The figure climbed off the doghouse, padded across the yard, hopped the fence, and ran around to the back of the van. I forced myself to start breathing again.
Miles climbed in through the back, shaking slush out of his hair and socks. He shoved his feet into his shoes. Art pulled away from the house.
“Damn dog.” Miles flopped over, resting his head back. It was still weird seeing him this way. Jeans and an old baseball shirt under his bomber jacket. Boots that looked like chew toys. He raked his hair back, cracked an eye open, and caught me staring.
“I live in Shitsville, I know.” He looked at Art. “Did you get the stuff?”
“Behind me.”
Miles grabbed the black duffel bag stashed behind the driver’s seat and dumped the contents on the floor, where they rolled around.
A container of IcyHot, a bag of little black specks, five or six heavy-duty bungee cords, a screwdriver, a socket wrench, and a small sledgehammer.
“What’d you bring this for?” Miles asked, picking up the sledgehammer.
Art shrugged. “Thought it’d be fun. In case we need to smash anything.”
I snorted. Art’s hands were like two sledgehammers on their own.
“Don’t smash anything too expensive. I told Alex we weren’t committing any felonies.”
“Uh, Boss? What do you call breaking and entering?”
“A felony,” said Miles. “But it’s not breaking and entering if you’ve got a key.” He pulled a single key out of his pocket and held it up.
“Where the hell’d you get a key?”
“I’ve got someone on the inside. Turn here. He’s the third house on the left.”
We were back in Downing Heights, winding our way up the road toward the super-fancy houses. We stopped in front of one that looked like it could have been Bill Gates’s second home. The front walk led up to a three-door garage and a huge porch with a stained-glass double door.
Miles shoved everything but the screwdriver, wrench, and sledgehammer into the duffel bag. “Art, you’ve got the car. Alex, you’re coming with me.” He checked his watch. “Hopefully no one wakes up. Let’s go.”
We got out of the van and jogged toward the house. Miles stopped beside the front door, flipped open the security keypad, and typed in a code. He turned to the door and unlocked it with the key. The doors swung open.
We stepped inside an entryway. Miles closed the door behind us and checked the other keypad inside the door, then motioned to another nearby door that must’ve led to the garage. Art headed through it with the screwdriver, wrench, and sledgehammer clutched in one hand.
This house belonged in Hollywood, not central Indiana. A huge staircase occupied the middle of the foyer (a foyer, they had a freaking foyer), splitting off in two directions upstairs. To the right of the foyer was a living room where the light from a TV flickered across the far wall. I hit Miles on the arm, pointing at the light. He shook his head and watched the doorway, and a second later a black-haired girl in paisley pajamas stepped into the foyer. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, staring straight at us.
“Hey, Angela,” said Miles, calm as could be. The girl yawned and waved.
“Hi, Miles. He’s fast asleep. I crushed those pills up in his dinner like you said.”
“Awesome, thanks.” Miles pulled out his wallet and handed Angela a twenty-dollar bill.
“Good work. He’s still in the same room, right?”
“Fourth on the right,” said Angela. “Mom and Dad are on the left, so you shouldn’t have to worry about them.”
“Thanks. Let’s go.”
The two of us set off up the stairs. At the top, we turned to the right and crept down a long hallway. It was all so disturbingly normal—besides the sheer amount of money that must have gone into it—that for a moment I thought the whole place might be a hallucination.
Miles stopped at the fourth door on the left, touched the handle hesitantly a few times as if he thought it’d be scalding hot, and then pushed the door open.
Whoever owned the room was incredibly disorganized. Clothes lay all over the floor. Papers and diagrams and maps of different places littered a desk against one wall. Models of cars and superheroes and mechanical animals covered the top of the dresser. Science posters were taped to every wall, including one of the periodic table that glowed in the dark.
The sleeper rolled over.
“Here.” Miles unzipped the backpack and pulled out the container of IcyHot. “Go to the dresser. Should be one of the top drawers—smear this in the crotch of every pair of underwear you find.”
“I—what?” I took the container. “That’s disgusting.”
“I’m paying you fifty dollars for this,” Miles hissed, turning toward the bed.
I went to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer on the left. Empty. Crisp white underwear and boxers filled the one on the right.
Well . . . at least they were clean.