The Child Thief

Nick shook his head and grinned wryly. “Peter, you’re a kook.”

“Would you like to come with me?”

Nick hesitated, he knew Peter was joking about the secret place, about faeries and all that other nonsense, but you wouldn’t guess it by the way he said it. Why, you could almost believe it was true. But true or not, the idea of a fort to sleep in, maybe some other runaways to hang out with, the idea of anything other than being left out here in the dark, alone, sounded good.

“You live there?” Nick asked.

“Yup.”

“Don’t your parents care?”

“I don’t have any parents.”

“Oh,” Nick said. “Me neither. Not anymore.”

A long silence hung between them.

“A fort,” Nick said. “And faeries and goblins, huh?”

Peter nodded and grinned.

And Nick found himself grinning back.

WHEN ASKED, PETER said his fort lay thataway, and pointed in the general direction of the New York Harbor. Nick guessed he must mean down toward the docks.

“Come along,” Peter said, pulling up his hood. “You’ll see.”

So Nick followed Peter as they pushed their way through the dark Brooklyn neighborhoods, still taking care to avoid busy throughways or corners where teenagers were loitering about, but no longer dashing down side streets or hiding behind trees. Nick didn’t feel a need to worry about Marko, not this far west, but couldn’t help keeping an eye out for the green van. After a while Nick began to relax, felt his step lighten, and realized that he was enjoying simply having someone to walk down the street with.

He snuck several sidelong glances at the pointy-eared boy. There was something captivating about him, something about his strangeness, the wildness in his eyes that Nick found exciting. From his gestures to the odd way he was dressed, even in the way he bopped down the street so light on his toes, like some real cool cat—bold as brass, as though daring anyone to challenge his right to be there. Nothing escaped his attention, not a flittering gum wrapper, a cooing pigeon, or a falling leaf. And he was ever glancing up at the stars, as though making sure they were still there.

He wasn’t like other street kids Nick had seen. His clothes might have been worn and dirty, but he wasn’t grimy. He was a bit nutty, sure, but he didn’t seem strung out on anything and his eyes were clear and sharp—even if they were gold. But though Peter felt like a friend, the best sort of friend, one you could count on to watch your back, Nick had to remind himself that he knew nothing about this weird boy and had to be careful. And there was something else, something below the contagious laugh and impish grins that nagged at Nick, something he couldn’t put his finger on, something wicked, something—dangerous.

The smell of nectarines filled Nick’s nose and his mouth began to water. He realized the smells were coming from the Chinese deli just ahead.

“Hungry?” Peter asked.

Nick realized he was, that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He also remembered he didn’t have any money.

“Hold up,” Peter said as he glanced up and down the street. “You be the lookout. Okay?”

“Lookout?” Nick said. “For what?”

But Peter had already entered the grocery.

Nick didn’t like where this was going. He tried to peer over the fruit stands to see what Peter was up to, but could only see the top of Peter’s head bopping about inside the store. A few minutes later Peter came strolling out with two plastic containers of steaming Kung Pao chicken, fried rice, egg rolls, and three sacks of candy bars, almost more than he could carry.

“Here, help me with this,” Peter said, handing Nick the candy bars.

“Wait,” Nick said. “You didn’t—”

“We should probably skedaddle,” Peter interrupted, and headed away at a rapid clip.

A second later a plump, older Chinese man came skidding out of the grocery in his stained apron and yellow rain boots.

The man looked at Nick, then at the sacks of candy bars.

Nick heard the man say something under his breath, and even though it was Chinese, Nick had no trouble recognizing it as profanity. Then the man pointed at Nick and started yelling TEEF over and over again.

Nick broke and ran after Peter.

Luckily for Nick, the old man’s running was about as good as his English, and Nick put a block or two between them in no time.

Nick found Peter waiting for him along a tree-lined street in front of a shadowy alleyway. Peter ducked into the alley and Nick followed.

Peter fell against some concrete steps and began to laugh, laugh so hard he could barely speak. “Hey, you did pretty good!” he chuckled and patted Nick on the back.

“What the hell was that?” Nick cried. “We could’ve gotten in all kinds of trouble!” Nick felt his blood boiling. That’d been stupid. The last thing he needed was the cops after him. “It’s not funny!”

Peter pursed his lips, trying to stifle his mirth, but his eyes were positively giddy.

“Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to us if we’d been caught?” Nick snapped.

Peter shook his head.

“Why they’d, they’d—” Nick stopped. Peter was trying so hard not to laugh, trying so hard to look serious, concerned, and sincere. Nick couldn’t help but grin and that was a mistake, because when he did, a bellyful of laughter escaped from between Peter’s lips.

“Ah, man. You spit all over me!” Nick cried, wiping his face, but by then they were both laughing, big belly laughs. And it was the moment Nick realized that he was having fun. That he was happy, and it’d been a long time since he had been happy.

THEY SAT ON the cold cement steps, eating stolen Kung Pao chicken and watching the clouds roll across a sky full of stars. Nick never remembered anything tasting so good. A sharp wind sent a host of orange leaves and loose paper clattering down the thin alleyway. Late evening dew shimmered off the sooty, graffiti-covered walls. The low hum of an electric transformer sputtered and buzzed incessantly while somewhere in the distance the Staten Island Ferry blew its horn.

Peter sighed. “They’re so beautiful.”

“What?” Nick asked.

“The stars,” Peter answered in a low, reverent tone, staring up at the night sky. “I so miss the stars.”

Nick thought this an odd thing to say, but then there were a lot of odd things about Peter.

Peter tore open one of the bags of candy bars, grabbed a couple for himself and handed a few to Nick.

Nick noticed several scars on Peter’s arms. There was also a scar above the boy’s brow, a smaller one along his cheek, and what looked like a healed puncture on the side of his neck. Nick wondered just what kind of trouble Peter had been in.

“What are you going to do with all that candy?” Nick asked.

“For the gang,” Peter said, between chews. “Back at the fort.”

“Is there really a fort?”

“Certainly.”

“Peter, where are we going exactly?”

Peter started to say something, frowned, started to say something else, and stopped. Then his eyes twinkled. “Hey, what’s that?”

“What?”

“By your foot.”

Nick didn’t see anything. It was too dark.