Chapter 36 #2
Yes. “It’s like a ladder. You climb it.”
“Okay, sure…” He takes a black beanie out of his back pocket and pulls it over his curly hair. “I had to do that in gym class once.”
Again…Jesus fucking Christ.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter.
We both start climbing, Cormac next to me. Thirty seconds later, I’m breaking his fall on the other side of the fence. He’s got a wild grin on his face, like he thinks we’ve already gotten away with something.
“All right, let’s go.” I nod at him. “The window’s back here.”
I creep slowly toward the side of the house, Cormac following close behind me—his progress marked by the snapping of twigs. I pause beneath the window. Then I weave my hands together, creating a foothold.
“Do the honors, RoboCop.”
I smile despite myself because he looks excited as he steps into my joined palms. The window slides open easily, and Cormac wiggles through, no problem. I pull myself up and climb through after him—a tighter squeeze, but it’s a large picture window.
Once we’re inside, I lead the way to the dining room, where the plaque hangs on the wall, gaudy and proud.
“Oh, I can see why you want to destroy it,” Cormac comments in an undertone. “That’s a really disgusting waste of good wood.”
I grin as I lift it off the wall. It’s made of heavy maple, and it weighs about fifty pounds.
“You need help with that?”
“That’s okay, man. I got it.”
We head back into the hallway, and he pauses in front of an alcove in the wall, sectioned off by fancy metal scrollwork. A small, framed print is tucked inside of it. “Is that an original Picasso print?”
He reaches through to touch it, then goes to pull his hand back and gasps, a look of panic on his face. “I’m stuck.”
“Nah, you can’t be.” I set down the plaque, and give his arm a yank. But damn straight, it won’t come out, no matter how he angles his hand. It’s as if physics is bent in this one small portion of the house.
“Mayday, mayday,” Otis exclaims into the walkie-talkie. “Wait. This is Oats. Mayday!”
I pull the walkie-talkie out of my coat pocket.
“What is it, Oats?” I ask, sweat beading on my brow.
“There’s a car coming. It’s not the Sterlings’ car, but it’s at the gate. The driver’s a woman. She has blue hair, but she’s pretty old. I know Dottie prefers it when we say ‘prime of her life,’ but this woman’s face is all wrinkled and—”
“Oats.”
“She has some kind of card, it looks like, and she’s swiping…” He gulps audibly. “The gate’s opening.”
I stow the radio in my pocket.
“What are we going to do?” Cormac says, his face losing color.
“I could chop your hand off.”
“Do you really think we need to?” he asks, totally serious.
I’d smile if I weren’t worried there could be jail time in our future.
“I’m going to go look for some oil in the kitchen.”
“But someone’s coming,” he hisses, giving his hand another ineffectual yank.
“So we better get out before they show up.”
I hurry off, remembering the vague direction of the kitchen from when Briar’s mom fucked off to it a couple of times during dinner. It takes me about five minutes, but I find it, locate a bottle of expensive-looking olive oil, and hurry back with it.
The walkie squeaks: “She’s inside the house. I repeat: she’s inside the house. I’m moving the car closer. Oats, over and out.”
I spew half a dozen colorful curses as I slather the oil over Cormac’s hand.
In the distance, I hear a door open and shut, but it’s a huge house, and she’s an elderly woman. Maybe she won’t notice us. She might go about her business, completely oblivious to the intruders.
We’re still at the alcove, the bottle of oil at our feet, the plaque of rules propped against the wall next to us, when a little old woman turns the corner with a small duffel bag. Her hair matches her light-blue sweatsuit.
She pauses, blinking at us. “What are you doing in here, boys?”
“Uh…yeah,” I say. “We’re…”
No innocent explanation comes to mind.
She glances at the bottle of olive oil at our feet.
“Did you kids break in here on some kind of dare? I heard all about this on Dateline. You might think risk-taking is worthwhile when you’re a teenager, but when you’re my age you’ll realize this one life is all you’ve got.”
“Uh…no,” I say, since Cormac no longer seems capable of speech. “I’m thirty-three. I think Cormac’s at least thirty.”
“Last June,” he says in a quiet voice.
“Are you okay?” Otis hisses on the walkie-talkie. “The prime-of-her-life woman is inside. I repeat: she’s inside.”
She purses her lips and squints at us. “I have pepper spray in my purse, boys. Do I need to make a mad dash for it?”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “We were just…”
Her gaze lands on the wooden plaque angled against the wall. “You were taking that? Why in tarnation would you want that piece of garbage? The only person who’d want that is my niece’s fool husband.”
“You’re Great-Aunt Sky,” I say in wonder.
Her expression shifts, becoming more thoughtful than alarmed. “Only my Briar calls me that. My name’s Zephyr.”
Balls to the wall, I guess.
I rap my knuckles against the maple plaque. “We’re taking this for Briar. But my friend here—”
Cormac raises his free hand.
“—got his hand stuck.”
“I wanted to know if this was really a Picasso print.”
“It is,” she says, smiling now. “I’ve touched it too.” She glances back and forth between us. “One of you must be in love with my niece. Or is it both of you? God love her, she’s a beautiful girl.”
“She seems very nice, but no, I can’t say I’m in love with her,” Cormac says.
Great-Aunt Sky’s gaze stays on me.
“She’s more than a beautiful face,” I say. “And, yeah, I care about her.”
“And are you more than a nice ass?” she asks.
Surprised laughter gushes from Cormac.
“I sure hope so,” I say.
She nods a few times. “Good. I came here to go to Briar’s New Year’s party. I suppose you’ll be there.”
“We will indeed,” I confirm. “I work at the brewery with her.”
“Liam,” she says, surprising me. “Yes, she’s told me about you. Now, you two had better make yourself scarce. Peanut butter should work if the oil doesn’t.” She starts padding away with her bag.
“Ma’am, do you need help with your bag?”
She waves me off without turning around.
I pour more oil over Cormac’s hand, and this time he manages to tug it free.
We exchange a look, and then I heft up the plaque. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Do you think we really need to climb through the window again?” he asks, eyeing the hallway. “She’s already seen us.”
“No, let’s leave through the front.”
There’s a chance a neighbor’s watching, but hopefully Great-Aunt Sky will cover for us if it comes up. She can tell them she hired a couple of gigolos.
We hurry toward the front door, and just as we’re about to exit, a wolf whistle fills the air behind us.
“Even better than I thought,” announces Briar’s great aunt.