I wanted to stay and watch, wanted it more than anything in the world, but I couldn’t. Instead, I took a deep breath, felt my lungs wheeze in response, and walked out into the hall. I felt helpless and powerless. The desk plaque from Charlie Strauser’s office back at the foundry flashed through my head.
“I have gone out to find myself,” I whispered. “If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”
Then, even softer, I added, “Peace out.”
The door to Keith’s office was closed. There was a slim window in the door and I could see that the lights inside the office were off. I knew that Sherm must have turned them off, rather than the cops cutting the power on us, because the lights in the vault and the lobby still worked. I turned and looked back. From this spot, even if Sherm were standing directly in front of the vault, John and Benjy would be hidden from view since they were in the corner. I paused, listening. In the bathroom, somebody was washing his hands. Outside, the police called out to one another and their radios crackled with garbled orders and updates. A big part of me wanted to turn left, walk out into the lobby with my hands up in the air, and keep going straight out the door, staring down the barrels of a hundred rifles. Maybe they’d shoot me, and maybe not. What did it matter? I was dead already. I’d seen Benjy’s power, and I knew that it worked. But even if Benjy cured me, without Michelle and T. J. in my life, I would be dead inside anyway. The bathroom door opened and Sherm walked out, still clutching the .357. He jumped when he saw me, and I caught a glimpse of something behind him, something lying on the floor in the shadowy bathroom. Before I could make out what it was, he raised the pistol and pointed it at me. I shouted in surprise, thrusting my hands out in front of me.
“Chill, Sherm! Fuck, man, it’s just me.”
“Jesus Christ, Tommy!” He lowered the gun nervously. “I almost shot you, man. What the fuck are you doing?”
“I wanted to see what was going on and talk over some shit.”
“I was taking a dump, yo. Don’t go in there for a while.”
“Thanks for the warning. I won’t.”
“Probably those refried beans I had last night— or the tequila.”
“Where’s Lucas?”
“Who?” He jumped again, trying to hide his surprise.
“The delivery guy. The driver. You said that you locked him in the bathroom, Sherm. So how’d you get back inside if you just took a shit?”
“Oh, him. The water dude. Yeah. When I needed to go, I just moved him into the janitor’s closet. He’s fine, dog. Chill. I didn’t hurt him or anything like that.”
I chose my words carefully.
“But you said that you’d squirted glue in the lock after you locked him inside. How did you get the door open again?”
“Must not have been as strong as I thought it was.”
“Oh.” He was lying, and I knew it. I just wasn’t sure why.
He glided toward me. His feet didn’t seem to touch the carpet. He stank. Armpits and stale, sour sweat, and cigarette smoke, along with a faint hint of cordite.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Just finished with the police negotiator again. Same asshole that was on the bullhorn—
Ramirez. Why is it that those fucks act so nice, like they’re your best buddy in the whole wide world and the only chance you have to survive is by listening to them? They pretend that they’re so concerned about your fucking well-being and meanwhile, all they want you to do is let the hostages go so they can storm the place and shoot your ass and make the five o’clock news. God, that shit pisses me off. That’s why I was hoping the Quick Response guys would have a negotiator too. Just once, I’d like to fucking deal with a negotiator that was just straight up with me.”
“What do you mean just once?”
He winked. “Nothing. I’m just playing. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, the cops will be busy for the next hour or so. Couldn’t get them to go for backing away from the truck, so instead, I gave them a list of demands like you wouldn’t believe. And they still think there are more of us in here than there really are. So while they’re fucking around with that, let’s have some fun with our guests.”
“We need to talk first,” I said, positioning myself in front of the vault door. “Without them listening.”
“Let’s go in here, then.” He pointed to Keith’s office. Then he raised his voice and hollered at the others. “Listen up! We’re gonna be next door for a second. If any of you fuckers try to run out while we’re talking, just remember that we’re right across the hall. You’ll be dead before you take three steps.”
“Yes, sir,” Roy called. “You’re the boss, after all.”
“That’s right, I am. And you better remember it, old man.”
“We won’t try anything,” Sharon assured him.
There was murmured consent from the rest of them as well.
“After you.” I tried to grin. It felt false.
“You all right, yo?”
“Yeah. Just the cancer eating at my fucking stomach. It hurts, like I drank acid or something. Every time I burp it burns the hell out of my throat.”
“That must suck.”
He opened the office door and flicked the light switch. Behind us, hidden from sight in the vault, John coughed.
“How is he?” Sherm asked, stepping into the office.
“Still out cold, pretty much. Dugan says that he might not wake up again.”
In the vault, I suddenly heard John mutter, “W-what’s happening? Where’s Tommy and Sherm?
Who are you?”
Sherm turned around. “You say something, Tommy?”
“Not me,” I shook my head. My heart was pounding. “It was probably Martha. She’s been rambling the whole time about God and shit. She’s a real religious nut.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
I followed him into the office and left the door halfway open behind us, just in case any of them really did try to run. The room was small and windowless. There was a coatrack, a potted and anorexic palm tree, and a few pictures of flowers on the wall. A big desk dominated one end of the office, and the leather chair behind it lay on the floor. I could see the silver wheels sticking out from behind the corner of the desk. Another chair sat in front of the desk. There was no sign of Keith, but there was a picture of him on the top of the desk, standing in front of the Washington Monument. His arm was around a smiling woman, and two smiling kids stood in front of them. The .38 Sherm took from Mac Davis rested on the desk beside the picture.
“So what’s up? What’d you need to talk about?”
“You tell me, Sherm. John’s not good at all, man. Any word on the ambulance yet?”
“Yeah, but it ain’t what you want to hear. They won’t send one. I asked them, but they wouldn’t do it. Fucking cops.”
“Did you tell them that John was one of us, or that he was a wounded hostage?”
“A hostage, dog. But they still wouldn’t budge.”
“Why?” I sputtered. I knew it didn’t matter, knew that John was getting better at that very moment. But I still had to distract Sherm and it was still aggravating. He shrugged, not answering.
“Come on, Sherm. What reason did they give you?”
He shrugged a second time, his eyes flickered, and I knew then that he was lying again. He hadn’t even mentioned it to the cops.
“Sherm—”
“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?”
I pushed past him, rounding the corner of the desk and reached for the phone. He grabbed my arm and tried to yank me back. The phone slipped from my hands and I shoved him, grappling for it.
And I found Keith.
Strips of duct tape covered his nose and mouth. His face was purple and his eyes bulged in their sockets,
