Strike (14 page)

“Doesn't matter. You know how to use the Wipers?”

I open the handbag at my feet, and it's the source of the
dead-gum smell, probably borrowed from the closet of one of the older Crane women. Inside is a jumble of the small boxes Leon showed us, and I pick one up as if it's the bomb it so resembles.

“Just put it somewhere sneaky and push the button, right?”

The guy scoffs, and I stare at him dully. He's just some random guy, scruffy under his beard with unkempt brown hair that brushes the collar of his puffer vest. But I get the feeling he looks down on me, and I wish I knew if it was because I'm a girl, because I recently killed a bunch of innocent people, or for some other reason. He doesn't seem to like me, probably because Leon doesn't like me. But do they know who I really am, or do they just despise the reckless, rude monster I've become? The CFF has said all along that it didn't want our real names, but that doesn't mean they don't already know exactly who I am, who we are.

“Wrong, dumbass. Wipers have a super-strong electromagnet. Do you know what that means?”

“Leon said it would mess up credit cards.”

“Yeah. But what else do you know about magnets?”

“They attract metal?”

He points a finger at me and says, “Bingo. So it's got sticky tape on the bottom. Like, insanely sticky tape. Best place to put 'em is on shelves behind shit nobody buys, like fancy mayonnaise or expensive kids' toys. Then push the button and put stuffed animals or jars in front of 'em or whatever and get the hell away.”

I put the machine down gently. “So how many times have y'all done this before?”

The guy grins. “Never. You can only pull this stunt once.”

“So we're just, what? Like, expendable soldiers?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Are you just now getting how this works?”

I smooth back my wig, turn my head away, and watch the other cars blink past. So far we've passed two big stores without stopping. “Is it happening all over America, or is this a Crane-only enterprise?”

“That's on a need-to-know basis. And you don't need to know.”

I watch him for a minute, watch him close. He looks the part of just another scruffy country boy, but his fingernails are clean and trimmed, his skin is clear, and he doesn't have a very strong accent.

“So you're a Crane, right? And Leon's your uncle?”

“Again, need-to-know basis.”

“Is there anything I'm allowed to know?”

He shakes his head like I'm a pesky fly. “Damn, you're mouthy. Just do what you're told.”

He moves into the turn lane for a Mark's, one of my favorite stores. This one's farther from home than the one I prefer, so at least no one will recognize me, like, say, the cute boy with the ponytail who always has cart duty at the other Mark's. We pull into a parking space, and he leaves the car running and reaches into his pocket.

“Here's a list. Try to get exactly what's on here and leave the Wipers as you go. There should be more than enough cash to cover it.”

The list is typed on white paper and has a lot of the crap we've been eating in the Crane house but in the smaller quantities that a normal house would need. Two loaves of white bread, family-size bologna, two bags of chips, stuff like that. The wad of cash is in twenties and tens, still warm from his coat.

“How do you know I'm not going to take the cash and run?” I ask without thinking.

“You won't. You're too smart for that. And you can buy some biscuits for your dog, if you want. Leon says you're awful fond of her and that kid you shot.” His smile is mocking, knowing. I wish I were allowed to shoot him. I haven't thought about my gun since target practice, but now I'm painfully aware of its weight in my waistband.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, and now he's pointing a .45 at me. I belatedly realize my hand went to my gun. I don't even notice anymore. “Don't try that shit with me.”

“Sorry,” I say, holding my hands up, and he relaxes.

At least the holster Wyatt bought for me keeps me from sweating against the metal, because the warmth of the heater and dealing with this jerk is making me sweat like crazy. I guess I'm glad I didn't try to shoot him—now he thinks I'm cowed. The Cranes want me to believe that I've got only one choice, but that's a lie. I could get
out of the car, sneak back around, and kill this guy, kick him out of the car, and drive off into the mountains with enough cash to get me to Tennessee.

But I won't.

I need Matty and Wyatt. They're all I have now. And the Cranes know it, which is why they're letting me get out of the car alive.

The guy jerks his head toward the store. “Hurry up. I'll be waiting.”

I get out of the car, tuck the cash in my back pocket, and heft the bag over my shoulder. It's a plastic knockoff of the leather brand my mom used to sigh over, and the strap digs into my neck. I slam the car door without a word and quick-walk for the store, passing old men with half-f carts and dad types talking frantically on their phones as they load bag after bag between the seats of their empty SUVs. Not many women, no children. Just like with the folks at the store last night, hunting for resources has become a man's job, a dangerous job. I imagine their wives and children at home behind bolted doors, Mommy's hand on the shotgun as she feeds Junior applesauce. I stand out here; maybe that's why they gave me a wig. My heart's jacked up, but that's nothing new now. At least I don't have to shoot anyone.

Probably.

Repress, repress, repress.

A college-age guy walks by with a case of beer under his
arm and bigger bags than mine under his eyes, and I can't help wondering how Wyatt is doing. He's done some brave things this week, mostly on instinct, without really thinking. Mostly to save my ass. And I know he shoplifted some when he was younger and running with his old pal Mikey, before Mikey died and Wyatt got his life cleaned up. But is he cool enough to pull this off? To walk around a store, planting bomblike machines without getting caught?

Am I?

The automatic doors slide open, and I almost walk in through the exit—which would mean walking in through the scanners that beep at shoplifters. I don't know enough about the scanners or the Wipers to know what they would do to each other, so it's a damn good thing I looked up when I did.

“Oops,” I mutter to no one, heading for the doors marked
ENTER
, which don't have the machines. Because shoplifting only works one way, right?

There's a police officer stationed by the carts, but she's on her phone, texting away. I don't see a gun, just a club. Her outfit is all black with the usual patches, but they could say anything or mean nothing. I wish I knew more about real police versus rent-a-cop versus whatever Valor's done to make sure all errors are in the bank's favor. I put my head down and get a cart and hurry toward the food with the list in one hand. I've read it fifty times at least, but the
words slip from my mind the second my eyes skitter over them. Last week's hit list did that too.

The first thing on the list is bananas, one dozen, and I put them in the cart and move on. The fruit section is too exposed to place any Wipers. A bag of apples, a bag of oranges. I feel like everyone is staring at me, but when I look up through the wig's blond bangs, no one is. There aren't many people here at all. The next aisle is condiments, where I'm supposed to buy mayonnaise, one large jar. My hands start to sweat on the cart's handle. This is where I need to plant the first Wiper. I stop the cart in front of the wall of mayo and crouch down. No one is in the aisle, and I don't see any mirrors or cameras. I start to reach into the bag, but a squeaky cart turns down the aisle, an older woman parking herself in front of the ketchup with glasses down over her nose. I swear to God, she's reading every single ketchup bottle with the focus you can give only when you have no idea what's going on in the outside world. I do the same with the mayo, subtly clearing a space on the lowest shelf behind the industrial-sized jars.

“Excuse me.”

I gasp and look up, expecting the policewoman, or a Valor suit. But it's just the old lady, mouth turned down, staring expectantly. I move my cart a few feet and go back to reading mayonnaise jars like an idiot.

“Love the bag,” she says, and I make sure my arm is holding it closed.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

A thousand years later, she selects her mayo and leaves the aisle, and I kneel, whip out a Wiper, rip the coating off the sticky tape, stick it under the shelf, and press the button. That makes it sound like a swift, elegant process, but it feels like I'm moving in slow motion, and my neck is sweating under the wig, and I expect to hear the clomp of boots or the clip of expensive shoes as someone, anyone, busts me for doing what looks like planting a bomb.

No one does. I move the jars of mayo back into place, put my own giant mayo jar in the cart, and hurry to the end of the aisle, fairly certain that I'm going to have a heart attack. Somehow, playing hide-and-seek with homemade magnets is almost scarier than killing people for Valor. My adrenaline doesn't know the difference because bodies are dumb.

In the next aisle, that same old lady is reading bread bags like she's in a library. I don't have time for that, so I skip the bread and head for the cereal aisle, where I'm to get a tall canister of quick oats and a large box of Cheerios. I have to wait for an overburdened young dad with two squalling spawn to grab his Cap'n Crunch before I can plant another Wiper, this one among the old-fashioned oats, which seem less popular because they take two minutes longer to cook.

“What are you doing?”

The voice startles me as I push the button, and I yelp and sit down hard. It's a little boy, maybe five, staring at me like I'm a unicorn.

“Um, I'm buying oatmeal.”

“I hate oatmeal.”

“Me too.”

“What's in your bag? Are those toys?”

I'm stammering when his dad yanks him back by his arm.

“Sorry about that,” he says, looking me over with angry, distrustful eyes. He tosses the kid over his shoulder and mutters, “Son, you can't go running away, remember? You have to stay in the cart. We got to hurry. Don't talk to people.”

I'm just glad I didn't have to answer the kid's question. I rearrange the oatmeal canisters to hide the Wiper and stand, pushing my cart to the next aisle for cookies and crackers. It gets easier with each Wiper, as I learn how to whip off the tape cover while it's still in my bag, kneel, and trade it for the oversized boxes of crap on my list. I hide one behind the plastic bears of cheese balls and one behind the granola bars and another behind bottles of wine so huge as to seem like props or jokes. Then it's on to the paper section, where I trade Wipers for toilet paper and paper plates and paper towels. I pick out dog biscuits shaped like gingerbread men and leave a Wiper behind the boxes of Milk-Bones. The cart is getting full while the bag is getting lighter. I have one Wiper left and nothing else to take off my list, so I head down unfamiliar aisles, looking for lonely products stacked high enough to keep the damn things hidden. The cleaning aisle is empty, so I turn down it, park
my cart in front of the Windex, and reach into my bag, practically laughing with relief at finally being done.

And then I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss,” says the cop. “But I'm going to need to see what's inside your bag.”

I turn and paste on a plastic smile.

“I'm sorry. My bag?”

She nods, looking smug and sly. “We can do it here or in the manager's office.”

I swallow and shrug. “Uh, okay. If that's what you need to do.” I let the straps fall down my arm and hand her the bag.

She takes it, and a little furrow appears between her eyebrows as she pulls the straps apart to stare into the minty depths.

“What's this?”

I look down with her, and the box stares up from the darkness.

“It's a box.”

“Yeah, I can see it's a box, miss. Why are you carrying a big bag with nothing in it?”

But she doesn't reach for the box, which makes me think that maybe she's not allowed to, that there must be laws or protocols for whatever she wants to pin on me, and she can't do it. I don't reach for it, either.

“This is my mom's bag, and I guess that's her box. I didn't want to leave it in the car because I was afraid it would get stolen. You know how things are right now. Is there a problem?”

I look up at her, trying to remember what innocence looks like. Harmless smile, wide eyes, I think? I have no idea. I am the opposite of innocent now.

“No phone? No wallet? No makeup?”

“I'm just here for groceries,” I say. “Phones are expensive.”

She shakes her head and closes the bag, shoving it back at me. “You understand that now is not the best time to be out alone? And that when you enter a store with a large bag, people are going to assume the worst?”

“I'm sorry. I guess I didn't think about that because I didn't plan to shoplift.”

Her eyes go hard, and she looks me up and down. “Good,” she says. “But know I'm going to be waiting at the doors to check your receipt.”

When she doesn't move or say anything else, I slide the bag back onto my shoulder. “Is it okay if I finish shopping now?”

“Go right ahead.” Which sounds like a dare.

I nod and push my cart down the aisle. She follows at a distance that's halfway between a “Watch yourself” and a “Fuck you,” and I realize that I'll never be able to plant my last Wiper with a pissed-off cop on my tail like this. My list is done, and I doubt they gave me enough money for a splurge to take me across the store to the non-food sections. I kneel to read the peanut butter jars, and she leans against the end cap. I find myself missing the freedom of last week, when anyone who pissed me off this much took a bullet in the stomach so that I could finish my job. She knows I'm up to no good . . . because I am. If an actual bomb went off, she'd probably ignore it to see if I tried to steal some mustard.