THREE DAYS to DIE (10 page)

      The window opened outward at about three feet above ground level. The skies had cleared, and a cold wind blew through his hair and chilled his face as he stuck his head out to take a look. The moon was full, and he was able to see out across the ruins of the cannery's shipping yard.

      The yard was a rectangular space about half a football field in area, bordered on two sides by the towering walls of the L-shaped cannery. The basement window where Aaron stood was beneath the east wing – the short leg of the L – that formed the eastern boundary of the yard; the main warehouse – the long leg of the L – formed the southern boundary. To Aaron's right, parallel to the main warehouse, an abandoned railroad spur fronted by a concrete loading dock made up the third, or northern boundary of the yard; while on the far side, straight across from Aaron, a massive, iron-banded, wooden water-tower overlooked the whole yard from the western boundary.

      A tall, chain-link, prison-security style fence, which Aaron estimated to be fifteen feet high, ran under the water tower to the west and along the length of the dock to the north, enclosing the yard. It was fitted with three gates: a pair of large gates providing access to the dock and railway spur, and a single smaller gate near the water tower. Aaron could see that the two large gates were chained and padlocked, but the small gate was too far away to tell.

      He leaned through the small opening, managing an arm and a shoulder before his feet slipped off the ledge and flailed through the air. His cheeks puffed out as the breath squeezed from his chest, and he struggled desperately to regain a foothold. Finally his toe caught on a wood stud and he was able to push hard with his leg and get his other shoulder through.

      He paused to catch his breath, his upper body chilling in the wind, then grit his teeth, twisted and wiggled, and with an enormous final effort, popped through and flopped out onto the cold ground.

---

      He jumped to his feet and tucked into the shadows against the high wall of cannery's north-east wing. Sweat stung his eyes and he couldn't help imagining he was playing a level in a first-person-shooter with the difficulty rating set on
insane
– mercenary soldiers hiding everywhere, ready to blast him with AK-47s. Except this game was
real
.

      He worked his way down the wall of the east wing then turned and hugged the south wall. As he rounded the boiler house, which protruded from the main warehouse about two-thirds of the way down its length, he noticed a lantern burning in one of the second floor windows. He judged it to be the one in Souther's office, the window next to his desk.

     
Damn it,
he thought,
why'd he have to choose tonight to work late
...

      Under this window, sloping all the way from just beneath it to the ground fifteen feet below, Aaron was astonished to see what appeared to be a
huge
pile of trash – like the tailings from a vast garbage mine. The disgusting obstacle filled the entire corner, where the boiler house met the cannery, and unfortunately it stood between him and the gate to freedom. In order to stay in the shadows, he would have to climb over it – a feat he quickly determined to be impossible. His only other option, short of aborting the escape and retreating to the basement, was to go around the pile, a route that would take him through the brightly moonlit area of the shipping yard, where avoiding detection would be next to impossible.

      As he neared the moldering pile, he was nearly overwhelmed by a noxious stench and pulled his T-shirt collar up over his nose as a makeshift mask. Great black swarms of plump flies buzzed his head, and he jumped when an obese ship-rat dashed across his foot.

      In the shadows it took a few seconds for him to make out any detail in the pile, but soon a chaotic sampling of Johnny Souther's favorite food groups came into view: Stomped beer cans, broken booze bottles, squashed soda cups, and crumpled paper napkins. Banana peels, smushed ketchup and mustard packets, half-eaten burgers, fermenting French fries, chunks of sub sandwiches, dried-up tacos, green-tinged beef burritos, and buckets of greasy chicken bones with furry potatoes.

      He pushed on around the pile, hugging the shadows as long as possible, waving off flies as he went. He paused at the edge of the moon's shadow for a moment then stepped out into the moonlight.

      Staying low, he managed a few encouraging steps. Then he stopped, shuddering, his stomach lurching.

      In the bright moonlight he could see that the putrid drippings from this landfill horror show collected into a septic sludge river that flowed leisurely across the shipping yard, eventually sloughing off the edge of the concrete dock onto the deserted railroad tracks like the fermenting flesh from a rotting carcass. He fought off the urge to puke and quickly chose a route across. But as he toed carefully through the ooze he was startled by a distant, but clearly audible voice.

      "Nice night for a moonlight stroll. Eh, kid?"

      Cold fear gripped his heart, and his gaze flew to the window high above him. Backlit by the gasoline lantern was the silhouette of Johnny Souther in his leather fedora. Aaron's luck had run out.

      He made a break for the small gate under the water tower, but his feet slipped in the sludge stream and he fell hard, pain knifing through his knee, and slid on his side through the grayish goo. Up and running again, he made it to the gate, but it too was padlocked. With no time to think he began to scramble up the towering chain-link fence. His shoes, slick with muck, provided little traction, and the rough galvanized fencing pinched and sliced his muddy hands raw.

      Souther took a sip from a glass of whiskey, then calmly drew his gun and took aim, sighting on Aaron as he climbed. For some reason he had taken an interest in the boy and he didn't want to kill him (at that range, with a pistol, it would be difficult not to). He hoped Aaron would simply fail to clear the fence and end the silly escape attempt on his own.

      But Aaron was strong and he progressed steadily toward the top, trying desperately to ignore his bleeding hands and the gun no doubt aimed at the back of his head.

      Souther steadied himself and slowly squeezed the trigger.

      Just as the bullet was about to leave the chamber, Aaron encountered the coil of razor wire topping the fence, and it tore mercilessly through his clothing and into his flesh, gripping him completely. His remaining strength drained from him, and he hung from the top of the fence like a discarded stuffed animal, hopelessly entangled, expecting to be cut in two by a mercenary's AK-47 at any moment.

      Souther laid down his gun, and Aaron could hear the distinct sound of applause echoing about the yard.

-THURSDAY-

Chapter 25

It Takes Three to Tango

      Aaron awoke with a start. He had slept hard and was cold and disoriented. He sat up and looked around then sighed heavily. He could see by the dim light of the lantern that he was back in his basement cell.

      A sheet of plywood had been nailed up over the casement window, and though his instincts told him it was daylight outside, it was impossible to tell. He hauled himself up off the floor and used the coffee can to relieve himself. Then he sat on the milk crate, pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, and took a big drink of water.

      His thoughts turned to the night before. He recalled seeing Tom hit by Souther's bullet, and how the dark, cold part of his soul had been comforted by it. He could see his mother's face as she huddled with him by the fire ladder. Her trembling hands. The frightened look in her eyes. He could hear the roar of the old Nova as it whisked her off into the night, and he wondered how she was, where she was, if he would ever see her again.

      He held himself responsible for what had happened that night, and he knew he alone could fix it. He'd been backed against the wall multiple times in his life and had always been able to think of a way out. But this was different. His past trials paled in comparison. He had no clever plan this time. No magic beans. He was totally at a loss. He stared at the lantern's softly glowing mantles, feeling utterly helpless and alone.

---

      He jumped as someone unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. Johnny Souther entered and walked down the steps carrying a bag of last night's fast food leftovers. He sat down at the foot of the stairs.

      "Good morning," he said, offering Aaron the food.

      Aaron looked at the bag, then at his shoes. "I'm not hungry," he said, and Souther set the bag aside.

      "Based upon last night's escapade," Souther said, "I'd say you're dying to get out of here."

     
That's the understatement of the century
, Aaron thought.

      "So, I thought you might like to go on a little field trip," Souther continued.

      Souther's odd suggestion piqued Aaron's interest and he looked at him. "What do you mean, a field trip?"

      "I have a problem, you see," Souther explained. "It takes at least three men to pull a bank job, and well, I'm a bit short handed at the moment."

      Aaron paused. "I saw two men with you last night. Counting you, that's three."

      "Observant," Souther said. "However, I have other business to attend to today and won't be available." He looked at his watch. "It's eight o'clock. You'll leave here in an hour."

      "Why would I want to help
you rob a bank?" Aaron said stupidly – he had forgotten for a moment the dire situation he was in.

      Souther leaned forward and grabbed him by the jaw with a grip that might have torn off his face. "Listen, punk," he said, eyes flat. "If you think I don't know where your mother is ... think again. I'm not asking you to help me, you little shit ... I'm telling you, okay? So shut-the-hell-up and cooperate." He released Aaron's chin with a jerk, then turned and started up the stairs. "And if I were you," he added over his shoulder, "I wouldn't fuck it up."

Chapter 26

Pink Polka Dots

       At 8:45 a.m., Needles and Beeks readied some equipment in the cannery's main warehouse. Aaron looked on from a chair in the corner, his hands taped behind his back. He was still reeling from Souther's pep talk.

      Beeks called to him. "Hey, boy. You an artist?"

      "Huh?" Aaron said, surprised.

      "I'm in need of an artist. You an artist or ain't you?"

      "Uh, not really," Aaron said modestly, having no idea why Beeks would ask him that question. "I've done some art in school I guess ... does that count?"

      "Get your puny artist-ass over here."

      "He's taped to the chair, dumbass," Needles said.

      "Shit ... you think I don't know that?" Beeks said, trying to hide his embarrassment. He walked over and with a flash of his knife cut Aaron's restraints then grabbed him by the shoulder with one of his big hands. "I don't have to worry ‘bout you doin' nothin' stupid," he said, "do I, boy?"

      "No, sir," Aaron replied, wincing under Beeks's powerful grip. He recalled how terrifyingly unreal it had felt the moment Beeks's big hand took him down to the asphalt in the alley.

      Beeks had set up a makeshift workbench and stocked it with art supplies. "You think you can make me some bad-ass masks outa all this shit?" he asked. "I'm gettin' real fuckin' tired of those damn panty-hose."

      Aaron paused at an image of Beeks's face smashed into a nylon stocking then blinked it away. "Uh, yeah," he replied. "I think I can handle it."

      The project had caught his imagination. He took a quick inventory of the tools and supplies Beeks had laid out for him: four Styrofoam heads, four white ski masks, four colorful cans of spray paint.

      "No amateur bullshit crap," Beeks insisted. "I want ‘em bad-ass. You got it, boy? Bad fuckin' ass."

      "No problem," Aaron said, growing more nervous now that Beeks had raised the artistic bar so high.

      He stood at the workbench, rubbing the blood back into his wrists, running ideas around in his head. He thought of clown faces, but that had been done to death; horror themed masks didn't seem right to him either. He settled on a simple design he thought Beeks would like then set to work.

      He stretched one of the ski masks over the first form, gave the can of electric-blue a vigorous shake, and painted a row of simple vertical stripes onto the white knit fabric head. He followed with shocking-pink polka-dots on head two, neon-green horizontal stripes on head three, and jet-black circles on head four. Then he stepped back to admire his work.

      Beeks came over and tested the paint on the black mask with his finger; then he pulled it off its form. He stretched it over his glossy head and checked himself out in a mirror. One of the black circles went around the eye, like a pit bull. He smiled.

      "Not bad, boy," he said, adjusting the fit, his teeth gleaming through the mouth hole. "Not too damn bad."

      Aaron grinned. He couldn't remember the last time he received a compliment from anyone other than his mother, and maybe Willy.

      Needles laughed at the sight of his friend. "Nice, Beeks ... really nice."

      "You can kiss my big, black ass," Beeks said, still admiring himself in the mirror. "I like it fine, motherfucker. I like it just fine."

      Needles selected the green horizontal stripes then tossed the pink polka-dots to Aaron.

Chapter 27

Aaron Goes to Work

      It was 9 a.m. when Beeks loaded the last of the equipment into the white van.   Needles had briefed Aaron on procedure.

      "You think you got it?" Needles asked.

      Aaron's heart was racing in anticipation, but he had no clue what they were actually heading out to do. But it was an adventure, and he loved adventure – its mystery, its excitement, its remoteness from everyday life. "I think so," he replied, doubtfully.