Crashed

something on the carpet to look down at, and straight into the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet I found a travel- size can of shaving gel, popped the cap, and gave it a pointless shake. Then, edging along the wall, presumably out of sight of the little lens that was certain to be right behind that hole, I positioned myself until I was directly below it, flexed my knees, and jumped, my arm stretched above me. When the can’s nozzle was even with the hole, I pushed it. One more jump, and I had a nice little billow of foam filling the hole.

I tossed the can onto the bed and charged across the room to my bag. A second later I had a hammer and a chisel and I was dragging behind me a chair that had been sitting peacefully all by itself to the right of the paintings. I shoved it against the wall with the camera behind it and jumped up onto it.

Time was not on my side. I’d been in the house almost too long already, but there was no choice. I had to do this, and it almost didn’t matter how long it was going to take. But I was sweating for real now, my hands slippery inside the gloves.

The question with surveillance cameras, if you’re unlucky enough to be caught on one, is where the images are being stored. If they’re on-site and you can find the storage device, you’re good to go-just take the whole thing with you. If the images are being stored off-site, then you’re-

I hammered the chisel for the third time and levered it right, and a chunk of chalky-edged drywall broke off and fell to the floor and I realized I was-

Screwed, because it was the worst possible scenario. The lines leading away from the camera jacks were telephone cable.

So, either (1) the storage was off-site and I could give up looking for it or (2) the storage was off-site and I could give up looking for it, and the live feed was being watched by several not-easily- amused men who were at that very moment dispatching an armed response team.

Well, the good news was that I didn’t have to waste any time looking for the storage. The bad news was everything else.

I checked the hole and found the foam starting to drip down the wall, so I just yanked the cable from the camera jacks. Then I jumped down from the chair and went back to the safe.

Since I was already in the red zone for time, I gave myself a count of sixty to get the thing open.

It took me all of nine seconds to get my bag unzipped and remove the five-inch suction cup, designed for glass but useful on smooth walls. I had to rummage to locate the second item, a Windex spray bottle filled with tap water. Two shots with the sprayer got the wall nice and wet and then I placed the cup evenly against the cut-out, centered it, and pushed it in to secure the seal. Took hold of the handle, and pulled.

The cut-out popped free like a loose cork. It had been cut on a slight bias so it was larger on the outside than on the inside, making it a snap to remove and replace. I put the whole thing down next to the painting, closed my eyes for a second in vague, generalized supplication, and opened them to look at the safe.

Fourteen seconds.

I saw nothing to diminish my enthusiasm. Expensive, yes, shiny and solid-looking, designed to inspire confidence, but nothing that a relatively talented duffer couldn’t pop, and I am not a duffer. Thirty-seven seconds of gentle persuasion later, it swung gently open. Something glittered at me.

Fifty-one seconds.

The glitter put an end to my internal argument, if I’d been having one. End of whatever wispy reluctance I might have felt about going another twenty or thirty seconds. Diamonds have a way of prevailing over logic.

So I did it. I reached inside.

And as my fingers closed over the cold fire and broke the beam of light that flowed from one side of the safe to the other, I heard three things. First, the squeal of something that needed oiling as it slid open downstairs. Second, a sudden increase in the volume of the dogs’ barking. Third, the sound of dogs’ toenails. On marble.

Inside the house.

2

Dog day

Diamonds in my pocket. Plug back in the wall. Suction cup in the bag. Picture under the arm. Heart in the throat.

Dogs on the stairs.

I ran to the bedroom door, dropped the picture and the bag beside it, and shoved the door with both hands to close it, but when it had only six or eight inches to go, a battering ram hit it from the other side. It was all I could do to keep hold of it. A black muzzle, richly furnished with teeth, shoved its way around the edge of the door, and I hauled off and booted its nose. The beast pulled back, and I got the door closed. I stood there with my back against it, feeling my heart carom around in my chest like a bad ricochet, and focused on counting my viable options.

I couldn’t quite make it to one.

No going out the window. That would put me in the dogs’ yard, with a nine-foot fence to scale. The door I was leaning against took me directly into Fangland. There was no way to get to the roof, even if I wanted to be up there, waving at the neighbors while carrying a Paul Klee painting in broad daylight. I double-checked to make sure the door’s latch was fully engaged and then scurried across the room to peer into the closet, hoping for a crawl-hole into whatever passed for an attic, but there wasn’t one.

The bang on the door this time actually chipped paint off the inside. It wasn’t going to hold for long.

No crawl-hole in the dressing room. No crawl-hole in the room full of women’s clothes. But the door from the bathroom into that room opened in, and that gave me a pale imitation of an idea. I pushed the door all the way open and left it that way. A dog slammed against the door that led from that room to the hall, so I wasn’t the only one with a mental floor plan. I headed back to the bedroom, hoping to get there before the hounds of Hell knocked the door off its hinges.

As I approached the door, the snarling scaled up a couple of notches, and claws scrabbled at the paint on the other side. With all the money these people had sunk into this house, why did they choose doors that might as well have been made out of Saltines? Why did their contractors let them? Whatever happened to pride in building? Whatever happened to solid mahogany doors on heavy brass hinges? Where were the values that made this country great?

The dog, or dogs, slammed the door again. Okay, dogs: there were definitely more than one. They were growling in a kind of homicidal harmony that did little to calm me. With my body pressed against the door, I surveyed the room for something, anything, I could use.

Bad painting, five more bad paintings, photos of the Missus, big bed, fur bedspread, four pillows in black satin, gynecologist’s table, shelf of, uh, marital aids.

Shelf of, uh, marital aids.

RUSH, it said on the labels, which seemed like excellent advice: two little bottles about the size of Alice’s “drink me” but a lot more urban-looking. Standing right there on the shelf, next to a battery-powered something that defied sane speculation. What orifice? How? Under what circumstances? Why?

Think about staying alive. The immediate goal was to make it down the stairs in one piece, as opposed to several.

The Rush. I reluctantly stopped leaning against the door, which promptly shuddered on its hinges as I lunged for the bottles. I grabbed both of them, hurled myself back against the door, inspiring one of the beasts to actually bite the wood with a sound that practically folded the skin on the back of my neck. It took a couple of deep breaths to steady my hands to the point where I could unscrew the bottle tops, and then there I was, leaning against a cheap door, besieged by slavering, red-eyed carnivores, holding two bottles of amyl nitrate.

Don’t think about it. Just do it.

I took one step back, propped my foot behind the door, near the edge, and opened it an inch, then held it there with my knee. This time, two muzzles forced their way into the crack, fangs bared, tongues lolling and drool spooling down, and from a distance of about eight inches, I threw the contents of the RUSH bottles directly at the black noses.