The Good Thief (34 page)

“Or California.”

These new territories stretched out in Ren’s mind like endless deserts, the horizon as far as he could see. Hot sun and open prairies and soft red mountains that weathered to dust.

Ren helped Dolly off the ground and righted the potato basket. Then he wandered through the mess the mousetrap girls had left, wondering what else to take. There was a mountain of dirty dishes, curdled and sticky, piled on the counter, stacked on the shelves, and scattered across the floor. Broken teacups and bent forks, bowls that were cracked and plates with mold growing up along the edges.

In the pantry he found a small jar of pickles hidden behind a sack of flour torn open, and he stuffed it into the bag. He walked past the broom that Mrs. Sands hit them with. And the sampler of the Lord’s Prayer hanging over the mantel.

Ren chose only what he could carry. In his coat was the scrap of collar with his name, the rock that Ichy had given him back at Saint Anthony’s, the fake scalps of his parents, and McGinty’s gold watch. In their bag he put the stolen copy of The Deerslayer, the wooden horse from the dwarf, and the nightgown Mrs. Sands had dressed him in the first night.

He found some ink and paper. As he sat down, he remembered the letter he had written to the twins long ago. He had wanted so much for them to think he was happy. Now all he wanted was their forgiveness. Dear Brom and Ichy, he began, then stopped. He turned the page over and started again:

Dear Mrs. Sands,

I did not want to leave without saying good-bye. I found the money, just where you said it would be. And I promise to do what I promised.

There are two boys here. Their names are Brom and Ichy. I hope that you will take care of them the same way you took care of me. They are clean and honest, even though they are twins.

Yours sincerely,

Ren

P.S. I’m sorry about the dishes.

Ren folded the paper twice, then sat there, not knowing what to do next. In the end he climbed the stairs and left it on Mrs. Sands’s bed. As he went back down, he passed his old room. He could hear Tom shift in his sleep and the whisper of Ichy’s nose as he breathed in and out. From Brom there came nothing, even as Ren waited on the steps, hoping for something to remember.

In the kitchen Dolly was back in his monk’s robe. “It’s dry,” he said. “Feel it.”

Ren touched the coarse brown fabric. “We need to get you some nicer clothes.”

The fire had burned out. Ren spread a blanket on the floor. He stuffed dishrags into his boots, wrapped a quilt over his shoulders, and curled up in a ball, just as Benjamin had done long ago, making their bed in the farmer’s barn. Dolly sat beside Ren, his feet in the ashes. The evening closed around them and the hearth began to cool.

“I’ve decided,” said Dolly. “I’m not going to kill him.”

“Who?”

“The man I was hired for.”

Ren could feel his own breath against the blanket. Everything he’d ever done seemed to rest on this moment. “Why?”

“Because you asked me not to.”

The words made their way through the dark, until Ren shuffled closer and leaned against Dolly’s leg. Together the man and the boy listened to the rain slow, then stop, the pots and pans around them on the floor go quiet.

As the hours passed, Ren drifted in and out of sleep, then woke with a start to Dolly’s snoring. For a long time he watched the window, thinking over all that had happened and feeling the warmth of his friend beside him. Outside the sky began to change from black to blue. The birds began to sing. And the night was over.

Ren lifted his head. His first thought was that a mouse had been caught and was scratching its nails against the door of a trap. But the squeaks were too loud, and they were coming from the hall.

“What is it?” Dolly asked.

“I don’t know.” Ren threw off the quilt and went into the hall. He could hear shuffling now, as well as the tinny sound of metal, coming from the back entrance. Ren stared at the doorknob. There was a clink, and a small blacksmith’s file fell out from the keyhole and clattered to the flagstone just inside.

The boy dashed back to the kitchen, closed the door behind him, and then stayed there, leaning against it. Dolly was standing by the fireplace, his hands ready.

“The window!” Ren whispered. He grabbed their bag. He climbed onto the counter and pressed against the cold pane of glass. He could see the hat boys, huddled just outside the back door, and now they were opening the door and moving into the boardinghouse.

Ren frantically searched for the latches—two small metal turns—and tore at them with his fingers. He threw his weight against the pane, and then there was air, beautiful cold air covering his hand and his face.

Someone grabbed Ren’s legs and yanked him back inside. He kicked, but the Top Hat held fast. There were three other hat boys taking on Dolly. They had ropes around his arms and neck, and were trying to wrestle him to the floor. He had one by the throat, and the other two were beating him with a stick, throwing all their weight against him. Then Pilot walked through the door.

He clapped his hands together, as if applauding a performance, and Dolly and Ren were surprised enough that they stopped fighting. The man still looked like a scarecrow, his arms twice the length of his legs, and he swept one across the kitchen table, sending all of the plates and garbage and bowls of half-eaten food to the floor. “Set him up.”

The Top Hat came forward and threw Ren onto the table.

Pilot leaned over the boy. “You’ve disappointed your uncle. And after all the things he gave you.”

“I didn’t want any of them,” said Ren.

Pilot produced a burlap bag from his coat, just like the ones Benjamin and Tom had used in the graveyard. “Either way, he’s not through with you yet.”

He passed the bag to the Bowler, who began to stuff Ren’s legs inside. Ren struggled against the men until his arms were twisted and numb. The burlap was up to his waist now. The Bowler and the Top Hat gripped him by the shoulders. They shoved the rest of him in and pulled the bag up over his head.

And then a huge thundering came from across the room, as if the entire house had been lifted from the cellar to the attic and was being rocked from side to side. The kitchen table banged, then slanted, teetering for a moment on two legs before crashing to the ground, and Ren was falling too, onto a pile of clothes—or was it a body? He could hear someone cursing—it was a body—he could smell the man’s breath. Someone was holding on to the bag, and Ren used his fingers—he could still feel his fingers—to rip free.

Dolly pulled him up from the floor. In a moment he had the boy out of the burlap. Ren could see Pilot blocking the doorway, his mouth full of blood, his right arm dangling at the shoulder, his left struggling to pull a gun from his coat. The Straw Hat was dead. The Bowler and Watchman lay twisted on the ground. Dolly threw the empty bag at the last man standing—the Top Hat, now holding a chair over his head—then pushed Ren toward the fireplace.

“Get up,” he said. “Get out.”

The Top Hat launched the chair. It broke across Dolly’s back as he turned to protect Ren with his body. “Now,” Dolly said, giving the boy another push, and then he took hold of the poker and bashed it across the face of the Top Hat until blood broke over his hands.

Ren propped a foot against the wall of the fireplace. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Pilot with the gun in his hand. The boy knew he had to move, but he couldn’t get a hold inside and his feet were sliding against the bricks. And then Dolly was right underneath him, and Dolly had him in his arms, and he was shoving Ren up the chimney, pushing with all his might, the ashes falling down upon them both. Dolly had Ren’s foot, and he was holding Ren up by that foot, and the boy found a ledge to grip and he heaved himself, one inch, and then another, until his weight left Dolly’s hand.

The bricks surrounding him were still warm, the dust stinging his eyes. The space was so tight he could barely look down. But he managed to turn his chin, just enough to see his friend at the bottom, looking up at him through the gloom.

And then there was an explosion. The walls vibrated with the sound of it. And then there was another. And another. And another. Ren felt his breath go out and away from him, up into the night like smoke, and then, just as quickly, it came back with a push of cold air that numbed his fingers and chilled his bones and made his body remember that it was just a body, and that it could die many ways, and the first of these was falling down the chimney, and the second of these was being shot.

He braced his feet against the crumbling sides and held on. His palm was sweating and slipping. Ren scrambled, fell, scrambled again. And then a rope was lowered down from above, and he was holding on to it, and pushing against the walls with his legs, and his body was being lifted through the chimney, soot and sand falling into his face. He wrapped his fingers against a knot and then he was through; he could feel the wind on his face, and the dwarf was grabbing his shoulders and turning him out onto the roof.

Ren spun around and grabbed the chimney. He peered down into the gaping hole. “Dolly!” he shouted. “Dolly!” He waited for a response. But the only sound that came back to him was the wind, which made a hollow low note as it passed over the top of the flue.

“He’s on the roof!” one of the hat boys called from below. Ren drew away, and the dwarf stepped beside him. The small man’s hair was wild, the buttons on his tiny coat undone.

“They’ll be up here in a minute.” The dwarf ran to the edge of the roof, climbed onto the raised molding, then leapt. Ren cried out and hurried over. When he reached the molding he saw that the man had landed on the roof of the neighboring building, some ten feet below. The dwarf tilted his head and waved. “Come on.”

Ren could hear the hat boys behind him. They had found a ladder; it was scraping against the side of the boardinghouse. He closed his eyes. And he jumped.

The next few buildings were row houses, with only raised stone dividers between the roofs. The dwarf barreled over them and Ren came behind. Several men were following them on the street, and two more had made it to the top of the boardinghouse. The small man dodged behind chimneys and skylights and climbed over gables. The boy had trouble keeping up with him, the wind whipping around corners, the roof tiles slick from the rain. Ren lost his footing and slid to his knees. He grabbed hold of a pipe, just in time to keep himself from falling over.

The next roof was some fifteen feet away, the drop between three stories. The dwarf reached underneath a piece of canvas and took out a wide plank of wood. He settled the plank between the buildings and then scampered quickly across. On the other side he steadied the board. “Hurry.”

Ren put one foot out and then the other, sliding carefully with his arms reaching for balance, trying not to look down. He could hear the men coming over the roof behind him and shouting up from below. The dwarf cursed him. “They’re coming!” Ren’s legs began to shake and he crouched, gripping the board with his hand. And then there was a gunshot from the street, and the plank toppled, bits of wood cracking into the air. The dwarf threw out his arm and Ren took hold of it, and there he was, dangling for a moment above the street, and then he was over and the dwarf pulled the board away, just as the men tried to get on from the other side.

One man lost his footing and nearly tumbled over the edge. The other held him back, and they took their guns out. Pieces of glass and metal showered over Ren and the dwarf. A weather vane was hit and went spinning. Up ahead there was another group of hat boys. They had moved down the street to cut them off, climbed onto the roof from an outside window, and were coming toward them now, waving to the others to stop firing.

“Inside,” said the dwarf. “Quickly.” He dodged a pile of shingles and ran for a chimney. In a moment he was scaling the brick and made it over the top. He took one last look back at Ren, beckoned him on, and disappeared into the flue.

The boy hurried after him. He had one leg at the edge of the chimney, then another, searching for a foothold inside. The men were closing in. He could see arms coming toward him, and he pushed himself down, the stone scraping his sides.

He was half a foot into the darkness when the tunnel narrowed. He could not fit past it. “Help me!” he cried. He felt the small man grab hold of his boots and pull. He wiggled and tried to force himself farther with his elbows. He was stuck. Halfway in, halfway out, and then one of the hat boys reached down and seized a chunk of his hair and another took hold of his jacket and he was dragged back into the early morning, his shoes left behind with the dwarf.

R
en waited for McGinty in the office overlooking the mousetrap factory. He had been there since dawn, and now he watched as the front doors creaked open and a new shift of girls came forward to their stations. They moved quickly, their shawls over their heads. When they reached their places, the shawls came down and wrapped around their waists. The foreman strolled the aisle, poking one girl in the back, smacking another on the behind. In the corner Ren could see the Harelip at her saw, stacking and cutting pieces of wood. She did not look up at him, but he knew that she had seen him up against the glass.

The machines sent a small vibration through the floor. Ren stood without his shoes, feeling it through his socks. He touched the window, and the glass shuddered against his fingers. Behind him, the paintings of fox hunts shook against the wall.