stood there in my shorts, looking at Brad on the back lawn. My glow-in-the-dark clock said it was two in the morning.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“I found it,” he whispered back, leaning forward so his head was almost through the open window. “I found the place.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Mike Willard’s.”
“Mike? The ex-Marine?”
“That’s right,” Brad said. “I’ve watched him two nights in a row. He goes into his bedroom and underneath his bed he’s got this little strongbox—before shutting off the light and going to bed he opens it up and goes through it. Monroe, he’s got tons of money in there. Wads as big as your fist.”
“You saw it?”
“Of course I did. I was in a tree in his yard. He must’ve been saving up all his life. You never saw so much money.”
The night air was warm but goose bumps traveled up and down my arms. “How do we do it?”
“Easy. He lives out on Tanner Avenue. We can get to it by cutting through the woods. His house has hedges all around. It’ll be a cinch.”
I chewed on my lip. “When?” I asked.
Brad grinned at me. I could almost smell the sense of excitement. “Tomorrow. It’s Saturday — your parents will be in Hanover and Mike goes to the Legion Hall every afternoon. We’ll do it while he’s there.”
I didn’t argue. “Fine,” I said.
The next afternoon we were in a stand of trees facing a well-mowed backyard. Tall green hedges flanked both sides of the yard, and the two-story white house with the tall gables was quiet. Beside me, Brad was hunched over, peering around a tree trunk. We heard a door slam and saw Mike Willard walk down his drive and down the street. His posture was straight as a pine, his white hair cut in a crewcut.
“Let’s give him a few minutes,” Brad said. “Make sure he didn’t forget anything.”
I nodded. My heart was pounding so hard I wondered if Brad could hear it. I knew what we were doing was wrong, I knew it wouldn’t be right to steal Mike Willard’s money, but money was all I could think of. Wads as big as my fist, Brad had said.
“Go time,” Brad said, and he set off across the yard. I followed. There were no toys or picnic tables or barbecue sets in Mike Willard’s backyard, just a fine lawn, as if he mowed it every other day. Up on the back porch I had the strange feeling we should knock or something. I was scared Mike would come back and yell, “Boys, what the hell do you want?” or that a mailman would walk up the drive and ask if Mike was home. I almost hoped a mailman would come, but Brad picked up a rock and went to the door and it was too late. He smashed a pane of glass — the sound was so loud it seemed like every police cruiser within miles would be sent around — then he reached in and unlocked the door, motioning me to follow him inside. A small voice told me to stay outside and let him go in alone, but I followed him into the kitchen, my sneakers crunching on the glass.
The kitchen smelled clean and everything was shiny and still. There weren’t even any dishes in the sink.
“God, look how clean it is,” I said.
“Tell me about it. My mom should keep our house so clean.”
The kitchen table was small and square, with only two chairs. There was one placemat out, a blue woven thing with stars and anchors, and I thought of Mike Willard coming home every night to this empty house, opening a can of spaghetti maybe and eating alone at his table. I looked at Brad and wanted to say, “Come on, let’s not do it,” because I got a bad feeling at the thought of Mike coming home and finding he’d been robbed, that someone had been in his house, but Brad looked at me hard and I followed him down the hallway.
The bedroom was small and cramped, with neatly labeled cardboard boxes piled on one side of the room and a long bureau on the other, on the other side of the bed. The labels on the boxes read china 34, IWO 45, OCC, and things like that. Brad pointed at the walls, where pictures and other items were hanging. “Look, there’s Mike there, I think. I wonder where it was taken. Guadalcanal, maybe?”
The faded black-and-white picture showed a group of young men standing in a jungle clearing, tired-looking, in uniforms and beards, holding rifles and automatic weapons. There was no name on the picture but I recognized a younger Mike Willard, hair short and ears sticking out, standing off to one side.
I heard a board creak. “Shh!” I said. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah. This is an old house, Monroe.”
“Well, let’s get going,” I said, rubbing my palms against my jeans. They were very sweaty.
“What’s the rush?” Brad said, his eyes laughing at me from behind his glasses. “Old Mike’s down at the Legion, telling the boys how he won the big one back in ‘45. Look here.”
Below an American flag and a furled Japanese flag was a sheathed curved sword resting on two wooden pegs. Brad took it down and slid it out of its scabbard. He ran a thumb across the blade and took a few swings through the air. “I wonder if Mike bought it or got it off some dead Jap.”
By now I was glancing out the window, wondering if anyone could see us. Brad put the sword down and climbed onto the bed. “Hold on a sec,” he said.
The bed was a brown four-poster. Brad reached under the pillows and pulled out a handgun, large and oily- looking. “A .45. Can you believe it? Old Mike sleeps with a .45 under his pillow.”
“Brad, stop fooling around,” I said. “Let’s get the box and go.” But I could tell he was enjoying himself too much.
“Hold it, I just want to see if it works.” He moved his hand across the top of the gun and part of it slid back and forth with a loud click-clack. “There,” he said. “Just call me John Wayne. This sucker’s ready to fire. I might take it with me when we leave.”
He took the gun and stuck it in his waistband, then reached over and pulled a dull gray strongbox with a simple clasp lock from under the bed. My mouth felt dry and suddenly I was no longer nervous. I was thinking of all the money.
Brad rubbed his hands across the box. “Look, partner. In here’s our ticket out.”
Then Mike Willard was at the bedroom door, his face red, and I could smell the beer from where I was standing, almost five feet away. “You!” he roared. “What the hell are you doing in here? I’m gonna beat the crap out of you boys!”
I back-stepped quickly, tripping over the cardboard boxes and falling flat on my butt, wondering what to do next, wondering what I could say. Brad scampered across the other side of the bed, pulling out the gun and saying in a squeaky voice, “Hold it.” Mike Willard swore and took two large steps, grabbing the sword and swinging it at Brad. I closed my eyes and there was a loud boom that jarred my teeth. There was a crash and an awful grunt, and another crash, then a sharp scent of smoke that seemed to cut right through me.
When I opened my eyes, Brad was sitting across from me, the gun in his lap, both of his hands pressed against his neck. He was very pale and his glasses had been knocked off—without them he looked five years younger.
“It hurts,” he said. And then I saw the bright redness seep through his fingers and trickle down his bare arms.
“God,” I breathed.
“I can’t see,” he said. “Where’s Mike?”
I got up, weaving slightly, and saw Mike’s feet sticking out from the other side of the bed. I crawled across the bed and peered over. Mike was on his back, his arms splayed out, his mouth open like he was still trying to yell, but his eyes were closed and there was a blossom of red spreading across his green work shirt. I stared at him for what seemed hours but his chest didn’t move. When I looked up, Brad was resting his back against the bed. Both of his arms were soaked red and I gazed at him, almost fascinated by the flow of blood down his thin wrists. His face was now the color of chalk.
“Wait, I’ll get a towel,” I said.
“No, you idiot. If I take my hands away, I’m dead. An artery’s gone. Listen. Take the box and call an ambulance.”
“I think Mike’s dead, Brad.”
“Shut up,” he said, his teeth clenched. “Just grab the box, hide it, and get help! We’re juveniles — nothing’s
