IQ(57)

The cop’s flashlight beam roved around the store, bright as the one that glared down from a police helicopter chasing a carjacker. Isaiah flattened himself out like a halibut, putting his arms straight out, his cheek on the floor. Please don’t see me please don’t see me please f*cking God don’t see me. Dodson was flattened out the same way; they were looking directly at each other. The flashlight beam went by quickly and didn’t stop. Was the cop done? There was a moment of hope but then the beam started over, going slower this time, inspecting instead of scanning.

“Shit, man, he’s gonna see us,” Dodson whispered.

“Maybe not,” Isaiah whispered back. “Just stay still.”

“You took a week to plan this? The f*ck was you doing?”

“You rushed me into this. We shouldn’t even be here!”

The beam was heading their way, moving across displays of helmets and bicycle clothes. Please don’t see me please don’t see me please f*cking God don’t see me.

“Shit, man, I got a f*ckin’ record,” Dodson said. “They could try me as an adult, send me to Corcoran.” The beam moved closer, spotlighting a family of eyeless mannequins pedaling along in matching spandex. Light spilled over onto the row of bicycles, handlebars, and fenders gleaming. “I ain’t goin’ to the joint,” Dodson said. “No muthaf*ckin’ way.” He squirmed and reached under his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Isaiah said. “Stay still.”

Dodson had a gun.

“Are you crazy?” Isaiah said. Dodson clicked the gun’s safety off with his thumb. “Don’t, Dodson, for f*ck sake, don’t!” Miraculously, the beam went up to the loft, more bicycle stuff up there. “Put the gun away!”

“Fuck you, Isaiah.”

“Put it away or I’m giving up.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear to God I’ll do it.”

“Then I’ll shoot you too.”

The beam hovered like a vulture, the two of them lying there like they’d been shot in the back, the sides of their heads pressed to the linoleum, glistening puddles of drool under their mouths.

“You can’t do this, Dodson. You can’t shoot a cop.” In the next instant, the beam was on them so bright it was hot. You could count the dust particles in the air and the beads of sweat on Dodson’s face. He’d moved his hands in closer to his head. One held the gun, the other was flat on the floor so he could push himself off. The beam held.

“He sees us!” Dodson started to get up—

“No, Dodson, no!”

The beam vanished. There was a moment of disbelief but the cop had turned and was walking back to his patrol car. Isaiah blew out a long breath and went limp. Dodson was on his knees, head down, hands on his thighs. “Man, that was some shit right there,” he said. “How’d he miss us?”

“The reflection off the bicycles,” Isaiah said. “And the beam was too high. We were just on the bottom edge of it.”

The cop had paused to say something into his radio. Isaiah’s stomach fell into his Nikes. “He’s going around the back. The car.”

They took off, sprinting across the showroom, bursting out of the rear exit, and jumping into the Explorer. Isaiah started the engine—and stopped with his mouth open.

“What?” Dodson said.

“The cop car was facing the same way we are,” Isaiah said. “He’ll come into the alley right in front of us!” He slammed the shifter into reverse and stomped on the gas. The tires chirped, the car jerking backward, accelerating, the gearbox winding up like a jet engine at takeoff. Isaiah was half turned around, stretching his neck to see into the darkness, one hand on the steering wheel. The cop is coming.

“Step on it!” Dodson said.

“I am!” Isaiah said.

The Explorer veered offline. Isaiah cranked the wheel but overcorrected, the back end swinging to the side and banging into a dumpster. The cop is coming.

“Straighten out!” Dodson said.

“Shut up!” Isaiah said. He cranked the wheel the other way, overcorrecting again and shearing the side mirror off on a telephone pole. He spun the wheel back and forth, trying to center the car, but the back end was wagging wildly, banging into walls, the glove box popping open, stuff crashing around in the back. The cop is coming.

“Straighten out! Straighten out!”

The car skidded completely sideways and lurched backward before Isaiah could shift out of reverse.

“The f*ck you doing, Isaiah?” Dodson shouted.

Isaiah stomped on the brakes but it was too late. The car rammed into something solid, their heads thrown forward and back into the headrests. They sat there stunned. Isaiah turned the ignition off. The car was in a parking area, the alley in front of it now, the rear bumper smashed into the loading dock of a produce market. There was a building on either side. If the cop hadn’t seen them already he couldn’t see them now. Headlight beams crossed in front of them. The cop was in the alley.

“Did he see us?” Dodson said.

“I don’t think so,” Isaiah said, “but he might have heard the crash.”

The beams got brighter. Would the cop stop at the bicycle shop or keep coming and find two seventeen-year-old boys in fishing clothes and ski masks hiding in a dead man’s car? They waited, the windows fogging up. The beams stopped. Isaiah’s chin dropped to his chest, sweat dripping into his lap. “That was close,” he said.