Third Brick From The Right

Third Brick from the Right

Nicholas Maes

Text copyright © Nicholas Maes, 2015

Book design © 2015 Tessellate Media

E-book ISBN 978-1-928150-28-2

Tessellate Media @ www.tessellatemedia.com

Dedication

To my beloved family. May we always find time to travel the world together.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Beginning

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Copyright

Monday, August 30, 8:07 p.m.

When the phone rang at 6:40 this morning, I knew it was Jules and bad news was coming. How long had I known? Since late last night when Joey asked if someone was watching. While the others had argued it was out of the question, deep down I’d suspected they really were watching and our great little gang wasn’t long for this world. I’m saying the bad news didn’t come as a shock.

Joey was right, Jules said without greeting me first. The cops are parked outside my house. They’ve been there awhile but haven’t come out. They must be trying to make me sweat.

Is it working?

I’m dripping, dog! I checked the backyard to see if it’s clear, but a huge armed cop’s standing next to the porch. That’s why I’m calling.

You think I should run?

Is there a cruiser outside?

I checked the window. Not that I can see.

That means you’ve got three minutes to decide. If I were you, I’d run for sure.

And leave you hanging? No friggin’ way!

"This story’s big and will make the papers. And you know how they can play with the facts. If you want our story to come out straight, you’ll have to hide somewhere and write it yourself."

I’m not the writer type. And where …?

My dad should know the truth. Otherwise he’ll think I’m a psycho. Geez! They’re coming! You’d better get going!

I don’t know —

Just do it! The gang would agree!

Okay. I’ll do my best. But listen —

They’re at the door! I love you, man. Now get away as fast as you can!

Before I could tell him what a pal he was, that was it; he disconnected.

When the line went dead, my hard side kicked in. I’m impractical, yeah, but there’s this tough side to me. It took me less than a minute to dress. I pocketed cash from our lawn-cutting business and stuffed some essentials into a knapsack. With this in hand I ducked outside, being sure to use our backyard exit. My thoughts were scattered like bits of loose change — how I’d never see my gang again, how it was cowardly to run, and how the news would come as a shock to my parents. With an effort I silenced them and crossed the lawn.

Just in time, too. Outside our house? I could hear cars braking and all hell breaking loose; within seconds the cops would have me surrounded. Normally, seconds don’t count for much, but just then they were the difference between freedom and jail.

I jumped a fence and got swallowed up. You see, our house is on a deep ravine overgrown with trees, ferns, and bushes. This exploding growth isn’t easy to walk through but can hide you in a flash if you don’t want to be seen.

I followed the ravine for two hundred yards and wound up in a park three blocks from my house not too far from a rusty swing set. Because I’d passed these swings every day of my life from the time I’d been a newborn, again my thoughts started shooting all over. What had happened to that fat-cheeked boy whose future had looked so bright and rosy? Where had all his innocence gone? Why was he joining America’s Most Wanted?

A horn honked nearby. It scattered these thoughts, and I ran forward.

Because we live in a gated neighborhood, there’s one way in and one way out. Naturally, the cops had blocked this exit. But in the park’s far corner, beside a metal slide, there’s a fence that divides us from the outside world, ten feet tall and smooth as glass. Still, I managed to climb the sucker and wound up in an abandoned car lot. I saw a rat skitter by and said out loud, Welcome to your new life, Charles.

Crossing a field and a rough-looking alley, I wound up on a busy street and the hard part was over. I walked a few blocks and boarded a bus. Twenty minutes later I reached Jamaica Center and rode the J train into the city, like any other felon escaping Long Island. In case you haven’t guessed, I was entering Manhattan, the best place on planet Earth if your aim is to become another face in the crowd.

The Port Authority is where the bus station is, and I bought a ticket for Bangor, Maine — with a brief stopover in Boston, Massachusetts. I knew where I was headed and it wasn’t Bangor. I wanted out of the city, that’s all, and that bus was scheduled to leave in ten minutes; it was also pointed in my general direction.

So where was I going? My parents have these friends, the Gothams, who’d bought a cottage up in Vermont on the eastern shore of Lake Champlain. While they’d fixed it up and mentioned it often, they were way too busy to use it themselves. (He’s a doctor and she’s some kind of consultant.) My folks had been told they could use it whenever and kept directions taped to our fridge, even though they’d never found time to visit. The point is: one, I recalled the directions; two, the place was empty; and three, no one would dream of finding me there. It was the Mercedes-Benz of hiding spots.

But I did suffer doubts on the bus ride to Bangor. As we drove the length of the Lincoln Tunnel, I pictured the chaos I was leaving behind: the gang in cuffs, the cops in my house, my parents’ shock, and a dirty bowl in the sink. Last night we’d been swimming over at Jenny’s; now I was bolting as my gang got arrested. My place was with them, or so I thought.

And when we stopped in Boston? These doubts grew stronger; my guilt did, too, and I was ready to turn myself in. Spying a cop nearby, I moved toward him. The words were on my tongue already: how I was a wanted man, how I’d fled New York City, and how, along with my gang, I’d attacked the System, causing damages in the tens of billions. But as I walked, I spotted a newsstand with papers — the Boston Globe, Boston Herald, New York Times, Wall Street Journal — and recalled Jules’s words that I should write our story and not leave it to reporters who’d play loose with the facts.

I stopped and turned away from the cop. If I hadn’t known it earlier, I knew it now: because I had my freedom still, I owed it to Jules, the gang, as well, to tell our tale as it had really unfolded, without cutting corners or spinning the truth. With this decided, two things happened — a decent and a lousy one.

The decent one was this: I sat down with a pen and paper (the paper came from this pad I’m using) and wrote a note that ran as follows:

Dear Mom and Dad,

You should know the cops are after me. Everything they say is 90% true, but the remaining 10% makes all the difference. I’ll explain this later when we meet next time. Right now I have to go into hiding, at least until I’ve finished a job. (Don’t worry, I promise not to break any laws.) When it’s over, I’ll surrender myself. In the meantime, please don’t worry. I’m safe and sound and everything’s fine. And I wasn’t trying to destroy your world. I was trying to make it better, that’s all.

Lots of love, Charles

P.S. I’m sorry I didn’t wash my bowl. I left in a hurry.

At the newsstand I asked for an envelope and stamps. As I handed the vendor a five-dollar bill, he eyed me with suspicion. You ain’t gonna do nothin’ stupid, are you?

Why do you say that?

What kinda kid buys an envelope these days? If you wanna talks to folks, you’re always usin’ the phone.

I don’t have a phone.

A kid your age not havin’ a phone! Now ain’t that peculiar! Just tell me I don’t gotta worry ’bout you none.

You don’t. I’m fine. But thanks just the same.

Okay then. Good luck to you, son.

So much for the decent step. How about the lousy one? Admitting it was lousy doesn’t make it any better, but I want you to know I knew it was lousy.

It’s pretty frantic in that part of Boston. Cars and trucks keep coming and going, and crowds are rushing to get somewhere. It was just a matter of time, that’s all. In fact, it happened maybe a minute later: a car pulled up to an ATM and a blonde jumped out with her purse in hand. Carelessly, she left the engine running. Seeing this, I climbed on in and quickly put the car in drive. By the time she noticed, I’d driven three blocks; five minutes later I was on the highway.

I have no license and was nervous driving; but I focused hard, thought about my mission, and was able to handle the traffic just fine. And, yeah, I did feel bad about stealing.

After consulting a map that was in the car, I drove awhile on the I-89, filled up with gas in a town called Grantham, then continued to Burlington where I picked up the 2. After that I took the 7, then the 127, which was a winding road with fields on both sides. Eventually, I pulled into a ragged clearing and parked the car in an overgrown thicket, concealing it expertly with branches and shrubs. There was no way to spot it even from a few feet off.

With the car safely stowed, I walked for hours, always keeping the lake on my left. The sun was low when I reached a road called Beecham’s Alley, so I jogged the next two miles until I stumbled on a pine grove. By now the light was barely a twinkle. Rounding a curve, I spied a handsome cottage, just as the directions said I would, and on it was a wooden sign: BOB AND SHEILA GOTHAM. I’ll bet folks heard me whoop from as far away as Kansas.

I picked the door’s lock (I’ll mention later how I got this skill). Using a flashlight, I looked the inside over: I couldn’t see much, but it was clearly ideal. I got the water running, found some soap, and washed myself. Happily, there was food on hand: cans of corned beef, ham, and spaghetti. After drawing the curtains so no eyes could look in, I cooked up a feast using candles to see by. And once I’d eaten and tidied up? I wrote down everything you’ve read so far, explaining how I wound up in the middle of nowhere.

And there you have it — my escape from the city. Tomorrow I’ll introduce myself. Right now I’ve got to get some shut-eye.

Tuesday, August 31, 5:47 a.m.

Wow. The sun is up and I can see my surroundings. I have to admit this cottage is something! The first floor is huge and entirely open, with a winding staircase that leads to two bedrooms. The ceiling’s twelve feet high at least, with oak rafters running the length of the space, while the furniture is cozy and has these fine, clean lines. There’s a fireplace set in a wall of brick (the third one from the right is loose), and a shelf of books with humdrum titles: Colonial America, Heritage USA, The Age of Revolution, Oh Boy: We Really Messed Things Up. (I’m joking about the last one, sure.) There are paintings, knickknacks, a few antiques, but the best part is this floor-to-ceiling window that allows you to gaze at the lake and beyond.

The lake is spooky. From where I’m standing, you can’t see any land. And there’s no wind blowing, so its surface is still; you’d swear you’re looking at a sheet of glass. There’s mist all over and not one boat can be seen. It’s just me and the water, as if a flood’s broken out and I’m on board a new Noah’s ark. Although the sun is up and burning holes in the mist.

This hideout has me happy and at the same time anxious. Sure, I’ll be comfortable and live like a king. But when the cops do come, and come they will, it’ll be rough to swap this space for a cell. So, yeah, my nerves are tingling slightly.

Okay, I know. It’s all my fault. I broke the law and got the others to follow along. If the cops are tracking me, I forced their hand, not just once but over and over. So don’t feel bad on my account, really. But it does raise a question: what was I thinking?

This is too big a topic to answer right now, so I’ll handle it sideways with a different question, one almost as big and a little bit weird. I hope you’re ready ’cause here it is.

Has the thought ever struck you that there might be more? And by more, no, I don’t mean stuff! If you’re at all like me, you’ve got loads already — games, clothes, shoes, and screens, not to mention too much choice and freedom. No, I’m asking if, when you look around, you think you’re in a box at times, a padded one, sure, but a box just the same. Not only that. Have you wondered what it’s like outside? I mean, have you ever thought that, while the outside might be rough, it’s more authentic than the world within? And when I ask you if you’ve wondered this, I’m not referring to some splashy thought that’s basking in a spotlight for people to see, as if you’re the Biggest Most Sensitive Genius ever. No. It’s a gossamer, quiet, knock-kneed whisper, like a fragile breeze on a hot summer evening, a thought that’s just this side of being heard and you’ll forget it just as soon as it’s burst, but still it triggers this subtle shiver ’cause it speaks of a childhood that’s quickly fading and the adult you could be one day, an explorer, poet, spy, or thinker, if only things were different and you could truly focus. So how about it? Have you felt this way?

Why am I asking? Because I felt this way, you see! When I asked myself if there’s something more, the question set my brain on fire. What awaited me, I wondered, when high school was over? Four years in college away from my folks and trips back home for Thanksgiving and Christmas? And when the drudgery of studying was over and done with? I’d sweat and strain in finance like my dad, find a wife, produce some kids whom I’d love like crazy only my job would keep us apart most days? And after eighty years of sweating and straining, I’d die like my grandma in some old folks’ home attached to machines and all on my lonesome?

So, yeah, I yearned for something more and did what I did and wound up here, looking at this lake with the cops on my tail.

But enough of that. You don’t even know me. I’ve filled eight pages and you don’t know my name. I’m Charles Ingram, as a matter of fact. I’m five foot six, one hundred and fifty pounds, and have dark brown hair and moist blue eyes that for most of my life were dull and glazed over. I turned fifteen late last March (so I’m an Aries, which is Latin for pain in the ass) and according to these tests I wrote (which are junk in my opinion) I have an IQ of one hundred and ninety. So there you have it: me in a nutshell.

Now, what about you? I’m writing this for your sake partly, yet I don’t know your name. I’d rather not call you dude or bro, but I do need something to call you by. So here’s what I’ll do: I’ll name you Blue. It’s gender neutral and sounds real friendly, and I could do with a friend right now.

Blue, Charles; Charles, Blue. At last we’re acquainted and it’s a pleasure to meet you. With these formalities over, I’m going to have some breakfast.

Tuesday, August 31, 8:16 a.m.

Hey, Blue. I’m back. Now that I’ve pigged out on ham and spaghetti, it’s time you got a clear picture of me. You see, I promised Jules I’d tell our story, but you’ll need some background info first. If you picture our crimes as a bomb exploding, you’ll want to know how the fuse got lit. That means I have to describe my past, the problems it led to, and my transformation. It’ll take some time but can’t be avoided. And no need to worry; I’ll speed past the dull bits.

Let’s start with my dad. His name is William — Bill for short. Call me Bill, he’s always saying. While he’s tall, athletic, and very smart, his most striking detail is he looks real clean. His skin is smooth, his hair is perfect, his nails are trim, and his teeth are sparkly. You’ve never seen anyone wear a suit like him: the fabric fits him like a second skin. And you wouldn’t mind if he cooked you supper — assuming he could cook, that is — because for sure your grub would be germ-free.

He attended a good business school. When I asked what he studied, he joked, Dough 101. He works on Wall Street and builds security engines. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but he makes his clients heaps of money. Does he like his job? He gobbles it up!

It’s a good thing, too. After all, he gets up at 5:00 a.m., leaves by 6:00, and returns after midnight, unless he’s off to some distant city. Weekends are less hectic — he leaves at 6:15 — but he works on Saturday and Sunday, too. Thanksgiving and Christmas are holidays, sure, but he attends a lot of late-night parties ’cause deals get cut when people are drinking. Although he always takes a week off in March. That’s when we fly to some fancy resort where my dad barely moves ’cause his body’s recharging.

Do I love the guy? What sort of question is that? I love him as much as any son loves his dad! He’s funny, warm, smart, and hardworking. He’s never hit me, yelled, or made me cry. If he had to give his life for mine, he’d do so without blinking. The problem is I don’t know him well, since his job’s demanding and there’s no free time. We schmooze maybe once a week, but how much can you say in the space of two minutes? Here’s a sample of what I mean.

Hi there.

Hi.

How’s it going?

Not bad.

What are you doing? Homework?

Yeah, sort of.

We didn’t have cell phones when I was a kid. Funny, huh? Who’re you texting?

Jules. He’s fixing a snack.

So everything’s great?

You bet it is.

Good. I’m off to sleep. I’m flying to Cleveland early tomorrow. Lucky me, huh? Don’t make it too late.

I won’t. And have a safe trip.

And there you have it — a typical chat. So, yeah, I love him, and he loves me, but I won’t lie. He’s a bit of a stranger.

Then there’s my mom, Daphne Estelle Brewster. She comes from early Mayflower stock. I’m serious, Blue. She studied law at Harvard and placed first in her class. She helped a friend put a house on the market and it sold in something under an hour. Thrilled by this success, she started her own firm — Open House Realtors — which is tops in the region.

She sure sticks out (as my dad likes to say). She has thick blond hair, dark brown eyes, and the body of a full-time jogger. Her nose is tiny and she’ll scrunch it when she’s thinking. She has pianist fingers, though she’s never played, and never fails to dress the same way (a white blouse, a gray suit, and killer-diller shoes). She says Einstein wore the same clothes, too, only I’m pretty sure he never sold houses.

Like security engines, selling houses takes time. This means she works as hard as my dad. She gets up when it’s dark outside, jogs on our treadmill, then sets off to work, signing deeds, filing papers, and showing houses till midnight. Like cops, she says, good realtors never sleep. Her weekends are spent taking clients around from dawn until dusk and after that, too. Like my dad, she schmoozes on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but she takes that same week off in March. Also, like my dad, she’s zapped at that resort. She lies beside him (they’re like a pair of beached whales) and I’ll give ’em a prod just to check they’re still breathing.

Why do they work to the point of collapse at the cost of creating a home life together? That’s simple, Blue: so we can afford a whole lot of stuff.

Take our kitchen. It has this granite island, a stove built by NASA, a fridge more solid than an Abrams tank, a jet-propelled dishwashing system, shelves jam-packed with every spice and utensil, and brass pots covering the length of one wall. A kitchen on a cruise ship doesn’t come this equipped. The funny thing is my folks never cook, not toast, hot dogs, or mac and cheese. If you asked my mom to fix you a sandwich, she’d stare at you as if you were nuts.

There are two small points worth making here. First, we didn’t need