Sparring Partners(54)

“True, but I was there, as an accomplice, and under the laws of this great state I’m just as guilty as my brother.”

“Still don’t seem right.”

“It was my fault, Marvin. All my fault.”





(9)


The house was in a development of sorts, two-acre lots out in the country, on a paved road, with county water and sewer, neighbors too far away to meddle but close enough to help, 3,000 square feet heated with plenty of room for a pool, gardens, dogs. The neighborhood was a perfect target for unsophisticated smash-and-run thieves who could slither in from the woods and strike night or day. So far, it was virgin territory for the little Wallace gang. There were fourteen houses on the road, all built within the past twenty years, modern enough to have security systems and alarms. Along most of the driveways there were little tin signs advertising alert, the most popular security company in the area.

Brian and Cody watched the road for weeks. It was summer, time for vacations, always a busy period for thieves. At sunset, they raced through the neighborhood on their bikes to see which houses were dark. During the late afternoons, they climbed trees and used binoculars to check on the houses; which campers were gone, which driveways were collecting newspapers, where were the kids and dogs missing, where were the curtains pulled tight? It was easy to spot an empty house.

After a few days it became obvious that the Bakers were away. They lived on the north side of the road, Cody’s responsibility. Brian was monitoring the houses on the south side.

They waited until after two in the morning, the best time to go in. With alert sensors on all windows and doors, the call to central monitoring would take place at about one minute, then the sirens or buzzers or whatever the Bakers had chosen would erupt inside the house. One never knew if the system included exterior alarms that would wake the neighbors. If things went as expected, at least twenty minutes would pass before any blue lights appeared.

Two minutes was more than enough time. Each carried a small flashlight because they worked in the dark. Again, those bothersome neighbors might include insomniacs. With a glass-cutting tool, Brian quickly removed a pane in the patio door, reached inside, unlocked the dead bolt, and eased the door open. He had done it so many times he could actually open a locked door as fast as anyone with a key.

Seconds later, the alarm began beeping throughout the house, but it wasn’t loud. The boys had learned to remain calm amid the racket and go about their business. They had never hit a place with people inside. There was no one to hear the alarm.

However, on that fateful night everything went wrong. They were in the den when someone flipped a light switch at the end of the hallway. A man yelled, “Who’s there?”

“Dammit!” Brian hissed, almost under his breath but loud enough to be heard because a woman yelled, “Someone’s in there, Carl. I heard him.”

For fifteen years, Cody had replayed those awful seconds and could never explain to himself why Brian had made a sound. They had reminded each other a hundred times that if anything went wrong, they were to scramble back to the door they entered and disappear like rabbits into the night. Don’t make a sound, just run. They were dressed in black, even down to their sneakers, and wore black face paint and black rubber gloves. They were kids but theirs was an adult game and they took it seriously. They were proud of their successes.

And the gun? Why the gun? They had stolen a hundred of them and they had wasted a mountain of ammo target-shooting deep in the woods. Cody became a decent shot, but Brian could hit anything. They had argued over whether to pack a gun for these breakins.

Another light in the rear of the house came on. Cody retreated and crawled into the kitchen where he knocked over a barstool.

“I gotta gun!” the man yelled.

Brian ducked behind a recliner in the den.

The shootout lasted only seconds, but Cody, the only survivor, could replay it for hours. The deafening boom of a 12-gauge and rapid shots from a 9-millimeter. The woman screamed and her husband fired again.

At Cody’s trial, the ballistics expert would explain to the jury that Brian managed to get off five shots before getting hit by the 12-gauge. One shot hit Mrs. Baker just under her left eye, killing her instantly. Two shots hit Mr. Baker in the chest, but he still managed to take out Brian with his second shot.

When the shooting stopped, Cody found a light switch and gawked in horror at the carnage. Mr. Baker was on the floor, groaning, trying to get to his feet. Mrs. Baker was slumped against the bookcase, bleeding. And Brian was on the floor near the television, with half his head blown off. Cody screamed and reached for him.

When the police arrived, they found Cody sitting on the floor, holding his brother’s mangled head, covered with blood, and weeping.

Mr. Baker died the next day. Cody, uninjured, at least physically, was locked away for the rest of his life. The crime scene photos were shown to the jurors, and they did not deliberate long before returning with a death verdict.





(10)


“It was all my fault, Marvin. I thought the house was empty, that the Bakers were still gone. One mistake by me and everything changed. It was just so awful.”

Cody returns to the picnic table and leans on it, next to Marvin. Both stare at the moon. Seconds pass and it’s time to go.

“There was so much blood. I was covered and I couldn’t run. The cops threw me in the back seat and cussed me all the way to the jail, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop crying. Brian was dead. He was the only person I ever loved, Marvin, and the only person who ever loved me. And he’s been dead for fifteen years.”