B003J5UJ4U EBOK (5 page)

I saw. I got clothes for Christmas. I pretended I was happy. I wanted to sulk, or shout, but I’d gotten used to the pleasures of a life without drama. So I didn’t pitch a fit or break anything in my room. Instead, I tried to take the clothes back and exchange them for money. But Mom had charged everything, so the store would only give me credit.

I had a savings account with several hundred dollars in it. Way more than enough for the brushes, and a couple tubes of paint. But Dad wouldn’t let me withdraw anything.

I got up early the next Saturday, went to the bank, and
told the teller, “I lost my ATM card, but I have my school photo ID.”

“No problem.” She smiled at me like she really understood. According to her name tag, she was Monica, and she was happy to help me with all my banking needs.

“Thanks.” I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was washed away by the thought of those brushes. And a big tube of titanium white oil paint. Besides, it was sort of true that I’d lost the card. At least, I’d lost control of it.

“I’ll be right back.” She walked over to a file cabinet and pulled out a sheet of paper, then came back and handed it to me. “Here. Fill in all the information, and we’ll mail a new card to your parents.”

“To my parents?”

“That’s the rule with custodial accounts.”

Dad worked from home a lot. If he saw the letter in the mail before I could get my hands on it, he’d know what I was doing. “But I need the money now,” I said.

She spread her hands and shrugged. “If it was up to me, I’d be happy to help you out. But we have to follow regulations.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Banks can be a real pain to deal with.” Then she smiled again, like she really was sorry.

I turned away. In the old days, I guess something would have gotten broken. But I was under control. As I started to walk out, I glanced over to my right and saw something that sent a rippling chill of excitement across my skin.

moving violations

NORMALLY, I’M PRETTY
sure you can’t see inside a bank vault. They probably don’t want customers staring at the money and getting crazy ideas. But there was a reflection in the glass of the window where the drive-through tellers sat. Not only could I see inside the vault, I could see stacks of bills on a cart.

I remembered a piece of the endless trivia Cheater had shared with me back at Edgeview. There was a famous bank robber. Willie Sutton. That was his name. After he was caught, they asked him why he robbed banks. He answered, “Because that’s where the money is.” I wasn’t going to rob a bank. But I was going to get my money.

I walked over to the counter along the back wall where they have the deposit slips. I grabbed a pen and pretended to fill out the form the teller had given me. Still looking at the reflection, I pushed a stack of bills from the cart and let it fall to the floor. If anyone saw it happen, they’d pick up the bills. I waited a moment, then slid the money out of the vault and down the corridor to the lobby. It was so easy. I moved the bills along the side of the room, right where the wall met
the floor. Nobody noticed. The customers in line were all staring straight ahead. The tellers were all busy with the customers.

Once the money was near me, I moved it over by my feet and up my leg, right into my hand. Then I jammed the stack in my pocket and strolled outside, trying not to rush away like a fleeing bank robber.

I didn’t want to count the money in the street. I went next door to a bookstore, hoping I’d gotten enough for the brushes. It wasn’t really stealing. Whatever I got, I’d just never withdraw that amount. I’d let it stay in my account forever. So—me and the bank—we’d be even.

I went over to the poetry aisle, which is never crowded, and pulled the bills from my pocket. Instead of Washington or Lincoln, I found myself face-to-face with Benjamin Franklin.

“Hundreds …” I said as the meaning of that sunk in. I didn’t know how many bills were in the stack, but I was definitely holding a lot more money than I had in my account.

I’d just robbed a bank. Big time.

Then a thought hit me—I could walk home and nobody would ever know. It would be the perfect crime. The teller had never looked at my ID. Even if she had, there was no way to connect me to the vault. It might be weeks before they even realized any money was missing. A bank this size probably dealt with a hundred times that much cash every day.
I could keep the money.
It wouldn’t matter if I never got another penny of my allowance. I could buy anything I wanted. Brushes, paints, a roll of canvas, and a stretcher.
Even some of those really expensive art books with the full-color illustrations.

But someone would get in trouble. I thought about the teller who had smiled at me. Monica. Someone at the bank—maybe her or one of her friends—would get blamed for the missing money. I knew what it felt like to be accused of stuff I hadn’t done—at least, not done on purpose. As thrilling as it was to think about the perfect crime, and a fistful of brushes, I had to take the money back. It would be easy enough to float the stack to the vault.

It should have been easy—except when I got to the door, it wouldn’t open. In my panic, I almost threw the bolt open with my mind. Then I took a look at the hours listed on the door. The bank closed early on Saturday.

Calm down. It’s not a problem.

I saw a drawer next to the door for night deposits. It was locked, but my mind was the key. I unlocked the drawer and dropped the money inside, then took off. The money was back in the bank, even if it wasn’t in the vault. That would have to be good enough. There’d be a mystery, but no real crime.

For the next three nights, I could hardly sleep. Every time someone came to the door, I figured it was the FBI. Every time the phone rang, I jumped. Every time the loudspeaker in school crackled, I expected to be called to the office, where I’d be met by the police and my parents. After a couple more days, I started to relax. After a week and a half, I stopped worrying and congratulated myself for pulling off the perfect non-crime.

The men in the dark blue suits showed up two weeks after
that. They were standing on the sidewalk when school let out. One of them had a photo in his hand. His hair was cut really short, like he was in the army. His dark-blue jacket had weird buttons with gold stars on them. The other guy was a bit older. His hair was slightly longer on the sides, but he was bald on top. His buttons were normal. They both looked like they belonged to some sort of serious organization. I figured they were narcs. I didn’t think they had anything to do with me.

By the time they’d trailed me halfway home, I couldn’t deny something was going on. I crossed the street. They followed me. Instead of turning right at the next corner, toward my house, I turned left, toward one of the older developments where the houses were crammed close together and narrow side streets twisted off in all directions. I figured I could lose them in an alley. But I guess they realized I was planning something, because they started to jog toward me.

I was about to run when one of the guys called out, “You can’t get away, Eddie.”

I spun around at the sound of my name. The older guy snatched the photo from the other one and held it up. Even from a distance, I could tell that the picture was a grainy black-and-white shot, like the kind they show on the news after someone robs a convenience store. It was probably taken from a security-camera video.

“We know who you are,” the guy with the short hair said. “We know where you live. We know everything.”

No way. Nobody knew everything. Except my friends. And they’d never break our vow. I pressed a finger against the
scar in my palm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I shouted. “Leave me alone.”

“You run now, you’ll be running the rest of your life,” the older guy said. “Is that what you want?”

“I want you to go away.”

“That’s not going to happen.” He stopped about six feet from me. “We saw what you did. We don’t care about the money. You aren’t in trouble. So relax, okay? This isn’t about the bank. We want to help you use your skills for everyone’s benefit. Cooperate with us and everything will be fine. Right now, we just want to introduce ourselves.” He took a step toward me.

I backed a step away. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re too smart to believe that will work.”

“Just leave me alone.”

He shook his head. “It’s far too late for that. Listen, young man, you can trust us. We’re the good guys. USA all the way.”

Just then, the guy with the short hair dove toward me. Flinch would have seen it coming, and Cheater would probably have realized what the guy was thinking. I didn’t have that sort of warning, but I reacted quickly enough to
save
myself. While he was still in mid-air, I slammed him down at my feet. I can’t lift a person very easily, but I can give someone a persuasive nudge when he’s already moving.

“Wait,” the older guy shouted. “Don’t do anything stupid.” He dropped the photo, reached one hand out toward me, and shoved the other inside his jacket.

That’s when I snapped all of his ribs. I wasn’t even thinking. I didn’t plan to hurt him. The most sickening sound shot
through the air, like a string of firecrackers. The guy dropped to his knees and his face went pale. He opened his mouth. I thought he was going to scream. Instead, he let out a wet moan as blood gushed from his mouth.

I wobbled back, sickened by what I had done. Something stung my neck. I looked down. The other guy, still on the ground, held a gun pointed at me.

I ripped the gun from his hand and sent it flying across the street. But the rushing darkness told me it was too late. I realized I’d already been shot.

“Sweet dreams,” he said. “You and me—we’re going to make history.”

I tried to pull the dart from my neck. But my hand wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would my mind. Then something flipped a switch in my brain and everything shut down.