The Child Thief

“We just gonna tell him.”

“No way!”

“Nathan, what else we supposed to do?”

“You think he’s gonna believe us?” Nathan said, the anxiety in his voice rising along with the volume. “That was his dope. He’s gonna blame us, or think maybe we stole it.”

It’s the same story, Peter thought. Drugs. These days it was always the drugs. But Peter had seen too much, knew too well that men-kind didn’t need an excuse to be cruel and murder one another. If it wasn’t drugs, then there was always something else.

“Shh,” the bigger boy said, glancing furtively up the stairwell. He threw an arm around Nathan. “Chill now. Your big bro got it covered. I’m tight with Henry. He’ll work with us. Hell, if he wants to get paid back he’ll have to. Now won’t he?” The bigger boy was trying to sound cocky, cool, like he had it all together, but Peter knew he was just as scared as his younger brother, maybe more so.

“We can just leave,” Nathan said. “Get outta here. To another town maybe.”

“Don’t you understand? We got nothing, man. Not hardly a damn dollar.” A tremor was creeping into the older boy’s voice. “You know anybody gonna take us in around here? Especially if Henry’s after us? Or do you wanna go back and live with the old man?”

The younger boy shook his head hard. “No. I’m never going back there. Never.”

“Look, I got us into this. I’m gonna get us out. Now you just wait here—”

Nathan grabbed his bigger brother’s arm. “No, Tony. Don’t leave me.” His voice cracked, his eyes welled up. “Please don’t go up there. Man, please! Please don’t go up there.”

“Stop blubbering,” Tony said sternly. “You start with that baby shit and I’m gonna leave you for good. You want that?”

The younger boy’s face became terrified. “No!” he said and wiped his eyes on his sleeves. “I’m sorry. I’ll be cool. I promise.”

“I know you’ll be cool, ’cause you’re the Coolio.” He rubbed the younger boy’s head, and a big smile lit Nathan’s face.

“Just wait here,” the bigger boy said. “He ain’t gonna kill me for one fuckup. I’ll be back in a minute and everything will be fine.” He held up his fist. “Give it up.” Nathan tapped his knuckles against his brother’s fist.

“Hang tight, Coolio,” the older boy said and headed up the stairs.

PETER LISTENED TO the rain trickling down the gutters as Nathan paced in and out of the stairwell doorway.

It seemed a long time before they heard anything, then a loud shout echoed down the stairwell.

Nathan started for the stairs.

“You don’t want to do that,” Peter said, coming out of the shadows.

The boy jumped back. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

Nathan squinted at him, then another shout came from above, followed by several angry voices.

The boy forgot about Peter and dashed up the stairs. He made it only one flight up before a scream came from outside, a long, horrified shriek, then a sickening thud in the courtyard. Nathan froze.

Peter grimaced, knowing what that thud meant. He could see by the boy’s face that he did too.

“Tony?”

The boy leaped down the entire bottom flight of stairs and shot out of the stairwell. Peter followed slowly behind.

THE BOY LAY sprawled upon the sidewalk, one leg bent awkwardly behind him, his eyes wide, blinking, lips moving but no words coming out. His head lolled over and Peter saw that the back of his skull was crushed inward, his hair wet with blood.

“TONY!” Nathan screamed, and ran to his brother.

Peter glanced up the face of the building. There, looking down from the sixth-floor balcony, was a man and four older teens. The man pointed at Nathan, said something, and all four of the teens sprinted to the stairwell.

“We need to go,” Peter said.

The boy ignored him. “Tony. Tony, man. Ah fuck, no. Tony.”

Several people stuck their heads out their doors, glanced over the balcony, then went quickly back in.

Peter heard the teenagers’ feet drumming down the stairwell. They’d be down in another moment. Peter placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, they’re coming. We need to go.”

Nathan looked up at Peter, his lips trembling. “They killed him!” A sob tore loose from the back of his throat. “They killed my brother!”

“They’re coming for you now. We need to leave.”

The boy looked up to the balcony, saw the man, heard the boys shouting in the stairwell. Peter watched the fear leave the boy’s eyes, replaced with hatred. The boy jabbed his hand into his brother’s coat pocket and pulled out a knife. He popped open the blade and stood up.

“You want to kill them?” Peter asked.

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His eyes said it all.

Peter grinned. “Good. Let’s kill them.”

Peter darted back beneath the overhang, ducking behind the open stairwell door. He slipped his long knife from his jacket and pressed his back to the wall.

All four teens rushed from the stairwell out into the yard, saw Nathan, and stopped. They looked at the small knife trembling in his hand and began to laugh.

One of them, a short, muscular kid with long sideburns, stepped forward. “You already dead, motherfucker. You just too stupid to know it.” He pulled a gun from his jacket and leveled it sideways at Nathan. “Well, what’cha waiting for, badass. Let’s see what—”

A blur shot past the teens, a flash of steel, and both the gun and the short, muscular kid’s hand flew through the air, bouncing onto the grass.

All the boys’ eyes went wide. But none wider than the muscular kid’s, as blood began to spurt from his severed wrist. He held his stump away from him as though afraid of it, and began to scream.

The kid next to him made a play for something under his jacket, but Peter didn’t give him time to pull it out. Peter had learned that when guns were involved, there was no room for games. You moved fast, stayed a step ahead. In a blink, Peter shoved his knife into the boy’s neck and yanked it back out again.

The boy fell to his knees, clutching his throat, and began making a horrible, gurgling sound. Peter’s eyes lit up and he let out a laugh like a demented demon. When he did, the two remaining teens took off at a dead run.

“LET’S GO!” Peter called, shouting to be heard over the screams of the kid with the chopped-off hand. “We really need to go.”

Nathan looked at him as if he didn’t know whether to be thankful or afraid.

Shots came from up above them; dirt sprung up around Peter. The man was shooting at them from the balcony. That got the boy moving; the two of them ducked beneath the overhang. Nathan spotted the gun, the one the muscular boy had dropped. He snatched it up out of the grass.

They heard shouts coming from the building across the courtyard, where the teens had fled. More boys were coming.

“I know where we can go,” Peter said and took off.

The boy followed.

Chapter Nine First Blood