Peter and the Starcatchers (46 page)

No, it was the older boys that concerned Peter. They were already in the cel when he’d been brought in, and they seemed quite familiar with it, almost comfortable there. They apparently knew each other, or had at least formed into a hierarchy, as packs of males do. Their leader was not the tal est among them, but definitely the broadest: a brutish, muscular boy the others cal ed Rafe. He amused himself by tormenting the smal er boys, punching them and threatening to stuff them headfirst into the disgustingly ful wooden bucket that served as the cel ’s communal toilet.

Peter desperately hoped that he would not have to use that bucket; the thought repulsed him. He hoped, too, that Rafe would continue ignoring him. Peter kept his eyes cast down, not meeting anyone’s gaze. His mood had descended to a level below despair: he had no idea how to get himself out of this, let alone rescue Tink or find Mol y in time to warn her of the danger she was in. He had no hope at al . His stomach ached, and his swol en jaw throbbed with agonizing pain.

“You,” said a menacing voice.

Peter looked up, and his heart sank at the sight of Rafe’s thick form looming over him.

“What?” he said.

“You got anything for me?” said Rafe. He squatted in front of Peter, his wide, grinning face only a foot away.

Peter said nothing. Why did everyone in this city want something from him?

Casual y, Rafe reached his meaty hand out. Peter flinched as Rafe grabbed a handful Peter’s filthy, torn shirt.

Rafe made a disappointed face. “Can’t use these pitiful rags,” he said. Then he brightened as he spied the gold chain around Peter’s neck. Peter inwardly berated himself for not having thought to hide it.

“Here now,” Rafe said, pul ing the chain out and fingering the locket. “What’s this?”

Peter pushed Rafe’s hand away and jumped to his feet, moving away from Rafe along the wal . He couldn’t give up the locket. No matter what, he must not let that happen.

Rafe appeared surprised by the show of defiance, but pleased at the prospect of having some sport with his prey. He rose to his feet, smiling.

“So,” he said, moving slowly toward Peter. “You want to tussle with Rafe, do you?”

Peter continued to edge along the wal , looking frantical y around the cel . He saw he’d get no help from the drunks, who were sleeping, and none from the other boys, who were watching with the expressions of spectators at an execution: their overriding emotion was clearly gratitude that somebody else was the victim.

Rafe advanced toward Peter. Peter slid sideways along the cel wal . He reached the corner; there was nowhere to go. Rafe was a yard away, smiling broadly, bringing his fists up, ready to begin the pummeling.

Peter felt his foot hit something. He looked down and saw it: the toilet bucket.

He reached down and grabbed the handle with his right hand, swinging the bucket up to waist level. The stench was almost overpowering, but Peter was driven by desperation now. He put his left hand on the bottom of the bucket and drew it back, ready to hurl its repulsive contents at Rafe.

Rafe stopped, his smug expression replaced by one of surprise, and—Peter was relieved to see—an undercurrent of fear.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said.

“Yes, I would,” replied Peter, softly but quite believably.

They stood facing each other in the silent cel , staring into each other’s eyes for the better part of a very long minute. It was Rafe who blinked first.

“Al right,” he said, backing away. “You stand there in the stink.” He settled down on the other side of the cel . “But soon enough you’l get tired. Soon enough you’l fal asleep.

And then I’l have that thing around your neck.” He hurled a hate-fil ed glare at Peter. “And I’l have your neck, too,” he added.

Peter didn’t answer. He stood in the corner, holding the bucket, enveloped in foul fumes. He would not al ow his face to betray his feelings. But he knew that Rafe was right: time was against him.

He could not hold out forever….

DAVE BARRY
is a Pulitzer Prize-winning national y syndicated humor columnist for the
Miami Herald.
He is the author of more than a dozen books, including
Dave Barry’s Complete
Guide
to
Guys, Dave Barry Slept Here, Big Trouble,
and
Dave Barry Hits Below the Beltway.

RIDLEY PEARSON
is the best-sel ing author of eighteen novels, including Cut
and Run, The Body of David Hayes, The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer, The Middle of Nowhere, The Pied
Piper, Beyond Recognition, No Witnesses, The First Victim, Undercurrents,
and
Parallel Lies.
He was the first American to be awarded the Raymond Chandler/Fulbright Fel owship in Detective Fiction at Oxford University.

Source: Baileyd @ Demonoid.me