Cort's mind was not on his work. That was unfortunate, because - just at the moment - his work demanded attention. There were periods where Cort's work could easily accommodate other trains of thought simultaneous to it's performance, but this was not one of those times. He wasn't exactly sure of how much danger he was in, but was reasonably certain he was at considerable personal risk, for the simple fact he was about to break into a very expensive house and kill whoever he found inside it. Even so, having breached a deserted outer security wall and traversed fifty yards of gaudy, New England hardscaping, Cort found himself leaving the mission solely to his instincts and thinking - instead - about the end of a story. More specifically, the optimal incarnation of the end of a story he'd written. He'd given Richards too much reality this time. Publishing as planned would bring a deluge of questions with uncomfortable answers. Worse, he hadn't found the time bring it up with Richards.
"Fuck it" he thought, trying to claw his way out of his own head and back to the present. Newport, and the book were for tomorrow. Over the next three days he'd sit with Rich and bring the thing home. The problem was the intervening 24 hours, and how best to spend them without dying and shit-fucking the whole thing.
He was close to the house now. 50 feet or less. He smelled cooking inside, cigarette smoke. Other kinds of smoke. He couldn't stop thinking about the fucking story. What had he been thinking?! What had he done?!
He circled the house three times moving slow through shadow and learning the house. It was a single-floor, with a smallish garage opening to a long straight driveway. One of three similar homes in a tiny cul de sac called Lucas Ct., the Gildge place was set back further than the others. Looking up the driveway from the street, Cort could barely see it. Moving closer, he understood why: It was near 10:00 on a Friday, and Charles Gildge had turned out the lights and gone to bed. Cort moved silently up to the house and pulled up under a window. He heard the sound of canned sitcom laughter from the room and then the unmistakable strident yapping of a woman's voice shilling for Applebees (eat great, even late!). After a few moments Cort began to creep towards the back door.
***
David Gidge HATED his sister Arya. Ugly, mean, constantly harassing, Ari had been the scourge and bane of his days as far back as he could remember. Even so, he'd jumped at the chance to join her for a sleep-over at Grandpa's. Papa's house was a good time. Papa let him watch and eat whatever he wanted. There was no way stupid Ari was going without him. Now it was 10:12, almost two hours past his normal bed time. David was sitting on the floor of what Papa called his "Guest Room" eating a huge bowl of frosted flakes and chasing it with fun-dip. He had his brand new Jason/Empire binoculars hung around his neck, and he was dressed in unmatched pajamas. Spongebob was on, and Dave was sitting with his nose practically touching the tv screen. Ari had been asleep since 8:30.
perfect!
He said it out loud, to nobody, and got up to go get more cereal. That's when he saw the man outside.
The guest room looked out on Papa's giant back yard. Coming to his feet, young Gildge spied movement in the bushes lining the yard's border. At first he thought it must be the wind playing through the brush, but now he saw what was clearly a person emerge from the bushes, ducking low to the ground for a few yards, then dashing across the yard and out of sight. The figure was against the house now - David knew - and close to the back door.
***
The door was unlocked. Cort eased in to the sound of Seinfeld at full blast. Intel on Charlie Gildge, 68, of 48 quarterbridge rd. had the old man loving "Seinfeld", expensive whiskey, and sleeping almost as much as he loved his grandkids David and Arya.
Cort rolled up on him silently, but realized the wasted effort about halfway across the room. Gildge was snoring like a guy who'd passed out drunk hours ago. The air was full of liquor fumes, stale breath and canned laughter. Cort found himself drifting, starting to obsess about the deadline again. He withdrew what looks like a pen cast from gold from the inside pocket of his black Nike windbreaker and moved towards the besotted, sleeping man.
***
David had always felt that he would make a terrific spy. He was fast, and he figured spies would have to be fast to escape other spies. Dave was smart too, and he had a feeling you had to be really super smart to be a good spy. Dave had won Day View Elementary's 1st grade spelling bee only a few short weeks ago, so he was pretty sure he'd be smart enough to spy.
The most important thing for a truly great spy - David knew for a fact - was sneakiness. That was good, David was the sneakiest person he himself had ever met. He could walk undetected through his Grandmother's whole house undetected, and Gram's house was creaky all over. David had once taken a dare to sneak into the principal's office and steal an apple off his desk. He'd collected two rolls of smarties that day, along with a brand new t-shirt baring the word "Benny's" in extravagant script.
Of course the principal's apple had nothing on what Dave was doing right now. The worst thing Mr. Sevey would do to him - could do to him - would be a note home and some skipped recess. The man David was looking at now had entered his father's house undetected, and was now moving towards his father's sleeping, couch-bound form holding what appeared to be a fancy gold pen. The penalty for messing with this guy, he thought with a shudder) would be more than recess.
For a nerve-shredding few seconds, David thought he was going to sneeze. A firm tickle in the very back of his left nostril started to itch and pucker. He tried with all his will to squeeze it back and quell the itch but it was no use.
Then, nothing happened. All at once the irritation subsided and the sneeze protocols reset. Little Davey Gildge fought back the urge to sigh loudly.
He wasn't worried. Looking from where the stranger stood hovering over his father, a stranger wouldn't know about the crawl space between the top of the wall and ceiling. As long as he remained still, David would remain unseen. He watched, rapt, as the stranger moved in. David could see the pen clearly now. It was sparkling and golden, and it looked somehow heavier, more substantial than most. The stranger was hovering directly over his father now, brandishing the shiny gold pen in his dad's face without a word. He craned slightly for a new angle, but before he could adjust he sneezed - loudly - three times.
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