TO BAD CHILDREN EVERYWHERE
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
BEFORE FROZEN MOONLIGHT
1 NOW POCKETFUL OF STONES
2 FLOATING/FALLING
3 WHERE IS THE BOY
4 ME AND MY SHADOW
5 WHAT NEXT
6 WALKING-AWAY MONEY
7 CLOUD SWING
8 HERE IS THE BOY
9 LONG LOST
10 BLUE TEARS
11 JOKERS WILD
12 PLAYING FOR PRETZELS
13 GROWN-UPS LIE
14 SO LONG, ALFIE
15 PARTY CRASHERS
16 HOME SWEET DUMP
17 UP POO CREEK
18 FRANKENBOOT
19 LET’S MAKE A DEAL
20 THEY GOT AWAY WITH IT!
21 HOW TO STEAL A FORTUNE
22 SO MUCH FOR SIBS
23 THIS HEIST SUCKS
24 THE BEST PLANS ARE CRAZY
25 SO LONG, DUMPSVILLE
26 TRACK 61
27 FINDING A PIGEON
28 THE PIGEON DROP
29 CASING THE JOINT
30 NERVES
31 MAXIMUM CHAOS
32 THE WIDOW’S KNOT
33 TEDDY AND THE DOLLY
34 THE MOONSTONES HAVE NO MERCY
35 THE GRIMSTONE DEAL
36 THE THROWAWAY GANG
37 MISDIRECTION
38 THE WHOLE WORLD TIPS
39 THE CRYSTAL CAVE
40 DEATH BY WATER
41 NO SUCH THING AS FATE
42 SPOOKED
43 CROSSTOWN RACERS
44 TO ROB A THIEF
45 MY MOM THE WHEELMAN
46 BREAKING IN
47 THE GAUNTLET
48 HOME
49 PEAS AND THANK YOU
50 A LONG WAY DOWN
51 BLUE SUBARU
52 OR ELSE
53 HOMESCHOOL FOR THIEVES
54 LIKE A BAZILLIONAIRE
55 GIGI-POO
56 FOOLING THE YAPSTER
57 SUCH HELPFUL CHILDREN
58 MISSING MOONSTONE
59 FX
60 THE SECRETS OF MERLIN
61 BAD DREAMS
62 SHANNON’S LAIR
63 SMART HOUSE
64 THE TROUBLE WITH IMPROV
65 TRAPPED
66 THIRD RAIL
67 EXPRESS TRAIN OF DEATH
68 HOT BREATH, COLD STEEL
69 BETRAYED
70 TRUST IS FOR CHUMPS
71 PARTICLE ZOO
72 KEEP ON WALKING
73 THE LAST CON
74 RARE MOON RISING
75 THE UNBEARABLE
76 JUST LIKE A THIEF
77 CATAMOUNT LAKE
78 DON’T LET GO
79 FOLLOW THE FALLS
80 DANO
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
No thief likes a full moon. Like mushrooms and owls, they do their best work in the dark.
There it is, a fat, satisfied moon, bright and silvery white, tracing a line on the dark lake that leads right to three thieves, who have paused to examine the loot.
It has been the perfect heist. In and out, a hot knife through sweet butter. Months of planning, practice runs, disagreements that ballooned into fights. Two of the thieves are barely speaking to the third.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
In the end, they got the goods.
A priceless emerald brooch owned by Catherine the Great.
The Crack in the Sky, the world’s most famous turquoise.
The sixty-carat Makepeace Diamond, said to be the most brilliant gem in the history of the world.
The stones are all notorious. Cursed. Rumored to have caused more deaths, bankruptcies, suicides, and indigestion than any moldering mummy could even hope to inspire.
The owner of all these jewels? Carlotta Grimstone, one of the richest women on the planet. Early on in her career as a socialite, she found herself competing with prettier, sillier girls for attention. She liked getting her picture in the paper. So, with Daddy’s permission, she decided to make a name for herself by collecting all of the world’s cursed stones. She even dreamed up a nickname and hired a publicist to drop it to any media outlet that would listen and print it. But “Fate’s Temptress” never stuck.
Thieves don’t believe in curses. How can something worth so much be cursed? It’s a ticket to a sweet life. The only people who say money can’t buy happiness are the poor suckers shining a billionaire’s shoes.
The stones wink at them from a flat rock, catching the moonlight.
Hello, sweet life, they are all thinking.
But even a perfect heist has its pitfalls.
The third thief has violated their agreement. He has snatched up a pretty necklace for his girlfriend. It’s a bauble, not nearly worth what the other stones are. He wants to keep it.
There are objections. They don’t know what these seven moonstones in the necklace are worth, but they look unusually fine. Since he violated the terms of the heist, why should he get the spoils?
Fine, the third thief says, snatching up the necklace and twirling it around his finger in an arc. Then fence it with the others. Sell it to another crook for less than it’s worth, if it makes you happy.
The clasp breaks, the gold links falling away, and the moonstones seem to hover in the air — how is that possible? — before falling onto the rocky beach.
The stones form a perfect circle. It’s as though drops of moonlight have frozen on the ground. They glow with a light that is not quite blue, not quite white, not quite silver.
It is the most beautiful sight the three thieves have ever seen.
So beautiful that they cannot move. They can’t look away.
Then there comes a shock to their bodies, so electric it takes their breath. Dread runs through them like ice through rock. They might shatter from it.
The third thief sees himself captured. You will be caught tonight and made to pay.
The second thief receives a death sentence. Death by water, before the moon is set.
The first thief sees the worst vision of all. Before the passage of thirteen years, the two birthed together will die together.
The sound of a helicopter wakes them up out of what feels like a trance.
The searchlight sweeps the water and the path of light hits the beach. It lands on the third thief.
He snarls the curses that people who have been unlucky enough to find themselves caught use. He blames the other two. Betrayed!
With quicker reflexes, the other two have dived behind a boulder, flattened against it, pressing themselves into shadow. The third thief — the angry one — is closest to the emerald brooch and the Crack in the Sky. The Makepeace Diamond rolls away from his fingers. He grabs the other two gems and runs full tilt toward any shadow he can find. The searchlight follows him.
The circle of moonstones is just inches away from the two thieves. Pressed against the shadow, one thief dares to reach out and scoop up the stones. The two dash through the boulders toward the line of trees.
They have practiced this route many times, and they know it well. Through the woods, around the lake, to the cliff. They scramble up the cliff quickly, knowing each handhold. Vaulting over the top, they race to the cover of the pines. They slip into the entrance to the cave.
Even in early summer, the cave glitters with ice. The mist cools their skin.
They know each other so well. They don’t need to exchange a word. One glance does it.
Coincidence. It won’t happen to us. No such thing as prophecies.
How can you be so sure?
Because I’m rational.
According to who? You’r
e standing in an ice cave with a bag of moonstones and the police are after you. That’s rational?
It’s amazing what you can do with your eyes.
The fall of water against the cave wall is like a mirror reflecting darkness. They drop on their hands and knees and half-crawl, half-slither through a crack in the wall.
They inch out slowly to the open air. They are high above the lake now. The thunder of the waterfall surprises them, so much more powerful than they’d seen before. The stones under their feet are slick and glitter with ice.
The second thief turns, smiles, is ready to say something. Slips on the slick, wet rock.
This is not part of the plan.
The thief goes over backward, swept into the torrent.
The first thief’s cry is an anguished howl.
Never trust a guy who says, “Trust me.”
Never give your real name to a cop.
Never let someone steal your getaway car.
It was that last piece of his father’s advice that March McQuin found himself contemplating at three in the morning on a picturesque bridge over a dark canal in Amsterdam. Only it wasn’t a getaway car, it was a getaway bike, and someone had pinched it.
Just about the worst thing you can do to a thief is steal his stuff. March was especially indignant. He’d actually paid for the bike!
He checked the time on his cell. He felt the pressure in his drumming pulse, but he wasn’t about to panic. He just had to steal a bike. In about seven minutes, his old man, world-famous cat burglar Alfred McQuin, was going to have a fistful of diamonds and be looking for an exit.
That would be March.
Mist curled along the surface of the canal. All the good citizens of Amsterdam were snoring underneath their eiderdowns. The weeping edges of a yellow moon dissolved and re-formed on dark water as the flow of the tide moved through. March intently scanned the row of bicycles chained to the railing, searching for his target.
Timing is everything, bud. The difference between a million bucks and twenty-five-to-life can come down to thirty seconds.
The red one with the basket and the combination lock called to March: Steal me!
Battered fenders, but the chain was oiled and the tires were good.
There were roughly sixty-four thousand different number sequences possible in one combination lock. He could find the correct one in a minute flat. All it took was the right touch. March felt for the slight drag as the chamber hit the number. Again. Got it. Then counterclockwise. Clockwise again. The lock swung open.
He took the time to let out a long, shaky breath. If he messed up, Alfie would forgive him, but he’d never forgive himself.
He threw his brown-paper sack in the basket. The cover story had been decided on a week ago. If he got stopped by a cop, he was bringing his night watchman father his breakfast. There was bruine boterham met kaas — brown bread and cheese — and an apple in the sack.
Remember, the right prop can save a shaky cover story.
March flew over the bridge, legs pumping hard. He’d been over the route many times. He had walked it with Alfie, both of them munching on herring sandwiches, looking like what Alfie called ham-and-eggers, the normal American tourists their fake passports claimed they were: Dan Sherwood, from Syosset, Long Island, and his son Dan Jr. Then he’d ridden it a half-dozen times, with Alfie timing him. They’d gone over every detail, and nothing could go wrong.
Even though Alfie always said: If you think nothing can go wrong, you’d better think again.
He flew down the last street and turned the corner. The grand hotel rose up from the canal like a tanker about to sail to the North Sea. He cut the bike toward the rear courtyard, bumped over the cobblestones to the loading dock, and skidded to a stop, only a minute late. Any second his pop should be shimmying down the drainpipe and tossing him the jewels.
Trying to slow the urgent racing of his heart, he scanned the façade of the hotel.
No Pop.
When trying to spot Alfred McQuin, it was always smart to check the roof.
March craned his neck and looked up. Alfie was just a dark shadow moving along the dormers, high above the cobblestone courtyard.
The first faint alarm began to ding inside him. There was improvisation in even the tightest plan, but something must have gone wrong. Unless his timing was off. He checked his cell again.
March glanced back up, and this time Alfie was looking down at him.
They had a secret signal when they bumped into each other accidentally in public and Alfie didn’t want March to acknowledge him. He would smooth his left eyebrow.
It meant, I’m working, get out of here.
But why now? Had something gone wrong? Alfie’s hand moved, and he tossed something off the roof. It seemed to catch the moonlight, then hover and spin, something bright and bluish white and as small as a star.
Before he had time to think, March ran toward it. It seemed to fall in slow motion, and he felt as though he had all the time in the world to catch it. He opened the paper bag, and it fell inside with the slightest little ping.
March looked inside to see what it was. It was that smallest space of a moment, that beat of a heart, that counted. Because the next time he looked up, his father was falling.
Alfie fell backward through the air, face to the night sky, as though he had said to himself, The heck with climbing down. Think I’ll just float.
The dropping seemed to take forever.
March felt his cry explode from his gut, but it stayed inside. All his life he’d been trained not to express emotion in public unless it was manufactured, part of a plan.
The sound of the landing was like no sound March had ever heard. It seemed like a sound a watermelon would make, or a plastic jug of water. Not a person.
March ran. The last few inches he slid on his knees against the stones. Stone against bone.
“Pop …”
Alfie seemed strangely unbruised, filling March with hope. Then he noticed the blood pooling behind his father’s head.
Alfie’s hand came up, fingers fluttering like a sputtering candle. March reached for that hand to still those fingers. He had never seen his father with shaking hands. Jewel thieves don’t have hands that tremble.
“March.”
He swallowed against the fear that constricted his throat. “Pop, I —”
“Wait … a month.”
“What?”
Alfie coughed, a terrible, awful sound, thick and bubbling. “Promise. A month!”
“Promise, but —”
“Then find jewels.” Each word came out as a small puff of air. “Stick. Rag.”
With what seemed like enormous effort, his father touched March’s cheek and his hair.
“Follow the falls to day …”
“Don’t die,” March pleaded. “Please don’t die.”
“No.”
Blood frothed and came out of Alfie’s mouth. His eyes were unfocused now, staring up at the moon.
March collapsed back on his heels. He didn’t believe in this moment. He hung suspended in it, but it wasn’t real. Surely he could change it. He could return to himself on the bridge, he could pedal faster, and then he’d have time to yell, “Don’t slip!” or “Watch out!”
March heard a siren, that European wee-oh, wee-oh sound, and footsteps running and stopping behind him.
The moment was over, time had ticked on, and it took him to a place where his father was dead.
Behind him there were sudden fragments of sound and movement. A half circle of people talking in hushed voices — the doorman. A couple of kitchen workers.
The ambulance drew up. A police car squealed to a halt. The officials were here.
You see a uniform, you scram.
March stumbled away as the ambulance workers ran over. He kept backing up, his eyes on the medics. He watched them bend over the body, shine a light in Alfie’s eyes, feel for a pulse, get out equipment. They cut away Alfie’s jacket, and diamo
nds spilled out of his pockets.
The small crowd gasped. The police perked up.
March saw the instant the medics gave up. Two of them exchanged a glance and one shook his head. Their movements slowed, and one of them started to put equipment away. There was no need to hurry now. A terrible anguish filled his chest and pressed against his heart.
More talking in Dutch. The circle around Alfie was growing. A couple of hotel guests had heard the commotion and come out. Tomorrow it would be a story: how a man with diamonds in his pockets fell down from the sky.
One policeman squatted over the body. He said a name with great excitement.
Alfred McQuin.
And then someone in the circle, the guy in the white apron, the baker, trying to be helpful, was pointing, and March picked out a word he knew.
Jongen. Boy.
Waar is de jongen?
By the time someone pointed again, it was to air.
Boy alone on the street, 3:00 a.m., don’t run, don’t be seen, keep close to the buildings, keep your eyes open, move fast. Panic doesn’t get you anything except arrested. If you get stopped, remember your cover story.
March had lost the map in his head. The route he’d memorized was gone. The streets suddenly looked all the same, with their narrow houses with sharply peaked roofs and tidily painted doors. Yellow, blue, red, black. There wasn’t a straight line in Amsterdam; all the buildings seemed to tilt. It felt to March as though they would tumble down on him, a shower of bricks and window boxes full of tulips.
Waar is de jongen?
Where is the boy?
Nothing felt real except the pavement against the soles of his sneakers.
How hard it had been for his father to touch his cheek! How much strain on his face, how much determination. When the gesture had been done so casually so many times. A hand on his shoulder. A kiss on the top of his head. He’d never feel that again.
March saw the days ahead of him, so many days and years, when he wouldn’t feel that hand.
March’s knees gave way. He sat on the sidewalk. He knew he shouldn’t. No doubt some stray insomniac would look outside his bedroom window, and his proper Dutch mind would want to get help for the boy collapsed in the middle of the sidewalk, holding his head with both hands.
Tears dripped through his fingers. He scrubbed them away. Shock made everything so sharp, and yet so far away.