Surrounded

had brought the dog with them when they had come on duty at nine o'clock. That was part of the protection package the mall bought from their company: two men, one dog. The guards had chained the shepherd here, and at nine-thirty they had gone out into the mall itself to help with the flushing out of the last-minute customers. They would check and lock the public rest rooms, inspect all the architectural cul-de-sacs to be certain that no accidental or intended stragglers were left in the building after closing time. They would shut down the north, west, and south entrances and see that all the clerks, salesmen, and store managers left by the east exit, the back doors. Then, when they were alone in the building-except for the bank's manager and assistant manager, who, according to Meyers, always stayed late on Wednesday-the guards would come back to the warehouse to release the dog. Except that tonight the shepherd was going to remain where he was, chained to the wall.
        Tucker went back across the room and stood by the door with Bates and Meyers. "Everything okay?"
        Meyers nodded vigorously. His grin was so wide that it was nearly imbecilic, and his eyes seemed to Haze. "Nothing out of the ordinary. It's going to go like clockwork. A few of them have already left, and the rest are leaving now."
        Tucker listened closely at the gray door. He could hear a number of salesclerks laughing and talking as they passed the warehouse entrance and went through the doors of the mall's east exit just a few feet down the corridor. Most of them were calling good night to someone named Chet and another man named Artie. Chet and Artie were probably the two night watchmen.
        Leaning away from the door, Tucker glanced at a set of shelves on his right, and for the first time he saw two thermos bottles and two sparkling aluminum lunch buckets. Though they were only inanimate objects, there was something pathetic about them. Chet and Artie wouldn't have an opportunity to eat their late-night snack or enjoy the card game that most likely went with it.
        After a while Tucker looked at his watch. "A quarter past ten," he said.
        "Soon, now," Meyers said, clutching the Skorpion in both hands, one thick finger through the trigger guard.
        "What about the dog?" Bates asked. He was sweating profusely now, and his face was especially pale. His voice was not as loud as a whisper.
        "What about him?" Tucker asked.
        Bates's eyebrows were beaded with sweat, like twin caterpillars crawling through dew. He blinked the salty fluid out of his eyes. "Mean-looking bastard, isn't he?" He shuddered as he thought of the German shepherd. "He could tear off your arm if he really wanted to do it."
        Tucker and Meyers looked at each other. Before the big man could say anything, Tucker said, "Look, he's chained to the wall. He will be chained to the wall the whole time that we're here."
        "Sure, sure," Bates said in a self-deprecating tone of voice. "I know that. Don't bother with me. Don't pay me any mind. It's just that I hate waiting. Waiting makes me nervous as hell. But I'll be in shape when the crunch comes."
        "I'm wondering if you will," Meyers whispered, giving Bates a hard, cold look.
        "Believe me," Tucker said, "Edgar will come through. He does every time. He's always shaky at the start, but once he's working on a safe, he's steady as a rock."
        "And when he's finished with the safe?" Meyers asked, as if they were talking about someone who was not present.
        "Then," Bates said, as if he objected to being talked over, "I'm so delighted with my handiwork that I fairly float along for days afterward."
        "It's true," Tucker said.
        "You see," Bates told Meyers, "there's nothing to me except my work. I'm hollow, otherwise."
        Tucker knew that what Bates said was fairly close to the truth. Except when he was dealing with a vault door or a fancy combination lock, the old jugger had no self-confidence whatsoever. He was extremely gentle, passive, withdrawn, the willing victim of an inferiority complex. Right now he felt utterly worthless and helpless, as vulnerable as a child. But when he started to work on the safe, he would have the self-assurance of Superman.
        "Twenty-five after ten," Meyers said, looking at his watch. "Everyone should be out by now." He lowered the ugly Skorpion until it centered on the gray door, and he