The Pineville Heist (15 page)

However, the torturous pain in his abdomen only enraged Tremblay and he poured every ounce of his anger into a mad dash after Aaron, following him onto the stage, charging at him.

Then, the two found themselves evenly matched again, with Aaron grabbing another sword off the props pile in the nick of time. “You still want to play, huh?” Tremblay growled through gnashed teeth.

Aaron only looked guiltily at his sword and then back at Tremblay. Filled with fury, and the fearlessness of a man losing blood, Tremblay lashed out–his sword hitting Aaron's leg wound from before, opening it even wider. Aaron gasped.
Then he saw Tremblay swing down on his left arm–another vicious cut.

In a daze, suddenly losing blood himself, Aaron staggered in a half-circle. Tremblay mirrored his prey, side-stepping around Aaron, sensing a victory in the making.

Limping meekly, Aaron looked broken and ready for his death knell. Tremblay was all too happy to ring that bell.

When suddenly Aaron tossed his sword at Tremblay's sword hand. A last feeble attempt to chop Tremblay's wrist, or so Tremblay presumed, dropping his own sword in a heartbeat and deftly catching Aaron's thrown sword.

“What do you call that move?” Tremblay scoffed, as Aaron bent down to retrieve Tremblay's dropped weapon, re-arming himself. “Swapsies?”

A spark appeared in Aaron's eyes. The tables had turned again, only Tremblay didn't know it yet. Aaron launched himself at Tremblay who raised the sword in his hand, connecting with the sword now in Aaron's hand–one was a 'replica', a fake, nothing more than a prop. Torn to pieces by the real sword–which was now in Aaron's hand.

Tremblay looked down at the wiggling blade, protruding from his chest, piercing all the way through to the cloud behind him. He was pinned to the set-piece.

“Game over,” Aaron said, staggering away from Tremblay who was grinning eerily. Bloody bubbles formed at his mouth. Before slumping dead, hanging from the cloud.

Aaron turned around, hearing the click of the Glock–Carl had entered the theatre, hearing the uproar, and was ready to fire. “Wait! Don't shoot!” Aaron cried out, raising his hands.

Carl's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then attempted to process the scene in front of him. “Holy shit,” he murmured.

“That's what I say,” Aaron nodded, walking up the aisle, approaching Carl.

“Let's get out of here,” Carl said, lowering his Glock.

“Did Amanda get out okay?”

“Yeah, she's out in the car.”

Carl opened the theatre doors, wincing at the pain of his own wounds, before seeing Aaron's cuts in a new light and raising an eyebrow.

“I can't believe all this happened just for that stupid money,” Aaron muttered under his breath.

With a nod, Carl sighed nonchalantly. “Did you ever have it?”

“It's in the basement,” Aaron said, seeing the main doors ahead of them. A sight he didn't expect to see again. And when they reached them, the cold handle of the door felt very good in his hand.

But, Carl stopped him in his tracks. “We should go get it.”

“Now?” Aaron glanced over his shoulder, and then back at the exit he longed for.

“We can't just leave it sitting around. Come on…” Carl ushered Aaron back down the hallway. The familiar squeaks of his shoes in the corridor were a haunting reminder that he'd
been down this path before, and all Aaron wanted to do was walk backwards. Pretend this night never happened.

There were signs of violence everywhere they looked. Aaron stepped casually over the strewn shotgun, as he glanced at the library doors on his way past.

“I'm going to make sure you get a reward for this. Amanda, too.”

Aaron shrugged. “So, how did you get in?”

“What?”

“The doors were locked.”

“I blew off the side door.”

“You mean we could have gotten out?” Aaron pondered aloud.

“Lucky for me you didn't,” Carl chimed in, to which Aaron shot him a bemused glare. “I mean if you had, then Tremblay would still be out there running around like a maniac,” Carl concluded his thought.

“It's here,” Aaron said, pointing to the basement door. They followed the stairs down and into the darkened bowels, where Aaron guided Carl to a dented locker. It wasn't even locked. He pulled it open, revealing all the cash from the backpack. Like a vault at Fort Knox, packed from top to bottom.

Carl whistled as he stared at it. “Now that's a lot of money.”

Blood money, Aaron thought to himself, as Carl looked left and right, scanning the basement area.

“Find me something to carry it in,” Carl nudged Aaron. Despite his injuries, Aaron obeyed the authority figure and started wandering into the darker recesses of the room.

Leaning forward, Carl placed his hand on the top stack of dollar bills. Grabbed it between his fingers and thumbed it. Not enough. Need to smell this small fortune. He took the
stack and lifted it to his nose, taking a long sniff, like he was admiring the exquisite bouquet of a fine wine; except he was a connoisseur of money.

“How's this?” Aaron asked, holding up a large text books' box. Carl showed his agreement by tossing the stack of cash to Aaron.

“Do you mind?”

Aaron shook his weary head, catching the stack directly in the box, and wandered back to the locker. Carl smiled and Aaron began scooping the rest of the locker's contents, which tumbled out in a heaping pileful of stacked notes.

“That was pretty smart hiding it,” Carl said, watching the mountain of green that was building in the bottom of the box. He fumbled in his pocket for a lollipop. “No wonder Tremblay went ape shit.”

Carl's fingers fiddled with the lollipop paper, looking down as he unwrapped the head–creating a distinctive crinkle.

Aaron blanched, slowly shifting his gaze from the locker to Carl's lollipop. It all came flooding back in an instant; he found himself transplanted from the dark basement to the bright woodland scene where he witnessed the bearded man begging for his life, right before his murder in cold blood.

Tremblay aimed the gun as he questioned Jake.

“Gordie's lying,” Jake pleaded.

Then, that strange crinkling sound–Aaron had heard it right then, as Carl unpeeled a lollipop and stuck it into his mouth.

He was there! Carl was at the scene of the crime, with Tremblay. They were working together.

“I think you are the one who's lying, amigo,” said Tremblay icily.

“Please, no, wait. Ask him again.”

“I wish I could, but he's…” BLAM!

Tremblay looked back at Carl in surprise, to see Carl slowly lowering his Glock, with a thin line of gunsmoke rising from the muzzle.

Jake collapsed in a heap, inches away from Aaron's face, as he hid beneath the canoe…

“Almost done?” Carl asked, taking the lollipop from his lips.

BLAM! The fatal second shot rang out.

Aaron jumped inside but nodded silently, processing the shifting sands of this new reality. His heart pounded away just as it did under the canoe. He continued to load the last stacks of cash into the box, carefully spying Carl's holstered Glock.

“Okay, buddy. Let's go.”

Forcing a smile, Aaron picked up one end of the box and helped Carl carry
his
blood money.

Up the steps, ascending out of the basement, one by one, watching Carl's back, and his still holstered Glock. But, for how long. A loose end for Tremblay was still a loose end for Carl.

Reaching the top of the basement stairs, Aaron inhaled a deep breath. “Why do you think he did it?” he said quickly.

“You should know why. With your old man closing the mill, Pineville will be a ghost town by Christmas.”

“So, killing everybody was just part of your twisted retirement party?”

Before he could think, Carl retorted defensively, “We didn't plan on killing anyone. It just…” He suddenly realized what Aaron was asking, and moreover how he had just let the cat out of the bag.

Carl spun around then, as he heard Aaron's end of the box drop and hit the ground. Aaron was running again. Scrambling to release his Glock from the holster, Carl gave chase.

“Get back here!” he shouted, yanking the Glock out into a shooting position, firing off a couple of rounds at Aaron's fleeing form.

Hearing those rogue bullets ricocheting off the floors and walls around him, Aaron couldn't round the corner fast enough. He sucked in everything, hoping to make a narrow target, and veered to the right–out of Carl's line of sight.

This sudden burst of strenuous exercise caused Aaron's leg to start bleeding fresh blood. He slapped a hand over the
damp wound, but hobbled on. Then he saw something up ahead–the shotgun.

Just enough time to scoop up the weapon and keep moving. He bent down, snatched up the shotgun, and heard the next shot from Carl's Glock. The bullet sailed overhead.

The English class was getting close. Aaron's mind was counting the imaginary steps that he needed to make to reach the classroom door. Too many.

With another snap of gunfire, Aaron blinked. Toppling over, skidding to a halt on the polished floor. He was down.

Staying close to the wall of lockers, Carl trained his Glock on Aaron's body. After this night, he was ready for anything. So he thought.

Carl licked his upper lip, a bead of sweat rolling down from his nose. Finger hovered over the trigger. Then, Aaron slowly rolled over, holding the shotgun with one hand and his other hand clenched in a fist.

“Don't move!” Carl screeched, tensing at the sight of the shotgun. But, he recognized it as his shotgun–relaxing immediately, as he knew it was empty. This kid played his last card. It was a good one. But, couldn't beat his hand.

Carl sighed. “Look, Aaron–I'm sorry it has to come down to this. But, you really left me no choice here.”

Not moving an inch, Aaron simply opened his mouth and asked, “Why, Carl, why?”

“I told you. Because your father is going to sell the mill and…”

“He's investing in it.”

“What?” Carl said, letting go of the Glock's grip with his other hand to scratch the back of his head.

“That money isn't from my dad selling the mill, it's to upgrade it. Whatever the Sheriff told you, he was wrong.”

Carl crumpled his mouth into an upturned smile. His forehead creased into a lined frown. He was stumped. What the hell?

The words carved into a locker door seemed to say it all: someone had scratched 'IDIOT' in large letters. Carl glanced at it, and lowered the Glock to his hip.

Aaron took this chance to open his clenched hand–containing the shotgun shell that had previously rolled under the lockers.

He rammed the shell into the breach, pumping the shotgun.

“Pineville isn't going to die…” Aaron said, suddenly drawing Carl's attention back to him. “You are, dumbass.”

Staring back at him, Carl's glassy eyes–in Aaron's crosshairs, just like the doe on that hunting trip with his dad, Derek. But, Aaron wasn't able to pull the trigger that time. Despite his father's commands for a kill shot–
“Go on, Aaron. Do it. Do it!”
–Aaron couldn't; he was unable to pull the trigger and finish what his father started. Disappointed in his son's lack of killer instinct, Derek aimed his rifle and took care of business. Well, so much for their manly bonding trip to the woods.

However, this time was different. Unlike the doe's innocence, Aaron could only see greed and evil in Carl's eyes. All bred out of money. The mill. His father.

Pumping the shotgun with a loud 'shunk', Aaron fired at Carl who was raising his Glock not quickly enough. The blast blew Carl back several feet, taking it full in the chest. A vest could have stopped the hit, but Carl, cowboy that he was, was no longer wearing it.

“Shit…” Carl's voice descended into gurgles as the holes ventilating his chest filled with blood.

Just as it was for Tremblay, it was curtains for Carl. The timid boy that was afraid to fire in the woods with his Dad, no longer existed.

Staggering from the building, Aaron was three shades of red. Spurts of Tremblay, splatter from Carl and with scars of his own---all blending into a smorgasbord of mauve and burgundy. As a result, Aaron's shirt looked like a Jackson Pollack-inspired masterpiece; tentatively titled
'Dead Man Walking.

Amanda rushed from Carl's cruiser to Aaron's side, her face emblazoned with shock and pity. “Aaron, oh my God. Are you alright?”

“It's not all my blood,” Aaron explained, still in a daze. The sun was peeking over the horizon. Finally, daybreak was coming. A sunrise washes away all sins. Makes everything seem clean again. Aaron was ready for a fresh start, a new lease on life.

“What happened? Where's, Carl?” Amanda continued with her questions, looking around Aaron, expecting Carl to walk outside, too. “Is he still in there?”

Aaron shook his head. She could immediately read the foreboding doom in his expression. “He didn't make it.” Aaron's words hung in the air.

“Oh, no, Aaron, no, no, no…” Amanda's voice descended into wails and blubbering. She suddenly latched onto the closest warm body–Aaron's. Holding him tight, sobbing uncontrollably into his chest.

Aaron looked down, snapping out of his comatose state, and patted her tenderly on the back. An awkward moment, considering he dealt the fatal blow, not Tremblay. Not really the time to spill the beans that her knight in shining armor was not so clean after all. Unsure what else to do, he simply stood there and let her cry.

Both Tremblay and Carl were the masterminds of a devious plan to rip off what they suspected was soon to be a dead city. Dead. Aaron had seen plenty of that in the last 14 hours–even more carnage than his hunting trip. An innocent doe and now a bunch of dead bodies. People he knew–Steve and Principal Parker as innocent as the deer in the woods. He was still in shock. How could this all happen in Pineville?

In the orange tinge of the rising sun, red and white flashing lights entered the parking lot–a police cruiser chirped its siren as it led an ambulance onto the scene, followed by a procession of local cars. The EMTs quickly jumped out of the back of the ambulance, carrying their medical kits, and running towards Amanda and Aaron.