24
Ted
“ Teddy Bear, my man! Beer me.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was glad Andy was back. I was also glad his mood seemed to be so much better, now that his shuttle drop-off was done. I glanced at my burner phone to check the time: 6:42 p.m. His next drop-off wasn ’ t until 1:00 a.m.
He slammed the driver ’ s side door behind him and held out his hand toward me, making a “ gimme ” motion.
“ Okay, but just one. Your boss is gonna kill you if you bring the shuttle back late again,” I warned, because I knew how fast Andy could chug a six-pack, and the last thing we needed was his boss trying to track down the shuttle if he passed out or got too drunk to drive.
“ Thanks, Mom.” Andy snorted at my back as I headed for the rickety shelter a few feet away. Andy and I had built it ourselves, same as we ’ d rigged up the shipping container. The doorless sheet-metal and plywood shack was an eyesore, but it fit right in with the junk and dirt piled up as far as the eye could see in this section of the quarry. Both side walls were warped, making it look like the whole thing might collapse if you kicked at it. But it ’ d held up plenty well, offering shade and a place to sit on top of the big Coleman cooler we kept inside.
I ’ d added a fresh bag of ice on top of the cheap beer we ’ d bought at the gas station yesterday evening, when I came by to check on the bunker one last time. And to add the peanut butter and jam sandwiches. I knew it was stupid. I knew Andy would ’ ve made fun of me for that last check. But I wanted the sandwiches to be fresh. This wasn ’ t one of those Lifetime episodes where some creep chained up his victims and made them eat dog food or garbage like that. This was a civil kidnapping.
Just a transaction.
I tucked four beers into the pouch of my hoodie then headed back to the spot I knew Andy would already be sitting, on a couple of flat tires we ’ d dragged away from the edge of the dump pile. Close enough to the bunker shaft that we ’ d have eyes on it. Far enough away that the kids wouldn ’ t be able to hear us talking.
The less they heard my voice, the better.
It had been a year and a half since I ’ d worked at Bright Beginnings as a bus driver. Right before I landed myself in jail. I was there for just ten days, right after I ’ d turned eighteen. It was my first job that felt like a step beyond the teenage after-school jobs I ’ d had since I was fourteen, frying tots and assembling burgers at a drive-in, or breaking down pallets at the shipping yard.
The kids on the bus could be annoying as hell, but I ’ d actually liked the job. Especially because my then-girlfriend Kiersten was one of the “ Counselors in Training” at the rec center. She told me that if I did a good job with the bus route, she ’ d put in a good word for me at the rec center. Some people got paid just to keep the basketballs lined up in the gym, wipe down equipment, check out rackets and balls to the kids and adults who had memberships.
I didn ’ t do a good job, though.
My job as bus driver and my title of “ Mr. Edward”—my legal first name—lasted for exactly a week and a half, when that little girl ’ s damn apple rolled all the way down the aisle and got caught under the brake pedal and I panicked. Ran my mouth a little. But to be fair, I thought we were all gonna die. I calmed down afterward and even said I was sorry, although I wasn ’ t. The dumb girl with the apple should ’ ve apologized to me, really.
I didn ’ t think it would be that big of a deal. Maybe a slap on the wrist or a lecture from my boss at the rec center. Kids heard swearing all the time at school, and anyone who thought their little angels didn ’ t drop an F-bomb or two had their head up their own asshole.
The next morning though, I got a text telling me that, effective immediately, I was no longer employed by Bright Beginnings for violating their “ Zero tolerance ” policy on “ Driver conduct.”
I thought my girlfriend Kiersten would be on my side. Might even help me get a second chance, but she said there were three write-ups in the system about my “ Verbal outburst,” and there was no coming back from that. It took some doing, but she finally logged into the system and read them to me.
Three parents had called Bright Beginnings to complain about my “ unprofessional, violent language.” One of them even threatened to withdraw her child from the program if I stayed on as a bus driver.
“ For shit ’ s sake,” I ’ d muttered, and Kiersten had given me a look like, Are you serious? How could you be so stupid?
We broke up that night, because that was the exact same look my mom gave me when I burned the bottom of the frozen pizza or woke her up from a nap in the middle of the afternoon or got my pay docked because money was missing from the register, even though I swore it wasn ’ t me who ’ d taken it.
So I ’ d just called Andy and we got drunk and he dared me to jump his “ buddy ’ s” motorbike.
And, like a drunk idiot, I had.
Later, while I was lying in the hospital bed—right before I went to jail—I couldn ’ t help remembering how when Kiersten had logged in to the Bright Beginnings system, her username and password looked like the same ones she used for everything else.
Username: KierstenK. Password: K1erst3nK.
I wasn ’ t trying to be a creep. But after getting fired and banged up and pushed into jail, I did briefly fantasize about logging into the system and fucking some stuff up with scheduling or something. Kiersten worked at the reception desk, so she had access to pretty much every part of Bright Beginnings’ back-end system. I wouldn ’ t do enough to get her fired or anything. Just enough to make a couple of people give her the same look she ’ d given me. Are you serious? How could you be so stupid?
By the time I got out of jail, that particular destructive impulse had passed. Not all the “ Take responsibility for your actions” lectures and group counseling sessions went over my head.
Still, out of curiosity, I tried logging into the Bright Beginnings system the week I was released from jail. The week I turned nineteen.
To my surprise, Kiersten ’ s login info worked. Maybe I shouldn ’ t have been surprised. It had only been six months that I actually spent locked up, but it felt like forever.
So that ’ s what I did at night, all that first week I was back in Mom ’ s double-wide. During the day, I tried to find another job, tried to get her to eat, tried to wrangle my life back into some sort of control. And at night, I logged into the Bright Beginnings system and read write-up after write-up, internal memo after internal memo.
Some of it was boring. But some of it made me feel better about getting fired. People got written up for the dumbest shit. Even perfect little Kiersten had gotten dinged for not answering the phone with the proper greeting too many times.
One of the all-employee memos from management read, “ Many of you have noticed an uptick in write-ups for policy infractions. This is not intended to embarrass or single out any individual employee. Rather, at Bright Beginnings, we must all take responsibility for the image we project to our community. With the bond vote coming up next week, our relationship with and service to our community must be above reproach. The budget surplus will, pending a vote from parents and citizens in the school district, provide much-needed renovations and resources to our aftercare program.”
I didn ’ t know about the budget surplus until then. I figured it was small potatoes, since Bright Beginnings wasn ’ t a big, fancy rec center.
I was wrong.
My mouth nearly dropped to my chest when I saw the number—in a memo for upper management.
Two million dollars. That ’ s how much the budget surplus was.
“ Fucking hell,” I whispered when I saw that number, counting the zeroes twice.
A few weeks later, when I was really starting to sweat about the idea of ever getting a job again now that I was a legit felon, Andy sent me a text and asked if I wanted to work with him at the quarry. He ’ d vouch for me to his dad. If I did the work and didn ’ t mind sweating it out in the junk pile section of the quarry, it wouldn ’ t matter that I was an ex-con.
Maybe he did it because he felt guilty for the fact that I took the heat for the stolen bike. Or maybe he was grateful I ’ d never snitched on him. Either way, I took the job and stopped spending so much time snooping on Kiersten ’ s login to Bright Beginnings.
However, after a month or so of working with Andy, I told him about the budget surplus.
That was right around the time we were supposed to dump the broken shipping container in The Pit.
When I told him about the budget surplus, Andy ’ s eyes went wide and he screwed up his face in concentration like I ’ d just given him a free wish from a genie ’ s lamp. That look on his face while he stared at the shipping container made the hair on my arms stand up, like this moment was going to mean something.
I ’ d never gotten a sign from the universe. Mostly just “ fuck yous.” But when I thought back on all that serendipity, it sorta felt like a sign.
When Andy started asking more questions about the bus route, where the kids put their phones, whether there were cameras on the bus, I went along with it. Why not?
When Andy asked to see the roster—and we realized that two of the kids attending Bright Beginnings belonged to Sheena Halverson, City Council Treasurer—that clinched it. She had access to the money, and two of the kids belonged to her. She ’ d be the perfect target for the ransom note, and maybe we could even scare her into not involving the police.
We were going to give Bright Beginnings the ultimate finger—and pull off the perfect kidnapping for ransom, too.
“ Cheers, dude. ” Andy held up the beer I ’ d just retrieved for him, sloshing a little onto the dirt outside the airport shuttle. “ We ’ re fucking geniuses, you know that?”
I held up my cold can to his and leaned back against the van. “ Yeah, dude. Cheers.”
Andy motioned to the covered hole in the ground, a short distance from where he ’ d parked the shuttle. “ I still can ’ t believe some of them peed themselves.” He snickered. “ They weren ’ t even in the van for that long. Good thing you made them a toilet down there, I guess.”
They were just scared. I bit back the reply on the tip of my tongue and grunted, not wanting to talk about the kids anymore.
Relax , I told myself, trying to get the muscles in my arms and legs to uncoil. The past three hours had been organized chaos. Now, all we had to do was wait—and not fuck anything up—until it was time to meet Sheena Halverson at Little Eddy to collect the ransom money.
Andy still had his 1:00 a.m. airport pickup, but that would be cake. Nothing to do with the kidnapping.
I took a long pull of watery beer. The quarry was peaceful now. Silent and still warm enough to make you feel lazy and relaxed.
I forced myself not to look at the ridged metal sheet, a stone ’ s throw away.
They ’ re fine, I told myself, repeating the phrase again and again until the beer started to make my head just a little fuzzy and the words started to ring true in my brain.