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They weren’t really tough, dangerous guys. They were boys, scared boys, and they were pushing me around and jeering at me because they thought they could. Because there was a whole bunch of them and only one of me. Because, damn it, they were just sheep, and that’s what sheep did. They picked on the one they thought was weaker, different, until they felt better about being sheep.
Right then and there, just like that, I knew I wasn’t one of them, would never be one of them, and I didn’t have to try any
more. And I didn’t want to try because I didn’t want to be one of them anymore.
So I knocked away the hand on my chest. And I smiled. I could tell right away that worried them, scared them a little even—because that meant I was not a sheep.
Right then and there, everything changed.
Riley Wolfe was born.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it. But it’s gonna cost you.”
The biggest, loudest, sheep-est one stepped closer. “You’ll DO it, rag boy? You’ll climb all the way into the old quarry?” He shoved—
And this time, I shoved back. The big sheep stepped back, stunned. “I said I would, and I will. And I’ll bring back the taillight from the Studebaker at the bottom. For proof,” I said. I shoved the big one again. “But it. Will. COST you.”
The big kid looked uncertain. “You can’t climb into the old quarry,” he said. “All the kids who tried it died.”
And that was true, or at least it was the local legend. The old quarry was the place that every parent warned their kids to stay away from. It was a death trap—a hundred feet straight down, the walls made of soft and crumbly stone. And at the bottom, nothing but a pool of fouled water. Somebody had pushed a car into it years ago, a 1958 Studebaker Lark. The tail end of the car stuck up tantalizingly, a target for the best rock throwers.
“Nobody can climb down there. It’s too dangerous,” one of the other sheep said. The others nodded.
“Then you can’t lose your money, can you? So let’s see it.”
“There’s no way,” they said.
“There’s always a way,” I said for the first time. And as I said it, I realized that it was true; it HAD to be true. It was the whole explanation for how not to be a sheep. Sure, it could be dangerous. Dad had said so, and he was right. Climbing into the quarry was going to be risky as hell. But it could be done. There Was a Way. Always. It was a basic law of life for anybody who could grab it and believe it. And I did, and it filled me up with its truth, lifted me far above the bleating sheep and the crappy double-wide and all the hungry dreams I’d been squashing because there was no way they could ever happen. But now I knew better. There was a way. There had to be. “There is always a way,” I said again.
And there was. There was a way down into that old death trap of a quarry, and I found it. And the sheep paid. Almost a hundred dollars altogether, a huge amount of money back then. I still remembered the look on Mom’s face when I gave it to her, the slow smile spreading over her face as she counted it out. “Oh, my,” she’d said. “We’re going to be living the life of Riley.”
She liked to tease about that. “Living the life of Riley.” I didn’t know what that meant then, but I liked the name. And I kept it.
And I kept that flash of insight, that there’s always a way. All these years in between that first time I put my life on the line and now. And all to get a stupid fucking taillight from a 1958 Studebaker Lark. It felt great taking the money from them, better than just having money, because they were fat, stupid sheep who had things I didn’t, and it almost felt like I was doing a good deed to take stuff away from people like that. But as nice as it was to get the money, I think I liked just doing it even more. Just to see the look on their face when I showed them that yeah, I fucking well could.
That feeling stayed with me. It even grew. It always felt better to take it away from the rich sheep. They always thought they deserved to have what everybody else couldn’t because they had money. So that turned into what I wanted most—not just the stuff; the stuff taken from the rich sheep. And no matter how well they protected it, I always found it, and I took what I was after.
But this time . . . Where was the way? What was left to try? What was I missing? What was the one thing nobody would ever even think about—nobody but Riley Wolfe?
Go ahead, rag boy. Run away—
Back to the double-wide . . .
I still heard those voices in my head, getting bigger and louder, sneering, daring me, telling me I would fail—and I knew I would, because I wasn’t shit, I was just rag boy, trailer trash, and I always would be . . .
I picked up the brochure from the museum and scanned it again: “. . . founded in 1889 . . . unique example of Stanford White’s influence . . . still owned and managed by Eberhardt’s descendants, who take an active role . . . recognized worldwide as one of the finest . . .”
“Shit,” I said one last time. I’d read the thing a hundred times. The words hadn’t changed, and they still didn’t tell me anything I wanted to know. I crumpled the brochure in disgust. The fucking Eberhardts and their fucking family museum. “Rich fucking assholes.” Exactly the sort of privileged shitbag, scumbag sheep I hated the most. Not merely rich, they were rich from inheriting money—they’d done nothing at all to deserve it. I could just about feel their smug superiority from here. Their kind were my favorite target, and that made this deadlock even more frustrating. A perfect target, a legendary score—and I couldn’t get to the starting line.
I wadded up the brochure and flung it away. It fell on an impressively big stack of other crumpled papers. I’d tried everything I could think of, every possible angle, and I had nothing but a heap of crumpled paper and a headache. I told myself I was very damn good at what I did, absolutely the best, and if I couldn’t see a way in—well, maybe there just wasn’t one this time. It didn’t make me feel any better. It just made it hurt in a way that went much deeper than the disappointment of missing a great score.
I blew out a long, frustrated breath and leaned back in my chair, running a hand through the bristle of dark blond hair on top of my head, cut short so the wigs would fit. So far they had, and the disguises had been near perfect, and they hadn’t gotten me anywhere. The Eberhardts were just too good, too thorough. I had never before seen anything like this. They’d sealed up that museum so tight that the only possible way to get in was to buy a ticket.
I took another deep breath and tried to focus. The frustration wasn’t helping. It was taking over my brain. I needed to push away all the bullshit, uncoil the knots building up inside. Relax and get to a creative place. So I reached for the Bose headphones around my neck. I slipped them up onto my ears and picked up my mp3 player. It was stupid expensive, definitely not just an iPod. It had on it all the hundreds of hours of music I needed, music from all time and all the world. I don’t give a shit about genres in music. Since I learned the music I liked mostly by myself, I never learned to care if it was rap, rock, or even bebop. I just care if it’s good. There was a mood or a moment for just about anything, even Balinese monkey chant. So my player was pricey, but it was the best, and that was what mattered. Money was for spending, and I never gave it a second thought. Besides, I’d made plenty, and getting more was easy. I thumbed up the volume and hit PLAY.
At once, the music flooded into me—Miles Davis, In a Silent Way. Perfect soundtrack for letting your mind float away from problems and off to a peaceful place where the solution to the Eberhardt Museum would finally happen. I just needed to relax, let it come to me. I closed my eyes and let my mind glide. Forget the museum, forget the guards, let it all go and just drift . . .
The gentle breeze blew, and Dad squeezed my shoulder. “Try not to be a sheep, son.”
