back pocket. I reach around back and pull it out. I stare at the different textures, the dark and light shadows, the truths woven into the painting.
The room blurs.
Mom screams.
And I'm gone.
MARCH 18, 1990
12:30 a.m.
My back leans up against the brick wall of the Gardner. The baseball bat is still clenched in my hands.
I glance at the hatchback.
Then I stand, wavering, and walk along the side of the Gardner then cross the street. I can barely make it. Maybe they'll think I'm a drunk college student.
Moonlight shows me the path and I hide next to a car, beneath the branches of the oak tree.
Car doors open. Dad and Kronin approach the building. They talk with the guards and enter.
I wait, knowing the alternate Ian Kronin, my stalker, the time traveler from a different reality will arrive any second.
My strength is failing. I'm not sure I'll last much longer. But I'm determined to set things right. This isn't about the heist anymore.
Footsteps echo. I grip the bat with determination. No more fear. I only need to last a little bit longer. The time for talk is over. There's no reasoning it out with this guy.
I turn just as he rushes me. I swing the bat.
I hear the thud of the bat against Ian's head. His body hits the pavement. My body shakes with the adrenaline. I do my best to drag him off the sidewalk, but I can't make it. My knees give out, and I crumple on top of him.
Between the cars, I stare at the museum. At the brick wall.
Scenes from the heist, the path through the museum, run through my head. My breathing is shallow. I don't really feel the pain anymore.
2:41 a.m.
I drift in and out of sleep the whole time. Kronin is knocked out. I press my fingers to his neck. He's still alive. Eventually, he'll leave this reality. Just like I will.
Their time in the museum should be almost over.
Back on the main floor, the thieves steal one more painting. Manet's Chez Tortini. A portrait of a man sitting in a French caf?. They check the guards one last time. Before leaving, they steal the video recording of their entrance and the printout of their movement throughout the museum. As a joke, they leave the empty frame of the Manet on the security director's chair.
The side door opens. The thieves leave the museum with rolls of paintings tucked under their arms. Their shadowy forms are a blur. After two trips, they roar off down the street.
An ache spreads through my jaw from clenching my teeth together. Exhaustion sweeps through me. I once thought I knew all the answers. But now, I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. Right or wrong blur together. Love and hate walk the same line. Good and bad are friends.
"Goodbye, Dad," I whisper as the red taillights disappear around the corner. My head rolls to the side.
Nausea churns in my stomach. Moments later, just the branches of the oak tree quiver in the breeze.
MARCH 17, 2013
DAY SIX
12:01 a.m.
Something tickles my nose, and I swipe at it. My forehead itches. I swipe again. Snorts and stifled laughter echo in my room, and it's not from Mom's late night television. I vaguely remember stumbling upstairs last night. I stripped my clothes and found a skin wound. I washed up, bandaged it, swallowed some Tylenol and fell into bed.
My nose is cold and wet. Slowly, I wiggle my fingers. They're cold and wet. Without opening my eyes, I lick my upper lip. Whipped cream. Definitely. A tiny smile creeps over my face. Stick and Turbo are in my room, playing a silly prank.
"Was that a smile? I think he just smiled," Turbo whispers.
"Nah, he's out like my old man after a night's drinking."
I stifle another smile. Stick seems back to normal, which means he's had talks with my dad.
"Hurry up and take the picture."
I groan and move around in bed as if I'm having a bad dream. "No," I mutter.
"Crap. He must be dreaming about tomorrow. Maybe we should've just gone to the cemetery as planned."
"No way. That's why we're here. We're not letting him go through this alone."
I mumble.
"What's he saying?"
I mumble again. I wait until I feel their breath on my face. I open my eyes and jam my hands full of whipped cream into their faces and yell, "Gotcha!"
Turbo stumbles around the room like a zombie with his arms out. "I'm blind. Help. I can't see."
Stick splutters and gasps while staring in shock. A clump of whipped cream is smeared across his forehead and into his red hair.
"I've been meaning to tell you that you're in desperate need of a makeover," I say.
Stick jumps on the bed and puts me in a headlock. Pain shoots through my side. "Hey, loser, hand me the whipped cream."
"Don't do it, Turbo. Or you'll be next," I say, smothering my laughter.
Stick rubs his knuckles against my head. "Hand it over."
"I'll tell all the kids at school, you still pee the bed," I call out.
"You wouldn't dare."
The springs in the mattress groan as Turbo lands on top of us. "I'm tired of taking orders from you two. From now on, I'm in control."
With that, Turbo finishes off the can on both of us. We erupt into laughter while trying to be king of the mountain. Blood seeps through the bandage.
"Hey!" Mom yells from the doorway.
Tears immediately spring into my eyes. Mom is back to her crabby self. I stop pulling Stick's hair and we slowly stop and turn.
"Look at you boys sitting all in a row like little ducklings. Take the tomfoolery downstairs. I don't care what you do as long as you clean up." She turns back to her room and slams the door.
I break out in laughter and grab towels from the hall closet for my friends. "I'll clean it up later. Let's go downstairs. I'm starving."
Stick wipes the whip cream from his face and arms, then he picks up the suit that lies over my chair. His face turns serious even though his hair sticks straight up in the air due to the whipped cream. "Dude, you ready for tomorrow?"
I pause and think about court. This time, I know Dad isn't an undercover agent. I know he robbed a museum and stole diamonds. And I know that life could be a hell of a lot worse than Dad staying in jail.
12:45 a.m.
After I kick my friends out, I head upstairs. I turned down the romp through St. Auggies because I'm exhausted. I barely make it up the stairs. The wear and tear of time traveling has caught up to me. I head to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and put on a new bandage.
I throw all the dirty sheets in the laundry and collapse onto the mattress. But once in bed I have a hard time falling back to sleep. The darkness weighs on me but this time the sweats and the shakes don't come. The fears that have plagued me for years don't draw near.
This time I think about a girl and her silky black hair. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep and dream about our kiss. I want to relive it again and again. The night can't pass fast enough when in the morning she'll flounce through the coffee shop doors. I hope.
But a nagging thought won't let go. Will Dad arrive tonight? Will he make his appeal to me as if nothing happened? I roll back out of bed, the springs groaning. The floor feels familiar under my feet and it's the small things I cling to: Mom's late night television and her crabby moods, the creak of the floors and the smell of cinnamon. The parts of my life I once complained about now seem silly.
I pass Mom's frilly purple umbrella-the baseball bat is gone-and creep partway down the stairs. On the fourth step, I stop and take a seat. So much has changed and yet everything is the same. I pick up the chocolate bar wrapper from earlier in the week and crunch it in my hand.
Wishes for a better life, a different life, a longing that once rattled in my chest is gone. In its place is a full sort of feeling, the kind of fullness after eating Thanksgiving dinner but before having the dessert. Or when Stick, Turbo and I finish off a bag full of pastries and li
e in the cemetery with the grass tickling our necks and nothing but the moon and the gravestones surrounding us. Content. Happy. I've been to the other side and back.
I know truth. No one is perfect. No life is perfect. Someone has it worse. Someone has it better. Take each day and enjoy it.
I slide down the remaining three steps and peer into the darkness, which doesn't seem quite as dark as it did before. The moon shines on the puzzle, and the glitter on the table sparkles. I fight the urge to fit in the last remaining pieces of the puzzle.
I study the outline of the paintings on the wall, wanting to see if Dad will appear. But it isn't my dad. Not really. Not the dad I grew up with. Not the dad who made s'mores and hunted for constellations. Not the dad who stuck up for my friends. And not the dad who loved the thrill of a good heist.
Dad told me I'd have a choice to make. That it was up to me.
I whisper into the darkness. "I hope this is what you wanted."
I breathe in the smell of cinnamon, knowing Dad's in the right place, the right time. Then I turn to go up to bed. Close to the top, I pause, hearing the scrape of a chair, a small scratching sound as if someone bumped into it.
With a small smile, I climb the last few steps.
7:35 a.m.
Tommy's suit is still too short and still too scratchy around the neck but it doesn't bother me. I enter the coffee shop and breathe in the sweet familiar smell of cinnamon.
This day will be hard for Mom, and I don't want to make it worse. Images of Make Way for the Artists flash through my mind. My mom and my friends were happy in that alternate reality, but deep inside, I know I made the right decision.
Happiness for my mom and my friends could still happen. Some day that dream can be a reality. And I'll make sure Jetta is around to be part of it.
The paintings are on the wall, large and small. As far as anyone knows, they're just paintings Dad bought at a yard sale. I know the treasure that lies beneath will stay hidden for years to come.
"Need help, Mom?" I call out.
"Just stay outta my way."
"Sure thing." I grab a cup and pour coffee. Steam rises into the air. I'll miss Mom asking questions and showing she cares, but maybe someday that will change too. Nothing is ever written in stone. Whatever we decide today affects tomorrow.
I dump a bunch of sugar packets and creamers into my coffee, snatch a chocolate chip scone from the showcase, and head to a table. I cup my hands around my coffee. It feels like home. I try to forget I'm wearing Tommy's suit and that it's too short and too tight, but at the same time, I'm proud. Mom and her family have lived in Southie for years. They attend mass together. Celebrate holidays together. We're family. For better or worse.
The bell jangles again and my heart jumps into my throat.
A girl skips through the doorway and twirls between the tables as she views the shop. My throat closes and I blink furiously. She's back. No piercings or dark eye make-up or unwashed hair. The same happy-go-lucky girl. Back. She's wearing her crazy ensemble but I love it. The colors clash and the rusty orange scarf trails in the dust on the floor, but it's her.
She rushes over to the wall and runs her fingers across the paintings. "This art is terrific."
I clear my throat. "Wouldn't it be great to hang up some work of local artists?"
She zeroes in on me. "You must be Jack."
"Fiasco."
"Well, Fiasco. I agree with you. That's my goal for this neighborhood. Fill it with art." She leans across the table and whispers. "Did you know that staring at art could produce a high similar to drugs?"
I smile. She doesn't know the half of it. "I've heard of such a thing. Hard to believe."
"Well, it's true." She crosses her arms as if daring me to argue.
I stare into her green cat-like eyes and notice her soft pink lips. She doesn't remember anything about what we've gone through, but I feel the connection. I want to wrap her in my arms and pull her into a kiss, but then I'd lose all credibility. That will come. I'll make sure of it. My mission today is to keep her from going to the art festival.
She gasps. "You're bleeding!"
I look down. Blood has soaked through the bandage and my shirt. "I cut myself last night. It's having a hard time healing."
Her face softens and memories seem to flicker in her eyes. But I know she can't possibly remember. "Your mom said you should walk me to school. Let's stop at the walk-in clinic first. You need stitches."
I nod in agreement. "But," I say casually, hinting at a secret. "It's not worth going to school today."
She puckers her lips to the side. "Why not?"
"Because life is too short." Simple. I conveniently leave out that it's to prevent her grandmother from finding her.
"I'm supposed to drop off my records," Jetta says.
I wave my hand. "You can do that tomorrow. I've got a better idea."
"What?" Her eyes light with curiosity.
"Well," I glance at the kitchen, "I thought we could start with a tour of the Gardner Museum. Have you heard of it?"
Jetta blows air through her mouth and rolls her eyes. "I know everything there is to know about it."
"But have you walked through it?" I ask.
"Well, no," she admits.
"Then-"
"What about your dad's hearing?" She taps her fingers on the table. "That's today. Your mom told me all about it last night. You can't skip it."
"I want to go and support my mom, but it won't take long. You can come with me." I gulp down my now-cold coffee. "After the Gardner, we can go down to the Public Garden."
"This sounds an awful lot like a date."
I grin. "Not really." I study her, then say, "I've got a firm no kissing rule for at least three months."
She opens her mouth to talk but only one word comes out. "Oh."
"And I need a partner in crime."
"Don't even think about it." She holds up her hand. "I'm not that kind of girl."
"I want to pull off the biggest heist my family has ever seen. At least that my family knows of." The plan pulls together in my mind while I talk. "I'm going to need your help, and the help of my friends."
"Explain," she demands.
"My mom works hard. I thought about combining a coffee shop with an art gallery of sorts. We could find a fancy place to rent uptown. Maybe find donors willing to invest. I need help planning and scoping the city out. It might take all day."
Jetta's eyes light up. "Seriously?"
I nod. My heart is bursting and I can't help but sway closer to her.
"Where have you been all my life?"
I shrug. "The girls ask me that all the time."
She snorts. "Yeah, right."
I laugh. It sounds strange in my ears. "I'm going to need help. I don't know much about art. Do you?"
"This must be fate, Jack Brodie. You and me. I'm in." She places her hand on the table. There is a hope and love of life in her eyes that I plan on keeping there. Forever.
I hesitate, my heart pounding against my chest. I close my hand over hers and I tremble at the touch. I plan to stick with her all day. And even if that doesn't work, and today means that her grandmother will find her, I'll chase her down.
I lean forward so our lips are dangerously close.
"I agree. Fate."
The End
Thank you for reading Heist. I hope you liked it. A Royal Heist, the companion novel to Heist-following Jetta's life in one of the alternate time lines that Fiasco created-is available now. Sign up for my newsletter to hear about this novel and all my new releases.
Visit laurapauling.com for more information and purchase links!
After the author's note, I've included the opening to A Royal Heist.
Reviews are a tremendous help to the author but mostly it helps other readers find books. If you enjoyed Heist would you consider posting a review for it? I appreciate all honest reviews. Thank you so much!
Dear Reader,
&
nbsp; It was a hot, sticky day in August, when I walked through the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the summer of 2010. The cooler temperature of the building was a much-needed relief. My husband and I spent our anniversary in Boston, so I included this necessary stop all in the name of research.
At first, I was disappointed when I learned I couldn't take pictures and I couldn't use a pen to take notes. But, of course, I should've realized. The art in this museum is worth billions and they guard it carefully. I asked about the 1990 heist, and they pulled out a photo album. The lady seemed a little annoyed as if they were tired of the fame of the heist and not the art that remained on the walls.
I strolled through the museum, trying my best to follow the path of the thieves, soaking in the mystery. I sat on benches and recorded sights, smells, sounds, textures, tiled floors, the lavish decorations, grand ballrooms, and the flowering courtyard that sits in the center of the museum.
Then we toured the building. A thrill went through my chest at the sight of the empty frames, along with a little bit of sadness. What makes a heist so fascinating? Maybe it's the fact that due to Isabella's will, nothing can be changed in the museum. Hopefully, the art will be found in the near future and returned to their rightful place.
When it does, I'll be sure to visit again.
I toured the grounds outside, walked down the narrow side street that coils around the building. When I found the small park, if it can be called that, next to the museum, the writer in me grew excited, because I could use that space for the art festival that Fiasco and Jetta visit.
Most of my research was based on Ulrich's Boser's, The Gardner Heist, a fascinating in-depth look at the theft. I highly recommend it.
I altered descriptions and names of the main characters: the thieves, the guards, and the detective, while still incorporating small bits of truth. The characters and the story are purely fictional. When Jack travels back to the heist, I kept to the facts of the robbery best I could. The two thieves were dressed as cops and the guards allowed them inside. They stole the paintings and walked away from the museum way too easily. That being said, I'm sure I got some of the details wrong.
Read it for the enjoyment of a story, for Jack Brodie's story as he evolves and sees through the half-truths in his life.
Thank you,
Laura