “Let him try.” He’s getting angry now, and he doesn’t look even a little bit scared.

  Malik does look scared, the crowbar still cocked back, ready for a home run swing. “You crazy idiot, why are you making me do this? Don’t you know who I am? I’m Gus Alabaster!”

  George stops to stare at him. “The gangster? You’re bat-poop crazy, that’s who you are!”

  Malik’s eyes bulge. His whole body tenses for action like a panther ready to spring. I experience an instant of horror in that split second before the killer blow.

  It doesn’t happen. Instead, Malik drops the crowbar and enfolds the postal worker in a wrestling hug. George struggles against him, but Malik is just as big as he is, and strong. The man’s arms are imprisoned at his side.

  “The keys!” Malik grunts, the color of his face deepening through red into purple.

  “It’s a crime to interfere with the post office!”

  Amber snatches up the fallen crowbar, steps back, and takes aim at the guy’s head. The sheer determination in her eyes tells me one thing: maybe Malik won’t do it, but she will.

  I jump in front of her. “No!”

  Her expression is stone cold. “You don’t make a threat if you’re not prepared to carry it out!”

  “Hold him still!” I bellow at Malik. I reach down to poor George, and feel around his throat, looking for a certain pressure point. When I find it, I pinch hard. George’s struggles die down and, in a couple of seconds, he slumps in Malik’s arms, unconscious.

  Malik is horrified. “What did you do? Is he dead?”

  “No, he’s just out cold. I couldn’t let her brain him!”

  Amber drops the crowbar. “Where’d you learn that, Eli?” she asks, impressed.

  “It’s on the internet! There’s this artery, and when you cut off the blood flow—”

  Malik interrupts. “Help me get his shirt off! Come on! We’re running out of time!”

  Working as quickly as we can, we get the post office uniform off George and onto Malik. It’s a little loose, especially the pants. But Malik will be behind the wheel of the van when the Kefauver sentries see him, with his lower half out of view.

  The car keys are in the pants pocket. I place Malik’s discarded things over the body of the unconscious George so he’ll have something to wear when he comes to.

  “That’s my favorite T-shirt,” Malik says wistfully.

  We’re into the van, down the road, and gone. 1:56.

  As we pass the Tumbleweed Inn, Malik slows down so we can hop out. He drives on to Kefauver, tires squealing.

  Amber and I run for the hotel.

  Next stop: the computer room.

  26

  HECTOR AMANI

  Turns out C. J. Rackoff is allergic to peanut butter. Who knew? And I love peanut butter. So I guess DNA doesn’t mean everything.

  It’s an easy fix in the plan. Tori and I eat the PBJs, and leave the cheese sandwiches for “Uncle C.J.” What’s on the menu isn’t the important thing anyway.

  Rackoff washes his last bite down with a swig of lemonade, steps away from the picnic table bench, and collapses to the grass, grabbing at his throat.

  Tori screams.

  “Uncle C.J.!” I holler.

  We kneel over him. “Get help! Our uncle’s sick!” I yell up at the sentry in the tower.

  The call for help turns out to be unnecessary. Three other guards are racing toward us, proving that our private picnic wasn’t so private after all.

  “Allergies!” Rackoff rasps. “Peanuts! Throat closing up!”

  Nobody waits for a gurney. Two of the officers grab him by the legs and under the arms, and run into the building. We follow. He’s our uncle, after all. We’re terrified—although not because of any allergy.

  To our immense relief, they use a passkey to summon the emergency elevator. That means their destination is the second-floor hospital, which is exactly where we need Rackoff to be.

  “Go to the security desk, and they’ll see you out,” one of the men advises.

  “We’re not leaving our uncle!” Tori sobs. Her ability to cry on cue is actually kind of impressive.

  “He’ll be well looked after,” the other guard promises.

  “No!” she shrieks. “We’re staying with Uncle C.J.!”

  The first man seems to weigh the need to get rid of us against the urgency of taking Rackoff to medical attention. When the elevator arrives, we’re allowed to get on with them. “Stay close,” he advises. “It’s not safe for you to be wandering around without supervision.”

  The next time the doors open, we’re in the hospital. It’s the one place inside Kefauver that doesn’t look like a jail. It’s white and clean with a sharp antiseptic smell, and the nurses and doctors are not in Department of Corrections uniforms. It reminds me of Dr. Bruder’s clinic back in Serenity, only a lot bigger.

  They load Rackoff onto a gurney, and give him a shot to counteract the allergy. Then they wheel him behind a portable partition to wait for the doctor. The guards try to take us out of there, but Tori pitches an absolute fit, screaming, “Not till I know he’s going to be okay!”

  For a minute, I’m afraid the guards are going to overrule us. But before they can, the nurse relents. “The doctor will be a few more minutes. Let them keep their uncle company. It could help his breathing if he’s relaxed. Have a heart. They’re just kids.”

  That’s how we end up all alone with C. J. Rackoff behind the partition.

  Tori does the scouting through the curtain. “Okay,” she whispers, “the laundry chute is about thirty feet down the hall. Once you drop down there, you’re in the prison laundry, right next door to the workshop.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” asks Rackoff.

  I check my watch. “It’s not time yet. At exactly two-oh-five, Eli hacks into the hospital computer and plants a notation that you’ve recovered, and been taken back to your cell.”

  He seems impressed. “Old Felix picked some choice DNA when he built his clone army.”

  I think that’s supposed to be a compliment.

  But there’s not much time to be insulted. At 2:04, we roll the gurney through the curtain.

  And freeze.

  There’s a guard in the hall, not six feet from the chute. We pull Rackoff back behind the partition. I turn to Tori and mouth the words: Do they know?

  She shakes her head, directing me to peer through the gap in the hanging fabric. The guard is laughing with one of the nurses, showing her something on his phone. Okay, so they aren’t onto us, but this could be just as bad. I glance at my watch. It’s 2:06. Eli has already done his thing on the computer. We’re ready to go! But how can we dump someone down the laundry chute with two p
eople standing right there?

  Rackoff regards us questioningly. Tori silences him with a finger to her lips. Her expression says it all: not a sound. This is deadly serious.

  The minutes pass like months. 2:07 . . . 2:08. Beads of sweat are forming on her brow. Throughout the preparation, the one thing she impressed on us over and over again was split-second timing. The computer hack, the laundry chute—bang, bang. It had to be that quick.

  2:09 . . . 2:10. Who knows how this might throw off Malik in the USPS truck? The whole plan could fall apart!

  Suddenly, Tori squeezes my arm hard enough to splinter bone. The guard and the nurse are starting away. I begin a mental ten count to make sure they’re gone, but Tori springs into action before I get to eight. She blasts out of the partition, pushing the gurney ahead of her. I scramble to catch up.

  A final scan to confirm the coast is clear, and I open the chute. It’s the work of seconds for Rackoff to roll off the stretcher and wriggle feet first into the passage, for all the world like a little kid going down a slide at the park.

  We hear a distant foomp, the sound of him hitting a laundry bin one floor below.

  The next part we can only imagine: Rackoff scrambling out of the laundry, and slipping into the workshop next door. There are guards down there, and getting caught is always a possibility. But he’s a familiar face, wearing the same prison fatigues as everybody else. So there’s no reason he can’t blend in with the other prisoners on detail there. Anyway, it’s out of our hands now. Our last remaining job is to get ourselves out of Kefauver.

  We walk briskly to the nurse’s station. Tori says, “We’re ready to leave now.”

  The nurse looks surprised. “What about your uncle?”

  “He got better,” she says, “so they took him back to his cell.”

  Frowning, she checks the computer. “So they did.”

  Good old Eli!

  Tori’s eyes brim with tears. “We haven’t seen him in so long!”

  She’s such a good actress that I almost cry myself.

  “I’m sorry.” She hands us each a pass and points us in the direction of the elevator. “Show these to the sentry downstairs, and they’ll escort you to the front gate.”

  We step onto the elevator. We feel relief that our part is over. But it’s dwarfed by the understanding that so much can still go wrong.

  Now it’s all up to Malik.

  27

  MALIK BRUDER

  If we ever manage to make a real life for ourselves, remind me never to get a job working for the post office. The uniforms are itchy.

  But I’m glad I’ve got that sucker on when I roll up to the front gate of Kefauver.

  The sentry peers in at me. I can’t help noticing the rifle strapped to his back. “Where’s George?”

  I keep the hat pulled low over George’s mirrored sunglasses, and speak in my deepest voice. “He’s got a pinched nerve in his neck,” I say, and almost laugh in spite of how scared I am. There’s not much Gus Alabaster in me right now. Or maybe the problem is my butt hurts from sitting on a postal manual of US ZIP codes so I’ll look taller. The metal rings of the binding are digging into my skin, but I’m afraid to shift to a more comfortable position.

  They open up the back of the truck to make sure I’m not smuggling anything inside. It’s empty, as it’s supposed to be. That’s the way it works—empty going in, loaded with brand-new mail sacks going out. Or, in the case of today, loaded with mail sacks plus one sleazy embezzler.

  As I’m passed through the security gates, I reflect that C. J. Rackoff can’t be all bad because, without his DNA, there could never be Hector. I’m still blown away by the fact that we actually got Hector back, that the shrimp is alive and well, and with us. When I think about the days when we believed he was dead, it still casts a dark shadow over me.

  Concentrate! I admonish myself. There will be plenty of black clouds to go around if you screw this up!

  A signalman waves me over, directing me toward a loading bay. I experience a moment of genuine alarm. Frieden and I have been driving for so long that we’ve started to forget the fact that we’re basically faking it, and have very few driving skills at all. I don’t really know how to back up a car, much less a huge cargo van. If I bash in a part of their prison, they’re going to want to take a closer look at this young employee the post office sent to fill in for George.

  So I back it up, because I’ve got no choice, inching along at a snail’s pace. Meanwhile, I check my mirrors, waiting for the screech of metal that will tell me and the world that I’ve blown it for everybody.

  It doesn’t come. I’m in!

  I jump out of the van and run to open the rear doors. My eyes pan the workshop—dozens of inmates, all dressed in the same orange jumpsuit Rackoff was wearing yesterday. There are guards, too, with that blank look they have. Like they could just as easily shake your hand or shoot you through the head—it makes no difference to them. And mailbags. George was right. If this is a day’s output, how could one country possibly need so many? Seriously, the postmaster general must be eating them! They’ve got haystacks of them loaded up on wooden skids, and the prisoners are securing them in place with plastic wrap that they’re unwinding from giant rolls.

  I scan the faces sticking out of the bright orange collars. No Rackoff. Where is the guy? Did something go wrong? Was he caught? Hector and Tori were only taking him as far as the laundry chute. He had to make it the rest of the way here on his own. Let’s face it, he has the same DNA as Hector. I love the kid, but I wouldn’t trust him to cross a room without tripping over his own feet.

  A forklift picks up the first skid and places it inside the van. My lunch is rising. There are two more to go, and then what? I’m going to have to drive out, whether I have Rackoff or not.

  The second skid is wrapped and loaded. Oh no! Feverishly, my mind goes over every detail of our plan. What am I missing? Is there something I should be doing?

  The third and final skid is wrapped. The forklift picks it up.

  Don’t just stand there! I want to scream at myself. Can’t you see it’s all going down the toilet? Do something! But there’s nothing to do. I’m not a magician. I can’t conjure Rackoff out of no Rackoff.

  Agony. There’s no other word for it as I watch the skid arcing past me toward the last space in the van’s cargo hold. It’s not just a load of jail-made mailbags; it’s a ticket for eleven clones to be able to prove who they are, and what’s been done to them. And maybe, just maybe, have a future!

  I’m staring at this last skid, struggling to keep myself from howling in frustration, and that’s when I see it. Buried in the beige of the burlap is—a knee?

  There’s someone hiding in there!

  And my next thought: Rackoff!

  He must have taken off the bright orange jumpsuit to avoid being spotted when he crawled in under the skid of mailbags. Then he let himself be wrapped up into the shipment, and loaded into my van!

  For a moment, I’m overcome with admiration.

  As soon as the forklift withdraws, I’m about to slam the rear doors shut when a guard stops me.

  “Not so fast.”

  Did he see? Does he know?

  He turns to the assembled prisoners and barks, “Head count!”

  I tremble through that count but, miraculously, they have the correct amount of guys. Rackoff isn’t on work detail; he’s supposed to be having a picnic with his niece and nephew. So how could he be missing?

  Now that I have the okay, I close up the van, jump behind the wheel, and drive off. My biggest effort is not to floor it. They’ll get suspicious if I leave the building at a hundred miles an hour.

  “Mr. Rackoff?” I call over my shoulder.

  “Keep your big mouth shut until we’re past that gate,” the skid replies.

  Obviously, he’s overcome with gratitude.

  At the main sentry station, I hold my breath as they open the back doors and scan my cargo. If I caught a glimpse of
a knee amid all those mail bags, maybe one of them can too. When the phone rings in the gatehouse, I almost launch myself through the roof of the van, positive they’ve discovered that Rackoff is missing. But all they say to me is, “Tell George to ice that neck.” I promise to pass on the message. At this point, I’d promise them anything.

  And then we’re out. I can’t describe the feeling. The craziest, most impossible million-to-one shot in history, and we pulled it off! I don’t even know if Gus Alabaster could have done this. Or any of the other master criminals we’re cloned from. This is big-time!

  Rackoff seems to sense my triumph. “Congratulations, kid. You did good.”

  “Thanks!” I know he’s a terrible person, but I’m so pumped up that I need to talk about it. Besides him, who can I ever tell and not get arrested? “So what are your plans once you get back out there in the world?”

  A chuckle comes from the bundle. “I’ve got an iron or two in the fire. First things first, I’ve got to bust out of this shrink-wrap.”

  “We’ll swing by the motel and pick up the others,” I promise. “They’ll get you out.”

  I turn into the Tumbleweed Inn, and cross the parking lot, bumping down to the hard-packed dirt as I pull behind Room 18. Their faces are already in the bathroom window, noses pressed to the glass. One by one, they climb out and cram themselves into the rear, where there’s very little room.

  “Where’s Rackoff?” Hector asks, mystified.

  “Down here,” comes the reply. “Get me out of this gift basket. I’m suffocating.”

  We have to ditch the post office van as soon as possible. It’s only a matter of time before the Kefauver authorities realize that we used it to break out one of their prisoners. Our plan is to go back to where we parked the pool/bean truck and continue on in that one.

  As we drive, the others rip away the plastic wrap imprisoning Rackoff. Turns out the guy’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Trust me, it’s not a pleasant sight.

  “I can’t believe we did it,” Eli says in an awed tone. “I mean, we must have always felt it was possible, or else we never would have tried. But the fact that we pulled it off just blows me away.”