“We can do this,” Tyler said. “Everybody lift!”
Clark adjusted his grip and then cried out, dropping his corner and stepping backward. He held up four fingers gouged by a thin red line; blood was welling up to the surface of his good hand and dripping down his palm. Four Mississippi, Five Mississippi, Six Mississippi. Rene shoved Clark aside and took over his corner. Some distant part of my consciousness recognized that Rene was the only one of us who had taken the precaution of wearing gloves.
Tyler glared at me. “Help, dipshit!”
I squeezed between Alf and Tyler but couldn’t get any leverage. We might as well have been lifting a car. Alf’s face was beaded with sweat; we were straining so hard that somebody farted. There was another screech of rusty nails, and Rene popped a second corner off the roof. He grinned in triumph, but we were too late, we were already way too late, I was counting off the seconds in my head.
“We have to leave!” I hissed.
No one answered me. Now that two corners were up, Rene and Tyler had some serious leverage. They leaned on the doors together, bending them back at a forty-five-degree angle and revealing three wooden steps leading down into darkness.
“Go!” Tyler grunted.
“It’s too late,” I said.
Rene grabbed my arm and shoved me into the hole. I spilled down the stairs, landed on my belly, and smashed my face into a metal file cabinet. My flashlight rolled away from me. Somewhere in the store I could hear the steady chirping of the alarm system, counting down the remaining seconds until all hell broke loose. I touched my hand to my forehead, and it came away wet.
Twenty-three Mississippi, Twenty-four Mississippi . . .
I crawled across the floor until I reached my flashlight and stood up. I was back in the labyrinth of shelves and cardboard boxes—but in the dark of night, none of it looked familiar. I wound through the passages, searching for the stairs, but all I saw were boxes and more boxes. My head was throbbing and I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t concentrate. I circled the labyrinth, counting off the seconds out loud: “Thirty-three Mississippi, Thirty-four Mississippi . . .”
Something was wrong. Where were the stairs? I traveled in a complete loop and found myself returning to the hatch. The guys looked down at me in astonishment.
“What are you doing?” Alf asked.
“Get the alarm!” Clark said.
“Or I will throw you off this goddamn roof,” Tyler said.
I was already too scared to think straight—scared of the alarm, scared of getting caught, scared of crossing the bridge again—but my fear of Tyler Bell trumped everything else. I tried again. My focus sharpened. I realized the passage was blocked by a tower of cardboard cartons. Zelinsky must have carried up a stack of deliveries and left them to deal with later.
I shoved them forward and the boxes tumbled back downstairs, falling end over end with a terrible clatter, and I half fell, half ran after them. The first floor was pitch-dark, but I had my flashlight, and I knew my way around. I ran past the desk where Mary and I programmed The Impossible Fortress, past the cash register where Zelinsky offered me a job. If the count in my head (Forty-three Mississippi, Forty-four Mississippi) was accurate, the alarm was about to go apeshit.
I ran to the front of the store and hit OFF on the control panel. The display flashed ENTER ACCESS CODE, and I copied the movements I’d seen Mary use—top-left, bottom-middle, bottom-middle, top-middle—but nothing happened.
In that moment I realized I was doomed, that I’d somehow gotten the passcode wrong.
Then there was a loud BEEEEEEEE-DOOP.
And just like that, the chirping stopped.
I was in.
2300 REM *** ALARM SOUND ***
2310 FOR I=0 TO 22:POKE L1+I,0
2320 NEXT I:POKE L1+24,15
2330 POKE L1+5,80:POKE L1+6,243
2340 POKE L1+3,4:POKE L1+4,65
2350 FOR I=20 TO 140 STEP5
2360 POKE L1+1,I:NEXT I
2370 POKE L1+4,64
2380 FOR I=1 TO 50:NEXT
2390 RETURN
THE STORE SMELLED LIKE wood and ink and tobacco and Zelinsky himself, as if he were puttering nearby, smoking his pipe and restocking shelves. I turned in a circle, aiming my flashlight into corners, making sure I was truly alone.
Then I got down to business. Zelinsky’s workbench swung open on a hinge, creating a narrow gap that allowed me to squeeze behind the counter. The space was off-limits to everyone except Zelinsky himself, and I felt a little like I was climbing into his bed. Here were the cigarettes and the cigars, the glass case of antique lighters and the rolls of scratch-off lotto tickets, and a rack with the holy trinity of dirty magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, and Oui.
I grabbed five copies of the Vanna White issue, then pushed my mother’s twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the cash drawer. My elbow bumped a small tray labeled “Need a penny, take a penny” and I carefully nudged it back into place, leaving the tray exactly as I’d found it. I didn’t dare touch anything else.
I was walking back through the showroom when the rest of the guys came trampling down the stairs.
“Got ’em,” I said, holding up the magazines. “One for each of us.”
Rene pushed past me, heading to the front of the store.
“We can go now,” I told him.
“Take it easy,” Tyler said. He was following his cousin, and Alf and Clark were trailing behind them.
With the steel shutters pulled over the windows, the store was pitch-dark, but the glow of our flashlights was enough to guide the way. Or almost enough—Alf stumbled into a display of ballpoint pens and several boxes clattered to the floor. He exploded with nervous laughter.
“Be careful,” I told him. “Pick those up.”
Earlier in the week, I had watched Zelinsky build the display, carefully sorting the pens by color: blacks and blues and reds. Alf ignored me, so I knelt down and gathered the pens myself, rebuilding the display exactly as we’d found it.
At the front of the store, Tyler and Rene were studying the alarm panel. It was studded with lights and LEDs, but only one was glowing—a tiny green bulb labeled READY.
Tyler saw me and smirked. “You still think she changed the code?”
“It could be a silent alarm,” I said. “It could be calling the police right now.”
“It could be,” Tyler said. “But I don’t think so.”
Rene unzipped his canvas bag and produced a second canvas bag—nearly identical in size and color. He gave it a shake, snapping it open. Then he raised the workbench and carried both bags behind the counter.
“The cash register’s empty,” I said. Rene was ignoring me, so I turned to Tyler. “You worked here. You know Zelinsky empties it every night. He walks to the cash to the night deposit box at the Savings and Loan.”
Tyler grabbed a Snickers from the candy rack, bit through the wrapper, and spit the shred of paper to the floor. “Relax.”