Chains of Fire (10 page)

But instead of giving him the clout to the head he expected, Fat Woman laughed louder and slapped her knee. “Your mama had you in the back of my garage like a stray cat; then she ran away, leaving me to clean up the mess. Stupid tall blond German woman gave birth to
you
. Look at you. You’re a little troll. You haven’t got a mama. You haven’t got a family. You’re nothing but a dark, dirty Gypsy bastard, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

He was only four, but he recognized contempt when he heard it. Contempt for him. Contempt for the pretty, kind, loving mother he’d imagined all his life. He flung himself at Fat Woman, biting and scratching, and he was fast. He got her blood in his mouth and her skin under his fingernails.

But she was fast, too. Her fist swung at him like a wrecking ball, hitting him hard.

He flew across the room. Hit the wall.

But she stopped laughing.

In his sleep, Samuel ducked. But his face hurt anyway.

His dreams drifted to . . .

He slipped through the crowds. Tourists were everywhere. Bright-colored shorts, long legs, hemp sandals, all moving along the seawall overlooking the beach. He smelled sausage and ocean and flowers and sweat, and he concentrated on his mission.

Fat Woman wanted money. Lots of money. She’d trained him to pick out expensive handbags and wallets. That was the easy part. Pockets and purses were at eye level.

So he must have been about five, Samuel mused in his sleep.

Then he was back again, in the town, smelling the odors, seeing the leather bags, stalking the thin, tourist American lady because . . .

He’d taught himself to observe people first. Then what they carried. Whether they looked dangerous. Because if he stalked the wrong quarry, he would get caught. Put in prison. And tortured, raped, killed, and eaten.

That was what had happened to Fat Woman’s last boy. That was what she told him.

He waited until the American lady was in the thickest part of the crowd, then moved in. Lifting the flap of her purse, he removed her wallet.

Something snapped at his wrist like a mousetrap. A man’s hand. The man lifted Sammy off his feet, and in a dispassionate English accent, he said, “Madam, this boy just picked your pocket.”

“No. No. No!” Sammy dropped the wallet and kicked at the man, swinging wildly like a trapped monkey.

The man simply put his foot on the wallet and held Sammy out at arm’s length.

“He did it,” Sammy shouted. “He’s trying to blame me. He did it!”

“He has a very good grasp of English.” The American lady observed him through cool, intelligent blue eyes.

Sammy started shouting in Italian, then French, blaming the man over and over.

“Let him down, Darren,” she said.

That was when Sammy realized he was truly caught, because American Lady knew the Englishman. “Gigolo!” Sammy shouted, then took another look at the man.

No, he wasn’t handsome enough for a gigolo. He must be a bodyguard.

Sammy knew what that meant. Fat Woman had told him time and again. He was going to jail and there they would kill him. If he escaped, Fat Woman would kill him, because she expected him to do his job without getting caught. She couldn’t stand bungling little snots.

“What’s your name, boy?” American Lady asked, her blue eyes appraising him.

Sammy was going to die. But he didn’t cry. He lifted up his chin and stared at her, lips clamped shut.

So Joey, the guy who sold flowers, answered for him. “That’s Sammy the Gypsy. He’s the best cutpurse in Capri. Thank God you caught him—he’s bad for business. I called the police for you.”

“He’s filthy. He looks like he’s starving. His parents should be ashamed,” American Lady said.

Joey laughed like a braying donkey. “He’s got no parents. He’s just a little bas—”

Sammy rammed his head into Joey’s ’nads.

Joey doubled over.

Sammy tried to scramble through the forest of legs that surrounded them.

But American Lady caught him by the hair and jerked him back.

He yelled in surprise. Then he tried to shame her. “That’s not nice!”

Englishman grabbed his wrist again.

American Lady pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her fingers. “It certainly isn’t. How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”

Sammy looked at her blankly.

Joey recovered his breath and came roaring at Sammy. “Give me the little bastard. I’ll take care of him for you.”

“You mean you’ll turn him over to the police?” American Lady asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

Sammy backed toward her, away from the gleam in Joey’s eyes.

“I think not,” American Lady said decisively. “I’ll handle this matter. Darren, take Samuel back to the hotel and see that he’s bathed.”

“Oh, madam. Not really! Look at him. He is a Gypsy.”

“Romany is the correct term,” American Lady said.

“Fine,” the Englishman said in disdain. “But as the twig is bent, so grows the tree. This child will never be anything but a thief.”

“I don’t believe that.” American Lady bent down to Sammy. “Samuel, I’m going to take care of you.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “My husband would say I’m a pushover for small things in pain. He could be right about that.” She straightened and said to the Englishman, “Take him to the hotel. I shall deal with the police and whoever has been caring for this child.”

Samuel’s skin hurt where the servants had scraped off a lifetime of dirt. . . .

No, wait. He was in a tent in the basement of a ski lodge. He’d faced off with an avalanche, and it was freezing in here. That was why his skin hurt. . . .

Samuel’s third memory was American Lady telling him his name was now Samuel Faa, a typical Romany name, and that Darren and his wife were going to be his father and mother. Which he didn’t understand at all, since Darren had supervised his bath and clearly wanted to murder Samuel by drowning.

But when Samuel asked Darren why, Darren sniffed and, in his formal stiff-ass English manner, he told Samuel that American Lady was Mrs. Mason and a powerful, rich boss with strong views about helping the helpless youth of the world, so Darren did as he was told. “As you will learn to do under my direction, Samuel.”

Samuel didn’t complain, because every day someone fed him food, real food, not leavings from someone else’s plate. And not just once a day, either. They did it all the time.

He was a smart boy. He figured there were a lot of possible explanations.

Like the wicked witch in the story, American Lady was fattening him up to eat him.

She was going to sell him to a pimp.

Or his favorite—he’d died and gone to heaven.

But while he was scared, every time they put food in front of him, he ate it.

His memories of coming to the US were a blur—of driving in a car, of getting on a plane, his wrist held firmly in Darren’s hand. Of seeing American Lady—Mrs. Mason, he now called her—go forward to the front behind a curtain while he and Darren moved to the back. Of arriving in the cold, dark city of Boston, driving to another huge hotel, going inside, and realizing this wasn’t a hotel, but Mrs. Mason’s house. He met his new mother, who seemed even less pleased than his new father to meet him.

He kept up a brave front until everyone’s back was turned. Then he sneaked upstairs, looking for a place to hide. He found it in an empty room with a window seat overlooking the street. He closed the curtains, climbed in among the cushions, and cried. He cried in confusion, because he didn’t understand where he was or what was happening to him. He cried in loneliness, because he couldn’t know when Mrs. Mason and his new parents would realize he was truly a worthless bastard and throw him out in the street. And he cried in anger because he never cried. He never cared. It was easier that way.

When someone touched his shoulder, he jumped around in a fury and shouted a curse word he’d learned from Fat Woman.

A little girl stared at him, unblinking. It was Isabelle, four years old, wide-eyed, clean, and the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he no longer cared about Mrs. Mason or his new parents or this strange hotel. All he cared about was the humiliation of her watching him while he cried like a baby.

“Stupid bitch. What do you want?” he shouted, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

He didn’t seem to frighten her. “To make you feel better.” Although he was twice her size, with calluses on his palms and the vocabulary of a trucker, she wasn’t afraid of him. Instead she offered her hand, and when he didn’t take it, she stroked her hand along his leg. “I’m Isabelle. I can make you feel better. I promise.”

He’d heard the whores in the streets talking to clients. He’d seen people, all kinds of people, rich and poor, male and female, drunk and sober, humping and grunting in dark corners. Under the weight of his having seen beatings before and after, and women crying, his illusions about his mother had faded and died.

The little girl was saying stuff like the whores said to the johns.

But the little girl didn’t seem to know anything about that. Instead she put her hand around his ankle and held it. And drew the hurt out of his bones, out of his heart. She absorbed his loneliness, his fears, leaving him erased clean as a chalkboard and ready to face this new world. As she did, her bright expression faded, leaving her gazing at him with tears in her eyes.

It was weird. It was frightening. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. I made you feel better. Didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” So did she know about him now? He sort of felt like she’d soaked up some of him. “Do you want me to pay you? I don’t have any money, but I could get some.”

“No. You don’t have to steal anymore. But don’t tell my mother that I helped you. She doesn’t like it when I do what I do. She says it’s different, and girls like me shouldn’t be different.”

She spoke so well. She was so smart. “What kind of girl are you?”

“I’m adopted, like you. So you shouldn’t do anything different, either.”

He thought he should warn her. “I’m just a dirty Gypsy bastard.”

“No, you’re not. I heard them talking downstairs. You’re Sammy, and you’re safe now.” She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, a messy, little-girl kiss. “I’ll take care of you.”

He liked the words. He liked the kiss. But she was nothing but a kid. “You’re stupid. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

She didn’t pay any attention to that. “I come here a lot. It’s quiet and it’s sunny, and no one makes me do anything. I can look out the window instead of studying books, or be warm in the sun instead of worrying about sunscreen, or sleep. . . . If you want, you can use my corner, too, when you want them to leave you alone so you can be yourself.”

“I’m always myself.”

“Then you’re very lucky.” Her smile blossomed. “Will you read me a story?”

Not to another soul would he have admitted it, but to this pixie, he was able to say, “I don’t know how to read.”

“I do. I’ll read you a story.” She picked up her book, the one with the colored pictures of knights and castles and dragons and princesses, and she read it to him. At the end of the book, the dragon was chased to his cave, the knight and the princess got married, and Samuel was in love.

Darren found them.

Isabelle was asleep on Samuel’s chest.

Samuel was sitting absolutely still, terrified of waking her.