The Carpenter (32 page)

—I got a bull out here.

Maurice’s voice came back: What do you see?

—One car. Stopped up at the hotel.

Gilmore’s voice: Wait. Just watch them for a minute.

Lee had been fatigued before this. Now he was awake and aware of how cold he was. He turned down the volume on the walkie-talkie so it was just audible.

—There’s nothing on the scanner, said Maurice. What is it, just one car?

—Yes.

—One, two cops, we can take care of if they come around back here.

Lee was going to say something. He pressed the send button on the walkie-talkie. But he said nothing. He moved the fingers of his other hand to get the blood flowing.

—Lee?

—Wait.

The patrol car moved again. Nobody had gotten out of it. The car climbed the rise. Lee watched it till it was out of sight. He counted to five and then to ten.

—They’re gone now. They were just looking at the hotel.

—Keep watching, said Maurice. I want to know if anybody’s coming back this way.

Lee wanted a cigarette, but his fingers in the gloves were too clumsy with cold. He put the walkie-talkie down. He pulled his gloves off and put his hands down the front of his pants. He pressed his fingers between his thighs. His fingers throbbed when at last the blood moved back into them.

Maurice called him on the walkie-talkie five minutes later to ask if the cops had come back, and Lee told him they had not. Ten minutes after that he put the walkie-talkie down on the garbage can. He ventured out to the front of the alley again.

Then he went out onto the sidewalk. He looked in either direction. Down street of him, the stoplight blinked like some endless portent. Without giving it much thought, he wandered out into the middle of the street and stood where the patrol car had left its tire tracks. He thought the end of the world might look something like this. Undramatic. Just emptied out. And he, the last man.

He went back into the alley, thinking his solitary thoughts.

The walkie-talkie was speaking, urgently but hushed because he’d lowered the volume. Lee picked it up and said he was listening.

Maurice: Lee, where the fuck have you been?

—I didn’t hear you.

—Get back here. We’re packing up.

He came into the parking lot, stiff with the cold. He could see Maurice loading the tool bag into the van. Speedy was in the driver’s seat.

—Go in, said Maurice. You’ll see the way. Quick. Sixty seconds.

Lee put the walkie-talkie into his pocket and went through the back door into the bank.

It was black through the door. There was a powerful stink of burnt things. He saw a flashlight flick twice, quickly, up ahead, offering just enough light to reveal the dimensions of a hallway. It was Gilmore. Coming close to him, Lee could sense the man laden with something. A duffle bag, perhaps, thick with contents.

—Take the flashlight. Go up around the corner and don’t turn the light on till you’re there. You’ll see where to go. There’s three more bags. Make it quick.

He took the flashlight from Gilmore and felt his way around a corner. He turned the flashlight on. He was in an office. To his left was the wall where the door to the vault was set. The door was untouched. They’d cut the hole beside it. He could see where they’d pulled the carpeting back so the molten concrete slag from the cutting would pool only on the subfloor. The hole itself was roughly three feet square. Everything around and above it was burnt, up to the ceiling tiles. Smoke was still dense in the room. If the interior alarm hadn’t been successfully cut, Lee wondered who would have arrived first, the cops or the fire department.

The leather welding apron had been laid over the bottom of the cut. As Lee folded himself through, he could still feel heat
baking off the concrete. The wall of the vault was eighteen inches thick. Where the rebar had been cut, the metal still had a cherry glow, and he was careful not to touch it. He prodded his foot down onto the rubble inside the vault. The air was almost un-breathable with smoke.

He stood up and shone the flashlight around the vault. There was smoke damage all over the ceiling. Dividing the vault in half was a barred gate but they’d hammered that open. He saw a metal table and floor-to-ceiling safe deposit boxes. Most of the boxes had been smashed open and pillaged. He saw old family photographs strewn about the floor, documents, deeds, promissory notes, insurance policies. He saw a broken urn, someone’s ashes spilled out of it. The three remaining duffle bags were in the middle of the floor, stuffed full.

—Lee, goddammit. You got to move quicker.

Behind him Maurice was crouched on the other side of the hole.

Lee grabbed the first bag. Whatever it was packed with was dense and irregular and heavy. He pushed it through the hole. Maurice pulled it out of the way. Lee pushed the second bag to him. He went back for the last bag and then he looked over his shoulder. Maurice had his shotgun butt-down on the floor with the barrel canted forward through the hole.

—How about you get that gun out of the hole, said Lee.

—What? How about you hurry the fuck up.

—Maybe I don’t like how you have that thing pointed.

—This isn’t a goddamn game.

—I know.

But Maurice moved the shotgun out of the hole.

Lee hauled the third duffle over and pushed it through. He followed it as quickly as he could. All was dark except where the two flashlights lanced about like phantoms.

Maurice spoke close to Lee’s ear: This is not a goddamn fucking game, Lee.

Lee hoisted a bag up over each shoulder. He could feel Maurice watching him. He switched off the flashlight and went back the way he’d come. The door was a faint outline up ahead and he was conscious of how much of his back was exposed to the man behind him. But he got outside without incident. Nothing had changed in the parking lot.

Maurice came out. He had the shotgun in his right hand and the last duffle bag in his left. The back door of the bank closed evenly in its frame, so that its breach would not be readily apparent. They crossed the parking lot towards the van. The engine started. In the haze of the brake lights he saw Gilmore hop out to open the back of the van. He and Maurice dropped the bags into the space behind the seat. The tool bag and the burning-bar rig were already packed under the drop cloth. They closed the doors. Maurice went ahead of Gilmore and got in the back seat. The van started to move forward.

That was it. All it had ever been.

Lee stood dumbly, watching them leave.

Then the van stopped. The back door opened, Maurice’s face hung halfway out: Get in, Lee, get in the fucking front. What are you waiting for?

Lee jogged up and opened the passenger door and got in. He hadn’t even closed the door before they were moving again. Lee looked up once and in the rear-view mirror he could see Gilmore and Maurice in the back. Maurice with the shotgun on his lap.

—What did you think? said Speedy. We were leaving you back there?

—Speedy, said Maurice. Shut the fuck up till we get back.

Lee said nothing. He took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. He had three cigarettes remaining.

P
ete woke up and saw by Emily’s alarm clock that it was five o’clock in the morning. He pulled himself away from her warm body. When he’d finished dressing, she stirred and took his hand. She put it to her breast and he felt the nipple harden.

—Pete? Can I see you maybe this afternoon or tomorrow?

—I’d like that.

—Me too.

He made his way back up through the house and slipped out noiselessly. The sky had cleared and the stars were profuse. The branches creaked on the maples above and the snow underfoot hadn’t been disturbed. He stole down the street to his car and let it heat up as he brushed off his windshield. He got into the driver’s seat. He could still smell Emily on his fingers. He drew in the scent deeply.

He took the long way through downtown. The heater pumped out heat and the radio was on. It was well before dawn yet. He felt better. He passed the dark front of the National Trust and passed the Shamrock Hotel. He laughed a little. The few days he’d spent in the hotel seemed a long time ago.

He drove up Harris Avenue. He was coming to the intersection where the Union Street bridge crossed over the river and carried on to the highway bypass. The light turned red. He slowed down and stopped. He yawned. The radio told him to have a happy holiday and Pete drummed on the steering wheel.

Then he saw the van pass in front of his car, the van with the mended side-view mirror and the crack on the windshield. The van had the right-of-way at the intersection and it turned onto the bridge up ahead. Pete watched a cigarette butt come sparking out from the passenger-side window, over the guardrail, and down onto the frozen river.

T
hey passed a handful of other vehicles on their way back to Indian Lake. Headlights appeared, bore down on them, and passed. When they arrived at the property, the lights were on in the Airstream. Speedy brought the van to a stop next to the shed. Arlene’s hatchback was parked a few feet ahead.

They opened the van and got out. The door of the Airstream was open now and in the warm light they could see Arlene in silhouette, holding a robe around herself. She raised a hand.

—Do you think I’m glad to see you or what?

—Get your ass back in the bedroom, said Gilmore. I got something to give you.

—Oh, big talk.

Gilmore feigned a charge at the Airstream and Arlene scampered back inside, pulling the door shut behind her. Gilmore came back to the van.

—How about a cigarette, Lee.

In the dark, any man was just a shape bearing faint edges of ambient light. It was a moment before Lee said anything. His voice was pitched low: One of mine?

—Well, who else is the chain-smoker here? Tell you what, I’ll buy you a deck or two in Montreal.

Lee offered his pack and Gilmore took one of the last three.

—I could go with one, said Speedy.

Lee gave Speedy his second-last and then took the last for himself. The cigarettes were lit and the smoke smelled good in the cold air.

There was work to do yet. Lee smoked half of his cigarette and then butted it on the side of the van. He put the remaining half back in his pack. He could not put any trust in words so he submitted to what he was told to do. They moved the tool bag and the burning-bar rig back into the locker in the corner of the shed. The five duffle bags they’d hauled out of the vault were moved through the doorway of the Airstream into a small galley. Arlene was leaning on the wall. Her robe was silk with Chinese dragons
patterned on it, frayed about the hem. She smiled as she watched them carry in the take. Lee had no idea what it amounted to.

They went out and stood by the van. The airplane was to arrive before eight o’clock. Gilmore had spoken to his friend the day before and all was well, but if the plane did not arrive by nine, they would go north in the van. In the meantime that meant waiting.

Gilmore disappeared into the Airstream.

—You two can wait here, said Maurice. The van or the shed. There’s no reason to go wandering around the property nowhere.

Speedy laughed: I don’t know where the fuck we’d go.

Lee took out the remnants of his last cigarette and lit it.

—Lee? said Maurice. Lee exhaled smoke.

—Lee, did you go deaf or something?

—I heard you, said Lee.

He opened the passenger door of the van and sat down. He looked at what was revealed by the starlight, looked at Maurice and Speedy moving into the shed. His last cigarette did not last long. He rolled down the window and pitched out the butt. If he closed his eyes he could see the van moving away in front of him.

He wondered if in times to come he might question whether things could have followed another direction. A short while later he shut his eyes.

The old dream: the concrete dark of the basement, the sight and sound of the coal furnace. The cripple with the spadeshovel. Only this time the cripple had a newer old face. Joe Holmes. The blood poured out of his side where he’d been stabbed with the screwdriver. He had the caretaker’s limp.
You see how clear it is, don’t you? Don’t you see how clear it is?

Lee was cold and stiff. The passenger door was open. The sun had not risen but the sky had lightened. Speedy was shaking him awake. He was stepping foot to foot, agitated, prodding the air with his 9mm.

Lee shot his hand forward and grabbed Speedy’s wrist: What the fuck is wrong with you?

—Lee.

—Is the airplane here?

—Lee.

He let go of Speedy’s wrist and pushed the man away. He said: Quit waving that fucking gun in my face.

—They got somebody here.

—They got what?

—Somebody here. Oh, man.

—A cop?

—Not a cop. They got a kid.

—A kid, said Lee.

He hopped down from the van.

—Just come and see, said Speedy. Oh, man. Arlene doesn’t know nothing about it. She’s still in the camper and Gilmore says—

Lee pushed past him. The equation was falling just short of a complete picture.

—Where is this kid?

—In the locker. Maurice was looking around, like keeping an eye open, and he finds this kid over by the trees …

They went into the shed, Lee leading. He crossed to the locker and pulled the door open. Gilmore was there. Maurice was a little deeper in, crouched down.

In the back corner of the locker they had him laid out on the floor, bound with duct tape around the ankles and wrists. Maurice reached out with the shotgun to prod the kid’s ribs. The kid had a strip of duct tape over his mouth. His nose had been badly broken and was leaning sideways and both eyes were blackened
and the top of his forehead had been split open, wide enough to show a pink slip of bone beneath. His face was curtained with blood.

When Maurice prodded him he shuddered. Maurice stood up. He said: Yeah, still ticking.

—What is this? said Lee.

Gilmore and Maurice turned back to look at him and Speedy. The expression on Gilmore’s face was hard to interpret. Maybe vague distaste.