“Tyler.”
“Tyler what?”
“Tyler Churchill.”
“Well, Tyler Churchill, would you mind explaining to me exactly why the hell you knocked on our door?”
My mouth went completely dry, and it was difficult to speak. “You stole my mom’s car.”
“I stole nothing of the sort. I’ve been here all evening. Do you know what I do to people who falsely accuse me of wrongdoing?” I shook my head.
He pressed the barrel of the gun against my forehead. “You can make an educated guess, right?”
I forced myself not to drop to my knees and start sobbing and begging for mercy. They hadn’t opened fire on me with all five guns the second I stepped into their chop shop, so he had to be willing to discuss things.
I wondered if, possibly, this had been a bad idea.
“I didn’t mean you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. I halfpointed to Scorp. “He took the car. It’s.. .uh.. .right there.”
“Oh, okay. You’re saying that my associate stole your car. That’s different. I agree with that. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“You packin’?”
“Heat?”
Gary looked at me as if glowing waves of stupidity were emanating from my forehead. “Yes, heat. Are you packing heat? Are you in possession of a firearm containing bullets with which you might try to shoot somebody?”
I vigorously shook my head.
“Ribeye, pat him down.”
Ribeye set down his gun on the roof of the car and then gave me a not-very-gentle pat down that I thought might leave bruises. “Kid’s clean,” he announced. He walked back to retrieve his gun. I wished I’d stomped on his foot and then done a double backflip over to the car, where I could have grabbed his gun and shot all five of them before they had had a chance to react, but the window of opportunity was now closed.
“No gun, huh?” Gary asked me.
“No.”
“Why would you show up without a gun? That sounds stupid to me. Very, very stupid. And I have a problem understanding acts of stupidity. Isn’t that right, Blood Clot?”
“Yep,” said Blood Clot. “You sure do.”
“I’m always saying to myself, ‘Why did that person do something so stupid?’ And most of the time, I can’t get a good answer. Which is why I’m so happy to have you here, right in the middle of one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen somebody do. Explain it to me.” Now my mouth had gone so dry that I literally couldn’t speak. “Did you come in here thinking that my moral code would
not let me shoot a teenager? Is that it? I hope so, because I love irony.” Gary grinned. “Don’t I love irony, Blood Clot?”
“Oh yeah. You can’t get enough of that ironic stuff.”
Gary winked at me. And then his grin vanished, and his cruel eyes went dead serious. “It’s extremely important that you don’t think I won’t kill you just because you’re a kid. I’ll kill a little girl and not lose a wink of sleep.”
“I don’t think you won’t kill me,” I said, finding my voice again. That didn’t sound like what I’d actually wanted to say, but I wasn’t completely sure what I did want to say and didn’t correct myself. “You call the cops?” Gary asked.
“No. He stole my phone.”
“Your friends call the cops?”
“He stole their phones too.”
Gary shrugged. “Makes sense. However, since it’s no longer 1923, I’d guess that they wouldn’t find it too difficult to get in touch with the authorities. Time’s running out. Why are you here? Were you gonna steal your car back? It’s gonna be hard to drive right now.”
“I need something out of the trunk,” I said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You’re here because you forgot something in your trunk?” “Yes, sir.”
“Are you slow of mind?”
“I don’t care what you do with the car. I mean, I do care— it’s my mom’s car, and she’s going to go absolutely berserk—but I’m not going to try to stop you. Not that I could stop you, but I mean, you know what I mean.”
“Could somebody please shoot him to stop the babbling?” “No, no! All I’m saying is that if I could please have the box in the trunk, I’ll get out of your hair and you can go back to what you were doing.”
“Must be valuable,” said Gary.
“Only sentimental value.”
“Uh-huh. There’s no sentimental value in the world worth getting shot over. Now you’ve gone and made me all curious. Scorp, open the trunk.”
“We should clear out first,” said Scorp.
“We’ll clear out when I say it’s time to clear out. That’s what the secret passage is for. It’ll be nice to get to use it again; it’s been too long. Get that trunk open.”
Scorp took out my set of keys and unlocked the trunk. He popped the lid, revealing the small wooden box.
“Nice box,” said Gary. “I like the symbols. Good tattoo ideas.” I wasn’t sure whether to thank him for the compliment or not. I decided on not.
As Scorp took the box out of the trunk, it occurred to me that a much better plan would have involved Kelley and Adam setting up some sort of distraction at a designated time. So Scorp would pick up the box, and he’d be juuuuust about to open it when a huge explosion knocked all five thugs off their feet. From there, it would be the aforementioned matter of acquiring one of the guns and shooting it five times. Then the taxi would plow right through the garage door. No problem.
Gary picked up the box. “Pretty light for something full of cash.”
“It’s not cash. It’s a doll.”
“A doll?” Gary rattled the box.
I gasped and literally clutched at my heart, which felt like it skipped a beat and then did six hundred beats in a half-second to compensate.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s your problem?” Gary asked.
“It’s fragile!”
Gary set the box on the cement floor and then lifted the lid. “It is a doll.”
“Right. Just a doll. My grandmother made it. On her deathbed.” “She made you a doll on her deathbed?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s why it’s not a very well-made doll. It’s doesn’t have any actual value, not even on Antiques Roadshow, but my mom will be heartbroken if something happens to it.” “And you think I look like the kind of person who cares if your mother is heartbroken?”
“There’s no reason not to give it back to me,” I said.
Gary lifted the doll out of the box by its arm. “What’s inside it?” “Nothing.”
“There’s something inside. I don’t care if your grandmother was the homemade meatloaf queen of the United States, you wouldn’t be doing this for a doll. Ribeye, get me a knife.” “Please!” I said. “Don’t cut it open.”
“I ain’t got a knife,” said Ribeye.
“Blood Clot, get me a knife.”
“I don’t have one either,” Blood Clot admitted. “I’ve got a screwdriver.”
“Screwdriver’s fine,” said Gary.
Blood Clot tossed him a screwdriver. Gary moved his hand out of the way, and the tool clattered onto the floor.
“Don’t throw it at me! Hand it to me! Do you want that thing to go right through my palm? What’s the matter with you?”
“I thought you’d catch it.”
“That’s how people get hurt, moron. Now pick it up.”
Blood Clot sheepishly walked over to where the screwdriver had fallen. He picked it up, handed it to Gary, then walked back to where he’d been standing.
“I swear to you there’s nothing inside the doll,” I said. “It’s really important that you not cut it open.”
“Why?”