Read Online The Lock Artist by Steve Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Hamilton
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If you set the combination yourself, you can use the same number twice, but most people don’t do that.
I went back through and narrowed down the numbers I had. When I got to the 27, I felt it narrow down to 26, and then also to 28. Aha, I thought. Now I’ve got them. Come to think of it, I’ve got a 1, 11, 26, 28, 59 here. That’s 120 different possible combinations, but I’ll bet anything you used your birthday here, plus your wife’s birthday. Then maybe the year you got married? If the birthdays are first, then we’re talking what, only four possibilities instead of 120. For which I would thank you very much.
I started on the first possibility, 1-11-26-28-59. It takes a long time to spin out a five-number combination, because you’ve got to pass the first number four times, then the second number three times, then the third number twice, then the fourth number once, then go to the fifth number and then finally go back the opposite way to trip the lever. I worked it all the way through and pulled up on the knob. Nothing.
I heard Bigmouth standing up. He was walking across the floor now. I shut him out and kept going. Second possibility, 1-11-26-59-28. Four passes, three, two, one, back, turn. Nothing.
Bigmouth was saying something. The words not even registering now. I am far, far away, at the bottom of the sea. I am so close to opening the treasure chest.
Third possibility, 1-11-59-28-26. Four passes, three, two, one, back, turn. Nothing.
Pop pop pop. Just like that. Noises from somewhere on the surface.
“Oh shit.” Bigmouth’s words breaking through. “Holy fucking shit.”
His feet pounding on the boards now. I am yanked back to the surface, blinking and gasping for air. The last of the four combinations left down there behind me, unspun. I slide over to the window where Bigmouth had been standing. I see the black van out front, parked haphazardly, both front doors wide open.
Then the noises again. Louder this time, coming to me even through the closed window. Pop pop pop.
As I struggle to my feet, I see the man running down the driveway. It is Heckle or Jeckle, whichever one of them will carry which imaginary name because it’s about to be carved on his tombstone as another man comes into view behind him. He moves quickly for his size. He’s wearing a gray jacket with white letters across the back. Before I can read what the letters say, he crouches and extends the gun in his hand, both hands on the grip in a way that tells me he has done this many times before. He has practiced this exact thing over and over again. Shooting at a paper target perhaps, but the geometry is exactly the same. He squeezes off two more rounds. His target is fifty feet away from him, but I see the dark little circle appear on Heckle or Jeckle’s back. He goes down with his arms spread wide, like he’s doing a swan dive onto the hard ground.
Another man, wearing another gray jacket, comes into view. As he looks at the dead man on the ground, the shooter turns and runs toward the front door of the house. A second later, I can hear the door opening, directly below me. Meaning it would be a good time for me to move.
I leave the master bedroom, move down the hallway as quickly and quietly as I can. When I get to the end, I can see down into the foyer. The front door is open now. I don’t see anyone, but I can hear footsteps not far away. I don’t want to make a break for it yet. The stairway is too long, and whoever is down there will have such a clear shot at me, he’ll have time to pull up a chair before shooting.
I know this feeling. Sitting here and waiting. Trying to stay silent. This is familiar country for me.
Another sound from downstairs. Smoothly mechanical. Metal on metal. Then footsteps. Moving slowly.
A crash. A yell. Feet scrambling on the floor. Then the blast, obliterating every other sound in the world. Until the ringing in my ears fades and I hear the inhuman, not-even-animal screaming of
I went back through and narrowed down the numbers I had. When I got to the 27, I felt it narrow down to 26, and then also to 28. Aha, I thought. Now I’ve got them. Come to think of it, I’ve got a 1, 11, 26, 28, 59 here. That’s 120 different possible combinations, but I’ll bet anything you used your birthday here, plus your wife’s birthday. Then maybe the year you got married? If the birthdays are first, then we’re talking what, only four possibilities instead of 120. For which I would thank you very much.
I started on the first possibility, 1-11-26-28-59. It takes a long time to spin out a five-number combination, because you’ve got to pass the first number four times, then the second number three times, then the third number twice, then the fourth number once, then go to the fifth number and then finally go back the opposite way to trip the lever. I worked it all the way through and pulled up on the knob. Nothing.
I heard Bigmouth standing up. He was walking across the floor now. I shut him out and kept going. Second possibility, 1-11-26-59-28. Four passes, three, two, one, back, turn. Nothing.
Bigmouth was saying something. The words not even registering now. I am far, far away, at the bottom of the sea. I am so close to opening the treasure chest.
Third possibility, 1-11-59-28-26. Four passes, three, two, one, back, turn. Nothing.
Pop pop pop. Just like that. Noises from somewhere on the surface.
“Oh shit.” Bigmouth’s words breaking through. “Holy fucking shit.”
His feet pounding on the boards now. I am yanked back to the surface, blinking and gasping for air. The last of the four combinations left down there behind me, unspun. I slide over to the window where Bigmouth had been standing. I see the black van out front, parked haphazardly, both front doors wide open.
Then the noises again. Louder this time, coming to me even through the closed window. Pop pop pop.
As I struggle to my feet, I see the man running down the driveway. It is Heckle or Jeckle, whichever one of them will carry which imaginary name because it’s about to be carved on his tombstone as another man comes into view behind him. He moves quickly for his size. He’s wearing a gray jacket with white letters across the back. Before I can read what the letters say, he crouches and extends the gun in his hand, both hands on the grip in a way that tells me he has done this many times before. He has practiced this exact thing over and over again. Shooting at a paper target perhaps, but the geometry is exactly the same. He squeezes off two more rounds. His target is fifty feet away from him, but I see the dark little circle appear on Heckle or Jeckle’s back. He goes down with his arms spread wide, like he’s doing a swan dive onto the hard ground.
Another man, wearing another gray jacket, comes into view. As he looks at the dead man on the ground, the shooter turns and runs toward the front door of the house. A second later, I can hear the door opening, directly below me. Meaning it would be a good time for me to move.
I leave the master bedroom, move down the hallway as quickly and quietly as I can. When I get to the end, I can see down into the foyer. The front door is open now. I don’t see anyone, but I can hear footsteps not far away. I don’t want to make a break for it yet. The stairway is too long, and whoever is down there will have such a clear shot at me, he’ll have time to pull up a chair before shooting.
I know this feeling. Sitting here and waiting. Trying to stay silent. This is familiar country for me.
Another sound from downstairs. Smoothly mechanical. Metal on metal. Then footsteps. Moving slowly.
A crash. A yell. Feet scrambling on the floor. Then the blast, obliterating every other sound in the world. Until the ringing in my ears fades and I hear the inhuman, not-even-animal screaming of
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