Thick as Thieves(46)

A wave of dizziness swept over Brian. He had actually felt the blood draining from his head. He heard his mother calling him a dumb bunny.

But then the young man had thrown his head back and laughed. “You should see your face,” he’d chortled. “I’m harmless. Swear I am. My old man is the sheriff.”

Brian’s knees had gone weak with relief.

“Had you going there, didn’t I?”

Brian had tried to laugh at the teasing, but achieved only a squeaky sound.

“I’m sorry. Really. Now, what about doing me this little favor?”

Brian heard himself say, “Sure.”

Bravely, he’d jumped the line of disgruntled customers. Even the employee working the counter gave him grief until Brian had told her that he was acting on behalf of the sheriff’s son.

“Rusty?”

Brian wasn’t sure what to make of the way she raised her penciled brow and gave a sour-sounding harrumph.

He returned to where he’d left the young man waiting and counted out his refund. “The lady at the counter said your name is Rusty.”

“Rusty Dyle. What’s yours?”

“Brian Foster.”

“I don’t forget favors, Brian. Thanks.” After pocketing the refunded money, he’d given Brian an assessing once-over. “Got a wife?”

“No.”

“Live-in girlfriend?”

“No.”

“You gay?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s hang out. What’s your phone number?”

Brian’s boss had been waiting for him at his desk, fuming over his lateness. Brian calmly had said, “I’m a few minutes late because I was doing a favor for Sheriff Dyle’s son. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with him.”

He had never felt more like a man.

Rusty had phoned him the very next day and invited him to meet at a spot on the lake. “You’ve turned twenty-one, right?”

“Almost twenty-two.”

“Awesome. You get to buy the six-pack.”

They had three more beer-drinking sessions before Rusty broached the subject of the burglary. He’d prefaced it with: “This might sound crazy. Hell, it is crazy. But what’s life all about if you don’t take a few risks?”

Brian had risked his livelihood—everything—in order to pull off the burglary. He was already dreading Monday and the playacting he would have to do. And now Rusty was asking him to take yet another risk.

They’d gotten away clean. Then that broody boy with the blue eyes had gotten himself arrested, and Rusty was convinced that he would betray them. Rusty wanted Brian to help him hide the money.

Brian wanted to throw up.

How had he gotten himself into this mess? After tonight, and for the rest of his life, he would be a criminal. Him. Dull, drab, blah Brian Foster. Nobody would believe it of him. His mother wouldn’t believe it of him. He didn’t believe it of himself.

Maybe this was a bizarre and elaborate nightmare from which he would soon wake up.

But Rusty had also said that they needed to set up Joe Maxwell as their fall guy.

Brian didn’t know Mr. Maxwell well. When he’d been fired from Welch’s, Brian had had the misfortune of having to give him his severance check. Taking his anger out on Brian, Joe had given him a tongue-lashing that had been heavy on expletives.

But a few days later, Mr. Maxwell had called to apologize for his outburst. “I’m sorry I created that scene. It wasn’t your fault I got canned.”

Coworkers had enlightened Brian to Mr. Maxwell’s lamentable history, being left a widower, losing his business. Given the circumstances, Brian had thought the apology was most decent of the man.

While Brian was thinking back on that phone call, and the moral fiber Joe Maxwell had exhibited by making it, Rusty had been enumerating all the traits that made the older man the perfect scapegoat.

Rusty called him a loser who had nothing going for him. The more Rusty talked, Brian gradually came to realize that Rusty was also characterizing Ledge Burnet, who’d already served a stint in juvenile detention. He was bound for jail for the second time, and he hadn’t even graduated high school yet. With even more clarity, Brian realized that he could fill in his own name each time Rusty made a disparaging comment about the down-and-out Mr. Maxwell.

That’s when it dawned on him that they all three would make ideal patsies for Rusty Dyle, whose immunity was practically guaranteed because his father was not only a high-ranking public official, he was also the most corrupt.

Rusty ended his speech by saying, “So let’s meet there, okay?”

Brian was dumbstruck by a disturbing realization: He was the last person anybody with half a brain would choose as an accomplice to shoplift a pack of chewing gum, much less to pull a grand heist like this.

Beyond gaining entrance into the store and opening the safe, what purpose did he serve? His mother would say, “That of chump, stupid.”

Rusty shouted in his ear. “Brian!”

He’d been dumbstruck by the revelation and had to swallow several times before acknowledging Rusty.

“What the hell? I thought we’d gotten disconnected.”

“No, I’m here,” Brian said huskily.

“What do you think?”