Heist

this moment.

  She pulls back and puts her fingers to her lips. "I barely know you."

  I smile. "And you have a three month no kissing rule."

  She gasps then nods. "Obviously, you know me."

  I lower my head, unable to avoid the task before me even though I long to stretch this moment into eternity. "I have to go back tonight."

  "Why?" Her face is flushed.

  "My mom. I ruined her life, and I'm responsible for my dad. I have to fix everything."

  "Good thing we became friends. What's your plan?" she asks.

  "I need to go back and just let the robbery happen. They both have to go to jail. Or they both have to go free. That's the only way to save my dad, and I don't want him in jail."

  "What happened the last time you were there?"

  "I followed them into the building. They caught me spying and wrapped me up in duct tape like I was a Christmas present." I rub my cheek. "Duct tape hurts coming off."

  "How exactly did they get Kronin's name?"

  "Right before I left I gave it to the art detective."

  Jetta paces back and forth in the coffee shop. "You need to do more than just go back and save your dad."

  "What am I supposed to do? Talk my dad out of robbing the museum? Right. I don't think that will go over well."

  "You need to stop the robbery from happening. You need to save those priceless paintings. And let both men walk away free."

  "But?" I struggle with wanting to impress Jetta. But if I can't save my dad, how will I save paintings?

  She sits back down. "After your dad and Kronin enter, sneak in like you did before. Hide behind the entrance desk and threaten to push the panic button unless they leave the museum."

  "No problem." I have serious doubts but don't have the heart to tell her.

  She fishes around in her pocket. "Just in case. Take this."

  I study the small green capsule-like tube. "Lipstick? Sure," I say like she's the crazy one.

  "A taser."

  "You've had this all along?"

  Jetta nods. "I only started carrying it with me today. After I saw the silver car and believed your story. I just thought my dad was paranoid before."

  "And, um, why would I need a taser if this plan is so perfect?"

  Jetta smiles. "It's like a safety net, just in case you need a quick escape."

  "But wait. The paintings are gone from the wall." I jump to my feet. "I have no way of getting there." I panic. All these plans. For nothing.

  She taps her fingers on the table, and then pulls a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. She unfolds it and smoothes out the worn creases. "You transport back to the Gardner because every painting you've looked at belongs in the Gardner. So this will have to do.

  "What is it?"

  "It's a copy of The Concert. Vermeer. It's one of the stolen paintings."

  "Why do you have that in your pocket?"

  "I always carry a painting by one of the Old Masters. It seems you don't know everything about me, Jack Brodie. Now, stop procrastinating."

  I think of the kiss and my cheeks grow warm. "You won't remember me when I come back."

  "I'm sure you'll find a way to remind me." She leans over and kisses me again.

  "I won't let you forget. That's a promise."

  She smiles with a confidence I don't feel. "I'm counting on you, Jack Brodie."

  11:06 p.m.

  I run my fingers over the lipstick-sized taser. The last two times at the Gardner, I made a mess of things, but life can't get much worse. Jetta made it sound so simple. Hide behind the desk. Threaten to push the panic button. My dad and Kronin will leave and I'll return. Maybe if I keep the paintings safe, Frank will stay away from my family.

  I straighten up in my seat and pull the copy of the Vermeer closer. A woman sits at the grand piano, her hair pulled back. A man listens, his back to the viewer. A second woman stands next to the man. I can't tell if she's singing or doing needlepoint. Paintings hang on the wall, behind the piano, and the floor is white and black checkered. Most of the painting hides in shadows, with the natural light spotlighting the woman playing. It's a casual afternoon. Just three friends having fun. I wish for that more than anything. To be free of all of this.

  MARCH 18, 1990

  12:15 a.m.

  I sit on the wet pavement, leaning against the walls of the Gardner. Everything is the same and I feel like the past day was both a blink in time and a never-ending hell. The copy of the painting is clutched in my hand. I stick it in my back pocket.

  The college party rocks on, the music blaring from the windows, but I don't give it much thought. The small hatchback is parked down the street and I know who's sitting in the front seats. Ian Kronin and my dad. Probably sitting there all cocky, cracking their knuckles, ready to pull off what will become one of the most famous art thefts in history.

  And I'm about to stop them.

  I must be nuts.

  I stroll down the street once again, then duck behind a parked car near the side entrance. Water slides down the side of the car door and soaks my sleeve. I step back and try to fade into the shadows.

  I brace myself for the party kids waltzing out the door and down the street, and their drunken chatter. But this time, without my jacket, they leave me alone. As they laugh and stumble about, I feel a twinge of jealousy at their carefree laughter. They'll be going home to kiss their girlfriends goodnight and sleep knowing their world will be the same when they wake up. The girl notices the cop; and soon, the three of them race away in their car. I'm alone again.

  As predicted, Dad and Kronin step out of the car. Dad swaggers a bit with his thumbs in his pocket. When he sees the street is empty, he nods, and they approach the side door. The buzzer is loud enough that I can hear it.

  I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. Adrenaline shoots through me and makes me jumpy. This is crazier than launching a smoke bomb in Big D's garage. This is big time.

  As the cops enter, I dart toward the door and stick my foot in it just before it closes. I listen to the initial arguing of the guards, my dad's rough words, and the ripping of duct tape. When all falls silent and Dad and Kronin are tying up the guards in the basement, I enter.

  Jetta's instructions jumble in my head and I have to focus. I duck behind the counter but all I see are typical behind-the-desk things like drawers, a trashcan, and stray papers on the floor. It doesn't take long and I'm drawn to the red panic button staring at me all innocent like. This button will keep Dad from a life of crime and make Mom happy. Who said that our problem couldn't go away with the click of a button?

  Who am I kidding? Jetta's plan seems way too easy and I realize the loophole. What if Dad robs the museum another time? What if he flies to Paris and robs the Louvre? What if he steals a bunch of diamonds and goes to jail? My face and body heat up. Dad told me to man-up and do my part. I'm pretty sure he didn't mean this, but I have to protect Dad. Permanently.

  I listen but there are no sounds on the stairs yet. Dad and Kronin are still in the basement, but they'll return any second. I rip open drawers but find nothing except museum brochures. On the back of the brochure I scribble Frank a note. This plan has to work.

  Footsteps echo, and their laughter travels up the stairs and into the room. My hand is shaking as I finish the note and sign my name. The handwriting loops and slants as if I were high when I wrote it. I jam the note into my back pocket for later, then sprint across the small lobby and up the marble staircase to the second floor. My feet slap the floor and sound way too loud. I enter the room where Dad and Kronin are headed.

  I have to catch Kronin. Alone.

  The large painting with the ship on the water pops out at me. I pad across the tiled floor and stand in front of it. If all goes as planned, the famous Rembrandt will never leave the building.

  The foamy spray of the ocean draws me close. The rain batters the sails as a wave crashes against it and floods the boat. The men look afraid, possibly mo
ments before their death. Jesus is in the boat and I know it's him sitting calmly without a care in the world. Years of Sunday school taught me that Jesus always wore white with a blue sash. The guy worked miracles in his time. Too bad he can't work a miracle now.

  An ear-splitting sound screeches, penetrating the air. I jump back.

  The motion sensors were triggered.

  1:48 a.m.

  I slap my forehead. How could I forget about the sensors? So much for the element of surprise. The large room is filled with a long table and chairs lining the walls. The room drips with decorations, and the soft colors on the walls create a cozy atmosphere. I feel nothing but terror.

  I dart back and forth like a trapped mouse until I see that a part of the room opens up to a stone stairway that leads down to the courtyard. I dash down the narrow steps, my legs barely keeping up with me.

  I sprint and the moss is spongy under my feet and the sweet smell of flowers is overwhelming. The alarm hides the sound of my footsteps and the wild beating of my heart.

  I stumble through flowering bushes and ferns of the courtyard and hide behind a large bust. The statue whispers to me. Failure. I know it isn't real, but it keeps repeating in my head. I push back into the potted plants and ferns.

  The screeching noise stops and my breath rattles in my throat. Anyone can hear me.

  Water drips in the fountain.

  My plan has been ripped apart, like a painting from its frame. The whole museum breathes. The leaves, the paintings, the walls, and the statues whisper. Failure.

  Footsteps. I hold my breath as voices grow louder. A figure crosses